It was sunday afternoon. Emmy was down for her nap. I was feeding Malone, and Jamin, being the wonderful hubs that he is, was washing the dishes. (yes, I am bragging.) Into the room bounded Aiden.

"Hey Daddy. I want to show you something." He exclaimed. He was very excited about whatever it was.

When Jamin glanced down from his spot at the sink, Aiden was standing below him.

What he did next is so absolutely hysterical, I can barely wrap my mind around it. Stay with me. For sheer lack of a better phrase, he then proceeded to whip it out.

You know. IT.

"You see Daddy!? It's getting bigger," He said, ever so proudly, holding it on display for his father to see. "It's getting really big! You see Daddy, how big it is?"

Yeah. He did.

And so the obsession begins.

I have two of these.

HELP. ME.

 

More entries:

**stay tuned later this week for a long overdue giveaway, and my two cent's worth of a painting furniture tutorial!

sunrooms and grasscloth

diy bow holder

spoon lickin' good

1. I was brushing Emerson’s teeth this morning, getting ready to go out. I was shirtless (Yeah. Cute. I know.) and I bent down, so I could get a good look at what I was doing. Aiden sauntered into the bathroom and made a beeline for me. “Look at that fat belly!” he said, smiling. He was patting, ever so affectionately the exact spot where my exhausted baby maker just so happens to resemble a rubber band stretched past its elastic limit. He then skipped out of the room.

I froze. In sheer horror. I think I actually felt my stomach wobble in giant ripples of fat vibrations with each loving pat. I have now baked and birthed three children. Things are a little out of place, to say the least. Thanks for the complex, kid. I have five pounds to lose, and I was pretty darned proud of myself, but I don’t even think my bones have completely moved back yet from the exhaustive process one experiences in the incubation of such vicious little creatures. So for the sleepless nights, endless morning sickness, excruciating pain, exhausting mental/emotional strain and completely transformed body three times over…This is the thanks I get.  I found myself standing up straight and sucking in, pondering the age-old question as to why I indulged in the Papa John’s extravaganza the night before, while simultaneously boring a hole into my midsection via the unforgiving mirror. The mirror and the scales are on a secret mission to ruin my life and just brought Aiden in on the mix. He still resents me for all the potty training tactics I’ve tried on him. Revenge is his. Bring on the carrot sticks and then ten-mile runs. (Revision: Scratching that.) Too bad I don’t have the time or energy to make a ten miler. And who am I kidding? Pass the cookies. I’ll be hiding in the closet from now on, if only to change a pair of shoes. I probably have some sag on my toes that may need some acknowledgement from the blunt little observers in my life.

2. I braved my way to Prattville yesterday to a new flea market I wanted to try out. This place was the very best kind…a little off the beaten path, where people don’t really try to pass off a plant stand as an antique and/or charge one hundred bucks for it. This is the kind of place where you have to dig, but a little elbow grease and creativity will take you a long way. I was armed with my arsenal system or two kids in the double stroller and Malone in the sling. There I was, collecting my plunder, when a curious woman walked by. I still don’t know why people think they have the right to touch my children in public. They were all reaching out in slow motion with their nasty swine flu hands, and it’s all I can do not to take a few steps back in sheer terror. No, I don’t mind if you touch my child. Right after I run this background check, call three references, and ask you to don a mask and gloves AFTER complete sterilization of the hands…And a full orthodontic makeover. You’ll be needing one of those too since your smile is kinda creepy. What?

Anyway, this woman walked by and started staring at Malone. I hadn’t even so much as looked in her direction when she peered down ever so curiously. “Are you sure he’s comfortable in there?” she motioned toward my sleeping baby, frowning.

“Uh, yes…” I said, doing my best to keep my tone polite. But she didn’t move. She simply kept staring, frowning, looking at me expectantly, waiting for a thorough explanation on my child’s comfort level. “It’s supposed to be like the womb, I guess” was the best I had to offer. I didn’t owe this woman anything, yet there she was, staring, and blocking my walking path into the next segment of the store as if she fully expected me to break out the power point and informative statistics on child safety levels and sling transportation.

“He doesn’t look comfortable,” she responded.

Pause. What I really wanted to say: “Yes. I felt like putting my seven week old in this sling to punish him for keeping me up all night. I’m secretly hoping it causes serious neck injuries and I can’t wait to see if his head stays in the same place when I get him out to sit in his car seat on the way home. But that’s impossible since I don’t own a car seat. I mean, why would I since, obviously, I could care less about him as indicated by my use of this cruel device. I’ll drive home with him strapped to my chest just like some of your relatives I saw digging around in boxes in the garbage behind the STORE. But thanks for your unwarranted concern and unsolicited advice. I’ll be the first to sit in your waiting room when you open up your peds practice. Call me.”

Yeah. The above paragraph would have made a stellar story. But instead of the dialogue which I found could easily escalate to violence (and who has time for violence when they’re out using valuable laundry-folding time to haul three kids around and shop?) I chose to ignore, for the sake of my children. I kept walking. I totally scored some fabo finds that made up for it, anyway.

3. Because when I do lists, I have to do them in three’s: remember that time (see below) I wrote this huge entry about how my kid finally pooed on the potty, and then in doing so made the fatal mistake of assuming he would continue to do just that? Yeah. Not. So. Much.

the usuals:

funky greens, classic linen and a touch of ikat

mums, fabulous finds, and kirklands vomit

yummy babies

I’m free. Finally. Can I get a whoop whoop? I know. You have no clue what I am whoop whooping about, but by the time you have finished reading this, I think you will be joyfully whooping with.

I now have a few strong beliefs regarding parenthood. The first: that when it comes to babies, everyone should receive one difficult one. It just seems fair that way. There’s something horribly wrong with the idea of someone having ten children and all of them being easy breezy colic free in infanthood. It’s all so moms can earn that extra sufferage badge (Me!) And make everyone think they had the WORST baby EVER in the history of all WORST babies EVER. Then, any time someone says they had a difficult baby, I morph into THAT person and I get competitive with the horrible stories. {“Oh really? Have you met Satan’s daughter? Did your child sleep with you for ELEVEN months? Wake up every two hours for the first nine months of her LIFE? SPIT UP BLOOD? NO? I didn’t think so. I win.” And if they say yes, I then pull out the trump card and say DO YOU HAVE THREE? And then I usually win again.} (and any mom with three or more is now rolling her eyes because, well, let’s face it,  the obvious reasons that this is extremely annoying and there are lots of people out there that could easily put the smack down on me with their horror stories-yet I like to wallow my misery and write about it on the dot com…)

Regardless, the bad baby subject matter goes right up there on the shelf with natural childbirth, categorized in the GOOD-FOR-YOU-BUT-NO-ONE-ELSE-CARES MAYBE-YOU’LL-GET-DOUBLE-DIAMONDS-IN-YOUR-MOMMY-CROWN WHEN-YOU-GO-TO-HEAVEN section of life. I know. You’re all, “OMGAH get over it already. If I hear her whine about how hard Emerson was one more time I’m going to throw my laptop around the room and send her some cheese and wine and a tiny violin and anything else generically indicating she’s a totally pathetic attention whore via the internet, in the mail. Packaged delicately in some homemade ANTHRAX. SHUT UP ALREADY...” 

So to summarize my blog subject matter run amuck: My first point was that there is just something wrong with the delicate balance of the universe and all things equally shared if:

1. Some mom out there somewhere never experiences a truly difficult baby. SUFFER already. (Sheesh.) And…

2. Everyone should experience a strong willed child and the execution of the impossible experience that is POTTY TRAINING.

I am not incompetent and neither is Aiden. He’s absolutely brilliant. I think that is the problem. But I won’t lie. I was beginning to think SOMETHING was wrong with me as a parent. Side note: apart from my open soapbox of gripeage let me just say, our children, as a result, are NOTHING short of fabulous personality. The personality practically oozes from their ears, and they have enough to share with ten other kids greatly lacking. I’m slightly worried Malone is going to be BORING compared to these other two, for the simple fact that he’s been so awesomely good (so far apart from the whole volcanic eruptions from both ends bit.)

Back to my original POINT: It only took me 1.5 years to train Aiden. He would tinkle just fine. But no poop. Oh the horror of the poop: the child was absolutely non coercible in the process of poopage. I got so tired of (very helpful, mind you) people being all, oh did you try the chart? We did a chart. He was trained in one day. Did you try cheerios? Toys? M and M’s? Standing on your head? Disney World? Lock him in his room for a week so he could sleep in his own feces? Make him clean it up? Threaten him? Dangle him from his toes on an overpass? LAXATIVES? -My kid is 5 mos old and potty trained. She also gave up the paci and is now reading on the first grade level.- {REALLY? Did you purchase her first TRAINING BRA last week, too? Good for you. My kid is now four, poops his pants…and this totally stresses me out.}

We tried it all. I was tired. And bitter that so far, nothing has been easy for us in the parenting department. I had given up forcing the situation. My child needs structure, and I am mastering that delicate art with his interesting temperament every day, (read: my CLONE) but Aiden will not be forced or rushed or coerced…into anything. And so here I was, with a newborn and an eighteen month old, and a nearly 4 year old…wiping butts. Stinky little butts. All. Day. Long. It would just be really stellar if we could reduce that number from three to two since Aiden just so happened to be old enough and capable. I have bigger things to worry about like blisters on my nutritionally giving woman parts and the latest whelp on Emerson’s head from booty dancing on the coffee table…

And then Thursday morning, Aiden was doing THE dance. There he was in the middle of the den, in his Mickey Mouse whitey tidies, doing the dance. Me: (I think around three times…) “Aiden, do you need to go to the potty?”
Aiden: “No.” And then ten minutes later he asked me permission to poop in his pull-ups. {If I didn’t give him permission to poop in the pull-ups, he would hold it in for six days. No lie. Strong willed. I think you get it...I can’t possibly preface everything in this story so just roll with it or ill be explaining for days. Trust me. We’d tried EVERYTHING}

But he wasn’t wearing pull-ups. So on his way to get some, he peed on the floor. And when I say he peed on the floor, I mean he left a trail the size of Niagra falls all the way from the far corner of the rug in the living room to the bathroom, as he screamed “It’s leaking!” and left a gigantic puddle in one great big grand finale…all for me to clean up.

I was livid. Completely frustrated at this entire enabling vs. forcing vs. BATTLE of wills…this neverending cycle of a conundrum. “You are not a dog. Yet you just went on the floor like one.” I stated, and then promptly pulled out the good cop bad cop split personality approach as I firmly placed him in the bathroom for a come to Jesus on the potty moment. This was no accident. It was sheer neglect and the refusal to go when he was fully capable. I was done. This was it. (I had no clue where I was going with it, but I made him sit there.) “You will poop today. You are too big for this.” A major struggle ensued, but I made Aiden sit. He begged me to get up, but he stayed for a good thirty minutes, just to make the point, for me, that sitting on the potty is not so bad. We had tried all of this before, but it was different this time.

The potty is not scary...the potty is our friend... And I DID make it enjoyable. I knew he would fight it, so I broke out one of his fave movies on the laptop, and let him watch while I intermittently made him push. I even broke out the coke and cookies, to rewarding him for each effort. I knew he had to go and he was fighting it. In the end, we had a big bathroom party (myself and Emerson dutifully playing the cheerleadering roles: Emerson was pumped since she was able to partake in the rewards system of one mini Chips A Hoy per push.) I had de ja vu of the entire labor process again…

And this time…we made a small breakthrough. I could tell he was trying. For the first time ever. But the moment had passed. And I was, once again, too late. But for some reason, I felt like I made some ground that day. 

Here comes the best part: And such is typical in life, when Aiden went for his weekly routine of spend the night at my parents house on Friday. That night, when they turned on the jets in the hot tub for his weekly luxury-filled bubble bath, he suddenly had to go. My parents, who have been just as eager as I have been, promptly placed him on the potty. They said he had no option as he’d been holding it for so long. And he went. Apparently there was a major party, and they took pics for his baby book…(YES ACTUAL PICTURES…we were so proud to have something to frame and put at his bedside-LOOK! It’s your first big boy POO!) and apparently Aiden made a comment about “what a huge turd he had produced.” (We need to discuss the correct reference to one’s waste products) We missed it, but when the phone rang later that night, and his excited little voice told me all about it…I knew the payoff had come.

And that, my dear bloggy peeps, is the eternally long story of our potty training conundrum, and how Aiden (FINALLY) pooed. {After 1.5 years of effort.} I totally missed the moment, but have photos to document said monumentally unbelievable event.

Whoop Whoop. The End. 

The usuals:

seagrass and linen

here we go

baby blues and sick babes

 

We're doing quite well.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Really.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As you can see, Jamin has recovered quite quickly from his traumatic birthing experience, and besides a few blisters, is doing extremely well in the nursing department. He was awesome-I'm really so glad I didn't have to experience any of that this time around.

The birthing experience is over, and the final volume to the Mills family has been installed. It's always crazy when you finally get to meet the little person you've been growing inside of you after all this time. To watch their facial expressions and think: were they really doing this in my womb? Did this little guy actually come from me? A face to put with all those movements, an actual personification of love. I guess this is the part where I get to share my birthing story. I kind of feel like I earned it, so humor me and read if you wish...

I feel like all births should be just like something out of a movie. With the rise and fall of a crescendo, and one final push, the baby is delivered, tears fall, and a golf clap can be heard mysteriously echoing in the background.

Malone's birth was nothing like that.

At 5 a.m. on Monday morning, with the beginning of an induction, we were there. Ready to go. The I.V. was started around 6, and those contractions were soon coming. It was around 7:45 when my epidural was in place. I go quickly, and the {wonderful} nurse {she delivered Aiden and Emerson as well} recommended I go ahead and get the epidural. (They freak me out, but they're always better than the alternative.)

This pregnancy, I'd heard quite a few horror stories from my friends regarding epis, so for some reason I felt a bit skiddish about them. I guess you can chalk it all up to one over all bad feeling. I wasn't sure why. I'd already done this twice. But its the unknown of it all that always freaks me out. As soon as mine was in place, I felt as though a load had been lifted, and I breathed a huge sigh of relief. "Epidurals really get a bad wrap," I thought to myself. "Unpleasant, but not a big deal. You totally did this. Scariest part over" Giant needles to the spinal cord complete with electrical shocks when put in place=not my forte.

Our nurse, a few moments later, put in the catheter in place. I felt it. And then the uneasiness set in. When I mentioned it, everyone told me it was only because the epidural was not working all the way yet. To give it time. At around 9, the doctor came in to break my water. That was when the contractions really began.

It was one of those moments in my life where I was faced with the fight or flight option: since I couldn't very well take the IV out of my arm at this point, say JUST KIDDING and ask for a do over, I decided to make my body work with it. I was breathing through each contraction, as best I could, letting all the tension go to one hand and forcing the rest of my body to relax while we waited for the anesthesiologist to make a return visit. I literally went to Tahiti in my mind. I was on the beach. In my safe place.

Looking back now, I was kind of impressed (not to mention totally surprised) with myself, and my ability to handle the pain. Jamin said he had no clue I was suffering that much, because I handled it so well. (read: I was levitating off the bed with Aiden Exorcist style the pain was so bad, but this time I knew what I had to do) The faulty epi was taking the very edge off each contraction, but I was feeling nearly all of it, and with each one the pain increased. In the end, the anesthesiologist pushed four doses of a new drug directly into my line, with which he said he should be able to perform a c-section. I remember telling him if he cut into me I would definitely be able to feel it. I could even jog around the room if he'd needed me to. He then told me our only option was to redo the epidural. He wasn't sure, but apparently the needle had slipped.

Wait. What? Seriously? I'm now supposed to sit through these awful contractions AND let you perform the scariest procedure ever AGAIN that didn't even work the FIRST time? And what's my pain management option after that? Natural childbirth? WHY isn't this working??? I was asking all these questions. No one could really answer them in a brief panic session. I then went back to my game face.

I gave the go ahead and the epidural took nearly twenty minutes the second time. The anesthesiologist wanted to make sure he didn't miss it. My mom was my lean-into person, and she was completely stellar. Jamin tends to wiggle, so I'd asked her before hand to be the person I used for my support. I knew she would be statuesque and dependable, if anyone would. And she was. She never budged. I was breathing into her and leaning and sweating the entire time, trying to get through each contraction despite the fact I was supposed to stay completely still. And she never moved. She was my angel. Props to my mom.

The second epidural in place, it actually worked. And not a moment too soon. Upon checking me afterwards, I was nine centimeters and ready to push. It was working this time, much to my relief, but not enough to take away any of the pressure. I felt it. ALL of it. If you look back at my video tape, (yes, we taped it, and will edit it one day to give to our children) I can actually be heard yelling "its a bowling ball" and that "they need to freaking get it OUT."

Pause: With Emerson I pushed ever so slightly and she was out. With Malone, I knew it was a boy, in those last moments. It was when I couldn't get him out. I pushed for a good twenty minutes, non stop, and skipping the truly gory parts, he was finally here. I just wanted him out. I hate I wasn't able to enjoy it more. I wanted to savor it, and simply wasn't able to. They handed him to me and shortly after and I just laid there on the bed.

Oh well. At least I'll be fully conscious for his childhood. Unless I can get my hands on some more of those awesome pain pills...

When the doctor delivered, he didn't say anything. We had been bantering about what he was for weeks now, and McDreamy himself had predicted a boy, along with Jamin. So he simply lifted him into the air and I could see. I, on the other hand, had sworn up and down on my Great grandmother's sister's mother's cousins grave and my womanly instincts on knowing my body, that he was actually a she. I was so wrong. And couldn't be happier about it. Just glad he was here and safe and healthy.

 

And that is the story of the grand arrival of Benjamin Malone Mills.

Aiden and Emerson have been the best part of it all. They have been absolutely thrilled to be around him. Emerson simply lifts her arms out to hold him, and has already taken on little mommy personalities of her own. It's precious. Aiden is priceless. When he first saw Malone, we asked what he thought it was and he simply stated "it's a boy". When we told him he was right, the look on his face was simply timeless. He then proclaimed he wants to "teach the new baby tricks" and says he is "beautiful."

In the meantime, I keep catching Jamin lifting Malone into the air saying the name Benjamin triumphantly, in a good storybook kind of voice, like a scene from the Lion King. I walk into the room, and there he is, arms in the air with baby. He's a little thrilled with himself since Benjamin happens to mean "Son of Jamin." Not to mention oh so hilarious. I keep reminding him that Benjamin was my grandfather's name, so he can tone it down a little in the drama department. He just loves being right, and will be relishing in the victory of it for a very long time.

Malone is a wonderful baby. He truly is a blessing, a HEALTHY blessing, and is simply a delight. He makes a great addition to our little family and (MOST IMPORTANTLY) so far, so good in the sleeping department. Hallelujah. I think we earned it.

No baby. {Yet.} I'm {still} here.

I am up to my eyeballs in this stuff, as preparing for a {currently} genderless child can prove to be a bit challenging... I've washed just enough, because let's face it: all they wear in the beginning are onesies and nightgowns anyway.

I don't parade around town with our newest arrival the day I am released from the hospital (as I like to follow the doctor's orders-heaven FORBID I do that...) so the smocked can wait. Obsessed with organizing I have been, as well as immersing myself in last minute details: the carseat, washing the swing cover, finding the boppy {yet to be located} registering at the hospital...making last minute arrangements...and all that other mind numbing stuff no one cares about unless you happen to be the expectant mother. Hurray!

We have an induction date set for Monday the 13th at 5 in the a.m. {woot woot} Here's to hoping I last that long. Our last ultrasound at 37 wks (I keep getting freebies because I was measuring a good 7 cm behind) - that's a whopping 7 weeks behind for you non baby experts out there (me) - it revealed that contrary to concerns, this baby is already a good 7lbs. 5 oz. For me, a small framed person, that lil tidbit of info means the baby is getting really LARGE. I realize it's not ten pounds or anything, but they nearly broke my tail bone getting Aiden out at 7.14. I'm not so worried about poundage as much as the size of this little m's head. We have that to think about, seeing as how large heads run in our fam: Aiden=115% Emmy=90%...and McDreamy is trying to avoid that one this go round. {Bless him and his little handsome doctor heart.}

So...induction here we come. {We would really appreciate your prayers!} Jamin and I have everything worked out, so I am sure the baby will now come around, oh... tonight or so. Things get a little tricky when you have other kids to think about...as I am sure some of you know. Our nurse, who delivered Aiden and Emmy and just so happens to be beyond awesome, has agreed to be there for our third, even though she's not even working that day. I have her all to myself! (They do all the work anyway) I also have Hair appointments squeezed in (so I have no root rot in the new baby pics despite the fact that my face looks like the elephant man) and a pedi (because we all know pedis are of the utmost importance when feet are in stirrups)...I mean everyone is totally looking at my toes. We even have a date night planned for Friday. Kid free. The last one for a while. Yeah. Now that I wrote that I can pretty much plan on having Malone in my arms tomorrow...

I'll admit it, I'm dying. Absolutely dying. Homestretch=absolute cliff hanger. This entire pregnancy I've been totally nonchalant, and now that little m is so close to arriving, I wake in the middle of the night wondering what on earth this baby is...anticipating its arrival...I guess the normal birthing stuff merely amped in the excitement of having no clue as to what he or she actually IS. I can pretty much count on this week DRAGGING by. I had a dream last night I gave birth in a beach chair on the beach. Only I was at the hospital. They had the epi in and everything. And there I was. My feet in stirrups, propped above the sand, watching the waves. Maybe a new birthing fad...

I've claimed girl from the beginning. Basing it on my womanly/motherly/female, Eve-like instincts. Jamin has, on the other hand, proclaimed little m to be a boy. For sheer argument's sake. {imagine that} And thus the battle has begun... I have more at stake than him. He guessed just to be difficult, and I proclaimed it was my womanhood driving me to this prophecy. As we both only want a healthy baby, it has become a battle to the finish. I guess we'll see. The suspense...IS KILLING ME. I want to be RIIIIIIIGHT. If he wins he's NOT allowed to rub it in my face. If I win, all is fair in love, birthing rights and double standards...

As most of you can imagine, the blog is about to slow to a snail's pace as far as posting goes, as I am merely trying to savor these last few days before we officially become a party of 5. So don't go anywhere. I'll be back. I'll let you know when no. 3 is here... I just won't be doing EIGHT separate posts a week...for a while...{Shew. I'm tired.}

Here are a few photos of our last days in retrospect:

We have this giant pool in our backyard. This heat is killing us, and it's big enough for all of us to clamber in and splash about. I guess you could say its borderline white trash in the above ground category, but its the perfect size for the kids. Check out my lil swimsuit model...

 

Jamin climbed in with them the other day. I think he enjoyed it as much as they did.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Just a little observation: I think Jamin may be possessed in this photo. Jury's still out...

 

 

 

 

 

 

In other news, Emmy had her first trim last week, and Aiden got his growth a little under control. Trademark surfer dude. It was time for Emerson. I hated to do it, but her hair looks much better now... less scraggly and thicker. She was borderline mullet status, and I had to prevent anything less than fabulous as far as she is concerned. Bows are of the utmost importance in outfit coordination, and her hair must be in top condition. She was a little angel as soon as our stylist handed her a lollipop...

Potential meltdown crisis averted. Hair saved in an envelope to be filed away in the baby book I never write in. At least it's dated. Everyone=happy.

 

We had a great time at my parent's house for the fourth. Aunt CiCi came down from Chattanooga and brought {as she usually does} a plethora of goodies for the kids. They absolutely adore her. We looked on from the garage in broad daylight while she lit some daytime-kid- appropriate fireworks she purchased just for them. (I winced, hoping they wouldn't explode in her face cause I'm jumpy like that) She is so thoughtful when it comes to her niece and nephew. She wins the cool Aunt award for sure.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Aiden was totally stoked about the parachute man CiCi brought. Right up his alley.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My mom with Emerson.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Later that night, we lit some more. Little Miss curious was afraid of nothing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My dad giving Emerson her first sparkler...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Daddy helping Emmy with her sparkler...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 There are about a thousand reasons as to why giving an 18 month old a sparkler could be a horrible idea. This would be one of them. {No face burns occurred in the capture of this classic photo-I do believe it to be frame worthy, however.}

 

 

 

And last but certainly not least, in the grand tradition of our Swiss Family Robinson wildlife experiences, we now have a caterpillar infestation {in our pecan tree} located in our back yard. I felt it necessary to document said infestation as it is of plague-like proportions. Classic Mills status. Nothing less will do for us. Strange black things were falling from above, and then we realized they were giant, fat fuzzy caterpillars and quickly took cover. Some of them fell inside the doorway every time we opened the back door. I captured as many as I could and we relocated them to a safer place. Far far away from our back yard. Aiden was quite relieved we didn't torch them. I was quite relieved I didn't step on one. Those things were big and juicy. Gross.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Finally: I've been meaning to do this for a while. For your entertainment...a compellation of Emmy's best bootay dance moves: 2009. Try and keep an eye on her if you aren't too distracted by Aiden's spaz/interpretive/break dance tribute to MJ himself...classic.

I thought the track we put it to only appropriate : Props to Jamin for his mad production skills...documentation for future embarrassment at its absolute finest.