What more is there to say?

Today she turned one.

I can remember -- some of it very vividly -- every moment of her birth. Of waking in the night, of timing contractions, of trying to convince myself this wasn't it. Of driving to the hospital, still talking and sometimes laughing. Of the 20 minutes of screaming and the surprisingly fast delivery.

I don't understand how something I remember so clearly could be so long ago.

She laughs, she cruises, she is in to everything. She wants to constantly be involved. Her big blue eyes are complimented everywhere we go. Her feet are so tiny that while she's in 12 month clothes, she's still in six month shoes. I can't find boots for her anywhere.

She has a tiny tail of the last of her dark birth hair down the back of her neck. The rest of her hair is a light auburn colour. Kinda. Ish. The birthmarks that covered her eyelids and forehead at birth are mostly faded, but they darken up when she's upset, or too hot.

She is fascinated by her brother's toys, and tries to put lego together but can't quite manage it. But she'd much rather play with anything of his than anything of hers.

She's trying so hard to talk and walk, and the effort to master two major things at once is too much, and she can't quite do either. She says "mama" and "dada" but not really to either of us; she can imitate me saying "hiding" and "babies" because those two words are repeated in her favourite books. She loves pointing out the birds in her books. Her favourite books have birds as the main characters. No idea why.

She loves books. After months of kinda pushing them away, of not really getting it, now it's all she wants to do. The last few times we've had tears it's because I've stopped reading. You know. After the tenth time. Unlike her brother she will want to do the same book over and over and over and over again, for days on end -- and then never again.

She is almost entirely a being of pure delight. Her smiles are full body experiences, her entire body quivering in delight, tensing herself and kicking her legs in happiness. I love seeing her first thing in the morning and cuddling her last thing at night. I love her more than life itself.

She's been here only a year, but it feels like forever.

One year ago

About to pop. Double chins even! Whee!

I gave birth to my mother

My daughter has my mother's nose. And her facial expressions. And something about her, maybe it's just my perception, that reminds me of my mom. Which is mostly sweet and endearing, being that I'm fairly fond of my mom and all. Their personalities are not that similar, yet, but just certain expressions that give me a turn seeing them on my toddler's face when I've seen them on my mother's for almost 40 years. She's my mother, with blue eyes and auburn hair instead of green eyes and brown hair.

Admittedly though it's disconcerting while nursing.

Theologically messy

Someone has heard that the Easter Bunny is coming soon, so created and put this up to ensure his fair share of the Easter loot. Yes, that's the fireplace. What? Do you think the Easter Bunny gets in through the front door?!

I don't know quite what to do about this but it's clear my parental role as educator of my child re: Christian theology AND cultural interpretations of holidays is a major FAIL.

Where was I?

So my daughter got herself a daycare spot -- I think I mentioned -- so I've been going. Kinda. Sporadically. When I feel I really really should dammit. Because of course, going to her daycare spot means I am going back to work and nah nah nah would like to keep my head in the sand about that one.

The daycare is great. Honestly, great. If I could design a great centre for toddlers with caring people and wonderful, appropriate activities, this would be it. My boy went, and I'm thrilled The Girl will get to go to the same spot.

But.

But every time I think of it, my stomach feels like lead. There's just ... so much. There's her lack of desire to sleep for anyone but me. There's her almost total lack of eating and drinking on her part. There's ... leaving my BABY, of course.

The sick feeling is also part born of perfectionism. I know from last time that the beginning of daycare means months of trying to be a good mom, good wife, good with the household, and good employee, and failing fairly miserably at each one. There are simply not enough hours in a day to accommodate meals, daycare prep, goodbyes, working, pick up, dinner, and the lots and lots of holding that a child newly at daycare needs. And I see in my head the tear-streaked face of my daughter, the disappointment of my son, the frustration of my boss and the stress of my husband as we go through these next few months and it eats at me.

And that coupled with the special eating issues that The Girl has which might just mean I leave my office 2-3 times a day to run over and nurse her which will take a half hour at least means that I'm looking at a full summer of DEAR GOD THIS SUCKS.

It's just going to be Hard. Very Very Hard.

I keep trying to remind myself that I felt this way about daycare last time, and my son THRIVED at daycare. Oh, sure, some days he didn't want to go, but it's helped him immeasureably with his social skills and self-confidence, and I'm so pleased for him. He is a far, far more self-assured five year old than I ever was, and I hope very much that this will translate into good self-esteem and good peer relationships as an older child.

And I also keep trying to remind myself that I'm actually terrible at predicting the future. That heck, she might just surprise me. That given my imagination, I can imagine a lot of bad scenarios, and the reality will be nowhere near as bad as I fear (but also probably not as good as I hope, since I can imagine some pretty awesome scenarios too).

Today I went shopping for dinner, and was berating myself for just not trying hard enough. I haven't tried ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING for my daughter to eat, and I clearly should have been, before now. I should have done this or that or anything and everything else. So I went and bought some other things to try. Beating myself up over it the entire time.

I came home and found the bottle that I bought for her weeks ago, that she has often played with and thrown about but has always resisted mightily drinking from, God Forbid, because clearly it's filled with poison and the nipple feels funny in her mouth or ... God knows. Something.

And I filled it with juice, not water, because maybe the sweetness with tempt her. Rot her teeth and fill her with empty calories, but heck anything will do.

And she held it. And drank.

A little bit, of course. A tiny little bit. Some of it ran down her front. Much of it, really. But she tried. And she swallowed. And in that tiny swallow I managed to find a little bit of hope that it won't be all that bad, after all.

At the beach

One year ago today I was waiting. Waiting, waiting waiting. I was closing fast on 37 weeks pregnant, and tired of it, and wanting the baby out and terrified of giving birth.

A lot has happened over the past year, but somehow it's impossible to believe it's been a year already. My daughter is almost toddling, and I talked to my boss today about coming back to work.

And I'm pretty sad about it. It's part time work. She has a great daycare spot. We'll still be together. And I know that not only is this very likely the best possible decision for all of us, for so many reasons, but also that in the off chance it doesn't work out, I can probably quit my job in 2012 and stay home. So it's all good. Really. It is.

But I am so, so sad anyway.

It should not be surprising to me that the bottom half of my cup of coffee is cold.

Portrait of a Sunday morning

I woke up this morning to rain. And the sound of The Boy's voice. Please don't come in here, I prayed. The Girl was still sleeping, and hadn't slept all that well; we have a playdate this morning that if she's overly tired will be disastrous. The Man got up, put on a movie for The Boy, back to bed. The cat meows. The cat is outside, in the rain. The Man lets him in, dries him off. The cat continues to meow, wanting back outside. The Man lets him out. Back to bed again.

Around 7am The Girl's internal clock went off and her eyes popped open. She has amazing circadian rhythms that way. 7am, awake, every morning. The Boy was similar at the same age. I never set my alarm for work.

I ply her with a box of bandaids, her favourite toy, for a few more minutes in bed. Out of the box! Into the box! Out of the box! Into the box! Ok, not so much with into the box.

I get up, The Boy is watching his movie, let in the cat, who concedes defeat from the rain and wanders inside, quiet this time. I cut up bacon, both children herd into the kitchen. The Boy gets his stool, watches it cook, The Girl demands up so I end up, as I so often do, cooking on the stove with The Girl in the sling and The Boy watching.

I make coffee, stir the bacon, get out eggs. Crack eggs, scramble, drain bacon, dump in eggs. Coffee brews. Finish cooking, get plate, go to change diaper. The Boy burns his hand on the pan trying to be helpful and take eggs to table. Get freezer pack, soothe tears, sit on kitchen floor cradling both children. Take eggs to table, wipe high chair tray, change diaper (not there, in the other room!), sit The Girl down, pick out eggs for her. The Boy eats. I eat. I encourage The Girl to eat but while she tries she does spit out every bit of egg she gets in her mouth. Decide that she could use some help with solids.

Finish eating, wipe down The Girl, pick her up, wipe down tray, go get coffee. Finally. Sit down to try to do grocery list. The Girl wants up, needs breakfast. Nurse.

Help The Boy clean off coffee table. Negotiate over whose responsibility it is to take away mess thereon. Help open playdoh. Dole out playdoh to each child. Sit back to enjoy coffee.

Get five minutes. If that. More playdoh negotiations, some tears, pay attention, look what I made.

And a dirty diaper will get me to my feet again. Two hours into the day. No rest for the weary.

Another gorgeous day

Today we went on the swings.

(no. No shoes. She pulled them off en route and then LOST one so I gave up. I figure the "good mom" points for going to the park cancel out the "bad mom" points for no shoes in 13 degree weather. That's Celsius before you call CPS on me.)

Sunshine and dirty toes

AKA wow my patio needs cleaning!