Our First Year With Dorothy Grace

Newborn

One Month Old

Two Months Old

Three Months Old

Four Months Old

Five Months Old

Six Months Old

Seven Months old

Eight Months Old

Nine Months Old

Ten Months Old

Eleven Months Old

Happy First Birthday
Dorothy Grace!

This has been an amazing year with an amazing little girl.  We love you completely Baby Dot.

Penis Envy

     I've often heard that it isn't healthy to strive to be a perfect mother.  That you should settle instead for the title of good enough mother.  As I'm sure my children will tell their therapists some day, I doubt I've even achieved the latter.  I'm not completely clueless about my field though.  In my decade as Mom I have picked up a few things.  One thing, for example, is that if you have a to do list and you have managed to accomplish any of it you can be sure that your children are currently up to no good.  A clean bedroom equals a new mural in the baby to be's nursery; a clean bathroom means your kid is mostly bald in the front; you really don't want to organize your coat closet if you frown upon a thirty pound child consuming the entire contents of your sugar bowl; AND if you are finally washing the last dish that has been hanging out in your sink for who knows how long your baby girl has her own ideas about toilet training.  She is tired of having you fuss with her diaper tape.  She doesn't want to take her pants off.  She hates that chilly toilet seat.  As you are elbow deep in bacon grease she is trying out a new trick she saw her brothers doing...

Heaven help me.

Romance, Jones Style

     I assume most husbands like to remind their wives that they are loved by surprising them with flowers.  It is a pretty standard gesture and I'm guessing it became standard because bunches of guys were doing it.  Today I came home and found a submarine sandwich in my fridge and my heart just melted because that is how my husband lets me know I'm loved (well, that or a double cheeseburger from Mc Donald's).

    There is a valuable lesson in this for young lovers searching for "The One".  Remember that "The One" is YOUR One and don't get all caught up in what that means to every one else.  When I was in high school the vice principal called me to his office (this was no particular shock, I was there so often I asked if we shouldn't put my name on a second plaque on the door; sadly, this was shut down) and told me that he didn't like this Ariel Jones character.  Being a sassy smart ass in desperate need of a punch in the mouth I tartly replied, "Then I won't call and invite you along when we go to the movies", spun around and left the room. I'm really glad I did though, because I could have ended up with a traditional good guy who brings me flowers regularly and missed out on the "obnoxious kid" who brings me processed meats and mayonnaise.

    You have to be true to yourself to be happy.  I didn't know this when I started dating Air, I just lucked out.  Thank goodness the total babe sitting next to me in math class turned out to be funny, hard working, loyal, and honest.  This is not to say that it is always a bed of roses around here.  There are times I'd like to give him a good punch in the mouth.  I try not to though.  Instead I try to remember that more sub sandwich days are sure to come, but probably not if I sock him one or walk out that door.

     Maybe this makes a heap of sense to you.  Maybe it is crazy babble.  Either way, I have a date with an Italian mix and I'm going to thoroughly enjoy it.

 

An Apple a Day

     Last night during dinner I told Ariel my stepfather was at the hospital with a bad infection in his foot and that his doctor told him earlier in the week that he might be developing diabetes.

     "How do ya get diabetes?", Enzo chimed in.

     "Well, there are two kinds.  One you're just born with and the other is believed to come from eating a poor diet and living an unhealthy lifestyle, I think.  That is why we are always pressuring you to eat a balanced diet.  If you don't start eating a little better you might find yourself with diabetes one day".

     Today at lunch Aston asked for an apple with his lunch because; "I don't wan't to get die-a-feeties.  I don't want my feet to fall off!"

     It may further secure my spot in Hell, but I have zero intentions of correcting the child.  If he actually eats a vegetable because of this gross misinterpretation of the facts it will all have been worth it.

Is This Mic On?

     At breakfast this morning Enzo said, "I lost my lunch box and I don't think it is coming back this time".  So today I dedicated a few moments of my completely open schedule to picking up a new lunch box for the boy.  My mother joined me on this mission.  She needed some make up and milk, which she totally forgot.   I grabbed a copy of The Chatham Press, a little local paper and flipped through it as we walked through the parking lot.  I saw a picture of a girl I took dance classes with when I was a little girl.

     "Mom, Kate is the new post master", I relayed.

     My mother looked concerned and then confused.  She asked, "What is a toast master?"

     Now, I think fifty is a little young to be thinking about long term care but maybe it is time.      

Again?

     Sometimes I feel like I gave birth to the same kid twice.  When Aston was born Enzo said, "I like this baby.  It looks just like me!"   He begged us to name him Enzo.  When we shut that down he asked us to name him Pizza Boy.  Looking back, both were insanely appropriate suggestions.  Those boys were cut out of the same cloth.  A cloth, I might add, that tries to exist solely on pizza.

They look alike. They walk alike.  At times they even talk alike.
One could lose their mind...

     One day when Enzo was a little kindergarten lad he came home all excited and told me, "I haveded breakfast with the boss of all the teachers today".

     "Oh?" I asked, pleased to see my little boy all smiles, "What did you have?"

     "A cereal calleded Raisin Bran.  I don't like Raisin Bran very good".

     I turned my thoughts away from Enzo's darling grin and considered what he was saying to me.  "Enzo," I asked, "at any point did anyone call the boss of all the teachers 'principal'?"

     "Yeah!  That is it, Momma!  That is her name!"

     "Uh huh.  Uh, Enzo, why did you get sent to the principal's office today?"

     "To eat Raisin Bran".

     Fine.  Fast forward five years.  Aston is now a cutie patootie kindergartner.  Aston skips merrily from the bus to the kitchen where I show him that I've purchased his favorite cookies, the big fat sugar cookies with the cake frosting and sprinkles on them, at the store today.  I expected a huh-uge thank you and hug for my mothering success, and Aston was excited, but instead of thanking me he jumped up and down and said, "They gots them cookies at the printable's office.  Only they gots chocolate.  When I saw them I was like THIS".  Aston drops his arms to his sides, bulges his eyes out and starts hyperventilating.

     "Did you have a chocolate cookie while you were there?" I ask while thinking I've done this before.

     "Nope.  Nobody offered me one".

     "What did you do at the printable's office?"  I cross my fingers and hope he'll say Dropped of the attendance sheet or something like that.

     "I sat in a chair and stared out of the window".  He acts this sitting and staring out for me.  Hands in lap. More bulging eyes.  Just as happy as a pig in poop.

     If Aston continues to follow in Enzo's footsteps I can look forward to a call from the teacher next year telling me that there has been a slight mix up.  Aston will have used the word "explode" when trying to describe his anger to a playground supervisor and said supervisor will think he has made a bomb threat even though he is only six and can't tie his own shoes.  He will be tried as an adult until someone thinks to ask him what he said, "I'm so angry I feel like I could explode".

     The next year I will be at the mall and come home to find a sheriff car in the neighbors drive way.  I will laugh to my sister saying, "WOW!  I wonder what they did.  They seem so nice!"  I will stop laughing when I see the car in the rear view mirror following me up my driveway.  Aston will have told a friend that he hates his sister and would like to kill her.  This will lead to an investigation where he will be asked How do you plan to kill your sister?  He will come up with an answer.  He will say With my father's machine gun.  My home will be searched and my husband's old broken bb gun will be what he was talking about.  I will be put under a six month investigation with the local child protection services.  The agent will express her concern at how little emotion he showed when she spoke with him.  I will explain to her that he is autistic.  She will say, "I know.  Honestly I was surprised he could speak at all.  All I know about autism I learned from the movie Rain Man".  I will resist the urge to kill her.

     Third grade won't be so bad and neither will fourth.  The teachers will complain that he doesn't really do any work and I'll be like Tell me about it, Sister!, but really I'll be happy because being lazy isn't illegal.  

How Do I Do It?

     It seems to me that in today's society a family with four children is as big a family as people can wrap their heads around without thinking the parents belong in a mental institution.  I guess it is from this frame of mind that people are always saying, "I don't know how you do it!" to me.  The answer is...drum roll please... I don't.  I don't juggle a marriage, two sons with Asperger's Syndrome, a chronically sloppy eight year old daughter, a baby who needs to be held to sleep most of the time, a home, a beggar cat widower who refuses to either become a pet or move on, as well as maintaining a relationship with extended family, and then squeezing in some me time to prevent myself from developing the dreaded Door Mat Syndrome.  I really kinda suck at this gig.  To illustrate for you what I mean I would like to tell you of my morning.  I've started a research project to entertain myself.  I was having a pee looking at the hamper, which is right across from the potty, and I wondered, How long will it take for the dirty laundry to actually hit the ceiling AND will I get to it before it does?

     Feel free to conduct this research in your own homes and get back to me with the results!