Adventures in Potty Training

There are many things I didn't think about very much while my oven was baking up a Hannah-shaped bun. Potty training was one of these things. In my mind, I sort of glossed over this section of training and went straight from diapers to pull-ups to panties. And voila! The child would be doing her business with little help from good ole' mom and dad.

Hahahahaha! I was dumb. I am dumb no longer. I did not realize the amount of emotional involvement potty training would entail. We go through the throws of anticipation, fear, terror, embarrassment, frustration, joy, and hope on a daily basis. I didn't take Hannah's opinions into account when planning our potty training action plan and crafting our "dry pants are happy pants" mission statement. I also misjudged my daughter's ability to manipulate her parents.

Do you know the fear that causes you to leap from your bed in the middle of the night? That heart leaping into your throat feeling? We experience this nightly. About 5am, we hear our cherub's lovely little girl voice float through the baby monitor and into our ears where it teases our sleep-induced brains with these words, "Mommy, I pee peed." "Daddy, I pooped." "Mommy, I peed." "Daddy, I poop." By the time our ears and brains are communicating and we've both stopped playing the, "If I pretend to be asleep maybe he/she will get up and take care of this one" game, both of us are in a slight panic. You see, we've heard the stories of relatives and children of friends who woke in the middle of the night and turned into miniature Picassos using their bedroom walls as canvas and their dirty diapers as paint. And no matter who winds up running to Hannah's room, the results are the same. She's fine. Her pull-up is intact. Her jammies are dry. She has been calling Wolf, or rather she has been calling Pee Pee. Hannah's ultimate goal in the mornings is to go downstairs and watch cartoons. She realizes we are easier to manipulate when we are tired. Our child is ruthless in her efforts and we fall right into her trap every time.

Another part of potty training I gave no consideration to was the matter of my husband, a man, participating in the process. I never thought he wouldn't participate but would in fact play a large part in her success. But I didn't think about the differences between men and women peeing in the toilet. Maybe it's because I've heard the manly rule of, "If you shake it more than three times, you're playing with yourself," enough times when my male friends and husband have educated me on Men's Room Etiquette that I just assumed Bryan was privy to the details of female urination and I wouldn't have to over-think this as I am prone to do on nearly every other subject. Wrong.

The other night, Hannah sat herself down on the potty seat, did her business and called, "Daddy, I pee peed! Daddy, I pee peed!" Bryan did what he normally does and headed back to the bathroom to help her empty the tray that catches what she lets go and to help her get dressed again. Sometimes the pants don't quite make it up over her butt when she pulls them back up. Funny, but it is winter and we have an old, drafty house.

I was in the kitchen finishing up dinner and heard their exchange. Bryan, "Okay, pull your pants back up." Hannah, "No Daddy, I need paper." Bryan, "Come on, pull your pants back up." Hannah, "Daddy, no!" And it dawned on me. When Bryan aided in her peeing process, there was no wiping involved. What!? What!? What!?

And then I stuck my head into the potty chair room and said, "Um, honey? You know she has to be wiped every single time she goes to the bathroom, no matter if it's pee or poop? That's what girls do. Have you been wiping her?" I never got an answer, but if diaper rash is seen less frequently around these parts, I won't be too surprised.

The most recent potty training episode involves a pull-up, Hannah's dirty clothes hamper, my clothes washer, and most likely, an exhausted parent (probably Bryan, but there is no proof at this time).

As we get closer and closer to the time when we'll say good bye to pull-ups forever (at least during the day), we tend to get a tad sloppy with anything other than underwears. This was the root cause of the mess I just tended to. Just to interject, I wanted to call her underwear 'panties'. I thought it was cute, girlie, and perfect for Hannah. Hannah decided she wanted to call them 'underwears'. The 'S' is NOT silent. And if you skip the 'S', she will let you know. Loudly.

Anyways, being unemployed stinks. But there are benefits, too. One of them is I can get all of our laundry done during the day so I'm not tied to the washing machine on Saturday or Sunday when I'd rather be hanging out with the family and friends. And, as we have a child who is potty training, I am never without dirty laundry. Oh, and here's a laundry tip for you: If washing urine soaked clothing, slippers, sheets, rugs, couch covers, etc. in cold water in an effort to A) save energy or B) save the clothing, splurge and buy Tide Coldwater detergent. In a 2 product test that was performed in my basement by the Pee Pee Washers Association, Tide Coldwater eliminated that pesky urine smell much better than Arm & Hammer Fresh Waterfall by the Beach on a Beautiful Summer's Day Scent was able to.

Anyways, take II. Today, on the coldest day I have experienced outside of Kalamazoo, MI, I decided to tackle the dirty clothes in order to keep our long underwear, sweats, footie jammies, and other warm items in rotation. Armed with my latest full basket of dirty clothes, I braved our very cold basement. Now, I knew I had washed a load the other day and had yet to transfer the items to the dryer. I jauntily swung the lid open and stuck my hand into the washer full of cold, wet, clean clothes to transfer them for their tumble dry. Without looking I tossed handfulls of clothes into the dryer. And then I felt something. Something strange. Something wet, squishy, cold, and silicone-y.

A pull-up had been washed. A pull-up that uses a moisture absorbing gel to trap and keep moisture away from baby's delicate skin. A pull-up that had absorbed as much water as was possible before exploding onto a load of washing laundry. A load of mostly dark and black clothes. Our vigilance in making sure dirty pull-ups make it into the diaper pail and not into the dirty clothes hamper had failed. And I am now dealing with the consequences of our laissez-faire approach to diaper disposal.

The clean up is on-ongoing and extensive. It involved vigorous shaking of each item that was in the washer, two separate sweeping-up episodes, a hot wash of an empty machine to clear the remaining gel stuff, and will, hopefully, conclude with a third washing of the clothing.

I tell you all of this not just to make you laugh at my foibles and follies in the land of potty training, but to give you pause to think. What items in life have you glossed over only to be kicked in the tushie when faced with reality? What advice can you provide for those forgotten or ignored life tests that others may soon encounter?

Please, leave comments. It's too cold to leave the house, most of my rooms are cleaned and organized and I need human interaction. Help keep me sane. No work and no play makes Stacy a crazy lady.

Sweet Hour of Prayer

Just over one year ago, my father had his first stroke. It was the morning before Bryan's and my 7th Wedding Anniversary. We had spent the night before playing mini-golf and eating hot wings (well, I ate hot wings, Bryan had chicken with "Hello Kitty" sauce because Bryan is a wuss). When the phone rang in the middle of the night several hours after we'd returned home and had gone to bed, I knew it wouldn't be good. Because the phone doesn't ring that early in the morning with good news. It just doesn't.

We made the drive to Michigan one day later, on our anniversary. When we got to the hospital the Tuesday after his stroke, I took one look at my dad and wanted to run away. He looked horrible. Here was my dad. The man who encouraged me, who made me laugh, who made me so angry I could spit, who grounded me, who neglected to tell me I no longer had a curfew, who performed our wedding ceremony and made everyone with a pulse cry or at least mist up, and who was one of my staunchest supporters. He looked horrible, and weak, and miserable. He was scared. For him, yes, but mainly for my mother. Her health is not so great, to say it mildly. What would happen to Susan? How would he continue to take care of her? I didn't know that there were worries that had existed in him for years, job and family related, that most likely caused the stroke that would eventually take him from us, from being Hannah's Grampa (this was my dad's preferred spelling of his grandfatherly title), from being my dad. He never told me. I never knew the struggles he was going through. I never knew how absolutely frustrated he was with the way things were. I had an inkling things weren't great, I'm not completely self-centered (in the words of a blogger I adore, Shut Up!). But, in the way that parents do, he shielded me from the worst of it. He also knew I have a temper and it will flare and burn and I will set things on fire with my words. Perhaps he held back for that reason, too.

Over the next two months, he had multiple surgeries, laid on his back in a hospital bed and thought and worried, wore a funny helmet because they'd removed a large section of his skull (I'm still a little irked I never got to decorate it with cool stickers), missed and begged for sips of Diet Coke, and in his way comforted people. I've heard several stories about him from during this time, and all of them have an aspect of him putting others at ease, not that others went to him for help, but my dad's very nature was soothing (except when I was a bratty teenager), comforting, and companionable. Oh, and he managed to get after me one last time while he was at it.

He spent the last three weeks of his life in a nursing home. While there, he developed bed sores. Bed sores that come from an understaffed nursing home. Bed sores that come from too much work, too many patients, and a patient's paralysis. I am in no way saying that the staff at the nursing home weren't caring. They were, but the bed sores still happened. A breakdown of the flesh that occurs from too much time spent in one position where the bone forces its way through to the other side or when a patient is not moved 100% perfectly. And they are painful. And they get infected. And my dad had them.

During our last visit with my dad, we all trooped into his room to look at our feet for a while and to feel uncomfortable and sad and to not discuss the things that needed discussing. Bryan was wheeling my mom in the home's borrowed wheelchair, I had Hannah, and a couple bags worth of stuff. When we got into his room, I wanted to put everything down so I could get over and kiss my dad hello. My mom wanted to be wheeled closer. I asked her to wait a moment so I could get everything down and out of the way. My dad told me, "Don't make your mother wait." As much as I wanted to roar, "She can wait for a minute and it won't kill her! I have stuff and things I need and want to do, too!" I refrained, and dutifully got my mom closer.

I slowly burnt for a long time. I had been taking care of my mother as best I could all week. I had been dealing with her health issues and her depression issues and her fears and her frustrations all week. I had gone to the lawyer's offices. I had gone to the doctor's offices. I had driven her here and there. I had done the shopping. I had been a wife to Bryan and a mother to Hannah and a co-worker and an employee (who was literally hours from being laid off) all week. I had worked all week. I was DONE. I was done being nice. I was done being patient. I was done being a good daughter. But, then I wasn't. And these days, whenever I feel myself getting overwhelmed with what needs to be done, I hear my father's slurred and weakened voice tell me, "Don't make your mother wait." and I find my patience seeping back and my attitude shifting back into place and I do what needs to be done.

My dad died on November 1, 2008. He was 59 years old.

That Saturday morning started out pretty well. My friend was coming over for breakfast, Halloween had been successful and Hannah had a pretty good pile of candy that we would be stealing from, the weather was chilly, but still pretty nice considering it was November, and we were going to have a relaxing day. And then the phone rang at 7:30 am. And I knew it wouldn't be good. Because the phone doesn't ring that early in the morning with good news. It just doesn't.

I can laugh about this now, and in fact I could laugh about this while it was happening. The nurse who called had a speech impediment when she encountered stressful situations (I don't laugh at people with speech impediments, that's just rude and mean. Just getting that out there lest you think I'm a rude, insensitive beeyatch who laughs at the difficulties of others). And she stuttered on the letter "P". And she told me that my father, "had been discovered with no pulse and no blood pressure". And then a bit later she called back to tell me that my father had, "passed away". I remember thinking, "This is going to be really funny someday." And you know what, it is. A bit bittersweet, but it does make me chuckle.

The next two weeks (and more) were hell. Not hell on wheels, which might have been kinda neato, but stuck in crap and mud hell. And there were so many lovely, thoughtful, loving people who were there and that are still there. And I still owe most of them a thank you note. Some of those notes have been written and not sent. Some have not been written at all but exist in my head. The thanks is in my heart and it will always be there, but getting this thanks down on paper is the hardest thing I've ever had to do. Thank you for sending lovely flowers to my father's funeral. Thank you for arranging for food right after my father's death. Thank you for watching my little girl while we eulogized her Grampa. Thank you for helping me clear out 37 + years of junk and memories from the first house my parents had ever bought. Thank you for cleaning this house before we arrived so my baby wouldn't accidentally find and eat a lost pill that slid into a corner of the kitchen after my mom tried to kill herself. Thank you for the beers, the food, the time out when I wanted to crawl under a rock and cry but had to keep on keeping on. Thank you for helping me because all I wanted to do was walk away from all of it, including my mother. Thank you for supporting me, loving my family, and just....just Thank you.

The title of this post has very little to do with what I've written. I started this thinking I would go one way, but I've ended here and not there. And, that's okay. I've been working through a lot over the past year and I'm not through. I have many things to start thinking about and many things to wrap up. I have rage in me that I still can't let go of, but manage to only dwell on when alone or with that friend who ate the chocolate chip pancakes I made the morning I found out my dad had died. And of course there's Bryan. Amazing, wonderful, non-hot wing-eating Bryan. But you see, he loved my dad, too. Not in the same way I did, because Bryan's dad is still very much alive and an important part of our lives. And is even more important to me now than he used to be. And I haven't told him that and I don't know if I will ever speak those words to him, but when I see him, I want to cry and have my daddy-by-marriage hug me. And that's probably not fair to him, but it is what it is.

But Bryan, he hurts, too. And he's a bit angry by what happened, too. And he knows the truth, well our side of the truth, about what my dad was dealing with, too. And he knows the crap my dad was up against and kept inside, too. And Bryan can feel the heat of my anger and probably knows it's not best to discuss it. Even though he has been, can be, and will be the wall I fling my hurt, sorrow, frustration, and fury at. Even though he knows it's not aimed at him and we're on the same team. Friendly fire can hurt and kill. So, we limit how far we will discuss the bad, and we remember the good together, as much as my rawness will allow.

And eventually, someday, somehow, at some point in the future, I hope that all I will think of when I think of my dad is the love, the silliness, the support, the fun, the lessons, and the care he gave to me, to Bryan, to Hannah, and to almost everyone he encountered.

The hymn Sweet Hour of Prayer was what my dad was listening to on his CD player just a couple of days before he died. It was on repeat and my father listened and listened and listened to this song. And I thank Richard for being there to witness that last Wednesday's sunset with my dad, and for sharing his memories about a man he is so very similar to, and for his words on the Sunday morning after my father died.

Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer!
That calls me from a world of care,
And bids me at my Father’s throne
Make all my wants and wishes known.
In seasons of distress and grief,
My soul has often found relief,
And oft escaped the tempter’s snare,
By thy return, sweet hour of prayer!

Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer!
The joys I feel, the bliss I share,
Of those whose anxious spirits burn
With strong desires for thy return!
With such I hasten to the place
Where God my Savior shows His face,
And gladly take my station there,
And wait for thee, sweet hour of prayer!

Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer!
Thy wings shall my petition bear
To Him whose truth and faithfulness
Engage the waiting soul to bless.
And since He bids me seek His face,
Believe His Word and trust His grace,
I’ll cast on Him my every care,
And wait for thee, sweet hour of prayer!

Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer!
May I thy consolation share,
Till, from Mount Pisgah’s lofty height,
I view my home and take my flight.
This robe of flesh I’ll drop, and rise
To seize the everlasting prize,
And shout, while passing through the air,
“Farewell, farewell, sweet hour of prayer!”

Rinse and Spit

Finding out we were having a girl was something of a shock. Hannah started out as one of two. The other infant/baby/embyo/zygote/WHATEVER didn't make it past 7 weeks. Bryan's family history had male twins, so we naturally thought we were having a boy. Then we found out (fine, Bryan found out. I had to be shown in great, zoomed-in detail the "lack of winkie" and even then I had a hard time seeing what wasn't there) we were having a girl. I have to admit, I was pretty freaked out. Bryan was, too, but quickly got over it (what can I say, he's a much more relaxed person than his delightful wife). But having lived through the teenage years, I had something of an inkling the crap this child 'o mine would be going through. I worried how I would help her. I began to plan all the things I would teach this little body snatcher who insisted on kicking my ribs and hiccuping through the night. I thought about how I would teach her to become a caring young woman who accepted everyone, no matter what their race, religion, physicality, mental capacity, sexual preference, gender, or social status happened to be. I thought about how I might share my love of books and reading, how to plan, budget, and prepare a meal, and how to do her hair, if she perchance inherited my curly locks. I would teach her to stick up for the underdog and to befriend the friendless. I planned to do my best to help her become whatever it is she decides to be. What I did not anticipate are all the small things I would teach her on a day-to-day basis.

I did not think about how to explain that there are two legs in a pair of pants, not one that you cram both of your legs through. I did not think about the stickers I would reward her for peeing on the potty. I did not think that I, too, would receive stickers when I pee on the potty in her presence. I imagined fun bathtime and mom/daughter bonding over hair bows and pretty barrettes. I did not think that bathtime and hair brushing would be fought on a battlefield in our too-small bathroom. And, I did not think that I would be teaching her how to spit her toothpaste into the sink and not all over her clean clothes, or her naked belly, or onto the bathroom floor.

The big things are still on my mind. I think and worry about the school system in KCMO, how we will afford college (and that it might not be so bad if she pays for it on her own), if she's getting enough vegetables, and that someday, she might meet someone, fall in love, and start her own family. I imagine family vacations that go off without a hitch, of family meals where we laugh and enjoy our food instead of begging Hannah to just try one bite, giving up, and making her a piece of toast. I dream of movies we'll both enjoy watching together and not just gritting my teeth and watching Nemo for the one millionth time (I swear, we've watched it that many times, no exaggeration, not even a little bit). But, tonight as I watched a big mouthful of spitty toothpaste run down Hannah's chin and onto her (thankfully nako) chest, I laughed and noticed one of the things I never thought I'd think about.

Great Expectations

"What cute things did Hannah do today?"
"Any Hannah stories?"
"How was Hannah's morning?"

These are the questions I often encounter when I speak with my mother. I can't really blame her for wanting the details on her only grandchild, but talk about pressure! Some mornings there are cute-at-the-moment moments that I forget about as soon as they've happened. Some mornings there are over-the-top cute/funny things to report. But not everyday. Some days, nothing cute happens at all. Some days we have just a normal, boring, everyone got out the door on time morning. And I'm so okay with this. But my mom, well, my mom wants daily cuteness alerts and I'm struggling.

I'm inviting you all to help me create some cute/funny things I can tell my mom that will amuse her and get her to understand that I CAN'T TAKE THE PRESSURE of a daily cuteness update. Because today, I'm gonna fail in answering her questions. I'm too tired and too achy from having had my face rocked off at last night's Green Day concert. So, a little help from my friends would be, um, helpful.

Here are a couple ideas to get you started.

1) Hannah was so cute this morning. She wanted to know if she should start Handel's Messiah piano or forte. I told her to give them both a shot and she decided that starting quietly and building up to an amazing crescendo would best showcase her operatic skills. (No critiques on if this is correct or not, people. I haven't performed this since high school and can't remember how it starts. Or ends. Or how it sounds in the middle.)

2) Hannah was so cute this morning. She was cooking us breakfast and threw an all out toddler-style hissy fit because her souffle fell when Angus barked at a squirrel. We've tried to warn her that souffles are difficult in this house, but that girl, she's just gotta figure it out for herself.

3) Hannah is so funny. She reversed the 52nd and 53rd decimal places of Pi this morning. Hahaha! That girl cracks me up.

And here's one from my friend, Vanessa.

Hannah just showed me her fully proofed mathematical equations to prove the imaginary number "I" exists!

Okay, your turn.

Words, Words, Words

NSFPOBC (Not Safe for People Offended by Cursing)

Yesterday morning the word, "Holy!" floated out of the kitchen and into the living room where Hannah and I were sharing some breakfast. Hannah gazed towards the kitchen as if she was seeing the word flutter by and announced, "Crap!" The 12-year-old in me wanted to giggle. The mom in me wanted to gasp. I went with something in the middle and ignored it, completely.

Despite 2 1/2 years of work, Bryan and I still have "potty mouths". I have significantly toned things down. If something falls out of the freezer and onto my toe, I am more likely to yell, "Fudgesickle" these days. But when I hit my thumb with a hammer, or I walk in dog pee in the kitchen, you know what doesn't make me feel better? Shoot, darn, dang it, and Oh No! These words don't work. Creatively stringing together curse words makes me feel better. Sometimes, I am so creative that I cheer myself right up and forget about the thing that made me curse in the first place. And you know what? I don't feel guilty. I don't feel as if I've sinned, as I was led to believe I'd done when I was younger. I feel calmer, like I've purged some demons.

I know not to curse in public or around children that aren't my own (and I'm getting so much better around my own). I know that people judge others on the words that come out of their mouths and opportunities may be lost. I know that too much cursing makes you sound like an uneducated moron. And as I will be paying for the REST OF MY LIFE for my Master's degree, that is exactly how I don't wish to sound. But behind closed doors, in my car, and around friends, I will take that filter off and express myself however the hell I want. I spent my teenage years and a good chunk of my 20's cursing out loud, in public, whenever, whereever I wanted. But I needed to do that, to get it out of my system, to rebel against all the rules I grew up with. All the unexplained, just don't do it, just don't question it rules I grew up with. All the rules I know were for my own good, but without back-up, meant nothing and were things to ignore, test, and question. Yep, I learned the Why.

The fact is, I enjoy cursing. It's fun, it's freeing, and it's just a set of words that some people consider to be offensive, which is why it's fun and why it's freeing (Oooh, look! A big circle!). But now there's a Honey-Nut Cheerio eating parrot in our house. And there's nothing quite like hearing the little person you are responsible for repeat, "Fuck!" which, in all fairness you yelled right after you'd set the oven on fire with a damn croissant (see, the word damn adds a little something, somehow shifts the blame from me to the baked good that fell onto the heating coil at the bottom of the oven). Your blood runs cold and you freeze. Your mind races to find an appropriate response. And you wonder how you're going to convice a 2-year old not to repeat this new found expression at daycare the next day. Because no matter how okay you may be with cursing, it is still a forbidden word and you still don't want to be called into the daycare center's office to have a chat with the principal.

I know in a few years, we'll be able to explain to Hannah that there are words that aren't appropriate in all situations. Or around Nana. At all. Ever. We will explain the appropriate times, we will give her permission to use these words, if necessary, without fear of punishment (Ha ha! We'll take away the power of the words). We will explain to her the Why behind the rules. And then we will watch her find the Why on her own. But for now, we have to be careful how much power we give these words. To freak out and start yelling will let Hannah know she has a word that can get an adult's attention in a split second. Yes, for now we will (mostly) ignore the bad words she parrots back to us and we will be more dilligent in watching what we say within ear shot. But, we will continue to be ourselves in our home, in our cars, and with our friends. And if you've got a problem with it, I'm pretty sure you can figure out what to go do with yourself.

Where do you see yourself in 10 years?

10 years ago, I never thought I'd worry about:

1) If we have any fruit snacks in the cupboard
2) If there are purple snacks included in the fruit snack pouches
3) How many fruit snacks are too many for one sitting
4) If fruit snacks come out of car upholstery

Bath Time Sucks

These pictures were taken about a year ago, but are still accurate representations of bath time hair washing.

It used to be that as soon as Hannah saw a filled bathtub (or was placed naked in the kitchen sink) the wailing would begin. The past few months have seen a shift in attitude. Who would have thought bath crayons make all the difference?

Last night, after realizing Hannah hadn't had a bath in a week, (don't judge, bathing Hannah as an infant has made us gun shy - she used to cry so hard she'd poop in the water) we fired up the tub, drug out the huge basket of bathtub toys, plopped her into a lukewarm bath and handed over the crayons. We drew circles, triangles, spirals, and squiggles. We used the pink crayon, the green crayon, the purple crayon, and the brown crayon (please be sure your toddler has pooped before getting into the tub if you plan on using the brown crayon). It was fabulous.

I asked her to show me how to float on her stomach. I asked her if she could float on her back. We played with a toy watering can and the spray bottle I got from the hospital after Hannah was born. All of these succeeded in her hair getting mostly wet. But not quite wet enough to wash her hair.

The screaming began as soon as I gently laid her back in the tub and slowly poured water over her hair to get it ready for a very necessary scrubbing. As I massaged shampoo on her little noggin she continued to scream and cry and wail her displeasure. Bryan and I have remarked in the past that we are surprised the police haven't been summoned by the neighbors during bath time on suspicions of child abuse. This is how loudly and passionately she screams when we wash her hair.

And now what to do with the sudsy hair but rinse. Rinsing her hair breaks my heart. I am not often drawn to tears, but rinsing her hair and hearing the fear in her cries breaks my heart. And then there are times when I'm just annoyed. I'm not going to hurt her. I'm not going to let her drown. I don't want to get soap in her eyes. I'm so tired of this struggle. She needs to Just. Get. Over. It.

Last night was a rare combination of the two. I began in the Just Get Over It mode and then shifted to feeling so bad for her I wanted to pick her up, soapy hair and all, and just cuddle her. But that would delay the necessary. And, I would wind up needing to change clothes, and I really hate late-in-the-day outfit changes. I already have enough laundry to do, do I really need to create more because my child won't let me rinse her hair? So, I worked to get the shampoo out of her hair, fighting freakishly strong toddler arms, hands, and legs while doing my best to keep the suds from running down her face and into her eyes. All of my efforts didn't keep her from swallowing a large mouth of bathwater, causing a large sputtering coughing jag, or from stinging her eyes with shampoo suds. She's really strong.

As soon as I was finished, I quickly got her onto her feet and asked her to look at me. She looked up, tears streaming down her face, snot dripping onto her lip, and I asked her, "Hannah, do you think mommy would ever, ever hurt you?" She said, "Yesh."

Spent, soaked, and a bit sad, I turned to Bryan, and informed them both, that, "Daddy will take it from here."

Love, Toddler Style

Buddy is the most patient cat, ever. Or, he's simply too fat to move quickly enough to dodge toddler cuddles.

What's in a name?

Hannah loves Angus. Don't be fooled by his turned head, Angus loves Hannah, too. He loves her so much he was overly protective of me while I was pregnant. He loves her so much he was our dirty diaper detector for the first few months of Hannah's life, until his overly sensitive nose couldn't handle that job anymore. He loves her so much he lets her pull on his ears and when she was younger, the extra skin above his eyes. He loves her so much he gained 4 pounds when she started eating solid food. Oh, but does Hannah love Angus. Hannah loves to hug Angus, she loves to kiss him goodbye when she leaves for daycare in the mornings, and she loves to see him when she gets home in the afternoon. Hannah loves to share her breakfast and dinner with Angus. Hannah loves to say, "Angus, come!" when she wants to see him. Hannah loves to say, "Angus, No!" when he tries to smooch her from chin to forehead in one giant slurp. Hannah loves to say, "Where's Angus?" when she forgets where he is. When we pull up in front of the house, Hannah loves to inform me that we are in front of "Angus House". Sometimes, she loves to sing his name over and over again, "Angus, Angus, Angus, Angus, Angus." Hannah does not pronounce the "G" in Angus' name.