A few weeks ago I started singing the Rock Chalk Chant, thinking Emery would like it. Crazy me. She didn't like it. Not only did she not like it, but she'd get a pouty lip, tear up and cry every single time. I did it a few times testing to see if it was a fluke, and she'd get upset each time. So the other day, I decided I had to capture it on video. She usually doesn't make it through the very first "rock chalk" but this time she held strong until the second time through. It's both so cute and so incredibly heartbreaking.
It makes me tear up too, so maybe she gets it from her mama.
Friday, May 8, 2015
Sunday, April 26, 2015
Bleachable Moments
One of my favorite things to do with all three kids is to go to public restrooms.
No, I'm sorry, I got that wrong. What I meant to say was that going to public restrooms with three kids under 5 years old is enough to give me a heart attack. Yes, that sounds more correct.
It was a beautiful day recently. We hit a park and got Alan to join us for a picnic. And because I didn't want to go home (the house stays cleanerish and there are fewer toys to fight over), we decided to stop at another of our favorite parks on the way home. Pretty soon after we got there, Owen started to do the potty dance. So off to the bathroom we go!
Emery is in the stroller, so we carefully maneuver into the restrooms. Luckily, at this park they're fairly well maintained, but they're still public park bathrooms, so I bark my standard, "Don't touch anything!" orders. I park Em outside of the stalls. Stall door open, I line toilet paper on the seat for Owen and hop him up onto the toilet. "Don't touch the toilet!" I implore, as he puts both hands down on the toilet to steady himself.
Owen starts squirming, scared of the automatic flush. It flushes despite my best attempts to keep it from doing so, Owen hops down and we pull up his pants. It's about this time Emery starts crying. Because nothing lessens the good old blood pressure like a baby crying.
Avery's turn! Baby's crying, let's get this going! Here comes Avery with sticks in both hands. Because if sticks are one thing, it's helpful. I throw the sticks to the ground. Avery gets going on the toilet, and I vaguely hear Owen talking to Emery. Oh, that's sweet, I think. Avery wraps things up and we come out of the stall. I see Owen, bless his heart, helping Emery get her pacifier to her mouth.
Scenes flash before me: Hand. Toilet. Pacifier. Baby.
I remove the pacifier while thanking Owen for helping and try to lower my blood pressure back to normal. We head over to wash our hands (and the pacifier).
I don't know if most of you know this, but hand washing time isn't just time to get clean. No. It's the time when tiny humans get to start stressing about the hand dryers. Because warm, blowing air is the stuff nightmares are made of, according to both of my children. So we soap up, and luckily Avery can be convinced to dry her hands in the Devil Air Dryer. Owen, however, cannot. He's like, "No, I'm cool, I'll just drip dry." He shakes his hands as if to demonstrate that they're basically pretty much already dry and no loud dryer is needed. I wash my hands and the pacifier and turn around. To find Owen with toilet paper in his hands drying them. Toilet paper of unknown origin.
We wash his hands again and head out.
No sooner do we hit the play area than Owen starts to potty dance again. "Owen," I say. "Did you even go to the bathroom?" Like I even needed an answer.
Off we went again.
No, I'm sorry, I got that wrong. What I meant to say was that going to public restrooms with three kids under 5 years old is enough to give me a heart attack. Yes, that sounds more correct.
It was a beautiful day recently. We hit a park and got Alan to join us for a picnic. And because I didn't want to go home (the house stays cleanerish and there are fewer toys to fight over), we decided to stop at another of our favorite parks on the way home. Pretty soon after we got there, Owen started to do the potty dance. So off to the bathroom we go!
Emery is in the stroller, so we carefully maneuver into the restrooms. Luckily, at this park they're fairly well maintained, but they're still public park bathrooms, so I bark my standard, "Don't touch anything!" orders. I park Em outside of the stalls. Stall door open, I line toilet paper on the seat for Owen and hop him up onto the toilet. "Don't touch the toilet!" I implore, as he puts both hands down on the toilet to steady himself.
Owen starts squirming, scared of the automatic flush. It flushes despite my best attempts to keep it from doing so, Owen hops down and we pull up his pants. It's about this time Emery starts crying. Because nothing lessens the good old blood pressure like a baby crying.
Avery's turn! Baby's crying, let's get this going! Here comes Avery with sticks in both hands. Because if sticks are one thing, it's helpful. I throw the sticks to the ground. Avery gets going on the toilet, and I vaguely hear Owen talking to Emery. Oh, that's sweet, I think. Avery wraps things up and we come out of the stall. I see Owen, bless his heart, helping Emery get her pacifier to her mouth.
Scenes flash before me: Hand. Toilet. Pacifier. Baby.
I remove the pacifier while thanking Owen for helping and try to lower my blood pressure back to normal. We head over to wash our hands (and the pacifier).
I don't know if most of you know this, but hand washing time isn't just time to get clean. No. It's the time when tiny humans get to start stressing about the hand dryers. Because warm, blowing air is the stuff nightmares are made of, according to both of my children. So we soap up, and luckily Avery can be convinced to dry her hands in the Devil Air Dryer. Owen, however, cannot. He's like, "No, I'm cool, I'll just drip dry." He shakes his hands as if to demonstrate that they're basically pretty much already dry and no loud dryer is needed. I wash my hands and the pacifier and turn around. To find Owen with toilet paper in his hands drying them. Toilet paper of unknown origin.
We wash his hands again and head out.
No sooner do we hit the play area than Owen starts to potty dance again. "Owen," I say. "Did you even go to the bathroom?" Like I even needed an answer.
Off we went again.
Tuesday, March 31, 2015
Green Bean Horror Show
Emery recently started eating solids. Here is what she thinks of green beans.
I think she could be teach a class on facial expressions. Each one has a distinct vibe to it. There's horror, disdain, repulsion, gah!, meh!, ugh, and blah. She is seriously one of my favorites.
I think she could be teach a class on facial expressions. Each one has a distinct vibe to it. There's horror, disdain, repulsion, gah!, meh!, ugh, and blah. She is seriously one of my favorites.
Monday, November 10, 2014
Grocery Store Throwdown
Alan and I went to the grocery store together some time ago. I can't remember exactly when it was; occasionally we'll take the kids to the store with us, but in this particular memory, there is no rambunctious kid(s), nor is there grocery-kid-stress. (Grocery-kid-stress is a legitimate thing; I took my mom to the store with the kids when she was visiting and she said she felt like we were sprinting. It's because I do because you never know when the kids will melt down, and it's always a race against the clock.) So if I had to guess, it was a trip to the store when it was just us and Avery --- so a few years ago, maybe?
Before I get to that, let me tell another tale. It adds depth to the story because it'll let you in on some of the Jersey flavor I get at the grocery store. I was at the store with Avery and Owen over the summer, pregnant at the time with Emery. I had the two kids in the car cart, and that thing is unwieldy. It occupies the kids with the fun steering wheel and race car, yes, but damn if that thing isn't impossible to steer. So I steered right into an endcap of baking chocolate. I knocked at least a hundred of them off, leaving my cart and tons of chocolate blocking the aisle. The kids and I started to pick them up and put them back on the shelves, and this older gentleman, I mean, man because he was not gentle, came upon the scene. He looked at us, gave an audible sigh, and headed in the other direction to go down another aisle. Now, he was in no way obligated to help me, but he didn't have to be so put out and such a drama queen about it. After all, I was the one picking up all the chocolate; all he had to do was walk around.
Anyway. Alan and I were grocery shopping. I was pushing the cart. I came to the end of an aisle and a lady was parked with her cart perpendicular to the aisle so that she was completely blocking my way. I said excuse me and while she didn't say anything, the hostility was palpable. And the look she gave me...it was an event. And she took her sweet time moving out of my way --- like 15 seconds, which, when you're having a standoff at the end of a grocery store aisle, is an eternity. It was so long that I actually considered the possibility that she might not move, which is just a Seinfeld-type of thing because people aren't that crazy in real life. So Alan and I had a moment of "What in tarnation just happened?" and then we went about our day.
So the other day I was grocery shopping. I had gone through the baking aisle for flour, but had forgotten Bisquick so I had to head back. A woman's cart was in the middle of the aisle, so I couldn't get by on either side. I said excuse me like a normal human, and the lady goes, "Are you actually going to buy anything on this aisle?" Only yelling. She was yelling. Taken aback just a bit, I gave a half-laugh-scoff and said, with attitude and a frown, "Yeah, it's right there, why?" She went on to yell at me that I'd already been down the aisle THREE TIMES. (False. She was a liar.) I said, "Yeah, SOMETIMES PEOPLE FORGET THINGS AND HAVE TO GO BACK."
After I'd procured my Bisquick and gotten safely to the next aisle, I could still hear her ranting and raving. I was wondering what I had done to piss her off so severely on my first pass down the baking aisle, but I don't think her craziness was about me. Because I remember her dropping swear words as I'd walked by the first time and thinking I was glad the kids weren't with me, and that time I'm pretty sure she was cursing about a product not being in the right location. Plus, she had bright blue eye shadow and it was applied in triangle shapes, so I think the crazy ran pretty deep.
As funny as it is, I was really bothered by the whole situation. I mean, I knew people in Jersey like to get seriously outraged for no apparent reason, but I dislike confrontation to a fault. When I get to do the shopping by myself, it's peaceful. I'm not supposed to be yelled at. If I wanted to be yelled at, I'd just go home and take away Halloween candy or something.
Alan did make an excellent point though as I was recounting the story. "Why was SHE in the baking aisle for so long?" I'll insert the joke about her being around the nuts here, but I have a feeling she is a Chronic Aisle Blocker who tries to stir up trouble. She simply has to be the same lady who blocked the aisle for me so long ago. There cannot be more than one of these people around. One thing is for sure though: If she makes a habit of that blue makeup, I won't forget her face again.
Before I get to that, let me tell another tale. It adds depth to the story because it'll let you in on some of the Jersey flavor I get at the grocery store. I was at the store with Avery and Owen over the summer, pregnant at the time with Emery. I had the two kids in the car cart, and that thing is unwieldy. It occupies the kids with the fun steering wheel and race car, yes, but damn if that thing isn't impossible to steer. So I steered right into an endcap of baking chocolate. I knocked at least a hundred of them off, leaving my cart and tons of chocolate blocking the aisle. The kids and I started to pick them up and put them back on the shelves, and this older gentleman, I mean, man because he was not gentle, came upon the scene. He looked at us, gave an audible sigh, and headed in the other direction to go down another aisle. Now, he was in no way obligated to help me, but he didn't have to be so put out and such a drama queen about it. After all, I was the one picking up all the chocolate; all he had to do was walk around.
Anyway. Alan and I were grocery shopping. I was pushing the cart. I came to the end of an aisle and a lady was parked with her cart perpendicular to the aisle so that she was completely blocking my way. I said excuse me and while she didn't say anything, the hostility was palpable. And the look she gave me...it was an event. And she took her sweet time moving out of my way --- like 15 seconds, which, when you're having a standoff at the end of a grocery store aisle, is an eternity. It was so long that I actually considered the possibility that she might not move, which is just a Seinfeld-type of thing because people aren't that crazy in real life. So Alan and I had a moment of "What in tarnation just happened?" and then we went about our day.
So the other day I was grocery shopping. I had gone through the baking aisle for flour, but had forgotten Bisquick so I had to head back. A woman's cart was in the middle of the aisle, so I couldn't get by on either side. I said excuse me like a normal human, and the lady goes, "Are you actually going to buy anything on this aisle?" Only yelling. She was yelling. Taken aback just a bit, I gave a half-laugh-scoff and said, with attitude and a frown, "Yeah, it's right there, why?" She went on to yell at me that I'd already been down the aisle THREE TIMES. (False. She was a liar.) I said, "Yeah, SOMETIMES PEOPLE FORGET THINGS AND HAVE TO GO BACK."
After I'd procured my Bisquick and gotten safely to the next aisle, I could still hear her ranting and raving. I was wondering what I had done to piss her off so severely on my first pass down the baking aisle, but I don't think her craziness was about me. Because I remember her dropping swear words as I'd walked by the first time and thinking I was glad the kids weren't with me, and that time I'm pretty sure she was cursing about a product not being in the right location. Plus, she had bright blue eye shadow and it was applied in triangle shapes, so I think the crazy ran pretty deep.
As funny as it is, I was really bothered by the whole situation. I mean, I knew people in Jersey like to get seriously outraged for no apparent reason, but I dislike confrontation to a fault. When I get to do the shopping by myself, it's peaceful. I'm not supposed to be yelled at. If I wanted to be yelled at, I'd just go home and take away Halloween candy or something.
Alan did make an excellent point though as I was recounting the story. "Why was SHE in the baking aisle for so long?" I'll insert the joke about her being around the nuts here, but I have a feeling she is a Chronic Aisle Blocker who tries to stir up trouble. She simply has to be the same lady who blocked the aisle for me so long ago. There cannot be more than one of these people around. One thing is for sure though: If she makes a habit of that blue makeup, I won't forget her face again.
Wednesday, September 10, 2014
Emery's Arrival
My kids like to make their arrival in style. With Avery, I barely made it to the hospital. With Owen, I labored happily until they broke my water and he was born about five minutes later. I felt like Baby 3 might have fun tricks up his/her sleeve — and I was mostly afraid of my water breaking and the baby falling out as soon as it did, whether I was at the grocery store or on a New Jersey highway. I had three wishes: 1) a healthy baby 2) not having the baby outside of the hospital and 3) if I was lucky, making it to 37 weeks and avoiding a week-long NICU stay.
When 35 weeks came and went — Avery day and Owen day — I started feeling impatient. I'd never gone past 35 weeks, so it felt like my due date had passed, even though I still had more than a month to go. (May the Lord help the women who go past their due dates. I cannot imagine.) When I made it to my 36-week appointment, I started having nightmares of a pregnancy lasting 41 weeks and inductions.
When the Tuesday after Labor Day arrived — two days shy of the 37-week mark — Alan was getting ready to head back to work after a four-day weekend. But I woke up with mild cramps and told him to stick around to see what happened. I'd woken up with cramps the previous two mornings to no avail, so I didn't think too much of it. But they were about 15 minutes apart, and when they got just a bit closer we decided to call the doctor and head to the hospital because I didn't want to deliver a baby in the car.
The doctor fails to call me back. Which is awesome. You'd think, "Hey, I may be in labor" would be enough to get a return phone call from your OB/GYN, but alas, I lost more faith in the medical community that day. So Alan and I sat in the hospital lobby for a couple of hours. Just monitoring contractions and playing Words with Friends. I was feeling a little silly about being so paranoid — what if it was just false labor? — but Alan kept reassuring me that I'd never had a false labor before and to chill out because something was clearly going on.
I finally called the doctor's office back, and they had me drive over to get checked. Sure enough, 5 cm and clearly in labor. Hurrah! We were having a baby! So we headed to the hospital to get checked in.
And then we waited. And waited. Watched some Real Housewives of Atlanta because isn't that the most zen thing you can think of? Turned it off when it started being annoying. Made Alan go get lunch for himself so he'd have strength to pull through for me. The attending physician introduced himself. When he came back to check me after laboring for a couple of hours — I told him contractions weren't fun any more — I was at 6 cm. Six! And I was pissed. All of that pain for 1 lousy centimeter? He told me they'd probably break my water in a bit to speed things up.
So after suffering a bit more — like 20 minutes, maybe? I can't remember — I tell Alan I need to push. But that seems impossible because the doctor had JUST CHECKED ME and I was a 6. But I hit the nurse call button and tell her I need to get checked because I need to push and she tells me I'm still a 6. She gets on the phone to my doctor telling her to get her rear there and then she tries to coach me into not pushing for two contractions. Which is maybe the hardest thing I've ever done. I "hee hee hoo hoo" through those two contractions — and I ask if it's too late for an epidural because I'm thinking, "How will I survive the pain of not pushing when pushing is the only thing that's going to help?" And she asks me if there is any music that will help me not push. And I want to punch her in the face. Because, no. No, there is not music that will stop this STRONG PHYSICAL URGE.
And then the attending physician is standing there, along with other nurses. And everyone has this look on their face like "This is the first time I've ever done this." And I want someone to look or act like they know what they're doing. And I want someone to tell me I can push.
And then my body is like "screw you guys, I'm pushing." So I did. And my water broke. And Emery Claire was born one minute later.
I saw immediately that she was a girl — it didn't matter, but I had felt it all along — and Emery was placed on my chest and got to hang out with me rather than being whisked away like my other two had been. We snuggled while they wiped her down and she peed all over me. It was really amazing.
My 6-pound, 4-ounce, 19-inch-long baby girl continued to be amazing. Because she was "near term" they tested her glucose for 24 hours and passed every test. We skipped the NICU. She stayed in my room with me, and we busted out of the hospital two days later. Jaundice wasn't an issue, and she's started gaining weight even though she's so sleepy that I have to wake her every time she needs to eat. (Who is this kid!?)
My kids have all come early and crazily, but I'll give them credit for timing things just right. Alan has always been home for me, and they've been born either on a weekend or the morning after a weekend and caught him before going to work. Plus, we've got a 9/2 baby, 8/7 baby, and a 2/27 which is pretty cool.
I'm over feeling stupid for waiting in the lobby, obviously. And I'm now pretty convinced I could be IN THE HOSPITAL and still have Alan end up delivering my baby. But barring a major, major oops, we won't need to test that possibility. The sense of being complete now that Emery has arrived is immense; my family is here.
When 35 weeks came and went — Avery day and Owen day — I started feeling impatient. I'd never gone past 35 weeks, so it felt like my due date had passed, even though I still had more than a month to go. (May the Lord help the women who go past their due dates. I cannot imagine.) When I made it to my 36-week appointment, I started having nightmares of a pregnancy lasting 41 weeks and inductions.
When the Tuesday after Labor Day arrived — two days shy of the 37-week mark — Alan was getting ready to head back to work after a four-day weekend. But I woke up with mild cramps and told him to stick around to see what happened. I'd woken up with cramps the previous two mornings to no avail, so I didn't think too much of it. But they were about 15 minutes apart, and when they got just a bit closer we decided to call the doctor and head to the hospital because I didn't want to deliver a baby in the car.
The doctor fails to call me back. Which is awesome. You'd think, "Hey, I may be in labor" would be enough to get a return phone call from your OB/GYN, but alas, I lost more faith in the medical community that day. So Alan and I sat in the hospital lobby for a couple of hours. Just monitoring contractions and playing Words with Friends. I was feeling a little silly about being so paranoid — what if it was just false labor? — but Alan kept reassuring me that I'd never had a false labor before and to chill out because something was clearly going on.
I finally called the doctor's office back, and they had me drive over to get checked. Sure enough, 5 cm and clearly in labor. Hurrah! We were having a baby! So we headed to the hospital to get checked in.
And then we waited. And waited. Watched some Real Housewives of Atlanta because isn't that the most zen thing you can think of? Turned it off when it started being annoying. Made Alan go get lunch for himself so he'd have strength to pull through for me. The attending physician introduced himself. When he came back to check me after laboring for a couple of hours — I told him contractions weren't fun any more — I was at 6 cm. Six! And I was pissed. All of that pain for 1 lousy centimeter? He told me they'd probably break my water in a bit to speed things up.
So after suffering a bit more — like 20 minutes, maybe? I can't remember — I tell Alan I need to push. But that seems impossible because the doctor had JUST CHECKED ME and I was a 6. But I hit the nurse call button and tell her I need to get checked because I need to push and she tells me I'm still a 6. She gets on the phone to my doctor telling her to get her rear there and then she tries to coach me into not pushing for two contractions. Which is maybe the hardest thing I've ever done. I "hee hee hoo hoo" through those two contractions — and I ask if it's too late for an epidural because I'm thinking, "How will I survive the pain of not pushing when pushing is the only thing that's going to help?" And she asks me if there is any music that will help me not push. And I want to punch her in the face. Because, no. No, there is not music that will stop this STRONG PHYSICAL URGE.
And then the attending physician is standing there, along with other nurses. And everyone has this look on their face like "This is the first time I've ever done this." And I want someone to look or act like they know what they're doing. And I want someone to tell me I can push.
And then my body is like "screw you guys, I'm pushing." So I did. And my water broke. And Emery Claire was born one minute later.
I saw immediately that she was a girl — it didn't matter, but I had felt it all along — and Emery was placed on my chest and got to hang out with me rather than being whisked away like my other two had been. We snuggled while they wiped her down and she peed all over me. It was really amazing.
My 6-pound, 4-ounce, 19-inch-long baby girl continued to be amazing. Because she was "near term" they tested her glucose for 24 hours and passed every test. We skipped the NICU. She stayed in my room with me, and we busted out of the hospital two days later. Jaundice wasn't an issue, and she's started gaining weight even though she's so sleepy that I have to wake her every time she needs to eat. (Who is this kid!?)
My kids have all come early and crazily, but I'll give them credit for timing things just right. Alan has always been home for me, and they've been born either on a weekend or the morning after a weekend and caught him before going to work. Plus, we've got a 9/2 baby, 8/7 baby, and a 2/27 which is pretty cool.
 |
| Dimples have been spotted but you can't see them here. |
 |
| Eight days old and very worried. |
Sunday, August 24, 2014
Does This Baby Make My Belly Look Big?
Here I am in all of my glowing glory at 35 weeks, 3 days. Anyone who has been keeping tabs knows that this is THREE DAYS longer than my longest pregnancy. I'm having to remind myself that I'm not actually due for another month. But each day that ticks by has me hoping that we'll avoid the dreaded NICU stay with a preemie. And each day that ticks by also has me worried that I'll go to like 41 weeks, which...would just not be acceptable. I'd honestly prefer that to a preemie and wallet-clearing NICU stay, but I'm not saying that once I hit full-term at 37 weeks I won't be pulling out every labor-inducing trick in the book.
I'm mostly feeling fine, except for annoying reflux and sore throat I've had off and on since May. And you know, stabbing pain in my pelvis and left thigh isn't exactly fun. I can barely heave myself out of bed, and then once I do, I'm gimping like a 90-year-old lady until my lower limbs start working a little.
People say that the baby must be very comfortable to have beaten my old pregnancy record. I say that this baby is probably terrified of the chaos he or she is about to meet! (I know I am. We'll get through it together, baby!)
Friday, August 8, 2014
My Fancy, Funny Four
Avery turned four yesterday. Where did four years go, etc., but the better question is, when did she get so funny? And where did this larger-than-life personality come from? And where did she get her sense of fashion and fancy? Because this girl is hilarious, personality plus, and puts my fashion sense to shame.
This year she really got what the birthday was all about and started putting in requests months in advance. Her list changed several times, but we narrowed it down and all of her gifts were a hit. I think Alan and I were about as excited as she was about her birthday. I wish this picture was clearer, but it really sums up her excitement about getting Sofia's Amulet of Avalor.
She's wearing her Queen Elsa dress, and got two pairs of "fancy" sleepwear. Now, she never has to be wearing something less than sparkly perfection. The girl is dressed up from morning to ... well, the next morning.
Her typical walking attire:
Of course, Owen isn't immune to Avery's fancy influence either.
She's never met a carousel she didn't like...
...but even though she's carousels and princesses and fairies and dresses, she's got the ability to get down and dirty. She collects rocks and leaves and sticks and digs in mud puddles ... she just does it while wearing a dress. One day the neighbor kids were outside playing with a Super Soaker --- the giant squirt gun that is practically as big as she is. I thought there'd be no way she'd be able to work it. Instead, she not only figured it out, but went around terrorizing all of us with her super soaking abilities. We all got drenched.
This one sums up her joy for life:
And seriously, she couldn't be more beautiful...
...but in reality, she'd discovered that she can burp on demand and was cracking herself up by belching as much as possible during this photo shoot.
She aged overnight, and I'm feeling very, very excited about what four will bring. Don't change a thing, funny girl.
This year she really got what the birthday was all about and started putting in requests months in advance. Her list changed several times, but we narrowed it down and all of her gifts were a hit. I think Alan and I were about as excited as she was about her birthday. I wish this picture was clearer, but it really sums up her excitement about getting Sofia's Amulet of Avalor.
She's wearing her Queen Elsa dress, and got two pairs of "fancy" sleepwear. Now, she never has to be wearing something less than sparkly perfection. The girl is dressed up from morning to ... well, the next morning.
Her typical walking attire:
Of course, Owen isn't immune to Avery's fancy influence either.
She's never met a carousel she didn't like...
...but even though she's carousels and princesses and fairies and dresses, she's got the ability to get down and dirty. She collects rocks and leaves and sticks and digs in mud puddles ... she just does it while wearing a dress. One day the neighbor kids were outside playing with a Super Soaker --- the giant squirt gun that is practically as big as she is. I thought there'd be no way she'd be able to work it. Instead, she not only figured it out, but went around terrorizing all of us with her super soaking abilities. We all got drenched.
This one sums up her joy for life:
And seriously, she couldn't be more beautiful...
...but in reality, she'd discovered that she can burp on demand and was cracking herself up by belching as much as possible during this photo shoot.
 |
| Mom! You need a highlight! (Seriously, just got one this week and my stylist didn't even know I was pregnant...) |
She aged overnight, and I'm feeling very, very excited about what four will bring. Don't change a thing, funny girl.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
