Big Time

This chair has been a center point of my world for the last five and a half years.

It has stood true, creaking toward the end, but always giving a place to nurse, feed, snuggle, rock, sing, sleep, read, laugh and cry. And today, it has found a new home. It is just across the hall, newly designated as my reading chair, but still, it's presence is missed.

It's time had ended though. We need room for this.

Clare no longer fit in my arms in that chair. She no longer needed my body as a pillow to sleep. She needed the next step. She needed a big girl bed.

We do need to get her a little stool to help with a boost into that big bed though.

With a Rubber Hose

We were all rushing around like bees in a hive:
4:45p Daycare pickup
5:15p Early dinner for the girls
5:45p Matt's class at the gym
6:15p Grace's gymnastics class

At 5:40 Clare decided to put herself on the evenings agenda too.

I was barking orders and clearing dishes and clearly not paying attention.

She looked at me slyly.
"Mama," she said with a smile, "In my nose."
"What's in your nose sweetie? Buggers? Do you need a tissue??"
"No," she said, "Up my nose. No buggers. A bead!"

Time froze for a second. She was so proud of herself.

Upon inspection, there it was.  As a distraction, I had pulled out a big bag of beads over President's Day weekend and let the girls and their friend string necklaces. The rubber of the elastic cording in the bag must have been getting old, because the necklaces have been systematically breaking and spraying nostril sized beads all over the floor. I thought I had been doing a good job of cleaning them up.

I tried trying to wiggle the bead back down her nose with my fingers from the outside. It wasn't budging. In fact, with the way she was fighting me, it was sliding further up. I called Matt. By the time he came home from his abandoned class, Doctor Google had given us some new ideas:

Try tweezers! - Except as soon as she saw us coming with them she would start to scream and thrash so violently we were afraid of poking the bead up into her brain.

Use a shop vac to suck it out! - Which we do own as part of the ill fated pool draining experiment, but they are big and loud and the hose was the size of 1/3 of her face. So we tried the vacuum, which didn't go over well either, because I don't vacuum. Ever. Well, only on special occasions. It is usually something we leave to cleaning crews, so Clare has only ever heard the vacuum 2 or 3 times in her life. That option did not go over well either. And now she was crying so hard she was doing the opposite of the vacuum and starting to suck the bead up further into her nose all by herself.

So at this point we were talking about the immediate care center. And Grace has realized that her chances of going to gymnastics were getting slimmer by every passing minute and starts to have a meltdown.

At the clinic, the doctor was indeed able to remove the bead in the predicted 30 seconds, but it was well worth the $50 copay. She would have never let us get it out.

And now the house has been purged of the beads and we repeat the daily mantra of "I promise I will not put anything up my nose. No beads in nose. I promise."

Tiny Dancer

So ballet class didn't last very long for Grace. If you ask her about it, she'll shrug and say 'It was fine.'  She wanted more movement, more activity, more recital without the itchy costume. So she has moved on.

Clare, on the other hand, has been waiting and wanting for her turn with the tights and tutu's. She begs for her slippers. She runs to the studio with a confidence carefree attitude that Grace never showed when her teacher arrives.

We are only a few classes into the new year, but I believe this one is our dancer.

Pine Trees and Coco Beans

It's tradition. Every year, the weekend after Thanksgiving, we go hunt for our White Pine.

It has to be a White Pine.

For some reason, it never goes smoothly though. Grace is five this year. This is the first year that she hasn't had some sort of fit during our Christmas tree expedition. Clare decided to pick up the reins though. So we tromped through the forest wooded lot, back to where our trees were hidden, to find a perfect one.

All a while Clare screamed while mist from her mouth from the frigid air, and snot ran down her face. We persevered though, and found the tree.

After the half mile hike back into civilization we wiped noses, dried tears and bought hot chocolates. And everyone was happy again, because chocolate makes everything better.

Fall-ing

I love this time of year. Even with my new found allergies going crazy, I love it.

The girls seem to also. Yesterday was a good day. An outdoors kind of day. An enjoy this weather, because it doesn't get much more perfect than this kind of day. Particularly with Sandy giving us the eye.

So they rolled and played and laughed.

Then, they suited up.

Yesterday was the Trick-or-Treat on Main Street in our little town, and the girls got their first test run of Halloween 2012. For Clare, at 2.5 yrs old, this is her first real Halloween. The first time she is excited about the costumes and the candy. And after getting over the trauma of having to wear pants, she was game.

Their insect coordination of costumes was completely unintentional. Clare's bee costume was a recycle from Grace (with the same disdain for the antenna boppers), but Grace's was her new, much anticipated, blue butterfly costume. While the awesome mask wasn't part of the costume, the dress, wings and antenna were perfect. 

Now, let's just cross our fingers that the weather is clear for them to rock the costumes on Halloween. 

* Wholesale Halloween Costumes sent us the Ballerina Butterfly dress in exchange for the inclusion of the links you see above. Thank you! 

Party Like a Five Year Old

It's amazing how fast time flies by. 

How quickly 24 hours can turn into 72. 

That is what Gracie's birthday was this year. A 72 hour bonanza ear marked by the arrival and departure of family, with a moonbounce and lots of sugar in between.

Blurred Lines

Growing up, I thought the world’s population fell into 3 categories:

1. Irish or Polish Catholic

2. Italian Catholic

3. Other

In my little Chicago suburb, we have 3 Catholic churches within a 2 mile triangle radius of each other. You were defined by the church you attended. The Polish church said one of three masses a day in Polish. The Irish church’s Father had a thick brogue. Our family bucked tradition, and attended the church with German roots, but was taken over by a mix of the remaining who had quarreled with the other two parishes. Plus, it was an easier walk from our house than the Irish church.

When I was in my early tweens, my Aunt married into an Italian family, and my experience with cultures that didn’t stew cabbage on a regular basis was expanded. I think I loved my new Uncle from the first moment I met him, pronounced by the fact that he is Clare’s Godfather. Still, some in the family whispered about his parent’s off-the-boat Southern Italian bloodline. He’s not white. What on earth were they talking about?

When I went to college, it was the first time I was put in a situation where not everyone I knew fit into categories 1 and 2. My first assigned roommate was Shaniqua from East Saint Louis. Seriously. While I made jokes about we might be confused with each other since our names were so similar, I was terrified to know that the person I would be sharing a small room with for the next year was coming from such a hard area. She never showed up though. Instead, the day before school started I was assigned a new roommate, Emily, who was a transplant from a blessedly soft suburb much like my own. While we were not best friends by any stretch, we were definitely solid enough that she explained what a perm was. If it wasn’t for her, and later Chris Rock, I would be clueless.

When I started taking my Political Science courses, I became friends with a black guy who was a constant in many of my classes. We would study together relatively often, I presume because we were in the small faction that wasn’t already set on the notion of law school. One day, as we sat in an open quad after class going over notes, a group of black girls past us. I was mostly oblivious, but he groaned. Moments later he told me that he couldn’t study with me in the open any more, that the fact we had just been spotted together was going to earn him a lot of grief with his friends. I can’t be seen with a white girl, it ruins my chances with anyone else. What on earth was he talking about? He later apologized, but we never hung out again after that day.

Today, I think I have finally found a place where I can surround myself with like minded people, regardless of race, and more importantly, have been able to incorporate Grace and Clare into environments where they see more that Irish and Polish faces. From the time they were born, they have been cuddled, cared for and honestly loved from faces spanning the world. Mexico, Cameroon, Somalia, Egypt, South Africa, India, Iran, China and Japan on skin. Catholic, Methodist, Protestant, Jewish and Muslim in hearts. I love the fact that culture, outside of our new slice of suburbia, is a constant in their school and lives.

We talk about race occasionally. Most of the time it is about tradition and celebrations, but occasionally, skin color comes up. When playing doll dress up games on my iPhone, Grace often picks black skin colors. She asks if she had dark skin, if she would still have freckles, because dark skin colors are so much more fancy in their pigments; but, then decides that she likes her white skin because she doesn’t want to take the chance of NOT having those freckles anymore.

I know that these experiences won’t stop someone from not wanting to be their friends because of skin color, but I do hope that it isn’t even a factor for friendship for them.

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 This post was inspired by The Black Count. 

Alexandre Dumas' works were heavily influenced by his father, also named Alexandre Dumas. In the biography The Black Count, author Tom Reiss tells how Dumas went from slavery to become the equivalent of a five star general in the French military. Join From Left to Write on October 11 as we discuss the The Black Count. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes

The Fish

She paints me.

This vivid little girl.

Clare is blossoming, exploding!, right before our eyes. Sentences are coming together. Thoughts and phrases we don't expect to be coming from her. Sometimes, when I am on the receiving end of phone calls, I can't tell the girls apart.

Clare hugs and giggles with such passion. She narrows her eyes and deliberates. She is busting out toddler jigsaw puzzles like a champ. And she is enthralled with art.

She paints me with her imagination, literally, from head to toe. She names body parts on her journey: hair, eyes, neck, elbow, button, knee, toes.

Her artists pallet? Why a wooden fish and soy sauce of course.

Summer Thrills

Our town has a carnival that comes this time every year.

It is a week long extravaganza hosted by the fire department, with a firework conclusion. And really, how do you refuse that? Knowing that some portion of the vast amount of money you just bled into the summer night goes to help support the neighbors that protect you. How do you not to drop an extra $5 into the boot at the hot dog stand?
(I may or may not be a little biased on this one.)

So we marched into the sweltering heat to meet with the family of one of Gracie's besties, and bought the all-you-can-ride wrist band. Grace rode with abandon: carousel, train, dragon roller coaster, tilt-a-whirl.

Clare watched with eager eyes, but didn't get to join in on the fun. Until we got to the ferris wheel.
Me go? Mine Mama? Mine, me?

And we went. She and I tucked neatly into a capsule.
It was the beginning of the end.
Now she knew she was allowed to go to, and so she went on her first carnival  ride with Grace.

Quickly followed by a ride all by herself.

I don't think I've seen her that happy in quite awhile.
Well, except for when I make popcorn.

Bittersweet Endings

Clare's birthday was a little bit bittersweet. It marked endings and beginnings, wrapped up into one neat calendar determined package.

Her second birthday marked her ability to join Grace at the Montessori near our house. It is a place where I know she will be nurtured emotionally and academically. She will have the security of her sister and small, comfortable classrooms. She will play in the dirt, sun and rain. She blossom.

But she is no longer with me.

My girls are now 60 minutes away from me instead of 60 seconds. The voices drifting through the windows into my office no longer contain their voices. The distance seems deafening.

Only to me though.

The girls? They are enraptured with their reunited status as sisters 24/7. Instead of lunch time giggles that are disembodied drifts, I am greeted with shouts and giggles and ear to ear grins. I get reports of fresh fruit snacks and play time mud pies.

And honestly, what better celebration of a 2nd birthday is there than a gift of toddler self-actualization?

(And commutes listening to CSPAN instead of Lori Berkner?)

Two

Clare-

You are a perfect combination of storm clouds and sunshine. I guess, by default, that makes you my rainbow, huh?

And you are two today.

When you were born, I was so afraid for your ability to thrive. You showed me though. You've blossomed and grown like a wild vine, weaving a path of your own choosing. Your eyes sparkle with laughter and mischief, your voice sounds with clarity and force. You leap blindly and fearlessly into adventure. You twirl uninhibited, stretching your limbs into service for your own joy and our amusement.

Happy Birthday my Love. I can't wait to watch you grow, making your colors as vivid as your personality.

Love,
Mama

Up Where the Air is Clear

Clare has been walking for a week now.

One whole week. Only one week. It's like she came out of the womb toddling along.

It's how this kid does everything though. We she crawled, she crawled. There was little wiggle-worm shimmying involved. Same with her steps. Although I take that back, she's been cruising for months. But always with a death grip on something like the Earth would swallow her whole if she let go.

Clare with her boa(constrictor) boa

Last weekend (while I was away) she finally let go. And hasn't looked back.

One

Things you MUST know about Clare on her 1st Birthday:

1- The girl loves the wind on her face and in her hair. Promising spring breezes to fridgid winter gusts, it is all the same to her. Her eyes sparkle with smile and her chin always lifts to greet it.

2- She likes to ride in the shopping cart like she’s backing down a driveway. You know that position. Body half twisted, arm up on the seat, head looking backwards. She wants to see where she’s going, not where she’s been.

3- Clare hugs with her whole body. I swear, sometimes think that if I let go, she would stay fastened around my neck. Bumped heads, teething, stolen toys- all can be fixed with a strong hug.

4- She loves her sister fiercely. (As Grace does her) Already they sit close, pressing foreheads together, whisper nonsense words and giggle for the fun of the nonsense. It makes my heart so happy.

Happy Birthday to my little girl- our lives are so much richer with you in them!

The Critique

I knew this day would come eventually. Honestly, I'm a little bit surprised it took this long. Six months. Six whole months without it.

The Critique.

Clare’s teacher is famous for it. She bore and raised 8 children you know.

The Critique.

Your child is beautiful. Perfect. Full of life and personality…… But……

I really don’t take it too personally anymore. With Grace, the Critique always tore me apart. I guess that is the mindset of a new mother though. YOU have no idea what you’re doing for the most part, so you might very well be doing it wrong.

Anyway, Clare’s first real Critique came the other day. Actually, it was two Critiques. Bam – Bam. Double punch. Kind of like pulling of a band aid. Your child is wonderful …… But ……

The first was her newfound desire to play rather than sleep at nap time.

I always wondered how the teachers decided who got what kind of chair. There are 3 bouncing chairs, 1 back and forth swing and 2 side to side swings. I always thought the swings looked so much more comfortable. Clare sat in a bouncing chair. Now I know they were reserved for the high maintenance children. Clare has been moved to a side to side swing so she can’t spend nap time bouncing herself in play instead of napping.

The second was the infamous Tummy Time.

“That girl, she does not want to work her muscles. I know she is strong, but she does not want to crawl. She should crawl. She can do it. She just does not want to. You need to put her on Tummy Time at home, THEN, she will crawl. You will see.”

OK….. I can get behind that. Because I bet you if she wanted to she could crawl. She isn’t quite cruising yet, but she can hold herself upright on footstools and coffee tables with a little help balancing. But you know what? She doesn’t seem to want to yet. AND I AM OK WITH THAT. Besides, Grace was 10 months before she crawled. I have proof.

So I sat on the floor in front of the teacher and played with Clare while she chewed toys on her belly. After about 10 minutes she got mad. Started screaming. I sat her back up. Tummy Time is over.

The teacher gave me the eye and made a comment about how Mothers do not like to see their babies cry. Which leads me to point #2 about why we have limited Tummy Time at home. We typically spend our night trying to AVOID tears, not instigate more. Trust me, there are plenty of tears when we are doing our best.

This is what Clare normally looks like at home.

See. Happy. Sitting in a chair and NOT on her Tummy.

This is what she would look like if she insisted she spend more than 30 seconds on her stomach.

See. NOT happy. On her tummy. (And for the record - that is a spray painted frowney face and tears, NOT a Groucho moustache and prison tats.)

So, in closing, while I appreciate the attention to my child and your concern over her currently lack of mobility I think we will stay with the status quo for right now.

The Softest of Chew Toys

Clare is a breastfed baby. 100%. I am exceedingly proud of this fact.

Grace was a fight from the start. It took weeks of coaxing and effort to get her to breastfeed. At 5 months old she starting refusing to drink again. I have no idea why I didn't just go the route of pumping and then bottle feeding her. I think I tried and just couldn't produce enough. I know I took that as some sort of misguided failure on my part, so when she wouldn't breastfeed I gave her formula. Honestly though, I think she preferred the formula. At 7 months old, she began rejecting me completely so I gave up the fight.

Clare will be 7 months old next week. A 100% breastfed baby. She will drink expressed milk from bottles, but she prefers me. She took to me instinctively after birth and has never looked back.

****

From the stories I have heard, my birth was a traumatic one. My mom started hemorrhaging and was rushed to the hospital 5 weeks before her due date. Her c-section scar isn't the traditional hip bone to hip bone, it is belly button to pelvic bone, preformed without anesthesia.

She was unable to even consider breastfeeding me. It was 1978 anyway, so who's to say she would have even if given the choice. I do not question her decision at all. Formula was what was right for her to feed to both my brother and me. I really do believe that. It was my opinion before I ever had kids too. She, on the other hand, questions my decision to breastfeed at every turn.

****

Tonight, I discovered that Clare has sprouted her first tooth.

(Have I told you what an amazing baby she is? I knew she was teething, I could feel the hard edges behind her gums. But this tooth- I'm not quite sure when exactly it popped though. Not a peep from her, just solid nights of sleep and smiles galore. Business as usual.)

I discovered it because she bit me while nursing. Hard. One little edge of one little tooth, but it did damage. She and I will have to work out a new system. I think it will involve nipple callouses and cold packs on my end, with impish smiles of apology on hers.

When I shared the joyous news of new enamel with my mom though, her response?
...So does this mean you will finally stop breastfeeding or is she going to still be nursing when she is in high school?

****

I am lucky. I have supportive friends. The daycare teachers are beyond supportive, bordering on insistent. I work in a supportive environment. While many are surprised at my ability to keep a full time job and supply enough food for an ever increasing appetite, nobody seems to blink at the notion of my mammary glads fulfilling their intended purpose.

Nobody, except my own mother.