Who, what, when, where and why

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

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. . .

. . . 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!

Settling in

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

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

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

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. . .

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. . .

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

I was a really good mom. . .

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

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.

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

Eat your heart out Brittany

How Zoe and I communicate (and some other stuff)

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

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

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

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

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

Welcome to toddlerhood, hold the fries.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

Happy Birthday, Zoe Katherine!

Witnessing History

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

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

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

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

Yo Gabba what??

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Am I really half way to 70?

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

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

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

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

Take that Angelina. Happy birthday to me!