not that you asked...

WW3

On Tuesday, I signed up for Weight Watchers for the third time.

Brief history of my relationship with WW:

First signed up in April of 2007, when Asher was six months old. Starting weight was four pounds above my pre-pregnancy weight; by October (and Asher's one-year birthday), I was down nearly 30 pounds and was at my lowest adult weight ever. I quit paying for the online service sometime that winter, and got pregnant with Lucy in April of 2008.

I signed up a second time a few months after Lucy was born; sometime in early 2009. It was pretty effortless losing weight after Lucy, except that I was never diligent and committed enough to get my weight down to where it had been pre-Asher. It was within five or six pounds, though, and for me at that point – what with the chasing two children around all day, one of whom also kept me up ALL NIGHT LONG UNTIL SHE WAS 16 MONTHS OLD – it was close enough. No, my smallest-sized pants didn't fit, but I still had plenty of clothes to wear (okay, so “plenty” is a bit of a stretch, but WHERE WAS I GOING EXCEPT TARGET), and besides, I really liked the fact that I could eat something and not fear growing OUT of those smallest-sized pants.

You know what I mean? You get down to a certain weight and you get almost... I don't know, MORE paranoid. Because being a smaller size and screwing it up feels so much more demoralizing than being a larger size (when you don't WANT to be that larger size) while you work to BECOME a smaller size.

So I was happy in my a-little-bit-larger state of being. And I maintained that five-or-six-pounds-away-from goal weight for, what, a year? But here's what happened: I started to lose a grip on what was appropriate for me to eat. My portions started to get crazy, I ate chocolate by the handful, I was drinking a beer (and a half) every night with dinner just because it tasted good with what I'd made. And what happened as a result of all of that indulgence was that I was too afraid to get on the scale and see what damage I'd done. If I hadn't worn a pair of pants in a while, I was afraid to try them on for fear they might not fit. I spent HOURS (well, CUMULATIVELY) worrying whether or not my underwear was getting tighter.

When I finally DID decide to get onto the scale, it was only after I'd committed to eating decently for a week or so, and when I saw (as I always did) that my weight hadn't changed drastically (a pound or two at most), I'd haul my butt downstairs and cram some M&Ms into my mouth, because WHY THE HECK NOT?

What I don't have to tell you is that this is not exactly a healthy way to live. A lot of bingeing, a lot of poor decisions, a lot of FEAR of things that I've spent my whole life being afraid of, save for that one small, amazing window of time after Asher was born when I was enormously proud of all I'd accomplished concerning my body. Guess what? It turns out I DON'T LIKE LIVING LIKE THAT.

One thing that says a lot about how I've been living is the fact that I have been exercising my TAIL OFF over the last year, with nothing to show for it but weight maintenance. I am fitter than I've ever been in my life, but the scale doesn't reflect that. When I squeeze in a “quick run” these days, I am averaging FOUR MILES. A year ago, a “quick run” was only 2.8 miles, and there were days where that felt challenging. In contrast, if I have time these days for a long run, I'm apt to keep going for five, six, even EIGHT miles, and feel fantastic when I'm done. Do you know how many calories I've been burning and then replacing with crappy food? A LOT.

I realize there's kind of a stigma attached to signing up for a weight loss program three separate times in the span of four years, but I don't actually feel like I have – for lack of a better word – relapsed and am doing the walk of shame. Even when I wasn't following Weight Watchers to the letter these last few years, I still had the objectives and basic lessons stuck in the back of my mind. I knew what I was putting into my mouth and how it went against the basic principles, but I also saw, through trial and error, how I could work the system and not gain a bunch of weight. Except that over time, I manipulated those principles to a point where I wasn't sure what was appropriate for the goal I wanted to reach and what wasn't.

So joining Weight Watchers this time around isn't just about losing weight or fitting into a smaller size. It is about me getting a refresher course on how to eat better. How to eat correctly. How to stop eating so much crap. It's learning how to eat so that I can live without fear. There won't be some big Thirty! Pound! Weight! Loss! Reveal! or anything like that, because the most I really plan on losing is seven pounds... 10 pounds, while nice, seems pretty near impossible given my previous attempts and natural shape and composition. And I don't want to get hung up on numbers. I want to get hung up on how much food I really need, not how much I want to eat and can simultaneously get away with. Even though that sound really good, now that I'm three days in and dying for a hunk of chocolate the size of my arm.

Let's eat

I never saw myself as the kind of person who would enjoy cooking. When Dave and I first got married, making meals was hands down the most stressful part of our entire relationship. I wanted to make good food for him, but oh, sweet cracker sandwich, I was absolutely terrible at making it happen. I burned things. I got halfway through recipes before I realized I was missing several key ingredients (and I was nowhere near qualified enough to IMPROVISE). I once, quite memorably, put two chicken breasts in the slow cooker for eight long, hot hours, WITHOUT LIQUID, where they turned into what was essentially burned chicken jerky, and I SERVED THEM ANYWAY. Over rice! I had no idea – seriously, NO CLUE – that I hadn't achieved juicy, succulent slow cooker chicken breast perfection. And then I set the plate down in front of my husband and watched as he was unable to cut into the meat. USING A SERRATED KNIFE.

And the worst part of all was that I always felt embarrassed at my ability and then guilty that I wasn't capable of feeding my husband these amazing, lavish meals. I just assumed that was what I was supposed to do as a newlywed – Dave never made me feel stupid or crappy about it – and there were many nights when I got myself in over my head and set off smoke alarms and under/overcooked everything and threw spatulas against walls and cried.

I have the utmost respect for working people who cook. I mean, granted, it's no party trying to make two dozen meatballs and a from-scratch marinara sauce while two children are throwing each other off the couch and pretending to eat marbles and I can't do anything about it what with all the RAW PORK coating my hands, but people who work a full day and then come home and make a dinner that doesn't come straight out of a Lean Cuisine box? HEROES. And if you have children and you come home and make dinner? FREE PASS TO HEAVEN.

In the last two years or so, I'd say I've actually begun to truly enjoy cooking. It helps that I've been practicing long enough that seeing words like “browning” or “dicing” in a recipe doesn't make me want to speed dial Papa John's. I still need to wear swimming goggles while I cut up an onion (I've tried every no-cry method there is) and I can't actually use my knife to dice anything as small as I like it (I use an adorable little chopper thingy because I value the tips of my fingers) and I always use garlic from a jar, but I can also make actual meals that people enjoy eating. Not my children, obviously. Asher is still afraid of anything that isn't a carbohydrate -

I will interrupt this description of my older child to tell you that when I picked him up from school the other day, I overheard his teacher thanking the mom whose turn it was to bring in snack for the class. “Everyone loved it!” she trilled. “Everyone ate the graham crackers, and only two children didn't eat the applesauce, and one of them was allergic.” Well I knew exactly where THAT was going. “Was the other child mine?” I inquired. “Of course,” she said.

- and Lucy is basically a fruitarian who occasionally deigns to eat a meatball sub. Sorry, meatball SAMMICH, as she says. Also lately she loves “soap.” (SOUP.)

I am insanely proud of myself for teaching myself how to cook. I'm sure there are a good percentage of people who do it faster or better or with less frustration or without setting off the smoke alarm twice after the kids have fallen asleep WHYYYYYYY, but still, I have grown confident in the kitchen. So I thought it might be fun to list my favorite recipes here, and if you have a link to one that you really and truly love, maybe you would list it in the comments? We can all pretend this is a big recipe-sharing commune? Maybe you can send over some incense and goat's milk, too?

I am trying to do a better job of meal planning and only visiting the grocery store once a week, so having a working list of recipes is PRICELESS. Here are the recipes I feel I can make, without feeling intimidated or overwhelmed, and that actually TASTE good, too. (I'll just stick with posting my favorite entrees, to start.)

Jambalaya

Enchiladas

Pork tacos (but not without THIS SALSA)

Bolognese sauce (better with spicy Italian turkey sausage)

Cashew chicken

Flank steak (and Crash Hot Potatoes)

Chicken cheesesteaks

Linguini with sausage and peppers

Spinach lasagna

Turkey burgers (just double the seasonings!)

Buffalo chicken sandwiches

Caramelized onion and prosciutto pizza

Slow cooker chicken barbecue

Honey chicken kabobs

Denim revelation

Last week we were at TJ Maxx when I stooped down to look at a book with Lucy and heard a clear RRRRRRIPPPPing sound. I stood up and it quickly became apparent that there was a delightful breeze blowing straight through my pants to my nether regions. I'd somehow torn through the crotch of my jeans. Is there anything LESS CLASSY than ripping your pants in public? IN THE CROTCH, NO LESS?

They weren't even TIGHT jeans. I really shouldn't have been wearing them out in public at all – they have a big hole in the knee and even before the hole appeared, they've never been the most attractive fit. The waist was too big and they sagged through the butt and there was always a lot of hitching going on, but OH, they were COMFORTABLE and they were still a stylish cut (they were a GAP purchase within the last year), they were just... ill-fitting on me. Which, I KNOW. That fact alone doesn't exactly make it acceptable.

But now I'm out another pair of pants and I really only have one other pair remaining that I like wearing. I really really have no idea how to dress in the winter. I know what I'm doing when it comes to summer clothes (skirts! tank tops! embellished t-shirts! SO EASY!), but winter throws me for a total loop. I buy sweaters and then I hate them. I buy long-sleeved t-shirts (FINE, I buy CHEAP long-sleeved t-shirts) and then I get frustrated when they shrink. I hate that winter clothes cost so much more per item than summer things and often need to be drycleaned. And I don't have an inkling of intelligence when it comes to winter footwear. I seriously could write a whole post on this Winter vs. Summer thing but I am so frustrated about it right now that the only thing I can do is vow to suck it up when next fall rolls around and buy myself an actual wardrobe that I will like wearing, even if it costs a crapload of money.

This morning, my favorite (and now, pretty much only) pair of jeans was in the washing machine. So I dug through my closet until I found a pair that fits, and I wore them to take Asher to preschool. The definition of “fits” here is that I could button and zip them easily and they didn't look OFFENSIVE on me. But they were uncomfortable. They're the wrong rise, so they cut into my pouchy mom tummy and they're a little too tight through the rear and when I sat down in the car, they gave me two very unattractive tire rolls, which I KNOW, not a big deal, except that I couldn't stop thinking about how much I disliked wearing them. I was CONSUMED by thoughts of how much I dislike them. Then it occurred to me that I have owned that particular pair of jeans for close to TEN WHOLE YEARS.

Ten years. Nearly an ENTIRE DECADE. That's... that's a pretty spectacular lifespan for an item like that. And I started thinking about why I was even holding on to this particular pair of jeans. Granted, they work in a pinch. But I bought them in 2002 or something, when I was 24. Twenty-four years old, OMG. I am not even remotely the same kind of person I was at 24; why would I even hold on to these jeans that I don't like wearing? Why am I letting them hang out in my closet at all? If they make me feel bad about myself, shouldn't I just get rid of them? They're not even particularly STYLISH anymore. (TEN YEARS.) We're not talking about a Chanel suit, we're talking about a pair of low-rise, Express-brand jeans.

I keep these stupid jeans because I keep thinking someday I'll fit into them again. Except that I DO fit into them, and they're not flattering or comfortable. I don't know why I can't seem to remember that even if I lose weight and those jeans are LOOSE on me, that I don't have the same body I had at 24 anymore, and they will NEVER look quite right. Let's not even get started on whether or not they're in style. (I suspect that they are not.)

Ten years makes a world of difference in a body – I think a lot of us tend to forget that. There's a big difference between 14 and 24 (somewhere in between those two years I grew boobs, after all); a bigger difference for me between 24 and 33 because I HAD TWO BABIES, and gained and lost hundreds of pounds during gestation and postpartum. I keep forgetting that I can lose as much weight as I want and it still won't turn my body back into my 24-year-old body because I am now TEN WHOLE YEARS OLDER and a MOTHER OF TWO. And in 10 more years as a 43-year-old? I am going to feel the same way about my 33-year-old body. I do not know yet if there will have been any more babies during those years.

What those jeans represent to me is a time in my life that has passed, and that I will not be going back to. I am not getting any younger. And while I am fit and healthy and VERY happy, I am not going to ever turn back into a 24-year-old. I don't need to look like that 24-year-old to look good. I do not need those particular jeans lurking in my closet, making me feel like I need to get back to that particular standard. Things are different now.

So this morning after I dropped Asher at preschool, I stopped at home, changed out of those stupid pants, and added them to the big bag of donations we were planning to drop at Goodwill. Goodbye, stupid pants. Goodbye, 24. I feel much better at 33 anyway – now I've got to make it a priority to DRESS like I do.

Bathroom mini-makeover in an afternoon. NOT AN ENTIRE YEAR.

Oh YOU GUYS. Thank you so much for the comments on that last post. I was so worried that I was going to come across as... I don't know – freaked out? Disappointed? Pushy? I'm not any of those things, but I was definitely mystified, because bedwetting isn't one of those things people talk about all that much. It's not that I thought Asher was some sort of Toilet Failure; but it is nice to know that it's normal to feel confused and frustrated, and that it's normal to have a child whose body isn't quite there yet. I knew everything was probably fine and normal and AVERAGE, but it sure is nice to know we're not alone. So, yeah. Thanks.

In other news, now that Dave and I have a real, functioning master bathroom (NOW WITH LOCKING DOOR!), the kids' bathroom is finally exactly that: THE KIDS' BATHROOM. And I am having this Big! Redecorating! Frenzy!!!, because I have pretty much completely ignored the upper level of our house over the past year. You know why I've ignored it? Because any time I've thought about cleaning it or putting up some new wall art or rearranging furniture, I remember that my husband is going to spend the entire weekend sanding and sawing and leaving 400 nails and screws on the carpet along with measuring tapes and drill bits and a hammer that I do NOT recommend you stub your toe on and I get a little discouraged. I think I cleaned our bedroom twice in the last year, simply because every time I cleaned it, there would be a new layer of drywall dust coating everything less than 24 hours later. THAT PART SUCKED.

But now! Everything is finished! Well, there is still a little patch of drywall to be sanded and painted in the bedroom, and there is still a Shop Vac sitting in the middle of the floor, as well as the faucet and chrome and glass Pottery Barn shelf that I'm trying to sell on Craigslist (let me know if you're interested), but OTHERWISE, we are good to go. We are, like, SHOWERING and POOPING in there and stuff. When the end was in sight (a couple of weeks ago), I'd started ordering a few things here and there off the Internet, with the intention of sprucing up the kids' bathroom when everything was said and done in the master. And now it is, IT REALLY AND TRULY IS, and yesterday I spent the afternoon putting it all together and worrying that the green walls were going to make it look ridiculous and even going so far as to get out the paint and primer and VERY STRONGLY CONSIDER dedicating my afternoon to painting, but it turns out I didn't need to. PHEW.

It turned out cute anyway! Or, to ME it turned out cute. Don't tell me if you think it's heinous, okay? JUST PLAY ALONG.

Shower curtain: Land of Nod
Towels: Target 
Wall art: seen at Land of Nod; purchased on Etsy (PRICE REDUCTION SCORE) 

I would like to hear your experiences, please.

So Asher has been potty trained now for just shy of one entire year. It is, for the most part, a successful situation. I still don't really understand how it could be comfortable to only pee three-ish times a day, but Asher cannot be persuaded otherwise. Did you ever see that study that claimed that people who fidgeted were more likely to be thin? Something about how even small movements like jiggling a pencil or bouncing a knee made you a less sedentary person? This is my child: he remains skinny because he is dancing – CONSTANTLY MOVING – to keep himself from peeing down his own leg.

Also, he lies to my face about it. Or, at least, I think he's lying to my face. He'll dance around for an hour or so and I'll repeatedly ask him if he needs to use the bathroom, but he will never admit it. Sometimes I wonder if he honestly thinks he's supposed to wait until the pee cannot be contained for ONE SPLIT SECOND LONGER; if maybe being two microseconds away from soaking through your pants is the true definition of “having to go to the bathroom.” He is a very literal child, so maybe this is the case?

WHO KNOWS. Dave and I try, we really really try, not to constantly suggest that he use the bathroom. We try to refrain from commanding him to PEE ALREADY, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, and also OUR SANITY. We have been to Target three times in the last two weeks and every time, I have asked the kids to behave and let me get everything I need, and as a reward, I will let them wander around the toy aisles for a bit before we check out. And every time, we get to the toy aisle – conveniently located as far away from the restrooms as is humanly possible – and Asher starts dancing around and holding his crotch and denying that he needs to pee. Because we are standing in the LEGO AISLE, and if he stops to pee, we will NEVER SEE THESE LEGOS AGAIN or something equally as devastating. And then I have to take my full, heavy cart and my about-to-make-a-puddle-on-the-floor preschooler and a very angry toddler (she's looking at Legos, too, you know) and haul you-know-what to the bathroom but the worst part is that I have to PROMISE TO RETURN TO THE TOYS. You know, because they didn't get to LOOK AT EVERYTHING. It's like, I don't know, a MILE round-trip to the bathroom and back.

Anyway, that's not my point. I'm getting carried away. My actual point is that my child has been potty trained for an entire year, but only during the day.

And ok, before I say anything else, let me acknowledge that I understand that nighttime training can lag behind daytime training, and even at Asher's four-year checkup, the doctor assured us that about 50 percent of boys his age were still wetting in the middle of the night. (Raise your hand if you very much disagree with the word “wetting.” MY HAND IS UP.) So I know he still falls within the average range (or, uh, he did at one point) but... well, I mean, ONE WHOLE YEAR LATER and absolutely zero progress on that front.

We make sure he drinks very little after 6pm, and we make sure that the last thing he does before he climbs into bed is use the bathroom. A week or so ago, he woke up three mornings in a row with a dry pull-up on, so we decided to go ahead and give underwear a try. Kind of a “maybe he's peeing in his pull-up BECAUSE IT'S A PULL-UP” kind of thing. He was dry for two more mornings; on the third morning, he woke up absolutely soaked in pee. But the weird thing is that he SLEPT THROUGH IT – the sheets were already starting to dry when he finally woke up. So sleeping in a pee-soaked bed is not something that appears to bother – OR WAKE – him at all. I can't imagine that's going to contribute to our success.

The other big problem is that he refuses to call for us or get up to go to the bathroom himself. I don't know if he's afraid of getting up in the middle of the night or what – he won't tell us. I can't get him to call out for us if he has to go; I can't get him to consider the idea that he might need to go in the middle of the night. On the mornings he wakes up with pee in his pull-up, I ask him if he remembered peeing in it and sometimes he says yes. So... he's waking up because his bladder is full and is CONSCIOUSLY peeing while lying in bed? That seems wrong. 

I am starting to wonder if we should start getting him up before we go to bed between 10:30 and 11 for one last Toilet Hurrah. I really have no idea how to proceed from here. I don't want to wake him unnecessarily if I don't have to (he is a very different kind of kid when he doesn't get enough sleep) (A MEAN ONE) but I really am starting to get frustrated with the fact that he is still wearing pull-ups to bed. We aren't making a big deal about it (I mean, not in a negative, shaming way) but we are talking about it a lot, and he seemed disappointed when we told him he needed to wear a pull-up after the bed soaking incident (I cannot really be expected to do a dedicated load of pee laundry EVERY MORNING, can I?) because I think he realizes how much more comfortable it is to sleep in cotton underwear rather than absorbent crinkly paper ones. 

SIGH. I'm not disappointed in him or worried, really. I'm just curious, more than anything. Does this seem... farfetched? Bizarre? UNIQUE? I have no idea. I know there are two-year-olds who are night trained, and I know of a couple of seven-year-olds who still have a tough time. I guess I just wonder how much of this is Asher's inability to be night trained, and how much of it is Asher's unwillingness to participate in becoming night trained. There's a big difference between having a body that's not ready, and having a MIND that isn't. Right? 

Keeping up

In the beginning, it was the inconvenience factor that intimidated me the most in regards to potty training my older child. As far as I was concerned, taking a kid out in public wearing underwear could end up two ways: I could spend the entire outing hovering near bathrooms and repeatedly inquiring about the state of the small person's bladder, or I could let my guard down and end up hauling a small child covered in his own pee back to the house where I could hose him off and admit defeat.

I suppose there was also a third option – the option for success and no need for a backup pair of pants - but I didn't want to get my hopes up.

But as it turned out, what I feared most about potty training ended up being a total non-issue, and something I never even thought about turned into the thing I dreaded more than anything else in the world, which is the whole song and dance routine of dragging a younger child into the bathroom with the older child who needs to go.

Now maybe this isn't as much of an issue for those of you who have independent children, but I don't have one of those. I have a child who doesn't want to do anything by himself. He wants help pulling down his pants. Pulling down his underwear. Pulling up his underwear. Pulling up his pants. Buttoning those pants. Zipping those pants. If we are at home, he would also like to be accompanied into the bathroom, and he would like me to turn on the light for him, too. Also, would I mind tearing off a small square of toilet paper so he can clean off the rim of the toilet bowl?

The routine is much the same in a public bathroom, except for the fact that I am also trying to keep Lucy, Wild Child Extraordinaire, from touching/smelling/licking anything while we're in there. I can actually remember one particularly awful episode, in Barnes and Noble, where Asher decided he needed to poop (SUPER POOR TIMING), and while I am lifting him up onto the gigantic handicapped toilet (because the three of us can't all fit into the smaller stall at the same time), I see Lucy, out of the corner of my eye, PULLING HERSELF UNDER THE STALL DOOR ON HER BELLY, and INTO ANOTHER STALL. Thankfully (OH MY HEAVENS, thank you God) there wasn't anyone occupying the other stall, but it didn't change the fact that my child had essentially just mopped the floor of a public restroom with her jacket. And her HANDS. And possibly, POSSIBLY – portions of her face.

Meanwhile, at the same time, Asher is perched precariously on the edge of a very large, very high-off-the-ground toilet, and he's Very Nervous about it, so I'm having to reassure him while also chasing Lucy out into the open part of the public bathroom, picking her up off the floor, carrying her squirming self back into the stall, and attempting to keep her from becoming interested in any other part of the bathroom except for the toilet paper holder because it seemed like the cleanest part of the entire room. IMPOSSIBLE, you would say, and YOU WOULD BE RIGHT. That's when I gave up and remembered that someone had invented hand sanitizer and also prayer. And also those little leashes, I guess, should things get even more dire. (I'm not sure exactly how much more dire the situation could get, except for maybe if Lucy was ready to jump into a vat of flesh-eating bacteria.)

A year later, and bathrooms are kind of old hat now, I guess, so I spend a lot less time reminding her not to roll around on the floor, which is good. Also, it's helpful that she likes to wash her hands, because she usually REALLY NEEDS TO.

So! Hey! I'm partnering again with Huggies (you guys, seriously, I am so freaking lucky to get such a fun writing job) as part of their “Too Fast, Keep Up” campaign, and although I am required to tell you this is a sponsored post, I am NOT required to tell you anything else – though I AM going to tell you that in each package of Huggies Little Movers diapers, there are codes for prizes. Huggies is giving away $5 MILLION in prizes – things like iPods and gift cards and bike trailers and music downloads and seriously awesome stuff, and all you have to do is buy DIAPERS, which I know you're already doing. I KNOW YOU ARE. All the details are at Huggies.com. Tell them I sent you.

Disclosure: I have partnered with the Huggies® brand to help promote Huggies® Little Movers Diapers. I have been compensated for my time commitment to the program, which includes writing about my family’s own experiences from my point of view, and/or my experiences with diapers. However, my opinions are entirely my own and I have not been paid to publish positive comments.

Lately

It is equal parts fascinating and sad, the difference between Asher and Lucy at age two.

Fascinating mostly because Lucy is so very capable of communicating her wants and needs. She's funny and charming and surprising and so SO verbal.

And sad, in some ways, because Asher at this same age was barely putting two words together, and looking back at that, it's not that I loved him less – it's more that I'm a little melancholy about the fact that I feel like I didn't know him as well. I can also remember how much more frustrated I was, in general, with Asher and his behavior patterns, and again, I'm not sure how much of that was Asher's limited ability to verbalize or whether Lucy is just a more easygoing child. I am able to talk her through or out of many tantrums – but is that a result of her personality or her verbal communication and understanding capabilities?

Lucy has thoughts and feelings and preferences and I know Asher did too, but Lucy is able to tell us hers and experiencing life with Asher as a toddler was more like me repeating a series of questions all day, every day, just to get the tiniest glimpse into what was going on inside his head. And I know now that he's a different kind of kid anyway, and it's entirely possible that even the ability to talk wouldn't have given us much more insight into his little bitty brain. It's just weird feeling like I know Lucy so much better than I ever knew Asher at the same age, if that makes any sense at all.

I really, truly am enjoying them SO MUCH lately, though – whether they're together or apart.

 

They aren't usually interested in the same kind of television programming (Lucy has given her heart to Diego as of late) but sometimes when I turn on a show for them while I'm finishing up dinner, I find them both on the couch watching it together, huddled on the same sofa cushion, and Asher always has his arm around Lucy. Is it cute that he does this? Or is it cuter that he HABITUALLY does this? I believe it's the latter.

A few recent Lucy bullets:

I mentioned this on Twitter already, but the other afternoon I did a workout video while both kids were napping and Lucy woke up before I could jump in the shower. So I walked into her bedroom sweaty and smelly and the first thing she said to me when she saw me was, “You needa take a shower!” I laughed and told her she could watch a show on my bed while I took one (“I watch Diego Go Go!”) and after I carried her into my bedroom and put her down, she declared, “Mama, this will be fun!”

She has started insisting on certain things by telling me, “Just in case I need it.” She'll try to smuggle four books out of the house (knowing full well she is allowed to bring ONE THING in the car) and tell me, “Mama, just in case I need it.” SOMETIMES IT WORKS, YOU GUYS.

When I ask her what she wants for lunch, she always starts with ketchup. “I have... ketchup? And dinosaur chicken, and ketchup. Ketchup.” Things Lucy has dipped in ketchup and then eaten: Grapes. Quesadillas. Cookies. ANYTHING ELSE SHE CAN GET HER MITTS ON.

She actually calls mittens “mitts.” The ones she wears on her hands, and the book, too. (Both kids LOVE the book.)

We talk about Disney World a lot (we're planning a trip for December!), and yet, it is clear to me that she has no idea what Disney World really is or involves. (Which is FINE, she's TWO.) But we were at Chick-fil-A the other day and she saw a picture of a cow dressed up in a disco outfit and declared, “I hug that cow when I go to Disney World!” Because didn't you know? Any oversized, cartoonish animal wearing clothes lives at Disney World.

The other morning I picked her up from her crib and her blankie fell onto the ground. “Oh no,” she said seriously. “This is bad news.”

She is friendly to almost everyone we meet and offers up chirpy hellos and goodbyes and would happily allow me to read her books from the moment she wakes in the morning until the moment she goes to sleep. She asks to hug every dog we see. She gets absolutely GIDDY when Daddy brings out his helicopter and lets her try to catch it.

 

But she does not like sledding. I TRIED. I tried and tried, but unfortunately, this is her one flaw. I tell myself she will grow out of it.