DAAHH-g!

Dearest Sammie Joy,

If you look here, you'll see that several weeks ago I made the mistake of confusing your constant "mamamamama" chatter as saying "Mama." After hearing you call your shoes, toys, books, diapers, and random air particles "mama," I put two and two together and figured out that I mispoke. Rather than associating my face with the word "Mama," you were just babbling nonsense and "Mama" had no more meaning to you than your other favorite bable word "aaaaaAAAAAAAAHHHaaaaaaa" (your favorite expression of joy).

So forgive me for thinking nothing of it when you looked up and lunged at poor Maynerd while saying "DAAH-g!" last Thursday. I also didn't think too much of it when you did the same thing a few hours later.

When it happened again the other night after coming home from being out of town, I figured it was time to put my own reluctance aside and get out the congratulatory sippy cups.

Had it been written in a novel, the scene on Tuesday night might have played out something like this:

A tired and haggard woman desperately in need of a shower stumbles into the darkened laundry room from the garage, tightly clutching her equally exhausted ten month old daughter. Moving quickly so as not to trip over the two mangy mutts at her feet, the woman flips the light switch to find the young girl bouncing excitedly on her hip. "D-AAAH-g!" the girl shrieks happily, lunging anxiously while her mother struggles desperately to hang on, both to her daughter and to the baby she once was.

Or something like that. You get the idea. I was tired, it was dark, you saw the dogs and repeated the same phrase you first said on last Thursday (March 25th, if you keep track of that kind of thing). At any rate, you've since then repeated "dog" several times and both your father and I are content to write it down in history as your first (real) word.

I'm sensing a running theme here. The first thing you crawled for was the dog dish. The first thing you say is "dog" (or your own version of it--where the "g" is mostly silent). Methinks that when it's time to coax you into walking we should just grab the pooches and hold them a few feet away, like the proverbial dangling canine/carrot. Or, better yet, when the terrible two's hit, I won't have to say "Mommy says no." I can just say "Roxy [or Maynerd] says no," that way you'll be more likely to obey because clearly you view the dogs as higher up in the Vogt household food chain than your measly parents.

Loving you copious amounts, my little dog-lover,
your mommy

PS Here's a cursory look through the past 6 (dog) years of pictures. No wonder you're obsessed with all things "d-AAAAH-g."

A few days old: Roxy tries desperately to walk over me to give you the sniff-down.

A few weeks old. Roxy figures you're perfect for a good snuggle-buddy.

A few months old. Roxy continues the snuggling.

Month Four. Right about when you figured out that the dogs were fun to be around.

Month six. Rare shot of Maynerd generously sharing your blanket with you.

Month seven. You and Roxy are clearly two peas in a pod.

Month Nine. Roxy has what it takes to make you smile.

Month Ten. Waiting for the dogs to do something to amuse you.

Month 10: Life's Little Things

Dear Sammie Girl,

Another week of whirlwind activities has gone by, but I’m going to resist the urge to chronicle your first St. Patrick’s Day with my side of the family and I’m going to force myself NOT to write about the totally wonderful time we had with Nonni this last weekend in Monterey (and an even awesomer time on the way home stopping by the outlet mall in Gilroy). I’m going to make myself forget about all of the things that you did in the past few days; I want to take today and write about what makes you…well, you

No…I…will…NOT…write…about…those…things.

But….I will post pictures!

The before dinner Irish photo shoot with cousin Ben:


The screaming hungry baby photo:


The bottle after the pre-dinner Irish photo shoot:


Keeping Sammie occupied while Mommy & Nonni got ready to go hit Cannery Row:


The Nonni, Mommy & Samantha picture in Monterey:


The sleeping baby & Nonni:


Our view of you while we drove home (aren’t those pigtails ADORABLE?)


Ok, so I totally cheated. Those pictures pretty much say it all about what we’ve done these past few days. The thing is, I spent much of last fall waiting for the week when nothing significant happened so I could journal about that stray curly lock of hair that decorated the left part of your head (seriously—you were losing hair left and right but that long clump of hair remained…it was kind of charming in a unique/weird way). That empty week never happened, though, so I never got to write about your hair. Until right now when I was proving a point. But that doesn’t count because it’s five months after the fact.

I imagine that twenty years from now, you’re not going to care about your first St. Patrick’s Day or about how you watched cartoons in a hotel room. What you’re probably more likely to care about, rather, are the little things that are Samantha Joy. While it’s still fresh as I watch you grow up before my eyes, I’m going to put everything else aside and write about it while it’s still fresh. I fear that if I continue to wait for that “empty” week to write about life’s little things, you’ll be forty and the memories of your babyhood will be long gone.

I’ll start off with the object of affection that I’ve touched on in previous posts: your blue robe thing. Really, I don’t know what to call it. Robie? Blue thing? Piece of my robe? Blue fabric? Lovey? I’ve tried out each of these monikers but nothing seems to fit. Maybe I’ll just wait until you’re old enough to name it yourself. For now, I’ll just call it the Piece of Fabric Formerly Known as My Robe (POFFKAMR, for short).

POFFKAMR mania started last fall when I noticed that you held onto the sleeve of my robe after bath time. Each time, you grabbed onto my robe and held on for dear life so that you could suck your thumb. I don’t understand why my robe was the one thing that did the trick; you had four “lovies” (as Nonni calls them) hanging out in the crib—completely unloved.

I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised at the sudden robe attachment. You did go through a brief period where you were grabbing for anybody’s shirts or cloth spit up rags so that you could curl up the fabric into your fist and suck your thumb (you still haven’t been able to bring yourself to suck your thumb sans fabric in hand—you must have something in your hand to suck your thumb and soothe yourself).

Once you latched onto my robe, though, I took your cue and cut off a small swatch from the front hem of my blue robe. Something about the POFFKAMR’s softness did the trick for you, because it wasn’t long before you abandoned the cloth diapers entirely and reaching for a good thumb session. You love those things. Yes, I said “things” in the plural form; currently there’s six POFFKAMRs floating around the house. We got by on one or two of them for a while, but as your dependency on them grew, I had to keep hacking away at my poor robe because we needed more of them as they were lost/found again/lost again and getting dirtied/cleaned again/dirtied. My tattered robe has now been cut so much that it no longer has a hem on either side up to my mid-section. I still wear it every morning, but as soon as I can find a comparable robe for cheap, I’m going to snap it up and make the old one into a blanket or something.

Here's what the robe looks like now (the arrows point to where I've been cutting away):


This is what the POFFKAMR does for you, though, so I'm not complaining:


Putting the POFFKAMR to good use before naptime today:


If there’s one thing the POFFKAMR is good for, it’s calming you down. While so many people have commented on how happy you are (and you are usually a very happy baby), there is a little bit of another side of you that comes out, a side that usually screams to the high heavens while you throw yourself backwards…which usually results in more screams if your head hits something on the way down. Through careful observation, we’ve been able to pinpoint the exact causes of this sudden personality shift. You’re either:

a) Hungry
b) Tired
c) Desperate for a bottle
d) Upset because someone (usually me) took food out of your mouth after you’ve taken too big of a bite.

When any of the four things have happened (or heaven forbid, all four at the same time), the result is a baby that turns into a red-faced screaming machine. I’d like to think that ten months is too early for temper tantrums, but my gut tells me otherwise. Fortunately, the POFFKAMR is perfect for buying time while I do one of the following:
a) Carry you to bed
b) Get your food ready
c) Make a bottle
d) Distract you with toys (or safer bites of food)

If a POFFKAMR isn’t readily available, we’ve got the next best things: our dogs. Currently, you’ve got quite an obsession with all things animal, which means that we’ve got a three way love triangle going on in our house: We love and adore you, you love us but adore the dogs, and the dogs turn to your father and me for any semblance of the affection that they enjoyed prior to life with baby.

While we were waiting for you to come (and you did take your time in doing that, thankyouverymuch), I wrote about the dogs and how I imagined they’d be with you when you joined our family. I thought Roxy for sure would be your BFF and that Maynerd would be content to lay by your side and get scratched behind the ears. Well, that’s happened…to some extent. Roxy really does love being around you and gives you kisses now and then to let you know you’re loved. Maynerd, on the other hand, has figured out that he wants to be near your high chair during feeding times. Other than that, he’s still trying to figure out what happened to our family; I don’t think he’s grasped the fact that you’re here to stay. I suspect that will change once you’re old enough to scratch him and feed him.

One thing I never took into consideration was the level of fascination YOU would have for our furbabies. You live and breathe for these dogs. When I get you up in the morning, you look right past me and start scanning the hallway outside of your room for any sign of the dogs. If you should happen to catch a glimpse of a tail or paw, you start quivering in excitement and bouncing up and down as you shriek with glee. When we came home from Monterey last Sunday night—and you had to have been very tired—you practically lunged out of my arms at the first sight of Roxy.

Those dogs better start adjusting now, because now that you’re crawling (and getting better at it by the day), the only room that’s safe is the laundry room—behind closed doors. Fortunately for them, you are rather gentle with them (or as gentle as ten month olds can be).

A typical afternoon with the dogs looks like this (um, getting a picture with dogs AND a crawling baby is harder than I thought):


I’m not remiss of the fact that none of the things I’ve talked about this week—the POFFKAMR, the dog obsession, the three generation travels, the Saint Patrick’s Day pictures—none of it could have been possible had it not been for your birth mother and her selflessness in choosing an adoption plan for her. A little over a year ago this past week (on March 23rd, to be exact), we received THE call that your birth mom had chosen us to be your parents. (Go here to relive that day). That day began on a not so promising note (I had slept through the alarm and was late for work) but ended with such joy and excitement. I think about your birth mom a lot lately. Who would’ve known what a wonderful ride that phone call would start—it’s hard to believe the amount of (awesome) changes that have happened in our lives over the past twelve months. Your father often turns to me and tells me just how much you’ve changed his life for the better. I marvel at the sheer amount of love I have for you—I go to bed watching you sleep in your baby monitor and I wake up to sneak another quick peak before heading off for work.

I praise God that He spoke to your birth mom and told her that we were the ones that He had chosen to be your parents. I’m forever grateful to Him for speaking to the our hearts and telling us that He had chosen a baby for our family—a baby that would join us not through birth but through adoption.

With God’s Love,
your mommy

Milestones: Teeth, Crawling & Taco Bell

Dear Miss Sammie,

I’m getting a lesson, little one. NOTHING is ever boring in the life of a baby. I keep waiting for the week when I can write about the little things in your life: your blue robe thing, your knack for zeroing in on your books in your room, the way you eat anything and everything we put in front of you…but that week has yet to come because dangit if you aren’t hitting milestones left and right and I fear that if I don’t write them down right that very week I’ll kick myself because I’m doing AWFUL at combining my roles of scrapbooker and mommy and I’ve yet to do ANYTHING to your baby book. This blog has been my saving grace for chronicling everything you’ve done in your first year. Since you currently have no baby book, milestones will always surpass life’s little things in this blog (I still hate that word—BLOG—sounds so…BLAH).

But this weekly update isn’t about my hatred for random 21st century lexicons. It’s about you. Alas, the reason(s) have surfaced for why you hadn’t been sleeping so well at night. The first reason, as I mentioned last week, came to light last Tuesday when your first tooth made its debut.

The second tooth/reason made its appearance Sunday morning. We were in the church lobby because I didn’t want to run the risk of ruining our good graces with the church’s nursery staff by infecting all of the other babies with your evil cold. While I held you, you kept opening your mouth in excitement, and I, being the obsessive tooth-watcher-outer, kept looking proudly at your gumline and your new tooth. It was then that I saw that your new tooth had company: a little smidgen of white was protruding from your gums next to the other tooth (follows are the pictures from St. Patrick's Day yesterday--notice the two little teeth peeking through on your bottom gums!):



The close up efforts were less than successful...



Of course, I wanted to shout from the rooftops that my baby’s getting TWO new teeth, but I had to contain my excitement because they tend to frown upon that type of thing during church. Fortunately, I did have company to share my joy with: the entire Voetberg Family. They were our church’s worship guests that morning, having traveled from Washington state to perform foot-stomping tunes with their impressive musical talent. We were in the lobby (you made it through worship but just as the sermon started you decided you’d had enough of sitting down, thankyouverymuch) when you caught the eye of the middle daughter, Lilja. You had your own hand in getting her attention, of course—as soon as we sat down in the church’s comfy chairs you made eye contact with the teen and grinned and bounced whenever she looked your way.

Before I knew it, Lilja asked if she could take you outside to play. Fifteen minutes later, you were back and were mesmerizing the rest of the Voetberg clan with your adorableness. They loved your chunkiness (I think their exact words were something to the effect of “chunky babies are cute babies.”) and said that they’d hire you to join their band if they could (of course, this came from an eight year old so I wouldn’t get your heart set on traveling the country with them just yet). The teacher in me was impressed with their maturity, the mom in me reveled in just how much they enjoyed YOU.

Enough about the Voetberg family; time to get on with the milestones. While teeth may be a big deal—especially when considering that you waited so long to debut your pearly whites—I’m talking about a milestone that’s even bigger than teeth.

I’m talking about crawling. You crawled for the first time this week (Tuesday, March 16th) when I came home from work. I had been playing with you on the living room floor, when you saw something you wanted—something you’ve had your eye on for a long time: the (insert drum roll and much fanfare here)….dog dish. I figured something was up when you didn’t do your standard “pivot, pivot, roll, roll” maneuver after eyeing the shiny bowl a few feet away (all pictures below are from a few minutes ago--I snapped them as you were showing off this afternoon):

Instead of rolling over, though, you put yourself into the push up position by planting your hands on the ground and straightening your arms to support your upper body weight; your little feet supported your lower body weight while your butt was straight up in the air:


Then, you crawled/dragged yourself towards the (thankfully empty) dog food dish.


It wasn’t quite creeping (that’s where babies do an army crawl of sorts by using their arms to move forward while their feet drag behind them), but it wasn’t quite arm/knee, arm/knee crawling, either. Rather, your legs were doing all of the work while your arms dragged behind and your chest stayed on the carpet. Honestly, it was kind of like you were swimming the breast stroke on top of our living room carpet:



As the evening went on, you “swam” the living room less and less and moved to more of the regulation crawl. The next night, after coming home from a night of teaching college students, your father was so excited to tell me about how much he’d seen you crawl. Tonight will mark two days from the time you first discovered that moving forward beats rolling side to side. I’ll bet that you’ll show us how you’re getting even better at your wicked crawling skills!



Of course, I have my own theories as to why the crawling just happened to have started last Tuesday. Something must’ve happened earlier that day to give you super human strength. Something must’ve changed to give you the courage to propel yourself forward and tick off another milestone on the list.

I’m talking about tortillas, chicken, beans and rice.

I’m talking, dear Sammie, about the wonder that is Taco Bell.

You ate your first Taco Bell burrito on Tuesday. *sniff, grin, sniff*

I promised you, darling Sammie, as I held you in the hospital last May and we memorized each other’s faces, that I would one day introduce you to the joy that is Taco Bell.

And that day came this past Tuesday, hours before you showed us your mad crawling skills. It started out innocently enough. I came home from work that day with my typical lunch fare: Taco Bell combination #2 (grilled stuffed burrito with chicken--no baja or fiesta salsa, nachos and a soda). I set you down on the floor next to me while I scarfed my lunch down…but you started giving me what can only be described as “THE” eyes.

You tried to crawl then and there by getting on your knees to move toward me, but you only succeeded in scooching backwards. Sensing your frustration, I picked out a piece of chicken and gave it to you. I swear, Sammie girl, your eyes about popped out of your head with glee. Before I knew it, you had your little mitts on my lunch and weren’t about to let go:





You definitely quiero Taco Bell and I, for one, couldn’t be more proud.

Te amo mi mija,

Tu madre

You're Sick, I'm Sick, & the Tooth Has Come In!

Dearest Sammie Girl,

I’b wriding like thisd because you got me thick with your code. Thanksd for that. Seriously, whatever immunity from all air-borne illnesses you had for the first eight months of life must be long gone because you’re currently recovering from your third cold in the past six weeks.

I blame the tables.

Whenever we go out to eat, you get so excited about the mere prospect of food that as soon as we sit you down in your high chair, you feel the need to lean forward and “eat” the table. Every. Single. Time.

We’ve tried using the yellow-rubber-hippo-thing-that-Nonni-bought-you-for-Christmas, but the YRHTTNBYFC is made out of rubber. Rubber is awesome for preventing the Cheerios from meeting their destiny with the floor, but it’s also not-so-awesome in that it attracts every little piece of dust and lint and (gag) hair. As soon as I clean it, the YRHTTNBYFC gets dirty seconds later and I kind of have a fear of rubber mats with stands of hair on it so needless to say, we don’t use the YRHTTNBYFC very often.

Which is why we’ve been going mat-less in restaurants and you’ve been salivating over each table that we put you in front of. Sadly, we’ve been eating out more than usual lately because I’ve been rather tired/lazy and would rather dial/order than cook/clean each night after teaching. So, needless to say, we’ve been using a lot of the gift cards we got for Christmas these past few weeks…and you’ve been eating a lot of germ-ridden tables.

I thought we were staying ahead of the game by using sanitizing hand wipes on the table before plopping you down, but I guess we weren’t fooling the germs because you still managed to get sick.

Knowing misery loves company, you decided to share your cold with me. Thanks for that. Really—I thank you.

Fortunately, I know how to blow my nose and cover my mouth when I sneeze and cough. Unfortunately, you do not yet possess the knowledge or capacity to use a Kleenex and blow, which is why I’ve spent since Saturday chasing you down with saline spray, a booger-getter-outter-suction-bulb-thing, and either a Kleenex, washcloth, dishrag, onesie …frankly, whatever is available works fine—apparently I’m not as picky about where I put your snot as I am about hairy rubber mats.

In between suctions, you happily/miserably sucked on your bottle, with a deathgrip on your scrap of mommy's robe:


This past cold definitely has been worse than other ones. The cough that’s accompanied it is enough to make me tear up each time because you’re working so hard to free up the gunk in your lungs.

(Side Note: I’m avoiding the use of the word “phlegm” here because your Poppa HATES that word and it sends him into convulsions. I’m trying to be considerate should he ever read these entries—and I doubt he will because Facebook is just about all of the modern web stuff he can do. That said, by the time you’re old enough to read this, I think it’s perfectly acceptable for you to stop whatever you’re doing to call him up and scream “PHLEEEEEEEEEGGGGGMMMMMMMMMM!!!” in his ears. Because your momma has a sick and twisted sense of humor like that).

Right…back to the horrid cough. You were so congested and coughing so often that you started wheezing a little…which got me worried, so I did what I’d been avoiding for the past nine and a half months: I called up the pediatrician’s office and made a sick child appointment.

I’ve been so determined NOT to be one of those mothers that calls their pediatrician at every little sniffle. So…this was really your second “sick baby” appointment ever (the first was this last summer when you were a newborn and your little umbilical cord looked like it might be slightly infected—it wasn’t and your belly button as I’m sure you know by now is just fine). The office of STBPITW handled the visit beautifully, and we were in and out of there in fifteen minutes flat. The verdict? You have a cold, but it’s nothing that I should be concerned about because it’s not affecting your lungs. I should keep doing what I’m doing, which is basically chasing you around the house with that snot-booger-bulb thing.

Whew.

While we were at the doctor’s office, STBPITW looked in your mouth and noticed that your two front teeth are closer than they’ve ever been to breaking through. She also saw that the two teeth on the bottom sides of your mouth are going to be making their appearance quickly, as well.

STBPITW couldn’t have been more on the money because I felt your gums a few hours later…I’ll admit, it’s fast becoming a daily ritual/obsession to check your mouth for teeth because you’re getting them sooo late compared to the other babies we know… Oh. My. Gosh. Did I really just type that? How keeping-up-with-the-Baby-Joneses-was-that? *shudder*

Ramblings aside, because as of March 9, you have a TOOTH! I can’t yet see it, but I can feel it. It’s sharp and protruding through your gums. I called your daddy inside to have him feel your gums, and he felt it, too, so I know it wasn’t a psychosomatic tooth that I was feeling. Woo hoo!

I spent the rest of the evening taking pictures of your mouth, knowing that they are the last shots I’ll ever get of a completely gummy-smiled baby. Trouble was, you weren’t so smiley that night (I can’t really blame you, what with the obsessive mother, horrid cold and sharp bits of teeth ripping through your gums). All I got were pictures of you screaming.




The results were a bit of a dejavu from when you were a newborn…



At least you’re consistent!

All my love, my little tooth girl!
-your mommy

PS. Next time you get sick, feel free to NOT give it to me. Really.

Picture Perfect

Dearest Sammie Girl,

In light of last week's lengthy post, I've decided to let the pictures of the last week do the talking.

We got your professional pictures in:

























We also went to the beach to visit some dear friends of ours:























...and we celebrated Nonni's birthday (last Friday) and Grandma Max's birthday (this past Tuesday), but neither of those events yielded pictures :(

Loving you tons,
your mommy

9 Months: The Super Long Wild Thing Edition

Dearest Sammie Girl,

Last Sunday, you turned nine months old. Eek! You’re three quarters of the way to a year now—where has the time gone? Part of me can still remember the first few days of meeting you in the hospital and bringing you home and yet the other part of me can’t recall that you ever looked like anything but the happy and bubbly little pre-toddler that you are today. That’s right. Move over, pre-teenage angst. It’s the pre-toddler months that are all the rage amongst the gymboree set these days.

Truthfully, as quickly as the time’s gone by, I wouldn’t have believed that we really have lived through these past nine months if it weren’t for the weekly Thursday letters I’ve been writing of your progress. This past weekend, Nonni showed me the baby book she had lovingly filled out during the first few years of my life. I was a little embarrassed to tell her that I hadn’t even STARTED on your baby book, because there just hasn’t been the time (although I plan on getting several scrapbooking days scheduled in during next month’s spring break. Hopefully). I guess this blog has proven to be the next best thing. I may not have every last breakthrough and detail down in a purty little book with frolicking bunnies on the cover, but at least I’ve got this blog, where I can look back to this past July and see just how much you weighed and what you were up to when we went to Disneyland.

But let’s forget about the past for a second and focus on where you are right now. Well, technically, right now you should be just starting to wake up in your crib and babbling on about life’s complexities while your father keeps his eyes on the baby monitor as he desperately tries to cling on to a few more minutes of sleep. I, on the other hand, am two miles away in my classroom at school, blissfully typing away as I enjoy my empty room during the last foggy day schedule for the 2009-2010 school year.

It’s amazing what can change and happen in the life of a nine month old in the course of a week. In a mere seven days, you’ve: perfected rolling over and changing direction, mastered raising your hands on cue to “How big are you?,” gone on a whirlwind trip to the nearby mountains to see your very first snowfall, met up with all of the babies in the Willis clan, turned nine months, gotten over your first nasty cold, gone to the pediatrician, learned the joys of sleeping on your tummy and had the latest rounds of professional pictures taken.

If you need to stop for a minute because your head is spinning, feel free. It was one of those merry-go-round weeks, after all.

Let’s take this one step at a time.

The rolling over to get where you want to go thing. You’ve been doing it for a mere two weeks, and with each day that passes you get a little faster and more adept at it. Lately, you’ve perfected the art of rolling over by adding to it a new skill that I like to call the Lazy Susan. Simply put, when you want to change direction, you stick your belly out and, using your hands, spin your body in a circle.

The “How Big Are You” thing was learned last Saturday and your father and I haven’t stopped laughing ever since. You spent the night with Nonni and Poppa on Friday night, and by the time you came back home on Saturday afternoon, you were raising your hands in the air and squealing with glee. Your Nonni swears she just did it with you a couple of times, but something must’ve clicked because anytime* we ask “How Big Are You?” you obligingly raise your hands to the heavens and wait for the choruses of “SOOOO big!” while your father and I look at each other and bust a gut. The asterisk* after the word “anytime” above is a legal disclaimer, because you do not perform this trick in front of larger crowds or when food’s around.

I tried to get a picture of it WITH you smiling, but all I ended up with was this:


The Shaver trip thing was a last minute idea of your father’s. Basically it went something like this:

Daddy: Want to go to Shaver for pizza?
Mommy: Really? It’s 5:15 already—won’t it be dark?
Daddy: Nah, we should be ok.
Mommy: Want to invite Beth and Tom?
Daddy: Sure, that sounds like fun. I’ll go hop in the shower.
*insert sound effects here of mommy & daddy racing around the house, making phone calls and getting you ready for a quick trip to the snow and hopping in the car*

Two hours later, we made it up the hill, all the while singing our way up the four lane road to keep a certain cranky baby quiet. Then it started snowing. Which is cool for all of a minute until you realize that the car doesn’t have snow chains and no one had packed to spend the night should we get snowed in. Fast forward another hour, and the four of us had devoured our pizza (you noshed on Cherrios), taken pictures of you in the falling snow (note to self: bring a jacket & hat anytime you take a baby to the snow—I lost mom points there), and ran back to the car in an effort to try to make it back down the mountain before the snow got much deeper and we were stuck on the side of the road for all of eternity. In the end, we made it back to town safely, trading in our crackling voices singing for an i-phone with a miraculous application for babies that kept you entertained while I sat there amazed at your insane fine-motor skills (seriously, you were putting your finger to the screen and opening and closing the barn doors on that phone like a 2 year old).

At least we got some good pictures out of it:







...I managed to snap this one just before we got into the car:


The next day, you turned nine months old and we skipped church (on account of your runny nose, more on that later). Then came the Willis Baby Thing. We headed over on a much safer trip to Clovis to celebrate Great-Grandma and Grandpa Willis’ 60th anniversary. It’s insane how quickly a family can grow when four babies are born in the span of nine months. You spent the good part of the first hour sitting on the floor with your cousin Kylie and watching in amazement as she took YOUR toys and *gasp* played with them. Hmmm…maybe it’s time to work on your social skills a little. I realize you’re too young to understand the concept of sharing, but maybe we can work on pretending that you know how to share when large masses of family are around. The second half of the event was spent with me (and many other people) trying to get you to wave your arms in the air to the cue of “How Big Are You?” As you might have guessed by the earlier asterisk, that didn’t happen. Rather, you waited until all but four people had left before you happily shoved your fists upward and wondered what all of the fuss was about.

Fortunately for all involved, you were over the cold thing. Sunday was the first day that you were feeling back to normal. Prior to that, you were battling a nasty case of runny-nose-itis. It manifested itself shortly after I finished the play a few weeks ago, when, right on schedule, I got sick with a cold (I always get sick right after finishing a show— but, by the time you’re old enough to read this, you probably know that). Unable to keep myself from hugging you tight and kissing your chubby little cheeks, I gave you the gift of your first *real* sickness. Sadly, we spent the next week and a half giving each other our colds, until finally I couldn’t take it anymore: the sight of hearing you breathing heavily through your nose and seeing the snot running out of your nose was breaking my heart (and kind of grossing me out). I called the pediatrician’s office, took the nurse’s advice, and bought you saline drops. That little white bottle of saline spray is worth its weight in gold, because in a matter of minutes your nostril fountain turned off and you were able to breathe through your nose once again.

A few days later came the well-child check up thing. For the first time, I wasn't able to go (I was teaching at the time) so your daddy took you into the pediatrician’s office for visit. Your Nonni tagged along so I could hear the full scoop later on (I love your father, but remembering and reciting back important details is not his gift). This is what we found out: you currently are weighing in at a whopping 21 pounds 2 ounces and have grown a whole inch since our last visit (you’re now 27.5 inches long). We should keep feeding you all of the foods that we have been, but disregard what the doctor-issued feeding chart says regarding juice (Still-the-Best-Pediatrician-in-the-World referred to juice as the gateway drug to soda—*gasp*). Fortunately, we had only been giving you juice twice a week or so. Your fine motor skills are very advanced for your age (hence why you mastered the iphone so quickly) but your gross motor skills are just average (hence why you’re not crawling just yet—even though you’re AAALMOSTthere). Your immune system is also remarkably healthy if you’ve just now received and recovered from your first illness. While most babies your age have teeth by now, it’s not a concern that you’re still all gums so long as you get your first teeth right around the year mark (although STBPITW said that it won’t be that long because she felt your gums and teeth are VERY close to peeping through). The visit culminated in the first round of the H1N1 flu vaccination. Bottom line: you’re healthy and developing at a pace that’s right for you.

I’ll just skip to the next thing without even trying to do a transition sentence because frankly, I have no idea how to transition from a successful pediatrician’s visit to musing about how you’re now doing the sleeping on your tummy thing. Oh, wait. I think I just did write a transition sentence. The former English teacher in me is pleased with myself. Pats on the back aside, as I just mentioned, you’ve discovered the joys of sleeping through the night on your tummy. You’ve always been a sleep on your back kind of a girl (which is what we wanted because of the whole risk factor involved with newborns sleeping on their tummies). Over the past few nights, though, I’ve watched you through your baby monitor—I long ago gave up on trying to tiptoe into your room to watch you sleep because apparently I’m a loud door opener and walker because EVERY time I woke you up. You’ll start off sleeping on your back (as usual), and about the time I go to bed, I look over on the nightstand and see you on the monitor, flipping to your side and then your tummy. Come morning, you’re still on your tummy, looking as content as can be.

It’s a good thing you’re getting all of that good sleep because yesterday your Grandma Max and I schlepped you off to Visalia for the picture thing. It was your turn to get the third round of professional pictures taken…and kid, you’re a pro. The photographer even commented about how you take pictures like an adult: you save your smiles for when the camera comes out. We got pictures of the two of us, pictures of you and Grandma Max, pictures of you with the various blankets people made for you (and yes, Tamara, because I know you’re my ONE faithful reader, we took a picture of her with the blanket you made for her), pictures of you in your Easter dress playing with necklaces, pictures of you in the cute ladybug top, and finally, pictures of you in your red coat and hat standing up and peering over a chair. Hopefully, we got at least one decent picture from each of the major clothing changes because from where I was standing they ALL looked adorable. Which is kind of good, because the last time we took pictures (in October), the photo session ended with you looking like this:



Now that I’ve written a five volume novel in lieu of what was supposed to be a rather quick post, I’m going to sign off.

Loving you tons my little smiley girl!

your mommy.

PS We Love You

Dear Samantha Joy,

This past Sunday, your father and I set out to do what millions of couples across the country did: go out on a date for Valentine's Day. The downside to millions of couples going out at the same time (aside from the obvious insanely long wait for tables in restaurants) is that finding family members to babysit becomes increasingly difficult as they are going out on dates of their own. So, after mildly panicking last week, I turned to the next best thing: a real live babysitter.

I met Breanna last year when she was in my theatre 1 class, but I really got to know her this year when she was cast, appropriately enough, as Annie. I had heard through the grapevine that she is The World's Most Perfect Babysitter (TWMPB)at her own church, so I crossed my fingers and said a prayer that she'd be available on what is surely the most difficult day of the year to find childcare. Fortunately for all involved, she was...so operation babysitter was on.

As I was the babysitter in demand at my church growing up, I knew a thing or two to do to keep TWMPB happy, so therefore the first step of Operation Babysitter was to make sure that our pantry was full of yummy snacks (Cheez-Its and Oreos) and that our house was in relatively decent condition.

The second step of Operation Babysitter was to compose a detailed contact list and Sammie information sheet (about feeding, sleeping, etc) so that she would have something to refer to throughout the night and keep you a relatively happy camper, as well as writing up how to work our overly complicated TV set up to keep TWMPB a happy camper, as well. An hour later, I was moving on to step three: trying desperately to install our printer and get it synched with my laptop. Step four came an hour later: cursing at the machine and threatening to throw the printer out the window as I gave up on the aforementioned list and settled for a much-less pretty scrap of paper with the bare minimum of necessary contact information.

Step five was making sure that you had had a decent naptime (that deserved a half of a check because the naptime came far too late and was a little too short for both of our liking). Step six was getting food ready to go so that TWMPB could feed you as we left and thus become your BFF in a matter of minutes.

Operation Babysitter had been completed with literally seconds to spare when the doorbell rang. TWMPB went right to where you were playing on the floor, and I tried to explain how to work the TV (I soooo lost mom points there, taking more time to explain how to work the TV than how to work the child). Just before we walked out the door and she sat down to feed you, I snapped this picture of history in the making:


The 'HUH?' look you're sporting can be attributed to the lack of sleep and pure confusion as to what to do with all of the attention TWMPB has already poured upon you.

The evening went on without a hitch. Your dad and I had a great time on our group date with Jeff and Tamara & Brad and Ashlea, and when I texted TWMPB to let her know that we had ordered and that we should be home in a few hours, TWMPB rose to the level of TUMPB (The Universe's Most Perfect Babysitter) by responding with a picture text of the two of you playing dress up with your tutu and grinning from ear to ear. TUMPV kept you a happy camper up until a few minutes before we got home (your mom-dar must've gone off because somehow you sensed that it was almost time for us to be home). As soon as we walked into the door, your face broke out into an ear to ear grin and happy camper-dom resumed its normally scheduled programming.

In non-babysitting related news, you received more valentines than your father and I combined this year. Your very first valentine was a handmade one from your Great Grandma and Grandpa Pat, but you also raked in a light-up bear from Grandma Max and Grandpa Mike as well as a gift card to a bookstore from Nonni and Poppa. Speaking of books, being read to remains among your favorite things to do (seriously, you have an amazing attention span for an almost nine month old--you pay attentino to things longer than I do sometimes!).

Developmentally, you're still rolling all over the place, and while I may have half-joked about needing to babyproof the house last week, I'm not kidding anymore. Three times this afternoon I had to get you away from the pile of junk by the recliner that I've dubbed Mt. Saint Daddy (it's tons of scraps of paper and shipping stuff and just general stuff).

I should also mention that you've got quite the sense of humor and get quite the kick out of making me laugh. Lately, you've been cracking me up by blowing spittle all over the place as you blow raspberries at anyone who will look at you:



That picture is worth a million words. But, so's this one:



Have you EVER seen a baby that happy or that cute?!?!

Lovin you forever and ever my funny and cute little valentine,
your mama