Spoiled rotten!

Spoiled rotten. And I'm actually not referring to Cavan, but rather myself. This morning brought me back to the reality of how parenthood is for most people--Cavan woke up at 6:45 am.

The absurdity of this is that she usually sleeps until 8:30-9:00, and therefore, I do too. I am probably the most well-rested mother I know (with the exception of being seven months pregnant and having to get up and pee six times a night.)

Here's my concern and dread: my peaceful zzzzs will soon be annihilated by a newborn. But even after the up-all-night newborn stage, will baby deux be content with 12 straight hours of sleep plus consistent naps every day (like Cavan?) Many parents I know are up between 5:00-6:00 a.m. with their kids--not just lounging around and nursing a baby, but full-fledged, we're-up-to-start-our-day routines. EEK! My sis's child is a micro-napper. Ten minutes here, 30-minutes there. No real schedule to rely on. DOUBLE EEK! Can I put in a request now for another sleeper. I'm a much better Mommy when I'm not tired.

How does this sleep thing impact my life? Well now, I have a leisurely morning before going to work. Sometimes I wake up before Cavan, take an adult-only shower, and casually sit at the computer and check email, etc. while drinking a chocolate Instant Breakfast followed by a Dr. Pepper. Then Cavan wakes up, I get her dressed, she has a sippy, and we read books before heading off to our respective schools. On days I sleep in with Cavan, we have the same routine as above, except shower time follows sippy time, and Cavan plays in her bedroom or the bathroom while I'm getting ready. We leave the house anywhere between 9:30 and 10:30 on workdays. I honestly couldn't design a better morning. And they say that you don't appreciate what you have until it is gone. Well, I do appreciate it. Every morning when I look at the clock I thank Cavan. Today was a reminder of how good I usually have it, but I certainly am not taking my snoozes for granted.

So when having to sign Cavan up for preschool next semester, I've had to make a difficult decision: morning or afternoon session? The morning session runs from 9:00-11:30 and the afternoon 12:30-2:00. In my perfect world, the family would just be getting out of bed at 9:00, so obviously, the morning is not ideal. BUT, with little bambino/a, I may be up at the crack of dawn and by 9:00 really wanting Cavan to go to school so I can nap with baby. Score one for morning sesssion. But maybe Cavan will still be a late sleeper, regardless of what time baby wakes up. God knows I don't want to change her schedule to start waking up at 7:30 am. Again, another obvious benefit for the afternoon slot.

However, Cavan consistently naps from 1:30-3:00 every day. Will she go down for a nap at 2:30 after school and if so, will getting up at 4:30 or 5 keep her up till all hours of the night? Or at three years old, will she be ready for a later but reduced nap cycle?

All I know is, it is 3:30 now, and I am ready for a nap. Can I curl up at my desk and sleep here till five? I promise I will go to bed promptly at 10 pm.

New hobby?

I learned how to knit today. But I didn't learn how to troubleshoot my knitting. I arrived home from my hour long knitting tutorial with a 20-loop square halfway completed. So after putting Cavan to bed, I turned on the Biggest Loser finale and broke out the knitting needles. An hour (and five more rows) later, I notice a hole in the middle of my almost-done square. Yes, I only got five rows done in an hour. Coaxing yarn around two sticks is more difficult than it looks.

I'm a bit of a perfectionist when it comes to design and templates. I'm the type of person who likes grids and symmetrical spacing. I tried to ignore the hole, but I knew it was futile. So I attempted to pull out the yarn to eliminate the mistake—I obviously missed a loop somewhere. But I could not reinsert the needles back into the square. Frustration.

What I should have done is put the mangled patch, the needles and the yarn back into a bag and consulted my school librarian, aka my knitting teacher, tomorrow. But instead I just pulled the string really hard until the remaining rows unraveled into a pile. Back to square one, literally.

This is a pretty fun pastime—a nice activity to enjoy while Hubby is watching the Yankees, the Knicks, the Giants, golf. But I learned how to crochet when I was a kid and my vague memory tells me that the single hook was much easier to maneuver than the double needles. It takes nimble dexterity to dance with those twin sticks.

What to do? Give knitting another try tomorrow? Ask my librarian to quickly rebuild my square for me so I don't feel like I lost my first day's effort? Stick with it for a whole blanket and practice the skills? Or switch back to crocheting now? Or forget the whole thing and realize that I already have more to do than time in the day. After all, a textile hobby will likely eat into my blogging budget. These are the decisions my cooked brain is debating at midnight when I should be sleeping.

Anything but Candy Land!

This post written for The Red Dress Club's memoir meme.

(I've been seeing my friends write entries, and thought I'd give it a whirl.)

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“Easy, medium, or hard,” he always used to ask before we started the game. My confident eight-year-old ego would promptly respond, “hard.” And Daddy gave me exactly what I asked for. Four moves later, queen kidnapped. Two moves after that, checkmate. But that was part of the fun.

Dad was my sister and I’s game partner, and the way he taught us to play not only reflected the rules, but competition as well. He would play ‘practice rounds’ with us until we were sure enough of our abilities to strategize for ourselves. During the practice rounds, he would answer our questions, look at our cards, and help us make our decisions about what to play or how to play it. But when we decided it was time to play ‘for real,’ we were on our own. But how can little-girl-versus-daddy ever be fair? That’s where the easy-medium-hard question was born. If we wanted to win, we could pick easy. If we wanted a challenge and a chance, we would pick medium, and if we wanted the elusive glory and household bragging rights, we would pick hard. I don’t remember if I ever won when I chose hard, but it wasn’t just about the win. It was about the process—debating over each move, thinking ahead, anticipating what he would do. It was about being good and being smart and working toward a goal knowing that losing 40 times would make that one win that much more valuable (and the celebratory dancing around the house completely appropriate.)

We were a gaming household, but not the gaming kids nowadays are into. No Mario Cart, Just Dance, World of Warcraft or Halo. Rather the Monopoly-Risk-Sorry variety. And in addition to every board game imaginable, we played cards too. Gin Rummy, Hearts, Euchre. And strategy games like chess and checkers. And timer games like Perfection and Boggle. And dice games like Yatzee. I have vivid memories attached to each of these pastimes.

The first rule of getting Dad to play a game with us? Do not ask to play Candy Land. He hated Candy Land.  Chutes and Ladders and Hungry, Hungry Hippos had only a slightly higher rate of play. Becky and I could play those with each other, but if we wanted Dad, we had to pick something that required thought. Now that I am a parent, I can sympathize with my father, though I think I will be willing to play Candy Land before Chutes and Ladders any day of the week—just when you think the game is nearly over, the player that is approaching the winning square will inevitably land on the giant slide, careening back to the beginning. I would never encourage cheating to win. But cheating to end the bloody game might be justifiable.

Two of my favorite games to play with Dad were Monopoly and Risk and he was a take-no-prisoners kind of player. His strategy in Monopoly, which I have since adopted, is to buy up all the cheap-o, bottom-of-the-board properties and put hotels on them immediately. The seemingly crappy Baltic and Mediterranean Avenue, with two and four dollar rents, were the most coveted spots. At 60 bucks a pop and another $250 to upgrade to hotels, they were the quickest, most economical way to siphon dough out of your competitors. While everyone else was collecting $20 here or there while rounding GO time and again to save up enough money to buy all the green or blue properties on the far side of the board,  he would earn regular $450 paydays and take over the board promptly. Most people complain that Monopoly is a never-ending game, but not when we played with Dad. The whole thing could be done in under an hour, as long as he wasn’t watching a tennis match on TV simultaneously.

Risk was the infinitely-long and therefore scarcely played game in our household, but it was, by far, my first choice in the game closet. Dad was always the black army. It is a game of war and he played to not only win, but intimidate. His motto: “Don’t spread yourself too thin.” He would concentrate his army on one smaller continent first and slowly spread out. “You won’t win if you think you’re going to conquer and maintain Asia at the beginning of play.” You knew you were doomed when you saw the black cloud of 10-army stars approaching your meagerly occupied Africa.

Then there were the games rather unique to our household. For some reason, Dad had a deck of cards with famous author’s pictures on them instead of suits or numbers. The game was simply called “Authors” and was played like Go-Fish, the object to match all four of the same author and collect as many completed sets as possible. I always felt sophisticated playing Authors, especially since I was only six years old, calling out “Alfred Lord Tennyson,” or “James Fennimore Copper.” Perhaps this subtle literary instruction led me to become an English teacher, though I am much more a fan of Edgar Allen Poe and Washington Irving.

Though games are considered by many to be a childhood pastime, I love playing games as an adult, which is an interest not shared by my husband. I have to beg and plead to play games at gatherings of family or friends, though the only guaranteed treat I get is at New Years. We traditionally visit friends of ours in Boston, and during the four-hour trek in the car, packed to the brim with luggage, kids, the cat and the dog, I make him promise me that we will play either Taboo or Pictionary. Hubby, a die-hard competitor, has a hard time playing games for the fun of the process. He often doesn’t find it entertaining unless he is winning. It has taken seven years of marriage and seven New Years Eve trips for him to learn that the amusement of Taboo is the inside jokes and the flubbing of the clues and Pictionary is pointless without the chicken-scratched sunny-side-up egg. “Yes, that is an egg. It’s obvious. Can’t you tell that is a frying pan?” But I probably wouldn’t like Pictionary much either if I was a professional artist and art teacher that can’t sketch under the pressure of an egg timer.

Cuddly Cavan

This morning was awesome. Cavan woke up at 8:00, which is earlier than usual. Sometimes she will call for me, and after I answer, she'll proceed to play in her crib for a while. This morning I answered but she didn't ask me to come pick her up so I stayed in bed. And Cavan was quiet. I thought she went back to sleep. And then I heard her small voice say, "Mommy, open the door, it's stuck."

So I went to the bedroom door and opened it and sure enough, Cavan was standing there--she's never climbed out of her bed before (she has a guard rail up). Without missing a beat she ran to my bed, climbed in and said, "Mommy come cuddle." She didn't need to ask me twice. We spent the next half hour snuggling in the "big bed" and playing silly games. What a perfect way to start the day!

"I don't like it"

I have just listened to 10 minutes of the "Mommy...MOOOMMMMYY! Mommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmy!" anthem, otherwise known as Cavan in her bed trying to pain me into picking her up before she takes a nap. But now I hear her playing with her dollies and stuffed animals, which will probably last about 20 minutes before she falls asleep. But I have to laugh because the transition from the Mommy screams to her conversation with her dolly, Betty, went something like this:

"Mommmmmmyyyy! Mommy? Mom? .......
Betty, Mommy's not coming. No, she's not. No, your mommy's not coming either...."

But onto my intended post. Cavan has been developing picky-eater habits lately. Up until now, she would eat nearly anything we put in front of her, veggies of all types included. Now, even though she has eaten particular foods, like chicken or carrots, for almost two years she is claiming, "I don't like it."

Some of this may correlate with her other obstinate behavior, like wanting anything other than what I'm offering. For example, I'll give her a purple sippy cup. She will insist on yellow. Cavan, do you want to wear your puppy outfit or your butterfly shirt? She will cleverly choose something that I did not offer—the froggy hoodie, of course. So when dinnertime rolls around, we are only at about a 30% success rate of Cavan eating the same meal that we are, but I'm skeptical that this is because she doesn't like it.

But luckily, her favorite meal consists of one of the healthiest foods available—black beans. She probably has beans six times a week, between breakfast, lunch and dinner. She loves pairing beans with diced tomatoes. Again, I can't complain about this either.

She loves fruit too. Grapes (quartered to avoid the number one toddler choking hazard), apple slices, strawberries, blueberries, bananas—all easy options. And her newest favorite snack is mozzarella string cheese. I wish Polly-O made packages of 48, instead of 12! So while it is difficult to get her to eat greenery lately, I don't think she's in any nutritional danger.

But the funniest part of this whole thing is when she forgets to be stubborn until she's three-quarters through her bowl of food. She'll be eating away with only two bites to go she'll spit it out and announce "I don't like it." You're not fooling me kid! So I guess it's time for bed. Upon hearing that announcement, she'll usually finish it right up.

USPS=U Suck Postal Service!

Some of you already aware of my plight with the USPS. But I need to rant anyway. Considering the number of citizens that receive mail in this country, I'm actually surprised I have had no major grievance with this department before, but when you become a victim of the system, you become aware of its glaring flaws. And somehow the flaws of our government agencies far surpass in both number and severity the flaws of private companies and corporations.

In March, yes, two months ago, we began getting mail with someone's handwritten note on the envelope, "Please read!" with our address circled. Coupled with an postmark far surpassing the time normal mail takes to arrive, it was clear that our mail was being delivered elsewhere. It started with a letter here or there. And by letter, most of the time it was an unimportant piece of junk mail. However, the frequency of this occurrence became more regular and with a variety of posts and parcels. Bills that we received weeks late (good thing I pay most online), missing magazines. All eventually arriving with the same handwritten notes, in the same handwriting. They were going to the same elsewhere, consistently.

Then one day, a Wednesday the first week of April to be exact (I know this because it was "trash day," which is an important detail in the unfolding drama), I am leaving the house with Cavan, and sitting on top of our trashcan that Hubby had brought to the curb in the morning was a giant box. Odd. Upon inspecting it, I see that it is a shipment of roses that I had ordered from a mail order nursery. I was actually getting ready to call them to say that the package had never arrived, despite the shipping notice from the prior week.

There were three major problems with this situation. 1) Roses are live plants and the delay of receiving this package due to postal error actually resulted in one of the two bushes dying. 2) Now major packages were going to the wrong address, rather than just regular mail. 3) Whoever did deliver the box, whether it was the mystery neighbor who had received it or the postal carrier, was an idiot. Why put a package on top of a garbage can, you freakin' moron! Our garbage is usually picked up in the A.M. before I leave for work. Good thing our trash men were late on this particular morning or my roses would have been incinerated with the rest of the can's contents.

So now I am pissed. But because I work, I am unable to go to the local post office to complain in a timely manner. I have to wait another week until Spring Break when I am off from school because the post office's hours coincide with my work hours exactly. So I go the following week. I walk up to the counter. There is no one in line, no one behind me. I tell the postal man a brief synopsis, all the while being pleasant. This total douche says, "Well where is your mail going?" This is why this guy is selling stamps. "I was hoping you could tell me. Is the post master available?" I respond. Still being nice. Clearly this guy cannot help that he is an idiot.

From the back room I hear, "Her mail was going to 62 WALNUT. It has been resolved." Replaying this scene in my head I feel like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz being duped by the man behind the green curtain. "Great!" I say. "So there is nothing else I need to do, no forms or anything to make sure my mail comes to my address?" Again, the wizard responds, "It's BEEN RESOLVED!" Thank you very much!

And it seemed to be...for a while. But then, marked up letters began appearing again. And then my sister tells me that she mailed Cavan a package of stickers in a manila envelope. A week later, they still haven't arrive. Now, nearly a month later, still no sign of them. Certainly missing stickers are not of dire consequence, but they were paid for and sent nonetheless, and I want my freakin' mail to actually arrive at my house. The same week I fail to receive a wedding invitation; I know it was sent out and I know I am invited!

But it gets worse. My aunt calls me the following week to tell me to expect a package, an impromptu gift. She mailed both my sister and I a pair of sterling silver earrings. Sis received hers in four day. This is now three weeks past. Guess where mine are. Who the hell knows! Maybe the residents of 62 Walnut are wearing them as I write this. Maybe they are at some other 62 Street that I don't know about. Maybe the mail carrier is taking my mail, preparing to steal my identity (and fashion sense). Maybe some delinquent kid is stealing packages out of our box (though possible, all signs are pointing to this being the least likely scenario).

I do not go to our local post office to complain. Instead I log a formal complaint with national USPS, complete with a confirmation number. The administrator that I spoke with said I would receive a call back within two business days to update me on the status and/or resolution of my complaint. I was due to receive the call on Tuesday, May 17. I called USPS this morning, the 20th, to follow up because I had received no feedback. Obviously. Again, government proficiency at its best.

Here is a paraphrase of the conversation:
Me: Hello. I'm calling to follow up on a case #. Can you please give me an update as I didn't receive a call back.
USPS: Let me look that up and I'm sorry you were not notified.
Me: Thanks.................(on hold)........................
USPS: It looks like your local office identified a postal agent that was fresh out of training that appears to be responsible for the misdelivered mail. The situation has been resolved.
Me: (Thought bubble: Do USPS agents practice the phrase, "The situation has been resolved.")
Me: So what about my missing mail and packages?
USPS: If the mail was insured, you can file a claim.
Me: So if it was not insured, it's just gone?
USPS: I'm sorry ma'am.
Me: But you have identified the agent that misdelivered the mail, and you previously identified the address to which my mail was being regularly delivered, so why can't you go to that address and request my mail?
USPS: It is against regulations to take back mail that has already been delivered.
Me: But it is my mail. With my name and my address? Isn't it against the law to tamper with someone else's mail.
USPS: There is nothing we can do.
Me: So what you're saying is that I should only use UPS and FedEX for anything I wish to safely send or receive?
USPS: Not at all ma'am. The situation (can you fill in the blank!)
Me: But what about all the mail I don't know about? Those could be my personal documents. Are you saying that I have to go try to recover my mail at this address personally?
USPS: There is nothing more I can tell you.
Me: (pissed) Well that is helpful. Goodbye.

So it's illegal to even open someone else's mailbox, and it's a federal offense to steal someone else's mail. But there are no repercussions or follow-up when a postal carrier admits to delivering your mail to the wrong address. Why can't the person that is keeping/receiving/stealing my mail be prosecuted, reprimanded, or even approached? Apparently the government is saying that it's not really stealing if it is found in your mailbox. Last time I checked, it would still be wrong to find a wallet on the street with $100 dollars in it AND a driver's license and not return it to its rightful owner, intact!

What is even worse is that now I can't help but feel that the residents of the nearby 62 Walnut, people that I could actually come in contact with during my everyday life, are thieves. That sucks, feeling like you have criminals in your neighborhood. All my direct neighbors are wonderful; how dare the post office taint my impressions of the people I live adjacent to.

Plan of action:
1) Send Hubby down to 62 Walnut to question them. Maybe it's an old lady who is keeping my mail safe, hoping we'll come to collect it.
2) Visit the local post office in person to complain again. Maybe they'll slip up and give me more information than they're "allowed to do."
3) Talk to my local mail carrier (not the new guy, but the nice lady that usually does our route.) Hubby sees her in the deli all the time. Maybe she could shed some light on this travesty.

To be continued...

Nakey baby

Cavan is going through a nakey baby stage—her uncontrollable desire to shed all of her clothes. Lately this impulsion is prompted by a number of frequent occurrences. Spilling a drop of milk, water, juice on her clothing—the shirt, pants, panties, socks, all must come off. Doesn’t matter that the dime-sized drop only assaulted her sleeve. Next, a routine trip to the potty. Well, that is quite obviously call to remove all clothes on her lower half. I generally don’t care if the kid runs around our house like it’s a nudist colony, but sometimes garments are necessary. Perhaps it’s cold and my little girl is shivering to spite herself. I’m gonna put her clothes back on. Or we’re going to play outside. Cavan is happy putting her shoes on, with or without socks, but she prefers to avoid the pants and the panties. Even if it was warm enough (which it’s not) to prance about our yard in only skin, the spring mosquitoes would make a banquet of baby flesh, so no sweetie, we have to wear our pants, and while we’re at it, let’s put on a jacket too.

I guess this assertive opinionating is all a natural part of being two and a half, but any reasonable attempt on my part to dress Cavan after she has purposefully removed her clothing to various degrees, is like me volunteering to jab chopsticks in my eyeballs. The same screaming and writhing on the floor ensues, though I am technically avoiding the physical pain and deformity of mutilating torture. As if I sewed sandpaper on the inside of all her clothing.  

Remarkably enough, dressing my baby in the morning is no problem. She is usually very decisive about her choice of clothing—lately she loves wearing her “pretty dresses” with tights. And I have heard no news from her teachers that she’s stripping for her peers. I guess I have just entered the world of mother-daughter power struggles.

We need to watch our mouths

Cavan listens to every single thing we are saying, even if we are not talking to her. And even if she doesn't appear to be paying attention.

Yesterday, we were driving to Home Depot and Hubby and I were discussing something which called for me to say, "You're a pain in the butt," in a joking manner. Well, Cavan heard this from her car seat and for the next 15 minutes she alternated between exclaiming "MOMMY, you're a pain in the butt" and "DADDY, you're a pain in the butt." We thought we had successfully changed the subject but the phrase kept popping back up for the rest of the evening.

Similarly, today, out of the blue, Cavan says, "You're a jerk!" It took me a minute to figure out where she's heard this phrase, but again, our faults. When Spoons, our beagle, is bad, we are known to mutter, "Spoons, you're a jerk." This phrase typically follows his stealing food out of Cavan's hands, jumping up on the counter to eat the cat food (or our food), or shredding every item in our bathroom garbage can. I wish I could say these antics are few and far between. Ugh. He's an aggravating dog. But he is another entry for another day.

Moral of the story. Watch our mouths. It is difficult to explain that something is "not nice" to say when Cavan hears the phrase directly from us. Good thing we don't curse (in front of her anyway!)

Date Night

I should circle today, May 13—Friday the 13^th ironically—on the calendar because tonight is the rare and elusive date night. Once a month, Cavan’s daycare offers “parents’ night out” where they remain open until 11 p.m. watching the little ones for a mere ten bucks. In addition to the cheap babysitter aspect, it is also a comforting, secure, and fun place to let Cavan play for a night: no worries about teenage babysitter antics or Cavan waking up to a stranger in the house instead of Mommy and Daddy.

But regardless of this monthly offering, Hubby and I have not had a date night since…oh my, November?? (Before writing this, I hadn’t realized it had been this long. This post may have just lost its humor. New, more accurate adjective: pathetic.)

Wait there’s a reason. Or multiple reasons. We're parents. Going out is complicated, whether it is with or without the kid. And news flash, I’m pregnant. Which for several months rendered me nauseated or vomiting on any given day, let alone that one Friday evening per month. And this was the worst winter for family illnesses that I can remember—Hubby and/or I were on antibiotics for nearly four continuous months. Who wants to “date” when you’re hacking up multicolored mucus.

But tonight is the finally the night. Destination Chili’s. It’s cheap. It’s close. It’s quick. And we will get to enjoy an evening of adult drinks (damn it, pregnancy, a mojito sounds good right now), uninterrupted conversation, and eating while our food is still hot. Tonight will not be about flaunting smokey eyes or Jimmy Choos; no red carpets or guest lists; no reservations or wine lists. But the absence of glam is not matter—it’s two hours or so where I can be selfish and indulgent without worrying about someone else’s constant needs, all while enjoying the company of my husband, for the man that he is, not the Daddy.

Some of our friends swear by date night. Some of them religiously reserve Friday AND Saturday nights for this cherished time. I am a homebody by nature and am just as happy with my weekend Netflix appointments as I am going out, but tonight, assuming that exhausting hasn’t rendered me useless in three hours, is definitely a highlight of my week. Maybe Hubby and I will even invoke that teenage spirit and hold hands—and not just while crossing the street. We only have two more date nights until the baby is born, so I better make the most of it, even if it only means b-b-babyback ribs instead of sushi and sake.

A proud, post-Mother's Day post (intertwined with my Catholic Cavan)

I am a mother that tries not to brag about my child to other parents. If friends or other people ask me about Cavan and her antics specifically, I am happy to go into detail, but I am not one to unsolicitously announce, "Guess what great thing my kid is doing now!" I don't want to imply that my kid is somehow better than your kid or that I am somehow a better parent than you. But a wonderful Mother's Day reminds me how lucky I am to be Cavan's mommy and why I love her so much. And how proud she makes me on a regular basis. So I am going to expound on Cavan's recent accomplishments; it's your choice to read further, but please don't assume that I am somehow making a comparison between me and anyone else.

I started adding bedtime prayers to Cavan's nighttime routine. After she lays down in bed, we say the Hail Mary and the Our Father; I say a line or phrase, and she repeats it back. Afterward, we thank Jesus for our family and everything he has given us and then add any specific intentions, which I'll expand on in a sec. Two days ago, instead of waiting for me to finish a phrase for her to repeat, she started saying the lines of both prayers with me. And she now knows most of them, albiet a few mispronounced words and some prompting here or there.

Therefore, proud mommy moment #1: Cavan's use of language. I don't know what is typical or not for a two and a half year old; all I have is my own experience with my daughter. But Cavan picks up language so fast! She will repeat a word until she says it just like I do, especially multi-syllabic words like "circulation" and "hippopotamus." And she is speaking in full sentences on a regular basis, with "because phrases" and transitions like "actually" used in the correct context. Being able to coherently converse with Cavan about concepts as well as the literal is impressive to me as the mommy. I have a hard time remembering the year and a half, essentially, that all communication was conducted through the nuances of tonal sounds. And knowing that I'll be again entering the realm of deciphering a newborn's cries makes me appreciative, even more, Cavan's knack with language.

Similarly, proud mommy moment #2: Cavan loves books. This is extremely exciting for the English teacher mommy! I was worried for the first nine months of her life because she was not interested, in the least, in listening to a book. She would fuss or pull the book out of my hands. She did not want to even look at the pictures. But somehow, through offering her reading time every day and having an infinite number of baby books on shelves at her level, she has developed a desire to look at books and listen to stories.  And by me reading them to her time and again, and asking her questions about the pictures, she has gained the skills to enjoy and understand the books when she "reads" them alone. She even reads them aloud to her dollies! While I don't want her to grow up any faster than she is already, I look forward to the day where I can read aloud with her Harry Potter or The Adventures of Tom Sawyer instead of Curious George over and over again.

Getting back to the prayers, proud mommy moment #3: Cavan's empathy. When it is time for our specific intentions, Cavan asks me, "Who are we going to pray for today?" For the last week, we have been saying prayers specifically for a friend whose baby is in the hospital. Cavan is very concerned about this, not because she can contemplate the critical nature, but she understands that a baby is very sick and the doctors are trying to help him. Her empathy is so pure: her world is so small--she knows only handfuls of people and has only had handfuls of experiences. But yet, she values everything she understands and loves all the people that she knows, without question. She understands what it means to be sad and absorbs and processes that emotion when she comes in contact with emotional situations. She can read people (or character's) emotions well and reacts to them with genuine concern. I never intentionally set out to teach her empathy, but she seems to have a caring heart innately.

When I tell Cavan that I'm proud of her, like when she is being a good listener or when she carefully climbs down the stairs, her whole face lights up. One day I hope she can recognize that my face lights up just because she is my daughter.

Swingset mania!

Cavan's swing set was delivered and installed on Monday. First of all, I can only reflect my astonishment when the two strapping lads unloaded hundreds of pounds of lumber and accessories out of the truck and to our site ON THEIR BACKS in only two trips! Then, they put the whole thing together in just about an hour! I know that this is their job and they do this all day, but still, watching them power assemble this gigantic fort was a sight to see (not to mention a lesson in efficiency).

The swing set was delivered at about 5 p.m., but the delivery window in which I had to be home was between three and six. So I picked Cavan up from daycare and arrived home at 2:30. The wait between 2:30 and 6:00, when the swing set was finally ready for action, was nearly unbearable for Cavan. It was more exciting for her than Christmas. Every few minutes until the truck arrived, Cavan would run to the window to see if "it was here yet?" And it was all I could do to pry Cavan away from the construction site as the men were working. And while all this anticipation should have made for giddy excitement on the first run up the gang plank and whoosh down the side, by the time it was ready, Cavan had reached the I'm-hungry-and-beyond-cranky mood (hunger tantrums seem to run on Mommy's side of the family, even now!) But she couldn't be pried away from the swing set to eat anything. She didn't even want the no-fail sippy. So I resigned to be "mean mommy," and brought her inside, kicking and screaming until she ate a bowl of beans.

Full-tummy success! Now we were working with a happy camper again. Everything went great until Cavan was climbing the metal-runged ladder (I was sitting in the fort and Bret was standing behind her video-taping on and off) and she announced "I have to pee!" while simultaneously letting go with both hands. Cat-like parent reflexes to the rescue. In that momentary pause before gravity takes over, Bret lunged for Cavan from the ground and I snagged a handful of her coat from above. Phew. Another near-miss moment in child-rearing.

Skip to Thursday (the middle days were rainy). Cavan was goofing around on the swings, lying on the sling on her belly. She was barely rocking herself back and forth, laughing hysterically, when suddenly she lost her balance and fell face-first into the dirt. She cried hysterically for about 30 seconds, but only out of shock. I tried not to laugh equally as hard because her entire face and white-blonde hair was caked with moist, super-dark dirt--up her nose, in her eyelashes, between her teeth. Thinking he would find it equally as amusing (since she was not hurt and hopefully learned a valuable lesson about balance and the usefulness of holding on with your hands), I carried Cavan down to see Hubby. But Hubby didn't have the anticipated reaction (though after knowing the man for eight years, I should have known this). Rather, he proclaimed the swing set a "death trap," especially after Cavan's ladder antics earlier in the week. Oh, the drama. Of course I don't want Cavan to injure herself on the swing set, but kids learn by "falling," literally and metaphorically. Usually mothers are the overprotective creatures in the family, but the gender roles appear to be reversed in this case.

Needless to say, this purchase is already worth the price we paid. My only frustration is that Cavan no longer wants to garden with me and instead insists that I watch her on her playground. But I love that too. I guess gardening will become a nap-time exclusive for a while!

Transition to BIG BED, part 1. Watch out, I get sentimental.

Okay, so I started writing this entry a couple days ago, and with responsibilities, distractions, and plain-ol' pregnancy exhaustion, I couldn't finish it until today. So bear with the "flashback."
Saturday after Cavan's three-hour nap, I discovered that she wet her bed. While she is mostly reliable during naps without a diaper, a three-hour nap is an sometimes an exception. As I was changing the sheets, I decided: why not turn this crib into a toddler bed. We had wanted to do this during spring break, when we had the week off (just in case she needed time to adjust and/or wouldn't stay in bed, translating into a lack of sleep for everyone.) BUT, the first few days of our vacation Cavan was sick, and the last few days, we were vomiting (see "Nothing like puking up your Easter feast"), so it was a no-go. So this weekend was as good a time as any.

The crib itself is not one of those designed to transition to a toddler bed, but it does have a drop side (which apparently are no-nos in the current crib market). And by dropping the side all the way to the floor, it provides a four-inch guard rail. Perfect for the STAGE 1 transition. But the bigger change, believe it or not, than lowering the side was the removal of the crib tent—a mesh encasement to prevent our cat from trying to snuggle with her. Also a hindrance to a bedtime escapes. I thought, for sure, that the removal of the tent, coupled with the low side, would result in Cavan climbing out of bed on a regular basis. So far, so good. I guess that tent trained her well—she has not tried a stealth getaway as of yet. 

As exciting as the "big bed" is for Cavan, it is a bit bittersweet for Hubby and I. This milestone, more than any other so far, has reminded us as parents that our baby girl is growing up so fast. She is definitely no longer a baby. And while she still looks so small in her bed, she looks so much more grown up, sleeping without the security of the crib. Every night when I go in to kiss her before I go to bed I thank God for blessing us with our little angel. I try to savor the moment, knowing it is so fleeting, knowing that, just as my memory of Cavan as a newborn is murky and I can't remember each of those goofy facial expressions without referring back to photos, I will not be able to hang on to these vivid images either. Every stage, month and year just keeps getting better, but I know when Cavan is off to kindergarten, then off to high school, then off to college, then on with her own life, I will wish to snuggle my little baby girl again, feeling her chunky cheeks against mine and hearing the belly chuckles as I munch on her neck or tickle her big round tummy.

I guess that's why people have more than one kid. I know I'll get to revisit all of those moments, albeit in different ways, with our soon-to-be babe. But that still doesn't keep me from getting a bit teary-eyed and sentimental at the thought of Cavan growing into a lady.