Best Picture

Dear Laney,

The Other Brooke, Todd and Cedar came over last night to watch the Academy Awards. Brooke wanted to reassure me that the Oscars are one of her few mainstream media guilty pleasures...which made me laugh, since she's talking to someone who loves Velveeta cheese dip, country music from the 1980s and shopping trips to Walmart. I mean, it's not like anyone's ever going to suggest an activity to me only to hear me say, "Heavens to Betsy, no! That would be trashy!" Clutch my pearls and count me IN.

So they came over with a load of chili and wine to watch an Oscar broadcast so boring, Roger Ebert declared it "dead in the water." The real show was upstairs, where you and Cedar were playing in your room...or, to go with the theme of the night, we'll refer to it as the VIP Lounge.

Cedar is a real sport about not being allowed to touch anything you want to play with. Which is everything Cedar touches. It's a vicious cycle. We really need to work on your hostessing skills.

You ladies had pizza and pears, which I'm sure was exactly what Wolfgang Puck was serving at the Governor's Ball.

Love,

Mom

Sleepless in Spokane

Dear Laney,

This past weekend, we drove over to Spokane so we could take your dad skiing for his birthday. We left on Friday night, right after your dad finished work. I packed, your dad loaded the car, and you sat on the counter eating half a pound of cheese slices.

We had a nice corned beef dinner at Grandma Sue's, then went to bed reasonably early so your dad and I would be rested and ready for a full day of skiing on Saturday. Here's where the plan went wrong: we let you sleep in the same ZIP code, and a result, we were neither rested nor ready.

You had no interest in sleeping on Friday night. Your dad thought you would hush if we put you in bed with us, but here's the problem: you like to sleep sideways (parallel to the headboard) AND you don't want anyone to touch you while you sleep. Since you're 27 inches tall, and the bed is only 56 inches wide, that leaves approximately 3 inches of mattress a piece for your dad and me to cling to. It's possible those numbers don't add up, but I can't use your dad's calculator to double-check, since you borrowed it to make all of your important phone calls, and it hasn't been heard from in days.

Which brings us to Ski Day:

Grandma Sue made us a nice big breakfast, then we headed off to the mountains.

The nice lady at the ticket booth always says something like, "Here are your passes. Have a great day!"

but what I always hear is:

Here's the deal: We're going to dangle you in mid-air on a chair that was manufactured when everybody still had high hopes for the Carter administration. You will lose all feeling in your fingers. Also your toes. You will sway in the sub-zero breeze until we deposit you at the top of a ridiculously tall mountain. Then, you will need to battle your way down, trying not to collide with a tree or a punk snowboarding kid who has decided to "take a break" in the middle of the run. When you think you've mastered the hill and no one could possibly ski it better, you will be passed by a three year-old going 70mph who doesn't even need the help of ski poles. You will feel old, cold and demoralized. Oh, and that'll be $50 per person. Here are your passes! Have a great day!

OK, that's a little unfair, because skiing can be super-fun, and I love doing things that make your dad happy. It's just that any activity is more enjoyable when you don't spend the day wishing you could take a nap against a tree. As always, your dad was resilient and had a great time. He's really an excellent skier, and all day long, he kept talking about how he can't wait to teach you to ski.

While we were off on the mountain, you were back at Grandma Sue's, developing a love for Blue Cheese Dressing.

The best part of the day was when we got back and I got to have a glass of wine and a heapin' helpin' of cold medicine hang out in the hot tub with you and Grandma Sue.

So, thanks to Grandma Sue for watching you while we skied. And to your dad, all I can say is that we owe him a birthday do-over, because neither one of us was on our best behavior this weekend, and he deserves better.

Love,

Mom

Home Sweet... Wait - WHAT?

Dear Laney,

So, here's a ridiculous piece of trivia: as of this month, I will have lived in this house longer than any other residence I have ever called home. For kicks, I just added up the number of towns (12) and the total number of houses/apartments/condos (24) in which I've lived. Whew.

On one hand, I've gotten to see a lot of this country and make some really interesting, diverse friends. On the other hand, when my credit card company tries to verify my identity by asking me to name the ZIP code or street address of one of my former homes, I end up sounding like The World's Most Bungling Identity Thief. "Wait - I forgot I lived there! Yeah, that place was awesome!"

I bring all this up, because I know at my wedding there was a betting pool going for how long I would be able to stand it out here in the boonies, with the smart money guessing somewhere around 6 months.

I want everyone who participated in that pool to know that I accept cash, checks and gift certificates to diapers.com.

That is all.

Love,

Mom

Back To The Future of Motherhood

Dear Laney,

Today, you are 18 months old, which is almost impossible to believe. Being your mother has been the most rewarding enterprise I've ever undertaken. You have the ability to make me incredibly happy, like this morning when I was jolted awake by your finger probing my inner ear while you shouted "Hiiiii!"

Yes, hello.

Looking back, there isn't a thing I would change, but I sure wish I had known what I was getting myself into when your dad and I decided to have a baby. In fact, I wish I was able to write a letter to 18-months-ago Brooke on the eve of your birth, so I could warn her about a few things. It would probably go something like this:

Dear Brooke,

Congratulations on becoming impossibly fat. Right now, you're holding on to the hope that moments after the baby is born, you'll be able to return to your skinny jeans. You are delusional.

For the first month of your child's life, you're not going to like Thor very much. This will not be because of anything rational, and certainly not because of anything he did wrong. Instead, as a result of sleep deprivation, you will resent him for not having his own pair of boobs. BECAUSE AT LEAST THAT WOULD BE HELPFUL.

Like Lady Macbeth, you will wash your hands a hundred times a day. Out! Out, damn poop!

Petty grievances that used to drive a wedge between you and friends and family will be instantly forgiven. In the end, all that matters is how they treat your daughter. Conversely, if anyone says anything negative about your child, you will be amazed at how quickly you will turn into a mobbed-up Sicilian and declare them dead to you.

Any time you spent judging how another woman was raising her child was wasted. After a few months in the trenches, you will learn that everyone is just trying to get by as best they can. There is no such thing as a perfect mom, just a lucky mom. Laney will get herself in dangerous situations daily, and it's only divine providence that will keep her from tumbling off the slide or tripping on the stairs.

Right now, you have a favorite writer, a favorite politician and a favorite Supreme Court Justice. Soon, you will forget all about them because you will have a favorite Backyardigan. What's worse, your husband will ALSO have a favorite Backyardigan, and it won't be the same as yours. You will spend critical "date night" time debating the merits of each. (Tyrone, for the win).

Speaking of date nights, you will get about three of these a year. Try not to fall asleep in the car.

Your outlook on the world around you will change. You will encounter strange meteorological events like this:

...and while your husband is droning on about the conditions that made the cloud mass possible, you will be quizzing yourself on the symptoms of ringworm.

You will call all of your female friends who had children before you - ok, just Amy - and apologize for not understanding her plight at the time. You will tear up and start babbling, "I didn't know! I didn't know!" ...because looking back, you should have gone over to her house every day and held her baby so she could take a shower. She will forgive you and laugh, because she'll recognize the sound of a hormonal crazy person.

Speaking of showering, you will write a post on Facebook about how you fell asleep standing up in the shower, and other mothers of babies will respond, "You got to shower?!?"

With this child, don't bother baby-proofing. You will install a baby-proof oven lock, and your child will learn how to take it off on day #1. You will be left with a feeling of defeat and a white plastic contraption super-glued to the front of your oven. Within weeks, she will also learn how to open the baby gate. Trust me on this one: you will only inconvenience yourself.

You will come to learn that anyone who attempts to have a baby without the help of laminated flooring and two dogs is crazy.

Silence is your enemy. If your toddler is in another room and making no noise, it's because she's busy inspecting Dad's drill, licking your deodorant, or stirring the toilet with your good spatula. When the playful clatter stops, investigate at once.

Skype will be like a gift from God.

All that baby paraphernalia you think you need, you don't. 18 months from now, Thor's wood shop will look like Thor's House Of Lumber, Bolts, and High Chairs.

You'll think you're failing left and right, but you're not. Your baby will love you, and your husband will be an amazing dad. He will even tell you early and often how much he appreciates you. You will feel bad for that month you spent cussing him under your breath for being boobless.

All will be fine. Breathe in, breathe out. She's worth it.

Love,

You

Attack of The Two Foot Donkamoose

Dear Laney,

You know the best thing about being a mom? The ability to dress your toddler in super-ridiculous hats.* Second best? Saving photos of her in these hats to someday send to her high school's yearbook committee.

Anyone who has given this blog even a cursory glance knows that when it comes to the top of your head, only the wackiest hats will do. But Karen maybe hit the wacky jackpot when she found this antlered, padded-nosed, donkey/moose/reindeer hybrid and sent it to you for Christmas.

Nice work, Karen. I'll be sure to send you a copy of that Class of 2027 yearbook so we can laugh like hyenas. Speaking of, it's possible this hat is also part hyena. There's really no telling.

Love,

Mom

* This is nowhere near the best part of being a mom.

Stop, Forrest!

Dear Laney,

I had to work all day yesterday, so your dad said he would take you for a drive. When you two came home hours later, I started asking questions about where you'd been and what you'd seen. Oh, your dad took you for a drive all right: to Idaho.

After further questioning and a google maps search, I finally figured out that Idaho wasn't as far away as I had previously believed. Just goes to show: like my car keys, my wallet and my cell phone, Idaho is never where I think it is.

Bravo to your dad for taking you on such a fun adventure; apparently, you were having such a good time stomping around that complete strangers asked if they could take your picture. Extra credit to Dad for actually taking some photos of his own - nice work, you guys.

Love,

Mom

Measuring Up

Dear Laney,

I took you to see Dr. Hoover this morning for your 18-month well-child visit. Not much to report; everything about you is completely normal. Your height and weight are now down to the 60-something percentile. Your head circumference, however, still hovers up there in the 97th.

Of all the potential future careers I've suggested on this blog, note that I never mentioned "hat model." On the other hand, if that head-butting game you and your Dad play, called "Bonk," ever makes the big time, you can go pro.

Love,

Mom

Wheee, Barnibbe!

Dear Laney,

Our good friends the Barnibbes came over for dinner last night, including baby Cedar.

You and Cedar had a good time poking at each other and sharing snacks. You were even okay with sharing your toys, but we learned that you don't like it when another baby sits on my lap.

For dinner, we had gumbo and you ate your own bowl of cheese grits that went everywhere - in your hair, on your clothes, in your pants, on the chair. I could have loaded a shotgun with grits and fired it across the living room and achieved the same effect. In fact, you were such a disaster that had it been summer, we would have taken you outside and hosed you down. Since it's winter, we just took off your shirt and decided to let the dogs hunt down the rogue grits next time they're inside.

You then had a fudgesicle for dessert, which took the mess to a whole new level, especially when you started using your fudgesicle stick to scoop out a second helping of grits. Ewww, am I right? We pretty much gave up on putting clothes on you at this point.

Your favorite part of the evening was when we got out your play tunnel, and all took turns playing in it. I always tell your dad that we'll know when he needs to go on a diet, because it'll be the day that he can no longer fit inside the tunnel. Today at least, he passed The Tunnel Test.

The only not-so-great moment of the visit for you was when Cedar dared to touch one of the Backyardigans. Apparently, she didn't get the memo that you're out of your mind.

This was not your finest moment. But who hasn't gone to a party only to find themselves at the end of the night topless, covered in melted fudgesicle and cheese grits, crying over a stuffed hippo?

Hello? Anyone?

Thanks to Brooke and Todd and Cedar for coming over for dinner, and for taking such great pictures. We all had a super-fun time.

Love,

Mom

Keep On Snow Goin'

Dear Laney,

Your dad loaded up the dogs this morning, and you and I decided to join them for a cross-country skiing adventure. As with all things cold and potentially miserable, you loved it. You rode on Dad's back the whole time and hollered along whenever he gave instructions to the dogs. He'd shout, "Easy!" and you'd echo, "Eesh!" Any time your dad said "Woo!" you'd "Woo!" right along.

In fact, the only thing you didn't like was when the adventure came to an end.

These are some of the highlights from our outing, with soundtrack provided by The Backyardigans. Those little critters have a song about everything - I'll have to remember that next time I edit a clip about going to pirate camp, or riding my horse to the Polka Palace, or playing in an intergalactic mariachi band.

Looking forward to rooting you both on in the 2030 Iditarod. Go Team Burbach!

Love,

Mom

Laney-To-English Dictionary

Dear Laney,

One of the reasons we first enrolled you in "school," was the idea that if you were around people that didn't speak Laneygese, you'd be forced to use more English. The plan is actually paying off, because you're at least more vocal than you used to be, and a lot more willing to try to repeat new and unfamiliar words. Here are some of your favorite words this week, along with their official Laney pronunciations:

Thanks! --- Acks! (this one is far and away my favorite)

Truck --- Uck

Yuck! ---Uck!

Up! --- Ep!

Help --- Ep?

Gus --- Esh

Flower --- Ow

I Banged My Head --- Ow (while pointing to head)

Apple --- App

Fish --- Ish Ish Ish (always 3 times)

Please --- Eesh

Cheese --- Eesh

Hi --- Heeeey (that one is totally the fault of your southern grandmother).

Why yes, I believe I would like a frozen yogurt --- Yaaaaaaaaahhhh! (w/ clapping)

Rock --- Rock

Other than being the offspring of a geologist, I can't imagine why "Rock" is the one word you've chosen to speak clearly. You point out the rocks in photographs, in storybooks, in the yard and on TV.

If you ask me, the whole thing is really bizarre.

Love,

Mom

One Day At A Time, Sweet Jesus

Dear Laney,

When I was little, there was a TV ad for a gospel collection from K-Tel Records that played all the time. They would play ten-second snippets of all the songs while the song titles scrolled up the screen. One of the songs was "One Day At A Time, Sweet Jesus," as performed by Christy Lane. Since the title is the only part of the song they played, those are the only lyrics I know, but I've been singing them to myself A LOT this week. Sometimes I even do it with my hands in the air; people who didn't know me better might mistake me for Pentecostal.

Your dad and I are both working at maximum capacity. This week, I've had to do some writing and research for that TV show, I've been busy casting a project for the U.S. Army, and I'm producing a web video for a men's underwear company. Yesterday, I had a meeting via Skype with my friend Brian, and he said, "Are you not going to do your hair today?" Sometimes I wish it was possible to reach through a computer screen and throttle the people on the other side.

Your dad has been going to school and trying to write his thesis while working his regular day job. I should report that things are going well for him at work; I know this, because yesterday he came home with this "Certificate of Merit." I'm super proud of him, but the wording on the bottom makes me laugh because it basically says, "We didn't think he knew anything, but it turns out he does."

In the middle of all this, we've been trying to spend as much quality time with you as possible, and I'm finding it the greatest challenge of my life to try to be a good mom and a good employee on the same day. So...I haven't been blogging much this week, because I've been playing with you as much as possible, working as much as feasible, and trying not to fall asleep in the middle of dinner. Why would I fall asleep in the middle of dinner, you ask? Oh, because you caught a terrible, wheezy, coughy, honking cold this week and haven't been sleeping since you can't breathe out of your nose.

And when baby ain't sleepin', ain't nobody sleepin'.

Also, it seems that some other kid came into your daycare yesterday with a case of head lice. My brain can't quite process that crisis yet, so we'll just cross that infestation if/when we come to it.

So far, the highlight of my week has been convincing your dad to shave his beard. To entertain me, he did it in stages, so I got to meet his alter ego, Chester P Underhill III, and his banjo-pickin' great-grandson, Billy Ray.

Sometimes, it's the little things that get you through.

Love,

Mom

Valentine's Day

Dear Laney,

Since Valentine's Day fell on a Monday this year, your dad and I decided to celebrate on Saturday night. We exchanged gifts, and you helped me open my brand new waffle iron, which I loved almost as much as the hard drive I exchanged it for. We gave your dad a pair of bindings for his cross-country skis, and he pretended to be shocked and surprised, even though last week he got to listen to me call every REI west of the Mississippi 'til I found one that still had those suckers in stock.

After putting you to bed, we watched a mediocre movie set in Chinatown (not to be confused with "Chinatown," which is an excellent movie that is not set in Chinatown), and ate a buffet of potstickers and spring rolls. I've really been into cooking ethnic food lately. Next up: Jewish deli.

Yesterday - on Valentine's Day - I played hooky from work so we could attend the party at your school. I got to meet all of the kids you normally play with. What boggles my mind is that you are one of TWO "Delaney"s in your class. WHAT?!? Kids had to address their Valentines to either "Delaney M." or "Delaney B." I have cleared up the confusion in my own head by referring to that other girl as Delaney The Lesser.

We were there for two hours, and I put together a two-minute highlight reel. This one should only be watched by die-hard Laney lovers, because I'll warn you that almost nothing happens. Now, dear readers, imagine that you actually attended the party, which was 60 times longer than this reel. Exactly. Now go get me a beer.

What I thought was brilliant was that Miss Tracy loaded all of the kids up on 8 pounds of sugar just seconds before the normally scheduled pick-up time. Brilliantly Evil? Devilishly Ingenious?

You decide.

Love,

Mom

P.S. Yeah, I think we all know what you want for Christmas.

UGH!

Dear Laney,

I know, I know. I need to post about our Valentine's Day weekend-long celebration, but that would require me to go through all of the photos and video I shot, and I'm probably not going to get to it today.

So here's something to tide everyone over in the meantime:

A few weeks ago, your dad carried something heavy into the house. I don't even remember what it was, but getting it in here required him to grunt and groan, as men do when they want you to notice how hard they're working. Ever since that day, you've started grunting every time you pick up something heavier than a Q-Tip. A walk up the completely flat super-steep hill between our house and the wood shed also requires a minimum of ten groans.

It all sounds a little something like this:

UUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!

Love,

Mom

Clocking In

Dear Laney,

After I wrote that post about our weekly trips to Home Depot and the unofficial part-time job you have there, my good friend (and mom mentor) Amy sent you the best gift ever: your own orange apron.

We made our weekly pilgrimage to Home Depot today, and brought the apron along with us. Since Dad had lots of shopping to do, we had a lot of time to kill. We hit every single aisle and greeted just about every shopper. As they say in Hollywood, hilarity ensued.

Just about everyone we saw had something funny to say to you - your fellow employees reminded you to clock in and out, and shoppers asked you where to find the hammers and caulk.

The picture on the top right above is what happened when you decided to take a load off and enjoy a prune in the middle of the small appliance section. A very nice employee from the paint section walked by and reminded you where to find the break room.

Thanks again to Amy for helping to make you the hit of Home Depot.

Love,

Mom

All The Uh-Oh Ladies

Dear Laney,

I don't want to exaggerate here, so I will say that you spent almost the entire 35-mile drive to Home Depot this morning singing, "Uh oh." Uh oooh, Uh oooh, Uh oooh, Uh oooh, etc.

You know who else likes to sing, "Uh oh?"

I'll tell you: Beyoncé.

So your dad and I started joking about how you could sing back-up on her song "Single Ladies."

And because I like to be whole-assed when it comes to my jokes, behold: The Laney/Beyoncé Mash-Up, a.k.a. probably the most ridiculous 58 seconds of video I will ever post on this blog.

Love,

Mom

Sign O' The Times

Dear Laney,

There are a lot of people who think it's beneficial to teach your baby some rudimentary sign language to help with intra-family communication. I was not one of those people. I thought, "She already doesn't want to talk - ever - and if I teach her sign language, she'll use it like a crutch and never talk."

But then I showed you the sign for "down," and you adopted it immediately, and it made life so much easier, knowing when you wanted to get down from the step stool vs. watching you try to jump off.

Last week, I picked you up from day care, and your teacher told me that she had taught you the sign for "More." Conveniently, she taught you this sign on Pizza Day, so you got a lot of use out of it right away. Miss Tracy suggested I was wrong about sign language, and that giving you a new form of communication would build your confidence and give you an "early win" that would inspire you to keep communicating. Well, color me wrong.

So I went to the library and checked out The Idiot's Guide to Baby Sign Language. In the first weekend, I taught you six signs. The one you use the most is "Help," like when you drag over a five pound bag of prunes, hand it to me and sign "Help," as in "Help me open this big-ass bag of prunes." I'm always torn: I think it's a great idea to reward your initiative, but I think it's a bad idea to give you 800% of your daily recommended allowance of fiber.

Anyway, here are a few of the signs you like to use these days:

Side note: The brown marks on the bottom half of your face and shirt are chocolate. The brown mark in the middle of your forehead is a bruise caused by you banging your head on the kitchen counter when I told you you couldn't use a steak knife to help me make a salad.

Love,

Mom

A Visual Aid

Dear Laney,

I know I make a lot of jokes on here about life with a toddler, but I want you to know that there's not a minute of the day that I don't love you like crazy and thank God you're a part of our family. It is a treat and an honor to know you.

That being said, this parenting gig is easier on some days than others.

Here I present "Some Days":

And "Others":

Love,

Mom