To my dear sweet Kate,

Happy 3rd Birthday! 

Three years ago today we were at the hospital and shocked that you were joining us so soon.  You weren't due until August, and daddy and I both thought we had another month to prepare for your arrival.  It was a little scary for us, but you were born healthy and perfect.  A tiny little prize fighter who needed zero intervention or NICU time.  Our miracle on so many levels.

It's packing day!

As I compile the list on my iPhone of all the things we need want to bring on our vacation this week, I am amazed at how two toddlers can require so much stuff.  Nobody told me when I was pregnant that my weekend pack list would go from three things - bikini, sundress, toothbrush - to literally dozens and dozens of ridiculous gadgets and gizmos.  A 30 pound kid?  Lets be modest and say they "require" about 150 pounds of crap.  Now that there are two of these little 30 pound people, we might as well rent a U-Haul.

When John was deployed last summer the packing was one of the reasons I dreaded travel.  Getting everything washed and folded and organized is hard enough.  But when you don't have your man to organize it in the car and make room for your boxer dog (and prevent said luggage from falling on said dog) it becomes a marathon of a chore.  I'm sure my neighbors thought I had consumed way too much coffee watching me sprint between the car and front door. I was worried that in the 2 minutes it took me put the suitcase in the trunk that Kate would have transitioned from watching "Sesame Street" to drawing on the walls or climbing the bookcase. You know those people whose children get into trouble, get injured, make the nightly news and everyone is tsk tsking asking "where were the parents?"  Well, I bet you that dad is deployed and mom is packing the car for grandma's house.  Because I was sure I was going to be one of "those" parents many many times.

Inevitably the packing and loading takes longer than the drive itself.  Then, of course, you forget the most important thing on your list.  Like Connor's "bunny bunny" or my pocket sized wine opener. God help us if we forget bunny bunny.  Seriously.  Not funny.

I think we could create a fairly accurate equation to represent what packing for toddlers is on a family vacation: Child weight x 5 = amount of crap you bring.  Divide by 2 for the amount of stuff you will actually use. Multiply by 1.5 for the amount of room you will need in the car on the way home. Why does stuff take up so much more room coming home? Probably the mixture of dirty clothes, laziness, and that new pet hermit crab you picked up on the boardwalk.

So today I will systematically place all of our vacation crap in the foyer of our home and gratefully allow my husband to pack it in the car tonight.  John, Kate, Connor, myself and "bunny bunny" will be heading to South Carolina tomorrow!

What happens when you mix a weekend away, old college friends, wine, music, and me?

Here is my biggest problem with the Facebook social networking boom that has occurred in the past 5 years. 

MISADVERTISING

I have dozens of friends that I keep close tabs on who have oodles of gorgeous children.  I see thousands of photos each year.  You know what they have in common?

They are all cute, happy, smiling, and perfect.

I know that these children are not cute, happy, smiling, and perfect 100% of the time.  Or, let's be honest, even 80% of the time.  We are all lying liars who lie.  Facebook is not real life.  Facebook is a gigantic advertisement for the life we all want to present.  Our "family brand" if you will.  And this inundation of our kids in matching polo shirts frolicking on the beach with big smiles on their faces is making me insecure.

Well, not completely.  I'm exaggerating as usual.  But after the week I've had it does make me question my mothering abilities.

Toddlers can be assholes.  There, I said it.  I love my daughter but oh.my.god.  As she approaches three I feel like I am dealing with a 13 year old who just lost her iPhone.  Only instead of fighting over homework and boys we are fighting over naps and poop.  Sounds idyllic and amazing, right?  As I write this my daughter is screaming bloody murder because I am trying to get her to rest so that we can go out as a family tonight and not burn the restaurant down. 

I am guilty of the Facebook facade too.  Take this past Easter for example.

The pic I would probably post on Facebook:

Of the (almost) nine years my husband and I have been married, we have lived at the beach for six of them.  In Pensacola, Florida right after we got hitched and then in the Hampton Roads (Virginia Beach) area for 5+ years.  We aren't "beach people".  Well, my very Irish husband isn't a beach person, and since I like him and want to hang out with him it makes me not a beach person by default.  The thought of laying in the blistering sun while reading a book sounds great to me - it sounds like Chinese water torture to John.  So in the six-ish years we have lived seaside, we really haven't stepped foot on the beach unless it was in the evening to take our dog for a walk.

Until now.

Now that we have two very active children who need to have their energy burned off, the beach is the perfect place.  The beach is an energy suck - the sun, the surf, even the little dance we do to get rid of the sand.  Our kids leave exhausted.  Glazed over with fatigue.  This means easy bedtimes and quiet nights.

It is virtually impossible for us to relax on the beach right now with a 2 year old and a 1 year old.  But instead, it is socially acceptable to build sand castles, dig for shells, and bury little tiny feet in the sand.  Because of this, my "big kid" of a husband has taken new found liking to SPF 50 sunscreen and the wide open sand.  He has playmates, not just a lazy wife who wants to read her latest Jennifer Weiner book.

This past weekend we went to the beach twice.  TWICE, people.  Those of you who know me in real life know that this is a big deal.  Not for me, but for my toddler Kate who when I tried to take her to the beach once last year (just once) it was a meltdown of epic proportions.  Imagine a 2 year old clinging to her mothers neck with her knees tucked to her chest because it got her feet just *a teeny bit further* away from the dreaded sand of doom.  Dreaded sand of DOOM.  If my child had sand anywhere on her body - even the smallest speck - it resulted in a freak out.  Which made the beach impossible.  Pair that with a 6 month old who thought sand tasted delicious and a tired solo mama and you had a recipe for NO BEACH.  Like, never ever, I don't even want to look at the beach because it might send Kate into a post traumatic meltdown. 

I have no pictures of last year because I was holding my 2 year old the whole time.  Oh darn.

Thankfully, this year has been different.  A year has gone by and Kate has finally started to embrace the good things about the beach. 

She still tiptoes across the sand and notice her fingers sprawled apart because she can't stand the touch of sand between them...


But she plays, and digs, and love seashells.  She puts her toes in the water and wants to be there.  It is a huge success!  This will likely be our last summer in this area so we are happy we can embrace what makes Virginia Beach a tourist trap and causes all of the darn traffic!


Here's to a fun summer with sandy toes!

But please take time to reflect on why we have this three day BBQ extravaganza.  God bless our fallen soldiers and their families, who have made and continue to make the ultimate sacrifice for our nation.  God bless our deployed troops, who sit in harms way today and are sacrificing weekends, holidays, birthdays, and more.