One of the things I remember most from those first days and weeks and months is how much I held you. It seemed as if I never put you down. Out of necessity or first time mom possessiveness, I couldn’t say for sure, but you spent most of your time in my arms. It was hard and beautiful and comfortable and stifling and I recall those memories sometimes, when I’m trying to sleep or relax, and I can see your tiny fingers and toes and I can smell your smell and feel your downy hair, and it calms me. You WERE my baby, once upon a time in a land far, far away. Looking at you today, on your 2nd birthday, it seems impossible. But you were. I remember.

You tell me, “I luz you mama!”. You crawl into my lap and ask for big huggies, and if I don’t squeeze tight enough, you say bigger. BIGGER HUGGIES MAMA. Then you’re off, and my lap is empty again. I think you notice sometimes, maybe a certain thing my face does or the slightest watering of my eyes, and you come to me and you’re my baby again. But just for a moment, just enough to take the edge off. One of the biggest adjustments for me when you were born was how much you needed me. I’d never experienced that level of dependence. Now, I’m trying to adjust to how much you don’t need me. And how much I’m starting to realize I need you.

You still look just like your daddy, but oh boy, do you have my insides. You’re a yeller, in frustration and joy. You are quick to anger, but quicker to laughter. You crave independence and space, but need to know I am but an arms length away to be able to truly relax. You are so, so smart. I thought we’d have a few years before the “Whys” took up residence in our home, but alas, your curiosity is insatiable, and I spend the majority of our day explaining to you how every single thing in the world works. A simple “because I said so” just will not suffice, much to my and your fathers chagrin. You GET stuff, stuff that I don’t think an almost 2 year old should get, but then what the hell do I know. You’re shockingly girly, in a rough and tumble in a tutu and lipgloss kind of way. I am NOT, so this is new for us. You sing, made up songs and songs you hear on the radio and songs you hear me sing. And you dance. Oh baby girl, how you dance. With abandon and joy and pure, unadulterated madness. You dance like there is no one else in the room, even in a room full of people. I hope you never stop doing that. Hell, I hope we all START doing that. You’re not what I would call a “people person”. Like me and your dad, you’re wary of people you don’t know or don’t know well, and you play your cards pretty close to the vest in situations where you’re not 100% comfortable. But once you decide you like someone, they are beholden to you, forever and forever. I hope you never stop doing that, either.

My sweet, sweet girl. I cannot believe you’re already 2. I cannot believe you’re only 2. I feel like I’ve known you forever. And maybe I have. Maybe you’ve always been here, just waiting for your moment to join us and complete us and fix us. You made me so much more than a mom 2 years ago. In many ways, you made me whole. I have loved every single second of the last 2 years, the good and the bad and the horrible. And I am so, so, thankful to be yours. Happy, happy, happy birthday, my amazing Dylan Rose. My big girl, my little baby. I can’t put into words how very much I love you, but it is more than the moon and stars and the ocean and sand, times forever. Happy birthday, baby.

Now slow down.

She has my hands. Long, slender fingers that will turn upwards when held palm down. She has my skin, translucent, pale, with just a hint of pink. Her hair feels like mine, baby fine and wispy. She laughs like I do, with her whole self. She laughs at the same things too. When she can’t do something, her cheeks flush and she stomps her foot and I can feel the rage bubbling up inside, percolating at the surface, threatening to boil over. I can feel it because it bubbles in me too. We’re both quick to smile, and even quicker to strike. We are almost identical on the inside, she and I.

But her face is not my face.

Her face is his. The full lips, strong jawline, sharp, defined cheekbones. The little button nose, and the eyes, almond shaped pools of soulful brown. Her face is striking and unique and the most exquisitely beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. I can stare at her for hours, and discover new parts of it that I hadn’t noticed before. And I do. I’ve memorized every inch of it, and I stare at it in my minds eye, at night, in the quiet of the dark.

The world notices too. The world sees her, and the world says she is beautiful. Exotic, is the word it uses. The world doesn’t see her and think, “beauty”. The world sees her and thinks, “different”. When it is just she and I, that’s when the differences are marked. When the world notices the most. Are you the nanny? Is she yours? Where was she adopted from? Just words, innocuous and curious and benign and like knives, every time. My green eyes and her almond eyes don’t match, so she can’t be mine. They don’t see her insides. They don’t see how our laugh is the same, or how our rage bubbles just under the surface in the face of failure. They can’t know that it is my blood that pumps through her heart, my blood that sustained her then and now and will always. All the world sees in her face, and her face is not my face.

At this age, this clumsy, toddling, babbling age of wonder and curiosity and innocence, her face is just one part of her. Babies are adorable, and she is a (quickly growing, almost not) baby in their eyes. But soon, I fear, her face will cease to be just one part of her. Soon, the world may see it as the only part of her. The part of her that stands out, not because of its beauty, but because it’s different. And sometimes, sadly, the world doesn’t like different.

I’ve spent the last 18 months preparing for scenarios we might encounter in the coming years. I know what I will say to her the first time she loses. I know how to comfort her the first time a friend hurts her on purpose. I’ve practiced what to say when something is out of her reach, and how to coach her to reach it. I’ve stored words away, in letters and journals and in my mind, to use for her first betrayal, her first success, her first fight and win. I’ve cried tears remembering these moments in my own life, and I’ve written down those feelings. I know what ice cream we will eat to soothe her first broken heart (and subsequently, the place husband will have to take me to keep me away from the one who broke it). But there is one thing I don’t know how to deal with, or even how to prepare for. I’ve had my heart broken. I’ve experienced loss, both superficially temporary and soul crushingly permanent and irreversible. But I have never been treated differently because of how I look. Because of who I am. I have never had ugly words used against me, had my heritage and appearance used as a weapon to hurt me.

I’ve never had to hold back tears against the sting of hateful whispers.

He has. And my fear is that she will too. And instead of helping her, instead of teaching her how to deal with and stand up to it, all I can see is white, hot rage. And I hate them, the world that will one day make her feel not beautiful. I hate the ones who will make her hate her eyes, those breathtaking almond pools of soulful brown. I hate them for hurting her. I hate that world for ever making anyone feel different, for making even one person look in the mirror and feel anything but acceptance and love for their face or skin or body. I never thought beyond the surface of it, because up until I met him, I was, by nature, on the other side of the mirror. Never hating, but so far from understanding.

I still don’t fully understand, and I may never understand, what it feels like on that side of the mirror. If I could, I would spend my life changing the wiring of every single person in this world who could one day hurt my baby. I would never change her, because she is perfect. I will never wish for her face to be different, because it is HER face. It is beautiful and exotic and perfect. I wish for everyone else to be different, for her face to never be anything more than a PART of her, not all of her. There is something coming, that I am not prepared for, but I am ready. I don’t know how long I have to find the words, but I am looking, looking, looking everyday for them. I may not understand how the world thinks, but I know how she thinks.

Because inside, we are the same. It is my blood that pumps through her veins. It is my rage that boils just under her surface. Her face may not be my face, but her heart is my heart. And my heart is strong. And it gets stronger everyday. For her.

Having a baby WRECKED my memory. I used to pride myself on being able to remember everything, without having to write stuff down or leave myself reminders. Not anymore. Now, I remember stuff, but stuff that has literally no bearing on my life. Like, I remember the phone number for the first house I remember living in. But I can’t remember my own phone number. Like, my CURRENT phone number. My brain is filled to the brim with completely useless crap.

Which would suck, except I’ve apparently given birth to Little Miss Memory. Dylan remembers everything. Where she left a toy a week ago, where I hid the cookies when I thought she wasn’t looking, what happens on the next page of a book, what happens in the next scene of a show or commercial she’s seen once. To wit: she started doing this weird “NOOOOOOOO” thing and then cracking up, and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what the hell she was doing, until I saw a commercial on the Disney Channel for some DVD, and a character in the movie says it in the commercial. The scene doesn’t even last 3 seconds, and we’ve never seen the actual movie it’s from. You know how people say that kids are sponges? There is evidently a ring of truth to that.

Now if I can just remember to tell her to remember the stuff I have trouble remembering.

Dylan’s a talker. She starts yapping away the second she opens her eyes in the morning, and literally does not stop (save for the wonderfully quiet 2 hours of nap time) until she finally konks out at night. I don’t know WHERE she gets it from, although my long suffering husband would like me to point out that he is, by nature, the strong and silent type. And I think I was just insulted.

But I digress. Let’s get back to my adorable little squawk box. Now, Dylan’s always had a lot of words. She seems to pick up a new word really easily, and it usually only takes her hearing it once before she remembers it and uses it correctly. Which is awesome! And scary! I can’t even tell you how many blessings I’ve counted that she hasn’t started using any of my, um, saltier word choices. I’m getting much better, but I’m not gonna lie, I’m still a fan of the four letter words.

But now, she’s not just speaking in words. This kid has decided to start speaking in sentences. Like, 3 and 4 word sentences. “I has snack?” “Mama pick up?” “Bath so fun Mama!” “Go outside for bubbles?” I still chuckle every time she says something. It is seriously the cutest thing I’ve ever heard. And I especially love it when she answers my question with an actual thought out answer. Like, if I ask her what she wants for lunch? Nine times outta ten, she’ll tell me what she wants. It’s almost always some kind of cookie, but hey, can’t blame a girl for trying.

It’s all so exciting. But it’s also heartbreaking. She’s not a baby anymore! When did that HAPPEN? She’s a year and a half old. In 6 months, my baby, my sweet, tiny baby, will be TWO. I don’t think I’m ready for that! I think she may be ready though. “I big Mama!” Yes, baby. Yes you are.

You know that thing where you put your kid to bed one night, and then wake up the next morning to an almost completely new kid?

Yeah. THAT. Like, 7 days a week.

Dylan’s a year and a half old now, she’s not a baby anymore. *SOB* She’s a bonafide little girl, in more ways than not. Sure, she’s still in diapers (but not for much longer, fingers crossed, I’m beginning my potty training research soon), she’s still on the boob (even though the weaning is going well, I’ve eased up a bit, I’m just not ready to stop completely yet), and she babbles on nonsensically for hours everyday in her own little baby babble. But lately, in the middle of all that chatter, I’ll recognize a word, or two, or five. Words that I didn’t know she could say. Words that I didn’t even know she *knew*. She has opinions. Very, very strong opinions, on everything from food (I can get her to eat pretty much anything if I bribe her with blueberries first), to music (when we’re in the car, she tells us “NO” as we scan through the radio until we land on a song that is to her liking). She answers me when I ask her questions, she asks me questions or requests specific snacks and books and movies. It’s like having a conversation with a very little drunk person with attention deficit disorder.

In the car on the way home from the mother ship yesterday (read: Target), I sneezed. And from the back seat, in a her little squeaky toddler voice, Dylan said, “Bless mama”. And then I died.

I’m loving this stage of kid. I’m watching her brain grow, everyday, and that blows. my. mind. She’s counting, putting words into sentences (“I has snack?” and “I have poop!” are her most used right now), entertaining herself. It’s a fucking blast, man. I wake up every morning excited for what she’s going to wow me with that day. Which is a nice change from waking up every morning staring another day of exactly the same in the face. Toddlerdom is winning for me so far.

Please let my willful ignorance go on for a little longer. I’m more than aware that I’m roughly 6 months away from the terrible twos. Let me revel in my not-quite-terrible toddler for just a while longer. You can point and laugh soon enough, don’t worry.

***Christmas is in 9 days. How the shit did that happen? The girl child is done, presents-wise. The awesome thing about shopping for a 16 month old, is that you can shop WITH said 16 month old. It’s like that movie “50 First Dates”, they forget what they saw or did almost as soon as they saw or did it. The rest of the shopping will be wrapped up (and by wrapped up, I mean done, not actually wrapped, because I refuse to let my brain go there until probably the 23rd) this weekend, and come Monday, I will be home free! Except for the wrapping, GAH the goddamn wrapping. Whatever.

***I cannot TELL you how excited I am for Christmas morning. And Christmas Eve. But mostly the morning. Because my kid? Is really, really, really excitable and expressive, and I will die at her face when she walks out to see all the awesome goodies that Santa left for her. And yes, ours will be a Santa house; I literally CANNOT IMAGINE not believing in Santa Clause as a child. Some of my greatest memories from my childhood are of my parents going above and beyond on the Santa front: boot prints in the house, hoof prints outside, big bites taken out of carrots left for reindeer, letters to Santa intercepted and replied to. They did whatever they could to make sure that we had that little bit of magic in our lives during the holidays, and I fully intend to pass that on to Dylan. It’s not lying, it cultivating magical memories people!

***It occurred to me today that I have no responsibilities for Christmas, other than playing Santa to a toddler with no sort term memory. We’re not having people over, we’re not required to bring anything to any of the places we’ll be going (although I’ll probably whip something up, maybe some candy or something, because I hate going places empty handed). After the stress and work of Thanksgving, I could not be more thrilled that I am off the hook for Christmas. It’s a Yuletide miracle!

***Dylan started counting yesterday. Like, actually counting. To 2. SHE’S 16 MONTHS OLD YOU GUYS. She added 3 today, I’ll try to get her up to 4 or 5 in the next week. It’s amazing, and fucking terrifying. I’m so proud and freaked out.

***My new favorite thing she says: “malk” or “mooooooooolk”, depending on her mood. That’s “milk”, by the way. Duh.

***And, there was this:

First Clementine.

And this:

One of the greatest things about having kids is that until they’re big enough to fend you off, you have every right to make them wear gigantic purple helmets for your amusement. You won’t find that in any stupid baby book, either.

I wasn’t going to post today, but this was just too good. Plus, I want this incident documented as evidence that my child was born a smart ass.

We have a strict No Touching the Christmas Tree policy in our home. I understand the allure, I really do. I spend an inordinate amount of time staring at the tree, and I may graze it ever so gently when I pass it. But Dylan doesn’t have a gentle setting. She’s honey badger, or she’s sleeping. So at least a thousand times a day, I tell her she can LOOK at the tree with her eyes, but she cannot TOUCH the tree with her hands. And this seems to work. She does on occasion try to grab a ball or pull the needles, but it’s rare.

So today, I was sitting on the couch, and Dylan was entertaining herself with a toothpaste box (yes, my child plays with toothpaste boxes. And tampons and toilet paper rolls and cardboard boxes. It’s cheap and she loves them and DON’T JUDGE ME.) I heard the unmistakeable rustling of Christmas tree disturbance, so I look over and Dylan is poking the tree with the toothpaste box. I say, “Dylan, what are you doing?” And this kid. She turns around, looks me right in the eye with the most innocent expression on her gorgeous little face, and she says, “No hands!”.

After I picked myself up off the floor, I ushered her away from the tree, and repeated my no touch mantra. But really, it was pretty half-assed. Because lets be honest, she won this round, fair and square. I have a feeling I’ll be winning less and less as this kid gets older. I’m scared you guys.

Hold me.

Doesn’t she just look like she’s already smarter than me? Oy.

Unless you have been living under a rock the last 5 days (or are Ashton Kutcher), you have undoubtedly been following the horror that is unfolding in State College, PA. If you have indeed been living under a rock (or are Ashton Kutcher), take a moment and catch up.

There is so much, so very much, that can be said about the Penn State RAPE scandal (read on for clarification on the CAPS), but there are a handful of things that I, personally, need to say. You can agree, or you can disagree. But, in all honesty, if you disagree, I don’t think I want to know you.

–First of all, we, collectively as a people, need to stop referring to this whole mess as a “sex scandal”. There was no sex involved. What occurred here was the rape, sexual abuse, and molestation of at least 20 boys and young men. “Sex” implies consent. Something tells me that the 10 year old boy who was raped in the showers at Penn State didn’t consent to that.
–Doing “all that is legally required” of you, especially as it applies to the discovery and reporting of illegal sexual activity involving children, IS NOT ENOUGH. Imagine if we lived in a world where all anyone did was the absolute bare minimum required of them by law? What an awful place that would be.
–If you witness a child being RAPED and do not step in to stop it or immediately call the police, YOU ARE CULPABLE. If you are told about a child being raped, and do not step in to stop it or immediately call the police, YOU ARE CULPABLE. If you are told about a child being raped, and do not step in to stop it or immediately call the police, and instead do everything in your power to not only insure that the crime remains a secret, but that the rapist and everyone who was party to knowledge of the abuse is protected, YOU ARE NOT ONLY CULPABLE, BUT SHOULD ROT IN PRISON WITH THE RAPIST.
–There is NO gray area where the welfare and protection of children is concerned. It is black and white, right and wrong. The only middle ground that exists between those two sides is the one created by the heartless cowards who allowed a child rapist to continue his abuse, who are now scrambling to find their footing. It is not there, they will fall.
–It is a sad, sad day in this country, when hundreds, THOUSANDS, of our best and brightest take to the streets to protest NOT the cover up and complacency of sexual abuse by their school, but the firing of the very people who were instrumental in that cover up.
–Joe Paterno is not a victim here. Graham Spanier is not a victim. Mike McQueary is not a victim. Tim Curley and Gary Schultz are not victims. They are (in my opinion) perpetrators of the abuse, because they did nothing to stop it when they found out it was happening. Jerry Sandusky will rot in hell (preferably after being raped repeatedly in prison). He acted alone when he abused those boys, but please don’t be so naive as to believe that he did so without help from those who covered it up.

My heart goes out to the REAL victims of this horrible crime: the children who were abused and their families. Who not only had to endure unspeakable horror at the hands of a monster, but who then bore witness to that monster being shielded, who had to watch as their rights, their welfare, their safety and protection, were cast aside, over and over and over again. They’ve suffered for years, watching the very people who abused them and hid the abuse not only go on with their lives, but enjoy many successes and be showered in praise, while I’m sure they struggled to make sense of their own broken souls. Please, don’t feel sorry for Joe Paterno or Mike McQueary or any of the other spineless cowards who have finally been taken to task for what they’ve done. Feel sorry for those boys. For their mothers and fathers, for their families, for their future families, for their future children. Because believe me, long after we’ve moved and forgotten what happened, they will remember. They will bear the scars of this for years and years to come, and they will never forget.

And to the students who rioted on campus to show support for their beloved JoPa, I have this to say to you: one day, you’ll have children of your own, and hopefully when you do, you will look back on your actions that day, your chants of “We Want Joe!” and “One More Game!”, and you will feel shame. Shame for supporting a man who knew about the rape of a child, and did nothing to stop it; shame for not showing empathy or sympathy for the children whose lives were destroyed by a monster, and then destroyed again by the establishment who protected him; shame for believing, in your youthful ignorant bliss, that a football game or season or coach or team held more value and deserved your support more than a child, even ONE child, who was the victim of sexual abuse at the hands of an adult. Shame on you, students of Penn State. You embarrassed us all last night, but only you will one day have to face the shame of what your actions meant.

Sometimes, I don’t think I require enough of the people in my life. Meaning, I don’t always get out what I put into a relationship. And I don’t know why I do this, because I’ve told people on numerous occasions that allowing that to happen is not acceptable. And I don’t make it easy on people, I get that. But, I don’t know, I just want people to leave a penny every once in a while. I’m running out of pennies.

On a lighter note, my nipple started bleeding today, which is AWESOME. 15 months into our breastfeeding relationship, and my nipple flips me off. PLUS, Dylan ate hardly any dinner tonight, and was fussy/clingy all evening, which probably means that I will be woken up at some point tonight with a sick baby. Yay.

Today is almost over.

Tomorrow will be better.

So, I was all set to write an uppity, happy happy joy joy post about my trip to the Dr. Drew show last week, and all the fun that I had, and all the cool shit I got for free just for sitting in the audience on a really stupid talk show. I was all set to write that post, and hit publish, and pat myself on the back for another post up. And then, my sister sent me this link:

And I couldn’t write that post anymore. Frankly, after watching that video, I couldn’t do much of anything for a while, besides try not to burst into tears and hug Dylan until she begged me to stop. If you haven’t seen it yet, this link is to the video currently viraling its way across the world wide webs. It shows a little girl, a toddler, 2 YEARS OLD, being hit by a van that then drives away. And then, AND THEN, being left on the street, bleeding, ignored by no less than 18 people. 18 people who walked right by her, some stopping to look at her bleeding, mangled body, before going on their way. Then, inconceivably, she’s hit by another car, that also drives away without stopping. I have to warn you, the video is VERY GRAPHIC and so heartbreaking it’s hard to put into words. I watched it, then I watched it again, and I just couldn’t write about being happy. Not today.

18 people walked by a little girl, a baby, as she lay injured in the street. Finally, mercifully, a woman drags her off the road and apparently screams for the child’s mother, who then rushes to her. The little girl is taken to a hospital. The little lay in a coma for 4 days. The little girl died today, of injuries that would have been treatable had any, ANY, of the 18 people who walked by, or the driver of the van that ran her over in the first fucking place, had bothered to stop. Or call emergency services on their phone (it happened in China, I don’t know what their 911 is). Or yelled for someone else to do so. 18 people and 2 drivers. I just, can’t. Wrap. My head around this.

And I can’t stop thinking about that little girl. I wonder if she was conscious. She appeared to be moving at first, but stops. I wonder if she screamed, or cried, or whimpered. I wonder if she saw those people walk by her, if she called out to them. I wonder if she called out for her mommy. I wonder if she was in pain. I hope not. A million times over, I hope not. And I wonder about those people, the people who happened upon a bleeding child in the middle of the street, and DID NOTHING. I wonder what their reasons were, if they even matter. I wonder how they are able to sleep at night, or get up in the morning. How they can look in the mirror. If they have kids, I wonder how they are able to kiss them and hug them, after letting that little girl die. I wonder.

Watch the video. As hard as it is, watch the video. Because, and I say this as a parent, but more as a human being, I don’t want to live in a world where not only does this horror occur, but one where people halfway around the world can choose to ignore it simply by not clicking a link. I’ve been agonizing over this, for a couple of reasons: one, I have a baby, and so help me God, if there were ever an instance where someone did not help her when she needed it, I would hunt them down and it would not be pretty. And I just keep thinking of that baby, and her parents, and my heart hurts. For them, for her. For us all.

Watch the video. For us all.