I figured it was about time for a little trip to uterus boot camp.
That Winnie right there? That’s mine from childhood! 1943.
Can we just start with the hand holding? It’s getting out of control. It’s all they do. I keep telling myself, “just look at them. it’s not weird, is it? they love each other. they don’t know it’s weird. they can’t know. and they won’t do this their whole lives. one day they’ll stop. oh no. they’re actually going to stop one day. but it’s way too cute. why would they do that to me!? that’s it. i’m sewing their hands together. right after I eat this cookie.”
(I was not a small child in 1943, bee tee dub.)
I think the babies were pissed at me this particular morning. I was going for a whole femme fatale thing with Nat, but then I realized that’s probably a little inappropriate for a gal her age.
She needs to be at least eight months old.
Great news! The babies are really starting to love bath time. Although you wouldn’t be able to tell from this photo. Oh WAIT, now I remember. This was the bath when we discussed the stock market crash of ’08.
My super fun sister-in-law Carolyn came to visit this past weekend. We took the babies to all the appropriate places one would take babies. Happy hour, another happy hour, and then a beer festival. (relaaaaaaax, I was ‘sponsible.)
Truth be told, I’d say the only one who had a little too much to drink was YOU KNOW WHO.
. . . lightweight.
The next day we stopped by this new, hip food truck/butcher for some mayte. We showed Natalie a diagram of a huge pig on the wall and she goes, “are you trying to tell me something?”
Oh, but before that we took Carolyn on our weekly Saturday morning walk to our favorite French bistro. It’s a charming four-mile stroll on a micro-gravel trolley trail through old Kansas City neighborhoods. We walk. We stop midpoint at the farmer’s market for some weekend loot. We eat a fabulous brunch. We drink iced coffee and mingle with the regulars. We saddle up and walk home. Which sounds all cute and quaint until you have to stop halfway back and change apocalyptic diapers under a tree.
To be completely honest, that’s my favorite part of parenthood. You never freaking know what’s going to happen. You have to be ready for anything at all times! That’s why I keep a pair of nunchucks in the diaper bag.
My face isn’t scratchy like daddy’s! Wait, is it? Don’t answer that.
This is the way they sleep. They share a crib, and Natalie’s favorite hobby is to kick Will in the face constantly. But he doesn’t seem to mind! If that’s not instinctual female manipulatory training, we are all living a lie.
I guess these are the early stages of, “quit hitting yourself. quit hitting yourself. quit hitting yourself.”
We usually do the first feed of the day in our bed. It gives us the chance to connect, bond, play together, roll around in the covers, sing a few tunes, and get viciously barfed on.
P.S. That’s not a Herculean unibrow on Aaron’s face. It is a plant leaf. Thank you. Carry on.
Here we are one night at dinner. We’d walked from home to a little art festival in our neighborhood and caught dinner at cute patio restaurant. Aaaaand then it stormed. On us. On the way home. Normally I would have FREAKED, but with a little Kim Crawford Sauv Blanc in the veins it wasn’t so bad yaknowhati’msaying.
Never wake sleeping babies. Unless you just acquired a new fog horn you need to test out.
Story time! It was either this or Gone Girl. So to make it more interesting, I changed the plot line of Peak and Pelly to that of Gone Girl’s.
Today we’re reading Dr. Seuss’ Oh, the Thinks You Can Think, but to the plot line of Silence of the Lambs!
Natalie was trying to reenact that Progressive commercial where Flo steps back into the shadows, and I said, “We can still see you, Natalie.”
“No you can’t.”
“I’m pretty sure we can.”
The hiiiiiillls are alliiiiiiive with the sound of muuuuusic.
Also, we’re no longer swaddling! HIP HIP HOORAY!
Sure, now they turn over and sleep on their faces and I have 13,975 panic attacks through the night, but no swaddles!
(I have some crackers if you’ve like to spread them right on some.)
(Also, I was not alive in 1943. Thank you. Carry on.)
As alllllways, you can follow the sugar plum honey bear peach tartaloos on Instagram. Just slip your hubs a sleeping pill.
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