I’ve been pretty vocal about my plans to keep Peanut in a crib forever, or at least until the age of sixteen. A crib is confining, and does not allow my 3 year old to come “visit” on a whim. Plus, we’d never had an argument, an attempt to escape, a complaint. I have friends whose children were jumping from cribs at eighteen months. Not Peanut. It’s basically worked for us, pretty seamlessly.

A few days ago I was putting Peanut to bed after bath, the usual routine. We’d returned only an hour or so earlier from a dinner-time play-date at a friend’s home. As Peanut lay down in her crib, she stroked the bars. “A has a big girl bed,” she said, “L too”. “I have a baby bed,” she sighed, sadly. “I want to sleep in a big girl bed.” I’m not sure how, or when she realized that she was one of the only ones left in a crib. She’d seen her friend’s beds on countless occasions, never commenting, never wondering, never questioning. In fact, she’d often explained, “my bed is called a crib”. That was her normal.

But last week, she decided it was time. And, I suppose, it is.

It was a moment. A moment when Peanut realized she’s ready for the next stage, even if I’m not entirely.

I’m guessing this won’t be the last time. I know this won’t be the last time.

That’s the reality of sleep.

And of parenthood.

Just when you think you’ve left “that” phase,

“This” happens.

A friendly reminder.

I haven’t written about my birth story much on this blog; suffice to say it was long. After 12 hours of labor and 3 of pushing, I ended up with a cesarean section due to a narrow pelvic opening; Peanut’s head was unable to engage through my pelvis. My ob/gyn, in practice for over 40 years, cautioned me against ever trying for VBAC; in my situation it just won’t work. Post-surgery I had the luxury of recovering in a state of the art hospital with qualified nursing care.

Women in some parts of the world aren’t as lucky.

The statistics are sobering. Each year, more than 340,000 women around the world die due to childbirth-related complications.  Out of every 100,000 live births in Guatemala there are an estimated 290 deaths; in Liberia the death rate is 994. Compared this to only 14 deaths out of 100,000 live births in the developed world. Most of these maternal deaths could be prevented with basic supplies that would ensure hygienic births.

Saving Mothers, a program spearheaded by Dr. Taraneh Shirazian, Director of Global Women’s Health at Mount Sinai, aims to give these underserved women and their health care providers the tools they need to reduce maternal mortality and morbidity. Saving Mothers’ Clean Birth Kits include basic materials chosen to prevent the infections that lead to maternal death as well as detailed pictorial instructions to the kits to make them easier to use and understand.

And you can help.

Saving Mothers has recently launched a text message campaign asking for a $5 donation by texting “MOTHERS” to 50555 to help pay for additional kits.

Dr. Shirazian and her team will bring these birth kits to Guatemala, Liberia, and other countries in need as part of their program to help educate the traditional birth attendants and midwives who currently provide obstetric care.

I sent my text…will you?

I’ve been blessed with a pretty good sleeper. Of course, we all have our bumps in the road – weeks or months involving night-time wake ups and such. But when I look at the past three years, on average, things have been pretty good. Part of that may have to do with my decision to keep Peanut in a crib until the age of thirteen (she’s never tried to get out!), but I’d also like to think it’s partially inherent.

This spring, however, things changed. Every morning several birds, perched on the large tree in my patch of front lawn, begin their morning song early. Far too early. I feel like I’m sleeping in the Audubon Jungle; at 5:30am. And the time seems to only be creeping backwards. Two nights ago I woke to a very loud chirping…at 3:45am. It’s horrifying, really.

Of course, Peanut knows roosters (and heck, any type of bird) mean it’s time to rise (what self-respecting three year old doesn’t?). So, when the birds are up, so is she.

“Do you think you could try and pretend the birds aren’t there?” I asked her.

“I told birds…go away! They fly away. And I sleep longer and longer,” she responded.

Apparently she’s already taken care of the problem.

Thanks, P.

We’ve entered a phase I never thought possible (especially for a girl whose life revolved around trains): the princess period. If you have a daughter, you may be familiar with it. It involves (but is not limited to) any of the following: costumes that fall apart after one wearing, chirping birds, and fantasy balls. The whole deal. The real deal.

I’m not particularly keen on Princesses. The plot in (most) of these movies and books revolves around marriage, finding a prince, and pouting over a lack of beautiful dresses. Not things I necessarily want Peanut to aspire to, particularly throughout her early years. More often than not I find myself chasing her with a toy stethoscope, insisting she can be a “princess doctor” (she’s bought it, by the way).

That being said, I do understand the appeal of something beautiful. And I’m mostly chalking this up to being something many girls go through. I’m accepting it, and tempering it all with as much positive imagery as possible.

So nearly every day, Peanut dons a scratchy blue dress and insists on being referred to as “Cinderella” (blue’s still her favorite color). And nearly every day, we shed said dress before leaving the house.

Then last week, we were walking to pre-school. Peanut skipped ahead of me, stopping only occasionally to ask for a drink. “Need my super powers,” she said, intently, sipping from her water bottle.

I can deal with Princesses, I thought.

As long as they’re wearing metaphorical capes.

Picture day is a moment I’ve been anticipating for practically Peanut’s entire academic career (all 8 months of it). There’s just something adorable about a pre-schooler posing in front of a fabricated background; it seems so grown up.

Photo day I made sure to practice with her. Peanut has a tendency to do this weird thing with her arms when told to say “cheese” – she kind of rolls her shoulders in towards each other. You probably have to see it to understand. Still, despite reviewing the basics, I half expected some sort of odd outcome. So, what a thrill to see this.

Love.

I was particularly happy to see the cardi I had picked out for her photographed so well. As my friend pointed out, it’s possibly the best school picture she’ll ever have; mostly because I still have (some) control over her clothing.

Are you still enjoying the pleasures of dressing your little? Rue La La, the private shopping website, is featuring adorable clothing by Jacadi, the iconic French children’s brand, this morning starting at 11am. I’ve received some Jacadi items as gifts for Peanut over the years, and can vouch for their beauty and timelessness. It’s a little splurge that’s perfect as a gift or heirloom. Here’s a little peek at what you can scoop up.

(I was not compensated for this post. I did receive credits to Rue La La. All opinions expressed herein are my own.)

There comes a moment in every parent’s life when it become necessary to hide certain things from your child. That’s generally around the time when your son or daughter starts to understand what you’re saying.

I began spelling many, many things several months ago. Around the time when it became apparent that Peanut was a voracious eavesdropper; repeating everything when least appropriate (obviously). Of course, it didn’t take long before realizing that I don’t spell well – hard words, at least. So for now we’re sticking with simple words like “c.o.o.k.i.e” and “p.a.r.k.” and avoiding complicated ones such as “p.e.n.g.u.i.n.” and “v.a.c.u.u.m.”.  (And yes, there are times when it’s appropriate to codify both of those.)

Still, it’s infiltrated every aspect of my being. Walking with a friend last week, I explained why I planned on hiring someone to cut my lawn. “I hate yard work,” I said. “And my lawn looks like s.h.i.t.” Our kids were running ahead – absolutely out of ear shot. But spelling it just felt…natural. Explain that. Motherhood’s certainly rotted my brain and destroyed every modicum of privacy I ever had showering or pooping. Now I can’t even swear effortlessly when my kid’s not around. What’s left?

As one friend pointed out at soccer this past Saturday morning, “we’re really screwed when our kids learn how to spell, aren’t we?”

Touche.

Although she probably should have said “s.c.r.e.w.e.d.”

On a evening such as this, it’s nice to remember how delicious things were just yesterday.

Hope to see you again, soon, Mr. Golden Sun.

xo

Overweight.

It’s a word I never imagined could be used to describe my 3 year old. I thought – and still think – of Peanut as “fine”. She’s small, but solid. Without so much as the suggestion of a belly. She’s active – she’ll walk up to one mile without complaint. She plays soccer, and takes dance. She eats some veggies, lots of fruits, and loves bananas. She wears a 3T – the one she’s supposed to…I think. Does vanity sizing apply to toddler clothing?

But as I stood in an exam room during Peanut’s 3 year check up a few weeks ago, it became apparent that the doctor didn’t think her height and weight matched up the way they were “supposed” to. As the pediatrician explained, her height is in the 9th percentile; her weight the 64th. I wouldn’t expect Peanut to have a fighting chance at being overly tall; the odds certainly aren’t in her favor (neither my husband nor I are particularly big).

Still.

Overweight.

By clinical standards.

I should add a disclaimer here: in that moment, I was completely horrified. Mostly because I cringe at how the word was thrown at us (and within Peanut’s earshot). Is it appropriate to use this as a descriptive for small children who are generally active and healthy? Seasoned mothers (including my own) would probably tell you that growth is a series of steps; some kids stay a little longer at one step and jump over the next.

Naturally, I can easily tell you what the ideal is for women; I’ll give you a bulleted list. Like many others, I struggled with years of body image issues. Issues I only truly shed after giving birth to a girl – an experience that greatly altered my perspective.

I know that struggle isn’t something I wish for my daughter.

Of course it’s unrealistic to believe that Peanut will never experience a moment of doubt about her appearance. But I hope that those thoughts will be fleeting; quickly replaced with ideas of how smart or strong or talented she is. That she’ll be able to quiet the voices of those few people who don’t have anything nice to say (we’re all aware of their existence).

I know I’m part of the equation. It’s a responsibility we take on as mothers.

Right then, in a cold and sterile physicians office, I became even more determined to accept myself for what I look like.

And who I am.