I wrote this a long time ago....but someone just mentioned it changed their whole Christmas outlook, so I thought I would reshare. Hopefully you find it positive. Also, don't make a drinking game out of finding typos, that will get dangerous. Somethings never change. 

Accepting Pink Aluminum Christmas Trees. 

Get the biggest aluminum tree you can find Charlie Brown, maybe painted pink! 

I was recently asked to give a brief reflection on the topic Making Christmas Lasting with the focus on celebrating Christmas throughout the year. I admit that when I was first presented with this topic I had to pause and think. Christmas through the year. My first thought was to encourage more viewings of Die Hard. While sipping Baileys. That seems pretty festive to me. Of course this got me thinking about Christmas. About Christmas in today’s society. It’s a crazy time. Hustle and bustle. And it seems to start earlier and earlier. It’s gotten the point I start looking for Christmas trees on the fifth of July. Many of my friends' Thanksgiving photos included pictures of their freshly decorated Christmas trees. Before they had digested their turkey. How they were able to plow through the tryptophan has that knocks me down for several days, I'll never know. And then they embark on massive shopping trips. I envy their energy.

Many people decry this commercialization of Christmas. They see it as loss of the truth behind Christmas.  A focus on the wrong thing, taking our minds away from God. I don’t see it that way. The stores, the shopping, the décor, it doesn’t bother me. I enjoy it. You can feel the excitement and anticipation in the air.  This makes me happy.

It makes me happy because in the history of the world, there is just one person who has ever been able to produce this kind of excitement and anticipation. This amount of joy and generosity. One birth alone could every produce this kind of reaction two thousand years later.

One man.

And world still stops and celebrates because He was born. So the world rushes and shops and parties. They light up their homes. They feast. They gather with family and friends. But the world also reaches out. There are toy drives, book drives, coat drives. Your grocery store has food drives, red kettles are everywhere. It’s not enough just to celebrate with loved ones, to generously celebrate family and friends. The world reaches out to strangers and those in need. The desire to spread the joy, the hope, the excitement of the season, it extends past those we know, to strangers. Everyone needs to feel Christmas joy. And the community comes together to make sure that all do enjoy it. Not just comes together, but excitedly help one another in secret, a distinct part of the joy coming from knowing others are celebrating, happy, distracted from the daily grind, if just for a moment.

And if we step back and remember what it is we are celebrating, it's that incredible moment of generosity. A generous God giving Himself. What further need of proof as to God’s lavishness upon His children? He gave us the world. Quite literally. All good things come from Him. He gave without concern as to worthiness or appreciation. He just gave. Completely. In that context, the outpouring of gifts and festivities at Christmas doesn’t seem as outlandish. It’s simply imitating what the world experienced that very first Christmas.

So what does that mean for us? Not just the next four weeks but for the next eleven months. How can we celebrate Christmas throughout the year? I think we need to step back to look at the world’s reaction to Christmas.  Reaction to the fact that Christ was born. We need to look past what might appear to be crude materialism and see the longing and joy and the desire that is present. What is truly being expressed by the immense reaction to the season.  The world still delights at the fact that God was made man. The world still joyfully celebrates His birth. Even though it is harder and harder to see Him through the tinsel and the parties and the brightly colored lights. We all know, something, something is different. This celebration is unlike any other. And that’s where we come in. It’s our job to clear that haze, to nurture that joy and that hope and whisper “yes, yes He is real. He is here.”

The world that delights in the season of Christmas, so much so that they share that joy with strangers, is a world that desires the Christ of Christmas. To feel that loved all the year round.  That thrill of hope? It’s our job to nurture it. To feed it with truth and witness. Because if anything is clear from society’s reaction to Christmas, it is that we all crave the comfort and joy that comes from knowing truth. We are so greatly loved. So generously blessed. And we crave the presence of God; we want to feel that He is with us.

Leave it to C.S. Lewis to say it better than I. “They say Aslan is on the move… And now a very curious thing happened. None of the children knew who Aslan was any more than you do; but the moment the Beaver had spoken these words everyone felt quite different.... At the name of Aslan each one of the children felt something jump in its inside.” Christmas is that time when the world feels the jump inside. And it falls to us to nurture than, so that their hearts don’t just jump, but soar. Soar to their creator. The weary world wants to rejoice. It's our job to spread those glad tidings. He came upon a midnight clear. He is here. And He will come again.

I had a baby. So now we're moving. This is a pattern for us. Have baby, embark on switching homes, from settled home to a new place, one that always seems to need work. In this case it's primarily paint, but several hundred square feet worth of paint. While "learning" remotely. D'Garebear is on track to start walking right about the time we open the first box. Preparing to move means purging. Getting rid of things is one of the most enjoyable things I know to do. I spent the first few weeks of quarantine cleaning out everything. Only to realize all my work would have to stay bagged up waiting for donation centers to reopen. No good deed and all that jazz. Despite the angst that seeing bags of donations waiting to go cause me, it was worth the work. The purging is a necessity in a small house in particular, since the Father Figure tends to be a collector. Collector of things, computer parts,comic books, games, tools, cars, children....and everything takes up space. 

Space is a valuable commodity so naturally we have very little of it. It's a constant source of stress for me and even with a larger house on the horizon, with plenty of storage it's something I'm worried about. So much so, as I laid on the beach, dozing in the sun, I mentally arranged my future laundry room. The Father Figure side-eyed me hard after hearing that, but it's the mom brain, it just doesn't turn off.

 And that was part of the emotional challenge of welcoming D'Garebear. It probably sounds silly, but I was overwhelmed at the thought of acquiring baby things again, even though we kept things down to a minimum. I felt a door that I had closed reopen, with diapers and baby toys to try to edge out the soccer cleats and book bags that were already cluttering up my life. Closing that door, getting rid of all the baby things after X-Man and Cinco was a very emotional time. I cried, much more than I probably should have. I sent cute clothes off to gestating nieces and nephews but it was very bittersweet. 

Getting rid of D'Garebear's things, which are mostly getting donated until some new baby boy appears on the horizon, isn't emotional at all. I enjoy it. There's a great sense of satisfaction and relief. And this bothered me. Was I really this heartless and frustrated by D'Garebear's disruption of our lives? I don't think that's it. Sure I'm writing this and watching D'Garebear systematically empty the laundry basket, babbling away to me. Discovering that if he pushes it, he can throw clothes all over the living room. I think I'm not sad to see him outgrow his clothes because each size he goes up is a little victory. He started out as a micro-preemie, so outgrowing clothing for six month olds by his first birthday is a happy accomplishment. Every bag of giveaway is another step in the right direction. And they have been some massive steps. D'Garebear rests comfortably in the 50th percentile for his birth age, which is quite the accomplishment. Preemies are typically measured according to their "adjusted age" as if they had been born on their due date. But D'Garebear found that too easy for his Italian tummy and he went to town on all food. He's constantly worried that someone somewhere is eating and he's not in on the action. I supposed that's why he's the size he is, all his energy has gone to eating, so much so he forgot to grow hair.

 So now, I'm not sad to see him outgrow clothing. Everyday we get with him is a surprise. I had shut this door, and was at peace with it being closed. So I'm at peace with D'Garebear growing up. He's a fun surprise and there's something extra comforting about being able to really enjoy every step he takes growing bigger and stronger. That's not to say that every preemie outfit he has isn't tucked away safely in a keepsake box. I'm not completely heartless. Although I stare at them and wonder how this lug of a baby ever was that small. Those NICU weeks seem a blur these days. I think the quarantine and all those extra hours home, with nowhere to go have become my chief memories of Baby D'Garebear. I just really remember Baby D'Garebear as a healthy infant. And I look forward to seeing him as a healthy toddler.

And I look forward passing along his outgrown clothes. 

 X-Man dotes on D'Garebear. D'Garebear idolizes X-Man. He follows him around and laughs anytime they make eye contact. X-Man enjoys the power that comes with being the adored older brother. He also uses D'Garebear as his excuse to do absurd things for a laugh. 

It got to the point that simply walking across the room elicited a laugh from D'Garebear. X-man decided to exaggerate his actions even more reveling in his power, and the envy of his siblings as D'Garebear ate up everything he did. X-Man broke into a dance, wiggling around, getting uncomfortably close to me as I held the joyous D'Garebear. X-Man shook his rear in my face. 

"Stop please X-Man." 

"But he thinks it's funny."

"Honey, he's a baby. He doesn't know butts are funny."

"Everyone knows butts are funny."

To compliment this argument, D'Garebear squealed with laughter and began to smack his brother's hiney. I fear the next eighteen years. 

X-Man is dedicated to caring for D'Garebear. He had blossomed into a loving big brother, with a great deal of patience.  

"Mom, when I grow up I want to be a babysitter." 

"I'm sure you'll be a very good one" 

X-Man lifts D'Garebear, who is now a fully quarter of X-Man's body weight and loves to go limp as he's lugged around. Huffing he adds "I'm going to be a single dad when I grow up." 

Of all the things to hear from your nine year old, especially as their mother, this was not expected. He catches my perplexed look. 

"I don't want to get married. That's gross." 

So, in the course of thirty seconds, I went from mentally patting myself on the back watching my sons interact with each other to wondering how I had so completely turned my son off the idea of a wife and mother in his future. I mean, maybe I do make it seem gross. If by gross one means organized and clean. His future wife would most likely expect him to brush his teeth and shower occasionally. And wear clean underwear if she's super demanding. 

"and I'm going to live in a 'repartment'." Well, as long as you've thought this through. 

Add caption

"Well how are you going to have a baby without a wife?" I mean, there's going to have to be a gross girl involved in this process at least somewhat. I get we haven't completely walked through the realities of reproduction in toto, but we have discussed how one needs the male and female parts to make a whole. Then again, I've seen how he listens to me so I don't know why I'm surprised. 

"Oh, I'm going to go to the orphanage." 

Well, then. This is a foolproof plan. 

"But, don't you think it would be better to have a mom and a dad? I mean moms and dads are both important for kids right?" 

Rule one of lawyering, and of parenting too, is don't ask a question you don't know the answer to. Or better yet, don't ask a question you don't want to hear the answer to. 

X-Man was tiring of the conversation and walked D'Garebear over to the window. He let out a long sigh. 

"Fine, I'll get him a stepmother." 

Well then. I guess that's that. 

 

One might ask how it is that I spent the entire quarantine not blogging. As there should be a plethora of material. My official line is "well behaved children rarely make for interesting blogging" and I'm sticking with it. 

In truth, it's been pleasant and fun to have so much downtime. By the end of April the novelty had worn off. But the end of May, both Baby and Baba were demanding to return to soccer. Because I controlled that. X-Man has been fretting about trick or treating already. 

The quarantine had clarified how absolutely necessary a larger house is for the sanity of us all. Our pre-quarantine lives were extremely busy. At least twice a month there was a three hour, one way, commute for soccer. Even the "local" games would be an hour away. For the young kids, their activities were much more local, but every weekend had activities. So the father figure and I were gone for the majority of every weekend. During the school day, there would be a good chunk of the day when just Mac and Cinco were home with me. But come shut down, during the rainy spring, we realized we really were living on top of each other. 

So of course, the reasonable approach, just months from taking on college tuition payments, is to increase our mortgage payments significantly. Oh and Mac went ahead and jumped on the braces train because.....why not? 

So that's quarantine life. Boring and crowded. And spendy.

D'Garebear thrived during quarantine. The lack of activities meant an increase of attention on him. And that suited him just fine. He repaid his fans by increasing his talents and mobility. Cinco turned seven during the lock down, so the experience of watching a newborn grow and mature was a fairly unfamiliar experience for the siblings as a whole. Even Baba and Baby were surprised to see how young D'Garebear was when he figured out how to garner attention, whether it was fake crying or squawking. X-Man and Cinco had precious little baby experience and found each new development fascinating. And also necessary to fight over who saw what first, for whom D'Garebear was performing and who D'Garebear likes more. (hint, it's whoever is giving D'Garebear whatever he wants in the moment.)

D'Garebear has started to object loudly when ever I leave the house. At first I thought it was a long delayed separation anxiety, as I hadn't actually left him much in the previous months. Any sort of jingle of keys and he'd start bellowing, and chasing me down as quickly as one can on all fours. I tried to distract him by taking him upstairs, but he was wise to my ways. He'd stand at the large living room window crying as I left. But, then he started reacting this way when anyone left, not just mom. Even if they were just getting something from the car, or getting the mail. It seemed that D'Garebear had rejected the quarantine that had been imposed on him since birth and become quite the social butterfly. 

Indeed, today I finally made the connection. D'Garebear does love the leave the house. Because he misses woman in masks fawning all over him. He had nine weeks of personalized attention and was loath to give it up. When he discovered that leaving the house opens up all sorts of mostly older women, wearing masks, to tell him how cute, smart and wonderful he is....well he's not one to turn adulation down. And he's back to his happy place. 

He makes it worth their while. He's friendly until they look, and then he bats his large eyes at them presenting an image of innocent wonder. He's still bald as Buddha which makes him appear to be younger than he is. So then he seems amazingly advanced and that warrants even more cooing and ahhing. 

Meanwhile I'm telling him to stop trying to eat the shopping cart, now flavored with bleach. So of course this is soul crushing for the boy, and his large eyes and protruding lower lip is basically a bat signal to the grandmas out there. He rewards their attention by offering them items from our cart. Often while I am desperately searching for various necessities like Clorox wipes. And ignoring him, which he is not pleased with. 

And when I turn to check on him, D'Garebear breaks into his favorite game, and a new one to me. It's called "Pull mom's mask off and shove it in your mouth. Or at least lick as much of it as possible first. And bonus points if you then drop it on the floor." This is a great crowd pleaser. Again, mom is not amused. But I'm not bored that's for sure. 

I'm six children in. And still having new experiences. Well done D'Garebear, well done.

The father figure had surgery and was off for eight weeks. During that time, the dog had surgery as well, just to remain in good standing with the family. She had a tumor on her ear, and a large portion of her ear, removed. The father figure handled all the prep work, and actual surgery but returned to work before her post operative visit. Which left me responsible for getting the doggie stitches out. The dog was ready to exit the cone of shame with which she was wreaking havoc on the Christmas tree ornaments. And I was ready to stop seeing my ornaments break. D'Garebear is still an infant, this is my one bye year when it comes to ornament destruction. Or so I has assumed. Never assume.

Of course the father figure made the appointment for late in the afternoon, when Baby and Baba were off at martial arts, something the father figure has insisted his little girls learn, insisted from the moment of their births. My point being, this is all the father figure's fault.

Mac is a responsible young man who is comfortable watching X-Man and Cinco for limited amounts of time. Part of his responsibility is his recognition of his limitations. He has said he doesn't feel ready to watch D'Garebear and I'm quite comfortable with his assessment his abilities. X-Man and Cinco happily sit on the couch and watch movies or play video games while I'm gone, D'Garebear, awesome as he is, is not yet that sort of team player. The point here is that I ended up heading off to the vet with an eighty pound golden retriever and an infant.

The dog was excited to go, but also perplexed that I was driving her somewhere that didn't involve the other small persons. I couldn't put her in the back of the SUV as I typically do as the father figure decided to stash Christmas presents there. I didn't want her in a confined space with D'Garebear, so I helped her lumber in the passenger seat. I walked around to the driver's side, opened the door and discovered the dog sitting in my seat. She had crawled over the center console, smeared her wet muddy feet all over everything in the front of the car and plopped herself in my seat. So I had to push her back her side, spreading the mud even more.  

She was clearly aware something was up and wasn't about to endure it alone. So she finagled her head so she could lay on my lap. Which is exactly what you want when it's dark and rainy. But, having endured surgery just a few months earlier, I indulged her. Also, the dog is really good at not understanding English when she chooses not to. So, like another kid. So there I was, parking in the vet parking lot when I realized I had a dog and a baby to wrestle in. The dog was not interested in going anywhere as she realized we weren't at a park or the river. Not sure how she knew we were at the vet, but the dog who didn't understand English could now read the sign. 

I had to make a decision, perhaps not based on the best metrics but based on what I needed to survive. I took D'Garebear, sleeping peacefully in his car seat, out first. covered him and put his on the ground in the parking lot. I then dragged the unwilling literate dog out of the car. And lifted the baby's seat. 

The dog sat. And refused to move. I don't know if you've ever tried to drag a limp eighty pound dog with a heavy car seat hanging in the crook of your arm. I don't recommend it. It's hard and annoying. Especially when it's man's best friend refusing to cooperate. I'll spare you the details but Santa wasn't happy with my language. 

We reached the door which presented it's own problems. I had to hold the leash with two hands as the dog was still desperately holding to the Newtonian concept that an object at rest remains at rest. With a large unwieldy car seat swinging back and forth, well it was about comical. Although I wasn't laughing. If you thought someone inside would assist, well you would think. I managed to get my foot in the door, quite literally, my knee played a role as well and pushed my way in. The dog continued to sit, knowing she simply had to out wait the closing door. She didn't think I would sacrifice the child carrier in my battle of wills with her. But I was past caring what anyone else thought. Most especially the dog. 

Finally entering the clinic, another customer observed "You have your hands full." I gave him my best "nice to meet you Sherlock" look and sat down. The dog followed me sheepishly and laid down. She was freshly wet and muddy due to her antics in the parking lot. The result was a trail of muddy water leading to my chair but I was past caring. We sat catching our breath, well except for D'Garebear who was still sleeping. I had his carrier on the floor so I could rock it with my foot while still grasping the dog's leash with both hands. The dog seemed resigned to her fate. 

When they called her name, she perked up and decided she still had some fight in her. Or flight. She opted for hide. Behind the baby carrier. She nosed my foot away and firmly believed she was out of sight hiding behind the car seat. I moved the car seat, she moved. She attempted to push herself behind my legs to add a cloak of invisibility to her attempts. At this point, the tech took her leash.  The dog gave me a pathetic look realizing the jig was up and shuffled off. 

She pranced out five minutes later, stitch free and greatly relieved. Leaving was quite uneventful, as we all were happy to get ourselves out of there. 

So, the dog used a baby as a shield. Because that's our fierce dog. Her bark could shake the walls, but she didn't even have a bite. 

Oh yes, Thanksgiving. Oh 2019, my annus horribilis. The year has been so overwhelming and difficult. Thankfulness seems distant right now.

And yet, there is nothing quite like a difficult year to show you how blessed you are. How many wonderful people are in your life, and part of what makes them so wonderful is the quiet nature of their kindness. It's just a reminder that we're surrounded by wonderful people. From every aspect of our lives.

My baby sister was diagnosed with Dramatic Miley Cyrus, otherwise known as dermatomysitis- hence the nickname-last year. It took a heavy toll on her, and her family. So the rest of us jumped in to help her little family. Some, not surprised to find themselves twelve weeks pregnant, were in better moods while assisting. But leaving your family to help another usually comes with burdens others have to carry. So while I was helping my sister, a fellow soccer mom drove Baby the six hours to Spokane for a game, put her up in a hotel and fed her, so the father figure could maintain the weekend schedule for the other kids. The few friends I mentioned my pregnancy to, in text form "The father figure knocked a woman up, and to make it worse, it's me" were supportive and sympathetic and understood and respected the myriad of feelings I was working through.

During a particularly dark period of my pregnancy, I opened up to a evidence based, faithful science group on Facebook, comprised of women across the globe. The result....my first online shower. The father figure's face as he stumbled over nearly thirty boxes from Amazon was one of panic, until I reassured him I hadn't been engaging in retail therapy. I have a diaper fund on Amazon, waiting for the panicked late night "we're out of diapers" terror. Of course, I haven't had to use it yet, due to the boxes of diapers they sent me. Clothing, blankets, gift cards came pouring in from people I only knew online. In a group I hadn't participated in all that much, as my life was too busy. Ladies saw someone in need a happily jumped in to help. It didn't matter they didn't know me in "real life." The moment my life got very real, they were there, with real help.

And then D'Garebear arrived. Once people realized that indeed I had partially gestated a child, the help came from everywhere. Friends helped finish the kitchen remodel that had sent me over the edge into lethal blood pressure levels. Friends started meal trains and fed my family for weeks. People I babysat decades ago, gave me baby gear and clothing. Neighbors came and did yard work.

I grew up in a lovely little neighborhood. The type of neighborhood that leaves happy memories of adventures with neighborhood kids and failure to remember how small the houses were. But the growing and maturing families required most of us to move away. We were able to keep in touch with a couple of families, social media helped us connect with another. And those families who were invited to our birthday parties and we trick-or-treated with, they all brought food. Multiple times. They brought clothes and diapers and baby carriers. They brought gourmet meals. Meals my children wolfed down.

We're a soccer family. And when I say family, I really do mean it. When I announced D'Garebear's birth on social media, my phone blew up with messages from various soccer teammates. Most of whom had me listed as "Baby's Mom" in their contact lists. This included former teammates as well. They drove meals to our house, met us at various games and practises with food, visited us in the NICU, sent baby gifts and joyfully welcomed D'Garebear to the pitch. There's a reason why current and former teammate families comprise such a significant portion of my Christmas card list.

People from church, who I barely know, brought meals and gifts. Someone who only knew me from this blog brought dinner, and her own story of struggling with preeclampsia. A priest friend flew up to visit, just to make sure I was really OK and being honest about how serious the situation was. Others sent notes, one writing the kids encouraging them to care for their new brother and me.  Clever folks sent grubhub gift cards, to make meals easy for Baba as she held down the fort while the father figure worked and kept the magnificent health insurance which provided excellent care to D'Garebear and peace of mind for me. Family members kept up the encouraging comments on pictures shared, boosting my spirits and helping me to focus on the positive throughout the long haul.

The Pater Familias, my father, found himself in an interesting position this summer. The Mater Familias was several states away, caring for Grandma the Great. So he was on the parental duty and the Gruber-grandpa uber-position. He made nearly daily visits to the NICU to see his namesake and kept the family updated with multiple pictures.  Modern technology made facetiming the Mater Familias and Grandma the Great possible. Baba showed that she is quite the young lady, griping to me that no one cleans the house except her when I'm not home, but she assumed the burden of responsibility for both her siblings and the upkeep of the house. And she did it all while winning a summer soccer tournament, remaining on the varsity soccer team and keeping her 4.0. D'Garebear has no shortage of role models in his home.

I come from a long line of remarkable and strong women. Women who broke barriers. I am proud to follow in their footsteps. I like to think of myself as competent and capable. I have a crazy life but I like to think I can juggle it all. But I can't. And I shouldn't. It's not that anyone else is responsible for my life or the lives I have welcomed in it. It's just that I shouldn't be afraid to let my facade down, to let people help when the need is there. There's the saying "It takes a village to raise a child." I see the truth in that, every child needs a loving and supportive home. And that home can only be built with a community that supports the family throughout the difficult times. I admit I felt sheepish accepting meals and help from others. It felt like admitting I was weak or I had failed. But I realize now, it takes a certain strength, or at least honesty, to admit you can't do it all. And there might just be times in your life where you shouldn't do it. But only the kindness and compassion of others will allow you to let your guard down. To be surrounded by people who care enough to help you when in your moments of weakness, without needing you to ask, well that's an incredible gift. And a gift no words can properly describe nor justly thank.

The father figure's Italian grandma used to say "beer makes milk" but she would also say "every baby brings a loaf of bread." And as with most things she said, she wasn't wrong. D'Garebear's birth literally brought loaves of bread to our door, but it also brought the greater gift, the recognition of how rich our lives are. How wonderful the world he was born into is.

Thankful isn't strong enough a word.

D'Garebear came home at nine weeks of age. He's been home for nearly two months now, which explains the lack of blogging on my part.

It's an interesting experience. D'Garebear was due on October 27th, so he's not quite a month old. And yet he's been home for six weekish. We're told to treat him as if he was born on his due date, so to expect him to act as a newborn although he is nearly four months old. That's all well and good, but I'm ready for a four month old sleeper. This extended new born thing is for the birds. Young birds at that.

Molly, our Golden Retriever, has adjusted to the change in the family quite well. Ever the team player, she too had surgery, just last week. As D'Garebear, Father Figure and I managed to max out our family deductible for the year, she kindly went ahead and added vet bills to the mix. Goldens are especially prone to cancer, so we had a mass removed from her. She's recovering well, perhaps regretting her desire for more attention from us.

I hadn't even lacked for thing for my kids to fight over. They are nothing if not creative when it comes to this. Cinco and X-Man fight over who gets to look at D'Garebear. Baby and Baba fight over who gets to hold D'Garebear. And Mac simply is trying to stay out of the way.

Baba stated very clearly, before D'Garebear arrived, that she was uninterested in holding him, or having much to do with him. Her indifference stemmed mostly, I assumed at the time, from her irritation at her parents for creating him in the first place. I told her that was fine, Baby could hold him and she could clear the house while I ran other kids to various activities. Basically the routine we had before. She gladly agreed, we share the same personality trait that clutter causes anxiety. Cleaning is therapeutic.  If I was the kind of person who likes to make others eat their words, I'd enjoy pointing out that I do all the cleaning these days as Baba lays on the couch with D'Garebear. If I leave him in his swing, I'm liable to reenter the room to a missing baby, up sleeping on Baba as she does homework. Baby, who was excited for D'Garebear's arrival is slightly irked by this change in plans. I'm mostly amused, but somehow it seems to take both of them to care for D'Garebear. And an amazing amount of cleaning is not getting done.