Dear Laney,
I promise nothing blog-worthy has happened in the past three days. Or maybe it has, and I didn't notice because I'm averaging four hours of sleep a night. Your brother plays hacky sack with my innards until 12:30am, and then you've started getting up at 4:30am, demanding some combination of hot chocolate, dinosaur movies, and potty breaks. It's enough to make me want to check in to the Hilton with a bottle of Ambien a good book and not come out for a few days.
I don't know if it's the foul weather or your crazy sleep schedule, but you seem to always be in one of those moods where stuff like this comes out of your mouth: "NOOO! I don' LIKE milk!!" (2 millisecond pause) "WHERE'S MY MILK!!?!?!?" I don't know, Sybil.
It snowed for most of last week, then on Sunday it rained all night. So all this week, we've had a driveway that looks like a perfectly groomed hockey rink. I've fallen, you've fallen, we've intermittently lost power. Yesterday, I was looking out the kitchen window at the slushy, grey outside world, counting the hours 'til your bedtime (9), and months 'til summer (6), when I realized I felt exactly like Bill Murray in the movie Stripes, right after he loses his job, his car is repossessed and his girlfriend leaves him:
But here are some random happenings and announcements:
1) Your dad confessed that the paintings we put together for the grandparents that I gave him to mail have been sitting on his desk at work for over a week. He mailed them today. So, if you receive a note from us wishing you a Happy Thanksgiving, you'll know where to direct your bewildered looks. On the plus side, Thor says he's refunding 50% of your purchase price and throwing in free postage.
2)A few weeks ago, I changed obstetricians. The new guy is great, and we learned at our last appointment that he started his career as a Navy flight doctor. So now, while he's yanking out your brother in the delivery room, he and your dad can continue to swap stories about fixed wing this, and rotor wing that. Lucky me.
3) Potty training is going really well, with one minor kooky habit: When you decide you want to go, you pull your pants down wherever you are in the house, and then waddle to the bathroom with your pants stuck around your ankles like Tim Conway on the old Carol Burnett Show*. We ask if you want help, and you say, "No - I got it." We've tried explaining that you can, nay, should, wait 'til you get to the bathroom to pull down your pants, but you're having none of that rational nonsense.
4) Ella went to the vet yesterday and was diagnosed with minor arthritis. Or, as my paternal grandmother Mama Lee used to pronounce it, "Arthur Itis." It doesn't seem to be affecting Ella's intensive lie-around-and-eat-what-the-baby-drops schedule.
25 days 'til Christmas.
27 days 'til your brother is born.
18 years 'til my next decent night's sleep.
Love,
Mom
* No, I have no pop culture references more current than 1978.
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