Oh, Just Tear Out My Heart And Stomp On It

Dear Laney,

You know how sometimes you want to tell a story, but it would require so much backstory and context that you wonder if you could even make it make sense?

Well, here's the thing about country music: Country specializes in the kind of tearjerking songs that have a surprise/twist ending. If a soldier is writing a letter home in the first verse, rest assured that in the third verse, you will find out that he's writing the letter from heaven. If a tough girl fights bullies in the song's intro, she'll be battling cancer by the coda. These are the kinds of songs that a pregnant woman shouldn't listen to on the radio, because she'll just end up crying in her Subaru on the I-90. For example.

Okay, that's Thing #1, now here's Thing #2:

You have this funny new habit when you really enjoy something [like, say, sliding down the slide on a square carpet remnant that your dad gave you so can really pick up speed on your way down] of saying, "More times!" Not "Again!" or "ONE more time!" but a more general/vague "More times!," which could mean any number of times between 2 and 2 zillion. I think it's funny because at least it's honest. You don't pretend like you're going to be satisfied with just once.

Last night, you were helping me make brownies when you started having a crying fit because you're scared of the food processor. I held you and consoled you for a minute, then put you down so I could get back to dessert. Somehow, being put down was WAY worse than facing the Cuisinart, and you started crying in earnest. I explained to you that I needed two hands to cook and I couldn't hold you again. With tears pouring down your red face, you raised up both arms at me and cried, "MORE TIMES!"

And instantly, the country music video started playing in my head - the one that starts with you crying because you want to play every game more times, and then ends with you driving off to college while I stand in the driveway and cry because I wish I could hold you more times.

So I held you, because it was the right thing to do, even though we had dry brownies.

I'm pretty sure that 16 years from now, I won't remember the brownies.

Love,

Mom

"Boat, Please."

Dear Laney,

Your grandparents have only been here a few days, and you already seem to have them wrapped around your pudgy little finger.

Exhibit A: That tractor.

Exhibit B: I overheard Grandpops playing along and guessing aloud when Go, Diego, Go wanted to review the qualities of the pygmy marmoset. For the uninitiated, Diego is Dora the Explorer's cousin, only he's an animal rescuer, so every episode is about an obscure animal he's trying to save. There is dialogue on the show like, "Is this a crocodile or a caiman?" and I find myself saying to the TV, "Who the hell knows, Diego?"

Exhibit C: Grandpops and Grandma CC took you to the carousel so you could RISE ORSE! RIDE ORSE! and let you ride it six times in a row, or - as Grandpops described it - "until I thought I was going to be sick." This is why, when I watch a spinning carousel topped with grandparents, I secretly call it, "Suckers in a Circle."

Grandma CC also rode the carousel with you, but Grandpops is not as adept at photography... although he did manage to shoot a few really good pictures of a random Korean teenager on a horse. I'll include that tidbit here in case there's a mother out there googling, "Random + Korean + Teenager + Missoula + Carousel." Give me a call, lady; I can hook you up.

Yesterday, you and I were playing on the swing when our neighbors drove by, toting a raft. "Boat!" you yelled, then asked me, "My boat?" I had to explain to you that we do have a canoe, but we don't have a boat. Just joking, I said, "But if you really want a boat, you could always ask Grandpops for one." As he walked by, toting lumber, you hollered out, "BOAT, PLEASE!"

I think you're overstepping just a little, but I give you bonus points for saying please.

I look forward to the arrival of our boat any day.

Love,

Mom

And All Of Britain Shall Be Vanquished

Dear Laney,

Today, after helping me apply a healthy dose of sunscreen to your face (guess which side you were in charge of), you took off for the Bitterroot Scottish Irish Festival with your dad and grandparents.

Grandpops' family came to America from Ireland, so mathematically speaking, you are part Irish. You are probably more Irish than the guy who will one day be sitting next to you at a bar on St Patrick's Day wearing a shirt that reads, "Kiss Me, I'm Irish." Do NOT under any circumstances kiss that guy. This might not be the exact quote, but Granny Jack once told me that she doesn't like to go to church on Easter, because churchgoers on Easter are like drinkers on St Patrick's Day: amateurs who just make a mess of everything. So, like I was saying, you're part Irish and part Southern smart aleck.

I didn't get to go to the Festival, because I had a lot of work to do to make up for the days I missed last week. But here are two opinions I'd like to share:

1) You would have made an excellent ruler of the realm. Grandma CC had your picture taken in front of this castle backdrop, and I can just imagine you ordering your troops to bring you someone's head on a plate while you're waving those pastel streamers. They may take our lives, but they will never take...our freedom!! etc etc.

2) I have not confirmed with your father that the Festival offered pints of Guinness in sippy cups, but it would explain why you're hugging strangers and how you became an instant Irish dancing expert.

I love you, man.

And here is something I would not like to share: the qualities of toddler poop two hours after said toddler has tried haggis. I'm no historian, but I'd bet money that it's this gastrointestinal phenomenon that has kept Scotland from becoming a world power.

Thanks for the souvenir!

Love,

Mom

We Interrupt This Blog For An Important Announcement

Dear Laney,

According to our doctor, the ultrasound technician, Grandma Sue's prayers, and Peg Peg's psychic Southern hairdresser's prediction*, you're getting a brother for Christmas.

We are beyond thrilled.

Love,

Mom

* ranked in order of importance

Edited to add: Your father attended an Irish Festival today. You'll have to excuse him.

Edited further to add: Peg Peg called me today after reading this post and wanted to clarify that her hairdresser is not Southern, she's (dramatic whisper) Jewish. Which means - I guess - that she possesses mystical powers far beyond the comprehension of us puny Methodists.

"'Kay, Mom. I We-yull."

Dear Laney,

I can't tell you how it warms my heart that - despite the odds - you're developing a Southern accent in Montana.

Love,

Mom

Midday Rider

Dear Laney,

Your dad and I are working hard to be included in the next Guinness Book Of World Records under the heading, "Most House Guests In One Summer." We're so advanced that we put Karen and Sam on a plane that departed at 1:00pm, and then picked up Grandpops and Grammy CC when they landed at 1:32p.

As a general policy, I don't mention the gifts that you receive from grandparents on this blog. Not because we don't appreciate them - in fact, we know we're incredibly blessed - but because your grandparents are all competitive people and there's only so much square footage in our house. We don't want anyone to feel they're doing more/less than anyone else; you have way more than you need, end of story.

But once in a while, a gift comes along that is so audacious that it must be addressed. While your dad and I went to an appointment at the Dr's office to check on your sibling, we left you with your visiting grandparents and Uncle Nate. You guys were probably unsupervised for only two hours or so, and still you managed to come home with this:

Lord have mercy on any small animals or retaining walls that get in your way.

Love,

Mom

The Last Days of Sam

Dear Laney,

We packed a lot of action into the final days of Karen and Sam's visit. I know there are a lot of photos in this post; the below-average ones were taken by me, and the beautiful ones were donated by our friends Meghan and Cedar's Mom. Good life lesson: It's helpful to be friends with photographers. Now we just need to make friends with a stylist and a hair and make-up guy, and we'll be set!

We went to the river for one last swim, and met up with Cedar and her parents. We went to dinner after, where Cedar got stung on the finger by a bee. She recovered from the injury in about 60 seconds with a minimum of fuss, making her the John Wayne of babies.

(This is maybe my favorite photo of Sam ever - thanks, Brooke!)

And for every trip we took to the river, we had to have a communal bath in an effort to keep the sand out of your nethers.

It took us about five days, but we finally figured out that the secret to mealtime peace was to give you and Sam your own dinner table. The people at this smaller table shared the same agenda: Eat as fast as possible, so you can go outside and share your "leftovers" with the dogs. As a result of Sam's visit, Gus and Ella have now been enrolled with Jenny Craig.

For one of our final outings, we took you to the Children's Museum, which I think you both enjoyed. There was a family of kids who were hogging all of the buggies from the grocery store display, and I thought Karen and I were going to have to throw down. One of the older girls from this group told you not to touch her cart, and I considered shoving her head down into the water table. This is when I realized why - despite all of the suggestions I have left in their Suggestion Box - the Children's Museum does not feature an open bar.

To celebrate Sam's last night, you two had a dance party on the deck. I don't know why you wanted to run around naked and flop down on the floor like you were sliding into home. But you do a lot of things that make no sense to me.

The night after Sam left, you took a bath alone, and halfway through, started hollering: "Sam! 'Ere are you, Sam?!?" Turns out Sam was on a plane with her mom, peeing on her plane seat and generally giving her mom a splitting headache. This is why open bar on planes = a given.

Glad you girls made it home safely - we're already looking forward to your next visit!

Love,

Mom

Happy Birthday To You...

Dear Laney,

I know that birthdays are a big deal, but it seems that only you and certain members of the British royal family could get away with having a celebration that drags on for weeks. Note that your paternal grandparents from Missouri are arriving for a week-long visit tomorrow, so that'll be good for seven more days of Laneymania.

Today is your actual birthday, and in honor of the official holiday, I'm sharing these adorable photos The Other Brooke took at your party. What a great gift they are; I could not possibly pick a favorite. Actually, that's a lie. I selfishly love the one of the two of us together because there are so few of those that exist.

What a day. What a party. What a girl.

Love,

Mom

A Whole Lot Of "Nothing"

Dear Laney,

There's a magic trick performed daily by every toddler ever born, and it goes something like this: you can make an entire day...poof!...disappear. Karen and I are laid out in the living room right now, looking rougher than twelve miles of unpaved highway, but if you asked us what we accomplished today, we would have to admit, "Nothing." But that "Nothing" includes wrestling young'uns in and out of diapers, keeping up with tiny shoes, breaking up tiny fights, wiping up big messes, kissing imaginary injuries, listening to an ungodly amount of whining, and demanding that you QUIT DIPPING YOUR CRACKERS IN SAND AND YOUR COOKIES IN THE RIVER FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT'S HOLY. Our bodies are exhausted from the effort of keeping you alive for another day, and our brains are fatigued by our attempts to have conversations with small people who only pronounce the vowels or consonants in their words - never both. It's like having an unpaid job as one of those WWII Navajo code breakers.

For example, a short trip to the river requires an hour of making sure everyone had a nap, that we have enough snacks, that we have the right snacks, that everyone is wearing two shoes, that everyone has on sunscreen, that the young'uns have a towel and something dry to change into, that we have the basket of water toys and everyone's favorite floaties...blah blah blah, put me to bed.

This is a little of what today's "Nothing" looked like:

Today's nothing sure was something.

Love,

Mom

The Birthday Party Photo Re-Cap

Dear Laney,

While Karen and Dad are busy eating all the M&Ms I bought you for potty training reward purposes, I'm going to take a minute and catch everyone up on your birthday party.

The short version is this: You had a GREAT party. As two year-olds go, you have a lot of friends and relatives who love you very much. Not only did people show up for your party, but lots of relatives sent you cards and presents in the mail. Apparently, for you, turning a year older is extremely lucrative, and I look forward to taking out a loan from the Bank of Laney.

Karen helped me make goodie bags that looked like Dora's backpack, and your dad hung balloons in the yard. We set up a taco bar and had an ice cream cake. Of course Karen and Sam were here, and Grandma Sue and Uncle Nate joined the party. Cedar hitched a ride with her parents Brooke and Todd. Your teacher Tracy came, and brought her daughters Jojo and Kassedy.

You might notice from the photos that all the girls seem to be wearing the same green dress. Karen and I saw those on clearance at Walmart, so we thought it would be fun to buy one for everyone.

The kids were happy to play on our playground for most of the party, and after cake and ice cream I got the ridiculous idea to put our inflatable kiddie pool at the bottom of the slide, spray the slide down with the hose, and turn the whole shebang into our own low-rent Splash Montana. I didn't think we'd really do it, but while I was in the kitchen with Uncle Nate, he pointed out the window and said, "Mom's out there with the pool and the hose." And so - thanks to Grandma Sue - the water slide was born. This was both a failure and a success; while you all thought the pool was too cold, you were all perfectly happy to run around naked.

While you were playing by the pool, you got stung by a yellow jacket. You only hollered for a few minutes, then you were back at play. Not half an hour later, a yellow jacket flew up my dress and stung me on the inside of my knee. It hurt like a mother. Because I was surrounded by impressionable children, the only thing I could holler was, "FUDGE!," which was not at all the first word that sprang to mind*. But those were the only low points in an otherwise ideal afternoon.

So without further ado, here are some of the pictures I took at the party. I hope you'll look back on these years from now and appreciate what a great time you had, and how many people care about you.

Love,

Mom

The backyard

"Backpack" bags

Jojo on the slide.

Ice cream cake

Karen & Sam

A birthday hug from Tracy.

Uncle Nate - Your slide valet.

Trying to make the Dora kite fly. No dice.

Road warriors

Cedar

Sam

Sam & balloons

Nekkid peek-a-boo

* Mark Twain wrote, "Under certain circumstances, profanity provides a relief denied even to prayer." He also wrote, "The difference between the almost right word & the right word is really a large matter--it's the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning." Both of those apply here.