Audrey is two. Have I mentioned that?

Today I thought I’d teach her the itsy bitsy spider song, because… um, no reason, actually, I just thought I’d sing it.

So I’m sitting on the floor, showing her the hand motions, and enunciating so that she can pick up the words easily. She listens intently through one, two, three renditions.

But instead of “Again!” after the third time through of the itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout; down came the rain and washed the spider out; out came the sun and dried up all the rain; and the itsy bitsy spider went up the spout again, she shakes her head and says: “Him should go up the stairs.”

Um, yeah. I guess that might work for him.

For your weekend enjoyment:

(Rated G. Needs audio.)

So there’s this new library in town. And we know how I love me some library. (That isn’t quite sarcastic, but it’s not exactly true, either. I’m more like a “I want the exact title I’m looking for and I want to be able to write in the margins at least in theory, even if I never actually do write in the margins” kind of book reader. Though I do like to try new stuff out for free at the library when they’ve got it.) So we’ve been a few times now.

The new building is awesome, with huge windows and an outdoor patio and, you know, library stuff. They have lots of newly published books and free DVD and audiobook checkout, though admittedly not a huge collection of books overall. There are several really cool reading nooks, which Abigail has already become familiar with, and there are giant stuffed animals, which Audrey composes songs for.

But for Owen, the most important thing seems to be this: there is a brand-new children’s librarian who smiles and talks to us. (At our other library, the librarians talk to each other and do not notice us unless we ask for something. They’re nice enough, but they’ve never been interesting to Owen.)

We had to discuss the librarian quite a bit before we went to the library this week. Mostly, Owen wanted to know: Is she a stranger? Because he hadn’t technically met her. So was he allowed to talk to her, or not?

I suggested that she was not really a stranger, that mom and dad knew she was safe and friendly, and that perhaps Owen would like to introduce himself to her so she would be all the way not a stranger from now on. And that’s what he did. He marched up to her desk, said, “Excuse me,” then: “I’m Owen,” with a wide smile.

She introduced herself too, but he didn’t walk away. “Is there anything I can help you with?” she asked, but no, he just wanted her to know who he was. And now she’s not a stranger.

Afterwards, I mentioned that she could help him find books if he needed, which led to a string of role-playing type questions: “What if I want a book about trains?” “If you want a book about trains, you can say, ‘Can you help me find a book about trains?’ and she might say, ‘A story book or an information book?’ and you can say…”

He’s been mulling this over. Tonight he said he thinks he’ll ask her to help him find a poem about a man with 10,000 heads. Because that would be funny to read about. I, trying to dampen expectations, said something to the effect of, “You can ask. And she might say yes, or she might say…?” And he filled in: “She might say yes, or she might say… yes of course, Owen.”

I like that the kid’s got confidence in the people around him, is all I’m saying.

(This blog post requires audience participation. Please read and follow instructions in parentheses.)

Dane tells me I’m losing credibility with all six of you by not updating Audrey’s age in the sidebar there. I can’t imagine that anyone noticed, but: there you go! All fixed. Now she’s two, in real life and in my sidebar.

(Imagine transition here.)

Audrey was up every hour or so last night with nightmares. I have no idea why or what they were about, just that they were “scary” and that she didn’t want to go back to sleep ever, ever again. I’m a little depressed that a two-year-old can imagine something so terrifying that she would stay awake all night to avoid it. She slept in my arms for a while, but she’s been clingy and tired all day today. Sadie, on the other hand, slept all night long. Because that makes perfect sense.

(Imagine another transition here. Also feel free to sympathize with the sleep woes.)

Saturday was my little sister’s eighteenth birthday, which of course makes her officially an adult. An adult who can’t drink, I’ll grant you, but an adult nonetheless. We had dinner with her and a few of her friends, at least one of whom spent far more energy than necessary worrying that Sadie might drool at her. (Not to worry, Sadie has no velocity to her, um, fluids. She’ll get me, but not you.) Happy birthday, sis! Now you can register to vote.

(Imagine transition here, maybe a clever one this time.)

We had an exhausting Easter celebration, first at church and then at my parents’ house. I had hoped to post a picture, but I don’t think we took any. Apparently I can either get all four kids dressed and in the right place at the right time, OR I can remember nonessential elements like the camera and the food. In neither scenario do I remember the diaper bag.

(Imagine humorous conclusion. You’ve been very helpful. Thank you.)

Okay, ONE more thing about the time change, and then I’m over it. Pinky swear.

If there is any societal benefit to changing the time, it comes the cost of mothers’ sanity. Parents’ sanity, really. I’ve been so freaking tired this week that I can’t even figure out which mundane activity to do next. I get stuck standing in the middle of the room thinking: dishes? or laundry? dishes? or laundry? Which is awesome because it doesn’t even matter, just pick one and get on with it!

We may be adjusting, finally. Audrey hasn’t napped in a couple of days, but she’s been asleep by 8pm, so I’ll take it.

Last night I went to bed at 10:30, which is something like three hours early for me. I didn’t do anything after the kids went to bed. Nothing. Not one thing. Zero things. (Well, some things; I talked to Dane, I ate some more, I brushed my teeth. But none of those count as Things. I mean, if you were making a list of Things To Do, none of those are likely to make the cut, right? You might put “eat,” but probably not “eat more.” See?) (Did I mention the thing about being so tired I get stuck with the nonsense? Yes, well.)

…

And now I’ve spent much too long trying to come up with a logical conclusion to this blog post. Note to self: Give up now! Get more sleep! The end.

Dear Daylight Savings Time,

You suck.

Love,
Me

—
Dude. It’s been, what, five days since we changed the clocks? And tonight was the first night Audrey fell asleep before TEN P.M. That’s compared to, you know, SEVEN o’clock most nights. Apparently we didn’t just change the clocks, we RESET HER BRAIN.

And the bigger kids aren’t doing much better. We can get them into bed “on time,” but somehow the sun still being in the sky does not result in their falling directly to sleep. Go figure.

Even that shouldn’t be a big deal, since we don’t have to get up at a set time in the morning, right? Sure, right. Except that DANE still has to get up and go to work, and for some unknown reason, none of our kids can sleep if anyone else in the house is awake. So they’re getting up an hour earlier than they were last week.

This time change thing is awesome, I tell you. Just the ticket for all those parents whose kids get too much sleep! And we all know how much of a problem that can be…

Did you know that some babies have adverse reactions to the essential fatty acids (DHA/ARA) used to supplement infant formulas? I had not heard. Something to keep in mind if you know a formula-fed baby with severe gas, diarrhea, vomiting, bowel obstruction or constipation.

Abigail to Owen: “You should wear sweatpants.”

Pause, then: “Because they’re the best pants.”

Another thoughtful pause, and: “The best pants in the world.”

Obviously. No further explanation needed. The end.

Well, maybe not quite the end. I mean, personally, I’d go with yoga pants, but that’s pretty much the same thing. Okay, NOW the end.

Says Not on Fire:
What is a chocolate lava cake? May I request a picture and a recipe?

Okay, well, I didn’t manage a picture, but I am happy to share my Secret Recipe. Lava cake is just chocolate cake with molten chocolatey batter sauce in the middle. When you take a bite, the gooey sauciness pours out onto your plate.

And so: my recipe. Now this is highly technical, so I’ll try to be as explicit as possible.

1. Drive to Trader Joe’s.* Alternatively, send Dane (or other substitute) to Trader Joe’s.
2. Go to freezer section.
3. Find Trader Joe’s frozen chocolate lava cake. (Two individual-serving cakes per box.)
4. Optional: Also pick up Trader Joe’s frozen chocolate cupcakes, just to try. In case the lava cake turns out not to be your thing.
5. Buy cake, drive home, distract children so they don’t see box, etcetera, etcetera.
6. Bake lava cake on baking sheet in oven. It wouldn’t kill you to use a sheet of parchment between cake and baking sheet. Specific temp and time instructions available on lava cake box.
7. Remove from oven.
8. Plate cakes.
9. Wait a bit before taking a bite, or the lava will scald your tongue. Not kidding here. I know it smells good, but you’ve been waiting since the freezer aisle. You can hold off another five minutes.
10. Optional: Add whipped cream or ice cream to your plate, to speed the cooling process. Because you probably really can’t wait.

* Should you happen to not live within driving distance of a TJ’s, I offer my sincerest condolences. You might consider this lava cake recipe, though I can’t vouch for it myself.

For the record: they’re neither sicker nor more cheerful today. I vote that that’s a good sign. Or at least not a bad one. Whatever. No one’s puking; I’ll take it. Moving on.

Abigail requested a salad to accompany our dinner tonight (?!). She insisted that my oil-and-vinegar, mixed-in-a-pyrex-measuring-cup dressing was shockingly fabulous (?!). Owen ate seconds and thirds and sixths; Audrey devoured fistfuls of bean sprouts.

And now all the kids are in bed and Dane is baking chocolate lava cakes, because: what kind of crazy people can eat bowls and bowls of salad (okay, and a few potatoes) and be satisfied until breakfast? I need more calories than that, folks. I’m just saying.