Have you noticed the ugly carpet in all of my indoor photos? The carpet that seems to have endless crevices in which to lose cheerios and years of dirt and dust? Have you noticed the hideous kitchen floor, a sure relic from the early 80s, a kitchen floor that camouflages anything that falls on its obnoxious pattern?

We bought this house over a year ago with the intent of remodeling it like we had the last one. Our last house began as an unlivable shell, a house with beautiful oak floors, lots of windows and “potential.” Ken learned how to do almost anything and everything handy, from building cabinets to redoing plumbing and electricity. We made that unlivable shell into a beautiful home.

But it was small, so we moved. We moved here, not too far away. We moved here to a house that has pink countertops, horrifying carpet, not nearly enough natural light. We would fix it, we said. Ken would fix it. We would make it as beautiful and homey as our last home had been.

And then we had a second child.

And that second child was sick and sleepless for months.

And we were in a fog, as Ken says.

But we are emerging from that fog, coming back to our senses, sleeping a reasonable amount of hours in a row. We’ve begun noticing the carpet again, the wall that needs to come down, the kitchen crying out for a remodel. And Ken is feeling the itch to dive in, to use his tools and his expertise, his gift for design and his tools (did I mention those already?).

The countdown has begun to house remodel number two. The first occurred while we were childless. I bed-rested by the windows in the old dining room, watching Ken and his friend work on painting; we lived in one room of our old house when Nora was born, waiting to be finished (she snuck up on us a bit early). But we’ve never done this with one child, let alone two. We’ve never disrupted space and routine of two small people who also call this home.

It will be exciting. It will be stressful. And in the end, it will be home.

Dear Miles,

Today you are one. A year ago I held you in my arms for the first time, wondering what kind of baby you would be, amazed again at how quickly I was consumed by love for you. Before you came along I wondered how I could love another baby as much as I loved your sister. It didn’t seem possible. But you taught me pretty much immediately that it was more than possible – it was a given.

You were easy from the start. You slept and ate and slept and ate and slept and ate. I found myself wishing eventually that you didn’t eat quite so much, but now that you don’t nurse, now that I know the end of our nursing wasn’t going to be on my terms, on our terms, I’m glad we had so many months of every two hour nursing sessions.

I still remember the first time you laughed like it was five minutes ago. You were sitting on your Aunt Jessica’s lap in the garage. You sister, as usual, was dressed in a tutu and putting on a performance. She tapped her tap shoes on the concrete and you burst into baby laughter. I wanted to bottle up that laugh and keep it in my pocket (along with your chubby legs and feet and fingers).

But it turns out that I didn’t have to bottle it up. It turns out that you are just about the happiest baby I can imagine. You smile from ear to ear. You laugh with your whole body. You charm every visitor with that killer grin. You erase any stress or worry with one giggle. Your Meme says you are irrationally exuberant. And I have to agree.

I want you to stay small and cuddly. I want to watch you snuggle your blanky and play with such carefree vigor. But I know that won’t happen. And as much as I am in love with your baby self, I know that your exuberance, your charm and curiosity, your endless smile and your overall good nature will make being your mother a joy and reward no matter what age you are.

Today you are one.

Happy Birthday, Miles!

Love, Mom

On Tuesday Miles will be one. One year old. One year since he made us a family of four, made Nora a big sister, made us all happy and happier as he grew and grew and smiled and smiled.

So today we celebrated with family. Celebrated a year of Miles. A year of smiles. A year of ear infections. A year of not sleeping. A year of chubby hands and feet and cheeks and belly. A year of learning how to parent two. A year of diapers and breastmilk and formula. A year that went so fast but at times seemed so slow.

Today I celebrated surviving the early days, the days when Miles and I became acquainted, when we adjusted to each other. The early days when he was so small and fragile and sleepy, when he was the new little brother. When everything was new, exciting and overwhelming.

Today I celebrated surviving months of no sleep and constant ear infections. And I celebrate the tubes that finally relieved my poor baby of pain he couldn’t express other than staring into the dark with me at 3 am.

Today I celebrated the people who supported us through his first year – family and friends who know that a new assortment of spoons would make the perfect gift.

Today we celebrated Miles.

Miles is in that stage of baby babble where every sound comes out anew, every syllable is exciting and volume is a trick to be perfected. He mimics a bit and babbles a lot. But I don’t think any of it is purposeful. Now, if his favoirite sound began with an M and ended with an A, I might tell a different tale. I might say, of course he’s saying Ma Ma on purpose.

But his favorite sound is Da Da. And it might just be his favorite person too.

Tonight I logged onto facebook and saw an adorable photo of a friend’s daughter wearing a dress Nora celebrated Valentine’s day in two years ago. Seeing that dress brought me back two years, made me mentally reference photos I took of her sporting sunglasses, smiling from ear to ear. The dress wasn’t really that special – it was just a red dress with hearts and a well-placed ruffle – but there it was living a new life, providing new memories.

Up until this past weekend we had a giant growing pile of “baby things.” A co-sleeper, an exersaucer, a car seat and three bases, a baby swing, a snap-n-go stroller, an old baby bathtub. Each of these items found its way onto the pile as Miles found his way into a new phase of babyhood (he’ll be one in a week! OMG!).

The first round of baby gear found its way into a big box – a bumbo seat, a boppy pillow, bibs, blankets and countless clothes. That big box found its way to New York, to my adorable new nephew. To a new life with a new baby.

The next round from the pile found its way into the trunk of our good friends who are expecting a baby. They packed it up, took it home, and there it waits for its next use, its next set of memories to create.

I love giving my baby things away to people I know. There is something about seeing a new baby resting on the boppy or wearing an outfit I remember that not only causes me to relive those moments I may not have had the time or sentiment to appreciate as they were happening, but it also means that those things that were so important to me or helpful to me at one point can now be that for someone else.

Baby phases come and go so quickly. It is so easy to get caught up in the tedium of the day-to-day of parenting. Seeing my baby items being reused brings those phases back to life for a moment and allows me to revel in the small things.

It’s cheesy. But it’s true.

When Nora was almost walking she started holding on to a small red purse. She started walking and she held onto it, dangling it around her toddling shoulder. Thinking about Nora and that purse perfectly sums up her personality. She learned to accessorize early and since then she’s been all girl – fancy through and through.

Starting Friday morning when I snapped the photo of Nora and Miles ready for picture day I started to notice that Miles too has adopted an appendage, that he carries around a companion who is sometimes metal, sometimes plastic and sometimes wood, depending on what he scavenges.

Miles loves spoons.

So if the purse perfectly predicted Nora’s personality, I’ve been wondering: What does the spoon say about Miles?

Maybe it means he likes to eat, which he no doubt does, especially now that his ears don’t hurt. Maybe it means he won’t be picky, that he’ll eat anything. That he won’t ask to have the crust cut off of his bread.

Maybe it means he’ll always be prepared. I told a friend about the spoon and she told me a story of her dad who always carries a metal spoon in his pocket. Because you never know when the opportunity to eat ice cream will arise  and he argues that ice cream tastes better on metal. He’s prepared. Maybe Miles will be too, ready for anything that comes his way.

I hope it means that he’ll remain the easiest, smiliest, most charming of babies.

Most likely, however, it means nothing more than he likes the feel of a spoon in his chubby hand and on his swollen gums.

At a cheesy teacher meeting about a month ago we were asked to make a list of the four things we remembered most from high school. The first thing I jotted down on my index card was the learning experience that both taught me and terrified me the most – the revolutionary resurrection. As a sophomore I was charged with the task of “becoming” a historical revolutionary character for a fifteen minute speech – in costume and with props – and then taking questions in character. I was shy. The teacher was scary. But, man, I researched my butt off and I became Betty Friedan, wielding a girdle on a stick and calling the teacher a chauvinist when he questioned me/Betty Friedan about being a lesbian. And I learned a lot about revolution at the same time I realized I was capable of more than I had previously believed.

This morning I sat watching CBS Sunday Morning – one of my favorite news programs. Ken and Nora were off enjoying pancakes and Miles cruised around while I watched. I was taken with a story on revolution – the digital revolution that online social media is provoking all over the world. (You can watch the story here.) It’s pretty amazing, really, all that the Internet can do, all it sparks, the community it builds, the power it gives to the formerly powerless – as the news story aptly illustrated.

For a while I’ve wondered why we need so much social media. Why do we need facebook and twitter and pinterest and blogs and and and. I’ve stuck to facebook and this here blog and briefly lurked on twitter following people but never tweeting (Salman Rushdie is my favorite author on twitter, btw). But between a story on Babble Voices about a campaign to show support for JC Penney’s decision to back Ellen as their spokesperson and and the story this morning on the revolutionary power of the Internet, twitter specifically, I decided it might be time to jump in.

I want in to the power of the Internet. I want in on the revolution.

So I dressed Nora and Miles in their warm clothes (it sleeted today! In Texas!) and we headed to JC Penney. We bought cute clothes. I took photos. And I came home and made a real twitter account. And I tweeted.

All day I watched the hashtag, #jcpshopin. I watched the small revolution evolve in 140 characters or less. And I was a part of it. And, while it didn’t nearly give me the sense of accomplishment that I had that day in tenth grade when I talked back to my scary history teacher, it did make me feel a part of something important.

So I’m jumping in. We’ll see what happens.

Follow me. @toddlersummer

Modeling Her New JCP Clothes

I’ve been arriving to notes and stories for a few weeks now. Notes asking if Nora can eat a snack a friend has brought to school for her, stories about the friend promising gifts of sparkling shoes. Stories about Nora waking her friend up at the end of nap time with a giant kiss. And this would all be very normal. Except that this new friend is a boy – and Nora has always had no place for boys in her life.

First it was a Cars snack brought to share at lunch. Next it was talk in the car of how E told Nora he “feels like we are going to get married.” Then it was days of talk about gifts imagined over molding clay and crayons – new clothes, new shoes – and everything sparkly. He obviously knows her well.

Last week Nora’s teacher told me as she laughed herself silly that Nora had woken E up at the end of nap time with a big old kiss. Miss T said she had just laughed – and she was still laughing. I laugh at the whole thing and have flashbacks to the summer when Nora would have not a thing to do with anyone of the opposite sex. And now she’s planting giant kisses on a friend. And it’s a boy. My, how things change.

Yesterday was picture day at school. I dressed Miles and Nora up to take a photo in front of the traditional school backdrop and an extra cheesy reflecting pond. Extra cheesy.

And when I got to school every teacher was smirking, grinning, looking at me with that I-know-a-funny-story-you-don’t-yet look. And then finally they told me: E’s mother left a note wondering if Nora and E could take a picture together. They were clearly all tickled by this new friendship. And, since I don’t have to actually buy the photo, of course I agreed.

When I was in nursery school my friend Paige and I used to chase Reed and his friend (whose name I can’t remember – do you remember, Paige?) around the gym or playground every day. We would hide from them, pretend we didn’t like this game of chase, but we loved it, of course. This summer I wondered if Nora would always throw a fit about boys. Like so many things in childhood, it turned out to be a phase. And now she’s got a nursery school friend who maybe she’ll remember 30 years later.

Maybe I’ll have to buy that photo after all.

Nora and Miles on Picture Day

Nora is in that strange in-between of needing a nap and not needing a nap. She’s tired in the afternoon and will fall asleep – especially at school where that is and always has been her routine – but then, if she sleeps for more than 45 minutes, she’s up until 10. And that’s no fun for anyone.

So today I left a note at the daycare for them to wake her up after an hour. I warned Nora that this would happen, since when I suggested that she just not nap at all (like she does here most weekend days) she insisted that she would be “too tired to be happy.” So we compromised on an hour.

After school she described hearing Miss R instruct the teacher who was presiding over nap time to keep her and another student awake. Nora said it was easy for the other kid to stay awake, but not for her. It was hard when everyone else was sleeping, she said.

“But your mean mom said you had to wake up,” I said.

And she looked a me, appalled, her voice rose in a high pitch and highly insistent tone: “You’re not mean. I love you.”

And then, since she’s prone to drama, and since she had elicited a happy response from me, she continued: “I love the whole family.” She hugged us all. It was all so sincere. She was flabbergasted that I would call myself mean.

I replayed this moment in my head many times tonight as I played the bedtime game. A game that’s fun for her but for no one else. I repeated it. And repeated it again. It was my patience refrain as she thought of 1001 reasons to stall her entry into dreamland.

Nora’s grasping with the concept of what it means to read words on a page. She wants to be let into the secret of books, but isn’t quite sure how. She “reads” before bed – sitting in her doorway and making up stories (very loud stories) that go with her favorite characters and pictures.

At school they are learning to recognize and write a series of sight words. She knows and can spell, write and recognize “look,” and she mostly has a grasp of “up,” but those are the only two. Her teacher is using Dr. Seuss books to teach them. It is a great idea and Nora likes it.

Tonight she caught me reading Hugo on the couch. She asked how I could be reading if I wasn’t saying it aloud. I tried to explain that I read silently, hearing the words in my head as I go. I said, “Like if I read the word ‘fancy’ I hear fancy.”

She looked up at me and said, big grin, “I can hear it too!”