My Toddler is My Best Friend

Yesterday was just one of those YAYYYY LIFE days.

Well, I mean, work wasn’t spectacular. The copy machine broke down and everyone was pissy about it and I felt like shaking every one of my co-workers, screaming “it’s just the copy machine! It is not Armageddon! Relax!!!”

But AFTER work? Yayyyy.

First of all, it was a drop-dead gorgeous spring day – the first after a number of days of super uncomfortable heat, humidity and thunderstorms. I picked Em and Oren up from their Baba’s house and, as promised, took them to the local playground. We brought Em’s tricycle along so she could ride around the perimeter of the park and practice her pedaling skills (which, in my humble opinion, are totally AMAZING).

The first thing Emmy always wants to do when we get to the playground is swing on her favorite pink swing. There is only one pink swing among the many blue swings on this playground, which of course makes it extra special and coveted by Emmy. Even if ALL THE OTHER swings are available and someone just happens to be on the pink one, Emmy will wait patiently for her turn on the magical swing (she claims that she is being very kind in letting the other toddler take a turn on HER swing).

So, yesterday, as usual, Em got in HER pink swing and I put Oren in the nothing-to-write-home-about blue swing next to her.

My daughter likes to do this thing where she pretends to kick me in the behind every time she swings forward (I made the mistake of pretending she kicked me in the butt once, causing her to laugh hysterically, and now she wants me to do it ALL THE TIME. Probably not one of my most brilliant mommying moments). I kind of hop out of the way of Em’s swing while faking little scared, high pitched squeals. It MUST make the other parents on the playground question my sanity. Thankfully, the playground was relatively uninhabited yesterday, and I was able to really ham it up for Em and totally make a fool of myself without fear of folks calling the cops.

So I started my crazy ooh-I’ve-been-kicked-in-the-butt charades, when suddenly I HEARD IT.

The sound that makes all moms want to freeze time and just live forever in a moment.

I heard my baby boy’s beautiful belly laugh. And let me tell you, it was AWESOME.

You can bet your sweet bippy that I continued hopping around and making silly noises for the next twenty minutes, trying to evoke as many baby laughs as I possibly could. Em was SO over the whole swinging thing and was SO ready to move on to the slide or the sandbox, but I begged and pleaded with her to stay on the swing so she could continue to kick me and we could continue to make Oren laugh.

Finally, when Oren seemed to be exhausted from laughing, we got off the swings and headed toward the pond, where we like to watch the ducks and fishies swim around. Em rode her tricycle as I walked with Oren strapped to me in his Ergo carrier. As Em was riding, she was singing a little song to herself which I couldn’t really understand but was enjoying nonetheless. Suddenly Em looked up at me and said “Mama, I love you so much. You’re my best friend.”

Gulp.

“Emmy, I love you TOO! You are MY best friend!”

“Mama, you are my BEST FRIEND MAMA. We have a lot of fun.”

“Oh, Em. You are my BEST FRIEND DAUGHTER. And yes, we do have A LOT of fun.”

“I love you. You are my BEST FRIEND, Mama.”

“Thank you, Emmy. Thank you.”

And then she started singing a little song about being best friends.

Seriously? Why don’t kids WARN US five minutes before they are going to act like tiny little angels? I mean, I REALLY wanted to record that moment. I want that moment documented, forever and ever and ever. In ten years, when my daughter thinks I am single-handedly ruining her life, I’d REALLY like to be able to look back on that moment and think about the time she told me I was her best friend. In twenty years, when my little boy is off at college and hasn’t called me in weeks, I REALLY want to be able to remember the first time I made him laugh hysterically.

But isn’t that the truth about life, even in this high-tech age? The best moments CAN’T always be recorded. Sometimes they just have to live in our hearts and in our minds (and in our blogs). And that has to be enough. 

She's Making Me DIZZY!

My head is spinning. Like a whirlpool, it never ends…

No, I didn’t just twirl around and around in circles, or get off a killer rollercoaster.

It’s my daughter. She’s a whirlwind. She talks about 286 different topics in a matter of minutes, and it is SO hard to keep up with her.

Here’s a transcription of a few minutes of “conversation” we had yesterday, on our way home from daycare. I put conversation in quotation marks because truly it is just Emmy talking, with me TRYING (in vain) to interject.

EM: OHHHH! There’s a clock, MAMA!

ME: Yes, there..

EM (interrupting): It’s RAINING outside!

(without skipping a beat) I don’t want to get poop in my eye.

ME: You don’t want

EM (interrupting): Do you have a lollipop, Mama?

ME: Yes, I do, but why did you say

EM (interrupting): I’m a dancing dancing princess.

Look out the window. Do you see something scary?

The trees are SCARY! BAAAAAAAAAAH!

ME: The trees aren’t scary

EM (interrupting): I am going to say MEOW MEOW.

The trees are going to say MEOW MEOW.

ME: How was your day at school Em? What did you do today?

EM: I do did puzzles. And I said I want a bandaid, too. Is Dada here?

ME: No, Em, Dada

EM (interrupting, talking to her Mickey Mouse doll): Mickey, I got you.

ALAZAM! ALAZAM! ALAZAM! (this is Em’s way of saying “Alacazam!” which is her way of magically making the car windows go up and down)

Those cars don’t have an accident.

Mickey, Mickey, YES YES!

ME: Did you do anyt

EM (interrupting): I love food but I DON’T like hot chocolate. I DOOOOO like hot chocolate.

After that I just gave up on asking questions, and listened to Emmy talk TO her Mickey Mouse doll, and FOR her Mickey Mouse doll. Which is all for the best, because it seems Mickey can keep up with my daughter’s train of thought much better than I can.

I Discovered a New Source of Energy!

After running around on the trampoline, Emmy becomes a great source of "clean energy"! Now if only we could figure out a way to somehow hook her up to our house's electrical wiring...

A Serious Case of SAHM Envy

I’m just gonna put it out there. Sometimes, I am just OVERWHELMED with Stay At Home Mama envy.

I am sure I’m not alone. I’m sure there are plenty of working mamas out there who would give their right arm to be able to stay home and watch their kids all day, every day. I just didn’t think I would be one of them.

When Em was first born, I told myself I was one of those people who NEEDED to work, just so that my brain would be stimulated by activities other than diaper changing and walks around the park. I thought that if I stayed home with Emmy all day (because apparently I was under the impression that SAHMs just locked themselves in the house and never took their kids anywhere fun or exciting) I would get cabin fever, and would just ache for adult conversation and imposed deadlines and the kind of structure that a workday provides.

In retrospect, I know that I was just trying to convince myself that those were my reasons for needing to work. I should have been honest with myself, and admitted that the real reason I have to work is to help support our family financially. I’ve come to accept this truth. I have come to accept the fact that I am not working because I LOVE to work. I am working because I have student loans that are MY responsibility to pay off, and honestly, if our family were to try and “make it” on my husband’s income alone, it would put A LOT of stress on C’s shoulders. I don’t think that would be fair to him, and I don’t think it would be good for our family dynamic.

So I work, not because I want to, but because I feel I HAVE to.

This past summer, I made a switch in careers to help better accommodate our family life and mommyhood. I found a job that requires a lot less travel and time away from my family than my previous career did, at an academic institute that is generous with vacation days and generally very family-friendly. It’s a GREAT mommy job, and I am much happier than I was at my previous workplace. And yet…

You see, last Friday, due to my husband and mom-in-law’s simultaneous illnesses, I got to play SAHM for a day. It was SUPER fun. In the morning, Em and I goofed around in our pajamas for a while, and took a little walk around the neighborhood. Then I took Em to one of the local playgrounds, where I quickly found myself immersed in a foreign environment. It took me two seconds to realize we were in the Land of the Stay at Home Mommys.

All around me, little pockets of two or three moms chatted away about all things baby and toddler while their kids played in the sandbox and climbed on the jungle gyms. Everybody knew somebody, and their children all knew each other, too. If one woman needed to go to the bathroom, she would simply ask her friend to watch her children for a minute. Snacks were being shared. Play dates were being arranged. Everyone was acting so friendly and so helpful to one another. It seemed so darned blissful.

I really tried NOT to feel lonely. I really tried NOT to feel envious. I tried to just focus on pushing Em in her swing, making funny faces at her, and enjoying our one-on-one time for what it was. But my ears and eyes kept straying, listening for little bits of SAHM conversations, watching SAHMs interact with one another, and absolutely wishing I was one of THEM.

Of course, my wish to be a Stay At Home Mama is not just for the camaraderie of other moms. I long to have the ability to watch Em as she develops each and every day. I want to be there when she utters each new word for the first time. I want to be the one who helps her learn to sing her ABCs. I want to be around when she first learns to hop. I want to be able to watch as she makes new friends with other kids her age on the playground, or in a playgroup setting. I want to eat picnic lunches outside with Em on glorious weather weekdays, and build indoor fortresses with her when it starts randomly thunderstorming on a Thursday afternoon.

My weekends with Em are of course wonderful, but sometimes it seems like they are really just moments, you know? Fabulous little bookends to the rest of the long work week. Spending three uninterrupted days with Em last week made me realize how great it would be to have more than just the weekends with Em. It made me wish I was an every day, all day mama.

I know being a SAHM can be totally exhausting, and I am sure it has plenty of other down sides, too. I know that in my mind I am probably idealizing the experience, and the reality of the SAHM lifestyle is as tough as it is rewarding.

But here I am, sitting at my office desk on a Tuesday morning, wondering what Emmy might be busy doing or saying at daycare, and wishing like crazy that I was with her, at the park, in the Land of the Stay at Home Mamas.

Are you a Stay at Home Mama who wishes she could work? Are you a working mama who wishes she could stay home? Or are you a mama who is perfectly content with your status? I'd love to hear your perspective.

From Baby to Big Girl

So this is what toddlerhood is all about. It’s about the many transitional moments where my child is no longer a baby. My baby is becoming a big girl.

On our way back from a morning visit to the park this weekend, Em and I stopped by a grocery store.

I should mention that I love the way our grocery stores are becoming more child-friendly. Some have shopping carts with little cars attached to the fronts of them so kids can pretend to drive all around the store while mama or dada shops. Others, like the store we visited this weekend, have little mini shopping carts that kids can wheel around and fill with groceries while their parents are distractedly thinking about the week’s menus. I love that grocery stores have made a commitment to families by making shopping a FUN TIME for everyone, and not just a chore that children are dragged along to.

So on this particular shopping trip, I got Em one of those little mini-me sized carts. I was skeptical at first, because a) even though Em has been walking for over 7 months now, she doesn’t exactly have what I would call a “command” of the pedestrian arts, and b) I was afraid she’d lose interest in the whole cart idea after about 30 seconds, which would leave me bent forward, pushing a teeny weeny munchkin-sized shopping cart up and down the aisles while strangers stared at me like I had lost my marbles.

But you know what? Emmy ACED the whole grocery shopping experience. She wheeled that little cart around like she’d been doing this for ages (“no big whoop, mama. Pffffff. I could do this with my EYES closed”). I would hand her various objects (a cucumber, a carton of hummus, a bag of yogurt melts) and she would drop them in her cart, and continue on her merry way.
Complete disclosure: Em DID get a little excited about the yogurt melts. She may have forgotten about her shopping cart responsibilities for a minute or two while she struggled to figure out how in god’s name to open the package of delicious (and seemingly-very-astronaut-friendly) food. But after a quick little nudge from mama, she regained her composure and ventured on, again pushing her pint-sized cart.

At the checkout line, I didn’t even have to tell Em what to do. One by one, Em took the food objects out of her cart and handed them (with mama’s help) to the checkout lady. She made sure each object was scanned correctly and made sure nothing was left in her cart. And when it came time to pay, Em took mama’s money and handed THAT to the checkout lady as well (she didn’t immediately stick the bills in her mouth, as she has been apt to do so many times before. Holy miracle)! I encouraged checkout lady to hand Em the change, even though I knew it wouldn’t all fit into her small palm, and a few coins would fall to the floor. Em took the change that she COULD hold on to, and stuffed it back into my wallet.

Checkout lady was thrilled with Em, and I showered my girl with praise. “What a big girl you are! You were SO helpful to mama,” I said. And then I begged her to slap me five. Twice.

I wish you could have seen it. I swear, Em had the biggest, goofiest grin on her face. She KNEW she had been a big girl. She was really proud. And so was I.

A Day Will Come...

I know a day will come when Em will no longer find my funny faces very funny
And I know a day will come when she no longer wants to hold on tight to my finger when we visit the playground
And I know a day will come when Em no longer hugs me with her entire body
And I know a day will come when her chicken costume will no longer fit
And I know the day will come when she will understand all of the words I speak
And I know a day will come when peekaboo will be passé
And I know a day will come when she no longer wants to sing along with me in the car
And I know a day will come when Em no longer puts bowls on her head and pretends they are hats
And I know a day will come when she tells me she is too big for lullabyes
And I know a day will come when Em no longer finds bubbles to be completely fascinating
And I know a day will come when Em won’t need me to push her in the swing
And I know a day will come when our hands will be the same size
And I know a day will come when she won’t run to me each time she bumps or bruises
And I know a day will come when Em will think of dirt as dirty, and not as so much fun
And I know a day will come when she will outgrow my lap

I try not to ask for a lot, but please, please, don’t let these days come quickly. I am loving THIS day too much.

Be Careful!!

When we became pregnant with Em, C and I had some long heart-to-hearts about our parenting philosophies. We agreed on a great deal of the essentials: we’d try to breastfeed, we wouldn’t spank as punishment, we would cloth diaper (ok, that didn’t happen, but we THOUGHT we would be able to do it), etc.

We also agreed that as parents, we would try as best as we could to avoid overuse of the word “no”. It’s not that the word “no” was to be BANNED from our household by any means. We just thought that rather than saying “Emmy, no!” whenever she tried to do something unwise, like stick her hand in the toilet, we would EXPLAIN the situation and try to reason with her, a la “Emmy, toilet water is stinky. If you stick your hand in the toilet, you will get stinky too!” or we would OFFER AN ALTERNATIVE, a la “Emmy, rather than sticking your hand in the toilet, why don’t you stick your hand under this running faucet of fantastically sparkling clean water?” Our general fear was that if we overused the word “no,” Emmy would become immune to it, which could eventually get us into parental hot water.

I have to say, I think we’ve done a pretty good job at using our “no”s with discretion and caution. *Pat, pat, pat.*

But I was TOTALLY unprepared for the massive amounts of “be careful!”s that have been streaming out of my mouth like hot lava for the past several months.

The other day, I decided to try and monitor how many situations a day warrant my saying “be careful” to Em. What I discovered wasn’t pretty. It went a little something like this:

6:30 AM: “Emmy, BE CAREFUL getting out of bed. Scoot your tushy backwards and climb down. That’s right. Good girl!”

6:45 AM: “Emmy, BE CAREFUL with that hand! Mama is changing you and if you put your hand down there it is going to get full of poopy! Be careful, Em. Careful! Emmy, BE CARE… ugghh…”

7:30 AM: “Emmy, even though Mommy lets you walk around the yard before getting into the car, it doesn’t mean you can run into the street. You have to BE CAREFUL!”

8:45 AM: “You have to treat your books nicely, Emmy. We don’t THROW books, we read them. You have to BE CAREFUL with your books” (honestly, the word “books” in this last sentence could be replaced with one of many words: dolls, food, clothes, blocks… you name it. Em is knee-deep in an annoying throwing phase.

10:00 AM: “Em, please BE CAREFUL with your crackers. Don’t stuff them all in your mouth at one time. You will choke and then mama will be sad.”

10:15 AM: “You have to BE CAREFUL coming down the stairs Emmy. You can’t just run off a step like you are Wylie Coyote. Do you know what happens to Wylie Coyote? He goes SPLAT! I don’t want you to go SPLAT!”

11:00 AM: “Em, we have to BE CAREFUL not to eat dirt. We PLAY in dirt. Even though dirt sometimes looks like crushed up Oreo cookies, we should really not put it in our mouths, ok?”

11:45 AM: “Are you going to feed yourself? Ok, that’s great. Just BE CAREFUL not to put the spoon in your ear… or your hair, Emmy… awwwww, too late! The spoon is on your head. Guess we’re taking another shower..”

12:30 PM: “Em, BE CAREFUL with that toothbrush. You keep gagging yourself because you stick it all the way back in your mouth. Why do you do that, you crazy kid?!”

And that is a portrait of only HALF of our day. By the time dinnertime rolled around, I’m pretty sure I used about 837 “be careful”s. If there was a charge associated with using these words, I’d have some SERIOUS debts to pay off.

My fear is that, if I keep up this verbal habit, the words “be careful” are going to lose their sense of gravity, and Em will start ignoring them. So what do I do? Do I stop using these words?

Maybe I should mix it up, and say “Be wary, dear Emmy” or “Caution, little one!” or “Thou art engaging in dangerous behaviors, my sweet petunia,” even though saying these things will make me sound like I work at a Renaissance Faire?

Or maybe I should come up with a hand motion that signals “be careful”? But if I use the instinctive fingers-together-and-palm-facing-forward technique, Emmy will just slap me five, and mistakenly think I am encouraging whatever it is she is doing.

Or maybe I should just start saying “no” more often??

Sigh. This mothering business is so very COMPLICATED.

Any suggestions from mamas out there? Have you overcome an acute case of the “be careful”s? Looking forward to hearing from ya.

What’s On Your Lullabye Playlist?

I’m not a major music buff or anything but, like pretty much everyone else on earth, I have playlists for a wide variety of occasions. I’ve got a playlist for exercising, a playlist for long road trips, a playlist for getting ready to go out on a Saturday night (haven’t heard THOSE tunes in a few years.. meh), a playlist for my eventual funeral (see here)… just to name a few.

When it comes to putting Em to sleep at night, I’ve got a playlist for that, too. Ever since Emmy was a tiny little baby, I have lulled her to sleep with my best renditions of songs I love. And because she is a tiny tot, with limited verbal communication, she cannot yet yell at me and tell me that I am ruining a classic, or subtly put her hand up against my mouth and tell me to “shush”.

So my current lullabye playlist includes Cyndi Lauper (True Colors), Coldplay (Fix You – I dare you to try singing this song to your baby without bawling into their hairy little head!), Peter, Paul and Mary (Michael Row the Boat Ashore, one of my mom’s favorites), Joni Mitchell (Circle Game – another one my mom used to sing to us girls all the time), and the Beatles (Black Bird). I’ve also fallen in love with EVERY song sung by Elizabeth Mitchell (wonder goddess of children’s tunes), and thus have added I’ve Got Peace Like a River, Three Little Birds (well.. this is actually a remake of Bob Marley’s beautiful hit), and Little Bird, Little Bird to my mix (hey, self, what’s with all the bird songs?).

But because my lullabye playlist consists of only about ten songs, its starting to feel (and sound) a little stale. So I am turning to you for inspiration. Can you suggest songs that are lovely and meaningful for me to sing to Em? Be kind, cause there’s NO WAY I can do justice by Whitney Houston, Barbara Streisand, Luciano Pavarotti, or anyone who has the vocal chords of a heavenly being.

I look forward to hearing from you…

Begrudging Breastfeeding

In the past 17 months of breastfeeding my daughter, I have not ONCE said to myself “what was I THINKING when I decided to breastfeed??”

At least not until this past Saturday.

Let me make this clear: I am a TERRIBLE sick person. I am so envious of the folks who can walk around with a monster-truck of a headache, totally plugged nasal passages, and a whooping cough, and play it off as if it’s a “whatever”. Unfortunately, I’m NOT one of those people. If I get a headache, I immediately assume it is being caused by a tumor. Nasty nasal congestion? My immune system is obviously fritzing due to something much BIGGER going on inside my body. And when I develop a cough, I am sure I’ve come down with tuberculosis. So yeah, I guess you could say I’m kind of a hypochondriac (but not the no-shaking-hands-a-la-Howie-Mandell kind, just the I-feel-ill-therefore-I-must-be-dying kind).

So on Saturday, I got a whammy of a cold. Emmy had been kind enough to share her nasty germies with me. It was the super trifecta of illness: body aches and fever, congestion, and one of those please-kill-me-now dry coughs. My body felt like it had been run over by a bulldozer, and my head felt like it had gone deep-sea diving. I didn’t have the energy to do ANYTHING... other than complain about my body’s sudden rebellion.

And complain I did. I complained to Emmy. I complained to my reflection in the mirror (“who the hell are YOU? And where did you put my healthy happy face??!) I complained to the box of aloe-infused tissues (my new BFF). I complained to the local news reporter on the television who was talking about what a glorious day it was outside (“you want GLORIOUS?? I’ll give you GLORIOUS… cough.. cough.. blaaaaaah).

And throughout all of my beautiful rants, Em was right by my side, wanting to nurse. Because she too was terribly ill. Poor babe. She had all the same symptoms as I did. She needed comfort. She needed to be nurtured. Most of all, she needed breastmilk!! Every. Fifteen. Minutes.

Of course, Em didn’t give a hoot that I could hardly lift my pinkies because it hurt too much. She didn’t mind that a fever made my whole body sweaty and icky. Au contraire, mon frère! My state of utter disgustingness seemed to make me even more appealing to her (“Woo hoo! Mama’s woozy and coughing up a lung! It’s feeding time!”)

And what was I gonna do? Deny my sickly child her only source of nutrition (she refuses to eat anything else when she is sick)? Of course not!

More than anything, I just wanted to have a few hours “off duty”, you know? I needed a little time to myself, so I could heal and feel semi-normal again. Mmm… that didn’t happen. My hub tried to help and distract Em, but she cried and cried and could only be consoled by one thing: my breastmilk. And so I did my mama duties, and fed Em. Much to my achy, breaky body’s dismay, I breastfed on demand, giving Em as many of my delicious antibodies as she wanted. Not so lovingly, or so willingly, I’m sorry to report. But I fed her nonetheless.

I wish I could say that I was a trooper about it. But the truth is, towards the end of the day, I broke down and just BAWLED to my hub because I felt like I just couldn’t do it anymore. My body was thoroughly exhausted. I had nothing left to give. I had no more “nurture” in me. And maybe I didn’t say it out loud, but I know that my tired mind was definitely muttering “what in God's name was I THINKING when I decided to breastfeed??”

And then, after crying a couple of times and taking a hot shower (or two, or three), I kinda got over it.

So here I am. It’s Tuesday. I’m still not healthy, per-se. My throat feels like it’s on fire and I have to fight the nagging urge to remove my tonsils with a pair of rusty scissors. I am still complaining to anyone or anything that crosses my path (“Oh, hey there car! Have you heard about how terrible I feel? No? Well, let me tell you…”).

But THANK GOODNESS, the moment of begrudging breastfeeding has passed. I’m done ruing my decisions. And while I acknowledge the validity of my 24 hour not-so-gung-ho mama attitude, I’m so happy that my body is back to feeling like its nurturing self again, and I once again love breastfeeding just as much as Em does.

Have you gone through a similar situation? Have you ever begrudged breastfeeding for more than 24 hours? I would appreciate any feedback that would make me feel less guilty about my horrible attitude. :)

Dinner and a Show

As the saying goes, “You can pick your friends, and you can child-proof your house, but you can’t child-proof your friend’s house”. Or something like that…

If you ever want to find out just HOW unsafe your house is for children, give me a call. I will gladly send Em over to give it a test run, and within 15 minutes you will know all about your abode’s hidden danger zones.

Our family was invited over for dinner last night by a friendly and daring, eventually-planning-to-have-children couple. I was THRILLED to get out and socialize, and was ecstatic that my girlfriend told us we could bring Em along. Yes, the thought of “Holy crow. They don’t know WHAT they are getting into,” crossed my mind a few times, but I remained optimistic that Em would be on her best behavior, and that we wouldn’t get kicked out of our friends’ house before the dessert course was served.

Truthfully, we had a REALLY good time, and Em WAS on her best behavior. She didn’t throw any fits, sat on my lap through most of the actual meal (squirming, but at least she wasn’t screaming), and she even occasionally tried to join in on the conversation, saying an over-exaggerated “wowww” whenever I said “wow”. It was super cute.

But of course, Emmy IS a toddler. And being a toddler, she took it upon herself to open every drawer, attempt to climb up on every piece of furniture she could, and try out electrical devices wherever available.

I swear I was watching her. Maybe not like a hawk. Maybe more like a mommy who hasn’t socialized in seven months and was finally enjoying the company of other adults. But I was watching her.

And yet, during the course of the evening, Em was “caught” doing the following:
• Taking all of the artwork off of the couple’s refrigerator
• Throwing fragile-seeming coasters around the room like they were bean bags
• Rolling around on a doggy pillow like it was HER bed
• Discovering four electrical sockets
• Nearly tipping over the floor lamp
• Trying to remove the tablecloth (and all plates, glasses and silverware on top of said tablecloth) from dining room table
• Making origami sculptures out of a deck of cards (ok, my friend kind of encouraged this, so it wasn’t COMPLETELY Em’s fault)

And ah yes, the piece de resistance… Emmy somehow managed to turn on the couple’s electric fireplace. Because if an object has buttons or switches, and is at toddler eye-level, you can bet your sweet bippy our daughter will figure out how to turn it on and make it work. She will wait for that one moment where my head is turned in the other direction, and then BAM! Switches on, fire ablaze, and toddler in potential deep doo doo.

Our friends were amazingly accommodating and actually seemed to be somewhat enjoying Em’s antics. But as I said to my husband in the car on the way back home, “I wonder if they are just looking at each other like ‘Yeesh. Thank heavens that’s over! What in god’s name were we thinking? And maybe we should rethink this whole parenting thing, ok?’””

I love that Emmy is smart, curious, and daring. I really do. But I also think that the NEXT time we are all invited over to a friend’s house for dinner, I will come prepared with plugs for the electrical sockets. And maybe a cute, stylish straightjacket for Emmy.

Do As I Say, Not as I Do

I really do try to set a good example for Em. I look both ways before crossing the street, say “please” and “thank you,” somewhat consistently, and obey the speed limit (or at least stay within 10 miles of the limit, most of the time). But there are certain habits of mine that I kind of hope Emmy will NOT adopt. Just to be on the safe side, I’ve created the following top ten list of “Do As I Say, Not As I Do”s, for Em’s future reference:

• Do not climb up on the kitchen counters just so you can reach something on the top shelf of the cupboard. Yes, like me, you are a short-limbed but limber lady. You should still just go get a step ladder. It’s much safer. The reason I catapult myself onto the kitchen counters is because I want to make sure that, should I decide to leave my current job in order to join the circus, I will have a little experience under my belt.

• Do not chew your nails, or paper, or anything that is not SUPPOSED to be put in your mouth. I know you constantly see me chewing on something odd, and it looks like fun. Trust me, it is no fun. It hurts my jaw like nobody’s business. I only chew on weird objects because if I don’t, I will have a panic attack. And nobody wants mommy to have a panic attack.

• Don’t count on the rain to wash your car. If you do this, you will find your vehicle covered with lots of little “wash me” love notes left by perfect strangers who care more about your car than they do about your feelings. Of course, you should know that the minute you DO get your car washed, the skies will open and there will be a torrential downpour of muddy water. That’s just life’s way of telling you a knock-knock joke.

• Don’t get sucked in by the undertow that is called “The Bachelor”. Yes, I believe that everything that happens on reality television is true, but that is only because I have been brainwashed by Chris Harrison. You are better than me, and should clearly recognize that the television shows I watch are complete fluffernutter. I recommend you watch PBS, or NOVA instead. People will honor your opinions, and won’t give you strange looks when you try to engage them in water cooler conversations about “who got a rose”.

• Even though your pajamas are really REALLY comfortable, it is best NOT to wear them to the supermarket. People don’t look kindly upon a woman who wears bunny slippers and flannel pants while shopping for produce. They hate that you are so comfortable, and they won’t let you cut in line, even if you just want to buy a pack of gum. Trust me on this one.

• Back to the car. I would highly suggest that when parking, you only take up one space, and try as best as you can to park between the lines. I have lost many potential friends because of my regular habit of positioning my car at a 45 degree angle between two parking spots. I don’t do it on purpose, I just have no depth perception. I have tried to convince your father that we need to hire a driver so that people don’t hiss at me when I get out of my vehicle, but he hasn’t caved. Yet.

• Do not think that ketchup is a food group. I KNOW you’ve seen me dousing everything from French fries to broccoli to beans and rice in ketchup, but that doesn’t necessarily make it RIGHT. It just makes it delicious.

• While we are on the subject of food, don’t fill a bowl with whipped cream and hot fudge and call it “dinner”. To be considered a meal, there has to be SOME nutritional value in what you are eating. So add some ice cream, caramel, and nuts, and THEN call it dinner.

• Don’t be like mama and wait for the laundry elves to show up and fold your laundry FOR you. I have waited and waited and waited and they still haven’t shown up. And as I’ve learned, if you leave a shirt in a heap of other clothes for three and a half years, it ends up being pretty wrinkly! And then you EITHER have to iron the shirt, or ignore your co-workers looking at you like you just rolled out of bed. Either way, it’s doesn’t make for a happy day.

• Let’s go back to the whole car thing again. I know you see mama take both of her hands off the wheel all the time, but that is only because she is singing “The Wheels on the Bus” and she HAS to do the “Round and Round” motion in order to fully entertain you. Similarly, she has to use both hands to make the itsy bitsy spider crawl up the water spout, because he won’t do it with just ONE hand. I would highly suggest that when you become old enough to drive, you keep both hands on the wheel, and not sing songs that require hand movements. Especially when you are taking your driver’s test. Of course, I also hope that you do not have a baby in the back seat of your car when you are first learning to drive. Know what I’m sayin’?

There are probably many, many other ways that Emmy should not follow in my footsteps, but I think I should stop here. Admitting all of my bad habits is kind of making me want to go find some paper to chew on.

I’m Just Gonna Ride it Out

You know those crazy folks who, despite knowing well in advance that some sort of natural disaster is about to completely LEVEL their home, insist upon staying put rather than getting the heck out of dodge? They’re the ones who you overhear telling news reporters “I’m just gonna batten down the hatches and ride it out,” while everyone else is packing up their precious belongings and running for the hills, screaming. I’m not sure if these crazies are on a suicide mission, or if they are under the impression that the hurricane/tornado/volcano/typhoon is going to miraculously stop at THEIR door and go “whoops! Can’t ruin this guy’s house!” I hate to pass judgement on complete strangers, but I always have to resist the urge to throw something at my television set whenever one of these loonies is being interviewed pre-storm.

But then, this past week, I WAS one of those stupid people. I ignored the all-too-obvious signs that danger lay ahead. I kept saying to myself, “I’m just gonna ride it out. How bad could it be?”

First sign of the natural disaster I like to call “Hurricane Emmy”? My daughter started sticking her thumb and fingers wayyy back in her mouth, gnawing on them like they were meaty, juicy ribs. Her poor little fingers looked like chewed up, shriveled hot dogs, and she didn’t care. DANGER! DANGER!

Second sign? Em started drooling like a rabid dog, all over her clothing, her chin, her toys, our furniture, my face… if it was in our house, it was covered in teething drool. WWWOOOOoooooooooowww WWWOOOOOOoooooowwwww (that’s my impression of an emergency siren)!

In light of the warnings that molar teething clearly lay ahead, I probably should have created an evacuation plan. I should have packed my bags and lied to my husband, telling him that I suddenly had to take a business trip to some far away island (if you knew my line of work, you would understand that it would be very difficult for me to make this lie believable, but I should have at least TRIED). OR I should have dug myself a bunker in the backyard, and filled it with all the necessary provisions for a few days of refuge (a blanket, my laptop, and dark chocolate). That way I could have at least been safe from harm.

But, no. I did none of these things. I chose instead to be a good and loyal mommy, and just “ride it out”.

And so this weekend happened. And I, being the crazy loon that I am, stood my ground as my daughter slowly but surely transformed into a howling, crying, temper-tantrum-throwing, category five “Hurricane Emmy”. I did everything in my power to keep Hurricane Emmy at bay. I fed her Tylenol. I distracted her with fun activities, like a trip to a children’s expo (how I managed to make it through that madhouse without losing my daughter or being trampled on is a complete miracle) and a trip to the playground. I fed her frozen bagels. In desperation, I almost bought her rawhide to chew on (once, while shopping at the grocery store, a random woman came up to me, observing that Emmy was teething. She told me that if I was a decent mother, I would buy my daughter rawhide to chew on, claiming that it was the only cure-all for her teething pain. I of course ran home to my husband and told him of this suggestion, who then googled “rawhide teething pain” and advised that the nice opinionated lady was full of crap).

Despite my efforts, the nights were still sleepless and restless, with random bursts of high pitched screaming, and the days were full of cantankerous, crabby, and clingy behavior. There were moments of calm and happiness, of course, where the hurricane winds would die down and we could all breathe. But those moments were few and far between, and most of the weekend was, to put it mildly, a topsy-turvy, tumultuous toddler tempest.

So here I am. It’s Monday. I walked into my office this morning, feeling like a tattered and tangled survivor, kind of hoping nobody would ask me about my weekend. I’m afraid if they do, I might lose it and start bawling uncontrollably, despite my strict “no crying in the workplace” policy. I’ve decided the best thing I can do, when co-workers ask what I did to relax and have fun, is to simply respond “I rode it out.”

Just for the record, I know that "Hurricane Emmy" is NOTHING compared to an actual, real-life natural disaster. I really do. I honestly don't mean to make mountains out of mole hills (or mountains out of molars, as the case may be). But I'm exhausted and delirious, and being dramatic is about the only thing I can do well at this point.

So forgive me, but when I get home this afternoon, I’m gonna build myself a bunker and/or buy myself a ticket to a faraway island. Cause, holy smokes, folks, we’ve still got four more big old teeth waiting to erupt.

Let Me Count the Ways... Part Deux

I'm going to keep counting the ways I love my daughter. One of which is the fact that Em is perhaps an even bigger fan of dancing than I am, which I didn't think was even possible.
She's got some killer moves, too..

Future candidate for "So You Think You Can Dance?"
Absolutely.

There's Never a Good Time

I am not a “by-the-book” mom. If you asked me what method of child-rearing I use to make sure my daughter is not being totally traumatized by her early years, I wouldn’t be able to name an “ism,” or refer you to a doctor or parenting guru. For the most part, I’m just parenting “from the hip,” the way my gut tells me to. I’ve been using my instincts as my compass, and hoping for the best. When I run into a real parenting fix, I have a wise older sister who I consult, as well as many online parenting forums that will either tell me I am doing a horrible or super job, depending on their perspective.

So I’ve made some major parenting decisions over the past 17 months, not because I read about them being amazingly beneficial to my daughter, or because a professional told me to do so, but just because they felt “right”. I’ve chosen to breastfeed my daughter for an extended period of time, and have been co-sleeping with her since the day she was born. Again, I’ve made these decisions not out of an allegiance to “attachment parenting” (though I’ve been told that is what I am doing), but just because they made me feel like I was mothering the way I wanted to mother.

Of course, these two decisions have had quite the impact on our family lifestyle. Up until this point, I’ve let Emmy breastfeed on demand, without limits, regardless of whether nursing was being used as a source of nutrition or as a source of comfort. Nursing was the first way we bonded when Em emerged from my womb, and has remained a steadfast way for us to have some important mommy-daughter time over the past many months. But as Em’s now nearing the year-and-a-half mark, the process of weaning has been pretty huge on my mind, and I am beginning to think we need to start pumping the breaks on our endless feeding sessions.

As for the co-sleeping, well, as a family we’ve half-heartedly attempted (on many occasions) to get Emmy to sleep in her crib for more than an hour or two, but it hasn’t worked. So I’ve gotten used to having Em in bed with me, her arm slung around my neck, or her entire body draped over me in some weird, contorted position that only a toddler finds comfortable. To be honest, I kind of love it. I love watching my daughter’s sleeping face, or kissing her when it seems she is on the brink of having a nightmare. But I also really miss cuddling with my husband. And I miss sleeping for more than two hours at a time (without being woken by a breastfeeding or screaming Emmy). And I know that as long as Em’s in bed with me, the night feedings are not going to stop, which means that the process of weaning cannot begin.

I’ve been talking about transitioning Emmy away from co-sleeping for months and months now, as a first-step towards the weaning process. In my mind, I’ve been waiting for a “good time” to begin this transitional phase, but that time never arrived. First, Emmy started teething, and I hated the idea of making her sleep by herself in her crib when she needed more comfort than usual. Then she got sick, and I didn’t want her sleeping by herself for fear that she would stop breathing because of congestion, or choke on her own vomit. Then Em started teething again. Then she started daycare, and I was afraid that too much change at once would send our little girl over the edge into a state of toddler-sized depression. Then she got sick again. Then she started teething again. And on, and on.

As my husband told me (during a long heart-to-heart session this weekend that proceeded an argument about our current family dynamic), there is never going to be a good time for change. If I continue to wait for the perfect time to transition, I will still be breastfeeding Emmy as she walks down the aisle on her wedding day, and her future husband will have to be ok with us all co-sleeping together. None of us want that to happen.

After a long good look in the mirror, I have admitted to myself that the excuses I have been making, in waiting for a good time to transition my daughter out of co-sleeping and breastfeeding, are excuses born out of my own fears. I am the one who is afraid of change, because I am as attached to my daughter as she is to me. It may make me a horrible mom, but I kind of sort of definitely LOVE Em’s dependence on me. It makes my heart a little sad and heavy to think about the fact that she is growing up, and she doesn’t really NEED me for her basic human needs, like eating and sleeping, anymore.

So the truth? I need this transition as much as Em does. I need to learn how to show my mommy love to my daughter in new ways, and how to encourage her independence as a part of that love. I need to understand that my daughter will still love me, even if she is not curled up in my arms for eight hours a night. I get it. I need to do this. And as much as I want to say that now’s not a good time, it’s probably as good as its gonna get.

One Huge Little Word

The other night, while C and I were busying ourselves with evening chores (packing Em’s lunch, cooking dinner, briefly contemplating folding massive amounts of laundry, trying to scrape unidentifiable gook off the coffee table…) Emmy was entertaining herself with one of her beloved toys. I am so grateful that my daughter is now of the age where she is starting to engage her blossoming imagination in play. I love watching Em pretend her dolls (and teddy graham crackers) are alive, giving them squeaky little voices and animating their bodies with her hands. It’s just one of those things that makes me a very happy mama.

C and I sat down to eat dinner while Em was still playing on her own. I hardly noticed when Em tiptoed up next to me and tugged at my pant leg. And then I heard:

“Mama. Hepp”

Oh, lordy. My heart just melted.

C and I have been repeating the word “help” to Emmy in various situations. We’ve been trying to encourage her to tell us when she can’t reach something she wants, can’t figure out the way a toy works, or when she is just generally frustrated. Every time we’ve lent Em a hand with some toddler-sized trauma (i.e., weeble wobble stuck in weeble wobble house), we’ve prefaced our assistance with “Do you need HELP, Emmy? Let’s see if Mama or Dada can HELP.”

But to hear the actual word “help” (or “hepp”, as the case may be) come out of her mouth caught me off guard and sent me for an emotional ride I hadn’t been prepared for. I teared up, mouth agape. I asked my husband if he understood the gravity of the situation (he nodded, appeasing me). And then I took Em’s little hand as she led me to the “situation”. A toy she wanted to play with was stuck between the couch and rocking chair. Clearly adult intervention was needed.

I know, I know. I’m probably making a really big deal out of a not-so-big-deal kind of a thing. Every child learns to say “help” eventually. I’m sure my urge to throw a block party upon hearing my daughter’s first verbalized cry for assistance is a little over the top.

But here’s the thing. I have NEVER been good at asking for help myself. As a kid (and well into my adulthood) I’ve always assumed that asking people for help was being an imposition. I always felt like I could either figure the problem out myself, or just learn to “deal with it”. Why bother others with my issues? They’ve got better things to do.

I think it’s just one of those traits that I was born with. My mom often recounted a story of my experience in kindergarten. Apparently the teachers were concerned because I wasn’t getting my work done in class. I would just sit there and stare at construction paper. When my mother approached me about the situation, and asked me why I was refusing to do any of the assignments I was given, I told her it was because I hadn’t been given any crayons to work with. My mother then asked me why I didn’t just raise my hands and ask the teacher for crayons? I told my mom I was too embarrassed to ask for help.

Luckily, I’ve matured since kindergarten, and have learned (albeit rather late in life) that asking for help is actually a sign of strength, not weakness. It took true love, pregnancy, and motherhood to get me to a point where I can now raise my hand and ask for a box of crayons when I need it. I’m still not stellar at reaching out to others in times of need, but I’m evolving in that department. Slowly.

My daughter has conviction and courage that I find enviable. Even at this early age, she is daring, inquisitive, and opinionated. I love these traits, and hope that as her mother I can support her maturation into a strong-willed young adult (even if it bites me in the behind every once in a while), and a super confident woman. I hope that Emmy never gets embarrassed to ask for help, and that I can encourage her to continue to use this little word with big meaning as a sign of her strength, not of weakness.

Honey? We’ve Got a Change in Plans.

Seriously, I should have known better than to plan an “alone day” with my husband.

We were all excited. Theoretically speaking, it was going to be an amazing day. C doesn’t work on Mondays, and I had President’s Day off from work. We were going to drop Em off at Baba and Grampy’s house, get a few chores done (so we wouldn’t feel completely guilty about skipping out on our daughter and parents), then go to the gym together (woot! woot!), have lunch together by ourselves (a miracle!), and go see a movie IN the movie theater (shut the front door!) And yessiree bob, we also had other scandalous activities planned (ok. now make sure the front door is locked… and close the blinds… and take the phone off the hook… is your cell phone turned off, honey?)

That is, until about 2 a.m. on Monday morning, when I started feeling horribly nauseous. At first I thought I might be pregnant, and got super excited about my stomach ache. Yay nausea! And then the nausea wouldn’t go away. And then I took a pregnancy test. And then I knew I just had a stomach bug. Booooo.

At 7:00 a.m., I told my husband we might have to curtail our plans slightly to accommodate the large ulcer that was apparently forming in my stomach lining. But being that this was the first day we had planned to have all to ourselves in over sixteen months, I was not going to be easily discouraged. I looked down at my belly and said “belly, listen here. I’ve got an awesome day planned with my hubby, and I need you to cooperate.”

At 9:00 a.m. I dropped Em off at Baba and Grampy’s. Yeah, I felt a little guilty dropping her off, but the fact that I was feeling a little less than healthy lessened the guilt considerably. I was not feeling my most energetic, and was pretty sure that Emmy was going to have a better time with her grandparents than she would be able to have with a nauseous (and by now a little bit achy and sweaty) mama.

Still undeterred, I told my husband I would be ABSOLUTELY FINE continuing with our plans as scheduled. So we both donned our gym clothes and hopped in the car. Ok, maybe he hopped and I hobbled. As we drove to the gym, I gave myself a little pep talk, a la “I think I can I think I can I think I can”.

As it turns out, I couldn’t. After fifteen minutes on the stationary bike, I was a shaky sweat bomb and thought I was going to die. I played it cool, though. I told my hubby (who was still cruising along on his own stationary bike) that I was just gonna go lift some weights. Work on my lovely lady bumps, you know? After giving him a deceiving “thumbs up”, I went and found a machine I could sit down on. C finished his workout and found me, still all smiles, feigning strength as I completed my thigh abductions (pretty sure I completed five reps in thirty minutes).

We returned home to freshen up before lunch and a movie. Oh yes, people. That’s right. I was not going to let my nausea, cold sweats, dizziness, body aches and utter exhaustion get the better of me! I had my husband all to myself, and I was going to enjoy it if it killed me.

We went to a busy Panera’s where I could get a non-offensive bowl of chicken soup which, despite my endless nausea, tasted great.

Then we went to see Safe House in a real movie theater. And guess what, folks? I ordered popcorn! Yup, I told my husband that it was probably going to go down in history as the stupidest decision a human being has ever made, but I wanted the COMPLETE movie experience, and that experience included the taste of buttery popcorn in my mouth, gosh darnit. To my credit, though my husband suggested we sit directly behind the kind old lady in the row in front of us, I suggested that in order for us to avoid making the six o’clock news, we should probably scoot a few seats over. That way, if my stomach rejected the popcorn I so desired, there would at least be no innocent victims caught in the crossfire.

Side note #1: In my opinion, Safe House is a decent action-adventure movie.
Side note #2: To the couple leaving the theater who claimed the movie was horrible AND sooo boring: Everyone is entitled to their opinion, but I don’t think “boring” is the adjective you were looking for. Do me a favor. Check the dictionary.
Side note #3: Lesson learned from Safe House: If Denzel Washington ever looks at you like you are stupid, you are probably indeed very very stupid.

After the movie, C and I went to pick Emmy up. No detour back to our house for a little hanky-panky, which was probably for the best. Though I had been able to keep the popcorn I ate down through the duration of the movie, I was nervous that it might make a reappearance during a moment of intimacy, and that thought alone was enough to make us ixnay the exsay.

Poor Em. By the time we brought her home that afternoon, mama’s aggressive germies had attacked her, too.

Poor hubby. By the next morning, he was home from work, laid out on the couch, with the same tummy issues.

And I stayed home from work to try to make sure everyone was ok.

Serves me right for planning a day alone with my husband. Next time there’s a possibility of us having a day to ourselves (sometime in 2047?), I’m not going to plan a single thing. Because as sure as the sun does rise, as soon as I plan something, evil germs with superpowers and capes will hear the news and start planning their attack.

I should have known better, but at least I’ll know better for next time.

Let Me Count the Ways....

You know how there are those times when, in the midst of a humdrum day (or maybe a not-so-humdrum-day), your child does something subtle (or not so subtle) that just kinda blows your mind? You pause, breathe, and take a second or two to honor and appreciate the fact that your baby girl or boy is a kinder, braver, smarter, or more talented soul than you generally give them credit for? And maybe, like me, you start reciting to yourself “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways….”

After having two of these moments just yesterday, I’ve decided I better start writing these little revelations down. My hope is that one day, when Em is more grown up and maybe worried that she’s not smart enough, or brave enough, or a kind enough person, I can find these words and read them to her, and help her see the truth of her own value.

So here’s a few reasons I love my daughter...

Yesterday, when I picked Em up from daycare, I knew right away that something wasn’t right. Despite the fact that her teacher told me she had a great day, and had enjoyed playing on the playground and “reading” (looking at) books with her friends, my mama instincts told me Em was not feeling herself. Her body looked like it was on red alert. I knew something was about to go down.

Sure enough, en route from daycare to our home, as we winded our way through the mess of rush hour traffic, Em suddently started crying. And, just as suddenly, Em started projectile vomiting. It was HORRIBLE. She was screaming, gagging, crying, and puking all at the same time. I started to panic. I was in the inner lane of bumper-to-bumper traffic, and I couldn’t pull over without running the risk of a bad accident. Drivers are SO NOT friendly at the end of the workday, I have learned. With my hands clenched on the steering wheel and my rearview mirror turned (not so legally) so I could make sure Em wasn’t choking, I drove the rest of the three long miles home as quickly as I could, with me crying and her wailing the whole ride.

Of course, the minute we pulled in the driveway, I pounced out of my seat and pulled Em out of the car and into my arms (yes, pukey dookey and all). She immediately stopped screaming and snuggled in real close, wrapping her arms around me. I could feel both our hearts racing. Do you know what my daughter did? With her little 16 month old hand, she gently patted me on my back. My little girl KNEW I was scared, and even though SHE was the one who had just gotten sick all over the car, and she was the one soaked in vomit, she comforted her crying mama.

Emmy, you astound me. Let me count the ways…

Em got sick five more times yesterday. After each bout of sickness, we got undressed, cleaned up whatever floor, rug, or upholstery had been obliterated, and got in the shower to wash the germies off our bodies. And wouldn’t you know, each time we stepped under the running water, my exhausted, ill, slightly dehydrated daughter started singing. Minutes after puking her little guts out for the fourth or fifth time, Emmy was still cheery enough to sing a little tune as we scrubbed her body.

Now I don’t know about you, but when I get sick, I don’t exactly feel like singing. I’m too busy feeling sorry for myself and wallowing in my own disgustingness. I throw myself a huge pity party, where no one’s allowed to sing. Everyone must be silent and miserable. Especially me.

But not Em. She’s better than that.

As we toweled ourselves off from our fifth shower, I looked my daughter in the eyes and said “Em, next time I get sick, I’m gonna try to be like you and sing in the shower. Thank you baby girl.” and kissed her forehead.

How do I love you, Em? Let me count the ways…

My Toddler is Dating a Rock Star

When Emmy was just about to turn one year old, I swore to myself (and to my husband) that I wasn’t going to get her tons of birthday gifts. I even suggested that maybe it would be best if we didn’t buy Em ANY gifts, and we could rewrap some of her existing toys, so that she could rediscover the joy of the many objects she already owned. SHE wouldn’t know the difference, and because her memory isn’t fully developed, the experience wouldn’t cause her any lifelong trauma, right?

Then I had a disturbing vision of sitting with Emmy, years from now, looking through photos of her first birthday party. She notices a picture of herself pulling one of her ratty old bears out of a nicely wrapped box.
“Mommy, didn’t I see that bear in eight other baby pictures?”

And then I would have the choice of either lying to her (“no way, Em. That was the SPECIAL ISSUE ‘messy bear’ that came pre-stained. Kind of funny how your OTHER bear looks just like this one, huh? He he”) or telling her the truth (“yes, Em. Your mama is a cheapskate who thought you had too many toys”), neither of which would be pretty.

A week before Emmy’s birthday, I went to Toys R Us in a panic, hoping to find her the ONE perfect birthday gift. I must have been transfixed by the lights, the music, and the millions of toys that begged me to buy them, because the cart I wheeled up to the cash register was simply OVERFLOWING. I laughed nervously as the cashier rung up my obvious overindulgence, and tried to get the people standing on line to assure me that I had done the right thing. They didn’t. They told me I was buying enough presents for triplets, which was absolutely true.

I understood my issue. I was buying EVERY toy under the sun, in hopes that one of them would provide Emmy with endless joy. I wanted to find my daughter her very own Velveteen Rabbit.

So when the December holiday season rolled around, I quadruple pinky-swore (to myself) that I would NOT repeat the offense of buying my daughter too many presents. We have no more room in our house! As it stands, we have to lunge over clunky playthings as we make our way through the house.
I returned to Toys R Us, but with a renewed commitment to keeping my sanity in the midst of all the toy-buying propaganda, and I was relatively successful. By that I mean I had intended to get one toy, and I bought three. And when it turned out that Emmy only liked one out of the three gifts I bought her, I exchanged the two rejected toys (on the day after Christmas, no less. Fun times.) for… drum roll, please… Rock and Roll Elmo.

My daughter does not just love Rock and Roll Elmo. She LOOOOOOOVES him.
Admittedly, in my pre-motherhood days, I was staunchly opposed to Elmo. I thought our home was going to be an Elmo-free-zone, and that I wouldn’t have to hear his falsetto voice or see his all-too-limber muppet body bouncing around our abode. I really thought he was kind of annoying, and somehow convinced myself that Emmy could have an Elmo-free childhood.
And then one day, while we were out on a family shopping trip, Em caught a glimpse of Elmo on a store shelf and was immediately smitten. He made her smile. He made her laugh. He made her wave her hands in the air like a crazy person. So I gave in.

In the subsequent months, Em has accumulated about 5 different Elmo dolls, but none is as near and dear to her as Rock and Roll Elmo. You see, he sings. He dances. He moves his hands and feet in complex animatronic motions that make him seem like a real live being. He engages Emmy in his performance. Well, not JUST Emmy. Whenever and wherever Elmo sings in the house, we all sing and dance along (Dada knows the lyrics, Mama makes up new lyrics, and Emmy sings sounds that are remarkably close to the lyrics).

“Come on and play along.
You’ve got it! It’s a brand new song!
Rock to the beat and clap your haayayaaands.
Come be a part of Elmo’s BAND!”

How can you resist?

Emmy has taken her love of Elmo to a whole ‘notha level. When she wakes up in the morning, she asks for Elmo. When she comes home from daycare, she’s gotta find Elmo. During dinner, Elmo gets fed along with the rest of us. After dinner? Dance party with Elmo, of course! Emmy kisses Elmo, hugs Elmo, takes Elmo on walks around the house. It’s safe to say my daughter is dating Elmo. They’re “a thing.”

And I am the parent who, after at first HATING my daughter’s choice in boys, has come around to not just like him, but to love him as if he was one of my own.

In Rock and Roll Elmo, I found (albeit an unlikely) Velveteen Rabbit for Em. Even though she’s young, I’m kind of hoping this relationship lasts a long time, so I don’t have to go on another endless (and expensive) pursuit of the next perfect toy.

What is/was your child’s “Velveteen Rabbit”?

Valentine’s Day Aliens Turn Toddlers into Innocent Fashion Victims

I’m not one of THOSE moms, I swear. I don’t dress Emmy in all green on St. Patrick’s Day. I don’t dress her in red, white, and blue on the Fourth of July. Ok, maybe I DO dress her up like a baby duck on Halloween (love), but I definitely DON’T dress her up like a dreidel on Hannukah.

And yet, for some unexplicable reason, I felt the urge to dress my daughter up for Valentine’s Day this morning.

Emmy is not exactly what you would call a girly-girl. She’s a climber, a tumbler, a ball thrower, and a dirt enthusiast. Generally speaking, I dress her in attire appropriate to her nature and her age: jeans, cotton shirts, comfy yoga pants… you know, clothes she can move around freely in, and clothes I won’t be too upset about her staining with yogurt, mud, and markers.

So what came over me this morning? A Valentine’s Day Alien. Yup, you heard me. A Valentine’s Day alien took over my body and forced me, zombie-like, to scoop up my unsuspecting child and dress her in a pink and white dress with matching itchy stockings. And then the alien made me force the three hairs on her head into adoooorable teeny weeny pigtails. And accessorize her with little pink doodads and whatnots. And then the alien made me chase her around the house trying to take pictures so I could post them on Facebook with a status update of “Shower the people you love with love. Show them the way that you feel. – James Taylor”

I’ve gotta blame the alien, cause there’s NO WAY I would have done all that stuff.

As Valentine’s Day Alien Mama, I brought my decked-out daughter to daycare this morning, sure that the teachers in the Busy Bees room would stop in their tracks, drop to their knees, and declare Em the most beautiful Valentines-Day-Goddess-Toddler they had ever seen. It was very important to the alien inside my body that they notice my daughter’s extreme cuteness.

Ummm… apparently there were A LOT of aliens crawling into Capital District mama bodies this morning, because all the kids in Em’s class were DECKED OUT. I’m talking tutus, tiaras, red heart sweaters, body glitter..THE WHOLE NINE YARDS and then another yard and a half. I’m pretty sure there was ONE toddler whose mama must have somehow escaped the Valentine’s Day alien, cause she was wearing normal, comfy, play-time-appropriate toddler clothes. But she was the only one. Poor Em was staring at the lucky survivor enviously while she scratched her own itchy stocking-clad legs.

I know that in the battle of Valentine’s Day Alien vs. Emmy, my daughter is definitely going to come out on top. Sure as eggs is eggs, I will go pick up my daughter at daycare this afternoon, and will find her pretty pink and white striped dress covered with a vast array of NEW colors, like dirt brown, pea-green, and permanent marker red. Her stockings will be ripped to shreds, and her hair will once again resemble that of Art Garfunkle. Or maybe she will PURPOSELY have a messy poopy so she can change into some of her comfortable “backup” clothes. She’ll show 'em who’s boss. Valentine’s Day Alien will concede, shrink away, and swear to never ever take over Mama’s body again. Lesson learned.

Mmmmm... at least until next year.