Five Buckys

(Before I begin this probably very boring for you/definitely self-indulgent for me post, let me preface by saying I know what a blessing pregnancy is and how genuinely thrilled I am to be getting to do it all again and that no matter how/when this baby enters the world, I'll give no care, just so long as he is here, smelling of that incredibly addicting new baby scent, ah.) okay here goes: Greetings from the couch of a lady late in her third trimester! I'm my worst self during the last four to six weeks of pregnancy.  I'm uncomfortable. I'm not sleeping well. I'm peeing every hour on the hour. I'm braxton-hicksing like a mother. I'm eating antacids like candy. I can't do anything longer than 3.5 minutes unless I take long breaks in between to heavy breathe. Aaaand it's right around the time I start googling all the things tagged with "signs of labor" like a true idiot. All of this combined with staring at the calendar to see how close/

(last year) On your 29th birthday, you woke up before 6am because the 2 year old was crying.  You didn't grunt or make any noise that this annoyed you at all. You brought him to our bed, stuffed his little body in between ours and laid down for approximately 6 more minutes before you had to get up. During those 6 minutes, our son whisper-sang happy birthday to you and squirmed. A lot. You smiled.  Soon after you got up, the baby started crying, so the toddler and I scurried off to get her while you showered. I brought the kids downstairs and nursed our daughter while our son ran around frantic trying to find "daddy birthday present". Apparently your birthday was news to him and he didn't want to show up empty handed. He quickly found a dime which to his very excited surprise had your face on it! (Roosevelt=Daddy) The luck! "It's DADDY! I find him! Daddy birthday present!" He paraded around the room, holding the dime in the air, pleased with hims

I have been notified that I have not posted on this blog in a long time (hey Mrs. Terri!) so here's some photos of the Buchanan four being hooligans in the snow.  We got a good 6 inches of snow last week and just as it is starting to melt, the possibility of more is in the forecast. March has the "in like a lion" part all right this year. Let's all collectively wish for March to follow suit and go "out like a very tiny itty bitty sweet and sunshiny lamb".  Turns out August is a little snow baby. He would explore out there all day long if I let him. But, alas, his very Southern parents are, well, southern, so after 30 minutes we rallied the troops for hot showers. But not before we built an Olaf and did a little cardboard box sledding. A few months back, we told August that O'Toodles was in the lens of the camera so that he'd look at the camera for a photo. Now whenever we pull out our Canon, he comes at us like this: It gets me

At six months old, Auden loves being on my hip and included in all my conversations. She belly laughs when her brother throws his little tragic tantrums. But giggles even louder when he shows her attention. She gets very offended if it turns dark outside and she is not starting her lengthy bedtime routine. She beams proudly when her father compliments her. If I'm not feeding her fast enough, she grabs my face and begins to gnaw on my chin. If her father doesn't talk to her while buckling her into her car seat, she cries crocodile tears. If her brother is not paying her the proper amount of attention (all of it) she squawks at him until he does. I spent Friday night all weepy-eyed compiling a video montage. Saturday morning, she awoke all rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed, and six months old. My heart breaks for the chicken legged sweet smelling newborn with the spiky soft hair that could fit in her father's palm and at any moment cuddle asleep on my chest. But, at the same

Excuse me while I dust off the old keyboard and clear the spiderwebs from ye olde blog. AHEM. Hi there. I'm still over here wearing pajama pants, praying that the shower I took on Sunday is holding up, and spreading the peanut butter on the bread that will most certainly not get eaten by the toddler. Although if you have instagram , you may have not missed me much. Because, well, I'm a a gram glut and can't stop won't stop slapping pretty filters over the best of 20 shots taken of my (for the moment) not screaming child. I also crop the crap out of it so that you can't see the large pile of mail that hasn't been sorted or the rolled up dirty diapers that I haven't yet thrown in the trash. Sometimes I think I'm just adding to the perfect pinteresting mother lie that the big bad internet has us all fooled to believe. And I hate that. But there's every chance that I'm not and it is quite evident, even through the internet, that I'm a complet

I spend a lot of my day repeating mantras in my head and sometimes aloud. "You can do this." "You are strong and capable." "Find your inner Beyonce." Along with many other Beyonce inspired quotes. To me, Queen Bey is this fierce, happy, and grown woman that laughs in the face of hard times. A photo taken when I thought one kid at the grocery store was difficult. I have no photos of a grocery trip with two kids because busy. My mantras usually come out full force during trips to the grocery store and other various errands. I repeat these inspirational quotes over and over in my head while I bribe the toddler with character gummies to please for the love sit on his bottom. I pause occasionally to baby talk to a not listening not caring 3 month old who would just rather attract every person in the store by crying causing them to grace me with a never welcome side eye. I see you and I smile in your direction while calming my inner Beyonce. bow down,