Big Steps for Our Little Pumpkin!!!

After months of speculation (and occasional worry) Miss Lucy is finally walking. She took her first steps on her own last week, and on the eve of Halloween, she let go and hasn't looked back since. Though she's still unsteady--and a bit bow-legged--she's progressing every day. Pretty soon, I'm sure we won't be able to stop her. Even before she began walking, she discovered the fun of climbing.

Luce has also begun to play peek-a-boo with us. Every time we say, "Where's Lucy?" she covers her eyes with her hands. She also likes to quack like a duck and roar like a lion. I suppose from the outside we look like crazy, overly-proud parents, but there's nothing better than hearing her little roar and seeing her little hands cover her eyes. Melts our heart every time!

Halloween Fun

Halloween is, and always has been, my favorite time of year. Some of my fondest childhood memories involve activities centered around the holiday. Mom would take us to Huber's Farm to pick pumpkins, take a hayride, and buy fresh apple cider. A day or two before Halloween, she would help us put together our costumes. It was always a treat to raid her closet, pulling out long skirts, colorful scarves, big jewelry. And as Halloween evening approached, our excitement was almost too much to bear. Quite honestly, Patrick and I were just as excited about trick-or-treating as we were Santa Claus. Looking back, I'm not quite sure why. Neither one of us were big candy eaters. In fact, most of my candy ended up being thrown away. I suppose our excitement had something to do with the whole "magic" of Halloween. For one night only, anything was possible. We could be gypsies, or princesses, witches or vampires. As two kids firmly rooted in the imaginative, Halloween was OUR holiday.

Over the years, my love of Halloween hasn't diminished. Now that I'm a mom, I enjoy it even more. This year was Lucy's second Halloween, and I'm a little ashamed to admit that I've had her costume since early August. I spent the week before the big day in a frenzy, making Halloween cupcakes, "Boo" cookies (I don't recommend these), carving and painting pumpkins. By the time we headed down to Clinton on what turned into a dreadfully rainy Halloween night, I was exhausted from my Halloween preparations. Despite the rain and my fatique, we still had a wonderful Halloween with Luce. Here are some photos!

Lucy and Lauryn "painting" their pumpkins. We had to cut the project short due to Lucy's affinity for non-toxic paint. Apparently it was tasty.

Little Lucy Bee and princess Alleah during the Halloween party at Jamie's Dad's house. Lucy wouldn't stop looking at Alleah and grinning.

Little Lucy Bee. She went as a bumble bee on Halloween because the weather was so bad. Her fairy costume was beautiful, but a bit of a nuisance when navigating in rain. We found these wings at Wilson's--any Halloween-lover's dream store.

Fairy Lucy and her Daddy before trick-or-treating at Lucy's daycare. All of the little ones in her class were dressed up and went trick-or-treating at their school followed by a Halloween party. They also decorated pumpkins.

Introducing the book fairy! Lucy loved this little Halloween flap book. Unfortunately, she tore several of the flaps off in her excitement.

Fun at the Pumpkin Patch

Today, we loaded Luce into her new jogging stroller and walked to the pumpkin patch in downtown Simpsonville. The weather was absolutely beautiful, and we enjoyed the hints of color just beginning to tint the leaves. Lucy had great fun on the way, happily singing and pointing to the birds and even a passing jet. She had even more fun at the pumpkin patch. She laughed heartily at the mini-pumpkins and picked out her first one, a perfectly round miniature orange sphere with a long stalk. Of course we stopped for a photo op at the haystalks before trying to find a bigger pumpkin for carving. Luce had fun climbing on the larger pumpkins and rearranging the smaller ones. By the time we left, we had accumulated one mini pumpkin, a larger pumpkin, and a super fun, mini warty gourd. It was an awesome afternoon, and we can't wait to carve and paint our pumpkins this week. Pictures soon to come!

This is What Happens When Daddy Babysits

No Party in Her Tummy

For anyone familiar with the wildy popular, 80's throwback children's show "Yo Gabba Gabba," you know the reference in the title of this post. Admit it, you find yourself humming the catchy, albeit cheesy, song "Party in my Tummy," as you go throughout your day, sometimes at the strangest moments. Those Gabba show writers are genius when it comes to brainwashing. I often find myself repeating such phrases as "It's not nice to hit your friends, not nice to hit your friends," or "Don't stop...don't give up," or Jamie's personal favorite"I like fish...I like fish." All of these with fun little beats mind you. We've learned to brush our teeth, drink water with meals, and eat our veggies. In fact, after watching the fun-loving, if slightly daft, green monster Brobie eat his veggies while singing "Party in my Tummy," I even want veggies myself. One member of our family, however, is completely immune to the slick phrasing of the show. Our very own Lucy. There is definitely no party in her tummy when it's time to eat her vegetables.

Little Luce used to love her veggies. As an infant, she would happily eat pounds of greenbeans. In fact, she preferred them to most any other food. But over the last few weeks, her love of veggies has turned into outright disdain. It began innocently enough. A few greenbeans thrown onto the ground here and there. Next, peas which she once popped happily into her mouth, became fun objects to squish and smash on her plate. I realized there was most certainly a vegetable "issue" while at our church homecoming a few weeks ago. Though she scarfed down her mac n'cheese and sweet orange delight, when I gave her a piece of squash, she immediately spit it out, gagging dramatically. When I offered her another piece, she pursed her lips and shook her head "No."

Since this fateful day, the scenario has repeated itself time and time again. Green beans...broccoli...squash...carrots...doesn't matter. She can spot a vegetable a mile away. And when she sees one folks, "she ain't happy."

Last night I thought I'd try to sneak squash into her meal by making a deliciously cheesy squash casserole. I figured that with all of the cheese and the cracker crust, my little dairy and carb-lover couldn't refuse. I watched with baited breath as she took her first bite. She began to chew. Yes! I thought. I've hit a home run. I felt rather pleased with my own cleverness. "Gack...puh!" She gagged again, this time with more of an air of superiority than surprise, spit the squash out, and looked at me, shaking her head "No." Frustrated, I poured myself another glass of wine and threw my hands in the air. This only served to make Luce angry. I gave in, cutting her a banana. "You cannot live on cheese, bananas, crackers, and turkey little girl," I told her as she happily ate her fruit.

Tonight, after receiving advice from lots of other mommies, I decided to try another approach: veggies incognito. I decided to make her favorite meal of mac n'cheese, but this time I threw in some finely shredded chicken and broccoli. I steamed the broccoli until it was practically mush. I mixed everything together and with a cheerful, yet nonchalent manner, put her plate onto the table. "Here ya go," I said, feigning disinterest.

I threw her a sideways glance, sure that she would immediately chow down on her favorite food. What baby can refuse this day-glo orange Kraft staple?

I saw her leaning over, looking at the food in front of her closely. She then sat up and began to shake her head "No." She picked up several pieces in her fingers, a sour expression on her face, and disdainfully threw them down.

I'm still not sure how she has the uncanny ability to recognize a veggie from sheer inspection alone. It's like she's the equivilant of a narcotics-sniffing dog only her nose is trained to sniff out clandestinely placed veggies from mom. Perhaps this will be a useful tool someday, but for now, the only thing it's good for is driving me bananas.

The Happiest Place on Earth

Next to them, the river currents moved lazily, pushing picturesque pieces of Spanish moss and other flora and fauna on their way. The clouds, stark white against the cornflower sky meandered, taking on the shapes of dragons and castles. Up the river, a quaint white pontoon boat with bright blue stripes and the name "Louisiana Lady" across its bow, made its way to the tree-lined shore where eager passengers awaited. It was a scene straight out of a movie, a scene only Disney could engineer in reality. And then we saw them. The mother walked quickly ahead, taking three steps for her daughter's one. She pulled the child along by the hand, shaking her head. "I can't believe we're at the happiest place on Earth, and you're going to be sour..." she said as they passed, the girl hanging her head, indeed a sour expression on her face.

And there folks, is the true Disney experience. Behind every fairytale scene is a stressed out Mom or Dad and child either on the verge of or in the midst of a full-fledged breakdown. Now don't get me wrong. I love Disneyworld. In fact, I might even classify myself as a full-fledged Disneyofile now. The old Jennifer who would scoff at people spending their vacation with The Mouse, is now wondering when she can convince her husband to go back. However, traveling to Disneyworld for the first time with my own child definitely gave me a new perspective.

I began to notice more and more families on the verge of breakdowns--we were one of them. The first morning at breakfast, amid the loud, chaotic French Quarter food court, the room went silent for a second when the words, "I told you to sit down and eat your breakfast" echoed across the room. I, too, turned around only to find a frazzled mother looking up in embarrassment when realizing just how loud her admonishment had been. Wow, I thought. At only 9 in the morning, I couldn't imagine how stressful the rest of their day would be.

Later that night, I watched in guilty amusement as a father grabbed his too-hyper for 10pm munchkin by the arm, saying just audibly, "If you run away from me again, you're going to get a spankin."

Everywhere I looked, I saw kids with eyes wide open--they could hardly sit still. Hyped up on too much sugar from cupcakes, candy, and soda, it's no wonder. At breakfast, I had to laugh when a mother and her daughters sat down to a healthy breakfast of oatmeal and a huge cupcake with blue icing and Mickey mouse sprinkles.

Another day at breakfast, I stood in line next to a lovely British lady ordering food for her husband and three children. After battling with the tween son over what he wanted to eat, she looked at him and said a little too sweetly, in a delightful accent, "If you keep it up, I'm going to get quite cross with you."

While I found amusement in watching these families struggle with the stresses of Disney, we had a few stresses of our own. First, our little sweetie had a bit of a meltdown while dining with the Disney princesses at the Norwegian castle. Though she loved Belle and tolerated Sleeping Beauty, she lost it with Cinderella. As the charming princess in full blue ballgown kneeled down next to Luce, she hauled off and smacked her in the face. "Ohhh" the princess exclaimed. I was mortified. "I'm so sorry," I said. In true form, Cinderella just smiled, every bit the quintessential princess, "Oh, it's all right. Really, it is..."

The next day was worse.

Apparently, our little munchkin managed to scratch another little boy (8-years-old) across the face while attempting to grab his shirt. The result was an irate father who loudly proclaimed to Jamie, "You need to learn to control your kid!" For a moment, it looked as if there would be a good old-fashioned parking lot fist fight, but thankfully, the bus arrived at Epcot just in time.

By the end of the week, after witnessing countless breakdowns--most often at 3:00 p.m., the witching hour for kids at Disneyworld--and experiencing a few of our own (mine included), we found ourselves eating one final breakfast at the festive French Quarter food court. Weary from days of lugging around an overflowing diaper bag, drenched in sweat, I felt a bit deflated. I feared the Disney magic had worn off.

"Is she your only one?" I heard a voice ask. I looked up to find Miss Ethel, an elderly woman who worked the breakfast shift cleaning tables and sweeping up the crumb covered floors. She smiled at Lucy. I told her that yes Lucy was my only one, all the while thinking that after this trip, she most certainly would remain the ONLY one. "I'll be right back" she said.We waited for a few minutes before Miss Ethel returned. She brought a giant sugar cookie, a container of white icing, and some Mickey Mouse sprinkles. "This is for your little one. I hope she'll enjoy decorating her cookie. She's a doll."

Suddenly, the Disney magic returned. So what if our vacation had a few ups and downs? Overall, just like our last morning with the special surprise from Miss Ethel, our first trip to Disney as a family was perfect. And I'm pretty sure that Disneyworld really might be THE happiest place on earth.

Daddy's Little Stuffed Sausage

Some things are universal, especially when it comes to men, and especially when these men become Dads. The first is the difference in parental roles. While I take care of meeting most of Lucy's needs, Jamie gets to be the fun parent. He sings with her, dances, makes up silly songs. By the time I've changed her dirty bum, fed her three meals and snacks each day, managed to entertain/distract her with a variety of activities, and wrangled her to bed for her nap, I'm exhausted. My energy tank is depleted. As the Dad, Jamie has the luxury of stepping in just in time to play. This is one special joy of fatherhood.

The other joy involves their ability to remain blissfully unaware.

This seems to be true of fathers worldwide. Just a few weeks ago, I had a hilarious, and a bit frustrating, conversation with our French friend Imelda. She described the time her ex-husband took her daughter, Orianne, for a week long holiday. Imelda took the time to painstakingly pack each of Orianne's outfits, folding and matching pants and shirts, shoes and socks, assuming that she was making the process as simple as possible for her ex.

The next week, Orianne returned from the trip with some interesting photographs. One, in particular, stood out to Imelda. In it, little Orianne played with her cousins, smiling. But Imelda couldn't focus on her daughter's face. She only saw Orianne's shirt and pants--a pajama shirt and pants. "Orianne, why are you wearing your pajamas?" she asked. Her daughter looked at her in complete innocence, "Because Daddy told me to wear them. I tried to tell him that these weren't my clothes, but he didn't listen." We shared a laugh over her his folly (and ignorance!), but I quickly chimed in with an experience of my own.

Just months earlier, I had come home from a night of teaching, tired and ready for bed. When I peered in at my sleeping Luce, I noticed that she was curled in a little ball, her sleeper sleeves exposing her chubby hands and elbows. Upon closer examination, I realized that Lucy was stuffed into a sleeper that was two--maybe three--sizes too small. The poor babe couldn't stretch her legs. As I shook my head in irritation and changed her into something larger, I wondered how in the world Jamie didn't notice that he'd stuffed her into an outfit that obviously didn't fit. Could he be that oblivious? I also wondered how he managed to find the one outfit in her drawer that was too small. Out of 10 sleepers to choose from, he chose that one.

Tonight, he did it again.

Since it was Jamie's turn to give Luce her bath, I stayed downstairs getting her lunch ready for school. Earlier, I had folded all of her sleepers and put them in her drawer. I was confident Jamie wouldn't have any problem finding her something to wear. But when he brought her downstairs, I could only shake my head. She was stuffed into a sleeper that had to be FOUR sizes too small.

She couldn't bend her legs. Her feet were curled within the footies. Her round baby belly stretched the material around the zipper.

"What is she wearing?" I asked, exasperated. I hadn't seen that sleeper in months. "Where did you even find that?"

"In the clean clothes," he replied, seemingly oblivious to the little stuffed sausage in his arms. I shook my head and took Lucy from him.

"She's snugly," he said. "See, she can barely keep her eyes open."

"Probably from lack of oxygen," I replied as I took her upstairs and changed her clothes. As I unzipped her sleeper, her legs shot out and she began to kick them in relief.

"Your Dad..." I said. And we'll just leave it at that.

The "Papa Copeland"

Over the past few weeks, Lucy has been doing a look we've affectionately termed "The Papa Copeland." Do you see the resemblance??

Greensboro Reunion

This weekend, Lucy and I traveled to Greensboro, NC to visit Cheryl, my roommate from those years of graduate school in the mountains otherwise known as "the darkest period of my life." Without Cheryl, I probably wouldn't have survived my days in Sylva. We bonded almost instantly and shared so many experiences. Some were good; some were bad; and some were just altogether bizarre. We came out of our time in the mountains with a lot of laughter and a few valuable lessons on navigating life in Appalachia as an outsider.

Looking back on our years in Sylva, the most valuable lesson we learned might possibly be the "How to Avoid a Fist-Fight With the Local Ladies" lesson. No matter where we were, we found ourselves eye to eye with women who weren't happy to see us. Once, Cheryl narrowly escaped being pummeled by a none-to-happy lady (and I use term loosely) while waiting in line outside of the restroom at O'Mally's Irish Pub (another term I use loosely here). What had she done? It may have been the black sweater, dark jeans, and tasteful, yet eclectic jewelry she wore, three distinct items signaling to the locals that she was not "from around here." After a few similar incidents, we discovered it best not to make eye contact with the women. And after being hit on by our fair share of toothless married men, we decided to employ this same technique on the local men as well.

Living in a town where Walmart was THE place to be, we were also forced to find new ways to occupy our free time. We soon found ourselves indulging in long afternoons turned evenings sitting on my front stoop, gazing out at the vast green--and in the winter, stark brown--landscape, sipping almost sickeningly sweet white wine while listening to James Taylor with a side of Led Zeppelin thrown in for good measure.

As single girls in our twenties, the sting of recent heartbreak still too familiar, we also looked for new romantic interests to distract us from our general melancholic state of being. However, the list of prospects in the mountains was virtually nonexistent, and we found ourselves "crushing" on two library boys. After all, the time we didn't spend on my front stoop, we spent studying in the library. She had a soft spot for Dan, a lanky wanderer while I preferred the disheveled, socially awkward boy we nicknamed "Grumpy Hippie." It's funny what isolation will do to you.

There's also something about the two of us together that beacons the strange energies of the universe our way. After graduation, we decided to relocate to Asheville, the big city. After searching for a decent place to live, and turning down one freakish place after another, including a delightful apartment complete with wall to wall mirrors and a poll in the middle of the room on a stage, we stumbled upon what seemed to be the perfect house--a 1920's bungalow near downtown Asheville. We loved the hippie-feel of the neighborhood as well as the seemingly unending choices of restaurants, bars, and shopping. After our years in Sylva, Asheville may as well have been NYC. We wouldn't have known the difference.

But shortly after moving in, the fun began. Our basement flooded with sewage, and a week later a hurricane ripped through the mountains knocking out our power and water. For weeks, we couldn't flush our toilet and were forced to boil every ounce of water we consumed. Who would've thought a hurricane could wreck such havoc in the mountains? And if that wasn't bad enough, we found ourselves in the middle of winter with no heat. Two impractical, bookish girls from the suburbs quickly learned how to make a fire hot enough to keep a house heated through the night.

My years in the mountains were difficult. I was lonely. Homesick. Sad. Stressed. Yet somehow, Cheryl always made things better. We found comfort in our mutual misery and always managed to laugh. Now, we live several hours apart and don't keep in touch as much as we should. But being in Greensboro over the weekend, I was reminded just how important she is in my life. I was thrilled to watch Lucy get to know her Auntie Cheryl and look forward to our next visit with my old roomie and lifelong friend.

Our Resourceful Little Girl

Desperate times sometimes call for desperate measures. When Lucy couldn't find her paci, she found something just as good: the wooden knob of her puzzle. When I looked up from typing, I happened to notice her happily sucking away!

Labor Day Weekend Festivities

This has been a fun, but busy Labor Day weekend. Lucy experienced her "fair" share of fairs and festivals, traveling up to the mountains on Saturday for the Hendersonville Apple Festival. Here, she tasted two little pieces of heaven otherwise known as apple cider slush and cool apple slices dipped in warm caramel. She loved them both. She also enjoyed people watching, which was good considering the festival was teeming with an electic crowd of folks. If it had just been a few degrees cooler, it would've been the perfect day.

Today, we went down the street to the Simpsonville Labor Day Festival. Once again, the weather was a wee bit warm, but overall we had a great time. Lucy loved watching the kids riding on the swings and train. She was just short of being able to ride anything herself. But the most exciting part of the day was getting to pet the animals at the petting zoo. Lucy loved the cute little goats and Indian cow. The goats also seemed to love her--especially the one who kept trying to eat her shoe. That little rascal had the velcro unfastened and half of her shoe in his mouth before we could stop him!

And what trip to an old-fashioned fair wouldn't be complete without a funnel cake? Honestly, I haven't had one in over 20 years. Even though I'm always tempted to get one, I can't ever justify the calories. But on a whim today, we bought one. Lucy was quite intrigued, especially by the delightful powdery sugar blowing off the top of it. Just like with her birthday cake though, she wasn't that impressed with the flavor. I'm sure that if we would've covered it with green beans, she would've devoured it. :-)

Toddler Days...

At lunch with my favorite girls at our favorite frilly restaurant, Brick Street, one of them asked me if I'd given up on our blog. "I know, I know," I said, a bit ashamed. "I just haven't felt inspired to write." In reality, I've wanted to sit down and update the blog for quite some time, but just haven't had the energy!

No one told me that my new toddler would take so much energy. It's as if she went from a sweet, smiling, calm little baby girl on August 8th to a (mostly) sweet, hyperactive, fiercely independent toddler on August 9th. Did I miss something here? Does an imaginary switch flip the minute the clock strikes midnight on the baby's first birthday? Don't get me wrong, I love our little monkey more than anything and have enjoyed each and every step along the way. But now, I sometimes gawk in disbelief at Luce as she purses her lip, emits a shrill grunt, and attempts to toss her plate of food across the room. Other times, I repeat my mantra of "relax" over and over again as she whines for food only to purse her lips and turn her head away when I try to coax her into taking a bite.

From the time she wakes up until her head hits her ladybug-covered sheets at night, Luce is a bundle of energy. Though she won't walk on her own (she refuses any attempts at holding her hand and walking), she spends most of her time cruising from one piece of furniture to the next finding fun new objects to explore. So far, her favorites are Emmy's dog-bed (Yuck!! She finds this particularly enjoyable when rolling around making sure every inch of her clothing is covered in black greyhound hair), the plethora of remotes, cords, and computer parts her computer-geek Dad keeps near the tv, and the stairs. For someone who can't walk on her own, she can sure scale hard-wood steps like a pro.


As I look back over the month since Lucy's first birthday party, I can't help but smile. Yes, it's been a trying time. I've had days where I thought I just might pull my hair out. The week of teething was almost unbearable. Yet, there have been so many moments of laughter. Each and every day, we see Lucy discovering the world around her. Last week, she discovered the joys of ice-cream. She loved it so much that she promptly began to scream when it was finished. She's begun to make new faces (our favorite is the Papa Copeland. I'll post a pic), laugh unabashedly with a gravely, hearty chuckle, say uh-oh each and every time she drops her sippy cup and waits for us to pick it back up, giggle with glee when she cruises over and types on my keyboard as I try to work, and clap along to the new songs she's learning at school. She's trying new foods, playing with new friends at school in the Young Toddler class, and learning the importance of "Yes" and "No."

And every time I start to forget that sweet little baby girl that I've known for the first twelve months and fear that she's disappeared, I find that wonderful, perfect spot once again in the mornings. Each day, Lucy wakes up around 6:30 for her morning milk, and we always bring her into our room. She always closes her little eyes, puts one of her hands on Jamie's arm and the other on mine and sighs with content. As we feel her milky breathe, warm on our faces, we fall in love with her all over again.

Introducing...the Incredible "Baby" Hulk

Don't be fooled--Behind those big eyes and sweet smile lurks a fierce little growly hulk. I first witnessed Miss Lucy's alter-ego this morning while getting her ready for school. As I attempted to unzip her snuggly little pajamas, she immediately let out a loud (and might I mention, high-pitched) grunt. "I'm sorry Luce," I said, looking at the furrowed brows and big eyes scowling at me. She responded with another, "Nnghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh." This time, it was even louder. That's odd, I thought. I'd never heard our little sweetie do that before. Perhaps she's just sleepy. Not being a morning person, I can definitely relate to AM crankiness.


However, tonight at dinner, the baby hulk returned. Before our food arrived, she was her usual bubbly self. Playing and gobbling up her apple bites and yogurt, Lucy seemed happy enough. It wasn't until I offered her some of my baked potato that things took a turn. Thinking that she was finished with her potato, I made the mistake of moving her plate away.


"Nnnnngghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh," she grunted, scowling at me, little fists shaking. Jamie and I looked at each other and laughed nervously. "Ok there, little hulk," Jamie said as I gave her more of my baked potato.


We've sinced joked about our little Lucy "the hulk" Copeland, though I think both of us are a a tad bit nervous. "The temper comes from your side babe," I told Jamie as we drove home. "That's a Copeland for ya..." :-)

July 4th in the Bluegrass and A Very Special Birthday Girl

Last weekend, we loaded Lucy, Poods, and Emmy greyhound into the Subaru and made the slow trek home to the Bluegrass. The trip was long overdue, and I was feeling homesick for all of the trappings of my hometown: our lackluster trips to Tumbleweed during which we'll either find a wadded up dollar bill in our slightly stale chips or we'll wait for two hours for our food only to find out that we've been forgotten, yet the salsa always makes everything OK; our Target pilgrimages during which we must visit at least 3 of the Midwestern strong-holds including the dingy, run-down, slightly "gangsta" store of my childhood and site of my first experience with gainful employment; and not to be forgotten, our favorite pizza dive, Bonnie & Clyde's, easily spotted among the Check Into Cash facades, pawn shops, and gas stations lining Dixie Highway thanks to the bright yellow sign from the 80s and the multi-colored, bottle glass windows. Though our beloved Kiddie Corral (a dangerous, elevated "pin" where parents would dump their kids to watch the pizzas being made so that they could enjoy their goblets of beer in peace) is now gone, just walking in and seeing the tow-headed owner with his walrus mustache and hearing him call out "I have a pizza ready for two of diamonds, two of diamonds" over a loud, crackly microphone, makes me realize I'm home; and last, but certainly not least, is our Amy Willis time. No trip would be complete without experiencing the aforementioned activities with the presence of a Willis. :-)

This time, we headed home for an extra special reason: Miss Macy's first birthday party. Macy's mom, Amanda, is one of my dear friends, and I cannot believe how quickly this year has passed. The party was so much fun. Ever the hostess, Amanda had everything coordinated with ladybugs, including Miss Macy's cake, bib, and dress. I can't tell you how sweet it was to watch this precious little girl discover one of life's true delights--CAKE. But what was even better was seeing the expression on Amanda's face as she watched her baby girl move away from those chaotic, achingly tiring yet indescribably beautiful days of infancy. It's amazing how one finger and one rose-bud shaped mouth, stained with red icing can be so much more.

And now, I must mentally prepare for my own little pumpkin's journey into toddlerdom next month. Kleenex anyone?

A Baby "Must-Have"

Babies are big business. Mega stores like Babies R' Us make a fortune on a multitude of useless baby gadgets, the majority of which no baby really ever cares about.

It's funny how your attitude changes before and after baby's arrival. Before Baby Luce, I was in love with the idea of everything matching. I wanted the matching stroller and carseat, the matching swing and jumperoo, the matching boppy and blanket...you get the idea.

My how times have changed! Today, while at the aforementioned baby gadget superstore, I had to bite my tongue (just as people always warned me, turning 30 has made me quite cheeky).

"Noooooo Mom, I registered for the BLACK one, not THAT one," the pregnant lady in the denim mini and flip-flops whined to her Mother who had casually remarked that she really liked the delightfully cheerful stroller with polka dots--the same one that I own.

"She can't have that stroller. I have to get the black. She could clash with those colors..."

Though I held my tongue, I couldn't help but roll my eyes. I glanced down at my own daughter, the same one who only months ago never left the house without matching dress, socks, shoes, and hairbow. She looked up at me, a faint trace of dried food across her cheek, squash stains on her shirt, bare feet swinging in the air.

"Oh you just wait Miss denim mini lady. We'll see if you're still worried about matching your little one's clothing to her stroller this time next year!" I thought as I walked away.

You see, I've learned in these past 10 months that babies don't care if they match or how much money you spend on them. In fact, you can buy them the shiniest, fanciest, most expensive item on the Babies R' Us "Must Have," list, and they will almost always find something else more amusing.

Proof positive is in the video below. Check out Miss Lucy playing with her new favorite toy: a colorful plastic ice cream scoop from Ikea. Grand total: $.98!

A Big Day for Our Little Girl (And for Her Mommy Too)

A few days ago, I glanced at our little pumpkin as she played happily with her toys. From the back, she looked the picture of perfection. Cute little dress, wispy hair, dimpled elbows, laughing the sweetest laugh while shaking her caterpillar rattle.

And then she turned around.

Her usually shining, green-speckled eyes were hidden behind a wave of dark matted hair which appeared to be stuck to her nose in a slimy concoction of snot and leftover squash.

That's the moment I knew it was time for a hair cut.

On the way to Jelly Beans--the kid's hair salon--I was doing fine. This is not THAT big of a deal, I told myself. It's just hair.

I was still doing fine as our energetic stylist wet Lucy's hair and gave her toys to play with. As she cut the first few strands, I felt a slight twinge. Lucy played on happily, looking much more like a little lady than an infant.

I distracted myself by taking a few photos, trying desperately not to notice the pile of rapidly accumulating hair. Only when the stylist asked, "Would you like me to cut her bangs?" did I start to regret ever stepping foot into Jelly Beans. The twinge I first noticed felt much more like a knot in the pit of my stomach as I watched Lucy's hair fall in wisps to the floor. Before I knew it, the stylist gathered Lucy's hair into a small bag, gave us a certificate with a lock of her hair, asked for our penny payment (first haircuts are just a penny!), and cheerfully waved us on our merry way.

As I buckled Lucy into her car seat, I marveled at my new little one. Could this neatly groomed little girl be the same disheveled, feathery-haired baby I brought into the salon? The knot in my stomach moved into my throat.

I decided to call Jamie. I desperately needed reassurance that I hadn't somehow ruined our daughter forever. I generously offered to bring him lunch, eager for him to see the changeling sleeping soundly in my backseat. He did not make me feel any better.

"Ohhhh....cute....., but I REALLY did like her crazy hair," he said when he saw her.

That's when the tears made their way to the surface. "I hate it!" I proclaimed, feeling that in my decision to cut her hair, I'd somehow managed to destroy Lucy's delightfully quirky little personality. After all, she's known for her crazy, fun hair. Would she be the same without it?

And then Lucy woke up, looked at me, and grinned her toothless smile. Suddenly all was once again right with the world. As I sat behind and watched her playing, picture perfect in her flowery dress and dimpled elbows, she turned to look at me. What did I see?

Two shining, green-speckled eyes.

She's Her Mother's Daughter!!!

For those of you unfamiliar with the culture and traditions of the South (especially South Carolina), let me be the first to tell you that they are extremely particular when it comes to their traditional foods. There are two staples that South Carolinians cannot live without: sweet tea (so sweet it'll make your teeth hurt) and grits.

Early on in my relationship with Jamie, I broke the cardinal rule of grits (or would it be grit?) consumption. On the way to dinner with two of Jamie's friends, I mentioned that while I always deplored grits as a child, I now quite enjoyed them. They seemed pleased at this proclamation.

I could see Jamie nod in appreciation almost as an affirmation to his friends that his Yankee (only in South Carolina can a Kentucky girl be considered a Yankee) girlfriend wasn't so bad after all.

And then I did the unthinkable--I described the way I like to eat my grits ...with a heap of butter and some sugar. The car became silent. You could hear a pin drop. "You eat sugar on your grits?" PAUSE "Oh no, you NEVER eat sugar on grits. Only a Yankee would ruin grits with sugar."

I didn't point out that I'd watched my Nanny--born and raised in Alabama--eat her grits with butter and sugar on many a morning. "Well how else would you eat them" I asked.

"With butter and cheese or with shrimp and cheese of course." And that was that.

A few weeks later, I decided to try to try to eat grits the "proper" way. I was confident as I ordered the blackened catfish served over goat cheese grits. When my plate arrived, I took the first bite, still confident that my Southern friends wouldn't lead me astray. "How do you like it?" Jamie asked as I tried to smile while swallowing the first bite. It was Awful!! I felt as though I were eating catfish-infused glue. Though I managed to swallow a few more bites, I finally gave up. "I can't eat this. I'm sorry." Jamie looked at me like I was crazy, proceeded to finish my plate, and shook his head in amusement.

Today, I still eat grits, but I eat them my way. At first, I kept my shameful "sugar" grits habit a secret. If we dined out for breakfast, I'd open my sugar packets under the table, quickly sprinkle them on my grits, and stir before anyone could witness my blasphemous behaviour. Now, four years later, I pour mountains of sugar on my grits unabashedly.

Much to Jamie's (playful) displeasure, our Lucy seems to have inherited her mother's "Yankee" taste when it comes to this Southern staple. While at breakfast Saturday morning, I ordered grits. After buttering them, I thought I'd give Lucy a taste before I drowned them in sugar. I could see Jamie's eager anticipation as he watched his little girl perform one of every Southerner's rights of passage--that first taste of grits.

She opened her mouth, took a small taste and immediately her lips contorted. First, she looked at me as if to ask, "What is this wretched substance you've given me?" and then she looked at Jamie as if to ask, "And why on god's green earth did you let her?" Jamie looked at her in disbelief. Could it be possible that his child did not like grits? Surely there could be no worse fate.

I tried again. Perhaps she just needed a minute to get used to this new texture. She opened her little mouth, an innocent, eager little bird. This time, her reaction was much more pronounced. Her lips puckered, her nose wrinkled, and she actually shook her head in a shudder. Yes, die-hard Southerner Jamie's baby girl shuddered at her first taste of grits!

"Man, that breaks my heart," Jamie said crestfallen.

"Oh, relax. I'll put some sugar on them and I'm sure she'll be fine, " I said, stifling a laugh, secretly happy that even though she was born in SC, my little girl is still half "Yankee" at heart.

Reading with Daddy

Each day, we try to read to Lucy. Though she enjoys it when I read "Mommy Kisses" to her, she especially loves when Jamie reads "The Very Hungry Catepillar." In fact, she loves all things Eric Carle. Yesterday after work, Jamie captivated Lucy with a paticularly "energetic" version of the classic catepillar tale.

Our little Hippie Girl

A few weeks ago, Jamie discovered Lucy's love for the drums. Nothing makes our baby girl happier than beating on her fun little drum and making up her own songs. We think she may be ready to join the Asheville hippie drum circle in another few years!

Easter Fun

The past few weeks have been busy. Lucy took her first trip to the beach, spent a week visiting with her aunty Amy, and then traveled to Kentucky to celebrate her first Easter Sunday at her Mommy's childhood church. While in town, aunty Amy got to attend Lucy's first Easter egg hunt at her daycare. Lucy loved picking the eggs up out of the grass and "tasting" them. She also liked to taste her pretty Easter basket, but her Mommy was afraid of the potential for lead paint given the basket's origins. Later that day, Amy and Mommy took Luce to visit the Easter bunny. It was a bit of a psychedelic experience. In the Easter Bunny's "hideaway," they saw a catepillar with a moving head and a variety of other woodland creatures including Jimmeny Cricket in the top of the tree. Amy and Mommy were a little scared when the Easter Bunny sat perfectly motionless for what seemed to be at least 5 minutes. Had the Easter Bunny met an untimely end? Fortunately, once the cameras were rolling again, the Easter Bunny came to life. Though Amy was afraid that Lucy would cry once she saw that crazy bunny face getting closer, Mommy knew that her curious little girl would be just fine. Sure enough, Luce smiled and immediately began trying to grab the the bunny's ears, whiskers, and tie. Mommy is sure the Easter Bunny was happy when little Lucy Adair went along her merry way. A few days later, Lucy traveled to Kentucky. While there, Lucy got to see her friend Macy who's just a few weeks older. She enjoyed playing with Macy's toys and Macy enjoyed trying to "play" with Lucy's hair! She also spent Easter morning at Virginia Avenue, the church where her Mommy grew up. She did very well but was a bit too much for her Papa Richard. She squirmed around in his lap and had quite a bit of fun playing with a crumpled bulletin. She also enjoyed kicking her sandals off--they landed in the pew ahead. Good times! Overall, though, she did remarkably well and fell asleep in her Mommy's arms. Later that day Lucy visited with Uncle Patrick, Jared, Great-Grandmother, Grammy Fran, Aunty Amy, Grandpa, Lisa and other friends. She loved her Easter baskets--especially the one with the Disney Princess rubber ball. By the end of the day, Miss Lucy was a sleepy little girl!

Beach Baby

Though the trip started off a bit shaky--lost luggage, a messy incident involving the greyhound's tail, and a tiny baby's handprint on piping hot cheeze pizza--overall, Lucy, Jennifer, Daddy, and aunty Amy had a fun time at Folly Beach. Lucy loved the sand, especially running her little fingers through it. Check out our trip photos in the slideshow. We really love the ones of Luce on the beach. Unfortunately, it was super chilly all weekend so we couldn't spend much time outside. We're planning to go back again later in the summer.