Auntie Love

Annie and Jude

Cousin IT died in my laundry

I am going bald. I swear it. I had heard that a woman loses quite a bit of hair after giving birth, but this is ridiculous. We find it EV-ER-Y-WHERE. A continued loss of abundance from the birthing body. I find it in matted balls in our clean laundry, which, oddly enough, makes it feel less clean. I find it stuck in between Jude's fat rolls. I find it inside my socks tickling my toes. I find it itching my back at random points in the day. I find it in our sheets. I find it on the floor. I find it in M's hair. I find it stuck in MY fat rolls. I have to stay ever-vigilant to prevent it from being in our food (and I promise, I'm a regular eagle-eyes!). For the love. And don't even start me on what comes out of my head when I shower or comb my hair. Handfuls, my friends, handfuls. And it's bringing back my high school paranoia that I would be a bald woman by sweet 16. I remember wondering if they made Rogaine (sp?) for teenage girls. Then I read that one generally loses about 100 strands per day. After doing some calculating on the wall of the shower, I figured I was not in too grave of danger. My new post-birth trends put my fearful high school heart to shame. To SHAME!

So, I am now re-investigating Rogaine for postpartum women. And wigs. And implants.

If I look like Gollum creepily cradling a gnarly ball of lost hair ("my precious") next time you see me, just smile and tell me my hair looks luscious.

Newsie

There's not room in this place for the X of us!

Last night I lay awake listening to the scampering of little feet in our ceiling. Yes, in our ceiling. With my covers pulled up to my chin, I tried to count the trajectories and picture where the little mice were skittering off to (while curling my toes away from the edges of the bed).

We have an infestation. As the weather has cooled and the leaves have begun to whip wildly around the yard, the number of little feet in our ceiling has increased. The first day I realized we had mice, I heard a scuffle in our kitchen and crept out of the bedroom like a ninja, quiet and deadly. I expected anything from a burglar to...to...I don't know. What could possibly be making a kerfuffle in my kitchen? Then I heard squeaks. I brought out my chopping hand and stealthily proceeded towards the sound, only to jump and scream wildly around the room and on top of our couches when the little creature darted out from lurking behind the oven to scurrying around the corner. So cliche. You'd have thought it was Godzilla. I then proceeded to shove my entire pantry into the fridge and freezer. We still have chocolate chips in our veggie crisper, dried lentils next to our milk, spindly angel hair pasta stacked neatly in the ice box, and bags and bags of rice shoved into the corners of the fridge.

After setting up traps laden with peanut butter and catching about 6 between us and our landlords, I thought the critters had struck out for less dangerous, less snappy territory. Until last night.

So, now I am considering my mother's suggestion that I make little homespun clothes for them and invite them into the kitchen for a singing cleaning extravaganza. Given how badly the pair of pants I made for Jude turned out, I think they might turn up their little whiskery, pink noses at me.

I probably would too.

It's a bird, it's a plane, no...

It's Superman flying over the citizens of Metropolis...

This year, my neighbor and I made Jude a little Superman costume. Mike and I were, ostensibly, Ma and Pa Kent, although our dressing up efforts were minimal at best. Jude had his four month appointment this last week and the pediatrician did some strength tests on him and declared with surprise, "This guy is as strong as a six month old!!!" I muttered under my breath, "Well, yeah, he IS going to be Superman for Halloween."