We interrupt your regular programming to bring you an especially adorable announcement:
He was a perfect 7 pounds, 12 ounces, 20.5 inches long and we are all completely smitten.
This weekend my more-talented-than-she-realizes mom and some dear friends threw me the loveliest, dinosauriest baby shower. I wasn’t sure of the etiquette surrounding second baby showers; this is my first second baby. But they generously offered, and I tried to make myself scarce during the planning and prep, leaving my bedroom 10 minutes before go time.
I was nervous about how I’d fare in that kind of social setting given my bouts of anxiety over the past year, so I agreed to/jumped at the idea of having it at my house. Everything was so thoughtful and the morning ended up feeling completely laid back, even though I was wearing eyeliner. There were about 20 family members and close friends. We ate delicious quiche, banana bread, croissants (with chicken salad for those not currently vehemently opposed to poultry) and cupcakes. Carbs are a girl’s best friend.
My hostesses accommodated my persnickety wishes about games—not many, as little interaction as possible—and presents—they left it up to me to open them in front of everyone or not. By the time a natural gift-opening break appeared, I was feeling swell, so I made all the aunts and grandmas happy by cooing over little boy onesies and baby socks. Which wasn’t hard because omg so tiny and cute and blue and new and we really didn’t have any boy clothes and this one has a monster on the butt and I think I might cry it’s so adorable.
I was a straight up pro out there.
Remarkably, even the ongoing, very public “she’s so much bigger this time/no, she is so much smaller this time” debate didn’t faze me. Because it’s clearly acceptable to argue over the state of someone’s physical appearance in front of said person when they are at their most physically and hormonally vulnerable. Now I’m wondering if a party goer secretly spiked the beverage jug with some liquid valium. And to that guest I say, THANK YOU, KIND LADY.
The shower also marked a much anticipated lull in pre-arranged activity up until Falcor’s arrival. It was sitting on the calendar with glorious, unspoiled, quadratic white space behind it. Granted, we’ve already filled in like half of those once open dates with potential commitments, but the idea of them filled me with joy and made the shower all that more exciting.
I can’t thank my mom enough for rolling with my nonsensical, multiple personality texts and conversations regarding décor, games and guest lists. She knows me and made this day as stress-free as humanly possible, mainly because she took all of that stress on herself, striking a miraculous balance between my antisocial, pretentious ways and the normal, generalized expectations of the rest of society. Not an easy task, and I adore her for the effort she put into achieving it.
So much belly touching for a modest introvert.
And my pals who each have several babies to care for, homes to manage and crazy schedules of their own who graciously gave time they didn’t have and brain power they didn’t need to spare to make this a really beautiful day.
Up next: one nursery, one name and a whole lotta napping.
Recap of my baby shower for Addison here. I guess I like those earrings. Feel free to play along with the “she’s huge! she’s tiny!” game. It’s my favorite.
Before anything else, I should mention how much I love you. Not like I love ice cream or doughnuts right now or even coffee. I’m talking about that Mama’s love that aches in its insistence, blinds in its radiance, distracts in its omnipresence and overwhelms in its depth. How much my heart tugs in my chest when you let out a deep, raspy giggle, how a small but constant weight lifts off my shoulders when I see you after being away for any amount of time, how my hopes and dreams for myself and for you are so intertwined that I often can’t tell them apart.
It has been a rough season for you and me, little girl. At times, I question whether I was the best choice to be your Mama. Maybe I’m not wise enough for your independence. Maybe I’m not patient enough to reach you in your strong willed stances. Maybe I’m not nurturing enough to comfort you when you feel hurt or confused or misunderstood. Maybe it shouldn’t have been me.
It positively doesn’t matter, though, because I would not choose to be anyone else’s Mama. Not on the very best days,
when we laugh about beating up monsters and let the breeze whip our hair around swinging peacefully at the park,
or on the very worst days, when tears and tempers flow freely from both sides of this union.
You are mine, and I am yours. For the yesterdays full of chubby cheeks and napping on my shoulder, for the todays mixed of delight and destruction, and for all the tomorrows that may be ahead. I knew from the very first millisecond of your life that I was inextricably bound to you, that this new person had in every way rewired my soul to its own.
So before life changes in a monumental and irreversible way, I wanted to let you know that even though some things will never be the same—
how much sleep Mama gets, how many clean clothes you have at one time, the number of days we get to spend just the two of us–
the way I feel about you is not one of those things. That is constant. That is eternal.
Some of my favorite moments with you are the quietest, so rare in this endless marathon of energy and noise that is toddlerhood. I love doing puzzles with you. It’s one of the few activities you will concentrate on for a half hour, determined to finish the whole thing at one time and so proud when you tap that last piece into place. When I give you a piece, you study it, try it one way, furrow your eyebrows, turn it around, and try it again until it fits. I was so surprised to learn that you actually do have that kind of patience and persistence. It’s mesmerizing.
I hear “I can do it myselp” or “all by myselp” 219 times a day. You can go right ahead and thank your “me can do it” daddy for that little trait.
You love to have braids in your ever lightening curly hair, either one Elsa braid or two Anna braids. You are specific, and it’s unacceptable to give you a ponytail when you want braids or leave your hair in one braid when you want two. I’ve learned to take my marching orders seriously.
We still have Flapjack Fridays. You’ve started asking to help, so now you carry your stool into the kitchen and will help pour the pancake mix, milk and blueberries in the bowl. I once let you crack the egg. Yeah, just once for that. You’ll mix it a little and then scoot away to wait for them to cook. Though you’re extremely strong willed, you are very task-oriented and like completing a job you’ve been given.
You are so social, goodness gracious. If there are any other kids at the park, you can’t get to them fast enough. You’d be up for anything if I told you your friends would be there. You also like to call the shots with all those friends and have recently been referring to people, even little kids you met five minutes prior, as “baby.” Not like a little newborn baby but in a saucy, probably offensive way.
“Come on, baby!”
”Let’s go, baby!”
This is usually my cue to take a very important call on the other side of the playground.
You like dancing, singing, jumping, sprinting and twirling, all prefaced with an unending loop of “Watch this. Watch this. Watch this. Watch this.” I promise we are watching. Sometimes.
At this particular moment, your favorite movie is “The Little Rascals.” You have a massive crush on Darla and don’t like “Panky.”
You’d live in a tutu and heels if allowed. Trying to put jeans on you is declaring all out war.
I paint your toenails and have, more than once, contemplated bringing you with me to get a pedicure. Maybe when you’re three, professional salon treatments will feel more appropriate.
You’re a lot pickier than you used to be when it comes to food, but luckily there are still a handful of healthy eats you like: fish, peas sometimes, avocado, chicken usually, bananas, eggs, peanut butter, blueberries like a fiend. And because you’re two and I guess signed some sort of contract, you must have regular servings of mac ‘n cheese and Cheerios.
I think you’re going to make an excellent big sister. While at the park with BeeMa the other day, she was telling someone you were about to have a baby brother. You mistakenly thought another little girl was talking about your brother when she said, “It’s icky.” She was referring to the slide, but you were not having any of that and told her, “My brother is NOT icky.” For all the worrying I do about how this transition will affect you, that story is singed onto my mind so that I remember not to shortchange my fiery, passionate girl. You are capable of nurturing, of defending, of bonding with this baby more than I could probably imagine.
Your brother and I will have a new, special relationship, of course, but I am so intrigued at the thought of your relationship with him. To see it spark, to see it grow and evolve, and to see it become one of the most meaningful parts of your life and your identity. I am a completely different person than I might have been because I am a sister, and I believe the same will be true for you, in the very best, beautiful way.
I know I always place the blame on you, but thank you for loving me despite my impatience, my tantrums, my mood swings and my refusal to share dessert with you. I am here for you after the toughest days, but you also come back to me for bedtime stories, for pretend “hot coppee” from your kitchen in the mornings and for kisses and hugs on knees and elbows and foreheads.
I’ll always be yours, Addison Brooke. When you’re a “terrible two,” when you’re a terrible first time driver, when you date a terrible boy that I despise, when that terrible boy breaks your heart and I break his terrible face, when you choose a terrible major or choose to become a terrible University of Florida Gator, when your own toddler is being downright terrible,
and when you suddenly have a terrible little baby taking up space in your house, your car, your schedule and your Mama’s arms,
remember that I am still yours. And you are mine.
You know how most times, when you build something up in your head for weeks and weeks, it’s a total mega let down once it actually happens?
That was so not the case with Babymoon #2.
Any time someone asks me about it, I can’t help but describe it as – wait for it – perfect. That’s right. Perfection. And I don’t toss that word around lightly. Usually I’m up to my ears in “okays,” “goods” and “nices.”
We dropped off the girls after pancakes on Friday. I guess they were both experiencing a carb hangover.
Then we drove the two hours to Fort Myers. We were a little early to check in at our B & B, so we grabbed lunch downtown at Ford’s Garage. We didn’t realize this until Saturday night, but a group of owners basically bought up the entire downtown and owns four, soon to be five, restaurants. We ate at almost all of them. We knew something was up when there were chickpeas in our salads at three different restaurants.
All of the restaurants are themed. Ford’s is obviously car-themed, complete with cleaning rags for napkins and a big car hanging over the bar that honks and shoots steam. The food theme is aortic blockages. We were fans. However, it wasn’t the best place for a prego desperate for a beer. Sad [sober] face.
After lunch we headed to The Hibiscus House, a newly renovated bed and breakfast just outside of downtown. We’d never stayed at a B & B before, so this was a bit of an experiment for us. Our room was gorgeous, the bathroom was pristine and no strangers randomly wandered into our room, a legit concern we had. Sharing intimate breakfasts with people I don’t know is not on my list of favorite ways to spend the morning, but even that proved harmless and a good exercise for my reclusive nature. Also, the breakfasts were flipping delicious. (Source)
Gold star number one for this getaway: a two hour nap after we checked in.
Once we woke up, we got ready to hit the town. At 6 p.m. Don’t be jealous of our star status. We waited for our table at The Firestone (yes, tire-themed) on the rooftop Skybar. The view was decent and I didn’t mind enjoying my mocktail with the pre-sunset crew. It took the pressure off to hangout after dinner when I’d be ready to kick my feet up with some chocolate.
What mama wants, mama gets. Feet up, chocolate downed.
This was after the bagger at the grocery store asked when I was due, looked me up and down and said, “You’re ready.” I was totally cool and level headed about it because, you know, I have two more months before I’m “ready,” thank you very much. I may have snapped back if she wasn’t possibly mentally handicapped.
Maybe it was the tunic?
Saturday we headed off to Sanibel and Captiva islands. The weather was supposed to be nasty, but it’s Florida, so never change plans based on the weather. Sanibel is just plain gorgeous. The water is this serene teal and the beaches are covered in white and pink shells. Even for someone who grew up in Florida, Sanibel was impressive.
I would have done some shelling if I could 1. bend over or 2. tolerate temps over 78 degrees. We ate lunch at The Bubble Room, which was more hyped up than it should be. It was kitschy and cluttered with plenty to look at, but the stuff seemed less like antiques and more like, well, stuff. And most of it was creepy, not fascinating, like dolls and old combs and this face.
Gold star number two: It was a very, very happy accident that we were staying a block from Bennett’s Fresh Roast, known for their homemade doughnuts. I’m not going to say we planned our day around getting to Bennett’s before they closed, but it was certainly on my radar. We snuck in just before they closed at 3, so the selection was limited, but all I wanted was a classic glazed anyway. Did not disappoint. I guess that was the theme of the weekend. I’m so mushy it’s making me uncomfortable.
We lazed around snacking on our treats for a bit before getting ready to head out for the night. We went back downtown and stumbled into a car show. Downtown Fort Myers isn’t huge, but there are plenty of restaurants to fill up a weekend. We could stay close for all of our meals. Along with the car show there was a Brews and Tattoos event going on, so the people watching was superb from our patio seat at Capone’s. Fun story: when we initially asked about a table, the hostess said the wait was an hour. And then, spotting my bump, she told us to stand there for a sec. Just like that, we were seated immediately minutes before the rain came. For all the muscle aches and awkward maneuvering, this thing has provided its fair share of perks this time around.
I will blame that early bed time on the rain and, mostly, the non-plot of “A River Runs Through It.” I confused it with the other movie about a river where dramatic events take place, so I started it from the beginning and kept waiting for a major twist or Kevin Bacon to show up or basically any sort of excitement whatsoever, and nada. A little over an hour into it, I gave into sweet, sweet sleep. My husband is a lucky dude. For all I know he snuck out to go bowling (his suggestion for the night) without me. I wouldn’t blame him.
After scarfing some homemade blintzes and waxing poetic about them in the guest journal (“The fruit compote is what dreams are made of.” I seriously wrote that.), we checked out of the B & B on Sunday and drove down the road to the outlet mall. Outlet shopping looks much different nowadays and our major purchases were from Carter’s and Gymboree.
We’d learned the ropes quickly and placed an order at Bennett’s earlier in the day that we swung by to pick up after the outlets. This time I was able to snag quite an assortment: peanut butter, orange crunch and maple toffee. I would have ordered more if Clayton wasn’t hovering and whisper-shouting that three was enough. THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS ENOUGH.
All of the flavors were divine, but my favorite was the peanut butter. The orange crunch was out of my comfort zone – I’m normally chocolatechocolatechocolate – but surprisingly delicious. I’m still sad they were out of Boston crème both days. Am I still talking about doughnuts?
Anyway, we drove home and I dropped Clayton off while I picked up the kids.
I considered it a perfect babymoon because I didn’t want any pressure. If I felt like sleeping for 48 hours, I wanted to have that option. If I felt like taking an hour walk on the beach or reading or lounging in a giant bed watching a terrible movie, I wanted to do just that. And that’s exactly what our little vacay was like. I am thankful my normally antsy, active husband was flexible enough to go with the flow, even though the flow was like seven-months-pregnant molasses most of the time.
It’s a week later and I’m still wishing we were leaving tomorrow to do it all over again.
As much as I’d like to be too cool for school and totes nonchalant about Valentine’s Day, I’m not. Not even a little. I like holidays. I like excuses to veer from the norm, eat excessive amounts of junk and buy things that would otherwise be deemed unnecessary, e.g. polka dot ribbon. I am not the girl who expects a dozen roses (roses = no thank you) and a $200 steak dinner, but I do want a little pomp and circumstance. I love love, and it’s fun to think of new ways to celebrate it.
This year was Addison’s first year in preschool, so she I got to make valentines for her class. Hippie alert: I didn’t want to use candy. With Addie potty training–and rather successfully might I add–her life has been all manner of hand sanitizer and chocolate treats. The girl pees five times before 11 a.m.; she is her mother’s daughter.
I hopped over to the Dollar Store under vast amounts of pressure from my frugal hubs to keep things within reason. (“They are only two years old!”) I present to you sixteen adorable, “healthy” valentines that I didn’t even hijack from Pinterest.
I did forget/ultimately decide to forego her teachers and still feel bad about that. (Their Christmas gifts were on point, don’t worry.) They may have a sweet Presidents’ Day gift heading their way if I can come up with an equally adorable Abe Lincoln craft.
I guess my mom blogger status is now official. Womp womp.
Valentine’s morning began with heart-shaped perfection. Doughnuts and pregnancy take the place of pizza and beer for nine months over here, and someone better hide those bad boys until after my glucose test on Monday. There was already one, uh, missing before I took this picture.
We have ambitious, likely-to-end-our-marriage plans for the new nursery, so we went on a research mission to Home Depot. Clayton still has some semblance of trust in our toddler’s capacity to listen to direction and obey commands from a distance, so he didn’t secure her in a cart. Do I need to spell out how enjoyable that trip was between the rows of loose lumber, wood cutting devices and swinging model door displays?
To reward both of us for not throwing tantrums at the tile displays, we stopped at a park to let that energy out. Ladies and gentlemen, my Valentine:
I had to kick Clayton out for a couple of hours of Super Secret Vday Prepping, so he took A to my parents’ house. While he was gone, my little valentine elves, my brother and dad, got to redecorating the backyard.
Idiotically, I assumed my eagle eye hubs might not notice an open side garage door (with the extension cord trailing out of it) or a big gaping hole where our futon once sat. He did. And he was noticeably freaked out by the whole situation. In retrospect, watching “Gone Girl” the night before trying to pull off an undercover house heist while he was gone wasn’t the best idea for instilling confidence in one’s wife.
Once I let him in on the plan, it eased his little fretting mind. Mostly. He didn’t fully relax until the futon was back in its place on Sunday night.
After Clayton whipped up a delicious steak and shrimp combo, we took ourselves to the movies. In pajamas. With hot chocolate, popcorn and, duh, another doughnut.
I don’t want to brag is not something you’ll be hearing from me. I absolutely do want to brag about this one. It was the perfect mix of romantic and special—definitely out of the norm–but still comfortable. I was wearing a hoodie for goodness sake. Everything worked out with the technology, which was a major victory by itself. No one spilled hot chocolate on the rented projector, Maya didn’t start a yard fire with the candles and no one’s toes went numb in the chilly temps.
I hope you had someone or something that made you feel loved and celebrated this weekend. Baked goods totally count.
Today was an emotional day as we said goodbye to our family’s first church home. After several months of feeling uncertain about our place there, we decided it was time to move forward.
In the three years Clayton and I spent at NBC as members and leaders, we welcomed our first child, celebrated Addison’s dedication and her first two birthdays, and each turned 30 joined by friends from NBC. Clayton found his passion for leading worship, and I found the sometimes hilarious, always exhausting business of baby and toddler ministry. (As it turns out, the same can be said of women’s ministry.)
NBC became a warm, comfortable and comforting solace on Sundays and during the week at LifeGroups. In varied seasons over the past few years, we have found pastors and friends who have shared their lives openly and honestly and who have made us feel safe enough to do the same. We have hosted and been invited, we have served and been served, we have been both accepted and challenged. As neurotic new parents, we could not be more grateful for the ease with which we drop Addison off into arms of people who sincerely love her every Sunday morning.
When it doesn’t come naturally to meet new people or develop new friendships, moving on is met with resistance–not questioning the decision but mourning the loss of the comfortable and familiar. NBC was that familiar coffee shop on the corner, walking inside felt like second nature, time there felt refreshing and nurturing. We will always think fondly of NBC, the friendships that it brought us and the spiritual home it provided us. We’ll keep praying for its heath and its mission, but mostly we’ll pray for its people.
P.S. Sorry for being that annoying stage mom who recorded Clayton’s entire worship set this morning.
I posted an overly obnoxious and whiny caption on Instagram the other day and have been feeling lame about it ever since. I was—and still am—extremely frustrated by our new insurance situation as of late, but hey, we can afford (loose use of that word) insurance for our family and one way or another, I can see a doctor whenever I need to. So, time to get over myself.
As a recompense, here are some things that are making me not frustrated right now, 90% of which are food related because hello, pregnant.
1. Cream cheese + red raspberry preserves. Maybe I ordered a bagel with cream cheese, added the preserves at home and devoured the combo like a starved mountain lion. And then made two more pieces of toast so I could have more of it. Related: how are your New Year’s diet resolutions going, those of you not baking a baby? Suckers.
2. Mama got a new pair of boots. And baby is about to get fancy.
3. It’s been less of a meatless Monday and more of a meatless two trimesters over here, so I made vegetable enchiladas and they were filled with good veggies (albeit smothered in cheese) that I’ve been neglecting and lasted for three nights, i.e. I could slack on meal prep for two nights.
4. I ordered a decaf coffee at the Target Starbucks counter, and since they don’t keep a brewed pot of decaf, they made me a pour over. Holy delicious. It didn’t seem complicated until I looked it up; there are like 29 ways to make a pour over at home, so…whatever. Here’s my $3, pour hot water over powdered beans for me, please sir.
5. Doughnuts. I haven’t actually had one in a few months, but just the idea of them is putting me in a pretty good mood. Which reminds me of the ridiculous idea I had to do a pregnancy announcement using whimsically decorated Halloween doughnuts and the phrase “Something wickedly sweet this way comes.” Adorable, no?!
There was so much failure happening with the manifestation of this idea. First of all, the Dunkin Donuts commercials obviously used professionally trained, bakery owning frosting masters to craft the images I saw on t.v. Over at the ol’ local DD, I was treated to a “let me see what I can do” and gifted the scraggly interpretations of a moody teenager with some sort of clear musculoskeletal dysfunction. Then there’s the lighting, the giant plate, just a whole lot of no.
I was so annoyed I didn’t even eat one.
6. Breaking Bad. Not exactly an upper, but our two nightly episodes are little mini dates. Intensely graphic, drug-filled, cringe-worthy mini dates. We are at the beginning of Season 4 and OMG I want to punch Hank in the throat. (Source)
7. My brother (who is called Kunkle instead of Uncle) popped in this week and played with Addison for a couple hours. The next morning on the way to preschool, out of nowhere she shouted, “Kunkle’s here!” It melted my cold, dark heart.
8. Clayton, and now also Addison, playing the harmonica while Maya howls along. Never gets old.
9. Filling out paperwork and answering the “Occupation” section with “Writer.” Because stay at home pajama wearer, toddler chaser, kitchen avoider, stink eye deliverer and Instagram enthusiast usually takes up too much space.
10. The Bachelor is back and I don’t care who knows I am ALL IN already. With the sheer number of diagnosable alcoholics alone, this is going to be excellent television. SPOILER A’COMIN.
So sad to see you go, Tara. Thank you for representing Florida in a truly spectacular fashion. Enjoy that month long hangover. (Source)
In one of the Daniel Tiger episodes (sorry non-parents), there is a song that goes
When you feel so mad that you want to roar,
Take a deep breath and count to four.
Here is where I would dramatically count to four with hand motions if you were my two-year-old.
My little blog sabbatical has been full of many, many days of wanting to roar. So I took a quick minute–okay, several months–to take a deep breath.
At the beginning, it was a lot of useless gasping and gulping and choking on stale air. Hopefully I will share more of that story later. But for now, with lungs that finally feel full and four easy ticks of the fingers, I’d like to come back. Perhaps only for today, perhaps for longer. No promises; never any promises on that front. Non-committal for life, yo.
Baby Numero Dos, or Falcor temporarily, will be joining us in May. And we are ecstatic.
Pregnancy has been mostly smooth sailing so far. The hormones seemed to have a calming effect that came at the perfect time. Life is so messy–plans are unplanned and courses rerouted all the time, so we welcomed this exactly-at-the-right-minute news with open arms.
Other happenings while I was away:
I was nominated/tagged by Molly (theregoesmollyrose.com) to complete a blog survey like 17 months ago. Oops. But there’s one more day’s worth of content ready to go at some point.
I missed yet another email to my blog account for many months thanks to never, ever checking that account. Sorry, lady-who-emailed-me-in-October!
Addison turned two in July and is pretty much ready to take over the world. She is a talkative, sassy fireball. Some days feel like a nonstop duel against her gigantic personality, but there are other times that I can’t help but shrug and marvel at her.
I turned 30. Let’s move on.
When you are pregnant, the most common sentiment that you hear from other mothers is that “it goes so fast.” Since you hear this constantly and have no frame of reference, you nod knowingly in appeasement and sort of shrug. I mean, time goes fast. We all get that, parents or not.
But girlfriend. Let me tell you. Once you have sat in the front row and witnessed the grand spectacle of a newborn growing and changing into an infant into a celebrated 1 year-old into an unmistakable toddler, cooing to smiling to laughing to speaking words, lying immobile to faceplanting at the playground,
that is when your eyes water and your heart aches when you look at the clock, when you feel the weight of its motion, never ceasing, never slowing. It goes too fast. We move too fast. That baby left us too fast.
And in that same breath, we exhale with the immeasurable joy of your person, the uncontainable explosion of your personality that delights and surprises and horrifies us every day. We are so grateful to know this you, a little girl with preferences and peculiarities that are all your own.
Toddlerhood is a trip,
baby little girl. Taking care of a baby is exhausting in the most basic lack of sleep, you can have the baby back if I can take a nap sort of way. Parenting a toddler is exhausting in the THIS TANTRUM WILL NEVER END, YOU CAN HAVE THE BABY BACK FREE OF CHARGE PLEASE SOMEONE TAKE THIS STRANGER OUT OF MY HOME sort of way.
You are a force, a tiny cyclone of electricity that is this way and that way, getting into this drawer, taking that off the counter, putting on those shoes, stepping on that tail, never, ever ending. (Until “Frozen” is on.) It’s physically tiring to chase after you, but it’s even more mentally draining to be responsible for this little human who seems hell-bent on discovering the most dangerous scenarios possible in a relatively safe environment and just going to town. Yes, climb on top of that unsteady ottoman. Yes, jump like you’re on a trampoline a quarter inch from the edge of the bed. Sure, why choose to walk around in Mama’s ballet flats when there are 4 inch stilettos for the taking.
I always judged women who admitted to losing their temper with their kids. I mean, they’re just kids, poor tiny innocent doe eyed kids. Ease up, woman! And then, I actually had one of those doe eyed innocents. And here I am some days, the spitting image of all the impatient, voice-raising, “If I have to tell you one more time,” shrill, no fun mothers that I was certain I would not be. I don’t want to apologize for those days, Addison. They are all part of this impossible-to-do-right chaos of mothering, and you can ride that singular fraying nerve like a longboard.
But I do want to tell you that that I try so very hard to remember the other days of this often challenging season. The days when you let me pick you up to peek at the blueberry pancakes on the griddle and you giggle with anticipation. The days that you mimic the “beep, beep, beep” of the microwave from your crib as I heat your milk. The mornings when drinking your bottle at the other end of the couch is traded in for squeezing right up next to me. When instead of jerking your hand away at the park, you hold it up high, inviting me to join on this particular adventure. The one single day when you could not kiss my face enough, reaching up and taking my chin with a delicate grip and scrunching your face into a kiss right on my lips. Yes, that day is staying right here with me for awhile.
You color our world, Addison Brooke. You love performing for an audience, waving to strangers and shouting a brusque ”hey” if you don’t receive the appropriate response. You are obsessed with shoes–anyone’s–and shutting doors. You don’t mind getting dirty or going to bed when you’re tired. It seems that you learn new words every day, and remember things we’ve said or shown you only one time. You share with other kids (just not with me or your father) and will watch “Curious George” for a week straight. You’ve grown tall and lost most of your infant chub, which breaks my heart a little, especially the absence of those baby thighs that deserved individual names (Anderson and Cooper if we’re getting specific).
Maya is your best friend, and her wagging tail, wet kisses and back rolling tickle you to pieces. She tolerates you.
One of your favorite games is to “hide” when Daddy gets home. You will run to your room or behind my legs saying, “Shh! Shh!” You talk a big game, but when it comes to actually surprising anyone, you simply don’t have the patience to sit and wait for them. You are jumping out screaming, “Boo!” before he even gets in the house.
Some days, I am pacing the floor until your bedtime because raising you is not always an easy undertaking. But even on those days, when your Daddy or I pick you up and head towards your room, the idea of being away from you tugs at my heart. Whatever tantrums the day held, sleepy Addison is sweet and affectionate. You wave good night over our shoulder in a small, slow motion. You point to your cheek for a kiss. And then another. And then another. All the way into your crib, you ask for one more kiss. Some nights I have to walk away while you’re still pointing at your cheek or I’m sure I’d be there at sunrise, leaning down into your bed, my hair tickling your nose, pecking at your little face.
I am so glad that I’m the one who gets to hold your hand on the way to the car, who hears the full out laugh elicited by bath time splashing, the one who is asked for one more kiss.
I am so glad to be your Mama, Addison Brooke.
I can’t stop smiling. Is there such thing as an elation hangover that lasts for like a month? Because that’s what I have. But instead of a headache, I have a permagrin and the giggles and sometimes full tear ducts when I catch that shot of Jimbo hoisting the crystal football over his head with his eyes closed or when I see the parking lot outside of Doak Campbell stadium packed with people welcoming the team back to Tally. If I’d had one more millisecond to contemplate it, I would have made the 4 hour drive with Addison yesterday to greet them.
Let’s back up. I was stomach-twisting nervous in the morning, so I got in a workout while Addison napped to clear my head and keep the anxiety at bay. That was important since I was such a vital component of FSU’s game plan. My parents arrived mid-workout and waited for Addison to wake up before removing her from the inevitable cone of profanity.
I had a few hours to kill so I made some stops in search of cold weather FSU gear. We were watching the game at an outdoor restaurant and the temps were going to be around 35. Stellar planning, as usual. I bought several correctly-colored-but-team-neutral sweaters but ultimately couldn’t bear not having FSU displayed prominently. The floor length puffer jacket would just have to do its job over a t-shirt and cardigan. Plus, I knew my head would be warm.
We arrived a solid 90 minutes before kick off to eat and tremble and pace.
If you have a television or access to any social media outlet, I’m assuming you know how things played out. If it was 9:30 p.m. on Monday night and you posted about The Bachelor, it’s safe to say our friendship is irreparably damaged.
Three quarters of rage and disbelief and antisocial behavior from one alumna.
And then a fourth quarter that will live on in college football history.
Followed by a jumping, screaming, high-fiving, hugging, wife-carried-out-into-the-streets-of-Tampa celebration that hasn’t exactly ended in my mind.
How many consecutive days can one wear FSU apparel? I figure I have at least a month until people start making conspicuous comments in public.
Fun tidbit: Downtown Tampa has a tall skyscraper, the SunTrust building, that is lit up for Bucs, USF, Rays and Lightning games in the team colors. When we were heading towards the restaurant I mentioned that ”they should have done the SunTrust building in garnet and gold,” not realizing that peak was ablaze in FSU colors. I was giddy when I saw it and said that if we won, we were going downtown to take pictures with it. Behold.
We (my SIL and I, the boys were totes poopers after 1 a.m.) wanted to party into the morning, but it was a Monday night and the two spots we crashed were already closed.
I still have grand plans to make my way to Tallahassee for some kind of celebration. And I shall keep partying it up until I have no more party left in me. Probably around week eight of next season when we get upset by Notre Dame or something.
And one last time for blogland…
Florida State, Florida State, Florida State