Poor Dogs (Part Deux) & Fashionista Wonder Baby

Dearest Sammie,

Before you were born, I wrote an entry about our dogs Maynerd and Roxy, joking that they'd be all but forgotten when we welcomed baby Vogt into our lives.

I swear, I really was joking. Those dogs were the light of our lives--seriously, EVERY picture we took was of our dogs. We dressed them up for Halloween, got them individually embroidered stockings, made white chocolate dipped dog bones for them as a special treat...and countless other things that now I'm just too danged embarrassed to admit.

People told me that my relationship with the dogs would change once we got a child. I scoffed at the notion, thinking for sure that it would never happen to me--I love my little furbabies and nothing would ever change that.

Pshaw. Yeah, right.

Case in point: two weeks into parenthood, we asked the photographer if we could bring our pooches along for your newborn photo session. The dogs, we reasoned, were a part of our family, and how could we take pictures of our newly expanded family without dear ol' Maynerd and Roxy? The photographer was somewhat hesitant--apparently the idea of bringing pampered canines to a photoshoot meant for a baby isn't a common thing--but she eventually agreed. Needless to say, we needn't have bothered to ask about the dogs: we were halfway to the photography studio before we realized that Maynerd and Roxy had been left behind without a thought.

That was just the beginning, dear Sammie. As you took up more and more of our hearts and love and attention, the dogs, well, they kind of got squeezed out. Gone were the matching pumpkin costumes and sugary dog treats. Gone were your dad's late morning snuggling sessions with Maynerd. And gone was their once-every-other-month grooming session (with home baths in between). In came the "eh, dogs don't need clothes" attitude and "did you feed the dogs today?" Regular grooming is now more like "Oh-CRAP-that-dog-smells-and-I-guess-it's-been-five-months-might-as-well-make-the-grooming-appointment-sometime-this-century."

This past week, however, was a good week for the dogs.

They got groomed. And they look good. And smell good.

So I took pictures:

But something was missing. Hmmm...



Then you turned up the cuteness a notch by "cuddling" with each of the dogs (apologies for the blurriness--danged camera took to long to focus; hopefully the cuteness overrides the blurriness):





**Let's just talk about the elephant in the room: that danged outlet. By the time I strategically placed you next to both dogs and got all three of you to STAY while I got my camera out, it was too late to move you away from the ugly outlet. So I took the pictures and mentally slapped my forehead for not scouting out a better location as I snapped away.

I was on a roll, so I figured I'd try my luck at getting a picture of you with Maynerd. We've spoken of him, but we've yet to get a decent picture of the two of you together. Bummer that he's as black as all get out and still doesn't show up in pictures well.

That changed today:

If you're wondering where Roxy is, here you are with her tail (have I mentioned that taking pictures of dogs and babies is incredibly difficult?):

And here's both of your butts (don't ask me how this happened):

While I was snapping away, I somehow got the money shot:

...but this blog isn't about the dogs. Apparently, I don't care enough about them to create their own niche in cyber space. This blog, dear Sammie, is about you. And your future unnamed sibling (whenever we decide to get on the ball and submit our application for a homestudy--we're just not ready for #2 yet).

Back to you. Whew, that was an awkward transition there, wasn't it?

You really are a fashionista. I joked about it when you were weeks old, but now, I mean it. First of all, at any given minute of the day, you are dressed better than I am. Presumably, this is because what's cute on a 15 month old (lime green tank top with matching brown zebra pants?) is not necessarily cute on me, a, um, not 15 month old.

You proved my point the other night when I was cleaning out your closet and making the switch to your next size up in clothes. As I was busily putting clothes away for baby #2, you were busy grabbing whatever you could to "wear" them. At one point, you had on a jean skirt and chartreuse shirt (which I put on you) along with your own fashion choices: a bright yellow ladybug hat, pink shearling vest and a tourquoise swimsuit bottom.

I took a picture, of course. For fashion purposes.

Heaven forbid you should wear the same getup twice.

Then there's the matter of your bows. You've become somewhat of a spokesgirl for my friend's bow business so it's rare that you're seen without your trademark bows. If I was too embarrassed to admit that at one point dogs were dressed in pink fur lined boots (Roxy) and a jean jacket (Maynerd), then I'm really too embarrassed to admit that, at last count your bow collection is well over 150. And I just got more in. And I just placed another order because I fear I'll lose mommy points for putting you in an outfit for which you don't have a coordinating bow.

Frankly, I have a problem. An addiction, if you will. If they had a 12 step program to wean proud mothers off of insanely adorable bows then I really probably should sign myself up.

In case you missed it, here's your bow collection again:

Right. You've got a lot. You seem to realize, though, that bows are important and must be worn when you go out, because whenever your pigtails are naked, you self-consciously reach for your hair and give me a look of desperation.

Ok, so I totally lied in that last sentence. Honestly, you couldn't care less about the bows in your hair.

Have I mentioned that I have a bow addiction problem?

At any rate, when we got your latest additions to your bow collection, I took the time out of sorting through your closet to share them with you.

Apparently, you took that simple gesture to mean that you should wear all of your bows at once.

Perhaps I'd better look into mother/daughter bow addiction groups.

Loving you more than I love your bows (really, honestly and truly),
your mama

PS I'd be remiss if I didn't mention that most of these bows have either been purchased by family members or obtained through trading arrangements with my friend--and my bank account is grateful for that!

August: The Novel

Dearest Sammie Girl,

CHAPTER ONE: WALKING

This week, the proverbial light bulb went on over your head. Walking, you realized, isn’t merely for the amusement of your parents. Walking can be used to get places. Quickly. Without getting your knees dirty (bonus for the laundress queen of the house, aka me).

With other milestones, your father and I made sure to make a huge deal about them as you were doing them so you would be encouraged to do them again. When you started signing back, we clapped our hands and did our own version of the red wave in the living room. When you crawled consistently, we jumped up and down and cheered as though you had just won the Superbowl, Nobel Peace Prize and an Oscar—in the same night. This attention made you happy—and more eager than ever to demonstrate your new skills on a regular basis.

We tried those same tactics when you started walking, but our two person cheering section backfired on us quickly. It went something like this:

You: *stumble, step, stumble*
Mamma: JAY! LOOK! SHE’S WALKING AGAIN!
Daddy: WAY TO GO, BABY GIRL!!!
You: *stumble, wobble, stumble*
Mamma & Daddy: YAY SAMMIE! YAY—SAMM…
You: *Right foot, wobble, wobble, sit down. Again.*
Mamma & Daddy: Nuts.

Now, in an effort to not distract from your ever-improving walking skills, we’ve got to do what we don’t want to do: we have to ignore you in what is surely your greatest milestone to date. It goes something like this now:

You: *step, stumble, step, step*
Mamma: *Tries to send telepathic messages to your father from across the room*: Psst! Jay! She’s walking!
You: *step, step, step, stumble, step, step*
Daddy: *Pumps fist and tries hard to contain excitement*

--two minutes later, after you’ve reached your desired destination—

Mamma & Daddy: YAY SAMMIE! LOOK WHO’S WALKING NOW!
You (realizing you have our attention): *smile, smile, giggle, grin then make the sign for “milk.”

Whatever the case, I celebrated this milestone until other mothers told me that climbing comes right after walking.

Really? I was under the impression that we were done with the childproofing thing. Now I have to actually make sure that all things OVER the three foot mark are baby safe, too? Good grief. Off to find a new place else to store our growing collection of knives, guns and broken glass.**



CHAPTER TWO: LEARNING

Raising a baby, I’ve learned, involves observing your child take on the world and learn in one of two ways: either overtly or covertly. For those who didn't spend a ridiculous amount of time in child education classes to get their credential, I'll break it down for you: overt learning is the obvious: “Look, Sammie! There’s a dog! What does a dog say? That’s right! Woof woof! Doggie says ‘woof’!!”

Covert learning, to wax educational for a moment, is what is subtly learned without our putting forth any effort to actually teach anything. Simply put: monkey see, monkey do. An example of covert learning: I put the bows in your hair every morning without fail so people know without a doubt that you’re a GIRL (because the masses of pink and purple you wear every day isn’t enough of a clue sometimes). Later on, when I ask your father where your bow is, you instinctively reach for your head.

I bring this up because last night I watched in amusement as you showed us once again that you knew how to properly use an object that you’d yet to receive “formal” lessons for. I’m referring, dear Sammie, about an object that reigns supreme in the Vogt households: the remote control.

I’ll suspect your demonstrating of your new skills had less to do with actual fascination with the TV and more to do with buying more time before you went to bed, but it still amused me so I became a one-mom paparazzi show as you tried in earnest to get the TV to turn on with the remote control.

Trying to turn the TV on by pushing random buttons and pointing it at the TV:

Hmmm…maybe you were too far away last time.

Let’s scoot closer and try the point and click method again.


Mom? It’s not working…hey! Why are you taking pictures of me AGAIN?


Well, while you’re looking at me, can I have some milk?


No milk? Nuts. Maybe if I just point the remote MORE I can see if it turns on.


Definitely need to be closer to the TV to get this thing to work.


Let’s just ditch the remote altogether and start pushing buttons on the cable box.


MOMMMM! Stop taking pictures and get this thing to work already!


*Warning* the following pictures show a clear lapse in judgment on my part: I couldn’t be the strict mommy and take a billion pictures of you trying to get the TV and then just pick you up and haul you off to bed. I gave in and let you watch ten minutes of the only show you’re allowed to watch-- Sesame Street. Then I hauled you off to bed.

Hey--wait a minute—I’ve got Big Bird here in my lap—

but he’s on TV, too—how did that happen?

HIIIII Big Bird! (You must wave hi to all of the major characters as you see them onscreen).


This is the BEST NIGHT EVER! I get milk AND TV before bedtime!

EPILOGUE

Yep, I have tried to explain to bubba here that Big Bird is Sammie’s toy and not a dog toy.

He begs to differ.

loving you tons,
your mamma



**This is a joke. We do not have a collection of knives, guns and broken glass. OK, well, that’s not entirely true. I do have knives. But they’re for cutting bread and meat—not for killing people.




PS. Doctor's appointment this week. STBPITW (Still the Best Pediatrician in the World) clocked you in at 30.5 inches and 27 pounds 2 ounces. Translation: you've grown since the last appointment, but I beg to differ about gaining 5 pounds since your last visit. Measurement gate continues...

What the Cable Guy Saw...

Dearest Sammie Girl,

Yay yay and triple yay, shortly followed by nuts nuts and triple nuts!

Allow me to explain the cheers: you took a step today. And another step.

Unassisted.

Loosely translated: you're a walking baby!

...but I'm a Pullen at heart, which means that Murphy's Law is the way things will happen EVERY SINGLE TIME. So allow me to explain the jeers:

I went back to school today for teacher's meetings. Several coworkers saw that I had Sammie on the brain and had the good graces to ask how you were doing. My answer remained the same "She's awesome and adorable and we're waiting for her to walk."

Seven hours later, I'm home again, feeding you goldfish crackers and watching the cable guy do his thing as he installed our new satellite dish. The bliss lasted for an hour. While online, I saw that the school powers that be had made an error in my schedule. Back to school I went in an effort to catch the guidance counselor before she left for the night.

It was a quick errand--from the time I left until the time I returned home, no more than 40 minutes had elapsed.

Sadly, in those 40 minutes, it was your dad and the cable guy that got to see history in the making instead of your mama.

Step, step, smile, sit down.

Facepalm, Facekeyboard, facetable.

Next time you reach a major milestone, try to save it for your mama instead of the meter reader or newspaper delivery boy, ok?

Thanks. I really appreciate it.

But congratulations on walking. Really, I mean it. Honestly.

Mumble groan sniff sniff.

Love you lots my toddler,

your mama

Beautiful Inside & Out

Dearest Sammie...

This is from your latest (and last, for a while) photoshoot. You were modeling bows :-)

The Saga of the Hand Imprint

Dearest Sammie,

Epic Fail.

On this, my second to last day of summer, I got the *brilliant* idea to try to do the plaster mold of your hand.



I had received the plaster molding kit for one of your showers, and was so excited to capture this part of your babyhood. My parents had done the imprint of my hand when I was a baby, and I wanted to do the same for you. The box said infant to 12 years, but I was smart enough to wait until you were older.



Fourteen months seemed about right.

I dressed you up to match the colors that I planned to paint the mold, and made sure that my hair and face were somewhat presentable. I even turned my Pampered Chef apron inside out so you couldn't see the logo (not that I'm embarrassed of it, quite the contrary, I just wanted a classic picture of us placing your hand in the plaster to post next to your hand imprint so we could capture the moment).

Yeah, I know. Your mama's a bit crazy about these things.

We got off on the wrong foot right away--I misread the directions and tried to mix the stuff right in the flimsy heart shaped mold instead of in the bowl. I quickly transferred the goo to a bowl while your father tried to salvage the plastic tray by cleaning it. It was then that it dawned on me that it probably wasn't a good idea to put you so close to the green goop without putting some sort of cover up on you.

By this point, though, we were racing against the clock. According to the directions, I had exactly 90 seconds to mix the stuff into a "pancake like consistency" and another 60 seconds to place your hand in the gel mixture.

Yeah, you read that right. I was supposed to hold your hand in place in this pancake-like green goop for 60 seconds.

Let me remind you that on the box it says "for infants to 12 years."



We plopped you on the counter while your daddy tried to snap pictures of the momentous occasion.



It, um, didn't exactly work out as I had planned.

It 2.2 seconds flat, you were covered in green goop and not a happy camper.



So much for keeping your hand perfectly centered in the tray for a full minute.

So much for keeping you perfectly clean in your perfectly coordinating red watermelon outfit (with perfectly matching bow to boot).

So much for having the perfectly captured imprint of your hand, painted in red and white polka dots, with the perfectly posed picture framed nearby.

I spent the remainder of the time frantically scrubbing what was left of your clothes with a brush in your bathroom. As I type this, your clothes are soaking in the bathroom sink while I hope and pray they're not ruined for all of eternity.

So...like I said, epic fail in the arts and crafts department for 14 month olds.



The End

Loving you,
your mama

Oopsie Doodle

Dearest Sammie,

So much for writing every week. I was doing great for the first 13 months and then summer hit and life happened and...well, the blog was the last thing on my mind.

Rather than writing a trilogy on what's been going on, I figured I would rather show you:

In the few weeks I've been off for summer vacation, keeping cool has been the name of the game. We've done everything but be at home. We've gone to the lake, used the pool at Nonni & Poppa's, visited the animals out the zoo, worn matching shirts for the Fowler Fourth of July celebration and played tourists in Monterey.

...and because I'm a mom and I HAVE to record these things lest I go down on record as being the slacker mom, I should mention that developmentally, you've grown by leaps and bounds in the past few weeks. In a nutshell, you're pulling up, standing unassisted (for a few seconds until you realize you're in unchartered territory and carefully sit down...but still!), signing like crazy, saying several words (Mamma, Dadda, dog, hi), imitating animal sounds (ducks, ponies, snakes and fish are your favorite ones to do), cruising around/getting into EVERYTHING you're not supposed to, applying for Harvard and translating the Bible into two new languages. Ok, so I may have stretched the truth on the last two, but the others are 100% true.

I'm going to sign off now--it's been a few minutes since I've seen you and at the rate you're going there's probably a new milestone I missed somewhere in the past few moments.

Loving you like crazy,
your mama

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!