All things Zoe

Who, what, when, where and why

2010-06-05T21:20:00.003-04:00

You know you've been really delinquent about updating a blog when your husband and father make mention of it. To illustrate, the last time I wrote a post we had three feet of snow on the ground; today it was 90 degrees and Zoe and I spent a good part of the day in the pool. Once again, I'll try and get better. Now on to the quarterly post.

The definition of a question: a sentence in an interrogative form, addressed to someone in order to get information in reply. "In order to get information" is really the key here. Zoe asks me somewhere in the neighborhood of sixty-two thousand questions in a day and none of them seem to be in an effort to gain information. Questions, quid pro quo sorts of conversations, should really involve some sort of development of intellect. Questions, when Zoe is involved, actually chip away at intellect (and sanity) until your intellect is a puddle of nothing, scampering out the door to avoid further damage.

Questions normally take on a linear form; question gets asked, answer gets replied. I am learning that the mind of a three-year-old works more circularly, the way a sink hole might. Here is one of today's samples:
Me (mumbling to myself, I should learn not to do this): I wonder if I should change lanes?
Zoe: What did you say mommy?
Me: I was wondering if if I should change lanes.
Zoe: Change lanes?
Me: Yes
Zoe: Why are you changing lanes?
Me: Because I want to get around this traffic.
Zoe: Why do you want to get around traffic?
Me: Because it's slowing us down.
Zoe: Why are we slowing down?
Me: Because of the traffic
Zoe: Why is there traffic?
Me (while I am changing lanes): I'm not sure
Zoe: Why are you changing lanes?
Me: Because of the traffic
You can sort of see where this is going.

Normally the questions are more inane. Why is this cup blue? Where are those people (strangers) going? Why are you wearing that shirt? There are no real answers, not good ones anyway. And while I attempt to stop the onslaught of questions with answers (she must be satisfied with one of my conclusions), this strategy works about as well as shooting cement and old tires into a oil leak, I just simply get more questions. I am afraid one day I will have a nightmare where I am talking to Zoe only to have her pull off her Zoe mask revealing she is really Bill Clinton who will then proceed to ask me what the definition of "is" is.

I suppose the inane questions should be a relief. Some day I will be fielding questions involving
existentialism and where babies come from. I anticipate that they will be markedly more difficult to answer than why is my plate is green.

For now, anticipate a post about how the onslaught of questions sometimes deteriorates into my parental pack of lies (all the kids are leaving the playground) and of course I always have the tried and true, because I'm your mother and I said so. Let's just say, I love you Zoe, no question.

Someone give me a hot toddy

2010-02-13T20:57:00.003-05:00

New Jersey is really cold. Yeah, yeah, Savannah just got a "once in a decade" inch of snow. But if memory serves me right (and how couldn't it, it has only been five months) that snow will be melted by a nice 70 degree day. With two feet on the ground now, New Jersey is expecting another eight inches on Monday. Awesome. With our incredibly bad luck in the real estate market, it isn't a stretch that Mike and I, after living seven years in the south, would move back north just in time for the worst winter this area has ever seen.

Zoe seems to be OK with it and Sadie just wants to be able to pee without collapsing in a drift that is taller than she is. She doesn't ask for much.

So back to how cold it is here (did I mention it was cold?). Zoe is three and three year olds like to play in the snow, they like to make snowmen, they are just fine with school being cancelled. I remember this. I remember playing in the snow for hours, toes so frozen one wrong move could chip them right off. I remember patiently listening to KYW radio to hear my school closing number (802 by the way) in anticipation of a day off. I remember coming in the house soaking wet and stripping down; one by one icy, wet clothes landing on the radiator. Things are pretty much the same here, I just have a different perspective. First, I like circulation in my feet. Sure, I can still make a mean snowman but you have to be outside in the winter to do it and that seems to be my problem. I also don't remember having to shovel when I was a kid (I guess I should thank my parents for that, Zoe won't get off so easy). And while I am keeping an eye out on school closings, it certainly isn't because I am hoping school is cancelled.

So the day begins (feel free to pick any of the numerous days where there has been over a foot of snow on the ground). Breakfast is lengthy as I stall hoping for some incredible warm up before Mike and I have to go out and face a driveway that miraculously seems to grow to the size of a football field when you have to shovel it. We all begin the incredible task of getting snow clothes on. I've learned to get myself ready after Zoe because putting 17 layers on a child will really cause you to work up a sweat. I wonder silently when I will be a. rich enough to hire someone to contend with the winter wonderland and b. when Zoe can go outside by herself. I quickly check the computer, nope school is still cancelled. Then we head out shovel, throw a few snowballs at each other (although not this last time, those were particularly icy), build a snowman (two actually, one regulation man with Zoe and one small, kinda freaky-looking one Mike and I built on our neighbors yard after a couple glasses of wine) and enjoy the winter; if you can't beat 'em join 'em. Zoe has even taken to sledding and has become pretty fearless.

Ok, so if it going to be cold I guess it should at least be historic (that is what I keep telling myself when I am tempted to check the weather in Savannah).

Also I wanted to send a Valentine's Day shout out to my two favorite people; Zoe, the muse for the blog, and my husband Mike who has no say what I write here and loves me anyway. I love the both of you very much no amount of conversation hearts could express how much you mean to me. Be mine.

I haven't posted since last decade. . .

2010-01-23T21:27:00.006-05:00

. . . which should come as no surprise. "But Rebecca", you say, "you are not even working. You are home all day with a three year old. The inspiration for your blog posts should be endless so you should be writing publish-worthy prose everyday; regaling your readers (all three of them) with witty stories about the life of a preschooler." The reason (excuse) is simply, I've found, because when you are in the forest you can't always see the proverbial trees. When I was a working parent the time I spent with Zoe was minimal compared to today's standard. Therefore, every movement, all the "kids say the darnedest things" moments, and every accomplishment and failure as a parent glowed brighter than the boring Tuesday work meetings at a silly desk job.

Now my job, albeit unpaid, is Zoe; all Zoe All the Time is the company name. The hours are brutal, the pay is lousy and the main client is demanding. But strangely enough, one of the most surprising parts of the new job is that the moments with Zoe are so often, each fails to stand out. My weak analogy is this: If someone on the street were to randomly hand me a thousand dollars I'd think I just won the lottery, look around nervously to make sure I wasn't being followed now that I was carrying such a large sum of money and open a Swiss bank account. Bill Gates probably would act differently.

So, in an effort to always remember each day, carpe diem so to speak, here is a timeline of Zoe and my day.

7:30-8:00am - "Moooommmmy" Zoe is more than capable of hoping out of bed but calls for me to come to, I don't know, escort her downstairs.

8:15 am - coffee in hand I try, usually with great futility, do a quick check on Facebook while I think to myself in my office job this time would have been spent checking important email (who the hell am I kidding, I was checking Facebook then too)

8:45 am - She wants breakfast, toast with peanut butter and "she's a big kid, she wants to help!" I hand her a plastic knife and a piece of bread and watch her cover herself in a peanut buttery mess.

9:30 am- I need a shower (and a whole hell of a lot of more coffee). On goes Barney (which requires a long shower so I don't have to watch it).

10:00 am - What are we going to do today ("mommy! Look at me!)

10:15 am - What are we going to do today, it's freezing cold ("Mommy! I'm going to get you!)

10:30 am - Oh my God, I have to get out of this house ("Mommy! I need a snack)

11:45 am - Off to the indoor play area. A recreation area that can basically is a business based off the fact that they secured a loan to afford more toys than I can. I love it an loath it simultaneously.

1:00 pm - Time to leave, cue meltdown.

1:15 pm - Make lunch. "I want the flower plate. No! The orange flower plate"

1:20 pm - "Mommy, so what's new?" huh?

2:00 pm - NAP! Cue dancing

4:00 pm- Break over "mommy!"

4:30 pm - Playdough time. Or doctor time. Or let's play waitress time. Or coloring time.

5:30 pm - Dinner. Possibly I have something planned. Probably I don't. Pizza, chicken fingers, pasta or. . . no, they are usually the only choices.

6:30 pm - "mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy" "Zoe, what?!" "I love you, you're a nice person." "I love you too, Zoe" "I love you too Rebecca"

7:45 pm - Caillou the creepy, whiny bald boy comes on signally the beginning of the end of my day.

8:12 pm - (Yeah, Caillou on on Demand lasts 27 minutes). Bathtime. Bath is ready, Zoe runs away from me for a half hour.

8:35 pm - Clean, in bed, two books (one at nap, two at bed). "Zoe I have to go now." "No, I need you!"

9:00 pm- 13 hours later, my day is done.

Goodnight, boss. I love you.

Lazy post alert! Lazy post alert!

2009-12-14T22:10:00.002-05:00

Settling in

2009-11-11T21:56:00.003-05:00

Yeah, ok. . . just because we have started a new life doesn't mean my lackadaisical blogging habits have changed. For those of you keeping score at home, you'll notice that I have missed her birthday. That's a first even for me. I can't make up for that, but I can do a brief recap of the last two months. Zoe turned. . . wait for it. . . three! So, I went to the hospital one day, got completely exhausted for a couple of months, blinked, and my baby turned three. Frankly I am a little nervous as every parent with a child four or older (and that is a lot) has felt the need to mention to me how horrible three is. With that said, here there is only big girl (and boy, wouldn't want anyone thinking Mike is sleeping in a crib) beds in this house and diapers during the day are just a faint memory. Quick note about potty training for those of you thinking that it would be a no-brainer to have a blog post dedicated to it. It was so easy (she says as she knocks wood or at least the 50-year-old metal table at which she is typing) that the post would have no substance. Here is the summary: We moved to New Jersey, went to Target, bought about $6,000 worth of Elmo underwear, put them on Zoe and in two days later it was done. Ok, moving on. Zoe has also started at a school two days a week in preparation for the one day that I might find a job (although I think buying lottery tickets is seeming like a better plan).

So for now, for the first time since Zoe was two months old, I am a stay at home mom. Let's get some of the stereotypes out of the way. I do not eat bon bons and I do not watch "my stories." I don't cook any better than when I was working, in fact, I am not sure I am even a better mother. I have been caught in a strange world of the in between; not quite ready to find a mom group, and really not yet working. I enjoy being home with Zoe, then quickly catch myself and feel guilty about not working. I want to have a job, then quickly catch myself for ever thinking I need more fulfillment than this. I am reminded of a time when I was devastated about going back to work after Zoe was born and a friend reminded me that at least I will get to have a relaxing cup of coffee while in conversation with adults. I miss that. But, with that said, I know someday I will be back in the rat race, commuting, dressing up and facing deadlines. I will be back in the world where people are hard to please, where a couple games of "hide from the dog in the tent" is not welcome. I will miss days filled with Play dough and finger paints. I will be in a meeting in a conference room wishing I was in a race at the playground. I will be feeding egos instead of ducks. I will be "doing" lunch instead of enjoying it; and I will miss this time.

So for now, Zoe and I are attached at the proverbial hip (with the exception of Tuesdays and Thursdays when she is in school) and the man of the house is paying the bills. I am no Carol Brady, my days are not always happy endings. But everything is worth it at the end of the day when I climb into bed with my daughter, read her a bedtime story only to have her tell me that I can't leave because, as she says, "I love you so much".

I love you too, Zoe. Happy belated birthday.

Home Sweet Home

2009-09-24T22:24:00.002-04:00

Well, we made it. After many goodbyes and an incredibly lengthy, two-day drive, we are finally in the Garden State. So far, so good. It is still pretty warm even though we are thoroughly aware that there is a winter here and it will be coming soon. At least one of us is gainfully employed even though the commute is a killer. And we are living in a really nice house for pennies on the dollar (thanks mom and dad). For Zoe it's like Christmas; grandparents, no school, staying up until 9:30 and a backyard that is a hell of a lot bigger than our apartment deck. Sadie is even happy and will most assuredly will not be attempting to jump out of any windows any time soon because really, why would she want to leave and my mother would seriously kill her, and I think she knows that.

I am a little misty when I think of the fact that Zoe will never remember her time in Savannah. She'll have no recollection of her boyfriend Patrick from Calvary. She won't remember Oatland Island or Forsyth. She'll never know her first house. This is where she will truly begin her life.

So, I have tried to get that life started. Since we have been here we have found her a doctor, we have looked at new schools, and she has already made some neighborhood friends. I hope these small, but important first steps will get her new life on the road to a happy one, although I don't think she will ever forgive us for the winter for which she is utterly unprepared; she owns one sweater and no coat.

So if you find yourself in the Philly metro area, stop by for a visit. Oh, and we are in on the joke. . . we are located between exit two and three. We have no sweet tea or country fried steak but we can get our hands on a mean cheesesteak or a soft pretzel.

Welcome to New Jersey.

Cha. .. cha. . . cha. . . changes

2009-09-13T21:14:00.002-04:00

This will be my last zoekat blog post from Savannah, the city where it all began and the only place that Zoe has really ever known. I could go on about the changes that have happened since she has been born here, that blog is hers after all. But I think I will save that for her birthday or my typical blog anniversary post. Because the reality is, in my mind, Zoe's life began when Mike and my relationship did, and really that was seven years ago.

So, this blog will be dedicated to the city and the people that created, nurtured, and made our family what it is today. It is dedicated to Paul, and the job that got us here, Carl, our first friend, and the Commons apartments, where we first lived. It is dedicated to the Sand Gnats for a year of a crazy work schedule and for five years of fun. It is dedicated to the Hammocks where the wedding planning happened and where the stinky boys fell after the bachelor party. It is dedicated to Suzy, Sarah and Tammy, the best of friends and Lauren and Kathleen, friends I don't see often enough. And with mixed emotions, it is dedicated to two hard-to-sell houses.

We'll miss the places and the scenes. The networking lunches and bars we've haven't been to in three years. It is dedicated to Coach's Corner and The Rail, Corleon's where we found out we were having a girl and the many bars in which I came to the drunken realization that I was 30. It is dedicated to Dr. Semple who delivered our girl and Casey and Calvary who helped her grow.

It is dedicated to eMarketSouth and Chili's and the people who made them both more bearable (thanks, Doy, Joe and Spy). It is dedicated to easy rides to the beach and picnics in the park. It is dedicated to Sean and Tara who joined us for a while and Kenny, Joe, Jesse, Billy and Royce who made it more fun.

It is dedicated to the neighbors we had, the friends we made and the fabulous weather we enjoyed. It is dedicated to the Y and playdates(you, Steph); slumber parties and showers. It is dedicated to Live Oaks and St. Patrick's Day. It is dedicated to Buy Local and Carriage Trade. It is dedicated to the Hostess City and all it's weird, wonderful quirks.

Yeah, this one wasn't all that witty or introspective in the life of a parent. Really, I'm feeling a little sad, a whole lot sentimental and not very creative. I just wanted to say good bye and this was the best I could do. So good bye crazy screaming man who walks through the squares yelling about damnation. Good bye Vinnie's. Good bye "I hate getting stuck behind them" trolley tours. Good bye to everyone we love that I haven't mentioned here. Hello new life.

Thank you Savannah. We'll miss you.

Maybe Bobby McFerrin was right

2009-07-31T22:03:00.002-04:00

In my parenting circles I hear (and say) a lot of things about the energy it takes to raise a child. Phrases like "I wish I could bottle that energy" and "Life is so hectic with kids". Now, let there be no doubt that both of these statements are true. Monday mornings I would certainly like to take a swig from a bottle labeled "Zoe's energy". And there is no doubt that weekday mornings no longer involve languishing in front of the Today Show with my coffee while I ponder what outfit I might like to wear that day and still getting to work on time. Truth be told, I am a tired maniac most mornings, happy to make it to work before noon, and have little time to turn on the shower much less the TV. But slowly I am learning a very important lesson from Zoe which is simply this: Don't rush to catch up with her, slow down to see her. Yeah, I hear ya. Anyone with a kid, and it probably does not matter what age that child is, is thinking that slow down is certainly not part of their lexicon unless it is in the sentence "I can't wait until little Johnny is off to college so I can slow down." But I really think the slow down method can work so I've slowly been trying to implement it.

An example: We take Sadie (the dog who comes with her own set of issues) on walks often. If it is just me and Sadie we can take care of business pretty quickly. We walk, she sniffs, and if she starts falling behind she has a choke collar (and no, I'm not suggesting choke collars for children). Now let's do the same walk and add Zoe. Every stick becomes a source of fascination, every leaf needs to be collected, and often the direction we are going in, even if it's in the direction of back home, gets called into question. Before the slow down plan this would be annoying. Every walk I average about 3,345 times saying "Zoe, let's go!" or "Stay with mommy" (talking about myself in the third person since I've had Zoe will be another post). So lately I have been wondering why I do this. Maybe that stick is interesting. Maybe it's from a rare tree. It doesn't matter, the point is, as a harried adult with too much Internet, meetings, bills, cell phone calls, and obligations, I've lost the ability to stop for a second and enjoy the simple joy of a stick. I complain about the rain while Zoe asks me to put her car window down in a monsoon so she can get "soaking wet". I clean while she wants to play. I rush while she savors.

Where is this all coming from you might ask. Well today, while I was griping about the sixth day of rain that doesn't come until just as I'm leaving work to get Zoe thereby leaving us trapped indoors at night, Zoe says to me, "Mommy, just be happy". Yeah, you'd get a plan pretty quick too.

So, if you are at my office and see me in my pj's (as Zoe went to school today; it was pj day) surrounded by a collection of really cool sticks, you'll know why. But don't get there too early, I am slowing down my mornings.

And so it goes. . .

2009-07-21T21:22:00.004-04:00

This post has been a long time coming so admittedly I am a little overwhelmed with where to begin. I guess I should begin be thanking my friend and fellow blogger, Tiffany for so creatively reminding me (guilting me) about just how long it has been since the last post. So I'm writing now to avoid the next post being about taking Zoe to college. I could once again make an empty promise about posting more often, but I will refrain. Instead I will say that although they are not captured as often as they once were, the glorious, frustrating, funny, and maddening moments still occur. And, since Tiffany was the catalyst, I am stealing your idea.

Dear Zoe:
If you are an adult who is now reading this blog, you are surely thinking that most of your third year of live was pretty uneventful considering how infrequently I have blogged about it. Nothing could be further from the truth. Let me begin by mentioning that Michael Jackson has died since I last posted. Yeah, I know you have no idea who I am talking about and the word Moonwalk will never enter your lexicon; but it was a big deal to your old, uncool parent's generation so I thought I should mention it.

Ok, about you. After two very scary misplacements of the blankie at school, you have quit bringing it. That's right, your school gave it to the wrong kid twice, both on Friday afternoons. You were probably not worried, you knew I would get it back. I, on the other hand panicked as if my car just got stolen and was one step away from calling 911 and attaching a GPS system to the damn thing when we finally got it returned. Big news and I'm proud of you for not needing it anymore (at school anyway).

Potty training, well that is hit or miss, at home anyway. At school, you could win medals for you potty proficiency. Your teachers must have a special drug that I am not aware of. At home when I ask if you need to pee pee on the potty your response is, "no thank you". While I appreciate the use of good manners, it's not really the answer I am looking for. Stickers seem to help, and of course when we are at a restaurant, store, or you just don't feel like going to bed, you are really good at pee peeing on the potty, or at least taking a visit to the bathroom .

You do a lot of unexplainable, hysterically strange things that could only come from the mind of a two and a half year old. You call your fruit snacks, snack food. You tell me you want to eat my face. You crack up when you fart (your bum is talking) and you walk around with a pretend dog on Sadie's leash. Since my last post, you swim by yourself in the pool thanks to your life jacket (who goes by fishy) and you have back to nana and poppa's for vacation.

Whew, there. Except for the major change that will be discussed in a later post, I think I've got everything. I'll start posting more, promise!

Happy 2nd Birthday. . .

2009-04-23T21:24:00.004-04:00

Blog! That's right, although sporadic posting may make it seem like the blog is younger than it's years, it is in fact the ripe old age of two. As I look back to the 1st birthday blog post I am amazed, really amazed at the changes in the star of this story. Looking back, seeing how far we've come, me as a mother and her as a person, is helpful in those moments of my wondering if I'm doing this all right. With my steadfast partner in all of this, Mike, aka Zoe's dad, I am.

I read past posts and fondly remember the days of repeatedly singing heads, shoulders, knees and toes; a request made by Zoe in the only way she could at the time, "eh!" Now requests are more like, "Mommy I want some crackers, please" or "Mommy, go now!" and songs are not requested, they are sung. Back then I was impressed she was learning body parts, now she knows body functions and is in the throws of potty training (which at the very least deserves it's own blog post). She is still messy, but can clean her own face. She still gets timeouts but I'm much better of knowing when to give them. She is still crazy, but now puts a voice to it. In the last year, she ditched the high chair, she learned to ride her bike, and has moved up a room in the new daycare. She counts to eight and knows (for the most part) her ABC's.

Year three there will be more posting, promise. For now, close your eyes and make a wish, blog. Strap on the party hat and break out the balloons. I think we are at the start of another great year.

Singing and counting

2009-04-01T20:57:00.002-04:00

I was a really good mom. . .

2009-03-13T21:44:00.005-04:00

before I had kids. This is the title of a book I came across one day in Barnes and Noble. I only perused the book, I didn't buy it; I didn't have to. The title said it all, and it was all true. This is not to say I don't think of myself as a good mom, I mean I have my moments. But the age of two, while not terrible, is unexpected. Sometimes unexpected in the way that a surprise delivery of flowers from your husband can be, wonderfully unexpected. And sometimes unexpected in the way a car accident can be when some jackass decides they suddenly need to be in your lane, painfully unexpected.

I've been spoiled. Zoe, until recently, has been a fairly reasonable and well-behaved child. I thought it was because I was so good at this. I was wrong. She is Paul Newman in The Hustler, luring me in so when she finally decided to become a maniac, I would be totally off my game. Enjoy what I have been surprised by.

1. Bad decision making skills. OK, you asked for strawberries. Strawberries are good and you've eaten them many times. They are not cookies, so when you request them I am happy to oblige. Why, in the name of all that's holy, do you flip out when I actually bring them to you after you ask for them. This is the question I ask myself often. I think she has set up a hidden camera somewhere and brings the video into daycare to have a good laugh with her friends. "Watch here when I beg my mom for juice only to throw the sippy and fall down into a fierce tantrum when she brings it to me! Hahaha! Good stuff, pass the popcorn!"

2. It takes me an hour to do what should take 10 minutes (see number 1 and 4).

3. Repeating. Zoe has yet to say I love you to either myself or Mike (unless you count the Barney song. I really don't) despite the many times we've said it to her. But just one time call her a psycho and now everyone is psycho. There are many times in a day I have to answer the following questions: "Is Zoe psycho?" No baby, Zoe is not psycho. "Is mommy psycho?" She is getting there. "Is daddy psycho?" He must be for ever using this word around you. "Is Sadie psycho?" Yeah, baby, Sadie is psycho.

4. Zoe do it. Aside from how odd it is that she talks about herself in the third person this phrase can be cute or maddening. Saturday morning when she wants to put on her shoes, cute. Monday morning when she wants to make her own breakfast and drive herself to daycare, maddening. I have a sneaking suspicion this phase will end right around the time she actually has the capability to help out around here.

5. Snot and dirt. I was great a keeping snot at bay and keeping my kid in spotless matching outfits. . . before I had her. Prior to actually having a child, I would recoil from an oncoming kid with a continuously runny nose. I would roll my eyes at children in dirty, mismatched outfits. I don't do this anymore.

6. Hysterical, "where does she come up with this" stuff. And then there's the good. Like the other day when she wanted her poopy diaper (yeah, I say this more often than I ever thought possible) changed in a particularly awkward position. When I voiced my concern to her I got this response, "mommy, let's just try it."

Yes, my little psycho, we'll just keeping on trying.

Thanks for the memories

2009-01-24T21:21:00.003-05:00

As I mentioned in a previous post, I recently joined the social networking site, Facebook. Many of the readers of the blog are also members but for those who may not be familiar, here's a brief description. Facebook connects friends, old and new, through a simple interface allowing status updates, notes, and photos. The photo feature being the catalyst for this entry.

On my Facebook page I have pictures of myself, Mike and of course Zoe along with some other friends. In my mind, that was the intention of creating a photo upload feature on Facebook, to pick and choose the modern-day photos in which you look your best; like going to a high school reunion with the Staples easy button to look fabulous upon entry. I was wrong. I can not believe my fingers are even able to type this, but I graduated from college14 years age. High school, well that was four years before that, 18 years ago. I guess it's because of this fact, I thought I may be safe from photos of those times resurfacing to the masses by way of technology. Why? Well photos from those days are not preserved on fancy digital cameras. No, they did not exist. Nor did thumb drives, websites or email. Hell, I think floppy disks were just coming off the production line and they were only able to hold a file the size of a small Word (or was it Word Perfect) document. No, I slept soundly at night knowing those photos of me and my highly teased hair cemented with the Aqua Net that came in the pink "we don't care to 'go green'" aerosol spray can were only available in my attic, in a book, covered in plastic film.

Then, last week I logged on to see me "tagged" in a photo. It was me and my college roomates, and I wept. The photos were exposed, they were scanned. You don't really realize how old you are until you see a photo of yourself that you really don't remember being taken that long ago looking grainy, like it was a poloroid. We were covered in flannel, the grunge style of the day. We had big hair, obviously we had not put down the Aqua Net just yet. I can't be positive, but I believe I saw peg legged jeans (those from my generation will certainly remember this, no matter how hard they have tried to forget). We looked like 80's female lumberjacks, frankly, all ready for a night of partying. Nice.

Ok, ok. . . that was college. Fine, the photos are out, people who known me now have seen them (even the young whippersnappers I work with who are not yet capable of being embarrassed by college photos), and they have been dealt with. But the madness is not ending. Suddenly old high school friends are following suit. I am being "tagged" in photos posted by people I haven't seen in 20 years. These photos are two decades old. Yes, I look young, but that is really hard to appreciate when you are also looking at your hair in the same picture along with the white dress with the sheer white sleeves. What's next? Does someone have prom pics so I can have nightmares about the hot pink sequined number I wore? Will someone be posting photos of my Debbie Gibson stage when I thought her hat was cool? Does anyone out there have proof that I wore parachute pants or Frankie Goes to Hollywood tee shirts?

All of this got me to thinking, what will Zoe have to look forward to when she is decades out of high school? What technology will others from the class of 2024 use to disseminate old photos in the year 2041? What will she be embarrassed by and what styles will make me cringe when I see them return on my daughter. Neon? Leg warmers? Ridiculously ugly and large plastic ear rings? I like to think of her future although it's hard to believe Zoe will ever be old enough to be in the position I am right now. I envision her looking through this blog and rolling her eyes at me, asking my what kind of mother would put her in these clothes (and I don't mean the fish costume).

My advice to her: avoid the trends, the camera and the Aqua Net.

2008-12-20T21:31:00.003-05:00

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

2008-12-17T18:34:00.003-05:00

How Zoe and I communicate (and some other stuff)

2008-11-13T20:55:00.003-05:00

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

2008-11-06T14:24:00.002-05:00

Happy Birthday, Zoe Katherine!

Witnessing History

2008-11-04T16:22:00.003-05:00

**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??

2008-09-30T13:09:00.004-04:00

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?

2008-09-11T21:11:00.003-04:00

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

2008-09-02T20:50:00.003-04:00

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

Vacation II

2008-08-14T11:04:00.008-04:00

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

2008-07-14T20:25:00.004-04:00

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

2008-07-13T20:51:00.005-04:00

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

2008-06-17T22:13:00.002-04:00

2008-06-03T13:32:00.003-04:00

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

2008-05-11T21:05:00.007-04:00

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 . . .

2008-05-05T21:07:00.002-04:00

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!

2008-04-27T15:38:00.003-04:00

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?

2008-04-18T16:29:00.005-04:00

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"

2008-04-15T21:09:00.009-04:00

***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

2008-04-09T20:47:00.002-04:00

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

2008-04-07T16:24:00.002-04:00

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

2008-04-04T21:00:00.004-04:00

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. . .

2008-04-03T20:36:00.004-04:00

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

2008-04-02T13:40:00.002-04:00

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

2008-04-01T20:54:00.002-04:00

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?

2008-02-25T19:52:00.002-05:00

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

2008-01-18T20:35:00.000-05:00

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.

It's New Year's Eve, where is the lampshade for my head?

2007-12-31T20:21:00.000-05:00

Notice the timestamp; It is 8:30pm on New Year's Eve and I am updating a blog, having some creme soda (that will turn to Chardonnay soon) and anxiously awaiting my husband to get home. Yup, a far cry from years gone by when I was sitting on a bar stool in Manhattan with a million of my closest friends or in a hotel room at the base of a mountain drinking to calm my nerves about my first ski lesson happening the next day (note: easy New Year's resolution alert, don't go to NY for New Year's Eve and only ski again when I am doing it in hell because it just froze over). No, this year is different. The only confetti I will see will be on television and I will only get a taste of the Big Apple through Dick Clark's Rockin' Eve. There are only two people I "party" with these days and one is at work and the other, well she is sleeping soundly, oblivious to fireworks and frivolity and acutely uninterested in calendar changes.

I have no New Year's Eve resolutions; I find it to be a particularly masochistic practice as it almost inevitably results in failure and goals unachieved. Besides, this year my accomplishments all belong to Zoe and seeing what she has done in one year would surely overshadow any trite resolution that I might come up with. Really, how do you compare "lose weight" with "learning to walk" or "save money" with "understand language"? Impossible. So instead of such predictable and annoyingly unattainable resolutions I will simply watch Zoe and allow her to continue to inspire me. Instead of "eat more spinach" I will look at Zoe and understand what it is like to have to repeatedly get up when you fall. Instead of vaguely aspiring to "learn something new" I look at my daughter and get a keen understanding of just how much work that takes and stand in awe of why it is so worth it.

Happy New Year's Eve!
Cheers to a New Year and another chance for us to get it right. --Oprah Winfrey

A Red Rider BB gun?! You'll shoot your eye out, kid!

2007-12-04T21:11:00.000-05:00

What's the matter, little one? It's the most wonderful time of the year! You know, sugar plums dancing, chestnuts popping, all the Whos in Whoville celebrating. Ah, wait a minute; you two haven't been formally introduced. Last time you met you were asleep and, well, it has been a year. This is Santa Clause. . . aka, St. Nick. His job is to bring all the good little girls and boys gifts on Christmas morning. My guess is that your Christmas list consists of get me off the lap of this crazy man who thinks it is appropriate to wear a velvet suit in 80-degree Savannah weather and for me to let you play in the bathroom cabinets at will, but soon that will all change. I promise one day I will use Santa to blackmail you into behaving. . . ummm, what I meant to say was, one day you will find the magic in this man who is so generous with his love for the children of the world. You will write a letter to him detailing all your Christmas wishes and leave him cookies on Christmas Eve. You will pick your favorite reindeer (those are the animals that help him get all over the world, kind of like big Sadies but with antlers and the ability to fly. They are also probably much better on a leash) and you will be pleading to sit on his lap. I know, it seems a little strange, and after the fish costume incident I can't really blame you for not trusting me. But one day you will understand the enchantment of this season; you will believe, as all children do, in the inherent beauty of the holiday and find happiness in all that is right with the world. Yes, Zoe, there is a Santa Clause.

She did not read. . .

2007-11-13T20:04:00.000-05:00

Zoe apparently did not read the blog and did indeed turn one. I wonder what goes through the head of a one-year-old during their birthday party. From what I understand, these parties take all forms; there are events that rival the Academy Awards and there small soirees that consist of the obligatory mini cake and paper plates covered in Disney characters. Zoe's more closely resembled the latter. Either way, one thing is certain; the guest of honor has no idea what the hell is going on. On Zoe's big day she woke up from her afternoon nap, probably expecting a quick round of "kitty cat" hunt and some chicken fingers but instead came out of her room to a house full of people, a mound of presents and the paparazzi. She eventually took a seat in her new big-girl chair and took to the presents with abandon (well, more the present packaging). After the truckload of gifts were open, she did in fact have her chicken fingers but then was presented with a dessert the likes of which she has never seen. She started slowly with that cupcake but soon was diving in like she was Betty Crocker herself. All the while people were standing around her highchair, staring at the remarkable site, and using all available technology to capture the moment. And the moment was wonderful.

To make it official, we had her 12-month doctor's appointment yesterday. She is 21lbs 9ounces and 31 inches long. Her head is still really big. She had four shots and a blood draw and I find myself wondering if nurses get paid in relation to how long it takes to take blood; it seemed like an hour and I feel like I showed remarkable restraint in not outright slugging her. But Zoe took it like a champ.

Our little girl is one.

A Mother's Plea. . .

2007-10-30T20:48:00.000-04:00

Dear Zoe:
You are almost one. In light of this fact I am writing to ask a favor of you. It's a big favor but please hear me out before you answer right away. Here it goes; please stop growing up so fast. That's it. I don't think it is too much to ask. I mean, really, what's the rush? Sure, when you get older you'll be able to do things like walk and tie your shoes. Yeah, there's that whole thing about being at the playground and using equipment other than the swings. Sure, Halloween might be more exciting for you than it is now (yes, the fish costume is just one more annoying thing your mother makes you wear). But when you get older I will also expect you to pick up the toys you so leisurely toss around the house and make you wear shoes; do you really want to deal with that headache? I know I am asking a lot, but you have a full week to think about it before you make your decision. I'm told it is my right, nay my responsibility as a mother to use the guilt card, so here is my best shot. Who was it that almost one year ago spent 15 hours in labor with you? Who remained vigilantly positioned on her right side for the last three of those 15 hours as you so demanded from the womb? That's correct, your mother. Who slept on the chair for the first two months of your life so that you could sleep yourself? Who plays airplane with you and scouts the neighborhood for feral cats just so you can say your first word, "kitty cat"? Who makes you pumpkin yogurt and has waffle weekends with you? Who takes you to feed the ducks and lets you play with the keyboard in her office? Who got you hooked on milk? Who brushes all of your seven teeth? Yeah, the answer is me. Your father does many good things for you too, but I think he is secretly looking forward to you growing and changing. So, don't talk to your father about this, he is sleep-deprived from his crazy work schedule and isn't thinking straight. So that's it, a simple request and one that I hope you will consider. I will be anxiously awaiting your answer on Tuesday. Until then, just know that this has been the best year of my life and I love you very much. Happy birthday Juicy, Juicy Pickle.
Love,
Mommy

Can I bring my Orange Julius into the softplay?

2007-09-23T20:06:00.000-04:00

When I was a teenager, the mall was a place you went to meet up with your friends. You didn't have any actual money, so you sort of just went there to, well be there. As I got older and had a job, I would go there to frequent the likes of the Gap, Ann Tayor, JCrew. Now I'm a mom and I'm back to having no money (for myself anyway) so the mall has become. . . wait for it. . . a softplay area for Zoe. That's right, on a rainy Saturday I took Zoe to the mall softplay area conveniently located between JCPenny and Auntie Anne's Pretzels. The mall softplay area. I almost need to keep repeating it to make sure it was real. Understand, I have nothing against mall softplay areas. But prior to Zoe, I'm not even sure I even knew they existed. I was too busy zipping in and out of The Limited with cute new outfits to notice. If you have never been to one, allow me to describe the situation. You walk up to an enclosed area full of softplay things and about a hundred children inside running amock like wild Injuns who just escaped Alcatraz. By just looking at the germs. . . um, I mean children. . . you would think they are locked in closets all day and then blindfolded just until they reach the softplay area where they are finally set free. But then you see the weary parents sitting on the benches stretched along the parameter of the softplay area. No, these kids are not confined. . . they are always like this. We get closer and parallel park my stroller between two other strollers the size of hummers, grab Zoe, pray, then head into the chaos. Meandering my way to the far corner I am dodging children at every turn. I'm ducking as I feel like they are falling out of the sky and I glance around looking for the closest softplay mushroom I would use if I need to take cover. I take my place among peers and wonder to myself if this is just the start of things. You begin innocently enough with a mall softplay and before you know it you are at bowling birthday parties and Chuck-E-Cheese. *Sigh* I place Zoe down and she holds her own with the Injuns. In true Zoe form, with all the mounds of "softstuff" and children, she goes for the shoe rack. I begin to get up to grab her because, get this, I think the shoe rack may have some germs. I laugh at my own irony then secrety vow to get her a tetanus shot. After about 20 minutes, Zoe has had enough (OK, I had had enough) and we start back through the war zone towards the exit. I glance over at the woman who's sole job was to watch the softplay and wonder who she had angered in a previous life. We get back in the stroller and start on our way. As we walk by The Gap and Ann Taylor, I look at the storefronts and smile. "Don't worry Ann, I'll be back. First I need to stop in Gymboree."

Force her into becoming a Pats fan; Check.

2007-09-10T20:37:00.000-04:00

So I was talking to a friend who was lamenting about
how her nine-year-old is already feeling the pangs of getting "in" with the "in crowd." That's right, she's nine. She seems to have handled it gracefully (the daughter, not my friend, she's a mess) but just hearing the story of how this sweet girl didn't get invited to a party but her friend did frankly scared the bageebers out of me. I believe it was around that time when I realized I'm not simply taking care of a baby anymore; I'm attempting to raising a strong, confident woman. This is when it got dicey. Honestly, I was sort of hoping I would fully become one before I had to raise one. So now, the questions about her future and who she will become have been hitting me fast and furious lately at seemingly innocuous times. I will innocently be sitting on the couch thinking about what she will be for Halloween, then BAM! Halloween?! Who cares about Halloween?? What will she be for life? Will she step out her college graduation and move onto medical school or will she hop the nearest Greyhound to "find herself" with a band of vagabonds. Will she marry a nice guy or find someone who won't settle down until he gets his music career out of the garage? Will she cook like her father or ummm. . . not so much like her mother. So I figure the only thing you can do is model behavior you would like her to emulate. This is so not as easy as it sounds as Zoe has become a little mirror, a true reflection of everything I am. Oy. Ok, we'll start small. Wear a Patriots t-shirt on opening day hopefully eliminating at least one downfall of her future (I truly believe Mike would sooner have her come home one day announcing she's just joined a cult and could we lend her the membership fees then proclaim her allegiance to any New York team). I think I *maybe* need to curb my "enthusiasm" when I get cut off in traffic. Maybe I could travel to more exotic places, write a novel, or learn to play the cello in the hopes that she will see this and become well-rounded. Or maybe the answer is to just do the best you can and then the hell with it knowing in the end Zoe will follow her own path hopefully with whatever lessons you manged to eek out as my own parents, accounts both, did when I announced I would be declaring English *gasp* as my college major and are only now, through this blog, seeing the fruits of their labor (read: checkbook). For now, let's just welcome the newest Patriots fan, Zoe Fuller.

A public service announcement

2007-09-01T20:35:00.000-04:00

***We interrupt your regularly scheduled blog reading for this important public service announcement from the real estate investment firm of Fuller, Fuller & Fuller. ***

1308 East 52nd Street has been sold and we are finally down to one house.

Thank you for your attention. We now return you to you normal blog postings already in progress.

Sometimes our life is like "Seinfeld" -- A show about nothing

2007-08-20T20:56:00.001-04:00

So I felt like I should do an update, but I have nothing to say. I could write about her new love for waffles, but waffles aren't that exciting. There are no new teeth, there's no walking, and no first words have been uttered. Some days, we just go about our routine. As much as we our blessed by Zoe and as much as observing her daily miraculous milestones is like watching brushstrokes on her soul, the reality is that sometimes it's just plain boring. That's right, I said it; I went there. The fact of the matter is that she isn't really a great conversationalist. She gets easily amused by little things, but frankly pulling out all the toys in her toy basket doesn't offer me the same stimulation. And trust me, I like bedroom door peek-a-boo as much as the next guy, but can she really believe I am that surprised to see her every time? So I find myself with nothing to say. I guess I should really be happy, I mean there are many "exciting" things of which I am blissfully unaware. I'm sure there are many people with a house full of kids who would, on occasion, gladly trade my boring for their "exciting." Still, there are some days I long for an after-work drink with friends or a night out to dinner that doesn't take place before 6pm and that doesn't involve the phrase "did you bring the cheerios". I would occasionally like to meet up with a friend without concern for nap times (hers, not mine) or schedule a haircut without the planets being aligned. I'd like to not have a song involving colors stuck in my head during a crucial meeting with a client. But then, after a few boring hours in the late afternoon and into the evening, she goes to sleep. We sit in her chair in her bedroom a she snuggles next to me with a bottle and I realize, if this is boring sign me up. No after-work martini is worth giving up big, wet, sloppy baby kisses. I'll carry Cheerios to every meal if it meant I get to watch her squeal in the morning when I get her up. And, let's be honest, who is better afternoon company, nap time or otherwise, then Zoe? So I get to take back everything I wrote. Why? Because I'm the mother and I said so.

"Thank You" - Sadie 'The Dog' Fuller

2007-08-06T20:12:00.000-04:00

I will not move the dog bowl off the floor. That's right, I'm taking a stance; laying down the law if you will. Sadie, while loved, is not welcomed to hop up on a chair and join us at the table for dinner. She has no opposable thumbs so she can not use the silverware. Her table manners are atrocious and she gets hair everywhere so her food and water must stay on the ground. She is under no directive to eat her chow at any set time so it frequently sits in the bowl all day. What is the point of this rambling about obvious canine dietary habits you may ask yourself. Well, we are now practicing "discipline". 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? Indulge me by taking a peek into life in the Fuller house.

5:00 p.m. - Zoe wakes from her nap squealing and laughing. I place her on the floor.
5:10 p.m. - She happily plays with anything that I did not purchase specifically for her. Her expensive Leap Frog toys languish in the corner, probably laughing at the poor remote control.
5:25 p.m. - Like a bullet out of gun, Zoe beelines across the kitchen to the dog food bowl (she is quicker than you might think).
5:25:30 p.m. - "I will not move the dog food bowl, I will not move the dog food bowl."
5:26 p.m. - I give Zoe a stern "No!"
5:26:30 p.m. - Zoe hysterically laughs. "nnnnnaaaa"
5:27 p.m. - Zoe is placed far from the dog food bowl and is now playing with the door. All Leapforg items are sleeping.
5:28 p.m. - Zoe makes another run for it as I unload the dishwasher. I wonder to myself how people do this with more than one.
5:28:30 p.m. - "Zoe, No!"
5:29 p.m. - Laughter fills the room
5:30 p.m. - Sadie begs for a treat with no appreciation for the lengths I am going to protect her actual dinner.
5:31 p.m. - Zoe is playing with the magazines. Leapfrog products have borrowed the keys to the car and have gone out for a spin.
5:35 p.m. - I am paying bills and like a flash she is back, heading for the dog food bowl. I wonder, out loud this time, how people do this with more than one.
5:35:30 p.m. - She stops just short of the bowl and smiles at me, gets back into crawling position and continues on.
5:35 p.m. - "Zoe, No!"
5:36 p.m. - Now Zoe and Sadie are both laughing.
5:37 p.m. - I call a friend with multiple kids and asks how she does it.
"Why don't you just move the dog food bowl?"
5:40 p.m. - The Leapfrog toys come home.

We had her nine-month appointment today; Zoe is a whopping 20lbs and 28 inches! Everything looks great and her hair is getting better.

Grrrr. . . vacation is over

2007-07-16T20:32:00.000-04:00

We're back from our vacation at my parents house and at the Jersey shore and I thought I would try something a little different. I could use an entire blog entry to post about the joys of traveling with an infant and the worried looks from fellow airline passengers (for the record, just because you avoid eye contact with a person with a baby, doesn't mean they are not in your row). I could post pages on the new light in which you see your own parents when you visit them with your eight-month-old and the sudden appreciation you feel as you realize that someday you too will have a 13-year-old who will probably resemble you at that age. Or I could go on and on about the duel emotions you feel the first time you leave your child over night; sweet freedom and slightly heart-wrenching guilt. But instead I'd thought I'd do a Letterman-like top 10 list of our time in the Garden State.

10. My father really does have a textbook-like knowledge of New Jersey. Some might call it a little spooky but it really is fascinating. When asked about getting to Atlantic City, he talked about the blueberry farms. When we went to a festival a few towns over, he knew its history.

9. Zoe learned to crawl. She was close when we left but maybe she too was feeling power of a vacation and decided to throw caution to the wind. We spent hours child-proofing our house in Savannah for this moment so of course her first crawls were in a house that is about as childproofed as Tiffanys.

8. Zoe likes to be in the pool. . . a lot. We have two houses, neither of which have a pool so we're pretty certain her first words will be "I want to go back to Mimi and Poppi's."

7. Under the heading "New Jersey is a magical place" (and please, no jokes about which exit one would find that magic), good news item number one: Mike and I won about a grand in Atlantic City.

6. Same heading, good news item number two: We have contract on our "city house." This news came as we sat on the veranda (OK, roof) of our Wildwood, NJ retreat (OK, motel).

5. Wildwood, NJ is not for the weak of heart. If you have never been there it is difficult to describe without dedicating an entire post to it, but to summarize: try the pizza, avoid the t-shirts.

4. Mike can beat me in Skeeball, blowing up a balloon with a water gun, and miniature golf, but not pinochle.

3. There is nothing like free babysitting. My parents did amazingly well considering they probably have not been alone with an infant for any length of time in about 33 years. Too well perhaps; see number eight.

2. If you are in Atlantic City and want to stop at Red Square for a drink, first take out a second mortgage. In a moment of crazy frivolity and post some sweet winning, we spent a cool $30 on two drinks. Yeah, the house always wins.

1. There is nothing like taking a breather from the stress of everyday life, surrounding yourself with people you love and having some good, clean summertime fun in the Garden State. Now, dad, just when did they start calling it that?

Safety is not the only concern with a baby on the move. . .

2007-06-24T15:54:00.000-04:00

Many of the things I assumed before becoming a mother are out the window: Once they sleep through the night it just stays that way, being tired makes sleep easier, and my house is clean. This last assumption was shattered the other night as I placed Zoe on the carpet I just vacuumed and watched her roll onto the linoleum/wood (linolawood) floor in our entry way that I just swept. I thought I had done a pretty thorough job until I noticed Zoe under the desk in the entry way with a giant Sadie dust bunny on her leg. Zoe just looked at me and grinned. Yeah, I get it kid; that area "maybe" doesn't get the attention it deserves. Hard to tell when you yourself are not routinely laying under the desk in the entryway. Her unique vantage point also allows her to see under the sofa where she finds all kinds of goodies. Great. Ok, leaves and twigs belong outside not in your livingroom; check. Dog food belongs in the dog food bowl, not strewn about the house like a buffet at a dog cocktail party; gotcha. The only analogy I have for the situation is when you were in elementary school and on "dentist day" you had to chew on those weird red tablets. You're eight years old and you know what's coming. You brush your teeth like no one has ever brushed before. You get the back ones, you get the front ones (mostly the front ones because any indiscretion there would be most obvious). You're determined that the magic red chewables, designed solely to illuminate your bad oral hygiene habits, will not get the better of you this time. You eat one, look in the mirror, and see the reflection of someone who looks as if they just got punched in the mouth and is now bleeding profusely. Foiled again. Zoe is now our red chewable tooth pill. I'm not sure what the solution is because it seems that just when you are supposed to have the cleaning skills of Martha Stewart, you have the least amount of time. So I simply look around the house that seven and a half months ago I would've thought clean and sigh. Then I remember the poetic words I once heard uttered by a very wise man (my husband): God made dirt. . . .dirt don't hurt.

A Father's Day Tale. . .

2007-06-17T20:44:00.001-04:00

I was quite nervous to become a mother. I had spent the last two months of pregnancy pouring over parenting books as if the authors themselves were going to come to my house and, in a round table-like fashion, fire questions at me on such topics as sleep scheduling, formula preparation and benefits of tummy time. I wanted to get this parenting thing down not only for Zoe, but also because I knew that as the mother I would get all the credit if she managed to avoid growing up to be, say, an ax-wielding serial killer, but if serial killing was in her future, I would get most of the blame. . . it's always the mother.

After she was born, my obsession about doing everything "by the book" kicked into full gear. It wasn't that I thought Mike wouldn't be a great dad, I did. It's just that he hadn't put in the time; where were his notes in the margin of The Baby Whisperer? Where were his parenting websites booked marked? I decided early on that there needed to be a plan, a schedule, a right way to do things and I had Dr. Spock to back me up.

That changed a couple weeks ago. I had taken Zoe to the park as I normally did. I had spread out a blanket and she sat up on her own and played, the Bumbo long since retired. I caught a glimpse of the swings at the playground, you know, the rubber ones that safely encase a child not yet ready for the ones without sides. As I strolled towards them I noticed the sign, "This playground is intended for children 2-5 years of age." Ok, Zoe was just over six months old and the sign said "no". Just looking at the swing with my infant in tow made me feel like I was ripping off the the tag on the mattress. What would my books say? Should I call the pediatrician on this one?

I moved forward making sure I was alone and could avoid the judgemental glares of the other mothers as they wondered how I could so blatantly disregard the sign, obviously putting my daughter in harm's way. I placed Zoe in the swing, she nervously teetered, then I promptly tore her away vowing never again to break the rules, to deviate from the milestone schedule set up by people much smarter than myself.

Two days later, I came home from work only to have Mike (who knew nothing of the great swing trauma) show me some photos of his day with Zoe. There she was in the swing, and well, swinging. Zoe was grinning from ear to ear, flying in the only way she could. As I looked through the pictures I started imagining the scene: Mike placing her in the swing, Zoe nervously teetering, and him allowing her to take a risk, knowing he would be there to catch her if she fell.

It was then I realized that in raising Zoe, there are different ways, better ways. . . her father's ways.

Zoe is incredibly lucky.

Happy Father's Day to all dad's, especially my own, who had a different way, one that lead to some fine results.

Almost seven months old

2007-06-04T20:47:00.000-04:00

I swear, every adult needs to learn the fine art of appreciating the small things in the way a seven-month-old does. Zoe is absolutely fascinated by the likes of blades of grass, the remote control, and travel packets of wipes. That's right, for all of you out there who paid good money for big-ticket toys, welcome to the world of our very creative daughter who finds fun in the mundane. That's not to say the toy piano and Leap Frog don't find their way into the mix; it's just that, in her mother's opinion anyway, she has a highly developed sense of imagination. I'm sure I'm not biased and that she really is quite advanced.

I have nixed the food list in favor of her favorite things which seems to be a more interesting topic. She is on to blends such as apple/blueberry and squash/corn and frankly I can't keep up. She now has two bottom teeth, that are unfortunately difficult to photograph, so soon we hope to take the leap in the virtual parenting right of passage, Cheerios.

We took our first trip to a Savannah Sand Gnats game which was great. Zoe was donning her Boston Red Sox gear as tribute to the best team in baseball. And, in addition to swings, she also sits in restaurant high chairs and in the front of shopping carts. Yes, she really is as great as she seems.

Stop the madness

2007-05-20T20:48:00.000-04:00

Today, I spent more time than I care to admit crying as I packed away much of Zoe's 3-6 month clothes. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm really happy for her as she so effortlessly navigates the world she has only lived in for six and a half months, but it's making me just a little sad to see how big she is getting. Why do I get the feeling that I am going to wake up tomorrow and she is going to be borrowing the keys to the car? But enough about me. . . with just a few days practice Zoe now sits almost completely on her own. If she tips, she steadies herself. She rolls to get around. And, here's where it gets scary, she is at the proverbial crawling starting gate. That's right, if we shot a gun in the air, she'd be off.

But the big news is that we have the top of a tooth poking out! We now own stock in Infant Motrin and Hyland's Teething Tablets althought they seem to be no match for the tooth. You can be sure that when it's in, they'll be a photo.

And the times they are a changin'

2007-05-11T20:23:00.000-04:00

If there is anything we are learning as parents it's this; just when you have figured something out, I mean really feel comfortable with the task at hand, the baby will change the rules. For instance, just when I think the baby tub will last until she is at least 11, she begins sitting up in it creating the need for the newest member of our family. Please welcome, giant inflatable duck.

Just when we get the hang of feeding her solids in the bumbo, she climbs her way out of it by arching her back with the skill of a pole vaulter and covering it with her small, but incredibly messy, variety of foods. Hence, she now has her very own chair.

She certainly has been keeping things exciting around here lately. Babbling and zerberting the end of the bottle nipple have also been added to her repertoire. I can't help but feel that Yale is right around the corner!

Also, we had her six-month appointment this week. She is a whopping 17.5 lbs and 27 inches long completely discrediting my theory that most everything we feed her winds up everywhere but in her mouth.

Visitors!

2007-05-02T20:19:00.000-04:00

We had a wonderful visit with Nana and Popa (aka Kathy and Dave Fuller) this weekend. We couldn't have asked for better weather and took that oppotunity to troll around Savannah and enjoy the city, even catching the SCAD sidewalk chalk art festival. All in all a nice relaxing weekend.

Zoe's newest development, sitting, not laying down, in her bath. This makes for an interesting bathtime as I hold on for dear life to a very slippery, and suddenly very squirmy, baby. I would take a photo but I'm not sure I could handle baby and camera without dunking one of them.

"But it's green"

2007-04-25T23:44:00.000-04:00

After rice cereal, which by the way tastes like paste, we moved on to peas. She was not a fan and mostly looked at me as if she couldn't belive what I was doing to her. She looks messy but she cleans up well.

Welcome!

2007-04-23T17:58:00.001-04:00

Welcome to the new Zoe Katherine blog! We can't believe how big she is getting and how many new things she is learning. We hope you'll keep checking in and we will update often! Her newest challenge is trying new foods. So far peas are not her favorite but sweet potatoes seem to be a success. Enjoy!