No formal introductions were needed this year. No, you knew exactly who was "comin' to town." You even saved your tantrum for after we visited with Mr. Claus. Months have gone by with claims of not wanted to see Santa; but with a twinkle in your eye and sugar plums dancing around that curly-haired little head of yours you walked up to the bearded fellow and gave him a hug. Very sly, Ms. Fuller, very sly indeed. Maybe it has something to do with the Elmo doll you've been eyeing. Maybe we are in the early stages of you wanting desperately to prove me wrong. Or maybe, just maybe, this was the real deal, the big guy himself. Sure, we were in a fancy furniture store in downtown Savannah, a place surely Santa wants avoid (just think how a sofa would weigh down a sleigh, not to mention the complaints from the reindeer). And yeah, Santa himself is probably pretty busy hence his "elves" that are sent to the food courts and fire stations across the country. But, I'll do it, I'll choose to believe. I will believe in the enchantment of the holiday. I will see magic, glow, the beauty. And I will not wonder why my daughter who would never walk up to a stranger (let alone one in red velvet donning a mass of white fiber-like hair holding court in a furniture store) walked up and hugged this one. I know why. In her, I see miracles every day, so this one isn't a stretch. Yes, Rebecca, there is a Santa Clause.

Eat your heart out Brittany

How Zoe and I communicate (and some other stuff)

To begin, some housekeeping from the slackiest (slackiest?) blogger in all the web. You'll have to forgive me, I just got on Facebook and it is shiny and new but will never take the place of the blog. . . I just lost my focus a bit.

First, Go Obama (hey, it's my blog!).

Second, I haven't really posted since the big birthday/Halloween/all the grandparents are in town/let's build a deck weekend (although by the title of the weekend I think you can guess what happened). We had a great time, the ladies lunched, the menfolk did indeed build a deck. Zoe, for her part turned two and was incredibly cute as Minnie Mouse.

But, the things we say is the true topic of this post. The idea came to me when I, a 35-year-old woman, found myself saying this tonight: "If your bum makes a noise you have to say excuse me." Um, what? Who says that? And, I was serious. That was really the line I was using to teach Zoe manners. Zoe, upon hearing this turned into, as Mike and I now refer to her, the Hamburglar. "Mommy, garble, garble, garble oranges!" Um, what? My retort (you can already see this conversation going nowhere fast) "What do you say when you want something?" Zoe: "Peas!"

Yes, I'm learning these are the conversations I will be having with my two-year-old. I say something ridiculous like "Do you want puppy to use the potty?" She answers me in the voice of a giant burger-stealing character punctuated by some snack she randomly decides she needs and completely derails whatever ridiculous conversation we were having. And I get her food.

Welcome to toddlerhood, hold the fries.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

Happy Birthday, Zoe Katherine!

Witnessing History

**I know it's been a long time. Until I get pics of birthdays and Halloween, something to tide you over***

The first presidential election in my lifetime (unless you count that pesky Watergate Scandal and subsequent impeachment of Nixon) was between Republican incumbent Gerald Ford and Democrat Jimmy Carter. It should go without saying that I don't remember the election, but I imagine that some similarities exist between that one and this one, not the least of which is that the GOP candidate is paying the price for crimes of a predecessor. I was certainly born into a tumultuous time in the country's political history, just before the fall of a president.

Zoe was also born into a wild ride; an economy gone mad, a country at war, and a political landscape from which legends are born. I think it's no secret on which side of the isle I reside, but that almost didn't matter this morning at 8 a.m. when Zoe came with me to witness her first presidential voting process and by this time tomorrow, the results of that process will have made history.

And just for something interesting to think about, the first presidential election Zoe will be able to vote in will be in the year 2024. Since you must be 35 to be president, that means that the person Zoe votes for that year could possibly be 19 right now. Hey, dad, take a look around Rowan University. See any viable candidates?

Yo Gabba what??

As a first-time parent, I've really tried to follow the rules; no peanut butter until she was one, no cereal in her bottle, make every attempt at developing a routine yadda, yadda, yadda. But admittedly, there was always one rule that would inexplicably make my eyes role just by hearing someone mention it. It was the no TV before two years old rule. If you were born before 1980 are unaware of this and saying to yourself, "No TV? What kind of world are we raising our kids in?!" then let me explain. Those cockamamie experts over at the American Academy of Pediatrics have laid out guidelines stating that children over the age of two should watch no more than one to two hours a day of quality programming (unfortunately I don't think they include CSI under the heading of "quality programming" for a toddler). For children under the age of two, like Zoe, they should be watching zero TV. That's right, none at all.

Apparently they require you to be childless to work at the AAP.

I'd like to say that we haven't turned the TV on in the last 23 months, but that would be a lie. Zoe has frankly seen a working TV since day one. She actually knows how to turn it on now. I, for a long time was of the school of thought (and sounding much like a great grandparent) that I watched TV as a kid and I turned out fine. But as Zoe has become more and more interested in television and more selective about what is on, I finally figured out what the AAP had been doing all along, trying to save me. The situation is like the joke about the priest who was floating in the water after his boat capsized. Three boats came by to help him each met with the priest's insistence that God will save him. He dies, goes to Heaven and asks God, "why didn't you save me?" God says, "I sent you three ships." Why didn't anyone tell me how strange and annoying kids television is these days? They gave me the warning.

I'm not sure how I would rank them all, but I can tell you that there is a very real chance that the makers of Yo Gabba Gabba are still on a 60's acid trip (a la Puff the Magic Dragon). A main character of Wonder Pets constantly talks in a lisp ("This is sewious!). And the Backyardingans, while a moderately cute show, will suddenly break out into a Broadway musical number about sharing. Zoe's favorite is a strange little Canadian boy named Caillou.

Don't get me wrong, the shows are innately fine and I consider myself lucky that I've managed to mostly avoid Barney. But I wonder where the "good stuff" is from my childhood. How the heck will kids these days learn about the function of a conjunction? When will they understand the rainbow connection? Wasn't there some educational component of Captain Caveman and the Teen Angels?

Zoe not only now watches TV, from 7:30pm until 8:00pm (her bedtime) she owns it by repeatedly saying "show, show." I sigh, grab the remote that once belonged to me and tune in for another exciting episode about a boy from Canada.

Next time, AAP, I will read between the lines.

Am I really half way to 70?

My husband left today to go to Atlanta for the weekend for work. This getaway of his affords me plenty of time to contemplate the fact that in just five short days I will be turning the ripe old age of 35; not as much fun as it sounds. For anyone who knows Mike, you know that the only benefit to him being gone is that I get to avoid his constant reminding that as of Tuesday, according to his slightly warped mind punctuated with his obvious lack of math skills, he will be two years younger than me (for two whole weeks).

It's a funny thing getting older, it seems that the more birthdays I have, the more they become an introspective sort thing while morphing into, on occasion, the inevitable question of should I be doing more. I mean, hell, the woman running for VP is only nine years my senior and she has five times as many kids as I have (not there is much evidence she was doing a whole lot at 35; had to get my party loyalty dig in there). I think it's safe to say that no one will ever consider me for second-in-commander to the leader of the free world no matter how comprehensive the vetting process. I'm not even sure how much power Sadie thinks I wield. My job is OK on its best day, I couldn't say with much certainty which state I will be living in in six months and Zoe prefers fake chicken fingers over any "culinary masterpiece" I am able to eek out in the kitchen. Maybe I am watching too much Entertainment Tonight to be based in reality and have begun to see the likes of Angelina Jolie (two years my junior by the way) as "normal" as she globe trots and saves the world all while eight months pregnant, covered in adopted children and lousing with humanitarianism. I, on the other hand, feel like Mother Theresa when I give blood once a year.

Some of you may be wondering if maybe I've hit the bottle of whisky and begun listening to too many county songs (save her from the south!). Some of you are happy to get the reminder to send me a birthday card (hint, hint). And others of you are thinking out loud what in the world does this have to do with Zoe, the only reason you take the time to read this blog. Well, no whiskey is being had (although I wouldn't discount a glass of cheap chardonnay this weekend) and this entry is written, in part, as a subtle reminder that my readers may want to hit a Hallmark this weekend.

And as for the last question, it has everything to do with Zoe. I've decided when I turn 35, my goal will be to become her. Not in the literal sense you understand. Her incredible use of ketchup is nothing short of nauseating and she is entirely too obsessed with Elmo for my liking. But I'd like to incorporate more moxie into my life, much like her. I'd like to become braver just like she was when entering her new daycare for the first time. I'd like to meet new friends in the same manner as she does, by simply walking up an introducing myself just because they seem nice. I'd like to be able to say "no" once in while when I really don't want to do something with no guilt and no excuses (but maybe without the screaming, fall-down, red-faced tantrum). Conversely, I like to be able to just flat out ask for something I want without the "adult" in me getting in the way. I'd like to be able to try new things constantly without a week-long calculation of what might happen if I fail. The bottom line, she is awesome and for my birthday, I want to be awesome too.

Take that Angelina. Happy birthday to me!

The newest addition to the Fuller family

Name: Mitsubishi Outlander
Born: 2007
Weight: 3,532 lbs
Length: 182.7 "

Vacation II

Yes you are reading correctly, we just got back from yet another summer vacation (we deserve it, dammit!). This time it was with my people on the coast of the beautiful state of New Jersey (I just volley them up). We stayed at an unbelievable beach-front condo in Sea Isle City with my parents and a spattering of other visiting family members. In typical Zoekat blog style, I will resort to my top ten list, used only for vacation posts, but first a house update; we had a friend of mine and her husband come by to look at the house last night and received positive feedback. . . fingers crossed.

10. Rules for flying with a toddler are simple: 1. Buy them a seat 2. Fly direct 3. Reserve an entire carry on for graham crackers.

9. No matter how much I want the Himalaya ride, found frequently on Jersey boardwalks, to be as exciting as my childhood memories think it is, it just isn't. However, I did remember to sit on the inside.

8. But Mack and Mancos pizza will always be the same.

7. Even shore houses have timeout spots.

6. Zoe loves the beach but is cautious about the water. That is quite possibly because the ocean water found in New Jersey is about 50 degrees colder than the ocean water found in Georgia.

5. Kayaking isn't as difficult as it seems, that is unless you risk life and limb by crossing the wake zone boat channel to get to the island with the ice cream vessel.

4. I don't want to say it, but I have to; Mike and my mom beat me and my dad at pinochle. Happy?

3. Too many bottles of wine makes for meteor sitings and daring police shootouts.

2. Mike and my dad build sand castles with the skill and focus of structural engineers; taking into consideration sand firmness, tidal charts and destructive toddlers.

1. Hopefully next year this vacation will be repeated with just a short drive. You're right, mom, we should have stayed until Labor Day.

Cinderella, time outs and more. . Part II

For the more dedicated readers of the blog, you may remember a previous post about my attempts at discipline written back when Zoe was just a wee one, when her only transgression was her migration toward the dog food. A refresher from a year ago:

"Yes, the word discipline is put in quotes to illustrate just how loosely I am meaning it. Frankly, it has become a game and I am the only one playing; so the question you need to ask yourself is if I am the only one playing, how can I be losing?"

It seems Zoe has joined the game but she has joined the varsity team while I have lingered back on the JV squad wondering when I will be good enough to leave the bench. Like any good mother of a toddler I have joined the wonderful world of timeouts. It seems like a right of passage for both myself and Zoe and at first I welcomed the challenge. I started dolling them out for only the most egregious of behaviors, hitting and the like. The first few timeouts she was upset but I did feel a strange motherly superpower of sorts when she actually stayed in the corner. I mean, I was an amateur and surely would have caved if she decided to look at me like I was crazy and simply got up and walked away. But she didn't, she stayed there and cried just enough to tell me that I was getting my point across, once again give me a false sense of confidence in my mothering skills (when will I learn).

The other day, this changed. She was opening the dishwasher for about the 467th time that day. My response, "if you do that again, you'll go into a timeout." An idol threat made by a frustrated mom to be sure. But Zoe didn't continue to play with dishwasher. She didn't throw a tantrum to illustrate her defiance. She stopped, looked at me matter-of-factly, and moved on to varsity. She walked away from the dishwasher straight to her time out corner (yes, there is a dedicated portion of the house and no we do not use this as a selling point) and just sat down. No tears, no getting up; she just sat there. I was admittedly a little dumbfounded. At first I was patting myself on the back. "Look how much respect I command!" I said to myself. "After my next blog post, the world needs my philosophy on discipline so I will begin a book and a subsequent tour!" And then slowly it dawned on me, the same way it had dawned on me that she was a biter; Zoe doesn't mind timeouts and if she doesn't mind the only discipline tool I have in my proverbial child-rearing toolbox, my life is about to get just a little more interesting.

You, as readers, are in the stands, Vegas odds are not in my favor, the whistle has blown, and the game has just begun. Wish me luck.

Cinderella, time outs and more. . Part I

Seems I am right back where I started with this blogging thing. What's that saying about good intentions? Let's see, when last we left Zoe was showing off some dance moves. Since then we have been pretty busy but before I get into Zoe's latest shenanigans let give a brief update on the sale of the house; no bites. Ok, now let's continue.

This will be a two-part post since I have been so remiss about updating. Part I. . . The Vacation. We spent a week in The Villages of Florida with Zoe's very brave grandparents, Zoe's aunt Karen and uncle Ryan and four-year-old Kaitlyn and two-year-old Owen (told you they were brave, or crazy). I think I'll keep the vacation top ten list trend going.

10. Zoe had her first experience with The Magic Kingdom complete with Small World (I still wake up at night in a cold sweat sometimes with that song bouncing around my head), lunch in Cinderella's castle, and the kind of heat only Florida in July with a million other people could provide. Zoe loved it taking special interest in the parade and the merry-go-round. If any Disney executives have stumbled across this blog, take note that in addition to the characters, food and general merriment, Zoe would also like to see a special nap area.

9. Ahh, the joys of watching a child learn. Of course that is until her cousins teach her the word "no" and "mine." Later, joy.

8. The Villages is a strange and wonderful place. You can relax on your patio while enjoying the cool morning breeze. You can take in a round of golf with new friends. Or you can head down to the only bar open past nine and get plastered while hitting on other retirees or become a twirler in your 80's. The world is your crazy oyster.

7. Dave cheats at contract rummy. It's time you came clean for the sake of the game.

6. When your parents offer to babysit while you go to a movie for the first time in two years, run, don't walk, don't past go and don't even care about what the movie is.

5. Go green, drive a golf cart.

4. Getting professional photos taken at Walmart is more difficult than it seems (but just as funny) with four adults and three children under the age of five. I think even the greeters were wondering what the hell was going on behind the curtain.

3. My pitching wedge used to be the bane of my golf existence. I think it used to actually laugh at me when I pulled it out of my bag. Not this time; chalk it up to Villages magic (it is Pleasantville) but I think I've tamed the beast.

2. Zoe became more generous with her kissing and began kissing everyone good night.

1. It was the perfect vacation complete with stolen relaxing moments, crazy childhood chaos, princesses, and most importantly, family. The Villages is Pleasantville.

Fancy Footwork

I am a yankee (a screaming liberal yankee as my boss likes to call me). Mike is a yankee. Zoe, while born in the south will be raised yankee as much as possible. Before we moved to Savannah, the word yankee only had one meaning and it was usually used in sentences like, "I can't believe we blew a three-run lead against the bleeping Yankees." But living in the south, surrounded by Confederate flags (I wouldn't know a Union flag if I used one as a bedspread) and declarations such as "the sand gnats are here to keep away the yankees" has given us yankees a new understanding of the word.

Don't get me wrong, we like Savannah. We enjoy the small-town feel, the people, and calling our family and friends back home and giving them a weather report in March ("Yeah, we are pretty unhappy that it only reached 68 degrees today *snicker, snicker*"). Heck, we even own a pickup truck. But the truth of the matter is, it is time for us to return home; a home without sweet tea and chicken for breakfast. For those of you who always ask us when we are moving back, this news will come as a nice surprise (although don't think is has gone unnoticed that no one really cared when we were moving back before Zoe arrived). But please temper your excitement with the knowledge of the state of the housing market. Just know that we are trying and that this blog post is probably one of the first public announcements of our plans unless you have taken notice of the subtle link on this blog to the one with house photos.

The truth of the matter is, we would very much like for Zoe to have what we both had growing up, crazy family gatherings, snow days, and nights spent at grandma's (ok, that last one is a little bit for us). The things, that no matter how stunning the weather is, Savannah can never provide.

So, if you or someone you know, is in the market for a home in Savannah, we've got a real gem. We'll leave a glass of sweet tea by the door.

On becoming Marion

I have become my mother, as a mother. The other morning Zoe and I finished up eating breakfast. I was cleaning her face up as I usually really need to do when she is done eating and she is screaming like I am using a Brillo pad as she usually really needs to do. The screaming and flailing about all but guarantees a few spots will be missed but it looked as if a thorough job had been done. As I am putting her in her car seat to head to Cassie's I notice a slight bit of her new favorite topping, pumpkin butter, on the side of her cheek that must have been missed in the meltdown. Now a quiz; upon seeing this did I:

A. Run inside to get a wet napkin
B. Take out a wet nap, that most prepared mothers have at the ready for their kids but I never do, from her diaper bag
C. Lick my thumb and proceed to rub the spit-covered appendage on her face

If you guessed "C" you win. As a child (actually I must admit, although my mother is the one who should be ashamed, well into my teen years) I hated this. Every time she did this to me I asked why she would spit on my face. Why would a mother spit on the face of her child? Really, how sanitary can this be? But there I was, spitting on Zoe. I would like to say that I put my mind to work on other alternatives before I settled on using spit as face cleanser; but I didn't. I just instinctively licked by thumb, like it was in my DNA to do so.

Now for anyone who knows my mother and me, you know that me writing a post that we are alike is a little like me writing a post that the sky is blue. And, even better, me writing a post that I am surprised by having a similar parental instinct is akin to writing a post that I am surprised Zoe throws temper tantrums; I just should've seen it coming.

I sometimes wonder aloud what will be next. Is it inevitable that someday I will tell Zoe to "go outside and blow the stink off herself?" Will I say things like "just two more big bites" in reference to vegetables, no matter how much she has already eaten. Will I let her go on thinking that the special "family mac and cheese" recipe goes back generations when really it is the recipe on the back of the Mueller's box?

In all honesty, I hope so. I hope Zoe looks back on her childhood with me the same way I do with my mother. Sure, my mom did big, important things for me. But what I really remember is pretzel rods from Heritages and how she taught me to swallow a pill when it was the only way to cure my poison ivy. Yeah, her and my dad paid most of my way through college, but that's nothing compared to helping me bake three dozen fortune cookies for a school project she learned about 12 hours before it was due. Sure, she got me through teenage hair angst, but what I remember is hovering around end tables in the den with makeup and hairdryers as we got ourselves ready to go to a play in the only room in the house with air conditioning.

I could go on and on but Zoe is outside and I told her to be "within calling distance." Also, we are having goulash for dinner (see photo) with two big bites of peas on the side.

I love you. Happy mother's day to all the mom's that read this and cheers to all the quirks you have that your child will eventually pass along.

Paybacks are a . . .

Zoe has taken revenge. She is paying me back for the million times I said "give mommy kisses" or "say daddy" or "roll over again". She is playing my game and beating me at it using stamina that only a one-year-old could ever posses. I sing 'Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes' 456,786,955,645 times a day, and that's on weekdays when I work and only see her in the morning and evening. Weekend days that number triples. She could be totally engrossed in something the suddenly the need to hear that song overwhelms her and she puts her hands to her head and screams "EH" meaning, "Mom, I am making a song request." Sometimes and just go ahead and sing it, accepting my fate. Other times I try to win the battle and ignore it or, even funnier, try and reason with Zoe that maybe this is getting a little old. Neither of these strategies work; She has me trained quite well (or maybe beaten down). The blame for all of this lies squarely on the shoulders (and the head, knees and toes) of whoever bought her the Elmo music book where this song was first discovered. I've tried introducing other genres of music (a nice Megadeath song would seem better option) but she unfettered and possibly gunning for a space in Guinness Book of World Records.

So, I guess this week's milestone for those keeping track at home, Zoe now knows parts of the body.

Happy Birthday!

To you, blog! That's right, although I am a couple of days late (so what else is new) the blog has officially turned one. There will be no trip to Chuck-E-Cheese or themed paper products for this celebration (and no corn hole much to the dismay of anyone who was at Zoe's first birthday). However, I would like to take this opportunity to thank everyone who has kept up with it over the last year with a special shout out going to all the commenters. I have had a blast writing it and keeping everyone up to date on our girl. Since the blog started, Zoe has learned to crawl, walk and run. She started eating table food since it began. She has gone from an infant tub on our bathroom counter to practically swimming in a big-person tub. She went from cooing to speaking. She began giving kisses and sitting in a high chair. She has seen two car seats and two strollers. She has visited three states. She turned one. She got her first haircut. She gained six pounds and grew four inches.

It has been a big year. Thank all of you for being part of it.

Rosetta Stone for baby language?

Ball is one of the words in the baby vernacular that Zoe is now saying sporadically. The others are please, mama, daddy and bye-bye. All are uttered only under the duress of some parental prodding and any attempt at getting her to say these words so we can "show off" to our friends and family is met only with silence. We are continuing to do our darndest to introduce a constant stream of words in her lexicon (stopping short of "I hate you", "keys to the car", and any conversation concerning reproductive organs) but it has been a slow process. I assume if I look at the situation from Zoe's perspective, she is saying plenty and it has been a slow process getting me to understand. More frustrating for her I imagine since when I don't understand what she is saying she ends up missing out on something tangible like Teddy Grahams or a coveted bath toy. When I don't think she is saying an actual word, I just miss out on essential blogging material and a mommy moment of giddiness and pride. . . lucky for me I already get plenty of this.

"I got 'em all cut"

***Blogging note - In case you haven't already noticed, despite my best efforts my attempt at posting every day for thirty days has not panned out. Although I have done better than my past posts at once every thirty days, it was certainly a goal too ambitious. My ego is certainly not big enough to think that people were waiting with baited breath for a post that never materialized, however I thought I should make mention that I am aware of my shortcomings. Let the sporadic blogging commence***

It only took 17 months, but Zoe seems to have acquired a pretty attractive head of hair. The early photos on this blog do not do her hair justice, but for anyone who knew her as an infant remembers a tiny baby with shaggy, sparse, sometimes spiky hair. As she grew, her hair took on a Donald Trump-like persona (without the bank account to go with it) complete with the clockwise swirl surrounding a bald spot in the back. Her bangs keep growing down in her face so I have been known to cut it myself. The problems with this idea were many, not the least of which were that Zoe wiggles and moves like she is sitting on thumbtacks, the scissors I used couldn't cut melted butter, and I don't know how to cut hair. The first time I did this, Mike was at work. The next morning before he laid eyes on his daughter the conversation between the two of us went like this:
Me: I cut Zoe's hair yesterday.
Mike: You cut it?
Me: Yes.
Mike: Does it look stupid?
Me: Yes, but it looked stupid before and now it's not in her eyes.
Mike: Good point.
So, this past week I felt it was time; time to get a professional on the case, one who was licensed in this sort of thing and that carried scissors that could actually, well, cut stuff. I found a salon geared specifically for children right in our own backyard. The brightly decorated kiddie salon was outfitted with probably ten TV's all with cartoons on and hair cutting chairs that were either a spaceship or Barbie car motif, akin to the rides outside of grocery stores. Falling smack into gender expectations, we chose the Barbie car but made no special requests on cartoons. I found myself quite jealous as I pay a fortune to get my haircut with none of these luxuries. The woman worked swiftly with quick sprays of water and speedy scissor control. Zoe did awesome, like it was her job. And the results, beautiful! The Don has left the building.

Damn you American Idol

In an attempt at full disclosure and at the risk of looking like, well, a little bit of a loser, I am going to admit that I am just a little teary watching Idol Gives Back. That's right, my TV is set (in HDTV no less) at two and a half hours of weepy montages and appearances from the stars of radio, television and the requisite spattering of WWF wrestlers. So it is with some trepidation that I admit that this show is my muse for this post.

Zoe just turned 17 months old and I am not afraid to admit that she still gets a bottle before bed. That's a little bit of a lie, I typically keep the bottle giving under wraps. At the end of every can of formula (the formula thing is a whole other story) I promise myself that this will be it, that as soon as this can is empty we are breaking the habit; spoken like a true addict. Then, the next grocery shopping trip I find myself in the baby supply isle giving in, once again beginning the cycle. The reality is, Zoe could probably care less. Surely she no longer needs a bottle of formula before bed for nourishment. Experts in the field will tell you that the bottles become a source of comfort for the child, a security blanket of sorts. But frankly the source of comfort is for me. Since Zoe was born, our nighttime routine has remained the same, bath, jammies, bottle in the glider in her room.

As any first-time parent will tell you, raising your first child lends itself to a host of worries and concerns. It's not always a conscience feeling, but everyday there is some acknowledgement of the unpleasant ways in which the world sometimes works. With Zoe in our lives, there is a much more heighten sense of awareness of the proverbial bogeymen then before. So at the end of everyday I give Zoe a bottle, to me representing, if only for a few minutes, the slaying of the scary. The bottle symbolizes a day of success, a day where our daughter has experienced more happiness then not and now ends it squeaky clean, in a comfy bed, with a full belly; a day many other kids don't experience enough.

My name is Rebecca and I give my toddler a bottle. Please, no intervention.

PS. I know I've missed a couple days again. Prepare for this 30-day experiment to creep into May.

I could change the timestamp and fake it

I realize I have missed two days. Technically, I said 30 posts in 30 days, I didn't say there had to be one everyday, not to split hairs. But to be fair, at some point this month I will have two days where there are two each day or two days where there is one really good one each day (note to Zoe, help your mother out and speak your first word this month, or maybe learn to read. I could really use the material).

Anyway, we have Nana and Popa in town for a couple days. Last time they were here Zoe was not quite walking so her mania is a fun surprise for them. Last night at dinner Zoe refused to eat her turkey and veggies obviously savvy to the fact that with a grandmother around she would certainly be able to make an entire dinner out of sweet bread. She was right.

Elephant sounds and squeaky shoes

We are hard at work on the sound a monkey makes and the sound a kitty cat makes. Of course, with these shoes kitty cats tend to take off before they can make too many sounds.

And the academy award goes to. . .

Zoe Fuller for best dramatic performance in a "mom won't let me play with the toaster" or face washing scene. It is certainly fascinating (and just a little funny) to watch a toddler in a throw down tantrum over the most mundane of disappointments. It doesn't happen often but when it does I usually have to gently lower her to the ground so that she can throw her fit without fear of slamming her head on the linoleum. Tonight the big event was the removal of a box of plastics forks from her freakishly strong grip before she stabbed herself in the eye or she tossed them throughout the house. In my calmest mom voice I leaned in and said something to the effect of "No, Zoe, plastic or not, forks are not for childhood play." Cue screaming fit. Frankly, the most comical part of the whole thing is the relatively small duration of the tantrum. I mean, you'd think if you were that upset about something, you would at least have a small pout for a while. No, Zoe manages to compose herself and move on by trying to hunt down more sharp objects in the house. To put everyone's mind at ease, she is usually unsuccessful in this endeavor and settles on playing with the frog that teaches her colors. I will do my best to try and take a photo next time and add to the post.

Day two. . . more updates

Continued from the previous post Zoe updates. . .

6. While I get ready in the morning, Zoe sits in a bouncy chair that she is entirely too big for and plays. Occasionally I will hand her a makeup brush which she pretends to use. Already a diva.

7. Did I mention that she likes to run and scream?

8. The Easter Bunny arrived with two baskets full of candy, one from us and one from my parents. The one from my parents had a special surprise, really annoying toddler shoes. Now, I know you are thinking that shoes are a pretty innocuous gift, how could a simple pair of shoes be annoying? These shoes squeak when Zoe walks. So, on occasion Zoe will be running, screaming and squeaking. The gift only a grandparent would give. Especially a grandparent that lives 1500 miles away.

More tomorrow.

Let the blogging commence

I am quite certain that the few readers of the blog that I did have are now long gone, thoroughly unable or unwilling to put up the immense lapses between posts. I'm sure you are all wondering what happened with the biting as well as what else is new with her other than the random attacks on fellow daycare mates. I have no excuses, I have just been lazy about it. So today I will fill you in on all the answers to your burning questions (or mild curiosities). Also, as an apology to the two or three loyal readers (hi mom, hi Kathy) I am going to make a wholehearted attempt at 30 posts in 30 days. That's right, read about Zoe to you heart's content but take heed, many posts will be boring. Our lives are not action packed so I'll do my best to make eating melon and torturing the dog as colorful as possible. For now, here are a few things I have been remiss in sharing.

1. As sad as it is when good things come and go so fast, I use that knowledge to take comfort in the fact that so do bad things. Zoe, for now, is not much of a biter; to her classmates anyway. She sometimes gets a little frustrated and tries to come after me, but I out-weigh her by a lot so I am much more of a match than poor little Kira was.

2. Our daycare provider is pregnant and while that is great news for her, unfortunately that means then end of the road there for Zoe come the fall. And, for the record, just because she has already been in daycare, does not make it any easier for me to find another stranger for me to leave our daughter with.

3. We've lost an important part of the family. Giant inflatable duck has been retired and Zoe just heads straight into the tub. The final one was actually the great, great grandson of the original since they just kept getting holes and deflating. If I had to blow up one more giant inflatable duck, Zoe may just never have bathed again. Rest in peace, duck.

4. Zoe likes to run, then scream, then run, then scream, then run. . .

5. Her new favorite food, Teddy Grahams. She stands by the pantry door banging on it until she gets her hands on some of those tasty chocolate teddies.

That's all for now. I have to do 30 days worth of posts so I need to spread the updates out. Thanks for your patience, see you tomorrow.

Does Toys R Us sell muzzles?

It's been a long time since my last post. There's no excuse; frankly I have simply been waiting for something to happen that I could write about, something of interest, something that other parents might be able to relate to. Be careful what you wish for as a parent. Never, never hope for interesting. Before I tell the tale of last week, let me don my scarlet letter cloak as it will get me in the mood and remind all the grandparents out there not to snicker as you revel in sweet revenge.

So last week, Tuesday to be exact, I pick up Zoe from daycare. I notice her daycare pal, Kira, has a mark on her cheek. "Poor girl" I think to myself, must have been injured. We go home, make dinner, and happily play. Just another day (sans teething crankiness and a dreadful case of diarrhea). The next day, Wednesday, seems the same. I go to Cassie's to pick up Zoe. "Hey, Cassie," I say cheerfully. Then she said it. "Ummm. . ." Cassie stumbles. "Zoe has been biting."
Zoe has been biting. This means I am the mother of the biter. She is that child. I am that mother. "Yeah, " Cassie continues, "She bit Kira yesterday on the cheek and Carter today." My faced gets flushed as the memory of Kira's face comes back to haunt me. She shows me Carter's arm. CSI would have a field day with this evidence. I'm not sure what I said at that point. I think I mumbled something to the effect of "she never does anything like that at home" and "I'm sorry, I just can't believe it" and some other nonsensical tirade that only a mother who has been truly humiliated by her child would understand. Then I left with my sweet baby in my arms wondering how this innocent child turned into the Wayne Arnold of Cassie's daycare.

She managed to make it through Thursday without incident; maybe the other kids were the ones who learned a lesson and just stayed away. Either way, I was glad and I have learned that the ultimate lesson as a parent is this, you are always in a glass house. When Zoe gets her inevitable biting, I will keep my stones to myself.

We also has a 15-month appointment today. Here are the stats:
Zoe "the bruiser" Fuller weighing in at 22lbs 14 ounces, 31 1/4 in.

Lunch, check; diapers, check; mom in tears, check

Dropping your baby off at daycare flies in the face of all that is right in nature. Since the beginning of time, mothers protected their young; kept them safe from harm. Animals, are famously protective of their offspring. I'm no zoologist, but I hardly think mama bear drops her cubs off for the day at a den a few miles away so she can go hunting. However, I am part of modern-day life, a statistic of the middle class where both parents work and the child heads off to be looked after by some qualified person who is CPR certified and keeps meticulous data on bowel movements. Last Tuesday Zoe started going to the home of a very nice woman named Cassie. Cassie has a son the same age as Zoe and watches two other children also the same age. I feel comfortable in our decision to place her in this home and am confident in the fact that she will thrive there. Does it sound like I am running for office on the daycare platform? Here's what really happened:

The night before I was so worried and anxious about this whole thing I could barely eat. My thoughts were consumed with what lunch I could pack that would best convey my love for her. I settled on a peanut butter sandwich and some melon. I wrote her name on everything with a Sharpie even though there are only three other children there and I would have exceedingly more to worry about than losing stuff if this woman couldn't keep track of four sippies. I left a note to remind myself to bring her favorite blankie. I picked out a perfect outfit; one that said, I would like to meet new friends but would also be comfortable enough play in. Then I cried and headed off to bed. The next morning I set my sites on being enthusiastic lest Zoe get some bad vibes about the situation. I sounded like a bad actress from some B movie when I bounded in her room saying "Are you excited about going to Miss Cassie's and meeting your new friends?!?!" Zoe gave me some weird look like I had started the morning with a few Bloody Marys but she seemed OK so far. After breakfast we gathered her things and drove off, my stomach in knots and tears welling up. I kept explaining to her how lucky she was and what a good time she was going to have. Her only response was "nah." I took that as "what kind of mother would leave her baby with a stranger." But I pressed on.

We got there and got settled in. I gave Cassie a quick overview of her lunch and how I had packed Goldfish for a snack. I think my overview was probably more like a dissertation, my though was maybe if I talked long enough I wouldn't have to leave. But then it was time. I crouched down, told Zoe I couldn't love her more and started to walk out, and then she did it; she started crying. I tried to keep that same B movie persona going but it was no use, if I didn't walk out then I was going to lose it in front of her ruining my tale of good times, so I left. And I cried on and off for the next few hours as I envisioned her in the depths of despair wondering where her mother was and why had she left her.

For anyone who has ever gone through this, you probably know how this story ends. I called Cassie at 11am ready for her to tell me that I needed to come back, that Zoe was inconsolable, but that is not what she said. No, apparently Zoe cried for about three minutes and then got right to playing. At the time of my call, she was taking a nap.

This is how things have gone for the last two weeks sans my crying. Zoe cries just enough to make me feel guilty and then starts playing. For a few days she would cry when we came to get her. I think she does that for her own amusement. I no longer need notes to remind me what to bring and Cassie pretty much has her lunch down pat. I'll get the Valium ready for kindergarten.