Call Me Curly...

Woke up this morning feeling like belting out something from Oklahoma. It’s a beautiful, fresh late summer day, and all is right with the world. They’re making hay in our fields. They’ve got this cool baler that scoops up the hay and spits out a nice fat bale. Henry’s totally fascinated. Impossible to get him down for a nap with such wonders going on outside the window.

On top of all that, preschool starts up tomorrow. Hank will be going three mornings a week starting Monday. We went to a meet-the-teacher open house at school today and milled about with some fellow parents. I always feel kind of goofy and shy at these things—like I’m some kind of outcast, like everybody already knows each other etc. I’m sure I’ll get over it. Anyway, I’m practically salivating at the thought of all the stuff I’ll be getting done. Am I sick to be fantasizing about the solitary vacuuming that’s in store for me? In addition to a teeny bit of therapeutic housework, there’s gonna be some mom/baby yoga, and you know I’ll be doing some blogging while little Co takes her morning nap. Must admit, I’m starting to get just a little wistful at the thought of my baby starting his school career. But I’ll certainly get over that, too.

The Sound of Mucus

What could be more fun than a summer cold? While our neighbors are out enjoying the latest in a string of near perfect days (unheard of in VA in August), here we are inside sniffling. Henry caught it first (of course) and passed it on to mama and then Coco. Christian has so far been spared but was complaining of a sore throat this morning. Praying it doesn’t stick since he is by far the least tough among us when it comes to routine illnesses (isn’t that always that way?).

It has essentially been a great big snot festival around here--lovely. Christian has been handling it remarkably well considering the fact that he had a fairly acute snot aversion not so long ago. There was a time when I couldn’t even pronounce the word in front of him. I am happy to report that he has made great strides since we had kids and even wipes noses.

Little Co was up all night, waking us up every couple hours with pathetic whimpers and snuffles over the monitor. I went in a few times to give her squeeze with the dreaded bulb aspirator. Our girl is amazingly good natured but the nasty old bulb manages to faze even the sweetest pea. So after a go-round with that instrument of torture, I usually wound up putting her on the boob to get her to quiet down.

So in addition to being sick, I am operating on no sleep. Would love to stay in bed and watch the Olympics all day, but that is, of course, out of the question. I have rarely encountered the bug that could cramp Henry’s style, so he is as energetic as ever and itching to get out on the new two-wheeler (with training wheels) that he inherited from a friend (thanks Curtis!). Counting on grandma to come over here and save the day this afternoon.

A Room of Her Own

Well, we’ve finally done it. We’ve moved little Coco into her own room. At 6 ½ months, it was about time. It’s not that we’re into the co-sleeping thing--she started put in our room in the lovely antique cradle that Christian’s Aunt Polly lent us. The plan was to move her out after a couple of months. But we simply didn’t have the energy to move her. And so when she outgrew the cradle, we put up her crib at the foot of our bed.

We hadn’t planned it that way. Henry was on his own by three months and sleeping twelve hours at a stretch by five months (He is still an amazing sleeper which has kept me sane throughout his supercharged toddlerhood.). In fact, we’ve been ready to get her out of there for some time. We’ve been itching to get the AC cranking and watch Netflix with the volume above 6. Also hoping this will get her to stop waking up several times a night. It’s just too easy when you can roll over and look your source of food and comfort in the eye every time you wake up.

The problem was that there was nowhere to put her. We had very briefly considered sticking her in with Henry, but after observing his behavior when sharing a room for a week with his cousin Scarlett (who’s got him by a few months and several pounds) we decided against it. So we set our sights on the tiny, wretched little room we referred to as the office. To understand the psychological hurdle involved, you must know that our rustic old farmhouse is built in two parts: the more recent frame half is where pretty much everything happens: the kitchen, living room, our bedroom and Henry’s, and a bath. Until now, the two-room log portion has been a kind of no man’s land, with the room downstairs full of junk from ceiling to floor, and upstairs the “office”, a grimy lair where the Christian used to hang out writing songs and watching You Tube videos and a dumping ground for unfiled paperwork, old magazines, and his collection of beat up old guitars and various other musical equipment. Put my baby in there? You must be kidding. But as one sleepless night rolled into another, I eventually came around. For one thing, the house just isn’t that big. If she needs me, I can still get to her in a few seconds.

Anyway, we hossed it yesterday and got (almost) everything out of there. Without all the junk, it’s rather nice, with two bright windows and lots of exposed wood. It’s a pretty bare bones nursery: a crib, a dresser and a changing table. But our low maintenance girl seems pretty happy in there. I am delighted to report that last night went about as well as I could have hoped. Only one middle of the night feeding around 1:30. After that, we didn’t hear much from her until 7:30 or so when I heard some pleasant little cooing and gurgling sounds over the monitor (or harmonitor as Henry calls it. He is, after all, the son of a blues singer!).

So we are now gratefully looking forward to the return of restful nights and watching Star Trek DVD’s with abandon. Now, what to do with all the guitars in our living room…?

Beaucaillou & Beaux-parents

My very charming Gemini in-laws have consecutive birthdays right around the summer solstice. So we celebrated with a good old fashioned Sunday lunch. Things got off to a rocky start, I must say. Christian was otherwise occupied (weed whacking) and neglected to get the grill going at the appointed hour. Mama started losing it (blood sugar emergency). I hadn’t planned anything in the way of hors d’oeuvres so went scrambling for a snack and came up with some old Ritz crackers my mother in law had brought over on a previous occasion (Unlike my firstborn, I’m not a fan. Corn syrup- yuck!) and an ancient, rock hard piece of bland, pasteurized Brie from Costco. The fireworks began when the ever lovin’ husband got ticked off at my lack of prep work on the pork chops (failure to marinate—guilty as charged). Which led to an exchange along these lines:
Papa: “You’re insane!”
Mama: “You’re driving me insane!”

We were soon laughing about it (after Mama had a few swigs of Bordeaux, that is) and things finally came together around two. Grilled pork chops (which, thank goodness, turned out just fine), roasted asparagus and new potatoes from my favorite local farm stand. We washed it down with a 2000 La Croix de Beaucaillou (the second wine of the second growth Chateau Ducru Beaucaillou in Saint Julien). Dee-licious! Plus it gave us a chance use some of the Riedel wine glasses we got for our wedding. I gave Henry his first glass of (watered down) wine. He seemed to dig it but liked the corkscrew even better. Rhubard pie for dessert—yeehaw! My favorite and also beloved by my belle-mere. After that, the in-laws went off in search of some kind of enclosure for a wild turkey chick they are now keeping as a pet (more on that one to follow) and the rest of us crashed hard.

I came across this helpful little article on women and wine by Mireille Guiliano in June’s Bon Appetit. Enjoy!