Good Day, Awkward Silence! I Said GOOD DAY!

I need television. I've decided that I actually need television.

For years, I have gone without it. I told myself that I didn't need it, want it or care about it. It was true for the time. I spent my days reading, painting, thinking, writing, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, working...basically everything you would be doing if you didn't have a television sucking the life-force from the empty shell you call your body. I held my non-televisionness as a badge of honor. Saying, "Oh, I don't watch TV," was one of my favorite conversation starters. Actually, I'm pretty sure it was a conversation ender because someone would say, "Did you see Dancing with the Stars last night?" and I would say, "No, I don't watch television," with a sense of pretention, and they would stop talking to me. It's kind of like when I take The New Yorker with me on flights, and I always, always end up buying a People at the newsstand before boarding the plane. I then read the People from cover to cover, lamenting to myself at how I had every intention of reading the short story that's single-spaced and 8 pages long.

Anyway...back to my point: You'd be amazed with how many times people will ask you if you've seen something on TV if you don't watch TV. This being said, I am still quite knowledgeable in the subject of all things "television" because I have the internets. I also have a special little internets program called Netflixes, so I can watch stuff on there. (I'm in the mood to make everything plural as a ploy for more laughs...bear with me.)

I blame my newly realized need for television on the human boy that I made. He takes up a lot of my time. Aka: all of it. The endless hours of bouncing and swaying sometimes seem to overwhelm me. I ocassionally think, "Is this what I do now? I just sway and bounce? How long do I do this? Will he ever get tired of swaying and bouncing? When will he not be so damn gassy? The fussiness has got to get better at some point, right?" Then the questions turn on me.

"Who have I become? Am I where I thought I'd be? Will I ever paint again? Do I even like who I am now? What happens when we die? What if everyone is right about everything and I am wrong? Am I a horrible mother because I'd rather be sleeping in an empty hotel room than bouncing my human boy right now? I have a deep need to be alone. Is that bad?"

I then realized that this constant questioning of my soul, mothering abilities, and entire life plan could all be easily fixed, and I have found the answer.

It's television.

I realized this today while swaying at Granddad and Nan's house. For some reason, the swaying didn't bother me. The endless bouncing wasn't so...endless. Each bounce didn't propel me towards a black hole of wondering about how life all fits together (or gets torn apart). I was happily rocking and dancing and lifting and comforting. Do you know why?

It's because I was watching the opening pitch of the Tulsa Drillers' season in their brand spankin' new stadium on a huge flatscreen. Tim McGraw was there. It was lovely. Then, after that was done (because who really watches an entire minor league baseball game on television?), there were TWO, count em' TWO hours of NBC Thursday night comedy. By the time Liz Lemon had figured out the answer to yet another relationship problem, it was time to go home, nurse and put my human boy to sleep!

Done and done, my friends. The night was over. And, it had all been made better by my ol' tried and true, trusted friend: TV.

Granddad said, "I don't know how you do it over at your house, watching that boy with no TV."

I then wondered to myself, "How in the hell DO I do it?" Here's how:

1. Wake up. Feed. He looks at "fan" (We no longer call it "the fan" because it's a loved member of our household now...yes, we personified the ceiling fan. You make sacrifices, okay?)...anyway, he looks at "fan" for about 20 minutes while smiling and cooing. He really loves that damn fan.

2. Diaper change. Go downstairs. Place on Boppy Newborn Lounger. Lots of talking and description of what Mom is doing. Mom gets coffee so she can repeat this process for the next 9 hours.

3. Off to living room for "Breakfast with the Beatles." This is where I put on Beatles records, yes, records, and dance around singing while my human boy sits in his vibrating chair and watches me. He's quite fond of "Penny Lane" and "Hey Jude." Also, I'd like to remind everyone that The Beatles are freakin' geniuses, and most of their songs sound like childrens' songs. There's no need to go out and buy some crappy cartoon character CDs. The Beatles have it down. It's pretty amazing, actually. Grey loves this time. He looks at me like I'm crazy. He also smiles.

4. Diaper, feed, 30 minute nap...yes, a whole, whopping 30 minutes (have no clue why), blah, blah, blah...do it all over again 80 million more times...start getting bored, questions start to come, questions start to turn on me...

5. Rinse, repeat. Everything happens all over again. Blee-bloe-blue...bor-ing, bor-ing.

Seriously, how HAVE I done it? Think if I had a little "Real Housewives of New York" thrown in there!!?? Damn, a little Bravo thrown into my day could make a world of difference in my life. And then, when Grey is old enough...Sesame Street!! Hell, I love Mr. Rogers. I usually end up crying at least once during each episode. How does he make me feel so loved and accepted for being "just who I am" through a freakin' screen? Once, I remember actually talking back to him while tears streamed down my face and saying, "No, thank YOU, Mr. Rogers. Thank you for being exactly who YOU are." This was while I was having a nervous "b," though. You can also thank my husband for coming up with "nervous B" for nervous breakdown. The shortening of words to letters is getting slightly OOC at my house.

So, honestly...I need this for myself. Time to step down from my high horse and get on the...bandwagon? Rocking horse?

I can still be a good mother and watch a little television. I read to Grey every day, I show him effing French flashcards, we listen to the Beatles, I make him track his toys with his little tracking eyes, I sing to him constantly, I say the alphabet 12 times a day, I count endless strings of numbers, I talk about everything I'm doing all day long in infinite descriptions of tasks and sights...

Yes. It's decided. Yes, I do deserve 3 hours of HGTV a night.

Cox Communications, we're back in business, you a-holes!

Don't Worry...I'm Not Psychotic.

Just wanted to let everyone know that things are much, much better at my house. My devil baby is no longer a devil baby, and life is...well...easier.

I realized that from my last post, it could possibly seem as if I'm suffering from some sort of post-partum psychosis/depression. I'm not. Just sleep deprivation.

Some day I'll write a "real" blog, again. It's just that I can't think of anything to say that doesn't have to do with my baby, and I promised myself I wouldn't turn into one of those people that only talks about their damn baby. Those people are annoying.

I honestly have nothing to say right now. So sad. I don't even really know what's going on in the world except for the fact that my NCAA Basketball bracket is totally effed, and the health care thing passed.

See??? "Old Cari" would not have called it the "health care thing"!!! She would've known exactly the right name, place, time it was passed, who voted for what, what it all meant, etc. Now I just write "health care thing" and expect everyone to remember that I'm not an idiot.

It's as if my brain doesn't function in the manner that it once did, pre-baby. Now everything is breastfeeding, reading "Goodnight Moon," tickling a tummy and kisses.

A squeaky giraffe stands where a canvas used to be.

"Pony Boy" and "Old MacDonald" have replaced long nights of plunking away at the piano or guitar. I can barely remember the girl that sat in recording studios. The girl that sang in smoky bars. Where did she go?

She made a human boy. I love him to death, but he is also completely and totally draining. I sometimes wonder when Beau and I will get to eat at the same time again.

The other day, Beau turned to me and said, "Hey, Cari? Do you want to be 'one and done'? I don't know if I can do this again."

Seeing as Beau described a satin blanket to Grey as "the material that a whore's underwear is made of," and the fact that I say curse words in "baby talk" to him all the time, AND the fact that my made-up lullabies have references to marriage equality...I think Beau is onto something with the "one and done" thing.

We're wonderful parents. Grey is doomed to be a total freak. BUT...he'll be an intuitive, courageous, creative, unique human being. I still write songs. They're just not for me, anymore. Here is one of my most recent creations for bouncing a boy to sleep:

I can be whatever I want,

when I grow up like an elephant.

A football player, a ballet dancer,

an architect or a garbage man,

cuz my Mommy loves me no matter what I am.

Maybe I'll like boys,

maybe I'll like girls,

maybe I'll have straight hair,

maybe curls.

But, it doesn't matter,

I like pancake batter...

almost as much as my dad.

When I walk down the street,

I like to meet,

everyone I can cuz I'm a friendly man,

so if you're mean, please don't come out,

I really don't like to fuss or shout.

My name is Grey, and I'm here to say,

that I like milk in every single way.

I drink it all down and I spit it all up,

and somehow I still get full.

Guess what I like?

The fan! The fan!

I'm the biggest fan,

of the fan! The fan!

I look like The Thinker,

but I'm kind of a stinker,

when I'm staring at the fan.

Five wooden blades,

dark against light,

a pentagon shape,

what a beautiful sight.

There is nothing better,

I think I'll write a letter,

to the maker of the fan.

It'll say, "Dear Mrs. So-and-So,

How does your fan blow and blow?

I think I'd like to go and be with the fan.

I love the brand Hampton Bay,

I think I'd like to go and stay,

but that may be perceived as kind of strange."

Am I making myself clear?

I love the fan! THE FAN!

I'm the biggest fan!

Of the fan! The fan!

I look like The Thinker,

but I'm kind of a stinker,

when I'm staring at the fan.

My mom would really like me to go to sleep,

but when she puts me down,

I still make a peep,

I'm really tired, but I'm kind of wired,

cuz my mom can't give up her coooofffeeeee.

That's all I have right now. I add a new verse every time I bounce him to sleep. By the time he no longer needs to be bounced, I shall have written a masterpiece.

And now I have written yet another blog about my child. Wonderful.

A Three Hour Nap...

The title of this blog should be read while singing the melody from "Gilligan's Island," as in..."A Three Hour Tour..." because that's what I'm hoping for at this very moment for my son.

I have a blogging friend (I keep calling her a blogging friend), but really she's just a friend. Before I had Grey, she asked me to please be honest with her about being a mother/raising a child/having a baby, etc. I told her I would be extremely honest. So, here we go...and, because I am so fond of lists, everything shall be in list form:

1. This is the hardest thing I have ever done, tried to do, wanted to do, experienced, had to do, etc. The hardest thing I have ever done. Ever.

2. Every day I have the thought, "I am the worst mother of all time. I can't do this." Then, in about 15 minutes, I have the thought, "Okay, I get this. I can do this."

3. My baby has a total freakout that starts at about 4:00p.m. every day. It can last for 10 minutes or a couple hours depending on gassiness or overall misunderstanding of the world. I think he's extremely sensitive, and sometimes the world is just too much for him. His little system is trying to adjust ever so slowly, and it's heartbreaking to watch at times.

4. I have had to tell myself, "Sometimes babies just cry, and there's nothing I can do but sit here and hold him and tell him that he's going to be okay," about EIGHT MILLION TIMES.

5. There is nothing like a crying, screaming baby. I think my entire nervous system goes into overdrive. The helpless feeling of not being able to make it stop is what I imagine hell might be like. Except in hell, there's a reason to be upset. My baby cries when everything is seemingly perfectly fine. I have been told that other babies do this, as well. I remind myself of this every, single day.

6. I have no idea why I thought I would have one of those perfectly content and happy babies. I mean, look at his mother and father? A bit...uh...intense, one might say? Grey Matthew is a good, good baby. He just has to freak out every once in awhile. So does his mother and father, which leads me to...

7. I have no idea why any couple would have a baby to try to save their marriage. In fact, if Beau and I didn't have a really supportive, amazing relationship...well...I don't know if we'd make it through this first month of baby-ness. This baby had such a rough entry into this world, both physically and emotionally. His parents are TIRED. And, every day we get into some sort of argument (helpful ones...ones that help us heal) that eventually brings us closer together. I'm sure Grey would like his parents to get their shit together sometime soon.

8. I have been peed on (and projectile pooped on) more times than I can count.

9. I am tired of bouncing. You know how babies like to be rocked? Not mine. Bounced. He will only bounce. I have to sit on an exercise ball and bounce with him for at LEAST an hour each day while he stares contentedly at the ceiling fan. If I stop bouncing for two seconds, he cries. I have bounced more than a middle aged kangaroo at this point. My quads are going to be so toned by the end of this bouncing stage. Please tell me it's a stage...please. Sometimes I think that the constant bouncing is what leads to the arguments between Beau and I. One can only bounce so much...

10. At times I have had this fantasy, and please remember that I wish to do no harm to my own child: When Grey has been crying for 2 hours straight, with little reprieve, I sometimes imagine that I can take him like a football and punt him across the neighborhood, where he lands safely on a huge bed of pillows down the street. He is safe...but, he's far, far away from me. :) I don't feel bad for admitting this. It helps me not go insane.

11. I have a baby that hates being kissed. He also hates having his head touched. All I want to do is kiss him and touch his head. It makes complete sense. I have days where if someone touches me, I want to hit them. Beau is the exact opposite, so it's been a real learning experience for him...having two people that don't want to be touched a lot. Poor Beau. He's doing so well with us.

12. No one tells you how fucking hard breast feeding is. BREAST FEEDING IS FUCKING HARD. There. Now, no one can ever say I didn't tell you so. My boobs hurt. My nipples hurt. It takes constant "management" of them to get through a feeding. Creams, potions, my own milk, heat packs, cold packs, lotions, salves, drying them out, massaging, breast pads, gel packs...you name it. Besides chopping them off and buying some formula...I've tried everything. Everyone in the entire world says that the pain will just magically disappear at some point. I'm waiting for the blessed day to arrive, patiently. Okay, not patiently at all. I take 8 ibuprofen a day for this. It HURTS. I'm going to reiterate this one more time: My nipples FUCKING HURT. If any lactation consultant tells you that your nipples should stop hurting within a week, or that your nipples shouldn't hurt for more than a week...well, they're fucking lying to you. Every woman I've talked to said it took them WEEKS...some said up to two months...for the pain to go away. Your nipples will split and be raw, cracked, red, aching...I cannot speak about this enough. There are not enough...elipses...to describe how hard it is. And, yet...I keep going because it's the most important thing that I'm doing. My home birth was taken away from me, but I can still do THIS, damn it.

13. There are times when I don't like being a mom very much at all. There are times when I want to run away. There are times when I think, "Someone else would be much better at this than me." But, then...he'll stare at me with his dark, dark, dark navy blue eyes while I'm feeding him, and he has a look of total innocence and trust, and I think...he loves me. He wants me to be his mom.

He chose me. The least I can do is say "thank you."

So, I thank him. And, then the day goes on, and my thoughts become a tiny bit more rational, and I remember that in the quiet moments (and some loud, scary ones), I am a really good mom to this little boy.

He's teaching me to be more patient than I ever wanted to be. It's hard. This is so, SO hard.

And, it's worth it.

Was that honest enough for you? ;)

My Wife Has Guts...I've Seen 'Em

I have to type very quickly. I have a baby now. Here's a list of stuff that people need to know:

1. He is happy and healthy and beautiful.
2. He weighed 8lbs., 7oz. and was 20 1/2 inches long.
3. His name is Grey Matthew.
4. I did NOT get to have my beautiful home birth because I had "back labor" for 30 hours. It was excruciatingly painful. Grey was also in the wrong position, so we had to go to the hospital. It sucked.
5. On the night that I was released from the hospital, I turned over in bed to reach for my son, and my C-section incision burst open. Blood spilled out. I ran to the bathroom and got a mirror. I saw my own intestines coming out. I freaked out. My husband called 911. My baby started screaming to be fed. Now, what's a new mother to do? Try to breastfeed the baby while trying to hold her intestines inside of her? Yes. That's what a new mother does. At least, that's what I did. The ambulance came and raced me to the hospital. I got to have yet another major surgery within a span of 3 days. Fun times were had by all. There was a woman in the ER right next to me that sounded like a drowning cat. Her name was Beatrice. Beatrice Carter.
6. I hate not being able to describe this story in all its glory.
7. I am home now and dealing with a lot of very mixed emotions. Here are some of them:

I feel cheated, mutilated, happy, quite sad, grateful, beautiful, strong, lumpy, weepy, confused, down, loved, caring and exhausted.

This is going to be a long process of healing, I am sure. But, I have a new baby. And, he is beautiful. No, really...he's really, REALLY pretty. Everyone says so.

I love him. I also get really frustrated and scared. He screams bloody murder sometimes, and there's absolutely nothing I can do to make him feel better. I am coming to terms with the fact that babies do this. This "motherhood" thing is not for sissies.

Good thing I have the absolute best partner in the entire world. I don't know what I would've done without Beau through all of this. I thought about him a lot while I was in the ambulance. I just stared up at the little timer that tells you how long you've been in the ambulance and thought of Beau who was scared shitless at home with Grey all by himself. I thought about how bumpy the Tulsa roads were as I clutched my incision. I thought about how I always say, "Think good thoughts for that person," when I see an ambulance whizzing by. I thought about how I was that person this time. I thought about how two people came together to make this other little person and how scary and sad this birth experience had been. I thought about how we would have to mourn the birth plan that we had lost. I thought about how this man stood by me through everything. I thought about how I'd never felt more close to anyone in my whole life.

Right now he is fixing the shower while holding our baby in a sling. He has waited on me hand and foot, spent 5 days with me in the hospital...never leaving my side. He is amazing, and he deserves an award. I love him.

He said that he's going to make a t-shirt that says, "My Wife Has Guts...I've Seen 'Em."

I love you, Beau-y. I never knew your strength until this week. I never knew the strength of our relationship until this week. I never knew my own strength until this week.

No matter what...it's you and me.

The Purge Continues...

Every night...some weird/needed/sometimes disturbing/sometimes disheartening/sometimes healing/most of the time confusing dream about men from my past...I'm tired of it. I don't need to have questions raised about my past every, single morning when I wake up. I don't need confusion, and I don't want to wonder how people are. When I wake up, I instantly think, "Really? I'm STILL dealing with this issue on some level? He still has that effect on my subconscious? That's really dumb." Then, I just sort of let it go, scrunch closer to my sleeping husband and thank the Lord that I chose him and he chose me.

The dreams are really starting to get on my last nerve. Of course, everything is getting on my nerves these days. (I'll expand on that, shortly.)

The only really good dream I've had, lately, was one involving Ewan McGregor and a llama. He told me that he wanted me to go to the Oscars with him. I agreed. The "catch" was that I had to make sure his llama stayed in the basement bedroom of my childhood home while he did his press junkets. You'd think you could just close the door to my childhood bedroom, and the damn llama would stay in there, right? No. This was a smart llama. It kept escaping, and I had to keep reminding myself that it would all be worth it when I was walking down the red carpet at the Academy Awards with Ewan McGregor. I won, though. I actually convinced the llama to stay in there using some sort of telepathic awareness between the two of us. When I awoke, I analyzed my dream with the help of a dream dictionary website. I believe everything it says without question. I have no idea why.

Llamas apparently represent strength, endurance and trust. So, seeing that I'm about to go through something (birth) that needs all of those things, I realized that if I could just keep "corralling in" those three attributes, the frustration would all be worth it, and I would get to parade around with a special boy...my son...not Ewan McGregor. :)

Anyhoo...back to being annoyed with things that aren't usually annoying:

The other day I made a trip to Stillwater to eat lunch with my mom. I was feeling a bit "stir crazy" in my home. Even though Grey could come at any moment, I made the drive because I was dying of boredom. At lunch, I filled up my cup with ice and water and started to look for a lid. A woman came up next to me to get some ice.

"Oh, I loooove this ice!" she said with enthusiasm.
(I ignored her.)
"This is that pellet ice. It's my absolute favorite ice!"
(Continuing to ignore her.)
"It's so good," she repeated.

You would think after 3 comments about the ice, I would say something, anything, like, "Yeah. Good ice," or even, "Uh-huh," wouldn't you? I did not do this. I stared straight ahead while I put the lid on my cup and quietly thought to myself, "Good for you and your f**king ice." She walked away. Maybe she thought I was deaf. I really don't care.

At any other moment in my life, this would be a completely irrational response to someone's love of pellet ice. I love pellet ice, too, and I'm always happy when it's available. But, no...it was too much to deal with at this point.

My focus is solely on getting though the process of pushing something out of me that is probably around 7-8 pounds and has wide parts that are going to make it feel like my body is being ripped into two with no drugs, whatsoever. Have you seen my husband's shoulders? This is going to require my utmost concentration.

So, you can see why I don't care about your ice preference. At all.

In other news, Beau dreamt that we were friends with Toby Keith, and that we convinced him that our liberal views did not make us horrible people. Toby Keith then decided that we were good people, even though we believe that everyone should be able to get married, wars are dumb, and he's a shitface.

As he relayed the dream to me while I made coffee this morning, I felt as if Beau had awoken with a sense that Toby Keith "wasn't such a bad guy," much like when, in 7th grade, I had a dream that Axl Rose and Slash from Guns N' Roses were my long, lost cousins that lived in the back yard in a caboose. They were really nice to me. I never looked at them the same after that dream. I really hope that Beau doesn't start listening to Toby Keith now. I mean...he has a golf course that's called "I Love This Golf Course" much like "I Love This Bar and Grill." They serve Freedom Fries there. Beau might have even called him "TK" while describing the dream.

I started to get a really anxious feeling about the whole thing, so I looked it up on the same dream dictionary site. When you look up "Toby Keith," a big picture of an ass shows up, and the words "Nightmare! Nightmare!" start flashing on your screen. Then the "How Do You Like Me Now?" song comes on, and an American flag starts climbing out of your computer to strangle you. Lastly, you're seared with an OU brand on your forehead, your IQ drops 78 points, and your ability to use proper English is replaced by phrases such as "Git me some" and "Git 'er done.

And, that's all I have to say about that...

The Fat Lady...

My favorite author of all time died.

"But I'll tell you a terrible secret - Are you listening to me? There isn't anyone out there who isn't Seymour's Fat Lady. That includes your Professor Tupper, buddy. And all his goddam cousins by the dozens. There isn't anyone anywhere that isn't Seymour's Fat Lady. Don't you know that? Don't you know that goddam secret yet? And don't you know - listen to me, now - don't you know who that Fat Lady really is?...Ah, buddy. Ah, buddy. It's Christ Himself. Christ Himself, buddy."

-Zooey

p.s. I'm still pregnant. Guess I'm still the Fat Lady, too. We all are.

Last night I had a dream that I went to a Pentecostal-type-revival church, and when I walked in the door everyone was so happy and relieved to see that I had finally come "home." There were many girls from my high school graduating class welcoming me "back home."

When I woke up, I quickly disregarded the dream as some sort of last-month-of-pregnancy-boredom-hell-vision.

Did I mention that I'm bored out of my freaking mind? I suppose this is what happens when you get everything ready for the birth of your child 3 months in advance.

Here are some things that I have done out of pure boredom:

• Woke up one morning and thought, "My husband could really use a new 40" flat screen TV for an anniversary present. I'll go buy him one today. (I don't shop...so, this was a new thing for me.)
  
• After being completely disappointed in every single address book at Barnes and Noble, I came home and made one for myself.
  
• I saw two movies (in the theater) within 3 days. If you know me, then you know that I don't even like going to the movies. I get distracted easily, and I don't like being confined to one seat for 2 hours. Staring at George Clooney and Alec Baldwin was fun, though. (Up In The Air, It's Complicated.) I also enjoyed trying to burn all of Meryl Streep's outfits into my mind so that I can look exactly like her in 29 years.
  
• I watched every single episode of 30 Rock in about a week's time.
• I renovated the downstairs bathroom with the help of Beaubi-Wan. That was interesting.

But, now I'm really tired. All the time. And, no one calls me. Ever. And it's 15 degrees outside with snow STILL on the ground. And this baby still has a couple weeks to go. And I don't want to go anywhere, yet, I don't want to sit here all day.

This morning at 7:00a.m., I got up to make the coffee. I got this great idea for a bitter Valentine's card, so I sat down and wrote it all out and designed it.

On the outside it reads:

"The good thing about having your heart broken is that you get to put it back together exactly as you like...instead of keeping each piece locked away in a simple pattern just as he preferred, hoping one day he wouldn't notice that it was longing to explode on its own from bad design and neglect."

On the inside it says:

"Another cool part is that in a couple of months, if you find that a piece is still missing, it's probably behind the couch, dusty and EXTRA SHARP, and you can throw it at him if you see him on the street."

I guess I still have some anger management issues. Just kidding. I've actually dealt with most of it, thanks to a series of dreams I've been having that I like to call: "Really?!? EVERY single man from my past is making an appearance this week?"

As you may have guessed, every single man of any importance from my past has been making multiple cameos in all dreams for about a month now. I have heard of this phenomenon, actually. My cousin said the exact same thing happened to her right before she gave birth. She said that she thought it was a "purging" of sorts.

A favorite episode from last week comes to mind. I just have to share it. I will not even reference who the male was in the dream.

So...this man...in the dream...was slightly overweight, drunk and taking a dump in front of me. It was really quite charming. He then proceeded to tell me (or try to tell me while slurring) that I was using his family for baby presents. It was really neat. After taking his shit, he got up and stumbled away. When I awoke, I laughed. It was ridiculous. But, I'm glad he finally got to tell me his true feelings about the situation. ;)

You know who I NEVER dream about? Beau. Guess I don't need to "purge" him.

In other news, Gus is becoming increasingly needy. Wonderful. An already needy dog is now sensing that I'm going to be taking care of ANOTHER needy baby boy. Also, Beau ate a handful of Cheerios the other day. One of the Cheerios went down his shirt sleeve. When he went upstairs, the Cheerio went on the hardwood floor of our bedroom. After an entire day of seeing the Cheerio on the ground I said, "Do you know where that Cheerio came from?" He said, "It was in my shirt sleeve." I said, "So, were you going to pick the Cheerio up?" He responded, "I figured Gus would eat it at some point, but I don't think he's seen it, yet."

Soon, I will have two boys dropping Cheerios everywhere and refusing to pick them up...and, I couldn't be happier. I'm just ready for it to happen already before I perform a C-section on myself.

Thank you. Good day.