Great Grandma Violet's 100th Birthday Bash

Henry has a snack in the hotel room. Gotta love the portable high chair.

Henry wonders why Mommy and Daddy have stuck him in the closet.

Henry checks out the plumbing in the hotel room. Despite all the toys we brought for him to play with, this proves to be his favorite thing to do while we are in Florida.

Mommy forgot to pack Daddy a tie, so we had to make a family trip to Target. And you can't go to Target without playing with the hats. We call this picture "Brokeback Pack'N Play." Eat your heart out, Jake Gyllenhaal.

My favorite. The hat is very Spike from Top Chef. It is also a little Brad Pitt. Back off Angelina, this kid is taken.
Henry and his Great Grandma, Violet Bohman Whittaker. She turns 100 on June 28, 2008. Look for her with Willard Scott. She too was born 6 weeks early. Her grandma put her in a shoebox with hot rocks to keep her warm.

Mommy wonders why the grass in her backyard isn't as lush as the grass on the greens at Timiquana County Club. (By the way, Henry was the cutest baby boy at the party.)

The boys in Madras at Clark's Fish Camp.

Henry checks out the old wooden canoe at Clark's Fish Camp. This is where he ate many firsts--fried pickles, seafood dip, blackened tilapia, scallops, and shrimp.

Henry's First Happy Meal

We had made it to 14 months being the smug parents whose child loved broccoli, egg white omelets, and shunned french fries. Well, road trips and restaurants happened. In the coarse of one weekend Henry had his first Chicken fingers, discovered that he really does love french fries, ate fried pickles, a corn dog, and we even loaded up his bib on the way back home with a McDonald's chicken nugget Happy Meal. Much to his delight. And he just loves his Master Monkey Happy Meal toy.

The many levels of Ghetto...

Okay, sorry for the long delay between posts, but it has been a whirlwind of road trips, in-laws, break ins, and VBS. (Cue Elvis song, "In the Ghetto") But our car was broken into on Saturday night at the hotel valet in Jacksonville, and here are the pics from our hilarious 10 hour turned into 12 hour trip back up I95 sans rear window.

Obligatory CSI picture of the damage. The crooks stole our GPS and the change from our change drawer. (However the left behind the power cord for the GPS.) Seeing as they did not steal Sony DVD camera or the Bugaboo stroller, it is definite that they are idiots. (Oh, and did I mention that we received the call from the valets at 2 am. Thanks.)

The hotel tried to box up our window. The cardboard didn't make it through Georgia.

So then we decided to be Scuba enthusiasts and just use a towel. It's kind of sporty don't you think? But then it started to rain...

So we stopped in Santee, SC and got that ever trusty household friend, duct tape. (I'm trying not to pee in my pants while I take this photo.)

Henry inspects the ghetto-ness of his car. He is thankful his car seat is on the other side. But sure does wish the window wasn't so danged loud.

Duct tape may hold America together, but does not work so great on windows. I tried to patch up the holes with various pieces of trash from around the car. This lasts for about 2 exits.

Then we bought a tarp and tarped off the whole door. But the tarp caught air and billowed out like a sail. It was the loudest configuration of the day, not to mention pretty dangerous as it rendered changing lanes impossible.

Our final, and least ghetto, configuration of the day, somewhere in North Carolina. And to think, between Sloan and me we've got three bachelors degrees and two master's degrees.

I'm a Walkin'...and a few more things

Henry wanted me to tell you that he is now walking. He still prefers crawling when he needs to get somewhere fast, but he can officially walk from one end of the room to the other and even stop along the way to pick up toys without falling down.

I also wanted to clarify some things for my readers, all three of you (I'd have four if my mom could figure out how to work her computer), about my angry post with the man at Office Depot. First of all, I recognize that the man meant me no harm. He is a boy and was trying to share with me the joys of parenthood and I was, well, a bitch. When you struggle to have a baby you become hyper sensitive to things like that. Every Sunday there is a baptism, your heart breaks a little, even though it should be leaping. And people who've never gone through it are idiots and say things like, "My husband just looks at me and I get pregnant," or "Gosh, there are so many pregnant women at this church--there must be something in the water!" (To which I have actually said, "You mean all I had to do was drink from the church water fountain? Why didn't you tell me this before I shelled out 30 grand to the fertility doctor?) So on many occasions I have been less than Christian to people who were really just meaning to be encouraging but didn't know what to say. To them I say, "Sorry", and next time keep your trap shut. Please.

And I definitely don't have baby fever again. It is not that I never want to have another baby, maybe it is just that I've finally gotten back into working out again everyday and Henry is so much fun, and what the heck would I do with the dang dog with me probably stuck on bedrest again? I don't know. Give me a year and we'll talk. I'd like to threaten to kill the dog less before I bring a new life into the Phillips house.

But two friends of mine have just had babies (a big shout out to Jennifer O'Sullivan and Margaret Harkness--welcome Anderson and Caroline!), and another friend is pregnant with twins, and two other friends just lost babies so I've been thinking again about how precious Henry is and all God taught me through the crazy-struggle plan of His. And I'll take out my little flip book of all of his ultrasound photos (thanks to bedrest and IVF, I have about sixty of them!). I even have a picture of him as an embryo. Pretty amazing stuff to think that I fell in love with a blob. I took the photo with me everywhere to show anyone who would listen a picture of my baby. (Remember, I'm a little crazy.) I remember leaving the embryo picture at church and going out to my sisters and then making Sloan take me back to church just to pick it up. (My sister lives 30 minutes from my church!)

And I want to put it out there that the lessons that I learned apparently didn't take. I remember learning that above all else, what you really need to pray for is faith. Faith to believe the truth that God is good and for you, no matter what your circumstances may be trying to make you believe. And yet, on a daily basis, I find myself truly believing that what it would really take to make me happy would be a maid. Or to wake up tomorrow having lost 30 lbs. And that when Sloan works late it is because he doesn't love me or because God is punishing me for being rude to people in check out lines. (Which doesn't even make sense?!) Because in the end you can get over a messy house, pants not fitting, a husband working until 8 occasionally--you can even learn to live a contented life after infertility and losing a child--but you don't recover from believing that you've been abandoned by God. It is a lie that leads to death on many levels and I just feel like I live my life strangled by that. Strangled with the fear that if I'm not good enough there are going to be serious repercussions. Strangled with the fear that it is just me and if I don't look out for myself, no one else will. That the buck stops here. HA!

Okay, okay, enough with the self-indulgent crap. My son just tried to rip a sconce down from the wall. I should probably give him a bath and put him to bed.

This is my newest favorite photo of my son.

Semper Fi

Apparently I underestimated just how short they can cut hair without clippers at Pigtails and Crewcuts.

Before.

After.

(And that is Fig Newtons in his mouth. Not poo.)

What I Should Have Said

What I should have said is "Hmmm."

This is not what I said to the well meaning man behind me in the checkout line at Office Depot.

Man: How old is he? 18 months?

Me: No. 13 months.

Man: He's big.

Me: Yes.

Man: Is he your first?

Me: Yes.

Man: Well, welcome to the largest fraternity on earth.

Me: (nodding) Yeah.

Man: I have five.

Me: Oh?

Man: Turns out they're easy to make.

Me: (Warning!! This is where it gets ugly!) For some people.

Man: (Laughing.) They really ought to warn you just how easy it is! (As I type this, the fact that the man was wearing a Hawaiian shirt with several of the top buttons undone and his graying chest hair billowing out of it makes me feel less guilty. And he was wearing flip flops and had his sun glasses on croakies.)

Me: Well, it wasn't so easy for this one. In fact, it took 2 years, a team of doctors and nurses, one pretty invasive surgery, $30,000, getting shots in my ass every night for over three months, 3 times of IVF, one miscarriage, about a million ultrasounds, using a bed pan, crapping in a bucket, three months on bedrest at the hospital with my feet in the air, shots in my belly every morning and night for three months, and then 30 hours of pain while I tried to push something the size of a watermelon out a hole the size of a golf ball.

Man: (Taking a step back, a bit frightened.) Oh.

Me: Yeah. Oh.

I am blaming this episode on my hormones. I was 12 days late and convinced I was pregnant a la natural, despite what the three pregnancy tests told me. But I am, most assuredly, not pregnant and am physically having a doozy of a time of it. I had thought that I was doing well mentally. Apparently not.

And the dog puked in her crate this morning on the way to the vet for her last puppy checkup.

It is a good thing I'm not God

Sometimes I like to think I'm a lot like God. No, I'm not counting the moments where I actually think I am God and am a control freak. That is just out and out sin and me being a moron. No, I'm talking about those rare moments where I pause and actually think the thought, "Hey, I'm a lot like God." I think this is more a sign of mental instability rather than full on hubris.

This past week Henry and I have being dealing with his double ear infections and blistery sore throat. I say we've been dealing with it because it has been the first time in his little life that I've felt that Henry has truly understood he needed me. Most of the time he could care less that I'm around, but this week I've either been holding him, or as he's gotten better, unable to leave his sight. He's okay if I'm in the room with him, but dare I need to pee or the dog need to go out, he screams bloody murder. This has made me think that God must have days like this. Where He wants to say, "Dude, you always need me. I'm glad you're aware of it. But really, I'm sooo over talking about this. Let's move on already."

Thankfully, God has the patience of, well, God.

But I do think God is using Henry to teach me about Himself and about my heart. I assume God is like me, and He is not. I assume that God gets tired of me repenting for judging people and asking for help only to then be consumed with hatred for the lady who gets dolled up and uses the cross-trainer at the gym all sexified. When I am bogged down with fear or doubt and am screaming at God because He obviously isn't listening to me because my life isn't easy yet, I assume that God is ticked He has to get back up when He just set down.

But God isn't like me.

Except once, in the middle of Tuesday night, I was a wee bit like God, and I briefly understood something. Henry was up for the third time in the night. His throat hurt so bad that even trying to give him Tylenol or Motrin was painful, and I ended up with sticky grape flavored arms from him drooling it out onto me. I would get him settled down and try to put him down in his crib, and then, bam, he was screaming again. So I just sat in the glider and rocked him or laid next to him in his big boy bed and rubbed his back. Pretty much all night. And it was wonderful. Yes, I was tired. And yes, at one point Henry woke up and thought it was awesome that I was next to him and wanted to play. But I wasn't angry with him for being hurt. I was sad for him and it was my delight to be a comfort to him. I wouldn't even say I did it because that's my job as his mom. I did it because that is who I am--his mom. And I love him.

God doesn't get annoyed when I come to Him. Over and over. For the same struggles I was having years ago. That is what I am supposed to do, much like Henry is supposed to want his mommy when he is sick. And I like to think that God relishes in the cuddling of my wandering heart. That is who He is. And He loves me.

Question...

Do I need to rewash the clothes I accidentally washed with a used disposable diaper?

What if I'm positive it wasn't a poopy?

Overheard... (THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!!!)

"Umm, Laura? My son just bit your son's ball."

"I know. I know. It's awesome that I'm in bed with you. But it is not play time. It is 2 am."

"Please get your snout out of my crotch."

"I think my son has funny lookin' testicles. Well...I guess testicles, in general, are funny lookin'."

"If forced to, I'd rather see a naked ugly woman than a naked ugly man."

More Reasons I'll Never Be Mom of the Year...

1. Yesterday I yelled at Henry for being a messy eater. Then I went upstairs and cried about how horrible of a mommy I am. Then Sloan came upstairs and said, "Um, did you mean to leave Henry in the high chair with yogurt all over him?"

2. On a regular basis, I accidentally squeeze Henry's "junk" as I snap him into his car seat.

3. Several times today at the pool Henry slipped and dunked into the water.

4. I think it is funny when Lolly and Henry attack the phone book together. And then cuss at them because they made a big mess.

5. I take pictures of my son doing things he shouldn't before I stop him because it makes me laugh.

6. My son eats rawhide bones. On a regular basis. And he's had dog food. More than once.

Ladies get ready for some hotties...

Luke, Peter, Caleb, Watson, and Henry.

Joy and Luke, Laura and Peter, Me and the big H, Liz and Caleb, and Mary Dupre and Watson.

Luke, Peter, Henry, Watson, and Caleb. (Could they be any cuter?)

Henry's play group is full of the cutest boys ever. One of our fabulous boy-mommas is moving this weekend, so we threw a going away cookout for them on Friday with Dads too. (As we sat around chatting and the boys pretty much sat on the ground and ate toys, the Dads asked, "So this is all y'all do?" Yes, boys. It is all we do at playgroup. That, and talk about YOU.) And today we went to the pool.

I'm just a girl who can't say no...

Right now I am procrastinating. A lot. I really need to put away laundry. But since Henry is just going to wear it again, I see no real reason to remove it from his big boy bed. And what I really really need to be doing is emailing people and checking references for all of the VBS volunteers. Why I said yes to being our church's Child Safety Coordinator, or as I like to call myself "Safety Czar," I'll never know. And apparently I'm also the Assistant Director for VBS which means next year I'll be the Director of VBS. I'm going to delegate pretty much everything or pray for some major family event, like say, me being pregnant and on bedrest, that gets me out of it. OK, so I don't want to be on bedrest again, but maybe the doctor could tell me to take it easy and that would get me out of VBS. Oh, and I somehow said I'd help with decorations. I have the tendency to bite off more than I can chew.

I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure wanting to get out of VBS is not a good reason to try and get pregnant.

Things I WIsh I'd Known Sooner...

1. Cold Stone Creamery does not have high chairs!

2. No one cares if Mommy is sick and wants to take a nap.

3. Having a puppy is not like having another child. It is much, much harder. ( I just found Henry and Lolly tag-team ripping up magazines from the recycling bin.)

4. That in a cold-induced haze, I would ever sit on the bathroom floor and try to muster up the strength and desire to clean the tub and toilet. And the fact that it is my job to do it would make me cry. And that after ten minutes of sitting on the floor, I'd decide it could go one more day dirty. (When it already has gone one more day dirty several times.)