Hi.

How are you?

What’s that you say?

It’s your birthday? You’re 3 years old today? You’re having a party with balloons and chocolate cake and you’re going to eat pasta with just sauce for your birthday dinner? And Momar and Doda and Kimmy are coming? And we’re going to sing to you? And, yes, you have mentioned that you’re having a party. Oh, yes, balloons, of course they’ll be balloons. And bessert. Yes, lots and lots of bessert will be consumed.

How could I possibly forget any of these essential details as they’ve been the running narrative ever since you bore witness to my birthday celebrations one month ago. You have been looking forward to this day with much enthusiasm and longing. Everyday we’ve had to remind you that, no, today is not yet your birthday. But this morning, oh boy, your look of delight and pure pleasure rivaled that of any joyous cartoon’s expression when you trotted into our room and Daddy and I proclaimed, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Daddy and I snuggled you into our arms and we snapped silly pictures and I lay there thinking, How is it possible that she is three? How is this beautiful, smart, funny little girl mine? How did we ever get so lucky?

You are such a bright spot in our lives. Your sister thinks that you’re the cat’s meow, which is fitting given that when you play pretend, 9 times out of 10 you impersonate a kitty cat. It’s as though you sense your parents aversion to felines, and are trying to change our minds with your adorable imitations of this potential addition to our dependents.

Fat chance, kid. Mama’s getting her baby chicks next month. There’s no room for chicken poaching felines in our midst.

Oh, but the chickens. You are intrigued by the prospect of chicken ownership given your love of the film Chicken Run. You and I have decided that we will name our chicks after the characters in said movie. Babs. Mac. Ginger. Bunty. Edwina. Rocky.

Although, admittedly, we’re not getting a rooster. Because they are almost as terrifying as you find ants, and flies, and bees. You don’t discriminate. If it’s creepy crawly, you want nothing to do with it. Since moving to the farm we’ve been inundated with creepy wildlife and often you’ll sit atop the slide of your new swing set demanding that Daddy or I remove the offending bug from your sliding trajectory. Even if it’s a ladybug. No amount of cajoling will convince you to head on down that slide and knock the bug from your path. I think you’d take up residence in your swing set were we not to clear the runway for you. But we’re trying to show you that most bugs are actually quite harmless and that you better get used to ‘em because, um, we live on a freaking farm now. Weird wildlife is part of the package.

Yes, even that beetle the size of your sister’s head that greeted us the other morning for breakfast in the kitchen. Even him. We must learn to not panic and hide on top of the kitchen table the next time Sir Beetle comes to visit.

While we can tell that three is going to be an unbelievably challenging age as you are more defiant and stubborn and free-willed than ever before, it also is going to be filled with such thoughtfulness and make believe. Watching you engage with the world is a truly magical experience. If only we could hold on to our preschool lens for life. The world would be a far simpler, more beautiful place. We’d take time in the evening to listen to the frogs outside our window. We would revel in the simplicity and joy of a balloon or a swing or our bare feet in a cold stream. We’d dance like no one’s watching, even in the middle of the grocery store. We’d ask why. We’d be curious about the world around us. We’d sit around the dinner table as a family and talk about our day. We’d even ask the dogs how they spent their day. We’d turn old boxes into castles and pillows into clouds. Our greatest concern would be what bows to put in our pigtails and what crayons to pack in our backpack. We’d spend our days drawing and reading and swinging and snuggling and eating Gold Fish and splashing in a nightly bath. We’d say I love you, freely, all the time. Whether it be to our blanket or our doggie or our favorite stuffed animal or our party shoes or our Mommy, Daddy and little sister.

There are moments when, out of the blue, you’ll look at me with such sincerity and declare, “Mommy, I love.” It’s as though you’ve stopped time in its tracks to process the gravity of such an emotion and understand the weight and significance of those words. Above anything else your Daddy and I teach you, we hope that you will hold on to this ability to tell those you love how you feel, often and unabashedly. Because my dear girl, we love you. Oh we love you so much that the pit of my stomach aches, so tightly bundled with love am I for you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I will never be able to tell you enough in my lifetime, but I’m sure going to try.

I love you, my Sunny girl.

Happy 3rd Birthday!

143 Mama

LINK: MATT BORS

If you are not a mother, you at least have one. Why would you not want mothers to be allowed the time that they need with their babies? My plea is that women of America (and everyone else) get off of each others’ asses about how long to breastfeed and whether or not it’s appropriate to do it in public. Stop judging the mother with her kid on a leash, and the one that lets her baby sleep on his belly.

How about, instead, we get on our government’s ass about giving us more time to do what we are meant to do – to just be parents.

I’m referring to Sunny learning to pump on a big girl swing, and little sister Courtland’s ingenious interpretation of this activity. It’s endless entertainment around Cartwheel Farm. Plus, you’ll get to hear my rendition of the “Kicky Kaks” song. Pretty inspired material, I know.

This being one of those things:

In most states, parents can sue for negligence or if doctors fail to provide information about the condition of a fetus. But more than a half-dozen states have adopted laws that ban those lawsuits, and several others have been debating the idea this year.

What in the WHAT WHAT?! To withhold information from a woman about the health of her fetus is ludicrous. And there should be laws to protect women from that kind of negligence and omission.

And I’m not just speaking about this issue as related to a woman’s access to abortion although, duh, that’s always going to be a part of my argument. I will always stand up for a woman’s right to choose. But, also, if parents don’t have full access to the information about the health or disability of their fetus, how are they to properly prepare for that child’s life? The medical expenses? The support teams? The education? All of that will be lost if women are not given full and proper knowledge about the condition of their fetuses.

I’ve heard women make the argument that they did not want prenatal testing done because the results “didn’t matter,” essentially conveying that they would choose to maintain the pregnancy regardless of the information provided in those prenatal tests.

That is an incredibly naive thing to say.

Of course you should have the testing done and know what to expect! So you think that you’re someone that’s not going to ever have an abortion? GREAT! Get the testing done anyway so that if you are carrying a child with a serious, debilitating disease you can prepare to give that child all of the necessary care and support that s/he’s going to need out in the world.

To enact laws that might reinforce this mentality and not protect women against having information about their pregnancy and fetus withheld is just another layer of nonsense that makes my stomach churn.

The good news, folks, is that the sink is now functional, so no more living in a fart.

And let me tell you, it is one aggressive sink. The vanity is aggressively tall. The sink bowl aggressively large. The pop drain aggressively oversized. Even the water goes down the pipes aggressively.

Hey, we’re aggressively large people, so it’s only fitting. Pictures of the full project forthcoming…

I don’t mean to suggest that Romney is without compassion. I believe, for instance, that he loves his wife and his children, and that he believes in God and the flag. But there is something in his character that I am starting to get frightened about, an unwillingness, or an inability, to feel remorse, to simply own up to a moral failing, to apologize not just if “somebody was hurt” but because you know, deep down, that you hurt someone.

Think about it: here are these half dozen men who took part in a savage act nearly fifty years ago. It has haunted all of them. And the ringleader, the guy who made the plan and led the mob and cut the victim’s hair off remembers … nothing?

It’s just bullshit, total fucking sociopathic bullshit. And it makes me sad that such an episode comes to light and all Romney can do—a guy who wants to be elected to our highest office—is nervously lie and make excuses, as if this were political problem. It’s not a political problem. It’s a moral problem. It’s a sin he committed for which any believer would seek atonement.

At least my girls can be all hip and now if they ever need eye wear. Trés bombe, indeed.

LINK: VERY FRENCH GANGSTERS

It’s been far too long since I pulled out a proper SLR camera. This weekend, I unearthed it from the ruins and snapped some shots of life on the farm.

Life on the farm. I don’t think saying that will ever get old.

I’ve had some adorable outfits from Mini Rodini on hand since long before the move, but with life being as chaotic as it was, I had not yet taken the time to snap some pix of the girls rocking their new duds. I don’t think that you’ll be at all surprised to learn that this is a Swedish kid’s clothing company.

Those Swedes sure know what they’re doing when it comes to fashion, for both the big and the small.

Saturday was a positively perfect day for running around outside in this Pineapple Summer Suit, crawling all over the swing set and splashing in the stream. It’s clear that rompers are going to be Sunny’s go-to ensemble this summer. Light, easy, no nonsense. One piece of clothing and you’ve got an entire outfit.

And it doesn’t hurt that pineapple is her favorite fruit.

I couldn’t resist throwing in this adorable, albeit staged, photograph. I’m trying to do a better job of capturing the girls in the moment, not interfering with the play at hand. But sometimes Sunny insists on smiling for the camera. And who am I to resist that cheeky grin.

Photos: Courtesy of Ashley Weeks Cart
Clothing: Courtesy of Mini Rodini

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