Wordful Wednesday: Twelve Months.

Well, Internet, we made it. On Saturday, Tori will be one whole year old. I thought this achievement deserved official portraits, but haven't had much luck with our local portrait studio. Here's proof.

So instead, we headed out to a particularly picturesque garden nursery in town and had our own impromptu photo shoot. The results were pretty awesome, if I don't say so myself.

First we spent some time checking out the nursery's fish pond. It took a while to draw her attention away from the brightly colored koi, but the results were worth it, don't you think?

Then we plunked her inside this handy pot. She drew quite the audience while taking this picture, thus the big smile (she loves to be the center of attention).

Then we set her loose in the lawn and did our best to keep up with her. She crawled around, giggling like a maniac...

But when she found an interesting looking stick, she actually sat still for a minute.

And this one? Well, I don't know when we took this one, but it's pretty cool, isn't it?

Take that, Sears Portrait Studio. You are dead to us.

There is more Tori goodness, but I won't bore you with the rest. Instead, head over to Seven Clown Circus for more Wordful Wednesday fun!

Dreaming a Daughter's Future.

One of Tori's favorite things to do is to stand in front of my old electronic keyboard synthesizer thing and pound dramatically on the keys. Sometimes she'll press the little orange buttons that make drum sounds, but mostly, she just crashes her fists against the keyboard randomly, reveling in the noise.

But recently, she's begun delicately pushing one key down, then another, smiling as she goes. It probably means nothing, but being her mother, I assume it signals the beginning of a lifelong musical career.

"Maybe she'll play in Carnegie Hall one day," I say to Brian.

"Do you even know where Carnegie Hall is?"

"New York. Somewhere. But that's not the point. Can't you see we have a child prodigy in the making?"

He snorts dismissively. "Because she likes pressing the piano keys? You might as well say that because she's flexible enough to put her foot in her mouth, she's destined to be a gymnast."

"Who knows? Maybe she is. As long as she doesn't want to be a cheerleader."

"And what if she does?"

I shudder dramatically. "Well, I'll support her, of course. But I'll try my darnedest to make sure she's that one nice cheerleader who's sweet to the nerds, gets straight As, and doesn't party with the football players too much."

Drawing himself up to his full height, Brian suddenly looks more imposing than usual. "She's not ever  partying with the football players. My little girl is going to have a nine o'clock curfew. And she's not dating until she graduates from college."

"Riiiight. Keep dreaming, Daddy."

"Well she's certainly not going to have time to date if she wants to be a brain surgeon."

Now it's my turn to snort. "A brain surgeon, huh? With our collective genes, she's much more likely to be an actress. Or an artist. Or a penniless writer. Or..."

"Not if we start steering her toward chemistry and math now!"

"So, what are you saying? We should get her a microscope for her first birthday?"

"It couldn't hurt. Tiger Woods started golfing when he was three."

"I'd rather let her figure out what she wants to do herself."

"And what if she wants to smoke pot and play the guitar in an alley somewhere?"

"Well, as long as she doesn't cook up crystal meth and live in a van down by the river," I tease.

"She'd have to back that van up over my dead body first," he growls.

"Lighten up, Papa Bear," I say, kissing him on the cheek. "She's going to need to learn to walk before she can go anywhere."

"I still say we should get her started on math now..."

"Fine. Teach her how to count blocks. But first, go grab her off the stairs before she falls to her death."

Grumbling, he goes to do as I asked. Moments later, I hear him explaining what molecules water is made of as he washes her sticky hands in the sink.

I can't  help but smile as I roll my eyes.

With a daddy like that watching out for her, her future is guaranteed to be bright.

Banishing the Baby Belly is on Hiatus.

Oh, that dang scale. Sometimes it's my worst enemy and sometimes it's my best friend. Right now, it's status could best be described as "frenemy." Its numbers aren't dropping, but they're not rising either. They're just...there. Taunting me.

But you know what? I really don't have the energy to care.

Life is kicking my butt right now.  I'm still sick. I have the usual mountain of ridiculous deadlines to meet. And my house? Well, let's just say I wish there was something called "get your shit together leave." So, you know, you could take a few weeks off to take care of business.

But since this is the real world, no such thing is forthcoming. So instead, I continue to drag my exhausted ass from Point A to Point B, hoping not to cause any more chaos than absolutely necessary as I go.

I'm sure eventually I'll remember what it feels like to be healthy. And rested. But until then? I don't feel like battling the scale.

Writer's Workshop: A Mantra Worth Having.

It's 8:45 on a Tuesday morning. I'm pawing desperately through the last clean laundry basket, flinging socks, underwear and bras behind me as I search for a clean pair of pants for Tori. When its gleaming white bottom glares back at me I admit defeat.

Reluctantly, I turn toward the discarded clothing pile by her changing table, pulling out a pair of navy blue capris. I give them the sniff test. They're okay. Well, I think, taking a deep breath, she really only wore these for a half day...and we never left the house.

I glance up at the clock. It's 8:53. Screw it. She's wearing dirty pants today. Silently, I remind myself...

You're the best mom she's ever had.

It's a lazy Saturday afternoon. Tori is grabbing every object in her toy box and flinging them as far from her as she can. Eventually, she's half buried in a toy mountain. She looks around her, squeals happily, and then starts putting them back in the box.

For a moment I watch, mouth gaping open. Then, realizing I need to record this momentous occasion - the birth of our savior, the child who cleans - I run to the kitchen for the video camera. Only it's not where I thought it was. Precious seconds tick by as I search, finally locating it under a pile of clean clothing on the ironing board.

I race back to the living room. She's not where I left her. In fact, she's not in the room at all. I turn toward the stairs, my heart in my throat, just in time to see her reach for a step and miss, falling backwards in a heap.

Time slows as I run to scoop her up, fully expecting to see blood pouring from her head. But though she's screaming loud enough to wake the dead, she's fine. As I hold her close, kissing her hot, frown-wrinkled brow, I repeat...

You're the best mom she's ever had.

It's a little after eight on a Thursday morning. Tori is sprawled across my lap, drinking a bottle. I'm curled around her, drinking in the sweet grassy smell of her hair. I play with her bare foot, still toasty from the footed jammies she wore to bed, marveling at the sheer size of it. It seems like just yesterday that I sat here with a days-old baby nestled in the crook of my elbow.

Tears prick at the back of my eyes, and for a moment I long for those slow, quiet mornings. Then she stirs, breaking me from my trance. She pulls herself up my body and grabs my nose. "Mama," she says, grinning from ear to ear.

Grinning in return, I poke her in the nose. "Tori," I reply. She giggles, her tongue peeking out between the gap in her teeth. "Mama," she says again. I laugh and tickle her tummy until she melts into a puddle of laughter. Beaming, I congratulate myself...

You're the best mom she's ever had.

That's my mantra, and I'm sticking to it. Now go visit Mama Kat and see what the other workshoppers have to say for themselves!

Top Ten Signs You're Not Ready to Have Another Baby.

Now that Tori’s reaching the one year mark, the questions are beginning again. Whether it takes the form of a casual, “so, do you think you guys are going to have another,” or the much pushier, “you know, you really should think about giving her a sibling,” everyone wants to know.

When am I going to pop out another baby?

My first reaction is usually “none of your business, damn it.” But really? I have no idea. We’re certainly not ready yet. And here are ten reasons why:

 I still haven’t lost the last 15 pregnancy pounds. And yes, in my world, doing so is a necessity. I want to be a MILF, damn it.

Getting out the door with one kid is still a challenge. She fights me tooth and nail while I dress her. Then she screams and arches her back as I try to put her in her car seat. Then, when I finally get her harnessed in, she poops. And the cycle begins again. Add in the search for the diaper bag and my car keys, and we’re always at least 30 minutes late.

I’m not done sleeping yet. Once I got preggers, I never managed another eight solid hours of sleep. First it was the constant peeing. Then, the insomnia hit. Then the joints started aching. And then, of course, I had a newborn. So yeah, I’d like to appreciate my pillow for a while longer yet.

I haven't forgotten how much being pregnant sucks. Sure it's a magical time filled with beauty and wonder. It's also nine months full of ever expanding body parts, constant exhaustion and  extreme indigestion.

Our love life hasn't recovered from the first one yet. And that's all I'm going to say about that (my mom reads this, yo).

I haven't forgotten how much maternity  jeans suck. I never found a pair that would stay up. Ever. So I was constantly waddling around, holding on to the waistband, hoping to keep the crotch from ending up at my knees.

Formula is expensive. Sure, if I had another kid I'd try to breastfeed again, but given my resounding failure with Tori, I don't hold out much hope. I'm looking forward to not having to spend 30 bucks a week on glorified powdered milk for a while (mama needs some new shoes).

I haven't figured out the whole work/baby/life balance yet. I'm told it's possible to stop feeling like you're constantly behind in every aspect of your life, but I'm not sure I believe it. Until I figure it out (or find proof that everybody's lying), I'm not ready to add more chaos to my household.

I really enjoy wine. And lattes. I missed both terribly while on the baby making journey, and I'm not quite ready to say good bye again.

I'm not ready to surrender to the minivan. In my mind, I still drive my little blue convertible. I don't think my psyche could take the transition to family hauler.

So there they are. My top ten reasons I'm not ready to have another baby just yet. What about you guys? How did/will you know when you're ready to try again?

Don't forget to visit Oh Amanda for the other Top Ten entries!

A First Birthday Gift Conundrum.

As I may have mentioned a time or two hundred, Tori's going to turn one soon. Which means that various relatives and friends are asking me what she'd like for her birthday.

The thing is, I really don't know what she wants. I mean, I'm not sure she even knows it's her birthday. So I asked her. And you know what? She did have opinions.

So here it is. Tori's Birthday List (as interpreted by me).

A Swing Set.

Now, I was thinking about getting her a little something like this...

But she says all the cool kids have Sky Forts (peer pressure starts early). She wants one like this...

I told her she'll need to find new parents first (this set is a little too rich for our blood).

A sand box.

Now that seems pretty doable. I thought this one (with its own little wading pool) would do nicely.

But no. She wants something a little more like this...

I told her that might be a little beyond our budget this year. So next she tells me she wants...

A pony.

Since she can't even walk yet, I assumes she means a rocking horse. Like this.

But no. She saw Hannah Montana riding one like this, so nothing else will do.

I told her I'd get working on that "searching for my real parents" ad for her.

Crossing her arms in a huff, she asked me if she could at least have...

A swimsuit.

I thought that was a great idea. So I showed her this adorable number from Gymboree.

Turns out that my baby girl only wants designer clothing this summer. Her choice? A stylish one piece from Dolce and Gabbana.

I laughed and told her the only designer labels she would be wearing are those from Target.

Hearing this, she threw one of her signature temper tantrums for about two minutes. And afterwards? She told me all she really wanted was a day with her grandparents, lots of hugs and kisses, and maybe a new set of measuring cups to chew on.

That, I said, makes sense. After all, what more does a one-year-old need?

Flashback Sunday: One Year Ago Today.

I'm exhausted. Baby Girl Page has been ridiculously sick all weekend long. Ridiculously sick, and wanting her mama.  Her mama who's also not feeling all that great. Which means I have no brain cells left to write you a witty post today...

So instead, we're going to look back at the trouble she was causing me on this exact same day last year...

Like Mother, Like Daughter?

Baby Girl Page had a big surprise for us this week. Turns out she's decided to be breech—just like I was. But she's taking it up a notch. Instead of landing in the standard breech position, she's in something called the oblique lie, which means she's laying on her side, like she's in a hammock. With her head oh-so-comfortably jammed under my right ribs, her butt on the left, and her shoulder where a more obliging baby would put her head.

In other words, unless something changes, there's no way she's coming out of there the normal way. And to make it worse, the placenta's on top of her, so trying to turn her from the outside would be a risky business, to say the least.

But I don't think I even want them to try. According to my mom, they attempted to turn me, and I obliged, but then decided I really didn't like being upside down and turned myself back around at the very last second. And since she's my daughter, I wouldn't be at all surprised if she has the exact same attitude.

Yep, so it looks like Mommy is going to get a C-section, like it or not. And I? Don't like that idea at all.

The whole thing scares me to death. I have a hard time not passing out when I have to get a little blood taken. And now they're going to cut me open and pull a baby out of me? Excuse me while I go throw up.

In fact, I know this is pretty immature of me, but every time I think of C-sections, I think of this clip from Spaceballs:


But, I know that at the end of the day, all that matters is that I end up with a happy, healthy baby in my arms. She certainly won't remember how she was born. Although, this way, I'll have a physical scar to prove  just how traumatic her birth was—proof I can use to slather on the guilt for the rest of her life.

And what mom doesn't love the opportunity to guilt the crap out of her progeny every once in a while?