Let Me 'Splain. No, There is Too Much. Let Me Sum Up.

No, no, no. You need not worry. Parenting has not led me to give up technology for the greater good of my family unit, or forced me to hang myself in my bathroom. I've simply been way to busy with real life to justify telling the 7 people that read this about it...especially considering you probably already know. But through some sort of miracle I have managed to muster up enough brain cells and clever one liners to do the damn thing, so I'll give you few dedicated readers a fix (seester).

Tegan is still awesome. Duh. She is still very clever and curious. Also duh. What is new however is her ability to run, say some particularly cute words, climb out of the bathtub on her own (not cool), and newly developed gift for circus performing. Oh, and she enjoys working with finite math. No big deal. These of course are just a few things because for me to sit her and type a list of accomplishments that I could immediately check off would be super fun for me, being that I love a good list, especially one that's fulfilled, but not so much fun for you.

"HAZAAAH!"

She also has grown a bit more hair...and I really mean a "bit" like if Einstein had peach fuzz...yikes. I'm pretty sure she is going to be "our adorable son" until she's 8.

"The Do"

Tegan's love for Sampson was quickly replaced with Panda which was even more quickly replaced by Big Bear. It's like (500) Days of Tegan, and Panda is just a chubbier version of that indie kid. Total bummer. Oh young love.

"The other guy"

While she may not look like a jerky teenager yet, she certainly no longer looks like a baby which has pointed me to the reality that I should no longer look like I've just had a baby. I fear that calling my undeniable "pooch" baby weight when she's 37 may not be greeted with much sympathy, so I'm going to get back in shape. Or at least talk about it a lot for the next few weeks until I again realize having time to shower let alone break a sweat is few and far between. Thus convincing myself that really working would just cause more harm than good in the long run. Totally logical.

"All grownsed up"

So we're all still alive. Miss Tegan is moving right along. And for the most part all is well. Sure we have shitty days (literally), and sometimes I can't remember to put shoes on her, but no matter how bad it may seem sometimes, you gotta stay positive. See the glass half full. I mean come on, we've always got naked  Wednesdays. 

"What?"

There's More To It Than Beans for Breakfast.

"I just want some huevos rancheros!" is what was likely being screamed through my tears this time last year. While this sounds like some terrifying Mother's Day nightmare you heard a women share at work about her in-laws, it wasn't like that. In my defense I had a 3 week old baby and my hormones and sleep cycle and overall brain functions were all over the place. Not to mention, I had put on clothes and a bra and I think even a little make up and it was all gonna go to waste.

All I wanted to do was eat out. Eat something other than reheated somethings that someone brought me. I wanted to go have delicious huevos rancheros and show off my super cute new kid and show the world how awesomely awesome everything was. Nope. Instead we ate bagels and fruit in my living room. It was fine, and as quickly as my sleepless hormonal rage had risen, it silenced itself. It wasn't what I wanted but in the end it was a great day with food (that wasn't huevos rancheros) and my awesome (and very tolerant) family.

Here we are now, a year later, on my second Mother's Day with what feels like a whole different life. While I am slightly better rested and hopefully more sane, challenges are still there. Now they just involve a little girl who wants to walk around rather than eat and open every cabinet rather than be passed around a table. These problems may seem like a way bigger deal than eggs and beans, but there were no tears this year. Instead we had an awesome day eating and playing and doing whatever the hell we wanted and it as awesome. No stiff dresses or buffets or gifts to swap, just a day of being happy to be happy about being a mom. And I was, and I am.

(Best thing I ever did)

And One Day She'll say, "...I'm Just Like My Mother..."

Tegan looks like her dad...or so I am told every time the two of them are in the same room. And usually, without fail, a sad little smile and head tilt is directed at me immediately following. Hey man, I don't mind that she looks like her dad because I married him and I am shallow and would never marry an ugly person. Kidding.

But seriously, like I'm offended that she doesn't look like me. Like every night as I fall asleep I curse the universe for not giving my daughter my perfectly shaped eyes and gorgeous cheek bones. (Perhaps I'm selling myself up a bit.) I actually don't care that she looks nothing like me, and that is because while her appearance maybe that of her father, her personality is all like her mommy.

Yep. She's me...just tinier and less opinionated. She is easily frustrated, and likes cats, and one of her top five favorite things to do is vacuum (or help me do it any way). She's loud and silly but also super serious when she gets into something and loves pineapple and is partial to monochromatic animals (mostly pandas). Yep, me.

There are some qualities that she possesses that I am certain didn't come from me, like her constant flatulence (dad), and her interest in bad 90's smooth R&B. Still haven't figured out were that came from. But for the most part, she's a feisty lady just like her mama.  Now I'd like to think this was all do to my potent genes when it came to that whole creation thing, but I will agree that maybe, just maybe, some it has to do with her being around me all day...maybe. Nah, I'm sticking with the super genes theory.

So she can look like her dad, he's handsome. And it's great that she's got some of his greatest parts. She will take habits and characteristic and traits from both of us and be whatever Tegan's personality is.  But really, no need for the sad little smiles and sympathetic head tilts because she may not look like me, but there is no doubt that right now, she's her mama through and through.

(My little impatient panda lover)

Bye Bye Baby...

So Tegan is walking. Like, really walking. Not just the drunken stumble, the real thing. As a result my time spent indoors at the computer has greatly decreased. Ironically, the potential blog material is infinitely increasing with every step. Like learning how to step off curbs (or the lack there of), and screaming with delight when she is "set loose" in an open area, and her sudden complete disapproval with being held...EVER.

So until I get my sea legs with this whole walking business, my blog writing days are fewer are further between. I suppose this is my warm welcome to having a toddler. "Hi there! Welcome to the mother of a 1 year old club, please leave your last glimmer of free time and those ten pounds of left over baby weight at the door."

The baby weight reference is my desperate attempt at optimism about my increase in chasing my kid down. I see now why they make leashes for children. I have no plans to get one (don't quote me on this) but I can see where sheer desperation may lead to such shocking devices. And I mean, she's only gonna get faster and more ninja like,  and I'm only gonna get older and slower.

While I may be totally terrified by this walking thing, Tegan doesn't have a fear in the world, and she's the one who should! It's her bones and skin on the line! I suppose she hasn't learned fear yet. Perhaps walking might lead the start of this tough lesson. For now, she just goes in feet first (pun intended) with all she's got and never look back...literally, all I ever see is her ass.

(on the move)

A Little Girls Decent Into (Delicious) Madness or More Simply Put, Cake Drunk.

There are certain times when a photograph truly says  more than words. I believe this to be one of those times. Enjoy.

A seemingly sweet girl previously untanted by confectionary delights

 hmmm...

Desperately attempting to practice restraint

 Perhaps just one more taste

Something along the lines of a Homer Simpson grone

I don't want you to see me like this, Mother.

Look at all the pretty colors

or

The snozberries taste like snozberries

The insaciable sweet tooth takes hold

!!!

HAZZAH!

...What's just happened?

31,556,926...and Counting

Tomorrow Tegan will be one. We made it a year. A whole year. 365 days. 8765.8 hours. 31,556,926 seconds, and this is truly something to celebrate. Not only is it Tegan's first Birthday, but there is also an undeniable sense of accomplishment for myself and Josh. Not only is she still in one piece, but stitch free and only a few memorable injuries. For a kid that would rather demonstrate her yoga moves on a chair than sit on it, this feels like a huge success.

Raising children is hard, and parents who says its not are either lying or probably not doing all they should be. It truly is the absolute, without a doubt, hardest thing I have ever done. Makes managing a classroom look like a vacation. It's exhausting mentally, physically, financially and socially. So then why do it?

A friend of mine recently made a joke about not getting the pay off of having a child. Diapers, crying, lack of sleep, money, being stuck at home, and maybe I will agree with him a bit when Tegan is 14 and only communicates with me via door slamming, but right now I can't see a downside. She's fucking hilarious for one, and she's smart, and Innocent, and trusting and a reminder of what we were all like before we got our hearts broken or watched too much news or were under appreciated or hurt or felt fear. Tegan helps me remember that these things don't have to be what life's all about. And if that doesn't sell you on the deal, have a child that loves you more than anything else in the world just give you a hug.

So to me there is no question that while the last year has been crazy and sometime (okay, a lot of the time) stressful, seeing her grow up into a sassy little lady is way cooler than going out with the cool kids. To each their own. And this is mine.

(Just being cute)

A letter to my bigger than "little" girl.

Tegan,

     I hope you've made it this far reading all these blogs. I realize at this point there is a very good chance you have completely disowned me as your mother for comparing you to the likes of mental cases, animals and transients. But assuming I raised you well, you've probably got a good bit of humor and sarcasm in your blood, Oh, and I promise to let you decide what photographs are shared with your boyfriend, although I doubt I can say the same for your dad. 

     Tomorrow is your first birthday, and I must say that I am just as excited about your birthday as I am for having kept you in one piece for 365 days. When you have a child you will understand why that feels like such an accomplishment. Especially if your children are as rowdy and full of energy and curiosity as you are. 

     In the first year of your life you put in a lot of work! You will meet 1 walking, and talking (kind of) and having a very strong will and little to no hair on your head. It's true and we love you any way. You are fun, and smart, and completely fearless. Anywhere we take you people comment on how beautiful you are and how aware of the world you seem to be. You are absolutely amazing. 

Thank you for reminding me everyday that there is still goodness in the world. Stay sweet. Stay happy. And always stay true to what you believe regardless of what others may think (unless the other person is your mother. Kidding.) 

Happy Birthday baby girl!

I love you to the moon. 

A&E Series In The Making or Baby Genius?

Tegan has always exhibited some rather interesting behaviors when playing. I'm sure all kids do. Actually, I'm pretty sure most things that kids do are peculiar and certainly hilarious to say the least.  One of the first things I noticed she would always do with her toys was what I referred to as her "leave no man behind" mentality.

Whenever she would be playing and want to go from one part of the house to another, she felt like everything needed to come with her. Not just a favorite, but anything she was around. So she'd sit there and crawl half as inch grab a few toys, move them, crawl another few inches, realize she dropped Panda, 2 crawls back, turn around, grab him, drop the shoelace, go back again, decide she needs the block to come too, back 3 steps again, now grab your partner, spin to the left and dosey doe...you get the point.

These days she's all about being outside. Pushing her little cart around. With a balloon tied to it. Filled with "stuff." Does this sound strangely familiar?  You may recognize this character from such places as a bus stop on Apache Blvd, or a park bench in Downtown Phoenix. She looks like a crazy bag lady! Roaming around the yard collecting leaves and rocks and  bird heads (kidding) to put in her cart. While the resemblance to a transient can be unsettling at times, mostly I'm impressed with how systematic her "collecting" is. Like a little miniature archaeologist (or crazy person). The verdict is still out.

So she goes to an area, has a seat on the ground next to her cart and begins. She picks it up or off or whatever and then looks at it for a while. If it passes first inspection than it goes to level two inspection in which it is placed in the mouth. If it tastes...."something" enough, then it's a keeper and goes to the cart, where she then puts it in and takes it out 37 (okay, maybe 36) times before deciding it's in the right place. On to the next spot. A well oiled machine, this process.

Maybe these things are all normal. Maybe your kid does it too. I have no idea. I've never done this before. So until I start finding boxes under her bed that contain cat hair she's collected and rolled into perfect little balls, I'm not gonna worry too much.

(My Little Transient)

(Inspection Process)

Turns Out They Do Come With A "How To" Manual! (Kind of)

If I had a dollar for every time I heard my mom, or boss, or that old lady at Wal-mart say "we never had that when I had my kids"  I probably wouldn't be foreclosing on my house. Calm down, mom, I'm not complaining. It's the truth. Disposable diapers didn't exist let alone fancy car seats, or video monitors or Yo Gabba Gabba. And honestly, I think I could probably do without most of this.

What I couldn't do without is all the information. EVERYTHING has been researched and studied and researched again, and found to be previously incorrect, and corrected and put in a book, or on a blog, or a website, or answered by some lady named "Bobbysmommy33" on Yahoo Answers.

My current problem is that I'm at the end of my book. I had the pregnancy books and the first years books and now what? Is there a year two manual? I mean, there better be? The nerd in me needs another book! I have no idea what to do with the "second years" Tegan! When will she form sentences, and how do I deal with big girl beds and feces throwing (See! I can't even seem to remember if I'm raising a one year old human or a chimp!)

I mean, Josh and I had pretty much zero experience with kids prior to Miss Tegan...I mean, really zero. I can't actually recall having changed a diaper...ever. And while I may write like I'm some bad ass, go with the flow kind of mom (which I am), I have to be educated on anything I take on. Even if I decide what I read was total garbage. So I need the books.

While I do realize the Internet and other forms of 21st century research will still exist in 8 days, and my ability to google "how many wet diapers should a 12 month old that's weaning but drinks water have" and get an exact answer, I liked the comfort that came with the monthly manual. The feeling of "so that is normal...huh...good to know" when I would read the chapter for her point in development. Or the even better feeling of "I knew my kid was going to be a fucking genius" when she had reached milestones 2 and 3 chapters ahead.

So maybe I can't get a month-by-month breakdown of what (not so) Baby Bird is likely to unveil next.  Maybe that's okay. This last year of parenting has really lead to me feeling like I know Tegan, and that I can handle anything she can throw at me. Perhaps I can even handle it on instinct. And just maybe I'll decide I don't need a book at all. I mean, how much harder can a one year old really be?

(Can someone tell me which chapter covers desk climbing?)

I'm Not Asking For The Cover of Time Magazine!

Everyone that has children wants them to do great things. Not just for the obvious reason of needing a retirement plan since that whole social security thing is looking grim at best, but because you love them insanely and you want them to be happy and educated and well rounded and employed. We are no different with Tegan. We want (and know) that she will be amazing at...something.

It's that something, that question mark that leads many parents (okay, at least Josh and I) to turn every little thing Tegan does into a sign of her feature talents. She liked water as a baby...SWIMMER! Huge fan of books...WRITER! Rolling and throwing the ball...ATHLETE! And we're all familiar with the cat thing which of course points to VET! Then we remind ourselves that she is also good at things like shitting her pants and making fart sounds with her mouth, and neither of us seem to jump at possible careers that list those as requirements. Although we are happily accepting suggestions.

So of course when Tegan starting playing with crayons and paper the other day, the artist in me couldn't help but go bananas at the thought of a little artist. She seemed to really enjoy herself, and did surprisingly well at hold the crayons and understanding line and form and balance (kidding). She does enjoy it though..a lot I'd say.

(My Little Ar-teeeest)

But I know this might or might not mean anything. Yes, children naturally gravitate towards certain things, and sure, interests they have as they get older impact what the choose as work, but now is far too early to really know anything.  I mean, I should probably wait for her to um, I don't know, walk, and say more than 5 words before my imagination maps out her whole life. (I solemnly swear to not be a parent that pushes their kid into a certain career. Even if that career is as a highly payed and well respected artist that is nationally recognized, and lives in a super awesome loft/studio in NY...Scout's Honor.)

Because right now, in reality, toys are for playing, Books are pretty to look at, and crayons, while they do make really pretty marks, are often times still best for eating.  

(I mean, who wouldn't? They smell so good!)

Animals and Politics

Tegan loves to be around other kids. Loves it. She watches other kids when we are out, and always trying to go to them if she can. I love that she's social. I mean, who wants their kid to be like Ally Sheedy from Breakfast Club or that creepy guy from The Burbs? No thanks. Lately, I'm beginning to wonder if their aren't some parents out there trying to raise socially defective kids.

I have the attitude that babies are babies, and are often more like little animals (which they are) than little people. Sometimes they hit, or take a toy, or get a toy taken. I see this as normal. Sort of baby survival of the fittest. I like to handle this by not handling it. Obviously, I will tell Tegan to be nice if she hits a kid or something like that, but she doesn't know how to be soft handed or how to say "listen asshole, that was my shape sorter and I want it back." She's a fucking baby.

These parents that hover over their kids and carry them off the second anything gets less than perfect are creating cry babies. The kind of kids that make it so that other kids can't play tag anymore. We don't need to let them brake bottles over each others heads (pun intended), but we should let them experience some physical interaction before they're 37.

This seems to be how most people parent. Particularly at my story group each week. Which is why I am BEYOND thrilled when Tegan gets to play with a baby who's parents are paranoid nut bags. It's so nice to just let kids play, and not spend the whole time burning an ulcer into your guts because the other parents are raising the boy in the bubble or forgot they're not chaperoning a Junior High dance.

When my friend called and said she wanted to bring her little girl over for the first time I was thrilled. She is the opposite of the parents mentioned above. In fact, she was cooler about the girls getting crazy than I was. This was particularly true when a whole container of puffs spilled, and my obsession for tidiness (understatement) couldn't refrain from kicking in.

So Tegan spent the evening playing with her new bff Vienna. And mom had a reason to put on real clothes and speak like a college graduate. Win. Win. Sometimes they cried, and sometimes fingers went into eyeballs and it wasn't always perfect, but everyone survived...and it was a lot of God damn fun.

(friends)

Let Me Tell You A Little Story, Again.

As previously mentioned, Tegan is constantly changing. What she wanted for dinner last week now gets pitched to the floor, playing with the shoes in the closet is boring, and even Samson seems to be getting the cold shoulder as of late. Everything seems to come and go in Tegan's world except for her love of raspberries (which we'll get to another time) and books.

The kid loves books. She will spend half an hour flipping the pages back and forth, obsessively trying to master the thin pages (without ripping them to shit). For the most  part, I love that Tegan loves books. One very compelling reason is that it comes in very handy when she is having a meltdown. Let me be clear, when these tantrums occur I would rather be a half drunk call girl stuck in a room with Patrick Bateman than try to calm her down with any traditional methods.  A book is the only thing to tame this one.

While her love for books never fades, her acceptance of new books is with much reluctance. She has her favorites and that's that. We go to the library every week where I grab the ten board books look the least likely to be carrying the plague, and we go home and give them all a test run.  On a good week, I'm lucky if I can get two.

This basically means that I am stuck reading the same books over and over and over. I shouldn't call it reading because at this point I don't even need to look at the pages. If you think watching the same kids shows over and over again is the most suicide inducing aspect of parenting, let me tell you, reading about a car going beep beep over and over is equally annoying.

Honestly, I'm pretty thrilled she loves books so much. It's better than loving TV or Barnie or methamphetamine. Hey, and maybe this will stick around, and she'll actually complete her reading assignments in school (unlike her mother who despised reading until she found out not all writing was done by old, boring white men) and maybe become a writer...a really famous talented one and write the next great masterpiece like War and Peace, or Catcher in The Rye...or Twilight!

Okay, okay, I'm getting ahead of myself here. Although, this whole fantasy of how Tegan will support me in old age is a much better (and less psychologically damaging) pipe dream than say, pageanting. For now I'll settle for reading the same five books over and over again, and attempting to broaden her literary horizons. The Truth is, if she's happy to listen, I'm happy to read...again.

(book worm/future NY Times best selling author)

Giving The Finger

Tegan is officially pointing...at everything. In addition to the finger gesture comes the word "that? or more like "dat?" with a very clear question mark attached to it. Is is fucking adorable. (my use of "fuck" indicates a level of cute that far exceeds that of puppies and kittens cuddling in a hay filled barn.)

Aside from the obvious point (pun intended) that she is expressing herself, and wanting to know what EVERYTHING is, it's the opening of the parenting door I have most looked forward to. Questions. I love the things kids come up with. Even before I was a parent or an expectant one, I loved to see all my friends post things their kids would ask and say. Classic comedy that can't be rivaled. I mean, Bill Cosby made a whole damn show for it.

Right now I am simply telling her what something is. "Dat?" Tree.  "Dat?"  Toothbrush.  "Dat?" cat vomit.  But one day comes my much anticipated chance to come up with equally clever answers to questions like "why do my ears stick out?" "So that Batman has something to pick you up by when he wants to take you out to dinner"

I realize that this is a slippery slope, and that when the day comes for such answers I want to make sure I pick and choose when to insert some "creative license" as I'll call it. After all, I don't want my kid showing up to kindergarten telling her classmates that the grass is green because leprechauns pee out their feet.

For now we'll stick to "dat?" and (mostly) correct explanations. Although, I make no promises. If my child points at you and says "wiener" I had nothing to do with it.

("dat?")

God Made Dirt...

Tegan is almost walking. She is in this funny "middle" phase where she crawls around with her ass in the air from crawling on her hands and feet rather than her knees. While this is a super exciting milestone, it has also required me to be a bit quicker on my toes and definitely more creative.

A few months ago, I could get away with having her play in the office while I worked on school stuff (okay, okay, while I played on Facebook and daydreamed about items on Etsy). Now, I might get 3 minutes of that when I'll suddenly realize "it's gotten awfully quite in here", and discover Tegan in the living room watching tv.

Along with my need to watch her like a hawk, I must also come with new "exciting" things to do. The closet full of shoes, and pushing the cart out front are old hat. So I have yet again had to expand my parenting repertoire. And the scariest new place, our backyard.

It was once a well manicured oasis (blatant exaggeration), but seeing as we know our house will soon be a banks house, saying we've let it get a little overgrown would be an understatement. There are weeds as tall as her out there, and old dog turds, and rotten grapefruits and decayed bird heads for all I know. Okay, okay, so I'm painting a pretty terrifying picture, it's not quite so bad, but overgrown for sure.

But she loves it, and I can see why. And I loved that stuff too when I was little. Ask my mom about pulling leeches off me after catching frogs in a pond. Who wants to sit inside and play with dolls when there's mud and dirt and grass outside to romp in and ultimately shove in your mouth? Not this girl.

Yes, her clothes get dirty and I'm sure she's gotten into plenty of nasty things that would make a grown person vomit, but that's being a kid. And that's learning. We keep babies inside because we worry about germs and what not, but then we wonder why kids are fat and depressed and don't play outside later in life...really? So I let my kid eat dirt. I let her get messy. She scrapes her knees and gets bruises, and as a result, she's going to kick some major ass...and definitely have a better immune system.

(Trouble)

Who Are You, And What Have You Done With My Baby!

There are a lot of things you hear over and over and over again as a new or expectant parent. "Good luck getting any sleep" is a classic, or "GET THE DRUGS!" and even "whatever you do, don't rock them to sleep!"   While all of these and about a half dozen more got shared with you everyday whether the advice was requested or not, the great thing is, you can choose to ignore it, which in a lot of cases, I did. The one that every experienced parent always says (particularly older ladies) is that it all goes by so fast. This one takes the cake. 

And it does. (I'm going to do my damnedest to avoid crying on my keyboard and try to stick to my usual banter, but I make no promises.)  I've accepted that just when I get something mastered, she changes. When her sleeping is down pat, it's time to cut a nap. When she stopped falling on her face (this actually still happens quite a lot), she started slamming her fingers in doors. Once I've put everything just out of reach, she's to the next shelf. Oh, and the clothes, and amount of food they eat...you get the point. They are constantly evolving...literally.

I can handle all of this. I can handle the constant changes and need for adaptation. In fact, I like it. What I don't like is that I never feel like I will remember her previous stages enough.  I have moments where I wish I could just slow it all down or bottle my state of mind or something. No matter how many photographs I take, or videos I shoot, or blogs I write,  I will never get her just right.

When you see someone everyday it can be hard to notice gradual change. It's like that with kids, and then one day I will be holding her and catch a glimpse of us in the mirror and realize how big she looks in my arms. It is mind blowing.

I know it will just keep going faster, and in what feels like a few months, she'll be borrowing the car and asking for a tattoo (to which I will reply with a raised eyebrow and a quick flash of the then faded and saggy skull and crossbones on my back that I thought was super cool at 18). And boys (sorry Josh), and college and marriage, and then her having a baby. Okay, my heads about to implode. 

In 24 days Tegan will be a year old. And in that year, she has never been away from me for more than 5 hours. You may think this makes me insane. It does. It also makes for an indescribable bond.  And at 11 months I already find myself saddened by her independence...and then I remind myself that a little independence means the occasional happy hour with the bff, and a date with the husband, so I relax a bit. With turning 1 will come walking, and running, and expressing herself with more (human like) speech, sleepovers at the grandparents, big girl beds, mommy going back to work and a lot of other new things. And I'm beyond excited to see what the 1 year old Tegan has to offer. I just wish I could have had this one a little longer.

(341 days ago)

Take Me To Your Linguist

Every aspect of watching Tegan develop is entertaining and often times very humorous. She learned to crawl by chasing cats, motor skills from diligent practice and learned to eat by watching her dad (or so I'm guessing by the way she seems to be a bottomless pit and always seems to make a mess). The area of her development that I find to be the most interesting and coinsidently, the most hilarious, is her speech.

Now I need you to take a moment to remember a few classic films from the 80's, Gremlins and E.T. Now take these two "voices" (particularly E.T.'s drunk voice) and mash them together, add in a little velociraptor from Jurassic Park and some Darth Vader and that is what my child sounds like when she "baby talks". Honestly. yes, she throws in the occasional "dadda" and what not, but most of the time she sounds like something from another planet or at least a different species. 

I know it's just her way of practicing speech, and that all those silly sounds that remind me of a singing Mogwi will eventually turn into "mama's",  "I love you's" and "I hate folding the laundry!'s".  It's just not what I expected. I thought kids were supposed to make some cute "gaga" sounds and laugh, not scream and yell and make death metal growls. 

So I guess for now, I'll just enjoy Tegan's stellar ability to imitate aliens and fuzzy little monsters before her words turn into things I'll wish she never learned how to say. I mean, aside from maybe singing like Hall and Oates or turning into a unicorn, there aren't many cooler things than a kid who can do a spot on E.T. voice.

(Calling the mother ship)

The Land of Oz

So we traveled to Texas. It was great to see family and have them meet Tegan. The biggest realization, traveling with a child is not allowed to be called "vacation." That term is reserved for trips involving at least on of the following criteria: a nanny, hammocks/lounge furniture, and/or alcohol. While my mother and Maggie were about as helpful as a nanny and I spent an hour on a gliding chair with my cousin, none the above criteria was actually met.

In my mind, the purpose of travel is to experience something new, or to get away from the daily grind as to avoid the desire to throw yourself of the roof of your office building. Not so much when traveling with a child. You are essentially taking the animal out of its natural habitat, but then spend an exhaustive amount of effort trying to make the new place like home.  Does this scenario sound familiar...a zoo perhaps?

Maybe I'm crazy. I will accept that. Perhaps packing a sound machine and video monitor makes me less of a "go with the flow" mom as I thought I would be, but who want to spend 3 nights sharing a room with a screaming, crying, tired baby...not this girl. 

Essentially I did my damnedest to take home to Texas, and it kinda work...kinda. She still slept poorly, and had some melt downs, but at least I had a mass of experienced ladies to help entertain her just as I was ready to step into oncoming traffic (kidding). 

I know it sounds like the trip was miserable, but it wasn't. It just wasn't the relaxing, sit around and shoot the shit kind of thing I was used to. 

The weirdest thing is that coming home to my much missed partner in crime and our familiar surrounding was what felt like the needed vacation after all that work. I guess Dorothy had it right. 

Oh, and you may be wondering, will we be traveling again soon? No. And that's okay with us. 

(Live-in nanny)

My Bags Are Packed, I'm ready To Go.

I've always been a "throw some shit in a duffle bag, and pray you have enough chonies" kind of packer. None of this spending two days laying out clothes, creating checklist and strategically calculating laundry. I already know a handful of you (Erin) who are wondering if this means there's something wrong with you, and until three days ago, I would have said yes.

Oh children, how they change EVERYTHING. If you are a soon to be parent, or just someone dabbling at the idea of starting a family, let me be very clear...EVERYTHING. Sleep, personal life, eating habits, clothing selection, weekend activities, spending, travel, housing, social life, and even friends. I'm not complaining in any way. I would give up friends and vacations, and even mexican food to have this crazy kid in my life.

So there I was, transformed into some crazy packing mommy machine, creating a list and checking it twice. Packing things like baby spoons, bath toys, bedtime stories and sound machines. It was a process that one would think should relieve some stress of trying to remember so much, but the reality is, I was far more stressed trying to remember to remember than not remembering would have actually caused. Phew.

The two-headed packing monster has crawled back into its cave and the house (mainly Josh) is free from its wrath until next trip. So we are off to Texas this afternoon which means I will not be blogging while there, but there isn't a doubt in my mind that the plane ride, sleeping away from home, and Tegan meeting all her little cousins (all firsts) will result in some delightful reading material. This is of course assuming I survive the whole ordeal.

So we are all packed (I think) or at least Tegan is, and ready for what couldn't be called anything other than a (mis)adventure. It remains to be seen if I will have enough chonies, or hell, pants for that matter.

("Helping")

Time For A Little Bubbly

Tegan loves bath time. Loves it. Almost as much as she loves Samson. She scurries like a little coachroach towards the bathroom as soon as she hears the water turn on. Into the bathroom and pulls up on the tub to watch her favorite bath friends (a purple octopus and washcloth) swirl around in the water while she impatiently awaits her plunge.

It's great! I mean, I hear stories of babies who HATE water. As in, mom's can't get their kid's face wet without a wrestling match, and parents equating their child's bath experiences to those of bathing a cat. Have you ever bathed a cat? Well, I don't recommend it, and if Miss Tegan reacted to baths in such a way, she would sooner resemble Pig Pen from Charlie Brown than get a bath.

Tegan is just the opposite. She doesn't mind me just dumping water on her head (Josh does mind this however, so he always lets her off easy). She even dunks her face in the water on her own. It's pretty hilarious. It sort of reminds me of a Dog Whisperer episode where this collie had a compulisve disorder and always bits at water. Yes I compared my child to a compulsive pooch. I love her, so I can do things like this.

The problem with Tegan is the getting out of the bath part. Problem is probably a bit of an understatement. More like a "the world is about to end and I am going to fight to the death to stay alive" kind of problem. Screaming, crying, alligator rolling craziness. Josh and I desperately sing every song in our repertoire, attempt all methods of distraction, and at best, we get to lotion before she really goes bananas.

As a result, Josh and I have managed to dry, lotion, q-tip, and pajama this kid in record time. I'm talking, if there were some type of parenting rodeo, we would be tri-state camps. I mean, really quick. As soon ad she's sitting up and pajama-ed, the post-bath demon has left her body and she smiles at us like nothing ever happened. Mean while, we are taking a deep breath and wiping the spit from our faces (blatant exaggeration).

So she doesn't act like a crazed cat getting into the water. This pleases me. But turns out, even Miss Tater isn't perfect (okay, yes she is, but I'm trying to make other parent's reading this feel better about there kid). So instead, She turns into the little girl from The Exorcist when you take her out of the water, and I can live with that. I happen to enjoy horror films.

(sitting in an empty tub postponing the inevitable)

This Is How We Do it...(To The Tune of Montell Jordan)

As a parent, you do anything within your means, and hell, sometimes out of them, to do whatever it takes to get your baby to stop crying, or to sleep, or to eat, or avoid killing themselves. This is why you hear about parents who drive around all night to get their kid to sleep, and how they run the vacuum in the babies room to keep them asleep. Other gems include the publicly humiliating situations of singing and dancing at the grocery store to buy some time for shopping (Josh is a master at this), and rolling the car windows up and down when you're stopped at a light to avoid a meltdown. I learned that one pretty quickly.

I think a parent's ability to come up with such creative solutions to such timeless problems is pretty impressive. Although I will say that the pressure for success is a bit greater. I mean, if your boss sat in your back seat and screamed until you solved his marketing dilemmas perhaps those would be solved quicker as well.

This need for creative parenting never seems to end. Just as one solution seems set, the game changes and you have to come up with a different plan. Our newest dinner situation is a testament to that.

Tegan's been sick. You already know this because I have flooded out social media outlets with complaints and frustrations about my sick bird. If those have bothered you, please revisit my first blog in which I address my problem with becoming "one of those parents" and in no way apologize for it.

So back to sick Tegan. A not eating well sick Tegan. She normally eats like a grown man, so when we were creeping up on 36 hours of no eating it was time for creative measures. Tried different food, different methods, different everything and nothing was doing the trick. Finally I decided a different ambiance might be in order. We moved to the patio, and some how decided to remove her clothes (when you're in the middle of figuring these things out, logic usually goes out the window, and ridiculously stupid ideas come into play). IT WORKED. Naked outdoor dinner worked and worked well. In fact, it even earned us a round of applause from T bird! She happily ate her food and later enjoyed a post-dinner semi nude romp through the yard while Josh and I reveled in our undeniably stellar parenting ability. Yay us!

(Full (naked) belly)

Caged Birds Don't Sing, They Cry.

Tegan's still sick, and probably sick of feeling horrible. I'm sick of her being sick. And undoubtedly, I'm sure Josh is sick of the mood I develop as a result of Tegan being sick. You get the point. It's a mess around here. A domestic war zone against stomach virus', tears, lost appetites, drop of a dime mood swings, and parents with wearing nerves.

The worst part? It's absolutely beautiful outside. Blue skies, calm breezes, and I may be wrong but I could've sworn I heard birds chirping "Kokomo". It might as well be the most beautiful fucking day all year and we're stuck indoors.  What shit luck that on the first weekend in three weeks that it hasn't poured down rain, we can't enjoy it. Instead we spend the day trying to force fluids and foods that fall into the ironically acronymed BRAT diet.

I love Tegan more than anything in the Universe (except maybe homemade tortillas. Kidding.) and it is my job, my duty, my honor, to clean up her barf and rub her back, but after three days, it gets to the point where you wonder who takes over once you're both on the floor kicking and crying. (It's Josh by the way. Who I might add is an amazing dad, and will soon be getting a walk on roll in the blog).

I just hope tomorrow is a better day. That we get to go outside and complain about how hot it is or something, because anything is better than watching a day go by from your window.

(tired eyes. Mommy has a matching set.)

I'm Right On Top of That, Rose!

I had it all figured out. My next blog that is. I had the clever title, the humorous one liners, and perfect picture all ready to go in my mind. And then the reality of being a parent set in. The reality that trying to plan something out ahead of time, let alone think you know your child's behavior enough to predict the outcome is about as impossible as trying to pull off a runway show in your mom's backyard after pretending to be a fashion guru to support your brothers and sisters because your summer babysitter bit the big one. That shit never works!

We had dinner plans with friends who also have a little girl. I should probably clarify. As a parent, when I say dinner plans, I'm not referring to a nice meal out with friends, where you enjoy a bottle of wine (or two) and a few hours of banter about work and politics and the latest Sheen shenanigans. I'm talking about going to a friends house for dinner where the four adults spend the evening trying to pretend they are having adult conversations while actually trying to figure out why all of the sudden their child won't eat the squash you brought for them. While this is not nearly as classy as a dinner out, when you've spent 10 months as parental shut-ins, an early dinner with friends feels like a weekend getaway. Oh, and just a heads up for you future parents out there, this is all happening at "dinner time" which is now 4:30.

So dinner plans. And blog plans. A well written blog about dinner with friends tied in with the relationships between babies, as Tegan was going to be having some quality time with one of her friends.

Nope. Life with a child is never what you prepare for or expect it to be. Instead of dinner, Miss Tegan got a fever, and there is nothing that will flip me into "paranoid mother" mode quicker than a fever. So instead of homemade tortillas and deliciousness, we had a sick little bird on our hands. And at that point tortillas are the last thing on my mind (okay, that's a lie, homemade tortillas were right up there) because seeing your kid sick really sucks.

So we have rescheduled dinner, and who knows how long it will be before two families with two unpredictable children actually enjoy a meal together. But it's all part of the unpredictable, not always sunny, changes we face as new parents.

And hey, it's no easy gig being a new baby either.

(sad face)

Learning The Hard Way.

We learn from our mistakes, and this has been true since we were walking around on all fours in the dirt.  I was actually referring to our evolutionary fore Fathers, but I can't ignore that statement's uncanny similarity to what my child does most of her day. I'll save the parallels between Tegan and apes for another post, as that list could get quite long.

So learning from our mistakes is how we've gotten where we are. We touch something hot, it hurts. We smile at someone, (hopefully) they smile back. We attempt to drink a gallon of milk in 5 minutes, we vomit.   I'm fine with this. I get it. She has to fall a lot to understand gravity, and learning to walk means learning to fall. And I let her fall, and maybe sometimes too hard.  Don't look at me like that, I'm just saying that I'm not hovering over my child and tossing a pillow under her ass to cushion her fall.

My problem with this process is that if I'm supposed to let her learn and explore things on her own, why can't she ever seem to cut my nerves a break and enjoy some child friendly activities. I mean really. "Oh neat, awesome new toys mom, and look, there's a kitty I could smother, but nah, I think I'll go try to scale the bookcase for the twenty-eighth time today. You know, the really wobbly one that could fall over at any moment.  And then I think I'll go learn how windows work and bang my head against the glass a few dozen times. And that glass candle thingy looks like it would shatter nicely on the tile floors."

All of this "learning" results in a remarkable number of bumps and bruises. Black eyes, goose eggs, scratches, cuts, the whole deal, and she's only 10 months old! The amazing thing is, she's fucking resilient. These injuries always freak Josh and I out. It scary as hell to see you kid get hurt, but the fearless Miss Tegan is never discouraged.  Not her, she'll fuss for a minute or two, but she always gets right back to concurring the bookcase.

(tip toes)

Genetic Predisposition To Be The Crazy Cat Lady?

Maybe.

Come On Baby, Make It Hurt So Good...

Tegan, like all babies, lacks empathy for the feelings she causes others.  This is most apparent when expressing her affection...odd, I know. "I love you soooo much, that I need to eye gouge you and bite your cheek simultaneously."  While this sounds like the way the un-dead might spend a romantic evening, this is how my daughter "loves" things. 

Especially the cats.  We have four. They all seem to do a pretty good job of bobbing and weaving to avoid her kung fu grip, but eventually everyone gets caught. Now the old ladies (Meeshka and Mona), are not to be fooled around with, and the sassy white one (whom I am pretty sure would be a gay hairdresser) is a urban cat myth few have seen. So that leaves her with one. Samson.

This cat always seems to be where Tegan is, and always seems to walk where Tegan is playing. He naps in her toys, plays alongside her, and I've even caught him licking her head a time or two. But the most wonderful thing about Samson is his never waning tolerance (and I secretly think delight) for "hugs" from Tegan. He just sits their...or lays there more like, as she crushes is frail little cat body, and squeezes her chubby little arms around his neck. 

So think about this.  I have just compared my child's methods for showing love to zombies, and now I'm telling you that a member of one of the most intolerant high-brow species on the planet enjoys it! It's like the twilight zone, or a Pixar version of Romeo and Juliet, or maybe more like a Paula Abdul music video.  Who knows. you can be the judge. 

All I know, is that the poster of the puppies in the basket hanging in the dentist's office ain't got nothin' on these two:

I Don't Have Anything To Do Today Except...

Feed the animals. Eat breakfast. Start the laundry.  Get Tegan dressed. Prepare breakfast. Empty the dishwasher. Load the dishwasher. Play with Tegan. Sing a song. Practice putting things in and out of a box 34 times. Read two stories. Watch the birds and practice saying bird. Switch the laundry.  Nurse. Rescue the cat from Tegan. Put her shoes and jacket on to go outside (you may think this is not a big deal, but let me assure you, it is). Walk to the stop sign. De-shoe.  Read more stories. Rock her to sleep. Nap.

Okay, so you get the point, and this is just the first TWO HOURS! Don't get me wrong sweet friend who is currently reading this on her lunch break in her cubical Downtown, I am very lucky to stay home with her, and avoid rush hour traffic, annoying bosses and deadlines...or hell, putting on real clothes for that matter. My point is simply that it blows my mind that while on paper I have nothing to do all day, I can't get anything done (except for the giant list of shit posted above).

I thought completing my teaching program with a year off of work would be a cake walk...HA! Once that girl was mobile, it was all over.  Try reading a text book, or typing a paper when you have to keep your child from scaling your shoe rack, or pulling down a bookshelf, or eating a cat turd. It's pretty much impossible. Okay, okay, I've typed myself into a corner here. So how do I have time to write this blog you might ask. Well, I guess I like ranting about not having time more than I like making good use of it. That's enough with the questions.

So when I'm 33 years old and I still don't have a Masters or my teaching certification, this is why.

(Please note her fuzzy accomplice. We'll get to him tomorrow)

  

No, No, Really. She's Different Than Other Babies.

So just like most of you reading this, I too, had very little interest in reading and hearing about all my friends woes and triumphs of child rearing. I hated the Myspace updates about how they picked their nursery bedding, and got the most amazing diaper cake as a shower gift, and the 23 posts a day on potty training, lack of sleep, inability to shower, the color of their child's most recent bowel movement, and so on.

Then I had a child. And then I became that annoying friend that all my un-child-ed friends "hide" or delete out of complete annoyance, or make the obligatory once monthly photo comment of "she's so big!".  The same friend that quickly falls off the frequent calls list and party invites.  I know this. So to show you all that I'm not one of "those moms" I have dug my heals in deep and screamed from the top of my lungs "I am a proud mom, but I swear I'm still cool, and I get tattooed, I was totally at Casey's when that really funny thing happened, and I'll so be at the show next weekend, and....oh, no wait...I have to  stay home and go to bed at 8pm, so I can wake up to feed my child and sing the apples and bananas song 137 times before noon.  Never mind, wrong person all together."

The thing is, I'm okay with it...most of the time.  In my own defense, she's just so fucking adorable (Tegan, if you're 13 now and reading this, remember the "f" word is reserved only for those moments when you really want to make a point, and those points should never be made to your mother).

In all honesty, this blog will likely be more of that same material from the same trick pony, but disguised by some (hopefully) clever writing and humorous antics courtesy of the wonderful Miss Tegan aka Misses Bater aka Baby Bird aka Tater aka Stink-o-patomus (this could go on forever). And if nothing else, you can mock my poor grammar and correct my inability to use the proper form of "their".

So I hope you enjoy the humor that comes with my learn-as-you-go parenting combined with Tegan's overwhelming energy and talent for mess making. It may not be what the cool kids are doing, but at least I'm doing it with the coolest kid I know.