Three Years of Lilybean

Beloved firstborn girlchild, I offer you a prayer on this, your third birthday, courtesy of Tina Fey.

First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty.

When the Crystal Meth is offered, May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer.

Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels.

What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.

May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short - a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day - And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.

“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.

Amen.

Tina Fey, Bossypants, 2011

But also know this, oh baby my baby, even if you do get bad flash tattoos and take acting and lie with drummers, I'll still love you more than you will ever, ever know.

- Mama

File under "Slacker Mom, blogs that make me feel like a"

In general, I don't talk about my personal life on this blog, unless it pertains to pregnancy/birth/breastfeeding/parenting issues. That's a pretty big "unless" there, I know, as I just totally spilled my guts about postpartum OCD, and have told both my birth story and nursing journey in graphic and harrowing detail, but I see these as having context that applies to the content, if that's not too wordy. But I need to get something off my chest.

There are some blogs out there that are pissing me off in their extreme awesomeness.

First of all, there is Mila's Daydreams, first recommended to me a few weeks ago. What do I do when Lily naps? Well, I'm pretty much doing it right now. This, or getting my social fix for the day on Facebook, or trying to catch up with overdue posts for my food blog, or sometimes studying for a certification, or eating, or racing around the house to try and straighten up while I have a chance of not having my work immediately undone by the Tasmanian Toddler following behind.

What does this mom do? She constructs elaborate, stunning, touching fantasy-scapes of her slumbering precious, usually out of everyday, ordinary materials. What a lucky kid. She'll probably think every child has a coffee-table book of her devoted mother's creative projections of baby self by the time they're 2, at least until she encounters the rest of us slacker moms. (But hey, at least she'll know exactly how much breastmilk she got, how many wet diapers she produced and at what time, and whether she pooed on any given day within her first 365.)

Then there's Lucy & Ethel Have a Baby: The Adventures of Shrike, Whozat and Peeper. They're a lesbian couple who had their adorable baby (Peeper) almost two years ago. Their entire story is fascinating, from the conception and birth through a difficult yet inspiring nursing story and even Peeper's open heart surgery, but what grabs me in my guilty bits is the letter she writes to Peeper each and every month.

These posts detail what she's doing, what she's eating, what she's interested in, what's been going on, and just generally are filled with awe and aww and abundant affection. They are loving and detailed and exactly the kind of thing I set out to do when I purchased a pregnancy journal about 3 years ago. Oh, I wrote in it, rather lengthily, too - twice. And never again since - it's one of those things, you know, how the longer you go without writing in it, the harder it is to start up again. I've sporadically posted pictures and some commentaries in a baby blog for Lily, but it has been overrun with kudzu-like spam of late, and I haven't even included a link to pictures there in months. Lucy & Ethel also post pictures every day. Literally every day, in "The Daily Peep". My long distance family would seethe with envy at the disciplined devotion.

Finally, we have Enjoying the Small Things. This one first came to my attention (and many others) when this stunningly gorgeous mother gave birth to her second daughter, only to discover that Nella has Down syndrome. The post that tells this story is a masterpiece of blog form, and one of the most moving things I have ever read. I dare you, try reading it with dry eyes. Go ahead.

The posts that follow that, as Kelle and her family come to terms with - and beyond that, embrace and celebrate - this unexpected development, are equally wonderful. I'm blown away by the whole experience, and deeply grateful that she is willing to share this with all of us. It's a tremendous gift.

But then she has to go and live her normal life, which on an infuriating DAILY BASIS appears to consist of nonstop adventures with her girls, who are always dressed to the nines, right down to the accessories and matching pedicures for all. I haven't gotten a pedicure since I was about 7 months pregnant, and Lily's lucky if remember to nibble her nails off in her sleep. There are endless delightful treats, crafts, parties, trips, beach days, all seeming to be have a crew of stylists behind them, and (did I mention she's a talented photographer, on top of everything?) photographed in expert, crystal-clear, perfectly composed Technicolor. And did I mention she looks like a supermodel 100% of the time? In every single frame?

Seriously, it's not like she saves these things up and posts a collection of fabulous once in a while. I subscribe to her blog. It's like every. freaking. day. How can this be? How can someone engineer the amazingness that is their life AND be that put together all. the. time? For me, getting to take a shower without cutting one grooming task short due to whining and/or destruction taking place outside the shower curtain is, like, a monthly event, and I only have one child. Are we the same mom species? Are we even on the same mom planet?

Stop being so dang great, all of you!!! *shakes fist*

Not really. I think you're wonderful. Keep on keepin' on. But if you're ever in the mood to share your secrets on how to be so infuriatingly awesome (and no one would blame you for protecting your hoard), do drop a line here!

And in the meantime, I can try to start with some baby steps. Perhaps one craft a week. One dress-up day. And maybe I can write another letter to Lily - I can never make up for not having done so every month, but perhaps I can write about our first 2 years, and then try to do so annually after that. If I go beyond that, then I'm an overachiever. RIGHT?

Wordless Wednesday: The Family Bed

Wordless Wednesday: Two Years Ago TODAY.

Wordless Wednesday: I said MOAR EASTER PLZ!

Like Mother, Like Daughter

I neglected to mention that I'm out of town at the moment, and thus online less copiously. I meant to post this yesterday for Wordless Wednesday - check out how the little pumpkin-headed chip off my old block loves on the babehs.

(The best moment is at about 0:41.)



Incidentally, the adorable wee bairn Lily is so enthusiastically macking on is the homebirthed baby from this post here! Mama promised a birth story soon(ish).