Taxidermy anyone?

Because we have a plethora of dead animals creepin' 'round this place.

Yes.  Really.

When you open the mailbox and there's a glimmer of hope that you might find a birthday party invitation or a fun magazine and all you find are junk mail and bills, at least you rarely find collateral displaying phrases such as these:



It all started with a SERIOUS stench by our front door.  My dad who has THE NOSE (haha, that's not even what I meant, but yes, it's prominent, I meant he can smell a fart before it actually escapes someone's bum) came over and he gave that look and wrinkled his nose and said, "Something is dead around here." 

Well, the man was right.  We started digging around in the bushes by the front door and couldn't find anything although it was becoming clearer and clearer by the day that something was FUNKY and it was time to really figure it out.

OH MY GOD.  I'm going to throw up just talking about it.  Paul found, tangled in the center-most branches, near the roots of one of our bushes, a dead possum.  Wrapped so terribly around the shrubbery, we are almost certain that is how he died.  Caught in the bush until the smell of decay wafted our direction.  Blech. 

I want to have a soft spot for all of God's creatures but if I'm being totally honest (hello?! It's ME here!) that is one of those animals I could do without.  Their tails, their eyes, their claws, their everything is just, EWWWWWWW, I shudder just thinking about them.

So, Paul admitted he is not a "dead animal guy" (I mean, are there really "dead animal guys?!") so he wasn't about to deal with it and I wasn't even considering sticking my paws anywhere near that ugly beast, so we had to call our local pest control friends to come do away with it. 

Before we made the decision to call Pest Control, Paul and I were both jumping up and down doing a totally spastic freak-out dance in the front lawn, and in a moment of panic, he asked me what I thought we should do. 

"Uhhhh, MOVE!" was my first suggestion.

And "Douse that bush with lighter fluid, strike a match and run," was my second suggestion.  

After I was vetoed, though I truly think he pondered the second option for a while, he called the "DEAD ANIMAL GUYS" (Ha!  They DO actually exist now that I think of it!) and that little possum was OUT.  OF.  HERE.  Well, $84.07 later.  And let me tell you, HAPPY TO OBLIGE, SIR.

And if that wasn't enough small animal death to start your morning off right, there's the story of three bunnies and for totally inappropriate, morbid reasons, they will now be referred to as "Flopsy," "Mopsy," and "Cottontail."

The other night Paul and I were lying in bed and we heard a noise outside our bedroom window.  It sounded like baby birds, and it was so loud that I even mentioned it to Paul; he threw out the ol' bird theory as fact and with that, we hit the pillows and were off to dreamland.  The next evening Paul was in the living room laying on the couch when all of a sudden, the chirping bird we had heard the night before was suddenly IN our living room.  And as he turned his head toward the noise, he discovered that this "chirping bird" was none other than that small bunny we now call Flopsy.  

Cue the bunnies:

FLOPSY:  This little fellow was brought to Paul as a gift, as if on a silver platter.  Buckley had apparently found a warren (I googled this term - one of several options:  nest, colony, bevy, bury, drove, trace, husk...) of bunnies and I am going to choose to believe they were dead in the first place because A., then I feel like it is the bunnies' mom's fault they didn't live instead of our dog's, and B. while Buckley is certainly a lab that has some instinct, she's not quite the quick pup she once was.  I don't think she could actually catch and kill an entire WARREN of bunnies all by her lonesome.  So, because it makes me feel better, picture the bunnies ALREADY DEAD.  Got it?  BUNNIES.  DEAD.  Aren't we feeling good about this?!

So she brought Flopsy inside (through the Dog Door) and set in on the couch next to Paul.  Although he's no "dead animal guy," he stays calm, disposes of it and tells me about it LATER.

MOPSY:  This brother of Flopsy's was presented in a different manner, but left on the same couch.  Last Saturday Paul's mom babysat for us and she called a little panicked around 9:30 PM.  After she had put Lucy to bed she was straightening up the living room (I know, she's wonderful!) and reached down to pick up what she believed was a sock (I just realized how nice that was of her to be willing to pick up a dirty sock of ours...) when "AAAAAAIIIIIIEEEEEEEE!"  She screams because as she is inches from picking this thing up, she is confident it is NOT A SOCK, rather SOME SORT of animal and she's knows it is ALL SORTS of dead.

She calls Paul to say that she just can't deal with it and asks to go lay on our bed to watch some TV.  We get home, and Paul once again disposes of the bunny and is my hero because at this point I was still yet to lay eyes on one of these little buggers.  Though I will say his descriptions are getting more vivid, the words puffy and rigamortis were thrown in there. 

Enter, COTTONTAIL:  Now, this little guy really went on a wild ride.  But we only know the tail end (pun intended!) and it goes something like this:

Last night I was doing some laundry while Paul was outside playing with Lucy.  Taking a load upstairs to fold on our bed I start to separate out the socks from the shirts from the pants, I realize an AWFUL smell has come my way. 

I move to the window, hoping something is dead outside (I'm touchy about these things now!) and that the smell has just wafted into our bedroom.  No such luck.  I check the laundry wondering if somehow Paul has gotten into something at the farm and the stench is just now making its presence known.  No dice.  I then move to the bathroom, running out of options and check to see if any foul trash has morphed into a dead fish.  Negative.

So I continue folding, wondering if it is in my head. 

Halfway through the load I can hardly breathe.  I yell down the stairs loud enough so Paul can hear me outside: "HONEEEEEEY!  It smells like a dead fish in our bedroom!!!"

Delighted - wouldn't you be!? - he trudges up the stairs, Lucy and Buckley in tow.  He takes one step into our room and concurs.  We have a problem.  He starts pecking around as I'm standing there nervous and impatient when I notice Buckley has her sniffer going mad under the bed, where the headboard meets the wall.  I call this to Paul's attention.  He slowly pulls the bed back away from the wall and then calmly turns around and says: "You and Lucy should go in the other room.  I will take care of this."

At this point I scream, "A RABBIT?!?!?  ANOTHER ONE?!?!?"

He physically turns me around and says to go downstairs.  Well, I don't follow instructions well so I stand there panicking and wanting to puke and kind of dancing around until I see him come back upstairs with cleaning supplies and a plastic grocery bag. 

And on that note, Lucy and I were OUTTA THERE.

So after a lot of vacuuming, cleaning the wall, disposing of Corpse Cottontail, Paul says, I think it's a good idea that we wash the sheets.  So at 8 PM last night we are madly doing laundry and vacuuming and dealing with the FOURTH dead animal to come into or near our house in a matter of about 10 days.

AND, please know that we are learning something from all of this; we are no dummies!  The doggie door has been removed for the time being.  Ha ha, Buckley!  No dog of ours is going to bring a FOURTH DEAD BUNNY INTO THIS HOUSE!

House Project, Part 742

I don't even know how to keep track anymore.  We have so many projects going at once, and every time we take three steps forward we discover there is something else we would like to do, or really should do to make the project come together better.  And then you have the carpet guy coming over to cut and re-stretch the BRAND NEW carpet that was installed just days ago because you've decided to make the area that is tiled around the fireplace larger than it was before and you hadn't originally anticipated that move so he needs to come back out and, and, AND.  That's how these projects have gone. 


Living Room: At this stage in the game we were still determining what our plan of attack was.  The only thing that was certain was that we were indeed replacing the tile because we had ripped out the old tiles and you'll see that the shredded sheet rock look isn't quite right for the room.  We knew after one quick trial coat on the mantel that the gray paint was NOT it and we had eliminated about 12 different makes and models of glass, ceramic and stone tile.  Final decision still to be determined.

Dining Room: See the way he's standing there like that?!  Do you see it?  He's taking it in, soaking it all up now that an ENTIRE WALL AND A HALF is completed, and this, THIS STANCE right here is what you get before he turns to me and says, "SO, it's really red, huh?"

Me: "Paul!  Turn around and smile for the camera while you act like you like it."
Paul: Slow body rotation and even slower head turn to face me, roller up and a smirky little grin on his face.

Back to work (Oh and I should mention here that it is VERY fun to paint walls when you know the flooring is coming up - it's like a built in drop cloth):

Once the paint was completed (this took SEVERAL coats), we were in agreement that the color - California Poppy - looked great!  With painted walls we could finally return to the original project which was tearing out the carpet and replacing it with cork flooring, so...

The tools:

And yes, switching from carpet to another type of flooring means not only ripping up the carpet and pad, but all tack strips and staples must come up too. 



And HERE:



COMES:

TROUBLE HELP:

Family Photo

Before the wedding we attended a few weeks ago my mom snapped some photos of our little family pre-shindig. 
    
Everyone showered?  Check.  Everyone dressed appropriately?  Check.  Everyone have their eyes open?  Check.  AND looking at the camera?  Check.  Everyone smiling?  Check.
 
"Mom!!! Take it NOWWWWW!"

I could nitpick these (ok, mostly having to do with ME) to death but I will do my best to refrain.  My only real complaint is that they are a little blurry, but taking into consideration that the woman shooting us was madly searching the house up and down for the glasses that were already sitting on her head, and that she was clarifying which button actually takes the picture while we were waiting with our smiles, we'll take 'em!

That's All Folks!

If you are not a fan of terms such as: "breastfeeding," "expressing milk," "latching on," "coming down," "feeding," etc., this post is not for you.  Move right along. 

For the two of you who chose to keep reading, you were warned.

Tonight officially marked the end of it.  For good.  Lucy's bedtime bottle included the very last of the remaining frozen breast milk.  I had been feeding and pumping until she was almost 10 months old and then my body was just telling me that the time had come.  I wasn't making as much milk, Lucy was less and less interested in it the more we introduced table food, and frankly I was REEEEEEEEALLY sick of it.  I was ready to have my body back.  So I could do really fun things like drink five bottles of wine and overdose on ibuprofen after a long run.  I CAN'T BELIEVE ALL THAT I WAS MISSING!

My original goal of twelve months seemed unlikely the way things were going, so I finally released myself of the guilt I was carrying about stopping earlier than I had planned and called it quits.  I couldn't imagine that I would look back over my shoulder and think, "Boy, I'd like to go back to that!"

I was also ready to have that time back.  Even when I had gotten down to just pumping and not FEEDING (buzz word) Lucy myself, it just takes time, and you have to go somewhere by yourself, then put the milk in bottles or freezer bags, clean all the parts, put away the pump, and I was just so done with all of THAT. 

And like many things to do with parenting, I was surprised when it actually happened.  As I was starting to make less and less milk my hormones were pretty out of whack. Paul would concur, I'm positive. And I think part of it was that I was so happy to have that phase be over while at the same time, so sad.  I missed it.  I missed that baby.  I missed that time.  I missed knowing I was doing something really wonderful for her.  I missed it, period.   

Tonight when I had the honor of giving Lucy her last bottle of breast milk, I found myself nostalgic in ways I never would have guessed; tears flooded my eyes and I smiled as I watched Lucy nod off drinking that very last bottle.  Not only does this confirm that the baby we brought home from the hospital is nearing her first birthday and threatening to walk, and eating solid food, and, AND, AND...it also means that something that her and I shared - and ONLY the two of us shared - is over, and even stranger, that it will never be again. 

Babies get big; I get it; that's the way it works.  And stages come and go and that's why they are called stages.  But as I washed my pump for the final time tonight (I had been avoiding doing this for a few weeks now) and put away freezer bags and other miscellaneous parts, I thought this is just another reminder to stop and soak up every second, because it goes so quick.  And when you least expect it, you'll find yourself surprised by something you never saw coming.  Welcome to the wild, wonderful, unpredictable world of being a parent. 

Late Summer Gems

We have been hanging around home for the past few weekends and it has been so nice to be around home!  We have been all over the place this summer and although it has been a ton of fun and we're lucky to be able to do it, being home is pretty nice too.  Evidence below. 

Playing in the pool

Cuddling by the pool

Isn't it great when they start to get a little more self-sufficient? 

She was thirsty so she took matters into her own hands.

Sitting outside on the front porch before bed.

The walker.

1. It's hideously ugly, I'm aware.

2. It provides so much entertainment, mostly for Paul and me.  Not only does it play music and usually Lucy is screaming as she's tearing down the hallway, but Buckley is afraid of it so there's an additional amusement value there as well. 

A rare moment of stillness from both Lucy and Buckley!

You can't really see it but we're sitting on the driveway throwing Buck's ball to her; Lucy continues to be amused by this game!

Isabelle enjoying the watermelon!  And the table as her stage.

Yummy!

She's sooooo ready to be on the move on her feet.  We're just not quite there yet!

Ten Months

She cruises, she crawls, she climbs, she talks - her latest saying is "chicka, chicka, chicka."  Have no idea where she got it.  The other day I picked her up from school and we echoed each other with "chicka, chicka, chicka" the whole way home.  

She moved to Side 2 in the Infant Room at school, further reminding me that she is not one of the teeny tiny babies anymore.  But she really does love it over there; the toys are bigger, they get to go outside more often, the schedule is a little more regimented - only two naps a day and table food meals are scheduled - and frankly, she was just ready. 

She belly laughs when I jump up and down like a frog and ribbit, it also makes Buckley bark and Paul rethink our marriage. 

She is eating everything in sight.  She sits down to eat and doesn't stop for about a half hour, and that's only because we finally pull the plug.  Tonight she took out a piece of multi-grain bread, 1/2 cup of blueberries, 1/2 cup of watermelon, a banana, the end of a jar of "spring vegetables and pasta" and cheerios.  I couldn't make this stuff up.

Lucy has been waking up around about 5:30/6:00 AM every morning.  Paul and I just aren't quite ready to greet the day that early, so we disregard all sound parenting advice and get her out of her crib and pull her in bed with us.  She sucks her thumb, pinches our necks/chest/back and arm fat with her other hand (SHE DOES THIS ALL THE TIME!) while she rests her head on one of our chests, moving back and forth between us until we hear "Dada, Dada, Dada" and she starts crawling toward the edge of the bed, and we know it's up and at 'em.

Selfishly, I'm having a tough time with this one. 10 months seems like a BIG KID. I guess if she has to grow up, at least she gets to be the cutest kid EVER while doing so.