So I'm officially a mother.

because I now drive this beast:

It's blue with 90's style purple decor all around it. beautiful.

Plus mike painted the rust stain a Chrysler navy blue (never mind that it's a dodge navy blue, and said painting happened in the dark, and no one will notice....right?)
honestly, a car for me, any car, is a wonderful thing.


Plus the top folds down to a 5-point harness for my almost 35 pounder.

Who, is perfectly content, for once in his life.

Not to mention, loading it up, and driving it is pure bliss. Aside from the sterotype, of course. I tried to convince Mike I need a coach diaper bag so I didn't become the crazy green jello casserole making, sweat wearing, ponytail, crazy driver, ha, and he thought I was kidding. But really, who wouldn't want to spend $400 on this beauty:

(it doesn't even look like a diaper bag! *sigh*)

Yeah, yeah, yeah, fine! Mike did the math, and figured we could buy 80 $5 dollar diaper bags, and they would last longer. Not to mention you get them free at the hospital. What. Ever. Apparently the man would rather take a trip to China and buy a knock off for a dollar. And yes, those were the words out of his mouth.

Easter was pretty good. We dyed eggs, but trying to keep Mitchell on the counter/out of the egg dye/fingers clean/camera in hand was harder than I thought. Tables and chairs would have been better, but far less exciting. And I threw them all away because eggs make me sick. But we drizzled rubber cement prior to dying, and they looked sweet.....in the fridge....for a day.

Easter morning was a.dor.a.ble. I put his little basket right by his crib, and he woke up reaching for it.

And out of all the sweet toys, he grabbed the candy first. And I pretty sure that's what he lived on for a week.

Oh, and conference? Yeah, apparently Mitchell thought everyone was praying, so folded his arms, pretty much the entire time. Not that it stopped the screaming. At all, actually. I'd like to get him calmed down before the baby comes, you know, or sleep is never going to happen.

Oh, and, apparently the kid wants to be potty trained. By his dad. what the heck? This past week or so, he's been holding his diaper with one hand, pointing to the direction of the potty with the other, and then we ask "you want to go on the potty?" (not in the way you probably read that either. In a confused, shocked, sort of manner) and then the dear child takes a running sprint to his little pooh bear potty. and we take off his diaper. AND HE GOES. Are you kidding me? And no, this did not happen just once. I'm talking the entire week.

So Mike, being the man that works most of the day, decides he wants to potty train the boy. So, that night, Mike lays out a gigantic thing of plastic all over the living room (nevermind that mitch isn't exactly a dog) and mitch is stark naked except for the thin layer of cotton underwear (yo gabba gabba style too, not that we knew that picking them out. No. The rotovirus had us watching a little disney channel, and now I'm scarred for life. This cartoon, is worse than any I've ever seen. Seriously. If anyone needs to see jack black in furry orange suits jumping around like a crazy person, be my guest. It's not my cup of tea. And yet, here we are, with their underwear.) But anyway, because I have a great father-in-law who tells me I should run out the door when Mike comes home on a weekly basis, leaving him to fend for himself, I feel no guilt going to dinner with old roommates once in awhile. (And who can argue with your wife and your dad? No one, that's who.) I did not, however, plan this little outing on potty training "night" (since we all know potty training 21 month year old boys takes a few hours, max)

The (frightening) cast of Yo Gabba Gabba.

But later that night, I was relieved to come home to a clean floor, couch, and mitch in bed. No accidents. I don't understand. I really don't. Mike took him to the potty every 15 mins, and Mitchell, uh, "did it", like a pro. And the only thing lost was a box of jr. mints I was kind of hoping Mike didn't find.

All these people telling me boys train around 4 years old lie!! I was kind of hoping if I have a girl, I'd just do it together! Yay for insanity!

So the next morning, I decide that this might not be so bad. We put him in clean yo gabba gabba underpants, set him on the toliet, sing and dance, and I start to think I could actually handle it. Then mike goes to work. And I am taking Mitch to the potty every 10 mins with no luck. Then he wets his pants. Twice. Apparently, I'm just not good enough.

So we're back to diapers. For awhile, at least. Or till a 3 day vacation comes along for mikey-poo. You know, because the kid only does his little dance when daddy's in the room.