Clean Dishes and Momsicles

I want to share a picture of the cleanest dishes ever:

dishwasherThese dishes have been through the wash four times. How does this happen?

Yesterday morning I realized someone accidentally added a couple of dirty dishes to an otherwise clean bunch, so I decided to run them all through the wash a second time. The dishwasher ran its cycle and shut off, but I forgot to unload the dishes.

Later that night, I was nursing Miss P to sleep on the couch (yes, despite the advice of nearly every book, article and person, I nurse Poet to sleep every night) when I realized the dishwasher was running again. I didn’t want to disturb her by yelling upstairs to Tim, who was already in bed at this point, so I decided to try to ignore it, even though it was making me crazy knowing that these dishes where on their third whirl.

It was still bothering me about 20 minutes later, when Tim came downstairs for a drink.

“Why is the dishwasher on?” I asked.

He was still half-asleep and misunderstood me. I suppose he thought I was telling him that the dishwasher wasn’t shutting off, that it was just running and running. Thinking he was remedying the problem, he twisted the dial around to OFF before the dishes were finished.

“There, it’s fixed.”

“Are you serious?” I asked. “Why would you do that?

I explained that I asked why the dishwasher was running because the dishes in it were already clean, not because it was broken and not shutting off on its own. Since the dishes had not yet finished rinsing, I asked him to turn the dial back to where it was before he’d touched it. He did, and went back to bed.

A few minutes later, I got up to put Miss P in her crib when I realized he’d, once again, started the wash cycle from the beginning, and I totally went to bed without shutting it off.

Hence the cleanest dishes ever.


We’ve been playing a new game around here, which is one of the reasons I forgot to unload the dishwasher in the first place. The game goes like this:

  • Lay Poet on her back.
  • Poet rolls over.
  • Poet looks around at the wonderful things she couldn’t see before.
  • Poet is tired of being on her belly, but doesn’t know how to roll the other way.
  • Poet screams.
  • Flip Poet over.
  • Poet rolls over.

It goes on like this until I pick her up. Over and over and over. I’ve been trying to teach her how to roll from her belly to her back with no success. I think it’s just something she’ll learn on her own in time.

Miss P’s Grandma and Grandpa found the cutest crawl mat at the flea market, so her play area got a serious expansion this week.

matw2 matw4 matw1

I don’t know what it is about this mat, but she gets so happy every time she’s on it. She seems to get a kick out of rubbing her hands over its surface to feel the texture and scratching at it with her nails. (She also does this with the couch, blankets, her toys, basically anything she can get her hands on.)

Miss P loves to be naked, so, we’ve been giving her five minutes or so of naked play-time on her mat every night before her bath. In this time, she kicks her legs, rolls over and squeals with delight. One night, she peed.

Whew! You’d think all this excitement would wear her out, but she actually seems to be on a napping strike right now. (That’s what I get for mentioning naptime in my last post.) It’s like she’s afraid to close her eyes for fear of missing something really fantastic. I tell her she’s the most interesting thing going on in this house these days and that when she sleeps, I just sit next to her and write about all of the wonderful things she does when she’s awake, but I don’t think she believes me, because boy is she afraid to close her eyes.

Here’s my solution:

Ergo Nap

This thing has magical powers. Seriously. As soon as she starts showing sleepy cues (usually rubbing her eyes and/or yawning), into the Ergo she goes. Within minutes she’s peacefully snoozing, and my hands are free to write, clean, do laundry, unload the dishwash– wait, maybe I don’t have an excuse as to why those dishes went through the wash four times after all. Darn. Don’t tell Tim.


Lately, we’ve been on a mission to get Miss P to take a bottle. Tim used to try to give her a bottle every night after her bath as part of her bedtime routine, but she’s never consistently taken it. We’ve tried several different types of bottles and various feeding positions with little success. Since these attempts often ended with Miss P crying and Tim frazzled, we eventually gave up. I guess it just seemed like more trouble than it was worth.

Now she refuses the bottle altogether.

I keep telling myself it’s not that big of a deal that she won’t drink from a bottle, and it hasn’t been yet, but there’s a peace of mind in knowing that if, for some reason, we were separated, she’d be able to eat. It would also be nice to get to use the 45984 bags of pumped milk that are crowding our freezer.

While scouring the Internet for suggestions on how we might get Poet to take a bottle, I stumbled across what I thought was a fun idea: Momsicles! Momiscles are “popsicles” made from breastmilk. Who comes up with this stuff? I liked the idea of freezing breastmilk and offering it as a treat so much that I had to try it. (Hello logical and enjoyable precursor for solid foods!) It also seems like a great natural alternative to using ointments and such to alleviate teething discomfort.

I pumped while Miss P was napping, poured the milk into a popsicle mold, popped it into the freezer, and Viola! Momsicle in the making! I couldn’t wait for Tim to get home from work so we could try it.

The results:



She, obviously, didn’t chomp the whole thing down, but she was definitely interested. It was a bit messy, and it would probably take her two weeks to eat the whole thing, but it was fun. I will definitely be keeping these on hand when teething is in full-effect. Hopefully by then, she will be able to hold them by herself.

We still haven’t come up with a solution for the bottle. I don’t think we’re going to.

What’s Miss P’s opinion on this whole ordeal?

Just this:

bottleAnd there you have it.

Miss P Moves In and Rolls Over

If I kept a running tally of the questions I’ve been asked about Miss P since her birth, the two most prominent would be: How is she sleeping? or Does she sleep though the night? I’m not really sure why this topic generates so much outside interest, but, for the record, the answers have pretty much always been great and yes, mostly. That being said, the sleeping situation in this house has still been upside down for quite some time now.

When Poet was a newborn, she slept in our Pack n’ Play’s bassinet attachment. By the time she was six weeks old, she was moving around so much that I was scared to let her continue sleeping this way, but we weren’t ready to transition her into her own room yet. We decided she’d continue sleeping at the foot of our bed in the play yard, sans bassinet. Tim removed the attachment, and my parents were appointed the task of finding sheets.

On the first night of this arrangement, I was excited as I set a peacefully sleeping Miss P on the mattress.

“Look how sweet.” I said to Tim, and we both hovered over the Pack n’ Play, smiling in silent observation.

The mattress was flat, unlike the surface of the bassinet she’d been sleeping in since birth, and it allowed her the space to stretch her quickly growing limbs out. Even so, she was on her back with her legs in the fetal position, her knees suspended in the air as if the bassinet was still cradling them.

Just as Tim and I settled into bed there was a thunk, which caused us both to jump up. In an instant, we were back in front of the Pack n’ Play. We took turns looking at Poet, then at each other, then down again. We watched as she pulled her legs into the air, extending them straight out, only for them to come crashing down onto the mattress a couple of seconds later. Each time her heels hit the mattress, her arms flailed at her sides and her head jerked in alarm.

It only took a few more rounds of this before Miss P was wide-awake and staring up at us in confusion.

Bedtime fail.

I nursed her back to sleep while Tim snapped the bassinet into the frame of the play yard. When she was, once again, sleeping peacefully, I lowered her into the bassinet. I spent the rest of the night checking on her every five minutes to make sure she was safe.

The next several nights brought more of the same. Tim removed the bassinet attachment, I gently laid her down, she flailed around on the mattress until she woke herself up, then I nursed her back to sleep while Tim reattached the bassinet.

“I have an idea,” I said at the end of the week. “Let’s bring the Pack n’ Play downstairs so she can play in there during the day and get used to being on a flat surface.”

“And you think that’s going to work?” Tim was skeptical.

“I do. I really do.”

In reality, I was only sure of two things:

1) I really needed to get some sleep.


2) That wasn’t going to happen with Poet sleeping in the bassinet.

We started with a window of play time each morning, then began  incorporating naps, as well. By the end of the second week, Poet was sleeping on the flat mattress throughout most of the night, and I was sleeping on the couch beside her. She usually woke up around 4 am to eat, at which point I brought her on the couch with me. When she finished eating, she slept in the crook of my arm until Tim woke up for work at 5 am. The hour she was in my arms was always the best sleep I’d gotten since she was born.

Once our sleeping routine was established, we moved the Pack n’ Play back into our bedroom. I was more excited and optimistic than I’d been the first time we tried this, and I silently cheered as I laid a peacefully sleeping Miss P down then tiptoed to bed, where Tim had already been asleep for over an hour.

Within minutes there was a thump. I closed my eyes.


This is going to work, I repeated in my head. She’d been sleeping on the flat mattress for over a week now. What difference did it make what room she was in?

Thump. Thud. Thump.

I jumped up and looked into the Pack n’ Play. Two eyes stared curiously back at me. Miss P was wide awake.

“What’s wrong?” said Tim. He rubbed his eyes.

“She’s up.”

We sat at the end of the bed peering into the Pack n’ Play. Poet kicked the mattress and yelled. When she didn’t stop, I scooped her up and comforted her while Tim folded the play yard and brought it back downstairs. Thus ensued our previous sleeping arrangements.

Over the past couple months, Tim’s lugged the Pack n’ Play up and down the stairs at least ten times. The last time he moved it, he said, This is it! I’m not moving this thing one more time, and, so, it’s been downstairs ever since, and I’ve been sleeping on the couch with the Boppy.

Last weekend, I decided I couldn’t possibly go on like this. Our solution? Tim moved Poet’s crib from her nursery into our bedroom.

This was her upon waking up on her first morning in Mommy and Daddy’s room:


We had exactly two nights like this. That’s right TWO, and not because of Poet; she slept great. This time I was awake because of our chihuahua, Brooklyn. Brooklyn likes to pee on the carpet, so he sleeps in a crate in our room at night. He usually plops into his mound of blankets and goes right to sleep, but he decided to spend this particular night whimpering, barking and scratching at the bars on the crate.

To prevent Brooklyn from waking Poet with his antics, I let him out of the crate and gave him free rein downstairs. What did he do with his freedom? He spent it pawing at the bottom step and whimpering, while I sat in bed listening to the ruckus he was creating and wondering how I could possibly be the only one awake though all of this.

Eventually, his whimpers escalated into yelps and before I knew it,  Miss P was back in the Pack n’ Play, and I was on the couch with Brooklyn panting, shaking and cowering above me.

This was a week ago. Since then, I’ve made one more attempt to sleep upstairs, which came to an abrupt end when Miss P rolled over and got her leg wedged between the crib’s slats. (We decided to forgo a padded bumper after reading countless articles all declaring them to be a safety concern.) Operation Sleep in My Bed is now on hold until we get a mesh bumper for Poet’s crib. I certainly don’t want her to suffocate on a padded bumper, but I don’t want her little arms and legs getting caught in the slats, either.

Until then, the couch remains my home. Hey, it’s comfortable.

In other news, sometime over the past few weeks this started happening:

tummy time

Last week, I set Miss P on her back on her play gym and took two steps to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water. I looked up a moment later, and she was on her belly pushing herself up. She looked at me, a huge grin on her face. I can’t believe how quickly she’s growing and changing.

She started rolling from her back onto her belly just before the three-month mark. In these early attempts, she usually made it over, but one arm always got stuck underneath her. This made her so upset she would scream in protest until someone either flipped her back over, or freed her trapped arm.


“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!” translates to: “Help, Mama! I can’t get my arm out!”

Now she’s a pro! Every time I set her on her back, she rolls, almost effortlessly, onto her belly and looks around at all the things she couldn’t see before. She’ll stay like this for several minutes, then she’ll briefly lay her head down before, once again, pushing herself up. Eventually she’ll get upset in this position, and since she can’t yet roll from her belly to her back, she needs a little help flipping over.

tummy time 2

Over the past week, she’s been rolling onto her belly in her sleep and planting her face right into the mattress, so I’m back to the days of jumping up to check on her every five minutes.

Life is rough

“All these new developments are exhausting!”

At least nap-time’s a go!

Miss P Makes Three!

I suppose I’ll start at the beginning, before there was a Miss P to have adventures with. It’s difficult, now, to imagine that a time like that ever existed.

Tim and I got married on December 12th, 2012, on a beautiful beach in St. Thomas, USVI. It was a fairy tale wedding. Shimmering turquoise water lapped at the sand around us as the photographer snapped countless pictures. “A Dream is A Wish Your Heart Makes” played softly in the background. There were hugs and kisses and bubbles, lots of bubbles, blown through heart-shaped wands. The bubbles drifted away in the salty breeze and I felt so light, like I could float away in one of them.


12/12/12 Emerald Beach, St. Thomas, USVI

Since our wedding took place so close to Christmas, we decided to celebrate the holiday without gifts. There was, however, one thing I’d wanted for quite some time.

“All I want for Christmas is a baby,” I told Tim when we’d returned from our trip.

Well, I got my wish.

My pregnancy started like this:


January 15th 2013. Eeek!

and ended like this:

October 4th, 2013. Welcome Miss Poet!

Here’s a look back at some of the highlights in between:

As soon as I found out we were expecting a new addition, I began researching all things pregnancy, birth and baby related. I’d always felt equal parts of fear and distrust toward the mainstream medical industry, so I knew, from the beginning, that we were going to do things a bit differently.

At  20 weeks, we officially announced Miss P was on her way!

The 20-week mark was very special for us. It came right after our anatomical scan, where we learned that our little babe was healthy and developing normally. Of course, as a bonus, we also learned that babe was a SHE! Tim and I had a feeling she was a girl from the very beginning.

20 weeks is also when I switched from a traditional OBGYN practice to Midwifery Care at a local free-standing birth center. (A choice that I would make a million times over again.) I wasn’t completely unhappy with the OBGYN. She was nice and all, but I wanted something much more personal. Plus, most of my appointments consisted of hours of waiting- the prize at the end being a whopping five minutes with the doctor. She always asked if I had any questions, but it seemed more out of protocol than genuine concern. And since this was my first baby, I always had lots of questions.

I’d also watched documentaries (I’m a documentary junkie) like The Business of Being Born, Pregnant in America and What Babies Want, which made me realize I had choices. I’d never realized there were different types of prenatal care. I also didn’t know that OBGYNs are surgeons above all – and I mean no disrespect to OBGYNs. We’re very lucky to have them in case of a medical emergency, but I really didn’t feel comfortable with this new information given that I wanted my birth to be as natural as my body would allow it to be.

It was through this same research that I learned about midwives, doulas and many other birth options such as declining unnecessary medical interventions, laboring and/or birthing in a tub, delayed cord-clamping, requesting immediate skin-to-skin contact with the baby and so on. I also learned about the extraordinary benefits of breastfeeding.

Armed with this new information, I started seeing a midwife and continued to research options that would help me plan a gentle and memorable birth ensuring a smooth transition from womb to world for my little one.

Insert trite Subway joke [HERE].

Third Trimester! Woohoo!

Note: I cannot say enough wonderful things about HypnoBirthing! It was a no-brainer that I would have an unmedicated birth. I’m the girl who won’t even take Tylenol for a headache, so yeah, drugs were definitely out. A lot of people told me I was crazy and that I’d never be able to do it. (Spoiler Alert: I DID! And HypnoBirthing played a major role in this.) Tim and I took a 5-week course at a place called Amazing Births and Beyond, and it was such an empowering experience. In fact, if we’re ever expecting another baby, I will definitely take this class again!

It was also through Amazing Births and Beyond that we crossed paths with our magnificent doula. (Much more about that in my birth story.)

I was very reluctant to work on Poet’s nursery throughout my pregnancy, but for practical reasons, we wanted the room completed before her arrival. Even though we knew she wouldn’t be using it right away, it didn’t make sense to be running around trying to furnish and decorate a room while caring for a newborn baby, so I had to give the over-active superstitious side of me a nudge and get down to business.

I couldn’t have been happier with the results!

Poet's Nursery

This was another very special week because my sister and brother-in-law came to visit. The last time we were all together was eight months earlier, for my wedding, so it was really nice to see them.

We also got a sneak-peek at our little woman in 3D/4D, which isn’t something I would’ve ordinarily done, (it’s actually something I was opposed to) but it ended up being a great experience to share with the family. (Me, Tim, my sister, brother-in-law, mom and dad all squeezed into the room.)

It was at this week’s end that we had our baby shower and officially announced Miss P’s name: Poet Victoria.

This was our Baby Shower Board:

It was also around this time that I began to constantly worry that she was going to make her appearance too early. (What can I say? I’m a worrier!)

We made it to FULL TERM! (Sigh of relief!) Also, at 37 weeks, we were in our window to deliver at the birth center.

This week I packed, unpacked and repacked my bag about ten times. How are you supposed to know what to put in there? I sure didn’t.

(In retrospect, the three most important things in my bag turned out to be yoga pants, Sleepy Time Lip Balm (the greatest stuff on Earth!) and my favorite two-bite brownies.)

We finally chose a pediatrician this week. (A task I put off for months because it just seemed so overwhelming.)

Growing up in the Northeast, Fall had always been my favorite season. Even though the South Florida air hadn’t even begun to cool off yet, I was still one happy Mama that Miss P was going to be a Fall baby. It brought back glorious memories of leaves blazing with color, fresh pressed apple cider and pumpkin picking.

Beyond the excitement, this week was also the start of much unwelcome (and, in my opinion, unnecessary) stress. By the time I had reached the middle of my 40th week, I was sent for a bio-physical profile and non-stress test to monitor Miss P and make sure she was still doing well. Since the placenta can begin the deteriorate after 40 weeks, these tests would be repeated every two days until her arrival.

My midwife was able to conduct one round of tests at the birth center, but I still ended up having them repeated at a near-by hospital on three separate occasions. Each time I arrived, the nurses drilled me about why my doctor had not yet scheduled an induction, (a word that brought forth in me all-encompassing fear) then they completed the tests in silence. When they finished, they left me in the triage room while they phoned my midwife’s office with the results.

“Do you want us to keep her?” The nurse always asked. “Do you at least want us to check her?”

I smoldered on the exam-table as I listened, through the curtain, to these phone calls. I was always afraid the nurse was going to try to admit me, and I ran these scenarios through my head as I waited.

At one of the visits, the nurse outfitted me with two hospital bracelets. One contained my name and other identifying information, the second was neon orange with the word “ALLERGY” marching across it in bold black letters.

“What are these for?” I asked.

“Just in case.”

She walked away leaving me in a panic. Why did she put these bracelets on me? Was something wrong this time? Was Miss P okay? Were they going to keep me?

After a few minutes, the nurse came back to inform me I could leave. I jumped off the table and exhaled a sigh of relief that all was well. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

It was at this point that I began to worry Poet wasn’t going to make an appearance at all. Silly, I know, because obviously she had to come out eventually, but seriously. It wasn’t that I minded being pregnant. Actually, I really enjoyed being pregnant. It was just the constant clatter around me: “Have you had that baby yet?” “Is the baby here yet?” “How about now?” “Now?” “What about now?” “Is that baby ever coming?”

(People, listen up: Don’t do this! It’s annoying, and it creates unnecessary stress.

But, you say, it’s exciting!

Yes, yes, it is, and, trust me, no one is more excited than the Mom-and-Dad-To-Be. And trust me, again, they aren’t going to forget to tell you when the baby arrives.)

I was also starting to get worried because if she didn’t come on her own before 42 weeks, I would no longer be allowed to deliver at the birth center. Instead, the natural birth I had planned would turn into a medical induction. The thought of that was terrifying, especially since my extensive research had opened my eyes to the potential dangers of Pitocin, the synthetic hormone commonly used abused to jump-start or speed along labor.

Sure I’d found things to worry about throughout my pregnancy, but this was the first time I realized just how little control I actually had.

I walked around the block 4589728 times a day in the Florida heat and poured cayenne pepper over everything I ate, and still no baby. I was angry. I felt like my body was failing me. I stopped taking phone calls, and refused to make a Week 41 chalkboard. There wasn’t even supposed to be a Week 41.

When I’d reached 41 weeks and 2 days, my midwife suggested I go for an induction acupuncture session with another midwife, to which I agreed. I’d always had an interest in acupuncture, but I’d never tried it before. I scheduled a session for the next day.

I had my doubts that acupuncture would work, but this new plan gave me enough hope to finally break out the chalk and get started on my Week 41 board. When I finished, I plunked onto my yoga ball and tried to clear my mind of negativity. My back hurt and I was exhausted. I decided for the rest of the day I’d try the only thing it seemed I hadn’t tried yet: relaxing.

I couldn’t sleep that night. My back was still bothering me, and I was restless. Around 1 AM, I began having contractions. They were completely different from the Braxton Hicks contractions I’d been feeling for months now. This time, they started in my lower back and pulled around to the front, like elastic being stretched beyond its capacity. I was getting scared and excited, but I still wasn’t sure if what I was feeling was real.

I woke Tim up.

He gathered pillows and blankets, and we camped out on the couch like kids at a slumber party.

The contractions were coming every 15 minutes or so and felt nothing like I’d expected. They were painful, sure, but not unbearable. Still, I couldn’t relax enough to sleep, so I watched Tim sleep, from my end of the couch, while I impatiently waited for the sun to rise. I wondered if tomorrow would be the day we finally got to meet our little girl.

When 8 AM arrived, I called my midwife and told her I’d been having contractions since 1 AM. I was hoping this would excuse me from the next round of tests I was scheduled for that afternoon. No such luck.

By the time Tim and I arrived at the hospital, my contractions had almost completely stopped. Between waiting to be seen and both tests, we were there for just over three hours.

As the nurse strapped elastic bands around my belly for my non-stress test, I told her I’d been having contractions the previous night and throughout the morning. She asked me if I was able to talk through them. When I told her yes, she laughed and assured me that what I was feeling were certainly not “real” contractions.

I left the hospital, once again, with reassurance that Miss P was doing fine, but as we headed to my acupuncture appointment I couldn’t help feeling a bit defeated. I was so excited I’d finally started having contractions just to be told they weren’t even real. Why wasn’t my body doing what it was supposed to do?

Since we’d been at the hospital for so long, Tim offered to stop for a bite to eat on our way to the acupuncturist’s house. We made small talk as we ate our sandwiches, having no idea it would be the last meal we’d eat as a family of two.


YOUR DESTINATION IS ON THE LEFT blared the GPS as Tim approached the driveway.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” I asked, feeling a little unsure.

He nodded, and we got out of the truck.

A cat rubbed its back against the tire as Tim shut the driver’s-side door, then it trotted along behind us. There were sprawling plants every which way leading up the front walk, and I felt, for a moment, like Mary from “A Secret Garden.”

The front door swung open, and we were greeted by the acupuncturist herself. After a quick exchange of hellos, she ushered us down a hallway and through a couple of rooms until we reached her workspace.

I sat next to Tim on the couch as I glanced around. The space hosted numerous books, pillows and tchotchkes, all tidily arranged on the walls, shelves and floor. The room was dimly lit, and it seemed to buzz with positive energy. I was beginning to think this acupuncture business just might work.

The acupuncturist spent a few minutes talking with us, then she asked me to take my shoes off and climb onto her table. I was dizzy with a mixture of uncertainty and anticipation as I sunk into a pillow that rested near the top of the table, and I rattled off something unintelligible because that’s what I do when I’m full of nervous excitement.

She explained what she was doing as she pushed the needles into my skin in swift motions, concentrating on my lower legs, feet and hands. I didn’t feel most of the needles going in at all, but there was one that gave me a jolt like I’d just stuck my foot into a light socket.

“Think of it as a disconnect that’s been reconnected,” she said, and I pictured energy, which, in my imagination, looked a lot like rainbow glitter, swirling through my body. I felt exhilarated.

Next, she mixed a homeopathic remedy, of sorts, for me. She took turns pouring drops from several tiny vials into a large plastic bottle full of water. After each new addition, she shook the concoction vigorously. While she worked, she explained the basic concept of homeopathy: Something about throwing a stone into water and ripples traveling away. The way I understood it was that homeopathy is basically a thing that’s diluted so many times that it becomes nothing, but still something. Confusing, yet intriguing. I had a burning desire to learn more.

She held the bottle out toward me, and my head whirred as I accepted it.

“Take a sip every 30 minutes or so,” she said. “Swish it around in your mouth, and hold it under your tongue for a little bit before you swallow.”

Like wine, I thought, trying to distract myself from the fact that I was about to ingest some unknown substance. I won’t lie. I was scared to drink the whatever-it-was, (I’m funny about stuff like that) but I did it anyway. Sure, I’d just met this woman, but I found her fascinating. She seemed to know exactly what she was doing, and I trusted that she wouldn’t give me anything that would harm me or my baby.

“It tastes kind of like printer ink, but mostly like water,” I told Tim as we drove home. Don’t ask me where I came up with this considering I’d certainly never tasted printer ink before. I took another swig and swished it around just as I’d been instructed.

“Yep,” I said. “Printer ink.”

“Oh yeah?” He kept his eyes on the road. He was used to my offhanded comments by now.

Then, somewhere along the 30-minute trek home, I began having contractions again, and, this time, they didn’t go away until my daughter was in my arms.

COMING SOON: Miss P’s Birth Day