If you give a mouse a cookie

If Ava wakes up at 3:30 AM, she’s going to want to rock “for a couple minutes”.

If you rock her for a couple minutes, she’s going to want to “go to Mama Daddy’s bed”.

If she goes to Mama Daddy’s bed, she’ll “want to watch ocean movie”.

But it’s now 3:45 AM, so the answer to that is “No.”

The answer to that is “Why?”

The answer to that is “Because it’s very late and time for sleeping now.”

Why?

Because we’re all so sleepy now.

If Ava’s sleepy, she’s going to want you to pat her belly.

If you pat her belly, she’ll need a diaper change.

After you change her diaper, you’ll realize that the house is freakishly cold, so you’ll get up to bump up the thermostat a little.

While you’re up, you’ll need to go to the bathroom.

Ava will want to join you in there.

When everybody gets back to bed, the bed will be cold, and everybody’s feet will be cold because the house is still freakishly cold

.

Ava will plant her cold little feet right on your belly, which will remind her that you need to pat her belly “for a couple minutes”.

Your belly-patting arm will get tired, but you can’t switch because Ava’s laying on the other arm, which is now asleep because her head is right on the nerve.

Ava won’t be comfortable like that, so she’ll want to go back to her bed.

But first, she’ll want to rock “for a couple minutes”.

Working 9 to 5, what a way to make a living.

This week at work, my shit, and a whole bunch of other people's shit, got handed to me.  The particulars are kind of unimportant in the context of this blog, although the end result does have a significant impact on the direction our family may be taking.

My department, my job, which I actually did love doing, and a status quo of almost 8 years were all yanked out from under me with no notice on Thursday.  The silver lining is that I was reassigned, and even during the worst economic crisis to hit higher education in the history of Nevada, I'm not taking a pay cut and I've been handed an opportunity to go in a completely new direction in a department where they are glad to have me.  I'm lucky, as usual.

In the past few months, I've been doing a lot of professional soul-searching.  Really, we knew that something drastic would happen with my job, although we didn't come close to anticipating this as it is.  The career trajectory of the International Student Advisor has a narrow, very specific path.  It's not like there are a lot of schools in Nevada (education isn't exactly high on the list of priorities here, which is intensely short-sighted and will only make things worse in the long run BUT I DIGRESS).  Any change I would make in that field would likely be a lateral move, and it's unlikely that I would progress very much even in the longer term.

But I wasn't ready to quit.  We aren't in a position for me to stop working.  We have a new house, and although we got a hell of a deal on it, we lead a two-income lifestyle (oh, how fancy we are...).  Ava is in a wonderful school, and if I'm not working, we'd cut that back pretty drastically (not entirely) and that would be sub-optimal for her.  If I'm suddenly a stay-at-home mom, do we have another kid?  I don't know that we're up to that just yet.  Rob travels so much for work, it would be so hard to start over with a new baby right now.  We need to have some stability, and so we were just in a holding pattern until something definite revealed itself.  And that's what happened.  A whole shitstorm of revelations came down.

The big picture shows that I'm not completely expendable, which means that the hives and acne (you know what's awesome when you're 38 and the spotlight is shining on you?  PIMPLES.) that the stress of not knowing and not having any say in the matter was causing are starting to clear up.  Instead of having to decide that it's time for a new direction, one was handed to me, and my resume can only benefit from it.

But my ego took a pretty big hit this week.  It's hard not to be insulted.  I like to think that Michael Corleone's philosophy of how it's not personal and it's just business is the way to handle stuff like this.  But it's very personal.  Someone else decided what I get to be when I grow up.  That's not an easy pill to swallow (unlike Tylenol PM, which, thank the lord, is SUPER easy).  I understand that change is inevitable and that These Things Happen and that BS about the good lord doesn't close a door without opening a window.  The lesson thus far has been that in the future, when I grow up and I'm trained in my new job and moving up in the field (oh, we all know I will...), I will remember that even bad news deserves to be delivered with consideration.  Mary Poppins said it best:  A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down.  I think it is possible to do what was done this week without making it feel like it felt.

This week was also not an example of me being on my Motherhood A-Game, either.  That really bothers me.  Rob was on the road, and Ava is 2 and a half, and I had to be a grown-up at work AND at home, and that was hard.  It sounds so petty when I think of it like that.  I think of when I was a kid and my parents had stuff to deal with.  My mom's been gone over 20 years, so she's kind of idealized in my mind.  The absolute worst thing that I thought all week was "My mom would have handled this so much better..." and I got lost in that spiral.  But I don't know that she would have done any better than I did.  I've come to realize that she's probably be just as pissed off as I am and she would do her best just like I am, and that's really all there is too it.

This is kind of rambly, and, well, bloggity (oh, I get it...) but raising a family isn't always about what happens inside the house to everyone in the family all at the same time.  This week was probably the toughest week we've had since Ava was born, and it's over and we all survived.  From what I can tell, Ava's fine (although she now knows the word "why?" and she LOVES it because she repeats it over and over and COME ON, KID but she probably would have learned that anyway) and no worse for having a sad mom who wasn't up to the super awesome bath and bed routine on Thursday.  Rob is, as ever, amazing, and is expertly providing balance to my indignantly unbalanced Scales of Justice In This World.  And I'm fine.  A door closed, but a window is open (even though that window now has a view of the freaking men's room instead of the Strip TRUE STORY).

This Little Light of Mine

I have fallen wildly in love with Ava.  I am That Mom, officially.  I cannot get enough of her.  I am constantly telling everybody who is within the sound of my voice how marvelous she is. 


LOOK HOW MARVELOUS SHE IS:

I mean really.  

She is, without a doubt, the most phenomenal child ever to walk (or bounce...) upon this earth.

We went to the Zoo, and people watched her watching the animals.  THAT is how fantastic she is.

Even her shadow is interesting and noteworthy.

She lights up the room.

She has a sense of humor about herself, though. 

 I mean, really.

Even when she is holding a flower made out of balloons, she's still the cutest thing in the picture.
 

I've never had so much fun.  Really.  She's a riot.  She says the funniest damn things.  She DOES the funniest damn things.  She doesn't walk; she scampers.  She doesn't laugh like the rest of us mere mortals; she giggles like a bottle of champagne popping open.  She's always in motion, perched on her tiptoes ready to take flight.  

She makes me gush purple prose like a big stupid fountain, and I cannot get enough.  Someday, perhaps, I'll look back at this and read through it shaking my head while I think, "where did that little girl go? and who is this person in her place?" But right now, as much as I love the silence that comes when naptime finally happens (um, new favorite book?  yeah...) I can't help but eagerly listen for the little chirps and songs that mean she's awake and ready for more.

A World of Awesome

OMG, Ava has a playroom.  

Every little girl dreams of having her own wine fridge, right?  Yeah, whatever.  It's a perfect surface for her magnet spinning gear thingies.  The intended purpose of this room is, I believe, for it to be a "breakfast nook".  What?  What the hell kind of waste of space is that?  It's the PERFECT size for a little girl to be able to spread out everything she owns in this world.  Seriously, very happy about this space.  

This is our patio.  It runs the width of the house, and it is loverly.  It faces south, so there's plenty of sunshine.  And it's all fancy and arched, like a villa.  Awesome.

We moved from the northwest part of town to the southwest, so our main views now all face south.  This is the view from our bedroom windows.   Awesome.

This is facing northwest, toward Red Rock Canyon (google it, it's gorgeous).  If we ever get the guest bedroom finished, any guest in residence will see this:

Awesome.

So throughout all this, we've realized that our little tiny baby girl is not so little or tiny.  We put her crib together like so...

..but it's become pretty clear that she's old enough, and ready, to not be confined to a crib.  We think.  We could be wrong.

Hex wrenches are the devil's tools.

And here we are.  Awww.

The comforter was a gift from Auntie Kim and her family, and I'm so happy that we finally get to use it.  Her mom made it for Ava.  It's very warm and soft, and it has butterflies and a ladybug, which are Ava's favorite things in the world.

Just because she's not penned into her bed doesn't mean that we're insane.

She seemed pretty happy when she saw her new bed.

She knew just what to do.

The Damn Move

We've been busting our tails getting stuff unpacked and put away because cardboard boxes are not conducive to a peaceful evening with a 2 year old ("What in that box, Mama?  Oh.  What in THAT box, Mama?  Oh.  OK.  Is that Ava's box?  Is that my box?  Can I have that box?").  Really all that's left is hanging pictures and figuring out where we can put breakable stuff so that it's far enough out of reach so as not to prove its breakability but not so far that it might as well just stay in the box.

The move itself was pretty easy.  The movers showed up on time, and they had loaded, moved, unloaded, and placed our furniture by 1:00.  We just kind of stood there and pointed where we wanted stuff to be.  Professional movers are totally categorized as Money Well-Spent, because while it wasn't cheap, it sure was nice to not have to empty any drawers or schlep a couch up the stairs.

So now we're just adjusting to our new digs.  It's awesome.  It's so amazing that I'm waiting for someone to show up and say "Oh, we were just kidding.  You can't live here."  Our neighbors are incredible--Ava's already got the little boy next door wrapped around her finger.  His mom gave us a scooter that he's outgrown, and we were stunned by the offhand kindness.  It was No Big Deal to her, and after 5 years of having assholes and deadbeats on all sides, we were just blown away.  The families on our street all know each other, too, so we're meeting them all.

Ava's got a playroom that has room for her own table and a play kitchen and whatever else we want to put in there.  My commute is now 25 easy minutes instead of 45+ clenchy ones.  Our grocery store was just voted Best of Las Vegas, and it's like a reasonably-priced Whole Foods.  The view out our bedroom windows is of mountains and sky.  We can see stars at night.  It just goes on and on.  

Don't even get me started on having more room--not just more room, but more SPACE in the house.  We evidently had 2300 square feet of furniture in our 1400 square feet--no wonder we were all crowdy!  And while we're on the topic of our 1400 square foot charmer, please say a prayer and bury your St Joseph statue upside-down in the yard, because it's in escrow.  Keep your fingers crossed.

It all feels very normal, like this is where we're supposed to be.  We're still learning how to use the thermostat (OMG it was 65 degrees and blowing cold air this morning) because I think the upstairs one is busted, and it takes me probably 3 tries to find the right lightswitch, but this is probably the best decision we've ever made.  Sure, we've moved to the Land of Black Escalades and Fancy Obscure Purebred Dogs, and sometimes I feel like Marisa Tomei because yeah, I blend. 

Too. Much. Happening.

We are officially in the throes of packing.  We're at T-minus 25 days until trucks show up in our driveway at 7AM.  The stuff that we don't need (books, most small appliances, tchotchkes, crap that got thrown on a closet shelf, etc) is boxed up and staged in the garage.  I'm leaving pictures up until the end because I don't want it to be completely empty in here, but it's looking pretty empty anyway.

I'm going to take this opportunity to thank my lucky stars that we spent much of 2008 getting organized and cleaning shit out donating things we didn't need because that's making all of this much simpler now :).

Ava knows that Something is happening.  She's been to the new house a couple of times and she ran around like a lunatic seemed to like it.  She picked her room (the furthest one from ours--WIN!).  We talk about the New House and she's very curious about how it will work and who will be there with us ("No, Grams and Gramps won't be moving in with us..."). 

The plan is for her room to be the last thing we take apart.  There's really not a lot in there to begin with, so once books and clothes are done, the rest is just furniture that the movers can deal with.  Her new room will be the first thing we put together, so she'll wake up here and we'll take her to school and then at the end of the day we'll do a seamless (I can hear you laughing...) transition to the new house and she'll go to sleep in the new room and everything (shut up) will be blissful and perfect.  Right.

I'm trying to focus on what we can control right now--work has officially become insane and while my job is still safe from budget cuts, there's some new stress and uncertainty happening that is starting to feel like some unfunny test from God.  I'm sure everything will be OK, but I'll be glad when some questions are answered and things feel normal again. 

Rob's job put him on the road quite a bit in the last couple of months (February in Chicago?  Awesome.) and it will again, but not much until after we move (hooray!). 

So now we just wait.  There's not much to do besides pack and clean out the freezer (we're having some pretty random dinners, but we need to defrost it by 4/7).  I tend to feel like the rug could be pulled out from under us at any moment--really, this all came together so quickly and easily that naturally I'm totally suspicious--but it all seems to be falling into place.  Perfectly.  Like I planned it :).

Mooooovin' on up!

So one day a couple of months ago, I realized that my commute made me want to kill myself.

Well, not really, but that drive is really a terrible way to start and end one's day.  The daily traffic report was usually just a narration of what was in store for me.  An hour after I left home in the morning, I arrived at my office.  An hour or more after I left my office in the evening, I would get home.  We've been eating dinner at 6:30 every night, and that makes the rest of the evening rushed and hectic.

We're in the northwest part of town, which is lovely, but it's just such a pain in the ass to get just about anywhere.  We started talking about where else in town we could live.  After an exhaustive two-week search, we found a house.  Not only am I shaving 15 miles off my commute (EACH FREAKING WAY), but Rob is knocking 15 miles off his frequent shleps to the airport AND we're gaining 1000 square feet of house.

WIN!

It's happened pretty quickly.  We're likely going to close on the new (to us) house on March 31.  We're looking to move  the 2nd weekend of April.  This means that we have approximately 40 days to put all of our stuff in boxes.  Anyone who knows me knows that I've already started packing.  Anyone who REALLY knows me knows that I have a packing schedule laid out and that I have a spreadsheet of where stuff will go in the new house.  Anyone who has to live with me just shakes his head and lets me go on with my bad self, and he'll thank me in two months when we've executed a stress-free relocation.

So that's the news.  It's very exciting, and we think we've found a really lovely place where our little family can settle and thrive.  It will also be very nice to gain back one entire hour every single day that can be spent doing something other than flipping off assholes in traffic commuting.

Ava Be Two!

For the sake of posterity:

• Birthday breakfast was homemade blueberry pancakes.  Everyone was late to work and school, and it was totally worth it.
• When you take a box of funfetti cake mix and a tub of lard-based frosting to daycare, they will make and serve cupcakes to the birthday girl and everyone in the class.  WIN.
• Rob's in Portland as of this afternoon, so we went to dinner with Grams&Gramps at Macayo Vegas, where I have eaten my entire life (we actually went to the newest location, not the one at the corner of East Charleston and South Crackho Blvd. where we went when I was a kid...).  Macayo serves Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, so Ava has deemed it an acceptable alternative to dining at home.
• Some presents happened this morning, but the bulk will happen on Saturday, when we will officially observe Ava's birthday (much in the same way the Queen observes her own birthday months later when the weather's nicer).  Family, friends, and classmates will be gathering at the local children's museum, where they do every. single. bit. of party prep and clean-up, which means that everybody (esp. me) wins.

This is what Two looks like at our house:

Happy birthday, boopy.

Fari Vagnari a Pizzu

"'Ah, young fellow,' he said to Vito. 'People tell me you're rich. You and your two friends. But don't you think you've treated me a little shabbily? After all, this is my neighborhood and you should let me wet my beak.'"

--Don Fanucci
The Godfather by Mario Puzo

For dinner, Ava will eat blueberries and Kraft Cheese & Macaroni, the occasional handful of spaghetti, dinner rolls and snack crackers. That's it. She'll eat plenty of traditional breakfast and lunch foods, but dinners have really become a challenge. And it's frustrating because we get the reports from daycare and she's eaten cheese enchiladas for lunch and I'm like "WTF?!"

That ended today. Today, Ava ate her damn dinner. We're not proud of our methods, and when she goes on Dr. Phil someday and he says "Well shoot, Ava, when do you think your food issues started?" we can all look back on this day and then Dr. Phil can ramble on to us about some bullshit about how we failed as parents.

But dammit, today Ava ate her damn dinner.

We've always been very aware of what she eats. We don't feed her crap. We did not buy a single jar of baby food because I made everything she ate when she switched to solids. We feed her the best food we can afford--organic produce, fresh eggs from the farm just up the road, we read labels obsessively, and she doesn't get high-fructose corn syrup or partially hydrogenated oil of any sort.

But when she stopped eating, we got desperate. Damn you, Kraft foods, and your stupid mac & cheese. We switched to the Kirkland organic macaroni & cheese, because that made us feel better even though we know it's still crap. Those horrible Tyson chicken nuggets that are shaped like freaking Mickey Mouse, God help us, are another favorite. When that bag of deep fried mechanically separated tortured chickens was gone, we decided that we would just make our own damn nuggets, and I did. It wasn't hard--the internets have lots of information about how to make your own healthier versions of crappy food. And she refused to even touch them. She won't eat any vegetables, not even carrots or peas anymore.

I'm going to take this opportunity to give Rob some props. He's as crafty as they come, and he saw that this was going to take more than just "Well, she'll eat when she's hungry." Rob had a brilliant idea. Tonight, we found out what Ava's currency is. What does Ava love more than anything in this world? More than Elmo or Blue's Clues or the green blanket? M&Ms. We just happened to have some.

"Ava, do you want an M&M?"
"OK!"
"Then eat one bite of that."
"NOM"

"Do you want another M&M?"
"YES!"
"Then eat 2 bites."
"NOM NOM"

"Do you want another M&M?"
"YES ANEMENEM!"
"Then finish it."

And damn if she didn't finish an entire homemade and previously untouchable organic free range chicken nugget and two dried plums.

Go ahead. Call CPS. I dare you. Because you have a price too. Ava's currency is M&Ms. In the future, she'll have to work harder to get each one. My goal is for her to finish her entire meal for two M&Ms. The amount of good healthy food she will have to eat for each M&M far outweighs the negative impact of this bribery. As long as our little Don Fanucci cleans her plate, she can have an M&M or two. This is my neighborhood, now, and if she wants the good stuff, she's going to have to earn it.

Tomorrow, she's going to eat tilapia. She's going to love it.

Ugh. Parenting sucks.

We are currently in parenting hell.

Ava bit Rob at bedtime. Biting is an immediately punishable offense, but that punishment is mitigated instantly by the word "Sorry". Punishment consists of Time Out, and a stern description of why Time Out is necessary.

All she needed to do was say "Sorry". We explained it more than once. We said "When you bite, it hurts, and saying 'sorry' makes it better" but she would not say it. We asked if she understood and she said "OK" which is the same as "yes". We sang the "Don't! Don't! Don't Bite Your Friends!" song from Yo Gabba Gabba. We said "If you don't say 'sorry' then it's bedtime right now, and Daddy won't rock you in the chair" and she got upset and said No! and held on tighter, but she needs to say she's sorry.

She needs to learn this lesson. Right? Sigh.

She cried that awful screeching angry cry that you only hear in times of extreme injustice. She cried for me, which kills me. Ooof. We went back in, picked her up, and explained it again. She knows that if she says "Sorry" then she'll get to cuddle in the rocking chair with me or Rob. But she will not say it.

She's awake and she's talking to Elmo and Monkey and Bear and Other Bear, and if we hear her tell them she's sorry, that may be good enough. That will give us something to work with. Man, this sucks.

We're going to order her some birthday gifts that are laden with guilt, because while we know it's our job to teach her that saying "Sorry" is important, we're hanging by a thread. Elton John was right--Sorry seems to be the hardest word. We're sorry too, little Boopy, but you just don't bite anyone. Ever.

"Close your eyes, mama!"

Ava has this funny new game, in which she demands that her opponent close his/her eyes. She then waits a beat to make sure the eyes are closed ("CLOSE EYES MAMA CLOSE EYES") and then she gets right up close and blows a raspberry, and then she laughs maniacally.

It's a very accurate representation of what life with Ava is like lately. The stuff she comes up with just astonishes us. I don't even know how many words she knows at this point. She speaks in sentences and describes where she is, what she's doing, what she wants to do, and what she thinks everybody else needs to do as well. Her daily reports from daycare have become so diplomatic: "Today, Ava put everybody down for naps over and over again. She had so much fun! Most of the other kids did too... for a while..." Yikes. I think this is a nice way of telling me that my kid managed to convince a dozen other two-year-olds that it's just easier if they do what she says.

Christmas was a Very Big Deal at our house this year. Last year, we just sort of posed her like a doll in front of decorations. This year, she KNEW. She knew Santa Claus was coming, although I don't think she knew what that meant until Christmas morning when saw the presents in the living room. She learned some Christmas songs--there's this great version of Jingle Bells by Frank Sinatra that she wanted to hear over and over until I just COULD NOT BEAR ANOTHER MOMENT OF IT. But I'd play it because she'd sing along. Best Christmas ever. EVER.

Next up is her birthday. She's going to be TWO YEARS OLD in two weeks. I just can't believe it. We have a two-year-old. I remember thinking how hard it was those first weeks, when she was so small. We had no idea what we were doing. We still don't, but we're better at getting help when we needed it. I recently asked my Posse of Ninja Moms about how to implement Time Outs. Yeah, that's where we are. Discipline is now the order of the day. Ava gets frustrated and angry (GOSH I DON'T KNOW WHERE SHE GETS THAT SHUT UP) and she will hit whoever or whatever is closest. Usually, it's me. She's got a pretty good arm, but we want to help her learn to use her powers for good and not evil, so we had to step up and be parents and now, she's starting to realize that if she hits anyone she's in Time Out, no matter where we are. If she's not listening, or sassing (seriously, a 2-year-old, sassing? YES.) then she gets a 3-count, and then she's in Time Out. I mocked the idea of Time Out, because it just seems so pointless and passive. But it works. We've been doing it for maybe 2 weeks, and damn you SuperNanny, you know what you're doing. It may not work forever, but it works for now and we'll take it.

I'm home this week, and Ava was at daycare Monday and yesterday so I could take care of some bidness and run some errands, but she's home with me today and tomorrow, and I love it. I love taking her places because she's so damn cute and people just smile when they see her. She's so much fun, 99% of the time. The remaining 1% is, well, I guess, that's parenting.

Nom Nom Nom

Dear Auntie Beth,



xoxo,

Ava

The Rainbow Connection

When Ava was Very Very Small, we discovered that she liked it when we sang songs while rocking her to sleep. So we began to expand our repertoire of Songs that Can Be Lullabies. Really, slow any song down, and it can lull a baby to sleep.

We kept coming back to one song. I didn't even know that I knew this one all the way through, but evidently when it's 2AM and you're grasping at lullaby straws, you find treasures at the bottom of the barrel. Ava's go-to lullaby is The Rainbow Connection. I've sung it (...doing quick math... 22 months times 4 weeks per month times 7 nights per week... equals....) one billion times now.

A couple of months ago, she starting humming along. She recognized it when it came on in the car (it's on my iPod because it's awesome; see also "Bein' Green" and "C is for Cookie"). This morning, after we hit the Maximum Number of TV Shows For a Toddler (two in a row...) I turned on music so she could dance. The first song on the Pandora station? The Rainbow Connection.





I KNOW.

She's learning songs at school, and she really does love to sing. She knows Baa Baa Black Sheep, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, ABCs (my whole life, it didn't occur to me that these were the same melody, thank you Mozart.), Itsy Bitsy Spider, and so many more that surprise us (um, Paparazzi by Lady Gaga? Boogie Shoes? Check.).

This week we had our first Official Parent Conference. Holy Nervousness, Batman. I mean, I know she's brilliant, but do others realize it? Yes, apparently they do:

"Ava has a growing sense of independence. She is always trying something new and is very, very smart. Ava is quick to figure things out for herself. Ava has a very close relationship with Ms A and Ms A, but gets along well with the other teachers she knows. Ava is a very popular child, smart and talking, with all her peers. She is very well liked."

There are a couple of euphemisms in there, I know. "Quick to figure things out for herself" has been previously discussed here. "Gets along well with the teachers she knows" may be interpreted as "utterly disregards those teachers she does not know". And don't even get me started on "very very smart". Two words, my friends: Criminal Mastermind.

They also sent us home with a binder full of the milestones she hits, according to their curriculum blah blah blah. So all that time I spent guilting about how I stopped doing the baby book in February 09? Wasted time, that. They did it for me. Awesome.

Fashionista

There are some battles that I just don't have time for.

Today, Ava is wearing red socks with pink crocs, and the red socks SHOW. Whether it matches the rest of her outfit (it totally doesn't) just doesn't matter. Ava and I have come to an agreement on the process of getting dressed in the morning. I lay out her clothing options the night before--two pairs of pants, two tops. That is all. If we open the drawer in the morning when time is short, then we run the risk of, um, disagreeing about what actually gets worn.

Case in point: The Butterfly Shirt. If Ava sees the yellow shirt with the butterfly on it, then THAT IS WHAT SHE SHALL WEAR AND THERE IS NO FURTHER DISCUSSION. She will not wear a jacket over the butterfly shirt, making it no longer an option now that it's chilly outside. The butterfly shirt lives at the bottom of the drawer until spring (as butterflies should, I would think).

So we can negotiate tops and bottoms. That's cool. I can handle that. But the lady has very strong feelings about her footwear. She won't negotiate. She has lots of shoes, too (don't judge me...) so there's really no way to predict what will be acceptable. The shoes are in a bin in the closet, making them very easy to put away at the end of the day, but also making them very accessible in the mornings. And the socks are right there in the side pocket of the hanging thing (just go with me on this one) so I can grab a pair quickly.

This morning, we successfully got everyone dressed with very little discussion. This is a victory, because I really haven't mastered the necessary technique for wrestling an angry wombat into a pair of little jeans. I pulled out her very cool Snoopy New Balance Sneakers and she lost her freaking mind. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOO" *stomp stomp stomp stomp stomp stomp stomp throw self down on floor* (seriously, I'm going to video the next time she does this and submit it to the Academy for their consideration in the Best Performance By a Toddler Who Does Not Want To Wear The Snoopy Shoes category).

So I pause, and envision where this fits in the Grand Scheme of Things.

"OK. Come pick your shoes and socks." And it's like I'm her Fairy Godmother and I just bibbidy-bobbidy-boo'd her a fancy pumpkin coach. She wipes her hair out of her eyes, takes a moment to compose herself, and with much gusto and aplomb, announces her selections as she makes them. "PINK SHOES YAY! WED TOCKS! YAY!"

Yay, indeed.

Attention! All Personnel! Incoming Helicopters!

Ava scares the hell out of me sometimes. She's just fearless and she barrels through her day without a care in the world while we guide her away from anything pointy or strangly or jagged-cliffy. We talk about how we walk the fine line between wanting to keep her safe from harm forever and realizing that if she doesn't roll off the couch she won't learn how not to roll off the couch.

Today, we were at the Very Awesome Park by our house. They have this amazing structure that has slides and ramps and rings and steps and places to jump and places where you can pretend you're a pirate (Arrrr.). It's plastic. It's a big red plastic Fun But Safe Place, that is securely anchored to this squishy rubber surface that would almost be fun to land on after falling from somewhere high up. As Rob and I were herding our little daredevil around the section that she's most likely to be able to navigate, I looked around at the other parents who were doing the same thing. Most of their kids were older than Ava (who is 21 months on Tuesday, OMG she's so big), but there they were, huffing and puffing through this extremely cushy playground. And I realized that I was perilously close to becoming a Helicopter Parent. NOOOOOOOOOOO!

Remember when we were kids? Remember the parks of the 1970s (I'm sofa king old...)? Lorenzi Park was so cool when I was a kid. We used to love to go there. And every single thing in that park was made of rebar and chains and hard plastic, and you know what you landed on when you jumped off the really high super awesome swing after you'd been going back and forth and back and forth and kicking furiously and you could just not go any higher and so you jumped off like it was an Olympic sport? You landed on gravel. Unless it was the end of the weekend and every other kid in Vegas had already done what you were just now getting to and all of the gravel was ground to dust from all of the landings, and sometimes you landed on dirt, and sometimes you landed on caliche and that's when you were done swinging for the day and you went home and bathed in Bactine.

So today at this modern newfangled fancy schmancy park, we circled around our kids like they were little teacups running around on tightropes stretched over canyons of broken glass. And all I could think of was that my kid will never learn how to do a death drop (yeah, you know what I'm talking about...) and that makes me sad. And relieved. But mostly sad.