The Cupcake Saga

Dear Sammie Girl,

Last week, your mama was a slacker. Or a rebel. Whichever way you want to look at it, for the first time since your birth…I skipped a weekly post.

To be honest, I did sit down at the computer last Thursday to figure out something to write: maybe I should write about how you’re signing “more” like crazy whenever you want a little snack or nibble, perhaps how you’re enjoying the pool more, or maybe about the insane amount of teeth that have made their appearances in your mouth these past two weeks (total at the moment: eight and counting)…but the words just weren’t coming to me. So, I shut down the computer and got down on the floor to play with you instead.

Fortunately, I can make up for being speechless last week with tons of pictures this week.

We took you in last week for your final installment of the ‘Baby’s First Year’ photo package we bought when you were just a few weeks old. You started off strong, wearing the “Sammie” onesie and rockin’ the zebra hair bows that my hairdresser Tracey made for you.

These pictures melt my heart—I just want to reach through the computer screen and pinch your not so little cheeks!

Then, it was time to go outside and get some family portraits done. We did the same poses that we did a year ago so we could see how much you’ve changed over the past year:

...last year's shot (for reference)


…and we FINALLY got a beautiful family picture where all three of us are looking pretty good. This is what’s on my computer desktop now. Every time I boot up I can’t help but smile at your smiling face:





Then it was cupcake time. Before I can show you the results, you must know the chaos that went into the preparation of getting these last set of pictures.

It started a few months ago, when we took you in to get your nine month pictures. The photographer casually told me how it was so cute when another mom brought in white boxes and balloons and a colorful cupcake for her daughter’s first birthday pictures. I liked that idea and told her we’d do the same thing when it came time for your first birthday pictures.

Fast forward three months, and it’s the night before your photo session. Your mama is wiped from teaching the first day of summer school and we were celebrating your Grandpa Mike’s birthday at a restaurant. Halfway through my steak, it dawned on me: the packages. And balloons. And a cupcake. The pictures were TOMORROW, and I’d prepared absolutely nothing. To make matters worse, we had to leave RIGHT AFTER summer school in order to make the photo session in time.

*Insert one tired mama staying up until midnight wrapping boxes in white butcher paper and silently getting upset at myself for being too cheap to buy actual white wrapping paper because dangit if the butcher paper didn’t keep ripping here*

The next morning, while my students were working silently, I emailed the photographer and begged for a later slot—which fortunately, she was able to do. Then I texted your dad and asked him to go to Costco to get a pink or purple cupcake for the pictures—and wouldn’t you know it if Costco can’t make individual cupcakes. They also can’t do different colored frosting without a day’s notice. So he came home with twenty of the biggest white and chocolate cupcakes I’d ever seen.

I became a one woman tornado after school, running to FOUR different stores in an attempt to get white shirts for your dad and me and white balloons filled with helium. I found the shirts with relative ease, but the helium—which I thought would be an easy task—was another story. Both dollar stores had run out of white mylar balloons the week before (stupid graduation parties), and their rules prevented them from being able to blow up the white latex balloons I’d bought at Target.

*Insert one frantic mama kicking herself for not ponying up the bucks to get the balloons filled at the overpriced party store that was in the same parking lot as the place I’d bought the shirts*

Finally, I struck gold: the drug store by our house agreed to fill the balloons, for pretty cheap (score!). When I realized that we’d need weights to keep the little suckers from flying all over the car, I was informed that the weights would double the price. When all was said and done, I would’ve been better off just buying their balloons instead of bringing my own. Grrr—and previous point removed.

So, that brings us to the cupcake pictures. The ones I’d been thinking about for the past three months, figuring out exactly how we’d carry it out. I pictured you covered in frosting and smiling at the camera with white boxes and balloons behind you.

I forgot to take into account that you’re all business when it comes to your food, and you don’t slow down for anything, let alone stopping long enough to smile at a camera:





Silly mama.

…oh, yeah, and you were eating it a little too neatly for my taste, so I eventually just picked up the cupcake and smashed it into your face so you’d get the frosting all over.





And did I mention that you don’t like food taken away from you? This was after we’d taken the bulk of the cupcake away. You were…um…a little displeased with us.



*Insert awkward transition here*

Father’s Day was this past Sunday, and we celebrated it in two parts over the weekend. Your dad wanted three things for father’s day: to go to the Pop Laval Gallery, get some frozen yogurt, and buy a shop vac.

We got a late start, though, so by the time we’d eaten dinner and spent what seemed like years at the various home improvement stores, the only thing he managed to get was the shop vac. And a very tired and cranky baby.

Sunday, we spent the morning at your Aunt Beth and Uncle Tom’s house eating waffles and white sauce (your dad’s favorite) and the afternoon napping. We headed over to Nonni and Poppa’s house for an epic barbeque with Fresno State corn.

You and Ben gave Poppa your father’s day gift:




Here's a close up of you holding one of the letters:

He loved it for the pictures of his grandkids, and loved it even more when we pointed out that you guys had spelled out Poppa.

Score two for Sammie and Ben!

Loving you lots,
your mama

PS Your dad's been hard at work redoing our front yard, and the other day he had me take pictures of the new tree he'd bought. I think it'll be fun to watch you and the tree get bigger!

The Numbers Are In!

Dearest Sammie Girl,

Last month, I would've sworn that you hit a major growth spurt. You were growing out of your 12 month clothes faster than I could say "pass the Cheerios, please" and my poor old back was having a harder time holding you for extended periods of time (see the Cheerios comment above). The change was so noticeable that I halfway expected you to have gained six inches and fifty pounds in the last three months.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

They weighed and measured you at your doctor's appointment yesterday; you're now nearly 23 pounds and 29 inches tall. As in, you've grown a measely inch and a half and have gained nearly a pound and a half in the past three months. Um...say what? How is it then that your onesies (that were loose in March) are now threatening to become tube tops?

Your father and I don't get it. We demand a recount. I'll keep you posted on what shall heretoafter be known as "measurement-gate"

In other news, last month's cold is now fully explained: teeth. Or, to be more specific, FOUR teeth. You've got two new teeth peeking through on the top of your mouth, and two more that are threatening to break through anyminutenow. The ones that are already showing aren't the typical ones in the middle--they're the ones on the other side of the middle teeth. It makes you look like a Vampire. But a cute vampire, if such a thing exists.

Lastly, and I am so excited to finally be able to post this, you're finally pulling yourself up. To be honest, I was a little worried. You were following every other milestone to the letter in terms of when "most" babies do various things: sitting up at six months? Check. Crawling by nine months? Check. Pulling up by ten months? Um...well, see...not quite.

Then you pulled yourself up on the makeshift drums I've made you with my kitchen bowls. And again on the tub when you were hanging out with me in the bathroom whilst I shaved my legs. And again in the crib when you disagreed with your naptime.

So pulling up is now "check, check and triple check!"

I'd ask when you're planning on walking, but I'm fully aware that when you start walking you're going to segue right into running--and Mama doesn't run. Ever. So, I'm not exactly anxious for the "running after baby because she's taken off yet again" milestone.

Be kind to your mama. Don't make me run too much--please?

Loving you like crazy,

your mama

Eeek, Oy, Aack

Dearest Sammie Girl,

Whatever happened to the baby who just a few months ago was content to sit on her blanket and play with whatever toys were in front of her?

I’ll tell you what happened—you turned ONE.

Almost overnight, you decided that (1) creeping was for little babies and crawling was definitely the way to go, (2) if you crawl at warp speed you can get wherever you want to go before we have the chance to stop you (3) you inevitably want to be wherever we DON’T want you to be, and (4) if you get to where we don’t want you to be by crawling at warp speed, it’s most fun to attempt to shut the door on your parents before they can remove you from the off-limits location.

Eish.

Exhibit A: Mamma tries desperately to keep you out of the laundry room. The laundry room, dear Sammie, is the gateway to the garage, and therefore is the most heavily trafficked area in the house. This is the room that double’s as the dogs’ room because it’s where they go whenever we’re not home. This is also the room that has the floor that hasn’t been properly cleaned in months (Maybe even since you were born—it’s got that lovely earth tone color that hides a myriad of sins). Unfortunately, this is where the dogs’ water is kept, and you’ve decided that water in a blue feeder is the BEST THING EVER and therefore make a beeline to it whenever the door’s open. You compound on your fun by attempting to shut the door on me before I can get you out.

I say attempting because you haven’t yet figured out how to remove yourself from the door’s path to fully shut it, so instead you just keep shutting it on your legs or whatever random body part is in the way.

Oy.

Exhibit B: Mamma tries to cook dinner, and sets up a makeshift xylophone in the living room using her stainless steel bowls. You’re most interested in banging away at them…until you see me venture into the kitchen to get dinner prep underway. Then all bets are off because you turbo crawl yourself to the kitchen rug and start grunting away and signing bottle.

Did I mention you figured out how to sign “Bottle?” Before, you’d just sign it when you saw it. Now you think that we’re a 24/7 bottle restaurant and place your order (6 ounces, stirred not shaken, you’ll take your order to go) quite regularly. Seeing as how we’re currently trying to wean you from the bottle, this is not good. On the one hand, I want you to grasp the concept of signing to me to ease your frustrations, but on the other I can’t give in every time you ask for a bottle—if you had your way you’d never stop chugging the stuff! We’re able to avoid World War Three by signing “water” instead and giving you your sippy cup of water. We’ll see how long that lasts.

Ack.

This past weekend brought about a treasure trove of new memories and milestones. On Sunday, we went to pick cherries at a local farm (note to self: keep a close eye on you while snapping pictures; you kept grabbing the little buggers off of the tree and stuffing them in your mouth):


On Monday, we used our annual passes to go to the zoo with Nonni (I think the monkeys were your favorite—they kept grunting and doing monkey-speak so you felt right at home, even grunting and bouncing back). I am going to have to break down and learn the real names of the different species in the zoo. I could feel the other mammas glaring at me when I referred to seven different species of primates as a “monkey” each time when it clearly was not a monkey but a red haired Orangutan originating from Southeastern India. Hey, you’re a year old. You don’t know any better.

We capped off the perfect weekend by dressing you up lady bug style and taking you swimming for the first time. You couldn’t wait to go at first:


…but once you got there, you weren’t sure what the fuss was about.


Methinks I’ll actually brave swimsuit season this weekend and put on a suit to “swim” alongside you in the 18 inch kiddie pool.

In the midst of all of the cherry picking, monkey grunting and ladybug swimming, you found your pandora’s box of devleopment. The more fun discoveries included blowing kisses, giving kisses, and crawling to your Elmo balloon when we ask where Elmo is. I’m particularly fond of taking advantage of your understanding how to “cuddle” by asking you to cuddle with whatever you’re holding—whether it be Elmo, a toy or my sock (hey, you were going through the clean laundry in the basket and it seemed appropriate at the time).

If this is what the approaching summer break is going to be like, then sign me up!

love you, my bottle signing, turbo crawling, cherry stealing, monkey watching. ladybug swimmer!

Your mama