Daylight Savings AGAIN?!

Out of sorts. But not Emo malaise.

It has come to my attention- and not for the first time, either- that the institution of Daylight Savings is a terrible idea. Truly awful.

Lemme 'splain.

1. Neither I, nor anyone in my immediate family or scope of reference, has now or at any time been A FARMER. I care not about an extra hour of crop harvestin'. Or an hour less. (I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHICH ONE IT BENEFITS.) All know is that it is now getting dark at 4:30pm. And my internal clock has no idea when Jeopardy should be on.

2. Babies and/or toddlers have no respect for this time change. They still get up when they get up- except now it can happen as early as 5am. Naptime has the potential to blend with lunchtime, sometimes rendering both events nonexistent. You know what's better than a two year-old who has forgone eating and sleeping?

Absolutely anything you could list. Anything is better than that.

3. There is the distinct possibility that you'll forget to change at least one crucial time-telling device in your home- sometimes it's the car- leaving one with an awfully Twighlight Zoney feeling (at best) and gut-clenching panic at one's own tardiness (at worst). Or it can manifest itself as a vaguely uneasy confusion every time one checks a clock. I readily admit, this could just be me.

4. Even an hour difference makes me feel like I've just taken the red eye from Brussels. And jet lag without even getting served international airline food is not any jet lag worth having, thankyouverymuch.

I like my hours ordered the way they're supposed to be. 7, 8, 9am- I like those hours to look like those hours and feel like them when I see my phone display. 4, 5, 6am- I don't like those hours, overmuch, but I'd prefer to not be shocked by them.

Well, no more shocked than the startling realization that, between those hours, I've become a veritable 7-11 for the snacky newborn set.

But that's a different Letter Of Great Concern.

The New Normal.

Sure thing, Mom.

Things are finally starting to settle into a routine around here.

This is good news, as Susannah is exactly a month old tomorrow and that's a rather long time for a hazy, crazy bit of whirliness.

It's also juuust about long enough for Nora's panic/insanity/full-body-tantrums-every-time-the-doorbell-rings to have run its course. Some might say it's actually a few days too long, but we try not to judge, overmuch.

We're beginning to discover what the New Normal means- which is way different from the New Normal of Oct. '09 (and waaaay different from the New Normal of Newlywed Oct. '08, triple sigh)- and it's actually pretty nice.

Sometimes Susannah sleeps for five or six hours at night, letting us get more rest than is actually allowed at this stage of the game. Other times she keeps us guessing and wakes up every hour just to say hi. (Hi! Go back to bed!)

The two year-old gets up each a.m. with her Dad- unless, of course, she's spent a solid three hours berating or laughing with her Beanie bears at positively awful hours of the early morning- in which case she awakens at 9am. Or 8:30. Or 6. (Keep 'em guessing, that's her motto!) Then the team of gals waves off Peej, sometimes from the picture window, sometimes from the stairwell, and proceeds to list/negate every breakfast choice offered. Unless it's bacon.

Sometimes "breakfast" consists of the smallest member of the team getting nursed on the kitchen floor by the biggest, with the middle debating whether or not she needs a straw/a diaper/a shoe. Martha Stewart Living, it ain't.

Then there's writing, some paid, some not so much. Nora does her part during these interludes by coloring, puzzling, and stickering the baby. Suzy generally sleeps on me/near me or poops on me/near me. A surprising output of work comes from these sessions.

Occasionally we go out, bringing slightly more stuff than would be needed for a Transatlantic crossing. (That's ALL Zuzu- Nora and I had it down to the science of a wallet, some wet wipes, and Doc Bullfrog. My youngest apparently needs three pairs of jammies to accompany us to the grocery store.) Sometimes we go to a fabulous playgroup. Other times we jaunt to the Middle Eastern bakery to get scolded about how I am carrying the baby.

Lunch is the same as breakfast, with slightly more clothing. Usually. Occasionally I'll try to clean a room while we are still using it. This yields mixed results; sometimes I get depressed at the non-change in the area, other times I'm thrilled its dirtiness is remaining status quo.

Some days are way harder than others, what with varying temperaments (mine included), varying activities, and varying degrees of unmatched socks. The best days, obviously, are those with a minimum of activities, a decent amount of agreement, and a maximum of easily put-away-able laundry.

Then there is mandatory naptime. People always say "nap when the baby naps." Dude, I've been napping- with or without babies- since day one. Sometimes I'll try to squeeze in about twenty more minutes of writing immediately after Nora's book/book/book/song/snuggle/bed routine...but not always. Once Nora is in bed, the baby and I are in bed. (And that is why this will always be the best job, ever, anywhere, Amen.)

Upon waking, there is Jeopardy. Laundry. Glitter. The eight thousandth diaper change- per girl. Books books books. Frequent attempts to kickstart an Arena Rock dance party. The park, the playhouse, harvesting of green tomatoes, and forcefeeding the pacifier to the baby sister.

We make/defrost/order dinner, since the dinner train has pretty much left the station. (Okay, I really miss that part of the Old Normal.)

P.J. returns home and, after waiting for my turn to have his attention (it can be a whiiiile, what with dancing, hugs, and re-enactments of Strawberry Shortcake and pals' escapades), we have dinner. Bathe the girls. Pretend to clean the kitchen. And on nights when N goes to bed at 7:45 and Suzy settles into her room for a lengthy nap...we find that we have a smallish window of time.

In which to fall asleep on the couch.

Okay, so perhaps the New Normal looks a bit like the Old one.

Only with way more socks.

Dads Are The Best.

We Like Her A Little Bit.

Two!

My wildly wonderful Nora Jane,

You are- unequivocally- two years old. While I'd long suspected this age (since- oh, you were nine or ten months old), the calendar finally backs me up. Two years going on fourteen, that's you.

In the color spectrum, you are neither grey nor pastel, but every single bold and definite shade. In the '80s, back when Day Glo was a very real concept, you would have been those short-lived (but much adored) neon Crayolas. Maybe a set of Sharpie pens.

When you love, it's euphoric and contagious. (Impossibly small stickers. Eggplant. Moments of unexpected independence. Daddy's arrival home each night.)

Sorrow is akin to the most epic Greek tragedy ever staged. (Babysitters. Closing credits. The tomato you grew that rotted before you could eat it. Daddy's departure each morning.)

Beyond promoting me to my favorite job ever, you've opened my eyes to things I had never before thought to do. Like, why did I never pair a wide-brimmed sunhat with fleecy footie pajamas? Or wear a cape to read [stacks and stacks and stacks] of books? When we dance each night (or rather, when you allow Suzy and me to join in on the nightly routine with your Dad), we all must dance vigorously, maintaining lyrics and energy- which, if you think about it, is the whole point. And how come, when walking down the street, I was never aware of how many sticks were on the ground at all times?

I'm fine with the icing, thanks.

Saturday was both your birthday and the party at your personal Disneyland- the neighborhood playlot. You were a gracious (if somewhat sleepy) host- barring a few moments when your pals attempted to wrestle/touch/view the gargantuan "2" balloon that threatened to lift the very picnic table. You were dressed in your Mom's version of lazy/park appropriate Rainbow Brite; layers, whimsy, and loads of color. Although, to be fair, you chose the shiny red shoes and white tutu. And you simply loved the cupcakes that I had baked inside of ice cream cones (thanks for the idea, Auntie Kate!), even though you never got beneath the frosting. There was too much else to do. And besides, when you came back for it (a good forty minutes later), a squirrel had made off with it. This caused feelings.

Dad, let go. I've Got This.

And sure, the day was dampened slightly by the end-of-party Diaper Situation that has forever changed the car/car seat cover/stairwell/bedroom floor/bathroom/tutu, but hey! You've successfully had your first shower! And I feel like we bonded further, what with me cleaning things from parts I wasn't even aware you had. And absolutely- you did not care for the removal of clothing/fluids/yourself from the party, nor did you overmuch think the shower was a great idea...until you informed me it was a little like a sprinkler. And that I had pink soap in my bath. Party on, Garth.

Sometimes I'm overwhelmed by how much information you retain- not to mention the exact intonation and 'tude with which you parrot. Or how sweetly you play with your toys (Hi, how are you? Oh, I'm good. I'm good, too. Let's kiss? Sure! Kisskisskiss. Go to the beach? Sure!) or how frighteningly you give them Time Outs, shoved backwards between the crib and the wall, getting an earful about every thing they've done wrong. (Okay, that part breaks my heart and makes me feel like the Wicked Witch of the West. Also- how they can breathe like that?)

The night before I left for the hospital to have your little sister, I cried. A lot. Buckets and vats of Ugly Cry. I was so terrified that something would happen in surgery and I'd never again get to touch your hair as you slept (as I do every single night). Or that things would change. We'd never again get quiet moments on the couch as sun streamed in and we alternated between forehead kisses and your proclamations that we were both going "a 'work," me to my writing and you to lining bath toys on the windowsill for all the block to see.

And you know what? Things absolutely did change. But I've gotten to see you love on your sister, kissing her in the mornings before anything else. And the pride in your face as you help me care for her, doing Big Girl things (even as you revel in the avalanche of her baby toys and equipment).

We still have our time. And we always will. You will forever be my tea party partner, my master puzzler, my blanket tent snugglebug. We will have treats and long walks and dance parties and I will always let you put stickers on my face.

And even though I kinda need to continue combing down the mat of wild honey-colored (and flavored) curls each day, I promise to let you become the gal you're so rapidly becoming. But don't grow too fast, okay? We have a ton of adventures ahead and all the milkshakes in the world.

I love you, Bitsy.

love, Mom