Manly Pedi

Today Brent honored me with lots of little treats — sleeping late, crepes suzette for breakfast, a massage, a nap and dinner out.

And when I complained about not being able to wear open toed shoes on this 80+ degree Mother’s Day because I haven’t had time to get a pedicure or paint my toes, he manned up and offered to do it himself.

Ta Da!

Bad tattoo circa 19-year-old rebellion

God I love that man.

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Closing Up Shop

Next week Milo turns eight months old and thus I have decided to stop…breastfeeding.

I have several reasons for this, so before the Breast Is Best fanatics start blowing up my email—both for calling them fanatics and for the sarcastic eye roll in their general direction—hear me out.

First, I am a terrible milk producer.  Both Monkey and Milo lost weight at two months old and we were required to start supplementing them with formula to preserve their health.  All of the breast pumping, mother’s milk tea and herbal supplements I tried to increase my milk supply were met with marginal results. They simply weren’t getting enough from me.

Second, since starting solids a couple of months ago, Milo has become less and less interested in nursing and more interested in being independent (i.e. holding his own bottle, self-feeding etc.).  We still snuggle and nurse at night, but during the day he is very much his own man.

Third (and most selfishly), I want my body back.  Since returning to work part time, the stress and time commitment of breastfeeding and/or pumping was becoming too much for me.

So there you have it.  That is why I’ve decided to start weaning a few months early.  I know this is a VERY sensitive topic for some people and an ongoing debate.

Opine, please.

Snooze

This morning I rushed Brent and Monkey out the door earlier than usual to send them on their way to Monkey’s school’s annual Dad and Me Breakfast.

It wasn’t until almost two hours later when I looked at my calendar that I realized the Dad and Me Breakfast is actually next Friday.

I quickly called Brent to apologize for the mix up, to find that he created his own impromptu Dad and Me Breakfast at local favorite Snooze Eatery.

“Did I ruin your morning?”  I asked.

“Not a bit.”

Jinx

So basically I screwed myself by writing this post a couple of weeks ago, because this past week was a total cluster fuck.

It started 2am Sunday morning with my Monkey dry heaving in the bathroom.  The rest of that day was spent with her rotating from the couch to the bathroom and back again.

Then Monday night my nanny texted that she was having a similar experience and would not be coming to work on Tuesday.

Tuesday began for me with a gut wrenching stomach ache and ended with a trip to the ER for IV fluids.  I was discharged at about 2am–just enough time for Brent to get two hours of sleep before catching a morning flight to Texas.

Wednesday and Thursday were spent mostly in bed thanks to the child rearing assistance of my MIL and my since fully recovered nanny.

And the week culminated with a last minute trip to the pediatrician due to a nasty cough and cold a la Milo.

BUT, in keeping with my New Year’s resolution….

next week is going to be awesome.  Knock on wood.

April’s Fool

Yesterday was my birthday.  35.

Not exactly old, but not considered young anymore.

I have plenty of friends—older friends—who will read this and roll their eyes, because 35 is not old.  It’s just as old as I’ve ever been.

But I’m a believer that you’re as young as you feel.

So today I’m about 54, as I had SEVERAL celebratory martinis on my birthday date last night and am feeling them this morning.  Also, I have my right index finger splinted—an injury obtained while trying to open either a baby bottle or a vodka bottle.  I’m not sure which.

Happy Birthday To Me.

Back To Normal

This week, for the first time since before Thanksgiving, we Steiners are working from the plan.  Everything (or should I say everyone?) is where they should be.

There are no kids home sick from school.  No school holidays, in-service days, minimum days or half days. Brent isn’t traveling and my nanny is working her regular hours.

We are back to normal.  Or as close as it gets around here.

I realize it is only Thursday, but as I’ve been working toward this for more than three months, I’m taking it.

Note to Steiner children: Nothing short of a missing limb will keep you from school tomorrow.

FTW!

Dos

Yesterday was my husband’s 39th birthday, and so marks two years of BeingSuper.com.

For the past couple of months, I’ve seriously contemplated shutting this blog down. Mainly because our family has a lot on its plate right now and something’s got to give.  Better this blog than my sanity, right?

In the past year my life has changed dramatically in ways both expected and unexpected, for better and for worse.  And while I won’t even dare to guess what life has in store for me in the coming months, one thing is certain:  I’ll keep writing my little muses—I love them too much.

I hope you like reading them.

Rawk the ‘Hawk

The party starts at 2am. BYOB (bring your own boobie). Posers not invited.

Griddle Me This

My husband is an amazing gift giver.  He gives generously and thoughtfully with the perfect mix of practicality and whimsy.  And he always makes you feel special, as if he spent hours searching for the perfect gift just for you.

So imagine my utter disbelief when I unwrapped an electric griddle on Christmas morning.

A griddle.

I feigned excitement.

It wasn’t that I didn’t like it….OK, I didn’t like it. But hear me out:

A griddle is for cooking and at SteinerHaus all things kitchen related are solely reserved for Brent, as he literally does 99% of the cooking in our home. And for good reason as you can see in the video below as I drunkenly (note the paper crown) describe an event wherein I burn some nuts, ALMOST burn down my house and traumatize my daughter.

Naturally, I had to wonder what possessed Brent to make this purchase with me in mind.

And now I know.

A griddle is Super-proof. It is nearly impossible to burn food with a griddle.  And the other day, I made my first-ever, unburned, perfectly melty, grilled cheese sandwich.  My griddle totally ROCKS!

And to you Mr. Steiner, sage of gift-giving—Damn you’re good.

Poet Laureate

S.O.S.

a soul

so far away

so hard to speak to

so hard to let it go

to float away

you see it in the

DISTANCE

you say goodbye

it is your last

MOMENT

The above poem won Monkey first place in her school’s creative writing contest.  And while my heart is brimming with pride at her achievement, it is also filled with sadness. Because I know what, or rather whom, this poem is about.