I blame her father

Most of the time, my baby (also known as my entire life, if you couldn't tell by this blog in the last year) is perfectly sweet. Seriously adorable.

four-second proof of sweetness.

But then she will have a night like tonight. Where she screams during her diaper change. Screams in her high chair through all of dinner and refuses to eat her food. Pees on the floor while I am getting her ready for the bath. Screams through the whole bath. Pees in my face (how is that physically possible?!?) while I'm trying to get her dressed. Screams through story time. Burps so hard she throws up her antibiotics all over me.

Then she calms down just enough to give me a cute kiss good night. (I think that's her evolutionary survival mechanism kicking in.)

And on nights like this, I am left wondering: Where did this sometimes-curly-haired little beast come from?

For all the naysayers...

She had her cake

and then she ate it, too.

And then she was one

Well, in her first year, this little darling had three homes, two crazy parents, and one sweet and silly personality to show off. I don't know how we ever felt anything close to complete without her. This was truly the most challenging, most frustrating, most exhausting and best year of my life.

Happy birthday, little one. Let's try celebrating without your miserable head cold this weekend, eh?

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.