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.