Happy birthday to ya


It seems like only yesterday that I was lying naked from the waist down on a cold and sterile OR table while a nurse with a very confused look on her face hovered over me with a razor wondering how in the hell I was able to manage one side looking like Telly Savalas and the other side looking like Buckwheat caught in a windstorm.

It had been a full six months since I had seen my netherlands face to face and over time they had become rugged terrain; a woolly mammoth taking a nap in the desert.

Though it seems like only yesterday, it was literally a lifetime ago. My other lifetime. We lived in a condo, I had a job where I talked to at least five people every day. People who weren't cashiers at Target. I still referred to myself in the first person.

Over two years I have learned more lessons than I can begin to write about. Mainly lessons I learned the hard way.

Perhaps the most important lesson I've learned is that babies are much more durable than one might think. They can eat paper, suck on wet wipes, choke on chips, do (unintentional) back flips out of swings, fall down stairs, wear clothing bought from Wal-Mart and survive blows to the back of the head from the ceiling fan with minimal consequence.

If I had to assign a title to the past two years it would be "That One Day I Almost Went to Jail."

I never thought I would have a daughter with such discriminating taste; only a select few make it into Elliot's inner circle. You're in like flint as long as you're a dog, squirrel, blankie, paci, penguin or ice cream. And if you're an airplane or garbage truck you at least have a fighting chance.

Those not invited into the inner circle include: Anyone that has the potential to require the sharing of toys, mascots, anything that comes into contact with her hair, non-ice cream food, pediatricians, nurses, and little sisters.

Happy second birthday to my little Ellie - my favorite little ice cream scapegoat.

Tonight we feast.