Sorry all–computer problems were trying to keep the man down, but the man fought back!

So, Easter was on Sunday.  In case you missed it.  For those of you who have been following this wacky journey of mine, you may recall last year’s Easter was a little, shall we say, dangerous?  Courtesy of my sister Maggi and her quest to hide the eggs in a vortex.  It was dewy, eggs were in trees, long story short, we had a small incident that resulted in my nephew falling out of a tree.  He got the egg though, all that matters.

Not wanting to damage or maim my child before I got my money’s worth, this year we opted for a much safer egg hunt.  We spent the day with my brother-in-law Charles and his lovely girlfriend Cheri and her completely awesome family.  Cheri has twin 10 year old sisters who think Dylan is the shit, so it’s always a good time there.  We were in charge of hiding the eggs, and not wanting to completely give them away (come on, there’s something to be said for making them work for it), I hid them in safe but obscure places.  Tom and I cheated and “found” some eggs to put in the little monster’s basket, and the twins Tatiana and Emily were left to find the rest.  And they did, for the most part.  Except, I did such a good job hiding some of the eggs that they couldn’t find them.  And neither could we.  Since I forgot where I hid them.  Luckily, they’re plastic (when I was a kid, we hid real hard boiled eggs, in the desert, and NEVER found them all), so they’ll probably be there next year.  And really, what’s better than year old candy?  Uh, very little!

So the egg hunt was a success (although I did miss the danger and excitement of life threatening Easter egg hunts…next year, when she can walk).  Dinner was delicious.  Jelly beans, Peeps, Cadbury Cream Eggs (MY FAVORITE), all delightful.  A lovely, memorable first Easter for Dylan, who, other than being able to spend the day with more family, probably didn’t even realize it was any different from the Sunday before.  But, since then, I’ve been thinking about Easter and what it means.  I mean, MEANS means.  Look, I am just about the least religious person in the whole world.  I am a spiritual person, in my own way, but church?  No.  Never.  Not for me.  Tom and I have been doing some research, and have been talking about becoming Buddhists (no, I’m not kidding).  I want something for Dylan to have as she’s growing up, some kind of faith or place of comfort, somewhere she can turn to if she needs somewhere to turn to besides me.  More on that later, I’m sure.

But all this Easter stuff got me thinking: what do I tell Dylan if or when she asks me about Easter?  Like, real, non-marshmallow Easter?  I don’t know very much about it, other than the basics.  Do I bone up on the info to be prepared?  Do I consult a priest (pastor? See, no clue)?  I mean, I’m not a church lady, but maybe Dylan will be.  It’s her choice, 100%.  We’ll raise her (loosely) Buddhist, but if she doesn’t want to be Buddhist, if she’s more drawn to the Catholic or Christian faith, I will encourage her and make sure she feels supported and accepted.  But until she chooses, if she asks, what do I say?  And what about Christmas?  Because I imagine there comes a time when kids start to understand that these super fun holidays full of candy and presents were not invented solely for the purpose of eating candy and getting presents.  I’d really, truly appreciate some feedback or suggestions.  Because church stuff, if you’re not a church person, is some real mind bending shit man.  On the real.

On Friday, April 15, 2011, while in the car on the way to visit my sister, my daughter, my darling, love of my life, let the world know who she loves more.  SHE SAID MAMA!!!!!!!!!!!!  She actually said mama, in that cute little nasally voice of hers.  I almost crashed on the freeway I was so excited, and then I cried a little, which did nothing to help my driving skills.  I love her to pieces, but she could have chosen a better time to speak her first word, like when we weren’t barreling down the 101 at 80 miles an hour.  Or when everyone we know in the world was around to hear it.

So, all my cajoling and bribing and incessant repeating of the word finally paid off.  Everyone told me she’d say dada first, most babies do, it’s easier for them to say, blah blah blah.  But I knew, Dylan was different.  She’s special, she’s smart, and she knew that I would have held it against her for all eternity if she didn’t say mama first.  And it probably helped that I said mama to her literally 3 million times a day.  This was just one I needed to win, I can’t explain why.  And I’m not a total bitch, I would have been happy if she had said dada first.  Not as happy, not even close, but it’s still a momentous milestone.  My baby, the tiny little bean I gave birth to 8 months ago, actually spoke!  She said a word!  She is growing up so fast, I have a hard time wrapping my brain around it sometimes.  This is where it starts, this is when it gets away from me, I just know it.  This is the beginning of the end of her being my little baby.  She’s on her way to becoming a (gasp!) child!

So I’m going to revel in being her first word for the time being, before I start trying to add to her vocabulary.  And please understand, while she says mama, and says it many times while looking at me or looking for me, I don’t think she has any understanding whatsoever that she is saying my name, or that what she is saying has any meaning other than being a fun word to say.  She knows me as mama, and she can say mama, but I don’t think she knows that the word she says and who I am is the same thing just yet.  I mean, she stares at her foot while I’m changing her diaper and says it over and over again, then sucks on her big toe.  Not exactly a ringing endorsement of her word recognition.  But who knows?  She could totally know what it means, and she’s just messing with me when she says it while staring at the cat or the wall or her toe.  Which would be cool, because that means she said it first because she wanted to.  She CHOSE to say mama first, instead of saying dada.  Yeah, you know what?  I’m changing my opinion about my child’s infant intelligence.  She knows what she’s saying, absolutely.  She knows what it means, she knows it’s me, she chose to say it because she loves me more.  I win.

Dada is next, I promise.  Or cat.  I can’t decide.

Hobo’s are the best travelers I know, so I thought that would be the best reference for my daughter and how awesome she was on her first mini road trip.  See, she’s like a hobo because she travels well, NOT because she smells bad or is homeless.  Just thought I’d clarify.

So, Tom and I took the little monster to San Diego on Saturday to visit with some friends who are expecting their first baby this summer.  We absolutely adore San Diego, talk about moving there at least once a month (only half jokingly too), and having friends there who can’t travel because of pregnancy is a great excuse to jaunt down for a day.  The only reason we hadn’t taken the trip sooner is because I was absolutely terrified to be stuck in a car with Dylan for the 2 1/2 hour drive until very, very recently.  Allow me to explain…

I was not blessed with one of those kids that does well in a car.  She slept on the way home on the day we brought her home from the hospital, and that was the last time.  No, not really.  But that was the last calm time.  She’s slept in the car since then, but let me tell you, she goes down kicking and screaming.  It’s like the only reason she falls asleep is from the sheer exhaustion of trying not to fall asleep.  And it never fails: in a 30 minute car ride, she’ll cry and wail and yell for 28 minutes, and fall asleep right as we pull in to wherever it is we were headed.  Her timing is impeccable.

And to be honest, she gets bored really, REALLY quickly.  She’s got some toys hanging from the bar on her car seat, but those work for exactly 4 minutes now.  At the end of that 4 minutes, watch out, because she is looking for trouble.  She makes this sound, like a yell, that clearly says “Entertain me or else bitches”.  And the or else is no fun.  Noise, constant.  Pacifiers and their holders, flying through the air.  Toys that ring/ding/jingle/jangle/etc, doing it all non-stop.  And when you factor in the extremely loud radio (that I’ve turned up extremely loud to drown out the symphony of noise coming from the backseat)?  Um, hello, my name is Migraine, nice to meet you and EAT YOUR BRAIN.

So you can see why I was hesitant to subject myself to more than 20 minutes in the car without some kind of life or death reason, or sedative.  But the last few weeks, she’s been doing better and better in the car.  So we threw caution to the wind, packed up the armada of shit she needs for ONE DAY away from home, and hit the road.  I had an entire bottle of Aleve, plenty of caffeine and snacks, and a play list of good music to blast in case the kid got out of control.  We were scared, but we were prepared.  We certainly didn’t want to listen to 2 hours of crying, but if we had to take that bullet for a nice, relaxing day in San Diego, well, so be it.  Off we went…

And wouldn’t you know it?  This kid slept THE ENTIRE WAY THERE.  2 1/2 hours.  Straight.  Forget the car, she doesn’t sleep that long during the day at home.  Like, ever.  I spent the entire trip tensed up in the front seat, waiting for the other shoe to drop.  And nothing.  It was the most relaxing car ride I think we’ve ever had.  I almost cried.

So we get to San Diego, and we have an absolute glorious time.  The company was amazing, the weather could not have been more lovely, and my superstar child was just brilliant the whole day.  Didn’t cry or fuss, not once.  She didn’t nap for the rest of the day, which was sort of by design, since I wanted her to be as tired as possible on the way home.  See, I figured that since she was so completely awesome on the way to San Diego, the universe would figure it had been generous enough, and she would unleash holy hell on us on the way back home.  The more tired she was, the less she’d be able to fight off the fatigue, and I was hoping we could cut her crying down to an hour.  That was the best possible scenario I saw playing out in my head.  It was gonna be a long trip home, we were ready.

And wouldn’t you know it?  She slept the ENTIRE WAY THERE.  Again!  Twice in one day!  I think I may have cried a little on the way home, I was just so deliriously happy.  It was the greatest trip I think we’ve ever taken.  I mean, it would have been great even if she had cried all the way there and back.  Ok, maybe not great.  It would have been bearable.  Barely.  But she didn’t!  We’ve turned a corner here, I can feel it.  Dylan is officially entering her traveling hobo faze.  It goes so fast…

(Naturally, Tom and I are completely ignoring the fact that this trip was probably a fluke, and are already planning our next roader.  Only the next time, we’re planning an overnight-er.  In case you haven’t figured it out by now, we’re not the smartest people ever to roam the Earth.  Brave, but not smart.)

Dylan is a week shy of turning 8 months old.  She’s got teeth, she’s scooting around her crib like her ass is on fire, she babbles and coos and laughs her fire butt off at the drop of a hat.  In other words, she is becoming a little child, right before my very eyes.  There are just a couple of really big milestones we’re waiting on in the first year: walking, which I’m in no hurry for (she hardly wants to snuggle now, how the hell am I gonna pin her down when she can run?), and talking, which we’re on the cusp of.  If I say “cat” she says “bloo”.  If I say “dada” she says “bloo”.  If I say “mama” she laughs hysterically and gives me a look that says “You wish lady”.  And herein lies my problem.

Is it too much to ask that she say “mama” first?  I mean, I am her MOTHER.  I carried her for 10 loooooooooooong, hot, heavy months.  I put up with the swelling, the constipation, the mood swings, the back pain, etc.  Plus, hello, I GAVE BIRTH TO HER.  I went through contractions (ouch), I had a giant needle shoved into my spine so I wouldn’t feel said contractions (which didn’t really work so I got the shit end of that stick), and I pushed her out of my vagina.  And since then, I’ve fed her using my boobs like 100 times a day, I’ve changed countless diapers, I’ve stayed up all night rocking her and shushing her and talking to her, I’ve been peed on, pooped on, spit up on, projectile vomited on, snotted on, and drooled on more times that I care to recall.  I’ve done all her laundry, wiped off her effing pacifier 3,256,796 times after she’s launched it across the room, bathed her every other day for 8 months, and have developed a baby food addiction from eating what she flings at my face.  At least 30 times a day I break into random songs to keep her entertained, and I’ve actually used baby babble in adult conversation on accident.   I spend every waking hour of my day with her; I’ve only spent 6 hours away from her TOTAL.  I am her everything.  And her everything’s name is MAMA!

I think it should be a law or a rule or ingrained in DNA that the first word a baby says should be the name of the person who gave them life.  I’m not complaining, really, but the payoff for all the back breaking, ball busting, mind fucking work is pretty small up front.  It’s more of a long term prize.  So when you can get a small victory, you want to snatch it up with both hands and hold on for dear life.  And hearing your name come out of the mouth of your precious baby in that adorable little voice before anything else is the biggest victory of all.  And then you can use it as ammunition for the rest of your life against your husband or partner, and it’ll come in really handy when you need to guilt an unruly teenager into spending time with you.

I figure that as long as I say “mama” 3000 times a day, she’ll eventually stop laughing hysterically and start understanding that I mean for her not to giggle but to repeat the word.  It’ll work, it has to.  Because if she says “dada” before “mama”, so help me God, I will go positively apoplectic.