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.

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.

The week that football preseason starts is always a tough week for me.  I get pretty used to having Craig around in the evenings and weekends throughout the year and the second week of August everything changes.  For a few weeks, until the routine of the regular season starts, he puts in obscenely long hours.

(although, side note – for the six years that we dated he put in obscenely long hours and late nights all. season. long.  By obscenely long, I mean most of the time it was rare for him to be home before 11PM, and he started every day at 5:30.  Dedicated is not the right word.  Then, last fall, when C was born and stole her father’s heart right before my very eyes, he started coming home early in the evening.  Did he all of a sudden get more time efficient?  I think not.   But anyway… I digress.) 

What I was saying, is that this week is always a little bit of a shock to my system as I wonder what to do with myself now that my husband’s not around to entertain me.  So, instead of whining about football season, especially since I know this one is harder on Craig than it is on me, I thought I’d write about the things I love about fall. 

1. Jeans & sweatshirts
2. Football games - I’m partial to high school & college.  Something about the crowds, the bands, the “they are just kids and not paid professionals” of it.   And as much as I complain about football season sometimes, I really love going to Craig’s games.  I love getting to know the kids on his teams, watching them on the field, jumping up and down when they make good plays and joining in the disappointment of the “team family” when they lose. 
3. Cool mornings, warm afternoons and chilly evenings
4. C’s birthday
5. Back to school shopping sales (no, it does not matter that I’m not in school.)
6. Pulling out the boots and not having to paint my toes anymore
7. MY BIRTHDAY!!!
8. Turning on the fireplace
9. The color of the changing leaves
10. Fall festivals with their apple dumplings & pumpkin rolls & hot chocolate

For me, fall is the best time of year.  Summer, with the hot, humid, sticky weather and the mile-long list of things to do makes me want to run inside and curl up under a soft blanket in the air conditioning.  Winter, just sucks.  And we don’t get much of a spring.  So, while I hate going to bed before my husband gets home, in just a few weeks, I’ll be in my jeans & sweatshirt, at one of games, drinking hot chocolate and introducing C to the excitement of high school football.  And in that moment, all will be right with the world.

There’s a new game around our house. One that gives me bruised knees and sore palms, but also squeals of delight followed by belly laughs from the little one. 

She crawls away from me and looks back over her shoulder.  On my hands and knees, I chase her. 

“I’m gonna get you.” 

Her eyes gleam and she takes off again. 

But this time I wait and hide behind the couch, the door, the wall. 

A few steps later, I hear the tap-tap-tap of her crawling stop as she wonders where I am.  She sighs.  And, turns around.  Crawling back to where she came from.

When she gets close to me.  I say, “PEEK!” and she gasps and squeals. 

She crawls to me for a hug and a kiss.  Sometimes sitting in my lap long enough for Patty Cake or Head, Shoulders, Knees & Toes.  Then she pushes off and crawls away again.   With another mischievous look and a grin.

And we do it again. And again.

Most nights I put her to bed awake following her bottle and a book.  But once in a while, she drifts off while finishing her bottle and on those nights it’s hard for me to put her to bed right away. 

Like last night.  Her eyes were closing as I was humming songs I learned at church camp 15 years ago.  I remembered the peaceful feeling of sitting around a warm fire with church members, friends and complete strangers.  Toasting marshmallows, swaying from side to side and wrapping ourselves in sweatshirts and blankets.  Summers are hot around here, but the nights?  The nights are cool. 

I remembered Dave on his guitar and Jeannie who would call out the next verse or next song.  People I haven’t thought about in years.  But I remember it being so quiet, so calm and so safe. 

Just like the baby girl in my arms who takes a deep breath and turns her body into the crook of my arm.  Her eyes are still behind closed lids, her long lashes resting on her cheek. 

I stare at her face and think that sometimes she still looks so much like the newborn I brought home from the hospital almost 10 months ago.  And then I see a bruise that’s almost faded and am reminded that she’s nothing like that newborn baby. 

The lump forms in my throat and tears sting my eyes.  These last ten months.  They have gone so fast.  In another nine or ten months I probably won’t be rocking her much. 

She sighs again and starts to shift and stretch.  She’s ready to fall deeper into sleep but she wants her bed.  She wants to get comfortable. 

I lean over, press my lips to her forehead and carefully stand up.  As I lower her to the mattress, I whisper the same thing as the night before. 

“I love you, baby girl.  You sleep so tight.  Mommy will see you in the morning.”

I use this space of the internet to laugh about all the things I do to screw up my kid or fail at this parenting gig.  Like my knack for forgetting to pack bibs and burp cloths, thus prompting me to dig out half used napkins out of the pocket of the front seat, or eating an Oreo when she rolled over for the first time, or turning on cartoons in the morning because the sight of her dancing to the music is what keeps me going throughout the workday. 

But sometimes.  I really screw up. 

It was just about time for dinner Sunday night. Craig was at practice and I headed to the kitchen to make a sandwich so I could eat while I fed the wee one.  C was playing at my heels.  I could hear the tap tap tap as she crawled along the tile floor.  I pulled out a roll and wondered if the tap tap tap sound was moving further away. 

Just as I wondered what she was doing, I heard the splat and I knew. 

As I heard her cry out, I knew she had found the steps again. And this time, without someone watching her she had fallen. 

Down the steps.

Onto the tile. 

I dropped the loaf of bread and sprinted the seven steps that separated me from the the foot of the steps. 

There was my baby girl, in a heap, face down. 

I scooped her up with a prayer that I wouldn’t see blood and that nothing was broken. 

It wasn’t.

A few “ssshhh”s and “it’s okay”s and she was fine.  No new bumps or bruises.  Since the sound was a splat and not the crack of a forehead making contact with the tile, I’m guessing she caught herself on her hands and that she was scared and not hurt. 

But here’s the thing.  I. DON’T. KNOW. 

Because I wasn’t watching.  I took my eyes off of her. Only for a few seconds, but still.  If I had been watching, I would have kept her from falling.  I would have kept her from being hurt. 

At some point this may be one of my funny parenting stories, but today this one still hurts.

PS. I haven’t asked (begged) in a while, but…If it’s not too much to ask, would you please take a second and spare two clicks for me on Top Baby Blogs. XOXO!

Um…  guys.  This parenting thing gets HARDER as they get older?  Did none of you think to tell me that? 

Oh, no.  You were all “you can do this” when she was itty bitty and had hours every evening where she fussed and cried and I walked miles up and down the halls of my house.  And then, when she wouldn’t nap, you were all supportive saying that she’d get better and I was doing the right thing even if that meant she had to cry or if I had to stand on my head to get her to sleep.   

Stupid supportive internet.  None of you told me to just zip it because in a few months putting her down for a nap would be the easy part of my day. 

That somewhere around nine months old, she’d start moving faster than I could keep up with her and that she’d put her fingers in places (like the door jamb) where I could pinch them.  Or that if I turned my back to her for a second to put my bra away, she would find the foil cap cover thing from the diaper rash cream and put it in her mouth, prompting an early evening call to the pediatrician. 

And you didn’t tell me that the next day, I would dive across the bed, with one pant leg on and one off, and grasp her by the ankle, in just the nick of time, to keep her from nose diving off the other side. 

I was prepared for the meltdowns that would occur when I took away a toy or told her no, but I didn’t know taking the remote could turn my happy, easy-going child into a sobbing heap on the floor.  Or, when she didn’t want to move but I picked her up anyway, she’d learn how to raise her arms and make her body go limp so that she’d all but fall right back to the floor. 

 I think we have officially entered the stage of temper tantrums.  

Send wine. 

And, go ahead, tell me that it will be worse when she’s two, or seven, or thirteen.  I need to be prepared.

 Our vacation, in a nutshell, in pictures….

From top left, clockwise: 

1.  
   1. Craig & C. rocking the Baby Bjorn.
   2. What do you do when you forget to pack a bib?  Tie a napkin ’round her neck, of course.  Oh, and Blue Moon.  YUM. 
   3. He’s got a stroller loaded down with luggage, a duffel bag on his shoulder and a baby in his arms.  If nothing else makes him feel like a dad, this sure will. 
   4. When a dark, quiet hotel room is simply unacceptable for napping, try a stroller, on a hot day, in a shopping plaza, in the middle of the city. 

1.  
   1. Dear Child, Someday, when you don’t have wrinkles to go the prom, you will be glad that we made you wear that hat. 
   2. Family photo  (Who does she look like?  I can’t tell.)
   3. My loves.  My life. 
   4. Dipping her toes in the ocean.  She LOVED the water and the sand.  Every time we took her outside she got all excited, kicking her feet and squealing with delight.  She waved at anyone who glanced her way and generaly charmed everyone at the Outer Banks.

Dear Krista ( Age 4 )
Your parents are about to bring a new person to live with you.  You’ve gotten pretty used to being the only kid around and getting all of the attention.  And she’s going to steal some of it, along with your spot on Pap’s lap.  But it’s OK.  Because his lap is big enough for both of you and some day you’ll want to wear her clothes, so try to be nice to her. 

Dear Krista ( Age 8 )
Dammit.  They’re doing it again.  You’re going to have a new sibling.  Believe it or not, he is not a toy.  So, while you’ll want to be a big girl and help, there’s really only so much an eight-year-old can do.  Letting Mom know when he cries is a good start, cause she probably can’t hear him.  Because I’m sure if she did, she’d pick him up.  So, you be sure to let her know when you hear him cry.  PS.  Soccer is not your thing.  Don’t even bother. 

Dear Krista ( Age 12 )
Middle school.  I know you’re nervous.  You are used to small classes, small schools and this is going to be a bit different.  You’ll meet new friends.  You’ll fight with old friends.  You’ll learn to make no bake cookies in home ec class.  (Pay attention to this one because 17 years from now, you won’t be able to get them right.)  You’ll dance with boys.  Arms stretched way out with enough room for a small country between the two of you.  Enjoy these moments.  The innocence, the newness.  Oh, and stop tight rolling your jeans. 

Dear Krista ( Age 16 )
Be careful.  Be careful with your heart.  Be careful when you drive.  Be careful who you hurt.  Be careful at parties.  Just be careful. 

Dear Krista ( Age 18 )
College.  Enjoy it.  I know this isn’t fun.  Going to class and going to work.  But go to a party once in a while.  Get a little drunk, meet new people.  This time is so short and someday you’ll wish you had done more with your college years than serving drinks and writing papers. 

Dear Krista ( Age 20 )
He’s not worth it.  The end.  And in a year, when he breaks your heart for the 87th time, get up and go to the bar, because there you’ll see a man who makes your heart skip. 

Dear Krista ( Age 25 )
I know.  You’re ready to give up.  It’s been FOUR years.  What is he waiting for?  And, why does he keep saying that you’re not ready and that you’re so young.  Well… because he’s right.  You’re not ready.  So, just hang on.  There are times coming up where you’re both going to have to fight for this.  But you will, because he loves you and you love him. So, when you start to doubt this and when you think about leaving his ass in the Outer Banks after a fight, don’t.  Some things are worth waiting for. 

Dear Krista ( Age 28 )
See… I told you that some things were worth waiting for.  I’m pretty smart with all of my crystal ball stuff here, huh?  You have to trust me one more time. You will have a baby.  It may take a little longer than you think it should.  But when it happens, you’ll cry with excitement and nervousness.  Strike that, you will be more scared than you have ever been before.  But your pregnancy will be a fairly easy one and your baby?  Oh, she will be perfect. 

Dear Krista ( Age 29 )
You will figure her out.  She is beautiful and squishy and cute, but newborns?  They’re supposed to cry.  You’re not doing anything wrong.  So, walk her, rock her and sing to her.  Because in a few more months she won’t want to be held so much.  Hold her close now.  Enjoy these weeks you have with her.  You’re not missing anything at work, quit worrying about it. In a few months, whe she’s waving goodbye as you leave for work, you’ll wish you had taken a longer maternity leave and you can’t get it back. 

Dear Krista ( Now )
Slow down.  Rock her to sleep once in a while.  Breathe when bedtime doesn’t go as planned.  Go on more date nights with your husband.  Put down the Blackberry. 

***Dear Readers: Today is the last day to enter the giveaways at Raising Madison by donating to the Chupp family.  Please visit her site, read about this family, say a prayer and if you’re able, donate.  It’s worth it.  ***

I count my blessings every day that I have a child who sleeps through the night.  The sea parted and it first started happening when she was about 10 weeks old.  I would wake up throughout the night and look at the video monitor to make sure she had moved or sneak into her room, lay my hand on her chest and breathe a sigh of relief when it moved up and down. 

Now that her sleeping through the night is almost a given, I check the monitor in the morning and think, “oh, thank you baby girl.” 

But once in a while, my champion sleeper decides that 3:00 or 4:00 is a good time to wake up.  Last night was one of those nights.  And as I rocked her, I thought about how different our middle of the night meetings in her nursery are at nine months compared to nine weeks. 

At nine weeks: 

I would hear the cry, and jump up immediately.  I took a bottle with me to bed every night and stashed formula in the bathroom.  I’d make the bottle in a matter of seconds, rush to her crib and lift her out. After a few quick kisses and a diaper change, I’d feed her.  Often she’d fall back asleep before finishing her bottle. If she didn’t, I’d sing to her until she drifted off again.  Then, I’d lay her back down and head back to bed. The whole process took 15-20 minutes max. 

At (almost) nine months: 

I hear the cry and quickly jump to turn the sound on the monitor down so that it doesn’t wake Craig.  I watch her (seriously, people. Video monitors are the best.thing.ever. EVER.) and many times she goes right back to sleep.  If she seems to be getting more worked up or if her first cry was so loud and so shrill that it caused me to jump out of bed, I go to her room to look for the pacifier.  I think that if I can just pop this back into her mouth, she’ll go right back to sleep. 

That plan almost never works. 

She sees me and cries even louder until I pick her up.  I rock her and rock her.  Whispering that it’s night time and time for sleep.  I think about the sleep that I’m not getting and wonder if the clock said 2:54 or 4:52.  I think about singing her a lullaby, but I can’t remember any of the words.  So I sing the ABC’s and pray that I turned the sound off on the monitor and Craig’s not laying in bed wondering why his wife is singing the ABC’s to his kid. 

After 20 minutes, I think for sure that I can lay her back down.  She may not be asleep, but she’s been very still, her breath very steady.  When I stand up, I feel her little fingers grip my shirt. 

“Shit,” I think.  “This isn’t going to work.”

But I try it anyway.  I lay her down and step away.  She flips over, gets up onto her knees, puts her hands on the rails and screams. 

I am tough.  I walk out. 

And I wait. 

The crying continues and it’s late and dark and I”m not really that tough, so I go back in and get her. 

At this point, I’m desperate and confused.  I wonder if she’s hungry.  I wonder if her teeth hurt.  I wonder if she’s going through a growth spurt. 

I take her downstairs and make her a bottle.  The clock say 3:23.  I do the math and figure out that I can get almost two hours of sleep if I get her back to bed jack-skippy-quick.  Then, since we’re up and wide awake, apparently, I decide to change her diaper. 

Rookie mistake.  She can see the bottle so when I lay her to down to change her, she is PISSED.  I fight her until I get the diaper changed and her pjs zipped.  We head back upstairs and I feed her. 

When the bottle is gone, she starts to squirm in my arms.  I kiss her, tell her goodnight again and tiptoe out of her room.  I close the door and wait for the cries. If she’s stirring, I wait outside her room until she’s still. 

Only when she appears to be asleep, do I crawl back into bed.  The clock says 3:45.  My alarm is set for 5:20.  And I’m wide awake.  Craig is breathing deeply and I sort of want to pinch him. 

I turn the TV on with the hopes that Anderson Cooper will lull me back to sleep.  For the next hour and thirty five minutes I listen to the TV, wondering if BP needs someone new to handle their PR (or, you know, some common sense)  and I drift in and out of sleep wondering if I should just get up and try to get some work done. 

Finally, when the alarm goes off and I drag my ass to the bathroom, I think. “Wow, this was easier seven months ago.”

 - I am trying to crawl my way up the Top Baby Blogs list.  If you can spare a moment, to click here, it would help me immensely and you may find other blogs to add to your list of good reads.  XOXO!