Spot went two weeks with just enough poop to make a tiny design on a couple diapers. Then, two days in a row she exploded with enough poop to sink a ship; she had poop down to her toes and up on her arms. And, of course, both times it was while she was in her carseat during important errands. My mom should feel gratified that any pooping I engaged in while young has been visited upon me a thousand-fold. Never fear, although I lack any delicacy in discussing such an issue, I didn’t document the event visually. You’ll also be happy to hear that the poop really didn’t smell too bad(ly?) because naturally my breastmilk is fantastically sweet-smelling.
I knew our culture was a little bit celebrity-mad, but this is taking things too far. Sally came home from school with this family tree yesterday. The most easily recognizable “member” of our family is Danielle Waters (DYEL), baby Liam’s mother (I think Sally needs a remedial genealogy course from Grandma Danielle). I’m pretty sure Dad is Nick Lachey, and the fact that I can even make a guess like that makes me sad. At least we are all a rather good looking family (maybe we can stop our diets early?).
Ok, so Susan has been talking for months now, but in the past week she’s gone from one or two word phrases to entire sentences. It was sudden enough that I’ve caught myself staring at her, wondering if that really came out her mouth. Before this development, my greatest entertainment came from getting her to ask for “muy pappy-roni” (more pepperoni). Yesterday Dick and I were calling her “Sugar” and she got really upset: “I’m not Sugar, my name is Susan,” except she says Susan more like “Caddie” or something, and she squints her eyes up and nods her head very decisively. It’s okay if we call Spot “Sugar Baby” though…
So, why can’t I say no? And why do I need to have friends in the picture of Sally blowing out candles on her birthday cake even if that means singing to her (and eating cake–that’s a big compensation of course) a week early? On Saturday we invited the young families in our branch over for a BYOM (meat) bbq. The BYO part was pure inspiration, because Dick and I have way too much performance anxiety involved in using our grill (which is to say that no matter how he does it, I criticize).
On a side note, let me inform all those socially conscious people that it is, indeed, good form to arrive 15 minutes late to a party. That is not a bad Mormon-Standard-Time thing to be overcome, but a necessary part of good etiquette that allows your host time to put on her bra. Now I hope the Jones family (who arrived a bit early) won’t take this personally, but rather as constructive criticism. (After all, I would like to think that we are good enough friends for them to know that when I say, “come anytime, leave anytime,” what I really mean is “come 15 minutes late, and leave exactly 2 hours later.”)
Seriously, though, we are really glad to be friends with the other families in the branch, though we miss the Carpenters everydamnday. We especially have had fun going to Busch Gardens recently. I got to ride a couple roller coasters with Dick and then again with Ryan because his wife doesn’t like them (thank you Danielle). I love roller coasters!!! After 6 years of being pregnant, you gotta seize the opportunity to put yourself in dangerous conditions. If I were ever paralyzed, I would ride Sheikra all day long. (good to have a plan, I always say).
On Sunday I spoke in sacrament meeting and taught Relief Society. My talk seemed short; Dick had told me to stick to the 15 minutes, and I did, which I think backfired, because what he meant was “plan to speak for 15 minutes so that when you go over, it will only be 25 minutes total.” oops. Luckily our High Counselor (also our Realtor) is an experienced and surprisingly (for HC) pleasant speaker. Then Spot was grumpy in R.S. I love nursing, but the problem with the magic booby is that when it is what is wanted, nothing else will do. So I nursed while teaching. Went pretty well, and I haven’t been arrested for public indecency yet.
As part of the Johnson-Carey weight-loss challenge (see previous post), I ran the St. Pete Beach Classic (which is neither a classic nor on the beach) this Saturday. Good thing I listened to my legs rather than my ego and did the 5K rather than the 10K. I did achieve my goal, however of improving from a 12 minute to an 11 minute mile (my time was 33:26 for the 3.1 miles). Sally asked me if I won, and I said of course. She was worried, though about how the other people felt after I won, so I had to admit that a lot of other people "won" too. Hey, if there’d been a category for nearly-30 mothers-of-three, with newborns and too much post-baby weight who are addicted to mountain dew, it’s entirely likely that I would have won a super big prize. We’ll see how I do on February 3rd at the RunforKids 10K in downtown St. Pete.
Thanks to Nana Marian and Auntie Liz’s timeshare generosity, we spent the weekend in bucolic Orlando. Ok, so International Drive isn’t all that peaceful, but there’s actually a lot of empty space around the world capital of kiddie themeparkland. I had to remind Dick that St. Petersburg (Florida, not Russia) is superior because it has the beach. We were gone long enough to miss home and our stuff, but not too long that we spent too much on fast food (which we can’t afford dietetically-speaking either).
The girls loved the resort pool. Spot and I learned a new trick where we do a tandem back float with her shoulder tucked under my chin like a violin. We went to SeaWorld on Saturday and enjoyed the teacups (though without benefit of the Alice in Wonderland merchandising tie-in, they’re called "Swishy Fishies" or something nonsensical like that).
Further evidence of the dearth of character-driven fantasy is evident in our pictures with the Walrus:
Spot is big enough (at almost three months) to "sit" up in her stroller.
Susan had the most fun in the sandbox (so much for expensive rides and exhibits), although she still managed her grumpy face after the picture monster bugged her long enough. Eyebrows up, Susan.
Seaworld has a new Shamu show (probably a new "Shamu," too), Believe, which teared me up faster than a baby delivery on Discovery Health. Dick was surprised that those were real tears, amid the sweat dripping down my face. But they had me at hello, the pre-show montage tribute to our Heroes, the men and women in uniform who "do for us what we wouldn’t even imagine doing" or something like that. Does knowing I’m being ruthelessly manipulated take away from the soaring emotional inspiration that throbbed inside me? Heck, no. All I have to do is believe, and my dreams will come true. As for the older gentleman sitting near us, who stood with all the other military people, he was almost as impressive as the old man in Saving Private Ryan. If only real life came with a majestic soundtrack and helicopter-panoramas. And if only Iraq were a democratic disneyland by now..
but seriously, we should all remember that freedom isn’t free.
My younger sister Marcy gave birth to Zachary Adam Wilkinson today by c-section. She also was relieved of a dermoid cyst the size of a softball. According to her husband, the cyst had hair and bones (luckily, no teeth…). Mother and baby are well, I assume, though I haven’t gotten a hold of her yet. I guess I should ask her permission before making this posting, but I can always apologize later, if necessary. Zach weighed 6’9." I told Dick to come look at these pictures to see what a baby boy looks like.