For the Love of Frosty

It may be February, but it’s still Christmastime in the Starlet household. An innocuous gift of “Frosty the Snowman” means that Mr. Starlet now has competition for Punk’s undying affections.

“Frosty the Snowman” never sees the inside of its case. At any given moment, Mr. Starlet can recite the next line or two or five. His favorite describes Frosty as “the best belly whopper in the world,” said in a thick New Jersey accent to render a perfect impression of the narrator.

As for Punk, she asks for Frosty morning, noon, and night. And to her, it’s absolutely critical that Mr. Starlet and I be kept updated on Frosty’s perilous journey.

When Frosty's hat is stolen by the magician, Punk cries out, "Hat! Hat!"

When Frosty heads to the train station to begin his trip to the North Pole, she announces, “Frosty home! Frosty go home!”

And when the final credits roll, we can hear her softly bidding Frosty adieu: “Bye, Frosty. See you later.”

Quickly followed by, “Again! Frosty, again!”

I love that at this point in her life, I can make everything OK at the press of a button.

One night after dinner, I decided to put off the dishes and join her for the second showing of “Frosty” that evening. And like any good mom, I decided to immerse myself in the angst I thought Punk was surely feeling as Frosty started to melt.

“Oh no! What’s going to happen to Frosty?,” I asked aloud.

Quietly she rolled over, patted my shoulder, and looked deep into my eyes.

“Frosty fine, Mommy. Frosty fine.”

Oh how I love this girl.

When Bunny Goes Missing

When Punk was born, we asked the nurse if she would eventually grow eyebrows. When at two months old she wasn't playing with her toys, we were concerned that she was developmentally delayed. First time parents are remarkably naiive. And the sad thing is that you're not aware of how naiive you were until you have a second child. Poor Poopalina. Our standards for ourselves as parents are so much lower these days. Or at least, we're not as anxiety-ridden when we we find Poopalina quietly gumming a half-eaten cracker Punk has left in her wake.

However, there is one thing that still causes our pulse to race and sweat to profusely pour from every gland in our body--when "Bunny" goes missing.

Eventually, Punk did begin playing with her toys and soon after her first birthday, she attached herself to a crocheted bunny that an acquaintance made for her shortly after her birth. Bunny is Punk's bestfriend. They play together. They eat together. They sleep together. They go to school together.

They are inseparable, except when Punk bores of Bunny's companionship and stuffs him in indiscreet hiding places--cabinets, under beds, her play oven, under a pile of books. Or drops him in the middle of Wal-Mart to grab something shiny off a nearby shelf.

When Bunny goes missing, Mr. Starlet and I panic.

And he did last week. Much to our horror, Bunny spent the night at school, stuffed inside the trunk of a ride-on firetruck. His absence was noted well after school was closed and while we maintain good relationships with her teachers, I couldn't bring myself to call them at 8:00 p.m. and demand Bunny's release.

There was a lot of crying. Punk cried, too. Especially at bedtime when we couldn't produce anything to remotely take the place of her faithful friend. We talked repeatedly about how Bunny was having a "sleep over" at school and that we'd go retrieve him first thing the next morning. Which we did. We were all a little worse for wear the next day, Bunny included.

I am already dreading the day that Punk decides to leave Bunny behind as she runs out the door to go to school. I think I'll have to call in sick that day and use Bunny to sop up my tears. As it is, he's already having to share 'travel companion' status with the likes of He-Man. Really, the guys with six-pack abs and a magical sword ruin everything.  

And that day is coming soon. She's started to occasionally call me "Mom," not "Mommy." While I could argue that it's because she's advanced well beyond her years (which she is, of course), it's probably just easier to spit out in rapid-fire. "Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! Baby eating Bunny! BUUUUNNNNNNYYYY!"



Baby Bliss

I'm officially not accepting calls on Tuesday nights anymore. Not since I discovered "One Born Every Minute," a Lifetime reality show documenting real labors and deliveries at Riverside Methodist Hospital. Cleverly, Lifetime installed 40 ceiling-mounted cameras in the labor and delivery ward. Each camera has the ability to rotate 360 degrees, giving viewers a first-row seat for each of these miracle deliveries.

I love this show.

It doesn't help that it premiered on the heels of a weekend spent watching "Father of the Bride I" and "Father of the Bride II." And then "Father of the Bride II," again. Or that after watching "Father of the Bride II" the first time, I gushed all over Mr. Starlet that I want to have more children. Four, to be exact. Better yet, twins the next time! Or that after watching the first episode of "One Born Every Minute," I gave Mr. Starlet a play-by-play review and asked him to watch the second episode with me. Right now.

My ovaries are aching, especially since I realized that Punk was Poopalina's age when the stork surprised us. Again.

It also doesn't help that Punk will soon turn 2. I remember when we dressed her to bring her home from the hospital and she practically drowned in her Newborn-sized outfit. Now she's clunking around in my shoes, slinging purses over her shoulder, and asking to wear Mommy's sunglasses.

It hurts. It's wonderful and unforgettable and a wouldn't-trade-a-single minute kind of perfect. But it's going too quickly, and only getting faster.

Sigh.

My Favorite Genes

Right now, my jeans and I are playing tug-of-war over my hips. I could blame Poopalina. But the reality is that I'm genetically predisposed to a chocolate addiction. Read, I'm genetically predisposed to wearing my chocolate addiction. On my hips, thighs, stomach, and...well, everywhere. It's just fluff. A little extra padding. More to love, right?

And as I find myself in the kitchen more and more, baking fresh bread or losing sleep over absolutely perfect pear tortes, this fluff seems to be settling in for the long haul. Or at least until I actually start jogging with our jogging stroller.

Which reminds me, I'm genetically predisposed to an exercise allergy. It's true. Terrible, terrible reactions.

Mr. Starlet and I long ago came to the conclusion that genetically, we're complete opposites. And while I could mourn the fact that pigs will fly before skinny jeans grace these thighs, I have to admit that I love the genes I'm sporting.

For starters, my great grandmother is alive, well, and, at times, still a bit feisty. Life has slowed her down some, but her social calendar is more full than mine. She owns the land upon which she still lives. She has survived breast cancer. She has survived the loss of her husband and best friend. She never apologizes and doesn't eat sweets. Although she enjoys drinking them.

She has aged stubbornly, if not gracefully, and it was only in the past couple of years that my grandfather convinced her to use a walker--after much cajoling, a few falls, and several loving threats.

While I wouldn't define her as the matriarch of our family, she is certainly an example of our genetic potential.

Mr. Starlet's on the other hand...Let's just say that there are worse things than fluff. And that's why we have life insurance.

If my hips are to be my greatest ill, I am blessed. If I go before Mr. Starlet, I hope my hips fit the chocolate-lined coffin I'm sure he's going to select. And if Mr. Starlet goes before I do, more cake for me.

It's not like I share much anyway.

Because

Because two days after my last entry, I found out I was pregnant.

Because five seconds later, Mr. Starlet and I were hanging our heads over the toilet (albeit for slightly different reasons).

Because we didn’t know how easy we had it when Punk couldn’t walk or talk.

Because now that she can, we can’t sit or think.

Because our newest tried to make her debut several months early.

Then several days early.

Because when she finally did, I fell head-over-heels in love.

Because three minutes later she earned the nickname, “Poopalina.”

Because Punk now knows how to unlock doors.

And color on the walls.

And bite.

And throw world-class tantrums.

And delights us with her dancing.

And singing.

And contagious laugh.

Because Poopalina developed colic five days after help left.

And food allergies.

And a penchant for refusing to sleep. At all.

And stops our breath with a single smile.

And coo.

And giggle.

And because we’re enjoying every I’m-too-tired-to--see-straight-anymore moment, I’ve not updated this blog in nearly a year.