Today I finally got going and moved Moo out of our room and into the one she will now share with the Princess. The Bear thinks it’s totally unfair – he wants Moo in his room. And while it might make more sense age-wise, I’m going to stick with dividing things along gender lines this time around.

It was shocking how much stuff we had to juggle throughout all three rooms to get her moved. The Bear lost his beloved rocking chair but gained a table and chair to play at. The Princess lost the table and chair (and her room got a whole lot smaller after the addition of the rocker, crib, and baby drawers) but I finally got her IKEA flower lights up over her bed. And our room had to be completely rearranged now that all the baby stuff is out.

Oh, and that baby hammock that I stored under the crib? I handed it over to L on Sunday, thankyouverymuch. See how well I am coping? No crisis going on here. Move along!

Actually, I am coping pretty well. Since I am a highly visual person, getting 90% of the baby clutter out of our room was immensely satisfying. All the huge changes drove the kids up the wall and everyone whined and cried while I did it, but I stayed cool and weep free the whole time.

And honestly, she’s almost 15 months old. What was I waiting for? College?

I love just about everything about food. I love to cook. I love my kitchen. And then there’s the whole eating thing – I really, really love that part.

But I have a deep, dark confession to make. Are you ready?

I hate cooking with my daughter.

I want so badly to have fun with her. When she was a toddler, I envisioned cosy afternoons spent baking and chopping. We would stir and giggle and have tea. She would discover the magic of chemical reaction and heat that turns lowly ingredients into nourishment and pleasure and a tangible way of showing love. And even better, she would have memories of our happy times together. I wanted to carry on the tradition my mom gave me; I loved helping her cook and it launched my love of food.

But the reality of the Princess and I together in the kitchen is much different. She hates to get messy. So I do the mature thing and smear whatever we are making all over her hands. Then the whining about the whole thing taking too long sets in. (From who? Depends on the day.) Then my muttering about perseverance through gritted teeth. She’s tired, she’s bored. And when it’s all done – gasp! – I have the nerve to hand her the dish scrubber and soap.

“What? I have to wash this stuff?!”

That’s an actual quote.

So I have to say, helping her make cookies for her AWANA leader today took a double portion of patience. I wish we had had a good time. But in the end, we were both relieved to get it over with.

It’s been almost two months now, and I think I can say that running has officially become a new habit. I’m even able to go faster and longer than I could at first. I still don’t like it the same way I like cookies. And three days a week the first thing I think when I wake up is, “Ugh. I have to run today.” (Okay, that’s actually the second. The first thing I think is the same seven days a week: “Please, God, help the baby go back to sleep for five more minutes.”) One way I know it will stick is that it’s part of the day-to-day routine. If I can fit it into our school day, it can stay.

But now that it has become the new normal, I have hit a new snag. Dang, my knees are acting funny. Things are feeling all slippy-slidey in there, and when I go up the stairs it sounds like when you roll up a sheet of bubble wrap and then wring it. It’s right uncomfortable. I’m not sure if this is a temporary thing that will subside if I work my way through it or if it’s here to stay. I hate to give in. Stupid wimpy appendages!

For the time being I am having to cut back on speed and crank up the incline. Supposedly this burns more calories, but the calories are beside the point anymore. I want to be able to keep going full tilt. So I split the difference. Half the way I huff it uphill, the second half I run. When my knees act more like joints and less like rice crispy treats, I’ll work my way back to fully running again.

More crack, less snap-crackle-pop.

Hang on a second while I unpack a few boxes and survey the new rooms. I’ll be right back.

I have strange children. I have children who – at pretty much the same age each time – go through an odd phase when they feel the deep desire to raid the laundry basket as I do the folding. They rummage around until they find what they need. And then they put the underwear on their head. I promise, I did not teach this to any of them.

Moo has entered that phase, and no one’s undies are safe.

She’s an equal opportunity undiesnatcher, even making off with her brother’s tidy whiteys.

So watch out! She’s on the move, and your skivvies might be her next hat. You’ve been warned.

In the mood but don’t know how to express it? Here you go: a love poem generator. It’s like having Cyrano de Bergerac at your beck and call. Cyrano on a bender.

My poem:

Your skin glows like the grape,
blossoms funky as the dandilion in the purest hope of spring.
My heart follows your tuba voice
and leaps like a weasel at the whisper of your name.
The evening floats in on a great penguin wing.
I am comforted by your sock that I carry
into the twilight of butter knifebeams and hold next to my elbow.
I am filled with hope that I may dry your tears of kerosene.
As my filtrum falls from my bandana,
it reminds me of your marshmellow.
In the quiet, I listen for the last blatt of the day.
My heated thumb knuckle leaps to my cardigan.
I wait in the moonlight for your secret ping pong paddle so that we may
yawn as one,
thumb knuckle to thumb knuckle,
in search of
the magnificient magenta and mystical toadstool of love.

I know. Kinds makes you grab for a tissue, doesn’t it?

Happy Valentine’s Day!

We belong to a valentine card swap. Families all over the US (and a couple missionary families abroad) sign up and we all make valentines and send them to all the children on the list. It’s a lot of fun and it’s a great way to get crafty with your kids.That’s the theory, anyway.

I came up with a very easy plan so that the Bear and the Princess could work on them together, and I wouldn’t feel tempted to butt in and drive everyone nuts with trying to make it perfect. They were very excited. Until it was time to actually make them.

We needed a total of 51 cards. The whining started after about 7. Then came the fighting over the pens. Then the heavy sighs of resignation. Then threats from me that any more whining and I would eat all their valentine candy.

It was enough to make anyone crazy.

Any mama (and more than one daddy) knows the thrill of midnight baby feeding. Going months at a stretch without an undisturbed slumber can mess with your head. I think it’s to blame for the baby blues way more than hormones, but that’s just me.

With each baby, I’ve coped in pretty much the same way – by watching TV. For the first two, Mr. MG wasn’t home so I could watch at full volume and not bother a soul. Before Moo was born he got me some snazzy wireless surround sound headphones so I could stay sane and he could still sleep.

The first time I lived through it, I watched ABC World News Tonight (on from 3 to 5 am) anchored by some new guy named Anderson Cooper. It’s the funniest newscast you will ever see, and it’s even more hilarious if you haven’t had more than 90 minutes of sleep between each feeding. The second baby, it was late night reruns of the Tonight Show. And with Moo, a combination of the first two – news and comedy shows.

But lately she has been sleeping almost through the night. (Seeing as how she’s 14 months old today, can I just say it’s about time!) I would usually breathe a sigh of relief and satisfaction, but there’s just one problem.

I miss Conan.

I got kind of used to the monologue capping off the day, since Moo would wake at almost precisely 12:35 every night. Being a creature of habit, it doesn’t feel right to simply get ready for bed and then just…sleep. I guess I should be glad, somehow. At least it happened during the writer’s strike when the humor was low anyway.

Farewell, Conan. At least I don’t have to pack you up with all the booties and stick you in the attic.

I am so excited!

After eons of hinting that it might happen, my sister-in-law Magpie has a blog. She is so insanely artistic and talented. I can’t wait to see what she creates next.

Enjoy!

I have to admit that I lust. I totally lust after CS3. I enjoy Photoshop Elements a lot, but the big daddy editor is so splendid. Not to mention all the actions that are available, but only for the full version. (I realize that this means I want to spend money for CS3 so that I can spend even more money on actions.)

What is a mama to do? I would make a case for how much better life would be if I had it, but then Mr. MG would gently point out the bills from Christmas. Also from having a couple of trees felled in the back yard. Oh, and the need to repaint the house. And the pesky problem of school books for the kids. (Here I will refrain from ranting about my tax dollars not helping with that one, and going toward a new football stadium instead.) And we kind of have to eat. And pretty soon I have no leg to stand on.

But what if I trolled the house for things to ebay? I could raise the money without impacting the family budget. (“Shouldn’t that go toward the Christmas bills?” Mr. MG pipes in. Thpt!) There’s only one problem with my idea.

The only stuff I own that is worth the ebay rigamarole? That would be the baby gear. All the precious things that made Moo’s first year go smoothly. I can’t even think of selling the Amby Hammock without breaking out into a panicked sweat.

“What are you going to use that stuff for, anyway?” my dear, sweet, sensitive husband asked me. And I know it’s impractical to have all this junk lying around and stored in the attic. After all, we figure Moo is our last.

But each thing holds memories of her. It feels like I would be selling bits of my heart, bits of her babyness. It would be admiting defeat to the passing of time. And on top of that, it also means that I am admitting deep down that there will be no more babies to use this stuff. The idea of no more babies ever has been something I have been shoving aside whenever possible. I sure don’t want to be pregnant, but moving on from that phase of my life feels wretched, too.

L has already said she wants to buy the hammock, so that will probably get the ball rolling. She has even given me the four months until her due date to detatch my heartstrings from it.

So it comes down to a battle. Which do I want more? The outmoded baby equipment or Photoshop?