Soccer Harry

In retrospect, the full-on soccer gear was overkill since all the other kids wore, um, normal clothes. But Harry assured us that he brought his A game (thanks for teaching him that phrase, Ben), and he said he was glad to have his water bottle for "when his breath got out."

His Rainbows

Last night, I squeezed into Harry's fire truck bed to read him a story. The room was hot because our house gets stuffy between 5 and 7 every night no matter what the temperature is outside. I didn't pull up his covers because his cheeks were already a little flushed, and he looked warm.

"Mama," he said. "Why didn't you put the rainbows on me?"

I looked at him blankly for a second. "The rainbows," I asked. "Oh! You mean your blankets?"

"Yes," he said quickly. "My blankets."

I obliged, pulling up his red blanket, his yellow quilt, and the blue fleece he's had since he was a baby. His rainbows. I love this, that he has a private word for his blankets, that his word is such an apt description, that he's never shared this word before, that it tumbled out in a moment of sleepy confusion, and especially that he wanted it back as soon as he said it, tucked back in his little head with a kaleidoscope of private observations whose existence I never contemplated.

He doesn't seem like the kind of guy who keeps anything to himself, but now I can't stop wondering how else he sees the world, what else he shares with no one.

When I left his room, I told him I hoped his rainbows kept him cozy.

"Mama," he said. "I think you should call them my blankets."

Fat fattty fat fat*

Firs of all, I am NOT writing this post so ya'll will say, "OMG, Sarah. You are so not fat." I will not be able to hear you over the straining sound the denim squeezing my thighs is making anyway. I am writing this because today, my friends, I am embarking on a weight loss journey the likes of which I haven't embarked upon since junior high when I did Weight Watchers and got so skinny my hair started to fall out and my skin was ashy-- and I looked amazing, dahling.

I signed up for Sparkpeople today and found I have eaten 525 calories already and used up almost half of my allotted fat grams. That's just for breakfast. Eff.

I had my yearly physical today and found I still weigh 9 more pounds than I did on the day I got pregnant with Jack (a factoid I know because I was at my doctor's office for a physical the day I found out Jack was on his way, and despite having peed on $150 worth of negative pregnancy tests in 48 hours, I KNEW I was pregnant and demanded a blood test and voila!).

I decided to set a weight loss goal of 22 pounds which will make me 10 pounds under my driver's license weight (and I will so go back to the DMV and get a new license if that is the case) and just barely able to donate blood (not that I do, but I would like to have the option).

I told my doctor I HAVE NO IDEA what is keeping me from losing the weight, so she took some blood to test my thyroid, but I am lying. I know exactly what is causing the fat fatty fat fat-- all the food I have been eating. I probably cram 6-7 mini candy bars in my face every night while I clean the kitchen-- and that's after a whole day of eating eleventy billion teddy grahams and anything left on Jack's high chair tray. And all my other food. That I mostly eat as fast as I can while hunched over my computer.

So, crap. Buh-bye Potbelly binges and italian subs for lunch 3 days a week. Hello salad spray and rice cakes with reduced fat peanut butter.

Also? My colon is totally fine, but hopes no one touches it again. Ever.

Hopefully, this picture will serve as my "before" in a few months. (also, I am still going to have to drink) (also, also, I am not generally very good with budgets, so I imagine wisely spending a calorie budget is going to be tricky. There will be days when I have eaten 1500 calories before noon, I fear, and days when I hoard them all and get shitfaced. All in the name of good health!)

(also, also, also-- Ben and I were out to dinner-- a buttery, olive-oil and vino soaked dinner--and it was so damn cold, I had to buy a sweatshirt so we could eat outside-- hello! It's JUNE)
* I am not sure if that's the exact line, but I was going for the phrase Juna hurled at Valerie Cherish from inside the fridge when Valerie was dressed up like the giant cupcake. Anybody else miss The Comeback?

I am a lady who lunches or would lunch if I could find the time to eat with all this complaining I have to do

Today I was contemptlaing the size of my upper arms and wondering where in the world I would find the time to squeeze in a yoga DVD everyday-- and I was, like, seriously stressed about the time thing. I started ticking off yesterday's schedule in my head to sort of prove to myself that I was exercising as much as I could. I mean, I was up by 7:30, and I had to be totally dressed by noon when Jamie showed up-- that's only 4 and a half hours. Then because of poor planning on my part, it took me until almost 2:45 to get my pedicure. I spent another 2 hours trolling for Fathers Day gifts and while waiting until my polish dried so I could go to the gym without smudging my toes. Then I had to trow dinner together by 6. I mean, that is a FULL DAY, and I didn't even mention the laundry I put away while the babysitter gave the boys lunch. Ugh. I am tied just thinking about it.

Sarcasm, my friends, in case it didn't come across. My life these days is a little, um, not as hard as it used to be?

About the third time I called Ben (at work where he was working) to complain that all the walk in cheapy pedicure places were packed yesterday, and I was going to have to waiitttttttt in liiiiine and read oooooooold magazines, he totally lost his patience and stopped taking my calls. I went to an actual salon to get my nails done (where, thanks Karma, I got the worst pedicure I have ever gotten-- I actually had to exfoliate my feet and repaint two nails at home-- actions that threw Ben into a tizzy of martyrdom because he had to do part of BOTH kids' bedtimes).

But then I realized, I am acting like kind of an entitled asshole these days. I am just sort of at loose ends, though, without deadlines and the like. Although if I procrastinate any longer on prepping my summer class, I will be pulling 11 hour days again in no time. Luckily my dissertation advisor must have sensed my identity crisis because she emailed me about a book chapter project we have ben working on for 3 years to let me know that it really is really due on Monday, so my dance card this week is blissfully full.

But the yoga thing. Seriously. I am wearing a tank top to Harry's birthday part this weekend, and my arms? Not tank top ready. Maybe I'll finally get the 30 day shred and do it like 7 times a day to up the shreddiness factor.

I used to complain about how busy I was. Now? I complain about too much leisure time. Ben-- he is a lucky, lucky man.

Just another manic Monday

Jack gets really happy when he can help do things. Here he even doffed his tiara in appreciation of inclusion. Sometimes when we talk to him, he blushes and ducks his head which is a sure sign that we need to talk to him more. But who has time for THAT? (I'm kidding. Sort of).

Ben was so glad for all the assistance, and Jack only got hit in the face with house poles a few times. I blame the influence of Kung Fu Panda.

Oh look! It's Ben and the mini Bens-- someday they will be his army of trained ninjas-- or, as Harry says, "injas"

Jack has been noticing the boob tube lately, and while I never would have let my preshus Harry Beary Angel watch a millisecond of TV before the AAP said he could (and I was soooooooooo judgmental of people who did let their toddlers look at the glowing talking box), I find myself hoping that something catches and maintains Jack's interest for a few minutes (or 20), and while the TV babysitter has him captivated, if she could just teach him how to count and spell, that'd be awesome.

I took a picture of Harry in my Uggs before being horrified that he was wearing shoes in my house because this is what all the coastie undergrads wear on campus-- leggings, short shirts, and chunky Uggs. Year round. And they carry $1500 purses with disdain. They're so cool

Edited to Add: Ben! Looking at these pictures made me realize you were totally right about the red lampshade!

Almost 3

Um, Harry's turning 3 next week, and I am baffled-- where the heck did the time go? I realize this is the most cliched of cliched questions, but seriously. He was just mah baby, and now? Now so babyish (except, you know, for the pants pooping and the chubby little satin cheeks). His babysitter came over last night, and he said in a delightfully conversational manner, "Oh, Jamie. How was your frisbee game? Did you wear your contacts so you could see?"

I guess it is because we had another baby right away, but Ben and I are just now getting back into the swing of seeing movies in theaters and having wine-filled grown up dinners and having time to maintain our hair and nails (okay-- that one is more me than him). And we like it. A lot. Life with a kid and a baby is easier than life with 2 babies-- and if we allow ourselves to think about the future of life with 2 kids-- bring it, Disney World; we're ready for you!

3 is easy in terms of birthdays, too. He tells us what he wants (which is everything he sees on TV. Check). He picked out his own cake (Batman from Dairy Queen). We invited his class (and cousins and a few more friends) to the Little Gym because that's what he wanted (and because they say all I have to bring is the kid and the camera. Score.)

One tiny little thing that sucks a little about our almost-3-year-old right now though (because I don't want you to think it;s all roses-- my life is haaaaaaaaaaard, remember?) is that he's kind of a jerkface if he is not getting 100% of our attention at all times. When we look at Jack (or speak to him or god forbid tend to him in any way), he freaks out and turns into a toy-throwing, milk-flinging, insult-screaming menace.

Other than that (and the pants pooping), 3 looks pretty d (I was going to write "darn good," but I was interrupted mid-stroke to stop Harry from climbing in the Pack n Play, then to stop him from sticking his fingers in my coffee, then to ask him again to stay out of the Pack n Ply, then to yell at him to be a good listener as he lunged for my coffee again).

Karma.

How to eat yogurt when you lack the manual dexterity needed to use a spoon, by Jack age 13.5 months