Dirty Thirty

You know why they call it dirty thirty? It sneaks up on you. There you are mastering your 20s, feeling satisfied with what you don't know and fully capable of making mistakes, and wham! 30 kicks you to the curb and tells you to grow up.

I fought back. I wore hot pink pants all day long, was tardy for my test, ate veggies sticks (aka potato chips) like a teenager (aka as real veggies) and licked my lips until they were chapped because I refused to come in from the cold like the little kid I once was. Pippa helped by bringing back the 80s with her adorable legwarmers.

Yes, I spent 12-12-12 reclaiming my youth. And then, after making a birthday cake at 10:30 pm, I scrubbed my sink with lemon rinds (you can't waste an opportunity like that) and gathered my yarn to crochet. Conflicting. I rebelled against my inner grandma all day and when the party should've started my true colors bled through, in a lovely shade of old gray. Dirty thirty. It aged me right into retirement.

In and Out

Drum roll.......

Nine months inside the belly.

 Nine months outside the belly.

I can only imagine what nine additional months will bring.

Holiday Bingo

Well hello finals. As usual you have landed on my birthday. In retaliation I chose to create a holiday game when I should have been studying (besides the test on my birthday, I have one tomorrow morning). I do believe higher education has paid off. Now that I'm officially certified I can write a list of behavior terms paired with Christmas words resulting in a humorous read. If only I had thrown a few of these in my research paper.

Word Nerd

Pippa loves words. Words on paper. Words on tags. Words on bags. Words on cups. Words that rhyme. To be completely honest I'm a little surprised she has only said a couple of words. Mommy is not one of them. She babbles dada and said bye to Grandma once, but her true first word was book.

She has a few board books and soft books that we read all day long. Then when mom can't stand to say "Goodnight noises everywhere" one more time, I let Pippa play alone, with her words. This both excites and frustrates. She loves turning pages and touches the text, but some of those books are awkwardly large for her small little hands. The books get flipped and stuck with the pages plastered to the floor. And then begins the tantrum. Because this also leads to Pippa lying on her stomach and pushing herself backwards away from her books.

On Halloween I decided to interrupt the cycle and pulled her into my lap instead. Then I asked if she wanted her book. She smiled and repeated "book." Twice that happened. Now, a week later I returned to the living room to find her sprawled on the floor reading a magazine and talking about it with her new friend, the baby boy on the cover.

Halloweeny

Two writers sitting on the couch, lamenting on the task of documenting Baby's First Halloween. When Pippa reads this in 16 years she may try for emancipation. Especially when she learns that I ate her special cupcake. Or that I failed to find a pumpkin large enough to carve and we "borrowed" the neighbors for a photograph.


The decorations were purchased a mere 6 days before the 31st and my spooky music was a bust. To top the failure, Pippa fell asleep at 6:45 pm, the excitement of seeing too many goblins an ghosts (actually we got a lot of pirates). When she woke up an hour later we did a quick costume change and tried to teach the concept of handing out candy. She's great at grabbing toostie rolls from the bowl, not so good at giving them to others.

My Little Herbivore

One redeeming quality about our home is the leaves. I've only raked one time, because I thought the neighbors might come after us with pitch forks, but really I love have a splatter of yellow, orange, and red on our walk way and yard.

Today I let Pippa play in the leaves long enough to get dirt on all her white clothing. As you'll see in the photos, she blissfully ignored her mama in favor of munching on some brilliant leaves. Maybe the various colors taste different.

This is sooo not the basement.

Mom's really leaving me here. Alone?!

Yay!

This leaf looks a little big for one bite. I'll have to minimize it.

That's better. No one here to stop me.

Tastes a little earthy and bitter mom, kinda like that oatmeal you gave me.

I refuse to be incriminated by these phot....was that a chipmunk?

Leaves tear just like magazine pages.

Dad would get a kick out of this. Where is he?

Oh well. More for me!

Bananas

We've been experimenting with solid foods, and we've encountered some not so pleasant surprises. Sweet potatoes make Pippa's face pucker. Green beans make her gag. Oatmeal makes her throw up. All this caused a major regression on solids intake, she wouldn't even considered eating her favorite rice cereal. Just sitting in the highchair has become cause for alarm.

Grandma, with her wisdom and bean whisperingness, told me to forgo the expert opinions (cereals, then veggies before fruit, because we now want babies to hate life) and try a banana. Naturally sugary and sweet. Pippa was skeptical at first but then decided her mom was no longer trying to trick her and enjoyed her three small helpings. The last round being right before her bath.

A bath. Where she soaked and played and had her hair washed, multiple times. Someone in our family thought that a bath needed some moisture saving element and added baby oil. Even after washing her hair and rinsing it with clean water, Pippa's hair shines like teenage boy's slicked back 'do.

As annoyed as I was last night, I am confused and thankful this morning. While I was holding her on my lap I noticed a suspicious clump in her hair. A clump of mashed up banana, that should be dried and  gluelike. I braced myself for some tearing as I started to pull the clump out of her hair. It slipped right out. I'm still not sure how it got there, but I'm certain her oiled hair helped the dried food make a clean exit.

Hoodwinked

Who doesn't love a good internet scam? The girl who spends her entire day caught in the interweb of deceit.

Skip gave me his old Mac to use when my Sony became slug-like and lost sound and video capabilities. Now four months later, I am unable to open a browser on Safari. Not a big deal except I work from home (online) and am enrolled in a master's program (online).

So I tried updates, reboots, some powering down time for the MacBook. When I failed as a tech genius I called Apple for back up. Soon I was talking to tech support, who told me they could fix my computer with remote access, for a fee of course. Somewhere in the back of my mind, the sane voice whispered "no" while my outdoor voice said "yes". Within moments I connected to a techy who stumbled through the same steps I had.

I kept explaining that I had already done this and that. Then I problemed solved on my own for a bit and got further then the supposed geek on the phone. By now I was regretting my outdoor voice, but I also thought I was in the hands of an Apple pro and was willing to listen. Then he told me to run a hard drive scan and he'd call me back in 30 min. An hour later, after solving a couple other crises, I decided to call him back with the "direct" number I'd been given. (Yeah, laugh people. I know how it sounds. I too was suspicious.)

A new techy answered and I explained in agonizing detail what was happening. He too was at a loss and had me reboot and try again. Frankly, the computer could be malfunctioning due to the thousands of reboots they had me do. No luck, and the parting wisdom was, "You're going to have to clear everything and reinstall the system with the discs from your original purchase."

Ahhh...right. I'll just grab those out of my pocket. But at least the techy told me I could go to Apple and repurchase the system. wow.

So I hung up. Thought about the cash monies I spent to have someone tell me to go repurchase my computer and thought, "Self, you've been duped."

Then I called Apple (mind you I just hit redial from a few hours previous). Talked to an Apple customer service rep who tells me that he cannot issue a refund because there is no such tech support.

"We don't have a plan similar to what you're describing."

Apple apparently doesn't charge people for calling with questions, which is what my gut was telling me all along.

And the final zing: my MacBook system is too old for Apple to offer support/protection (at this point we were talking riddles to each other).

So back to the scam artists. I took the necessary precautions with my credit card, refusing payment, canceling card, etc. My credit card company finds the charge under a "legit" tech support company and gives me the phone number. Armed with new information I call and demand my refund.

They would gladly give me a refund, says the ebonics-speaking "helper" who answers my call, but I'd be charged for speaking with a technician. Riiiiiight, who was the technician? The 15-year-old who told me to figure out how to get online so he could help me, or the guy who told me to go to Apple to repurchase my computer software?

A lively back and forth debate ensued during which I was asked if I thought I could return food that I had purchased from the grocery store after I decided I didn't want it.

Yes, I responded, actually I can, especially if it's expired, or an empty cereal box, or has a toe in it, all of which applied to this situation. You see, they offered me the product of remote access to fix my computer. They could not get remote access. I purchased a non-existent product (the empty cereal box).

As I laid out my ace, and she had no retort, she gave in. I had won. And then there was silence. Followed by a reluctant acknowledgement that she could not deny I was right. My refund will be applied toward my new computer.

Hey Jealousy

After we married, Skip caught a little bug called baby lust. He'd see a cute baby with a cute mommy and go nuts then turn into a pile of mush and excitement as he simultaneously become nostalgic and prophetic. Crazy times. I on the other was totally cool and patted his head in mockery.

Now I have my own form of baby lust, or envy, jealousy, otherwise known as competitive dressing with my Bean. Most days Pippa wins hands down. I dress her in an adorable outfit, post a picture and mourn my sweats. Then in a fit of optimism I went shopping for myself and bought a matching sweater jacket. Since it has not arrived I felt unfulfilled.

Browsing online I noticed that Old Navy had some cool new pop color rockstar pants. Hello. Sounds fancy. Normally, when I'm not hopped up on hormones, I wear deep dark colors like black or navy. With a baby girl and her various shades of pink, that is the only color I see. It looks wonderful on a 7 month old so clearly I, too, needed hot pink pants. Done. Pippa and I will match for the next 10 years.

Aunt Amber Said

Sleep training. Ugh.

Let's recap. I suffer with other people's children daily. I force them to learn through tears, screams, kicks, bites and mountains of developmental disabilities. And it doesn't phase me. I walk out the door and smile feeling good about the chaos I created and ended in an hour's time. In fact in my office I'm well loved and hated for being strict and firm. Hard core.

Enter motherhood and an infant that refuses to sleep through the night. Oh trust me I know why. I co-slept for during her first few months, especially when her dad was in Africa and Pippa and I were traveling across the West. Then we came home and moved into a new house, took a little road trip, I started school and BOOM! I was a zombie sloppily wiping sleep from my eyes and drool from my text books.

In a not so rare fit of self pity, I called my sister Amber and asked about her baby who is a two months older than Pippa. He's sleeping soundly through the night. Pippa was waking up every 30-45 minutes and wanted to be fed and held for nearly an hour. And that's when Aunt Amber said the awful obvious truth: Pippa needed sleep training. So we cried it out, for two hours at a time that first night. Every time Pippa took a breath and wound up for another shriek, I just looked her in the eye and told her to sleep "because Aunt Amber said so."

Yep, strict and firm.

Reunited

School has officially started for me, which means summer has officially ended. And in some ways I'm glad. Pippa was too young to wear sunblock, and the humidity out here negates the shade, so we spent most our time indoors anyway. We also fit in two family reunions, one built around my brother's wedding and the other built around a NASCAR detour. Both extraneous events ended with tired eyes and huge smiles and to prove the success of our relations with our loved ones, I'll post some photos.

(Disclaimer: We constantly loose and misplace our cameras. Even when we've packed them in our pockets for the event. So we don't always have pictures of everyone we'd like to. Blame it on bad planning.)

Swimming in the river, a daily occurrence in Arkansas.

Who knew there was great shopping in Mena? These girls.

The non-photo bombed edition. I was in big trouble for ruining the family portrait...

Pippa's blessing the day after Travis and Jessica were married.

Those under 10 nearly outnumber the rest of us!

The Skipper's crew for Pippa watching.

Infamous group hug.

Sister photo. Did I mention we all had babies over the year?

Yai Yai and Papou

Vrrroom vrrooom

"Engines pumping and thumping in time. The green light flashes, the flags go up. Churning and burning they yern for the cup...she's racing and pacing and plotting the course...she's going the distance. She's going for speed."

Loop that for the five and half hour drive from Mena to Dallas and the three hours needed to dry the wet track and you have the pep talk Skip gave me before turning me loose on the Texas Motor Speedways track. Skip gave me the ultimate anniversary gift--his VIP pass to the Tony Stewart Smoke Show. AWESOME!

Doug, my nemesis.

We were the esteemed guests of Doug Turnbull, a creative physics gun genius who made Skip's beloved Big Medicine. You know, the gun he sleeps with while I care for Pippa. And I had no idea what I was in for. Here are some facts:

Skip talked me up and trash talked with the other contestants.

I am a sleep deprived woman and my infant sleeps poorly in new places.

I drive slow when tired...real s l o w.

Skip has driven the speed I hit on my first 10 laps, on a twisty volcanic road.

I now own a firesuit, driving shoes, and Smoke Show helmet.

Skip is jealous.

Hello.

Yeah, those first 10 laps were unexpected. Even after the driving school. It's hard to tell your mind not to stay in the lines and that you want to head straight at the wall 25 feet away while driving 115 mph. That's why I only drove 115 mph for the first session. And I was lapped. By Doug. Twice. Oh the shame.

Then I rode shotgun with Tony Stewart. I was giggling and happy for the first straightway. Once we hit the curve a weird lack of oxygen happened and I start coughing up phlegm. Imagine the free fall ride at an amusement park. This is cooler.

Pippa's a little upset she couldn't ride with me.
I'm the blurr back there. 

For my second round of driving I had a clear vision of what to do. Doug had coached me on the turns and when to accelerate (they have specific rules). Skip told me to punch the gas pedal, "Make the instructor tell you to slow down." It worked. I maxed out at 150 (they have governors, insurance policy). And it's much easier to drive into the wall at that speed ;)

Fan Club!

All the girls gave Skip 'Father of the Year'. And Pippa charmed everyone, even Tony found an excuse to play with her.

Men look at your lady. Now look back at me, in the Old Spice car.

Yummy!

Pippa has inspired me and we will be visiting the Ice Cream Shack in our old 'hood. I expect to answer many questions on our absence over the last week (family reunion in AR and a chance to race Doug Turnbull and the Texas Motor Speedways). But, hey, when you've got NASCARS to race, you can't be contained in Sunnyland.

Baby Ink

We moved. To a large house with a basement (tornado watch) and a Pippa play room (parent approved). Our new house came right out of the 80s, but was actually built in the 60s and wouldn't you know it already feels like home among our many piles of boxes. And yes, mothers, our 5 month old has not transitioned well. Do you know how well you sleep with three people in a double bed?

With the move I misplaced our cameras. I wanted to show off our new place, more specifically the large tropical flowers in our yard. Remember this because later, when I find the cameras and post the pictures, I will let you all believe I live in paradise.

So here we are with our boxes, completely disheveled new mom stressed about a life-altering test coming her way this September and Skip decides to give our couch and towels a makeover. Plus Pippa gets her first tattoo. This is not a joke people. I have scrubbed her good, with a variety of baby-safe techniques and she's sporting three black ink marks. Maybe it's a good thing I can't find the cameras (all four!) because there are some things a child should not be privy to.

It went down something like this:

Skip to me: "What did YOU do to our beautiful daughter?! What is that black streak on her leg?"

Me: "........huh?.....what?.....was I snoring?.... what did you do?...."

Skip: "Look at this. What is it?"

Me (totally concerned): "It's too dark. What did YOU do to our daughter?"

Skip completely offended that I would ever blame him for anything so ridiculous. "No really what is that? When did she get it?"

Me: "What are you talking about?"

I left the comfort of my green chair knowing full well that this must be a ploy for Skip to steal the prized seat. Nope. Pippa had a black streak on her thigh. And her arm, her calf and many a scuff on her white outfit. Any mother's nightmare. It didn't come off easily, and two hours and a bath later it had only faded.

Somehow Skip's black shirt worn for motorcycle purposes had evolved to permanent marker. A mixture of deodorant, sun, fumes and sweat created an ink pool on his side, leaked onto his backpack and marked up anything he came in contact with. If I can prove it's non-toxic and safe, we may have stumbled onto a henna-like substance. Otherwise I just proved child endangerment.

Christmas in July

You know what happens when you are a mom and a toy store has a retirement clearance sale? You stock up on Christmas gifts. Or if you are addle-minded and sleep deprived (read Breanna), you buy age-inappropriate gifts that you'll need to store for a couple years (in addition to cutting your own bangs and experimenting with caffeine--it does indeed affect Pippa). Planning ahead. A skill yet to be mastered.

Mermaid

We celebrated a 4 month birthday today :) And since we were thrilled that neither of us have dropped, burned, stepped on or elbowed Pippa, we decided the only thing to do was to try our hand at failing to submerge her in chlorinated water.

She loved the water and splashed about a bit. The photos below document the experience well. So for the word nerds here is a short story that sums up her emerging personality.

Even though Skip and I did all the work when we went swimming I expected Pippa to be worn out. I recently implemented a 9 p.m. bedtime and have loved the routine. As nine came and went I threw my hands in the air despairingly.

"We must get some ice cream from the shack on the corner," cried my bone-weary self.

As much as I welcomed sleep, Pippa fought it and only a chocolate-covered cherry frozen treat could console me. I later regretted this decision for many reasons, one that I screwed up my bedtime routine. That five minute trip cost me an extra hour of bouncing, rocking, rubbing, swinging and singing. In a dark room, on a dark bed I cuddle Pippa and struggled to find one more lullaby. When my memory failed me I launched into the eleventh round of "You are my sunshine..."By then it seemed Pippa's kicking and arm flailing beat in time with my broken record.

I stopped singing because my throat hurt from the soft tone I was using and because it wasn't working. I took a couple deep breaths and told Pippa that when she was older, she'd wished she'd had this extra hour of sleep. Then I dramatically threw my arm over my eyes. I felt a final move to my left then silence. I lifted one eyelid and swallowed a giggle. Pippa had thrown her arm over her eyes in mirror to me and promptly fell asleep. Stubborn but smart. I think she just might live another month.

Let Your Colors Burst

Fourth of July + heat wave + muggy damp air = SPARKLERS!

Out here in Peoria we have nightly light shows displayed by our neighborhood fireflies. So on the holiday of freedom we chose to give back and dazzle the fireflies with our wild sparklers' drawings. We drew dizzying circles, squares, figure eights and at times let the sparks sparkle on their own. Next year we'll incorporate some color.

Caught!

For Father's Day weekend Skip bought me some flowers to plant in my pots. Read that sentence again. I've got a good thing going here. Pippa and I planted all but one right away. That one was carefully put in the shade for later. And it endured a horrible storm that night. Whoops! But that would not be the end of this story.

We planted it a couple days after the storm (it took me that long to decide that it could be revived and I had not killed it). Surprisingly it perked up the next day and had bright pink flower buds. A morning or two after that I noticed some potting soil on the deck. At first I thought I'd been a messy gardener, but when I looked again there was noticeably more soil on the deck and my flower was lying on its side wilting in the heat.

So we anchored it in the soil again and gave it a drink.

Doomed, I thought. And possibly the end of me receiving gifts on Skip's holidays.

Once more it flourished, as much as one little plant can for two days before a horrendous night of wind and rain beat it down. I had placed the plant on a stool to keep the critters out of it. The storm knocked it over and my plant lay a few inches from its pot. By now you believe this to be the bitter end. It is not. We re-planted. And the flower buds returned. And I moved the pot back down on the deck....

And this morning I saw the chipmunk digging in the soil. And tonight I'll be ready with my Daisy Red Ryder. I'm declaring war on the flower obsessed chipmunk and the squirrel that stares at me when I eat.

Temptation

Does anyone else see this and have the urge to snuggle up? I see her sleeping, smelling sweet and I want nothing more than to grab her and hold her tight and nap with her. Exactly like I used to do with my stuffed animals. Unfortunately I found some of those animals on the floor or crammed in a corner the next morning. So I must refrain.

Still the thought of holding her intoxicates me and my arms twitch. Often I find myself lying beside her, my head placed just so, in hopes that she'll sense me and skootch up to me. Or maybe just graze my face with her flickering fingers. And that explains the scratches, but does nothing to quell the desire to "hug her and squeeze her and pat her and pet her..." Soon I'll be calling her George.

Mom vs. Dad

When Skip's sister flew out to see a fresh young Pippa she witnessed Skip vying for favorite parent status. He had a lot against him seeing as I was the person feeding the babe and really that's all she needed. Now that she needs 24 hours of attention the competitive parenting has actual competitions--who can make her smile, laugh or put her to sleep. I've still got an edge with nursing but after this morning it might not matter.

A little thing called life got in the way and I had to leave Skip in charge for a bit. Pippa's full tummy gave way to a fussy episode that resulted in soaked pajamas prompting an outfit change. Skip gave me the play by play when I returned home a little over an hour later, ending with "Doesn't she look cute?"

This is something I ask Skip multiple times a day. I'll send pictures through text and email or hold her up during a skype session. "Doesn't your daughter look cute?" I'll ask after painstakingly matching her fifth shirt to her third skirt to her socks or leggings and completing the outfit with a headband and bow.

"Notice how the trim on the skirt pulls out the color of the daisies on her top? And look the stitching on her socks are the same as her flower bow, plus it's a complementary color of her buttons. The Sesame Street character on her diaper is in the same color family." We accessorize with blankets, pacifiers, and mommy's outfit.

I looked under the blanket to see what Skip had dressed her in.

"Yes dear, that's a darling onesie."

The Power of P90X

Or something like that. I tend to get the order of the P the 90 and the X confused. Oddly enough, I also get the exercises confused and am usually one or two steps behind or ahead. And I know that you are all hoping this post is complete with a photo of my awesome abs, bulging biceps and cut calves. There are no such photos. There are no such muscles.

No this is a story of the family bonding time created by a 30 minute Core Synergestics endeavor. First, I convinced Skip that there were enough pushups in the program for him to skip the weights at the gym and come home. This was a ploy. I really just wanted a workout buddy and a need to get moving. It worked.

Second, Pippa woke from her nap just as the opening credits rolled. So I threw a blanket on the floor, laid her down and started my warm up stretches beside her. This did not work. She likes to be held. So I held her and modified the activities. During pushups I kissed her nose. And for lunges I held her...and she believed this to be a roller coaster. Here we are high in the sky and now there's a dip. Oh look! there's Dad (giggle giggle giggle). More lunges Mom!

My bum is sore from the Pippa lunges and my abs from all the laughing. Now we know to record our workouts :)

Slap Happy

This week on Pippa TV we watch the young lass engage in a truly hilarious moment.

So this is quickly becoming a mommy blog/Pippa diary, and I don't care! Plus it's the quickest way to keep her Papa caught up as he travels the world.

We've been telling him about her giggle for the past few weeks, but it was something that usually happened while she slumbered. Recently her BFF (Grandma) has been eliciting the elusive sound during play. And just today an old family friend tickled Pippa right before her nap.

Tell the truth...how many times did you watch it?

Marked By Love

Dear Pippa,

Some day when you've grown you'll notice my hands, worn, gnarled, freckled and scarred. So unlike your now perfect porcelain hands. I'll be forgetful and won't remember every nick and scratch and I'll make up some grand story of how they came to be.

Like the translucent inch-long line between my thumb and forefinger on my left hand. I got that when I was a young girl. Your grandma let me wrap presents for Christmas. In my excitement I left the scissors under the wrapping paper on her bed. When I slide my hand under the paper to find the scissors, the sharp edge sliced through my skin. I watched the blood creep to the top layers of skin and nearly fainted. The sight of blood has that much power over me.

There's a divot on my middle finger's knuckle from a ring I wore and one on the pointer finger next to it from a pocket knife. I was not skilled at whittling. On my wrist is a burn from a delectable pan of carmel chocolate chip cookies. But my most beloved scar is the dot above my vein where the hooked me up to drugs to prepare for your arrival. Look for it on the back of my right hand. When my mind is addled with age you can rub that spot to remind me.

Love,

Mommy

Call of the Wild

One of Lamar's redeeming qualities is the herd of deer living on the town's edge. They bed near my parents' home and we often see them when we go for walks. During our last Christmas visit, Skip and I hunted the group in hopes of capturing a large buck in a sunset photo. Or Skip was trying to get his pregnant wife to workout.

He dressed me in snow camo and tugged me through the foot of snow until the deer sensed us. Then he'd have me crouch down and sneak up to them. Yes, me and my 7-month baby bump slowly approaching a buck with antlers larger than my frame. My family way did nothing to soften the deer to me, but I think they remember Pippa.

Today on a walk along the creek, Pippa and I came across the same herd of deer with their fawn. I had Pippa in her carrier. You'd think she'd revel in snuggling next to my chest, a gentle breeze on her face, chirping insects and birds singing, and my undivided attention. I gazed into her eyes the entire time, chatting away about her beauty. No, tonight this did nothing for her but interrupt her nap and she softly whined for the first mile of our journey.

A whine that called to the deer. As they crossed our path they watched us intently. Pippa's lower lip would tremble, her face drawn in a so sad clown frown and "meeeeehh." The deer would instantly stop, turn their heads and stare at us curiously. The closer we got and with Pippa's continued whimpers and whines the curious stare turned into a glare as if to say, "why do you torture that child."

I'm glad the bucks missed this chance meeting, no need to become a statistic of mother's gored by an angry buck trying to protect an infant. Much better to report that Pippa is her daddy's daughter and has perfected her stranded fawn imitation. Bow season opens in September?