Catherine Newman wrote a couple of weeks ago about not remembering the last time she cried tears of joy. (Side note: I just read Waiting For Birdy. I love when people admit to being as neurotic as the rest of us know we are, even if maybe we don’t so much talk about it out loud. Except Dane keeps telling me that not everyone IS this neurotic; he, for one, is not. Or so he says.)

Okay, okay, back to the tears. Mine are usually tears of frustration, but I happen to remember the last time I cried tears of joy. It was six weeks ago, maybe eight. The kids were just being kids, doing kid stuff. They’d been a little more kid-like than usual that week, and Dane and I were about ready to pull our hair out in despair over the sheer chaos of it all, when I started noticing how different and interesting each of our children is.

“They’re just these beautiful little people,” I sobbed as they ran screaming around the kitchen table.

“Is THAT what they are?” Dane asked. “At least you think they’re people. I was beginning to wonder.”

“But they’re just… such… people,” I kept saying.

On second thought, those may have been tears of pregnancy hormones, not tears of joy. Tears, though. Definitely tears.

Have you ever heard someone with too much work lament, “I need a wife?”

Turns out what she really needs is an Incredible Flying Granny Nanny. Or two.

The weather has been delightful (okay, hotter than heck, but not raining) this week, and I’ve had a bit of extra reading time while supervising outside playtime. Hooray!

So I’ve been reading Lisa Garrigues’ Writing Motherhood. I had hoped to read it when we were in Vegas (ha!), but I didn’t get to it until this week. It’s a guide to beginning a Mother’s Notebook—a journal of your mothering experiences. The bulk of the book is devoted to writing prompts, though there is a bit about “coming out of the notebook” by starting a writing group, publishing your Mother Pages, or joining an online community.

It reads very much like an enrichment class you might take at a YMCA or a community college, with an encouraging tone, brief chapters, and inspirational quotes. This makes it a great read for the mother who wants to create a written record of mothering but doesn’t know where to begin (hello, dear lurkers considering starting your own blogs, I’m talking to you here), or for the new mother who wants to make sense of her experience but needs direction. I think it would make an awesome baby shower gift—perhaps along with a journal, in case the recipient is too exhausted and unshowered to get out and choose one for herself.

If you’re looking for instructions on improving your craft or details on how to go about publishing your work, this isn’t the book for you. But! If you find yourself staring at blank pages wondering where on earth to begin—or whether to begin at all—Writing Motherhood is a lovely place to start.

And that’s my two cents. So what are you reading?

[Full disclosure: I did receive a free review copy of Writing Motherhood, but I am not receiving any other compensation for writing this review. For those of you who wonder about these things.]

So we seem to be halfway through this pregnancy adventure. The nausea is somewhat improved, though the past several weeks (I’m not going to count them) have left me with so many delightful memories of specific foods causing digestive rebellion that I find myself with nothing left that I am willing to eat. My blood pressure’s also a bit low, so I’m perpetually dizzy and lethargic. It must be such fun to live with me right now.

In other news, we’re having a bit of a heat wave, which always brings out the best in the children. And in me. It may be a long week.

You aren’t going to believe that this conversation actually happened, but I don’t want to forget it, so I’m writing it down anyhow.

OWEN: Let’s play shepherds! I’m a shepherd!
ABIGAIL: Okay…

[Pretend play ensues involving large blocks for sheep and small blocks for hay. Unfortunately, the sheep blocks resist being herded.]

OWEN: I’m not really a shepherd, you know. Really I’m a boy.
ABIGAIL: That’s okay, I knew you were exasperating.
OWEN: Oh, good. I knew you were exacerbating, too.

So, the back of my head is obviously fabulous, but I don’t think I’ve ever posted pictures of the front half of my head. Let’s give it a try, shall we?

Here’s me, the morning after Audrey was born. Oh, and Audrey, too.

And here’s one at a weird angle and with reading glasses, courtesy of Abigail and my digital camera.

Me with baby. Have sling, will travel. Just not very far.

And the back of my head from another angle, for good measure.

Now are you convinced?

Alright, so, speaking of… nothing, here’s something: I’m nominated for Hottest Mommy Blogger at the Blogger’s Choice Awards. See, there’s even a button and everything:

You can see how hot the back of my head is, right there in the header.

Just thought you’d like to know.

Okay, so. Las Vegas. Dane’s family was reuning (reunioning? reunifying?) there, so we went. And if I ever again consider strapping myself into a car for six hours (each way!) with three or more children, go ahead and slap me upside the head BEFORE I buckle up, okay? Okay then. Thanks.

The driving part sort of sucked. We drove in the evening (6:00-ish), thinking the kids would fall asleep at about the regular time after the excitement of being in the car in their pajamas wore off. Not so much. Instead of nodding off peacefully around 8:00, they were still up and miserable and asking to stop to pee yet again at 10:00. But then they fell asleep and all was well… Except! We got to do the whole thing over again less than 48 hours later! Once again: If I ever consider another road trip… I think you know what to do.

The Vegas part went just fine, partly because we did nothing Vegas-like the whole time. They have stuff in Vegas, right? A giant pyramid? Hotel shaped like the Eiffel Tower? Yeah, I saw none of that. And that’s just fine by me; I also generally avoided secondhand smoke and all-you-can-eat buffets. Because (and this is sort of an embarrassing truth, given that I’m young and therefore feel some responsibility to be fun-loving and adventurous) I don’t really like Las Vegas. At all. It kind of creeps me out, the way the whole city flashes and dings and reeks of stale beer and old cigarette smoke when you walk past. I’ll take my Vegas in small doses via televised CSI, thank you very much.

And then we came home and I am never ever leaving again, no I am not. At least not unless and until I become an amnesiac. Or until all my kids grow very, very much. Whichever comes first, I guess.