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?

Last night Charlotte and I came down after her bath and Greyson was watching TV.

Greyson: “Goodfellas is on.”

It’s pretty much understood that when Goodfellas is on, you just watch it.  I mean, that movie is amazing.  You don’t NOT leave Goodfellas on.  Right?  I stood in the living room and stared at the TV.  We got sucked into at least five minutes of Henry’s story as he met Karen.

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Greyson: “This movie is so awesome.”

Me: “I love this movie.”

Charlotte: “I love this movie too!”

::pause::

Whoops.  I scooped up my tot and whisked her away from the mobster excess.  It’s cool, the blow and pistol whipping weren’t in any of the scenes she saw.  All of Joe Pesci’s lines were made safe for TV with “freakin.”  Still, maybe the only time to not watch Goodfellas is when my impressionable toddler is around.  Parents of the year, 2013.

“You know, we always called each other goodfellas. Like you’d say to somebody: You’re gonna like this guy, he’s all right. He’s a goodfella. He’s one of us. You understand?”  -Henry Hill (Ray Liotta), Goodfellas

Charlotte has been looking a bit shaggy and I wanted to get her spruced up a bit for Easter next week.  I took her to one of those kiddie salons today.  We’ve been really hit or miss with this place.  They made her first haircut cute and special, but then gave her a hot-mess mullet another time.

We walked in and there was a child screaming.  I mean awful screaming like someone was scalping her.  I looked up and was shocked to see that I could indeed see her scalp because the stylist was shaving this baby’s head.  I sat with other Americans staring at these parents trying to comfort their screaming child with their deep accents.  Even though the baby was clearly unhappy, the parents were elated and proud.  The stylist carefully collected a lock the child’s hair in a bag to take home.

A quick Google search informed me this special ritual is called a mundan and is an important time in the life of a Hindu child.  Cool, right?  It was neat that we got to see it.

I did not know this at the time, however, and was dealing with my own tired and hungry tot.  I just wanted their screaming child to leave so mine could get her haircut.

After I took this adorable photo, Charlotte was a force to be reckoned with.  She screamed the entire time.  No amount of animal crackers, cartoons or iPhone distractions would soothe her.  Other parents looked at me with either sympathy or annoyance.  I avoided eye-contact with them.

All my efforts were useless.  I threatened her with a time-out.  I told her the Easter Bunny was watching her.  I bribed her with the holy grail of good-behavior prizes, the Dum-Dum lollipops the stylist had.  She took the bait, but then said, “I want a purple one!”

Oh God.  Not purple.  Anything but purple.  I can’t stand the smell or taste of anything with artificial grape flavoring.  It was never the alcohol in a Jell-o shot that turned my tummy in college.  Nope, I would only lose my liquor if I accidentally took a grape shooter.  I don’t even like my sacred red or orange popcicles to be near the purple ones in the box for fear of any purple enfusion.  This extreme aversion stems from an unfortunate stomach flu as a child after being given a dose of grape flavored Children’s Tylenol.  It was traumatic and the reason no purple candy touches my lips.

For a moment Charlotte stopped her screaming and happily sucked her purple lollipop.  I was safely in the parent’s chair.  She started up again and could not be soothed.  I reminded her that the last kid got her head shaved and she was just getting a trim.  The screams continued.  The stylist suggested I hold her.  Oh God!  I grimiced as my child wailed and smeared her sticky purple pop across my face.  I held my breath, so as not to inhale the purple fumes.  Ugh!  I got a whiff and instantly my mind went back to that night when I was six at my grandmothers and the grape evil escaped my body.

To add to this salon fiasco, the stylist decided to take the time to add a little braid, ribbons and a butterfly clip a-la 1996 to her hair.  Seriously?!  I was gagging, my kid continued to wail, and this woman was giving her a “princess style!?”  The topper was what she did next.  The stylist took a handful of gold glitter and tossed it on my kid’s head.  She said, “It’s fairy dust!”  I think I smiled and said, “Oh!  Fairy Dust!” In my brain I screamed, “Lady! Are you %&#*+=@ crazy!?  Who puts glitter on a two-year-old?  This #&^% is gonna be all over my house for weeks!”

I believe this whole experience was my penance for being a culturally insensitive, impatient American.  The grape lollipop ended up in my hair with chunks of glitter stuck in it.  The smell alone made me want to shave my head.

It’s been busy for us.  Work.  Putting the house on the market.  Everything.  This makes me stop.  Every time I watch it I get all glowy and my heart swells up.  Charlotte learned “You Are My Sunshine” at school and regales us with it often.  I can’t get enough of how she says “shunshine.”

You are our light, sweet girl.  We love your song.

We’ll be gone a few days.  Greyson and I are taking off on a little trip.  I’m so excited I could burst.  We’re basically making my geek pilgrimage to The Wizarding World of Harry Potter.  I promise to Instagram, Vine and Tweet my way through.  I also promise to wear my Time Turner necklace.  Yep, I have one haters.  Don’t hate.  See you soon!

Dear Daughter,

Your addiction has effected me negatively in the following ways:

• You can’t sit down to a meal at our home or go to a restaurant without getting a fix.  We as a family should be able to dine together without you having to have a drink every time.  
• When you drink you act differently, most often a hyper sugar high, followed by a tear filled-crash.
• I can no longer watch you fumble and get frustrated with the plastic straw in the carton.
• I have seen you scream and throw your carton on the Barnes & Noble train table, splashing your drink all over the Thomas the Tank Engine.
• I find cartons in your car seat and by your high chair.
• Your addiction makes me feel like I am failing you as a mother if I don’t give you what you want.
• If you don’t get a drink you throw a fit and cry until you do.  As your mother, I can no longer listen to your wails for “chokate milk!”

I am here today asking you to get help.   I will no longer be an enabler.  I will not be the person who fuels your addiction any more.  I can’t stand by and watch you douse Thomas & Friends in a sugar-fueled rage.  I no longer will let you pick a carton from the Starbucks cooler thinking it is “just this once.”  I now know that Ovaltine is not any better, it just made me feel better to give it to you because it had “vitamins.”

Sometimes I blame myself because I breast fed you for a year and I have to think the only thing as delicious as my milk is chocolate milk.

Please accept the gift of help we are offering you today.  We are now a “dry” home, free of sugar laced milk.  You will now only drink plain milk and water.  I know sometimes they give you juice at school and I can live with that, but we will no longer have chocolate milk in our house.

I love you and I want what is best for your teeth and our sanity as a family.

Love,

Mama

P.S. If this is ever really for drugs and not a tongue-in-cheek blog post, I will drag your butt to rehab.  If you refuse, I will send you to jail because I’m not putting up with that crap.  Consider chocolate milk your warning.