Fresh Out

Two days ago I was hating myself for not having texting in my plan.  Because waaaay over in Tennessee little Clara Lou was born, and she was there in all her blonde-haired glory making those tiny squeaking noises in a glass bed, but I couldn't see her because we aren't texters, and we don't get videos from our friends on our phones. Or pictures from our sisters after their babies are born.**

And, duuuuude.  I was really missing out.

Is it even fair for a kid to have such good hair, hours out of the womb?  I thought it was supposed to be all greasy and cotton candy-like. 

Look at that pout face!  Later this month I'm flying to Knoxville to see her, bite her face, and rifle through all her baby clothes.  She's the first baby in our family!  We already love her so much.

**That's right, Sis.  I linked to your blog, who's been sleeping ever-so-soundly for years.  I even poked around at Rilo Kiley and Feist, and I think may have disturbed her because she yawned at me.  Maybe it's time to shake that thing to life again with some pictures of your nursery and your baby as she grows.  And stories about giving birth and the first time June steps on her head.

Cheese and Fruit

Several days ago I was emailing my friend Jess, saying how I really don't care what my kid is like - as long as he or she isn't too serious, knows how to have a conversation with adults, and has an appreciation for good cheese.  That last part I wasn't even thinking about, it just came out.  Little did I know, I was about to meet The Coolest Kid in the Whole World and he would prove my own point back to me.

It started when I got a call from good ol' Williamsburg.  It was my friend Jen saying she and Matt were coming through the area on their way to a big airshow in Osh Kosh, and would we want to hang out, maybe grab dinner?  That turned into yes! and then they were going to be spending the night and bringing their baby Ian, fifteen months old.  Matt is a commercial airline pilot (and Ian, by necessity, is quite a Road Warrior we later learned) and they go where the wind takes them when they get the chance.  The night before they came, Dustan and I were in the guest room setting up a Pack n' Play we had borrowed for little Ian to crash out in.  Thaaaaaat was interesting.  It's the first time I've ever set up a Pack n' Play and this is what I learned.  There are rules for such assembly.  Rules that must be obeyed.  If you don't read the directions and follow them, someone's baby is getting a leg snapped off at the knee.  After the ninth "Why...aren't....the sides....LOCKING??" we decided to read the secret manual.  We got told by a Pack n' Play.  And afterwards, our eyes met, mirroring the vacant feeling of having been mastered by baby gear.  It sucked, and I'm not looking forward to that happening again.

I was sitting on the couch thinking a little bit later and started hollering my thoughts back towards the bedroom for Dustan to hear.  "I hope that little baby likes us!"  Pause.  "I mean, I hope he's a good boy.  I hope he's not a monster."  Another pause.  "Because I know Matt and Jen are cool...but what if they don't make him mind, and he pulls Trail's ears and stuff?"  Now I'm not waiting for a response.  "Cause you know how sometimes kids mess their parents up, no matter how cool they were at the beginning.  And what if the music keeps him up all night?  Did you tell them we're above a bar?" 


Ok, so I'm in the bathroom blowing my hair when they get here and when I come out, there's Matt and Jen and Ian.  Immediately it was awesome.  I knew they hadn't been ruined by their kid.  They were happy with him, but not overly.  Jen put him on the bar in the kitchen and he said, "Blueberries," and started cramming his face full of blueberries.  We greeted each other and Ian just knelt there, eating busily.  He looked up at me and caught my eye and said "Camera."  He had big brown eyes and a shaggy mop of hair.  I thought of Fievel on The American Tale.

Jen was telling us he eats everything.  She gave him salmon sushi and he devoured it and wanted more.  She calls it her 'expensive experiement.'  Now I'm kinda eyeballing this kid because he just got way more interesting.  Jen points to one of the cheeses on the tray and goes "Ian, what's this?"  I was totally unprepared for his response.  He looks at it and goes "Ha..varti."

Really, Ian?  I was like (to Dustan) "See?" and then (to God) "Jesus, please let our kid be this cool!" and then (to Jen) "Does this mean I need to get my Ph.D in physics?"  Because...she, um, has that, and is a rocket scientist for NASA.  So maybe that's why her fifteen-month-old has so many words in his bank.  Either way, I was totally charmed.

But speaking of the whole fifteen-month-old thing, remember that one time I was busting on mom's for speaking in a weird time warp language?  I get it now.  I'm in the Club.  Because today, I'm 12 weeks pregnant.  In real-people terms, that means three months.  But in preggo terms, it means I'm starting to leave my first trimester and enter my second trimester.  Hopefully, I will also leave behind the gags and the pukes and the cravings and the interminable wasteland that the first trimester has been.  I'm not 10 weeks, I'm not 11 weeks, definitely NOT 13 weeks, so...that's how it goes.  I can't tell you I'm three months pregnant because even though that means everything to you, it means nothing to me.  12 weeks means my Blueberry is going to Fruit Graduation today and becoming a lime!  She's already gone from blueberry to grape to strawberry to kumquat to fig, according to my updates from Babycenter.  And that's why every time I read those updates, I really really really want a smoothie.  (Except today, when she becomes a lime, and I can only think of that Corona billboard).

That's my fruit news, in other fruit news - like what kind of fruit, Sis?  Pineapple?  Watermelon?  (cringing)  Sis is about to have a real live baby.  Check out her dreamy baby shower.

Starts with "BL" and rhymes with "thud"

Two days ago changed my life.  You'll never believe what I did.   

I gave blood without crying, passing out, or needing a large woman in scrubs to wave smelling salts in front of my nose.  Smelling salts?  Yup - ammonia is called that in the real world, not just in Anne of Green Gables.  When The Deed was done, I looked over and saw my FOUR tubes of blood and right there on the tray beside my arm were two little packets labeled: Smelling Salts.  Now, if I had seen those packets before I had given blood, be assured they would have worked such mental magic on me, I would have passed out immediately.  Or had a panic attack thinking It's this bad. It's so bad I will need to be revived with something pungent. She's expecting this. Just give in to the fear, Betsy.

I tried to give blood in high school.  Not get my blood drawn - no.  Tried to actually give blood away in the form of a charitable donation, like a pint or something, to anybody out there (excluding Jehovah's Witnesses) who might need a blood transfusion.  What ensued was laughable.  I started by eating a king-sized Rice Crispy Treat, the kind in bright blue foil.  (Those things are delicious!) Then my friend Andrea gave me a pep-talk and I sat down in a chair and a nurse told me she needed to prick me for a drop a blood to get a sample and would I prefer her to prick my fingertip or my earlobe?  I chose the earlobe.  I know, I know, why did I do that?  So close to the brain and the central nervous system, but it seemed less painful and out of sight.  Besides - a drop!  A single drop of blood.  So she pricks me and starts to milk my earlobe like it's the udder of a cow.  I remember this moment with the kind of clarity that only comes as a result of trying really hard not to remember something.  She asked "Have you had sex with anybody from Nigeria over the age of 17?"  I didn't know which part of that question to focus in on.  No, no...no.  I couldn't focus at all.  Then she says "You have a very nice resting heartrate, do you exercise often?"  And I said sweetly, "I run cross country." That was supposed to mean:  I'm freakin' invincible!  I'm strong and healthy and have a resting heartrate of 60!  I eat bananas for breakfast and there's nothing that you in your scrubs can find out about me that isn't medically satisfactory!  (Pride comes before...)

And then she goes "Ashbrook is a lovely middle name.  Is that a family name?"  And that's when I realized that I was leaning very, very far to the left, out into space, off my chair, away from the nurse who was milking my earlobe, away from everything.  Then I was flat on the ground and she was standing over me.  Do you remember those little slideshow-watching plastic glasses you used to hold up to the light and look through as a kid?  If you clicked the lever down to get to the next slide, it would go black and then the next slide would come up.  This was like clicking the lever slooooooowly down to black.  And the next slide never came up.  I passed out because a nurse pricked my earlobe.  I was wheeled over to the snack table where they gave me sugar cookies and Mountain Dew in a tiny Dixie cup.  Other people were there, replenishing themselves because they'd just reclined in a plastic lawn chair and given half their body weight in blood to help out the sick.  I was just a pathetic sugar cookie moocher.

The next time I had an... incident was when I first went to the gynecologist.  I thought they were just gonna take a look around and say "You can get married now!"  I had no idea they were going to do bloodwork.  But they did, and I was in this teeeeeny tiny room.  The tiniest room in the whole hospital.  In the whole world!  And the walls were white.  The only thing that wasn't white was my nurse Wanda's scrubs.  They were Disney.  Wanda was very, very large and she had a grey crewcut.  Right when they started the bloodwork, I spotted out and buried my face right into her cleavage.  She pushed my forehead up and waved around the smelling salts.  Do you remember those little collapsible toys that you could push the bottom in and the toy would collapse and then you released it and it would pop back up?  Having smelling salts coerce you back to consciousness is like slooooowly collapsing and then Hey Betsy Pop Back Up.

The last tale I will tell (and I have many) was just a few years ago.  Dustan had this bright idea that we were gonna get some kind of special life insurance that we do not even HAVE any more, so right there is enough to make me angry all over again.  Pointless bloodletting!  There's nothing worse.  So I show up to work, because this is where InsuranceMan has agreed that we should do our simple paper-signing.  Dustan had already been talking to InsuranceMan and told him, "My wife has a real problem with the whole blood thing, so, is this gonna be a bloodwork thing?" and this is when LyingMan replied "It's just a finger prick thing."  At the time I was working at a radio station.  Now, this wasn't an uptight place at all.  But it was serious enough to have doors, a conference room, computers and hundreds of thousands of dollars of songs pumping out every second.  We wore jeans, but we also worked like crazy.  So not unusual that when I got there early to "have my finger pricked," other people (like my boss) were already there working.  In comes what I was really hoping would be a plump female wearing scrubs and a gold cross necklace.  Nope.  A man in street clothes with slicked down brown-grey hair.  A polo, too tight.  FakeNurseMan.  I can't stand this man already.  We sit down at the conference table and he puts a rubber strap around my arm.  All my arm hairs pull.  I burst into tears when he asks me to pump my fist.  He looks at Dustan like, "Women are nut jobs" and I literally RUN to the bathroom.  I do all the business I can do in there, and I'm weeping uncontrollably.  Dust comes to get me and was super nice and convincing with shushes and pats, and I go back to the conference room.  I had to leave again (seriously) because I couldn't pull myself together.  This time Dust tries the military approach.  "You are being ridiculous," he tells me.  "You are behaving like a child."  So I go back to the conference room and sit down sheepishly.  I ask if we can go outside and do this because this room is just so SMALL.  FakeNurse says no, but he lets me open a window.  He gets the strap around my arm, I pump it up, I'm strong, I'm powerful, I can do this.  I look at Dustan and start to sing really loud "IN SLEEP HE SANG TO ME, IN DREAMS HE CAME..." and I make him sing with me, the Phantom of the Opera song.  It was so loud my boss comes out of his office.  He just kinda looked around, staring, and then stood quietly by.  When the needle was out, the whole holding-the-cottonball thing made me just as woozy, so I hung my head out the window and resorted to "Then SAY YOU'LL SHARE with me one love one lifetime..."  It was the nuttiest bloodletting of all.  I had no concern for my professional environment, or poor showtunes-sing-along Dusty, or my kind and understanding boss, and definitely not FakeNurse.  I hated him, and we cancelled that dumb insurance.

But hey, so Monday, right? I had my first baby appointment!  It was great.  Allie, my midwife, was determined to find Blueberry's heartbeat for us and that was awesome.  It sounded busy and frenzied, reminded me of a woman power-walking on an indoor track with pursed lips and sweaty bangs.  Like "I don't know what you're doing here, but I know what I'm doing here."  So we eavesdropped a little bit and then got on with the important stuff.  Like me giving blood without passing out.

I wasn't sure what to expect.  In my estimation, the needle-blood experiences have only gotten worse with time, and this time marked the pinnacle of adulthood.  It's not about you any more, you're a grown-up, making babies and paying parking tickets.  My lady was nothing like Wanda.  She was fit and had snappy brown eyes, a perfectly sleek ponytail, and a very loud talking voice.  Megan.  I knew she was gonna do me right.  Megan didn't mess around.  She had posted loads of pictures of pit bulls dressed in rain coats and tutus and other stuff she'd ripped out of pet calendars to amuse those of us who need amusing while bloodletting.  She told me I had "a nice vein."  Not gonna lie, that almost did me in, but I bit my finger and thought about this van full of handicapped kids I saw on my way there.  How many procedures had they had?  What kind of selfish overblown dramatic sensationalized person was I, who couldn't sit through some painless bleeding for the sake of my very own Blueberry?  For all of you who have a similar problem, I recommend this type of self-loathing to help you along in the process.  The whole: "I'm invincible!  I hiked a big long hike!  I so got this!" kind of pyschology doesn't seem to do the trick.  That's one of the few things I know now that I didn't know in high school.

That and a 10-week-old baby en utero has fingernails!

The I'm-Going-To-Have-A-Baby Post

This is when I tell the internet I'm pregnant.  Pretty fitting, coming on the heels of that last post, huh?  You can only do so much with a hot husband in a workshop filled with Rocket Rockers.  On the way home today I saw a lady walking a very old dog.  I mean, the lady was getting up there herself.  But the dog, which used to be black, was now a splotchy gray.  His legs were skinny and his body was lumpy and I'm almost positive there were big white hairs sprouting out from under his doggie chin.  The lady had on a sun visor (something I forgot even existed) and a ginormous tee shirt with a row of seashells across the front.  One day I'll look like that lady.  (One day I'll look like that dog.)

But not today.  Today the dew is still on the ground, and it's the first baby.  (Maybe - I hardly believe it's real).  We will look back on pictures of ourselves now and say things like "That was before you were born!"  Nothing sags yet (I said yet all you cluckers) and everything is brand new.  My little baby is the size of a grape, and she just outgrew her blueberry status, which is throwing everything off because we had just gotten used to calling her Berry Balkcom.  And yeah, I'm saying "she" because I want a girl.  There are stacks of unread books, a little container of unworn clothes and a baby backpack for hiking that is so new it still smells like plastic.  I look up and see miles and miles of uncharted territory, never before navigated waters, lots of places we've never been to or seen.  We eat a few squares of expensive chocolate and tortilla chips for dinner if we want.  We can't enforce a good bedtime to save our lives.  We feel frazzled if going out of town also requires calling a kennel.  Bless our little hearts, right?

So just a few days ago at work I discover that this guy I work with also co-owns this amazing company called Heritage Foods.  They provide all kinds of well-raised beef, pork, tuna, poultry, chickens and eggs to amazingly rich people by getting it from small local farms all over the Midwest and Virginia.  (Love when my world makes a circle like that).  As I perused the website I couldn't help but be amazed all over again at all the cool things so many cool people are out there doing.  College-quitting, company-starting, jet-setting beatniks who change careers midstream and die with ratty passports.

People that invent things.  That other people actually pay money to use.

People who own major league ball teams, who produce the TV show that millions of people watch, who decide it would be cool if all our jeans tapered at the bottom now.  

People who turn trash into energy for a living (and graciously pick up AT thru-hikers in the meantime).

People who've lived their whole life in a cranberry bog in Nantucket.

People who take a heart or a kidney or a lung out of one body and put it into another one.  And it works.

People who follow their guitar across the whole nation.

People who dive down to the bottom of the sea, have tan feet all year round and never eat anything out of a package.  White fish, mangoes, banana mash.

Those with personal chefs, those with best-selling memoirs, those with unkempt dreds, those who breed labradoodles.

Mountain climbers, zipline riders, horseback herders, hitch-hikers, lollygaggers and chocolatiers.

Anyhow, I just love the variety of things going on around me.  Suddenly I feel like being pregnant fits into the category of amazing things.  Because a teeny tiny blueberry-grape that just grew eyelids and has a microscopic pancreas could very well grow up to be one of these people.  Isn't that a cool thought?

The Rocket Rocker, Take Two

I don't really get the obsession with kids' toys, quite honestly.  It's like a man designing high heels or a bra.  It's like vegetarians who smoke.  Or homeschoolers with bad attitudes.  We don't have kids yet but oh if we did they'd have the coolest toys and most imaginatively explosive playrooms ever.  In the meantime, it's this weird paradox.  Gepetto in his workshop churning out stoves and rockets and wooden cradles for - everyone else's kids.

It's funny because we do know a few things about babies.  Diapers, burping, and some of them don't like scratchy beards, (DUSTAN).  But we have no clue when it comes to little people.  So the whole time Dust is making toys we're all "How high does a two year old stand?" and "Would a six year old really play with this?  Can a six year old even fit into this?  WILL ANYONE'S KID PLAY WITH THIS TOY?"  To the point that when the toy is all said and done, to see a little body playing with it is elating.  We look at each other like It really works!

The imaginings of the Rocket Rocker took shape soon after the little stove, and in one take Dustan busted this puppy out.

 

The Rocket Rocker has serious rocking capacity, but the thing kids loved most was the interactive joy stick that pivots in all directions.  I think the hardest part of wooden toys is the balance between making it interactive while allowing for imagination.  You want to keep it simple, but it's tempting to keep adding stuff.  Makes me totally understand how someone somewhere made a really cute doll and was like "But she needs to eat, drink, cry, pee, and say Mama, too!" 

Dust ran the RR by Lindsay when it was in the finishing stages and she's the one who suggested he leave the backend open, so another child could make use of it as a little seat.  She was totally right!  (Leave it to a mother of a 2, 4 and 5 year old).  At the grand opening of RG Natural Babies, where the RR is on display, the ninos really did that.  It really worked!

what started as The Rocket Rocker turned into Braindump

Some days I find myself reaching out for relationship on the internet, only to keep coming up empty.  I hate that feeling.  A vacant inbox, no Facebook alerts, blogs abandoned, nothing good to Google.  How dull, how lonely, how dumb.  Oh look!  An email!  From Urban Outfitters.  You know it's bad when you start reading your own spam.

Days like this I'm clicking around in my inbox, remembering fondly what it was to be caught up in mundane hiking, only sometimes interspersed with lightning storms, head wounds and rattlesnakes.  The AT was so far from anything civilized, climate-controlled, slick, shiny, modern or functional.  It was a little freaky, very earthy, and while I wouldn't describe it as survival, it sure made the concept of self-entertainment irrelevant.  Completely opposite of hulu or YouTube.  No chair-sitting (ever!) or double-clicking, zero access to stand-up comedy or tidbits of news or a friend request or noaa.gov (and baby, I missed you out there).  Our work and play were the same, we wore the same underwear for days, and even dirty fingernails felt clean if dunked in a clear stream.  In other words, life in a one-room house you carry on your back was inevitably simple.   

Now I poke around at flashy buttons and unread links looking for stuff, for constant somewhat-meaningless connections that make me feel tied in all directions.  I just don't want to end up liking it that way.  I don't think you need to hike the Appalachian Trail to realize this - at all.  I think we all know it.  It's just that the trail forced it out, wrung it out and left us happy in the back of a dirty pick-up with a cold soda and no cell service.  I want to remember it because it's so easy to forget.

There are so many great connections to be made out there in cyber world, and I don't want to come off as ungrateful for the good side.  It's just that...too much is wearying.  It has nothing to do with blogging or sending emails or pulling up four different ways of preparing the brussel sprouts I just bought.  It has everything to do with being bored or lonely and hoping what I find on Facebook can cheer me up.  Just the thought of that makes me want to throw my computer out my second-story window in slow motion and pour my heart out like water in the presence of the Lord.  Also in slow motion.  Making up stories as I go and carving something out of wood or marble.  The very opposite of something clever or mildly amusing coming to me.

I'll go for the essence of it, but I would never ever do that in reality.  This computer is on loan to me, and I don't even let myself bring it in the kitchen when I'm on allrecipes.com.  Just for the record, JJ.

Serious Catching Up

Right.  An oil spill, sushi making, Jane Goodall, the Rocket Rocker, houseguests and derelict blogging.  Where was I?

So my Sis came in April, and her visit timed with not only her birthday but also the fifth month of her pregnancy.  Fifth month?  I think.  Pregnant ladies make it hard because they speak in weeks, not months.  Week 14, Week 28, Week 36 - milestones that mean nothing to me and require endless dividing by four.  It cracks me up that this carries over into the way people talk about their kid's age.  After the baby is born, they start speaking in months, not years.

Me: He's so cute! How old is he?

Random Grocery Shopper: Thanks, twenty-two months.

Really?  Cause I mean, technically you're not a liar if you just round up to TWO.  Right? 

Aaaaannyway.  Sis and I took Trail for walks by the lake, picked up rocks on the beach, envisioned ourselves in everything Anthropologie was offering but bought nothing, and then she taught me how to make sushi.  You know I always say, give a man a sushi roll and he eats lunch.  Teach him to make his own sushi and .... you take all the mystery out.  But that's okay, because I know I've been paying way too much for my all-time favorite food for way too long.  So now I can go whip it up any ol' time I want.

I love this picture because this pregnancy was a last-minute decision and yet came right on time.  Sis has a big belly and turns down good coffee, but otherwise it just feels like a very normal progression for her.  I'm so happy for her and Mike!

Sushi.

Have you guys done this before?  I'm behind the curve on everything in the kitchen - except homemade ice cream cakes - and now I feel straight up cocky about how cool it is to make your own sushi.  Observe:

This is the rice part, and for me it was definitely the most complicated.  Since this visit, I made a load of sushi for Brian and Lindsay's birthday on my own, and the rice was almost a disaster.  What started as a soup in the rice cooker ended up in the garbage, and I used the old-fashioned pot-on-the-stove method instead.  Whether you do your rice successfully in a rice cooker (which is what Sis used when she came, pictured above) or on the stove, after it's the perfect consistency make sure to air it out.  We used casserole dishes but the sushi rice bag recommends a 'big wooden bowl.'  Then you add some rice wine vinegar and a smidge of sugar.  It makes the rice sticky enough to handle and gives it that awesome sushi sheen.

Sorry such dim fuzzy pics.  These are the only ones I got of this shot, and it's an important part.  You lay out your nori (sheet of dry seaweed, found in the ethnic aisle of any grocery store) and sprinkle with a tiny bit of saltwater, to liven it up.  Then you pat down the rice on one side.  This, aside from the meticulous slicing of veggies, is the most time-consuming part.  Get the rice even to the edge of each side of the nori.

Then flip the rice side of the nori down (unless you want the seaweed on the outside - I think that's a maki roll) and line up what you want on the inside.  Above was Sis's pina roll - red pepper, pineapple and avocado.  The finished product is drizzled with coconut milk.

I should mention that in order to roll sushi you need a bamboo mat.  We covered ours with plastic wrap.  I'm sure sushi chefs everywhere just lost their balance.  But we didn't want rice getting stuck in the cracks.  My coworker told me she rolls her sushi without a roll, so I guess you can do it however it works!  That's pretty cool.  Hey, you could take your avocado and your nori and roll up some sushi on an airplane.  Or while driving.  Or while texting AND driving.  And rolling.

Here's one of the birthday sushi rolls with shrimp, mango, cucumber, red pepper and more...

And one with cream cheese, crab and asaparagus

One last thing, before I end my sushi fanfare - because you can't have sushi without it!

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

From good eats to good drinks...I've said before that I work for Rishi Tea - it's pretty much the coolest company ever.  So cool, in fact, that a few weeks ago I spent an evening in Chicago with Jane Goodall. We were celebrating the partnership of the Jane Goodall Institute with Rishi's Masala Chai.  It seems pretty blog worthy, so I thought I'd share.

Rishi joined up with Roots & Shoots, Jane Goodall's program designed like a grassroots movement of young people encouraged to think about 3 things they can do to help 1) the community 2) the environment and 3)....I forgot the third one.  Animals maybe?  Yeah, animals!  Of course.  Anyway Jane was awesome, she showed up with her famous now-grey ponytail and spoke with such articulation and poise that I deem her the Mother Teresa of the Animal Kingdom.  Woman after my own heart.  After hearing her talk about chimps, I came home and gave my Baba Gurl an extra long hug.  Only Baba Gurl ain't got no thumbs.

The connection between Roots & Shoots and Rishi Tea are endless.  The origin of the tea in Rishi's Masala Chai blend is an impoverished area in China.  Because Rishi is a fair trade company, we've done lots to help on that end, obviously by buying the product they're selling at fair prices, but also by building a school that is now up and running and educating a lot of kids.  If you want to geek out and learn more about Rishi and fair trade, here's the Rishi blog with some awesome videos of Joshua - owner and tea enthusiast - in Hubei.

Enough of the uneducated kids and expensive tea.  The real, most important, most pressing thing is that our Williamsburg peeps will be here in like...9 hours.  And I have to get OFF my computer and run around the house, pick up all the dog hair, stuff it into a little bag and then hide it in the closet like it doesn't exist (a.k.a. vacuuming).  I also have to throw another coat of red paint on the Rocket Rocker, Dustan's latest hand-built kid's toy.  He is debuting it this weekend at the grand opening of an organic baby store down the street!  So basically Tee and Christoph are gonna get here and have to go meet the mayor of Racine while I buzz around a small red wooden rocket with my camera, not unlike a mom at a high school graduation.

I will definitely be back with pictures.  Maybe even some pricing...

One more of the small people in my life

I stole this off Lindsay's Facebook because it's so excruciating.  This is Eve, and she is a star. 
And she totally knows it.

Not-One-But-Two (of everything in this picture)

 

 This is Addy, she's my neighbor. I love this picture!

Placeholder: The Hotness