Maggie's Birthday Roundup

Maggie's official birthday party is scheduled for next weekend, and you can bet your bum that there will be pictures of that coming up. Additionally, Ian and I are working on a Maggie-themed slide show, which should be up and running tonight(ish). Our celebrations yesterday were low key, but we did party down, Tillman-style, and so Maggie's actual birthday went thusly:

On my birthday, my mum always calls me at the exact time of day that I was born, so that we can reminisce together over what a delight I have always been. I like the tradition, and want to continue it with my children. I, however, had the good manners to be born at 8:15 a.m., while my kids were both born at much less decent hours. (Max: 6:25 a.m.; Maggie: 12:24 a.m.) Nonetheless, I remained stubbornly awake with Maggie until 12:24 on her birthday morning, and reminisced about what a delight she's always been while Ian blearily and with much grumbling photographed the moment for posterity. Maggie, for her part, began her second year of life in much the way she began her first one: nursing herself to sleep on my chest and then refusing to be dislodged from her place of comfort.

To Max, the fact that it was Maggie's birthday meant two things: a hearty round of "Jolly Good Fellow", sung off-key but with admirable gusto, and cake. We made the horrible error of showing Max the cupcakes (one each for Max and Maggie -- Ian and I had sugar-free ice cream, because being a grown-up sucks) before dinner, and then telling him that we would not be eating the cupcakes until after dinner. We realized our error almost immediately, but it was too late to go back, and so we soldiered on, ate dinner, and made forced pleasant conversation while Max lay under the dinner table and wailed "We're done with dinner! We need cupcakes!" at two-second intervals. By the time we had finished making our point (whatever the hell our point was in the first place), Maggie had fallen asleep, so Max sang to her slumbering self and ate his cupcake in her honor.

Maggie did wake up in time to eat her birthday cake on her birthday. She was bemused by the cupcake at first, and examined it from all angles, unsure whether it was food, a toy, or some sort of baby IQ test.

Maggie smooshed cake into the tray, her hair, her belly button, and both nostrils, and then finally, some stray frosting found its way into her mouth and she realized that she loved it.

A lot.

Delighted with her new, cake-eating lifestyle, and in the throes of her first sugar-high, Maggie was humorous to behold. The humor wore off two hours later, when the sugar high was still carrying Maggie on its glucosey wings of frenzy and the rest of us were ready for bed, but how often do you turn one, for goodness' sake?

And that, my friends, is how Maggie ushered in her onehood.

In Which Maggie Turns One

One year ago today, Ian and I were introduced to this be-mohawked little lady for the very first time. She was very soft, and very pink, and very determined. We liked her immediately.

One year later, Maggie is bigger, and she can do more tricks, but not much else has changed. Her hair has changed color, but she is still be-mohawked. She is still soft (except where she has built up a callous on one leg from crawling), she is still pink, and she is still very determined. And, of course, we still like her, so much that I am hoping she will let us keep her. Happy Birthday, Maggles.

Emotional Roller Coaster

Max to Mama: I am happy when Maggie is awake. I like to play with her because she is my friend. Maggie is a good friend. She is my favorite. Maggie has a shovel. She is hitting me. I am okay. But I don't like Maggie, Mama.

Slumber

Max and Maggie usually nap in the big bed, and it is a precious and increasingly infrequent day when they both nap simultaneously. It has occurred to Maggie, somewhere along the way, that if she stays up while Max naps, she can play with whatever she wants and have unlimited Mama time, and these facts strike her as appealing. Occasionally, when they do nap together, I will leave them sleeping and go frolic in the other room -- you know, I'll go to the bathroom without an audience, or I'll eat lunch without other people's hands in my food -- I am unstoppably devil-may-care like that. I always keep the door a bit open, though, so I can keep my eye on the napping duo. They have been known to wake each other up, and Maggie in particular has to be watched closely, because she thinks that she knows how to get out of the big bed by herself but she is sadly mistaken. The other day, I peeked in at them, and saw that Maggie had rolled over, Max had flung out an arm, and that my two beauteous children were holding hands in their sleep. By the time I got the camera, they had shifted slightly, so that Max is technically holding Maggie's elbow, but I took the picture anyway. Not only is it still cute, but I like having photographic evidence of them napping at the same time, so that I can sigh over it longingly on days when one of them naps and the other one watches me go pee and then puts their hands in my salad.

p.s. I know it looks like Maggie is being smothered by the pillow, but she's not -- I checked. And then I checked again. And then, five minutes later, I checked again. And then, eventually, I just moved the pillow. I woke her up, of course, but safety first.

Happy Mother's Day!

I am grateful to my mother, my mother-in-law, my grandmothers, my aunts, my sisters, my sister-in-law, and all the mothers who helped to make me the person and the mother that I am. Happy Mama's Day from a happy mama.

In Which Max Has His First School Experience (Sort Of)

Alternate title: How Chelsa has allowed her overprotective inclinations to shape her life and the lives of those around her

This month, I have begun substituting a little bit at the preschool where I used to work. Yesterday, I brought Max with me, in the interests of conducting a little social experiment. Query: Could Chelsa cope with being a teacher and a mama simultaneously, and could Max cope with sharing his mom and his space without being utterly hampered socially by her presence? It seems that the answer is yes to both parts, at least so far. I really enjoyed being back and teaching, and Max had A BLAST running, biking, climbing, sliding, painting, drawing, building, eating, dressing up, getting undressed, and etc. Although, if you ask him what he did at school, he will answer: I got a boo boo. And he did. He slipped and scraped his knee like, five minutes after he arrived. With a keen eye for the dramatic, though, he has apparently decided that the story of his day peaked there, and further information will just detract from the narrative arc.
In light of the success of our experiment (the other half of the offspring juggling party, Maggie, stayed home with Ian, and they evidently had a delightful time, too, without even a boo boo to mar their day), I am thinking that I will substitute more often, allowing me to make a little extra cash, get out and about, and most importantly, feel like I am giving Max the social experience and greater independence of preschool without actually having to let him out of my sight very often. I wonder if I can employ a similar technique when he starts high school? Or dating? Good grief.

Fortitude

Every time I make a comment like this, the gods seem to hear me and punish me for my good cheer, but Max and Maggie have been playing together beautifully lately. Maggie is finally old enough that she can participate in games, and Max has been really taking advantage of having a playmate. He invites her into his play all the time, and sometimes even gets upset if she wanders off. Last night, Max and I built a fort out of the piano bench and the Auntie Aly blankets, and Max kept lifting the blankets, peeking his tufty little head out, and squawking, "I want Maggie to come in here! Maggie, come in here, pleeeeeeease? Maggie! Mama, put Maggie in here!" Maggie was a little unsure about crawling into a low, dark cave that was dangerously full of Max's knees and elbows, but she finally took the bait. I don't know exactly what they were doing in there, but it involved much giggling. Siblings can be a pain, and I have definitely watched Max and Maggie struggle to claim privacy, space, and greater shares of attention. While their getting older and more independent is definitely bittersweet, I am so glad to see them grow into their siblinghood, and to get to a phase where they appreciate each other.

Happy Birthday Gramps!

I have spent a while this morning contemplating the perfect anecdote to sum up my dad. I could tell you about the time that he got me a Jesus candle for my birthday (none of us are catholic), and then laughed himself to tears over the joke, which no one else quite got. I could tell you that he has a hat, purchased at a thrift store, that has a name tag pinned to it that says, "Michael", and that he has never removed the name tag, even though his name is Bob. I think that the best, most Gramps-summing-up story I could tell, though, is this one: when I gave birth to Max, six weeks early, it was scary and sad and overwhelming. Everyone rallied around us, everyone wanted to help, but mostly we just had to watch Max grow into his body enough to be ready to come home. While we were doing that, my dad cleaned, organized, and sterilized our entire house. He put oil in our car and checked the tires and installed the car seat. He cooked food and insisted that we sit down and eat it. He allowed us to worry about nothing but Max, which was good, because that was pretty much a full time job. He is zany, and eccentric, and his fashion sense is often a step or two beyond the rest of us. Mostly, though, he takes care of us, in thousands of small but significant ways, and Ian, Max, Maggie and I are all so very lucky that he is ours. Happy Birthday, Pops!

The House Always Wins

When Maggie was around eight months old, we began speculating, for lack of anything better to do, about when she would walk. Since she seemed to be on the developmental fast track, I predicted that her first steps were imminent. My mother, who is contrary by nature, disagreed, and a semi-friendly wager was proposed. I bet that Maggie would take her first steps by nine months, and be a full-fledged walker by ten months. My mum bet first steps at ten months. We observed keenly as Maggie pulled to stand, started cruising from furniture piece to furniture piece, and then -- sort of plateaued there. Nine months passed. Ten months passed. When Maggie hit eleven months old, we were forced to admit the bitter truth: we had both lost. If you are thinking of throwing your own chips onto the table, though, I am sorry to tell you that the game is now closed. Maggie took her first step this morning, at eleven months, nine days, and eleven and a half hours old. She is brilliant, and beautiful, and fantastic, and now, she is also mobile. Heads up.

That, and The Other

Maggie has learned a new word. The word is 'this!', and it is now the constant refrain of our household. Maggie uses it to describe everything that amazes, delights, interests, or irritates her. If you were here right now, she'd use it to describe you. It being a somewhat sibilant word, ending in an 's' and all, it comes out sounding sort of gargly, ("thzzz! thzzz!"), and it is pretty much always accompanied by copious amounts of drool. I am beginning to feel vaguely like we own one of the monkeys from that children's book, Caps For Sale, who respond to everything by saying, "Tzz, tzz, tzz!"

The Following Is Evidence Of Two Things:

1)Ian has both a decidedly creepy side to his mental workings, and way too much time on his hands.

2)Given the right lighting, accessories, and aforementioned bored and creepy-minded father, even the world's most adorable and benevolent soul can be made to look sinister.



P.S. I know that the poster says that this movie will be coming out this spring, but no. Sorry, but Max is not actually starring in a movie called Orbmaster. To my knowledge, no such film exists, and it is hard to imagine an entire movie's worth of plot revolving around a young boy's possession of a battery-operated glowing ball. Not that lack of plot necessarily stops people, but still.

Subjects That Max Broached Yesterday In Attempts To Avoid Going To Sleep At Naptime

My sister-in-law recently expressed disbelief when Ian told her that Max rarely protests being put to bed, but it's true. Well, kind of. Max hardly ever screams or cries when he's being put to bed, but he does wage a more subtle, psychological brand of war on sleep. For example:
Scene: mid-afternoon, in the big bed. Maggie is sleeping peacefully, dreaming of milk. Max has things on his mind that prevent him from doing likewise. First on the mental agenda: "Mama? Mama! Everyone has eyebrows, Mama."
Max waits to see if I will respond. I don't, hoping that this will discourage further conversation.
"Maggie has really, really little eyebrows, because she is little. She's a baby." Pause. Apparently not.
"Dada has the biggest eyebrows, because he's really big." Pause. Still no response from me, although I privately find this both true and funny.
"It's daytime, Mama. It's not nighttime." Pause. Max is attempting to draw me into some sort of gnomic circular argument about how reasonable people don't sleep in the daytime, because daytime is for playing, and only a barbarian would insist on confining him to his bed during daylight hours. I am wise to his game, however, having fallen into this conversational trap several times in the past.
"Shh," I tell him. "It's nap time." Brief silence.
"My dipey doesn't feel good. It itches me." Pause. Max lets out a theatrical sob and claws at his diaper. I adjust it and reiterate my wish that he succumb to slumber. Brief silence, and just when I begin to hope --
"Mama, Edgar is a cat. He's a good guy. He's not gonna bite me. He's a friend." Max pats an indifferent Edgar affectionately. There is another silence.
"Maggie doesn't like peas, Mama. She's not crying." Pause.
"Mama, are you sleeping? Wake up, Mama!" Pause. "I feel like getting up. I'm not tired anymore. I'll see you in the living room." There is a short scuffle, as I disabuse Max of this notion. We resettle ourselves, with much resentment from all parties. Max is quiet for 45 seconds.
"Mama? You married? You married Dada? I'm not married. I'm a spatula*."
"A spatula?" I inquire, before remembering that I am feigning sleep in order to trick the boy into napping. (A technique that I for some reason continue to employ, by the way, despite the fact that it has a 100% failure rate.)
"Yeah, Mama. I'm an itchy boar. I don't want to get married. I want to get married to you and Dada."
And so on.
Total Time Spent Before Max finally went to sleep: 32 minutes

*I finally figured out, after much amused puzzling, that Max was trying to say that he was a bachelor. He found some pictures of our wedding awhile back, and has been very interested in the concept of matrimony ever since. In the course of discussing who is married to whom within Max's circle of acquaintances, we told Max that he was not married to anyone at present, and that he was therefore a bachelor. This nugget of information seems to have crossed wires with a cooking lesson, mutated into a wild pig with skin problems, and given birth to hilarity.

Your Life, However Awesome, Will Never Rival This Girl's

Maggie turned 11 months old on the 22nd. I have repeatedly told her to stop growing, to remain small and pink and my wee baby forever, but apparently, she has slept through all my lectures. She is a lovely vision, no?

Okay, maybe from this angle a little more so?

Somehow, I Continue To Run Into The Most Aggravating People

While we have recovered from the plague, finally and after much gnashing of teeth, the ramifications of our 7+ days of suffering will continue to be felt for some time. Laundry, for instance, was not done by anyone for the entire duration of our illness, and added to the fact that everyone was oozing various kinds of grossness, let's just say that the mystery of why we get so few visitors is not a difficult one to solve. Other household chores were similarly neglected, and so Ian and I spent some of his days off this week trying to piece our lives back together. Grocery shopping being one of the many things we were behind on, Max, Maggie and I set out this morning in search of sustenance. At the store, we ran into the parent of a former student of mine, and spent a few minutes doing that I-know-you-and-we've-seen-each-other-so-now-we-have-to-chat-awkwardly-despite-having-very-little-to-say-to-one-another thing. Luckily, Max is gregarious enough to make up for my lack of conversational finesse, and entertained the woman nicely until she looked over at Maggie and asked Max, "and how old is your little brother?". Max looked blankly at the woman, and then at Maggie. "That's Maggie," he informed the woman. "She's a baby." "Ohhh," said the woman. "And do you help take care of him?" Max looked blank again for a minute, and then said, "I have a cookie!" Among Max's nuggets of wisdom, apparently is included the following: when it is clear that you are not seeing eye to eye with a conversational partner, change the subject to a more universal one.
Here's the thing: I don't care if people think that Maggie is a boy. While I view her as a clearly feminine specimen, she is a baby, she is tall for her age, she has short hair, and she often wears Max's old clothes. So I am not offended if people occasionally ask how old my little boy is, even if I myself would do a more diplomatic pronoun dance in their place. However. On this particular day, Maggie was wearing the outfit that you see in the included picture; it is pink, it has bows and ruffles, and it is one of her more aggressively girly ensembles. Even if you failed to pick up on this visual cue, Max offered the woman several others: I have never met a boy named Maggie, and Max did call his baby a 'she'. I am not offended by the mistake so much as I am alarmed at the lack of attention to detail. I suppose that if people anywhere would have a pink romper wearing baby boy named Maggie, Davis is probably the place where they would live, but I like to think that I am pretty clearly not those people. Another self-image pillar crumbled. (Mine, fortunately, not Maggie's. Maggie seems as secure in her freakishly strong, tremendously opinionated femininity as ever. That's my girl.)

My Heart's Delight

I am so extraordinarily, undeservedly lucky to be this boy's mama.

What Do You Get If You Mix Ian's Genes, Chelsa's Genes, and an XX Chromosome Pair?

You get a dolly-loving, pink dress-wearing, light saber-weilding amazon, that's what you get.

Sous Chef

Well, the Tillman Family Plague seems to be winding down at last. We are not yet better, exactly, but we are at least improved enough to envision a world where we might be better someday. With much prayer. Max and Maggie are both feeling well enough to resume some of their old friskiness, and they spent part of today playing outside together. Max actually invited Maggie to cook with him, which was awfully nice, although once she was outside and in the action, he informed me that "Maggie can't cook. She's just a baby, and she is too little. It's too spicy for Maggie."

Maggie was barred from the actual cooking, but she was allowed to help gather ingredients. It may not look like it, but the sand, chalk, and pink mobile toy, when simmered together, make a mighty tasty onion soup.

Maggie tried to eat a piece of chalk halfway through the mealtime preparations (Max does, perhaps, have a point about babies being unable to cook), and got upset when I removed it from her mouth. Max walked over to Maggie, said, "You crying, Maggie? Awww, don't cry. Poor guy," and hugged her. I was at a bad angle to capture the hug, and yet it is cute from even the awkward angles, so I included it.

What's cuter than Max comforting Maggie? Not much. This, however, is Maggie's face, immediately post-hug, and I think that it at least comes close. Look how happy and proud she is that her big brother paid attention to her! Also look how she still has a piece of chalk, cleverly concealed in her chubby fist!

Happy Birthday To You, SarahRoo!

Oh, Sarah. You know how very great my adoration for you is, and if you don't, well, you just haven't been paying attention. I hope you are being spoiled and reveling in your thirty-oneness. We miss you.

Still Sick, Thanks For Asking. And You?

By now, you are no doubt tired of hearing about our tragic, besnotted existence, and wish that we would move on to other topics. I hope that it comforts you to know that I am at least as tired of being besnotted, and that I would dearly love to have other news to report. However, we are now on day 7 of the Pestilence Party, and it is really all that we have on the table right now, activity-wise. Max is more or less recovered, which is good. Maggie, on the other hand, who was showing no symptoms of anything until Thursday evening, suddenly got in on the fun by having her eyes turn red, gooey, and swollen. On Friday, she woke up with one eye swelled almost shut, causing me to break a 2 1/2 year streak and make the first ever doctor's appointment due to illness that either of my children has ever needed. While we waited for the appointment time to roll around, my eye turned pink, too. Imagine my heartfelt delight. My parents came over to stay with Max while I took Maggie to the doctor (and when you wonder, Granny, why I let you get away with all your paranoid fussing over choking hazards and etc., it is because you also come over early from work so that I don't have to bring both kids to the doctor). The pediatrician annoyed Maggie by shining lights into various parts of her, and then declared both she and I a cesspool of viral ick, and helpfully told me that we would just have to wait it out. And so we are. Waiting.

Maggie, despite her woes (observe the swollen eye?), has somehow found the time to learn how to take everything out of the toy cupboard and then climb into it. Then she can't figure out how to get back out, and gets mad. It is a much less fun game for me than you might imagine.

Max, as aforementioned, has pretty much gone back to normal after four days of snotty, coughing, oozing, feverish good times. His nose ran so forcefully and plentifully for so long, however, that he still has a little chapping around the upper lip from wiping it so much, as you can see. (He is crying in the picture, by the way, because he is unhappy that he cannot be in the picture and simultaneously observe the picture being taken in the little digital camera window. Stupid physics.) Also, now that Maggie is sick, he is angry that she is getting more than the usual amount of attention, and so he took it upon himself yesterday to disagree with every single solitary thing that I said or did. And I really mean EVERY SINGLE THING -- if I said, "Good Morning, Max!", he would say, "It's NOT morning. It's NIGHTTIME!" I was in the final stages of negotiating with the circus, to whom I planned to sell Max at bargain rates, when my parents showed up yesterday and took him off my hands.

And Lo! A Great And Mighty Tidal Wave of Snot Did Sweep Over The Tillman House. And There Was Much Weeping.

There is still sickness raging here, and it has officially overtaken each and every one of us. I am displeased. Ian and Maggie have both suffered mild versions of the pestilence, but poor little Max has been oozing snot from every facial orifice, coughing, barfing, and battling fever. We were on the brink of taking him for his first doctor's appointment (the first one due to illness, of course -- he's had check-ups.), but then his fever went away and he dialed down the mucous just enough for us to conclude that he's on the mend. I'm not even sure if I have the cold, too, or if I am just suffering from everyone being so very sleepless, needy, barfy, coughing, feverish, oozy, etc. for four solid days and nights. No plagues of locusts yet, but I will keep you posted.

In Which Chelsa Eats Her Words

Remember the other day, when I was having a big chuckle over Max's feigned illnesses, and smugly relating that his poor acting ability was due to his robust and unflappable good health? Ha. It turns out that Max heard me, decided to get in some real world experience in order to enhance his performance, and is now really, truly, actually sick with a cold. Maggie has it, too. There has been quite a bit of coughing, copious amounts of mucous, and untold quantities of yelling. It is no longer quite so amusing.

Et Tu, Mama?

I gave Max a haircut a couple of days ago. He now bears an unsettling resemblance to Julius Caesar. It isn't really my fault, though -- Max is very resistant to haircuts, and he was resisting mightily, and I was afraid of poking his wildly flailing self with the scissors, and so I said, "Okay, one more big cut!" and took a swipe at the bangs, and now they are very, very short. It looks fine if you comb it a really specific way, but Max is two, and he has what Ian and I have dubbed "sweaty head syndrome", and so his hair does not stay in a really specific way for long. It could be worse, I suppose -- it could be a mullet, or a duck-tail. Plus, Max is cute enough to pull it off. I am not at all sure that increasing his similarities with Caesar is a good idea, though -- he is already 99% certain that he is Prosapia Dictator pro vita.

Did I Risk Getting Peed On? Sure. Would I Risk It Again?

In a heartbeat.

Malaise

Somewhere, in the not-so-distant past, Max heard someone say that they felt sick. (On Sesame Street, maybe?) Apparently, the dramatic potential of ill health appeals to him, because he has been "feeling a little sick -- cough! cough!" ever since. He puts long, thin legos in his mouth and claims that they report fever, he loudly and with great and tragic aplomb sneezes into his hands, and he clutches his throat with both hands and looks woeful, regretfully informing me that he has lost his voice. Here's the thing, though -- Max has actually been sick ... hold on, let me count ... three times in his life. He has very little real-life experience to draw on, and his performance reflects this lack. His 'fevers' include the prop of the faux thermometer, but he has not committed to the role enough to adopt the quiet, glassy-eyed temperament that has accompanied his real-life fevers. His sneezes and coughs lack even an attempt to simulate actual snot -- he basically just says 'achoo!' or 'ahem' and then asks for attention. And, of course, most glaringly, when he says he has lost his voice, he neglects to consider that he is using his voice to inform me of the loss, thus poking holes in his own tale of woe. Not surprisingly, Max has found that his recent bouts of ill health have not been met with an overabundance of sympathy. In fact, his cruel and neglectful parents seem amused by his maladies more often than not.

WrestleMania

Max has created this game in which he, Ian, and Maggie run and hide, and then the monster (me) thunders ominously down the hall in search of prey. The plot line of this game grows increasingly elaborate as time goes on. Max seems to simultaneously be: the wily escapee of the monster, the sassy yet naive gingerbread man, the only known world expert on optimal blanket placement for monster concealment, and the bold and fearless rescuer of Princess Maggie. He's got a lot of balls in the air, folks. (By the way, every time Max discusses rescuing Princess Maggie, I feel the need to apologize to Margaret the elder. I am so very sorry for Max's not-so-feminist attitude, Margaret the Elder, but this is a direct quote from Mario, which he plays with Ian. If it helps, Maggie seems to be heading down a very self-rescuing developmental path.)

The role of Monster is a challenging one for me, because I have to be the scary monster, and then I have to do a 180 and be the comforting mama if the monster gets too intense, and then I get taunted for being weak and I have to go back into monster-mode. I am a shoe-in at the Oscars this year.

Maggie's inclusion in this game was allowed by Max grudgingly at best, initially. As Maggie gets older, however, she is increasingly not content to remain in the background of activities, and her titan-like strength means that one has to take her desires seriously. After some negotiating, though, Max now seems to enjoy making her a part of the action, and will remind Ian that she needs to hide, too. Maggie, always an avid Max fan, is THRILLED to be a part of his play. Their cuteness is really quite extraordinary.

Max and Maggie ( I almost called this post "M and M", and then recoiled in horror from the accidental pun, so we all dodged a bullet, People.)

Max and Maggie are both at really fun ages right now. (Mind you, I am saying this less than 24 hours after literally telling my mother that since she wanted grandchildren so badly, she should now consider herself morally obligated to take on the care of their bloody-nosed, poopy, teething, crabby selves, but a good night's sleep does wonders for the outlook.) They are changing so much so quickly, and it has been amazing to watch their developmental milestones fly past.

Maggie is at that really responsive, happy, playful point in her babyhood. She plays several games now: peek-a-boo, chase, I-drop-stuff-and-you-get-it-for-me-and-I-drop-it-again-and-etc., and POUND, which is a game Maggie invented herself and which mainly consists of pounding on stuff with her baby fists. She also talks a little bit. For awhile, we wondered if we were imagining her speech, but multiple witnesses have agreed, so we can now report that Maggie can say the following words: "Mama", "Dada", "cat", "baby", and "done". She also does baby signs for "milk" and "more". She is still not a giant fan of the solid food, and will say "duh!" (done) and make the sign for "milk" repeatedly during solid food time, clamping her tiny lips determinedly shut against the spoon. Sometimes I kind of wish I had never taught her that sign.

Max, on the other hand, has been hard at work on his driver's permit, and hopes to be a fully licensed driver by his next birthday. He has dreams of driving the van to preschool in the fall, to impress his new classmates. I keep telling him that with the ever-increasing price of gas, this is unlikely, but he is nothing if not determined.

Do I Have To Share?

Max has always been a social person, and I love that about him. As he gets older, he gets more and more interested in being social with kids his own age, and so Ian and I have been thinking about options for preschool in the fall. Yesterday, I spent a little time consolidating plans for Max to attend the preschool where I used to teach. Obviously, its a school I know well and feel comfortable with, and I think that Max will really enjoy it. After I hung up the phone, though, I had to have a little cry. I can't believe that Max is old enough to go to school! As much as I know that he will be more than ready by September, there is some really big, selfish piece of me yelling, "My baby! Mine! I don't want to share him!" The phase of Max's life where I can supply his every social need is ending, and I am going to miss it. I can already foresee that Max's first day will be much harder for me than it will for him. I marvel over how cavalier I was when I was on the teaching end of the relationship. I knew, and I thought I understood, that people were entrusting their children to me. I never really understood, though, that it is more than that. When you put your child in someone else's care, you are entrusting them with your heart. And my heart is growing up just a little too fast.

You Don't Mind Some Unabashed Baby Bragging, Do You?

Maggie in her christening gown is quite possibly the loveliest thing I have ever seen. I meant to include these pictures in yesterday's post, but it was sort of monstrously long even without them, so I decided to give them their own post.

I am so grateful that my grandma saved her christening gown, and allowed us to use it. It was perfect. Also perfect -- Maggie rebelliously lifting up her gown in each and every one of the formal pictures, so that you can get a little peek at the roly poly baby leg.