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

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!

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. . .

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. . .

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?

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.

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

***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.