we’ll never stop this train

Stop this train I want to get off and go home again
I can’t take the speed it’s moving in
I know I can’t
But honestly won’t someone stop this train ~John Mayer

I sat in the recliner watching my girl hum to herself last night before finally turning over on her side, nuzzling her head into my chest. I watched her eyes close as she drifted off to sleep and I was sad that I had to go put her to bed. It was one of those nights that I just sat and stared and knew I’d miss her once she was in bed.

And today I sat transferring photos from my phone to a flash drive to free up some space – with the amount of pictures I take of this little person on a daily basis,13GB of storage doesn’t go very far. And as I transferred, I marveled at pictures like this one…

2 days old heading home from the hospital

I tear up when I think about her getting older. It’s happening way too fast. I miss my baby as I hold my toddler and I know in a few years I’ll miss my toddler when I hold my 5-year-old. And when she’s a teenager, I’ll probably just be walking around crying all the damn time because I won’t get to hold her anymore and everyone will think I’m a nutjob because all I’ll do is walk around sobbing “my baby is bigger than meeeeeeeee.” I think about more babies in the future, but at this very moment, sitting here right now, I just want my baby Summer back. I want to watch her crawl for the first time again, I want to watch her smile again after sneaking her a nibble of pizza at 4.5 months. I want to give her a bath in the kitchen sink again.

I want to remember the last time I breastfed her because then I’d remember it – I didn’t know it was the last time and so I didn’t soak it up like I wish I had known to. I want to put her in tiny little footie pjs that makes me go awwwwww instead of holy shit those are so long and dance her to sleep in the kitchen without my arms falling off. I miss that tiny baby so so much it hurts. And now I’m doing the fast waving of my hands in front of my face to keep all this stupid water away that keeps pooling in my eyes and making it really hard to see my computer screen.

Stupid weird eye water drips.

I felt this same way almost this exact time last year. I got sad. Really truly pit-in-my-stomach sad. It was just before her first birthday and here I sit again now a year later, sad about the fact that she’s turning two. I’m beginning to see a pattern and I wonder if on her 10th birthday she’ll say something like, “oh gee look, it’s my birthday and mom’s ugly crying again.”

2011: her official “birth day”

2012: 1st birthday

2013: almost 2

A wise person just reminded me that no matter how big she gets, she’ll always be my baby.

I just wish she’d slow down a little.

mama bear and the daycare bully

The weeks leading up to the first day of daycare were horrendously scary for me. I pictured my little one being ignored, or yelled at, or ignored and then yelled at, or hurt then ignored and then yelled at… you get the picture. Little did I know 7 months later that it wasn’t the teachers I should have been worried about.

I’m going to preface this by saying that I have always loved kids and after having one of my own, I now have this weird new spot in my brain nestled tightly between the part that’s full of my rainbow colored optimism and the other part that knows how to fix computers, and this new growth makes me fall in love with every kid I see. Call it my very own child love lobe. I now think kids are the keeyootist little things whether they are laughing, playing and running around like little maniacs, or drooling, crying and pooping out the sides of their diapers. I may throw your kid back to you if they puke on me, but aside from that, I will snuggle them within an inch of their lives.

So I love kids. We’ve got that.

But I have discovered that there is an exception. She’s a little fireball of a toddler a few months younger than Summer and let me tell you, this child has crazy in her eyes. She’s a beastly little thing and she’s been beating up on my Summer. I’ve seen her full force, 2-handedly ram her into the wall. I’ve seen her rip Summer’s monkey blankie out of her hand and wave it in her face smiling while Summer wailed. I’ve seen her hit, grab, pinch, punch, chase, push and throw things at the other kids in the room. She’s even done it to me.

Oh.

Hell.

No.

I am proud to say that I have seen Summer stick up for herself and hold her own, once recently literally Three Stooges poking this girl in both eyeballs when she came after my baby (which I certainly don’t condone but damn it was a good move). But those moments of pride that come from knowing I’m raising a girl who can stick up for herself are quickly diffused when we get home and my sweet little bubba looks me in the eye and slaps me in the face and then points her little pointer finger at me declaring “no hitting!” like I’m sure her daycare teacher does (the correcting, not the slapping). The bad behaviors are starting to be mimicked at home and I’m not a fan in the slightest.

And when I went to pick up Summer and talked to her teacher, she informed me that this girl was on a rampage that day, and so the teacher had put Summer and another girl in highchairs to get them out of this little beast’s way.

Hmm.

Now on the one hand, I appreciate, completely 100% wholeheartedly appreciate the fact that she was protecting my baby from this devil child. She would have put the bully in the highchair but the girl knows how to wiggle out of it. I know her teacher didn’t just plop Summer in there and walk away, and I can pretty much guarantee that she was better off in that chair than down on the ground with Satan’s offspring. However, I don’t like the fact that this is even happening in the first place. I don’t like that my little one is being restrained for protection. This normally calm loving Mama Bear can feel a fury starting to build at the thought of someone picking on my kid or trying to hurt her, I don’t care how old they are.

We said something once before and nothing changed. We said something again yesterday and they’re having a staff meeting and talking to the parents. Only time will tell if it makes a difference.

Until then, keep on flying with your head held high my Superbaby, and I’ll protect you till the day I die.

And then I’ll come back as a ghost and scare the living shit outta anyone who tries to hurt you. Mama’s got your back.

paint me a picture

Little one, paint me a picture…

Start with a world covered with blue skies and big puffy cotton candy clouds

And in that sky, paint me a big bright sun with rays shooting off it like fireworks

And near the sun, paint me little swirls of breezes that carry little birdies on their curves

And under the swishy swirls, paint me grassy hills speckled with pink and periwinkle and yellow flowers as bright as the sun above

And on the highest of those hills, dab a pretty little blue house with black shutters and a red door and a dog and a tree swing

And in that house paint the windows wide open with soft white curtains swishing in the breeze across the rich wood floors

And just past the wood floor covered halls, paint me a golden yellow bedroom with a little girl in it as pretty as you

With eyes the color of the sky and the cutest curly pigtails I’ve ever seen

And give that girl lips the color of pink roses with a smile as sweet as sugar

And next to that girl, paint a mama

with arms that are strong as steel,

deep smile lines that tell the world she’s been smiling because of you,

tiger stripes across her body that show the warrior she was for carrying life

and paint big puffy red hearts in her eyes

And paint the mama and the girl snuggling in a big comfy chair in the corner of the room

the same chair the mama had sat in quietly for months daydreaming about this little baby girl when she was still in her tummy

oh, and those steel arms? Paint them wrapped around the little girl so tight three times…

once for the day she was born when the mama fell in love…

once for today when her mama is grateful for her…

and once for everyday in between

And little one, if you can paint me some sounds, paint me laughter because the little girl in the painting is the funniest little girl in the whole world

and if you can paint emotions, paint me love, all over the paper, a nice thick layer will do.

What’s that, little one?

Ah yes, you already have.

froggers

She asked for her froggy pjs…

I call them her “froggers”…

apparently she calls them something else.

To view directly on YouTube, click here

back to my tens

“I wish I liked anything as much as my kids like bubbles.” -  Knocked Up

In my tens (not sure if that’s the best way to describe ages 0-10 but ’tis what it is), I hated playing with Barbies yet my friend would come over every freaking day with a suitcase full of mini clothes and mini plastic shoes and a corvette and weird pegs that were supposed to be rings that you had to stick through Barbie’s hand hole and she’d look at me all crazy-barbie-eyed and say with way too much enthusiasm, “wanna play BARBIES?!?” No, no I didn’t. It just didn’t make any sense to me to sit and dress them in clothes and put the same plastic shoe on the same plastic foot 10 times before it would stay on, and then pretend these little dolls were talking to each other when instead I could be roller skating in circles for hours in the basement with the radio blaring 80′s music. Give me a pile of Lincoln Logs, do cartwheels with me in the front yard, or give me a bucket of crayons and I was happy.

In my teens, fun turned from finger painting to riding my bike all the way to the pool to meet up with friends and giggle about boys. And a few years later we could be found driving around town smoking with all the windows down so our parents wouldn’t smell the funk later, or sitting at Baker’s Square or Denny’s for hours clam-baking with all the other smokers crammed in the little booths drinking ridiculous amounts of coffee that no sane teenager should ever consume in one day.

In my 20′s, I gave up my Baker’s Square coffee for dancing on bars with my sisters and friends, singing at the top of my lungs to live bands with my head swimming from too much beer until 3am. I was happy, I was carefree, I had far too much energy for my own good. Those were some great times.

And in my 30′s, I’ve found that having a little one in her tens has actually brought me back full-circle. Although I’ve discovered toddlers are the epitome of ADD – “color? play doh? outside? color? snack? book? keys? rocking horse? Wiggles? COLOR? COLOR? COOKIE!” – it’s fun. Like really really fun. With her, I get to color little hearts and stars all over construction paper again. I get to draw on my driveway with chalk and no one drives by with stink eye wondering who the grown up is drawing people and dogs and balloons and coloring them in with the focus that should be reserved for an intense game of beer pong. (I miss you, beer pong. I love you. Call me.) I get to eat goldfish and Cheerios by the handful.

I get to take walks down the street and notice every pine cone, leaf, bird, squirrel, tree, stop sign, airplane, house, person, rock and truck because I have someone walking next to me yelling BIG TRUUUUUUCK!! every time one goes by…you know…just in case I didn’t see the really big truck.

I had forgotten how awesome it was to be a kid, and luckily now I have a short little person doing a really good job of reminding me. Now if only I could figure out how to work a little of this into my days…

i believe, i believe, i believe

I believe Jim Carrey singing “I Believe I Can Fly” in Fun with Dick and Jane is one of the greatest songs sung in the history of movies.

I believe my baby looks more like my mom than me. She has Nanna’s hair and all of her facial features, though I think she got her momma’s goofy sense of humor.

Yeah, I totally did that last night, too.

I still believe in wishing on stars, though I’m pretty sure I’ve wished on a few planets. Potato, potahto, I’m pretty sure it still works.

I believe that light blue is officially my new favorite color.

I believe that it’s the little things that can make a girl feel pretty – a compliment, a new hairdo, a nice coat of pink on the nails.

I believe friends who let you draw marker tattoos on their boobs are the kinds of friends you keep for life.

…and when you love playing with their kiddos, well even better.

…and when your kid loves their kid and their kid loves your kid, life is grand.

I believe I am more afraid of my parents dying than I am myself.

I believe that every person you meet and everything you go through in your lifetime happens for a reason and although you may not realize it at the time, when you look back later, it will all make sense.

I believe toddler hands found my phone and put in the wrong passcode a few too many times.

I believe that I will never ever be able to make an elephant sound. Every time I try, in my head it sounds like an elephant but comes out a ridiculous mouth fart.

I believe that I found the perfect dress to Becky’s wedding in August. Why yes, that is a potty on the floor, thank you for asking.

I believe yesterday was the first time in 35 years I’ve said the words “I have to pick up my dry cleaning”.

I believe I’m going to Elmo Makes Music in a few weeks and I’m going to miss the Chicago Kids and Kites Fest which just makes me sad. Last year’s fest was my favorite day in the whole world.

I believe that love is the only emotion that can make you feel warm and fuzzy, crazy, silly, ridiculously angry and deliriously happy all at the same time.

I believe my sister will have a baby.

I believe in lounging in the same pjs all weekend.

I believe beer and string cheese is a good combo. So is bacon and more bacon.

I believe I still have at least 1 moment everyday at work where I think, “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

I believe sidewalk chalk is the greatest invention ever.

I believe in being spontaneous, laughing at myself, never making plans, and not taking life too seriously.

I believe it’s almost the weekend – go take a bath, put on your pjs and find something good to believe in…

soaking up the music

I magically found myself with a few days off and so here I sit on my couch, taking a break from scrubbing couch cushions, picking stickers off the wood floors, the blinds and the bottom of my socks, and wondering when I got this new freckle on my stomach and then realizing it was a piece of frozen pancake a certain little girl tried shoving down the front of my shirt this morning. Apparently cleavage pancakes are really really funny to a 2-year-old. Oh yes, be very jealous of the glamorous life I lead, I have food freckles.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had more than an hour before bed to put something other than Barney (shudder) or Caillou (kill me) on the tv and thanks to Pandora and DirectTV, I’ve had music blaring out of my living room all morning. And with every song, I’m being reminded of how much I adore music and how no matter what, there will always be a song that explains life at that very moment as if the singer is singing directly in my ear because they wrote the song just for me. And then there are the songs that somewhere along the way, I’ve claimed as my own, songs I could listen to for days and days, songs that I don’t ever feel the need to shout from the rooftops, that’s my song! when I hear them because I’d rather close my eyes and soak them up into my whole body like a sponge. Pearl Jam’s Release, U2′s All I want is You, Coldplay’s Fix You, they get me every time. I don’t know what it is about music that just makes life so much better. Maybe it’s just knowing that someone else has felt exactly what I felt at some point and they thought enough to write it down, pair it with a few notes and describe my life to a T better than I ever could have. I don’t get jazz, I don’t like country, and classical I could give or take, but you give me some Pearl Jam, Paul Simon or John Mayer, and I’m in my happy place.

Just sitting here in the Beatles’s romper room, enjoying my day very much. Happy Friday.