Maybe it’s  because it’s Shark Week. Maybe it’s because of that scary story that came out this week about Usher’s son. But, water safety has been on my mind this week. We have decided we officially have a water baby. I swear our child is part fish. She LOVES being in the pool. She loves summer and our little daredevil is happy to push away from us as she learns to jump off the side of the pool into our cautiously open arms. I in no way want to squash this enthusiasm. I love the fact that my 2 1/2 year-old  loves kicking, blowing bubbles and dunking her whole head in the water. I remember to my younger sister wailing during swim lessons at the pool because she didn’t want to get her face wet. I was far from a super swimmer myself, even though I was on the swim team for a few years.

As my daughter grins and giggles, inside I am reeling with anxiety that she will go under and we will not be able to get to her. I have horrible flashbacks to my early days of motherhood with Postpartum Depression when I was forever worried that she would drown in a pool, the ocean 2 hours away, lakes 20 miles away, the bath, a puddle or a heavy rain. I often let my husband take the lead on swimming in the big pool. I usually relax after a little while and we have a great time. The pool we joined rocks and we always have fun with neighborhood events on Friday nights.

It seems to be a trend that every toddler wears a Puddle Jumper. Have you heard of these? They’re like an arm floatie/life jacket hybrid. I felt like a sorry excuse for a suburban pool mom for not having my kid stuffed in one of these.  I held off on buying any type of floatation device because I heard it stunts their swimming progress or whatever. I’ve also heard “No! You can’t buy those because then they might not know when they aren’t wearing one and jump in and sink!” Huh? I mean, I think she’s going to know when she’s wearing one.  We don’t own a pool because of my anxiety. (Okay, right. We don’t own a pool because that shit is expensive and we would never clean it.) I feel like that’s a problem for pool owners. She’s never going to wander into our backyard pool and sink, nor will she ever be at the neighborhood pool by herself.

I bought a life jacket anyway.  Why?  Because it made me feel more secure. It reduced my mama anxiety, which made it worth every penny of $24.95. I didn’t get a Puddle Jumper because we tried arm floaties and she hated having something on her arms. I went with a Speedo life jacket for toddlers. She calls it her “puffy vest.” We had a very serious conversation about how she can float above the water with her puffy vest on and how she needs to always hold on to Mama and Daddy when she doesn’t have it on. I think she has a pretty good grasp of this concept and it has made pool time much better for me.

What do you do to ensure water safety with your little one? What do you think of my life jacket decision?  Any thoughts?  Did I do the right thing?

Alright, let’s get through Shark Week with no water injuries, shall we?

For the past four days we have had uninterrupted time together as a family over the July 4th holiday. Aside from Instagram and Twitter, I strayed from the Internet and lived my life slightly unplugged.

I often found myself staring at my daughter. I tangled my fingers in her curls and listened to her imagination unravel in tales of princesses, and Little People farm animals. I heard her stories of microscopic, half-imaginary boo-boos that had appeared on her legs and arms. She was quick to regale us with opinions of what foods are yummy and which are yucky. She pushed us away in the water and tested her bravery as she explored jumping in the pool.

I noticed that more and more, my daughter is no longer a baby and I can’t stop her from continuing to grow up. We are along for the ride. Her ride. A ride through fairy tales and daredevil feats. I’ll be here to admire every curl and kiss every boo-boo.

It seems stupid, but lately it has amazed me that there are the exact same number of seconds in each day. Time is so relative, so precious. The evidence is right here on my blog. My life has been so busy that this space has been neglected in recent weeks after I saved it from near death.

Some days I collapse in the bed with knots in my back, knowing I can’t get everything done I need to do in 24 hours. Work, house, parenting, being a spouse, being a friend and writing a blog. It never gets all done.

The relevance of time was never so apparent to me than when I was recently talking to a stay-at-home mom who’s child will start kindergarten in a few months. We were discussing the start of school and where her child would be attending. She said, “It is just SUCH a long day for them!” (meaning the kids)

::blink::

I just stared at her.

Huh? Long day? I nervously laughed an said, “Um, yeah. Sometimes Charlotte gets to daycare at 7:15am or 7:30am and I can’t pick her up until almost 6:00pm.” My voice was filled with guilt mixed with bitterness toward her comment. Both of which were uncalled for. She meant nothing by her comment. It was my own insecurities coming out.

This was the class sign in sheet one day this week:

A few days before I was driving by an elementary school on my way to a client meeting. It was about 3:00pm when school let out. I thought about the future, “God, what are my kids going to do after school until we’re done with work? That’s a long time.”  See, time is relative.

It’s hard working and parenting. It’s also hard being with a little one all day. That’s not news to anyone. Her comment just caught me off guard. She went on to talk about how she needed some “down time” from her responsibilities at home.

Huh? I guess I think of my “down time” as the few hours I get to bathe, feed and play with my child. Then I get to sneak in some husband time and personal time.

Here’s the thing. I don’t know which one is better, working or being at home. It’s all about time. I just hope we all get the precious time we need.

Greyson let me sleep in while he got up to make me a spectacular breakfast.  Before that, he had to deal with a massive out-of-Pull-Up explosion Charlotte had overnight.  (Remind me of this before Father’s Day.)  We watched Kristen Wiig on Saturday Night Live on the DVR.  We took some time to blow some bubbles in the yard before I took off to get a much needed pedicure and made a Target run.  

After a family nap my mom came over to play with Charlotte and we ate dinner.  Mom and I left to see Carol Burnett perform at a theater.  My mom was always a fan of the Carol Burnett Show and we knew her being in town on Mother’s Day night would be the perfect gift.  The loud cackling across the theater?  That was us.

I figured this would be a good day to debut the bump at 15.5 weeks.  I hope your Mother’s Day was this awesome!

My child sleeping in a crib meant she was a baby.  She could stand and peer over the edge and push toys between the bars, but she was still confined to an infant’s sleeping conditions.  She may be a walking, talking toddler during the day, but she was my baby by night. I would rock her in her rocking chair before letting her retire to her crib.  It was heaven.

It was a little bittersweet removing that front part of the crib to make a toddler bed.  She suddenly seemed so grown-up in a bed instead of a crib.  We made the change just when Charlotte turned two back in November.  I had no idea, but this turned into the most delightful little surprise in my mommy life.  Every night for the last five months I have gone upstairs to check on her before going to bed.  Sometimes I have to arrange her ever lengthening limbs to keep her from falling eight inches onto the carpet.  I cover her with a blanket.

I’ve found I absolutely love not having the front of the crib on her bed anymore.

I sit on the floor and lay my head next to hers and let my fingers get tangled in her curls.  I listen to her breathe.  I rub her back and feel the rise and fall of each of her breaths.  I brush the back of my hand against her  cheeks and thank God that this beautiful healthy child is ours.

This is usually when she startles and pushes my hand away.  Then I smile because I really know she’s mine. I hate to be touched when I sleep, too.  I give my little independent sleeper one more peck before slipping out of the room.

I wonder what other bittersweet milestones will end up being very sweet, after all?