Filled with activity. All three of the older kids can go from one thing to the next in a blink of an eye, leaving toys, crumbs, craft supplies, and clothes in their wake. I realized the other day that in a family of six, we go through at least 42 sets of clothing a week. Forty-two pairs of underwear, sets of socks, shirts, shorts, dresses, and the occasional bathing suit, sweatshirt, and dress-up costume to sort, wash, dry, fold, and put away. Per week. Sorry, but I'm feeling a little discouraged right now by the fact that I will never be able to stay on top of everything around here. Standards lowering...now. Forty-two pairs of underwear. [Shaking head.]
When DJ is talking more and better every day. He has this really cute, kind of German, way of talking. He says things like, "Where mine-a milk cup?" and "I need-a mine-a mom!" That last one we hear a lot, because he's also gotten generally nervous. After one bad dream, he's convinced there's a "guy" in his room who jumps from one foot to the other and he doesn't want to go in there.
Of musical beds--related to that last one. I think being out of routine, plus having a newborn, is throwing off everyone's sleep. It's anyone's guess where each person will wake up in the morning, even when we go to bed in our own respective places. Nellie has big plans to make one giant "bed-room" where the whole room is a bed and we all sleep in it. It's tempting.
With a sweet baby boy. Edmund is smiling--and Nellie swears he was laughing at her the other night, which wouldn't surprise me!--sleeping fairly well, and is generally a remarkably content baby. We joked that our kids go high-maintenance, low-maintenance, high-maintenance, and we were due for an easy one. And so far, he's pretty easy! (Just kidding, Nellie and DJ. But really.)
Filled with birthday parties and berry picking, beaches and bunnies.
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| Playing in the "cornbox" at Alli's farm birthday party |
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| Annie eating ice cream at Otto's first birthday party |
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| Wild raspberries |
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| Berry picking was hot, sweaty business |
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| Our bunny friend who hangs out in our yard |
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| Two corndogs for the road |
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| Cowboy Eddie |
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| Otto and the kids hanging out in the trampoline |
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| At Lake Michigan for our annual trip with Lisa |
With a nursing infant and a potty training toddler. I had no intention of potty training DJ until he was older--I've been in this phase before. But so far, it's been fairly uneventful, other than a really gross incident involving a dog that I won't get into. We just have a toilet in our living room. Also, DJ is the only kid I know who still really wants to wear a "bee diaper" (Kroger brand) instead of underwear even though we have every one of his favorite characters and he's never had an accident. The guy doesn't like change.
To transition from "Let it Go" to "Everything is Awesome." Everything is so, so, awesome.
To Figure Things Out. Now that the end of grad school is in sight (less than a year away!), we have lots of questions. Where should we live? What should we do with the rest of our lives? You know, things like that. I remember in my senior year of high school I'd get so stressed out by the question, "What do you want to do after you graduate?" because I didn't have an answer. Here I am, 15 years later, and I'm in the exact same place. The more things change, the more they stay the same, amiright?
Of contradictions. On one hand, in my sleep-deprived and stuck-at-home state, I'm counting the things I miss that you can't really do with a newborn. Sleep. Date night. Girls' night. Camping. Bike rides. Vacations. Quality time with the older kids. Drinking too much coffee. Thinking straight. And I find myself watching friends with all school-age kids somewhat wistfully. On the other hand, these are also the days of knowing better. Knowing better than to believe there will always be tiny diapers and feedings every two hours. Knowing better than to believe it will always be this hard. Knowing better than to be sure that this will be our last baby--because that's what I thought the last three times I had a one-month-old.
