My daughter, the parolee.

This morning, Bug was very carefully placing the magnetic letters that stick to our fridge in alphabetical order. This is a very time consuming process involving her singing the ABC song repeatedly down to the last letter she placed in order to know which one comes next.

Yea, and then there was great mourning in all the land because she discovered that we no longer have a Q.

"I don't have any letter Q," she said, her eyes large and sad.

"Yeah, that's true," I said, dismissively, after a cursory glance at the fridge to make sure she hadn't overlooked it. "We'll have to go get more letters at the store sometime."

(As an aside, I'm not sure about your kids, but mine are still young enough that a veiled and vague reference to replacing an item at a later, unspecified date is almost always enough to defer any further heartbreak over an issue.)

"It would be good if we went to the store and stole-ded some new letters," she said, shrugging nonchalantly.

Wait, what?

"Bug, why would we STEAL it? That would be a terrible choice!" I said, sputtering a little in my shock.

"Yeah, we could stole them because all the other kids would want them, too", she said. And I'm telling you, in her eyes was a diabolical sort of sparkle that sent shivers down my spine.

Motherhood is so glamorous.

Bug has been fully potty trained for more than a year now. Any reduction in the number of diapers I find myself intimately acquainted with on a given day is cause for celebration, and the successful toilet training of my oldest is a parental victory I will carry with me to my grave.

Nevertheless, simply making it to the potty on time does not an entirely independent toileter make. For the sake of hygiene, parental oversight is, on particular occasions, still a necessary help. To her eternal chagrin, this means Bug will occasionally find herself stranded on the toilet shouting at the top of her lungs and (gasp) sometimes waiting a moment or two until her mother can arrive for inspection.

Today, the magnetic pull of Henry the Hugglemonster playing on the t.v. in the basement proved too much for her small reserve of patience to override. Unaware that she had even gone upstairs to use the bathroom, I looked up from the laundry I was folding to see her clutching the handrail on the stairs for dear life, awkwardly lumbering down the steps with her ankles tethered together by her bunched up underwear and pants.

Ignoring the surprised expression on my face, she clumsily trotted over and immediately bent over at the waist, eagerly awaiting my review and anticipated stamp of approval.

So, what did you do this morning?

And then somehow, it's nineteen months later.

My sweetest Mister Baggins,

 My darling boy, I simply cannot accept that you are so grown up. Look at you! All big boy hair and wide grins. It seems like just yesterday the doctor handed over a sticky, squishy, chubby little baby with a scrunchy pink face. To me, you should still be wearing nothing but footie pajamas and awkwardly flapping your little baby arms in the sky. Instead, you are a big boy, running and climbing and wrestling. Each day you are less my baby and more a little dude.

You are a charmer, my little peanut snack. (Maybe that's a poor choice in nicknames, what with your peanut allergy. You are only allowed a tiny bit of peanut butter each week, and we must be very careful not to get it on your skin or you'll break out into hives. We are hoping you might grow out of this so you don't have to sit at the No Peanut table in school because that would be sad.)(Also, because Reese's Peanut Butter cups. Right?) You are soft and cuddly and oh-so-funny. You have a toothy little grin that lights up the whole room. You are very much like your daddy, with an unendingly sweet and cheerful disposition and easy going personality.

I’ll tell you what, for such a quiet little guy, you sure have managed to earn a whole lot of attention recently. Despite your fantastic pediatrician reassuring us that you were just fine—those were his exact words, “He’ll be JUST FINE”, with a friendly wink and nod to your Mama’s neuroses—we decided to have you evaluated for speech development. You don’t say a lot of words, see, and in comparison to Bug, who from dawn until dusk jabbers and chats nearly incessantly, the contrast is stark.

The workers from Early Intervention came out a couple of weeks ago and played on the carpet with you using all their special little toys. It was fun to see you warm up to them and accomplish the little tasks. Your chubby little fingers pinched the coins and dropped them neatly into a slot, your little grin betraying your quiet pride when you got it right. You pointed at objects and chased down the ball and didn't even squirm when they tested your hearing. You won over their hearts in an instant, little buddy, and they agreed with your doctor, (“Just fine, Mom!” they said) pronouncing all areas of development, including receptive language, as right on target with the exception of expressive speech where you lag behind a bit. They promised to come back a couple of times to help you learn new words. Right now, you know 'doggy', 'mommy', 'daddy', Bug’s name, 'bubble', 'uh oh', 'hi', 'eye', and you’re working on 'diaper' and 'shoes'. We're sure that quite soon, you'll be able to fire back at Bug with the sort of vicious rhetoric that mouthy little girl needs to keep her in her place.

Speaking of Bug, that little princess is your very best pal. The two of you have such a funny little friendship. In your eyes, that little redheaded bit of spunk is the sun and the moon. You adore her, and she loves you, too. To you, she can do no wrong. (Only trust me on this one-- yes she can!) Occasionally she acts like a grumpy big sister (as a big sister myself, I can spot all the signs) and does something that makes you scream. A couple of days ago, for no reason that I could ascertain and while she thought I wasn’t looking, she put both hands between your shoulder blades and shoved you forward.

“Block in the back!” I thought. “Unsportsmanlike conduct! Ten yard penalty!” She marched off to her room to serve the necessary time out while I wiped your tears. Before I could even give you a proper hug, though, you pushed yourself off my lap and trotted down the hallway after your playmate, her trespasses already forgiven. You are so sweet.

And, to be fair, you've perfected a wicked little pop on the head with the wooden spoon you love to play with, so the tables are evening out. 

You are a physical little man in all the very best ways. Unlike your sister, you love to snuggle and cuddle. Daddy has a favorite game to play with you when he gets home from work. As soon as he can peel his tie and dress clothes off, he flops down on the fluffy green rug in the living room, lying flat on his back. Just as fast as your stubby little legs can get you there, you are right at his side, tumbling onto his tummy and wrestling back and forth. We shout, "TOUCHDOWN" and your pudgy little arms swing straight up in the air; "First down!" and your one little fist swings down and points forward. Your daddy is in heaven. You are full of dinosaur growls and lion roars and loud, smacking kisses. You are a dream. 

You fill my life with joy. Between your sister's spark and your overwhelming goodness, your daddy and I are overwhelmed with good things. Sometimes I am not as filled with gratitude as I should be. I’m ashamed to admit it, son, but sometimes rather than celebrating the way my life overflows with joy and goodness, I instead find the well of my heart filling up with drips of sorrow for the things I don’t have. I sat on the couch in our poorly lit basement a few days ago, wallowing at bit at the laundry that needed to be folded and the things that Mommys wallow about sometimes, and found myself watching you as you watched Doc McStuffins, your two fingers lodged in their comfortable spot in your mouth. You leaned back on to my lap, your head leaning sideways on my leg and the rest of your soft little body curled up next to me. I felt the weight of you resting contentedly against my body and I ran my fingers through your soft hair.

He is a treasure. The words twisted into shape my mind and swelled until there was room for nothing else.

HE IS A TREASURE.

I marvel at it, at the perfect description it is of you. A treasure. Of course. You are my treasure, son, and I am blessed beyond measure to have you. Our family is blessed to have you.

I love you to the moon and back, buddy.

Love,
Mama

In Defense of the Night Shift: A Manifesto.

Have you every considered the term "regular business hours"? Generally regarded as sometime between, say, eight a.m. and six-ish, this is when the normal people work. When the OPEN sign is on, a real human answers the phone, and you can still find food for sale that hasn't been rotting under a heat lamp for 6 hours, this is when regular humans are out and about.

But not me.

I work at night.

We are a strange breed, we workers of the night. A little crazy, a lot of fun, and a whole lot of slap-happy by clock-out time, we love each other with a fierceness unmatched when the sun is up. Our team, made up of a couple of doctors, a handful of nurses, and the cops and medics that stop by to visit a few times per night, is a tight-knit ragtag bunch. Throw in a few Walmart employees, gas station attendants, a Betos cashier, a couple of folks at the McDonalds, and some delivery trucks, and guess what? That's the crew who keeps the world spinning after the sun goes down.

Mike Rowe should do a show on us.

Because many people haven't had the pleasure of working through the night (count your many blessings, name them one by one), here is a bit of education for you in the form of a list of things that really bug us.

1- Referring to our sleep in the daytime as "naps." Example: Oh, you took a four-hour nap today?! That must be nice! 

It's not a nap, ladies and gentlemen. It's all the sleep we get. And, generally speaking, it's crappy, door-bell-ringing, sun-shining, neighbor-running-the-lawn-mower-filled sleep.

2- This: "Oh yeah, I used to pull all-nighters in college all the time." Of course you did, Sherlock. Everyone pulls all-nighters in college. It's like eating horrible frozen burritos and stealing your roommate's milk for your cereal; it's part of the experience. This is not the same as working overnight over and over again until your internal alarm clock throws up its pointy little hands in defeat and takes off for El Paso. In fact, I'm barely qualified to write this at all since I only work part-time. (Read: WIMP!) My full-time graveyard coworkers are the real rockstars, and their experience is nothing like that one time you crammed for that American History: Pre-Revelution through the Antebellum Period final.

3- Scheduling required meetings repeatedly during the daytime.

Now, I get it. Sometimes meetings have to happen. It is what it is, and mostly, I'm cool with it. But do you know what I sometimes want to say?

"Fun! So is the next meeting going to be held at three a.m. then? Hmmm? HMMM?"

I see you smiling, like we're in on a secret little joke, the two of us. Of course we won't be holding a meeting in the middle of the night, you chuckle, because that's when people sleep.

Except, not me. I'M NOT ASLEEP.

Do you know when else I'm not asleep? During that daytime meeting. Admittedly, it's not just because of that daytime meeting, although that is incredibly inconvenient. No, I'm not asleep during that daytime meeting because--get this-- I have other things to be doing during the day. Believe it or not, that's why I work AT NIGHT. Believe it or not, I'm not some sort of bat or chinchilla or any other sort of mammal identified by Wikipedia as nocturnal. (I know, I checked.)

Actually, I sacrifice my sleep and my sanity as a result of a very conscious decision about what works best for my life and my family. I slog through a shift while everyone else sleeps and snores because that's my preference. It works for me, and if it means enduring the extra ten pounds that have taken up residence on my hips due to that accursed midnight cafeteria run, well, so be it.

Don't get me wrong, I consider the flexibility of my job to be a very tangible blessing, and I don't ever, ever forget it. I have lived through the alternative in the daytime working world, and in my case, it was horrific. I feel very, very lucky to work while my children sleep. I work with people who are smart, funny, and overwhelmingly fantastic, and I am better for it. I love the night shift.

That said, please don't call it a nap.

Confessions of a Never-Danced Mom

When I was about 7, my mom drove my little sister and me to our first dance class. I sort of vaguely remember wearing a leotard and some tights, but I acutely remember NOT wearing a tutu. (Maybe I was a little bitter about that.)

In that dance class, I learned the following things:

#1- How to point and flex my foot while happily shouting "Pencil point! Fishhook! Pencil point! Fishhook!"

#2- How to sashay across the stage in tap toes. 

That's it. That's everything I learned. I never took another dance class again. 

(It's a miracle, then, that the modern dance moves I execute while wearing socks in my kitchen look so graceful and balanced. Just ask my husband.)

(My husband doesn't think that my dance moves while wearing socks in my kitchen are the least bit graceful, balanced, or even awesome, even though they clearly are.)

(He's a terrible judge of talent.)

Anyway, now I'm all grown up and so is my little girl. She's got another entire year before preschool, so when I saw a friend mention on Facebook a perfectly adorable and affordable dance class very near our house for three and four year olds, we approached Bug with the idea. She was on board almost instantly, and that's how I found myself the mother of a dancer. 

I'm going to be honest--I have fears about dance. Not three year old dance, really, but dancing as she grows up. I worry about ballet and eating disorders and body image and injuries. I worry about hip hop and costumes and choreography that sexualize my little girl. I worry about interpretive dance and how I just don't get it.

I know lots of women who danced growing up, and in every case they are lovely, healthy, well-adjusted people with fond memories of recitals and practices and friendships and opportunities, and I want that for my daughter. I am a mother and a social worker and I worry about things, but long ago I decided that fear alone is not a good enough reason to miss things.

So, on her first day of dance, I'll tell you what I want for my baby girl. 

I want her to love the way it feels when she moves her body. I want her to be happy and grateful for the way her legs are strong and sturdy, the way she can run and jump and skip, and the way her feet connect her to the earth. I hope she learns to care for her body. I hope she learns to treat her body with respect, to feed it when it is hungry and rest when it needs rest. I want her to learn to move gracefully, and carry herself with pride. I want her to learn how to sit quietly and listen, and then follow instructions from her teacher. I want her to learn to be the leader, and I want her to learn to let other children have a turn at being the leader, too. I want her to learn to be independent and brave. 

I hope that dance helps to teach my little girl that being a girl is wonderful and amazing, and that her world is full of opportunity. I hope she learns that it is a gift and a pleasure to be soft and lovely, and that it is also a gift and a pleasure to be strong and powerful. I want her to know that her femininity and her strength are not mutually exclusive, but are important parts of her whole self. She need not sacrifice one to satisfy the other. I want her to learn to let her natural happiness bubble out of her. I hope she learns to always, always do her best, and learns that being her best self never, ever means making someone else feel like anything less than their best self. She can choose to dance and she can choose to do things other than dancing, and I hope that each of those experiences help her to love herself and love other people, too. Maybe dance is one of those experiences and maybe it isn't, but we're going to give it a try.

So today, we twisted her hair into a little bun and got dressed in the perfect little leotard that Grammy Lu got for her and we took pictures before we left the house. She looked like this:

Just kidding. That's just what she looked like in my mind. Really, she looked more like this:

Bug excitedly marched right into her dance teacher's house and headed down the stairs without even looking back. "Have fun, sweetheart! I love you!" I called from the porch.

"Love you too, Mama!"

And that was that. She's learning already.

I guess it'd be ok if along the way she picked up a little "Pencil point! Fishhook!" too.

Old, judgmental people attend local theme park, praise merits of hand sanitizer

Each August, Paddy's work hosts a Lagoon Day. It's pretty great, because otherwise I'm not sure where I'd fill that compulsive need to dress the family up in matching t-shirts and spend an evening carefully shielding my children from viewing an abhorrent amount of teenage PDA.

As I rapidly approach the ripe old age of 30, it seems I am out of touch with current teenage norms. When I was a teenager, see, articles of clothing that were entirely sheer, mesh, made of netting, or otherwise classified as transparent were not considered sufficient to cover ones undergarments, no matter how brightly colored or well-adorned with sequins said underwear might have been. If Lagoon represents an accurate cross-section of society, this has apparently changed. 

Things that are also now true at Lagoon (and possibly the rest of the world):

* Bubble gum is no longer relegated to the mouth or the garbage can only. No, no-- jamming it into painted metal fencing at eye-height is actually encouraged!

* One need not be inconvenienced by the terrible hassle that applying deodorant before going out into public presents.

* Is your text-based conversation incredibly urgent? Awesome! It's fine if your children push, shove, and holler at the top of their lungs while in line next to other children, so long as you don't have to look up from the screen of your super fancy smart phone and the obviously riveting conversation your thumbs are having with... someone who isn't here. 

My penchant for judging my fellow theme park patrons notwithstanding, we actually had a fantastic time watching Bug ride on various animal- or vehicle-themed rides. 

Even Mr. Baggins got in on the action on a few particularly slow rides.

The weather was great, the kids were surprisingly well-behaved and brave, and every single one of us had a blast.

Thanks to the reasonably affordable bounce back option, Schmoops and I actually headed back about a week later on a date night sans kids. I don't even remember the last time I rode Colossus, but even all these years later, it's pretty awesome. We opted not to wear our matching shirts on the return trip, though. 

Instead, I decided to wear a neon yellow spike-studded bra with an oversized sheer white tank top over it and booty shorts. You know, when in Rome.

You're gonna miss me when I'm gone.

Leave it to me to pick the only blustery, windy day all summer to plan a trip downtown with the kiddos. Figuring the kids would like a change of pace from the old carseat routine, we decided to take the train to City Creek to meet up with Aunt B.

Both of the kiddos loved it.

I loved it when the nice man helped me lift the stroller into the train. Turns out those blue handicapped squares on the platform only mean wheelchair accessible sometimes.

There are lots of things I really love about autumn. Leaves changing, sweater weather, college football, my birthday-- there are all kinds of things to look forward to! I've got to say, though, I have had a fantastic summer with these two babies, and I'm missing it already.