*Insert the "The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly" Theme Song Here*

My favorite picture of "us" at the moment.
You call your black Converse "Momma shoes."

Dearest Sammie Girl,

*Cough, cough*. So, uh, it's been a while. For nineteen months, my saving grace for not having your baby book was being able to say, "Well, at least I've got her BLOG (still hate that word) updated."

Then January hit. And with January came the mad push to get the school play ready to go and left me with absolutely no spare time. Then February steamrolled over me because the play was up and running. Then I got sick.  Really sick. Like-I-need-my-mommy-sick.

Apparently I pushed myself too hard between being a mother, teacher and student (oh, yeah--your mother decided to be SUPER crazy and take a sign language class that meets twice a week).

But today, I'm feeling better. Sort of. No more excuses. Time to blaaaahhhh-guh (seriously, can't there be a better name for it other than blah-guh? What about "Electronic Journal for All the World to See"? Yeah, I like that better. EJFATWTS it is).

Before I get to the in-depth details and amusing tales of the past few months, I'll give you the Cliff's Notes version. You know, in case you get bored don't have time for all of my amusing anecdotes.

• Word Explosion. Your vocabulary now consists of more than forty words. Yay you!
• You don't walk anymore. You RUN.
• You like to eat. A lot. If it's sweet or involves chocolate, it makes your heart particularly happy.
• Potty training is on the horizon (cue the dramatic music).
• You're getting taller by the nanosecond.
• Animals don't have names anymore.
• Books are quite enjoyable.
• Elmo is still the center of your world.
• You're a neat freak.
• "The Sammies" are gone...for now.

And now for the longer than a novel version:

Word Explosion
A switch went off a few weeks ago and you're parroting just about everything we say. If you can't repeat what we say, you just look at us and solemnly say "Dadda." Apparently "Dadda" is code for any random thing you can't say. It goes something like this:

Momma: Can you say Elmo, Sammie?
Sammie: EL-ma.
Momma: Good talking, Sammie! Can you say Big Bird?
Sammie: Rakes brain for how to say it, then proudly spouts out Dadda!
Momma: BIG-GUH BERRRRRRRD.
Sammie: DAAAAAD-DDDUH!
Momma: How about Cookie Monster, Sammie? Can you say Cookie Monster?
Sammie: Rakes brain once more. Dadda!



You made me particularly proud last week when you said your first (semi-complete) sentence: "Mama eat orange." I was peeling an orange over the sink and you were sitting in your high chair. I don't know if you were telling me to eat it or if you were narrating what I you thought I was going to do next. Whatever the case, we celebrated this milestone by sharing the orange. Then I called everyone I knew and proudly told them of your latest accomplishment. This included boasting about it on Facebook. For the record, seven of my friends "liked" it and six others commented on it.

My favorite thing to hear you say, hands down, is "yes," because you don't say "yes." You say "Es" and nod your head in the cutest way. I need to get it on videotape. But it really is adorable. Your Nonni and Poppa stopped saying "yes" and started saying "es"--even when you're not around. Your proud Poppa even got his whole 7th and 8th grade class saying "es." No one ever said you weren't a trendsetter!

RUNning
Walking is so eighteen months. You're past that now. RUNning is the way to go.

Demonstrating your mad running skills at a recent trip to the zoo.

Preferrably, you RUN while chasing the dogs. The dogs don't enjoy this part so much. You think their running away is a part of a game. They beg to digress. While they scamper away from you to find yet another place to hide, you giggle and shriek like a hyena on helium. The sentimental momma in me wishes I could bottle up your giggles and laughter and keep it in my heart forever and ever. The overprotective momma in me is raking my brain for ways to creatively keep both child and mutts happy. The lazy butt overexhausted momma in me wonders why I don't have that kind of energy anymore.

You like to eat.
A lot. With all of the RUNning you do, it's understandable that you've got to eat to keep your energy levels up. Your favorite food is most anything that's in front of you. If it's sweet or involves chocolate, it makes your heart particularly happy. Your heart actually has a special place for M&M's, which you've taken to calling "Amys."  If no Amys are to be found, then you'll gladly settle for fruit or carbs.

Unfortunately, like most other toddlers out there, vegetables are taking some coaxing to eat--save for green beans, sweet potatoes and brocolli. Those three are totally doable. All other vegetables won't be eaten unless you can dip it in something like ketchup or barbeque sauce, then yumm-o and game on!

Enjoying some sweet chocolate while "helping" Poppa make Nonni's birthday cake.



Your beverage of choice remains water. We never really got into the juice habit because our pediatrician (STBPITW) warned us a year ago that "juice was the gateway drug to SODA." Heaven forbid we should be the parents giving our child the bad juice, so we stuck to two options: water or milk. Fortunately, you take after your momma in that you love to quench your thirst with a fresh cup of water. Since Christmas, however, another choice has been added: Elmo water. Elmo water is water that you drink from your special Elmo cup with a straw. Elmo water reigns supreme in this household. Milk has been relegated to breakfast and dinner. On the rare occasion, you'll get "Ohch Jich:" fresh squeezed orange juice cut with water. I'd like to think that fresh squeezed orange juice isn't as evil as the gateway drug because it was in a healthy orange seconds before you consumed it.

Potty training is on the horizon (cue the dramatic music).
Then cue some more dramatic music, because apparently this is a very difficult thing to do when you're the mother of an almost two year old. We started this process several months ago with the purchase of a PRINCESS! potty chair. Truth be told, I really am not on the princess boat just yet. I don't get it. I wasn't a girly girl and to be the mother of a girly girl is just something that I'm having to take one day at a time. Regardless, when it came time to buy a potty chair, all Target had for me was a PRINCESS! potty chair or this cheap plastic thing that didn't really catch my eye.
 
I should've read the box more thoroughly before buying it. And then I should've read the box again and used my momma brain. Because this PRINCESS! potty chair plays royal music each time a child pees in it. Yup. Royal music. As in the sound of trumpets blaring "duh duh duh DUUUUUUUUUUH!!!"


We thought we would do the whole casual approach to training, as in "There's the potty chair, it's next to momma and dadda's big potty chair. You can use it if you want. Or not. No big hurry here--no sirree." We thought we were making big headway when you would proudly follow us into the bathroom and sit on it (fully clothed), asking for toilet paper to wipe yourself. Wiping yourself, apparently, is very important. Because you were oh so proud of yourself each time you got a spare square (Side note to all those who get the Seinfeld reference--I owe you a virtual black and white cookie).

Pardon me? Can you spare a square?

Then you started *ahem* tinkling on the floor whenever we got the bath ready for you. One night, we got the bright idea to plop you on the potty when the *ahem* tinkling action started.

Then the music blared. "Duh duh duh DUUUUUUUUUUH!!!"


Stupid PRINCESS! potty chair.

Cue the freaked out beyond consolation child.

That's when we had to resort to using Amys. Not that we're the strict "you must use your potty chair NOW parents or anything." Nope. Still trying the what I like to call "whatever" approach. Only now it's more like "whatever, but I'd really like this to happen by this summer, but you know, whatever." So we use M&M's Amys. Yup. You got your parents and everyone else in the family calling them "Amys." Last night, however, it dawned on me that we may have raised a wheeler-dealer of a child.


Momma: Ready for your bath, Sammie?
Sammie: Es. El-ma bubbles.
Momma: Do you want to sit on your potty chair without your diaper?
Sammie: Thinks for a moment, then holds out her hand solemnly: Amy. 
Momma: You're right, you can have an Amy if you sit on the potty without your diaper.
Sammie: Adamant that nothing is happening until you receive your reward first. AMY.

Yup. If I ever need anyone to bargain on my behalf, I'm sending in you--my almost two year old, because you're a girl who knows what she's worth and isn't going to stop until you get it. For the record, you got your Amys and calmly sat on the potty without your diaper while the bath was getting ready for five whole minutes. You didn't *ahem* potty this time, but that's okay, because, you know, whatever. And I forgot to take the stinkin' batteries out of the PRINCESS! potty chair so had you actually done your business further emotional scarring probably would've ensued.

You're getting taller by the nanosecond.
You're still in the 50th percentile for height, but to this 4'11" momma, you're gigantor baby. At the moment, you are taller than half of my height. When I carry you on my hip, your feet go past my knees and your head is level with mine. This must make for quite the comic sight. You're using your newfound height to your advantage, reaching for anything and everything we try to keep out of your hands. Regardless, if you keep getting taller, you'll be the first person in our family to be able to decorate the top of the Christmas tree without a chair.


Animals don't have names anymore.

They're known by their sounds. It's not a monkey, it's an "ooh ahh." It's not a cow, it's a "moo moo." It's not a kitty, it's a "Meow Meow." You get the idea. We’re trying to teach you how to say the animals’ names instead of their respective sounds, but the point is lost on you.

Case in point: your favorite blanket that your Aunt Diane made you for your first birthday. Last spring, she borrowed one of your robeys and took it with her to the fabric store, holding the robey in one hand and feeling each piece of fleece until she found something that had the same feel. The “winner” was a fleecy fabric with monkeys all over it. The monkey blanket quickly became a favorite and you now refuse to go to sleep without your “ooh ah” blanket.

We’ve tried setting you straight.

Momma: Do you want your monkey blanket?
Sammie: Es.
Momma: Can you say “monkey”?
Sammie: Oooh Ahh.
Momma: Mon-KEY.
Sammie: Oooh Ahh.
Momma: Monkey is the name of the animal. “Oooh ahh” is what the MONKEY says. Monkey.
Sammie: Looks at me quizzically, before proudly spouting, Dadda!

You pulled the same thing on your Nonni when she watched you a few weeks ago. As a special treat, she pulled out your favorite Elmo DVD to sacrificially watch it with you (I say sacrificially because it truly is annoying, even if it does have Mandy Patinkin and Vanessa Williams). You shook your head at the DVD and said “Oooh aahh.” The monkey noises didn’t stop until silly Nonni realized you’d had enough of Elmo in Grouchland and you’d prefer Curious George, thankyouverymuch.


Books are quite enjoyable.

Taking in a book with Nonni and cousin Benji. Note the prized Elmo shirt that you're wearing.

You consistently pick out the longest storybook in the bookshelf and when my throat is raw from reading that one, you get up and get the second longest storybook from its perch. Favorite books at the moment include anything with monkeys. You love monkeys. Curious George, Five Little Monkeys...I'd list more but can't think of any more books off the top of my head that have monkeys in them. Other favorites include books that require me to sing: Lady With the Alligator Purse, Old MacDonald (you call this book "moo moo" because of the cows that go moo--took me a while to get what you were talking about on this one), Love You Forever, Jesus Loves Me, and the list goes on. I do hope for your sake that we can get you exposed to people who sing better than I, because the only key I'm capable of singing in is the key of "z"--in other words, quite off key. Sidenotes and ramblings aside, I really am proud and astonished with how much you love being read to and the length of time in which you're able to pay attention to lengthy books. Methinks you're a bookworm, and I, for one, couldn't be more proud.


Elmo is still the center of your world.
Seriously, if I told you that Elmo wanted you to do something, you would stop whatever you were doing and do what he wanted immediately. Because Elmo said so. If I ask you want you want to wear, you will look at me and say "Elmo" as if I was insane for thinking you should wear anything else. The other day you literally wore Elmo from head to toe. Elmo bows, Elmo shirt and Elmo socks. If you had Elmo pants and Elmo shoes, you probably would've been begging to wear those, too. As it is, our house currently has an Elmo toothbrush, Elmo ball, three Elmo dolls (baby, normal, and Deranged/Borderline Maniacal), Elmo slippers, Elmo etch a sketch, and countless other Elmo items that I currently have forgotten.
 
Elmo is also a favorite topic of bedtime chatter. Once we've put you to bed this is what we hear through the baby monitor each night: "baby Elmo," "Elmo bubbles," "Elmo water," "Elmo dirty" (you picked up that one after you tried unsuccessfully to convince me to let you wear your Elmo shirt two days in a row)...the list goes on. Apparently, Elmo is not just a noun in your world, he's also an adjective.

Waking up from today's nap with two of your favorite things: Baby Elmo and your "ooh ahh" blanket.

I'm just grateful you haven't fallen in love with something less endearing...like princesses, or Dora, or *shudder* The Wiggles. I've already told you why princess aren't my favorite--they're too girly and also they haven't looked the same since Disney started putting them on EVERYTHING and yes I realize it's completely hypocritical for me to say this because I'm fully aware that Sesame Street brand has been putting Elmo on EVERYTHING as is evidenced by my earlier list of household items we currently own that have Elmo's red furry face blazened on them. Dora, well, Dora just bugs me. I don't know why.  Grown men who jump around and sing songs for the pre-school set is just plain creepy. Show of hands for anyone who agrees with me on that one?
 

You're a neat freak.
We had lunch today with Nonni, and I was telling her this cute story of something you did last night, and her eyes just got real big and she got a worried expression on her face. Apparently what you did last night isn't, um, normal. What was your crime? You cried in your crib because the drawers on your dresser weren't shut and your Elmo slippers were on the floor and not in the shoe basket.  I appeased you by shutting your drawers and putting the slippers away and asked you if that made it all better.

"Es." Nod, nod, sigh of relief.

It's not just limited to bedtime for bouts of OCD. You are also taking to "helping" me with laundry. You pick up the clothes and move them from one laundry basket to another. Last month, after a long rehearsal, I changed into my pajamas and carelessly left my jeans on the floor. You gave me a look of horror and opened the bottom drawer of my dresser, carefully put my jeans in the drawer and shut it. Life was good in your world again.



Trying your hand at the dishes. Everyone's got to start somewhere!

 SOAPBOX MOMENT: As a mother, I'm trying really hard to instill in you the value of hard work. A pet peeve of mine is when parents do everything for their kids and their kids go off to college not knowing how to do laundry, cook, or anything that's self-sufficient because their mothers did everything for them. Trust me, I was shocked at the amount of dorm-mates who had no clue how to sort their laundry in those first few months of college. Granted, you may not appreciate me for it when you have to do *GASP* chores, but someway down the road, you will love me for it. I know I love my parents for instilling in me good work ethic.
 
Gets off of soapbox to resume normally randomly scheduled EJFATWTS

"The Sammies" are gone...for now.
In the place of the random crying out to the high heavens is this delightful toddler who truly does live up to her middle name.

Sharing the love with George and Makayla on a recent visit.  You probably know this by now, but you got your middle name from their momma. You both live up to your middle name "Joy"

I know we're on the brink of the terrible twos and the terrifying threes, but for now I'm relishing this sweet little girl who calls me momma. You give me unlimited amounts of hugs and kisses and giggle and laugh to no end when something pleases you. It's the highlight of my day when your two adorable dimples make their appearance known on each of your chubby cheeks. You know the meaning of the word "joy" and you are a living testimony for all that it is.

And I'm blessed to call you my daughter,
your momma


PS. Here's some more pictures just because you're cute and I can't resist sharing it with the world.

Sharing a drink and a bite with cousin Benji. Good thing you don't think your wagon is as scary as it was at Christmas time!



With Nonni and the elephant at the zoo.



Joyously coloring for Nonni's birthday present.

A Tale of Six Christmases: Because It's Tradition!

Dearest Sammie,

Ahhh...at long last, bedtime. That means I don't have to limit myself to a mere 45 minute window to wax nostalgic about all that was done in the past month for the Christmas season.

It begins after Thanksgiving. As soon as we make the trek back to Fresno from my Aunt's ranch, I get anxious to decorate the house for Christmas. Because it's tradition. And that's what we do. We decorate our house for Christmas. And we listen to Christmas music. Because it's tradition. And that's what we do. We listen to sappy Christmas music on the radio when it's "legal" between Thanksgiving and Christmas Day.

Another tradition that's carried out year after year is the pangs of regret I have two boxes into the unpacking of our Christmas decoration. It generally goes something like this: Grumble, grumble, why do we have so much Christmas junk?, grumble, grumble Why won't anyone help me?, Grumble, grumble, I wish I were tall enough to reach the top of the Christmas tree, Grumble grumble J-uh-AYYYY! Hang up the outside lights please! It's tradition!
Then it's daddy's turn to Grumble grumble.

Christmas is, after all, the season of giving.

This year, however, your father enlisted the help of Grandpa Michael, who dutifully came over one day to hang up all of our outside Christmas garland (seeing our house all aglow is, after all, one of my favorite warm-fuzzy Christmas traditions and I'm not willing to let that one go just yet). When grandpa went to plug in the lights, however, we were reminded of something we had forgotten the previous Christmas season: something happened to the lights to prevent them from working.

Whoops. Grandpa Michael's turn to Grumble grumble while he took the whole thing down again.

Somehow, it became my job to go to Home Depot and buy the circut and bulb checker gun thing.

Grumble grumble.

Two hours and many more Grumble grumbles later, I gave up and hung up my circut/bulb checker gun thing. It wasn't worth the hours it was taking to go through fifty feet of garland and painstakingly replace each one. Even if the gun thing was super cool. So much for that warm fuzzy tradition!

Grumble grumble.

Even though the outside lights didn't make it to our house this year, I still admit that I enjoyed seeing our tree dressed up in all its fake pine glory. Your father and I went back and forth, trying to decide what to do with the tree this year. We'd heard the horror stories about toddlers and Christmas trees, and we weren't about to let ourselves be a part of a tragic Christmas tree statistic (although, really, how many toddlers REALLY succeed in taking a forty pound tree down? Yeah, I didn't think so).  Do we (option a) put it in the other room where it's safe from your reach? Do we (option b) get a small tree and put it on the table? Put the whole thing in a play pen (option c)? Block the evil evergreen off with a massive baby gate (option d)?

We settled for option e: none of the above. We stuck the tree in the corner of the living room and prayed for the best. I, in all of my infinite motherly wisdom, tried to take matters into my own hands the first day the tree was up.

Once you were up from your nap, I led you out into the living room so we could sit by the tree together. You must've thought your parents were nuts at this point. You went to bed with a perfectly tree-free living room and woke up to find a 7 foot tall pine structure adorned with lights and fragile ornaments that scream "TOUCH ME PLEASE!"

Fortunately, the fragile "touch me please" ornaments were placed high on the tree and the less enticing fabric "ignore me because I really belong on the back of the tree--otherwise known as 'tree graveyard'--" ornaments were placed in the bottom third of the tree. I put my hand on the branch, pulled it back quickly and said "OUCHIE!"

I don't want to brag or anything, but I think my ten years of teaching theatre paid off in that very moment. Your eyes got huge and you backed as far away from the dangerous pine needles as you could. You knew what "ouchie" meant and you weren't taking any chances.


Before the "ouchie" moment/irrational fear of Christmas trees began.


Now it was your turn to grumble grumble.

The perfect mommies of the world--the ones who keep their toddlers away from their Christmas trees without threatening "ouchie" to them--must've really slapped their hands to their foreheads at what I did next: dragged your most treasured toy (the rocking horse) in front of the tree to try to entice you back to the tree to get a picture of you. Because it's tradition. And by tradition, I mean that I got some cute pictures of you last year in front of the tree and I'm trying my luck again, ok?

You thought I was crazy, but you did pose long enough for me to get a few semi decent pictures. Then you promptly grabbed your rocking horse and dragged him to safety clear across the room.


I got a few cute pictures that morning. This isn't one of them. Must be on the other computer.


If you're ever in therapy from a ridiculous need to rescue horses from the attacking Christmas trees, you now know where this totally reasonable unsubstantiated fear comes from. And you're welcome.

Regardless, that's how we roll. If you haven't figured it out by now, Christmas is not something that's taken lightly in our household. Some families celebrate once--we get to celebrate six times. Each time, my dearest darling Sammie, you got spoiled. In a good way. Not in a snot-nosed brat kind of way.

Let's break down your second Christmas season down:

Christmas #1: Daddy's Family
It was a lovely time. You ate your first verinike and sweiboch like the good little semi-German Schnitzel you are. At least, you're a better German Schnitzel than I am. The Irish in me will gladly scarf down corned beef, Irish soda bread and Colcanon, but the German thing was something I married into. I don't get what the big deal is about cheese-filled potstickers smothered in gravy. That's why I eat ham every year. Fortunately, you won't embarrass your father the way I do: you downed that verinke like it was hopping on a plane and going back to its home country.

Things went slightly downhill after that when we all caravanned down to Fresno again to visit Grandma Pat in the nursing home. It was a very poetic moment, all of daddy's cousins and their families marching down the hall to surprise their grandmother whilst carolers sang in a nearby corridor. I don't think there was a dry eye in the house! We, however, were crying with joy because of the happiness we brought Grandma Pat by visiting her so she wouldn't miss out on the Christmas festivities she loves so much. You, on the other hand, were screaming to the high heavens because you were missing your afternoon nap. Eventually my back and I got tired of picking you up and lugging you around the hallways, so we highfooted it back to Kingsburg to finish off the Pat family Christmas party.

Fortunately, the rest of the night ended on a more positive note thanks to the nap you got in the car...you even cheered up enough to take a bath with your cousin Keston later that night. Someone got pictures of the cuteness that was the two of you bathing together. Be grateful, darling dear, that that someone wasn't me, because I am the kind of mother who would post embarrassing pictures like that of you for all the world to see. And by "all the world to see" I mean people who have the password to this blog because I sure as heck am not THAT kind of mom, either.

Christmas #2: Mama's Family
The day after the Pat party, it was time to put on our big girl tights and go to Nonni and Poppa's house for even more fun. The Pat family may have their cheesy potstickers, but the Willis family has Santa.

Yep, the big guy himself. I mean, I don't want to brag or anything, but he's not so easy to get a mere week before Christmas. It took some finagling on our part, but we made it happen. He even brought you an early Christmas present: an Elmo book with a special music player.

Yeah, you didn't care about what strings we pulled to get the Jolly Red guy because you came down with a major case of "The Sammies" and lunged off of St. Nick's lap as fast as you could.


Dear Santa, for Christmas, I want to get off of your lap and go back to mama, please.
 PS. You sound like my Poppa.

 Then you decided that Ben's gift (an Elmo toy that giggled) was way more fun than your measly music player. Good thing he decided that your music player was more cool than his frantically hysterical Elmo toy.

Once Santa leaves, it's time for more pictures. Just as Thanksgiving has the "put the babies on the couch and take pictures of them while they scream" tradition, Christmas brings about the "put the babies in boxes in front of the tree and take pictures of them while they scream" tradition. And we do it. We put you in boxes and watch you scream. Because it's tradition. Actually, to fully clarify it, your cousins were just fine in their boxes. It was you, dear child, who stood up and threatened to lead a tot-sized rebellion as we snapped away.


The non-comformist.



You recovered from your traumatic moment of being stuck in a box long enough to open your present from my grandmother: your very own shopping cart with food! If you still like shopping this much when you're old enough to read this blog, please feel free to take over this chore for me. Bring me back some bread, a gallon of milk, and yogurt. Thanks!

Christmas #3: Pullen Family

We had a break for a few days before our third Christmas celebration with my family. It was a low key day of games and a few presents. It was super fun for your father and I because we got to be on the receiving end of a whole lotta gift cards. The "tradition" of it being a Very Elmo Christmas continued because, while I don't remember what you got exactly, I'm fairly certain it involved a great deal of the furry red guy. Apparently word got out that you love Elmo, because one out of two toys you received this Christmas featured "EL-mo" as you've taken to calling him. On a related note, this past Christmas was a "Very Bath and Body Works Foaming Soap" Christmas for me. I got a total of seven bottles of the stuff from various friends and family members. If they're trying to send me a subtle hint, I hope it's not that I smell.

Christmas #4: Vogt Family

While preparing for daddy's family to come over for our annual soup and gifts tradition, you and I did a little holiday baking, making cupcakes for Jesus' birthday. I thought it would make for fun memories and cute pictures. Someday, dear child, I will remember that you aren't ten. You're nineteen months old. Baking and crafting aren't on your radar yet. Eating, however, most definitely IS something you know how to do.

You weren't even on the counter for two seconds before your little hands dropped the frosting spatula to grab one of the cupcakes in front of you. I initially wrestled the cupcake from your grip, thinking I might get away with frosting over your bite mark, but my conscience got the better of me and I let you have the cupcake while I frosted the rest of the batch solo, even if that did mean that I was working with EXACTLY the number of cupcakes I needed to spell out "Happy Birthday Jesus 2010."

Inhaling the chocolatey goodness before your mean mama tries to take it away again.



Before Grandpa Michael chowed down on the "J"



I shouldn't have worried too much. Before we could light the candle and sing our special Happy Birthday Jesus song, your grandfather swiped the "J" cupcake and left me with mere crumbs. I couldn't bring myself to take a picture of our "Happy Birthday Esus 2010" cupcakes so I just gave up and let Uncle Tom have at 'em, too.  

After the "Happy Birthday Esus" fiasco, we took a brief break to schlep across town and visit Grandma Pat before returning to our house for more merriment. Mrs. Claus left you a gift under the tree: pajamas. You weren't so stoked about that part, but at least you humored me and let me put them on you before opening the rest of your gifts. Grandma and Grandpa gave you your very own Elmo so you wouldn't need to steal Benji's toy again. Aunt Beth and Uncle Tom gave you a HUGE Radio Flyer wagon that could probably take flight if it had wings and an engine. While the Elmo on Prozac made you break out in giggles and gasps of surprise, the wagon terrified you and you refused to get within three feet of its molded plastic awesomeness. *Sigh*

We ended the night by leaving out carrots and cookies for Santa. You may have been over tired by this point, but that didn't stop you from eyeing the cookies while chomping on a carrot. I'm the same way kiddo--I don't blame you one bit!

Christmas #5: Our Family

Your very own kitchen!

Christmas morning rolled around, and boy were you surprised to get your very own KITCHEN with your NAME on it. You rewarded us by promptly hiding the remote controlls in your oven. I laugh about it now, but we weren't laughing at the time when we spent 45 minutes tearing the house (and trash cans) apart looking for the clickers.

In the name of tradition, I tried desperately to take a picture of our little family on Christmas morning (after all, one of the favorite pictures I have of the three of us is from last Christmas when we posed in front of the tree), but you were having none of it. Sigh. At least I look decent. Yay me for taking the time to put on make up and running a brush through my hair before waking you up that morning (yes. we might very well be the only parents in the world who have to wake up their toddler at 10AM on Christmas morning because child you like to sleep in!).

Christmas #6: Pullen Part 2

Note that your father is taking the walk
of shame back to the house after doing a
"pop-a-wheelie" with your trike.



Before the fear set in.



Once we got over the shock of almost losing a vital part of our lives the remote controls, we packed up the car to go to Nonni and Poppa's house again. This time, you and Benji were in for quite a shock: you got your very own triclyes! I was worried that you would be hesitant to climb on your first bike, but you surprised me by plopping down and happily ringing your bell.

Then it was daddy's turn to "drive" your tricycle. He tried to spice things up a bit by popping the front wheel up while we went down the sidewalk. I shouldn't be that surprised that you hopped off the tricycle one minute later and refused to ride the thing back to Nonni and Poppa's house, opting instead to walk the rest of the way.  I also shouldn't be surprised that you didn't want Benji on his tricycle, either.

C'Mon Benji--this thing is possessed! Its front wheels
pop up for no reason at all! Get off while it's safe!

I don't think you convinced him too much. He was too busy shouting "Oh BOY!" while ringing the bell.

There you have it. The tale of Six Christmases. It's been over a week since we carried out our last Christmas tradition and hung our last stocking, and I'm still tired. Frankly, I'm tired all over again just recounting all of the different days of merriment. Maybe that's way I was overly anxious to put all of our Christmas stuff away earlier than normal this year, leaving me to feel a bit like the Grinch as you saw me packing away the ornaments that I had worked so hard to keep you away from this past month.

Grumble, grumble.

Love you, cindy lou hoo,
your mama

PS Stay Tuned for New Year's, 2011 (otherwise known as "why do we have the only 19 month old on the block that stays up to midnight on New Year's two years in a row?")

The Holidays: Cliff's Notes Edition Part 1

Dearest Sammie Girl,

 

I'm going to spare you the full on details of the last two months' events. To fully capture each story and moment would require me to type from now until the last day of our precious Christmas break, and that's just not something I'm willing to do at this time. Actually, that's not quite the truth. I'd LOVE to go on and on in honest, humorous and frank prose about each and every moment of your young life, but to carve out the time to write requires that you be entertained while I'm click-clacking away, and the VeggieTales DVD is buying me exactly 42 minutes to sum up the past two months. Scratch that. I've wasted exactly two minutes of precious DVD time moaning about how I don't have the time to type and blog, and I'm just wasting more time now bemoaning the fact that I've got to keep it short which is soooo hard for me to do. *sigh* I'll cut my losses and get on with the (brief) show before your (briefer) show ends:

Halloween

Go Team!

Halloween was a hoot and a holler. Literally. You had a blast showing off your cheerleading costume to daddy's family in the comforts of your own home. When it came time to show off your cute costume to MY family at Nonni and Poppa's, you were hollering a different tune. Apparently seeing your cousin dressed as Curious George is a very terrifying thing. You calmed down long enough for us to take you trick or treating to nearby houses. That lasted for one house, then you had an epic meltdown to end all epic meltdown. If I'm every diagnosed wtih tinninitis, it's because you spent the better part of Halloween night screaming in my ear.

Veteran's Day

Veteran's Day (if I'm going to be brief I may as well cover ALL of the holidays, thankyouverymuch) was spent with your cousin (thankfully out of his Curious George costume this time) at the zoo. Benji, being the lovely boy that he is, was quite interested in all that the zoo had to offer (Except for the elephants. He did not care for those big pachyderms too much). You, on the other hand, were more intrested in what Benji had to offer. Namely, his lunch. Aunt Erin had the foresight to bring a sandwich and goodies for her son. I brought Taco Bell. You finished your quesadilla in the car and were hungry for more. Needless to say, the bulk of the zoo trip was spent with you scheming for ways to get your cousin's food when he wasn't looking. My personal favorite was the "handshake" move. You offered your hand for a handshake, and went in for his sandwich when he fell for that trap.

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving was a bit of a blur.  I was able to show off your artwork when I brought the pumpkin bread to my family's gathering (attempt #2 at making the plate was, fortunately, a success--in part because your father took you home right after you left your mark on the clay platter). Your favorite part of this holiday was, no doubt, eating. I don't blame you. It was good grub! We capped the evening off by trying to recapture the "Babies on the Couch" tradition that we started last year. It didn't go so well. Last year, you all may have been blobs, but at least you kept your hands to yourself. You were having none of it until we thrust a robey in your hand. That at least kept your fists free from pummeling your poor cousin Benji.

Gulp. Only ten minutes left in the video, and I haven't even gotten to Christmas yet!

Christmas season---um, wait. I can't do it justice in ten minutes. I just can't. Besides, the video has lost your attention and you're now "grooming" the dogs. If, of course, by "grooming the dogs" you mean pulling at their fur from all angles.

More later. I promise.

Lotsa love,

your mama

It's Craft Time! Cue the Crazy Mama

Dear Sammie Joy,

As if the epic fail from August’s handprint fiasco wasn’t enough, last week, I dared to bring you to the local paint your own ceramics store. Somehow, I got it in my brain that something had changed in the last month and that you were now a crafting queen.

I envisioned pictures of the two of us, sitting side by side at the craft boutique and wearing matching aprons while we happily painted platters using your hand prints.

One handprint, I dreamed, would be perfectly centered in the middle of the plate and painted brown with colorful fingers. I’d decorate that one up to look like the typical handprint turkey that every kid does growing up. The other plate would be for Christmas. Somehow, I would turn your hand and footprints into a beautiful reindeer.

Maybe you would like painting so much that I would get a tile from the rack and have you paint your own tile so we could start a new tradition: the yearly tile painted by Sammie. Over time, perhaps, we’d be able to put all of your tiles together and have a crafting table, made out of the tiles that you (and your future sibling) had made over the years!

While I was having these visions of happy crafting dancing in my head, the boutique was running a half off deal, so I took that as a sign: it was time to get our craft on.

Someday, however, I’ll realize that baby + crafting = disaster.

Sigh.

It went like this: your dad and I dressed you up cute (so you’d look good for the pictures). Actually, I dressed you up cute. If your father has anything to say about what you wear, you’d be in whatever clothes were in the drawer nearest to him and are easy to put on. For the record, if you ever look back at your pictures and find shots of you wearing neon watermelon shorts with a red and orange Elmo shirt and disheveled hair, it’s because your father dressed you that day:

If you see pictures of you wearing outfits that coordinate with your matching hairbows, you’ll know that dear ol’ mama was responsible for clothing you that day.

Once you were dressed in your black princess shirt (I reasoned that black would be an easier color to clean should you get paint on your coordinating clothes), we ran a few quick errands and made our way to the paint your own ceramics place.

It started off well: there was hardly anyone in the store so I found the plates and quickly sponged them down so we could paint away as soon as the store’s only worker could help us. I had the foresight, at least, to remember our past experience and swallow my pride and take her up on her offer to help us put your handprint on the plate. Unfortunately, the day we went must have also been the same day the manager was hiring ALL of their employees in the greater Fresno-Clovis area because there were nonstop interviews while we were there. This meant we sat at our table for a long time waiting for her to finish the interviews so she could help us.

I tried to keep you happy, little one.

We took pictures by the paint.

You know, for the perfect scrapbook page that will go in the scrapbook that I’ve STILL yet to get started on.

I forgot to tell your father that *I* wanted to be in the picture, too, but when we tried for picture number two, the tide started to turn.

*Enter the unhappy baby who’s just now realizing she’s tired hungry and desperate for a nap and/or food. Preferably at the same time, and most definitely NOW*

I sent you and your father off to the nearby play area where I waited and killed time by painting a bottom coat of paint on both of the plates.

Finally, ions later, the manager was done conducting interviews, fielding phone calls and sending one of the newly hired employees off to buy her lunch. I called you guys in, and we quickly put you back in your apron and set about painting your hand brown.

You realized at about that point that I was attempting to craft with you again, and you must’ve had flashbacks from the previous crafting project involving your hands.

*Enter the unhappy baby who’s just now realizing she’s tired hungry and desperate for a nap and/or food and NOT wanting to craft with her mama.*

You rewarded our efforts by clawing away at the handprint, leaving a brown blob on both of the plates.

I gave up trying to craft with a seventeen month old at that point and sent you off to eat lunch with your father while I tried hopelessly to salvage whatever I could of the gobs of paint on the plates.

So much for painting your own tile each year. Hmph.

Crafting, I reasoned, would have to happen solo that day. I spent the next two hours painting and scraping and wiping and painting again because I forgot that you have to paint each color THREE times to get anything more than a washed out color.

The last twenty minutes of painting went by in a blur. I literally had a paintbrush in each hand and was frantically trying to finish everything off in time to meet a friend across town.

Fast forward four days. The pieces were supposed to be ready by 6PM on Tuesday (yesterday), and I couldn’t wait any longer. I was so hoping that we’d created two masterpieces that we’d use with fond memories each year.

The manager (a different one than the previous day) warned me about setting the plates upright in the bag before handing them off to me. I nodded politely and ran back to my car to tear off the protective paper from the plates and see how they turned out.

The Christmas one was so-so. I didn’t have the patience to paint THREE coats and so I ended up with a washed out red color on the edge. I also was a little annoyed that the lettering was funky on the “M” and “C.”

I give myself 2 paintbrushes out of a possible 4.

 

The Thanksgiving one, however, was PERFECT. Just as I had hoped it would look. I could see myself taking it to family Thanksgiving functions with freshly baked pumpkin bread and banana nut bread on it. I give myself 3.5 paintbrushes out of a possible 4. I would have given myself 4 paintbrushes, but the black paint outlining the turkey was a little too thick for my liking.

If you’re wondering why I’m not posting pictures of the turkey plate, it’s because this happened:

Yep. I should’ve listened to the paint manager lady when she told me to keep the bag flat instead of upright. I set the plates upright on the counter while I was preparing dinner. The clutter on the island was killing me, so I tried to tidy it up (I think kitchen islands should be renamed “throw all of your junk here in the middle of the kitchen stations”). I grabbed your diaper bag, and somehow it got caught on the plate bag. This domino effect translated into the bag tipping over and flying off of the island and onto the wood floor below. My mom powers were rendered useless—I couldn’t do anything but stand there hopelessly while I heard the tell-tale crunch of the ceramic plates.

Maybe I should’ve wrapped them better after looking at them in the car earlier.

Wouldn’t you know it if the mediocre Christmas plate survived while the epicly awesome Thanksgiving plate broke into three different pieces?

Sigh. I’d like to say that I learned my lesson and I’ve vowed to never ever again try to craft with you until you’re able to say “Mother, please pass me the paint brush for I wish to make you a fantabulous craft, please.” I’m not quite done with you yet, though. I’m determined to get it done right.

We’re going back to the paint your own ceramic place this weekend. We get half off if we paint in our PJs. I’m thinking I’ll wear my purple owl pajamas and you can wear your purple footed pajamas. I’m bringing my camera and we’re going to paint another hand turkey if it kills me. And we’re going to smile in the pictures and it’s going to be FUN, dangit!

Oh, and if that’s not enough, I’ve also arranged to have your footprint done in clay this Friday. The art teacher offered her services. How could I pass up an offer like that?

Stay tuned for the next chapter of “Call Your Mama Crazy”….

Love you little Sammie,

your mama