Happy Halloween, my sweet mermaid!
Monday, October 31, 2005
Ava's Second Halloween
Last year I didn't dress Ava up in a costume. This year, I was urged (as in Becky saying "you HAVE to!) to dress her up, and so, I chose this...
Friday, October 28, 2005
Under my skin
Dear Ava,
This is what Mommy looked like in the final days when you were camping out in my tummy. I was big and round and gained sixty pounds even though you were only six and a half pounds when you were born.
That's no matter though, because we went to Mom & Baby Yoga and went on lots of walks, and I kept telling myself that it took nine months to get this size and it would likely take nine months for the weight to go away. Now, nearly nineteen months after your birth, all but eight pounds are gone. They're a stubborn eight pounds, settled on my abdomen, where weight has never settled before. Oh well, if eight pounds is what I have, eight pounds it is until I do something about it.
When you were growing inside me I used to sing to you. I sang you lots of songs, but the song I sang nearly every day was Frank Sinatra's "Under My Skin." I couldn't find anything more appropriate to sing you than "I've got you, under my skin; I've got you, deep in the heart of me." Although I didn't know for sure you were a girl, I'd still sing the line "Oh little girl, you never can win, because I've got you, under my skin."
Now I sing you this song when I want you to settle down and rest. Sometimes I sing the song just because it's in my head. When you're older and aren't as easily entertained by lights in the ceiling or unopened tea bags, I'll tell you this story, and wonder if everytime you hear that song when you're out and about in the world, you'll think of me.
This is what Mommy looked like in the final days when you were camping out in my tummy. I was big and round and gained sixty pounds even though you were only six and a half pounds when you were born.
That's no matter though, because we went to Mom & Baby Yoga and went on lots of walks, and I kept telling myself that it took nine months to get this size and it would likely take nine months for the weight to go away. Now, nearly nineteen months after your birth, all but eight pounds are gone. They're a stubborn eight pounds, settled on my abdomen, where weight has never settled before. Oh well, if eight pounds is what I have, eight pounds it is until I do something about it.
When you were growing inside me I used to sing to you. I sang you lots of songs, but the song I sang nearly every day was Frank Sinatra's "Under My Skin." I couldn't find anything more appropriate to sing you than "I've got you, under my skin; I've got you, deep in the heart of me." Although I didn't know for sure you were a girl, I'd still sing the line "Oh little girl, you never can win, because I've got you, under my skin."
Now I sing you this song when I want you to settle down and rest. Sometimes I sing the song just because it's in my head. When you're older and aren't as easily entertained by lights in the ceiling or unopened tea bags, I'll tell you this story, and wonder if everytime you hear that song when you're out and about in the world, you'll think of me.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Big girl bed
Hi big girl,
There are a few changes happening in our world...perhaps the most interesting to you is we replaced your crib with a big-girl toddler bed!
We also replaced most of your furniture with a bedroom set from Ikea. Your room looks now like a little girl sleeps and plays there, not a baby. You actually slept on your new bed all night last night. I started off laying down beside you, because fortunately Mah-MEE is short and fits on the bed, and your eyes plummeted, opened, plummeted, opened, and ker-plunk. You were out. I wandered back to my own big-girl bed and we all slept peacefully.
This morning I heard you cry on waking around 7, I peeked my head in and said "Good morning! Come out here when you're ready!" You were curious, there were no bars on your bed restraining you, and about five minutes later you toddled on out into the kitchen.
Your Dah-DEE and I are both wondering how the new bed will go. We both sense you're ready for a trifle more freedom and think this bed is a step in the right direction.
For now, you're in your bed fast asleep, but you were delivered that way from your Nana in your carseat an hour ago. We'll see how tonight goes, because me of all people know that I can't predict tonight based on last night when I'm living with a toddler.
I love you, my big girl.
Mah-MEE
There are a few changes happening in our world...perhaps the most interesting to you is we replaced your crib with a big-girl toddler bed!
We also replaced most of your furniture with a bedroom set from Ikea. Your room looks now like a little girl sleeps and plays there, not a baby. You actually slept on your new bed all night last night. I started off laying down beside you, because fortunately Mah-MEE is short and fits on the bed, and your eyes plummeted, opened, plummeted, opened, and ker-plunk. You were out. I wandered back to my own big-girl bed and we all slept peacefully.
This morning I heard you cry on waking around 7, I peeked my head in and said "Good morning! Come out here when you're ready!" You were curious, there were no bars on your bed restraining you, and about five minutes later you toddled on out into the kitchen.
Your Dah-DEE and I are both wondering how the new bed will go. We both sense you're ready for a trifle more freedom and think this bed is a step in the right direction.
For now, you're in your bed fast asleep, but you were delivered that way from your Nana in your carseat an hour ago. We'll see how tonight goes, because me of all people know that I can't predict tonight based on last night when I'm living with a toddler.
I love you, my big girl.
Mah-MEE
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Five days with Grandma Bear
Dear little one who is getting bigger by the second,
We just got home on Tuesday after five days with Grandma Bear. You still don't say Grandma Bear, although I would swear in court on a Bible that you've said bear before, you just don't say it anymore. You do, however, point in the right direction when I ask, "Where is Grandma Bear?"
This, of course, delights Grandma Bear totally and completely, even better than if she won the Colorado Lottery. Maybe.
We had a great time. You spent hours climbing up and down the stairs. You would sneak over to the stairs, thinking we weren't watching you, but come on, with not just one trained mom, but two the odds of you doing anything we didn't know about were near impossible. When you got to about the fourth step, you would sit down and pause, while either Grandma Bear or I would go over to you (depending on whose turn it was) and you would giggle like something hilarious just happened.
Climbing up you do the normal baby way, like a crawl, but up stairs. Your climbing down procedure varied between coming down one step at a time on your bottom, or sliding down on your tummy. Both are equally amusing.
You liked Grandma Bear's cat, Kiwi (who I have nicknamed Feisty Kitty), but Kiwi wanted nothing to do with you. We were grateful for that, because I don't call that petite calico Feisty Kitty for no reason.
We just got home on Tuesday after five days with Grandma Bear. You still don't say Grandma Bear, although I would swear in court on a Bible that you've said bear before, you just don't say it anymore. You do, however, point in the right direction when I ask, "Where is Grandma Bear?"
This, of course, delights Grandma Bear totally and completely, even better than if she won the Colorado Lottery. Maybe.
We had a great time. You spent hours climbing up and down the stairs. You would sneak over to the stairs, thinking we weren't watching you, but come on, with not just one trained mom, but two the odds of you doing anything we didn't know about were near impossible. When you got to about the fourth step, you would sit down and pause, while either Grandma Bear or I would go over to you (depending on whose turn it was) and you would giggle like something hilarious just happened.
Climbing up you do the normal baby way, like a crawl, but up stairs. Your climbing down procedure varied between coming down one step at a time on your bottom, or sliding down on your tummy. Both are equally amusing.
You liked Grandma Bear's cat, Kiwi (who I have nicknamed Feisty Kitty), but Kiwi wanted nothing to do with you. We were grateful for that, because I don't call that petite calico Feisty Kitty for no reason.
October 2004, Ava at 6 months
You got to see people out there who remembered you from our last visit a year ago, who marveled at the walking baby that had replaced the one who I previously carried about in the infant carrier. A couple were salivating over you, not because they wanted a baby, but because they wanted a grandbaby.
You also loved the digital camera, and wanted to see the "baby" every time someone, anyone took a picture of you.
You also had a great time "driving" the boat as we took pictures to send to Dah-DEE. Obviously in this shot you are looking to make sure there are no other boats in the way before you merge left.
Grandma Bear took good care of us. Going to visit her is like a vacation from a vacation. Mah-MEE's mobile phone with mobile email doesn't work high up in the mountains of Colorado (probably one of the last places on earth it doesn't) so Mah-MEE really gets to relax. Every morning Grandma Bear asks "what should we have for dinner?" and lists all of the meat in her well stocked freezer. I missed her for that when I got home and had to ask myself that question. I missed her for a lot more than that also.
Your Grandma Bear, she's great. Her heart is big and full of love for us. Someday I'll tell you the story of how I named her Grandma Bear, but not today.
I love you Ava,
And we all love you, Grandma Bear.
Friday, October 21, 2005
At the airport
We are waiting for our flight and I have just taught Ava what an airplane is.
Every 5 min I ask her, Ava where is the airplane?
It's my inside joke, like when we went to see March of the Penguins and I asked her "where is the penguin?"
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
The perfect response
Hi honey,
If there is one question I could teach you as the catch-all phrase when someone asks you a question you don't want to answer, it would be...
Why do you want to know?
I learned this response late in life. I wish I'd known it early on, because people are always asking for all kinds of information and often I answer, only wish I had the forethought to respond with ... Why do you want to know?
This question stops most people dead in their tracks because they don't have a good reason for wanting to know, sure, they may be curious, but really it's none of their business.
I've never been one for a snappy, mildly sarcastic response to a situation. Like Meg Ryan's character in "You've Got Mail," I tend to wish I had a snappy response, but never do, and fret about it for days after the event.
I wish I carried "Why do you want to know?" around in my back pocket, like a wooden stake against verbal vampires, but I don't.
Maybe though, in teaching you to ask that question, I can learn to say it more often too.
love,
Mom
If there is one question I could teach you as the catch-all phrase when someone asks you a question you don't want to answer, it would be...
Why do you want to know?
I learned this response late in life. I wish I'd known it early on, because people are always asking for all kinds of information and often I answer, only wish I had the forethought to respond with ... Why do you want to know?
This question stops most people dead in their tracks because they don't have a good reason for wanting to know, sure, they may be curious, but really it's none of their business.
I've never been one for a snappy, mildly sarcastic response to a situation. Like Meg Ryan's character in "You've Got Mail," I tend to wish I had a snappy response, but never do, and fret about it for days after the event.
I wish I carried "Why do you want to know?" around in my back pocket, like a wooden stake against verbal vampires, but I don't.
Maybe though, in teaching you to ask that question, I can learn to say it more often too.
love,
Mom
Friday, October 07, 2005
The World of Crayola
Today, my love, I introduced you to my giant box of Crayola Crayons with the sharpener built into the back.
You are reaching the point where you would rather make your mark than eat the wax, so I knew it was time.
At first, I only handed you a couple crayons, but you pointed at the yellow box on the table with a force that proved only that you are not telekinetic. Too bad, that could come in handy. Anyway, I put the whole box on the floor, and the first thing you did was to push the crayons in your hand back into the box. Not in the right spots, of course, meaning an open spot, because the colors are not in any sort of order. I believe I once even dumped out the whole box in front of your cousin Destiny to her utter amazement. So by "right" spot, I only mean one that was capable of readily accepting a crayon. That didn't matter, of course, and you shut the lid anyway.
Now, I have put the crayons away and the Powerpuff Girls coloring book, which I have no intention of explaining why I own, and you are peacefully napping. We all had a rough night last night, with your first case of the stomach flu and how your Dah-DEE and I got to see the food we put in you for dinner (banana and blueberries, because you were sick) once again, all over the couch.
But I digress.
I was pondering the crayons as I lay on the bed resting with you to my left, unagi curled into the crook behind my knees. Once upon a time Crayola used to have a color called "flesh" which they have renamed to "peach" under the guise of political correctness. I took out "peach" just a minute ago, made a mark on white paper, and compared it to my own skin. Not a match.
I then took out a color called "tan" and one called "tumbleweed" and my favorite name, "burnt sienna." I don't know what a sienna is nor how you burn one, but I remember this name from my childhood. I made marks with these on the white paper and observed how I don't really look like any of them.
I'm a bit less pink than peach, and not as orange as tan. Tumbleweed is a bit too errant, although I do like traveling.
If I held these same colors up to you, I wonder where you would fit?
See, the thing is, that you and I, as you'll figure out at some point probably in elementary school, are not the same color. People who don't look too closely think you're the same color as your Dah-DEE, but as your Uncle Anthony said, she's not as dark as his brother (Dah-DEE). And not as light as me, I added.
You are somewhere in between his tan to burnt sienna and my peach to cafe au lait. Speaking of cafe au lait, that would make a darn good Crayola color.
This used to bug me, that we weren't the same color. I kept searching for some bit of you that looked like me, something beyond the obvious because the obvious is skin color. I had to give that up, over and over. Even when I was in Mexico for a week, getting tan, I came home and you had been out in the central California sun, getting more tan. You will always beat me at tanning contests, you turn a rich burnt sienna even with SPF 45 in about ten minutes of sun exposure.
As you grow older though, the resemblance peeks through. In the bridge of your nose and around your eyes, I can see me. Your girl parts, you definitely got those from me. You wrinkle the bridge of your nose when you laugh, like me.
I wonder what check box to mark when I have to specify what nationality you are. Your heritage is a cornucopia of European from me - Irish, Swedish, French Basque, Norwegian; but also German, American Indian, and Mexican from your Dah-DEE.
You are a mix, a blend, a harmony of nationalities mixed to remarkable perfection. You aren't a check box on a form, but then, who is?
The truth is, in a black and white photo, we are all shades of gray, and even to Crayola, gray is still gray.
You are reaching the point where you would rather make your mark than eat the wax, so I knew it was time.
At first, I only handed you a couple crayons, but you pointed at the yellow box on the table with a force that proved only that you are not telekinetic. Too bad, that could come in handy. Anyway, I put the whole box on the floor, and the first thing you did was to push the crayons in your hand back into the box. Not in the right spots, of course, meaning an open spot, because the colors are not in any sort of order. I believe I once even dumped out the whole box in front of your cousin Destiny to her utter amazement. So by "right" spot, I only mean one that was capable of readily accepting a crayon. That didn't matter, of course, and you shut the lid anyway.
Now, I have put the crayons away and the Powerpuff Girls coloring book, which I have no intention of explaining why I own, and you are peacefully napping. We all had a rough night last night, with your first case of the stomach flu and how your Dah-DEE and I got to see the food we put in you for dinner (banana and blueberries, because you were sick) once again, all over the couch.
But I digress.
I was pondering the crayons as I lay on the bed resting with you to my left, unagi curled into the crook behind my knees. Once upon a time Crayola used to have a color called "flesh" which they have renamed to "peach" under the guise of political correctness. I took out "peach" just a minute ago, made a mark on white paper, and compared it to my own skin. Not a match.
I then took out a color called "tan" and one called "tumbleweed" and my favorite name, "burnt sienna." I don't know what a sienna is nor how you burn one, but I remember this name from my childhood. I made marks with these on the white paper and observed how I don't really look like any of them.
I'm a bit less pink than peach, and not as orange as tan. Tumbleweed is a bit too errant, although I do like traveling.
If I held these same colors up to you, I wonder where you would fit?
See, the thing is, that you and I, as you'll figure out at some point probably in elementary school, are not the same color. People who don't look too closely think you're the same color as your Dah-DEE, but as your Uncle Anthony said, she's not as dark as his brother (Dah-DEE). And not as light as me, I added.
You are somewhere in between his tan to burnt sienna and my peach to cafe au lait. Speaking of cafe au lait, that would make a darn good Crayola color.
This used to bug me, that we weren't the same color. I kept searching for some bit of you that looked like me, something beyond the obvious because the obvious is skin color. I had to give that up, over and over. Even when I was in Mexico for a week, getting tan, I came home and you had been out in the central California sun, getting more tan. You will always beat me at tanning contests, you turn a rich burnt sienna even with SPF 45 in about ten minutes of sun exposure.
As you grow older though, the resemblance peeks through. In the bridge of your nose and around your eyes, I can see me. Your girl parts, you definitely got those from me. You wrinkle the bridge of your nose when you laugh, like me.
I wonder what check box to mark when I have to specify what nationality you are. Your heritage is a cornucopia of European from me - Irish, Swedish, French Basque, Norwegian; but also German, American Indian, and Mexican from your Dah-DEE.
You are a mix, a blend, a harmony of nationalities mixed to remarkable perfection. You aren't a check box on a form, but then, who is?
The truth is, in a black and white photo, we are all shades of gray, and even to Crayola, gray is still gray.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Eighteen months and going strong
Hi Sweet Girl,
You are officially eighteen months or one year and a half old. As always, I have a hard time you've been hanging out with me for that long.
When I want to know if you're hungry, I say "Ava eat?" and you say "Eeet!"
You get mad a little easier than you used to, especially if I take something from you, like your toothbrush, even if you are all done brushing your teeth. You aren't so bad at brushing them, I must say, which is quite impressive at 18 months. You really hate it when I brush them, so we gave up and handed you the brush. The first few days you chewed more than brushed, but after watching us brush every day, twice a day, you're figuring it out.
You win my heart over every time you hand me a book, then turn around and sit in the middle of my crossed legs.
You pick up a new word each day, sometimes a couple a day. The new word du jour was blueberry, which sounded like boo-bear. The other words we've noticed are:
You are speaking new words like crazy. Every moment you pick up something new that we say. Here are the words we've noticed so far:
tortilla (tohr-TEEEEE-yah)
unagi (oooo-nah-gee)
hola (oh-la)
mommy (mah-MEE)
daddy (dah-DEE)
nana (nah-nah)
papa (papa, but in a whisper)
bear (bay-er)
dog (dah)
duck (duh)
eat (eeeet)
Despite all of my efforts to teach you sign language, the only sign I notice is "all done" which is an action made with both hands like twisting open a door knob. When I say "more" and make the sign, you pick up your dish and wave it at me, or point. I get it, more.
You can identify your nose, my nose, your head, cheek, feet, and tummy. Someday when I ask "where's Ava's chicken?" you'll giggle and point at your ribs because you know that's where you're going to be tickled.
Tonight you're not feeling so well. You've got a fever and even threw up for the first time in forever. As I say when we're sick, you get to eat what you want, and what you wanted was a banana. And then boo-bears.
You are becoming a bit less mommy dependent, especially at My Gym. This week when you saw where we were, you ran off, leaving me to eat your smoke. Okay, maybe you didn't run, but you sure didn't spend much time looking for me. You did spend time watching Jack swing on the uneven bars and put your hands up on the bar to try his amazing stunt. You didn't quite get that he was hanging by his hands and that allowed him to take his feet off the ground, but you gave it your best shot by standing on your toes.
I'm a Mom. I don't have a plaque or a sign that says so, but with as much as I talk about you, I don't need one; everyone already knows.
What else does everyone know? That you are a beautiful, easy, wonderful little girl, and everyone loves you.
Especially me.
You are officially eighteen months or one year and a half old. As always, I have a hard time you've been hanging out with me for that long.
When I want to know if you're hungry, I say "Ava eat?" and you say "Eeet!"
You get mad a little easier than you used to, especially if I take something from you, like your toothbrush, even if you are all done brushing your teeth. You aren't so bad at brushing them, I must say, which is quite impressive at 18 months. You really hate it when I brush them, so we gave up and handed you the brush. The first few days you chewed more than brushed, but after watching us brush every day, twice a day, you're figuring it out.
You win my heart over every time you hand me a book, then turn around and sit in the middle of my crossed legs.
You pick up a new word each day, sometimes a couple a day. The new word du jour was blueberry, which sounded like boo-bear. The other words we've noticed are:
You are speaking new words like crazy. Every moment you pick up something new that we say. Here are the words we've noticed so far:
tortilla (tohr-TEEEEE-yah)
unagi (oooo-nah-gee)
hola (oh-la)
mommy (mah-MEE)
daddy (dah-DEE)
nana (nah-nah)
papa (papa, but in a whisper)
bear (bay-er)
dog (dah)
duck (duh)
eat (eeeet)
Despite all of my efforts to teach you sign language, the only sign I notice is "all done" which is an action made with both hands like twisting open a door knob. When I say "more" and make the sign, you pick up your dish and wave it at me, or point. I get it, more.
You can identify your nose, my nose, your head, cheek, feet, and tummy. Someday when I ask "where's Ava's chicken?" you'll giggle and point at your ribs because you know that's where you're going to be tickled.
Tonight you're not feeling so well. You've got a fever and even threw up for the first time in forever. As I say when we're sick, you get to eat what you want, and what you wanted was a banana. And then boo-bears.
You are becoming a bit less mommy dependent, especially at My Gym. This week when you saw where we were, you ran off, leaving me to eat your smoke. Okay, maybe you didn't run, but you sure didn't spend much time looking for me. You did spend time watching Jack swing on the uneven bars and put your hands up on the bar to try his amazing stunt. You didn't quite get that he was hanging by his hands and that allowed him to take his feet off the ground, but you gave it your best shot by standing on your toes.
I'm a Mom. I don't have a plaque or a sign that says so, but with as much as I talk about you, I don't need one; everyone already knows.
What else does everyone know? That you are a beautiful, easy, wonderful little girl, and everyone loves you.
Especially me.
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