Happy Mother's Day!

I would very much like to have given both of you the gift of a new and exciting grandchild for Mother's Day this year, but Speck has evidently decided that she deserves a day all her own, and that that day is still pending. Instead, I am offering the slightly less exciting gift of this blog tribute. Ian, Max, Speck and I would like to thank our mothers (or grandmothers) for their extensive help, love, and support, without which we would be utterly lost. We have learned the art of parenting from you, and we continue to marvel at your mastery of it. We love you!

Mother's Day Hints

Whenever Speck should choose to be born, she is now officially not a preemie anymore. To celebrate this, and to offer Mother's Day suggestions to my offspring, I have composed the following:

Dear Max and Speck,
I know that you are probably too busy to go shopping for Mother's Day flowers or candy, and we all know that it's the homemade gifts that mean the most, anyway. I understand that you might wish to honor me, your mother, in various extravagant ways, and I understand the temptation, but my desires are really quite simple.
Speck -- I know you have heard me say, many times throughout your fetal existence, that I hoped you would not be premature like your brother, as it was difficult to leave him in the hospital and to find pants that fit his scrawny self at first. I want you to know that I appreciate the fact that you listened, and that you have gone the distance and made it to full term. However, if you would like to help me out a little, and get me a Mother's Day treat I can really use and enjoy, how about coming on out and giving me back uncontested ownership of my internal organs? Seriously, enough is enough. Get Out. If you could throw in as pain-free a labor and delivery as possible, that'd be great, too.
Max -- I know that you are growing several more teeth, and that you are feeling unsettled by all the impending excitement and change around here, and I don't blame you. But if you feel like giving me a Mother's Day treat, sleeping through the night once or twice before the new baby comes would be awesome. Even if you can't make it all the way through the night, keeping the kicking and writhing to a minimum in the big bed would be gift enough.
I hope that the two of you have found this helpful. Of course, even if neither of you ever act on these hints, I will still feel grateful, as always, to be your mama. I love you.

Medical Science Finally Confirms ...

... what I have long suspected. Giant Speck is, in fact, gigantic. Or, in the more diplomatic terms of my midwife, she is "measuring larger than average for her gestational age". At our last appointment, the midwife chatted with us about how I was feeling (uncomfortable), how the baby was moving (lots, and with total disregard for my internal organs), and what concerns we had, if any (see above). Then she got out the measuring tape, applied it to my splitting-at-the-seams belly, and said, "Huh." She went out and called in another midwife, for a second opinion. The second midwife measured me, too, contemplated me for a minute, and then said, "No, I agree with your numbers". It was then explained to me that Speck seemed to have accomplished a growth spurt since my last visit, and was currently measuring on the large side, which was a slight red flag given my previous history of diabetes. They did an ultrasound to get a better look, and gave me the rough estimate of somewhere between 6 1/2 and 8 1/2 pounds for Speck's weight -- and mind you, this was over a week ago, with a month left until the due date. I have known all along that Speck was of greater than average size (in both body and spirit), but it is never emotionally comfortable to cause a big flurry among your birthing staff. To be on the cautious side, they signed me up for yet another diabetes test, which came back sort of inconclusive, so I had to go back and do a longer version of it (three hours where you sit in the lab waiting room, drink a really sugary drink on an empty stomach, and then have your blood drawn every hour for three hours to see how you have reacted to the sugary drink, the waiting room, and the constant blood-drawing. It's pretty fun!). I do not, in fact, have diabetes, which is nice, and I have developed what I consider to be a deep and lasting friendship with the blood-drawing guy at the hospital, and everyone can use more friends, so that's good, too.

While I was sitting and doing my tests, Max was being entertained by his Tillman grandparents. Evidently, he went to the park, rode his bike, saw some baby geese (pictured below) and tried to touch them, was given hand-made fruit smoothies and fresh bread, and lived it up in high style. When I asked him later what he had done that morning, he said, "Grandma, whee! Dog, whoof whoof! Grandpa." He had to take a three-hour nap to recover from all the good times.

Happy Birthday, Gramps!

Thanks for sharing your unique sense of humor and style with all of us, and especially with Max. We love you muchly!

The Bearded Baby

Max has developed a fierce independent streak recently, and wants to do everything for himself. He has been practicing dressing himself (with mixed results), opening all drawers and cupboards for himself (with even more mixed results), and feeding himself with a spoon or a fork. Our walls are splattered with food in the corner where Max's high chair resides, and I have found some interesting things down the pants during diaper changes, but he is actually getting quite good with utensils, and I would estimate that 50-65% of his food is winding up inside the Max now. Ian and I spend a great deal of our time scrubbing the other 40-50% off of the outside of the Max, but it is not the grossest thing I have ever scrubbed off of him. Now that it's getting warmer, I foresee a lot of meals outside on the porch, with the hose standing ready.

Full Frontal Frolicking

It has officially become HOT in the land of Davis once again, and we celebrated the occasion in traditional Tillman fashion -- by nudifying our son and tossing him into the water. Last year, the pool itself was a novelty, as were the pool toys. This year, while the pool, the water, and the floaties were still fun, the nudity was the real attraction. Max ran around the backyard at his Granny and Gramps' house for over an hour on Saturday, relishing the freedom that only a pants-free life can offer. We had to censor some of the pictures, in the interests of keeping our blog's rating PG. Enjoy the naked goodness!

Who Ordered The Basket Of Max?

This basket spent its first life holding some of Max's action figures, but he has apparently decided to liberate it from that tedious fate, and has instead assigned it the task of holding his own cheeky self. Oh, how I love him and his zany, weird, perfect sense of humor.

Speck: Uncontested Champion of Fetal Heavyweight Division

My friend Andrea and I have been pregnant together twice, now -- her third baby, Julia, was born three months before Max, and is his future bride. Since Andrea was due ahead of me last time, and since her first babies were twins, Fetal Max and I were quite overshadowed in the pregnant belly girth department. This time, however, as you can see, it is a different story. Speck is due about three months ahead of her future friend (who is as yet unnamed), and she is a larger and more prominent fetus than her big brother. Even Andrea, who is a wonderfully tactful friend who has the gift of making people feel better about themselves than they did before she came into the room, had to marvel at my distended stomach. Truly, Speck is now larger by far not only than Andrea's unborn child, but than Andrea or I, too, and she is not due until a month from tomorrow. While Andrea and I were treating ourselves to pedicures yesterday, Speck spent her time quietly gloating over her triumph, and reflecting on future victories that are sure to be hers when she finally emerges.

Flashbacks

Many of the baby utensils from Max's early days have been dusted off and reintroduced into the Tillman mainstream recently, in preparation for Speck's use. Although most if not all of these items caused Max irritation when they were being used for/by him, absence has apparently made the heart grow fonder, and he can often now be found trying to wedge his toddler-sized body into a variety of infant-sized spaces.

When we brought Max home from the hospital in this carseat, it was so much too large for him that my mum and I had to spend twenty minutes wrestling with the carseat straps to adjust them to a small enough size, and we still had to put rolled-up receiving blankets on either side of him so he didn't look too overwhelmed in there. Now, he can't actually fit his entire self into the seat -- his feet and a fair amount of leg hang off the edge, and he bangs his head on the top of the handle when he leans back.

Like most playpens/bouncy chairs/swings, Max immediately and scornfully rejected this chair as an obvious and grotesque attempt to fool him into not being held by a parent or loved one. He rarely succumbed to being placed in it at all as a baby, and never for longer than 5-10 minutes. We got it out the other day when we had some friends with a 6 month old baby over, and Max has been delighted by it ever since. Since his booty hangs off the edge and his head bangs against the metal frame when he leans back, it does not look like the height of comfort to me, but what do I know? Max is many long years from having to select chairs that support his bad back or keep him from getting cricks in his neck, and maybe his new found love of this apparatus will rub off on Speck.

And, finally, Max's old nemesis: the baby bath. Max's first few baths were torturous for both he and I -- he did not enjoy the sensation of being moistened or soaped, and I was mortally afraid that I would lose my grip on his tiny lathered self and send him spiralling down the drain (he was quite scrawny at first). Actually, Max's fondness for this bathtub is still sort of thin on the ground -- he took it out and tried it out today, but its contours were not conducive to comfort, and he had trouble getting in and out without tipping it over. After a minute or two of experimenting with it, he graciously decided that Speck could have uncontested ownership of it.

Five Weeks Left (And Space Is At A Premium)

Well, this is officially the most pregnant I have ever been. (And, possibly, the least comfortable.) Speck has now outlasted her brother in the land of uterus by exactly four hours and counting. I must admit, I have been approaching this point in the pregnancy with a lot of anxiety, and I am really excited that Speck and I have passed this landmark together. Should Speck have a change of heart, however, Ian and I are as ready as it is possible to be. Since we had nothing ready last time (quite literally -- we had no crib yet, nothing prepared for the hospital, no system of organization for the baby clothes and gear, and our birthing class had not yet covered any actual labor and delivery techniques), we are attempting to learn from our former last-minuteness. Our overnight bag is packed, the nursery is ready, the camera battery is charged, we have plans A, B, C, and D ready to roll into action for Max's safety and well-being while we are bringing Speck forth, and all our registration stuff is done at the hospital. Now, just for spite, watch Speck torture me by coming two weeks late. Fetuses, in my experience, have an unpredictable sense of timing and an inconvenient sense of humor. Mine do, at least.

Attack Of The Big-Headed Baby!!!!

Speck's due date is exactly six weeks from today. We had a midwife appointment on Tuesday, which was somewhat more involved than the usual check-up. Because we have now arrived at the week of pregnancy in which Max left his fetus-hood behind, our midwife decided to do a number of tests that would normally be done closer to the end, just in case Speck is similarly impatient. Among these tests (most of which involved prodding me in a number of unpleasant ways that I feel no need to dwell on the details of) was an ultrasound, to make sure that Speck is in the correct position for birthing. I was really excited about the bonus ultrasound, because I have never gotten to see an ultrasound of a baby this far along in the pregnancy before. It was really difficult to make out any individual Speck parts this time around, because she is so smooshed up in there, but we did get a couple of shots of the head, which is, in fact, pointed the correct way for emergence, although still high enough that the midwife did not think that we needed to ready ourselves for an immediate Speck appearance. I know that this picture is blurry and unclear, so allow me to clarify it for you. It is all head! Last time, you could fit an entire Speck body into the camera frame, but now there is no room for anything but cranium. Why does this disturb me? If you are asking yourself this question, you need to review the mechanics of giving birth.

Sea Of Femininity

Ian's sister and her little boy came to town this weekend, and we had a small celebration for the impending Speck. Before she arrived, Ian's sister told me that she was getting out of control with her girl clothes acquiring, and Ian's mom admitted to a similar addiction, but I never realized how honest they were being until Sunday. They decided to put all their gifts together into one gift bag, and hung all the clothes from a clothesline, which I unwound from the bag an article at a time. It was a really cute idea, and it's a good thing they wrapped their gifts that way, because if they had wrapped each item individually, I would still be sitting there opening things.

At first, I was just excited by the frilly and pink stuff, which you have little opportunity to surround yourself with as the mama of a boy.

As I continued to unravel, however, I became aware that I had my hands on what may well be the world's largest collection of frilly and pink stuff that the world has ever seen, and I became slightly intimidated.

Observers of the gift-opening were forced to become participants, as the clothesline became too heavy and too long for me to manage alone.

Eventually, the fully emerged string of girl apparel stretched around the entire room twice. I think that Ian's mom and sister were even surprised at its epic length. I put everything away the next day, and I can now say with great and firm certainty that Speck is one well-stocked little lady. She has girly shirts, girly pants, girly dresses, girly jackets, girly onesies, girly blankets, girly washcloths, and even girly pink burp cloths to barf her feminine barf onto. I sure hope that ultrasound didn't lead us astray, or Max is going to have one gender-confused little brother.

Spiderman

Well, I've suspected it for a long time, and now, here is the proof. Amongst the zoo pictures that Ian's mom sent me was this disturbing document, verifying once and for all that the spider bite I received while I was pregnant with Max was not free of repercussions. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, my baby boy is a were-spider. When the moon is a quarter full, and Max has eaten just the right amount of strawberry ice cream, the arachnid comes out. I am trying my best to make my peace with it, and to love my spidery son for who and what he is. Sure, he leaves a lot of inconveniently sticky webbing everywhere, but on the plus side, I haven't seen a fly in this apartment yet, and Max is hard at work making us a spiderweb hammock on the back patio that looks like it will be luxuriously comfortable. We are determined to look on the bright side of the situation, and for Max's sake, I think you should all do the same.

Good To Have Grandparents

Ian had the day off on Thursday, and Speck and I decided to celebrate this rare occasion by being sick. Actually, I don't know that Speck felt sick, since she maintained her trademark liveliness, but I felt like a big ball of swollen, nauseous pregnantness, and spent the morning feeling sorry for myself while Speck cheerfully worked my midsection. Ian called in his mom and dad, and the three of them took Max to the zoo. While I wish I could have gone along, too, I was extremely grateful that I had a whole afternoon to rest, without having to feel like Max was enduring a boring day stuck at home. Ian's mom sent me some pictures of the adventure, which oddly do not include any zoo animals. They do, however, showcase what Max considers to be the highlights of the day.

According to the adult Tillmans, this slide had a rough texture that minimized its slideability. Max had to push himself down with his hands to maintain momentum, but he yelled "whee!" the whole way down with his usual cheer. I did not receive any reports of Ian yelling "whee!", but he looks happy in the picture, at least.

After the zoo, The Tillmans Four went to lunch together. Max got his own dish of strawberry ice cream, which evidently comprised the bulk of his lunch, and which he deeply enjoyed. Max is entering into two family traditions here: the ice cream comes from a place called Vic's, where Ian often tells stories about going with his grandparents when he was little, and he is eating strawberry ice cream, in honor of his middle name, which is also Ian's mom's maiden name and which means 'strawberry'.

Clearly, Max did not exactly suffer without me. Look at him lick his chops! It is truly a wonderful gift to have so many relatives living near us, who are so willing to be involved in Max's life (and Speck's, when she emerges). Juggling being a thousand months pregnant while caring for a young and increasingly active toddler would be exponentially more difficult without all the backup.

Untold Depths Of Wrath

Mostly, I find Max charming. He is (and I say this from an entirely unbiased place) an attractive, happy, pleasant person who exudes joy and constantly makes us laugh. In contrast to all of this, however, we have begun a phase that falls well below a ten on the enjoyability scale for Ian and I. Yes, I am afraid that Max has learned the art of the temper tantrum. In this picture, he is mid-pterodactyl-like scream because I have just told him that he may not have any more cereal puffs. Note that his entire being, from the scalp on down, has turned red with the force of his ire.

Max has been tending to confine these fits of wrath to home, maintaining his facade of supernaturally mellow baby in the presence of grandparents, friends, and random passerby, and assuring that I will get no sympathy when I try to describe his dark side to others. A few days ago, however, his mask of angelic babyhood developed a crack, and an entire grocery store can now bear witness to my burden. When we passed the dairy aisle, Max suggested that we pick up some milk. ("Meek, Mama? Dada? Meek. Meek!") Since we already had two full gallons at home, Ian and I declined. Evidently disagreeing with our decision, Max immediately let out an unpleasantly high-pitched wail and began pounding the grocery cart handle. Other shoppers looked over in alarm, and upon spotting an irate baby instead of a wounded boar, gave us either an irritated glare or a sympathetic chuckle, depending on their temperaments. His tantrums are generally pretty short-lived (which is why we are keeping him, on a trial basis), and so he had stopped screaming by the time we got to the check-out stand, but he was still muttering to himself and letting out the occasional pained shriek all the way home in the car. Even when offered proof that we had plenty of milk in the fridge, he continued to look reproachful. Good, good times.

Entourage

Max has had this thing with symmetry lately -- if he has a cup in one hand, he wants a cup in the other hand, too. If he gives Ian a kiss or a hug, he has to give me one right after. If he is holding hands with someone on the left, he wants a second friend or relation flanking the right. He was escorted to the car after Easter festivities by his dad on one side and his gramps on the other, and they looked so cute walking three-in-a-row that I wanted to capture the moment on camera. Of course, as soon as I asked them all to slow down so I could take the picture, Max got mad and started to cry, so the picture is somewhat marred by his pained expression. It is still cute, however, and so I regret nothing.

Happy Easter!

For some reason, I dismissed out of hand the idea of Max being old enough to participate in an Easter Egg hunt this year. I had a whole talk with my mum about how much I was looking forward to next year, when Max could take an active role in some of our Easterly traditions. At a family party on Friday, however, my aunt brought a bunch of plastic eggs for Max to search for, filled with crackers and cereal puffs instead of candy, and set them out around the yard for Max to find. He loved it so much, and participated for so long, that I was made to feel ashamed of my underestimation of him. Luckily, Max has other relatives than me, and they apparently give him more credit. Thanks, Aunt Susie!

Once Max was tired of finding his own Easter Eggs, he began stealing the hard-won eggs of others. My cousin Holly was very gracious, and allowed Max to bully her out of each and every egg she had found. (Of course, she also may have been somewhat more immune to the allure of baby cereal bits than Max.)

Max gloated over his loot for awhile, shaking the eggs, opening and closing them, and counting them up so he could calculate just how much eggy treasure he had his hands on.

His victory gave him the necessary confidence to successfully cruise for ladies later that evening. (Okay, they're all related to him, but they are lovely, and older women, to boot!)

Taming The Mighty Tuft

Well, it has taken almost nineteen months, but Max's hair has finally acquired enough length to require a trim. (Mostly in the front -- Max's back hairs remain short and fuzz-like, although they sometimes twine themselves into a duck curl, or a dandelion down-like plume if he sleeps on the back of his head the right way.) Ian and I have a hairdresser/friend that we love, and we have been promising her since Max's fetus-hood that she could perform the first shearing. Since Max has never had his hair cut before, and rarely even had it combed (I am not a neglectful mother, he just really hasn't had enough hair to necessitate it until very recently), we weren't sure how he would react to the invasion on his follicles. I was fairly resigned to the distinct possibility that we would come away from the experience with a son who had half a haircut, a couple of new bald spots, and a trail of angry and disappointed beauty parlor executives in his wake.

Max did not fulfill the worst of my expectations -- he didn't cry, yell, or manage to impale himself on the scissors. Neither, however, could it truthfully be said that he was a fan of the haircut. He made increasingly determined warding-off gestures when the scissors came near him, and grunted in angry warning when the scissors did not oblige him and vanish.

Teri, our hairdresser, offered Max a series of interesting hair-shaping tools to hold, in the hopes of bribing and/or distracting Max. He was intrigued by many of her offerings, and accepted them gladly ...

... but he stuck to his principles as far as the scissors were concerned. We did get the bangs trimmed down nicely, and most of the over-the-ear shagginess as well, before Max declared haircutting time officially over and made a break for the door. I tried to get a picture of the post-haircut style, but Max was somewhat uncooperative. In future blog posts, be sure to take note of his newly abbreviated tuft!

Sleep Deprivation

At our last Speck check, the midwife asked if I was having any trouble sleeping. I was forced to heartily agree that I am experiencing all kinds of sleep issues, and dragging everyone else I know into sleeplessness right along with me. The midwife was very sympathetic, and began suggesting a long list of ways to minimize the discomfort of sharing body space with Giant Speck (who medical experts continue to insist is a normal-sized fetus. I know differently). When she began searching for a pamphlet describing different herbs and drugs that might help, I had to interrupt and explain that while Speck is taking up way more than her fair share of room in my abdomen, and while she does kick like a baby maniac late into the night, my most recent sleep issues

are not so much the fault of this baby ...

...as they are the fault of this one.

Max is teething, and not loving it, and so we have had a series of rough nights. Max has been late going to bed, and then he has been waking up frequently and demanding his old place in the big bed. With both he and I being so much larger, though, this is not the fix-all solution it once was. Max keeps turning sideways halfway through the night, and Ian claims that he has had any number of dreams where he is being pounded, axe-kicked, and kneaded, only to awaken and find Max's feet making his dreams come true. I, on the other hand, have not even slept enough to reach REM sleep, so I am feeling all kinds of awesome. Upon hearing this tale of woe, the midwife laughed and said that while there were herbs and drugs that might help with our problems, they were not the kinds of herbs or drugs that she was licensed to administer. Stupid, non-tranquilizer-dart-giving midwife.

And yet, later that same day, when we beheld Max trying valiantly to share his milk with his baby sister through my belly button, we still had to agree that we are, on the whole, glad that we had him. Axe kicks, teething, and all.

Mini Me

Apparently Max doesn't mind clothing, as long as it's not his own. He extracted this shirt of Ian's from a laundry pile the other day (a clean laundry pile, fortunately), and decided that it would make a good full-body tunic. He actually put his arms in the arm holes, and his head in the head hole, although the shirt is so many times too large that it is hard to tell and doesn't really matter to the overall functionality of the outfit. When I asked him what he was wearing, Max smiled proudly and said, "Dada!" Clearly, he felt that the next hurdle on the road to manhood was mastering his dad's apparel, and that he had conquered it with distinction.

Sock It To Ya

As I have mentioned before (with photographic proof to back me up), Max is not necessarily a fan of clothing. Given the choice, he would embrace a very natural, pee-on-the-one-you're-with kind of lifestyle, and he is growing increasingly indignant about the fact that he is usually not given the choice. Max's blanket ban on clothing does have one exception, however -- footwear. He loves socks, he loves shoes, and he will ask to have his feet clothed constantly, even if he is wearing nothing else. I have tried to speak to him about the absurd figure he presents wearing nothing but socks and shoes, with his dimpled legs flashing free in the breeze, but he is unswayed.

Yesterday, Max took this stylistic idiosyncrasy to the next level. I went into his room to see what he was doing, and found him playing with his toy trains. Perfectly respectable. When I sat down to join him, however (a feat worthy of admiration, by the way, as it is increasingly difficult to get up and down from the floor while carrying Giant Speck), I noticed something interesting. Not only had Max taken out all the socks, selected a pair, and put them on ALL BY HIMSELF, but he had apparently decided that two socks were just not enough for an enterprising young toddler on the go.

Max had four socks on his feet, and there were several more scattered around the room, where they had evidently been tried on and then rejected, for reasons known only to Max and his feet. He kept them on all day, grinning and saying, "sock on!" when I questioned him. I suppose that does really say it all.

Feel The Love

Max has been giving out kisses for awhile, sort of, with prompting. Recently, however, he has begun volunteering the sugar, and making elaborate smooching sounds to accompany his gestures of good will. Then, he leans his head on the object of his affection, puts an arm or two around the neck, and says "niiiicccce". (This is in imitation of Ian and I, who always say "oh, how nice", when we get hugs or kisses, and "let's be nice" when Max is approaching the cats.) How could anyone possibly resist him?

Houdini Lives

Well, it's finally happened. Max has learned to remove his own diaper. I thought that I had prepared myself for this day, but it turns out that you are never really ready. Max has de-diapered himself twice since Friday, and I have caught him fingering the Velcro fastenings on two or three other occasions, just waiting until my guard is down. Here is Max taunting his vanquished foe after his first successful booty liberation. If you look in the background, you can see Edgar Cat looking on disgustedly. After all, a diaper-free existence was all that Edgar had left to make himself feel superior to Max.

What I mind the most is not the nudity. It's not even the peeing on the floor that goes along with the nudity. What I mind the most is Max's total and unrepentant joy as he shows me the fruits of his labor. (Speaking of which, Ian censored this photo a bit, in the interests of Max's future modesty, which will hopefully kick in sometime before he starts high school.) Shortly after I took this photo, Max learned that approaching me with his freshly removed diaper in hand led to a swift and merciless repantsing. He has, therefore, since decided that it is in his best interests to run away from me immediately after nudifying himself, in order to prolong his pants-free moments. It's been one rollicking, naked-baby-butt-chasing adventure after another at the Tillman house ever since.

Bottoms Up

Max has been sleeping in his own bed for a couple of months now, and he does pretty well at solo slumber (with occasional steps backwards into the big bed after bad dreams or extra snuggle requirements). He was never a wiggly baby when he slept with Ian and I (part of the reason he got away with it for so long), but it turns out that he has a completely different style of sleep when we are not hemming him in on either side. He starts out on his back, but rolls over and thrashes around after an hour or two, and winds up in a new and exciting position every night. A couple of nights ago, Ian and I both saw him roll over on his tummy, thrust his booty skywards, stick one arm straight up in the air, fling the arm down dramatically, and then spank himself on the bum with it. He then settled back into deep sleep, hindquarters still raised to the heavens, with a self-satisfied expression, as seen in the included photograph. Years from now, when Max's future wife requests separate bedrooms and he is baffled as to why, I shall refer him to this blog post.

And, Once Again, Chelsa's Genes Lose The Dominance War

As far as looks go, Max got a little bit of everything, with the overall result of looking not a whole lot like either parent. You can see a smidgen of me here, Ian there, but mostly, Max looks like himself. In personality and in habits, however, I cannot help but notice that I am not exactly shining through, genetics-wise.

Lying on his stomach on the floor while tinkering with computer parts ...

Spending his post-breakfast hour reading Harper's Magazine in his underpants ...

And, most significantly, choosing to spend hours on end delving into a giant bag of Star Wars action figures ...

Who does all of this remind you of? Not Chelsa, that's for sure.

Back To Blogging

We are now the proud owners, once again, of a working computer. It isn't exactly the same computer, however, which means that I don't yet have new pictures to display. Many of you have expressed anxiety/rage about the long silence, however, so hopefully this offering of picture-less news will appease you in the short term.

First, of course, Max: Max is bigger and better with each day that passes. He has developed a Shrek obsession, and seems particularly fond of the dragon that Donkey has a disturbing romance with. (If you haven't seen the movie, this will be a weird and puzzling remark, but you will have to watch the movie if you are curious, because I am not wasting time and energy on a detailed account of the Donkey/Dragon love story in Shrek.) Max now says somewhere around 100 words, if you count animal noises. His favorite words remain "milk" and "more". He has names for my Dad (he tries to say 'Gramps', which comes out 'Beamps'), and for Ian's dad ('Bapa' for 'Grandpa'). He does not yet have labels for either grandmother. Sorry, guys.

Speck: We took Speck in for another check-up on Monday, and all continues to be well. Speck is happy, healthy, and very, very lively. You can feel her knees and elbows poking out, and even see them on occasion. I was very excited to discover that I still don't have gestational diabetes this time around, which means much less injection/blood testing/general anxiety. While I am grateful to Speck for not stealing all my blood sugar, I feel compelled to add that she is presently taking up far more space in my torso than I am, and there are still about ten weeks to go. I am apprehensive about how she will go about creating more space for herself as the days go by.

Ian and Chelsa: We are, of course, far less interesting than our offspring, but we are happy and healthy. I have been doing some nesting lately, and some swinging of the moods. Ian has been very tolerant and patient, and has never once indicated by word or deed that my insistence that the curtains have to be hung in the baby room immediately for the health and safety of fetal Speck is in any way irrational.

Sick Computer

Sorry about the lack of updates everyone. I just wanted to let everyone know that Chelsa is suffering at home without a pc. It appears to have a corrupted bios chip and no jumper to reset the bios. Anyway, I am working on fixing it and hope to have it back to it's formal glory in a short while.

I have computer access at work wich is where I am writing this from, but Chelsa is basically stuck at home with no connection to the blogging world.

Anyway, wish us luck.

Ian