The other night, Mikko said he had to go get a drink of water. (This is a bedtime stalling tactic that is so universal it has become cliché. How did Mikko pick up on it?) We said, Sure, and let him roam out of the bedroom. We heard him call to us from the sink: "Which one is cold, on the right or on the left?"
"The right," Sam called back, and we waited expectantly through the pause.
Little voice calling from the hallway: "Which one is the right?" Yeah, thought so.
My current view in the mirror.
My stretch marks have angry red dots at the top (which you can't see so well in this picture — I didn't do any retouching, but I put the photo through a filter that washed it out a bit), where the skin is stretching again — and further this time. I was wondering if I'd get new stretchmarks or expand the ones I've got, and now I've got half my answer. We'll see what transpires in the next few weeks. My one concern? That they will zip all the way up to my armpits.
I've been having those vivid pregnancy dreams. My mom still likes to recount her own. I wonder if they're more vivid than usual, or if we just wake up more than usual in the third trimester so get to remember them.
I had a dream that my baby was born unassisted at home but premature, brown, and flat as a pancake, weighing about a pound, with small dark eyes on the front of his squished face. I wasn't concerned. Because his mouth (it was a he, despite not having any genitalia) was too small to suck, I squirted breastmilk over his face so some would drip into his mouth and then debated taking him to a doctor or not. Yes, debated. And decided against it.
Later on, the sweetness of the breastmilk attracted flies, and I felt bad.
Oh, and then he was stolen from me and put out for adoption. That sucked. Then again, I hadn't really proved my mothering credentials, huh?
Speaking of waking up a lot in the third trimester, do you think it's trying to jar you into a life of catnaps? Because you always get that advice to "sleep when the baby sleeps," but it's hard to follow if you're used to being up all day and then getting a straight eight or so hours at night.
I'm a total catnapper now.
Mikko's favorite new show is Busytown Mysteries, a Richard Scarry spinoff, starring Huckle the Cat.
Only, he pronounces the "H" in Huckle as an "F." And enthusiastically. Despite all our pleas for enunciation.
Talking with a three-year-old is like talking with an opium addict. He'll just turn to us and say, "The race starts, 10 seconds after we sleep. But you have to be 3 years tall." Ok. "We should go see our friend," he'll continue, "and bring her a shirt." A shirt? I say. "A remote control shirt! With a robot! And a submarine!"
The other day he told me, "We can't build this [a marble run] until it's sleepy time. It sees into your head." And then he changed gears entirely. "Let's get some baby clothes. With sprinkles on them. It's a ballet dress! For the baby!"
All right, I'm off to garden while the sun's still shining.