Homeowners.

We bought a house.

It was a long-time coming, a few years of actively trying to improve our credit scores and our bank account, of trying to decide where we really wanted to live, wanted to plant ourselves. See, renting offers you a certain noncommittal sense--what's a year, in the grand scheme of things? Jason and I have lived in our current apartment for a year and three months now. That is longer than I've lived anywhere since my parents' house. From there, I went to the dorms at the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York, then to an apartment in Memphis with Jason, then back to my parents', then into an apartment with my friend Elise, then back to my parents', then practically (although not technically) into another apartment in Murfreesboro with Jason, then a three-month stay in New York with my sister, then into my friend Alex's house, then into an apartment in Nashville with Jason, and then into the apartment we have now.

It's been a lot of moving for the eight years since I've graduated high school.

(And on a side-note, I loathe moving more than pretty much anything else. When we moved into this apartment I was pregnant, and I barely had to do a thing. It was AMAZING. No such luck or excuse this time around.)

When we first started getting serious about the whole house thing, part of me couldn't really come to terms with it. It just seemed so permanent, so grown-up. Too grown-up. More-so than getting married and having a baby. This shuffling around from place to place and home to home each year has been annoying, yeah, but it gave a sort of pretend-freedom to our lives, that we could suddenly whisk our family off to Europe to be ex-Pats or end up in the Florida Keys as a traveling family band.

I've struggled to accept the fact that this is our home, maybe even forever. Jason and I joke all the time about packing up and moving here and there, and as fun as it sounds it's just not going to happen. Adelyn's family is here--I couldn't take her away from two sets of grandparents, great grandparents, cousins, an aunt, stability. I absolutely loved growing up in the South; I loved evolving in the same place. I want that for Addy.

And I want it to happen here, in Murfreesboro, where we're all comfortable and settled and at home.

It's a heavy thing, as a parent. This making decisions for someone else first, always first. And that's the whole gist of a good family, everyone making choices for each other first, themselves second. That's something I couldn't have really understood until Adelyn came along, just how heavy that could be.

Finding this house, though, has taken some of the scariness out of it. It just feels right and easy.. The house is tiny--the same size as our current apartment--two bedrooms, one bath (eek!). It has a beautiful, fenced in backyard, perfect for a swingset and hopefully keeping dog pee off the floor. It has a huge basement and a walk-in attic. All wood floors and charm pouring out of every corner. It was built in the 1930s, and sits right off of Murfreesboro's historic, walkable, adorable downtown square, filled with tons of locally-owned restaurants and shops.

And the mortgage will be cheaper than our rent. Score one for making a grown-up decision.

Better yet, it gets to be Addy's first home--somewhere we won't be leaving in a year, two, or three. A home-home.

We'll have time to be a traveling family band later.

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Me + Snow = Donezo.

I am so tired of winter. I'm ready to write off snow as a friend forever. I know, I know, I live in Tennessee and I have no right to complain about snow. But your holier-than-though snowiness can shove it, because I hate it and I'm done with it.

A month ago, I got yet another joyful colonoscopy and stricture dilation. I spent a Sunday guzzling salty water (the dreaded prep), not eating for more than 24 hours and stuck in the bathroom. Around 10 p.m., the snow started to fall hard, and every news channel was warning of the coming apocalypse. "The clinic might be closed tomorrow. You shouldn't drive to Nashville," my mom texted me. I had already finished my prep and was about to go to sleep for the procedure in the morning.

Luckily, the clinic wasn't closed. But it took us THREE hours to drive the 30 miles, watching everyone around us skid and overcorrect on the interstate covered with an inch of ice.

I did not care. I would have walked, or maybe made my five-pound poodle drag me on a sled. After doing that prep, Hell opening up would not stop me from getting to the doctor for my procedure as scheduled.

We're expecting a "blizzard" any hour here in Middle Tennessee. (This means two inches. Yeah.) Schools were let out early, the traffic on the way to pick up Adelyn was out. of. control. They were almost out of milk at the grocery store. My apartment is BURNING up upstairs and so, so cold downstairs. I am sick of battling a screaming baby every morning before we leave the house, struggling to put on her jacket, her socks, her shoes, warming up the car and inevitably forgetting something back in the house each and every time I manage to make it out to the car with my purse, Addy's diaper bag, all the documents and books I have to schlep to work, and, um, Adelyn.

I am ready to put on a breezy sundress, some sandals, to put Adelyn in an even cuter sundress and sandals, to walk casually out my door and take my time walking to the car because it's not -300 degrees outside. I want to enjoy being outside again.

Anyway. Adelyn's been really sick since Saturday. She woke up that morning with the highest fever she's ever had. Then it went away and she seemed fine. On Sunday, stuff started showing up in her diaper that I don't want to write about here. (No, I didn't taste it to see what it was.) Later that day a mysterious rash showed up on her stomach and back. On top of it all, her gums are more swollen than I've ever seen them.

I usually work from home on Mondays, but this one was spent working only after she fell asleep--spending the day trying to do whatever I could to stop her from crying. Tuesday, she still wasn't better, so I stayed home from work and again spent my day at war with the fussiness. I didn't leave the house for TWO days. I did not relish in this.

Today, I went to work. I got a text from Adelyn's babysitter about the explosion that erupted out of her diaper and all over their floor.

And now, we're home, Adelyn's asleep. The snow has started falling almost to the minute they predicted.

Maybe I'll just put on my sundress and walk around the house.

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One.

I would write a lengthy post about all the reasons Addy's first birthday party was awesome, but there's no need. These pictures, taken by the talented Lisa Connor over at stonehousephotos.com, does all the explaining for me. Lisa is a reader of this blog and a friend of my father's and the photos will be cherished by our family for years to come.

(And a big bonus: I didn't have to spend the party behind a lens.)

Adelyn and her Janu, Jason's mom.

Adelyn with her Uncle Neel (my sister's husband), my sister Rachel (both in from New York), and Jason's cousin Kelly on the left.

She wants out of the high chair even when she has an entire CAKE dedicated to her consumption waiting for her.

I love this "smash cake" tradition. I don't know why it doesn't transition into adulthood.

Adelyn and her wonderful grandmas, Janu and Yaya (my mom).

My beloved friends. Crystal, Jaclyn (also a mom to a one-year-old), my sister-in-law Erin, me, Jasmine, and Morgan (who lives in New York).

Janu and Pops.

My sister, my mom, and I.

I don't know if it's possible to smile any bigger than this.

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Love and Shots.

What is love? How do you know when you really love something? Not in the cheesy, Hallmark card, ME + U = 4EVER kind of a way but the earth-shattering, selfless, real way that so many mothers claim is inexplainable?

I'll tell you how you can explain it.

It's when you find a weird, unidentifiable, Grits-looking substance under your daughter's onesie in the morning, and after freaking out because OHMYGOD what is this stuff on my daughter's skin??? and after smelling it and feeling it and still being at a loss for its origin, you STICK OUT YOUR TONGUE and taste it. Just because you're worried. Just because you love that baby so much the thought of not knowing what might be wrong with them inspires you to put a sticky, white substance in your mouth to hopefully identify its content.

True story.

Let me preface this revolting explanation of love with this: On Wednesday, we took Adelyn to get her one-year shots. There were four of them, one in each leg, one in each arm. Adelyn has had several shots before, all in her legs. And they were no fun, awful, bad days in my parenting life. But it was a few seconds of crying and then a cuddly baby, and all was well with the world.

I sort of ride the line between being anti-immunizations and anti-people who think immunizations are the devil. I understand their necessity and their relationship to my daughter's future health. I think people often make too big of a deal about things which we cannot fully understand. I think I trust scientists more than Baby Center. But I also don't trust mandates without elucidation; I also do thorough, borderline-obsessive research on everything related to my daughter. So I'm not all gung-ho, YAY! immunizations, but I'm also not quite ready to forego them and join the health-department-is-out-to-get-us camp.

I'm already a little weary about these shots, though. Let's just say that.

When they put the first shot into Adelyn's arm, it was like nothing I've ever seen before. It was worse than labor. She did not just cry or whine, she FREAKED OUT. She stopped crying and started hyperventilating. She was shaking her little head "no" so ferociously that I felt my heart fall out into my hands and shatter into a million pieces. She was screaming so hard that no noise came out. I had to ask her nurse to stop before she did the next one so that I could pick her up and console her. (It didn't work.)

We got all four done. But let me just say this--if Jason had not been able to leave work early and come with me, I probably would have punched that nurse in the face just on Adelyn's behalf.

Once we got her into the car she was fine, her old self. At home she was happy, playful. There was no sign of any reaction. She went to bed without incident, smiling and babbling in her crib.

But then she woke up in the morning, and as I was making her bottle (Jason was upstairs changing her first diaper), I heard him yelling my name at the top of his lungs.

When I got upstairs, Adelyn was lying, cheerful, on her changing table. What looked like grits was covering her stomach, coming out of her diaper.

The crazy-woman part of me immediately thought it might be some rare reaction to those evil shots. HOW COULD I HAVE DONE THIS TO MY DAUGHTER?

So. Yeah. I tasted whatever it was. In the vain hope that it was just some sort of bread, or food that she had snuck under her onesie before bed, or something. I don't know. I don't have reasonable explanations for my insane-mom reactions.

It took me an hour (an HOUR) after that incident to remember that I had just bought new diapers the day before. Kroger brand. I was trying to be frugal. The diaper had gotten soaked overnight and omitted some sort of disgusting content from its innings out onto her body while she slept.

The things we do for our children.

By the way--it tasted like plastic. Delicious.

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Birthday Eve.

A year ago today I was having these pains in my abdomen that I kept writing off as Crohn's, indigestion, a result of the box of macaroni and cheese I had eaten the night before. In a matter of hours I would be sitting on my couch with my dear friends Crystal and Melissa, eating pizza and watching The Hangover, finally saying out-loud that I might be going into labor.

"My stomach is really, really hurting," I said to my friend Crystal, a nurse. "I don't know if these are contractions or not."

"If they were contractions," she reasoned, "you'd probably be saying, like, 'ow.'"

I wasn't saying, like, "ow." So.

That sounded reasonable enough to me. I went to sleep that night next to a snoring Jason, waking up constantly in serious pain, waiting to recognize some sort of pattern that would signify Adelyn's impending birth.

The next afternoon I had an already-scheduled doctor's appointment. During the drive the pains started coming every six minutes like clockwork. We hadn't even brought our hospital bags, the ones I had meticulously packed weeks before.

I was already four centimeters dialated when we got there. And eight glorious, painful, intensely exciting hours later, Adelyn was here.

Tomorrow is her first birthday. Jason and I already gave her her big present--a baby-friendly MP3 player, safe for chewing and throwing and stomping and inevitable drooling-on, filled with her favorite songs. (Including "Time of my Life," The Black Eyed Peas; "Let it Be Christmas" by Alan Jackson, a song she FELL. IN. LOVE. WITH. at her grandparents' house over the holidays--seriously, every time it comes on she does nothing but dance and smile; "Whip My Hair Back and Forth," which, if you read this blog you know she loves; "Soul Sister," Train; "Never Stop," by Chilly Gonzales, from the iPad commercial that has Addy bouncing up and down every time it comes on; dozens of others.)

Addy's birthday is, of course, all about her. That incredible, hilarious, attitude-filled, sassy, spirited little creature that I helped create and gave birth to a year ago. But I can't help but let the huge occassion wash over me, too, let it put things in perspective in my own life and this journey and who I am and what I'm doing.

364 days ago my life shifted. Adelyn became the focus. 364 days later and she's ever present right in the center of everything. And that is how it will remain forever, as long as it can. This is the thing I didn't--you just can't--really know, really understand, 364 days ago, right before she made her grand entrance.

Happy birthday eve, Adelyn Belle. You are so loved by so many people. (If I have one complaint--er, request--of your newfound age and wisdom, it's that you please, please stop screaming when I change your clothes. It will be something that I, and then you, will have to do the rest of your life. No sense wasting tears.)

Here...

To here...

Now here.

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The WHERE ARE YOU GOING?? Face.

Yesterday morning when I dropped Adelyn off at her babysitter's, she clung to my shoulders and laid her head on my chest and cried, cried, cried. I have never seen her do this before. I read a long time ago that I should expect separation anxiety to kick in about now, and that this demonstration of powerful attachment was a good thing, that it meant that she trusted you, knew she needed you, recognized you as the thing with which she is able to survive.

So when week after week passed and I dropped Adelyn off with grandparents or babysitters and she never let any discontentment--not even a second of clinginess--I felt, of course, a pang of worry over how I'm doing as a mother. (What doesn't inspire that question in a new mother, really? Everything and anything.)

But yesterday morning, though. Yeah. There it was, finally. She did not want me to leave.

This made it kinda hard to go to work, see. Because to open the door, walk out of the babysitter's, get into my car and go wherever I needed to go that day now meant that I'd be doing it while Adelyn watched me, crying, looking at me like all she wants to do in the world is dig her head into my chest. When I dropped her off before yesterday, she'd usually just dealwith it while I kissed her cheek over and over and then happily crawled off to play with her babysitter's one and a half year old daughter. She's barely walking and already she'd mastered the whole "Um, ok, mom, bye... bye!" thing I so remembering mastering as a teenager.

And the thing is, I'm not the kind of mother who needs to be with my baby all of the time. I enjoy--um, need--some motherless time to keep me going. Both sets of grandparents take their turns watching her so Jason and I can do our own thing every now and then. Jason watches her so I can go out with my friends. I, in turn, do the same for him. We've struck a good balance, I think.

It's just one of the essential parts of parenting, dealing with this stuff. I love my job, and I love even more its flexible schedule. I love my daughter above all else, and I love the rare day when it's just me and her, at home, all day, no separation anxiety required. But in order to feel fulfilled (for me, anyway--these decisions are so deeply personal, more so than pretty much anything else in the parenting world), I have to have another title besides "mom." As much as I like to say how much I'd love to find a job that would allow me to work full-time from home, I know I'd miss getting up and going. Somewhere.

Geez, though. That face--that WHERE ARE YOU GOING? face--it's enough to make you rethink everything you thought you knew about working and what you wanted to do with your life.

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One small step for babies...

And a giant leap for Addy-kind.

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Stupid Scoop.

To the baby-powers-that-be, I ask of you. Why, oh why, can you not think of a better place to put the little scoop in new cans of formula? Each time I approach it with as much carefulness as I can muster, and each time I have to dig a little further to find the little guy, tossing expensive white powder all over my just-cleaned kitchen counter in the process. And if my hands are at all wet from just washing them or my counter the process gets even dirtier and grosser from there. Can we not put it at the top, or even-gasp!-somehow outside of the container?

Seriously, though.

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Two + One

Adelyn is the only one I need. As naive as it may sound at 24 years old, I think I'm set.

This of course doesn't take into account the fact that, you know, shit happens. Been there, know that firsthand. And this doesn't take into account the fact that people are ever evolving, and that you can't pick and choose your life story at 24 years old.

But. BUT. I have this feeling, deep down in my gut, that me plus Jason plus Adelyn is exactly what my life needed and is exactly the plan God or Yahweh or fate or whatever master designer designed.

This could be completely different if I had married the guy who wanted five kids. Jason, though, feels the same way I do.

After two plus decades of battling a chronic illness, I never thought I'd have a picture perfect pregnancy. I pretty much did. As someone who never spent much time envisioning herself as a mother, I never thought that, one day, I'd have this amazing, always-life-inspiring joy to whom I gave life. And as someone who always tried to envision her future with the utmost precision, planning and plotting and dreaming crazy dreams for herself and her career, I never imagined the sort of upheaval that a new life brings along with it.

It's been almost a year since Adelyn was born. Almost two (!!) since I first found out about her existence. And now that our lives have really started to take shape and I'm starting to be able to see the big picture, I just can't imagine starting again. The pregnancy, the health worries, the waiting, the anxiety, the newborn phase, the figuring out how to adapt your career, the everything.

Why does this make me feel like a bad mother? It does. I can't shake it. Popular opinion always says that babies need siblings. Only children are spoiled, unadjusted, look at the world with a self-centric view. I don't want that for Adelyn. But is that reason enough to do it all again for her sake, even though her selfish mother doesn't really feel like it?

Now, just writing this, I'm starting to second guess myself. I'm feeling the urge to fill this post with disclaimers (unless I change my mind; don't hold me accountable for my opinion at 24; this could all change; never say never). Only those disclaimers aren't coming from my gut, my core, they're coming from the part of me that wants to sound good, selfless, motherly.

And then, of course, there's always this, this same sentiment that I'm sure crosses the mind of every first-time parent. How, oh how, could I ever love something else like I do Adelyn? It's inconceivable.

But just like it did two Junes ago when my life turned upside down--you cannot foresee whatever it is that is supposed to happen. You are powerless against it, no matter how carefully planned your life.

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Starting Somewhere.

There are so many things that you take simply at face value growing up. Thanksgiving dinner. Turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes. And then, Christmas trees. Ornaments, lights, garland. Presents and wrapping paper and toothbrushes tucked away in your stocking. These things are wonderful, and you cherish these things, and you love your mom and dad for orchestrating this wonderful time of year. But you don't really stop and think about the work behind it all.

I've lived on my own for a few years now. First in the dorms at the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York. Then in an apartment with Jason. Then in an apartment with my friend Elise. Then in my friend Alex's house. Then back in with Jason. But in all of these places it was a given that I'd go home at Christmas. Before that I would help my mom decorate our tree. There was a tree and ornaments and stockings all waiting for us there.

And now we have our own place, and we are our own family. It might sound like common sense, but it didn't really hit me until a few months ago that we were about to start this thing from scratch. Hanukkah, Christmas--the whole shebang. That tree and those ornaments waiting at my parents house had been cultivated over several years. The traditions had been brewing and settling in for mine and my sister's lifetimes.

This is the first year that Jason and I will be in our own place on Christmas Eve. Because both Jason and I are still children at heart, I think, even though we've been together for seven years--we've lived together before this family--we still always went to our parents' houses to stay the night on December 24.

Yesterday we took Adelyn to brave the crowds shopping. We bought a Christmas tree, dozens of ornaments. We ordered embroidered stockings. We bought peppermint-scented candles and a copy of 'Twas the Night before Christmas. When we were little my dad read this to me and my sister every Christmas Eve. Now it's Addy's turn.

(Just a side note: I am the most Christmas-loving Jew you will ever come across. I have a beautiful hand-made menorah that my friend Alex got me years ago, and it will be lit each night for Hanukkah this year. But I'll be damned if I'm going to forsake the gorgeous glow of a Christmas tree and the excitement of giving and getting presents on Christmas morning.)

And then we came home, put Adelyn down for a nap, poured some Eggnog we'd just bought at the liquor store, turned on our newly-purchased Christmas music (The Hotel Cafe Presents Winter Songs--best holiday album ever--even featuring Fiona Apple singing Frosty the Snowman) and decorated our tree.

The traditions have to start somewhere. And for our first year, I think we're doing pretty well.

A staple of this household.

Of course in the best picture I snap of her she would be grabbing onto the beer ornament.

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Something to Miss.

Over the weekend I went to New York to meet one of my best friend's brand new baby. I realize I'm lucky, writing sentences like that. I am not Dooce, nor do I harbor any illusions that I might someday be, and yet I've been to New York twice in Adelyn's 10-month-long life. I've also been to Florida, and to Atlanta, and spent more nights out with my friends and alone with my husband than, I think, most new moms get. Sometimes I feel guilty about this, but it's more due to an abundance of eager babysitters than a desire to be away from my baby. You know, I am 24 years old, and although I sowed my wild oats back in the day and no longer feel a desire to go crazy, there is still a part of me that needs to live separately from my life as a mother to feel sane and like myself. (I don't think this has a lot to do with age. I imagine it would be true in any decade of life, whether or not it's acted upon.)

I live so close to both sets of amazing grandparents partly because I love them and also because I really wanted that for Adelyn, to be able to have these other people in her life to offer perspective, and a break from me and her dad, and the kind of things that only family can offer. And it is because of this that I get to go places. It is also mostly thanks to Jason, who is sometimes so awesome that I don't really understand it. I keep reading on Babycenter the same cliche story of a woman about to go out of her mind because she hasn't had a minute to herself, to bathe or to grocery shop in peace, while her husband spends every free second playing Call of Duty (I've read some version of that post so many times it would be impossible to count.)

Anyway. I went to New York and had fun and missed Adelyn like crazy. Jason called me on my third day there, as I was walking literally hand-in-hand with my group of best friends down a street in Brooklyn, to tell me that Adelyn had said "Adelyn" to him and his parents. This nearly brought me to tears that, of course!, I had missed this, because as soon as you go away for a few days they always seem to do something miraculous. But it's nice to miss them sometimes, like really miss them. It makes you realize how special your life is, to have things to miss that badly.

I got to hold little five-week-old Dominic and watch my gorgeous, formerly-crazy best friend Elise living, almost in video-playback-mode-quality, my life eight and a half months ago. I've texted her the words "Hun, I so remember those days" all too often. But Dominic was amazing and so cuddly. And although I do not miss those days one tiny bit I did feel, for a fleeting second, that I wanted another one. It's hard to not feel that while holding a tiny, sleeping body in your arms.

I do miss when Addy had no choice but to cuddle with me. I don't, though, think I want to go back there anytime soon. If ever. I will happily settle for the sensation of holding a niece or nephew or honorary niece or nephew, and coming home to my babbling, Adelyn-saying, incessantly moving, only temporarily cuddly Adelyn.

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Daylight Savings Time Can Shove It.

When you're childless, Daylight Savings Time means you get to sleep an extra hour.

When you're a parent, it means you lose one. Or two, since Adelyn's cacophony of "blahh.. blaaaaahh.. DADA... aahhh... hmm... MAMA... bllllaaaaah" started at, oh, around 4:30 a.m. Did she just, like, know? Know that the hour formerly reserved for sleep was gone? And that it would be a fun time to wake up an hour earlier than she normally would?

(For the record, Jason let me sleep in. But still.)

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Working.

For the first few months that I blogged I did so as a stay at home mom, I guess. Not really a SAHM--as all the internet folk call it--by definitive choice, just by circumstance. I quit a job where I worked full-time overnight when I was eight months pregnant, telling everyone I wasn't sure if I would come back but knowing good and well that I wouldn't. How can you work a job like that with a baby? With children at all? There was only one other woman with a child who worked there, and she worked a lot more than I did, and her husband was a stay-at-home-dad. Problem solved.

This crux of working, being a mother, being yourself, being both--it's hard stuff. There's no better way to put it. When I graduated and had all of these grandiose plans floating around in my head--Pulitzer prize, immediate job at a daily paper--factoring in a baby was nowhere on my radar. It didn't even have a fleeting spot in my universe. And even back then the decision felt complicated. (Ha!)

I've been at the job I have now since July. So, five months. Almost six. I like it. Love it, actually. It's rewarding, and fun. It's flexible. It allows me to remain a mother most of the time, a family literacy program coordinator for a non-profit second. I work from home two days a week, in an office the other three with extremely flexible hours. Addy goes to a babysitter who is also a family friend that genuinely loves her.

It's great. And I have a contract to do this job for a year (I'm an AmeriCorps Vista--essentially the domestic version of the Peace Corps that aims to fight poverty). The thing is--this job pays next to nothing. And that's ok, right now, because the trade off of still being the one who is with Adelyn the most is worth the monetary sacrifice. I can't imagine another job--minimum wage or six figures--that would be so flexible, that would have a boss and co-workers who don't blink an eye when I leave an hour early to go pick up Addy and work from home. (Because, honestly, I often get more work done at home during Addy's naps than I do any other time.)

I never liked staying at home. I'm not miss Worker Bee, I never have been, but I have always been obsessed with feeling accomplished. Being a stay at home mom involves plenty of accomplishment, I know, but I was always aching to put some makeup and clothes on and go somewhere. Even now when I'm dreading finding a way to get myself ready and to keep Adelyn entertained, wishing out loud that I could just work from home all week, I secretly know I want to struggle to put together an outfit, to put myself together and walk out the door. There's just something rewarding in it, in getting yourself together, that I need. Working from home two days a week is the perfect balance.

For now. But what about next year? These kinds of questions drive you up a wall as a mother. I know it's not just me--it's at the center of nearly every conversation I have with other mom friends.

It's a tricky subject, working versus staying at home. What's best for the baby? For the mother? The family? It's a question that divides women, sends them grabbing for their battle gear and arming themselves for a fight. We all think we know what's best for us, our babies, our families--and a lot of us think we know what's best for the rest, as well.

I'm just going to say right here and now that I do not. I don't know. I don't know that I ever will. I know that after this year is up I desperately want to find a job that pays, preferably one that pays me to be a writer or a journalist--what I've always intended to do--but nearly all of those jobs will require a commute and putting Adelyn in full-time daycare. And that's a costly endeavor--both emotionally, for me, and economically. Most daycares cost more than I make right now. I know that when Adelyn starts school, I want to have been doing something for the past four years. I can't always show off the articles I wrote for my college newspaper as credentials.

The thing is, most employers just aren't cool with a mother being a mother first.

I'm working from home today. Adelyn has been napping for about an hour. In that hour, I've confirmed, paid for, and organized the volunteer delivery for four meals to be served at family literacy programming. I've researched half a dozen grants. I've written a press release. I've started my laundry, done the dishes and written this blog. Working from home some of the time works for me--and this job--right now. Wouldn't it be nice if they all allowed us this flexibility?

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The Lip.

So how is it that a 20 pound, 8 and a half month old being can already understand, process, and marvelously execute the art of defiance? She doesn't know where her nose is, but somehow she knows what we want her to play with, and what she's not supposed to play with. The pile of toys--carefully researched, picked out, and purchased specifically for her enjoyment--in a pile on the living room floor? Nah. She'd rather go for the vaccuum cord, the foot of the stairs, Louie's tail, the piece of change that has accidentally fallen out of my pocket. Adelyn already has her own remote, sans batteries, because it's far more entertaining, I guess, that any fancy toy designed for a baby. I think we're going to find an old cell phone for her soon, because that's also a top contender on her favorites list. Do they make a safe vaccuum cleaner cord?

My version of child proofing looks like this: all wobbly furniture has been banished in non-Addy areas. Little things stay off the floor. My parents graciously traded their cushy, ottoman-coffee-table for our hard, glass wood one. The rest of the time my version of child-proofing is picking Addy up and setting her in a different direction.

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Whoa.

Literally within ten minutes of writing that last post Adelyn started crawling everywhere. It has just--yeah, just--really hit me how much our lives are about to change. The only reason I've been able to write these past three sentences is because I'm blocking her from crawling after the dogs with my foot. And now she's gotten ahold of Louie's chew toy, across the room, and I have to go.

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The Childproofing Era.

Once Adelyn started rocking back and forth on all fours I ordered a childproofing kit on Amazon on a whim. And then I spent an hour during her nap one day trying to figure out how and why to use each piece of it. (The verdict: all of it, except the outlet plugs, one or two of the cabinet locks, and a furniture harness I bought for our TV stand, is worthless and too confusing to actually use.)

I kinda gave up and figured we'd get more serious about it when we move into a new place in November, since she can't exactly crawl yet and it just seems silly to put a lock on cabinets she can't get to and that we use hourly.

Jason and I did a once-over of the apartment and I mentioned that we'd definitely have to do something about this heart-shaped bowl full of seashells under our coffee table--perfect eye-level to Addy and full of oh-so tempting chewing objects.

Today I walked into the kitchen for five seconds to get Adelyn a change of clothes and I came out to find this.

She was on the other side of the living room when I left.

It's official. The childproofing era is upon is. Bye-bye, tiny objects and pretty, albeit functionless, decor.

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My Cup of Tea.

This is my favorite. I've been talking all along about how excited I was to reach a point where parenting became interactive, creative, imaginative, rather than just a desperate attempt to fulfill someone else's basic human needs. That's still a big part of parenting, it always will be, but Adelyn and I have transcended the basics and moved on to developing an actual relationship. Mother, daughter. Friend, friend. Teacher, learner.

Right now I'm writing, and Adelyn is crawling around me. (She's still not proficient in the art of crawling--just skilled enough to shimmy her way around the floor with a combo of rolling, scooting, and pulling herself up to a standing position with whatever she can.) We just watched the Elmo Song on Youtube three times in a row. I sang along. She laughed. Before that we cracked up together at Adelyn's discovery that she could use me as a jungle gym. We watched a few minutes of Lord of the Rings. (Adelyn got bored.) We ate some apples and rice cereal. I took a few bites and she got irritated that I was stalling the food from entering her own mouth. We had a long talk, Adelyn doing her best to make sense of this new language and me imitating the hilarious sounds she's using to tell me how she feels. The monotony of parenting is gone. Adelyn is already filled with countless different emotions--her personality is starting to shine through.

It's all so much more my cup of tea, this seven-month-old thing. I feel like I have a purpose beyond food-giver, diaper-changer and nap enforcer.

And now Adelyn has managed to pull herself up to standing using the back of my T-shirt. She's loving it. So am I.

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My, Oh My How Things Have Changed.

Adelyn has never been the most enthusiastic napper. Sure, once she's out she'll stay out for a good amount of time. It's the getting-her-there part that's always been a little tricky. Her babysitter always tell me how easily she falls asleep at her house. For me, though? It usually takes a few tries, a few rounds of head rubbin', until she gives in to the sleepiness. And now that crawling is imminent--she's taken the first few steps but still hasn't mastered doing it for more than a brief moment--nap-time has become even more complicated. I usually give her five minutes to fuss before I go upstairs to rub her head some more, and now each time she's worked her way into a different part of the crib. She's in a different position and even more awake at every single five minute interval. And she's so freaking cute that I can't help but laugh, which makes her laugh right back, and surely laughing isn't a great way to get the whole "I'm mom, what I say goes" thing across.

You can see for yourself what I'm up against.

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Puppy Petting Milestone.

Adelyn still hasn't mastered crawling, but she has reached an important milestone. She can now pet her dogs, and more importantly, pull on their ears.

(Sorry, Louie and Sampson. I told you this day would come.)

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The Sound of Determination

Adelyn wants to crawl so, so badly. She has half of it figured out, the arm part. Now it's just a matter of getting those pesky legs to follow suit.

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