Who let the dogs out

It’s 7 am and I am bit busy responding to a work call, heating up coffee, fixing the kids’ breakfast, IM’ing Chance about why there isn’t more coffee.  At this exact moment I notice someone is missing.  I look around for Max and his lopsided crawl, one leg is in the normal crawl position and the other is dragging behind him.  (This crawl deserves its own blog post.)  I expect to see Max terrorizing Lola but instead I see a little body going out the dog door.  I drop the phone and grab those legs just as they are about to disappear and drop 6 inches onto a flagstone patio. I just saved my son from what was at the very least a goose egg and at the very worst some stitches.  I knew better than to think that was the end of it. No, indeed I just invented the newest game around here; save Max from the dog door.  He of course goes right for it anytime he’s crawling around which is pretty much ALL THE TIME.  

Letter to Chance

So you’re backpacking and while I am extremely jealous….no kids, wine and your best friend I AM in a nice warm dry house which is more than I can say for you, especially the dry part.  Our evening started off fairly mundane, an early dinner and a bath.  Max tried to pull himself up on the faucet. I was a little obsessed about picking my face tonight but once I pushed the tub far enough away from the faucet he was in no danger. (This a joke….kinda). I thought that I had it made. Max’s third nap was fairly short and I knew he was tired so I tried bed time at 6:30.  He couldn’t stop rubbing his eyes and yawning.  I could see it, a nice glass of wine, the chocolate I bought for your trip but somehow ended up here and some House Hunters.  Oh what a night.  (I am still in denial that I have to put sheets on the bed before I crawl in there.  I was so hoping to hang the sheets on the line that I let them stay in the washing machine so long and now I’m actually waiting for them to dry so I can go to bed.)

Much to my displeasure Max did not fall asleep immediately as was my evil plan.  I got him up and he had a party in our living room.  Crawling around, chatting, playing the piano, and being his overall adorable charming self.  How could I make that baby cry even if it is for his own good?  I do believe that he has a slight fever so I wrestled the pink cherry flavor Tylenol down his throat.  And of course I could not find the 3 ml syringe, only the 1 ml syringe so that I had to give him THREE doses.  Needless to the say “handsome like dad” onesie will be forever stained a nice pink hue….so it is quite appropriate actually.  It’s now 7:45 and I put him back to bed and try the Chance pat only to be out smarted by a 9 month old.  I sit in the rocking chair shushing him.  Max becomes interested in his books and I drop to my hands and knees and try to crawl out of the room unnoticed.  This is the exact point Max pulls himself up and peers down at me on all fours.  I have suddenly lost all dignity.  (I think I actually lost all dignity when I turned on the Jersey Shore in between bouts of trying to get Max to sleep.  And yes I realize my IQ just dropped 40 points.) I start to laugh out loud at the absurdity of the situation and Max gives a deep belly laugh.  This round has been won by Max.  It’s about this time that Matt sends me a one word text “drink?”  I of course run over there with baby and Lola in tow.  After a Matt marg and a little bit of Caitlin and Partner time we head back home and Max goes right to sleep.

The best part is that I run into Clare and Steve and I tell them that I’m headed to Matt and Debbie’s after a rough night.  I think they felt sorry for me and invited me over for drinks tomorrow night.  I’m going to play the poor harried mother card and milk this weekend for all it’s worth.  Next year though, I’m coming too.

Bubbles and legos

My beautiful little girl is suddenly not so little any more.  I’m still trying to figure out how this even happened.  It seemed like just the other day she was riding her scooter naked around the back yard with her baby fat dimples displayed for all.  I can’t dwell on it too much, it will destroy me to think of another 8 years passing in the blink of an eye. 

Karen and Jim gave Maggie her very own bubble bath set for Christmas. This is a gift that never crossed my radar because in my mind Maggie is still wearing Hanna Andersson play dresses (with the contrasting leggings of course) and playing with Littlest Pet Shop.  Her very own bubble bath (and not the baby type) was so very appealing.  And in fact, Boulder conservationist be dammed, she filled the tub up TWICE to ensure a good 30 minutes of bubbles.  Lest you think she’s all girly she did read her Lego Club magazine in the bathtub complete with a green ninja Lego figure on the front.  I couldn’t help but stand just out of her sight line and marvel at this child of mine, the ultimate study in contrasts.

When she was finished she insisted on applying the matching scented body lotion.  I long gave up on the moisturizer after chasing this child around for YEARS with body lotion in hand.  All it took was Cherry Blossom body lotion?  Don’t get me wrong she still doesn’t brush her hair or her teeth but that little girl-ism is being replaced by something else and frankly I’m not sure I am ready.

Mom. I mean Aimee....

I've been listening to my baby "cry it out" for the last 45 minutes.  And we're out of wine.  This should give you some indication of my day.  The high point was when my darling eight year told me that she hoped her dad would remarry so she could call that woman mom and call me Aimee.  Apparently at that point I wouldn't be her real mom, just a crappy step-mom named Aimee.  Serves me right for telling her to make her bed and pick up her room.  And on that note screw the wine and bring me the vodka.

Skinny legs and all

“Jeans?” Chance asks as he’s folding laundry. “Jeans, Maggie? Really?”  This question is asked to the child who has refused to wear jeans her entire life.  Jeans are not soft. Jeans are not comfortable. Jeans don’t fit like jammies.  Never mind the fact that they last 10 times longer than those damn leggings which require replacing after 5 wearings due something I like to call HKS (holey knee syndrome).  I clearly have a hard time learning my lesson because I continued to buy jeans convinced at some point there would be a turn around.  (I am the proud owner of multiple pair of jeans size 2T through size 7 that have NEVER been worn.)  Yet, in the course of one day (yes, one day) Maggie became a jean wearer.  Important to note here is the fact that not only is Maggie wearing jeans but she is wearing skinny jeans.  When she does something she goes all in.  Maggie could not figure out why there was such incredulity in Chance’s voice.  “You hate jeans, Maggie.”  “What are you talking about? No I don’t. I’ve never hated jeans” replied the girl with the short term memory indignantly. 

This one?

We’re moving out of the haziness of the last 3.5 months (also known as life with a newborn) and tiptoeing into infant hood. The result is a little more sleep and clarity for us all, which means I finally have the wherewithal to put down some thoughts regarding Max’s first days. There was one particular thought which played over and over in my head. It went something like this….

My cousin Kelsey told a story at my grandmother’s funeral in March. When Grandma was born she was so very tiny and her mother was afraid for her health. She asked the doctor if Grandma would make it. “This one?” the doctor said jerking his head toward my grandmother. “Don’t worry about this one. She’s going to live to be an old lady.” My grandmother died a few weeks before her 99^th birthday.

I think of this story often. In fact I held on tightly this story during our stay in the NICU and made it my own. Max’s life was never in any real danger but the blood draws, the antibiotics, the heart echoes, the monitors, the oxygen, the IV in his head, foot and arm, and around the clock care certainly made it seem as though everything could collapse at any moment. During these times I would look at my fragile baby Max and think to myself, “This one? Don’t worry about this one. He’s going to live to be an old man.” Those words never failed to give me comfort and make me smile. In the midst of it all I like to think that maybe just maybe another tiny baby born 99 years ago was watching over Max and thinking the exact same thing.