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.”

 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.

In almost every way, C is a daddy’s girl.  Just this weekend, he wanted to get a few more minutes in the pool late in the afternoon.  So he handed the babe to me and started out the door.  Until… she screamed.  Big crocodile tears and sobs that said “Daddy, how could you give me to HER?!” 

My little drama queen. 

So? Craig stayed inside, lying on the floor, letting his baby girl use him as her personal jungle gym. 

I mean, for real.  This child is her father’s daughter.  She looks like him, she acts like him, she loves him best.  However, once in a while I discover things that she absolutely gets from me. 

I don’t remember the exact moment, but I know that Craig and I had not been dating very long when he discovered that I was ticklish.  And, guys?  Not just a little.  I am belly-laugh-squirmfest-try-hard-not-to-pee ticklish.  And Craig?  He knows it.  And I swear on all things holy that nothing makes the man as happy as finding a reason to tickle me until I can’t breathe. 

Make a snide comment about his hair in the morning?  Tickled.  Roll my eyes when the Pirates are losing a baseball game?  Tickled.  Let my toes graze his calf if we’re sitting on the couch together?  Yep, tickled.  Walk up the steps in front of him? Tickled, poked and grabbed.  It never ends.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve tried to hold back the giggles and through a clenched jaw mutterd, “it’s not funny, it’s effing irritating.”  Only to have him tickle me harder and collapse into giggles. 

It’s actually sort of unfair.  This kind of treatment. 

However.  I’ve seen why he gets such a kick out if it.  Because as it turns out, C is ticklish too.  When I run my finger across the bottom of her foot, her toes curl up, she pulls her foot away and giggles.  When I blow raspberries on her belly, she squeals and grabs fistfuls of my hair.  And, when I tickle the sides of her belly, she squirms and laughs, giant belly laughs.  It. Is. Hysterical.  And I love getting those laughs from her. 

So, child of mine.  I apologize.  First of all, because you got the ticklish thing from your momma.  And second, because I plan to use it against you just so I can hear those beautiful laughs of yours.

Internet! I haven’t been this excited about summer since the summer of 98, before I went to college and took full advantage of sleeping in until noon, working at MickeyD’s and drinking beers camping in the woods. 

If you read the Twitter Home Tour post from a while back, you saw that when we built a house, we put in a pool.  Now, you should know that this pool is sort of silly.  I live in a town where it’s warm enough to swim about 3 months out of the year.  But Craig’s happy place is in the sun, so we put one in.  And, guys?  It’s so worth it.  Even if it doesn’t add $5 of value to our house. Because this weekend, we put my daughter in the pool and SHE. LOVED. IT. 

We were hoping to give her a little bit of pool time on Saturday but a late nap combined with a picnic that we were headed to and a mom who forgot to buy swim diapers meant that she only got to dip in her toes.  She stuck in her little toe and looked up at Craig with wide eyes.  When he smiled at her, she giggled and kicked her right foot while keeping her left leg way up in the air out of the water. 

On Sunday, we decide to go for it.  We lathered her up with suncreen, blew up the baby raft and wiggled C into her swim diaper and suit.  (side note:  do you know how hard it is to get a baby girl into a swim suit?  I think it’s a little like trying to put two weeks of clothes into an overnight bag.) Once she was properly dressed with a hat that she was willing to keep on her still sparsely covered noggin, we headed outside. 

As soon as she saw the water, she was kicking her feet and flailing her arms. We lowered her into the water and into the baby raft and with only a slight moment of hesitation, she leaned back and soaked it in.  She grined and giggled, kicked her feet and splashed with her arms.  She chewed on the toys attached to the raft (does anyone know if this is a bad thing, by the way?) and just thoroughly loved being in the water. 

I joked with Craig this weekend that if it hadn’t taken him six years to marry me and build me a house, that perhaps I could have enjoyed the pool with a pre-baby body for a year or two before we decided to procreate.   But this?  Watching my little girl as she plays in the water and gets excited to be outside.  This is so much better. 

She is such her father’s daughter already, but I love that she loves being outside and I can’t wait to spend my summer chashing her around with the camera.  ::sigh::  Even if it means I have to suck in my post-baby belly as I do it. 

How did you kick off your summer this weekend?

Last night I was getting a rather grumpy baby girl ready for her bath.  I sat her down in the exersaucer while I filled her bathtub and collected her pjs.  And she whined because clearly it’s more fun to try to throw herself off of my bed than be stuck in the exercauser with toys to distract stimulate her.  As her whining got a little louder, urging me to HURRY UP, DAMN WOMAN, I hiccuped.  (I wasn’t drinking I swear.)

And she giggled. 

So I laughed at her.  And she giggled some more.  And I laughed until I hiccuped again.  And she laughed harder.  With every hiccup that came from my mouth her giggles got louder.  I swear we were like two  undergrads stumbling down College Avenue on the way home from a frat party.  Me with the hiccups and her with the belly laughs. 

For the record, I’m blogging this because her belly laughs are usually saved for when Craig blows raspberries on her belly or does the “pants dance” and this one was ALL. MINE.  ’tis a shame I cannot hiccup on demand. 

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Also?  Have you read Joanna’s blog, Raising Madison?  This internet is a crazy place, where on a daily basis I share in frustrations, milestones and everyday moments of other bloggers.  Sometimes I laugh, sometimes I cry and sometimes I’m truly inspired.  Joanna is one of the rare people that brings all of those emotions.  She has a daughter who has hip dysplasia and she has faced some other sucky things in life.  But instead of whining or venting her troubles, she has used her blog to share information with other families whose children are also facing the surgeries and casts that come with hip dysplasia.  ANYWAY!  She is up for a Scholastic Parent & Child Blog award and while I’m usually begging for votes for myself on Top Baby Blogs, I’d like to ask you to vote for her in the special needs category (it’s all the way at the bottom). She deserves it.