On the one hand, it feels silly to wash brand-new dishes.

But then there’s the other hand.

I can muster little more than an eye roll for this week’s “bumpaholic” panic news stories (wherein reporters and experts speculate that an addiction to pregnancy is the only possible explanation for women having more than two children—catch up here if you have no idea what I’m talking about).

I do, however, appreciate Meagan Francis putting the smackdown on the whole idea over at Babble. Thanks, Meagan! For another reasoned and non-addicted perspective on larger families, check out Katie Allison Granju’s Full House, also on Babble.

That is all.

Dear fruit flies:

Go. Just go. Go now. There is nothing here for you, and yet the two of you remain. Perched on the cupboard doors. Flitting around my head. Go. Away.

I could put out a bowl of vinegar to catch you, but I really don’t want to do that. Just take your weird overlarge bug eyes and flap back out the kitchen window you came in through. Find someone else to torment, in some other kitchen. I put the fruit bowl in the fridge hours ago. There is nothing left for you to eat.

Please. Seriously. Get lost.

Heart,
Me

If you were at my house right now, you would hear this:

DANE: “Hey! Come back here! Give me back that diaper!”

SADIE: [chortles and runs]

Ah, the sound of imminent bedtime.

I stayed up far too late last night watching a movie with my husband. I wasn’t going to watch it—it was something he requested from the library—but it was kind of interesting, and we always do like to sit in the same place at the same time, even without a good reason. So. I stayed up far too late.

And then, oddly, the kids still wanted me to get up and make breakfast this morning. Go figure!

I kept snacking all day in the hopes that this would somehow make me less tired. I think I ate four peaches in a row before I realized that: 1.) I wasn’t hungry, and 2.) Fresh fruit, while tasty, is unlikely to possess secret powers of wakefulness.

I did not think to hunt through the cabinets for chocolate-covered espresso beans—which I’m pretty sure we have—or even to brew a cup of caffeinated tea. Because that might have made sense. Instead I stuck with the fruit. Also crackers. I ate some crackers. And now I’m contemplating the blackberry ice cream in the freezer. Even though the kids are all asleep and I could just go to bed.

I never claimed to be logical.

ME: Is the ice cream in the freezer new, or is there, like, one bite left in that carton?
DANE: [stares.]
DANE: [stares.]
DANE: [stares.]
ME: Do you not know?
DANE: What do I look like, the ice cream monitor?

Maybe I’ll make him an official badge.

Step One: IM with Dane, who is at work.

ME: there are ANTS on the kitchen floor
HIM: bummer
ME: I just killed one ON MY LEG that had crawled UP MY FOOT and was technically IN MY PANTS
HIM: ant in the pants
ME: YES
ME: AND EW
HIM: better than ants in the pants…?
ME: NOT THAT MUCH BETTER

Step Two:
Probably step two will involve mopping. And shoes. I think I will put on shoes.

Step Three:
Hope very much not to have to repeat steps one and two. Avoid kitchen for a while.

Step Four:
Repeat steps two and three. (Sorry. Just being realistic here.)

Step Five:
Leave house. Go to park. Or library. Or someone else’s house. Somewhere where you are not in charge of ant removal. Bask in freedom from ant-squashing responsibilities.

Step Six:
Have a delightful weekend, preferably sans bugs. (And I hope you do.)

We had a lovely, lovely birthday with Owen, including a trip to a lagoon to “hike” the nature trails (the super-flat, well-maintained, partly planked nature trails—“hike” is a stretch, but the kids did bring walking sticks).

Our day also involved watermelon and tortilla chips for lunch, visits with a variety of local grandparents, homemade pizza for dinner, mango sorbet for dessert, and Dane’s signature operatic happy birthday song. It’s sort of like the regular happy birthday song, but lower-pitched and with greater enthusiasm. And arm gestures. What more can you ask for, when you’re six? (You can ask for more—mostly for sleep, but occasionally for other things as well—just not if you’re six.)

Also of interest: Owen now shares his birthday with an as-yet unnamed panda. He was most excited to hear this. No word yet on the panda’s opinions.

Owen was born six years ago today.

I woke up that day when my water broke, six a.m. the day before he was due. My midwife’s apprentice walked through our front door forty-five minutes later, about the same time we realized my midwife wasn’t going to arrive before the baby did. Also about the time we realized I wasn’t going to be moving, not to the bed, not to the bedroom, not anywhere, not at all. That baby was going to be born where I was at that moment, which happened to be on the floor in the living room. Abigail, almost three years old, woke up just in time to sit in Dane’s lap by my side.

We had several telephones in the room—our house phone, the cell phone and pager of the midwife’s apprentice—and they all kept ringing, our midwife and backup midwife both calling for news, both unanswered while Owen slipped into the world, purple and squalling, healthy and whole.

Reggae music played, drifting in the window from a neighbor’s house. It was 7:33 in the morning. Owen breathed immediately, nursed easily, slept often and with gusto, surprising us on all counts.

When her hands were free again, the midwife’s apprentice answered her phone. “We have a baby!” she said. “It’s a boy.” She held the phone out so we could hear our midwife cheering on the other end. We all laughed, startling Owen. He forgave us.

Every day since has been an adventure. I couldn’t begin to guess what will come next, but I wouldn’t miss it, not for anything.

We love you mr. six, every day and always. Happy birthday.

What is up with no one eating in the summertime? This might be just my family, but in the heat, no one seems to want breakfast. Today was going to be the day I remembered that no one would eat it, and so I would either make less or save the leftovers. And yet. It’s noon and there’s a half a pot of slow-cook oatmeal still sitting on the stovetop. (Yesterday was also going to be the day I remembered, but you can guess where that got me.)

They’re eating more morning snack instead, I think. I can hardly blame them—I’d choose an apricot over a bowl of oatmeal too, but the oatmeal’s kind of more filling, so I feel some compulsion to at least offer it. Tomorrow will be the day I remember to make half as much as usual. Maybe. Tomorrow.