Fair Free-Frau

To me, fair friend, you never can be old
For as you were when first your eyes I eyed,
Such seems your beauty still.

-William Shakespeare

Pass the Zanax please.

It appears as though we are on the fast-track to the "terrible twos." I abhor that phrase now that I have a Skeets, because she's not ever really terrible....just extremely independent these days.

The veer & vapors have hit an all time high.
Her cute little Norwegian "ya" has been replaced with a high-pitched "nooooooo."
I try to hold her hand, she yanks it away.
I put my hand on her shoulder and she shrugs it off and runs.

Me: Bea, do you want some breakfast?
Skts: Ya!
Me: Scrams and toast?
Skts: Ya!
I proceed to make her favorite three-course breakfast: a 2-egg omelet with parsley, Birdman bread toast and banana's. Set her in her chair.

Me: Ok, Skeets, here we go, here's your scrams.
Skts: Noooooooo! Nooooooooo! Noooooooo!!!!!
Me: What? Come on, eat some brekkie. (The head-shakes and tongue comes out, makes a face like she's choking?? Where did she learn this shit?!)
Skts: Noooooo! Noooooo! Noooo, Noooo, Nooooo! (then she throws in her monkey sound for good measure) Hooo-Hooo-Hooo-Ha-ha-ha!!

Whatever, I have to get to work. By now Frau's ears perk up at the sound of "Noooooo!!!" because it means he gets the fall-out from breakfast. No sooner have I scraped her entire breakfast into Frau's bowl does she start hollering: "miiiiiiiine!! miiiiiine! mine!" and goes flying towards a scarfing Frau with vengeance on her mind. However, there will be no stepping aside humbly for pugster this time around. No sir, not with fresh hot eggs and buttered toast in his bowl. Puggy plants his paws and refuses to move. Bea veers, vapors and eventually decides to sit on puggy. Doesn't work. Bea then takes the dishtowel and covers pugster's head. No success. I then get the wrath of a very frustrated Skeetie who all of a sudden is intent on eating her breakfast.

Deep breaths, count to ten, do not snap at Skeetie. Just placate so you can get her out the door and yourself to work. "Skeets, want some raisins?" "Ya!" "Are you sure you want raisins?" "Ya! Ya! Ya!"

Once again I have succumbed to the kiddie crack. Yogurt covered raisins. For those of you wondering which stock to purchase, here's a tip: Sun Maid yoghurt covered raisins. We will most likely fund your retirement.

I have a distinct feeling that providing endless boxes of raisins is defined as bad parenting on some babycenter.com website or Dr. Sears book. But since I've disavowed advice from those types of sources, ignorance is bliss. Yet again, Skeetie is eating raisins as her sole source of nutrition. Let me tell you how much fun it is to change the diapers of a child who obsessively eats raisins on an hourly basis.

I have a million more examples of her new-found independence, but don't so much want to harp on them. However we did get into a big row because I wouldn't allow her to drink her bath water. Full on hollering and splashing and rubber duck tossing with a few "hooo-hooo-hoooo-ha-ha-has!!" thrown in. I'm sure if I still subscribed to babycenter.com they would inform me that her "development is right on track for a 17 month old." It would also probably have a sidebar article entitled, "Raisins: nature's junk food?"

Trying not to lose your cool with a 17 mo. old who cannot logically analyze a "situation" with you is quite challenging. But I'm trying real, real hard to just think about it from her point of view. I have a suspiscion that a Zanax may assist in my rationalizing with Skeetie.

Today was a Bea-utifully challenging day.

All I needed was a good Spanx

So this weekend we attended my cousin, Libby's, wedding in California.
I was a bridesmaid and Bea was the flower girl. Her first introduction into the high-stress, highway-robbery industry of weddings. Bea was a little vision of white tulle, complete with matte satin basket and rose petals. She did great too. She pranced down the aisle, more than happy to perform for her auntie Libby.

I, on the other hand, was thankful all eyes were diverted onto Beatrice for the time being. I was also in the wedding. Technically I was a bridesmaid, but truthfully I was a momsmaid. First things first, let me set the scene: my cousin Libby is a whopping size 2, on a fat day. She has this adorable little pooch of a stomach that she's always claiming she needs to "get rid of." To top it off, she had a ridiculously perky (& big) rack on her teensy, tiny size 1 (2, on a fat day) frame. Please understand though, she is the only beautiful woman I know that I actually do not harbor any resentment towards, simply because she is truly the nicest person I know. There is not one teeny-tiny thing I don't like about her.

That said, she also has teeny-tiny little friends who were her other bridesmaids. I was truly horrified when I discovered her bridesmaids went something like this: sizes 2, 4 & 4........then me a a sheet-draping size 16. Holy shit. Did I really just type that size on a public blog??? Ok, my horrible secret is out. Oh yea, and the one I was to stand next to was a triathelete, complete with washboard abs and toned arms. How wonderful!! Thankfully, she also asked my other cousin, Katie, to be a bridesmaid. Actually, Katie is a momsmaid too. Katie had a baby one month before Bea was born. Now here's the stark, sad truth, now that our kids are 17 & 16 months respectively, "baby-fat" should no longer be our excuse du jour. Now here's the reality: I continue to use it as my excuse for my physique and it IS the excuse for my sexy stretchmarks.

At any rate, given the thought of myself buffaloing down the aisle with my "nursies" bouncing around in my size 16 sheet, I decided to join Weight Watchers with my friend Kelly. Here's the good news, I initially dropped 17 pounds, only to put 6 back on over the holidays, for a net loss of 11 pounds a week before her wedding. What was I thinking?? I had since July to obsessively count points and drop pounds, but instead I indulged in bacon & jalapeno pizza & imbibed in Bud Light with the hubby as if I had the metabolism to do so. Silly me. So a week before her wedding I decided I better try on that dress. Hmmmm....it doesn't fit so well. Truth be told my freakin tits were spilling out and would not stay in the designated cup portion of the dress. This is a problem. I freak out call my aunt Laura screaming at her to drop everything and get to my house STAT to help me figure out a bra situation.

In between the time I call Laura and she arrives, I frantically call Katie and ask what she is going to do about her boobs & the dress. I have prior top secret knowledge that we ended up getting the same size dress: 14. Yeah, that's right a whole 12 sizes bigger than the maid of honor and 10 sizes bigger than the other two waifs. She doesn't really have any suggestions and then we both realize that it would be in our best interest to talk the bride into having the bridesmaids use pashminas/scarves/shawls, because, afterall it is January and our dresses are sleeveless. (More importantly, they would hide cellulite-riddled upper arms and big boobies. We convince the bride and Laura and I are off to find a serious push up bra, a punishing girdle and something to camouflage my arms. Amazingly enough we found all three, including wraps for all 5 bridesmaids.

Now onto improving my physique. Please note at this point that two of the bridesmaids seriously look as if they have had boob implants and ass-lifts. So we must work with that challenge within a 7-day time frame. Sounding impossible? Don't lose hope yet, because I was blessed with the stomach flu. Not once, but twice, in that time frame. That combined with the fact that I couldn't stomach anything but cheerios and bananas, I was in business, to the tune of 11 lbs. I don't give two shits if its water weight, it's weight. Besides I know all about water weight. At the height of my pregnancy in a sweltering August, I was gaining steady water weight due to the heat, and trust me, it is still weight, because it goddamn registers on the scale.

In addition to the flu I found Spanx. They are pantyhose/girdles that do not bind and do not re-distribute fat out the top or bottom of the girdle. Oh man do they slim and tone. My Spanx went from above my knees allll the way up to just underneath my bra. That alone took off another 5 pounds from my frame. No to mention the bra that jacked my boobs up to underneath my chin. Oh yeah, I also got a spray on tan to camouflage any additional cellulite that might peek out from underneath the wrap that went around my arms. Whew! Oh the hilarity of Katie and I hiding in the bathroom of the bridal suite trying to cram each other's boobs into minimizing, push-up, stick on bras and running around in girdles. We couldn't exactly get dressed in front of the triathelete and the waifs since girdle and nursies aren't even in their vocabulary. Too humiliating.

Ultimately, I didn't feel like Alberta Beef when I went down the aisle. Furthermore, I think that Katie and I looked pretty in our own way, particularly when we were holding our beautiful babies, Bea & Gabe.

But more importantly, for all of my vanity, the one everyone was looking at was Libby. Libby really, truly was the most beautiful bride I have ever, ever seen. (She told me I was lying when I said that to her before her wedding, but I wasn't, not even close). I suspect it had something to do with the fact that she is a beautiful, caring, loving, amazing person inside - as cliche as it sounds, inner-beauty must radiate, because she certainly was glowing. Every other silly notion of how I looked vanished when she came down the aisle, and I was so incredibly happy for her and Cameron. I love her, love her and wish her the best in her new life.

Although this post seems like its about "me" it really is also about Bea. Someday when she reads these posts, I will be slightly embarrassed for her to see this one. Because I am trying my hardest to raise her with a healthy view of herself, and I know this starts with me respecting myself. It just does. I cannot raise a daughter to respect herself if I am self-deprecating. Typically, I do not say these things in front of Bea. My strongest desire is for Beatrice to grow up a healthy, happy, secure girl who isn't obsessed about too skinny legs, fat thighs, flat boobs, huge boobs, small nose, or big beak. I just want her to be. To be spending time hiking or biking or cross-country skiing or snowshoeing with her dad, mom & puggy. To spend time eating dinner at the table with us enjoying new foods, tastes and textures and not worrying about carbs, fat grams and calories. I just want her to stay the calm, secure, beautiful little girl that she is right now.

When she walked down the aisle in her little white flower girl dress I was so proud of her. Her confidence and her little precocious eyes and smile. It's a good thing she came before the bride, because at that point, she had totally stolen the show, in my humble mommy opinion.

Every day is a Beautiful day, especially since it is Pappy's birthday!!!!! Happy Birthday Dad!! I love you & Skeets loves her Dewey. ;-)

Boundaries, eh?

It is an odd sort of thing to have friends blend into your family. Specifically for people like George & myself. We are quite adamant about maintaining boundaries with our friends and family. We love them, want to spend time with them, but work at preserving our little unit. Our own little Charlie Company: George, Kitty, Skeets & Frau.
I'll be the first to admit I'm stand-offish in this regard. So much so, my husband resorts to calling me "tactile defensive." Therefore its astonishing the friendship we've developed with Ben & Kelly.

We started out on a very formal basis w/ B&K. Cogizant and leary of boundary-crossing, as were they. We'd bring our own beer to their house; never call each other at work; and maintained a pretty two-dimensional relationship. It was basically confined to Wed night dinners watching "The Bachelor." But as time went on "public George & Erin" began to fade, as did "public B&K." Pretty soon B was talking about smaking his wife's ass while riding her rodeo style and K was telling of her Brazilian wax in detail. Thus began our intimate relationship. It has evolved into one of the best frienships I've ever experienced. G and K have the same type of personality: quiet, calm, cool, collected, while B & I have similar personalities: high-voltage, somewhat argumentative, and love to "push buttons" for the simple enjoyment of seeing the other spin up. B is a fellow attorney and not the slightest bit touchy-feely. We can both feel like absolute shit and neither would dream of hugging the other. It's perfect.

When I felt my absolute worst during my 9th mo of pregnancy: swollen, fat, pissy, sore and stretch-marked, B told me in complete sincerity he thought I looked nice, before we went out for what turned out to be our last supper before Skeets arrived on the scene. I wanted to cry and logged it in my annals of true friendship. (Ben, it says "annals," not "anals"). When K had baby Grant Henry we couldn't wait to see the little guy. When I saw little Grant Henry for the first time I felt some type of ownership, it's hard to describe, but now I somewhat of a protective instinct for the little chap. When K had problems breastfeeding I wanted to do anything to make it work for her and GH - I had the insane idea I could be GH's psuedo-wet-nurse, and would pump round the clock for them. I eventually came back down to reality - BUT if K took me up on it I would've whipped 'em out and started pumping, particularly if ST would be there. Everything turned out fine and K did an amazing job of handling that stress.

Then there are the times such as these: the epic float trip, complete with job prospects, tears promised b.j.'s on the river bank, and a trip to the Mo Club to wrap up the day. Or our trip to Polebridge "resort" stuffed into cots in a one room cabin while Ben served as a 5-course meal for spiders.
Or the Willie concert and the buiscuit check G performed on B and made B cry. Or the much awaited trip to Spokane for the "Lion King." We shared a hotel room w/ B&K, both kids in tow. Crammed into a room with two queen beds, only to wake up at 5:00 am to crying babies. The simplicity of sitting in a hotel room watching the early morning news, in pjs, drinking coffee with your two best friends is the definition of simple pleasure. It all works because we are careful not to cross certain boundaries. (With the exception of Fat Tire Festival and when B made G cry because he kept teasing him about being a Canuck, eh?) They are true friends, after all we wouldn't name just any old non-churching going couple as stand-in godparents for Bea's Catholic baptism. Now B takes his responsibility seriously; he makes sure to point out that we are not at mass when we are all sitting around drinking on a Sat night.

More importantly we are on the same page when it comes to parenting. I had secretly harbored great trepidations when K got pregnant. What if their kid is a pain in the ass?? Whiny, crying, annoying little shit?? GH is the polar opposite. GH is so laid back, just a really cool kid with a Felton kind of attitude. B&K are so good about having the little guy go with the flow. (Neither K or I are particularly hung up on schedules for napping, eating, playing, etc...) Now he is getting to the age where Bea just adores him. She feeds him his bottle, gives him his binki, and gives him hugs and kisses. It's just so weird to see our product loving their product. Of course B has to continually comment that someday GH & Skeets will be rolling around in the backseat of her hot pink SuperBee.



Friends like B&K made every Wednesdays and weekends BEAutiful days.

A Good Little Citizen

I've decided that is what sums up Skeetie. A good little citizen. I would venture to say, a model citizen.

As mentioned before, Bea is more the quiet, pensive type. Partly due to her innate personality, and if appropriate for G & I to take credit, partly due to her parents (not sticking her in daycare.)

Let me list some of her attributes:

• She sits nicely in her chair at the table, carefully eating her food. We believe she has already learned to savor the tastes and textures.
• She doesn't participate in random acts of screaming. Before I even had a kid that was one thing I could not STAND--when kids randomly start running around screaming for no reason. It's rather annoying.
• She doesn't destroy everything in her path. Skeets actually comprehends "no touchie" and responds. Skeets gives the appearance of respting other people's houses. For instance, she will unroll the toilet paper at home, but will not at our friends' houses.

She's just an all-around well-mannered little kid. Quite impressive for 16 mo. Bearing in mind this is her mother singing her praises.

To be honest I didn't realize how good she was until I was exposed to our acquaintances' son. Hopefully his anonymity will be effective enough so as to not ruin a my professional relationship with his mother. If not, that's fine, we don't really care for them anyway. So I'll refer to the little guy as Charlie.

Charlie is around Skt's age, but he has a really big head and an unnatural amount of hair. If you put pointed ears on him he'd very closely resemble a hobitt or troll. Although his mother insists he talks in full sentences, I've never heard him utter anything other than grunts or growls. He just stalks around the room grunting. But perhaps most endearing is how when we are eating he makes his way to the table, plants his stocky little hands on the table, tilts his head back, opens his mouth and growls and until his mother drops food into his mouth. Highly disturbing. It's like feeding a dog scraps, only Frau has better manners than Charlie. Meanwhile Skeets is sitting nicely in her chair enjoying crepes.

Charlie is also very aggressive and destructive. I have witnessed him single-handedly destroy our friends' living room, including expensive equipment, while his mother smiled upon him lovingly. He has tossed candles, bitten through glass bulbs, and broken cabinets. If Skeets has something he wants, he stalks over, grabs it and eats it - especially if its non-edible. Bea honestly just looks at him increduloulsy and vacates the premises. Sometimes she runs to Frau for cover. As expected, Charlie's mom will make a show of telling him electrical outlets are "dangerous. No, Charlie. Danger." What the hell Woman?! We all know he's never heard that word cross your lips before. She clearly does it for the appearance of discipline. Charlie usually just growls, then runs over to a corner to squat down, grunt and poop.

To further the contrast, Charlie also engages in random acts of screaming, for no valid reason. He will be skulking along and all of a sudden let out a whooping war cry. Over, and over, and over. Maybe this is the full sentence in which his dear mother refers. I've seen poor Skeetie jump out of her hide when he randomly screams next to her. Once again, runs to Frau for cover.

I don't mean to pick on the kid. I know its mostly not his fault; it's his parents' complete failure to set any boundaries. Besides, we don't really need a horribly-behaved child to reinforce the fact that Beatrice is model citizen.

Divine Intervention

Let me start this post by proclaiming that since the day I shook the Pope's hand (John Paul II), my life has been blessed, charmed, lucky, whatever you want to call it. (In 1997 while in Rome, G & I stumbled upon a small mass being given by none other than this papal highness - complete with popemobile, but no entourage - he came cruising down the aisle and G shoved me in front so I could shake his hand. I was hoping the experience would bring me up a few notches in G's grandmother's eyes, but alas, I am still referred to as the "convert" of the family.)

At any rate, convert or not, I apparently have the higher authority on my side, generally.Seriously, there have only been minor, minor bumps in the road. Primarily, I feel we live a very charmed life.

This includes the fact that Bea gets to spend copious amounts of time w/ her parents. As parents, we are steadfastly opposed to daycare. I don't give a shit what anyone says, I refuse, refuse, refuse to take Skeetie to a daycare center. Refuse. She gets her socialization from the pug. There is no need to stick her in a grimy room, with snot-nosed little gremlins and let her fend for herself. No freakin' way. Thus, I stayed home w/ Bea until she was 4.5 mo., then worked at home two days a week. George stayed home the other three days with her. Then of course my job dictated that I be in the office full-time, so she started having a babysitter 3 days a week, after a not so great start with her first babysitter, we finally found her current babysitter, Donna. Now, Skeets is horribly spoiled by Donna 3 days a week - and we love it! Donna is like Bea's resident grandma.

However, Donna informed us that she would be going to AZ for 6 weeks beginning in January. Instead of having foresight, which I rarely do, I just kept thinking something would "work out." I have no idea why I thought that would happen without my facilitation, but I did. Maybe denial? I'm not sure why I do these things, but I do. So finally, on January 2, I start to think about the fact that on Jan. 9, Bea will have no babysitter. Wait...Bea will have no babysitter in 7 days. Oh shit. Bea will have no babysitter in a week. "Georrrrgeee!!!!! Did you realize that we have no childcare starting in approximately 7 days???? Did you not think it was important to talk about this with me??? What is wrong with you???? Why didn't you think of something?!! Oh, did I say I was taking care of this? Fine. Point made. Is there anyway you can take work off for about 6 weeks? Why? Ok, fine. I'll try to figure something out."

So, long and short of it is, I start reasearching in-home daycares - i.e., take Bea to someone's house, house takes no more than 6 kids. I quickly find out that there is a reason the good homes have a waiting list. An example, one home agreed to take Skeets. G & I ask if we can come see the home and interview the daycare provider. It was horrific. The house was located behind McDonald's adjacent to a busy street. We go inside and there are grubby little urchins with ratted, matted hair laying around on the floor glued to a T.V. The house smelled like smeared food. Bea clung to me like a Rhesus monkey. The provider, an older woman, asked us to sit down, neither one of us could bring ourselves to sit. So we just stood in the living room. I was too mortified to speak, so George managed to squeak out some pertinent sounding questions - "I see you are licensed, what did you have to do to become licensed with the State?" Her: "I don't know - they just sent me that sticker to put on my door in the mail." Provider informed us they take field trips to McDonald's. Greeaatt...healthy, stimulating, educational field trip.

Meanwhile, there is a little girl about Skeetie's age who is jumping up at me and wildly trying to grab Skeetie's leg. Skeets was still clinging to me for dear life. The little badger then took to tossing a toy at Skeetie for her attention. It took all my self-control not to open up the coat closet next to me and shove her in there. (there is a reason I am a lawyer, not a teacher.) While G was politely "interviewing" the provider I continued to survey the scene and settled upon the provider's husband sitting at the table. He was in his 60's, wearing overalls and unfortunatley had missing teeth. The teeth I do not hold against him, but what freakin' creeped me out was how there was this little girl, about 5, sitting under the table and he was just petting her head. It just made my "mommy sirens" start wailing. After our first babysitter (before Donna) I vowed never to ignore my maternal instincts. So on that note we got the hell out of there. Not once did I put Bea down, not once did Bea want to get down. The woman assured us we would not find childcare any cheaper in Missoula. Clearly, you get what you pay for. We made a break for the car. Once safely belted inside, and on our way to Taco Tuesday to kill our pain with 24 oz Corona's, George looked at me and said, "I feel sick. I can't just leave the light of my life with people we know nothing about." Agreed. But what are we going to do?? "Let's go brainstorm over fish tacos and Coronas." Skeetie agreed and indulged in a black bean quesadilla.

Then, that night the heavens parted and divine intervention occurred. My mom informed me that one of her teacher's sister, who lives in Msla, might be willing to take Bea. I'll refer to her as A.H. Here's the amazing part, my family knows her parents very well. G & I actually bought our house from A.H.'s grandmother's husband, with the help of A.H.'s parents. Further, A.H.'s mom and my mom are very close friends. Finally, during one summer of college A.H. & I worked together. So it's sort of like the Kevin Bacon 7 degrees of separation bit, but at any rate I was extremely hopeful for these reasons: she's smart, educated, from what I hear an excellent mom, good judgment, clean house and best of all, her little boy who's a year older than Bea is very sweet. Amazingly enough, she agreed. A.H. used to work, but is fortunate enought to take a bit of a sabatical to be at home with her son.

We went to her house yesterday to meet her husband and little boy. We are so on the same page. Her house is clean, child-friendly, intellectually-stimulating toys. Her son was wonderful to Bea and Bea had a blast while she was there. A.H. inquired as to whether it would be ok to take Bea to the children's museum for a fieldtrip. Yes! Perfect! G & I had a very nice conversation with A.H. and her husband. It was perfect. We trust her fully & completely with little Skeets. When we left, Sam had given Bea a toy phone to take home. Bea was thrilled.

So today, I took Skeets over there at 8:30. We packed her little Hello Kitty bag and off she went. I took Pwr Skt inside and she never looked back. As I was leaving A.H. said, "feel free to call anytime if you want to check in on Bea." This really put me at ease. Without knowing her extremely well, I believe she is the kind of parent to her son that we are to Bea. I cannot ask for more than that. So, for 6 wks, Bea gets to play with Sam 3 days a week from 8:30 to 1:00, the rest of the time she's with her daddy. That's not so bad if you're 16 months. As for me, I have secretly thanked Pope J.P. II. and whomever else up there facilited this.

Every day is a Bea-utiful day!!

No More Nursie

I am depressed. Apparently there is a physiological explanation for this. Since Skeetie is weaning, my prolactin levels have dropped this results in minor depression. Or it could just be the fact that I'm feeling a real void now that Bea's "nursie" is over. This was one area I was really good at as a mom.

From the second she was born Skeets was a good nurser, and the nurse told me I had "good anatomy" for nursing. Not really sure what that means to this day...but ok? A compliment in the world of delivery nurses and midwives I guess. At any rate, this is one thing Skeetie and I jointly succeeded at. She nursed regularly and heartily and I produced lots and lots of good, fatty milk. We were so good at it that Bea decided she didn't need a bottle or pacifier - just the boobie. So I had to run home from work every four hours to let Skeets feed. Likewise, George & I always had to have SKeets with us so she could nurse. I rather liked being the sole entity which sustained my daughter's very existence.

I breastfed her exclusively for 6 mo. - she had no other food except my milk. The result was this:
She was consistently over the 100th percentile for her weight, pediatrician assured me she was not obsese.

Then it turned from sustinance to her comfort and self-soothing. I loved the familiar latch on, suction, and then her little eyes would roll in the back of her head and she'd burrow in and get to work. This was wonderful until the teeth arrived. Then we had to figure out together how she could nurse without me screaming and tossing her at George. After a few good nips from her a few good hollers from me, we worked it out.

I also relish how Skeets made a habit of picking my nose while she nursed. Without fail, she'd latch on, settle in and the little hands would start their investigating. Much like an elephant's trunk feeling around for peanuts. Her hand would feel its way up my throat, she'd stick a finger or two in my mouth, I'd suck on her finger, she'd pull away, then she'd eventually stick her finger up my nose and play with my nostril. Ok, I know this sounds weird, but I swear any nursing mother will understand. Sometimes when I'd be delinquent in cutting her fingernails I'd end up with a nice gash on the inside of my nose. Scream and the baby toss would ensue.

Then there was the "roving eye." She'd nuzzle in and get to nursing but keep one eye on the events around her. George always refered to it as the roving eye.

But without fail, everytime she finished nursing we'd laugh about how she looked completely ripped out of her tree. She'd actually act drunk after nursing. She could barely hold her head up and she'd have this goofy grin on her fat little mug.

Nursing is a funny thing. My breast went from being "tits" to nursies. From sexual to functional. I'm pretty sure they will never revert to the former. It's funny though how after having Skeetie there was simply no room for modesty. I was never the slightest bit embarassed about whipping out my boob for Skeetie. In the beginning my husband would stand there with a mortified look cemented across his face if I whipped it out in public. He was steadfastly opposed and requested I go feed Skeetie in a bathroom stall. My feeling on this subject is now very strong. "If you don't like it, don't fucking look." I refuse to go hide and feed my daughter because you might be uncomfortable. Yea, I'd be uncomfortable too if I was staring at your dick. Don't look at me.

Realize, I am discreet. I'm not a mother-loving-granola that flops my boob out for extended periods of time before the latching-on occurs. Rather, I discreetly would latch Skeets on, sparing anyone a nipple shot. George & I have a mutual friend, we'll call him S.T., who gets so severely embarrassed when I (or my friend Kelly) nurses in front of him. Initially we tried to spare him the humiliation, but then found it funny purposefully engage him in conversation, then start nursing. He would literally stare at the ground and attempt to converse.

Another funny thing about nursing is how you can shoot your milk at the husband or pug. I thought this was pant-wetting hilarious. George and Oliver disagree with complete disgust. But it actually will shoot across the room. (Note: make sure to wear bra or shirt when having sex).

At any rate, I'm sad that my last physical connection with Bea is almost over. It's weird, she just is kind of over it. Not really interested any more. I don't want to push it. When she hadn't nursed for 5 days I went out and bought some sage tea to dry up my milk. (oh the horror of walking into a herbal store to request sage: the 20-something herbal clerk asking "why?"; me stating "for lactation suppression"; him looking confused "huh?"; me looking equally irritated, "to dry up my milk"; again confusion, "your milk?"; "Yeah, my milk, you know, my milk (pointing to boobs), I'm weaning my daughter from breastfeeding."; him "oh, I don't really know about that."; You moron, where's the freaking sage tea??!!; "Oh, we don't have any here.")

At any rate, I did find some sage tea. I brought it home with a heavy heart and great sadness. Ok, maybe a little over the top. But I'm sad and melodramatic right now. But before I made my first cup of sage tea I asked Bea the million dollar question: "Want to nursie?" Her little eyes lit up and she started dancing around saying, "Ya, Ya" (She says it with a Norwegian accent). So I lit some candles and we settled in on the couch for our last nursie, complete with nose picking, roving eyeball and pug trying to find a spot on my lap too. When she was done her cheeks had the familiar flushed look and her eyes were glazed over. Husband happened to come home shortly thereafter and asked "What's wrong with Bea? She looks trashed." Well, I sheepishly admitted, we had one last ceremonial nursie. He looked at me like I was nuts particularly when a few tears made an appearance. "Oh, Kitty, it's ok." (That's his nickname for me.)

So I guess it's over. Here I sit drinking my sage tea and stuffing cabbage leaves in my bra to dry up my milk before I have to squeeze them into a bridesmaid dress at the end of the month.

Every day is a Beautiful day, even days like today.

Moon Pies & Boop-bies

Moon Pie is coming! Moonie, Moonie Moon Pie is coming! Little Gabriel Lawrence will be arriving in Missoula at 9:00 p.m. Bea & I are ecstatic. We can hardly wait through the dragging day. I cannot wait to lay eyes upon his serious little Bohemian face and hear him say, "moooo-n" - barely audible "n."

Last time Gabey was here we had their pictures taken together. Bea was in a little Spanish-embroidered halter top sundress and Gabe was in a little hispanic-style bowling shirt. We took them to Sprawl-Mart and plunked them down infront of a Cancun-beach backdrop. Draped some lais around their necks, put a coconut shell in Bea's hand and tequila-shot glass in Gabe's - BABIES GONE WILD -- SPRING BREAK!!! It was really cute though. (No, there was no shot glass and Bea did not flash the camera). Looking forward to getting their pictures taken again. I think we should find a backdrop with a moon. Their only word in common.

Speaking of, Skeets has a new word: "Aah-yee" Ollie. She now says 'Frau' and 'Ollie' with regularity. Her other favorite word is "boop-bie." Boobie. She makes a big show of it too. She looks down (waay down) at my not-so-perky udders and quietly says, 'boop-bie.'
She then grins, dives for my shirt, pulls down my shirt and shrills 'boop-bie!!'
Yes, Bea - it's my boobie.
'Booop-bie!! boooop-bie!!' She then takes the liberty of smaking her lips.
Alright, kitty-cat that's enough. Leave Mommy's boobies alone.
Fwwwooooww.... Boop-bie?
Uh, no Bea, Frau does not want, nor does Frau get, any of Mommy's boobie.
Daddy...boop-bie?
Well, kiddo, that's another matter.

Skeets of the Day:


Every day is a Beautiful Day since 8/17/04.

Uncle Al

Alright, truth be told: while Bea is like her Daddy, as I so often profess, she also smacks of her Uncle Al. Here's how it goes: the sweet-pea, soft spoken, big-eyed baby girl is the George part. The imp-eyed whirling dervish is the Uncle Al part. Oh yeah, the stomp your foot down and scream when told 'no' is the Erin part. (slight digression: the strong-willedness has arrived on the scene. When Bea is ever so gently "redirected" by either George or
myself she performs what George refers to as a "veer & vapor." First, she takes off running blindly in the opposite direction as the horrible person who instructed "no touchie." Then she vapor locks, i.e., screams with mouth wide open, sometimes no sound escapes. Tears rarely accompany and veer & vapor.)

At any rate it is unreal how much of my brother Allen is present in the Skeets. I see it when she takes on the pug in the boxing ring. There she stands, at her 23 lb fight weight, string cheese clenched tightly in one hand, with her impish little eyes alight, challenging the pug to take her on for the title of the string cheese. Creeping around the table taunting, "Fwooow, Rrrooooww." Pug cannot resist and bam!! Fight is on. Pug bats with the left paw, Bea ducks. Bea waves the string cheese wildly in Frau's face then jerks it away. Frau goes on the offense. From here it goes the same every time. Pug knocks Bea down (gently) with one paw - while she's falling to the ground he leaps slightly vertical, but more horizontal, and snatches the string cheese. Frau trots off to tenderly lick and nibble his kill on our bed. Bea veers & vapors (but only if we're looking) or else she laughs and toddles after him. But its this no holds barred kind of attitude I think she inherited from Al.
The crazy Skeetie impy-eyes Oliver has come to fear.
Oliver hiding under the chair from you-know-who.

I also see it when we go swimming. Unlike the other 12-16 mo old babies at the pool, Bea is no content to merely splash and play with Mummy & Daddy. Nooo-ho-ho, Bea must climb onto the side of the pool, back up about 5 steps and make a running leap into the pool. No shit. The first time she did it I thought, "oh cute, she's brave." But the 20 other times it scares the crap out of me because she gets the impy-eyes-alight look and bolts for the pool, no matter if I'm ready or not. Take for example the time in Fairmont, when I was in fact not ready and she goes flying into the water and kerplunks like a little lead weight straight to the bottom. Does it scare her? Sort of, but not really. Now this is her dead on impression of Uncle Al. (I still remember when Al & I took swim lessons together as kids, he was maybe 3 or 4, and our instructor referred to him as 'kamikaze.' Or the time at our grandma's pool when he jumped in, but had no clue how to swim, and no one was around. If I remember correctly, I jumped in after him.) Somehow, my daughter got my brother's fearless gene.

Let me also say that I see Al in her when she does the following: manages to climb up the front of the kitchen stove; shimmies up the refrigerator by hanging on to the handle and using her grip-footed pj's to climb up (once again, not kidding); teeters precariously on a stack of books to climb up onto the coffee table then stands up and looks at George & I with the impy eyes; and last, but not at all least, stands up in her high chair when we're not looking and points and hollers at Frau cowering down below.

She is the sweetest thing in the world, but sometimes is missing the innate fear of physical heights or challenges. Oh, cannot forget when she was 12 mo. old she went flying down the adult waterslides on her daddy's lap - grinning from ear to ear. Does that seem a little odd? Ok, and also the fact that she willingly goes out onto the ice in her hockey skates w/ dad and scoots around on the ice, seems pretty brave for a 14 mo old kid. She also goes swooshing down hills in a sled all by herself behind her dad when we go x-country skiing. She never seems to get scared.

I am really proud of the fact that she's not a weenie or a whiner. Maybe its attributable to her "Canadian stock" or her Uncle Al, or maybe its just another facet entirely attributable to our unique little Beatrice Marie. Whatever it is, I do like to believe I see a sparkle of my amazing little brother in my daughter. The things she hasn't learned yet, I know he will do a wonderful job of teaching her. Like creativity, independent thinking, compassion and love for your family. But the impy-eyes definetly are a throw-back to Al.

Here they are when she was about 9 mo. old and eating out of her favorite Froggy bowl & cup
from her Uncle Al.