Survival Mode

In order to increase the likelihood of all members of this household (including poor Viviane) making it through Spring Break week unscathed, Mom has tried to pack as many structured activities a possible into the next eight days.  Starting with a slumber-party-themed playdate.  (The princess theme was unannounced, but of course implied.)

We wore our pajamas. Laid out sleeping bags. Watched (20 minutes of) a movie.  Ate popcorn.  And instead of ordering in pizza, we made it!

 

12 months

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12 months

The eve of One

Tonight, Remy, on the last night we will ever officially measure your age in months ... on the last night before the following calendar day will no longer be your first ... Mom took a little extra time to savor your goodness.  She thought it extra important -- especially tonight -- to capture your nightly ritual together.  To capture it in photos and in her mind before it gets away from us.

Because we blinked and all the sudden you were One.

To Remy on the cusp of One

Dear Remy,

Friday you turn one.

Five years ago when I turned one, there was a joyous restaurant-based celebration involving a 2-tier cake and many friends and family.

 

Two years later, when Rowan turned one, there was a joyous restaurant-based celebration involving a 3-tier cake, even more friends and family, balloon artistry and some clownage. 

Three years later, however, the only clown at this first birthday will be YOU for letting Mom get away with a party she calls "understated" but we-who-know-better call "lame".  No restaurant.  No 3-tier cake.  Only the most immediate of family.  And old-fashioned balloons in the shape of...you know...balloons.  Blah.

See, not only were you unfortunately last in line for conception, condemning you to a life of primarily "gently-used" toys and "vintage" clothing, adding insult to injury is the fact that your birthday is at the tail end of birthday-party season.

The season kicked off in December with much anticipation from Rowan for a spectacular birthday party, which included a visit from from Rapunzel.

Which only forced mom to up the ante for my birthday the following month.

And now that March is here, Mom's clocked out of the overblown-birthday-celebration business, exhausted by the thought of big cakes, princesses and goody bags. And you're only enabling her through your concerning level of indifference.

You act as if you care not. As if you're gonna take this sitting down.

Which, technically speaking, is really the only way you are developmentally capable of taking this, given that (like Rowan and I were at your age) you are nowhere close to standing or walking.

But despite the lack of fanfare around your transition to one-dom, it's been an awesome year, my little sisterly friend.  You learned to smile.  You learned to roll over and sit up and crawl.  You learned to say "mama" and "dada" and "up" and "more."  You learned to tolerate two sisters who love on you often and sometimes too enthusiastically.  You've developed a wicked arm when it comes throwing things off your high chair and you are a pro and ever patient at answering the question, "How big is Remy?" even though we ask you about ten times a day.

And when you take a step back and think about it, you can't help but realize that love is not measured in restaurant fare or tiers of cake or headcounts or presents or balloon dogs.  It's measured in how much celebration there is around all these small but special moments and milestones on the way to your birthdays.  And despite the fact that you're walking crawling a path already treaded twice before, the joy and celebrations around these moments have been no less spectacular.

It's just a little harder to quantify without the clown.

Love,
Jillian