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