Keeping It Real

 *disclaimer* My children are not bullies. They are not being bullied. I am fully aware of what is going on at their respective schools and with their respective classmates.  There is nothing to be aghast about. I'm giving you an abbreviated version of a conversation that I thought was funny. No child had their feelings hurt in the making of this post. **  By the way, that last line was sarcasm.

The other day, the girls were talking about how to resolve differneces on the plyaground. Mo was telling me about a child who likes to play with her and several other little girls, but has a tendency to dominate the playing, trying to change the game and boss the others around. 

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"Tell her that if she's going to do that, she can't play with you all any more," I told her.

"Well, we can't tell people they can't play with us. The princicapl said so," she replied.

So, I said,   "Then tell her that whatever it is you guys are playing, she's welcome to play, but if she doesn't like it, then she should play something else."

"Maybe. . " Mo said, which is basically her way of saying, "Yeah, I'm going to pretend that you didn't said anything and just do what I want to do.

Co decided to offer her take on how to handle the situation.  "You know, Mo," she began, "when I was have a problem with Suzy Q (not her real name), I just tell her that I don't like how she's treating me and then I walk away from her."

At this, I looked up from what I was doing because, 1) I noticed she used present tense, and 2) Co had just gone to a birthday party for Suzy Q not that long ago. 

"Wait a second," I said. "You and Suzy Q are still having an issue? I thought you guys were friends."

"Nope. We're not friends."

"But you begged me to let you go to her party."

Co gave me a full body eye roll, which for her fun-size five year old frame is pretty huge.  "Mom. I don't really like Suzy Q, but I really, really like birthday parties."

Oh boy.

False Start

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I have started to write this post three times already today and am just not getting it done. I started to write about how 42% of mother's have Pinterest related stress, but once I wrote that statistics, I thought, "I can believe it." Then there wasn't much else to say.

I thought I'd write about my current challenge on this photo-a-day thing I'm working on, but it came off as really whiney and an invite to a Hilary With One L pity party.  That got scrapped immediately.

Then, I thought I'd do a Mother's Day recap, complete with the blow-by-blow of my day, my meal (which I failed to snap a photo of), my gifts and so forth.  It was a good idea until my conscience sidelined me with thoughts of "Fake-booking" and "Insta-glamming".  This is a thing now you know, creating these utopian images and status updates for Facebook and Instagram that portray you in a nothing but a rainbow dappled light.  I know for some folks, what you see is really what you get -- the kids getting along nicely, a chef style meal prepared at home, a fantastic outfit for a fantastic date or ladies' night out.  Other times, what you see couldn't possibly exist anywhere but on the pages of Pinterest or Tumblr -- the kids getting along nicely, a chef style meal prepared at home, a fantastic outfit for a fantastic date or ladies' night out.

I kid, sort of.

delete. delete. delete.

I thought I'd write about what I know.  True story: I know a little bit about a whole lot.  That post was just a bag of crazy with a dash of no direction thrown in for flavor.

I looked at the date and realized that May is just about half-way over.  Huh! The girls will be getting out of school for the summer in three weeks. 

Holy crap-cakes.

I mean, I know they get out the first week of June. I've got it written down.    When I looked at a calendar and saw that's about three weeks, okay four weeks, away, as the young kids like to say, "Shit just got real."  Three weeks!   That's gonna happen real, real soon.  For all my previous proper prior planning, I ain't got nothing this time around.

Again, I kid. Sort of.

I've got some things lined up, but it's no where near the activity filled fun-fest that was last summer.  Maybe that's a good thing.  Maybe instead of being constantly involved in this, that and the other, we'll just keep it fast and loose.  They'll do a few camps here and there, those 9 to 12 type of deals, as well as VBS.  After that, who knows.  Maybe we'll hit the zoo. Maybe we'll do the fountains at the mall.  I'm even toying with a day trip to Chick's Beach for old time's sake, though the last time I did a baby at the beach, I only had two kids and at least half a dozen other mom's in my playgroup to run interference.

In my head, I hope our summer will be kind of lazy. I see us going to the pool and the library. I see the girls running through the sprinkler and learning to ride their bikes (finally).  I see faces smeared with popsicle juice and arms slick with bubble solution.  I see skinned knees and legs dotted with mosquito bites.  I'm seeing walks around the neighborhood, catching fireflies in a washed out pasta jar, and lots of chalk drawings crawling across our driveway.  There will be barefeet, sunkissed faces, and halos of pool scented hair.  There will be trips for ice cream, trips to the mall, trips to the museum.  Friends will come over. Bedtime may even be pushed back.

Who knows, maybe some of that will happen. Maybe none of it will happen.  I'm pretty sure if my girls got a hold of that list, they'd do it all on the first day -- before lunch -- and then ask, "Now what can we do?"

This time, I'm not kidding. 

Guess I better get planning.

Recipe Friday: Mother's Day Edition

To all the mothers, grandmothers, godmothers, aunts, like-a-mothers and company, have a very happy Mother's Day.

My kids are sticklers for giving gifts on the designated day that gifts are supposed to be given. So, I have no pictures of their Mother's Day artwork as they are guarding it fervently until Sunday morning.  Instead, I leave you with this note from a little girl named Emma, whose card has been dubbed "The Best Mother's Day Card Of All Time" by the Huffington Post. 

It is pretty awesome.

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She loves her mom more than chocolate, and even more than mustaches! If this mom ever doubted her parenting skills, she can totally rest easy!  And the use of that colorful language, hey, young Emma did preface it with an apology. Let her mother worry about where she learned it after Mother's Day has passed.

To my own mom, if it weren't for you, I wouldn't know of Andreas Vollenweider,  would have never conducted a French Fry taste test between McDonald's, Burger King and Wendy's (McD's was the clear winner), or would have known how to give the stanky eye-brow.  You're gifts keep on giving and they have served me well. 

Here's to you, Mom.  Thank you and I love you never seem like enough, but I'll keep saying it.  I'd planned to post a recipe that you often served during my chilhood, but Lung Yan's Chinese Restaurant doesn't have an online menu.

Just kidding. . .they really do. 

XOXO! Happy Mother's Day, y'all.

Isn't this Ab-tastic

I recently read an article about Diastasis Recti, or the separation of the abdominal muscles due to weakened core, pregnancy or hormonal changes. I had heard of this condition before; basically, the sheet of abdominal muscles separates.  It's not life threatening (at least, nothing I read said that it was), but you are supposed to use caution when doing crunches and sit-ups in the off chance that your cause further separatation of the mucles. 

From what I remember from anatompy and phys., of the multiple sets of abdnominal muscles you have, your rectus abdominis is the sheet of muscles that is where you get your six pack.  The muslces are connected by a tendon that runs down the middle.  The tendon has no elasticity in it, which means if you put on a lot of weight (as in the case with a pregnancy), the muscles separate, the tendon gets stretched.  After you lose the weight, the muscles, which have elasticity, retract, but the tendon is still in the same stretched out shape it was in when you put the weight on, thereby causing the gap between the muscles.  Here's a pictorial representaiton.

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So, why am I talking about this, you ask? Well, I'm at the gym pretty much five days a week, just working on my fitness.  I'm trying to maintain the level of health that I currently enjoy as well as keep my pants buttoned without too much discomfort.  Truth be told, I enjoy working out. I like putting in work, sweating, feeling my muscles engage and all of that. Since my injury, I'm limited to the eliptical, the Nordic track, and sometimes the stair climber. I throw in some weights and I recently started swimming twice a week to mix things up. I don't know if I'll ever get back on the treadmill or actually pound pavement outside. I'm a little skittish about how well I can get my legs pumping in rhythm such that I won't fall flat on my face.  After I do my time on the machines, I do the weights, some squats and recently, some ab work.

I'm in my 30s. I'm pretty sure that unless I go gluten-free, sugar-free, white flour free, and taste free, the weight I'm carrying now is mine to keep. I can feel my abs (serrator anterior, specifically), underneath the layers, but because I'm not going to wear a corset day and night for three months straight á la Jessica Alba, I'm just going to have to content myself with knowing that they're there.  So, I figured I'd get them as firmed up as possible. I found a series of ab exceries during my recent combing of the Internet, which lead me to find this article about the diastasis recti. 

After I had had Mo, I participated in a Mommy-and-Me type exercise program several days a week.  We pushed the stollers around the mall, did resistance band type exercises and ended with ab work. The instructor often spoke of diastasis recti, encouraging those of us who had it to modify the ab work until our cores were stronger.  She even taught us how to diagnosis whether or not we had it.  Then, as with now, I'm no doctor, so I never really thought I was checking properly and just kept on working on my reverse crunches and bicycles.  Then I read this article which talked about how to check if you've got it.

"To check yourself for diastasis, lie on your back with your knees bent.  With your fingers pointing down toward your feet, hold two fingers flat on your bellybutton.  Press your fingers down as you slowly lift your head (keep your shoulders on the ground).  Do you feel a gully between the two muscles?  Measure how many fingers wide it is (mine is about 2.5 fingers wide).  If you can fit two or more fingers inside, you should not do crunches or sit ups.  If this is you, I would recommend halting all traditional abdominal exercises and doing the workout on this page until your separation heals." -- taken from Dear Diastasis Recti, I'm so over you by insperedrd on June 19, 2012

The earliest chance I got, I'm on the floor with my knees bent, fingers in my belly button. I'm kind of thinking whatever's about to happen is going to make me less than pleased, but I soldier on. I start to slowly lift my head and let me tell you, my abs parted like the Red Sea and my fingers were Noah.  Sweet fancy Moses! I'm pretty sure I could have pulled Jimmy Hoffa, Ameila Earheart, and the Holy Grail out of the gap between the muscles. 

*le sigh* Ultimately, the gap is what contributes to the nefarious "mommy pooch", and apparently it can be overcome by strengthening the core.  So, what's a girl to do? No crunches, apparently.  The website provided a list of alternative exercises to do to strengthen the muscles, but I honestly don't believe a gap like mine or the ones described can just be "healed" (their word, not mine).  I picture one of those holy roller type of churches where the pastor with the big Chicklet teeth smacks you on the forehead and says, "Be Healed!" right before you collapse into the waiting arms of church elder as other congregants dance in the aisles and sing songs of praise. 

Yes, I'm a cynic.

I'm also kind of tired, which is why I started in one direction and now find myself over here. 

You know how there are times in your life when you see something or hear sometihng or experience something that is so off=putting or weird that you keep re-visiting it? Or that you want to share it with someone else so that they'll be as put off as you? Like, my brother used to pull off his sweaty gym socks after football practice, take a big whiff of the sock (I have no idea why) and say, "Oh my God, this smells so bad. C'mere and smell this!"

And yes, you know I smelled it because I was young and thought my brother spat nickles and farted rainbows.

Well, the gully in my gut is just like that. I'm disgusted and intrigued and totally want everyone to stick their fingers in my belly button so I can sit up and be like, "See, what I'm talking about? I get nauseous every time I do it!"

It is what it is, which is part of the fabric of who I am.  Once I stop messing with it -- because I check it like every five minutes to marvel at how my body has changed yet again -- it'll be no big deal.  I'll probably look into incorporating some of the non-crunch core moves into my routine at some point.  Or maybe I'll look for a corset afterall. . .

Rock with You

My  mom often talks about how, when I was a baby, she never got anything done becuase all we did was "play, play play" all day.

I never really understood that. 

I'm a mother three times over and playing is so not my thing.  I build a tower out of blocks, someone knocks it down. I build another tower out of blocks, someone knocks it down. I put the blocks in a box, someone empties the box on their head, then bangs the box on their sisters head.  My Barbie's have no conversational skills and their backstories are lame.  Don't even get me started on fairies, mermaids and unicorns.  Coming up with detailed CVs for a realm of imaginary creatures must have been the creative writing class I missed that one time.

When the girls ask me to play, I pawn them off on one another. "Go play with your sister!" is a favorite refrain.  Not as popular, but just as common is , "Why don't you play with your sister so I can finish up [insert chore], and then we'll all play together!"   They haven't picked up on the fact that the second part of that nugget is just misdirection on my part. 

I'm at home with Vivi a good portion of the day.  We sort of play together.  I get down on the floor with her and push the blocks around or make the stuffed animals dance. She's young enough still that I'm not required have a character spreadsheet and blueprints for the cardboard castle we have yet to build.  I know the time will come when the girls will be beyond playing and into things that firmly tether them into the tween-age world.  When that time comes, though, while playing may be part of it, I know one thing that I'll readily miss even more.
 
Now that strep throat is in my rearview, I'm ready to get back to tasks at hand.  This morning was a rough re-entry as Vivi decided to have a few middle of the night wake-ups.  I was getting REM sleep in short 2 hour bursts, followed by the Hubs with an early morning wake-up of his own.  The girls claimed they had just closed their eyes when I went to rouse them and burrowed back under the covers like moles when I flipped up on the lights.

We made it through the morning routine. Kisses were given, backpacks and lunches handed over, and the day got underway. Vivi and I hit the Y, run a few errands and head home. It's barely 10am.  We get home, she's all smiles, as am I, since I know a nap is in her future.   I try to take the snack trap away from her so I can dislodge her from her carseat, and let me tell you,  Bruce Banner ain't got nothing on her.  She set up a yell so loud and so gravelly, I checked her pockets for a bullhorn and some Newports.  Seriously, I couldn't get us in the house fast enough for fear that someone in the neighborhood was going to come walking around the bend and tell me to "stop pinching that baby".  Now there's a southern eupehemsism that I've heard repeatedly when clearly, pinching is the least of the baby's problems.

In the house we go. I set her up in her high chair and hand back the snack trap. On the floor it goes. I hand her a sippy cup. She takes a few pulls and tosses it over her shoulder like it's a red solo cup and she's at the frats.  So, I unbuckle her from the seat, get a Cheerio crusted baby slap to the face for my trouble.  She leans in as I pick her up and  gives me the Harvey Fierstein of baby cries in my ear. Again.  Somewhere in this house there's a pacifier and I must be on the good list today, because I easily locate it.  I pop it into her mouth, gently pressing her head to my shoulder as we start up the stairs for her room.

Typically, I'd just plop place her into her crib, pull up the blanket and moonwalk out the door.  Today, however, I needed a few minutes to regroup myself, so I settled us into the rock-a-bye-chair.  We've had this green glider since Mo was born, but it's always been dubbed the rock-a-bye chair because that's what I called my rocking chair as a kid.  I sat back and started us on a gentle glide.  The repetitive motion was soothing for both of us because soon, Vivi had stopped whimpering around the pacifier and I stopped enumerating the things that I planned to do.

We rocked and we rocked.  I stroked her hair and marveled at how quickly her legs had grown long enough to be folded under her to fit comfortably in my lap.  She had one arm draped across my own, her fingers curling into the sleeve of my shirt, anchoring herself to me, even in sleep.  We rocked and we rocked.  I rubbed her back and noticed how my the span of my hand took up the distance between her waistband and the nape of her neck.  Her breath came more evenly, as the space between the ragged post-crying breaths grew longer and longer.  We rocked and we rocked. I inhaled her baby scent, so easy to identify, so hard to accurately describe.  It's a combination of skin, and warmth, and sun, and something that's just inexplicably baby you want to stick your nose in the crook of their neck and build a home there.  We rocked and we rocked. My eyelids started to close as the weight and pressure of her little body pressed down heavily on my own. I thought about how the girls will ask for a ride in the rock-a-bye chair to stave off beditme just a little bit longer.  I'll always agree, even if we have to jam in there like toes in a too-small shoe.  I thought about how even now, I'll ask my mom for a ride in the rock-a-bye chair. After she finishes laughing, she'll let me perch myself over her lap for a few minutes before someone needs us.  The last thought before I dozed off was, "Sometimes, you just need your mom."

(Vivi at one month)

For a few minutes, I didn't care that there were dishes in the sink, that there was unfolded laundry in the buckets, and lightbulbs that needed to be replaced in the hall.  Right then, gliding back and forth, that what I needed to be doing.  I thought about the times I rocked Mo and Co in that very chair.  The only constants in each memory is the chair and my telling myself to remember that moment.  I can close my eyes and exactly recall the position of the glider in the room, the way the light from outside filtered through the slats on the the blinds, the way her eyes raced underneath her eyelids like she was reading ahead in her dreams.  I remember the Hubs gently chiding me to put her in the crib, put her in the crib, put her in the crib, and me wanting just a few more minutes, just a few more minutes, which I'm glad I took.  With Co, I remember the creak of the floorboards underneath the glider as we rocked back and forth. There's the pops, hisses, and clinks of the radiator in the room, giving additional harmony to my humming as I ran my hand over her head again, and again.  I remember willing myself to remember, taking mental snapshots that I could come back to when I needed them.

I know a baby can't sleep all day. Every nap time can't be something out of a storybook, but I would gladly get nothing done, toss my best laid plans, forgo a shower and a second cup of coffee for the chance to glide in the rocker with my baby, listening to her breathe, and falling in love over and over again.

Return of Recipe Friday

As I had mentioned in my last post, I haven't been feeling 100% for while. It all started when we left New York.  We rounded up all our gear, got the girls squared away and checked out of the hotel. We hit the Holland Tunnel by 10am and were making good time. Everyone was a little bleary from the late nights and the non-stop activity, so it was relatively quiet and some time passed before anyone thought to mention breakfast.  When we did stop, we were well down the New Jersey Turnpike and our options were limited.  I was hoping we would just cruise right into Delaware where I know there were some Dunkin' Donuts waiting to greet us in the neon pink and orange fanfare, but the wee ones were ravenous and the Hubs and I both were eager to get them topped off and back to watching DVDs. So we stopped at the Clara Barton or Molly Pitcher rest stop and tried to grab something relatively worthwhile.

The girls and I bee-lined for Starbucks, while the Hubs headed towards whichever Bob's Big Boy/Roy Rogers/Arby's type fast food place was slinging heat lamp warmed breakfast sandwiches and such.  Surprisingly (at least I was surprised), there was a larger upright cooler with healthy option. I forget the name, something about health or nature or organic, but they offered fruit, granola, yogurt and assorted salads. It was no Prêt-A-Manger (few things are), but it was offering much better options that it's fast food neighbor.  We grabbed some fruit, but the lure of bacon grease proved no match for us and we waited to get the attention of the attendants to in order to get some newly made sandwiches. Too bad for us, the Cranky Twins -- Grumpy and Grouchy -- were working that day.  In no unceratin terms, they told us they weren't making any more breakfast sandwiches and that we could take what was already out there.  Now, you know me and cheese don't get along, so I wasn't about to get a cheese covered breakfast sandwich that had been probably sitting out since last breakfast.  I turned on my heel and went back to the 'bucks.  The Hubs toyed with it for a bit, trying to gauge just how hungry he was before he made his decision. In all truth, I don't remember what he ended up eating; I was too hungry myself and shortly thereafter, my stomach started doing the ring-dang-do.

We got our provisions at the 'bucks -- a tall caramel mocha for me with a banana nut muffin on the side -- and hit the road. My drink tasted a little strange and it wasn't until I was able to remove the sleeve that I noticed they'd given me a light version of the drink. No wonder! The aftertaste was terrible; I felt like I could peel the paint off the fender, my breath was so rank.  Whatever they use to make the drinks "light", can't be good for you.  That was the beginning of my stomach mutiny.

Somehow we made it further on down the road with the Hubs and I trading off driving responsibilites. SHortly before we hit the last 20 mile leg to the house, I doubled over in discomfort. It was the coffee playing Marco Polo with my guts, the nausea was so bad, I thought I might be gazing over the prow of a ship instead of the hood of a car.  I honestly don't know what it was, it was just bad.

We made it home, got the girls inside, got the car unloaded and hit the ground running to get back on track for the remainder of the week. We still had to get Vivi from my mom, the Hubs had to attack some emails and phone calls that had piled up while we were en route, and I had to get the girls back into the regular routine. My stomach wasn't having it.

For the next several days, it was just nausea and aching. It felt like there was this tight band wrapped around my upper ribcage that would squeeze and release, squeeze and release in random intervals. It was almost like hunger pains, but instead of low in my tummy, it was high in my sternum.  And like a dummy, I soldiered through it, not wanting to ask for help (hello, I know), and not wanting to "waste using a babysitter" by going to the doctor.  I tried Alka-Seltzer, Tums, and  Pepto (which turned my tongue black, scaring me half to death). When the pain was enough to wake me out of a sound sleep, I decided I needed to do something before I inadvertently caused myself serious damage by being an idiot.

Suffice it to say, I'm much better now. The doc took care of me, and though her officially diagnosis was heartburn, we both know she didn't know what the hell it was. She did say that I needed to eat more frequently. Instead of three meals and two snacks at set intervals, I need to eat the same amount of food, just basically grazing on it over the course of the day.  That's been a challenge, but I'm working on it. I'm just hungry all of the time, I'm afraid that if I eat a little something everytime I pass through the kitchen, it's going to go all downhill.  I guess in addition to exercising my bod, I've got exercise some self-control.

And with that, I'll leave you with today's recipe that has absolutely nothing to do with self-control, which is why I will be enjoying it on my cheat day!

Happy Friday, y'all!

Oreo and Peanut Butter Brownie Cakes

recipe found here

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Ingredients
1 box brownie mix, 8x8 inch size
24 Oreo Cookies
1/2 cup creamy peanut butter


Directions
Preheat oven to 350 degrees and line a 12 muffin cup baker with paper liners.

Prepare brownie mix according to package directions. For each cupcake cup spread 1 teaspoon of peanut butter over 2 Oreo cookies and stack them on top of each other. Place oreo stacks into the cupcake lined muffin cups. Spoon 2 tablespoons of brownie batter over each stacked oreos and let it run down the sides of the cookies. If you have left over brownie batter, bake separately in a separate baker or muffin tin. Bake cookies and brownies for 18 to 20 minutes, until brownies are cooked through. Let cool completely then serve.

Makes 12 servings

Recipe from picky-palate.com

foodsnots.com

May Day

May 1, 2013. It's been two weeks, and I just haven't been right since we returned from our trip to NYC.  Not to go casting about for sympathy, but I've been battling some kind of stomach bug for the past two weeks, and then, because that wasn't enough, added a nice dose of strep throat onto it just yesterday.  My gut was bubbling and boiling like the cauldron belonging to Shakespeare's witches, my head felt like it was being crushed by two cinder blocks, and I now what lightening tastes like because I swear that's what in my throat every time I swallow.  I'm pretty sure I had a fever because my pajamas were sticking to me with a coat of sweat normally reserved for a Zumba class.   I'm going to pieces and I'm still a few months away from 35. 

Somewhere in all of this, I'm still doing the normal day-to-day stuff that keeps the household running. Lunches are made, hair is done. Laundry is washed, and folded, and put away.  And laundry is washed, and folded, and put away. And laundry- - -you get the idea.  I had this grand plan to have my new website up and launched by this exact date. May 1st is pretty auspicious. It's the first day of a new month, a month that is traditionally associated with spring and new beginnings.  While my intentions were good, my timing has been off and I've been doing the unveiling in bits and pieces.  My site is up, but the current homepage is just a place holder until the real splash page is complete. I'm really excited about it, and burning to tell you what it's going to be, but I want to wait until it's all done and you get to see it for yourself.  It'll be worth it, trust me.  The new site has links to this blog, my tumblrs, my writing and my photography business.

Ahh, the photography business. Totally re-vamped -- new name, new webpage, some new pictures.  In addition to my main site, I've also built this one from scratch.  Talk about small victories. When I finally got all the links active and directed to the right locations, I took a victory lap around my office.  When the homepage slideshow actually behaved like a slideshow, I popped a few bottles.  Learning how to build a web-page, inserting HTML, and interacting with Go.Daddy customer service is like navigating Dante's Inferno.  Blindfolded.

One of the other projects that I'm working on, because clearly I don't have enough on my plate, is this tumblr I started called f/365. I'm in love with instagram and I started one of those "photo-a-day" challenges back in February.  It was fun and I thought it would be a great way for me to stay sharp behind the lens, even if I was just using my phone.  February turned into March, then April and I kept it up.  So, I decided to catalog this little journey and started a tumblr dedicated to one photo a day for one year -- f/365.  f/ refers in photog speak refers to the f-stop, which basically is the size of the opening that lets light into your camera.  Further adding to the confusion, the larger the f/ number, the smaller the confusion. Technically, a f/365 (if there was even such an f/stop) would be a pretty small opening, but I was trying to be clever and witty, not scientific.

I'm onto May and have used the challenges I've found on The Idea Room as a my creative springboard. By February of 2014, I'll have finished. As to what I'll do with the images, who knows. Maybe make a coffeetable book, maybe make a calendar, maybe use them as a screensaver on my computer.  Maybe I'll do nothing with it at all other than reflect on the different pictures I've taken. At the very least,  it keeps my creativity firing.  

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Another project I'm working on this month is Vivi's first birthday. What the what, right? Where did the year go? I feel like she just got here, but sure enough, she's about to be one on May 18th. She's crawling, babbling, pulling up and doing all the other milestone things that I have been trying to remember to document.  I have, however documented her growth on the 18th day of every month since she's been born. 

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I'll still do a photo once a year like I've done with Mo and Co to capture how much she's grown wearing a piece of clothing from my closet, but I this has been a nice thing to work on, too.  As for the party, we're keeping it low-key. Just the grands, the god-parents and us.  My brother keeps asking me what a one year wants as a gift; I need to take him up on his generosity, but I am drawing a serious blank. We have books and toys and clothes and the basic things that a wee one needs during the first one to two years.  What's left? An iPad? How about MacBook Air? C'mon, kids these days need to be up on the latest technology, right? Maybe I'll get on Pinterest and see what I can come up with. 

But first, I'm going to dose up on antibiotics to knock this strep out before May Day becomes Mayday! Mayday!