A few months ago, Josh and I were fretting about how little time we "get S**T done". When the kids are awake, our days are a blur of playing with blocks, filling sippy cups with milk, and wiping tushies. When they are asleep, we do the mad toy clean-up/laundry/dishes/make lunch dash. So we decided to start getting up earlier than the kids to enjoy what we've termed The Me Hour.
Our kids get up by 7:00 usually, so we set our alarms for 6 a.m. and get to enjoy an hour of quiet time to ourselves. Josh, being just generally a much better person than I am in all regards, has strict rules for his Me Hour. His rules are No email, No Internet, No Twitter, and No Work. He does things like read, meditate, and write. Sometimes he even goes running in the freezing cold. Hmph. My general activities are shaping up to be: read online celebrity gossip, do copious online shopping, edit photos of the kids, and frantically catch up on work. So we have two different approaches to our Me Hour but we both love the found time.
And here's the part that I find fascinating. Before, when I dragged myself out of bed to the sound of an awakening child (usually Ella, and usually to the tune of "Mommy and Daddy! I am a-wake now! I am A-WAKE now! I AM A-WAKE NOW!"), I felt so groggy and grumpy in my first daily interactions with them. But now, after enjoying the Me Hour, I am so excited to greet them, have much more patience and energy for their needs, and yes, I just feel more awake and alert. So less sleep means I feel more awake for the kids. I don't get it but I'm going with it.
See you tomorrow at 6 a.m.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Dash's First Birthday
Today is Dash's first birthday. Yesterday I kept thinking that a year ago today, I was still enormously pregnant. I remember that day, Dec 6, 2010, so well. It was cold already (very unlike today when it was 70 degrees and I took a walk in short sleeves!) so I went to the Y for a loooong walk on their indoor track. I was 39 weeks pregnant, two weeks more than I'd been pregnant with Ella, and I was determined to get that baby boy moving. In between laps, I'd stop and do squats which must have been quite a sight for all the folks in the weight room overlooking the track. I came home, did some work, and hosted Ella's playgroup that afternoon. An uneventful evening was followed by four very eventful pre-dawn hours and Dashiell Rowe was born at 7:16 a.m. on December 7, weighing in at seven and a half pounds and with a head of golden hair that made all the nurses at the truly wonderful NC Women's Hospital swoon. Fast forward a year and we have a twenty-five pound babbling, scooting, kiss-blowing, bye-bye waving, giggly ball of little boy. All those changes in the first year sure seem good reason to celebrate.
So that we did. This past Saturday, we hosted thirty-something friends and family in a celebration of Dash. Amidst the busy holiday season, we decorated the house with brightly colored paper lanterns, lots of framed photos of the birthday boy over the past year, and a colorful banner from Etsy, my most favorite source of all things unique and lovely. The decorating seemed unnecessary for a baby's party but when I carried Dash downstairs on Saturday morning after he woke up, he pointed excitedly at all the colored lanterns and let loose a long stream of babbling that could only have meant "Wow, Mama! I love what you've done with the place! It looks so bright and colorful in here! Time to par-tay!"
I gave a lot of thought to Dash's first bite of cake. Josh is not a fan of giving sugar to small children so in the end, I made him a tiny layer cake all of his own with a pumpkin cake base and cream cheese icing (heavy on the cream cheese, light on the sugar). The mini-cake was so darn cute but I thought it needed some decoration. Sprinkles were out (all that sugar!) so I decided on Puffs, those airy cereal-like snacks that babies seem to love and I personally think smell like fish food. To satisfy my own sweet tooth and for the non-puffs loving adults, I ordered beautiful cupcakes (full of yummy sugar!) for the adults from a dear friend who just happens to be one of the area's best cupcake bakers.
For his actual birthday (today), Josh and I got him up at 7:16 a.m. and cooed over how big he is, how special it was to celebrate the minute of his birth, and generally fought over who got to hold and snuggle him. Dash just pointed around his room (his new favorite skill), repeatedly said "Ba! Ba!" (his favorite word), and seemed generally unimpressed with all of our emotion. Tonight we'll let him attempt to open a few gifts and see how quickly he tries to eat the wrapping paper.
Happy birthday, my sweet little guy. I love you to the moon and back.
So that we did. This past Saturday, we hosted thirty-something friends and family in a celebration of Dash. Amidst the busy holiday season, we decorated the house with brightly colored paper lanterns, lots of framed photos of the birthday boy over the past year, and a colorful banner from Etsy, my most favorite source of all things unique and lovely. The decorating seemed unnecessary for a baby's party but when I carried Dash downstairs on Saturday morning after he woke up, he pointed excitedly at all the colored lanterns and let loose a long stream of babbling that could only have meant "Wow, Mama! I love what you've done with the place! It looks so bright and colorful in here! Time to par-tay!"
Decorations for Dash
I gave a lot of thought to Dash's first bite of cake. Josh is not a fan of giving sugar to small children so in the end, I made him a tiny layer cake all of his own with a pumpkin cake base and cream cheese icing (heavy on the cream cheese, light on the sugar). The mini-cake was so darn cute but I thought it needed some decoration. Sprinkles were out (all that sugar!) so I decided on Puffs, those airy cereal-like snacks that babies seem to love and I personally think smell like fish food. To satisfy my own sweet tooth and for the non-puffs loving adults, I ordered beautiful cupcakes (full of yummy sugar!) for the adults from a dear friend who just happens to be one of the area's best cupcake bakers.
Cupcakes for grown-ups
Birthday boy's special cake
For a boy who likes to bang toys together and will turn just about anything into a drum, Dash was mighty circumspect about his cake. First he plucked off the puffs around the top and ate those. He poked a little at the cake but there was no great show of cake bashing or icing flying. I finally put some icing on my finger for him to try and picked off some bites of the actual cake. He seemed to like both all right but was definitely more interested in the big, shiny Mylar balloon his friend Sofia brought for him. OK by me.
Birthday boy starts to dig in
Icing? Maybe.
For his actual birthday (today), Josh and I got him up at 7:16 a.m. and cooed over how big he is, how special it was to celebrate the minute of his birth, and generally fought over who got to hold and snuggle him. Dash just pointed around his room (his new favorite skill), repeatedly said "Ba! Ba!" (his favorite word), and seemed generally unimpressed with all of our emotion. Tonight we'll let him attempt to open a few gifts and see how quickly he tries to eat the wrapping paper.
Happy birthday, my sweet little guy. I love you to the moon and back.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
When she grows up
I took this picture of Ella at the fabulous Philadelphia Please Touch Museum. When I showed it to Josh, he said that she looked so much like a doctor that he could just see her in the future in that role. And it's true that from the time she was tiny, Ella has always been thoughtful and inquisitive and so very bright. She could easily grow up to be a brilliant physician. But when I showed her this picture and asked if she was going to be a doctor when she grows up, she looked at me scornfully and said "No, Mommy! When I grow up, I'm going to be a princess!"
Sigh.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Hostage situation
I wrote earlier about Ella's first ballet class and the unsuccess of it all. I am happy to report that now, at week 10, she is very happy about dance class. She loves to see her teacher, she participates with gusto, she comes out at the end of the hour with a huge smile on her face. There's just one problem. The problem is that Dash and I are her hostages.
Every week, an hour before class, we have the same conversation.
Me: Ella, time to go pick out your dance clothes!
Ella: OK! <Long and involved process of picking out the perfect leotard/tutu/tights combination>
Me: Now, Ella, today during dance class, Dash and I are going to go take a short walk while you have fun with teacher Danielle and all of your friends.
Ella: <Immediate tears. More tears. Big loud sobs> Mommy, I feel so unhappy when you leave. Mommy, I will be so sad without you. Mommy, I can't be by myself. I neeeeeed you, Mommy.
Me: OK, fine, this week I will stay. But next week, I am going to go for a short walk, OK?
Ella: <Sniffle> OK, Mommy. Next week. I promise.
She has been promising that I can go for a walk "next week" for the last 8 weeks.
So we go to ballet class every Monday afternoon, Dash strapped onto my chest, and after I deposit Ella (happily, I might add) in her dance studio, I watch all the other mommys leave to go get a latte or enjoy a nice walk. Dash and I, the hostages of the almighty Ella, we wait in the lobby. And we're not talking about a large, open, clean, cushy lobby. I love this dance studio, I really do, but there's just no getting around the fact that it is old and it is crusty. And it is small. The lobby probably measures 5 feet by 10 feet with doors on all sides, to two studios, the outside hallway, the small bathroom, and the reception desk. There is one small wooden bench and a few metal folding chairs.
For the first few weeks, I brought a blanket for Dash and a bag of toys and we just plunked down on the floor. Then I saw two siblings puke on the lobby floor (really) and I very quickly stopped putting Dash down. So now we just wait, standing, me and my boy. He hangs out in the Ergo or occasionally on my lap on the wooden bench. We might read a story, he eats some Cheerios, we do some wrestling when he very clearly wants to get down. And I fumigate any toys or pacifiers that fall on the floor. It is not very fun.
Here's another reason why being the only mom who stays through the whole class bites... I'm the default potty mom. At some point during the class, some little girl has to pee which inevitably starts the potty parade. One by one, the teacher lets the girls come out of the studio where they stand helplessly in the bathroom door until I brightly say "Need some help?" There's some sort of unwritten motherly code that if another child needs your help, you give it. And I was really OK with my potty duties for the first weeks of the hostage situation. I just saw it as part of my job as A Mom, Any Mom, the Mom who is there at the moment of need. But today when the receptionist said to me "You really seem to know all the children in this class! Do you see them outside of ballet?" and I laughed and told her the only reason that I know them all is because I have watched their class for the past 10 weeks and I have helped most of them peel their leotard on and off in a small cramped bathroom stall while trying not to drop Dash on his head.
Do you see why this is not my favorite hour of the week? But Ella LOVES this class. When I watch her through the studio window, she is smiling and talking and, most of all, dancing with such obvious joy that it always makes me grin. She comes home and shows me all the ballet steps she is learning. Her lisped French is so cute it almost kills me. So we keep going.
I fully expect to be a hostage again next Monday afternoon and the one after that. But you never know. My captor has promised me that "next week" I can take a short walk to Whole Foods. I'll let you know.
Every week, an hour before class, we have the same conversation.
Me: Ella, time to go pick out your dance clothes!
Ella: OK! <Long and involved process of picking out the perfect leotard/tutu/tights combination>
Me: Now, Ella, today during dance class, Dash and I are going to go take a short walk while you have fun with teacher Danielle and all of your friends.
Ella: <Immediate tears. More tears. Big loud sobs> Mommy, I feel so unhappy when you leave. Mommy, I will be so sad without you. Mommy, I can't be by myself. I neeeeeed you, Mommy.
Me: OK, fine, this week I will stay. But next week, I am going to go for a short walk, OK?
Ella: <Sniffle> OK, Mommy. Next week. I promise.
She has been promising that I can go for a walk "next week" for the last 8 weeks.
So we go to ballet class every Monday afternoon, Dash strapped onto my chest, and after I deposit Ella (happily, I might add) in her dance studio, I watch all the other mommys leave to go get a latte or enjoy a nice walk. Dash and I, the hostages of the almighty Ella, we wait in the lobby. And we're not talking about a large, open, clean, cushy lobby. I love this dance studio, I really do, but there's just no getting around the fact that it is old and it is crusty. And it is small. The lobby probably measures 5 feet by 10 feet with doors on all sides, to two studios, the outside hallway, the small bathroom, and the reception desk. There is one small wooden bench and a few metal folding chairs.
For the first few weeks, I brought a blanket for Dash and a bag of toys and we just plunked down on the floor. Then I saw two siblings puke on the lobby floor (really) and I very quickly stopped putting Dash down. So now we just wait, standing, me and my boy. He hangs out in the Ergo or occasionally on my lap on the wooden bench. We might read a story, he eats some Cheerios, we do some wrestling when he very clearly wants to get down. And I fumigate any toys or pacifiers that fall on the floor. It is not very fun.
Here's another reason why being the only mom who stays through the whole class bites... I'm the default potty mom. At some point during the class, some little girl has to pee which inevitably starts the potty parade. One by one, the teacher lets the girls come out of the studio where they stand helplessly in the bathroom door until I brightly say "Need some help?" There's some sort of unwritten motherly code that if another child needs your help, you give it. And I was really OK with my potty duties for the first weeks of the hostage situation. I just saw it as part of my job as A Mom, Any Mom, the Mom who is there at the moment of need. But today when the receptionist said to me "You really seem to know all the children in this class! Do you see them outside of ballet?" and I laughed and told her the only reason that I know them all is because I have watched their class for the past 10 weeks and I have helped most of them peel their leotard on and off in a small cramped bathroom stall while trying not to drop Dash on his head.
Do you see why this is not my favorite hour of the week? But Ella LOVES this class. When I watch her through the studio window, she is smiling and talking and, most of all, dancing with such obvious joy that it always makes me grin. She comes home and shows me all the ballet steps she is learning. Her lisped French is so cute it almost kills me. So we keep going.
I fully expect to be a hostage again next Monday afternoon and the one after that. But you never know. My captor has promised me that "next week" I can take a short walk to Whole Foods. I'll let you know.
Two hostages. At least we're smiling hostages.
Here's another picture I found on my phone. Every week I entertain
myself tryiing to take pictures of me and Dash in the ballet mirror.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
I'll be the Nutella
We were at my parents' house recently and it was time for Ella to go upstairs to read stories before her nap. Ella picked her grandma (Mimi) to read her books, and her grandpa (Biggie) asked if he could come up and listen to the stories with her. Ella thought about it for a minute and said "Um yeah. You can lay down on the bed with me. You be the bread and I'll be the nutella."
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
First World Problems
So many things have been frustrating me lately.
We have a brand new, fancy schmancy dishwasher and the dishes aren't coming out clean.
It's so lovely and warm this fall that I'm still wearing sandals everywhere but I'm a little embarrassed by my naked toenails because I haven't had time to get a pedicure since Labor Day.
Our housecleaners keep leaving the plug protectors on the floor when they unplug their vacuum and I have to stick them back in the wall. Every. Single. Week.
I've been so busy at work and with my kids and traveling that I haven't had time to go shopping for the new boots that I really want.
Seriously, these are my problems?
Once again, the funny ladies at Rants from Mommyland share my pain. And they named it, too. I have First World Problems, people.
It's definitely time for a moment of gratitude for all that I have. I am extremely grateful for the modern appliances that make my life so easy; for the myriad of people who clean my large and comfortable house, mow my soft green lawn, and trim the ridiculous number of ornamental trees in my lovely front yard. I am grateful for a job that I enjoy, that lets me challenge myself, travel the world, work with kind and interesting people, and oh yeah, pays the bills and then some. I am grateful to have been born into a loving, irreverent, and always supportive family. And for goodness sake, I am insanely grateful for my supportive and hilarious husband and for our beautiful, healthy, happy children asleep in their beds at this moment.
I am VERY grateful, First World Problems and all.
We have a brand new, fancy schmancy dishwasher and the dishes aren't coming out clean.
It's so lovely and warm this fall that I'm still wearing sandals everywhere but I'm a little embarrassed by my naked toenails because I haven't had time to get a pedicure since Labor Day.
Our housecleaners keep leaving the plug protectors on the floor when they unplug their vacuum and I have to stick them back in the wall. Every. Single. Week.
I've been so busy at work and with my kids and traveling that I haven't had time to go shopping for the new boots that I really want.
Seriously, these are my problems?
Once again, the funny ladies at Rants from Mommyland share my pain. And they named it, too. I have First World Problems, people.
It's definitely time for a moment of gratitude for all that I have. I am extremely grateful for the modern appliances that make my life so easy; for the myriad of people who clean my large and comfortable house, mow my soft green lawn, and trim the ridiculous number of ornamental trees in my lovely front yard. I am grateful for a job that I enjoy, that lets me challenge myself, travel the world, work with kind and interesting people, and oh yeah, pays the bills and then some. I am grateful to have been born into a loving, irreverent, and always supportive family. And for goodness sake, I am insanely grateful for my supportive and hilarious husband and for our beautiful, healthy, happy children asleep in their beds at this moment.
I am VERY grateful, First World Problems and all.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Armpits of the legs
Ella has reached the age where she wants to do everything, and I mean everything, herself. Do you know how much extra time this takes for everyday tasks such as brushing her teeth, pouring her milk, and putting on her shoes? A LOT.
Tonight, she was in the bathtub and I could hear Josh coaxing her along to wash her various body parts, one slow part at a time. "Now it's time for your arms, your legs, your feet, your neck" and on and on. At one point I heard him say "Now it's time for your knees. And the back of your knees." To which Ella replied, "No! Those are the armpits of my legs!" A lengthy discussion ensued in which Josh suggested various other terms for this body part: kneepits, legpits, and so on. But Ella seems to be holding strong with "armpits of the legs". I guess it has a nice ring to it.
Tonight, she was in the bathtub and I could hear Josh coaxing her along to wash her various body parts, one slow part at a time. "Now it's time for your arms, your legs, your feet, your neck" and on and on. At one point I heard him say "Now it's time for your knees. And the back of your knees." To which Ella replied, "No! Those are the armpits of my legs!" A lengthy discussion ensued in which Josh suggested various other terms for this body part: kneepits, legpits, and so on. But Ella seems to be holding strong with "armpits of the legs". I guess it has a nice ring to it.
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