I am an auntie again.
And he is beautiful.
Ahem.
Too Real
Some of the younger kids are playing an imaginary “Baby” game this afternoon. They are taking turns pretending to be babies, crying and calling for their mothers.
It is making me insane.
Welcome Brigid!
We got some good news yesterday.
The past few days, I have been obsessively following Jen’s labor updates (on Twitter, in her sidebar).
Welcome Brigid Maureen Callihan! Congratulations to the whole family!
Born Alive
I can’t stop crying now.
Because I watched this.
There are no gory pictures. Just sad, sad, sad ones. It’s a very important video to watch — please take the 5 minutes and watch it now.
In his homily this weekend, a priest at a local parish told the congregation that there are many important issues for Catholics to consider this election season and that abortion is only one of them. Other issues, he explained, when collectively considered, are even more important.
Tell that to Rowan. Tell that to Rowan’s mother. Tell that to Gianna Jessen.
God save us.
Testing
This afternoon, Daniel marched up to me, grabbed hold of my hand, and sank his tiny barracuda teeth deep into my flesh.
“Ouch!” I cried.
He released the jaws of death, wiped his mouth with the back of one fat hand, and looked up at me with bright, innocent eyes.
“Dat hurts Mama,” he observed scientifically.
Potty Training Help
Now here’s what it’s all about.
If God created the internet for no other reason, it surely was so that mothers could help and support other mothers through the potty training process.
Excellent advice. Moral support. Practical considerations.
When You’re the Birthday Boy
Your mother grabs her camera instead of scolding when you get into the still-warm cupcakes before they’ve even been frosted.
Come back, baby
He has fallen again.
Crying, he comes running and I lift him into my arms. Grubby fingers clutch at my hair. He sobs into my shirt, wipes his nose on my neck, and then turns and squirms for release.
I kiss the back of his head and set him on ground. The minute his sandaled feet hit the gravel, he’s off. And running. Toward bicycles and boulders. Toward big kids and dump trucks. Toward squirt guns and puddles.
Away from me.
“Come back, baby,” I feel my mouth whisper as I watch him. “Come back.”
But already, he has run too far to hear.
