Happy Birthday, Charlotte!

Charlotte,

Today you are two years old. In some ways I can hardly believe it. As much as I loathe being cautioned to enjoy this time because "they grow so fast," it really can't be denied as truth. It feels like I waited so long to have you, and the time since I brought you into this world has gone more quickly than I anticipated, despite all the warnings.

But, at the same time, it doesn't surprise me at all that you are two. You're so much a part of me now, that it's difficult to believe there was ever a time I didn't spend my days with you. Is it possible that I used to wake up to an alarm clock instead of your grumpy voice calling for me to come get you, and your massive bed head, out of your crib? Could I really have gotten coffee at Starbucks without having to set you down and let you grab your own chocolate milk before you proceed to eat half of my scone?

I really don't even know how to begin telling you how much you have enriched our lives in the last two years. Being your mother has been an incredible experience, and it has changed me into a different person. Well, I'm the same person. I'm just...better. More patient, more generous, more empathetic. I needed you to help me become this person. This person who can take it in stride when things don't go as planned. This person who cares more deeply than ever about people in need and wants to find ways to help. It was easy for me to make excuses for myself before you were here, but now even when I don't feel like it, I need to put my best face forward and be the kind of person I want you to be.

You are also teaching me to be silly. In the last day or so your imagination and capacity for creative play have EXPLODED. We hit a wall a month or so ago, and I have to admit I was getting a little weary of holding one of your stuffed animals while you commanded it to cry and be sad. You still do that, and it really boggles my mind that you are so obsessed with the emotion of sorrow. It is also less than encouraging when you tell one of your toys he is sad because he wants to go swimming in the bath, and when I ask you if he can go swimming since it would make him happy, you reply with a booming, "NO!" You're like the bully of the toy box, and I sure as hell hope you get over that soon.

Last night was the first time you really committed to pretending to be anyone other than Charlotte. You'd dabbled in it before, but would ultimately get confused and insist that you weren't Mickey or a giant or a princess; you were Charlotte. Last night you were Lightning, and I was Mater. You were Tiana, and I was Shadow Man. Today you were Jack, and Daddy was Sally. And then for the longest time, you were Daddy, and Daddy was Charlotte. You even parroted some of the things he says to you, like when you told him he could have carrot juice after you washed his cup. It has been a BLAST. You meowed your way through dinner because you were a cat. It's just beyond adorable.

Enjoying your carousel ride on your big day. You love carousels.

Your dad and I sit around and marvel at you constantly. It's such an intense experience watching you learn and develop your personality. You get sillier and smarter by the day. Yesterday at Starbucks you informed your dad that one of the tables was a circle, and the the other an oval. We hadn't even talked about shapes in weeks. Don't even get me started on your memory. It's eerie how you remember the smallest detail from, like, months ago. Somehow I get the feeling your super-strength memory will not do me many favors in the years to come. No false promises of lollipops to lure you away from playgrounds. You'll call me on it.
Showing us your birthday cupcake with "frinkles"

Digging in

We've had a lot of fun this past year. We went to Sea World, Disneyland, a Santa Barbara trip, and you and I took a trip up to Napa for your aunt's engagement party. Traveling and taking you out is easy because you are generally very well-behaved. There have been preludes of the inevitable "Terrible Twos," but right now you are mostly pleasant and a great companion. I am looking forward to more trips, days at the park, museum excursions, and hikes with you. Your dad and I are never happier than when we are out spending the day with you.
You and daddy on one of the trains at Travel Town. You also really love trains.

Sunday will be your party, which is really just dinner with both sides of the family. I asked you if you wanted a bunny cake or a Mickey cake, and I expected you to say "bunny" because you are infatuated with bunnies. If we are reading a book, and you see a bunny on one of the pages, you will interrupt me mid-sentence to say, "Hey, bunny!" But, you chose Mickey. I was going to make the cake from scratch, but it looks like it will have to come from a box since your dad and I will be out on a date for most of the day before your party. As for decorating? I bought Mickey figurines from the Disney store that I will place on top. I do hope for your sake that you turn out to be less artistically-challenged than your mother. It's quite sad, really.

I feel like there is so much more to tell you, so many more details that would give you a picture of the incredible little person that you are right now. So often I have the urge to record every move you make through pictures, video, or my writing. But, it just isn't possible. You're just too big a personality to shove into the margins of a blog post. You're sweet and caring, except when you're a tyrant. You're cuddly and affectionate, except when you can't slow down long enough for a hug, and it always has to be on your terms. You point to every picture on the page of a book, inquiring, "He says?" because you think everyone has a catch phrase. You make up nonsense words, like "Pumpsy" and use them with perfect comedic timing. When we're in a restroom or a stairwell and you think there will be an echo, you yell "DA!" at the top of your lungs. It's...embarrassing. Every time I make any kind of noise, you say, "What's wrong, Mommy?" You make me laugh. You infuriate me. You make me proud. You make me smile. I can't get enough of you.

Happy second birthday, Bunny. I love you.

You have very strong opinions about your wardrobe. Sometimes it backfires.

Love, Mommy

A (Sorta) Fairytale

Gather 'round, children. I'm going to tell you a story...

This story doesn't involve faraway lands, nor does it begin with "Once upon a time". There is a princess involved, however: Princess Charlotte. For this story takes place on the day of Princess Charlotte's birthday celebration. There were presents, a frosted, pink cake, even a tiara. But, the story is not about the princess, rather this tale is about her mother and father, and how they began the day carefully placing pink cups and plates on the table in preparation for their daughter's first birthday party, and ended the day placing dollars at the foot of a stripper.

The week leading up to this party was hectic. I've never thrown a children's party before, and when I've attended them, I've always taken certain things for granted: the gift bags, the pacing, the games, prizes, etc. So, I was a tad overwhelmed at the prospect of being responsible for those things. The goody bags were a nightmare. We tried to not fill them with useless, plastic crap that would just end up in the trash, but that proved to be nearly impossible on a budget.

So, all week long, I ran all over town, buying decorations, but forgetting the candle for the cake. Going out for cups, and forgetting utensils. Buying prizes, then realizing I hadn't planned any games. Luckily, my in-laws graciously offered to host the party and to take care of the food. I really don't know how anyone throws one of these parties without my in-laws to help them. (Seriously, do you rent them out?) She had a great party, though.

In any case, due to the stressful nature of the week and to the fact that my sister (AKA my super-awesome-fun-karaoke/drinking buddy)was going to be in town, we had arranged for the baby to spend the night at my mom's. It was only her second time staying away from home, and it seemed sort of weird for us to be leaving her for the night to essentially get drunk the night after her first birthday party. After all, I am Guilt's easiest target. I obsessed about it all week. Am I doing something wrong? What will people say? Is that what a GOOD mother would do?

In the end, I gave myself permission to be a little unorthodox and maybe even a little selfish, and go for it. So, we cleaned up at my mother-in-law's, went to my mom's where I nursed the baby to sleep, met up with my sister and her boyfriend, and we were off!

We started the night at a dive bar that I just happen to love. During the week they have the world's greatest happy hour. Where else can you get FREE Mexican food and dollar margaritas that actually have tequila in them? But, the real reason I love this place is that every Saturday night, they host karaoke. And I LOVE karaoke. Not enough to be one of those people who show up every week with their cued and labeled CD's and belt out their greatest rendition of some Celine Dion number, but enough to show own a karaoke machine and have held numerous parties in my home that end with someone singing "Livin' on a Prayer" at 4 A.M.

So, whenever my sister is in town, we try to get to this bar, have a few margaritas and sing some mediocre karaoke. Obviously this is a rare occurrence since I had the baby, so I was very excited.

The night went as planned:

We drank My sister is the pretty one on the left.

And drank It's been a loooong time since I did a shot of tequila.

And drank a little more

I don't know if this is a cardinal karaoke sin or requisite behavior, but I totally sang Journey. I don't know anyone in real life who can pull off the high notes in, well, ANY Journey song, but the other reason I love this place is that everyone cheers and claps for you no matter how awful you are.

So, a few songs and a couple gallons of tequila later, my sister and I hopped into our respective cars, with our respective designated drivers (also known as men we are sleeping with), and headed to our respective beds.

Chris and I left the small town in which the bar is located, and headed toward the even smaller town in which you can find our house. As we were exiting the freeway I impulsively told Chris to drive past our street. He was confused, but complied. I told him we were going to the local bikini bar. He told me we most certainly were not.

See, we've gone a few times, and this place is sort of sad on many different levels. First of all, there's the clientèle: Lonely truckers, douche bags, and general perverts. Then, there are the dancers: perfectly nice and generally attractive girls that take off (most of) their clothes and grind aforementioned douche bags and perverts for measly dollars.

It's a gross place. But! It's a place with alcohol. The only place in our town open past eight. A place that isn't my home. And, as it turns out, I wasn't ready to go home.

All night it had been like I was visiting my old life, my pre-baby life. And, it was fun. I love being a mom. I love playgrounds and sippy cups. I love cuddling and Sesame Street, brushing her hair into pigtails, teaching her colors, reading to her. I love my identity as a mother. I even like washing her bibs.

But, I need to recharge to keep that enthusiasm fresh. Sometimes it's a movie with one of my friends that does the trick. Sometimes a simple cup of coffee. Sometimes a date night in the comfort of our living room while the baby sleeps will suffice. But sometimes, apparently, I need an exotic dancer to shake her ass in my face. Who knew?

After I convinced Chris to drive us to the club, we parked, and I dragged him into the building, up to the bar, and ordered our drinks. We sort of stood there for a moment, me with my beer, him with his whiskey, contemplating approaching the stage or occupying one of the tables in the back.

But once the girl ( I say "girl" even though she was at least 35) took to the stage and began dancing to Weezer's "Hash Pipe", we were intrigued enough to take our seats up front and place some dollar bills on the stage.

I can't remember her name, though I'm sure it was "Destiny" or "Sparkle" or something. One time a girl called herself "Brazil" and even took it so far as to say she was FROM Brazil. No way in hell that girl was from Brazil. I've decided my stripper name would be "Chardonnay". Just sayin'.

She eyed the money through her slightly too-long black bangs and strutted over to us, beginning with Chris. He looked more than a little uncomfortable as she gyrated in front of him and pushed her breasts up against his face. It didn't take her long to move on to me.

I have a theory that strippers probably have a love/hate relationship with straight female patrons. On the one hand, we don't shell out as much money as the guys do. But, on the other hand, most guys just adore some girl-on-girl action, and I think the girls use this to their advantage.

So Destiny/Sparkle/Brazil, whatever her name was, crawled her way over to me, picked up a dollar bill, put it between my lips, and removed it with her own mouth, thus simulating a kiss. And, you know, I'm on board with the faux lesbian action, but not so much with the putting filthy money in my MOUTH action. But, she was sort of pretty, danced to good music, and she smelled of peaches, so I let it slide.

We only stayed for one more dancer. She was of a bigger build, with long platinum hair, and she was dancing to atrocious hip hop music. She was rather fond of smacking her own ass and was slightly more, shall we say, aggressive.

To put it simply, as we walked out of the bar, I folded my arms across my chest and said "She bit my boobs". The fact that I wasn't talking about the baby was just a little too absurd for me.

All in all, we were there about twenty minutes. Enough time for me to reclaim a little bit of my former self, but not enough time for one of us to contract Hepatitis.

I woke up the next morning, barely hungover (Gotta love being in your twenties!) and ready to see my baby. Hugging her the next morning, I thought about the night I had just experienced, and I wondered if I could reconcile the person who was going to spend the day changing diapers and playing peekaboo with the one who gets the occasional lap dance.

I'm still not a hundred percent sure, but I think I'll have fun figuring it out. Just for good measure, here's Charlotte with her birthday balloons.

Happy Birthday, Charlotte!

Well, I knew this day was coming.

Charlotte is one year old today, and, just as foretold, it came far too quickly.

I'll be honest, though, the first four months or so, kinda dragged. I was in awe of her, in disbelief that I was finally a parent, in heaven with her tiny little limbs tucked under her body as she slept on my chest. It was beautiful and perfect and amazing.

But, it was also BORING.

I mean, we waited months for the first smile. A SMILE. I guess I take them for granted now, so the idea of holding my breath for a curving of the lips seems ridiculous. And now that she is is running all over the house (and everywhere else), I can scarcely believe that we were so worked up over her rolling over for the first time. She was lovely, but her activity level and particular state of alertness resembled that of a potato. She was Potato Baby.
A very cute potato, I might add.

There were just days and days of staring at her as she slept in her bassinet or watching her for cues of recognition Did she just look at me? Oh my God, I think she just...made eye contact! when we talked to her. There were eons of me sitting on the couch, nursing her while watching reruns of The Office, then feeling guilty for not staring at her in wonderment, turning the T.V. off, getting bored again, and then beginning to text.

Don't get me wrong. I loved every minute. The day she finally rolled over, I cheered and clapped and scared the hell out of her. And sometimes, I DID marvel at her while she nursed. Some of the simplest moments were the ones that overwhelmed me with love for this person I had waited so long to bring into my life.
Photo by Little Blue World Photography

But, at the same time, I was so eager for the next step, always. I had read that it was important to live in the moment, enjoying the stage your child was in without worrying about the next step. I tried to comply, but it was so hard not to look ahead in eager anticipation of what was to come. It felt wrong, like looking at the last page of a book you're reading, but I couldn't help fantasizing about watching her toddle around on the beach or putting pigtails in her hair and feeding her cookies. In my mind, I was cheating on Potato Baby!

Now that we're here in Toddlerville, I do have moments of longing for the simpler days in Newbornland. I sometimes wish I could just hold her as long as I want, whenever I want, instead of trying to wrestle a simple hug out of her. Photo by Little Blue World Photography

Ever since I was a kid, my mom has periodically looked at me and wistfully exclaimed that she remembers how I used to sleep "right here" as she indicates with her hands the small space on her chest I previously occupied. I thought of that last night as Charlotte's feet were dangling off of my legs in the rocker chair tonight. She is already getting so big, and I can't believe one day I will be telling her about how she used to sleep "right here" as she pack up her room and goes to college.

I remember having a feeling when I was pregnant with Charlotte that she was going to be, shall we say, willful, when she would kick me every time I tried to lean over and rest my head on my desk at work. It was like she was going out of her way to prevent me from getting any rest and to make sure I was constantly reminded of her.

Well, it's been over a year, and I must say, MISSION ACCOMPLISHED. This kid is on the go from the minute she wakes up to the nanosecond I place her in her crib at night, depositing her toys in locations all over the house, following me into the bathroom where she pulls everything out of the cabinet while I do my makeup, coming into the kitchen while I cook so she can splash in the dog's water and try to eat food off the floor, and basically demanding to be involved in everything I do.

And it's great.

Her dad and I are exhausted, but we spend all day laughing at her baby talk, glowing with pride as she figures out how to stack her cups or learns one of her colors. Her brain is growing as fast as her feet, (Seriously? How many times do I have to buy you new socks?) and it is incredible to watch.

Still, excited as I am by the prospects life with a toddler will bring, I will always be looking back over my shoulder just a little bit, missing the days when all she needed was to be in my arms. I'll spend the summer taking her to beaches, aquariums, hiking trips, and play dates, and I'll remember how I couldn't wait to do these things when I was in the midst of a marathon nursing session with a baby too little to wear sunscreen.

But, I won't ever forget how wonderful it was to take pleasure in the seemingly tiny milestones: the first smile, the first time she grabbed something with her fist, the first time she lifted her head up. It may not be as exciting as brushing her own teeth, but it was amazing because it was her.
Photo by Little Blue World Photography

So, as I celebrate Charlotte's first birthday, I will try to enjoy every second of her as she is now, while forging ahead, only occasionally glancing in the rear view mirror when I see a little bald baby in the store that reminds me of what I have lost.

I probably won't get it right. But, there's always the next baby...