it takes a whole hell of a lot more than a village

Hilary Rodham Clinton only gave us the shorthand version. What she should have said is, It takes a village full of like-minded, forward-thinking, well-informed friends, family, neighbors, and acquaintances, to raise a child successfully.
God help us.
Since our return to New Hampsha', we've been blessed to be a small part of four living generations, on both Jake's side and mine. And 98% of the time, when I say blessed, I really mean blessed. It's the other 2% of the time that might do us in.
My mother and my mother-in-law, I have to acknowledge, back me up 100% of the time. If they have ever once disagreed with mine and Jake's parenting philosophy, I haven't known it, because they haven't said a word. And even their mothers and mothers-in-law generally don't offer their opinions. Not often. (Although Jake is getting fed up with his time with Ghoulie being referred to as "babysitting" by certain ancient parties.)
And then there was last Sunday. Ghoulie's dedication day, which is the Protestant answer to a christening. Beautiful ceremony, officiated by my father and attended by several representatives of each of the aforementioned generations. Afterwards, brunch at my parents' house. For the first half of the afternoon, Ghoulie was content to be passed around between several family members. At one point, this allowed Jake and I to catch up with a very close friend of mine, and to get to know her new boyfriend. Ghoulie was being cuddled and cooed at by two members of the eldest generation, who shall remain nameless. We gazed at her across the room as we talked. (You know, Jake and I probably are not very good in adult conversations with others lately.)
During a lull in our adult conversation, I noticed Ghoulie gumming at something. From the other side of the living room, I asked, "What's in her mouth?"
One of the two cuddle-and-cooers gave a little laugh at Ghoulie's cuteness and replied light-heartedly, "Oh, we just gave her a little bite of quiche."
Cheese and eggs to our seventh month old. We were dumbfounded. The town crier, apparently, has not effectively spread the word on baby dietary rules to this particular village. He has his work cut out for him. . .
Now, if only we can get someone in this family to take on the town crier role.

"motherhood -- it's hot!"

Have you ever seen the Livestrong bands they sell at Motherhood Maternity, to benefit the March of Dimes? They're red and they have the afore-quoted sweet saying emblazoned on one side. Jake wore one when I was pregnant. It was cute.
The reality of it, however, I must call into question.
Ghoulie appears to be approaching her six-month growth spurt. She's nursing every two hours or so, all night long. On top of that, we're all recovering from a nasty cold that seems to have overtaken the entire state of New Hampshire.
This morning, I awoke 30 minutes later than I wanted to -- having once again set the alarm for 8 pm -- and rushed into the shower. Caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror: droopy eyes, serious case of bedhead . . . and a cute little baby booger stuck to my cleavage.

Mr. Clean

Jake's laundry handicap has been something of a running joke throughout the course of our marriage. He has a very, very difficult time seeing that dirty clothes make it into the hamper. They land on the bathroom floor, strewn about the bedroom, or somewhere else inconvenient, but in the proximity of the washing machine. But rarely do they land in the hamper. In our old house, I even bought a second laundry basket for the top of the basement stairs. (I'd rather not call it "enabling." I prefer to think of it as "keeping my sanity.")
Now, not only does Jake have his wife to nag him about this, but his mother as well. The result?
Today, upon taping up the Ghoulie's clean diaper, he asked, "Do I really need to put her pants back on? It's warm in here, and she seems so much happier with them off." I shrugged. Didn't matter to me until we had to leave the house, and that wasn't for another hour. (Note: He knew we'd be preparing to leave soon.) At which point I asked him, looking around the living room, "Hey, where'd you put her pants, anyway?"
Can you guess, can you guess?
Yup.
"Uh, in her hamper."
They tell you there's a first time for everything. What they fail to mention is, it will be the most inconvenient time possible.