The last day of kindergarten.

Well, the last day of school has come and gone, but I would be remiss if I didn't tell you at least a little bit about it.

Leah Madeline, last day of Kindergarten 2015.  Age 5.

The kids celebrated their accomplishments this year with what we call Finale Night.  I wish I could tell you that I took lots of pictures, but as Casey was out of town... well, I do the best I can.

They were absolutely adorable.  The group recited the presidents in order from Washington to Obama, and then each class got to do a quick presentation as well.  Leah was so excited, as she was responsible for pointing out Montpelier, Vermont on the map by herself in front of the audience.  There was a dessert reception afterward, and our Nana, Mimi and Poppy attended with us.  She was so very proud of herself!

I just can't believe how much she has learned this year.  It stuns me to listen to her, and the sophistication with which she can speak about so many subjects that she really has no context for.
 

"Look, Mommy!  I made water with my snack!  Two hydrogens and one oxygen!"

At her five year check up, our pediatrician was telling me a story about how her grandfather attended one of the schools that was first to be integrated in the south.  Without missing a beat, Leah chimed in, "are you talking about Brown vs. the Board of Education?"  OH, how the doctor's mouth dropped open as she said, "I am!  What do YOU know about Brown vs. the Board of Education?!"  It was just priceless.

It has been such a wonderful year.  Homeschooling is such a blessing to our family.  Even though it is tough sometimes, I can't imagine that we would do anything else.  I don't know exactly where or how far this journey will take us, but we are so very happy to be able to spend this time together now.

Everyone in our family loves to learn!

Besides that, one of the beautiful things about homeschooling is that we're not bound by pesky little things like schedules, or whether school is "out" or "in."

We can learn anywhere, any time!

We added one and became BIG

Okay, so here's the scene.

It's July.  There is a massively pregnant momma with two in the neighborhood kiddie pool.  She's soaking her feet while watching the two littles play.  A few people ask her when she's due or comment on how nicely her kids are playing.  End scene.

Fast forward about three weeks.  It's mid-August.

Now, the same children are playing in the kiddie pool.  The same giant-bellied mom sits on the same edge soaking her feet and watching her children play.  The absolute only thing that's different this time is that she now carries a tiny and very new baby in her arms, partially concealed behind the blanket she's using to shield said tiny baby from the sun.  This time, people are remarking on the tiny baby, asking her questions about sleep, breastfeeding and adjusting.  Amid the questions, she fields no less than three inquiries from wide-eyed bystanders wondering, "are ALL these yours????"

Wait... what?

You mean the two that nobody has ever before - no, not even once - counted as "ALL THESE!" and the tiny baby I'm carrying?  Why yes... all these are mine.

It's true that I've always wanted a big family.  I knew that eventually we'd get the looks and comments that are surely inevitable when you see a tribe of small children.  I get it, I really do.  I mean, even I can appreciate that at some point it just seems like too much.  But I had no idea that we would hit that point at... three.

During my pregnancy, I wasn't on the receiving end of any comments that suggested to me this was coming.  Sure, the occasional person commented on me having my hands full, but that happened even when I was pregnant with Logan.  Besides... it's true.  Having a toddler and a new baby is a lot under any circumstances!  I was conscious of the fact that, since I already have a girl and a boy, I was spared the comments about trying for a specific gender.  But the fairly constant stream of commentary and insight that people have been kind enough to share has been a huge surprise to me, and required some adjustment, since adding Olivia.

On another note, it would seem that there's a general assumption about having three; that is, the only reason to have three is if you were trying for the other gender.  I've run into this one a number of times when I'm out with Olivia and people find out that she's the third (it happened a TON in Hawaii, for example.  Since it never happened to me when I was pregnant, I've paid attention because it surprised me).  Automatically, 100% of people assume that I have two boys at home.  It is really interesting; people don't ask what the other two are, they say "So do you have two boys at home?"  It has been the same script in literally every instance.

Mostly, none of this bothers me.  I find that most people are eager to lend support.  I've been on the receiving end of a lot of kindness in the form of people who are willing to hold doors and show patience to the fact that doing anything with one adult and multiple little people naturally requires a little extra time, energy and volume.

But not everybody is so kind.  There is definitely a bias that exists when my troupe of small ones comes through, and sometimes it really puts me over the edge.

For example, we recently stopped into an ice cream parlor that had three small tables and a row of high tops with spinning stools.

After purchasing our ice cream, I directed the kids to go and sit down.  The parlor was empty but for an older couple who had pushed all three tables together to make one large table.  As we're walking toward them, me with the baby in carrier and two kids' coats on one arm and three ice creams in the other, my two small children in my wake, the lady informed me that she was saving these seats for her family and we couldn't sit there.

Are you serious?  Is this real life?

I know.  She can claim the law of dibs, and she'd even be in the right.  Seats at a table are equal opportunity -- I get it.  But, really?  I literally can't sit my kids at the high tops because they're too small, and there's not enough of me to watch them spinning precariously from four feet up and tend the baby, and that's before you factor in the ice cream.  Not to mention, her party didn't even arrive until we were taking our last bites, and when they did?  Ugh.  It was a pack of adults accompanied by one who was roughly Leah's age.  We ended up standing, which was not fun, especially because it took every ounce of my self control not to shoot her and her still empty table really dirty looks.  (I've already decided that in the future, you don't get to play that game with me.  Ummmm, sorry.)

I do understand that I've "gotten myself into this situation" or whatever charming colloquialism you'd like to apply, but really.  It doesn't take a genius to know that the right thing to do is help a tired-looking outnumbered momma out.  Having an awareness of when the needs of others are greater than your own is so obviously the right thing to do, regardless of the circumstance you're in, that it is really frustrating to me when it's not the law of the land.

So that's where we're at.  I adore having three, but I was absolutely not prepared for the input I'd receive from the rest of the world, or how frequently I would have to deal with it.  Like I said, mostly none of it phases me - and I certainly don't mean to complain here on my little corner of the internet.  But it is both interesting to observe and an adjustment for me, one I wasn't prepared to have to adjust to.

At the end of the day, though, I wouldn't trade it for the world.

Labor hopes & wishes

I know, I know.  Labor does its own thing.

Believe me, I learned last time: there's not much you can control if your body refuses do what it's supposed to do, unlike some people I envy know.

But we also learned a lot that I hope will be positive in helping me reach a different outcome.  A lot of the proverbial what not to do's.

So, in no particular order, here are a few of the things I'm keeping all my fingers and toes crossed for on D day:

1. My water doesn't break before labor starts.  Because, though I'm pretty much resolved to ignore the doc's advice to come into the hospital right away, there's immediately a ticking clock on labor if that happens.  I'll only have so much time to get it going and get it going strong before I do have to go to the hospital, which means that I'll be subjected to all the monitoring and checking that comes along with it.  All of which may effectively shut down any labor progress I've made.

11 p.m., just a couple of hours before leaving for the hospital.  If only I'd known what was in store.  I SO wouldn't have been smiling.

2. To be well rested beforehand.  If last time is any indication, my labor is a marathon and not a sprint.  Maybe that's not even the comparison - I'm a little closer to the Tour de France.  Sure, I may shave a few hours off of the 24 it took to git 'er done last time, but I'm pretty sure I can be a whole lot more effective in the birthing process if I haven't been awake for like 40 hours in a row.

Ahhh... 3 a.m.  Seriously, quit smiling, kid.  You have no idea.

3. That I can move around.  A lot.  This is one I definitely learned my lesson on last time through.  Sure, we walked.  I bounced and bounced and bounced on the birthing ball.  I tried to move and change position.  But because I'd already been up for nearly 24 hours and it was 2 a.m. before I even arrived at the hospital and I wasn't progressing very quickly, I also rested.  Maybe more than I should have.  It was a delicate balance between moving to help labor progress and trying to save my energy - a balance I'm hoping I can do a better job of achieving this time through.  Not to mention, without being tethered to a gazillionty wires (all of which definitely hinders the entire process).

6:00 p.m. and we're finally getting somewhere.

4. That I can eat during labor.  Again, if I'm in the hospital because my water has broken, this is a no-go (though... I'm pretty sure this is another rule I may flirt with breaking).  Remember that marathon comparison?  Nobody does that without being properly fueled.  There's lots of good research that cites the importance of eating during labor, and the ways it can contribute to positive outcomes for mommies.  I'm so getting on that train.

5. That gravity will be my ally.  At the end... after 23 hours and a whole ton of stuff had been done to me, I still had to push for over an hour.  And, like an idiot, I chose to do it on my back in bed (largely, probably because I couldn't feel a lot of what I should have been able to feel because of all the trial and error issues with the epidural.  Ideally, that won't be the case this time because there won't be an epidural).  Yeah, let's not make that mistake again!  NO VACUUM!  NO VACUUM!  Poor, poor little Logan.  No vacuum is up there at the top of the list of things I hope I can rectify this time around.

This moment.  Breathless.  Tears.  So worth every second of pain, before and after.

 I've been doing a lot of research on what is and isn't part of "evidence based care" as opposed to the "cover your A" care often enacted in hospitals due to insurance or legislative restrictions.  It has been extremely eye-opening, and maybe more than a little worrisome.

For example:

Evidence-based care for you means freedom of movement, freedom to eat and drink as you like, intermittent auscultation to monitor your baby’s heart rate during labor, one-to-one continuous support by someone who is educated in childbirth, water immersion for pain management, privacy so you can focus, no vaginal exams during labor unless there is a specific reason for it or you want to know your dilation, and freedom to push in whatever position feels comfortable to you.  It includes interventions when medically necessary and not before.

Contrasted with what we typically (and I, certainly - pretty much exactly this) experience in hospitals:
...Strapped into bed with belts for continuous monitoring of your baby (this kind of monitoring has an over 99% false positive rate), no food or drink allowed (they might give you ice chips), no one-to-one support, maybe a tub for water immersion, but you can’t get in if you’re on monitoring belts, an automatic IV into your hand that hurts and makes it hard to move, lots of interruptions by people wanting to give you vaginal exams (that serve absolutely no medical purpose, but increase your odds of infection down there), and constant pressure to “hurry things along” with medication or “give you a break” with an epidural.  It’s unlikely that anyone will tell you the significant risks of medications that speed things up (Pitocin causes fetal distress, which is a #2 cause of C-sections) or the downsides of an epidural (primarily, that you won’t be able to move around to get baby positioned better, which makes it much harder for him or her to descend through the birth canal and can result in a need for episiotomy/forceps or vacuum or even surgery!). (via)

Most of all, though, the thing I hope and wish for at the end of the day is a happy, healthy baby. 

I'd like to be happy and healthy, too if we can swing it. 

So although I've said all these things, my number one concern is going to be for the baby, and all other decisions will be made out of that very important perspective.  All the rest of these are just ideas to help me even up the odds a little in the face of what will probably be a difficult day.  I'm not heeding my own advice from two years ago and electing for a c-section, so fingers crossed that one doesn't come back to haunt me.  

And, I now know enough to know that if I'm just not progressing, it's okay to do the epidural and then pitocin - in that and only that order.  

I'm kinda, sorta ridiculously excited.

Plunge.

Remember that scene at the beginning of Mary Poppins where the weathervane changes directions?  The admiral dutifully discharges his cannon and everyone has to run around trying to collect their valluables so they don't crash onto the floor, and then all those horrible and boring looking nannies are swept away? 

If you have no idea what I'm talking about, let me just refresh your memory:

(And by the way, how many days would I like to Mary Poppins my three year old and reply, "first of all, I would like to make one thing quite clear: I never explain anything."  Take THAT, 816 whys before breakfast.)

There was a change in the winds, and the world was turned upside down for the better.

I can't quite put my finger on it, but there is a change in the winds coming here in our home.  I'm drawn to very different things these days than I have ever been in the past.  I feel the urge to make and create in ways I've never experienced before. 

It started innocently enough with making my own baby food three years ago. 

Then I began to see the light and we put cloth diapers on our baby boy.

Then there was a little food revolution that has me making my own bread and carefully reading the labels on products.

I'm simplifying.  And by simplifying, I mean making things one thousand times more complicated than they used to be.  {And hopefully, one thousand times better.}

It's very gratifying, all this self-sufficiency.  It's making me itch to create and produce and design; to leave my fingerprints (and, moreoftenthannot, Casey's too) on our home and life. 

I bought herbs.  Me.  The one who makes plants scream and throw their hands in front of their faces to protect themselves: get away!  We saw what you did to the Daylilly!  Murder! For the record, they are currently growing happily in the backyard, thankyouverymuch.  (Okay, full disclosure: I killed one.  One!  It was the runt of the litter, and positively asking for it with its sassy mouth.)

I have this fabric sitting in our dining room.  I love it, because it's yellow and yellow reminds me of happiness.

 

 

But it's just fabric.  A blank canvas, waiting for someone to shape it into something.  A year ago, I wouldn't have dreamed of buying fabric.  Who me?  Make something?  Out of nothing?!  Not when I could buy it, premade, from any one of these fabulous stores!

Still, here it sits.  Expectant.

And me without a sewing machine.  As Dorothy would say, what would you do with a sewing machine if you had one?  To which I would answer...
                                                ... 
                                                      ...
                                                           ...... I have no idea......

But, a year ago, my camera intimidated the crap out of me, too. {Didja see those pictures up there?  I took those!} A year ago, I thought I was going to break my baby if I put him in cloth diapers.  {He's never yet had so much as diaper rash.} Two months ago, I'd only used my bread machine once and couldn't concieve of baking a loaf people could actually eat. {We haven't purchased store bread since June.}

We can learn and move forward, or we can sit still and gather dust.  And I don't like me no dust.

There is a change in the winds, a change in me and the way I'm thinking about our life and home and family.  Prepackaged just isn't cutting it anymore. 

It's exciting.  And challenging.  And a little scary.  The status quo has got to go (catchy, right?  Hey-Hey! Ho-Ho! Can't you just see the signs and protesters now?).

We're taking the plunge.  I'm not sure yet where it's going to lead us.  Maybe nowhere... maybe not. 

That's the neat thing about a change in the winds.

From Mom to Grandma

I have come to appreciate my mother so deeply in the months since Leah's birth. And only partly because she has a granddaughter who absolutely adores her. 

As I look back on my childhood, I understand that so much of who my mother was was sacraficial and hardworking.  She was a single mom for most of my childhood, and a working one at that.  She kept a fairly immaculate house - something I have failed to recreate for Leah despite my best efforts - and somehow managed to get more done in a day than I can do in a week. 

And still we had time for trips to a horse ranch in Durango, summer afternoons at the pool, dance lessons and softball games, camping trips and Christmases that I recall being something out of a Norman Rockwell.

Yes, that woman is pretty awesome.

I came across an article recently on Babble.com (can I just throw out my completely unsolicited recommendation for this website?  If you're not reading, you should be!) about making the transition from Mom to Grandma.  (If you're interested, the complete article can be found here.)

It's a transition that I can tell already I'll loathe.  To think that I should not be in charge of Leah's every decision?  That she can come to her own conclusions and manage her own life?  That she could possibly exist without my input and assistance???  The very idea! (Honey: I say this with complete - okay, mostly complete - sarcasm.  My greatest challenge and joy is to mother you to become your own woman, and make decisions on their merrit as you see them, not just because it's what I want.  But if you're 15 and reminding me I said all of this, you're grounded.)

It must be challenging to come to grips with the fact that your baby is an adult.  Awesome as she is, my own mother and I don't always see eye to eye on this topic.  (There was a particularly nasty episode in which she referred to Leah as "my baby," and not in the endearing way.  I find it irritating and inappropriate, she finds it hurtful that I can't see where she was coming from.)

It is an issue that speaks to the very identity of motherhood.  Is it possible to mother well if you yourself are still being mothered?  Are you fulfilling your parental duties if you adhere to the idea that your own mother knows best?  And from the grandparent side, when is it time to take a step back and play the supporting - rather than leading - role?  How does one who has been central for so long even go about doing that?

I often find with Leah that she is capable of so much more than I think she is.  I am continually amazed by her.  The girl ate a peanut a few days ago.  How on Earth you do that with no teeth, I have no clue, but she mashed it into peanut butter and asked for another.  My job is to protect her - because heaven knows she is still in a phase where she needs protecting - but in a way that doesn't also limit her vast potential.  That takes tailored, conscious effort on my part.  And when you're a parent, you do what is right for you children, even - perhaps especially - when it's not easy for you.

I think being a new grandmother must be a little like that.  I'd like to think and hope that when my own mother watches me taking on this huge challenge called motherhood, she is taken aback by just how much I'm capable of.  I sincerely hope that she is as awed and amazed by me as I am by my daughter (even when I don't keep an immaculate house...).

Otherwise, really... what's the point?

Just how "non-toxic" are we talkin', here?

I am a perfect mother.

OH - sorry.  You couldn't see it, because this is a blog, but what you missed was me laughing hysterically as I tried to type that sentence. 

Okay, so I might not be a perfect mother, in the traditional white-apron, high-heels, tidy-house sense.  But I do try.  Really, I do. 

I mean, look at my sweet little pumpkin and her art project.

Look at how well-thought out and intentional I was about introducing her to art projects for the first time!

Note the painters tape, put down to prevent her from pulling up and eating the paper.  And, of course, I had to use painter's tape because it would come up easily without leaving any of that nasty tape-essence behind.

And how well I modeled using markers!  Doesn't this look like it's going well?!

C'mon.  Props for that, right?

So when this happened...

...and the marker went right in her kisser and she sucked up a BIG OLE' MOUTHFUL of Crayola, it's okay, right??  Because I made such a good attempt.  That's what counts.  Besides, they're non-toxic markers. 

Admit it.  I make you feel better about yourself. 

If you give a Pig a Pancake

If you give a pig a pancake...

She will probably spot Mommy's eggs.  Mommy didn't make her eggs, because Mommy made her pancakes. 

Spotting Mommy's eggs will remind her that she likes eggs.

So she will ask for them.

If Mommy gives her the eggs, she will probably eat them all.  

If you give a pig left-over chicken fingers, chopped up into itsy, bitsy pieces just the way she likes to take to the zoo...

She will probably spot Mommy's peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Spotting Mommy's peanut butter and jelly sandwich will remind her that she wants some.

So she will ask for it.

If you give a pig your peanut butter and jelly sandwich,

she will probably eat it all. 

And you will have no lunch. 

March in Memorium

As the month of march comes to a close, I have to admit: it was a pretty awesome month. 

Although I was totally flipped out by the thought of having a one-year-old, I now know better.  One is fun!  There are about a million things I love about having a one year old, just a few of which include:

Exploring a wide veriety of finger foods, such as lasagne, ravioli, sausage, and toast

Ordering off the menu at restaurants

Actual conversations with my daughter

Her wonderful, tentative first steps

Going to the pool

Watching her interact with the world in new ways every day

...and so, sooo many more!  It's a whole world of possibilities now, where as last year - magical as it was - there were a great many limitations.  Somehow I have this gut feeling that Leah's second year on the planet might be even better, more fun, delightful and more exciting than her first. 

Is that possible?!

Being sick kills braincells

Oooh, betcha thought I was talking about me on this one, yes? 

For once, in reference to having no braincells, I am officially not talking about myself.

In fact... I'm talking about Leah.  Because I'm convinced that being sick has stunted her vocabulary (at least for now). 

Here's my total geek-out minute.  Are you ready?

In times of stress, trauma, or - I'm guessing - illness, the language center of the brain is one of the first things to shut down in children.  Well, adults too, which is why when you get really, really angry, you probably aren't very articulate.  It's really clear in kids.  Take a toddler who normally commands a lot of language, get him upset, and he will probably shout something simple like "NO!" while stamping his feet and hitting, biting or throwing things.  Yep.  That's because the rational side of the brain - the one that also controls language - gets taken over by the more primative, emotional side. 

(Turns out I was actually paying attention during my childhood development classes in grad school!)

So back to my point...

Since Leah has been sick, all her amazing language skills have reverted back three months, and everything has once again become "dada." 

Me: "Leah, do you like cheese?"
Leah: "Dada."
Me: "Leah, do you see the doggie?"
Leah: "Da. Dada"
Me: "Would you like a banana for lunch?"
Leah: "Daaaadadada." 
Me: "I love you, Leah."
Leah: "Da."

It's a very interesting process, to watch it in action.  I certainly hope she'll start feeling better soon.  I was loving the newfound conversations we've been able to have recently, and calling everything "dada" wasn't exactly what I had in mind!

Seems like this one shoulda been a no-brainer

What is stupid and obnoxious about ridiculously cold temperatures?

Well, how about the fact that they are ridiculously cold?

So cold, in fact, that your pipes will freeze.  Leading to this:

Even if you keep your water running 24/7, and the temperature in your house is waaaay above the thrifty 67 degrees it usually is.  (Pipes, afterall, can't wear layers.)

And, in case you were wondering, frozen pipes = lots of money for emergency plumbing help.

It could have been a LOT worse, so really I need to just say a prayer of gratitude and thanks.  When they bust, it was on the unfinished side of our basement (meaning no water damage) and I was able to get a plumber just a few short hours later (he informed me they had turned down 40 calls already that day). 

So thank heavens for savings, and I suppose it is a small price to pay on a day when many people have had much worse.

No snow, but a whole 'lotta cold

Remember how I said I love teaching?

Well, I have one more item to add to my laundry list of reasons this is true.

Two words: Snow Day.

This weekend, it was an absolutely gorgeous 60 degrees in Colorado.  Cut to Monday, when I'm telling my lovely 8th graders to be sure to dress warmly at the bus stop the next day, because it was predicted to be a high of zero degrees the following day.

(In what world zero is a high temperature, I have no idea.)

I sometimes forget what it means to teach 8th graders, because what I intended as a sincere plea to bundle up turned into a contest between a few boys to see who could last longer outside in shorts.  In fact, they hiked up their pants to around their knees before going out to the busses for the day, leaving me no choice but to instruct them to "pull your pants down!"... before I realized the many reasons why shouting this at 13 year old boys could backfire on me.   

Fortunately, we were all spared that unpleasantness when my school district - and pretty much all the others in the state of Colorado - cancelled school!  Hooray! 

So, for the past two days, Leah and I have been home together, bundled up and trying to find ways to amuse ourselves (which, for us, isn't exactly a challenge.  We're pretty easily entertained!). 

If you can't tell, this is Leah applauding her own ingenuity. 

A few dish towels, a pants-tutu and a not-so-subtle reminder that it's time to officially baby proof is all it takes to amuse us on a cold day. 

And so it begins...

Yesterday vs. Today

Yesterday was the kind of day that couldn't get over quickly enough. Frankly, I was curled up in the fetal position rocking myself in a corner by the end of it.

Leah was still recovering from our super busy weekend. The problem was, even though she was exhausted, and G-R-U-M-P-Y, she wouldn't sleep... hence the fetal position.

Fortunately, today was a new day (thank you, Scarlet O'Hara!).

Today, I am SUPERMOM!

Today, my baby is not only a huge smile factory, she is also a napper extrordinaire.

Today, I discovered the secret to a good nap: watching for Leah's "sleepy signs" and putting her down immediately.

So much for the schedule I've been trying to put her on. So much for scratching that in favor of putting her down 2 hours after she last woke up. Turns out, both of those strategies result with mom in a corner in the fetal position.

This way, I have a daughter who naps like a queen! Or... you know, Rip Van Winkle, or someone else who is a notoriously good napper.

I.AM.AWESOME!

(And if you mention the fact that it took me nearly three months to figure that out, I will cheerfully beat you to death.)

Lessons

If there is such a thing as a perfect mother, I am not it. Probably never will be. But, I recently learned an important lesson:

When the baby sleeps in mommy and daddy's bed, it's important to put a towel down.

Let me explain.

Casey has been out of town for about a week and a half. Since I am back at work, my mom was helping us by watching the baby. Because of a back injury, it is a lot easier for her if she doesn't have to go up and down the stairs a million times a day.

To help her in this effort, Casey moved the pack and play, which has Leah's bassinet, downstairs to the living room. Leah has been sleeping with me (which, by the way, I absolutely adore!).

Leah is wonderful about going to bed. She sleeps well through the night, waking up only to nurse and going right back to sleep (most of the time), as long as her sleep is not interrupted without her consent.

The other night, I put her to bed at about 8. I came in around 10:30, and since she was still asleep, I didn't wake her up to nurse her. She woke up on her own around midnight. While I was nursing, I heard that dreaded wet, chunky noise that signals a dirty diaper.

Horrible mother that I am, I decided not to change her right away. It was only midnight; if I woke her up to change her diaper, not only would she be grumpy, she would have a difficult time going back to sleep. I decided to let her sit on it (so to speak) until she woke up around 3 or 4, when she often struggles to go back to sleep anyway.

Then, I felt a warm sensation around my mid-section. Ugh.

She had had what Casey and I have termed a "Number 3," which is code for when the diaper isn't quite enough to hold it all in. A Number 3 is the reasons moms everywhere pack extra clothes in the diaper bag, just in case.

And it was a hum-dinger.


It was on my shirt. It was on my fitted sheet, my top sheet, and my white down comforter. It was all over my baby's pj's, feet, legs and back.

I literally stood there, staring at the mess for more than a minute. I couldn't decide what to do first!

Not to mention, baby poop should be a Class 5 hazardous substance. Nothing can escape it, and it stains everything it touches!

At 12:30 in the morning, I had to get Leah cleaned and in new PJ's, then wake up my mother so she could take the baby while I changed the sheets, scrubbed the old sheets and the comforter so they wouldn't be forever stained, and scrubbed the mattress before re-making the bed.

So, now I know: when Leah sleeps in our bed, she will now be sleeping on a towel.

Lesson learned.