Actually pretty in pink

Let me be the first to say that I never ever ever thought my daughter would have a pink room. I have been waging the fight agains the frilly since the ultrasound nurse said "Girl!" As a young girl, I never liked pink. It's not so much the color itself, just the super girliness it seems to represent. I distinctly remember sitting in church, face red from crying and arms folded tightly, because my mom had made me wear a pink dress that day. And I was probably 12 — a little too old for such pouting. While I wasn't coordinated enough to wear the title of tomboy, I definitely wasn't a girly girl.

And this anti-girly girl mindset came into play when making decisions for baby girl. In my mind there would be no poofy dress that looks like a cupcake trying to swallow my child, there would be no Carmen Miranda bows the size of grapefruits adorned with feathers and sparkles strapped to her head, and there would be no glitter, no rhinestones, and no tulle. Sure, I want her to be feminine and sweet, but styled like a contestant on "Toddlers in Tiaras." I wanted the same style for her room, and to me that meant little to no pink.

Who would've thought that it would actually be Scott who selected the color and changed my mind about it. His way of preparing for baby has been planning her room, and it's been so sweet to watch him searching the Web, pinning what he likes to a secret pinboard (The boy's on Pinterest! It doesn't get much cuter). When he sent me what he had in mind, I was surprised with how much I liked it. While it did have pink, it was a pale pink, and paired with a kelly green in her bedding and curtains, it was just too perfect to say no to.

Thanks to our friends Katie and Nate, baby girl's room got painted this Saturday. Scott and Nate worked hard while Katie and I entertained Preston with sidewalk chalk, golf, and the sprinkler. Our part was much less difficult.

Now with the paint, it really feels like baby girl's room is beginning to take shape, even if it is only a pink room with a white dresser/changing table in it right now. And even though I've accepted the pink, I still stand firm on my cupcake dresses policy.

Fourth in four

While last year's Fourth of July consisted of moving and boxes and more boxes and boxes within those boxes, this Fourth was a lot less cardboard heavy and a lot more kick your feet up and eat some more. I will always prefer the latter. Here's what we were up to in Instagrams.

1. While bomb popsicles are definitely marketed to a younger crowd, I was the one who requested them for the weekend. (Really, I passed it off on baby girl. She's quite demanding.) They were the perfect accompaniment to sitting outside (With highs in the 80s, it was heavenly!) and watching Preston splash in the wading pool his Gran got him. Preston was hooked at first bite, but a little confused by the word popsicle. After he finished his bite, he said, "Oh! Ice cream!" Now we were speaking his language!

2. We kept Preston up way past his 8:15 bedtime to venture to the next town over for their fireworks show that Friday night. The noise and the lights frightened him a bit, so he and my mother-in-law watched from inside the car. (Once again, when on any other Fourth of July in recent memory could you sit in a turned off car and not pass out from heatstroke two minutes in?) Afterward, Preston said the fireworks were "Too bright!" and "Too loud!" but "Better in car."

3. We capped off Saturday by roasting the biggest marshmallows you've ever seen for s'mores. From the moment we got to Scott's mom's Thursday night to the time we left Sunday afternoon, I was never hungry. I ate, but it was never because my stomach growled and let me know I was running on empty. I mean, you've got to try at least one rib fresh out of the smoker, even if it's 11 p.m., right?

4. Since we were outside most of the weekend, it was obvious that the Rhino would make an appearance. Preston loved it, but you couldn't tell by his face. He took it all very seriously with the little crease between his eyebrows present for the entirety of his ride. Scott let him sit in his lap and "steer" while they made slow loops around the yard, and I thought after that we'd never get either one of them back inside.

Preston's two year old photos

Preston likes a lot of things: The Today Show, a pink stuffed giraffe originally intended for baby sister, Cheetos, bubbles, being splashed with cold water, scaring people, Jimmy Fallon, ice cream, making funny faces, Monster's University and Monster's Inc., going outside, playing drums, and his paci.

But there is one thing Preston loves. In fact, you might say he's obsessed. This boy cannot get enough golf. He loves to play with his little plastic set of clubs, whacking white, plastic golf balls all over the yard calling, "Nice shot!" He wakes up from his Sunday afternoon naps asking to watch golf because he knows it's on. He calls the reflexes hammer from his doctor kit his club and hits his pacis across the living room floor. The other day while I was brushing my teeth, he started jumping up and down with his hands over his head chanting, "Play golf! Play golf!" for no real reason at all.

It's obvious why it seemed so fitting that his two year photos incorporate his deep love for golf. After rescheduling with Cassie numerous times (If you're ever in need of rain, let me know and I'll schedule a shoot with Cassie. It works like a charm), we finally were able to meet up at the local country club and get Preston's pictures on their practice putting green. The boy was in heaven. I had to hide the clubs for the first half just so he would sit and get some non-golf pictures first.

I absolutely love the finished result and how they really freeze Preston just as he is now, which is something I cherish even more as he seems to be growing so quickly now. I couldn't ask for a boy much better than this one. And all the sudden, that's what he is — a boy, a walking, talking, opinion-having, giggling, cheerful, albeit stubborn boy. I find myself searching for traces of the baby we brought home. I see glimpses in his chubby cheeks or the way he sleeps with his lips puckered and apart like a little fish. But there are more signs of the big boy he's becoming. Bruises on his legs, dirt under his nails, and little fists clinched tightly around any ball he can find and throw. And while it's sad to see the baby in him fade away, I sure do love this boy of mine.