Sometimes the lemonade just makes itself

I've been going through a small rough patch. As one of my favorites would say, "They weren't the kind of thing you would run home to mother about. But I cried into my pillow now and again."

Then things started to fall into place. Everyone recovered from the stomach flu (even though it took Penelope more than a week before she was back to herself). My dead phone was not only replaced; it was upgraded. We finally got a new dishwasher. (That's right, boys and girls, my phone and dishwasher were both MIA for more than a week. I now know how pioneers lived.)

And even though things really were getting lighter -- though not necessarily better (life is generally good to me, you see) -- I couldn't shake the one big downer in my life lately: My little girl turns one this week.

One year old.

I've been planning her birthday party, which has changed at least a dozen times, for weeks in an attempt to get excited about it. But mostly, I can't help but feel like she's not my baby any more. And I'm incredibly sad about that. One of the most profound and breathtaking experiences of my life has been watching Penelope grow and learn and really become herself. And I love that, don't get me wrong. It's just amazing how quickly I have begun to feel unnecessary in the process.

A little less than a year ago, I was craving the day that the baby wouldn't need me for just long enough that I could go to the bathroom. Now she gets into anything she wants and is totally capable of entertaining herself. If she could open a baby food jar and figure out how to put a diaper back on, she'd be good to go. (I might be slightly exaggerating here, but only just.)

Today as I was getting her up and ready after her nap, she gave me a wonderful hug. (seriously, Penelope is probably the best hugger I have ever met. If you don't believe me, come over to our house with a pillow pet, squishy ball, or bean bag and just see what happens.) Then, out of the blue -- brace yourselves -- she gave me a kiss. A real life kiss on my shoulder. It was perfect. Slightly awkward. Totally sincere. And I hope she always proudly tells people that she gave her first kiss to her mommy.

Don't worry. I won't be letting her forget any time soon. Because, you see, it made my week. It was even better than finally getting a dishwasher.

Or an iPhone. But that was also really nice.

How did women survive?

In one of my classes for graduate school, my professor asked, "Do any of you ever feel like you were born in the wrong time?" As I listened to a few classmates drone on about how they were certain they should have been born (coincidentally) in the time period we were studying, I began to convince myself that I was, in fact born in the wrong time.

OK, sure, whenever I think about living in another time, I am quick to remember that I am blessed to have access to medical care in this time. That's a gimme. (And really, I couldn't be more grateful for it.) But this is one of those hypothetical questions where you can romanticize and demonize aspects of society as you see fit.

After that lovely day in class, I determined that I had, in fact, been born in the wrong time. I wanted to live in a time where people were recognized for beautiful words and great deeds. Where men not only covered their rear ends when they left the house, but they fretted over things like hats and pocket squares.

But as time goes on, I have started remembering things I love about living now, like running water, countless devices to keep babies happy (can you imagine having a newborn without a swing?!? I would die), etc., etc. I was beginning to feel better about living in 2008, 2009, 2010 and 2011, but then my dishwasher broke.

I am here to testify that after hours and hours of hand-scrubbing dishes, I was so born in the right time. I don't know if you know this, but living without a dishwasher is awful. Miserable. My two weeks of experience have made me a believer in the power of technology.

And now if you'll excuse me, I can hear story time happening in the living room without me. And that's where I really want to be right now.

Jones Family Finishing School

Today a cute boy came over to play with Penelope. She wasn't happy with me when she woke up from her nap, and he ran in to say hi while she was still groggy. There was much baby screeching and shameful chubby finger pointing in my direction. (What was I thinking letting a boy see her when she was so unkempt?!?)

After she calmed down, however, she became a total love-struck idiot. Honestly, you would think the girl had never seen another child before. I tried to use it as a good learning opportunity (it's never too early to learn how to interact). Lesson points for the afternoon:

• Don't just stare. Play it cool. Pick up a block or something.

• OK, talking is good, but nonstop excited yelling is not.

• Don't take things out of his mouth.

• Seriously, when he starts backing away from you uncomfortably, stop trying to stroke his face. (I have a personal experience with odd face-stroking on a date. It's never a good move.)

• It's not flattering to chase him around the apartment. When he hits a dead sprint, you may want to reconsider your approach.

Who knew how it took this much effort to teach social graces?

By the way, after he went home, she sat by the front door for a good ten minutes, staring at it, hoping he would return.

And now a post for Stephanie (and anyone else who is interested)

Steph Face:

Penelope and I have been talking about you all day. Want to know why?

JEGGINGS!!!

what's that? oh yeah, she's just rocking some jeggings...

jeggings! (and a mess)

jeggings... in action.

jeggings.

Could I intrude on your life in a more shameless manner? Well, it was Penny's idea, so deal.

Yes, it really happened OR Adventures in cheesy jokes

Jesse calls this look Penelope's "Beethoven" hair. Get it? Because she kind of looks like Beethoven.

(Just imagine her with a stern look -- come on, Ludwig, it can't be that bad -- and clothing on. Get it now? Great, let's keep going.)

Well, after a rather epic nap, she woke up with some serious Beethoven head and a ridiculously full diaper. I put her down on her changing pad and started to do my thing, but she saw something interesting across the room and made a move for it.

I don't know if you've tried this before, but it is really difficult to change the diaper of a baby who has turned over and made a break for it. I did the good mom thing and started dragging her back to the changing pad with her new toy, but she refused to get on her back.

So in utter frustration, I screeched (please tell me you see where this is going? I can't believe I didn't.), "ROLL OVER, BEETHOVEN!"

Ah yes, little girl. The age of being embarrassed by my lame jokes has just begun.

Around here, this is what romance looks like

Last night the baby wouldn't sleep again. (Don't ask me why. I'm fresh out of ideas.) Jesse and I were rotating soothing duty around 2 a.m., and I got on the computer to check on some Christmas gift shipping statuses. Somehow I ended up reading our e-mails from five years ago.

Can you say nauseating? I mean, really. "I can't wait to see you for lunch in three minutes." "You just left and I already miss you." I got back in bed with the hubby and told him about a few. We laughed at how silly we were back then and giddily mocked ourselves.

A few minutes ago I found this photo on my camera. This was taken on our anniversary a few weeks ago. Right before this picture was taken, I was pouting in our bedroom about how there was too much to do with the baby and we wouldn't have time to go out. Jesse dear took action in his own hands.

I still remember the feeling in my stomach every time I got an e-mail from Jesse in 2005. I remember my heart fluttering every time he told me he wanted to marry me. Even better, I remember feeling like I would burst with joy the day he actually lived up to his word. Four years later, and he's still got it. And when I look at things like this, I'm pretty sure I've never found him more attractive.

Love (?) letter

Yes, yes, I know I've done this before, but it's the only thing I keep thinking about. Besides, this blog seems to have been missing something (content?), so here we go.

If present me had written past me a letter a week ago, it might have looked like this.

Dear Boo:

Rest up. You're going to need it. I know that your darling daughter has finally resumed her normal (read: LENGTHY) sleeping patterns after the seventh circle of teething hell, but it's all about to change. Again.

While you are basking in the post-Thanksgiving joy at your parents' house, don't feel bad for not leaping out of bed at the little one's first squawk around 7:30. Don't feel guilty about sleeping in until -- GASP -- 8:30 on the weekends. Cherish her silence and ability to soothe herself.

You will start noticing her cold symptoms around the same time you plan on going back to Boise. In the middle of the week, as you frantically line up babysitters, align crazy work schedules, try getting your car out of the shop and pray for good roads in the midst of Blizzard Fest 2010, the wee one will have a runny nose.

"Sure," you will think, "A runny nose is nothing to worry about. I plan to head home to reunite with the hubby tomorrow, anyway." But no! You won't! Another blizzard will come to Boise! This is when you will be thankful for your tendency to overpack. Instead of braving the roads home, you will cry all the way out to your gracious sister-in-law's house the next morning before an unexpected day of work in the eastern side of the state. You will spend the rest of the day offering prayers of gratitude that you and baby are still alive.

Another day after that, your car will have a shiny new transmission and the roads will seem safe enough to travel.

Don't fall into a false sense of security when you arrive home. The baby may seem healthy. You might have a productive morning. You might even think you will be able to make sense of the huge mess that is your apartment. You may even have the hubris to assume that decorating is in the realm of possibility.

Then the baby will wake at night, and she will cry. No, no. She will scream. For hours she will scream. And you will be helpless to fix it. She won't have the classic signs of an ear infection. She won't have a fever. She won't tug on her ears. But something inside you will just know.

Don't be afraid to take her to the doctor on a Saturday. Don't listen to the snotty nurse who makes comments like, "Oh really? Not tugging on her ears? Hmm..." or "Wow, she doesn't feel warm AT ALL." When the doctor takes one look and says, "Oh, that's bad. That's definitely infected." And then finds infection in the other ear, you will try not to internally gloat to said nurse over your poor little one's ill health.

You really should take the time to rest and nurse your own cold. You should watch the Little Mermaid with the baby. You shouldn't be afraid to "spoil" the child by letting her sleep in your bed.

I hate to tell you this, but you will be exhausted. And you will have plenty of moments where you will feel like a deficient wife and mother. You won't get your Christmas gifts up. Both girls for whom you were making those great baby shower gifts will give birth this week, and you will feel like a failure for not having finished those projects. You will feel overwhelmed by a million other To-Dos that are pushed aside. You will spend much time acknowledging that you are a flat-out terrible single parent.

But you will learn that you can sing a furious baby to sleep. You will learn that you can survive on very little sleep. You will actually make it to the grocery store. You will retain the gratitude you felt during the Thanksgiving holiday through it all. You will travel safely on very treacherous roads. You will find, once again, that you and Jesse are a dynamic duo. And most importantly, my friend, you will survive. And I think (I can't tell you for sure just yet), you will be even stronger for it all.

But for now, you will just want to rest up. Best of luck,

Boo