Our Saturday, and also, everything you probably didn't want to know about diapers

Yesterday morning I said to Matt, "So, I really need to get out of the house today. What do we want to do?"

I thought he'd suggest a hike, or a trip to the Children's Museum or something. Except that it was kind of a rainy day, and we went to the Children's Museum last weekend (although really, we could take our girl there three times a week and still enjoy ourselves, as there's no way to do the entire museum in one visit). He said, "What if we go check out the new Elliott Bay Book Company?"

I positively erupted with glee. I've hardly bought any books at all since I've had Isaac, since I'm trying to be conservative in my spending while I'm on maternity leave and I do have plenty of unread books. But I love bookstores, and I've been hearing for two weeks now that the Elliott Bay Book Company is absolutely phenomenal. So the bookstore became part of our Saturday agenda, along with a trip to REI so Matt could use his birthday money to buy a new rain jacket and so Suzannah could play on the treehouse playground thingie up on the top floor; she is now officially brave enough to climb up there by herself and go down the big slide alone while I watch and cheer, which is fun for both of us. (On a side note, though, HEY, PARENTS OF ELEVEN-YEAR-OLDS. How about you NOT let your kids run WILD all over the play area when the sign clearly says it's for ages seven and under? It would be awesome if I were not the ONLY PARENT there, and if I have to yell at your boys time and time again for TRAMPLING my little girl I tend to get a little annoyed and break out the Teacher Voice, and I AM ON A BREAK FROM THAT. Thanks.)

Anyway, the Elliott Bay Book Company really is amazing. It was kind of a quick trip and I didn't linger as long as I would have liked, but Matt did let me wander the stacks alone for a bit as he read to Suzannah in the children's section (the castle is still there, thank goodness; Suzannah talked all morning about going to play in the castle at the bookstore) and Isaac took a little snooze. I was efficient and kind of giddy and before I knew it, I had three books in my hands. Three is a respectable little splurge. Then I grabbed one more. Done! Four books is quite a stack for one trip. And then, on my way to the register, I grabbed one more. Oops. But! I had a punch card, and my five books meant that I used up the punch card and got twenty dollars off, so really it's like I got a free book. Right? And you all want to know what I bought, right? Well, LET ME TELL YOU.

The Girl Who Played With Fire, by Stieg Larsson -- currently a bestseller, which you've probably seen if you've set foot in a Barnes and Noble or Borders. It's the second in a trilogy by a Swedish journalist who actually died before they were published; they were discovered after his death. And apparently he wrote them just for fun. And they are fun. The first book, The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, was the last book I read before going into labor and I'll always remember lying on the couch sort of miserably, passing my time with it. I thought it might be fun road trip reading on our upcoming trip to Montana.

Girl Meets God, by Lauren F. Winner -- a recommendation from Miss Foxy, who has shared pieces of it with me, most notably the chapter on Ash Wednesday Evangelism. It's a memoir of Winner's conversion from Judaism to Christianity, and the bits I've read are both well-written and compelling, so I'm looking forward to reading the entire thing.

Where I'm Calling From, by Raymond Carver -- because I need to read more Raymond Carver, because he breaks my heart, because he was married to the first poet I ever fell in love with on my own as a young teenager (Tess Gallagher, who actually lives in the Pacific Northwest).

Will Grayson, Will Grayson, by John Green and David Levithan -- because I love John Green enough to read anything he writes, and because it's been awhile since I've read good YA fiction. Also: this copy is signed and I am a sucker for signed books, even if it doesn't say, "TO SHARI: I LOVE YOU. XXXOOO." (Which is how Sherman Alexie signed one of his books for me at the first reading of his I attended. Aren't you jealous? I don't even care that he was being a smartass.)

Let the Great World Spin, by Colum McCann -- because it looks like an amazing novel, period. And what a fantastic title.

Good trip.

***

Speaking of trips, we're getting ready to hit the road in a big way, for the first time as a family of four. In the grand scheme of things, this will not really be a big trip, especially for two people who are used to driving long distances, but driving to Montana and back in the span of five days is not an insignificant undertaking when we factor two small children -- one of whom is only four months old -- into the equation. Would you like me to talk about why the idea of flying with two small children makes me quite literally very sick to my stomach? And how I would rather drive around the entire earth five times than fly for half a day with kids? Some other time? Okay.

I start thinking about packing a few days in advance, because I want to make sure we all have enough clean laundry and snacks packed, and because we need to purchase certain items we're not used to buying. Such as diapers. We bought our first pack of disposable diapers in four months this morning, and I have to tell you, it felt strange. Isaac has worn cloth diapers exclusively since he was about ten days old, and it took this purchase of disposables for me to realize that I really love our cloth diapers. (Some people are hardcore enough to continue cloth diapering even when they're away from home, but I'm not quite up for that.)

A little disclaimer: If you didn't or don't use cloth diapers on your babies, I'm not going to sit here and judge you. Okay? We didn't use cloth on Suzannah, although now we both often say we wish we had. It was something that always sounded like a good idea, but we didn't really research it ahead of time, and then we fell into a groove with disposables and never really got out of that groove. Also, I didn't know a single soul in real life who used cloth diapers and didn't know where to start. However, it's something I decided I really wanted to do with our second child, so as soon as I got pregnant with Isaac I said to Matt, "I want to do cloth diapers this time." He said, "Cool." I guess I'm writing this all out because a.) I'm trapped at the computer with a nursling asleep on my lap and I don't really want to move him so I should find SOMETHING to babble about, and b.) if anyone is reading this and thinks it might be something they'd like to try, I'm here to say this: Cloth diapering is awesome. In my experience so far, the only way it's possibly any more work than using disposables is figuring out what you want to use, because the choices are endless -- and that can be a little overwhelming at first. But otherwise, I've found it to be just as easy, and I'm the one who does all the laundry.

This is also a response to a certain friend of mine who told me (lovingly, I assume -- AHEM) that I am "frickin' psycho." Even if I don't make a cloth convert out of anyone, maybe I'll present a convincing argument for why I'm not actually a frickin' psycho. (I mean, I might be, but not because of cloth diapers.)

Anyway, I had two reasons for wanting to use cloth.

1. It is less expensive than using disposables. A LOT LESS EXPENSIVE. It did not take much number-crunching at all to realize this, and I won't bore you with the specific breakdown, but even figuring in the cost of water and detergent, it's a no-brainer. Now, the up-front cost can seem intimidating, and I had more than a few people say, "Really? Seventeen dollars for one diaper?" But keep in mind that my stash should, ideally, last us through potty training. Also, there is a huge variety of diapers out there, as I came to discover when I began asking around. We use a combination of prefolds with covers from Green Mountain Diapers and Fuzzi Bunz pocket diapers. The prefolds are cheap. Our newborn stash -- 24 diapers -- cost less than one giant box of newborn disposables at Babies R Us. Granted, Isaac grew out of his newborn stash in, like, two days, but it was still a good bargain. Also, prefolds make excellent burp cloths and stuffers for pocket diapers. They're not as easy as pockets or All-In-Ones, which go on about as easily as disposables, but they're also not that hard to figure out. Let me put it this way: if my husband can blearily change one in the middle of the night, anyone can get the hang of them. Believe me. I still love our prefolds. The pocket diapers are a bit more expensive, but they're also incredibly convenient and easy to use. Also, they should last a long time -- through potty training.

(I should note that it is entirely possible to spend a lot more than we do on cloth diapers. I belong to some wonderful online communities of women who use cloth diapers and some of them have huge and amazing stashes -- I never would have thought that cloth diapering can become somewhat of an addiction, but I actually see how it can. One woman posted a picture of her stash of over 90 diapers (!!!) and I admit, I was a little jealous of her Goodmamas. I haven't succumbed to the urge to buy any yet, though.)

2. The realization of just how much waste we were contributing to the landfills grossed me out. This doesn't really need any further commentary, I guess.

And Bonus Reason #3:

3. They are cute. I'm sorry, disposables are not cute. This is, I admit, a pretty shallow reason, but I'm going to throw it in there anyway. I think Isaac is adorable in just a diaper with his big ol' belly and chubby thighs. I mean, okay, I think both of my children look adorable in anything, and Suzannah wasn't not cute when she wore disposables, but the diapers themselves? are not cute. I think baby things should be cute.

I've also been pleasantly surprised to learn that:

4. They are easy to use. Prefolds are simple, workhorse diapers that can take a lot of abuse and almost NEVER leak (and the Winslow children? THEY CAN POOP). The pocket diapers also leak significantly less than disposables did for us, and they go on very easily. We bought diapers with snaps because they hold up well over time, but you can buy them with velcro, too. If you can work a disposable, you won't find these any more difficult. Laundry -- the part everyone thinks must be so horrible -- is a piece of cake right now. We simply toss the diapers in a wet bag inside a pail (a basic heavy-duty plastic kitchen garbage pail), and then toss the whole thing in the wash. We do a cold pre-wash without detergent and a hot wash with a cold rinse. So far, it works like a charm, and we haven't had any staining or stink issues. The poop is a non-issue. Isaac is exclusively breastfed and won't be starting solids for quite some time yet, so his poop dissolves like yogurt -- totally water-soluble. (I don't have any experience with formula poop and cloth, but I have met many mothers who bottlefeed and use cloth diapers and don't seem to have any problems.) I don't even count this as "real" laundry, since I don't really have to fold or sort it; the most time-consuming part is stuffing the pocket diapers with their inserts. We also use cloth wipes, which is easier than disposables -- because when you change a diaper, what do you do with the wipe? You leave it in the diaper, right? It's much less gross to use cloth wipes than to pick the disposables out of them. I know his poop will get a lot grosser when he starts eating solid food, but you know, you're supposed to shake poop out of disposable diapers into the toilet anyway, so I still don't think it'll be a lot more work. I hope.

I can't believe I just wrote this much about diapers. My life, it is so glamorous. I might not be psycho for using cloth diapers, but maybe I am for thinking anyone would want to read a blog about it? Then again, I wish I'd have had someone to talk about this with when I was pregnant with Suzannah, or when she was a newborn, or at least known of someone who actually used cloth and didn't find it totally overwhelming on top of caring for a newborn. So if this serves as encouragement for anyone, that's cool. And if this bores the rest of the world to tears, well, sorry about that.

And oh, my baby is awake, so I can stop rambling now. I think he needs a change.

Four Months!

Four months ago today, I had just had a baby and was curled up with him on our couch. I think our doula called at least a couple of times and gently reminded me to get some rest, but I was on such a high that all I wanted to do was call every single person I knew and chatter my head off and order food and then call more people. And then eat some more. And smell my perfect newborn babe, and stare at him, and say ten million times, "Isn't he amazing??"

(My friend Kyanne just pointed out that I did not mention her visit that afternoon, which was a grievous error. She came over after a full day of teaching to hold my baby while I probably talked my face off about how awesome everything in the universe was. And! My sister-in-law was there that morning, having come over in the middle of the night to stay with Suzannah while I gave birth, and my brother stopped by that night, and it was just generally a very awesome day, even if everyone thought I was a little bit insane. The NEXT day, still totally high, I had the brilliant plan to organize Suzannah's bedroom with the baby strapped to my chest. I actually would not recommend such an undertaking immediately after giving birth and definitely did not feel quite as awesome afterwards. But ah, the nostalgia of remembering this long-ago day!)

So anyway, Isaac is four months old today. Four! months! And I have to tell you, it's really kind of surreal -- he's so big, so happy and alert and cuddly and interactive and wonderful, and just so much fun these days. He's really such a happy-go-lucky little guy most of the time. My little butterball. This would be an appropriate time for pictures, and I did take some today, but they will have to wait because they are still on the camera and this is one of those days in which neither of my children think naps are a good use of their time, so I'm writing this entry in pieces here and there, in between nursing and changing and entertaining and cajoling and helping Matt prepare dinner, except I added that last part just to make myself look good because the truth is that I am not helping with dinner at all. But if you substitute "sipping wine" for "helping with dinner" it totally works. Anyway.

I've been looking at my birth photos, as I do every now and then, and I just can't get over it -- how that tiny baby fit so perfectly into our arms. Actually, I was just remembering how, after we'd snuggled with him for awhile but before we weighed him, our midwife said, "Oh, he's a big boy!" But he was still so tiny! NOW he is a big boy! Big! He has, like, six yummy chins! He has wrist chub! He has the fattest, most delicious thighs! (Matt finds it so, so creepy when I describe our son as "yummy" and "delicious.") He still fits perfectly in our arms, but there's a whole lot more to hold. Back in his early days when he was just a young guy, I wore him all day long in the Moby wrap, his little head just peeking out -- just close enough for me to kiss, snuggled under my chin. Now I have to wear him in the mei tai; if I try to hold him in my arms alone for very long they go numb. I wasn't smart enough to bring the mei tai to church on Easter, and Isaac still needs to be held and rocked during church so I did that for over an hour and when I finally laid him down to change him after the service, I found that I couldn't unbend my arms. I could barely reach for my coffee during brunch. (A shout-out to my Babyhawk mei tai -- I can comfortably wear my chunky monkey in that thing forever.)

Isaac got to celebrate his four-month birthday by watching his sister ride her tricycle for a long time this morning. He seemed pretty okay with that. We were all in such desperate need of a little vitamin D therapy, so when I realized that this day was actually going to be sunny I immediately herded the kids outside. Suzannah pedaled her tricycle and ran like crazy around the yard for awhile, and Isaac just sort of chilled, and I took some time to just -- breathe. Very, very deeply. This is spring in the Pacific Northwest: sunshine, and crisp, cool air. Cherry blossoms. The scent of freshly-cut grass. Airplanes dragging their cloudy white streaks across the blue, blue sky. We had a picnic in the backyard, and Suzannah ran around some more, and then I coaxed her into the house by promising that we'd walk to Starbucks after naptime.

Now, Suzannah has always sort of considered sleep a colossal waste of time and prefers to skip it whenever possible, but she does have "quiet time" every afternoon in her room. After lunch we always cuddle and read a few stories in her bed, and then we go through this complicated routine of finding the right stuffed animal and having a sip of water and then I have to kiss her and then she has to say thank you and then I have to say you're welcome and then she has to say you're welcome too and then I have to say good-night and then she has to say good-night and then I have to maybe kiss her again and then, inexplicably, she has to tell me that I'm the "Cut it out, thank you" (don't even ask, that will take a MUCH longer paragraph to explain) and I have to nod and say yes, I'm the "Cut it out, thank you" and THEN and ONLY THEN am I allowed to close her door, and if I have done any part of this routine less than perfectly we have to start all over.

But then I do get to close her door, and she might fall asleep. She might not, but you know, that's okay; she'll stay in her room for a decent chunk of time before calling "Mommy. Mommy." And then I open the door, and she smiles very sweetly and says, "Can I get up?"

Today I think she cut her quiet time a little short because she was so excited to walk to Starbucks. She wanted to go immediately, but, party pooper that I am, I said we'd go as soon as Isaac woke up from his nap. The one he had only just begun, because apparently some time during the last week my children held a secret meeting in which they promised that their naps would never again overlap because Mama was obviously slacking and taking too much advantage of her afternoon free time. (Uninterrupted laundry? What?) Suzannah obviously did not inherit my saintly patience (did you all just hear my mother snort?) so her response was to run into the living room where Isaac was dozing in his swing and turn the swing off.

"Mommy, Isaac wants to get up. He's done takin' a nap," she said. "Can we go to Starbucks now?"

Sigh. I wanted to be annoyed, but Isaac just beamed because he adores his sister and he can roll with just about anything.

I can't really complain, though. Isaac generally sleeps so well; I'm getting far more sleep now than I did when I was pregnant. And yes, he still sleeps with me, and no, I'm not about to give that up unless he makes it clear that he needs more space. But right now, he snuggles in so contentedly, and usually I don't even get up to feed him anymore; I just doze while he nurses and drifts back to sleep with a milky sigh. I don't think either one of us wakes up fully and it's absolute bliss. I'll tell you right now that I'm glad he sleeps best with me, because the time is flying so quickly that I BLINK and suddenly he's not my tiny newborn, he's this raspberry-blowing, squealing chub, and I want to ask all of these people who think I should start teaching him how to sleep "better" (i.e. in his own crib? or in his own room?) if they think I'll regret holding my baby too much when I'm at the end of my life, thinking about all the things I wish I would have done differently. I mean, I have a LONG LIST (permed bangs in seventh grade is right there at the top), but holding my baby too much isn't on there. I mean, good grief, I'm going to blink and he'll be starting first grade or driver's ed and I won't be able to kiss his chubby little feet; I'll be complaining about how he needs to stop leaving his socks all over the house. (Just like his father. AHEM.)

Speaking of sleep, today when no one was having any part of that I thought about all the things that actually prevent my children from taking a nap.

Isaac cannot nap if:

--he is wet.
--he is poopy.
--he is hungry.
--he needs a bit more cuddling.
--his big sister is screaming in or near his ear.

Suzannah cannot nap if:

--she doesn't have the right stuffed animal. (This is subject to change every forty-five seconds for up to thirty minutes.)
--she hasn't had a drink of water. (From the correct cup or water bottle, sometimes both. In the correct order. We do not know what the correct order is, because the correct order is subject to change.)
--her stuffed animals are not in their proper positions on top of her toy chest. These positions are subject to change.
--she does not have the right blanket to snuggle with. (The "right" blanket is subject to change.)
--the other blankets are not folded and stacked precisely.
--we have not read a minimum of two stories.
--we try to skip any words or pages in the required minimum of two stories.
--we do not correctly participate in the daily Naptime Dialogue (see above).
--she suspects that Isaac is not napping.
--she suspects that Mommy will not be napping (in other words, Doing Interesting Things Without Her).
--any of the other doors in the hallway are open.
--it is too dark.
--it is not dark enough.
--Mommy desperately needs twenty (or thirty! or sixty!) peaceful minutes.

As you can see, I really can't win.

Except, reading over this entry, and listening to the happy babbling baby sounds in the next room, and hugging the little blonde girl who just ran in here to rest her head in my lap for a moment, I think I actually do.

Did you know...

April is Cesarean Awareness Month (link courtesy of Patti Ramos).

It is also National Poetry Month, and because I think everyone should read poetry as much as possible, I will share one I love:

Bathing the New Born
by Sharon Olds

I love with an almost fearful love
to remember the first baths I gave him--
our second child, our first son--
I laid the little torso along
my left forearm, nape of the neck
in the crook of my elbow, hips nearly as
small as a least tern's hips
against my wrist, thigh held loosely
in the loop of thumb and forefinger,
the sign that means exactly right. I'd soap him,
the long, violet, cold feet,
the scrotum wrinkled as a waved whelk shell
so new it was flexible yet, the chest,
the hands, the clavicles, the throat, the gummy
furze of the scalp. When I got him too soapy he'd
slide in my grip like an armful of buttered
noodles, but I'd hold him not too tight,
I felt that I was good for him,
I'd tell him about his wonderful body
and the wonderful soap, and he'd look up at me,
one week old, his eyes still wide
and apprehensive. I love that time
when you croon and croon to them, you can see
the calm slowly entering them, you can
sense it in your clasping hand,
the little spine relaxing against
the muscle of your forearm, you feel the fear
leaving their bodies, he lay in the blue
oval plastic baby tub and
looked at me in wonder and began to
move his silky limbs at will in the water.

This post appears to be about cupcakes, but it's really about something else.

It was a day for cupcakes.

I like cupcakes, a lot. I never knew I was such a cupcake person, really, until Matt and I discovered this little coffee shop up in West Seattle that makes really great cupcakes and pretty good coffee. Sometimes very good coffee. (Although Cupcake Royale has the best coffee -- Stumptown is Matt's favorite. Their cupcakes are more famous, and they definitely have the coolness quotient down, but they're not as good.) We started going there because they have a big play area in the back and comfortable chairs for nursing a baby, and when Suzannah was born I quickly learned to judge places on whether or not they were good places to change and nurse a baby. As she grew, she loved playing there while Matt and I drank coffee and ate those cupcakes. They also have miniature cupcakes, and we usually get Suzannah one of those, although she has naturally caught on to the fact that there are big cupcakes and there are little cupcakes AND SHE WANTS A BIG CUPCAKE, THANK YOU. These days, we can only get away with the little cupcakes if we get little cupcakes, too, and come on. Who wants a little cupcake?

It's easy for me to feel entitled to cupcakes. I need them because I've had a bad day, because I've had a great day, because Suzannah threw a tantrum that made my ears bleed, because Suzannah was incredibly sweet all day, because Isaac pooped seventy-five times and I'm tired of laundry, because Isaac rolled over, because I'm having a bad hair day, because the sky is blue, because we have no cookies in the house, because my floors need to be vacuumed, because no one loves me and I guess I'll go eat worms, because I lost another three pounds of "baby weight," because I went for a run, because I don't want to work out, because someone went to the trouble of baking them with love and it would be rude not to buy one...

...yeah.

Today I decided we needed cupcakes because the sun was shining and it was a beautiful morning and I really wanted to take my kiddos for a walk, but the last time I did that, it was beautiful and sunny when we left the house and then we blinked and the sky became very angry and suddenly we were walking, head-down against a sudden and unfair onslaught of wind and rain. ("I don't think it's going to do that today," Matt said. And then it HAILED.) Instead of a walk, I loaded the kids into the car and we drove what was probably an obscene distance just for a cupcake. I didn't care, though. I wanted one, and I was reasonably sure Suzannah would want one, too.

So we drove to Seattle and walked a block or two to our favorite coffee shop. Suzannah and I call it "The Cupcake Place." We walked in the front door and Suzannah made a bee-line for the display case.

"I want that one," she said, pointing at a pretty pink little number called "Strawberry Swirl."

"Okay," I said. I pointed at the top shelf -- the one with the miniature cupcakes -- and said, "One of the little pink ones, and --"

"No, I want a big one," Suzannah said.

I wanted a big one, too. Matt would have probably said, "How about we share a big one, Suzannah?" But I really didn't want to share a big one, I wanted to eat the whole thing by myself. I didn't drive all the way to West Seattle to share a cupcake. So I ordered us both our own Strawberry Swirl, and we ate them delicately without wasting any frosting, and then Suzannah scampered off to play while I cuddled and nursed Isaac, who thinks he might one day like a cupcake of his very own, too.

It was warm and cozy inside and bitingly cold outside, and we had cupcakes and I had coffee and Suzannah was playing happily with another little girl and I read them both two stories and Isaac chewed on his blue bear and it was a perfect morning. I didn't feel at all guilty about driving an obscene distance just for a cupcake.

Finally, Suzannah announced that she was ready to go home -- I didn't even have to coax/bribe/argue! -- so I packed everything into the diaper bag and stood up with Isaac just as he noisily filled his diaper and punctuated the incident with a satisfied shriek.

"Okay, Bug, we've gotta change your brother," I said. She followed me into the spacious bathroom and closed and locked the door by herself, because she is a big girl. A moment later, she announced, "Mommy, I need to go potty." And just like that, she shimmied right up on the toilet seat.

Like, the actual, real toilet seat. She voluntarily decided to use a public toilet.

THIS HAS NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE.

Suzannah has been potty-trained for a long, long time but she has adamantly refused to use any kind of public toilet seat. Only recently has she consented to using any toilet that isn't the one in her bathroom, including Mommy and Daddy's Very Clean Toilet Seat. I was floored. This is the child who will stubbornly hold her bladder for approximately three months just so she doesn't have to pee somewhere other than her own toilet. And there she was, hopping up there totally nonchalantly like she does this ALL THE TIME.

I'm sure all the people in the coffee shop wondered why there was such a party going on in the bathroom. I'm also sure the other mothers in the coffee shop would have understood completely. Sadly, the place was nearly empty as we emerged triumphantly from the bathroom, and I didn't think the barista would really get it if I'd gleefully announced that my daughter JUST PEED IN THE BIG TOILET IN THE PUBLIC BATHROOM AT THE CUPCAKE PLACE.

I had to settle for sending Matt an instant message at work, and we shared a virtual emotional moment. (We've been worried about how Suzannah will handle our upcoming trip to Montana -- will she just not pee for five days? NOW what will we worry about?)

A day for cupcakes INDEED.

Instead of a real blog entry, I bring you something even better

I have a backlog of approximately one bazillion posts in my head. I haven't decided if I'm actually going to write all of them or not (probably not -- some of them are the reason I need to have a paper journal, too), but I've spent the last little while trying to process all sorts of junk in my head, none of which would be the greatest thing to write here. Don't worry, everyone's healthy and life is good and everything, but, you know, sometimes we've all experienced our brain jumping on a hamster wheel in the middle of the night after downing too much coffee and food and feeling kind of queasy but totally unable to stop the psychotic racing, right?

...Nevermind.

Anyway, while I work some things out, I thought I'd make an appearance here to introduce you to my new BFF. Her name is Allie. Okay, Allie doesn't actually know I exist, although I feel a certain kinship with her because she lives in Montana and hey! I used to live in Montana. I discovered her blog this week via a friend on Facebook, and her blog literally saved my life on Wednesday night. Because Wednesday was the equivalent of the universe eating a giant chicken burrito from Chipotle and then violently vomiting the entire thing all over my sweet little existence. (I chose this lovely metaphor for a very specific reason: I could not not eat giant burritos from Chipotle for my entire pregnancy due to an unfortunate pregnancy craving last May. Let me tell you, all that rice and beans and chicken -- well, the texture is REALLY UNPLEASANT the second time you have to see it in twenty minutes. Oh, also, I want you all to know that my mother just read this and said, "Oh, for Pete's sake." I could hear it from two states away. Anyway, what I'm saying is that Wednesday was just really horrible, much like burrito vomit.)

I won't go into too much detail, but basically it was just that I had almost NO sleep on Tuesday night, and Suzannah was in the worst mood OF HER ENTIRE LIFE the next day, and all of that plus the psychotic brain on a hamster wheel added up to lots of crying and wishing it were okay to drink gin-and-tonics all day long.

Matt came home and decided to give Suzannah a bath, and that turned into ninety minutes of negotiations and then finally just screaming, so I sequestered myself in the study with a baby who really needed to sleep as it was the only place in the house that was remotely protected from the deafening noise of an hysterical three-year-old.

So I nursed Isaac to sleep on my lap, and I found Allie's blog of indescribable AWESOMENESS. I spent the next hour reading it and exercising all of my restraint so I wouldn't HOWL with laughter. I restrained myself so well my stomach ached and I had tears rolling down my face, but they were not the same tears that had been rolling down my face for most of the day. I couldn't shriek happily out loud, but Kyanne was online and I frantically sent her the link and we read entries together and did a lot of "OMG READ THIS ONE LOL" for awhile.

Later, Matt stuck his head in the door. He looked shell-shocked. Instead of saying, "SEE, I wasn't exaggerating, WAS I?" I said, "Matt! You have to read this blog! It is the funniest thing I have ever read IN MY LIFE." (This may or may not be true, but I was given to extremes that evening. Yeah, blah blah blah, I know how out of character that is.) Matt gave me a wavery, polite little smile, but I could tell he was still not really okay after the whole bathtime ordeal. I gave him a few minutes to decompress, and then we had the following conversation:

Me: This blog is why you still have a wife. I'm going to tell everyone to read it, even if she does use the word f*ck every now and then.

Matt: Wow, you'll scandalize my parents.

Me: I don't know, I used the word shit in my blog not very long ago and BOTH of our mothers actually admitted to laughing at it. You were worried about that, too.

Matt: Okay.

Me: I mean, you want to see me scandalize my parents, I'll just end it with a picture of the tattoo I'm going to get.

Matt: Mm-hmm.

Me: I mean, I'll never even get to go home again.

Matt: Oh, Baby, that's not even true.

Me: ...Are you even listening to me? Because I was thinking about how Suzannah hasn't pooped in, like, two days. It all makes sense now. Remember when I was pregnant and didn't poop for like two months? I get it. It's not the greatest feeling and I'm sure it didn't contribute to my acting like a human being, so I suddenly understand why she was being so psychotic today. Hey. Am I allowed to write about poop on my blog?

Matt: *swivels around very suddenly, looking horrified* NO.

Me: *smile*

Matt: NO. Start a new blog somewhere else if you have to write about poop. I DO NOT WANT TO HAVE THIS CONVERSATION WITH MY MOTHER.

Me: *bigger smile (because I am apparently twelve)*

Matt: WOMAN, PLEASE. Let's not do this.

Me: Hee hee hee.

Matt: I hope you're pleased with yourself. Dude. NO. Just -- no. No, no, no.

Me: You saw a whole person come out of my vagina, and you can't handle me writing the word poop on my blog?*

Matt: That's right.

Me: Wait. So, vagina is fine, but poop isn't? I can write vagina but not poop?

Matt: Yeah. It's just -- someone is going to say, "Oh, your wife said 'poop' on her blog."

Me: So?

Matt: I really hope this is making you feel better. Wait. Are you writing down this whole conversation?!

(There is a prize for the person who correctly guesses how many times my mother just said, "Oh, for Pete's sake" there. She's also the person who is claiming she doesn't actually know whose blog this is, because it's not her daughter's -- it's just some random, completely inappropriate blog she stumbled across online. She raised her daughter to be much more ladylike. Please don't hold her responsible for my actions.)

Anyway, I'll leave you with a few of my favorites, the ones that made me laugh and laugh at the end of a completely horrific day:

"Boyfriend Doesn't Have Ebola. Probably." A better pain-rating scale. (I nearly peed myself laughing at this one. This is also the first one I read.)

"How a Fish Almost Destroyed My Childhood." I think my dad would particularly appreciate this one.

"Spiders Are Scary. It's Okay to be Afraid of Them." This one is for my brother. A couple of years ago when he lived with us for a little while, he was out in the garage with his friend Steve one night and they were, I don't know, dismantling his truck or otherwise doing Serious Man Things With Tools. Suddenly he stuck his head inside and yelled, "Sis! You have to come see this spider! It is the SIZE OF MY FACE!" And then I checked into a hotel for the night. It's also for my friend Carmen, whose fear of spiders might even exceed my own.

If you don't laugh at these, I will think you are secretly a robot. Anyway, if you're having a burrito vomit day, I hope my new friend Allie cheers you up at the end of it.

--
*Yes, I'm aware that I've already written about poop on this blog, probably too many times, but it's always been about the baby's poop, and somehow that's different. Matt thinks anything else is sharing way too much. Which it is, but that's what I DO, so love me or leave me, is what I say.