Lookin' good, Daddy-o

We were at a graduation party (for LittleJ) last Sunday, and Mahvelous Margot mentioned that fatherhood looked good on Andrew.

Baby press-ups: good for the body, good for the soul.

I couldn't agree more.

I mean, who else would think that doing pushups with their baby facing UP would be so much fun?

BEEBO!

Andrew is a phenomenal father. He sings, he dances, and he uses Genevieve as his own personal home gym. That's frugal, responsible, AND stellar parenting.

He wants to be an involved father, so there isn't much that he *doesn't* do, including learning how to brush hair (without pulling on the tangles), and executing a fantastic set of pigtails.

Hair by Daddy

But it's more than that. Being a good parent is about being engaged. He's outdoors-y and adventurous when it's appropriate, and quiet and cerebral with Genevieve when it's time to calm down.

Andrew, I love how you follow her cues, letting her lead you to what she wants or needs. You are a great listener, even when the cues are (mostly) nonverbal.

Like today, when Genevieve wanted to play in the pool. She got her swimsuit and swim diaper, towed you to the changing table, handed them over then said, "Daddy?"

Like any Daddy worth his salt, you melted where you stood, and then got her ready to go for a swim.

I hope that as Genevieve grows up, she never stops thinking that you're the greatest guy in the whole world, and that she never stops looking at you like this:

Best. Daddy. EVER.

Happy Father's Day, Monkey. You're the best Dad a kid could ask for.

Toddler telephone

Genevieve is going through a helpful phase. She wants to do what we're doing, and more than anything, she wants to be helpful. I hope this phase lasts FOREVER, because as her skills develop, I am LOVING having her as my right-hand Mouse.

Right now, Genevieve loves to take things off of shelves and counters and put them away. (Thank goodness one of us does.) The first time she did this, we discovered an excellent game.

"Can you go and get Daddy?"

She pulled a protein shake out of the box in the kitchen, and Andrew asked her to bring it to me (in the bedroom). Genevieve toddled it over to me, handed it over, and awaited her next set of instructions. I handed her *something* (probably an empty protein shake bottle) and asked her to please, take this to Daddy.

Back and forth and back and forth, the patter of enthusiastic toddler steps was sweet music echoing throughout the house. The sound of happy toddler feet is like no other; it's my third favorite toddler sound, after her laugh and her voice.

"Yeah!"

It doesn't matter what she's relaying, Genevieve LOVES this game. We call it "toddler telephone"- where we send her with an item (or a task, like bringing someone to the dinner table), and she's off on a mission.

Most recently, I was looking for something in my office, and handed her paper to take to [her] Grandma to put in the recycling bin, one piece at a time. The more paper I sent with her, the more enthusiastic she was about relaying the delivery.

It's a great way of keeping her busy AND getting things done, albeit slowly. Tiny feet take little steps, and learning takes time. We are more than happy to oblige her, because we're investing in all of our futures.

She is learning how to work with the rest of her family towards a larger goal; how to sort, how to follow directions, and she gets the satisfaction of a job well done. She also gets her wiggles out, which is a win all around.

And someday, when she has kids of her own, she'll appreciate the genius. And hopefully pass it on.

Saving Private Bert

Some days are rough. Teeth are cutting, naps are interrupted, and Genevieve is growing at a rate that boggles the mind. Growing pains are a real thing. So, we rock the routine and roll with the punches.

And roll literally, in the stroller. The fresh air does us both good, and it gives her a chance to decompress while she has her snack. We take a toy along for the ride, and the toy gets to model good behavior.

We had One of Those Days last week- parenting fail, after parenting fail, after parenting fail. I decided to try a walk to reboot our afternoon, and that day, she picked Bert as her ride-along buddy.

Bert loves to go for walks.

To add to my challenging day, I had made the mistake of reading a thread on Facebook in which an acquaintance's friends were opining as to what is the *best* way to raise children. Then the opinions turned into an argument that has no winner, with both sides digging their heels in and shouting "I AM RIGHT, AND YOU ARE WRONG! YOU ARE A HORRIBLE, SOCIALLY IRRESPONSIBLE MOTHER!"

There is really nothing as incendiary as discussing parenting choices.

I stayed out of the discussion, but my stomach was churning over the whole mess, and taking a quiet walk helped soothe my troubles, too.

As we wrapped up the walk and came home, I went to pull Genevieve out of the stroller to find Genevieve... but not Bert. I had stopped partway during the walk to tuck my jacket into the basket underneath, gave Genevieve a kiss, and Bert had been there. And now he was noticeably absent.

In my mind, I saw Genevieve's heart break over the loss of a favorite toy. The tears. Not understanding WHY Bert was gone. Worst of all- how would we tell Ernie?

Obviously, at some point, Bert had gone overboard, unnoticed. I turned the stroller around, intending to retrace our steps, and I realized that (based on the timing of the last diaper) Genevieve - likely - needed to be changed. We went inside, I asked Mom to change her and keep an eye on her for five minutes while I took the car on a recon mission.

I knew, intellectually, that if I couldn't find him, it would be simple to replace Bert. But it wasn't about that. It had been a horrible day, and if I could save Bert, I could have gotten at least that part of the day right. No toy left behind.

Dramatic re-enactment.

As I drove the route, I found Bert on the sidewalk, undisturbed. He was 1/3 of a mile from home, and I could see him from the street. I (safely) pulled the van over, leapt out, scooped him up and returned home VICTORIOUS. I had SAVED Bert!

When I came home, I didn't quite get the hero's welcome I had expected. Genevieve didn't really seem to care much, or notice.  It didn't matter. I brought Bert home.

You can add "Special Ops Mom" to my resume. Officially.

Positively yes

I am so unbelievably lucky to have a (mostly) happy, (mostly) easygoing kid. She is funny, she is kind, and every day she's learning more and more.

I alternate reading Zombie Apocalypse Books with books on child development and parenting. (This is my idea of balance, in case you were curious.) I'm reading Positive Discipline: The First Three Years, and Dr. Nelson emphasizes the need to think beyond "no" when it comes to discipline.

Children need boundaries, yes. But they also need to know that there are other possibilities, and that there is are options other than "yes" and "no". At my last job, my entire world was predominantly "Yes" and "Let's try something else," with only the occasional, "no". Our lives are structured (at least in part) by language; hearing "no" all the time creates a limited worldview.

We certainly say our share of "no"s ("No knives!" "No scissors!"), but this way we're not all "no" all the time. The "no" train runs both directions, which is why we're working on our language choices. I like to think of it as an exercise in creative, on-your-toes problem-solving. (My favorite is when Andrew says, "Let's redirect!" to Genevieve.)

I find myself saying things like, "We need to be kind with our hands/feet/teeth," and "We sit on our bottoms in chairs," and "Plates stay on the table." I'm telling Genevieve what she *should* be doing, instead of what she *shouldn't*. 

Despite our drastic reduction in "no"s, a serious downfall with raising Genevieve multilingual is that we have gotten "NO!" in not one, but THREE languages (Mom's favorite being the angry "NEIN! NEIN! NEIN!"). Even so, we get WAY more "yeah"s, which I really and truly believe is because we're able to say it freely, and you know. Mousie see, Mousie do.

"Do you have a wet diaper?"
"Yeah." (Sometimes this isn't true. She's only 17 months old.)

"Would you like some cheese?"
"Yeah."

Hearing "yeah" from a toddler is like a choir of angels, and cuter than a litter of puppies sleeping in a pile. I'll admit to asking her questions just to hear her answer in her tiny little voice.

"I love you. Do you love me?"
"Yeah."

Phe-mom-enal

Dear Mom;

Happy Mother's Day. I have always loved you with all of my heart, but as I have gotten older and hit bumps in the road, I think I love you more now than I ever did growing up. Maybe not "more", but definitely "differently".

Maybe it's because we almost lost you a few years ago. The thought of losing you scared me so much that we changed places for a while. I was your champion, your advocate, your caretaker. I was terrified that I would lose you.

You pulled through, and I'm grateful I have you every single day. Because I know that one day, (hopefully when we're both really, really old) you won't be here. My heart hurts to even think about it.

Andrew told me about an article he read, talking about how fetal cells cross the placenta and go into the mother's blood and stay there. You are a part of me, and I am a part of you. Literally.

We share our relationship with the whole world for an hour a week, and most of our listeners get our relationship. Some don't, and that's okay, because we get it.  We have the same sense of humor, mutual respect for each other as adults, and most of all, we genuinely enjoy each other's company.

There are people who hate their mothers, never speak to them, live thousands of miles from them, and say horrible, ugly things about their mothers. I don't get that. I can't even begin to understand it, and I feel sorry that they don't share what we do.

Good relationships don't happen by magic; you made raising us your career, and you excelled at it. You have always been there, whether we wanted you or not, because you knew that we needed you - even if we didn't know it. You made sure that we were intellectually enriched, but not over-scheduled. You have always been honest with us.

You sewed for us; beautiful clothes, fun and inventive Halloween costumes, and formal gowns as I got older. You knit for us. You cooked us delicious, nutritious food. You did the things that your mom didn't do for you, because you wanted us to have the mother you wished you had.

When I was growing up, I was confident that there was nothing you couldn't do, and only a handful of questions you couldn't answer. Couture sewing? Sure! Pipe whipped cream on cupcakes? Easy. Make a papier-mâché headpiece? DONE. To this day, I am impressed with the breadth and depth of your knowledge.

You were always willing to discuss things and treated us with respect. You taught us that we needed to stick together because we would always be a family, and someday, Sam and I would only have each other left to lean on.

More than the things you did for us, you made sure to do things *with* us. You were always enthusiastic about trying new things, and you taught us that many hands make fast work. You also taught us - by example - that failure is okay. Like when we tried to splatter paint the living room, and it just looked like projectile vomit on the walls. We laughed, took pictures, painted over it, and tried something else.

 You have always been supportive of my crazy ideas, 1000%. When I called you at 11pm one night in 2007 and said, "We should do a podcast! And we'll call it 'The Knitmore Girls'! Write this down!", you said, "Okay. What's a podcast?"

You taught us to love learning by example. I am so proud that you're not one of *those* people. The ones who refuse to move with the times and declare technology "hard". I love showing you the first step, and watching you take off from there. (I especially love when you run into one of your Luddite peers and say things like, "Can you believe that they don't do Facebook/texts/the internet?")

You are the best travel companion a person could ask for; you're flexible, easygoing, and have been known to remind us all that "we can sleep when we're dead!"

I love that Genevieve is your MiniMe, because in a sad, dark, wonderful way, I feel like this way I'll always have a part of you in my life. 

You are an incredible grandmother. Every day I learn a little something new about how to be a better mom through your example. You are loving, but you don't tolerate bad behavior.  We play, we dance, we sing, we snuggle. My home is full of joy, love, and laughter, and I couldn't have done it without you.

You remind me to take deep breaths, to finish my coffee. You are my sous chef in the kitchen, my extra pair of hands with Genevieve, and my sounding board.

When I am unkind to myself, you remind me that *nobody* speaks that way to YOUR baby, and insist that I treat myself with the same respect I show others.

You think it's strange that I thank you every single day, for helping, for being here, but I don't think you really understand how grateful I am. 

Me and the Mouse. Stitches West 2013, photo by @abbyknitz

I hope that Genevieve and I will have the same type of relationship that we have, because I treasure it. Thank you for being a phenomenal mom.

Splish splash

Last year, when the CA Lottery hit a major high, I told Andrew to buy a ticket.

"Who knows?" I said, "We could win some money. Please buy a ticket on your way home."

And wouldn't you know it, while we didn't win the big pot, we won a little money. I didn't write about it, or talk about it because I didn't want anyone to think that winning the lottery had changed us.

I promise, it hasn't.

It has been scorchingly hot for a few weeks, so I made a proclaimation that it was time to put in a pool. As these projects sometimes go, I misjudged the cost scope of the pool, but that's because Mom thought we should go bigger, and she - like always - was right.

We only won $7, guys. We bought this pool

The installation was fairly straightforward and quick, and the smell of it offgassing curing reminded me of my childhood. It smelled like floaties and fun.

I put a couple of inches of water in it, while Mom got Genevieve into her adorable swim diaper, and then we let loose with the squirting bath toys.

There was splashing. There was squirting. There was laughter.

Swim diaper!

And Genevieve had fun, too.

That? That?

Every day is a new adventure with Genevieve, and I love it. I think I've declared that I love every phase THE BEST, but really (with the exception of the teething misery), *this* is where the fun really starts.

Genevieve has started talking with some regularity, and is starting to master communicating with us effectively. I've already talked about her incredible passive language skills, but this is both fun and funny. She has discovered that she has a magic finger.

With only a point of her magic finger, she can convince a table full of adults to all share their water with her. To endlessly put labels on objects. And in my father's case, get him to hand over *his* father's watch.

(To be fair, I'm pretty sure if she asked for a kidney, a lung, or his heart, he'd give it to her just as willingly. GrandpaDahling loves her *just* a little bit.)

"That?"

The same little hand possesses the power to grab a grownup (of her choosing) and tow them down the street. While pointing at objects and demanding labels. I stick to simple labels, "tree, bush, flower, car, van, house". Andrew is more precise "oak tree, succulent, poppy, roses, Jeep". And my parents are doing it, too. Just not in English.

"...That?"

Mom, with her wealth of wisdom and experience, suggested that I ask her to repeat the words. I get "tss" for "kiss", "ahpoo" for "shampoo" , "ack" for snack, and "ock" for "Spock". (We have Star Trek drinking glasses. We are awesome.) The list goes on and on, and every little peep from her is a little more communication, another little window into her busy little world.

We ask questions, we get head nods, "Yeah" and multilingual "no"s. She understands body language, and now kisses boo-boos without being asked. She's "rex-ing"(pretending to be a dinosaur) in her own way, and will chase us with gusto, mouth wide open in a silent roar, then squeal with delight as we run away and squeal in mock-terror.

Taking a break to ring the windchimes.

Our home is full of life, laughter, language and love. And that? Is the best.

All hail

Last month, my sister-in-law asked me if I would take LittleJ's prom pictures. She told me the dates and times, and I agreed, because - why not? I have a camera, and enough knowledge to be dangerous.

So Saturday, I packed up my gear, got some inspiration from Pinterest, and headed over. I started taking pictures, and between the hair, the makeup, and LittleJ's natural beauty, all I could see is a 1940's Hollywood ingenue.

[Aside: I should really start calling her Not-So-Little-J, since she towers a head and a neck above me these days.]

It was a beautiful day, and it was a joy to capture all those small details and moments that really reflect how much LittleJ and RockinJ love each other. 

There really is nothing like young love.

The Rose Garden

The last part of the photo shoot was at the Rose Garden, which I - embarrassingly -  had never been to. There were *hundreds* of people there, using it as a beautiful and iconic backdrop for their photos. Fortunately, we were able to find a slightly less packed part for a few shots.

 

Inspiration from an iconic shot

All hail!

The icing on the cake? They were voted prom king and queen.

Mousie-see-Mousie-do

First, thank you all for the outpouring of kind comments, empathy, and positive mojo on my last post. As the comments came streaming in, I was touched at your honesty and willingness to share your own challenges with body image, and your struggles and strategies to resolve them. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Now, on to something a little more cheerful. 

I've written about how I don't really see a lot of myself in Genevieve. When I was growing up, I remember Mom talking about what it was like having two kids who looked nothing like her. (When I hit adolescence, I started to look more like Mom.) I joked this last weekend that it only took Mom 30 years to have a baby who looked just like her.

Recently, I'm seeing a little more of myself in Genevieve, and in the best places. First I saw this:

Curls!

But it's more than curly hair. Genevieve has reached the age where she's doing amazing and funny things every day. She has developed a sense of humor, and it is completely delightful. She has also entered the phase where she wants to do everything I do, and that is an unusual combination of challenging and a lot of fun.

The first Mousie-see-Mousie-do thing that happened was a couple of weeks ago.

The sun was shining, Genevieve had taken a fantastic nap, and we were in the van running errands. I had the windows down, the Pitch Perfect soundtrack(which is FANTASTIC, by the way) playing,
and I was singing along to Party In The U.S.A., when I heard a perfect, appropriately-timed, delighted, rock'n'roll "YEEEEEAH!" come from the backseat. [Parenting win!]

And then there was today.

We were at Rasputin Music, picking up a couple of CDs for Genevieve (my daughter loves Adele!), when the store music came on. It was jazzy, with a good swing to it. She stopped in her tracks, looked at me, and busted a move. Just like we do at home (or the produce aisle), when a catchy song comes on.

Joie de (Gene)vivre!

It's days like today that remind me to focus on the things that are wonderful. I could be stuffy. Serious. Perfectly coiffed and no fun.

Or I can dance in the aisles with my daughter. You can guess which I choose to be.

Me and my shadow.

Ample, bodacious, big

This post hasn't been easy to write. I've been trying to find the words, to try and cheer it up, but that has just resulted in quietly, privately, agonizing over something that I know a lot of people have felt before, or are currently feeling.

I have only lost 25 of the 40 pounds I gained when I was pregnant with Genevieve. I can't blame not being able to shed the pounds on anyone but myself- I was down to 8 lbs above my pre-pregnancy weight when I started *really* making ice cream last year. And then the scale crept up, the way it always does when my beloved ice cream and I rediscover our love for each other.

Me? I love the flavor, the texture, the euphoria that comes with each bite. And my beloved ice cream? Sticks to me like a faithful friend.

More specifically, it sticks to my rear end, making it more ample and ensuring the legacy that my mother bequeathed upon me, which her mother bequeathed upon her, which I will pass on to Genevieve. An ample behind. A bodacious booty. A big butt.

Fabulousness is also part of her legacy.

It never has bothered me before, really, because as soon as my pants started feeling snug, I would (and could) do something about it. The insidious thing is that the bad feelings don't just hit you like a tidal wave, they creep up on you until one day you realize that you don't like how you look in the mirror. Slowly, the same way your pants gradually get tighter and tighter, until the day you realize that you are being positively strangled.

The first time I noticed it was my birthday, when Andrew gave me a 10-class yoga gift certificate. It came with a very nice note, but all I saw was subtext. And the subtext read, "IT'S BEEN NEARLY A YEAR AND YOU ARE STILL FAT. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, FATSO."

I didn't cry in front of my guests, but there were tears, later.

How do you reconcile not liking what you see in the mirror with wanting to raise a confident daughter with a positive body image? I feel like a hypocrite, but I know that I haven't ever felt this way about my body before.

The worst part is how keenly aware I have been; when you're crawling and squatting to play, you notice when you don't have room to move in your pants. After two months of letting my vanity win out, I gave up and bought larger pants. Fat pants.

You know what? I'm happier. I can comfortably play on the floor and the pants *look* better on me- imagine that, pants that fit properly LOOK better, too. The only problem is my perception of the number on the label.

What I can't manage to do is get out and *go* to yoga. But the great thing about yoga is that you can do it basically anywhere, with barely anything. So, I'm going to start doing yoga with Genevieve, and hopefully a combination of the yoga and the mouse-wrangling will yield some positive results.

(I also got fat yoga pants, since getting into my regular yoga pants was like trying to stuff too much filling into uncooperative sausage casing. There is nothing that motivates you less than your *exercise* clothes being too tight.)

Part of having positive body image is learning healthy habits. I need to model these if not only for my own health, but for Genevieve's as well.

Enough complaining. Let's walk, Mama.

Fortunately, I have my own personal trainer, who is a huge fan of long walks.