A first birthday letter to my child

My child,

Happy birthday sweet boy. Today you are one year old. What a wonderful milestone for you. For me. I have so enjoyed watching you grow and learn and blossom from a tiny newborn, eyes closed, serene and fragile to a precocious toddler, eyes wide, curious and energetic.

Of the hundreds of photos I have documenting your firsts this year, my most special memories don't reside in a photo but in my heart. In our everyday moments. The moments we've spent learning from each other, exploring the world hand in hand, holding you for hours as you sleep, in the quiet of our 3 am's, in the giggles over breakfast and in the kisses before bedtime.

I cherish each one of these moments and every night before I sleep I pray I will be blessed with another day making memories with you.

I burst with pride as you explore your independence. And ache with sadness as I watch you slowly wander further into this world and away from my protective arms. Your awkward toddle will eventually turn into confident strides, your inflected babbling will eventually turn into articulate conversation, your tight grasp around my finger will eventually loosen and you'll discover this beautiful world waiting for you. But not today. Today you are still my little boy. Today you still need me to hug you after a tumble. You still need me to teach you the right words to say. You still need to hold my hand. And even after you've grown up and don't need me as much anymore, always know I'll be here for a hug after life's stumbles.

You've grown into such a sweet, smart, funny child. I love being your mother. It has given me more purpose than I knew I could have. If I do nothing else, this life will be full because of you.

Of course there have been hard days, cranky days, sick days, long days, tired days. But even in those days, just one gapped tooth grin, one whispered mama in the darkness, one hug with your chubby fingers round my neck is enough to fill my heart with joy. Enough to get me through a lifetime of hard days.

Today we celebrate you my child. We celebrate your year of life. And how you've irrevocably changed ours.

I pray you continue to grow healthy and happy. I pray as you grow, you will always feel our love and God's grace in your life. I pray you will cherish your everyday. Just as I cherish mine.

I love you my sunshine.

To the moon and back,
Mama

A Tale of Two Car Trips

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

The whining started shortly after we pulled on the interstate commencing the first leg of our road trip towards our new home. Being a seasoned traveling mama, I was prepared. Snacks: check. Favorite nursery rhymes: check. An arsenal of toys in the front seat in case one gets dropped (or in The Kid's case hurled from the backseat towards my head): check. Bring it kid. Ba-ring. It.

I passed The Kid his snack cup. Crunching and babbling replaced the whining for all of 10 minutes.

I turned up his nursery rhymes cd and jammed out to itsy bitsy spider so hard I almost didn't hear the whining getting louder. Almost. The Kid has a pair of Stephen Tyler-esque lungs on him.

I passed back his favorite monkey. Monkey did a stage dive directly back into the front seat. I passed back his favorite board book. Squeals of delight filled the car. Yes, mama winning! Five minutes later Goodnight Moon smacked the back window. As my arsenal of toys dwindled, anxiety slowly washed over me. I glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes in a 3 hour drive, we're never gonna make it there with my sanity intact.

In desperation, I passed back my iPhone only to feel it slip between our hands at the last moment and hit the car floor with a deafening thud. Game over. Screaming commenced.

And continued through the towering city buildings and moonlit pine. It continued through the small college towns and over the hum of the busy highway. It continued after our lunch break and all the way to the driveway of my parents house.

He brought it. Nerves shot and dreading the second even longer half of the trip the next day, I headed directly to Walmart and bought a portable DVD player.

Second leg: sweet glorious silence for 3 1/2 hours. Quiet through the backwood roads and crisp cotton fields. Silence pass the lonesome houses dotting the country roads and as the air slowly turned salty as we made our way closer to the shimmering coast.

Only intermittent squeals of delight, sighs of a sleepy little head and The Man in The Yellow Hat broke through the quiet.

Portable DVD player inventor, you win at life.

It's in the Box Marked Shanks

It's moving month. You know what that means! Relaxation and healthy home cooked meals every night!

I've got seven moves under my belt. You'd think I could do this with my eyes closed. You'd of course be wrong. I've been living somewhere between stress eating and manically packing for a couple weeks now. Two nights ago, the husband brought home candy bars and cokes for dinner. What? It seemed like a good food choice at the time. I've convinced myself packing 3 boxes is the equivalent to 3 miles on the treadmill. So I'm good there. Do not ruin that for me people. I will shank you. I have good shanking knife in one of these boxes around here. Somewhere. Where IS that box?

I've pretty much given up on marking boxes with useful information that may clue me to what it holds. Instead I have two boxes that are just marked baby shit and one that says husband's dumb crap he should've thrown away years ago in block letters and a smiley face. I think I'll make unpacking more interesting and have a couple boxes with a skull and crossbones marked dangerous explosives. Maybe one can have a stick figure guy turning into The Hulk and marked hazardous waste. Our moving guys should get a kick out of it.

My house looks like an alcoholic toddler lives here. Jack Daniels and Jose Cuervo boxes are stacked amongst piles of The Kid's toys. How did he get so many toys? I keep finding them. Under the couch, in closets, between cushions. I think they're procreating at night. I suspect that squeaky giraffe is just a high priced escort. Slutty Sophie.

We still have a couple weeks left here, but my OCD requires me to have all the contents of my house packed neatly in boxes right now. I may have gone overboard. Maybe just a little. There's a chance I had to buy toilet paper today because I may have packed the last roll. And hand soap. And baby wipes. If the dog goes missing, I promise I'll voluntarily admit myself to the psych ward.

As obsessed as I am about needing to get everything in a box, my husband is as obsessed with bubble wrap. He bubble wraps the shit outta stuff. Seriously. He's a bubble wrapaholic. He makes late night runs to Home Depot saying he needs more packing tape. But I know. I know he's scoring more bubble wrap. The man needs help.

We're almost done though. Just two more weeks. We'll soon be sitting on our new balcony overlooking the Gulf of Mexico, clinking our glasses and celebrating surviving our 8th move. And I betcha the $2 million I'm planning on winning in Vegas next summer that is the exact moment my husband will bring up his plans for the next move.

Where is that damn shank box?

Save the Date! November 1: My Intervention

I've prayed for the end of a really bad day. Who hasn't? I might have even hoped a craptastic Monday would turn into a drink-in-excess-Friday. But I gotta say this is the first time I have ever been relieved to see an end of entire month.

September, or the month of in-laws as it will be forever referred to in the family history books, has come and gone. And believe me I will refer back to this moment in history for a long long long time. Just know that, husband. A long time.

It was a doozy. The Husband owes me something big and sparkly. I'd accept large, glass and full of liquor as well. Wrapped in a bow. Because anything wrapped in a bow says I'm sorry for being an ass.

I love my in-laws. I really do. Great people who would move mountains for my kid. It wouldn't have even been all that bad if life, in general, didn't give me the finger once or twice this month as well. September was like a hellacious version of the 12 days of Christmas.

On the first day of September, my true love gave to me 6 bickering in-laws, 5 to-tal meltdowns, 4 cutting teeth, 3 days of fever, 2 long flights and one freaking car accideeeeeeent.

I've drank more in the past month than in the entire year. Don't judge me. Wine kept me from banging my head against the wall repeatedly. Or banging my husband's head against the wall repeatedly.

So October has arrived. And guess what...we decided to move. Because apparently another month of stress is just the cure for this pounding, nauseating September hangover. Yay. Moving is my personal hell. I must have been a dirty hooker in a past life because somehow I got a husband who actually enjoys moving. So we move. We move a lot. And I drink. I drink a lot.

Packing has been an interesting experience this time around. Two days into packing and I've packed 5 boxes. That's progress, right? Sure, considering The Kid has unpacked 2 boxes, broken a picture frame, eaten a coffee table book and wrapped his head in bubble wrap. I'd say it's progress.

Wine glasses are being packed last. I'll see you in November for my intervention, y'all.

SuperMom vs Germy McSnotface

We just experienced The Kid's first illness. No biggie, you say. Oh lest you forget my friends? We're FTPs. First time parents.

I've been awake for 72 hours with one hand permanently attached to The Kid's forehead like my palm had freaky mom powers that could detect the slightest change in temperature. If I were a superhero this week, that would've been my super power. I lost my cool super powers like being able to produce free drinks using only my boobs long ago. Now I'm SuperMom: faster than projectile vomit, stronger than a baby trying to yank the thermometer out of his bumhole, able to leap piles of laundry in a single bound. Lamest.superhero.ever.

Our first reaction, of course, was to flip our shit, race to the closest hospital and demand expensive medical testing. Then hunt down the parents of the child who got The Kid sick and unleash fire upon their souls. After briefly being held hostage by batshit crazy, we decided to wait it out and take him to the doctor in the morning. We are still currently trying to track down Germy McSnotface's parents and sneeze directly into their eyeballs. Too much?

We did spend a small fortune at CVS stockpiling any bottle of anything that looked like it could remotely make our child feel better. They could have scribbled "magic juice" on a piece of paper, slapped it on a gallon of milk and I would have paid $20 for it.

Also, I think my pediatrician may break up with me. Which is devastating, particularly because we just started really getting to know each other. We were having a good time, ya know. Not getting too serious. Just seeing each other occasionally. Then I blew it. I think I scared her off. Calling her all the time. Begging for her to come live with me. Did you know your pediatrician can't come live with you? She said can't, but I'm pretty sure she just won't. There's the real problem with healthcare in this country. Lack of commitment.

Honestly, The Kid was pretty sick but he handled it like a trooper. He did score three whole nights of sleepovers and all night buffets. And kicked dad out of the big bed. And puked on dad's last remaining pillow on the couch. Baby winning.

In retrospect, I knew he'd be okay. And I know I have many more weird kid germ sick days in my future, but I can't help but want to protect him from everything that may cause him pain. I'd take a bullet for this little guy. I get it now. I know. Welcome to parenthood, genius. Sometimes this whole parenting thing has to punch me directly in the face for me to learn a lesson.

Oh sweet Jesus no. My husband just coughed. It can't be. Anything but this. Not the...man flu.

I quit.

A Day in the Life: Murdering Caterpillars, Fart Noises and Run DMC

So sometimes I'm not really sure what to do with this short chubby cute little guy that I have to care for on a daily basis.

My kiddo. He is precious, but I think he gets kind of creeped out when I lovingly stare at him for hours. Sometimes I think when he's 16, I'll sneak into his room and lovingly stare at him while he's sleeping just to freak him out. Then I'll scream his ear and wake him up for payback. Cause I'm the mama and I can.

And he's kinda over just lying there staring at the bird mobile on his bouncy chair. Oh those were the days! I tried to put him in it again last week and he threatened to call CPS on my ass.

I mean, we do the usual. Ya know, cover the basics...feed him, change him, bathe him, keep him from offing himself for the eleventh time in an hour.

Then we do some playtime. Or I try to convince him to play with the hundreds of dollars in toys in his toy bucket and he plays with the Tupperware top and the Venetian blinds instead.

Then we sing. Or I sing and he bangs his Tupperware top on the dog's head and tries to chew on the computer power cord. Again.

Then we go outside for a stroll around the park. Or I stroll and he screams from his stroller to be let out. Then eats 2 leaves, gets a rash from the grass, kills a caterpillar and tries to eat it, crawls into dog poo, climbs on the slide and gets knocked over by a toddler, cries, steals someone's sippy cup, practices velociraptor screams, get tired and cries again.

Then we do some learning. Or I teach him his ABCs, how to count his toes, have a Hebrew lesson, read him a book and he makes fart noises with his mouth. And tries to eat the book.

After The Kid's half-hearted attempt at a game of peek-a-boo this morning, I decided we needed a change. Now I don't have much experience in kid friendly activities to draw from, but do have a whole heck of a lot of down time shenanigans from college.

Dance party it is.

A whole lotta Beatles, a little 90s pop, a touch of Run DMC, Lynard Skynard and some Queen. Singing It's Tricky to my 9 month old: not my finest parenting moment. But it was fun. And my child's giggles filling the living room was music to my ears.

The Liebster Award...kind of like an Oscar

Oh, thank you, thank you. No, please sit down. Okay, keep applauding. I'll just stand here and bask. I'll keep talking through the music drowning out my acceptance speech making it just really God awful awkward for everyone. Maybe I'll have a wardrobe malfunction accidently on purpose and you can see that ahem...these are in fact real.  And bloody fantastic.

I'll invite my fellow nominees to the stage and graciously call them the real winners while secretly flipping them the bird in my head.  Of course, I'll have to thank my mom and dad and The Big Guy Upstairs. I'll forget to thank my husband.  But that's okay, he'll get really jealous of my new found success and fame then file for divorce in a month anyway.

Wait, that's for my Oscar...

This is my Liebster Award...gah.  So many to keep up with.

My hilarious and brave friend (she's got 5 kids people...5! That she homeschools!) over at Diapers...or Wine presented me with this award.  I'm so humbled by it since she is quite possibly in my top 3 of funniest people in the entire universe.  Thank you for the honor.

Alrighty now to the Liebster Award acceptance speech.

11 quirky facts about yours truly:

1. I tell everyone I'm 5' tall.  I'm a lying liar who lies.

2. No matter how many taco seasoning packets or bags of spinach we have, I think we don't have any and always buy more.  We have 5 taco seasoning packets in the pantry right now. We rarely eat tacos.

3. I have an irrational phobia of frogs.  Can.not.deal.  God got it wrong when he made those spawns of the devil.

4. My wedding was during a category 2 hurricane. Cause I'm a badass mofo. I'm the Chuck Norris of brides.

5. I wreck my car...a lot.  The only original piece of my last car was the driver's side door and the side mirrors.  That's it.  Of course it's never my fault. Last week, the garage door actually rammed my bumper. I swear.

6. I am a little OCD about time.  I can't wake up unless the minute is divisible by 5.  Sometimes my husband sets my alarm for 7:03 just to screw with me. I'm just a little crazy, ya'll. Not a lot crazy.

7. I played on soccer in Europe when I was 15. And when I say played soccer, I mean got drunk for the first time and the second time and the third time.

8. I keep Kosher even though I'm not Jewish.  <----- Have fun with that one.

9. I've rarely taken off my wedding ring in the past 4 years. Mostly because I can't get the damn thing off. I'm for reals. That sucker is stuck good. I have a feeling the husband did that on purpose.

10. I'm a serial blogger along with being a serial hobbyist. I lived in Israel for a year recently and it was the best year of my life. Of course I had to blog about that too.(www.abrideinthedesert.blogspot.com is my now defunct blog if you are at all interested.  You're not? Oh, okay then.)

11. I HATE moving, yet we've moved 7 times in 10 years.  Getting ready for #8 as we speak.

 

11 Questions I have to Answer:

1.) If you could be a celebrity for a day, who would it be?

I probably should say someone awesomely talented or insanely rich. But let's be honest here: Blake Lively, because she gets to schtoop Ryan Reynolds.

2.) Who would you rather have dinner with, Oprah, Jenny McCarthy, or Lady Gaga?

Oprah. So I could woo her with my winning personality and convince her to give me a couple mil. Plus I'd have to throat punch Jenny McCarthy and gouge out my own eardrums with a q-tip if I had to listen to Lady Gaga actually talk.  

3.) Favorite movie?

Wall-E.  I freakin' love that movie. Or Princess Bride.  I freakin' love that movie, too. I'm a child, I know.

4.) Someone gives you a new, perfect home. Catch is, you have to leave EVERYTHING. Can't take one thing, not a picture, not a pillow. What do you do?

I wouldn't take it. Even though I complain about my piles of crap all over my house, I couldn't live without my beloved crap. Can I leave behind my husband's piles of crap instead and still take the house? That seems fair.

5.) The drink you could not live without?

Coffee, yep even over boxed wine. I'm a monster without my coffee. Makes me all sweaty palmed and sick just thinking I couldn't have coffee. But, I could quit anytime I wanted. Don't give me that side-eye...I could.

6.) What should you be doing with all the time you spend on Twitter or your blog?

Oh...laundry, eating, making homemade baby food, cooking gourmet meals for the hubby, finishing any of the gajillion projects I have, charity work, reading something intellectual, learning Hebrew, doing something to earn an income, earning my Master's Degree, brushing up on my presidential candidates to make an informed decision. Ya know, nothing of any value really.

7.) WORST movie you have ever-ever seen where you want your life back?

Probably Showgirls for obvious reasons, but V for Vendetta is pretty close.  Not because its a bad movie, its actually pretty good, but because its my husband's favorite movies and I've seen it 42 times. Besides chocolate and sex, nothing is good after that many times. And sex is iffy.

8.) Most amazing thing that has ever happened to you?

Having my baby boy of course. Living abroad is second.

9.) What kind of wedding dress did you wear (or prom dress if wedding doesn't apply)?

It was a classic strapless, form fitting beautiful cream colored dress with scalloped lace edges. If I could still fit in it, I'd wear it around the house to vaccum and do the dishes. That would get me a one way ticket to the loony bin from the husband for sure.

10.) Fave song of all time?

You are my Sunshine.  My mama sang it to me and I sing it to The Kid. He loves it.

11.) Partridge Family or Brady Bunch?

Patridge Family. The Brady Bunch creeps me out. I think there are some filthy Brady secrets behind those smiling faces and I don't like it one bit. Sickos.