At least we'll be nourished

That 99 cent per pound chicken was no joke. 
But there had to be a catch.  The catch was it was "split breast with rib."  But that also meant that the poor unhealthily-raised and mercilessly factory-murdered Tyson chicken was ever-so-slightly closer to it's original natural state, and that made me feel a little better for not caring about the first part (unhealthily-raised-murdered etc).  I'm quite happy to pull off a little skin when it gets me meat at dollar menu prices. 

But the awesome price also meant it wasn't even worth the effort of getting out a cutting board and separating the chicken breast from it's ribsI threw about two pounds of chicken into the crock pot with two cups of vegetable broth.  In a few hours I was dismantling that juicy goodness with ease - seriously easy - there was a ton of meat and just a few ribs! - and had a lovely pile of chicken breast.  Half of the batch went into a rather concentrated base for chicken soup to be frozen, and the other half went into a giant bubbling cauldron of taco soup. 

I froze three quart bags of "chicken soup" (copious amounts of chicken with a thicker broth base with carrots, onions, and spices, with each bag duly labeled "Add broth and noodles/rice!"), three quart bags of taco soup, and four quart bags of homemade refried beans.  These were added to an already frozen food stash including 2 quarts worth of taco meat with black beans, three meat loaves, a buffalo chicken dip, and a few bags of Johnny Marzetti that I actually am going to give away because we can't eat the whole wheat noodles in it anymore. 

There were shadier items found in the recesses of our basement freezer... some Onam 2010 avial, which may or may not be edible.  Virgin chocolate ice cream from the "oh my goodness Saby go get ice cream!" panic that took place about 10 minutes before Elena's 2nd birthday party.  (note:  she's now well past three)  Lots of frozen hot dog buns - why?  Some of that awesome Sam's Club frozen salmon - score!  And a few shady batches of old meatloaf that I'm currently slacking out in the fridge upstairs, in order to sniff and see whether they'd make a passable soup meat...

I thought I was way the hell behind in every form of preparation, but maybe it's not so bad.  We'll at least have some food. 

34 Weeks

Greetings, greetings, from 33 weeks and 7 days worth of baby George-ness.

The clock is ticking, people!  At 30 weeks, it was all novelty.  It was the beginning of the "hey stranger, you're really really pregnant aren't you?" stage so it was pretty novel and fun to do things like pick up and go to Florida or leave the kid for a weekend and take Dada on a whirlwind tour of Kentucky's Bourbon Trail.  Sure, there needed to be a body pillow involved, plus continuous guaranteed bathroom access, but poo... 10 weeks to go?  Party time!  Excellent!

But now, with 34 weeks just a day away, let me quote from that fine Pixar film, Monsters Inc., and say that:

"now is the time to PANIC!"

34 weeks.  34 weeks means 6 weeks til baby's due date.  Six weeks.  42 days.  

(Yes.  I realize that the due date is an estimate.  Baby will come when baby is ready, especially considering baby came into being rather unexpectedly anyway.  I've had friends go to upwards of 43 weeks in their pregnancies, all resulting in healthy bouncing babes.  My panic may look pretty silly six weeks from now when I start 2+ weeks of uncomfortable waiting, praying to not have a Christmas baby.  Baby could also come a few days early [see: baby came into being rather unexpectedly] as well, since we don't know exactly what was going on in my lady parts at the time of, err... the stork's deposit.  I've had other friends pop kids out a month, two weeks, three weeks early.  But w.t.f. does it matter what your friends have done, you ask?  Ha! Good question.  The only experience that really should matter is my own.  My prior pregnancy was due on July 20th and boom - July 22nd evening, we had a kid.  So going by the 100% success rate we've had before [and ignoring that oft stated adage that "each pregnancy is different"] I'm saying that between December 5th [2nd in a pinch] and 8th, we will pop this kid out.  But preferably the 6th, because that's a Tuesday and Tuesdays are nice.)

I wouldn't be in such a panic if it weren't for our super mega awesome track record of getting things done, as correlated to the amount of things needing to get done.  As we neared "100 days til baby's due" I aspired to write a 100 point list of things we would/should/wanted to get done or do before the little bugger's arrival.  That list topped about 34 items at it's peak, and I think we've checked about 7 off to date.  Each weekend comes with great fanfare and enthusiasm and ends with, typically, guilty high fives all around for the completion of?   The most awesome-est naps evah.  Some epic cooking and eating binge.  A successful fantasy football week.  *sigh*

Meanwhile, midwife-wise we're up to the point of having check ups every two weeks versus every month, which adds another sense of urgency and finality.  We need to re-tour the hospital (planned with friends who are also expecting, because after touring four bourbon distilleries with them last weekend, we just cannot imagine doing it any differently), investigate whether there's a "refresher" course for the birth center (because birthing classes are fun, if just for the conversation fodder later, i.e. "can you believe the valley girl accent on that Mennonite chick?" and "did that one couple really not know what a fundus is?!"), and then do logistical things varying in importance like HOLY SHIT GET THE FREAKING BABY'S ROOM FINISHED and, ahem, rather more calmly, settle on a revised car seat layout in the car.  

But we're not entirely unprepared.  The bouncy seats have been moved to the furnished part of the basement, as phase one of their three-step reintroduction to full functionality.  (much like immigrants arriving at Ellis Island, they must first be quarantined to make sure that are free of any diseases or bugs acquired in the musky, cobwebby third world, er... unfinished basement.)  There are three meatloaves in the freezer.  I have been sitting in straight backed chairs and doing pelvic tilts in order to encourage this burgeoning baby to flip into anterior position, versus the jolting posterior position that it appears to have taken.  We are researching flights so that my mother can come and do her thang to help out in early December - namely fold endless piles of laundry and spread peanut butter on apples for Elena.  (just her mere presence will guarantee that Elena does not play with matches or run with sharp sticks and therefore be a huge help)   

Chicken is $0.99 a pound at Kroger this week, too... I think we'll give that frozen meatloaf some company.

We're all a little busy

Hey kids, long time!  I've been busy.  Busy pretending I wasn't pregnant, first of all - did it work?

Baby's been "around" since April, coincidentally discovered via positive pregnancy test on our penultimate day of babysitting the E-mac.  (bye E-mac!  We miss you!  I still occasionally panic thinking I've forgotten there's another child in the house!)  April was then spent training (Move2Lose), discovering my pregnancy-induced gluten intolerance, sleeping, and freezing. (either the initial stages of pregnancy or the gluten intolerance made me completely unable to regular my body temperature.  I became, essentially, a cold-blooded animal.  I now understand why lizards and snakes are so pissy.)

The whole pregnant thing was a bit of a surprise, really.

Why pretend not to be pregnant?    Well it's not any huge secret that I think baby making is none of your damn business.  My least favorite question to be asked is probably, "Are you guys trying?"  Are we WHAT? WHAT?!?  You mean, are we having unprotected sex?  Really?  Want to come watch sometime, since you're so curious?  Shall I give you a play by play?  Shall I start texting you pictures of my bowel movements too? 

Let it hereby be known that as far as you're concerned, we don't do that... and you're a dirty dirty thing for even implying it.   Our babies are miraculous little things deposited by a stork into my belly button or originating from spider bites that swell up all crazy-like.

We flew through the first trimester on stealth mode, telling just a few people because an unplanned baby is different from a planned baby, much like a second baby is different from a first.  We wondered if something might happen early on.  (hey, I'm getting older... it happens)  We were still getting over the surprise.  We were, honestly, a little nonplussed.  Is that horrible to say?  Naw.  We certainly love this baby, but it is just different the second time around because it's all been done before.

Plus... and here's where I'd like to remind you that I'm an opinionated, judgmental beyotch:  I am not a fan of folks over-publicizing a pregnancy, especially early on.  Give baby a little privacy, please.  Positive pregnancy test picture on Facebook?  No.  Big public to-do of announcing at six weeks?  No.  My philosophy has always been that I'm not the first person to ever be pregnant, nor will I be the last.  There are plenty of people who don't care.  There are also plenty of people who care so very much, because of a past loss or losses, and just don't want to hear your premature celebration.  And there are so many stories of late breaking bad news [the cousin whose newborn lived two days... the miscarriage at five months... the unexpected fetal silence prior to delivery] that I just feel like the longer you wait, the safer things may be.  It's part superstition, part past observation, part self-soothing justification.  And also, though I absolutely LOOOOVE being pregnant (and being a mother), it's not what I want to be my number one defining feature.

So... we kept quiet.  Until Elena in her Big Sister shirt showed up tagged on Saby's Facebook.  And our genius (actual genius - no sarcasm there) friend commented, "Big sister to who?"  So it's out, and then we do all the catch-up work of calling close friends in far away places to apologize for not telling them personally.  And my boobs are telling their own story by just getting bigger, and bigger, and bigger...

So anyway, the whole point is, I've been a little busy.  But the hope is to start updating this thing more often.  I've spent the morning reading through old posts, back when the E-unit was still just Spampy, and I realize I am actually pretty funny and moderately interesting.  Or there's always the old fashioned "it's for posterity" thing...

So if you're new to Spampylandia, realize this is a blog dedicated to whatever I please:  part pregnancy, part motherhood, part "things I can't bring myself to say on Facebook" (that's also the purpose of my much neglected Twitter account), and a whole lotta random crap that really defies the point of putting buttons or tags to any of this garbage.  Occasionally there will be links to my India blog, Caroline in Kerala!  That's fun... go read that one too.  If you have time.  Cuz I know we're all busy with one thing or another.

"Michael... a 5K is five KILOMETERS, not five-thousand miles!"

On Saturday, May 14th, I "ran" my first 5K race with my buddy Loreen.  It served as an unofficial capstone to our 12 weeks in the YMCA's Move2Lose program, during which neither of us lost much weight... but we did move quite a bit.

We ran ran ran... then walked a bit.  Then ran ran ran... and walked some more.  And finally... ran ran ran ran [then I dropped my phone agk!] and ran ran ran [pant] [pant] until we crossed the finish line.  Loreen totally could have taken off without me, but she stayed by my side.  Awwwww.  Thanks Loreen!! 

It was good fun, and I am finally beginning to understand that vague concept of "runners high."  There's another 5K at George Rogers Clark Park on May 22nd, and I think I might run that one too.  Yum yum, this sort of torture is fun!

Dude

Arrggghhh!  This is much more of a Twitter or Facebook sort of post, but I just have to write it:

WHYYYY do these poor bitches on A Baby Story go to the hospital when they're 2 cm dilated and then do nothing but lay in a bed and expect to progress miraculously? 
Walk around!  Do some squats!  Sit on an exercise ball!
DON'T EVEN BOTHER GOING TO THE HOSPITAL UNTIL YOUR CONTRACTIONS ARE CLOSER TOGETHER!
Jeeze Louise.  

I realize TV doesn't realistically portray the passage of time, but if someone told me to lay in a bed for 4, 6, or 8+ hours (under any circumstances!) I would not be game. 

You can be put on bedrest in an effort to completely STOP labor and preserve a pregnancy.  Why would the same technique help you to HAVE a baby?

Instead of just laying there you should read up on how fun the recovery from a c-section is. 

May is Celiac Awareness Month!

Hey folks!
May is Celiac Awareness Month!  Which is really, really, ironic... because I suddenly seem to be gluten-intolerant.

What the what?  Yeah, I asked the same thing.

In early April I began noticing that I'd have brutal cramping and bloating around midday and then again in the evenings.  It was gross!  It felt like my prior gall bladder issues... an entirely pointless, radiating crunchy, burning pain under and around my ribs that nearly nothing but time would subdue.  Since my gall bladder has been biowaste for nearly two and a half years, I knew it couldn't be that anymore.  So what's the deal?

It took a bit of sleuthing (and a few nights of going to bed at 7pm to lay there moaning until 9) to figure out that this pain most certainly was eating related;  then came the fun of narrowing it down to either dairy or bread.  After a particularly brutal run in with some delicious Donato's pizza followed by a very pleasant experience with frozen custard, the offender was confirmed:  BREAD.  And bread means... *shudder*  GLUTEN.

*unless it's yeast.  something in my brain still hopes it's just yeast.  is that even a thing?*

Cheerios make me burp.  Bread makes me die.  Pizza... well, we won't even talk about that.  Even just eating the delicious crispy crusts from a homemade PBJ left abandoned by Elena sent me into a food coma not unlike coming out of full anesthesia. I've gotten no official testing done, and my self-diagnoses is backed up simply by agreement from a friend who has serious Celiac disease and seems to know her stuff. 

What is Celiac Disease?
Excerpted with permission from author Jules E. Dowler Shepard, from The First Year: Celiac Disease and Living Gluten Free (DaCapo Press 2008).  [and yanked from http://www.1in133.org/info/]

One in 133 Americans has Celiac disease (also known as celiac sprue, coeliac disease, non-tropical sprue or gluten sensitive enteropathy), a chronic and permanent sensitivity to the food protein gluten, found in the grains wheat, barley and rye.  Developing the disease requires three things: a genetic predisposition; exposure to gluten through digestion; and a trigger to start this atypical immune system response.  It can occur in people of all ages once exposed to gluten, and is the most common genetic disorder in North America and Europe, although it is found in populations all over the world.

….[C]eliac disease (CD) is classified as an auto-immune disease, which simply means that the body attacks itself in an inappropriate immune system reaction. In CD, the reaction is caused specifically by exposure to gliadin, a protein of the food molecule gluten found in wheat, barley and rye …

Gluten intolerance is another condition that requires adherence to a gluten-free diet but does not rise to the level of an autoimmune disease. Food intolerances occur when the body is incapable of metabolizing certain foods, typically because it lacks certain enzymes necessary to break down particular food components. Those with gluten intolerance often have the same overt symptoms as those with CD, but they test negative for celiac disease by bloodwork and endoscopy. They learn through trial and error that gluten is the culprit for their uncomfortable symptoms, and once they adopt a gluten-free diet, live an otherwise normal healthy life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Per my celiac friend, symptoms can range from "owwie tummy" to headaches and brain fog.  I've also read diarrhea, bloating, and gas... and then in severe cases of actual celiac disease, anemia and signs of malnourishment like brittle bones and infertility. 

My sister was diagnosed at a very young age with a wheat allergy.  In 1967, my poor parents (poor in the sense of struggling economically AND young and clueless- not a good combination) had few options beyond rice cereal and bananas.  She's (TMI alert) always been prone to yeast infections.  She's slightly anemic, and often in a bit of a fog.  Her allergy to wheat seemed to go away once she grew older, but smacks of the "genetic disposition" mentioned above.  Flash back two generations to my great grandmother, who suffered horribly throughout the last years of her life due to gall bladder and other stomach issues that sound awfully gluten-related nowadays.  Now flash forward (what is this, an Old Spice commercial?!?) to her daughter, my grandmother, who alternates between being lactose intolerant and... who knows... but her gall bladder was also removed, yet she still has digestion issues.  Then her daughter, my aunt, was told her IBS would be with her for life and she should simply watch what she eats.

One in one-hundred and thirty-three Americans has Celiac disease, and 18 million are gluten-intolerant.  That's 7% of the population.  (thanks, Sasha Cagen for that info) 

I wonder how many still don't know it?

Today the "Gluten-Free" market is exploding with options for replacement foods that otherwise might be just a fond memory for celiacs and folks with allergies.  Waffles, bread, cookies, gluten-free oatmeal... even sauces and such that have hidden wheat can now be found in gluten-free versions.  I've gorged myself every morning for a week now on the delightful gluten-free-ness of Van's Waffles (topped with two eggs! - a girl's got to eat!) and discovered via trial and error that chocolate milk is bad, but strawberry milk is good.  We went to a Thai restaurant last Friday, which was awesome on so many different levels, but mainly because I ate three courses and had nary an issue thanks to the rice- and coconut-based goodness of the cuisine.  The shift towards eating gluten-free has not been difficult thanks to the availability of substitutions and our own non-traditional dietary preferences;  south Indian, Thai and Mexican can get you very far with the prominence of rice, corn and alternate flours like chickpea and rice.  Yay! 

Being a natural skeptic and cynic (read: judgmental bitch), I'm typically not a fan of "Awareness" months that range too far from things like "bacon" or "the usefulness of smoke detectors."  But considering that 7% of the population is, in the best case, not feeling their best, and in the worst case, being slowly poisoned to death by what they're eating, this is a month I can actually get behind.  I don't know for sure if I'm going to become an official member of the 7% yet, but the exposure, genetic disposition, and stressor (sudden, vigorous exercise?) all seem to align perfectly for a Mayan Armageddon in my tummy.

But it certainly beats lactose intolerance!

I Take It Back

Alright, I take it back:  f*ck you, TLC.
Now I'm watching one certain A Baby Story where a well-meaning first time mother wants a natural birth after a loss at about three months.
She starts out laboring fine.  She doesn't progress terribly well - from 6 cm to 6.5cm over a decent spell of time.  Midwife breaks her water - finds it has meconium in it, so warns the nice momma about how the baby needs to be checked right away after it comes out to make sure it hasn't breathed it's own poo into it's lungs.  She checks her progress 4 more times in the span of a 30 minute show, with the momma wincing horribly each time.  Midwife notes that momma is tired and should probably have an epidural at this point, to which the momma agrees, and then the midwife is featured going off to the nurse saying, "She got it.  She's feeling much more comfortable... as always."  (Hey moms-to-be!  Your efforts towards an unmedicated birth are noble, but stupid!  Look how comfortable this woman is now that she's had the needle stuck in her spine!)  Midwife checks the momma's progress again as she remains stuck in the bed, unable to move because of all the monitors, and says that the baby is "molding" - meaning it's trying to come down with each contraction, but it's starting to smush the cervix in a way that suggests it's head is just too big to get out.  (Wow, I molded too... my cervix had a little lip that was in the baby's way.  Did they send me for a caesarian?  No, they had me stand up and rock back and forth so the baby's head rubbed that obstruction down to nothing.) The midwife tells her it's time to really consider having the baby surgically removed, and the mother breaks down.  She doesn't want to be cut, she doesn't want a scar, she doesn't want more anesthesia, she doesn't want both herself and her baby to have to recover during the first few days of their relationship.

Bring in the doctor.  Doctor comes in and checks her progress - AGAIN, agk! - and says that the baby is actually further down than that (c-u-next-tuesday of a) midwife had described, and "why don't you try a few trial pushes?"  She does once, or twice... then the doctor says since momma is so tired, why don't they use forceps to pull the baby out?  Momma barely whispers, desperate, "please... please don't do that unless it's absolutely necessary," and the doctor says, "we'll see."  Baby begins to crown and you see some blood down at momma's business end.  Momma looks down through a push and says, in a panicked whisper, "are you going to cut me?!?"  Doctor looks up.  She continues, "please, just let me tear.  Don't. Cut. Me."  Again, the doctor replies, vaguely, almost smugly, "...we'll see." 

 She pushes one last time and the baby is born - a beautiful pink little girl, 7 lbs 2 oz.  Her head is a little long and Mayan-looking from being in the birth canal so long, but otherwise she is a beautiful perfect little thing, with fluffy, gorgeous brown hair.

I don't know if this was supposed to be a sort of "buyer beware" episode, or just one of those "look at alllll the things that can go wrong", but they've taken that nice vibe I wrote about yesterday and just murdered it.

Every intervention puts you further downhill from your goal of a natural birth. 

Bravo, TLC!

When I was pregnant with the E-unit, I watched a lot of "A Baby Story" and would record bits of the show mostly, after reading some Ina May Gaskin, to show my dear husband exactly how I did NOT want to deliver our baby.  I didn't want the legs-up-in-the-air, brutal nurse yelling at me to push, squirt-poop-pow-baby sort of delivery that was most often shown.  Occasionally I'd see a lady sitting in her bathtub in a sports bra concentrate, give a moan, and then scoop a little wrinkly raisin baby out of the water; that's what I wanted. 

(fast forward to July 22nd, 2008 and I did enjoy the bathtub and sports bra situation for a good 90 minutes, but finally did end up with a less-ideal birth, albeit naturally and overall happily because I did not blow out my bottom.)

Now we're no longer babysitting the E-mac in the mornings but I enjoy my up-at-6:30am routine way too much to give it up.  After BBC World News is over there's not much to watch if you're not a fan of Grahame Norton (I am not), so I usually flip over to TLC for some Bringing Home Baby and Baby Story fun.  (And it IS good fun, especially with nearly three years separating yourself from the whole experience of either bringing home a baby or your baby story!) 

Lo and behold, in two weeks I've noticed a slight change in the births and mothers shown on these shows. 

Yesterday I saw a overweight black woman refuse an epidural and then not only desire to, but be ALLOWED to, deliver her high-risk twins vaginally.  VAGINALLY.      TWINS.  In a HOSPITAL.  Hell, in an operating room, to be precise.  (They weren't taking any chances.  A hospital not taking any chances usually results in the mom being induced and the twins coming via C-section.)  It was pretty brutal - her legs were strapped up to stadium-style uprights at the end of her gurney, meaning she was flat on her back, but she delivered almost 11 pounds of baby girl with barely any complaint.  She was a GODDESSS.  What's more, the hospital was pretty fab for allowing her to do that.  Then?  She went home and breast fed them.  Refused (but not irrationally - they were doing fine on breast only) to supplement.  I don't know exactly how to portray how amazing this seemed to me. 

Then today a lady delivered twins via c-section and breast fed them exclusively on Bringing Home Baby.  They were supplementing occasionally but she was uncomfortable with the idea, and what did they do?  BROUGHT IN A LACTATION CONSULTANT.  Did she tell them to give up, she was too exhausted to have a good supply and might be starving her babies?  Nope, she told her to pump at least 20 minutes a day, especially whenever the babies are taking bottles... and then the consultant zoomed into her own bubble and addressed the viewers directly, giving three tips for increasing breast milk production and to make feeding easier. 

HOLY SHIT!  Breast feeding is cool again?!? 

I am just so impressed.  It's not much.  There could be a lot less "drama" before commercials, less stress on "how wrong things can go," and much much more featuring of births with midwives, but still... it's a start.  Any baby steps towards helping remove the subconscious culture of fear and danger that surrounds birth in the US would be highly welcome.   I'm very very impressed, TLC.  

[Her Own] Language Development

I can't imagine being my daughter's age and suddenly being able to put things together, from brain to mouth, getting thoughts out into the world. 

Or maybe I can.  I remember the first time I said something in Spanish, correctly, in the actual context of a situation.  It's one thing to sit in a classroom and learn "guantes de lana" and "donde está la biblioteca," but suddenly all made sense when my friend's dad opened the door in Mexico City and I thought for a second and stammered, "Dónde está Daniela?"

Perhaps even more relevant was when the Japanese exchange student my senior year would make up inane little sayings that had more to do with how something sounded than it's actual English meaning.  (and we already know what sort of mayhem can result from that!)   Our authentic appreciation, in the form of hilarious laughter and endless repetition, probably encouraged her.  Like when she tried to convince my friend Chip to run for class president with the slogan, "Eat Eat Vote Vote Chip Chip." 

My daughter is the Japanese exchange student.

She is making connections which are logical yet hysterical. 
A good example:  boobs = milk. 
Well, sure.  She nursed to some extent until about 16 months or so, and knew the sign for milk and would tug at my shirt or poke me in the boobie and sign furiously, "milk milk milk!"  Now all boobs are milk.  Mama has "milk."  Marble statues have "milk."  Even just nipples are milk - cuz Dada and other babies have "milk" too.
Lately she'll pull the end of her shirt down over her knees so that they show through the material, and proudly say, "Nanoo's big milk, mama, look!  Nanoo have milk like mama"  Oh God.

Big = Dada
I will always remember my dear niece Molly.  She'd been seeing this "Saby" fellow around with her Aunt Lina for almost two whole summers, and couldn't figure out why.  We walked out onto the dock where she and her siblings were fishing, and I heard her exclaim, "Saby is Aunt Lina's DADDY!"  Ahhhhh.  Any boy that completes the set with another girl must obviously be a Daddy, because of the precedent set by her own Mommy and Daddy.  Ta da! 
Similarly, all things "big" and in anyway superlative in E's life are "dada."  Dada bite, dada loud.  Dada spider.  Dada sound.  Occasionally they are Dada Big, which must be just freakin' MASSIVE.  Have you met my husband?  He's Dada Dada.

Mama Mia references:
Anyone with pigtails or two braids is "honey honey" (notice the friends hairstyles during that song), and anyone with their belly showing is "jimmie jimmie jimmie" (like most of the outfits in that number).  Note that "jimmie" is said with a Hispanic J, so it's really "himmy" - and where this evolved from I know not.  She has tried to tie a bandana around her "milk" and go outside to sing "jimmie jimmie jimmie" but we're working on discouraging it...









 

Language Development

Bizarre how long ago it seems that I was transcribing the list of E's signs-and-then-words from the dry erase board in the kitchen to Spampylandia.  Oh, how quickly things have changed.

First came the two syllable words.  Then two words paired.  "More cheese" may have been the first of E's that didn't include "Mama"  (as in, "no mama" or "more, mama").  Then on July Fourth (or perhaps actually Saturday July 3rd, as it fell by the calendar) she spouted her first three word sentence of sorts, thanks to her buddy the big talker Pie, who is a quarter of a year older and more often than not, way ahead of her in the chitter-chatter.
Playing together on the slides at Shoup Park, E happily proclaimed "I do it!"  Notice the nifty pronoun as well.  That was a first.

Fast forward through some memorable events and their corresponding memorable phrases:

• buddy Gabe visiting with us over Labor Day ("shhh Gabe, no cry");  
• Dance class begins in September, and we've lied to get Elena into the 2.5 year old class with Pie.   More notably, when signing up for the class, we walked over to the wall of glass separating the pool area and E shouted like Big Chief Kickapoo about water and frogs... while Pie sagely noted in her breathy, logical way, "I... haven't... got... my swim togs."   (at this point, we decided to let E watch more Kipper, as the easy alternative to Pie's parents taking her in for language training!)
• Halloween ("trickotreeeeeat!"); 
• Thanksgiving with friends from Michigan, Chicago and Indiana ("where's aunties gone, mama? where's uncles?); 
• Thanksgiving buffet at the American Cafe downtown, where I let E carry her own plate back and forth warning her to watch out for all the people.  She returns to the buffet for dessert warning everyone in her path, "Watch out peoples!" 
• pre-Christmas brings the beginnings of a pacifier-regression where she wants it more outside of her crib than ever before, but we remember her first "big" grammatically correct sentence coming from that - "Look mama, I have my orange paci!"
• the advent of football season and her more theatrical than speech-related football player impressions  ("Yook!  yook!  poopall.  I running!" [then run-run-run, fake a dramatic catch, and fall down] "I fall down poopall, mama!  Dada, yook!  Poopall!")  
• Somewhere between there and Christmas was the first time she earnestly looked me in the eyes and told me, "Listen, mama."  OH MY GOODNESS... the scary reality of kids absorbing your every move sinks in then.
• Christmastime (which, thanks to a trip to Big Lots and a prelighted Christmas tree, began on Election Day 2010 and continued through the first week of January) where our bedtime routine grew to include, "Merry CHRISTmas, Happy New YEAAAAR" (emphasis hers), the recognition of Santa and snowmen at every turn (in stores, tv, signs, even yards), and her shocking-at-the-time ability to recognize Charlie Brown on wrapping paper after watching the Christmas special once a few weeks prior.  She didn't cry on Santa's lap, but she didn't exactly love the experience... though her watching the video message from Santa made me cry, and cry, and cry...
• In December sometime, E rightfully dubbed E-mac "Baby Loud."  Tells her on and off that "thisees OURS" and then takes toys away.  I don't mind since the "mine" stage is supposed to be very annoying and this "ours" novelty sounds delightfully Quaker... or Communist.  
• One January day we wander out, blanket-wrapped, to the mailbox and find a returned and damaged package inside.  "Oh shit!" is my gasped reaction when I realize what it is (it was an autographed book and family photos originally destined for my father-in-law) and Elena thoughtfully shows her empathy.  "Its broken, mama?"  Yes baby, it appears to be very broken and damaged, Mama is very sad.            She turns her face angelically to face mine, and with great concern asks, "its... f*cking, mama?" OH. MY. GOODNESS.   Wrong language for a two-and-a-half year old, but absolutely an A+ for correct context.  Appropriate serious discussion about good and bad words follows.  Hilarious recounting to Dada and friends also once child is safely in bed away from my uncontrollable laughter.  This is promptly archived in the "omg they absorb everything file" for all eternity.

• a water bottle cast off by buddy Gabe becomes officially known as "Rachel water" (and she teaches 16 month old twins the term "rachel water" later in March)
• Fearing the banishment and play restrictions that come with hurting herself, E officially becomes Baby BadAss by shouting "I feel better!" anytime any sort of actual or perceived injury occurs.  If you ask her if she's okay, she'll answer "No!" but that means yes.  Conversely, at the sound of any thump or "ow" or expletive, she'll come running and ask you if you're okay... and in the case of the expletive, tell you not to say that.
• Sometime in February we notice that E officially calls anyone who is Indian or Indian-looking "auntie" or "uncle", something she gathered on her own via all our friends.  The Spice Goddess becomes a bit of a regular in our house, and E comes running to the sound of her introduction, and narrates...  "There's cooking auntie!  Oh auntie... auntie is SO busy"  (although busy comes out more like "bizzzz-zie")  "Cooking hot ap-tay-toes, cutting onions.  Oooooooh, busy auntie!"
• The terrible twos never happened, though the terrible-two-and-a-halves pop up now and then.  I think it was late February the first time I was thoughtfully admonished by E:  "don't scream, mama... don't scream!"  This seems to bring us both back from the edge of whatever insanity we'd just experienced.
• Then we fly to California for a week of business for Dada, randomness for E and I.   Notably E impresses our Delta-flight neighbors with her renditions of Rihanna's "Umbrella", Lady Gaga's "Telephone", and unabashed overuse of  please and thank you.  She gifts three-dimensional bug stickers to the kind bioengineering professor next to us and wears sunglasses for the entire awake portion of both legs.  She eats her weight in cookies.  Maybe I'll remember more of what she actually SAID later.  She did tell an engaging man on the flight home that her cousins Leah and Lisa are her best friends in the whole world.
• Returning home from California, she's gathered in the use of "together", "everybody" and "upside down".  This may not sound like much, but a parent knows that strange feeling when you start hearing some all-together different and new words come out of your kid's mouth.  It's so novel.  So neat-o.  So much fun.