In sticking my head in the sand and ignoring the troubles of running a business (while hiding out in my room to escape the chaos of my house), I’ve discovered - courtesy of hubbs - the absolutely awesome-ness (is that a word?) of the TV show Lost.

That’s right. I’m 4 seasons behind. We’re just about half way through the first season. And we’re loving it. This baby will be known as the Lost baby, because all day long while I nurse him, rock him, wait for him to nurse, you’ll find me and hubbs in front of the screen glued to Lost. And all I can say is, thank goodness we don’t have to wait a whole week (or more!) between episodes

Running a business is hard. Especially when trying to keep up ith a 2-year old and a 4-year old. And nursing a 2-week old newborn. And stressed by your ever-present in-laws.

Oh. and when your employees quit with less than 24 hours’ notice, that makes it harder.

I have baby #3 (he’ll be known as Peanut for blog purposes) and I basically stop blogging. Sorry. I’ve been busy being a human pacifier and trying to sleep a few hours a day. But I wanted to share some gems with you from the older siblings. Bean is 4, Little Man is 2.

Bean: “I want to be a mama when I grow up”

Bean and Little Man’s newest game: “Help - Thank you”: Bean falls down backwards on the twin mattress on the floor of the nursery and cries out “Someone help me! I can’t get up!” Little Man pulls her up. She says thank you. Little Man falls on the mattress and cries out “Some-uh hep up! I ca up!” Bean pulls him up, he says “take-oo!” They go back and forth like that the entire time I nurse Peanut. I think it’s the best game ever.

Little Man and Bean both sing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star or the ABC’s whenever Peanut cries. Bean is devastated if it doesn’t make him stop crying.

Little Man’s new way of getting attention is derived from Bean’s multiple fears. Her paralyzing fear of the wind and bugs has returned with the onset of spring and Little Man has seen that it yields results in the way of attention. So now throughout the day he applies himself like glue to my leg, whining “A-fay twuk!” (I’m afraid of the truck), “A-fay lay-buh” (I’m afraid of the ladybug), or my personal favorite, “A-fay bunny”. Basically, at any point that he wants attention, he picks a random object and claims a fear of it. Don’t worry - he’s not starved for attention.

I’ve successfully kept Little Man away from pacifiers (which are now back in our house after being gone since we took them away from him in January) but Bean walked out of the nursery yesterday with 3 in her mouth.

All in all, the kids are enjoying the new addition. Peanut is well loved by all.

Owen James Cozonac

Born April 11, 2008, 1:19AM

9 lbs., 11 oz.

After yesterday’s fiasco with contractions every 3 minutes that stopped at the doctor’s office, the baby dropped and they agreed to induce me.

So, today is the day! I’m on my way to the hospital, and I’m having this baby today!

I’ll update when I come home, but for now, take comfort in knowing that he won’t actually stay inside me until he goes to college.

Apparently I’ve been in prodromal labor for weeks now. It’s gotten really active over the last 5 days. It’s this ridiculous starting and stopping of labor. Let me explain. The baby hasn’t dropped yet (even though I’m past 40 weeks!). But I keep having contractions. I’m not talking about Braxton-Hicks, I’m talking about real, start in the back radiate to the abdomen, last at least 30 seconds and require serious concentration and relaxation techniques to get through them. And they come every 6-8 minutes, then ever 4-5 minutes, gradually intensifying and getting longer and longer. Just like I’m actually in active labor. They don’t stop when I change positions like they would if it was false labor.

But they’re 100% unproductive. And eventually, they just stop. Out of the clear blue. They trick me. Every time. Like this morning. I was awakened with a really strong contraction around 4. And they kept coming. At first every 9 minutes, before long it was every 5 minutes, and they were nearly unbearable. I moved around, I tried relaxation, tried to sleep. Soon, I was convinced (and very happily so) that today would be the day. So I got up and showered, started putting toiletries in the hospital bag. And around 8:00, after 4 hours of being in what I would call labor, the contractions stopped.

And here I am, disappointed. Again. Apparently, says the midwife, it’s not unheard of for a woman’s body to kick-start labor, only to fail. And then keep trying. Again and again and again. For weeks on end. There’s something rather sadistic about that, at least as I see it. Maybe if the baby would drop I could go into active labor. But then, it might take active labor to get the baby to drop. There’s something disturbingly chicken-and-eggish about this. So now I ask, can someone please get my baby out? Or will he really be stuck there till college?

I’ve never liked cauliflower. Wait, let me qualify that. If someone asked me to eat cauliflower I’d probably run fast in the other direction. And I would never, ever, in a million years force it on my precious children. I don’t believe in torturing the young.

But I got adventurous when I saw a recipe for roasted cauliflower in a magazine that claimed to ‘alter’ the cauliflower and make it all caramelized and sweet. True, I was skeptical, but I figured one head of cauliflower for 6 people would give everyone a taste, and if it was awful (like I assumed it probably would be), no one would feel the need to eat copious amounts (myself included).

Let me tell you. I have a new favorite veggie. I cut the raw cauliflower into florets, tossed it with a couple teaspoons olive oil, and lightly salted it. Put it in a shallow baking dish in a 450 degree oven for 35 minutes, stirring it once or twice as it cooked. My pickiest eater asked for a third helping! And everyone gobbled it up. It’s my new fave. Hint: cook it till it’s nice and evenly browned - the more browned, the more caramelized, and therefore the more melt-in-your-mouth sweet.

Well, that’s what works for me. I’ll be gobbling up cauliflower all spring - as long as it’s in season. Head over to Shannon’s place for more cool ideas.

I’m officially past my due date. The baby is late.

It shouldn’t surprise me - Bean was 10 days late and who knows when Little Man would have come if I hadn’t been leaking fluid and necessitated an induction. But now I’m ridiculously pregnant. As in, I get looks of pity from strangers as I walk waddle around town in my frumpy end-of-the-pregnancy-so-this-is-all-I-can-wear clothes. And flip-flops. With bad hair and no makeup, because what’s the point?

I’ve stopped paying attention to the contractions. They were coming every 4 minutes for a while today. But then they stopped. Just like they always do. Maybe tomorrow. (As I’ve said every day for weeks now…) But with every passing day, the chances get better - or so I tell myself. This kid can’t stay in my belly forever. He’ll have to go to college one day…

No, I still haven’t had the baby. But I have better news than that.

We took Liam back to the neurosurgeon to get his MRI results - the ones that the doctor scared us with by refusing to talk about it on the phone and insisting to see our little boy. The news was all good though. In the 5 month interval between MRIs, the tumor showed no sign of change! It stayed the same! As in, no growth.

The new prognosis? We’ll do a CT scan (not an MRI) in a whopping 18 months and consult the neurosurgeon again at that point. That’s right - we get to wait a year and a half before there’s any need to do anything! And at that point, we’ll be hoping for no significant growth again.

This is the best news ever!

I called my stylist yesterday because I was desperate. As in, ready to beg and plead for an immediate appointment. But to my great chagrin, I was told that my stylist no longer works there. Devastation. On a mass scale. Especially when this pregnant, hormonal woman was getting ready to go see the pediatric neurosurgeon. I was fragile, and this was very bad news.

So today I stopped in at a salon on the way to work, and thankfully a very nice man named AJ fit me in and gave me a very nice cut. Stylish, fun, easy - all the things I like in a haircut.

And I didn’t realize what a saint I’m married to until I got home (after driving with the windows open) and he greeted me with a cheerful, “You got your hair cut! I like it!” Nearly an hour later I happened to see - in my peripheral vision - a glimpse of a St. Bernard in a mirror. Who on earth is that? Oh wait! Oh. My. Word. That’s me! Apparently when driving home with the windows down and your hair full of professional strength styling products, one should look in a mirror before exiting the vehicle. Because now I look like I stuck my finger in a light socket. Exhibit A:

(note: picture doesn’t do justice to the ridiculous sight of my electrifying hair - it really is much worse than it seems)

My only question now is, would my saint-like hubby have said something about it had I not eventually looked in a mirror? Or would he have allowed me to show my face (crowned in all its chaotic mess of hair glory) in public? Perhaps that question was best answered by his prompting of “Honey, I was going to take a shower. Would you like to take one first?” That was, in fact, what drove me past the mirror and what resulted in me spitting my coffee across the bathroom vanity as I gasped “OH! myword…” when I saw the uncanny resemblance I bore to a St. Bernard… It takes a special man to look at a sight like that and offer a genuine comment. Had I been in his shoes, I probably would have been rolling on the floor laughing.