You are what you eat.

Bug loves eating berries for lunch.

 Apparently, she doesn't like to be covered in berries for lunch.

This from the girl who poos in the tub like every other time she's in there.

Here comes Peter Cottontail

Dear Bug-

Happy Easter, sweetheart! I can't believe how much you've grown and changed since last Easter. For one thing, you grew some hair! Do you remember your little bald self from last year? Remember the goldfish buttons, Bug? They were pretty awesome.

Nana came through for you again this year, though, Bug, and you put up a stiff competition to beat out yourself for World's Cutest Easter Outfit. Here's this year's entry:

You're 18 months old now, Princess. A whole year and a half. I can't even begin to believe it. At your doctor's appointment this week, we got all of your statistics and it's not just my imagination that you growing right into a big kid. You're in the 96th percentile for height and the 69th for weight. Basically, you are as tall as the average 2 year old. You ARE the scale for beautiful, in case you were wondering.

You're learning so much about your own little body, too! You can point to your hair, eyes, nose, teeth, ears, cheeks, tummy, toes, and bottom. We all get a kick out of that one. You should see the mouth full of chompers you've grown, too. You have your 2 year molars already, and you basically look like a little girl-sized t rex.

Raise your hand if you can think of the most fabulous thing about being 18 months old.

Yes, Bug? Eighteen months old means NURSERY, you say? Ding ding ding!! You're right! NURSERY, honey. NURSERY. No more chasing your maddeningly adorable self all around the Relief Society room. No more Mama getting all gussied up just to spend all three hours of church following you up and down hall. No more unexpected banshee screams during the closing prayer. NURSERY, my love. It's the best word in the world.

And speaking of words, you know a few. You can say ball, baby, dog, and milk. My favorite word, though, is for your best pal in the whole world. From the moment you see his car pull into the driveway after work, you begin to holler and flap your arms in excitement.

Daahie! you squeal. Daaaaaahhhieeee!

And if he doesn't answer immediately-- and I mean immediately as in within .00000002 seconds with a cheerful, "what, sweetie?"-- you assume he must not be able to hear you, and you know how to solve that problem. Volume.

DAAAAHHHIEEEEEE!

And that's about the time my heart melts into a puddle of goo, even if you don't know how to say Mama yet.

You are very, very good at signing for things you want. You can sign milk, food, more, dog, please, thank you, all done, ball, music (MJ taught you the wrong sign, but it gets the job done), stinky (for your dirty diapers), and airplane. Oh, and how you love airplanes! Your little ears are tuned into the sound of them flying high above the sky, and each time you hear one, your whole face lights up into an enormous smile and your little hand flies through the sky. I can't wait until it's warm enough to drive out by the airport and watch them take off and land. You will be in Bug heaven.

Except for one part, I guess, and that is that I imagine that we won't take Lupe out to the airport, and there couldn't be a heaven for you without your puppy there. We always let her in when you're done eating to clean up your mess, and you giggle and laugh the entire time. You love to follow her around chasing her tail and laughing hysterically when it sweeps across your cheeks. You love to cover her up with your favorite purple blanket. You two are like little soul mates.

I can't wait for summer time, my sweet. I bought you shorts, and your stumpy little legs sticking out the bottom are just to die for. Oh, and guess what. Do you see the sandals you're wearing for Easter? They're Saltwater sandals. Mama had a pair EVERY SINGLE SUMMER, and now you do, too. I used to be so mad that my mom wouldn't let me have jelly shoes. Ahh, how we grow and learn. Little did I know that a.) jelly shoes make your feet all sweaty. Gross. and b.) Saltwater sandals are the most ADORABLE things.

Anyway, that's enough for now. I love you, my darling baby girl, and I can't imagine my world without you in it.

Love you all the way to the moon and back,

Mama

It's all fun and games until someone craps in the bathtub.

Bug did not really eat her breakfast.

This is the way my day began, and it's becoming more and more typical. You see, Bug has decided that it is much more fun to ignore her own delicious food (today, an egg and ham omelet Aunt MJ prepared) and beg--BEG! Complete with sign language for 'please'!-- to be let down from her high chair. Then she wanders around the house for the next couple of hours digging for crackers in her diaper bag and asking for snacks.

I'm just going to revel in the 'please' part and call it good.

Want to know what happened next?

I stripped Bug's jammies off and began filling the bathtub. Bug peed all over the floor and the bathroom rug.

Great, I thought. Now at least she won't pee in the tub.

Instead, she pooped in the tub.

Right on, I thought, while hosing her off with the shower head.

We headed downstairs. Bug barely made it through the horror of being slathered in baby lotion with the help of an episode of Kipper. I diapered her, dressed her, and combed her crazy orphan hair into a cute little braid on the top of her head. We ran back upstairs to find her sippy cup of milk, and I peeked in on my earlier internet search for the elusive Gerber sleeveless onesie, white, size 24 months. (Why does this not exist? The 6-9 month size was awesome last year for wearing under rompers. Help, Universe.)

Bug wandered into my room, which was messy as usual, and promptly found, opened, and shook the contents out of... wait for it... wait for it... my wedding ring box.

I was wearing the sparkley wedding band that Schmoopsie gave me for our second anniversary. Thankfully, I quickly spotted my diamond engagement ring nestled on the floor. The simple wedding band that I was given in the temple, however, is missing.

I am sick over it.

I scoured the floor looking for it for several minutes. Frustrated, I sat back on my haunches to think, and that's about the time I remembered the poop in the tub and small puddle of pee on the bathroom floor.

So I'll wrap it up by saying the floor now smells of Clorox, the tub and all associated toys have been disinfected and rinsed in scalding water, and the ring is still missing in action.

How is it not even noon?

Finding my groove

Forgive me for the lack of blog energy recently. I am settling in to my new routine, and learning to find a time for cleaning the house, folding the laundry, and wiping jam off of sticky fingers while squeezing in some sleep from time to time has been an adjustment. Just keeping my house from looking like a disaster zone is practically a full-time job all by itself.

Did I ever tell you about how we have absorbed two additional house guests over the last couple of weeks? Plus an additional dog? (I bet the German neighbors are over the moon about that one.)  It's true. We finally convinced my parents that they needed a different house for their older, bigger family. Their home sold muy rapido (which is a good thing!) but it left most of my family essentially homeless until the short sale they are purchasing is approved. We've enjoyed the extra help that my two sisters provide. We've also been surprised at how many more dishes and laundry and just stuff that two more people generate.

So anyway, what I'm trying to say is that it's been a learning curve around here.

Have I mentioned how much I am LOVING the chance to wipe the sticky jam fingers? I am with my little Bug-face from the moment she wakes up every day until about an hour before she goes to bed for the night, and it is WONDERFUL.

The new gig is pretty great, too. I am finding my own rhythm and starting to put names and faces together, which is always half the battle. (Never thought I'd be so grateful for mandatory name badges!) The best part of my job is the variety-- the absolute unpredictability of what each night will bring. I know I've said it before, but there's simply no other accurate way to phrase it: you just can't make this stuff up.

On any given evening, I may find myself with my face buried in the DSM IV trying to remember how to accurately score a person's functioning. I am just as likely to find myself gowned and gloved digging through cut clothing to identify a new trauma patient, or, most likely, dashing back and forth between the two. Twenty-seven-olution or not, heels are not an option at this job.

And here's the thing about being a working mother: yesterday, I was very literally running from the physician workroom to my office and in and out of patient rooms when I found myself humming a cheerful little tune to myself.

It was the "Thank You" song from Bug's Little People Happy Birthday dvd.

I was right. 2011 is awesome.

Bells are ringing

We are finalizing our plans to head to sunny California in a few weeks to celebrate this wonderful lady's wedding. (Tell me her fiance doesn't look like Gordon Hayward a little.)

I.

CAN.

NOT.

WAIT.

If I know my family, and trust me, I know my family, the wedding festivities are sure to be a party. Can you say post-reception family pool bash? I mean, shut the heck up. Plus, we'll be staying in a great hotel with the whole crew.

Aaaaaaannnnddd, I'm taking my little Peanut Bug to the BEACH!

Speaking of Bug, here's the newest word on her: she's huge. If I were you, basically the only reason I'd check this blog these days is for a little daily dose of this: