"I'm doing the princess thing!"

We're all better here. I should say, we all are better here. We're not all better here. Damned modifiers. But we're better than we were. A's been back at school for two days, and I'm not hopped up on enough decongestant to knock out an elephant.

I hit AmVets this morning with the L-man. He's getting so big so fast that it's nice to stop in and see if I can get anything for him on the cheap. Today, I scored shirts for A with a couple rompers (hello, Hanna Andersson romper for $1.50) for L.

When I got A home, he asked me what was in the bag. "Shirts for you, a couple things for L."

"Oh, let me see," he said. And he went through the bag, trying on shirts. When he got to the one decided was his favorite, he spun around slowly with his arms flung out to each side, like Julie Andrews in the Alps. "Look, Mommy, I'm a princess! I'm doing the princess thing!"

I'll take my Daddy-cereal with a side of puke, please

At least, I would if I was A.

He fell asleep yesterday at 3PM in the car. We drove home to drop off groceries then were off for the calorie-laden deliciousness of In-n-Out, since their buns are dairy-free (oh, thank God).

And he slept, and slept, and slept. He slept through the drop-off of me to a reading, and he slept through the pick-up, and he slept until late this morning.

Then he sat at the table, started in on a bowl of cereal, and threw up into it. And all over the table. Oy.

He's thrown up the little bit of water he got afterwards, so now he's tucked away on the (sheet-covered) couch watching Mary Poppins, after which it will be nap time.

I just got L to go to sleep, and let me tell you, there's nothing quite like a vomiting preschooler and a two-month-old to make you break out the bleach and the Purell. I fear my hands will be crackling dry by this evening.

When you think about the joys of having two kids, you don't think about the joys of cross-contamination challenges.

Nine week checkup

We're at nine weeks today for Baby L, which means it was a big bad shot visit.

First off, the check-up. He's fine, a little snorty, but fine. He's huge: 12 pounds, 12 ounces; 24+ inches long. Dairy is a common irritant and the good doctor recommends that I give up the dairy for at least a month (!), because it won't clear my system for two weeks at least. So then I need to give it another few weeks to see if the lack of dairy is actually having an effect on L. Otherwise, she says, it's a waste of effort in giving up dairy in the first place.

I don't think the woman understands how much I love dairy or how I would happily give a minor appendage for a pint of Ben & Jerry's or a really good brie. I think she didn't get how much I was looking for a, "Don't act on crazy things you read on the internet; have a big glass of milk on me," response. L does seem less gassy, so I will soldier on and remind him of my sacrifice for the next sixty years.

Second up, the shots. Oh, the shots. Five immunizations, three shots and an oral solution (rotavirus, which wasn't available when A was born and can only be given in the 2-6 month window). L gets the first shot and turns bright red. Absolutely brilliant red. He gets the second shot and begins to cry. He gets the third shot and it turns to screams, heart-rending sad screams.

"Most babies, they just sound mad when they start to scream," the nurse said as she tried to pour rotavirus immunization down his throat. "This guy, he sounds like, I don't know."

"Like his heart is breaking," I said. L can scream like he's sure nobody loves him and no one ever will. He doesn't do it very often, but when he does, it's like a cattle prod in my chest. I must get to him immediately and make it stop, whatever it is.

"Yeah," she said. "Emotional." Oh, poor baby, mine too.

Conversations with the three-year-old

A is sitting on my lap as I try to type.
A: "Look at me! Let me see your blue eyes!"
I laugh.
A: (Staring deeply into my eyes, an inch or so away) "Let me see your smile!"
I smile.
A: "Oh, what a beautiful smile!"