I feel bad for babies. There is so much NEW that they have to learn how to deal with; it's no wonder they're constantly hysterical.

This post is in honor of Husband, Baby Ecklet, and I all surviving one week of (mostly) successful cloth diapering!

I have a strange, overwhelming, unrelenting, probably psychologically indicative urge to name all of my future children after spices and herbs.

I’m 27 weeks and counting! And things are looking great so far. Except for my feet, which are getting harder and harder to see.

When I was about 9, my neighbor friend and I decided to have a mini carnival in our backyard.

Recently, Husband and I did laundry together. Like, at a laundromat.

As readers may know from my previous post about gender reveal parties, I stressed a lot about how to tell my family if Baby Ecklet was going to be a He or a She.

This is the story about the first moment I grew up.

Did you know there's such a thing as a "Gender Reveal Party"?

Sometimes I wish I were a nesting rabbit instead of a nesting person.

Husband and I rearranged our living room recently. Mostly because I had this wonderful urge to make things look cleaner in a really difficult way and also because I wanted to get rid of this hideous, sunburnt, orange-red, winged couch we've had in our apartment since we moved in.