Let the blogging commence

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Does Toys R Us sell muzzles?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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