Granddaddy's cornbread

Thanksgiving is one of my favorite days of the year. In my previous life, I always hosted an Orphans' Thanksgiving at our house. I would buy the biggest bird I could find, gather all of our friends who were stuck in town with no family, and we would throw down for the day and into the next.

I started cooking days in advance. There were no fewer than four dozen biscuits coming out of my oven. I made a giant pitcher of cajun bloody mary's that we started in on first thing in the morning. Sometimes people would bring their favorite family dish to share, but most of the time, I cooked all of it - because that was the way I liked it.

By midnight, the leftovers had been put away, pulled out and perused, and put away all over again. There was a stock pot with the turkey carcass simmering away on the stove so that my freezer would be well stocked with stock. The pies sat out on the table tempting those who had any sliver of room left, and no one cared if they were using their same wine glass that they started with earlier in the day.

I have a stash of recipes that I used every year with the exception of the turkey. I always looked for a new turkey recipe to try. Kept things a little fresh each year.

Now we have a more traditional family Thanksgiving that we share every year with our good friends Boo and Tom. Sometimes her family comes up from Florida as well. This year, we will have four children at our table, three grandparents, and three couples. Boo will have bird duty, and I think she's leaning towards a brine. Yummy.

Blogging everyday in November gives me a chance to share some of my favorite recipes for Thanksgiving. I'm starting with this recipe that I need to laminate at some point. It is in my granddaddy's hand writing and is the first step in recreating my grandmomma's dressing.

Editorial note for all y'all non-Southerners reading: Dressing is what you would call stuffing, except you don't put it in the bird's butthole, and it's way more moist and tasty.

Cornbread

1 Cup flour
1 Cup yellow cornmeal*
2-4 Tbsp sugar (I use only 2)
1 Tbsp Baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
2 eggs
1 cup milk
1/4 cup cooking oil or shortening**

In one bowl, stir and blend flour, cornmeal, sugar, salt, and baking powder. In another bowl, beat together eggs, milk, and oil. Mix meal mix with egg mix, and stir until batter is smooth. Do not over beat.
Bake at 425 in well greased 9x9x2 pan*** for 20-25 minutes or until golden brown.

* If you can get locally ground, it really does make a difference, and Granddaddy actually says you can use yellow, white, or blue
** I use canola oil, and a little less than called for because I melt about 2 Tbsp of butter in the iron skillet that I've heated up before pouring in the batter.
***I never cook cornbread in anything but cast iron. This recipe calls for your biggest skillet most likely.

You'll need to make this a few days before you plan to put your dressing together because you have to let it sit out and get stale.

Next, we'll talk about my grandmomma's dressing which my brother and I have tried tirelessly to recreate. We've both come up with yummy dressing, but I don't think either of us have hit it spot on yet.

Jackson. It is what it is.

I finally got a chance to read The Help this week. Kathryn is my big brother's age. They went to school together from kindergarten until the 12th grade. So many of us in Jackson did. First Presbyterian Day School followed by Prep. I swear, Jackson, Mississippi could put out it's own version of the game Life.

The book was great, I thought. What struck me the most though, was the very end, where Kathryn talks about why she wrote the book. She talked about the woman who helped raise her - her family's own help.

It makes sense. I don't know anyone who didn't have a maid growing up, or at least not that I can remember. And when First Presbyterian Day School arranged for the kids who lived out further in the new part of town to ride the city bus to the Colonial Country Club to be picked up by our moms? We shared those buses with the domestic help. The women who spent their days in the homes of Northeast Jackson taking care of white families and their evenings on the other side of Woodrow Wilson taking care of their own families.

But Kathryn set the book in the 1960's. Not in the 1980's, when we were growing up in Jackson.

I'm certainly not saying that it was the same in the '80's as it was in the '60's. But it wasn't as different as someone who didn't grow up there would imagine it would be. It was the same enough for me to be caught blushing with shame at identifying too well at times throughout the book.

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There is something else that I associate with Jackson. It's probably not inherent to the place, but having been gone from there for over a decade now, it seems unique to the local to me. I have so much more confidence here in Raleigh. The mean girls just seemed meaner there.

The way the circles of friendships revolved around who your parents were and the Junior League made it impossible for lines to be crossed. I know I've mentioned before how I derailed my own track to debutante when I found out my best friend wasn't even allowed to utter the word because she was Jewish.

My father has never looked so relieved and yet altogether disappointed in the same expression as when I told him that I didn't want him to pursue it further. I think it was the moment he realized that I had no intentions of staying in Jackson.

Like Kathryn said though, I'm allowed to say whatever I want to about it. It's backwards, it bears bitter bitter fruit. It will never be as important as it thinks it is. I can talk some smack about Jackson, but don't you dare try. It's wonderful and quirky and full of surprises.

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I've received multiple suggestions lately that I friend a woman named Mary Katherine on Facebook. I will do no such thing. Kevin can't believe that I can hold a grudge for 23 years. I disagree that it's a grudge.

In seventh grade, I was one of the last girls to figure out that you didn't get to just be nice to everyone, regardless of what they wore, what they looked like, or who they hung out with. As a result, after being burned a few times, and having the world's meanest carpool (seriously, Facebook, don't even think of recommending those girls), I just started being generally harsh on the outside. Protection measures, you know.

Anyway, one day before the Great Wall of Teenagedom went up, I passed Mary Katherine in the hallway. She was tall and gangly. Her hair was brillo pad curly, and I don't think I have ever seen her smile without sneering. She was on my ironic list of kids I felt sorry for. Ironic because I was so far down on the food chain, pity from me inspired ire in people.

"Hi, Kacky!" I smiled as she approached.

"My name is Mary Katherine," she hissed, cutting her eyes to see if anyone was watching her speak to me.

"Oh. I thought your friends called you 'Kacky,' I'm sorry." I thought I had made a mistake. We hadn't gone to elementary school together, so I didn't know her well.

"My friends do." she tossed over her shoulder at me.

I couldn't tell anyone why I hated her so much because it was too humiliating. I just made sure never to sit near her or hang with any of her friends and generally avoided any situation where I would have to be in her presence. Not an easy task in a school our size.

It's not like that one incident gave me reason to hold a grudge for 23 years really. She just never changed towards me. She never gave me any reason not to feel differently about her. For six years, all I saw was that sneer, and her walking in the back of her crowd most of the time. Like she was just following along. Like the moms were orchestrating the friendships and her mom just had the right clout to make sure she had the right friends.

In all honesty, I continued to feel sorry for her. But I would be damned if I ever put myself out there for her to spit on ever again.

So it's not really a grudge, it's just that old protection mechanism that's urging me to not only not friend her on Facebook, but to just block her and continue to pretend like it's a happy slappy world without people as mean as she was in it. Besides, I can guarantee that she doesn't care about being Facebook friends with me.

Of course, the grown up in me knows that is ridiculous. I'm sure she is a nice person, and I just never got the chance to see it. I don't imagine I ever will either because I'm not willing to try. That's really kind of sad.

I'm so crafty

Today's post, which will be yesterday's post by the time anyone reads this was on Specraftular. Just a little something about some zippered pouches that I see myself making quite a few of in the future.

Tomorrow's post, which will be today's post by the time anyone reads this will be insightful and inspiring, I'm sure.

Wonder Pets. Yes, the Wonder Pets.

Seeing as how I'm posting every day in November, I now can feel justified in wasting, I mean, writing a post about the Wonder Pets. Not just about the Wonder Pets, but about how much I freaking love the Wonder Pets. Which apparently, is a very odd thing amongst parents.

I can't help myself though. Ever since Noggin changed their schedule to put Yo Gabba Gabba on right in the MIDDLE of Little Bird's naptime (for which I will never forgive them and will remain bitter forever), the only thing we have watched on TV is Wonder Pets (and the occasional Sesame Street). Bird loves it so much, and he knows that it comes on at the end of our day. When we've finished our afternoon errands, or if he sees me starting dinner, he starts asking for "Pets! Pets! Pets!" And I don't mind letting him watch it.

The music is wonderful. The three Wonder Pets, a guinea pig, a duckling, and a turtle, are voiced by children who sing, like children. While that might sound like a stupid statement, just take a step back and think about all the kids you hear singing on Disney or even on the Backyardigans (granted, I've only heard two songs from that show, but the two I heard were enough). The kids singing on those show are not using their pure voices. It sells, but it's not natural, and it's not good for their voices in the long run.

There is no pitch correction or auto tuning. They don't scoop or sing through their noses. It's just lovely little kid voices who sing in tune most of the time.

They sing a lot. Most of the show is sung, and is in the style of an opera. A good bit of the dialogue is done in recitative, and the music is recorded by a live orchestra. As in real people playing real instruments. As in, no midi. Hoorah.

Even though the style of the show is modeled after opera, the different adventures the Wonder Pets have leads to different styles of music. Today, Bird and I heard the blues and Broadway in two episodes. We've heard reggae and jazz, and my favorite was the dinosaur episode when they used chant like music with lots of open fifths. It was brilliant.

Finally, there is plenty of repetition for learning. But even though the Pets sing mostly the same thing at the beginning of every episode, there are usually subtle changes within the songs. Maybe the duck will sing what the turtle usually sings. Maybe they will change a word at the end of a phrase. Maybe they will sing things a little bit out of order.

These subtle changes are training Bird's ears. He can sing most of the Wonder Pets main theme song with me, but if you watch him closely while the show is on, you'll see him actively listening for the changes. It's pretty cool, and it works too. If you have ever learned music with a toddler, you know that the first thing they give back to you is the last word of the phrase. They also start picking up on the rhythm. By subtly changing these elements, Bird's ears are being challenged, and he is learning to recognize musical patterns. If you simply tap out the rhythm to their mantra, "What's gonna work?" without words or pitches, he knows to call out "Teamwork!" That is cool.

Of course, the fact that Bird and I have been going to Music Together classes since he was seven weeks old has something to do with how quickly he picks up on the musical aspects of the Wonder Pets. Our time in the car is spent listening to those Music Together CD's, practicing rhythm patterns, pitch patterns, and speech patterns. That, and just having a good time singing. I really do believe that the best thing I can do to be developing that little brain of his is to be teaching him through music and reading.

Yeah, I'm a little obsessed with exposing my children to music. I don't play Mozart at bedtime (or anytime actually), and I don't put on Bach during dinner. But at 21 months, Bird can identify a piano, a violin, a guitar, and drums by sound alone. He can keep a steady beat for about two measures. He can match pitch. He knows several songs, and the last words of phrases for dozens more. I think he's doing great.

So I confess, I love the Wonder Pets. What can I say? I'm also just a sucker for a cute guinea pig.

Just in case you were wondering, which I highly doubt you were, I received no compensation for this sappy love letter to the Wonder Pets. However, if Nickelodeon were to feel enough gratitude to send us a flyboat with the bobble head Wonder Pets in it, I wouldn't turn it down. Bird's crocodile tears when we left Target without it today were almost too much to resist.

Big sisters are awesome

Little Bird's big sister is 13. You wouldn't know it by hanging out with her - at least, not in the stereotypical 13 year old girl way. She is rarely moody, does what she is asked, and loves to spend time with her little brother. We really couldn't ask for more.

I was surprised that she didn't ask to do anything with her friends for Halloween. I asked her if they were getting together or having a party or anything. She rattled off different plans that they all had, but didn't mention missing out on anything. Hadn't she wanted to go do something with them on Halloween?

"No," she said. "I wanted to go trick-or-treating with Bird."

Cue me melting into a gooey mess of warm fuzzies.

They are two peas in a pod. Just so you can get a small glimpse of the joy my wonderful children fill this house with, here is a video of them pretending to eat their daddy's feet. The laughter is beyond contagious.

Don't take that tone with me

It was a look and tone I was used to getting at the OB's office. It was what initially turned me off on their idea of care in the first place. I was surprised to get it from a midwife yesterday.

It has occurred to me that it might be me. I know, big fat duh. I don't mean though, that it is all me. Just that I might be a little overly sensitive at times (insert the raucous laughter of my husband here). Even so, that look and tone irk me.

The head cocks to one side. The eyebrows raise. The back of the pallette raises and they start their next sentence with "You knoooooooow, you are going to have to . . ."

Dude. I really really hate that.

Yesterday it was in regards to tandem nursing and making sure that Little Bird knows that when the baby comes, Mama's milk is for him.

Fine. Valid point. But my issue is that I've ALREADY BEEN THINKING ABOUT THAT. I don't need the cock and eyebrow. I don't need the tone of "I'm sure you are a moron who hasn't done any of your own preparation." I don't need the assumption that because you are my healthcare provider, you are a deity and need to preach to me.

Sensitive? I suppose so. It just bugs me.

There could be a much better approach. The question could be posed, "Have you thought about how you will help Bird understand what the baby needs when he gets here?" or "Do you think you will have any issues with Bird's nursing once the baby is here?" Something along those lines would start the same conversation, and would also validate the fact that I'm not a dumb ass.

Did I say any of that though? No. I'm such a weakling in an exam room. I should have said something. Instead I just reminded her that Bird is not even two yet, but that yes, we were reading books about new babies and talking about how he will have to share the na-na's because the baby will need them.

It felt like this midwife was telling me not to tandem nurse though, and that really surprised me. Last month, the midwife I saw practically gave me a bear hug when she asked how long I had nursed Bird and I said, "You mean this morning? About 10 minutes." She was really supportive of tandem nursing.

In the end, I guess I just have to stop being so damn sensitive and stop caring what anyone else thinks. It's not that I mean to care - I get a few hours away from it and realize that I've been wasting a bunch of time caring. It's stupid.

I'm going to make decisions that my OB wouldn't have liked. I'm going to make decisions that the midwives won't like. I'm a middle of the road mama, what can I say?

But the head cocking, eyebrow raising, here comes a lecture? I can totally do without that from anyone.

Triangle Mamas Halloween round up

I wasn't going to count this as a post for the month, but seeing as how it took me all freaking evening to put together (because of my lack of Typepad skillz), I'm counting it.

Day three can be found at Triangle Mamas. Also, some incredibly cute kids.

NaBloPoMo. Whatever.

I don't even really know what it exactly stands for. National Blog Posting Month? Maybe? All I know is that I've ignored it three times now. This year? I'm not going to ignore it, but I'm not making any promises either.

I'll give it a shot. I won't post here everyday, but I'm going to try and post here, at Triangle Mamas, or at Specraftular everyday.

Today, it's at Specraftular, on the making of Little Bird's Halloween costume. Go have a peek if you like.

Boo-less Halloween

Fall is my favorite time of year. Everything could be pumpkin scented and in a palette of red, gold, and brown all year long as far as I'm concerned.

Well, except for Christmas. You know, if we could have six months of fall and six months of Christmas, then I would be completely happy. Totally and completely.

Every year, I try my best to get into Halloween. Last year, I went all out on Pirate costumes for the family. This year, I went for the handmade costume, but just for Little Bird. Kevin and I didn't dress up.

However, we decorated outside more. I thought I might get into the spirit more . . . but not so much. I just don't get into the gore side of Halloween. I like the pumpkins, the cute costumes, and the sweet part - pun intended. I just can't seem to like the blood and guts part of the holiday.

I have a feeling this is not going to serve me well as the mother of boys and a husband who can't wait to turn our garage into a haunted house. While I can, I'm going to enjoy my very vanilla version of Halloween. For however short a time that it lasts.

Thank you linky love

There are a few thank yous that I need to offer up, left over from the Type A Mom Conference. I'm not a review blogger, nor do I accept items for review for this blog. I was given these things as a conference attendee, and would simply like to extend my thanks.

Mabels Labels sent me a set of iron labels for Little Bird's clothes and some labels for his shoes and sippy cups (or whatever I want to put them on). The thing about the sippy cup labels is that I totally missed the fact that they are stickers, but they ARE DISHWASHER SAFE. How cool is that? I can't wait to put my Sharpie away and start labeling Bird's stuff in style.

They also sent some pink bag tags for me because mine at the conference were green, and that was the BOY color. It really didn't bother me at all - especially because the little icon was a pair of headphones - but they felt badly. And then did something about it. Which I think speaks volumes of a company. The whole package was just lovely, and you can bet I'll be ordering more from them and telling my friends (as in like right now).

Tiffany at Lattes and Life wasn't a conference sponsor, but she brought some of the giveaways from her blog right to the conference. It was the best giveaway ever. I didn't have to Tweet anything, leave a dozen comments, fan something on Facebook, or go to a website and find out when the company was created. I just had to find her and ask for it. "Hey Tiffany, can I have a Halo Sleep Sack?" And booyah, she handed me one. It was awesome.

I also met Drew, from Eden Fantasys. He's a super nice guy. He gets a link because he's that nice, but that's all I'm saying about that because my momma reads this blog.

Little Debbie was at the conference passing out their yummy new chocolate cupcakes. They had the cupcakes and then a coupon for more cupcakes when I got home. Nice. Happy pregnant woman.

Creative Memories gave me a copy of their software which I honestly haven't opened yet. I thought about giving it to a friend, but I think I'll keep it and eventually use it. You know, in my mountains of free time. I'm certainly not going to start scrapbooking, but maybe if it was digital I would do something. We'll see.

Chick-fil-a provided lunch and coupons, which was nice of them. So, thank you to them too.

There were other sponsors and freebies, but those are the ones that made an impression, and that deserved some linky love from me.

So there you have it. Not terribly interesting, but sincere. And seriously, go check out Mabels Labels. It's the coolest.

27 Weeks

Dear Butterbean,

Still no new blog name for you. I'm thinking you're just stuck with it. That will probably happen a lot - getting stuck with things. I apologize in advance.

There are some new things in your future. Clothes that are just yours. I didn't have very many warm clothes for your brother when he was itty bity. We just didn't go out much. You and I won't have the luxury of hiding out at home, so I've bought you some warm and cozy things. You'll be nicely dressed for all of your brother's activities which you will have to attend.

Just this morning, your daddy and I were talking about how you don't kick as much as your big brother did. I said that you didn't kick as often, but you kicked harder. And you do. Some nights you take my breath away with one single whack to my belly. You also squirm more. It's interesting how different you already are from Bird.

Then, in a great attempt to prove me wrong, you went to town in your cocoon this afternoon. You respond most to your brother. When he climbed in my lap this afternoon, you went nuts. I wish you could have seen his face when you started punching up near my rib cage. He felt it first and then looked down and saw it. Then he said, "Baby!"

I know he doesn't fully understand the fact that you are a little person and that you won't always be in my belly, but it's cool to see him making a connection in his own way. You are making a connection too. By whacking at him whenever he's near my belly. Which, by the way, is not so helpful while I'm trying to rock him to sleep.

You are taking up more and more room everyday. I'm getting heartburn from a glass of water. When I stand up, I immediately have to pee, even if I'm standing up from the toilet. It's bizarre. I'm absolutely starving, and then when I go to eat, I get full entirely too quickly. These are things I remember about the end of pregnancy.

It's not the end though. Today we are at 27 weeks. We have just gotten to that point where I'm keenly aware of you all of the time. I'm glad it's not the end. I'm enjoying having you all to myself, and knowing that this is my last pregnancy, I'm trying to savor it a little bit more.

You know, your brother may have been my first born, but you'll be my last, and that's making me love you in your own special way too. Not too much longer, little BB. I hope you're cozy in there.

Love,
Your Mama

Adventures turned traditions

Last year I wasn't blogging in October. Let's hear it for internet stalkers! There was this one afternoon last October that I took off with Little Bird on an adventure, and I never wrote about it. I wanted to, because it was like this great turning point with us. We were a team, out to find the fun in life.

Granted, it was just a pumpkin patch, but for this mama, who barely left the house the first six months of Bird's life, it was more than that. It was freedom.

Bird and I hit the farm and rode the train, watched the goats, took a hayride, and picked out the most perfect pumpkin we could find. We left the stroller at home in favor of snuggling in a sling. Bird passed out on the way home, exhausted with I hope was sheer joy. It was also the first time I had that feeling of wishing he would remember the things we did together - that long term memory.

This year, Kevin wanted to join us. Since Lovely is tracked out in October, we planned the trip for when she was with us. The day was cold, windy, and it kept misting. It was not a great day for a pumpkin patch visit in Kevin's eyes, but I thought it was perfect. I love it when the weather starts to foreshadow the winter to come. We bundled up, piled in the Jeep and headed to Youngsville.

Bird may not remember our trip there last year, and he may not remember the one this year, but we will. We'll remember how he stomped out ahead of us all, leading the way to the train. We'll remember how he bounced in the hay and waited for me or Lovely to hold his hands, count to three, and help him jump. We'll remember how he ran through the rows of pumpkins, pointing at pumpkin after pumpkin, shouting "PUMKIN" like we wouldn't see them if he didn't tell us about them.

Fun afternoons and adventures are turning into traditions. Family traditions. I really love that.

Acting lessons

He sits in his high chair and shakes his finger at me.

"No No NO NO!"

And with the final "NO," he pushes his plate away. Another mealtime takes a turn into a battle zone, and I find myself torn between not wanting my child to be hungry and not wanting to give in when all he wants to eat is peanut butter.

What bothers me more than the eating though is the look on his face. He had to learn that scowl somewhere. He had to learn that finger shaking from someone.

I'm afraid it's me.

This past week has been full of "MINE" and "NO." He spent the afternoon literally taking toys from a baby. He would take whatever the baby had and claim it as his own. If he wasn't taking things from the baby, he was taking things off coffee tables and countertops. It wasn't our house. I spent the afternoon chasing him down, shaking my finger at him, and saying, "No."

He will scowl and tell a stranger "NO" if they get too close to him. On the one hand, it's not such a bad thing, but I hate that it has been his default action this week.

Every time he scowls, yells, shakes a finger, or is generally ugly, a little piece of my heart breaks off because I'm quite sure that he learned it from me.

Starting at mealtime.

I am so frustrated by his refusal to put anything but grapes, bananas, yogurt, or peanut butter in his mouth. I lose my patience. I scowl. I point my finger.

It's not getting him to eat any better, but it's teaching him to act like me.

I don't want to be angry mommy. I don't want to raise angry son.

We need more smiles, and I'm scared of how I'll be when there's another one. Where will my patience leave me then? Why are there days when I get so frustrated that I don't even seem to enjoy being a mother?

I need an attitude adjustment. I need more smiling. I need more patience.

I also need for my child to eat a piece of meat and a vegetable EVER. But that's an issue for another day.

Hump day, dump day

This was first thing this morning. The City of Raleigh said on our last bill, which was e-freaking-normous, that we were using 625 gallons of water a day. No way.

Kevin checked the meter while all the water was shut off in the house, and it wasn't spinning. There were no signs of water in our front yard. We assumed our meter was whacked and asked them to come check it.

They declared our meter to be working fine and then slapped us with a "leak notice" that came with 48 hours to fix it. Today, in the cold and rain, Kevin and Mr. Rob rented a backhoe and went at it. They replaced the main water line to the house, so there is no more leak. However, in the meantime, they also cut right through the AT&T trunk line for the street.

The "no cuts" people didn't mark that one. Oops.

Our yard, which had such lovely lovely grass, is now a mudhole. Our DIY plumbers are finished and the AT&T crew are finished. We have phone, internet, and water again. It's a trade off for the grass, but what are you going to do?

But wait, there's more.

Here's how happy Little Bird was all day. If it weren't for his big sister being here to play with him, this look would have permanently frozen on his face. His teeth are torturing him. He has top molars that have been coming in for MONTHS. Now, his bottom canines have stalled out in a position where they are close enough to be able to be seen right below the gum, but the gum hasn't broken yet. Add on some awful seasonal allergies that he inherited from both his daddy and his mama, and you have one miserable little boy this week.

Mama ain't happy either.

To top the whole day off, it turns out that the SPCA here is not a no-kill shelter after all. I talked the the adoption center today because a sweet old chihuahua has taken up residence in our kitchen, but he can't stay. If we can't find his family, we are going to have to take him somewhere.

Back to the SPCA though. The adoption center told me that they were no-kill, but that I would have to take the little guy to the lost and found pet center where he might get cleared to go to the adoption center. I feel really deceived, but perhaps I had just been misunderstanding all along. Either way, I can't take him there. He is so old; he will never get cleared for the adoption center.

Poor little dude. He's sleeping soundly on Kevin's lap right now. He can't stay here though. Bird has already tried to sit on him and pet him WAY too enthusiastically. Plus, Aja and Gibson are about 100 times bigger than him and are not excited about the possibility of a new pack member. Plus, plus, the little chihuahua has been growling at the big dogs as though he could take them on at the same time, when in reality, Gibson could eat him in one bite. We are not a good home for this little guy.

Besides, he has a home. It's pretty obvious. He wants to be with people. His fur is evident of long time collar wear. He doesn't stink. He isn't thin. And I don't know how to describe it, but you can tell that he really really wants to go home. It's breaking my heart.

Tomorrow doesn't have to be much better to beat out today. Let's keep our fingers crossed.

Long term memory

Long term memory. It doesn't kick in until around four, my friend Dave said while he was visiting. I've been thinking about that a lot lately.

There are so many things that I wish Little Bird would remember. I wish that he would remember the They Might Be Giants concert. All the details, down to "no NOOOOOOO!" as he sang along with the band. I know that it made an impact on him because he frequently requests "Giants" when we get in the car, but I know that he won't remember that afternoon.

I wish that he would remember eating popsicles on the porch while the dogs chase him around, waiting for a drip or two. He only scolds the big lab though, turning to him and saying, "No, no, Gibby, no no!" Poor Gibson. Even the toddler scolds him.

The five minutes of deep full on belly laughter that occurs between bath time and book time, while his daddy tickles him on our bed - I can video it, but I wish that he would be able to store it in his memory.

Of course, these first few years that he won't remember, I guess they are giving me a little grace too. He won't remember that I lost my temper that day and broke his crib. He won't remember when his daddy misses dinner because he's working. He won't remember how badly it hurt for all of those teeth to come in, and how slowly it happened.

He also won't remember being my only baby. He won't remember having 100% of my attention most of the time. But I will. Fondly. I'm looking forward to being the mama of two boys, but I can't help but wonder if Bird got the best of times. The just he and I times. If so, that long term memory, rather the lack thereof, means that it will be my little secret at least.

One day, no hate

I don't talk politics very often. For good reason, too. I don't know politics. To be able to discuss politics means that you have taken the time to find out facts from an unbiased source, and these days, that is increasingly difficult to do.

The talking heads cloud the issues. I don't enjoy the rhetoric.

But today, Corina has suggested we talk openly, without hate. It's a good thing to do everyday, but I usually choose to just not talk because you never know who is listening and what they are going to give back at you.

So here goes. A few of my opinions.

I believe that health care in America is broken and needs to be fixed. There are ideas from both sides of the issue that I think are good ideas, and I think that when reform begins, it is just that - a beginning. I think that reform will need to evolve over time, but that it is time to start now.

I believe that government shouldn't be small in one area in large in another. If you want government to tell people who can and cannot get married, then you are asking for license for them to dictate a lot more.

I believe that taxes are necessary, but wish that they were used more wisely. The government could use to get back to some of its Presbyterian roots and revisit the idea of stewardship.

I believe that it's beyond time to bring our men and women home from an unproductive war.

I believe that education is in crisis in our country and am nervous about my child turning five and starting public school.

So there. That's five things that could be controversial, or not. If you disagree with any of them, feel free to tell me so today. It's a day to disagree without hate and learn more about those who might disagree with you. So go forth and be kind, how's about it?

These are a few of my favorite things

Music.




















Baseball.















Books.

He is definitely my child.

It's up to me and only me

One thing that was so refreshing to discover at the Type A Mom Conference this past weekend, is that I'm not completely insane. It's always nice to discover that, I think.

What I mean is, that for awhile now, I've been pondering why it is that people can't just do their best, rise above, and quit telling everyone else how to do things. In the blogosphere, that is.

Let me give you an example. I'm a piano teacher. Well, when I'm working, I'm a piano teacher. I teach out of my home. So does another woman in my neighborhood. I teach on a 6'4" Mason & Hamlin grand piano, use the latest notation and ear training software on a large flat screen HP computer, and am a member of all of the professional organizations. I hold a Bachelor of Music in music composition, perform and record regularly, and my students kick ass in competitions, if I do say so myself.

The other teacher in my neighborhood teaches on a spinet, has no degree, doesn't enter competitions, and simply decided that since she could play the piano a little, that it would be a good way to make money from home. Teaching lessons, that is.

Needless to say, the other teacher charges less than me. She gets more students coming in her door because she is cheaper and just as convenient as I am. She is patient and kind, and never tells the parents that their children need to invest more time in their lessons at home.

If I applied what I keep hearing from other bloggers to this situation, then I should have a sit down with this other teacher and talk to her about how she is bringing down my profession. I should ask her to join our organizations, charge more, and be a better teacher. I should call her up and let her know that she is cheapening what I do, and belittling piano teachers everywhere.

And actually? I know a couple of teachers in town that have done just that. They got nowhere with it, and people generally don't like them.

Here's the way I see it.

That woman calls herself the same thing I do: a piano teacher. However, calling herself one doesn't make her one. Sure, I "miss out" on a number of students whose families aren't willing to pay what I charge. I happen to look at it as though she is weeding out the people who aren't worth me spending time away from my children. The people who aren't serious about their child's music education and are just looking for another after school activity.

It is up to me to continue proving why I'm better and worth more money. It is my responsibility to live ethically and be the kind of teacher that people seek out and don't just stumble upon. My success or worth has nothing to do with the other people who are in my same profession - it has to do only with how well I do what I do. The other teacher has nothing to do with who I am.

There is room for everyone. Back to blogging, there is room for good writers, bad writers, reviewers, monetizers, writers who get paid, writers who don't. The internet isn't going to run out of room, and if you are true to yourself - authentic - then you will be successful.

What you need to feel validated and successful is unique to you. While one woman may be excited to be paid in cupcakes, another one may demand $300 for a post. It doesn't mean that the woman demanding $300 for a post won't get it. It's not like the same company that would be looking at her in the first place would then go and consider all of us cupcake writers out there.

I'm validated by the relationships created through this space. Cupcakes are nice too, but mainly, I just really like having a place to write and an outlet that leads me to other women writers as well.

I think Mommy Niri said it quite well, "Blog and let blog," or as I like to say, "It's alright with me if you suck," which was going to be my title until I realized that some people might not find that funny. Except Abby.

Type A Mom Conference, Part Uno

I'm home again. I've snuggled my son, snuggled my husband and then some, and finally taken a bath. My roomie would be pleased. I didn't intend on not bathing, I just didn't. Well, just not often. This is so far off topic already and totally TMI. Hooray.

After attending two very good BlogHer conferences, which I would still recommend to people, I can also say that the Type A Mom Conference was far superior for me. For who I am as a blogger, it was the best conference I've attended. I loved the size and the focus on moms as bloggers. It was a ton easier to meet people, and you ended up being able to see some of the new people you met more than just once.

Kelby rocked the planning the conference. One thing she got right over other conferences was the food. There was plenty of it, and she even thought ahead about nursing and pregnant attendees, who need extra healthy snacks during the day. Where at BlogHer '07, I frequently felt as though I would faint at any minute because I was a starving preggo, this past weekend, I was able to get a banana or a Nutrigrain bar and a bottle of water at any time. It was great.

There is so much more to say, but that was the length of Kevin's shower. Now he's back, and I want to spend some time with him. And my new perspective on blogging includes - do it when you can and quit when you need to. That may lead to a week's worth of short Type A Mom posts, but that's perfectly fine.

Thanks, Kelby and everyone who helped you, for a great weekend.

Road trip

I'm headed out to the Type A Mom Conference. This morning, I'll be picking up Abby in Kevin's crazy tiny car, packing all of our stuff into its crazy tiny trunk, and headed for the mountains.

Here are my confessions:

1. I'm not as excited as I could be. I want to go, and I don't want to go all at the same time.

2. It's the first time I've ever been away from Bird overnight. Ever. In his entire life. Hence the want/not want feelings.

3. I'm scared that Bird will wean while I'm gone. While I know this would be alright, and that he isn't really nursing that much anymore anyway, I really wanted it to be his decision and not because I left him for three days. Of course, I should have thought more about this when planning the trip. Duh.

4. Mixed in with my ambiguous feelings is the pure excitement of being free for three days. Even though I don't feel the need to carve out a bunch of "me time" - I actually enjoy being with my kiddo and being his mom 24/7 - there is part of me that is excited about not cooking or cleaning for three days. Yay.

5. I'm not worried about Kevin taking care of Bird. I feel like I'm supposed to be, but I'm not.

6. I've never really spent time on the Type A Mom website, but the conference is in Asheville and far more affordable than BlogHer.

7. I don't read many of the blogs of the people speaking. Some, but not many. Will be out of the loop I guess.

8. I don't care to monetize my blog or connect with sponsors. Although if VW wants to give us a Touareg to test drive for awhile, I wouldn't turn that down. That's a sweet deal. But really, I'm kinda wondering what I'll do that will be conferencey like.

9. This trip is coming at a time when I've started to think that blogging is more work than I have time for. We'll see . . .

Giants

Last Saturday, we took Little Bird to see They Might Be Giants. Our friend Abby saved us some fabulous seats on the fourth row, and we got to rock out with not one excited toddler, but two. It was the best way to see the show.

Bird has long been soothed by "I Never Go to Work." I'm not sure of the implications of that, but it has been a favorite song of his since he was about six months old. We could put that on in the car and stop any crying instantaneously. Now, he sings along with it, pulling a word here and there from each phrase. As you can tell by the picture, he always gets a big "NOOOOOOOO!" in there. He'll also pull in a "DAY" here and there and sometimes even a big "HOLIDAY!" He also likes to put his fist up to his mouth and pretend he's playing trumpet during the second verse. It's beyond adorable.

They didn't play his second favorite song, "High Five." As soon as that song starts, he sings, "HIGH FIVE!" followed by a series of words that his mama knows are "don't stop" and "up top," but I'm not sure a stranger would. He also particularly loves to throw in the "WHEEEEEE!"

Bird has been to a few concerts already. He wasn't overly excited about The Connells, but loved Mosadi Music. He tolerated all the bands at Gibson Summer Jam about as well as I did. But this? He absolutely LOVED this. He danced, he sang. He had a great time, even on a day where he had no nap.

I don't need to tell you how much it means to me that my child loves music the way he does.

Staying power

There are few people who come into your life as friends and then remain that way forever. Sure, I've reconnected with plenty of people on Facebook, but there are less than ten there who I've been friends with for ten straight years.

A lot of that is my fault. I decided to try and completely fuck up my life in my 20's, thereby rendering me not such a good friend. Truthfully, it wasn't so much a decision as a series of really bad decisions. Including my choices in new friends.

In fact, in my collection of Facebook friends, there is a time warp of about 8 years. I have high school friends, a handful of college friends, and then jump ahead to 2005. With a couple of exceptions.

One shining exception is Uncle Dave. He has graduated from his old nickname of Tattoo Dave because he really is more family than friend.

This past weekend, Uncle Dave came for a visit. He lives in Portland now, and we miss him a lot. The last time we saw him was when we took off to Portland for a weekend to see Dave and Crowded House. It was almost two years ago to the weekend, and I was almost exactly the same amount of pregnant then as I am now. Funny.

Little Bird had never met Uncle Dave. He has seen pictures, and he has heard Dave's music. Here he is head bobbing along to one of Dave's tunes:



I love that.

Uncle Dave, who really would be a wonderful Daddy Dave with the right Mommy, got to spend lots of time with Bird, and Bird couldn't have loved him more. He was fascinated, and I know that he misses him now.

I know this because when he picked up his pretend phone today, he didn't call Papa for the first time in forever.

He called Dave. "Day-ahve?" Multi-syllabic Dave has earned a treasured spot in Bird's imaginary phone calls.

It's a good man and a good friend who stays your friend through divorce, remarriage, and then not only tolerates your toddler, but actually enjoys spending time with him. Could the universe please explain why he hasn't been snatched up already?

Flying by

I had this moment of realization today. Bird is growing up. I know that's not a brilliant deduction or anything, but it just became glaringly clear.

There are videos that I want to take of him and the way he talks right now in this moment so I can remember his baby voice.

There are lists of words that he says that I want to write down.

There are stories I want to tell about his new t-ball set and how much he loves all balls now.

I want to record how he says "Grover" in his best Grover growly voice.

So much of what is going on, I want to put here in this space. To share and to make sure that I remember it. But lately, I've been too busy living it. It's going too fast now to experience it and record it properly.

I hope I find a balance soon, because it's all too rich to miss out on.

667

This is just because I like it. And also because I couldn't shut down with 666 posts on my blog.

Lovely and Bird, each the president of the other's fan club. It's awesome.

Snapshot. Snap judgment.

Little Bird is easy going. He says "Hi!" to almost everyone we pass, and when we leave a store, he turns around and waves like he is in a parade, calling out, "Bye! Bye! Buh-bye!"

Thus far, we have avoided an all out disastrous tantrum in a store. If I can get him in the door and into the shopping cart without him yelling, "Walk walk!" then I know it's going to be a good trip.

A lot of days though, he wants to walk through the stores, more often than not, pushing the cart. Without help. Which doesn't work well at all. Sometimes he will settled into the cart within a couple of minutes, but sometimes not. It is never longer than five minutes that he cries and protests. It feels like a lot longer to me, but it's really not.

In that five minutes, I push through the aisles, quietly telling Bird some version of,

"I understand that you are angry. You want to walk through the store, and I'm making you ride in the cart. You are frustrated, and that's alright. I need you to calm down now."

We walk past people who turn and look at my crying child. Some of them look with empathy. That's usually the other moms. Some of them will make a funny face at him to try and get him to laugh. That's usually the employees. Then there is the person who looks at him, then at me, and back at him, lasering their disdain through their stares.

Truth be told, I don't care what they think. If I had to have a conversation with them though, I would point out that they are witnessing about 10 seconds in the life of my child. I would like them to consider that their scowls are just as unpleasant as Bird's cries, only quieter. I would like to point out that if they run into us a few aisles down, that he will likely be done crying and wave to them with his friendly, "Hi!" because he doesn't hold grudges like grumpy old people.

It's just a snapshot. It's not the whole story. It doesn't make him a bad child.

I guess that's why I just can't shake this story. The man slapped a toddler in a Walmart because she wouldn't quit crying in what he deemed the right amount of time. Oh, and I forgot to mention, she wasn't his child.

This was a total stranger who came up and slapped the little girl several times across the face.

He was arrested and charged with a felony, which is totally appropriate. But I can't shake that feeling of what would I have done? The emotional side of me wants to say that I would have kicked him in the balls as hard as I could. But I know I wouldn't have.

I think I would have put myself between he and my child and called the police. Rational, but proactive. I think. I really hope that I never have to find out.

That man must be seriously disturbed.

We are all just fine

Today was Little Bird's first day of school. Technically, it's Mother's Morning Out, but since he can't say all of that, but can say "school," we're going with that.

Last night, I melted down. His backpack hadn't arrived yet. I hadn't even bought him a lunchbox because it hadn't occurred to me that he needed one - I was thinking brown bag, but he needed a freezer pack thermal thing for his milk. I hadn't washed the outfit I really wanted him to wear, and I hadn't packed up the things from his room before I put him to bed.

I felt like a failure, and I didn't want to be away from my little boy for four hours. It was going to be the longest I had been away from him while he was awake, and all of the sudden, I didn't want to take him.

There were excuses I could have used. He is cutting his canines and between the pain in his mouth and his torn up drool stool bottom, he really is very uncomfortable. That would have been a good excuse. But it would have been just that: an excuse.

It came down to reminding myself that this was going to be good for Bird. He needs to learn a little more independence. He needs to learn how to play well with others.

He was going to have fun. It was just me who was dreading it.

This morning, I packed his lunch in his daddy's lunchbox. It was just fine. I packed his diapers and extra clothes in his daddy's tres cool diaper bag. It was just fine. I dressed him in a different outfit than planned, and it was just fine.

We arrived a few minutes early, and while I was filling in the daily information sheet, he figured out the door handle to his room and let himself in. A teacher came to the door before I could catch him and brought him back to me.

"Just five more minutes, okay?"

Bird whimpered. He whimpered because he wanted to go inside and play. There were other children whimpering because they didn't.

When it was finally time for him to go in, he went willingly into his teacher's arms. I think that he looked back for an instant, but I might have just made that up to make it easier for me to walk away. He was just fine.

I came back, four hours later, to find him running circles, chasing about a dozen balls. The other children were watching the door for their mommies, but not Bird. He would have preferred to stay with the wonderful room full of balls. Mean, mean Mama, drug him away from paradise. He didn't miss me at all. He had a wonderful time.

And I'm just fine.

Labor Day

Of course, Labor Day is for laboring.

That's my husband. With power tools.

That's a giant hole in my dining room. To the outside.

Life with Kevin is never, ever boring.

Excavating by Bird

There has been a bit of construction going on in our backyard. Our good friend Tom owns his own tractor like thing, and he loves to move dirt with it.

We have lots of dirt to move, so that works out well for all of us.

I don't know many 19 month olds in suburbia American who get to ride a tractor around their backyard. Uncle Tom is the coolest.

And yes, I'm enormous. I'm well aware of this, but really don't plan on curing it until late January, 2010. So, I might as well enjoy it while I can. Even if the pictures are frightening.

Letters

Dear Blue Cross Blue Shield,

Thank you for having not one, but two very nice ladies available to help me over the phone today. I now understand better why I had to shell out a large chunk of money for my one routine ultrasound that is supposed to be included in my global maternity plan.

While your customer service people were nice and helpful, it doesn't change the fact that I'm getting screwed here. Having switched from an OB to a midwife will save you a huge amounts of money. The three days that I won't spend in the hospital this time? Will save you a huge amount of money. All of the decisions that I am making in this pregnancy happen to save you huge amounts of money.

So why is it that it's costing me so much more?

Sincerely,
Just another American frustrated with health care and insurance companies


Dear Jardin people,

You make a lovely crib. I did not mean to break it when I was so pissed off earlier today. I now know that I can't yank the rail up that hard. At least not without breaking the little plastic parts on the bottom.

The fact that you are sending me the new parts free of charge and so quickly is very nice, and it makes me wonder if you realize that it's my own damn fault the thing broke in the first place.

Sincerely,
A mommy who seriously needs a break


Dear Glenn,

I'm guessing that working at Babies'R'Us in the furniture department is not your dream job. Maybe you had your sights set on something white collar, 8-5, that came with a company car. I don't know. Maybe, you are really good at retail.

However, I for one, am grateful that you work there. You probably just thought you were doing your job, but unless your job description includes dealing with insanely hormonal pregnant women who cry on the phone to you while their toddlers scream and throw things in the background? Unless it includes that, you went way above and beyond today.

I didn't know the brand, the model number, or where it was made. You knew your cribs so well, that you helped me identify it over the phone by describing a couple of specific parts on it. When you realized that I still had one child using the crib, you asked if you could call me back so you could see if there were parts you could take off a crib in stock so I could have them today.

When you couldn't actually get the parts for me today, you instead gave me the part numbers and phone number and everything else I needed to order them myself so they would get to me faster. You did pretty much everything but come to my house and dial the phone for me.

My day sucked. You not only helped my fix Bird's crib, you helped fix my day. I should probably tell your boss.

Sincerely,
That same mommy who seriously needs a break

My boys

Dear Little Bean,

I think you need a new name. I'm not sure what it's going to be yet, but Butterbean just doesn't fit you. You, the kicking, twisting, must be made known, you.

You actually do have a new name. As of today, we know what we will call you when you are born because we know that you are a boy. Oh boy, do we know you are a boy.

The ultrasound tech didn't have that wand on my tummy for more that 5 seconds when you mooned us, threw your legs open, and showed us all of your glory. She didn't have to tell us what you were; I started laughing and said, "Is that what I think it is?" And it was. My little exhibitionist.

I guess it's safe to say now how very much I wanted you to be a boy. There are both pragmatic and emotional reasons involved. The pragmatic is obvious: I already have all the clothes you need in the proper season. Score.

The emotional reasons are a little more complicated. One reason is that I didn't want for your big sister to feel like she was being replaced with a new little girl. Maybe she wouldn't have. She's pretty amazing, and I think - I hope - that she is secure in how much she is loved. But I'm glad for that reason.

Also, knowing that you are a little boy reassures me that I know what to do with you. While I know that you won't come out just a carbon copy of your big brother, I feel like I know how to love a little boy and take care of a little boy. That might never make sense to you, since you won't ever be somebody's mama, but it makes sense to me.

My heart melts when I think about "my boys" now. I love saying it. I love finding reasons to say it. I can't wait until you get here and I get to say, "Today, me and the boys . . . " which is of course terrible grammar, but I love the way it sounds.

My boys. My boys.

My heart.

I am so in for it.

Love,
Your Mama

The kid's gonna be alright

I hover. It comes naturally to me. A smidge of control freak mixed in with an annoying amount of always being right sets poor Little Bird up for a lifetime of me up in his business.

Already, I'm consciously trying to let go where I can. He runs in the play area at the pool while I watch without chasing. He climbs up and goes down the Little Tykes slide without me holding his hand. He is learning everyday how to do more without me hovering.

This weekend, I stopped by my favorite maternity store to see what might be on sale and capable of making me feel cute - in other words, miracles. She keeps some toys in a little play area. Bird remembered right where they were and ran to them, leaving me to shop blissfully. It's a very small store, so I didn't think twice about leaving him to play while I tried on tops in the dressing room right next to the play area.

There were also two sisters there with their mother and a little girl who was about three. One of the sisters was pregnant and shopping, the other left to go to the china shop next door, and the grandma was giving fashion advice. Bird and the little girl were playing.

At least, I thought they were.

The little girl looked so sweet in her smocked dress with matching hair bow. It never occurred to me that she was a little three year old piranha.

As I was checking out, Bird came over and stood by me. The little girl followed him and started to whack him in the face with her fists. I let out an instinctive, "No," as I scooped up my child who was just standing there, being pummeled.

It happens. I wasn't upset, and I didn't think ill of the girl or her grandma. It could have just as easily been my child who has thrown a tantrum over a train. I just picked him up, and we moved on. No big deal.

Until we got home and I noticed his arm.

Bright red bite mark. Clear as day. It could have been used to trace her through dental records if needed. That little girl bit my Bird. Hard.

At first, I was all over myself about not watching him closely enough. How could I have let that happen? I made vows all night long to never let him out of my sight again - to never let go of his hand - to never stop hovering.

Then, the next morning, the bite mark was gone.

It dawned on me that he was alright. That really, he was going to be alright.

In a couple of weeks, we go to Mother's Morning Out for the first time. Bird won't just be out of my sight, he'll be out of my reach. I'll pack his lunch and backpack, and drop him off. As in leave him. As in get back in my car and drive away without him.

He might get pummeled. He might get bit on the arm. Or, God forbid, he might be the pummeler or the biter. I don't know what will happen.

But I do know that he is going to be alright.

To my dance partner

Dear Butterbean,

Next week we find out if you are a boy or a girl. I'm very excited. If you are a boy, then I have a lot less work to do to get ready for you. If you are a girl, then we get to use the name that I love so much for you.

I will be happy either way.

Last night you kept me awake as I lay in bed next to your daddy. The little flutter dance you did was undoubtedly adorable, if not just slightly ill-timed. I was alright with it though, because I'm enjoying having you show me your presence.

One of your brother's favorite words is "baby." He has noticed my protruding belly, and likes to poke it. A lot. So, I taught him to say "baby" when he pokes it or when I ask him what is in my belly. It's much better than people just thinking that he's poking my beer gut.

Every night we pray for you and we pray for all the people we know who are expecting new babies. When Bird hears "Ms. Heather and Mr. Mike," or "Ms. Tara," he stops nursing just long enough to say "Baby!" I hope that his enthusiasm for babies continues after you get here.

You will have a lot of people love you when you come into this world. You know, you have a lot of people who love you already.

Keep dancing, little one.

Love,
Your Mama

Best friends

After my oldest dog, Chelsea, died in December, Bird seemed to lose interest in dogs for awhile. The other dogs are so much bigger than Chelsea was, and with Bird just learning to walk, he was leary of them.

I can't say that I blame him. Gibson and his big chocolate lab tail can still knock him down with one exuberant wag.

This summer, he has become inseparable from the two big dummies, as we affectionately call them. "Dog" is constantly coming out of his mouth.

He hears them in the backyard, barking, and he runs to the door to help let them in.

He likes to help feed them by carrying their bowls to the utility room where we keep their food.

He also like to help them eat by squatting next to their bowls and putting the little pieces of kibble that they drop back into the bowl for them.

This week, Bird learned how to give them cookies. Now, he will go into the kitchen and put both arms up towards the cookie jar and say "dogdogdogdogdog" until I get two dog biscuits for him to share with his best friends.

I think I love it best when he sits with them on the dog beds. Just one of the pups.

I think the Setter loves him too.

Nemesis

He's taunting me. I leave the front door open to let in the sunlight through the storm door. When I walk by, he doesn't budge. He dares me to come running out the door, cursing and waving my fists at him.

Sometimes I chase him all the way to the dogwood tree, shaking it until he runs up into the neighboring pine.

Sometimes I just sigh in defeat and kick the storm door. Those times, he sits still on the railing, staring me down, never missing a beat in the rhythmic devouring of the leaf he has stripped from my hibiscus.

I hate that damn squirrel.

"Squirrel" is the newest word in Little Bird's vocabulary. He has learned to go to the front door and yell it out to me, just to see me come running to save another branch of my soon to be naked topiaries. He steps aside and chants, "Squirrel, squirrel, squirrel," rolling the r's in that odd little baby way that he does. He likes it when I make it all the way to the tree shaking.

Gibson stands next to him, drooling. I should let him take care of that squirrel.

It was only the one on the right for awhile. However, today, when I opened the front door for the first time, there he was, hiding behind the planter on the left. He peeped around it, and I swear on my grandmother's box of handwritten recipes, he waved.

I really hate that damn squirrel.

Two weeks ago, my front stoop was flanked by two beautiful hibiscus topiaries full of lovely deep pink blossoms. Today, I didn't even bother to sweep it off or pull the weeds before taking pictures. It wouldn't have mattered. My flowers have been ravaged.

The biggest surprised is that the squirrel didn't stop and pose as I snapped photos of the devastation he has wrought.

He had better watch out. I'm planning my revenge at this very moment, and he just might find himself making a lovely rug for some Barbie's Dream House living room.

Damn squirrel.

Snapshot.

Because I don't want to forget this moment . . .

I'm sitting in the living room watching my children play. Lovely is shaking her hair and hands at Little Bird while he lays on the floor, laughing until his mouth is just open with no sound coming out. That laugh of so much joy that he can't get anymore out.

They occasionally stop to hug, but mainly it is just play play play. Almost every toy has been emptied from the basket. Bird has spun in a circle until he falls down, just to make Lovely laugh some more.

For this, we skipped church, and I'm so glad we did.

No more baby mullet

Little Bird has been sporting a mullet. I know this and admit it willingly, but I have been loathe to cut it. It curled up in the back, and I knew, even though my momma said, "Cutting it will bring the curl out more," I knew that the curls would be gone.

And they are.

It's still not a "little boy" haircut. He just doesn't have enough on top yet, so it's still a little baby.

A little.

He wouldn't sit in the chair by himself, and Trish kind of had to cut when she could because he was so wriggly, but all in all, it was a good experience. He really liked the big brush she used to brush away the hair from his neck.

I didn't shed a tear. But only because he needed me not to.

Nudges

Dear Butterbean,

You aren't even here yet, and I already feel like a failure as your mother. By this time in my pregnancy with Little Bird, he had dozens of posts about him. I thought of him constantly. I never felt alone. Even when he was still in my belly, I thought of "me and the baby."

I must confess, I don't think of you that way. Or at least I haven't started to yet. Sometimes, in my food and drink choices, I even forget for a moment that I'm pregnant. Then, as a second child myself, I replacing forgetting with an overwhelming guilt.

I think things are turning around though. Just a few days ago, I felt you move. Your big brother was climbing on me while we were having book time on the couch. He stepped on my belly, and you answered back with a little nudge.

It was the first time that I felt like the mother of two.

In about two weeks, we will find out if you are a boy or a girl. We already have names picked out for either case, and I will be happy no matter what. But I think of you in terms of a brother or a sister instead of my little boy or little girl.

I guess that's because your big brother is right here in front of me. You won't understand this for a long time, but he is still just a baby himself. He still wears diapers. He still eats with his fingers. He still sleeps in the crib that will become yours, and he still nurses from the same "nuh-nuh's" that will feed you.

He is still my baby.

But you will be my baby too. And I'm learning a little better every day how to love you both. In the meantime, keep nudging me. Every little flutter nudges my heart closer to you.

I can't wait to see you again at the end of August. I do love you.

Sincerely,
Your mama

The right path

I don't want to sleep there, I'm not particularly interested in peeing there, and I certainly don't want to cook there, but I do love the woods. I love mountains specifically, and I love streams.

I'm not sure why we don't do more hiking. We have the dogs for it. We have the kid for it. We have the love for it. We just don't get around to it.

Kevin is a doer. There is always a project either in full swing or in planning mode. It is one thing I love about him. He finishes what he starts, and he starts big things. His plans are not lightly made nor are they easy to finish. Right now, he is adding onto the house. Just he and the contractor. When he comes home from work , he works some more. On the weekends, he's building. I'm excited for the new spaces, but I think I am more excited for him to finish so that I have some of his time and attention back.

All this to say, I think this is why we don't hike. We do things together as much as possible, but this is a stage in our life where Kevin is determined to get things in order. I love him for that. I miss him, but I love him.

While we were in the mountains, I had him back to myself one day. He wanted to know what I wanted to do, and I chose this hike. We packed a backpack full of snacks, water, and diapers. The dogs got to tag along and tap into their inner hunters. Gibby ran out about 10 feet ahead with his tail pointed straight up. He even helped corral Little Bird when he got too far ahead of us.

We miss a turn along the way - rather, I missed a turn, and we ended up about 40 minutes off track. Luckily, we had also packed our Babyhawk, so tired Bird could ride on his daddy's back when he got tired. And after playing nekkid in the creek for awhile?

Bird was really really tired.

It was a great day with my boys, my dogs, and a trail in the mountains.

Time enough to know

My brother and I grew up about a mile from on set of grandparents and just across town from our other grandmother. We saw them regularly. Spent every holiday with them. Had sleepovers with them. Ate Sunday dinners with them.

Now, my parents are 12 hours away. They live around the corner from my brother and his family. Momma talks about the grandchildren coming to play in their backyard. She tells me about the meals they share. Even the Fourth of July was a family gathering complete with a new croquet set for the grandparents' backyard. Bro's kids are taking full advantage of having their grandparents so close by, and that really makes me happy. They are growing up like I remember growing up. Close to family.

My children will have to do things a little differently. We will have to have phone calls and pictures. Emails and blogs replace time around the table. We have to cram a whole lot of loving into short bursts of time.

That's what we did last week. Little Bird spent the week with his Nana and Gee. They were a willing audience and always had a lap available for book time. They were initiated into the Yo Gabba Gabba fan club. Bird was quickly following his Gee around, knocking persistently on the bedroom door when Gee would manage to escape for a moment. There were hugs and kisses and "night night's" for everyone.

Today, Bird and I spent some time looking at pictures on the computer. We got to one of him sitting on Nana's lap, and he pointed while he said, "Nana."

"Yes, that's your Nana, Sweetie. Good job."

We got the the picture above, and I pointed to my daddy.

"Who is that?"

"Baby!"

"Yes, and who is that with Baby?"

"Gee!"

He called them both by name. I kissed his head and sent up a little thankful prayer that it was enough time for him to know them.

Play me that mountain music

We're back. I know, you missed me and didn't even know I was going somewhere. Well, I did. We just got back from spending the week in the mountains. Surprised? Good. I learned the hard way not to tell the internet where I was going and when I would be there.

Last Saturday, Kevin, Little Bird, and I met my parents in Black Mountain, North Carolina, for a week long visit. We loaded up the dogs and most everything else we owned and headed west to our favorite place on earth.

While we were gone, Bird seemed to have a developmental explosion. He added more new words than we could keep count of, and his communication skills overall made him a much easier child to please and to discipline. He had his first Popsicle, his first hike, his first trip to the Biltmore, his first skinny dip, and his first berry picking outing. Even the days that his gums bled from the molars busting through were mostly filled with complete toddler joy.

There are pictures and stories to share, but for tonight, I'm just checking in for a quick hello. There was no cell phone or internet for the week. I have as much reading to do as I do writing. Hope you have all been well.