Sacramento Parent Magazine

Happy Birthday, Baby! I can’t believe you are 2. A question from your dear mother: When you blew out your candles at your very chaotic party on Saturday, did you wish that you would throw up all over the back seat of the car one mile from preschool this morning? That probably wasn’t a good wish, and if you went so far as to wish to vomit again as we turned onto our street back home, I must advise you that isn’t normally what wishes are for. I am truly sorry that I did not make it in time with the bucket when you proceeded to colorize the couch after returning home.

You have many more birthday wishes coming your way, doodlebug. If you could please let me know if I shouldn’t give you raspberries with your Organic Puffs before you decide to decorate the upholstery in the car, that would be great.

Happy Birthday, Riley!

A new addition has been added to our immediate family. 2 weeks ago my younger sister gave birth to a healthy baby boy. As I watched her endure 23 long hours of labor, I thought about who this person is who is about to become Nolan’s mom. I felt a secret glee that I hold the power of the past to be shared with him as needed. I looked forward to the day he’ll call his Auntie, angry that his mom won’t let him take a road trip with his friends. “Really?” I will say, “Funny, she moved out to California when she was a mere eighteen into a house I shared with three other girls without asking permission from her mother.” I can then share the story of how, just two days after moving in with us, we decided to “break” her in by throwing a raging kegger just for her. (It took months to get rid of the smell of puke from the heater vent.)

I could also see in her face she had no idea of the sleep deprivation that would be coming her way. No idea that after feeling like you tied yourself to an eighteen wheeler and performed the strong man competition, you were expected to not sleep an entire night for 3 months. (Or if you are lucky enough to be Riley’s mommy, 2 years.) I also never expected the obtuse world of not knowing your address or being unable to calculate simple addition. I did not give it a second thought when I was pregnant, because I went to college. I knew how to stay up all night, nicely inebriated, and still function the next day. I reassured her, “It does get better.” I would not be cruel and make her play Trivial Pursuit as our older sister made me, 4 weeks into it. (Thank god, the winning question was what does the rooting reflex mean in newborns.)

She is going to be a wonderful mother. Her sense of humor that guided her through that long 23 hours will carry her through Nolan’s life. She made jokes and ate like a truck driver, even going so far as to ask the nurse to go get her apple juice between contractions and while pushing. Now it did strike us as odd as the baby’s head was wanting to be exposed, but alas, we were distracted. As soon as the nurse left, she stopped moaning and said to her friend in the room, “Psst! Esther! Give me some crackers!” She swallowed them in two bites and the nurse returned, none the wiser. It’s this kind of quick-thinking and perseverance that will serve her well as a mom.

To the Working Dad/Husband :

To the working mom who is a wife, who also spends her day away from her children, working hard for the man, bringing home the bacon. She, who worries about the fiscal enterprise she has built with her partner, with the intention of always providing not only the kissing of boo-boos and tears, but a firm, stable financial environment too, does not–I repeat, does not–appreciate the joke of pretending to lose one’s job or walk out of a job because you have had it. It wasn’t funny the first time, and it still contains zero humor the third time around. This will get you banned from calling your spouse while she, herself, is pretending to work.

This is dedicated to Mr. Bolts.

Age: 2 (It’s Birthday Month!)

Favorite Character: Due to a shrewd campaign, Elmo.

Favorite thing to carry around: The cat (much to the cat’s dismay).

Learned how to: Pee-pee in the potty… and the patio, the couch, the kitchen, my husband’s pants (he made the mistake of leaving on the floor) and the tricycle.

Panic Moment of the month: Running off with the toilet paper while Mommy’s on the potty.

Smart Moment of the month: Bringing the toilet paper back.

Longest Moment of the month for Mommy: Waiting for him to bring the toilet paper back.

Sleeping late on Saturday morning. (HaHa that was just a teaser, because we all know that is not happening.)

Okay, really, weekends are for:

Drinking more coffee than the body can handle. This enables one to fly around the house and try to repair all the damage that has occurred during the week by the husband and son, who was taught well by Dad, to leave all for the Queen of the house. You give one of them a break (the one that is almost 2.)

Grocery shopping with the little dynamite who will freehandedly add items not on the list to the basket. If caught at the check-out line, you will have to ask the clerk nicely, acting oblivious to the fact you and sparkles have left a trail of raisins, half eaten cookie, string cheese and juice box throughout the store, to please take those off your bill, otherwise you will be the proud owner of 5 mascaras and a few lipsticks. None of which are your color.

Watering the plants. Changing your clothes. (You have obviously forgotten the pink eye day.)

Basking in the sun while the little punkin takes a nap, pretending not to notice any stretch marks or dimples that you know do not belong to you.

Attempting to do sit-ups while someone giggles and sits on your belly. You think this would help work the muscles but it doesn’t. It makes your back hurt and you give up after 5.

Letting the little Angel stay up way past his bedtime just so he can read, “Where’s Elmo’s Blanket?,” for the nine hundredth time. (It’s in the dryer.)

Paying the household bills. Asked at the beginning of the month if Husband could do it but he was light-headed and couldn’t at the time. Maybe he’s pregnant.

Mentally preparing yourself for the week ahead, which you know will be a flurry of running around, not sleeping and eagerly waiting for the weekend to come. You have visions of making pancakes Sunday morning while delivering a flurry of kisses to your next generation, but by the time Sunday rolls around, it’s more like cold cereal and lots of clenched teeth.