Fussy Face

I tend to choose the cute pictures of Owen to post, or at least the ones in which he is sporting a spiffy outfit and looking rather pleasant, like so:

But Owen has been a colicky baby, and whereas things have definitely improved in the fussiness department, I thought I'd post a picture of Owen looking, alas, how he often looks to us in the evenings:

That is the face Owen makes when he Doesn't:  Doesn't want to lie down, doesn't want to sit up, doesn't want to be held, doesn't want to be put down, doesn't want to eat, doesn't want to stop eating, etc. etc.

We are seeing less of it, to be sure, but we both will be glad when the colic becomes a distant "remember when," and we see more of this Owen instead:

L.T.

As anyone who lives or has lived with a pug knows, pugs are clowns with a great sense of humor.

My Tulip was very good at "jokes", her favorite being to take a few steps back each time I bent over to put on her leash, remaining just out of reach.  She thought that was funny.  She also liked to join me in my sweater when I wasn't paying enough attention to her, and pop her little pug noggin out the neck hole.  That too was a riot.  We also had a gag routine that we'd do, where I'd say "attack!" and point at someone else, and Tulip would run over and attack my sneakers.  Ba dum dum.

But then there were also those occasions when the humans would not really be laughing with the pugs, but at them.  And one such instance was the L.T., or Lip Tuck.  This is what my sister and her husband called what happened when a pug's snaggle-teeth ended up on the outside of the pug lip instead of the inside.  The pug with an L.T. walks around with tiny teeth protruding, and doesn't understand why everyone is snickering.

It turns out that this is something that a bulldogge does as well.  I present to you Exhibit A:

Now that is a lip tuck!  Of course, her father and I began to laugh, and poor Dorothy had no idea what was so funny.  We are juvenile that way.  But look again!:

Hee hee.  It's the bulldogge equivalent of slipping on a banana peel!  Snicker.

Sunday Afternoon

As long time readers of this blog know, Dorothy for the most part has never been fond of a walk, be it short or be it long.  And whereas I tried in the beginning to make the walks more amenable to her, it became clear that Dorothy and walks were never going to be besties.

But then Owen came along, and if there is one thing that Dorothy dislikes more than a walk, it is to watch her beloved Dad leave the house with Owen and not include her.  So when we take Owen for a walk in his bugaboo, Dorothy comes along and walks beautifully!  She trots by the carriage like Jack under the wagon, all bulldogge with a purpose.

A few Sundays ago we were on such a walk and I stopped to admire this:

Pretty, no?  We have a few trees in our yard that haven't lost all their leaves, and one is a beautiful salmon color:

But anyway, last Sunday our pack (minus the two cats, who Dorothy would say aren't pack members anyway, and Plum would concur, since a King Has No Pack, only minions) was on the move.  And this is what it looks like when we are on the move.  Owen is all bundled up lying flat on his back in the carriage, occasionally calling out some kind of critique of the situation before napping:

And here is Sean with bulldogge and bag of poop:

It's a win-win situation for us all:  Sean and I get exercise, Dorothy gets to walk some of her zoomies out, Owen gets a nap and rosy cheeks.  And the foliage gets fawned over.

Plum Feeling Bookish

When we moved this summer, I was in the midst of a bad case of pregnancy edema, so spent all of my non-work hours with my feet up.  This meant that Sean had to do most of the packing and most of the unpacking, including all of my books.  When I moved from New Hampshire to Philadelphia via New Jersey nine years ago, I donated almost half of my book collection:  but I still have a lot of books.  Books please me.

We wanted to try to get the house at least basically arranged before Owen arrived, so when we unpacked, Sean put my books on the shelves as they came out of the box.  This was fine for a temporary solution, but my OCD wouldn't let this situation stand for long!  Why there were "w" books communing with "F's" and "A's"!  Fiction was mixed with nonfiction!  Authors' oeuvres were scattered across two floors!  It simply would not do.

I waited until I had my strength back and could stand on my feet and bend at the waist, and I set to alphabetizing and rearranging one weekend in September.  I didn't have much room in my Philly apartment, so settled there for a general alphabetizing of the books with no separation of genre, and lots of horizontal stacks.  Since we have room in this house--plus several built-in bookshelves!--I was able to do some OCD arranging!

And Plum helped!  Here he is filing himself under "L"...for Lothario?

For any reader with book OCD who needs to know, I separated my books into autobiography and memoir, Sean's art books, poetry, fiction, and nonfiction.  And I experimented by making the shelf on our second floor landing into a shelf of series!  With some Trollope on top!

Contented sigh!

Owen Gets Photobombed

Owen is an only child, so he doesn't have siblings to compete with.  Yet with a dogge and two cats milling about, it can be hard for him to be the solo subject of a photo.  Here he is, a vision in plaid, sitting getting some philosophising done in his bumbo chair, and preparing to have the moment immortalized, when hark!  A purple cat appears in the background:

Dorothy is very good with Owen for the most part.  As long as he isn't crying too frantically, and as long as her father is not giving Owen all of his attentions, then she is fine.  And sometimes she will go over to Owen to try to discern just what the fuss over this little fellow is all about:

Poor Owen is not so sure that he wants a faceful of Dorothy kisses, yet with limited neck and head control, there is only so far he can move away from the smoocher:

Never fear, Owen!  Soon the tides will turn and the toddler will be invading the bulldogge's space with unwanted kisses.  And perhaps a stray cheerio.

Cat Trap

When we have an empty box in the house, Sean is fond of placing it somewhere, saying "Cat Trap!" and seeing how long it takes to catch a cat.  Usually not long.

Here is Posy in the empty babywipes box, about two minutes after it was placed on the table:

I won't even go into just how long she will remain sitting in the box--but it is somewhere in the neighborhood of A Very Long Time.

And who are we to question why?

Posy and Sandy

Hurricane Sandy is not an experience I would like to repeat, and we had it easy compared to most.  We lost our electricity for thirty hours, and although my complaining about it rivaled the sounds of Sandy's formidable winds, it really wasn't that bad.  We kept a fire going in our living room and hung a blanket up in the doorway to keep the heat in.  We then basically spent thirty hours in the living room--me, Sean, infant, bulldogge, and two cats--all crowding around the hearth.  I did a lot of fretting about what to do with the bags and bags of breastmilk in the freezer, and we had just worked out a plan for it -- a kind of breastmilk underground railroad -- when the power went back on.

The pets definitely could tell that something was up.  Pre-storm, both cats watched the birds in the yard gather food, and Dorothy, bothered by the shifts in barometric pressure, kept close to wherever we were.  Once Sandy arrived and the winds got nasty, however, Posy got down to important hurricane business:  she gave her little person a thorough cleaning.  Here she is next to me on the couch, getting jiggy with her tummy region:

What?  I already have batteries and candles at the ready!

O Woe! O Grievous Woe!

Last night Sean and I were sitting on the floor playing with Owen, when we heard a small cry.  We looked up and saw this:

Have you ever seen anything so pitiful?!

Sean took a few pictures, but then--don't worry--he gave Dorothy the lovin' she was missing.  And for the record, Dorothy still gets a lot of one-on-one time with her beloved Dad.  She just does not like to share him with her new brother!

Dorothy thinking, sometimes I see myself dead in the rain....

A Boy and His Bumbo

Owen is not the world's best sitter, in case you are wondering.  He does not see the point in sitting propped up somewhere when there are two perfectly good adults in the house who could be carrying him about.  If we play our cards right, we can get him to sit in his catapult seat for about ten minutes before all hell breaks loose.  Lately, however, he has been a bit more inclined to humor us by sitting in his bumbo seat for a few minutes.  Here is such a session, documented:

See?  It's not so bad!  He's even willing to give us a smile.

And an enthusiastic "guh!"

And here he is wondering why this damn buggy has no wheels?!  How is he supposed to move forward in an unwheeled buggy?!

He gives up trying to move forward and instead admires his elephant footwear:

As well he should.

Owen's October Outfits

While this blog has been sleeping, Owen has been busy keeping up with his established sartorial standards--not easy to do what with all the drool and vomit he likes to proffer to each onesie.  Here he is a few weeks ago in a whale outfit from Boden.  I think it looks good, but Owen is not so sure:

And here he is getting into the Halloween spirit:

And in the chubby altogether--sporting a pistachio green Bumgenius 4.0 cloth diaper.  I spy nice chunky thighs!:

I am fond of plaid, and therefore so is Owen!  Funny how that works.  Here he is in a Carters one-piece plaid outfit, looking like a somber lumberjack:

And here he is in his new Carters warm footed sleeper from his Granny and Grandfather.  Along with Boden clothes, Carters are my favorite.  They fit Owen well, they have cute details, they wash well to boot--and they are relatively inexpensive, which is a big plus.

Here is Owen looking quite dapper and getting in touch with his inner Texas in a horsie outfit from his Great Aunt Joyce and Uncle Bob:

Looking very fetching in a Boden dog shirt, and khaki pants from his Great Aunt Elsie:

Not so sure about this one, apparently.  Should a polo shirt extend to the legs?  Does Old Navy know what it is doing?!

This next outfit is admittedly a little busy.  I probably should not have matched these particular trousers with this particular shirt.  But every once in a while one needs to go all out.  And whereas his father claims the trousers are too Mork from Ork, I think they are spiffy.  We call this Brokeback Owen:

Owen says howdy pardner!

And here he is in shark uppers and guitar lowers.  Why not mix nautical with musical?

Owen feels very natty in his Boden shark jumper!