Baby Bliss

I'm officially not accepting calls on Tuesday nights anymore. Not since I discovered "One Born Every Minute," a Lifetime reality show documenting real labors and deliveries at Riverside Methodist Hospital. Cleverly, Lifetime installed 40 ceiling-mounted cameras in the labor and delivery ward. Each camera has the ability to rotate 360 degrees, giving viewers a first-row seat for each of these miracle deliveries.

I love this show.

It doesn't help that it premiered on the heels of a weekend spent watching "Father of the Bride I" and "Father of the Bride II." And then "Father of the Bride II," again. Or that after watching "Father of the Bride II" the first time, I gushed all over Mr. Starlet that I want to have more children. Four, to be exact. Better yet, twins the next time! Or that after watching the first episode of "One Born Every Minute," I gave Mr. Starlet a play-by-play review and asked him to watch the second episode with me. Right now.

My ovaries are aching, especially since I realized that Punk was Poopalina's age when the stork surprised us. Again.

It also doesn't help that Punk will soon turn 2. I remember when we dressed her to bring her home from the hospital and she practically drowned in her Newborn-sized outfit. Now she's clunking around in my shoes, slinging purses over her shoulder, and asking to wear Mommy's sunglasses.

It hurts. It's wonderful and unforgettable and a wouldn't-trade-a-single minute kind of perfect. But it's going too quickly, and only getting faster.

Sigh.

My Favorite Genes

Right now, my jeans and I are playing tug-of-war over my hips. I could blame Poopalina. But the reality is that I'm genetically predisposed to a chocolate addiction. Read, I'm genetically predisposed to wearing my chocolate addiction. On my hips, thighs, stomach, and...well, everywhere. It's just fluff. A little extra padding. More to love, right?

And as I find myself in the kitchen more and more, baking fresh bread or losing sleep over absolutely perfect pear tortes, this fluff seems to be settling in for the long haul. Or at least until I actually start jogging with our jogging stroller.

Which reminds me, I'm genetically predisposed to an exercise allergy. It's true. Terrible, terrible reactions.

Mr. Starlet and I long ago came to the conclusion that genetically, we're complete opposites. And while I could mourn the fact that pigs will fly before skinny jeans grace these thighs, I have to admit that I love the genes I'm sporting.

For starters, my great grandmother is alive, well, and, at times, still a bit feisty. Life has slowed her down some, but her social calendar is more full than mine. She owns the land upon which she still lives. She has survived breast cancer. She has survived the loss of her husband and best friend. She never apologizes and doesn't eat sweets. Although she enjoys drinking them.

She has aged stubbornly, if not gracefully, and it was only in the past couple of years that my grandfather convinced her to use a walker--after much cajoling, a few falls, and several loving threats.

While I wouldn't define her as the matriarch of our family, she is certainly an example of our genetic potential.

Mr. Starlet's on the other hand...Let's just say that there are worse things than fluff. And that's why we have life insurance.

If my hips are to be my greatest ill, I am blessed. If I go before Mr. Starlet, I hope my hips fit the chocolate-lined coffin I'm sure he's going to select. And if Mr. Starlet goes before I do, more cake for me.

It's not like I share much anyway.

Because

Because two days after my last entry, I found out I was pregnant.

Because five seconds later, Mr. Starlet and I were hanging our heads over the toilet (albeit for slightly different reasons).

Because we didn’t know how easy we had it when Punk couldn’t walk or talk.

Because now that she can, we can’t sit or think.

Because our newest tried to make her debut several months early.

Then several days early.

Because when she finally did, I fell head-over-heels in love.

Because three minutes later she earned the nickname, “Poopalina.”

Because Punk now knows how to unlock doors.

And color on the walls.

And bite.

And throw world-class tantrums.

And delights us with her dancing.

And singing.

And contagious laugh.

Because Poopalina developed colic five days after help left.

And food allergies.

And a penchant for refusing to sleep. At all.

And stops our breath with a single smile.

And coo.

And giggle.

And because we’re enjoying every I’m-too-tired-to--see-straight-anymore moment, I’ve not updated this blog in nearly a year.