winter cleaning

Today I am cleaning out my closet. Goodbye elongated maternity shirts. Goodbye elastic banded pants. Farewell big bellied dresses.

Hello old clothes. How I missed them, piled high on the top shelf of the nursery closet. I missed my jeans and my cute sweaters. The husband missed his favorite top.

This may seem horribly materialistic and not at all inspiring - I haven't even started exercising yet, so there was no real struggle to reclaim some semblance of my earlier figure - but by golly, the husband lifted me up in the air the other night. It's little things like this that make sleep deprivation and sore breasts worth it.

Not including the reason that they exist in the first place. Helloooo baby!

and then there were three

Walter Theodore Olmstead joined our family Sunday morning at 3:47 after 30 (never-ending, totally worth it) hours of people telling me to breath and the husband proving how all-star he is at back rubbing. Sorry for the delay in this announcement, but I've been a bit busy. There was also a catastrophic epidural that ended with five holes in my back the size of number 2 pencils. I can't see them, so we'll have to take the husband's word. There were other things that went wrong, and if you want to hear about how I developed separation anxiety within 5 minutes of my child's life, just ask. Otherwise, back to the positive.

He is the new great love of our life. And if you've read The Baby Whisperer, then you know how awesome it is when I say that he's an angel baby. Which just makes him easier to love.

In fact, I love him so much, I call him Stud.

In the last week, he has developed a pacifier addiction, applied for Future Thumbsuckers of America, dirtied every long-sleeved onesie in his closet, peed on his face, developed an appreciation for Bach's cello concertos, and punched the husband in the nose.

We couldn't be prouder.