My Little Princess

Three years ago right ... about ... now ... I held a 5 pound, 7 ounce Mary in my arms for the first time. After laboring through the night (without any drugs), I was dazed and exhausted, but completely in awe of the little being nuzzling against my bloated body for added warmth.

She was here. I was a mommy. Peter was a daddy. Wow.

Besides the hints within the excerpts I had read of a couple bestsellers on parenting, I was clueless. I had heard it was as simple as diapers and milk; and as complicated as philosophical decisions about child rearing. Scared and overwhelmed I left the hospital with a hands on tutorial on nursing, some extra diapers (check, check) and at least a couple theories on how I would shape my little girl over the years. I was going to raise her to be ...
Breastfed. Not formula fed.
A crib sleeper. Not a co sleeper.
Smart. Not beautiful.
An engineer. Not a princess.
In the library. Not in front of the TV.
Eating fruits and vegetables. Not baked goods.
Healthy. Not skinny. Not fat.
Faithful.
Colorblind.
Kind.
Never mean.
Loved.
And beyond my current understanding of the word.

***

Three years later, I have caved on a majority of my convictions. In her 11th month, she was introduced to formula. I co-slept on several occasions. And while Mary is certainly intelligent, she loves when people comment on her looks.
'I love your dress,' they'll tell her.
'What a beautiful little girl,' they'll gush.
She lights up and responds almost on cue, 'oh why, thank you! This is my ball gown.'
Or as I cringe, 'Oh ... I know!'

Which means, she is enamored with princesses: their clothes, their songs, their dances, and their handsome princely matches. She hosts daily performances in our sun room inspired by her favorite Disney characters. And if a duet, Peter is brought in to play her prince. Instead of a Lego building party, which I might have envisioned three years ago, Mary's birthday celebration on Saturday was a Coronation Ball. There were crowns and pink plastic everywhere.

While she loves the library and can 'read' (almost word for word) many of the books that line her book shelf, she also loves her shows. I no longer fight (a limited amount of) TV time each time. After all, she has learned a heck of a lot from Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, Umizoomi, Dora Dora and Daniel Tiger.

To this day, she could care less about baked goods, unless they are iced, and then she will just lick the frosting off. But she also won't touch vegetables. When the pediatrician asked her what she eats at her yearly check up, she told her chicken nuggets, spaghetti and meatballs, honeydew and apples. Do you eat vegetables, she asked? On sandwiches, she responded. So no, she doesn't Dr. The 'sandwiches' she eats come out her play kitchen. With the void of vegetables in her life called out, the opportunity to have a Hershey Kiss is only extended after a serving of vegetables now.

For almost three years, I have proudly avoided using the word fat (or skinny) around Mary. Chubby cheeks, yes. Fat, no. That is, until the Very Hungry Caterpillar introduced it a couple weeks ago. 'He wasn't a little caterpillar anymore, he was BIG FAT(!) caterpillar,' Mary would read enthusiastically, and laugh and laugh. Words out I guess.

With all the variance on the parenting judgments I had placed on my newborn daughter three years ago, the latter ones have largely stayed the same. She understands prayer and reflection. She has never commented on the color or appearance of another person. Despite fighting with her brother over any number of favorite toys on a daily basis, she is a good girl. Kind and quickly embarrassed when she is reprimanded. Sweet, loving ...

And loved. Truly beyond my understanding. Not just by me and her daddy. But by all the people in her life.

At three years old, I love you for the funny, opinionated, verbose, dramatic, talented, fiercely smart, and beautiful little princess that you are. And you know what, in this day and age, we might just need more sweet, smart princesses to save the day. So play away.  

Happy birthday sweet Mary.

Mommy Lo. 

   

Sitters

We were well acclimated with babysitters growing up. We had many over the years. And each hold a special place in my heart because of the contributions they made to my childhood.

There was Patty; my first nanny. (My sister's third.) She covered ages 0 - 4. Although she's so much more, I could sum her up with her white Beretta car, Tic Tacs, Matzo, hard boiled eggs, the Goody Closet, leg painting, arts and crafts and visits to the Squirrel Hill Library.

There was Debbie; my second nanny. Ages 4 - 8. She was frosted hair, crimping irons, white Reebok high tops, neon, a Maroon Buick Grand Prix, Haluski, auto parts, back rubs, Debbie Gibson and Madonna blaring from the radio. She was a perfect poster woman for the 80s who inspired some of the confidence I carry today.

Then there were the evening babysitters. Either one of my Dad's residents or Edy. Chanted, 'E-D, E-D, E-D,' whenever my Mom had lined her up to sit on a weekend.

Most nights, particularly when we were young, my parents were home having dinner with us, giving us baths, and putting us to bed. But occasionally they caught a movie, went to a black tie affair, or just wanted to have dinner together in relative peace and quiet. Or maybe that's an assumption I'm now making based on my family dinners recently.

I don't remember their occasional absence as traumatic; rather a chance to dance, play, and read stories with an alternate cast member. And Edy was a star.

Edy's arrival meant Yahtzee, Bingo, and as many hands of 500 Rummy as possible; an extra cookie for dessert because she was having one more too; getting under the spigot(!) to rinse off; and going to bed with the smell of her over-sized silky leisure ware fresh in my mind.

I imagine my parents went to bed those nights refreshed and relieved. Not only did they have a great night bonding over good food and company, their kids were safe, sound, and sleeping peacefully with a new set stories to relay in the morning.

***

While Eva holds down our fort during the day, we've recruited a new person for a new shift. It's called the Mommy and Daddy can't take this anymore shift. So welcome Camille. Thank you, Camille. You can take it from here, Camille. (And replace Camille with Mimi sometimes.)

Not that I don't love my kids. Not that I don't want to spend all day, every day with them; run while pushing them ahead of me, do yoga while Mary makes her dolls scale my downward facing slope, bake cakes while Mary licks the icing off my spatula, and work while they try to pound the keys on my computer. But at their ages, it's chaotic. And exhausting. And I need to remember what life, and particularly dinner, was like when it was just me and Peter.

So we've been calling up the sweet girl from our church who just loves kids to come over and fill in, while we check out. And in turn, check in with each other in a real way. We've used three restaurant gift certificates over the past four weeks; a couple that were quite dusty from the years they've spent in my dresser. We've made memories just the two of us again, and it's been awesome.



As a working mom, I guilt myself into thinking I need to be there every second that I'm not at work. But from what I learned as a kid, babysitters are there to mix things up, add a little more character, and give your parents the break they deserve. There's still plenty of room for family time in the schedule.

A very happy 89th birthday to Oma; a woman who has always put family first. And whose Bronco's gave her the best present of all last Sunday! We love you (and your socks, blankets, perfect pound cake, and cat stories so much!)

Lo.

Dynamic Uno

At the age of two, going on three, Mary loves making matches. Finding the pair to each of her favorite animals when we play the game of Memory. Picking out the right color bow to accent her party dress. And assigning a sidekick to the characters she plays on a daily basis. We all have a role.

Eva is Woody to her Buzz.  Daddy is Captain Hook to her Smee; Hans to her Anna; and Peter Pan to her Tinkerbell. I'm Mommy Lion to her Lion Cub; Flounder to her Ariel; and the Scarecrow to her Dorothy.

Bobby is the baby version of them all; Baby Prince Hans, Baby Peter Pan, Baby Sebastian, and the Baby Lion. He's also the baby dinosaur that wrecks castles, towers and dollhouses. And occasionally he plays the troll.  

But lately, I can tell that Bobby is graduating out his babyish character. He's holding his own; not letting go of the toy that Mary wants, not falling over when he gets pushed out the way, roaring just as loud as the lioness, and making up characters all his own.

It could be his size. Now just a couple pounds shy of Mary's weight, he's a little harder to push aside. It could be the few words he now says and the many more that he understands. Or maybe it's the big milestone he passed this weekend.

On Saturday, Bobby turned one, and we celebrated all weekend long. It was largely a family affair. And an extended, grand one at that. Sushi dinner on Friday night, smoked salmon brunch on Saturday morning, Grandma's saucy spaghetti and meatballs with Chianti Classico that night, and an expedition downtown that started with prayers at Old St. Pat's and ended in the photo booth at City Winery on Sunday. Cake, party hats, balloons, presents, tots and toasts. Crumbs, blue icing, tissue paper, and little white sprinkles scattered throughout every corner of my house. Good people, good food, good photos, great memories. Really tired Mommy.

      

 

Regardless of his age, weight or developmental milestones, I think he's simply had enough of being the baby brother, the baby everything. He's ready to be a more substantial playmate - the actionable uno to complete Mary's Dynamic Duo.

God speed, little one. But a little advice. If she tries to put you in Time Out (so sorry, Cora!), run, RUN, and then get Mommy.

Lo.