little black journal

Back at the beginning of January we vaguely started talking about preschool options for Juliette – she’s been really happy at her current school, but it’s a small, humble space and we thought this coming Fall would be a good time to introduce her to a new environment and expand her horizons a bit.  Sure, the next school year wouldn’t start for another eight months, but we wanted to be ahead of the game and take some time to weigh our options.  Turns out we almost missed the game, as open houses and preschool fairs and application deadlines all happen in January and February!  We were quickly swept up in the frenzy and after much research, decided to apply to a couple of programs.  One place in particular really piqued my interest - after speaking with their director and touring their school, I eagerly texted Shane:  “Such a great space!  Art rooms and music lessons!  Super-thoughtful teaching!  Organic meals!  I WANT IN!”  We moved forward with the application process, excited and hopeful despite our knowledge that the Seattle preschool circuit is very (very) competitive.

Last Friday a letter came in the mail with the preschool’s name in the upper left corner.  I had a brief flashback to the way my heart fluttered when I was eighteen years old, tearing open letters from the colleges I had applied to.  I pulled out a single piece of paper (never a good sign!) and then my heart sank.  “We’re sorry, but…”

Damn.

The past week has been a flurry of unhappy, unseemly emotions as that letter has hung heavy in my mind.  I’ve lost sleep and shed tears and probably driven Shane bat-shit crazy as I’ve processed the rejection, surprising even myself at how completely nuts I’ve been.

There were twinges of guilt and shame that Shane and I can’t give Juliette the best of the best.  Did I really do all that I could to get her in?  Was it my essay?  I must not have adequately conveyed her joyous, fun-loving character!   And maybe I should have offered more of myself to the school?  I could have volunteered to take time off of work a couple of times a month to teach art classes or help with playground duty or disinfect Legos or something!  Have I failed her in some way?

There was also a bit of self-righteous indignation, as my ultra-protective mama bear instinct wondered how they could turn down a chance to engage with my sweet, bright child.  Screw them, with their high-falutin’ speak of philosophy and pedagogy!  They don’t know what they’re missing!

There were about three hours of irrational fear, where I wondered if Juliette would be academically challenged for years to come if we don’t get her into a high-end top-notch preschool.

There was a whole lot of sadness that she won’t be going to school with her best friend next year, as he incidentally did secure a spot in the coveted program.  It’s been so much fun to see N and J share a class for the past year – his is the first name from Juliette’s lips every evening when we ask her who she played with that day.  La Verne and I have made something of a game of corroborating their toddler tales, texting each other things like “N said he put chips in Juliette’s hair today?  Tell her he’s sorry!”.  Since the time they were born, N and J’s lives have been gradually knit closer and closer together, and in a lot of ways, they’ve brought us parents right along with them.  Now it feels like we’re taking a step back – I’m certain we’ll all remain close, but dang, the classmates gig was awfully sweet!

And, for the love of God, when did our baby become preschool-age, anyway?  That parental passage-of-time melancholy is thick these days as we’ve watched our girl grow more independent, as our conversations about preschool have led into conversations about kindergarten (should she start elementary school in 2018 or 2019?) and then into conversations about high school graduation and even leaving home (if she starts kindergarten in 2018, she might move out when she’s 17!).  Things are changing all too fast – several of the buddies Juliette and I hang out with on Friday mornings are heading off to their own Friday preschool programs next year and I’m longing for the days when we were all just a bunch of new moms on maternity leave, watching our babies crawl around together.  I let Juliette nap in my lap a couple of days ago, because man, it felt so good to hold her so close.

I’m slowly finding my way toward acceptance – it looks like an exciting transition just isn’t in the cards for us this year.  Juliette will stay at her current school and I’m daily reminding myself that she’ll be fine.  She’ll be in a place that’s safe, where she’s known and loved.  Her current school might not serve organic veggies at snack time, but the cook adores Juliette and gave her the friendliest, longest embrace when Juliette handed her a homemade card at Christmastime.  They might not have a formal “anti-bias curriculum”, but she’ll be surrounded by teachers and students from a variety of cultural and socioeconomic backgrounds.  And as I watched Juliette interact with several of her classmates on a field trip to the library last week, I sensed how very much at home those kids feel in one another’s company, how easily they put their arms around each other and how happily they danced when the librarian cranked up the music.  Yes, she’ll be fine.

Which I suppose means I will be, too.

Project Tidy continued last weekend with an emptying of our bathroom cupboards and our linen closet, followed by a go-through of Juliette’s toy collection.  There actually wasn’t a whole lot to discard from her toy shelf, but pulling everything out, putting all the stuffed animals and puzzles and matchbox cars into one big pile, was a good opportunity for me to stand back and consider my philosophy on playthings.  I read Simplicity Parenting last year and could only vaguely remember my favorite passages, so I took a second look at my highlights on Sunday and recommitted to a few main goals:

Don’t accumulate, don’t buy on a whim.

“To a child, a mountain of toys is more than something to trip over.  It’s a topographical map of their emerging worldview.  The mountain, casting a large symbolic shadow, means “I can choose this toy, or that, or this one way down here, or that: They are all mine!  But there are so many that none of them have value.  I must want something else!”  This worldview shapes their emotional landscape as well; children given so very many choices learn to undervalue them all, and hold out – always – for whatever elusive thing isn’t offered.  “More!” “

I love watching Juliette tear into gifts and get so much satisfaction from seeing her happily engage with a new toy.  But we’ve learned that her interest is fleeting, that she’d rather have a few precious playthings that allow her to imagine and pretend, like her MagnaTiles and her baby doll, than a mountain of “single-use” stuff.  It’s tempting to give in when she asks for that super-cuddly teddy bear from Costco or that cute wooden cash register from IKEA, but I’ve learned to stand my ground (and then treat her to a cookie instead!).  She gets toys for her birthday and on holidays, maybe an irresistible trinket or book every couple months, but other than that, “not right now, honey” is the party line.  If she does get something new, something old has gotta go – real estate is scarce on this toy shelf!

Keep it real.

“I think it is important that, whenever possible, what a child touches be real.  A plastic hammer has no solidity, no weight or heft in the hands of a five-year-old.  Even small versions of real tools are preferable to such blatantly false imitations…With such play comes the bonus of genuine involvement and mastery.”

Juliette is free to rummage in our tool drawer and our kitchen cupboards for playthings when her usual toys aren’t piquing her interest – cabinets and drawers that are off-limits are either locked or out of reach so that we don’t have to worry about her wielding knives or wine glasses.  She spent a solid 20 minutes under the dining room table with a screwdriver and a set of Allen wrenches a few weeks ago, shouting “I fix it, Mama!” as she tinkered away.  When I tell her I’m hungry, she’ll pull out a pot and a wooden spoon and throw together a batch of “spicy pepper soup” (main ingredients are puzzle pieces and spare change).  I love watching her flex her imagination as she gives new meaning to the contents of our junk drawer.  Letting her play with “real” things also goes a long way in helping me stick to objective #1, as I’m not buying a kid’s version of the stuff we already have on hand.

Let her “help”.

“Children love to be busy, and useful.  They delight in seeing that there is a place for them in the hum of doing, making, and fixing that surrounds them…As small beings they can feel like inferior, passive observers of all that happens around them.  A sense of industry – of busyness and purpose – counteracts feelings of overwhelm.”

I’ve mentioned before how much Jules loves helping me in the kitchen, and while her assistance usually doubles my cooking and clean-up time, I do my best to let her in on the action.  I know she’s facing several years of being told she’s not old enough or big enough to do grown-up things, but she sure can stir with the best of them!  Now if only she could scrub a toilet…

2016, I’m comin’ for ya, but first, a look back at last year’s faves, to properly memorialize 2015’s goodness:

Favorite movie:

I think we made it to the movies a total of one time last year, but we hit Netflix pretty hard from the comfort of our couch.  We randomly happened upon Tig one night and were hooked from the start – it was refreshing to watch something heartfelt and real, to get a glimpse of this woman’s indefatigable spirit.

Favorite TV show:

This one almost went to Mad Men, but…Parenthood for the win!  Shane, in all his cinematic snobbery, is probably shuddering as he reads this, but I’ll take a sappy Braverman family softball game over Don Draper’s spiral of self destruction any day.

(Honorable mentions to Catastrophe and Girls.)

Favorite podcast:

I’m finally getting on board with this podcast thing, queuing up a list of episodes for my lunchtime walks or my rare moments of solo driving.  My favorites all tend to be the podcasts where you’re really connected to the hosts, where it feels like you’re hanging out with them while they chit-chat and tell stories, and Reply All nailed it several times this year.  PJ and Alex are super-likable guys – I dare you to listen to Today’s the Day without cracking a smile.

Favorite album:

I still remember the day a few months ago when a chat message popped up from Shane on my phone:  “Have you heard Ryan Adams’ new cover of Taylor Swift’s album?!”  I opened up Spotify within seconds and did a search for 1989, and oooooohhhhhhh my word.  I spent the rest of the afternoon texting Shane:  “Oh my gosh – did you listen to Bad Blood?!  Clean is blowing my mind.  This is too good!”  I don’t want to over-hype it, but I’ve been a Ryan Adams groupie for years and a closet Taylor Swift fan for quite some time, and this album kind of rocked my world.

Favorite app:

Wunderlist, Wunderlist, Wunderlist!  I’m a compulsive list-maker, and this app is an organizational fiend’s dream.  I use it to track my personal to-do’s, my work to-do’s, our weekly meal plan, my shopping lists for the grocery store and Target and Costco.  A number of my lists are shared with Shane, so if he’s out running errands and offers to stop at Costco, I just tell him to check the list.  If he’s hanging at home and looking for something to do, he can check our weekly cleaning list and see what needs to be vacuumed or scrubbed (ok, this has never happened, but I can hope!).

Favorite meal:

We didn’t make it out for many fancy meals last year, but as I was flipping through some old photos on my phone, I came across this one from Taylor Shellfish in Pioneer Square and my mouth started to water.  Shane and I dropped Juliette off with the Rusts on his birthday and spent a couple of hours here drinking Cava and slurping oysters and soaking up the broth of steamed clams with a crispy baguettte.  Simple but scrumptious.

Favorite purchase:

Easy call – win goes to the new car!  Loving our Forester.  Not just because of the heated seats and the panoramic sunroof and the relative ease of strapping Juliette into her higher-up carseat, but because it’s caused an unexpected-but-fun change in the way we spend our weekends.  Hey!  We’re mountains-and-snow people now!

Favorite professional moment:

I shared this photo in 2014’s update and talked about how exciting it was to see this project coming together.

And…Ta-da!  It’s done.  It looks amazing.  Standing in the center of this atrium, seeing the light stream in from the skylight that I looked at only on paper for so, so long, watching the researchers move in and out of their labs and collaborate with one another on very meaningful work in a space that I helped design…these are the mountaintop moments of being an architect.

(photo by Hedrich Blessing)

Favorite days:

This was grand:

As was this:

And this video will forever make me grin from ear to ear:

Nicely done, 2015.  Nicely done.

December came fast this year, on the heels of a particularly busy November.  Last month started with Shane recovering from a nasty bike accident (he’s ok now, but dang it if that didn’t scare the bejeezus out of me!); and then we bought a new car, which was exciting but also laden with that feeling of anxiety that naturally comes with any five-figure purchase; and then we decided to move forward with finally hiring someone to tear out our filthy downstairs carpet and lay new tile, which spiraled into a whole painting/plumbing/cleaning frenzy, complete with about 14 trips to Home Depot; and Shane’s job has kicked into overdrive, and Juliette’s been, well, two, and time’s flying by at warp speed.

So I panicked for a moment when I sat in church last Sunday and realized that Advent had already started (in November, no less!), as I hadn’t yet given the season much thought, other than a vague resolution to make it incredibly meaningful.  Whoops.  My mind raced as I wrestled with what I thought Advent 2015 should look like.  I felt called to grieve deeply and intentionally for the tragedy and violence that seems to be engulfing our world, while also keeping my eyes fixed on the hope of God’s promise.  I was struck that this is the year that Juliette needs to come to a true understanding of the meaning of Christmas (she knows the words “baby” and “donkey” and “star”, so she must be ready, right?!).  And of course, we needed to exemplify the utmost selflessness and generosity and warmth.  The pressure was on!

But after browsing Pinterest for “toddler advent activities” and determining that Jules and I wouldn’t be making our own nativity scene from popsicle sticks and quilting squares, and feeling completely overwhelmed by the challenge of finding a rhythm of meditation that adequately acknowledges the dark of the world and the light of God, I settled on keeping it simple.  We’re reading the Christmas story to Juliette every night and have added Away In A Manger to our rotation of bedtime lullabies.  I’ve opened up my dusty prayer journal and am spending a few minutes by the light of the tree each evening, putting words to both my grief and my gratitude.

We’re also pointing wildly and shouting “CHRISTMAS LIIIIIIIIGHTS!” every time we pass a decked-out house, reveling in Juliette’s unabated excitement over the gaudiest of displays.  We’re listening to A Charlie Brown Christmas during marathon Lego sessions.  I’m queuing up my holiday movie watchlist and digging my knitting needles out of the closet.  We’re stocking our fridge with eggnog (and our liquor cabinet with brandy).  We’re taking a breath, entering this season of anticipation with a quiet joy.

Advent, I’m so glad you’re here.

I received a text from a friend on Friday as I was getting Juliette up from her nap that read, “Prayers for Paris – Suspected terrorist attacks and shootings…”.  She and I had spent a year together studying abroad in Paris and fell head over heels for the city and the language and the culture while we were there.  I scrolled the latest headlines and was overwhelmed with grief as I read about the people that were gunned down at sidewalk cafes, the bombings and shootings that took 89 lives at the the Bataclan theater.  Bataclan is just half a mile from my old apartment – I walked right past it on Thursdays when I’d visit the market on Richard Lenoir.  The lives lost in France certainly aren’t any more valuable than the lives recently lost at the hands of terrorists in Beirut and Baghdad, but damn, this particular act of terror felt so close to me.  I have vivid memories of spending evenings on cafe terraces, drinking red wine with friends, feeling care-free and joy-filled and safe.  And now I can’t shake the image of a man kneeling next to an overturned table, weeping over the body of his dead friend, of blood-spattered pavement and heavily-armed police.  In the midst of this horror, extremists are rejoicing over the lives lost.  Sometimes this world feels suffocatingly dark.  God?  Where the hell are you?

As we stood and sang in church today, I felt a desperate yearning to live into the image of these words:

I spent Sunday making good on one of my New Years resolutions – my first (and last?) half marathon is in the bag!  And sweet Jesus, I’m glad that run is behind me…

I signed up for the Mercer Island Half at the beginning of the year and promptly started training with lots of guidance from Shane, who has run this race several times.  He loaded up my calendar with gradually-increasing distance targets and mapped out a number of courses that included plenty of elevation change to prep me for Mercer’s hills.  And I slogged away at those miles, strapping Jules into the stroller on Thursday mornings and Friday afternoons for jogs up around (and around, and around) Jefferson Park.  Saturday or Sunday mornings were devoted to long runs, where I would do portions of the race course or head down to Lake Washington for loops through Leschi or Seward Park.  I missed a few days when I came down with that cold (and then that hacking cough, and then that stomach bug), but generally managed to stay on track.  As race day drew near, I would vacillate between confidence and outright dread.  I’d do a solid 8-miler and think, “I got this!”  And then my knee would start to ache or I’d be put out of commission with another cold and I’d wonder, “What in the world were you thinking?”  I freaked out a couple of times last week, imagining myself barely hobbling to the finish with a side ache or a bum leg, crushed with the disappointment of missing my 2-hour time target.  I fretted and whined and threatened to bail.  I went to my coach for a pep talk, and his advice to me was, “Just have fun!”  Thanks a heap, sweetheart.  I was having a tough time finding the promise of fun amidst visions of pants-wetting and excruciating pain.

And then it was race day.  We made it to Mercer Island with plenty of time for me to hit the porta potty (twice), stretch a bit, make sure I had my bib number pinned on straight, my Shot Bloks tucked in my pocket, and my shoelaces tied tight.  My eyes actually filled with tears as Shane kissed me on the cheek and told me it was time for me to head off to the start line – you’d think I was heading into battle, the way I cried as I stroked Juliette’s hair, looked into Shane’s eyes and said a choked-up good-bye.  My nerves were on overdrive and threatening to get the best of me, so I took a few deep breaths, headed into the sea of spandex-clad runners, and said a prayer for strength and endurance as I waited for the starting horn.  Finally, after months of preparation, logging mile after mile in my trusty old Brooks, HOOOOONNNNNNK!  It was go time!

And I felt…great.  My legs were strong, my breathing was steady, I didn’t feel the urge to pee or vomit as feared.  The weather was perfect and the course was beautiful, with tree-lined switchbacks and views of the water around each bend.  I had my phone strapped to my arm and was thrilled to hear RunKeeper tell me that I was hitting each mile mark ahead of my target 9:10 pace.  Mile 2, average pace, 8:55 per mile…Mile 5, average pace, 8:56 per mile…Mile 8, average pace, 8:55 per mile.  Shane had carefully mapped out his cheering route and he and Juliette popped up at miles 3, 5, and 7 to give me high-fives.  I waved to them and yelled to Juliette that mama would see at the finish reeeeeal soon.  I was flyin’!

Then mile 10 happened.  My legs got a little rubbery and I felt myself slowing down.  I pressed on, counting my strides and telling myself that once I counted to 100 six times, I should be at the next mile marker.  I saw the sign for mile 11 and perked up a little – the end felt so close!  And yet, it was still so, so far away.  The course’s biggest hill cruelly falls at mile 11, and dang, it hurt.  It was like I was running in ten inches of mud.  My legs screamed at me and threatened to unattach themselves from my body.  “What the hell, lady?  We’re not cut out for this!”  I popped my last Shot Blok, I huffed and I puffed.  Mile 12, average pace, 9:05 per mile.  I was slipping!  I started counting my strides again, struggled to find a rhythm.  At last, in the distance, I heard the cheers and cow bells of the finish line.  I saw Shane and Jules and Jack and La Verne waving from the sidelines, threw back my shoulders, turned on my turbo-boosters, and finished with all I had.

Thanks, Jack, for the action shots!

I took a minute to catch my breath and wolf down an orange and then made my way to my peeps, posing for a runner’s pic with Jack, who had finished his 10k earlier in morning.

And…final time?  1:59:43!  I squeaked in just under my goal and lived to tell about it, in all it’s overly-dramatic glory.

Mucho, mucho thanks to my insanely supportive husband, who told me over and over and over that I could do this, and to my insanely heavy daughter, who made me feel like superwoman each time I managed to push her stroller up that mondo hill on our Thursday runs.  I’m so glad you made me do this.  And I’m so glad I never have to do it again.

Remember this post?  Remember how January was all coughing and sore throats and runny noses?  Remember how thankful I was for the dawn of a new, healthy month?  Scratch that.  I’m afraid Chez Schnell is still sick central.  Shane has felt like he’s had his head in a fishbowl for the last four weeks, with a head cold he can’t quite shake.  I’ve had three colds myself, one case of pinkeye, and am currently ailing from a wheezy, rattling cough that makes me sound like I need to lay off the smokes.  Juliette continues to leave a lovely trail of snot in her wake, like some kind of two-legged (all be it adorable) slug.

And yesterday, just as I resolved that March would be our month to kick all these viruses to the curb, Juliette came down with a brand new fever.  We put her to bed early and then I hit the sack at 8:00, praying that the cough suppressant that the Urgent Care doctor had prescribed would allow me to get a decent night’s sleep.  I woke to the sound of Juliette wailing around 9:00, and after Shane’s unsuccessful attempt to soothe her, I got up to give it a go.  Halfway to her room, I started feeling woozy and spent the next ten minutes hunched over the toilet while my poor, feverish girl screamed from the next room.  Add stomach bug my list of woes.

On that note, I’m so glad we got 2015’s low point out of the way this early in the year!  I have to believe things will look up from here – I didn’t puke at all today, and Juliette’s fever seems to have passed, so rather than wallowing among our discarded Kleenex, I’m cautiously optimistic that we’re on the upswing.  And, I’m so thankful my mom has been here the past few days to help us through this.  Though I would have loved for her visit to have occurred under better circumstances, it was so nice to have her here to nurse us toward health with homemade bone broth and an extra hand with Jules.

And before we hit our wall on Sunday night, we did manage a fun little outing to Seward Park to go for a stroll and throw rocks.

I’m going to play the fool and say it again:  cheers to the dawn of a bright and shining new month.

This year started out great, with midnight champagne and New Years morning donuts and a very rewarding home-organization binge, and then…it all just kind of fell apart.  The cold flu straight-up clobbered us last month.  I think Shane’s been sick 20 out of the last 30 days; Juliette started sniffling on Tuesday and then hacking on Wednesday and spent all day Thursday wandering around the house whimpering, “mama?  mama?  mmmmmmaaaaaaaammmmmmmaaaaaa!!!!”;  I was more than happy to snuggle up with her until she gazed up at me with her sad, red-rimmed eyes and coughed directly into my mouth, and sure enough, I started feeling achy and sore-throated on Friday.  There was also a bout of toddler teething misery (which made all of us miserable), an anxiety-riddled decision about whether or not to move Juliette to a new daycare, work-related stresses for Shane and I, and the fact that we were continuing our tradition of frugal January, which meant no drowning our sorrows in shopping sprees or Tutta Bella happy hour.  Good riddance, January.  You feelin’ me, Jules?

Cheers to the dawn of a bright and shining (or at least ever-so-slightly less dark) new month.  May the rivers of snot go dry and the lattes flow like waterfalls.

I know, we’re 8 days in 2015; it’s time to get on board with the new year and close the books on 2014, but I can’t just yet.  It was such a good year.  There were downs, for sure, but the highs were so beautifully high.  I want to memorialize that goodness one last time before setting my feet firmly in 2015, so I’m borrowing a theme from La Verne and jotting down my own 2014 time capsule.

Favorite movie:  I only made it to the movies a handful of times but I’m glad I was able to experience Wild on the big screen.

I read the book, a true-story chronicle of Cheryl Strayed’s solo hike along the Pacific Crest Trail, a couple of years ago and loved it. And I think I loved the on-screen version even more.  I spent a good half of the movie either holding my breath or holding back tears – Reese Witherspoon nailed it.

Favorite TV show:  Homeland was killer last season, Parenthood had me in tears a few times, but girls, girls, Girls!

Wow, Lena Dunham/Hannah Horvath is brilliant – funny and articulate and creative and original.  Not the kind of show you want to watch with your parents, but it was just the thing I needed to counteract my Sunday night blues.  Award for most-transformed television character goes to Hannah’s boyfriend, Adam.

Favorite song:  Jules and I listen to more Taylor Swift than I’d like to admit, but when I’m at work or in the car alone and put on my “latest faves” Spotify playlist, Ledges by Noah Gundersen is the first song that plays.

I saw him perform three or four years ago and have been a fan ever since – I’m not sure if it’s the husky voice or the accompaniment of his sister’s violin or the emotionally-charged lyrics, but I can’t get enough.

Favorite new accessory:  Shane bought me a black leather cross-body Kate Spade purse for Christmas, and I’m still kind of swooning over it.

Perfectly sized, the leather drapes beautifully when the bag isn’t full, the lining and stitching and buckles all have that extra-refined high-quality touch – this is first really nice purse I’ve owned and…I’m afraid Kohl’s just lost a customer.

Favorite purchase:  At the risk of sounding unbelievably un-thrilling, its our Dyson cordless vacuum.

This was our one Black Friday purchase, and it’s a total game changer.  Super-portable, which is key for our three-level townhouse, particularly since we’ve added a cereal-spiller to our family.  We vacuum three times more often than we used to because it’s so easy to pull this thing out of the closet and run it for a few minutes. Honorable mention in the “favorite purchase” category goes to to the Bob running stroller we scored on Craigslist.

Favorite professional moment:  Standing at the top my project’s atrium, two and a half years after I sat down with the team to develop the first rough massing studies.

I know, it’s still got a ways to go, but my heart fluttered a little when I visited the jobsite last month and experienced the real-life proportions of the building I’ve seen only on paper (and screen) for so long – I’ve pored over the details of that atrium, and I’m feeling affirmed once all the scaffolding is out of there, the glass guardrails are in, and the cantilevered conference pods receive their wood cladding, it’s going to be amazing.

Favorite personal pastime:  “Me-time” was a little hard to come by in 2014, but when I did manage a break from work or baby, I…looked at pictures of baby.

It’s been a lot of fun though, chronicling Juliette’s life via blog and baby book.  I’m already forgetting what she looked like a few months ago, how old she was when she took her first swing ride or started crawling, so I’m glad I have a record of it.  And I’m glad she’ll have this record as well – today we pulled out her photo album and I told her stories about her early life (since she’s so old now!).  We looked at pictures from the time Grandma and Aunt Tiff came to visit and talked about our summer park outings with our buddies.  She seemed into it – I’m glad she’s starting to understand that I’m constantly shoving a camera in her face for good purpose!

On that note, favorite picture of Juliette (Lord knows there were so many!):  This one because it so perfectly captures that goofy, unbridled joy that made my heart fit to burst time and again.  Plus, I’m a sucker for that thigh roll.

And this one, because man, the number of times I have looked over at her sitting in her high chair, witnessed a new facial expression, and laughed out loud:

Ok, this one too (I knew I couldn’t pick just one!), because yikes!  That hair and those cheeks:

Favorite moments:

Probably this:

And this – the woods across the street from us have never looked more beautiful.  And our house has never felt cozier than it did after that walk, when we curled up on the couch with Jules and her favorite books:

But also this – oh, to feel the sun on my shoulders and the sand between my toes again:

And damn, this was good:

Alright, 2015.  I’m ready for ya now.  Top that.

I’m finding that motherhood brings out both the best and the worst in me.  There are days when I surprise myself with my selflessness or my gentleness or my super-human strength as I lug a wriggling toddler and two bags of groceries across a parking lot because I forgot to park the car near the shopping cart drop-off (rookie mistake).  There are days when I run wild with Juliette on the playground, following her up the steps and down the slide and back again, and again, and again, playing through the monotony because to her, the up-downs never get old.  Then we head home and I read her the same book eight times over, because that silly bear in I Want My Hat Back is her favorite and storytime is one of the few chances I get to hold my busy girl extra-close.   There are days when she devours her broccoli quiche and her sweet potatoes and her homemade coconut-almond bars, politely signing “more” and “please” after each course, and I pat myself on my back for raising such a healthy, well-mannered little girl.

And then…there are those other kinds of days.  Days when she tosses her steamed vegetables and roasted chicken on the floor, so I throw up my hands and let her have a banana for dinner.  Days when I lay all the blankets and pillows on the living room floor with the pretense of wanting to snuggle, but in reality just praying that if I give her a big enough cup of Cheerios, she’ll leave me alone and let me doze for a precious few minutes.  Days when I altogether lose my shit.  Like the day we went to the zoo and it rained and rained, so I called it quits and we headed to the car where she whined and kicked as I wrestled her into her carseat.  Buckles finally secure, stroller folded into the trunk, my back completely soaked, I handed her a pouch of her favorite pear-pea puree for the ride home, expecting a little gratitude, but instead watching her grabby hands squeeze two-thirds of the green goo down the front of her shirt.  Horns sprouted from my head as I angrily yelled, “BABY, NO!!!  STOP!!!  NO, NO, NO!”.  She was momentarily startled into silence, her lip quivering and her eyes wide with fear.  Then she burst into one of the saddest wails I’ve ever heard.  I think I cried most of the way home, too, embarrassed and ashamed that I had lost my cool and become that crazy, shouting mom I’ve seen (and admittedly judged) so many times before.  And yesterday…ooofff.  Bad weather and a lack of motivation on my part kept us housebound, and after the sixth ransacking of the kitchen cupboards and the third meltdown over not being allowed to play in the fridge, I’d had enough.  “JULIETTE GRACE!  QUIT YOUR CRYING!”  I was done, sick of the messes and the whining and the complete lack of personal space.  I put her down for her afternoon nap at 9 am, partly because she seemed tired, but partly because I just couldn’t stand to be around her anymore.  Which sounds so awful, especially when I had just spent three days at work looking forward to Mama-Jules Thursday.  But did she not read the memo about snuggling together under piles of blankets, contentedly playing Legos while I took a shower?  Or was I suffering from my usual delusions of quiet grandeur and coming up short on patience when reality set in?  Yeah, patience…not my forte.  But apparently kind of essential if I’m going to make it through toddlerhood without turning into the Wicked Witch of the Pacific Northwest.  Craaaaaap.

The upside? At least she doesn’t hold grudges.