Tate, 18 months

Just the title of this blog alone makes me both a little sad and a little excited. Sad because my little baby is just not so little anymore. At 18 months, he wants to do everything by himself. He screams if I try to help him up or down the stairs, throws himself onto the floor if I try to feed him, immediatly tears his socks and shoes off after I've put them on. However, pretty much any other time, he wants to be held, wants mommy there, wants to sit on my lap. And sometimes I just love that. I love rubbing my cheek against his, marveling at how smooth and soft and flawless his skin is. I love how he gives kisses almost constantly at times, how he says "love you", how he nuzzles in to my neck, even if it's just for a few moments. And I know, as he gets older, he'll only get more independent. So I'll miss those sweet moments with my little guy. But I'll also love watching him entertain himself more. I'll feel better leaving him with a babysitter and at church. I can't wait to hear him talk, really talk, in his own little sentences.

At 18 months, he is saying a lot more than the 10 or so words at 15 months. He still loves to mimic animal noises, loves books (especially "Barn" and "Pet Show"), likes to sit in his rocking chair and say "rock rock", requests "snacks, crackers, bar, milk, drink", always wants to play with "arrow" (pronounced "R O", which is Rowan), asks to talk to "Susu" or "Dada" or "Grandma" on the phone and probably says the word "Mama" hundreds of times a day (that is not an axaggeration). Other than "mama", his favorite word is certainly "no", but pretty close is "dem", which somehow means yes. He keeps me entertained and is so energetic I can't sit still for a minute.

It's amazing to imagine what he's going to be like as he gets older and amazing to spend all of this time with him while he's little. Happy 18-month birthday, Tater Tot. I love you.

Bad Mom

We're here, in Plainfield, attempting to have a mini-vacation while we're staying with Lance's dad. It's been, well, not exactly a vacation. We headed into the city yesterday where we went to Navy Pier, rode the ferris wheel and watched part of the air show, all of which was nice. What was not as nice was keeping the kids entertained on the hour plus train ride each way, navigating our way around the city amongst all of the people there for the air and water show, and dealing with the very hot weather.

And I, in vacation-mode, was a little more relaxed in my parenting than usual. So, as Lance was getting money from an ATM, Tate and I watched Rowan play "King of the Mountain" on a railing. And just as I was going to tell her it was time to get down, she fell, directly onto her forehead. This resulted in a large bruise, lots of crying and Rowan wanting to be held a majority of our walk.

Not having learned my lesson, when we were in downtown Naperville today, we stopped for the kids to look at a fountain. I held Rowan's hand as she walked along the ledge around the fountain. Then she got down and Lance and I were talking. And she got back up, started walking around by herself, and fell into the fountain. Face down. I ran to her, but a man was already helping her out. She was scared and soaking wet and crying--loudly. An older man, who watched the whole event, was glaring at me and shaking his head. I wanted to run over to him and say "This was an accident! I'm really not a bad mom. It was just a lapse in judgment. Really, I play with her. We bake cookies together. We do art projects. Really we do! See my diaper bag? There are healthy treats, activities, even dry clothes for her to change into! We read books. I even listen to Veggie Tales in the car. And I'm constantly telling her stories." But telling him wouldn't make her dry and happy.

So hopefully tomorrow will be a better day. I will be a better mom. We will have more fun. We will do our best to enjoy our last day here. We'll start off with a better plan, I'll be involved, observant. We'll have a wonderful day as a family.

When She Grows Up

The other day, after seeing the doctor yet again, Lance and I were talking to Rowan about what she'd like to be when she grows up. She usually sees a male doctor, but for the lovely job of having an abscess drained, he actually scheduled her an appointment with my OB, who is female. Rowan was very excited about having a girl doctor. And, I must admit, Dr. Gootjes was amazing with Rowan. A few stickers and suckers and that abscess was poked and drained without sedation! Lance said "Rowan, would you like to be a doctor when you grow up?" Rowan looked at Lance and said "No." "Oh," said Lance, "don't you think it would be nice to help people feel better when they're sick?" "No, Daddy," said Rowan, "I'm going to be the president when I grow up."

At three, Rowan has no fear of failure, no concept of strengths and weaknesses, no reason to believe that she might not be president one day. And I love that about her. I hope that she'll stay like this forever, always full of confidence, sure of herself, sure of her future. Because she really could be president one day. Or a teacher, a doctor, a ballerina...

Recent Rowanisms

Rowan has been saying the funniest things lately. Of course I always say I'm going to write them down, but then something comes up, I don't write them down and I forget them altogether. Here are the only two I can remember right now. Hopefully I'll remember some more. But if I don't, maybe I actually will write them down next time.

Rowan, this morning, while we were playing "Red Light, Green Light", stopped briefly when I said "red light" and then started running. I said "Rowan, you can't run a red light." Rowan said "Mommy, it's okay. It was a blinking red."

Rowan, last night, when she finished going to the bathroom and had a large piece of toilet paper stuck in her bottom said "Mommy, look at my cottontail!"