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”. 

Um… guys?!  I may have gone a wee bit overboard with the birthday party.  The guest list was long, the decorations were a plenty and the amount of sugar offered out of control.  I should also remind you all that I’m not crafty or stylish, so while, yes, there were handmade decorations they came from wonderful people on Etsy, not me.  And while the color scheme pulled together nicely, I stole (I mean borrowed) it from the colors of the flowers my sister plans to use in her wedding next year (and then I added in navy just so it didn’t look like I copied it.) 

Anyway, the frantic hours the morning of the party setting everything up only to realize it was warm enough to be outside and then rearrange it all, the seven trips to WalMart and the boycott my child placed on naps the day of her party were all worth it to have so many of the people we love in one place, celebrating our little girl.  As cliche as it sounds, it warmed my heart that so many people came to spend the afternoon with us.  And, watching C play with other little kids – watching her chase them, and reach for them and come alive with excitement over people her own size was the absolute cherry on top of my day. 

We started practicing for C’s birthday this week.  Meaning when you say to her, “How old are you going to be?”  She answers by holding up a finger and flashing you a cheesy grin.  And, when you start singing the first few words of Happy Birthday she starts bouncing and waving her arms like an itty bitty orchestra conductor, in diapers. 

So all of this practicing has got me thinking back to a year ago when I swore that this would be my last childless weekend.  (It wasn’t.)  I thought every twinge I felt was me going into labor.  (It wasn’t.)  And I was convinced that being a parent to a newborn would be easier than being 3,876 days pregant.  (Also, it wasn’t.) 

A year ago, my pregnancy was coming to an end and I was contemplating putting a note on my office door to answer all the the ridiculous questions I answered 43 times a day.  (No, I did not have the baby.  Yes, I am still here.  If I knew when he or she was coming, you’d be the first to know.  Yes, it’s possible I’ll be the first person to be pregnant forever.) 

I can’t believe her birthday is in less than two weeks.  I can’t believe that it was a whole year ago that I was rubbing my hands over my belly and feeling a baby move in response to my gentle jabs and pushes.  A year ago I didn’t know if we were having a boy or a girl.  I didn’t know if the baby would have my eyes and Craig’s kindness or my stuborness and his curly hair.  

I didn’t know what kind of mother I would be or that seeing Craig as a father would open up a vulnerability and unlock an emotion that I didn’t know existed.  I didn’t know that I would happily give up shopping and drinks at the bar for lunch squeezed in between the morning and afternoon nap at a family friendly establishment with friends and their little ones.  I didn’t know that I would care more that the baby was dressed warm for a football game than me looking cute. 

In 10 days, we will get a one-year-old out of bed.  She’ll be the same happy baby girl that we put to bed the night before and she’ll likely have no idea that it’s her birthday.  But as she toddles down the hall, helps to put her jacket on and waves good-bye as we leave for work, we’ll be fiercely reminded that a year ago, she was a squishy, dependent and cuddly newborn.

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.

Friday morning, I was home from work, sipping a cup of tea on the couch.  Minding my own business as C crawled on the floor at my feet.  The next thing I knew, I saw her place her tiny little hand on the couch.  I reached down, brushed her hair to the side and kissed her on the head. 

Then, something caught my attention.  Her face had a determined look. She scootched to her knees and looked at me. 

“I’m coming up there, Momma,” she said with her eyes and pursed lips. 

I watched her curl her toes under, grip the couch and come up on one knee. 

“You little shit,” I thought to myself (with love of course).  Out loud, I chuckled and said, “Do you think you’re gonna pull yourself up here, punkin?”

She pulled up with her hands and pushed off with her toes, that determined look on her face the entire time. Slowly, she raised herself up.  She was STANDING.  All by herself.  Once she got to her feet, her legs still shaking, she looked at me and her face broke into a million watt grin. 

And then she fell down. 

But she was still grinning with a huge sense of accomplishment in her eyes. 

We had quite a few “all fall downs” this weekend as she got a little bit more stable on her feet. But by Sunday evening, just a few short days after she pulled herself up the first time, she was taking timid steps around the furniture, letting go with one hand to reach for something further back on the couch and pulling herself up on the couch and turning around to hold onto the coffee table. 

Please send wine.  For I am not ready for this.

ppsst… just a sidenote that as I contemplate this new stage in parenthood, the folks at Top Baby Blogs have reset the count and everybody went back to zero.  You can vote once a day with two little clicks.  Obviously, I don’t expect you to vote every day, but if you’re reading this and could spare a second to click over to TBB and rack up a vote for me, so I can stay on the radar screen of people who are looking for baby blogs, I would be super appreciative.

Teeth. 

Add this to the list of things I never realized.  Because teeth?  They take a damn long time to grow.  I have thought that maybe, possibly, could it be, my child was teething since the beginning of March.  With every slightly warm forehead, every time she woke up through the night and every time she had the sniffles, I was sticking my thumb in her mouth and running it across her gums. 

And nothing. 

Memorial Day weekend I even asked Twitter how you KNOW when your child is teething, because I wasn’t sure if mine was yet.  That day, I took C to visit a friend.  And she took one look at my kid’s toothless grin and said “Oh! You’re getting a tooth.” 

“WHAT? Where?!?” 

[It should be noted that said friend has a daughter about a year older than mine, so she's smarter AND more experienced than me.]

“Right there.  See. It looks like a clear line.  That’s where the tooth will come in.” 

“Weeeeelll shit!” I was excited. Not only was my child getting a tooth, but my inability to notice it means that she might handle the pain easily, right?  

I went home and told everyone that C had a tooth.  A few days later, I started to feel something sharp on my finger.  And then I noticed another clear little line to the left of the first.  Days passed and everything felt the same.  (PS. Babies really aren’t happy about letting  you stick your hand in their mouth, huh?  Who knew.)   

Finally, almost two full weeks later, when she opens her mouth just right, and with the right lighting, and if you’re properly positioned sort of above her, looking down into her mouth.  You can see that my baby has a tooth. 

Whew.  One down, another on the way.  How many more to go?

She’s learning to crawl.  She lays down on the floor, pushes her upper body up and looks around.  Once she sets her eyes on her destination, she lays her chest back to the floor, stretches out her arm and slides her hip forward.  She moves quickly, dragging her belly across the carpet as she moves from one corner of the room to another. 

Often, her journey ends with banging her head off of the leg of the coffee table or nose diving into the carpet.  She sighs, looks around to see if anyone notices and starts moving again. 

As she beelines for the tile floor, the slate in front of the fireplace or some kind of power cord, she looks over her shoulder to see if we are watching.  If we “chase” her, she giggles and moves faster.  If we say “No, C.  Come back here.” She grins and keeps moving. 

If she’s not trying to find a power cord, in which to choke herself or try to chew on, she’s planning to hang out underneath something or in an obscure corner of the room.  She plays under the jumperoo for a few minutes.  Reaching up and running her fingers over the seat or scratching at the warning sticker.  Then she crosses the room and spends quality time under the swing.  Bumping her head into the seat and reacting with surprise as it moves. 

I love this stage, I really do.  Watching her discover new things and test her abilities, my heart swells with pride and adoration.  I could, however do without the constant grabbing for cords, banging of her head and trying to throw herself off of the bed.  It’s making this “keeping her alive” thing so much harder.

Remember when my daughter laid still for a diaper change or after her bath and all I wanted was for her to roll over?  Remember that?  Remember how for weeks she would get oh, so close to rolling over and I’d get all excited and then she would fall to her back with a big oomph?  And, then one day, she did roll over but I missed it because I went to the kitchen for an Oreo?  But even still I was so excited for her accomplishment?

Yeah, I’ve changed my mind. 

Now that she rolls and army crawls, parenting, ie. keeping her alive, just go a lot harder.  My days of sitting her down, turning my head and her staying put are long gone.  Now, I’m lucky if while I turn my head she doesn’t bang hers off of something or start chewing on something that shouldn’t have been within her reach. 

C is contantly on the move, pushing past the soft toys and picture books and heading straight toward the slate in front of the fireplace or the edge of the coffee table.  My kid hasn’t liked being cuddled in a few months, but now she doesn’t even want to be held.  She pushes herself out of my arms almost instantly in an attempt to hurl herself toward whatever must-have item is on the floor.  

I love this new stage.  I really do.  I love playing on the floor with her.  Chasing her as she scootches across the floor looking over her shoulder to see if I’m behind her.  Tickling her and blowing raspberries on her belly until she squeals with delight.  Although I could do without her grabbing fistfuls of my hair and kicking me in the gut.

But also? I sort of miss those days where I wasn’t desperately grabbing her by the leg before she falls of the bed or trying to stay a step ahead of her, keeping things like cords and sharp edges away from her hands and head.  

Sweet Jesus help me, I think it’s time to babyproof.

Lately every time I tell someone how old C is, the person lets out a little squeal and says “Oh, that’s such a fun age.”  And I smile and say, “yeah, it really is” or “yep, she’s growing so fast.”  I was being polite.  Not because C isn’t fun, but well, she’s still just a baby.  She’s been rolling around for a while, so that’s old news.  She sits.  Until she decides she wants something and then when she reaches for it she topples over.  And that was about the extent of her tricks.  She was a bigger, more awake version of the baby I brought home from the hospital on October 2nd. 

Until last week.  As cliche as this will sound, I swear she’s changed so much in just a few days.  Now she rolls across the floor to get something she wants.  And, if you put something she really covets, like my cell phone, just out of her reach she’ll stretch or scootch until she gets it.  I walked away from her yesterday and came back to find her peering around the side of the chair looking for me.

She’s learned to “cluck” her tounge and blow raspberries on command. When it stormed, we stood at the door and she banged on the window, taking in the big drops of rain and hail.  (Until it thundered.  Then we we done!) 

All of those things made me start to see her just a little differently.  Watching her taking in the world around her, learning, observing.  And then, Sunday afternoon, she controlled the blanket when we played peek-a-boo. 

And I thought, ah… yes.  This is a really fun age.

At just a week shy of five months old, C has clearly left her newborn stage in the dust.  Gone is the teeny tiny human that would lay on my chest in the afternoon and sleep for hours.  No longer can I cradle carry her in the sling.  She needs to be up, facing out, ready to take on the world.  Her hands and her legs are in constant motion, as if, given half a chance, she would take off running.  

While things may not have changed greatly – our days are still all about the rhythm of bottles, diapers and sleep – there is a definite difference between our baby girl at 4 weeks and our girl at 4 months.  I don’t want to be eating her birthday cake this fall and not remember the weight of a newborn who spent 16 hours a day in my arms. I want to file away the moments that she gazed into my eyes while I was feeding her with a look that said “I trust you.  I need you.”  I want to close my eyes and remember how the sound of my voice or the comfort of being wrapped up in a sling would immediately put her to sleep.  I want to remember the sweet smell of milk on her breath and the lavender scent of the lotion I used after her bath.   

Those first few weeks were filled with nerves and anxiety, with excitement and visitors and complete love and adoration.  The three of us became a family the moment she was placed in my arms and I want to remember how I felt when I looked at her.  How she screamed her head off until they laid her in my arms when she briefly stopped as I pressed my lips to her head and softly said “Hi baby girl.  I know you.”   

3 weeks in, giving a new meaning the phrase "sleep when she sleeps."

So much has changed.  Every milestone she reaches equals a stage or a moment of time that she’s leaving behind.  Instead of laying on my chest, she likes to lay on her side curled up next to me.  She no longer likes being held up to my shoulder for fear that she will miss what’s happening behind her. When I feed her instead of just looking at me, she’s touching my face, reaching for my cheeks or pulling on my ears.  She is slightly more predictable and just as opinionated as always.   She recognizes my voice, reaches for me when other people are holding her and follows me with her eyes when I leave the room.   

In possibly a few weeks, definitely a few months, this stage will have passed as well.  She’ll be crawling, or scootching across the room; we’ll be playing games of throwing things on the floor to see if Mommy will pick them up; and instead of the shoulders of my shirts having milk stains her bibs will be stained with baby food.   

My hope is that when that time comes I can remember the milestones and the every day moments that we’ve passed in the process; the tiny bits of time that have shaped myself, my baby and my family.