Lucy, fresh from a free BBQ at our local legion with my parents. She came home covered in ketchup (what a surprise, being my daughter), carrying Canadian flags for Eric and I, and Canada stickers on her red shoes.

When I put her down for nap, she spent a good 45 minutes in her crib singing various renditions of Oh Canada.

The sporadic fireworks popping off all day mean poor Spencer Dog is a wreck. For the past six months or so, he’s become terrified of them and thunderstorms. So the past few weeks of incessant afternoon showers, and the last few long weekends he’s spent either stuffed between the toilet and the wall in our downstairs bathroom (WTF? Small space = comfort?), hiding behind the furnace in the basement, on my feet under the computer, or in a closet. He shakes and pants and his eyes bug out of his head. We feel so bad for him.

Eric and I have spent the day cleaning and packing and doing laundry in prep for the cottage. It’s so much work to go, but so worth it once we get there.

Posts will be light for the rest of the week, as Internet access is almost non-existent (translation: it depends on if we can hijack borrow a nearby wireless signal) — but tune in for the obscene popcorn recipe and the top 10 things kids stick up their noses.

Monday evening around 9 I head upstairs to put some laundry away. Halfway up, The Scent permeates the air.

My darling, adorable, delicious daughter has pooped. Then gone to sleep.

It is still light enough in her room to see we’ve had an Escape Poop. There are telltale, um, signs on her legs, seeping through her favourite Barney pajamas. I lean over to the baby monitor and call Eric.

“Code Blue. I need backup.”

And so begins the efficient, practiced clean-up of parents: Wake Lucy up, strip her down. Eric gives her a stand-up shower while I clean off the change pad and slap fresh sheets and covers on the bed. A quick towel dry, into new pajamas, resettled with Pink Bear and a soft pink blanket from the closet, lots of kisses, and we’re out in under 10 minutes.

Back downstairs.

Carly: We work so well together, you know. We make a great team.

Eric: Yeah. Team Poop.

Carly: help! what’s the name of that greek pastry i like, with the pistachios? the name is on the tip of my tongue…

emcdougall: uuuuh…uummmm

Carly: well. you are SO helpful

emcdougall: gyro

Carly: dude

emcdougall: drawing a blank too…

Carly: baklava!

emcdougall: yes! balaclava!

Carly: don’t forget to find your contacts. there, i reminded you TWICE

emcdougall: ?

Carly: you asked me last night to remind you

emcdougall: you’re an idiot

Carly: (pounding floor above Eric’s head with her foot) that was me CRUSHING YOUR HEAD

emcdougall: I think you broke the house

Watching Elmo movies at Chez McDougall-Foster doesn’t just involve watching the 45 minutes or so of furry red manic monster (insert object Elmo is thinking about today!) love, but also previews of other Sesame Street films.

For who knows what reason (seeing as her mother rather, ahem, dislikes country music), Lucy picked up on this cowboy song from the preview of Elmo’s World Wild Wild West! Travis Tritt sings about Pecos Bill:

This has become The Song That We Brush Our Teeth To. Except we never sing about Pecos Bill. We sing about Pecos Everybody Else in the Family, Including Friends and Daycare Buddies: Pecos Mummy, Daddy, Spencer, Papa, Aunte Jenni, Uncle Marky, Auntie Michele, Gramie, Eirinn, Pearl, Julia, Mac, Tyler and Joshie. Recently, she’s moved on to inanimate objects, including toothbrush, toothpaste and pink cup.Oddly, my parents — Nana and Grandpa — are never part of Pecos Everybody. I think it’s because they have the Kids’ Favourite Country Songs DVD at their house — Lucy calls it “Chicken Elmo” — and Lucy knows they are already rootin’ tootin’ enough.

(One time, that movie made it to our house, and we watched it, and I almost died. Elmo + country twang = head explosion. As much as we sacrifice and do stuff for our children, the line has to be drawn somewhere. That movie is banned from here, and remains a special Nana/Grandpa House treat.)

What needs to be immortalized is the image of either Eric or I sitting cross-legged on the carpet in front of the bathroom door (blocking any escape route, you see…), singing “Pecos ________” in deep country voices, while Lucy perches on her white and blue Ikea step stool, toothbrush protruding from her lips, shaking her chubby butt to the beat.

Another completely unfathomable aspect of parenthood. Priceless.

This weekend, Lucy discovered dolls. Specifically, she zoned in on my beloved Cabbage Patch Kid, Alexabell.

I can’t explain how surreal it was to spend half an hour sitting in my daughter’s room, my favourite childhood CPK clothes strewn around us, putting outfits on my once-favourite doll. It was a time warp, one that still leaves me sort of disjointed. I’m so thankful to my parents for saving my Kids, even if they were stored naked in a garbage bag for almost 20 years.

Lucy calls Alexabell — an admittedly hard word for a 2.5-year-old — Alexabot. Which just cracks Eric and I up, as it sounds like some sort of cyerborg/robot. We keep waiting for her to stand up and walk towards us with her arms swinging stiffly by her sides, mouth opening and closing like a nutcracker.

We spent another half hour Sunday putting every single “pretty” into Alexabell’s hair. She looked like a pimped-out Amish girl, what with her hair bling and prim dress.

Saturday I scored a Little Tikes stroller at a garage sale up the street for just 50 cents (!), and Sunday we took Alexabell for a walk. We’re thinking of nominating Lucy for Canada’s Worst Driver: Toddler Edition, as the child cannot walk in a straight line while pushing. While she was heart-attack-inducing cute with her ponytail and dress and light-up shoes and plastic beads and pure glee at her new toys, holymother was it tiring going 3 ft.-stuckonthegrass-3 ft.-stuckonthegrass, repeat alll the way down the sidewalk.

Which is why the weekend ended like this, with Eric earning yet another fatherhood stripe.

Lucy, in her never-ending quest to make Eric a manic-depressive father with her “NO DADDY!”/peeing-pant love giggles because he just launched her up the stairs like a rocket attitude, has a new weapon.

A few weeks ago, we were practicing the I love you sign, while saying it out loud. Lucy would do the sign and say the words to me, but not her father. Because she’s a jerk like that.

I turned to her and said, “Honey, we love Daddy very much. He’s your one-and-only Daddy! Daddy’s very special.”

The exasperating/completely illogical part of her toddler brain zoned in on the last part of that sentence. Adding her own condescending tone in the exact right spot (completely un-taught, I swear), she repeated, “Daddy veehhhdddy special,” while nodding her head sadly at him.

I spat milk across the table. Eric gaped at her.

And so it began.

Now she says it to him ALL THE TIME. At the most appropriately hilarious times, too. If Eric drops something: “Daddy veehhhdddy special.” If he stubs his toe: “Daddy veehhhdddy special.” After goodbye kisses in the morning: “Daddy veehhhdddy special.”

Because Eric is The Adult, and because you can’t reason with a 2.5-year-old, and because he’s a boy and he’s Eric, my husband has started arguing with her.

“Daddy veehhhdddy special.”

“No, Lucy very special.”

“Daddy veehhhdddy special.”

“No, Lucy very special.”

And so it goes, on and on and on, neither of them willing to let the other win. It’s hilarious for the first 10 seconds, then I feel like I’m at a tennis match simultaneously refereeing a pair of 5-year-olds. This exchange often happens first thing in the morning when I’m still in bed and Eric’s changing Lucy’s diaper. They usually stop when I hoarsely yell, “Ohforgoodnesssake, enough already!”

They’re both very special. And stubborn. And best friends.

• I am mid-tea swallow here. Thanks, Eric
• Need hair cut, stat
• Anne of Green Gables rag doll (which Lucy carried all the way downtown for the 100 Years of Anne festival last Saturday) is most definitely grabbing one of the Girls. Bad, Annie!
• So glad to look officialy pregnant, and not lumpy or like I’ve eaten too many bowls of Corn Pops (not that that’s happened *cough*)
• Still 19 weeks to go. Help.

Last Wednesday I just got home from seeing Carl when the phone rang.

It was my doctor’s office. They were insistent to see me the next day. About my ultrasound, the receptionist said. But it wasn’t anything to worry about, the receptionist said. But yes, I had to come in, even though I was officially transferring to the doctor/obstetrician who will deliver this baby and had an appointment with her the very next day, the receptionist said.

That phone call broke me. I lost it. The stress of work, Eric’s continuing job search, other drama, pregnancy — all of it converged with that phone call. Eric was at his brother’s in Toronto, but came flying home (as fast as one can up the Don Valley Parking Lot Parkway during rush hour) when I called him practically incoherent and sobbing.

(I called my boss and negotiated a break for a few days. Mom’s night out that evening helped immensely. A four-day hiatus from the computer and various fun-ness with Eric and Lucy meant this morning I woke nearly normal and less stressed. Thankfully.)

The short version of Thursday’s appointment was this: My prenatal testing showed a higher-than-normal ratio for my age for Down syndrome; mine was for a woman 34, not 29. Although the overall results pointed conclusively to negative, my cautious doctor didn’t like the number — so this afternoon, we went to the Oshawa hospital for a Level 2 ultrasound to get confirmation that everything is, indeed, all good.

And it is.

And I was completely proven wrong and utterly shocked to learn that Lucy is going to have a little sister.

I know you hate it when I post pics such as this, where you are in your ratty ol’ UofT engineering shirt and pajama pants, unshaven and wearing the glasses we picked out, oh, nine years ago, but these moments on the weekend, when you scrunch together on the couch watching some cartoon/puppet show with Lucy snuggled in beside you — Spencer vying for just a piece of lap, pleeeeease? — while simultaneously trying to sip coffee and read one of those ridiculously boring (to the rest of the world me) non-fiction airplane books, make my heart burst and ovaries ache and perfectly epitomize why you are such a fabulous father.

Love you, m’baby daddy.

Just before klunking Lucy into her crib before nap or bed, I often cradle her in my arms, her head in the crook of my left arm.

I do this mostly to embarrass her, and to entertain myself — jokingly crooning, “Look at my Lucy baby! Are you my Lucy baby?” while she frantically pummels me with her size 8 flailing feet and laughs. She now looks ridiculous in this pose.

My baby is no longer such — she’s almost 3 ft. tall (!!) and weighs more than 30 lbs. I remember the way her body used to perfectly curl around my belly when I breastfed her, how I belted into my bathrobe. Eric always tells Lucy how he’d carry her around in the Football Hold.

Eric snapped these pics this past weekend when Lucy and I were reading books and sharing a bowl of popcorn. When I downloaded them off the camera yesterday, I could not get over how grown up Lucy looks. Despite her double chin and the baby fat that still clings to the tops her her thighs, she is becoming a little girl.

But Sunday, while driving, I kept catching glimpses of her in the side mirror, she positioned in her car seat behind me. Lucy was opening and closing her mouth in experimental Os, softly singing to “I Like to Eat Apples and Bananas,” and staring out the window at the passing clouds. The light was reflecting off her still rotund cheeks and baby-flat nose, and she looked so young and innocent and small. I saw her baby face again, clearly.

It makes me wonder if this will happen for the rest of her life. Will I always carry that baby image with me? Catch snippets of it as she grows into a girl, a teen, a woman?

I hope so.