There’s no denying it: This child is a water baby—or, in the Ryan family lexicon, a water weasel.
Peeper loved swimming lessons from her very first trip to the YMCA. If she had her way, she’d spend hours in the bath, pouring water from a toy watering can and holding onto the sides of the tub to kick as hard as she can. It’s a constant battle to keep her dry at the Oregon coast. And she makes any unsuspecting water source—a sidewalk puddle, the dog’s dish—into an instant source of fun.
But her love of water at home has nothing on the passion she uncovered on vacation.
During our vacation in Mexico, Peeper spent almost every waking minute in the water. After breakfast, we headed to the pool or beach. Then bath and nap. After waking up, we returned to the pool or beach. Then bath and bedtime.
The spigot connecting the hot water to our new washer was spraying water all over the laundry room. A puddle quickly turned into a flood. We used every towel, sheet and bath robe we owned to try to sop up the deluge, but despite our efforts, water soon began to leak downstairs.
In some (very) small way, the leak might have been a blessing: I was too busy mopping up a puddle and googling 24-hour plumbers to see the infamous one-yard-line play call that cost the Seahawks their national title.
At any rate, we spent most of the next 48 hours without any running water, and it took me a frustratingly long time to get a contractor to fix our problem. (“Yes,” I informed way too many people, “no running water with a toddler in the house does constitute a plumbing emergency.”)
We’re back online now, so to speak. The temporary inability to wash dishes, hands, clothes and a toddler who loves to finger paint made me even more grateful for what we too often take for granted: clean, potable, accessible and affordable water.
Sunday was World Water Day, a global event that marks the importance—and scarcity—of clean and accessible water for every human, community and ecosystem. According to the United Nations, “748 million people do not have access to an improved source of drinking water and 2.5 billion do not use an improved sanitation facility.” Unfortunately, untreated water and the lack of hygienic toileting are a major source of disease. Read more →
I hate feeling like the overreacting mom who calls the advice nurse for nothing. I hate wasted copays. I hate dragging my daughter to the doctor, where she bursts into tears the second the nurse calls her name.
Know what I hate more, though? Wondering if Peeper is sicker than I’m pretty sure she is.
Peeper has had a cold since February and a cough for half that time. Lately, she sometimes coughs until she gags or cries. This crud is going around Portland, but I called her pediatrician’s nurse anyway. They scheduled a check-up, just in case.
Why aren’t adult hospital gowns this cute?
Thankfully, Peeper’s lungs are clear and her ears are healthy. The doctor diagnosed a sinus infection, though. I’ll take that over whooping cough any day. Yes, Peeper has been vaccinated, but with childhood diseases like measles making such a comeback, I fear the same illnesses my great-grandparents did.
Anyway, we were sent home with two whole bottles of antibiotics. After lunch, it was time for Peeper’s first dose—5.5 milliliters. Now that sounds like a tiny amount, but for a child who refuses any medicine, it was like asking her to please drink the entirety of Lake Michigan. Read more →
Forgive the blurriness—I didn’t want to use flash, for obvious reasons!
It’s not often Peeper falls asleep on me. I usually put her down when she’s still awake, babbling to herself or reciting entire sections of Once Upon A Potty.
But the other day, she dozed off while I hummed You Are My Sunshine, part of our normal going-to-bed-routine.
And here’s the thing: I didn’t put her down.
As a work-at-home mama without consistent, out-of-the-home childcare, I end up cramming work into spare corners of the day. If I wake up a little early, I check my email from bed to see if a source has written me back. I turn in copy at times most other people are asleep. And most of all I work during Peeper’s naps, scheduling interviews and meeting deadlines in that somewhat-reliable hour-and-a-half break.
While in Mexico, I still had deadlines to meet, articles to write and pitches to investigate. But on this afternoon, I let that work idle.
I felt my toddler’s breath as regular as the surf outside. I admired her curls that seem to go even curlier during naps. And as she sprawled on me belly-to-belly, I felt her twitch in her dreams even as a tiny life inside me turned and kicked.
Lulled by the overhead fan and the warmth of her slumbering body, I began to doze off. I set Peeper down in her crib and crawled into bed for a snooze, too. I fell asleep before too long—another luxury I rarely enjoy at home, when writing, dirty dishes and my growling stomach demand I get up and go.
Peeper often napped on me when she was a baby—sometimes that’s the only way she’d sleep. I’m grateful she’s comfortable drifting off on her own now. But I savor the rare occasions I get to witness her exuberant self completely surrender to sleep.
It won’t be long until there’s a newborn who needs my attention even more than editors. Kiwi will surely take her share of naps on my chest, but as Peeper grows, she’ll sleep on me less and less.
I find myself wondering how our lives will change once Kiwi arrives. That unknown—and the adjustments we’ll all have to make, both major and minor—reminds me to adjust my priorities on days like this one. I can’t always sit immobile with a toddler sleeping on my chest, but every so often, I will. I won’t mind the drool-damp spot on my shirt or my arm that fell asleep. Inconveniences are worth the chance at a front-row seat to my daughter’s dreams.
Another pro to wearing a swimsuit while pregnant: You can eat a giant burrito and not worry about slipping into a tiny suit. You can be all, “Hey, that’s totally my baby bump!” and it’s true.
But as I’ve discovered, bikinis while pregnant are not all fun and games. The inside of my poor belly button, which has pretty much never seen the light of day, is a bit sunburned.
So along with putting vinegar on the tops of my feet (gah! I always miss that spot!), I’m using the sunburn-soothing home remedy on my belly button, too. Now I smell like Easter eggs from belly to toes.
2015 is shaping up to be a big year for us: We bought a house, Eric will finish his first full-time year of teaching and he’ll graduate with his teacher’s certificate and another master’s, and—drum roll—we’re expecting another little bug!
Kiwi, as we’ve taken to calling Baby #2 (Peeper Jr. just didn’t seem right!), is due mid-July—right after (but hopefully not on) Peeper’s second birthday. So far the pregnancy has gone very smoothly, as long as you don’t count feeling horribly ill for three months straight.
People keep asking me if being pregnant is different the second time around. The most striking difference, I’ve found, is that I got bigger way faster—I’m showing about a month sooner than I did with Peeper. I was also a bit sicker in the first trimester and felt more tired, but that could have been because I was busy running after a toddler and so couldn’t rest as much.
Now, at 21 weeks, I’m smack-dab in the middle of the pregnancy—and the second trimester honeymoon period. I find myself thinking, “What the hell were we thinking?” a lot less often these days. Not that we don’t want Kiwi 100%—it’s just that when your first child is a hot mess and you haven’t eaten anything that wasn’t beige in like two months and you are tired enough to lie down on the kitchen floor and never get up, the thought of adding a nurse-all-the-time, sleep-none-of-the-time newborn into the mix sounds like a lot of crazy. So I’m fully enjoying my in-between trimester. I love feeling Kiwi kick and can’t wait for the first time Peeper feels her little sister move. Sometimes Peeper waves hello at my belly, greeting Kiwi. And in the last week, she has taken to lying with her head on my growing bump as I rock her during wind-down time.
Peeper’s still too young to get that she will soon relinquish her only-child status, but I like to think that she and Kiwi are already forging their sister bond. My siblings and I grew up casting each other in elaborate make-believe games, arguing over whose turn it was to bring down the dirty laundry and relying on each other for pretty much everything. I can’t imagine life without them. And I can think of no better gift than to give Peeper a sibling.
I was in my hotel room while on a business trip when my mom emailed me a video of Peeper. Whereas Austin was foggy, rainy and cold, Portland had the kind of weather that just begged to be enjoyed outside. So Nana and Peeper had spent most of the day at the park near our house.
I clicked the video and watched as Peeper climbed a set of stairs, sat down at the top of the slide and zoomed down—all. by. herself. She looked so grown-up navigating the playground that the realization hit me like a two-ton steer: Peeper is big.
Maybe it took a little distance to gain the perspective that she has become such an independent toddler. Now, if you don’t have kids, the feat of sliding solo might not seem so impressive. But it wasn’t that long ago that Peeper was unsteady on her feet; a short time before that, I celebrated when she could sit up by herself. I can still feel that warm, floppy newborn weight in my arms from even before that.
What a contrast to today.
This 20-month-old Peeper doesn’t often let me forget that she’s leaving babyhood far in the dust. She runs down hills and climbs over big rocks, flashing me a triumphant smile when she gets to the top.
She works to get what she wants, too. When, for example, she asks for a song at dinner, I explain that I can’t exactly sing with my mouth full and that “Old MacDonald” will have to wait. “Sing a song,” she repeats. Then, “Mama sing a song. How about Dada sing a song? Sing a song right now. Sing a song meantime? How about sing a song!” She’s as focused as a border collie with a tennis ball.
She’s not all single-minded independence, though—at least not yet. She still snuggles on my lap and wants to be held. Even if her requests of “Up, Mama!” are exasperating while I’m trying to cobble together dinner, I’m grateful that she still craves closeness.
This is the back-and-forth she and I will navigate. One minute, she’ll be tromping around the playground without my help. Then the next minute, she’ll whoosh down the slide—into my arms.
When we were growing up, my siblings and I sometimes had to go to Carma’s. Looking back, the day care surely wasn’t legal—it entailed dozens of kids and one grumpy woman more concerned about her soaps and her dogs than the children under her care, it seemed.
I vividly remember the vinyl couch and carpet covers that protected against spills. I remember one time when a queue of little kids stared at me as I sat on the toilet—a mortifying experience that told me I was holding up their pre-nap pee. I remember Carma once fixed me an egg salad sandwich instead of my usual PB&J and I sat at the table, horrified, deciding between eating a hated food or getting scolded.
Most of all, though, I remember that each child was allowed only one piece of paper to color. I would plan out my artistic vision, carefully choose my crayons and cover every inch of white—on both sides, of course.
Looking back, my heart breaks for 5-year-old me. There I was, stuck in a miserable day care I hated, with my one escape—Crayolas and art—arbitrarily limited.
Peeper, thankfully, is blissfully unaware that a limit on paper could actually exist. When she paints, she does so with a gleeful abandon, mashing her palms in the paint and clapping her rainbow-hued hands together. “Another one!” she says as she fills each page with smears of color. Before long, art covers the table, counters and even the stove.
Eric and I stood in the bare living room, grinning at each other. We had just received the keys to our new home, the first property either of us has owned. We were saying good-bye to cramped apartment living, chain-smoking neighbors and car alarms that consistently blared in the middle of the night.
We had ordered pizza because that’s what you do the first night in your new place. Finn and Edie had been sprinting in circles, taking advantage of all the space and complete lack of furniture.
We weren’t going to spend the night; we had hardly begun packing, in fact. We were just about to head back to the apartment when we changed Peeper’s diaper.
If you’re a billionaire who brought the world Tic Tacs, Ferrero-Rocher and—even better—Nutella, what better day to die than Valentine’s Day?
Michele Ferrero, who invented the delicious chocolate-hazelnut spread, passed away over the weekend, leaving a world that much more delicious thanks to his sweets empire.
A while back, I made a batch of Nutella pielettes—basically, tiny tart-pies—for a friend’s pie-off party. Alas, they didn’t win, but I think they turned out pretty phenomenal.
In honor of Ferrero and his mouthwatering legacy, here’s the recipe. Don’t forget to toast to the late real-life Willy Wonka when you pop one of these morsels into your mouth.
There’s no denying it: This child is a water baby—or, in the Ryan family lexicon, a water weasel.
During our vacation in Mexico, Peeper spent almost every waking minute in the water. After breakfast, we headed to the pool or beach. Then bath and nap. After waking up, we returned to the pool or beach. Then bath and bedtime.
