Oh Crap, the Three's

As Ella's third birthday approached, I actually started to feel myself breathe easier.  We're still not potty trained (not even close) but we seemed to weather the two's with only minor battle wounds to show for it.   On the one hand, a part of me was nostalgic because really, there's just no way to justify a three year old as a toddler anymore (she really hasn't been for awhile).  Now, she's right smack in the middle of her preschool years, precocious as ever, and losing more of her baby chub every day.  Ack!  How did this happen?  WHEN did this happen??  (I think I want another baby).



On the other hand, I started congratulating myself on making it through her two's.  Jake and I high-fived each other with looks of satisfaction.  "We did it!  Yaaaaaay!"


And then I started getting comments on facebook about her impending birthday:


"Good luck with that!"
"Ugh, the THREE'S."
"My children were way worse at 3 then they were at 2." 
"Just when we thought the worst was over, he turned 3." 


 Someone even skipped a year ahead to give me advanced warning of the "F*** You Fours."


I died a little inside with every comment.


It's not that I thought Jake and I could dust our hands off and be officially DONE with the hardest part of child-rearing (um, I'm terrified of her teenage years), but I was hoping for at least a little reprieve.  Besides, all I had ever been warned about were the "Terrible Two's."  What is this with the three's now?   Lord knows you don't really get anything for making it out of the two's alive- no medal, no long weekend getaway sans kids, not even a shout-out.   In the very least, we had hoped to graduate with at least a partially potty-trained kid who "slept in" past seven.  No such luck.  


I scoffed and thought, "well, maybe that happens to OTHER kids.  Her two's were pretty tumultuous though, so I'm gonna say we've been through the worst..."


And here we are.  Three years and two weeks old, and as much as I wanted to say otherwise, it's like someone flipped a switch permanently to sassy mode.  Heaven help me.  There seems to be a new level of resistance to the things I ask her to do, marked simply by the fact that she's that much more articulate and conniving.  As if that isn't enough, she's started waking up multiple times a night for reasons like, "my curtain rod is scary," or "there's a penguin in my closet" or my most recent personal favorite, "I'm afraid I'm going to grow a peanut like Mi-yo."


Really, kid?


And so I find myself battling newborn-like sleep deprivation, only this time, having to maintain a conversation with my NOT newborn--at 2:20 in the morning-- about why it's just physically not possible for her to grow a penis.  (That's my girl.  If ever there was a good reason to lose sleep, she'll come up with it).  I stumble back into the room and wonder how it is that my one year old is sleeping better than my three year old.

 Jake: "What was it this time?"  
Me: "Apparently, she's scared of penises."  
Jake: "GOOD."


If I don't laugh, I'll cry.  But sometimes even laughing just takes too much darn energy.  In the meantime, I tell myself not to be scared about the three's (not much I can do about it now anyway). That maybe, just like everything else, it's a day by day thing.  Some days will need to be conquered with extra strong coffee, or chocolate, or wine, or maybe screaming into a pillow (me, not her).  And other days will find me in stitches over her spunky attitude, or simply marveling at the fun little girl she's becoming.  


I think there will be more of the latter.

How Low Can You Go?

It's never a good sign when your daughter is already crying before she sets foot in your room at 6:25 a.m. Ella had clearly gotten up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Which reminds me, I'd like to meet the person who coined the phrase, "the wrong side of the bed." I'd like to point out to them that in our house, there isn't such a thing as the "right" side of the bed anymore. There hasn't been one in almost two years, and probably won't be one for another fifteen more. So there.



And thus began our Wednesday.



Trying to be the optimist, I thought, "well, maybe it can only improve from here."



It didn't.



It still hasn't.



But at least now there's silence. It's almost deafening. Nap-time was once again preceded by a tantrum that would make even a New Jersey housewife jealous. I shut the door to her room, locked it, and walked away, bracing myself to go for the long haul with this one. I figured I might need some help steeling my nerves so I sat on the couch and mindlessly shoved several thin mints into my mouth. (Ah, comfort food). Upstairs, I heard Ella's room being ripped to shreds. All of the Melissa & Doug food being hurled at her door. Books being torn from bookshelves. Brobee's muffled voice singing about a party in his tummy, so yummy, so yummy yu-- a thud, and then silence. (Poor Brobee). In this relentless battle of wills that is the two's (and so I hear- the three's and fours....), I may have momentarily won the battle, but the paranoid and insecure side of me often wonders if I'm just one step closer to losing the war. I wonder if she knows how defeated I feel. I wonder if she knows that, with every instance of me losing my temper or placing her in her room to "cool off," I worry that I'm inadvertently chipping away at her beautiful, fiery spirit that on most other days, I envy for myself. Oh, I complain about changing diapers, wiping noses, and picking up dried, crusted strawberries off of the floor every day, but I'm actually quite good at those things. I could do that until the cows come home. But this whole thing of taking it upon myself to raise another human being to be a kind, compassionate, loving, and disciplined individual? Some days, I don't know how that's going to turn out. (Meanwhile, I'm sure it's written in the "How to Be a Successful Mommy" manual that they gave me when I left the hospital with her, but oddly, I haven't been able to find it since we got home...)



I was reminded of the study that was published a few years ago which found that the happiest place in the world is, quite surprisingly, Denmark. (I know, I know- I still can't believe Disneyworld didn't make the cut...) The Danish people, sandwiched in between their seemingly better-looking neighbors- Sweden and Norway, with their mediocre weather, and self-proclaimed heavy smoking/drinking habits have consistently made it to the top of the happy list because they seem to excel in something that we American's have always struggled with: setting the bar low and keeping it there. It's also entirely possible that most people there truly don't give a rip about what others think. It would make sense that if you aren't expecting too much (either from yourself or from anyone else) then who cares if others are impressed or not?



If you stop and think about it, it's actually quite brilliant.



So today, I don't care that my daughter has not had any clothes on since 7:30 a.m. I'm picking my battles carefully these days, and that's not one I care to fight. She has also eaten her weight in Craisins today, and if you're good at math, you'll figure out, that's a hell of a lot of Craisins. She'll probably be pooping Craisins until her 3rd birthday, but again, not my battle. There are worse things she could want to eat.



I may have started today (and many others) with an expectation bar that was several notches higher than what it should have been. And the reasons why it was set high to begin with are actually quite irrelevant at this point. Bottom line: some days, it's enough to make sure your kids are fed and aren't sitting in their own crap. Nothing more. You may not be able to get a shower or get makeup on. This is why God created baseball caps and deoderant. You may not even get them dressed. Bonus points if you do. Triple bonus points if the outfit actually matches. Also, don't expect them to act like normal, civilized human beings. They're irrational, narcissistic, and bi-polar- at best. Of course, I'm not advocating that we should all wake up each morning with a giant chip on our shoulder, but perhaps, if we decide that, as parents, anything above and beyond the mere basics is just icing on the cake, we'll find ourselves more pleasantly surprised instead of just plain exhausted.


Maybe. One can hope, right? So, how low can you go...?

Dear Ella. . .

Dear Ella,

We have not had the best day today. My mommy brain is trying desperately to understand what the big difference is between the clementine I handed you for a snack and the one you said you wanted. They are both orange. They are both round. They are the same size. Neither one of them has splotches.

But you wanted "dat one." As in, the one that I hadn't already just peeled and painstakingly de-seeded (for the love of all things holy, why aren't ALL clementines seedless?) And because it was only 9:20 a.m. and my second cup of coffee hadn't fully kicked in, I decided I was too tired to peel "dat one right dare."

That was apparently the wrong thing to say to you this morning.

And then about an hour later, I tried ever so gently to explain to you, sweetie, that blueberry muffins don't just materialize out of thin air. I know it hurts. Mommy has wished the same would happen with peanut M&M's and Double Stuf Oreos. But now, our next door neighbors have also been made aware that we have no muffins.

Remember when we played hide and seek this morning while Milo took his nap and I was hiding behind the shower curtain in the downstairs bathroom? Well, I wanted to say I'm sorry. I'm sorry because I didn't actually tell you that we were playing hide and seek. I just went and hid there and played Words With Friends for six beautiful, solitary minutes while you took a brief hiatus from whining and danced to the Fresh Beats.

It was just one of those days, I guess. And the rain didn't help. I hated that it rained this morning, which meant that we couldn't go swing. Believe me, I wanted nothing more than to go to the playground too. All mommies know that the playground = long naps and God knows Mommy needed that kind of a nap from you today.

I just want you to know, Bug, that I'm trying to see things from your perspective- really, I am. I understand that you didn't want to put your pants on before we went to Target. And although I do want to indulge your flair for the dramatic, I draw the line at letting you hop down from the cart and walk around on all fours, pretending to be a cat while we're in Target. I'm also sorry that your legs aren't long enough yet to reach the pedals of Mommy's car that you wanted to pretend to drive when we got home, which somehow meant that I was supposed to carry you up the front walkway into the house, but in doing so, made you scream even louder that you wanted to go back outside and walk in the house by yourself all over again.

Oh, and I'm sorry I laughed in your face today when you cried so hard that you farted. Mommy doesn't mean to invalidate your feelings, sweetie. It's just that if I don't laugh, I'll cry too. It just seemed like the better option at the time. I did cry though, while you were reading your book to me at naptime. Two little wispy tears that rolled out of the corners of both of my eyes that you couldn't see while I tilted my head back and gazed at the ceiling in your room and listened to your sweet sing-songy voice. And in that moment, I prayed I wouldn't remember that, barely five minutes before, I was pleading and cajoling- practically selling my soul to the devil himself- to get you to go upstairs and take your nap. I just prayed that I would only remember you "reading" to me about the little boy and his penguin who wanted to fly.

You know how you like to pretend to fill up the gas tank in your car? Well, Mommy's tank is sitting on empty today. "Running on fumes" is probably a more accurate description. But it doesn't mean that I love you any less. It just means Mommy is tired. But that's why God invented 7:30 bedtimes. I used to think it was because that's when YOU go to bed, but now, I think it's because he knew that parents would fall into their own beds, exhausted, at ten minutes after eight on a Thursday night. I've come to terms with the fact that some days, being "mommy" to you and your brother takes extra amounts of a lot of things that I don't have even sufficient amounts of-- patience, energy, grace, humor, humility, perspective, adventure.





Oh, and blueberry muffins.






So, thanks for being patient with ME.







Love you to the moon and back....

P52 Challenge: "Made With Love"

I have posted several times how mommy-hood has turned me into a sentimental shmuck. Although I still continue to ridicule my parents for proudly displaying choice pieces of truly "special" artwork from my childhood, I can at least say that I finally have the perspective that comes with from giving birth (hell, I almost cried when I saw my daughter's very first poop. It was a true masterpiece). And although she still continues to grace me with those "masterpieces," she at least now balances it out using other mediums that are, ahem, less nauseating.

I love that she's crafty and artistic. I love that she tells me what she's painting as she's painting it, and how she'll stand back for a second and cock her head to one side, and then say "THERE. Whadya think momma?"

So I tell her that it's stunning. Because to me, it is. And although I'm pretty sure it might be something that, years from now, will make her cringe with embarrassment (especially when I decide to break it out at her sweet sixteen party), for me, it's like a good wine you keep tucked away- it will only become more cherished and beautiful as it ages. A simple piece of paper and washable finger paints that managed to capture the essence of my little girl.

This post is linked up to my3boybarians P52 photo challenge. :)

"E" Stands for Extrovert

I have often said that God has a sense of humor, but never has it been so apparent to me than since I had kids. For example, I'm an introvert. Not the "socially-awkward-hermit" type, thank you very much. I just prefer to process things internally. I recharge by going off by myself. I have a few very close friends as opposed to a mile-long contact list in my phone of people that only "kinda" know me.

And then somehow, I managed to give birth to a raging extrovert. Of course, we didn't know this right away, but it became apparent rather quickly. She has big eyes like her momma, big mouth like her daddy. :D (love ya, babe!)

I sometimes still don't know how to handle her. She sings loudly in the grocery cart at the store (complete with hand and arm motions). She hams it up for bystanders. Introduces herself often to perfect strangers and invites them to come to the playground with us (and in most cases, we're not even heading to the playground, so this is usually news to me). People, animals, yes- sometimes even plant life, are all subject to her queries. And what do I while this is happening? Stand around awkwardly and pretend to play with my iPhone because, for the love, I just want to get in and out of the store without having another innocent shopper or street walker find out that Milo pooped in the tub last night.

So Little Miss Congeniality started preschool yesterday. And in typical Ella-bug style, she marched right in to her classroom, introduced me and Milo to her teachers (not even kidding), found her cubby and immediately started baking a purple cake in the play kitchen. Yep, that's my girl. Later, friends texted and called to see how I was holding up. "*sigh* I guess I'm hanging in there..." I typed, as I sat with a mug of coffee in my hand while Milo took his morning nap and I suddenly found myself reclaiming my living room. And while it's true that, once upon a time, I cried for an hour when we moved her from our bedroom precisely two feet across the hall to her nursery, I was shocked at my own level of emotional stability yesterday. Turns out all of us were ready (well, as ready as we could be) for her to reach this milestone. I did get a little bit nostalgic when I walked upstairs into her room and saw "Monkey" (her most beloved stuffed animal) lying on her bed. People told me children grow up fast, but I guess I just always thought they meant the "slow" kind of fast. Or that maybe they'd turn around and say, "gotcha! just kidding!"

Turns out, they weren't joking. It's actually the fast kind of fast. The "I-can barely-remember-when-you-were-a-baby" kind of fast.

Time for you to spread your first set of wings, baby girl. We love you.

Rules of Sleeping In {According to a 2 Year Old}

1. There is no sleeping in.

2. If it's light outside, it's time to get up. {Were you not aware that we live on a farm? Fresh eggs anyone??}.

3. If Mommy and Daddy stayed up late last night, I will wake up at least an hour earlier the next morning.

4. If Mommy and Daddy had that special red drink they never let me try, I will wake up at least TWO hours earlier the next day.

5. When Mommy gets up to feed Milo, I figure she might as well stay up, so I'll stand at the gate to my room and start throwing toys and wooden food down the stairs.

6. I will sing Yo Gabba Gabba songs at the top of my lungs if the toys and wooden food elicit no response.

7. I will stand .25 inches away from Mommy's face, all while poking her in the ear, nose and eye and asking for waffles. Especially on mornings when Daddy lets her sleep in.

8. I'm most curious between the hours of 6 and 8 a.m. and this is when I ask Mommy all of my good questions (I try to get them in before her first cup of coffee) . "Does Brobee have ears? Can I have some strawbehwwies? What's that name? Mommy, you change your shirt? What's in dat ceweal bar? Is dat Curious George's Daddy? Where's P-pop? Are those cars sleeping too?"


Check back soon for the "Rules of Sleeping In {According to a 6 Month Old}" post...

"I Do It By Myself."

My daughter is a lot of things, but timid, she is not. I am continually amazed at her sense of adventure and her "take no prisoner's" attitude, but find myself watching her take on new challenges with baited breath. (For the record, we've only had one trip to the ER and ironically enough, it was because she tripped over her own two feet and became fast friends with the corner of our shoe-mold).

So, to my Ella-"Go-Getter"-Bug: May you always have enough confidence to climb the highest jungle gym on the playground (with kids four times your age), enough humility to know when to ask for help, and enough determination to get back up when you fall off said jungle gym. In turn, I promise I'll always be there to cheer you on, and remember to let you be a kid. (And of course, be on standby with lots of hugs and Dora band-aids, just in case).

Seriously though- there's nothing you can't do. <3

Ella and the Bee

I'm not trying to toot my own horn or anything, but I'm a good speller. Writing and reading were some of my favorite subjects in school and I loved to participate in our school's spelling bees. I actually made it to Dallas, Texas in the regional spelling bee when I was nine years old but quickly realized I was a bit out of place when I looked around and saw other kids sitting there with open dictionaries on their laps. {Dorks} I was the first one out at that bee (someone had to do it, right?) and thus ended my spelling bee days.

Until now. I've decided that perhaps those years haven't been in vain after all because as it turns out, we're living with a 3-foot tall, brown-eyed myna bird. I've already talked of having to censor myself and certain music in the car. No more wordy-dirds coming from momma (at least I try not to). But it's not even the four letter slip-ups that I'm censoring these days. It's mentioning going to the pool, or the beach, or that maybe we'll bake cupcakes later. Or that we're going to Target. Or (directed at Jake) are there any "c-o-o-k-i-e-s" left in the pantry? Have you seen her "b-i-n-k-y?" "Should she have "m-i-l-k" or water?"

I realized that we've got ourselves into a bit of a spelling rut when, the other day, Jake hollered to me from the kitchen, "hey babe, I can't find the "c-h-o-c-o-l-a-t-e...c-h-i-p-s (we keep a bag around for baking...or, well, eating by the handful, basically). But by the time he got to the end of the word "chocolate" and took a breath to keep spelling, I was already lost. It was almost 10 pm and my brain was fried. And you better believe Ella's on to us about it. She may not know what, exactly, we're trying to spell just yet- but she knows it's code for something we don't want her to know about. According to my mom and dad, we had a cat named "G-O-K" when I was three or four. Apparently, I named him that because I had heard my parents spell "C-A-T" a few too many times. As in, "do you think we should let the 'c-a-t' in tonight?" (He was a bit of a rogue, kinda wandered around and didn't technically belong to us, but we fed him and brought him in, especially when the weather was bad). So I decided that I could spell too. One night at dinner, I casually asked if we were going to let the "G-O-K" in after we finished eating. After that, he was always lovingly referred to as "G-O-K Kitty." And my parents- like us- realized the futility in spelling more than half of the words in our conversations because kids learn to make inferences awfully early in life.

That being said, I wouldn't be at all surprised if the first words Ella learns to spell are in some way related to chocolate or cookies or bubbles.

The Difference 365 Days Can Make (Part II)

I was just telling a friend tonight how it hasn't totally sunk in yet that I'm the mother of a pre-schooler. She's certainly not a baby anymore (in the literal sense of the word, because let's face it, she'll always be my baby) but sometime in the last 6 months- when I basically blinked- she crossed that threshold from toddler to a precocious pre-schooler. She is starting to speak in complete sentences on a fairly regular basis now, holding conversations with me that actually make sense (!) and stepping gracefully into the role of proud big sister (most days, at least). She laughs at jokes, knows her ABC's and will sing Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star if you ask her to, but when we're in the car, she prefers Adele's "Rollin' In the Deep," "Hey Soul Sister" or anything by the British rock band Athlete. Her favorite colors are green and pink. I refer to her as my little social butterfly, preferring to be right in the middle of what's happening when it's happening. She loves to love, and this is probably one of my most favorite of her qualities. Last week, I left to go to the store and when I started to walk out the door, she turned around and said, "Wuv you Mommy."

And there's that heartbreak again. How could I ever love anything more? How is it that a ball of 6 lbs 15 oz could show me the capacity with which I'm able to love and yet expose the worst of my weaknesses? Come to find out, parenthood exists within these dichotomies. The reality is that it took her a relatively short journey to become my daughter- 41 weeks, to be exact. But it will take me the rest of my life to become her mother, to grow into this role. It's constantly changing and evolving, often requiring "just a little more" when I feel I have nothing left to give.

But talk about a return on the investment.

Hundreds upon hundreds of memories turn those long days of "nothing left" into moments of realizing I have more than I could have ever asked for. And to add to those memories tomorrow morning will be chocolate chip pancakes and a rousing version of "Happy Birthday" to my sleepy 2 year old- my lucky #13 baby girl. :)

Want a Little Cheese With Your Whine?

When Ella first started calling me "momma," my heart broke into a tiny thousand pieces and I felt like I just couldn't love her more.

But if I had a nickel for every time I've heard my name in the last week...well, I'd have myself a jar full of nickels, I guess. I never thought I would get tired of hearing that sweet little voice asking for me, wanting me, needing me. But then that sweet little voice got sassy. Those vocal chords grew stronger and seemingly overnight, developed the ability to say {read: shriek, yell, whine} my name a full octave and several decibels higher than before. We've recently reached a stage where the whining is incessant. And it's not because little Miss doesn't know how to communicate well and tell me what she wants. She's just whining because she can and also, I suspect, because she knows it gets under my skin.

Some friends of ours told us that this is a stage that lasts until she goes away to college. They said that she may not whine about the same things (I should hope not), but she will probably always maintain a variance of that sing-songy whimper when she wants or needs something, or alternately, has been told that she can't have said thing. They told us this and then they both laughed (their daughter is now away in college, so I guess they've earned the right to), but I'll be honest- I'm not worried about her making it to college. My nerves are so shot, there are days I wonder if she'll make it to her second birthday.

All joking aside, the whining is truly one of my biggest pet peeves (next to grammatical errors and slow left lane drivers). But I guess until some genius develops a mute button for our kiddos, I'm going to just have to deal. And invest in some good bottles of wine. Ella whine = Mommy wine.

It's a Bug's Life

There are so many reasons why I love my girl. The first time I saw her and she bore holes into me with those big eyes, I knew I was in way over my head. The only person that's wrapped any tighter around her little finger is her daddy and rightly so. But aside from that unconditional, overwhelming "I would lay down in front of a semi for you" bond, I am also in awe of the little person she's becoming and she's constantly keeping her Daddy and me entertained with the many facets of her personality. So I thought I'd share a few things that make Ella our Bug :)

1. She's quick. And I don't mean the way she ran and tripped over her own two feet and busted her head open on the corner of our baseboard kind of quick. (Who knew so much blood could result from a 3/4 inch gash??) I mean that she thinks on her feet. (Well, most of the time anyway). She knows exactly what she wants and she goes for it. That box of cupcakes in the corner of the kitchen counter that I thought I had hidden sufficiently behind the mixing bowls? Nope. She already spotted them from across the room. And that "I love you, momma" hug that she just came up and gave me out of the clear blue? Puh-lease. It's not because she wants to cuddle. She wants a cupcake. And she specifically wants the only chocolate one that's left- the one I've had MY eye on. She obviously doesn't yet know the lengths I'm willing to go to to protect my chocolate...

2. She's no push-over. In fact, she's probably the one doing the pushing most of the time. It's no secret to any of our friends with kids her age that our Bug has a fiery temper. There have been umpteen scoldings and timeouts in the middle of playdates because, yet again, she's bonked someone on the top of the head or smacked them in the face or thrown her sippy cup/binky/Little People figurine down (much the way an enraged football coach takes his cap off and pummels it to the ground). And yet, I find it oddly reassuring that my daughter will never be a doormat. I'm just having a bit of a hard time explaining there are very few times in life when it truly IS okay to throw a right hook (thanks to Daddy for teaching her that one *ahem*) and being told that she cannot have more animal crackers isn't one of those times.

3. She's a feeler. Now, it may be too soon to know if she is a true F on the Meyers-Briggs test, but I'm gonna say that all signs point in that direction. If looks can say a thousand words, then, well, she'd be horrible at poker. As with most kids her age, she wears her heart on her sleeve, and it absolutely melts me. But, while she can be the most loving, empathetic creature- showering Milo, me, Jake or any of her friends with hugs and kisses- a mere 30 seconds later, upon being told that no, she can not watch any more Elmo, she can also emit a shriek that would grow hair on a tomato, deliver a vicious backhand, and then clear all of her Litte People off of the coffee table in one fell swoop of her forearm.

4. She sings. all. the. time. And of course, I would still love her just as much even if she wasn't constantly entertaining Jake and me with her antics on Jake's ukulele, belting out snippets of "Hey, Soul Sister" or "Heartbreak Warfare," or dancing around like a spider monkey on crack to her favorite band, Athlete. But I love that she owns the stage when she takes it. And I'm especially grateful that she hasn't gotten hooked on the Wee Sing Silly Songs collection or anything from Thomas the Train.

5. She's an awesome big sister. Obviously, she has her share of jealous moments and for some odd reason, has become very vocal lately about the breast pump: "No Momma? No, no pump milk?!". (I tell her that it's okay, it scares Daddy too). But she genuinely cares for her "Mi-yo," whether it's sticking his binky back in when it falls out, helping me cover him up at nap time, rocking him in his carseat when he starts to fuss or just leaning in to kiss him on the forehead for no apparent reason. Am I naive enough to think that will continue once he becomes mobile and wants to invade her personal space? No. She'll probably wipe the floor with him. But I also have no doubt that her "take no sh** from anyone" mentality will also make her Milo's greatest advocate and defender, should he ever need it. :)

6. She's this perfect combo of crunchy nature girl meets dress up queen. I know a lot of people will be shocked by this, but I love shoes and designer hand bags. I love to have reasons to get dressed up. I believe that walking out to the mailbox is definitely reason enough to wear lip-gloss and mascara. And I always joked that if I ever had a little girl, I would school her in all things artsy and fashionable. She might reject it and that's okay, but by golly, she's going to know the difference between a real Louis Vuitton and a knock off. However, I didn't always exhibit an affinity for these things. I was the girl running around barefoot in her yard, looking under rocks for lizards and worms and climbing trees- decorating my arms and legs with colorful bruises and scrapes. So it's no surprise that she loves being outside (really, what little kid doesn't?) but I must confess that it was a happy moment to watch her pull out my new platform wedges the other day and say, "ooooh pwetty, Momma." as she attempted to put them on. (That's my girl). ;)

7. She has a higher pain tolerance than I do. This is an extremely good thing, considering she emulates the Tasmanian devil on her more subdued days. As we were running through the park the other day, I could see it coming and thought perhaps putting her in shorts wasnt the smartest idea. Sure enough, she took a spill on the pavement and I stifled a small gasp, but before I could ask her if she was alright, she popped back up, exclaimed, "you okay??" (I guess she thinks this is what she's supposed to say whenever she trips and falls since she's heard us say it) and kept on running, blood oozing down her leg. And the blow to the back of the head that she took the other day which resulted in lots of blood left me clinging to the kitchen countertop to keep from passing out, but by the time she left for the ER with Jake, she was happily walking out to the car, picking up random rocks and chucking them across the yard. 40 minutes after that she was home with a couple of staples in her head and I was still trying to will myself to finish my lunch. Gross.

So those are just a few things that make my Bug the intriguing and nifty little girl she is. And it's an amazing trade-off: I get to teach her how to tie her shoes and count to ten, and in turn, she teaches me how to live in the moment. Play hard, love without inhibition, laugh at the little things, sing at the top of your lungs, cry when it hurts- but most importantly- always get back up and keep running. :)

Purple Elmo's

I love watching Ella color. I love the non-conformity with which she scribbles. Lines? Who cares about staying in the lines? Who cares if she colors Elmo black, then red, then a couple of shades of purple and gives him a blue nose. Sometimes, i just want to crawl inside her head and see what she's thinking- just watch the wheels turn. (But, really, I'd only like to do this while she's between the ages of 1 and 5. After that- and especially when she heads into puberty- I think I'd rather not be inside her head. Might be a bit too much for me to handle).

Back to my little artist. I love that she loves to simply create, and the cool thing is that her imagination is turned on by what I would probably consider the dullest things imaginable. The other day, she spent an hour playing with some little glass votives (supervised playing, of course ;-) ). I sat on the floor with her and watched her as she picked them up, carried them to the table, set them down, randomly put cheerios in them, then picked them back up and carried them back over to the windowsill....and so on. For an hour. She had a blast. As I watched her, I found myself wondering what happens to us as we get older, that we stop being captivated by everyday things. For the record, I'm not advocating that we should all stand and gape open-mouthed at some kind of glass votive centerpiece (though I've been guilty of doing this with similar objects while shopping in Crate and Barrel. But that's beside the point). It just seems that over time, we tend to lose our curiosity about the little things. Even the big things.

At some point, we stop thinking outside the lines in the coloring book. Maybe it's because one day, someone tells us that we need to color Elmo red- because he's always been red and he'll always be red. It's no longer acceptable to make a purple Elmo. So we say, "okay," but we move on to our next project with just a shred more trepidation and insecurity. And this is just the beginning of a chain of events that cause us to become increasingly aware that it's not actually okay to branch out anymore- that "different" isn't so good after all. By the time we hit our teenage years, we're dropping money (if we're really lucky, it's our parents') in an effort to keep from standing out at all. We need to do, wear, and buy what everyone else is doing, wearing and buying. By the time we reach college, we decide on majors and minors and a small percentage will end up with a career in something that truly re-creates and energizes them. The rest fall into the trap that because we're truly good at "X", we need to put all of our eggs into one basket and pursue "X," even if it isn't life-giving. Even if it's, in fact, soul-sucking.

I grew up surrounded by music. I say it was my first love, because it truly was. But here's the thing about first loves- they're the exception rather than the rule, aren't they? They tend to stick with us better in our memory than they often do in our reality. After 25 years of lessons, recitals, gigs, a Music Education degree, a few years leading a worship team, a private piano studio, a handful of finished original songs (and many more that are unfinished), it's hard for me to recall a time in my life when music wasn't an integral part of it. But just because it was integral doesn't mean I always wanted it that way. The truth is, I have never totally resolved the feeling that I should be doing music- even if I didn't want to. Even if I was burnt out. It was my "X" and because I was deemed "good at it," the rest, as they say, is history. Even in the last few months, I've grown increasingly frustrated that I'm not churning out more original work and writing new stuff. But no one other than me has placed those expectations on my shoulders. I came to the startling conclusion that I've never allowed myself to let it go for any length of time because I almost felt like I was committing some form of adultery. My first love- how could I let it fall by the wayside while I explore other things? That would just be....wrong....right??

Wrong.

So I've let myself off the hook. And it's been incredibly liberating. Honestly, I don't miss music too much at the moment. Not only that, but I don't feel guilty for not missing it. I know I'll eventually come back to it and it'll be there waiting for me. And when I do decide to pick it up again, I can be sure it will be with a renewed vigor and intensity. Absence does make the heart grow fonder, after all. Until then, I've got this new camera that is completely perplexing to me, but I'm loving figuring out all of the buttons and gadgets and how if I take the picture at this angle and increase the shutter speed or use a different mode, I get this kind of result. Sadly, it's been a long time since I've actually learned something new. Too long. I can blame a fear of failure, in part. I can also blame a guilty conscience, as weird as it was for me to come to that realization. Yet I suspect an even bigger culprit in this was the gradual loss of a childlike curiosity for something new and uncharted. But I've been able to draw inspiration, once again, from my little Bug- who continues to be delighted in coloring pictures of purple Elmo's with blue noses. I hope she never loses her sense of creativity. But just in case she does...I think I'll frame them for future reference. ;-)

The Sound of Sleep...

This is day #2 that Ella has decided to sleep in. Usually, the term "sleeping in" is thrown around pretty loosely in our house. If I make it to 7:30 a.m., I feel like I've slept in (ah, long gone are the days where I hit the snooze button at 9:30 and rolled over for a few more minutes of uninterrupted bliss). My body has finally seemed to adjust to "toddler time" as well. On days when Ella is over at Jake's parents house, or she otherwise decides to randomly go past her usual 6:30-7:30 bracket, I'm usually awake or starting to stir around 6:45 or 7. Even given the opportunity to sleep in, my body just won't let me. Yay motherhood. ;-)

She went down at 7:30 last night, after a 3 hour nap from 2-5. It is now 9:35, and she's still going strong. I know, because I've already checked on her twice to make sure she's still, in fact, breathing. (Because part of motherhood requires you to rid yourself of any paranoia that something might be wrong before you can truly let yourself enjoy every last drop of your extra cup of coffee). Having rid myself of the worry (for now), I find it odd that I'm not quite sure what to do with myself. On the mornings she wakes me up early (or even at her usual time), I tend to sit in a glazed over state, holding my cup of coffee and thinking of all the things I could be doing if she were still asleep and yet when given the gift of time that is truly at *my* disposal, I drum my fingers on my coffee cup and peruse the internet and get antsy. What's up with that?

I could get a head start on a load of laundry, empty the dishwasher, hop on the treadmill for a quick powerwalk (if I'm feeling especially ambitious). Logically, I know there is a list a quarter-mile long that I could make of things that I *could* be doing. And while I'm always thankful to be given an extra few minutes of precious sleep (a commodity that will surely become even more rare and precious once Milo arrives), the truth is that my world wakes up and comes alive when she does. I wake up and immediately listen for her tiny, high pitched squeal and the sound of her musical seahorse and then eventually the dull thuds of all of her animals and books being chucked out of her crib. Something in me relaxes, even though I know that *my* time is over. No matter how tired and worn down I am from the previous days' antics, tantrums, nap-strikes, Sesame street songs and Elmo videos, jaunts in the yard, trips up and down the hall on my shoulders or driving in her cozy coupe, I am grateful for another day-another opportunity- to have my small world opened up by the tiny, curious hands of my daughter. My body might be unwilling and achy, but my heart is full and content. This is the reason I wake up. This, I have come to believe, is grace. ;-)

A Work of Art

My parents have this picture I made for them when I was about ten years old. It's a picture of Santa Claus and a Christmas tree with toys under it. And, just to show that I was versatile in various mediums, I went all out and used puff paint for this particular masterpiece. Yep, I was cool. Anyway, every year at Christmas time, they pull this picture out and put it up on their refrigerator. They even had it laminated for good measure, making it next to impossible to tear or cut up, as I had tried to do so many times years later. Now, it's become sort of a standing joke, that when I come to visit and go to open the refrigerator, I am stopped dead in my tracks by the deformed looking Santa (and is that his sack on his back or is he somehow related to Quasi Moto?) I always roll my eyes and make a crack about taking the picture somewhere very far away and putting it out of it's misery, to which my mom exclaims, " NOOooo- you leave that picture right where it is! Someday you'll have children and they'll make pictures for you and you'll think they're the most beautiful things in the world and you'll want to keep them too."

Now, let me be brutally honest: I've worked in several nurseries and done my fair share of babysitting enough to know that most of the pictures I've seen kids draw have been, well, the word ugly springs to mind. Some have even been downright insulting. A few years ago, I was in church and a little girl I used to babysit walked up at the end of the service and told me she had drawn a picture of me for me to have as a gift. And there I was: a long torso, midget legs, and fins for arms. I had a few strands of hair that were styled into a mullet and my forehead showed indications of a thalidomide birth defect. Yeah, real nice, kid. I'm glad to know that's what you think I look like. Somehow, I was able to mask my look of horror, forced a "thank you," and managed to take it all the way home with me, where Jake and I had a good laugh over it and it was then promptly placed in the trash can.

Instances like that, plus my disdain toward my mom's sentimentality over the Santa Claus/Hunchback picture fueled my belief that I would probably poke fun at my own kid's artwork someday too, (but not to their face, obviously). Ah, but parenthood seems to have a way of making us eat our words or pre-conceived notions. Ella picked up some crayons yesterday, so I got a piece of paper and taped it to the table and let her go to town. I was a little leary of leaving her with a box of crayons at her disposal, as only 2 months ago, I had tried to show her how to hold a crayon and scribble and she had instead found them more enticing to eat rather than to draw with. This time, however, she had figured out how to hold the crayons and had seemingly forgotten that they had ever tasted good. I watched her look of concentration as she figured out exactly the right angle to hold the crayon and saw how her eyes lit up as she began to make marks on the page. A few minutes later, I walked back over to find that she had even used several different colors and there were scribbles, zig-zags and curvy lines scrawled all across the paper- her first official piece of artwork. I almost had to stop myself from tearing up, but I suspect the pregnancy hormones were mostly to blame for that. Either way, it was beautiful and it was a part of her. And in that moment, I understood why my fugly Santa picture still adorns my parents refrigerator at Christmastime. Probably for the same reason that my mom has kept my baby dolls and barbies. They are reminders of her little girl as well.

So, I now resign myself to having my refrigerator and walls overtaken by my daughter's creative musings. The house is already covered in Fisher Price and Leap Frog toys, so why not go all out, right? Another milestone is reached and I am both the proud and sentimental Mama I swore I would never be. But I'm totally okay with that. :-)

Veggie Tales

And this is how our particular tale goes (names have been changed to protect the innocent).

There once was a little girl named Stella. Stella became a very picky eater after she stopped nursing. She loved cheese- lots of cheese. And she loved bread- lots of bread. And sometimes she would eat pasta (but only as long as there was cheese on it). She did not, however, like peas, carrots, green beans, broccoli, sweet potatoes, squash and cauliflower- or anything that did not resemble cheese or bread.

So she ate cheese and bread for lunch and dinner. Over and over and over again.

The mommy tried to hide carrots in her cheese quesadilla at lunchtime. Stella discovered them when she took her first bite and got so mad that she threw her quesadilla on the floor. The mommy went and beat her head against the kitchen counter.

The daddy showed Stella how to eat her veggies to encourage her to try them. Stella decided to kindly offer her daddy the rest of her veggies instead. Then proceeded to dump them on the kitchen floor. The mommy went and banged her head against the kitchen counter again.

This continued every evening with no end in sight.


The end.



*A sad and rather short story.* (Hey, I never promised it would have a happy ending).

Five Hundred Twenty Five Thousand Six HUndred Minutes...

How do you measure a year?

The past 525,600 minutes (I refuse to type that out again) have, indeed, been the most precious of my life so far. At 7:49 pm on a warm Saturday evening in June, all at once, I fell in love, had my biggest dream fulfilled and felt my heart break in a completely new way. I remember a very real feeling of panic as they placed this tiny peanut-person in my very shaky, unsteady, new-Mom arms. "Can't these nurses see that I don't know what I'm doing? Are they really going to leave her with me? What now??"

Looking back, I wish I could say that I remember more of our first few days and weeks together as a new family. Unfortunately, for about the first 3 months, I walked around my house half-robed in a zombie-like state, searching for either a paci, the coffee maker, or a burpcloth. So perhaps, the last year could be measured solely in the amount of time I spent awake when I should have been sleeping. I'm gonna guess it was about 495,000 minutes of the 525, 600.

But I have a confession. I didn't write in her baby book this year. *Bad Mommy.* I had every intention to. I even went out and bought a scrapbook, stickers, paper and special markers to do her very own scrapbook. And every time I open my hall closet and see all the materials still neatly tucked away in their original packaging, I laugh at my own naivety. Sure, after the baby goes down, the house is picked up, dinner is made and errands are run, why wouldn't I want to sit down and spend a couple of hours with a glue stick, scissors and stickers? I have a sneaky suspicion the book and all of it's components will be hanging out in our hall closet- quite possibly- until she's in college. So unfortunately, I wish I could tell you the exact date she said her first word, rolled over from tummy to back and vice versa, ate her first food and took her first steps, but I can't. But maybe knowing the dates isn't so important after all. I lived those moments with her, regardless of whether I made note of them elsewhere. And while my Mommy brain may not be functioning on all cylinders all of the time, I have come to realize that those moments are etched in my memory just as clear as if they happened yesterday: the way it felt to hold her for the first time, the way I melted when she smiled her first real smile (and I knew it wasn't gas), the first time she said "mama" to me and held her arms out to be picked up, the panic and helplessness I felt the first time we made a trip to the ER at 5:30 in the morning when she spiked a fever, the first time she walked to me....

These moments make up just a small fraction of the grand-total, but they are the ones that have helped define me as a mommy this year.

"In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights and cups of coffee" (and there were a lot of those)

"In inches, in miles, in laughter and strife

"In five-hundred twenty-five-thousand six hundred minutes

How do you measure a year in the life?"

How about love? There's been an abundance of it this past year and for that, I'm so grateful. :)

Finally...the birth story!

Our little Junebug is here!  Okay, well technically, she's been here for 5 weeks now.  But getting this post up got lost somewhere between diaper changes, 2 am feedings (and then again at 5, and again at 8...), too many loads of laundry and too few hours of sleep.  Then of course, there are those moments of just watching her sleep...and those moments turn into an hour, maybe even two. Those are the times when I *could* be catching up on some cleaning, writing the ever-growing heap of thank you notes or even taking a nap (a big HAH to that).  But I just want to sit and look at her.  Try to stop the time from passing so quickly.  Try to memorize all of her sweet little features because I know that tomorrow will bring even more changes.  She's changed so much already, it kinda makes my heart break a little....*sigh*

So here's the long and short of her birth story...(and since I'm stealing a few precious minutes while Ella is sleeping, this will more than likely be the "short" of it).

She took her sweet time getting here- the stats: born at 41 weeks on June 13, 2009- 7:49 pm, weighing 6 lbs 15 oz and 20 inches long.  Someday I will write the entire birth story- perhaps in another post, but judging by the pace of the last 5 weeks I might be lucky to have it finished sometime before her fifth birthday.   My labor lasted for a good 5 days before it was finally the *real deal.*  Yes, I said 5 days.  Yes, they were the longest and most trying 5 days of my life (or so I thought, until we were home and Jake was back at work and my mom had gone back to MI.  Those days were altogether a different kind of "long" and "trying," to say the very least...)  I was one of the unlucky few who had the prodromal labor- basically a fancy term for early labor that starts and stops irregularly with contractions that come close together and that are quite painful at times, but that don't really change the cervix, so most doctors and hospitals will send you back home to continue to wait.  If I had a nickel for the number of times I uttered the words "this is it!!" or pulled out my iPhone to time the contractions on the handy "Contraction Master" app, I would be a rich woman.  I still believe this was Ella's way of preparing her Mommy to realize that life was truly not about me anymore- and will never be again, for that matter. 

When I had my bloody show late Friday night- after labor that started the previous Tuesday- I knew it would be soon and was more than ready to get to the hospital.  We ended up arriving at the hospital early that Saturday morning (but only after stopping at McDonald's so Jake could get breakfast, because we all know the reputation hospital food carries.  But for the record, I passed on the bacon-egg and cheese biscuit, lest it should make a second appearance during labor).  Once we were settled in our room, the doctor came in after I was checked (and it was definite that they were not sending me home this time) and broke my water.  OMG, *ouch.*  I think I gripped the bed railing so hard that I left an indentation.  After that, Jake was too scared to hold my hand for the duration of the labor. (j/k). Next came a dose of stadol, which I was told would "take the edge off" but only served to make me talk out my ass about stupid things and feel nauseous if I opened my eyes the tiniest bit.  Finally, I got the blessed epidural by 1 pm and life was good after that.  Well, "good" in that I felt no pain whatsoever.  However, things didn't go *quite* how I pictured in my head from that point on...

They had determined some time earlier that she was sunny side up with her face looking up instead of at my back.  Because of this, she never dropped into my pelvis, therefore, I didn't progress past 5 cm and 80% effaced....and therefore, the doctor came in around 6 pm that day and said, "I think the writing's on the wall and we may need to proceed with a c-section."  

Done.  

I was exhausted, not to mention STARVING (can I truthfully say that food was probably the number one driving force behind my decision to agree to a section so quickly?  Well, that- and of course, getting to finally meet my baby).  So Jake got changed into the cute blue scrubs complete with matching mask and shower cap and I got topped off with another dose of "heaven-in-a-spinal-tap" and they wheeled me into the OR at 7:28 pm.  Twenty-one minutes later, I heard the most beautiful sound as they pulled her out and she cried for the first time.  

She is probably the most amazing little person I've ever seen (of course, I realize I'm extremely biased), but I look at her and can't imagine that I had anything to do with this little miracle.  She's got her Daddy's nose, my eyes (although they're still blue and look like they may stay that way) and perfectly shaped lips. *Look out Angelina.*  I remember the first time the nurses brought her to me in the middle of the night, only a few hours after my c-section.  I had already been allowed to hold her and bond with her a few hours prior while in recovery, but at that point, I was still heavily drugged and shaking like a fool, so it wasn't the optimum situation.  They wheeled her into my room a few hours later and I was awoken from my drug-induced sleep to hear the nurse say, "Hey Momma, your baby girl is ready to eat again." And then the reality started to hit: Oh my God, I have a daughter.  It wasn't a dream...she's outside in the real world now.  So there I laid in that dimly-lit hospital room, still half-numb from the waist down and with only a little ginger-ale on my stomach to quell the nausea, but none of the discomfort seemed to matter.  I held her with those unsteady arms that scream "new Mommy" and studied every tiny little feature, and just gazed at her and for those few precious minutes, time seemed to freeze.  Ironically now, I can't get the time to stop.  She's changing every day and now I will officially join Moms everywhere who can only comment that this is all going  too, too fast. 

More to come...(when she takes another long nap :-) )