Third Time's the Charm

I've been thinking a lot lately about the differences between a first pregnancy and a third. It started when my official "Baby app" popped up a checklist and the item for week 14 said to "take a break from all the baby prep chores" and focus on being a couple with your partner. During my first pregnancy, I would have taken that advice very seriously, and forced myself to put aside what I was doing to get ready for baby (and I probably had a big list) and dutifully asked for an official date night, even though Daniel and I already spent every evening together. With this pregnancy, however, I instead wracked my brain trying to figure out what baby related chores I was supposed to have been doing? I couldn't come up with squat I had done or would have wanted to do this early in the game. Unless you count trying not to puke as a "chore" I had nothing, and didn't see how I could "take a break" from that anyway (if I could have, I would have done so and made it permanent). I found the whole thing quite funny, actually.
First and second pregnancies are different in a multitude of ways, but for me, they could be summed up in one word--GUILT.  Guilt that I wasn't going to be spending as much time with kid #1 after kid #2 showed up, guilt that I wasn't going to be giving all the same newborn attention to #2. Guilt about time spent on the sofa feeling lousy, guilt about chasing around a toddler on days I was supposed to be "taking it easy" for baby #2.  Guilt that buying stuff for baby #2 had a way tighter budget than baby #1. You get the idea. Lots of guilt. Boatloads of mommy guilt.  You name it, I felt bad about it, and worried about it. Nothing all that humorous there.
Baby #2 came, and life (predictably to the non-hormone riddled) managed not only to go on but was enriched, and all that guilt and worry turned out to be a massive waste of time. Having a sibling has been a great thing for both my kids that will (hopefully) benefit them throughout their lives.  Of course, being a mom, I didn't want to jettison all my mommy guilt, and potentially lose my modern mommy card, but I channeled it into different areas that I will someday realize are equally unproductive (but that day is not today, darn it, and you can have my guilt when you pry it from my cold dead hands!). Now that baby #3 is well on the way, I've mellowed even more as a mom. I have more experience with the process, I have more perspective on what's really important, but perhaps most helpful of all, I have more exhaustion that breeds just a healthy enough amount of apathy. I am not the overly-vigilant, baby book devouring, early baby-proofing, hypochondriac stress ball I was the first time around, and I think that's a good thing. So here are the differences I've discovered between number 1 and number 3. Maybe some of you can relate, others can judge me and feel superior, and some can maybe mitigate some of that guilt they might have about the future. I live to serve.

"How far along are you?"
Baby #1: "I'm 22 weeks 2 days, and my baby is the size of a spaghetti squash, crown to rump! She can hear my voice!"
Baby #3: "uhhhhh, I'm 18, no, wait, 20...hold on, I have an app on my phone for that. I'm 22 weeks! Wow, seriously? When did that happen? Going by so fast...oh crap, that means the glucose test is coming up."

"When are you due?"
Baby #1: "I'm due May 3rd, and this kid better not come late because my mother is flying in on May 2nd to help me at the birth!"
Baby #3: "Sometime in late April/Early May. My kids don't really believe in due dates."
***My personal favorite example of this is when I had to rush from a table at a restaurant due to morning sickness. While I was debating if my nausea was a bluff or not in the bathroom, the waitress asked if everything was okay with the food. Daniel told her everything was fine, but I was just expecting so I wasn't eating much at that time. She said "Congrats, when is she due?" and Daniel drew a total blank. He eventually came up with "Uh, Spring." Then to explain his vagueness, added, "It's still pretty early." He said he just panicked. I laughed. It was like 12-13 weeks in. Another 3rd time dad told me his wife's due date but when I talked to her about it, he was totally wrong by nearly a month. Apparently mommy brain is not a mommy only affliction.

Feeling Sick
Baby #1: Run-walk to the bathroom at work, taking different routes every few times so no one realizes just how often you're going. Especially the boss.
Baby #3: "All right kids, who wants to watch a whole lot of movies and Dora's today while mommy lies on the couch wishing she were in a coma?"

Nausea and Vomiting
Baby #1: Hubby dances around nervously expressing concern and asking what he can "do" to help. He brings you crackers and tucks you into bed to rest.
Baby #3: Child #1 keeps coming into the bathroom asking if 1) she can catch barfing, and 2) are you going to die? Child #2 pokes you in the eye and wants to play in the toilet. If hubby is home, his only job is to keep other offspring as far from mommy as humanly possible.

Food choices
Baby #1: "Every bite I eat is a bite for the baby too, I have to make them as healthy as possible!" Then reality and cravings sink in and you end up where you simply start with Baby #3, which is
"Pizza night again! Yea for daddy picking it up! (whispers to hubby) Maybe after the kids go to bed, you'll go get me a butterfinger blizzard, medium size? What am I saying, 'maybe' and 'medium'? Ha!"

Gender issues
Baby #1: "All we want is a healthy baby, boy or girl."
Baby #3: "Well, I have the stuff for both by now, so whatev." The difference is subtle, but it's there. *If you don't have one of each, everyone assumes you want whatever you don't have. This is pretty much the only socially acceptable time to indicate a gender preference, so if you have one, express away!

Body Image
Baby #1: "I am so fat, I had to go up to 'fat pants' and I'm only 14 weeks! I'll be in maternity pants in no time. I'm a whale!" Insert sobbing here.
Baby #3: Cracking out the maternity pants at 5 weeks. "It may not be great for the ego, but they are so comfy!" Please, someone tell me this is not just me, my kids love to make their presence known alarmingly early and then grow into the comfy mansion they've built for themselves.

Baby #1: Weekly "bump" pictures posted on all forms of social media.
Baby #3: Honestly, most of this "bump" is actually leftover from #2, so there is no freaking way I'm going to isolate it, memorialize it, and share it with the world. Feel badly about this at very end of pregnancy and take official "bump" picture on the way to the hospital.

Fetal Development
Baby #1: Sing and talk to baby in soothing tones. Desperately try to let baby to come into a warm and loving environment and instantly recognize mommy's calm and loving tone. Force Daddy to have long one-sided conversations with stomach so baby will recognize him as well.
Baby #3: Secretly know baby will mostly recognize sound of you screaming at siblings to please find their shoes and they wouldn't have this problem if they would just use the basket we bought FOR THAT PURPOSE!!!  Is worried baby's first cognitive connection is with the phrase "We are going to be late!" Realizes that even if this is the case, baby will still not be punctual as a child.

Following instructions
Baby #1: Refuses to carry anything weighing over 10 lbs, because doctor suggested keeping it under 50 lbs, and you can never be too careful.
Baby #3: Carries squirming toddler, gigantic diaper bag full to bursting, plus whatever came home from preschool that inexplicably can not be carried by person who carefully created it. Is that considered "heavy lifting?" Doesn't matter, no available alternative.

Aches and Pains
Baby #1: "I'm not sure what that twinge was, should I call the doctor just in case?" Continues with 30 minute internal debate that ultimately results in a call to the doctor.
Baby #3: "Ouch, that hurt. Man, pregnancy sucks." Goes about business as usual unless things get progressively worse.

Biggest Worries about Labor
Baby #1: "What if my water breaks in public? What if I can't get an epidural? (Or "what if I have to get an epidural/c-section?" if you're into the whole natural thing) What if something goes wrong? What if the hospital sends me home with false labor and I'm embarrassed?"
Baby #3: "What if the babysitter doesn't get here in time to watch the other kids and I have to take them to the hospital with me!?"


May your pregnancies be healthy, safe, and in a perfect world, guilt-free! Happy New Year, and if you made it through this whole monster post, congratulations, also, there is a good chance you are my mother!

The Results...After this Break

Well, we went to the doc yesterday for our ultrasound. We were in the waiting room 15 minutes when they came out and said the doc had to suddenly run to the hospital and they'd have to reschedule. We were totally crushed. It was a bummer day. Luckily, they had an opening for today, because other than that, it would have been next week, and Sam had already expressed concern about being out of links on our "baby" paper chain countdown.
Now I know how those people on reality shows feel when the hosts say they'll have the results...after the break. If the break was over 24 hours long, and they got little kicks to the bladder every few hours. (Not that the results changes the kicking, I'm just adding a little color to the picture). Daniel had taken the day off for it, we had lined up a sitter for Peyton weeks in advance, and now we had a last minute change of plans. Oh well, nothing you can do about it. Seeing as I was a baby born in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve, I don't really feel too confident throwing a tantrum about babies who arrive at inconvenient times. It's not like I planned it, but still, I managed to mess up just about everybody with my arrival. Oddly, now I'm not the kind of person who likes to "make an entrance." Maybe I just know there's no way to top the first one I ever made, so why try?

So, we went back today, and had to take Peyton with us in the middle of his nap time. Daniel had to run over on his lunch break. I was stressed to the max about how this would go, and a little trigger shy (as if the odds were high of getting rescheduled again two days in a row, when it's only happened three times in as many pregnancies, but still, I was nervous).

Everything went well though, didn't have to wait too long, Peyton was actually really good considering his age, the time of day, and the fact that he couldn't touch anything.  Plus, the very first thing the doctor saw was the gender, so Sam could stop dancing around nervously after about 12 seconds.

It's a girl!

Instead of yelling with joy, or an exclamation of excitement, Sam blurted out loudly "I was RIGHT!!!!" She kept saying "I knew it was a girl. You didn't know, and Daddy didn't know, but I did." Finally, even the doctor commented on the fact that she seemed very happy to be right, maybe even more than she was happy it was a girl.
Hey, what can I say? She's totally my daughter.  The ladies in this family like to be right, and now we're getting one more. We will see how she will be, but I'd be surprised to no end if she doesn't like to right too. (Who likes to be wrong? No one.)

So, Sam is very happy, and while I would have honestly been happy either way, I'm very excited for both the baby and Sam. Daniel is happy too, because he was cool with either, but it's hard not to get super excited when one of your kids is so incredibly jazzed about something. I love my boy and wouldn't trade him for the world, or mind another one, but I love frilly dresses and shopping for baby girls is just so fun!  Plus, my family, and my only cousins on my dad's side too, oddly enough, were both girl, boy, girl, so it just seems familiar to me! We are over the moon for our baby girl!

Gender Identity Crisis

By now, our ultrasound to find out the gender of baby #3 is only a little ways away. Like 24 hours. Yea! I promised Sam she could go with us for the event, but I had a little inkling she might not be the politest of children if she doesn't get her "way" on the gender. She's been so very adamant about what she wants, and our attempts to tell her that either way will be fine have been met with eye rolls, and sometimes, insincere agreement so we'll let her go about her business. I was worried about her having some sort of bratty meltdown at the office. In fact, several months ago, when I told her the doctor might very well say "It's a boy," she looked at me like I was crazy and said "Well, I guess he might, but that's kind of a weird thing to say to a girl." So, yeah, she's fully entrenched in camp "pink" and has been for a while.
So, yesterday, I came up with the idea to "practice" what to do at the doctor office. We were getting ready for church, and I said "Okay Sam, what will you say if the doctor says, 'Let's see here...yep, it's a boy!"
Sam: "I'd say...Noooooooooooooooo!" Seriously, she couldn't have said it better if she was taking a bullet for someone in a movie. So dramatic.
Me: "Okay, well, that's why we're practicing. Don't say that. That would be super rude."
Sam: "Yeah, okay. But admit it mom, two little boys...would be a lot. It would just be a lot." Then she heaved a gigantic sigh.

Oh, yeah, right Sam. Two boys would be "a lot," as if raising you is some sort of cakewalk.
We'll get the verdict soon, but either way, I predict a lot of tiredness in my future. Because I've already got both genders, and both are totally crazy in their own way. I predict a third version of crazy this family has yet to see.

This is how it's gonna be?

My life, not unlike a caterpillar, has a clear cycle. It's a daily thing, and it goes something like this:

Put Peyton in high chair for breakfast. Peyton drinks his milk, then throws remaining unwanted solid food over the side of the tray.

I get frustrated and swear I won't bother cleaning it up this time.

Get Peyton down, wash his hands and face, and send him to play.

Sam manages to "accidentally" step on whatever dry food is on floor, I catch Peyton snacking on the intact remains.

I get utterly disgusted, give in, grab the broom and sweep (or vacuum) the floor anywhere near the table and high chair.

By now it's time for lunch! Back in the high chair!

Again, Peyton drinks his milk, eats a few bites of solid food, and drops remaining food overboard. He does this even if I let him pick his food, or it's something he really loves. I swear, this kid is living on nothing but milk. It's like a newborn all over again.

The floor is once again disgusting, but I will not sweep it again! I will not! It's a waste of time, he's just going to eat again in a few hours.

During naptime/quiet time, I end up stepping on a corn chip or froot loop. This is very gross, yes, but I will not give in yet. However, the floor continues to bug me. I can't make my own lunch with it grossing me out like that. What if someone comes over and sees I live this way? So, once more, I give in and sweep the floor. I don't know why I bother, since an hour or so later...

Afternoon snack time! Back in the high chair, and you guessed it, food on the floor. It's like he has a quota, a certain amount must be on the floor. If I give him half the food, he will just have to eat less, because the sacrifices to the tile gods must be made in full!

Since I learned my lesson during morning playtime, I just go straight for the broom to avoid watching him round up some smushed up string cheese and eat it in an hour. The kids play, the floor is clean, life is good.

Then, dinner time for Peyton while Daniel heads home and I put together dinner for the grown ups and Sam (or sit down feeling crappy and try not to lose it with the kids, depending on how the day is going). Once again, he bails food over the side for the peasant ants who depend on him for their livelihood and revere him as a cult figure who rains manna from the heavens four times a day, but also will vengefully step on them with no provocation.  (This is a joke, we don't really have ants. But it's a miracle we don't) I tell him for the 1000th time, not to do that. By this point, food issues aside, I'm usually pretty much at the end of my rope with the kiddos in general. More often than not, it's been a long day. As soon as Peyton finishes "eating," Daniel walks in the door, says hello to everyone, looks at the floor under our son and says "Wow, how does this floor get so disgusting? We really should sweep it more often." We. Yes, seriously, he says "we." In his defense, he also honestly believes he means "we," because if he were home while Peyton makes the messes, and he would have every intention of sweeping, therefore, "we."  I, however, realize this "we" actually means "me," and get irrationally irritated to a level only a pregnant woman really can.

Fantasy me punches him in the face.

Real me just stomps upstairs in a huff. Sometimes, on the way up, I shout "I swept THREE TIMES TODAY!" Other times, I assume he knows the drill by now and just go. He stays downstairs wondering why I'm always in such a bad mood when he gets home from work (because apparently, he doesn't actually know the drill by now, Mars and Venus, amirite?). I resurface after a few minutes alone, and we manage to have a decent dinner and evening. Someone does the dishes, but I refuse to sweep the floor on principle, waiting for that "we" to kick in and take care of it. Somehow "we" never surfaces. "We" is busy doing evening stuff, sort of like "me" is busy doing daytime stuff.

The next morning, I wake up to a nasty floor, and clip Peyton into his seat for breakfast.

In the background, I swear I hear "The Circle of Life." I can almost picture Rafiki holding up a dustpan reverently.

It may not be a cycle I'm particularly fond of, but it is what it is. I will be so happy when Peyton stops throwing his food overboard.

Pearls of Wisdom

Yesterday, in honor of Thanksgiving, Sam had a few pearls of wisdom to share with me, that I'm going to share with all of you. It's either that, or work out, or do laundry, and I'm still in a bit of Thanksgiving fog, so the longer I can put working out, the happier I'll be.

First, when she came to wake me up, Sam yanked my covers off (a technique I really dislike, by the way) and pointed out that my stomach now sometimes sticks out from under my shirt (only at night, when I'm still trying to make do with clothes I already have, it's not like I strut around like that during the day). Judging by the laughter, this was quite possibly the funniest thing she has ever witnessed. After she followed me to the the bathroom and amid a few gasps of laughter punctuated by choked out phrases, "Your belly....gasp gasp...sticks out...giggle giggle...of your shirt!!!" I finally got irritated and said, "Hey, Sam, give me a break, my belly is getting big, ok?"
Upon realizing she might have hurt my feelings, she immediately sobered up, and looked at me thoughtfully. Then she said "Hey, mom, it's true that your belly is getting bigger. Like its getting really really really a lot big. But, you've got a baby in there! Either that, or a giant hot dog. And you know what, Mom? Either way, it's totally ok. It's ok."
Awww, thanks, Sweetie. You managed to simultaneously exacerbate and help my body image issues. What can I say, she's a talented kid.

But Sam woke up feisty on Thanksgiving morning, and she wasn't yet finished sharing her theories on life. We scooped up Peyton, and headed downstairs to eat breakfast and start cooking our additions to the extended family Thanksgiving. I turned on the TV to hopefully keep them out of my hair while I wrestled with an orange roll recipe that I only have about a 20% success rate making (although it worked yesterday! Boom!). Unfortunately, the TV was showing one of those abused dog Sarah Maclachlan commercials. I hate those anyway, but when I'm pregnant, forget it. Niagra falls. To make matters worse, I realized Sam was starting intently at the commercial, and I could tell there was a question brewing. Sam has not asked a single question in over two years. Everything has at least 37 follow ups. After only about 5 seconds, not enough time for me to change the channel, here it came. "Mom, why are those animals so sad looking?"
Super, I was going to kick off my holiday trying to teach my kid about animal abuse. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! (In case you're wondering why I don't just make something up to end the conversation, lying to Sam isn't just a moral conundrum for me, it's a physical impossibility. I'm a horrible liar to start with, and she's so smart, and there's so many follow-up questions, it's just too much to keep track of a web of deception on the fly. The few times I've tried, it's unraveled on me so fast, that I realized there was just no point even trying. So, she gets an age-appropriate honest approach, and I get migraines. That's where we stand.)
So, I sucked it up and said "Those animals are sad because the people they lived with, didn't treat them nicely." Then I waited for follow up question #1.
Instead, Sam looked thoughtful for a moment, and slowly added "Nope. I don't think that's it."
"What do you mean, that's not it?"
Sam shook her head and said "That's not why they're sad. Those animals are sad because those guys (meaning the rescuers) has them stuck in those little cages. I bet if they let them out, they'd look much happier! Geez!" She was disgusted.
This was an interesting approach, I admit I'd never thought about. The more I thought about it, the more Sam seemed to be onto something there. After all, these animals had already been rescued from abuse, and now had reason to be happy, but sure enough, they were all in cages. What animal looks happy behind bars? All of a sudden, I was laughing. Here they were, trying to be all heavy handed and induce guilt and my four-year-old is sitting there thinking the rescue operation was the reason the dogs were still sad. Maybe the problem was you, Sarah? Ever think about that? Sam wasn't buying the manipulation they were selling. I was sitting there trying not to cry at the sad animals, and my logical 4-year-old daughter was getting all cynical on me. Consider my mind blown at the total role-reversal.
Sometimes, I just love that kid so much, it hurts my guts. She is just so much her own independent person. She's got the softest heart I know, but try and manipulate her, and she sees right through it, and she will not have that crap! Will not have it!

Something tells me my little Sam will be okay in this messed up world.

Sibling Rivalry

Lately, Sam has been obsessed with when she'll be able to feel the baby kick. She asks all the time if she can feel it yet, and I explained that I would probably feel it long before she could, but I couldn't even feel it yet. She was very upset at this and grumbled something under her breath about "everything with babies takes sooooo long." Yesterday in the middle of church, she slammed her head into my stomach (which of course felt absolutely fabulous, and wasn't a huge uncomfortable jab that made me instantly have to pee--and that's a huge lie), and then informed me she could may not be able to feel the baby kick, but she could hear the baby crying in there. If that were in any way true, it would be supremely creepy.  Horror movie creepy. Sometimes kids come up with the creepiest things, and don't even realize how terrifying that would actually be in reality.

Naturally, I thought she'd be excited when last night in the car, I turned around and said "Sam, I'm pretty sure I did just feel the baby kick!"
Instead, she looked back at me, sighed and said "Yes. Well. I also just farted." She seemed irritated that no one was celebrating that as much as the baby kicking. As if her passing gas is even close to rare, or in any way cute.
Face palm.

I suppose we have reached that stage when things that she thinks are going to be exciting actually turn out to be a little irritating or cause jealousy. That's a natural and understandable emotion, but that doesn't mean its gotta be indulged. She's just barely getting old enough to understand "suck it up and act happy no matter how you feel, because you aren't diminished by other people's good fortune," but that's a lesson a lot of adults need to learn still. Sam isn't less special to me because a new baby is coming (and neither is Peyton). I am not less awesome if a friend gets a great high paying job, or a new house with a kitchen I would love, or is lucky enough to have a pregnancy that doesn't come with severe nausea, high-school flashback acne, and stretch marks. It's not like my stretch marks would disappear if another woman got them. If this life has taught me anything, it's that there are plenty of stretch marks to go around, metaphorically speaking. There are also plenty of great things, like love, happiness, and opportunity to go around too. 

Life is not a zero sum game, where one person finding happiness means another can't. It's a lesson I have to find a way to teach to my four-year-old, but it's a lesson we could all stand to brush up on sometimes. I think the world we live in would be a much better place if we all understood, not just knew, but understood, that envy is a pretty destructive emotion.  It only takes and diminishes the person that possesses it. What it does not do is add to the envious, detract from the envied, or make the world "more fair." Of course, as Sam so aptly demonstrated to me last night, envy is a natural and powerful emotion, so this is much easier said than done.

In this season of Thanksgiving, I hope I can take the time to really count my blessings, without buying into the temptation to count my blessings only as they compare to others.  What comes easily to me, may come hard to others, and what I consider impossible (like running), others do with ease (I've heard some people even enjoy it. Mystifying). That may not be "fair" on the face of that one facet of life, but when you look at the overall package, I believe in a loving Heavenly Father who is supremely fair in the end. I believe that our vision is more limited than we even realize, so we would all be better off if we just stopped squinting so hard to read the fine print on other people's lives, and instead, focused on our own story. I also believe that if we could see all the fine print, we probably wouldn't trade lives with someone else we thought was so blessed, if it actually meant taking on their struggles as well. So, that's my goal this week, to count my blessings and not grade them on a curve.

The biggest blessings in my life are my children and my husband. All three (soon to be four) of these amazing people in my life are infinitely special to me. All of them have their own special talents and abilities, that thankfully go well beyond bodily functions (although Sam and Peyton are very talented with tooting and belching, respectively). I'm thankful for my husband, who is a great man and a hands on partner in life--the kind you want with you in the trenches, but also for the long haul. He's also a fabulous dad.  I'm lucky to have the opportunity to work with him every day to raise these great and funny children, and I wouldn't trade my crazy kiddos for anyone else in the world. Not even for a kid who never farted or burped, or one that came potty trained. And that's saying something when you hate diapers as much as I do.

 Happy Thanksgiving everybody!


**Disclaimer: If this third kid actually did show up potty trained, I wouldn't exactly complain. I would be thrilled. Just in case anyone up there with any control over these things reads my blog.

A Veritable Verbal Explosion

Now that Peyton is 20-months old, his language skills have just exploded over the last couple of months. Sam talked early and talked a lot, so it's been a different experience having Peyton take a different path and suddenly after being a pretty quiet guy, he now is a chatterbox. I don't know who, but someone dropped a quarter in this kid and got him started!

One of my favorite Peytonisms is about his blanket. He has a blue crocheted blanket that we got as a gift that he just loves and sleeps with every night and nap. We always called it "Blue Blankie" but a few months ago, Peyton started trying to say it, and his attempts finally evolved and settled into the word "Blee" (a mix of "blue" and "blankie"). So, he wanders around the house asking "Where my blee?" and announcing "Oh! Here my blee!" or "It's my blee!" as if it just returned from war! My personal favorite is when he heard the washing machine running, followed me in to the laundry room, held up his blanket and said "Wash my blee?" (It really did stink that day.) I love that it's his own term and he uses adult phrases combined with toddler speak so sincerely. He also understands when you tell him to do stuff with his "blee." If you tell him, "leave your blee on your bed and come for breakfast," he will drop it in his bed and say "Bye, Blee!" as he heads downstairs. What can I say? The man loves his blee.

But my other favorite skill that has come with Peyton's new found language is that he talks to himself (not unlike his mother). I love overhearing an unexpected pep talk given to himself by a toddler. Just this morning, I was putting on my make up, when I heard the pitter patter of Peyton feet, followed by the thud of a Peyton faceplant into the carpet. Before I could even turn around, he was back on his feet and I heard him say to himself: "Whoa. I fell. Okay, okay..." and then he shook it off and finished coming in the room. There are few things more hilarious than hearing a situation explained in the most basic terms known to man. You can almost see him thinking about it--hmm, something unexpected just happened, lets figure out what it was...all right, I got it, carry on.

And really, isn't that what all of us are doing on some level or another? Trying to piece together what is happening in our own little world based on our own current level of perception? I guess watching Peyton try to master skills I thought I had has taught me that we're all really just going through the same processes. Some of us are past the "blee" stage, but its not really by much in the grand scheme of things.  I'm grateful I have these wonderful little kids around to teach me these lessons, it's much nicer to learn them in the school of peek-a-boo than the school of hard knocks.