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?

I don’t write about my family, outside of telling stories or showing my appreciation for them.  I know that as good as it would feel to open up this editor and pound out a post about a fight or an annoyance (like when Craig says he’s going to get up at 5:30AM and I spend an hour that I could be sleeping trying to wake him up… Oh, wait.  That doesn’t happen much anymore now that we have a baby alarm clock.)  I would inevitably regret posting it. 

I don’t use my child’s name.  I’m not sure where this started or if it will always continue this way.  I just sort of started using her initial.   

And, I don’t blog about work. Because?  Well, I’m not stupid. 

Except sometimes these rules get in the way of me sharing “me” with you.  Sometimes for months on end, you get sappy stories and funny pictures written at arms length because I can’t write about what’s going on in my 9-5 life.  I can’t write about upheavals that are happening at work.  Changes that have me wondering whether it’s time to make a career move.  Wondering if I have the stamina to undergo a second organizational change in 20-some months.  Wondering what I want to be when I grow up. 

I feel like I’m here, in this job, for a while yet.  And while the changes that have occurred have put me in a place where I’m far more uncertain about my job than I was three months ago, I still have a job.  I have a boss who is supportive and flexible and who constantly reminds me that my family comes first.  I still get to pay the mortgage, keep Pampers on C’s butt and wear cute shoes almost every day. 

If I’m honest, I feel a little lost at work.  But at the same time, I’m trying to embrace this new reality and enjoy the down time.  I’m thinking about working on my PR accreditation.  I’m grateful to get my nights and weekends back and not feel guilty for napping on weekends instead of working while the baby naps.  I’m beyond thrilled that I turned off work email on my phone and no longer feel like I have to check email at 8:00 at night. 

It’s still a work in  progress.  I still have moments where I search Monster and browse the newspapers.  (Anyone looking for a reasonably decent writer/marketer/PR professional with an affection for social media?  Anyone?) But I’m working on it. 

So, wish me luck.  I’m gonna need it. 

And if you work with me and you read this?  Well, you understand.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

(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.

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.