Dancing Feet

This is why I insist that dance will be Lana's first organized activity. Watch her feet.

 I see potential for that fancy River Dance stuff.

She even has rhythm! (She definitely got that from Anthony.)

 

Her feet have always, always been this active, including all 8 months in utero. You can watch her newborn busy feet here. The nurses always asked (every day for the month I spent in the hospital before delivery) if I'd felt the baby moving. My answer was always the same: "She never stops!"

There was a reason why before the c-section an ultrasound in the morning showed her head down by my hips, one an hour before showed her breech (head up under my ribs), and by noon she was transverse (sideways).

Hugs & Kisses

  As I was putting away some laundry in our bedroom, I noticed Lana had spent a bit too much time quietly in the other room. I hurry out, and on my way call out, "What are you doing, babe?"
   She answers with a delighted, "Mmmmm!" Which is when I see she has open bags of both Hershey's kisses and hugs in front of her and chocolate dripping down her chin.
   Yup, I'd accidentally left the safety locks on our pantry cupboards undone. This girl is an opportunist!
   She was less than thrilled when I stuffed my fingers into her mouth trying to retrieve as much foil as possible. She doesn't understand the concept of unwrapping yet.

 

This picture is about 8 months old.

I was too busy prying foil wrappers out of her mouth to take one, but the chocolate-look is about the same.

 

 

 

Cuando Me Miras Asi

In honor of our eighth anniversary, here is our song. So beautiful. Lyrics in Spanish below (I gave a rough English translation, but the Spanish is so much better, really).








Cuando me miras así,
perdido estoy
cuando me miras así,
contigo voy
que puedo hacer tus ojos son,
el imán de mi corazón.
Cuando me miras así,
completo estoy
cuando me miras así,
yo se quien soy
no pido mas es lo mejor
eres el ángel luz de mi amor
en ti puedo ver la libertad
tu me haces sentir que puedo volar
y se que aquí es mi lugar
y se que a ti yo quiero amar
Cuando tu me miras así
cuando tu me miras así
no se falta nada mas
solo ganas siento de amar
Cuando me miras así,
perdido estoy
cuando me miras así,
contigo voy
que puedo hacer tus ojos son,
el imán de mi corazón.
Cuando me miras así,
completo estoy
cuando me miras así,
yo se quien soy
no pido mas es lo mejor
eres el ángel luz de mi amor
En ti puedo ver la libertad
tu me haces sentir que puedo volar
y se que aquí es mi lugar
y se que a ti yo quiero amar
Cuando tu me miras así
cuando tu me miras así
no se falta nada mas
solo ganas siento de amar
En ti puedo ver la libertad
tu me haces sentir que puedo volar
y se que aquí es mi lugar
y se que a ti yo quiero amar
En ti puedo ver la libertad
tu me haces sentir que puedo volar
y se que aquí es mi lugar
y se que a ti yo quiero amar.

When you look at me that way
I am lost.
When you look at me that way
I go with you.
What can I do? Your eyes are
a magnet for my heart.
When you look at me that way
I am complete.
When you look at me that way
I know who I am.
I ask no more, it is the best.
You are the angel light of my love.
In you I can see freedom.
You make me feel like I can fly.
And I know my place is here.
And I know it's you I want to love.
When you look at me that way...
When you look at me that way...
nothing else is missing.
The only desire I feel is to love.
In you I can see freedom.
You make me feel like I can fly.
And I know my place is here.
And I know it's you I want to love.

Hey, America, I've got Talent, too!

A 3 a.m. epiphany

 I go to bed when I am tired. After a rushed evening of feeding my family, helping my toddler get pajamas on, teeth brushed, hair combed, I read stories, pray, and sing to my daughter until she is ready to sleep. I clean up her toys and the dinner dishes if I'm ambitious, and try to squeeze in a few minutes for my husband before he, too, is ready to sleep.

And because I am tired, I go to bed, too. But I do not sleep. My ear is trained to pick up the tiniest sound from the baby monitor, just in case. My mind races through a commentary and critique of the day—I measure how my child has grown and developed, and I begin creating new ways to keep her challenged and entertained. I review my own actions and omissions as a mother, wife, daughter, sister, and sometimes even a friend. I try to find ways I can be more of what people need from me. I plan a lesson, a new project, or even work on the never-ending writing of my novel.

All this until the baby monitor calls me back to the present. My baby needs me now. While my husband slumbers on so he can be rested for his meetings tomorrow, I slip out of bed. On the hard, 2-a.m.-cold kitchen floor, I wash, fill, and warm a bottle. I tiptoe past my bedroom where my husband snores and open the door to my baby's room.

She reaches out to me, distressed, so I hold her close until she is soothed. A quick diaper change in the dark, and once again she is in my arms, cradled close, safe, and filling her tummy with warm milk while I sing.

It's then that my active, critical brain realizes I'm not very good at singing. No one would pay or cheer to hear me sing. If I sang this very same lullaby on "America's Got Talent," I would be laughed at, "X"-ed, and jeered off the stage. I'd be told by America at large that I have no talent.

 But my baby has finished her bottle. With drooping eyelids she smiles at me, thankful that I've sung to her. She relaxes in my arms and trusts me to carry her back to bed, where she will sleep soundly until she needs me again, knowing I will be there when she calls.

I slip back into bed, roll my husband over to muffle his snores, and train my ear once more to the monitor. That's when I realize—I do have talent. It's not a particularly unique one, not one crowds are prone to cheer. No, it's the talent of being a mother. I sing, and my daughter is soothed. She loves my voice, regardless of what any critic might call it. My voice, off-key and wobbly, is the most beautiful sound in her universe. My arms, which cannot bench-press anything, lift heavy things, or juggle, to her represent comfort, safety, and true strength. To her, my wisdom and knowledge are endless. My body, which any fashion designer or fitness guru would scoff at, is my daughter's most perfect example of beauty and grace.

 Oh yes, I am talented. I must be, if such a pure, honest person can see me that way. For her I will sing, I will dance, I will bask in my body's beauty and my mind's capabilities.

 No woman will ever see herself as she truly is until she sees herself through the eyes of her child.

Make this reality!

THIS is, I'm pretty sure, the best article I've read since having Lana.
 Please, please read it. It's beautiful. Especially this:

"I dream of a world where a new mother can leave the house in the morning -- in ill-fitting maternity clothes because nothing else fits her large and slowly deflating belly, with greasy hair and puffy eyes from the hours/days/weeks she's been functioning without sleep, with a leaking shirt from her breasts that are constantly churning and adjusting to make just the right amount of milk for the tiny young babe who depends on her for every last thing -- a world where this woman can leave the house with her babies in tow (up and out in the world because her toddler's need for playtime trumped her need for a blow dry. Or a nap)
-- And this woman TURNS OUR HEADS (not out of pity "oh bless her heart") and TAKES OUR BREATH AWAY (not because we think she looks like the "before" picture of an ambush makeover) but because she is LITERALLY The Most Beautiful Thing We've Ever Seen.
She is a superhero
She is a goddess
She is a Mother
Drop-dead gorgeous not in spite of the things that make her so, but because of them.
This is the woman I want my daughter to see when she touches my belly. This is the woman I want to see when I look in the mirror. Not the ugly truth. But the beautiful reality."

Can we make this reality?

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/joy-gabriel/kate-middleton-and-the-mom-in-the-mirror_b_3672553.html