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

Cue the Screaming Flower Girl

Dearest Sammie Girl,

 

In the wake of last month’s flying mishap, one would think that your mama would have learned her lesson about trying (and failing) to be the perfect parent.

Unfortunately, dear daughter, I wasn’t done yet. Last February, over a Valentine’s Day dinner date with daddy and some other friends, I bragged about how cute you were (and still are!). A few moments later, your Auntie Tamara talked about planning her sister’s vow renewal ceremony for the fall. This led to a now-embarrassing conversation where I shamelessly offered to you up/begged for you to be the flower girl for the aforementioned ceremony.

 

Fast forward to eight months later, and it’s a few hours before the mountain wedding. The past several months had been spent hopelessly hoping that you would:

 

1. Be able to walk down the aisle.
2. Be able to walk down the aisle with the ring bearer.
3. Be able to walk down the aisle with the ring bearer holding a basket of flower petals.
4. Be able to walk down the aisle with the ring bearer holding a basket of flower petals and wearing the dress I’d bought earlier in the summer (providing it fits).
5. Be able to walk down the aisle with the ring bearer holding a basket of flower petals and wearing the dress I’d bought earlier in the summer (providing it fits) and SMILING.

 

Much like I should’ve known that things weren’t going in our favor when our first flight was cancelled on the now infamous Seattle trip, I should’ve stopped when we were ahead when your father woke up that morning feeling ill.

 

So much for hoping that he would be at one end of the aisle while I tried to cajole you into walking toward me (strategically placed in a pew by the end of the aisle)!

 

With the bad news fresh in the back of my mind, I tried to make the most of the situation by packing you into the car with a frozen bagel to nosh on while we drove an hour to Shaver Lake.

 

The original plan was to take all pictures before the ceremony so that the bridal party and guests could go straight from the church to the nearby community center for lunch. Yeah, that didn’t happen. We got a few pictures of you playing with the flower petals in the aisle while we waited for the guests to trickle in:

Let me let you in on a little secret Sammie, so you can prepare yourself now for your own big day: weddings NEVER go as planned. They never start on time, and something almost always goes wrong. In hindsight, it’s usually something insignificant that goes amiss—as it was in your case, with no basket of flower petals to be found.

 

And so, as it was with moments to go before the trip down the aisle, the plan had to be modified:

 

Be able to walk down the aisle with the ring bearer holding a basket of flower petals and wearing the dress I’d bought earlier in the summer (providing it fits) and SMILING.

 

I tried my best to keep you happy, but you were hungry. It was after 12, and we still had a wedding to get through along with a full on photo session afterward.

 

The plan had to be modified again.

  

Be able to walk down the aisle with the ring bearer holding a basket of flower petals and wearing the dress I’d bought earlier in the summer (providing it fits) and SMILING.

Apparently, grumpiness is contagious because your fits of screams spread to the ring bearer. Back to the drawing board we went.

 

Be able to walk down the aisle with the ring bearer holding a basket of flower petals and wearing the dress I’d bought earlier in the summer (providing it fits) and SMILING.

 

We were down to walking down the aisle and wearing the flower girl dress.

  

Quietly, I slipped out of the lobby to wait for you at the other end of the aisle while some of the wedding attendants made their march to the altar.

 

*Cue the epic screaming that probably shook the San Andreas Fault a little more than it should*

 

 Frantically, I raced back to the lobby to appease you and give up on the dream of being the mother of the cute little flower girl who walked down the aisle with the ring bearer holding a basket of flower petals and wearing the dress I’d bought earlier in the summer (providing it fits) and SMILING.

 

Unfortunately, my timing was slightly off and I didn’t get there in time, so Auntie Tamara (the matron of honor) took things into her own hands and picked you up to carry you, screaming to the high heavens, down the aisle.

 

It may not have been my initial plan, but this is what actually happened:

 

You were carried Be able to walk down the aisle with the ring bearer holding a basket of flower petals robey and bright blue sippy cup wearing the dress I’d bought earlier in the summer (it fit) and SMILING and SCREAMING.

  

You see, in all of my plans, I had overlooked one important detail: you are 16 months old. Not even a year and a half. Most wedding experts advise against having flower girls and ring bearers who are under the age of six.

 

Oh, well, I tried. You kept quiet in my lap during the ceremony, except, of course, when you decided to get extra chatty during the prayer. Afterward, I tried to coerce you into exiting the church with the rest of the wedding party, but you were on to me. You refused.

 

More dramatic moments followed a little later on when I tried to get you to back into the church to take pictures with bridal party. You decided that goldfish weren’t cutting it anymore and you wanted a full-fledged meal. You informed me of this by opening your mouth and letting out the biggest wails I’d ever heard out of your little body. 

 

Putting you on my hip, I took you across the parking lot to the second story community center (I’m giving you the details now, dear Sammie, so that if I should ever need a hip replacement surgery, you’ll know why and feel sorry for me and treat me like a queen). I quickly stripped you down (I got ONE part of the plan right in the dress so I wasn’t about to risk ruining that, too), set up your portable high chair and made my way to the kitchen to beg the catering staff for food to make your stomach happy.

 

Making off with two rolls, I handed both of them to you. Satisfied with my offerings, you thanked me by quieting down long enough to eat both rolls.

 

Determined to be the perfect mother of the flower girl (when will I ever learn???), I unstrapped you from the high chair, put your dress back on, and hoisted you on my hip to go downstairs and across the street for the photo session. After all, isn’t that what being a flower girl is about? Looking good in pictures?

 

The picture I had dreamed about looked something like this:

 

You, standing with the rest of the wedding party, smiling from ear to ear.

 

Simple, right? Not anything unreasonable?

 

Um, yeah, that would be a negatory. No such luck. Attempts to get you in the pictures were unsuccessful, if not laughable. Anytime I plunked you down for a picture, you responded by walking away, distracted by anything and everything around you.

 

As it were, it was looking like this would be the picture we would get:

 

You, standing with the rest of the wedding party, smiling from ear to ear. (as in, no pictures at all).

 

A light bulb went on when I noticed that your favorite thing to look at were the flowers in the church’s garden. We sent off Auntie Tamara’s husband Jeff to get one of the roses used in the bouquets in the hopes that we could use flowers to lure you into the pictures.

 

The rose brought you a little closer to our goal, but by the time the photographer started clicking away, you had already moved on to the next thing: walking/stumbling around the grass while I nervously chased you around hoping against hope that you wouldn’t fall and ruin your flower girl dress with the grass stains that you were sure to get if you fell down on the dewy patch of lawn.

 

The picture we ended up with was something like this:

 

Oh, well. You may not have been ‘technically’ standing by the bride and groom, but you were at least in the same picture frame and were giving the illusion of smiling.

 

The two of us spent the next hour and a half at the reception, and methinks you liked that part of the wedding the best. You had plastic wine glasses in each of your hands and were quite content to wander about the room, making friends wherever you went.

 

 

 

Two boys took a particular liking to you.

 

 

 

You, my darling, returned their affection for the most part, smiling and giggling whenever they came around.

 

 

 

Then you poked this poor fellow in the eye after this picture was taken.

 

 

 

If that’s how you ward off aggressive suitors, I’m sure as heck not going to stop you. In fact, I just may teach that to you as the proper response for all forms of physical affection.

 

Our much-rehearsed conversation fifteen years down the road might go something like this:

 

Mama: What do you do when your date tries to hold your hand?

 

You: Poke him in the eye!

 

Mama: What do you do when he tries to give you a good night kiss?

 

You: Poke him in the eye!

 

Mama: What do you do when he goes for a hug instead?

 

You: Poke him in the eye!

 

Yeah, I could get used to the the poke-him-in-the-eye-approach.

  

Loving you tons, my cute little flower girl,

 

your mama

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Perfect Trip. Pshaw. Yeah, Right.

Dearest Sammie Girl,

I really should rename this blog to “Misadventures in Parenting” or something like that. I’m realizing more and more that it’s next to impossible to be THE perfect parent. Don’t get me wrong—I try to be the world’s bestest mom EVER, but try as I might, I never quite get there. If I’ve learned anything in these past sixteen months, it’s that “parenthood” and “perfection” should never be used in the same sentence.

Case in point: our recent trip to Seattle. I had pre-planned, planned, and planned again for the series of two hour flights so that our journey would go seamlessly. I put out a call to Facebook mothers out there, asking for advice on traveling with a toddler in tow. I packed and repacked the backpacks we’d carry with just the right amount of snacks, robeys and toys to keep you busy. I obsessively emailed another traveling friend, asking for tips so that I could…wait for it…be the PERFECT TRAVELING MOTHER with the PERFECT(ly quiet) TODDLER.

I set us up for the PERFECT trip…and failed. Miserably. But not on purpose.

I should’ve known something was wrong when we checked in at the ticket counter and found out that our first flight (to San Francisco) was delayed indefinitely. Fortunately, I knew the ticket agent and she was able to get us on another flight that left right around the same time. Who knew being in high school color guard would pay off?

At this point, we had about 90 minutes to kill, so your Nonni and I visited in the visiting area of the airport while you kept yourself content performing your new trick: pushing your stroller and bumping into things.



We took a picture while we waited. This, after all, was an important milestone in your life—your first airplane ride!


Little did we know… (insert somber, dramatic music here)

Eventually, we said goodbye to Nonni and made our way through the security agents. I’d worried about this part. Shuffling all of our bags, shoes, and cumbersome stroller along with a newly toddling baby made me sweat each time I thought about it. Fortunately, that part went seamlessly.

And that was the only thing in our journey, dear Sammie, that went just as it should.

Shudder. Cue more dramatic music.

Once we were past security, I bought you milk (so I could give you something to drink so I could be the PERFECT TRAVELING MOTHER with the PERFECT(ly quiet) TODDLER (or PTMWTPQT for short) and keep her child content while her ears were popping. You started to throw a temper tantrum, but nothing a PTMWTPQT couldn’t handle. I distracted you with a new toy and made our way to the gates.

I noticed a plane was at our gate, but no one was boarding so I parked us by the windows as I waited for them to announce our flight number. The #*&#*$ intercom went on every ten minutes, welcoming us to Fresno, and eventually I got so annoyed with it I tuned it out. If this trip were a Greek tragedy, that decision would prove to be my fatal flaw.

You were rather content, playing once again with your stroller and flirting with anyone who dared to look at you. After twenty or so minutes of waiting, I saw the plane (the one I thought we were supposed to take) taxi down the runway.

“Huh,” I reasoned, “they must need to take it to another gate to repair it.”

Another twenty minutes went by, and no replacement plane came in. Uh oh.

I flopped our things onto the stroller and steered it with one hand while holding you (by this point kicking and screaming) in the crook of my arm with the other. PTMWTPQT, by this point, was starting to go out the window.

I told our predicament to the ticketing agent (not the color guard one), and she rolled her eyes at us as you kicked the screaming up a notch.

“Yeah, I paged you three times over fifteen minutes. The plane left without you.”

So my deafness caused us to miss our first flight. PTMWTPQT had officially left the building. In her place was SDCMWRTCAAM (Short Deaf Crazy Mom Who's Ready to Cry and Abort Mission).

After some cajoling, I managed to get another flight—the one that we initially were supposed to be on. Boarding was in two hours.

So, I did what any rational mother would do. I packed you up and schlepped you off to the only restaurant in the airport (note to Fresno: if you want to pride yourself in having an ‘International’ airport, you may want to at least have more than one option for travelers who want to eat something beyond bar food!). We sat and ate our food in misery.



Ok, I was somewhat miserable, and you were totally stoked with the peanut butter and jelly sandwich I'd had the forsight to pack (ok, so maybe PTMWTPQT hadn't completely left the building). Pickles were a particular delight.



After our meal, I went to the convenience kiosk in the airport and consoled myself by buying copious amounts of chocolate. As I was paying for the goods, I heard a boarding call for us. I threw the money at the cashier and ran as fast as my short stumpy legs could carry us to the boarding gate. We lost your robey along the way, but I didn’t have time to go back and get it. I was NOT going to miss the replacement flight!

I arrived at the ticket counter, red faced and ridiculously out of breath. The ticket agent rolled her eyes once more.

“We didn’t page you,” she said with what I was sure was a smirk. “We’ll let you know when your flight’s boarding. You have another hour.”

I sunk away to the opposite end of the waiting area, making do with the time by changing your diaper on the floor (in my quest for flight tips from Facebook moms, I was reminded that the airport bathrooms are next to impossible to change a baby’s diaper in on account of their closet-like size). Perhaps PTMWTPQT could make a complete comeback?

No such luck. While pestering the ticket agent once again, I learned that our flight was delayed ANOTHER two hours. And it was possible that it may or may not be departing at that time.

SDCMWRTCAAM couldn’t take it anymore, and just as I had my hand on my phone to call home and forget this attempt of air travel ever happened, a silver lining appeared: The deaf mom-traveling-with-baby-that-hasn’t-napped-card worked. We would be able to get on the next plane leaving the airport.

It was going to LA.

We were going to Seattle.

If you're geography impaired, Los Angeles is about 200 miles south of Fresno. We were going to Seattle—very much in the OPPOSITE direction of LA.

I didn’t care. We were on a plane!

Taking a baby on a plane (however cute she and her accompanying bows may be), I learned, was much like traveling with a highly contagious disease. People look disgusted, avert their eyes, and flee. This worked to our advantage because the gentlemen with whom we were supposed to share a row took one look at me (still red faced and probably not looking that great) and sought refuge in an empty seat to the rear of the plane.

For the next hour, you were happy to sit in your own seat, reading to yourself and signing “milk” to me whenever you felt the need to quench your thirst.



I had hoped you would fall asleep, but no such luck. Well, kind of. You fell asleep as the plane’s wheels were hitting the tarmac of the LAX airport.



We deplaned, and walked for what seemed like miles to our gate. I really shouldn’t have been surprised at what was waiting for us: yet another delayed flight to Seattle. For an hour. Honestly, I gave up photojournaling our trip at this point because, really, who wants to look at pictures of a frazzled mama and her overtired toddler? Ok, probably most people want to see that (call it schadenfreude), but vanity really won out. Knowing I'd be writing about it at some point, I didn't want anyone to see me at my worst.

With that grim news, we trekked back through the airport and bought pizza. Because that’s what the PTMWTPQT does, right? Stuffs her kid full of food so they don’t raise cain in public?

I wasn’t risking missing another flight—however late it may be—so we ran back to the gate and waited. And waited. Two hours later (yep—the flight got delayed ANOTHER hour), we were on the plane. As I sat down and carefully put you in my lap (while the plague theory was still very much in effect, there were no extra seats for the hapless fellow next to us to escape to). It was then, that I realized another fatal error that a PTMWTPQT would never make: in my anxiousness to make sure we were on the plane when it boarded, I had forgotten to change your diaper. Doing the math in my head, I figured that you hadn’t had a fresh diaper since I changed you at the FAT (Yes, the Fresno airport is called the FAT. It’s rather unfortunate and I rip off the flight tags as soon as I can get my luggage from baggage claim). Nevertheless, over six hours had elapsed since you’d been changed.

And, judging by the wetness now seeping on to my jeans, it was about six hours too long.

Yet another point for the PTMWTPQT!

Fortunately, and not to get too graphic here, what was happening in your diaper wasn’t the, um, brown kind.

Unfortunately, there was absolutely nothing I could do about the dirty diaper situation because we were at the point of no return: wedged into that seat tighter than a (insert random appropriate lexicon metaphor here) and I wasn’t about to put away your DVD player, food, drinks, robey and everything else to do the walk of shame down to the plane’s bathroom to change you. I would have to live with the pee stained jeans for the next two and a half hours. I’ll be the PTMWTPQT doesn’t have to deal with that quandary, but that shipped sailed (or flew) a LONG time ago.

While the plane took flight, I whipped out my ipod and set it so that it played Sesame Street (In my planning to be PTMWTPQT, that was one good thing I did—I had more than one source of electronic entertainment available). You didn’t care that there was no sound—you were just happy that your buddy Elmo was along for the ride.

Bummer that the ipod’s battery died 30 minutes later. Apparently the video option drains the battery quicker. Of course, the PTMWTPQT already knows that. I, unfortunately, do now.

With that, you started into the “Sammie” cry that only you can do. Hey, I can’t say that I blamed you too much. It was well after midnight, we’d been traveling for ten hours, you had no idea where you were, you had no nap that day (score one for dad on that one!) Elmo died, and the mean passenger across from the aisle kept on shooting you nasty looks whenever you accidentally dropped your sippy cup.

The Sammies only lasted for about a minute, long enough for me to get the DVD player up and running with the Carebear movie that my friend had thoughtfully given us for our special trip. This, along with copious amounts of food, kept you moderately satisfied for another hour or so.

Then, in a fit of frustration, you tossed your robey. Onto the lap of the sleeping guy sitting next to us.

I stared at the robey, and back at you, and back at the robey. It was inches away, but it may as well have been ten miles away. I mean, it was on the GUY’S LAP, for heaven’s sake. I just don’t go around touching the laps of strangers. Your Nonni and Poppa didn’t raise me that way.

I paused for a moment, not knowing quite what to do. The PTMWTPQT, I’ll bet, never has to make this decision. She probably travels with at least ten (probably keeping a spare in her bra or something) so that she’s never faced with this predicament.

Sensing my hesitation, you let out a loud wail. I didn’t have time to think any further, I went in like a ninja and quietly snatched the robey from the poor sleeping guy's crotch area. I don’t think he ever noticed, but if he did he was polite enough to pretend to sleep to save us both the embarrassment.

I’d like to say that from that point on it was a smooth flight, but it wasn’t. I mean, who are we kidding? It was two in the morning and the odds were stacked against us. The Carebears weren’t doing it for you anymore, so you threw a mini-fit, crying hysterically for two minutes. Mean guy from across the aisle (not the robey in lap guy) woke up and shot us dirty looks. I shot them back, and upped the ante by giving his girlfriend a look of “Really? This jerkface is the best you can come up with?”—at least, that’s what I was trying to convey without uttering a word— I can only hope my years of theatre experience paid off in that moment.

Finally, singing softly into your ear did the trick. Yes, I sang “Jesus Loves Me” while shooting back dirty looks at the people across the aisle. I will probably have to do an altar call next time we go to church to beg for His forgiveness.

Regardless of my shortcomings, you fell asleep for the next thirty minutes and the mean couple across the aisle got the hint and went back to their slumber. I was left with a random Carebear movie on the DVD player, but I wasn’t about to risk the crying baby episode again so I just helplessly watched the rest of it in relative peace.

Just as you were waking up, the plane landed outside the Seattle airport.

It had been raining.

I know this seems like a weird thing to say—that it had been RAINING in SEATTLE, but, it wasn’t the normal Seattle mist. It was pouring down buckets torrential downpour. Of course, this would be the one plane that doesn’t unload directly into the airport.

Nope. We got to go down the stairs and out onto Lake SEA (rather ironic, at this point, that Seattle’s airport code is SEA). The baggage guy shoved the stroller in my direction and I tried my best to open it up while keeping you balanced on my hip and keeping the backpacks from slipping off of my other shoulder.

I didn’t quite succeed. I only got it partly open. I’ll bet the PTMWTPQT has a stroller that opens up perfectly on the first try without effort. Me, I had one foot in a puddle and the other on a slippery plastic pedal while trying to keep you appeased at three in the morning in the cold dark night.

I gave up. I put you in a halfway open stroller so I could use both hands for leverage. You leaned out to look at me, and then, the piece de resistance: you landed, face first, in the biggest puddle in the tarmac.

As I held you, shivering and wet and screaming your head off, I looked up to the Heavens.

“Are you kidding me, God??”

Alas, God was not kidding. It wasn’t God’s doing. It was my doing. Me. The less than perfect traveling mother whose deafness misses the flight and whose forgetfulness doesn’t change the baby’s diaper and whose un-Christlikeness glares down fellow passengers while singing praise songs. This was the same mother who, in her hurry, puts the baby in the halfway closed stroller so she can get the heck away from the plane and the memories and on with the trip that was supposed to be FUN GOSHDANGIT!

With that, I stood you on the tarmac, opened up the stroller, took off your sopping wet shirt and put on your sweatshirt, strapped you in, and made my way to the airport. Of course, there were no elevators in sight, so I had to unbuckle you while two guardian angels/awesome passengers carried your stroller up the two flights of stairs.

I can only imagine what my dear friend EllenAnn thought when she saw us at baggage claim that night. Me, with my face flushed and eyes fighting back tears with a wet shirt, soggy shoes and diaper-stained jeans. Then there was you, soaked from head to toe (but still looking cute!) and bearing the scratches from the tumble on the tarmac.

Pshaw. I am soooo not a PTMWTPQT.

I’m a MWSTWFEALTTAI (Mother who survived the worst trip ever and lived to tell about it).

Tune in next time…when I dare to write about this past weekend, when I attempted to be a PMOTFG (Perfect Mother of a Flower Girl). Disclaimer: it went about as well as our journey to Seattle.

PS. All was not lost. We did have a good time in Seattle and our flight home was, in fact, perfect. Here’s the pictures to prove it:










Love,
your (since then recovered) mama

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!