Happy 1st Birthday, Nicole! (I Mean Grant!)

Nicole anxiously anticipated Grant's birthday party. She selected the pinata, the candy and his gift. She stuffed the pinata, helped bake the pizzas and told Grant, "You'll be so excited, brother! It's your birthday party!" Boy, was she right!

Camptown Races

One of my fondest memories as a child is prancing around the living room with my only sister while my dad fancily piped the tune of Camptown Races on our heirloom organ.

I recently overheard the old familiar words ...

De Camptown ladies sing dis song, Doo-dah! doo-dah!
De Camptown race-track five miles long, Oh, doo-dah day!
I come down dah wid my hat caved in, Doo-dah! doo-dah!
I go back home wid a pocket full of tin, Oh, doo-dah day!

Gwine to run all night!
Gwine to run all day!
I'll bet my money on de bob-tail nag,
Somebody bet on de bay.

... and the nostalgia flooded over me.

The Boy Who Couldn't Wait to Live

The short story of Grant's birth is thus: At the young age of 37-weeks gestation, Grant emerged from his mother's womb 45 minutes after they arrived at the hospital.

Clearly, this boy was in a hurry to live.

I don't remember at what age he began to smile, but he was always a contented baby. Once he learned to smile and laugh, he couldn't turn the happy factor off. He smiles non-stop at family, friends and complete strangers. (It's true that no one would believe me if I accused someone of stealing him. He'd smile for the villian as much as he'd smile for me!)

He smiles when he takes a bath, finds something mischevious to do, eats, walks, and even when he cries. Every moment of his baby life, this boy is happy to exist!

Fashion First

High heels v. snow boots.
Fitted blazer v. marshmallow coat.
Cold ears v. beanie head.

Honestly, I don't know where Nicole learned it.

Within a span of two days, two of Nicole's Levi's brandished holes in the knees. I don't know how it happened; she's not a rough and tough girl. She asked me why pants rip and I told her it is a result of playing around. Excuses notwithstanding, Nicole was heartbroken to see two pair of jeans hit the can.

This morning, as she pulled on her sole remaining pair of intact Levi's, she sadly stated, "Mom, I won't play anymore."

"What?" I asked bewildered, "Why not?"

She answered, "Because I don't want these pants to get holes in them, too."

Fashion statement duly noted.

Four Years, Three Months and 24 Days ...

... after my first child was born, I received my mommyhood initiation. Sure, certain events have caused me to believe I was a mom, but this was the Big Kahuna -- and now there's no doubt.

Everyone knows that a mom isn't a mom unless she can tell each member of the household where their respective belongings lie on any given day of the week. Point in case, while enjoying a hot shower, Nicole burst into the bathroom and opened the shower curtain to pose an urgent question, "Mom, where is my paper with the purple marker?!" (Note the accusatory tone; because face it, I had been eyeballing that paper and marker all week.)

I did what moms everywhere have been doing for centuries: I told her where it was. And shame on me! I think that if moms would boycott this question and reply with an answer that would force the family member to take responsibility for their items, such as, "I don't know, honey, it must be around here somewhere," then eventually no one would ask us where anything was anymore. Historically, it makes sense. For example, how often does anyone ask Dad where something is? We all know the type of answer we would get; it might go something like this:

"You lost that? Does your mother know about this?"

or perhaps like this:

"How the heck (or other expletive) should I know?"

or maybe:

"What? What's that? I have no idea what you're talking about."

As you can see, the dads mastered the proper way to respond to the loaded question ages ago and now they're no longer in bondage by it; nor are they held liable for the missing whereabouts of seemingly worthless items ... odd screws, broken watches, Barbie shoes, Post-It notes with chicken scratch on them ... you get the idea.

What Goes Around Comes Around

I returned to my work at the computer to find the first page of my Post-It pad half-covered in yellow highlighter. Bemused, I smiled and continued working, which included jotting down IMPORTANT phone numbers over the top of the highlighted section.

Later I used my pad to call a few of the numbers on my list. But when I was beckoned by the children's needs, I placed the pad aside and left it vulnerable and unattended. I could never have imagined what I would find when I returned to the phone and reached for my list.

Someone (guess who) had scribbled out the numbers -- all of them -- with my same pen so that they were no longer intelligible. Knowing Nicole to have a pleasant disposition and obedient nature, I was shocked.

"Nicole, why did you cross out all of my phone numbers?"

"Because you did it to me, Mom. Why did you write all over my picture?"

Gulp. Oops. I felt terrible. No punishment for Nicole.

The Good Will Daughter

Nicole's learned to play the smart card when it comes to bedtime. Instead of pouting and whining, "I don't want to go to bed," Nicole posts a gigantic smile on her face and proclaims, "I'll be good, Mom!" And true to her word, I don't hear another complaint; that is, until it really is time for bed.

One day, surely too late, she'll figure out that going to bed at a decent hour is a luxury most adults envy.

See Grant Walk

Grant's first solo step, coincidentally captured on film in the Sears Portrait Studio, occurred two days after Christmas.

Ever since, this baby has been wobbling all over the place with his hands high in the air, a smile on his face and giggle when he reaches his destination. Go Grant!

The Up Side of TV

Yes, I found one.

Nicole has been begging for a snow trip outside. I bought her snow pants months ago, and I found them in her closet with tags still attached just days ago. Nicole frequently reminds me of how much I hate the snow and how much she loves it.

After sliding into a huge snow mound a dozen times and throwing snowballs at friends, Nicole plopped herself onto the snow and maneuvered a snow angel. At first, she wasn't quite sure how to do it. She moved her legs, then her arms, and then curled her lips into the cutest smile to reveal her pleasure. She made four identical angels and told me that she had learned how to make them on TV. (I sure miss a lot of cool things on TV.)

I can't wait to see her make them again. And trust me, it's a great sacrifice for me to bundle up and venture the cold -- but this is totally worth it!

Zip It

Nicole's counter proposal to going to bed tonight was, "But Mom, I'll help you." Pause. Think of a better offer. "Mom, I'll zip it." (In my head I wondered what she was talking about.) And then she silently acted out the motions of zipping her mouth shut.

I laughed because I'd never seen her do that before, and fearing that she learned yet another thing from TV, I asked, "Where did you learn that?"

"Sammie told me to zip it." Then she zipped and unzipped her mouth. Then she zipped and unzipped my mouth.

There's something to it. She really kept her mouth closed while it was "zipped" up. So next time I have to make an important phone call, I'll zip her mouth shut first. I wonder if it will work on Grant ...

Little Mama

Nicole is quite adept at entertaining herself. She acts out several characters at once in behalf of each of her toys. Together they cry, laugh, fight and joke. After a long day's work, she puts them to bed, usually each on its own pillow with a common blanket.

The other night, as I approached Nicole's bedside to give her one last kiss goodnight, I discovered Nicole fast asleep, with her baby doll safely enveloped in her arms. Her other animals were also tucked in the covers all around her. I pictured her carefully arranging each one of them and making sure all were comfortable before resting her own eyes. She's going to make a great mom!

Bottle Replacements ...

... to the rescue! I deliberated for less than a minute before concluding that the time had arrived to dispose of the bottle. I was elated; Grant was crushed. Last night, at post-bottle marker two days, Grant found a replacement, in addition to his newly loved sippy cup. He didn't care if juice really came out; he was content to find a replica of his former favorite eating device.

From Distracted Eater to Devoted Glutton

There's no doubt Grant loves food -- just look at him. But for some reason, he has a hard time focusing on his baby food. He'll consume as much as I shovel into his mouth on one condition: that I provide him with a never-before-seen kitchen utensil. A few days back, I resorted to tickling him with my baster with my left hand while rapidly serving up pears with my right hand. (No wonder dads don't feed kids -- there's no way they could multitask the way we moms do!)

However, I've noticed a shift in Grant's eating patterns during the past two dinners. After Grant had been fed his regular baby food meal, Clint and I sat down to eat adult food. From the living room, Grant came crawling as fast as his paws and knees could muster and stood at my side with a begging mouth gaped open. So I gave him a bite of baked potato, replete with butter, sour cream and pepper. Then another. And another ... until it was gone. He remained firm and waited for more food. So I fed him my salad. This baby with an insatiable appetite topped his meal off with a bowl of oatmeal (not from the baby aisle!).

With that said, I think I've discovered the secret: he wants to eat what we eat. And so he will. This morning we're going to split a large bowl of Malt-O-Meal. Yum, yum!

New Sweater Disaster #2

The first catastrophe, which was not previously reported, was when my wool sweater emerged from the cold cycle washing machine a size smaller than it entered. Unfortunately, it won't fit Nicole for another eight years.

Having lost a favorite sweater, I quickly searched online for its replacement. So, even though it's in a different color, I love it just as much as the first one. And that brings us to the second disaster -- because these things only happen to our favorite pieces in our wardrobe, as per Murphy's Law.

Luckily, this isn't a permanent problem. But let it suffice to say that you should never feed a baby puréed carrots while sporting a dry clean only sweater. It will surely lead to an immediate trip to the cleaners and a week without your favorite material possession. Ah, the agony! Can you feel it?