Halloween, late.

We bid the flu farewell just in time to engage in some serious Halloween-ness. Wonderboy observed that it was "like one party after another without any break! And completely awesome!!" It was, too. But what mom takes a grand total of 4 photos on Halloween (one of those being of the dog)?? Me. So here they are. All four of them.

I had a train conductor, who tragically lost his conductor's hat, a garden fairy (minus her wings), and shark reprisal!

(The whole trick-or-treating posse)

And the aforementioned dog. Tortured cruelly in a lady bug costume.

What the CDC didn't tell us about h1n1

That you will pity your poor, sick child so intensely, and want so desperately to cheer her up when she's feeling absolutely, horribly awful, you'll do something that at any other time would make you shudder with distaste. Would make you break out in a ferocious and unsightly rash. Would make your stomach roll with queasiness.

And what is this most horrible, horrible thing, you might ask? Well, I'll tell you. Brace yourself.

You will buy your sad, sad five year old a dreadful polyester sweater(?) constructed entirely out of a dead muppet, that you are surely allergic to, all because of her sad, drippy, feverish blue eyes. I am at once ashamed and confused, but there it is.


Let's hope she's fully recovered soon. I clearly cannot trust myself to act sanely right now. The upside of this is if I cannot finish her Halloween costume in between caring for sick kids, she can always go as Abby Cadabby.

Our fall tradition

A trip to a pumpkin patch and/or orchard has been part of our autumn adventure line-up since Wonderboy was a wee little 5 month old. We love it. The kids LOVE it. So the pressure was on to find ourselves a new patch/orchard to visit here in Illinois, that would compare to our favorite Kansas haunts. We bundled up (winter has apparently arrived around here?), and found pumpkins, picked apples, discovered a cider mill (and filled our bellies with cider doughnuts!), and visited a handful of farm animals as well. The farm was under the vigilant care of a bloodhound named Beau, who didn't hold still enough for a photo, because bloodhounding, as it turns out, is a full-time job requiring a lot of running about and sniffing out doughnut crumbs.

Just itchin' to pick some pumpkins.

Some serious pumpkin-pickin'-strategizing going on in his head.

Official apple samper

Just the anticipation of a cider doughnut fills his little heart with glee.

He seems to be enjoying his doughnut quite a lot, no?

Ted.

Hissy & Fit

???

Three of the cutest pumpkins ever? Yup.

Daisy. 20.00 hours.

Status: Useful

A Conversation

After proving particularly courageous at the pediatrician's office this morning, having submitted, tear-free, to a vaccination in each leg, Bubs chose a cookie and drink at Whole Foods to reward himself. (And, well, I rewarded myself with a drink as well, Izze lime to be exact, for no particular reason, but that's neither here nor there.) After enjoying his own drink for a moment, he checked to see if I was watching and then veeerrrrryyyy slowly slid his little hand over to grasp my bottle and then whisked it to his mouth for a huge swig.

Me: I think maybe you're sneaky.

Bubs: Mommy, I not sneaky... I Finn.

daisy. 13.00 hours.

status: sleepy.

Morning on the riverwalk

When we had just two children, I smugly thought I'd figured out this business of parenting, at least parenting in the early years. But then number three came along. At 39 weeks pregnant, I found myself going into (false) labor on a daily basis, usually in the early morning hours, say, 2 or 3:00 a.m., only to feel contractions fade away after a couple of hours. After a week of false starts, and compounding exhaustion from the sleepless nights, I'd begun to imagine pleading conversations with my unborn baby where I begged him to end the nightmare that had become my frustrating and emotional wait. I walked around more than 5 cm dilated, for a week folks. Five centimeters! Some women labor for HOURS to reach that point. At the end of that week, after a four hour stretch of wishy-washy contractions that petered out at about five in the morning, I was so utterly exhausted and so emotionally drained I broke down in an ugly torrent of tears, at which point my mom (who was staying to help) wisely suggested calling my midwife. (Duh! Why didn't I think of that?) My midwife broke my water and in 27 seconds I was holding my third born.

Why am I giving the sordid particulars of his birth?? Well, because those final days of my pregnancy were warning bells. Clanging, shrill warning bells that were trying to send my sleep-deprived, addled brain a ward of caution: THIS STRONG-WILLED CHILD WILL TAKE ALL YOU THOUGHT YOU KNEW AND TURN IT ON IT'S HEAD - Just so you know.

I'm still figuring him out, almost three years later, but one thing I know for sure:

The boy loves to be outdoors. (cue booming, decisive voice here)

He's willful and mischievous, his mood swings are bewildering, and he will not be made to do anything he doesn't want to do, but it all changes outdoors. So, (I'm getting to the point now) I took him to the riverwalk this morning and he was in heaven, and, consequently, so was I. He led the way, and I spent the morning trying to keep up, while he called back to me "Coming, mommy?"