how to pretend to clean

Today is the day for cleaning. Every Saturday I get out of bed and begin a mass rejuvenation of our home in an effort to be ready for Sunday. This typically means running a few loads of laundry through, making sure the dishwasher is empty, and straightening up. We are clean people in the base case.

Today was not a typical Saturday. Today I learned how to look like I'm trying out for the spot of Organizer lady on Clean House, but really just cuddle the whole time. Walter teaches me things everyday.

Every time I tried to clean, Walter would make this frustrated noise and shoot me a look. His message was loud and clear: "Mom! For heaven's sake, why must you be so OCD?!" Like father, like son.

So instead of pristine and ready for the Sabbath, my table is covered in mail and empty rice cereal bottles. Peter Pan is on the floor under a walker covered in toys. A packet of typewriter paper (where did that come from?) is next to a miniature globe.

Today was a fabulous day.

let's hear it for new routines

This morning, while JL snored very lightly in my ear, I rolled, rather ungracefully, out of bed to go for a jog. Because I'm running a 5K with my sweet sister on April 24. (What happens to be a busy day, belonging to my dear friend Ali and my sweetly psychotic brother-in-law, Lincoln.) For awhile I would jog at 7 PM, during Walter's bath. I loved coming home to a happy clean baby and laughing husband. Baths are always cause for a good dose of joy in this house. Unfortunately, JL's schedule has been a bit hectic recently and jogs have not happened. Provo is scary past 9 PM for the ladies. I blame Provo for not exercising.

...You read me.

Back on point. I left the house with Walter happily chatting away to himself in his swing, assured that he would go back to sleep as he does every morning as soon as I stopped banging around the kitchen and got out the door. Thirty-five minutes later I came huffing and puffing through the door. Apparently little had changed. JL was just getting out of bed and Walter was still happily chatting away, as I quickly learned, to the animals on his swaddling blanket, which he had maneuvered over his head. Per usual.

I was elated. My husband was happy, my baby was laughing, and I had already gotten in my morning work out. To boot, the early morning looked like New Jersey, so it was a little bit of home in the sky. What else could a girl ask for?

gee whiz kid.

So...about two weeks ago Walter started spitting up after every meal. Sad day. Every piece of clothing was victim to his explosive baby vomit. It was a great mystery easily solved. Like his cousin, my little man had food allergies. But what exactly? Five loads of laundry later, I am happy to tell you we've got it all figured out.

Lactose and soy intolerance.

Put two and one together and we are a gluten, lactose, and soy-free household these days. And by household, I mean baby and me.

I cried. A lot. For three days. I was horribly depressed. I called my father for positive words of encouragement. His words? Eat food. Food is good. ...Thanks Dad. (In his defense, I called 24 hours before my mom went into surgery, although minor. I'm giving it to him. I promise he's not emotionally and intellectually inept.) I got really upset and said mean, nasty things to the husband. The husband went to In & Out and brought me back a protein style burger with no onions and a Dr. Pepper. Talk about love.

I'm sort of calm now. And in desperate need of recipes that don't use wheat, barley, rye, dairy, or soy ingredients. Help? Please???

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.

the verdict is in

It's okay folks. You don't need to break the news to me. My mother very kindly told me this afternoon that my new favorite song did, in fact, sound too dirty to like.

Things have taken an energetic downturn in the Olmstead household this week due to the husband's timely case of H1N1. He has been a very sick man. A very sick man who is mysteriously around all the time. I've been a little weirded out by his constant presence as I attempt to keep my routine, but he fixed that problem by getting me sick with some kind of throat thing. So now I just don't have the energy to care.

I do not do sick well.

gently people

This morning I was reading on c jane's Guide to Provo blog - a personal favorite quick stop that has led to the most important discovery in my husband's eating life: the Rice King - and I was reminded that Down East Outfitters is Provo based. This got me to clicking. Oh, how I love to click out of curiosity!

And in all of this clicking, it dawned on me, does the rest of the world not have Down East Basics in their malls? Have I truly taken for granted the cute, modest, affordable clothing store with three locations all within reach of me? You know, the only woman's clothing store that my husband doesn't complain about going into with me. Not that I am a big clothing purchaser, but I am a huge window shopper and nothing makes me more happy than perusing a store with a happy husband in tow pointing out all of the things he thinks would emphasize my attractiveness, so the idea that not all women of the world enjoy this cheap date night made me suddenly very sad. (The twenty pounds of helloooo baby tell me I am allowed spontaneous emotions for the next three weeks.)

Why is this not a national epidemic? Or is it? Am I overreacting? If I am, tell me gently. (Remember, helloooo baby.)




P.S. Also, is it wrong that I've developed an unexplainable love for Ciara's Love Sex Magic, regardless of the husband saying "Dirrrrrty" everytime he hears it?