I’m still here, but Daphne is at a stage where she needs constant interaction.  This makes sitting at the computer and typing nearly impossible.  I sat down and had a little talk with myself about how she is only this age once and I need to soak in the times that she wants to sit on my lap and shut the dryer door for me while I’m in the middle of doing laundry and sit on the counter next to me while I cook.  But the pep talk didn’t work and I continued to get frustrated over the fact that I couldn’t sit by myself and type one line of an email before a certain Baby Chickadee was sitting on my lap and commandeering the keyboard.  Then I prayed about it and my heart was changed.  Now Daphne and I giggle while she pours canned peas over the eggs that I’m frying on the stove.  Messy yes, but pretty hilarious.  And Daphne was awfully proud of herself for helping Mama cook.

I do still write for the Gazette most every week.  They pay me.  And aside from Christmas break and a few sick days, every week I write for them.  Last week I wrote about my time at the gym: The conscious effort to politely ignore.  The week before I wrote about my new reading plan with my husband: Yes, I’d love to analyze the particulars with you.

So I’m still around, just not on the computer as much as I once was.  Daphne and I are eating eggs and spilling peas on the counter and laughing the whole time.

I watch an adorable little boy–I’ll call him Baby  W. to protect his sweet identity, even though most of you know him–1-1/2 days each week.  It’s a nice arrangement: just enough time to break up our week and give Daphne someone other than me to interact with, but not too much time that I can’t run my errands or clean my house or see friends.

The best part of watching Baby W. is seeing my daughter love on him.  When he gets here in the morning she hurries over and rubs his back and kisses his head.  Then she follows him around with an empty bottle and shoves it in his mouth, because if the bottle is available then it should be used.

Might I tempt you with a bottle, the contents of which have already been consumed?

Sometimes I find them having these baby conversations without words.  This morning she was tilting her head and nodding at him while making sounds that she thinks are actual words but aren’t, and he responded by flapping his arms.

Babies can hurt you with their cuteness.

Last night the kids and I went to the new antique mall west of town in order to almost finish our Christmas shopping.  I don’t remember when we’ve been this last-minute on the present buying.  Once in college a family friend asked if I’d started Christmas shopping and I was like Noo, I didn’t know people other than my Mom (who shops all year long) even thought about Christmas presents before Thanksgiving.  But as we drove in her car that first weekend of November I learned something new.

This year Hubby and I budgeted money then set it aside for presents.  That seemed like a mature start.  So we mentally patted ourselves on the back and left it there for too long.  A couple weeks ago we were like Oh yeah, maybe we should start spending some of that money.  Our mature start had morphed into a time lapse without our notice.  So we sat down on the computer and TOTALLY ROCKED IT with presents that arrive neatly in the mail for Gideon and Mia.  But baby Daphne got pushed aside.  We knew what to get her and the stuff is readily available so we accidentally put it off until today, which means Hubby is out this afternoon finding a few more things.  Then tonight we’ll sit with hot chocolate and wrap and be done in time for baking treats tomorrow before we’re off on a few days of driving and sleeping and eating and opening presents.

I had a hard time walking around that antique mall last night.  When they first opened I thought Yeah!  Stick it to the Andover Antique Mall because those people are ruuuuuude.  I’m not sure why you look a customer in the eye as she enters your store and then don’t say hello.  I’m also not sure why you periodically follow said customer, as well as her mother and sister and brother-in-law, around the store while they shop.  If those four are the only customers in your very large, very expensive antique mall, maybe you should be extra nice with a cherry on top.  Don’t scare away the paying people.

But I’m also not sure why Justin Bieber gets so wrapped up in his rendition of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” before Arthur Christmas that he almost has to tear off his overly-decorated coat a few times, but never completely do so.  So there are a lot of things I don’t understand.  I also don’t understand Justin Bieber.  Can the tweens please bring back the Jonas Brothers?  Them I understand a little better, girl jeans and all.

Anyway, last night I finally realized Paramount is probably sticking it to Pigeon’s Roost on State Street because it’s closer in proximity than it is to the one in Andover, and I hate that.  The people at Pigeon’s Roost have always been nice to me and nice to my kids; they never freak out when Gideon and Mia walk around and look at little treasures.  I hope the new place doesn’t put the old place out of business.  I’m rooting for both places to survive because the people at Paramount were awfully nice as well.

And I need as many places as possible to do that last-minute Christmas shopping.

Sometimes you forget that your baby is just a baby, and instead believe her to be a genius stuck in the teeny body of a toddler; the only reason she does not wow you with her erudite thoughts on philosophy and theology is because her large command of language gets thwarted by her tongue that is still working to form the words.  Otherwise, WOW, you two would have profoundly important conversations during the day.

But then she motions to put on her brother’s (clean!) Spider-Man underwear over her pants and BAM! you remember, nope, she is just a baby.

Pretty fly.

In Saturday’s column I mentioned that somewhere an easy solution exists to our morning troubles but right now the answer continues to allude [edit: elude me.  why did nobody yell at me over this?  sometimes you're allowed to call me out.] me.  For the past two school mornings I’ve let them watch the clock; they know what time breakfast needs to be over and what time we need to walk out the door.  Friday we were early to school but today they were late.  My husband is worried that they’ll get used to being late and it will no longer be an issue, but right now I don’t care.  I’m tackling one obstacle at a time and the current obstacle is trying not to gripe at my children while they’re griping at each other.  I just want everyone to be serene on the way out the door.  Shiny and happy would be extra nice.

Here’s Saturday’s column, where I tell you about my solution–that really can only happen once in a very rare while–to the morning frustrations: playing hooky.

Lately Miss Daphne has been a bit unpleasant.  She gets up and whines, walks around the house and whines, gets mad at me when the door only opens so far because THE WALL IS RIGHT THERE, and how dare it be in her way when she wants to push the door in a full circle.

I feel like I’m constantly on edge, my body always full of adrenaline in preparation for a fight with her, a fight where she yells and I calmly try to distract her or I walk away.  This stage is hard.

Yesterday after we picked up Gideon and Mia from school we were headed into the house when Daphne ran into the yard.  She didn’t have on a coat or anything covering her legs, but I let her run around anyway.  AND SHE WAS SO STINKIN’ HAPPY.  Giggling and playing with her sister, then her brother and sister, and just running around and being the happy baby I know she is.

She saw me and ran up to me to give me a hug.  She might not have done that for weeks.  I snuggled her and kissed her baby neck and told her how much I love her.  Then I set her down as soon as the wiggles set in and she was off, playing with brother and sister again.

The mailman came up, who we always chat with when we’re outside at the same time.  As he said goodbye Mia gave him a hug, because she is a hugger and loves everyone who is kind to her, and then Daphne gave him a hug.  I have never seen her hug a semi-stranger like that.  But the fresh air and the sunshine poured love into her little body and she couldn’t contain it.  It was just bursting out of her little self.

Then Daddy got home and it was a happy love fest.

I don’t know if it’s my residual high from seeing my baby and my kids loving each other and giggling and just generally being sweet or if she really is different, but I feel like Daphne is a changed baby.  This morning she only threw one tantrum, but she got up happy, she giggled with her brother and sister and didn’t gripe at them when they talked to her.  Even her facial expressions are different.  The scowl has been limited today.

That sunshine is an interesting thing.  And it tells me that this winter I’ll be bundling each of us up in five layers a piece so that we can go outside in the sunshine, even when it’s 20 degrees outside.  I’ll do anything to keep this baby happy.

Daphne and I went to the mall today so that I could buy some blush for myself and glasses for Mia.  I can only tell you that because Mia does not yet read this blog, although she very well could be by next semester.  Last night she read “The Moon in My Room” and a level 1 reader “Bolt.”  The night before she read “Morris the Moose,” then this morning over breakfast she read a couple pages from “Wow Wow Wubbzy.”  She loves reading, that girl.  Takes after her father and a younger version of her mother.

Back to the mall.  I find it very interesting that teenagers love the smell that rushes out the door and up into your brain from Abercrombie & Fitch and Hollister.  They must, because Victoria’s Secret is now doing the same thing.  You can’t walk by those stores without smelling like cologne that is all at once overpriced and repulsive to anyone over 19.  My sister Hayley and her husband Todd walked by Abercrombie once and witnessed a sales associate spraying cologne on each and every shirt in a pile.  When you walk by the store you initially think they must do that because of the way the smell permeates every molecule of air within a 20 foot radius outside the door, but then logic says, “No, surely not,” because WASTEFUL, and don’t the children who work there need their olfactory nerves after they move on?  And what about the parents of the children who work there?  I’m guessing they make their kids strip down and shower outside before coming in the house after a shift.

It’s exactly the opposite of the wasp-noise that that store in England discovered.  I can’t find it via Google, but some store owner in England found out that teenagers could hear a buzzing wasp noise that adults’ ears could not hear, so the shop owner played the noise to keep teenagers away.  I was skeptical until the minister at our church in Tulsa played a noise and asked if anyone could hear it.  For a split second I thought it was a joke along the lines of “The Emperor’s New Clothes,” but immediately the entire youth group raised their hands, without thinking.  I was only in my mid-twenties at the time, but it was right then I knew I was old.  My ears had already begun giving up.

So apparently teenagers don’t like annoying sounds but are down with pungent odors.  I’m thinking this information might come in useful in the future, I’m just not sure how.

We rarely eat this well.

steak: courtesy of grandma & papa

marinade: 1/2 c. soy sauce, 1/2 c. honey, 2 T. vinegar, 1/4 t. ground ginger, 1/2 t. garlic powder, 1/2 c. olive oil

onion strings: pioneer woman’s recipe (i found the recipe in the book my sweet friend jessi bought me for my birthday.  she even had it signed for me.)

sweet potatoes: with lots and lots of cinnamon

green beans: something needs to aid in the digestion of all that red meat

One time, when we were eating a delicious meal of salmon, I told Hubby that I have to control myself.  Part of me wants to stuff the delicious-ness in my mouth as fast as possible but I hate looking at the soonly empty plate and wishing for more.  So I force myself to take small bites, put my fork down in between, and enjoy the meal.

My husband looked at me, probably with a mouth full of food, and said “I don’t have that problem.”  He of the It’s Better To Inhale My Food camp.

That story has no point, other than last night I had to remind myself again to eat slowly and enjoy each bite.  Usually hurrying through a meal doesn’t matter.  But when you have a delicious cut of free steak on your plate,  you want to savor it.  The last time we ate steak that delicious was at my parent’s house a few months ago and I almost cried from the sheer joy that night as well.

Casually eating her seconds of steak.

Post-steak entertainment.

A few years ago I read a book that explained if we’d lived our ENTIRE LIVES with people excitedly saying, “Hello baby!” every time we looked at them or running to get us food at our tiniest whimper, the day we stopped getting our way EVERY SINGLE TIME we might throw ourselves on the floor and scream, too.  Screaming and crying is an understandable response to getting the rug yanked out from under you.

After finishing the book I looked at my children and thought, Yeah, the twos were kind of rough for you, weren’t they?

So now as Daphne enters her Twos (No, she is not two.  Not even one-and-a-half.  But her sister started with the tantrums at ten-months-old, so I’m grateful Daphne waited a full seven more months before beginning her fits of anger.) I think back on that book and try to be understanding.  I just need to teach her that I understand her response but it is in no way appropriate.

Yesterday afternoon she was upset over something minor.  Before she could throw herself onto the hard tile in the entryway I moved her onto the carpeted floor of our living room to let her cry it out.  But Gideon was close by playing video games and he begged me to help her so that she wouldn’t scream anymore.  “Remember, Mommy, when she cried so much that it made me cry?”

It sounds like he was trying to guilt me, but really he was just reminding me of a time that she had a rough case of diaper rash and it hurt her terribly when I wiped her bottom and changed her diaper.  His approach was less Guilt and more Let’s Remember So It Doesn’t Repeat Itself Right Now.

So I picked up the baby, put in her pacifier and soothed her.

This morning she FREAKED OUT over nothing.  It was something important to her, but I still am not sure what set her off.  I figured it was nap time, so I took her upstairs and laid her in her crib.  After 10 minutes of wailing–which is uncommon to her bedtime M.O.–I went upstairs to get her and brought her downstairs to play with me and Wes (my friend’s son whom I babysit a couple of days a week), but she didn’t want that, either.  So she threw herself on the floor and screamed.  I picked her up, she screamed.

Right then Melissa came to get her son.  She knows that babies cry, but I don’t like her getting the impression that her son is left in a house with a screaming baby.

After they left I turned on the Wii to watch the first-ever episode of Felicity.  Daphne laid her head on my lap, I stroked her hair, and that calmed her down.  A good teen drama never hurt anyone.

The middle of last week Hubby asked me if I minded him taking a guys’ night Saturday night.  He figured that if I was at a ladies’ retreat all day and he was home with the kids then he might like to hang out with his friends after that.  I didn’t mind so he set the plan in motion.

Friday night our friends Matt and Chrissa stopped by for a little while after watching a movie at the theatre down the street.  I told them how funny it was to me that Hubby would need a chance to unwind after a day at home with his kids, because being with his kids is just so stinkin’ hard.

Hubby quickly spoke up.  “Now I never said that.”  Which he didn’t.  But I like to read between the lines.

Matt jumped to Hubby’s defense, and really to the defense of fathers everywhere.  “You see, you girls do it all the time and so you KNOW what you’re doing.  We don’t do it as often and so we’re just not as good at it as you are.”  To which Chrissa and I laughed and rolled our eyes and congratulated him on his attempt to butter us up.

Saturday morning came and I rushed to get out the door.  At the same time I was leaving, the rest of my family was also leaving, they for Gideon’s flag football game.  I saw poor little Daphne being carried to the car in the exact same clothes she’d worn the entire day before and then slept in.  But I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to have to change her.  And really, pick your battles.  The little dirty baby was at least being loved on.

The retreat was supposed to end at 5 but ended ahead of schedule at 4:15.  The other girls at my table  and I  sat and chatted for a while.  Then a lady there giggled and pointed out that it was all the young moms who were staying around til 5 when the rest of the moms had scattered.  I looked around and she was right.  But by golly, we all had until 5 before our husbands expected us to leave, and why rush home to dirty noses and dirty bottoms and being hung all over when we could sit and drink coffee in our own personal space, surrounded by good conversation?

I walked in the door of my house at 5:05 and found the toys cleaned up in the living room, the clean dishes put away and the dirty ones in the dishwasher, dinner cooking in the Crock-Pot, the floor swept.  Upstairs I found Mia and Daphne’s bedroom rearranged (After we got the big kids’ loft beds I rearranged Gideon’s room completely but only the girls’ room to a point.  I was stuck with where to place their furniture, and as a result their room was constantly dirty.  Poor girls.), cleaned, and decorated.

My husband had a Rock Star Day.

Hubby, Gideon, Mia and Daphne came home about ten minutes after I did, happily holding Sonic drinks in hand and telling me about riding bikes at the park.  Yes, Hubby’s Rock Star Day did not end at home, but he trudged three kids and two bikes to the park after the football game, showers, cleaning and cooking.

But Daphne was in hour 36 of wearing the same clothes, so he’s not perfect.  Just close to it.