Trains, trains, trains!

When Rachel was a baby I picked up a discarded copy of I Love Trains by Philemon Sturges from our local public library for the low, low price of 50 cents. That book has been read and reread so many times it is not even funny. It was one of Rachel's favourites, one of Miriam's favourites, and is now one of Benjamin's favourites.

I've had it memorized for years. I think everyone else has it memorized, too.

Benjamin's recently begun to say it along with us, which is fun. Even when he wakes up at 11:30 PM demanding breakfast and playtime, begging to wake up his sisters so that everyone can go outside to play, and asking to go swimming. (And to think I was so happy that he was asleep by 8:30 last night.)

I just can't win.

But at least he's cute—and there's a video to prove it!

The best part is at the beginning when he says 'roar' and 'strong.' (Also the first line is 'Trains, trains, trains! I like trains," not "I love trains," but it was 12:30 AM (and Benjamin stayed crazy until he conked out at 2 AM) so I'll excuse myself).

Sleepiness

It's okay. We broke his cycle.

He got four shots at his well-baby visit today and was out like a light well before 8:30. He didn't even get out of bed once.

He's healthy. But small.

I have to try to fatten him up and then bring him in again in another 6 months to see if I'm succeeding. I'm nervous about this because it's not like we have ever attempted to control his caloric intake. The doctor was suggesting things like "loading on sour cream" and butter and other extras at mealtime.

Has she not met my children?

My children eat sour cream by the spoonful. They would eat butter if I let them (and have done it when I haven't).

But I guess I'll just keep trying to fatten him up (even though I'm 100% certain he's healthy). He goes from breakfast to snacking as soon as he gets down from the high chair. He is always eating.

The doctor is concerned because he's not "following his trend" on the growth chart. Because around 4 months he chunked up mightily and got into the 20th percentile for weight and has been dropping ever since.

Let's not even mention that Miriam was 15 lbs at 4 months and is barely 30 lbs now.

I'm fairly convinced that my milk just gets super creamy at about that point in my children's lives. I'm also fairly positive that Benjamin eats more than Miriam does now. So perhaps I should be nervous about her appointment come October. *sigh*

Anyway, Benjamin is small.

He's 31.77 inches tall and weighs 22 lbs. 11.3 oz.

When I look at the girls' numbers (Miriam was 33.5 inches and 23 lbs. at 2 years and Rachel, who's always been my most robust child, was 34 inches and 26 lbs.) he doesn't seem terribly tiny. But I guess I'll try to fatten him up anyway since I have to prove to the doctor that he can gain weight, which he might not be able to do very easily if he inherited my genes.

Eating is seriously such a burden when you have to do it ALL THE TIME.

But at least he's sleeping. So I can spend more time planning fattening meals.

Funeral potatoes, anyone?

Sleeplessness

There are a few rather strange places in our house. I'm not even sure what to call them really. Alcoves? Crevices? Nooks? Crannies? Design flaws? Whatever they are, we have them.

We also have a little boy who has been pressing bedtime back by about half an hour every night and waking up half an hour earlier every morning. This morning he was up by 6:30 and he didn't go to bed until after 10:00 tonight. I'm completely expecting him to dump cereal on my head at 6:00 tomorrow morning.

Anyway, he simply wouldn't stay in bed tonight. He kept coming out to beg for more songs, more stories, more hugs. And it was driving me crazy.

I told him if he came out of his room again I'd have to *gasp* close the door on him. Next thing I know I hear his little voice drifting from the hallway.

"Are you in bed?" I asked.

"No. No way!" he said.

"Well, where are you?" I asked.

Here—he was here:

Just smashed right into that little corner thing we've got going on there.

Shimming with sharks

We've been doing a lot of swimming again now that we're all mostly back to health. Our neighbourhood had the "opening social" for the pool (only a month after it opened) so suddenly there were a lot more toys to enjoy, including this orca (that Benjamin insists is a shark).

Here's Rachel and her friend Ashley enjoying a ride after swimming lessons one morning:

Writing Interview

Boy, Bridget's pretty confident (and rightly so) that I'm still quietly creeping on her blog (even if I rarely comment these days). She tagged me in a "How I Write" game without even telling me (though she did email me about it today), so here we go!

Father's Day and My Birthday

Andrew and I aren't very good at giving gifts to each other. It started the very first Christmas we were married. We got married nine days before Christmas and by the time the holiday was here we were in a hostel in Rome (yes, in a hostel—not in a hotel—you read that right).

"I don't have anything for you," Andrew said.

"I don't have anything for you, either," I admitted.

It was the start of a glorious tradition of never getting presents for any occasion ever. But every now and then we break from tradition and surprise each other, especially now that the kids are old enough to notice things like "Hey! Your stockings are completely empty!" Presents equal love, right?

On Father's Day the kids and I gave Andrew a calendar we'd worked on together.

Two not-so-scary stories

At the beginning of this sickness I knew things were going downhill fast when I lost Benjamin at the pool. Now, I'm a fairly scatterbrained individual.

My twenty-year-old self is laughing at me right now for admitting that because I used to be able to function without having to write everything down...multiple places...and still wind up forgetting about things. My twenty-nine-year-old self is laughing at me then for thinking I'd be one to emerge from motherhood with my mind intact.

However, I was also a lifeguard for a few years (back when my brain worked) and I know that losing track of children at a pool is a huge no-no. I'm a little more paranoid, a little less chat-at-the-table-with-a-friend-while-my-three-year-old-with-water-wings-does-his-or-her-best-to-survive than a lot of parents that frequent our neighbourhood pool.

I find myself scanning, counting children, checking the bottom for lifeless bodies, making sure kids come up for breath, noting when children leave, making sure "that thing" isn't fecal matter, clearing the pool for thunder. I can't even help it.

So, we'd arrived at the pool. I had Benjamin sitting on my left hip with my left arm around him. I had both pool bags slung on my right shoulder. I think I was carrying a towel or two. And maybe a kick board. And probably something else. Because I'm an octopus. Or so my kids think—and they always wonder why I never want to walk to the pool. Silly kids; octopuses can't walk.

I had to sign in at the front so I set down the two pool bags. Then I noted where the three children (Rachel and two friends—Miriam was at a doctor appointment for not-strep) of various swimming abilities scattered (one swimmer hopped in the deep end while one drowner hopped on the deck by the stairs in the shallow end begging to get in, and the other swimmer walked in circles around me). I talked with my friend for a minute about swimming lessons (that's why we were there) and then in the middle of a sentence I realized I had no idea where Benjamin was.

"Oh, no! Where's Benjamin?!" I gasped, scanning the deck for my precious little boy and not seeing his little (but proportionally huge) towhead anywhere..

"Ummmm...." my friend said. She pointed to the left of me. I spun around.

"Where'd he go?" I asked. He wasn't behind me.

This month is such a special one...

That awkward moment when you receive a birthday message from your first-cousin-once-removed and you think to yourself, "It's not my birthday!" and then you look at the calendar and realize that today really isn't your birthday but tomorrow is.

(Phew—that was close! I almost forgot my own birthday! Not that we've had anything else (like a wicked, wicked virus) going on or anything...)

P.S. I got your card in the mail yesterday, Mom, but I haven't opened it yet. Instead I thought, "I'll save this to open on my birthday," which is probably why it didn't clue me in that it's my birthday.

How does your garden grow?

It's possible I haven't looked at my garden for a week. I haven't touched it for at least three weeks. But don't worry—the deer have really got my back and are trying to keep the growth under control. Sadly they are really bad at distinguishing between plants I don't want in there from plants that I do. They ate every single top of my poor little sunflowers. Every single one. There's like twenty sad little sunflower stalks in my garden. That's apparently what I get for so cleverly covering the strawberries. But the deer stayed out of the strawberries this year, so...yay.

Don't shoot me, but...

You can totally see the whites of my eyes!

I was beginning to wonder if they'd ever be normal again. When the doctor called to see how I was doing (and to tell me that whatever I'm getting over still wasn't strep) she also asked me about my eyes and I said that they were kind of doing better but they still weren't great. She asked if I was putting in one drop or two and I said one (because that's what the directions said) and she said, "Let's do two."

That seems to have done the trick (though I still have a couple of days before I'm finished with the antibiotics).

Oh, and I can also open my eyes wide without my lower lids unsuctioning from my eyeballs (or however it is eyelids usually stay in place). They were a little bit swollen there, but that's much better now. The instructions for my eye drops said to pull my lower lid down to create a pocket for the drops to collect. The reality was more like open my eyes wide and—*shlup*—instant eye pocket!