I have a boy.

I always thought I'd have a little girl. I'm a girl, I like girly things, so I figured of course I will have a little girl! She will love pedicures and Sleepless in Seattle and Banana Republic sales and we will be girly together always!

But, I have a boy.

Sometimes I look at him and I just can't believe he's mine. I think this often, actually, and usually in a "this kid is amazing and incredible and I just can't believe he's mine!" way. But occasionally I look at him in all his boyness and also think "this child is covered in dirt and grunts when he poops and I just can't believe he's mine..." And then I think about how I have no idea how to raise one of these (Boys, not children. Okay, children in general. But especially boy children.), and I figure he's pretty much screwed with me as a mother because all I'm going to want to do with him is shop and go out to eat.

But maybe I'm underestimating myself. I held a snake (once) and dissecting frogs was my favorite part of junior high science. Dirt is fine with me — I spend every spring on my hands and knees digging in it, and I've gotten used to my dog tracking it in and around my house. I hate sports of every kind, but I can almost sort of throw a football (depending on the wind), and I survived being the only girl on my park district soccer team despite totally screwing things up the one time they set me up to score a goal. I've somehow managed to sit through Die Hard, James Bond, and The Matrix movies. I always had a lot of friends who were guys, so I'm well-versed in giving dating advice and tolerating stupid boy humor. I'm also really good at picking out guy clothes and totally understand the rationale behind purchasing expensive jeans that already look worn out.

So, I don't know. Maybe we'll be okay. I might not be the most obvious choice for a boy mom, but I think I'll be a pretty good one. I mean, look! Here's Calvin, climbing the stairs, with snot all over his face. And I put him in sweatpants! Nothing says "my mom is totally qualified to raise a male child" like a kid sporting snot and sweatpants. Even if they are from Baby Gap.

Spring in Minnesota.

Forty degrees and so windy that my earrings kept slapping me in the face. Could there be a better day to head to the park with my cute boys?

Nope. :)

Fish and mushrooms.

I'm pretty sure those are two things a lot of grownups have trouble eating, never mind a kid who refuses to touch anything green.

Yet, Calvin ate both yesterday. Although ate seems like an understatement for the fervor with which he shoveled both into his mouth. Scarfed might be a more appropriate term.

So, whew. Another successful food introduction.

I think the key might be including him in the cooking process. Which, when Nate makes dinner, looks something like this:


















Whereas, when I make dinner, it looks something like this:














Come to think of it, I had no problems getting him to eat Chicken McNuggets. We might be on to something...

A perfect 10.

Calvin is 10 months old today. This is giving me panic attacks. I am so not ready for the toddler years. I want him to stay small and cuddly and easy to entertain. But what I want doesn't matter, because he's growing by leaps and bounds. He has four teeth, he's inching closer to walking, and he's completely done with baby food. And oh my stars is he heavy. He's becoming more of a kid and less of a baby every day. And while I mourn the loss of my baby, I really do love watching him grow and change. He's turning into a little person — a silly, expressive, rambunctious, opinionated, adventurous little boy. He loves to explore, to climb, to race around on his hands and knees after Mattie. He's fast. He's LOUD. He falls down and bangs his head (a lot). He eats a ton. He smiles all the time. He stands up in the tub. He opens every drawer, closes every door. He climbs the stairs at a rapid pace. He stands on his own, then flings himself into my arms, giggling.

He's adorable. He's perfect. And he's all mine.

(Though you'd never know it, because he is the spitting image of his dad.)

We love you, silly monkey.

House and home.

At nine months old, Calvin is already eating us out of both.

Last night he had a piece of lasagna, cottage cheese, a container of peas, and a handful of banana slices. I'm taking bets on how many gallons of milk we'll go through each week once he's a teenager. Three? Four?

Better start saving now.

Copay.

Most years I have a hard time using up the money in my health savings account. This year we've already used it all up, and it's only March 1.

Three weeks ago, Nate went to the doctor on a Friday afternoon with back pain, was told it was muscular, and was sent home with a mild muscle relaxer. By Saturday night he was in severe pain and unable to get up. We took him to the ER at 5am on Sunday morning where he was diagnosed with a bulging disk and sciatica. He was pumped full of morphine and sent home with muscle relaxers, steroids, and pain pills.

That same weekend, Calvin and I both came down with colds. After a week of dealing with constant snot flow and a very irritable baby, we took Calvin to the doctor. She said he was fine, just teething and crabby from the cold. He seemed to get better, but then this weekend he came down with a cough, and yesterday he woke up with a very high fever and was wheezing. So again, we headed for the ER at 5am on a Sunday morning. He has a sinus infection, which antibiotics have helped greatly in the last 24 hours. And he finally cut that tooth this morning, thank heavens. Poor baby was so sick, but so sweet in his little hospital gown. The nurse said he was her first patient in a 12-hour shift, and she was certain he'd be her cutest patient all day. :)

I've been sick off and on since I had The Swine in October. I get better, I get worse. I got much worse this weekend, and ended up going to urgent care yesterday after Nate convinced me I might have pneumonia. The doctor took one quick listen to my lungs and thought the same. Two chest x-rays later, I was diagnosed with a sinus infection, a respiratory infection, and asthma. (ASTHMA? I'm almost 31! I thought that was a diagnosis most people got in elementary school.) So now I'm on antibiotics and steroids, and have my very first inhaler.

So...yeah. Good times at the Breyer household. Here's hoping that two visits to the emergency room, two visits to the doctor, a trip to urgent care, and seven prescriptions are all it takes for us to be a healthy family again.