Every Little Thing

Over the past few weeks the girls and I have put on some major mileage and had so much fun and are basically squeezing all the adventure we possibly can out of these few precious weeks of summer our New England climate gives us. And summer is loving us back.

Brooklyn: We walked to three playgrounds in one day (!), I had too-much wine and wonderful catch-up time with my girlfriends (!!) and then we took a FERRY to HEAVEN (!!!) and it was so absurdly magical that I had a little lump in my throat for most of the weekend.

Parenting at the same time, in the same place, with old friends, is amazing. You see them in a best, new light. And you also see that you are the same to them, and they are the same to you, even though everything is different.

And. As with most things, once you are actually doing the thing, it just...unfolds. I was in a mild twist about having the girls in the car for so long and general traveling solo-parent-style. And, of course: There was a grating 45-minute stretch of whining (the mamuuuuh mamaaaaaah maaaamuuuh sob sob thing that makes one wish ears were never even invented) instigated by my darling eldest before she took her own trip to Nap-ville, at the beginning of the 3rd hour of driving on the way down. As per my "breaks every 2 hours" rule, we had just pulled back on the road from our Big Treat fast-food lunch when the whining began. I wanted to shove their new Minion toys (which Baby G. promptly christened "my pickle-bull" after "despicable") into my ears. But then my big girl gave in to her fatigue and slept the entire rest of the ride to the CT grandparents' house and proceeded to have the best times ever for the rest of the weekend. There was one night wherein we all couldn't fall asleep for shit, and then slept like crap. There was a terrifying thunderstorm on the way back during which I discovered 1., the wipers on the car are inadequate, 2., the defrost on the car is inadequate and 3., when you are on a busy highway and you can't see past the front of your car, and you just have to pull over praying that everyone will let you do so, your hands can shake so hard that it can take upwards of 15 minutes to calm them so they will not also be inadequate. I could have done without those parts, but then, we could have just not gone, and none of the good stuff would have happened either.

(BLOGGER LIFE PHILOSOPHY IN YOUR FACE.)

Portland, Maine (with beloved houseguests): Not one but TWO trips to the best ice cream shop/petting zoo ever. A golden afternoon at the beach. Magic-hour suppers on my back porch. Three adorable little girls playing together. Not one, not two, but THREE amazing good ol'fashioned late-night hangouts with my girlfriend who is, no contest, the best person in the world with whom to destroy your liver. Resultant hilarious hung-over parenting afternoons. And the aforementioned precious chance to share space with an old friend, who is also a (great) mom and a (great) wife.

I had a little Gretchen-Rubin-esque epiphany during that week. You know how some people just make you feel wonderful and like yourself? Your best self, in the most Oprah-manner of speech, but in an effortless way? These people are your "inflators" and you should cling to them always, and make them fly hundreds of miles to see you and your children. Guilt them into it, I don't care. Just get them into your space. And you should drive or fly hundreds of miles to see them, also. The other kind of people are "deflators" who make you feel bad and fuck them.That is what I learned that week.

Northport, Maine: For a few years now, my family has been heading up the coast of Maine for our family business's association retreat. This sounds like it should be boring, but it is not, not by a long shot. The first year, Little A. was just barely there: I had confirmed my pregnancy the very day before we drove 4 hours to Bar Harbor and I spent the whole weekend bobbing around in that heady mixture of joy and panic that is the beginning of pregnancy and also wondering if everyone would notice my avoidance of wine and blue cheese. This year, our fourth year, I finally got the whole weekend RIGHT. I hired one of Little A.'s beloved teachers, Miss Alicia, to babysit. My brother and his kids were also coming, and Miss Alicia knows them very well also. Alicia was fantastic all weekend - she required absolutely NO instruction, she was up for anything, and she can drive a golf cart. (I have a ridiculous inability to drive anything smaller than a car. So stupid! I need to get over it.) So, A+ childcare choice.

The drive up to the resort was rainy and sleepy, but the weather also meant very little traffic. I would only give myself an A- for transport because my car broke down that morning, all full of our stuff, but then I got to drive my dad's fancy Audi, so maybe I get just a regular A.

Friday evening there is always a lobster bake/ridiculous dance party. The girls were happy to learn the Macarena and hang in the bounce-house until bedtime (A- for much later than usual bedtime). My dad started drinking CC over ice at 6 pm and didn't stop until well after he had danced with my mother - TWICE - to "Blurred Lines." That was a scene, my friends, that I will never forget. I will never forget. I also might have taught my mother how to dance "Gangnam Style," but there was no video recording so let's just pretend it never happened. I might have been drinking rum. Weirdest-wedding-ever-dance-party: A+!

Poor Baby G. succumbed to a tummy bug overnight on Friday, so I spent the pre-dawn hours  changing both of us out of multiple pairs of barfed-upon PJs. Friday-into-Saturday, I'm afraid, gets a D. But Saturday officially dawned bright and lovely and we all went to the beach (A) and with plenty of Tylenol and cuddles, by afternoon, the Baby was just fine (B+). And all the grownups went to a wine-tasting (A), which was fun except day-drinking should be followed either by more drinking or immediate napping and I did neither (C+) and by 9 pm that night I was DONE. My brother and his wife were DONE too, so they took me down the mountain in their golf cart, collected my nieces from my cabin, and we all went to bed early (A+). But that was OK too. We all slept like champions and drove home the next day without incident (A-).

Weekend cumulative average: A

And this weekend, well. For the first time ever, the Green Team is splitting up to have separate adventures. Little A. is spending the weekend with my parents, and has already told me that she is going to "take Nana on all the rides at Santa's Village because otherwise Nana might not have fun. And Grampa can take pictures." Baby G. is going to her first Red Sox game with her dad, CT grandparents, and uncle. And I am headed up the coast again for a little getaway of my own. This will be the first night I have spent away since Baby G was born. I am going to miss the dickens out of those girls but oh, oh, oh. SLEEPING IN and other adult-y things, how I have longed for thee.

I used to hate summer. Indoorsy, bookish nerds with an aversion to bare skin don't fare well with heat and sweat and tourists all around. But now I can see what all the hype is about: it's fun. FUN! Summer is a stupid and highly inappropriate Daft Punk song blasting out of your car window and all three of us girls singing along. Summer is ice cream dripping down your chin. Summer is the perfect light reflecting off the slick of low tide. Summer is a little black dress under fireworks. And I'm paraphrasing myself here, but around these parts, Summer 2013 is delivering fun, on all fronts.

So, what did you do on your summer vacation?

xoxo, A

Two! Sleeps! 'Til Brooklyn!

We are coming up on some exciting weeks around these parts. Long weekend adventures to my favorite city to see a favorite auntie and her adorable son, a week-long visit from another favorite auntie and her beautiful daughter, and in a stunning trifecta, Little A.'s favorite teacher will be babysitting ALL the girl cousins during our weekend retreat to an amazing spot, all on the books. Oh and we can't forget the tentative quick trip to Boston to say goodbye to some good friends. In between we'll hit the beach and the pool and stay over at the lake. So, yeah, we love August, in advance.

My good friend (and obviously one of my biggest inspirations -- thanks for all the writing prompts, Lynn!) recently shared her feelings about traveling with kids. Hell on earth, she says. And I can definitely see where she's coming from. About 2 hours in to our 3.5 hour flight home from a recent trip to Florida (which had a whole host of problems, really deserving of its own post), Baby G. got restless and spent a good 45 minutes slapping and poking me. It wasn't malicious, really, but really. Slapping. Poking. Jumping. All the while increasing her vocal volume until people started turning around to see what the fuss was all about. Finally I dumped her into my dad's lap and hissed YOU TAKE HER NOW and went to stand by the bathroom and pretended not to know any of my travel party for 15 minutes. There might have been a quick glass of wine involved but I'll never tell.

So. Was it relaxing? No. I was utterly exhausted by the time we got home. But was it worth it? Yes. I can safely say: yes. Though I didn't get to loll on a chair and read trashy magazines or even have one fruity cocktail without wondering if someone was going to drown or get sunburned or wake up and need tending, there were so many lovely moments. Watching the girls through my fingers as they run away from my beach chair to the edge of the Gulf of Mexico, holding their grandfather's hand. Discovering the tiny baby coconut that would become Little A.'s prized possession. Reconnecting with a dear friend while our little girls slept all piled into the same room. And all of our trips are like that. Tiring/exhilarating. Stressful/amazing.

So I'll start packing tonight, for my first solo road trip with the girls. Even though I know there will be moments of hell during our 6-hour drive, once we get there, and on the way home. Even though I just spent an arm and a leg on road snacks that will be eaten within the first 45 minutes. Because we need to walk to the coolest playgrounds in the coolest neighborhood in my most favorite city in the whole wide world. Because I don't want Little A. to think Maine bagels are actually BAGELS. Because I wouldn't miss the chance to see my dear friend and her boy play with my girls. Because I need to sit on a roof with my girlfriends and see and hear the same sights and sounds of my long-gone self-centered single gal days. Because I love to travel, and goddammit, so will my kids.

(Wish me luck, though, seriously.)

xoxo, A

Lather Rinse Repeat

Last night I had an out-of-body experience. I floated up to the ceiling of Little A's room and saw myself grab and rip to shreds a magazine. Not just any magazine, no, but her most favorite magazine in the whole wide world. It was 8:02 pm. It was hot as fuck. She was tired. I was tired. She had just deliberately spit on the floor, after 45 minutes of outrageously wild behavior -- running away, crying, laughing hysterically while kicking her legs every which way including at my face, throwing books, and so very much SHRIEKING, in the tub and in the baby's room and in her room and right next to me, directly into my ear, as I sat at the top of the stairs frantically trying to collect myself and wondering what the fuck do I do now and can I maybe just go out onto the deck and come back in 30 minutes -- and it was my very last straw. We both heard the glob of spit hit the floor and she looked at me with mingled dread and defiance and I didn't say a word. I exited my body, which slowly got up from her bed where I had been trying to just talk to her or get her to breathe or somehow get things back under control and walked directly to the magazine and picked it up and ripped and ripped and ripped. And she wailed and tried to punch me and said I was the worst mother in the world and that I hated her and that she hated me. And I wanted to wail and I felt like the worst mother in the world and I hated myself. And I spiraled back down into myself and sat next to her and held her still-small fists and just said this is out of control, we have to get it under control. I love you and could never hate you. I should not have ripped your magazine. This is out of control. We have to get it under control. I love you and could never hate you. Over and over, a chanted prayer/wish/mantra. And we did get it under control. And I should not have ripped her magazine, and she should not have shrieked in my ear. And we talked about all the scary feelings we were both feeling in that moment. And we talked about how many changes we've been through in the past few weeks. She misses her dad being around, she misses her old teacher at school, and she doesn't like her new teacher, and her cousin doesn't want to hug her at school. Big hurts and little hurts and they all fucking hurt. And I should not have ripped her magazine. I absorbed all of her hurt sobs into my body and they have settled somewhere around my heart and there they sit, so heavy.

After 15 minutes of talking and crying we went back into her sister's room (where the AC unit is) and I made her a special nest next to where I was going to sleep and we laid down together and I rubbed her back until she fell asleep. And then, finally, lying on an improvised bed between her and her sister in the dark and cool room, I cried too. Silent, guilty, stinging tears.

My oldest girl. So much like me, and so mysterious in the way any other person is. I love her with every cell of my body and her very existence fills me with joy and we dance together and play and joke and most hours are delightful but also she makes me more angry than anyone I have ever known. Since our last breakdown/breakthrough her behavior has changed. She is still excellent at school but every other night or so is a struggle. Last night was extreme, really extreme, and just after she fell asleep the skies opened and a thunderstorm rolled through just to prove the point. Thanks, Universe. I get the message. She is not protecting me anymore, I think. She is just at one of those ages, I think. She is processing the separation, I think.

This is hard and weird, guys. I am 100% convinced things will be better because of the changes I affected to our family. And in so many ways, they already are. The knot of tension and uncertainty that lived in my chest for the past two years has disappeared for one. It has been replaced by other knots, but they are MY knots and I know how to work on that shit. We are eating better and dancing and singing and doing more fun stuff. There is less stress in the house, period. We just have to get past this hard part to get to really really good but I also have to get cozy with the notion that the hard part might last a little longer than I was expecting because there are more agendas at work than just mine. And my guiding philosophy of keep on movin, don't stop, might not work for everyone in our little family. I have to just stop and be with first baby, this tough cookie, this spitter, this cuddler, and singer and painter and dancer, right where she is. And I have to just stop and be with her sister, my last baby, our 5-second tantrum-er, and goofball, and toothbrush-obsessor, right where she is. And I also have to just stop and be with me, single mother, don't wanna to go to sleep because this is my time-er, story-teller, hugger, comfort-giver, magazine-ripper, right where I am. I just need to be nice to all of us, including me. I am not letting myself off the hook for that asshole move, but by god I am going to go out tonight and allow myself to recharge so that particular brand of assholery will not reoccur.

We are here: facing off and shouting threats and throwing our plates to the floor and pulling hair and in time out. We are here: going to the beach and having cupcakes and wearing princess dresses and painting toenails and having breakfast dance parties. We are here.

xoxo, A

You Take the Good, You Take the Bad

My good friend (and super talented bloggess) Lynn wrote this lovely piece today. A topic top of mind and close to our hearts these last weeks, so I'm writing my thoughts out here, too.

When we found out Greg was sick with stage-4, metastasized pancreatic cancer, it was a shock, to say the least. He was so young and so strong. He was Tim's boss for several months, a couple of years ago, and they had remained fairly close. You know, beers-once-a-month close. And suddenly, here was this young, strong guy, living under a death sentence. 6 months, they gave him. And Greg, although he and his wife didn't characterize it as "fighting," boy, did he fight. He gave cancer the middle finger in the form of energy work, chemo, immunity treatments, clean eating, etc., etc. He did everything and he and his wife navigated the whole process with amazing grace and strength. And the fucking disease got him anyway. He passed peacefully at home right around the 6-month mark.

Living with animals gives us training wheels for the whole death talk. When Little A. was around 5 months old, our beloved Black Kitty died, peacefully, at home. He was old and sick but mostly like himself until the end. We buried him in the backyard, after making up a special box filled with a cozy blankets and treats. We gave him farewell pats and shed a few tears over his body, all together as a family. She was too young to talk about it, of course, but I wanted her to see that we would miss him and remember him and that was hard, but also that everything alive dies. A fact of life, albeit a sucky one. Since then we have lost another cat, a few chickens, and two fish, to causes natural and not. My grandmother passed away while I was pregnant with Baby G, and of course most recently we have talked about Greg. With every passing and as she grows, the level of discourse naturally becomes more sophisticated and more self-reflective. The questions range from why do we stop breathing when we die to where did Fifi Fishie go when she died to when will YOU die, Mama?  Her questions are hard to answer and I feel it would be doing her a major disservice to duck them. Or to sugarcoat the answers.

We stop breathing because our bodies get tired or too hurt and besides we don't need our bodies anymore when we die, I say

She went out of her body. We put her body into the ground and she stays in our memories, I say.

I am not intending to die for a long, long time, but no one can really plan that. I exercise and eat healthy so my body will stay strong. But I can't promise to live for a long, long time. What I can promise is that when I die I am going to be with you, inside your heart, I say. 

I say these things and will keep saying them and hope she understands. She seems to understand.

My heart was heavy on the day of Greg's memorial service. I had stayed up late making the chocolate cream pie I would bring to the service, so I was tired and feeling many feelings about how the whole thing would be very hard on Tim and, how, in spite of our separation, I wanted to support him because he needed it and I was the only one who could. So, I stood beside him with tired legs and a tired back and rubbed his back while tears streamed down his face, while we listened to many, many people fondly reminisce about Greg. There were plenty of tears from everyone because goddamn it, a good guy was stolen from all of us. But also there was laughter and love and light and a shitload of pies, because Greg loved pie and there was another a way for us to honor him: through the baking of the pies and the happiness of our bellies after eating said pies, all filled with love and sugar. When we got home, Addie asked how the party was. Because she insisted that it was a "party." I said it was a little sad and a little happy and she said It was sad because Greg died. It was happy because you love him and ate the pie you made and wore your pretty skirt. Did you know I got to have A CHOCOLATE SUNDAE with Nana and Grampa? And then she rampaged around a bit and went to sleep.

Little A. has made a little shrine to the ladybug husks she finds in her room and calls it "Ladybug Heaven." She notices all the little lives around her and wonders when they will die and does not seem scared. I wish for her to never be scared of life and all its hard, unfair implications.  She wants me to sing I love you forever, I like you for always, as long as I'm living, my first baby you'll be, three times every night. We add a footnote that she will be my baby even AFTER I am living. I want her to feel everything, not be closed to life, to be realistic and know I will always be here, even if I'm not. And that she will always be here, even if she's not. That is a prayer for both girls as they fall asleep (I have many): Don't be afraid, because I am here. Don't be afraid, because you are here. We will love on each other forever. And pie helps, so take a big slice.

xoxo, A

Crouching Frog, Hidden Tiger Mom

So many milestones in this parenting gig: baby's first smile, the first steps, the first time she gets herself dressed. And then there's one milestone that isn't on most development charts but means so much to me: baby's first JAZZ HANDS!
 

Super serious jazz hands at that.

I came to dancing too late to be any good. At best I am a "nice mover" who can fool people into thinking my performance is, like, real actual dancing. But dancing is my favorite thing. FAVORITE. There is something most amazing about this utterly non-verbal communication through movement, to me. My head is filled every second of every day with words. My work is mostly moving words in different directions. In my downtime I like to read other people's words. Dancing? NO WORDS. But you can still make someone laugh, or cry, get chills, or fall into awe.

(I am not similarly into mime. Just wanted to clear that up.)

Little A. had her very first dance recital this Saturday. It was a classy affair, with real costumes and real lights in a real big theater and all that. I was expecting to tear up, or flat-out sob, at the sight of my first born \onstage in her wee ballet slippers and tights and stay-put hair-do. I got all of the moisture out of the way at the dress rehearsal. And I am such a sap that I weep at the high-school aged kids dancing too, because they are SO GOOD and they work SO HARD and their parents must be SO PROUD and UGH SO MANY TEARS. That was not a surprise. Giving birth rewired my brain. I never used to cry, period. It was just not my thing. Now I am that person who can never wear mascara or if I do I have to spend a great deal of time looking at the ceiling so my ready tears won't turn me into Alice Cooper. So yeah, tears, no big shocker.

What WAS a surprise was during the week before the recital, I went all Tiger Mom on my poor kid. Let's try it one more time! I heard myself say, over protest and groans. It's so much MORE fun and beautiful if you do the choreography the way Miss Elizabeth taught you! I heard myself say, as she flung herself around in her pre-bedtime sillies. If you want to just dance around you can do that here at home, not at the classes that cost a lot of money! I heard myself say, as she and her sister started to booty-shake every time I turned the music on.

Geez! Chill the fuck out, lady! She is 4, no one is expecting perfection, you're going to take all the fun out of it! 

Yes, you're right. But also? There is a part of me that wishes my parents had pushed me a bit more, who had not let me quit everything the moment it started getting hard. I was (am) willful and stubborn and might have made their lives miserable, but now I am sure I would appreciate mastery of...well...anything. (And as I remember it, I made their lives miserable anyway. I was not a delightful teen.) As I am a half-decent dancer, so am I half-decent at: painting, clarinet, Spanish, etc., etc. The "Dabbler" patch in Girl Scouts was my jam. But dabbling is ultimately dissatisfying. I don't want to teach my girls to dabble. But when do these lessons start? Is 4 too young? (Is almost 40 too old?)

Then the night before the recital, Little A. got sick. Really sick. She had a fever, couldn't eat her supper, and just laid there on the couch like a sad little lump. I was afraid it was strep throat and she would miss her recital and be even more sad and mad and we'd have a miserable weekend. But Saturday morning she woke up, stretched, and said I feel a LOT better! Is it recital day today? I said It sure is! and she said YAY FINALLY! and counted down the minutes until she could get on stage. She seemed a bit nervous before dress rehearsal. She didn't want to talk or hug, unusual for my little barnacle. But then when it was showtime, she did her little routine the best she'd ever done. She found her mark, sang along, hit most of the moves at the right time and didn't smile but claimed that she had fun. And her friends and fans brought her flowers and she was bursting with pride and when is my next recital mama? Can we put these flowers in vase in my room??

And I am tearing up writing about it. GODDAMN YOU HORMONES. So, anyway. I am not so worried that I will smother her enjoyment, not anymore. Because she is going to love what she loves. And I am going to love watching her do it. And I am going to love pushing her to be her very best, even if she doesn't always love it, until she is better than me at everything and I go broke getting her the best teachers. She can use the money she makes from winning the EGOT to put me in the finest nursing home.

CROWDSOURCE PARENTING TIME: What do you guys think? Do you push your kids or just let them be? Is it a personality thing? And, p.s., how on earth do you find the time to do the things YOU need to do to be a more chilled out parent, in general?

xoxo, A

p.p.s. Dress rehearsal video! Little A. is the little froggy closest to the camera.

Trix are for Kids

The baby has been waking up at 5:30 am this week. This is, indisputably, way too early. She stands up leans against the corner of her crib like a bored softball coach against a dugout and says "Maaaaaama. MaaaaaaaMAAAAaaaa-aa-aa. Maaaaaamuuuuuuuuh? MAAAAAAAMAAAAAAAAAAAA!" until her sister also wakes and rescues her from her cage and they both tumble onto my bed and we have nice cuddles while I attempt to shake off the cobwebs from the previous night's late-night* escapades.**

THIS morning was no different. The girls rolled on me and gently squabbled while I closed my eyes and pretended that this method of rest was just as refreshing as that actual hour of sleep that I was missing. I mean, at least we are all still horizontal. About 40 minutes of this and everyone's tummies sound a call to action and the getting-dressed hullabaloo begins. Little A. goes into her room to choose her latest fashion-forward stripes/prints/stripes leggings-under-shorts-under-dress combo. She's into layers, for realsies. She proudly shows me her outfit (halleluiah but it is nice when they can finally dress themselves) and asks if she can pick out MY outfit for the day while I am getting my contacts in and etc in the bathroom. I let her do this sometimes, and then work around the fact that she usually picks two exercise t-shirts, a push-up bra, and a fancy skirt. I said, sure thing, just make sure you get me some underpants and socks, ok? And she said yaaaay and brought the baby into my room. I continued brushing my teeth and washing my face.

Moments later, Little A. gleefully runs back to the bathroom, waving something purple in the air. MAMA LOOKIT WHAT I FOUND IT HAS A RABBIT ON IT LOOK HOW DO I TURN IT ON WHAT IS IT DO I TURN IT ON LIKE THIS?? My heart dropped and I made a sound like aaugguhhhgghherrfff. Of course. My lovely firstborn stood in front of me, waving around my lovely first vibrator. I squeaked out, hey that's mama's can we put it back where we found it actually no let me have it.

She gave it up easily but not without several dozen questions. Most of which I answered with mmmmmhmmm or by repeating, yeah it's for massaging but then she latched onto that idea and said but I love massages too can I try it pleeeease? Pleeease? Pleeeease??? So I just went straight for the power play and said, no it is only for Mama, when you get big you can maybe buy one with your own money. And so she asked how much it cost and maybe she had enough in her piggy bank and....

All of the above took place in the 15 seconds it took for us to get back to my bedroom. Where I discovered...even worse...

The baby. With my OTHER vibrator (both are from a long-ago time, when boyfriends gave me sex toys for Christmas. For my last two Christmases, my boyfriend got me nonstick pans. Oh, but how life changes.). She was waving the smaller, but also purple, device in the air shouting OPEH-IT! OPEH-IT! Which is her way of asking either to open or turn on or otherwise do the thing that whatever thing she is holding is supposed to do that she can't figure out how to do. I said as calmly as I could, no, Mama can't opeh-it right now. Let's put these right away in this super high drawer and never mention this to anyone especially not your teacher ok! 

And predictably as soon as I wrested the toy away from the baby she opened her mouth and howled.   I had to think of a way to distract her real quick. Fortunately there was a screwdriver up on the bureau as well, so I handed that to her. One of those small ones. Not too sharp.

How many more questionable parenting decisions can one make before 7 am, you would be completely justified in asking yourself, dear reader. I will say that at least THIS morning, there were none more. I quickly dressed myself and we went downstairs for a peaceful, healthy, and blessedly normal breakfast. But just to be safe, I checked everyone for rogue unmentionables. Lord knows I am not up for Pastor Brian seeing any more of my private collection.

And with that! I wish you a happy humpday.

xoxox, A 


*11 pm
**watching Parks and Rec while avoiding weird guys' emails on OKCupid

Doogie Howser, Esq. (aka: Mama Got Lawyered by a Four-Year-Old)

I may have mentioned before that my elder daughter is one of those kids like you read about. Her diet consists of carbs, cheese, and fruit. And chicken nuggets. I swear, when she was a baby, she ate EVERYTHING. (So don't blame this shit on me, uppity foodie-mom bloggers.) Like her sister now, she would happily down whatever you put in front of her, and then ask for more: Parnips? Great! Saurbrauten? Delicious! Grilled salmon? YAY CAN I HAZ SECONDS???

Right around her 2nd birthday things started to change. She discovered that she had a measure of control, directly surrounding her plate. And she loved it. She gleefully wielded her veto power over everything green, non-vegetarian, non-cheese-based. And for the most part this has been OK. Annoying, but OK. She'll happily drink smoothies that contain spinach or kale or whatever - I don't have to add the greens under cover of night, even -- and is everso slowly, as we leave behind the reign of terror that was THREE, she is adding new things to her menu. Green beans, carrots, chicken burgers. So, yeah, it'll be fine, I tell myself. My brother ate nothing but chopped sirloin and spaghetti for about 3 years of his life and he is a strapping fellow with good teeth and a shiny coat and all that, I tell myself.

But one area over which *I* have very little control plagues me yet: the school lunch. The girls' daycare offers a kid-friendly, fairly nutrious meal every day. And we the parents are expected to provide snacks, which is also no problem, though I am spending a small fortune on Kashi bars and portable yogurts and such (entirely my own fault: I am lazy and don't clip coupons and can't abide going to more than one store to bargain shop). HOWEVER. My picky girl recently confessed that she is bringing her snack into the lunch room with her teacher's permission, and is eating her snack foods instead of lunch, most days. And then she gets something from the snack cabinet of the school, as many of the other kids do, and also a share of the cooperatively provided fruit, for her afternoon snack.

ARGH I SAY ARGH. Snacks all day long make me go ARGH. I am sure her caloric and vitamin-ic needs are being met. She's growing and her teeth are not rotting out of her head but here I must draw a line in the sand. I have a bee in my bonnet. Etc. So this morning Little A. and I had a little debate.

OK, says I. We are putting these things in your lunchbox for SNACK. They are SNACKS for SNACKTIME and only for SNACKS. You eat the lunch that daycare provides for LUNCH at LUNCHTIME, yes?

She replies, But Miss A. said it was ok for me to bring my lunchbox in and have this food anytime!

Then me: That might be what your teacher said, but Mama is saying what is in your lunchbox is for SNACK and the lunch food that daycare serves is for LUNCH. I will tell Miss A. this lunchbox is snack-only stuff.

But Mama! 

And then she delivers the death-blow of logic. This is called a LUNCHBOX. Why is it called a LUNCHBOX if I can't have the food for LUNCH?

Dudes. I was stumped. I stammered. Well, maybe we need to call this a snackbox yes let's call it a snackbox and then it's your snack...box. She just looked at me like, yeah, right. She spared me the eyeroll, but then ate her go-gurt on the way to school and carried her food-carrier into her classroom with an air of triumph.

(And here's the humblebrag conclusion you've been waiting for....)

Yes. This is going to haunt me, but I am so proud. She outwitted me! With a contextual definition! And I am so very screwed. Because I have gotten dumber with each year and each child. And they are going to keep getting smarter. There is not enough coffee in the world to catch me up to the fast-firing synapses of a shiny new brain. Help.

xoxo, A

FOUR

So, it was like, 3 months ago that this happened, right?

How could it be a whole year? I can feel in my bones and my body and my heart (which are all old) the long stretch of days between the first terrified months after bringing her home and now, but if each year is going to go progressively faster what is going to happen when she is 6? Or 10? Or tween? I am scared.

One of her favorite things is "Freeze Dance!" and I would like to Freeze her. Just lift the needle off the record for a long moment or a few months so I can absorb and appreciate and memorize her Four-ness. She is a pain in the ass and won't listen to a word I say. She is hilarious and thoughtful and creative and feels everything so intensely. She (still) loves purple. She can pack her own snack and take herself to the bathroom and oh oh oh she is not a baby anymore, not even a little bit. Except for in the middle of the night, when she is scared and comes into my room. She drags a blanket and a stuffed friend across the floor and after a quick cuddle to calm the fears she climbs herself into the (way-too-small) pack and play next to my side of the bed and sleeps there until morning. Tim is not so keen on this habit, but I can't bring myself to make her stop.

In the mornings the baby comes in for her milks and then leans over the side of the bed to call her sister's name and wake her up. We are all delighted to see each other.

And then 5 minutes later someone pulls someone else's hair or beeps someone's nose too hard and then there are tears and someone is sent to her room or loses her TV privileges and cries and then needs a hug and then we all get dressed and have breakfast.

This was the first year Little A. really seemed excited for her birthday and all that surrounded it. Every night before bed we counted down the days to her party, and the days to her REAL birfday (the day after the party), on our fingers. She was eager to help with the cleanup and the shopping for the party. And especially eager to get at the presents that kept appearing in our entryway. So we are making a week of it. Last Friday she opened a present from my mom, her Nana, who winters in Florida, while we Skyped with my mom. Saturday was the arrival of her Grammie and Pop and a big-girls ONLY! manicure. Sunday was the super fun Fairy-Princess party and egg hunt and then Easter dinner at our friends Jenny and Brian's house (Jenny is Little A's favorite person). Monday was waffles, dance class, and more presents from Mama. Tuesday, she celebrated at school with a friend whose birthday is the day after hers. Last night, we had tacos and a dance party. Tonight, Tim is taking her out for a very special Daddy-Daughter Dinner Date. And there is one more present from the far-away land of Chicago making its way to us as I write. We're living in celebration station and no one really wants to leave.

So. Happy new year to my most favorite person in the whole wide world (first baby category).

Now, FREEZE.

xoxo, A

Instant Karma

So yeah, I spoke too soon. I spoke waaaaaaaay too soon there.

Who was reading my little blog? Why did they have to karma little ol' me? What did I dooooo?

(Answer: everything I did romantically until my mid-30s, probably earned me enough negative karma that I'll be working that shite off for the rest of me life)

I posted that Pollyanna post over there, went for a quick run to celebrate a lazy boss-less day at work. Went contentedly home with my adorable girls singing in the car. Went to my grandmother's for dinner, all warm and fuzzy. Put the girls to bed, and watched some House of Cards. Contemplated the wonder that is Claire Underwood's hairdo. Went to bed myself. Life was good! Spring had sprung! Extra hour of sunlight! Etc.

HEY SHUT UP OR KNOCK ON WOOD YOU ASSHOLE.

At 5 am Baby G. woke up crusted in her own vomit and...other stuff. Suffice it to say, she got sick in the night, and then somehow fell back asleep. And woke up screaming, as is quite reasonable under the circumstances. A shower and some new jammies later she was tucked into bed next to me.

And then at 6 she threw up in my bed.

Fortunately Tim was planning to be home so I was able to go to work. Yay! Work! No one threw up on me at work!

So we had a sick baby on our hands and I stocked up on Pedialyte and the makings of the BRATY diet that would be her menu for the next week or so. Friday night was predictably low-key. Then Saturday morning I went off to my Zumba class only to drag my weak, dizzy, nauseated ass home 25 minutes later. And so help me I could not move from a horizontal position all day. Baby G and I took a couple of long naps and I fell asleep on Little A's floor for 3 hours after putting her to bed. I was sick as a dog, a prisoner of germs. Housebound.

And we had booked a babysitter. You parents out there know how precious and wonderful and amazing, the mere idea of BABYSITTER. It was going to be our first night out since Baby G's birth (sad but true, we are notsogood at that date night thing). Yes, there are worse things. But we burned a BABYSITTER night. Sigh.

And then it snowed. A lot.

All told I spent 4 days trapped inside with the entire family. How did the Ingalls family do it? Those long winters all spent indoors, looking at the same people, hearing the same whines, blowing the same noses? I would never have made it. As it was I was never so glad to wave bye-bye to my adorable progeny and head off the to blissful silence of my basement office. And then I found out my grandmother spent the beginning of the week in an advanced state of dehydration due to our stupid germs. Argh.

TL:DR takeaway: don't tempt the fates. Shut your fool mouth, and also buy whiskey. And Pedialyte.

xoxo, A 

Pie in the Face

So. I have typed the opening to this post 6 times. Type type type. Delete delete delete. Type type type something else. Delete all that. Times six. So this meta-opening will have to suffice and I will launch into my story in medias res as if Homer himself was guiding my pen.

So. You can think you know someone, but everyone -- everyone -- is full of secrets.

Two nights ago, Little A. had a very rough night. She's stormy these days; whether it's her age or household stresses or fatigue or illness (oh constant germiness of winter, you are tiresome and please fuck off) or likely a combination of all plus a dash of mommy's lack of patience, who knows. Stormy, she is. On this particular night, the storm gathered around a typically contentious subject: the washing of the hairs. This kid HATES to get her hair washed. HATES. As if it were pouring acid, or red-hot meteorites, onto her head. Most days, I just let it go. But this night, I got a bee in my bonnet. Her hair was already mostly wet from "swimming" in the tub. One quick cup of water over the head, some shampoo, and another quick mermaid dunk, and we'd have clean hair for the week! No problem! Let's do it!

NO ACID FIRE HAIL HATE YOU NO NO NO NOOOOOOOOO.

And instead of caving in, I just went ahead and washed her hair. I tried to be gentle and cajoling but at a certain point the shampoo just had to be rinsed out and water got on the face and Oh. The rage. The screaming. The tears. The splashing and kicking and rage. It was completely out of proportion, yes. The howling and hitting would have been more in line with someone, I dunno, running over your family pet, or stealing your beloved.

The tantrum lasted all the way through Skype'd good-nights to Daddy, pajamas on, tooth-brushing. Finally, as it always does, the Incredible Hulk left the room and in its place a tired little girl needed a hug from Mama. I was happy to oblige. Suddenly, the tears started up again, but with a softer, sadder quality. I asked what was the matter. And this kid. This kid who has been nothing but shockingly amazingly wonderful (because she was incredibly attached to me prior to baby's arrival) to her little sister for the 14 months she's been on our planet, reluctantly, painfully said I wish it could be just you and me, Mama, no Baby G. I miss you so much Mama. And she started crying again, probably thinking I would be horrified at this admission, and that she would get in trouble. Guilty sobs.

OHFUCK PARENTING MOMENT. I thought. These are happening more frequently as the girl gets older and more articulate and oh god I need to read more books about kids because I am surely going to mess her up for life. But also, I could just answer honestly and from my heart and maybe that will work?

So that's what I did. I told her that I missed those days, sometimes, too. That it was so nice to have a Baby G in our family and to love but that we sure could use more "just us" times too. That I appreciated her honesty and that I love her so much -- even more when I see what an awesome big sister she is and that my heart grows 10 sizes every day because I am so proud of her. And we had more tears and a big hug and I tucked her into my bed for a special JUST US Mama-and-Little-A sleepover and we all slept like champions and the next morning was the smoothest we've had in weeks.

After the storm.

 Oof. In my excitement over her "good" behavior with her little sister, and my smugness in thinking that *I* had somehow masterfully engineered the smooth transition into big-sisterhood for her, I never once thought she was behaving, well, how she intuited *I* wished she would behave. I am certain her loving behavior towards Baby G is genuine, but she has never once expressed jealousy or acted out, as would be expected and completely normal for the deposed. Not once! Seriously! But those feelings were lurking there under the surface, and burst out in a painful, guilt-ridden confession during a crisis about something else entirely. 

Oh. Ha ha. Um. Yeah. That kinda reminds me of somebody: me. Quick, someone write a book about how to successfully parent me. Here's your working title.

Hey Girl, You Sure Seem OK, but There Really is Something Wrong, Right?:

How to Crack that New-English Veneer and Get to the Healing Truth.

And in the meantime, pass the Pinot. There's a whole lotta winter left to go up in this piece.

xoxo, A

Parenting Challenge #323

Curb your instinct to burst into guffaws when the adorable 3.5 year old girl serenades you with a mini-opera with a single lyric: shit.

Foul-mouth'd cherub.

Shit! Shitshit! Shit shit shit shit shit shiiiiiiiiiiiit!

MAMA! MAMA! SHIT! SHIT SHIIIIIIIIIIT!!!!

1 Million, Billion Bonus Points for accomplishing this before you have finished your morning coffee.

(Who else is glad it's Friday?)

xoxo, A

I Was Born, 6-gun in My Hand

Hey, have we talked about 3.5-year-olds? They are mystifying, awesome, terrible creatures. One minute, cuddly, hilarious, helpful, and sweet. The next, swinging at you with fists of fury and SPITTING because of some unintended slight. Woe betide the mama who BUCKLES THE TOP BUCKLES!!! Unless, of course, she wants me to buckle her top buckle.

Two things have helped shore up my stores of patience: treating her like a slightly deranged person [ie: never rushing her, asking about preferences before doing (cf: "do you want to snap your top buckles?"), and never ever ever rushing her, again] and re-framing tantrums as "emotion storms," which makes me feel a bit like a hippy-woo-touchy-feely-parent but also forces me to remember that we are, in fact, dealing with a creature who knows not, not always, how to modulate her reactions and emotions. Who will make a mountain out of a you-didn't-get-me-the-kind-of-popsicle-I-wanted-molehill. Sort of like me before all of my years of therapy and yoga, but my emotion storms were all internal. Except for that one time in Boston I had to pull over my car and kick things. But that's a story for another time!

Ahem. 

Last week was especially challenging on the toddler-care front; I am not sure why. Perhaps we are both tired. Perhaps she is having a growth spurt. Perhaps I am not eating enough or drinking enough water. Perhaps we are both just having a week where we are both assholes. There has been too much shouting and too many tears. Too much purposeful ignoring. Too much threatening and stomping and goddamnit-I-JUST-NEED-SOME-SPACE-ing.

It's both of us, but I guess it is really mostly me. I need to shift my attitude, I need to get more sleep, I need to remember that she is just small, and figuring everything out, and also? That she is my hilarious, sweet, goofball, first baby.

WHEREIN I GO STRAIGHT-UP MOMMY BLOGGER BECAUSE KIDS THEY SAY THE DARNDEST THINGS AND YES YOU WILL READ WHAT MINE SAYS AND LAUGH BECAUSE I SAID SO: 

One afternoon, she told me, in the blandest conversational tone, I told Cooper, "Penis Company."  I paused. You said what? I asked. I told Cooper, "Penis Company," she said again. I boggled for a moment, then asked, well what did you MEAN by that? Use those words in a sentence. She sighed, gave me the slightest hint of an eye-roll, and just said again, PENIS COMPANY. As if this was something everyone knew.  Her friend Cooper knows now, I guess.

However, the adults in our house still haven't figured this one out, and since we haven't had a note from her preschool teacher, we're leaving it alone. Though. Sometimes I will nudge Tim in the middle of the night and say PENIS COMPANY and start laughing, because I am a big jerk.

THING SHE SAID THAT YOU MAKE YOU LAUGH UNLESS YOU HATE HAPPINESS AND ARE A COMMUNIST TAKE 2:

We have started Little A. in swim lessons, because she is hard-core loving the pool this year, and I am equal parts happy and terrified about that. Happy: I love to swim and it is one of the few sport-type things I feel like I do well, so we can share this. Terrified: Water. Toddlers. I need not say more.

So anyway, to the local pool/Red Cross Swim lessons she goes, and every week she is excited to show off what she has learned. This week, during our post-dinner post-lesson swim, she tucked her pool noodle under her arms, leaned slightly to the side, and did an enthusiastic scissor kick. And yelled BOOTY CHANT! BOOTY CHANCE! BOOTY SHANK! 

Again I stopped agog. Did you learn that at your swim lesson? I asked. No, it is my own special swim, she said back. And then swam and shouted BOOTY CHAMP BOOTY SHANK over and over until I declared swim time was over and wrestled her out of the pool and into the shower and into bed whereupon she alternately shrieked and kicked and shouted she was not tired and snuggled and sighed and said I love you bigger than all the moons and stars Mama.

Because that is a 3.5 year old. I am so lucky to have one. 

xoxo, A

They Will Say It's Elementary

As I might have mentioned, Little A. is FULL of questions lately. Figuring out the world, she is. Most of the questions are easy to answer. Even things like "Why is Easter?" and "What is GAY?" can be broken down into toddler-ese, with relative ease. I don't want to shy away from telling her about life and all the complicated and amazing things people do.

(Por example -- Easter: A long time ago, there was a man named Jesus. A lot of people liked him a lot. He told people to be nice to each other and helped people. But some people didn't like him, and they got so mad at him, they decided to kill him. But lots of people think Jesus was magic (yep, thank you, Sarah Silverman) and came back to life on the Sunday after he was killed, and they made a holiday called Easter to celebrate that magic. And gay? Well, that's just like how Mommy and Daddy like each other a lot; we are a girl and a boy. But sometimes a girl likes another girl a lot, or a boy likes another boy a lot, and that is called being gay. These answers worked, people! Nary a why afterwards!) 

But. The other morning, before we had even finished breakfast, as I was running around packing snacks and lunches and pump parts and extra clothes and diapers and does-everyone-have-pants-on? checks I heard her voice pipe up, asking Tim: Are you and Mommy married?
 
I continued out of the room. And said, under my breath: Good luck with that one, Tim! 



Because, while the answer is simple: we just aren't. But. It is also adultly-complicated: Mommy is a serial monogamist who is terrified of commitment, and while she considers it a triumph of emotional maturity and years of therapy that she does not blame Nana and Grampa for her issues, she sure can point the finger squarely at their perpetually, obviously unhappy marriage for THAT one. Also, Daddy was married before and it was pretty terrible. And his parents got divorced and it was even worse than terrible. And marriage is forever and the thought of being legally bound to someone forever makes Mommy feel like someone put a plastic bag over her head. And also, Mommy likes to claim you guys as single head of household. Shall we get into tax code this early in the day?

No. No no no. So, I ran away. And waited to hear what he would say. It was this:

No, we are not married. But we love each other very much, and we love you and baby G very much, and together we make a family.  

And that, my friends, was as much of an answer as she needed. And as much of an answer as *I* need. Here's hoping we'll get a few years of mileage out of that, so Mama can work out some of those commitment issues before her friends with married gay parents (c'mon, Maine!) start teasing her on the playground.

xoxo, A

I Can Do Yoga with a Yak all Year in my Yard

EXT: Grey station wagon pulling out of suburban driveway onto a busy road.


Cut to slightly frazzled looking MOM in the front seat, adorable 3-year-old LITTLE A in the backseat, looking out the window. BABY G is sitting in her car seat next to LITTLE A., only barely visible. All is quiet, except for the radio and the little jingles of the baby's toy. But then....

LITTLE A: Why do we go this way every day Mama? Why do we wait our turn? Why did Daddy leave before us? Why did you put on your blinker? Why is baby G chewing on her hands all the time? Why do you drink coffee? Why did Brad go to the train station last night?

MOM: Well, A., that's because --

LITTLE A: Why do we go frew the toeboof? Why we give that guy a dollar? Why does that guy have tattoos? Why isn't the lady working today? Why does Daddy work on cars? Why do some people get lasers after? Why are they fixing the bridge? Why did you pack me a snack for my Sunny Days? Why are we going on the highway?

MOM: We have to give them a --

LITTLE A: Why we stopping now? Why we waiting our turns? Why is it bad to have an axtident? Why do we have to wear buckles? Why is Baby G looking at me? Why is it starting to rain? Why is that truck red? Why does it have wheels under? Why is it not good for me to poop in my underpants? Why is Nat-Nat in Florida?

MOM: If the car gets --

LITTLE A: Why is that squirrel died? Why did our black cat die? Why is grey kitty not died? Why does Miss Missy have a blue shirt? Why does Baby Jacob sleep in his swing? Why do we have to feed Fifi-fishie two times? Why does Floyd pee on the rug?

MOM: Sometimes people and things just --

LITTLE A: Why you go to work after 5 minutes? Why you pick me up? Why does Baby G go in her car seat that way? Why she have fweet potatoes for breakfast? Why is it so stinky when I poop in the potty? Why did you stop now? Why are we waiting our turns? Why did Daddy go in the different car today? Why are we having fish cakes for supper? Why do you have your hair in a bun?

MOM: (unintelligible mumbling)

LITTLE A, leaning forward: WHY YOU SAY YOU NEED A DRINK MAMA?

She sits back again, content. Looks out the window at the passing scenery. Just as she begins to open her mouth again, the screen goes black. 

FIN

Con muchos besos,  A

I See You

Little A. wants to go higher, higher, higher all the time. Can you do an underdogs? she pleads. I want to go SOOOPER HIGH! I'll only do the coveted underdog move when she is in the toddler swings, but it still makes me nervous. When did she learn about underdogs, and when did she start loving to swing so high? Just weeks ago, she would panic over anything more than a 15-degree arc. 

*****

I never chose my girlfriends wisely, or was an inadequate friend; I was never certain, but I never could hold on. Once I reached middle school, I gradually dropped my sweet, loyal elementary school friends because I wanted to talk about boys and wear OP and do theatre and listen to the Beastie Boys and they weren't quite there yet. This was, I hope, painless for all involved: we simply grew apart, but were always friendly.

Just once, I was the mean girl: renouncing Julie, my best friend the previous year at camp to hang with the cooler girls in the shack. We teased her and made her cry. The power was intoxicating: just like I would feel later when I smoked or drank too much, giddy and sick at the same time. Admittance to the cool crowd was tenuous for everyone but one or two founding members. You never knew when it was your turn to be the chum. Nerve-wracking, to say the least.

Of course I never would have mentioned this to my mother. She never seemed to notice (or perhaps just didn't mention fearing my hormonal wrath) when my best friends at home, the ones I talked to for hours on the phone, wrote notes to each period, and hung out with every weekend -- first Reshanna, then Michelle, then Ingrid -- suddenly stopped calling or coming over after some disagreement that never, to me, seemed like grounds for ultimate dismissal. I'm not sure it would have made me feel any better to talk to her about it. So I never did, and eventually just presumed that best friends for life were not something that actually happened. Or that if it did, it would be a boy.  So I put all my eggs in the boyfriend basket, and hung out with HIS friends, who stopped being friends with me when I (thank the gods) realized that I was not meant to be Mrs. Todd Murphy, class of 1992, after one semester at college. My mother did notice that, and told me several times that we were too serious. How was she to know that I considered him my only friend?

*****

A group of tween girls is wrestling with the gate to the playground. Either they are pretending to not know how to open it, so no one will look too eager to get inside, or they are just purposefully too skinny and malnourished to get it open. Little A. is shouting instructions to them, and to me: PUSH HARDER! NO, PULL! COME ON IN BIG GIRLS! COME ON THE SWINGS! HELP THEM MAMA! When they finally figure it out and tumble in, gangly puppies outfitted by Justice, Little A. jumps off her swing, tell me I want to play with the big girls and proceeds to follow them around. For the most part, they ignore her and move to other parts of the space when she approaches. I don't think there is any malice; they seem more awkward than cruel. They are just supremely uninterested in the advances of a toddler girl. But after they leave Little A. runs back to me with a huge smile on her face. Those big girls were so nice! she exclaims. One of them said "Hi" to me! I fwinged next to them! Do you have any more space fishies for snack?

*****

After several years of therapy, yoga, and realizing that my first impression can be as welcoming as a hedgehog, I have somehow made a handful of wonderful, loyal, amazing women friends. After years of trying to crack through the veneers and speak the language of aloof trendsters, I lucked out and found a tribe (albeit a small one, and mostly too far away) of gorgeous, goofy, perfectly imperfect ladies who love me back. Dear Lord and Almighty parenting books, how will I teach my daughter to be a good friend, a kind and loyal friend? How will I encourage her to stay sweet, not put up walls and pretend at cool, like her mama did and maybe still does? How will I teach her to discern the ones to keep, the ones for the moment, the ones forever?

*****

She makes a game of running away, but not too far, and never in parking lots. I catch her, call her my gingerbread girl and and kiss her curls and tickle her still chubby, perfect belly. As we sit reading before bed, she turns to me and says Mama, we are best, best friends! My other best best friend is Nat Nat and Launa. And Phoebe. And Max. And Baby Warren. But not Pop, he teases me.

I will always be your best, best  friend, my silly bean, I tell her back. And say a little prayer: may she always, always have so many best bests, and always, always, talk to me.

Con muchos besos, A

Halfway

Or, the conclusion of the saga. TL;DR takeaway: DON'T BE LIKE ME, PLAN AHEAD.

When will I learn? I guess, never. Other mamas carefully, prenatally, research options, go for visits, send deposits. I must subconsciously ENJOY the extra pressure and stress that comes with my lack of preparation and forethought. Because now I have done it TWICE.

But also: Somehow, we've hit upon a happy ending. So, so fortunately.

After a week or so of hemming and hawing and bringing the baby to work with me and generally flipping my wig, I pulled on my big-girl panties and called a couple of centers. Begged, pleaded, for infant openings. Went on a couple of visits, dragging the girls with me. Endured awkward visits with weird ladies whose centers smelled of pee and sadness. But then. We walked into the appropriately named Sunny Days and lo, the clouds were chased away. Of course we would love to take both girls, the director said. You are an angel straight from heaven, I said back.

And so both of my girls are ensconced at the same daycare as their beloved cousins. Halfway between our house and my office. It's a Christian center, which gave us pause, but, in the end. Seriously. They are really little. We can just deprogram them later, if we need to. But that discussion is for another post.

And! I am seeing, already, positive changes in my big Little A. She is NAPPING during the day, and greeting me with a smile on her face and no wet pants in her bag. She has given me a couple of moments of drama about missing her friends at her old place, but otherwise seems to be handling the transition like a champ.

Baby G is not napping but that's because she is so excited! About other babies! Doing stuff! And looking at them! And growing two teeth! And there is a noise over there what is happening!!! But that is a 4 month old for you. And she greets me with a smile every day, opens her arms wide to grab my face and pull my hair.

I miss them both so much during the day, but this is how it has to be for now. Today I took them both out to a bagel shop for breakfast, to celebrate a great first week of our new routine. All of the regulars cooed over the girls. Then we drove off to the daycare and walked in to see the latest of Little A's witticisms* displayed right at the front of the center for all the grownups to see. My heart grew 3 sizes, and I cried happy tears on the way back to the car.

I mean, now I have to pump 4 times a day at the office, nothing new for any working BFin'  mom. At least I can watch Food Network at the same time. My life. Is not terrible.

Con muchos besos,
A

*Her teacher asked her "Is it hard work, being so cute?" To which Little A. replied, very seriously, "Well, I don't have to do it on weekends at home, and I take Mondays off too. So it's not THAT hard." OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF BABES PEOPLE.

The Magic Number

Cinderella before her ball.

And we would be seriously remiss if we did not mention that someone had a birthday this week. Someone turned THREE in this house. This fact? Blows my mother-scratchin' MIND.

It was a whirlwind week, filled with cleaning and cleaning and baking and cooking and cleaning and other sorts of prep (for two sets of houseguests and 3 guestdogs and a brunch party for 20) including talking up the party for Little A. (she was iffy on it until we got the balloons); by the time the party came around I was almost too tired to enjoy it.

Almost. But I would have had to be the stupidest, most oblivious mama in the world if I didn't catch some of the THRILL my first daughter had with every guest that walked through the door. All her favorite people in the world (well, minus a couple of too-far-away types), all in one spot, to celebrate! It was JUMPING UP AND DOWN TIME!!!

Milestone: first manicure

She showed everyone her fancy painted fingernails from our girly-date at the salon the day before (pink and sparkly blue, of course). She shared her toys with her cousins and her best friend/brother from another mother. She showed off the chickens and her little sister and my god SHE IS THREE IT IS BLOWING MY MIND.

This year has been been a lot: a new sister, a favorite teacher suddenly fired from her daycare, potty training, etc. etc. And this kid has handled it amazingly well. She got out of diapers just in time for baby to arrive. She is the most gentle and loving big sister (though clumsy, her hugs are often more like wrestling moves). She is a patient friend to both her cousin and her best friend who sometimes get overwhelmed and don't remember how to take turns and maybe grab her toys. Of course, she has moments where the devil himself grabs her and uses his voice to shriek NO NO NOOOOO but most of the time I can honestly say: she is effing amazing.

She was still a baby last year. And sometimes she asks to sit in my lap or for a 'baby carry' or for her crib to be put back together. But make no mistake, Little A. is a kid. She can dress herself. She will order for herself at restaurants and compliment the waitress on a good meal (chicken nuggets or mac n cheese, please, for sooth, she is that kid). She makes jokes, she notices everything, she loves and hates and enjoys and despises. She is...awesome. I look at her sometimes and can hardly believe she is mine.

THREE. How can it be? Days are long, years are short, indeed.

Birfday twirl!

Con muchos besos, A

Happy Barfday, Grampa

(Apologies in advance for the gross post. It's gonna get REAL up in this joint.)

My father is, in the fullest sense of the word, a DAD. He is incredibly hard working and self-sacrificing and while he has always been supportive, boy do you know when you have crossed the line. BOY DO YOU KNOW IT. He was probably the most strict of all my friends' parents in high school. Miss a curfew? Never. Drink or do drugs? Hell to the no. Boys? NO FUCKING WAY HE WOULD HAVE KILLED ME AND THE BOYS IN QUESTION. (I had two boyfriends in high school. And I waited until college to do all the other things, much to the detriment of my education). Seriously, I was scared to tell him when I got my first ever C, in college, but somehow I always knew it was because he loved me and thought I could handle the pressure. He says plenty of stupid shit that makes me mad and isn't particularly enamored of my boyfriend, because no one could ever be good enough for me. Cliche? Indeed: meet my DAD. You might as well put his picture next to the definition in the dictionary.

And now, he is a GRANDFATHER. He has a big round belly, which has magical nap-powers. He makes ridiculous goofy faces and noises and ridiculously dotes upon all four of his granddaughters (while not-so-secretly wishing one of them will turn out to be a tomboy, or that I might try to have another just on the off chance we might have a boy).

(Hell to the no, again.)

And so this week we gathered together to celebrate his birthday. All of us at a big ol' table in a cozy family-friendly Italian restaurant. All his progeny in one spot, all the granddaughters behaving beautifully.

AND THEN. My darling elder, without a word, coughed quietly, and threw up all over the table. She was so quiet about it that I had to confirm with Tim. Did she just...?? HOLY CRAP YES, he said. And threw his napkin at the mess, and then as she coughed again he tried to catch it with his hands. But it was not enough. More and more barf silently exited my beautiful kid's mouth and spread out over the table until I snatched her up and flung her into the bathroom, which was blessedly very near. Our sainted waitress appeared with a roll of paper towels, with an alacrity combined with lack of panic that made me think she must have at least three kids of her own.

Poor Little A. was a trooper. After a few tears over her dirty pants, which we changed, (pro tip: never leave home without extra pants, even if they are potty trained), she insisted she felt better! And proceeded to eat spaghetti and chicken nuggets and bread and apple juice and a big bowl of whipped cream with chocolate syrup that the kitchen served to the kids because they were out of ice cream.

And the rest of us enjoyed our dinners, too.Until my brother came back from the bathroom with his elder daughter and described her poo. Fortunately we were just about to get the check. Unfortunately I was in the midst of a losing battle to nurse the baby without showing my boobs.

Moral of the story: PARENTHOOD IS GROSS. GRANDPARENTHOOD, ONLY MARGINALLY LESS SO.

They were surely glad to see the back of us. As I am sure you are glad to be at the end of this post.

Con muchos besos, A

Days of the Week Days of the Week

Happy Humpday!* My elder daughter's pre-pre-school teacher (whom I credit for every ounce of knowledge the kid has, and most of her manners) taught the kids some song about the days of the week, which imaginatively begins: "Days of the Week! Days of the Week!" I can count on Little A. singing it approximately 1000 times each Day of the Week. And then we have to play "I am the TEACHER!" during which she commands me to point to a random spot on the wall while naming the Days of the Week. Sometimes this leads to a rousing recitation of Months of the Year, or the Alphabet.

Speaking of which, I have somehow reached a point in my life where I learn about new bands through Sesame Street. Like this: 



Tilly and the Wall! So fun! Who knew? I'll have to have Little A. teach me how to use iTunes so I can buy an album. And maybe get a different song of theirs in my head, though we do look ultra cool walking through the grocery store parking lot shouting "1-2-3 APPLE!" while fake-tap-dancing.

Con muchos besos, A.

*Today I have my 6-week postpartum checkup. And while for the most part I am feeling surprisingly good, there will be NO SORT OF HUMPING today. Or in the near future. No effing way. Sorry, Tim.