A look back a year...and 58 more.

I guess coming up on milestones in our household automatically makes me yearn to archive. I'll do it every which way I can: scrapbooking, journaling (hello Blogger.com!), photography, digital scrapbooking...It's truly a love (one of these days I'll take another stab at logging our family tree online. Last time I had a few hundred names/dates compiled, and my computer crashed. It was too sickening to think about for a while). Well, I'm way behind on Mia's stuff, since I've been concentrating on C's latest accomplishments. Now it's Sister's turn. Here's footage from her first birthday celebration, which was almost a year ago. Wow. Those chubby cheeks and hands. Baby, baby.






And just for fun, here's a picture of my mom in October of 1951 when she turned one. Oops, I just broadcast her real age:




There aren't any pictures of me at my first birthday, because nobody loved me enough to photograph the occasion.

Ok, I'm kidding. Mom's got my baby book in Alabama.

Time "March"-es on.

I gave up Facebook for Lent. What was I thinking?

Actually, it's been fairly liberating. All these weeks I've been wondering where the time goes in my day... suddenly I've got time to fold laundry, do dishes, read to the kids, make more infernal to-do lists...it's like I have two extra hours every day! And since I'm no longer feverishly refreshing my FB homepage to gobble status updates and peruse photos, leave comments, scrawl on people's "walls," (resist, resist. Go outside and take a deep breath, Manders.), perhaps I'll squeeze in a couple extra blog entries. Not that anyone reads this goop.



As Spring creeps around the corner (I am told it's coming. It'd better hurry up if it knows what's good for it), I find myself waxing nostalgic, knowing my babies are approaching their birthdays. Connor has a smidge more than two months left to be a three-year-old. Soon enough, he'll be waist-deep in big-kid pursuits, anticipating the big troop-off to Kindergarten, whispering to his friends instead of begging me to listen to his jokes. In photos taken just last year, he still had that exquisite toddler pot-belly. Now his legs have gotten lean and his face has lost that cherub roundness. Already this year, we've had some doozy conversations, about outer space, death, God, respect and love. He's already looking forward to four. Not because he's planning a party. He's been told he'll be able to ride a scooter. "And when I'm five," he says, "we're going to Disney World!!" It's nice to have goals.

And my really really baby, the youngest of our household, is buzzing toward "two" with tremendous speed herself. 20 months old yesterday. She's never considered herself "the baby." I'll warrant when she's old enough to express it, she'll demand we never call her that. She is every bit as grown as Brother in her estimation, and entitled to all the rights and privileges thereunto affixed. I absolutely love this age. She is so entertaining. She dances, she sings, she tries so admirably to communicate verbally, and we just never know what she's going to say. I've kept a journal of both the kids' "baby babbles" so I can taunt them in later years. Here's a handful of some of the things we've overheard Miss Mimi say this week:

“Wook! I did it! I buckle!”

“Uh-ohh, fall down *cookie.” (*or insert dropped object here)

“Meeka” Mickey Mouse. As in Meeska Mooska.

“Tickle me. Tickle toes, tickle foot.”

“I'm sticky.”

“Beers, Udder Beers, and Money” = Bear, Other Bear, and Bunny (her loveys! I adore those nicknames!!)

“How do you do, Bubber?”

“Cah gah go?” Where'd Connor go?

“Hi, Daddy! I eatin' seawall (cereal)!”

“Dankoowelcome.” Thank you/welcome. This is one word.

When she's mad, she'll kick her feet and say “keek!.” This is usually accompanied by a prone position, her little nose in the carpet, and a giant wail. She doesn't lose her temper excessively, but it happens. Usually when she's denied a treat.

She's very creative about naming her toys. She received a stuffed dog as a Valentine gift and named it “Silly.” Her favorite baby doll (which she got for Christmas) is named “Circle.” Cracks me up.

Don't make me come back there.

Ever had a kid frustrate you so much you just want to scream? We're going thru a bit of a "defiance" stage with the young man presently. I believe the last time his father spanked him, he smiled and declared "I didn't even cry!" Rarrgh.

Connor's favorite store is Lowe's. He can usually convince his daddy to take him there at least once weekly, with the sole aspiration to try out every riding mower they have in stock. Their last visit was cut rather abruptly short, however, when Connor, who had already been dragged bodily from his lengthy test-drive session, and who had also been picking his nose conspicuously from his place in the shopping cart, stood and frantically shouted, "I lost my booger!" over and over. "Where's my booger?"

Our young man is a perpetual source of entertainment. Despite a harrowing week at Vacation Bible School ("Are you Connor's mommy? Well...your son is certainly...spirited!") and lots of time in his room at home for antagonizing his sister and smarting off to us (age three is turning out to be more "terrible" than two in lots of ways...sigh...), our boy always manages to redeem himself at the flip of a switch. I explain all the time that the world of little boys is new and fascinating for me, the oldest of two girls. When I was a child, even masculine playthings were unacceptable. The only mildly male toy I owned was a giant stuffed lion with a mane, and I stubbornly immasculated the poor thing, clipping barrettes onto it and tying bracelets around its paws . Now my house is filled with water pistols, miniature lawn tools, tiny cars, and wee superheroes. I used to entertain myself quietly for hours, building apartment dwellings for my Barbies. Connor is not content to play any game that does not involve a slobbery motor noise (he's even taught Mia to do it. I fear I may have to tolerate some tomboy tendencies eventually.). Every piece of furniture we own has already become a launch point. The other day I strode innocently into the kids' playroom to find that my son had pushed a dining chair up to the toy shelf, balanced a small folding chair above that, and was standing on top, straining to reach something I thought I'd cleverly placed out of his reach. I stifled a scream because I knew if I startled him, we'd be driving to the E.R. next. Someone once told me when I was pregnant with him that I should go ahead and nail all the furniture to the floor. I remember laughing then. I'm immersed in a world of grubby fingernails and bruised elbows and knees, of sweaty feet and ketchup-smeared cheeks. He is clumsy, irreverent, stubborn, loud, and sloppy. But he's wonderful. I adore the little made-up tunes he sings, often while trying to stand on his head ("I'm the very first Connorrrr...in thuh worrrllllld!"), and the impulsive way he flings himself into my lap for a snuggle. I love the little dusting of freckles that has appeared across his nose this summer. I love the way he dares me to tickle him. I love that he still lets me rock him sometimes. I love that he brings me bedraggled clover blossoms. I watch him sleeping, nearly buried in a mountain of stuffed friends he insisted on piling around him, one leg dangling off the side of the bed, a tiny puddle of drool collecting on his pillow, and I KNOW I will look back on this time and MISS it. I'm going to do my best to remember that.