Mommy Ever After » baby

The temperature also rises.

Rebecca Fox Starr — Wed, 07 Jan 2015 18:28:29 +0000

After 12 wonderful days of holiday break, my daughter finally got to go back to school on Monday.

She was so excited; she had missed her friends and teachers a lot.

We are two days in to the new year and, wouldn’t you know it, she is home sick again.

She woke up late last night, crying for me, and her temperature was 102.4.

After lots of snuggles, a back rub and Tylenol she went back to bed, but is home sick with me today.

So today was supposed to look like this:

That would be me blogging. I don’t think I have ever shared this before, but I have never worked at a desk (outside of being in class in school) in my entire life. I read and write from the bed or the couch or the floor or the car. Right now, I am writing from the third floor room that is currently transitioning from former-playroom to future-guest room.

But, instead of being able to put on my writer’s hat today,

this is how the day has actually looked:

Nice nod to my best guy.

I tried to make up for it with this:

We do what we can.

And when I called the doctor she asked me if the cough was wet or dry or raspy or barky.

I am a somewhat seasoned mom at this point, having had two kids with RSV, croup and both viral and bacterial infections of all kinds. But I am sorry, I cannot classify a cough that specifically unless you are going to play me Youtube clips of each different kind and ask me what sounds most like what is coming out of my daughter’s mouth.

Which means, a trip to the doctor.

Woo!

And pardon me, but I need to go now to deal with this:

So for now, I am forced to say A Farewell…

to the computer.

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“What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning…

Rebecca Fox Starr — Mon, 22 Dec 2014 15:50:47 +0000

…the end is where we start from.”

T.S. Eliot

Welcome to www.MommyEverAfter.com.

It is so nice to have you.

Here, let me make you comfortable.

For the past four and a half years I have spent every day hanging out at a simple, static, steadfast site over on WordPress.

Mommy, Ever After started when I was the new mother of a two month old baby girl. I had always loved to read and write, but found myself, at that time, with no resources that were actually helpful when it came to being a new parent. Everything was either a tale of absolute enchantment OR a hyperbolic message board of terror.

So I took a leap of faith and somehow figured out how to make my very first post.

It didn’t even have a title. I used multi-colored text. Take a look:

and by the end of day one I seem to have gotten a bit more bold:

I did not know what I was doing or where I was going (or, to be completely honest, how to even define a “blog”) but I knew it felt good. And people, being voyeuristic by nature, started to read and I, being brutally honest by nature, shared it all; the good, the bad, the inane, the insane, the heavy and the hard.

I will soon be publishing a post that is a guide to this new site, because thanks to the incredible folks at Brand Revive, I have a real, big girl website now, with pages, categories, sections and more. I don’t want you to miss a thing.

But for now, I will either assume that you are an old friend, having traveled with me over here from .wordpress.com (thank you, by the way–so much) or you are new and can lose yourself in the hundreds of archived posts I have up there, neatly categorized, under “A Happy Story”.

And, I will say that the old Mommy, Ever After isn’t here anymore. That chapter has ended.

Welcome to a new beginning.

And what better way to start than with a prologue…

Emergency rooms 3 and 4 were connected, separated by a thin curtain that could easily be opened to make it a makeshift suite of sorts. In room 4, in a stretcher that appeared humongous, lay my son, 3 days shy of 2 months, hooked up to an IV, oxygen monitor and receiving O2 through a tube in his nose. In room 3, I lay, dizzy and disoriented, hooked up to an IV and receiving my third bag of fluids. A nurse handed me a yellow pill. Potassium. She told me that I was deficient and to swallow. We were in a suite in the Emergency Room of a hospital. He and I were together, but still so far apart, as we were each confined to our beds. He and I were ailing. He and I were both being poked and tested and medicated. He and I both needed help.

That snapshot is from exactly this week last year. It is also the prologue that I have written for my book proposal. Yes, I am writing a book (or at least I am trying), and at the rate I am going, the book is writing itself. I have a literary agent shopping my book to publishing houses, and I am hoping to find a good match. My story will be told in the way that it is presented above: “A Happy Story”, “A Hard Story”, and then, ultimately, “A Hopeful Story”.

When I say the book is writing itself, you can probably conjure examples that I have shared from the past year; the flood and subsequent CO poisoining; my hospitalization; the incredible closeness of my group of friends that has now become a family;

But what you do not know is that this past weekend, at the very time that we were supposed to be on a plane to St. John, we were back in the Emergency Room with my son.

Not only were we back in the same hospital, but we had the same nurse that he had had exactly the same day the year before. She wears a necklace with three charms symbolizing her three children and I remembered their names.

Being in the small triage room was surreal. How are we back here?

But, fortunately, we were not there for a feverish 8 week old with a terrible respiratory virus.

My son had an allergic reaction to Penicillin, swelled up, we called the paramedics (our besties!) and we took him to the closest hospital with the Peds department, which happens to be where we spent this week last year, as he was inpatient, on oxygen, as I was fighting for my life in my own way.

This is where the story gets kind of crazy. Before our planned trip to the Virgin Islands, I asked my Pediatrician if it would be safe to give my son a small dose of Benadryl in order to calm him during the flight (please don’t judge. This is the baby who slit his wrist on my coffee table 3 months ago). He approved, but suggested that we test out the drug on him before flying, as in rare cases it can have the opposite effect and actually make kids more wired and not at all sedated.

So, Sunday morning, I was being treated for my severe ear infection, my daughter for her own infection, and my son, prophylactically, as he was fussy, warm and pulling on his ears. Before his nap that morning I suggested giving him some acetaminophen. My husband chimed in and suggested Benadryl instead. At that point, we did not know whether our trip to St. John would be postponed or completely cancelled, so we thought a solid nap would do both of us good and it was the right time to experiment, so we dosed him up with the proper amount of the antihistamine.

But he didn’t sleep well. He was restless. And red. And, actually, my husband and I were laughing at him when we finally brought him downstairs, because he was acting–

forgive me for not being able to find a better way to say this–

high.

He stood, staring at the vacuum cleaner for 20 minutes. He doesn’t stand still for 20 seconds, ordinarily.

And we were cracking up. Evidently, he was in that small percentage of kids who have a paradoxical reaction to the drug.

But after his 20 minute date with the vacuum and some other strange behavior, I noticed that his eyes were swelling up. The redness on his cheeks had intensified and on his forehead there were big hives. His eyes swelled to near slits as I spoke to the 911 operator.

The problem was, he had not just been given one new medication in that 24 hours, he had been given two.

The police arrived immediately, before I could even change out of my pajamas, and the paramedics soon thereafter.

On the way to the Emergency Room, I just laughed. “This must be a joke, right? This year is just a joke.”

As it turns out, by the time we were seen by the Pediatrician in the ER, his swelling had gone down some. This lead them to believe that he had experienced an allergic reaction to his second dose of amoxicillin, and that the Benadryl, the coincidental, serendipitous drug, actually helped to start calm down the effects. Had we been on the plane to St. John, his allergic reaction would have happened at 30,000 feet.

The doctors and nurses were so nice. It was so much better than last year, when he had to be put on breathing tubes, given a spinal tap, a catheter and IVs, and when I was losing my mind.

But it was then that I did something that I rarely do these days; I started to cry.

I cried to the nice doctor in the dark blue scrubs and white coat.

“He has had so much happen to him in such a short life; he is only 13 months old and look what he has been through.”

But it was then that I remembered my recent epiphany;

My son has not only survived some crazy medical and safety situations, a crazy mother and an all around crazy first year, but he is huge and thriving. The doctor looked at me and told me to look at my son.

“He is a moose!” she said.

And she is right. He is so strong and resilient and now that he has had six emergency room visits, he is tougher than ever.

But,

But…

He may be a moose, he may be strong, but he is still my baby.

This is a hard time of year for me. It is the one year anniversary of when I was supposed to go to Brown’s postpartum unit,

when he got hospitalized,

when I was forced to wean him against my will,

when I had akesthesia as a reaction to Abilify,

and when things really started to crumble.

While my real support system became stronger than ever, some real, trusted people let me down, and it was a blow that was hard to handle when I was already in such a weak state.

This week last year, I truly did not know if I could go on. It is scary for me to admit that, but I would be doing you a disservice by being anything less than brutally honest. I was low, like many other people I know who have been or who currently are suffering.

And so, I have decided to do something about it.

I have already proclaimed that this will be the year of really living; of celebrating things big and small, by organizing parties and dates and by making an effort to tell the people around me how much they mean to me.

But there is something else.

This year I want to be a better person.

I want to let go of all that has weighed me down, not just for the past year, but for my entire life.

I want to be good to people. I want to go out of my way. I want to give back. I want to help. I want to be vocal and make a difference.

And that is why I decided to take yet another leap of faith, bigger than my intimidating first blog post back in June of 2010.

I have decided to put my all into Mommy, Ever After, in an effort to help others. When I have opened up about topics like postpartum, anxiety, depression, fear, doubt, self-worth and other hard things to touch upon, I have received an incredible outpouring of support and gratitude. Most of it you do not know about. Most of it has been private. Most of it has been me making emergency phone calls to friends in crisis, or driving to the hospital to hold a hand, or giving someone my phone number to use 24/7. And I do not say this in any way to applaud myself. I am humbled by the fact that there are people who trust me enough in order to confide in me their deepest of secrets and fears.

And so, in moving forward, I will have those “pity party” moments, but hopefully much less than the dance party moments.

I will continue to be an advocate, a voice, a friend.

I will strive to be the woman whom I have always dreamed of being; lighter, happier, and more content.

I will celebrate the big, of course, but also cherish the mundane.

Last night, before bed, my husband and I had just finished the last installment of the NPR Serial Podcast. We talked a little about our thoughts and then I asked him to tell me a bedtime story. I wanted him to tell me about the last few episodes of Homeland, a show that I haven’t watched in several seasons, but that I was curious about, based on all of the hype. He is the best at telling stories.

And he looked over at me and I was smiling, my full face in an enormous grin.

“What?” he asked with a tiny giggle.

“I get to go to sleep next to you,” I said. “I get to have a sleepover with my best friend every night.”

And with that, he kissed me and told me stories of Iranian leaders and CIA infiltrations until I was sound asleep.

That was how I ended my day. And then, as it does, the sun rose this morning, and there was a new beginning.

And today I did some things right, and other things still need work, but guess what?

It is the beginning. I put an end to something dear to me…

and from there, my friends, is where I shall start.

(Featured Image via Lindsay Dochtery Photography)

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My Shop is Closed

mommyeverafter — Fri, 08 Aug 2014 14:43:16 +0000

(via Ramshackle Glam’s Pinterest Page)

ser·en·dip·i·ty

ˌserənˈdipitē

noun

noun: serendipity; plural noun: serendipities

the occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way.

***

Yesterday, I read a post that brought me to tears. My girl Jordan over at Ramshackleglam wrote the most beautiful piece entitled, “Not So Brave“, about the impending (like, this week) birth of her second child, a daughter, “Goldie”.

In it, she wrote,
But that’s why I’ve been spending time every day looking at these photos: because seeing them reminds me that there’s something much bigger waiting for me on the other side of the pain and the exhaustion and the everything-that-might-go-wrong, and that’s that no matter what happens, I know this: I get to fall in love. Again. I almost can’t believe it. I know there’s “a baby” coming…but my daughter? That doesn’t feel possible; it feels too big and too forever to be real.

So maybe being not so brave is okay. I mean, it’s okay to be scared of falling in love. It should be scary, shouldn’t it? Because you can’t control it, and you can’t stop it, and once it’s there it changes everything.

And she wrote, so eloquently, about the exact sense of overwhelming anticipation and fear and excitement and love that I was trying to describe when I wrote the hardest words, my post about my inability to bear more children. And her post moved me, because it was addressing the exact thing that I mourn the most. The magic.

I mourn the magic.

***

This week, I had a doctor’s appointment at the hospital. It was the hospital where I gave birth to both of my children. The hospital, for me, is haunted. I drove into the garage and pictured myself, just a year ago, walking through the darkness, cradling my giant belly in my hands.

I entered the building and right past the outpatient lab. I looked inside and pictured myself 12 weeks pregnant, after having been shocked at my Sequential Screen Ultrasound when the tech told us that he saw “something between the baby’s legs”. It was in that lab that I called my dad and told him that we were having a boy.

I walked to the East medical office building and took the elevator, the elevator that I rode every month, and then every week, to check on my babies’ heartbeats while they were still inside me.

And being in the hospital…it hurt.

***

This past week, I experienced two competely different, but equally meaningful experiences:

I geared up (with true, sincere happiness, mind you) for the impending births of several babies whose gestation I have been following and celebrating.

I saw photos posted online of newborns. I saw tiny heads in those tiny striped hats. I saw people become parents.

And simultaneously, I experienced having to tell at least five different people that I would no longer be bearing any children of my own. I had to tell a doctor and a nurse. I told several people who asked me while I was pushing my son in his stroller around town. Sometimes it was met with skepticism. “Oh, well you never know.” with a sly smile.

But I know.

***

So here’s where serendipity comes into play. I read Jordan’s post with a pang. And I thought about how I could could write about my own, still sad, feelings, while still being so happy for and proud of her. But I was scared. I thought it would be therapeutic, but I was nervous about taking the first step.

And then, coincidentally, she emailed me. We exchanged notes about her daughter and mine; we talked about some milestones, about trying to get my daughter’s ears pierced (hashtag fail) and how much she has to look forward to; I told her about the black, knee high suede fringe Minnetonka Moccasins that I will be sending her little girl’s way. And that made me happy. And she wrote about feeling “Not So Brave”, and, in turn, she gave me the courage to feel OK about not holding it together. About admitting that I am still in pain.

And then she posted the Hemingway quote. Not only was it the perfect quote, but it was my guy, Hem.

And so I am letting go.

And so I am writing hard. I am writing about what hurts.

I am definitely still wading through the mire of grief stages. I am still bargaining, thinking of ways for me to add to my family.

Sometimes I have dreams that the doctor was wrong. That I can, actually, decide to “try” again. I can wait, with a quickened heartbeat, for two lines to appear on a stick. I can see a little teddy bear flickering on an ultrasound. I can find out if the baby is a boy or a girl. I can feel kicks and feel nauseated and feel the baby being pulled from inside of me as I hear the doctor say “I see a hand! I see a foot!”

But that is not my story.

My story may, someday, include more children. Probably not, but maybe. But they won’t be coming from my womb.

Write hard and clear

The shop is closed.

So for now I will enjoy my babies and appreciate them more than they will ever know. I will celebrate the births of my friends’ children. And I will try to bust the ghosts when I walk through the hospital halls.

My shop is closed. But there is great joy ahead. There are memories to be made. Milestones to face. Dance parties to have, hands to hold and heartbeats to listen to, as I rest my head on my babies’ chests at night. There are lullabies to sing and lives to live.

My shop is closed,

but so, so many doors have yet to be opened.

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The Magnificent Seven, The Son Edition.

mommyeverafter — Sat, 24 May 2014 16:42:37 +0000

Looking back, I found the note I wrote to my daughter when she turned seven months, a love letter detailing milestones in her life and expressing my profound love. Today is my son’s seventh month birthday, and so, for him I shall do the same.

Dearest baby,
My sweetness; My light.
Today you are seven months old.
A magnificent seven.
When I was seven days pregnant with you, you were just a wish.
When I was seven weeks pregnant with you I saw your picture for the very first time; the ultrasound tech described you as a little cheerio. They also saw your heartbeat, a perfect rhythm. I knew you were OK.
When I was seven months pregnant with you we danced at Twin and Go-Go’s wedding in Boston. We walked down the aisle together, we held her flower bouquet as they said their vows, we made a speech at the reception, and you were right there with me, never quieting, just kicking along. You were lying transverse, right across my belly. I loved feeling the parts of your body and I could identify each one.
When you were seven minutes old, the nurses said “He has long fingernails!” and I had just found out that you were 7 lbs 12 oz, the exact same birth weight as your sister. I also found out that you were born at 4:11, which is my birthday. When you were 7 minutes old, as they were working to sew up my body and make me whole again, your daddy brought you over to me, and I swear, you smiled. We sang to you in the OR, “Mommy loves the baby, daddy loves the baby, everybody loves the little boy.”
When you were seven weeks old we were going through a bit of a bump, but we still found so much joy in you; in your sweetness, in your strawberry hair, in the coziness of the holidays around us. We marveled in how you would sleep seven hour stretches overnight and we loved feeling like a real family of four.
And now, my dear, you are 7 months. We love you more with each breath. You have grown into a magical little boy. You radiate goodness,
how you bat at my skin with your big mitts, and kiss my mouth with big, slobbery smooches when I hold you close; how you smile every time I kiss your face; how you reach out for me when I’m not with you, calling for “Mama” and grabbing me, with such love. You are the sweetest thing I have ever known.
You are magnificent.
Love,
Mommy

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There’s something really important that you need to know.

mommyeverafter — Tue, 13 May 2014 15:29:41 +0000

As I said yesterday, over on 511, I am quite different than my marathon runner sister. I do not work out, I have never belonged to a gym and I ran almost 3 miles with Twin ONCE on the Boardwalk and that is the only thing I have ever done.
I was good at sit and reach in middle school, I can do the worm and I am freakishly strong and undefeated in same-sex arm wrestling, but besides that, I am not in shape.
But now, when I leave the room, the baby cries. And it is kind of sweet, because he knows me and loves me and doesn’t want me to go. But I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this on here…I have the biggest baby ever. Have I forgotten to say that? Oh. Well, I do. He is literally off the charts, over the 100th percentile. So this means that any time I need to get up to get a drink of water, or snag a peep, or pee, I have to carry around 22 pounds of solid chunk.
Also, while he is a rock star sleeper in his crib at night, he doesn’t nap in there (lord knows why), so I walk him almost every day for his naps.
And because I am lazy and the single jogging stroller is at my parents’ house, I usually walk him in his infant seat int he snap n’ go, which means I basically have to push all of the weight.
Today, I walked up hill and I envisioned myself in a strong-man competition, pushing bales of hay up a mountain. I really did.
And I believe I actually broke a sweat.
So the really important thing that you need to know is that I
am now
an athlete.
The end.

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Almost paradise.

mommyeverafter — Sun, 11 Dec 2011 03:15:44 +0000

My apologies.
I know that things have been quiet around these parts.
While I may have been absent outwardly,
rest assured that I’ve been a good blogging squirrel,
gathering seeds and hoarding stories and collecting photos of my baby, bee-lining towards sparkly shoes, to share with you.
But, the truth is, it’s been a hard week.
And it’s a long story.
But the short story is this:
This week, I was quiet because I was, quite literally, at a loss for words…
Because this week, I had to hold my big dog in one arm, and my little girl in the other arm, and tell my big dog to give my little girl a kiss, and tell my little girl to give my big dog a kiss….
and then I had to tell them to say goodbye to one another.
This week, we had to let go of our Ziggy.
And I can’t really write more now,
because…
I just can’t.
And while I’m not usually a fan of the ellipsis,
there is so much that I want to pour out from my insides, but the only thing I can muster are these three dots. And in these three dots are the story of my little boy,
who came to me with a tongue too big for his mouth, and feet too big for his stature,
and a heart too big for his body.
And the story of how, on the first morning we got him, he played with his metal food bowl, clanking that thing around the kitchen, until the walls jingled and jangled around us…
how on that first morning, we thought we had found our boy his forever home, having rescued him, in every sense of the word.
And the jingling and the jangling only continued,
as our Z boy made noise as he barked and bellowed,
as he stomped and tromped,
and as he loved big.
As big as his paws.
As big as his heart.
…
Everything about Ziggy has always been supersized, and although that was so often a good thing, and so much of what made him so lovable,
his fear ultimately got the better of him.
Big fear.
And this summer, when he began to snap at our little Lola, we took it very seriously. We took it as a warning. And we worked hard. But as his anxieties got worse, so did his aggression, as he would snap at other dogs on walks, and pounce on Lola, viciously, for scraps of food or a turn with a toy. And soon, Lola got no more scraps and no more turns. And she got injured. And we got worried. But we worked harder.
And then, last week, our worst fears came true. He snapped at our daughter. While we have always known how much our Zig loves our little bee, we also know that his fear has gotten out of control. Perhaps it is from the scars of his former life. Perhaps he has reached his sexual maturity. Perhaps his wires are crossed the wrong way.
But all speculations aside, we knew what we had to do. We had to protect our family and, most of all, our daughter.
And so, with the advice of our vet, family and friends, we surrendered Ziggy back to the rescue home from which we got him, 2 1/2 years ago.
And typing those words, I feel like I’m going to throw up.
…
On the last morning we had him, Ziggy played with his metal food bowl. The walls jingled and jangled around us. My heart wept.
As we said goodbye to him, we told him how much we loved him, how much he has meant to us–will always mean to us–and how quiet our lives will be without him.
My husband and I sat on the floor, holding our big boy in our arms, and we melted into a deluge of tears, wishing that there was some other way, but knowing that there was not.
The rescue organization will be working hard to find him a new home, and is confident that they will place him soon, with a family without young children or other animals. He is an incredible, cute, wonderful dog, who will thrive in the right home. We just wish that home could be ours.*
So, our lives have been quieter.
And I have been quieter.
And now that I’ve found some of my words, I’m hopeful that the first leg of the grieving process has begun…and ended.
And now is a good time for us to start fresh, as tomorrow, we embark upon a rather exciting chapter in our lives,
Baby’s first vacation.
And we are going back to our most treasured spot; our happy place; our Paradise.
And while we are there we will be surrounded with sun and love,
and reminisce about our engagement there, in that very room, five years ago this week
(The Proposal, Part Une
The Proposal, Part Deux
The Proposal, Part Trois
The Proposal, Part Quatre
The Proposal, Part Forever)
And we will draw lines in the sand with our toes
and we will listen to the sea
and it will be quiet.
And I will miss our boy.
Our boy who is never quiet, and who is always loved.
*If you, or anyone you know, is interested in helping us to find the perfect forever home for our Ziggy, please email me at MommyEverAfter@gmail.com, or contact the fabulous rescue organization directly Here. Much love and noise and thanks xx Becca

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Coming back ’round again.

mommyeverafter — Tue, 24 May 2011 01:31:38 +0000

Here I am.
I’m back from a wri-atus of sorts.
You see, it was nearly a month ago now that I made the decision to close the door to this chapter.
Not because I didn’t love writing my “ever after”.
I did.
I loved chronicling my days with my little one;
I loved the intimate relationship I was able to develop with people, new and old; near and far;
I loved reminding myself to remember;
I loved writing, again.
But, part of me got scared. I worried about living some parts of my life so publicly. I worried about my family’s exposure. And so, I resigned myself to the fact that this good ol’ baby book of mine would be tied up with a neat little bow,
as I’d craft the perfect farewell post,
thanking everyone for the incredible support,
and wrapping up a year in the life of the Land of Mom.
Except, I could not bring myself to write this goodbye.
I wasn’t ready to let go.
And, to be honest, I missed you. I missed this.
I missed writing about the funny thing my girl did that morning.
I missed sobbing as I typed a memory that brought me to my knees.
I missed putting my feelings into words, and reading those words
and rereading those words,
and reliving all that was so holy to me.
And so, here I am.
~
Last week, a dear, beautiful mommy friend of mine and I took walk.
She is someone very special to me, and due to a series of circumstances beyond either of our control, we had not been able to really catch up, one on one, for some time.
As we strolled, pushing our babies over bulky pads of grass and by the park and along the rows of pink and white azaleas,
she asked me about my writing. I told her that I had taken a break. I told her about my fears. I told her that I was thinking of ending my (online) story.
She listened to me. She validated my fears. She was thoughtful, as she always is.
And then, she told me to keep writing.
She told me to, at the very least, keep on chronicling my daughter’s life, if only for us to read in later months and years.
She told me that I would be grateful.
She was right.
~
So, this go around, a whole long year after I first wrote about getting poop on my face,
I am approaching this story with new eyes,
just the way I am approaching motherhood differently now.
I am no longer a new mom.
I am no longer unsure of myself, and flustered and sleep deprived.
I am no longer afraid to be honest.
About being frightened.
I am no longer a slave to round-the-clock nursings
(although, wouldn’t you know it, I’m still breastfeeding my daughter. She’s now 13 months old. Imagine that.)
or calling the dr on call on a weekly basis.
I trust myself,
I trust the people around me
and, most of all, I trust my daughter.
Now, when I ask her if she is still hungry,
if she wants another bite of peas,
she will tell me “more” or “no”.
When I ask her if she wants to stand up and dance, she will.
Or she won’t.
She’s now a person,
and I now know how to breathe again.
And so, maybe my lack of writing has also been indicative of the evolution I’ve been experiencing.
I certainly still get scared and anxious and sleepy and unsure,
but I also have faith in myself, and trust my abilities and really, truly, completely love every single minute of this thing called mommyhood.
My baby now puts two words together,
and kisses my lips,
and hugs Lola,
and says “hello, daddy!” as she rests the telephone on her shoulder and holds her ear up to the receiver,
and shakes her head, exclaiming, “no no, Ziggy”
and tells me when she wants to hear “Supercalifragilisticexpealidocious” one more time,
using her words,
and when I tell her she looks pretty, she brushes her hair and squeals in delight,
and puts on lipstick,
and she loves to smell the flowers and say “mmmm” when she likes their fragrance,
and she plays one note on her little piano and claps for herself,
and she says “fishies” when she wants to look at the pond and “tree” when she looks out the window,
and so many other words that I melt when I hear,
and eats everything
and blows me away with all she knows,
and all she can do,
and all she can be
every single day.
So, we’ve both grown up a bit.
Grown up a lot.
And, thank goodness,
grown some gosh darn hair.
So, from here on out, my diary shall remain open.
I will no longer stifle my desires to jot down a memory,
or record a precious anecdote,
and please,
feel free to laugh
and weep
and roll your eyes right along with us.
That’s what ’tis all about here in the ever after.
Because now things may not look the same,
but they’re really really good.
Or as some may say, better than
ever.

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Oh yes, sweet darlin’

mommyeverafter — Wed, 27 Apr 2011 20:17:41 +0000

Today, I cried
while slow dancing with my little girl.
We were listening to a very special CD, For Our Children,
and as we swayed back and forth to Carole King singing “Child of Mine”, I began to cry.
You see, I am getting a bit wistful,
a tad sentimental,
about this whole “My newborn baby is actually now one-whole-year-old and I’m not a real-adult-grown-up” thang.
And, this CD, this song, is very meaningful to me.
You see, my mom and I used to listen to the original 1991 version of this album every single day.
I so vividly remember the one summer when these songs were the soundtrack of our daily drive to my day camp.
I never wanted to get out of the car.
I never wanted to leave her.
I never wanted the songs to end.
Surprise surprise.
We would listen to the crazy, amazing nursery rhymes and children’s songs, but my eternal favorite was always “Child of Mine”. It moved me, even then. Even before I knew why or how. It moved me. It was my song with my mom.
And it still is.
Except now it’s also my daughter’s song with my mom, as they dance to it each morning together, as my mom watches my baby girl while I am teaching.
And now, it’s my child’s and mine.
So, we danced, as she held my thumb in her closed palm, and she smiled with her gap-toothed smile, and I wept.
I wept for my childhood
and I wept for my child.
And then, before I knew it, life went on.
The song changed.
I did not want our dance to stop.
I did not want to get out of the car.
I did not want my baby girl to be growing up so darn fast.
But, she had already moved on. She had already started bopping her head and waving her arms and kicking her legs to Bruce Springsteen singing about “Chicken hips and lizard lips” and I had to move on with her.
She was leading our dance, and it was my turn to follow.
It was my turn to stop worrying,
to stop weeping,
and to enjoy the moment,
before it too would pass.
So thank you, sweet girl, for, once again, stopping my tears with your smiles.
and, I mean it,
oh how I mean it,
when I say,
“oh yes, sweet darlin’,
so glad you are a child of mine.”

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Love, Baby Ever After

mommyeverafter — Fri, 26 Nov 2010 01:35:35 +0000

Hi, Friends-
Baby here!
Pleased to know you!
So nice to make your acquaintance!
I know we haven’t been formally introduced, but I’m only 7 months old, so I’ve just learned to write.
Mommy tells me the best things about you.
I have a feeling she’s told you a little bit about me, too.
I just got back from my very first Thanksgiving Dinner. I got to enjoy both sides of my family, and trust me, I was the bell of the ball.
What I wore:
Velvet Paisley-Print Dress with bell sleeves by Cynthia Rowley
Black tights by Old navy
Black velvet mary-janes with satn bows by Bubbie (well, she didn’t make them, but she did buy them for me. I’m a baby, you can’t expect me to remember every little thing)
Black fur coat (faux! of course! I love my animals!!) by Minibasix
Let me tell you, I was looking snazzy.
I had so much fun playing, as everyone watched on, oohing and ahhing. I showed all of my family my new trick; I know how to give kisses, and I just love smooching everyone, especially my new stuffed bear. I rolled around the floor with my plastic telephone from Mommom and I called all of my other baby buddies to gobble at them.
I know this is my first Thanksgiving, so I’m just learning that this is a holiday for feasting, but trust me, I put away my fair share of goodies. Mommy fed me turkey, sweet potatoes, apples and yogurt, although I couldn’t help eyeing that pecan pie. Oh well. Maybe next year!
Everyone kept saying how thankful they were for me, and how well behaved I was. I didn’t make a single peep, besides saying Mama and Dada and giggling, of course. I couldn’t dare make a bad impression, especially not at a holiday. What would people think?
My favorite part of the night was sitting by the fire, with my uncle and aunt playing with me, as all of the 25 big adults gathered around, singing “If You’re Happy and You Know It.” to make me smile. It worked. I couldn’t stop grinning tonight!
What a great night.
Actually, all day today was so special for me. I woke up, and the first thing mommy said to me was, “Happy Thanksgiving, baby! Can you say Happy Thanksgiving Dada?” I answered by saying, “Dada”, but I don’t quite know how to say the rest of it yet. Oh well. Maybe tomorrow. Mommy and Daddy let me stay in my PJs all day, and I even saw my very first snow fall. Don’t worry, I was nice and warm in daddy’s arms, as we watched out the living room window. I loved to watch the tiny flakes dance to the ground.
Well, I’m pretty pooped. Time to kiss my new pink bear and go to sleep. I can’t wait to have sweet dreams about silly gobbling turkeys, pecan pie, and my special family, singing and laughing to me around the fire.
I hope you all had a very Happy Thanksgiving, too. Maybe we can celebrate together, sometime.
Gobble Gobble Goo Goo Ga Ga!
Love,
Baby, Ever After

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While the cat’s away…

mommyeverafter — Sun, 01 Aug 2010 14:36:58 +0000

This week,

I will embarking upon a great new challenge;

I will be attempting to leave the house, for a few hours a day,

and to be on a schedule.

You see, this week,

I will be substitute teaching.

Because I was put on bedrest in my 9th month of pregnancy,

and because I am a teacher,

I have not worked since March.

Officially, I do not go back to work for another month,

which is awesome, by the way,

but for the next five days, I will be working for a few hours a day,

in a classroom with one of my dear friends.

I’m excited and calm and ready, right?

Ha.

You know me better than that by now.

I am a wreck.

I have to be on a set schedule (oye)

I have to pump at specific times (eek)

and I have to miss a few hours of my daughter’s day, every day, for five days (is there a sound that I can use to signify a deluge of tears? does “WAHHH” work?)

WAHHHHHHHH

Fortunately, the baby will be taken care of,

and loved up,

by family and loved ones.

She’s in good hands.

They’re just not my hands.

I just overheard my husband talking to the baby,

telling her all about the week ahead.

It went a little something like this:

“We get to be soooooo naughty this week, while mommy’s at work! We get to put chocolate all over our faces and put our handprints all over the walls. And then, we’re gonna take magic markers and write all over the bannister. And then, we’re gonna paint the dogs all different colors. It’s gonna be the best!”

Ha.

Or, should I say, WAHHHH.

I’m not upset at the thought of them getting into naughtiness.

Of course not.

I’m upset at the thought of them getting into naughtiness without me.

Since the moment she was born, I have been a part of every part of my daughter’s every thing.

How am I going to do this?

I guess I’ll just have to breathe,

pump,

and hope for the best.

And, until then,

WAHHHHHH.

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