Every Little Thing

Over the past few weeks the girls and I have put on some major mileage and had so much fun and are basically squeezing all the adventure we possibly can out of these few precious weeks of summer our New England climate gives us. And summer is loving us back.

Brooklyn: We walked to three playgrounds in one day (!), I had too-much wine and wonderful catch-up time with my girlfriends (!!) and then we took a FERRY to HEAVEN (!!!) and it was so absurdly magical that I had a little lump in my throat for most of the weekend.

Parenting at the same time, in the same place, with old friends, is amazing. You see them in a best, new light. And you also see that you are the same to them, and they are the same to you, even though everything is different.

And. As with most things, once you are actually doing the thing, it just...unfolds. I was in a mild twist about having the girls in the car for so long and general traveling solo-parent-style. And, of course: There was a grating 45-minute stretch of whining (the mamuuuuh mamaaaaaah maaaamuuuh sob sob thing that makes one wish ears were never even invented) instigated by my darling eldest before she took her own trip to Nap-ville, at the beginning of the 3rd hour of driving on the way down. As per my "breaks every 2 hours" rule, we had just pulled back on the road from our Big Treat fast-food lunch when the whining began. I wanted to shove their new Minion toys (which Baby G. promptly christened "my pickle-bull" after "despicable") into my ears. But then my big girl gave in to her fatigue and slept the entire rest of the ride to the CT grandparents' house and proceeded to have the best times ever for the rest of the weekend. There was one night wherein we all couldn't fall asleep for shit, and then slept like crap. There was a terrifying thunderstorm on the way back during which I discovered 1., the wipers on the car are inadequate, 2., the defrost on the car is inadequate and 3., when you are on a busy highway and you can't see past the front of your car, and you just have to pull over praying that everyone will let you do so, your hands can shake so hard that it can take upwards of 15 minutes to calm them so they will not also be inadequate. I could have done without those parts, but then, we could have just not gone, and none of the good stuff would have happened either.

(BLOGGER LIFE PHILOSOPHY IN YOUR FACE.)

Portland, Maine (with beloved houseguests): Not one but TWO trips to the best ice cream shop/petting zoo ever. A golden afternoon at the beach. Magic-hour suppers on my back porch. Three adorable little girls playing together. Not one, not two, but THREE amazing good ol'fashioned late-night hangouts with my girlfriend who is, no contest, the best person in the world with whom to destroy your liver. Resultant hilarious hung-over parenting afternoons. And the aforementioned precious chance to share space with an old friend, who is also a (great) mom and a (great) wife.

I had a little Gretchen-Rubin-esque epiphany during that week. You know how some people just make you feel wonderful and like yourself? Your best self, in the most Oprah-manner of speech, but in an effortless way? These people are your "inflators" and you should cling to them always, and make them fly hundreds of miles to see you and your children. Guilt them into it, I don't care. Just get them into your space. And you should drive or fly hundreds of miles to see them, also. The other kind of people are "deflators" who make you feel bad and fuck them.That is what I learned that week.

Northport, Maine: For a few years now, my family has been heading up the coast of Maine for our family business's association retreat. This sounds like it should be boring, but it is not, not by a long shot. The first year, Little A. was just barely there: I had confirmed my pregnancy the very day before we drove 4 hours to Bar Harbor and I spent the whole weekend bobbing around in that heady mixture of joy and panic that is the beginning of pregnancy and also wondering if everyone would notice my avoidance of wine and blue cheese. This year, our fourth year, I finally got the whole weekend RIGHT. I hired one of Little A.'s beloved teachers, Miss Alicia, to babysit. My brother and his kids were also coming, and Miss Alicia knows them very well also. Alicia was fantastic all weekend - she required absolutely NO instruction, she was up for anything, and she can drive a golf cart. (I have a ridiculous inability to drive anything smaller than a car. So stupid! I need to get over it.) So, A+ childcare choice.

The drive up to the resort was rainy and sleepy, but the weather also meant very little traffic. I would only give myself an A- for transport because my car broke down that morning, all full of our stuff, but then I got to drive my dad's fancy Audi, so maybe I get just a regular A.

Friday evening there is always a lobster bake/ridiculous dance party. The girls were happy to learn the Macarena and hang in the bounce-house until bedtime (A- for much later than usual bedtime). My dad started drinking CC over ice at 6 pm and didn't stop until well after he had danced with my mother - TWICE - to "Blurred Lines." That was a scene, my friends, that I will never forget. I will never forget. I also might have taught my mother how to dance "Gangnam Style," but there was no video recording so let's just pretend it never happened. I might have been drinking rum. Weirdest-wedding-ever-dance-party: A+!

Poor Baby G. succumbed to a tummy bug overnight on Friday, so I spent the pre-dawn hours  changing both of us out of multiple pairs of barfed-upon PJs. Friday-into-Saturday, I'm afraid, gets a D. But Saturday officially dawned bright and lovely and we all went to the beach (A) and with plenty of Tylenol and cuddles, by afternoon, the Baby was just fine (B+). And all the grownups went to a wine-tasting (A), which was fun except day-drinking should be followed either by more drinking or immediate napping and I did neither (C+) and by 9 pm that night I was DONE. My brother and his wife were DONE too, so they took me down the mountain in their golf cart, collected my nieces from my cabin, and we all went to bed early (A+). But that was OK too. We all slept like champions and drove home the next day without incident (A-).

Weekend cumulative average: A

And this weekend, well. For the first time ever, the Green Team is splitting up to have separate adventures. Little A. is spending the weekend with my parents, and has already told me that she is going to "take Nana on all the rides at Santa's Village because otherwise Nana might not have fun. And Grampa can take pictures." Baby G. is going to her first Red Sox game with her dad, CT grandparents, and uncle. And I am headed up the coast again for a little getaway of my own. This will be the first night I have spent away since Baby G was born. I am going to miss the dickens out of those girls but oh, oh, oh. SLEEPING IN and other adult-y things, how I have longed for thee.

I used to hate summer. Indoorsy, bookish nerds with an aversion to bare skin don't fare well with heat and sweat and tourists all around. But now I can see what all the hype is about: it's fun. FUN! Summer is a stupid and highly inappropriate Daft Punk song blasting out of your car window and all three of us girls singing along. Summer is ice cream dripping down your chin. Summer is the perfect light reflecting off the slick of low tide. Summer is a little black dress under fireworks. And I'm paraphrasing myself here, but around these parts, Summer 2013 is delivering fun, on all fronts.

So, what did you do on your summer vacation?

xoxo, A

Two! Sleeps! 'Til Brooklyn!

We are coming up on some exciting weeks around these parts. Long weekend adventures to my favorite city to see a favorite auntie and her adorable son, a week-long visit from another favorite auntie and her beautiful daughter, and in a stunning trifecta, Little A.'s favorite teacher will be babysitting ALL the girl cousins during our weekend retreat to an amazing spot, all on the books. Oh and we can't forget the tentative quick trip to Boston to say goodbye to some good friends. In between we'll hit the beach and the pool and stay over at the lake. So, yeah, we love August, in advance.

My good friend (and obviously one of my biggest inspirations -- thanks for all the writing prompts, Lynn!) recently shared her feelings about traveling with kids. Hell on earth, she says. And I can definitely see where she's coming from. About 2 hours in to our 3.5 hour flight home from a recent trip to Florida (which had a whole host of problems, really deserving of its own post), Baby G. got restless and spent a good 45 minutes slapping and poking me. It wasn't malicious, really, but really. Slapping. Poking. Jumping. All the while increasing her vocal volume until people started turning around to see what the fuss was all about. Finally I dumped her into my dad's lap and hissed YOU TAKE HER NOW and went to stand by the bathroom and pretended not to know any of my travel party for 15 minutes. There might have been a quick glass of wine involved but I'll never tell.

So. Was it relaxing? No. I was utterly exhausted by the time we got home. But was it worth it? Yes. I can safely say: yes. Though I didn't get to loll on a chair and read trashy magazines or even have one fruity cocktail without wondering if someone was going to drown or get sunburned or wake up and need tending, there were so many lovely moments. Watching the girls through my fingers as they run away from my beach chair to the edge of the Gulf of Mexico, holding their grandfather's hand. Discovering the tiny baby coconut that would become Little A.'s prized possession. Reconnecting with a dear friend while our little girls slept all piled into the same room. And all of our trips are like that. Tiring/exhilarating. Stressful/amazing.

So I'll start packing tonight, for my first solo road trip with the girls. Even though I know there will be moments of hell during our 6-hour drive, once we get there, and on the way home. Even though I just spent an arm and a leg on road snacks that will be eaten within the first 45 minutes. Because we need to walk to the coolest playgrounds in the coolest neighborhood in my most favorite city in the whole wide world. Because I don't want Little A. to think Maine bagels are actually BAGELS. Because I wouldn't miss the chance to see my dear friend and her boy play with my girls. Because I need to sit on a roof with my girlfriends and see and hear the same sights and sounds of my long-gone self-centered single gal days. Because I love to travel, and goddammit, so will my kids.

(Wish me luck, though, seriously.)

xoxo, A

Instant Karma

So yeah, I spoke too soon. I spoke waaaaaaaay too soon there.

Who was reading my little blog? Why did they have to karma little ol' me? What did I dooooo?

(Answer: everything I did romantically until my mid-30s, probably earned me enough negative karma that I'll be working that shite off for the rest of me life)

I posted that Pollyanna post over there, went for a quick run to celebrate a lazy boss-less day at work. Went contentedly home with my adorable girls singing in the car. Went to my grandmother's for dinner, all warm and fuzzy. Put the girls to bed, and watched some House of Cards. Contemplated the wonder that is Claire Underwood's hairdo. Went to bed myself. Life was good! Spring had sprung! Extra hour of sunlight! Etc.

HEY SHUT UP OR KNOCK ON WOOD YOU ASSHOLE.

At 5 am Baby G. woke up crusted in her own vomit and...other stuff. Suffice it to say, she got sick in the night, and then somehow fell back asleep. And woke up screaming, as is quite reasonable under the circumstances. A shower and some new jammies later she was tucked into bed next to me.

And then at 6 she threw up in my bed.

Fortunately Tim was planning to be home so I was able to go to work. Yay! Work! No one threw up on me at work!

So we had a sick baby on our hands and I stocked up on Pedialyte and the makings of the BRATY diet that would be her menu for the next week or so. Friday night was predictably low-key. Then Saturday morning I went off to my Zumba class only to drag my weak, dizzy, nauseated ass home 25 minutes later. And so help me I could not move from a horizontal position all day. Baby G and I took a couple of long naps and I fell asleep on Little A's floor for 3 hours after putting her to bed. I was sick as a dog, a prisoner of germs. Housebound.

And we had booked a babysitter. You parents out there know how precious and wonderful and amazing, the mere idea of BABYSITTER. It was going to be our first night out since Baby G's birth (sad but true, we are notsogood at that date night thing). Yes, there are worse things. But we burned a BABYSITTER night. Sigh.

And then it snowed. A lot.

All told I spent 4 days trapped inside with the entire family. How did the Ingalls family do it? Those long winters all spent indoors, looking at the same people, hearing the same whines, blowing the same noses? I would never have made it. As it was I was never so glad to wave bye-bye to my adorable progeny and head off the to blissful silence of my basement office. And then I found out my grandmother spent the beginning of the week in an advanced state of dehydration due to our stupid germs. Argh.

TL:DR takeaway: don't tempt the fates. Shut your fool mouth, and also buy whiskey. And Pedialyte.

xoxo, A 

Nines

The baby has been out as long as she was in, 9 months old on Sunday the 2nd. The baby is trying very hard to not be a baby for much longer, what with all the pulling up and climbing stairs and trying to walk and babble-conversing and being almost a year old. The baby needs to STOP because she is my last baby and she is really just the sweetest, silliest, easiest baby ever.

I haven't yet told you her birth story, partly because it was so devoid of drama. The baby has been so agreeable from the moment she was conceived (excepting the 8 days she hung out past her due date, that was kind of a dick move) that I was able to deliver her without any pain medication whatsoever. So, we can do this real quick and move on:


Overdue. Boo.

After trying sex and pineapple and long walks and yoga and spicy foods and pizza and swept membranes and everything that is supposed to get the damn baby out, one Thursday night, a full week past my due date, I felt a contraction. A real, true contraction that made me go oof. But it was only one. And so we put our big girl to bed and went to bed ourselves. I had decided that I would try laboring through a *very* unstudied version of the Bradley method, and somehow lulled myself into such a state of relaxation that I was able to sleep for a few hours at a time between the somewhat more intense contractions, until the next morning. Friday, December 2nd. We woke rested and ready to get the show on the road.

The baby is so considerate that she waited until her big sister was breakfasted and whisked away by my parents for a weekend of ice cream and movies. The in-laws were put on alert to begin their drive up from Connecticut. Tim and I arrived at the hospital in time for a second breakfast*, around 10 am, and so began the long waiting time. Contractions were coming every five minutes or so, and for every one I closed my eyes and breathed slowly and deliberately and went hmmmmmm and was probably pretty weird-looking but it fucking worked. We walked the halls, we did the stupid slow-dance shuffle you see on every birthing video, I used the birthing ball, I draped my upper body over the edge of the bed and watched Food Network (that shit is soothing) while Tim rubbed my back. I had my Pandora station set to Super 70s Soul. It was awesome. We had a break for lunch*.  I went to the bathroom several times. See how boring is this? It was kind of boring, except for the growing realization that we were ABOUT TO HAVE A (NOTHER) BABY HOLY SHIT. But I was trying to keep that voice quiet, because that panicked voice had served me ill at Little A's birth. So with the Giada and the Contessa and the Aretha and the hmmmmm I kept the panic at bay.

My lovely midwife, Jerri, popped in at intervals to check my stats and sit on the couch and just hang out. My even nicer nurse came by more frequently to chat about whatever, our kids, the current show on TV, oh and also monitor my contractions and give me the crazy strong antibiotics I needed for the Group B strep I somehow picked up between pregnancies. At one point the nurse gave me the best shoulder rub I have ever had in my entire life, seriously, I would have paid a hundred dollars for that outside of the hospital, and there I was getting it for free just because I was pushing a baby out. Lucky me! Also, oxytocin is for real. Because:

After said shoulder rub, all of a sudden I got really, really tired. I wanted to lie down on the bed, so I did. And then even more suddenly shit got super real. My contractions became much more intense and frequent. I felt something like a water balloon popping inside my ladyparts and OH IT WAS MY WATER BREAKING SHIT IS GETTING REAL. The thought hey! an epidural would be really nice right about now floated into my mind space, but it was way too late. I was fully dilated and stripped out of my civilian clothes (cause, duh, I never changed until my water broke and ew gross like nearly everything birth-related) and the nurse was put on hurry-up to set up the birthing tray because all of a sudden I wanted to push. I never got that overwhelming sensation with Little A., but here it was: I wanted to push and push and please don't make me stop pushing because I am gonna be a pushing machine. The nurse said I could do little tiny pushes until Jerri came back from another patient. That kind of made me laugh. *Tiny* pushes? Hee. Hee. See how tiny?

And then Jerri came back. Jerri said, do whatever you need to do. Apparently, what I needed to do was grab those bars on the top of the bed (the next day my arms were SO sore, like I did 100 pullups) and go RAAAWWWWRRRR like a crazy thing. And maybe 4 crazy Sheela-na-Gig pushes later, Baby G shot out. Seriously. My nurse said she'd never seen a baby come out that fast. This is not bragging; I literally couldn't have helped myself. Unlike the first birth, I just let my body do its thing. And my body, I guess, can be efficient when my head is not in the way.
 

9 minutes old. Total. Bliss.



But then there was the problem. Baby G had the umbilical cord around her neck, and because my body wanted to shoot the baby out, Jerri didn't have time to gracefully unwrap the cord. So oh, oh, oh. The grey little baby they put on my chest that day at 3:40 pm. I cried and begged her to start crying, too. They took her away to give her oxygen and I cried and begged them to bring her back. Two of the longest minutes of my life passed and finally, finally, I heard her little cry and they brought her back to me and we looked into each other's eyes and good lord you guys. I fell in love so completely. We sat, happily cuddling and nursing and dreamily smelling her head and admiring her fingers and etc., for hours. The oxytocin and other feel-good chemicals didn't leave my system for two weeks.



9 months old. Total. Goof.



Natural childbirth, yo. Thumbs WAY up.

And so, my last baby was born. And it was so amazing, and so banal. And so, we became a family of four.

The end.

The beginning.

xoxo, A



*If you have a baby, do yourself a favor and find a midwife practice. So empowering! I got to decide things! I didn't get poked and prodded against my will every 15 minutes! I got to EAT! YAY MIDWIVES.





Gratutious babytoe photo serves no purpose.



Dada, Testify!

This one's for Auntie E (sorry for the rotation issue). Happy Friday everyone!

xoxo, A

Babyface

I miss her all day. T-friggin-GIF.

Halfway

Or, the conclusion of the saga. TL;DR takeaway: DON'T BE LIKE ME, PLAN AHEAD.

When will I learn? I guess, never. Other mamas carefully, prenatally, research options, go for visits, send deposits. I must subconsciously ENJOY the extra pressure and stress that comes with my lack of preparation and forethought. Because now I have done it TWICE.

But also: Somehow, we've hit upon a happy ending. So, so fortunately.

After a week or so of hemming and hawing and bringing the baby to work with me and generally flipping my wig, I pulled on my big-girl panties and called a couple of centers. Begged, pleaded, for infant openings. Went on a couple of visits, dragging the girls with me. Endured awkward visits with weird ladies whose centers smelled of pee and sadness. But then. We walked into the appropriately named Sunny Days and lo, the clouds were chased away. Of course we would love to take both girls, the director said. You are an angel straight from heaven, I said back.

And so both of my girls are ensconced at the same daycare as their beloved cousins. Halfway between our house and my office. It's a Christian center, which gave us pause, but, in the end. Seriously. They are really little. We can just deprogram them later, if we need to. But that discussion is for another post.

And! I am seeing, already, positive changes in my big Little A. She is NAPPING during the day, and greeting me with a smile on her face and no wet pants in her bag. She has given me a couple of moments of drama about missing her friends at her old place, but otherwise seems to be handling the transition like a champ.

Baby G is not napping but that's because she is so excited! About other babies! Doing stuff! And looking at them! And growing two teeth! And there is a noise over there what is happening!!! But that is a 4 month old for you. And she greets me with a smile every day, opens her arms wide to grab my face and pull my hair.

I miss them both so much during the day, but this is how it has to be for now. Today I took them both out to a bagel shop for breakfast, to celebrate a great first week of our new routine. All of the regulars cooed over the girls. Then we drove off to the daycare and walked in to see the latest of Little A's witticisms* displayed right at the front of the center for all the grownups to see. My heart grew 3 sizes, and I cried happy tears on the way back to the car.

I mean, now I have to pump 4 times a day at the office, nothing new for any working BFin'  mom. At least I can watch Food Network at the same time. My life. Is not terrible.

Con muchos besos,
A

*Her teacher asked her "Is it hard work, being so cute?" To which Little A. replied, very seriously, "Well, I don't have to do it on weekends at home, and I take Mondays off too. So it's not THAT hard." OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF BABES PEOPLE.

Daddy Daycare

Or, the ongoing chronicles of what-the-hell-will-I-do-with-my-BABY???

A few weeks ago I had a bad week. Which was followed by a bad weekend. A really rotten weekend, which included me melting down into a rage volcano, and spewing frustration lava all over my nearest and dearest, which nearly saw me transform into a single mother, which also ended up with one member of the family in GODDANG JAIL (not me). But one good thing came out of that rotten weekend:

Daddy Daycare opened for business. Yep. In a moment of clarity I realized: if Tim was not working, he can damn well watch the baby all day. And we made it so. And it was good.

Of course it is so, so different with the second baby. Baby G is much easier-going, but who can say whether her chillaxedness is just her nature, or perhaps because she is not living under the weight of the ANXIETY DEATHRAY I projected on her older sister: Is she breathing? Am I holding her right? Is she hungry? Did she have a poop? Was that a fart or is she choking to death? IS SHE BREATHING AAAH THE BABY IS GOING TO DIE IF I PUT HER DOWN OR LET ANYONE ELSE TAKE CARE OF HER.

Oh yea, I am 100% more relaxed: howdy, friendly-looking acquaintance, would you like to hold my baby? Give her back when she seems hungry. But for Tim, because I forced him into a primary caregiver role, it's like night and day. He is involved, he shows affection, he takes initiative. He has been having FUN with Baby G. I don't think he really had fun with Little A. until she could talk. I mean, he loved her, but you know, I am not sure he really enjoyed her babyhood. He even took the baby to work yesterday, to show her off to his new boss, and get her opinion on the new website he is building for the company!

Because of course as soon as we figured out this beautiful solution, did the man get a job. Yes he did. And while I am pleased for that, we are back at square zero. To add a dash of complexity to the whole stinking situation, Little A's daycare is not accepting infants, AND is under investigation by the Department of Health and Human Services! So we might have to find a new place for her too! I am not using exclamation points because I am happy about this! Seriously!!

!!!!!

Does anyone have an awesome spare nanny we could borrow? Maybe one who speaks Spanish? That would be awesome. Or maybe someone would like to go to work for me so I can hang with my adorable little baby, who smells like fresh-mown-hay, and laughs and coos and is so amazing and I want to be with her all the time but boohooo sniffle I have to go to wooooork boooo.

Having babies is awesome, until you have no earthly idea what to do with them for 8 hours of the day. SIGH.

Con muchos besos,
A

(Every Day is) Take Your Daughter to Work Day

Let's talk about this goddamn crappity crap WINTER. This winter, you may have heard once or twice OR EVERY GODDAMN DAY has seemed particularly bad on the germ front. Raging stomach bugs, colds that last for a million years, double ear infrackityfections, etc etc. In my own little circle, we have had the lingering snots and "too many coughs," as my eldest put it, for about a month running. Maybe more.

As such, I do not dare put my precious bundle Baby G into daycare. Her immune system will be exposed to enough creeping crud through her sister's adorable, persistent, and mildly overbearing affection, but I will not put her in the direct line of fire (plus, she is mah preshus baybeeee! Just a wee lil pickle baby! It would kill me to put her into daycare this small. And I need her close as much as she needs me, for my maternal sanity). But financial realities have forced me back to my desk early. As in, I have been bringing the baby to work with me for about 3 weeks now. The baby is 11 weeks old this Friday.


It has been....hard. Verging on really too hard. First, OK, let's acknowledge how grateful I am that I CAN bring the baby with me. Because, you see, my father is my boss. As in, Baby G's grandfather. So he is fairly pleased to have an excuse to get his hands on the baby almost every day. Plus, he doesn't mind when I disappear for nursing breaks, or napwalks, or let's play on the floor breaks. He has this enduring faith that I will get the job done, and cuts me a frickin' boat-load of slack.

Yesterday though. Oh, yesterday. After a 10 am meeting with our software consultant I had X Y and Z to get done and of course, the baby would not nap. It was one of those I am so exhausted and upset and the more upset I get the longer it will take to get me calmed down and IF I maybe even IF I get to sleep if there is a noise of any kind or if you jostle my stroller or think too loudly about whether or not I am sleeping my eyes are going to pop open and I will cry and maybe I am hungry? OMG I AM SO EXHAUSTED MAMA HAAAALP!!! kind of days for the baby.

By the end of it, I wanted my mama (aka a big glass of wine in a silent room, or maybe just an episode of Downton Abbey playing softly in the background). Because also? Not only was I not able to soothe the poor baby, I got the mama-guilt so hard. Because I just wanted to do my WORK, you know? I wanted to be able to do my work and also think of what to make for dinner and pick a craft with Little A. at home and book our trip to Florida in April and IM with my girlfriend and eat my goddamn LUNCH without a tiny tyrant yelling in my face.

And then when I left the office (late) the baby screamed in the car all the way home. And then did these heartbreaking sniffles when she realized I was not going to come rescue her from her carseat prison. I contemplated pulling the car into a 7-11 parking lot and running away fast. But then, I am out of shape and super slow and would get arrested and it would get in the paper and boy would that be embarrassing. So we just drove on. And had leftovers for dinner, and did no crafts, and everyone went to bed early.

And at about 1 am I found myself awake with Baby G.; she was hungry.  So we got into the most comfortable cuddle for nursing and I stroked her perfect fuzzy head. And remembered how a million years ago, I had the exact same day with Little A. I went back to work when she was 5 weeks old. And that tiny needy (so, so needy) baby turned into an amazing chatterbox whirlwind toddler in a blink and she doesn't remember any of those hard early weeks and neither do I, really. Just a blur of how will I get through this. But we did. And we will. And I am so lucky to have these shitty days with these two girls, who will be big and gone from my lap before I even have the time to forget how their newborn fuzzy heads smelled.

And today, wouldn't you know, Baby G napped for almost 4 hours while I worked. And woke up smiling. And tonight during her bath with her big sister, she farted so loudly it made her laugh. Her first real laugh. Now THERE'S a memory for the scrapbook.You can forget all about yesterday.

Con muchos besos, A