It's time for more...



Apparently, my odd obsessions about peanut butter were a hit, so I am pleased to announce I will be a regular fragmenter. You can see all the participants at the fabulous blog of the host of Friday Fragments, Mrs. 4444 at Half Past Kissin' Time.

In this weeks edition, I will begin with a cautionary tale.

Dear Parents,
If you, say, have a two year old and an infant? And your infant likes to be fed? And your two year old likes to sprout horns and wreak all sorts of evil while you're feeding that infant who likes to eat? Please, for the love of God, don't live in a house where your two year old has his own bathroom (don't judge me; I don't like to share things like bathrooms. Especially with boys.) Because you do not want to end up like me. Observe.


Especially because you will then have to simultaneously give your child a shower (because baths are beneath someone so mature, apparently), feed that infant we talked about who really likes to eat, and take pictures of your two year old in the shower. And then you have to put that picture on the internet to embarrass him later when that sense of shame you did your best to instill in him comes to the fore.


*****************

The fifth season of Deadliest Catch wrapped this week, and as I watched the crab count, waited with bated breath to learn the fate of my favorite fisherman, and lamented the fact that I have a whole dreary winter without feasting my eyes upon my favorite captains, something happened that I never imagined possible. I contemplated, indeed I am still contemplating switching my Deadliest Catch Captain Crush from Phil Harris...


To Johnathan Hillstrand...

I never realized would have even considered this, but then Johnathan got a haircut which only adds to the allure of that gravelly man-of-the-sea anything-you-say-sounds-deliciously-dirty voice of his? And now I'm all mixed up inside. Maybe I can have them both? There's just something about this country club girl that craves these wild men with their tattoos and chain smoking. Mmm.

***************

It's raining for the nine hundredth consecutive day in Duluth. Today it is black as pitch at six in the morning. This town is like the setting of a B List horror movie.

***************

Now all that's left is to take a shower and decide between the gray yoga pants and the black. Because I'm not venturing out in this torrential downpour today, so why bother with real clothing? My desire to freeze to death while looking like an expensively dressed drowned rat has (not so) mysteriously deserted me.

Well, it's July 30th, and I just turned on the heat. Now we're going to huddle under six or seven blankets, watch movies, and wait for this freezing weather to pass. If it does. I don't know; it could just be winter now. I'm not really sure yet.

Interestingly, the freezing temperature both outside and in still has not induced Joshua to wear pants.

When James gets home I'm telling him he better start looking for a job in Florida.

Josh is going through this, "My awesomeness is so vast it cannot possibly contained therefore I will wear no pants" stage, and while funny, it is making for some interesting battles of will when it is time to do things like leave the house. Play outside. Entertain guests. Stay warm (because summer has deserted Duluth).

It was reasonably warm this morning, so I herded the children outside so they don't turn green and start to stammer and twitch from lack of sun, and Joshua was. not. wearing. pants. Wouldn't hear of it. So I overcame the crippling sense of shame that has coursed through the veins of generations of women in my family and allowed him to play outside in "unner da pants and sandal shoes!". In front of God and everybody.



One day I will wake up and miss the sound of a tiny voice yelling, "No pants! Just unner da pants!" every time I try to get him dressed. I'm sure of it.

We went to the lake yesterday. It was one of the three hot days we've had so far this summer, so it was an opportunity we couldn't pass up. It was so much fun. Daddy played with the kids in the water while I took pictures and congratulated myself on having the mental fortitude to allow everyone to take their shoes off in the sand and not even wear water shoes. I even did it myself. I have proof, because I knew no one would believe it otherwise.


Actually, I loosened up enough to let Josh get as muddy as he wanted, because as James keeps reminding me, he's a BOY.


He quite enjoyed his messy state, as I feared he would.


Ella B., however, stayed clean as a whistle thank you. As did I. We are ladies after all *twinkle*.

Ha! You didn't think I was actually going to post a picture of my shelf ass in a bathing suit did you?

Ahem.

So the boys played in the water...


Hunted bugs...


And showed off their muscles...


Dear Weatherman,
Please forecast at least one more day like this, so I can show my family that Duluth really can be fun when the weather cooperates. I'm just asking for one. Because it's almost August, and so we're going to need to prepare for snow soon in the Twin Ports. Do what you can.
Best,

Thanks to Justine, I finally figured out how to do the little text box html code thing-y. I NEVER would have figured that out on my own. So now you can get my cutesy little button for your sidebar! Yay!

Also, I've had a ton of emails with questions about Ella; what her progress is, what the whole story is, how did we get here and so on. So you'll notice another button with my little pumpkin's picture on it. That will take you to an entirely new blog that has her whole story on it for you. So if you're curious, well, whip on over! Once you get there, you can also get the code for that blog and put it on your sidebar as well. It's kind of your lucky day, then.

And now I am going to bed, because I am effing exhausted after five-ish hours of screwing around with html. My eyes are crossed and I think the cramping in my hands will take a number of hours to ease.

All the cool bloggers are doing it, so I guess I'm going to follow the crowd. I've seen Justine rocking the fragments, and I am now to understand that it is hosted by Mrs. 4444 at Half Past Kissin' Time. So I'm going to give it a go...



Joshua loves peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I HATE it when James fixes them for him, because he takes the knife and dives to the very bottom of the peanut butter and scoops out a giant glob, which not only makes for a huge mess when my two year old wants to eat it, but it also leaves a giant, gaping hole in the peanut butter jar. I HATE that. I like the surface of the peanut butter to be nice and even, thank you.

Both James and I forgot to buy formula yesterday, and when we remembered we were out of it both kids were in bed, and it was like 10:30. We couldn't decide who would go; James suggested arm wrestling (ass) and I suggested a game of Scrabble (perfectly reasonable) but in the end I just gave in and went because he had to work late and, well? I never do stuff like that, so I thought he'd appreciate that little labor of love. Until I remembered that the only place open at that time of night is Wal Mart. I HATE Wal Mart. I never go there if I can help it. James knew I'd have to go there too. Ass.

I'm trying to gauge the level of annoyance James would experience if I just started tearing the kitchen apart to, um, nudge him along on the "getting started on the remodel" path. I think it might be worth it.

If there are more fragments, they'll have to wait until next Friday, because I have a beauty appointment with a jar of peanut butter. I canNOT live in peace knowing there's that deformed and gaping hole in the surface of my peanut butter. I might have to buy another jar to fill in the hole, and then both jars can be smooth and put away where James can no longer seek and destroy.

I hope I don't have to resort to doing something disgustingly out of my element today, like a damn craft. It's been raining incessantly here for several days now, with only brief periods of the sun managing to poke his shiny little head through the clouds; it hasn't even approached being warm or dry enough to play outside.

Who told me it was a good idea to live on the banks of Lake Superior again?

I actually like this rain; I've always been a fan of storms. But my children? So. Bored. And so. making. me. go. slowly. insane. That's how I've been talking, punctuating every word because I've said it for the ninethousandth time already. Like, "Joshua. Stop. Trying. To. Engage. Your. Sister. In. A. Sword. Fight. She's. Only. Four. Months. Old." Or this classic, "Please. Stop. Taking. Off. Your. Pants. Big boys WEAR PANTS when they go to the library!"

And the library. Oh crap, just shoot me. We've had fun at the library before. There's a great play area for kids and Joshua loves to pick out his own books and you know, all that other stuff kids his age like, while crazy mothers like me just see germs everywhere they look. Normally, I arm myself with Purel and a mask of indifference (though my insides are in turmoil the entire time). But when the weather is bad like this? Shudder. I can just see those sick kids wiping their runny noses with their bare hands and then manhandling the toys. They sneeze all over everything in an evil conspiracy to give me a heart attack. Nobody covers his mouth, some of them put things into their mouths, and their mothers just watch. They jabber on with one another as if they have not a care in the world, meanwhile their kids are spreading and contracting and spreading and contracting everything from the common cold to Ebola. Swine flu. The plague. Testicular cancer.

So that's out, because I'd like my children to live, thank you. Actually, it did become an option yesterday, because suddenly the risks of Joshua contracting Ebola versus the risk of my eating my own young reversed, and we decided to take our chances with the germy kids. We HADTOGETOUTOFTHEHOUSENOW, so off to the library we went.

The nursery school was there.

[Cue horror movie music]

I've seen this nursery school before at the park. There's approximately seventeen thousand children to every half a teacher and they're always dirty and unkempt. There's this one teacher who is constantly yelling at them, and she talks in what I like to call the "royal we". "WE do not hit our sister! WE need to line up by the backpacks! WE this, WE that!" WE do not do anything, you dolt, THE CHILDREN need to do it. I hope she doesn't think she's like, making a difference or something, because she's really just making people want to strangle her. Plus she yells.

So in the midst of trying to steer Joshua away from what I can only assume were the terminal kids, their noses were so runny and their coughs so hacking, feeding Ella B., and warding curious onlookers away from my immunosupressed preemie, I hear this nursery school woman yelling in a whisper. That's a curious conundrum.

"CHILDREN! WE NEED TO USE OUR INDOOR VOICES! LIKE MISS CHELSEA! WE DO NOT HIT ONE ANOTHER! EXCUSE ME! MISS VIOLET! TIME OUT BY THE BACK PACKS, THANK YOU!"

So. Obnoxious.

And I always feel sorry for the children in there, because they look so lost in the shuffle. I don't know how we always wind up doing the same activities as this particular nursery school, but we've seen them a lot. They always provide even more reasons my children will never go to day care. Yesterday I added Reason Number 7641 to the list.

Reason Number 7641 My Children Will Never Go to Day Care:

Snaggle tooth nursery school girl [calling it like it is, people] : My brother goes to this day care too, he's two, but he's not here today.

Me (trying valiantly to keep Ella's face completely covered while allowing her enough reasonably clean air to breathe): Oh?

Snaggle tooth nursery school girl: Well, yesterday he was playing on the counter top at day care, and he fell off and knocked out his two front teeth.

Me: [Sputter...sputter] Is he OK?

"Miss Chelsea": EXCUSE ME! MELINDA! TIME OUT BY THE BACK PACKS PLEASE, WITH YOUR FANCIFUL STORIES! THANK YOU!

Me (To "Miss Chelsea") : Is that true?

"Miss Chelsea": WELL, NOT -

Me: Without the whisper/roar if you please.

"Miss Chelsea": Well, not exactly true. But pretty much, yeah. I mean, it's not like he wasn't being watched.

Thus concludes Reason Number 7641 My Children Will Never Go to Day Care; apparently the teachers can only be counted upon to yell in whispers at the library and watch in silence as their charges dive face first off of counter tops I can only conclude they are allowed to climb on at will.

At least at home with me, the worst trouble Joshua ever gets into is trying to feed Ella B. his crayons and challenging her to duels.

It's pouring rain today. It has me thinking back to a day much like this when I was still pregnant with Ella B. It was right before my indefinite hospital stay. Things were really bad, and I was really down. I usually love the rain, but that day it was as if the droplets falling all around me were but a fraction of the tears I thought I would cry because we didn't know if my daughter would live. It was the darkest day of my life.

I was preparing myself for a baby too small to live, a baby so sick that she couldn't face life unassisted, a baby that may even be stillborn. The blackness that descended on me that day is indescribable. It was the day I remembered to shower, but only managed to shave one leg. It was the day I forgot to eat. It was the day I went to the grocery store, only to stand in the aisle crying because I couldn't find what I needed; they don't sell healthy pregnancies and babies at the corner market. It was the day I spent mostly on the floor, weeping and crying out to God to heal my baby. To make her grow and give her strength. I pleaded for the strength I would need to face what was to come.

It rained for three days following the worst day of my life. Three days spent in torment, despair, worry, but all the while clinging tenaciously to hope. Hope that some of the doctors said was a little irrational. Unrealistic.

As I sit at my dining room table this morning and watch the rain, I am struck by the difference between now and then. I am amazed at how the clouds have lifted. Today the rain looks like tears of joy as I gaze in wonder at my daughter, my amazingly strong, vibrant daughter whom we met so much earlier than was intended, and who was so much tinier than she was supposed to be...

But so much healthier than she was supposed to be. We were awestruck. I've never heard so many doctors say, "I just can't believe this!" There she was, almost four months ago now, three and half pounds and barely sixteen inches of frail body teaching us what faith means. What the power of God is. That miracles still happen.

Now I welcome the rain. These pure and beautiful drops of water that cleanse everything in their path. We have been washed clean, set free, and given this incredible gift of life. Now I am thankful for that bleak, dismal day when the world was crashing down around me. Without that blackness, we never would have had this incredible light.

I've been hearing people complain about all this rain we're having in Duluth. But I say? Bring it on.

It was a good day yesterday. We packed a gourmet (if I do say so myself) picnic, and ventured out into the "wilderness" that makes up the back few acres of our property and dined atop a blanket on the banks of a little pond. Unfortunately, the pond is not ours, but a part of the public park that backs up against our property. At least we never have to worry about anyone building there. Anyway, the fact that it's public means anyone can go there, which frequently dismays me. Annoying people always venture out in droves when I'm trying to enjoy a peaceful family outing.

We were alone while we ate, which was nice. But then this mother and her son showed up to play in the water. It was fun for Joshua, because the little boy was about his age. So they enjoyed splashing about and getting dirty and all manner of boy things. I spent the afternoon in a perpetual state of restraining the urge to kill, because this mother was a narrator.

You know the kind.

They're the ones that are like, "Oh! Look at you! You're wearing your ORANGE shirt and denim shorts today! And what a nice job you're doing playing with your ORANGE shovel! Hey! Your ORANGE shovel matches your ORANGE shirt!"

Drives. Me. Insane.

Every single time her kid would do something she'd fall into raptures. "Good JOB sharing that pine cone! That pine cone is BROWN; it grows on a PINE TREE and then it FALLS OFF! Isn't that NEAT? That pine cone FLOATS in the WATER like a BOAT! We'll have to tell Daddy all about this PINE CONE when we get HOME! You are an EXPERT at sharing. What a FANTASTIC friend. THANK YOU for sharing and using GENTLE HANDS." And her voice is kind of sing songy? And she thinks her child is a super genius because he can take his own shoes off? And she needs to just die please? Yeah, that's who I spent my afternoon with.

I think even her two year old knows how asinine it is to talk like that. When she started talking to me about the importance of floor time and active listening he rolled his eyes as if to say, "Mom, seriously. No one wants to hear your crazy talk right now." The poor kid almost lost it when she asked if we wanted to join her sharing circle. I think he said something like, "Mother! You're embarrassing me in front of my new friend! Joshua and his mom don't want to be in the sharing circle. No one even knows what that is. It's completely nonsensical." Well, he would have said that if he wasn't two, and thus stricken with a limited vocabulary.

As it was, we wiled away a lazy afternoon eating a nice lunch and frolicking in the water. And if I had to tolerate a Mr. Rogers/Elmo/Aunt Bea hybrid of a mother? Well, it's a small price to pay for smiles like these...

Ever have those? Where you just feel extra gigantic? I realize I've grown a little thick of limb and round of body (thank you pregnancies and, um, overeating) but come on.

Today is one of those days where I feel like my shelf ass is sticking out so far people in the next town are setting their picture frames on it. My fly unzips itself every time I sit down, indicating that these jeans are perhaps just a tish too small.

I dug out my bathing suit in case we actually make it to the lake tomorrow (summer weather? No? Duluth, I'm looking at you) and it just laughed at me. It knows I have no desire to stretch it over my big honking hind end, and it smells my fear that I might not actually be able to.

My bathing suit is evil. I hate it.

So my thought process today is suffering from my fatitude too. Because apparently (and according to Lane Bryant) being fat also makes you stupid. As my voluminous flesh was trying to escape the confines of the clothing I used to wear before I got pregnant for the nine hundredth time, I thought, Well this sucks. I should do something about this.

And then I sat down at my computer with a Diet Coke and left over stuffed mushrooms and continued to wonder why I haven't lost the baby weight yet.

I? Give up.

I'm pretty sure I may have recently lost my mind and may soon end up in a home for the bewildered. I know this because I spent almost six hours last night begging, pleading, reasoning with and bribing my daughter to sleep.

She's three and a half months old. It means nothing to her if I promise to take her shoe shopping if she'll stop crying for five seconds. She doesn't care about a special trip to Nordstrom or a nice luncheon al fresco. She just, apparently, wants to cry. Constantly. Especially at night.

I've never had this problem before. Joshua was so quiet and easy going I hardly knew he was in the room. Well, I wouldn't have known if I didn't continually wake myself up to put my had on his chest or a mirror underneath his nostrils to make sure he was still breathing. Not because he had anything wrong with him, but because I had (and still have sometimes) this completely irrational but entirely unavoidable fear that one or both of my children could very possibly die in their sleep if I forget to check on them. This happens much less often with Joshua now, almost never really. And Ella kind of does my checking for me, since I think her cries can probably be heard by people in surrounding counties.

James, of course, has very selective hearing when it comes to anyone crying. It's miraculous, really, that he can sleep through something making a racket right next to his head when I can hear it out on the deck. Only some of it is feigned; I truly believe that he can't hear her. At first. No less than four of the guys that bunked with him in Iraq said he was able to sleep through mortar attacks and other sounds of battle all around them. But for six hours? I don't think so.

So I found myself saying things like, "Ella, seriously. There is nothing wrong. You just ate, you have clean pants, you aren't too warm (though that's a miracle because it's a sweltering 900 degrees where I'm sitting) and you aren't too cold, so how about, oh, I don't know? Sleep." That didn't work so I tried things like, "What if we go shopping tomorrow, just you and me? I know you've been admiring that new twinset and matching shoes. I'll even spring for a matching bag if we can find one. Interested? You're thinking about it, I can tell." Nothing. Not one single thing could make this child stop crying last night. Finally, at five in the morning, I learned that while no amount of kicking, shaking, and loud name calling could wake James up, a few droplets of water and a bellowed, "YOUR TURN" does the trick quite nicely.

Ella B. is certainly a crier, much more than Joshua was. Last night was the worst by a half. She had to fight to even make her way into this world alive, and I guess she's never stopped fighting. She just seems kind of pissed off about being a baby. Like all this eating from a bottle and having to wear diapers is beneath her dignity. It's kind of funny when it isn't in the middle of the damn night.

But what can I do? I press on, like every other mother in the history of time, and do it essentially on my own. When it starts to overwhelm me (I can't believe I am overwhelmed sometimes by the way, never imagined that would be the case in a million years) I remember how lucky I am to have her here, perfectly healthy and obviously robust. And plus, I can't deny the enjoyment of waking James up with cold water to the back of the neck after a sleepless night with an inconsolable baby.

Yes, eventually, I'll miss these days.

Just when I think Joshua has a good grip on the lexicon of words we don't say in this family - some because they're naughty, but most because crazy OCD Mommy can't handle how they sound - he throws this one at me.

"Mommy, does my baby sister have a butt?"

"Does your who have what, Joshua James?"

"Mommy! Ella B.! Does she have a butt?"

"Why do you ask, son?"

"I have a butt, see Mommy?"

"Bottom, Joshua. We say bottom."

"Bottom has a butt Mommy?"

This child is going to send me into a frenzy of hand washing and hair pulling. I'll be bald before I'm forty. Just you wait and see.

We've been really busy out in the yard. James has been hard at work improving and painting and clearing brush, and I? Well, I have been trying my hand at "gardening", though I don't know how to completely justify calling it a "garden" when I'm growing everything in pots on my deck. Still, I've been pretty successful, for the most part.



My, um, these things are flourishing. I don't know what kind of flowers they are; I just buy the pretty ones.


I have more pretties over here, which also seem to be doing quite well. I was a little afraid that smashing six different kinds of plant life together in one pot would result in some sort of photosynthetic mortal combat, but thankfully, everything seems to be living in harmony.



I'm even growing tomatoes, which to my utter astonishment, appear to be bulbous and green, just on the verge of ripening. (Please don't mind the hose snaking through the grass. Josh was filling up his pool while I was photographing the results of my foray into botany. Rest assured I never leave my hose laying about on my lawn.)








But then we come to this, which defies understanding. I don't know what went wrong. It looks like fetal alcohol syndrome, but I swear to you I never watered the seed with any of the wine I drink on the deck, and James never spilled his beer in there. Nobody smokes in this house, so it's growth couldn't have been stunted by second hand exposure. I guess we're really not sure what caused this poor jalapeno's deformity, perhaps the only explanation is a missing (or extra?) chromosome or six. Whatever the case, we're determined to love it anyway and face down anyone who thinks to look down on us for it. I've named him Sir Lumpliss. He's a sweet, special boy.


Speaking of sweet, special boys. I asked James for one favor this weekend. Well, one favor if you don't count painting the garage, mowing the lawn, rebuilding the decorative brick wall next to the garage, cleaning out the gutters, and helping the guy install the air conditioner. [Smiles sheepishly]

See, we have this bear in the backyard. The previous owners cut down a tree, left like six feet of stump, and paid what I can only assume was thousands of dollars to have the stump carved into a bear. I. Hate. It. It is the ugliest damn thing I believe I've ever had the misfortune to see. So I asked James to take care of it. He knew, damn him, that I meant "rip it down, burn it, chop it into pieces, I don't care how, just get it the hell out of my yard now", um pretty pretty please, but instead?

Sigh.

He painted it with leftover trim color from the garage and put a drill sergeant's hat on it. Now Smokey the Bear is plunked in my back yard and I'm not sure my husband will ever get rid of him now that he's discovered he can put hats on the damn thing.

Scene: Me, in Herberger's, with an armful of clothes and a frantic look on my face.

Sales Gal: Are you all set then?

Me: I can't find my sunglasses! Have you seen them? Did I leave them in the fitting room? They're really expensive. I can't...I don't...shit!

Sales Gal: What do they look like? What brand are they?

Me: They're Fendi. Brown, well kind of black too. And big. Does that help? Do you know what I mean? My husband is not going to be pleased if I have to tell him I've lost another several hundred dollars worth of plastic that goes on my face.

Sales Gal: Um, Ma'am? Speaking of your face? Do you think the sunglasses you're wearing might be the ones you're looking for?

Shit.

Not to sound all, I'm so tired of hearing about Micheal Jackson when will this nightmare end? or anything, but good Lord, I'm so tired of hearing about Micheal Jackson. When will this nightmare end?

I get it. He was a talented guy. A musical genius. He could dance. He was black. And then he was white. Now he's dead. So can we move on please?

I wish the documentaries, the flashbacks, the headlines, the on and on and on Micheal Jackson hoopla would go ahead and die out now, because at the end of the day, he was just a man. A man that died. I just don't think it should still be front page news for three weeks after the fact. People have had the chance to break out their black arm bands and pay their respects. Now the citizens of LA are expected to foot the bill for a multimillion dollar funeral and every time I open up my Yahoo! email, there's a headline about Micheal's dog, favorite flower, or his pet name for macaroni and cheese. We're really grasping at straws here people, to keep this thing alive. Pardon the nearly unpardonable pun there.

I say everybody picks their collective jaw up off the floor, because I will admit his death was a shock and I'm not trying to lessen the tragedy, and move on with life now. The thing is, if we're being completely honest with ourselves, this doesn't exactly alter our every day lives. There are people who are truly grieving, whose world has been totally rocked. They would be his family and especially his children. I know they've suffered a horrible loss. But it is time to let them mourn and eventually heal in private. The man made enough of a spectacle of himself when he was alive. Let's respect his family and his legacy enough to let him rest in peace now and get back to the good Yahoo! headlines, like "Ten Ways to Ruin a First Date".

Dear Joshua,

Thank you for watering my plants today. I appreciate the effort and the fact that you did it without even being asked. I commend your drive and initiative. But in the future? Please don't water them with milk. It took me forever to figure out what that smell was. And why my plants were dying.

Love you,
Mom

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Dear Enter Key on My Laptop,

Quit falling off. You're driving me insane.

Best,
The One Who Keeps Threatening to Throw You Out the Effing Window

*****************************************************************************

Dear Mother,

Thank you for bringing your colleague over today without calling first. I'm sure he really appreciated meeting me while I was watering my tomatoes in my tee-pays and Prada sandals and swearing at the hose. Maybe next time you could whip someone over before I get the breakfast dishes done or just as I'm hefting my fat ass out of the shower.

Best,
Your Loving Daughter

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Dear Joshua (II),

Please don't ever stop calling your PJs "tee-pays". It is the cutest. thing. ever.

Kisses,
Mommy

Twelve weeks ago today...

I was still in the hospital.

I had my daily biophysical profile ultrasound to make sure things were still progressing smoothly with the pregnancy that had landed me in the hospital for the previous four weeks.

Twelve weeks ago today...

This were not still going smoothly with the pregnancy.

So my daughter was born by c-section just a few hours after she fell short of passing the tests put forth in the biophysical.

Twelve weeks ago today...

Ella was born six weeks early after spending 34 perilous weeks in the womb fighting to grow, fighting to develop, fighting to even survive.

She weighed just 3 pounds, eleven ounces and was a fragile 16 inches long. This put her in the 3 1/2 percentile for size at gestational age.

Twelve weeks ago today...

I watched the doctor pull my tiny baby from my body, the place that was supposed to be her sanctuary for six more weeks, but was instead something akin to a ticking time bomb.

I watched them rush her over to an incubator where several doctors and nurses worked to get her to breathe while they stitched up my broken body.

Twelve weeks ago today...

I caught a glimpse of the strong, independent, fighting lady my daughter will grow into.

I saw her begin to breathe on her own after only five minutes of medical assistance. She burst out with her little cry, no louder than the mewl of a tiny kitten, just as they were beginning to prepare to intubate her.

Twelve weeks ago today...

Ella amazed us all when she first breathed on her own, then was able to regulate her own temperature, and finally was able to feed without the assistance of a feeding tube.

She was the smallest baby ever born at St. Mary's Medical Center in Duluth that spent no time at all in Neonatal Intensive Care.

Twelve weeks ago today...

This is what my daughter looked like when we tried to put a Preemie size diaper on her...


Or a Preemie size outfit...


Twelve weeks ago today...

She confounded all of her doctors, nurses, and family by being teeny tiny, but perfectly healthy.

After just four days in the hospital with me while we recovered from the C-section and endless weeks of bed rest, she came home to her family.

Today, at twelve weeks old...

She is approaching the size of an average newborn at seven pounds, three ounces and eighteen inches long.

Every time we're out in public people say, "Oh! A brand new baby! She's so tiny! Must only be a few days old!" Boy, are they astounded to learn she was born three whole months ago.

Today, at twelve weeks old...

She still wears Preemie size diapers, but we can buy them in the store now instead of online, which is the only place I could find to get diapers for a zero to three pound infant.

Now her diapers look like this...


And that little pink Preemie size outfit? Fits!



Dear Ella B. -

We call you Ella B. now, because your brother went from calling you "Ella Bella" to shortening it to "Ella B.", and isn't that just too cute for words? So, I hope it doesn't embarrass you too much when your Daddy calls you Ella B. in front of your friends when you're fourteen.

You have brought immeasurable joy into our lives, little girl, and we are so blessed and proud to be your parents! We spent so many weeks worrying over you, praying for you, and living in a general state of hand wringing over your health. I'm surprised you didn't wink at us when you were born, Little Princess Pea, because all of our worries and stomach knots and fears amounted to naught.

You are a fighter. You are strong. You are brave. You are beautiful. We are amazed by you. You will do incredible things in your life; I know you will fly high and reach all of your dreams.

Happy 1/4 birthday, our beautiful girl, our miracle baby.

We love you,
Mommy and Daddy
And big brother too!

You know, I was just beginning to like you again, Land of Ten Thousand Lakes. And then you do this to me.



Someone please tell me the words "Senator Al Franken" are a sick, tasteless joke.

Maybe I just shouldn't go places. It would likely just be easier for everyone that way. Because whoever decided it was a good idea to unleash me on the general public last night, at a dirty, disgusting, grimy county fair no less, is living to regret his decision.

We weren't planning on going to the fair. I thought what Joshua didn't know wouldn't hurt him, and he can't read the newspaper or anything, so how would he know the stupid carnival is here? I love amusement parks, but I hate, loathe, detest, abhor these little traveling fairs. They're dirty and disgusting; the people are foul of mouth, body, and countenance. So we weren't going to go. But the idiots that control these things contrived to spit in my face, because they moved the location of the fair to Bayfront Park, where there is this awesome playground that Josh loves.

Of course, it's hard to be faithful to a wooden castle and slides when there's a carnival within arms reach. So we went. I armed myself with Purel and resolved to press on. This? Is a bigger city than the one whence we came. So the people at the fair? Like three times as foul. I speak of the people both running the rides and going on them, for the most part. I don't know what it is about the Zipper and Tilt-a-Whirl that attracts degenerates by the droves, but wow, is it powerful. Like moths to a flame.

I realize that not everyone is as preoccupied by cleanliness and decorum as I. That's fine. I am usually able to keep myself and my children away from places of less than stellar repute. The fair only comes once a year after all. And when I do have to enter into these breeding grounds for germs and disorder, I usually have spent the previous several days amassing an arsenal of cleaning products, thick skin, and blinders to help me ignore goings on I would rather not see.

But I just could not ignore what happened last night, and now I'm thankful we weren't killed. See, I wasn't prepared last night, I didn't know we were going to the carnival. Though admittedly, prepared or no, I would not have let this go unattended. We were standing in line to take Josh down the giant slide - you know, the super dirty one with the burlap sacks that haven't been washed since the dawn of time? Anyway, while I was busy willing our immune systems to beef up, I heard this woman freak. out. I won't repeat her language because I cannot bring myself to, but use your imagination. Every other word was the F word. She laced everything with these horrible insults about the stupidity and laziness of the person she was talking to. She threatened to leave this person at the fair and never come back. I was steadfastly ignoring this tirade until I heard a whimper.

This creature was screaming these obscenities and insults at her daughter. Who could not have been more than three. The girl's offense? She lost her bracelet for riding rides unlimitedly.

I. Lost. It.

I didn't raise my voice, but I'm not sure I ever unclenched my teeth.

Threatening to leave your three year old here because she lost her bracelet? Have you gone completely mad? What do you do if she spills her milk? Kick her in the head? Here's what you're going to do, Princess. You are going to get down on eye level with that little girl and tell her that you don't know what came over you, that you are sorry, and that you love her. You will tell her that you would not hurt her for the world. Then you're going to let her ride as much as she wants, even if you have to buy twenty more bracelets.

As I was getting more heated, telling her what a soulless beast she was, I didn't notice her twenty seven sisters gathering around her. I further failed to notice that they all weighed three tons and were smacking their fists into opposite palms. Not that it would have stopped me.

But it was a little sticky for awhile. They screamed at me and I responded in kind, more quietly but just as tough. Eventually they were thrown out of the fair on threat of the police being called. Which was good, because they definitely would have squashed me in another minute or two. But I will not stand by and allow a child to be treated so horribly. In fact, I risked life and limb one more time by watching the car they all piled into (no seat belts! not even a car seat!) and I took down their license plate and called CPS.

Don't mess with me when I have to go the carnival without fair warning. The results are just not pretty.