pretty sure

Do you hear that?

Of course you don't because there is NOTHING to hear!

It is quiet. Silent. Void of any crib shaking, doll breaking, how-many-more-minutes-do-I-have-to-sleep asking.

My girls are actually asleep at the SAME TIME. (and I'm not saying this out loud, but it's been more than 10 minutes.)

So what am I doing? Well, I poured a cold cup of coffee, microwaved it pipin' hot, and should've saddled up to the computer to work, to write, to plan but instead, I'm writing to you (well, those of you who are left) because I've abandoned "should've" for this decade and am pursuing creative.

:: Pre-Nap Entertainment::

Our friend Melissa left some treats on our doorstep this morning. It took big sister all of about three seconds to hone in on the prize treat: m&m chocolate chip cookies. I've got to hand it to the kid. She's got more restraint than I do, "Mommy, can I have one after my lunch?"

Sure thing kid, but I'll be damned if I'm waiting til after MY lunch to have one.

We finish up lunch, crumbs and kidney beans everywhere (little sister's contribution to clean up efforts) when big sister pipes up like Rod from the Price is Right: Come on down, your the next contestant on the Price is Right! except her version goes like this:

"Guess what time it is, mommy!?!"

"Oh is it nap time already?" Her father is rubbing off on me. I mess with that little girl waaaay too much.

"Nooooooooooooooooooooo Mommmmmmmmmy!" (panic ensues) "It's time for my cookie!" There are tears.

"Oh...I almost forgot."

She smiles, "Mommy, you were just teasing."

Busted.

"Hey, why don't you go potty first. I'm pretty sure you'll enjoy your cookie more if you get over the pee pee dance."

"No. I'm pretty sure I'll enjoy it more if I don't."

End of discussion.

bitten

Things are piling up all around me: to do lists, wrapping, presentations, reports, research, shopping, cleaning, fa la la la la la la la la.

And all I want to do is find a corner in the woods and dream about HIM sparkling and beautiful and finding ME.

Oh, I got bit all right.

BAD.

(Love you wholly and completely, Pete).

Multitasking

New Babies....and Monsters?

The little fella next door is a big brother as of today.

While the girls napped, I baked some cookies to bring over. When Ava woke up all rosy cheeked and cuddly, I asked her if there was anything else she could think of that the big brother might need, or just something she'd like him to have.

She thought about it and then said, "Maybe something I don't need anymore."

Pause.

"Actually, maybe a monster. From my bedroom."

I guess that means she won't be offering to shovel their sidewalks this winter, either. :)

Dear Ava,

Recently we had quite a laugh. I was feeding Anna while you cut paper with your scissors. I looked down for a second--to make some slobbery sound at Anna or to just fall into her gigantically big blue eyes--before you started walking toward me with a look on your face that quizzically said, "the oddest thing just happened to me."

Then, you opened your mouth and out came this: "Mommy, it didn't even hurt when I cut my hair!?" Like the big deal was that cutting your hair "didn't hurt" (which is a big deal) and not at all that YOU CUT YOUR HAIR.

But if you really didn't know it was a big deal while you were doing it then you knew once you saw the look on my face, which was probably a cross between what I look like in the morning with about your age in hours of sleep and what I look like when I hear (before I see) that you cut your hair. So you started crying and I started...laughing. I started laughing and hugged you to pieces (no pun intended). I guess because, well, you were okay--no harm done--and you actually did a pretty darn good job of it. Here I'm paying {way too much} for you to get your hair cut professionally and all I need to do is give you a pair of rubber gripped, dull bladed scissors and send you to town little girl.

love love love

Mama

Rich

If you could have seen her, you would have thought she'd struck it rich. Ava bounded out of bed this morning, a morning she'd waited for an excruciating two days to arrive. The anticipation was just too much for her to take, which is why I typically don't tell her about things-- exciting things (like ice cream) and upsetting things (like shots) until they are imminent. Both because the anticipation is almost more than she can bare and because heaven forbid if plans should change. Even slightly.

But announcing these particular events were out of my control. They were preschool events...and ever since she learned about them at preschool on Tuesday, she's been asking, on the hour, "When will it be Thursday?" Well, today it was. These were the big events, in order:

1. School pictures
2. The firefighters came for a visit (and were going to let the kids, "climb all over their firetruck, mommy!".
3. Her day to "show and tell"

Many of you know how fascinated my daughter is with anything having to do with firefighters. Given her peculiar fear of smoke detectors, I wonder if she hasn't made a deal with them: I'll idolize firefighters and do whatever they tell me to do so long as you promise to never ever ever go off in my presence. We try to hold up their end of the bargain by a) changing the batteries twice per year; and b) cleaning our oven regularly so that when I do cook over 400 degrees, the drippings from the sweet potatoes don't smoke us out.

Usually when I ask her anything about preschool, what she did, what she learned, what she loved best, she replies, "I don't know." Then, later on, she'll usually give me dribs and drabs of details..."Ellie went home sick; the nurse told us to sing Happy Birthday while we wash our hands; I didn't get picked to be the line leader today..."

And today, even with so much to tell, her response wasn't any different. But here's what I did learn from her intermittently throughout the rest of the day:

She was a little nervous about the school pictures. "Why were you nervous?" I asked her.

"Because I didn't want the flash to go off in my eyes."

Ugh. I remember that flash. I mean, I had forgotten, but then I remembered. Then came the next detail:

"Did you have to sit in a chair?" I asked.

To which she replied, "Nope. I had to sit on a stool."

I completely forgot about THE stool. The school-picture-taking-stool! Whoa. What a flashback. Instantly, I was six years old with a home-job haircut, sitting on the stool that was so hard to sit on (and keep still!)

I also learned (through one of her imaginary play moments) that the firefighters must've told her that she had to wait for a second turn; that there were other children who hadn't had one yet. That kind of made me smile. She couldn't wait to get her little self all over that shiny red fire truck and she was going to try again and again and again to experience it. She's not going to let an opportunity go untapped; even if its thwarted, she's at least going to give it a try.

I was also pleased to hear that she asked where the lady firefighters were. I don't consider myself a feminist in the radical sense, but I must say, in this world, I'm psyched to have a daughter who only sees what she CAN do, not what only other people do. (Although I want her to be a firefighter about as much as I want to imagine the day she leaves home. In fact, her daddy has already made her, at three years old, SIGN an agreement that states: I will let my daddy come to college with me and sleep on my floor all the days I'm there.)

And then, there's show and tell. Ironically, she had planned three weeks ago to bring in her fire hat and her firey red dancin' shoes for the occasion. I guess the stars were aligned with the firefighters coming for a visit and all.

Now, as I write, she's upstairs getting a story and a song (or two, or three). Probably asking her daddy questions like, "What dangerous things did you do as a little boy?" and, "Why were the firefighter's hats yellow today?"

And when I go to bed, I'll remember how excited Ava was when she woke up in the morning. How in love with the day she was before she even knew what it would bring. She did strike it rich. She strikes it rich every single day.

I think she's onto somethin'.

a morning in the life

Monday morning began the way it usually does:

• I get up at 4 am, feed Anna
  
• Sitting in a corner at Starbucks, working and drinking decaf by 5 am
  
• Walk back home at 7:50 am
• Kiss husband goodbye as he leaves for work, brace for three year old's full-on jump/dive into me
  
• Three year old asks, "What do you want to do now, Mommy?"
• I tell her she needs to eat breakfast, go potty, then we'll play til Anna wakes up
  
• There's a bit of protest, but that's what we do, in that order
  
• Anna wakes at 9 am. I feed her
• We go to the park. I run 6 miles with the girls (figure that's about 60 pounds to push); I'm a glutton for punishment, that's all there is to it, really
  
• Then we head over to the playground
  

On this particular morning, the playground is wet, which means Ava's shorts (and a little bit of her underwear) are wet, too. I take off her shorts before we get into the car to head home.

We're heading home when I remember that we need diapers. And sunscreen for vacation. Pete needs V8 juice. Fifty dollars, gone like that, in the amount of time it takes a traffic light to turn from green to yellow--about three seconds.

I decide I better get gas before I get anything else (there goes $3o more). With a full tank, we head to Target.

I get the girls out of the car. The parking lot, surprisingly, doesn't feel like the county fair on derby day. It's actually...calm. The sun is hot and bright and everything shiny is sucking it up and spitting it back out. We're squinting from all sides.

Ava's hand is in my hand, other hand is occupied with Anna's increasingly heavy carrier, and we three make our way across the pavement. We get to the automatic doors at Target when this little voice at my side says, "Mommy. It's okay that I'm in my underwear." Just like that--a statement, an affirmation, nothing remotely like a question.

"Well, look at you. You are in your underwear, aren't you?" Elmo and rainbows were everywhere.

We don't know what else to do except laugh, so that's exactly what we do. We laugh and laugh and laugh all the way back to the car, into her wet shorts, and back into Target. Again.

I should've just let the kid stay in her underpants for crying out loud. But this is what happens: I go into scare-tactic mode and imagine that every grown person in Target is some twisted pedophile who will find out where we live all on account that Sesame Street is currently advertised across my daughter's hiney.

So, I scold myself the entire time we're in Target for being so ridiculous. I forget the V8 juice but pick up body soap (which, it turns out, we don't need), tell Ava that, no, she cannot have another fishing pole, I don't care if it's Spiderman, that goes for chocolate milk, too, and don't you dare rip off the straw so that I have to buy it, and anyway, that does not mean you'll be able to drink it. I quickly reclaim my gentleness and gently remind her that we're going on vacation in a couple of weeks and if we always bought what we wanted, we probably wouldn't be able to afford a vacation and a whole lot of other things, like squishy bars or ice cream. This satisfies her and we check out.

Skip Skip Skip to my Lou, Skip Skip Skip to my Lou, Skip Skip Skip to my Lou all on a Monday mornin'.