'puter

Neither of my daughters really like me being on the computer.
Briar tolerates it if we are sharing the monitor, she on the right with her Little Einsteins or crazy obscene frog video (more on the frog thing another time) and me with a smidgen of window on the other side. I slide the keyboard to the right so that I can use it without her hitting the buttons to crank the volume.

Alas, she has devised a new and exasperating (yet endearing) way to get me to abandon work at the computer. She slips between my arms as I type. I lift my arm and try to give her more space, my wrists nearly touching as I close the gap. She zips in again, her halo of golden auburn curls eclipsing my view of the keyboard and significantly diminishing my ability to see the monitor. I can't get mad, I just sort of sputter in that oddly maddening and at the same time delicious state of frustration, I am laughing and clearing my throat as if that will somehow clear the distraction. She turns with impish eyes, her little tongue peeking out the side of her mouth as she affectionately growls "Maw-Me. Maaw-Mee!"

Avery is much the same. She has an edge over her sister in that she is still nursing and can take one of several tacks- there's the nurse and nip OUCH a reliable mom-attention getter, or the nurse and duck- No, no, gotta keep drinking honey! another surefire typing stopper. Lately she's been perfecting the hair gag, which involves zealous tugging, sucking and then swallowing of my hair which of course leads to gagging, striking panic in my conflicted working mom's heart.

The other day I somehow managed to get Avery down for a nap and Briar was coloring in her Princess book..Thank you Disney, for all your Princess magic. Like catnip for little girls. I was working at the computer. Churning out great stuff, feeling like supermom-employee. Yeah.After a while Briar started weaving and chattering her way over to me. She got to the window beside the computer and started doing what is arguably one of my favorite things she does lately. She wrapped herself in the curtain, noticed it was raining and began singing the sweetest, most nonsensical little Briar-ditty about the rain. I continued hitting the keys on the keyboard, though the strokes had long since ceased to carry meaning. I was simply ensuring that I would not interrupt this magical little window serenade.


Being a working mom, whether you do it at home, at the office or both is no cake walk, but every once in a while you're thrown a bone. A delicious, savor it for days bone.

Mommy Princess

I don't know if this happens to other moms, but every once in a while I find myself thinking, "Maybe I could do something better. Maybe I could be kinder, more patient. Prettier."

Yes, prettier.

You always want the best for your kids: from the laudable- best learning tools, wickedly expensive organic foods and a warm, safe house, to the slightly more superficial- cute shoes, adorable jeans, a kick ass iTunes library, and great bath toys.

But there is also the desire to have you, yourself, be the best and brightest parent you can be. I'll be honest, I don't want to be the mom with the frizzy hair, sallow skin and frumpy clothes.

In my dreams I am a polished mom. I take the time in the morning (before anyone has woken up of course, so that I don't steal time from my family for the frivolity of blow drying) to style my hair, apply a bit of moisturizer (of course it has an spf of at least 20 to protect my skin from fine lines produced by sun damage) , brush a pearly shade of eye shadow along my brow (nothing too bold, this is just to enhance, you see), dust a bit of peachy blush along the apples of my cheeks (mimicking that youthful rosiness of rest and activity) and then maybe passing a mascara wand along my lashes.

I am always well turned out, with jeans that don't lose their shape from sitting on the floor playing, a cute top that reflects my still trim figure and fun kicky shoes that look clean and stylish.

Unfortunately what is usually more realistic is asking Sean to watch Briar and closing myself in the bathroom with Avery propped up on a stack of towels, using my left hand to swing a pair of slacks that are hanging over the dryer back and forth in front of Avery like a psuedo-mobile, my left hip jutting out to press against her feet, lest she start to fall, my right foot bracing the door shut as I try to use my right hand to hold the curling iron over clumps of hair, dragging it hard and slow to try and curl-dry my hair. I set the curling iron down, turn to check on Avery and then quickly swipe mascara on the lashes of each eye, before grabbing the iron to do a little more curl-drying damage to my hair.

Inevitably Briar pushes the door open saying, "Mommy, help. Mommy, open. UGH. MOMMY HELP. OPEN. DOOR. MOMMY." Avery squeals and wiggles at the sound of Briar, I shift to keep her from falling, hoist the curling iron and its cord up over head to protect Briar as I twist to my left avoiding the toilet, to allow for the door to open so that Briar can come in. The curling iron is branding my forearm and the counter has soaked me from waist to crotch. Briar slams the door, startling Avery and causing me to flinch, shutting my eyes and plastering my eyeballs and eyelids with deepest brown mascara.

I take a deep breath and look in the mirror. My hair is shaped like a bell, tight and damp against my scalp, then belling out in atrocious Nellie Olson sausage curls along my jaw line. My eyes are bloodshot, and my breasts have leaked milk onto the last, clean, non t-shirt, work suitable top I have. The wet line on my pants has passed below my crotch only on the right side, giving me the distinct look of a fairgrounds cafeteria worker. Avery is teetering precariously along the edge of the dryer, gleefully clutching the pants her daddy asked me to watch last night, a shiny glob of baby snot stamped across the placket of the zipper. Briar looks up at me and says, "Mommy, take you?" with her arms stretched out, ready for me to take her.

Utterly hopeless, I think to myself. Somehow I set the curling iron down, scoop Briar into my right arm and Avery into my left as I grab a towel and wipe the worst of the mascara smudges from my face. I take the girls into the living room and ask Sean to watch them. I sneak back to the bathroom and clean the snot from the slacks, grab a fleece vest from the laundry effectively covering my leaky chest and taking my outfit from business casual, to Adirondack functional and return to the living room to hand Sean the pants.

"Did you enjoy getting to do your hair?" my sweet, innocent husband asks. I smile and decide that instead of weeping and explaining that I just spent the last five minutes fixing his pants and disguising the breast milk stains I'll be wearing for the rest of the day, that I'll thank the universe that I have this man who thinks that this walking mess of mismanaged hair and smeared make up is attractive and by design.
Later, much later, I'm back at home. Dinner is on the stove and Sean has the girls by the fire. Briar is reaching for a book.

"Did you hear that?" Sean asks me.

"No, what?" I respond, tired and distracted.

"Listen," he says.

"N'dat. The book. Mommy 'cess. Mommy 'cess. Mommy p'cess." Briar is saying with her head down.

Exhausted and slightly annoyed I look at Sean with a "What is she saying?" plea on my face.

"Mommy princess. Honey, she wants to look at our wedding album, at her 'Mommy Princess'."

It is almost more than I can bear as she turns and lift her head, her big blue eyes seeking me out from beneath a later of honey colored curls. She pats her chubby little hand on the cushion beside her and says, "Mommy, gen'in? Mommy sit? Mommy Princess book."

Sean beams at me as I cross the room to sit with my daughter. I am feeling like the luckiest, prettiest Mommy Princess ever to be.

Ramblin'.

This made me so happy. Laugh out loud, nod my head, and do little happy flutter kicks with my feet happy.

Read this post from"Breed 'em and weep":

It germs, my dears

I am starting to wonder about my parenting style. I know I slap a lot of Purell on their hands, I know this is a house where sick dogs do unspeakable things to floors, which makes me a mother who screams, DON'’T GO IN THE KITCHEN WITH YOUR BARE FEET! TERRIBLE THINGS ON THE FLOOR! YOU DON'’T EVEN KNOW!
The topic of the day is germophobic parenting, my dears.

Click here for the full post at Breed'em and Weep



I think I have always fallen on the slightly germophobic side of the fence, but becoming a mom has sort of sent me over the edge and off into crazy territory. I think it all started back when the carpet was installed...laid...put down. Ok, back when they covered the wood floors with carpet. They actually completed the job mere hours before I went into labor with Briar, but that's another story.

Anyway, just before they finished the carpets, the guys redoing the hardwood floors arrived--

I know, what the hell were we thinking?
Refinishing floors?
New carpet?
New porches?
Did I mention the new roof?
Ya, we've never really excelled at the whole concept of calmly plotting and planning and making sure we don't bite off more than we can chew.
Sean argued that to focus on a baby he would need for all the house stuff to be done before the arrival of said baby.
I said he needed to calm the bleep down so our marriage lasted to delivery.
He said to truly relax and be with the baby I needed to let him do this.
I argued he needed to let me help.
He argued I couldn't.
I said he was a jerk.
He said that was fine, I still couldn't do anything.
I went and did things like peeling off wallpaper in another room when he sent me away...oooh did that make him mad! But it was never worth it.
I always ended up with "peeler's remorse" or "starter's remorse." It was pretty hard to deny that I shouldn't have been doing what I was doing when I'd realize I had half a wall's worth of wallpaper stuck to the bottom of my bump that I was going to need help removing and a raging fire hot ache in my crotch from my body holding the baby in while I contorted my body for the sake of home renovating. But I was just so bored and tired of being on the sidelines. We compromised and did everything while frequenetly acknowledging that we were trying to do too much.

So after gutting the entire upstairs, rewiring, sheetrocking, painting, etc we brought in the professionals to handle the floors and plumbing. I spread old sheets on the floor to cover the carpets as the floor guys ran up and down the stairs with their boots literally caked with laquer or shelack or whatever the hell you call the stuff you put on hardwood floors to kill all winged insects within 5 miles, incinerate nose hairs and make you feel a very hard to supress desire to gouge out your own eyeballs. Fumes be damned, I was going to protect that carpet so our baby would have a plush, sanitary, carpeted play area nirvana. How futile I would learn it all was.


We ordered furniture because literally, what we had were Coleman camp chairs, a queen size bed and very tired, ready to be put out of its misery faux leather furniture from Sean's college days. And when I say camp chairs and a queen size bed, I mean camp chairs and a queen size bed were what we had for people to sit in. Yup, they were right there in the living room. The cup holders made 'em classy.

Sean thought we needed stuff for people to sit in when they came to visit the baby, which was true and an exciting side note is that since my water kind of broke (Ya, 'kind of broke', apparently there are actually two levels of water breaking, who knew?) Sean threw his hands up in a, "Fine, after 9+ months of holding you back, I give!" He let me unwrap the sofa and arrange it myself.

But I have gone so far off where I meant to go with this. Let me get back to the germs. The nasty, evil, impossible to conquer germs. Ever since we brought Briar home I have wanted to provide a clean, wholesome environment in which she can play, sleep, and grow. Granted, since discovering the magic of the circle under the cat's tail (talking about the anus here folks, it's not just a forwarded email you get, kids are fascinated with the butt holes of animals. Jesus it's exhausting)
No honey, mama said don't touch.
No, put your fairy wand away, that will hurt the kitty.
Barnaby doesn't want that in there.
Leave the dog's boo boo alone.
Honey, mama said no, if you do that again Ella won't be able to go poopin' in the backyard.
STOP. Mommy said no touch!"
"Owie. It hurts. It hurts a Ella in'air."
"That's right honey, touching Ella there could hurt her in there."

I tried establishing a "No Shoes on in the House" rule. Ya, people just don't respect that.

Sean made this wonderful little sign with a stamp print of Avery's 30 minute old foot and put it on the front door.

"Would you mind taking off your shoes?"

"Oh, ok. Oh look, Ella. Hi baby dog."

"Aw, could you just take off your shoes, and please, don't say hello to Ella yet I have to put her in---

Damnit, too late. She peed on the floor.

"Oh, that's ok, c'mere sweetie. Let's go in the kitchen."

"But. Your shoes. Please."
And instead of removing them they fast tiptoe across the floor. What the hell? Moving faster is going to make the 87,000 different kinds of fecal matter, oily street funk and who-knows-what-else not smear across the floor? If you tiptoe does that somehow counteract the fact that your hundred plus pounds of human being is pressing down upon your outside shoes on our inside floor? Do you want to lick that? Do you understand that our children will? Do you not care at all about what I am asking? Can you please help me not to explode and scream with all the rage I am feeling towards you right now?

Cut to the corner of the room and witness the dog burying her face in her canine lady parts, smacking her lips and then licking our daughter's face.

"Gawd, Ella stop it. Sean. Damnit. She's licking. She, aw, gawd."

It is a never-ending, exhausting, and ultimately losing battle that I am waging.The fact is no one cares as much as I do about what the kitty is tracking when he hops on the kitchen counter and walks delicately, tiptoes even, from one end of the counter all the way across the oven past the sink and over to the far end where he jumps across the kitchen and on to the butcher block.

"Honey, he's gonna get up there. Cats walk on counters."

"I realize that in other people's homes it is fine for cats to walk on counters, but damnit he turned a chipmunk inside out, licked his ass hole and drank from the toilet today. And those are only the things that I saw first hand, God knows what he did for the other 18.5 hours. I just don't want that on our counters."

As I am ranting with what I am sure can only be described as a maniacal glint in my eyes I am 100% aware of the fact that I have crossed over into Bill Murray in Caddyshack territory. I am just not going to win this one. All I ask is that the people coming into our house have the decency to allow me to chase my own Quixotic dreams in my house. Call me crazy when you leave, shake your head, be offended I really don't care, but damnit take your shoes off and swat the damn cat if you see him on the counter.

Does Blogger Publish Post Times?

That's the question Sean posed to me the other night after he finished reading the movie entry and came to bed.

"Why?"

This smirk sprang across his face and he moved his lips as if to talk and I said,
"Why, because I did an entry on not being able to stay up for a movie?"

"Yes. That's-"

I interrupted again, "Hypocritical?"

"Yes, you-"

"Apples and oranges. Staying up for a movie or Letterman is so vastly different from writing on this blog, or even writing copy for a client."

"But you said you couldn't stay up late."

Big annoyed, girl sigh. "Sean. I swear you are just trying to incite a you entry!"

"No, I'm not," he lamely protested.

"You are so needling me to get yourself written about."

Snort.

Truth is I have been talking to him about how this blog, this outlet, has shifted. It began as a way to keep a sort of journal about Briar and to share pictures with family and friends. That was, and is, wonderful, but so is a a late night riff on whatever might be annoying, delighting or confounding me. So I run into a conflict with the people looking for baby pics and stories and the friends looking for uncensored Amanda.

But bless my dear husband, he wants me to do what feels right. And of course he doesn't mind getting a good laugh. So I really do think he was trying to spur a non-baby, non-family worship entry. And he did. Who knows, maybe the lousy weather they have forecasted for this weekend will provide the guts for a fun post. Or maybe I'll be walking over to the computer in a tshirt with mysterious crusty spots on it and regaling you with stories of life from the frontline of toddlerhood.

Wanna Put a Movie In?

As I age I find myself doing things, saying things and liking things that I can still remember mocking, not listening to and hating.

Now some of these things I can kind of wrap my mind around and not hate myself for- like I remember being 13 and driving around with the family on Sundays to look at houses and being aware of a part of me that didn't loathe it, even the occasional trip to Lowe's was ok.

But saying that shorts in the winter was ridiculous or that what the neighbors thought mattered...those were just dumb. C'mon, of course wearing men's boxer shorts 2 sizes too large in December in a snowstorm instead of pants was SO NOT ridiculous. School was inside, right?

I was at a high school football game at a catholic school in Connecticut a few weeks back and the thoughts running through my head about the get ups these girls were wearing! It had nothing to do with being weather appropriate. Seriously, do you have any idea what high school girls are wearing? To football games? If that's what they're wearing at a private catholic school I don't think I could handle public school.

I was blushing. For real. I literally had to look away because it was like some sort of pop video moving across the bleachers in front of me. You remember those Aerosmith videos? It's all fine and well when it's on the screen and you think, "So one of those girls is a rock star's daughter and the other is an actress." It's another thing when you're sitting so close to the display that the flakes of dried breast milk that you are flicking off of your t-shirt are sticking to the porn star lip gloss the young girls are wearing.

I don't remember us all looking like size 2 mini-whores...Is that the tom-boy in me, the 30+ year old in me or what? I know I wouldn't go back and look like that if I could. I wouldn't know where to put my hands, there's no way you could do anything with the pockets on their hip huggers but lament how nice it would have been to have a place to tuck a stick of gum if only Earl or Joe or whatever designer jean maker had thought it useful. And by the way, I think "hip hugger" is a mite generous.

But see, there I go. I started this damn entry to demonstrate a point but I've gone and climbed up on my I'm more older than I am younger soapbox.

Let's see, getting back on track. I still haven't gone so far over to the older side that I am wearing ankle length denim jumpers and sporting a bowl cut. I'm not reading Redbook and watching Lifetime while I munch Viactiv chocolate chews. I'm not wearing mom jeans and listening to the radio station that plays Rod Stewart, Elton John, Shania Twain and Clay Aiken. I do think that a slightly more buttoned up look is more alluring than a flesh feast, I think wearing more than one ring tends to look gaudy, and while a second glass of wine might sound good, I value a clear, pain free head in the morning too much to risk it.

So I go to Lowe's on the weekend and I enjoy myself, while wearing clothes that allow me to still turn a foam front mesh back clad head or two. I look forward to clean sheets and the simple pleasure of a basket of folded towels. I love feeding my family wholesome meals. All very unexciting, unfulfilling things 15 years ago (except the sheets, I've always treasured the first night's sleep in a set of freshly laundered sheets.) But I still drop f-bombs, I try to stay up to speed on useless pop culture of the moment and I still like to look pretty hot every now and again.

Alas, I just can't stay up late. Little joke 'round our house is my complete inability to make it through a movie started after 7pm. Which means, based on the bedtimes here at our house 7:55pm for Avery and 8:15 to 9pm for Briar (and that isn't "sometime between 8:15 and 9" that is from 8:15 to 9 we read stories, rub backs, explain we're coming back, give kisses, rub more back etc.) and since I don't want to start a movie until we can watch it the whole way through even though Sean will swear he has never watched a movie with me without pausing it with the exception of the 4 movies we have seen in theatres and the one trip to the drive in.

We belong to Netflix and I try to keep our queue fairly up to date. We inevitably have a dvd or two kicking around, one is usually an Elmo something or other and the other two are a cut rate chick flick I thought would be fun and another movie that I heard about that I thought Sean would like. We have had such piss poor luck with movies. I mean seriously, a few months ago we had a string of like 8 that all involved the death of a child. We were both disgusted and ready to swear off movies, but we are kind of back now.

Anyway, the other night Sean says, "Wanna pop a movie in?"

It was 9:45. "Are you kidding?" I asked?

"No. Why?"

"It's 9:45. I'll never make it."

"We could try," he said with the gentlest hint of a smile curling up at the sides of his mouth.

"No. Nooo. I know what you're up to. You probably won't even make it through a movie. You just want to watch me struggle to not fall asleep."

"No, I don't," he said with very little conviction.

"Yes. You do. You're bored and you want to watch me sit in the chair
with my head lolling back every few minutes. You'll sit there laughing
as I sneak peeks over at you to see if you caught me sleeping, then I'll
squint my eyes and readjust my position in the chair."

His eyes were really starting to twinkle at this point.

"Then I'll repeat the process several times, even taking the blanket off my lap to see if being chilly will help me stay awake. Then I'll sit back one last time and wake up to the credits rolling while you quietly laugh at me.
'How'd it end?' I'll ask. And you'll say, 'We could watch it again," which we never do, which just adds up to another movie I haven't seen. Besides, we're talking about The Lake House. I really want to see it!"

Eww, I got petulant about The Lake House.

Whatever.

We watched it.

I fell asleep.

I asked how it ended.

He told me.

I've forgotten.

And we'll start the whole process all over again as soon as I find the Netflix envelope to send the Sentinel back. Another movie I didn't make it to the end of. Damn it.

Swing Sister, Swing

I genuinely dislike cats...

Yet we have one.


I never planned on getting a cat, in fact, after leaving home I was so excited to never again have a cat I can't even explain it. You see, growing up my sister loved cats. God, she loved them. I wish I had loved something that much growing up. All cats brought her incredible joy. And they loved her. She could hang a cat upside down, poke it in its side, while dousing it with cold water and it would go slack, look into her eyes and transmit a feline:

I worship you, Abbie.

That's not to say that she did that, she didn't. I am simply trying to illustrate that regardless of the attention Abbie was or wasn't giving to "the kitties" she was (Get ready for it!) to the cats, the cat's meow. I'm not kidding. All cats loved Abbie. Anyway, one of the cats in our house growing up, Skittles, a really beautiful long haired calico took an intense something to me. She didn't mistreat me when we were near each other, in fact she'd sometimes deign to let me stroke her back. However there was something she did that I never understood. And please understand, I never did anything to her. My family can attest to this. Anyway, back to the something, Skit (that was a little nickname we had for her, bet you savvy folks figured that out already, huh? Sorry.)
Skit peed in my shoes.

Now you may be saying, "Oh, sure, she marked your shoes once," or "Well, she was probably just trying to send you a message."

Ok, folks, the message went on for about 5 years. Skit peed in every pair of track shoes, every pair of basketball high tops, every pair of tennis shoes, every pair of...Are you sensing where I am going with this? Every single pair of shoes I owned were destroyed by the toxic, eye watering, gummy texture leaving, angry piss showers of Skit. I used to sit in the bleachers at Ike to get my ankles taped before a meet and the trainer would wrinkle her nose,

"Hmm, what is that? Do you smell that, Amanda? It's kind of, um, ew what is that? Dang it. Hang on, I'll be right back, I must have athletic tape gunk on my fingers, they're all sticky."

And I would think silently, "Yes I do smell that. I smell it every day. Every time I go into my wonderful, unventilated closet I smell that now all too familiar, pungent odor. And no, scratch the athletic tape issue, what you have is funktastic, dried cat piss on your hands from my shoes. Yes, cat piss. Isn't that nice? Nothing better to cripple the self-esteem of a high schooler than the inescapable odor of cat piss wherever they go. Yeah awkward, stinky teen years."

But I digress. I had been saying how excited I was to not have cats anymore. Fast forward about a decade and meet my first daughter, Briar.



Aw, cute huh? Incredible smile. Kinda makes you feel like you'd do just about anything to make that incredible smile explode across her little face, doesn't it?

Last Christmas we had to put one of our dogs, Dean, to sleep.



It was understandably devastating. Ella was a despondent. She had been his shadow since the day we brought her home.



Knowing that we had to do something to help Ella, and knowing that Briar loved cats (to the point of weeping and squealing with joy at the mere sighting of a cat on a walk) we decided to get a kitten.



Barnaby was his name, and he was an instant hit with Ella and Briar. I was trying to be ok with a cat, but I was pregnant so I couldn't take care of the kitty litter box. And as you can imagine, being pregnant, I wanted the box changed much more frequently than Sean thought necessary. But I knew Briar loved him so I tried.

Even when he turned the IKEA igloo tent into his own luxury shitting shack.




Even when he had athlete's foot on his nose which infected Briar and me with ring worm.



Granted, he hasn't peed in my shoes and he no longer craps wherever he wants. But I just can't seem to care about him in the way you would think a pet owner should. However, every once in a while he does something truly exceptional that makes me think, maybe...

Witness yesterday's performance on the equipment the guys siding our house left in the yard.










I'll admit it, the little guy is defrosting a little corner of my heart.

Winter Hats and Goofy Giggles

Just some silly shots of playing with out new winter hats.
I'd like to say that I have shown enormous restraint. Admittedly I went back on my rule about pink and yes, I'll fess up to the fact that I have, on occasion put the girls in something that might have coordinated somewhat with something that I have had on. But I never used one of those atrocious headbands with a bow on it to make sure that god forbid no one thought one of them was a boy...please, they all look like boys for a long time, the headbands just make'em look like goofy boys. I'll never dress the three of us as Scarlett O'Hara for a Halloween party, nor would I give twins rhyming names if I had them...though I could see us picking a name starting with a "c" for a future baby Magee if that were to happen. And I plan to be very open minded about letting them dress themselves, even if it is absurd. The one time when I really sort of throw the whole approach of not dressing the kids just to please myself is in the arena of winter hats. This may be because Briar has always been so willing to wear hats. But I do love silly winter hats. You'll see in the picture that I have on the silliest of them all. We do live in the Adirondacks after all, there are going to be lots of long, cold winters, might as well have some fun with them.

Simply Without Words (almost)

We have two children. Two beautiful, amazing girls.

I have been home for the past two days with them. Mondays I work from home, but yesterday and today I was home because the girls were both under the weather (I was too.) Being home to watch them, literally spending Saturday, Sunday, Monday and today with them has me in a state so far beyond worship. Watching them interact, moving through the transitions of waking up and playing, to morning nap and more waking up, it's a whole new world.
(Resist singing, it sounded better than "other world".)

Briar is so nurturing toward Avery, watching her I think in some ways she has a better handle than I do on balancing loving, parenting and teaching. She tells Avery no and sets boundaries, but still demonstrates an enormous capacity for love and instruction.

And Avery, well she absolutely adores her sister. Her entire demeanor changes when she has Briar in her line of vision, she leans toward her like a flower to sunlight, her face brightens, her mouth opens as if she is ready to tell her just how much she loves her and how devastatingly cool she thinks she is. Avery's non-verbal communication is pretty incredible. She watches us and responds with her body, I think once she starts to talk there won't be any holding her back, she wants it and she wants it now. One of my favorite things about her, besides the way her dimples startle and delight me with each smile, is the way she watches me, opens her mouth and pulls me into her for a kiss/bite. She also has an absolutely delicious laugh, throaty and infectious that I will do just about anything to get her to do.

Briar had a milestone yesterday. And another today. As a working mom I have struggled so much with missing special moments. I have tried to tell myself that they are all special, that just because her sitter saw her take her first step or say a new word doesn't mean that I am a bad mom, or an uncommitted mom. But I think I can speak for most working moms when I say that missed milestones pretty much make you feel like a total failure.

Why didn't she want to do it for me?
Why wasn't I there?
Will she know I missed things?
What else am I missing?

So yesterday, to be home with her and to take her to the bathroom to sit on the potty and to have her actually use it? To actually go poop on the potty? OH MY GOD. Priceless. Unforgettable. Heartbreaking. I have never been so grateful for anything...
can we agree to let me say things like that with the understanding that of course I am more grateful that she was born healthy, that Avery is healthy, that I met Sean, that I am healthy without a history of breast cancer in my family etc?

Well today, she did it again.
Twice.
Pee and poop(at different times.)
First she pooped and got an Elmo sticker. Then we went in again later and she said, "Pa-potty?" and there was a little trickling sound. "Pa-potty, go. Sticker, Elmo?" More trickling, followed by me squealing a lot of, "Oh my goodness. Oh my goodness, Briar. You are so big. You just peed in the potty. You peed in the potty!" And she said, "Pa-potty, Elmo big girl! Frush? Buh-bye poop!"

I will never forget today. The details may blur, the exact sound of her voice or the beautiful look on her face and twinkle in her eyes as she watched my celebration of her accomplishment may fade a bit, but I will never forget that I was here. I got to be with my sweet baby Briar as she did the not so baby thing of using the toilet. I know that it is inevitable that I will miss things and that I will make mistakes, but I hope that my unique ability to absolutely revel in their every accomplishment because I am their mom will always be something that they can trust.

I've said it before and I'll say it again, being a mom- being their mom, is the sweetest, most excruciatingly beautiful, painful and magnificent thing I have ever, or will ever do.

I love you two.

In Living Color

These are two other shots from the sarabearbaskets.com photo shoot.
So fun, so sweet, so precious. So glad we did it, so hope you enjoy.

Breathtaking

Thanks to the photographer who took the pictures - Susan Blackburn
To the graphic designer who connected us - Kristy Jones
And to the entrepreneur who wanted us - Melissa Bramlage
Stay tuned to www.sarabearbaskets.com for more from the shoot, or to purchase one of Melissa's wonderful diaper caddies!

Toddler Breakfast Portrait

Sorry, I have just never seen anything cuter than
this abondoned banana that had been eaten corn on the cob style.

Crap Hams

Sometimes I don't know which I like more, watching the girls or just listening to them. Today I was sitting on the sofa, Sean's mom and Jeannie had just stopped by with loot from the Disney Store in the city. Briar had wandered over to the computer where Little Einsteins had been playing, forgotten in the background. She climbed up in the chair, started bobbing her head to the trick or treat song and then raised her new Minnie and Mickey dolls and waved them in a silly dance above her head. She was oblivious to us as she worked to move her head and the dolls to the music. Later she took the dolls, a dump truck, a monster truck, a Barbie dune buggy, several balls, and a musical bowling pin into her tunnel and put them all to bed in the tunnel.

"Shhh, ah-body seepin', a--body seepin."

Avery, propped up on her belly on a pillow in front of the mirror will tip her head back, wince while squinting her eyes and then let out a shrill wail as she arches her back. I know this sounds like she's in pain or discomfort, but honestly it's a little game. She does it a couple of times then she straightens out, looks in the mirror, blows enough spit bubbles to soak her chin (literally, this girl can drool) and then smiles at her reflection.

Then we've got Briar walking around with Barbie forcing those twig like arms forward (Barbie's not hers).

"Crap hams. Crap hams. Hams crappin'."

"You got it honey. Barbie is clapping her hands."

"Ah-body crappin'."

"Yup, everybody is clapping."

Sometimes it's hard not to repeat what she is saying. My favorite thing is when I am reminded of something she has said. Like I am on the street and I look down and see a grate with a slit in it. I immediately feel a rush of warmth just like when the sun comes out from behind a cloud and warms you. Briar would take one look at that slit, press her index finger to her lips and say,

"Shhh, ees uh seepin."

Briar can find someone sleeping anywhere. I actually have an all day commitment tomorrow which may prove to be quite boring. I know I'll be able to look around and find something sleeping and hear her little voice in my head

"Shhhhhh, e-seepin".


Here's a series of shots that give a little taste of what it's like just being around the girls. They are both constantly engaged, sometimes with each other, sometimes not.

















These last two are just to demonstrate that Avery has the ability to turn her eyes on you and have you saying, "Ok, that's it, I am going to worship and adore you for the rest of your life you amazing, sparkly eyed little creature. If you could feel her skin and smell that incredible baby smell...
you'd be totally, completely, helplessly gaga for Avery.

Sweet Sounds

Our house is filled with the sweetest sounds. Briar is a cheerful little chatterbox with an ever expanding vocabulary. She has been stringing words together for sometime now, but lately they have really begun to be sentences.

"Daddy. Coming, back. Now, Daddy. Happy eating now."

or

"Barny, soft, happy. Ella barking, back in. Nice."

And Avery has this squeal she uses to let us know that she's happy. She kicks her little feet out, juts her chin forward and then squeals. She is also getting very good at mimicking Briar. This morning she was actually flirting with her dad and I heard her say an almost perfect, "Hey."

On our way back from Connecticut on Sunday she was cooing and then Briar started laughing at something. Avery cocked her head in Briar's direction, gave a little kick and then let out a perfect imitation of Briar's laugh. You can imagine how cool Briar thought that was. She immediately laughed again and watched Avery, who did not disappoint. Spot on rendition of a Briar laugh escaped Avery's lips. I was in the backseat as the giggle volley continued, both girls sat with twinkling eyes and huge smiles as they talked through laughter. It was incredible.

A different kind of incredible is the development of crying copying. Oh yes, when Avery makes her tired or slightly unhappy squeal, which is high pitched and surprisingly long considering the amount of air it would seem it needs, Briar gets a look of delight as she proceeds to perfectly recreate the Avery squeal only louder and slightly longer. It tends to frighten Avery, which makes her squeal again. Better than a talking Dress Me Elmo doll in Briar's eyes.

But you know what? It's honestly just as sweet a sound as the giggling. Witnessing these two little people communicating, hearing the sounds of life and discovery is just so incredible.

Gulp

Whether I am ready for it or not, Avery is moving forward at warp speed.

Last night, this morning really, we were in Connecticut visiting the Magee clan.
I had started out in bed with Avery and Briar while Sean camped out on the floor.
By 4am I was on the floor with Avery and Sean was up in the bed with Briar -

Some day I'll do an entry on the challenges/adventures of sleeping away from home with a toddler and an infant.

I was cooing in Avery's ear trying to keep her from doing the loud orating she has taken to doing in the early hours of the morning. My cooing actually spurred more conversation, so I slowly put my finger on her lips, gave her a few pats and shushes and then slipped my finger between her lips to massage her gums.

Surprise! Her gums weren't the only thing in there.

Avery. My baby. My sweet little, dark haired beauty is not just sitting up, she has teeth.
2 teeth to be exact. And they aren't just kinda poking through. These guys went from totally hidden beneath her gums to there. Sharp. White. Beautiful. Terrifying.

Where is the time going? We just brought her home. I have been in total denial as I have dressed her in some of the hand-me-downs from Briar. She's so long. She's so strong. Well, ya, she's like 5 months old. I swear in my heart and my mind she is so much younger. Looking back it feels as if the world slowed down for Briar's arrival. We had so much time. We just stared at each other for hours. We talked. We cuddled. I cried. I just cried and cried so perfect was the little person in my arms.

But my Avery, my sweet, perfectly formed little Avery is sprinting forward. She so clearly wants to be running and talking and devouring all the experiences she is watching us have.

"That's a second baby for you!"

"That's what older siblings do."

"Yup, classic."

With all due respect, I appreciate everyone's opinions. I recognize the wisdom of your years, the value of your experiences, but let me clue you in on something. This is my child. I really don't give two shits about the fact that all babies from the beginning of time have done x, y or z. Why don't people allow others to revel in an experience?

Why do strangers feel the need to tell you that soon enough you'll be wishing your kids would move out?

That the cuteness will wear off?

That all kids say "daddy" first?

Why, instead of saying 'wait until...' or 'you're going to..." don't people say something that allows the person to just enjoy?

Just let parents brag.
We all let crazy people rant.
We love gossips do their gossiping.
We let jerks say jerky things, but everyone just butts in on new parents and newlyweds.

Seriously, think about it. When was the last time you stopped something awful that was being said? When did you step in to make a difference? Ok, now, when was the last time you let slip some sort of, "Ya, I know all about that and let me tell you..." or heard someone else do it as they cut short the story of a happy person, eclipsing them with their own experience?

To newlyweds it's "Ah, that'll go away. Soon you'll be praying her goes on a business trip so that you can have the bed to yourself." Or,"Cuddle? Not since I was 20."

Well poo on you. Maybe you should have tried harder to hold on to the passion in your relationship.

And the things people say to parents or expectant moms. My goodness. Is it so bad that we are excited? Are you so resentful that you are in a different stage that you have to attack others. Let it go. Suck on that urge to say whatever you're thinking that will make the parent feel like what they are experiencing is anything less than the most magnificent, amazing, never-before happened in the world thing?

Seriously, what is going to happen if you let that one person savor that sensation for just a little longer?

I am so in awe of Avery and her wild race to achieve milestone after milestone. And people can tell me that it's classic second child whatever. But no matter what, I know that before everything else it is Avery doing things in a way that only Avery Adams Magee can. No one else in the world has ever been chasing Briar Davie Magee. No one else has ever had Sean Magee as their father before. Our family has never beenbefore now. It is because Sean and I met and fell in love and started a family.

To all the rainers-on-parades, I can say beyond what I have just said, that our family is because other families came before us. Each one so different. Each one contributing to what exists today. So yes, there are connections, but each joy, each awakening, each moment in time is new and we are all entitled to enjoy them, just as the people that came before us were entitled to theirs.

I love hearing other parents and other couples talk about the things they are most excited about. I think it is an incredible honor to have those things shared and to be in the position to help make those people feel even just a tiny bit more joyous, delighted and proud. I listen, nod, smile, tear up whatever. But in those moments I know that I am being given the opportunity to share in something and that is truly special.

*For the record, I didn't have somebody shoot the Avery and her two teeth story down. I just really went back (without meaning to) as I wrote this and remembered all the people (mostly during my pregnancies) who really said awful things. Who says, "You'll never love your kid as much as you do with him in your belly right now." What do you say to that? So be different, the nexttime you have someone gushing in front of you, just let 'em gush.

Hodge Podge of Shots from Mom and Abbie's Visit