From The Mouth of B

General play is interrupted by a loud, ripping, toot from Berit.

Lisa: "What was that?"

Berit, breathlessly and awestruck: "It was an ANGEL."

********

A few nights ago Berit came into our bed, afraid of "That Bad, Scary Man," who was unexplainable at the time and unknown to Trevor and me. However, today, as we were heading downstairs into the basement, while passing a few of Trevor's records that are face-out, Berit nonchalantly said, "There's that Bad, Scary Man." 

It seems that Willie Nelson is haunting the dreams of our oldest.

Birthday Babies

Our Little One turned one on December 18, to be followed three days later on December 21 by her buddy Brennan Dart. (Sidenote: Brennan's brother Liam and Berit are the best of friends, and his mom Ellen and I sure had fun being pregnant at the same time. In fact, I moved out of my hospital room and she moved into the very same one -- we had, of course, fantasized that we'd be having our babies together, kicking our feet up and eating Jell-O and nursing in the hospital side-by-side, but maybe next time. :) )

We had a little party with our two families at the Bob-In Again. Here are a few highlights...

The kids having a rollicking good time banging on the table in unison (Berit, Marta, Liam and Brennan).

The hats only stayed on for moments; hence, this blurry photo was the only one I got.

Brenski. Doesn't he have a cuddly, sweet, melt-your-heart smile?

At our house on Marta's birthday, opening presents with Mimi and Grandpa. (Slight difference from Berit's 30-person first birthday party, but still fun.)

This salty girl didn't care about her cake, and only ate one bite.

More Santa Photos and Christmas Memories

Not so impressed with Santa that she stops licking the dessert stuck on her cheek. 

Borrowing a technique from my sister-in-law's blog (and because Trevor keeps asking if I'm going to get ready for bed any time soon, or will I just sit on the computer all night?), here's a list of things I don't want to forget about this Christmas:

1. Since Halloween (roughly the time we started talking up Christmas), Berit has wanted a drum. After Christmas morning when she received a drum at our house from Santa, after Christmas with her Mimi and Grandpa and aunt, uncle and cousins, after Christmas with her Grandma and Pop and aunt and uncles, we came back home and asked her what her favorite gift was: "My drum."

2. Marta told us regularly that Santa said "grunt grunt grunt," or "ho ho ho" in her language.

3. I splurged on velvet dresses with tights and mary janes for both girls this year, and they wore their way too pricey outfits exactly two times: To church, and to be photographed in them. 

4. On Christmas Eve Berit was fighting with Marta. When we told her she needed to stop, she said in a nervous, worried voice, "Is Santa watching???"

5. True to form, Trevor is continuing to refuse to take the tree down, even though its branches are matted down and it basically looks like a dead tree standing in our living room. He also played Christmas music today. Although I did notice our creepy  1 1/2 foot tall Santa that turns back and forth in our entryway holding a candle is missing.

6. This is the year Berit, along with the rest of us, discovered the song "I Want A Hippopotamus For Christmas." She sang it repeatedly, along with "Jingle Bells," "Have A Holly Jolly Christmas" and "Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer" constantly in the month before Christmas, for everybody who came to the house, on the phone to my mom daily and on speakerphone to my mom's friends and my grandmother's nursing home.

Mind Your Manners

After opening a zillion (literally) gifts from Santa and my parents at my parents' house...

Me: "Berit, what do you say to Grandma and Pop?"

Berit: "May I please have some more presents?"

Merry Christmas 2008

It's so strange -- and funny -- to be the parent at Christmastime. Even when I was grown and not yet a parent, Christmas at my parents' house was thrilling from Christmas Eve until we left town. 

And last night we did our third Christmas as parents, at a significantly less exciting pace, but no less joyful or merry. We took the girls to the 5 o'clock Mass in their adorable velvet Christmas dresses with the cute tights and patent leather shoes. Marta fussed all the way home, letting us know that she's usually sleeping at that time, and Berit dallied to get to bed after we made it through the snowstorm to our sleepy Christmas house. 

We packed the car, cleaned the house, washed the dishes, took showers. It was a lot like every other night of our lives, and it was funny to us. Time passed in a normal way, instead of the electric minutes we lived as kids on Christmas Eve. And when we set out the presents, I have to admit that they looked a little... puny. I mentioned this and Trevor said, "It's more presents than I ever got." And I thought, "Oh no, this is going to be a thing with us every year." Because when I was growing up, even when my mom was single and working a handful of jobs and we ate cereal for dinner, we still had amazing Christmases. I mean, the gifts spilled down the sides of the tree and filled the entire room. Balloons  guided our way to the Christmas tree, and our stockings were plump with fruit and small presents. So I was a little disappointed to see the few gifts we had gotten the girls sitting under the tree, on the tree skirt. 

But before you get all "materialism is killing imagination" on me, we rearranged things a little and they looked better. I just wanted Berit to come downstairs and be really excited, because at not quite three, how often has she seen a huge pile of presents, made in a workshop especially for her by a giant magical Santa Claus, placed under a glowing tree? Certainly never in her memory. (It did not escape me that she just may remember this Christmas, so I wanted it to make an impression.)

Anyway, Trevor and I went to bed wondering how the morning would go -- who would wake first? How would we deal with one if the other was still sleeping? 

As it turned out, Marta woke at 4:50 (a result of her going to bed so late, because with her, sleep begets sleep) and she largely ignored the presents because I let her play with Berit's dollhouse, which is off-limits when B's awake. At 6 I finally woke Trevor and Berit up, to the smell of coffee and cinnamon rolls. Berit was suitably amazed and delighted and, to my surprise, tore right into the present situation. I expected her to thoughtfully move from one to the next, pausing to play with each one, but no -- she was about quantity, and even said "Look, a book for Marta" or "Santa brought Marta a doggie" when she opened a gift (hers) that she was lukewarm about. Marta was getting cranky and was only minorly into her gifts, but is now pleased to have a few new books and animals to play with, post-nap. 

Berit said, while eating breakfast, "I wish Santa would come back and bring more presents!" Lucky girl, we still have both sets of grandparents to visit today. 

Brunch With Santa

Because I'm The Mom

A friend sent this my way; enjoy!

The Mom Song

And on a different emotional plane, but mom-related all the same, a piece that makes me thankful for all of my friends, sent from my sister-in-law:

Women and Strength

Oh Nurse!

Routine suits us. It makes life so much easier, and the kids thrive on it. I know I sound like all the parenting books, but really, everyone knows what to expect and isn't that handy? So tonight, while nursing Marta, I realized that soon there'll be a change in our routine, and I actually got scared. She's one. And speaking of parenting books, they all recommend starting the weaning process when your kid is one. I've barely given it any thought at all, and now I'm supposed to come up with a way to throw a wrench into our well-oiled machine. It's just not very appealing.

When Berit was almost one, I was chomping at the bit to wean her. I did love nursing, but that little one would have nursed all day if she could have. In fact, she kind of did. She nursed every hour -- every hour! -- well into her first birthday. (This goes for nighttime, too, friends.) I tried all the tricks, I read every book, I cried on the phone to the lactation specialist. She ended up nursing until she was 18 months old, and I was only able to wean her out of panic because I was 5 months pregnant, throwing up every three seconds and really, because I could explain things to her. I remember thinking that it was kind of a good thing I waited so long, because she understood so much, and weaning was more of a talk-it-out thing than a crying, mourning process. 

Now I know there are plenty of women who nurse their children until they're, like 12, and I'm not saying that's wrong. But when Berit was nursing, I was exhausted by it. I wanted to be done so badly. I obsessed over it for 7 or 8 months. 

And here we are with Marta, and I'm reluctant. Not because I love nursing -- I do, but I don't feel like I really need it to be close with my child or anything like that. I'd be OK without it in my life, even if this does end up being our last child and I never nurse again. (I'd be sad, admittedly, but I'd make it.)

I just love the routine of it all. I know she'll go to sleep with a full belly. I know it's her signal to rest. I don't know how I'll calm her down without nursing. I don't know how I'll sit in the rocking chair and do our routine and not have it happen. It's the key ingredient in our routine. I feel sort of blank -- like, when I think about how to wean her, absolutely nothing comes to mind. 

It's going to be waaaay easier than with Berit, I do know that. Marta only nurses before bed, and she doesn't nurse to sleep. But when Trevor has had her for the afternoon and I've asked him to try putting her down for her nap, she just doesn't go to sleep. She waits until I get home, she nurses, I lay her down and then she goes to sleep. Even if he does every other step, and fills in a little milk in a cup for the nursing, she still won't go to sleep. So, any thoughts, my mom brigade? 

And Many More...

Last night, when I posted about Marta's birthday, I forgot to write a couple of things I know I'll forget over a lifetime and want Marta to know about her little self. 

1. She forces me to walk her around and around and around the house all day long, which is tedious enough in itself, but her favorite thing to do is climb stairs while walking (not actually climbing). I dislike it because a) It is stair climbing, and therefore working out, b) Detours us completely from even the possibility that I may pick up something along our path and put it away when we reach the appropriate place further down our path, and c) She can't even reach the next stair from the stair preceding it, so it's mostly me pulling her up by her hands and placing her on each stair. We go up seven, stop at Mosey's "perch," go up the next seven and then go down them all. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

However... her stair climbing, or stair climbing attempts, are absolutely adorable. She leads me over there and tries with all her baby might to lift her foot up as high as the stair. When she just barely makes the top, she rounds her chubby bare foot down to grip the carpeting, and sort of snuggles her toes into it for balance. Then she swings her left foot/leg up around (as I'm pulling her up, of course), straight out in the air to the side and all willy-nilly, and shoots her foot around rooting for the perfect place to set it down. 

2. The technical stuff: She's 22 pounds, and 29 inches long. 65th percentile, down from the 98th when she was about 6 months old. Her heart murmur is getting quieter and we're going to a new doc in GR at Spectrum Health/Helen DeVos Children's Heart Center for her valve. She's (and I quote) "far beyond a 1-year-old in intelligence." Well, duh.

3. She knows body parts, animal sounds and terrorizes her sister's many, many dollhouse setups that litter our house like Baby Godzilla.

4. Her hair, which started out a little bit dark and turned white-blond, is starting to look a little more ash blond. I note this because having two very blond, blue-eyed daughters is the main topic of conversation when Mom has dark brown hair and eyes. 

5. She loves, loves, loves dogs. It's ridiculously funny how much she loves dogs. And it's not because we have such a stellar dog ourselves -- Berit's a tiny bit terrified of Mosey. Marta just needs to read about, look at and sound like a dog during most of her days.

Marta Is 1

Last night, as I was nursing Marta in the rocking chair, I looked down at her and realized that in the morning, she'd be one year old. It seems funny, because she's such a baby still. I know that one isn't 30 or anything, but still -- it's a year, where yesterday her age was measured in months. (Technically I'll be measuring her age in months until she's two, but at least we have the option now.)

Right now she's sleeping. Last year -- just last year! -- at this exact time, she and I were getting to know each other. She was born at 7:59 p.m. -- it went so quickly -- and unlike when Berit was born, Marta just hung out with me, nursed, dozed and basically became my full-time baby immediately. 

I had gone in for my final OB appointment (assuming I went into labor at 40 weeks), and just out of coincidence, Trevor met me there (you know, second baby and all... he came to the appointments when he could). My appointment was at 3:30 p.m. Cathy, Trevor's mom, had come to our house to watch Berit while I went (at this point, she was still not away from me for very long. Berit, not Cathy.).

Something sounded funny on the doppler, and with the trouble we had had with Berit's heart, our nurse and OB (both amazing, wonderful people) pulled out the ultrasound machine to check on our baby girl. And as it turned out, she was in a breech position. 

"Looks like we're having a baby," said our OB. It was a week-and-a-half early, and his father had died the night before. He'd be in his hometown by morning, and if I went into labor in that condition we'd all be in trouble.

"Meet me at the hospital at 7," he said.

I cried all the way home. Berit's labor was nice and eventful in a productive way. I had thought I'd have to have a C-section with her, and I didn't, so I felt powerful. And now, through no fault of my own powers, I was having one in an hour-and-a-half. 

And sooner rather than later, Marta was screaming, and Trevor was saying, "She's perfect! She's so cute!"

Oh, she is. 

She's got a smile that's bigger than anything and she's a book worm times a hundred. She's no shrinking violet, even in the face of Big Sister, and is determined to have her way at all times. She throws proper baby fits (the kind of which we'd never known with Berit) and all day, every day, my job is to walk, walk, walk her around the house. No cleaning, no cooking, no anything but catering to her every whim. When she spies something that could be a phone, she holds it to her ear and says, "HI! HI! HI!" She talks up a storm and laughs at everything. She snuggles -- I love a snuggly baby. When I put her to bed at night, she lays her head on my shoulder, pats my back and says "baby, baby," like I do to her. 

She is a joy. She takes naps. I love when she naps. She is one.

Organic Is Code For "Freak Out About Everything Your Child Touches"

When Berit was born, we decided to go organic. Actually, I decided to go organic for everyone, since I get the groceries, clothes, bedding and all other Things We Need. Trevor is more of the "My parents gave it to me, and I'm just fine" mindset. Ahem.

I, however, read every drop of material regarding children that crosses my path, and in every article that covered organic food, I learned about how eating organic could reduce serious illness and disease in children even when Mom is pregnant for them. I feel my soapbox creeping underfoot right now, so I'll just cut to the chase and say that organics, for me, were safer, healthier and the right choice for my kids. I know lots of people say organic is marketing, marketing, marketing and that it really doesn't make a difference as long as you eat healthy, but I just believe otherwise. And I'm not just hopping onto the organic lifestyle bandwagon because trendy people are on it -- it's darn expensive, and here in Northern Michigan, hard to come by. It's not the simpler choice (though technically it is, but I digress). 

So now we've got organic food, bedding, soaps, etc. etc. But what I haven't done is upgrade my kids' clothing. I hadn't really thought about it. Last night, however, has got me surfing the web during babysitter time hoping to find cost effective organic sleepwear. Marta would not go to sleep. She started out OK, and slept like a dream from 6-10 p.m. But just after 10, she started yelping and hollaring -- not in an "I'm sick" or "I'm scared" way, but persistent nonetheless. I let it go but soon enough I was rocking her back to sleep. I started to lay her in her bed and she woke up and freaked out. And that was how it was all night, until the very early hours of this morning, when I just made her scream herself to sleep (after checking her pjs, mattress, sheets, dipe, etc.). And then, when she woke up this morning and I sat down to nurse her (still in the dark), I noticed that HER PAJAMAS WERE SPARKING. They're those synthetic fabric Carter's footies blanket sleepers, and when she moved around they created such static that they were sparking.

Now, I know that it's winter and dry and we're pulling out our humidifier, but come on. No wonder she was freaking out! The poor baby was sparking all night in her bed. Today after I dressed her in clothes she napped wonderfully, albeit a but apprehensively about her bed itself. 

So now I'm wondering if anyone knows where I can buy warm footed organic cotton sleepers. I'm so far going with Hanna Andersson because I trust them, but they're not footed and Marta takes her socks off. Thanks for any tips!

Potty Faking

How many women in the history of blogging have posted about potty training trials? Oh, count me in. 

Berit is three in February, and really, completely, totally understands the potty concept. She wears "big girl panties" at home, holds it for hours and when she's ready to "go," she changes herself into a Pull-Up. Yes, you read that right.

And yes, we've given her tons of time, attention and access on the potty. She knows it well (though we don't dare pressure her, parents of the New Millennium that we are). She sits on it often. She even says, with a gleam in her eye and excitement in her voice, "Here it comes!" "I can hear it!" "I'm doing it!" But she knows she's not. She's teasing us. Really -- I'm not being cynical. She's really, really, messing with us. She laughs and rolls her eyes. She gets up and puts on a Pull-Up, pees, and takes it off to put on her "big girl panties" again. 

Sometimes she goes. Never Number Two, which is already an issue for her with Pull-Ups (she's sworn off diapers altogether), so God only knows how she'll put that business in the potty. But occasionally she'll pee where she's supposed to -- I've even allowed the potty chair to be in the living room (I know) so she can be social while she waits. It makes music when she goes, which was exciting at first, but now the music goes off even when she moves around, so it's lost its luster and just taunts us.

I get tips. I get so many tips from people who just don't understand. The 24-hour potty training, the naked week, the guilt trip. These tips are not for Berit, our sensitive child who could really take something like the potty to her therapist two decades from now.

Yet I beg for tips. Somebody tell me the right way to do it. I want her to go to gymnastics. I hate waiting and waiting, sitting by the chair. I want preschool. I want life beyond Pull-Ups.

Braggity Brag Brag Brag

After refusing to crawl until very, very recently, Little One started walking around the house today, literally following in her big sister's footsteps by crawling and walking in the same month. (Berit at 11 months, Marta at 12 months.) She's thrilled she's walking, and makes excited squeals and has the goofiest face the whole time she's upright. I predict full-on walking by Christmas. 

Marta is not like Berit was at this age in that Berit wasn't too curious about what was in cupboards and on floors, and about how anything and everything might taste. As soon as Marta gets a pair of fingers in her hands, she walks us over to all the cupboards at her level and opens, closes, opens, closes them, inspects their contents and wants everything to do with Berit's tiny treasures laying around the house. She walks over to electric outlets, touches them, tries to put things in them, and when she sees us eyeing her she says "NO!", mimicking our scorns. 

I'm getting excited for her birthday on Thursday, because finally something is all about her and not overshadowed by (deservingly cute and precocious) Berit. She's such a sweetie, and I couldn't be more pleased that there is a light at the end of the "hold her hands and walk her around the house hunched over all day" tunnel.

The Result of Too Much Bragging

It seems that one too many times I've casually slipped into a conversation how Marta can recite the Preamble or that she taught Berit to count in Spanish. OK, maybe not those things specifically, but I've definitely mentioned on more than one occasion that our Little One is a talker. She's been saying actual words since at least six months of age. And not tiny grunts of words, but annunciating appropriate word parts, like "Mar-ta" and "dog-gie." She has known her animal sounds for what seems like an hilariously long time -- I mean, she was meowing before her eyes could fully focus on a picture of a cat. Of course we thought she was a genius. 

And now it's all coming around to bite us in the butt because she's started only saying very basic words, like Mama and Daddy (though the Daddy bit continues to be an adorable DA-DEEEE!!!), smacking her lips for drink, asking to eat with "Num-Num," etc. The rest of her words are lumped into three general-use terms: Ball, Baby and Maaa (this final word being the sound all animals make). 

Just in time for her one-year checkup!

As Of Late

We've been living a pretty normal life these past couple of days, save for Marta's all-nighter last night, getting her and me to bed at exactly 5:09 a.m. and waking us up at exactly 7:44 a.m. She's stuffy and has a little cold, so I thought that was it, but as I discovered in the morning, she was hiding a bit of a surprise in her dipe. Whoops. I would've been upset all night, too, if my parents tried to shush me when I was trying to tell them something. 

Anyway, today Berit and I left Trev and Marta to sniffle at home and went on a "date." I took her to American Spoon Foods cafe where she ordered juice to drink with a questioning look, and I allowed it since she did it so politely and because we were on a special outing together. She also ordered macaroni and cheese, tomato bisque soup and chose chocolate and candy cane gelato. Such a little lady! We then walked over to The Rocking Horse Toy Co. to pick out Christmas gifts for Trevor and Marta from her. Marta's getting a little doggy and Trevor's gift is so funny, but I can't divulge it here because sometimes, when the moon is just right and he has absolutely nothing else on earth to do, Trevor reads this blog and I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise. He loves surprises way more than anyone I know. But it's good, because before we got married I never wanted surprises, and now I'm learning to like them. Although I always know what I'm getting from him, because guys are so obvious. Anyway.

Miss Important with her violin case that is in backpack form; genius. She loves her violin and carries it around very patiently and lovingly. It's adorable. I'm not pushing it and it's working, because she asks me questions about it and is learning all about its parts.

Doesn't Trevor look cute and official? (I mean, handsome and smart.:) I love watching him work. He's so casual about it and I'm always astounded by what he knows. He builds houses that people live in. Big ones. If I did that they'd come crashing down.

No, this isn't a picture of a light dusting on our deck after we cut the legs off our furniture. This is the snow before Trevor plowed it the other night. It's not even Christmas!

Domesticated Sophistication

I've just come home from Book Club, for which I made Trevor stay home from his work party (he's the boss). Don't worry Kelly Kaatz, he's there now, making it, I'm sure, for a final round of drinks. I write this because I love Book Club (you'll notice I'm capitalizing it now), even though we've only had two meetings including tonight. We spent a whopping five or 10 minutes chatting about the book Tender At The Bone by Ruth Reichl (interesting, light, a nice read) and then moved onto very important topics like preschool, the lack of anything really great to do indoors with kids in the winter in Petoskey (and how someone should do something about this), the city council, the Catholic Church's take on certain intimate actions within marriage and potty training. (Notice I snuck that one in the middle there.) Trevor actually called the house we were at to remind me to come home. I love Book Club.

I was going to head straight to bed but I needed to write about this lovely song Berit's been singing, with Trevor's ever-prompting. The song is originally sung by Boots the Monkey from Dora the Explorer. 

Boots sings: "I speak Spanish. And English, too. I like them both, how about you?"

And Berit sings: "I speak Spanish. And It-squish, too. I like to poop, how about you?"

I find no need to correct this.

I've Been Tagged

When I first heard about the game Blog Tag, I thought, "I'll never think of six things about myself that don't involve my kids!" But as my sister-in-law, Stephanie (who tagged me) explained, those six things don't have to be about my current life. And once I started thinking about interesting things in my pre-kids life, I was enjoying remembering all the fun I used to have (now, of course, it's that "different kind of fun" that I wouldn't trade for a second. OK, maybe a second). So here are my six:

1. I have two tattoos, one done during a spring break trip to Mexico with my two best friends when I was 19 by a man who called himself the Poison Devil (now I'm just waiting for good ol' Hepatitis to show up), and another done soon after returning home from said trip, because once you get a tattoo you want another one. When you're 19.

2. I played the violin for 18 years. (This isn't as impressive as it sounds.)

3. A college boyfriend once told me a mutual friend had died (untrue) in hopes of reconnecting over "shared" grief. It worked, briefly.

4. In the late 90s I was crowned both Miss Danish Festival and Miss Montcalm County, competed at Miss Michigan and attended Miss America, just for fun. And the thrill of hardcore pageantry at its, ahem, finest.

5. I have personally interviewed: Jack Kevorkian, James Earl Jones, Katie Brown, Jeff Corwin, Bruce Campbell, Chris Dickey, a former Mrs. Ernest Hemingway, Jimmy Hoffa Jr., Bob and Tom, Elizabeth Pantley, Coach Ken Carter (Coach Carter), Soledad O'Brien and Arun Gandhi (Mahatma Gandhi's grandson). I also did an independent study for Time Magazine in college. And I've won nine awards for excellence in journalism in the state of Michigan. Not to brag or anything.

6. Long before meeting or even knowing the same people, Trevor and I were in the same place at the same time. He worked at a skateboard shop in Chicago; my girlfriend and I went in to try on bathing suits. He rang up our purchases. We realized this during idle chat one night years later, after we were married. 

And two more, just for fun...

7. I earned a trophy for Highest Handicap in downhill skiing in 2002, at Nub's Nob. I beat out hundreds of people. (For those of you who might not know, that means I was the worst skier in the beer league.)

8. I have my CCW permit. (Concealed weapons. Might I be carrying even as I blog??)

You're supposed to "tag" six people, but I only know four others who have blogs who haven't already been tagged. So I'm throwing this to:

1. My girlfriend Liza, who was there for the tattoos and has the very same ones as I do.

2. My neighbor Mandy, who became my friend far too long after we moved onto the block (just think of all the wine that could have been consumed on the front porch during the first two years).

3. My friend Candace, who, along with hub and daughter went to Vail with us this past summer and had a much better time than we did.

and 4. My friend Kallie, who I never see anymore but still love.

A Girl Needs A Life

Is it wrong that I'm making Trevor miss his work party to watch the girls while I go to book club? 

Captured: The Holly Jolly Merry Berry Joyful Song Unto The Christmas Season That Is Our Family

Marta: "I have released myself from the bonds of shoes yet again! Victory!"

Berit: "I'll only pose angelically when I know the photo won't be used to represent our family on a Christmas card -- like, say, when Marta looks like sumo-baby. Go ahead and try to cut me out and use this picture as if the photographer just took it of me. I know you're not that crafty or steady-handed."

A photo of our girls performing one of our favorite Christmas rituals: Baptizing Santa into the season of Crazy.

Afternoon Delight

Today, when Trevor ran home in the middle of the day unannounced, he found me hooking up the vacuum with the dishwasher going, the laundry going, the kitchen clean and the clutter cleared. Berit was on the potty (going) and Marta was down for a nap. I had showered, put on make-up and blown-dry my hair. I was so secretly pleased that he walked in at just that moment, because really I could have been: Surfing the internet trying to find Marta a new snowsuit; laying on the floor trying to get Berit interested in games to play without me; leaning my head into the fridge searching for leftover Thanksgiving tidbits; thinking about how the house really needed to be picked up and making a plan to do it later; or playing with Berit while ignoring the mess in the house.

Not that I'm not usually on top of things, but you understand.