On Turning Three: A Letter to Gigi

Dear Gigi,

Last Friday, your turned three years old.

This morning, you took off your sneakers in the church narthex and threw them at me shouting, "I don't want to wear these today!" Last week, I put you in time out; I don't remember why. You snarked, "You go 'way, you ole' woman!" Your feelings are bigger than the ruffles on your skirts and bloomers, and I fear that your attitude now is merely warming me up for your teenage years.

Every evening around 6:30, you melt.  You try to slap me as I carry you upstairs and undress your exhausted, still baby fat little body.  Then, you wrap your arms around my neck and press your cheek to mine for snuggles, and in an instant, all is forgiven.

You are a force of nature, and to be honest, you scare me a little bit. I believe with my whole heart that you're smarter than me, and you'll do amazing things someday

--if only I can discipline you meaningfully and kindly without breaking your spirit.

You love "My Little Ponies" and Dora the Explorer, and you desperately want to fill my shoes--the higher the heel the better. When you grow up, you want to be a princess with a long pony tail, just like mine. No lipstick is too red, and no job too tough. You think I can handle anything, and even though I know it's not true,

I hope that I'm setting an example for you of the kind of woman you'd like to be.

Your brother knows you're a handful (and he's a bucketful, or so he says). You're at the crossroads of toddlerhood and preschooler--where Cheerios give way to Goldfish Crackers, and diapers give way to potties, even the auto-flushers.

Each day will present its own challenges, and I have no doubt you'll tackle them with gusto. Today, I watched you carefully cover an auto-flusher sensor with toilet paper (or as you call them, "paper towels"), just so that you could handle your business in peace.

Remember this: for me, watching you graduate from college will give me with the same sense of pride and bittersweet gladness that watching you manage your nemesis, the auto-flusher, gave me.

For real.

Someday, you'll trade your frills and tiara for a cap and gown, for a business suit and heels, or scrubs and sensible shoes. I hold not a single doubt that you'll channel all of your three-year old exuberance into becoming an incredible person with your own special spin on whatever you choose to replace your frills: 

You've always know how to work an outfit. 

For now, be three. Throw the fits. Grow into your feelings, and every now and then, let them be bigger than your tiny frame--good or bad. 

Hold close to your friends. You never know which one will be your friend for life. 

Hold closer to your brother. He knows you better than anyone 

(and he totally gets your crazy parents too).

Play with dolls as long as you want. Junior high boys probably won't want to dance anyway--even if you do know all the steps to the Cha Cha Slide. 

Eat the cake. Always. 

Always remember that pretty is as pretty does. 

And you, you are beautiful. 

Because I'm Happy...And Other Little Bits & Pieces

I used to work on big cases for big clients, small cases for enormous clients, and gigantic cases for downright small town clients. I researched and strategized. I made outlines that were chapters long. The issues were complex, and life was even more complicated than that. (I'd love to tell you I don't miss it, but truth be told, I guess I do--in some respects). Today,  I spent most of my day folding used clothing and drinking in the bargain hunter's Mecca--the church garage sale pre-sale. I'm not a hoarder, but darn those hoarding tendencies! Today, my adoptees included a cast-iron dutch oven, harvest gold and avocado green Tupperware tumblers, a princess tent, some yard ornaments, a punch bowl (to be fair, I traded in the one that I already owned--not a hoarder), a cashmere sweater (!), and two country aprons. I dug through boxes of cables, used panties & socks (ew, really people?), and sorted water bottles from coffee mugs until late in the afternoon.

And throughout the day, I constantly caught myself singing: "I love you. You love me. We're a happy family. With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, won't you say you love me too?" Credit to the big purple dinosaur, Barney. Gigi has never seen his show, but she does enjoy his literature; every night she sings herself to sleep by reading Barney's book of nursery rhymes. And, this week, when I interviewed her as "Star of the Week" for pre-K, she told me that her favorite book is the I Love You book. There was a smile on my face.

Happy.

It also makes me happy that Gigi's favorite foods are Honey Nuts, Cheetos, and Fruit Loops. Second child syndrome. Her brother's favorites at that age were sloppy joe sandwiches and guacamole. Happy. Not necessarily proud.

What else makes me happy?

These two:

She loves her big brother. And sugar cereals. 

He's going through a serious phase peppered with childish curiosity: "Mom, how are you feeling today? Are you feeling okay? Do seals eat people?" Yes, this was all asked in sequence. In the car. On a Monday morning. For the record, he also would like to know if cats have kittens like moms have babies, and if so, well, then how do the babies get out of the cats tummy? Or better yet, how do babies get out of a mommy's tummy? If anyone has a six-year old appropriate answer, I'm all ears (glowing red with embarrassment). 

The first soccer game of the year makes me happy too:

Cutest cheerleader on the field. I'm going to make them re-take this picture when she's 14, and he's 17. 

This makes me pretty happy too. Dad's an awfully good coach. 

Those faces! A game well played. 

Some days, she looks so much like her daddy.

Fancy footwork makes me happy too. 

Not this happy. You know what makes me this happy? Running--when it's 60 degrees outside. 

Hello fall!

Every season, we ask him, "But did you have fun?"  The picture is a bit blurry, but I think the answer is still resoundingly "Yes!"

Little boy jokes make me happy too. "Hey mom," he told me today, "Did you know Bartlesville is a funny word? It sounds like you're burping!"

Of course, little girl dreams make me happy too: "I wish we had a fountain in our house. A princess fountain. A princess water fountain that we could drink from." 

Lately, I've devoted more time to volunteer service than to my computer. I'm behind on my shows, my blog, my books, and my house keeping. But, I've met (and I hope I've helped) people with problems far bigger than the ring around my bathtub. I have the opportunity of a lifetime to teach at a law school that not only places high value on service but that is also my alma mater. I learned to do a headstand this week in yoga class, and I can still run 5 miles at the drop of a hat. I picked up my violin for the first time in months and managed to eek out enough of a tune for Gigi to "Let It Go." 

It's almost November, and soon enough, I'm sure I'll join the minions in giving daily thanks for everything from fluffy towels to the great state I live in, earthquakes, tornadoes, monsoons and all. No doubt before then, I'll feel the pressure of a great thought just waiting to be expanded and expounded onto paper. 

But, for tonight, my thoughts are simple and happy. And, for now, that's who I prefer to be. 

With a Little Help from My Friends

In the 9th grade, I went to a school dance. I'd been to only two dances before that one; I wasn't a particularly popular girl in junior high. But, I had my friends. We stuck together. We sat outside after lunch, or in the bleachers in the gym. We took speech class together and dramatically interpreted Steel Magnolias (I was a killer Shelby--those judges were wrong). We passed countless notes in the halls and giggled away late Friday nights watching Shag. My friends were the ones who convinced me to go to that one last 9th grade dance.

It was a fancy dance, held at the local country club--high living in our small town. My mom made me a polished cotton pastel floral Laura Ashley knock-off; she hot rolled my hair; and she helped me put on mascara and lipstick. I felt beautiful, and terrified. Would I get asked to dance? By a boy? What would I say? What would I do with my hands? 

In an attempt to ease the adolescent angst, the dance organizers revived a late nineteenth century: dance cards. Each young lady was issued a small, half-fold card with numbered lines one through ten. The card was charmingly attached to a silk cord, on the other end of which was a teeny, tiny little pencil. In theory, the boys would simply approach a girl and ask to see her dance card. He would sign up for a dance. Simple. Effortless. A mere registration process. Also in theory, a girl's dance card would be full, and she would have a lovely evening chatting and dancing with ten fine young gentlemen.

Theory rarely translates to reality, particularly when dealing with junior high romance.

My dance card wasn't full. Not even close. I had one dance. Maybe two. They were so awkward. The best part of each dance was when the song ended. Then, I was free to scamper back to my small herd of girlfriends to giggle, squeal, and wonder if I would get to repeat the experience at least one more time that night.

In life, we don't have dance cards.  We do have text messages, and Facebook. Sometimes, we even talk to friends on the phone or manage to grab lunch. We meet each other at work, on soccer fields, at kindergarten fundraisers.

Last week, I had a realization: my dance card is full. I have more friends than days in the week. If I were to have a party at my house, I wouldn't have enough chairs to seat everyone I wanted to invite. (Note: Need to buy more chairs.).

My mom always tells me that we have different friends for different times in our lives. Campfire girls taught me, "Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver, and the other gold."

For the first time in forever, I have new friends, and old friends, silver friends, and gold friends--all very much treasured.

I have my old friends--the ones who giggled with me at junior high dances and introduced me to V.C. Andrews books. I have my older friends--the ones who knew me before I had permanent teeth and who loved me even when those permanent teeth grew in crooked.

I have my ladies--the ones with whom I share the commonality of law school and law firm experience. When I left private practice, I was afraid I would lose that close knit network of truly brilliant women. Friendship survives firms, and I'm so grateful that it does.

I have mom friends who I know will be lifelong friends, sharing birthday parties, graduations, soccer games, and the occasional (or not so occasional) margarita.

Tonight, I went to Parents' Night at our little Lutheran school. Gigi is technically in two different preschool classes, MWF, and TT. When I mentioned that we would probably attend only one field trip day, her teacher responded, "I would try to go with the Monday/Wednesday/Friday section. Her best friends are in that class, and she'll have so much more fun." (Gigi's bestie isn't in class with her this year, and saying goodbye to him very nearly breaks her heart most mornings).

Gigi is two. Already, she has made friends--the ones who knew her before she had permanent teeth and who will love her when they come in crooked (we've already started the fund for her orthodontic work).

My hope for my little woman is that when she is 37, she'll have the realization that her dance card is full. Friends have made the difference for me. And, to each of them, thank you, I'll call you for lunch (or margaritas) soon.

A Little Bit Happy, A Little Bit Excited

Just three years ago, RJ took the plunge: preschool. He was a little bit happy and excited and a whole lot nervous. So was I.

We didn't know much about our little Lutheran school back then. I didn't know that the director would know my son by name. I didn't know that there would be other parents who would listen to stories about boo-boos and offer sympathies and sugars in the halls. I didn't know that I would be ruffling the hair of at least three little boys every morning to say hello. I completely underestimated how quickly our little school would feel like home. 

 I pressed fast forward, and suddenly, we're here: 

Gigi didn't officially start school this week, but she thinks she did. I'll pretend that she did since I'll miss her first official day (sniffle). Being the second-born has its pitfalls. Then again, I know now to buy the big backpack and the insulated lunch bag instead of the little cute toddler sized backpack that crumples all the papers and the adorable tin lunch pail that couldn't keep a peanut butter sandwich from spoiling. 

She looks more nervous than she was. She loves her school. The bonus? Her teacher is Miss America (actually, her name is Merica, but Gigi thinks she's Miss America because she's so pretty.)

This guy wasn't nervous at all. He has come into his own this year, and it eases a mother's heart. 

Of course, it helps that they have each other. 

And there's no substitute for daddy's hand when you need just a little boost of confidence. Daddy gets to take Gigi for her first day too. I'm glad for that. Those two have a thing going on. 

Her daddy is her fiercest protector. So, when, halfway through the first week of school she decided to drink her mouthwash rather than swish it, daddy did what daddies do. He protected her. A call to poison control and a visit from the firemen, and all was deemed well with our little woman. Milk and stickers made it better. 

And she had a great story to tell at when she met her teacher. 

School work is serious business. He knows it's his job. 

School starts too soon. We still have lazing to do by the pool. 

And we took full advantage of the warm after-school afternoons. 

How is this baby really old enough to go to school?

We ended the week with show and tell. He could choose anything he wanted. He chose Bare Bear. He's secure in his manhood. He wouldn't let me take his picture, so I had to sneak one at breakfast. "Mom," he asked me, "Can you put Bare Bear in the spa? I want him to look nice." (Note: Yes, I did tell him the washer is a bear spa. He doesn't like Bare Bear being scared.)  When we tried to think of clues to help his class guess what was in his bag, I asked, "Well, how does Bare Bear feel?" "Happy!" RJ responded. "No, wait! He's excited!" 

As any parent can tell you, often the teddy bear is the key to the child's inner most feelings. I hope Bare Bear is, because I want to believe that RJ was happy and excited this week. New beginnings can be rough. I'm grateful for our little Lutheran school that sent Pastor to the parking lot to welcome each child and make this transition week just a little bit easier. I'm grateful for the hugs in the hallways from teachers and parents alike. I was a little bit nervous this week and a lot excited (which I'll tell you more about soon--I have hours, plural, to clean house and grocery shop alone!).  Mostly, however, I was happy and excited. Our little school makes it easy to say goodbye to summer, and for that, I am most grateful.

What We Did on Our Summer Vacation

We're not good at family recreation. Nights on the patio are often spent answering emails or rehashing our days at work. Don't misunderstand. We spend a lot of time playing with the kids, and we enjoy each other's company. It's just that, most of the time, we spend our recreation time heavily scheduled and organized: soccer, swim lessons, an hour or two at the neighbor-pool hood (as Gigi would tell you). We were determined to make family vacations a priority, but we never quite had the gumption to book a trip.

Over a year ago, I had a glass of wine (or two) with a friend at my last firm function. In the flush of the moment, she suggested that we join her family on vacation. To my surprise, she (who probably hadn't had quite so much wine as I had) followed up the next day. And, I'm ever so grateful that she did.

Playa del Carmen. A lovely not-so-little town (our driver said it's over 200,000, but you'd never know it). We spent a whole week on the beach with no schedules and blessed little internet access. I got to be my favorite version of mom for seven days: Vacation Mom!

Our adventure began, as always, at the airport:

It was an early flight, and Gigi is not a morning person. (This was supposed to be her first day of school dress, but she cried and wanted to wear it on the airplane. Vacation Mom is cool, and Vacation Mom said "yes."

This was the first plane trip she'll remember. Her brother, however, is an expert and was happy to tell her all about it. At 5 a.m.

"Me? I'm a world traveler. No big deal."

Bare Bear made the trip with us in a drawstring canvas bag. It's a little twisted cramming him in there headfirst upon landing. Vacation Mom has a dark side. 

Kids these days--they have no idea what it was like flying with a paperback, looking forward to a quality hour with Skymall.

Angelina bear made the trip too. She rode in a pink Hello Kitty backpack that somehow didn't seem nearly so dark and twisted. 

Gigi's first look at the ocean. She was overwhelmed and non-too excited at the prospect of waves. 

This guy, on the other hand, loves the surf. But for a raging case of hives, he would have spent the entire week bouncing around in his life jacket. 

Then again, the beach is awfully hard to pass. 

We hadn't even checked into our hotel before this little one was crying to go play in the "big sandbox.' 

Our first night ended with a moonlit walk on the beach. Vacation Mom hangs out in swimwear nearly 24/7; it takes her back to her lifeguarding days when she really did live in swimwear 24/7. 

A lovely end to a lovely first day. 

We built a castle in the moonlight. 

And friendships were solidified. 

These kids. Keep your eyes on them. They're amazing young people who are going to be amazing grown-up people. (Gigi was off running somewhere. She'll be amazing too, but for now, she is two.)

We made it to the big sandbox again. 

And a few more times after that. Once we convinced RJ that seaweed was really just weeds, like dandelions, he was entirely content to settle in at the water's edge. 

I caught Gigi bellied-up to the pool bar. I won't pretend that this doesn't concern me just a bit.

Then again, Vacation Mom enjoyed a few poolside drinks herself.

We made it into town and completely blew RJ's mind. It's quite easy to forget that Mexico is an entirely different culture--until you're back there. It's bright and colorful. Prices seem exorbitant until you remember the exchange rate for pesos. 

The food is amazing. I was sure we were going to end up hovering near the bathroom after eating street tacos, but apparently, we have iron guts (or the food trucks are much cleaner than they appear). The tacos were delicious! (Big thanks to our friends for taking us on the adventure.) Of course, no family vacation would be complete without a few maladies. This time? Dad got stung by a thousand fire ants while standing guard for RJ to relieve himself in a Mexican plaza. (I swear we don't usually let him do that, but he had to GO, and honestly, no one bats an eye when dogs wee on trees.)

RJ partook in some crafting, which pleased School Mom to no end. He's not typically into things like art. I credit the beautiful little redhead to his right for his sudden interest. 

I mean, just look at this child--she's gorgeous!

In Gigi's world, she's a princess celebrity whose appearance could be outshone only by Cinderella herself. 

We ate dinner at a fantastically unique restaurant set in an Mayan cave, ALux. It was dark and damp with a natural waterfall just past our table. The food was tasty and non-Americanized in its portions; that is, dinner was delicious, and we ate what we ordered, feeling satisfied but not overstuffed. Yum.

I feel as though this may be foreshadowing at its finest. I hope that their first date doesn't involve both of them on their phones. 

These little ladies had such a good time, and I'm so thankful that Gigi had a friend to play kitchen with at the pool. 

Most nights, dinner looked more like this. Vacation Mom wished there was a dishwasher in our condo, but really, a full kitchen is the way to go with little ones. They ate their Fruit Loops on their own time, and they enjoyed supper in their 'jammies. 

Of course, a condo with maid service has its perks: towel bunnies!

And of course, there's the freedom to play. Here? RJ is pretending to be Gigi's pet dog. She enjoys the game just a bit too much. The furniture actually did have cushions; we just moved all of the cushions upstairs each night to pad the marble floor. Gigi took a swan dive off the bed the first night, ending with a nasty bruise on her forehead. We were just grateful there were no broken bones (or teeth). 

We spent a lot of time goofing in the pool. Vacation Mom finally trusted the waterproof phone case enough to take it underwater (with a little help from her friend Margarita).

Within two days, Gigi was well known at the pool, and for those who didn't know her and who tried to jump in and save her, I apologize. She's a little crazy. But we know that, and we've taught her to swim. She needs a sign around her neck, "I'm older than I look. I'm short. But I can swim." 

Water baby.

Poor baby. By day 7, he had hives and was forced to wear his sister's long-sleeved rash guard. Sunblock burned his face and was impossible to rub in. But none of this slowed him down. 

He's a competitor at heart--racing the waves. 

Vacation Mom likes selfies. 

Of course, no trip to the beach is complete without a few dressy photos. (I actually did bring my good camera; the phone camera was just so easy, hence the phone photos for most of the trip. Vacation Mom is all about easy.)

I wore this dress on my honeymoon--ten years ago! Hooray for running!

For a six-year old, our photographer was pretty incredible. 

Look at this little woman's suntan. I promise, even Vacation Mom is a stickler about sunscreen. The dress? It was mine. Mom and dad brought it back from Acapulco when I was two. 

I tried to make her take it off for the plane trip home. She refused and wore it with turquoise striped shorts. The water is turquoise in this part of Mexico. Her dress is from Mexico. By transitive properties, the outfit matched. Or, Vacation Mom just didn't care. 

After a week away, RJ's comment summed it up best for himself and sissy: "I'm just so glad I'm back to normal chocolate milk!"

After approximately 15 hours of travel seated beside or on Vacation Mom, Gigi agreed to sit beside dad on the flight home--and promptly shut her mouth to fall asleep. Life isn't fair to Vacation Mom sometimes. 

Then again, Vacation Mom has very little to complain about. 

In the end? We rinsed the sand from our feet....

And made it blissfully home. (He walked into the house, kicked off his shoes, and zonked sound asleep on his living room floor.). 

Special thanks to our friends, the Watsons. You guys were fantastic hosts. Your kids are polite, smarty pants, and pleasant to be around. We had a great time! This family vacation thing is the bees knees.