Oh hey look! A blog post. Actually this was just a test to see if I even remembered my password to get into this site. Turns out I do. I guess that’s the upside to using one of the same three passwords for every. single. thing.

I’d like to say I’ve recommitted myself to writing here, because I’m sure you’re all just itching for more stories about my kids (Mom.) but the truth is, sometimes writing here just feels like trying too hard. And I need to not have to try at something for a while. Between the kiddos and the husband and the job and the grad school there’s not a lot of me time. (Oh wait, that’s not true, I had four glorious hours in the car yesterday where I didn’t have to listen to Dora, instead I could crank up the radio and sing my heart out. PA Turnpike, you are welcome!) 

But there are nuggets of things I want to share (mostly because I still suck at recording these things in a baby book) like how Chessa just pretty much potty trained herself. Yep, one day friends of ours came to visit and Miss E. used the potty and since then Chessa has been all about it. We kept her in PullUps for the first couple of weeks, but then it was like it just clicked and she wanted big girl underwear and hasn’t looked back since. I’m so happy to only have one butt to change and the idea of not buying all those diapers leaves me downright giddy! 

Also? My little girl talks like a big kid now. What the hell? Last week she started leading her sentences with “I guess”. “I guess I’m going to go outside now Mommy.” “I guess I want you to play playdough with me.”  Or she ends her sentences with “yes or no.”  “Can I have M&M’s, yes or no?” “No, Chessa you can’t have M&Ms now, we’re going to eat lunch soon.” “But, can I have M&Ms, Mommy? YEEEEEEESSSS or no?  “No, Chessa, you cannot.” And round and round we go.

And, Cole is still a charmer who doesn’t feel the need to actually use any words. He points and whines and my eardrums want to explode. He can’t talk but he has learned how to tickle and say “GITAGITAGITA” as he uses his little fingers to tickle my leg, or Chessa’s neck or the random shrub.  You guys? It’s hysterical. He’s so michevious and I’m not being flip when I say that in these moments he is so much his father’s son. The same twinkle in his eye, the same waking up ready to tease people… I’m in trouble when he’s a teenager.

Chessa got bit at day care last week. 

Even writing that makes my heart hurt a little.  Knowing that she was hurt by another child and I wasn’t there to stop it or wipe her tears.  But at the same time I’m relieved that she wasn’t the two-year-old doing the biting. 

She was, however, doing the stealing of toys which prompted the bite. 

Then, while the little boy who bit her did his time in time out, Chessa stood in front of him, hand on her hip, pointing her finger and yelling, “YOU SIT THERE!!  NO BITING!” 

“That’s my girl,” I think when I hear this part. ”You tell ‘em.” 

When I got home from work that day and Craig told me about the bite, I pulled Chessa into my lap and talked to her.  I asked her what happened and why.  We talked about how it’s not OK to bite people and we don’t hurt our friends.  I asked if it hurt when she was bit and she replied, ‘Yeah. I wiped it away.”   We talked about how you tell a grown up when someone hurts you.  And we talked about how if you bite someone you don’t get to play because you have to go to time out. 

After dinner that night, the kids were playing and I heard the slap, slap, slap of tile as Cole crawled off in search of his sister.  She heard it too and quickly stood in the hallway and tried to warn him off and away from “her” toys (which are actually his toys if you’re interested in all the details).  When he grabbed a toy she wasn’t playing with and Chessa tried to take it from him, I yelled at her to share. 

And like it was on demand, her eyes welled up with tears and she cried, “BUT COLE BITE ME. HE GO TO TIME OUT.” 

Ahhh… nice try, kiddo.  Nice try.

Happy birthday, sweet girl!

Sometimes I try to imagine the you that you will be when you read these letters.  Will you be twelve, knowing everything and roll your eyes at my emotion? Will you be seventeen and try to use my loving words here to convince me to buy you a car? Or will you be starting your own family and will you finally understand your mother just a little bit better? 

I think about what you might want to hear. I think about what I might say to you. What secret messages I can send to you ten, fifteen or thirty years from now. 

And then I decide to do what I do here every day and just try to capture the moment. 

To try to describe your smile, the way you kiss your brother while squeezing his face just a little too tight and your tiny little waist and long legs. 

I want you to know that the way you run down the hallway when you hear your daddy – feet pounding the floor, arms flailing, million-watt grin on your face and high-pitched squeals yelling “DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY” – lights up his day.  And the way sometimes, just once in a while, the way you curl up with me or cuddle up against me with your head on my shoulder, lights up mine. 

I want to try to freeze this moment in time, where you’re talking a mile a minute but still in toddler talk and mostly in the third person.  Where you love your brother, begrudgingly give him some of your toys to play with and always plant a kiss goodnight on his cheek.  Where you love to sing and dance and clap your hands not caring who, or if anyone, is watching.

You’re such a wonderful two-year-old. You are making every age and stage you enter my very favorite as you learn and grow and turn into a tiny little person that we love so very much. 

Happy birthday, baby girl.  We love you to the moon and back. 

“It’s your last day of being one, ” I teased her.  “Tomorrow you’ll be TWO!”

“TWO! Tomorrow Chessa happy birfday!” she answered back, eyes gleaming. 

I kept dressing her.  Pants go on like this, shirt over your head, give me your arms…  And then, she looked up at me and said, “Chessa still young, Mommy.” 

Yes, baby girl. Chessa is still young. And if I have anything to say about it you will be young for a very long time. 

- – - -

It’s hard to believe that two whole years ago, I was wrapping up my last day of work before maternity leave.  Knowing that come hell or high water my child would be born the next day.  At 40 weeks and 6 days pregnant, the impending induction had me shaking in fear. I wasn’t looking for a natural, no drugs, kind of birth, but I did want the excitement of going into labor, rushing to the hospital, laboring on my own until I couldn’t take it anymore. 

So, to say I spent this day two years ago a little bit pissed and a lot restless is an understatement.  In fact, I’m considering putting Chessa’s birthday gifts out on my birthday (her due date) and making her wait a whole week to open them.  (I kid. Sort of.) (I’ll probably joke about it she’s old enough to roll her eyes at me and stomp up the stairs.)

Her birth story was different than my dream.  There were IVs and drugs – the bad kind that grip your abdomen and don’t let go – and the very, very good kind that make it so you can’t feel a thing.  Seven hours of pitocin, four hours of an epidural and too many episodes of bad, hospital TV later, I pushed and she was born. 

It sounds so cliche, but those last two years have zipped by.  And whether or not I can slow down time, I can do everything in my power to hang onto her childhood.  So that she can stay young for a very long time. 

Dear Chessa,

This is the last time I can (without appearing as an over-protective, doesn’t-want-her-child-to-grow-up mother) celebrate your birth on the 30^th of a month that’s not September. Also, it means when people ask how old you are I have to start using years instead of months. 

Because one month from today you will be two years old.

And every single day you look a little bit more like a little kid and a little bit less like a baby. 

Both the physical changes and the emotional changes are subtle.  Mixed in with the legs that are getting longer and learning to jump are the longer conversations we have at dinner and your ability to remember absolutely everything.  Your hair reaches into ponytails and pigtails while you negotiate with me with over what you want to wear. (Apparently shirts that sport your daddy’s football team logo are only to be worn to football games and practice, silly me.) Your steps are fast and furious as you pull my arm out the door, excited to go to daycare. 

You’re learning so many new things. New songs. New friends. New ways to get what you want.

Your long eyelashes shadow your eyes as you look up at me and ask for M&Ms.  When I tell you that M&Ms are only for when you use the potty, you blink a time or two and then try again…

“M&Ms, PWEEEAAASEE?  Okay! OK!OK!OK!OK!OK!”

(I guess it’s not surprising that M&Ms as a reward for using the potty isn’t working out so well.)

And since he’s been around for almost six months, I think you’ve found your groove at this big sister thing.  You know exactly how to make my heart burst by giving your brother a kiss for no explainable reason. You know how to stay justonthisside of trouble by stealing whatever toy he has in his hand and then quickly replacing it with a toy of your choice when you see my cocked chin and raised eyebrow.  And you know how to make me wish there were two of me when I’m feeding him and that is the exact moment you need to be read to, rocked or kissed. 

When I take you to football practice to visit your daddy, after hugs and kisses hello, he looks at you and asks, “Forever and ever, Chessa?”

“F’EWHEH and EWHAH” you say back. 

“That’s right. You’re daddy’s baby girl forever and ever.” 

Maybe you’ll outgrow footie pajamas and maybe someday we’ll move into clothing with single digits and  “T” instead of months.  Maybe you’ll learn the words to the songs you sing and stop skipping the numbers 4 and 5 when you count to ten. Maybe someday you’ll be allowed to drink something other than water from a cup without a lid. 

But you’re destined to be our baby girl, forever and ever. 

We love you, sweet girl.

I want to teach my children that laughter is good for the soul.  That it frees you from a bad mood, a sad day or an angry moment.  I want them to know how to give into a funny moment with a whole hearted belly laugh followed by a snort.

Instead, Chessa is finding her funny just as Cole is finding his giggle.  She dances, singing ring around the rosie, throwing her baby doll across the floor as she yells, “ALL FALL DOWN!” and we giggle. It’s infectious.  I laugh at her, Cole laughs at me, and Chessa laughs harder because she knows she’s funny and then we all laugh some more until our bellies hurt. 

I want to give my children tenderness and sweet memories of their childhood. I want them to know that they were always, always loved. 

It’s time for bed. For Chessa, that is.  I still have a few more hours of writing to do or a house to clean or three overflowing baskets of laundry.  But she’s not happy about this announcement at all.  “NO NO NO.  BEDTIME, NO!” she cries. 

I wrap her up in my arms and lay across my bed with her.  “Peanut,” I say.  “Just lay still.  Lay here and talk to me.  Tell me about your day.  What did you do?”

As she talks about playing on the tractor, playing with trucks and eating hotdogs she stops fighting against my embrace and melts into my arms.  I push her hair back from her face and kiss her cheek. 

“Are you ready to go get pacis and your bears now?  Are the bears going to protect your dreams tonight?”

With a sigh, she answers, “yeah” and we take her to bed.  As I tuck her in with her five stuffed animals and three pacifiers, I whisper my good nights and just when I start to stand up and move away, she reaches out to grab my hand one more time and smiles at me with unconditional love. 

I want to give my children peace and calm.  I want to be the soft place they land when the world gets too big and too overwhelming to deal with on their own. 

Instead, late at night, Cole drifts back to sleep and his head becomes heavy on my shoulder, I feel my breath escape my lips and my shoulders drop as I lean my cheek over and rest it on his crown.  I can’t help but think about the day that just passed, the chaos that has surrounded us lately and I say a silent prayer for it to stop.  I know I should lay him down, but he is so still and his breath so regular that I sit, rooted to the chair, rocking back and forth for just a few more minutes.  Embracing the peace and the calm. 

I want to give my children stability. So they can be comforted by knowing what’s coming next, what to expect.

But because of them there is constant in my life.  There is breakfast every morning.  There are naps in the afternoon.  There is dinner, as a family as often as we can, every night at 6:00.  Even if dinner is mac and cheese.  There are bath and bedtime routines. There are pre-going-outside rituals. There are the same phrases repeated every night at bedtime and every morning when they wake.  Because of them I know at least some things in my day will be predictable. 

Perhaps I am not the teacher or the giver. 

Maybe this parenting thing is teaching me that laughter is the best medicine, that my children are my calm in a crazy world, that the small moments are the ones that will carve space into my heart, that the routines and the schedule that move us from day to day are what keep me grounded when the world starts to spin and I can’t keep up.

What do your children teach you?

Sometimes I come here after super weekends full of funny things that the kids did, milestones crossed off or days of moments I’m trying to commit to memory. 

This time, I’m coming here after a weekend full of a cranky and sick toddler and a baby who still prefers catnaps to the real thing.

It was a rough one. It’s still a rough one since Chessa has now shared her cold with her brother.  Five days – two doctor visits - three filled prescriptions – two over-the-counter medications – 4,712 tissues – three outfits spoiled by large amounts of snot, baby spit up or exploded diapers. 

SIGH. Being a mom is so glamourous. 

My kids’ doctors probably hate me.  Or they love me and my $25 copay.  I think I’m dangerously close to becoming that mom. 

But how, exactly, do you know what warrants a doctor visit. High temp?  Check.  Coughing and weezing?  Check and check. Runny nose? Check and check.  Sore throat?  Check and I don’t know.  Not sleeping well?  Check. 

So, that’s it.  I won’t bore you with the details or the whining about how prednisone and not feeling well turn my child into an emotional basket case.  And don’t think I don’t know how mild this is compared to what some parents and children face every day.  And that I’m not so grateful for overall healthy children. 

But I will take advice on how the hell you’re supposed to use that bulb suction thing while holding down a 24 pound toddler who squirms and wiggles and kicks me square on the collarbone. 

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Also? If you’re familiar with the Top Baby Blogs website you know that they reset the counts a few weeks ago.  I know a few faithful people (my mom and my husband) who click for me all the time and help me connect with other bloggers.  But, if you have a quick moment, would you click the icon below and then the owl on the left side of the next page and cast a vote for me.  I won’t ask again (although the button is right over there —->).  I promise.  Thank you! 

I don’t blog to be famous.  I don’t blog to be rich.  I don’t blog to stir up controversy and get everyone’s panties in a bunch over various parenting choices.  I don’t blog to make friends (although I have and it’s the best perk of this gig.  hands down.) 

I blog because I knew I was going to be terrible at keeping up a baby book.  At any given moment I have seven lists floating around my house.  Half written, half formed thoughts about things I need to do, things I need to buy, things I will buy if I win the lottery, things I need Craig to do.  Every once in a while I found a half complete list stashed in a magazine or stuffed into a random drawer. 

My point? If I can’t keep up a simple list, I am never going to be good at writing down the date of a child’s first smile, first roll over or first word.  So? While I may not be able to tell Chessa what her first vegetable was or when she first stood up by herself, some day she will be able to read the words I wrote here and imagine the look of determination on her face and how my heart ached with pride when she did it. 

This blog was started and still (mostly) exists to capture those moments and those milestones.  I write here to commit the feelings of a new mom to my memory and to provide my kids with stories about their first few years.   

However.

I’m thinking that I should have also used this space as a “how to” guide as well.  Not for anyone but me, I’m certainly not about to tell anyone else what to do with their kid when I’m still trying hard not to cause permanent damage to mine.  But there are things that I just can’t remember how I did or when I did or what I did with Chessa, that could make my life with Cole much easier. 

What did our nighttime routine look like when she was his age?  I remember feeding her downstairs and taking her to bed after she got drowsy, but then at some point I started feeding her in her room.  WHEN was that?  When did she start going to bed around 7:00? Why did we land on 7:00?  Did she always get a bath every night? 

How much tummy time did I do with her?

How much did she eat at various ages?

These are things I should have documented.  Sometimes I feel like I’m winging it with Cole as much as I did with Chessa.  Which is crap, because what’s the point of surviving the first year with one child if you can’t remember any of it and use it to help you survive the first year with the second child?

I started quasi potty training Chessa last week.  Sort of.  Not really.  Maybe.

For the past few days, every time I changed her she would look at me and say “POT-TEE” or “POT-TEE TWAIN”.  I kept brushing it off because I didn’t think she was ready.  Not more than two months ago when I was trying to get a urine sample to rule out a UTI she would sit on the potty for 20 minutes, only to stand up and pee on my floor.  So last week when a friend asked me if I had started yet, I adamantly answered “NO” and that I had no intentions to.  I was sure it would leave us both frustrated, and frankly, I just wasn’t ready. 

But? Even though I think she’s just repeating what she hears, I didn’t want to tell her no or that she wasn’t ready.  So, Thursday morning when she got up, I let her wear underwear* for a while.  She had them on for about two hours and while she didn’t pee on the potty during that time, she didn’t have an accident either. 

When she came back from my mother-in-laws she saw the underwear and asked to put them on again.  So we did.  And about 20 minutes later she looked at me and said “POT-TEE”, so we rushed to the bathroom and she peed!  And we clapped and sang and gave lots and lots of praise.  15 minutes after that, she came running to me pointing to the office.  Her words were unintelligible, so I followed her to see what was wrong.  Once in the office, I saw the big wet mark on the chair.  So, I changed her pants, explained that it was an accident and that she needed to tell me when she had to pee and everything was OK. 

After dinner I sat her on the potty again and nothing.  10 minutes after that she peed on the swing.  2 minutes after that, we changed back to diapers. 

This weekend, because we were on the go most of the weekend, she was in diapers. 

I know, I might be confusing her with the changing back and forth, I just really don’t know how to do this.  I’m not with her all day long, although my mother-in-law is on board.  But, with an infant around, it’s just… HARD.  I like keeping her in big girl underwear so she can feel what an accident feels like, but I think Pull Ups might make more sense… and save my furniture. 

So, let’s hear it. How do I do this?  What worked for you? What didn’t work for you? What worked for your best friend’s brother’s girlfriend’s aunt? 

*For the record, I hate the words “panties” and “underwear”. 

I know football season seems like it’s a long time away.  Hell, it’s not quite Memorial Day.  But this night, the one I just had with my adorable and wonderful children, is the kind of night that makes me dread August and the return of helmets and shoulder pads, x’s and o’s, film and scouting and at least four nights a week of being on my own with two kids. 

Usually the bedtime routine goes something like this: 

I bath Cole and get him dressed for bed while Craig plays with Chessa.  When Cole is done, he lays on the bed or Craig plays with him while I bath Chessa.  We read books to both of them.  Chessa goes to bed.  Cole gets his last bottle and then he goes to bed. 

Tonight, Craig was at the school’s graduation and it went like this: 

Cole woke up fussy from his early evening cat nap.  I took the kids upstairs to get Cole started with his bath while Chessa played in my room.  I place a relatively happy Cole in the bathtub.  Then, Chessa starts rummaging through the cabinets in the bathroom, pulling out tampons and cleaning supplies. I holler at her to stop it, asking her to go play while I bath her brother.  As she tries to turn around, she slips on the tile floor and hits her head off the shower door. 

Cue tears and screams. 

I pick her up, keeping a hand on the baby in the bathtub on the counter.  Cole takes one look at his crying sister and he starts screaming too.  Chessa sees her paci and pops it in her mouth.  I sit her down and try to settle the baby.  He’s not having it.  Singing usually helps so I start singing the song that’s been in my head for two days. 

“American Pie“. 

Apparently Cole doesn’t care about the day the music died because he keeps crying.  And his cries are getting louder and he’s kicking and splashing water all over the counter and the floor.  As I look at Chessa (who is still playing at my feet and not in my room like I asked her) to tell her to be careful because the floor is wet, I see that she is dangerously close to putting the toothpaste in the toilet. 

I yell at her.  Her eyes brim with tears and then Cole pees on me. 

I get the baby out of the bathtub.  Keep singing and shhh-ing while getting him dressed.  He keeps crying. 

I decide to feed him before I bath Chessa.  So as I curl up on the bed with Cole, Chessa bounces on and off the bed, pulls the baby lotion and baby powder out of my night stand, dumps the powder all over my floor and eats a mouthful of lotion because I didn’t think she could get the top off. 

Finally, Cole falls alseep and I lay him down. 

I take a quick look at Chessa, decide she’s not very dirty and forgo the bubble bath and replace it with a wipe down using two baby wipes.  A fresh diaper and jammies are followed by brushing her teeth and hair.  I read her a book (perhaps skipping a page or four) and tuck her into bed. 

I throw the chicken I want for tomorrow night’s casserole into the oven, realizing I bought bone-in, skin-on chicken instead of boneless, skinless chicken, and I have no idea what to do with it. 

Then I pour myself a big ass glass of wine.

And sit down to write this post.  And now Cole is crying.  When I come back downstairs I’m going to draft Craig’s letter of resignation.