Jojo: Four on the 4th

Jojo, I can hardly contain myself.  You are four.  I think I've written before, perhaps when Marian reached this milestone, about how much I love four year olds.  It goes back to my time as a nanny for a precocious little four year old who asked questions about the craziest, and sometimes most touching, topics.  I already know, I'm going to love you at four because it's hard to imagine getting any better than three.  And there may not be many mothers of three-year olds who can say that sort of thing.

Oh, how could a little boy have been made any sweeter?  Or funnier?  Or more easy-going?  I call you our little Buddha. All the things I said about you last year hold true this year as well.  You are patient and kind and you have a sense of humor that's noticed by others ("Jojo is hilaaaarious" is one of our favorite catch-phrases. You don't seem to like it now but I'm not sure you know what hilarious means, and if you did, you'd probably like it just fine).

Your relationship with Marian has matured this year and it's been a great transition, even if it's required more intervention (sometimes the loud kind) from me.  You are no longer a tag-a-long brother, you've learned to assert yourself in the games you play and the videos you watch ("we have to agree!  We have agree about that!").

Your soul mate is still Mariam and the effect that you have on each other is noticeable to people outside of your families.  One of the craziest stories from this year: you and Mariam both went to drama class but at different times of the day.  The teacher (who happens to be Tanory, Mariam's mother and  very reliable witness to the event) had a "magic box" that was decorated wildly on the outside but contained only air inside.  Each child was supposed to imagine something inside; most kids talked about dinosaurs, fairies and other magical creature.  When the box came around to Mariam she simply said, "socks."  An hour later, your class arrives at drama and the box makes its rounds.  When the box comes to you you look straight at Tanory and proclaim that it contains socks.  I tell you, you and Mariam communicate on some random and cellular level.  It's wacky.

You are also a chatterbox. Whenever we get in the car to go anywhere, the questions and observations start flying.  I think most people would consider you a quiet person, but your Poppa and I know better.  You simply find so many things fascinating and seem aware that there's still so much to know. Your vocabulary is impressive and even though you still can't say "l" (it was mean of us to name Linden/Winden) a perfect stranger stopped me in the grocery store to comment on your use of language.  I should have told her you just practice a lot.

I cannot imagine a kid that I would like to squeeze and hug more.  You simply light a fire in my chest every time you reach out to hold my hand or give me a good night kiss.  If I could bottle you up and sell your "essence" I know I would be a millionaire. 

On Traffic Lights and Red Cards: Marian at 6

It's been a big kind of week.  I mean, a really BIG kind of week.  You turned six and became a double-big sister all the in the matter of five days.  Linden Thomas (our newest addition) will be getting his own blog entry--I hope--but I will say that it was never my intention to have children born on the same week.  In the future, we will have to take this up with Linden.

For nearly the entire year, you have spent more time away from home during daylight hours than you have spent with me.  This was hard to get used to at first;  our mornings went from fairly laid-back affairs, to a more military-style grab, eat and go, complete with me barking orders regarding shoe choices, tooth brushing and hair ties.  The pace of our mornings has something to do with the fact that you turned into the world's best sleeper this year and sometimes getting you out of the cozy comforter could be a challenge.   So, I have few complaints about the pace of our mornings because it means that at least one of us is sleeping soundly through the night.

In my last post about kindergarten I was pretty sure that there would be days you would throw a fit about going to school.  That never happened.   Perhaps the best part of our day, the walk to school, was never complicated by you digging in your heels and refusing to go.  Usually, you were digging your heels into a mud puddle, examining flowers or birds along the path or dragging a stick behind you slowly.  So while our walks to school were generally the best part of our day together, they were, by no means, peaceful journeys.  Usually, we would rush out of the house with me yelling, "we're gonna be late!  That bell is going to ring!"  You were motivated by a fear of the "third bell," we almost always heard the second bell ring from the bottom of the big hill below the school.  That meant we had exactly five minutes to get you up the hill and in the building before you received a late slip.  It became a point of pride for all of us (Joseph included) that you never were late to school on a morning we walked.  In fact, the two times you received late slips, we drove to school.   When your report card showed zero tardies for the year, you and I gave each other co-conspirator smiles--we had certainly beat the system.

It was such a strange thing to hand you over to Ms. Clayton and HVES without knowing what was happening once you walked through the doors each day.  I learned to trust and you learned to be as independent as any five year old should be.  And each day, when I picked you up for the walk home, I adjusted to the fact that the details of your day would come only in fits and spurts and when you felt like sharing them.  One topic, however, that you were always willing to engage in was that of the classroom traffic light.  Each and every day I would ask (or sometimes Jojo would): "so, who got on the traffic light today?"  A name being placed on the traffic light, even the green light, meant that there had been some infraction of classroom rules.  The list of names on the traffic light were fairly predictable, with the same names popping up on a regular basis.  But not once, in the entire year, did your name end up on the traffic light.

The fact that you were the model of good behavior at school is both a point of pride for me and, if I'm honest, a little disconcerting.  You see, here at home, things can get pretty ugly.  You roll your eyes, you ignore my repeated requests to stop running while simultaneously holding onto the neckband on Joseph's t-shirt.  You throw a fit during violin lessons (oh, Suzuki, how I love thee) and can be downright obstinate.  People tell me this is all normal behavior.  But at school, you seem to be a paragon of good behavior.  Mata and Nona assure me that if a parent has to choose between good behavior at home, and good behavior in public, you always choose good behavior in public.  And I know they're right.  But I also hope that you allow a little bit of that passion and persuasion to shine at school.  Your father would probably have a coronary if he found out that you landed on the traffic light even one time (there was an "incident" in the lunch room this year when you were sent to the Assistant Principal's office with two other girls.  She sent her "precious girls" back to the lunch room with the mildest of reprimands to listen to Ms. Jack--who I have always imagined to be a kind of ogre.  You shared this story with me a month of so after the fact.  I was greatly amused, Poppa was not).

Part of my concern about you being the quiet type at school stems from the fact that I think you have so much to share.   From your earliest days I have been deeply touched by your empathetic nature.  You hate to see people hurting, physically or emotionally.  When I point out to you that an action or a few terse words may have hurt a friend's feelings, I can tell it bothers you and you usually try to fix the situation.  You are still a peacemaker among friends--and I have no doubt this trait explains your general popularity among the kindergarten set.  You seem to be friends with just about everyone--from the alpha-girl, Dylan to the shy and sweet Liam.  I love that you can walk into a room and find a friend, after you've had sufficient time to observe, of course, something you still spend a lot of time doing.

And while he's only been with us a week and a half, I already marvel at your connection to Linden.  The smile on your face when you walked into the hospital room was radiant and right away you became a protector and sweet friend to our little baby.  You shaded the sun from his eyes, made over his tiny toes and generally seemed besotted.  Because I already know something about the kind of big sister you are, I can only imagine the journey that Linden will enjoy with you by his side. 

I don't know how much you will remember of these first six years as you grow up.  But I imagine there is some part of your brain that holds onto a feeling, if not the distinct memories.  My greatest hope is that your memories/feelings are ones of comfort, where the sounds of wild giggling and the sensation of running as fast as your legs will carry you, reminds you of this time.  If you remember one good night kiss when, with tears in my eyes I told you how much I love you, that would be enough.  You are so precious to me, even when your wild spirit and rolling eyes make me want to issue red cards every night for a week.  I wouldn't change a thing, sweet girl.

Joseph's Journey to Three

I won't dwell on the fact that I missed last year's birthday blog.  I've never quite forgiven myself for it so you can be quite sure that even though I am exhausted in a way that threatens to make me crazy, I will not be passing up the opportunity to write tonight, on your 3rd birthday.

If I could only write one word to describe you over the past two years it would be, simply: JOY.

You have been the sweetest, the gentlest, most affectionate and the easiest going little-guy these past two years.  So many things delight you and so few things get under your skin (really, there seems to be just one person who can do it effectively over and over again...).

You are so well-natured that nearly everyone that spends any time with you at all comments on just how pleasant you are.  The Indian ladies at YMCA "camp" beam when you walk in the door because they know you'll just happily play with the trucks and let them know when you need your snack.  Then you will sit contentedly at the table until you have finished.  Ms. Judy and Ms. Amy, your Rolling 2s teachers secretly let me know that you were their favorite kid in the class.  You have never had separation issues and usually send me out of the door by blowing a kiss and saying "see you later!"  I've even heard you tell other kids who are upset that, "Mommas always come back."  And when I come back to get you, the smile that spreads across your face as you rush into my arms nearly melts me into a puddle.  I even tried to get this reaction on video tape once, which of course didn't work.  I often take for granted the fact that I can drop you off just about anywhere with any one of my friends.  And, in my line of work, that's such a relief.  

You are eager to try new things; namely, things that involve swimming underwater.  We think that because you made the passage from inside to outside in a tub of water, you've just always believed you could swim.  This past summer, you even coined a phrase for a special swimming technique called "The Under Dog."  Basically, you launch yourself out of an adult's arms and swim under water until someone picks you out.  You never come up sputtering and always come out smiling.  You are adventurous on playgrounds (we've already had one ER visit thanks to that sense of adventure.  No stitches, but a small scar under your bottom lip to remind us) and believe that you can do anything that Marian can do.  Usually, you can.  You've just started taking choir lessons with Marian at church, even though you're a few years to young to really begin the lessons.  But Mr. C., the director of the music program, was shocked to learn that you weren't even three yet.  You listen and participate at least as well as most of the five year olds.

Marian is your best friend and the source of all aggravation.  The two of you play so well together, which is something I only really appreciated once she was in kindergarten and I was home with you for about two weeks.  The amount of time I spent on my hands and knees walking around pretending to be a cat or a lion or a dog was exhausting.  Every morning, just after breakfast, the two of you disappear into the playroom and laugh and talk and create imaginary worlds together.  I'm afraid I don't take the time to watch and marvel at the relationship that the two of you share.   But in the evenings, when I walk up the stairs and find the two of you all curled up in one of your beds, I do find the time to stop and be thankful.  In fact, I must have taken 50 pictures of the two of you alseep, sometimes holding hands, usually sharing one pillow.   We never had any of the sleep issues with you that we had with Marian.  You just happily go to bed, read a few books and drift off.  I think the difference is, you have her lying beside you and that's an incredible source of comfort.

Of course, every once in a while (15 times daily, perhaps) all hell breaks loose between the two of you.  I'm learning when to intervene and when to let the two of you work it out.    I'll never forget the surprise of hearing Marian run away from you the first time you chased her, probably trying to bite her, the fear and panic in her voice was real and intense!  I would say you hold your own very well.

 A few nights ago, you crawled into bed with me in the middle of the night, something that happens on an almost nightly basis still.  You always try to steal my pillow, which is why I have started to insist that you bring your own pillow with you when you come, but this night I was too lazy to get up and get yours.  So we spent the night sharing a pillow and you reached out to make sure that both of your arms were encircling my neck in a giant hug.  At first I was aggravated by the tight quarters and the constant touching.  But it occurred to me that you are not always going to want to sleep an inch from my body,  stroking my cheek and hugging my neck.  I decided to drift off to sleep with the sweetest little arms in the world holding me tight.  Even in the past few weeks, as you've approached the age of three, I've begun to notice that the spontaneous hug sessions and Momma-love are spacing out.  And I imagine that I won't always be able to count on the fact that when we sit at the dinner table and say what we're grateful for that your go-to answer will be, "That Momma's here."  But I am determined not to forget the way you melt my heart on a daily basis with your sweetness,  your affection and joy.

I love you Jojo.  I know that big changes can come when you turn three.  The world can get more frustrating, you can start to throw tantrums in grocery stores, you may refuse to eat all the good vegetables and fruits you've eaten with gusto these past three years.   And if these things happen, as they well might, I won't hold it against you.  Afterall, I've had three years now with the easiest and happiest kid I can imagine.  I'm due a few tantrums and fits.   But I hope that the person you've been these last three years says something about the kind of person you will be when you're 20, 30, 40.  I hope you will always find joy in every corner of the world, that you'll be anxious to try new things and never afraid to tell someone you love them --over and over and over again if they need to hear it. 

Happy birthday, sweet boy.  I love you to the ends of the earth and the top of the shower curtain.  Thank you, thank you for being born to me.

Kindergarten, Day One

When I was in either first or second grade, the teachers sent all of their students home with a little blue pamphlet.  On the front cover was a set of stairs, each one marked with a number 1-12.  I'm sure it was titled something like, "Stair Steps to Success!" or some other inane thing.   I remember, so clearly, looking at those stairs and knowing that I was going to be in school for-ever.  Each year seemed to last an eternity and I had a whole set of stairs to climb between now and 12th grade.

And here's what a change in perspective can do for you.  Today, you walked into that kindergarten room for the first time and I felt with a force equal to that of my love for you, that in a blink of an eye you would be all the way up those stairs and flying the coop.

There were no tears today, at least not as we said goodbye to one another at the door of Ms. Clayton's room (I'll admit that I did get a little choked up at the parent's coffee right after drop-off), but the emotions ran deep right under the surface.  You showed so much bravery and gumption that I couldn't help but believe that everything was going to be just fine.

In fact, the first thing you said to me this morning as you dove into my bed was, "Happy first day of day school!"  Realizing you had said something not-quite-right you then said, "I just like calling it that, it makes me feel better."  It was like bridging the gap between Silver Spring Day School, your preschool, and kindergarten could be made just as easily as changing a few words around.  Then you came downstairs and ordered an egg for breakfast, something we've been discussing recently is the need for a decent breakfast before school, which you ate without a lot of fuss.



I don't expect that every day will go so smoothly.  In fact, I'm rather bracing myself for a firestorm tomorrow.  You told me tonight that you planned to stay home with me tomorrow and then got pretty teary eyed when I explained that you would have to go to school.  When you crawled into bed, you took with you the little note that I had tucked away in your lunch bag and with tears (which I think just might have been real) you told me that it would really make you feel good tomorrow if I would draw a picture of the two of us together.  I'm no artist but I will make you a masterpiece tomorrow morning and I hope you will look at it and school and know just how much I love you.  I hope I've prepared you well for your walk up the "stair steps" but I do hope you take it nice and slow from here. 

When I Turn Five...

Sometimes this past year, when you were merely four, you declared with certainty that when you were five years old you would no longer need a Momma and a Poppa.  There are some days I believe you were right.

You are an independent, fiesty and determined little girl.  But, as we are now one week into this five year old thing, I am very relieved to find that, sometimes, when the stars are aligned just right, you still find comfort in a hug, kiss and "I love you so much" from a Momma.  Anyway, it would be a real shame to send you out on your own now because there would be so much I miss.

I love hearing you construct elaborate make believe worlds and the way you include Joseph in your adventures.  Sometimes, you even allow him to be the momma lion, taking care of you and growling at the dinosaurs that threaten to eat you up.  I don't even mind that sometimes I turn my head for just an instant and when I spin back around, every cushion in the house has been re-purposed to create a store, a camp site or a crash site.  You have a vivid imagination that spins on its own without input from me or anyone else. 

Just last month I attended what will most assuredly be the first of many graduation ceremonies.  And so much about what happened during the ceremony sums you up that I feel compelled to describe it in some detail.  But in order to tell that story I must begin with the horror that was the tricycle accident.

The last week of school, it was a Thursday and I was co-oping, you were out on the playground at the end of the day and all of a sudden I heard you screaming.  I ran over to you and immediately started looking for blood (I usually find it on the head, knees or elbows) but I didn't see it anywhere.  I made a visual path down your body until I landed at your ankle and then saw "the horror."  You had been sliced so deeply across the back of your heel that there was no blood, just a deep, deep gash into your Achilles.  I felt faint, of course, but picked you up and carried you inside so that someone else could take another look at the injury; because, as I told anyone that would listen, I could NOT look at it again.  Someone in the hall suggested that we were going to have to go to the emergency room.  And, without missing a beat, you turned 25.  All of a sudden you stuck out your little finger and yelled, "I am NOT GOING to HOLY CROSS HOSPITAL."  Yep, you called it by name.  When the word "stitches" was thrown about you had an ever-loving fit.  Not once did you complain about the inches long gash on the back of your leg.  So we loaded you up in the van, Ms. Lisa drove with us to the ER, and the two of you talked over the more uneventful aspects of your day.  Then, when we got to the hospital, you allowed me to carry you in without much fuss.  Every once in a while you would remind yourself that stitches were looming on the horizon and you would let out a bawl but for the most part you remained so calm.  I remember sitting there, watching you color a princess castle with Ms. Lisa, and marveling at the way you were handling it all.  I was only able to keep my composure because, somehow, you were keeping yours.

When the doctor came by to see the gash, he confirmed that you would need stitches.  That's when you threw your finger out and said, "I don't like this one little bit.  You tell him, you tell him I am NOT getting stitches.  Take me home right now."  In any other setting, it would have been funny.  But I was so proud of the way you were advocating for yourself.   And then I was just so sad that for all of your determination and verbal eloquence, we still had to get those damn stitches put in your leg.

The stitches were put in and we left on our trip to Colonial Williamsburg as planned.  Then, for the better part of week, I carried you around from point A to point B.  Every trip to the bathroom required assistance, every trip down the stairs in the morning was a challenge and I attended every day of school between the accident and graduation day just so I could help the teachers cart you around. That's why, when graduation day rolled around, I'd arranged for a small stroller that you could sit in and have one of your teachers push you down the aisle.  Imagine my surprise, then, when you came walking down the aisle with your class!  Honestly, why was I surprised...

There are a few things that are so awesome about you and some of those things also make it hard to be your mother.  You are fiercely determined to do things the way you want to do them.  Therefore, being the only kid pushed down the aisle was not going to work for you.  However, just seconds later, you proved that you don't mind being different when you were the ONLY kid not to walk up to the front when Ms. Melanee called your name to receive your little diploma/poem.  Apparently, you had told Ms. Melanee the day before that since you couldn't walk, she could just bring the diploma to you.  Nevermind the fact that you had just practically skipped down the aisle, you meant you were not getting up to get the diploma.  And then after the ceremony, I watched as your friends slung their arms around your shoulders and seemed to love just being around you.   I think in many ways, you were the glue that held that little group together this year.

There are also time when your generosity astounds me.  Poppa and I were recently at each other's throats about a gift card that went missing.  You were asking us over and over again what a gift card is and finally, we stopped bickering long enough to tell you it was a little card that was like money.   You left the room and a minute later returned with your piggy bank, offering it in outstretched hands to the two of us.  That was a very effective way to stop an argument and left me weak in the knees with love for you.

I am more aware, this year than any other, that we traveled some rocky roads together.  I know that you will become exactly the kind of woman I want to be friends with; but it's hard when that awesome woman is only five years old and I'm supposed to be parenting her.  I guess my hope for this upcoming year is that you find the world around you a little less frustrating and a little more magical.  I know it's tough to be little and feel so like you control so little.  But I sometimes wish you would just sit back and enjoy the ride, it will be over before you know it. 

And of course, there are big, big changes on your horizon.  In just a month you will begin kindergarten.  It's hard for me to fathom that someone else will spend more time with you than I do.  Five years is not a long time to spend with someone (especially when they're your kid) and I constantly question whether I have done enough to prepare you for this initial leap from the nest.  But if I know you, you will walk into that building with determination on day one and then you'll start running without looking back on day two.

It's been an awe-inspiring and challenging year.  And I am beyond relieved that when asked last week whether you would be needing my services anymore, now that you're five, you just rolled your eyes like that was the craziest question you'd ever heard.

On The Night You Were Born- Part 4

Sweet Girl,

From the day you were born perfect strangers would stop me on the street, take a look at you, and then say (with a kind of faraway look in their eyes), "it goes so fast." At first, I was annoyed by the interruptions, even a little hostile to the idea that someone would tell me how I was going to experience my time with you.

Oh little one, they were right.

How could it possibly be that tomorrow we will wake up and celebrate your fourth birthday? A few minutes ago I was changing your diaper and trying to snap up your onesie. Now you dress and put your sandals on the wrong feet all by yourself. You have ideas about fashion and food that every so often collide with my notions about the same and you've become a savvy negotiator. You have big ideas, you make up stories, you don't want me to stick around at play dates. All this happened so fast it makes my head spin. But I've always like hanging out with four-year-olds; they were my favorite age to babysit back in the day. What good fortune that I now have a live-in four year old!

This hasn't been the easiest year for your momma. We left Atlanta in September and moved back to the place you were born. It was a really, really hard move for me as I mourned the distance we would live from Mata and so many of our friends in Atlanta. I cried nightly about the fact that you would be leaving Glenn School and Anna Kate and Sara Harper. About the only thing that kept me glued together some days was the fact that you seemed to roll with all the changes so well. Packing your toys didn't faze you, saying final goodbyes to friends was a genuine, but not overly emotional, affair and you were excited about the possibilities in our new home. Your sense of adventure and flexibility got me through some rough days. It sounds crazy to say that I watched and learned from you; but I think that's what happened. I tried to see the exciting possibilities through your eyes, I got giddy when the potential of new, lasting friendships sprung up in our path and I tried to live in the present, with you as my role model. So thank you, Marian, for helping me through a tough time. And in the face of all my worrying, I sit here tonight writing from Mata's house (you're downstairs sleeping in her bed), preparing to send you to Glenn School camp tomorrow and gearing up for your birthday party with Sara Harper and Anna Kate tomorrow evening.

Since this blog seems to have turned into a birthday blog (alas) it seems like I should offer a broad outline of the past year. To say that you've spent the last year becoming more of who you are sounds odd but it feels right. When I look back and think about the year from two to three I see constant movement and bold steps forward in development. This year feels like the softer, gentler version of the year before. This is the year you put finesse on your language skills, built subtle interpersonal skills and discovered the ability to sit and entertain yourself for long stretches of time. I love to sneak into a room, or hide around a corner, when you're playing by yourself and just listen the worlds you create and marvel at your command of language. You often sound so grown up that it makes my heart ache a little bit.

You're still an avid observer of the world around you careful about jumping into new situations and meeting new people. I've stopped thinking of you as shy or bashful. Instead, as the woman who rang us up at Trader Joe's said this week, "it just shows that you have good sense not to talk to every person you meet for the first time." It doesn't take long to win you over, but you do take some time to watch and observe before you engage. Good sense, indeed.

You are crazy about play dates. Last year I wrote that every morning you woke up and wanted to know what we were going to do. This year, you wake up and want to know who you will play with. I try not to take it personally that you would prefer I not be present for your play dates. You have new friends at school and outside of school that have enriched our lives. You have become especially good friends with Naeem, also a newcomer to DC and the son of my new friend, Tanory. Naeem doesn't play well with every kid his age, he's what many old southern women would refer to as "a handful." But you, Marian, bring out the best in him. His parent's relief at having a friend who plays so well with him is evident every time we get together. I love that you have the patience and the skill to navigate a friendship that would be frustrating to many other kids your age.

Tomorrow we will have a dress-up/ballerina/pizza party at Mata's house. That's if you stop throwing up. You were feeling fine today, chasing Joseph around the house at full speed, when you suddenly stopped and starting puking. Later, through runny eyes you said, "I don't want to be sick on my birthday." Oh lord, please don't be sick on your birthday. The minute it was evident you were sick tonight I felt this incredible protective instinct kick in. I wanted to protect you from all the ill, from all the yuck and, most of all, from the disappointment of having your birthday party at camp and at the house tomorrow called off. This kind of desperate feeling is not unlike some of the feelings I felt in those first few days after you were born. It's a scary thing to hold a little tiny being in your hands and realize that you can't protect them from every cold germ, every sad goodbye and every bump and bruise along the way. But if you're lucky enough you get a kid who says, as you did tonight, "I don't want to make other people sick." If you're lucky enough you get a kid who can pick up where she left off with old friends and make new friends with ease. If you're lucky enough, you have a kid just like you.

I love you, Marian. If there's any justice in the world, you'll wake up feeling fit as a fiddle and ready for a cupcake.

1:23 on the 4th

Joseph, it doesn't appear that I'm going to be able to stay awake until you turn one. We have traveled a long way over the course of the past two days and I think the road weariness has caught up with all of us.

Tonight we are back in Atlanta, with the exception of Poppa who just got off a plane in Washington, D.C. This is the town of your birth so it does feel right to be back on Zimmer Drive where so much of the action took place. Earlier this evening, when I had you on my hip on a trip out to the van to find our sheets, I decided to retrace a few of my steps from this time one year ago. Your Poppa, sister, Peanut and I took one last good walk just before we decided it was time to head to the hospital. Tonight, I held you in my arms as I made that same short journey up the street. I sang a little song as we went along -- you do like music -- and briefly told you the story of your birth. I thanked you for making the trip so easy on me and told you how happy I was that you decided it was time to come out and see your momma's face.

Your birth still feels like a miracle to me. It seemed one minute I was wandering through labor thinking you might never come and the next minute, you were practically here. I say practically because I remember quite clearly thinking, as I was pushing, that there was just no way this (meaning YOU) were going to come out. Many studies show that women are able to remember details of the births of their children with the same amount of clarity no matter how many years have passed since the actual event. I hope that this is true; there are a few memories that I would want with me at the very end. The birth of you and your sister are the two that I would hold onto with dear life. I can remember the sensation of the warm water lapping against us as I held you against my chest, the sound of you voice (loud!) and the joyful surprise of finding you a boy. I was nearly certain you would be a girl.

One year has gone by at the speed of light. I said just tonight that it feels like you've always been here, or at the very least you've been around ten years or so. But the fact that you don't say many words (other than "ut-oh" which was your very first and still your most distinct word) and you're a little unsteady on your feet (but you are most certainly walking more than you are crawling) betray the fact that you've only been with us a short while. Still, it seems like I've known you longer than this.

You are such a happy little person, already you seem to find it easy to be entertained by a leaf on the floor, the sound of a spoon banging on a table or whatever it is Marian is doing at the moment. She makes you laugh like none other and the sound of two children laughing together has got to be one of the sweetest in the world. When she does something that makes you laugh I think my heart might explode. Your smile is impossible to turn away from and your eyes smile as often as your mouth. Sometimes, when you are nursing, I will tell you have stinky feet just to watch the corner of your eyes crinkle up in laughter. You think that's hilarious. Sometimes, I'm actually telling the truth.

I've almost made it to midnight. But it's time to turn in for the evening because we have celebrating ahead of us tomorrow, a continuation of today's four-generations birthday party. I love you beyond any ability to put it into words. I will continue to try, however, each time I pull you in close and kiss your neck. You are my sweet baby boy and this year has been a gift (and sometimes, I'll admit, a challenge). You are mine and I am yours forever and ever. Happy birth-day, thank you so much for finding your way to me.

On The Night You Were Born- Take 3

I just arrived home from a childbirth class, hoping to wrap up my doula certification before my two-year deadline passes. It wasn't until I was pulling away from class tonight and caught a glimpse of lightening across the sky that I realized that I might have shared with all these anxious women where I was three years ago tonight. Funny, it was the streak across the sky that reminded me of sitting in a bathtub in D.C. watching a storm roll in and out as I waited for you to arrive.

The past year has been miraculous. I'm not sure what I expected from a two-year-old but I know I'm writing this tonight simply amazed by what you've turned into and how you've grown. Since I've done such a poor job at keeping this blog, I'll offer a few general observations about the past year and things I've learned from you.

You love to go. Nearly every morning when you wake up the first question you ask is, "Momma, where are we going today?" Of course, you have your favorite places, the park in particular, but you are happy to hear we're going anywhere. You love the grocery store (Trader Joe's is a true destination) and if we slip into Richard's Variety Store you nearly explode with excitement. I love that so many places can be of interest and that you are able to find the unique in the ordinary.

This past weekend we went on a hike in the Smoky Mountains with our friends Roy, Julie and their twin girls Riley and Frances (8.5 year olds). The hike wasn't terribly strenuous but it was hot and we made a short trip last a long time with continuous side trips off the trail into the mountain stream where moss covered rocks made easy paths from bank to bank. You had the stamina of a mountain goat and you were so eager to get in the water and climb the big rocks. I've mentioned before that you seem to take after your father when it comes to aversions to sticking to well marked paths. This trait does not seem to be fading away the older you get. I did tell Poppa that if you end up free diving or rock climbing without ropes, I will blame him entirely.

You have a way with words. There were times this past year when I couldn’t imagine that the words I heard coming out of your mouth were really yours. Like the time, several months ago when you were outside swinging from the magnolia tree and you looked at me and said, “that’s really unattractive.” It wasn’t really the words that surprised me but it was the pitch perfect delivery. The sponge metaphor is overused but it holds true; you soak in everything and find ways to use your newly minted vocabulary whenever possible.

One of the greatest developments recently is your love for make-believe. You’ve started naming things and using made-up words to describe things when you can’t easily think of the appropriate word. Your favorite names, at the moment, are Poinky, Sota, and Hader (sounds a little like Hater but you assured me the other day that your dog, Hader, was not grouchy). In an interesting twist, you’ve decided that Joseph’s name is Marshall. The genesis of this name is a complete mystery to me but you’ve stuck by it steadfastly. One day when we were playing make-believe and I told you that my name was Poinky and my little boy was named Marshall you dropped your jaw and exclaimed, “I have a brother named Marshall, too!”

You are a good friend. Our first parent-teacher conference was such a joy. I’m afraid that each child is allotted only a handful of perfect parent-teacher conferences and I would hate to have you peak too early. But for a first preschool conference, I couldn’t have asked for more. Your teachers said that you are the kid that most often engages other children in play; that if one of the children is having a tough day and finding it hard to plug in they will often tell him or her to find you and join in your activity. I have watched your friendships develop over the past year and I have been so impressed with your patience, your willingness to share and your compassion. I see other children gravitating to you and I watch the way you welcome them to play with you. Granted, you are a cautious observer yourself initially, but once the ice is broken you are a ton of fun to be around. We have been lucky to find such good friends for you. Then again, maybe you found them yourself.

Each day that I get to spend mothering you is a blessing—the very definition of grace. Sure, we have our moments. It turns out you have a bit of a stubborn streak and are willfully independent (secretly, I treasure these traits as well, even though I can’t afford to encourage them on a daily basis). But the feel of your hand in mine as we cross a street, your arms around my neck for a good night hug or your smile first thing in the morning are gifts beyond measure.

Happy Birthday, Marian. I love you to the moon and the stars (and, as you sometimes offer, “all the way up to the shower curtain”).

Laughing Matters

Once again, I'm writing from the living room at Nona and Granddaddy's house. This does not bode well for the future of the blog since the last time we were here was six weeks ago and I'm not sure when we're scheduled to be back. I must learn to write from our house.

We are here for our third annual Mardi Gras trip and it's fun to watch you, Marian, figure out how to score loot. We went to the Pass Christian parade yesterday and you were not at all certain that it was going to be fun. But a few shiny neck bobbles and one stuffed bear handed to you directly from someone on a float, seemed to change your attitude. By the time we left, you were running back and forth from the curb by yourself and sitting comfortably atop your Poppa's shoulders waving your hands above your head and saying, "Throw me some beads, mister!" Joe, you fed and slept through the whole affair.

Marian, you are a devoted and loving older sister. Whatever we expected from you, jealousy or indifference, has not come to pass. Joe is who you reach for when you wake up and who you demand to kiss before going to bed. Joe-Boy, a name you've coined, is equally devoted to you; although he seems to know when you've hit manic territory and has perfected his "get me out of here, now, and I mean it!" scream.

It is fascinating and heart warming to watch your relationship develop. Yesterday, as we drove back from the parade and Joe was screaming at the top of his lungs, I asked you to sing to him. Within minutes he was happy, a wide grin stretched across his face, as you clapped and made funny faces. You seem to be able to turn his mood around better than anyone and every time it happens if feels like the world rights itself and peace settles in.

Joe, you laughed for the first time on your three month birthday. This is,to the day, the exact same time that Marian laughed. We didn't catch that first giggle on video but we did catch your first laughing fit and as that's what I've posted here. There are no words to describe what happens to parents when they hear that sweet sound for the first time. It's an explosion; literally, it feels like your chest might just burst open. And it feels like that the fifth, sixth and tenth time too. You laughter stops time.

Two babies has pushed me to the brink of sanity several times. In fact, your Poppa will tell you that on his first day back at work full-time in January I called him in tears. Every parent of more than one child has warned me that it's way more than two times the work. But it's also full of more than two times the wonder and joy. I am thankful, every minute, for this bounty.

Joseph's Journey

I have no idea what to name this blog now. This has kept me from writing, although to be honest, it is more than my inability to name the blog that has kept me from updating. It feels like such a big job to introduce a new life, and I am intimidated by big jobs. Although I did birth you, and believe me, that was a big job.

Joseph, you joined us on October 4th, 2009 at 1:23am. You were born underwater with Margaret and Anjli (the midwives), Susannah (the doula), and your poppa in attendance. Your labor was a breeze but pushing you out I found to be downright uncomfortable. It turns out that pushing 9lbs. 14.5 ounces would make just about anyone uncomfortable. I did start writing your birth story just a few days after you were born and because I have yet to post Marian's birth story, I don't feel so bad about not finishing yours.

I began your sister's blog on the day that her umbilical cord fell off. It felt like such a holy little moment that I couldn't help but sit down and write. Sweet Joseph, your umbilical cord fell off in the bathroom of Jason's Deli as I was changing your diaper after a whirlwind trip to the Center for Puppetry Arts with Marian, Nona, Mata and Aunt Katie. I heard something hit the floor and almost didn't take the time to look down. But there it was, the last little piece of the cord that connected me to you, on the cold tile floor. I picked it up and carried it around in my diaper bag until just yesterday when Marian found it and said, "This is Joseph's?"

Things are different when you're the second child, as I'm sure you'll come to discover in your own time. There is a little less time for the kind of sitting around and staring at each other that induces wonder. You got hauled around to Glenn School, the grocery store, cultural attractions and the park (and that was just in the first four days) and rudely woken up from nearly every nap you managed to catch. I was worried about this at first, thinking that maybe we would not have the chance to bond in the same way that I did with Marian in her first few days on earth.

But then there were those moments in the middle of the night when you would wake me up with your squirming (you're already a much better sleeper than Marian ever was) with a smile spread across your face. You and I would steal away to the living room and curl up on the couch under a mound of blankets and just cuddle. You, nursing yourself to sleep, fit perfectly in the curve of my body and my chin resting on top of your head felt exactly right. The love would wash over me all at once with an intensity that is hard to describe.

Today is Christmas Eve and we are at Nona and Grandaddy's house in Mississippi. The house is gorgeous, there are already a zillion wrapped boxes under the tree and I'm writing this to the sounds of Marian and Nona decorating a gingerbread house. You are being passed from arm to arm, thrilled with the shiny lights, the patterns on pillowcases and fans whirring overhead.

I have been thinking, over the course of the past few weeks, that this would be a good night to write. Technically, you are named after Poppa Joe but I have always been a little partial to your biblical namesake as well. Afterall, some two thousand odd years ago, another Joseph was on quite a journey. The star of the show tonight is, of course, the baby Jesus, with Mary coming in as a strong second. Joseph, we hear, cleared a place in the stable but beyond that, his role is pretty secondary. But I like to imagine him as a man who was so confident in his love for Mary, so sure of his love for this small child, that he could live with the ambiguity and endless questions of the child's birth. Joseph, at least for me, has come to symbolize what it means to be a gentle and loving soul in a world that poses far more questions than it supplies answers.

Joseph, I hope that you will be able to live with ambiguity, that you will find people to love beyond all reason and you will find bringing people out of the cold, making them feel comfortable and safe, is a job worthy of what I am sure will be your immeasurable talents. But on this, your first Christmas Eve, it is your job to be a baby. The rest of us can stare contentedly into your blue eyes and remember the promise represented by the birth of a babe born in a manger. Peace on earth. You make it seem possible.

On Being an Only Child

Sweetest Marian,

Things are going to change around here and before they do I feel this pressing need to write to you. It has been months, three to be exact, since I've written on your blog at all and not once over the past 9 months have I mentioned that you will be a big sister soon. But it's true, and it's imminent, and I thought it would be good to write one last time before we start sharing this space with another member of the family.

Today we went to the zoo one last time, just the two of us. Mata swears that the zoo is a good way to bring on labor but I'm really in no hurry to get this show on the road (I've got a bad case of allergies and I'm hoping to get that cleared up before embarking on any feat of athleticism i.e. birth). Really, I felt like going to the zoo with you today because it's something we've been doing together since you were itty-bitty and every time we go it's a totally different experience. I love watching you take it in, gauging the way your reactions change from visit to visit and the way your vocabulary has expanded to talk about what you see.

Today, the two of us sat on the benches overlooking the gorilla exhibit and ate apples and studied the movements of our now-familiar friends. I can so clearly remember sitting on that exact bench, breastfeeding you and watching those gorillas (although the baby gorillas were a lot smaller then too) and feeling so at one with the world. Today, I felt that feeling again and yet so much has changed. Instead of being curled at my breast you were sitting up straight by my side chomping on a whole apple and talking me through the movements of the gorillas from point A to point B. It struck me that we will have so many fewer of these moments in the coming years and this made me just a little sad.

For two years and three months you have been my only baby--the total focus of my daily attention and, together with your father, the center of my universe. The universe is expanding to include one more and I can only trust that there is some infinite wisdom that allows our hearts to expand in unison. There are many wise women in my circle that assure me that this happens without effort.

There will undoubtedly be times, especially in these first few months, when you feel that you've been somewhat displaced by this new, needy little being. So before he/she is even on the scene I want you to know how very much at the center you stand. I want you to know that love does not diminish because it is shared and that you will always, always be my sweet baby girl. Of course, I'm saying this because I believe it, and because it's just nice to be reminded that it's true.

Tonight you are an only child. There's no guarantee that will be true tomorrow night but what I do promise is that I will love just as fiercely tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. I love you, Marian.

On the Night You Were Born, Part 2

This morning you woke early, it was still dark outside, and your Poppa scooped you out of your crib and brought you into bed with us. You fussed for a minute, kicked around the covers and then settled down between the two of us as we all sank into a deep sleep. I awoke, this time with sun streaming in the window, to feel you kissing the back of my shoulder and sweetly inquiring, "Mama 'wake now?" How could I not wake up with a smile on my face? How could this day, two years from the day that we labored together to bring you to this place, be anything but joyful?

It seems impossible that two years ago tonight I was sitting in a bathtub with you inside of me. Tonight you sat all by yourself in a bathtub telling me that you were pouring water on your turtles feet and you needed a washcloth to keep the soap out of your eyes. How did you manage to grow from a seven pound 12 ounce, squirming little newborn to a child who can express empathy, rage (I want snack, RIGHT NOW!), love and tenderness so quickly?

Tomorrow we will celebrate your second birthday with Nona and Grandaddy. But tonight I sit and marvel, in much the same way I did last year, at the passage of time and the beauty of it all. You were meant to be here; I was meant to be your momma and poppa was meant to be your poppa. And every day we learn together how to fill our place in each other's lives. I wake up every morning so thankful that I call you my sweet baby girl and you call me Momma.

The night you were born was the very beginning, a stunningly beautiful beginning, and every day that's passed since has been a journey of discovery. I can't wait to find out where you take me next. Happy Birthday, Sweet Girl. I love you.

All Who Wander Are Not Lost

It's been a jam packed month and a half and the pace of life isn't slowing down anytime soon. I think you thrive on this.

We've noticed, over the past few months that you have no qualms at all about leaving our side and wandering away. Part of me likes this fierce streak of independence, the other part of me worries about your physical safety. The other night we were strolling the grounds of the Botanical Gardens with some friends and one of them commented on how comfortable you were being far, far away from us. Indeed, you had run down the walkway and behind a grove of trees without a single backwards glance. He made the observation that perhaps this was because we had spent so much time with you as an infant. Now, I don't know how much this guy knows about attachment theory parenting but I admit my heart swelled with pride. The whole idea of attachment parenting is that you spend a lot of time in very close contact (sleep sharing, baby wearing, holding infants constantly) so that they develop a very secure attachment at the base which allows them to explore with confidence later in life. You seem to be comfortable wandering about 16 years too early for my taste.

For the majority of the time I was writing this blog post you were sitting by my side working hard on getting the camera back in the camera case. A few seconds ago, you reached over and gave me a kiss on the cheek and said, "bye, bye, see you later." You hopped off the couch with the camera case hung over your shoulder and turned around to say, "dinner." Which I assumes means we should expect to see you back for dinner. I wonder where your little wandering heart will take you today?

The pictures are from a recent trip to Alabama to visit Dot and Charles (Poppa's first cousin once-removed but we prefer to just call them kinfolk). They are pretty special folks to us and we had a good night and morning visiting at their house and wandering their property. You are amazed that Charles never wears shoes. The will be more blog posts in the next day or two detailing our recent trip to New England. Right now, we have some exploring to do. Perhaps at the new Piedmont Park swimming pool?

The Second Easter Miracle

As far as I'm concerned, we can celebrate two miracles today. One, the victory of life over death. The second, you sat through one and a half hours of a high-church Episcopal service without so much as one outburst (except the charming kind--you yelled out "AMEN" just a few second after the rest of the congregation) or a kicking fit. There was one tense moment when it appeared that your stash of stickers had literally ascended into the heavens. We could not find them anywhere but the mystery was solved when the lady next to us stood up to sing the next hymn. They had been stuck under behind but I managed to gingerly slide them down the pew and into your waiting hands.

I don't know how or why church went so well for us today but maybe you, like your father, appreciate the smells and bells of the Episcopalian tradition. I kind of missed the off-key piano and the run-on sermon we've come to expect from Corntassle Presbyterian where our family usually doubles the size the congregation. Perhaps next year you'll have a chance to dazzle that gathering with your good manners and charming Easter dress.

And it appears you have the Easter egg thing figured out. Yesterday you went to your first hunt and your father reported back that while you were confused for the first minute or so, you soon caught the "fever" and were scooping up eggs as fast as you could put them in your basket. This morning you donned your egg-hunting tennis skirt and hit the backyard in search of our naturally-dyed free range eggs. It turn out natural dyes come out mostly in shades of brown. The camouflage did not deter you and you found all three eggs in under two minutes. The fact that there were not stickers hidden inside didn't disappoint you once you found they were perfectly edible.


It is a beautiful day. The sun is shining bright, the azaleas are gorgeous and you have made the day a true celebration of the infinite yes. Amen.

If we hadn't made it to church this morning, perhaps this is what we would have read in the backyard, surrounded by clucking chickens, barking dogs, pink azaleas and the little trillium your Poppa planted last weekend.

for everything which is natural which is infinite which is yes

i thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday; this is the birth
day of life and love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

~ e.e. cummings

What's Wrong With Arranged Marriages?

Nothing, that's what I say. Here are two great options: both come from good, solid stock and you would never have to worry about the families getting along during holiday dinners.

And you know, even if the whole forever-and-ever thing doesn't work out, you've made two very good friends. Here are some recent photos of play dates with both Gabriel and James.




I love the hand-holding here. Such sweetness.

Daddy's Baby

It's nearly unanimous, everyone thinks you look like your Poppa. Sure, every once in a while someone tries really hard to come up with a similarity between you and me; the comparison usually seems strained. It's odd, people seem to think that it bothers me that you look totally and completely like your Poppa; it really doesn't. He's got great dimples, beautiful blue eyes, a perfect nose and a light-up-the-room smile. You'd do great to look like him (it turns out, there is already a female version of your Poppa--Aunt Christa-- and she's quite a looker).

What's been even more fun, these last few months, is watching the less physical similarities between you and your Poppa emerge. The other day we went to the nature preserve with Peanut to throw rocks in the stream (SPLASH!) one of your favorite pastimes. The nature preserve has wide, well maintained trails that I love walking along. You seemed to like the trails too, stopping every once in a while to pick up rocks and inspect them for their potential to make big splashes. At one point, however, I looked behind me just in time to watch you depart the trail and head straight up a steep bank into thick azalea bushes. You were not daunted by the grade or the hundreds of azalea branch tentacles determined to ensnare my intrepid little explorer. I asked several times whether you were stuck or needed help and each time I heard a defiant little "NO" from somewhere inside the thick brush. Finally, when I'd completely lost sight of you I headed up the hill and lured you out with a promise of a snack.

For as long as I've known your Poppa we've had this issue about "staying on the trail." He seems physically incapable of staying on a trail--no matter how I try to reason with him regarding erosion or safety. As often as not I watch him disappear into the trees as I plod along on the path most-traveled. When he reappears with a plant specimen to identify or some story of exotic wilderness glimpsed I'm always just a little sorry I didn't follow behind. It looks like he'll have an eager companion and I'll follow you anywhere. So here's to getting off the beaten path...I'm glad you're like your Poppa.

La-La, Haurpeur and Char-Char

It's a real winter wonderland outside today and your reaction was mixed; from a distance the snow was just magical, when the wet snowy glops hit your face and hands, the magic faded. But given a few minutes, you acclimated well and thought snow balls were just hilarious. Since you were wearing your fantastic rain boots we headed to Boyd's yard (he's got the best puddles on the street). You were wading in a river and loving every minute of it until you went SPLAT. I heard you before I saw you and my first vision was you laying spread eagle, spitting muddy water out of your mouth. We beat a quick retreat inside where a warm towel and a few hugs seemed to set the world right again.

Since I've been so derelict about writing in the past few months I've decided to work on a few themes to bring you up to speed. Today's theme: friendship. Perhaps one of the most intriguing developments in the past six months is your growing attachments to several kids in your own age group. London is a little boy who you see about twice a week as his mom and I have worked out an arrangement to baby swap so we each get three free hours a week. He's a sweet guy who loves to clean but is a very picky eater. And he's exceptionally patient with your need to mother him; you love to kiss and hug him and wipe his face with a wet wipe. And distance only makes your heart grow fonder. When he's gone you constantly inquire about his whereabouts and offer several suggestions about what "La-La" might be doing at any point in time.

Sarah Harper, or "Haurpeur," lives at the top of the street next to ours. Anytime we go on a walk in that direction you wonder whether we're visiting her. We have one of her Tupperware containers and whenever you see it in the cabinet, you remind me that we should be getting it back to her.

The friend-of-the-month, however, is your beloved Char-Char. Charlie is your older second cousin and you were thrilled to see him this past weekend in Mississippi for Mardi Gras. The minute we got in the car, headed toward Nona and Grandaddy's house you started talking about Char-Char. You're lucky that he is so very patient with you and willing to bend to the whims of a 20 month old. One afternoon during our visit I went down for a nap (bliss!) and when I woke up I found my jeans and t-shirt girl dressed to the nines. Aunt Christa staged a photo shoot with you and Char-Char. The love is evident. I'm a little worried that these pictures don't bode well for junior high...

I love that you have such deep affection for your friends and that you continue to wonder about them and what they're doing when you can't physically see them. I also find your sweet names for them amusing. I know we will get into turf battles and sharing may become more difficult down the road, but right now watching you interact and connect is such a pleasure.

Okay, Okay This is Ridiculous

Marian:
It should be clear to you by now why your mother never made it as a freelance writer. If cannot find the time to sit down and write about my most favorite subject (that would be you) I'm never going to find the inspiration to sit down and write a best-selling book. I'll offer no excuses, it just turns out that the longer you don't write, the harder it is to convince yourself to sit down and do it. Even if it's just a few lines. So it's just after midnight and I've gotten disgusted with myself enough to open the computer and type. I'll put down more tomorrow (I promise).

First, I'm sorry to report that you've turned a little bad. At around 18 months your strong opinions about things grew even stronger. About two weeks ago, you started biting again. This was a habit I thought we'd managed to break you of when those teeth finally came in. You get a terrible gleam in your eye as you head for the stairs and look back over your shoulder to watch me scrambling after you. A few weeks ago you daintily dangled your foot over the curb (when I had repeatedly told you that you could NOT go in the street) so that just your big toe was scraping the asphalt. You knew exactly what you were doing.

And yet, you are the cutest, sweetest, funniest little girl. You love to say thank you. You give kisses and backrubs and think it's hilarious to tickle us in the morning when we're all cuddling in bed together. The words are literally tumbling out of your mouth these days and you understand EVERYTHING. When I was driving too close to the curb the other day and one wheel hit, I heard you say, "oh shoot" from the backseat. There are worse things you could have said...

Last week we went to Mississippi to celebrate Mardi Gras. Your aunt took a ton of photographs and Poppa just told me that I could lift them off of Facebook and add them to my blog. That was my inspiration for writing tonight. I'll put a few on and add others later.

I love you. Even if you are a little rotten sometimes.

Anything is Possible.

It's 10:30am and in one hour and 30 minutes Barack Obama will be sworn in as the 44th President of the United States. I'm sitting at home right now, glued to CNN and wiping tears off my cheeks every few minutes. You are at London's house playing with trains.

It's not too much of an overstatement to say that today I place much of your future in this man's trust. And at this moment, I can't help but believe we're all going to be okay. He isn't a savior, or a magician but I believe in him. And, after watching this country elect him and then rally around him, I believe in us.

Today, anything is possible. The world is wide open to you my sweet girl.

Whirling Dervish

Last year you were the baby Buddha for Halloween and it was my intention that you would be a whirling dervish for Halloween this year (I am concerned that we stay with the world religions theme we started last year). We actually did teach you to spin around a few weeks before Halloween but I couldn't get my act together on an outfit in time. And honestly, if people thought you were Ms. Muffet last year was there any hope they would get a whirling dervish this year? I think not.

In the month since Halloween, however, you have perfected the skill of whirling to the point it seems a shame that Halloween doesn't fall in December. I think we could win an award for best costume. Some nights you just twirl and twirl for twirl until the spinning in your head gets the best of you and your crumple to the floor laughing so hard you get the hiccups.

You have become a force--a whirling, tornado like force that keeps us all on our toes. As I sit in the living room this afternoon I am completely surrounded by bits of your creative storm. Paper and pens, books, empty boxes, clothes we had set aside to give to Goodwill, cords and other unsafe object are scattered across the floor. In the bathroom there are bits of toilet paper you dipped in Peanut's water hardening on the floor and your wet washcloth drips on the floor mat. Downstairs numerous Christmas tree ornaments have found their way to the trashcan and Momma G's room. Your oatmeal is under the chair in the breakfast room and a wasabi pea--inexplicably one of your favorite snack foods -- just fell out of my shirt. I have put you down for an early nap today in the hopes that I might get some of this put away before anyone comes home.

It seems silly that I haven't written more about all your new tricks but honestly, they are coming almost too fast to document. Language is such fun for you right now and you try to repeat anything we say. Finally, it seems like you know who Momma and Poppa are (of course I don't get tired of hearing you say these words) and sometimes I turn on the monitor and listen to your private conversations just before you go down for a nap because the sound of your voice almost bring me to tears.

Of course, the thought of scraping hardened toilet paper and oatmeal off the floor also makes me want to cry. So while you sleep, my little tornado force toddler, I'll try to get the world set back on it's end again. Then, when you wake up, we can have fun knocking off together.