Recreating Perfect Moments--a/k/a Second Child Syndrome, Second Verse

"I a boy!"

"No, Gigi, you're a girl. You're mommy's big girl!"

"I not a big girl, I a person!"

"Yes, you are a person indeed."

"Nawwww Momma! I a person! Not a deed!"

Gigi is her own person. I know this. She knows this. But sometimes, I have an irresistible urge to recreate a moment that I had with her brother.  There was this one beautiful fall morning about two years ago. Gigi was so small that I was wearing her in a front pack. RJ was barely tolerating me, let alone his sister. One morning, in an effort to calm his tantrums and keep my sanity, we headed to the park. I happened to have a yellow bucket. The light happened to be just right. And, I happened to have my little camera in my backpack. It was magical:

A couple of days ago, in an effort to quell her tantrums and with high hopes for keeping my sanity, I tried to recreate that same magical morning.

She's her own person.

The morning wasn't quite so magical. And it created more tantrums than it quelled. I suspect, however, that someday I'll look back with a smile.

The light wasn't quite as perfect as it was two years ago, but the model certainly was.

She's a person, with opinions on her shoes, her outfits, her car seat, and her lunch (is it wrong to pay a child in Oreo's in order to get her to eat a chicken nugget?).

Secretly, she may be a little angry that her pumpkin patch photo doesn't quite have the same zip as her brother's:

She was not impressed. Second child syndrome. I hope she's not damaged permanently. 

So far, she seems to be doing just fine. 

And, we did find a little magic of our own that morning. 

Hollywood Stuff and "Us"

When the husband and I were dating, it was Hollywood stuff. He was at the Military Academy. Man in a uniform. Formal dances. White gloves. Manhattan at night. Summers were days spent on the couch watching movies, trips to Stillwater for margaritas and cheese fries. Goodbye kisses were goodbye kisses. And, each date was preceded by months of anticipation. I'm probably the only modern girl out there who has been "pinned" with an official Westpoint Army pin. (I wore it on my cardigan sweaters, and I still keep it in my jewelry box). We emailed every day. Love notes. Little nothings. Big somethings. Hollywood stuff.

Then life got kind of real. He was stationed in Oklahoma. In Lawton. I worked as a technical writer in Duncan, Oklahoma. Dates were Chick-Fil-A at the Lawton mall. And the formal dances weren't so much Manhattan skylines as goldfish-in-a-bowl centerpieces.  Not so much Hollywood.

Then we got married, and it was Princess and her Prince Charming. Fairytale stuff. I told the photographer, "No, my dress isn't big." It had about a six foot sweeping train, and a gigantic bow on the booty. I loved it. Still do. The husband wore his uniform--my request.  We honeymooned in Jamaica where we climbed waterfalls, fancied ourselves champagne connoiseurs, and rode out Hurricane Charlie without incident. My Cinderella slippers fit just right, and Prince Charming was as prince-ly as any man could be (ignoring the fact that he wore the same shorts. for six days. in a row. and they weren't clean when we left).

We arrived home to separate households. He lived in Lawton with a buddy. I lived in Edmond. We bought a red brick house in a red brick house kind of neighborhood. He went to law school, and I billed a million hours. We survived. Not Hollywood, not a fairytale, just "us."

Then we had RJ. And GiGi. Our lives became a sitcom, and every once in a while I like to pretend I'm in the audience, tune in and watch.

Most of our dealings--be they household, financial, work-related, romantic, or otherwise--take place over email now. Love notes, little nothings, and big somethings have been superseded. We named GiGi over email. We've agreed on vacation spots, cars, and our house on email. We argue over email. We apologize over email. And sometimes, it takes an email to realize the truth about marriage: it's a team effort, and sometimes, you just do what you have to do.

A few weeks ago, we were emailing during work--the only time we have to talk without RJ's interruptions or chasing GiGi down the hall.

"What do you want to do this weekend?"

"I don't know. Go to Dallas? Kansas City? Swim? Sleep?" (I'm desperate for sleep).

"Any of those sound good. We have to do something about the bedroom carpet. It smells terrible in there."

"I know, right? I think it's soured milk."

And with that, life goes on. Weekend plans forgotten. Hollywood? Not even close. Fairytale? Only if I'm Cinderella, and the shoe hasn't fit just right yet. Us? Absolutely.

Would I change it? Not for anything.

(Dear Husband, I am logging back on to email now to discuss minivans. Hugs 'n' Kisses ;-) )

Nothing I expected, everything I could want

I often say, "GiGi is nothing like what I expected, but she's everything I could want." I expected a tiny, fragile little thing that I could dress in ruffles and bows. I bought clothes before she was born--sized seasonally for my tiny, fragile little thing. She is currently into her Fall 2012 wardrobe.  Fleece trousers are not flattering this time of year.

When she was born, she was all thighs. And cheeks. Now, when she crawls, she uses her booty to drive herself. Sway it to the right, and away she goes. Sway it to the left, and away she goes.

She's tough. She tolerates her brother's kisses and bites. His snuggles and more often, his wrestling.

I expected that my baby girl would be all sugar. Very little spice. Absolutely no burps, toots, or anything else yucky.

Until last night. See this?

She's smiling at you because she's pooping in the tub. At this very moment.

She's very sugary and sunshiny and anything else you can think of to describe a happy, laid back baby. She's a little spicy--fits over toys and the car seat make me laugh. 

She is also a whole lot of yucky.

(Oh, and she's still all thighs. Not as much cheeks. But very much more than I could ever want in a little girl.).

It Takes a Village

It takes a village to raise a child, so they say. Maybe not a village, but an extra set of hands certainly helps. As does 15 minutes of toddler planning.  I try to plan for every day to have an adventure. If we don't, RJ and I are not speaking by the end of the day. Actually, he's still talking ("Moooommmmyyyyy, I waaannnaa [fill in the blank]").  My child has been vaccinated with the talking needle. So, we have a daily adventure. A couple of days ago, our adventure was Target. I don't claim that our adventures are all educational or even productive. The point is to get the three year old out of the house and talking about something other than wanting to play cars.

At Target, we looked at baby bottles and baby monitors. I'm toying with the idea of a video monitor for GiGi's room. She's a different kind of cat. She prefers her crib, and I'm certainly not one to argue with her. For now anyway. When she's 13 I'm sure I will be one to argue with her.

Given the recent seismic activity, however, I chickened out. I need to sleep in the room with my babies. Call me crazy, but I thought that putting up with tornadoes, blizzards, bone chilling winds, and floods entitled me to a floor that doesn't shimmy and shake like Dance Fever. I guess I was wrong.

I digress. On our adventure, we visited the linens and talked about table settings. My son may be a decorator someday. The point is, we went all over the store. Clear to the back and to the front again. While picking up bread on the first aisle, a lovely mommy with three children in her cart stopped me. (I wanted to take her out for coffee to ask the question, "How do you do it? I mean really, three! How do you do it and still have on makeup and matching clothes?!")

"Excuse me," she said, "You have a lollipop stuck on your pants." She was polite. There was a sucker stick on my boom-boom. And it had been there through the baby department, the linens, the shoes, and the groceries. It was red. Of course. And very sticky. Obviously. (The pound of lollipop bribes in the trunk of my car had finally come back to bite me.) Only another mommy had the kind heart to actually tell me rather than giggle.

And with that, I realized that while I may have joined the village of lawyers when I passed the bar, I am also part of another village: mommies. Mommies unite. We look out for each other. I pick up lost baby socks and pacifiers for strangers. I commiserate over potty training--which may be subject of an entire book someday if RJ ever learns to poop in the potty. As I embark on month two of maternity leave, I am realizing that it may take a village to raise a child, but the real truth is that it takes a village to raise a mommy.

Summer Strawberries

Several years ago, let's say three just to make it seem more normal than, say, seven years, I started looking at baby clothes. Not really shopping. Just looking. And occasionally buying. When I shopped for friends, I would on the exceptionally rare occasion see something and think, "This is so adorable, I will never find anything like it again," and in the cart it would go.

This seemed perfectly normal. Until I got pregnant. With a boy. I visited my baby stash and was neither surprised nor horrified to discover that I had no baby boy outfits in the bunch.

There's the ever so tiny lace trimmed white cardigan (that fits my cat Boo perfectly--just please don't ask how I know this).  There's a pink velour warm-up suit with kitten ears and a resounding "Meow!" appliqued across the front. And, there are blue 'jammies with darling little strawberries dancing across the front.

God knew what he was doing in giving me a boy first. I am more measured. More tempered in my approach to all things baby. Our carseat is a sensible gray/blue that doesn't show stains (God also gave talented ladies the skill to make pink carseat covers--just sayin'). And, I wouldn't change a thing about my boy. He is sweet and snuggly. He loves his mommy--I know because he tells me so. And, he lets me paint his toenails. But, I digress.

Strawberries. Dancing on little girl 'jammies. I don't know what it is about strawberries. Is it the Strawberry Shortcake dolls I so loved? (I still remember that cloying pink sweet plastic smell). My grandma's kitchen was decorated with strawberries. Maybe that's it. Or, maybe it's the promise of summer.

Last week, I learned I am having a baby girl. The strawberry 'jammies will not be wasted. And, I've wasted no time. There are pink onsies. And green ones with daisies. Ruffle-bottom sailor suits--in two sizes! And so today I sit inside on a sunny summer-ish day, professional, drafting protective orders and other "important" stuff--with happy thoughts of summer strawberries (and the little girl who will wear them).

The Peace That Surpasses Human Understanding

We make it to church frequently enough that the pastor knows our names--most Sundays--and R.J. knows his church manners. Asked before we leave, "What are you going to do in church?" he responds, "I gonna pway, and I gonna be quiet."

Actions speak louder than words. It was one of those Sundays. R.J. smelled this morning. Not in that cute little toddler boy way that makes a mother smile fondly and think about Johnson's baby soap. In that wet dog played in the rain and pooped itself before breakfast kind of way. Stink.

Lately, R.J. has decided he'll shower with me in the mornings. Someday this will be weird. Well, weird for him. It's already weird for me to shower with a three-foot tall man who talks about hot wheels and curiously inquires as to whether my boom-boom is stinky. I digress. This morning I decided he would shower with me. Note the change in subject. Mommy made the decision, not R.J. This was apparently the end of his world. He screamed. He hit. He scratched. And neither of us felt that cleanliness was anywhere near Godliness when we were done.

Against all odds, we made it to church on time. Church is right up R.J.'s alley. He greets people. He watches other little ones. He prays like his 'Sisa has taught him. He dances. Most days, when we get to church, we are relieved, and that peace that surpasses all human understanding does in fact set in.

R.J. wasn't bad today. He went potty. And told me about it. During the sermon. During the readings, he asked, "What's that?" while stretching the neck of my shirt two feet in front of me and reaching in with his other hand. (I nursed the kid WAY too long; we'll leave it at that).

Today was communion Sunday. The bread and wine. Just before we walked to the altar, R.J. reached into his backpack and pulled out...What is that?!  A loaf of moldy bread. Furry. Like a tennis ball. For the ducks at one point, but even ducks won't eat a stinky tennis ball.

Why do they always find these things in church?  And it's not like I can just jam it deep inside the bag. He wants to know what it is. And why it's there. And what we're going to do with it now.

I don't know what the sermon was about. I don't remember the readings. I do know the church bathroom has an automated soap dispenser that is endlessly entertaining.  But, the peace that surpasses human understanding did come, and that is why when next Sunday comes, R.J. will tell you, "I pway, and I be quiet."

Candy Hearts and Cuteness Everywhere

It's Valentine's Day. Candy hearts, cards, flowers, cuteness everywhere. And, because it's Valentine's Day, I'm reflecting on my new definition of love. It is not candy hearts, cards, flowers, and cuteness everywhere.

Yesterday, R.J. tested me. And retested. He snuggled with me in bed for a nap. He sang. He clapped. He wrapped his entire body around my head. He put his knee in my face. He flipped. And flopped. He did not sleep. After an hour and a half, I snapped. I sent him to the kitchen to play with his grandma. He didn't go--at least not without mommy.

He fussed about lunch: "I don't like noodles a lot," he told us. This from the child who subsists on pasta.

We went back for the nap. Another 40 minutes. Finally, sleep. He is cuteness when he is sleeping. Unfortunately for me, the cuteness was short lived. He was up in half an hour. We packed our bags, and we made the drive home. He's a talker. Not just a talker--a talker who is genetically related to the Cartwrights. He does not stop. He talked about every. single. truck. He talked about every. single. song.

By the time we arrived home, I was done. Finished. Silence is not golden. It is platinum. With diamonds.

At night, R.J. winds down. He wants Mommy. "I love you," he starts off the nightly routine. "I love you too," I say. "I love Mommy," he clarifies. "And I love R.J.," I clarify right back. This goes on until finally, when he's had enough, he tells me, "Ok, you love me."

And I do. Love isn't candy hearts, cards, and cuteness everyone. It is the patience that only a mother's heart can hold. It is slobber toddler kisses and nose rubs. It is my R.J.

We Put the Function in Dysfunctional

Last night, I slept with a baby (well, toddler). And the night before. And, let's face it, the prior 981 nights too. I have kept R.J. in bed with me since the first day in the hospital--and the nurses didn't complain. When I first brought him home, I tried. I would swaddle him, place him carefully in his crib, and watch him drift to sleep.

For the next 3 hours, I would jump from bed every 15 minutes to place my hand on his chest, to watch him smile softly in his sleep, and to assure myself that all was right in the world. I ran out of gas in a week. When I sputtered to a stop, I took my baby, tucked him in my arms, and together we drifted into dreamland.

I went back to work with R.J. was 4 months old. Because he slept with me, we all got sleep. When we got ashamed and tried to be "normal," we were all exhausted, short with each other, and hostile toward the world. "Dysfunction:"  "abnormal or unhealthy interpersonal behavior or interaction within a group."

Dreamland is getting crowded. He kicks. And he carries on entire conversations in his sleep: "I don't wanna eat pasta!" "Brooom, broooom, he say he gotta nodder!" (He loves "Cars").   He periodically does a  mommy check--reaches out in the night to honk my nose ("hoooonk!") or squeeze my arm (just to make sure I'm there). He has an entourage.

But, we all rest. And, in the morning, he wanders out of bed--big haired and sleepy eyed--and says, "I sleep well. You sleep well?"

I go to work. I play legal logic games all day and so does my husband. We eat dinner together and play cars with R.J. at night. And, when bedtime rolls around, the inevitable question (or demand--he is two, after all): "Mommy?" "You gonna sleep here." 

"Functional:" "performing or able to perform a regular function."  And we do, every day. 

Emily Post I Am Not

It's a new year, and I feel that I should have some thoughtful, thought provoking post. I do not. I have spent the afternoon in the good company of a two and a half year old boy. Who, despite all efforts to the contrary, finds that his bodily functions provide the most entertainment of all.

We try to teach him manners. "Please," "thank you," and most important for a little man, "pardon me." This week, he had a playmate for a day-- a precious little girl. At the park, he told his 'Sisa, "I let lady go first," as he waited patiently for his friend to go down the slide.

And then, he spends the afternoon with his mommy. Emily Post, I am not. I tend to turn off my censor when I should leave it on. But, I'm prissy. I do not laugh at potty humor. Or, I didn't. Until I had a boy. I try not to laugh. I hide my smiles in my sleeve.  But, somehow, R.J. always knows.

"I tooted!" he trills triumphantly. And the giggles begin. And I smile. And then a giggle escapes. Before I know it, the two of us are snuggled in the rocking chair laughing hysterically. At potty humor. What has happened to me?

What is it about this little stinky man that can take me from uptight prissiness to an uninhibited pile of giggles? R.J. and I have a running dialog about toots, poots, and pees. The same dialog in a PG-13 movie would have me fast-forwarding or find me in another room with a book.

He's good for me, I suppose. A little potty humor never hurt anyone--least of all a mommy.  If I didn't have a sense of humor about it, I'd be in tears.  R.J.'s sweet: he thanks me for changing his dirty pants and gives me sugars in exchange for a fresh Huggie.

So, for tonight, I've given up enforcing the "pardon me's" and the "excuse me's." Tomorrow we'll start again, but tonight, I'm enjoying being ten again.

Mommy Better Recognize

R.J. is two and a half. And, as a two and a half year old, he has an opinion. Actually, he has a lot of opinions. And special requests:  "I wanna some pasta!" (instead of chicken).  "That too hot!" (when he doesn't want to take a bath). "I'm sick. I throw up." (when he doesn't want to sleep).  "I needa My-li-con." (again, when he doesn't want to sleep).  "You have fruit snacks for me?" (when he's testing my mothering skills). "You have crackers for me?" (when I've failed the fruit snack test).

Long before he could talk, or even sit up for that matter, I made a conscious recognition that he's a little person with real person needs. Crying? He must have something to cry about--cold, wet, hungry, irritated. His first nanny would tell me, "He's a little irritated today." Not, "He's cranky today." But, "he's irritated." As though he'd spent all day in an office with a constant ringing phone and hallway chatter chiseling at his patience. 

Now, I recognize that he's a two and a half year old little person. I tell him, "Patience is a virtue, particularly when you're two." When I get impatient, I hear that little voice singing "Patience, have patience, don't be in such a hurry, patience, have patience, right now. When you get impatient, you only start to worry, patience, have patience, right now." It's not a voice in my head. R.J. actually sings this to me in freezing parking lots as I wait in the cold for him to climb into his car seat. 

Last week, I had to make a choice: monkey 'jammies that made me smile at memories of my little guy in his newborn sleeper, or 'jammies with cars. and trucks. fire engines. Things that did not delight my heart and make me say "awwwww." 

But, I recognize that he is a person with real person opinions.  I picked out and wore the same pink polo shirt for school pictures three years in a row--to my mother's dismay. And so, I made the choice I felt my little boy would want. He falls asleep to his own voice, "Wheenew! Wheeenew!" Fire engines. Cars. Trucks. 

A delighted toddler who has his opinion recognized: 

But, I still remember that he is two. So, Mommy still gets her way sometimes too--because striped feetie 'jams make my heart smile (almost as much as a little boy racing fire trucks): 

Perfectly Imperfect

Our Thanksgiving was perfect. Mr. Tom Turkey was a perfectly golden brown, finished right on time. The casserole and potatoes came out of the oven perfectly warmed and ready to eat. And, the table was a picture of perfection--fine china; fancy serving bowls; and cloth napkins folded "just so." Ryan was scrubbed clean; each hair falling perfectly in place; impeccable table manners.

NOT.

For those of you not in Oklahoma on Thanksgiving day, it was cold. Not a little nippy. Cold in the way only Oklahoma winds can create. So, Mr. Tom Turkey took about 14 hours to cook. The side dishes sat warming (and drying) in the oven. The rolls didn't rise. And, at the 11th hour, I realized that I do have lovely wedding china in shades of light turquoise and silver. My serving pieces, however, are yellow (a bright, happy, sunny yellow, but yellow nonetheless).

Ryan James missed his nap time and overslept. He missed the blessing and the dinner. He did, however, have his turkey (rolled in a tortilla because everything is better when rolled in a tortilla). Standing at the center island, he made his late evening feast:

The meal just can't top his wardrobe choice.  My child has sweaters and jackets. He has a plaid sport coat and dozens of collared shirts.  His choice was red, furry, and warm. He picked them out himself. They are his Elmo pants:

And so, he knelt at the kitchen alter, ate his Thanksgiving tortilla, and we all gave thanks for the smiles he brings.  We gave thanks for the food on our table in the sunny yellow bowls. We gave thanks for our family and our friends. And we gave thanks for a well-rested toddler:

...who looks quite splendid in his Thanksgiving best (on a Friday afternoon). And so, I am thankful for my perfectly imperfect day.

There's a Right to Privacy?

We are blessed to live a country founded on principles of freedom and protection.  We are guaranteed freedom of religion, freedom of speech, and we are promised protection from our enemies. We are also assured of certain rights to privacy. It has become abundantly clear to me that the founding fathers did not take part in potty training. While I can't confirm, I suspect that James Madison wasn't helping any little Madisons to the outhouse on a cold winter morning.

I, on the other hand, awoke this morning to a two-year old peering at me sweetly. "Mommy needs to go to the bathroom," I tell him. "Okay," he follows me, little feetie 'jamas padding on the floor behind me. I have not gone to the bathroom at home without an audience in 18 months.  (I'm actually thankful for the peace of the corporate potty).  I sit. He stands in front of me, puts his hands on my knees: "I got you. You no fall in." I'm grateful for the assurance. It's 7 a.m. I am not a morning person.

"Yay!" he applauds. "You get M.M!" He's catching on. Soon enough he'll be earning his own M & Ms. For now, I'm thankful for that little morning sugar rush.

Snakes, snails, and puppy dog tails?

Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star has three verses. Three! I didn’t know that until I had a child.  I also didn’t know that Gerber makes these divine little corn puffy things that look like miniature Cheetos but come in about five flavors.  I didn’t know that Thomas the Tank Engine has approximately 67 close friends.  They're all Thomas’s best-est friends, and no Island of Sodor is complete without them. (For the record, we have currently adopted Thomas, Percy, James, Fergus, Hank, Gordon, Molly and a smattering of freight cars, tenders, and of course, a caboose. Additional adoptions are pending, conditioned only upon a successful day of potty training or a brave visit to the doctor's office. )

I did have some inkling that I would love my child. But, I didn’t know that I would fall completely in love with him.   I have surprised myself, and I suspect I have surprised a number of others by my devotion to my little boy.

I never planned on having a boy. I mean really, what do you do with a boy?!  I wear pink sequins to work, and I'm not fully dressed until I have a little sparkle on my toes. When I was six, I carefully placed my order for a baby girl--sugar. spice. all that’s nice. pink hair bows. sparkles. And, some ruffled bottom tights, if you please.

And yet, I find myself happiest racing a Hot Wheels garbage truck through the living room, “Rumble, rumble!” My little boy is not snakes, and snails, and puppy dog tails.  He’s a little sugar and a lot of spice.  He tells me he wants to talk about his day: “Mommy, I wanna taaaalk!”  He snuggles with me at night: “Wanna hold you!” He has fabulous hair that he lets me cut and style.  He pushes his Cuddles bear through the house in my old wicker doll carriage. He plays hard and hugs harder. And so, when occasionally I take out the pink kitten sweatsuit I've saved, and the white ruffled sweater, and strawberry print 'jamas, I smile. I put them back in the drawer. And, I shop at four stores until I find training pants printed with cars--just perfectly what my little boy wants.

Score!

If you have ever had a puppy or a kitten, then you understand my day yesterday: potty training. R.J. woke up and said, "I go potty." Score!  He wants to use a potty!  Visions of a sweetly scented nursery with a diaper pail gone missing flashed through my head.

As R.J. likes to point out ever so often, "Mommy's a girl." Because I am a girl, until yesterday, I did not fully appreciate the capabilities of the male anatomy. My child peed on the floor. He peed on the wall. He peed on the rug, the toilet seat, the side of the bathtub, and of course, on me. It is a true testament of a mother's love that I have physically taught him to "point it down! point it down!"

I'm a lawyer, not a cheerleader. Yet I spent a vast amount of time sitting in floor in front of the potty cheering, "C'mon tinkler, tinkle! C'mon tinkler, tinkle!"  I applauded. I gasped in admiration. I gave M & M's. He grinned, hopped off the potty and then squatted and tinkled in the floor.

At the end of the day, he reached across the change table, grabbed his overnight Huggie, looked at me with that crinkle-nosed grin and said, "A Huggie! Score!" 

(Editor's Note: A very special thank you to our darling nanny who cheered, applauded, and gasped in admiration along with me. After all, every man needs his own cheer leading squad.)

Always Be Prepared

I’m organized. A list maker. A note taker. A bag packer extraordinaire. But none of that matters when it’s supper time, and you’re at the mall with a two-year old.  Yesterday after working from home most of the day, I took RJ on an adventure to my office. He had been asking all week, and ever the doting mommy, I promised him we’d go.

As “biglaw” law offices go, ours is pretty relaxed and darn child-friendly. People smile when they see a toddler coming; they leave their doors open and candy dishes within reach. A politician-to-be, Ryan James loves to visit. “I’m Ryan,” he says to everyone. “I have juice.” A flawless opening line; I'm sure he'll be president. 

Loaded up on candy bars from my assistant’s candy dish and full of stories about the cranes he saw working on the new Devon tower, little man climbed into the backseat. We were off to Babies-R-Us--a store specially designed to make every mother feel just a little inferior. I mean, I never bought a pre-natal education system for RJ so that he could listen to classical music in-utero. But I bought him a heated wipe warmer, so it all evens out, right?

A collapsible potty seat later (yes, updates to come), and we were on our way to Quail Springs Mall. It was payday. And Friday. And date night for every awkward 15-year old in the greater Oklahoma City area.  Worlds were colliding, but we forged ahead.

As we waited in line for our seats at El Chico, I looked down at RJ. He braced his arms on the bench; his eyes rolled back in his head. “Oh No!” I thought. “He’s having a seizure!”

“Ry, baby, you okay?” I asked, with my hand reaching for my phone to call 911. “Oh,” he shouted, “I pooped! I feel better.” Sure enough, a quick sniff confirmed the dirty deed. Sheepishly, we sneaked past 10 pairs of eyes. Some sympathetic. Some disgusted. All hoping we'd be seated in another section.

A Huggie change in the backseat is always tricky--more so when you’re using the emergency Huggie and crossing fingers for a rogue Wal-Mart bag to turn up under a seat.  Thankfully, RJ can entertain himself. As soon as we reached the car, he found a book and relaxed in the backseat reading while mommy changed his pants. When he’s bringing a book to the change table, it’s time to start potty training.

Clean pants, a new found cowboy hat, and a Huggie tied up in a Wal-Mart bag (yes! score!), RJ was ready for supper. We stood outside the mall, and he told me, “Ry eat at home.” I should’ve listened. Service was slow. I still didn’t have a diaper bag, so there was no mommy-magic: no hot wheels pulled from no where; no books; no crayons. We made do. I’m not proud, but I can tell you that, properly mommy-marketed, a drink menu can be a fun-filled story about Margarita and her trusty sidekick Jose Cuervo.

I am prepared, most of the time. But last night served as a reminder that I may never be one of those Babies-R-Us moms with every cracker packaged, and every poop planned. But, I’m a pretty good improviser, and that makes all the difference.