I’ve got the US Consumer Product Safety Commission’s website bookmarked on my computer for a quick update on infant product recalls. It’s a helpful site for parents to check out on occasion. I noticed a CNN article this morning on child chair recalls due to possible amputation of fingers when it collapses. Yikes.

There’s nothing like good old fashioned tiredness to keep one from blogging. So there, that’s my excuse. In a few short minutes I will nap in order to do other necessary daily tasks like bathe, fashion some semblance of dinner for my family, and carry on conversation without complaining. Livia, darling sweet girl that she is, is going through a version of separation anxiety which I hear will pass someday (please, God, let that be soon). The shrieks, screams, cries and grunts emitted from her teensy body can be a bit of a handful to reckon with. Besides this new stage, teeth #6-9 are emerging and causing all kinds of angst. Cold washcloths, 3 different teething rings, Hylands and Tylenol — yes, none of these can really cure Livia’s pain. Dull and dampen it, perhaps. In the meantime, Livia and I can both be found in our respective beds, sometimes with little tears in our eyes. Woe is us.

*Internet friends: Don’t read too much into this. Like Gloria Gaynor, I will survive… after I’ve had a nap, of course.

Joyce, you rock. Honestly, you’re my hero.

Gretchen. Geez, will you get off the stinkin’ elephant already?!

Amber & Rob, I will [fill-in-the-blank with drastic measure] if you win this race. Boo hiss. I used to appreciate your competitive natures but you’ve worn me out. Go back to Survivor.

Dear Livia,

You’re now officially eleven months old and we have a few small weeks until your age can be recorded in years. Wow. I look at teeny newborn babies and simply wonder how my baby got to be so big!

Right now you’re in your crib where you’re supposed to be taking your morning nap. Instead of sleeping you are talking away, mostly in your favorite “a-a-a” voice, and rattling the sides of your crib. The rattling is a new thing. You’re suffering (quite greatly according to your cries) from your first real cold and you seem to be personally insulted by the runny nose and chest congestion. The cold so far has proven how very blessed I am as your mother to have a baby who is normally content and happy. Your crying kills me, both because I can’t always console you and because we’re enjoying little peace in the Tredway household. So while I pray for healing for you, I’ll continue to administer baby Tylenol (which you kind of like) and nose-wipes (which you hate with a fiery passion).

This month’s letter seems to be an appropriate time to mention how funny you are. Your facial expressions, your attitude, your body language, your words—they make us laugh each and every day. Even your pathetic “da-da” noises, said while starting to cry from whatever’s making you unhappy, are cute. The best thing of all, though, is your laugh. Who knew that baby laughter could elevate one’s soul to a heavenly realm? You have a bona fide sense of humor which just blows us away. Here you are, a new body and new mind in baby packaging, and you think things are funny. Amazing! The other day your dad was sweeping the living room floor and you, in your high chair, let out a little “heh heh.” I tend to think of Jeremy’s sweeping as necessary and mundane, but to you it was chuckle-worthy. And that silly Baby Einstein DVD we put on to entertain you when nothing else could? Oh yes, that too elicited a laugh. You offer toothy grins now in exchange for being jiggled, shaked and shimmied. I can already tell you and Daddy will be doing some serious wrestling in a few short years.

A few weeks ago you blew your first kisses—I thought my heart would crack in two from the sweetness! You sent them to Grandma & Grandpa Tredway and Auntie Bean & Eric. They, too, thought it was amazing. As your parents we are privileged to oooh and aaah at all your sweet, special firsts. In no time at all we’ll be celebrating your first year of life outside the womb. We say special prayers of thanks for the birthmother who lovingly carried you for nine months, for the birthfamily that cherished you for a short time after you were born, and for all the special people who helped in our adoption process. We can’t imagine our lives without you! Livia, you are the most beautiful 11 month old. Your daddy and I love you like we’ve never loved anything before.

Love,
Mama

It’s obvious that I am being kept busy and haven’t had much time to blog recently. Something in my life (hint: she’s cute and eats buckets of Cheerios) leaves me little time for blogging and besides that wonderful Something, I kind of feel like deleting my blog and being done with it forever. Well, maybe not forever, but just for a time. There is some pressure in Blogland to post on a regular basis—at least that’s what I expect out of my own blogging friends. Also, the scope of my blog audience sometimes discourages me from writing and I can’t help but wonder why in the world I should post personal information about my life for the entire word to read. Hm. Instead of writing freely, recently I’ve been imagining what others are thinking of my words. I’m being hindered by my very own expectations…

Despite my negative thoughts on blogging, I do have something positive to offer on this lovely spring morning. Spring is my favorite time of the year! I love going for walks, gardening, eating alfresco, talking with neighbors on the porch, people-watching and most of all feeling the warm sun on my face and shoulders. Thank you, God, for spring.

Share something beautiful. This morning I could use lovely thoughts.

Okay, okay. So I’m not literally throwing all my parenting books away. But mentally? Oh yes, mentally I’m ditching my high expectations in favor of reality. I got my Real Simple in the mail today and I also enjoy the quote Kerri pointed out:

The most important thing she’d learned over the years was that there was no way to be a perfect mother and a millions ways to be a good one.—Jill Churchill, Grime and Punishment

The truth is that I would absolutely love a perfect, systematic approach to mothering. “Played Mozart today” check. “Allowed baby independent playtime” check. “Rolled ball back and forth to test motor skills” check. The endless rows of parenting books at most bookstores make my head reel and tempt me with false truths of good! better! and best!! parenting techniques.

I won’t quit reading the books altogether. I won’t actually throw away my three baby books, which I’ll still refer to from time to time. I will probably crack open the Dan Allender book I asked for and received at Christmastime. I will graciously and humbly accept any and all books others purchase for me (tee hee). But for my personal sanity, I choose to reject the vast majority of bookly advice.

To see what makes me crazy, go to Barnes & Noble and search “understanding children.”

I am actively choosing naivete.

It’s in direct opposition to my desire to know-it-all and to be all for my daughter. Or perhaps it’s simply an all-or-nothing cop out due to my perfectionistic tendencies. Whatever it is, I am rarely opening my books on baby milestones (“should be crawling by 10 months”, whatever!) and I am choosing to ignore all the mushy, gushy how-to books on making your child a genius and/or well-rounded.

Why do we need these books????

I completely believe that if you’re intelligent and caring enough to be reading the multitude of how-to parenting books, then you’re probably doing enough for your child as it is. Whenever I start feeling burdened by the reality that I am NOT reading much of this literature, I consider mothers like Ma Ingalls, Abraham Lincoln’s mama, and Mrs. Alberta Luther King. They did alright, didn’t they? And I’m fairly certain they weren’t reading texts filled with suggestions for updated, gentler lyrics to old nursery songs or books on all the intricacies of baby massage. I mean really, do we actually need to learn all that stuff?

There’s a lot of pressure (might be perceived, might be real) to be a good parent. If you listen to all the voices out there, or simply read many of the parenting books, then you’ll feel great pressure to meet all the standards of “well-roundedness.” But folks, meeting those standards is simply not possible.

So I choose naivete.

I know enough to be confident in my skills and I know enough to know when to seek help as a parent, be it in a book or a friend. I know I want Livia to listen to all kinds of music — so we listen to jazz and rock in the car, to bible songs and folk music in the kitchen, to Hadyn’s Creation in the living room stereo, and of course to my own voice at bedtime. I know I want Livia to love reading — so books are everywhere in our house. We read them, she eats them and pats them. I know I want Livia to feel texture on and play with all sorts of objects — so she snatches up leaves on the front lawn, bangs tupperware on the kitchen floor, smears her hands in mandarin oranges and yogurt, grabs my necklace whenever possible. All this I know. For my own sake, I’m ignoring the books. So Livia doesn’t crawl at (almost) 11 months. So what?

[Disclaimer: My mother is a public health nurse who has spent many years testing children’s developmental skills. Jeremy and I attend all well-baby/pediatrician checkups faithfully. So for all y’all in Blogland who don’t know me well, let there be no concern about Livia’s welfare… We’re certain she’ll be moving around the house soon enough, in her own timing.]

Geehsh Louishh. I’m trying out these Professhional Shtrengsh Cresht Whiteshtripsh and I made the mishtake of putting them on during daylight hoursh. Unfortunately, a friend’sh hushband shtopped by unexshpectedly and I’m absholutely shure I looked like a moron. Shilly me.

Four years ago, I did lots of hanging out with Jeremy’s buddies and their wives (now women who are my close, close friends). There was one child, a small boy, between all of us young couples. We’d play cards or board games together, sometimes grilling on someone’s back porch or going for walks together. Fast forward to April 2, 2005. Scene: the Runza Rex playground. Occasion: a birthday celebration for four year old twins. Volume: very loud and sometimes screechy (Livia contributed to the screechy part). Collective number of children: 8. Moment number one of “how did I get here?”.

Twelve years ago, a 16 year old Jami Smith and I laid on the ground under the pine trees at Horn Creek camp listening to Depeche Mode on Jami’s walkman. She, crazy-in-teenage-love for another camper that in my memory looks like a young John Travolta, and me, thrilled with my first PYA experience. We became fast friends and then pen pals for the next several years before drifting off to our different and separate lives. Fast forward to April 3, 2005. Scene: the Zion infant nursery. Occasion: a typical Sunday morning, both of us with babies on our hips. Conversation: crawling (or lack thereof), baby shoes and children who refuse to eat. Moment number two of the “how did I get here?” game!

So how did I get here? I HAVE NO IDEA.