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.

Conversations with Preston

Preston has reached a point where he's talking all of the time, and it's so fun to hear what is going on in his little brain. I'm often tempted to post a Facebook status or tweet whenever he says something cute, but I try to keep from being that person on social media (all bets are off on my Instagram, though). So I thought I'd start a little series on conversations with Preston so I can share them and have them stored away to look back on some day.

Playing with his singing steering wheel:
Preston: "Ooh ooh! We here!"
Me: "Where are you going?"
Preston: "Walmart!"
Me: "What are you going to get?"
Preston: "Gross-ies (groceries) … and cookies!"

When we leave the house in Scott's car:
Preston: "Ready! We goin'! Bye, Mommy's car!"

Overheard on the baby monitor one morning, talking about his blanket bear:
"Mommy's bear? Nooo! Daddy's bear? Nooo! Coco's bear? Nooo! Pops' bear? Nooo!" (This went on in loop for a while.)

After splashing water on the floor:
Preston: "Eww! Mess!"
Me: "Who made that mess?"
Preston: "Pops!"

While Scott and I were getting ready:
Preston to Scott, who wasn't wearing a shirt: "Daddy! Shirt!"
Scott: "You want me to wear a shirt?"
Preston: "Uh-huh, myson (bison) shirt!"

After he'd thrown a fit getting out of the bathtub and I told him to use his words when he's upset:
Me: "OK, so why did you get so mad?"
Preston: "(whining) Frustrated!" Then he collapsed onto my shoulder.

When Scott went to get him out of bed:
Scott: "Preston, where's Mommy?"
Preston: "Doing dishes."

Sitting at the table:
Preston: "Hmmmm…"
Me: "What are you doing?"
Preston: "Finking (Thinking)," and taps on his chin with his spoon.

Looking at a J.Crew catalog:
Preston: "Oh, Mommy! (pointing to model on the front) Dress, Mommy! Mommy's cute! Cute Mommy!" (Nothing makes a five-month pregnant lady feel better than being mistaken for a model — and being cute too!)

P.S. I took these pictures the other night while we were all outside. They feature Preston's two favorite things — golf and cold water. He literally requests "Cold water!!" every night in the bathtub and was happy to find it can come from the hose, too.

My favorite Netflix documentaries

We've reached that point in the summer where all of your old favorite shows are in reruns, you've already watched this week's "Bachelorette," and the rain messed up your recording of "Halt and Catch Fire." OK, so all of that may just be me, but I think we can agree that there's not a whole lot to watch during the summer. Sure, that probably means you should be outside catching lightening bugs, reading a book, or eating dinner with friends late into the evening, but when you love TV like I do, a DirecTV guide full of "American Ninja Warrior" and "Shark Tank" is truly upsetting. #couchpotatoproblems

This is where Netflix comes to the rescue. Sure, they've got great series you can binge on to get you caught up for the fall (we tried starting "Call the Midwife," but after one episode I decided I was too hormonally imbalanced to handle it right now), but lately Scott and I have gotten into some of the documentaries they offer. 

"The Short Game"

This movie focuses on the best young golfers in the world who are competing in North Carolina to be the world champion and hope to be the next big golfer — once they get a later bedtime, of course. Not only are these nine kids the movie follows adorable, but they are incredible golfers. I loved watching their determination and persistence in practicing and improving their golf game right alongside their goofy, 7-year-old ways. The movie took me through the whole range of emotions, from joy when they succeeded to heartbreak when they didn't do as well as they hoped. 

"Muscle Shoals"

This documentary tells the story of Rick Hall who founded FAME Studios in Muscle Shoals, Alabama.  In his studio, he developed a signature sound that made FAME a popular place to record for many artists and helped launch some big name artists and hit songs. It's full of great music and some surprising stories — like how Aretha Franklin was dropped by her original record label because she wasn't selling, only to be re-signed by another and take a trip to Muscle Shoals, which helped propel her to the star she is today. 

"Undefeated"

Filmed at a high school in Memphis, this movie tells the story of the Manassas Tigers football team as they attempt a winning season after years of losing. They're turned around by their head coach, who teaches them character and how to excel on and off the field. It won the Academy Award for Best Documentary in 2012. We found about about this movie because one of the students Scott was recruiting was actually part of the team when it was filmed. Now he gets to put "featured in an Academy Award winning film" on his resume for life. If you love heartwarming sports movies about a rag-tag team who comes together under the leadership of their coach, then you'll love this one!

"Mitt"

"I have looked, by the way, at what happens to anybody in this country who loses as the nominee of their party. They become a loser for life, all right? That's it. It’s over." That's one of the first things you hear from Republican presidential nominee hopeful Mitt Romney in a 2007 fundraiser. That idea sets the tone for the documentary since we, the audience, know his ultimate fate in losing the nomination to John McCain in that election and going on to lose the presidency to Barak Obama four years later. It provides an interesting personal look into Romney's life, making him seem less robotic than what many voters saw on the campaign trail. It was a great look behind the scenes, and I especially enjoyed seeing his family's perspective, since I never thought much about the toll the process of his running for president must have on them.

So, there you have it. What are you watching this summer? Or are you one of those "we don't even own a TV" types? If so, to quote Joey from "Friends," "What does all of your furniture point at?"

The mom who knew too much

Scott and I met up with my parents in Memphis over Memorial Day weekend. We found a little park for Preston to play on before we went to dinner, so my mom and I sat watching Scott and my dad show Preston how to go down the tube slide. While I watched Preston cross a bouncing bridge and peer down the slide, I asked my mom, "How did you ever let us play on a playground? That side is wide open for kids to get to the monkey bars, and it's a three-foot drop down! And we used to climb along the tops of the bars and jump off!" "There was a lot of gasping and jumping on my part," she said. "But you were always OK."

While it seems impossible now, at some point Preston will be climbing and leaping and swinging from those bars all on his own, like my sister and I and millions of children before us, and he'll get blisters or scrapes or fall and get the breath knocked out of him, like my sister and I and millions of children before us. And he'll be OK — like my sister and I and millions of children before us.

And those aren't even the scariest things he'll do in his lifetime.

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about the balance between protecting my children and teaching them independence. I keep dwelling on a scene from "Full House" (that beacon of parental wisdom) where Uncle Jesse and Aunt Becky are at odds with each other about which parenting technique is better for their twin boys. They flash forward to the future, and one — influenced by Becky — is a whiney, teenage nerd who still needs cornstarch sprinkled in his pants for diaper rash while the other — lead by Jesse — has multiple tattoos and is too wild to control. While I know there's an in between that is better, sometimes I prefer the idea of the teenage nerd with corn starch in his pants. At least I'd know he's not getting into trouble!

All this thinking was spurred on further by this article I read on Salon.com. The title, "The day I left my son in the car," had me sickeningly panicked from the beginning, afraid something terrible happened to her son. But it didn't. The four-year-old wanted to stay in the car and play a game on the iPad while she made a quick run into the store. It was an overcast, 50 degree day; she cracked the windows and locked the car and was in and out in less than five minutes. But a bystander saw her leave her son and reported her to the police. Now she was faced with a warrant for her arrest and a trial for endangering her son.

The main thought presented was that society has moved into a school of thought where children are completely unsafe when not under constant parental supervision and how that way of thinking is unfounded. How many times as kids were we left in the car and never thought about all of the ills that could befall? How many times were we free to roam the neighborhood or parks on our own? But now that seems completely reckless. The author speaks with a lady who points out that the most dangerous thing she did was not leaving her child in the car but putting him in the car at all — as more children die in wrecks than in parked cars. But we hear the bad, the one in a million stories, and we as parents feel that we must protect our children from everything. We know too much.

Anything could happen is a common refrain voiced by such parents. And I know what they mean. We’ve seen the television movies about abducted children. We’ve heard the heart-rending stories of kids injured in carjackings, or forgotten in sweltering cars. And once you imagine something, imagine what it must have been like for that parent or child who suffered it, it’s not a great leap to imagine it happening to you or your child, and then, if you’re like most parents, you will do anything in your power to prevent it. It’s not a matter of likelihood or statistical significance, but the terrible power of our imagination.

That hit home with me in a powerful way — because I completely get that. Stories about people who fall, break their nose, and the bone shard penetrates their brain race to the forefront of my mind when I see Preston running with reckless abandon. Stories like Natasha Richardson's fall on the ski slopes and undiagnosed concussion that lead to her death echo alongside the thud of Preston's head when he knocks it on the bath tub faucet. Snake bites, West Nile Virus, food-born illness, broken bones, car wrecks, abductions, drowning … I've thought long, hard and fitfully about them all, not to mention all of the school shootings and other general crazies out there. Forget the nerdy, corn starched teen — Preston's going to be a bubble boy at this rate.

My friend Hannah posted about dropping off her eldest at camp. She mentioned one girl had fallen on day one and broken her leg. "Sooo sad! Poor girl. And poor parents of all children, having to learn to let our kids spread their wings and explore and break bones," she wrote. And there it was: Not only is it important for children to learn independence, but it's important for their parents to learn to accept that independence and allow it to happen. I feel like I could break out into hives when I think about Preston going to school, being around kids I don't know with a teacher I don't know making decisions without my supervision. But I have to trust in the kid I've raised that he won't do anything truly stupid and that, if he does, one part of learning comes from acquiring bruises, broken bones, broken hearts and other uncomfortable consequences. I can impart what wisdom I have, but another big part of children's learning comes from experiences all their own.

It's a difficult thing to learn … that "Let It Go" is more than a catchy, now overplayed song from a Disney movie.

It's a girl!

Yesterday, Scott and I got to see sweet baby #2 when I went for my second ultrasound. It's amazing how babies go from little beans at nine weeks to fully looking like a human at 18 weeks. After marveling at the baby's profile, tiny fingers and froggy legs, the ultrasound nurse told us that baby was a girl. While part of me was surprised (I just knew it was a boy), the other part of me felt like she was telling me something I already knew.

When we found out Preston's gender, I had been certain he was a girl, so in my mind being certain it was a boy this time around just meant we were getting a girl. Also, Preston had been telling us it was going to be a baby sister for a couple of months already, and he's a pretty smart kid.

It was fun to see the already apparent differences in my two children at this stage during my ultrasound. With Preston, he never really moved much or seemed bothered by the ultrasound wand invading his space. There were a couple of times after an ultrasound where I wondered if Preston could actually move his legs because he kicked around so little in those brief moments where we could watch him on a screen. He was always a chilled, laid back baby on the inside and continues to be one (for the most part) on the outside.

Baby girl, on the other hand — not so much. From the minute the ultrasound wand was pressed against my stomach, you could tell she did not enjoy having her space invaded. She kicked and wiggled, trying to get away as best she could. I've noticed that the best way to feel her kick is to curl my legs up in front of me to give her a little less room. It gets her stirred up every time. Looks like we need to be ready for a girl who needs her own space.

Prior to this ultrasound, Scott and I had decided not to do too much planning until we knew the gender. We got to enjoy a nice little stretch of expecting a baby while not fussing with the logistics too much. Now, it makes the reality of everything sink in a little more. Baby sister will be here in four and a half months! We've got to start making decisions — the biggest one at the moment being what we'll call her.

While baby now has a pronoun, she doesn't have a proper noun. Girls' names seem to be much harder to decide on than boys names for me. Scott and I spent the majority of the time batting names back and forth while waiting for the doctor yesterday. Every name was either connected to a person one of us had a bad memory of, sounded like we were trying too hard, or just wasn't a good name. The naming conundrum always brings me back to this "Friends" scene.

So, for now, we'll start pulling the newborn stuff out of storage while running through ever-growing lists of girl names. Too bad Vito is a boy's name.

Image via Pixels.com