Luck-E Day

Auditory Brainstem Response Test. When I called to schedule it I was informed it was at 9am and he needs to be asleep for it. If only I had that kind of power...

We were going to have to rely on a whole load of luck.

The whole thing sounds like a pain in the butt to me, but whatev. In reality, it wasn't so bad. I got to hold him uninterrupted all morning while he slept and I even fell asleep in the chair, too. Lets do this every week minus the test part. Scheduled morning nap. Lucky me.

It seems luck would be on our side. Porkchop has moderate hearing impairment on both sides due to the fluid accumulation, but it should resolve when he has tubes put in at his first surgery. While the hearing loss is kind of a bummer, it is what we expected. The good news is that it is most likely due to the fluid and he should regain the hearing. We are in luck.

I think it was the tee and booties that did it.

Horton Hears a Who. (Har har. Come on. It's funny.) And the booties? They're his lucky booties.

Thanks Aunt Kae! There are two audiologists and a woman in the waiting room that would like an adult pair.

Interpreter Needed

Ask Scrunch what she did this weekend.

"I picked boobies."

What she means to say is, "I picked blueberries" but that hasn't stopped me from asking her about a hundred times.

I think it's funny and I can't wait to tell all her boyfriends in high school.

Poster child

If my airbag goes off for any reason while I'm driving I'll become a walking billboard of sorts.

It's not a huge stretch of the imagination to see how these puppies would be emblazoned on each side of my chest resulting in an image very similar to this...

The thought keeps me up at night. 

Not really. Other things keep me up at night, but I've still thought quite a bit about it. Obviously.

After almost two months of not stepping foot inside that place, I made it there yesterday.

We're onto day three of Operation Get Out of Dodge (GOOD). And it's working.

We went to the "free" movie- tried to anyway. We were meeting friends 45 min away. They lock the doors at 1010. My GPS led me astray and by the time I got the kids out of the car and convinced Scrunch to hold my hand the entire way through the parking lot, it was 1016. Even though there were seats saved for us, the theater was half empty, and there was no one else standing outside I was told that they would not be letting me in because then they'd have to do it for everyone else. I was the only one standing there. The pimply puke behind the desk is grateful he was behind plate glass, and he doesn't even know it. Letter of Law-types get on my last nerve.

He's lucky that while I was lost I passed a Target and that after promising a movie with friend's, Scrunch's response was surprisingly mature and we avoided a meltdown. I texted the Girlies and told them I'd still meet them for lunch, then headed for the black hole.

The "free movie" turned into a fifty dollar trip to Target, but who is surprised it wasn't more? I love that place, but not enough to provide them with free advertising so I pump hands free.

Sanity Saving Strategies

I had to leave knitting night early Tuesday. Porkchop just wasn't having it so we split. Of course he fell asleep before we left the parking lot, but I had to admit defeat anyway. I wanted to cry on the way home. Knitting night is MY night. It keeps me sane. It seems sanity is going on the back burner for a while. I will sleep when I'm dead and I will knit when.......well, not this week at least.
On the verge of a large dose of self pity and being emotionally and physically spent from one of the weirdest days, I went home and went to bed. Come hell or high water I was going to have a sane day.

Step 1- Forgo the shower and forget about finding time later. Put on swimming suit instead and wear sunglasses. Even indoors. Baby Big Hair (Scrunch's AM nickname) wakes up and is in an instantly good mood. "You're wearing your simming suit! We go to the beach today?!?!"

Step 2- Clean, vacuum, and get out of Dodge. You can't make a mess if you're not there.

Step 3- Picnic with the girlies at the beach. Actually, what I affectionately will be calling Goose Poop Lake. But it's beautiful (once we scared the 60 geese away), it's close, and since it's within our gates- no riff raff. This also makes me want a golf car even more.

Step 4- Come home and make a lemonade icee that I made Scrunch eat with a spoon. This entertains her long enough to pump, feed Porkchop, and re-Google dinner's recipes.

Step 5- Turn on the sprinklers and head outside. See Step 2. This also washes off the lake water and the lemonade which is now being transferred from her cup, to my cup, to the cup that I water the plants with.

Step 6- Bath. Entertains her for another episode of pumping. Pump while folding a load of laundry.

Step 7- Hello Lilo and Stitch! Captivates the toddler and I can make dinner. We're headed for the home stretch and everyone is too tired to make a mess! Hallelujah it's working!

Step 8- Dinner, dancing, bedtime, and then....quiet! I finally catch Modern Family with my ice cream sandwich covered with Dad's blackberry sauce and whipped cream.

There are too many steps I'd have to remember for a day like this to be repeated. Kept me sane though. Too simplify I'll just go with- live in your bathing suit and eat all dairy covered in Dad's blackberry sauce.

And yes, I forgave Porkchop for making me miss knitting.

Scrunch's First Photos. Thank you Lilo.

Mama Bear

What happened to talking about the weather? If you don't know what to say, "Nice weather we're having" has always been a good fallback. Instead, everyone thinks they're a bloody expert on cleft palate because their cousins Golden Retriever dog walker had one and now he's "just fine." How nice for him. Really. I'm glad. By the way, do I know you?

Within the same week I have been told that Porkchop is "special needs" and "you really shouldn't worry because it's such a minor cosmetic thing". Nothing against children with special needs, but we don't even know that yet. As of today his special need is that he is special and he has needs. And just a cosmetic issue? How about this? Next time you have a baby please check the box next to "Life isn't hard enough, lets add a little spice just for kicks". Freaken geniuses the both of 'em but on opposite ends of the spectrum! Hey, guess what folks? You're both wrong, but more similar than you'd think. You looked at my kid, assumed, and all you saw was ICD 9 code 749.20- left unilateral cleft lip and palate. How 'bout next time you avoid making an ass out of u and me and get to know me or my kid before you start offering advice?

If I were of a different culture my totem might be a bear. Husband says dragon because it's scarier, but I'm sticking with bear. There is something deep, visceral and almost instinctual that makes me a scary beast when it comes to my babies. There is something deep in the psyche of a mother bear that makes her a scary beast when it comes to her cubs. She'll lay everything on the line to protect them from even perceived danger. Even those exhibiting just mere curiosity will get laid flat if they're not careful. Don't get too close. You shouldn't even risk looking cross-eyed at a baby bear cub or you risk a swift blow to the head from her giant mother paw. It is her instinct. She couldn't even help it if she wanted to.

Over the past weeks I've felt that mama bear urge to smack upside the head anyone who comes too close swell. Anyone who might not be able to get past the cleft and on to his eyes, his cheeks, and his fuzzy duck hair! 

"Reach down and touch your baby's hair," Marlene instructed.

I'm sorry. Huh? What? I was kind of in the middle of pushing.

"He has hair?" 

"Yup. Lots of dark hair."

Suddenly I found the strength to push a few more times. I just had to see this. A baby with dark hair? Never in a million did I think our offspring would even have hair, much less dark hair. He came out,  I scooped him up, and looked at his scrunched little face. 

"He has a cleft lip and palate," she gently told us and then stood back to gauge our reaction and let us love on our baby.

"I know. It's okay. Really, it's okay. I know."

Call it an instinct. A premonition. A blessing. Call it whatever you want.

During my pregnancy, I confided in a few close friends that I felt like there was something not quite right. I felt strongly that I would carry a baby to term, but there was something off. A feeling that I needed to prepare myself. Their responses were that every mom worried about that. I'm glad I told them out loud. They can now vouch that I wasn't nuts. When I told Marlene and Kaleem that I knew, I wasn't trying to make them or myself feel better. Even though I didn't know exactly what it would be, I knew. When I saw him, I knew it was him. I recognized my son.

The funny thing is that even though it was really obvious (and still is), it's not what I saw. I saw his dark hair and his eyes. And his cheeks! I'm in love with his cheeks. Of course I see it! I'm not an idiot. I am a nurse for crying in the night! One who has been complemented lots and lots on her assessment skills. What kind of dumb-a would I make if I missed assessing a cleft lip and palate? It's not that I don't see it, it's just that as his mama I see so much more than that.

Sucks to be you if you can't see past it because at five weeks the little dude rocks and I have a mean left hook.

...

My sister was also on the receiving end of a dumb shmuck's comment. After a long, hard week it was really un-necessary and mean. Most tragic of all was that she didn't know what I was talking about when I referenced Tom Petty. Jess, this is for you.

Dad's Day

My Dad's theory in raising daughters is to 'give them everything their little heart desires'. Growing up you get used to this so I needed to pick a husband who felt the same way towards his wife. Thanks for that example Dad!

The men in my life are rocks. Can you hear that commercial? ....Like a rock!... A truck commercial wasn't it? How cool would it have been to get you guys new trucks for Father's Day? You'll have to settle for something a little more simple.

These are the little lives who look up to you for the kind of guy they'll be and the kind of guy they'll marry. Not bad. You couldn't find greater examples if you tried.

Happy Father's Day!

Does God read my blog?

I got a two hour nap, an episode of Top Chef, and an un-interrupted bowl of ice cream with berries. It was straight from heaven. Which makes me wonder, does God read my blog?

The things that matter to us, matter to Him. I know it. Things as mundane as naps, med school applications, lost car keys, world peace. You name it, He is on it. It's how he shows us he loves us. As I was reading a book gifted from a friend recently, there was an essay that's truth kicked me in the gut when I read it. "Why am I so amazed? Why do I pray if I don't really believe God will answer?"

It's the silent prayers that get me. The ones we don't even realize we're praying. The hopes/dreams/wishes we hold as a constant prayer in our heart- sometimes for months, even years. When those are answered, it can take your breath away. Then there are the prayers of others on our behalf. Those prayers when answered make your heart hurt with happy and grateful. Happy and grateful that you've got people like that around.

***

The day I went on maternity leave was an unplanned three weeks early. Being on the other side of it now, I realize I was in the early stages of labor. When I called my midwives to describe what I was feeling I was nervous. I was two days shy of 36 weeks. Had I gone into labor that day I would have been headed for the hospital. I called work just sure my boss was going to shoot me. My current "Supervisor" was the nurse that oriented me to Home Health. She was among the first people I told we were expecting Scrunch and that we were expecting Porkchop. She is technically my boss, but she's also my friend. When I told her what was going on she said, "As of today you are on maternity leave."

Then she caught me off guard.

"Can I pray for you?"
"Nancy, of course you can pray for me."
"Right now. On the phone."
"Um. Okay."

In my faith, we are more formal about prayers and how we go about it. I'm so glad there are those that aren't. Nancy began to pray right there on the phone. I laugh to think about the fact that I missed overhearing that phone call. My cubicle is right next to her office and I get to hear most of her phone calls. I'd have died and given her a hard time for weeks had I caught her praying on the phone to someone. But this time it was for me and I wasn't sitting in the office. I was sitting on my bed when she called upon the angels to bless my family.

"Please Lord. Let him cook."

She continued.  "Yannette, Kensley and what's your husband's name again? Oh, well. You know who I'm talking about have waited a long time for this baby. Just let him cook. Oh yeah, John. Let him cook for as long as possible... We know this is a miracle...we're excited that he's coming, but let him cook. Please Lord let this baby cook until it's his time to come. Thank you. Amen."

At the time, I was kind of miserable. I only needed to make it two more days and she was sounding like she wanted me to stay pregnant forever. "Let him cook!" she said. And I went another four weeks. Babies are born at 36 weeks quite often and without complications, but had my baby been born that day things would likely have been very different for us.

***

The actual day I went into labor I woke up with contractions. Big whoop. I'd been having them off and on for days. But this time it was different. I called up the Midwives to give them a heads up and then we went for a walk. Everyone and their mother's Golden Retriever are out in our neighborhood on Sunday mornings. And they all feel the need to wave and say "hi". Usually I love that about our neighborhood, but that morning not so much. "Please for the love! Don't talk to me."

Late pregnancy had given me the ability to hear people's thoughts and for every person I walked by I could hear them thinking, "Whoa! Nelly!"

"Shut up. Shut up. Shut up."

As we came up the main road headed home we walked past a neighbor I'd never seen before. Our neighborhood lacks ethnic and racial diversity diversity, but here stood a very tall, very noticeable black man holding a Bible.

Bellowing from the top of his driveway, "You're gonna have a baby!"

In my head, "Duh. What gave that away? Was it me hunched over holding my thighs and breathing like a rhino through a contraction?"

"Good luck with that!" he hollered.

Gee, thanks.

As we got to the edge of his driveway he shouted, "Hey, come back here! I'd like to bless that baby!" And there at the end of his driveway with the next door and across the street neighbors watching he placed his hands on my belly and prayed over my baby and our family. I felt like the whole neighborhood heard him.

"Thank you Lord for this miracle. Bless this baby boy and his parents. Bless him that he will be strong. Bless his parents to be strong. Bless them to raise him up to You. Bless him to be strong."

What I thought was strange was that he kept blessing him over and over that he would be strong. Not the fact that it was completely out of nowhere and from a complete stranger. It just seemed kind of odd.

Early the next morning Erick was born. From the moment I saw him I knew our prayers had been answered.

One of Those Days

If I say, "Holy Crap! This is hard!" does it sound like I'm complaining? Because "HOLY CRAP! FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY!! THIS IS HARD."

Just so we're clear, I'm not complaining. I love my life. My kids. My husband. My car. Love it all, but we're all entitled to one of Those Days. Right?

The one where the car doesn't start so your husband takes yours. No biggie because the thought of taking both your children anywhere but the park by yourself still makes you get that throw up taste in the back of your mouth. You only have two arms but both of your kids want to be picked up at the same time. You can usually manage doing the dishes holding one in the sling, but the sling is the in car- not the one still in your driveway.

Your toddler decides she'd like a tortilla and cheese for lunch. You warn her not to feed it to the dog because it's the last tortilla. You set up her up outside to have a picnic on the back porch and lock the beasts inside to protect her dining experience. You think you're going to have a few minutes to blow dry your hair because if you don't your boobs will explode. That is when you've found is the most productive time to pump. Not three minutes into getting hooked up you hear screaming from the porch where sure enough, the dog is looking very pleased. The toddler on the other hand is clutching her Tinkerbell plate to her chest screaming, "Mommy! Save me. I wanna nother tilla!!" You might as well explain the Theory of Relativity than explain the Theory of Last Tortilla.

At this point you would throw everyone in the car and head for In N Out praying that she'll fall asleep on the way home, or at least go buy more torillas, except there is no car. You decide against walking the seventeen miles to anywhere. Instead, you decide today would be a great day to reinstate nap taking and set her up with a b.o.t.t.l.e. A battle which you've decided will no longer be. She can take a bottle at 53.

You got home late the night before without stopping to get milk. So you whip up a batch of powdered milk thinking you might be able to kill the taste with a little breast milk. Nu uh. You decide against adding the breast milk because you really don't have time to pump and go with straight powdered milk to which she announces, "This is not milk." No nap.

By four o'clock and your fourth round of pumping your body realizes it didn't get the requisite hours of sleep for minimum function, and there is nothing left. You encourage your toddler to go potty by herself and she returns wearing pants. They are inside out, but she's wearing pants.If there is no milk and no tortillas, there is no dinner. You text your husband  "Bring home sushi." and blast Shania Twain so you don't lose it. Your toddler tells you she won't dance with you because she's busy putting a diaper on Stitch and zipping him up in the suitcase.

You don't even realize you're tired and have had one of Those Days until your Husband comes home. Rather than kick the dog, you kick him. Suddenly you burst into tears and know there is no way you're going to make it to knitting-what you've looked forward to all day. You've got to go to the grocery store. You thank the stars and your good judgement in Husband choosing because he doesn't kick back and offers to cheuffeur you about your errands. He offers a foot massage while you blubber something about..."Hard day... no tortillas...sooo tired....nipples hurt...what if they don't know I love them....audiologist appt....need new stroller...pay for college..." Even now, I can't follow it.

You know no one cares and there are people laughing at you as they read this. "Amateur. She's only got two." You take comfort in three things. Picturing throwing rocks at them and knowing you've got fantastic aim. You've broken someones nose by lobbing a nectarine. As you've sat here chronicling the events of a normal day you've pumped nine ounces, a personal best. And that you can make sure they know you love them because you're going to get to do it all again tomorrow.

For the love of food.

I don't know why I'm surprised. Except that kids with cleft palate are supposed to have trouble eating. That's what the 'experts' say. Someone forgot to mention it to him. It's all he does. Makes him fit right in. Scrunch is the same way.

Food is good. It's a family motto.

If you call/e-mail/text my mom wondering what the plans for the weekend are, you'll get a menu in response. We laugh and mock her, but it's fabulous.

I decided that I'm going with Husband this weekend to LA so today I got two phone calls. One from Mom. "Your Dad wants to know what you want to eat this weekend." And one from Dad a few hours later. "What do you want to eat on Sunday?"

After burning the Hamburger Helper so badly last night even the dog wouldn't eat it when I left it uncovered, I can't wait to get the car in a few hours.

Telling Time

Watching one of Bear Gryll's survival shows the other night, or rather watching Bear Grylls and not so much the show, he demonstrated how to tell time while lost by using the sun and your watch.

Who cares what time it is when you're in survival mode?

Whatever.

I can't remember the last time I got lost in Namibia after jumping from a helicopter, but you never know. Plus, who doesn't have a crush on Bear (husbands included) so we watch whatever he decides to show us. It's not like we're really listening. (Oh, and BTW did I ever mention that my first boyfriend's name was Bear? We never kissed. I told him I'd break his nose if he tried to kiss me. True story.)

I have my own tried and true methods for telling time while in survival mode.

#1. When your 2 year old says, "Mommy, open your eyes." Sesame Street is over.

#2. When the same two year old hides the pump tubing for the third time, it's time to put in Snow White.

#3. When your left boob feels like it's going to explode it's time for someone to eat. When the same feeling returns, it is three hours later.

That's all you really need to know about telling time around these parts.

Excuses, excuses. A whole random list of 'em.

I hear rumor that there were murmurings against me and my non-blogging. Did you know that I'm so hooked in to my audience that I get more 'comments' in person or via text? Mostly because I have three sisters and am related to a gossip chain that would put the Twilight Bark to shame. (Name that Disney movie.) I'm also related to a Disney employee, hence the NEVERending Disney movie references.

As the queen of 'Lets Make Up Excuses' I have a list of them, all true of course, as to why my blogging s.u.c.k.s. I'm trying to cut out that word for various two year old who repeats everything reasons and damn it to hell if its not one of the hardest habits to kick. I have a dog that thinks her name lately is Dammit-to-Hell and she'd be awfully lonely had I picked that phrase to work on instead.

Back to me reasons...

Hours pumped is greater than hours slept yesterday. Putting a coherent sentence together. is. not. Eezy.

When I do have sentences put together they almost always have something to do with sleep, boobs, or food. Is this what it's like to be a man?

Too much time spent in front of my closet looking for something that fits. I'm going to have to resort to buying fat pants. I have several pairs of bloated/PMSing pants, but have never had a need for fat pants. A blessing as well as a curse.

Too much time spent conducting my own hearing tests on Porkchop by playing with the ringtones of my new phone or blasting Collective Soul.

I have a few posts written about the last few weeks that when reviewed seem to sappy for summer blog reading.

The most interesting post this week is tied between "Hands-free Pumping While You Drive" (It can be done!) and "I Couldn't Cry to Get out of a Ticket but Cried to Get an Appt for Porkchop Rescheduled"

So, if you're gonna complain you might as well be useful. Are there any subjects you'd like me to pontificate? Open forum. Your suggestion is my command, but don't say pictures. I know the only reason you put up with my rambling is for the pictures.

Groovy Baby

Let be honest. The last three weeks have kicked my butt around the block a few times. I'm slowly starting to get back in my groove, but

oh.

so.

slowly.

No.
This is a whole new groove.

As we left the house, ironically to go for a walk around the block, I felt like I was forgetting something.

Kid one. Check.

Kid two. Check.

Whatever. We were just going for a walk.

At one point Porkchop started to fuss. As I fiddled with the sling and his bottle getting him set up for a feeding I was reminded.

Nursing pads.

And I went home to change my clothes for the third time.

One of these days Mommy is going to get it together and we'll measure our productivity in terms greater than the number of times we change our clothes or ounces pumped. Except Scrunch. She measures her success in how many times she can disrobe and take out her ponies before Mom notices again.

We may not be blogging, sewing, or cleaning but we are getting dressed every day.

Meeting the Team

While I was still humming Johnny Cash's 'Ring of Fire' a cascade of little miracles was set in motion. Starting with the supply of breast milk en route from two towns away, a Bishop's wife who dropped everything to sit with me, my mom getting in the car and making it in record time so Scrunch could have her own personal buddy, to my sister getting on the horn.

If it's all about who you know, it seems (for once) we're in the know. My sister called a friend who contacted someone, who then contacted me and within two days of his birth we were scheduled with the Cleft Palate Team at the University Children's Hospital. Before the end of the month and before even having the referral from his pediatrician  he would see a surgeon. We would see an entire panel of professionals in August. They called us yesterday to tell us there had been a cancellation and we would see the panel today.

Five hours in a doctor's office and most of it was actually talking to doctors or other professionals- that's kind of a miracle in itself.

We have kind of played off Porkchop's palate as "no big deal" because after all it's "fixable." In the grand scheme of things that could possibly go wrong this is on the low end of the spectrum, but it was still kind of nice to sit with people who recognized that this isn't just a cosmetic issue that will be stapled up overnight. This is going to be a process and it's kind of a big deal.

He is getting state of the art medical care from everybody and their mother. That is and isn't such a great thing all the time. More than a few times I had to count in my head to prevent from yelling, "Quit poking, prodding, touching my baby!!!" I've had to step down from the position that if you make my baby cry I'll make you cry.

Here's the breakdown and the low down. Listed only in order of what I remember and not necessarily importance.

CNS/Feeding specialist- Weighed in at 10.5 lbs at 16 days. Her advice, "Keep doing what you're doing."

Administrative Assistant- I learned a long time ago with Scrunch that the admin assist should be your best friend. They put the phone calls through and make the appointments. This almost makes them as good as the boss.

Speech Pathologist- Soooo very helpful and informative. At this point we wait and see.

Dentist- Seen starting around 6mos to a year to establish good hygiene and preventative maintenance. We need to keep the baby teeth in as good a shape as possible to help maintain other bony structures.

Orthodontist- Kid will probably need braces around 8-10 and again at around 13-14. Hope Scrunch doesn't need them. He'll likely be missing a tooth so he'll get to be the cool kid who can take his fake tooth out and freak out the girls. Implants when he's an adult if the teeth are missing.

Pediatrician- He pees, poops, and eats. Gold star from him.

Social Worker- I do not have post partum depression. Informed her about LDSFS. She's also a Social Worker on the OB floor and in the NICU. Mostly talked adoption and home birth with her. Nice lady.

Audiologist- Another nice lady who was totally pro home birth. He failed his hearing screen. It doesn't necessarily mean he can't hear. Fluid behind the ear drum is not uncommon. He'll be scheduled for more testing. He might be the only person who likes Ani ALL the time just because he can't hear her bark ALL THE TIME!

Dr. S.- Dr. S. is the medical director and an otolaryngologist/facial plastic surgeon. After meeting and talking with us he decided to take Porkchop on as his patient switching with the other surgeon we were originally assigned. He is a perfect candidate for nasoalveolar molding (NAM). Basically this means weekly appointments to have the moldings fit. It is kind of a pain in the butt, but it provides the best results. He will probably have surgery in August or September to close the lip. Usually a surgery at 10-13 months to close the palate and one at 9-10 to close the gum. Other surgeries may be needed as he grows depending on speech involvement/ if he needs a nose job etc. He had his first mold taken today and we go back on Monday.

My message to Dr. S.- You must make one hell of a first impression because there are not many people I'd trust to do surgery on my baby. I don't even care if you have a surgeon's God complex, you get things done. When all is said and done you'll probably be forever on the Christmas list.

Geneticist- This is where things took a downturn. You wanna come in here and play investigator about what I may or may not have done to cause this in my baby? And get hysterical about what is a normal newborn rash? You made me feel like a crappy mom and I really don't appreciate that. Thanks but no thanks and buh-bye.

Nurse who taught me to tape- Pre surgical taping is exactly that. Squish his little face together and tape with steri strips to secure. It needs to remain in place as much as possible and I do it myself at home. I wasn't prepared for that. We'll talk more about that later. It interferes with me kissing on his fat cheeks. It sucks and I hate it. We'll do it because it's what's best and he'll need to be taped until his first surgery.

Monday

Oh, just forget it!

I had this brilliant plan- taking pictures of my week. I had themes planned out for every day. (These are the things I think about while awake at three a.m. My posts are so much funnier at that time of day just in case you'd like to come back and read in a little while.) Today's was going to be "Before and After". I had my to-do list ready and we were gonna be in business- a real day in the life of moi. A productive day. A day for pictures.

Welcome to a real Day in the Life. Where "the best laid schemes of mice and men go oft awry." Starting with the camera being left in the car (I didn't have) all morning while I accomplished most of the necessaries on the to-do list. I got as far as making Scrunch's bed and doing the dishes. The rest of the list sort of dwindled away. Where did I even leave the list?

How could I have forgotten that I have a two year old and a two week old? This is not as good a time as any to be documenting my week in pictures. Between pumping every two to three hours and going potty just about as often, that's a whole lot of boobie and butt shots. It would have made for interesting before and after pics though, huh? Before pumping and after pumping is like a whole cup size. And the after potty? Now there is something we don't necessarily need to document.

So... about the pictures. I have a before of the dirty dishes and an after of the clean sink. A before of my messy bedroom. A before of the family/play room that's been painted but not organized. A before of the laundry. Where are the afters?

I forgot that in this new phase of life if things don't happen by noon, they're not going to happen. By lunch time anything left on the to-do list will have to be revisited tomorrow because I'm tired and Scrunch is ready to head to the park. If it doesn't happen tomorrow it can wait to be washed until I need it next or my Spanish speaking housekeeper we call 'Abuelita' comes to cook and clean and scrub toilets for me. Legally of course. Since there is no housekeeper, legal or otherwise, it's just gonna have to wait until I need it next. Whatever 'it' may be.

Again, about the pictures. No worries. Husband was in charge of the camera yesterday so I won't leave you completely hanging.

Tomorrow? From now on I make no promises for tomorrow.