Emily Grace's Christmas presents are hidden in our bedroom closet. While I was getting dressed Emily was crawling around in our bedroom. I turned my back for a minute and then heard her babbling in the closet. I peeked in there and she was playing with her presents! I grab the camera to get a picture before she noticed me, but as you can see she saw me with the camera and quickly grabbed the laundry basket. " What do you mean I was getting into my presents Momma? That must have been someone else ". Oh well, at least we know she'll like her toys come Christmas morning.
Emily Grace making a funny face
" Hey Momma! Look sheep!"
Emily seeing her first sheep
Emily Grace being thrown into a colonial trashcan
Emily Grace sitting in a trashcan
Hate this picture of me but I don't think there's any pictures of Emily and I together on here. Emily Grace looks cute as always. 
Emily Grace and her Grandma Teuscher. Face it, my baby is the cutest baby ever. ( I know every mom thinks this, but you have to put Emily Grace in your top ten at least )
This is Emily Grace and her Aunt Jenny at Colonial Williamsburg
We're not sure what Emily was doing in this picture. We just love it though!
Emily and her Grandma Teuscher
Emily Grace loves her baby food. She'll go through one of those little jars in a single sitting. She likes the cereal but ever since she got a taste of mushed tasteless food she can't get enough of it. So I've mixed the two. One big baby spoonful of slighty flavored mush mixed with rice cereal and I can make a jar of baby food last 2-3 days now. Baby food is pricey so making it last longer is wonderful for our budget.
Then maybe 5 minutes old
4 month oldsLiterally, that’s all I do anymore.
Oh, I’m not the one doing the crapping. It’s my son Jack, the 3-year-old. His colon rules my world.
He’s been potty trained for almost a year now, but like anyone his age, when he says he’s got to go, he’s got to go, and you’d better jump.
I kid you not. If we’re driving down the road, and Jack says he’s got to go pee-pee, the van screeches to a halt, the side door slides open, and somebody’s cornfield gets irrigated.
At first, I insisted we try to find bathrooms, like at a McDonald’s or something. But experience has taught us that there is no time for that. If we’re walking down the sidewalk, and Jack says the word, I will turn him loose on your lilac bush.
Somehow he’s got it in his head that it’s ok to pee on car tires.
I think he learned it from the dog.
But this isn’t about Number One, this is about Number Two.
Young Jack, as part of the struggle for Alpha Male status in the household, has observed that, “I’ve got to go poo-poo” is the ultimate parental-control trump card. He says, “I’ve got to go poo-poo” and all of a sudden, no matter where we are or what’s going on, everything drops and he becomes the center of the universe.
Someday, when he’s scraped who knows what out of his own children’s crevices, he’ll understand why.
Unfortunately, he’s a poop tourist.
When we go someplace new, he likes to poop there. If we go visit people, he’s got to poop. If we go to a store, he’s got to poop. If we go out to eat, he’s got to poop.
We went to the mall the other day and he had to poop three times before we could get back to the car.
And each new bathroom he visits is like Disneyland. He’s got to check the place out, usually with great admiration. He’s particularly impressed with those hot-air hand dryers.
I’m glad he enjoys it, because I’m not that fond of the experience. Not at all.
There I am, some dope being dragged along by my finger by a 3-year-old, asking anybody with a name tag where the bathroom is.
Unfortunately, it seems we can’t import enough illegal aliens to clean public restrooms in America and most of them get pretty rank. So in we go, me wiping down the toilet seat, him wrestling himself out of his pants, me trying not to gag at the smell of day-old urine, him not quite getting things under control once he’s on the throne and sending a room-crossing arch of brand-new urine across the floor.
And then we wait.
This kid takes after his mother, the one who reads Harry Potter on the potty.
He hops up there, little legs dangling off the front of the toilet, pants down around his ankles, twiddling his thumbs.
Some times he has to coax it out.
“Come on, poo-poo,” he will say. “It’s time to go live in the potty.”
Usually I just stand there and try to be encouraging and supportive. It’s kind of like being a labor coach, without the Lamaze breathing. And I don’t have to cut the cord.
We’ll make smalltalk. And I’ll smile at him and tell him he’s a good boy.
If he gets that look on his face like he’s straining, I’ll politely look away until I hear the plop.
I figure even a 3-year-old’s got to have a little bit of privacy.
In the spirit of the Olympics, we count the plops. You do that with little kids. You are always on the lookout for ways to reinforce their number skills. In a similar vein, I think Jack is the first person ever to sing “Now I Know My ABCs” in the bathroom at the Chinese buffet.
But about plops and the Olympics – in case you’re keeping score – my kid did Michael Phelps one better.
Unfortunately, in the era of esteem building, kids expect praise. Junior can’t sneeze without getting a gold star.
So when he slides off the toilet and the fruit of his loins floats there on public display, he expects some kind of compliment.
And these kids are smart, if it’s not sincere praise, they know, they can see right through you. So you’ve got to stand there and look down and act like you’re seeing the Mona Lisa for the first time. And by “Mona Lisa,” I mean that 30-year-old poster of Farrah Fawcett Majors.
The one where she’s cold.
“Oh Jack,” you say with all the pride you can muster, “that’s one heck of a poop.”
And then, to be convincing, you’ve got to include some detail, you’ve got to specifically compliment one of its traits.
“Son, that looks just like Florida,” you say, having a flashback to his state puzzle. “Do you know the capital of Florida?”
Sometimes it’s number, size or color that elicit your praise. Sometimes it’s content.
“I didn’t know you had corn yesterday, son.”
“Jack, I told you not to eat any more crayons!”
Once he named one of them. But Uncle Poopy wasn't with us long.
Fortunately, he doesn’t fully grasp the fact that I have a camera on my cell phone. If he did, we’d be sending portraits of them to all the relations.
Being young, Jack likes to brag. As we walk out of the bathroom he announces loudly to no one in particular, “I went poop.” Then he almost congratulates himself, and gives a recap play-by-play. “I had to push really hard. There are four poops. One of them looks like Mr. Potato Head.”
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Because no job is finished until the paperwork is done.
And that, unfortunately, is my job.
He slides down off the toilet, looks back admiringly, waits for my complimentary commentary, then he bends over.
And that’s not typically a pretty sight.
And you’re haunted by the fact that he’s going to want to do this very same thing at the next store you go to.
Like I said, my life is going to crap.
- by Bob Lonsberry © 2008
I hope the link works. :) http://www.lonsberry.com/writings.cfm?go=4
Emily is eating solids now! Well, ok it's not really solid. It more of thick rice milk but she likes it. The first time she wasn't so sure about it. Now she gets mad when the bowl runs out! 
This is Emily and her Auntie Apples. We call her Auntie Apples because she's blond on the inside red on the outside. Honestly. She's a blond who dyes her hair red. And she was acting blond one day so we called her apples for some reason. 50's Style Housewife
Have dinner ready:
Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal on time. This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they come home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed.
Prepare yourself:
Take fifteen minutes to rest so you will be refreshed when he arrives home. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people. Be a little gay and a little more interesting. His boring day may need a lift.
Clear away the clutter:
Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your man arrives, gathering up school books, toys, papers, etc. Then run a dust cloth over the tables. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order and it will give you a lift too.
Prepare the children:
Take a few minutes to wash the children's hands and faces (if they are small), comb their hair and, if neccessary, change their clothes. They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part.
Minimise all noise:
At the time of his arrival eliminate all noise of washer, dryer, dishwasher, or vacuum. Try to encourage the children to be quiet. Be happy to see him. Greet him with a warm smile and be glad to see him.
Some dont's:
Don't greet him with problems or complaints. Don't complain if he's late for dinner. Count this as minor compared with what he might have gone through that day.
Make him comfortable:
Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or suggest he lie down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him. Arrange his pillows and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soft, soothing, and pleasant voice. Allow him to relax - unwind.
Listen to him:
You may have a dozen things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first. Make the evening his: Never complain if he does not take you out to dinner or other places of entertainment. Instead, try to understand his world of stress and pressure, his need to be home and relax.
The goal:
Try to make your home a place of peace and order, where your husband can renew himself in body and spirit.
Extract from Home Economics Book - 1950
