It started snowing last night and hasn't stopped yet. This morning, the roads were crappy enough that I rear-ended someone on my way to work. And on my way home? Got stuck in the street.

If you need me this weekend, I'll be home.

Perhaps we'll grill up some burgers and watch the game. Note: This is not a miniature grill. It is a normal, full-size charcoal variety.

I have this thing where I want all of my memories to be made in a clean house. Like composing a photograph, I work to make the background of my life clutter-free. I enjoy a clean home, so making housework my "me time" has never seemed unfair. All of my spare minutes are spent picking up toys, wiping down counters, sweeping floors. I'm happier when those tasks have been completed.

But I've noticed lately that I am never satisfied with cleaning my house. With two kids, I usually only have time to get one room a (weekend) day in good shape. By the time I've made my way through the rest of the house, the rooms I started with have fallen apart again. I run in circles trying to keep up and never get to sit down and just...be in my clean house. I feel resentful now when I have to take time to, like, feed the girls instead of scrub a toilet. Methinks that might not be healthy.

So, starting this Saturday, I'll be taking one day a month just for me. No kids, no cleaning, no work, no errands, no appointments (unless they are spa appointments).

Just me and my camera, or a bookstore, or Target, or a workout, or a friend, or a sister and at least three hours. Someday when Oaklynn is a little more mobile, maybe I'll even send Matt and the girls out on an adventure so I can stay home and get some effing sleep. Anything enjoyable, as long as it's not housework.

And even though I'll probably be coming home to a disaster area after my monthly me day, I will likely be in a state of mind more apt to deal with it.

Oakey Dokey is eight months old now. That means I only have half as many months as she is old before she has been here with us a whole ENTIRE year.

Right now she is 21 pounds and a giggly little ball of stationary joy. But when I think "eight-month-old" I think "soon to be crawling." And then I think about things like stairs and pennies on the floor and cupboards with no latches. Sigh.

Lillia had her first ballet lesson last weekend. It went so, SO much better than ice skating.

Also, my kid is not shy in any way, shape, or form. We walked in a few minutes late (I'm a horrible mother). Everyone stopped and stared at us. I blushed. She smiled, went out onto the dance floor, and proceeded to be the loudest one there for the remainder of the class.

Lillia’s birthday party, while intentionally low-key, was the least organized event I have ever obsessed over. Nothing came together. The theme – ballerina – was evident only in her costume, the store-bought cake that ended up being yellow and red, (Hello? Who makes a ballerina cake in yellow and red? But I suppose I didn’t specify…), and the ballet lessons we got her. Also? Every single store from Anchorage to Wasilla was out of the one thing she asked for – an Easy Bake Oven. One of the many downsides of having a birthday so near Christmas, I guess.

Funny how, despite things not being in perfect order and nothing going as planned, Lillia seemed to enjoy it just as much as all of her other (three) birthday parties.

Perhaps I could learn a thing or two from my four-year-old.

Lillia: Mommy I decided what I'm gonna be when I grow up.

Me: You did? What is it?

Lillia: It's kind of tricky. It's a dance cooker.

Me: A dance cooker? What does a dance cooker do?

Lillia: It's a person who dances while she cooks.

Lillia, while listening to Dave Matthews' "You and Me": Mommy, the girl in this song's name is Emily.

Me: Oh yeah? Why do you think that.

Lillia: That's what he said.

Me: Tell me the part where he says that.

Lillia, singing: Take what you need, Em-i-ly, disappear.

I returned Ol' Blue, my beloved breast pump, last week. Guess who was there?

Luckily, I didn't have to interact with him; just endure a creepy smile from across the room.

(And just so we're all clear, only the machine is rented. The parts that I actually came into contact with? Those were mine. Given to me by the hospital, unused and in a sterile plastic bag, mmkay?)

I am now only nursing Oaklynn in the morning and at bedtime and if it could stay like this, I'd probably last a year - more even - with no problem. Alone time in the morning, before anyone else in the house is stirring. No pump. No struggling to keep baby's attention in the middle of the day. Adult beverages after she's gone to sleep... But alas, my supply is dwindling and any day could very well be the last day EVER.

How do I feel about this?

1.) Guilty. Breast is best they say, and the longer baby gets that breast, the better. But I have accepted that guilt comes with motherhood and even if I nursed forever, there would be something else to feel guilty about. She'll be about eight months old by the time all is said and done - three-quarters of the way through a year. That's a 75 percent and therefore a passing grade.

2.) Elated. Free at last! Free at last!

3.) Sad. I won't be having any more children and so won't be nursing any more babies. I will miss having a happy infant snuggled up to me, sighing blissfully.

4.) Ready. Mostly I am ready. There are new phases coming that don't require me to be chained to a chair for hours upon hours. In fact, the crawling and then - gasp! - walking that is not far off will probably have me begging to sit down, just for a little while, please...

Update: So, eight months is not three quarters of a year. It's two thirds = 66 percent. HOWEVER, I get five extra credit points for finding a way to pump at work without an office of my own. That brings me back up to average at 71 percent. Boo yah.

Oaklynn turned seven months old on New Year's Eve. This just happened to be the same day we celebrated Christmas with my dad, and the day we threw Lillia's fourth birthday party. Yeah.

I, being the superwoman that I am, still managed to get a picture of Oaklynn and weigh her.

She's 19.8 pounds now and, at her well-baby checkup last week was 27 1/4 inches long. Somebody is stretching out...

I couldn't believe another year had gone by. We threw her a snow princess birthday party. It was the event of the season.

She helped mommy decorate.

She tried - and passed on - ice skating.

She discovered the library.

She got her first (real) haircut.

She peed in the woods.

She started reading.

She became a big sister. The  best big sister ever.

She called me a fucker.

She started drawing flowers, rainbows, sunshines, and people.

She started singing along.

We got a new truck.

Her daddy became a business owner.

She got dressed up like a hamburger and took a walk around the neighborhood.

We took a trip to Hawaii where she watched dolphins, held a macaw, saw sea turtles, and caught crabs.

She got excited about Santa coming.

She grew from a toddler into a little girl.

I loved her more and more each day.

...and then she was four.

Lillia at 1:42 p.m. Friday, December 30 - exactly four years after her birth.

It’s finally over. I’m not sure if life has really gotten that much crazier or if I’m just less able to deal with it these days, but either way - that was the most stressful Christmas season ever ever ever. It was so bad that I have started a list of things to remember for next year. That list includes such gems as “Bring the USPS flat rate boxes shopping with me,” and “Open a savings account specifically for December.”

Matt gave me my Christmas present – my first ever iPhone (the 4s, no less) – on Friday so I could take pictures and become a Facebook over-poster throughout the weekend. His present – a leather recliner (but not a couch) – was delivered to our house and assembled Christmas Eve by my father-in-law after we left to drive out to my mother-in-law’s for celebrations with Matt’s side of the family. Grandpa still made it to dinner before we did.
 
After food and presents at Grandma’s house, wherein we were ALL spoiled rotten, we arrived home to the chair, which Matt both loved and was surprised by. Mission accomplished.
 
Lillia was more excited than ever, probably because she actually remembers last year. I woke Christmas morning to her feet pitter-pattering down the hallway to our room, and then “Mommy, Santa came!”
 
“He did?” I asked. “Did he eat the cookies we left him?”
 
Her eyes opened wide and then she ran out of the room, yelling “I’m gonna check!”
 
A moment later: “Mommy! He ate all of the Christmas tree one and part of the candy cane one!”
 
Matt and I both giggled as we climbed out of bed.
 
A mess of wrapping paper, cardboard, and zip ties followed. Oaklynn even ripped a few of her gifts open herself. Lillia was very patient.
 
We ate our strawberry pancakes and then I showered before preparing for my family to descend upon our house. When they did, we ate, drank, and merried into the night.
 
Despite all the frustration encountered preparing this year, I was able to relax when the holiday finally arrived and I enjoyed it thoroughly. Which means I’ll probably stress myself out again next year in order to simulate the effect.

And Happy New Year!

Lillia, after racing up the stairs: Mommy, I beat you! Ha ha ha ha ha! I win!

Me: Remember not to brag. You should say something nice to people so they don't feel bad.

Lillia: Good job losing.

Me, via text: I'll get you a recliner if I can get a new couch.

Matt: OK.

Me: Merry Christmas!

Matt: And God bless us, every one! BTW, no iPhone then.

Me: What?! I'm getting you a recliner!

Matt: But you're getting a couch.

Me: For myself! What are YOU getting me?

Matt: An iPhone.

I haven't posted anything here for more than a week, and I blame it all on December. If I could take a picture of the stress and anxiety that pulses through my veins every year about this time, you would see why I lack any inspiration. But I can't. So instead? Cute baby picture!