{on turning 30}

I'm 30 years and 4 days old young old.

So far, it feels a lot like writing checks on January 1st of a brand new decade. Date: January 1, 200... oh crap, new check. Is 2010 really here? It really exists? Do people even write checks anymore?

Not that anyone is really in the habit of asking me how old I am, but if someone should dare to ask {really, you shouldn't} I know that "twent.." will start to roll of my tongue before I train my mouth to accustom itself to starting that answer with "thirty" for the next ten years. Now that I think about it, the last time someone asked me how old I was, other than a doctor or other medical professional, was a woman in line with me at the downtown Rite Aid sometime in the summer of 2009. I was obviously pregnant with Connor, and was waiting to pay for my daily candy fix. The woman in front of me asked when I was due {normal}, whether I was having a boy or girl {normal}, then told me "it's so brave of you to have a child in your forties! how old are you?" {NOT NORMAL}. I choked a little, turned bright red, and mumbled something along the lines of "lady, I'm 28!!" To which she actually replied {REALLY NOT NORMAL} "oh, you look like you are in your forties. or maybe late thirties." My only choice here is to assume that this woman was either (a) completely out of her mind; (b) blind; (c) on some hard drugs; or (d) all of the above. The alternative is just too soul-crushing.

To celebrate the big 3-0 this year, I took the day off work {yay} and spent the day engaging in Thirty Random Acts of Kindness. Except that I sort of lost track of my list, and cannot entirely verify that I did thirty things precisely, but that's probably beside the point anyhow. {except that when I think about the fact that I was trying to do thirty things on my thirtieth birthday... thirty seems to be the entire point. oh well}. Among other things, I put Giant Eagle gift cards on car windshields, left other cars with notes wishing them a wonderful day, baked brownies for our postman, left a thank you note for the garbage men, taped 2 dollars to a vending machine, gave the YMCA babysitting girls batteries and a thank-you note, returned stray shopping carts in a Target parking lot, visited my grandma and brought her strawberry filled cookies. I did some things on my list more than once, but never made it to a few other things I'd planned out. By the end of the day, I realized that I'll probably never have time to do thirty random kindnesses again in a day, but I'll almost always have time to do one-- so I'm hanging on to the unchecked-items on my list, and doing them one by one each day.

In my twenies, I wore a lot of different hats & lived a lot of different lives.

At 20, I was a mostly-single college student. At 21, I triumphantly graduated summa cum laude and phi beta kappa from a school that had originally sent me a rejection letter, and left home for my Peace Corps assignment in Togo. I spent every day of my 22nd and 23rd years on the continent of Africa, promoting girls' education, tearing my hair out with frustration, meeting the best friends of my life, and sleeping every night from 7 pm til dawn. When I was 24, I came home, moved to Chicago, fell in love with Shawn, moved to New York City, and started law school. At 25, I was engaged, and was a new bride at 26. When I was 27, I graduated from law school, moved back to Pittsburgh with Shawn, passed the bar exam, and started practicing as a litigator at a large firm. At 28, I got pregnant, bought a 99 year old house, gutted and remodeled a large portion of the house, and had my first baby. At 29, I reveled in my role as a new mother, stumbled through the juggling excercise of work-life balance, and got pregnant for a second time.

In my thirties, I'm looking forward to putting down deeper roots, picking out the few hats I like best, and wearing the hell out of them. More time with Shawn, more babies, more making our house into a home. Now that I'm 30 I don't feel particularly, or suddenly, wise, but my twenties have taught me some good lessons and I'm at least the wiser for having run that crazy gauntlet.

And at the very least, I know enough not to ask any Rite Aid customers for their age.

{happy halloween 2010}

Last year at Halloween, CP was only 4 weeks old. Our little pumpkin was barely bigger than a jack-o-lantern. He went trick-or-treating but, as far as I could tell, had no idea what was going on, and couldn't have cared less about this thing called "candy."

What a difference a year makes.

By the time trick-or-treating started this year, Connor had already eaten at least 3 kit-kat bars, and knew how to sort the good stuff (the reese's) from the merely mediocre candy (plain hershey's).

When he found out that he was going to have to share this bounty with the trick-or-treaters who came to the door, he did his best to scare the neighborhood away:



I wasn't sure what to expect from this year's trick-or-treating. I'd kind of anticipated that CP might spend about 10 minutes outside, visiting our next-door neighbors, then hanging out inside, watching the costumed kids from behind the glass storm door for the rest of the evening. CP totally blew those expectations out of the water. I should have known that any event would be a hit that involved (a) people loudly exclaiming how cute he was; and (b) giving him candy.

Our little frog liked to pick out his own candy-- waving the twizzlers wildly, giving the mike & ike's box a good shake, grabbing an entire handful of mini milky ways. Sometimes he would put the candy in his orange plastic pumpkin. Sometimes he would keep it grasped in his tiny fist. Sometimes he would slowly and indecisively select 3 different kinds of candy. Sometimes he would just stare, wide-eyed, until someone plopped a bag of mini-pretzels into his pumpkin bucket. Sometimes he would take a piece of candy, then re-gift a piece out of his pumpkin to the halloween hostess. Sometimes he would abandon his orange pumpkin and run away giggling and grasping a snickers bar. It was so much fun.

He only trick-or-treated about 4 houses away in each direction, but loved bopping around our driveway all evening, watching all of the older kids. He put his full prince-in-disguise frog charm on a 3 year old ladybug who wrapped her arms around Connor and exclaimed "he's just so cute!!!"

Unfortunately for Connor, we ran out of candy at 7:15... {this MAY be POSSIBLY related to the fact that Shawn and I single-handedly ate 2 bags of our reese's and a bag of kit-kats before any kids showed up at our house but this theory has not been tested in a double-blind peer-reviewed clinical trial so let's not jump to any conclusions}... so we had to give away the peanut's loot. Then we turned off our lights and hid in our house until 8:00 so as not to either (a) break the hearts of earnest trick-or-treaters arriving after 7:30 and/or (b) get our house bombarded with flaming toilet paper thrown by enraged, barely-costumed teenagers.

It was a good day.

letter to connor {11 months} or: this one goes to eleven*

CP-

Yesterday, when I got to the office, my voicemail button was blinking. I rolled my eyes, drew a deep breath, forgot my voicemail password, remembered my voicemail password, and pressed "3" to listen to my new message. The operator told me that I received a new message at 7:30 a.m. I wondered who could be so obnoxiously ambitious on a Monday morning. As the message began to play, I heard some breathing, then beeping noises-- clearly the caller was dialing a number while on my voicemail. At first, I suspected spam telemarketing. Next, I thought it was some kind of heavy-breather prank call. Then, my mind briefly ran down a list of partners and senior associates who might be so blundering as to leave such a message. Finally , between the beeps of pressed keys, I heard "gak! gawk! gook!"

It was you, calling me from your dad's cellphone.

I listened to the whole 5 minute message, which took up my entire inbox time allowance. Thanks for calling. Definitely the best voice mail I've ever gotten.

I started this letter to you on August 31st, which is only 2 days after your 11-monthday.

Now, it is September 20th, and you are going to be one in 9 days.

So, this letter is a bit late.

But, better late than never.

Right after you turned 10 months old, your father and I finally decided it was time to acquaint you with your exceedingly expensive teething toy-- also known as the Pottery Barn Kids Kendall Crib sitting in your nursery. Up until this point, you'd taken occasional {brief} naps in the crib, but still slept with us at night. For the most part, this meant that one of us had to go to bed whenever you did. Which, by the way, was whatever time you felt like it. Often as late as 10:00. Sometimes later. We had no "bedtime routine" other than "he doesn't look tired yet....nope, still not tired....still awake.... bath.... still awake...snuggle in bed....endure headbutting...watch as you climbed our headboard....still awake... still awake....storytime....still awake....then finally off to dreamland at an absurdly late and unpredictable hour. You'd spend the night thrashing about, terrorizing your father and I until we had been gouged, kicked, and slapped into submission along the mattress edges. Sometimes you would cuddle with me, in the crook of my arm, which was breathtakingly sweet. But mostly you just tried to pull my eyelashes out.

So, it was time for a change.

We decided that we needed a bedtime routine. 8:00 bath, then nighttime diaper and jammies, followed by a good-night bottle and story time in our bed, then an 8:30 bedtime in your crib. I braced myself for the backlash. We decided in advance that we were definitely not going to let you "cry it out" alone in your nursery, but would rub your back and soothe you while you were in the crib, without lifting you out. That way, you would know you were not alone and that your crib was a safe place for you to sleep. You caught on like a champ. You do resist & cry occasionally, but not often. More often than not, I lay you in the crib, then lay down on your rug. You follow suit, and stick your chubby little arm out of the crib slat to hold my finger, and drift off to sleep through your babbles and giggles. You don't always sleep through the whole night, but can usually be reassured with a simple pat on the back and a whispered "Connor, I'm here." In the mornings, you get up {early. so early} sometime between 5:15 and 6:15. We know you are "up for the day" when we hear you talking in the crib, announcing your wakefulness with a series of "gak! gak.... gak!" proclamations until I plod down the hallway, open the nursery door, and see you standing in the crib, smiling and squinting in the new light. You bounce with excitement at the prospect of a new day. It's impossible not to smile in return. The morning experience could only be improved if PotteryBarn Kids invented a crib that was also a babyproof latte dispenser.

Although it is hard for me to believe, you are often mistaken for a girl. Nevermind the fact that 99% of what you wear is unmistakable "boy" clothing. I'm not really sure what is wrong with people, but I was under the impression that there was some kind of social compact whereby, if you come across a baby dressed in a navy polo shirt and truck-embroidered courduroy pants, if you are still on the fence as to the baby's gender YOU SHOULD GUESS BOY. I mean, I dont' want to peg baby wardrobes into particular genders. If you are the proud parent of a lovely baby girl and want her to wear navy polos and truck pants, I think you should do so. But surely THE VAST MAJORITY of babies dressed in such fashion are going to be boys. And yet. And yet. Well, usually these encounters go something like this:

Passerby unaware of social compact: "oh, she's so sweet! look at those cheeks!"
Me: "Thanks. He's a boy. His name is Connor."
Passerby: "Oh. what a doll."
Me: polite smile. semi-restrained eyeroll.

The script goes quite differently, of course, when your confrontation-averse father is out with you.
Elderly grocery store cashier: "Oh, she's so sweet! Look at those cheeks!"
Shawn: "Thanks."
Old lady cashier: "So, what's her name?"
Shawn: "Uh, Michelle."

So, now we can't go back to our neighborhood grocery store.

Your unbelievable cuteness has not diminished a bit. There is a 20-something girl in our neighborhood who I know only as "the dog girl." She has a small ugly dog named Guenevere. Once she called the dog "a dog" in its presence then apologized to the dog, explaining that "Gwennie doesn't like being called a dog!" This self-averse pooch is the proud owner of a $600 bugaboo baby stroller and is regularly walked by her owner who wears $350 Christian Louboutain 4 inch stilettos for their outings. Suffice it to say I used to think this girl was a total loon. But she has totally redeemed herself by referring to you, always, as "the cutest baby in the world." She walks past in her designer footwear with that pitiful dog every day and calls out "how's the cutest baby in the world doing?!" Even the crazies know you're cute. Even if they don't know you're a boy.


Well, at 11 months, you are in love with the word "gak." You love to dance to banjo music. You still hate almost all food {although nobody believes me on this one in light of your physique}. You cruise and crawl with wild abandon and love when your dad chases you. You're desperate to figure out how to open the babyproofing staircase gates. You've definitely outsmarted the 'under the kitchen sink' lock more than once.

You grow our hearts every day, and we love you so much CP.

Love,
Mommy

* no, I have not actually seen the Spinal Tap movie. I have not stayed awake for an entire feature film since sometime in the late 1980s.

{yes, my child is joyfully running on an Eat n Park sidewalk barefoot}

letter to connor {10 months}

my sweet little peanut-

You are 10 months old! Lately, you seem so much less like a little baby and so much more like a little boy.

You like to feed yourself, all by yourself. You hold your bottle by yourself {you've been doing this for months, actually}. You chomp on teething biscuits with wild abandon, to our great choking-hazard terror {yes, that is the reason that i took it upon myself to eat them all myself}. You pinch a single cheerio between your chubby little finger and thumb, then shove your fist in your mouth and happily store half a dozen soggy cheerios in your chipmunk cheeks before finally swallowing. You still hate purees, but I'm beginning to realize that's because you'd rather take charge than be spoon fed. Clearly an attribute of a strong leader. And a recipe for a messy dining room.

You can read! Sort of. You love your many, many books. Occasionally you "read" them, hooting and goo-ing and gagaga-ing at every page, as you turn {and tear} the pages one by one. Usually, though, you eat them. And then throw them on the floor. of course. It blows my mind when I see you actually lift the peek-a-boo flaps, or pat the doggy fur, or chuckle with delight when the old lady swallows a fly/mouse/cat/dog/horse.

You get into.every.thing. Your curiosity is insatiable. Our first attempts to childproof the house were a major fail, as I can now no longer figure out how to open the recycling cabinet and the cabinet under the sink. Nothing makes you feel like a genius quite like the inability to defeat safety devices made for children under 18 months of age.

You are definitely growing up, nugget. Somewhere between 9 months and 10 months, you developed a real "personality." And by "personality," I mean of course that your father and I are now bracing ourselves for the inevitable reality that, in only a few short years, you will absolutely, definitely, attempt to set off fireworks in your room.

I can't wait to see all of the {crazy} things you do between now and then. And in the meantime, I'll be increasing our homeowner's insurance coverage.

i love you, cp.

Mommy

{happy father's day!}

CP-

Today is father's day & we're celebrating your dad (and by "celebrating," i mean that he is outside mowing the lawn in the sweltering heat, while I'm drinking coffee and you are chewing on everything in the house).

I'm sure you will come to know all about your dad, over time, but--just in case it's not obvious-- I want you to know what kind of dad you have. You've got one of the good ones.

Let's start with what he's not. He's not one of those "strong and silent" reclusive types. He's never going to play mind games with you. He's never going to withhold his affection, or make you think that you aren't good enough. He can't be any of these things because he's crazy about you, and couldn't be prouder to call you his son. And it shows, every day. In the little things. And the big things.

He was the first person to hold you when you made your grand entrance into the world more than 8 months ago.

He cuts your fingernails and toenails {and was angst ridden for a week the first time he nipped a little corner of your finger in the process}.

He stays home with you on Mondays & Fridays.

He's the expert at coaxing your chubby arms through sleeves.

He can make a bottle of formula one handed while juggling a 30 pound pinching, biting gorilla {that's you} in the other.

He's very protective of you. He looked at me in horror the first time {under my supervision} you tipped over backwards and bumped your head. Nevermind that you "fell" from a distance of about 5 inches, and you were sitting on the carpet. If he had it his way, you'd be wrapped in protective foam for the next 18 years {minimum}.

He's proud of himself when he makes a basket in your "basketball" hoop; nevermind that it's a game calibrated for 12 month olds.

He loves lists. He makes lists for everything. He's even got a list indexing his lists. Before you were born, he had a list of things he wanted to do with you.

Last summer, while we were waiting for you to arrive, he spent countless hours in the backyard ripping each weed out by hand because he didn't want to use any chemical pesticides on your future playground.

He's got an uncanny ability to impersonate Mickey Mouse {hot dog!}, which you love {and in a few years, if you still love Mickey, he will take you to the 9th circle of hell--also known as Disney World-- just because it makes you happy}.

After you swiftly chomped a teething biscuit into two mighty choke-able pieces a few weeks ago, I put the box of biscuits in the pantry, writing them off as a total waste. When, on whim, I pulled the box back out weeks later to give the biscuits a "second chance," I discovered that your father had eaten all but two of them. I think this can be attributed in equal measure to: (a) his abhorrence of wasting food; and (b) his love of all things resembling cookies.

You don't and won't need any reminder that he'd do absolutely anything for you.

& we love him very much.

Here's a little look back for Shawn's first Father's Day. Make sure your volume is turned on. This is by no means an artistic masterpiece, as I have no idea how to use photo editing/movie making software {yet}, but at least nothing is upside down or muted {i hope}.

xoxoxo SPS-- happy father's day!

{horseshoes & hand grenades}

if he were a fish, he'd be very advanced for his age. and his species.

is this really the same kid?

Just the other day, rummaging through our home office, I came across the "professional" picture taken of Connor in the hospital, at 2 days old. {I hesitate to call this photography professional, as the entire operation consisted of two ladies, a wheeled baby cart, and some attention-grabbing noisemakers. The entire "photo session" lasted all of about 4 minutes. Maybe 3.}.

This was back when we thought that Connor looked a lot like Shawn-- dark eyes, dark hair, dark skin. But, over the months, his hair has gotten lighter, his eyes have turned a brown/green/gray hazel, and his complexion has Casper-ed up considerably {turns out his initial coloring had more to do with mild jaundice than paternal genetics. sorry, s.}.

So, who does this guy look like now? {no extra points for matching outfits}.