Freedom Fridays

In honor of the fact that my hubby and I both have Fridays off, and because Tucker has now started pre-school three days a week, both our kids are in school between the hours of 8am and 2:30pm, we have decided to officially instate "Freedom Fridays". Sound the trumpets! What are "Freedom Fridays"? Glad you asked. They are: a weekly grand culinary celebration sans booster seats, one meal per week dedicated to the celebration and enjoyment of kid-free food-fests.

It is doubly-exciting to be embarking on this adventure because these days, almost every single meal we ingest is cooked in our kitchen and eaten at home (or toted to school or work in a lunchbox). As many of you know, I used to be the queen of the restaurant. Not that I frequented anyplace inordinately expensive (Sharky's, Daphne's and Poquito Mas were about my speed), it's just that I considered dining out a treat, something to share with another human and therefore a bit of an event. However, times being what they are, I adjusted my ways. And I was spectacularly pleased to find that I actually started to look forward to our home-cooked meals in as a family. It's really fun to peruse recipes, shop the farmer's market and Trader Joe's for new things to try, plan the weekly menus.

Besides, let's face it: we are also willing to admit that it's easier to eat at home these days, for a variety of reasons. Tucker is not exactly fun to have at restaurants. He's a pretty well-behaved two-year-old, but he's done eating in about thirty seconds and then either he wants to run around, or we have to hand him one of our cellphones to play on so he'll stay put while we all finish eating. I strongly object to this on principle, but all my principles go right out the window when my stomach is growling... and before I know it Tucker's playing Scooter Heroes. Right on cue, Addie, our "old soul" six-year-old (who always sat perfectly still at mealtime when he was two and usually participated in all the adult discussions; in fact, I distinctly remember him weighing in on the whole weapons-of-mass-destruction debate), wants to know why he can't play with a phone too. We say, "Because, Addie, it's rude to sit with people in a restaurant and have your head buried in cellphone games", but our admonition loses its punch when his brother is sitting right next to him toggling away at Bejeweled. Then their food comes, $6.99 for two chicken fingers and fries. Which they each take two bites of and they're done.

We're better off eating (or, in Tucker's case, NOT eating) at home.

But at the end of a long week, Stan and I wholeheartedly feel we've earned one coveted meal cooked by someone other than us. For years I've made lists of places I've read about, reviews in the LA Times or Westways, little out-of-the-way cafes and bakeries, fun new twists on old classics, even gourmet food trucks. But up until now they've all stayed tucked away on a list in my computer, waiting for their moment. Well, ladies and gentlemen, their time has come. Freedom Fridays began in earnest last week, when we chose our first restaurant. The only rule is that we must choose a place we've never been to. Last week began modestly, with a trip up the street to King's Road Cafe. Stan was very pleased with his steak quesadilla... and truth be told, I was also very pleased with his steak quesadilla because my salad was just OK. But we were off and running...

This week, we hopped in the car after dropping off both kids and headed to Eagle Rock to go to Auntie Em's Kitchen. This place really is an odd little hole-in-the-wall if there ever was one. Limited seating, jams, jellies and aprons for sale in their tiny marketplace area, and motorcycle rock playing over the loudspeakers.

But oh, what good food.

We went because we had read that their pancakes were out of this world... but unfortunately, they only serve them on weekends. Now, it seems to me that if your speciality is pancakes and pancakes cost about a penny to make, you should probably serve them all the time... but we didn't argue. We went ahead and ordered their open-faced breakfast sandwiches. Stan got the applewood smoked bacon sandwich and I got the cajun turkey sausage one. His was better. They cook a fluffy mound of scrambled eggs and pile it on top of the bacon, which all goes on top of a gruyere-smothered thick slice of french bread. Yu-um. The cajun sandwich was good too, but the sausage had a thick casing on it that was pretty hard to chew through.

No matter. We feasted to our heart's content, unabashedly people-watching as we noshed. There is an outdoor seating area, and perched at one of the frilly flowered tables was a young guy with a bright red ZZ Top beard that extended to his belly button. I noticed that he ordered the french toast, which almost had been my choice. I decided on the savory sandwich last-minute, and was glad I did because I eyed ZZ's plate, and they make their french toast with the same crusty french bread the sandwich came on, and I'm adamant that french toast should be made with soft challah or thick cut white bread. I returned to my sandwich with renewed vigor.

Our bellies full and happy, we paid the bill, then got a homemade peanut butter cookie on the way out, which was kind of perfect. Big and crispy and crumbly. We are definitely going back for the weekend pancakes, but that won't be on a Freedom Friday, so you might just have to see us in person to hear about them.

What will next week bring? Stay tuned! Long live Freedom Fridays!

Errand Girl

It's been quite a while since my last post! I'm not sure exactly what happened; there was plenty to write about... but not enough time to create grand philosophical essays each time. And let's face it; not everything that happens in my life is essay-worthy. Some events don't even warrant a Facebook status update. But I started this blog to chronicle daily life- the good, the bad, and the ugly. So from now on, I vow to write less, more often. If that makes sense.

Addie started first grade yesterday; Tucker began his pre-school experience at Briarwood a week ago. Yesterday for the very first time, I looked around my house at 10:00 am and realized there was no one in it. I wasn't exactly sure what to do with myself. I took off all my clothes and ran around in a circle a few times. When the excitement of that had subsided, I put my clothes back on and ran some errands.

Sounds less-than-thrilling, but any mom can attest that running errands by yourself can be an uplifting, even slightly orgasmic experience. Oh, the illicit thrill of walking into Target without having to visit the toy aisle for twenty minutes. The elation of spending quality time thumping cantaloupes and not just grabbing the first one that falls off the display in a mad dash for the check-out line before your two-year-old turns into Houdini and twists himself out of the cart seat belt.

Yesterday I began my revelry with a trip to Actor's Equity to get a flu shot. I then drove to the pediatrician to get some medical forms filled out for school, then tooled on over to the thrift store to sell my used clothes. While they looked over my stuff (they almost always pick only one or two things out of twenty, causing me to ponder just how ugly and unstylish my wardrobe must be), I actually got to peruse the racks of second-hand clothes and try a few dresses on, something I haven't done since 2003. I found a cute little sundress and traded it on the spot. I ended my ecstacy with jaunts to the bank, dry cleaner and grocery store. All the while, I blasted my favorite music in the car, and never once did I hear a request from the backseat for "Kung Fu Fighting".

I haven't had such a beautiful day in ages.

The irony is that the entire time I drove around, I was thinking of my boys. Addie, so confident on his first day. He wore the most handsome blue shirt, and looked so grown up. Even though he has a few good friends in his new class, he entered his new classroom in Serious Mode, and sat by himself on the carpet, away from his friends. I think he was intent on making a good first impression. Tucker still seems like a baby to me, so it's quite amazing to drop him off at school with his little lunchbox. It's a brave new world for both of them, and my heart was full of pride watching them navigating it. Everything I picked up at Vons was for them... mayo for their sandwiches and ketchup for their hot dogs, fruit and cereal for breakfast, celery and cream cheese (Addie's favorite after-school snack), ice cream (Tucker has inherited his mom's sweet tooth). It sounds silly, but as I stocked our kitchen with these foods, I found myself experiencing a "mom high", my heart as full as my cupboards. I never felt this much pleasure shopping for myself. But now, I feel a rush as I put away a brand new EZ squeeze bottle of Heinz. Taking care of these three men makes me truly happy.

Running errands for them... by myself... is sheer heaven.

Velcro

My son Tucker won't let me go.


I mean, anywhere.


If I go to the computer, he wedges himself between my chair and the desk, reaching his hands up to block my ability to type.

If I try to go to the store, he waits until I open the front door and then runs out to the car to block my ability to get in. When I open the car door, he climbs up into the car with me. When I carry him inside and hand him to Stan, he screams in protest.


If I'm cooking, he grabs onto my legs so that I have to shuffle slowly one foot at a time so he doesn't fall over while I'm getting plates and utensils.


If I get up to go to the fridge for a snack, he follows me and gets inside the refrigerator the second I open it. If I pour a drink, he has to have it. He is undiscerning; he wants my lemonade, my Diet Coke, and my coffee. I think he only wants it because he knows it's MINE. And he is making it known that NOTHING belongs to me anymore.


If I get up to go to the toilet, I have to wait until he's momentarily distracted so I can make a beeline for it. I always hear him coming after me, his little feet pat-patting on the hardwood floor. It's a race to see if I can slide the door shut before he gets to me. And if I am victorious, he will plant himself directly outside the door and bawl inconsolably until I am finished. Same thing happens when I try to take a shower. Not exactly a relaxing atmosphere.

Moms of teenagers remind me to enjoy this time, because before I know it, this same boy will be pushing me away, telling me not to touch him and never to come in his room. I take this advice to heart, and relish the fact that I am so valued, so inexpendable, so needed. I love it. No really, I do.

85% of the time. The other 15% is going to drive me straight into the loony bin.

I've been known to hide in my house. If I don't open any doors (the noise alerts Tucker to my possible departure from his immediate vicinity) and slip out of the den unnoticed (while he is watching Pooh's Heffalump Movie, perhaps, I might have a sporting chance), I can possibly get into my bedroom without his knowledge. I might be able to buy five minutes in the bathroom or the closet, reading my Oprah Magazine. Oh, the sheer heaven of it. But it isn't long before I hear the familiar, "Mama! MaaaaMA!" and my time is up.

I do wait until he finds me, however. I won't come out until then. If I can find a really good hiding place- say, the laundry hamper- I might get another full ten minutes.

Graduation Day

Well, it's official: Addie has graduated from pre-school. Oh, the pomp, the circumstance! Briarwood pulled out all the stops for the graduation ceremony... right down to caps, gowns, music, entrances, songs, poems, announcements. Kleenex boxes were passed around. There wasn't a dry eye in the house.

There Addie stood, hair freshly cut the night before at Chandler Salon (translation: our bathroom... I've become quite the home hairstylist), looking impossibly handsome and confident as he marched in to the swelling music. He filed in to his seat, a proud and self-conscious smile playing on his lips as he surrepticiously glanced at me. Me, with my video camera and my tear-stained cheeks. I've never seen him so proud. He was placed front and center, and we soon discovered why; every song they sang, every announcement they made, he spoke clearly and without hesitation. He knew every word of the Pledge of Allegiance. He sang "God Bless America" and "United We Stand" with flair. My favorite selection was a rewritten version of "New York, New York", aptly re-titled "Kindergarten" ("If we can make it there, we'll make it anywhere, so here we come, Kin-der-gar-tennnnnnn!") complete with the required kick-line and big arm finish. Addie didn't miss a beat. The choreographer in me was not disappointed.

I watched my boy, this kid named Addie who has grown before my eyes... from the beginning, so very much his own person. Verbal and expressive at eight months; by eighteen months, speaking full sentences with the maturity of some five-year-olds. Addie, whose huge pools of blue eyes were keenly observant from the moment he was born, and whose eyes continue to see the world in all its miracles. I am honored to get a glimpse of the world through those eyes. They never fail to notice a full moon or the first twinkling star, a homeless man, a pretty girl, a scary billboard, a perfect grey morning. They fiercely protect his baby brother, they notice anytime something too small or dangerous gets in his hands. They burst with excitement. They flash with anger. They fill with tears that he tries so hard to hold back. They break my heart. I fall into them when they look at me with love and devotion; I never want to leave them. Too often, I let him stay up late, just so we have our famous "snuggle time", and those beautiful, deep eyes are all mine... just for a little while.

It does seem as if five and a half years has passed; I can't exactly say it has gone by in a flash, because I cannot imagine a moment when Addie wasn't a part of my life. But I also recognize that I will blink and he will be ten, blink again, fifteen, blink again... I cannot even bear to think how empty I will feel when he is not stumbling into the family room to greet me each morning. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of Addie at the breakfast table, his long, spindly legs dangling from the chair as he slurps his Cheerios, and I wonder when it was that my child got so impossibly LONG. When did his feet get so big? Perhaps all this is made more pronounced by the fact that he's so skinny... now more so than ever because of all his recent illnesses. But the lack of meat on his bones makes him seem even more lanky, like a piece of taffy stretched before my eyes. I hold him, and he is all arms and legs. He still weighs so little (35 pounds!) that I can easily hoist him up and cradle him, and I simply rejoice in the feeling of this amazing child. It will not be long before he will stop asking me to hold him. A few years after that, he'll even request that I don't. So I drink it all in now. I kiss and hug and try to bottle the feeling of these young cheeks, so soft and sweet, before they give way to pimples and roughness and resistance.

I see how eager Addie always is to share his accomplishments, his emotions, his everything... with me and with his father, with all those he loves. There are times when the last thing I want to do is hear how many Droids he has won in his Wii Star Wars game. I do not care in the least about Droids. But God, he wants me to know, and that is reason enough for me to drop whatever I'm doing to become his rapt audience.

I relish his profound communication skills, and watch his effect on others. He has an uncanny ability to draw people in and captivate them. He considers many of my friends his own best friends, insisting that they are invited to his birthday parties and special events. He cares deeply about his relationships. He strikes up conversations at Target with people in line ahead of us. He shows genuine interest in their lives and shares his own life with abandon. Every once in a while, he will run into someone with no interest in connecting. It throws him for a loop every time. I can feel his heart sink, as surely as if it was my own.

Now, Addie moves onto the next milestone... forging his way through the trials and trevails of elementary school. I know I have to let him find his own way. He did it with aplomb in pre-school. He'll do it again. I wish I could shield him from any hurt. I know I cannot.

But I will tell you now that if any kid ever bullies him, that bully is TOAST.

In a couple of months, my firstborn son will start Kindergarten. He's ready. I may not be, but he is. The passing of time is never experienced more acutely than through the world of your children; these hallmarks, these landmarks, these moments, captured- and gone. My heart tries to hold on, but I cannot stop the growing up. So off he'll go, unleashing his spirit on a new set of humans. I hope they take care of him. I hope he takes care of himself. I have a feeling he will.

As the song said... if he can make it there, he'll make it anywhere.

A Matter of Death... and Life

I don't really know how to make sense of all that has happened this week. It feels like sadness is everywhere. A member of Stan's family committed suicide... and nothing anyone can say or do will bring him back. I saw so many Facebook postings this week from dear friends who have lost someone close to them, or are having "the worst week of their lives". A colleague was called away from work because one of his family members is dying. It seems that every once in a while, bad news comes in tumbles. Giant heaps of things too overwhelming to process. All at once. Why does life do that?


I'm not one to immediately leap to the "lesson"... in fact, sometimes I think our world has gotten so New Age-y that we are overly anxious to skip about ten steps to get right to the relief. For those left behind, there isn't relief. There just isn't. Maybe grief will de-intensify over time, but maybe it won't. Maybe they learn to live within the grief. They'll carve their lives around it, build their ships around the anchor of it.


I've always been someone who treasured life, clung to it even in my unhappiest of moments. A part of me has always inherently understood that even heartache has its place in the grand experience. I can't imagine choosing to leave this wondrous place. I know its troubles, I know its tragedies, I know its cruelty and I fear its evil. But I have lived its incredible beauty in so many ways, and those far outweigh the bad things.


How could anyone want to leave the smell of snow in winter, the sound of a bat connecting with a baseball, The Beatles, fresh-squeezed lemonade, the twinkle of Christmas lights, bowling, rollercoasters, the sound trees make in a breeze, the memory of a first kiss, pumpkin pancakes, cinnamon rolls, a really good slice of pizza? Wherever they think they're going when they choose to leave this world, I would venture a guess there is not a good slice of pizza to be found.

Where DO they think they're going?

If it has proved too painful to be here, what relief do they suppose is waiting on the other side? If there is a God, do they think He or She is waiting for them on the other side of that suicide, congratulating them for giving it all up? No, I suppose if it all has gotten too bad for them here on Earth, they don't much care what anyone thinks anymore. Certainly they have proven they don't much care about devasted mothers, heartbroken sisters and brothers left to pick up the pieces...

What if reincarnation awaits them? Oh goodie, guess what? You tried to take yourself out, sir, but get back in line, because now you're starting over! And just for a little karmic comedy we're gonna throw you into a third world country! Then maybe you'll appreciate how nice you had it last lifetime. Have fun! Back to the same lesson, until you get it. You escaped NOTHING.

And what if all they're after is the nothingness? Just silence from their unbearable pain? Are they counting on the nothingness, praying to GOD there IS no God to receive them and hold them accountable? Praying reincarnation is just a figment of Shirley MacLaine's imagination? And if they are right that there is nothing beyond death, HOW could the nothingness be better than the living? I'll take the heartbreak, every time. The glorious heartbreak is proof that I'm alive. And oh, to be alive...

There are a few instances where I understand a choice to leave this world. Disease, unbearable physical pain... the loss of a child. I don't even like to entertain these horrific thoughts, but perhaps the closest I can come to understanding suicide is to realize that for some people, their emotional pain might be akin to those extremes...? I don't know.

This incident has catapulted many of us right back to the darkest hours of our pasts. We've all had them; moments of being a quivering fetal mess, bathed in worthlessness. Moments where the pain seemed insurmountable. But as Stan so eloquently said to me, "If I had thrown it all away back in my darkest hour, I wouldn't have you. I wouldn't have these two beautiful children. I wouldn't have this life. I wish I could have told him to just hang on. Tough it out. Look what can change. Look what can happen."

I think about a friend of mine who is currently battling breast cancer. She's fighting to stay on this planet for all she's worth, enduring chemo, radiation, overwhelming nausea, fatigue, baldness. There are days where she can't leave her bed or hug her kids. She's forced to cut off both her breasts. This is what she must do if she is going to stay alive. But she is willing to pay that price, ANY price, for the gift of seeing her children graduate high school, college, to someday hold their children. What a stark contrast to the example before me of a perfectly healthy person who took himself out of this world by choice! What would my friend make of this? Would she consider it a personal affront to her?

I am filled with questions, and not many answers. In this time of desperation and uncertainty, I can only cling to the things I do know: that I cherish my own life in all its messiness, its joy, its anger, its boredom, even. Oh, for the luxury of being bored! I am grateful. I hug my children extra hard and send a prayer to God, to Karma, to Darkness: please keep them safe and happy and healthy... and PLEASE let me help them understand what a gift life is.

Valentine's Daydreams

My husband has never bought me flowers or chocolates for Valentine's Day.

Anybody who knows me is well aware that I am an incurable romantic, filled with all the typical preconceived notions of how holidays as potentially luscious as these should go. I have scripts in my head that put Shakespeare to shame, romantic dinners plotted from soup to fondue, years of daydreams logged. Many of these daydreams once involved blood-red roses and a hefty box of nuts and nougats. But trips to the local florist and See's Candies don't even enter my husband's consciousness. I have had to let those dreams go. Instead, I have been forced to wrap my heart around the gifts I do receive. Here is a glimpse of what I get instead:

My husband wakes up with the kids every other morning, without fail. He often decides it doesn't matter whether or not it is "his day" to sleep in. Without a word he is pulling his robe on to answer the baby's waking cries... and I am free to snuggle back into the deep covers and catch another hour.

My husband pulls me up to dance, and suddenly I am whisked away to the Catskills, my name is Baby, and nobody's putting me in a corner. He takes total command of me with ease and grace. He isn't a trained dancer, but when I'm on the dance floor with him I would swear he was the master instructor from Arthur Murray. The world falls away in a blur, I am spinning and completely surrendering my body to his movement, his steps, his rhythm. He carries me away, and I scarcely remember returning to earth.

My husband writes poetry. He fills the most elegant cards with words and images that make the angels weep. I have piles of these poems, I have kept every one; over the years, he has described his singular devotion to me in a thousand different ways.

My husband calls me "My Dear". He calls me "Honey". He calls me "Mrs. C".

My husband lets me put my freezing cold feet in between his legs every night. He never compains.

My husband can fix anything. He can unclog a drain, open a jar of pickles, paint a room, mow-and-blow a lawn, build a closet, sew a button, core an apple, sharpen a knife, fix my glasses, find my keys, polish my shoes, sump-pump a flooded driveway, and stencil a glow-in-the-dark milky way on our son's ceiling. I challenge anyone to hand him a household problem he doesn't know how to remedy.

My husband cooks for me. He knows how to look in our fridge and pantry and throw random ingredents together to make a savory feast. My husband awakened my passion for food. He encouraged me to taste- and savor- more of life than I ever was willing to before I met him.

My husband is my best friend. We commiserate, we debate, we laugh, we daydream, we cry (well, okay, mostly I cry). We share sodas and cake. We look at menus and decide what two meals we're going to share. He reads me politics. I read him the advice columns. In the safety of our cozy companionship, we are free to gloat and to cower, to brag shamelessly and to admit our deepest sadness.

In a world where I hear too often all the ways a spouse "brings his partner back to reality", my husband unfailingly thinks I can do whatever I set my mind and heart to. No matter what the job or task, he thinks I am the woman for it. Doesn't matter if it's teaching, choreographing, performing a role that's completely out of my range, writing for Oprah magazine, or joining Cirque Du Soleil. "You'd be great at that", he says.

My husband has never tried to change a thing about me. If anything "bugs" him, he has never let on. Imagine that.

My husband stared at me while I was pregnant like I was the most amazing human on the planet. It didn't matter that billions of women had successfully done this pregnancy thing before me. To him, I was the only one who could ever pull it off.


My husband gave me the gift of our two precious little boys. He held my hand as each of them came into the world. My husband has been to hell and back with me. We've navigated the trials of parenthood, the short tempers, the sleeplessness. We've argued, we've listened, we've grown, we've clung to each other through the worst of it and reveled together in the best of it.

My husband often wanders into the bedroom while I am putting on makeup. He turns to our son and says, "There she goes, gilding the lily again. It's just unfair to all the other women of the world, Addie. Because you see, the moment your mom walks in the room, nobody else exists." I stare at my reflection- at my nose that's always been just a little too big for my face, at the early stage of crow's feet around my eyes, at my often disheveled hair... and I smile because I am beautiful in my husband's eyes and that is all that matters.

My husband makes me want to be this extraordinary woman he sees.

My husband has never bought me flowers or chocolates for Valentine's Day. It's not his style.

Yes, I have had to let that dream go. There was a much bigger dream awaiting me; my husband wakes up each morning intent on giving me his very heart. And because of this, as the song goes...

"... each day is Valentine's Day."

Remembering ONE

I cannot believe you are a whole year old, Mr. T! Where did the time go?! The first year of Addie's life (and our new life as parents) was a bit of a haze much of the time, marked by long, drawn-out hours of no sleep, paralyzing fatigue, emotions high and low, adjustment to the new normal. But that change- the overwhelming transition into Life With Kids that had me reeling- happened long ago, and now, amazingly, it is simply who I am and what I do. Thus, I spent the first year of your life relaxed and embracing every moment, hyper-aware of every precious memory we were creating with you, relishing every one of your passing fancies. I was able to feel the whole experience from a more centered place, free to drink it in and savor every drop. Maybe part of the reason I held each moment so dear is because I'm pretty doggone sure you will be our last baby... a thought that fills me with sadness for so many reasons. But whatever the cause for my revery, it all flew by in a flash.

I look at you, and can hardly fathom that you were that little peanut inside me when I had my bleeding scare at nine weeks, and Stan rushed me to the hospital in tears. After hours spent waiting and worrying, the nurse finally came in to look and listen, to see if you were still with us. That was YOU, Tucker... you on the ultrasound, that tiny, foggy clump with the super-strong heartbeat that seemed to shout, "YES YES, I am still here!" That was you seven months later on February 1st, 2009, pressing relentlessly on my cervix, scoffing at epidurals one and two, making your presence known as I begged for mercy and the anesthesiologist panicked at my off-the-chart pain levels. And then when I was finally allowed to push, that was you at the ready, popping out effortlesly in a minute and a half... a Chandler record (Addie took three minutes). As soon as the door was open, you plowed right through. You're still doing that, to this day.

You are very different from how I remember Addie at your age. He seemed more adult somehow, what people like to call "an old soul". You, in contrast, are a bundle of exuberant, youthful energy. Addie was already speaking words, calmly calling out for me from the crib each morning, already verbalizing his needs with one-or two-word announcements. You are more demonstrative, full of noise and babble, but aren't in any hurry to make words yet (though I admit you've said "Mama" in passing, you've started saying "Ada" for Addie, and today I could have sworn you reached out and said "apple").

Here are some of the glorious things I don't want to forget about you at age one:

You motor-crawl around the house at lightning speed, evoking the image of a wind-up toy on overdrive. You are usually headed for your favorite play areas: the refrigerator, where you love to hang out and remove all the salad dressings from the door, the pantry where you remove all the pasta boxes, my desk drawers where you remove all the envelopes, and the toilet, where if we're lucky there is nothing at all for you to remove.

You love the shower, absolutely adore it. I take you in there with me most nights, and sing songs to you (how about that? The most singing I do these days is in the shower! I must say, the venue has its perks; so far, no critics). You have no trouble at all getting soaked, face and all (note to new parents: dump buckets of water on your baby's head daily! I avoided this with Addie, and he still hates water in his eyes to this day), and there is nothing more amazing to me than staring at your sweet baby-face when it is soaking wet, your big blue eyes blinking up at me under glistening wet, long, dark eyelashes. Sometimes you put your soapy head on my shoulder while I sing. Heaven on Earth.

When you are falling asleep in my arms, you put your hand on your head and twirl your hair... then you reach up and twirl mine. I look forward to this at every nap and every single night before bedtime. I already know I will ache for this when you stop.

You are a chowhound. There is nothing you won't eat... including some rather unsavory items like dirt, rocks, and tissue paper. Your favorite foods include cantaloupe, baked potato with sour cream, chicken breast, halibut, grapes, yogurt, peas- and today, for the first time, you wolfed down your first peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

You have six teeth- two on the bottom, four on top. They look like mini-Chiclets.

Not long ago, you turned yellow from a little condition called carotenemia. Apparently, some babies react to having too many yellow or orange vegetables, so for a while it was sayonara, sweet potatoes. Lately we've been plying you with peas, string beans, spinach, zucchini and broccoli (lucky for you babies don't turn green). You're less yellow now, but I kind of miss it; everybody thought you had been to the Bahamas.

You're sleeping through the night- finally! It took a full year, but we've strung together two solid weeks of eleven-hour stretches. Hallelujah!

You adore Addie. And he absolutely adores you. My sister-in-law Sharon once told me that one of the best things about having two children is seeing how they love each other. She was right. Watching Addie wrap his [amazingly careful, gentle] arms around his baby brother fills me with a joy I could never have imagined before.

You flat-out REFUSE to lie still for a diaper change. I have never encountered such a struggle. You flip, you fuss, you will not be restrained. Things can get awfully messy if there's poop involved.

You love people, and are easily held by others... but you always look to me first for "friend approval". Someone will approach you, and you'll smile tentatively, look right at me with inquisitive eyes that wonder, Is this person OK? Yes, I'll nod. I approve this friend request. Your whole body instantly relaxes and you're free to have fun.

You're needier than Addie was. More physical. More stubborn- and that's saying something. I've got two very strong-willed kids. I am glad.

You give the best hugs. Your face melts me. Your animated eyebrows make me laugh. You can lift one up so high, it looks like someone snagged it with a fishhook.

Though your spirit is young, you have a light in your eyes that is impossibly bright. You draw people in; they turn their faces to you like the sun, and you happily shine your light on all of them. How lucky I am to be bathed in that light every day! You are a miraculous little soul, Mr. T... and I am so honored to know you.

Happy First Birthday, Tuckerman. What an adventure this life with you will be.