What's in a name? Well it has nothing to do with a rose, I can tell you that.

I've been a parent long enough to know that no matter what I do, no matter what I say, I will always, inevitably, mess up something.

Little gaffes will go unnoticed by everyone but me. Slightly larger ones will be noticed by my husband or a close friend. Big parenting fuck ups will have tongues wagging long enough to make me want to hide in my room with the covers over my head until the next scandal. Thankfully, I haven't made one of those mistakes yet but let's face it, it's only a matter of time. This is me we're talking about.

Then there are those parenting failures that no one considers mistakes but I know they are and there's nothing anything you can do to make me think differently. So there.

Case in point, I named my child the wrong name.

Back before we had Caroline* (AKA - CC.) I asked for help in naming my child. That's right, I asked the internet, complete strangers in some cases, to help me name my baby. And you did help and it was awesome. I not only got help narrowing down my search for the perfect baby name but you also shared stories with me about naming your own children and in some cases the story behind your name. And then we all sang kumbaya and ate some s'mores.

The list had all the names my husband and I considered worthy of our blessed spawn and methodically I worked through that list and crossed off one name after another for one reason or another until we came to an agreement about which we liked best, to be revisited once we could look upon the baby and give her a name that suited her best. I call it an agreement, Mr. C calls it taking into account his wishes for one specific name and then summarily squashing that idea and choosing one I liked better. Potato - potahto.

Finally (seriously), the magical day came when I pushed an 8 pound baby from my lady parts who really, really did not want to come out. There was much rejoicing and crying... maybe more crying than rejoicing - pretty sure she was holding on by her fingernails in there - and when the nurse, or maybe the doctor (fingernails, sharp ones), asked what my perfect cherub of a daughter was to be called, I said, "Caroline."

And then I wanted to kick myself in the kidneys because it wasn't right.

But it seemed too late to correct it. Everyone was calling her Caroline. They were cooing her name, "Sweet, sweet Caroline". My husband was, probably intelligently, keeping his mouth shut about the whole thing. We told our then two year old that her sister's name was Caroline. She called her "Baby Sister Carowine". It was such a perfect moment it would have made a bystander want to smack someone in the head, so overwhelming was the adorableness.

For the next couple of days I tried out the name on my perfect, beautiful, angry, squalling infant. For the next few weeks I tried out the name on my perfect, beautiful, angry, refused to sleep more than 45 minutes at a time infant. For the next few months I tried out the name on my perfect, beautiful, OMG CHILD WILL YOU PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD AND HOLY SLEEP FOR ONCE???

What was I saying?

Then when she was around four months old it hit me - The Perfect Name.

I can't believe it hadn't occurred to me before. The Name was a perfect combination of my Nana's name and Mr. C's Nana's name. It was a name that could easily transition from childhood into adulthood and could even be shortened into a cute nickname. Not to put too fine a point on it but it really was The Perfect Name.

And no, I'm not sharing it. I have a hard enough time not referring to my kid in private by the name. But don't think I don't think about it. A lot.

Not only did I goof on her name but I gave her a name that there is always a chance will be either spelled or pronounced incorrectly. After living with mine for as long as I have, I swore I would never do that to my kids. Now people refer to her as Carolyn. Oops, my bad.

In the grand scheme of things this really isn't bad. Let's call it a Whoopsie. One day she'll ask if she was ever going to be called something else and before telling her I'll remind her of that time I picked her up from school 30 minutes late in mismatched shoes with my hair not brushed and insisted on slowing down in front of that cute boy from school while yelling, "Yoohoo! Want a ride, sailor?"

It should soften the blow.

Introducing Murgatroyd Sparkles Sarsaparilla. It's so obvious, I don't know why it took me so long to think of it.

*After five years of blogging I think it's time to use their real names. They're both somewhere on this blog anyway.

The Feral Woodland Monkey Child of Awesome

See this kid?



She’s awesome.

She’s almost always filthy, half naked, with her hair in her face, climbing something incredibly dangerous and sticking sharp things toward her face on purpose. While wearing a cowboy hat.

Like I said, she’s awesome.

I don’t know where she came from - probably from that whacked-out, crazy part of my family, which if I’m being honest is most of them so the odds were good I’d get at least one child who was just this side of cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs - but she’s mine and despite her penchant for scaling walls and laying on top of the wood stove while watching SpongeBob and eating stolen carbohydrates, I love her madly.

Because she’s made of awesome it makes up for all the sleepless nights/gray hairs/added trips to my therapist. Mostly.


Look at her. If you didn't know her you’d think from her diminutive size she’d be the quiet, retiring type. You’d think because she’s a female child she wouldn’t have the ability to make the other little boys her age run away in terror, crying real tears to their mothers. You’d think from the dresses and sparkly necklaces she wears she’d be a feminine, girly girl. But you’d be wrong. She's just herself - which is awesome.

She plays in the toilet, destroys books, sits on top of upright pianos, dumps the contents of full cereal boxes onto the floor and then sits next to the 90 pound dog to share the reward, uses both hands to eat her food even though she can, oh yes she can, use a fork and spoon. She’s not going to preschool for another year but her future teachers have been warned she’s coming. They are ready because they have seen her and I do believe they understand the awesome headed their way.

You have to love her, because she is awesome.

She’s not afraid to stand up for herself, hold her ground and protect what she believes to be hers. She will tell you about her day in great detail and you’d be lucky to understand five words - because frankly, they’d be awesome words - but she doesn’t care because darnit, she’s got something to say. She will hold your face to hers to make sure you’re listening intently. And you will, because her stories are... You know.

But at the end of the day when she’s exhausted from being awesome she’ll curl up on my chest like she did when she was even tinier and demand I sing Itsy Bitsy Spider while tickling the actions on her back.

And she sighs.

And she snuggles.

And I’ll do it some more.

Not because she asked but because being with her like that, quiet and still with that perfect little creature, even after she tried to ride the dog like a horse and dumped a bottle of soap all over the bathroom floor and drew in red crayon up the stairs and after a day when even her grandparents couldn’t take her and her antics for another minute... that time with my baby girl is awesome.

Because for a moment OMG SHE'S NOT MOVING. AWESOME!

Step into the heart of darkness. Or as I like to call it, vacation with my kids.

It's been a busy couple of weeks 'round these parts.

Mr. C. took two weeks off in a row for vacation - something virtually unheard of for the man who is looking into having his Blackberry, Macbook AND iPad surgically attached to him, kind of like Iron Man for geeks - so we decided to make the best of it and scheduled not one but two separate vacation trips. First up, Story Land in the beautiful White Mountains of New Hampshire.

Don't know about Story Land? It's an amusement park best suited for the under 10 year old set that's been in operation since the 1950's. It's quaint, it's heavy on the Mother Goose motif, the only way out is through Ye Olde Gift Shoppe of Doom. It's awesome. I went there as a kid, as did Mr. C., and by jeebus our kids were going too! So we went. Along with half of New England.

Okay I'm exaggerating. Only a third of New England was there. We went mid-week when it was slow.

The kids loved Story Land and we're planning on going again next year. Because next year, poor CC won't be stuck in a stroller most of the time. Maybe. She has a tendency to wander and a stubborn streak as big as Texas and shut up, husband of mine, she DOES NOT GET THAT ENTIRELY FROM ME. At least I only wander when there's something shiny to look at and not every time we encounter something that plugs into the wall.

CC had a good time, though. We threw her in a germ-infested pit of plastic balls and she was happy as a toddler in a germ-infested pit of plastic balls.


One of the highlights, for Chicky at least, was Cinderella's Kingdom:



A place I thought for sure would be skipped. My daughter loves pirates and beating up little boys, but she can take or leave a Princess. But on this occasion, bring on the sparkles! And I mean that almost literally.

Want to see something that strikes fear in my heart and wakes me up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat?

*shudder*
Look into my eyes. You will buy me a $15 soft serve ice cream and there's nothing you can do about it. And I'll take that row of stuffed Humpty Dumpty's too.

Dude. Just... DUDE. When we saw the face painting stand I thought for sure she was going to ask for the SpiderMan or the one that looked like a snake was eating the wearer's face but no, she went for... that. Whatever that is.

Come to think of it, sans fake gold crown on her forehead and that was me in high school. Only I wore more blue eyeshadow.

She had to be coaxed to sit on Cinderella's lap. To be fair, I'm pretty sure she took Cinderella for what she was - an underpaid, blond teenage girl in a dress that look suspiciously like the one I wore to a prom in '87. So she just stood next to her. All the better to make a quick getaway from.

Cinderella needs more blue eyeshadow.

Later in the trip we took the girls to Santa's Village, another place I had been to as a kid, and I'm not going to get into that trip except to say there was a very large cross and a huge nativity scene there and I'm sorry but you're not going to rationalize that away enough for my heathen liking.

I'd show you pictures of my children posed on sleighs and standing next to fake penguins and elves, just as I had a wee child, but I lost most of them in the great iPhoto crash of '10. They may still be on my memory card or they may be on my hard drive or I may have been ready to start shooting tequila at that point so let's move on.

The next week after barely any rest from four days in New Hampshire we set off for my sister's house on Cape Cod. If you have a relative who lives near an ocean and happens to own an eating and drinking establishment, I highly recommend you take them up on the offer to stay with them. Especially if that relative has extra bedrooms so you don't have to spend another week with your beautiful but non-sleeping children and has a seemingly never-ending reserve of wine. I'd show you pictures but I don't have many. Much too busy sleeping and eating and drinking and laying in the sun and Story Land who?

Which leads me to today - A mountain of laundry and a house in questionable condition, I still haven't caught up on my sleep and three days until I leave for BlogHer to get it all done. And no never-ending supply of wine.

Dude.

Need

CC and I went to a local children's store today to exchange a hat and mitten set I had bought for Chicky. Despite my insistence she stop growing, she seemed to have had a growth spurt and needed a larger size. We were just going to run in, get the next size up, and leave because I had many more errands to do before we needed to head back to preschool for pickup when a family caught my attention on my way to the hat display.

There was a woman about my age with her two young children, the oldest barely out of infancy and the little one around 4 months old, accompanied by someone I assumed to be the woman's mother. The grandmother was pushing the double stroller, casually picking up whatever full price item she liked and adding them to the already huge pile of clothing hanging from the stroller's handle, while the younger woman looked over the racks of discounted 6 month-sized outfits.

"Do the kids have matching Christmas pajamas yet?" she asked her daughter, and without waiting for an answer she added two more pairs of pajamas to her stack. The daughter, seeing what her mother did, sighed with what seemed to be exasperation and went back to looking at the sales rack, shaking her head. She seemed resigned to her mother's shopping spree.

Try as I might I couldn't stop my throat from constricting and my eyes from tearing up. It was exactly something my mom would have done. I could easily put myself in that woman's place and my mom in her mom's. Mom would have spoiled her granddaughter's silly and would have ignored all my pleas to stop buying them things they didn't need. Secretly, of course, I would have loved every second, knowing how much pleasure she would get from dressing up the girls. She would have bought them little trinkets for no reason other than she saw something they would have liked and they were never far from her mind. It would never be about the purchase but what she could do to make her grandchildren happy. All at once I was overcome with longing for the inevitable bickering between us. Five hundred different emotions hit me all at one time.

I coughed, dabbing at my eyes while I knelt down pretending to look at a satin holiday dress I had no intention of buying, willing myself to not turn into a huge puddle of tears in the middle of the store. Sweat started to pool between my shoulder blades and behind my neck. I was alternately furious at the hand life had dealt us and overcome with loss, both for me and my girls. I had a hard time seeing through my anger at the younger woman. I couldn't think straight because I was too busy imagining myself in her place. Honestly, I wanted to shove her for not seeing how good she had it.

Leaving the store seemed like a very good idea at that moment. In my haste I almost forget to grab the larger hat and I would have if I hadn't snagged the arm of my coat on the rack as I rushed by. With it in hand, I pushed the stroller containing a very tired and cranky CC toward the register and waited for the lone sales associate to ring up the three customers in front of me. While we waited the grandmother and her overflowing stroller got in line behind us and CC, the social creature that she is, waved furiously at the woman.

"Hi!" she called. "Hi!!"

"Hi to you," the grandmother replied with a smile. "What a pretty hat you have. Did your mommy get you that hat?"

"Hi!" CC answered. She put her hands in front of her eyes. "Boo!" She cackled at her own game.

The older woman laughed and returned the gesture. "Peek-a-boo!" CC roared with laughter.

I didn't say anything, just smiled and tried to stop the prickly feeling behind my eyes from coming back. So many things my mom missed.

Finally it was my turn at the register. Beside it was a display of fleecy holiday pajamas. Normally I'm put off by those displays, obviously intended to entice the shoppers in line to put more in their cart, but this time I grabbed two pairs, size 12 months and 4T, and put them on the counter with the hat.

"Did you find everything you were looking for today?" the girl asked me.

You don't have what I need in this store, I wanted to say.

"Yes," I answered. In a shaky hand, I signed my name on the credit card machine.

The grandmother smiled at me as I gathered up the shoe CC had thrown while waiting for me. "She's beautiful," she said. "I bet she'll look really cute in those pajamas."

Tears were threatening again. "Thanks," I mumbled over my shoulder as I turned to leave.

I placed the bag with the Christmas pajamas on the handle of our stroller while CC yelled, "Bye bye!" all the way out the door.

I know as their mom I should have warned them their faces would freeze this way

But as the woman who vomited for a combined 18 months while carrying them in my womb, I'll take the silly where I can get it.

This is what happens when I say, "Make a silly face!" Wow.

Bad Mommy Confessional - Part 275,398 in a continuing series

I've made some pretty magnificent fuck ups when it comes to my kids in my four years as a parent. I'm pretty stellar in the fuck up department anyway but when it comes to my kids I try to keep it to a minimum, which only makes each fuck up more of a train wreck.

Also, fuck up.

Take for instance that time two weeks ago when I got Chicky hyped up on the promise of Summer Camp. After being away from it for three weeks due to vacations and trivial things like dwindling bank accounts, she was desperate to go back to her preschool, where summer camp was being held.

For a week I counted down to that damn 3-day camp like it was the end of days, but way funner.

Then when the day finally came we had a spectacularly bad morning where no one (read: Everyone but me.) (Okay, everyone including me but I had to so the choice was taken out of my hands.) wanted to get ready to actually get out of the house and to the summer camp even though everyone (read: Chicky. And me. Please for someone to be taking my child.) so badly wanted to go but apparently not enough to actually get dressed or eat breakfast or willingly have their teeth brushed or anything.

Then the baby slept late. So I had to wake her up in order to get her fed, dressed and out the door.

Let me repeat that - I had to wake up the baby. On purpose.

And then, as we were just about to head out the door - Bowel movements for everyone!

Yes I just went there and I am unrepentant.

So we were late and I was snappy and Chicky was sulky and CC was stinky (Three of the lesser-known dwarfs that were cut when casting the original gang of seven. True story.) and none of this would have been bad or even out of the ordinary if I hadn't messed up my days and brought her to camp ON A WEEK SHE WASN'T SCHEDULED TO BE THERE.

Mother of the Year right here, baby. Now where the hell is my medal?

In front of her friends, their parents, and her teachers - and let's face it, God was probably there to witness it too, judging me. The preschool is in the bottom of a church, of course it is - I had to convince my child, who by now had backed herself in a corner like a frightened doe facing a shotgun, that she had to willingly leave her most favorite place on earth EVER, the place where she gets to run in the sprinklers and do crafts and have snack, to come home with me and her sister to do unfun stuff. Like play in the sprinklers and do crafts and have snack.

Uh uh, she was not going. She wasn't going and nothing anyone could do could convince her otherwise. She's stubborn, that one. Not sure where she gets that from.

So I cajoled - Come on, honey. Please come with Mama? We'll do lots of super fun stuff! We'll watch movies! We'll bake cookies! Anything! Just ask! A pound of flesh? You've got it! Take two, there's plenty where that came from.

And her teacher stood there, giving me that look. You know, that look? That, Aw, this kind of sucks for you, huh? But don't worry, we've all been through it and that alone should make you feel way better about screwing up your child's whole life forever and ever, look?

Okay I may have imagined that last bit. I doubt it, but maybe.

Please baby, Mama loves you. I'll buy you a donut! I'll buy you a toy! I'll buy you a damn pony, just please come with me so I can drown my shame in a chocolate frosted and large iced coffee.

The donut must have been the key because she came with me. And we drove to the nearest Dunkin Donuts while I heard all about how much she wanted to be at summer camp with her friends. How much she really wanted to go to school again. How much she really hated my guts.

Again, maybe I imagined that last part. Maybe?

And as we drove away from the donut shop I handed her the bag that held her precious sugar fix... and she immediately informed me that I had bought the wrong donut. Gee, what are the odds?

That kind of set the tone for the rest of the week. On a scale of one to ten, ten being accidentally mistaking my children for speed bumps and one being not washing a favorite blanket in time for bedtime, this fuck up fell probably around a four. Maybe a five. In the grand scheme it wasn't that bad and I'm sure I'll probably do much worse before my children finally flee the nest. As a matter of fact, I'm positive I will.

This? Was not so bad.

I try to remember the good moments when I'm going through a rough time. Like when I'm missing my mom I try to recall a happy memory and hold on to it because I don't have the real thing. When it comes to my kids, for the sake of this blog anyway, I try to put the good before the bad. This is a sort of diary for them as well as for me and I want them to know that no matter what, I love them fiercely. That's not to say I don't include the ugly bits here. I see no reason to shield anyone from the nasty parts of motherhood and I have always been forthright about this family's low patches.

That being said, things are not easy around here right now. Today was a particularly bad day, and it's not even 3pm. I'm too tired to write about it so I took a reasonably banal moment and documented it with a touch of tongue-in-cheek humor thrown in to make me, if not anyone else, laugh. It's not anything specific, maybe just a case of growing pains, but when people thank me for reminding them that this parenting gig is not so bad most of the time when I'm the one in need of reminding... I don't know. I guess I feel like a bit of a hypocrite.

So quick, quid pro quo - tell me how great this parenting gig really is.

It won't always be this way

We pack the bags, the beach toys, the towels, the snacks, the drinks, the shade tent, and the kids and we head to the beach where we unpack the bags, the beach toys, the towels, the snacks, the drinks, the shade tent, and let the kids have their way with rocks and bits of dead crab parts found while the baby tries to shove great handfuls of sand in her mouth and Chicky complains there's sand in her Goldfish crackers. Soon we're covered in sweat and sand and the rocks have taken their toll on our tender toes and we're tired and wiped out and the kids are cranky and we're cranky and we still have to repack the bags, the beach toys, the towels, the leftover sandy snacks, the bottles with the dregs of warm drinks, the shade tent and the kids and we tell ourselves -

It won't always be this way.

At the ice cream shop, one girl is jumping out of her skin in anticipation, bumping into unsuspecting customers in her excitement, while the other toddles toward the busy parking lot. Ordering takes much longer than it should because we're scolding and admonishing and chasing, we look apologetically toward the college-aged girl behind the counter. Soon both girls are sticky from head to toe with a combination of pink and green ice cream and as a result we're both covered with ice cream too. Over their heads I say to him -

It won't always be this way.

At dinner, CC is not content to sit at the table, she needs to get down and make her own discoveries on the well trodden floor. Chicky whines for her supper. Why is it taking so long? she asks mournfully. The food finally comes and they pick at it like they weren't just starving a moment ago while we devour our food in shifts, first him then me. We leave a pile of discarded napkins and french fries on the floor behind us. As we're buckling both overtired girls in the car he says to me -

It won't always be this way.

It's been a long day and we get the girls undressed and ready for bed. We inhale the scent of their suntanned bodies, the salt in their hair. As we put her in bed, we ask Chicky what her favorite part of the day was. Everything, she answers emphatically, a contented smile on her face. Bedtime stories read, she holds tightly to our necks - I love you Mommy, I love you Daddy. So much.

In the quiet of her room I rock with CC in my arms. I pepper her silky hair and her rosy cheeks with kisses. She sighs contentedly and tucks her arms and legs underneath her while snoozing on my chest. I rub her back before finally, begrudgingly, placing her into her crib. She grabs her lovie and closes her eyes and for a moment I linger, watching the rise and fall of her chest before leaving the stillness of her room. I fall, exhausted, onto the couch next to him and lay my head on his shoulder. I'm quiet while I think about our day, the highs and lows, the difficulties and the triumphs. But most of all, I think about the last few minutes. I think about the love and the need, both theirs and mine. And I say to him with a heavy heart -

It won't always be this way.

Baby steps

We're at the playground on one of the first nice days we've had in what seems like forever, shaking off the fever, both cabin and viral, and slathering sunscreen. The bigger kids are playing make believe by the swings and climbing like monkeys on the aptly named bars. They're sliding down slides warmed by the sun and running through the slightly damp sandbox as fast as their coltish legs will carry them, golden locks trailing behind. CC looks on with longing, not quite satisfied with the mulch she's playing with, too small to run after her big sister. Too small to do pretty much anything within the confines of the fenced area. She doesn't like the feel of the sand on her bare legs today or the taste of it after she absentmindedly chews on a green plastic shovel, so she's crawled over to a shady spot under a tree where we sit and watch the glory unfold together. A small sigh escapes from her pink bow lips.

----------------

The distance between the table leg and the drawer her sister is digging through is only about four feet but may as well be a mile. She holds on to the leg with one hand, the other willing the plastic containers and odd lid into her chubby fist, each colorful bowl like the Holy Grail. She lets go and takes one step, then two, then down on her diapered rump she falls. Instead of crawling to the drawer she crawls back to the table leg and tries again. This time she only makes one step before plopping down on the floor. Then again. And again. The most she manages is four steps before she gives up. Her sister, in a rare moment of kindness, brings her a purple rubber lid and a wooden spoon.

---------------

She's getting the hang of this walking thing - Step, step, step, thump. Step, step, step, thump. She doesn't give up, she doesn't stay down - Step, step, step, thump. Step, step, step, thump.

I cheer quietly from behind her.

---------------

From twenty feet away they spot me in the crowded airport and she tries in vain to wiggle free from her father's arms. He puts her down on the industrial carpet and through a sea of people busy rushing here and there she walks toward me, small arms waving wildly over her head like an orangutan, a big smile on her face because she knows she's accomplishing something amazing. It's hard not to notice the amused looks on the people's faces around us, the appreciative stares from older parents and the childless alike, but my eyes are on her while my heart threatens to burst with pride. I throw my arms wide to catch her as she propels toward me. I can barely keep the happy tears from pouring from my eyes. She is a wonder; a perfect, tiny human being with the zeal and moxie of someone ten times her size. She is ready to take on the world. She couldn't be more pleased with herself. I couldn't love her more if I tried.

What I need is a pig's head and a stick

Captain's Log - Day 19:

We have been stranded in the "no school zone" for what seems like forever and yet still days away from any scheduled day camps that will bring necessary relief. The natives are getting restless.

The weather, I'm afraid, has not been cooperating. Dreary, gray skies threatening rain almost every day has forced us to be inside on most days. Four walls are starting to close in on us.

We have watched all our videos, been on multiple playdates, made high calorie treats with much sugar, and endured many tantrums and still, there is nothing to satisfactorily break up the monotony. In the middle of the night I hear sounds of tribal drums and then... Silence. An eerie silence occasionally broken up by sounds of metal on stone. Could it be weapons are being made?

Communication with the outside world is almost totally cut off by small people and their unreasonable demands for food and entertainment. When communication does become available, sheer exhaustion stops me in my tracks. I'm afraid soon I will be completely overwhelmed by their need.

I fear the end is near.

Send gin.

Good times never seemed so good

CC,

I blinked and then you were one.

I know it's cliche, I know every parent says it, but where did the past year go? It seems like I just had you but it also seems like you've always been with us. You just have that way about you, I suppose.

There are so many things I want to remember about your first year because you're so utterly enjoyable, but because you're the second child I've really let the ball drop on the whole documenting your first year of life thing. Sorry about that. It's not intentional. Honestly, we've been spending more time living which leaves less time for writing. And it's not like I don't try to take pictures of you, I really do. You just never sit still long enough so I've ended up with two hundred pictures of the back of your head.

But see? Here's a cute picture of you. It was taken before you could crawl away from the crazy lady and her flashy camera-thingy.

And it's not like there haven't been plenty of milestones to record - First crawled: six months. First word: HI! (capital letters, exclamation point), used often and regularly. Number of teeth: sweet Jesus, baby girl, you went into this week with an impressive seven teeth (and I do mean impressive, you could gnaw through the piano leg if I let you) but then this week you cut two molars at the same time. You can slow down because I'm still not sharing my steak with you - because there have been plenty to keep us busy.

Then there are the little things they don't leave spaces for in those books - how you love to dance and sing, how you manage to engage complete strangers in marathon games of peek-a-boo, how you're so very small but incredibly mighty for someone your size.

How you will amuse yourself for hours with nothing but a paper towel roll, a shoebox and an Advil bottle with a quarter in it stopping every once in a while for a quick cuddle or to blow kisses to me across the room.

Or how you love your sister even though she tries her best to make your life unpleasant (And for the record, she loves you too. She just doesn't know it yet).

And how, when frightened or unsure or just in the mood for a little love, you cling to me like a capuchin monkey, fingers holding onto my shirt for dear life while you giggle while I kiss your cheeks, until you feel comfortable enough to literally throw yourself out of my arms at whatever catches your eye.

That's how your first year has been spent, throwing yourself at whatever interests you regardless of consequence. I like that about you.


But the best part about the last year can be summed up by this: When sitting in your high chair you eat your meals with your right foot propped up on the tray. Never the left, always the right. And the first time you noticed it you were all, "Hey, look at That. How did That get there? Wow, I didn't know I had That! That has got to be the coolest thing I've ever seen. Mom, did you see That? Isn't That the best?? I really like That. I think I will sit with That next to me at every meal."

And that is what you did, still do, pretty much every meal for months. Among the things I will miss as you grow older, that is one of the most important. Your ability to find pleasure in the most mundane, the most simple, and the most obvious things we usually miss. I love That about you.

All my love,

Mama

Lopsided

I think I can say with almost 100% certainty that CC is now officially weaned.

*throws salt over shoulder*

*knocks wood*

*beats on a rabbit's foot with a horseshoe*

After ten months of exclusive breastfeeding and then slowly and painstakingly trying to get her to accept a bottle on a regular basis, it's time.

My goal with CC was one year, which is two weeks from now, and I will admit that date is purely selfish. I'm done. I'm ready to have my breasts back, though admittedly much more beaten and battered than they were a year ago, and I want to wear a bra with no snaps on the cup. I want to tuck in a shirt if the mood should strike. I want to not have a small, rabid badger hanging from my nipples by her teeth.

Yeah, CC is a biter. Moving on.

I have to admit though, it happened a lot more quickly than I imagined it would. I figured she'd fight me for months, so I started a couple of weeks ago in preparation for going to Blogher in July. It must have coincided with a growth spurt because my supply didn't seem to be enough for her and she finally realized that taking a bottle? Not such a bad thing after all. Did you know milk came out of these things? Lots of it? Who knew?? You'd think we were holding out on her.

So consequently, I'm in a bit of pain. Not to mention she favored one breast over the other... and I'll leave the rest to your imagination. And for the record, you're disgusting. Stop thinking about my boobs.

With Chicky I didn't have an end date in mind, I figured we'd go as long as we could and that would be that. However, she was very different from her little sister in that she took a bottle at five months. The weaning happened naturally, organically (if you can call it that, using non-BPA free plastic bottles), and over much time and on her first birthday, when we were down to one nursing session a day, she simply pushed me away, gestured to her crib, and went to sleep. That was, in fact, that.

If I had known then it was the last time I would have tried to remember it all. I was much more sentimental about the whole process with Chicky. With CC, I'm more practical and I think it's because she has always been so practical in her approach to nursing. She never really nursed for comfort and toward the end she barely nursed for sustenance. She's just not interested in working for it or sitting still long enough because there are places to go, people to see and other, more dangerous things to put in her mouth.

But my baby girl is a creature of habit. I would bring her to bed and we would have to sit down and have a little nummy nummies session (for the record, I never called it nummy nummies, I'm just sick of writing "nursing"). She would lay there biting and chewing and hitting (she was always a hitter as well as a biter and next week I'm signing my almost one year old up for kickboxing classes. By three she should be ready for Ultimate Fighting.) and then she'd freak out because my let down was too slow for her liking. Almost every day it was the same. It's no wonder I was ready to be done with this breastfeeding thing.

However, I do feel like I should be as sentimental about the whole business of weaning CC as I was with Chicky. She's my last baby. No more feeding a little person from my bosom. No more sweaty head in the crook of my arm while little hands flutter around my chest. I don't think I even got any pictures of me nursing her...

Okay, now I'm weepy. Also, leaky. And I smell like cabbage.

What I said about not being nostalgic about weaning? Disregard please.

Cookie Puss - the only slightly less edible kind

The writer's block is lifting. I know, you're thrilled. Try to contain yourself.

So why am I not writing? Uh... I actually have quite a bit to blog about now but there are big things brewing (Big, people. BIG) and I just don't have the time to write anything of any substance.

So instead - BABY PICTURES!

(Otherwise known as, Jesus, this woman has enough time to take pictures of her kids but not enough time to write? And to you I say, Yeah.)

Have you met my baby? I call her Cookie Puss.

Heavy emphasis on the cookie...


... Not that the rest of her isn't delicious too, because I have never known a baby to be this yummy.

Tell me you don't have the urge to stick your face into that roll between her cheeks and her neck and live there for awhile and I'll call you a puppy kicking/grandma slapping/baby hating fascist. And then I'll demand that you smell her because she smells like cookies too.

Believe me, one whiff and you'll be turned into a powerless puddle of goo in her little hand. I'm relieved this blog isn't scratch and sniff because I don't want to be included in the downfall of the American economy. Bailouts, bad loans, greedy corporations and cookie scented baby cheeks. Come to think of it, never mind. She doesn't really smell that good. Nothing to see here. Move along...

(More baby cheeks for me. Nom nom nom.)

(Also, am shameless Mommyblogger type shamelessly using cute baby as a shameless ploy to get out of writing anything of substance. Shameless. And I could really give a damn.)

(Big things, people. BIG.)

This will gross out at least 50 percent of my readers. But I'm okay with that.

Oh, honey. I know what you're thinking. Please don't do it.

I'm begging you, PLEASE don't do what I know you're about to do.
I mean, I could stop you myself, but you need to learn some self-control, babycakes. That and I don't feel like leaving the couch right now.

To the untrained eye she looks like she's giving him a kiss. But her mama knows what she's really doing is checking to see if he tastes like chicken.

I'm guessing he doesn't.

How you doin' there, hon? It looks like you've got a little something in your mouth.

Yep, right about there. I could help you clear all that dog hair out of your mouth but Mama's a little busy recording this for posterity. You'll understand when you have your own kids someday.

I hope there aren't too many of you who are greeting your guts right now...
(Like my friend Liz. Hi Liz!)
...but a mom does what a mom has to do. And when CC comes home from a night of teen binge drinking and is tangoing with the toilet I'll pull out these pictures and ask her, "I bet that tastes a lot better than when you chewed on the DAMN DOG." And then I'll laugh and laugh.

Oh, c'mon Fisher. Get a sense of humor, will you? That was funny. It's nothing personal. I'm sure you taste delightful but I'm not going to be finding out any time soon.

Isn't it ironic? No really, is it?

In my last post I was all - Hurrah breastfeeding! Fuck 'em all if they can't stand to see a woman's breasts used for what nature intended and not airbrushed within an inch of their life and splashed all over the covers of Maxim magazine, today we nurse like no one is looking! Am self-righteous breastfeeding zealot! And I thumped my chest like a male gorilla looking to impress his female.

*thump, thump, thump*

But today I do a 180 and praise the heavens that my child is finally doing this:


Sweet jaheebus, that is my baby holding a bottle to her mouth with a smile on her face. After 10 looong months she is finally letting a synthetic nipple pass her lips and giving my very real ones a much needed break. She is not weaned so I can still play earth mama breastfeeder...

*thump, thump, thump*

... But now I can give her to Mr. C. and tell him he can feed her for a change. Mama's boobs need a nap.

*thump, zzzzzzz*


----------------

This is how our adventures in weaning started a few months ago. It wasn't pretty. Adorable, but not pretty. Scrumptuous and edible, but not pretty. I wanted to put her whole head in my mouth and chew it like a Skittle, but not pretty.


(Also, Avent? *making the universal symbol for telephone with my hand* Call me. My baby is I am available for sponsorship. Am also shameless.)


Adventures in Weaning from Chicky Baby on Vimeo.

I blame it on all the fresh air

Hey Mom, this outdoor stuff is great and all but I'm kind of sleepy....

And my hat keeps getting in my eyes. Do you think you could put down that camera and come pick me up? Maybe fix my hat too? Mom? Anyone? Where the heck are you going?

Alrighty then, I can see that's not going to happen. I guess I'm going to have to go to you...

Wait just a minute here. What the heck is this pokey stuff?

This wasn't here before. I don't know what it is but I know I don't like it. Nope, don't like it. Not one bit.

Mooooom. Put down the damn camera and COME. AND. GET. ME.

Stubborn?? Oh, I'll show you stubborn. You just wait until I get over there...

Yeah, you just do your clapping thing, lady. I'll clap along with you and then when you're not looking I'll chew on your kneecap.
*grumbling* Can't believe she made me crawl over that pokey stuff. Just wait until your back is turned, sweet cheeks. You won't believe what I can do with a poopy diaper and these little fingers of mine. Oh yes, payback is a bitch and I have no filter. Heh heh heh...

We should all be so lucky

I took CC to her 9 month well baby visit last week (And can we just pause for a moment to wonder where the hell the last 9 months went?? <-----> Damn.), a visit I was very much looking forward to. Not because she was going to get a shot and possibly revisit the great doctor's office meltdown of '08, because that sucked ass, but because it's always fun to see how much my babies have grown and changed and also because I can stop the incessant speculative questions from the relatives on the state of her weight and height.

CC has always been on the thin side. Long and lean, that's my girl. It's partly genetic and partly because, while she has a hearty appetite when it comes to solids, she's never been big on nursing.

In the beginning I was thrilled she was so efficient, but now she just can't be bothered most of the time. Places to go, people to see. Small, dangerous toys to swallow. She's a busy little girl. Which is why I wasn't too concerned about this well visit. Developmentally I knew she was doing better than fine; she crawls, cruises, sometimes she even stands unassisted for a few seconds. She uses her walker to run around the living room (Yes, run. She doesn't do anything slowly. Hold me.)

Go, Speed Racer, go.

She's a pretty intelligent baby, if I do say so myself (ahem), and her curiosity is off the charts.

Unfortunately, so is her weight. She is so wee, she is literally not on the chart.

Three years ago this would have thrown me into a fit of self-flagellation. I would have driven home, wringing my hands the whole way (which makes driving difficult, btw), and stuck my head in the oven. Not a great idea when one has an electric oven, trust me. I would have thrown around words like "terrible mother" and "I suck" and "OMG, my BABY. My BAAA-AABY." But last week after the appointment I kind of shrugged and said, "Yep, that's what I thought. She's skinny." I told my husband, I told my in-laws, but I didn't freak out. So this is me, evolving.

Or I'm just numb to it all. Whatever.

Feed me. No, really. FEED. ME.

On the height scale, she's 80th percentile. Head circumference, 50th. Weight, 0. She's 15 pounds and 12 of those are in her cheeks. Hopefully skinny jeans will still be in style when she's ready to wear them.

And speaking of clothing, that is our biggest problem in regard to her size. I have no problem that her arms are thinner than most her age or that her legs aren't as chubby, my problem is that we can't keep a pair of pants on the poor girl. She slides right out of them like a greased pig through... whatever a greased pig slides through. And if they fit, then they're up to her knees.

Do they make baby suspenders? Because that's what she needs. Or maybe duct tape. I don't think that's frowned upon too much if the tape isn't actually touching skin.

Obviously I am a teensy tiny bit worried about her weight or I wouldn't be writing about it so we're doing what we can to bulk her up a little. You know, avocado, formula in her morning cereal, protein shakes and anabolic steroids. Basic stuff like that. The good news is it seems to be working pretty well. The bad news is she's getting a hairy chest. But that was bound to happen anyway, the women in my family are naturally furry.

So she's tiny (and furry), she's freaking adorable and she plays a mean game of peekaboo. It's just too bad she has a babbling idiot for a mom.







Peek A Boo from Chicky Baby on Vimeo.

Cheeky Cheeky Baby

I've been wanting to use that title for a long time, which would be really sad if not for OMG! THE CHEEKS. THE CHEEEEKS. NOM NOM NOM.

Scrumptious? Check. Always on hand? Check. A low calorie food? Um, check?

Take that, Girl Scout cookies. I don't need you. I have CHEEEEKS. Although, if I could dip them in crushed Peanut Butter Patties I'd be over the freaking moon. Also, 1,000 pounds.

Raspberry

She's lucky. I don't let just anyone spit at me.

(Let's chalk this one up to a nearly Wordless Wednesday. I'm new at this.)

Kicking the Bucket

It's the end of an era. Over the weekend we put away CC's SnugRide infant car seat - otherwise known as "The Bucket" - and swapped it for the car seat she will use for the next three years of her life. I'd be lying if the process didn't make me a little weepy.

Okay, quite a bit weepy.

Okay, fine. I may or may not have shed a tear over a car seat. Happy?

What did make the tears actually flow past my lids, as far as you know, was putting away tiny cotton baby pants in size Newborn and 0-3 months. Wee little pants, they'll bring down even the toughest cookie. And when that cookie is crumbly because her baby is growing and there will be no more babies after this one... Oh Christ, I'm choked up just thinking about it.

Also, Mmmm... Cookies.

Maybe it's her age, but now that CC is almost 8 months I've been asked a number of times recently if we're done having kids. Let me lay this idea to rest right now - Oh yes, we're done. Two and through, as the saying goes. The procedure has been scheduled. And by "Procedure", I mean Mr. C is going to have his man parts surgically altered. The ol' snip-snip. Snipper-ino. Ain't no fish swimming down that river no more because the beaver done dam it up. I guess that makes me the beaver? Or does it make the doctor the beaver? Probably me, that makes more sense. Either way, it's wrong that I'm taking some satisfaction in my husband finally taking some of the pain for once, isn't it?

Anyway. As I was saying.

I got reflective when I put away the baby clothes the first time when Chicky grew out of them but now that it's CC, my last baby, it's way worse. How much worse? I'm glad you asked. I actually said to Mr. C the other day, "We could always adopt another".

Yeah, he said No. Which is why I married him, he saves me from myself.

The way I see it, I should probably just leave the clothes where they are for the time being. If not, the poor man will come home from his "Procedure" to a new puppy. Maybe that's not such a bad idea. Just the thought of the greeting between the two of them made me giggle.

Get it? Dogs like to sniff crotches? His nethers will be covered with a bag of frozen peas? Dogs also like food? There would be an exuberant greeting? Jeez, I birthed two babies and lived with stitches, sitz baths and hemmorhoids. Work with me here, people. I'm hormonal.

Sigh

Laugh if you want but it totally worked

Scene: Trying to put a very sick CC down for a nap this morning. Neither one of us slept last night and she's screaming her little head off because she's overtired and can't breath - which made her even more pissed because she couldn't breath because she was overtired and screaming. And this went on until brain matter started leaking from my ears.

Then I dared try to swipe at her nose with a tissue which caused her to howl like someone possessed. I'm pretty sure her first word was said just then. "Bitch", I think it was.

Nursing is not working, neither is the pacifier (let's face it, it's hard to give a pacifier the love it deserves when your nose is plugged with all manners of ick) and I'm afraid a little demon is about to spring forth from my baby's head if I don't do something drastic. So I sing to her. Believe me, this is drastic.

The problem: I never remember the words to this damn lullabye. The solution: Make it up as I go along.

"Hush little baby, don't say a word.
Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird.

If that mockingbird don't sing,
Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring.

If that diamond ring don't shine,
Mama's gonna buy you a, uh, valentine.

If that valentine's not.... uh, red?
Mama's gonna buy you a... uh, puppy instead?

If that puppy's fur is not, uh, soft...

(Oh crap, what rhymes with soft? Soft, soft...)

If that puppy's fur is not soft,
Mama's gonna... buy herself some Zoloft."