24-inch Boss

Dear Mimi, 2 years

2009-08-27T16:21:00.000-04:00

Dear Mimi,

I’m writing this to you without guilt, just a letter to the little girl you are right now, at 2 years and four months old. Much has happened since I last wrote, and I’ll try to capture some of it – but I’ll miss most of it.

The main thing I want to say is that my love for you is effervescent. That is to say, you are effervescent and I love you every single second. When they call children a joy, they are talking about you.

Your Papa has always called you a textbook baby and in many ways he is right. At six months, you were a model crawler, scooting with glee, seeming to have squirmed right out of a Pampers commercial and onto the living room floor. As a two-year-old, you throw classic tantrums, fists on the ground, banging on the door (with a little bit of your resourceful ingenuity thrown in - such as breaking the baby-proof door handle protector every time). And then you make up for those tantrums with such heartbreaking sweetness, tight, delicious hugs in which you wrap all your limbs around me and dig your sweaty head into my shoulder. Then you’re off, zooming, screeching, hopping, flinging, whirlwinding your way around the halls, circling the couch, hiding under the covers (or just behind your hands – if you can’t see us, you’re convinced we can’t see you), engaged in a game of chase with your big sister or “go nuts,” all by yourself.

Deodorant, toothpaste, lip gloss and shoes are among your favorite things in life. Perhaps you’ll be very put together as an adult. Right now your prefer to wear T-shirts, preferably with a Disney princess theme, and mismatched shorts. You smear purple sparkly lip gloss all over your face, eating some of it, put on my pointy heels and pretend to smudge on some deodorant. Then you declare yourself ready for a date. Who are you going on a date with?

“By myself!”

You especially like to do this just before shower time (you lately prefer these to baths) while naked.

Speaking of doing things by yourself, you are a particularly capable kid. You potty trained yourself in January, three months shy of your second birthday. I mean it – one day you started taking off your diaper and insisting on wearing Sasha’s panties. I told you that was fine if you could keep them clean and dry. After a few days of peeing on the carpet and pooping in the playroom, you did.

You can open every childproof contraption we own – Tylenol bottles, cabinet locks. When she can’t open a door, your sister comes to get you and asks you to do it. We had to put a chain on the front door so you won’t escape, since you have declared yourself able to take yourself to the neighborhood pool. Although you are a great swimmer, you’re a little nuts in the pool and I think you’re going to have to wait at least till you’re three to go to the pool on your own. (Just kidding!)

A lot of things, you just do. I don’t coach you; I forget to mention it entirely, and you just pick it up. Like, you can undress yourself, sing your ABC’s, mostly dress yourself, brush your teeth, zip your jacket up, get yourself a snack, sort the silverware into the right drawer compartments.

One day you decided to join Sasha in her ballet class (for 4- and 5-year-olds) and you listened so well that the teacher let you stay and invited you to tap dance, too. You are quite a little dancer. Your favorite song, the one you request EVERY TIME WE GET IN THE CAR is Poker Face by Lady Gaga. This is because we send Sasha to a dance school with interesting standards for children’s music. So that’s what you danced to. You can also sing the words to “That’s Not My Name,” which comes next on my playlist.

You love to read, but your attention span is short and you’re very particular. Just like when you were a baby, you gravitate toward certain books and certain pages of those books and prefer to skip all the others. Right now your favorite page is “the pill page” in Bad Case of the Stripes. Of course the book is waaaay too long to hold your attention but you can read that one page over and over. Your favorite book is probably Blue Hat Green Hat. You can “read” the whole thing by yourself, and you usually don’t even skip around. You love “Skippyjon Jones,” but you really just like saying the name and could forget reading it entirely.

Every time I read a book title and author name, you giggle. You think all the author’s names are funny.

You are talking more and more. In the past month, your language has bloomed from a bunch of short sentences and lots of words to complicated explanations and questions.

For example, when I threaten to, say, leave the mall if you don’t stop running out of my sight, you say something like, “Okay, if you leave I’m going to stay at the mall BY MYSELF. I will go shopping and play at the play section and then I will walk home.” (Seriously, how can I not giggle?)

You grow frustrated if people (meaning your sister) interrupt you in the middle of a thought. Every day after work, you ask your Daddy to tell us about his day. Then, in bed, you tell me: “I’m daddy and today I went to the gym and then I went to work and…talked on the phone and…went to a meeting…and…came home.”

Whenever you ask a why question, you call me Mom, like you’re 13 or something.

Like I’ll let you know that we have five minutes left at the library or a friend’s house and you’ll say, “But, why, Mom?”

If I ever ask you, “Why, Mim?” you say, “Because,” and refuse to take the explanation further.

My favorite sound is the back-and-forth of you and your sister’s voices as you play together, or over the monitor during “sister time,” as you snuggle in bed every night. The two of you have elaborate conversations, read books together, tickle one another and play “knock you over.” After asking permission, you shove each other down on the bed from standing up, giggle wildly and do it again. You take turns. It’s all very civil. Then you negotiate your bedtime, with Sasha pushing for turning in while you argue the merits of staying up and reading one more book. Sometimes you both go pick out your clothes for the next day before falling asleep. When Daddy and I come to check out you before we turn out the lights we find all kinds of things in your bed.

Today you mentioned that you know how to spell your name M-I-M-I, and you know how to spell my name and Daddy’s (D-D-D-D-Y) and Sasha’s (S-A-S-A) but that you haven’t yet figured out Juliet’s name.

Already, you are a fabulous big sister. Even more than me, you CAN’T WAIT till Juliet arrives. When she comes home, you plan to teach her to walk and swim. I know you’ll be disappointed when neither of those things occur right away, but you’ll be a fabulous smiling teacher. I’m a bit worried about you accidentally running her over with a push toy, dancing on her head or tackling her from behind, but I’m sure your gentle nature will come out in time.

You are a considerate and generous friend, giving hugs and kisses freely to your close buddies and feeling wild with anticipation for play dates. You often ask after your friends and when they’re around you engage them in games of Ring Around the Rosie or Hide and Seek. When someone gets hurt, you immediately go to them and try to dole out kisses or pick them up. I think you take after your Daddy and will make a great team captain one day.

Next week, you start pre-school and that is another thing you can’t wait for. You have been going around talking about Brentwood and Mrs. Pam all summer long. I anticipate tears but I also think you’ll absolutely love it. And I think I’ll really miss you. You’re signed up for three days 9 a.m. – 12 p.m. but I might keep you home for one of them.

Every single night when we sit down after a long day, I can’t wait to tell your Daddy about something hilarious or adorable you did. You light up my life and I will love you forever.

Love,

Mama

New routine

2008-08-22T08:30:00.003-04:00

"Mia, what is your name?"

"Sasha."

"I think your name is Mimi."

Mia points to me. "Mama."

"That's right."

Mia points to Daddy. "Dada."

"Very good!"

Mia points to Sasha. "Sasha."

"Yes!"

Mia walks away.

"But Mia, what is your name?"

"Sasha."

Ugh.

Milestone

2008-08-16T10:00:00.002-04:00

Dear Mimi,
You said "shoe" perfectly this morning. From your perspective this must be a major milestone considering shoes are your favorite objects in the universe (in a close race with breakfast bars).
Love,
Your Mama, who looks forward to many shoe-hunting trips

Dear Mimi, Month 16

2008-08-13T19:43:00.002-04:00

My little wild monkey,

I'm very late on this one, I know. It's just that you and your big sister hatched a plan to drive me nuts: never nap at the same time. Along with a load of planning for the upcoming semester, your scheme has left me with very little free time to write. But there were so many moments this month when I wished I had a pen - you are growing so incredibly fast.

You constantly insist on going outside. For a while you just grabbed my hand (or the hand of whomever you believed to be most likely to take you for a walk in 95-degrees and 95% humidity) and dragged me to the front door. Then you started screeching, "Wah! Wah!" (Walk! Walk!) Now, you say one of your first two-syllable words, "Outside...peas." It's adorable. Unless it's pouring or we're about to get in the car, I open the door and let you out into the world.

We go to a free play gymnastics center every Friday morning. I let the two of you loose and you just go nuts. You follow Sasha wherever she goes - atop balance beams perched high in the air, into the middle of a gaggle of five-year-olds jumping on a giant trampoline - anywhere. Or you run clear to the far corner of the place - and it is a vast place - just to see if I will freak out. Sometimes you position yourself at the ball pit and won't budge, hypnotized by all of the brightly colored balls and how easy it is to throw them at unsuspecting toddlers as they walk by.

By no means do you believe yourself to be one of those toddlers. You point to them and say, "baby!" You adore babies and always want to give them kisses and hugs. When I ask what that makes you, you run off to hang with the preschoolers - just to prove your point, I think. You love to dance and stomp and kick and jump and slide and run every which way like a wild monkey.

Sasha and I have taken to calling you that, our wild monkey. When you escape at the gymnastics center or the mall play place or a store, I hoist Sasha up onto my hip and we go on a wild monkey chase. "There goes our wild baby!" Sasha yells. All three of us enjoy it, I think - but you the most. You just love slipping out of a busy room, hoping that I'll notice and come running after you so you can make cute faces at me and see how fast I can run with a preschooler on my hip.

You make a one funny face that you're particularly proud of. You squint your eyes shut, scrunch up your cheeks and look to the side. Then you crack up. If everyone else in the room bursts into giggles, you laugh harder and do it again.

This month I feel like we're starting to talk. You have said a few choice words for a while but now you're practicing your verbal skills every chance you get. If we pass a picture in the hallway, you stop to identify the people you see. We have little laminated photo cards of your cousins and sister and you point out the babies and then hold the picture of Sasha above your head and yell, "Sasha! Sasha!"

You say sock (sah), shoe (shh), Sasha (perfectly!), book (buk), bed (beh), bow, go, walk, read, thank you, please, okay, car, ball, chug-a-chug-a-choo-choo, tickle, done, chair, cookie, cracker, dog, cat, Gimel (Gee! your uncle's dog), tweet tweet, water (wawa), night night - I could go on and on. When I ask you a question, I usually get some sort of response, even if that response is a tantrum of discontent.

You are learning to share. I'll take part of the credit and leave the rest to you and your sister. I give you a few minutes to work out whatever sharing issue you're having or else I take the toy away. It works like magic - now you also like to share with your friends, offering them bites of your snack or pieces of your puzzle.

Your favorite toys are balls, trucks, cars, babies and pretend food (to feed yourself, me and the babies) and your favorite books are, "What Does Baby Say?" and anything with the subject matter of daddies, like "Daddy Kisses" and "I Love My Daddy Because..." You are very particular about your stories, wanting certain pages to be read first and then over and over again. For example, in one of your Animal Baby's, you always start with a page where the baby says Yum while eating dinner. You say, "Mmm, mmm," while searching for the page. Then you want to read the page where the little girl reaches high into the air. You hold one arm into the air while searching for the page. Your favorite song is, "Wheels on the Bus." We sing it and you go wild with the motions and squeal, "Beep! Beep!" You also know the motions to Itsy Bitsy Spider and many other songs - and you'll dance to anything. The moment the radio comes on, you're bouncing to the music.

Another favorite is riding on the back of my bicycle. You try to climb into your bicycle seat every chance you get. We love to go on family adventures to different playgrounds, you in your bike seat and Sasha in hers - all of us sweaty under our helmets. You're trying so hard to ride a tricycle but your legs don't quite reach.

Our days are wonderful - museum mornings and play dates and splashing in the pool, popsicles dripping, visits from Nana and Papa, and now my brother (D!), so much good food to test out (you have very sophisticated taste), library time and cookies at the grocery store. Everywhere we go, you point and want to know what this or that is, preferring to touch and find out for yourself I'll let you.

My little Mimi, you are becoming such a little girl. You won't let me rock you to sleep - you swat my hand away as I try to rub your back and sing, but I know the time will come when you want nothing more than a snuggle with me before bedtime. I'm waiting for that time to return. For now, it's like you have an on-off switch - you're either up and moving, babbling and climbing and careening, or you're down on your belly with your eyes shut, recharging and resting.

I can't wait to see what you do with all of your energy as you grow up.

I love every bit of you so very much.

Love,

Mama

Dear Mimi, Month 15 (And, two years ago)

2008-06-29T13:51:00.006-04:00

Note: I wrote last month's letter by hand while we were on vacation and haven't had time to type it in yet. I will!

Dear Mia Mia Bumblebia -

Some moments I look up from working a puzzle or fixing a quesadilla to see our world through clearer lenses. I'm shocked to see the way you have shaped it.

Imagination makes castles and farm houses out of blocks, tumbling down, tears and screeching and me handling it calmly and Sasha recovering and you moving gleefully on to the toy drum - or not - and the three of us ending it with a hug. The couch is a jungle gym and the bed is a jungle gym and I am a jungle gym and once I found you standing on top of the toilet with Sasha washing her hands next to you. The pool is a wet wonderland for you to splash and climb and clamor and Sasha to ponder and test. Shoes (you call them "sshhhh") are precious to all involved. Likewise cooking is a great, messy adventure for three. Play-Doh is something for Sasha to meticulously manipulate and you to throw around and smear in your hair and me to clean up, wishing I'd never allowed it.

Everything is three different things.

You have opened up a whole new world to us - a world of mischief and smiles made of pure sunshine and dive-right-in sass. Your favorite activity is attempting to give me a panic attack. Danger magnetizes you. You sprint away from me on the pool deck and head for the edge, timing is just right so I will rescue you before you drown or hit your head on the side. I yell, "STOP"; you giggle wildly for so long that I start to think it's funny, too.

You have your first child and obviously that's incredible; you expect the surreal. Then you have your second baby and for a while you think, "Hey, this is old hat. I know what I'm doing here. No surprises." So many things aren't quite as amazing or wonderful or terrible. Taking you to urgent care for the first time last week, for example, wasn't so tragic - it just had to be done. Watching you roll over, crawl and take your first step were delightful but expected.

More magical are the little things that are just so...Mia.

Your way of growing increasingly lovable as bedtime approaches in hopes that more smiles, kisses or peek-a-boo will ward off the inevitable. Your love of songs involving motions such as The Wheels on the Bus and the Itsy Bitsy Spider. The way you walk backwards saying "Bee bee bee," (Beep, Beep, Beep) and maneuver yourself into my lap. When I say say good-bye and turn to leave and you head for the front door instead, eager to go with me or head out into the world on your own. You stand on tip toes and reach for the door knob; you wave and say, "Bah bah!" (On a rough day last week, I had Nana come pick you up while I gave Sasha some much needed one-on-one attention. It was the first time I'd let you leave me - I always had Nana or Carli come to our house - and I didn't know how you'd take it.) You reached your arms up, hugged Nana and went right out the door, waving and smiling. When you came back a few hours later, you were just as happy.)

I am amazed at way you've recreated our world. Still, I was looking through some old posts a while back and came upon this one, and it made me realize that I knew - even when you were in my belly - that you would do this. When I wrote this, Sasha was about your age and we had recently found out about you. Here it is (I used to alternate between calling you a girl and a boy):

September 2006

It was not instant. It took a few days after S. was born to feel the vast connection that comes with motherhood. To her, to myself, to my mother and then all mothers. To blades of grass and shiny beetles and laughing college kids at the coffee shop. To death. To the ocean. Delicate, circuitous connections spinning outward from me like a web, lifting me up from myself as I fed her and pinning my feet to the floor as I wafted through the motions of caring for a baby at night.

The world still stops when I look at her, incredulous at her existence nearly every minute. It is a different world altogether than before her.

When the feeling took root, I began to mourn S's journey from my belly. I touched my stomach, still able to feel her floating and kicking in there, remembering easily the warmth she created when we were two people sharing the same body. Every moment was bittersweet, her needing me less and less. I cheered, I took pride, and I mourned.

Right now there is a baby swimming in my belly. A baby closer to me than S. It is hard, so early, to summon a feeling of connection. Perhaps it was that way with S., too, but it was more difficult to express. I could not understand what was happening to me, to us, then. She felt like an alien, a parasite invasion. I felt alien, too, my body transformed into its anatomy and its function: a boat for the voyage of this creature.

Now that feeling is familiar. What is my body besides a mother and a wife, a device wielded by my heart for the good of the people I love?

On Wednesday we had our first ultrasound. The baby was as big as a walnut. She has a head, a perfectly curved back, two legs, two arms. And kicking! Oh, S. never kicked like that for her pictures. Her movements were watery and wide, as if through a filter. For the first time, as C. squeezed my hand, I realized that this is a different baby. This baby is fiesty - a dancer or a fighter. He is a part of me now. But he is himself already.

This baby enters a whole different world, too - one colored more brightly, more simply than the world his sister was born to. This world offers a wiser mother and practiced father, days less busy but more full, moments longer, laughter clearer.

And, the part I can't predict or understand: this baby will make that world his own.

I love you, Miss Mimi, in a bigger, sweeter, fuller way than you can imagine. In a way you will never know until you have your own second chid. I hope you do.

Forever,

Your Mama

Five Years

2008-06-29T13:35:00.002-04:00

I remember having trouble sleeping, getting out of bed to write a letter to C. the night before our wedding, wanting to let him know how incredibly lucky I felt to marry him. I felt the same way just before our big date last night - I just hope he knows how much I adore him. It's easy, every day, to let him know how much I appreciate and respect him, how much I rely on him and feel protected by him. But after five years, it is comforting to know that - through all of our life's transformations and a lot of growing up - I really do love him more than on our wedding day. That I still feel like I'm the luckiest.

Dear Mia, Month 13

2008-04-17T09:21:00.003-04:00

Mimi Bean,

This weekend the four of us tromped down the wooded path to a festival celebrating Florida's farm and forest life in the 1800's. The bonneted lady at the welcome table said nearly the same thing she did last year, "Oh! They're adorable! How old are they?"

Last year, you burrowed into my chest and sighed and Sasha whined, "Mommy tell, mommy tell."

This year, Sasha held up two fingers and announced that she was two and you are Mia, her baby sister, you are adorable and you are one. You squealed in agreement and we proceeded on to the animal area where to attempted to abandon our party and join the chickens in their coop.

I love annual events because they jog my memory - and this was your first one (aside from your birthday, of course). I looked at your sticky hands gripping a squashed banana in the stroller and clearly remembered your milky fresh breath as we nursed in the woods behind the outhouse last year.

This year, I carried my signature diaper backpack and nothing else. Last year I had a mass of diapers, wipes, extra outfits and pacifiers in the pack, you in the Bjorn and your big sister on my hip. Its not that Daddy wouldn't help - you girls wouldn't let him. This year, both of you clamored for him with arms out.

It is awesome - in both senses, the totally cool and the inspiring - that you have blossomed from a soft and tiny secret into a little girl pointing the way to cows and running around looking for danger (Blacksmith's shop! Ooh!)

At home, you're obsessed with things that move - your favorite toy (for months now) is the "princess ride," which is a pink and purple car type vehicle that you can ride or push but also features many musical buttons and dancing Disney princesses. You seem to enjoy every element of this toy. The first thing you do upon entering the playroom after breakfast each day is climb on the ride and just sit there surveying the scene.

All of the things I worried myself over as I wrote your birthday letter - you didn't like to read, you couldn't name the animals in the toy barn like your sister could at your age (actually I had never tried this with you) -- have proved wrong, of course.

A few weeks ago, I picked up a sheep and a pig and said, "Mia, which one is the pig?"

You grabbed the pig and said, "Pppuh!"

You identified the sheep, the cow and the lion and but screeched out loud and grabbed both the zebra and gator at the same time - don't push it mama! You point out sheep in one of your picture books, which you now allow me to read to you before each nap and bed time. Most of the time, though, you'd rather not point. When I instruct you to point to the cat or the baby or the boat, you search and find it, and then dive down to give it a kiss. Pointing is just not as much fun.

Lately you're obsessed with B sounds. "Baaah" seems to mean everything.

"Baaah," you say, and point to the window.

"That's right, Mia, a bird," I reply, guessing. I draw open the blinds and pointing out the trees, the dew-covered lawn, the neighbors' car pulling out of their driveway.

"Baaah! Baaah!" you squeal, leaning toward the kitchen.

"You want breakfast?"

"Ba," you say, smiling.

Okay, then. I plunk you in the high chair with a breakfast bar.

"Ba ba, Mama."

"You're welcome, Mimi."

(You think it is hilarious when Sasha or I break out into "Ba ba blacksheep.")

Other things you've discovered this month include coloring with markers, giving hugs on demand (sometimes), hide-and-seek (you much prefer to seek), and sitting in chairs.

You run straight into the melee when Sasha and Daddy wrestle on the floor and emerge from the pile with a huge smile on your face.

When I give you a choice of books to read at nap time - The Belly Button Book or Daddy Kisses, say - you're always certain of your choice, lunging after and hugging the book you want. You also choose your food, and you like to tell me when it is time for bed, by leaning toward the crib and saying, "Beh." If you've done this - as opposed to me forcing you into bed before you'd like - you always roll over and go straight to sleep without so much as a peep.

Sasha came down with a bad stomach flu and it was heartwarming to watch you walk up and pat her head as she laid on the couch. You knew something was wrong, so you kept your eye on her, offering your snuggles and pats every ten or twenty minutes. You are such a kind girl, Mimi. I love you.

Forever,

Mama

Dear Mia, Month 12

2008-04-15T13:36:00.010-04:00

My Tiny Mia,

Early sunlight filtered through the blinds, its gauzy rays spreading over the thin hospital sheets in the wallpapered room. The masked doctor held you up – a slick, pink baby, your legs kicking, trying to cry.

That sunlight has followed you for the last year, casting a fizzy brilliance over our lives.

I sing you a lullaby: “You’re a slice of heaven, you’re a bit of a dream, and everyone who sees you knows just what I mean.”

They all say, “Look at those eyes,” and start to look away. Then you scrunch your nose and open up a smile and they can’t turn from you, wanting to stay near your bubbly warmth. On two occasions, shoppers followed us through the grocery store for several aisles.

You are a delight – a good-natured, independent baby who can’t get enough of this wonderful world. We visited our friends’ farm last week, a blue on green expanse of horses, cows, fences and clouds, and you had little interest in anything but the gravel road.

You picked up the chalky rocks two at a time, banged them together and threw them, then turned them over in your hands and put the smallest ones to your lips.

“Ah, ah, baby girl,” I said, warning you. You squinted your eyes, your in-trouble expression, and lowered the gravel into your lap.

Give you a room in a new house to explore, a park to ramble or anything non-edible to chew on, and you’re happy.

You also like danger; barbed wire fences and dark, crowded garages entice you. You would love to dive into the neighborhood pool and start swimming right now (you’re not so thrilled about sitting on Mama’s hip in the water).

At 23 and pregnant, I thought I was young. At 25 and pregnant, I thought I was crazy. Two babies under age two?

I wasn’t terrified of you so much as the two of you: sisters. And you are a formidable force, particularly now that you’ve started holding hands and actually sharing a toy on occasion.

Yesterday Sasha announced to me that you were her best baby, her tiny little sister who was “so soft and fantastic.” And then she said, “Mia is my best friend.” She patted your head. You looked up at her, grinned and hurried away – half-waddling, half-running.

I can feel nothing but joy.

The first time the two of you ask for something (i.e. gang up on me), I believe I may physically turn to Play-Doh.

Roundly pregnant with you last spring, I tried in vain to rely on my usual refuge: research. Nothing seemed appropriate. The books I loved during my first pregnancy – Anne Lamott’s Operating Instructions and Dr. Sears’ Attachment Parenting Book – seemed to make sense only for one child. Books about siblings applied to school-age children or teenagers.

Instead, I relied on instinct. I rubbed my belly, giggled at your kicks and said, “Que sera sera.”

It has been my mantra. I repeated it as you writhed and screamed through the first four months of life. I repeated it as you busted through all of my expectations of how a baby should act (all erroneously based on Sasha’s actions) and made your own way, refusing to read books, running toward – not away from – pets, and sharing smiles and snuggles with anyone in the room. And I repeated it this morning as you howled to be lifted from the high chair while Sasha tantrumed on the bathroom floor.

There are lots of things that make me want to cry about your first year: I left you in your crib five minutes longer so that I could get dressed, or did puzzle after puzzle with Sasha in my lap while you entertained yourself with a teething toy next to us. The play-by-play narration of our lives usually revolved around your sister’s actions – or didn’t happen at all when I felt exhausted. I handed you off to Daddy, Nana, Papa or Carli so I could work a few hours every week.

But the same things make me happy: I was brave enough to trust that you’d take what you needed out of our daily narrative and I watched as you glommed onto the silly and the textured, chased the challenging and sought out the loud. You climbed stairs before you could walk, sifted sand through your fingers and ran after puppies. Instead of forever leading and holding on, I often followed you – or let you roam as I watched over you. I was secure enough in our love to allow you to love other people, and to know that the ways they loved you weren’t worse than my own, and could only benefit you.

I will always teach and protect you. More than that, Mia, I will be strong enough to let you protect yourself and learn in your own way.

Three years ago, it would have seemed strange to me that a baby could teach herself things but now it seems obvious. You jump on the trampoline, clap along with music and kiss yourself in the mirror. You point at birds, climb up slides and race through sprinklers. Heaven is being naked and digging in the backyard dirt or having whatever toy you sister just had.

As you rustled and punched inside me, I worried my heart could not fit something so immense as another person. I fretted that life would never be the same.

The latter is true.

My heart bulged and stretched, metamorphosing like a tadpole to a frog, but everything else is different.

I learned to play zone, strapping you to my chest and hoisting your sister in the shopping cart and handing a cracker to each of you simultaneously while driving. Daddy learned to bathe two.

I dream of the fast pitter-patter of your tiny feet chasing the weighty bu-bump of your sisters' around the couch.

You have made me another kind of mother, transformed Sasha into a sister, turned our trio into a crew and cast the world in your own brand of sunlight.

I am forever thankful to be your mother.

Love you as bright as the morning,

Mama

A note on words

2008-03-23T15:08:00.005-04:00

Mimi -

I'll admit I have worried that you wouldn't learn to talk in a timely fashion because:

a. You don't pay any attention to books, and

b. I don't point out objects to you and repeat their names over and over all day long.

Instead, you hear running conversation, dozens of songs and the constant exclamations of a two-year-old. How would you sort out specific words from that muddled soup, let alone associate them with particular things?

Despite all that, I have for about a month suspected you of irregularly saying a few words: Mama, Dada, Mimi, Saah (Sasha, or maybe sister), mine and bye-bye.

Today you decided to join in on all of the conversation. No matter who is talking, you're chiming in with a constant stream of babble: "Da da na nu na tha tha nu ma ma."

At the park, you pointed to a giant fuzzy dog and said, "Dag."
"What?!... Mia, what is that?... Mia, say dog."
But you wouldn't repeat yourself. Then a collie bounded onto the playground ahead of his owner.
"Dag!" you said, and pointed.

Then my friend showed up with her tiny nine-month-old twins and you walked over to the baby girl and said, "Bay bay."

A few hours later, Daddy came running into the bedroom where I was working.
"Watch this," he said as you rounded the corner in pursuit. He held up a rubber duck.
"Duck!" you said. "Duck!"

I guess that one runs in the family.

I love you, Mimster, and all of the words running around in your smart little head.

Mama

Dear Mia, Month 11

2008-03-14T19:13:00.001-04:00

Let's dispense with the animal nickname I never use.

Mia Bean,

You push open the kitchen safety gate and dart your eyes back and forth as you step into the living room. Spotting the top of my head, you let a squeal escape. You take a careful step, then a quick one, picking up speed as you toddle your way to find me crouched behind the ottoman in my usual hiding spot. You get there – Squeal! – but I have moved around the corner! Squawk! You round the corner and a giggle shakes you as you dive into my arms.

It took you more than two months from those first unsure steps but you are certainly a walker now – almost a runner. You motor your way around and seem to move particularly fast in a crowd, such as at the mall play place or a busy park. We say, “Look at that Mimster go.”

I went back and read my last scattered letter before starting this one and a line caught my eye: “I can see ahead to having two little girls, instead of one little girl and a baby.”

Last night I commiserated over wine with two of your girl friends’ mamas. Our babies had turned into tiny kids, we lamented. Incredible how fast that happened: Last time I sat to type you a letter, I could see ahead to you as a little girl, and now I see that little girl before me – coming at me on two feet shouting Mama! Muhn! (mine, I think) when Sasha won’t surrender a toy.

I’m writing this letter quite late in the month, Mimi - so late that I am already planning for the next letter. Please don’t get offended. It is not because you are the second child – it is because I am a second-time Mama. You keep me busy. And I don’t worry about timing so much. My love for you is full and unselfconscious. I am not nervous about loving you – I just do it, easily and completely. I don’t analyze what we’re doing wrong (maybe everything, probably quite a few things), I just do what feels right for us and say to hell with the rest.

If you screech at me for an entire afternoon, I get mad. I tell you, “Amelia Miriam, stop this right now.” When you don’t, I send text messages to your grandparents advertising you for rent: Baby for rent. Smart, cute, cheap for the afternoon (also loud). Inquire asap. When they come to take you, you invariably transform into an incredibly mellow, smiley kid. Apparently there are some days we just get sick of each other.

I had these feelings with your big sister but I hid them deep inside of me, ashamed that I would ever have a negative feeling toward my baby. You and I don’t mince words with one another.

And you can take it. You are strong-willed, lovable and incredibly smart, figuring out toys recommended for children far beyond your developmental stage. Okay, you mostly just put these toys intended for 3-year-olds into your mouth, but still you refuse baby toys. Even when you can’t really do something, you believe you can, and often times the strength of your belief makes it so. You’ll spend long minutes bouncing carefully on the trampoline until you’re clearing a centimeter of air under those wobbly feet. You can push the vacuum – the toy one and pull the real one (which is fairly difficult for me to pull).

You can say a few things, although you mostly don’t. I caught you saying “bear” the other day as we read a story about a bear (you now pay attention to books for 90 second stretches). You sometimes say baby, referring to a doll. And two days ago you waved to Daddy as he walked out the door and said, “Bye bye, Da.”

At the park, you use pieces of mulch as a telephone. You think swinging is the best thing ever – for two minutes. Then you must escape its confines to explore on your own. After your bath the other night Daddy asked me if you had been rolling in the sand at the park. Uh, no. But something pretty close to that.

You dive head first into whatever is off limits. At the pool, your sister pretends she is a fish in the one inch of water on the ledge while you literally dive in. I think you could swim if I would let you.

You make me so happy and you drive me nuts – I love it.

Till next month, my little climber, my do-er, my daredevil.

Love forever,

Your Mama

Dear Hummingbird, Month 10

2008-02-04T15:59:00.000-05:00

My dazzling Mia,

That smile! It just bowls me over every time. Oh, you dole it out like candy.

You're still an acrobatic nurser and I'm telling you, nursing makes you so dang happy. You wrestle and jump and suck and then pop up and give a huge grin - I grin back and you divebomb back into my chest. It is difficult to explain how sweet it is, but I feel very appreciated for my milk.

Here you are, ten months old, walking - or almost - depending on the criteria. (You take 12 steps or so at a time but generally eschew walking for your much speedier crawl.) You eat like a champ now, munching on turkey bits and avocado and Cheerios and broccoli - yes, really! I think you talk. You kind of say Mama and Dada and Sassss, and you give a big smile to go along with all of those words. Lately the most directed of your words seems to be Sassss (Sasha). Sasha gets so happy when you say it, so perhaps that's the positive reinforcement at work.

I don't sign with you very much but you throw your arms in the air to show me you're all done with a meal and bang the table when you want more to eat so we get along fine without the signs.

You want in on everything the big kids are doing. You pus Sasha around in her plastic car almost as often as she pushes you. You've even colored with sidewalk chalk once. I watched your little brain working as you observed Sasha scraping the chalk against the driveway. You stared for a minute, then crawled over to the bucket of chalk and grabbed a piece for yourself. First it went in your mouth but then you dragged it on the ground, smiling as if very proud of yourself for knowing what to do. You aren't afraid to swipe a toy when necessary. This gets us into trouble - we're often involved in a three way power struggle - but it is also a lot of fun. We can play together!

Mimi Bean, you love animals. Your big sister loves to read about them but you feel actual kinship to them. You'll pet and love on them or chase them across a yard - you think you are one of them. If we're on a walk and you catch site of the black cat that's always wandering the neighborhood, you yell a happy "Haiii," then twist and struggle, violently trying to break loose of your five-point restraint and go hang out with that cat!

You are growing up so quickly that some days I can see ahead to having two little girls, instead of one little girl and a baby. I still stuff you into the Bjorn but that carrier's days are numbered. And as you move into the front seat of the shopping cart, Sasha is going to have to move to the back or walk with me. That seems to be our progression - you both grow, and she moves out of the baby spot to let you in. It seems like the other day I was cajoling Sasha into the front seat, calling it an important, special place, and now I'm telling her its way more fun to sit in the back because that front seat is totally for babies. Pretty soon, I'll have to start with the cajoling again to convince you to sit up there.

You are quite easygoing, allowing me to leave you in the shade with a friend while I go push Sasha on the swings and acting like an angel when Daddy or the babysitter takes you for the afternoon - but you have your demands. First, you demand never to have your diaper changed, never to be dressed or undressed, never to have your face wiped clean after a meal and never to be put down for a nap. I pretty much allow you to scream through all of these. Is it possible for a 10-month-old to have a tantrum? As unnerving as these situations are, they also make me feel good about you because you certainly know how to assert yourself.

Miss Mia, I adore you. I love it when you bop me in the head with your tiny palms and when you giggle for no reason at all. Being your mommy is so much fun.

Forever,

Your Mama

Dear Hummingbird, Month 9

2008-01-08T14:37:00.000-05:00

My tiny, lovely Mia,

You are nine months old going on 3. Anything Sasha does, you'd like to try - jumping on the trampoline, peeing on the potty (okay, climbing on the potty - you seriously cry when I drag you away), digging in the sand. You chime in on every conversation, making it known that you have an opinion, even if we can't understand it yet. You're standing steadier every day and you've taken a few steps. You crawl like a maniac, making cross-house treks to spy on Sasha or make it to the bath the instant daddy turns on the faucet (you LOVE baths). You wave and clap.

You are a funny baby, constantly flashing your shining grin and banging things together. You scrunch up your nose or stick out your tongue and relish in the reaction you get. Sasha doesn't just make you laugh any more - you make her laugh, too. You're getting less cuddly, preferring acrobatic nursing to sweet serene breastfeeding sessions. It is rather funny, but you're coming dangerously close to twisting my nipples off.

You now have four teeth.

You weigh 18.5 lbs and you're 26.5 inches long, measuring just at the 50th percentile in both categories. (You're in the 75th percentile for head circumference). You still don't eat that well but you're getting much better. Pretty much all of your food must be flavored with apples, bananas or - occasionally - pears.

You do not give up easily. When you stand and fall, you get right back up; when you reach and miss something, you reach again - over and over until you get it. I think you will be the kind of girl who learns by doing, and it will be a very cool thing to watch you in action. I am so thrilled to watch you blossom into a toddler.

My beautiful girl, I love you with all my heart.

Forever,

Your Mama

Only one person

2007-12-17T21:16:00.000-05:00

When I found out I was pregnant the day after Sasha turned one, I was thrilled and afraid. The overwhelming feeling - as in most things related to motherhood - was that of guilt. My baby, the little birthday girl sleeping across the hall, would lose me (and I would lose my baby).

I sought out portraits of sisterhood and relied on my own feelings toward my brother for reassurance. Rationally I understood that I was giving her a great gift. Still, I couldn't help feeling I was shorting Sasha on part of me she was used to - deserved - and depriving the baby even more just by having such negative feelings.

I love this passage from Zadie Smith's On Beauty:

Before the world existed, before it was populated, and before there were wars and jobs and colleges and movies and clothes and opinions and foreign travel - before all of these things there had been only one person, Zora, and only one place: a tent in the living room made from chairs and bed-sheets. After a few years, Levi arrived; space was made for him; it was as if he had always been.

A few days ago I asked Sasha if she remembered when Mia wasn't here; when she was growing in my belly. She said yes, that I had a big, round belly and then Mia popped out.

Apparently it isn't possible she remembers. But, maybe. At the beginning of my pregnancy other mothers said, "She won't understand it until the baby actually gets here." The books recommended that I not say anything until the eighth month, perhaps nothing at all if my child was under age three. I bought into it a little, thinking Sasha must imagine Mia to be a plastic doll. But I instinctively told her the first day I knew - before I told Conrad - and she truly seemed to understand.

From the very start she didn't ask questions - she just said, "There's a baby growing in there," and gave my belly kisses. When Mia came out she acted totally unsurprised. She said, "That's Mia. That's our baby." When we drove up from the hospital, she helped carry the infant seat into the house.

Now if you ask her who she loves, she names Mia first. In our evening prayers, she usually says only one thing: "Dear God, Thank you for Mia, Amen." I know Mia reciprocates these feelings because Sasha is as much a fixture for her as Conrad or I. She constantly crawls after her sister, attempting to hijack a toy or eat one of the shoes she is wearing - and Sasha weathers it well, usually laughing and exclaiming, "Meee-Uh! You can't eat shoes! You're just a baby!" or "Meee-Uh! Mommy can you come move Mia?"

When Mia isn't around - like the one time she slept later than Sasha in the morning - Sasha asks for her. Last week Sasha and I were on a special "big girl date" to Build-A-Bear and Sasha asked to go home to see Mia, please. As we were driving home, she said, "Mia's seat is empty. She's not next to me."

I know the reasons I felt so guilty when I found out about our second child but it seems selfish and unnecessary in retrospect. The best thing I could give each of them was not more of my undivided attention - it was each other. And although I will never be part of their exclusive sisterhood, its creation is the greatest gift I've been given in this life.

Dear Hummingbird, Month 8

2007-12-07T06:38:00.001-05:00

My lovely Mia Bean,

Can it be that eights months has flown by faster than your average eight months? When people ask me how old you are, I get stuck arguing with the little voice in my head. "Eight months," I open my mouth to say. "No way," my brain replies. "She's your baby. No way you can tell this grocery store clerk she is eight months old." "But it's true." "If you say so."

You have packed some serious growing into those eight months, too. You are not a tiny baby, happily sitting and shaking a rattle. Oh, no. You climb steps at the park, walk behind your walker and crawl like a monster truck over all manner of toys to get to whatever small, dangerous bit of something is lying around. You bang and coo and giggle and squeak. The other day you started letting go of your support and standing on your own for a few seconds.

You fall a lot, too, but you do it gracefully and with little fuss. Even when you do a flip fall - one of those fall and then roll and bang your head on something deals - you usually don't cry.

You do cry when I walk out of the room, however. This is how I know you adore me despite the dearth of attention I dole out to you on any given day. When our babysitter comes, you're as upset as you usually are cheerful. (You get over this quickly, she assures me, and turn back into smiley baby moments after I walk out the door.) There are times when you sob so hard that I give in and let you crawl on the germy bathroom floor while I use the toilet. But there are also times when we're hanging out - just the two of us during Sasha's nap - and you crawl all the way across the house without a backwards look at me. You actually crawl into a separate room, fiercely independent and in search of more interesting toys.

It is Hanukkah and you are obsessed with the wrapping paper. You do like the toys, too - anything new to explore is cool with you - but you adore the paper, wrestling and tearing it to bits.

You take good naps (*sound of me knocking on the kitchen table*) but you're still waking up a few times every night. I go to you only once to feed you but I am turning out to be a huge softie. I thought you - my second child - would be sleeping through the night months ago. But I'm reluctant to let you cry it out and deprive myself of a warm baby to snuggle for an hour each night.

You eat much better now, although you still don't open your mouth like a little bird, preferring to make me shovel that plastic-coated spoon through your pursed lips. You will take cereal and such, though, and you devour apples and plums and pears.

Although we've had some not so fun problems with nursing lately (think pumped pink milk), I still adore breastfeeding you. This morning I cuddled you up into a ball and put you to my breast, your face still pink from sleep. You tucked one arm under your head and played with my hair with the other while your eyes stared at me, wide and clear. I smiled down at you and took in my breath and that was enough to elicit a huge grin - the kind that light my day. I love how easy it is to make both of us happy.

My Mia, you bring me such joy. Some days I think full time motherhood is an unbelievable indulgence. I am so lucky to be near angels all day, every day, hoping my attention and teaching is enough to get the two of you wherever you wish to go in this life. Watching the two of you laugh together is mesmerizing.

Other days this bliss melts into frustration with our inability to keep plans, disgust at the poopy meniality of the job and insanity over lack of adult contact, but those days are fewer now - I think partly because there are two of you to keep me on my toes. I am prouder of accomplishing little things - a load of laundry, a book chapter read - because it is so hard to do anything at all. Being a mother of two is so different than I thought it would be, but that's another essay.

I saw a T-shirt in Gap the other day that said "100% Happy, All Smiles All the Time." It was so you. I would have bought it but Daddy would not have been smiling over the price tag.

Tu eres mia Luz, Mia. You are my light. And now you are awake and crying, so here I come!

Love you forever,

Mama

Dear Hummingbird, Month 7

2007-11-07T07:11:00.000-05:00

My Tiny Mia Bean,

I won't bury the lede here: You're crawling.

The day after your seven month birthday (yes, I’m a little late), your Nana and I went on an all-morning shopping excursion, leaving you and Sash with your Daddy. We came back and you were crawling. Not a scoot but the whole length of the couch. Put a toy, a necklace, a cell phone in front of you and you’re off! What on earth?!?

The next day it seemed you were ready to move on to pulling up. Yesterday I turned around to see you standing at the little learning table, gripping the edges with your tiny tree-frog fingers and smiling in satisfaction.

Even pulling up doesn’t really content you. You try to lunge from one thing (me) to another (the couch) and take steps along the way. When I hold your hands, you step all around the house, following as swiftly as you can after your newly-rowdy sister. I really think you’re trying to walk, although I’m sure it is a ways down the road.

Also, you have two teeth.

Okay, so I’ll ask you: I love watching you grow but could you quit going so quickly? I know it will seem like tomorrow when I wake up to the pitter patter of four little feet and soon after the chattery argument of two pre-teens fighting over the bathroom. I’m doing my best to hold on to every moment. But really, just spread out those milestones a little, baby girl. It’s making you and me both lose sleep.

I don’t even want to talk about sleep – I thought as a second baby I’d have muscled you into sleeping through the night long ago – but I’ll mention it for the record. You wake up at least once every night, sometimes twice and I nearly always bring you to bed to snuggle. You go to sleep on your own fabulously at night and you were a great napper at the beginning of the month but now refuse to sleep at all during the day, choosing instead to sit up and screech for an hour until I rescue you.

You still don’t like to eat, although a little plastic-handled dipper I picked up at Target seems to help. You want to feed yourself – I can’t go near you with a spoon. Hmm, that sounds familiar. Turns out you demand control. Poor daddy has to live with three of us! You no longer gag every single time food passes through your lips but you aren’t thrilled either and you don’t eat much. I’m worried about it but I keep telling myself that all kids eat eventually.

And you are growing. Your limbs are long with folds at the top of your legs. Your eyes are huge and blue, your eyelashes miles long. Your downy hair is long enough to clip into a tiny bow.

You little personality is growing, too. You are curious about everything, happiest outside with lots to see. You babble and blow bubbles and gurgle and groan and scream with glee in the highest of pitches. You are an easy baby as long as you are in someone’s arms or sitting nearby. Everyone says how cute you are – and you are – but I think all the compliments are really about your personality. You start out content but straight faced and make people work, but just a little, for a real reaction. Then your face explodes into sunshine, the bridge of your nose scrunching, your mouth opening to reveal your new teeth, your cheeks plumping into a big smile, gurgles in your throat. And that’s when someone says, “That’s one of the cutest babies I’ve ever seen!”

These days I feel so lucky. Despite the off days when Sasha whines constantly and you don’t nap even ten minutes and I grate my teeth and raise my voice and think I’ll never survive through dinner, I love this life. Being your mother is a privilege, a blessing. Even if I spent every waking moment with you and Sasha, there would not be enough time. My love for you flows over.

Love,

Mama

Dear Mia, Month Six

2007-10-03T14:43:00.001-04:00

Mia Beanie Bug,

It's hard to believe half a year has gone by since you arrived in the world. I knew it would feel like you'd been here forever and it does. I feel as though I have grown another heart, and it gets bigger every time you smile.

You did a few things this month that impressed me. You progressed quickly from sitting up with support to sitting up without toppling over to trying very hard to sit up all by yourself. You can reach for a toy and capture it, and toys fascinate you for a long time. You roll every which way and put yourself right in the middle of the action when your sister and her friends are playing. You love to swing at the park, play with your doll house or just sit in the midst of the chaos.

You have two modes: happy and mad - it is all ups and downs with you. Luckily, it is easy to help you switch from one to the other.

You don't like food. We've tried rice cereal, bananas and pears, and you're having none of them. I hope that changes by the time I write the next letter.

You still sleep in my bed for the second half of the night and it depends on the week whether you are a good sleeper or a bad one. Sometimes you wake only once at night; other times it is three times. Sometimes you take two hour-and-a-half naps; other times you sleep for six minutes total after having cried for forty. Yuck.

You love looking at yourself in the mirror, holding your arms out to your daddy, being outside, making funny faces and trying to get a bite of my cell phone. You weigh 16 lbs. 6 oz. and are 27.5 inches long.

I have about two seconds to write this note, but I want to include the prayer your Daddy and I wrote for your naming ceremony:

Our lovely Amelia,

You are brighter than any star in the sky, more beautiful than any vision in my dreams. For you, I want the people to step aside and say, “Make way for Amelia!”

The moment I saw you, I adored you. And now – unbelievably – I love you even more.

I remember swaying with you in the moonlight, your tiny head heavy on my shoulder, shushing you to sleep.

I remember the first time you laughed; the way your beautiful face opened up and your giggle lightened like a song.

I will lay in the sunshine and stare up at the sky with you, looking for shapes in the clouds.

I will dance with you, sing to you and read to you, until you are the one singing and reading to me.

I imagine you – a teenager – running out the door, car keys jangling, hair streaming behind you.

I imagine you clamoring up a play set with sunshine on your face, calling to your sister.

I hope your curiosity leads you to explore all corners of the Earth and all corners of your mind.

I hope you discover your passions, so your work will be joyous.

I pray that you know right from wrong and have the courage to choose what is right.

I hope you turn your mistakes into lessons, your sadness into strength.

I hope that you grow to understand beauty, that when you look in the mirror, you can see yourself as we see you today: beautiful, smart, sweet and able.

I watch you smile whenever I walk into the room or giggle when your sister says your name, and I see that you know how to give love.

I watch you, straining to roll from your stomach, determined to grab a toy – and I know you are driven.

I wish you health, peace, hope, strength, love and happiness.

I wish you a life filled with rich experiences, a quest for wisdom, a zest for challenge and the guts to go for your dreams.

I wish for you – eventually – the incomparable enchantment that comes with having your own children.

Anything you dream, you can do, but anything worth something requires courage and perseverance.

Above all, I hope you seek to become the best version of yourself, every day striving to make the world a little better through talents that are just your own.

Amelia, we love you forever and without condition. For you, we wish the world.

I love you as bright as the morning Miss Mia, my sweetest baby in the whole wide world.

Forever,
Mama

Dear Hummingbird, Month Five

2007-09-07T15:19:00.000-04:00

Mia Bean,

I love having a baby in the house. It certainly causes stress to hear you cry and attend to you at night, and it is hard on my back to lug you around constantly but I love it all the same.

I love listening to your gurgles and throaty attempts at talking; I love running my finger over your milky skin and patting your tushy dry; I love the smell of your breath, like fresh rain; I love to watch your breathing slow as you sink into sleep. You are always clean and new and bright (ok, maybe not always clean), and so quick to smile. I love that theses gifts are mine for the taking any time.

Mia, you are such a sweet little baby. For an hour or two after each wake time, you are a complete angel - good natured and smiling at everything. I love to cradle you and then quickly scrunch you up to my face for a kiss, then lower you, over and over. You smile so big and let out an amused, "Huh, he, huh."

Holding you is so bittersweet. Your head rests in the crook of my elbow as you nurse and your free hand is busy. First, one comes up to grip my finger, then tug at my necklace. As your sucking slows, your hand calms, resting with its palm open between my breasts as if to say, "Stay put, Mama." I often with I could send you the same message, because it seems you are speeding through your babyhood.

A few days ago, you were five months old.

You roll constantly, once from your back to front but mostly from front to back. You swim on your tummy, conditioning your muscles for crawling, and do constant sit ups and leg lifts. You can sit on your own for nearly a minute, handling a toy. You especially love your rattle with a kitty cat-shaped head, your knot block and the Sesame Street pop-up toy. You can transfer a toy from hand to hand, although not every time you try.

You are enamored with your feet. You love to stare at them, wiggle them, eat them. It seems they are both beautiful and tasty.

A few days ago, I held you in my lap, amusing you with a toy horse while I helped Sasha eat her lunch. Sasha banged her hand onto the table in frustration. I playfully covered it with my own. Her scrunchy frustrated face grew wide and happy and she pulled her hand out from under mine and plunked it on top. She burst out laughing. You glanced at her smile and burst out laughing, too. She thought your toothy, grunty laugh was hysterical and laughed even harder. I plunked my hand back onto hers and all three of us giggled wildly with each other and at each other. It was silly and we all thought so. As we continued to play and laugh, I wished I could bottle up that feeling of girlish glee.

It was touching to see you react to your sister's happiness with your own. But it was more than that. In that moment, you were one of us, playing right alongside and adding your own sense of humor and personality to the mix. You came out of the shadows - no longer just a baby to wipe, dress, rock to sleep, feed, entertain. You were entertaining us. I think I may look back on that moment and realize that from then on, you were part of our little club - a contributing member of our daytime clan of girls.

I ask the two of you, "I see two princesses. Where is my tiny one?" You brighten and Sasha says, "Right there," and sticks a nubby finger into your belly. "And where is my little one?" "Right there," she says, pointing that finger at herself. "And one mommy," she says. That's right. We three princesses.

Though certainly one of us girls, you are also particularly partial to your Daddy. If he's in the room, your eyes are on him. You follow his voice when he walks away and constantly look to engage him in a smiling contest: Who can smile bigger? You are googly-eyed over each other. He bathes you every night. Your favorite place is in his "arm chair," and he can rock you down to sleep faster than anyone else (including me). It is wonderful to see you two together, your face so secure and happy when he is near.

I am more confident now in getting us out of the house. We now make regular visits to parks, museums, the mall. You love your Bjorn and also the stroller, and you adore seeing new things.

You are getting more regular in your naps - taking two one-hour rests around 9 and 1. You are still not sleeping through the night, but we're working on it. The past few nights I have fed you only once, around 2 a.m., and that has been good for me. You wake up around 10 p.m., too, and your Daddy or I go in to help shush you back to sleep. Last night both of us went in. We changed your diaper, then I held you as your crying quieted and your head got heavy on my shoulder. Your Daddy put his big hand on your back and held my free hand. The three of us swayed together.

I'll admit that the baby phase is not the easiest for me - my brain turns to mush, all my hair falls out, I get stressed and nervous, feel guilty over silly things and yell at your Daddy for nothing. But all of the drawbacks are worth it because there is nothing like holding you, my tiny one, seeing your brilliant smile, and watching you grow.

I love you forever.

Mama

Dear Kangaroo, Month 25

2007-08-29T10:25:00.000-04:00

Dear Sweet Sasha,

You were 25 months old this week.

I sifted through a mound of laundry, picking out your smocked blue dress with cherries on it. As I folded, tears came to my eyes. You wore it yesterday and it came just to the bottom of your tush - time to pass yet another size-2T down to your baby sister.

Last week, you stood beside Nana and Papa's fooseball table and I noticed your pony tail stood taller than the pole grips. I used to worry that you'd bang your head; instead you navigate deftly around them. No need for my watchful eye.

This morning, I asked you what you wanted to do today - you could do anything at all - and you tilted your head to the side, thought for a moment, and said, "Play with Mama...and Mia."

"And do you want to do anything special?"

"Yes. Do an amimal puzzle."

I love how decisive you are, and how simple yet wonderful your desires.

You understand concepts I don't expect. Like I might say, "If you go in the playroom, I'll go with you." And you'll say, "We'll both go. Together." How do you already know these things?

You are getting funnier and appreciating humor more. You think it is hysterical if I sing the "silly animal song," saying I once met a duck who said Meow or an mouse who was as big as a tree. You giggle and say, "No-oh-oh, Mama." If I replace a word in a familiar book, you laugh hysterically and scream the right word out.

Your refrain is still, "Mommy do it," whenever you don't know the answer or feel reluctant to obey. But you do many more things for yourself, and you're especially opinionated. Even if you want me to do something, it had to be your idea in the first place.

Out of the blue, you can sing your ABC's. I never taught them to you, although I do occasionally sing them on a whim. But today, as a stalling technique I asked you to sing your ABC's, promising that when you were done I'd come into the playroom. Well, you were nearly perfect - I was so impressed. You got a bit tripped up on the Q, but otherwise did well.

Among other accomplishments, you said your first curse word yesterday. I checked the answering messages as we returned home from a difficult trip to a friend's house and realized I had missed an appointment.

"Shit," I said softly.

"Shit," you said. I stifled a giggle, kicking myself inside.

"Oops, that was a bad word," I said, avoiding your eyes. "Mommy made a mistake. I won't say that anymore. Now...a better word is 'sit.' Should we go SIT on the couch and watch Elmo?"

It was the best I could do.

And, with that, I'll close your final monthly letter. You don't need these any more because you have you can say the ABC's and curse and you have your own Web site.

You asked for one, and so I made you one. It is super cute and it's name is Books and Ducks and Giraffes. It has your favorite links (to Elmo's World, etc.) and pictures of your favorite things. I will still write you notes there, and things will be a bit more organic. If anyone wants access, the address is private, so please let me know.

I love you, my sweet Sasha. High as the sky and green as the grass. I hope I will always write to you, and I hope one day soon you'll write back.

Forever,

Mama

Dear Hummingbird, Month 4

2007-08-10T20:36:00.000-04:00

My Little Mia,

Eight days ago, you were four months old. I have been putting off writing this letter until I have time for it and I realize now that it isn't going to happen. There will be no solid chunk of peaceful time in my life any time soon. So, this letter will be unfocused, but here it is. I'm trying.

I can tell that your senses are becoming sharper. You stare with greater intent at bright colors. A butterfly balloon left over from Sasha's birthday party has held your fascination for days. You've laid on your white blanket on the living room floor staring at it for long minutes. Noises startle or calm you. You clearly know who we are now; I watch your body language change with me, Daddy and Sasha. You prefer me over strangers now, too, which is sweet but makes me worry a bit about our busy autumn schedule. You don't want to be put down on your own for long, but you'll last a long time in the Exersaucer or Bumbo if I'm there to keep you company.

One of the best moments of my life happened this month when you looked across the kitchen table at your daddy and laughed. Now I can wiggle my nose in your chest or armpit and you laugh out loud.

Thank goodness you've morphed into a baby who sleeps in the car. Although I tried to stick you into a schedule, I've given up. Sometimes you go with the flow; sometimes you go against it. But whatever happens you always break out a smile when I make faces and giggle at you. You are an incredibly happy baby. If you're wailing, just having woken from a nap, I can walk in the room and say, "Hi, Mia!" in a gushy voice and get a huge bright face. I love that, the way you can flip from angry to thrilled in an instant.

You had a horrible tushy rash all month and it has been interrupting your sleep. You can no longer soothe yourself down to nap - 40 minutes of crying didn't do it and I wasn't willing to go further down that road. So lately I have been nursing you for an hour while Sasha sleeps just to keep you from being overtired. It is so sweet, your beautiful self tucked into the nook where my chest and arm meet. You barely suckle but you fight like heck if I try to take the milk away. I feel a little guilty about it, knowing that I don't want to make it a habit, but at the same time I get such fulfillment out of being able to care for you that way, out of our easy rhythm together.

Amelia, we get closer and closer and I can not imagine my life without you. I still feel like I'm cheating you sometimes, giving your sister more attention when the three of us are together - reading books she picks, going places she wants to go. But I know we get great quality time during her naps, when I dance around the house wearing you in the bjorn or the sling and when I put you to sleep every night. (Speaking of baby wearing, your sister has taken to wearing her special lovey duck in the old bjorn. She wishes she could carry you.)

You roll from front to back; I can't keep you on your stomach for more than a second. You grab at everything. I remember watching you one day, your tiny arms shaking from the effort of coordinating your hands, aiming them at a little bird hanging from your baby gym. When you got it, clasped between two hands, you smiled. And now you grab everything, shake rattles and wave bright patterned stuffed animals around in front of your face.

You love it outdoors. You go with me to Sasha's music class, which is at a park rec center. Afterward we always stroll over to the playground. You love to stare up through the leaves at the sky.

Things are easier now. We're still incredibly busy every moment but I feel more like I know what is going on. I can get you and your sister out the door, to a park, into a store, whatever. Sometimes it isn't fun and there is dried spit up on my shirt or a spot of yellow poop on my jeans, but I'm used to both of those things now. I have mastered everyday feats like feeding Sasha breakfast while nursing you or changing your diaper while overseeing an art project. There is more whining and fussing around here, but there is also much more sharing and turn-taking and little girls giving each other kisses.

You have a lot of friends. We are lucky to have found a great baby group, and you and I are able to get some good mommy-baby time in while you roll on the ground at crowded playgroups. And for a little while each day, when I'm on the group message board, I can focus just on you - how you're sleeping, eating, cute things you do, whatever.

Today, another mom said she barely felt pregnant and prepared for a newborn and now her baby was on the verge of eating solids. I feel that way with you - totally blown away by how fast you are growing up. I love this stage of your life, but I already miss you as a tiny baby. I'm glad we're past all the unstoppable crying but I miss your tiny limbs and barely awake eyes.

You weigh 15 lbs. 9 oz. You are 25 inches long. And you are making it clear that there are two masters of this house, both who have surpassed 24 inches.

I love you so much.

Forever,

Mama

Talking to a Two Year Old

2007-08-04T20:27:00.000-04:00

Me: Goodnight, sweet girl.

Sasha: Ssssss.

Me: Are you my baby snake?

Sasha: Yeah. And your baby donkey.

Me: Goodnight my baby snake, my little donkey.

Sasha: And your baby chicken.

Me: You're my baby snake, baby donkey and baby chicken??

Sasha: Sssss. He Haw.

Me: Goodnight sweetie.

Sasha: A fish, too! A fish, too!

Me: Goodnight, baby fish.

Sasha: And chicken, and donkey and snake.

(She has stalling perfected, don't you think?)

Dear Kangaroo, Year Two

2007-07-30T08:39:00.000-04:00

My sweet girl,

Two years of you, and so much to remember. The memories slide quickly through my mind. I sang to you on my commutes to work, one hand on the wheel and the other covering my belly as it began to bulge, wondering if you’d be a Garth Brooks or John Mayer fan. I sang the words to familiar Hebrew song, lechi lach, the song God sang to Abraham: “Come with me, to this place that I will show you; come to this place you do not know; and you shall be a blessing, come with me.” I tried to conjure images of you but could find only pictures from books, calendars of babies and memories of my nieces. And then all of a sudden you were here. A blur of pain and blue light and you were in my arms, throwing your sticky white hand into my mouth. I tasted your salty sweetness and thought – this is my own daughter. Your father’s eyes were wet. I put you to the breast in disbelief that I was capable of being so close to a tiny person so fresh from God. I wanted to show you everything; I didn’t realize how much you would show me. At home, your body curled around me as I watched Dawson’s Creek reruns, read countless novels and nursed and nursed and nursed. I rocked and sang, bounced and shushed. I nursed some more. Your dad carried you in laps around the house, reading Goodnight Moon over your fussing. In a stupor, we argued in the night over whose turn it was to hush you. Softly, quietly, I removed my breast from your mouth and, humming, placing you carefully in the crib. You were swaddled and soundly asleep, but only minutes later you woke for more suckling. It frustrated me; I loved it. Later I bent over the stove, staring at the neon green of the digital clock, counting the moments until I could go rescue you from sleep training, trying to stick to my self-imposed limit. I put my head in my hands and heard your trilling cries. And then you slept through, and I didn’t – again I stayed up, watching the clock, disbelieving that you could make it from 7 p.m. to dawn. We sat on my girlfriend’s couch, watching the playgroup children tousle over toys. Even as you grew, you preferred to stay close, clinging to my leg and paging through a book rather than moving toward the toys. You’ve kept that disposition, only now you know how to ask me to retrieve a toy for you, and you usually venture out to play after a minute or two on my lap. As soon as you learned to sit, you loved to read by yourself, staring at the pages of Brown Bear, Brown Bear for long minutes. Two teeth like little pearls jutted up and your perfect smile inexplicably became more adorable. You ate avocado and banana and nearly everything we put in front of you. You crawled. Days later, you began pulling up in your crib. You said, “duck,” and I ran out to buy you a stuffed duck. Then you said, “Dada,” and, “Mama,” and you haven’t since stopped talking. At your first birthday, you practically ate a whole cake, stuffing the frosted duck into your face in fistfuls. Daddy bathed you every night, then we read together in your room. He acted out Goodnight Gorilla, moping around making silly noises and using your crib as the bars of the zoo’s cages. You laughed and laughed. My sweet girl, I coo to you still, my little baby. And then I was pregnant again and, in a blink, you were big. You took your first steps toward your toy duck in the playroom. In your stubborn fashion, you refused to fall more than once a day. If you walked two steps or twenty before you plopped over, you didn’t try again until the next day. Once you walked forty steps but still refused to go again once you got up, despite my energetic cheers. But one day you did try again. And then you ran and danced. And now you can jump and sing. Signs for help, please and milk turned into words. Early words like “vavay,” turned into “flyflyfly,” and then (to my dismay) “butterfly.” Your name went from Yaya to Sasha. You strung words together two at a time and your language blossomed into sentences – “Mama, please get Sasha some milk,” “Sasha wants to draw art then eat a cookie then go to Nana and Papa’s house with the green door,” – and then entire conversations, even debates. You can sucker me into most anything by asking nicely. When you first learned colors, the whole world was blue. Then the answer to every color question was, “yellow.” Now you can point out subtle shades like grey or brown. You love to draw, paint and glue, and you’re very proud of your creations – so many lines and circles on paper along with craft projects we do together. You sit in your Nana’s lap and look up at the sky, pointing out birds and trees and listening for different sounds. Out the car window, you notice dump trucks, school buses, different varieties of cars. You see something once and then remember it, like the way animals on a merry go round go up and down and what your Papa likes to cook you for lunch. In your new twin bed – a mattress on the floor – you implored us, “Mama, stay. Daddy, stay,” and we laid with you a little longer, singing “one more song,” and tucking you in one last time when you snuck an arm out asking, “How’d that get out, Mama?” When we moved the bed up onto its rails, you got your step stool out of the corner and used it to climb onto the bed, bringing tears to daddy and my eyes at your resourcefulness. You drank from a sippy cup and then – just a few weeks ago – I watched you sip from a real cup, a skill I’d been trying to teach you for months. Daddy gave it one try and now you have it down. You patted my belly tenderly as your baby sister grew inside me and talked about all the things you would teach her. When you first met her, I saw wonder in your face that mirrored my feelings for you and her. You knew instinctively that a baby is a miracle. Immediately, you protected her, keeping her toys close, preferring me or your dad to hold her over strangers, doling out lots of hugs. When Mia had tummy time, so did you. When she sat in a bumbo, you did, too. You washed her head at bath time, kissed her fragile toes, gently rubbed her hair. On Saturday, your dad and I were brushing our teeth, having left Mia to watch her mobile in the crib and you on the floor with a book. When we peeked in to check on you, you had dragged a stool to the crib. You stood over Mia, reading your version of “That’s Not My Puppy,” and bringing Mia’s hand up to touch each of the textures the book offers – fuzzy, shiny, spongy. Then you abruptly put the book down, murmuring, “Mia, read this a little bit,” as you climbed down to get the next book. It seems like just the other day, you were born. But it wasn’t. Just the other day, you were shoveling mulch with your dad, pushing your baby sister in a wheelbarrow and giggling with glee. You were insisting on “fivesixseveneightnineten cookies…please,” and then demanding three more. You were building an office for your daddy doll out of blocks and then knocking it down to build “a better one.” The other day I asked you what you would dream about during your nap and you said, “Clouds and horses…and butterflies, too.” No, you were not born the other day. The moments so fresh in my mind were long ago. But you’ll always be my sweet girl, the tiny baby who needed only me. And I will always want to show you this world and, in turn, learn about it through the beautiful blue eyes and chubby little hands of my blessing. I’m so lucky you’re my daughter.

I love you forever,

Mama

Dear Hummingbird, Month 3

2007-07-05T20:25:00.001-04:00

My Sweet Mia Bean,

It is all your fault that this letter is late. You are my little cat napper! I can't get more than 30 minutes at a time out of you during the day, and that's a long stretch. Usually, you take three 20-minute naps. So all I have time to do once I lay you down is pee, check my email or give your big sister some much-needed attention. However, you sleep like a champ at night so I'm really not complaining. Last night you went 10.5 hours, a record, and you didn't actually wake up on your own - Daddy went in and got you before he left for work. He deposited you onto my boob and we spent a sweet hour nursing before I got up to get Sashy bug.

I adore nursing you, little bean. Although I'm thrilled that you don't always need to be breastfed to sleep, I love it when you occassionally do fall asleep at the breast. You are so serene and your warm weight and sour milky smell bring me peace. Last week, we decided to break you of the swaddle blanket. We geared up for some crying, and you never even peeped. You now let me lay you down awake or drowsy sometimes and drift right off with little or no crying. Other times you have none of it and cry big sad tears for a few minutes before I come scoop you out of the crib. I can't bring myself to let you "cry it out" just yet, but I do give you a few minutes to try to put yourself to sleep.

Your personality is taking on a firmer shape. In the beginning of this month, you still fussed often, on and off all day, whenever you were awake. But now you're a gloriously happy baby and you don't usually fuss unless you're hungry or overtired.

You recently started to show me that you know I'm your mom. When I come into a room or turn to speak to you, you flash a beautiful smile. Amelia, your smile is luminous and contagious. I could sit all day and coo back and forth with you. I love giving you a bath nearly every night because you smile contantly as I talk to you about all the beautiful parts I'm washing.

You love your mobile and you like sprawling out on a blanket on the floor. When you're laying there, you scrunch up your feet and flail your arms. It's too cute. Your sister likes to say, "Mia's wiggling." You sometimes get ahold of a toy and manage to hang onto it for a few minutes, mouthing and feeling it. You don't much like the carseat, swing, sling or the bjorn, although I think you're adjusting to facing out in the carriers. You love the bumbo seat and the stroller and being held upright in my arms or your daddy's. We just got the high chair out of storage so you can participate in family dinners.

Alright. I'm going to admit to this: You fell off the bed on my watch. We had a terrible trip to Minnesota, Mia. I had the stomach flu and was watching you while your Dad took care of Sasha. Well, somehow I swiped my wedding rings into a garbage can of puke and dirty diapers. I set you down in the middle of the bed so I could pick them out and you fell. I don't know how you did it, but you must have gotten your momentum going and just fallen. It wasn't far and you fell onto carpet but it had me sobbing for hours. I still can't really think about it and I'm so sorry. So, that's it.

It is so wonderful being your mom at this stage of your life, when you are just waking up to the world. Sometimes I think that I can't wait till you girls are older so we can do girly things like shoe shop and get our nails done. But by then I know I will desperately miss the sweet, innocent way things are now. It's not easy having the two of you so little - last week we had an episode in the Target parking lot in which you pooped all the way up your back and all the way down my leg so that your Daddy (thank goodness he was there) had to go into the store and buy me some new shorts before we could go in, and then once we got in the two of you were fussing so that we just went home - but it is incredibly cute, often hilarious and always rewarding.

I feel like we are so close to God in this house right now. You are such a blessing in this world and in my life.

Love you forever,
Mama

Dear Kangaroo, Month 23

2007-06-28T21:40:00.000-04:00

Sunflower,

I'm sorry this letter is so late. I have lots of good excuses, not least that you are requiring bunches of extra attention these days to make up for the time I spend holding your sister. I am learning how to discipline and you are learning to behave, although there are definitely some bumps. For example, after days of reprimanding you for being too loud in Mia's room while I'm putting her down, you started running into the room while I was rocking her and screaming. "AHHHHH!" you yelled, looking up mischeviously. Then you'd say, "Too loud. Kicked out!" and run out of the room. (Yes, I laughed, but it's not funny!)

You are an incredible big sister but you're getting wise to the fact that your sister is not just a cute plaything but also the competition. So while you still help throw out all the diapers, sing to her, swing her, pick out all her outfits and give copious kisses, you also do your fair share of whining for attention.

After nearly two years of sleeping without a blanket, you now love to be tucked in. You especially love to get all snuggled in and then bust out your arm and say, "Tuck this!" Then you'll sneak just a finger out and say, "This! Tuck this finger!" You want your mouth tucked in, and you think it is hilarious when I pull the blanket up and then kiss you through it.

You give little hugs (your tiny hands cupping a chin) and big hugs (tight squeezes and a head on the shoulder). There is also a variation on the little hug, which is the half hug. It's just one hand patting a cheek, but so super cute.

And you are extremely musical. Everything requires a song. Getting up in the morning, eating breakfast, driving, putting Mia down - all are better when put to music. I feel like I'm living in a Broadway show. You request new songs and you're very sepceific about what you want. For example, I'll be singing a song like Wheels on the Bus and you will request "another bus song." Well, I don't know any other bus songs - that's really the only one, right? - but this is not somthing worth fight sing over so I make one up. Sometimes it's not to your liking and so you have to get even more specific. You are starting to learn to sing, although you seem to have inherited my tone deafness. One of your favorite songs is called Hambone, a song we learned at Musikgarten, and you like to repeat the verses after me.

We have a song that details what you're going to be when you grow up - that is, a mommy, a baker and a chicken who goes cluck, cluck. The mommy part you got from Nana and Papa, the baker part you got from my effusive compliments when you baked some delicious cookies and the chicken part you got from me telling you that if you ate any more chicken, you'd turn into one. Yes, we are keeping Chick Fil' A in business. But not a single vegetable! (Except sweet corn, which barely counts).

When I named this blog, I didn't know how much of my boss you'd really become. You are definitely a micromanager. If Mia is crying in her crib you say, "Better go pick her up Mama." And, if I'm not moving fast enough you often add a "now." We have a great book called Now, Soon, Later and I'm hoping its lesson is sinking in.

This month we visited Minnesota. And my tentative little girl, you did wonderfully with all of the new people. You charmed every one of your cousins and aunts and uncles. You took to your Grandpa right off the bat and eventually warmed to Grandma, too. You and I got the stomach flu on the trip, and I have never seen such a sad little girl. I was so worried about you when you didn't talk for nearly four hours. (When I came down with it days later I realized why - I felt like any time I opened my mouth, I'd puke.) We got through it thanks to your fabulous daddy, who bathed you in the middle of the night, changed your sheets and loved you back to health - plus gave me a break to get myself better. Although it was a tough trip, you seem to retain mostly good memories. Occassionally when Mia spits up, you mention something about how you didn't like spitting up in Minnesota. But mostly you talk about your cousins and their various sports and how Ava rides a bus to school. A few weeks after we got home, your Daddy turned on the TV and golf came on the screen. You studied it for a minute, then said, "Grandpa watches golf."

Your memory is pretty remarkable. You can tell me about your day with great accuracy, mentioning what you ate, who you played with and other little details such as a cat or dog you saw, a song we sang or the color of a car we noticed out the window. Sometimes you add things you wish you had done, such as "went to Nana and Papa's house."

Sasha, there are days when I feel like I'm failing as your mother. I just can't hold you as much as you want me to - as much as I want to. I can't let you scream your heart out while Mia is sleeping or dawdle when there is baby poop running down my leg. One day last week you stood in the doorway as I shushed your hysterical sister, and just yelled "Please, please, please!" over and over. It broke my heart.

We are learning that you are not the center of the universe and that my world revolves around not one but three people, and I think it is just as painful for me. I wish I had spare Me's to go around loving you, Mia and your Dad as much as possible. For now, please know that I am doing my absolute best without going nuts. And when you read this when you are a mom, cut yourself some slack, get a babysitter and go to the mall.

I love you more every day, little girl.

Love you forever,
Mama

Dear Hummingbird, Month 2

2007-06-02T19:17:00.000-04:00

Amelia, Mia Mia, Hummingbird, Cara Mia, Rosebud, Flutterbug, Mia Bean, Little Beauty:

In the past month I have fallen for you deeply. It's a can't-take-my-eyes-off-you kind of love. The kind where the love songs on the radio remind me of you instead of some affair between a man and a woman. Truly, Mia, who could ever love you more than I adore you at this moment, my precious baby?

I ask, but I know that this love I feel will continue to grow. Sometimes it's hard to hold inside all the love I feel for my two sweet girls. And - aren't you lucky? - I think your sister and Daddy love you just as much. Sasha loves to climb onto a step stool and watch you in your crib, showing you how to hold your stuffed animal friends ("amimal freds") or shake a rattle. She loves to snuggle you and ask me to give out "double hugs." In these, Sasha has her arms around you and I have my arms around both of you. You are also forging strong relationships with your Nana and Papa, who live nearby. You love to smile at Papa, and you go to sleep best for Nana.

This month your personality has begun to emerge. I will never forget the way your eyes crinkled and the corners of your mouth turned up when you first smiled at me. You were tentative at first, catching sight of me as we were about to board an elevator and smiling shyly. But a few weeks later you broke into full-blown smiles that seem so big your tiny face can't contain them. You coo and gurgle at me and your daddy and give us a look of surprise every so often that brings me so much joy. Your big blue eyes open wide and your eyebrows arch up - a very adult look for such a tiny human.

You love watching your mobile and taking a bath, especially when I run the shower at the same time. And - big surprise - you hate the car and so scream your little face red until we get where we're going. Car rides are hard on you but, I think, harder on me. I'm dreading (and also looking forward to) a family vacation this month in which we'll have a two hour drive to the airport, a plane ride to Atlanta, a three hour layover, a plane ride to Minnesota and a two hour drive to Grandma and Grandpa's house. If the four of us survive that, I'm sure we'll get through most anything.

You have become a bit fussier. You have trouble sleeping for long periods of time during the day and wake up often looking like there's a bad taste in your mouth. (At night, thank goodness, you are doing five or six hour stretches - wow!) Sometimes you have trouble eating. The doctor thinks you have acid reflux but we are in watch and wait mode before we decide to medicate you.

You are 23.5 inches long and 13 lbs. 4 oz.

The other day I watched the neighborhood teenagers climbing off the school bus, bags slung over their shoulders, chatting and giggling with their friends. At first the girls reminded me of myself. I can remember high school - the boys and the gossip and the constant popularity contest - like it was the other day. At the same time, I know it will seem like just moments before you and your sister are riding that bus. I love being a young mother, so I can sometimes remember the joys you're going through now, but I hope I'm far enough on the adult side to figure out how to be the mother of two teenage girls.

This month a stranger told your Daddy he's going to need a shotgun. I think that man was right. Although you look like Sasha's sister, you have your own beauty. Your eyes, in particular, are bright and round. They turn up a tiny bit in the corners. And your eyelashes are miles long and curled. You've got chubby cheeks but a long face and a dimple in your chin to match Daddy's.

I read a piece of advice about motherhood this month: the days are long but the years are short. It is so true. I repeat it to myself whenever you are overtired and screaming and your sister simultaneously demands "Need Mama now!" and begins to throw a fit. Because an hour later you're both peacefully laying in the baby gym, looking adorable, cooing and throwing smiles at me. And, instead of feeling sorry for myself as I did earlier and wishing the day was over so your dad would come home already, I want to freeze time and stay with my two baby girls forever.

With your sister, I was constantly looking forward. Until around her first birthday I anticipated who she would be - after that I just wanted to slow her down and watch. Well, I'm already there with you. I want to hold onto these moments in which you are all mine. Tutti mia, bebe. There is nothing I treasure more than the weight of your head on my shoulder, the smoothness of your cheek against my breast. I'm so glad we found each other.

Love you forever,

Mama

Dear Kangaroo, Month 22

2007-05-23T17:49:00.000-04:00

My Sweet Sasha,

It has been sunny all week - the kind of sunshine that filters through the trees, warming without making you sweat. This kind of weather is the reason we live in Florida, where you and I can play all afternoon outside nearly every day of the year. I watch you kicking your chubby legs on the swings, tilting your head in wonder toward the trees and the cornflower blue sky. And I look up, too, to say a silent prayer of thanks.

You are growing braver. Yesterday we picnicked at the park for dinner and afterward dug in the sand with a few borrowed shovels. We had the playground all to ourselves; Daddy was walking with Mia to help her fall asleep. A pair of boys came out of nowhere, running toward the park with a yappy, quick little dog who was not on a leash. He made for the sand, coming right at us and brushing you with his curly white coat as he swiped a blue shovel from your hand. I breathed in, readying myself to comfort and calm you. But when I looked down, you were beaming. "Doggie! Come back doggie! Doggie!" you shouted. And then, when he kept on in the opposite direction, "Doggie? Doggie has suh-vel." You grabbed my hand, "Hold my hand?" you asked, and off we went to follow him. We asked the boys the dog's name and for the rest of our evening you played with "Max," yelling at him to come to you or bring you back a toy.

I know you're still mostly apprehensive of new situations, but I believe you're no longer really afraid. You simply prefer the familiar. And, like most almost-two's, you know what you want, and work to get it. A few weeks ago we went to a pool party at the neighbors' house. You love these neighbors - in fact, you constantly talk about their pool - and their little girl, Lauren, is one of your best buddies. But you did not want to go into the pool this particular day, and. although I very clearly told you we were not going to, you threw a fit over it. You didn't want to be outside at all - you would have preferred to play indoors by yourself or, better, with me. You don't throw physical tantrums, you morph into a mini drama queen. Tears run down your plump little cheeks and you string your words out, "Maaaama, Noooooooo Cool Peeeeease. Noooooo! Nooooo cool. Sasa noooooo!" In a few minutes you cooled down and we went off to play on the swingset. A few hours later, I grabbed your hand and told you it was time to go home. You gave me a long, questioning look, then ran - I mean it, ran - to the pool and got in. Wearing clothes.

You like to do things your way, baby girl.

And your way is more verbal than ever. One morning during breakfast, you were zoned, staring out the window. "Sasha, what are you doing, sweetie?" I asked. "Looking out the window," you said. "At the trees. And the sky." Later you told me, "Ducky is helping Sasa find Elmo in the playroom, Mama." Another evening, you watched as I changed my shirt to go out with your Daddy, putting on a black silk tank top with blue embroidered flowers. "Ooh! Mommy looks pretty," you said. I burst into laughter - I had never heard you use that word. Just today you told me, "Mommy's car is fast." You're all the entertainment I need. You repeat nearly anything I say, a good reminder that I have to eliminate the word "sucks" from my vocabulary. New words include reflection and Minnesota, plus a bunch of your friends' names: Mason, Dylan, Emma Claire, MariaSole.

You now know the names of your favorite books: Big Red Barn, I Can Fly, The Flea's Sneeze, It's Too Noisy...but you think they're all spelled alike. You bend over a book, tracing the letters with your baby finger. Although you can recognize your ABC's, you trace B-I-G and say, "S...A...S...A...Bigredbarn!" or trace F-L-E-A and say, "S...A...S...A...Fleasneeze!" You still can't get enough of reading and that makes me incredibly happy. You have some of the stories memorized to the point where you can "read" the book on your own. "Swish! I'm a fish!" you read. "Pitter Patter Pat. I can walk like a cat." With other books, I have to start the sentence for you but you can finish it. I say, "In the..." and you say, "big red barn. great green field."

You are an adorable big sister. Occassionally Amelia starts to cry in the swing or the bouncy seat and you make it to her side before I do. You bend down to her and announce that you're giving her a hug. "And a kiss! And a kiss!" you croon. And then you give her a little bounce or push her swing and say, "It's okay Mia bean." It melts me. "Sssss. Sssss," you say. (You can't say "sh" yet.) And sometimes, it even makes her stop crying.

Horses are your favorite animal right now, probably your favorite subject in general. We sing horsey songs, make up horsey stories, read books featuring horses - you even sleep with two little plastic horses I bought you. Their names are Spirit and Glory, the same as the two horses who live near Nana and Papa's house. You recently acquired a third little plastic horse whose name is Chester, after a horse in one of your story books. When you started demanding "another horsey song," again and again, I got creative and began singing any song that included the word horse. One of those was "Daddy's going to buy you a mockingbird." In the last verse, Daddy buys a horse and cart. You, however, have changed the words to your liking.

Here is your version:

"Hush little baby don't say a word, Daddy's going to buy you a..."
"Hummingbird!"
"And if that hummingbird don't sing, Daddy's going to buy you a..."
"A horsey!"
"Or a diamond ring. And if that diamond ring turns brass, Daddy's going to buy you a..."
"A horsey!"
...
"Or a dog named rover. And if that dog named Rover won't bark, Daddy's going to buy you a..."
"A horsey!"
"Right! And a cart. And if that horse and cart fall down..."
"Still be sweetest girls in the world."

My starfish, you are one of the sweetest girls in the world. Although you're growing so fast, you've started letting me rock you in the rocker again (baby envy? I don't care! I get to rock my sweet girl), nestling into my chest as I sing a song after getting you up from a nap. You've also started asking me to stay a little longer in your room when I put you to bed in the evening. "Pat my face?" you ask. Or, "Hold my hand peese."

Those words feel like sunshine on my face.

I love you as high as the sky and as green as the grass.

Mommy

Dear Hummingbird, Month ONE!

2007-05-02T21:16:00.000-04:00

My Mia Mia, Hummingbird, Flutterbug:

There are downsides and upsides to being the second baby. Upsides first: You're littler than your sister, so you usually get your way. You have more clothes than you could possibly wear. You get to go cool places newborns don't normally go - parks, pools, even an art festival and a farm. And - most significantly - your dad and I know what we're doing (kind of). As a result of our experience (and mostly because of your personality), you cry less, sleep better and spend more time awake with wide eyes and a serene look on your face than your sister did as a newborn. Your daddy has bonded with you more quickly, giving you a bottle every night, bathing you as you coo at him and making up silly songs to sing to you as he rocks you to sleep. Also, you have a sister who adores you, a phenomenon Sasha is lucky enough to begin experiencing only now.

The downside is that you get less of our undivided attention. Another drawback is that we compare almost everything you do to what your sister did at your age. I'm trying to stop this but, since your tiny personality is just beginning to emerge, the easiest way to see you is often in relief - next to another little being. When your sister was born, I had no clue that a clingy newborn likely meant a clingy toddler. Now I like to try to decipher what your sweet habits mean.

If I had to guess, I'd say you'll be rather easygoing. You are an easy baby. (Fate, please do not smite me for typing that.) You seem to fuss only when you're hungry, sleepy or gassy. You have no "fussy period," in which your daddy or I must walk you around the house crying for several hours, wishing we knew what to do. Maybe you're a little gassy in the evenings, but it isn't a big deal. The shower calms you. So does a lot of shushing and rocking and wrapping. You especially like it when your dad does bicep curls with you. For the most part, you eat every two or three hours. You're just as comfortable in your own bed as sleeping in my arms - both of which I enjoy immensely for different reasons.

You are exceptionally alert and often awake. Your deep blue eyes open wide as you take in everything around you, swiveling your head to follow your sister or daddy's voice. You can follow my hands with your eyes when I do the itsy bitsy spider inches from your face and you're great at tracking Sasha or I as we walk across the room. You did roll over twice this week - is that a fluke or will you be my physical child?

You're healthy, too. The nurse at the pediatrician's office actually weighed you twice because she didn't believe the scale: at two weeks, you weighed 10 lbs. The doctor laughed and deemed you an exceptional eater. "That must be a record," he said. (He said that with Sasha, too, so I think it may be an exaggeration, although you did gain quicker than Sasha did.) The last time I weighed you - yesterday - you were 11 lbs. 5 oz.

We have already developed a kind of routine during the day. You wake up to eat, then play or watch me and Sasha for a while before drifting back to sleep. Usually, I put you down to nap in your crib, something I didn't do with your sister. But I think you like it - you seem to sleep best there during the day - and when you cry I scoop you up and figure out a way to hold you while refereeing a toddler. Although most of your activities revolve around your sister's schedule, you're definitely getting stimulation. You read dozens of books with us and admire many puzzle pieces and toy animals. Your sister contantly shows you stuff - "Look Mia, a fork! Look Mia, a marker! Watch, Mia, swimming!" If you learn your ABC's, colors, animals sounds, etc., early, I'll know why.

Amelia bean, you and I are at the beginning of a lifelong love affair. I love to sing to you and rock you, stroking your silky soft black hair. You have the sweetest breath - I love to put my nose against yours and smell your new skin, catching the scent of your fresh breath every time you breathe out. Nursing you is so peaceful - you're so sweet as you clutch my shirt while drinking and making tiny mouse squeaks and grunts. The hours we spend snuggled together in the middle of the night are so precious to me. I drift in and out of sleep with your tiny body held snug against my side, and I love that it's just us, dreaming side by side.

I know our time together will often be interrupted. And I'm sure I will forget your name sometimes - calling you Sasha and Sasha, Amelia - but I want you to know that I love you just for you. I am thrilled to be your Mama and I fall deeper in love with you every day. You make my world better, and the whole world better, too. My tiny bundle of potential, I feel so lucky to have the opportunity to guide you through the beginning of your beautiful life.

Love you forever,
Mama

Dear Kangaroo, Month 21

2007-05-01T20:09:00.000-04:00

My Sweet Sasha,

A few days ago you were 21 months old. But a much bigger milestone came four weeks ago, when you became a big sister. You have blossomed into that role with great gusto, including your sister in every part of your day and seamlessly integrating her into your reality. You watch out for her, making sure she's fed and warm, and checking on her if we haven't heard a peep from the crib in a while.

You adore her, too, kissing her feet and elbows and head, murmuring to yourself, "Not the face, not the face." Occassionally you love a bit hard on her (read: lean on her while she's the in the swing) and I say, "Not so hard, Sasha." You step back defensively and use a loud, huffy voice to say, "Hug!"

When we are away from home on a Mommy-Sasha outing, you remind me that we'll soon be headed back to "See Daddy, see Mia." You help me get diapers and wipes and pick things up from the floor when I've got Mia in the sling. You are patient when I'm pumping or feeding and you seem to somehow understand when I'm on the verge of a breakdown, happily playing on your own in the playroom for a while.

I can't tell you how proud I am to watch you in this new role. Certainly you do throw occassional fits over relinquishing your position at the center of the family's universe, but more often than not you are thrilled to share. I always knew you had a big heart and it is wonderful to see you show it.

The other big thing going on with you is swim lessons. You are doing survival swim every day at the neighborhood pool. For a while there it seemed you might never kick your legs, but for the past two days you have pretty much done it. I'm not saying you're a regular fish, but I do believe now that you'll eventually swim - probably this summer - and enjoy it.

Swim lessons are another venue in which you're learning that you don't always get what you want. Most of your lessons are quite tearful. All the same, you come home with a great attitude, talking about what you've accomplished. And you love to make your dolls "kick, kick, kick," "roll, take a breath," and, "get the wall." Of course I practically have to drag you to the pool the next day, but you always emerge from lessons with a smile.

When I was pregnant, I mourned at the thought that I would not have the time to love you the same way I used to. Well, it's true: I don't love you the same way. But I love you even more, and in ways I never knew were possible. Watching you tackle a challenge is inspiring and beautiful. You are teaching me even as I try to teach you.

No matter what - you'll always be my baby.

Love you,
Mama

What It's Like

2007-04-20T13:52:00.000-04:00

Typical:
Mia is in her crib sleeping as I hoist Sasha into the booster seat for a warm breakfast. I am fully dressed and wearing make-up, feeling accomplished. Mia cries out and Sasha tells me that she's crying. "Should I go get her?" I ask. "Go get Mia!" Sasha says. I deposit Mia in the bouncy seat and pour milk into my cereal. "Mia's here!" The baby sits, watchful, and Sasha narrates her breakfast: "Show Mia use poon." "Show Mia eat ceral." "All done, Mia! All done!" After Sasha and I have finished eating, I scoop Mia up and sit on the couch to feed her while Sasha busies herself in the playroom with the Little People Barn. Mia eats her fill, nuzzling sweetly and watching me with those grey-blue eyes, then comes to sit in the playroom a while before dozing off to sleep again.

Just as Typical:
Mia is screaming in my arms and rooting like crazy despite having just eaten when Sasha approaches me to request lunch. "Cottage cheese!" she bellows. "Cottage cheese now!" (She has eaten vast amounts of cottage cheese for the past three meals and I have vowed to give her no more dairy until dinner.) "Not right now," I say loudly, above the screams, jiggling Mia. "Let's have a banana and a muffin." "Cottage cheese!" "Muffin." "Cottage cheeeeeese!" "Banana." I deposit Mia in the swing, still crying lustily and lift Sasha onto my hip for a screeching trip to the kitchen table where there sits an already-prepared plate of food. Sasha surveys the muffin and banana and starts to whine. "Want yogurt!" she screeches over ang over, getting louder to get her point across over Mia's din. I have to get Mia. Now. Her face is tomato-colored. There is a real tear threatening to drop from her left eye. "How do you ask for yogurt?" I say in the calmest voice I can muster. "Yogurt please Mama." I retrieve yogurt (defeat!) and then Mia. I jiggle, shush and croon to no avail. I ignore Sasha as she slings yogurt at the kitchen wall. Although I have vowed (doing a lot of vowing these days) not to feed Mia within two hours of a previous feeding, I plunk down into the kitchen chair, exhausted, and whip out my boob. Defeat again. But quiet.

At best, mothering two under two is like cheating on your husband. With another husband. Or something like that. (I'm blaming the bad analogy, as well as any spelling, grammar or accuracy mistakes, on lack of sleep.) You're bursting with love, but your attention - the way you show your love - is entirely divided, leaving both kids with less than your best. You have only so much time with the former singular love of your life, who now seems quite old and large. And you have, it seems, even less time with your new love - you're certainly missing out on the endless hours of snuggling and staring associated with the newborn phase. You can't pick up the one without putting down the other, and it seems everyone is suffering. Also, you can't figure out how to get into the car with both of them and therefore you see a slow madness descending on the house in the near future.

At worst, this kind of mothering is a zoo. Losing patience with one seems the only way to care for the other. Guilt soup. This morning you yelled at your toddler to "go away" and allowed your newborn to cry for ten straight minutes without so much as a softly-spoken word. You're not sure if it's worth it to even be around. The kids might be better off on their own.

At the same time, I reluctantly admit, it is worth it. I'm even enjoying myself despite the pitfalls. I know I am giving these girls something special in their sisterhood. Sasha includes Mia in everything. Each of her baby dolls is now named Mia, and she loves to wrap, feed, kiss and hug both them and her real little sister. Most of the time, she is patient when I'm feeding the baby, often coming over to read to the two of us or show us something from her playroom that she has discovered anew. She never forgets to say good-night to Mia and every morning exclaims, "Mia's here!" as if it's a special treat. Sasha tells Mia that she loves her and Mia - when awake - turns toward her sister's voice. It melts me to see my beautiful girls together.

Now all I have to do is memorize that paragraph and read it aloud whenever I have to stash Mia in the swing or refuse a sweet request by Sasha to do any activity that requires more than one hand.

Amelia's Birth Story

2007-04-09T12:50:00.000-04:00

Here, in letter form and with photos, is the abbreviated story of Amelia's birth. Believe me, it is abbreviated despite its length.

My Mia,

A week ago, you arrived with the sun. As I began to push, we shut off the glaring overhead lights and your dad pulled open the blinds, letting in the luminous morning.

But the story of your arrival begins four days earlier, when I woke up too early Friday morning feeling waves of nausea. A trip to the doctor revealed the waves to be contractions coming every four minutes. At nearly 39 weeks pregnant, it seemed we were ready to check into the hospital. Instead we went home to eat and shower and returned to the hospital in the evening for a check. My cervix hadn't progressed from 3 cm, so we retreated to our own bed for the night.

Contractions started up again on Saturday, but I socialized through them, hosting a baby shower and shopping at the bead store for supplies to make a bracelet with your name on it. We returned to the hospital in the evening when my contractions became more frequent. Despite contractions 3 minutes apart, nothing had changed.

Although we stayed up late watching the Gators win their NCAA semi-final game, rest didn’t come easily. The contractions continued through the night and didn’t let up until morning. I got three hours of sleep between 5 and 8 a.m. and spent the day relaxing through contractions that seemed to be getting harder. I did some acupressure on my ankles to see if I could speed things up. It seemed to work – every time I pressed, I had a difficult contraction.

In the evening, Daddy and I decided to leave Sasha with Nana and Papa and go somewhere to take our minds off the slow pace of labor. We stopped at Chili’s for dinner, timing increasingly-difficult contractions through dinner. People in the restaurant gave me weird looks as I gripped the table and closed my eyes with each contraction. I had a feeling this was real labor, but I didn’t want to jinx it by saying that out loud.

Our notepad showed contractions every four to six minutes but we decided to see if walking around would slow them down. We went to Target and bought you a hat and booties that you later wore in the hospital. I couldn’t walk during many of the contractions, and they kept pace. While your dad paid the cashier, I called the on-call doctor. She left it up to me whether to come in, and my gut said to go.

When we arrived at the hospital, I was 4 and a half or 5 centimeters dilated, and they checked us into our own room around 9 p.m. I was hoping I would make it past Midnight because I didn’t want you to be born on April Fools Day.

With two monitors strapped to my huge belly and your heartbeat softly sounding in the background, I settled into the hospital room. Everything was familiar but different – the room was identical to our room two years ago, with the bassinet set up and ready for you to my left and the rocking chair and couch to my right. But this time my mood was more excited than scared and we weren’t too nervous to joke around, snack or take a walk.

The entire time, I felt it was bizarre to be having another baby, when I already had one at home. Although I already knew you as your own person – you were much livelier in the womb than Sasha was – I couldn’t wait to meet you to convince myself that time had not merely rewound 20 months, that you were not your sister.

Laura, the nurse, administered antibiotics. I immediately felt better knowing you would be safe traveling through the birth canal despite my Strep B.

One of my girl friends arrived with tall cups of Starbucks coffee for your dad and herself. My contractions were difficult to talk through now, but she kept me distracted. We made jewelry out of the beads we’d bought on Saturday – a double stranded bracelet of blue pearls that said your name and your sister’s.

I watched the contraction monitor, noticing that my pattern was totally different than it was two years ago. With Sasha, the contractions were even little one- or two-minute hills, peaking around 90 points, with breaks in between them. With you, they were erratic and off the charts – the peaks lasted between one and three minutes before coming back down onto the screen. The surges never bottomed out, always staying at 30 points or above.

Then something changed – one of the contractions knocked my breath out, and I couldn’t move. Daddy took up his post as my go-to person, massaging my legs and back and stroking my forehead through contractions. The pain was excruciating – nothing like my last labor. I couldn’t relax through them. I tried relaxing my jaw and neck but I could feel my bottom tense up. Then I concentrated on my bottom but my shoulders sprang up to my ears. Daddy tried jiggling my legs and reminding me to let go, but it wasn’t working. I could tell I was working against the contractions despite all my efforts to work with them. A few minutes later, we started talking about an epidural.

I asked Laura to check my cervix and then we could decide. It was about 3 a.m. and I was 5 and half cm dilated. My girl friend reminded me of some advice I’d given her as she tried to decide whether to have a C-section or try VBAC with her next baby: Just like it’s the marriage, not the wedding that counts, it’s the baby, not the delivery that matters. At 3 a.m., I got the epidural.

With the epidural in place, I began to progress more quickly. By 6:45, I started to feel the contractions hard again. I was 10 cm dilated and ready to push.

Just then, your heart rate slowed. I changed position as Laura worked quickly to break down the bed. Your head was being squeezed, she said, and I might need some oxygen to help you out. But you reacted to the position change and your heart resumed its normal speedy thump.

After a few “test pushes,” I could feel your head moving inside me. I felt nauseous from the pain, which radiated in a band around my lower belly. Each contraction left me winded, but this time I felt better knowing they were working. Your head crowned and Laura called for the doctor. But she was sewing up another lady who had just delivered. And there was another woman waiting to be delivered before me.

I was so mad. I was ready for you to come out, and not pushing was extremely painful. I felt like I could deliver you without any help in just one more push – you and I were both ready.

“Are you ready to catch this baby?” I asked Daddy. He laughed, but I was completely serious.

At 7:15 a.m., the doctor walked in and snapped on her gloves. She and Daddy coached me along the last few contractions.

“Open your eyes!” she said.

“Why?” I asked.

“Just open them!”

I looked down and saw your head of dark hair, your wide-open eyes, your open mouth that didn’t make a sound. I reached down for you and said: “Give her to me!”

But you weren’t out yet. I had to give another push to deliver your hips. Then your Daddy cut your umbilical cord with a big pair of scissors and they heaved you onto my chest. You were a beautiful, tiny thing, trying to cry. You let out a little lamb whine and then took a few more seconds before letting out another squeal.

Time stood still while you were cleaned up, but they finally replaced you in my arms wrapped in a blanket with turquoise and pink stripes. I put you to my right breast and maneuvered your mouth to my nipple. It took a minute or so but you latched on strongly and had your first meal as the sun rose. Our regular OB/GYN, visited around 8 a.m. – just 35 minutes late to help you come out.

We moved to the recovery room by Noon and Nana brought Sasha up to meet you. She immediately loved you and knew who you were. “My baby Mia,” she said in her lilting voice. She wanted to touch and hold you right away.

I couldn’t believe how big she looked next to you. Days ago, she was my baby. Now she seemed like such an adult – able to say what she wanted and demand the things she needed. I buried my head in your neck and savored your tiny size. I know it won’t be long before you, too, seem so big.

The day you were born, I was scared that it wouldn’t be easy to integrate you into our lives. I couldn’t picture how day-to-day activities would work, and I couldn’t imagine having enough emotional space to love both you and Sasha simultaneously. But some time on Tuesday afternoon, when you and I were alone and nursing, I caught myself thinking of you differently - not just as a baby, but as my baby, my Mia. Since then, I have felt at peace about our new life together.

I can’t think of a better place than snuggled in an easy chair with my two girls – you nursing, Sasha flipping the pages of a book. But I also cherish our time alone together and with Daddy at night and during naps. I stare at your face and try to memorize the feeling of your small weight in my arms. I listen to your kitty purrs and squeaks and hold you tight against my chest. It feels natural to care for you and so easy to love you. I am so proud of our little family, with its two beautiful baby girls. I can’t wait to know who you are, what you like, what your first words will be – but I want to pause you at one week old forever.

My hummingbird, my little bundle, my peapod, my baby, my Mia. You are so precious to me. I will love you forever.

Mama

Amelia Has Arrived

2007-04-04T16:07:00.000-04:00

Amelia Miriam made her debut Monday at 7:25 a.m. She weighed 7 lbs. 14 oz. and measured 20 inches tall. She is perfect!

Her big sister is very happy to have her home.

Many more photos and birth story to come.

Dear Kangaroo, Month 20

2007-03-27T09:00:00.000-04:00

Acrobat,

That's your new nickname this month. Suddenly, you climb everything - you can manage a ladder and go down a slide by yourself on your belly or your tushy. You love to balance yourself over a gap between the rocking chair and ottoman in your room and glide back and forth - that habit is what started the Acrobat nickname.

Although perhaps I should call you Alphabet instead. You are obsessed with your ABC's. You adore your alphabet puzzle and threw a rare tantrum over a sheet of alphabet stickers I had to take away.

With numbers, you still live in a world of one's and two's. You do have a puzzle in which you can identify all the numbers, but when asked to count you repeat: 1, 2, 1, 2. And if I ask you how many of something you have, you always say either, "One," "Two," or "Too many."

Many of your words have become more understandable: Ducka is now Sticker. The longstanding Daydee is now Baby. Vavay, which you used for butterfly and flower, are now Flyfly and Lower. You say Caterpater (caterpiller) and Bikini and declare not just the end of books but also "the beginning." You say, "Come on, Mama," when I'm not moving fast enough and you tell yourself, "Be careful, Sasha," when you're on the edge of falling.

And your name! You are no longer Yaya but Sasha! When you first said your name, it brought tears to your dad and my eyes.

Later in the week, you were mumbling to yourself over some letters stitched onto the sole of your Elmo doll's foot and you said, "S-A-S-A Sasha." I asked you to repeat it and you did - and you haven't stopped since. You can pick out all the letters in the alphabet and you recognize your name when you see it written. Pretty cool, little girl, you're 20 months old and spelling! You're a genius! (When you're three or four, we'll expect an H in there.)

Suddenly, you speak English, constantly narrating your life and mine.

This morning:
"Good morning, sleepy toes."
"Mama. Still night night, Mama. Duck. Hoo hoo owl. Daisy Duck. Daddy bear. Sleeping."
"Do you want Mama to come in bed?"
"Yeah. Night night."
I climb in bed.
"Out! Out Mama. Out Sasha. Bring duck. Bring Hoo Hoo. Read book."
"How do you ask?"
"Peese."
"Use all of your words."
"Read book peese Mama."
We snuggle in your blue rocking chair and open a book we've not read in months: Polar Bear, Polar Bear, What Do You See? We read it twice, then head to the kitchen because duck wants to eat.
"What would you like for breakfast, sweet girl?"
"Carel." (Cereal.)
"Okay, Mama will cook it."
"Cook Mama. Milk? Duck milk? Sasha milk? Spoon? Mama get spoon Sasha?"
After breakfast - a constant refrain of "Mama's turn, Sasha's turn," as we trade off scooping your cream of wheat - we head to the bathroom to wash your hands and face and to brush your teeth. Then we strip you of your footie pajamas.
"Naked! Read book naked! No new diaper."
"Well how about we read a book while we change your diaper?"
"No."
"Two minutes and I'm changing your diaper."
"No."
"Two minutes. Say, 'Ok, Mama.'"
"Two minutes," you agree.
Laying down to change, you grab Panda Bear.
"Panda Bear, Panda Bear, See? Seeee?" you say.
Flipping through the book, you say, "Sea lynon. Bald eagle. Panda bear. Whooping crane," clear as day.

Again, tears come to my eyes. I love watching you learn. You are a little knowledge vacuum. I try to expand on everything you love, in this case whisking you to the computer and showing you pictures of real green sea turles and whooping cranes and such. Daddy takes it a step further, flapping his wings and making whooping noises that make you giggle. The two of you whoop together.
This is a photo of your first haircut. You begged for it to be your turn, you hated it while it happened, but then you walked around bragging about how great you looked for days afterward. Too cute.

Have I mentioned - I think I have - that car rides and eating out with you have become more pleasure than pain. We love to sing along together to all kinds of songs. You know the names of many of them and insist on hearing your favorites over and over and skipping the ones you don't like. You can repeat after the singer in fun songs like "Do, Ray, Me," and you do the motions to clapping songs and Itsy-Bitsy-Spider.

Our routines are lots of fun these days. We no longer take dance class but we go to a story time class at the library once a week. Since books are like crack to you, it's pretty fun. You run from shelf to shelf discovering books with all different kinds of pictures and plopping them down on the couch next to me for reading. At class time, you listen intently to the books, always commenting if the book is something you know.

After the library we often meet Daddy for lunch. "Meet Daddy lunch now?" you ask, in your lilting question voice that rises an octive at the end of the sentence. "Yes. We'll meet Daddy now." You love to go to Daddy's office and send emails. You are amazed with the ABC's on the keyboard and the way they show up on the screen when you push them.

Your memory of events like that is pretty amazing. You can talk about last weekend's outing to the spring garden festival (you call it the "flower party") with much detail, explaining that we saw butterflies and made paintings, and ticking off the colors of the flowers.

You can run now, although your feet still turn in at times (if you're wanting to be an acrobat, I think that will be a plus) to the point where you seem to have no ankle socket. The other day we were chasing Nana through JCPenney and you were running along side me, giggling. You looked up at some ladies trying on shoes and yelled, "Sasha running! Mama waddling!" as we passed by. They cracked up, and I could not stop laughing.

On top of all of these physical and verbal goings on, you have suddenly become adept at opinionated refusal. Usually an extremely cooperative girl, you are once again going through a mommy cling-wrap phase. This means instead of listening to Daddy, you insist on listening only if I will come with you. When I refused to come to the bath with you once last week (that is your time with Daddy and always has been), you got so upset that you bit Daddy on the shoulder. It's the first time you've ever expressed your emotions physically like that and I think it scared all of us - you most of all. Once you recovered enough to breathe, you immediately apologized and kissed Daddy. You repeated several times that you had hurt him with your teeth and agreed never to do it again. My fingers are crossed that this kind of agression will not come out when the baby is here.

Beth over at So The Fish Said explained to her daughter Mia that she doesn't know what to write any more because all of Mia's little accomplishments no longer make her who she is but rather fit in to make her more herself. That's exactly how I feel. And I'm happy that we're at this point, because we're on the verge of a huge challenge.

Your little sister will arrive within the week, I'm sure of it, and you and I will once again tumble into an unfamiliar rabbit hole. This time, though, we both know ourselves and each other. And I think that will be enough to get us through. You are going to be a wonderful big sister. You have a huge heart and you love to care for others. I can't wait to watch you take on that new role.

With that, I'll sign off, even though I feel like I could write forever. I kind of feel like I should write forever since I have no clue whether another letter is coming next month. Suffice it to say, we're off on another adventure, and there's no little girl I'd rather be exploring life with than you.

Love you forever,
Mama

Ready for You

2007-03-18T14:24:00.000-04:00

Your room is your own. You have a beautiful name. We finally bought a monitor and my hospital bag is half-packed. My belly hurts, I walk like a duck and Dr. M says I'm measuring 39 weeks. I still love being pregnant, but I'm pretty much ready for you to come out now.

Predictions

2007-03-08T18:28:00.000-05:00

Although C. and I can't imagine what this little girl is going to look like, the doctor and S. have some predictions.

At 35.5 weeks yesterday, I had an ultrasound. The doc said baby girl has hair (just like S.) and will be quite large. She's measuring about 7 lbs. right now. WOAH. S. was only 7 lbs. 4 oz. when she arrived. Ouch! And the kid has big feet. She's head down, face back, ready as can be.

(On a side note, I was happy to hear that my doc, who is very pro-epidural, totally supports my decision to try for natural. And another thing, she does no internal exams until 39 weeks. Yeesh! I guess I'll have to take the advice I always give S. and "use this time to practice my patience.")

S. also put in her two cents about the baby. She tells me the baby will look like Daddy. She will have brown eyes, straight yellow hair, be very little, short, pretty, and naked (for most of these comments, I asked S. a question - for the naked one, she just said, "Pretty. Naked, too." - so cute). She also tells me that the baby will be born in April, and come late. On that one I asked a follow-up question: Will she be very late or not too late. Thank God, S. said "not too late."

Dear Kangaroo, Month 19

2007-03-02T10:41:00.000-05:00

Butterfly,

We got the pink double stroller in the mail yesterday.

We had to get the pink one because when I mentioned the color choices aloud to your dad, you started screeching loudly, "PINK! PINK! PINK!" When we opened the box, you immediately requested that we go for a ride, please ("Ride, peeda Mama"). As we strolled the neighborhood streets, I asked who would sit next to you and you knew right away it was your sister. You instructed me to stop and come to the front of the stroller, and you kissed my belly.

As much as I realize there will be two baby girls in my life in a few weeks, I also know that you're much more than a baby. I mention the above incident with the stroller because it demonstrates that you are a person: you know what's going on, you know what you want, you know how to ask for it and you're very happy when you get it.

You and me can pretty much talk about anything, from how you're feeling (happy, sad or mad) to exotic foods (guacamole, which you call "guacamee," ranch dip to put on your chicken, which you call "kikih dip"). Every day, you gain a new interest, and at least a handful of new words. Yesterday, these interests were outerspace ("outerpace") and whales ("whales"). You love your ABC's and your numbers, and you can now repeat after me the numbers 1-10, subsituting K's for S's (as in, kix, kevin, eight). You've learned the titles of many of your books, and you request now them by name. Other words have started to shift from your baby version to the real thing: Instead of saying "agoo," you now say "again." And you've learned some expressions that crack me up, like, "too cool," "the cat's meow," "pretty nice," and "oh, man!"

I think a lot about your babyhood these days, sometimes to psyche myself up for the birth of your sister and other times to hold on to those days in some abstract way. I adored you as a baby, your tiny body nestled into mine every night, your little cry that sounded like a lamb, the way you never let me put you down (What? No! I meant I hated that).

But I adore you as a little girl. Your big personality seems to blossom more each day as you grow more adventurous, taking more risks and trying more things on your own. You go down slides without holding my hand, even venturing toward the big kid play equiptment that used to scare you. On a visit ot a horse farm, you petted a dog without clinging to my leg. Sometimes, you talk to strangers about your day. At library reading time, you answer questions the teacher asks about the books. And when the books are done, you loudly exclaim, "Theeee end!" You still love to ask, "Help, peeda Mama," and - as long as you ask nicely - I will always help you.

My only regret about having you and your sister so close together is that I've lived the past few years in a hormone-induced stupor that I'm not sure I'll remember. I'm barely surfacing just now - and what glorious weather there is up here - and we're all about to plunge right back in.

Nearly every month I am surprised by how much you've grown. But this month I can hardly blink without something new happening. You are constantly cracking me up with your comments, silly faces and requests to do things over and over. The wonderful part is that you even think I'm funny sometimes.

One day early this month, I looked up from a sink full of dishes and found you sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper. You had never climbed onto a kitchen chair by yourself before.

Another time, we were having a rough morning at an open gym play time that we usually both love. You wanted to put yourself in mortal danger, playing under a rope swing comandeered by big kids, and I would let you. Frustrated, you turned to me and said, "Mama, move. Go way." Laughing, I took you into another room and then I went away.

When I'm working in the bedroom, you often interrupt by knocking on the door, loudly exclaiming, "Knock, knock, knock. Mama work. Knock, knock, knock." After three or four knocks, when I'm either frustrated or can't resist your sweet little voice, I come to the door, calling "Who is it?" You call back with your whole name - "Yaya Bian Emik."

You know who you are more and more each day, and you're one cool little girl.

I love you more every day.

XOXO,
Mama

Substitute for months of writing...

2007-02-17T13:55:00.000-05:00

I stood over the rack of 0-3 month clothes at Macy's, fingering tiny pink garments of cotton and velour, trying to rewind my brain. My mom and I were shopping for a coming home outfit for the new baby, the one thing I've done in the past few months to get ready for the acrobatic munchkin in my belly.

"Think, Lisa, think. What's important? What do I wish I would have done differently with S's outfit?" Finally, a thought: Not a onesie - those didn't fit S. for a few weeks. Not a dress, that's fussy. Not pants - why not pants again? Oh - the umbilical cord. Uh...

It doesn't seem like I've made a lot of progress in newborn parenting skills since S. was born.

C. and I snuggled in bed the other night trying to conjure images of the period we call "the black hole." But that's why it gets its name - it swallows you, and your memory, so that you're barely living it, let alone aware enough to remember it. We recall a lot of poop, a lot of pacing and rocking, and not a lot of sleep. But we forget the details. I mentioned that we ought to get out the Pack N' Play and put in the bassinet, so the baby could sleep in our room. C. couldn't recall S. ever sleeping in there. (She slept there for nearly five months.)

Until I started having Braxton-Hicks contractions a few weeks ago, I hadn't given much thought to what this baby needs.

I trust myself, my husband, and my home to be ready for this baby, and to survive even if we aren't. I tell myself that the solution with S. was always easier than I thought it would be.

Seven weeks or so from now, our lives are going to transform again in ways we can't guess. Instead of my usual reaction -- dashing around the house preparing things we may never need, finding projects to do that the baby simply must have, such as hand-painted building blocks, and cleaning things over and over again -- I am not allowing my anxiety level to rise. I'm taking naps with my little girl, going on dates with my husband and cramming in all the ego-boosting work (the kind I get paid for) I can manage.

C. and I are excellent at transitions: In three and a half years of marriage, we've moved five or six times, lived in dumps and castles (alright, it's just a nice house - but it has THREE bathrooms), started new jobs, lost good jobs, survived two pregnancies and 18 months of parenting. I trust that.

So, for maybe the first time in my life, I'm just enjoying it - not yearning for the future or focusing too deeply on the past.

Because S. is not quite as adept at change, I know that holding her hand through an upheaval like this will be a challenge, especially with a tiny bundle latched to my breast. I can't imagine how it will work, how I will distract her without ignoring her, how much more this baby will be forced to cry. I don't know the ways in which I will fail each of my girls, the successes I won't be aware of until years down the road or how much my heart will stretch and grow. And I am not trying to guess.

At the beginning of this pregnancy, amid the 24-hour nausea and the fear of having two young ones, I thought this would be our last baby. Now I can't imagine that. I love this pregnancy. Instead of the anxious first-time mom I was with S., calling the doctor with every ache or pain, I have phoned my doctor once, maybe twice, and requested more time between visits.

This pregnancy has brought the mythic glow I expected to have the first time around. I don't pay as much attention to my belly as I did with S. - there are no solo singalongs or long, deep conversations (although she certainly hears plenty of books, music, and useful advice), and I don't spend hours pouring over parenting books. But I feel wonderful.

This baby and I haven't bonded the same way, but we've certainly bonded as much. Watching an 18-month-old tickle and kiss her baby sister is different, but certainly as sweet, as watching my husband's hand jump as our first baby kicks my belly.

Clothes may be strewn about the baby's room and the scrapbook may not be started, but that's okay. I am busy walking S. to the park, plopping her in the swing and pushing, "more, more high," while one hand flutters to my bulging belly as the baby reacts to S's laughter. I am busy watching C. get S. ready for bed, smoothing lotion over her chubby knees and gently brushing her hair. He says, "I want to do this for all of our girls - it's the sweetest thing."

This baby will come into the world under the care of a different Mama than S. did. Certainly that Mama will be more worn out. But I'm hoping this baby will also get a Mama who has learned to let things roll a little more, to experience her children to the fullest and trust that her decisions will work out.

At Macy's, I bought the pants and sweater set - they were the cutest, and I'm sure I can roll them down.

Dear Kangaroo, Month 18

2007-01-10T09:29:00.000-05:00

My little girl,

Today I picked you up from your grandparent's house around Noon. You were bundled in your bright pink coat on the coldest day of your short life, holding Papa's hand and waiting for me in the street. When you spotted me, driving in "Yaya Mama blue car," your face lit up, pink cheeks blushing to red. The simple joy you feel just seeing me is the same feeling I get whenever I see you. Your chubby face is as familiar as my own, but new every time I look.

For the next two months, give or take, we are one another's girls. We have our routines and our own way of speaking - and not speaking - to each other. It's just you and me. And, although I can't wait to meet your baby sister (and neither can you - you like to tell my tummy, "Out baby!"), I can think of no better way to spend my days until she arrives than enjoying this incredible phase of life with my first little princess.

You stick out your bottom lip and I kiss it, eliciting a smile and exclamation: "Happy face!"

You giggle uncontrollably and wave your arms all around when I do "Itsy Bitsy Spider."

You love to be tickled, but are quick to stop the action with a stern, "No duckle!" and renew it with "Kay, duckle."

We play hide and seek. When you hide, you call out your own name, just to throw me off.

I read your favorite book over and over again until I warn, "Just one more time," and you hold your one finger right in front of your eyes to signal that you understand I mean it. Right now, that means "Is Your Mama A Llama?" is getting some serious use. You can identify Dave the bat and Freddie the swan by name, and when I get to the page with a kangaroo and its baby, I always ask if you are my Kangaroo. "Yes!" you say. "And if I were a real kangaroo and I had a pouch, would you live in there?" "Yeah."

I mean, really, how long can such a sweet thing last?

The llama thing got started at the Tampa zoo, where Daddy and I took you as a treat one weekend. You adored the monkeys (which you now call by both name and noise "Ah ah ah.") and giraffes ("rafes") and you loved playing in the water jets. But your favorite animal had to be the llama. A zookeeper led a baby llama around the zoo and he stopped to give you a nuzzle in your stroller. Although you seemed hesitant to pet him, you couldn't stop talking about him after we left. Unfortunately they had no llama stuffed animal in the zoo's gift shop. Instead, we got you an owl, who you named "Hoo hoo." He now lives in your bed. But llamas have starred in bedtime stories, songs, and the now nearly-memorized book about the llama searching for his proper mother.

Aside from llamas, you're really into Baby Tad (a frog who sings when you push his buttons) and Elmo. You love to give squeezes to people's backs, and you love to get hugs. I can't even begin to think of all of your new words. You can identify the colors yellow and blue, and often pink and red. You're becoming adept at stringing words together. I love it when you say, "Yaya in the bed," or "Eat the turkey, nummy," instead of just the old, "Bed," and "Eat."

You are growing up so fast.

Last Sunday, you looked up at your dad and said, "Poop." He asked if you wanted to go on the potty and you agreed. Thus began our first foray into the world of potty training. We now have big girl underwear and a potty and stickers. You have no trouble sitting on the potty for hours at a time, as long as there is a supply of books.

But now we've decided to quit. You did a great job, but it was a lot of pressure on both of us - me chasing you around constantly asking if you have to pee, declaring that it's potty time and trying to discern whether that stern look in your eyes meant a poop coming on or just some serious contemplation. Plus there was the incident with the poop and pee on the kitchen floor. You had just sat on the potty for nearly 40 minutes (I couldn't get you up!) and I put you in panties in the kitchen.

A few minutes later you declared, "Poop." "Do you have to poop?" I asked. "No," you said, as pee streamed down your leg. So I took off your panties, went to grab a Pull-Up, and you pooped. Not that there's anything wrong with accidents - it's just that Mama isn't ready for this yet. You're still my baby, and I'm not ready to rush you. You're still using the potty occassionally but we're both happy with diapers.

You are obsessed with going under, over, up, down, in, out, on and off. (You can say all of those words.) That means you're loving our free play at the gymnastics place and adoring your "dance" class at the YMCA. This dance class is super cool - we do the limbo, freeze dance, hokey pokey, throw balls to one another and - your favorite - put on hats with fish on them and swim around the room.

Perhaps the biggest thing that has happened this month was the transition to your big girl bed. You love your bed, despite still resisting bedtime. And you're a great sleeper - usually at least 11 hours at night and two for nap. It takes forever to put you down because you turn into a musical director and try to keep the songs going as long as possible. We sing one song about people who love each other, starting with Mama loves Kangaroo. You quickly demand the next verse include your precious Duckie, so then we move on to Kangaroo loves Duckie. But you have two ducks so we then have to sing the verse with "Duck Two." We often get into all of your cousins, friends and stuffed animals. There has been a time or two when we've moved on to inanimate objects such as the potty, the chair, the car or the table. Anything not to shut those beautiful blue eyes.

I love your big girl bed because I can snuggle in there with you, although it works better if I sneak in once you're asleep. One night I went in to check on you and you woke when I draped a blanket over your back. "Stay, Mama," you mumbled. You are so warm and cozy, I just had to obey. I love the way you nuzzle into my shoulder or belly and sleep - you are so peaceful.

I could go on and on, but I'll stop here. I am so happy to be your Mama.

Love,
Mama

Inventory

2006-12-31T11:32:00.000-05:00

Thanks to TMaris from Social Graces for the idea.

1. What did you do in 2006 that you’d never done before? Oh, my. Watched my daughter learn to walk and talk. Accidentally got pregnant. Weaned my daughter. Went camping on the ocean. Visited North Carolina when the leaves were turning...without my baby. Started a photography business.

2. Did you keep your New Year’s Resolution? Will you make more for next year? I think my New Year's resolutions last year were to survive, to be the best mom and wife I could be, and to try to retain some of the woman I know as my self. For the most part, I kept those. I think next year's resolutions will be the same. With another on the way, maybe I'll just stick to the survival one.

3. Did someone close to you give birth? Yes. I have two new nephews - Harrison and Luke - and many new friends.

4. Did anyone close to you die? No.

5. What countries did you visit? Does California count? Seriously, none but this one. Lots of states, though: Georgia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Minnesota, New York, Arizona and California.

6. What would you like to have in 2007 that you lacked in 2006? Nothing, really, besides a second happy baby girl. Maybe some new camera equiptment, a duvet cover or curtains for my dining room.

7. What date from 2006 will forever remain in your memory? July 28, 2006 - my daughter's first birthday. The same minute she was born, we stared at her asleep in her crib. Then we sat in bed looking through old photo albums and talked about how much we have all grown. Sleepy and happy, we talked about being ready to try for another baby. The next morning, I took a pregnancy test on a whim and it was positive.

8. What is your biggest achievement in 2006? Raising my daughter.

9. What was your biggest failure? Who knows...I'm sure she'll tell me in another decade or so.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury? One bad bout of the stomach flu and a few solid months of morning sickness.

11.What’s the best thing you bought? My glider rocker.

12. Who’s behavior merited celebration? My incredible husband who took over baby duty when I was first pregnant, worked hard AND earned an MBA; my sweet daugther who loved me even though I made her nap and eat vegetables; the friends who convinced me I am capable of raising two children; and my parents - stellar grandparents who decided to move close by.

13. Who’s behavior appalled/depressed you? No one that I know personally.

14. Where did most of your money go? My daughter!

15. What did you get really excited about? A second baby, my husband graduating, my new business, actually getting paid for freelance work, my parents' move, our vacation.

16. What songs will always remind you of 2006? Mama's Got an Elephant on Her Head, Old MacDonald, Good Night My Angel, Five Little Ducks, Dixie Chick's Lullabye.

17. Compared with last year are you:
Happier or sadder? Happier.
Thinner or fatter? Fatter, but let me expound. I did lose all of the baby weight and then some, and then I got pregnant again. My weight gain has been slower than last time but I swear the belly looks bigger.
Richer or poorer? About the same.

18. What do you wish you’d done more of? Letting things roll off my back; feeling confident in my abilities, as a parent and as a writer; forgetting the dishes or the laundry in favor of block-building or coloring.

19. What do you wish you’d done less of? Stressing out about a fussy kid; worrying about a second child.

20. How did you spend Christmas? At home with my family.

21. Did you fall in love in 2006? Over and over again.

22. How many one night stands? Nope!

23. Favorite TV program? College football?

24. Do you hate anyone new? I don't hate anyone.

25. Best book you read? Everything Is Illuminated.

26. Greatest musical discovery? The chick who sings Buzz Buzz Buzz.

27. What did you want and get? A computer desk, cute maternity clothes.

28. What did you want and not get? Jewelry. I always want jewelry. :)

29. Favorite film of the year? I only saw a few. Maybe Superman?

Dear Kangaroo, Month 17

2006-12-28T15:07:00.000-05:00

Dear Bugaboo,

What a busy month - I don't know where to begin. I'm including photos from this month and last because I couldn't add photos last time and you were darn cute, even then.

The highlight of your month was Hanukkah. You threw a party for a dozen toddlers in which M&M's and frosting were eaten by the handful and everyone exchanged gifts of old toys they no longer liked.

Each of eight nights you eagerly waited for the menorah and dreidels, rushing us through dinner with exclaimations of "Ha-kuh! Ha-kuh!" It's a word that has - not surprisingly - become one of your favorites. In fact, you like the word so much that when our friends lit the candles on their table for Christmas dinner, you declared "Ha-kuh!"

Now you have more toys than Toys R' Us. Our house has been overtaken by bright colors. Aside from your beloved step-on piano, you have a train set, a thousand new books, a mini-stove on which you love to cook Cheerios and blueberries, several new baby dolls including one Cabbage Patch big sister and a matching newborn, a doll swing, Pack N' Play and high chair and dozens of other things I am forgetting.

Also, you have a twin bed. You love it. Except not for sleeping. Mostly you love to get up and down. I tried napping you in there for the first time today and...not so much. You loved snuggling and reading but when it came time to sleep you requested your crib. I'm not sure what to do. I want to give you a chance to do the "big girl bed" before it gets to close to your sister's birthday but at the same time you are most definitely still my sweet baby girl. I am leaning toward borrowing a second crib and enjoying both of my babies. We'll see...

This month your Nana also got you a potty, which you refuse to sit on. You do, however, love to put duck and your dolls on the potty. You think it's hilarious. You point to the real toilet and say, "Mama's! Daddy's!" "Where is Sasha's?" I ask. You point to the little potty. Then you stuff duck in the hole and giggle. "Duck's!" Yeah, okay. I think we'll be waiting on that transition, too.

I think your dad has successfully gotten you through a bout of fear of the bath. You used to love the bath and then you decided it was the most terrible thing we could possibly do to you, especially right after dinner when you had just smeared yogurt and black beans all over your body. For weeks, you just screamed and screamed until Daddy took you out, murmuring how sorry he was. Now you sit down and play - you wash your doll and your duck and don't bust any ear drums when your hair is rinsed. This is much better for your Daddy's self-esteem.

It has been incredibly heartwarming to watch you with your grandparents this month. You ask for them at all times of the day, especially when my parenting isn't measuring up (like, say, when I'm trying to make you nap). "Nana wouldn't do this to me, mom," you insist. "Can I catch a ride over to her house instead?" You love to play foosball at their place and dance to the sound of their keyboard. Several times when we were hanging out at their house and had to leave, I have resorted to saying, "Okay, bugaboo, Mama's leaving. Do you want to come?"

And the response from my cling-wrap baby? "Bye-bye, Mama. Bye-bye!"

It's wonderful. I'm not joking! I am so proud of you for gaining independence. Although you're still more velcro than many toddlers your age, if you're in a good mood you are easily able to play alone for a little while, walk out of a room I'm in to go play somewhere else or hang out for five minutes on your own without demanding to be picked up. Like now: I'm typing and you're not on my lap. Wow!

Your Daddy gets up with you every morning to allow me and your baby sister to sleep until seven. Seven! I am better rested right now than I have been in years. Some mornings I hear the mingling of your tiny, high pitched voice and his calm, low voice and nearly crawl out of bed just to be nearer to the two of you. But then I don't. Sleep is addictive, and there's no better gift your dad could give our family every day than a well-rested Mama.

You have started learning things I don't mean to teach you. For instance, you know where your neck is, and I know I didn't teach that to you. One day we went over to a friend's house and you headed straight for a toy Elmo screaming "Elmo! Elmo!" I swear you have maybe seen Elmo once or twice, since I don't let you watch TV.

You continue to be a word sponge, and your expanded vocabulary includes words like marker, work, nice, cold, days, heavy, blue, black, yellow, Ariel (your doll that goes in the bath) and - my favorite - Yup. You now say neigh instead of clearing your throat when I ask what a horse says, and you have many new animal sounds like Moo, Meow, Growl and Mah (a goat).

You said your first sentence: I want milk.

You love to draw with crayons and on your DoodlePro. Everything you draw is an "A." Also, for some reason you think drawing straight lines is hilarious. If I draw a line for you, you never fail to giggle.

I can't forget to mention the worst thing about this month: your teeth. There are four new ones, and none is all the way cut. Your veins are thick with Tylenol, little girl, and I'm just praying it will be over soon.

Okay, now you are on my lap, so I'm signing off. I love you more each day, my sweet baby girl.

Big kiss,

Mama

It happened last week

2006-12-02T14:03:00.000-05:00

Stick by someone long enough and they'll change. C. saw me through the myriad changes of motherhood and I watched him turn from a settle-for-a-C athlete to an MBA candidate who stressed about a B. Although his changes can sometimes be maddening, C's personality adjustments have mostly given me reason to love him more.

Last week came the best one yet: As I closed my latest novel and tucked in for the night, my non-bookish husband asked if I would mind if he kept the light on. He wanted to finish his chapter.

I never thought I'd see the day.

Dear Kangaroo, Month 16

2006-11-29T13:35:00.000-05:00

My beautiful girl,

Okay, little girl, this one is going to have to be short. Why? Because you are 16 months old and Mama is exhausted. Sixteen-month-olds are extremely busy. And there will be no pictures. Not because you are not immeasurably more adorable than you were a month ago (the bows have multiplied and we've managed to figure out several hairdos other than your classic tassel, dubbed the pineapple), but because my computer is at Dell and I am using Papa's.

So much has happened this month. We discovered that you will have a baby sister and all of my reservations about losing part of what we have seemed to melt away. You bond with that little spunky fish as quickly and strongly as I do. You love to snuggle my tummy and mumble to the baby. I think you must be giving her some valuable advice for the trip out. Sometimes snuggling your sister is the only way you can calm down for a nap, and you fall asleep with your head on my shoulder and your palm spread open on my belly. You give her loud raspberries we call "sillly kisses" and play peekaboo with her under my shirt. I am so excited to watch two sweet little girls grow up together.

Speaking of sweet, you have finally stopped giving French kisses and discovered the lovely simplicity of a closed-mouth kiss. You give them out endlessly, adding a loud "MWAH" as you do.

I hardly know where to begin this month, S., there is so much new about you. Most things are small but incredible. You turn in circles, for example, without falling down. When you do fall down, you rarely throw a fit and instead get up gracefully and brush your hands on your jeans. Or, if you're not wearing jeans, the nearest pair of denim-clad legs you can find. You also stomp your feet and sway to music.

You can say your ABC's. Well, kind of. You repeat after me. And you say "hat," for H and "sssss," for S, but I am nonetheless extremely impressed. You say, "yes" and "mine" and "purple" and "sky" and "me." You know all of your body parts including your tushy. You pick out your food for lunch from the fridge all on your own. You also count. Every number sounds like "muh," but you are clearly counting. You love to dish yourself out five raisins or five pieces of cheese and count them as you put them in your mouth. And when you're done eating, you love to clean up with a wet rag.

For a few months, we have been singing a fun song called "Animal On Your Head," in the car and at naptime. Just in the past two days, you have started singing along. I nearly cried the first time you did it because it's not like you stuck to old standbye animal sounds like "Ba" or "Hop hop" (that's what a bunny says, in case you weren't familiar) and left out the others. You did the entire song. You did Moo and Meow and Squeak Squeak. You made a dolphin sound and you roared like a lion. You chewed like a camel, S!

This month, Mama and Daddy left you for five days with Nana and Papa. Oh, it was painful. For us. You seemed hardly to notice that we were gone. They had no trouble putting you down to sleep or getting you to eat or ride in the car, less trouble than we do even. And when we came home you said, "Hi, Mama. Hi, Daddy," and then pointed to Nana and said, "Up." You did have the clingies for a few days after we returned, but you were clearly enamored with your grandparents. We are so lucky they will be here with us for much of the year now that they moved nearby. One thing I loved about leaving you was the way I saw you anew when we got back. Your face seemed so mature, your skin so perfect, your hair unbearably cute, your words so clear. For about ten minutes, until my brain returned to normal, you didn't look like a baby at all. I wonder if that's the way strangers see you.

(Also upon our return, we discovered you drinking from a sippy cup without assistance. Now all of our worries about you not drinking enough milk are over.)

We love you more than you'll ever know.

Love forever,

Mama

Thankful

2006-11-20T13:51:00.000-05:00

Happy Thanksgiving, all. I know it's four days away, and we're not celebrating till Friday, but I thought I'd post anyhow, seeing as it has been so long.

Things are happening:

My parents bought a little house the next neighborhood over and we have been fixing it up, with many episodes of stress, for several weeks. It should be live-in-able by Thursday. But it should have been ready last Saturday. So who knows. I am incredibly thankful that I have parents willing to follow me - and my gorgeous kid and husband - all the way across the country.

C graduated this weekend with an MBA. Wow am I a proud wife. You understand what an accomplisment this is if you know C. When we met six years ago he was anything but academic. It took him nearly as long to study for the GMAT as it did to actually earn his degree. I expected to hand hold him through school but wound up doing nothing of the sort. He did it all on his own, and walked across a big stage wearing one of those imposing robes and hoods. His mom cried. I am so thankful for my incredible husband who has managed fatherhood, a kick-butt career and school all at once. And I'm thankful that it's over, so he can have some time to himself now.

And the baby! She is a girl. We found out the day before we left for Asheville on our last "just us" trip for the forseeable future (it was SO worth it). A woman I know in the neighborhood who happens to be an OB had called to invite us to her daughter's birthday party (I know her kid and her nanny better than I know her). She politely inquired about my pregnancy, yadda yadda, did we know the sex yet? Nope, next week. Well, she said, why don't you come to my office RIGHT NOW and I'll just give you an ultrasound. I could not refuse.

I saw the girl parts before she said anything. Little Lively girl was kicking and punching up a storm in there, but my friend zeroed in on her bottom and I saw those three little lines. It will be wonderful having two little girls so close together...until they're teenagers!

I am so thankful for our beautiful, sweet daughters. They are the greatest blessing.

There IS a baby in there

2006-11-01T17:12:00.000-05:00

I waited a few days to be sure it was real. The baby is kicking me. Oh my! Last night, S. had a rough time (I'm blaming the ghosts and ghouls plus a late bedtime) and when C. took over for me after an hour of rocking, cooing, etc., I lay on my side in bed and felt the baby kick. Not just the little butterfly bubbles I'd felt a few days ago - big kicks! The baby must have been body-slamming her five-inch self into my uterine wall. Go, baby, go. Nice to know you're in there, little miracle.

Dear Kangaroo, Month 15

2006-10-30T14:03:00.000-05:00

My Sweet Girl,

A few weeks ago we were eating at the mall food court with three other moms and their little girls. We sat at those kid-sized tables - a dangerous thing if you ask me, not to lock you all into high chairs. You were enamored with the food and the little regular chairs for about five minutes and then - surprise - you were off! I had to chase you. You! My velcro baby! Round and round the food court, smiling and saying hi to strangers, pointing to pictures of cows and tomatos. I didn't call you to me, just hung back and let you have your space. I hardly recognized you.

Most of the time, you're still my tentative koala girl. But every once in a while you venture off. At home, you'll go to your playroom and stack blocks for a few minutes or sit in your chair and open a book without me. Yesterday you turned yourself onto your belly on the slide (a move I've been trying to get you to do for months) and said, "Wheee!" all the way down. Occassionally, you'll let another adult hold you. I see you becoming more comfortable in familiar places. Although transitions are still one of the most difficult things for us to get through, I love watching you overcome your fears.

You had a long cold this month. It was symptomless except for snot (kind of the opposite of your last illness which was just a fever with no snot). But man were there boogers. Running down your face at all times of the day. You even know what they are: BOOOOOGIES! you shouted, when one came sliming toward your mouth. Bonus: This cold seems to have taught you where your nose is. When you used to stick your finger into your cheek or mouth when I asked where your nose was, you can now point to it with precision.

In my Publix baby club newsletter 15-18 month edition, it says a newfound skill of yours will be "building towers of up to four blocks and then knocking them down." Well. You can build towers of up to eight blocks. And I know because the blocks are numbered. The tower extends higher than your HEAD, and still you manage to put that tiny #1 block on top. Yay, you!

You also do this thing where you flip your bottom lip with your index finger and make an "Aboo aboo aboo" noise. You have a few dozen new words. My favorite is when you say, "tickle, tickle, tickle." Sometimes you even tickle yourself! I also love that you have a name: "Yaya." You point us out in pictures: Mama, Daddy, Yaya.

Let this be known as the month you learned to say "No." I'm not talking just occasional use. I'm talking all day long. "No, no, no, Mama," you tell me in answer to nearly every suggestion I make. I am learning not to ask, "Are you ready to go in the car?" but instead to say, "It's time to go in the car. Let's go!"

You also say, "Bye, bye, Daddy," every morning when we see Daddy off. And then you ask for Daddy during the day and, when I tell you he's not here, you say, "Bye, bye, Daddy," again. If you really miss him, you stand by the door and wave. Recently, your babysitter taught you to say "back." So now you often say, "Daddy back!" when you'd rather Daddy be home than at work.

Nana and Papa made an offer on a house in a nearby neighborhood, so they will be living near us for a good chunk of every year. I can't tell you how excited this makes me! I'm thrilled for myself - glorious built-in babysitters - and I'm even more excited for you. You already adore them and now I think you will have a wonderful, consistent relationship with them. I hope their presence wil ease your transition to big sister-hood. I feel so blessed that they're willing to make sacrifices for us.

That's it for now, baby girl. Mama is tired and wants to get in a nap before you wake up from yours.

Love you forever,

Mama

Birth control

2006-10-12T12:52:00.000-04:00

Bad Day:

"It's time for Mama to make breakfast," I say.

"Eeeeeeeeeeeeee!" she screams and gloms onto my leg, wrapping both arms around. When she's upset, S. uses dolphin-speak instead of English.

"Mama can't get your breakfast with you hanging onto my leg," I say, calmly removing her.

"Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" she screams, louder now. "Eeeeeeeeeahhhhhhhhhhhh!"

After offering her several toys, I go about my business in the kitchen. She begins to cry, tears rolling down her velvety cheeks. She follows me around, trying to grab my pants. Sobbing, she gulps out, "Uuuuuup. Uuuuup, Mama! Mamaaaaa, uuuuup!"

I pick her up.

"It's okay baby, breakfast is ready."

Into the high chair.

All of the yummy bits I offer are promptly thrown to the floor. I would use my usual technique - if you throw, you're done - but I know she's hungry and not at all done. So I hand feed her as she tosses things every which way and my coffee gets cold.

The next few hours are okay. She is clingy. I can't read the paper or check e-mail. I must stay right there, next to her, wherever she is, and talk in an endless stream about something amusing or at least sing.

At 10:20, we load into the car to go to brunch with two of my girlfriends and one of their kids (almost 2).

"Oh, oh, oh!" S. screams, and tries to wiggle out of the carseat. I wrestle her back in and listen to a screaming baby for the (thankfully) short ride.

She doesn't want to be at the restaurant. First she doesn't want anything - to stand up or sit down or have a snack or anything. My girlfriend's baby is acting like an angel, eating a banana. Finally I manage to sit down with her in my lap. With a struggle, I get her into the high chair and inhale some coffee. Five minutes later, she's sobbing again. She wants out NOW.

We spend the rest of brunch walking around the little store there, taking things out of buckets and putting them back in. Then it's time to leave. My lovely friends have boxed my meal for me. S. is playing with a box of about 127 baby dolls in the back of the store, and she wants to bring all of them home. When I say we must go now, she cries hysterically and bangs on the floor. This is officially her first tantrum.

WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING TO US?

I let her pick a ($3) baby doll to take home. She picks the ugliest one. The baby looks like an old man.

Back home, after she's cried the whole way in the car, she wants nothing to do with her pre-nap routine. So I basically stick her in the crib and leave. Five minutes later she is asleep - was she just tired? But what's that smell coming from her bedroom?

She has pooped. I feel like such a terrible mom but I leave her snoozing in her poop.
Half an hour later, she wakes up and I change her diaper. She will not go back down but she doesn't really want to be awake either. She cries inconsolably for 20 minutes. I dance, take her outside, show her pictures of Daddy, but nothing helps. Then, abruptly, she stops.

In the afternoon, I have to drop her at a friend's house while I go to the dentist. I think of canceling but I haven't been to the dentist in like four years.

"You have my permission to throw her out the window," I tell my friend. "Just let me know if you do and I won't come pick her up."

As I leave my friend's, S. has completely lost it and I am on the verge. She is writhing on the floor sobbing and looks so pathetic as I wave bye-bye, a gooey smile painted on my face.

Then I get lost on the way to the dentist. I pull in ten minutes late and the receptionist says, "I don't think we'll be able to fit you in."

I burst into tears.

Yikes. Poor receptionist. Nobody wants to deal with a hormonal pregnant chick who has just endured nine rounds with a toddler. (But she does fit me in.)

When I return to my friend's house with sparkling teeth, S. is happily pushing a stroller around the living room. Like an angel, she comes up and gives me a big, wet kiss on the cheek.

That night, after S. takes about 32 seconds to fall asleep for Husband, I consult the Internet and my child development books for new strategies.

I quickly figure out my mistake: My baby is not a baby any more. Suddenly, she's a toddler - and not just in the sense that she's walking. She is understanding the world around her and I have yet to give her the navigational tools she'll need. S. has always needed limits, but now she needs a lot more of them. Here begins a phase of motherhood in which I am not just taking care of her needs and tempering her emotions, but showing her how to deal with them on her own. I have to learn to be consistent, reasonable and objective. Huh?!?

This is harder than it sounded when I signed up.

Bored

2006-10-08T11:48:00.000-04:00

At first it was hard to admit. Skirting the issue, I blamed my own inability to cope, my marriage, my age. I cried to my girlfriends and drank lots of wine. I talked to my doctor. She sent me to a therapist, who helped slightly just by telling me she believed there was nothing wrong with me. I called all my friends to make plans, but lunch dates and playgroups proved only a band-aid. I spent hours on the Internet researching depresssion.

If I could take some Zoloft, I would. But I'm not depressed. I'm bored.

With my days filled with the moment-by-moment wonders of raising a child, this feeling is both easy and difficult to understand. I am overjoyed watching S. chase after bubbles on the front porch. There is no prouder Mama than I when she stacks her blocks eight high, then knocks them over only to stack them again. Nothing can compare to hearing her say a new word, rocking her to sleep, watching her take her first steps, holding her each time she cries. I chose this job because I think it is monumentally important; I would not trade it or leave it to anyone else.

Still, it's not so crazy that I'm bored, is it? We eat, nap and play at the same time every day. As S. explores the world, I point out the same tree, walk around the same block, read the same books over and over, go to the same grocery store. Raffi is my soundtrack: The Wheels on the Bus runs through my head even in my few moments alone while S. naps. At our weekly playgroups, tumbling classes and music circle, I talk to the same moms about the same boring topics: milk, sleep, milestones. I have built a wonderful life for my baby. She is happy and thriving, and I marvel as I watch her grow. Yet even as she changes so quickly, our lives change so slowly. It often feels like the routines she thrives on have reduced me to a robot.

Since S. was born, my life's goals have been both clarified and left behind. Raising a happy, good person is a lofty goal. I'm accomplishing that goal. I'm not worried that I'm a bad mom. I'm a great mom. But what about being happy?

There are some natural moms who find fulfillment where I find monotony, who are freed where I am hemmed in. I admire these women - many who are friends - and I'm jealous. I so looked forward to motherhood because I thought I would be one of them. But try as I might, I just don't have their mommy mojo. I knew going into this that my life would not be exciting. I just thought that doing the right thing, which I still wholeheartedly believe I am doing, would make me happy even if it didn't offer the adrenaline rush journalism did. What I didn't understand was that having a satisfying job that you love doesn't mean you're 100% happy.

It's not like I'm not trying. I do all the things one might suggest: go to lunch with single girlfriends, do girls night out, date my husband, get regular sitters so I can run errands solo. Those things are nice but not particularly helpful in the long run.

I think things would be different if I were a housewife. I would be very busy cooking and cleaning and decorating and sewing. Every day I could look around and say, I am doing a good job or I am doing a bad job, based on how warm and welcoming the house looked. But I'm not a housewife and I will never be one. I do laundry and dishes, make the bed every day. I clean the bathrooms and even dust when the bunnies get out of hand. But my husband shares all the housework and cooking, often doing more than me. If anyone has the second shift, it's him.

I used to feel smart and sexy. Now I'm not only bored, I am boring. I still read the newspaper every day and the Times on Sundays, but I have nothing to say about it. None of my friends follow current events. My husband says he sees me as the ultimate MILF - a woman who has got it together enough to look halfway decent every day as she totes a toddler around town. But he loves me so much he doesn't noticed that I haven't painted me toenails in two months. And he still vividly remembers the sassy girl with something to say. To him, a year doesn't seem an entire lifetime. (Plus, he's probably relieved that I've shut up for once in my life!)

On one level, I'm okay with my boredom. Nobody told me being Superwoman would be boring, but it turns out that it is. I wouldn't change my choices. A little boredom never killed anyone. I know I will look back on these moments and be glad I was there for them. And I'm confident things will change as my children get older. I can hardly wait to play Barbies, teach her how to swim, hit around a tennis ball. I know I will be a great Girl Scout leader, shopping partner, homework helper, love life counselor.

At the same time, I think it's time to take some more drastic action. I'm already planning to go back to school in the fall but that seems far away. I've been thinking of advancing my amateur photography hobby (I take pictures of my friends' kids and sometimes they pay me) into a mini-business. I think I'll get a day planner and write myself a schedule - having a checklist of things to do always makes me feel better.

If you stay home with your kids, are you bored? And what do you do to combat your boredom?

How To

2006-10-04T16:28:00.000-04:00

The scene: It's 9 a.m. and S. and I both have a cold. We are cuddling in bed reading when suddenly I begin to sweat and saliva comes pouring into my mouth. "Come on, S," I say, because I can't leave her in the bed in fear that she will jump off of it. "O! Book!" she replies, squirming away from my outstreched arms. I wrestle her into my grasp, hoping not to puke on her sweet new-morning baby-ness and rush to the bathroom. I set her down and proceed to puke into the toilet, which, I note has not been recently cleaned by my husband, who insists I not clean toilets while pregnant. Then, as I writhe in pukey pain, I feel the toilet seat come smashing onto my already-aching head. A pair of tiny hands appear directly in my line of vision and I swat them away. Between heaves, I manage to say, "S., go play with that book...Yes, take Mama's glasses...GET AWAY!" None of this keeps her from attempting to reach into the dirty toilet bowl. Afterward, I practically bathe her to banish the germs.

Calling all stay-at-home parents (and any others with creative solutions)! HELP! What on Earth does one do in this situation? I feel completely unequipped to deal with a toddler, or even myself. Yet my mother informs me she never used a babysitter during the day, ever. How did she do it?

What I did: Demand that Husband come home for the morning, feed S. and put her down for a nap. I slept from 10 to 2, when S. woke up from her nap. Then a sitter came over and I hid in my room. A few minutes ago, the two of them left for a walk and I sneaked to the kitchen, feeling much better. I opened the fridge and immediately had to puke again.

It was much more peaceful this time.

The thing is, what do I do if I feel this way tomorrow?

Dear Kangaroo, Month 14

2006-09-27T12:48:00.000-04:00

My Sweet Girl,

You are 14 months old. A few months ago, I was so afraid of this stage - the part of your life where you no longer need me for food or even to hold your hand.

Yesterday your dad was carrying you down the street as we ventured out to get the mail. I looked up at you and waved. You said, "Haiii Mama." And then you spread your chubby little fingers half over your eyes, half over your cheeks and did "Peekaboo." I did it back and then you did it again. How could it get better than this? You talk and hum, walk and dance. You sleep 11 or 12 hours every night and at least an hour every afternoon. You love to "snuggle Mama" when we read books and you offer slobbery kisses to all your favorite things: ducks, books, balls, stuffed monkeys, any outfit printed with butterflies or flowers, your friends, Daddy, me (!).

This month you have become obsessed with butterflies, which you call "Vav-eyes." We have visited the local butterfly museum three times in the past week, and you run down the path as if in heaven, shouting and pointing, "Vavay! Vavay! Vavay!" You squat down to get closer to the butterflies perched on low leaves, and you reach out and touch them ever so gently. They let you. I think they can tell you're a friend.

A while back you were given butterfly wings for dress-up. At the time, you were utterly unimpressed, but now you can't get enough of them. I put them on you and ask, "Where's the butterfly?" You point to yourself. "Where's the butterfly's tounge?" You stick yours out. It's too cute. In all of your animal books, you can turn straight to the page that has a butterfly on it.

You are still a very tentative girl. A lot of your girlfriends can climb the slide at the park and love to do sommersaults. Not you. You stand on the brink of whatever challenge faces you and say, "Hep! Hep, Mama!" while frantically motioning the sign for please. Then, after you've slid or climbed or whatever while holding onto my arm, you sign thank you.

Sometimes I wonder if that's my fault, if I rush to your side too quickly. But you're so polite it's hard to refuse!

Every morning, you and I walk daddy out when he's on his way to work. You love to see him in his "Taiii!" and watch him drive off in his big "Cah." You always wave but never say "By-eee" until he has turned the corner and you can no longer see him. This morning, Daddy had to leave for work before you woke up. (Glorious sleep for Mama!) You were so sad, looking all around forDaddy, pointing first to the bathroom, then the front door and asking for him. I had to take you outside and show you that the car was gone before you believed he wasn't home any more.

Blogger has gone kooky on me, sweet girl, so I'm signing off. I just want to tell you that I love every minute of our time together - even yesterday, when you hurled chunks of avocado at me and our lovely white walls and then wouldn't let me have a millisecond alone all morning. And by alone I mean without you on top of me, not actually by myself. I really lost my patience with you and told you I wasn't very happy. ("Happy?" you repeated. "No!" I said.) But you woke from your nap so snuggly, giving me dozens of wet smooches as if to say, Mama, I may throw food but I am really, really cute. And it's true.

Love you forever,

Mama

Names Revisited

2006-09-26T18:39:00.000-04:00

Hello.

C. and I have developed a "short list," which is actually quite long, of names for Rice (she earned that nickname for being that size when we discovered her).

Thank you for your suggestions. They were taken into account. Gorgeous names such as Abigail, Avery, Lucy and Hannah were eliminated due to their popularity, while others (Nick, for example) were elimated due to associations with exes. Still other lovely names like Suzy, Tait and Eleanor didn't make the cut because they sound off with S. (But don't you just love Eleanor - you could call her Ellie or Nora.)

I love Ruby, by the way, especially with Goldie. Too cute!

For some reason, I have been concentrating on girls' names. Maybe because I think girls care more about their names than boys do. And because I like a lot of boys' names about the same amount. If it's a girl, the middle name will likely start with an M. We like Miriam, Mariana and Marguerite, even though they sound funky with our last name, which starts with "Em." The M name would honor several important women. If it's a boy, the middle name will probably be Richard, after both of our fathers.

The front-runners:

Lila
Ivy
Anna
Maya
Tessa
Eve

Oliver
Jonas
Luke
Isaac
Elliot

Tier 2 (I know it's too popular or too weird or doesn't sound right with our last name - or it means the exact same thing as my name - but we still love it):

Clare
Isabel
Julia
Juliana
Lily
Raquel
Eliza
Rebecca
Annika

Jack
Eli
Walter (family name)
Richard

So, give it to me! I want the good bad and the ugly! What is your first choice for a girl and for a boy? Why?

Thanks in advance.

Dilemma

2006-09-24T18:05:00.000-04:00

According to Dr. M, I have extremely low blood pressure, even for a pregnant woman. This means that if I stand in one place for too long the world goes swimmy and my knees buckle. The cure is lying down. (Or laying down. I never did get that one right.)

That's dandy except that I can't lie down because I have intense heartburn and acid reflux, both of which come on fierce when I try to go horizontal. I have to sit up all night in bed. It's working wonders for my love life.

The pukes are gone (crossing fingers, knocking on wood) but killer gas cramps seem to have taken over. And I still can't eat like a normal human. Ugh. Wasn't all this madness overwith by now last time?

Adios to the first trimester.

Another Year

2006-09-23T13:16:00.000-04:00

L'Shana Tova! (That's happy Jewish New Year for those unfamiliar.)

This pukey mom actually managed to put together a rather nice holiday dinner last night, get the whole family to synagogue today (for an hour, but it's something!) and find some time to reflect on the incredible wonders of the year just passed and the year to come. I looked around our kitchen table last night - the grape juice replacing wine, the carrots and sweet potatos strewn over the floor - and got tears in my eyes.

I am so thankful for the people who are mine.

And a resolution: From here on out, I'm going to include the baby on the way in our family. I'm going to try harder to touch my belly and remember she exists. I'm going to remember that the heartburn and the cramps have a purpose. And I'm going to thank God.

Perhaps it's because we already have a crib and a bouncy seat, but I don't find myself thinking much about the baby. C. and I don't talk about him much. Instead, our conversation swirls around what we will do with S. - Will she be out of the crib by April? Who will watch her? How will she react? Will she know to be gentle? Even the name search seems hypothetical, like naming a puppy. It is to strange to believe that there will be any baby in this family besides S.

But I'm going to take it on faith. Next year at this time, I know I will be looking around our table at another chubby face and thinking: Where were we without this precious person?

A Name for Two

2006-09-16T19:49:00.000-04:00

I own five baby name books, including one called 10,000 Best Baby Names that I've had stashed since middle school. Like all giry-girls, I have been obsessed with baby names since then. Unlike many, I have not had my children's names chosen since then, only to have them stolen by half the world later. I had very strange taste when I was thirteen. If I had to choose S's name back then, she would have been named something peppy like Britney or Bridget or something granola like Rain or Sunshine. (I actually found these in a list, written in pink pen in the back of my book. Ugh.) Instead of picking, though, I have kept running lists on and off throughout my life.

The one name I held onto the entire time was Max, after two of my great-grandfathers. But this name was nixed when C. turned out to have an adorable nephew Max, who is now eight. And he's our Max. We couldn't have another.

Despite my love of the subject, C. was completely uninterested in discussing baby names until we were actually expecting baby number one. And even then he didn't seem stressed or rushed as I created Excel spreadsheets, researched etymology and woke him up in the middle of the night exclaiming, "Finn! Honey, what about Finn?!?"

To me, naming is extremely important. I want my children to enjoy their names, to feel comfy in them and to understand that a lot of thought went into them. I need a good meaning and a great sound, a flexible image that would work for a corporate lawyer, starving artist or football player. A name is the first gift I can give my children.

Last time, it took a lot of time and agony. We finally managed to unearth a name that we both loved, although not at first. And, although there are certainly protests from the peanut gallery (otherwise known as family) it seems to suit our little one perfectly.

I thought that naming the second baby would be simpler. I know better the names that I and C. like, I have a stronger grasp on the popular names in the area, I have already thought through my criteria for a name. All of this should add up to an easier process.

Not so!

First off, C's taste seems to have changed. He keeps suggesting the name Vivian. Definitely not my style and totally out of sync with S. Second, it seems impossible to find a name that harmonizes with S's name. We need something slightly offbeat but not unheard-of, something a bit artsy, maybe with a tinge of Jewish. Third, I have changed my feelings about popular names. It seems to me that popularity must be regional. Down here, we have a zillion Abigail's and Emma's but the classic boy's name trend has been passed over completely in favor of Caden's, Austin's and Jordan's. So now names like Isabel and Claire are under consideration, when they were not when we named S.

How important is naming to you? Do you like your own name? How did you name your children? Or what criteria would you consider when naming your future children? And do you have any suggestions for S's little brother or sister?

Second Pregnancy

2006-09-09T19:49:00.000-04:00

It was not instant. It took a few days after S. was born to feel the vast connection that comes with motherhood. To her, to myself, to my mother and then all mothers. To blades of grass and shiny beetles and laughing college kids at the coffee shop. To death. To the ocean. Delicate, circuitous connections spinning outward from me like a web, lifting me up from myself as I fed her and pinning my feet to the floor as I wafted through the motions of caring for a baby at night.

The world still stops when I look at her, incredulous at her existence nearly every minute. It is a different world altogether than before her.

When the feeling took root, I began to mourn S's journey from my belly. I touched my stomach, still able to feel her floating and kicking in there, remembering easily the warmth she created when we were two people sharing the same body. Every moment was bittersweet, her needing me less and less. I cheered, I took pride, and I mourned.

Right now there is a baby swimming in my belly. A baby closer to me than S. It is hard, so early, to summon a feeling of connection. Perhaps it was that way with S., too, but it was more difficult to express. I could not understand what was happening to me, to us, then. She felt like an alien, a parasite invasion. I felt alien, too, my body transformed into its anatomy and its function: a boat for the voyage of this creature.

Now that feeling is familiar. What is my body besides a mother and a wife, a device wielded by my heart for the good of the people I love?

On Wednesday we had our first ultrasound. The baby was as big as a walnut. She has a head, a perfectly curved back, two legs, two arms. And kicking! Oh, S. never kicked like that for her pictures. Her movements were watery and wide, as if through a filter. For the first time, as C. squeezed my hand, I realized that this is a different baby. This baby is fiesty - a dancer or a fighter. He is a part of me now. But he is himself already.

This baby enters a whole different world, too - one colored more brightly, more simply than the world his sister was born to. This world offers a wiser mother and practiced father, days less busy but more full, moments longer, laughter clearer.

And, the part I can't predict or understand: this baby will make that world his own.

Fashion Princess

2006-09-06T12:48:00.000-04:00

Most mornings, I pick out two outfits for Roo and hold them up for her to choose. She points to the one she likes and says, "Dat."

The other day she was especially excited about a new pink dress with big polka dots. I happen to think it is quite ugly but I believe in wearing all gifts at least once. When I pulled out the polka-dotted dress (alongside an adorable denim getup), Roo started bouncing and saying, "Ball! Ball! Ball!"

"Does that mean you want to wear this one? With the dots that look like balls?"

"DAT! DAT! YEAH!"

Okay, then.

Fast forward to the next morning. I grabbed some jean shorts and two tops for her to pick from. She looked at them for a second, cocked her head to the side and walked out of the room. I found her five minutes later sitting in the laundry room with the dirty polka dot dress draped over her shoulders.

The girl has developed an opinion.

--

In other news, expect photos of Combo #2 here in the next few days. We go in for our first ultrasound this afternoon. Although I'm enduring the first trimester pukey haze and my tummy is clearly sporting a bump (I have been wearing yoga pants for a week), I still don't seem to believe that I'm actually pregnant. I'm hoping this will help.

Dear Kangaroo, Month 13

2006-08-30T12:18:00.000-04:00

Dear Munchkin Bugaboo,

Against my better judgement, I am writing you a thirteen month letter. Not only should I be napping right now, but there's no way around the guilt: You are going to get at least 13 letters from me and your poor little brother probably won't get his first letter till he's 13.

This month, you became a big-sister-to be. And I have become fiercely attached to you, my first sweet baby girl. I'm no longer willing to let you cry for longer than five minutes for any reason. My emotions are unusually even-keel for being pregnant, except when it comes to you. I feel physically resistant to your being unhappy. So we rock and sing for ages before I lay you into your crib in a deep sleep. I run and whisk you out of the crib the moment you make a peep. It's like you just came out again.

Don't get used to it. In April, it's all over.

I am so happy to be cooking up a sibling for you. Although I'm clearly mourning the loss of your babyhood and - I admit - the just us three phase, I am so excited to see you as a sister. You've learned to point to my belly and say, "Baby," and you love to give the belly kisses. I asked you the other day what you'd like me to name the baby. If it's a girl: Bubbles. If it's a boy: Duck. We'll see. I might have to exersize the mommy-knows-best clause on this one.

This month there has been another, arguably equally life-changing, development: Baby girl, you walk. You scoot your little chunk legs all over the place.

For weeks you could take 20, then 30 steps and a time, but you'd do that once a day and the moment you fell down it was over. You practiced standing up and sitting down in the middle of the floor. ("Where's down?" I would say. You'd sit and point to the floor. "And where's up?" You'd straighten your legs, stand up and put both arms in the air.) You practiced kneeling. But you gave walking only one try per day. Then, about two weeks ago, you just woke up one morning and did it. It was like you decided you'd had enough practice.

There are so many beautiful things you do that I forget. But I don't want to forget this: Even though you love to walk everywhere all by yourself, if Daddy and I are both around and looking vulnerable, you grab one of Daddy's fingers, drag him over to me and then grab one of my fingers. And we all go for a little family walk.

Your vocabulary, too, is blossoming. We went to the zoo in Central Park a few weeks ago and I held you up, pointing out all the animals. "There's a funny looking goat. There's a wooly sheep. There's a black cow. Look! He's eating! Yum!" You pointed to the cow and said, "Cow." "Right. A cow. And look over there at that llama...Wait...Did you just say cow." "Deah." (That''s how you say yeah.)

You say, "Fff," for fish.

Just today you starting saying, "Up." You were cranky and wanted to be held all morning. After the 96th time picking you up and putting you down, I said, "I will not pick you up unless you say, 'Up.'" So you did. I almost cried. This evening you were running around saying, "Up! Up! Up! Up," even when you were already up.

You are obsessed with books. This is wonderful because we spend hours each day in bed, me nursing a sour stomach, just reading together. Sometimes you read alone, opening a favorite book to a page and saying, "Ooooh!" before pointing out the sheep ("Ba!"), the hat, the ball or the singing pig ("La La La!"). Mostly, though, we read together. I say, "Cuddle Mama," and you fling yourself into me and bury your head. I think we own 100 children's books.

I think I'll close with a picture, from your second first birthday party. It needs no words:

Baby girl, you are so much fun. I'm the luckiest Mama around. I love you!

Love,

Mama

Parasite Lost

2006-08-05T20:44:00.000-04:00

Over the past few months, we've been working on weaning the child who came out sucking.

It has been difficult, but easier than I expected and very, very slow. The hardest part was learning to soothe her using methods other than sticking a boob in her face. Even when she bumped her head or was really overtired, I pulled out the puppets or danced the funky chicken to get her back to good.

We got down to three times a day. Morning, nap and bedtime.

I despaired over giving up our morning nursing. It was the time when I brought my cuddly baby into bed with me and we slept and nuzzled for an hour or two. It kept her dreaming through her daddy's departure. And then I watched my baby open her eyes. She stepped on my head and climbed the pillows and tugged on the blinds. I loved our mornings together.

But. That was the most practical feed to abandon first because the others were impossible: she needed the boob to fall asleep.

So, one day, Husband and I both woke up at Roo's first cry and bounded out of bed with fake smiles plastered on, singing a good morning song. Yes, actually singing, at 5 a.m. We rushed her out of bed, opened all the blinds, whisked a sippy cup into her hand and sat down to read books.

Books are our new morning routine, and I love it nearly as much as nursing. Roo seemed to take right to the book routine, so much that reading books is now her favorite thing to do. We usually read ten or twelve books in the morning, we read books before nap and bedtime, and she requests reading time other times during the day, too. So, that's pretty awesome.

Then, over the past two weeks, Roo started falling asleep for her nap in the car sometimes. One day I managed to put her in the crib with little protest after just rocking and singing.

That was the day I knew it was over. She was ready. I only had to let go.

It took me a few days, but I did. I cut back to one nursing, sometimes two. And Roo cut her nursing time back so much that she was finished sucking and asleep after just a minute or two.

And then we stopped. (Key method: Make Daddy handle bed time for a while.)

The last time I breastfed S., I was lying on a pull-out couch in my mom's time share. It wasn't lovely and idyllic and I didn't even know it was the last time. Five days later, I can't say I'm sure. I feel like I would give it to her if she really needed it, was sick, asked for it desperately. But. Probably. We're done.

I thought it would go on forever. Part of me wanted it to. Part of me wanted it to end. I'm not as happy about it as I thought I might be, but not as sad, either. It was one of the best parts of motherhood for me, and I think it was one of the best parts of babyhood for her. But I know she was ready to be done, and so I'm a little bit proud of her.

I think life has gotten so exciting for her lately. She can communicate so much better than ever before (Including about milk, which she still asks for occassionally, and I give her some from the fridge). And she's trying so hard to walk. Today she took 19 steps. Wow.

My tiny baby left me 12 months ago. She could breathe and cry and sleep and wake all by herself. And now she doesn't need my food either. She can pop strawberries into her mouth or munch on a cheese stick, saying, "Mmmm." It's sad and wonderful. My consolation is the knowledge that she still needs me in a hundred little ways, and now she knows me well enough to want me, too.

I know it every time she puts her hands out to me and says, "Mama."

Bragging

2006-07-31T12:21:00.000-04:00

According to Dr. B, the Boss is

Tall: Officially, 30.5 inches
Not as chubby as she used to be: 23.5 lbs., down from the 95th percentile to "between the 75th and 90th."
Verbally advanced: All of the exam rooms at Dr. B's office are decorated in a kid-friendly way, and we happened to see the Doc in the map room. This room includes a wall-sized world atlas, five inflatable globes hanging from the ceiling and a cloth Earth quilt hanging with multi-cultural children dancing around it. Well, not only did Roo spend half the exam pointing up and saying "ball," she pointed out the many "daydees" (her word for baby) around the Earth. And she said duck, of course, and Hi and hat. She can also say car, with a Boston accent, and Nana, and hot and yum and yay and a few other things I'm forgetting now. Also, she really likes to say cock. Yup, cock. I think it means walk.
Smart: Apparently identifying one's head, tummy, ears and mouth counts as an 18-month skill. (I neglected to mention that she thinks "nose" and "eyes" are also her mouth.)
Average when it comes to motor skills: However, average is pretty extraordinary when it means that the nugget who popped out of your vagina a year ago is taking four steps in a row with a wide grin on her face. Today, she even stepped a few times, stood and took a bite of her cracker and then walked two more steps to the wall. Pretty cool!

Dear Kangaroo, Month 12

2006-07-28T12:45:00.000-04:00

My Beautiful Girl,

One year ago, your dad and I rushed to the hospital full of hopeful anticipation. Okay, we stopped at Wal-Mart first for trashy magazines. Okay, I'm not sure you could call our anticipation hopeful, exactly. Maybe more like terrified.

I pride myself on being an extremely prepared person, gathering research on the issue at hand from every available source. I had read so much about our pregnancy that I felt utterly ready for everything, from your fluttery kicks to the crampy pain of labor, except actually having a baby. I didn't give much thought to the actual pushing phase, and I didn't certainly didn't muse about what I would do with the baby inside once the wiggly thing came out.

So although I was armed with hard candy, two pairs of slippers, my own nightgowns in which to labor, a jumpsuit for you to wear home and one tiny, white hat, I felt unprepared.

And I have felt that way ever since.

You have come so far in the past year. With crawling and cruising under your belt, I thought the milestones would slow down. But you amaze me every day with something new. The little things, like your monkey noise and the way you can pick out the animals in your barn by name, make me so proud. You are such a smart, sweet girl.

One of the wonderful things about living with you at this age is that sometimes we get to live through each other. You see the things I point out - the specific flowers, colors, people. And I feel your joy in seeing them. You say things that I encourage you to say. And I feel your courage in saying them. But even if we have been coaxing you to say "ball" for a week, it knocks my breath out when you finally say it. And even though you had been cruising for more than a month, it brought tears to my eyes on Sunday when you took your first step toward your Daddy.

You really are "so big!"

Another part of the equation is that I try to love you every single second, try to send loving vibes with my actions, my tone of voice, my one-woman-band routines that bring you from the edge of sadness and get you giggling.

I think the thing I was most unprepared for was your reaction to my love: You love me back. One day soon, you and I will bicker endlessly, but right now we love each other completely. When you are about to do something new - crawl up to a step, for example - you look to me to make sure it is safe. You're thrilled when you make me laugh. You often crawl up to me and put your head on my knee or my chest or my foot and "give me love," which is just laying there snuggling and saying, "Mmmm."

I have thought a lot about what to say to you on your first birthday. The gist of it is this: I can not imagine life without you. You have transformed me, made your Daddy and I into a family, showed us life's meaning.

There's a Dixie Chicks song that I sing to you at night. It starts, "They didn't have you where I come from. Never knew the best was yet to come. Life began when I saw your face."

It's true. Your deep, bubbly laughter cascading from perfect raspberry lips. The particularly anguishing way you cry. The way you thrust your arms out like Superman when you want me to pick you up. The weight of your warm head on my chest. Your just-emerging voice, so small but so forceful.

These are things like air, things I can not remember doing without.

I know that you will not remember these days, but I hope that you internalize them somehow. Mother and daughter. Emerging out of the exhaustion of birthing, of being born, to build together a sweet rythym of milk and songs and caresses, of books and peek-a-boo games and walks. I hope that the peace of our early existence together, the purity of love that moves with us, seeps into your being and remains there, underneath everything. So that when you unearth it one day, you will feel the rays of light that beam from you now. I can see them, even from your toes.

(Perhaps you will not feel them again until you are a mother yourself. And that will be Okay, too.)

I will love you unconditionally and forever.

Happy birthday to the one thing I could never have prepared for.

Love,

Mama

Settling for a 1,220

2006-07-25T22:02:00.000-04:00

I got a 1,220 on my GRE. Nothing surprisingly fabulous, but not horrifyingly low, either. It's enough to get in to the program I'm applying to, and that's all I really care about.

A few days ago, this post would have been different. A few days ago I was so stressed about this damn test that I RAN INTO HUSBAND'S CAR. WHILE IT WAS PARKED. Luckily this happened while I had the unbearable stress to use as an excuse, so I didn't get yelled at.

For some reason, it felt like my entire life was riding on this test.

This is going to sound extremely snobbish: It is strange to me to apply to a program that is not the best in the country. Stranger still was taking a test I felt unprepared for. But there was no way to prepare the way I'm accustomed in the company of an almost one-year-old baby girl. With three weeks to study, I would have needed at least four or five hours a day of concentrated cram sessions. But Roo didn't allow me a minute - she ripped the pages of my books, cried whenever I sat down at the computer. Basically, she sabotaged me.

(I'm just kidding. But really, would you rather play Peek-A-Boo with a one-year-old or memorize special right triangles?)

So the day before the test, I felt like the LittleRazz lifestyle was in peril. It just wasn't me, I thought to myself, taking this test. I would never enter a testing center unprepared. I would never settle for less than a 1,400. I would never think of going to the local university instead of some high brow institution.

But the truth is, I would.

Unlike journalism, my next step will be less in the name of passion than practicality. But that doesn't mean I'm settling (that evil word whose threat sent me careening into Husband's car).

Everything in life is a tradeoff. I won't work in journalism right now because it takes too much time, emotional energy and impartiality. I want the same hours as my kids. And, when I read the paper, I want to skip the headlines that mention children and death in the same breath.

I'll try to incorporate my love of writing and research into my life by studying how to write teachers' curriculum. I'll sleep well knowing that I'm doing the right thing by my family, my self. And I suspect I'll enjoy it. Then, one day, when the kids are older, I'll go back to journalism as an education reporter with years of teaching under my belt.

I'll be rusty, but eventually I'll be much better than I could be now. And then nobody will care about my GRE score.

Di Di Di Da Da?

2006-07-22T20:03:00.000-04:00

DJ asks: I'd like to know more about C's transition into fatherhood. How has it changed him? And what is the best part about watching your husband with your daughter?

From the bedroom this morning, I hear Husband's voice: "Nice one, S! That's how I like 'em."

He says this the way he would say, "Sweet shot," to a buddy during a pick-up basketball game.

But it is about poop.

And then he goes into a lengthy one-sided discourse about what a good pooper she is, how her poop is no longer messy and remember when it was so gooey and now it's such big girl poop because she's almost one...

I had to intervene. Daddies will use any occassion to be proud of their baby girls.

Husband is not one of those dads who doesn't change diapers, or hands the baby off to Mama when it is crying. He is committed to her like I am. He volunteers to change the diapers, watch her for the afternoon or take her for a bike ride.

When Roo was tiny, Husband prided himself on being able to calm her, spending hours walking laps around the living room in the middle of the night. When she got older and started doing more - eating, sitting up in the bath, etc. - he started to show his Papa Bear side. It's Husband, not me, who is always worried about the size of the chunk of banana she's about to munch.

By now the two of them have developed a really wonderful bond. He feeds her dinner and bathes her every night. I hear them in the bathroom, splashing and pouring, talking about ducks and frogs and boats. Afterward, they play together on our big king sized bed. He wiggles her around on the towel and makes faces as he dries her off. They laugh at each other. She is noticeably sad when he leaves, and thrilled when she first sees him coming through the door in the evening.

Roo woke up crying during her nap today, signaling me that she wasn't done resting. So I picked her up from the crib and rocked her back to sleep. It is so beautiful to watch her let go and drift to dreaming. I rocked and hummed and twenty minutes passed. Then I saw her tiny lips part. Eyes shut, she whispered, barely audible, "Da Da." And then, a smidge louder, "Da....Da." Then her eyelids fluttered and she looked up at me. I smiled. "Da Da?" she asked.

I called his name and he came into the room and she crawled out of my arms and into his.

"Da Da!" she said triumphantly.

"Yup." I said. "That's your Daddy."

In any given day, there are a million tiny moments like this one, when I look at them (or just hear them) and think, "Wow."

Hiatus

2006-07-18T21:42:00.000-04:00

Now that I have veritably inundated you with blog posts, I'll be taking a few days off to have a prolonged anxiety attack...I mean, cram. Unfortunately, I take my GRE early Friday morning. (As an antidote, however, I have scheduled a girls' night on Friday evening.)

Gopher

2006-07-15T18:22:00.000-04:00

R said: What do you think makes your marriage work? Is it what you imagined it would be like? What do you like least/most about it?

I wanted to marry a man who would sit up in bed with me until 3 a.m. sipping tea and discussing the latest book we'd read or debating the day's political events. I wanted to marry someone who was so fascinated by me that he wanted to hear my diatribes about everything from the radicalization of America to the best flavor of Ben and Jerry's. In other words, a man like me.

Then one day I wound up in bed with a guy - a football player who didn't know J.D. Salinger from Stephen King. And I can't remember why but he was doing this impression of a gopher. He was kind of sniffing at me, actually, but it was funny. Tears were rolling down my cheeks. My gut ached. I sat there, naked and snorting on the bed, and thought, "I am utterly un-selfconscious with this guy."

I decided to keep sleeping with him.

Much of our relationship frustrated me. He'd listen to my opinion on the widening chasm between journalism and academia, but only for about five minutes. He didn't usually have a fully-formed argument for or against things - big things, like the death penalty, and small things, like where to go to dinner.

But I had been in enough "serious" relationships at that point to reasonably guess that my checklist of ideal mate traits was somewhat off. Many of the men I dated had everything I thought I wanted, and still we failed to love each other well. At first glance, Husband had very few of those criteria.

Yet we had fun together. I stuck with him. (And he stuck with me.)

Something a stranger on a plane once told me was, "Marry the man about whom you can say, 'I just want to be along for the ride.'" And the longer I stayed with him, the more it was true.

We could sit quietly together for hours. We had a blast on road trips, singing along with Billy Joel, talking, and not talking. We were comfortable with each other's strangeness, unperturbed by farts and dumb jokes. We just plain liked each other.

Slowly, we shook off the distance between us. Arguments fell away. We began to discover new parts of ourselves - my quiet side, his pensive side - and we were left with a solid foundation.

Walking into our marriage, I wasn't sure what I was getting into. I believed in myself, Husband, and our ability to commit ourselves to a grand cause. But I wasn't sure if that was enough. I did not believe in God or certainty or 100%. I did not believe our love was sanctioned on high, destined for perfection. Still, the light in the garden on our wedding day was so beautiful I would have stood beside the man I loved and vowed just about anything. I took a leap of faith.

Almost immediately, I felt conviction rising. Several months later, I noticed it: I was sure. 100%. And what a relief. To know after all that time that I had made the right decision.

No, my marriage is not what I expected. It is infinitely better. Our love has taught me that having something to say to each other every second of the day isn't as important as being able to sit in unstrained silence; that discovering another person isn't simply about discovering their opinions. I believe that real love is standing utterly naked, exposed, in front of your lover and watching their lips form the word, "Yes."

Our marriage works because we accept and affirm each other. The rest is common sense: Compromise. Communication. Patience. Compassion. A good sex life. Shared dreams. Hard work.

I have been thinking for three days about what I like most and least about our relationship. Probably the thing I like least is what I knew going in: Husband isn't the quickest to offer up an opinion. He needs time to tease things out in his head. I know by now that he does have thoughts about nearly everything, and I just have to be patient to find them out.

What I like most is the way we work together as a team. We are so different, but in our loyalty we are the same. I trust Husband as I trust myself. Perhaps more; he is the only person who could speak for me. And, for both of us, our marriage comes first, our love is worth everything.

In the end, my marriage does everything for me that I had dreamed it might: It renews my hope; restores my faith; opens new worlds to me. It makes me feel strong, and lovely and real. And a little less scared of the world.

Only Child

2006-07-14T12:52:00.000-04:00

RC asks: So when, my dear, is No. 2 in the cards? I ask because I want others to join in my misery. Wait, I mean joy. Yeah, joy. That's it.

Wouldn't it be wonderful to have only one child?

One perfect little girl on whom to lavish gifts, such as couture princess costumes, dozens of shoes adorned with tiny bows and a Honda Civic when she turns 16.

We'd be done nursing in a month. My breasts would return to their previous function as lovely, perky, chest ornaments. And after that: FREEDOM! I could leave the baby with a sitter for five straight hours! I could go on trips wherever I want! Husband and I could get to Europe before he turns 30, like we always said we would.

She would start walking and my back would stop spasming. I'd forget the endless nights of hourly waking. In a year or two, all the poop in the house would be deposited in the toilet where it belongs. She would pass quickly through the eating paint phase and we'd do projects together all day. Having no double stroller to navigate, we could go to the mall regularly and shop for shoes. With the money we saved from forgoing a mini-van, we could afford Musikgarten and gymnastics. She'd be in school in four years and I could go back to work, pick up right where I left off, and grow to be wildly successful. We could travel with her, send her to whatever college she'd like.

All this with no one to hinder us, antagonize us, pinch or throw food at us.

Yes, I have fantasized. We all do it.

The hardest thing to imagine, when you've got one delicious baby, is how you could manage to produce another, equally lovely one. I'm still pinching myself about the first miracle.

But the logistics, however hilarious, aren't the scary part. It's the love. From where will it surface, when all of it is pooled a the feet of my Husband and daughter? However, after having one child, I trust nature to expand my heart.

Instead, I'm terrified of the responsibility. As a 25-year-old mom (and perhaps I would feel this way at any age), I feel on the edge of childhood myself. When I turn into my subdivision, I often wonder if I really live here or if I am just a butterfly dreaming that I am a human who lives here. My life seems so odd to me, so idealized. It seems that I'm right on the brink. Although I wake every morning to the baby's cry, feed her three meals daily, wipe her tush and put her to bed on cue, I really can't be trusted. At any moment, I might hop on a plane to Switzerland, or at least run downtown and hide in the back corner of a bar for the afternoon, guzzling martinis. But the fact remains: I don't. So I suppose I am responsible.

And I suppose I am qualified to be a mother of two.

More satisfying than anything else in my life has been the feeling that someone is so precious I must check on her every ten minutes to make sure she is breathing. Really, how could I not hold another tiny baby all through the night? And how could I not watch a sister emerge where a princess toddles?

So, we'll start trying for Numero Dos within six months. We'd like our kids to be close in age. And since Roo seems to be weaning herself now, I may even manage to squeeze in a few trips to the mall.

Changing my mind

2006-07-13T13:02:00.000-04:00

SE asks: What is the biggest change motherhood has made in your mind?

During pregnancy, women retain hair but shed brain cells like dollar bills at Ann Taylor. It takes one year, I read, for the cells to grow back. I'm expecting a surge of intelligence any day now, cause I'm pretty sure I'm not back to pre-Kangaroo brain volume. I still forget the name of a neighbor I've known for months; I always miss something on my list at the grocery store, and I have lost all capacity to speak Italian (a language I was once nearly fluent in).

Motherhood, apparently, beats our brains down to make them stronger. I know this because I read an article in the Times about it.

It's kind of like that first work out with a physical trainer. You come home all blissed out, but wake the next morning with pain everywhere. Including, say, your fibula. Parts you didn't know you had. After months of dull aching, you one day look in the mirror to find yourself changed, buffed stronger in certain spots.

While becoming Mama munches on our minds, it also builds up parts of our brains that we haven't used since - big surprise - childhood.

I had to think about it for a bit, but now I realize the truth of the sentiment. Just yesterday, Roo and I spent 20 minutes outside staring at a baby frog - this teensy thing - as it struggled to hop. Each teensy jump moved it just centimeters forward. Pre-baby, I probably would have looked down at the frog and said, "Cute frog," then walked on. Then again, I might not even have been outside. The "wonder" section of my brain has clearly expanded.

And there are other, more practical things we gain: problem solving, patience (which I needed by the bucketload), peacemaking, multi-tasking. And, perhaps the most important, mothering itself.

Motherhood teaches us to coo and soothe, to sing and rock. It also gives us an enormous capacity for love, which may be an expansion of the brain or one of the soul, but is certainly the most extensive renovation I have undergone during my adult life.

Certainly motherhood has brought a new flavor of dread and anxiety to my life. That the world will be bad to her. Or that she will be unhappy. Or that I will forget to apply some necessary salve, like bug spray, and she will be bitten to pieces by mosquitos.

But motherhood has also lent me a sense of peace. I am more loving toward the guy with a pony tail and Confederate Flag bumper sticker who cuts me off in traffic and then rolls down his window to yell, "Motherfucker!" Instead of giving him the finger, I smile and feel sorry for his mom; hope that he one day comes around for her.

Getting to know Roo has taught me how much about our personalities and lives is a crap shoot. We come out of the womb predisposed to so much, and then our moms condition us to other stuff without even trying. I don't know a single mom who knows what she's doing - there is no instruction manual taped to the placenta - but we're all doing our best to love these little bundles enough that they turn out to love themselves, each other, and the world.

The good news, according to the Times, is that mothers - without fail - gain back the brain cells they lost through pregnancy and childbirth. And we get to keep the new parts, too.

p.s. Get with the program, friends! I know you can do better than that for specific questions. I will answer (almost) anything!

p.p.s I believe Roo said her first sentance today. We were over at a friends' house playing with their puppy. Roo chased the dog again and again, saying, "Da! Da! Da," each time getting within inches before the pup raced away. Finally, after four or five attempts at reaching the dog, Roo plopped on her tush and waved, and saying, "Hi, Da!" over and over.

Does that count as her first sentence? I kind of think so.

Helloooo Out There

2006-07-10T20:17:00.000-04:00

Hello, wee audience. I have an announcement to make.
.....
.....
No, I'm not pregnant. I know you thought I was. But that is months down the road.
...
The announcement is: I am ready to begin blogging more often. Several times now, I have sat down to blog about something other than what my sweet daughter has accomplished this month (she stood alone for nearly a MINUTE today, people!). But I invariably end up sitting here, wondering if this or that part of my life could possibly be interesting to you, my readers, dear but few.

So.

The plan is, for the first while anyway, you tell me what to write. Ask a question. Pose a topic.

But be specific. Once, a friend asked me to post about the neighborhood babysitter but I didn't really know what that meant. Like, what are her qualifications? (She's an early childhood education major.) Or, why does she spend all of her time sitting in your neighborhood when she lives across town? (The pay is more competitive here.) Or, does she have big boobs? (Yes.)

Bring it on.

Dear Kangaroo, Month Eleven

2006-06-29T14:53:00.000-04:00

Dear Kangaroo,

Month 11. Eleven!

Today you wouldn't go down for a nap. I tried our usual bad habit - the nurse down - and it didn't work. So I swayed and hummed, a usual winner, for at least an hour. You were quiet, head down, eyes barely open. Almost there! I thought. I bent my head to kiss your cheek and my nose brushed your eyelashes. Your eyes popped open and you let out a tiny laugh. I did it again. Giggle. Again. You cracked up. I wiggled my nose into your cheek. Uncontrollable laughter. You just thought it was the funniest thing.

We giggled together for ten minutes and I gave up on the nap.

It's like that now.

In the car, I turn on the Dixie Chicks and you bounce and smile and we both sing along. You smile at me just to coax a smile back. You laugh your perfect, slightly maniacal, Ha Ha Ha whenever I do something silly, like drop something or make a face. When I say, "Ta Da!" you raise your arms. You give me slobbery licky kisses for no reason. I think you like me!

You spend the first part of your day stepping on my head or pulling my hair in an effort to get me to wake up. I thought that when I became a mom I would magically love getting up early, transforming into one of those women who wear mascara at 6 a.m. and draw back their children's shades, whistling and saying, "Buttermilk pancakes for breakfast, dear?" Instead, I try to hide in a pillow while keeping one hand around a tiny ankle or wrist to ensure that you stay put on the bed while I sneak in ten more minutes of rest.

Usually, you persuade me to get up by doing something particularly cute, like showing off one of your words.

Let me tell you what you can say:
Dada
Mama (This also means more. And milk. You also do the sign for milk. If there's anything you can communicate clearly, it's when you want the boob juice!)
Duck (You say this constantly, with perfect diction, and you certainly seem to know what a duck is. However, you say it about anything yellow, and also when you can't seem to think of anything else to say.)
Uh oh (When you drop something.)
Cat (At your Auntie Kat, and also at photos of kitties. One morning you woke up saying, "Ta, Ta, Ta," as if to practice the sound, and then started saying Cat to your book of kitties.)
Hot (A good word for Florida.)
Nana
Hi
Yay
Ta Da!

You like to walk holding on to my hands and you are an expert cruiser. The first time you saw a flight of stairs, on a trip to Minnesota to visit your cousins, you climbed the whole thing.

You just cut a third tooth. Your hair is soft and straight, with a hint of auburn (where did that come from?). It falls just into your eyes but you prefer it down. Actually, you prefer it up so you can pull out the bow and try to eat it. You wrinkle your nose like a bunny, gurgle on command and smack your lips. Sometimes, when you give a licky kiss, you smack right after, as a sound effect.

On vacation, you crawled in the grass on Grandma and Papa's land and just enjoyed the country. You took your first boat ride and ate your first pizza.

You gave your eight-year-old cousin Max six kisses in a row, and even let him hold you. You also took to your Uncle Dick, which is very sweet of you because none of the other babies, especially girls, have liked Uncle Dick much. I think it may be your first political move. This way if Daddy and I say no, you can call up your Uncle Dick and get him to ship you down that R-rated movie or low cut tank top.

I am not surprised but, maybe, amazed that you will grow up to have a life like I did. That you will feel self-conscious and imperfect in high school. Or - and this would be surprising - that you won't. That you could turn out to be a cheerleader, popular and sure. Or just one of those people, like your dad, who doesn't feel the need to scrutinize or make excuses. Of course I wish that for you, but at the same time I'm sure I won't know what to do with it if it happens.

I want to describe the closeness I feel when I'm nursing you, but it seems impossible. When I try to analyze the feeling, even in the moment I can't put my finger on it. It's how you twist, like gumby, so it seems your legs have made themselves comfortable on the lower part of my lap while your head and arms have settled into my chest. It's the little dives you do when you accidentally fall off the nipple. The way you burrow in to get closer, even if you're already drinking. The pawing at my chest when the milk will not come fast enough, and the gentle stroking of my arm when you are dreaming. It is, at once, boring and exhilarating. Maybe it is this: that I am providing everything you need at the moment. That it's me making you happy in every way possible. When I put you down in the crib, I feel a twinge of sadness. Not because you aren't comfortable, by now you love to sleep in your own space, just because I have now become dispensible.

I complain so much about your clinginess - how it is killing my back, how it is impossible to get anything done - but at the same time I appreciate the security you feel when I am around. It's like you are freer to ignore the dangers of the world. If I am there, everything is okay.

What a beautiful feeling, to be needed. I sometimes go through my day thinking to myself, Appreciate this now! Now! Now!

On Monday, I took you to the gym daycare and you stayed there without a fuss for thirty minutes. Afterward, I called your Daddy and your Nana to tell them. Like any other accomplishment, it was bittersweet. You need me less, yet you can rely on yourself more.

As always, little girl, it is the greatest privilege I have known to watch you grow.

Love you forever,

Mama

Love, Love, Love

2006-06-29T14:28:00.000-04:00

Three years married, each better than the last.

That's big!

Dear Kangaroo, Month Ten

2006-06-01T20:40:00.000-04:00

Dear Kangaroo Monkey,

Three days ago, you turned ten months old.

Already I forget what it's like to have a tiny baby. I watch all the new neighborhood babies flail and squeak, and I know your babyhood is quickly passing. I remember that I could nurse you in one arm and answer the door in another, or knit! I remember watching Sam nurse Lucy (who must have been six months old and far smaller than you), splayed across her lap, legs hanging loose, and thinking, "That is an awfully large baby on that boob." Now that's you, and Lucy is up and running.

It makes me feel more confident to have another generation of teeny ones around. I think I'm getting it, this motherhood thing.

You don't put your head on my shoulder any more unless you're very sleepy. My best cuddles come when you are napping, nestled snug into my side and nursing. Your sweaty head resting on my arm, you are a vision of calm and tranquility. You look like an angel of peace. I like to read while you nurse, but I stop often to softly push your fine, wet hair off your face, pat your bottom or blow on your forehead. I know I will forget this feeling: as you empty my breast, you fill me up. But I wish I could hold onto it forever.

Besides milk, you are a bit divided on what you want. You like me to be close, but you want to explore the world. So you do a lot of up-and-down, and your best case scenario is me playing alongside you, inches away.

I am learning so much about your budding personality. Above all, you are a happy baby. I remember wondering when you'd start to smile, and now I wonder if you'll ever stop. Only a fall or a very bad case of the toots can wipe that grin off your beautiful face. I know now that you love to do new things and you love to watch people, but you like the security of the familiar. You are innately curious. You'd play with friends all day, as long as they give you space and don't screech too loudly in your face. I know that you thrive on routine but that you sometimes need a change-up to keep going. You don't need any kind of security object but you are very attached to me and your dad. You throw a fit if I leave the room, but it's perfectly acceptable for you to wander out. I think you are more like your father, except that you demand that things go your way, and you know just how to ensure that they do. That's like me.

You love books - I suppose that's also like me - and you're enthralled with Brown Bear, Brown Bear. You watch with your whole body as your dad acts out Good Night Gorilla for you at bedtime. You love taking blocks and small toys out of containers and banging them together. And opening and closing things.

You also love throwing things. At people. You're starting to talk a bit more. No real words, I think, but a lot more sounds. You point at all things beautiful or startling or new. Or at your dad, constantly, sometimes with both hands. You blow raspberries - on me and on our neighbor's leather couch. You love cats, but they mostly crawl away from you, leaving you frustrated.

"How big is Roo?" "So big!" is your favorite trick. You like it so much that you often stop in the midst of another trick, such as clapping or waving, to raise your chubby arms above your head, even if nobody asked. Then you look around for some kind of acknowledgement. Like, "Can't you people see the incredibly adorable gesture I'm performing for you?"

You will eat nearly anything I put in front of you. Avocado cubes, bits of turkey, blueberries, cheese, tortilla pieces and goldfish are among your favorites. You drink from a sippy cup. (Finally!)

You sleep all night under the pink blanket I knit for you, with minimal fuss at bedtime. You nap once a day in your crib. (Double finally!) You cruise between furniture, pull up on anything available (the wall, toys, your friends). Just today, you gained the balance and confidence to loosen your hands and let go for two or three seconds. My baby, standing alone.

On Saturday, you put your feet in the Pacific ocean.

You were enthralled by the waves and giddy at the sight of so many half-naked children galavanting around. Unsure about the sand, you stared with wonder at the glinty black granules that stuck to your hands. For half an hour you stared, glancing at me, then your hands, then back at me. And then you did the only thing a baby could do: you ate some.

I love discovering the world again with you.

Love,

Mama

TK

2006-05-30T23:03:00.000-04:00

Just got back from San Diego. Month Ten Newsletter coming soon.

SOS

2006-05-17T21:28:00.000-04:00

Few readers who are left, let me ask you the burning question. If you had a great mom (or even a good one), what was it - exactly - that made her great (or good)?

Thank you in advance for your responses.

One Lucky Mama

2006-05-13T08:31:00.000-04:00

Dear Friends:

They say, “The moment a child is born, so is a mother.” But I would tell you – my posse of moms – that you all had a hand in making me the mother that I am.

I met some of you at a playgroup before I gave birth, and I set my mind then to making myself a mom of your kind. You are, after all, the first moms I’ve really known. I didn’t know you well, but I knew enough to want to be like you.

I saw girls who could talk about politics and poop and magazine gossip interchangeably, who wore flirty skirts and listened to decent music. I saw mothers unalarmed by the little things, like dirty pacifiers or runny noses or somebody throwing a ball at your two-week-old’s head (Sorry, Em!). I saw easygoing teachers who disciplined their children without overreacting. I saw miracle workers who could scoop up a crying child and have him giggling in minutes. I saw women who were patient and loving, crouching down next to their children to play alongside them and to dole out praise. I saw friends who took each other’s kids in a pinch and hung out together over a glass of wine in the evening.

Mostly, though, I saw kids. A gaggle of crawling, running, laughing, pushing, jumping, munching, snuggling kids. I don’t know if you realize it, but we have a bunch of really happy little people in this group. We have bruiser girls and shy guys and flirts and chit chats and a whole lot of precociousness. They are all so different, but so wonderful. I would count myself lucky if S. turned out like any one of them.

So, this letter is to thank you. Without you, S. would surely still be sleeping in my bed, waking every hour and not eating any form of solid food. She certainly wouldn’t be eating finger foods – choking hazards! – or crawling around playgrounds – dirty! – or hanging out in the swimming pool every afternoon – dangerous! I would most likely be locked in my house wearing sweats, listening to Baby Mozart on repeat and feeling sorry for myself.

Because of you, I am known in my new mother’s play group as “the laid back one.” And, as most of you know, I’m anything but mellow. Still, your support and advice - better than that found in any parenting book - has turned me into a confident mother.

Thank you for being my on-call nurses, my therapists, my role models, my knitting buddies, walking buddies, drinking buddies, swimming buddies, my family, and the best of friends.

S. and I are so lucky to be surrounded by mothers like you.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Love,
L.

“Of all the rights of women, the greatest is to be a mother.” - Lin Yutang

Pinch me!

2006-05-08T07:38:00.000-04:00

Major announcement: I am checking my email in the presence of my daughter! And she's not crying!

I kind of noticed a few minutes ago that Roo was enthralled with the mirror she'd just grabbed from her toy bin. So I decided to try - for the zillionth time - to move more than four feet away from her without eliciting screams. I sneaked into the kitchen, grabbed a cup of coffee and silently slipped back into the living room.

Still safe, I flipped open the computer.

Two minutes ago I heard the pitter swish of her crawl and looked up to find her crawling AWAY from me - toward a toy! And now she's giggling and shaking a rattle! Across the room!

It may not seem like much, but solo play from my baby girl is something to post about.

I know, I have to tell you again: she's playing BY HERSELF!

Dear Kangaroo, Month Nine

2006-04-29T14:35:00.000-04:00

Dear Tiny Princess,

When you throw your head back and erupt into from-the-gut giggles, tears come to my eyes. I wish I could hold on to your laughter. Although you have recently blossomed into a tiny person with preferences and moods and style, your pleasures are heartbreakingly simple: a surprise tickle attack, Mama headbanging to silly songs, a gallop around the house, a session of hide and seek, seeing Dada come through the door in the afternoon.

I hope you hold onto your ability to glean joy from ordinary situations. I had to re-learn as an adult that everyday moments are often the most important.

Watching you grow has always been amazing. But now it is also extraordinarily entertaining. To wit:

1. You spit food - particularly orange food - at my face and at our beautiful new house's white walls. (Many of my peers spend playgroups discussing tactics to stymie this habit in their own children but I can't help but laugh along with you. What is babyhood for if not for spitting and throwing food?)

2. You crawl with one leg straight out to the side, like a pirate, just in case you'd like to use it to push back up to sitting. That way you can decide more swiftly than other babies: Go or stay? Give chase or hang back and watch?

3. You clap, mostly if I enter a room (that is love, baby girl) or if you do something you think is awesome, like throw a ball or find a hidden toy. Sometimes you stop in the midst of crawling across a room to clap about your quick progress - you're a very good cheerleader.

4. You wave hello and bye-bye as though your arm is a noodle. You especially like to wave at old men in the mall. After that you clap for yourself.

5. You give high fives, regular fives and low fives.

6. And, the kicker: A few days ago, I held you close and said, "Give Mama a kiss." And you did! A big, slobbery, open mouthed kiss. And you'll do it again and again. To me, to your Dada, to your three-year-old boyfriend across the street and to your baby doll.

This month you have filled me so full of love. All of the hidden nooks in my heart have been discovered and crammed with the deliciousness of loving you. There is no word for the way I feel about being your mom. Happy doesn't cover it.

Also this month, you have sucked me dry. I'm losing weight and my doctor is putting me in physical therapy to fix my out-of-whack back. I'm not complaining; I'm telling you this because I want you to know that motherhood is difficult. After I had relayed a particularly harrowing story of a sleepless night followed by an ornery day, one of your dad's friends asked me why anyone would ever want to have kids. Because - and this is impossible to understand before you have children of your own - it is worth it.

Besides, I do it to myself: I swing you up to the sky to elicit a grin, then lay you all the way down on the floor - you frown - and then swing you high again to go for a giggle.

You are currently sleeping through the night (knock on wood, throw salt over my shoulder, etc.), refusing to nap (please let up on this one - you really are exhausted in the afternoon), and eating finger foods like banana and cheese bits, toast, rice cakes and all manner of crackers.

I keep telling you to pause and stay where you're at in life, but you refuse. So I have to try to make you laugh as much as possible every day, in case your giggle changes tomorrow and I never get to hear it again. Our little Energizer Bunny, you insist on doing new things each day. It's amazing how one day I can sit you up in your playroom and count on you being there when I return, and the next day I sit you in the same spot only to find you standing up in the living room by the time I get back from answering the phone.

Love,

Mama

Dear Kangaroo, Month Eight

2006-04-01T19:47:00.000-05:00

Kangaroo!

Holding you, I watched last week’s Bat Mitzvah with fresh eyes. Instead of seeing our cousin Freda reciting verses in Hebrew, I watched her mother glow. Instead of identifying with the daughter, thinking it was just yesterday when I stood at the Bima becoming a Bat Mitzvah, I identified with the mother. Already I have tasted how quickly children grow. Already I wish time would switch to slow motion, so I could turn each second with you over in my mind, savor it from all perspectives. In just a moment, the men will hoist us atop chairs at your Bat Mitzvah as our guests dance round and round, smiling for you.

The other day, you turned eight months old.

Although you can crawl a few steps – forward or back – and have no trouble expressing your opinion with heart-melting smiles or deafening screams, you’re still our tiny baby princess. In some ways, your reliance on me is sweeter. It seems you know I’m here to comfort you. You let me cradle you now, snuggle into my protective arms like you never did as a newborn. Back then, you insisted on sitting upright, head on my shoulder.

Of course, your mommy-mommy phase also drives me crazy sometimes. Two weeks ago, I thought I would go mad when you wouldn’t let me put you down – even for a second – for several days in a row. My back was killing me. I spent three days at home, unable to withstand your constant tears from the car seat. I squeezed in a shower with the door open while you screamed at me, red-faced, from the Exersaucer.

On the third day, I managed to run out of diapers and milk. This was quite a blow to my uber-organized self image. I loaded you into the car and then into the shopping cart. You screamed during the entire shopping trip. In the check out lane, I averted my eyes as other customers glared. Then I realized I had forgotten my wallet in the car. So I rolled the cart full of groceries out to the parking lot only to discover that I left the wallet at home.

Then I left. I stole the groceries and went home, both of us crying. Luckily, one of our wonderful neighbors called just as I was heading back to the store and I happily handed you over for fifteen minutes while I went back and paid.

Most of our days together don’t make such funny stories, but I enjoy most of them more!

At the beginning of this month, you said Dada. A week ago, you said Mama. You were climbing all over your Grandpa in Phoenix and I walked onto the porch where the two of you were sitting. You reached your arms out to me and said, “Mama.” Tears came to my eyes, Boo.

You got a chance to see both sets of grandparents this month. Your grandparents from Minnesota came down and built you a swing set. Already a flirt, you took to your Grandpa immediately, falling asleep on his shoulder for a nap and smiling at him every chance you got. You and I flew to Arizona a few days ago – not an easy feat, let me tell you – and your grandparents showered you with new toys and clothes. Again, you were taken with your Grandpa, but you also let your Nana take you for a hike and a few walks in the park.

Also this month, you grew a tooth. It took a week or so to cut through your bottom gum and gone is your toothless smile. However, you tend to grace us with your one toothed-smile a lot more than you ever have. You giggle when tickled and also when threatened with the possibility of a tickle. You love to be twirled and spun and hung upside down. And your slew of neighborhood boyfriends can always elicit that endearing laughter. You shrieked with joy early this month when our six-year-old neighbor Andrew took your hands and sang your name over and over again.

You’re on your way to crawling, but you still get your feet a bit twisted while going forward. You can get to sitting position from your back or belly. You use all kinds of letters to make gibberish sentences like Nah nah nay da di yay. You eat a solid breakfast, lunch and dinner and occasionally drink from a sippy cup.

Two more firsts this month: your first trip garage sale-ing, which yielded some very cute clothes and gently-used toys, and your first camping trip. You adored camping near the beach, rolling around on a blanket-covered tarp, staring at the clear blue sky, attempting to eat dirt and leaves and falling asleep in my arms by the light of the campfire.

Swimming season is here, and you’ve now survived your first dunk under the water. We start lessons next week. You look incredibly cute in a bathing suit. And in everything else. And also in nothing. Speaking of which, you love bath time, and you and your daddy seem to have a blast every night during that first step of your bedtime routine. After we wrestle you into your pajamas, you shriek at the sight of Goodnight Moon, which daddy reads to you before I nurse and sing you drowsy.

You’re still snuggling with us for half the night, but none of us are ready to give it up. I don’t know if we’re setting ourselves up for you to be sleeping with us as a teenager, but I’m taking my chances. After all, you’re only this small once.

Love you forever,

Mama

Dear Kangaroo, Month Seven

2006-03-05T13:06:00.000-05:00

Dear Miss Boo,

Your Grandpa and Grandma have kept us busy the past few days - we have built you a swing set and organized our garage among other things - and that's my excuse for the delayed letter.

Five days ago, you were seven months old. If last month you awoke to the world, this month you announced to it: "Here I am!" (Or, in baby parlance, "Yay yay yay yeeee!") You now take interest in all of your baby friends as well as the running toddlers. This has led to several "death grip" accidents in which you or A. or L. have clenched on to one another's hair/nose/arm and tried to claim it as your own. But you all lived.

Anything new we handed to you - a paper cup, the newspaper, anything with a fabric tag or a toy you hadn't seen in a while - either held your attention for twenty minutes or was instantly discarded. This is because you gained something very useful this month: an opinion. You no longer cry simply out of pain or need, you wail when I take away something you're playing with (you have an unusual attraction to choking hazards) or when you'd like to switch activities or position.

You could play with your pacifier for ages, just studying it. You also like to play an exasperating game of tug-of-war with yourself as you try to pull your paci out of your mouth while sucking hard to keep it in.

You not only get up on all fours and rock, you occassionally pull yourself up to stand, especially on your little music table. Attempts at crawling still generally end in frustration, as you scooch backwards every time you try to go forward.

This month, we discovered your love of being thrown in the air. Anything that involves swinging high and low makes you laugh out loud. So does our MusikGarten class, in which we dance in circles before meeting all the other babies in the middle, throwing up our legs and yelling "Whee!" Bath time has become a lot more fun, too, now that you sit up and play the whole time.

You were sick a few times this month, including one bout of fever (102.5!) that ended with me sticking my finger up your tush to insert a tylenol suppository. You officially hate medicine administered any other way. I would say you've been a somewhat sickly baby - I feel like you're sick every other week - but a very happy one nonetheless. This has, however, led to your return to sleeping with me most of the night. Still, I figure you'll only be this little once so I have to get my cuddle time in now.

At your six month check up, which was really at 6.5 months, you weighed 19 lbs. 14 oz. and stretched to 27" long. You wear 18 month size clothes. That's thanks to daddy's genes, no doubt, as well as your continued love of food.

You're still addicted to the boob, but you also love peas and carrots, oatmeal and bananas. You must have your own piece of flatware to mouth and play with as I feed you, so mealtime is often a messy, joyous struggle. One of your favorite activities is feeding yourself bits of star snacks (grain puffs that melt in your mouth). At first, you could only rake the bits into your fist and then wonder where on earth they went. A few days later, you discovered that they were still in your hand and started putting your whole hand in your mouth to get to them. Now, you're on your way to perfecting your pincer grasp.

You still have a bit of a mommy syndrome going on, although that seems to melt away at the sight of either of your grandfathers. You cry if I hand you to Grandma or Nana, but either of your grandpas can take you any time.

I'm just going to bend the rules a little and add a story from three days ago. We were sprawled on the floor with your Grandma and Grandpa, who were oogling at you as you sat there being cute when all of a sudden you let it fly: "Dada!"

Tearing up, I ran to get a photo of you and Daddy. You reached out and grabbed the picture and then said, "Daddy, dada, dada, daddy, dada." And you haven't stopped since.

Your father has since turned into a puddle.

Ooh, this month was so much fun, tiny princess. I can't wait to see what you'll do next.

Love you always,

Mama

"Allergic To Inactivity"

2006-02-14T10:23:00.000-05:00

In honor of Valentine's Day, a post about loving oneself. (Not that way, naughty!)

"Mama" is something I always enjoy being but not something I always enjoy doing.

Not that I'm complaining. Like I told another young stay at home mom soul-sister yesterday, "You're doing exactly what you want to be doing and it just isn't as fulfilling as you imagined. Still, you wouldn't pick anything else. There's nothing anyone can say to make you feel better."

Moms afflicted with the: "What do you do?" "Nothing." line of dialogue agree that it's one part society, one part ourselves that keep us from fully enjoying our mommyhood.

To everything there is a season. So why did we spend years forming and tugging ourselves into one version of success, only to willingly hop off the money, talent and power bandwagon? For most of us, it's because Mama is what we always wanted to be. Still, with so much momentum carrying us toward a divergent - and perhaps more socially rewarding - path, we struggle with our self-images and with the way we imagine our single and married w/o kids friends see us.

For me, it's a matter of solidity. Used to be, I could see what I did every day in the next morning's paper. Used to be, I plopped on the pillow at night with a clear idea of why I was tired, of what exactly had worn me out.

Maybe this existential crisis is the reason I pick up knitting needles, paint brushes or cooking spices when the baby is down for the night. I need to hold, see and taste my accomplishments. I need to hear someone grade my performance with an "Mmm, good," or, "That's really cool," even if that someone is practically obligated.

I don't know what the solution is. Maybe it's grad school, or going back to work, or just getting a good night's sleep. It's tough to find a fix for something you're unwilling to change. Because however good a performance review or GPA may look on paper, it does not compare to the fleeting moments we spend with our children. I can tell because I can't wait to get up in the morning, and I miss her when she's napping.

Happy Valentine's Day. I'm going to go give my mini Valentine a kiss.

1981

2006-02-07T13:24:00.000-05:00

Getting ready for the bash.

Happy 25th birthday to me. We had a gnarly party, complete with breakdancing, Pop Rocks and a keg. We even tp'd the house of our neighbors who dared not show up. From a dude dressed as a Rubik's cube (who could solve it in eight minutes - dork) to a Miami Vice couple, some rock stars and a Molly Ringwald look alike, everyone was there.

Thanks for a tubular time.

Dear Kangaroo, Month Six

2006-01-28T20:54:00.000-05:00

My Sweet Girl,

Today, you have been alive for six months -- and I'm a bit sad that half of our first year together is over. But hasn't it been wonderful, Boo?

I could try to catalogue your many accomplishments this month, but the biggest one is intangible. It's something like this: You have awoken to the world.

You sense so much now that you find it hard to fall asleep - or even eat - without experiencing something new. Your eyebrows raise at the feeling of grass on your chubby feet; You reach out for toys and leaves and whatever food I am eating. Anything your hands touch gets studied, mouthed, talked to, shaken and then played with.

The toys you used to stare at now get punched and prodded, dropped and rolled. You sing along (meaning, you say Ahhhhhhhhhhh in a single tone) with our silly songs and smile wildly during games like "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" and Peek-A-Boo. Strangers whose approach was not welcome can now earn smiles and coos and giggles. You've started rolling over in earnest now, you can scooch your tushy up so you're nearly in crawling position and you can sit alone (although I still stick a pillow behind you just in case). Also, you can eat your toes.

Mostly, you are delighted at the world. Your joy is contagious and incredible to watch.

This was the month that we tried the "cry-it-out" method. I would say it worked in some ways and failed in others. Most nights, I lay you in your crib after a long, quiet nursing session and you snuggle up with Pinky (your doll) and fall asleep in minutes, giving your dad and I some much needed time together. Most nights, you wake up two or three times to eat, and I feed you and put you back to bed. Some nights, you cry and cry, and I pick you up and bring you in bed with me and you nurse all night long. And I don't mind - I even love it. And I don't care what "they" say. What we're doing works for us.

I've learned that mothering brings with it a measure of guilt, largely because we're all trying to do the right thing for our children but nobody knows what that is. Probably it's different for each child and for each mother. So I just do what I can, try to be flexible enough to change with the tides and cross my fingers that the thousand kisses I give you each day are enough.

This was also the month that you started eating solid food, which is actually quite runny. From your first bite of mushed, watered-down bananas, you loved it. If I don't feed you fast enough, you lunge forward in the high chair with your mouth wide open, hoping there will be something there by the time you hit the tray. Now you eat rice cereal and avocados, too. Green beans and applesauce were vetoed by some very scrunched up baby faces.

Although I sometimes miss the tiny baby who wanted to be held constantly, I love to watch you grow. You can do the most heart-melting things now, like holding your arms out for me or your dad to pick you up when you're in your crib or your saucer. Every time you do that, Boo, I think: This is the best time of my life.

I love you so much.

Love,

Mama

Dear Kangaroo, Month Five

2005-12-27T22:41:00.000-05:00

Dear Roo,

Yesterday you were five months old.

When I was pregnant with you, I said a stupid thing to my father. I told him I worried that I would have trouble giving up my career because no one would depend on me any more - I wouldn't feel important. He told me I would soon find out how wrong I was.

Although you're not developed enough to have specific expectations of me, I imagine you to be a very demanding little girl. After all, you must have inherited some of my genes. So I imagine that you expect a particularly wonderful life, and I endeavor to give it to you, 24-hours-a-day.

Although it can be mundane - there's a lot of Spray N' Wash involved - my job is anything but unimportant, and I feel more dependable than ever.

Who knows whether I'm screwing you up by sleeping by your side, or whether I'd be screwing you up if I banished you to the crib instead. Perhaps I'm making you too needy by carrying you around all day instead of letting you find independence.

Your father just got his six month job performace evaluation. I wish I had one of those to look forward to. Most likely, you'll tell me where to shove it in 16 years or so, and take it back four years after that.

But here is my promise: I am doing my best. And I will always do my best by you.

Despite being sick for the entire month (finally, the antibiotics you're on seem to be working), you have blossomed beautifully. I almost don't recognize my tiny, hairy, scrunched-up newborn in the giggly, talkative baby you've become.

You can sit up by yourself, supporting yourself with your two hands. Sometimes, you can even reach out for a toy while sitting, but more often than not this gesture ends in a face plant. You don't care, though, you just turn it into a tummy roll and keep on playing.

You now give smiles freely but save your laughter for hard-earned moments, so that when you erupt into giggles it is like a happiness balm for everyone around you. Things that get you laughing include: my kissing noises, raspberries on your belly, our "How much is that baby in the mirror?" routine, tickling your chest, putting desitin on your bum while screeching "Tushy, tushy, tushy," the BOING! game, your grandpa's popping sounds, and your dad's imitation of a gopher.

Your favorite time of day is right after naptime (which can be at any time considering naps are totally irregular around here) and as soon as your dad gets home. You light up when you hear his voice and smile for him more than anyone else. It's a good thing, too, because he works hard, goes to school and manages to love his baby better than any other daddy I know.

I thought my life of daily showers was over the day you sat up in your bouncy seat a few weeks ago, but lately you have been really enjoying an exersaucer in the bathroom. Your favorite toy - besides your beloved hands, which you keep rediscovering - is paper. The doctor's office drives you mad with joy because the paper on the examination table is so perfectly crinkly. You also love to play with rattles and balls. You can pick these objects up without help, and transfer them between your hands.

You have discovered a new vocal register - a pitch that gets the neighbors' dogs howling - and you use it to express extreme happiness and extreme frustration.

Thankfully, you kept that voice in your pocket during our two airplane trips this month. You were a rockstar; not a peep out of you. Thank goodness your aversion for the car seems to have more to do with the carseat than the whole vehicle in motion phenomenon. You were so good on the way to Arizona that I was confident enough to let Daddy go home on the appointed date and stay on with my parents and friends for a few extra days. In doing this, I risked bringing out your occassional schizophrenia and having a downright horrible trip home. But again, you were wonderful.

In Arizona, you charmed everyone you met. You were especially taken with your goofy uncle D, who could even make you smile while you were crying.

Earlier this month, we found out that you have a teensy-weensy hole in your heart (adjectives like teensy-weensy are becoming so much more common in my vocabularly these days). It's not a big deal. You may have to take antibiotics before you go to the dentist. Or you could just skip the dentist altogether, like I do.

It's Chanukah, and we're trying to start some traditions here in the Kangaroo household. But every time we get ready to light the menorah, you fall asleep wherever you are - high chair, my arms, wherever. In fact, we may allow Chanukah to last for several months if the candles continue their magical effect on your sleep schedule. (Speaking of sleep, your daddy and I are in the midst of a cry-it-out vs. no-cry debate - just another way we could ruin your life, kiddo!)

You got about a thousand presents from your grandparents - mostly 18- or 24-month sized clothing, since you continue to grow like it's your job - and a few knick knacks from us.

Last night, your dad and I sat holding you in the dim evening light.

"I hope she remembers this," he said, stroking your tiny, soft hand.

"She won't," I said. "But we will."

That is your gift to us.

Thank you.

We love you, our precious little boo.

Love,

Mama

Dear Kangaroo, Month Four

2005-11-28T20:04:00.000-05:00

Dear Roo,

God, are you already four months old? I swear you were just three months old ten minutes ago. Since then, however, you've managed to gain a couple pounds, roll over, speak a dozen or so new sounds and - glorious day! - take a pacifier.

Watching you grow is awe-inspiring. You no longer need my help with so many things. You can spend time playing on the floor on your own. You need no assistance finding milk - your wide open mouth seems like a nipple magnet. Sometimes, you can even put yourself to sleep at night. You like some toys and hate others - you already have a mind of your own!

In so many ways, you are growing separate from me.

But you will always be my sweet boo, my little monkey, munchkin, kangaroo. Right now, I can't imagine ever getting mad at you, can't imagine you talking back to me. But no matter what, you are always part of me. I will never forget the feeling of your little chest rising and falling beneath my palm as you sleep.

Your Nana was here for several weeks this month and you managed to further capture her heart by beginning to giggle during her visit. She was sitting on the couch with you, tickling your tummy with her nails, when your face turned bright red, you grunted and then went: "He Huh Huh."

When your daddy or I do it, you alternate between giggling or getting really pissed and screaming. It's a crap shoot, Roo. But we gamble all the time. You also like to laugh at your Daddy's funny faces or baby talk.

I loved to watch you and Nana fall in love with one another. She invented new games to make you smile and sat with you for hours while you slept. She even got you to like pacifiers, a feat I had been attempting for a good couple of months. If I am a good mother, your Nana is the reason. My childhood was full of kisses and new experiences. I'm trying to fill yours with the same lovely things.

Nana must have bought you 25 new outfits while she visited. During one shopping trip, we wanted to go to a craft store, Michael's. We strolled along the sidewalk till we got to the door when all of a sudden you started wailing. I tried to soothe you by rocking you, swinging, shushing - all the tricks. Nothing worked until I walked away from the store, then you calmed. So I walked back to the store and you started wailing again! I decided to take a break and bring you out to the car. Twenty minutes later, the same thing happened. I can only think of one explanation: You do not like Michael's. Just another one of your personality traits rearing its head - perhaps you will not be an artist.

Your Grandpa Rich was so jealous of your Nana's long visit that he bought us a Web cam. Technology is so advanced that he can watch from Arizona while I rock you to sleep at night. And you can hear him tell you jokes while you play. You probably won't think that's too amazing, but for us, it is.

While Grandpa Rich was here for a week, he taught you how to turn the pages of a board book, and now you do it nearly every time we sit to read. He also taught you to suck your lower lip and kick your legs in the air with wild abandon.

Although we are now in possession of three borrowed Exersaucers, your favorite toy this month is your hands. You make yourself a "hand sandwich," spending several minutes wringing your hands together in preparation to shove them into your tiny mouth. There, you slurp and suck and chew them until something distracts you.

We think you are getting a tooth. I can see a tiny line of white just under your gum. And you are drooling like a horse!

You are becoming such a beautiful little girl. Although you're still putting on the pounds, you're also lengthening out, and sometimes I believe I can see what you'll look like as a child. Your skin, Roo, looks like peaches its so perfect. And your deep blue eyes are so round that you always have that peaked, wide-eyed look as though everything in the world is interesting.

This month we found out that you may have a little hole in your heart. We knew your heart was different even while you were inside me, and that was a little scary. We are just now finding out exactly how it is different. That will help us take away some of the mystery and do something about it. Although we don't know all the details yet, what I know is that you are a strong girl, and you will get through it.

This month we celebrated Thanksgiving with your Grandma and Grandpa E from Minnesota and lots of your cousins. Your Grandpa E finally got to meet you, and he was amazed at how big, beautiful and content you are. During our four day stay in Atlanta, I hardly got to hold you. So many people love you, Roo!

Your cousins love you so much that, on top of all the hugs and kisses they gave you, they also gave you a cold. Although you are snorting your way through the night lately, I think it was worth it. I do hope you feel better soon because you have been a bit of a fuss monkey. But you fuss so little normally that I have to think this is what most moms deal with all the time.

I want to tell you what I am most thankful for in the world: Our family. Being your mother and your daddy's wife is a blessing and a joy. Even if it means not getting much sleep.

I love you.

Love,

Mama

The Bad News First

2005-11-22T22:20:00.000-05:00

1. At Kangaroo's four-month appointment yesterday, Dr. B listened to her heart for nearly five minutes. He suspects a heart murmur. Mild, most likely. Won't affect her, most likely. Still, it's hard on Mama. It's not like we're talking about her toe. We'll know more in a few weeks.

2. Also yesterday, Dr. B told me Roo might not roll over for a while because she's so huge - 90th percentile for height, off the charts for weight. Because of her shots, Roo was running a fever this evening. In order to take an infant's temperature, one must insert a thermometer up her rump. I had just done that and Roo lay stark naked on a towel on the floor when she all of a sudden swung her legs and rolled onto her side. Husband and I kicked it into high gear - squealing and cheering, waving toys and making wildly corny facial gestures. Well...after a few minutes of whining, she did it! Ladies and gentlemen, my baby is now mobile. No more abandoning her on the bed.

3. In even better news, I fell into the bathtub with my clothes on tonight. Yeah. Ker-plunk. Jeans all wet. I was holding naked Roo under the arms, ready to hoist her into the tub, when I realized my balance was off and I was going to drop her. The only way to counteract her downward plunge was to plonk my ass in the tub. So that's what I did. Lucky for me, we bathe the babe on a sponge, so I was quite comfortable in my fall. And then I just took off my wet clothes and took a bath with her.

I love motherhood.

Dear Kangaroo, Month Three

2005-10-28T23:08:00.000-04:00

Dear Kangaroo,

I figure I do most things for you: I take pains to pick you up immediately when you cry, I allow you to loll around on the boob half the evening, I pull over to the side of the road when you wail in the car DESPITE our agreement last month that you would stop that this month. Heck, I wipe your poo with wet paper towels because your bum is too sensitive for wipes! I may as well do one thing for me.

The thing is, you hate it (but I love it):

Alright, two things:

That's right, Kangaroo. I don't need a full-body massage or a trip to Hawaii (alright, I could use those, too), my best times are spent just having fun with you.

Today, you turn three months old. Two days ago, it seems you found your vocal cords. Mostly, you say some variation of the letter A. As in: AaaAAAh! or aaaAAAH! or aAaA. Really it's kinda hard to interpret into the written word. Once, your daddy swore you said his first name. He responded: "No! It's Daddy!"

Did I ever tell you how proud your dad is to be your dad? He likes to remind you often, staring into your still-blue eyes, saying, "I'm your dad," over and over, like he's trying to convince himself.

Early this month, it seemed like your sweet raspberry mouth was developing faster than any other part of you. First, someone turned on the smile light. You started to smile often, even at me. Not only would you smile at the letters hanging above the wall on your changing table, you also began to smile any time I sang the changing table song. Then you discovered your tounge. You love to stick it out and lick things. You give us lizard kisses and pull your pink blanket and toy turtle up to your face to lick them. Soon after your discovered your tounge, your mouth stumbled upon your hands. You love to slurp and suck on them, although you still occasionally become frustrated that they do not posess milk ducts. Sometimes, you manage to suck your thumb for while, but you still won't take a pacifier.

Your love of hand slurping led us to unswaddle you at night. The jury is still out on that move. You now like to snooze with your legs frogged up and your arms spread staright out.

Kangaroo, this month you started sleeping in your crib in your very own room. It's kind of scary for Mama, but I think you enjoy it. At the beginning of the month, we moved you into the Pack N Play bassinet in our room, but that didn't last long because you quickly outgrew the 15 lb. limit. So, one night while I went out to a bar for the VERY FIRST TIME since your conception, your daddy put you to bed in your crib. There you have slept, ever since.

Not that you're sleeping well. Oh, no! You hate to go to bed at night, preferring instead to pop awake immediately when one of us puts you down in your crib. Lately, I have been letting you fall asleep on my boob. It's a horrible habit, all the books say, and I'm fairly certain I'll regret it. Still, it's the only way you'll go to sleep and stay that way for any length of time.

Usually, that length is three to five hours for the first stretch of night. After that, you wake every two or three hours, usually resulting in your being taken into bed with your half-conscious parents. Truthfully, I hardly know what goes on in the middle of the night with us. I just do whatever feels right at the time.

Every morning, I like to tell you that I'm the happiest mom in the world. I believe it, too. One thing about you, Roo, you love to do new things, see new colors and new light. It makes me so happy to watch your face light up.

You and me have been all over the place this month: to Cedar Key for the seafood festival, where you first wiggled your toes in the sand; to your dad's office, where his employee's cooed at you and giggled about your resemblance to their boss; to a butterfly sanctuary, where you fell asleep among the beautiful winged creatures; on countless power walks around the neighborhood; to a botanical garden; to TJMaxx; a dozen playgroups, out to lunch.

Sometimes we do stay home. And then we read books and have dance parties to "Hey Mr. DJ." We practice sitting up (you're getting it!) and rolling over (seems like you'll never get it!) and we sing silly songs together.

A funny thing happened when we were hanging out with friends the other day. Andrew, our five-year-old neighbor, threw a frog on you. In what seemed like slow motion, it landed on your belly and then hopped onto your leg. I flipped out, screamed, grabbed the gooey frog and flung it to the ground. It was traumatic! Horrible! Only you could have cared less. You just looked up at me quizically like, "Mom? What are you getting all riled up about?" I have a feeling it won't be the last time I get that look.

Also, this month you had a very special visitor. She called you, "Tiny," even though you are the biggest baby in your playgroup!

A few days ago, the weather turned colder. You look absolutely precious in pants! Size 6-9 months, by the way, for my growing girl. I thought, as you got older, it might be less shocking that you came out of me, that we made you. But no. I am even more amazed that the little burrito I carried home three months ago is budding into a tiny, smooth-skinned girl.

Well, Roo, I am going to go into your room now and listen to your breathing for a few minutes. Your tiny puffs remind me of the miracle of you. They are my lullabye.

Love,
Mama

Ahead-Behind

2005-10-27T17:46:00.000-04:00

Kangaroo's dad is airplaning her above his head. She's horizontal, smiling. Last week, she could only be lifted up vertically. Her neck muscles have just now mastered the boardlike, straight ahead, up in the air maneuver.

New moms, it seems, see everything as a developmental milestone. My child can airplane at 13 weeks, but she still doesn't splash in the bath - is that normal?

I go to a luncheon every Tuesday at the hospital where Roo was born. Twenty-some moms munch on chef's salad and go around the room talking about what's going on with them and their little ones. Some women agonize over colic or complain about lack of sleep while others speak quietly about post-partum depression. It's a wonderful way to break out of the solitude that comes with motherhood.

But the other business, the secret business that we all know about, is the comparing. There are, for instance, at least three other babies in the room born within a day of Roo. Joey can't hold his head up very well but is smiling like a clown; Leah is practically rolling over but never stops crying. Without trying, I take mental notes, wondering whether Roo ought to smile more often or should be wriggling more vigorously, subconciously high-fiving myself when another mom says, "I never hear Roo cry," and "She's so alert!"

There are also babies a month ahead, so we can have hope. And babies a month behind, so we can feel triumphant.

Last week, my dad ran into a woman I met just after I was born. Two months older than me, B knew me in utero. She was my mother's milestone, the measuring stick my mom used to see if I was on time, ahead or behind.

B and I went playgroup together for years. Then my family moved to the other side of town. Then we grew up.

I e-mailed her this week, at my dad's suggestion. She's working, has a boyfriend, bought a house. She's happy. I think we'll stay in touch.

I figure that by the to I run into Leah or Joey from luncheon 20 years from now, they will all pretty much be happy and on their way. But that doesn't mean I won't be quizzing their moms next week to see whose baby can hold their head up longer. :)

2005-10-26T17:46:00.000-04:00

Winter pink and bunny feet.

Cold

2005-10-26T14:12:00.000-04:00

Strolling my daughter through our too-perfect subdivision Monday afternoon, I waved to the middle-schoolers on a wooden go-kart across the street and took a deep breath of cool air. Instead of Wilma, we had a breezy, sunny day that turned summer to fall.

As the temperature dropped, dozens of moms in the neighborhood dug out cable knit sweaters for themselves and flannel-lined pants for their kids. As I walked by, they streamed out of their front doors.

Towheaded, four-year-old Caden and his sweet and clingy little brother Iestyn brandishing foam swords. Two-year-old best friends Shayna and Katharine carrying matching baby dolls. Five-year-old Andrew on a fire-red Hot Wheels. Babies strapped to their mothers' chests. Kangaroo wide-eyed and blanketed in her stroller. Others, all screechy, laughy, running from their homes to enjoy the afternoon.

Someone put out a little school-bus-colored sign that said "CAUTION: Children At Play," (Did you know they made those?) and we let the mobile ones run free. The itty-bittys, we passed around from mom to mom. We talked about Halloween, Thanksgiving already, the flailing hometown Gators, and - in hushed tones and spelling code - fights with husbands, sex after childbirth, and other womanly things. We kissed owies and yelled, "Stop hitting your sister or you're going to get a timeout! One...two... Oh, thank you! Good listener!"

Then the dads came home, turning into the subdivision in their silver Accords and Volvos, depending if they are medical residents or not. They went inside in ties and came out in jeans and courdoroy.

To some, this place seems a bit too much. Too many Halloween decorations - what do people think this is, Christmas? Too much school spirit, making "Go Gators," a greeting akin to "Hello," or "Good-bye." It doesn't have the eccentricities of a city, the quirkiness of a rural town or the normalcy of a suburb. And just a single, bad shopping mall with no Nordstrom for hours, so that the neighborhood kids wear each other's hand-me-downs. But the people, the people are cool.

It's been a while since I've been this kind of happy. I'm a generally content girl, but this is something else. This is belonging.

Crisis

2005-10-21T15:25:00.000-04:00

I can't take a shower because:

The swing is running out of pep.
The bouncy seat isn't vibrating.
The starfish on the baby aquarium sits when it should spin.

AND THERE ARE NO D BATTERIES IN THE HOUSE!

Baby Fat

2005-10-16T15:14:00.000-04:00

Kangaroo isn't three months old yet and she weighs nearly 16 lbs. Yes, she's roly-poly, she's chubby, she's pudgy, she's chunky, she's a big girl. I've heard them all.

Usually a matronly woman on the streets asks Kangaroo's age and then gasps. Or someone guesses -- "I know! I know! Six months!" Or a friend exclaims that she's grown since they've seen her last - the day before yesterday. Or a neighbor tells me their baby was almost that big when she was four months old, too.

"Yeah," I say. "But she's not even three months."

Babies are supposed to be fat. Their mothers are not supposed to care. But I do.

It isn't that I don't absolutely adore her Michelin Man legs and pot belly - I think they're delicious. It isn't that she looks bad; I think she's the cutest baby in the world. It's just that every day I turn around and she's different - every day, she's looking less and less like the bundle I carried inside and more like a little girl.

Plus, I'm used to being the skinny one in the room, so I'm not sure how to deal with all the strangers who call my baby fat. I never expected to give birth to a bruiser. But her daddy is a 6-foot-5 football player, so I should have been prepared.

Today, Kangaroo didn't fit into her size 6 month Halloween costume.

But when one of my closest girl friends came to town to meet the baby this week, she said:

"Oh my God! Look at her!"

I braced myself.

"She's so tiny!"

I burst out laughing.

"Everyone else calls her fatso. Compared to other babies, she's huge," I said.

"Yeah," my friend said, "But compared to people, she's itty bitty."

Penance

2005-10-04T12:58:00.000-04:00

I hit a dog with my car. A small, reddish-brown weiner dog wearing a red collar.

He pranced out into the middle of the road while I was on my way to services this morning. I can't remember what I was doing - checking on Sasha in the rearview or peeking at my side mirror, but I didn't see the pup until he was fifteen feet in front of me, wagging its tail and jaunting into the roadway from the right side.

Please, pup, turn around! Stop! Something! I couldn't swerve right because that would be into the curb on Kangaroo's side. I had time to do one thing - check for cars on the left or check for cars in the back. I checked the back - the car behind me was far enough - and braked hard. I was too close. I tried to aim my smallish SUV so the pup would go in the middle, between the wheels - there was no way to avoid him completely.

I don't know which part of the car hit him, but there was a bump and I screamed louder than I ever have. The pup was flung to the side of the road.

I kept driving. Two blocks down I was crying so hard that I couldn't see, so I pulled off. I called Husband and then I called the police, who put me through to somebody official, who took a report.

"Did you keep driving?" the operator asked.

"Yeah."

Today is the first day of the Jewish New Year. For the next ten days, Jews spend their time thinking about what went wrong in the last year and how to improve it. We apologize to those we have offended and attempt to make peace with ourselves and G-d.

For this, there's no one to apologize to.

I know I did the right thing. I couldn't brake harder; I couldn't swerve farther. I'm just sad. Very, very sad.