. . . the day to adorable day

Averie Lucia rocks.
She still does.
Nearly six years into her life, she is such an amazing little girl.

She has a new favorite color.  It's red.

She still loves to dance, and she dances well.  She is, in her heart and in her movements, a dancer.  Once in the pink, now in the blue, and looking ever ahead to the black, strapped, feminine leotard that will be her uniform next year.

She loves school.  The (very, very, very late) arrival of the "Math Box" has been the biggest event of the year for her.  Counting bears, rulers, a balance, geoboards, tangrams, linking cubes, shapes, a colorful menagerie of things to touch and move and measure and weigh and count.  It is fast becoming her favorite part of the day, and she often begs to use the parts well after the school day is done.

She loves trains, planes and automobiles.  She watches "Cars" - both I and II repeatedly on movie nights, and knows all the jokes by heart.  She can identify a Ferrari, a Chinook and a 'Steamie' with ease and enthusiasm.  She has a bigger hot wheels collection than her Dadoo ever did, and miles upon miles of track for her engines.

She wears dresses.  And skirts.  And gowns.  She will always do as she's asked if encouraged to wear leggings or jeans, but her favorite attire is feminine and ruffled and twirly and fun.  She loves having her toes painted.

She loves her little sister.  She is a wonderful, wonderful big sister.  She is a helper, a nurturer, a teacher, never far from her 'baby', never late with her advice or help or words of experiential wisdom ("No, Isla, that will burn you.  Ee-ee* touched a light bulb once and it burned her").  She reads to this little shadow of hers, telling her with great detail all the ins and outs of the stories.  She rests with her, helps comfort the two-year-old who is fretful with the onset of sleepiness.  She races to remove a 'choking hazard'.  She hugs her and whispers, "I love you, Isla" at prayers.  "Goodnight, sweetheart!" she shouts as her sister races out the door.

She is kind, funny, intelligent, loving, the sweetest five-year-old-baby-adorable you've ever seen.

*"Ee-ee" is the name the baby sister gave her big sister when she couldn't pronounce "sister" or "sissy". Averie, when speaking of herself to her sister, refers to herself as "Ee-ee", too.

the serious question

Summer was huge this year.  And in no small part because of the Olympics.

The Olympics were even more huge than the summer itself.  First of all, they were in England, in London, home of Princess Kate and all things *Royal*.  What more could you ask for.  But then, there's a Queen, and some fireworks and dancers and "costumes" and stuff.  And gymnastics (another post entirely). And swimmers. And runners. And jumpers.  And flags. And music. Lots of music. 

And in the midst of it all, especially the music, the brilliantly-adorable five-year-old, who'd been concentrating with intensity throughout every single musical interlude, posed the question of the millenium:

"Mama, what did God save the Queen from?"

Love her.

. . . the pool, like a pro.

Last year, at four-and-five-months, we-the-parents enrolled our precious girl in swimming lessons at the YMCA.  Ah, the thrill of it, our little baby learning to swim.  Ah, the wonder, the dreams, the plans - weekends at the beach with our growing girl gliding through the waves, Saturdays spent at some remote mountain lake watching her sweet face popping up out of the water, holidays at the Auntie and Uncle's with pool time meaning real swimming.  We-the-family were set.  We-the-family were excited.  It was going to be grand!

The sweetest girl was excited, too. Right up until the moment she had to step through the fence into the pool area and walk over to the group of children waiting with greatly mixed emotions for the class to begin.  Some of the children seemed happy and excited to be there.  Most of the children seemed to have buddies already in attendance.  And little Bee was absolutely terrified.

She was terrified, but brave. She walked with her very loud, very jolly, very bold swim coach over to the side of the pool.  She followed instructions and sat down on the edge.  But when the stranger (because that's what he was, honestly, a stranger) tried to coax her into the water by picking her up, the tears began.

She did get into the water.  And she did do the first floating task.  But once the coach pushed her under the water, she was done.  Frankly, so was her mother.

Needless to say, the week wasn't what we expected and we did not spend the rest of the summer vacationing a-la 'Baby' at some amazing mountain lake resort.

In the end, brave girl switched to a softer, gentler coach, a sweet and kind young lady who had exactly the right touch, and Averie spent the remaining weeks of swim class happily kicking around on a board, blowing bubbles and splashing safely and confidently.

A year later, we-the-parents were certain we would absolutely not enroll the five and five month girl in the program again.  We would be the ones to lovingly and kindly teach our Bee to swim.  And our first adventure of the year took place at the aforementioned Auntie and Uncle's pad - a ten day vacation which saw the six of us spending every single day in the pool.  It was grand.  It was fun. It was the best part of the summer.

Even with the amazing coaching of her Uncle, a great swimmer and former life guard, Averie still refused to  venture into the realm of swimming.  Even with a flotation device strapped around her chest, she would not pick up her tiny little feet and kick.

Until we returned home and took a Saturday trip up to the YMCA, the same spot that saw the disaster of last year's teaching attempts.  But this time, this year, this summer, the bravest swimmer, the fastest swimmer in the world (take that Michael Phelps), strapped on her life-vest, stepped into the pool and SWAM her way , past the three-foot-six-inch mark, all the way to the four-foot-six-inch-mark!  Over and over, around and around, up and down the length and width of the pool she went.

She was amazing.  Day after day, she continued.  A trip to the natatorium saw the same determined strokes, this time all the way to the deepest part of the pool.  Say it again, she was amazing.

And we-the-parents, as the proud parents of an amazing swimmer, the fastest one in the world, again look forward to next summer's trip to the mountains, where in some freshwater lake, (maybe at a place like Kellerman's) we'll celebrate with our little fish.

. . . a prayer

"Mama."

Just like that.  It is a statement, not a question, not a calling, neither a wish nor a command, just a statement.  

Mama.

"Ma-ma," said the baby.

"Maaaaah-maaaahhhhh," said the toddler.

"Ma-ma?" said the three-year-old-adorable.

"Mama," says the five-year-old.

"Mama. You know, I pray every day."

Actually, Mama did not know that, not in the way the grown-up-girl means it.  Not in the way that clearly means "on my own", "not with you", not at meal or bed times, but "all by myself".

"You do, Averie?"

"Yes. Everyday, Mama.  I pray every day."

"Mama, do you remember that day when I went to go tt and then there was a spider, that big, huge, humongous, spider, in my potty? Do you remember, Mama? Every day, when I go in the bathroom, I pray every day that the spider won't be in the potty."

A.men.

. . . the fancy

Every single day, Averie asks to dress up.  Sometimes this means in actual costume, like on her birthday when she decided to become Francisco the Party-Indian.  Most often, she just wants to dress up: ball gown or other suitable dress, tights, shoes, ribbons, jewelry, tiara, the works.  Nearly every single day, Mama lets her.  Because really, how many days in the life of a grown-up can one spend wearing an extravagant ball gown?

And so, day in and day out, the girly-est of girls finishes her breakfast, requests a wardrobe change, and proceeds through the rest of her day bedecked in her finest, fanciest fashion.  It's how we do school, how we eat lunch, how we clean up, how we nap.  The big sister doesn't leave her 'baby' out of the fun either, and always makes sure her little sister has something equally fine and fancy to slip into.

Knowing her penchant for the fancy in all areas of her life, we-the-parents were only mildly surprised (but still greatly amused) when she expressed her fondness for the automobile she glimpsed in the Waffle House parking lot:

"I'm a fan of fancy blue cars with fancy headlights."

Equally fancy is her recently adopted standard reply to her Dadoo's requests ...

Dadoo:  "Averie, will you pick up the cereal that's spilled all over the floor and take it to the trash?"
Averie: "Word up."

Yeah. Fancy that.

. . . five

It's a milestone. One of those numbers that feels weighty and significant.  And the baby-turned-toddler-turned-little girl-adorable reached it today, a sweet bundle of smiles and laughter and readiness on her fifth birthday.

She remembered last night that we dress up the house the night before this anniversary and asked her dear Dadoo if he and Mama were "going to decorate after I go to bed".  Funny how one year changes things, how a year ago yesterday she didn't remember about that tradition and was genuinely surprised to wake on her fourth and find dinosaurs and balloons adorning the table.  This morning, though, our girl smiled widely  when she saw the streamers in spite of her foreknowledge.  It is still a precious view - her in pink little girl jammies, tip-toeing out to see what kind of party spectacle is waiting for her.

When asked on her last day of four-dom what she liked best about being four, Averie replied without pause, "I liked best being a big sister".

And last night, as she lay snuggled up next to her Mama beneath her 'princess canopy' in her twin sized bed, her last four-year-old words were, "Is it time to get up yet? Will you lay by me?  I love you, Mama."

Oh, Averie. Mama loves you, too.

Happy Birthday, my Darling.

. . . the vernacular

Four-year-olds have a lot to say.  There is a lot going on in their worlds, and a lot going on in their minds.  Regarding her world, Averie says:

"If we don't have sugar, then little kids can't have any candy."
"I love this salad dressing. Italian, its my favorite. I'll eat it 'til I go to heaven."
"Mama, please can you plant a tomato tree?"
"That music was hittin' on me. I felt it and I was like, just dancin'."
"This ice cream is making me hot hands."
"Mama, I rub your kisses in so they stay in my heart."

Wait, what? 

Did you say, "Awww, that's adorable?" 

Thought you did.

. . . the pumpkin patch

Every year since her birth, we-the-parents have taken Miss Adorable to a pumpkin patch.  The first year, she just sat in her stroller, covered in a warm blanket and stared.  The second year, she wandered around looking at the tiniest ones, but not really understanding the concept of fall.  The third and fourth years, she remembered, actually remembered, that fall was coming and fall meant pumpkins.  And this year, our four-year-old reminded us as soon as the first hint of orange arrived at our favorite patch that it was time to round up her baby and head out to find some harvest fruit.

... words, words and more words

Today, the original baby-adorable will speak for herself.

On proper nouns:
The name of her black bear is Adeline Jewel.

The name of her boy baby is Errol Ridley*.

The name of her first baby is Crawlia. The name of her second baby is Shyla. Both are girls.

The name of her favorite place for french fries and horse-watching: Five Man Burgers.

On her baby sister:
I eat meat. But Iwah doesn't eat meat. She's not a carnivore yet.

Iwah is tired of being wakened, Mama. she wants to be asleep.

No, no, Isla. You can't be in that room unless a grown-up or a big sissy is in there. Because you know what's in there? A whole bunch of choking hazards. And you know what you'll do? (Picking her baby sister up and half-carrying, half-dragging her back into the 'safe-zone') You'll go in there and you'll pick up those choking hazards and you'll put them in your mouth and then you'll choke. So you just have to stay out here.

Iwah, grab the leash. Come on, Iwah, grab the leash. There you go. Ok, come on pup. Hold on, Iwah.

On fashion:
But I don't wear jammie bottoms , Mama. I only wear dresses and skirts and gowns.

On Architecture:
Mama, I'm trying to build grandpa. I'm building him out of a cheerio and another cheerio. It's hard to build grandpa because he's very very big. Boys are big and girls are little. Mama? is Dadoo big? Mama? Is mama little?

On picking up her toys by herself while Dadoo rubs Mama's back:
But I'm so sick and my back is weak.

On kindergarten:
Oh Yay! It's kindergarten day!

On counting using the counting blocks:
Woo-hoo, mama! This is so cool!

On affection:
I love you, too, Mama. But you know who I love best of all? Dadoo. Yeah. And you know who else I love? Poosie-pants. She's so cute, isn't she mama? And she does funny things.


Random quotes:

Mama, we have tiny wittle necks. Mama, we can't see very far because we are not giraffes. Giraffes and brachyosaurus-es have verwee wong necks, so they can see far.

Mama, I need a band aid on my lip. I bit my lip and I need a band aid on it. And on here and here, too.

Mama? I'm wetting it catch on my tongue so it doesn't get on my band aid. Because it always gets wet and it can't go. I'm so glad I have a band aid. But, one day it will be all healed.

Watch this, Mama. I'm gonna suck it all up.

Tell me a story, Mama. Tell me about Jesus.

------------------

**We-the-parents reserve the right to utilize the name Errol Ridley in any form for any potential future offspring. We think this is a pretty cool name and are super impressed that the baby-adorable chose it for her baby.

. . . pretty

... sweet nothings

As our adorable grows, we-the-parents hear more and more and more words coming from her still small lips. The past tense almost always has the '-ed' suffix attached these days, and a majority of the time, she gets the application right: "colored" for what she did to the page in that book, for example. Sometimes she still says things like, "when I was a baby, Mama, and I swim-ded in your tummy, did you hear me?", and those times are such sweet reminders of the baby-ness that is all but gone.

Every time someone tries to correct her "Dungo" for "Dumbo", Mama secretly (well, not so secretly now, but you get the point) wants to slug them for nearly erasing the last bit of itsy from her four-and-one-third-year-old's vocabulary. We hold on to and deliberately mispronounce words like "post-guard" because we know that soon all that pronunciation will be correct. It's not like journalism and english have anything against correct, but rather that our hearts weren't prepared-ed for how much we would love the soft sounds of almost-got-it-right.

Along with the sweet sounds of this growing grammar, our ears of late have been pleasantly pummeled with sweet words. They come out of the blue, and in a manner that implies she must've been thinking about them, even though we-the-parents are caught unawares. Take two nights ago when the family was driving home after a big lake-walk and our big-girl-Bee spotted what she now calls "an aircraft!!!!" flying against the sunset.

"It's an aircraft!!!! Look, Mama! Look, Dadoo! Can you see it? It's a Chinook!", and then, "Dadoo, you and I are really good spy-ers ... (brief pause as she loads a spoonful of ice cream into her mouth, processes the cold on her tongue and swallows, meanwhile, Dadoo in the driver's seat seems ready to protest the description when he's interrupted by the completion of the tiny one's thought) ... of aircraft. Good job, Dadoo!" (Dadoo says, "Thank you, Averie!")*

Or, take for an additional theorem proof, her remarks to Mama even earlier that same evening: "Mama," she said, thoughtfully spearing a strawberry with her fork, "I love your pretty hair, and I love the color of your eyes."

And every night, after reading time with Mama, she lies in her bed, snuggled in with at least seven of her 'darlings' who, along with her are all wrapped up in her favorite afghan, and says with the most serious of faces, "Mama, remember this, ok? Remember this: tell Dadoo, and tell him woudwy, Mama, because he can't hear good, tell Dadoo, the he has to come IN to check on me, and he has to come all the way into my room, and when he asks me if I am asleep, and if I say 'yes' or 'no' then he will lay by me. Ok, Mama? Tell Dadoo. Tell him to remember this, ok?" She follows it with a soft "I wuv you, Mama" and that Mama's heart is fully melted. Every single time.

These little murmurings aren't confined to the ears of the household grownups. She also wraps them around her baby with whispers of, "Oh, Iwah, I'm so glad you were borned out of Mama's tummy!" and "I kiss your wittle baby wips, Iwah!" and "I wuv you, Iwah! You're such a big girl, wittle naughty-pants!"

It's not the only kind of speech we hear, of course. But this kind of language makes up the majority of our conversations with our girl, and for this we are so thankful. It makes the times when we hear the less-than-sweet easier to bear and easier to chasten.

Sweetness pictured below, if you're wondering what kind of sugar has wrapped up our hearts.

*Nevermind that this short sweetness was followed with "But remember, Dadoo. I am better at seeing far than you are, because you can't see very far, but I can. Remember this, Dadoo."

. . . the return of the glamorous, pool edition

Our girl-adorable is still glamorous. This year, she picked out her own bathing suit. Usually, Mama picks them out and goes for something cute, covering, and UVA/B protective. Sophisticated is not usually part of the mix, because, well, Mama's first baby is only four.

But this year, as her mama was browsing suits online at our favorite swim shop, Bee was browsing right beside her on the couch. And suddenly, she knew the one she wanted. Mama liked it, too, but thought it was strange that her baby-girl said she wanted that particular one, and so she asked her baby repeatedly, 'Are you sure?' and 'What about this one?'. Bee emphatically, decisively replied that she wanted 'That one, Mama. I want that one. With the white roses on it.'

'Ok,' said Mama as she clicked on it to make the purchase. And then, unbelievably, it was gone! Some of you may have heard how Mama emailed customer service and then called multiple stores in the city searching for the suit, which had apparently sold out online right as we were shopping. Customer service located it for us at a store in New York City, but the one we finally purchased came from a search on good ol' ebay.

It arrived, and Bee could hardly wait to get it washed before wearing it. Thankfully, her Dadoo managed to get her pool set up right about the time it came out of the dryer and the glamorous girl was able to enjoy the first splash of the season in style. Here she is catching some ripples in her new suit.

Could she be the cutest thing you've seen yet???

. . . the interrogative

Today.

Mama: 'Averie, please don't ask Mama "why" about everything.'

Averie: 'Why, Mama? Why can I not ask "why" about everything?'

. . . four, and then some.

This is a three-year-old girl.

This is what a three-year-old girl looks like on her last day as a three-year-old girl. And now, she's four.

Her less-than-fabulous mama didn't throw her a big party, but her so-awesome-he-rocks-too-Dadoo planned the perfect surprises for her and invited her Mimi and Grampy to come all the way from North Carolina and her Auntie and Uncle to come all the way from Mississippi (Eagles are FIERCE) to help celebrate.

Our sweet girl spent her last days as a three-year-old playing all her favorite games, eating all her favorite foods, and visiting all her favorite parks with her mama, dadoo, her baby sis, NC-grandparents, and her Auntie & Uncle. It was two weeks of cake, cupcakes, ice cream, multi-colored sprinkles and more cake: sweet on so very many levels.

The sweetest of all was our precious four-year-old. Here she is on the 4th anniversary of her birth. Oh how we all love her.

... the last day of 2010

It's officially the end of the year. Well, nearly. It's officially the last thirty-seventh minute past two in the afternoon of the year of our Lord, two thousand ten. Funny how typing that leads one to recall that there's only one 2:37 p.m. per day, ever. And how we've already passed three hundred sixty-five of them (and way more if we're counting life ages) that will never return. But, that's not the plot of the post. Because it's the last day of the year, the last afternoon of the year, the last few hours of the year our baby-adorable transitioned from two to three.

It's been a fast year for we-the-family, and it's been a good year. As our dear Dadoo reminds us often, our trials have been far fewer than our blessings. And our blessings have been great.

Our three-year-old girl is really that: a girl. She's not our tiny baby in any way anymore. She walks, runs, climbs and jumps like a big girl. She talks, laughs and sings like a big girl. She even manages her boo-boos like a big girl, trying so hard to talk herself out of any tears. She reasons like a big girl and in such a grown up manner that we often forget she is still just three.

The biggest events of the year for her, in no particular order were her trip to Disney World and the birth of her baby sister. She still thanks us every day for taking her to Mickey's place. And the other night, she made a special thanks and appeal to her Dadoo:

Averie: Dadoo, thank you for taking me to Disney World.

Dadoo: Averie, you're welcome.

Averie: Dadoo? You can do it again whenever you like.

Dadoo: Um, okay, Averie.

Most of the time, she really loves her baby sister. This morning, she directed her sweet remarks to her Mama:

Averie: Mama, I'm so glad Iwah came out of your tummy.

Mama: Yes, me too, Averie. I'm glad, too.

Averie: Yeah, she's a sweet wittle baby. (to Isla) Aren't you, Iwah?! Aren't you? Yeah, a sweet wittle baby!

Isla: *big, shiny smiles with big shiny eyes at her sweet big sister*

Today, the big girl is skipping naptime and sitting right next to her typing Mama as we share time alone in our playroom, eating semi-sweet chocolate chips and Nemo fruit snacks and watching the Thomas movie she got for Christmas, while 'her baby' naps. Her tiny arms are bare and warm. Her hair smells sweet and clean, and this afternoon feels like a special gift, just for the two of us.

In a few hours, a new year will begin. And a few weeks after that, our three-year-old will turn four. It's a bittersweet thought ... the leaving behind of a year and the beginning of another, the reminder of things passed and past, the encouragement of things to be and become. It doesn't seem the same this year, not that any two years are, but still, as I sit here, first person, finishing a post nearly 5 hours after I started it (life with two), the night feels strange, and a little sad. I guess at the end of it, good years make it hard to close the door. And perhaps, just a bit, I'm not quite ready for the end of this one.

. . . a three-year-old-Christmas

This was the year. This year. The year that our sweet Averie really understood the magic and beauty of the Christmas season. The year that we could see it in her eyes, and hear it in her voice and smile and laugh at the wonder of it all.

From gingerbread houses (she made three) to cookies (she made several dozen) and Christmas hymns (she loves 'O Holy Night') to carols (we had no idea she could identify 'Carol of the Bells' - and she can, be it played on strings or brass), from lights ("Wights! Mama! Look! It's multi-colored! That's my most favorite kind of sprinkles!") to lawn 'art' ("Dadoo! Look! A reindeer!"), from holiday movies to holiday art, she had a full and excitement-filled start to the Christmas season.

This year, she had her own 'wish list'. She added items to it frequently, and we-the-parents are fairly certain she didn't really understand the concept of the 'wish' part. This was evidenced multiple times (we thought) by how easy it was to pacify her through the toy aisles of any given store. Anytime she asked to 'have' something, we told her she could put it on her wish list. "Ok", she'd reply. "I want this on my wish list". And then she'd calmly put the item back in it's place on the shelf and keep moving. It worked like a dream. We were slightly worried that it might come back to bite us when she realized that the majority of the items she put on the list didn't make it under the tree (it was a REALLY big list), but we figured we'd cross that bridge later on.

Imagine our surprise when on Christmas morning, her first request was for her sister. Her second request was for some M&Ms with her cheerios. And her third request was to take off her jammies. For nearly an hour and a half after she woke up, she asked nothing about the gifts. Finally, sometime around ten a.m., she asked if she could open a present. When we told her yes, she squealed with glee, ran over to the tree, grabbed a tiny box from the bottom of the pile and placed it carefully into my hands. "Mama!" she shouted. "We got this for you, Mama! It's very special earrings for you! But don't tell because it's a surprise!" Imagine our hearts when we realized her first thoughts were for people other than herself.

And when she finally began to open up her very own presents, she stopped, content, at two. The very two she'd asked for most, and the first item on her wish list. The next hour saw her fully happy and fully occupied with those toys, unconcerned with the rest of her stash resting beneath the branches. And the rest of the morning continued much the same as it began ... and we-the-parents count ourselves very blessed.

Better than all the stuff of the season is this crazy joy. The hard stuff is still hard. The bad stuff, well, it's still bad. But the joy of seeing her see it all ... well, it's mushy and funny and happy and awesome and sappy and squishy and GOOD.

And just in case you think you've had your fill of adorable, here's proof you're not full yet. Our baby-girl-the-first-adorable on her fourth Christmas ...

. . . George feeds Bill's bunnies

That's the title Averie provided when asked what her mother should post about her. The following is the rest of her response.

"Iwah Meeway." (tran.: Isla Mireille) "Um, Ariel. Mama, can I wear a different dress? Can I wear my Cindalella dress. I think that's Dadoo. Mama, why can I not spill?"

So there's a lot of language going on, but it's more conversational these days, and much of it is made up. She makes up names for places and people, names for animals, names for pretend people, places and things, and includes all of these in her speech as if the rest of us are all in on the specifics of these made up lives.

The biggest change from our baby adorable's lips involves pronunciation. There is so much less of that baby-speak now. Nearly everyone she speaks to can understand her, and there is barely a need for a translator (mama) to intervene. Words like 'wadi' (Remy) don't even exist in her vocabulary any more, and we-the-parents are resisting any urges to correct the few remaining mispronunciations still in her oratorial bag. Right now, "fwirty" stands in for "thirty", but that's one in a handful left for her to learn.

All this talk is just one more reminder of how soon these days of smallness will be gone. We-the-parents want to hold on to every single one of them, as long as we can.

. . . it all by herself

Big girls do lots of things. Big girls do them all by themselves. Big girls don't need any help. Except when they do.

'I can do it all by myself' is the phrase of the phase for fall two-thousand ten. "It" is nearly everything - from taking off her own jeans (over her shoes, no less) and zipping her own (hard-to-zip) hoodie to climbing any and every stair she encounters and getting her straws into the top of those plastic kid-cup lids - she can do "it" "ALL BY MYSELF!"

'I don't need any help' is a close second in competition for the girl's favorite sentence. Unfortunately, this secondary phrase is usually forced out through clenched jaw while her eyes begin drip tears and her small frame tenses in frustration. She's so young - too young to possess the experience-based understanding that there could be a different/better/easier/ way to accomplish the near-impossible task she's currently attempting.

It's almost as if she's trying to convince herself (there's no place like home, there's no place like home, there's no place ...).

Seeing this frustration is difficult. More difficult is standing by, trying not to help, then trying to help, and being pushed away by those tiny, three-year-old hands as she sobs and struggles to do it on her own. Sometimes her success is a happy moment for her. (It's nearly always a relief for we-the-parents). Many times, she's just so exhausted from her efforts that she can't even recognize for herself that she actually accomplished the very thing she set out to do. Even knowing that this is part of her growing does not make it easier to watch.

This independence is a good thing; it means our sweet girl is growing up. It's also a sad thing; it means our sweet girl is growing up. Sometimes it's a hard thing - difficult for both parents and child. It's always an amazing thing, though, and we-the-parents are still in awe of how a person begins and becomes.

Other phrases heard this week ...

"I'm too busy to talk to Dadoo right now."

"But Mama, children always want to play!"

"I always like to go into the eating store to eat at it."

"No. I am the ONLY one who has to obey Mama."

" ... because he has to 'neigh' at them while they chuff past ..."

"Don't say 'ghostlight'. It's Mater and the Ghostlight."

"Can I watch Mater and the Ghostlight?"

. . . some cute

Need a dose of adorable? Get yours below:

... big girl sleep with the aid of jelly beans

Our sweet girl has been, most of the time, a pretty good sleeper. We've had our nights of unrest, but for the most part, we-the-parents have escaped the same kind of nighttime torment many of our poor friends have experienced with their children. We-the-parents, though speaking seldom of it, have always been thankful of this great mercy in our lives, conscious that it's a rare gift to have a child who goes so easily to sleep.

When we found out that our Baby-Toddler-Preschooler-Bee would become a big sister to Bun, we-the-parents contemplated the ways that baby-adorable-the-first 'might-could' react to the introduction of the new family member. We read about tantrums and regression and tears and prepared ourselves for giving extra attention, having more patience and returning to the 'pull-ups' stage for a bit. And while we knew that there could be (and probably would be) times when our newborn's cries would wake our elder daughter, we did not anticipate that this family transition from three to four would influence the well-established sleeping habits of our three-point-five-year-old to such a great degree.

Bun's arrival didn't bring any tantrums*. Our sweet big sister was excited to meet her "new baby", and has not shown any of the typical symptoms associated with the addition of a younger sibling. Except one:

She is no longer willing to go to sleep. Mama should actually include the qualifier, "alone".

The tiny girl is absolutely willing to go to sleep with a friend. She'll go to sleep at her friends' house (**thank you Mrs. Beth for caring for our first baby while we had our second**). She'll go to sleep in the company of the entire family as we ride in the car. She'll go to sleep in her uncle's arms as he carries her from the carousel back to the bookstore. And she'll go to sleep at home, in her own bed even, as long as either her Mama or her Dadoo (though preferably her Dadoo) is cuddled up right next to her.

This unwillingness to fall asleep alone is not confined to the initial falling asleep, but extends to every falling asleep throughout the entire night, so that each time a plane, helicopter, tree-branch, motorcycle (thanks biker neighbors for your super loud cruising at eleven p.m., we love it, really), squirrel, dishwasher, ice-maker or whisper from her parents awakens her, she needs/wants one of us to crawl back in bed with her.

Though we'd struggled a tiny bit with this sleep thing before baby-the-second arrived, in the weeks preceding the birth, things had settled down a bit. Then, we brought the baby home, and things ceased to settle ... at least in the evening hours. Mama spends most of her evening hours awake feeding Baby-Bun, and Dadoo spends most of his evening hours awake, calming Baby-Bee and attempting to persuade her into long slumber.

Our success has been limited, like our sleep and our dwindling patience. Until the introduction of what some, more judgmental persons (who are obviously better parents) might call a bribe. We-the-parents call it desperate times, and thank heavens for William Schrafft or whoever created the jelly bean.

Big girls are polite, obedient, and rested. Big girls sleep all night long in big girl beds, all by themselves. Big girls eat big-girl-breakfasts of jelly beans, cheerios and occasionally, Pez. And we, ladies and gentlemen, are raising a big girl. A sweet, going to bed with less and less assistance kind of big girl who loves Jelly Belly beans in watermelon, bubblegum, blueberry and cherry. A big girl who, though lying awake and singing for an hour after we put her there, stays in bed, alone, all night.

Well, at least for the last few days. Still, it feels like we're closer to being back on a relatively normal sleep schedule, and we'll hold onto whatever hope we have right now. Because, as previously mentioned, it's desperate times in the sleep department. And we-the-parents are rapidly re-affirming the realities that:

a.) we are no longer in our twenties,

b.) we are much better and more coherent people when we get at least three hours of uninterrupted sleep in the evenings, and

c.) our tiny-bee is much happier and well-behaved when she, too, gets at least three hours of uninterrupted sleep in the evenings.

Hear, hear and hip, hip for the jelly bean! Long live the bean and the refreshing minutes of rest it affords! Hooray for our big girl! Hooray that she loves her little sister and is merely struggling with sleep and not some urge to beat up the baby. Hooray for big girls who go to sleep late, but sleep in a little later so Mamas get time for coffee. And blogging. *wink*

**We-the-parents do realize it's early days, and we're not counting any chickens at this time.**