This way you have to make it yourself if you want to see how awesome it is

OH hey guys! Things have been a little crazy lately. Because it’s life and life is crazy and all that. We’re probably listing the house soon! Matt got put in charge of a big proposal at work! Leo is crawling and trying to pull up! The girls are sort of becoming friends! A LOT HAS BEEN HAPPENING.

So things start happening, and I immediately go to the kitchen. Because, you know, we keep the food there, and I like the food. The twelve foods I can eat, anyway. And sadly not one of those foods is BREAD FROM STORE. All the processed bread has who knows what as far as corn ingredients go (dextrose is my mortal enemy!) and all the fancy bakery breads were baked ON CORN MEAL for its non-stick properties, which left me breadless. (Also in what shall heretofore be known as my Breadless Size, a size I think we can all agree is not worth the lack of bread.) I’d been making everything from scratch but bread? Really? I conquered my fear of yeast for things like pizza dough and homemade soft pretzels and dinner rolls and even HOT DOG BUNS (because when you eat processed maybe-meat-bits, you really don’t want to put it on STORE BOUGHT BUNS, do you?) but bread recipes always freaked me out.

Then Maureen kept pushing her Magic Bread recipe. (She uses that word a lot, have you noticed that? Magic bread! Magic baby! Magic hair! IT CAN’T ALL BE MAGICAL, MAUREEN.) But, she was right. It was magical. Not QUITE magical enough for (picky little kid plain cheese) sandwiches, but super magical for eating all the livelong day slathered in butter or just by itself. It was basically my bread-making gateway drug. Seriously, go try it! I’LL GIVE YOU THE FIRST CLICK FOR FREE.

Uh, anyway, so I kept looking and I found a good recipe and I started TWEAKING said recipe. My poor family, every single loaf since then (and I’d guess there have been about ten? maybe more?) I would change one tiny thing and be all “HOW IS THIS ONE? IS THIS ONE GOOD? TOO CRUMBLY? TOO DRY?” and then I’d tweak again and they all cried and wished for when life was simple and our bread came in squares from a bag the way it should be. Well except they liked the new bread better, but I’m not sure even THAT was enough to make up for the daily questionnaire tucked into their lunchboxes. (Were the mini-golf pencils too much?)

Anyway, I had grand plans for a fancy step-by-step recipe post, not that I plan on making that a THING just that it would have been good for THIS thing, but instead I’m just posting a link to the original and then my adaptations. Basically I won’t even REVIEW it there because I’ve changed so much, and I hate when people do that. “Oh I loved this! I substituted chocolate for the tomatoes and cookies for the pasta and I think you’ve REALLY got something here! Though I’m rating it only 3 stars because it was more a dessert than a main course, you know? I’ll leave out the garlic next time.”

SHUT UP THAT TOTALLY HAPPENS.

But, seriously, this bread is everything I thought bread made at home could NOT be. It’s got texture just like STORE BREAD. I mean, the slightly denser store bread that comes in the cellophane within the bag, so you know it’s FANCY. My husband says it tastes like sandwiches-from-the-nice-deli bread, but he also chose to spend his life with me, so that opinion comes with a lot of salt grains (and also ETERNAL PATIENCES.)

Classic 100% Whole Wheat Bread

(adapted from King Arthur Flour)

• 1 cup milk*
• 1/4 cup sunflower oil
• 2.5 cups 100% whole wheat flour
• 1 cup King Arthur white whole wheat flour
• 2 1/4 tsp. instant yeast
• 1 1/2 tsp. kosher salt
• 2 Tbsp. sugar or Lyle’s Golden Syrup
• 1/4 cup lukewarm water, if needed

1. Add milk and oil to small saucepan. Scald the mixture. (Basically you want to let it get pretty hot, ALMOST boiling, but not boiling. You can do this in the microwave if you want.) Set aside to cool to 110-115 degrees F.

2. While milk/oil is cooling, add flours, yeast, salt, and sugar to the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment. Mix briefly to combine ingredients.

3. When liquid has cooled, turn on mixer to low and pour in the liquid until it comes together. If the mixture remains too dry, add up to 1/4 cup of lukewarm water to get it mostly stuck together.

4. Switch to the hook attachment and knead on low for 5-6 minutes, until the dough looks smooth. Transfer to an oiled boil and cover with plastic wrap. Allow to rise about an hour, until puffy. (It doesn’t need to double.)

5. Butter a 9×5 loaf pan. Form dough into a loaf shape. (I am NOT good at this, but trust me, it still looks mostly like a real loaf of bread no matter what you do!) Set the dough in the bread pan and cover with oiled plastic wrap. (I totally take the piece from the rising bowl and smear the extra oil from the bowl on it because LAZY) Preheat the oven to 350F. Leave dough to rise until the middle of the loaf is about an inch or so above the rim of the pan. This usually takes about 20-30 minutes for me, but I live in Florida and my house is twelve hundred degrees.

6. Remove plastic wrap and bake in the middle of the oven for 30-35 minutes. Check at the halfway point for overbrowning and tent with aluminum  foil if necessary. It’s done when the internal temperature is 190F.

7. Turn out on a wire rack and immediately rub a stick of butter over the top crust. (The sides and bottom, too, if you’re feeling frisky. Or just like buttery crust.) This leaves the crust soft, like store bread. Allow to cool before slicing! I never do, but I hear you should!

And there you have it! The best way I know of to grow right out of your Breadless Size.

*UPDATE*

I have since made the bread with water in place of the milk. If you do that, there is no need to scald anything, you just need warm water right from the tap. WAY LESS WORK. This made a much lighter, fluffier loaf, and I think I’ll be sticking with it in the future.

Tl;dr

So. Guys. There’s something that’s been going on recently, and it’s been bothering me. I’ve talked to a couple of people about it, and MOSTLY I am probably in the wrong, or at least in the minority, with my opinion, but I want to explain WHY I feel the way I feel and maybe hear from the handful of people who are on my side. Or perhaps I’m looking to be convinced by the people on the opposing side why I’m WRONG.

Now, normally when you come around here or any other blog sort of like this one where we’re big on BRINGING THE LAUGHS, this would segue into some sort of flighty, traditionally unimportant topic. This is ACTUALLY, for once, a more serious thing I’m talking about. Though not really all that serious. No life or death involved. Well, sort of both life and death, but not life OR death, which is a bit more pressing.

An article/blog post went viral recently, and the gist of it was that as mothers, we are too often told to “enjoy every moment!” and “seize the day!” by strangers, usually old ladies in the grocery store, when they see us out with our children. The general consensus seems to be that this is annoying, it’s intrusive, it’s rude, and it’s unrealistic; it is impossible to enjoy EVERY moment of motherhood. (Note: I’m not linking to that post because some things have come to light recently about the author and possible plagiarism in other pieces, so let’s just NOT go there.)

Which, truthfully, I don’t take issue with. Of course no one enjoys every moment of ANYTHING. No matter what the best day of your life was, you probably didn’t ENJOY using the toilet or that one sneezing fit or the car that cut you off in traffic. OBVIOUSLY, right?

The thing is, I can’t help but put myself behind the eyes of every person who has ever said this sort of thing to me. I instantly flash forward and imagine my children all grown and gone from the home. Maybe they’ll be married and have children, maybe they’ll all choose to remain childless, maybe they’ll struggle with infertility, maybe we will be estranged for one reason or another, or maybe I’ll just be melancholy over this part of my life being over. And then there is a woman out with her three beautiful children, in the PRIME of her life, really in the thick of things, LIVING even though every day is filled with chores and dirty diapers and screaming and tantrums and fights over the stupidest things imaginable. It will take EVERYTHING in me not to run up to her and grab her by the shoulders and tell her to HANG ON TO THESE MOMENTS, FOR THEY ARE TOO FEW.

I won’t, though! I promise.

What I am telling you here, though, is that I am in PRE-MOURNING for this part of my life. This is IT, this is what I have always wanted. It is ten million times harder than I ever imagined it would be, and it has me exhausted to my core. It has me filled with more worry than I knew I could carry. It has pushed me to my limits and beyond those limits, and I am saying this in a way I do not intend to be taken romantically. The last seven months since Leo was born? The HARDEST months of my life. OBVIOUSLY I did not cherish every bowl of oatmeal or bowl of rice and peas or bowl of ANYTHING BECAUSE THE ONLY THINGS I COULD EAT WERE SERVED IN BOWLS while watching my family eat pizzas and cakes and other assorted foods that required chewing. Of course I didn’t. And I am not insisting that any of you — any of us — should be counting your blessings every single second of your incredibly difficult days.

Just … it is HARD. It is SO SO HARD.

But, you know? I’m pretty sure all of us are going to miss some part of it. I am NOT a baby person, not at all. I cannot wait for Leo to turn one. I mean, I am practically wishing this entire year AWAY. I wouldn’t mind taking a nap from now until July 6th, thank you very much.

What got me thinking about this was a tiny little moment in the middle of the night last night. Leo got two immunizations yesterday. This was his second round with these two particular shots, and it was those shots that gave him a high (102+) fever last time. That was when we tried the HA HA corn-free acetaminophen. We were told this time that he needn’t be medicated for fever unless it got that high again, and by 10PM last night, he was at 100.9. I spent the entire night with the AC cranked and the fan on with my pitiful baby wearing a onesie beside me in the bed nursing while I kept him cooled down with a damp washcloth on his sizzling forehead. I barely slept, fretting in the dark that I’d have to give my baby medication that was sure to make him more miserable than the fever. I was MISERABLE and I HATED THE WORLD. I hated everything and everyone and I started thinking about the ladies in the grocery store with the love in their eyes telling me to cherish every moment.

Then I thought about Vio, 5 years old and down the hall in her own bed, who does not want to be touched if she is sick. Vio who had a tooth under her pillow for the tooth fairy, her second one already. And I was already that lady in the grocery store, telling MYSELF to cherish this moment, because that little girl was just this little boy. She JUST WAS. They are only a month off being exactly 5 years apart, and we find ourselves looking from one to the other in awe. Look at her! Five years ago, she was learning to sit up, and now she is READING US BOOKS! Etc. etc. etc.

I guess what I am getting at here is that I get it. I get why they do it. And it’s FINE if it bothers you when they say it to you, it’s just that I don’t think they mean it that way. Swistle wrote a great post recently about this where she talked about how we need to weigh the INTENTIONS along with the words they are saying. I wholeheartedly agree.

MY intention in writing this is not to guilt anyone who currently is NOT loving every moment. FAR FROM IT, as I hope I’ve made clear with the admission that I am most definitely not doing that myself. I have this problem, and when I tell you what it is, I’m going to sound like I’m trying to pass off a strength as a weakness or like when you answer that question about your flaws in a job interview and you say, “Oh, I’m a PERFECTIONIST,” but I promise you I am not. The thing is that I am fair to a fault. It sounds like a positive thing, but it has cost me more friends that I could possibly comment on here. Once, when confronted with the end of a friendship, I asked the question WHY? What had I done wrong? “It’s just … you’re always the bearer of bad news.” See, someone would come to me with a problem they’d had with someone else, and instead of being supportive, I would IMMEDIATELY try to see it from the other person’s side. I would put myself in BOTH sets of shoes, shoes that had no business being on my feet at all, and then WORSE, I would start in on my friend. Kindly, of course, but completely without regard for it being what the other person needed to hear. It’s something I fight like hell now that I realize how obnoxious it must be. It is something I have gotten more successful at pushing out of my head over the years, but it still creeps into my personal relationships far too often. Because I think I am being helpful! I only realize much later that it wasn’t the case at all.

That right there, now that I think about it, is the root of why I am writing this at all. I see people forming an angry mob against these (I’m assuming) well-meaning people and their well-meaning comments, and all my instincts tell me to DEFEND them and put me in their shoes. I think they’re right at the same time I think it is perfectly right to be annoyed and furious at all they have to say. I am here now living moments that drag on horribly and I am there looking back at a lifetime of moments that passed in an instant.

So, I don’t know. I DO carpe diem. I want to carpe the HELL out of all the diems I can. For me, anyway, it is so much better to be the one hearing the words “Cherish every moment” than the one speaking them.

No picture of them will ever top this one

There are worse ways soap operas could have screwed me up, but I guess I’m only on my first marriage, so there’s still time

As I said on the Twitter last night, we’ve got PINWORM all up in our house. All up in one very small part of our house, anyway, and that one very small part is Roo’s bottom. I’m hoping that’s the only spot, anyway. PLEASE LET THAT BE THE ONLY SPOT. I mean, we already all got the HAND FOOT AND MOUTH DISEASE, so maybe this can be the one highly contagious thing only one of us gets? Ha. Ha.

Let me pretend.

Well, no, if we only get ONE of those passes, then I’m saving it for the HEAD LICE.

It took me way too long to figure out. She’d been sleeping poorly for weeks, but I thought it was just the holidays. Then a growth spurt. I didn’t even associate it with the hands-down-the-back-of-the-pants we caught her doing a couple of times, because, well, 3-year-olds just DO that sort of thing. Then yesterday she actually complained about incessant itchiness, and my Mom Brain kicked in. Thankfully the pediatrician trusted my assessment and called in medicine without us having to scotch tape her nethers. (Though we did, the two of us, go in there with a flashlight last night to check things out, and I don’t ever want to do that EVER AGAIN IN MY LIFE except I have to again TONIGHT so we can keep an eye on Vio to see if she needs to be treated as well. AIN’T NO PARTY LIKE A TAPEWORM PARTY.) So anyway if around 10PM tonight you’re wondering what Matt and I are doing, think of us fondly with a pig-shaped flashlight trying not to wake the children with the cries of our 21-year-old selves who really had no idea what hilarity would befall them.

I like to think if our life were a movie, there would be shots of us in our carefree college days, doing the typical college student things — jigsaw puzzles at 4AM and going to movies at the student union on Friday nights and drinking way too much Dr. Pepper, whatever we were totally awesome — mixed in with flashes forward of all the poop-related hijinx associated with child-rearing.

Except I don’t really do that just with flashes forward (I keep wanting to call them FLASH FORWARDS, but NO, DIANE. NO.) Especially with things like this PINWORM situation. There must be a moment, out there in space and time, where Roo picked UP the PINWORM. I keep seeing things in slow motion, as though there is some magical camera that RECORDED the moment that they would then use the footage of in a sitcom or something. Slow motion as she wipes her mouth while sitting in the grocery cart! A (canned) gasp from the (fake) studio audience! Or after holding hands with her friend down the street who unknowingly has the same affliction! AUDIENCE GROAN. As I’m trying to launder everything in the house (I NEVER STOP DOING LAUNDRY LIKE I SAID LAST WEEK AND I EVEN CAUGHT UP ON IT AND THEN BRAGGED [TO ROO, FOR SOME REASON] THAT I HAD CONQUERED IT AND NOW BLAAAAH) I keep picturing stills of two microscopic PINWORM eggs resting within the tangles of Rapunzel’s hair or wafting gently through the room (THEY CAN DO THAT) and settling on one of Leo’s biting toys.

I also do it with lost items. Whatever I’m missing, I’m imagining someone at home is getting a shot of the item, panning out and fading to black. The back to my earring! LOOK UNDER THE BED, DIANE! IT IS UNDER THE BED, JUST BEYOND WHERE YOU CHECKED BEFORE!

You guys, I do this ALL THE TIME. And the worst part is, part of me ACTUALLY BELIEVES IT. I seriously, a tiny bit, believe that I could find that thing I lost if only I could see the FAKE SURVEILLANCE VIDEO.

Of course, applying the Temerity Jane Rule of the World, I can’t be the ONLY one who does this, so out yourselves! We can have a crazy little party up in here!

I just pictured shots of each of you calmly closing this tab and finding something better to do. You are all SO screwed when I get my hands on the footage.

New year quick takes: now with less quickness!

1. I tried to do that questionnaire thing that was circulating involving year-end recaps and blah di blah, but by the time I was 2/3 of the way through, I couldn’t stand the thought of reading it back over. And if I didn’t want to read it, I knew YOU didn’t want to read it, so you can go ahead and thank me for that when you finally make your way to the bottom of this post and the comment form. Not yet, obviously, because you don’t want to miss any of the rest of my piercing wit. BUT! When the time comes, you can feel free to thank me. 2011 was a DOOZY of a year, to put it mildly. I’m trying to focus (now that it’s OVER MUAHAHAHA I WIN 2011!) on the blessings from last year — like the ice cream that came in the mail from Maureen and, you know, the baby — instead of plotting ways to destroy the life of Evil Pharmacist.

2. Which … did I even talk here about Evil Pharmacist? From the Evil Compounding Pharmacy? If you follow me on Twitter, you saw me have this breakdown involving probably seven straight hours of shouting. <LONG RANTING RANT REDACTED> I just deleted a good 600 words that basically boil down to: the pharmacy said they were giving us corn-free medicine, but they were not. We stopped giving him the medicine, his eczema stopped flaring up constantly, he caught up on motor skill milestones, and now I can eat almost anything so long as it’s corn-free (so almost nothing but it feels like almost anything). I wish I could somehow get that pharmacist to understand what she put us through. MONTHS of eating the way I was eating, and it was all because he was continuing to ingest corn. I’m furious, more furious than I have EVER BEEN, so furious I can’t even think of an ironic sort of thing to put here in second place, like AND I AM A JOSS WHEDON FAN SO I KNOW ANGER WAH DOLLHOUSE or whatever, because I AM JUST THAT MAD. I almost quit nursing him! DEEP BREATHS WHILE ALSO FANTASIZING ABOUT FORCE-FEEDING THE PHARMACIST THREE MONTHS’ WORTH OF RICE AND OATMEAL.

3. Don’t we all feel better now, having that off our chests? Let’s just relax for this quick take. You don’t even have to read this one. Me mentioning Dollhouse got me thinking about Paul Ballard, though, so that’s another thing you can thank me for in the comments.

4. The actual reason I sat down to write this post today is that the housework is just out of control now. It’s smacking me in the face with its not-doneness pretty much constantly. Every time I think, “Let’s do all the laundry!” I start with the kids’ laundry, because they get one hamper between the three of them, and of course it is always full. Especially in “winter” which means putting one of our two long-sleeved t-shirts under a short-sleeved t-shirt and applying one (1) extra hoodie/sweater for each 10-15 degree drop in temperature, meaning we dirty all of the things on each of the days. [ASIDE: Where would we even be as an internet right now if not for Allie Brosh giving us the phrase "CLEAN ALL THE THINGS"? What would we even SAY? She's defined a generation! Or at least an internet meme cycle!] Anyway, I always start with their laundry, but by the time I get to the end of their laundry, there is no more time to do other laundry. Then the next day I feel like “WOW! I did so much laundry yesterday I won’t need to do any today!” so I don’t do any and then the next day I STILL feel that way because I’m still folding the 900 pairs of pants and socks and onesies that fit into a single hamper at which point the laundry is even more out of control and I think “NOW LET’S START WITH THE CHILDREN.” If I keep putting their laundry’s oxygen mask on first, I’m going to be naked and WITHOUT AIR.

5. The actual reason I sat down to write Quick Take #4 was to tell you the actual reason I sat down to write this post today and I am now actually going to tell you what that reason was which is that I think maybe it’s gotten to the point where I need to make myself some sort of CHORE CHART. Like I am five. But basically breaking down the things that need doing and then assigning them to days of the week. For the most part, I manage to keep up with the kitchen and sort of the laundry and a good chunk of the tidying, but you don’t want to know how long it’s been since the mopping or the sweeping or the other deep-cleaning things that need doing FAR more often than we do them. So something like a laundry schedule where I always do linens on Tuesdays and whites on Wednesdays and then always do floors on Fridays and dust on … well, let’s not get out of hand. Do any of you do that? Or are you just really awesome at remembering what needs doing? WELL GOOD FOR YOU I NEED A CHART.

6. Another thing we’ve had going on around here lately is teething. I am not even talking about THE BABY exclusively, because all three of my children are cutting teeth right now. All of them. How. How did they coordinate this? I mean, for the love, Vio is cutting her first 6-year molar at the age of 5, and Roo is cutting her last 2-year molar at the age of 3, so they really REALLY had to work to line that up. AND AND. They are in the same place (upper left) in their mouths. Leo is working on cutting his first tooth, one of the bottom front ones as babies are wont to do, which is the exact tooth Vio just LOST, so she is cutting her first ADULT tooth in that EXACT SAME SPOT. I can make Venn diagrams with overlap on the teeth my DIFFERENTLY AGED children are cutting.

7. Today is my half-birthday! I mentioned that on Twitter this morning, and it is something that stupidly excites me (on the years I actually notice the date, anyway. Usually I’ll find myself on January 7th or 8th REALLY REALLY bummed that I missed it.) Another reason I love my half-birthday is that it is on TOPSY TURVY DAY. If you don’t know what Topsy Turvy Day is then you aren’t as big a fan of Disney’s Hunchback of Notre Dame as I am which basically means you don’t know what Topsy Turvy Day is because I have never met ANYONE ELSE who actually liked that movie and SO WHAT if I was 14 when it came out IT SPOKE TO ME GOD HELP THE OUTCASTS etc. etc., but in one of the songs they sing, “Scurvy knaves are extra scurvy/on the 6th of January/all because it’s Topsy Turvy day!” Really though the best part about it being my half-birthday is that that means tomorrow is Leo’s half-birthday, making him a ripe old One Half years old. I am really really excited about age one-half, you guys. So! Be extra scurvy for me, won’t you?

(More quick takes here.)

So maybe it sends a horrible message to the children, but whatever, I really love that Bumble

Last night in an attempt to get the girls to SETTLE DOWN ALREADY JEEZ after they had their dinner so we could eat OUR dinner, I put on Rudolph. You’ve all seen Rudolph. You don’t need me to tell you what happens in Rudolph, but what I should tell you is that Roo asked me what my favorite part was and I answered her. But then I had to change my answer, and I had to change it AGAIN after that, and I realized I love this movie so damn much it doesn’t even make sense.

I mean, it’s AWFUL, this story. Rudolph’s father is unarguably the worst ungulate father ever to set foot on claymation earth. Santa is portrayed as a HORRIFYING snoutist with a murderous streak (OH YES) and an eating disorder. Poor Hermey is laughed at for wanting to be a dentist by a bunch of cavity-ridden elves in matching clothing. (We know the four elf food groups! No chance those clowns have decent chompers.) Then the abominable snow monster has them all ready to eat, and Hermey YANKS OUT ALL OF HIS TEETH. How does he even DO that? He doesn’t even have his LICENSE TO PRACTICE DENTISTRY YET.

But all of it, every last bit of it, is excusable in the face of Yukon Cornelius, THE GREATEST PROSPECTOR IN THE NORTH. I … well, I find myself proclaiming MYself the greatest prospector in the north fairly often. Whatever, Florida is north of some stuff. I could be a prospector. You don’t know me.

I told Roo the Bumble was my favorite part. I mean, Bumbles BOUNCE. That’s pretty impressive. He goes over a huge cliff, and then just BOUNCES. But also my favorite part is where they are all holed up in the cottage and turn off the lights to go to sleep and the second the lights are out THEY ALL JUST FALL ASLEEP INSTANTLY. It’s grand comedy!

BUT THEN I am completely forgetting the Island of Misfit Toys! That doll, there is nothing wrong with her. NOTHING. I have wanted one for my entire life, so much do I love that doll. And the spotted elephant, too. And the Charlie in the Box. HIS VOICE. His is the voice I use for any of my children’s stuffed animals I decide need an OBNOXIOUS personality. Let’s be honest, though. Some of those toys actually do suck. They DESERVE to be on that island. They probably all signed up to be there, even. Sent in audition videos and compete in challenges and I bet the squirt gun that shoots jelly wins EVERY single time because, seriously. How are you going to beat that, boat that can’t stay afloat? HOW?

Honestly, though, my favorite part. My absolute FAVORITE thing to come out of that movie. When Rudolph’s father shouts

HIS BEAK BLINKS LIKE A BLINKIN’ BEACON!

You guys. YOU GUYS. It’s brilliance. Read it back over. Take it in slowly. Yell it at the top of your voice.

So, yeah. Rudolph’s family shuns him and makes him wear a fake nose. He is only accepted back into the community when he SERVES A PURPOSE.

Santa manages to go from emaciated to fat in under 10 minutes (as do we ALL during the holidays, except for the starting out emaciated part.) The Misfit Toys get all emo around the campfire and assume Santa has forgotten them again.

But he picks them up! Happy ending!

OR IS IT?

Because then he delivers them via PARACHUTE. MISFIT TOYS! He is not giving you to children! He is HURLING YOU TO YOUR DEATHS. Everyone knows Santa goes down chimneys. He doesn’t just throw crap examples of shoddy workelfship out of the sleigh with toy parachutes on their backs!

See? MURDEROUS STREAK.

My current plan is not to tell her when it’s her birthday, thus keeping her two forever

It’s not like she can look at a calendar, right? Except she SORT of can, and her big sister definitely can, and she’s a blabbermouth, but maybe it could work. Two is the absolute sweetest age. I don’t know that it’s the BEST age or even my FAVORITE age, but it is the sweetest. She still wants snuggles in my lap and she walks around the house dragging one of my old tank tops behind her. (She calls it her MMCH, formerly “lunch”, and bites on the strap while she falls asleep. It’s her last holdover from weaning over a year ago. She also sometimes calls me “Yum” or “Yummy” instead of Mom, and I pretend I don’t love it but I really really love it.)

It is impossible for me to talk about this child without sounding like I’m bragging. And FINE, maybe I AM bragging, but not in any sort of “don’t you wish this were your kid?” or “don’t you wish your kid did this?” way. I am just in awe of this child. The things she knows and says blow my mind on an hourly basis, and I can’t wait to see what her little brain becomes capable of in the next couple of years.

She knows most of the states by shape, and she insists on checking out a book on a different state each time we visit the library. She draws like a big kid and writes her name and her sister’s name and she’s memorized the words to every book she loves. She wants to be a Kindergartener more than anything and pulls up her little chair and a piece of paper to do her sister’s homework with her. Mostly I’m sharing that because I am going to forget all those things she learned when she was just two. I can’t remember what Vio could do at two, because it blended in to what she learned at three and four and now she’s in school and it all happens so quickly. Surely the first six months of their lives lasted longer than all the years that have gone by since.

Her love for her baby brother is ENORMOUS. I was so nervous she would be jealous, and I’m sure that will eventually hit (I know it often waits for age three, which, as I’ve mentioned, WE ARE JUST NOT DOING), but for now she chases me around the house while I carry him, shrieking, “Baby, come back! PWEASE, baby!” She thinks he is HER baby and refers to him thusly. As soon as she sees him, she tells him, “Oh, you are such a cute baby. I never knew a baby could be so cute. I MAY kiss you!” And then she kisses the top of his head and his whole face lights up. Then there are the times she lovingly pats him and tells him, “I didn’t know you would be a boy baby. I really wanted a girl baby.” So, you know. It evens out.

She calls Vio her “Sweetie”, and she can’t stand when she’s out of the house. Of course, as soon as Vio gets home from school, they are fighting like cats and dogs. Or whatever is worse than cats and dogs. Sisters, pretty much.

The very best part of my day right now is the hour or two we have in the morning while Leo takes his nap. We sit on my bed and play board games and ipod games and giggle. She routinely beats me at all versions of Memory (“Membery”) and excitedly chants “Come on, Donalds and cwubhouses!” while she shakes the dice for Yahtzee Jr.

She loves the color yellow and elephants, they’ve been her favorite for over a year, but now she’s suddenly telling me pink and giraffes. I just jam my fingers in my ears because that sounds like growing up.

She is fierce and fearless and everything I am not in so many ways and I love that so much I cannot even get out more than a measly run-on sentence about it.

I’ve never cut her hair. I call her my baby Rapunzel, and I’ll probably WEEP the first time it needs a trim. Well, the first time I admit it needs a trim. She’s asked for a haircut, like her big sister gets, and I’ve been telling her “when you’re three! when you’re three!”

So, really. It’s for the best I don’t tell her, right? I think one day she’ll understand.