You

Moments before your first haircut at nearly 2.5 years old.

Very soon, little monkey, you will have to share me. You, your daddy ("my daddy"), and I will be joined by another, an other, a brother. I think of it constantly; while we're enjoying a quiet night of puzzles by the fire, my mind's eye adds a baby on a blanket beside us. How will it feel, sweety pea? Will we have some trouble? I imagine so. You get your resentment of transitions and generally stubborn nature from me. I don't deal easily with change, as your daddy does. I take my time, as you do, to adjust, which makes me a bit nervous and wary. But only a little, because I know that your life, like your dadddy's and like mine, will be so enriched by this new Jack.

I've been raised to believe that life and love, like stories and meals, are meant to be shared. Share our blessings we will, though I well up when I imagine you learning to do without me any more than you already do. So, for now, I think of you and I hold you closer, I spoil you and indulge you at bedtime, I kiss and rock and nuzzle you until you beg me to let go.

To capture you, to freeze you, exactly as you are right now, when you have captured my attention perhaps more than ever, I've written this:

Your daddy smiles and says he knows you'll have a good life. He tells me not to worry about the fears I verbalize (about peer pressure and weird drugs and other things I have years to worry about), because you'll be so confident and because so many people love you.

You are headstrong. You've never been "easy." You're opinionated and unpredictable. You fight back. You protest. And I'll know you'll always be this way (because you're related to me).

You have developed some small fears recently. In a way, I appreciate them because they lead you to my arms and make you seem a little vunerable, 2-year-old that you are.

You're a parrot. We like to teach you to say funny things. When you're particularly chatty, your daddy yells to me, "What should I teach him to say?" This week we worked on "Look at me in my eyeball," from that movie Along Came Polly. We should probably focus in on your ABCs and 123s, which you hate, and mangle. After a couple passes through a new book, you finish nearly every sentence for me.

You're affectionate. You hug and kiss easily when in the mood. You hug and kiss your teachers goodbye each day. At bedtime, you turn my head toward your daddy's and say "Mommy Daddy," indicating that you want us to kiss, too.

You are my favorite part of every day. Always. You're your father's, too.

You are more okay without me than I am without you.

You have the world's cutest tushie.

You are very proud of yourself. When you do something well, you encourage yourself saying "I do a great job!" and "Hooray, Nicky!"

You don't eat much, and you don't let my anxieties related to this affect your decisions.

You hate calling it a day, but you sleep like a little log. Then you rise early, so very, very early.

You're my big helper. You help take out the recycling and feed Boda, you give Bo-bo treats every morning, and put away your toys. You love to throw things in the trash and dirty laundry.

You respect the serious rules (don't touch the fire, don't go downstairs without me), and completely disregard all the others. I secretly adore this.

You remind me that the perfection I so often strive for is overrated, and impossible.

You make me wonder at the depth of that excavation site, at the size of that train, at how very cool cranes and bulldozers and garbage trucks are.

You make me cheer when puzzle pieces fit together.

You make me listen to everything. You make me appreciate language and respect its authority.

You remind me of the importance of touch. How old will you be when you stop saying "Momma, I want to hold you?" I hope you never do. When, on the way out of daycare, I told you I hadn't gotten a kiss or a hug, you stamped your feet and said "Momma, we've got to stop!" Then you looked at me with kissy lips.

You remind me that sometimes we all just need to lie around and take 3-hour naps.

You remind me constantly that, damnit, it's stupid to do something you don't want to. Do we really need to go to Target/the Post Office/the grocery store? Usually the answer is no.

You're obsessed with anatomy. This morning you ran into the bathroom and yelled "Oh no, Momma! You have a pagina!" You assured me you do not have a pagina, you have a penis. This penis (always possesively referred to as "my penis") is the subject of great speculation; its safety is of utmost concern. You take a spin on your Retro Rocket and tell me "That hurt my penis!" I ask if it's okay. "Yes," you say. "My penis is okay." Whew.

You remind me of the importance of familiarity and routine. When we were on vacation, your daddy and I missed our routine. He said this a couple times. It's just one of the many things you brought to our lives that we didn't realize was missing.

You make me want to be better, kinder, more compassionate, more confident, and, above all, more patient with those I love. I fail all the time, almost hourly, but I keep trying for you.

You make me want to write to remember. I'm very thankful for that.

You're funny. Maybe the funniest person I've ever met. I can't count the number of times you make me laugh in a day, even on those days.

Tonight after dinner, you pointed to my belly and told my sister, your Aunt K-K, "That's my butter." I can't wait for you to meet your butter Jack. You're going to be the best, coolest big butter ever.

Thanks A Lot

Me and Baby Jack at 31 weeks.

It's Thanksgiving and I love lists. So here 'goes ... in no particular order ... what I'm thankful for on Thanksgiving 2010:

• A life brimming with family and friends. A brimming life. A life that feels full. And the fact that full feels as good as I imagined.

• Fresh Market ("Freshy Market" in Nickyspeak) and Harris Teeter's online shopping. Convenience. Food. The marriage of the two.
• My son's awesome relationships with his grandparents
• The holidays
• Blessings in disguise
• January 26th getting closer and closer
• My loving, thoughtful husband
• My awesome son
• The caring, patient teachers who make my son run down the hall to his classroom every morning and deliver to me a happy, proud little camper every afternoon
• The whole "fishy kissy ... hug" scenario with Nicky
• Tea at bedtime
• Metallics and holiday decorating. Metallic holiday decorating. Holiday decorating with metallics. I'm so excited.
• Beautiful Virginia and beautiful Virginia weather
• Nice sheets and pajamas
• The novels of Oscar Hijuelos and short stories of David Sedaris
• Merry Maids
• Parsnips, beets, and all the other rooties
• Anything with a dumpling/biscuit crust
• Talenti Meditterean Mint gelato
• Not wanting anything for Christmas
• Having at least a couple good ideas for my husband's gifts
• Thirty-one happy, healthy years
• A daily routine that I miss when I'm gone
• A job I can do in my dogwalking clothes and with my dog snoring beside me
• Benefit Skinny Dip lipstick
• Maturity, patience, self acceptance, confidence, humility
• My son's manners, which he uses 30 percent of the time







This Morning

(I wish I had a bunch of in-the-moment pictures to accompany this post, which would make it perfect and much more fun. BUT, our weekday mornings are crazy couple hours of push and pull with some laughs mixed in. AND I've finally come to accept that perfect and real are mutually exclusive. This picture, of one of us, will have to do.)

So far today, one of us woke up with a wet leg. One of us thought it was pee, but discovered it was just the result of a leaky sippy cup.

One of us played choo choos in his room while the other yanked on leggings and sneakers and tucked in stray hairs and brushed her teeth.

One of us doesn't brush our teeth in the morning yet. The other is starting to think this needs to change.

One of us ate peanut butter toast and drank milk and didn't touch his grapes.

Both of us danced to Dan Zane's hokey pokey. One us did all the moves and found herself embarrasingly winded, while the other cantered around the island like a horsey.

One of us went pee-pee in the potty for the very first time!!!!

Both of us called Daddy to tell him.

One of us ate a celebratory mini Reese's cup, while the other uncharacteristically eschewed sugar because she had the 28-week gestational diabetes test this morning.

One of us walked into our room at school and never looked back. The other hid at the window and watched for awhile.

Happy Halloween

 From our house to yours!

What a Difference a Day Makes

As I lay in bed last night watching the Project Runway finale (fell asleep - no spoilers please!) I formulated a little post in my head during commercial breaks. I framed it around the lack of glamour in my life this week. It's been a little rough. Work deadlines, handsome husband away for 3 days, a cranky two year old, 5:30 a.m. wakeups after too little sleep due to said deadlines, etc., etc. But then, miracle of miracles, my son slept in till 7 a.m. today and fall's in the air and all the sudden, even though I'm in ill-fitting clothing, I feel like dancing in the streets. So, lucky for you, this will be a light-hearted post.

Here's a little taste of my week ... via a camera phone dump. (Disclaimer: I may be the world's worst camera phone photographer.)

All dressed up for the Halloween party today at school. He's going to be a robot for the actual holiday, but I don't think the costume would make it through an entire day at daycare (not that it's finished, anyway).

Finally found the perfect fabric for a roman shade in my kitchen while shopping for Halloween costume components. I came home and found it for half the price online.  

 Poor Nicky. Taking the backseat to Mom's editing deadline. I'm working on my laptop right beside him after serving up a highly nutrious dinner. How sad is that little Burger King meal? He had applesauce for dessert, if that makes it any better. Notice the number of choo choos that come to dinner. This is not such a great pic of Nick.

My daycare drop off wear this morning. You should see my hair, but I would never allow it. I think it's official. This fleece no longer fits. Jealous of my rocking pink countertop? Yes, that's a shell-shaped sink. It's not my bathroom, so it will probably look like this for another 30 years.

Another small victory. I reorganized my bathroom drawer last night. I redid the contact paper, too. That's something I always remember my mother doing, but I've never actually done it myself. It was so easy, I'm tackling the pantry next.

Thoughts on Leaving

In just a couple short weeks, my husband and I will depart on our first adults-only vacation since becoming parents: a “babymoon” before Jack’s arrival. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t excited to get away, to have someone else make my bed, to throw towels on the floor and have them refreshed the next day, to take my time getting ready, to hold hands and walk leisurely down city streets like the good old days. Likewise, it would be a lie to say I’m not eyeing those dates on the calendar without a fair dose of anxiety and, admittedly, a slight sense of dread.

My husband and I travelled often before Nicky. We spent long weekends in various U.S. cities, skied here and there and everywhere, made longer trips to Europe. I really believe it’s  important to get away from it all and see your partner all dressed up and refreshed and enjoying something new, be it trying a piece of delectable live scallop sushi or taking in a piece of art. You learn things about one another. You come back feeling refreshed, holding hands more, laughing about how ridiculous your husband sounded when he tried to pronounce “menu” in German, or the look on your face when that sweet Italian woman presented you with an entire glass of olive oil to drink at the wine tasting. There are still autumn mornings when I push the stroller out onto the street and the air feels just like it did in Rome, and I get a little charge of romance, remembering those mornings with Chris, the whole city laid out in front of us.

But now, frankly, travel seems like a burden. When Nicky is included it means an endless little of things to bring, a car packed with snacks and books and movies and crayons, hours of turning backwards to face him, returning choo choos that dropped to the ground, searching in vain for everything you packed so carefully so you’d know just where it was. When he’s not involved, it equates to endless worrying. What if they don’t remember he means frozen on-the-go yogurt when he asks for ice cream? They won’t remember the steps for night-night. He’ll never get to sleep if he doesn’t have Gordon and Gordon’s tender in his hands. They’ll forget the tenders. They don’t even know what a tender is. What about when he asks for his baby? Will they recognize that as a request for a Glo-worm doll? He gets up at 5:30 a.m. That’s no fun. What if something happens? Will they remember he’s allergic to penicillin?

And then there’s the actual being away. I can’t help it. I miss my child when we’re apart. I don’t miss him at 5:30 a.m., but I miss him when I’m seeing something neat that he’d enjoy or watching other parents with their kids. I’ll miss him to bits when I’m boarding that train from Montreal to Quebec. He would enjoy that. I’ll miss him like crazy when I see other toddlers sleeping soundly on their parents’ chests in airplanes and terminals.

I was in Chicago on business for a couple days this summer and my flight got delayed for a night. I was miserable. I had the city at my fingertips and wanted none of it. I wasn’t interested in shopping. I dragged myself into a hip sushi restaurant and ordered a couple pregnancy-safe rolls. I choked down my seaweed salad. On the way back to the hotel, I happened upon a free summer concert in the park. The band was incredible, the weather amazing, the crowd one of the most eclectic I’ve seen. Like a sleepwalker, I paid $5 for a snow cone and people watched. I tried to keep my eyes on the group of 10 or so Bengali women shaking it like nobody was looking, doing some seemingly choreographed routine in a tight circle in the middle of the throbbing throng. Patronizingly, I imagined this was the closest they’d felt to home in a long time. I tried to imagine a little narrative for each of them. My interest, though, kept drifting back to a dad dancing with his son on his shoulders. Of course the dad was tall, dark, and handsome like my husband, and of course the little boy was exactly Nick’s age and wearing that “I’m having the time of my life” smile I know so well. The tears welled up and spilled over. A homeless man took this as a sign of vulnerability and asked me if I could spare some change. I stood up and trudged back to the Hilton, holding back real tears.

But this trip holds the promise of being different. For the first time, I’ll be away from my son, but with my husband. If my sorrow was missing my family, then this should only be half as bad. I’m sure there will be plenty of time, whole stretches of hours, when I won’t miss Nicky at all. I’ll sleep till 8 a.m. and not watch one single moment of Thomas the Tank Engine. We’ll visit art museums and churches and just absorb the silence. And we’ll come back and be better parents for it, and he’ll be spoiled rotten by his grandparents. And maybe he will have learned how to fall asleep with only Gordon and not his tender. And we’ll remember how to spend a leisurely morning sipping lattes at a café and doing exactly as we choose for the rest of the day.

Tub Talk With Nicky

Me: You'll be a good big brother, won't you?

Nicky: Oh, yes.

Me: Are you so excited to teach Baby Jack how to play choo choos?

Nicky: Yes. And CARS ... and TRUCKS ... and GARBAGE TRUCKS!!

Me: What will be Baby Jack's favorite thing to play?

Nicky: Cars.

Me: Not choo choos?

Nicky: No. (Resumes swimming his choo choos through the water.)

Me: What will be Baby Jack's favorite thing to eat?

Nicky: Raspberries (a whisper) ... and RICE! (Interestingly enough, neither of these would make Nicky's top 5.)

Me: What will be Baby Jack's favorite color?

Nicky: Red. Mine is orange.

Me: What will be Baby Jack's favorite animal?

Nicky: Baby sheeps! Mine is my horseys.

G'night all. Love ya!