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...And So It Begins...

8/28/2012

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Happy Preschool Eve, everyone.

The Bear is all packed; he's ready to go. In less than 24 hours, our little guy will matriculate into American's educational system. There is no turning back now.

I still have my reservations, yes. It's a very big step to turn over your only child to a bunch of strangers for six solid hours, and he has some rather specific daily habits. I mean, the kid takes 25 minutes to poop. Are they going to give him time to poop? Will they rush him? Does someone help him in the bathroom? Why didn't I ask his teacher this during the Open House?

Speaking of the Open House, which did a great job calming my fears, I really wish they would have had two Open Houses: one for us newbie parents, and one for "those that have done this before." The reason I say that is because I'm fairly certain Scotty's very nice, and very capable-looking teacher gave us the subtle, though gracious, brush-off. Yes, I may have asked her fifteen rapid fire questions, and perhaps we were monopolizing her time a bit (as 11 other families stood quietly by, looking down at their folded hands silently), but I had legitimate concerns. And despite her very thoughtful answers to my questions, I still have about a million others.  Let's be honest - the logistics of drop-off still confound me a bit. Anyone else?

I've decided to channel my anxiety in home repair projects. Because when the going gets tough, the tough go to Home Depot! Brian came home on Saturday to find me fighting with a new coat rack in the laundry room and six new holes in the wall. I've also successfully moved quite a bit of stuff around in our house, making it impossible for Brian to find anything anymore, and cleaned out the garage.

Scott, on the other hand, was deeply concerned his teacher was not a zebra. See, dear friend and pen pal Chai read the blog last week and immediately sent us a copy of "Llama Llama Misses Mama." (thank you Chai!!) Great read and perfect for calming those pre-preschool fears. The teacher in the book, not surprisingly, is a zebra. And the whole way home, having only read the book once earlier that morning, Scotty continually pointed out to me that Mrs. G was in fact, not a zebra. I'm really hoping she wears a striped shirt tomorrow.

So, there you have it. It begins tomorrow. I just hope they love him as much as we do.
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State of the Toddler

8/22/2012

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Age: 3 years, 4 days

Height: 39.5 inches

Weight: 35.2 pounds

Clinical impressions: the Bear appears to be on target for all of his developmental milestones. However, Dr. Awesome felt as though some of his speech was "unclear" and this may warrant further assessment.

Huh?

I tried to keep calm as she told me this, but I will admit, I'm confused. I was really excited for our three-year well check. I sat in the exam room with a mixture of eagerness and anticipation, happy to show off our young child like he was a potted plant or something. Look, Doc! We managed to keep it alive for another year! Gold star!

And then her comment just totally deflated me. I'm trying really hard to not assume the Defensive Mom Posture (i.e. "No, he's perfect. Where did you get your medical degree again?") but I don't really see a problem with his language. I understand every word he says perfectly. Hell, I practically read his mind most days. Isn't that what Moms are supposed to do? I know that all mothers report they can understand their children, even when the rest of world has no idea what they are saying, so I understand I am not a reliable source of information. But really? Does this really warrant further evaluation?

I know I can be a difficult patient (somewhere, my husband and  my mother are nodding their heads quietly), so I did not take the news kindly. I hammered questions at her in a vaguely snotty tone. "What exactly do you mean? Can you elaborate? Can you tell me what you are hearing or seeing that is a concern? What is our next step? What do you recommend? How significant is this?"

Dr. This-Close-To-Getting-Fired stammered a bit (and probably flagged Scotty's chart with the "Difficult Parent" sticker), so I called a friend and asked for a second opinion. She assured me that Scotty's speech is excellent though she's happy to provide referrals if necessary. (Tip for Parents-to-Be: seek out Mommy friends that also have helpful jobs, like audiologist and pediatrician. Stack the deck in your favor; you'll save yourself a million in co-pays).

So, I don't know. Is our doctor getting kick-backs or something? If cab drivers can get kick-backs from strip clubs, who knows if pediatricians are in cahoots with other specialists. I mean, this is Vegas. Poor Prince Harry can't even party naked without the world finding out. Nothing about this town surprises me anymore.

Despite this little hiccup, the Bear appears to be a healthy and happy little guy. In the meantime, here's a quick run-down of the Bear, Year Three:

Current likes:
Trucks, cars, street sweepers, car transporters, any construction        
    vehicle, tow trucks, ... .... (this list could literally go on forever)
Chicken nuggets
Froggie (as always)
Little white bear and his Momma
his Daddy
Indiana Grandma
Compressors
Windmills
Watching videos of cute kittens on You Tube
Bubble Guppies, particularly the one where Albie falls off his tricycle
    ("Call the Clambulance!)
Looking for "super letters"
Strawberry smoothies
Lollipops
Henry
Building castles
Playing Batman (i.e. playing with his cars on his car table. Not sure how     this one got named...)
His big boy bed with his extra-special pillow cases (from Indiana
    Grandma, naturally)
Uncle Jim
Bossing his parents around
Carson and Sam
Punctuation (no joke...he loves exclamation marks)
Jackson and Alex
Saying "Quesadilla!" to Lauryn
Grocery shopping (in particular, pushing his own cart)

Dislikes:
Camp
Beets
Dogs, except JD ("They chew on me")
His pediatrician (oh wait, that's me)
Walking quickly
Keeping Play-Doh colors separate
The car seat in Brian's car ("It hurts my booty")

The next year should bring some big changes...can't wait to see how it unfolds!



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The First Three Years

7/13/2012

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I just ordered Scotty's birthday invitations today. He'll be three in just over a month.

Three.

Three?

Three.

How did that happen?

Wasn't it just yesterday I was at the perinatologist's office, incredibly pregnant, hooked up to the baby monitor while watching "Shark Week" and eating my weight in Whoopers? It certainly feels that way.

But it wasn't. It's been three years since that, and we've gone through so much in that time.  Bed rest, jaundice, CatheterGate, SwaddleGate, PoopGate, EarGate, and just about any other -Gate you can tack on a word. We've watched as a our tiny, helpless infant has slowly but surely transformed into a sturdy toddler with a mouth like a sailor and grin that melts your heart.

(Please, please, please don't let him get kicked out of preschool when he starts yelling, "Dammit Jesus! Dammit!")

(No, I'm not joking. If anyone has any suggestions on how to stop him from swearing, I'm all ears).

Anyways, looking back at the Bear's development made me think about those first three years. If Motherhood came with a written description,  what would the job look like on paper? What titles do we, as moms, hold? What are the requirements?

YEAR ONE: Orifice Manager

To sum up Year One in a nutshell, it's all about body fluids. From your first day on the job (water breaks! Push that babe out!) to post-pregnancy recovery, you are surrounded by fluids. Hormone levels plummet, you sweat through your sheets at night, and your boobs start leaking. If your body functions weren't enough, you have your new baby's to contend with as well. Food needs to go in through the mouth and come out the other end. This sounds incredibly basic and simple, but when it involves a newborn, all bets are off. Is the baby getting enough to eat? Did his poop transition? Why is he spitting up? Why does he only spit up on you when you forgot the burp cloth? Does he have another ear infection? Why do his eyes look swollen? Is he pooping enough?

Mothers of little boys will find extra joy in spending the first few months covered in urine as well, since the minute air hits the wee-wee, pee-pee comes out. It's messy, it's hectic, and you, New Mom, are officially in charge of every orifice on or connected to your baby. The child doesn't give a whole lot back to the new mom in terms of interaction, but that's not a bad thing, since you will be doing too much laundry to think about it.

YEAR TWO: Chief Safety Operations Coordinator

Ah, mobility. Your loving bundle of joy will eventually stop puking on you and begin exploring the house. It's right around this time you start wondering why you did not purchase a ranch-style home with padded walls, as everything - and I mean everything - suddenly becomes a danger to the little muffin. Cabinets need to be locked shut, drawers sealed off, stairs gated, dogs muzzled, and shelving bracketed to the walls. That helpless little infant is now a crawling/cruising/walking nightmare that can and will get into whatever you haven't bolted down. You realize your floors are extremely dirty. You vow to wash them more often but realize in your battle against the Cheerios on your floor, you are losing.

Sleep is better during year two, but food suddenly because yet another unexpected element of terror. Does your child understand how to chew? How small do I need to cut this grape? Is he choking or just giggling? Meals become not only incredibly messy but also a giant source of stress. Because if the little tyke isn't choking, there's a good chance he's tossing food around the kitchen in large, happy handfuls. This is the time to either invest in a really good cleaning service or a dog. You figure out which one is cheaper.

YEAR THREE: Socialization Engineer

So you've kept the kid alive this long. Congratulations! Now the stakes are going to be raised. Not only do you need to feed/bathe/sleep the child, but you need to somehow mold them in a mostly-functional member of society. Short of releasing your child to go live with a pack of wolves, this burden falls on you. For this year, you will need an enormous amount of patience, several bottles of wine, good friends, and the direct number to an excellent nanny.

Among the challenges of Year Three are:

-- hosting a successful playdate whereas your child doesn't beat the crap out of other children

-- teaching them successfully to use the potty

-- developing clear language skills so when they yell, 'Dammit, Jesus!' everyone knows exactly what they just said

-- promoting good manners, which includes (but is not limited to) saying please/thank you, asking permission, and not biting their friends

-- encouraging them to use that opposable thumb by writing with objects, eating with utensils, and giving you very adorable "thumbs-up!" when they are happy

"Sharing" becomes a dirty word, and if you had a nickle every time someone under the age of three yelled, 'Mine!' you'd be in the 1%. Seriously. When you watch how toddlers fight over toys, you wonder how modern society was ever built in the first place. So. Much. Yelling.

Of course, Year Three is capped off with the momentous event called PRESCHOOL. This is the moment when all of your hard comes together. It's a combination of all of the skills you've been working on for the last three years wrapped up into one giant stress-inducing package. Will they meltdown? Will they follow directions? Will they eat paste or make new friends? And most importantly, how many times will they swear and take the Lord's name in vain on their first day of school?

                                                        *****************

Scotty is 34 months, 3 weeks, and 5 days old. He starts preschool in 47 days, and I'm praying he doesn't set the landspeed record for getting kicked out of school.

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Vintage Bear Photos: All Baby, All Fat

3/30/2012

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The search for Froggie pictures had me cracking up yesterday. I flagged some of my favorites and thought you might enjoy them, too.

I honestly cannot believe what a little chubber-muffin Scotty was. No wonder the kid didn't crawl until he was 10 months old -- he was too fat.

Around three months, he started to pack on the pounds. Right in his middle section.
Picture
Froggie, ever present, in the left-hand corner
You would think sitting upright would burn some calories, but nope. He continued to expand. Mostly in his face.

(Editor's note: Scotty is not actually sitting upright; under the blanket is his Bumbo seat. Looking at these photos brings back so many memories, including how many stinkin' loads of laundry I did. So. Much. Laundry. Also, please note the breast pump on the left. Egads.)
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Ironically, "da-da" is still his favorite word. Primed from an early age, I guess.
We went to baby gymnastics. Still, no weight came off. We just laid on a lot of stuffed turtles.
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Hey! I'm developing something called...a personality! Fun!
By seven months, the chub was seriously out of control. Look at him - he doesn't even fit in that hat. I'm pretty sure the hat was a 2T.
Picture
Even my pants are too tight...
But like most mothers, I was blind to my own child. So what did I do? I fed him cheese. Not diet cheese, but regular, full-fat cheese. And he loved it.
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More! More! I LOOOOVE cheese!
Scotty displayed no shame about his size. Shame was too complicated of an emotion for his little eight-month old brain to handle. So he sat around the house, naked, reading books.
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How many rolls of fat are on my arms? Let's count...one. Two. Three. Four. I'm tired. Now I'm hungry. More cheese, please?
The only time he balked is when I attempted to feed him something nutritious, like leafy greens. The expression below says it all.
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God, woman, what are you feeding me? Take it away!
Here, Scotty does his best Chris-Farley-SNL-Chippendales impressions. It's spot-on, really.
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LMFAO: I'm chubby and I know it...
But alas, that chub has come off. With walking came running, and with running came major calorie burn. At two and a half years old, we're left with this: slimmer, but all attitude and still naked. And size 9 sneakers.
Picture
Tired, sweaty Bear
Yup, that's my kid. Why is he wearing sneakers on my couch?!
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When Stuffed Animals Attack

2/9/2012

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Scotty has recently developed an affinity for certain stuffed animals over the last few weeks.

It started out innocently enough. After spending the morning cuddling with White Bear, Scotty insisted on bringing him with us to Costco. I consented. I mean, it was just White Bear. Where's the harm in that?

So White Bear came to Costco with us. Scotty kept a protective (chubby) arm around him the whole trip.
Picture
White Bear shops the wine aisle at Costco.
And then this week, he was all about Tucker. When I told him we had to go the dry cleaners and the grocery store, again, he insisted Tucker come with us.

(I know, I know. The glamorous life of the stay-at-home mom. This is why I get so excited about Junior League stuff.)

As you can see in the cart, next to the almond milk, is Tucker the Puppy. Forever sleeping, since his batteries are dead. (shh...)
Picture
Tucker looks for fancy cheeses.
And then today, it was Jelly Cat's turn to shine. Not only did he get snuggles all morning, but he was honored with a trip to music lessons. I don't know about you, but introducing a stuffed animals to five other toddlers is like donning a cow carcass and jumping into a pool of sharks. It's just a really, really bad idea.
Picture
Right under my chin...ahh, that's the spot.
Thankfully, no toddlers were injured during music lessons, and more thankfully, Scotty lost interest in Jelly after twenty minutes. I was able to stash the cat behind my bag and it (he?) didn't pose as an interruption for the rest of class. No one melted down, no one got into a tug-of-war with Jelly with his floppy cars. Peace endured. (mostly).

I looked it up on Baby Center to determine if this behavior was normal, and it is. According to the experts, it's common for children this age to gravitate toward a favorite lovey or stuffed animal (or in our case, multiple stuffed animals). They suggest that because kids are so busy exploring this big, scary world, a lovey or animal is a great way to comfort themselves during this journey towards independence.

Okay, I'll buy it. Sounds good.

But please tune in to watch us on "Hoarders: Toddler Edition" as they chronicle the Bear's bedtime "comforting" routine. There are so many stinkin' animals in his bed, we're not sure where our child is.

Can you find him?
Picture
E.T. Bear
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Speaking of Pants...

10/20/2011

1 Comment

 
Someone lost his.
Picture
Semi-nudie Bear
...and one day, I'll be showing this picture to his prom date.
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BossyPants

10/19/2011

3 Comments

 
So the weird thing about being a parent is that you are so freaking excited for your child to start talking. If I could graph it out, it would like something like this:

0-6 months: He made a noise that wasn't crying! Hooray!!

6-9 months: He's babbling! This is great! I think he said, "Da-da!"

9-12 months: Omigosh! Real words! He said "Ball!" And "dog"! That is so cute! Did we get that on video?

12-16 months: Wow, he was saying a whole bunch of stuff like two months ago, and now the kid has gone silent. Where is that ASD checklist again?

16-22 months: Oh, we're fine. He's chattering away again. I think all of that physical activity took away from language development. Now he's putting together one and two word sentences. This is the greatest!

22-26 months: He's just a little chatterbox! What a love! Everything that comes out of his mouth is adorable. He's up to three and four - and beyond - word sentences! Amazing!

26+ months: Is this kid ever going to shut up? Oh my god. And how in the world did he become so opinionated? And bossy? Did he really just tell me to sit down? I'm the parent here!

As you might guess, we are at 26+ months.

Scotty has turned into something of a small dictator.

He is ruling this family with a tiny, iron fist. Brian and I are quickly learning that if Scotty isn't happy, ain't nobody happy. And it's about the smallest stuff, too. Like lunch yesterday. I asked him if he wanted cheese. He said, "Otay." (so adorable). I then went to the fridge and got him a wheel of Babybel cheese. He saw me, waved his hand with authority, and said, "No. String cheese."

I'm sure I blanched for a moment before replying, "Uh...sorry sweetie. We don't have any string cheese." I was just at Costco! How did I forget the string cheese?! Curses! The child will be unhappy! Use distraction. "Have a wheel of cheese instead."

He pounded his fists on the table. "No wheel cheese! No wheel! String cheese! STRING CHEESE!"

Had it been in his vocab, I half expected him to say, "Off with her head!"

Aside from having very strong opinions about cheese, Scotty also likes to act as my doctor. Every morning, he tells me to sit on the bed ("Sit down, Momb," as he pats the blanket) and take my vitamins. He likes to pull each container out one by one, demand I open them, and then set the pill on the dresser. He then examines the vitamin before shoving it in my mouth yelling, "Take vitamin, Momb. TAKE VITAMIN!" This goes on for like, twenty minutes, until I'm on B-6 overload. It's like have a pint-size physician. A very, very bossy one. And I'm sure I have the most expensive urine in all of Las Vegas.

His demands aren't for me alone, thankfully. Yesterday, he barked at his stuffed doggie. Then held the dog at eye level and reprimanded him, saying, "Indoor voice, Doggie. INDOOR VOICE!"

::sigh::

Or my personal favorite, which happened at Costco yesterday (yes, the same visit where I did not purchase any string cheese). I was fishing in my wallet for the Costco card, which had wedged itself in the farthest corner. My dalliances were holding up the line to enter the store and Scotty took one look at me and then the line, and then exclaimed very loudly, "Oh for goodness' sake, Momb!"

Everyone laughed. Except me.

Toddlers are funny. It's like living with a combination of a parrot, raccoon, and some kind of tropical storm all at once. Your house is never clean. Your words come back to haunt you. You never know when the next Category 5 storm will hit.

I think that's why God made 'em cute.

Thank goodness for that.
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Unprepared

10/13/2011

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I've been fairly open on here about my reluctance to start the arduous task of potty-training, and then this morning, Scotty called my bluff.

Little stinker.

He's taken to pooping in our closet. This is much better than it sounds - he is still wearing a diaper and the mess is contained. He, however, is hitting that stage where a little, uh, privacy is needed. Yesterday, as I made the bed and got ready, I watched as he bee-lined to our closet, very carefully slid the door shut, and gave me one last look like, "Hey Mom...pretend you're not seeing this."

I thought he had something in his mouth, so I followed him and cracked the door. He didn't have anything in his mouth, as he stood here, mouth agape, knees bent, face red. He looked up at me and I felt like I had completely interrupted a very private moment. He then burst into a big smile and declared, "Poo poo!" and gave him rump a hearty pat.

This morning, he did the same thing. I half-expected him to grab the USWeekly off the nightstand before he hit the closet. I followed him again, but before he had a chance to push, I asked him, "Are you making poo-poos?" He nodded yes. "Do you want to go on the potty?" He looked at me, looked over at the bathroom, and then said very certainly, "Yes. Potty."

Um...

See, I don't have a toddler potty seat. I don't have anything potty related, and the kid just called my bluff. I didn't expect him to say yes - I thought I had six more months to plan my attack. I would have to hold him over the seat while he dropped fecal matter in the toilet, and quite honestly, that sounded like a haz-mat situation in the making.

So I did what any good parent does in that situation: I stalled and then distracted him.

"What a good boy!" I said, gently taking him by the arm and steering him past the potty. "Let's go to your room and change your diaper...and then M&Ms!"

Looks like I know how's buying an Elmo-toddler potty this weekend.
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Top Gun

10/6/2011

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Remember how I mentioned the Bear is a better traveler than I am? He is. He really is.

I learned what a lovely travel companion he is during the recent jaunt to the Midwest last week. In an effort to save some cash, both flights had layovers - one in Omaha and one in Phoenix. Nothing against the good people of Omaha, but your airport kind of sucks. Sorry. That was definitely stressful - getting off a plane, having 60 minutes to kill, and then re-boarding yet another plane. As any mother would attest, traveling with toddlers makes you sherpa-like; the bags, the stroller, the child. It's an additional 50 pounds of stuff that a normal human being doesn't have to lug around.

But alas, Scotty was blissfully well-behaved on all of the flights. Leaving Chicago, our flight was delayed 15 minutes. No problem, I thought; we have a 60 minute lay-over in Phoenix. We are still good on time. I bought the Bear a McDonald's cheeseburger ("cheese-bur-ger-ger," in Bearspeak) and we settled in at the gate.

Fifteen minutes went by. No plane.

Thirty minutes went by. Then thirty-five. Then forty. I began to pace, with the Bear in tow, feverishly praying for a plane. Scotty's cheeseburger was long gone by this point, so he was happily flying his own little toy plane in the window of the airport gate. He had no idea what a lay-over was or how annoying it is to miss a flight (especially when you are so close to home.)

Finally, ten minutes later, a plane arrived. We boarded, we flew, yada yada. The plane touched down in sunny, glorious Phoenix (ah, how I love the sun) at 3:29. Our flight - leaving out of the D gates - was scheduled to depart at 4:00pm. I can still make, I told myself. We might have to hurry, but we'll make it.

Then the stupid plane sits on the tarmac for the next twenty minutes.

At 3:52, I pushed my call button. The flight attendant scurried over, probably thinking there was a problem with my child (who was sitting silently next to me, completely absorbed in "Cars." We were out of gummi bears, but hadn't yet touched the Cheez-Its or M&Ms. Life is grand when you are a traveling Bear.) "I have a flight to catch at 4pm," I told her quietly. "I have to be in Vegas by six..." I hesitated for a moment, then said quickly, "...I have a speaking engagement at six. And I'm the speaker."

Eight heads swiveled my way immediately. They were probably sizing me up thinking, "Who is this chick? She looks like a stay-at-home mom...frumpy...tired...poorly dressed. But she has a speaking engagement?"

Yes, I admit, I was grossly overstating my role. I had agreed to speak at a round-table training for Junior League that night. Considering my two good friends were hosting it, I didn't want to leave them in a lurch. But did it sound like I was presenting myself as some kind of key-note speaker at a large Vegas convention? Well, that was up to my audience to determine.

The flight attendant quickly promised to call the gate of the plane leaving, would attempt to get the stroller out of baggage as quickly as possible, and would order us an electric cart to transport the Bear and I to the D gates. (We were pulling into the C terminal, so it was a trek.) The guy behind me quickly latched on to my electric cart promise, stating he too was going to Vegas on the four o'clock flight, and asked if he could catch a ride. Feeling magnanimous, I said yes. I was, after all, a speaker. At a function. Where people would be listening to...me. (insert drunk-with-power-hair-flip-here).

So imagine my surprise when we finally, finally exited that plane only to find...no stroller. We waited two grueling minutes, and the man going to Vegas hustled by, promising to look for the electric cart while I waited at the plane's gate for the stroller to be brought up. Finally, the stroller emerged and Scotty and I were able to escape the tunnel to find...no electric cart. Did that guy take it? Did it ever arrive? Either way, I threw my child into the stroller, slung the bags off each hook, straightened my ballet flats, and pulled my hair into a ponytail. "Hold on, Scotty," I told him. "You're going for a ride."

The kid squealed with joy all the way from C-18 to D-3. I can say with certainty that we were moving at approximately 5.8-6.2 mph.  I almost ran over several elderly folks and one small child, but we did make it on time. I was dripping with sweat, out of breath, but thankful that marathon training has its unexpected benefits (like covering 1/4 of a mile in about 2 minutes).

Thank god.

The good people on this flight brought me a drink at no cost (gin and tonic, my favorite airplane drink). Scotty noshed on Cheez-Its and I reapplied my make-up. By the time we landed, we found ourselves in the familiar position of waiting by the plane's door for the stroller to be brought up. After another 10 minutes, the pilot emerged and asked if we were okay. I told him about the situation, and he immediately offered to go find it himself. When he came back with it, he thanked us for flying his airline. Just as I was about to walk away, he then said, "Hey! You wanna come see the cockpit?"

Do I? Does the Bear?

Is the Pope Catholic?

And just like that, Scotty got a chance to view firsthand what it looks like from the pilot's seat. I was very cautious about going up there, but Scotty wasn't. Once I put him in the seat (at the encouragement of the pilot), he grabbed for the gears and started smashing the buttons. The pilot was cool about it, but I wasn't (um, I wasn't ready for the plane to start moving again and inadvertently send us to Mumbai.)
Picture
Top Gun Bear
I find this to particularly amusing, since when we were taking Scotty home from the hospital on Day 3 of his young life, we put him in his car seat and found he looked a lot like a fighter pilot. Maybe a career in aviation is in his future?
Picture
Let's hope he didn't inherit his mother's fear of heights.
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The Gift of Good Friends

9/16/2011

2 Comments

 
Something momentous happened on Wednesday.

I turned 23.

For the 10th year in a row.

(::giggles::)

To be honest, I was dreading my birthday this year. With all of the events of this summer, I was just not in a celebratory mood. A few friends had asked me if I wanted to go out and grab a birthday drink, and I promptly turned them down. The thing was, I just wasn't sure how I was going to be feeling. And the last thing I wanted to do was schedule a big night out only to have me crying uncontrollably and completely ruining the whole thing.

(The Strip lights have been hard to look at lately. My dad loved the Strip, and on the night we were at the Cosmopolitian with Uncle Jay, I had forgotten about this until I was comfortably laying in a chaise lounge by the pool. One glance at the Paris and Bellagio signs and I melted into a puddle of Kim. Not good. Kind of makes for an awkward night for everyone involved. Especially when I forget to wear waterproof mascara.)

So I made the decision to avoid the Strip at night. Except the next General Membership meeting for Junior League was being held at the Foundation Room at Mandalay Bay.

At night.

On my birthday.

And I had to speak for my committee.

Really?

It was kind of one of the those one-two punches where I was like, "How am I going to get out of this one?" but kept coming up with no answer. I had missed the last GM in June. I didn't want to send another proxy.

And so I sucked it up, gave myself a mental pep talk, and declined every invitation to celebrate my birthday that night. Because who knows how I was going to feel? I figured I would just keep my head down and go to bed early. No harm, no foul.

Besides, my dad has always sent me flowers on my birthday for every year I've been alive. He never missed a year. Ever. The idea of not getting flowers because of my dad's passing was like a total sucker punch, right in the gut. that took the wind right out of me.

Quite honestly, if the opportunity arose, I would have cancelled the whole day altogether.

Instead, I woke up on Wednesday morning only to find my forehead wrinkle to be bigger and deeper than ever. (I've been talking about my forehead wrinkle forever; it's the one right between my eyebrows. If I could, I would Botox that sucker into oblivion.) And on the morning of my 33rd birthday, my forehead wrinkle seemed to be mocking me, making it known that I wasn't getting any younger and future would be filled with fancy creams and injectables. Yay. Break out the balloons.

I was incredibly grumpy by the time I poured myself my first cup of coffee. Brian brightened the morning by giving me three of my favorite cupcakes from my favorite bakery (Retro Bakery!) with candles in them. Scotty sat in his chair, clapping and shouting, "Cupcakes! Cupcakes!" The gloom from the rain and my giant forehead wrinkle seemed to feel a little less heavy, though I wasn't sure what I was going to do all morning.

By 8am, I had my answer.

A loud knock on the front door revealed my very silly friend Deana, thrusting a giant cup of Starbucks coffee in my face, shouting, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" Her kids were in the car, Courtney was on her way over, and according to them, I was off for the morning. They had booked me a mani-pedi at the local nail place, a blow-out with my stylist, and were on Bear-duty for the rest of the day.

Me? I was speechless.

Let me tell you, that forehead wrinkle didn't seem to be that big of a deal at this point. Ditto for the rain.

With a little convincing, I managed to stay for a bit of a play date with the girls (presents! Cards! Coffee!) and then head to the gym to get my miles in (this marathon isn't going to run itself.) Then it was back home to feed Scotty, put him down, and oh yeah, did I mention they had called the sitter to come an hour early, allowing me to make it to my hair appointment on time?

By 3pm, my nails were polished ("Ibiza" by Zoya on the toes, "Second Honeymoon" by OPI on the hands) and my hair was a bouncy, shiny cascade of curls. I joined Deana while she was getting her haircut, and the two of us sat there, sipping Pinot Noir and giggling. We changed into our nicer clothes for the meeting and headed to Mandalay Bay. I felt like a saucy, glammed-up version of my normal self. The shiny, Spanx-d kind.

Dawn, Deana's co-chair and a member of our provisional class, met us in the parking garage, with Popcorn Girl popcorn for me (swoon!) and champagne for all of us. Seriously? I felt like I was back in college, without a care in the world, as I sipped my Vevue Cliquot, except in college, there was no expensive champagne, no Cole Haan kitten heels, and no leaning against an adorable Mercedes convertible in a giant casino parking garage. But you know what? If this is what 33 looks like, count me in.

The meeting went great, I managed to not vomit on the microphone or trip over my new handbag (a birthday present from Brian, what I can only call "The Purse that Will Never Be a Diaper Bag," since all of my other purses seemed to have morphed into matchbox car-carrying, diaper-stashing bags.) I don't know if it was all the champagne, but I couldn't stop grinning. Even the sight of the Las Vegas skyline, lit up against the night sky, did not upset me. I felt great. I felt happy. I felt...excited.

And so five of us headed to Fleur for a quick birthday dinner after the meeting, and surprisingly, my heart did not hurt a bit. There were no tears on the horizon. Nancy purchased a mini-bottle of Vevue Cliquot to split (again, what is up with all of this great bubbly? Where has it been all my life?) and just as the croque monseuirs were arriving...

...so did a certain silver-haired Bravo TV Top Chef judge and contestant.

Be still my beating heart. It was Hubert Keller.

If you've read this blog, you know that I've been talking about Chef Keller for years. YEARS. And there were a few near missed for he and I over the years. The one time Brian and I were there for dinner, and he was there, but did not approach our table. Or the other time we saw him getting out of the parking garage elevator with his wife and we waved but he didn't hear us. Or the many, many times I've attempted to stalk him at the Burger Bar with my cute, camera-ready child in tow.

And then on all nights, with absolutely no pre-planning or pre-thought on my part, he just walked out of the shadows and up to our table and asked us if we were enjoying our meal.

I have no idea what my face looked like, but everyone started laughing hysterically at me. Apparently the first words out of my mouth were, "Hubert Keller! I LOVE YOU!" and I popped out of the booth and started vigorously shaking his hands.

Yup, that was me. Cool as a cucumber.

Thankfully, he was very good-natured about it and posed for a few pictures. (I even managed to touch his little ponytail...it's as soft and beautiful as he is.) He came back to our table a second time and asked if we had ordered dessert yet. Sonnya told him it was my birthday and without hesitation, he told us he would be happy to have our server make us Fleur's signature dessert, a fogado, tableside. I also told him we had an empty spot if he wanted to join us, but he politely declined.

Bummer.

Honestly, it was such a great night. It was so overwhelming and wonderful and exciting. The a fogado was made with liquid nitrogen (a nod to Richard Blaise, perhaps?) and was totally delicious. It reminded me of Ireland. I don't think I stopped talking about Chef Keller the whole night, either. I was still talking about it by the time I arrived home and Brian greeted me (Dawn had texted him a picture of the two of us.)

Amazing? Absolutely. And the whole day - not just the Hubert Keller part - was perfect, start to finish. For what could have been a really tough day, I'm happy to say my friends made it into something extraordinary. And when I woke up on Thursday morning, I didn't even notice my forehead wrinkle, mainly because the laugh lines around my mouth were so much deeper.

But those are wrinkles I will gladly take.
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I love you, Chef Keller!
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