"Me Big Boy!"

Jay has declared himself a big boy. Now, whenever I say he is my little guy, he corrects me with "Me big boy." He really is growing up before our eyes. I'm sure a lot of that comes from being the second child. Rob and I have less time to observe and coach his development. A few weeks ago, when he was playing quietly by himself, he suddenly counted to ten. Rob and I looked at each other in astonishment. On his own, he learned to count! How did we miss that?!

He is also potty training himself. This morning when Cole put on his Spiderman undies, Jay decided to wear his pair. Then Cole showed him his Elmo undies, so Jay put those on as well. I figured a double layer couldn't hurt. He made it all morning without an accident. We sat on the potty four times before we left the house, then I swaddled his booty in a changing pad in the car. Jay wasn't very happy about that, but when Cole said that because he'll have accidents he should use the pad, it was alright. (Thank goodness Cole is a sweet, somewhat mature four-year old, because Jay does whatever he suggests.) We used the potty one more time at school, then I left him in his teachers' care with three extra changes of clothes. I hope they get paid extra for teaching the potty-training age!

I bought the clothes in the pictures for Aunt Dawn's wedding. After the saleslady and I raved about how good Jay looked (Cole was at school), he wanted to wear the outfit for pictures the next day (even though it was over 90 degrees). When we put on the ensemble, Jay looked at himself in the mirror and declared, "Me look sharp!" Cole got hot in his sweater and took it off, so, unfortunately, his head shot looks like a school picture. Both boys were pros at the shoot and we got very few of these faces. Cole acted like he had been modelling his whole life. When we sorted through the pictures, his all looked identical.
Toward the end they both got a little silly, but they remained good sports, especially when we told them there was a Baskin Robbins next door.

Almost a Reason for Number Three

I spent a glorious five days in Los Angeles visiting my sister and brother-in-law's newborn baby girl (oh yeah, I visited them too).

Sophia was 16 days old when I arrived. There was so much I had forgotten about the tiniest of babies: the squeaks and gurgles, the unbelievably soft hair and skin, the unfocused gaze, the diapers no bigger than my palm, and the beautiful smell of new life. I wanted to drink her in.

I became quite nostalgic about the newborn stage, when time is measured, not in days or weeks, but hours. A pinprick of regret lodged in my heart (or maybe my uterus) as I realized the babies I will hold in the future will belong to someone else. I'll never again have a tiny being gaze into my eyes with the complete, unconditional, sweet love reserved only for mothers.

There are so many reasons not to have a third: the terrible 9-month morning sickness I seem prone to; the increased chance of birth defects due to my so-called advanced maternal age; the sleep deprivation and stress; the finances involved (more Rob's concern than mine, but a valid one); and the fact that the boys are getting old enough to consider trips to Disney World and other fun things that would be difficult with a baby.

My rational side knows the list of cons outnumber the pros.

But, perhaps, the beauty of another child trumps all else.

To My Aunts in LA

Dear Aunties in LA,

You should stop making fun of my favorite style--tank tops.

I can so totally pull off the look with my BIG MUSCLES!!


And check out those muscles in action. (Jay has some good muscles too.)