Happy Second Blog-o-versary to Me!

That's right!  Two years ago I started writing about my kids on my lunch hour as a way to keep a virtual baby book for them because I am fundamentally lazy and have handwriting that is beyond atrocious.  I can't even read what I've scrawled sometimes, let alone my poor children thirty years from now when they want to know when they got their first tooth.

I came out of the blog closet in January and, boy-howdy, has my life changed.

I have made some wonderful friends, women to whom I genuinely look up because they're amazing people and wonderful writers who have fascinating and engaging stories to tell. 

I have shared more of my life with people who have known me forever, family members who remember me when I was the age of my babes, cousins living too far away for real hugs, and friends with whom I have lost touch.

I have found a community where my voice fits in, harmonizing with others who write on the melody of motherhood.  And my voice has become stronger, more supported, more able to be heard through the crescendos and decrescendos of life.

I have had face-to-face conversations with people about things on my blog, shared with them the joys and pains of the last two years of my life as honestly as I can.  I'm not really sure how to do it otherwise.

And, because this is me, I can't get away from this post without poking fun at myself a little...

The Soup Nazi tweeted "No soup for you!" to me because my twitter ID is IASoupMama.  For real.  The real Soup Nazi.  Althoughm the joke's on him as he hasn't been here (as far as I can tell) -- no Soup for him!

And finally, not one but TWO friends have compared me to David  Sedaris.  Wha-what?  I'm flattered, but my humor is to David Sedaris's humor as a drop of tequila is to a swimming pool of margarita.  So hand me a lime so I can go swimming, already!

Here are a few of my faves from the last year.  If you like 'em, great, let me know!  If you don't, please don't tell me -- I don't want to cry at my on party...

• Humor: Socially Inept Mom Braces for Impact
• More Humor: The Text Heard 'Round KC
• Even More Humor: Muffin Top
• Infertility: Life Beetween Two Pink Lines
• Miscarriage: Not Again
• Motherhood: Rebirth

Meditation

I touched the earth this weekend, opened it wide to feed my family and nourish my soul, walking through the circle of life to take my place in the heartland, my fingertips grazing the ghosts of prairie women past.

With my own hands I plucked feathers from my flock, gripping the feet of a still-warm bird in the deafening silence of the yard, cicadas and the flapping of a thousand wings orchestrating my first butchering experience.  As I shook damp down from my hands, a butterfly alighted on the plucking table, her languishing wings dipping gently in the breeze.  She stayed there a moment, then fluttered off, leaving a breath of thanks with the chicken I held.

This wasn't an easy experience for me, I flinch at the sight of roadkill, avert my eyes when my husband and his brothers show proud pictures of their hunt.  I do not like to hurt animals, but have felt a driving need to be able to bring things to my table that we have cared for ourselves, that we have nurtured and selected and weeded and plucked.  I do not want my children to grow up in this land of agriculture thinking that their meal comes in wrapped styrofoam, resplendent with antibiotics and growth hormones and mega-syllabled chemicals. 

I thank the earth for her bounty.  I thank her as I tease the stubborn grass from the onion shoot, clearing a space around the food so that it can breathe.  I thank her as I separate the squash from the vine and again later as I slice it with my baby onion to feed myself and my children.  I thank her as my son's sturdy hands find hidden green beans, plucking them in a joyful scavenger hunt.  I thank her as the wind rustles through my corn like a friend hiding.  I thank her for my land, my water, my sunshine, and my life.

I thank her for being a place to teach my children about their place in the vast universe, their place on our postage stamp farm, in our food chain and as caretakers of the earth to come.

Oh, My Goodness! Another Milesone!

My first award -- thank you so much to Cara and Jenn at The Momentum of Motherhood for the Sunshine Award. This is awarded to bloggers whose positivity and creativity inspires others in the blog world!

The rules for this award are as follows:
•Put the logo on your blog or within your post.
•Pass the award onto 12 bloggers.
•Link the nominees within your post.
•Let the nominees know they have received this award by commenting on their blog.
•Share the love and link to the person from whom you received this award.

Here are the bloggers I pass this award onto:
The Natives are Getting Restless
My Corn Cadenza
My Story is Not Over
Big Belly or Bust
Loving My Children's Gifts
My Inner Foodzilla
Riding the Rollercoaster
Stories of an Imperfect Mom
The Mombshelter
Bringing Up Baby
Hip to Be Mom
My Little World: choo-choos, cars and lipgloss

Congratulations!  I've been following some of these blogs for some time, others are new to me since "The Friday Follow that Changed My Blog Forever...".  I hope that this brightens your Monday!

Milestone: 100th Post

I've hit a milestone!  My 100th post.  So, in honor of that, I thought I'd try a blog hop today.  Although it is doubtful I'll grow my followers from 20 to 100 today, I'm aiming for a 50% increase so that I get to 30.  As always, I reciprocate and love commenting!

I've also decided to point you toward some of my favorite posts.

It's Raining, It's Pouring is my reaction to the news that a good friend had (yes, HAD -- now she has a lovely pair of C cups that I covet) breast cancer.  It's might not be as funny as some of my posts, but I think it one of my most revealing posts.  I still tear up over this post.

Sidewalk is one of my most wistful and bittersweet posts, also the post where I feel like I really hit my stride and started singing most clearly with my voice.  It is about my darling Violet.

Lessons is about my Milo.  It is also the moment when I started tagging my posts "Mom Lessons" when I realize I'm learning more than my kids.

Laughter is the Best Medicine might be the best window into my sense of humor and the relationship I have with my family.  It makes me giggle when I read it, so I hope you like it, too!

Hosted by One 2 Try, Hearts Make Families, and Midday Escapades.

152

I submitted Milo's name to the elementary school so that he can be included in Kindergarten Round-Up information.

Kindergarten.

When I picked him up from preschool today, he was smiling and happy, full of hugs and excited to show me his craft. All of the other mothers were walking down the hall, waiting for their kids, and leaving with them and Milo and I were in the hallway, braced against the wall, digging through his backpack for his Valentine's Day headband. He was proud of it and wanted to show me. His teacher came into and out of the doorway dismissing kids three times before Milo and I finally exited the hallway.

But not before he gave me an extra hug, whispering, "Mom, I love you one-hundred-and-fifty-two." That's the magical number for him -- the most is always 152, no matter what. And I think he takes my breath away 152 times a day, at least.

152. It's a good number, doncha think?

Baby No More

Last night, my little Violet slept all night in a toddler bed. It was her first attempt at sleeping not in her crib. I'm proud to say that she did a great job!

When I checked on her when I went to bed, she was sleeping soundly, her little pink hands clutching a stuffed fawn, her face pressed to the soft chenille of the toy. She looked peaceful and sweet. And suddenly like a child and less like a baby.

When I checked on her again after a middle-of-the-night bathroom trip, she was still snuggled warm into her bed, though not holding the toy. She again looked comfortable and even less like a baby.

When I woke for the day and checked on her again, I stifled a giggle as she was half out of the bed, her bottom half, but sleepily climbing back in -- she's light sleeper and I didn't want to disturb her, so I quietly pulled the door around after she'd gotten all of herself back in bed, looking even less like a baby.

Finally, after my shower I went back upstairs to wake the rest of my sleeping family. Scott was awake, lying in bed watching CNN. Milo was sacked out, and Violet was laying on her back in the toddler bed with her hands folded behind her head, looking very snug. I motioned for Scott to come in because she was beyond adorable in that moment. And so not a baby.

Sigh... Why are these milestones so much harder on me than they are on the kids?

It's Raining, It's Pouring...

It is raining today. I've looked at the RADAR and it will be raining, and possibly storming, all day. I think this is OK, the rain certainly matches my mood.

It was a tough weekend in the Olinger household and an even tougher start of the week. Today is that mythical mid-way point and I'm searching for signs of improvement in the forecast.

The kids are sick. Nothing serious, but annoying enough to them that I've spent most of the last three nights comforting one or the other of them for the majority of the time that I should be sleeping. Both seem to be doing better today, I hope, anyway.

Milo is hitting an important milestone today! He's starting preschool in T-2 hours. He is appropriately alternating between terrified and excited. My bet is that he'll be excited until we park at the preschool, then terrified as we walk to the building and into his classroom.

Violet can count to ten! Almost... She's got 1-6, 9 & 10. I think she's afraid of 7 because, well... 7 ate 9. Ba-dum-bump!

Work is busy for both me and Scott. This is the week that all of the first-year students are on campus and we've both got meetings and events galore. We played the "shift the kids back and forth so that both of us can attend as much as possible" game on Monday and Tuesday. That's so exhausting... Plus, the kids totally trashed my office twice yesterday. I need to figure out if I can scrub highlighter off of an upholstered chair. Don't ask...

But the news that has made this week the most difficult, drawing me deeply into my shell, is that our dear friend, my sister-by-choice, has breast cancer.

Selfishly I have yet to contact her. I haven't called because I know that I will simply come unspooled if I talk to her. I haven't written because everything I write sounds like a eulogy -- and I'm not sending something that grotesque to her. I know that she needs me and am very thankful that Scott has done what he always does: reach out, use inappropriate humor, and send massive amounts of chocolate. As in bought an entire aisle of dark chocolate from Target -- one of every variety, several of the most tempting.

I am not the one who is sick, but I am not processing this well at all. I am furious that cancer is trying to steal someone whom I love so much. Every time I put Violet to breast, and that has been quite a few times since she's ill, I touch the very tissue that my friend will lose next week. I hold in my hand that which is giving my daughter life and that which is poisoning my friend. And I am angry about it -- who gives cancer the right to creep quietly into her body, sliding between cells, ravenous and vicious?

On Sunday night, the night before I learned of my friend's battle, I lay next to Milo's bed, sighing because he didn't want me to leave his side. His sleep was uneasy, his fever rousting him every few moments. I lay there and thought, "This is annoying, but it will pass. I can't imagine what I would do if one of my babes was so sick that the illness won't pass. I can't imagine the grief of not being able to lie on the carpet next to the bed of my child. I am lucky."

I wept silently as I recalled a young family that I had seen at Disneyland on the trip to California that we'd taken when Milo was about 19 months old. I was pregnant with Violet and we were visiting my dear friend about whom I am writing. We were in line behind the family for the Jungle Cruise ride and I noticed that the young mother was struggling to hold a child on her hip in the heat. The child looked too old to really need to be held, or so I thought until I saw that she was bald. An ugly, ugly scar mapped her scalp. My heart stopped. I realized that the little girl and her family were on a Make-a-Wish trip.

Instantly my pregnant hormones went into overdrive and I started blinking rapidly to hold back tears. My chest tightened and my breath caught in my throat. It was all I could do to not bawl as I watched the girl, grinning from ear to ear, as she described all of the things she thought she would see on the ride. This mother wasn't just holding her child in a long line, she was clasping her into her body, trying to force her back into the womb, back into a time when she was safe and healthy, back to the time when their souls were one.

I had to look away, gulping air. I rubbed Violet's bum inside me, squatted and kissed a sticky Milo, then hoisted him up onto my hip, vowing that I would carry my children into my body any time they needed me to lift them up. I think of this family every time one of my kids is ill.

I don't want to overwhelm my friend, after all, this isn't about me and what I want -- it is about her and what she needs. I am thirsty for knowledge, but unsure how far to push her; I don't want to hover and smother, yet I am unsure of how to support. She is so generous that I don't want her to know how wrecked I am about this; her first reaction would be concern for me and I think she needs to put her energy into healing. I will write to her by the end of the week, I must swallow my own fear and grief and let her know how much I love and support her.

I want to carry my friend. I want to scoop her up and hold her. I want to sing to her and keep her safe. I want to do these things for her because I love her, because I love her children and her husband, and because I love my children and my husband, and a little girl whom I have never met.

Brontophobia: Fear of Storms

My little Violet is hitting that age. That age when a toddler develops fear. And I can say that I think I hate this more than any other thing a toddler does. While the protesting, arguing, hitting, and willfulness are annoying, I know that they are happening because my children are growing up and thinking for themselves. I get that, and while I might not really enjoy it, I understand the necessity of this to their intellectual and emotional development.

I don't understand the cloud of fear, though. In the last few weeks, poor Miss V has started becoming afraid of several things. Like sudden loud noises. And lying down on a changing table -- though sitting, standing, and climbing on the same changing table seem to be fine.

At first it seemed to be the hair clippers -- when Scott gave Milo a recent shearing, Violet hid in the bathroom, peering around the door frame with her eyes wide, ducking inside the room if Scott so much as motioned in her direction with the clippers. OK, that's fine -- I'm not planning to let her get a clipper cut, anyway -- in other words, this is just a spring rain.

The fear was contagious, though, and it spread to the vacuum cleaner. It's much more difficult to avoid a vacuum cleaner, particularly during shedding season as our beloved mutts drop fur in hunks. I cannot abide by furry clothing or furniture, so I vacuum daily during summer shedding season.

Next up was the fan Scott used to inflate the air mattress in the tent. Again, this isn't an instrument used regularly, so avoiding it shouldn't be difficult.

Now we include power tools. Poor little babe ran screaming to me when we were out at Scott's parents' helping with their new siding. She did it every time grandpa cut a new piece of siding. We eventually went inside the house where she was less affected.

After being in Chicago, or 'Cago as she says, the noisy item at the top of the list is hand driers. Since she's not using a toilet, she was only in and out of public restrooms for diaper changes. This created the Perfect Storm of terror for my poor baby: screaming hand driers and changing tables.

Trying to get her diaper changed was painful for both of us. The minute we approached a restroom, she would tense. Washing her hands was fine and fun, provided we chose to air-dry, which I generally do. But if we walked past the sinks and she noticed me looking around for a Koala Care station, she started whining. If I dropped the changing table into position, she cried outright, "No! no! no! No, mama, I 'cared!"

The final diaper change of the weekend had both of us in tears as I just couldn't make it any better for her and simply refused to change her on the floor of a freeway exit McDonald's. I had refused one other diaper change at Shedd Aquarium -- after I'd watched not one, but two mothers change poop blow-outs with an inadequate number of wipes and was thoroughly disgusted. Thankfully, Scott jumped to the rescue and was in and out of the men's room in no time.

As I pushed the door into the restroom, she tried to vault over my shoulder for Scott as if she thought he would save her from the hurricane of whirring hand-driers. I set her gently on the changing table and she quickly scooted nearly off the end of it. "No, mommy! No! No diaper! Its 'cary! I 'cared!" She was flinging her little arms about, reaching for anything she could use to haul herself off of her back and back into my arms. Talk about heartbreaking... She cried, I cried...

As soon as she noticed me crying, though, she subdued quickly and swiped at my tears as I was wiping hers. "Okay, mommy... Okay. I luh loo..."

She was trying to comfort me they way I comfort her, by holding her tightly and saying, "It's okay, baby... it's okay... I love you..." Not surprisingly, this had the opposite effect of what she'd intended and blinked faster, trying to hold back more tears.

And maybe that's why there is this kind of developmentally appropriate fear -- to teach a child compassion. To help her recognize when someone is giving her everything they have in a moment to help her stay intact. For that moment when she was concerned for me, her fear subsided. Even if the fear wasn't quelled, clearly the love is getting through and touching her, keeping her light shining brightly through the storm, a lighthouse in a dark port.

So maybe I get it. It doesn't mean that I like sailing in this weather.

Bum, bum, bum, bum, buuuummmmm!

Hmmm... It's been a while since I've blogged, huh?

OK. QUITE a while... Like, two weeks. What have I been up to?

Work: Busy, busy, busy... roll-out events, guests on campus, redoing the budget forms for one of my programs, on and on -- good, yes. Unfortunately the college is struggling with budgetary issues and it sounds like Scott and I will both be receiving a 2% pay cut next year. Ouch! And the college will be reducing their contribution to our retirement accounts, boo, hiss... We'll be OK overall, but it's not gonna be a fun year by any means, and who knows what will happen next year.

Play: Scott's been hard at work on the kids' playset -- it now has rubber mulch underneath and a roof on the platform -- very cute. I think we'll stain it caramel color and paint the roof green to match the hardware. On to more landscaping stuff -- before the dogs smash all of the hostas that I just transplanted. I think I foresee a big dumpster in our future and a week of Scotty cleaning out and throwing away crap from the garage.

Other: Scott was in NYC from the 17-22 for the Broadway Lighting Master Classes. I think he got something from them, though maybe not as much as he expected. Ah, well... He did get to eat some pretty good food and see some good shows, something about which I am infinitely jealous.

Kids: Both kids are doing pretty well. Violet cracked me up yesterday as she drung me down the hall at the Olinger's to the chair where I usually nurse her when we're out there. She said, "Mere, Mom!" and took my finger and pulled me down the hall. She pointed to the chair and said, "You sit here. Nursing you!" I guess she wanted to nurse... Then, while nursing, she smacked me with an open handed slap on my belly, giggled and said, "I'm so silly! I silly!" Although it was likely the wrong thing to do, I couldn't help but giggle... She has also taken to shaving years off my life by vaulting off of the top platform of the swingset into my arms -- whether or not I knew that she was going to do it... Scares the heck outta me...

She's also been protesting her diaper. "My bum! My bum! My bum!" she says... Yes, it is your bum, but until your bum knows how to use the potty, your bum will be in a diaper. And not the one that you put on yourself... You know, the backwards one jammed between your legs that leaves your whole backside hanging in the wind... Yeah... Your bum will be in the diaper I put it in, little missy! "No, it's MY bum!" appears to be a battle cry.

Milo has been a conundrum lately -- he's so whiny that I think he's forgotten how to talk using a regular voice, but then he'll be startlingly sweet and kind about the most unexpected things. On Tuesday night, I took the kids to Subway solo because I was starting to feel icky and didn't really want to cook. I managed to get their food ordered, no small feat considering that the kids working the counter had smaller attention spans than my children. We sat down at the table and as I was portioning out food, Violet spilled half of her milk on the table. We had two napkins. Two... Who thought THAT was a good idea? After I finally managed to get another four napkins from the dimwitted teenaged cashier and mop up the mess, I sat down to eat with my left hand and help Violet with my right. Milo was sitting across the booth from us, eagerly chowing down on his "foot-long" (a six-inch spicy Italian). He watched me carefully -- feedign a toddler in a restaurant is akin to training an octopus -- and remarked softly, "Wow, mom, it looks like it is hard to eat and take care of someone at the same time." Yeah, that's my sweetie... Tears sprung to my eyes as his little round face looked at me with admiration. Yep, that pretty much made me feel like a heel for being annoyed with him whining mere minutes before...

And onto what has occupied the majority of my week: a sudden and harsh case of pneumonia. Completely out of the blue. As in Tuesday morning I wake up sneezing and think, "Gee, my allergies are pretty annoying today" and Wednesday at noon I'm trying to convince a doctor that I don't have swine flu and that I don't need to be hospitalized. Although I do apparently need a chest x-ray, in-office nebulizer treatment, a shot in the bum (rocephrine), two oral antibiotics (zythromax and augmentin), oral steroids, albuterol in both nebulizer and inhaler forms, and ibuprofen for the 102 degree fever. So not cool. I'm still hacking and I have oh-so-sexy man voice. What fun! I paid a sitter to sleep at the house in case I needed help Wednesday night and was off work until today.

I just can't believe how crazy it is that I haven't been sick in ages, then both times I get flat-on-my-back SICK sick, Scott's out of town. I managed to get some rest this weekend, but the kids wanted to be outside with daddy as he worked on their playset, so that meant supervising them outdoors, where my allergies aren't likely to speed recovery. I needed a day to loll about in bed, but aside from a Thursday morning nap, that didn't really happen, either. Oh, I was plenty lazy, but I didn't really REST rest, if you know what I mean. Thursday night Milo woke up croupy at 2 AM, so he and I were snuggled on the deck for a while, then I brought him back to bed with me -- not particularly relaxing as he flipped sideways in the bed and actually kicked me in the face. Then I rescued him three times from falling onto the floor. So not too much sleep that night, either. Violet has been waking once a night again, but I am luckily able to nurse her for a few minutes, then put her back down and she rolls right over onto her tummy, bum in the air. Anyway -- Milo went to the doctor where he was diagnosed with a cold and croup and prescribed steroids, which I will not give to him. Are you kidding me? He's amped up and whiny enough as it is -- I can't imagine him roid raging on top of being almost four... no way, baby!

In the meantime, the crazy amount of antibiotics in my system have done two good things and a bad thing. The bad thing, of course, is destroy the good flora in my digestive tract. Hence my yogurt all the time diet. The good things? Well, the pneumonia has been tamed into a bad chest cold. And the skin on my face is pristine! Who knew...

Communication

So I seem to be posting a lot about Violet right now. I think it's because she's hitting a real explosion in language development right now. That and she's the second child, so I feel the need to spread some glory to her instead of focusing so much on Milo's milestones, ya know?

Anyway, here are some of the cute things Miss Vivi has said lately:

"Wha happened?" with her arms up, shoulders shrugged like she's looking around after a tornado blew threw. She looks completely bewildered, eyes wide and everything. This is said frequently after loud noises, crashes, close-calls with falling objects, and outbursts from her brother. Her, "bwuh-nuh," that is.

"Up-ere!" or "Uppy!" I think she's saying up here, as in pick me up here where you are. Always said with arms stretched up and usually with legs trying to climb, too.

"Nertz" or "nursss" or "nuhssss" for nurse. At my "bets", of course.

Those bendy things in your arms? "Eh-boos." The caterpillar-y things above your eyes? "Eye-bows."

Our pets? "Poppy!" pant, pant. Yes, she pants every time. Sometimes she says "doggie" clear as a bell, but it is still followed by two pants. She correctly identifies "Mona" (Mocha) and "Tess" (Tess).

Time to go somewhere? "Bye-bye! See you!" and then I "buck-uh" her in to her "seat." Sometimes she wears a "jack-eet" when she goes "'side" to play, too.

When she wants to run around naked, she insists, "My potty!" so you'll help her with her diaper, since she can get un-"dessed" by herself. She does this both when she's getting ready for a bath and when she just thinks clothing should be optional, though she is very good about "wasss"-ing her hands and using wipes/wet Kleenex to clean the house.

When she's hungry, she'll always ask for a "nack" so she can "eatit" with her "wadah." She likes me to sit "right-here" on the couch, sometimes she'll be "back" if she gets down to do something. Usually to bring me a "bebe" -- often "Si-cella" (Cinderella) or a "bick" (book) about "Pee Bear" (Pooh Bear).

And the rest of the time, who knows what she's saying....

Rock'n'Roll, Baby!

"I am Iron Man, nuh-nuh-nuh nuh nuh-Iron-Man." this is Milo's new favorite song. And, Scott, being the preschooler-pleasing daddy he is, went out and bought a Black Sabbath CD for my 3.75-year-old child. I really have no objections to the "Iron Man" song, but can't stomach the rest of the disc. I didn't do Ozzy when I was a teen and I'm still not getting the appeal.

The other disc he purchased for my not-yet-in-schooler, however, is Led Zeppelin 4. And I'm way cool with that. Turns out Milo likes a grinding guitar and driving rock rhythm. A lot. And baby girl can rock'n'roll, too. She's a headbanger... Who knew? I am A-OK fine with this because it means that we've been listening to much less country pop crap. Never thought I'd be so glad to tune in to the classic rock station.

Miss Violet has hit another milestone -- she pointed at her reflection and said, "Vi-let!" Yay, baby girl! She's also actively trying to start conversations about things around her, whether or not I can understand her is a completely different matter. Ah, my happy child... She greets each spring day with a sense of wonder and charged excitedly into the morning. She is so dang refreshing...

Mr. 'lo has been enjoying the spring weather by adding to his "c'lections" of sticks and rocks, mostly sticks. We look like we have a pathetic pile of kindling on our porch, but it's actually Milo's "C'lection" of sticks. They are used as light sabers, staffs, swords, guns, and "Inny Jones'" whip. Fortunately, though my child is armed to the teeth, he is not aggressive and actually feels quite badly if he hurts someone. As in may even cry harder than the child who was hurt.

As for me? Well, I don't know if we'll have enough people to field a competition synchro team next year. We need to have eight and may only have five, so who knows... I would likely be coaching next year and that will require some money up front for credentials, background check, and taking judging tests. I don't really want to pay all of that unless we're actually going to compete, but the application deadlines are due 13 days before we resume practice and, I assume, learn if we'll have a team. What do I do? I dunno...

I think that if I'm not skating on a team, I may not continue to skate. I might pursue local fitness opportunities by taking a pilates or yoga class. I would save gas money and time because I'm driving 35 miles to the rink and back, but, on the other hand, I kind of like getting out of town every now and then. And I'm afraid that if I start doing stuff locally, I'll be less anonymous in the community -- although, I'll lose some of that anonymity when the kids get into school. Particularly since they'll be the rock'n'rolling Olingers...

My Princess

My favorite thing about toddlers is the so-called "language explosion." Both of my children have been early walkers and early talkers, but, unlike Milo, Violet has never been one to speak on command. As a result, I know that she says lots more than I actually hear.

Case in point: Yesterday at pick-up from daycare, the sitter was commenting on how when she says melon and Cinderella, they sound very similar. I said, "I've never heard her say EITHER of those words!"

So the sitter brought out the Cinderella dress and asked, "Who wears this dress?"

Naturally, Violet just smiled and pointed to the Cinderella face on the dress's brooch. After a little prodding, she finally answers "unna-la-la!" Cinderella, indeed.

My darling is also quite the critic. As I was singing "A Bushel and a Peck" to her while she was nursing the other evening, she sat up suddenly, pressed her soft little hand to my lips and said, "Bop!"

"Did you just tell me to stop?"

"Uh-huh." And she ducked her head back down, back to nursing. Well, OK, then... I'll stop singing, but I've got to tell ya, babe, I can carry a tune. Sure, I'm no American Idol, but I don't sing that badly -- at least not badly enough to warrant the cane...

It is often hard to hear my lil' princess as the prince has a royal motor-mouth. Milo can out-talk just about anyone, particularly now that he's become so interested in relationships between people and in trying to figure out how things work. He has "Great Ideas!" and explanations in abundance, so the fragmented babble of a toddler on the verge of a verbal sometimes blends into the background of the tapestry. But she's getting there, perhaps more quickly that I realize.

The other day, Scott was in the shower and she pulled the curtain back and peered in, announcing, "Want get a bath." Since the top half of her was already wet, Scott stripped her down and brought her into the shower for one of her most favorite of activities -- washing her hair.

Early last week, she even told me, "poo-poo pobby!" and when I put her on the little potty chair, she sat still as a sinner in church until she did, in fact, tinkle on the potty. Two nights ago she was stripped down before a lasagna dinner and skipped away naked into the bathroom, where she almost made it to the potty chair -- she left a little puddle right in front of it. What made this pretty amazing was that no one had taken her in there -- she went in all on her own without prompting.

I am continually amazed by her confidence, her persistence, and her ambition. She is rarely thwarted by frustration and possesses an amazing amount of patience for one so young. I know that she will be able to become anything that she wants; I recognize her drive. Who knows, she could be "unna-la-la" herself one day...

Growing Ups

"Mom, I don't have anyone to marry..." Milo is sitting next to me on the couch, dejected. I am nursing Violet and, when my lap isn't contested ground, Milo and I have been having some pretty deep conversation while Violet drinks and snuggles.

"Honey, you're three and don't really need to marry anyone for a very long time, if ever," I tell him gently, taking his thick little hand in mine. I squeeze it softly to let him know that I've heard him and take his inquiry seriously.

"If I don't have someone to marry when I get growed up, will I have to marry Violet?"

"No, little buddy, you can't marry your sister. If you want to get married when you're all grown up, you have someone to marry, I promise." Looking at him, I know it is true. He is a handsome little fellow, brimming with life and energy, his humor riddles every conversation. Of course, he is mine and I am tremendously biased, but his grandfather (my dad) agreed -- stating that, "he's got everything -- intellect, humor, personality, looks -- what more could you want?"

I sense that his question is more rooted in his immature attempt to puzzle together the pieces of family -- that he is matching people to mates and trying to understand the diagonal relationship of aunts, uncles and cousins. My suspicion is confirmed when, the next day or so, he hands me the action figure of Obi-wan Kenobi. I say, "Thanks! I love Obi-wan!"

"Mom! He's a toy... you can't kiss or marry a toy. That's silly!"

He is starting to figure out the rules, the code of society. He is constantly questioning why people do X or Y and what would happen if they did the opposite or chose something different. He's piecing together explanations, often logical in a three-year-old's illogic. His expectations are more firmly established, often leading to endless argument when they are unreasonable or unattainable -- as in "I want pizza!" on a night when I've already made another dinner. "If I eat some of my chicken, THEN I can have pizza!" followed by "You didn't make pizza??? But I waaaaaanted pizza!"

So we're trying to give him more control over his surroundings -- we've enlisted his assistance unloading the silverware from the dishwasher basket, sorting clean clothes, matching socks, putting away his toys and books every night. He enjoys this and likes feeling that he's contributing to our household. He refused to get into his bath last night until he'd gotten a firetruck puzzle put back into it's box and safely stowed with the rest of his puzzled. Scott couldn't argue that.

The smooth hand of doubt has crept into his psyche, too. One weekend he told me several times, "I'm not a smart boy." To my knowledge, no one has ever said that about him. Upon further questioning, he confessed that the sitter's daughters told him he wasn't smart. I think that the girls might have said something like, "Oh! That wasn't a smart thing to do!" when he did something not particularly well thought out, but I know both girls well enough to know that neither would tell him he wasn't smart. But that manufactured opinion became a pebble in his shoe and he couldn't stop thinking about it, incorrectly internalizing that he wasn't smart. This is such a small injury to his feelings, it was easily remedied by a quick discussion with the sitter and I've not heard a word about him being "not smart" since then. I know that not all slights, insults, and omissions will be as easily fixed; I understand that part of growing up is learning how to deal with the opinions of others, but my sensitive little soul lets these opinions rest on his little shoulders until he cannot carry them, then they spill out into my heart.

In Violet-world the biggest thrill is dress-up. She is working like mad to be able to pull up pants, slide into a shirt and jam her feet into shoes. Her taste is currently girly-girly and she's got her eyes on sparkly dance costumes and princess dresses. Too bad our dress-up box contains neither of those things, just a lone pink tutu...