Bliss

My baby boy told me that I had pretty, brown eyes today. Of course he has no way of knowing this, but when I was (very) young, I would imagine my future hubby-to-be singing (or saying) to me Van Morrison's Brown-Eyed Girl. Who knew I would be fortunate enough to hear two wonderful boys fawn over my brown eyes? Sigh. Content.

I wonder

Sometimes, I really have to wonder. I won't go into specifics (and don't bother asking), but the things that people do are sometimes just shocking and often heart breaking.

I guess this is just a plea to God, my friends, and the universe in general - If I ever do anything that completely shocks you, you have my full permission to punch me in the face. By shock, I do not mean oh-my-God-what-was-she-thinking-when-she-cut-her-hair-that-way. More along the lines of oh-my-God-that-poor-child-never-stands-a-chance-with-a-mother-that-wacky.

Thanks.

Month 2

So I don't have anything to say about my hair, really, except that it's there. I haven't had any life-altering experiences (yet) and I don't feel like shaving my head (yet). I can, however, put it in a ponytail. Woohoo!

Maybe by tax day I'll have something to add to the photo, but for now, here is month 1:

And month 2:

I think it's at least filled in a little. Maybe not. I've got a loooong way to go.

Truce

On February 15, I declared war on my child. It's a long, pitiful story that I won't bore you with, but it has to do with sleep. Naps, in particular. Today - March 12, less than a month after I declared war - I have called a truce.

They say that a stupid person is one who continues to attack the same problem in the same way over and over expecting different results. Well, today. . . I realized that's what I was doing. Somehow, in my I-am-mother-hear-me-roar head, I decided that Daniel was going to take a nap at 11:00 in his own crib come hell or high water. Well, hell didn't come. But when I surrendered (again) yesterday and went to get my wailing child out of his crib, I stepped on wet carpet (i.e., high water). Wet with my baby's tears. There is something - who knows what - about taking a nap in his crib that upsets him. Upsets him to the point that he cannot calm himself down, cannot tell me what it is, and absolutely cannot go to sleep. Not only can he not go to sleep, but we spend the rest of the afternoon counting down the minutes until Daddy gets home and after Daddy gets home, we spend the rest of the evening trying to explain to Daniel why he can't go to bed yet. Mis-er-a-ble.

Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday of this week have been three of the best days we've had in over a month. What was different? Naptime. I surrendered and curled up with my baby in my bed and we both slept. Snored. Drooled. Slept. And when Daniel woke up, he was - wait for it - in a good mood.

So it comes down to this - Am I stubborn enough to keep fighting with my exhausted, tortured child that I'm willing to sacrifice our happiness? Nope. I decided today that no amount of household chores are worth that. That's what I aim(ed) to do during Daniel's Utopian nap. Mop my kitchen floor. Put on my lasagna. Tape off the spare bedroom so I can paint after he goes to bed. Really? Is it really worth all of the tears, the anguish, the drama for chores? Really?

Many of you are reading this and thinking to yourselves, But she said that she'd be damned before she'd load the whole family into the car to get Big Brother to take a nap once Little Brother/Sister comes along. What happened to that? Well, what happened to that is this - Each and every day, Daniel tells me a little bit more about what's going on in his head. Seeing that said Little Brother/Sister hasn't even been conceived yet, I'm hoping (praying, begging, depending upon) that by the time said child arrives, Daniel will be able to tell me what bothers him so severely about napping. He'll be able to say, "Mama. I want to eat lunch before I take a nap. And can we please leave the door open?" And I'll smile and say of course and we'll all be happier and no worse for the wear.

So there ya have it. The white flag has been raised and so have my spirits. Sleep well, little one.

Streeeeeetch

When I was pregnant with Daniel, I was moderately concerned about turning into my mother. My parents met at the beach Labor Day weekend in 1968. They met while surfing. Yup, that's right. My mom used to surf. In the dark. In the winter. With no wetsuit. They spent hours and hours and hours floating around the ocean in Galveston, Corpus, Surfside, and Port I. After I was born, we still went to the beach but my mother no longer gets in the water because "there are things in the water." Really? I had no idea.

When I was 11 weeks pregnant with Daniel, we went to Costa Rica on our babymoon. We didn't do a whole lot. I was pregnant. We did manage to get in some surfing, hiking, swimming, and turtle watching. When I was about 20 weeks pregnant, I painted Daniel's room. Don't tell my mom (or Doug), but I stood on a bar stool to cut in the ceiling. When I was 37 weeks pregnant, Doug made me stop mowing the lawn. That was Father's Day weekend. June. Houston. Hot. Point being, my attitude about being pregnant was that I was pregnant, not broken.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was afraid that once Daniel arrived, I would become a wuss. There would suddenly be things in the water. I would recognize the dangers of every action I had ever taken and I would be so much more responsible (read - boring) after becoming a mama. I would over analyze everything, thus taking the fun out of most things. I didn't want to become that mom, but I was afraid of it, nonetheless.**

Since Daniel arrived, I have found the complete and total opposite to be true. I find myself trying and doing things I would have never considered before he was born. I don't want my irrational fears and silly preferences to influence him so strongly that he never tries anything that Mama doesn't like. I'm so married to this idea that I willingly touched a stingray at the Phoenix zoo and petted some sort of creepy sea urchin thing. I voluntarily went into the reptile house at the Houston zoo (which I have not entered in over 20 years). I ate salmon last night and get this - I actually enjoyed it! And today, I overcame my irrational belief that carnival rides are unsafe and I rode not one or two, but three carnival rides.

I have always believed that carnival rides are unsafe. My mother did this to me. She very astutely pointed out to me (repeatedly) as a young child that those rides bounce up and down the freeway at high speeds and surely they are missing screws. There are no laws, you know, that require those drunk carnies to actually check that the rides aren't missing pieces before they turn them on.

But today. . . today was for Daniel. Today I rode in a spinning dragon, a carousel (I know that doesn't really count), a bouncy four-wheeler thingy, and I lived to tell the tale. Shocking. I know. I can't believe it myself, but here I sit. Blogging away. I have to admit, though, I was quite pleased when Daniel made me get out of the pink, flying pig and get our tickets back. He was quite finished with carnival rides.

Each time I venture into one of these uncharted (or at least uncomfortable) places, I find myself stretching just a little bit more. I wonder that if by hiding (or at least masking) my irrational fears and silly preferences, I just might learn something about myself. So far, the list isn't too bad. Who couldn't use some more salmon and omega-3 in their diet?

**Please note that my mother is NOT that mom; she just won't swim in the ocean anymore. Such a shame.

Lent

I'm not Catholic and I'll be the first to admit that I really don't get Lent. I mean. . . I guess I get it, but I don't really know all the rules, the reasons, and the who/what/why/when/where/how behind it. I know that you're supposed to make a sacrifice (I think) that begins on Ash Wednesday and ends on Easter Sunday. I get that growing up, most of my Catholic friends gave up sodas, candy, chocolate, or swearing. I get that a lot of those same "sacrifices" apply to my adult friends.

I've never "given anything up" for Lent before. It's not required of my faith and I don't (usually) feel personally compelled to better myself for a short period of time. New Year's resolutions do that for me and they tend to stick. In 1997, for example, I gave up sodas. In 2010, I still don't drink sodas.

This year was a bit different. My "sacrifice" isn't really a sacrifice at all, but more of a new perspective that might take some getting used to. On Ash Wednesday, it was (indirectly) brought to my attention that I'd been using Facebook to vent, whine, cry, and otherwise be obnoxious. Who wants to hear/read that? Not me. No time like the present, right? Let's "give up" negative Facebook status updates for Lent (read stop using Facebook to whine).

Do I honestly believe that by making this "sacrifice" that I'll better understand Christ's sacrifice for me? No. Do I believe that it will get me closer to God? No. Do I believe that it will potentially improve my attitude, thus making me a happier person, a better friend, and a less whiny wife? Heck yeah. So far, I think it's working. It's helping me to focus on the silver lining, so to speak, and it's forcing me to shout joyous things to the world rather than beat myself up over Daniel's naptime. It might not fit the rules and it might not really be considered a sacrifice, but man - it sure has helped.

So thanks, world, for bringing this obnoxious habit to my attention at the right moment for me to do something about it. I feel better already.

Welcome home, Jason

I have no idea who Jason is, really, but evidently, he's coming home. About a week or so ago, I noticed several signs posted at every entrance and major intersection in my neighborhood. Welcome home, Jason! Most were surrounded by a little half-circle of teensy American flags. Many had stars-and-stripes balloons attached. None were harassed by the HOA, the landscapers, or even the weather.

I found myself thinking a lot about Jason. Who is he? Where's he been? Iraq, I'd imagine. Is he 18? Enlisted? An officer? Is this his first tour? Or does his family do this every time he comes home? Do these signs embarrass him, or make him proud? Ohhhh. What's his favorite Tex-Mex place he missed while away? Is he a Marine? Maybe Coastguard? Who knows?

I would imagine that these signs had many other people in my neighborhood wondering a few of these same things. How many of us acted on our thoughts? One. One woman (judging by the handwriting). On my way home the other day, I noticed a new sign, just off to the side of the main entrance of my neighborhood. "Welcome home, and THANK YOU. God bless you and your family." Wow. I was so touched. My heart swelled with admiration, both for Jason and for his new friend. For Jason, because he was brave enough to go God-knows-where and face God-knows-what to serve our country. And for this woman, because she was brave enough to make her sign, hop out of her car, and courageously stake her thoughts into the ground.

So welcome home, Jason. I hope you enjoy your time with your family, your endless supply of fresh tortillas and hot water, and your new friend who is thankful for you and your sacrifice. God bless you indeed.