The Fish Pond

What's in a Name

We're in Tarjay, and Sunny is clutching one of her many dolls to her chest, and I see her approach, moving slowly and smiling at my (I am biased, I know) adorable daughter, and I know what's coming.

"Hello there, little girl. That's a pretty dolly you have there. What's her name?" asks the grandmotherly woman.

"Fan-gu-la." Answers Sunny with a giggle.

The woman looks at me quizzically. "What's that, honey?"

"Sa-leee-nah." I shrug my shoulders.

"She likes to invent her own names," I venture, but the woman has already turned away, clearly wondering what's wrong with this child of mine.

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A lifetime ago, long before I had any of the kids, there was a new website launching, a website "just for women." I was having issues with my heart that hadn't been diagnosed properly, and I wanted to see what kind of medical information they had. In order to do that, I needed to sign up with a user id and password.

Well, I tried my first name, last name, my birthday, variations on that, and everything came up taken already (which I have a hugely hard time accepting, because my last name just isn't that common). So I knew I'd have to come up with something unusual, but I didn't want it to be too unusual because my brain was like a sieve even then, and I knew if it was too weird I'd never remember it. I also didn't want to give away too much about myself - I still am on the private side when it comes to what I'll reveal (Shut. Up. I am. I swear. I don't reveal as much as she does, so I'm good, right? Private. ahem.)

At that time, BigDaddyFish and I were major, major freshwater fish enthusiasts. We would still be now, if it weren't for the small people who we really don't want to drown or to tempt with all that water - imagine the mess. We lived in a fairly small 2 bedroom apartment on the third floor of a garden apartment building, and we had, at that time, 7 fish tanks.

Seven. Fish. Tanks. A couple hundred gallons of water, at least.

Filled mostly with swordtails and platties, but also some goldfish, including fancy ones, like my favorite orandas.

And we were involved in the breeding business. Ahem. Don't laugh.

I got a huge kick out of it every time our fish had babies. Swordtails and platties are live bearers, meaning they give birth just like people give birth, pushing their young out, instead of laying eggs and everything left up to chance that way. It was great fun to watch them being born, to see where the teeny fish swam off to hide from the predator big fish we didn't keep in the same tank (but, you know, fish have small brains. Especially fish smaller than my daughter's pinky toenail. So they didn't know that).

So on a goofy lark I typed in "FishyGirl" for my user id, thinking that had to be taken, too. It wasn't, and thus an online persona was born. Not as interesting as you hoped, right? But it's the truth.

But, did you know, there are more FishyGirls? Yep. Actually, there's more than one. One's an angler who lives down in Florida, and another is an artist in the UK. (at least, I think that site's devoted to their art. I might be wrong - it may just be stuff she likes, but either way - it's NOT me - I'm not into that kind of stuff). There are more, I am sure, but those are the ones that come up after me if you google FishyGirl. Several have ebay shops or cafepress shops, but none of them are me.

Anyway, I bring all of this up, because you will see a few changes coming up in the future here in The Fish Pond. I don't pretend to have any technological knowledge whatsoever, so once I can either figure out the mysteries of site hosting and related stuff myself or con my husband into it or find someone I can afford to pay to educate my lame brain, I will be making some changes on the site. I am bored with my site design and tag line, and I don't think typepad offers me the flexibility to change the site the way I want, but we'll see. I know what I want to see (I DO have design experience) I just haven't the first idea how to make it happen. I don't know a lick of HTML code. But it's time for a change.

So that's where you come in. Is there a feature that you'd like to see that would make The Fish Pond more useful for you? Easier to use? Content you'd like to see (fish pond installation? car seat tutorial? more poop stories? grammar tutorials?)? Got any bright ideas for taglines? There comes a time when we all need to grow, and I'm fast approaching this blog's second birthday, so it's time. Let me know what you think.

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Sunny will be four in less than two short months, and she has been growing in so many ways. She's discovered an interest in and talent for art, and she and Trout are taking drawing classes. At 3, I'd say I can tell what her drawings are easily without explanation a good 60% of the time, and in my experience that's amazing. She loves to sing, dance, and talk, talk, talk all day long. She never ever stops the narrative of her daily life. She also has an interest in language, both her own and others.

"Hello little girl, that's a beautiful dolly. What's her name?" asks the older lady we pass on our walk around the block.

"Mariana," she answers, with a perfect Spanish inflection complete with slightly rolled r.

"What a lovely name," responds the lady as we skip off down the sidewalk, Sunny counting her steps "Uno, dos, tres, cwatro."

Okay, she's still working on it. But she's growing up. My baby girl is no more. At least she's still Sunny. And this will still be The Fish Pond.

Tell Us How You REALLY Feel

Yesterday was a particularly hard day here in the Fish Pond, and Sunny was at the root of all of it. She didn't want to wait for me to be ready to take the Christmas tree down and so she started pulling off the ornaments and stacking them in a bucket, which would be fine, except some of them are glass, that really thin glass more fragile than egg shells, and they broke. That wasn't enough for her, and she kept pulling ornaments off and putting them in the bucket, and somehow she threw the balance off on the tree, which was tall and skinny unlike our typical short and fat trees, causing the whole thing to come crashing down in a hail of flying needles and shards of glass. All told only a handful of ornaments broke, but Trout had a screaming crying meltdown because one of them was a hummingbird ornament that she likes. I think I can fix it most of the way; the wings broke off cleanly, and we found a big piece of the beak. We couldn't find a couple of smaller chips from the beak, but a sharpie should fix that up enough that it won't be noticable unless you are handling it. Thankfully, no one got cut or hurt from the tree falling over.

You'd think that'd be enough excitement for one day, but you'd be wrong.

Sunny had been begging me to take her to Trader Joe's, and we needed a bunch of stuff anyway, so I packed up her and Nemo and we went to Trader Joe's. I typically love to go there and the people there are so kind and friendly, but it was Sunday and it was crowded and Sunny was being a pill. Nemo was in the cart and their carts are kinda small, so I didn't put Sunny in the back of the cart like I do sometimes, and she had to walk. She kept trying to push the cart, and after a near miss or two of her crashing into other patrons I kept reminding her "Mommy pushes the cart, and Sunny walks next to Mommy." Over and over, that was my mantra. I had picked about three things and put them in the cart, and Sunny kept trying to pull and spin the cart, and we have documented that I AM NOT SMART about these things, and also documented my lack of height, so at one point I had to let go of the cart with both hands and stretch up to my tippy toes to reach something on the top shelf. You see this coming, right? One day I'll learn.

Sunny attempted to climb the side of the shopping cart and in doing so tipped it over sideways, on top of her legs. She screamed, Nemo screamed, I nearly passed out. One kind man helped us right the cart, out of which Nemo was attempting to climb as fast as he could but he was strapped in with the seat belt (THANK GOD I USE THE SEAT BELT) and he couldn't get out. I got him out quickly and he continued to scream while I looked him over, I honestly don't think he got hit with anything or hit himself on anything - I think it just scared the crap out of him (you and me both, kid). Sunny was bruised up on her legs, but nothing else, but we didn't really know that for a while because she had tights on and wouldn't let me pull them down to look. I sat on the floor in the middle of Trader Joe's meat department holding two screaming kids in my lap while no fewer than 15 people walked past me and didn't even look at me. Not a single person offered to help.

I did get them calmed down enough to finish the shopping, but I didn't stop shaking until a good hour later. Of course, maybe ten minutes later, deeper into the store, people started talking to the kids and flirting with them and being nice again. I sure could have used that help when they were hurt and scared and needed comforting.

When we got home it took a while to get everything unpacked and put away, and eventually it dawned on me that Nemo hadn't nursed since morning and I hadn't eaten anything but a carton of yogurt all day, so I made myself some quick oatmeal with bananas and sat down on the couch to inhale it snarf it eat it, and Nemo tried to climb up into my lap. I begged off so I could finish eating, and fortunately the grandparents were there to distract entertain him, so I actually was able to eat my oatmeal while it was still room temperature. When I was done I looked at Nemo and said "Do you want nummies?" and he practically pulled me off the couch in his effort to climb up me, shouting "YAY!"

I didn't know he knew that word, but it was the nicest part of the day. Guess he won't be weaning any time soon.

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Don't forget about my contest - you have until tomorrow evening to make your guesses. No one is anywhere close yet.

Wherein I Maim My Daughter, Thereby Securing My Lock on Worst Mother of the Year Award

This morning was the Christmas party at Sunny's preschool, and in a fit of sleep-deprived madness (par for the course around here) I volunteered to be one of the two parents who come in to "do" the party - make the sign-up sheet to coerce the other parents into contributing food, treats, plates, napkins, cups, juice, and goodies so that we don't have to actually DO anything except show up and do a craft for them help the kids do a craft and sing and eat and wash their hands and go home. I think I was thinking I'd get my volunteerism over with for the year (faulty logic because I'm already the Box Tops coordinator, but whatever) by doing the first party, but I don't remember doing the sign-up at all, anyway. Fortunately, the other mother who did the party is much more on the ball than I am, so she did the sign-up sheet and volunteered to do the craft, so all I had to do was show up.

And I guess, technically, I DID show up. I got a babysitter for Nemo and I took Sunny to school and we got as far as the parking lot. Where I promptly shut the sliding door of the minivan on her wrist.

Oh, the screaming, the tears, the horror. Sunny screamed and cried, too. I jerked the door back open almost immediately, snatched her up in my arms, and collapsed onto the floor of the van, crying and saying "I'm so sorry, where did I get you? I'm so sorry, Sunny, please, show me where I hurt you." I caught her on her wrist.

We dashed into the school so that I could tell them what happened, make arrangements for the party, and get her back out to the pediatrician. The school gave me an ice pack and told me not to worry about the party, and asked me to call to tell them how she was doing. I love our school.

I called the pediatrician, and the office staff told me in no uncertain terms that they had no openings for today and I had to go to the ER. This was the first time I'd ever had this happen in 8 years with these peds, who are some of the best in the DC metro area and whose staff are usually quite accomodating and pleasant. I will have to keep an eye on this, because even if the doctors are awesome, if the staff stinks then it's time to rethink the practice.

As we drove to the local emergency center, Sunny continued to cry and snuffle in her seat, and eventually she snuffled down enough for me to understand what she was saying: "Mommy, can you call and tew dem not to start the party wifout me?" My heart broke a little bit more as I told her that wasn't possible.

We sat outside the emergency center for a while and debated going in or not. It was packed, and I knew we would end up waiting forever, and her wrist, while a bit swollen, was looking better than it had at first look, and she was able to make a fist and use it to push up her other sleeve, so I figured it was going to be okay. I told her I'd take her back to school for the party, and she argued no. So I told her I could take her into the EC and she said no, she wanted to go home. So that's where we went.

On the way home, I asked Sunny why she didn't want to go back to the party, especially when she had wanted me to call them and make them wait. Finally, after much cajoling on my part, she said, "Because you might hurt me again, Mommy." And then I died.

I explained once again that it was an accident, that Mommy hadn't meant to hurt her, and she asked, "Do you pwomise you won't do it again, Mommy?"

Oh, honey, I pwomise.

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She's fine now, all the swelling is long gone, she's using the wrist like normal (i.e., taking toys and hitting her brothers), and there's barely a mark.

I wish my heart would heal that fast.

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There were two bright spots to the day:

1. Nemo was staggering walking around the kitchen today, and he took a pot lid from the open dishwasher, lurched across the kitchen, opened the cabinet, and very carefully placed the pot lid in the cabinet on top of some other pots and pans. Then he turned around and grinned like the Cheshire cat, pleased as can be that he was being helpful. I did not teach him this.
2. I have been getting notes home from Little Man's teacher about his mouthy, disrespectful behavior lately, and we've been perplexed as to how to handle it. As I was putting him in bed tonight, I told him, "Dream dreams of good behavior," to which he responded, "Actually, Mom, I dream of giiiiirls. I looooove girls." Good to know.

Never Going to Happen

Trout's on the phone with BigDaddyFish, who usually calls us to tell us he's on his way home, and I'm cooking dinner and feeding the baby and trying to keep Little Man focused on his homework. BDF asks Trout to ask me when I'm going to show her, Little Man, and Sunny the website for the art school where I want to enroll Trout and he wants me to enroll the other two to save me time out (each kid gets one activity each term. If they all do the same activity, that's only one trip out for me per week - I understand his motivation but I need that time out, I think. But I digress.) even though neither is as interested in art as Trout.

"So, Mommy, when are you going to show us?" she asks, looking at me over the phone, pointedly.

"Well, when your homework is done, dinner is over, and you've cleaned up the house."

She turns back to the phone, sighing, "Dad, it's NEVER going to happen."

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And to add insult to injury, I was tickling Trout last night and she kicked me right in the ol', well, you know. Fortunately it was in the opposite direction, so I think she actually straightened it out a bit. BDF says it's even more crooked than before, though, and I'm having trouble smelling things. Yes, I'll go get it checked out now. After the homework is done, dinner is over, and the house is clean.

Once More, Right in the Ol' Schnozz

I am short, and something that goes along with that is that I have profoundly short arms. When I get shirts that fit really, really well otherwise, the sleeves are always too short. Sometimes, this puts me in danger.

A little over a week ago I was holding Nemo while Uncle Orca and BigDaddyFish were getting the other kids put to bed. I had to come down the hall for some reason, and I was sick of Nemo screaming in his crib (yeah, CIO and getting him moved out of our bed is going SOOOOOO well) so I grabbed him and was holding him in front of me, arm wrapped around him. He wasn't happy with this arrangement and was flailing about, and in the process he rammed his head full force right into my nose, almost as though I had been given an uppercut to the bottom of my nose.

I couldn't speak. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't do anything. Uncle Orca saw it and asked if I was okay, I shook my head ever so slightly. Then he asked if I wanted him to take the baby and I nodded, again slightly. He took the baby and I kind of collapsed against our changing table/Nemo's dresser, and when I got my breath back I shrieked "SHIT!!!!" and I hear BigDaddyFish's voice from Little Man's room say, mildly, "That's gonna leave a mark."

I wasn't laughing.

The nose hurt all night long, and I thought for sure it was broken, but no racoon eyes or bruising or bleeding, just pain. Heachaches. Pain. I couldn't blow my nose because the muscle pressure was too painful, not even accounting for having to touch my nose to do it. I couldn't go to the doctor because 1. I don't have a regular doctor, and 2. I was too busy with kids to be able to get away, because the girls decided to get diarrhea and were home from school this week, plus it snowed at inconvenient times so Trout didn't have ballet, either. Anyway, I didn't get to the doctor, and it continued to hurt and hurt.

Air on my face hurt. Blowing my nose hurt. I would wake myself up by rolling over and grazing it slightly with the pillow. People kept telling me, unsolicited, that it was crooked.

Monday Sunny had taken her shoes off in the car, and as I bent over to put the shoes back on her so she could walk into the house, you guessed it, she kicked me square in the face, twice, just kicking her legs around. I sat on the edge of the car, writhing around in the street, seeing stars, and screaming. You would think this would attract someone's attention, but no. Hope I never get attacked in front of my house.

Then, in the final coup de grace, two nights ago I was adjusting Little Man in his bed, because he has a tendency to helicopter and had spun himself around to where his head was against the wall and his legs were hanging off the bed, and in the course of me fixing him he swung his arm back and elbowed me full force in the nose. I dropped him and started screaming. Eleven pm and I'm on my knees next to Little Man's bed, screaming and yelling and crying and holding my face, and wouldn't you know, none of the kids woke up. Not one, and certainly not the one who had inflicted the damange. BDF came running, but I was beyond help.

Still, no black eyes, no blood. But it's crooked, and swollen, though that's getting better today, and I can touch it again without wincing.

"You need to do a better job protecting your nose," says BDF. I didn't punch him in the nose, though the thought certainly crossed my mind.

Maybe I need to get a hockey mask.

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In other news, I won Best of Blog Exchange again, though they were ALL wonderful posts, and I was quite surprised to have won. Go here to see them again.

In the Moment

Yesterday it snowed here. Some other time I'll talk about what DC is like in the snow, where people freak the hell out at the sight of a single snowflake and fortify their houses as though for a 40 year famine. Yesterday they were calling for "up to an inch of snow" and, as usual, we got about three. The big kids were at school, I was cold and tired and grouchy, so the littles and I were hunkered down in my front room with the television on, and I was trying to figure out how I was going to get a nap in without the little kids destroying the house while I did it.

Some sort of nonsense song came on, and Nemo started to shake his little booty, grinning and giggling like the concept of a simple booty shake was the greatest thing in the world. Sunny joined in, she too giggling and grinning, so I hopped up and shook my big ol' booty, too. The snow continued to fall softly, gently, outside cold and gray and silent. Inside was warmth and song and movement and joy.

"Mama, let's do Ring Around the Rosie," urged Sunny, so we each took one of Nemo's hands and we held hands, me on my knees to take care of my back, and around we went, singing and gently tugging Nemo around in a circle, collapsing in a great heap of giggling and tickling on "all fall down." We did it two more times, and after the third time we lay there on the floor, Sunny, Nemo, and I, and it occurred to me, briefly, that I was happy, and it was not the first time in the last month or so that has happened.

Happy.

Recovery is, indeed, possible.

Motherhood Hurts

Nobody told me about the pain.

No, I'm not talking about labor. Certainly, that pain was covered. In spades. And I'm not talking about the pain of the heart, of having your heart walking around outside your body, of that palpable sadness that every parent feels when they read a news story involving a child. Not that either.

I'm talking about the head injuries. The pinches, the hair yanks, the kicks, the head butts, the bites. The eye pokes, the scratches.

Four times last night, when Nemo woke up and wanted to nurse, he announced his intentions by slamming his big old noggin right into mine, one time directly into my nose, which had been, up until that point, happily snoring away. He has taken to pulling my hair, of late, because he likes to see me squirm. He caresses my belly while he nurses, and when I least expect it, he pinches, teeny, tiny little pinches that hurt like hell and leave itty bitty black and purple marks.

Sunny has taken to doing the "go limp in the parking lot" thing, and then when I lean down to pick her up, suddenly finding her footing and thrusting her head up right into my jaw, and my arms are too short for me to leap out of the way to avoid the crushing blow unless I drop her. And oh, does she know that, and use it to her advantage.

Little Man has hit the age where he wants to wrestle, to jump on my back and play rough. Trout has reached the age where, if she defies me when sent to her room and I have to carry her, I have to throw her over my shoulders and stagger up the stairs, crashing into the wall as though she, or I, were drunk.

I'd trained for labor, for the fitness I'd need for the marathon exertion that is. This, this battering, I wasn't prepared for.

I'm asking Santa for boxing gloves for Christmas. I think a little sparring may be in order.

365 Days

It's hard sometimes to believe how much happens in so few days. We forget. I forgot about the two anesthesiologists. I forgot they had to stick me three times for the spinal. We forget how impossibly tiny they are. I can't imagine that he ever weighed less than 8 pounds, when now he weighs more than 21.

365 days ago he had no teeth. Now he has six.

365 days ago he was tiny, helpless, and couldn't do anything except cry and nurse. Now he can roll over, sit up, crawl, cruise, stand, walk, climb, fall. Of course, falling he was able to do then, too, with a bit of unintended assistance.

365 days ago, his favorite food was breastmilk. Now, it still is, but he sure does like peas and broccoli, too, not to mention cheerios, kix, bananas, squash, noodles with gravy, chicken, meat sticks, oh and what is that you're having? Yeah, that, too.

365 days ago his favorite things to do were nurse and sleep. Now his favorite thing to do is nurse, but he loves to take things out of containers and put them back in, look at books, and laugh with his big sisters and brother. Oh, yeah, and take all the books off the bookshelves and play in the toilet (or any water, for that matter) and climb as high as he can so that Mommy will make that squealing noise.

365 days ago he could grip my finger in his tiny hand. Now he tries to forcibly remove my teeth from my mouth so he can check them out. Now he can smile and giggle and laugh and snort as he tries to tickle me.

Today my sweet Nemo, my last baby, turned one. He has a double ear infection, and Sunny "bonked" him on the head with her fist and he got a bloody nose, so he doesn't feel much like celebrating. But celebrate we shall. Because today I am 365 days older, 365 days wiser, and 365 days more in love my son.

Happy Birthday baby.

Help Wanted: WifeNurse

Must be able to simultaneously hold cranky, feverish baby to cranky, feverish Mother's breast while feeding her ice chips and chicken soup (or Cranberry Sierra Mist and Parmesan Goldfish, as her mood desires), also while convincing the feverish, cranky, lethargic three-year-old that consuming chicken broth and a bit of Advil are in her best interests, and then give her a nebulizer treatment so she can actually breathe without sounding like the wind whistling through a 100-year-old attic. Also must supervise homework and manage the energy level, not to mention the decibel level, of the older two children.

Must handle the news that the elementary school has gone to Code Blue with grace and aplomb, not panic, and must assist the Mother in doing the same.

WifeNurse must then scrub down the entire house with Clorox to attempt to ensure that remaining healthy members of household do NOT get sick.

Once that has been accomplished and family's needs have been satisfactorily met, WifeNurse must wash, dry, and fold 743 loads of laundry, ensuring that priority is given to 8-year-old's ballet attire, which must be air dried, and 6-year-old's lacrosse attire, and clean sheets for the sickbeds. Yes, that is plural. Then WifeNurse may move on to preparing a tasty, nutritious meal that all family members will actually eat and do the requisite 2 loads of dishes following. WifeNurse must endure all whining, moaning, and complaining about tasty and nutritious meal without cleavering anyone's tongue out, duct-taping anyone's mouth shut, which we would all agree is not a constructive way to handle such matters.

At some point during all other duties, WifeNurse must finish filling out the financial statement required for Mother's husband, aka Father, who needs it for his security clearance and who is being hounded by the government's special investigator. Never mind that you will have no clue what data goes where, because Mother does not keep good records. Just make sure to put an asterisk to indicate "estimated." Be sure also to be supportive and nurturing as he begins his new job and has to deal with hellacious traffic, even by DC standards.

Applicant must be willing to work for almost no pay and the only benefit being the satisfaction of a job well done and the fact that the Mother did not go insane during applicant's tensure. Not to mention her undying gratitude.

Inquiries should be directed to FishyGirl.

Eight

Your head comes up to my shoulder, you weigh about 45 pounds. Not enough to give up your booster seat in the car, which bugs you.

You have two loose teeth, and have been trying desperately to lose your two front teeth for months now. It bothers you that kids younger and smaller than you have lost more teeth than you have. But you got your teeth late, so it makes sense that you'd lose them late, too.

You've recently started growing out your bangs, so looking you in the eye takes a bit of wrangling, unless you have one of your funny clips, all sideways and askew, trying in vain to hold back the mass of your chestnut hair, so like my own. I've decided to grow out my bangs, too, so we can be frustrated with them together.

You are oh so picky about your food. You pretty much exist on peanut butter and cereal, with a bit of fruit thrown in for good measure. You won't touch meat at all, except maybe maple or honey ham on the third tuesday of each month, if the planets are aligned properly. You won't eat any vegetable but raw carrots or cooked white corn, and God help me if I ever try to offer you the broccoli that I love so much. You'll eat tomatoes, in the form of pizza sauce, but never, ever on top of pasta. Eating like this isn't helping your quest to give up the booster seat, my dear. And no, I'm not going to let you convert to an all sugar, all the time diet just to fatten you up. You'll eat healthy, if persnickety.

You're growing so quickly that you are just gangly, all knees and elbows and pointy parts. This makes you a bit clumsy, banged and bruised. Slow down. Let your brain get used to your body the way it is, this day, and you won't trip and fall all time.

You are so smart, Trout, so very smart, yet so...I dunno, dreamy, maybe? at the same time. Your schoolwork is a tapestry of creativity and intelligence, if your handwriting is clear enough to be read, that is. You are quickly frustrated when things don't come to you easily, and when you choose to be so, you are a perfectionist to destructive levels. Homework is a horrifying time, really, because you choose to spend hours perfecting one particular part at the expense of doing the rest of it, and it takes forever when it shouldn't take more than 20 minutes or so. I am NOT looking forward to middle school if this keeps up. But you are doing third grade math with ease, and you read everything you can get your hands on, and I wish that you never, ever lose that hunger for knowledge.

You love High School Musical, and Hannah Montana, and the Suite Life of Zach and Cody, but you are just as willing to sit and watch Dora or Kipper or Teletubbies with your little sister and still be entertained. You love ballet and chess and science. Your favorite color is brown, at last check, though this changes regularly. You love American Girl dolls, and your old Heavy Baby Hair just as much as the first day you got her. You love all kinds of music, and it tickles me to no end how much you love rock, especially old heavy metal hair bands from the 80s. You love to do art, especially drawing. You're excited to be getting your first communion this year.

You are a daredevil. You love airplanes and helicopters and roller coasters, the wilder the better. You have taught me so much about letting go and living life to its fullest, without fear.

You hate to brush your hair. You hate green vegetables. You are incredibly picky about how your pants fit you - they can't be "touching" you or you go nuts. You apparently hate silence, because you are never, ever quiet, and you go to sleep best when you have your cd player playing softly. You've entered the tween years, and can be so, so moody. We've entered a very challenging time, you and I.

Though sometimes bossy, you are a great big sister to your siblings. You watch out for them and take care of them and are a huge help to me. You started by volunteering to share your room with your little sister and you continue today by helping with the baby, helping keep him safe, and small things out of his mouth, so that I can go to the bathroom by myself.

I am so proud of the way you are growing up. Proud of the kind, compassionate, loving child you are. Proud of your creativity, your drive, your spirit, your confidence. Proud of your generosity. Proud of your intelligence and wit and vitality. Proud, yes, I'll say it, that you are beautiful, and I will say it because no one should ever ever feel bad about wanting to be pretty and no one will ever say it enough.

You are brilliant, Trout, and I am so very very blessed that eight years ago I became a mother. To you. Your mother. Eight lightning-fast years blip - gone. You are the best surprise your daddy and I ever got.

Happy Eighth Birthday, honey.