Bijou Market Triumph!

I did it!

Bijou Market was a success. It was held in a huge brick building, with around 50 vendor booths. My sister Julie went with me, and I was glad she did—I felt super out-cooled by the hipster moms that filled the sales floor.

I finally got to try on some wooden Tumbleweeds sunglasses. I thought I looked pretty fly, but my nephew Theo thought it looked a little off; he made sure to make the picture extra blurry so I wouldn't embarrass myself. What a nice boy.

Speaking of, it is so nice to have baby Theo around. Nephews are way more fun than children I actually have to care for; Theo exploded his diaper before we went to the Bijou Market, and I just handed him off to his mommy. Awesome.

I gave myself a budget of $25 to spend, which I ensured by bringing cash only. It's a good thing, too, because I was loving everything I saw. Like, this ceramic hippo display thingy. I wanted to buy it for Caleb so badly!

Theo tried on several things for us, including a jillion baby headbands and this adorable fox mask. Julie wanted to put all of the girly stuff on him, and I'll admit, he looked adorable. Darn you, Y chromosome!

I couldn't back up enough to get an appropriate picture of these, but there were painted rulers leaning against a pillar. But not just any rulers—these were HUGE rulers! The numbers indicate feet, not inches. I loved walking past them.

And many thanks to Diana of Livy Love Designs for letting me know that Bijou Market was happening. You may remember me talking about how much I've already purchased from her etsy store, so I didn't buy anything at her booth. I was looking forward to meeting her, but I didn't realize that this was the kind of craft show that didn't have the sellers there! Bummer time.

And for those of you who were wondering what a hipster mom looked like, I took one picture to show you. These girls in front of me were wearing easily 5" of platform shoes, along with their belted skirts and cheetah-print blouses. I was easily out-cooled. 

Speaking of cool, how cool is it to have a chandelier at a craft show?

Way to go, Bijou Market.

Bony Bumps in the Road

This little Lu is 13 months old.

And earlier today, I thought that there might be complications to her seeing any other milestones.

You see, she recently developed a bony bump on the back of her head. I brought it up to our doctor at her well-baby appointment last week, and she referred us to receive an ultrasound. Just to be safe, of course.

Last night, I joked around with Caleb, saying, "I don't really feel too worried. How dumb will I feel tomorrow when Lucy has a brain tumor or juvenile cancer." I believe I ate a bite of ramen after I said that. I didn't feel that deep-in-the-bones fear that precedes something bad.

Cut to this morning, when me and two nurses were holding Lucy belly-down during the ultrasound. It turns out that little loves don't care for getting ultrasounds on the back of their heads—who knew.

I slept poorly last night, so instead of adding my calming cooing to that of the nurses', I could only focus on the computer screen with the interior images. There was definitely something causing that bony bump. I could not wrap my brain around what was happening and felt completely numb. At one point, I even complimented one of the nurses' electric blue nail polish; I tried to make it smooth by adding a "I know this isn't a typical time to say this, but I really like..." in front of it.

The radiologist assured me that it wasn't a cyst in Lucy's head. She tried to add some encouraging words before finishing our appointment with, "I will admit...I'm mystified."

The hours that followed, though few, were agonizing. Jack was moaning and groaning about every single thing and Lucy was still recovering from the trauma of the ultrasound. I found out that someone from my hometown committed suicide and was found in a gruesome way, bringing that family's suicide count to two children (the other was her older brother, who I had a crush on during high school). And I'll be honest, I am feeling a little tender about Whitney Houston's unfortunate death.

Add all of that to the last few months of various tragic happenings around me, and I was so angry at the world.

And then I got a phone call.

There is a benign lump in Lucy's head. The radiologist said that it was causing a divot in Lucy's skull, but that it did not need to be removed at this time. My doctor suggested that we take it out anyway, since the last thing anyone needs is a divoted head.

I feel so blessed that it was nothing ultra serious. For a little while today, it felt like everything I dealt with was super serious. I don't need anything extra serious in my life. Serious serious serious.

Meet Nephew Theo!

My newest nephew, Theodore Leonard Miller came into the world at 9:20 pm on January 23rd—he weighs 8 lbs. 2 oz. and is either 20" or 22" long (depending on if you ask his mom or dad).

My sister Julie was a pro at birthing her first child and is so freaking beautiful.

Theo is rocking a sweet birthmark on his belly, which Jack said looks like a "mud pile." And he's right—Theo has a cool mud pile.

Lucy was so intrigued by this tiny guy. Neither of my kids wanted to hold Theo, but Lucy definitely wanted to know where his feet were at all times. Jacko just thought the hospital room was cool. And he's right—it was a cool room.

Now I have two nephews from my side of the family and two nieces from Caleb's side of the family. Jacko calls them all cousins. And he's right—he now has four awesome cousins.

We are so blessed and so happy to have Theo in our family. He's a dreamboat!

"Baby Jack"/"Baby Lucy" Dance

When my sister Julie got married in Spring 2010, all of the Chatfields descended upon southern California and got their party on. Jack was 16 months old and I was about two seconds pregnant with Lucy. The week was stressful, as are most wedding weeks, but it spawned something magical.

The "Baby Jack" dance.

When one deals with small children, animals, or similarly-tempermented people, one tends to sing silly songs in order to appease them. Jack and Lucy have been the recipients of several songs about diaper changing or "please just stop being so energetic, I'm the tiredest mommy in the world." But other songs have just been non-sensical, as is this "Baby Jack" song.

When it was first sung, Jack immediately started "dancing" like in the first part of the video below. He is not fond of dancing, but he has a great prowess for anything physical. I have tried to do the "Baby Jack" dance several times; my quads have screamed and my eyes have watered—that dance is not for the mentally weak!



That dance has been retired, now that Jack is twice that age and can actually walk without falling. The song lives on, but only in sporadic bouts of nostalgia.

Enter Lucy.

She just happens to be a baby, which makes the "Baby Jack" song perfect to sing to her with a few tweaks. Namely, we change the "Jack" to "Luce"; dang you, double-syllable names and your inability to fit into already-created nonsense songs!

When Lucy spontaneously started doing this dance to our "Baby Lucy" song, my jaw dropped. Could this dance be genetic? Could it be innate in the Flanagan children? Or could it be that Jack has been teaching her behind closed doors?

Whatever the case may be, 12-month-old Lucy can now enter the pantheon of videographic evidence of the "Baby _____" dance.

Little Lucy F. Turns One!

Newborn Lucy, 2010

My Post-Christmas Lucy, 2011

Today is Lucy's birthday!

My little love Lucy Loo is celebrating her birthday by wearing a beautiful new dress, enjoying her favorite lunch (ramen noodles!), and taking her birthday cake party to Mike and Kelsae at the hospital.

She is a ball of fire, actively participating in the raucous fun and games with Jack. She also is a girly girl; she loves floofy skirts, saying "Hi" in the phone, and is a sweet mommy to her dolls. Her favorite words include Wow, Whoa, Hey, and Thanks.

Lucy-la is a snuggly girl and a fun addition to our household. She is the best after-Christmas present we have ever received!

Something I'm Thinking About: Misery Loves Company

I am writing this blog post to avoid having to deal with the baby blowout laundry that just came into being. As I was wiping the armpits of my sweet, precious daughter, I found myself wishing that there was some other parent in the world who was having to do something similar with their child. I adore this baby and I typically don't mind changing dirty diapers, but on this Saturday morning, I just didn't want to do it.

My desire for someone else to feel just as put off by a major task of parenthood reminded me that I haven't had the best week. I miss my family, I want these random snow storms to end, and I am not looking like a million bucks, to say the least. I know I am lucky that we don't often have tornadoes in Utah and that both of my kids are finally healthy at the same time. I am safe and prosperous, as far as a majority of the world is concerned.

But, y'all, I have had to face some demons this week.

This photo is me and Jack, circa early 2010. I am smiling, but I can see the sparkle missing from my eyes. And what was not to sparkle about? I was snuggling under a Mickey Mouse blanket with my cute son and we were hydrated thanks to that bottle of water! So many of my goals were on their way to being accomplished (weight loss, making friends, helping Jack learn to talk), but I look a mess. I very purposely did not do my hair or makeup, wear cute clothes, or go outside too often. It was around this time that I had to admit to myself that my undiagnosed, but probably, postpartum depression was too much to bear. I went to our family doctor, who saved my life by prescribing daily Prozac, and began to notice a change in my demeanor immediately. Within a week, I was rocking mascara and donning my favorite tops. Living life felt really great.

This is a photo of me and Caleb, a month after I was on medication. As you can see, I'm not wearing makeup again, and my hair is a little undone, but I look like a different person. In my eyes, you can see life and happiness and excitement. Shortly after this, I found out I was pregnant with little Lucy. For my whole pregnancy, I was terrified that my postpartum depression would return and that having a newborn around again would just plain suck.

Look at that face, everyone. Baby Lucy was not an instant burden and her arrival did not mark another dark period in my life. I'll admit, I look pretty tired in this photo, but it's all in the eyes. I was also infinitely happy. And all thanks to some attitude adjustments, a great medication, and the realization that I deserve really good things in life.

Right now, I am back to a no-makeup, no-hairdo, sweatpants kind of feeling. However, I can honestly say that it isn't because of my body chemistry or my past history or the devastating things going on in the world. I am proud to say that I can pinpoint the fact that I am not eating healthfully or moving a lot to almost all of my recent blahness.

I do not want my misery of postpartum depression to have any company. I had all of the symptoms and ignored them. There are currently a ton of people in my real life and my internet life who are having babies in the next few months. I want all of those ladies (and their partners) to keep an eye out for the symptoms of postpartum and get help if anything shows up. It is so easily ameliorated and any doctor will gladly help without judgment. When I was still healing, I found a ton of comfort in reading blogs like Dooce.com and Miss Carrots.

And, just for the record, I think I had such a negative reaction to the Royal Wedding because all I could think about was, "I'll bet Kate doesn't even want ANY of this and would rather run away to Vegas." But, that projecting of my own feelings of my wedding day is for another entry.

Progression of the Two-Year-Old Tantrum

"There is something inherently wrong with the world and therefore I'm ticked about it!"

"Do you see these teeth? They're gnashing!"

"...What's on TV? Wait, I like this."

"I guess you're right, Lucy. Things aren't so bad."

"Never mind. THINGS ARE HORRRRRRIBLE!"

Jack the Wheezy

Instead of taking a nap today, Jack and I took a walk up to the sheep pastures by our house.

Jack has been sick with a very mysterious, very constant cough for two months. He coughs so hard that he throws up, which has made the recent past extremely cabin fevery for us; I'm not going to take him out into the world when he could throw up at any second in a store or on a kid at the park! Jack has been quite valiant, still playing and having a good time in spite of this malady. I feel that I have also been doing well taking care of him, though I have missed out on seeing some cute newborn babies that I could infect with this mysterious disease.

We have made several doctor's visits to figure out this cough. The remedies we've received include Zyrtec for allergies, a nebulizer for asthma, and a liquid steroid as the "Pleeeeeease Just Stop Coughing" last resort. The steroid was prescribed today at the urgent care, and we are hoping that it has some effect on the cough. We know it does have some effect on his sleeping, however, because steroids for children as young as Jack make for some jittery times.

So, instead of taking a nap today, Jack and I went on a walk to the sheep pastures by our house. We live down the hill from a pasture that houses scads of sheep (and their lambs, since it's springtime!), a few horses, and a llama who wouldn't judge if Jack barfed all over after a coughing spree. I enjoyed the exercise, and Jack enjoyed trying to stick his arm through the fence to touch them. We even got our first sunburn of the Spring.

While Jack inspected the bugs on the sidewalk and chased after the birds building a nest in the tree, I had a strange memory come to mind. When I was in eighth grade, I took an advanced Algebra course with one of my all-time favorite teachers, Mr. Simpson. He was a former military man with an extremely wry sense of humor and a John Wayne gait with a geeky twist. In this class, there were several peers of mine that I wanted desperately to impress, including the then-man of my dreams. It seemed to me that during every test we took, I choked on my own spit and ended up having to stifle an extremely violent coughing fit. When the day of each chapter test approached, I would dread the upcoming embarrassment more than the testing of my Algebra knowledge. I doubt anyone in the class would remember that particular oddity, but being a teenager is so difficult and scarring that I know I will never forget it.

However, being a toddler is easy. If you cough or sneeze or barf, there is typically an adult around who is responsible for you and will therefore take it upon themselves to remedy your situation. If I had been a toddler taking Algebra, I would have coughed as loud as I had to and pinned it on my parents, who would have shrugged as if to say, "Hey, a girl's gotta cough, right?" I am glad my parents were smart enough, though, to not make me take Algebra as a two-year-old. And I am glad that I can be there for my son when he coughs, so he can feel comfortable coughing when he feels the need.

Instead of taking a nap today, Jack and I went on a walk to the sheep pastures by our house. It made for a really nice afternoon.

On Why I Hate April Fool's Day Or, I Did This to Myself

In early 2009, I was struggling.

Having a new baby was umpteen times harder than I expected, and going from a full-time job and full-time school to absolutely nothing was mind-numbing. I began to hate where I lived and question the life I had chosen for myself. Black clouds and uncertainty were the names of the game.

And in February of that year, with a two-month-old and a bad case of post-partum depression, I discovered that I was pregnant. During "that time," I told Caleb verbatim, "If we end up pregnant, I'm going to laugh right in your face." But when I saw that positive pregnancy test, I didn't laugh. When I plugged in the numbers and found out that my due date was at the end of November, I really didn't laugh. And when I did the math and figured out that I would have two children under a year apart from each other, I cried.

I eventually came around on the idea. On my birthday, March 30, I announced to my family that I was six weeks pregnant and that they should expect a crazy household in my neck of the woods for the next few years. Everyone was shocked, but happy for us. Two days later, on April 1, I could not resist the urge to announce the good news on all of the social media outlets. Pregnancy is one of the top two pranks pulled on April Fool's Day, and wouldn't everyone be surprised when this announcement was actually true! I felt it was a truly brilliant plan.

Fast forward about a month, when things fell apart so quickly. Medically speaking, I was diagnosed with a blighted ovum and told that I was no longer having a child. A couple years later, I am totally accepting of the situation and happy that I was able to finally become an adult through this trial. But dang it all, I cannot abide by April Fool's Day anymore. The mere thought of it makes me froth at the mouth, especially when I see people pretending to be pregnant. I am a grinch, I suppose, and I want to tell those folks that I hope they don't have a fake miscarriage of their fake pregnancy.

But, again, I brought this on myself.

Full of Randoms

Thanks to my heroic efforts of attending "I Am Number Four" on Wednesday, my husband rewarded me with a movie theater trip to see "The King's Speech." While I have always been a Colin Firth fan ("Pride and Prejudice" came out when I was ten!), I can honestly say that he has done some work that I don't care for too much. "Bridget Jones' Diary" and its sequel were teeth-grinding for this Zellweger detractor, and his work in "The Accidental Husband" did not help it at the box office.

But, "The King's Speech." His academy award is well-deserved, for his explosively passionate portrayal of a desperate and patriotic Englishman knocked me back on my heels more than once during the movie. The scene where he first enters Lionel Logue's office is so awkward and beautiful, that it's amazing Firth is the same man who brought the socially-apathetic Mr. Darcy to life. His supporting cast, of course, also gave command performances that I am glad I didn't miss; Geoffrey Rush and Helena Bonham Carter took characters that could have become cartoony (a capital A "Actor" and a doting royal wife) and gave them both the treatment of a loving tribute to the real life people upon which the characters are based.

Needless to say, I loved the movie and am hoping to add it to my movie collection someday.

And for a wonderful critique of the movie, check out Mark Blankenship's article on The Critical Condition.

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Lucy is a little over two months old, but I'll admit that there are days that it feels like she has been around forever! Miss Lucy has been a pro sleeper these last few days; she wakes up twice a night and is a little lady through both feedings. She has recently started to smile at Jack, Caleb, and me -- she doesn't even mind that Jack almost crushes her with his hugs and pulls out her arm from the socket when he helps her wave! I am constantly amazed that she is as amiable as she is, considering all of my newborn memories are colored with hellfire and brimstone. But, not everything is all peachy, all the time. Girlfriend can fart up a storm! She also had impetigo on both of her ears, which we cleared up with baby antibiotics and some strong scrubbing. We got ourselves a cool girl, though. Real cool.

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I am beginning to become really excited for our trip to Redlands in June for Kellie's graduation from high school. By then, it will be over a year since Jack and I have been in my hometown, a year and half since Caleb has been there, and Lucy will be experiencing California for the first time! When Jack was a baby, he was a road warrior, making four long car trips in his first year. I'm hoping that Lucy has also inherited the road tripping genes; Jack will really enjoy having a backseat buddy, so I think he'll be thrilled to keep her (and himself!) occupied.

But, more than for the kids' experience, I am stoked for my own! After reading this road trip post on Campfire Chic's blog, I am ready to enjoy the journey down Interstate 15. I have made that trip more times than I can count, up from California and down from Utah. A majority of the views consist of joshua trees, distant hills, and sand; Vegas is a bright point, as well as the McDonald's made out of train cars in Barstow. This time, I am hoping to see everything with new eyes. Luckily for me, that is easy when you have a two-year-old son around -- everything needs to be named and explained. And of course, being with my family in the house I grew up in is a big treat. June can't come soon enough!

Jack and Jett 4-Eva

I am the oldest of five sisters, with only eight years between me and my youngest sister. Almost all of my sisters have at least one cousin who is their age, almost to the exact day. My closest-aged cousin is a year older than I am, and we had very little contact with their family in my formative years. All of this exposition is here to lay out a foundation for the strong assertion that follows:

Jack and my nephew Jett don't live close to each other, and it blows.

Jett is two weeks younger than Jack, but they each have their own strengths that would be great evidence to prove that one or the other is actually the older, more mature one. Jett is a master linguist; he has been speaking so clearly for so long that I take it for granted when he talks to me in complete sentences like an adult. A party trick that was shown off many times during Jett's recent visit to Utah was a recitation of the "A is for apple pie" nursery rhyme -- each letter following A does something to the apple pie, all the way to Z. And Jett can recite it all. Jack is the muscle of the pair, being more physically agile and daring. Jack was crawling before Jett did, and he took advantage of that fact, as seen in exhibit A:

Jack's tactile way of loving Jett has continued to the present time. Jack gave his cousin so many tackling hugs at the beginning of February that it caused Jett to tell his mee-maw (my sister Shelley), "Jacko be gentle. Jacko be careful."

Though the two boys are different, their age also brings them together. Thomas the Tank Engine? Yes, our two-year-olds love him. Hot Wheels? Toddler boys will be boys. The mix of English words and jibber-jabber that only little children understand? They've got it down. Jack thinks Jett is the funniest guy on the planet and spent much of their time together giggling his Chatfield-inherited wheeze.

We are able to keep in touch through webcam, but after seeing the boys play together recently, the computer experience doesn't ring true to how much fun they have face-to-face. If Jack isn't able to pull Jett down the hallway, it isn't the real cousin experience.

So, Shelley, do you want to move to Utah or shall we come down to SoCal?

He's Famous, But He's Not Good, Sir

Uh uh uh uh, (barely) stayin' alive, stayin' alive.

We're sick, here at the Flanagan house. This has kept me from some blogging goals this week, but I'll be back in the saddle before you know it.

Jack is the most adorably sticky two-year-old on the planet, and he has been keeping it together well, even though he hasn't been breathing through his nose for a few days. I know that predicament always puts me into a frenzy. He would love to chug his grape medicine -- if only I'd let him.

With Lucy, we are back to the age of no medicine, which is making her life pretty miserable. She has been consistently snorting like a warthog and knows no end to the joyously alarming hacking cough of newbornism.

As Jack would say, being sick is "not Jacko's favorite."

Girls Do Clothes Better

Fashion Show! Fashion Show! Fashion Show at Lunch!

I cannot believe how much I love dressing Lucy up in her baby girl clothes. As those who know me best will tell you, I am not much for girly things in general; I would not be sad if flowers were wiped off the face of the planet, I cut the bows off my bras as a teenager, and as a child, I chose to be a little blue boy stick when playing the Game of Life. But boy howdy, there are some cute girl clothes that still have a bit of an edge.

Glitter! Heather blue leggings!

Cartoony giraffes!

Fuzzy pink snowmen!

Giving In to Get By

(via The Instrumentalist)

Jack has been obsessed with Mario Kart on the Wii for a good portion of his life. His interest wavers when he discovers a new game to play with his toys or when the sun is shining enough for a trip to the park, but "Kart....Wii" is always simmering in the back of his mind. When Lucy arrived on the scene, he was embroiled in a Mario Kart love affair that caused him to ask for it when he first woke up and to put off every offer for food or drink in order to continue playing. After making sure that he had been read to for a good chunk of time and was enriched with some fun songs or imagination games, I was inclined to let him play (which includes an adult, typically me, since two-year olds aren't great at maneuvering video game vehicles).



That last sentence is in the past tense, because the more I think about it, the more I'm worried that I'm raising the next star of Second Skin. Is Mario Kart a gateway drug to all-night online gaming or becoming the nerdy, trench coat-wearing kid? I know that I'm hearing the soundtracks and seeing the racetracks when I close my eyes; does that mean Jack's undeveloped brain is, too? These worries and ones similar to them are plaguing my thoughts when Jack asks to "driiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive Kart." But here's the kicker: I keep letting him play.

When I hold Lucy, I can play Wii with relative ease. Holding a Wii nunchuck is physically much easier to do than racing small Hot Wheels cars, which is Jack's other focus. And even more than these reasons, I let Jack play the Wii because with my sleeping schedule out of whack, I know the unchallenging task of guiding King Boo around Rainbow Road will be suitable to my exhaustion level.

Therein lies the full circle of guilty parenting: I am okay with my playing Mario Kart and letting my brain be mush, but I know I'm allowing Jack's brain to get a little soft, too. I feel that I have been careful letting Jack watch things on TV that I find suitable (PBS Kids, Mickey Mouse and Disneyland propaganda, etc.), though I know he ingests far more than most kids his age. I also know that he has benefited from those shows, especially in his verbal skills. But where is the benefit of playing Mario Kart?

I do not know how much longer I'll justify Jack's Mario hobby with my newborn baby. Until I figure it out, I will go overboard on feeding him fruits and vegetables and trying to teach him French. You know, to even things out.

Shameless Plug

(Photo via theinstrumentalist.blogspot.com)

Baby Lucy has made her way into our lives. If you were going by this photo alone, you might assume she's aggressive, given that she's folding her arms in a Tough Guy sort of way. (She's the one on the far right, by the way)

But, if one were to get to know Lucy a little better, the aggressive facade would be revealed as simply a stoic way of letting the world know that she's pretty awesome. In no particular order, here are some reasons why she's a keeper:

• She does not cry. Granted, the first few days of her life were filled with trying to get my Prozac out of her system, but even after that she has retained her calm demeanor. The one thing that sends her into a frenzy is a cold diaper wipe -- and who can blame her?
• She is built tough. Jack is a very loving brother, to the point of bone-crushing cuddling. But because Lucy was 8 lbs. 2 oz. and is a hearty eater, she can withstand the adoration.
• She's a people person. She has not minded being held by whomever she meets; and since the weather outside is frightful, most people who have held her have cold hands. Not only does she not balk at the coldness, she does whichever person it is a solid and warms up their hands, free of charge.
• She wears girl clothes! I'm still not the baby clothes-horse that Caleb is (he has chosen her outfits more times than not since she's been around!), but I do enjoy getting to own rainbow socks and eyelet onesies.
• She lays next to me when we are sleeping. My favorite thing about baby Jack was that we could lay down anywhere and fall asleep together. Now that Jack is older, he still likes to sleep next to me, but won't let me cuddle him. Lucy doesn't have a choice, and it's awesome!

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But the real fact of the matter is that I'm already feeling 100 times better about Lucy as a newborn than I did about Jack. Jack was not at fault and would have been a great baby for a less-crazy mommy. But, Lucy's mommy is now living in her own house that isn't a basement, enjoying the benefits of anti-depressants, eating healthier, and has a modicum of an idea of what baby-raising is all about. She is the benefactor of all of the hard knocks that Jack had to endure. And for that, Jack should be her hero.

Also, on a semi-unrelated note, I feel like I'm looking dang good for being only a week out of pregnancy!

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One goal for 2011 -- get to Disneyland and ride my favorite rides, including this one.

They've Got Nothing On You

For awhile there, I was a "Wipeout" nerd. ABC definitely could have played it 7 nights a week, and I would have faithfully tuned in every night. I was enthralled to the point where I was searching vigilantly for the Wii game and becoming heartbroken at every "Wipeout is unavailable" sign.

Summer does this to me. I adopt one show to which I become implausibly devoted; "So You Think You Can Dance," "Leverage," and even "The Bachelorette" almost got me one season. But, for these past few months, it's been down and dirty pratfall entertainment for me.

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I'm agog, currently, at the amount of belly that keeps following me everywhere I go. Here is my most recent baby belly shot:

That's 23 weeks of hard-earned belly right there (plus: a fantastic hair day, minus: a super terrible, hormonally-induced breakout). Jack has finally begun to understand that the baby is in my tummy, rather than the region directly north of it. And I have come to grips with the fact that I, in fact, did not reach my goal weight one year after starting my weight loss journey. Go figure, right? I must not have been diligent enough these last few months.

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Here is a list of the unfinished projects I'm currently staring at:

• The present for my parents' wedding anniversary, which includes some physical labor but not enough to put off like I've been doing.
• Cataloging the photos I have prints of, in order to put together the "Project 365" album that Caleb got me for Christmas 2008.
• The last load of laundry needing to be folded.
• Naming a luckily-not-here-yet baby.
• Figuring out how to make my condo a little less bare bones without compromising the baby-proofed aspect of it all.
• Several birthday presents that need to be shipped out. Why can't everyone I want to give gifts to live close to me?

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Summer, you were the best one yet. I'm going to remember all of the family outings instead of the dearth of awesome thunderstorms. But Fall, my open arms await.

No One is Born With a Name

A girl growing up without a middle name really only has two names she can identify with: the first or the last. I chose my last name, because I was ill at ease with my first name. "Chatfield" has a lot of character; since it's a compound word made up of two common-folkish words (kings and queens don't really "chat" in a "field," right?), people related to it easily and found it memorable in a way that most other names are not. And with so many of us in my family and so few other Chatfields in our hometown, "You're a Chatfield" became a mantra that friends and strangers alike would chant at us, given the opportunity.

When I married Caleb, I was able to slide my last name into middle name-status. "Flanagan" wasn't an upgrade from "Chatfield," but a very respectable lateral move. When I first told my mom about Caleb's casual existence in my life, 4 dates in all, she asked his last name and responded immediately, "Holly Flanagan. That sounds great together; you should marry him." Always the visionary, my mom was right; though I sometimes miss the wordplay that came with "Chatfield," I appreciate the waves of "Flanagan.... Are you Irish?" that now float my way. The whole situation is quite charming.

"Holly" has always been another matter, however. As a child, I was a short-haired, rough-and-tumble tomboy. My name seemed to be the opposite of what I felt my persona was; I wanted to be a boy as much as possible, but my name essentially surrounded me with flowers and wood nymphs. I grew older, became less tomboyish and more hormone-infused, and eventually felt comfortable in my first name. I'm unique, and there were few Hollys that I knew in existence, let alone personally. I appreciated that people knew how to say it when they read it and knew how to spell it when they heard it. Though I love the shortenings of my name that have developed over the years (Holl, Hollz, H to the LO), Holly is a cut and dry name. I like it.

The name "Holly" has its biggest fan in my husband. Since we met in 2005, he has consistently told me that he would like to have a daughter named Holly. Not only that, but that if I would let him, he would name every single one of our potential daughters Holly. The latter sentiment has grown in sincerity over the last few years, which makes me glad that I am a voice of reason, if nothing else.

Or at least I thought I was. Holly Jr. has always sounded preposterous to me; Caleb has never been keen on having his own junior, so I have always had that as leverage to use against his Holly clone plans. But, when we found out that we are having another baby this year, my mind inexplicably took a u-turn on the idea. My logical thought process has taken a backseat to what can only be described as another hormone-infused turning point. As we become closer to finding out what the gender of this baby is (August!), I am feeling increasingly compelled to allow this very odd and I-so-would-be-judging-this-if-this-were-one-of-my-friends situation.

But for now, Holly Chatfield Flanagan remains the only Holly in this family. That's me!

Even After His First Haircut, Jack Gets Crazy Nap Hair

It's been a long time. There have been a lot of adventures going on -- here are a few to whet your appetite.

P.S. I knew that "whet" in that phrase definitely had the "h" in it, without even having to look it up. Booyah to all those who thought my knowledge went out the window when I took up baby-making!

Jack is the most fabulous, quirkiest boy in America. Some of his current obsessions include:

• Doing dishes. He insists on being held while I do them, and he cries when there are no more dishes to be done.
• Repeating consonant sounds. He vocalizes that he wants the pot on the stove by saying "P-p-p-p" and talks about Corbin with "C-c-c-c-c." We're still working on whole words, but this is cute for the time being.
• Baby Sign. He can sign "Monster," "Hot," "Again," "Thank You," and when he wants to sing "A-Ram-Sam-Sam" -- my favorite preschool song.
• Keeping it incredibly real by insisting to have his shoes and jacket on, no matter what else he's wearing. Jack has found that shoes and no pants are a glamorous combination.
• Spinning. Any time the word is mentioned, he will immediately start pivoting on one foot around and around; this obsession has blended into his obsession with parent participation, which has made for a very dizzy mama.

Caleb and I have been having a really good time together. After someone finally went to the doctor (there is a high possibility that that person is me), things have been going swimmingly. Caleb had an interview for a job in West Valley City that went well; we're hoping that things progress with that, because Caleb has a lot to offer and is super awesome. We all just took a trip down to Ladera Ranch, CA for a Flanagan family reunion; there was not one bad thing to be said about the trip, especially for Jack. He loved seeing his aunts and his grandparents, as well as the growling jaguar he saw at the San Diego Zoo. I took part in a girls' night that left me with some crazy cool highlights. I've also lost 40 pounds since August; I'll be entering the last half of my 20s skinnier and healthier than I did the first half! I actually now weigh what it says I weigh on my driver's license.

And it's almost March 30th, which means I'm going to be the big 2-5!

Jack Will Hate Me...Later

I can't help but take pictures of Jack when he's found himself in compromising positions. Digital cameras are the A-1 best thing that ever happened to parenthood, excluding the actual children themselves.

Ugh

I've been flying high these last few days.

I have achieved quite a few goals recently, some of which I never thought I'd accomplish. I've:

• exercised at least 30 minutes (sometimes up to an hour!) every day for 21 days.
• gotten back to my post-Jack/pre-other baby weight. 
• organized the pantry.
• scrapbooked for the first time in forrrrever.

But I'm allowing myself to pause all of this goodness and have a terrible day. So terrible, in fact... You know the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad day? I'd like to replace some of those words with "Ridiculously Morose," "Selfishly Downtrodden," and "Oreo Cookie Outstretched."

This mood stems from the realization that 8 months is much longer than I originally thought it would be. Caleb graduates in April, and after that is the world of the Great Unknown. Uncertainty is not usually my thing, but I am quite ready to move on from the student life.

I am a College Standby, but I know that when I resume being a student, I probably won't be living the Student Life. The Cinder Block life. The People Walking Across my Balcony life. The Hearing Three Different Babies Crying When it's Completely Silent in My Apartment life. The Utah Mormon "You Must Be Apostate Because You Didn't Come to Church for Four Weeks in a Row... Oh, You Were Out of Town" life.

And now I have to wait eight whole months (or 32 weeks or 20,736,000 seconds) to get rid of all of those epithets.

I know that each phase of life presents its problems, as well as possessing particular benefits. I'm blessed to be able to put a roof over my baby's head.

But, I'm allowing myself one day to despair.

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Watching Jack learn new skills has been so exciting throughout these last nine months. The rolling over, the crawling (at six months), the "cruising" (also at six months), and the standing up on his own (at eight-ish months) have all been events to cheer on and celebrate. But, I have to admit, his new nine month old skills have been the most rewarding.

When Jack walks, he puts his arms out like a zombie. His stutter step is adorable, as is his electric slide. He used to only walk when we'd call for him, but within this last week, he'll get up on his own and walk just to walk. He can span the living room length-wise and cross from the front door to the end of the kitchen. He knows that he owns it. I bet when he becomes a teenager, he'll have the same twinkle in his eyes when he walks down the hall at school. Jack is a stud.

Without thinking, Caleb and I have taught Jack to make silly sounds with his mouth. Lip-smacking, mouth-popping, tongue-clicking. And the king of all these? Rubbing his finger up and down on his lips while he vocalizes. You know, the "buh-buh-buh-buh" sound you make when describing how crazy you feel. This kid is smart, and he knows how to hone his social skills. He will be the center of attention at all of the nursery get-togethers.

And, the clapping. Oh, the clapping. You can go to Caleb's blog to see a video of Jack's masterpiece of growing up, so far.

I can't believe that he has accomplished all of this so soon.

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All morning, when I've been cognizant of my incredibly overwrought state of mind, I've made the sound at the end of this youtube video. Even though Jack doesn't understand the incredibly cute things this little boy is saying, he laughs for the entire minute and 59 seconds.