My baby

These days, when I refer to "my baby," Leo is the one that everyone thinks of. Hell, even LEO thinks of Leo, frequently referring to himself as "you baby." He even gets it confused sometimes and says "Mama, you MY baby."

But the original baby, of course, is Max. He was the original Small Guy Small Fry. He is the one that got this whole hormone festival of mommahood thrust into the hyperdrive, resulting in a family of 6. But he is no baby anymore. My original baby started football last week. This is what my baby is looking like these days.

I always swore I wouldn't let my boys play football. Too dangerous, right? But, due to a stroke of luck/reality for them, I became an ER doctor. And ya know what? I have taken care of ONE football related injury. One. I have been doing this now for 10 years (in contrast, I would now NEVER let my boys play hockey), so it appear my nightmares of maimed and bloodied children are a little overblown.

But the true horror of football? The gear. Now, I have never done this before, but am I supposed to remove the pads of the pants before washing? 'Cause I might just lose my mind (as if I wasn't at the brink already) if that is the routine. There are 7 pads in a pair of pants. Each a specific side and shape and curvature. All of which need to be placed while the pants are inside out. After today's laundry test of doom, I felt like I would rather take the MCAT again.

And the cup? I firmly believe I should have nothing to do with that. Not centrally, not peripherally, not in any way at all. However, given that my husband didn't do contact sports himself, this is a land of mystery to him as well. So, he actually turned to me last week and asked "What kind of underwear should I buy for Max to wear with his cup?" REALLY?!? You are asking ME? Dude, I'm not a dude! I don't have the gear that requires buying the gear! You MUST be kidding!

But Max made it to (and through) the first practice, all appropriate gear present and accounted for. And he continues to like it even after being tackled. I just make one request... Please don't crush my Small Guy.

Must we?

Ah, developmental stages. They are grand, aren't they? Like the fact that at the beginning of 1st grade, it's APPROPRIATE for the little 6 year olds in my life to think about nothing but themselves and not others. It's natural for them to want the biggest treat without offering it to others.

I can deal with that and try to roll with it.

But why must we go through to "I am refusing to get dressed" stage with the 2 1/2 year old? Why, oh why is that necessary. Is there some magical brain synapse that will only form if this daily battle is fought? Must there be screams of protest when daddy attempts to assist instead of mommy? This is one little step in the pediatric yellow brick road that I would rather skip.

But, I am not above bribery. Today, we had great happiness in the land because a jelly bean was promised if Leo could get 'er done without assistance. And since no good dead goes unpunished, I was rewarded for this stroke of genius with 3 older boys looking at me with outstretched hands as well. "We got dressed all by ourselves too mom...."

Sure! Jelly beans for all. Can we keep it a secret, however, that this was after a breakfast comprised of the donuts Mary brought over...?

2yr old talk

Leo is the master of the mixed up vowel sounds.

On Friday, he is going to have a Jabama party at daycare. I mean, who wouldn't want to go to school in their jabamas?

New member of the family

Now that we have successfully surprised my brother's family, I can post pictures of our new family member! (You know, cause we got nothin' else to do....)

Ruby!

Max taking Spencer for a walk...

Dock Dog