The end of another week, and another collection of anecdotes that didn’t get preserved. I’m trying to do better about remembering these small moments. Every week is 168 hours and they flash by so fast. Facebook keeps showing me posts from years past, and right now it’s chock full of family – 1 year ago, we announced Grant’s presence; 5 years ago, the twins were 6 weeks old and napping together (the short way) in a pack’n’play; 8 years ago I claimed to be water resistant to a depth of 47 centimeters (what). I forget all this stuff until it is right in front of my face. I make an excuse to look back over the year’s photos (my phone automatically backs up to Google photos, and I love the convenience and the ease of browsing) at the end of every year and I’m always astonished. Anyway, that all is a different post – this is just odds and ends from the last week or ten days I don’t want to forget forever. 

This morning as we were making breakfast, I was reading The Muse (Jessie Burton) on my phone, and Eleanor asks me, “mama, are you reading an adult book on your phone?” “Yes, Ele.” “I know,” then, in a whisper to herself, “I know everything.”

I’m reading the kids Harry Potter at night (also on my phone – how did I manage without the Kindle app; does Apple still prevent you from buying books in-app? 80% of my impulse purchases are books from the app. Don’t tell Bob.)(Well, he doesn’t care as long as piles of physical books don’t keep streaming in the door.) (Which they still are, of course.) And the kids like to play “Harry and Hermione” during the day. Henry is Harry, and Eleanor is Hermione. I am usually either assigned to be Hermione’s mother or a house elf. Ele asks a lot of questions that I never thought to – like what Hermione’s mother’s name is. And where they live. And has Harry ever been to her house. It makes me wonder what Hermione’s point of view would be (I realize I’m way behind here, and lots of people have thought these things already). Grant is Ron, quite naturally. 

The other morning, after I had been up several times in the night with Grant, Eleanor climbed into our bed, scootched between us, and whispered directly into my sleeping face, “mama, why do you have to work?” Now this is a far, far cry from the beginning of my leave, when Eleanor routinely asked if maybe Dad could stay home with her and Henry instead. But anyway, graciously ignoring this change of heart, I told her that we worked so we could have the things we like. And then we talked about how fun it will be to take Grant to Disney in a few years. But the answer is way more complex than that. I work because I love it, and love spending time on it. I believe strongly in what I do, and I hope that it helps make the experience of using WordPress.com better for others. Also, being invested in something that isn’t the children – holding a part of my energy separate – is healthy for me. One day, my kids are going to be grown and will want to move out (although Henry wants me to live next door, I know he won’t always), and I think that having something I enjoy to work on will make that separation and evolution in our lives more bearable. Likewise, when I retire, having hobbies and perhaps even grandbabies to lavish love and attention on will make that transition more manageable. 

I started pumping this week a little, since Grant has been with the nannies and they feed him his beloved purees (more on that in a moment), and while pumping is no fun, it’s a little easier to type while pumping than to type while nursing Grant. I still nurse him during the day, because I can’t be away from him for long and because I suspect that the kids and the nanny enjoy the break and time together. 

Grant has started on the purees. He has two teeth and is pretty pleased with himself. He is 100% a hog when it comes to eating as it turns out. I’ve never seen a baby gobble like he does! He took to it straight off and gets mad when he’s finished the tub of puree. I genuinely don’t understand where the time has gone. I’ve been with him every moment and I don’t know where it went. 

Bob made the kids letters from the North Pole, snuck outside, knocked on the door, snuck back in, and took delivery of the letters “from an elf.” The letters were partial copies of Santa’s Nice List. Each were thrilled to find their names on the list, along with other names they knew – their cousins, their friends in the neighborhood, the cat. The cat. My name wasn’t on there. Hrumph.