Manifest

Every so often, I make a biting comment about my mother within earshot of the girls. When the words are escaping my mouth, I think nothing of them. They are my thoughts, my complaints, my perspective, my truth.  

The girls see it quite differently though. They love my mom, and their entire extended family fiercely, but from a distance. As children should be, they are only exposed to the best of the best and shielding from the unsavory moments. 

These are the moments that make Matt and I parent the way we do, with our sometimes excessive amounts of hugs and I Love You’s. If there is such a thing. We talk about hopes and frustrations openly. We encourage discord and yelling if for no other reason than to make sure the feelings are liquid and flowing instead of ice slowing turning into immovable burgs. We talk about bodies and femininity as is appropriate with the pre-school set.   

And we talk about how we can talk about anything.

One story that I will certainly tell the girls, when the time comes, is about how many of those things were broken in my childhood. It’s the kind of story that comes up fairly regularly with girlfriends because every so often, anyone can get caught completely off guard by an early cycle.

I was 12 years old when I got my period. It is bit unbelievable (from the raised eyebrows I get from friends), but I didn’t know much about menstruation despite it being 1990. I was the first of my very small group of friends, and must have been one of the first in my grade to get it. It was terrible. I didn’t know what to do, and was afraid to talk to my mom.

She and I didn’t talk about anything.  I take that back, she constantly talked, and I might have been listening, but it wasn’t substantial conversation. Right now, sitting here typing, I can only recall one substantial conversation with her in my entire life. And it was in the last year. She didn’t prepare me. She didn’t warn me. She didn’t even notice anything was wrong with me.

And so I kept my secret, slyly taking maxi pads from under the counter and searching the dryer for forgotten dimes. For six months, I kept my secret, only to be undone by an Aunt who noticed a change in my skin. It was a crass moment, filled with soul crushing shame on my part and screeched words and laughter on hers.

I still remember how I shook, so afraid of my mother’s reaction to the news that her daughter wasn’t a physiological little girl any more.

I remember how her face blanched at the realization, presumably, of her failure.

There was still no conversation. Just the arrival of my own supply of maxi pads on my bed the next day.

And so, Matt and I talk to our girls. About everything. I don’t cover my body in front of them. I don’t like shut doors. We ask about days and friends and loves in the hope that nothing will be big enough to be kept secret.

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This post was inspired by the novel Afterwards by Rosamund Lupton. After witnessing her children's school set ablaze, Grace attempts to find the arsonist as her teenage daughter lies in a coma in Lupton's suspense thriller. Join From Left to Write on April 11 as we discuss Afterwards. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

 

Pictures are Deceiving

By the pictures, we had a wonderful weekend away.

There were blue skies and a sparkling lake.

Matt was able to show the girls how daddy rode up the worst road known to man.

They touched his brick for the effort in last years Savageman.

BUT

What the pictures don't show is the fact that Clare was on another tear again this weekend. The three hour drive from Baltimore to Deep Creek alone had us rethinking our weekend plans. By the time early evening rolled around, I was using my phone to see if I could rent a car to drive back home with the girls that very night.

What there are no pictures of is the fact that I was walking, seething with rage over temper-tantrums, small town rental car hours and slow 3G connections on my iPhone, and playing with my phone instead of looking where I was going. Or that I am a clutz and I always look down while walking on uneven terrain.

There are no pictures of my fall down a few rustic, nature preserve stairs, when I insisted I was fine to finish the walk down to Matt's bike drop off, or when my vision went white and I was .this.close. to fainting so I made Matt move road blocks to come pick me up in the car.

There could be pictures of the fact that my right foot is still swollen to about double it's normal size and turning the most delightful shades of purple, black and blue, but it is so grotesque, I will spare you that visual.

There are no pictures of the fact that it meant that I couldn't attend the triathlon the we had driven 3 hours to watch and cheer at. That attitudes did not improve, adults included, in our 2.5 days away.

Honestly, the best part of the weekend? The drive home.

We are headed to Chicago tomorrow. Wish us luck, and maybe send a prayer or two our way.

Cookies

The last two posts I've put up were kind of throw aways. Two weekends in Chicago, over 1200 miles in the air. It's exhausting.

But it's been making me think about family a lot.
All of the things we are missing. All of the memories that aren't being made for us and our girls.

During the first weekend, my mom was at the center of the trip. She had grand plans for Gracie. She wanted to make up for lost time with some of those memories. She wanted to bake.

Armed with three kinds of chocolate chips, they worked together, side by side, in a sweltering kitchen without pause.

I'll crack and you stir.
You pour and I'll stir.
Careful, only the eggs are supposed to go in the cookies, not the shells.
Let's taste. Does it need more chips?

There is something so back to basics about baking. I can't imagine a childhood without it; without those memories of stirring, pouring and kneading. Teaching your kids how to cook is like teaching them about soul. How to put love into something inanimate, that has the ability to animate.

And I'm glad that Grace was able to have that afternoon in the kitchen with my mom baking cookies.

Eggshells, salt pockets and all.

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This post is inspired by Sarah McCoy's The Baker's Daughter. In a small Texan town, Reba discovers Elsie's German Bakery and falls in love with more than the pastries. Shes drawn to Elsie's life in Germany during the last year of WWII. Join From Left to Write on August 29  as we discuss The Baker's Daughter. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

Days to Remember

We adventured today.
We tromped.
We smiled.
We laughed.
We hugged.
We had fun.

It was the first day in a long time that the yelling was limited and the melt downs were non-existent.

Happy Father's Day Matt. I'm glad you got the afternoon that you deserve.

On the Other Side

So this weekend was SO. MUCH. BETTER. than last weekend.

Writing the last post made me feel lighter. At Blogher, one of the sessions I actually attended railed against the idea of just manically typing and hitting publish. I think that is bullshit, because it works. It did what I intended it to do, make me feel better.

I think Gracie could see the crazy in my eye. On the way home Friday afternoon, we had a long conversation about how she would loose a lot of privileges this weekend if she didn't act appropriately. Toys would be confiscated, televisions would be unplugged, timeouts would be administered. There were a lot of  "Yes, Mama's" uttered, but I was not a believer.

That night at dinner was the first time in weeks that Clare didn't throw her food on the ground in protest and try to stand on my plate. When Clare started to give us the "How dare you feed me!" stink eye, Gracie broke out in song and they were both laughing within seconds. The rest of the dinner was spent singing The Wheels on the Bus, with occasional Olivia interludes. It was bliss.

New Years Eve was filled with a trip to the zoo for the girls, much needed alone time for me and one of the best 9pm sans-children at home dinners we've ever experienced. It is amazing what a bottle and a half of champagne and two hours of uninterrupted conversation can do for the psyche.

Most of all, thank you for the comments and support. Knowing that I am not alone (or crazy) is the perfect catharsis to heal the wounds of last weekend.

Blue Christmas

Christmas was rough this year.

I take that back. It was horrible. There, I've said it. It only took me a week to say. It was horrible.

We seem to be in a .... complaining phase .... around our house. Grace whines every time she doesn't get precisely what she wants within 30 seconds of asking for it (or within 30 seconds of her thinking about it but forgetting to ask), and Clare says NO! to everything.

A friend and I once had a conversation about how much harder it is to be a calm parent than one that yells and hits. These last few weeks have been a challenge. I have never (and will never) hit either of the girls, but I find myself yelling so much more that I want to, in a primitive attempt to raise my volume over theirs in an emotional (nonsensical) attempt to have my desires heard too.

It is soul crushing, this new feeling of parenting failure. I keep oscillating between thinking it is just two and four year old growing pains, and wondering if we are to blame for the constant poor behavior and we are doing our jobs wrong.

Maybe it is both.

And in admitting that, comes new stomach churning worries that the behaviorisms of our parents that haunt us and are constantly fought against are seeping into our girls lives too. Are we expecting too much of them? Are we too quick to take out our frustrations with frowns and sharply spoken orders? Are we too quick to drown those frustrations in an extra large glass of wine?

The answer is probably yes to all three, but how do we change that? How do you teach a two year old that it is not OK to climb on the kitchen table during dinner without frowns and sharp words? How do you teach a four year old about patience after the same request has been made 10 times in a row without frowns and sharp words?

Matt and I have spent a lot of time taking about the future lately. Four months from now, 12 months from now, three years from now. How our future will be brighter, relaxed and secure. For now though, I am worried about the now.

Tomorrow starts another three day weekend.

Run Turkey Run

We went for a walk this morning. Some penitence for what would be coming later today.

Daddy, I like the hills!, she said. I think it would be a lot more fun for you if you ran down them. I will cheer.

So he ran.

Faster, faster daddy! Wheeeeeeeeee! Faster daddy, faster! I know you can go faster than that! Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

I am Thankful for a husband who loves his family more than he loves himself, and is willing to take a beating to prove it.

Happy Thanksgiving all!

Daddy-Daughter

Everyone has things from their childhood that they can’t or won’t let go of. (Right?)

One of mine was the Daddy-Daughter Dance. I was in 4th or 5th grade and I desperately wanted to go. I remember begging my dad nonstop to take me.  He wouldn’t even consider it. He didn’t dance and had no interest in going. He had no interest in going with me.

For weeks it was all anyone talked about at school. I withdrew (even further) from the conversations and into myself those weeks to avoid being asked why I wasn’t going. What would I tell them? The day of the dance I cried in my room. He sat in his favorite chair and watched TV.

My mom loves to tell me how much Matt reminds her of my father sometimes. I vehemently disagree with that statement and it drives a wedge even further between us every time she says it.

This past Saturday, Matt took Grace to our local carnival on one of their frequent ‘dates’.

They rode rides, ate snacks and played games. Gracie almost won a ham and a goldfish. (Neither one would have lasted long in our house.) Matt’s superior college dart skills paid off and he won her princess posters. They rode and snuggled and had the kind of love filled experience Grace has come to expect from him.

And I know Matt will always be the first one in line to dance with his little girl.

Mama Knows Best

On Thursday grace found her umbrella that had been missing in action for awhile.

She was thrilled, but was harbored by my warning: Close that umbrella. We do not open umbrellas in the house. Umbrellas are for rain and are not toys. I know, I'm a buzz kill.

Today, I got the best shopping cart at the grocery store. No, not the annoying, impossible to steer ones with the car. There are a bazillion of those. I grabbed one with a full size cart and a little added double bench stuck to the back. (Thus eliminating the undisclosed grabbing of fruit snacks and candy bars that I then feel obligated to purchase since those already have child sized bite marks in them.) ((Whoever realized that putting goods that every child wants, but most moms say no to at the cart-car level is a brilliant bastard.))

Anyway.....

The downside of that cart is there is only one seatbelt. Which I had to use strap in Clare. Which left Grace to her own devices. And her devices preferred to stand and face me.

I warned and bribed her. Standing was not safe. I bought 3 red licorice swirls in the bulk section at 8:30 am to occupy her. It was not enough. I was not focused. Damn. I forgot to grab broccoli slaw in the produce section. I make a sharp about face with the cart. And out went my first born.

People gasped. Gave me the evil eye.

I picked her up, and soothed her. I gave her more candy. She stopped crying and I (loudly) told her that's why I had asked her to stay on her butt.

Tonight Mama knows best once again.

There were ear shattering shrieks from above.

Matt rushed to find out what happened. 'I was playing with the umbrella and pinched my fingers Daddy!'
She came to me shortly after for soothing.

Grace, do you remember when you fell out of the cart this mooring? (nodding) I wasn’t trying to be mean. I just wanted you to be safe. So then do you remember when I told you umbrellas weren't toys? That is because they aren't toys and things like this can happen. Do you understand? I am just trying to protect you Love......

And..........

I told you so.
(I just couldn't resist.)

Away

Tuesday night was the first night I've ever been away from Clare.

393 nights I've spent with my Clare in my arms and pressed to my chest. Give or take a few.

When Matt travles for buisness, Grace says he is going on vacation because there is a hotel stay involved. So while I packed my bag on Monday night, Grace asked why I was going on vacation. I know it is just a word, vacation. Something that helps her understand what is going on, why we are sleeping in beds that are not our own, but it felt like a knife to me.

Mama is not going on vacation.

In fact, I am trying to come up with any feasable reason not to go. If I hadn't promised to split the cost of the hotel room with a colleauge, I don't think I would have gone. 393 nights with my babies. The panic attacks about not being there for the 394th night made my stomach churn right into my throat.

Dropping the girls off at daycare Tuesday morning was gut wrenching. I didn't cry on Clare's 1st day of daycare, but I bawled that monring.

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.

Bad Medicine

This picture was supposed to be part of a completely different post.

One full of glory and self-indulgent satisfaction. Instead, it is part of a story about Bad Medicine.

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We were sick far more days in December than we were healthy. In fact, I'd be surprised if out of the 4 of us, there was more than 4-5 days without headaches, coughing, runny noses or antibiotics. Such is the life with two small children in daycare I suppose, but still. Blah. It was horrible.

All through the month, Clare's teacher, formerly Grace's teacher, kept lecturing me on the healing powers of lemongrass. Specifically the concoction of lemongrass, ginger, lemon and honey. She swore by it as a instantaneous cold remedy*, and who was I to argue. I was the one with the lingering colds.
* She did always slide in that 12-13 hours of sleep was required too. Super. I'll get right on that.

So upon the decent of our first January colds, she sent me up to the Latino Market minutes away from my work. I stocked up on enough lemongrass, ginger and some superfluous dried lavender flowers to keep in in business for weeks. When I got home on Friday night, I dutifully pulled out my 5 quart soup pot and stuffed it full of the reeds, roots and water. Matt complained that the house smelled like hippies, but I was undeterred. I bragged on Facebook. I was so pleased with my homeopathic therapies and was convinced of the healing effect they would have.

Sunday morning, Clare had dark rings around the bottom of her eyes. Weird. The cold must be wearing her down too, poor baby.

Sunday night, the dark rings had turning into little pink spots with matching accessories on her forehead. WEIRD. Huh, a good night's sleep will make it go away, right?

Monday morning, she looked like this:

HOLY SHIT!!!! She's having an allergic reaction to something. I combed my head to try and think of what she's eaten that's new. Nothing. Absolutely nothing........

But she is a breastfed baby.......

And I drank 2lbs of lemongrass extract on Friday night and Saturday, something she's never had before.......

And OH MY GOD I'M POISONING MY BABY!!!!
(OK, I know it's not poison, but still- she is clawing at her own flesh and her whole body is covered in a horrible rash.)

And the Doctor scratched her head and said she'd never heard of anyone being allergic to lemongrass before, but it definitely looks like an allergic reaction so lets give her some heavy doses of Benadryl and see if it goes away - and by the way - lets look in Grace's ears while she is here why yes, she seems to have another bad ear infection to boot so lets do another round of antibiotics.

But does Grace mind? Not one bit. Because it means she gets to play with the train table for a little bit longer along with getting dum dums pulled out of her ears and Elmo stickers.

24 hours later, Clare seems to have faded back down to her normal peaches-and-cream complexion, as opposed to the giant strawberry she was sporting, and smiling as though nothing had ever happened.

It's New to Us Anyway

I single parented again while Matt went on a road trip. It was quick, a total of 55 hours (yes, I kept track). And I did have the option of tagging along, but 13 hour drives are not conducive to 37 week pregnant and 2.5 year old bladders.

So where did he go - and WHY? Well.... back to Chicago for an upgrade.

See, this was our/his car.

It was the very first car we bought because about 2 months after moving from Chicago to Washington, DC both of our cars died. Within 2 weeks of each other. Mine would no longer start, and his decided not to stop one day. (Thank God it ended its life in the parking lot of our apartment complex and not on the highway!)

Anyway.... we were gun-shy about the idea of buying another used car and all the potential problems that goes with thousands of miles already attached to a car. So we found this little number at the Saturn dealership.

The Saturn SL Spring Special. (Note - this is NOT our car - but I am encouraged that these folks think they can get $5,000.00 for the car!) I think we paid around $8,000.00 for the car brand new. It was no perks- stick shift (which I never did figure our how to drive), crank windows, CD player only because it came standard with the car- type of vehicle. But we could afford it and it was dependable.

Then we had Grace, and her car seat took up 2/3 of the backseat. We bumped her head every time we took her in or out of the car. It was small. Too small for two children to comfortably be strapped into. Add to that, that my SUV has over 125,000 miles on it and is making funny noises again.

We started talking upgrades. We started talking about what we wanted to replace our cars with. We started talking about finances and price points. And the conversations about new cars stopped.

Until Matt was on the phone with his dad a few weeks ago and was informed - sadly - he had just put a For Sale sign on his Caddy. *sniff* Oh wait, you just did WHAT? Hmmm....

Hence, our upgrade.

Sure, it's not what we would have picked out of a car lot. But it is a 1994, solid as a rock, dependable as the day is long, only sporting 30,000 miles luxury vehicle that has been kept immaculate through its succession of owners. Now it has us. Poor car.

And for all of you who's first question was, 'What color is it?', with the hopes of Pimp-Daddy ice blue or mint green, my memory had failed me. It is not the bland taupe I had remembered. I the shade it looks brown-ish, but in the sun- OH! IN THE SUN!!- it is a mocha / purple color!

Rock on!!

And, it comes from the land before CD players in cars, so we have our very own throw-back tape player!

Ummm .... does anyone have any tapes?

Moments

Friday I had a plan. It was a five-days-in-the-making rant about how I'm either a horrible mother or Gracie is a horrible two year old or that we are somehow equal in our terribleness and not fit to call each other by our titles: mother and daughter.

It had been a rough week filled with tears (on both ends) and temper tantrums (on both ends). My whole hearted attempts to follow Matt's sage advice failed. To just slow down to her pace and if things take longer, then so be it. I was trying so hard, except nothing was changing except the fact that we were now adding over an hour onto our days. Which meant we ate a lot of frozen pizza for dinner last week.

But instead of writing a much more in depth account of the happenings of the week Friday morning, I mothered: I cleaned up puke and I changed more liquid diapers than should be allowed.

It is funny what a grounding and centering thing caring for a truly sick child is. I would take her pain and discomfort upon myself 100 times over to spare her the slightest pain, but it is in those pretense free moments at 3am that your remember your calling. And that she does indeed need you, wrapped in your arms in a search for comfort.

Then 24 hours later after doses of Tylenol, kiddie Pepto-Bismo and dozens of freeze pops with only 1/4 eaten before melting, she is fine. Happy. Giddy over the prospect of riding with daddy on the big choo choo train from Baltimore to DC for their 36 hour date.

And I am left to reflect on her new found health as I am curled into a ball, clutching my own stomach for a new 24 hour period and wondering how I am going to keep down food that I know her little sister needs me to eat.

Such is the life of a parent. Such is the life of a mother. And every moment is worth it.

Choices

My days have been moving at the speed of light. My nights have turned to molasses.

Gracie is sick. Again.

She is breathing shallow and sounds like Darth Vader. Yesterday we fought this with an abundance of hot chocolate and she seemed better. Last night, she slept in 45 minute increments and sounded like she had a marble lodged into her airway. I slept, but only on the brink with an eye half open and both ears on alert. Normally I am not one to worry, but the rasping…

Today we are back to the speed of light again. I have a 9am meeting, where I am the meeting, followed by a full day of pokes and prods and a belly full of goo at John’s Hopkins to check on V2. I cannot miss it. Matt has some similar meeting at 10:30am. He cannot miss it.

So we sent our child to school. A little less raspy, but sporting a low grade fever. I feel horrible about it and am calling to get an afternoon sick appointment with Dr. H today.

She, on the other hand, seems absolutely fine with the arrangement. You see, she knows the game and finagled a bribe of 2 gummy bear vitamins, an M&M, part of my bagel and 4 mini pancakes all in exchange for taking a does of Tylenol.

Come to think of it, I think her bargaining attitude puts her well enough to attend school today.

Miscellany

I’m here. I’ve alive. Barely. Things have been, busy.

Opportunity is a funny thing.

Remember this rant? At least part of it null. I moved into a new job this week. And it turns out it was MY fault that it took so long.

Oh well, c'est la vie…. I still stand by the rest of that post though.

On day 4 of this new position though, I keep wondering if I’ve made the right decision. Matt is going to smack me for writing this, especially with all the work he has done to help me get here and stay here, but this job is…. Hard. I know, I know- every new job is hard. At least any job that is worth having. I was just so used to easy.

And it feels like my belly has grown an inch a day this week. I know she can feel my stress and at 5 ½ months my belly has turned into a hard ball of movement. Suddenly, I have gone from looking chubbier than usual to looking pregnant. When I sit, my boobs are almost resting on my belly already. I have to pee every time I move. Every. Freaking. Time.

And I am so tired.

I remember my pregnancy with Gracie as blissful once I got past the 1st trimester sickness stage and before I got to the 3rd trimester oh-my-god-my-belly-is-an-overripe-watermelon- waiting-to-burst stage. This time, not so much. Before I could concentrate on me; sleep 14 hours if I so choose; lay on the couch only to leave for more chocolate. Now I am dealing with the irrational daily tantrums of a 2 year old and her new obsession with Sesame Street.

Which brings me to my third rant, because Sesame Street is making diaper changing the bain of my existence because the freaking Pampers have Sesame Street characters on them. But does Gracie want Elmo who graces 2/3 of the package? Noooooo…. she wants Ernie. Ernie who is on one 1 out of every 10. Ernie who’s name she didn’t even know until I explained that he was the one who sings the Rubber Ducky song. And she wants to look at every diaper in the package of 88 before selecting the one she deems worthy for her bottom.

The synopsis of all this?

I have a new job. I am exhausted. I hate Sesame Street. And my blogging may be sporadic over the next few weeks. Please forgive me.
And if your child refuses to wear their size 5 Ernie's let me know and maybe we can work out an exchange.

Dinosaur! Raawwrrrr!

Four day weekends are great.

Unless you don’t leave the house for the first two days and your two year old starts tearing things apart like a tornado, throwing random tantrums and refusing to nap.

Then, after two days you realize that there are still two more to go and someone is going to die.

OR

You take the opportunity to do the activities that you normally can’t cram into a weekend. (Matt is good like that. I was voting for death, figuring that a replacement was on the way anyhow…)

So Saturday afternoon we packed up and headed down to the Natural History Smithsonian.

Gracie spent the afternoon exclaiming over the giant stuffed elephant in the pass-through between exhibit halls….

She has cultivated a new love of dinosaurs- which in person was luke-warm (you know the sharp, menacing teeth and all), but was ignited again via a giant dinosaur sugar cookie and book with matching stuffed triceratops toy purchased at the gift shop.

She was fascinated by the Gem & Mineral room, exclaiming loudly over the ‘pretties’ and ‘fancies’ and ‘sparklies’ AND she left the Hope Diamond showcase with an amazed declaration of “Daddy, I see a diamond and it was BIG!”

It was particularly challenging for Matt to coax her to sleep that night though. He said it was annoying, but too cute to really be upset. She would close her eyes for a few minutes then pop her head back up and say, ‘Dinosaur! Raawwrrrr!’ or ‘I see elephant!’ or ‘I no like spiders!’ or ‘Cookie. It good!’ and then passed back out from the exhaustion of the day.

It is just one more example to us that she is in fact a little sponge. What we think might not be making a big impact at the time, turns out to an experience to remember.

Again. Again. Again. Again.....

I never really understood children’s music.

As a childless adult, I mocked it. As a parent, I mocked the parents who gave in. I really did feel superior. Gracie is happy listening to Jason Mraz and Pink, thank you very much. We do not need children’s CD’s.

Then she got a little older and the Wheels on the Bus came into focus. OK, whatever, I can sing a few rounds of this. It’s not so bad.

Then she learned more songs. And started getting mad when I screwed up the words. And wanted me to sing for the entire 45 minute car ride.

So I caved. You knew this was coming though, that I become one of them. One of the parent’s I had always mocked. The person who is blaring the Itsy Bitsy Spider when you pull up next to them at the stoplight. You can judge, it’s OK. I expect it.

It’s taken me – oh, a few months – to get up the gumption and admit that we own a children’s CD. So here is it, full out there. I present the Toddler Tunes.

And do you want to know why I’m admitting this? Because I’m buying more. Listen, I need more. I’m starting to get a nervous twitch from the repetition, and frankly, I am tired of listening to Gracie complain everyday that the damn CD doesn’t have Twinkle Twinkle on it.

I love my daughter, but I hate what I’ve become.

Tactical Mistake

Upon Matt's return from Boston, he presented both Grace and me with gifts.

I got Beacon Hill Chocolates and Mike's Pastry cookies (becasue he couldn't figure out how to keep the cream in my beloved Lobster Tails freash for a day in the hotel and plane ride. Personally, I think he just wasn't being creative enough :) Seriously though, these things are good enough to be the sole reason for your trip to Boston.)

Gracie was presented with a Lucy the Lobster and Her Clacky Claws and this little finger puppet. ------------------>

Despite the truly clacking claw on the top, the book was a meh for Gracie. The tiny little finger puppet though! That is a winner. The puppet ate dinner with us last night. Literally. We had to tell her several times that plush toys do not belong on your dinner plate and that the lobster does not need to eat himself. Especially not my famous, I make them once a year because they are such a pain-in-the-butt, eggrolls.

Do you hear that Grace? Toy lobsters do not eat eggrolls!

Anyway, the lobster is LOVED. And at the grocery store I made a TACTICAL. MISTAKE.

At the fish counter I pointed out the live lobster tank. Shit.

I wasn't thinking, at least not all the way though to the repercussions of what I was doing. In my small minded 5 second thought process before I spoke, I assumed Gracie would squeal with joy over sighting the real thing and we would be on our way. Nope. The fish counter is only 1/2 way though our shopping routine. The first half of the trip she ate contraband, unwashed fruit and the second half she lamented with a wayward bellow for the lobsters.

Lober, where are you lober? Mama, where is lober? Is lober OK? I want it. I want to see lober. I want it. Lober, where are you lober? Mama, go see lober?

See what I mean? Shit.

I spend the next few minutes ignoring her questions, which were increasing in volume and pitch, to come up with a story. After Matt's request for Uncrustables was fulfilled (don't ask, but if you ever need them they are located on the bottom shelf of back corner behind the tequitos and pizza snacks at my gocery store), we fought traffic back to the fish counter.

OK, Gracie. One more stop by the lobsters. But they are sleeping and they can't come out of the water, OK? We will stop by and say hi one more time, but you'll have to wait until next week to see them again after, OK? OK?!?

And so we did. It went smoothly. Mama, I see them! Shh! lober sleeping. OK, we go now. I see again though?

When we got home Grace promptly told Matt, "Shh - lober sleeping" and walked away. But now? Now an extra 5 minutes is going to have to be built into every visit to the grocery store. Stuffing Lil' Rick into his Halloween lobster costume should be a big hit this year though.

Borrowed From the History Books

Matt is headed to Boston for a conference today. Awesome for him, sucks for me.

This - travel thing - is going to start happening more and more for him. Other people are starting to realize how cool he is. Cool enough to put up on a panel and force others to pay to hear him talk anyway. I have a feeling that this first speaking engagement is going to cause a ripple affect. Again, awesome for him, sucks for me.

I really haven't had to single parent all that often. Sure, there have been plenty of all day workouts and triathlon events, but that is during the DAY. Gracie and I can run errands and shop until she drops. NIGHT though, that is a whole other beast.

We've settled into a routine in our house. I give Grace her bath (because I don't mind sitting on the floor and splashing for 20 minutes, where Matt gets frustrated with the process) and Matt puts her to sleep (because it is the exact opposite, I have no patience for play after the lights are out).

Yes, I know we should not be rocking her to sleep with a bottle of warm milk at almost 2 years old, but that is a whole other issue that will have to be addressed sometime in the future. Like when our pediatrician, Dr. H, yells at us for it at her two year old check up next month. Anyway, at NIGHT Grace wants her daddy. For the next three nights she will only get mommy.

My plan? Shock and awe.

I don't borrow from G.W. (or any republican) well, ever, but in this case I'm going to run with the slogan. My plan is to wear her out. Stay at work until 4:30-5 pm so she can run around in even more manic circles that happen as the afternoon stretches at daycare and then pound her with dinner trips to places like Red Robin.

It'll all be win-win, right?

She gets to expel extra energy, which will hopefully tire her out more than normal and then will be sated with fatty, crab laden foods accompanied by balloons in an environment where screaming children are the norm. On the way home from said dinners, she will be so exhausted and belly bursting full she will fall dead asleep in the car and transfer easily to her crib, sleeping the entire night and waking cheerfully in the morning for another round of 'Daddy's Gone!' fun.

Right? Right?!? That is how this week will go.