A belated birthday letter for my sweet 1-year-old

Dear Olivia,

Let's just start by saying that between your mommy and your daddy, you are doomed when it comes to time management. And with both of us working full time, your daddy actually working two jobs right now being a basketball coach (on a side note, his team won the division title this year, so you must be a good luck charm!), not to mention having a little wild child running around like a maniac (that's you), let's just say your first birthday letter is just now getting itself written. I still have to update your baby book and the journal I have been keeping for you since I became pregnant with you, but every free moment I have, I can't help but spend kissing and hugging and tickling you non-stop. Trust me, if you saw yourself, and how unbearably kissable/huggable/tickleable you are, you would totally understand.

ANYWAY, enough with the excuses and on to the praise and adoration.

You, my dear, have made the last year of our lives by far, hands down, the best year ever.

You are bright, silly, loveable and affectionate and you are also a professional walker these days, even though you fall down more often than anyone I have ever seen, even me, who is as clutzick (that's poorly spelled PA Dutch, I'll teach you about that one day, don't worry) as they come.

We had a huge party at our tiny house for your birthday. People came from far and wide to attend and packed themselves like sardines into our hot house just to watch you, yes YOU, dig into a cake almost as big as you are with your bare hands. You were a little confused about this, wondering (a) why everyone was staring at you and (b) why on God's green earth I was allowing you to eat such a large amount of sugar in one sitting. You finally lost it when daddy had the nerve to dab a bit of frosting on your nose (so cute!) but let's just say you were not happy about it and you burst into tears. When we calmed you down and cleaned you up, you were back to your old happy self and went on to playing with your other baby friends and the 4,000 baby dolls you received as gifts (a popular gift when you are in training to be a big sister).

As they say, a picture is worth a thousand words, so I will finish this birthday letter with a few photos from the big day. But before I go, I just want to say, Happy First Birthday, Livvy-Loo, and even though I know you will one day yell at me for calling you that, that's just too bad because it goes with the song I made up for you which I promise to sing to you up to, including and even after your wedding day. And let's just hope that day doesn't come as quickly as this first birthday did.

I love you, baby girl. I love you through and through. Yesterday, today and tomorrow, too. Thank you for being you.

Kisses,

Mommy

For real labor vs. 90210 labor

In our house, we watch 90210 reruns. A lot.

We watch them on Saturday morning, alternating between that, Blue's Clues, ESPN (yuck) and the Food Network (yum). There are also reruns conveniently on just after I get home from work. Olivia likes to dance to the theme song - a 90210 fan in training. One day, I'll teach her about all the wonders of this spectacular show and we'll watch a marathon of all of the episodes. (Don't even get me started on the "new" 90210, which I will admit to watching, but not enjoying.)

If you've watched the (original) show, you know the story lines aren't always the most realistic and are most frequently downright ridiculous.


Sometimes, the writers strayed away from the usual story lines (Kelly loves Dillon, no she loves Brandon, no she loves Dillon, Steve tries unsuccessfully yet again to get some action with his 80's mullet and too-tight jeans, David tries yet again to take Donna's virginity, etc.).


But one of the most outrageous of them all was when Nat married that old chick, Joanie - his old flame - and her water broke during the ceremony. First of all, she's like 60 (not that 60-year-olds can't have babies, but it doesn't happen often, as far as I know). Second of all, what is WITH the way TV shows portray labor and delivery? Do they not do ANY research at all? Anyone watching knows it rarely happens that way.

These shows, and this one particular 90210 episode was an extreme example, portray it as this huge whirlwind of drama (maybe condensed for the sake of time?) with water breaking followed by immediate intense contractions and breathing and screaming and being rushed through the halls of the hospital on a stretcher to TADA! there's the baby! Perfectly clean and about 3 months old and practically speaking its first words right there, moments after emerging from his mother's womb.

All of us who have been there know it totally doens't happen this way.

Case in point:
My water broke while I was at work, but it didn't completely break, so I wasn't even entirely sure it was even broken. So just in case, I took an early lunch break and went to Wawa to fill up my tank (I needed gas if I was going to the hospital) and grab some lunch (I was NOT about to go into labor on an empty stomach and ice chips were so not going to cut it.)
And it was agood thing I did because I ended up laboring for count them 24 whole hours before Olivia decided to make her grand entrance at 2:04 p.m. the following day.

There was a lot of drama, yes, right around the time when I was about 8 cm. dilated, writhing in pain from the pitocen-induced contractions that were ripping my insides apart every 60 seconds and the f*&(%*#$$^*(@#*&*%(#g anesthesiologist dared be stuck on icy roads on the way to work....but that didn't happen for at least 10+ hours after my water "broke" in the office.

My point is I'd like to seriously write a letter to Hollywood and tell them to do some research because they really have it all wrong.

And by the way, writing this post just brought on a near-anxiety attack at the idea of going through all that again. I can only hope everyone is telling me the truth when they say the second one comes much more quickly than the first.

What's become of me?

At one point in my life, I was a night person. I stayed up late and slept in until noon. But then life happened and I started having actual responsibilities that prevented me from sleeping the day away. When I was 19, I worked in the evenings and the only morning responsibilities I had were college classes, and duh, everyone knows the attendance at morning classes in college are optional.

A few seasons ago, I had an unhealthy addiction to "Lost." I watched that show religiously and I will even admit to looking up details about the episode the following day. I wasn't quite as diehard as some who spend time in Lostie chat rooms and read about every theory on every Lost blog on the Internet (you know who you are) but I was definitely caught up in the island and the numbers and the hatch and everything else and found myself theorizing about the Dharma Initiative and The Others at various moments througout the day. I looked forward to Wednesday nights almost as much as I looked forward to Thursday nights in college. Almost.

And then I gave birth to an adorable, perfect, wonderful little energy-sucker (and watched the season finale of Lost while in labor in the hospital) and my days of being a night-owl were restricted to middle of the night feedings and rocking of said energy sucker. From that moment on, my energy levels have been at their highest in the morning and pretty much not existent by around 9 p.m. And 10 p.m.? Forget about it. Add the first trimester of a pregnancy to the mix and I'm lucky I'm not falling asleep right here at my desk while I type this (actually, I kinda am a little).

Now, after working all day, chasing the energy-sucker around the house all evening, feeding her, giving her a bath and getting her ready for bed/putting her to bed, then making (the adults) dinner and cleaning up, it's a miracle I get my teeth brushed, let alone have the mental capacity to decipher how Ben was able to manipulate the time/space contiuum.

I think it's time for Tivo.

Olivia's first birthday wishlist

The big O-N-E is just around the corner, people, the invitations have been mailed out and all that's left to do is, oh, just about everything including: Clean the house, buy decorations/food, decorate/make food, get baby a party dress, get mommy a party dress that doesn't make her look fat (read: not likely) and did I say clean the house?

Oh, and there's one more important thing that I still need to do: Buy my child a birthday gift.

But what does a parent get for a child on such an important milestone? A special book? Perhaps an expensive toy that makes lots of annoying noises?

I was just not sure. So, I decided to ask the guest of honor what she'd like. She's not feeling too well these days, sporting a 103+ fever (102 with medicine), but that will not stop my little furnace baby from playing and it certainly wouldn't stop her from giving me her birthday wish list. Yes, she gave me her list in non-comprehensible baby babble, but I am her mother, people, I can translate such jibberish.

Olivia's Wish List:

1.) Tupperware containers.

2.) Fuzzies, old cheerios and/or dried-up peas from the corner of the kitchen floor that she can eat as a snack.

3.) Anything breakable, such as drinking glasses (full of liquid would be even better, because I like to grab those and pour them all over myself when no one's looking).

4.) Remote controls.

5.) Coasters.

6.) Any/all food that you are currently eating.

7.) Mommy's bras.

8.) A cell phone (they apparently learn to want these early on).

9.) An electrical outlet (without childproof covers).

10.) Anything sharp, jagged or otherwise dangerous for a baby.

Of course, upon receiving her list, I made no promises, and told her that we already have all of these things, most of which she isn't allowed to play with, so why would she want more of these things?

She responded in the way she does when I take something away from her she isn't supposed to have, with a high-pitched screech that sounds like a pterodactyl in heat, to which I responded: "Keep it up young lady and you'll get nothing for your birthday!"

Ahh, yes. Let the toddler years begin.

Nonsensical rant, brought to you by trimester #1

I am officially a giant ball of hormones right now. I cry, scream and whine at just about everything. People (especially rude people) are usually the cause of my annoyance, which quickly escalates into all-out rage with very little instigation, but inanimate objects can do the trick just as well. Case in point: I was carrying a used coffee filter full of soggy coffee grounds to the trash can in the kitchen the other night when the filter ripped and the grounds fell to the floor. If anything like this has ever happened to you, you know that coffee grounds make a mess. And it was in the evening when I am at my most tired (I was prepping our coffeemaker for the next morning -- yes, I am still drinking coffee, I DARE you to lecture me). Anyway, I freaked. I totally, needlessly, dramatically, threw a hissy-fit in the middle of the kitchen floor. My husband got mad at me for overreacting, which only made me fume even more. "Don't even go there, man who got me into this mess to begin with," is what I was thinking.

Combine my volatility towards human beings and inanimate objects alike with the nausea and extreme fatigue I've been feeling, not to mention having no clothes to wear because you are too fat for regular clothes and still too small for maternity clothes and you have one messed up pregnant chick on your hands.

This, my friends, is the emotional rollercoaster brought to you by the first trimester of pregnancy. It is worse this time around and I don't know exactly why, except that I think maybe that I am twice as tired and mixing fatigue with raging pregnancy hormones are a deadly combination. Deadly. They should totally bottle this stuff and use it as a chemical weapon.

There are sappy sweet parts of my emotional rollercoaster, as well. It's sort of like the waiting in line for the rollercoaster in 95 degree weather at an amusement park and no one around you is wearing deodorant and the guy behind you keeps stepping on your foot and pushing you, followed by the adrenaline rush of going down the hill, wind flowing through your hair, butterflies in your stomach, immediately followed by the abrupt end of the ride that takes place seconds later leading you to wonder why the f*&$ you just wasted 45 minutes in a line filled with sweaty, stinky, annoying people for that one little thrill.

I lost the metaphor in there somewhere (even telling a fictional story about waiting in line at an amusement parks agitates me), but the point is I am not always a total bitch (I think that's the point).

Sometimes my hormones cause me to be sweet and sentimental and cry tears of joy (sort of like how I am when I've had too much wine....which I miss terribly). This is almost exclusively reserved to moments when I am with my daughter -- hanging out with her happens to be the one and only way to cheer me up and calm me down when I'm out of control. (You know there's something wrong when not even a milkshake can help me.)

For instance, when Olivia walks across the room, with her little legs and her little pink mary janes and her tiny little butt and her little hands flapping in the air, I just stare at her in awe and it makes me cry. She is just so proud of herself (and I have to say I am too). Or when she comes up to me, rests her adorable little head on my shoulder, gives me a hug, pats me on the back and tells me some little story in her own little language, then I cry some more. But they are good, wonderful, joyous tears.

So yeah, to say I'm emotional right now would be an understatement.

I cry at everything. I yell at everything. I would smack several of my co-workers if I could (if you're reading this, co-worker, of course I don't mean you), I would even smack complete strangers if I could and I would run every slow-ass driver off the road with my car if it weren't completely illegal and totally unsafe.*

I hate feeling like this, but it is really and truly out of my control. And I can not WAIT until it is all over and the breezy second trimester begins when it is all cute little baby bumps, fluttering in the tummy and eating ice cream for dinner.

But the dreaded first trimester won't be over for a while, and before it is, I will have to get through my baby's first birthday without sobbing openly and dripping snot all over her first-ever birthday cake. That will be a real feat and I can't promise I'll be able to do it. In fact, I have a good feeling there will be tears and quite possibly snot. I'll just try not to get it on the cake. That would be gross.

But really, do you blame me?? My firstborn beautiful baby girl is turning ONE YEAR OLD. I know this happens to everyone's children, that all parents go through it and only when it is happening to your own child does it seem so monumental, so dramatic, so unbelievably important. It's like the cliche goes: You don't understand it until it happens to you.
Well, it's happening. My baby is growing up before my eyes.
Everyone warned me that it would happen soon, quickly, that I will blink and she'll be a year old. And they were all right.















See, just posting this picture made me get teary-eyed.

*Disclaimer: I know I'm beyond blessed. I've got this beautiful little girl, I've got another one on the way (an active little swimmer, according to the doctor who chased the little bean around my stomach trying to listen to his/her heartbeat yesterday), but if you have been hormonal, you know this: There is no rhyme or reason. There is no justification. You aren't able to see through the cloud of progesterone and estrogen to count your blessings. You can only see whatever emotion is blinding you at that particular moment.
And yes, I am most definitely whining, complaining, bitching, call it what you like. A good friend of mine whose opinion I respect immensely told me that I should be more open and candid in this blog, since I am no longer under the iron fist of my employer. And it is true. It will take some getting used to, after writing with a filter for so long, but now I can finally let it all out. (And if you're still reading this, you see that I clearly need some sort of release). So fair warning: I may not always be G-rated. I might talk about my boobs and other body parts in detail. I might even swear if I'm feeling really wild and out of control (so don't let your kids read this and if you have me linked somewhere where there are well-mannered grandmas and such reading, you might want to remove this particular blog, just to avoid any awkwardness). I do have my very tame, safe for grandmas family/friends blog where I post all the pictures of Olivia with little captions and it is beyond G-rated, but this blog is officially going to be my place to cut loose from now on. I'm not saying I'm going to post anything obscene, of course, but I'm just saying this is going to be a place for me to vent (i.e. complain, whine, moan). That's sort of the purpose of blogs, at least personal ones like this one. So listen, all I'm saying is if you don't like what you see here then don't read it. If you do, then I love and appreciate that you're reading and I hope you will stick around and share the next exciting months with me. They will get better, I promise. Right now, however, I go from wanting to stick a pencil in my eyeball to wanting to lay down on the floor and cry to wanting to eat a cupcake, all in a matter of minutes. It is hormone-induced multiple personality disorder. Could make for some fun reading, if you're into that sort of thing...

Have a great weekend. I'll try my hardest to do the same.

Letter to my devoted friend, the saltine

Dear Saltine cracker,

I know, I know, all my life, I've never paid too much attention to you. I've crumbled you into chicken soup or stashed you in the back of my desk drawer for an emergency snack. I've really been an awful snob.
And now here I am, all of a sudden, singing your praises and acting like we're the best of friends.
But I would like to apologize for all those years of neglect, because you, my friend (I hope you don't mind if I call you my friend?), have truly rescued me from the deep, dark depths of the toilet over these last few weeks. I'm not used to this whole nausea thing, as with my first pregnancy, I could have eaten anything I laid eyes on (and usually did). But this time, if I don't have something in my stomach at all times, I instantly feel like puking my guts out. This is where you come in.
I take you with me everywhere I go and I believe the two of us have formed a bit of a bond.
In the morning, when the thought of oatmeal or eggs make my stomach turn, there you are to calm the sour empty pit that has become my stomach.
In the afternoon, just before lunch, when I feel like barfing all over my keyboard because I've allowed my stomach to become empty, you call to me from my desk drawer.
And in the evening, when I can't wait for dinner but an unable to cook it due to the queasiness that makes me have to lay down, you get me through. I take you with me in the car, I carry you in my purse.
I suppose there will come a day when I will no longer need you; when I may even (don't hate me for this) grow sick of the sight of you, but as of right now, being 10 weeks pregnant and always on the verge of getting sick (but haven't yet thanks to you), I have come to realize that you are my true and loyal friend.
If there's anything I can do for you to return the favor (maybe spread some peanut butter and jelly on you?), you just say the word. It's the least I can do.

All my love,
Amelia