Mom

As we all know, you can say DAAAD. And you say it all the time. Lately, you've even been saying DAAADY, which is just not fair at all.

Me, I don't have a name. Or maybe you think my name is "Eh. Eh. Eh. Eh."
All I know is when you say "mam" you actually mean food. Which, if you think about how you nursed until you were 7-months-old, it makes total sense.

But! On Saturday!
We went to swim class. And because I am six months pregnant, I decided it was time DAAAD put on the bathing suit and sang "Up, Down, Splash, Splash" for a change.

I knew you were going to cry a little bit. Which you did.

What I did not expect was for you to spot me across the room during "Up, Down, Splash, Splash" and yell "MAAAMAAA! MAAMAAA" at the top of your lungs, desperately reaching out to me so I could be sure that you did not, in fact, mean you wanted some of those apple snacks in my purse.
This time, Mama meant me!

And even though you were making quite a scene, it was the sweetest moment, I think, ever.

Genetics

You can't really tell in this photo, but you and I have sort of the same hair color.



Yours is natural.
Mine is an extremely sophisticated blend of chemicals.

Apparently, though, it wasn't enough for us to just share the same shade of golden brown. Because now I went and got the same haircut as you.



Only I didn't get bangs so that people could tell us apart.

Reality Check

So, sometimes I feel sorry for myself because of how I don't have a social life anymore.

In my head, I was really living it up before you were born - going to shows, staying out all night, drinking the vodka
But then I found some old diaries.

Here's what I did on October 17, 1990: "Jenny + Nicole + Carla + I went to the football game for, like, 15 minutes. Then we went to McDonalds."

You think it would get better. But here's what I did exactly nine years later.

October 17, 1999: "Well I'm at home and not going anywhere and I feel fine about it."

So there you have it, Beans. I don't understand why I would ever think that those days could ever be as much fun as drinking juice boxes with you and DAAAD at a crazy baby disco party.



(And just so you know, DAAAD is wearing red polyester pants.)

Bad DAAAD

This morning we had to take my car to the dealer, which should have just taken a few minutes.

But DAAAD decided that at the exact moment I had to leave, he needed to shave. NOW.
Then he had to clean up the sink. NOW.
And by the time we got to the dealer, there were 10 cars in front of us.

You may not know this, but DAAAD does this kind of stuff all the time.

Like when I was in labor with you. We were in the car ready to go when DAAAD realized he forgot his belt. And he would be very uncomfortable being in the hospital for three days without a belt. So he went back upstairs. And TEN minutes later, DAAAD comes downstairs in a completely different outfit. He had a wardrobe change like, I don't know, Justin Timberlake? Who doesn't even take that long for his wardrobe change.

So, yeah. It shouldn't have surprised me that adding to our dramatic morning, DAAAD decided that two minutes after I put you down for a nap, he needed to run. NOW. Who cares that you were super cranktacular? He went in your room (because that's where his closet is) and disturbed your pre-sleep mellow time.

And then you decided that you were going to wake up NOW.

Maybe Ella will be more like me?

Ghetto Toys Volume One

Green

I just realized you are wearing something green in every single photo I've posted so far.

So, if you ignore the sippy cup lid, here is a picture of you without something green in it.



Never mind that you're covered in food, juice, suntan lotion, sweat, maybe some boogers and dirt. And normally I don't let you leave the house wearing slogany t-shirts like this ("That's OK I'm With the Band"). Also never mind that you're wearing pink and red - a color combination I once swore to my mother I would never, ever wear. A statement she loves to remind me about anytime she sees a silly red heart or "sweetie pie" type saying on one of your not-so-many pink outfits.

Bean in a box

Your new favorite pastime.

Summer!

Before you came around, I hated summer.
I realize this is a bit conflicting. You know, because hating summer when you live in San Diego means that you'll be miserable most every day.

What I'm specifically talking about, though, is actual summer. Like June through August.
It's just that I always get some sort of bad news in June. And because of my genetic battle with awkward arms, there's the question of stylish wardrobe choices for July and August.

I do have to give credit to DAAAD, who proposed to me on June 1 (2004) specifically so that I wouldn't hate June so much. And it worked. Sorta.

But this year, I don't know, I love summer.

You and me, kid. We do all sorts of wonderful things. We go to the beach and get all sandy. We take swimming lessons. We go swimming even when we don't have swimming lessons. We walk (I stroll you) to the neighborhood ice cream shop where we eat vanilla cones for dinner.

And even though I still got some pretty terrible news in June, and even though I still hate my arms, it all doesn't seem so bad when I have you as my little summertime pal.

Things you say.

Since you were about two months old, I've only spoken to you in Spanish.

This is what you say in Spanish:
Mas.

This is what you say in English:
Bubbles.
Go.
Water.
Flower.
Bye Bye.
Oh no.

Yet I am still not ready to claim defeat over the clear influences from DAAAD.

An explanation . . .

The reason your lip has that strange red dot on it is because the day before your first birthday, you had your first real injury.

We bought you this new bench for your room. It's small. And you can put stuff in it. And I've always wanted to have a bench in the house so there you go. A bench.

You seemed just as excited about this new addition to your tiny room. Maybe even more so than me. So you tried to pull yourself on it and BOOM. You hit your lip and it started to bleed.

Yes, bleed. With little pools of blood gathering in your mouth and everything.

Because I have a bad habit of picking on my lips, I know what it's like to have your lip bleed and I didn't really worry about it like some other parents probably would have. Maybe it's also because you were a pretty good sport and cried for a reasonable five minutes.

And I would like you to know that I didn't take it at all personally when you chose to be comforted by Lambie instead of me.

This is Beans!

Happy Birthday, little one.