Q:

How many red white and blue outfits does it take

(must I pack)

to dress one 14 month old for July 4th?

A:

Remains to be seen.

By the way, in case I forgot to mention it,

It is my hope that when my daughter is in high school, she looks back on this photo and groans;

not because she is embarrassed that she lived with a mother who dressed her up for rainbow colored photo opps,

but because she is embarrassed to have lived in a country where equality was, at one time, not a right, but a privilege,

and where love was not, in fact, all that one needed.

I hope that someday soon we all look back on this picture and groan,

at this victory, both enormous and minute,

as we remember a time when this country still had a lot of growing up to do.

So here’s to love, marriage, babies and equality for all,

and may peace be with you.

 

There may a day

when you’re feeling a bit off,

and it seems like there’s nothing that can shake you out of your funk.

Well, friends,

on that day, try belting out a 10pm duet of Suddenly Seymour

with the person you love.

Just trust me.

It will make it all better.

With Sweet Understa-aaa-nding.

Or, you know,

so I’ve heard.

Greatness/the past few days

Some things are good.

Other things are great.

Getting to come home from a wonderful morning of teaching,

only to find my sister and daughter playing dress-up together,

my little girl decked out in gold chains and over-sized purple shades,

feels great.

“Sorry, but you can’t dress her up as well as I can,” my baby sister said to me. “That’s what aunts are for.”

So, so great.

Getting to spend that evening with my sister,

out,

(Wait. Did you catch that? I said o.u.t. I was out. On a Thursday night. Just making sure.)

was great.

Our shared tartine with creamy ricotta cheese, mission figs and fresh honey?

Beyond.

And our outing at the theatre was suberb.

What a great night.

A Friday spent lounging around with my daughter (who just so happened to sleep past 9am) is more than great.

It is perfection.

And what feels better than dining al fresco with the two loves of my life, before walking down the street to get ice cream, my daughter toddling down the road between us, holding each of our fingers in her tiny hands?

Not much, I say.

Except for lighting the Shabbat candles with my daughter in my arms, that is. That is so great.

Saying the Shehecheyanu, as her eyes dance across the flames

and her hands clap in rhythm with the melody

feels so great.

It is wonderful.

It is everything.

And then chasing her around after her bath,

as she squeals with completely uninhibited, unfiltered delight,

her little body gliding around so skillfully

as the touch of her skin makes my soul ache with joy.

And I squeal along with her.

So freakin’ fun. And funny. And great.

And now, as she dreams peacefully in her crib,

I have time to rest and recharge,

with an exciting new book and a big ol’ cup of frozen yogurt.

With white chocolate chips.

And coconut.

Ok. And Nerds.

Because this, my friends,

this

is greatness.

And this, my friends, is greatness.

And Oh, those summer nights.

dirty piggies

and porch swings

and all.

Today, I cried. In Ikea.

Originally Published on Little Four Eyes

Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve grown to love my baby girl’s glasses.

They help her, they are a tangible solution to a small problem, and they look so darn cute.

I’ve learned to love them so much, that I have stopped thinking about them.

I have accepted them.

They have become a wonderful, valuable, treasured part of my wonderful, valuable treasure.

And then, today happened.

It all started innocently enough. I went to Ikea with my mom and sister (a fellow life-long member of the glasses tribe). We joked our way through the rows of Hemnes and Karslbad  and were having a great time until I came upon a family who was hovered by the Klippan sofa display.

It happened in slow motion.

As I saw the six year old boy spot my daughter,

who was sitting peacefully in her stroller, munching on a soft prezel,

I noticed his hand start to raise as his index finger jutted towards her.

“NOOOOOOOOOO!” I wanted to scream, as my ears filled up with the noise of my pounding heart.

“Look at that baaaaaaaaby!”

He shouted, as he pointed, wagging his finger at my daughter’s heart shaped face.

“She has glassssssses! Why does that baaaaaaby have glasses?”

And he did not say it in a nice way.

In fact, he said it in about as mean of a way as someone who wears Spongebob Underpants could muster.

His mother scolded him, and commented how he was being “rude” (Okay, mom. I’m sure he feels terrible about his “rudeness”.) and how he was wrong, that she actually is so cute in her glasses.

Yes. Just like that.

And then my heart shattered in 80 grillion pieces.

I did not say a word. I did not scold the little boy. I did not preach to him. I did not “kill them with kindness”.

I, instead, sought refuge in my sister’s arms,

somewhere between the Kivik chairs and my own personal hell.

And I cried.

My heart ached for my little girl.

This was the first time that she was teased for wearing glasses.

And she had no idea. She just sat eating her pretzel, happy and smiling.

And that made it infinitely worse.

But, my sister, being the wise baby sibling that she is, talked me through it.

She has been wearing glasses since she was two, and she assured me that she has never felt ashamed or bad or silly because of her glasses. Never. Not once. She told me that they are an accessory. That she loved her specs.

And I had no choice but to believe her.

That is what survival is all about.

And so,

I went on with my Ikexcursion, and as I pushed my happy little glasses wearing girl, my heart began to piece itself back together.

And I realized that I will never be able to control what people think or say or how they act. All I can do is to take care of my daughter’s needs, both physical and emotional, in the best way I can.

When she is old enough,

I will not tell her, “Yes, you are bespectacled.”

I will tell her “You are you. You are Bespectacular.”

So when we reached the cash registers

and the nice, young lady behind us made goo-goo eyes at my little girl, I held my breath, but knew I could handle whatever comment she threw our way.

She told me that she loooooved my daughter’s glasses.

I told her that I love them too.

And I do.

So, with dried tears and a full heart, I bought us $1 cone of frozen yogurt. Always be spectacular, I say,

and always treat your little girl to dessert.

It’s my Blogiversary and I’ll give thanks if I want to.

Happy Blogiversary, friends!

Here! I’ve baked you these cupcakes*!

Take a bite. Put your feet up. Stay a while.

Truly, it is hard for me to believe that it has been a year since I typed my first entry of Mommy, Ever After. I remember that day perfectly. What seemed like a spontaneous decision was actually born out of so many things that had been building inside of me; I had so much to say; I had so much material; I was living, daily, in a hybrid between a zany sitcom, a reality tv show and scary movie. No other mothers around me were talking honestly about how hard this whole motherhood (especially new motherhood) thing can be. Yes, it’s  beautiful and amazing and the most wonderful thing I’ve ever done. But it’s also scary and lonely and can feel overwhelming. It can make you feel crazy.

And I so I wrote it. I let it all hang out. I chronicled the first year of my life in The Land of Mom.

I wrote my daughter’s baby book.

And I found so much love.

I found love in your amazing comments. Truly, each and every one of your incredible words of kindness and support made my day. Made my year.

I found love in the little things in my life; the tiny vignettes that shaped our days and made each breath so beautiful.

I found love in so many feathers.

I found love in words. I loved writing, again. Thank you, thank you, thank you, for that.

As a side note, I recently found a children’s book I wrote in the sixth grade. It is called Best Friends Forever and it is about two mice who must fight injustice (in the form of a very scary alligator) in order to preserve their kinship. On the dedication page, I thanked my Mama for reading to me every night. I told her how grateful I was that she read me my very favorite book, Love You Forever. Imagine that.

I also wrote a blurb as my “Author’s Note”. I spoke of my favorite hobbies and interests (Singing, acting, shopping, writting. And basketball. Uhhh, ok?) and my goals for the future. I said that someday I dreamed of being a Broadway star or a famous author. Well, these days, my “performances” are limited to singing to my daughter, as she applauds and asks for “More! More! More!”. Not too shabby, I’d say. And as far as becoming a famous author, I still have quite a ways to go, but I’m getting there. And hey, I get to hit “Publish” each and every day. That is something.

That is everything.

So,

Thank you for every stolen moment on this site.

Thank you for being here, when you could have been anywhere else.

I love you.

I really do.

And so Happy, Happy Blogiversary to you. To me. To us. To everything in this crazy, amazing, beautiful

Ever After.

And Many More….

*Yes, I made these cupcakes, but since I’m all about keepin’ it real in these parts, I should tell you that these were actually made for my baby’s first birthday, 2 months ago. But that does not meant that I do not wholeheartedly encourage you to go out there and stuff your face with baked goods in our (your/my) honor. Please do. And tell me how it was.

Dear Baby,

Why did you take so gosh darn long to fall asleep tonight?

Was it the 2 1/2 hour afternoon nap, snuggled up under the cool white sheets with Mommy as the fan whirred above our heads?

Was it the extra few bites of Mama’s key lime cupcake? Is a sugar high to blame?

Were the songs from our evening dance parties still moving in your head?

Whatever it was, you were quite the pistol tonight.

I watched you in your crib, your eyes closed like little flower petals,

and as soon as I’d creep out of your bedroom,

you’d pop right up and try to talk to me.

“OOOH!”, you’d say.

“Hiiiiiii!”

And I’d come back, kiss your little head,

and we’d start all over again.

But, alas, you finally fell asleep,

a whole 80 minutes after our bedtime first began,

and you’re now breathing deeply as you hold your PinkBeary in your arms and dream of things like Showtunes and sprinkles (or is that just what I dream of?).

And as soon as I saw that your eyes were really closed and your chest was rising and falling in your slumber,

I was able to crawl out of your room, careful not to make a noise,

while the sound of your deep breathing echoed in my ears.

And it’s been a minute now, since I crossed the threshold of your nursery,

and I already miss you.

I miss you bad.

I can’t wait to see what adventures we create tomorrow.

Love you to pieces,

Mama

Hooray!

For pretty Summer days,

For pretty gold toe-nail polish,

For pretty rad outdoor dance parties to tunes from Rent,

For pretty much everything about my pretty little dance partner.

You know you’re a mom if…(the Tuesday night’s dessert edition).

You know you’re a mom if

you go to fix your dessert

(a key lime/greek yogurt treat. My new invention and new fave, by the by. Uh-may-zing.)

and realize that you’re out of graham crackers to make the crumbled graham topping,

the most crucial of ingredients,

so you decide to dig around in the secret stash of baby snacks in your purse,

only to find one, leftover, ragged square of graham,

a piece that had probably already found it’s way into your daughter’s mouth and back into the abyss of your handbag

and decide to use it, anyway.

What?

She borrowed my uterus for 9 months.

The least she can do is let me borrow her graham.

A whole 13.5 months later

and the notion that we are parents to this sweet, remarkable little girl still takes our breath away.

Just this afternoon, as our little girl stood up and grabbed her daddy’s leg in a squishy-baby-skinned-embrace,

he looked at me, his eyes round and wet,

and asked me, awestricken,”Am I really her daddy? When did I become her daddy?”

And I had to remind him of this.

And as he spouted off her birth stats from memory,

(You were born at 2:22am on April 18. 7 pounds. 12 ounces. 21 inches.)

she shook his leg,

shouting “Hi Dada! Dada! Dada! Hi Dada!”

She’s a real person now.

She is no longer a new baby

and he is no longer a new Daddy.

A new daddy, no,

but the best daddy,

most certainly, yes.

These two,

they’ve come a long way.

And when I stare at them,

standing together,

their gazes locked,

with their eyes crinkling the same way,

I think back to that day when my guy became her daddy.

I remember how she loved him instantly, before I was strong enough to hold her, or brave enough to burp her.

I remember looking at my husband, who had barely even held a baby before,

and thinking, “I have never seen a more natural father in my life. He was born to be her dad.”

And I remember struggling to catch my breath, as I said, My, how I’m lucky they’re mine.

And now, as her tiny, pink feet are strong enough to stand upon,

and she now weighs more than 7 pounds, 12 ounces,

I realize that it’s not just her body that has grown.

So has our incredible, immeasurable love for her.

So have our hearts.