I have a confession to make:  I’m not an “outside” person.  Don’t get me wrong, I love those first few days of spring and summer that are sunny and warm.  I love going outside for an hour or two in the afternoons and hanging out at the pool.  I love walking around fall festivals in jeans and sweaters when the sun is shining but the air is crisp. 

But? I’m not someone who can, or wants, to be outside all day. My husband?  He is a bit of a sun slut.  If he could get away with it, he’d be outside at the pool from 10AM until 6PM every day.  At the beach, that’s pretty much exactly what he does.  Me, on the other hand?  I retreat to the couch for an afternoon nap under a blanket.  Where I’m not hot, sweaty, sticky and sandy.   Because if I’m hot, sweaty and sticky it better be from a workout that burned enough calories so I can have that piece of cheesecake. 

To further make my point, rainy Sunday afternoons are my favorite thing. EVER. 

The child?  She apparently is going to be like her father and between the two of them, I see my afternoons on the couch coming to a rather rapid end. 

OMG, do you SEE those handprints on my door??

At least three times a day, she stands at the door and pounds on it.  POUNDS.  With her tiny little palms slapping the glass and her little mouth running a mile a minute as she squeals, giggles and babbles at anything she sees.  “GA- GA-GA!” she yells.  After a few minutes, her squeals turn into little whines.  Then to even louder whines.  A few minutes after that, if I’m not lathering her with sunscreen and gathering up toys, she turns on the water works. 

So, outside we go.  Where she carefully places leaves in her tiny tea cups and investigates the stones and pebbles around the trees.  Inside, she is constantly moving.  From this toy to that book to walking around and around the chair.  Outside, she is content, curious and calm.  She laughs at the birds, waves to her PapPap and gets brave and stands to feel the grass between her toes. 

She’s such a joy to watch as she discovers new things.  Even though it means one more way that she’s Daddy’s girl and a few more sweaty afternoons for me. 

Does sitting outside with my girl earn me cheesecake?

Dear C,

11 months old.  One month shy of a year since we met you and became proud parents of a beautiful little girl.  While we have been proud of you since you were minutes old and wrapping your hand around Daddy’s finger and our hearts around your pinkie, it has only been in the last few weeks that I’ve felt like I could bust with joy when you accomplish something new. 

Like walking. 

And talking. 

And feeding yourself. 

And crawling up the steps.  (Actually, I don’t like this one so much.  Let’s stop doing it.)

You’re such an independent little soul.  You want to do things yourself, are constantly on the move and you never, ever sit still.  I guess this is pretty typical behavior for a baby of your age, but it’s still one of the most amazing things to your daddy and me. 

As you toddle across the room, your arms out to keep you steady, we look at each other and grin.  Each silently counting your footsteps.  One. Two. Three.  We make eye contact and our smiles get a little bigger.  Four. Five. Six.  Sometimes you stop to see if we’re looking at you and we hold our breath.  And then you toddle some more.  Off to get whatever has caught your eye.  Sometimes you make it all the way.  Other times you stumble and fall down.  Or, you simply decide you can get there faster by crawling, so you drop to your knees and take off. 

You’ve taken a lot of knocks the past few weeks.  It feels like you’re constantly bumping your head into something, falling down or pulling on something and smacking yourself in the face with it.  When you do and when it hurts, you cry big crocodile tears until someone scoops you up and smothers you with kisses.  We make promises that it will be all better by the time you’re married and show you a different toy and then, like magic, the tears stop and you’re begging to be put down. 

You’re such an inquisitive, happy little girl.  I hope you always find joy in the little things like sitting on the table, playing with a cap from one of your bottles or putting leaves in a plastic cup. 

I love you, sweet child.

So, you think you have a system.  You think you’re so smart and have it all figured out.  You think you’re so lucky to have the quickest morning drop off routine, just waltzing across the yard to your mother-in-law’s house and dropping off the baby who is so happy to see PapPap that she doesn’t care that you’re leaving.  Then you make your easy quick commute to work, not worrying for a second about the baby until 5:00 comes and it’s time to pick her up. 

And then?  Your mother-in-law gets sick and can’t be around the baby for a week.  And it’s football season which means both your husband and your father-in-law are at three-a-day practices. 

So.  You panic. 

And lots of thoughts enter your mind.  You could burn up the rest of your vacation time…  But the meetings and the deadlines are right there on your calendar staring at you.  You think about the daycare that a family member runs…  But, you worry about taking the wee one to an unfamiliar place.  You call your best friend, your mom and your husband.  In that order.  (What? He was at practice.) And play out various scenarios and get advice. 

And then, you breathe. 

Because when you went to talk to your boss, he was super understanding and gave you the ability to work from home so you didn’t have to use up all of your vacation time or drop your kid off at a strange daycare.  And, because your mom talked to your dad and between the two of them and your brother, they can help cover a few days, even though they live an hour away and that means leaving their house damn early.  And, because two wonderful women, with seven kids between them, who are married to friends’ of your husband hear about the pickle you were in and offered to come help.  

And you realize how very lucky you are.  And that, it does indeed, take a village. 

PS.  Let’s all send collective Internet vibes to my mother-in-law that she feels better soon.  I know she misses C and frankly, I NEED HER.

Ok, Internet.  We have a bit of a situation around here and I’m requesting your help. 

I don’t know what to feed my kid. 

That’s right.  I’m stumped.  At almost 11 months old, she’s down to one or two bottles a day, so that leaves me with three meals and at least one (sometimes two) snacks to give her.  The jarred baby foods are OK, but she’d much rather have something she can feed herself or better yet, she wants what we’re eating. 

Here are some further details: 

• She loves cheese.
• She eats meat if it’s done in the crock pot or otherwise cooked really soft.
• She likes bananas, watermelon and applesauce, but other fruits are promptly thrown off of her tray. 
• She eats about nine peas, lima beans or kidney beans before she throws them off her tray.
• (She does a lot of throwing things off of her tray. I’m thinking about getting a dog to save me a few minutes of clean up time.)
• She ate pancakes like it was her job once.  Now, she eats a few bites, then she’s done. 
• Snacks are usually pudding, yogurt, crackers or those Gerber cookie things. 
• Macaroni and cheese is probably her favorite food.  But really?  How often can I, in good conscience, feed my child Easy Mac? 

Also?  It’s football season which means that Craig is still at practice when I get home from work.  Therefore, I have 45 minutes to change clothes and cook dinner while keeping C from destroying the house, pounding on the door because she wants to go outside or in some way inflicting harm upon herself.  Personally, I’d be happy with peanut butter and jelly, or some  classic Ramen noodles for myself, but I can’t feed that to C. 

You can see why McDonalds happy meals are looking better and better, right?  

So, I’m turning to you, Internet for ideas.  I need meals that can be eaten by grown ups and the wee one that are both quick and easy or can be thrown in the crock pot in the morning or on my lunch hour.  And, yes.  I could just Google this or go buy a book, I suppose.  But really, I’m lazy.  And also?  I don’t know where to start.  So if you have a book you liked, give me the title.  If you have a website that saved your life, link it up.  If you have a favorite go to recipe, do share. 

Please?  And thank you.

Growing up my summers all crescendo-ed with the county fair.  A quasi farm girl (meaning I had animals but didn’t actually grow up on a farm… more like the animals lived in my backyard) I got up early to feed; had to make sure water and hay and feedings were done before my social activities took place at night; spent weekends and way too many hours with my dad trimming feet, shearing and smelly yucky. 

But early August every year was show time.  We’d load them up and drive 15 miles to the fair, where I’d spend a week showing, competing and wearing tight jeans and boots. 

In the mornings, we’d pack our coolers full of sandwiches, Little Debbies and Pepsi for lunch and I’d beg for a few dollars so I could get fries, pizza or other greasy carnival food.  My dad and I would load into the old blue truck or his Ford Explorer and drive to town.  As we pulled in the bumpy road and I jumped out, with the smell of wet animals, the crunch of dry grass under my feet and a chill in the air that caused me to pull my arms up into the sleeves of my sweatshirt for warmth, I could feel the excitement in my stomach start to bubble. 

Friends I hadn’t seen in a year.  Family members I looked up to.  Competitions I could win. 

By the end of the week my excitement usually waned.  They were early mornings and long days.  The water buckets got heavy.  I didn’t win everything I wanted to.  There were always family fights and friends who had moved past their showing days and weren’t around anymore. 

Eventually, I sort of grew out of the livestock showing.  It was a wonderful experience while it lasted.  I have great memories.  I earned enough money to help pay for my first car. 

I’ve gone back almost every year.  To watch my brother and cousins in their glory in the show ring.   To see the efforts of their months and years of work pay off… or not.  To see them learn lessons and responsibility they will carry with them.  But it hasn’t held the same excitement since my early teens. 

Until this year.  When I looked forward to going back and taking this little girl with me.  I wondered if the noises would scare her, if she would turn her nose up at the smell, if she would understand what these things were that she was looking at.   

And the verdict?  She loved it.  She might have been a little overwhelmed at first by all the people, the sounds and the noise.  (Let’s face it, the child lives a pretty calm and sheltered life.)  But a few minutes into it, she was reaching out to touch every animal we passed and squirming to get out of her stroller and down where she could really see.  Could really touch.  Could really experience. 

I think my dad had as much fun as she did. 

I’m sure next year could be different.  By then she might be scared or anxious.  And, she’ll never be involved at the level that I was (my sheep shearing days are over thankyouverymuch), but I love that in a small way, this fair can be a part of her life too.

Two weeks ago, I brought the wee one in from the pool, stripped her down and then realized I wasn’t quite ready to dress her yet. 

So, I plopped her in my bathtub.  It’s a big space, there are thing she can play with (after I moved the razor and the candle that sits in a glass holder) and if she pees, it’ll be easy clean up.  I did not know that this split second decision I made to try to help clear up her diaper rash and give me a minute to get out of my own wet suit would cause my child to see my bathroom… my sanctuary, my quiet space, my happy place… as her personal playground. 

But, boy oh, boy…. does she….

I fought it for a few days.  Said no.  Told her the toilet paper was not a toy.  Rationalized that there was much more room to crawl around outside the bathtub.  Explained that the trash and the toilet brush were “ick”.  But you know what?  You can’t really rationalize with a ten-month-old child and all of my calm voice explanations and stern admonishments got me nothing but pouty lips and tears.  So, I gave up.  And now, she spends her early evenings playing in the bathtub while I sit, okay lay, on the floor of the bathroom. 

Happy baby = Happy mommy.

As time sprints forward towards C’s first birthday, I’ve been thinking about all the things I have to take from in the coming weeks or months.  Her bottles.  Her pacifier. My sanity. 

It’s not just that I want her to stay a cute snuggly baby who babbles and sits in my arms instead of a child who crawls away from me, beelining for the nearest steps or power cord.  Mostly, I was scared of what taking these things would do to our schedule, our routine.  If you know me at all, you know that I thrive on our routine.  It keeps me grounded.  It makes my life easier.  And, it keeps my kid happy. 

So, to say I’ve been dreading taking those last couple of bottles from her, especially the one before bed, was an understatement.  Until Friday.   

Everything was as normal.  Until I sat down in the rocker, tipped her into the crook of my arm and offered her the bottle.  Her lips sealed tightly together, she shook her head at me.  “No.” 

Okay.

So we read some books.  And a few minutes later I tried again. 

This time she took the bottle between her lips.  And promptly spit it back out at me.  She squirmed and pushed herself up out of my arms and grabbed her paci out of my hand. 

“All right,” I thought.  It’s the weekend.  It’s a good time to try this because I will hate my life less on a Saturday morning after no sleep than a Wednesday morning. 

When I lowered her in the crib and walked out, the full bottle still in my hand.  I wasn’t sure what to hope for.  I know that it’s great if she gives up the nighttime bottle so easily.  Most people say that’s the worst one.  But nighttime?  That 15-20 minutes that I get with her every evening?  When she took her bottle, when I rocked her and talked about her day or sang her lullabies? 

That was MY time.

And those rare occasions that she would fall asleep with her head upon my shoulder.  Oh, those were such a gift. 

So, I walked out, bottle in hand and held my breath. 

And, she slept all night.  Even though I jumped every time I heard her move or her breathing change, ready to run downstairs and get her a bottle, she slept all night.  She actually slept in longer than usual and didn’t wake up eating her own arm out of hunger like I thought she would. 

On the advice of my friend, Heidi, Saturday night, I didn’t offer the bottle.  And once again, she slept like a champ. 

Sigh.  So I guess that’s it.  I guess my moments of snuggling with my baby are going to be fewer and far-er (is that a word) between.

The upside is this gives me a little bit of hope for taking the last two bottles and then… the paci.

C got this teapot from her cousins over the weekend, and the cuteness that followed just had to be captured.  I don’t know if she is dancing or trying to fly, but she’s having a damn good time. 

One night last week, on one of the days that it wasn’t 96 degrees and humid, Craig wanted to take C for a walk when I got home from work.  As we started our stroll through the neighborhood, we were stopped by a little old lady neighbor.  This woman, who has probably known Craig since he was pushing his Tonka trunks through her yard, was peeking in the stroller at my baby girl. 

I stood a little taller and waited for the compliment that I knew would come.  Cause really?  I love it when people tell me how cute my kid is.  It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside and I pretend that they don’t just say that to everyone.  Or if they do, then this time they really mean it. 

After a few moments, she looked up and said.  “She really is cute, CRAIG.” 

Clearly, I had nothing to do with it.  Or maybe I was invisible?  Or?  Oh?  What’s that?  Motherhood is not all about me. Hmph!   

An unrelated picture. But what good is a post about how cute my kid is without a picture to prove it?

But… she really is cute.

Dear Baby Girl,

Soon I am going to have to start these letters with “Dear Little Girl” because you, my sweet thing?  You are leaving babyhood in the dust.  Every day you look and act more and more like a little kid and while sometimes, my heart swells so hard and so fast with pride for all of things you accomplish, other times it shatters into a hundred pieces as I think about how fast the last ten months have gone. 

When you crawl to the den time after time again, pull yourself up to the rocking chair and look back over your shoulder silently asking me to do my part, to lift you up and sit you in the chair so you can rock like a big girl, I think about the early days of your life when I would rock you to sleep in that very chair. 

When you stand up and suddenly let go, your chubby little legs shaking as you realize you’re no longer holding on, I think about the newborn who smiled sweetly but needed me to support her head when I handed you off to your daddy. 

When you wave bye-bye and blow kisses as I leave for work in the mornings and peek at me from around the corner of the chair when I come home, I think about how grateful I am for your sweet, smiling face.  How you make having a bad day impossible, because no matter what happens between 8am and 5pm, I get to come home to you. 

When I lay you down to sleep at night, and you sigh contentedly, roll over onto your belly and drift off, I pray that your sleep will always be this peaceful and sweet.  That you will always feel comforted and safe.  That you will always have people around you who love you.  And that you will always know where home is. 

And as I lay my head on my pillow a few hours later, I think about the sweet girl in the next room who gives my heart such joy, who gives our family such laughter and who gives my life such meaning. 

I don’t care how big you get, how many steps you take or how many milestones you leave in the dust, you will always be my baby girl and I will always love you the same way I love you today. 

Happy 10 months, peanut. 

Love,

Momma