Not the Chosen One

Berry: Mummy, what if you were a doctor! That would be GREAT if you were a doctor.

Me: Oh! Why?

Berry: If you were a doctor, you would need to go Afghanistan and Daddy could stay home! And I love Daddy."


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Danger danger danger!

Poor little Man-show. He has so many plans and none of the finesse to execute them; so many big ideas dashed by a mother who is completely uninterested in daily trips to the ER.

I wish he wouldn't eat dirt with a spoon and eat chalk like it's a carrot. I wish he wouldn't get caught in the baby gate. I wish he wouldn't hare up the stairs anytime that gate is ajar. I wish he wouldn't try to climb his highchair. I wish he wouldn't dance on the coffee table and run heart-stopping laps on the couch. I wish he wouldn't draw on the walls. I wish he wouldn't hit his head on 80 things a day. I wish he wouldn't use his head to try to push through tight spaces between furniture. I wish he wouldn't "type" on my keyboard and unplug my Mac. I wish he wouldn't open the dishwasher and play with the oven knobs. I wish he wouldn't stand up underneath tables. I wish he would stop pinching his fingers in the cupboards after the first 20 times. I wish he wouldn't get stuck in boxes. I wish I had never taught him the word "HELP".

I'm not one to wish away days, let alone weeks. But I can't help gazing wistfully at a time about six months down the track, when he's two, where I'm convinced he'll be able to do so much more for himself and so much less to himself. Then I can spend less time worrying and rescuing and repairing and consoling and more time doing... well... whatever it is I used to do.

I'll now pause politely while all the mothers of older boys roll around holding their sides and laughing loudly.

Leave me with my little dream. Right now that, and the coffee, is all that gets me through the day.

Oh, bother.

I get off the phone to discover my 18-month-old stark naked and covered in pink Hello Kitty stamps. This is my life right now. And you wonder why I don't post more often...


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Cured

I have a headache, so Berry brought me Curious George to hold.

There. All better.

Bubble

You shield your child from all the things you think might frighten her – Spider Man (that mask) and Batman (scary villains) and Incredible Hulk (anger problem) and Bambi (the mother dies) and Blinky Bill (the father dies) and Scooby Doo (monsters galore).

You're attentive, you're vigilant, and you're ready to pat yourself on the back for carefully creating this lovely, fear-free little world.

And then she refuses to go into her toy room in broad daylight, "because there's an orange fox in Peter Rabbit, and he's looking at me."


Just. Can't. Win.


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Finalist

Berry just bounced in and said, "Mommy, you're so cute!" and instantly earned herself my Kid Of The Day Award.

Very prestigious. Very temporary.

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Nights are not for sleeping

Hello! I got two hours of sleep last night! I am not exaggerating! I am going to drink six cups of coffee today and cry a little bit! I will probably also snap at my children and then cry about that too!

I've been having not-so-quiet midnight (and 2am, and 3am, and 4am) battles with little Man Show* to eliminate the last vestiges of his waking-in-the-night-to-eat habit, and it is seriously, seriously taking a toll. On me, not him.

More later, when the world stops tilting...




{*Right – he's no longer a baby, so Kickbaby is now Man Show, which is the nickname Berry gave him. There you have it.}

Interference

I'm a super-organised household-maintainer, if I do say so myself. But how am I supposed to stay on top of the laundry, when they are?

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Leaps and bounds

Well, I just missed Kickbaby's first rollover. I put him on his tummy on a quilt on the floor and went to put together the high chair on the other side of the room. When I turned around, he was lying on his back watching me, casual as you please.

I laughed, he laughed, I put him on his tummy again and he pushed up with his beefy arms and rolled right over again. He doesn't fancy being on his tummy, and sees a way to solve it.

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Love and little fingers

I stretched out on the couch for a nap (it had to be the living room, because that's where Kickbaby was sleeping) and as soon as I started to drift off, Berry climbed up next to me.

"Mum-mum?"
Yes honey...
"I lie down next to you?"
Okay. Lie on this side.
"Mum-mum, I share you pillow?"
Yes, you can share my pillow...
"Mum-mum, that you eye?" [poke]
Ow! Yes that's my eye. But we don't poke eyes.
"Mum-mum, [poke] that you other eye?"
No poking eyes! That hurts!
"I love you mum-mum."
I love you too, sweetheart.
"I love you too, mum-mum. I love you very much."

Well.

I suppose it's worth the eye-pokes.

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Oh so terrible

Berry's birthday is in September and although we haven't really been talking about it, she's lately taken to announcing, "I not three yet. I not three. I not big."

I wonder if she's trying to dampen any hope that the end of the Terrible Twos might be sight, or if she's just heard people saying things like: "Three is the new two" and "They should call it the Terrible Threes".

I get an urge to kick people who say that. First of all, "Terrible Threes" has no alliteration, so it doesn't count.

Second of all, I've had enough terrible. Don't tell me it needs to last another year – I'm done.

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Cold turkey

For the first two years of her life, Berry watched almost no television. When she turned two, I patted myself on the back for devotedly following those American Academy of Pediatrics guidelines – and then I dropped the ball.

I didn't drop it in a huge way – more a series of fumbles, really – but over time she acquired a taste for Dora The Explorer, Clifford The Big Red Dog, Blue's Clues, The Mickey Mouse Club House (she actually thinks Mickey's real name is Mickeymouseclubhouse), JoJo's Circus, Elmo (not Sesame Street, just Elmo), Little Einsteins and Curious George. She even liked My Friends Tigger and Pooh, much to my chagrin; I despise Disney's inane, dumbed-down version of Winnie-the-Pooh.

Almost all Berry's television fare was on PBS Kids (educating and enlightening, right?) except for What Not To Wear, which was entirely my fault. "I like her pretty dress, mum-mum," she'd say after the makeover, and I'd change the channel guiltily. Can I help it if I want Clinton Kelly to be my best friend?

Ok, probably.

She was also completely excited by the merchandising. Everywhere we went: "Oh! Dora!", "Ohhhh, Kigger-Pooh!", "Oh mum-mum, see that Mickeymouseclubhouse!" She wanted every item emblazoned with their images – beach towels, play-doh, shoes, placemats, colouring books. She'd even try for the banned Disney Princesses. I dodged indulgence by letting her "say hello" and then put them back on the shelf... a winner on the avoiding tantrums front, but it sure slowed down our shopping trips.

Two weeks ago she saw Dora, Nemo, Hello Kitty and Mickey Mouse in a single supermarket display. It stopped her in her tracks. "Oh!" she shouted, "My shows!"

In that moment, I realised exactly how far we'd slid down television's slippery slope.

I've always wanted my kids to have their childhoods filled with wild imaginings, inventive play, exciting books, hare-brained schemes and little adventures, the way mine was. My brothers, my sister and I had very few toys and even less TV – no tricks, nothing on a silver platter, my Dad would say. But we had a lot of wide-open spaces, unscheduled afternoons, and parents who were pretty sure we'd survive if we fell out of trees ... the perfect environment for imagination to take root. I knew it would be harder for Berry to need her imagination, surrounded as she is by toys and activities, and doting grandparents ready to make her playroom overflow at each visit. So why was I making it even harder for her, by giving in on the TV front?

Over the past ten days, I've gradually deleted almost every show from our DVR. I've offered more book-reading, more tea parties, more paints, more tricycle rides, more playing with her wooden tools. When there's TV, we only watch Jon & Kate Plus Eight (because it's about kids her own age, and it never gives her that glazed look) or Charlie & Lola (because it's clever, and they have British accents... seriously, that's why).

Berry's let go of "her shows" much more easily than I expected. This probably has a lot to do with the fact that my Mum, who is the most meant-to-be-a-brilliant-grandma person I've ever known, is here entertaining and adoring her... but whatever, I'm grateful for an easy start to the transition.

I know this not-much-TV policy is going to take real long-term effort, and probably more tea parties than I'll care to have – but I'm pretty determined. Because in the end, I think allowing her imagination room to grow is one of the best gifts I can give her.

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Panic at the fabric shop

We've been potty training.

I say "we've been potty training" instead of "Berry's been potty training" because as any parent will attest, there's nothing like toilet training a toddler to get the whole family involved.

Once you've mopped enough floors and changed enough outfits, you're pretty keen to wash your hands of the whole deal.

"I go potty!" becomes your fire drill – not your workday fire drill where you wander around asking, "Is this a real one? What's going on? Did they tell us about this? Do we really have to go outside?" No way – at the words "I go potty" you swing into three-alarm action, running with your toddler to the bathroom and morphing into the most super-efficient right-hand-man ever.

The worst times are when we're out shopping. After the sprint to the nearest bathroom, my spiel goes something like this: "Ok ok, this one's open. Oops, no, it's yucky. Ok this one. Don't touch the door! Dirty. Don't touch the wall! Dirty, dirty. Ok, up we go. No hands on the seat, honey! Germs. Yucky. No no, no hands on the seat!"

Et cetera...

Sometimes we can avoid the public bathroom circus by using the "emergency potty" that I keep in the way-back of our Pilot (a la Jon & Kate Plus Eight). To the uninitiated, keeping a toddler-toilet in the car might seem bizarre – but yesterday it absolutely saved us.

Mum (who's visiting from Australia – more on that gloriousness later) and I took the kids with us to Hancock Fabrics to buy buttons and a zip for the dresses Mum's making for Berry. Short distance, short trip, should've been no problem.

Well.

Mum was standing at the checkout and Berry had followed me to the fabric counter near the back of the store, where I was replacing a bolt of material. I wedged it in place on the rack and turned around to see my toddler pushing her whole outfit down around her knees – tunic, shorts, the whole shebang. "What are you doing!" I gasped.

"I go potty!" she said.

Behind the fabric counter?!

I did the fastest toddler-carrying sprint ever – around startled shoppers, past the checkout, through the front doors (yeah, I pushed when it said "Pull") and out across the car park. We made it to the back of the Pilot in the nick of time. Crisis averted.

Say what you will about the potty-in-the-SUV concept... after yesterday, I think it's genius.

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Two kids, zero sanity

The Trying Not To Lose My Mind Project is ongoing – a daily battle, if you will.

Usually the fight is more on the Berry front than the Kickbaby front. Berry likes to reserve her most spectacular performances for the following occasions: (1) when I'm feeding Kickbaby and therefore anchored to the couch; (2) when I'm frantically rushing to get everyone clean and fed and dressed and out the door on time; and (3) when I'm worn out and trying to get dinner ready at the end of the day, short on patience and coping skills.

It's excellent, really.

I've resorted to grabbing her mid-tantrum, tossing her in the air and calling her "the Pirate Berry", whereupon we say "aaarrrrg" a lot, and she laughs uproariously and declares herself "happy again". And I say: whatever works.

The other thing in the plus column, as my brother points out, is all the love.

I was sitting on the couch with Kickbaby in one arm and Berry cuddled up on the other doing Bob The Builder magnet stories, when she looked up at me and said, "Oh mum-mum, you make-me happy."

It might not save my mind, but it sure made my heart feel better.

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Wait – I'm meant to update this thing?

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Sorry, I've been extremely busy trying not to lose my mind.

Although sometimes it's hard to navigate the line between "I'm trying not to lose my mind" and "Oops, there it went..."

So who knows. Maybe it's already too late.


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Evans Family 2.0

I used to think it was a pretty odd decision, on my parents' part, to have five kids. Now that I have two of my own, I've changed my mind. They're officially insane.

I really have nothing to complain about; two kids makes an average family, and we're actually adjusting to this new life quite well. At home, Berry likes to kiss Kickbaby on the top of his head, stroke his arm, say "Are-you okaaaaay, little man?" and "Kickbaby hungry?" and generally mother-hen him in her own two-year-old way. She reads him books and draws lots of pictures of our new-improved family. At preschool she has photos of Kickbaby to show her teachers, and she likes to tell people about her little broy-er.

For his part, Kickbaby likes to sleep (it's still Week One, so I'm not assuming this will last) and eat and eat and eat and eat (this will last). He also likes to be carried around constantly and not be put down during his naps, thankyouverymuch.

Nathan and his dad have picked up the slack on paying attention to Berry while I'm pinned to the couch, and I've managed to persuade her that the reason I can't carry her around anymore is because I have a sore back – I showed her the band-aid left from my epidural as proof. That's one doctor's order that actually makes me a bit sad, despite all my complaints about how heavy Berry's getting. And despite the fact I have no free hands anyway.


I was lucky – so lucky – this time to have a perfectly smooth labor and delivery. As horrendously botched and traumatic as Berry's birth was, this was the other end of the spectrum. I love the Keesler Medical Center L&D department so much, I think someone should marry it.

I'm waking up with Kickbaby several times a night, as opposed to the hundreds (oh, I'm sure it was hundreds) of times I woke up each night with newborn Berry, and he's very easily settled. I'm not frightened of breaking the baby this time either (Berry was born five weeks too soon, weighed 4lbs 15oz, and had serious medical issues).

So all of this is making the transition to mother-of-two about as bump-free as it can be. I still have mind-wanderings in the middle of the night where I worry about how I'll share my attention between them, how I'll make them both feel loved enough and, to a lesser degree, how I'll handle working plus two kids. But since everyone else seems to have figured all this out, I'm pretty sure I'll get there too.

But when I extrapolate all this to five kids, I can't actually wrap my head around it. I'm deeply grateful for my brothers and sister, but my Mum and Dad were nuts.

So, note to all the grandparents: we're done. This is it. Enjoy.

Bit sad...

Kickbaby's in the middle of a vigorous workout, Berry's finally, finally, upstairs in bed, and I'm feeling like a mediocre excuse for a mother again.

(All together now: feign surprise!)

I've been feeling so tired and unwieldy and overwhelmed and irritable these past couple of weeks, struggling with the big big baby, with being 37 weeks pregnant in the Mississippi heat, and with the polyhydramnios (for sensible normal people who have no reason to know, that's just the medical term for having way-too-much amniotic fluid).

I had been fervently wishing that Kickbaby would just come out already, until the other night I was lying on the bed and it dawned on me – when Kickbaby's born:
1) I'll have to look after him, and he'll be more exhausting out than in; and
2) Berry won't be an only child anymore. It won't be just us.

Both of these things would have occurred to a sensible-normal person a long time ago, but for a moment I was genuinely caught off-guard. And in that instant, I felt the resurgence of the bizarre feeling of sorrow for Berry that punished me when I first found out I was pregnant again: "Oh, I've betrayed you! You're my little girl, you need all my attention! I'm so sorry! What have I done!"

It doesn't matter that intellectually I know Berry will love her little brother, it doesn't matter that I can't even begin to imagine my life without my sister and brothers – somehow, I feel like a terrible traitor. I hope it's just the hormones.

In the aftermath of my little revelation on the bed, I've been trying to focus on spending good, fun times with Berry in the last days where it'll be "just us" – with play-doh and drawing and painting and gardening (she loves to water plants) and reading stories... Unfortunately, things aren't exactly coming up roses.


I don't know what I expected from a two-year-old, but in the midst of all this positive attention Berry has actually seemed more needy and jittery and demanding and prone to unbearable frustrations, which in turn is making me agitated and snappish. It's so very far from the effect I wanted to have.

Tonight, after a long series of small battles that I didn't handle well, she finally cuddled up on my shoulder saying, "I bit sad, I bit angry, Mama. I not happy-again. I sad. Sing me, Mama..." And so I sang to her, feeling like a great big failure who just wanted to cry too, until she fell asleep.

I'm sure there are a hundred answers to the little mess I'm in – relax and back off probably chief among them – and I imagine it'll all work out in the end. But for now, I just want to sit at the end of my sleeping two-year-old's bed and tell her that I really want to get it all right, that I really am trying, and to tell Kickbaby that I hope I'll be truly nice by the time he gets out here.

In the meantime, I just wish my mind and body would do me the kindness of being quiet, and still, until all this is done.



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Awake

Berry was awake from 2am to 4am last night. I do not know why. It was awful.

Nathan was on call again so it was just me, and I walked her around and around and around the house, patting her back and singing to her. I got her a bottle, found her bear, and tried lying on the couch with her. I talked on the phone to Dad in Australia (who helpfully pointed out how many people try for years and years and never get a baby) and then to my sister in South Africa (because she's sympathetic and entertaining, and excellent at not making me feel guilty – and because Berry often falls asleep when I'm on the phone, so it was worth a shot). Over and over Berry seemed to doze off, but no – the second I put her down she'd pop up, awake again.

Two. whole. hours.

By the end, the last time she called out from her mattress "Up Mama! Cuddle! In there!" (toddler-code for: Pick me up again and carry me around and around in the living room) I snapped and said, "Stop! Mummy's very cross with you!" She howled theatrically for about 30 seconds, then abruptly fell asleep.

So I was forced to lie awake staring at the ceiling, feeling terrible about myself and realising what a bad mother I am, et cetera.

You know: the usual.

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Laziness, eBay and Shopping With Six Kids

I'm a lazy lazy girl who doesn't post often enough on her blog. I do have an excuse... I'm sure it's around here somewhere...

But what better way to make up for my laziness than to present you with something hilarious that someone else has written? Yes!

Below (stay for the read, it's worth it) is the funniest eBay auction listing I have ever, ever read. It's written by a mother of six kids. Being the eldest of five children myself, I can promise you: she is not making this up.

Here's the listing. Read on...

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LOT OF POKEMON CARDS THAT MY KIDS TRIED TO SNEAK BY ME

I'm selling a bunch of Pokemon cards. Why? Because my kids sneaked them into my shopping cart while at the grocery store and I ended up buying them because I didn't notice they were there until we got home. How could I have possibly not noticed they were in my cart, you ask? Let me explain.

You haven’t lived until you’ve gone grocery shopping with six kids in tow. I would rather swim, covered in bait, through the English Channel, be a contestant on Fear Factor when they’re having pig brains for lunch, or do fourth grade math than to take my six kids to the grocery store.

Because I absolutely detest grocery shopping, I tend to put it off as long as possible. There comes a time, however, when you’re peering into your fridge and thinking, ‘Hmmm, what can I make with ketchup, Italian dressing, and half an onion,’ that you decide you cannot avoid going to the grocery store any longer. Before beginning this most treacherous mission, I gather all the kids together and give them "The Lecture".

"The Lecture" goes like this…
MOM: “We have to go to the grocery store.”
KIDS: “Whine whine whine whine whine."
MOM: “Hey, I don’t want to go either, but it’s either that or we’re eating cream of onion-ketchup soup and drinking Italian dressing for dinner tonight.”
KIDS: “Whine whine whine whine whine."
MOM: “Now here are the rules: do not ask me for anything, do not poke the packages of meat in the butcher section, do not test the laws of physics and try to take out the bottom can in the pyramid shaped display, do not play baseball with oranges in the produce section, and most importantly, do not try to leave your brother at the store. Again.”

OK, the kids have been briefed. Time to go.

Once at the store, we grab not one, but two shopping carts. I wear the baby in a sling and the two little children sit in the carts while I push one cart and my oldest son pushes the other one. My oldest daughter is not allowed to push a cart. Ever. Why? Because the last time I let her push the cart, she smashed into my ankles so many times, my feet had to be amputated by the end of our shopping trip. This is not a good thing. You try running after a toddler with no feet sometime.

At this point, a woman looks at our two carts and asks me, “Are they all yours?” I answer good-naturedly, “Yep!
“Oh my, you have your hands full.”
“Yes, I do, but it's fun!” I say smiling.
I’ve heard all this before. In fact, I hear it every time I go anywhere with my brood.

We begin in the produce section where all these wonderfully, artistically arranged pyramids of fruit stand. There is something so irresistibly appealing about the apple on the bottom of the pile, that a child cannot help but try to touch it. Much like a bug to a zapper, the child is drawn to this piece of fruit. I turn around to the sounds of apples cascading down the display and onto the floor. Like Indiana Jones, there stands my son holding the all-consuming treasure that he just HAD to get and gazing at me with this dumbfounded look as if to say, “Did you see that??? Wow! I never thought that would happen!”

I give the offending child an exasperated sigh and say, “Didn’t I tell you, before we left, that I didn’t want you taking stuff from the bottom of the pile???”

“No. You said that you didn’t want us to take a can from the bottom of the pile. You didn’t say anything about apples.”

With superhuman effort, I resist the urge to send my child to the moon and instead focus on the positive – my child actually listened to me and remembered what I said!!! I make a mental note to be a little more specific the next time I give the kids The Grocery Store Lecture.

A little old man looks at all of us and says, “Are all of those your kids?”
Thinking about the apple incident, I reply, “Nope. They just started following me. I’ve never seen them before in my life.”

OK, now onto the bakery section where everything smells so good, I’m tempted to fill my cart with cookies and call it a day. Being on a perpetual diet, I try to hurry past the assortment of pies, cakes, breads, and pastries that have my children drooling. At this point the chorus of “Can we gets” begins.
“Can we get donuts?”
“No.”
“Can we get cupcakes?”
“No.”
“Can we get muffins?”
“No.”
“Can we get pie?”
“No.”

You’d think they’d catch on by this point, but no, they’re just getting started.

In the bakery, they’re giving away free samples of coffee cake and of course, my kids all take one. The toddler decides he doesn’t like it and proceeds to spit it out in my hand. (That’s what moms do. We put our hands in front of our children’s mouths so they can spit stuff into them. We’d rather carry around a handful of chewed up coffee cake, than to have the child spit it out onto the floor. I’m not sure why this is, but ask any mom and she’ll tell you the same.) Of course, there’s no garbage can around, so I continue shopping one-handed while searching for someplace to dispose of the regurgitated mess in my hand.

In the meat department, a mother with one small baby asks me, “Wow! Are all six yours?”
I answer her, “Yes, but I’m thinking of selling a couple of them.”
(Still searching for a garbage can at this point.)

Ok, after the meat department, my kids’ attention spans are spent. They’re done shopping at this point, but we aren’t even halfway through the store. This is about the time they like to start having shopping cart races. And who may I thank for teaching them this fun pastime? My seventh “child”, also known as my husband. While I’m picking out loaves of bread, the kids are running down the aisle behind the carts in an effort to get us kicked out of the store. I put to stop to that just as my son is about to crash head on into a giant cardboard cut-out of a Keebler elf stacked with packages of cookies.

Ah! Yes! I find a small trash can by the coffee machine in the cereal aisle and finally dump out the squishy contents of my hand. After standing in the cereal aisle for an hour and a half while the kids perused the various cereals, comparing the marshmallow and cheap, plastic toy content of each box, I broke down and let them each pick out a box. At any given time, we have twenty open boxes of cereal in my house.

As this is going on, my toddler is playing Houdini and maneuvering his little body out of the seat belt in an attempt to stand up in the cart. I’m amazed the kid made it to his second birthday without suffering a brain damaging head injury. In between trying to flip himself out of the cart, he sucks on the metal bars of the shopping cart. Mmmm, can you say “influenza”?

The shopping trip continues much like this. I break up fights between the kids now and then and stoop down to pick up items that the toddler has flung out of the cart. I desperately try to get everything on my list without adding too many other goodies to the carts.

Somehow I manage to complete my shopping in under four hours and head for the check-outs where my kids start in on a chorus of, “Can we have candy?” What evil minded person decided it would be a good idea to put a display of candy in the check-out lanes, right at a child’s eye level? Obviously someone who has never been shopping with children.

As I unload the carts, I notice many extra items that my kids have sneaked in the carts unbeknownst to me. I remove a box of Twinkies, a package of cupcakes, a bag of candy, and a can of cat food (we don’t even have a cat!). I somehow missed the box of Pokemon cards however and ended up purchasing them unbeknownst to me.

As I pay for my purchases, the clerk looks at me, indicates my kids, and asks, “Are they all yours?”

Frustrated, exhausted from my trip, sick to my stomach from writing out a check for $289.53, dreading unloading all the groceries and putting them away and tired of hearing that question, I look at the clerk and answer her in my most sarcastic voice, “No. They’re not mine. I just go around the neighborhood gathering up kids to take to the grocery store because it’s so much more fun that way.”

So, up for auction is an opened (they ripped open the box on the way home from the store) package of Pokemon cards. There are 44 cards total. They're in perfect condition, as I took them away from the kiddos as soon as we got home from the store. Many of them say "Energy". I tried carrying them around with me, but they didn't work. I definitely didn't have any more energy than usual.

One of them is shiny. There are a few creature-like things on many of them. One is called Pupitar. Hee hee hee Pupitar! (Oh no! My kids' sense of humor is rubbing off on me!) Anyway, I don't think there's anything special about any of these cards, but I'm very much not an authority on Pokemon cards. I just know that I'm not letting my kids keep these as a reward for their sneakiness.

Shipping is FREE on this item. Insurance is optional, but once I drop the package at the post office, it is no longer my responsibility. For example, if my son decides to pour a bottle of glue into the envelope, or my daughter spills a glass of juice on the package, that’s my responsibility and I will fully refund your money. If, however, I take the envelope to the post office and a disgruntled mail carrier sets fire to it, a pack of wild dogs rip into it, or a mail sorting machine shreds it, it’s out of my hands, so you may want to add insurance.

I will leave feedback for you as soon as I’ve received your payment. I will be happy to combine shipping on multiple items won within three days. This comes from a smoke-free, pet-free, child-filled home. Please ask me any questions before placing your bid. Happy bidding! :)

A date

Our spur-of-the-moment, first-ever mummy-Berry date was a huge hit.

Thanks to Mike Adamick's tale of vanishing toddlerhood, I felt a bit weepy and sentimental (bad Mike, bad!) and when I picked Berry up from daycare I decided we'd do something completely different.

Instead of driving home, we went to PJ's Coffee House, just the two of us. We ordered "big-girl drinks" (you know – anything with ice and plastic lids and straws) and a bagel, and we sat at a little table for two.

Berry was beyond tickled.

We talked about school (well, I asked questions and she said "mm-hmm" to everything). We talked about juuuuuuice (everything, even milk, is "juuuuice" until proven otherwise), we talked about Daddy, we talked to the girl at the next table.

Berry drank her big-girl drink. She made squirrel-cheeks in her excitement at fitting in as much bagel as she possibly could. She did special cute faces at the girl at the next table. She kissed the bagel. She kissed her big-girl drink – big mwah sounds. She kissed my arm, several times. I caught her before she kissed the table.

She was the most overjoyed nearly-two-year-old I've seen in ages, and it was absolutely wonderful.

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