Friday, February 26, 2010

Violet has short, short hair.

And I love it. She hacked into her hair one day last fall, and it resulted in a short pixie with longer bits in the front.

She is a beautiful girl, and the fact that she wears pink or purple every day keeps her from being mistaken for a boy. But, truthfully, the style is reminiscent of Justin Beiber; dye it black, and she'd be Pete Wentz.

The pink and the purple is her thing, not mine. She chooses her own clothes, and has since she was a year old.

Violet is a princess. She plays with Barbies. She watches Enchanted and Beauty and the Beast. She is obsessed with Princess Tiana and Dorothy Gale. She freaks over tea sets and cooking instruments; she loves to vacuum and wash the dishes and peel vegetables. She loves to be active and play Kung Fu, but only if she can be Tigress. She is much more likely to make up a dance or a song than kick a ball.

(Though in our house, this has little to do with gender: Jason cleans and cooks as much as I do, and in reality, is much better than I am in these areas.)

Frankly, I feel like people need to get over celebrity kids. Sure, they are adorable, and they have awesome clothes and really cool strollers and look! Tea Leoni wears her robe to drop her kids at school! I am way better than her in my jeans and t-shirt! I even comb my hair almost every day!

I am tired of hearing about Suri's high heels and lipgloss; Violet got these for Christmas, and wore them until she grew out of them. And I am sure that the Sephora makeup Suri gets is a lot less unhealthy than the Dora lipgloss that Violet uses.

I am tired of hearing about Shiloh's identity crisis. Today, Violet is wearing purple striped pants, a pink flowered shirt, pink Dora skater shoes, and a pink velvet sweatshirt. Does the fact that her clothes don't match make me a bad mother? She picked out each item herself. She put it on herself. And when she takes it off, she will put it in the hamper. Shouldn't we be focused more on the fact that Shiloh seems healthy, happy, well cared for? And stylish, even?

In reality, it is none of our business. As long as a child is fed, clothed, sheltered, and loved, then what right do we have to question their parenting choices?

I don't really have a point. I just know that Katie and Angelina sure handle the judgment a lot better than I would.

Monday, February 8, 2010


I wake up this morning because your father has plopped you on the bed beside me. You grin, you laugh, you make a beeline for me and cover me with your open-mouthed kisses. The clock says 7:30.

This time one year ago, I was pacing through empty hospital corridors, trying to increase my contractions from the 3 minutes apart they are at. There isn’t a delivery room open yet, and the nurses are skeptical that you are actually coming today. But I know.

I heft myself out of bed and carry you downstairs to greet your sister. You squeal when you see her: she is your favorite person. You spend your days chasing her, mimicking her, trying to steal her Little Pet Shop figures and Barbie shoes. She tires of you occasionally, but never misses an opportunity to tell anyone who will listen about ‘her baby’. We all dress and head to the grocery store. The clock says 10:30.

This time one year ago, I was finally checking into a room. I had been in various stages of labor for about 9 hours at this point, and told the nurse to get the epidural ordered as soon as possible. You dad settled into the couch beside my bed to watch the Powder Puff Girls and lament the fact that he hadn’t bought more tacos on our stop on the way to the hospital. I adjust my bed and think, “This has got to be over soon. Second births are faster. She will be here soon.” Little did I know that you do things on your own time.

Today has passed in a blur. You are so active, so busy, that the days fly by. You started walking in earnest last week, and have already progressed to running. You don’t talk much, but you squeal with joy, you chortle, you snort…you are a little bulldog. Your father let you walk through the store today, and you smiled your huge, gap-toothed smile the entire time. People cannot resist you; I am often told how blessed I am. It is true. Now, I put lotion on your freshly bathed tummy, and give you a raspberry; you laugh, dimples flashing. You gulp your sippy of milk in record time; you know you have precious few moments of play time before bed. It is now 7:30.

This time one year ago, I am finally dilated enough to push. I am only at 9.5, but the midwife is sure that won’t be a problem. And it isn’t. At least, I think it isn’t, until many moments have passed, and I am still pushing, pushing. At one point, my midwife won’t give me a break; I don’t just push through a contraction, I push for a solid ten minutes, grunting, gasping. I ache, I beg Jason to make her stop, but he keeps coaxing me as well. I find out much later that your head was stuck, and you were turning a bit purplish. But your mama’s kegels paid off, and with the help of my vigilant Tanya, and my calm-in-the-storm Jason, you were free. And returning to a normal color. And as is the case with most babies, the rest went rather quickly. And soon you were on my chest, lovely and slimy and squeakily squalling. Gazing at me. And I fell in love.

My life is richer because of you. You make things shiny; you remind us to smile. I adore you, baby turtle.