Sigh.
So I wore my not-very-old-and-really-very-much-liked clutch out on Saturday night to our Valentine's Day extravaganza, and then the next morning, when we were heading out to brunch, had this very specific series of thoughts:
"It's sort of weird to carry a clutch to brunch.
By popular demand, here is where you can get that pom-pom hat (I don't see it on their site, but give them a ring and they'll send it to you). Also, in this photo we are at a cafe called Riposo, and if you go to New York anytime around brunchtime please go there and order the Sicilian Eggs Benedict.
These leggings are so weird. And yet I like them. This confuses me.
Never before in my life have I given any particular amount of thought to my "lower torso," and yet, thanks to Sports Illustrated, I am not only thinking about it, I am seeing it. A lot of it. (And in case you weren't aware, "lower torso" is a euphemism.) (The Latest Body Part For Women To Fix, via The NY Times.)
Just being ridiculous. (Follow on Instagram here.)
These guys are my heroes. (Two Irish Guys Sneaked Into The SuperBowl Without Tickets And Snagged $25,000 Seats, via The Washington Post.)
Apparently this dress shape is called the "popover." I think it should be called "put me in this now because oh my god, so cute and comfortable."
For superbowls, we wear leopard. (Please note that the red-eye-autocorrect function helpfully adjusted the color of all eight of my eyeballs.)
On Sunday night, Kendrick and I went into the city with the kids so that he could finally, finally realize his dream of watching the Superbowl from start to finish. (If he watches it at home as he has for the past several years, you see, there is a virtual guarantee that at some point he'll hear a "Honey...?" coming from the other room, which will be followed by a request that he do something not involving being cemented to the couch in a pile of chicken wings.)
We went to a party at our friends Ella and Larry's house, and the Superbowl was watched. Start to finish. (Not by me - I popped in to be horrified by that TV-falls-on-child insurance commercial and enjoy a little Flying Katy Perry, then popped right back out...although I did join for the last twenty minutes and I TOTALLY GET THE FOOTBALL THING now, because that was awwwesome.) And then Kendrick went home to take care of the dogs, and very fortunately did not take my car keys with him this time, yay.
People are really passionate about their bottle choices, you guys. I’ve had super-intense conversations about the pros and cons of various bottles with everyone from my broker to the waitress at our favorite breakfast place to the cashier at the CVS we stopped at in Maine.
And I get this. Because transitioning to a bottle can be intensely stressful if it doesn’t go smoothly (if the baby doesn’t want to take the bottle, or then takes the bottle and later rejects the breast, or if he ingests too much air when bottle-feeding and ends up all gassy and miserable), and all parents want is a happy, fed, not-miserable baby.
When I had Indy, I knew virtually nothing about child-rearing, and basically improvised my way through…everything. This mostly worked out fine, but the transition from breast to formula was rough. He had terrible colic, and was constantly crying with stomach pain that I didn’t know how to relieve. I tried various gripe waters, tried moving his legs in a little running-man position recommended by my friends, tried bouncing and bouncing and bouncing until my arms felt like they were going to fall off…but one thing I didn’t try was switching to a different brand of bottle.
