I know it sounds like a cliche but

it really is possible to have too much fun. Poor Ms. Cheeks proved that last night after a wonderful day at the water park, shopping in the afternoon, and dinner at a fantastic Italian restaurant. (As in, the food was so good I was planning on marrying my ravioli halfway through dinner.) Dear husband and I were eating and encouraging Cheeks to eat her spaghetti, which she adamantly refused to do.

Clearly we were completely oblivous to the issue at hand because upon arriving back to our hotel, Cheeks threw up everywhere. (And why, oh why, do my kids always throw up on me and not my husband?)

But on the whole, despite having a sick little person, I had a fantastic weekend. It had been too long since our little family had an adventure together, and Great Wolf Lodge was just the right speed for the girls.

it really does take a village

It's going to be really hard to move overseas again in a few years. As in, really, really hard.

Just today--

--Seeing my parents in the morning when we park in front of their house to walk to the metro. Cheeks McGoo poured water all over herself in the car, so we run inside my parents' house for a quick change. Cause my Mom has an extra outfit at the ready for just that contingency.

--Exchanging emails with my dear mother in law over my lunch break. She sends me interesting articles to read; I comment.

--My Father-in-law picking up Miss Bee for their Thursday afternoon adventure, spent with Bee's cousin and uncle. This week's activity--baking brownies (with chocolate frosting and walnuts) and then sending a plate of them home to me.

--Eating Carolina barbeque for dinner, brought up from that wonderful southern state by Miss Bee's godparents (who live next door to my parents).

--After dinner, watching my Mom push Miss Cheeks on the swing where I spent many a happy summer evening as a child.

--Coming home to find a bag of bread flour in my front door from my grandmother. (I had been complaining that my local store had stopped carrying any kind of bread flour.)

Watching my girls grow close to their relatives is one of the sweetest gifts I have ever received.

Thank heaven

for hand me downs. All of Miss Bee's too-small clothes are in boxes in the garage. Poor, deprived McGoo doesn't realize that pretty much her entire wardrobe was previously worn by her big sister.

Earlier this week, as I dressed McGoo in her second-hand windbreaker, Miss Bee started to whine that she wanted a new jacket too. I laughed, and explained to my very equality-minded daughter that the jacket in question had been hers.

I am starting to understand why my sister and I, still, to this day, receive similar or identical Christmas presents from our parents. (Although I would say the odds of us fighting over them at our respective ages of 30 and 27 have significantly diminished!)

My dear husband took the girls to visit their great-grandmother today (always a popular occasion because they get to eat lunch at the retirement home, which serves french friends and ice cream) and I spent a very happy hour going through 18-24 month old clothes that used to belong to Bee. Most of those clothes were bought when we lived in Latvia, from my all time favorite children's store. Let's just say that it's probably a good thing there is no D.P.A.M. store in the USA.

I always write this, but every mother will know it's true--my girls are growing up too fast.

Right rabbit

Miss Bee wears her heart on her sleeve. It's hard to be four years old.

Tonight Miss Bee's stuffed rabbit went missing. The child has an entire menagerie of stuffed animals and no particular favorites. She rotates through which ones sleep on her bed, so it makes it difficult to keep track of which animals need to be where. I need to start a spreadsheet.

S-o, I finally had Miss Bee all tucked up bed with her stuffed mouse and her big bear, when, with wide eyes and a panicked voice she says, "WHERE IS MY RABBIT?"

I called in for reinforcements and set my husband to searching under the bed. He had to dig through a vast field of dirty tissues (so that's where she puts them!) and I could tell he really wanted to say a few dirty words as he gathered those up. I had headed back to the playroom to see if Rabbit had been abandoned there when I heard him call, "Found it!"

Phew.

There was a brief moment of silence, but then the unmistakable snuffle/wail of Miss Bee. Exasperated, I stomped back into her bedroom and asked, "What's wrong?"

"THAT IS THE WRONG RABBIT" she cried.

My poor dear husband indignantly replied, "You mean there's more than one?"

Finally, after much additional searching, I located the right rabbit, as opposed to, you know, the wrong rabbit, tucked her back up in bed, closed the door and said a little prayer that there will be no more drama--at least until the morning.

Food. Family.

It's my Dad's birthday today, and not only did I really enjoy having dinner over at my parents' house, but my husband had to eat pot roast.

Poor Dear Husband. For the first ten years of our relationship, he claimed that he hated the very thought of the meal--all those mushy vegetables and stringy beef.

I'm pot roast agnostic, and pretty much happy to eat anything that I don't have to cook in my kitchen.

On the other hand, Dad looooves pot roast, and almost always requests it for his birthday dinner. Plus, he just loves to give my husband a hard time.

My mother makes pot roast in the slow cooker, and covers the meat with a jar of horseradish sauce. Horseradish sounds like a less than ideal condiment, but when you cook it for a period of several hours, the flavor mellows out and the beef becomes fork tender. It's delicious.

And you know, I think I saw my husband sneaking seconds onto his plate.

The best part of the evening, however, was watching Nora eat her own piece of chocolate cake. By the time she was finished, she had crumbs in her nose, hair, and in every crease of her neck. She brandished her spoon overhead and laughed. She clearly has her mamma's sweet tooth.

It's nights like tonight that I really miss when we are overseas--time to just be an extended family, to tease each other, sneak extra pieces of cake, and just revel in sharing our daily lives together.

The good part of my day--

The Indian woman who prevented Cheeks McGoo have a meltdown on an overcrowded metro train. She was a one woman baby hypnotist, quieting her royal Cheeks-ness's shrieks of protest at the fact that the metro doors had malfunctioned and zee train was stuck on the platform. (Ever had to listen to "Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Doors clo-sing!" for more than five minute straight? And the conductor was yelling at the passengers over the intercom. But I digress.) The kind woman entertained my daughter until the train got underway again and then for 6 stops after that. We chatted a little and it turned out that she had a 22 month year old son. I am thankful for the fellowship of mothers everywhere.

The other good part of my day was eating salmon chowder at my mother's house. It was the perfect meal for a cold rainy night, hot soup paired with steaming cornbread, with apple turnovers for dessert. It was a good day to be a little bit spoiled.

Evening song

We had dinner at my parents' house tonight. My father grilled filet mignon. It was an impromptu celebration. Cheeks McGoo loved the roasted potatoes. Bee mostly ate sour cream but declared her "chicken" very tasty. The poor meat-deprived child. Good food, good company, but the greatest gift for two full time working parents--no dirty dishes at our house.

I have been making a big effort to get Bee ready for bed at her bedtime and break the habit of rushing through teeth brushing and story time. I had gotten into the habit of hurrying Bee off to bed, mostly because during the summer she tended to stay up a little too late. Now that I am working and not usually arriving home until after 6 pm, I have a very small sliver of time with Miss Bee. We need to spend more time together snuggling on the couch, not less.

While her big sister is a champion sleeper, Cheeks McGoo is a decided underachiever. We have been working her bedtime routine this week. Infants can keep their own crazy hours but big babies, ones that are almost nine months, well I just feel that they should be sleeping a little bit more. You know, like through the night. And not in my bed. It's not going well, mostly because I know that Cheeks spends the day crying at daycare and I cannot bear to cause her anymore trauma. My Baby has the most delightful, sparkling personality. It should be impossible to love her as much as I do. But boy oh boy she is loud when things aren't going her way.

Right now, though, both of the little ones are sleeping and I had a chance to bake bread. (I will post soon on how it is possible to bake sourdough bread while working full time. It is possible) The whole house smells delicious. Tomorrow morning I will toast a huge piece for breakfast and thank my lucky stars that it's Friday, and a three day weekend.

Community

So it is rather embarrassing that it's Saturday night and I am in my pajamas and ready for bed before nine o clock. I have heaps of excuses though:

Miss Cheeks has given me her cold and the massive amounts of antibiotics I am taking for strep have wiped me out. Plus, my two little ones keep me busy; my Dear Husband and I played parent to daughter defense all day.

Did you know that we suspended our Netflix account because we couldn't even manage to watch one movie a month? At home.

Despite my ongoing battle with exhaustion, today was a wonderful Saturday and reminded me of how much I love my little community and my extended family.

This morning, I was walking to the farmer's market with Cheeks when my father-in-law drove by with my niece. We met up among the vegetables and I convinced him to stop by our house for a little while. So the girls had an impromptu cousin party.

Dear Husband was outside mowing the lawn when our neighbor down the street came over in a panic. A chipmunk had gotten loose in the house and could we please help. Hubby tried, but the chipmunk took refuge behind their dishwasher. I believe it had been gravely injured by the family cat.

Later on, my Mom came by to go to Michaels--because there are some stores that my Dear Husband flat out refuses to set foot in and Michaels is one of them. It's no fun to look at craft supplies alone, so I brought Cheeks and Bee and my mother.

Later in the afternoon, I took Bee to the grocery store. While we were there, we ran into my sister-in-law and the aforementioned cousin and had a nice chat in the milk aisle.

Then this evening evening we went over to my in laws for dinner and saw everyone again. I love having a little community to call my own.

Luminous

I am reveling in the feeling you can only get at the end of a very long, but very good day. It's the best kind of tired--the kind where you curl your toes, crinkle your eyes shut and sink into a pile of pillows.

Today was a family reunion of sorts. My mother has four siblings. I have ten cousins. The entire family, with the exception of my sister and one cousin, gathered to surprise my grandfather for his 86th birthday.

There used to be a time, when I was a child, that most of the family lived nearby and we were able to get together regularly--for pizza nights, football games on TV, holidays and birthdays. As the years went by, our family grew more and more spread out. (We certainly did our part by moving to Romania.) The last time that I saw so many of my relatives all at the same time was at my wedding.

We are an interesting mix of people--equal parts boisterous and reserved. A little bit quirky. Very loving. It's a good mix.

It's amazing how we have all grown older, yet still remain so unchanged. My dear husband and I are making our own family traditions--with his sisters and their children and with my parents and my sister. Those are the the gatherings that Bee and Cheeks will remember when they are grown.

But tonight, bringing my two little daughters to my very big family was the best sort of reunion. Old and young, past and future--a night to remember.

How I spent my summer

I am typing this post with very guilty fingers as a dormant blog is a sad sad thing indeed. I have been wanting to carve out some time to go back to writing. I have been wanting this every day for the past three months. But it has been a spectacularly difficult summer for me.

First, I had to go back to work and leave my baby. I was missing her all day and she was frantic by the time I came home at night, nursing for hours and hours.

Then, all of our household effects were delivered and dear husband and I spent weeks and weeks sorting through piles and coming to terms with the fact that we have neither an attic nor a basement. Although we do have some nice shelves in our garage. Thank heaven for that.

Next, we received the somewhat good news that Baby McGoo was accepted to the daycare at my work. She now commutes downtown with me, riding the metro in her Ergo carrier (it would be impossible without the Ergo, really). But for me to bring her along and make it to work on time means I must leave the house not one second later than 6:50 am. And that means waking up at 5:15. Which is an ungodly hour.

Finally, I realized that none of the above was really going to be getting any better any time soon. I could no longer labor under the illusion that going back to work was only temporary. It's not. Work is the big hairy elephant in the middle of my family life and he's not going anywhere anytime soon.

So, I have decided to fight back. I am savoring my evenings. Reading books! Making complicated recipes for dinner from Cuisine at Home. Baking sourdough bread. Spending time with my parents. Being present for my daughters. And writing in my blog.

Speaking of blogs--this one manages to make me feel humble, grateful and fashion inspired every time I read it: http://www.reagansblob.com/

Oh weekend

So it has been a perfectly wonderful Saturday--farmer's market, Bee's dance class, a clean house, a quick run, grocery shopping and a visit to Penzey's, finished off with a fantastic bbq (beer can chicken on the grill, my mom's special potato salad, romaine with ranch dressing, and grilled corn).

For dessert, I finally got to try out my new maryann cake pan, and filled it with vanilla pudding and fresh berries.

Unfortunately my Saturday is lasting a little bit longer than I would prefer, because Cheeks McGoo is wide awake and declining to go back to bed. She has been sent downstairs to read the newspaper with her father until she is good and bored--and tired.

Babycakes

I spent most of the afternoon cuddling a sleepy baby. At first, Babycakes was content to spend the better part of an hour asleep in her crib, while I shuffled the laundry along and surreptitiously ate peanut m&ms. After a short while though, she was awake and wanted company.

For a while, my littlest daughter was content to lie on her mat and stare at me while I folded the laundry. As I folded, I stared out our living room window, at the bright afternoon sun, the cars going by on the road, and people walking briskly to and fro, feeling very much out of the world and in my own quiet household cocoon.

After Babycakes tired of watching me fold laundry and I grew tired of folding the laundry, we retreated to the couch and I held her while she snoozed, curled up on my chest like a large, warm puppy. I closed my eyes. She breathed in. I breathed out. Her hair tickled my face. The traffic noises outside muted. My heart was full. We dozed.

Holding a sleeping baby is a guilty pleasure in which I can seldom indulge. The moment my poor second child is asleep, she is transported to her crib so I can perform any number of other essential life tasks--like preventing Miss Bee from performing inventory on our medicine cabinet or baking brownies. I don't have time to sit around and hold the baby unless she is nursing, or if my husband is home and she is making a good enough show of eating that I can ignore the rest of my family and surf the internet.

I think I held Bee during most her her naps as a newborn, reveling in new-motherhood. We would splay out on the couch in the evening while my husband cooked dinner. The hours would tick by ever so slowly. We had so much time with just one child. (I used to think we had so much time as single people. and boy did we ever, but adding a second child to your family really changes your perspective.)

My sister in law gave birth to a little girl this week. I am so happy for her, my brother in law and their new family. Her baby has a beautiful pink complexion, a soft feminine name and a nursery full of rabbits to sleep in. I am sure, however, that her favorite place to sleep will be in her mother's arms.

3/4 time

I have been thinking a lot about time lately:

I don't know how it came up in conversation, but my husband happened to mention that when he was a child, his father was responsible for taking him and his two sisters to the grocery store on Saturday mornings. Their absence from the house gave my future mother in law a chance to clean, vacuum, and do whatever else she needed to do. A wonderfully noble gesture, in my opinion.

The part that shocked me was that my husband said that this grocery shopping expedition took three hours. Three hours to take three children to a Safeway located less than a mile from his house! I exclaimed that there was no possible way a simple grocery shopping trip could last three hours. I smugly informed him that time for children generally seems to move slower than for adults and surely he misremembered.

The conversation ended and I thought no more of it until I happened to glance at the clock on our way home from the grocery store today. Our trip to the fruit and vegetable market and grocery store had taken over two hours. Both of which are located within a mile of my house. All we did was attempt to shop for food with two small children. Now, I must eat my words.

I have had to carefully consider time when crafting a stay at home routine for myself and the girls. When at home with two small children, there is no need to rush. Three year olds and newborns cannot be hurried, so why try? (The only thing that can get Bee to do anything even a fraction more quickly than her own predetermined speed is bribery. I try not to resort to it too often. You know, no more than once per hour.) When at work, my day was tightly structured, beginning with my morning tea and greeting my colleagues, checking emails, and then on to business as usual.

I have found that staying home full time (even if for a short time) requires, at least for me, the same sort of routine. At first, I worried that not working would leave me feeling bored and unessential, now I fear I will like this routine more than going to work. So we are running errands in the morning, snuggling and reading stories after nap time, and making a habit of going to the playground. All done very slowly. Three quarters time.

I am learning that time is both ephemeral and endless. The period between 5pm and when my husband arrives home from work, for example, is nearly endless. The first three years of Miss Bee's life, however? Mere seconds. At Christmas, Bee's godfather told me, in a voice full of emotion, "Don't blink. Your children will grow up so quickly. Blink and you'll miss it all." I am doing my best to take his advice and savor these moments.

Kicking and screaming

Less than a week until we go back to Romania, which would really be just fine if it were not for the fact that we have to fly about a dozen hours to get there. With a three year old and an 8 week old. Oh, the lugging of luggage! Oh the sardines in a can feeling of togetherness! Oh the potential for screaming! Thinking of flying back just fills me with yuck.

So I am half in denial and half frantic to shop at all my favorite stores and eat all my favorite foods before we return to Eastern Europe. I was at two bookstores today buying books for Bee, which is ridiculous, considering we have a small library of them in our apartment. And don't get me started on the quantity of art supplies I have purchased. If anything, going back to Romania will give my Amex card a break.

There is less to do in Bucharest (by that I mean less places to take two small children), but that will allow me to focus on my family. I am determined to make these upcoming three months at home with my girls enjoyable and memorable. Bake bread. Play dolls. I am looking forward to life in the slow lane.

Snow Day

Two weeks

In just two weeks we are headed back to Romania. I am in denial. I wish I could keep my husband home with me forever, snug in our new house, grown fat with daily trips to Starbucks.

America is easy. Everything you could possibly need is available, prepackaged, and clean. Multiple sizes and colors. The largeness of Target. The ridiculous selection of foodstuffs at the grocery store. Tempting fast food on nearly every street corner. Instead of zipping to Safeway and strolling the mall, we will be shopping at the market and walking in the park.

In Romania, I will get to stay home with my girls for the next several months. A luxury indeed. Slightly terrifying as well. How will we structure our day? How to keep Bee occupied when I am feeding and caring for Baby N? Will I go stir crazy? Or worse, will going back to work in June completely break my heart?

Arrivals

Just a week ago today I was arriving in Amsterdam. It had been a lonely couple of days with my husband gone at the Hague for a conference. Then, Bee and I flew to meet him for the holiday weekend. It had been a long day, starting when Bee was dressed and ready to leave for the airport at 6 am. Unfortunately our flight wasn't until 2 pm so we spent the morning haggling over when it would be time to leave. Anticipating having my hands full with my daughter and her massively large car seat, I packed very light--one carry on suitcase and one backpack for the two of us.

It was finally time to leave around 10 am and one of our usual taxi drivers came to take us to the airport. We waited for the plane, endured the long flight (yes, I bribed Bee to use the airplane bathroom), and made our way through Schipol airport to the baggage claim. Through the glass I spotted my husband waiting for us. We piled everything on a cart and Bee and I hurried out to greet the main man in our lives. Bee was so excited to see her father that she broke into a run, toddler arms and legs flying out in all directions, and hurled herself into his arms with a serious impact. All the grandmothers lined up waiting cooed simultaneously. It was like something out of a movie.

As if arriving in the Netherlands and being reunited with my husband wasn't sweet enough. The three of us went and had vanilla milkshakes and french fries (the way they come in Europe is stuffed in a paper cone and smothered your topping of choice, mine, mayonnaise). We devoured our snack together, each of us savoring good food and having our family back in one place.

I love arriving; I hate leaving. I am always waiting for my next beginning. I would do well to be less impatient, but despite my best efforts, I am always dreaming of going somewhere. Right now I am focused on my upcoming trip back to the United States so I can deliver my baby girl. Three more weeks of work. Three more weekends. Bee's birthday is next Sunday. The following week my sister comes to visit and we have Bee's birthday party. Then just one weekend remains to pack my suitcases, clean out my desk at work, and fly home to America.

Since the intervening weeks promise to be beyond stressful, I am concentrating on arriving home in Virginia. Let's just skip the rest already. In my mind's eye, I can see the international arrivals hall in Dulles. The weary immigration officers. The crowded baggage claim terminal. Customs. A short walk to the exit where my family will be waiting for me. Bee clutching my hand. Both of us trembling with excitement and jet lag. Home.

Leaving my husband behind will be the hardest part of next month. Bee and I will be home, with our family and favorite restaurants and a new house and a very soon to arrive baby. However, I know that as soon as I arrive home I will be counting down the days until my husband arrives and then (and hopefully this time it will be in this order) the very special arrival of a very much wished for little baby girl.

Therapy

You know, I have come to the conclusion that it can be a good thing that preschoolers are, by their very natures, self centered. My daughter doesn't care how stressful my workday was, or that my back hurts, or that I am worrying about where my next job will be. She just wants her Mommy to come home and play with her and be happy. What else can I do but oblige? I had the happiest of childhoods and want the same for my daughter.

Bee and I have been spending the past few evenings alone, and our time together has been liberating. We play. We make dinner from what's in the freezer. We clean up the kitchen. We play some more and then Bee goes to bed.

Tonight we made animals out of playdoh, listened to a whole array of children's cds (Bee likes selecting and changing the cds more than actually listening to them), colored in her seven dwarves coloring book, and read extra stories before bed. It was, all in all, a mundane evening, but very calming. Even adults need to play once in a while.

My measure of success

Tonight, my husband patiently showed Bee how to make homemade calzones. She was covered in flour from wrist to elbow by the time they were finished, but she successfully helped roll out the circles of dough, add the filling, crimp the edges, and paint the egg wash on top. (And here's how crazy about food we are--this weekend we also made vegetable enchiladas, pumpkin cookies, and the piece d'resistance: from scratch "everything" bagels.)

This afternoon, I drew the outline of a tree on a big sheet of packing paper and gave Bee some tempura paints in fall colors. She spent a long time carefully painting autumn leaves. I would say she leans toward the surreal in art.

We went to Starbucks. I had given up all caffeine for most of this pregnancy, but recently have been indulging in a chai latte on the weekend. Baby Girl seems to like the sugar boost.

We cleaned the house. My husband changed burnt out light bulbs and dragged the vacuum over the rugs. Bee helped dust. I vacuumed the floors and even mopped, a little. Our main living room/dining room/playroom is adorned with Halloween decorations. The decorations are up early; the house cleaning was long overdue.

It's funny how these little tasks fill me with more pride than any work accomplishment ever has.

She Vants to be Alone

I can't quite wrap my head around this newfound independence thing with Bee. She just woke up at the deliciously late hour of nearly 7 o'clock, and now she is holed up in her room--reading. I guess this is what happens when you don't let your child watch television. This is hardly a noble effort on our part, but more to do with the fact that there is nothing to watch on Romanian TV. And since I don't enjoy children's videos, I don't buy them.

So Bee is deprived and has to read herself storybooks for entertainment. The amazing thing is--she really likes it. She looks at the pictures and "talks" through the story. She can keep her self busy reading for the better part of an hour.

This morning though, I was feeling so refreshed from sleeping and was happy she was awake, I went to her room, plopped down on the couch (more like sank heavily given the current state of affairs) and said "Good Morning Bee; can I read with you?"

The thundering answer was, "NO! I want to be alone!"

I don't know how I am going to survive the teenage years. A year ago, I think I would have turned cartwheels and rejoiced at any sign of potential independence, but instead, I have slunk back to the living room, where I am trying to console myself with juice, pumpkin bread and magazines. Fortunately, Bee's state of independence doesn't usually last more than 15 minutes or so, and I can go back to being her beloved Mommy.