Just witnessed:

Two small girls; one pink and pudgy and human, the other a furry golden brown,

sitting next to each other on the couch.

The baby girl stood up on the cushions, craned her neck around so that she and her puppy were face to face,

and planted a kiss,

smack on the doggy’s lips.

The puppy kissed and kissed and kissed her back.

And then, they kissed some more.

My two girls.

So this is love.

This is, so, love.

Love, this so is.

last night/bedtime/as you fell asleep in my arms/a haiku

When we rock to sleep,

we are the sole two souls, dear,

in this grand, grand world.

I turned my back for one second…

Two days ago, I turned my back for one second,

just to write an email,

and when I turned back around, the baby was wearing my bra.

Yesterday, I turned my back for one second,

just to fold the laundry,

and when I turned back around, my baby had a pair of my underwear on her head.

Just now, I turned by back for one second,

just to sort through the mail,

and when I turned back around, the baby had gone into the liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Cointreau. 

So, the moral of the story is,

I will no longer be turning by back, even for one second,

just in case the babe decides she’s in the mood to reenact the town scene from “Wet Hot American Summer”.

‘Cause when you turn your back, even for just one second, it can go from

little child

to baby’s gone wild

before you can turn back around again.

crazy love.

Earlier today, as I drove home, listening to Elvis Costello’s “Brutal Youth,

I got nauseas.

You see, this tape (and yes, I listen to an audio cassette tape version of this album.) was my drive-time staple during the summer that I was pregnant.

I’d shout “Sulky Girl” at the top of my lungs, as my body succumbed to the terrible waves of morning sickness induced nausea.

And so, as I drove today, not at all pregnant, thank you very much,

I realized why these tunes were making my stomach flip and flop. It’s because I’m crazy.

Remember?

I’m a nut.

Like the time I thought I’d poisoned my nearly-fully-cooked fetus with some expired iced tea?

How about the myriad of other times that I’ve written about, my “crazy flag” waving high?

It’s OK. You can admit it. I won’t be offended.

I, generally, embrace my cray-cray.

It’s just who I am.

And today, as I heaved through “Thirteen Steps Lead Down”, I decided that it was about time for my crazy to be absolved of it’s bum rap.

Because guess what?

Even though some crazy is

well,

cray-zee,

other crazy can make life a little fun.

And, I hope that I’m always the kind of gal,

and the kind of mom who,

when my daughter asks me to eat ice cream for dinner, as a special treat,

or to dress up as a Princess, just to walk around the neighborhood,

or to dance around outside during a sudden rainstorm,

or to paint our nails all different colors,

or to stay up late, whispering secrets under the covers, even on the night before a big test,

that my answer is, forever, a resounding yes.

I know a mom kind of like that.

A mom who, when her 6 year old daughter got TWIN GIRL Magic Nursery Babies, was more excited than the little girl herself,

who let her children “earn back their privileges” with good behavior,

who thought that “Girled Cheese” was an appropriate meal 3 times a day,

who wants to be re-proposed to in the  Zooballoon,

who is the kindest, most loving, giving, beautiful mother there is.

Yeah, I know her kind of well.

And her kind of crazy is fine by me.

And really, my friends.

What in the world is better than love love love love crazy love ?

I’ll tell you.

Nothing is better.

Nothing at all.

(J)appily Ever After

a very FFJD guest post.

So, sit down with a big box o’ Rice Krispies and enjoy!

Lucky.

Yesterday, my daughter became 11 months old.

11 is my lucky number.

Lucky is the name of the song I sang to my husband, in the car, on our way down to our wedding rehearsal.

It’s now 4:11. Make a wish.

Yesterday, my daughter became 11 months old. Yes, 11 is a lucky number, after all.

Stamp it. Right here.

My husband and daughter out on a special Saturday morning date

=

Me, in bed, watching “Morning Glory”, under the covers, all by my lonesome–

With no one to answer to, nowhere to be and nothing to do.

This kind of laze and luxury has become so foreign to me

that I feel as though I literally need a Passport to be here.

Right now, I am far away from my home in the Land of Mom.

And, you know what? I rather like this trip.

I rather like it quite a bit.

Scenes from the Nest

Three things you should know about me:

I love feathers (yes, you already know that, but I am just further emphasizing my love for all things bird.)

I love my family. (which, I mean, duh.)

I love photos.

More accurately, I am obsessed with photos.

I love taking pictures. I love looking at pictures. I love reminiscing over pictures.

So yes,

feathers, family and photos.

And, it is on my happiest of days that I am able to combine all three of these treasured things.

Last month, I had the distinct pleasure of doing just that.

My husband, my daughter and I shared the best afternoon we’ve shared since my daughter’s very first afternoon on this earth.

I exaggerate not,

when I say that I still get butterflies in my belly when I think of this most special day;

Our day at Little Nest Portrait Studio.

You see, it was not until my little birdie was ten months old that we decided to take her for professional photos.

Much like her mama, my girl loves posing, mugging for the camera and playing dress-up,

so we figured that it was time for some of her most delicious,

model-y moments to be captured on film.

And so, after seeing many fine examples of the gorgeous, unique, texturally rich and vibrant photos from other Little Nest photo shoots, we decided to migrate there for our first professional photo endeavor.

And oh, how glad I am that our little posey birdie led us to this most special of Nests.

I could go on and on to you about how beautiful the studio was,

how kind everyone was to us,

how amazing their backdrops were,

how much time they spent with us, listening to our story in order to capture exactly what we wanted to from our shoot;

Believe me, on

and

on,

I could go.

But, I think that these photos speak for themselves.

Yes. That right there? That’s my girl.

You have never before seen a photo of her.

I have kept it that way on purpose.

Yet, now, I can’t help but to share these works of art.

That is the smile I’ve written about,

the eyelashes that make me weak in the knees,

the dress that was mine, that I wore as a child,

the necklace that my Poppop bought my Mommom on the 60th anniversary of their very first date….

all captured perfectly,

beautifully,

richly,

for us to treasure forever.

I can tell you right now that I will never, ever forget that day.

I will always remember how Alison, our incredible photographer, created color and light right before our eyes.

I still smile when I think of how my daughter struck pose after pose after pose, smiling non-stop,

like a real, professional adult model.

I still feel immense pride when I see my daughter referred to as a free spirit, two words that I hope will define her throughout her life.

I will forever treasure the images of my husband feeding his little dear her very first bites of cupcake.

With the help of Alison and the amazing studio,

our family made memories–

made magic–

all within the sanctity of our own little nest.

So, really there are four things you should know about me:

I love feathers. I love birds. I love nests.

I love my family. I love the way that my daughter crawled around and whipped her head around to strike a pose, lifting her arm in the air above her head, her eyes twinkling with light. I love how my husband sat in my baby’s cupcake crumbs and told her how much he loves her.

I love photos. I, most especially, love these photos.

And,

I can’t wait to return to that most special of Nests, the Little Nest, for more afternoons of magic,

and modeling

and pure wonder.

One of those days

Have you ever had one of those days,

where in the span of 24 hours, Mommy’s Law kicked in,

with a vengeance,

and nothing seemed to go right?

Like, you were staying away from home

and forgot your laptop and phone charger?

And your work clothes?

And  makeup?

And hair brush?

And, on the very same day, your baby, minutes after finally falling into a deep, much needed sleep, had her nap cut devastatingly short by some incredibly noisy gardeners?

And then, on the very same day, you realized that your fridge was a barren wasteland, so you and your baby had to eat a dinner of defrosted applesauce, hardboiled eggs and quinoa?

And, on the very same day, you had to go to the bank?

Twice?

And forget something?
Each time?

And on the very same day,

after your second trip to the bank,

when you went  to open the front door to your house and you had the door knob fall off in your hands?

And then were unable to open the gate to get in the back door?

And then, after almost pulling out your back and dropping your baby, after you were finally able to open that gate, you realized that your key didn’t work for the back door?

So, you know, you squatted in your car with your baby, prepared to wait the 2 hours until your husband would be getting home from a business trip?

And then, you spotted a stray Elmo flashcard, strewn on the backseat, and managed to break into the front screen door using that card and that card alone?

And, when you did finally get in, you realized that you and your baby were ravenously hungry,

because all you had eaten for dinner was defrosted applesauce and a hardboiled egg and a few grains of quinoa?

Oh,

what’s that you say?

You haven’t had one of those days?

Here.

Take mine.

It’s allllllll yours.

Materniversary

This week marked the one year anniversary of my Maternity Leave.

Or, as I should more appropriately call it, “The day I went to work, had to leave, and never came back.”

You see, like everything else in the Land of Mom, my maternity leave did not go as planned.

I had intended to teach right up until D-Day.

I had grand visions of my water breaking in the middle of circle time,

and my adopted-Jewish-mother of a partner hightailing me to the hospital.

I believed that I’d be spry until the end and go when I was ready.

I was wrong. Oh how wrong I was.

And so, on a normal Wednesday morning when I was 34 and a half weeks pregnant, I got dressed, went to school, sat in my high-backed classroom chair and was drawing crayon pictures with my students who had arrived early when I was hit with a dizzy spell to end all dizzy spells. I literally couldn’t move. I was scared. I was the only adult in the room, so faced with the choice between seeking help in whatever way possible or passing out in front of my four year olds, I chose to ask one of my little girls to go grab the teacher from the room next door. I remained calm on the outside, as my brained raced towards fear.

When I was finally able to stand up, my mom picked me up and we went to the hospital, where I was checked into Labor and Delivery.

Visiting L&D before DDay is a very strange thing.

On one hand, you’re in the place where you know you will be when it is time to meet your baby.

You see the incubator in the corner of the room.

You feel the rough hospital gown with the crazy, confusing buttons against your belly.

It all feels real.

Except, it isn’t. It’s a dress rehearsal.

Which is disconcerting.

I was treated as if I was in labor; hooked up to the fetal heart monitor, an IV and an anaconda of a BP cuff, and was introduced to a woman who would later become instrumental in the birth of my daughter: The infamous MJ. MJ is the nurse to end all nurses. She is tough as nails. She is strong as an ox. And, if I had delivered my daughter the good old fashioned way, there is no one who would have made a better cheerleader and hand holder than my MJ. But, as you know, I did not have a normal birth, nor was MJ in the room with me during my C-Section as she was not on duty during those wee mornings hours, but you better believe that she came to visit me the very next day in my post partum room. That’s just the kind of woman she is. But, she’s just one of the many warrior women I had as nurses when I was at the luxury hotel that some may refer to as the hospital.

Seriously.

I know I’ve said this before, but when I look back on my hospital stay, it is like reminiscing about my honeymoon. Maybe even better. It was one of the best times of my life; blood, guts, gore and all. And those nurses, those devoted, amazing nurses, whom I will never forget: MJ, my captain and champion; Gina, who taught me to breastfeed; Tana, who scratched my back for me, at 5am, when I was able to stand for the very first time since my surgery; Joy, who smacked some sense into me when I refused to let her take out my IV and stop my pain medicine drip; Lisa, my Labor nurse, who, when I told the doctor I needed a C-Section in the 11th hour, told me how smart I was for a first time mom, and that she would hold my hand the entire time. And she did. I will never forget looking into her big brown eyes as the doctors worked on my body in the OR; Ginny who made me smile and pretended to not see my sister as she snuggled up next to me in my hospital bed, long after visiting hours had ended. I’m telling you, I had the dream team.

 

But. I’ve digressed. Let’s rewind 6 weeks, back to 34, when I was being treated at the hospital for extreme dizziness. Dizziness is not something good for a hugely pregnant woman. Or so they told me. Not only can it be an indicator of some serious health issues, but it is also quite precarious for a small person carrying an unwieldy bowling ball on her midsection.

During my examination, the doctors saw that I was contracting regularly every 5 minutes. However, these contractions were not causing me to dilate, a fact that ultimately came into play, as you may recall, quite seriously during my birth story. So, after hours and tests out the wazoo (pun intended) I was sent home…

on bedrest.

No warning.

No goodbyes.

Just me,

my fetus

and the couch

for six weeks.

And, would you like to know a fact that I now find completely amazing?

I was bored.

Bored.

BORED, I say!

I no longer speak that language.

I actually found it difficult to sit on my be-hind,

watching movies with Zach Effron and eating Drumstick ice cream cones.

What a big, fat difference a year makes.

(Pun far less intended.)

So, yes, last year, this week, I was sitting around all day, in my jammies, watching Daytime TV, eating my body weight in Mommom-delivered-goodies, and anxiously awaiting my little girl. So, yeah. Almost exactly what my life is like today.

Except not.

Not even close.

Hmmmmm….

now that I think about it, I am feeling a tad dizzy. Maybe I need some more of that bedrest…

Maybe I’ll give my old friend MJ a ring.

Because, there’s totally a Chocolate Drumstick calling my name.

Oh well. A girl can dream.

So, Happy Materniversary, all!

Drumsticks for everyone!

You are my daughter.

You are my daughter.

You whispered to me in my dreams

and said “Mama, I will know you. I will show you how big your heart can grow.”

long before we ever met.

You grew inside of me,

deep within my center

and in my heart

and I felt you dancing

and knew you, even then.

And then, I held you,

my baby bird,

and when you looked at me with those almond shaped eyes,

and opened your tiny, bow mouth,

we became tied.

We became a love story.

And you’ve grown.

Oh, how you’ve grown so beautiful.

Small, graceful hands,

made perfect for making nice.

Skin I want to live in.

And I stare at that face.

That face. That face. That face.

Your face.

That face of yours

that brings me to my knees.

When I look down at your sleeping face,

that leathery whip of black lashes,

the sharp chin carved from marble,

the colored cheeks and nose like a tiny clover

you are so breathtaking, my dear.

But, the beauty of your face is only second to that of your heart.

Your heart gives off light.

Sweet girl, you glow.

You share the sweetest of kisses.

You look me right in the eyes,

little bird.

You echo my own voice when I tell you how I love you.

You are my daughter,

my love,

and yes,

you’ve shown me how big my heart can grow.