“Here’s to the girls being in bed.”

“Hell, yeah.”

7:15 a.m.

The gray blue light is pierced with,

“I have to go peeeeeeeeeeeeeee. I peeeeeeeed in my bedddddddddddd.”

Then Spencer farted and made our eyes water.

Then Alice threw her stuffies out of her bed with a thump and started whining.

7:16 a.m.

Happy first minute of Family Day. How incredibly fitting.

We decided to make pancakes (recipe below!), and all was better in the world. We documented the occasion with Lucy’s vtech Kidizoom camera.

nom nom nom

Milk, with a side of Alice and gerbera daisies

"Panpakes!"

That's juice from our blueberries, in case you're wondering. As much of a staple as the syrup when we eat pancakes.

Real maple syrup, courtesy of Eric's Mom (she's our dealer)

No blueberries for this purist. Just deliciousness.

We’re snooty and shun boxed pancake mix for this super quick, easy and MUCH cheaper version. Toddlers and kids love to help stir. We always double the recipe and freeze the leftovers — they are perfect during the week out of the toaster for a quick breakfast. Make them tomorrow for Shrove/Pancake Tuesday!

McDougall-Foster Family Pancakes
adapted from Betty Crocker Cookbook, holiday bonus edition

1 large egg
1 c. all purpose flour
1 c. milk
1 tbs. sugar
2 tbs. vegetable oil
3 tsp. baking powder
1/4 tsp. salt

• Beat egg with fork until fluffy
• Add remaining ingredients and stir just until smooth
• Pour in favourite size (or use cookie cutters to make shapes) with ladle into 375 degree/med heat griddle
• Cook until bubbly on top, puffed and dry around edges
• Turn and cook until golden brown and delicious!
• Best served with real Canadian maple syrup and blueberries (we use frozen all year long)

Lucy, I think we need a name for us, for when it’s just us spending time together.

Yah. Because me and Mumma and Alice are the three toots.

What do you think about calling you and Daddy the two bums?

No. How about the two baginas?

Oh. I don’t have a bagina, so I can’t be in that club.

The four of us are in the basement.

The girls chase balls from the Ball Popper and fight over the Little People bus and giggle. I lounge in the big padded chair, legs dangling, while Eric sprawls on the floor twirling a plastic orange.

Mash-ups fill the air. Do any of you watch Glee? Did you see the episode where the girls sang Halo/Walking on Sunshine and the guys sang It’s My Life/My Confessions? We’d heard mash-ups before, but became obsessed after that episode. Now hundreds mark our playlists.

On came Earth, Wind Fire vs. Flo Rida: Low Let’s Groove Tonight. A perfect mix of old and new.

Eric and I’s eyes meet across the room. Both our heads are bopping in time to the beat, and I know we are both physically present in the room, but back on the dance floor where we first met and spent almost every weekend our first two years together. Bass thumping, laser lights flickering, sweat, drinks, seemingly never-ended nights of craziness, early morning breakfasts at Golden Griddle.

We share a moment, a secret smile while the girls whirl around us.

There is our life now, our most precious and exasperating children, snuggly and half-deaf dog, forever home and work we never anticipated.

But before it all there was just us. I love this history that anchors our marriage, that gives context and meaning and foundation.

Lucy bodychecks Alice away from a tower of blocks, and tandem screeching wrenches us back into the moment.

Another snippet of life remembered and written.

“Mom! I licked a pole at daycare school today!”

“WHAT?!”

“Outside. For a little bit.”

“What are you talking about?! You licked a pole? In the minus a baillion weather?”

“Yep. My tongue hurts now.”

“Well, no shi…I mean, yes, honey, it will hurt like you can’t believe if you do that. It’ll get frozen to the pole. And you’ll get very, very hurt. Promise me you won’t do that again, OK?

“OK, Mumma. I’ll just do it inside.”

Every night of my girls’ life, I’ve crept into their rooms before bed. I like to watch them sleeping, touch their soft skin, soak in some calmness and, subconscoiusly, know they are safe before I can let go of the day.

The other night, Lucy’s long hair was flung over the top of her pillow and covered by Cold Blankie, leaving only her face visible around a cloud of covers. Her Dora nightlight cast a shadow diagonally, highlighting the double chin she still carries at almost 4.

I inhaled and clutched my chest, sinking to my knees at the side of her bed because she looked like this:

I sat there for a few minutes, tears running down my cheeks. I am not one for living in the past, or wishing for things gone by. But the reality of how much my first born has grown, how big she is getting just…hit me.

Lucy has started asking where rain comes from. What’s in the sky? What do clouds smell like? She can write her name. She can sing Ruldolph the Red Nosed Reindeer from start to finish (even the “like a lightbulb!” part). She loves to sing “Down by the Bay” and make up the chorus: “Have you ever seen a tree, um, petting a bunny!”

She is so proud of herself.

I am so proud of her.

I introduce her to people sometimes and almost choke up I’m so excited and proud and grateful.

Lucy Goose. Honey Pie. My sweet first.

Stop growing.

(The grapes are hats, you see. She’s clever, too.)

The other night I made us a special treat: Whole wheat Crescent Rolls

(Did you know the WW ones do not have trans fats? And they’re better for you than the regulars? And taste better?)

Unfortunately I had a Mom Moment and put the kids in the bath at the same time as the buns. There were a tad…crisp on the bottom.

A few minutes later we (minus Alice, who was in bed) sat down to eat.

“Mmmm, yummy Crescent Rolls! Mummas favourite.”

Lucy: “Mom, mine tastes like fire.”

Eric drops his fork to cover his mouth full of food, snorting. I glare at him.

“Honey, they’re just a little well done.”

“I don’t want to eat the part that tastes like fire. Do I have to eat the fire part?”

“No, Lucy, you don’t have to eat the fire part. Just eat around it.”

“OK. I don’t like the fire part.”

Eric opens his mouth to respond.

“You. Shut it. And eat your fire roll.”

He did.

My friend Jodi had a beautiful baby boy this weekend named Gavin.

Jodi and I both studied journalism and were floormates at Ryerson, and have stayed close since. We don’t see each other much, but usually email once a month, and she is a regular reader of this site. For as long as I’ve known her, she was never sure she wanted children. So when she announced she was was pregnant, most of us were shocked and incredibly tickled. It’s been such a pleasure to watch her grow these past months.

Jodi’s husband Brad shared this photo on Facebook over the weekend, and it hasn’t strayed far from my mind since I saw it Sunday.

You all probably know that look as well as I do. That’s the first look of love when you hold your minutes-old baby in your arms. There is no duplicating it. There is no faking it. That is pure, raw love.

___

This morning as I tidied the house, I started absentmindedly sorting toys. Alice has started growing out of those soft, small stuffies and plastic rings, gravitating more towards larger, louder, more interactive toys. I’ve started a pile to sell/donate, and a pile to keep for family and friends’ babies.

The last time I packed toys away, I knew they would be played with again in our house. We knew we were not finished having kids, that there was one more wee McDougall-Foster to bring into this world.

But this time. Today. Today it slammed into me that we are done. Really, truly done. I will never be pregnant again. I will never breastfeed again. I will never carry a teeny being inside a pouch slung across my chest again. Those newborn coos and wails will never reverberate off our walls.

I will never have that look of new love again.

___

The Gentle Vasectomy Clinic called today. It’s been almost two weeks, and they have yet to receive Eric’s results. Receptionist Brian — who 11 weeks ago candidly demonstrated how to put a numbing patch on my husband’s testicles — is now on their trail.

We are anxious and excited.

___

My friend Carolyn once said when you are done having children, you must mourn for the babies you will never have. That always rang true, and I understood it from a practical level. But today the process has started.

I honestly do not want more kids. My capacity — emotionally, physically, financially — has been reached, good and bad. Our family feels right and complete.

And I’m OK with that.

But it doesn’t mean it can’t ache once in a while.

It’s just shy of 10 weeks since Eric had his snip-snip. So today he took his sample into to the lab at our local hospital.

I did my part of the deed (don’t get excited…partners are asked to refrain from helping) by dropping off both girls to daycare this morning so Eric had time on his own at home.

“So, here they are.”

I shake the orange lidded jar, now not at all sterile. “Wow. That’s not a lot.”

“What?! Shut up.”

(Isn’t it fun to get men all riled up about their manhood?)

“Are you just going to carry it like that?”

“No, I need a bag or something.”

“We don’t have any paper around the house.”

“Grocery bag?”

“Too big.”

“I have some gift bags in the basement?”

Eric bursts out laughing. “Happy birthday! Here’s some sperm!”

I glare at the jar. “Well, let’s hope there are no swimmers left in there. I hope they’re all dead.”

Results within a week. I’ll keep the details of that night private.

Lucy and I are in the car, in the Tim Horton’s drive thru.

“Mumma! Can you please get me a sprinkle doughnut as a special treat?”

“Sure, Honey. You’ve been a great girl today.”

“And I’m going to share it with YOU!”

“Oh, thank you, Sweetie! That’s so nic…”

“I get the BIG piece, and you get the LITTLE piece!”