Fancy Footwork

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

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 . . .

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!

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?

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"

***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.