GiGi's First Birthday

A year ago, I was in the hospital with a brand new baby girl. 

She was happy and smiley the first day.  So was I. There were a lot of ruffles in my future. 

She was really tiny. I knew I wouldn't break her.  

Because I hadn't broken her brother. I could do this. 

It hasn't been an easy year. But GiGi is an easy baby. Joyful. Chunky. Huggable. Snuggable. And so we celebrated GiGi:

A Minnie Mouse Cake. Because she survived Disney World!

Scarlett O'Hara had to eat her pre-party snack too. She wants to eat like a lady at her party. 

I'm a mom! These are my babies! I can't believe it either. 

I loved the '80s. I'm so glad their floral prints are back.

Moms, let your daughters eat cake. It's good for their self esteem. (Let your sons eat cake too--because if you don't give them a piece, they'll sneak frosting.). 

"Whooo! It's uuuuuum!"

Sticky fingers make me smile.

So do ruffle butts and saddle oxfords.

Puppies make GiGi smile. (I told you, she's snuggable.). 

We rounded out the birthday party with naked four wheeling. 

We will not be doing this for her sweet 16.

Cake!

What is cake?

Cake!

I get it. It's Yum!

GiGi, you're beautiful. Never lose those thighs. Don't ever refuse the cake. Be joyful. Be happy. 

Be my baby forever. 

Not My Usual Multitask

I multitask a lot. I talk on the phone while sending a million emails. I make calls on the road (Hands free of course. As Sir Topham Hat says, "Safety is our first concern.").  I check email while I cook dinner.  It's how things get done.

Today, I entered a new world of multitasking. Mornings are a mess of cereal, diapers, backpacks, and sock hunting. This morning was no exception. It was 8:15. RJ screaming for help. Enter mommy. There is poop on the floor. On the toilet. On RJ. He is gagging (rightfully so). "It was an accident, Mommy, okay?"

Of course, of course. Get RJ on the potty. Because he's still going. The phone rings. My boss. Of course. He needs a document, right now. Of course. Phone cradled to my ear while  using one hand to Clorox wipe the floor and the other to balance RJ on the seat, I promise to get right on that. Document will be incoming asap.

This is not the kind of multitasking I had in mind for the day. My boss will probably never know (until he reads this post anyway). The document got sent. RJ's bottom got clean. I'll re-clean the potty when I get home from work. Probably while checking email and wiping bottoms.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Being a Grown-Up

I'm a lawyer. Not a soccer mom. But little boys do funny things to their mothers. My little boy does particularly funny things to his mother--like lick her arms during church and hang from her like a spider monkey (while she flaps her arms and shrieks "Spider Monkey! Get down!" She might encourage him to do funny things.).

Little girls do funny things to their mothers too. After GiGi, I don't look at my career as mine alone. It's an example for a little girl who will grow up in a world where telephone cords don't exist (RJ saw a picture of one in his Llama, Llama book and had to ask what it was), a world where college girls believe they can do anything a man can do (which I'm not sure I believe anymore), a world where moms carry the same handbags as movie stars--and we don't think that's unusual or extraordinary.  It's funny, in a way. 

I'm 35, but I'm not a grown up. I still want to sleep in my little girl room at home sometimes, and there's nothing quite so comforting as my mom puttering in her kitchen--or mine. I still call my dad "daddy," and I always will. It's funny.  I have a mortgage, a driver's license, a bar license, and life insurance. But, I still feel like the same 12 year old girl who got a giggly thrill from staying up past 10. I still feel naughty if I'm out past curfew, and every time I have to put RJ in timeout, I wonder how I became the enforcer. 

A funny thing happened on the way to becoming a grown up: I mommied up. Gave into practicality and functionality. Gave up the cool factor (if I ever had one).

I got 

a 

Minivan:

It's true. It finally happened:

And I love it. The automatic doors flip my switches. 

So does this guy. A minivan man, so to speak. Or rather, the guy who gave up his turn for a new car so that we could get a family truckster. With automatic doors.  'Cause he's awesome like that. 

We're turning into grown-ups together. And sometimes, he puts RJ in timeout too. But on the best days, he turns into Coach Daddy: 

They lost the first game. Big time. But if you asked RJ if he had fun, "Yes!" And that's what matters. That, and his "Thank you for coaching my team, Dad," even after a rough start to the season.

He didn't kick the ball. Not once. But he had a ball. 

GiGi cheered from the sidelines, in the rain. Her Auntie Amy cheered too. 

And I'm growing up. I'm learning that being a soccer mom isn't such a bad thing. 

Our soccer player is also a photographer.  I think he did a pretty good job. 

And....Just completely gratuitous--because I haven't had time to keep up with my family memory keeper duties:

She's walking. And thinning out. But she's still got some junk in her trunk.  

These two are helping me be a grown up. Most of the time. But they also remind me to have fun, to take time to play super hero--not to try to be a super hero. 

And one more shout out to one of the world's best daddies. (I've got a world's best daddy too. I may be a soccer mom, but I'm not a grown-up yet.). 

Thanks for the van. And thanks for turning me from a lawyer into a soccer mom. 

Even if we do lose a few. 

Ham on the Hood

When I became I mom, I gave up my honor roll status. I'm no longer an "A" student. Sometimes I get an "A+:" I win a motion, I settle a case, I make a fancy little bento box lunch for RJ, I remember to put extra rice puffies in the diaper bag for GiGi.

Sometimes, I get a "C:" I forget to bring GiGi's extra outfit. And she poops. Big time. And I've promised RJ we'll go to Target for a Hot Wheels. GiGi rolls in a Huggy and mommy's jacket. It's how we do things. (Rarely do I ever fail, because failure is most often just an interpretation of the situation, and I choose not to be a failure.).

Sometimes, it's just a ham on the hood kind of week.

I've been busy at work. Really busy. The kind of busy that has me in the office until 4 a.m. while my babies are home sleeping. On Wednesday, I spent two hours in my car, and sixteen hours in my office. That kind of busy. 

Tuesday morning, while I wrestled the small ones into their car seats, I set lunches on the hood of the car. RJ's was in his Darth Vader lunch box (Mommy gets an A+ for that one). GiGi's lunch wasn't in her Care Bears box yet, because I had left it in the backseat to ferment (C+). I got the kids buckled, grabbed the lunches, crammed GiGi's ham and cheese box in her bag, and away we went. RJ loves school and marched right in (after our kissing hand, kissing cheek, kissing hand again routine--he's a lover, not a fighter).  GiGi walked into her classroom too!

I mosied back to my car to find, bit o' ham. That is, little toddler bits of ham stuck all over the hood of the car. They stuck through rain. Through school zones. Through 45 mph. Stubborn.

Work was a thousand things in a hundred minutes. I ran the car pool line at 2. Drove back across town to the house. Dropped the kids with their sitter. Drove back downtown. Worked 'til 4. In the morning.

I forgot to read the notes in RJ's backpack. (D-). I forgot Thursday was show 'n tell. (C).  Show 'n tell was a special show 'n tell. (D).  It was "bring your teddy bear day." (D-). 

RJ didn't mind. (A+ for my little man). I napped with him for an hour on Thursday (A+ for Mommy). GiGi has a viral rash that's so ugly it warranted a call from the school (No grades assigned for sickness. Germs don't count.).  The doctor says she's fine (An "A" for mommy getting her to the doctor on a work day).  I cleaned the ham off the hood of the car. I remembered to get GiGi's blankie out of the car. And, I made it back to work another day.

Honor roll? Nope. Failing? Not even close. A ham on the hood kind of week? You bet.

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 ;-) )