This Can Only Mean One Thing...

* Worst insomnia of my life (well, minus that stint a year and a half ago...).

* The ridiculous urge to wear stretchy pants and hike them up past my belly button when I sit.

* Thinking it's a great idea for Roscoe and I to eat pickles for our afternoon snack.

* The need to eat breakfast at home, then drive to work and eat another breakfast at work (thankfully before anyone else gets in).

* The strange desire for chocolate (which I normally am not a big fan of).

* Using all of my willpower not to eat Roscoe's dinner/snack when he's not looking (I am not always able to resist this urge, resulting in an unexpected form of mommy-guilt).

* Packing a lunch that sounds good in the morning only to realize that a few hours later the mere thought of what is in the lunch box is making me nauseous.

* Enjoying the fact that it is perfectly acceptable (and absolutely necessary) to walk around with my pants unbuttoned.

You guessed it!

(raging hormones to be phased out in exchange for sleep deprivation and poopie explosions in November)

The Bitter and the Sweet

I wish I could say our home was unpacked and looking like people actually lived here, but alas, I think it might actually look scarier than last week (why must unpacking get worse before it gets better?)

Our carpets are delayed for several annoying reasons which means we can't really move anything into the 2 bedrooms.
We still haven't been able to hook up our washer and dryer.
We are still using blankets as sheets on our bed.
We have no TV.
No dining room chairs.

But, it doesn't really matter that much.  This already feels like home and we are happy.  The rest will follow.

My heart suffered a fracture last weekend because I had to work from Thursday to Sunday at my job's annual conference.  Long days at a hotel conference center in San Francisco with all of the staff staying on-site.  Which meant I spent my first night away from my little bear Roscoe.  In a cruel twist standard of my insomniac brain, I was unable to sleep more than a couple of hours that night.  Cruel.  Thankfully, Ray packed up Roscoe and himself and joined me on Saturday night so that I could at least see them for awhile.  We ordered room service and pretended we were on an exotic vacation.  Roscoe, of course, adored having a new place to trash explore.  

Here is some photo documentation of our last month...

Easter ride on the long board (wearing a barong Ray's parents brought him back from the Philippines):

Cruising the strip:

Lounging in his chair, reading his book:

Old Men Ikaika and Roscoe (sitting on a wooden block) watching the world go by:

Giving Mela a good cuddle:

 Then playing horsey with Mela:

Roscoe's new favorite toy.  Lisa gave him the stroller Basi and Diwa used to play with.  He likes to push around his water bottles, books, a football, shoes, pretty anything that can balance.  He also likes to sit in it and laugh hysterically if you push him:

Roscoe trying on Daddy's shoes (on our exotic getaway):

Breakfast in bed.  Life is rough:

And his new favorite breakfast - frozen waffles.  Still frozen:

Best. Mother's Day. Ever.

I know, I am a little late here, but I just have to share with you how wonderful my Mother's Day was this year.  We had moved the actual physical "stuff" on Saturday, so Sunday morning I woke up IN MY OWN HOME.

Ray got me workout pants with an elastic waist (hallelujah) and my favorite workout socks in bright colors (love that man!).  Roscoe gave me kissies and then repeatedly hit my face in exuberance (pretty much like every other day).  But the best part of the day was hanging out with My Guys in this:

 

And, one of the best parts of the day was Ray and his dad figuring out how to reconnect our gas (after they disconnected it for the fumigation) so that we didn't have to wait 4 days for our utility appointmet.

gas = hot water = happy mama.

His Daddy's Genes

Roscoe is his own man, without a doubt, but once in a while I can trace something back to Ray or I that, well, doesn't seem like it would be genetic.  I am giving Ray's genes all of the credit for Roscoe's apparent shoe obsession.  Roscoe has always loved shoes.  He notices people's shoes, loves to play with his shoes and ours, puts shoes in bags and drags them around, brings people their shoes if they take them off (and tries to put them back on them), even kicks his feet up in his booster chair and laughs when he gets a glimpse of his shoes.  His favorite thing to do post-bath is to run (still naked) to our shoes and slip his feet into mine or Ray's or one of each and ski-walk around the room with his hooded towel on his head flowing behind him like a cape.  (And yes I have taken a picture, but I will save him the future humiliation of posting it on the Internet.)  But it doesn't end there.  When he gets a new pair of shoes, he loves wearing them so much that he will actually throw a tantrum when I try and take them off.  And he insists on bringing the new shoes with him to bed and sleeping with them in his crib.  Now, I do love a good pair of shoes, but anyone who has seen our closet (or helped us move) knows that Ray's shoe collection puts mine to shame.  Who knew it was genetic?