Today you get the long version.

E and I have always planned on more than one kid, although we’ve never actually decided how many. I’m one of three, so I think three sounds good. He’s one of four, and insists middle children always turn out weird so we have to have an even number. My original “plan” to “plan” on kids 15 or 16 months apart flew right out of my crazy-ass brain the second I went into labor with Baby Evan but the further I got from the actual birthing event the sooner I thought maybe I’d like to do it again. So when I couldn’t remember to take my mini-pill I didn’t sweat it. Besides, I’ve only had one period and one almost-period since June 2008 thanks to breastfeeding full time – nature’s child spacing, if you want to be a hippie about it. But just like EVERYONE TOLD ME, nursing is not a foolproof method of preventing pregnancy and so here I am. Although if I’m being totally honest, I would say we were trying to get pregnant harder than we were trying not to. Believe it or not, nosey cow at the blood-draw lab, I DO know where babies come from and how to keep it from happening. And this one happened on purpose.

I decided I was pregnant about two weeks ago, right around my own birthday. I didn’t base my suspicions on any medical facts or actual symptoms – just my own intuition. I mean, I don’t want to sound like a crazy person, but I could just sense that I wasn’t alone in my body anymore. Although when I say it like that it sounds INCREDIBLY CREEPY. I had a few moments of heartburn, a little light headedness and a tiny bit of nausea but not any more than I’ve had every other time I’ve imagined I was pregnant. I suppose my biggest clue was my milk supply seems to have decreased a little – not enough to starve my child to death but I’m definitely not going to be wet nursing any stray babies people leave on my doorstep. I think right now my biggest fear is that this pregnancy is going to ruin my nursing relationship with Baby Evan – either because my milk dries up or because I can’t handle sharing my body with TWO babies – and that makes me want to cry. We worked so hard to make nursing work, it’s not fair to take away his favorite thing in the world. At least I still have some time to figure all that out.

Since I don’t know when I was ovulating, I really don’t know how far along I am. My best guess is I conceived at the end of March, although it could be as early as February. I had the same problems getting a test to register my knocked-upped-ness as I did when I was first pregnant with Baby Evan, so I think convincing myself I’m probably already 5 or 6 weeks along is just going to end up being disappointing when I go in for my 10 week ultrasound and I’m only at 5 weeks. Unfortunately, instead of wanting to see me SOONER to determine my stage of pregnancy my OB scheduled my first visit for JUNE 2ND. JUUUUUUNE SEEEEECOOOOOND. That’s a ridiculous amount of time to wait to find out a due date. How am I supposed to start counting down the seconds if I have no idea how many seconds to count?

So there you go. Bebehblog is now going to be Bebehsblog (not technically, don’t change you bookmarks or anything drastic) and I’m going to be a mother of 2. Oh crap.

p.s. Any suggestions for what to call Baby #2 while we wait to find out what he/she is? I never managed to come up with something cute for Baby Evan,

I’ve gotten a lot of feedback from the Twitter Home Tour (and thank you to everyone who stopped by) but I don’t think anyone bothered to read my disclaimer. Guys, my house is not clean. It’s not even KIND OF clean. I actually think I’ve scared all my real life friends out of ever inviting Baby Evan and me over for a playdate because they’re afraid I’ll judge their houses based on the TOTAL LIES in my post. Not only did I move crap around like crazy for those pictures, I took them in such a way that hid most of the dirt. Notice the total lack of close-ups on…anything. If you could SEE the actual, visible dirt on my floors and the pet hair on every horizontal surface in the house you would feel a lot – A LOT – better about your own housekeeping. No one would ask me how I find the time for everything, or how I keep it all together or wonder if I’m secretly a speed freak who doesn’t every sleep because she’s too busy baking pies and hunting down glass chickens on Ebay.

And so, in the interest of honesty and for the sake of Baby Evan’s social life, please enjoy a little more reality.

My real kitchen

This isn’t actually my kitchen when it’s dirty. This is what I consider CLEAN. There are only some dishes in the sink. MOST of the ingredients from dinner last night are put away. All the junk is to the right of the stove, which is where the junk goes, and thus it is considered put away.

The reason there are dishes in the sink is because there were SO MANY I couldn't fit them all in the dishwasher.

I suppose complaining about my lack of counter space when I use it this ineffectively makes me a whiny bee-yotch but guuuuuuys, where am I supposed to put this stuff? And don’t say “away” because that’s TOTALLY FULL of crap too.

And then there's THIS.

Mere hours after I posted the home tour, E decided it was time to get moving on the First Annual Rewiring Of A Really Old House Because We Need To Move ONE Outlet. Because the previous owners (always read as: preeeeeevious owwwwwwwners while shaking fist at sky) painted over wallpaper – textured wallpaper – what should have been a  20 minute project now involves scraping, sanding, patching, spackling, and painting the WHOLE KITCHEN. So I’m living in a construction zone. The dust, it is epic.

More junk.

Here we have three – count ’em – diaper bags, none of which I am currently using; a pile of unread magazines that date back to January that I can’t bring myself to throw away (or better yet, STOP SUBSCRIBING TO IDIOT YOU DON’T READ THEM ANYWAYS); my knitting bag; a dirty glass from two days ago and some trash. All things sitting (as in, currently, as I type this) right next to my couch. Besides the trash, that’s actually where this stuff goes.

Ah yes, the crowning joy of my decorating.

That right there is a genuine early 21st century early childhood entertainment device and tactile experience. Someday it will be a real collector’s item. That is, if the cats don’t get to it first. A smart person probably wouldn’t leave it inflated in the middle of her house all the time. Too bad smart people don’t live here.

Also, for the record, we eat far more fast food than is wise, I’ve never (literally, never) vacuumed our bedroom, I currently have laundry in every stage except for “clean and put away”, half the plants I bought are still sitting unplanted on my porch, I haven’t showered or brushed my hair today and tonight I fully plan to sit on my ass watching 30 Rock instead of doing any of those things.

So please, friends and readers, don’t shun me for what you see on the internet. It is full of lies.

When Baby Evan was just a couple months old, my little sister Carolyn came to visit. She wanted a chance to meet her only nephew before moving to Africa for two years, since it’s not exactly a place you just fly home on the weekends from. I would like to tell you her visit was lovely, full of hugs and laughter and hair-braiding but honestly, I was still in that oh-my-God-I-just-had-a-baby-and-I’m-never-sleeping-again stage of new motherhood and I barely remember it. I’m sure it WAS really fun though. Since we got past the stage of hating each other we have a lot more in common than you’d expect a homebody Navy housewife mom and a traveling Peace Corp volunteer artist to have. Starting with we both love Arrested Development and dessert. Although most of the visit is a blur the part that is CRYSTAL CLEAR is the apple tart she made. I think we ate the entire thing between us before it was even cool. But, hey, I was nursing 24/7 and she was about to leave for a place without ovens. Or indoor plumbing.

Of course I wouldn’t let her leave the continent without giving me the recipe, but in true free-spirit fashion, she wrote it in some sort of crazy shorthand on the back of a Gerber onesies cardboard insert. No, seriously:

To make things a little easier on myself, I got my Google on and tracked down what I think is the original recipe which provides useful information such as what exactly do I DO with the apples and the apricot jam? Although first I had to figure out what “fraugipani” was. Turns out it’s bad-handwriting for “frangipagne”, which is a kind of almond filling.

Are you getting hungry yet? I bet you are. And I haven’t even told you Carolyn spent a semester in France so she knows good pastry. Ready for the recipe? Allons!

Pastry:
1 1/3 cup flour
pinch of salt
1/2 cup butter, softened
1 egg yolk
3 Tbsp cold water

Mix the flour and salt, then add in the butter and egg yolk.

Oh those French and their love of butter.

Stir it together with a fork and then add the water a little at a time until you can press the dough together. If it’s still too dry, add a little more water.

My pastry took exactly the 3 Tbsp called for to look like this.

Wrap the ball of pastry in plastic wrap and chill for at least 30 minutes.

Remember, it has raw egg in it. Not that it's ever stopped me, but at least CONSIDER not eating it.

Frangipane filling

1/2 cup butter, softened
1/2 cup sugar
1 egg, beaten
1 egg yolk
1 Tbsp apple brandy (or whatever kind of liquor you have laying around)
2/3 c ground almonds*
2 Tbsp flour

Topping
2 – 4 apples (I used Braeburns)
1 tsp granulated sugar
1/4 cup apricot jam (or whatever you have in the panty)

Cream the butter and sugar, then add in the eggs.

I guess you could use a mixer, but it goes pretty fast by hand.

Dump in the brandy Kahlua and mix well. Combine the almonds and flour in a separate bowl, then add it to the wet ingredients.

The only thing in my liquor cabinet that seemed like a good substitute.

I suppose I could have used vanilla or almond extract instead. Oh well.

Roll out your chilled pastry crust so it fits in a tart pan or a pie plate. Fold up and flute the edges so it looks pretty.

Shockingly, I don't have a tart-specific dish, so this is just a 9 inch pie plate.

Preheat the over to 400 degrees.

Spoon the filling into the crust evenly.

The filling gets puffier while it bakes, so don't worry if it looks a little empty.

Peel, core and slice the apples into thin wedges. Arrange them super fancy and all artistic-like over the filling, pressing down firmly. Or if you’re just going to eat the whole tart yourself, just throw them on there.

This is just two apples, not the 4 my sister called for, since they were on the large size.

Bake at 400 degrees for 15 minutes, then reduce oven temp to 350 degrees.Bake for 10 more minutes, sprinkle the tart with sugar and bake another 10 minutes.

Looks pretty good, doesn't it?

While the tart is still warm, brush the apricot jam over it so it gets nice and melty.

You could water down the jam a little so it spreads without messing up your pretty apples.

Serve with vanilla ice cream or just eat it strait from the pie plate before anyone else can get their grubby hands on your tart. I’m taking mine to knitting group tonight so I don’t snarf the whole thing down myself. Although they won’t get to see it looking this pretty since there’s going to be a piece missing.

*A note about the ground almonds. I was going to just use almond flour but I couldn’t find any at my local Stop & Shop, so I used my handy-dandy mini-Cuisinart to just grind them up myself. Several other versions of this recipe call for marzipan instead, which would be an easy alternative.

Absolutely the BEST kitchen appliance ever.

So you know babies? Sometimes I think they can be real jerks. Not jerks like parking in the “Customers with Infants” parking spots even when you clearly do not even have a car seat jerks or throwing your trash on the ground when there’s a trash can right there jerks or driving down the shoulder of the highway in traffic and then flipping me off when I don’t let you cut in jerks. Those kinds of jerks are doing it on purpose. Because they are jerks. But babies, babies just think they’re being funny. For example, mine thinks it’s really hilarious to hit me in the face with stuff. Spoons, sippy cups, his hands. HILARIOUS. As far as I know I’ve never reinforced this behavior in any way – you don’t much feel like laughing when you’ve just taken a spatula to the eye – but no matter how many firm, purposeful “NO”‘s I say he keeps doing it. Jerk.

Baby Evan also likes to play a game called “Let’s do the total opposite of the thing my mommy just said I always do”. So, for example, if I have just finished telling my friends how he’s really started to understand the sign for and word “Stop!” when he’s being naughty, he will immediately throw toys or bite me (did I mention the biting?) or yank the curtains right off the wall, no matter how many times I say “STOP! MAKE WISE CHOICES!” Or I’ll explain how we’ve FINALLY been making progress in the solid food department and Baby Evan ate a whole mini-pretzel just this morning so he would love it if you shared your baby’s snack with him. And then he spits soggy, half chewed Goldfish all over someone’s Vera Bradley diaper bag. Jerk.

Of course, then there’s the opposite baby, the one who screams and thrashes in his car seat, tries to throw himself out of my arms onto the parking lot pavement and kicks me while I buckle him into the shopping cart, only to be the SMILIEST, HAPPIEST, FRIENDLIEST baby even in the History Of The World while I do the grocery shopping. By the time I’m pushing him through the dairy aisle he’s made four new friends and all of them have said “Oh what a goooood baby you are. Is he always such a gooooood baby?” Of course I say yes. They don’t really want to hear about the screaming. Because then I’d look like a jerk.

There’s a chance I’m being unreasonable and childish and a Terrible Mother for saying these things. Maybe. But you didn’t have to clean crap off of EVERYTHING when Baby Evan has a poopsplosion yesterday and then rolled around in it. On the carpet. Laughing. Jerk.