The Littlest One

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Our morning will be busy.  That much is true and little girls will fall over themselves to wish you a Happy Birthday.  I’ll go to the store to make you a delicious dinner and dessert and apologize, again, for the lack of presents.  You insist it’s fine and I know you feel that way, but you know that I love to give gifts and respecting that no gifts is someone better is hard for me.

I’ll make breakfast. An omelet.  Filled with sausage and peppers and cheese.  I’ll deliver your coffee. I’ll make a semi-lewd secretary joke.  And you’ll laugh.

Sometimes we feel a little bit like ships passing in the night.  The demands on our time is great sometimes.  Children and work and the house and the dog.  They all want a piece of us, but the best part of my day are the pieces of me I reserve for you.

The girls will probably make home made cards after school.  The Princess’s will be neat.  Littlebit’s will be filled with phonetic spellings and we’ll muse over how much she’s learning.

You said you always wanted to be 30 and married with kids.  And you are.  I know that things aren’t always easy or pretty.  Sometimes things are weird and gross and dirty.  Catching vomit is probably not what you imagined when you were hoping for this.  Or scrubbing poop off of walls.  Or discovering that Baby Bee is using the toilet paper on the roll for wiping (by which I mean, she leaves it there).

I’m thankful for every one of your 37 years.  I am thankful for your generous soul.  I’m thankful for the fact that you love me when I’m nuts and haven’t run away from home.  I’m thankful for every time you’ve cleaned up vomit.

Happy Birthday, sweet heart.

The person who orginally pinned the idea I used to make Baby Bee’s birthday cake suggested that, perhaps, your time would be better spend elsewhere. Like playing with the birthday child. Maybe she was right. But as soon as I saw it I knew at least ONE of my girls would have to have it and since Baby Bee held the next birthday, she was the one that got it.

But, it really didn’t take that long with an enthusiastic twelve year old to help you and since my cake decorating skills are completely nil, I can saw that even the most beginning-est beginner could do this too.  I used a #21 wilton star tip and a very nice buttercream icing recipe (though, I’ll be working to see if any less sweet icings will stand up to this design as well, considering my dislike for buttercream).

But the cake?  Seriously you guys, this will be my new go-to white cake recipe.  I used the recipe posted at Recipe Girl and I will tell you that this cake is divine.  I was skeptical since it was based off a boxed cake mix, but it was moist and dense and baked up so lovely.

I made one small change.  Instead of using two tablespoons of vegetable oil I substituted two tablespoons of coconut oil.  It gave the cake the slightest coconut flavor and I found it fantastic.  Of course, if you don’t care for coconut, using the recommended vegetable or canola oil would probably work for you too.

Just an hour in the kitchen with bags of frosting while Baby Bee played happily at the table with her birthday presents is all it took.  Sometimes, those labors of love are worth it when something like this happens…

Three years ago I woke in the morning with Big Daddy and told him he shouldn’t go to work just yet. I was having some mild contractions. We timed and called the doctor. We waited at home and timed some more and then drove off to the hospital.

It was the day Michael Jackson died.

It was the weekend that the White Sox and the Cubs were playing the crosstown classic and I insisted the t.v. be turned off so my baby wouldn’t be born to a baseball game.

For the difficulty of her pregnancy, she was born easily. A short (for me) labor and just a few pushes. Of course, at little less than two weeks early, she was our tiniest baby by far. Not even seven pounds. No clothes would stay on her teeny little body. Her narrow shoulders would work out of all the the tiniest sleepers. She fit into the crook of my lap, like she’d been perfectly sized to allow me to have my hands free for my other girls.

She breastfed easily and happy and voraciously until I had to cut her off cold turkey at two because she refused to accept any sort of gradual weaning due to her huge personality which is one of the biggest things about her (her courage, is the biggest).

She was a happy baby, who slept little like her next biggest sister. She slept tucked into the middle (yes, yes, I know) and would sleep happily with one hand reaching for me and one reaching for Big Daddy.

She was a beautiful baby (and is a beautiful child) but she was the sort of baby that people would stop you to look at. Of course, we agreed. She was beautiful. How could you think otherwise?

She’s the end. The final segment in our line of lovely girls.

“Are you a big girl? Or a baby?”, I ask.
“Baby!”, she chirps. And she’s tiny, with delicate little fingers and toes and the most beautiful teeny face so I can pretend that all that’s true even though she’s grown so big.

“I don’t want it! I don’t want it”, she insists loudly regarding anything from food that she’s too busy to eat, to a shopping cart she has to be loaded into.

She fits into crooks of elbows and other tiny spaces, preferring to wedge herself behind your shoulder as you sit together, her chin resting on your shoulder as she watches things.

She is not an angel.  No, they’re delicate for her.  She’s an imp.  A sprite.  A skipping little fairy child.  But, it’s what we needed.  We have the Princess, the grand debater.  The refined one.  We have Littlebit.  The sunshiny diva.  And Baby Bee comes in at the end.  She spins until she falls over.  She runs with a little two footed hop that makes it look shes some little magical creature on the lam.  She plays pretend that is so sweeping and imaginative and big that it cannot be contained to the house or even the car, but carries over into the library or the store.

When you are carrying your children, you imagine the to be a certain way.  Maybe they’ll be bookish or funny, you think.  Maybe they’ll like science or sports.  You imagine them, as they kick at your stomach and push their elbows out of your skin, as the people they’ll be.  But I never think anyone gets it quite right and what you get is exactly the child you needed at the place you need them.  Baby Bee is that exactly.  The exact right little person at the exact right little time. Full of sweetness and mayhem and mirth wrapped up in an adorable, delicate, tiny package that sits just right on my hip, with her little feet swinging free topped off with a Minnie bow.

I just could not love her more.  It’s been a grande 1096 days.  I can’t wait to see where she goes next.

 

Like always it felt gone by in a blink.  The kids grew inches and gained pounds and blew through shoes and jeans and clarinet reeds

 

First Day of Sixth Grade

Time stomps forward.  We have a seventh grader now.

Last Day of Sixth Grade

I get misty. I grab them with my hands and yank them toward me and smother them into me to try and keep them little for just one more second, but they grow despite my tears.

First Day of Afternoon Preschool-Year 2

I walk back into waters we’ve tread before.  We have a Kindgergartener again, such a magical thing.  Five is still mostly little.  So is six, isn’t it?

Last Day of Preschool

This is the last year I’ll have a little one home with me all day.  In the fall, Baby Bee will pose outside with her backpack dwarfing her skinny little body and she might smile at the camera and our circle begins again.  She probably won’t smile for the camera.  Who am I fooling?

Barley two.

 

It marches around and around, the moments slipping past us like water through our cupped hands.  The tighter we try to cling to them, the faster it runs away.  They’ve grown so much.  It’s not even been a whole year.

Nearly three.

Only three months left of having a little at home every day, I’m going to carpe this summer.

 

 

When Littlebit was a baby, she slept poorly.

We tried everything we could think of to get her to sleep, short of anything we thought was cruel, but Littlebit decided to sleep in her own time, as she does with all things.  She was 3.5 before she could fall asleep without  being sung to, snuggled and patted and 4 before she began to reliably sleep through the night.

Baby Bee is following in her sister’s footsteps, but as to not be undone, she’s probably worse.  She fights sleep more and is less predictable than Littlebit was at her age.  She never naps.  Except at the worst possible times.

And bed time?  It’s tough, man.  Baby Bee can be so sleepy she literally can not keep her eyes from rolling backward in her head, but she will still refuse to sleep.  She can be on sleep’s doorstep, mere inches from dreamland, when something or ANYTHING will wake her up and she’ll be on her way again.

Big Daddy and I are taking the same approach with Baby Bee that we did with Littlebit.  With love and support and consistency, Baby Bee will find her way into a peaceful sleeping pattern on her own.  Or, she’ll get old enough to do it herself.

And before you ask, yes, we’ve tried crying it out.  We’ve tried bed time rituals. We’ve darkened her room.  We’ve turned off distracting lights.  We’ve established routines and patterns and, like her sister, it doesn’t work.  This is our lot with kids (we won’t get into the once nightly wakings.  At 39 months).

A few nights ago, it was my turn to do bedtime and Baby Bee and I laid together in her bed.  She was very tired, but was fighting sleep as she is wont to do.  I gentley rubbed her hair back away from her face.  Probably a dozen times.  I’d stroke her hair back from her forehead and watched her eyelids grow heavy and her inky eyelashes settle onto her cheecks.

Bedtime is frustrating.  It’s hard.  It takes forever.  It eats up time when I could be doing <insert task here>.  But, I realized, in our long, protracted bedtimes, I was being given a gift.

Littlebit and Baby Bee.

I have spent countless hours, probably weeks worth, stroking little faces and whisper singing lullabyes.

I’ve measured the width of a back against my hand and the length of a forearm against my palm (If I lay my middle finger in the crook of Baby Bee’s elbow, her fingers end at the end of my palm). I’ve measured her body against mine (if she tucks her head into the crook of my elbow, my forearm reaches to her bum).

Bedtime is hard, but the dozens and dozens of quiet hours, tracing patterns on my babies backs is a gift I wouldn’t have gotten otherwise.  Maybe I could have spent my time differently, but I’m not sure I could have spent it better.

 

Those are two big girl beds you see.  Two weeks ago, we took down the crib.  Though just hardly two, Baby Bee began climbing out of her crib with regularity and we decided that it was time to take it down to keep Baby Bee safe.

I won’t tell you I won’t cry over it.  I sobbed.  It broke my heart a little bit.

But now,  I have the ability to make a lovely blank canvas into something beautiful.  And even though I’m sad over the crib, I cannot wait.

Or at least it feels that way.  Today is the last day we will have a one year old.  A baby.  Tomorrow, Baby Bee will be two (at around 3 pm eastern time) and our baby days will be over.  They won’t come again.

I love the changes in my girls as they grow.  I love watching the Princess curl up and read the books I loved to read as a child.  I love having talks with her that are more grown up and less little girlish.  I love listening in to Littlebit’s playtime as she puts her toys through the paces of her imagination.    I love when Baby Bee hops down the stairs, holding onto to one of my hands and the railing and proclaiming “hop” with every step.  I love it all.

But, damn it, they’re growing up makes me so sad.

A few months ago, I told Big Daddy that I had never managed my life beyond little kids.  Ths time, right now, with my three girls (and two little people under the age of five) is how I imainged our life.  I stamped “..and they lived happily ever after” on us on this chapter of our imagined future and I don’t know what comes next.

I’ve loved being the mother of little ones.  I love snuggling up with a tiny little body as they sleep.  I love wobbly steps.  I love the dog eared board books (Guess how much I love you?  Oh, I don’t think I could guess that.)  I love the block towers and pretending to unlock round little tummies with brightly colored plastic keys.  I love kissing toes so tiny they seem impossible.  I love holding knobbly knees in my hand and patting little tiny bums that are no bigger than my hand.

It’s hard to consider that after so many years of waiting and longing, that there are no more babies to mold onto my shoulder as they sleep, or to make adorable o-shaped lips at me as they sleep. That rolling and crawling and staggering first steps are over now.  We’ve passed that way and won’t be passing back with babies of our own.

Of course, there’s still so much fun to have.  Places to go and things to do.  Watching my girls develop and evolve is exciting too.  I don’t want to make it sound like I don’t like big kids or don’t see how much fun the next 20 years will bring us as we watch our girls grow from babies to toddlers to children to teenagers to adults (and, hopefully the next 20 years will bring me grand children to hug and love and kiss all over again).  I’m looking forward to all of those things, but the tender moments of young childhood are not only sweet, they’re fleeting.

The days are long, they say, but the years are short.  Isn’t it so true.

Tomorrow I will celebrate Baby Bee’s birth day with abandon.  I will bake a cake.  I will remember when she was born.  I will kiss her knobbly knees.  I will smile until my cheeks hurt.  I will soak her in.  She is, after all, the last.

It was a very pink party.  Minnie Mouse inspired.  She’s Baby Bee’s favorite.

In the end, I found very little Minnie things I liked, just this giant balloon and some ears on a headband.

 

I made things, because I love to (ruffled streamer tutorial can be found here and you can read up on how to make tissue paper pompoms here)

We had cake and the kids played and played and played despite the humidity and the water table wasn’t even the most popular thing to do.

The kids liked all of our pink cars the best.  If I were still a kid, they’d be my favorite too.

There’s something wonderful about people from all walks of your life coming together to celebrate your baby. I was stressed out about the full house (or garage) and mountains of food and dozen goodie bags and rental chairs, but in the end, I was just touched.  Happy.  That people made time and traveled and sat in the humidity for her.

And, it also touches my heart that Big Daddy sings Happy Birthday to her with such gusto.  He really is a Prince Charming.

 

And Baby Bee had a wonderful time.  She played outside.  She ran.  She splashed.  She bounced.  She jumped.  She ate nothing but potato chips.  For her?  It was wonderful.

 

 

My girl.  Our girl.  Our baby.

I wonder what it will be like for her, growing up with everyone feeling as though she’s the baby, with everyone picking her up, holding her, helping her, giving her a hand, nurturing her as people only nurture the baby.

She is WILD.  She won’t be told no. She climbs as high as she can.  She runs from activity to activity.  She cannot wait.  To do everything.

Even when I beg her to please, please PLEASE slow down.

She has walked for more than half of her life.  She runs.  She dances.  She twirls.  She sings.

“Sweet Caroline” we prompt.

“Bum, bum, bum” she answers.

We all melt.  She is smart.  She is tenacious.  She tells us no in a sing-song voice, one hand extended palm out in front of her, waving it for affect.

She sleeps in the middle.  Her arms flung wide.  One hand reaching for Big Daddy, one hand reaching for me.  She insists.  She demands.  We give in.

She’s the baby.

She perches on the steps with a little purse slung over her arm.  She loads in treasures.  She falls, looks around, gets back up and does it all over again.  That’s a trait I pray she keeps.  That she’ll fight forward even when it hurts or even when it gets hard because the thing she wants at the end of the fight is worth fighting for.

My girl.  My baby.

Once upon a time there was a Mom.  And she had a beautiful little baby girl.

At the tender age of six weeks, the baby girl began to sleep through the night every other night.   By two months of age the baby girl slept through the night ever single night.  There were occasional bedtime struggles and the little girl had to cry it out for two nights when she was nine months old, but she graduated from that short unpleasantness and become a wonderful sleeper.

She would go to bed without complaint and sleep until the sun came up.  If she got up early, she was happy to to make a little bed on the floor and watch t.v. in her parents room until they were ready to get up (but she lost her pleasantness once eight o’clock rolled around, because 8 a.m. was the time you got up!  Chop! Chop!)

After a few years, another beautiful baby girl was born.  Her first night on earth, she slept well, but after that her ability to sleep began to wane.  She hardly ever slept at all.  She napped very little.  She would lay awake all day with her beautiful, muddy eyes watching her Mom.

When her Mom would tell people that the baby did not sleep all day, people told her that she was just underestimating how much time her baby’s cat naps added up to.  One day, the Mom wrote it down.  The baby only slept an hour or two in short snatches from the time she “woke up” until the time she “went to sleep”.

Those phrases were, of course, arbitrary, because the baby slept similarly over night.  She would only sleep in her mother’s arms and then fitfully and in short bursts.  A few times her Mother was so tired she was unsure if she should actually be driving.  She wondered if she’d leave the house half dressed or wearing different shoes.  The haze of sleep deprivation made the mother tired and withdrawn.  It was hard.  Very, very hard.

The mother and the father followed all of the experts advice.  The swaddled.  The let the baby girl cry.  They employed bedtime routines.  Nothing ever helped.  They turned off the t.v. that the Mother used to fall asleep in hopes that the t.v.s light was actually keeping the baby awake.  It wasn’t.  They moved the baby’s bedroom, hoping that maybe her mother’s presence was keeping her away.  It didn’t help.  The baby slept rarely.  She was never ill tempered or lacking energy.  She wasn’t fussy or sad.  She just never slept.

When the mother got pregnant when the second baby girl was two, she worried.  She wasn’t sure she’d survive with a non-sleeping toddler and non-sleeping infant.  All she could do was pray for the best and prepare for the worst, but magically before the third little girl was born, the second little girl began to sleep better.  It still took singing for twenty minutes, but the second little girl began to sleep MOSTLY through the night.

When her sister was born in June, things were looking up for the second little girl, but after some early successes the third little girl stopped sleeping well as well and the mother was back in the dance of sleep deprivation all over again.

I tell people it’s been four years since I’ve slept through the night.  That’s not entirely true, but the number of times I’ve gotten more than two or three consecutive hours of sleep since Littlebit was born in 2006 can probably be counted on my two hands.  I am now to the point where I can go two nights on fightful, small amounts of broken sleep.  After the third night, I get a stomach ache and feel like crying all day.  On the third night after not sleeping, I can;t really get much done around the house.  I leave the t.v. on and we watch it a lot because I really have a problem with functioning beyond that.

When I say we’ve tried everything with both girls, it’s not totally true.  My Peditrician at one point suggested leaving Littlebit to cry. And not go back to check.  And if she fainted or vomited, well, that’s what she did.  Big Daddy and I couldn’t do that.  So we didn’t.  That is the only thing we haven’t tried with either girl, but we’ve tried everything else.  Crying it out, routines, singing, rocking, co-sleeping, independent sleeping, night lights, no night lights, music, silence.  Really, everything.  All we can do, really, is be patient with Baby Bee as we wait it out and hope that it doesn’t take her nearly three years to sleep for the majority of the night.

Baby Bee is one step ahead, though.  She can, most of the time, put herself to sleep.  It’s the staying asleep that’s so hard.  As I type this, Baby Bee has been asleep around two hours.  She is currently fussing in her bed upstairs.  The debate begins as to when I go in, what I do when I go and whether or not this will be a “good” night or a “bad” night.  It is hard to be consistent at 2 a.m. when it’s the third time you’ve been awake since 11 and your alarm will go off at 6 (both the real alarm and the alarm that is Littlebit who, while sleeping through the night, rarely sleeps after the sun rises).

I only hope that it doesn’t take Baby Bee two more years of sleeping struggles to begin to sleep with consistency.

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