It's a good question, Charlie Brown

A: "Mumma, why does Charlie Brown always wear that same outfit? Like, every single day?"

"Hmmm, good question baby. I'm not really sure."

A: "Well, I hope he has Tide stain stick with him. Or else that outfit would get pretty dirty."

"You are right, that would get pretty dirty huh?"


A: "I don't even get to wear my undies two days in a row! That is gross Momma. I would never wear something every day in a row like that."

(a few moments of silence....and then:)


A: "...and also Momma, why does Peppermint Patty sound like a man?"

Lo mein plus kiddos equals:

"Gavin, please stop putting noodles in your ears!"

(giggles from the peanut gallery)

"Ava, stop putting noodles in your ears too"

(more giggles)

"Ava, please stop putting noodles in Gavin's ears."

(uproarious laughter from the two scheming siblings)

"Ok, will everyone please refrain from putting any sort of noodles in anyone's ears?! PLEASE?!"



Ahhh, how much dinnertime conversation has changed at our house over the past 5 years  :-)

Love it.

Oh, by the way Mom...

"I don't need you to zipper me up anymore!"

And with those eight seemingly benign words resonating in my head, instantaneous tears of  Maternal pride began streaming down my cheeks.

Then, the following display of proof unfolded right in the middle of my living room:

I did it!

Motherhood is a crazy thing. I've spent five exhausted years silently hoping for the day when I wouldn't have to tie her shoes, zipper her coat, button her pants, brush her teeth for her, cut her food at dinner, etc...

And now that she can proudly display a big, bold check mark next to all of these things (and so many more...), I'd suddenly give anything to have those days back.

I suppose it's just another reminder to savor each and every moment of these amazing & fleeting years, because before I know it she will be telling me, "I passed my driving test Mom! You don't need to drive me to school anymore!" 


So for today, I will smile, cheer for her big accomplishment, and tell her how extraordinarily proud I am of her with a massive display of hugs and relentless smooches on the cheek.

And I am proud of her. Each & every step of the way-- from moments as big as first steps, first words, and first ballet recitals, to the little ones like these.

So incredibly proud.


Zipper away, Aves.

Zipper away!

Wednesdays, dalmations, and diapers-- Oh My!

Wednesdays are our marathon days here at the D residence.

Allow me to illustrate.

7:00-7:45am, everyone up, dressed, ready for breakfast. Breakfast around 8:00-- usually something super simple like those fun yogurts-in-a-tube and toast. 8:15, tooth-brushing frenzy in the bathroom. Once all teeth have passed inspection, (and numerous globs of sparkly, neon blue toothpaste have been removed from the sink, cabinet, bathroom floor, and little faces,) coats, shoes, socks, hats, etc... are put on and it's time to hit the road. 8:30am, Daddy leaves the house with A, drops her at school, and heads to work. Simultaneously, I leave the house by 9:00 with little G to get him to baby music class by 9:30. (this only after I've put his shoes and socks on for the nine-hundredth time, since he likes to take them off & hide them these days. ) Once at music class, we spend a glorious hour singing, dancing, banging drums, shaking egg maracas etc... until it is time to go. We head out to complete our Wednesday errands and grab lunch before heading to pick A up from school by 12:45pm. From school, we head directly to dance class (no passing Go/collecting $200) where A proceeds to sashay, tondue, and shuffle-ball-change her way through an hour and fifteen minutes of a pink, frilly, tutu-filled class with her little ballerina comrades. After dance, we usually head to the bank for our Wednesday banking needs and, only once this is complete-- we finally head home.

Which means, we aren't usually home until almost 4pm.

That's right folks, almost an eight hour day out of the house, schlepping to and fro various kid-oriented activities in my sweet, sweet Mamamobile. (After having it for 2 years now, and I still refuse to call it a station wagon.)

It's a loooooooooooooong day to be out & about with two kiddos, and no naptime. (Repeat: NO NAPTIME.)

But we do it, every single Wednesday, and by endearingly referring to it as our "Marathon Day" (as opposed to a more derogatory choice, i.e. "brutal Wednesday" or "sucky Wednesday") we get through it with smiles on our faces.

(usually.)

And then there was...today.

Oy.

Today, when breakfast ran late. And those "convenient" little tubes-o-yogurt ended up in little G's hair, ears and nostrils before 8:30 am, necessitating a wardrobe change before we'd even accomplished anything substantial.  And A's socks were too "bumpy" under her leggings (?!) and a meltdown of princess proportions ensued. And we forgot to brush teeth altogether. (don't judge, it happens to the best of us on occasion...) And she was a late for school & missed morning snack. Today, where the second I turned my car on, the electronic digital dash thingamajiggy (I like to use the technical terms, clearly) screamed "LOW TIRE! LOW TIRE!", convincing me that my tire would blow out at some point unless I drove under 25mph at all times today, and swerved to avoid every single pot hole/tree branch/pebble/gum wrapper in the road.  Ahhhh today....where most of the other cherubs from little G's music class had nasty, juicy, and eerily similar coughs, so I spent the entire hour more preoccupied with sheltering him from the barrage of contaminated raindrops-o-saliva than reveling in my egg-maraca skillz. (fo' sho.) Today, where we got trapped at the post office behind an (adorable, but sloth-paced) ninety-something-year old couple who bought a book of stamps and subsequently proceeded to peel & stick each stamp on about five hundred pieces of mail, perfectly & straight, all while having a conversation with seemingly the only teller at the post office. Today, where little G had EIGHT poopy diapers  in a five hour time period (poor guy must have eaten something that didn't agree), and I was at the mercy of the two square inches of the Mamamobile trunk (damn you, third row seats!) to try and change a squirmy, flailing, preoccupied, squirmy, poopy...(did I mention, squirmy?) toddler. (sidenote, my car smelled just delightful for the better part of the day.) Today, where I spent the majority of A's dance class in the parking lot changing more poopy diapers, and wasn't there when A came out (with the other ballerinas) into the waiting room to invite the Mommies into the studio to watch their little performance...and started sobbing because she thought I had left her. ("No honey, Mommy's just elbow-deep in your little brother's poop...AGAIN! I'll be right in!!!")

Oh yes friends, it was just one of those days.

Needless to say, by 3:30 when dance class was over, I had vetoed the typical Wednesday banking obligations and decided we just needed to get home. (especially since little G's bum was stinky yet again, and I was completely out of diapers.)

As we pulled out of the Dance studio parking lot, little G sucking his thumb and quietly looking out the window, it occurred to me that this was the first moment of quiet I'd had all day. However this quiet moment was extremely short-lived, and almost as immediately as it had begun, it was interrupted by a little voice in the back seat.

"Momma, you know what?"


"What honey?" I asked her, peering at her eyes in the rear-view mirror.

She let out a loud, dramatic sigh, rolled her eyes, and threw her hands out, palms up.

"There's just NEVER a dalmation in our house, huh Momma!?"


"Oh, honey, you know we'd love to get you a puppy, but Daddy's allerg--"


"No, Momma!" she said, chuckling. "I mean, there's never a DAL-MATION in our house. Right?"


"Honey, I don't know what you are talking abo--"


And before I could even finish the sentence, I burst into hysterical laughter. I put the car in park, in the middle of the parking lot, and just laughed. And laughed, and laughed. My laughter was met with copycat giggles from the back seat. Smiling, silly, un-brushed tooth giggles.

"What, Momma? What is so funny about that? You say it all the time when we have crazy days like this, you say, 'Ay, ay ay, there's never a dalmation in our house' "


"Honey," I replied, my cheeks aching from laughter at this point as I struggled to get the rest of my words out.

"There's never a DULL MOMENT. That's what Mom says when we have crazy days like this. Never a dull moment!"


She burst into hysterical laughter as she realized that her dalmation statement was a bit... off.

"Ooopsie!" she giggled, clearly feeling a bit embarrassed about this little mishap...




And all of a sudden, everything about this Wednesday was just plain perfect.  :-)

The implications of 6 inches (get your minds out of the gutter!)

Once upon a time, there was a haircut.
Six inches chopped off, just like that. Six inches of the gorgeous, long, golden brown hair that she'd spent 18 months patiently growing out--

gone in under fifteen minutes. Six inches, instantly swept up off the salon floor and sent into the mysterious graveyard of cut-off hair in a slumping black trashbag in the corner. This because I (naively) allowed my 5-year old to chop off all under the pretense that she "just wanted short hair now, Momma!" Boy, was I ever wrong *sigh!*



It all began Friday when we took a trip to the salon, a Mommy-daughter date of sorts (which is a rarity these days, since her baby brother's birth over a year ago.)  And like a very grown-up girl, she took a seat on the salon chair and politely proclaimed to the hair-dresser:

"I don't just want a trim, I want a lot of hairs cut off! Like, really short, all the way up to here! (pointing to just beneath her ears) Is that okay Momma? I just really want short hair now, okay?"

Not wanting to impose upon my tenacious Preschooler's right to freedom of expression, I agreed to her request, reminding her that it is indeed her hair and that if she would like it short, then short it is. The hairdresser performed the obligatory reminders- "Just so you know, you won't be able to put it into a pony-tail for a while. Or a long braid. Or pigtails - Is that ok?" 

Not the least bit intimidated by these scare tactics, Ava responded, "That's ok, it will grow back one day. I would please like it short!"

A little taken aback by such an unwavering response from a five-year old, the hairdresser smiled to herself, picked up the scissors, and agreed, "Ok then, Miss Ava- short it is!"

Twenty minutes later....

 (plus a little fancy-pants action with the blow dryer and some tres expensive, goopy hair "product,")  it was over. And my little girl had a whole new look.

An absolutely adorable, big girl look:

A look that left her feeling confident, pleased, and glowing all over. The rest of the afternoon (which, incidentally, we spent at the mall in true Mommy-daughter-date style,) I kept catching her secretly peering at herself in reflections and mirrors, smiling big & wide and commenting on just how much she loved her new 'do.  She was obviously very happy and there was even a notable new bounce in her step. I was thrilled that something as simple as hair had truly made her day!

The rest of the afternoon at the mall unfolded more or less predictably, with numerous pleas to "pretty pretty please??" buy her a new stuffed animal, toy, or pair of shoes. (sidenote, excellent timing that Mr. Claus himself was already perched at the mall for the season, because aforementioned pleas were met with a "Not today, but we can certainly stop by and let Santa know that it is on your list" from me.) She did ultimately find a super boring navy blue jumper (similar to the private school dress-code jumpers)  that, beyond my comprehension,  she just had to have.  And since it was already reduced and we had a coupon, we bought it. (never too young to learn smart shopping habits!)

One thing I did, however, find a bit strange during our shopping spree, was her burning desire to find a hat.

"Honey, you already have two new winter hats, we don't need any more." I told her firmly.

"But Momm-mmmma," she implored, "not a winter hat. A...different kind. Like, maybe, a pretty yellow-ish, light brown-ish hat, with a red ribbon tied around it? Can we look?"


I supposed there was no harm in humoring her with a search for such a bizarre unique request, so we ventured for an hour and forty-five minutes around the mall, in and out of every single hat/accessory store. At the end of the day, our search ended fruitlessly and my exhausted, sad little girl begged me to "please order one online later on?"


I told her that we'd ask Santa.

She yawned, and agreed.

-----FAST-FORWARD TWO DAYS-----

All day yesterday I noticed that she was speaking to her stuffed animals, her dolls, and even to her father & me, in a British accent (!?!) To boot, she spent most of the weekend referring to her baby brother as "Lord Covington."

When I finally confronted about this, she responded in said accent "Oh, no worries Mu-tha. I'm just dreadfully silly and thought it funny to speak like this! Now will you please bring me some tea, Ms. Clavel?"


And that's when it hit me.


Oh.
my.
goodness.


Similar to the last 4 minutes of The Usual Suspects, the events of the past 72 hours began to flash before my eyes.

The impulsive hair cut.

The navy blue jumper.

The quest for the hat.

The British accent....

and now, calling me Miss Clavel!?!


At  that exact moment, it became abundantly clear that my sweet little preschooler was actually trying to transform herself into the newest little idol in her life:

That's right, folks. Ava Lee was trying to become... Madeline.


I immediately asked her if the reason she chopped her hair off was to look like Madeline.

"But of cou-hhse, Mutha!" she responded

"And that's why you wanted the hat too? And that's why you've been talking in this silly voice?!"


She giggled. "Well, or COU-HHSE it is, dah-ling! Didn't you know that?"


Nope, sure didn't. I had no idea! 

I was completely, utterly duped...by my very own five year old.


 Clearly, hindsight is 20/20 and it all made perfect sense in retrospect. We had picked up the original Madeline DVD from the $5.00 section at Target two weeks prior, and she'd probably watched it ten times since. It quickly became her new favorite movie, and obviously Ms. Madeline herself quickly became a beacon of coolness and fashion in Ava's eyes.

In conclusion, I think it is adorable, and simultaneously impressive, that my little girl was secretly able to devise such an elaborate plan in her mind, (and almost pull it off too!) If nothing else, it is certainly a noteworthy entry for the baby book and a story she'll be able to tell her own daughter one day, and laugh about.

And lesson learned on this end, next time she expresses a sudden urgency to "trim" six whole inches from hair on a random Friday afternoon, perhaps I should investigate the underlying reasons.  :-)

Kids are colorblind

Tonight as I tucked Ava into bed, I asked her what the best part of her day was.

She looked up at the ceiling, giggling. "It was definitely at school, when *Andrew was doing his show and tell about Buzz Lightyear and he got up and started doing a funny dance, saying 'To infinity...and beyond!' That was definitely the best part of my day, Momma! Andrew is so silly!"

Now, although Ava started at a new school just a few weeks ago, it certainly didn't take me long to put faces to the names of the other eight children in her small Pre-K classroom.  In fact, I'm sure I could name all of them with 99.9% accuracy if they lined up in a row. Ava, however, doesn't know this little fact. And so, with my own knowledge that "Andrew" is the only African-American child in her classroom, I decided to conduct a little pseudo-experiment on children & race, right there in bed.

"Hmmm, I don't think I remember who Andrew is-- can you remind me?"

"Sure Momma...ummm, he is the one with....the dinosaur shirt. Remember?"

"No honey, I don't. Tell me more about him?"

"Well...he always brings fruit roll-ups for lunch! And he likes to do the art station. Oh, and he has brown eyes, just like me!"

"What else?"

"Well...I don't know if it is nice to say this about Andrew..."

(I assume this is the part where she will awkwardly say something about his skin being a different color than her own..)

"It's okay honey, what do you want to tell me?"

"Well Momma...he sometimes has boogies in his nose!"

I smile and give her a big hug. "Ohhh, now I remember. He's the one who eats fruit roll-ups, and sometimes has boogies in his nose. So that's Andrew!"

"Yeah, Momma! Exactly!" she smiles, proud that she has conveyed to me which classmate she is referring to.

I give her a major squeeze until she tells me that my hug is squishing her, and a final smooch on the forehead.

"Night, Momma!" she says to me, snuggling up under her covers and closing her eyes.


I leave her bedroom and close the door. And immediately think to myself, if the rest of the world just start perceiving other human beings with the same innocence, acceptance, & color-blind lenses as my 5-year old, what a beautiful world it would start to become.

Should I be concerned? Maybe a lil' bit?

I mean, obviously, everyone loves a good sock monkey...but pink? That's your sister's, little buddy!  Oy. Santa will have to make a (large, bold, high-lighted) mental note to bring you a more socially appropriate brand-spankin' new, blue sock monkey of your very own for Christmas this year. Especially since, over the past few days, pink sock monkey has had to accompany us everywhere. Grocery store, doctor's office, music class, lunch, naptime, diaper changes, carseat-- you name it, pink sock monkey is there, hanging onto that cute little neck of yours for dear life. 

But until then, I've gotta admit...

...you look pretty darn cute in pink  :-)

"Snips & snails, and puppy-dog tails...

...that's what little boys are made of."

~old-school nursery rhyme, circa early 19th century.

Dear Gav,
 Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for being such a BOY. Truly, I mean it-- thank you for living up to this reputation and for never letting me down in this regard. Especially in recent weeks.

You always find (exciting, unexpected) ways to surprise me and keep me on my toes.

From the moment I learned we were to have a son, I didn't quite know what to expect but couldn't wait to learn.

(yes, those would indeed be SOCKS in the ice tray.)

There certainly is never a dull moment with you in our lives, and I appreciate the fact that you have taught me to loosen up a little, and laugh at the constant, silly insanity that you bring to this home  :-)

And despite the fact that you may create a little bit more work for me around the house these days, I couldn't imagine a day without you in my life. So, Gav-- thank you, thank you, thank you!

Love you billions and billions!

XoXo,
Momma

At least sick days provide some good quotes

1). "Oh Gavey, I'm really sorry, but big sissy doesn't snuggle boys with boogies all over their face."  (in response to her sick baby brother trying to climb up on the couch and snuggle with her.)


2). "Momma, Gav's nose is really yucky and it makes me gag if I look at it."
     "Ok honey, well don't look at it then."
     "I can't help it Momma, it is so yucky and boogey-ish that it just keeps following me everywhere!"


3). "Gav, please stop touching my stuffed animals unless you Purell your hands first. I don't want them to get sick too!"


4). (in response to watching me give Gav his first dose of antibiotics for his ear infections:) "Oh, great Momma. Now his poop is going to be really stinky again. Just like Walter the Farting Dog."

Why do so many of my posts involve the word "penis"?

As I stood at the kitchen sink this afternoon, straining the mac-and-cheese twisty pasta I had just concocted for lunch, a very perplexed voice from the living room called my name:

"Momma?"

"Yes, Aves?"

"Are there any humans with four penises?"

(stopping mid-macaroni-strain to try and contemplate what on Earth she had just asked me, and more importantly... why.) "Ummmm, no honey. As far as I know, humans have just one.... why?"

"Well, because cows have four penises, Momma!"

"No honey, I'm pretty sure cows have just one also," I tell her as I haphazardly begin to stir the milk and cheese into the pasta pot.

"No Momma, they really do! (giggling) They really do have four penises. And it looks pretty funny! Come see!" 

In this moment, I am absolutely terrified. Terrified  to turn my head towards the living room TV and see the horror of what animalistic porno her poor, preschooler eyes have stumbled upon whilst I cooked her lunch in the kitchen.

Slowly, I rest the pasta spoon on the counter, and make my way into the living room. Before I see just what she is watching, I can see the Nick, Jr. logo on the bottom of the screen, and am at least relieved that she is watching a Momma-authorized channel. Phew.

And then, I stop dead in my tracks, and my eyes are immediately fixed upon the following image she has so graciously paused on the TV:






"See Momma? FOUR penises! Isn't that so silly! A-ha-hahahaha!!!"

And in conclusion, I'd publicly like to thank Nickelodeon's "Back at the Barn Yard" for thoroughly confusing my daughter about the male cow's anatomy & capabilities.

How preschoolers measure love

(At dinner tonight)

A: "Hey Momma?"

"Yes?"


A: "Do you want to know how much I love you?"

"Of course I do! Tell me."


A: "Like, billions. Like you know all the people in the whole world? And all the stars in the whole world? And also all the zebras in the whole world? And all the pumpkins in the whole world? THAT much!"

"Wow, baby! Wonderful! That's so much!"


A: "Oh, and one more thing. You know INDIA? I love you that much too. As much as INDIA!! And that's a very big street."

Peet-a-Boo!!

Prologue: Gavin's nether regions- you know- his, ahem, manhood - is affectionately referred to around here as his "Noodle." This, after Ava seeing it for the first time a few days after his birth, intently observed a diaper change and remarked that "baby Gav has a looooooong, silly noodle!" ANd from that day forward, "noodle" it was. However at this point in time, Gav is just learning to say words and can't quite master "noodle," and therefore has re-named his noodle,  "Noonie." 



________________________________________________________________________________



One of Gavin's first words was actually the phrase,  "Peet-a-boo!" -- Obviously, his own little rendition of peek-a-boo. (This is undoubtedly because Ava started playing it with him fresh-out-the-womb, and it was such a familiar sound/word to him, that it was a natural choice once his little brain started to figure out how to form and say words.)

For several months now, we'd look over at him, hide our face behind our hands, and watch him mimic this motion as his tiny, happy little voice shrieked:

 Peeeeeet-a-boooooo!

Super cuteness right there, if you ask me.

And so this morning as I cleaned up the post-breakfast madness in the kitchen, it wasn't entirely shocking to hear his voice, from behind his closed bedroom door, exclaiming Peet-a-boo!!! Peet-a-boo!!! followed by insane amounts of giggling.

What was shocking, however, was that his big sister was at school, and nobody else was home. Who on earth could he be peet-a-booing with?

Ohmygosh. It hit me. I suddenly envisioned him, sitting his chubby little self in front of the floor length closet mirror in his bedroom, doing peet-a-boo with his own reflection, and realized what an adorable photo-opp this would make for the baby book! Leaving the dishwasher wide-open and the sink still running  of course remembering to shut the sink off as to conserve water like a good, environmentally conscious little housewife, I booked it into the living room to grab the camera and then quietly crept down the hallway, praying that I wouldn't  interrupt the uber-cute moment I was about to capture on film.

I was giddy with anticipation!

I creaked his bedroom door open, slowly, quietly, camera in hand, & ready to go, and...

Hmmm.
No baby in front of mirror. I was perplexed.

"Peet-a-boooo!"  I heard again, and realized it was coming from behind the glider in the corner. Slowly, I crept to the corner, and peered over the glider.

And there he was. My boy. 

Diaper completely off,
      in all of his glory,

          sitting on his bum, 

               feet together and knees apart.

He looked up at me and smiled mischeivously.

"Where is your diapey, little man!??" I asked him

He looked down at his bare little situation down below, looked back at me, and replied, "Uhhhh-ohhh."

'Uh-oh is right," I replied as I picked up his (thank goodness, dry) diaper from the floor next to him. (sidenote, said diaper had clearly been completely mangled in his fervent attempt at freeing it from his body.)


And then, still sitting there bare-bum on the floor, (with his feet still together,) he closed his knees for about ten seconds, then threw them apart, looked down at his manhood, and shrieked:

"Peet-a-Boooooo, Noonie!"

and giggled.

That's right, folks.

My son was playing peek-a-boo with none other than....his very own noonie.


I'm sure he will thank me in fifteen years for deciding against photographing this totally bizarre adorable little milestone, and for recounting it words instead. And in the end, I suppose this makes a much better baby book entry than what I had initially envisioned  :-)

An Avaism for your Wednesday commute

Today in typical Wednesday style, Gav & I picked Ava up from school promptly at 1:00 and then had to book it to ballet, which starts at 1:30 on the nose. 

Ava was tired from a long day at school when she got in the car, and was unfortunately  under the very false assumption that she might be afforded a calm, serene, tranquil 20 minutes of shut-eye before having to shake her little booty on the dance floor.  However, it soon became clear-- after 4 nonstop minutes of Gavin's high-pitched squeals and screams (of delight, of course...), that this wasn't going to be that kind of drive.

No, this was going to be quite the opposite of that. You know, the loud, shrill, ear-piercing, glass-shattering kind of drive. 

Ughhhh.

Poor Ava tried a few times to (very politely) express to her brother-- 

"Gavey, can you please be quiet? Big sissy is tired."

"Please stop screeching like that buddy?"

"Gavey, that hurts my ears! Stop yelling!"

To which he happily replied each time, with a massive smirk on his face, something to the effect of:

"Ahhhh-deeeeeeeeeeeeeeee--doooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!"  (in the range of an opera soprano, and at approximately 900 decibels.)

Finally in frustration, Ava let out a loud, exasperated sigh, threw her hands in the air, and asked me:

"Ughhhhh!!!! I am so sick of this!!! Momma, why are boys always so loud and so...penis-y?????"

 

More tea ASAP!!!

As I lay sick & miserable in bed on this icky,  raw, damp, dark evening, combating the first nasty head cold of the 2010 fall/winter season, I listened from behind my closed bedroom door to the pandemonium fervent efforts put forth by my husband to round up the troops for bedtime, (albeit an hour and fifteen minutes late.) 

I heard no tooth-brushing. No tucking-in. No bedtime songs, no before-bed potty-ing. No picking out stories, or zippering up of footie pajammies. None of these things.

But what I did hear, was giggling...lots and lots of quiet, conspicuous giggling. Soon followed by the quick little pitter-pattering footsteps up and down the hallway...and then more giggling, which soon erupted into explosive belly laughter. 

I quickly muted the TV and strained my (clogged, throbbing) ears to hear what was going on outside my door.

And then I heard the following:

Ava: "I'm the naked Elf! I'm the naked Elf! I'm the naked-est Elf!!!"

Gavin: (pitter-pattering down the hallway after her,) "Bum-bum! Bum-bum! Bum-bum!" 

(*followed immediately by the sound of 2 tiny little brother hands spanking his big-sissy's bum.)

Two things are for certain at this very moment...

1). I better start chugging more of this herbal looseleaf tea and get better ASAP before things get any more out of control around here,

and

2). I freakin' love my life.   :-)

That's all.

"A whole hand, Momma!"

When you experience that miraculous moment of bringing life into this world, time stands still. It might sound silly, or cliche, or scientifically impossible to those of you who haven't lived through it yet, but believe me when I say it. Time stands still.


"One twenty-two pm," you are told by the nurse across the room, is when she officially made her big debut into this world.   Another nurse happily calls out that she is "eight pounds, two ounces and twenty-one inches long!"  and remarks that she is "nice and pink!" You hear her first cry-- which sounds more like a little mouse squeak than anything else-- and tears of joy, and pride, and emotion fill your eyes and immediately begin flowing down your cheeks.  You ask the doctors and nurses if  she is ok. If she is perfect. And you squeeze your husband's hand realllllllly tight in that seeming eternity until they answer you.



And when this beautiful, brand-new person-- the one bearing the uncanny resemblance to your own newborn photographs-- is finally wrapped up all cozy & warm and handed to you with a "She's perfect and healthy, congratulations!" from the doctor, you breathe your first sigh of relief.

You did it.

You created life, and she is perfect.

In this blissful instant, when time is still frozen, and life is pure and perfect, you no longer hold a memory of the 37 hours of labor, or the 4 painstaking hours of  pushing, or the blur of the emergency C-section that it took to get her here. Your sore, stitched up belly is the least of your concerns. You just stare down into her big, beautiful, inquisitive gray-blue eyes, and you introduce yourself to her:

"Hi baby, I'm you're Momma. And I've waited a long time for you!"

You smother her forehead with kisses, and watch her tiny body rise and fall atop your chest as she sleeps there, hiccup-ing occasionally. Life, in this frozen moment, is heaven. And you enjoy and absorb every single, miraculous bit of it.

Sadly, the inevitable soon occurs; and like the world's fastest freight train, life starts to move ahead, full-throttle. The clock resumes ticking, but this time, in fast-forward, at 250 miles an hour.  You are baffled by this-- why so much faster than anything you ever remember before it? You beg it to slow down. To wait. To spoil you once again with the luxury of timeless moments and everything standing still. But it can't.

That first quiet memory in the hospital, of that teeny pink baby laying on your chest, is way-too-soon replaced with new ones: babbling. snuggling.



first smiles.



sitting.



crawling. coo-ing. rolling. giggling. standing.



walking...RUNNING!!! clapping. skipping. chasing butterflies on summer afternoons. first swim-lessons. first hair-cuts.



loving. hugging.



laughing.



afternoons on sandy Maine beaches.



potty-training. trike-riding. singing.



first playdates. first ballet classes.



time-outs. boo-boos. favorite stories.bedtime snuggles.apple-picking.



birthday parties.



sleepovers. holidays. goofy living room performances.




first-day-of-schools.



tears.



giggles. recitals.



 dress-up. cookie-baking. movie nights. becoming a big sister.



....and so, so much more.

And before you know it, this amazing little girl has painted your life with so many colorful memories that you can't even fathom that time existed before her.
This (not-so-tiny anymore) little person-- the one whole gray-blue eyes once gazed eagerly into yours--



has somehow, in the half-blink of an eye, become a little girl.

And today, a FIVE year old one at that:

Or, in her own terms, "A whole hand old, Momma!" (This is what she proudly announced to you this morning- her birthday morning-  when you woke her up with the ceremonious exhibition of balloons & singing at six AM.) She held out her hand-- her WHOLE hand, with all five fingers proudly outstretched from her palm, and pointed with her other index finger: "See Momma? One, two, three, four...FIVE. A whole hand old today, woo-hoo!!!  Can we have cinnamon buns now?"

And so my baby girl, my first-born, turned five.years.old today. (And if I do say so myself, she's as awesome as five-year-olds come these days.) And no, I'm not just saying this because I'm her Momma, or because I've raised her, or for any other completely biased reasoning.

I say it because, truth be told, as she enters her fifth year of life-- it's evident that she's a pretty remarkable kiddo, & I am completely amazed at how far she's come in five short years.

For example, she now expresses her emotions tremendously well and can easily voice when she is feeling "frustrated" or "sad" or "jealous." She has an unbelievable imagination and is able to tell "spooooo--oooooky stories" to try and scare us around Halloween. (sidenote, said stories almost always involve Randall from Monsters Inc., and a werewolf with "sharp, yellow thangs.") She maintains her own little relationships with friends, and teachers, and cousins and aunts and Nanas and neighbors. She is a social butterfly and makes friends everywhere she goes. She asks to call her Daddy at work when she misses him, and has (just about) memorized his office phone number. She knows her address, her phone number, and that she is "forty-six inches tall." She is able to write her full name, and Mommy and Daddy and Gavin...and most of her numbers (except 5 which is a "tricky one, Momma.") She knows exactly how to place her feet for first position...(and second, third, fourth, and fifth!) and her shuffle ball-changes are getting better by the day. She shines onstage and dances everywhere she goes, be it the grocery store or school or  the dentist. (speaking of the dentist-- she lost her two bottom teeth this year, and even had her first official tooth fairy visit, which was pretty exciting!) She's known her alphabet for 3 years now and is on to bigger and better things, like words and sounds and reading and math. She is inquisitive about everything these days: "Daddy, why do the leaves change colors like that in the fall?", and "Momma, what's underneath my belly button?" She just adores animals and is kind to all of them. She has an affinity for gardening & even planted her own little garden this spring, watering it and caring for the flowers without prompting from us. She loves her baby brother to pieces, and instead of becoming annoyed with him for constantly toddling into her bedroom, she seizes this opportunity to dress him in princess jewels and crowns and pink headbands, giggling ferociously at the (hilarious) end result. But ultimately she is kind & gentle & loving to him, and that's all we ever could have asked for. She would do art all day long if she could, with particular interest in painting. She is a definite girly-girl and enjoys all things pink, purple, sparkly, glittery, and/or involving fairies-- all this while kicking serious butt on the soccer field each week, and having a tendency to out-score (and out-run) all of the boys on her team with ease. She loves the Tinkerbell movies and sometimes pretends that she is Wendy from Peter Pan, right down to the British accent (which, I might add, she has nailed pretty perfectly.) She loves singing and performing, and has recently begun voice lessons-- already, she can't wait for her 'big singing show on stage!" (unlike her Momma, she is fearless and uninhibited when it comes to performing, and I am so proud of her for this.) She brushes her own teeth (with inspection of course), her own hair (except for the tangles,) and makes her bed every morning-- lumpy and crooked, but made  :-)  She would eat "PB and jam" for breakfast, lunch & dinner if we'd let her and has recently begun to question why we make her eat the "dark" bread with her sandwiches, because she "really, really likes the white bread in the polka-dot package better" that she apparently had at a playdate once. (and when we respond to her that the dark bread is healthier, she crosses her arms, wrinkles her brow, and says "dark bread stinks!") She holds her own in arguments and will probably make a great attorney in the not-so-distant future. (Notable argument of the past year, "Momma, you say that I'm still your little girl, however if I eat all my vegetables, I will grow up soon. So, if you want me to stay your little girl, I think I should probably not eat the vegetables anymore, okay?") After just a year of training wheels, she's already asking about taking them off (yikes!) and wanting to ride "like the big kids." She sneaks sprays of my perfume while I'm getting dressed in the morning and enjoys click-clacking around the hardwood floors of our house in my fancy heels.

She is five, going on fifteen.

And I suppose that is what is so scary as a Momma. Looking back at her first five years of life, and knowing how fast the rest is going to blur by, too.  Knowing that I will soon be writing about her eighth birthday, and then her thirteenth, and sweet sixteenth, and so on.

And again, I beg life to slow down. To stay here for just a bit longer, at this (safe, secure, comfortable) place where her biggest complaint in life is our lack of Wonderbread, and where the high-heels she wears around the house are from my closet and not hers. Here, where she thinks her brother's farts are the most hilarious things ever, and where Santa and Tinkerbell and the Tooth fairy really do exist. Here, where although she no longer fits cradled in my arms, she is still a baby in the sense that she needs her "Gocks"  with her when she is scared, or nervous, or sick, or lonely. Here, in this awesome place, where she still requires bedtime stories and help with her tubbies and isn't too embarrassed to be caught watching Sesame Street with her baby brother. Here, where if I withhold her veggies, maybe she'll stay little forever...

But as previously discussed, life will not slow down again. Time will never again freeze for us like it did on September 28th, 2005 at 1:22pm.

No, time will not slow down.


But I can.


I can, and I promise to. I promise to do everything I can to savor, and enjoy, and treasure, and truly appreciate all of these amazing little moments & milestones that continue to make up the beautiful mosaic of her life. Of my little girl, my amazing Ava.



And one day all too soon, all I can hope is that when I step back to see the finished product, she is as beautiful  and remarkable a person then, as she is today.

Happy 5th birthday sweet baby girl. Love you billions and billions!

XoXo
Momma