The other day your Nana sent me a text message that said, "I need more flogging" and it was only right before I was about to smartly answer back, "Well, yes, on most days I agree" that I realized the text actually said, "I need more BLOGGING." And, since Nana hasn't taken up a spot on the blog roll lately, I'm thinking she means ME.
When I finally realized what she was talking about I thought back and realized that with everything that's been going on since...oh, MAY, that I haven't had time to get on here and tell you everything cool that you've been doing. Mainly because I'm too busy spending time watching you do cool shit. But, I'll stop with the gushing.
It may also seem suspicious to some that the absolute black out on blog postings came about the same time you learned to walk well enough that you quickly turned into an 80-year-old Grandma about it and decided to trade in your knees. Kid, we can't keep up with you!
First, by some freak of nature you're twice the size of a normal one-year-old. You wear a 2T and were so tall at your one year check up that the nurse actuallly said, "I can't tell you what percentile she is in height because she's off the top of the chart." Unfortunately, the ability to empty the dishwasher or scrub the toilet has yet to appear on your development curve. Mama's waiting on those two. Those two are important.
Second, you are extremely, extremely FAST. I've never seen anything like it in professional sports. They should put 13-month-olds on basketball courts. I turn around for five seconds and you are GONE. And, what's worse, you are QUIET. When you are GONE and QUIET your father and I secretly have quiet panic attacks until one of us locates you. Usually this is in a bathroom splashing in a toilet...or sucking on one of your dad's dirty socks. To tell you the honest truth...sometimes we can't get to you before the "Thing That Isn't Supposed To Be Eaten" gets eaten.
It's probably fitting that you got your first real "virus" this past week. You've been in and out of everywhere the past three weeks and we can't keep you from licking most foreign objects. I'd pretty much expected you to contract some form of flesh-eating something way earlier than this point. But, instead of flesh eating there is just a "virus". There isn't even a name for it. The Doc just called it a "virus". It's caused a croupy, rattly sounding cough, a low grade fever, some intermittant general malaise and a reduction in your appetite.
The Doc was unable to explain much about its origin or progression other than us just letting it "work its course" and that sometimes "kids just pick up these things". It was about then that my mind flashed back to exactly a week prior when we were in Chatanooga (family reuinion...WHOLE OTHER Butterknife blog entry) eating at "Mud Pie" and I took you into the bathroom to change your diaper (as shitting in public is now your second full time job-behind being cute, of course) and when I dropped you down to stand on the floor in order to rehook the changing station I turned back around to find you rubbing your hands on it. Yes, THE FLOOR. IN A PUBLIC BATHROOM. Right after I had a panic attack, took a Xanax, and located the nearest antibacterial hand soap, I lathered you up to your elbows like you were prepping for surgery and just prayed that whatever disease you incurred didn't cause you to sleep less or cry more. Fortunately, this "virus" did both. YEAH FOR ME!!
Other than being "quick, fast and nimble" you are becoming increasingly more verbal. Every day. The pace of your language aquisition freaks me out. You know all your body parts, animals, and bodily functions. (Hey, we don't want you to miss out on the joys of farting!) You learn more every day. One day, you walked into the dining room when I was turning on the lamp and you pointed and said, "Light!" and I said, "WELL, I'LL BE DAMNED." My second sentence was, "Who taught you that?" Because we didn't. Weird kid.
We quickly figured out that you were in that stage of learning where several new words could be aquired in a given day. We delighted in teaching you "feet", and "hands", and "high five", and "POOP?" We excitidely told you everything we were doing and the name of everything you could possibly pick up. Not only were your Mom and Dad excited about it, but your Nana and GG were as well.
In fact, one Sunday after Nana kept you the night before so your father and I could hang out and talk about things that didn't involve your POOP, we walked into the kitchen and she exclaimed, "LOOK WHAT I'VE TAUGHT HER!" (I had to stop myself from asking if it was our taxes because we desperately need some good help with them.)
Your Nana looked at you and asked, "Parksie, where is your belly button?" And you immediately hiked up your dress above your waist, displayed your belly very proudly, and then vigorously stuck your finger into it. Everyone was very excited.
Everyone was clapping and saying lots of "GOOD GIRL" and all I could think was, "Way to go NANA! You've just pretty much taught my child how to get free beads at Mardi Gra." Guess we can go ahead and knock that one off the "Parenting To Do" list.
Although, I will readily admit that this "belly button" exposure has turned into a game for the family. Every morning you now wake up and have to find Dada's "BOO-EE-BUH-ON". This leads to a game where you lift up his t-shirt and firmly stick your index finger into his belly button then look up excitedly waiting for the clapping and praise. We oblige and then you wait one minute before you perform the exact same trick for the exact same price. Occasionally, you will throw in a viewing of your belly button for free. We all giggle and laugh and it's very cute. One would have thought you discovered a way to get paid for not working with the way we react each time.
This all leads to this evening. Tonight, while I'm pretty sure you were high on your cough medicine prescribed for your "virus", you climbed up onto the couch and threw yourself onto my lap giggling. You were teasing me and hiding your head while I was trying to kiss your neck. All of a sudden, you popped up, snatched down my shirt, and poked my boob (YES, I SAID "BOOB"). This is not totally strange to me as here lately you've had some days where you act like you aren't aware the milk factory closed almost a year ago. But, this time, you poked my boob, then put your finger right above my cleavage. You looked at me questioningly, like, "What is this strange valley in your chest? But more importantly, are their cheddar crackers hidden in it?" And, as you poked your finger into my cleavage for a third time (and right before I was about to demand dinner and a drink), your eyes lit up with understanding and you exclaimed, "MAMA BOO-EE-BUH-ON"!
And, well, I just agreed with you. Because when you ask at the age of 13 "Why aren't my belly buttons growing?" I can just have a large laugh, another glass of wine, and think about how wonderfully entertaining it is to be a parent. Much like tonight.
Love you Toot B,
Mama
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Monday, June 21, 2010
Dear Parks,
Yesterday I didn't feel good and your dad's Father's Day didn't turn out well at all. In fact, it just didn't turn out. I'm trying to make myself feel better by telling myself that I made a HUGE big deal out of it last year as it was his first and you were a week old. See, I didn't get my first Mother's Day until this year. You were born smack in the middle of the two.
But, it doesn't matter. I should have tried to do better-despite the fact of being tethered to the toilet most of the day.
There's really no way for me to express to you how super cool your dad is. One day, you will find out.
I find that if I try to make myself list all the ways that make him as wonderful as he is...I start to cry. And that look isn't flattering on me at all. But, I'm going to try to give you just a few anyway.
1) The only time I've ever known your dad to cry was the night you were born and in the NICU. That's it. In fact, because I was incapacitated, *I* didn't even see it. Someone told me. He told me later that he just couldn't handle it. Your dad freaks out often when it comes to things he "can't handle" but he never, EVER cries. He just loves us a whole, whole lot and that night carried a lot of emotion for him.
2) Your dad openly admits-at least on a weekly basis-that his favorite thing to do in the whole world is hang out with the two of us.
3) He read the Dr. Sears Baby Book and decided you MUST eat beets. I know you don't see this as "kind" now. But, its kind of like discipline. It hurts us more than it hurts you. Actually, I'm not eating the beets...so it's probably going to hurt you more. But I promise it means he loves you. The same goes for the spinach. (Don't worry. I'll slip you napkins to spit it into)
4) He ALWAYS gets out of the bed in the middle of the night to get you a bottle. I sit in the bed, rub your head while you scream, and bark orders listing all the things needed: "BABA, STAT. FIGHTER, STAT. NEW DIAPER, STAT."
5) When I wander over to whatever he is doing while I am doing NOTHING and state "She pooped" he walks over to you without a word, picks you up (TRYING NOT TO PUSH ON YOUR BUTT!!!) and takes you to change your diaper. Sometimes I provide wipey support. Sometimes I finish doing whatever important thing it is that I was doing...like watching a McDonald's commercial and NOT GAGGING.
6) He gives your morning pee pee diapers "Purple Hearts" for being wounded in the line of duty because they are so full.
7) He lets you bite him. Like, on purpose.
8) He rubbed my feet EVERY SINGLE NIGHT of my pregnancy. Not that he didn't complain about it. But, who cares about complaining when you know a foot rub is coming?
9) His office is wallpapered with pictures of you in various stages of development. When anyone enters, he gives them detailed information concerning each one.
10) Every morning when we wake up he tells us "Good Morning" then asks if we slept well and then tells us he loves us. I can't tell you how often Daddy's DON'T do that.
And since we're here...Let's take this to 11.
11) He gets off work later than I do but still picks you up from GG's every day (an hour and a half trip in bumper to bumper rush hour traffic) just so I can have time to wind down and write.
And I don't think he'll ever understand what that means to me.
So, I hope that when you are 15-years-old and filled with angst and spite, you remember that every time you tell him he "sucks", his heart is going to break a little. Go easy on him. He's a big softy when it comes to you. Not that I'm not. But, I'm much more inclined to beat you first and ask questions later.
I don't think that point was more illustrated than two nights ago when you were having another difficult night sleeping and we were doing a version of "Cry It Out" that consisted of letting you cry for two minutes at a time and then coming in to soothe you after which we put you right back in the crib. This was a grievous insult to you and after the fourth trip where I held you until you calmed down and tried to lay you back down, your father entered the room and you began squealing at the top of your lungs, "DA DA DA DA" and hurling your body towards him. He moved to take you away from me and I quickly told him to leave the room and informed him in my best military voice that, "the enemy has identified the weak link and is working to divide the troops". He quickly ducked out of the room but not before he yelled back at me, The General, that he would "do it but it felt like his skin was being peeled from his body."
Love,
The General
But, it doesn't matter. I should have tried to do better-despite the fact of being tethered to the toilet most of the day.
There's really no way for me to express to you how super cool your dad is. One day, you will find out.
I find that if I try to make myself list all the ways that make him as wonderful as he is...I start to cry. And that look isn't flattering on me at all. But, I'm going to try to give you just a few anyway.
1) The only time I've ever known your dad to cry was the night you were born and in the NICU. That's it. In fact, because I was incapacitated, *I* didn't even see it. Someone told me. He told me later that he just couldn't handle it. Your dad freaks out often when it comes to things he "can't handle" but he never, EVER cries. He just loves us a whole, whole lot and that night carried a lot of emotion for him.
2) Your dad openly admits-at least on a weekly basis-that his favorite thing to do in the whole world is hang out with the two of us.
3) He read the Dr. Sears Baby Book and decided you MUST eat beets. I know you don't see this as "kind" now. But, its kind of like discipline. It hurts us more than it hurts you. Actually, I'm not eating the beets...so it's probably going to hurt you more. But I promise it means he loves you. The same goes for the spinach. (Don't worry. I'll slip you napkins to spit it into)
4) He ALWAYS gets out of the bed in the middle of the night to get you a bottle. I sit in the bed, rub your head while you scream, and bark orders listing all the things needed: "BABA, STAT. FIGHTER, STAT. NEW DIAPER, STAT."
5) When I wander over to whatever he is doing while I am doing NOTHING and state "She pooped" he walks over to you without a word, picks you up (TRYING NOT TO PUSH ON YOUR BUTT!!!) and takes you to change your diaper. Sometimes I provide wipey support. Sometimes I finish doing whatever important thing it is that I was doing...like watching a McDonald's commercial and NOT GAGGING.
6) He gives your morning pee pee diapers "Purple Hearts" for being wounded in the line of duty because they are so full.
7) He lets you bite him. Like, on purpose.
8) He rubbed my feet EVERY SINGLE NIGHT of my pregnancy. Not that he didn't complain about it. But, who cares about complaining when you know a foot rub is coming?
9) His office is wallpapered with pictures of you in various stages of development. When anyone enters, he gives them detailed information concerning each one.
10) Every morning when we wake up he tells us "Good Morning" then asks if we slept well and then tells us he loves us. I can't tell you how often Daddy's DON'T do that.
And since we're here...Let's take this to 11.
11) He gets off work later than I do but still picks you up from GG's every day (an hour and a half trip in bumper to bumper rush hour traffic) just so I can have time to wind down and write.
And I don't think he'll ever understand what that means to me.
So, I hope that when you are 15-years-old and filled with angst and spite, you remember that every time you tell him he "sucks", his heart is going to break a little. Go easy on him. He's a big softy when it comes to you. Not that I'm not. But, I'm much more inclined to beat you first and ask questions later.
I don't think that point was more illustrated than two nights ago when you were having another difficult night sleeping and we were doing a version of "Cry It Out" that consisted of letting you cry for two minutes at a time and then coming in to soothe you after which we put you right back in the crib. This was a grievous insult to you and after the fourth trip where I held you until you calmed down and tried to lay you back down, your father entered the room and you began squealing at the top of your lungs, "DA DA DA DA" and hurling your body towards him. He moved to take you away from me and I quickly told him to leave the room and informed him in my best military voice that, "the enemy has identified the weak link and is working to divide the troops". He quickly ducked out of the room but not before he yelled back at me, The General, that he would "do it but it felt like his skin was being peeled from his body."
Love,
The General
Dear Everyone,
I totally underestimated how thrilling, yet sad, it would be to make her last bottle.
She's officially on milk-as of this week. I won't say "last bottle" because she still requires one when she goes to bed at night and I'm assuming that will last until at least 18 months. But, last week, we ended the mad dash in the morning to "make enough bottles" to send to her GG's in order to feed the human trash can she has become in the past week.
Remember that whole post about her not eating anything but corn? And then that whole other post about how if you say anything out loud it never works again? Well, OBVIOUSLY that also works for WRITING as my child has now decided to eat everything in the house that isn't nailed down.
Eggs? Check.
French Toast? Check.
Grilled Cheese? Check.
Hummus on pita? Check.
These are all things she previously stuck her nose up at while she threw handfuls of them under the high chair. Now, we can't keep anything ON her high chair as she beats her hands like a prison inmate until dinner is served.
Weirdo.
She's officially on milk-as of this week. I won't say "last bottle" because she still requires one when she goes to bed at night and I'm assuming that will last until at least 18 months. But, last week, we ended the mad dash in the morning to "make enough bottles" to send to her GG's in order to feed the human trash can she has become in the past week.
Remember that whole post about her not eating anything but corn? And then that whole other post about how if you say anything out loud it never works again? Well, OBVIOUSLY that also works for WRITING as my child has now decided to eat everything in the house that isn't nailed down.
Eggs? Check.
French Toast? Check.
Grilled Cheese? Check.
Hummus on pita? Check.
These are all things she previously stuck her nose up at while she threw handfuls of them under the high chair. Now, we can't keep anything ON her high chair as she beats her hands like a prison inmate until dinner is served.
Weirdo.
Dear Parks,
Your FATHER is making me feed you beets for dinner.
Just wanted to clear that up.
Love,
Mama
Just wanted to clear that up.
Love,
Mama
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Why The Man is The Man
Because as he changed the first poopie "toddler" diaper he hummed the theme song from "2001: A Space Odyssey".
Dear Parks,
A year ago right at this time I was in labor with you. The doctor had broken my water an hour previously and I was starting to feel some, ahem, rather “intense” contractions. I was still joking with your father at the time that the first thing I wanted when you “got out of my belly” was a 12 inch foot long from Subway considering they wouldn’t let me eat. I had no idea how 21 inches of infant was going to change every priority I had the instant you appeared and I was finally allowed to hold you. Let’s just say I still love a good sub sandwich but I wouldn’t run across a busy intersection risking life and limb just to hold it in my arms. No offense, Jared.
I had no idea what the next year of our lives would bring us. The hours spent NOT SLEEPING. The hours spent just staring out your face. The hours spent SCREAMING. And the hours spent NOT SLEEPING. Have I talked about the lack of sleep yet? I can’t remember, I’m tired.
Then there was the struggle of going back to work and balancing that life with a home life that afforded you all the love and time you needed and deserved. I’d like to say that we’ve won that struggle. I know that we do the best that we can on most days and you are so happy that I can’t think that the decisions we’ve made about raising you were bad ones. Except that one about deciding you were going to sleep in our bed. Not that I HATE an active kicking infant who has inherited her father’s propensity for kicking and slapping. It’s just that with two of you in the bed now, I’m not sure when your father is going to get arrested for spousal abuse due to the amount of bruising on my arms and legs incurred from a swift foot to the thigh or a roundhouse back handed slap when you decide to turn over. But waking up with you is worth all that. It’s like waking up with the Jimmy Dean sunshine man in bed only he’s MUCH cuter and he smells like heaven and when he giggles, well, my heart soars and I think I can do almost anything. Sausage biscuits don’t normally do that to me (at least they haven’t since I was pregnant). But, you definitely do.
I think about times just ten months ago when you were so teeny and you got your first fever and I held you all day just freaking out of my effing mind because you were so TINY and how could you get a FEVER? I thought it took at least twelve pounds to muster the energy to work up a good fever. We took you to the doctor and you not only had a fever, but a pretty good diaper rash, were allergic to milk and had a case of colic. I distinctly recall telling the doctor that I felt like, “The Baby was FALLNG APART”. And considering up until that point in my life I was pretty much like Nana in that I was the Valedictorian of Running Everything, I felt like a miserable failure. Good GOD, who was running this joint? Exactly. It was the first real lesson in motherhood I ever had. But, your father and I nursed you through that fever. We got you over that colic. And, ultimately, we kept you alive for an entire 12 months. I consider this a personal success.
Now, I practically laugh when you scream bloody murder as I drag you away from yet another normal household item that could possibly KILL YOU and tell you things like, ‘How bad for you that you have a mother that won’t let you suck on electrical outlets. You have a horrible life. I feel sorry for you.” Then I realize that when you get older, if you don’t start slapping me on purpose when you are awake, you are going to have one MEAN case of the “smart mouth” when you get to kindergarten. I’m waiting on the first call from the teacher when she tells me you’ve said, “Thank you, Captain Obvious” when she tells you that “tee tee goes in the potty” or something else inane required by Pre-K teachers.
Right now, when I tell you “NO” in my Most Severe And Stern Voice Ever, you immediately turn around, do what I was telling you not to do, and parrot back to me, “NO NO”. And then I laugh because I can’t help it and I let you completely dismantle the sound system to the television because, hey, we can buy another one, right? And you just look so damn cute. You now refer to all the things in the house that you aren’t allowed to touch as “no no’s” and your father is worried that you will grow up asking to turn on the “no no’s” in the room so you can see.
There isn’t a day that goes by that your Nana doesn’t call me and declare you a “genius” and most of the time I agree. Except if it’s one of those days you’ve tried to eat cat food or something of that nature. Then I tell her maybe we should hold off on our predictions until you speak English and we can actually ascertain if your IQ is above that of a towel rack. Or, maybe you are just a genius who appreciates the complete vitamin nutrition contained in the tiny little bites of cat food. Who knows?
The other day you stayed home with your dad as I had to work and Nana couldn’t keep you one Friday. I came home at lunch to find your father and you drooling asleep in the bed. You were wearing nothing but a diaper with a paci half falling out of your mouth and your father was pretty much in the same position minus the diaper and the paci. He woke up and I asked him what you had eaten for breakfast and he pronounced, rather proudly, that you had “some strawberries, a few cheerios, and some pepperoni”. I think this shows how far we’ve come in relaxing our rules concerning child care around here.
Just last night you fell down, hit your head, got very upset and then I swear to GOD you said something that sounded just like, “I want my MAMA” and you crawled to me and curled up in my arms and I held you and rubbed your sore noggin and told you that you were okay. And, inside, I died just a little knowing that soon you wouldn’t ask for me when you were hurt. That there will be a day when curling up with your MAMA isn’t an option and you will bonk your head and go about your business. Lord knows I do this pretty regularly. But there isn’t a day that goes by that inside I don’t WANT my Mama when I bonk my noggin, say something stupid, or just in general feel miserable and need some comfort.
And, all I can hope, is that 32 years from now, when you are my age, I have done a good enough job that you still feel that way too.
Happy Birthday, Toodle Bug. You are now officially a “toddler” and no longer a “baby”. I expect all that crying and pooping in diapers nonsense to end post haste.
In the infinite wisdom of N'Sync (and as a tribute to your Godmother Elizabeth whom you were named for) I leave you with these words, "Bye Bye, Baby, Bye Bye..."
I love you now and forever,
Your Mama
I had no idea what the next year of our lives would bring us. The hours spent NOT SLEEPING. The hours spent just staring out your face. The hours spent SCREAMING. And the hours spent NOT SLEEPING. Have I talked about the lack of sleep yet? I can’t remember, I’m tired.
Then there was the struggle of going back to work and balancing that life with a home life that afforded you all the love and time you needed and deserved. I’d like to say that we’ve won that struggle. I know that we do the best that we can on most days and you are so happy that I can’t think that the decisions we’ve made about raising you were bad ones. Except that one about deciding you were going to sleep in our bed. Not that I HATE an active kicking infant who has inherited her father’s propensity for kicking and slapping. It’s just that with two of you in the bed now, I’m not sure when your father is going to get arrested for spousal abuse due to the amount of bruising on my arms and legs incurred from a swift foot to the thigh or a roundhouse back handed slap when you decide to turn over. But waking up with you is worth all that. It’s like waking up with the Jimmy Dean sunshine man in bed only he’s MUCH cuter and he smells like heaven and when he giggles, well, my heart soars and I think I can do almost anything. Sausage biscuits don’t normally do that to me (at least they haven’t since I was pregnant). But, you definitely do.
I think about times just ten months ago when you were so teeny and you got your first fever and I held you all day just freaking out of my effing mind because you were so TINY and how could you get a FEVER? I thought it took at least twelve pounds to muster the energy to work up a good fever. We took you to the doctor and you not only had a fever, but a pretty good diaper rash, were allergic to milk and had a case of colic. I distinctly recall telling the doctor that I felt like, “The Baby was FALLNG APART”. And considering up until that point in my life I was pretty much like Nana in that I was the Valedictorian of Running Everything, I felt like a miserable failure. Good GOD, who was running this joint? Exactly. It was the first real lesson in motherhood I ever had. But, your father and I nursed you through that fever. We got you over that colic. And, ultimately, we kept you alive for an entire 12 months. I consider this a personal success.
Now, I practically laugh when you scream bloody murder as I drag you away from yet another normal household item that could possibly KILL YOU and tell you things like, ‘How bad for you that you have a mother that won’t let you suck on electrical outlets. You have a horrible life. I feel sorry for you.” Then I realize that when you get older, if you don’t start slapping me on purpose when you are awake, you are going to have one MEAN case of the “smart mouth” when you get to kindergarten. I’m waiting on the first call from the teacher when she tells me you’ve said, “Thank you, Captain Obvious” when she tells you that “tee tee goes in the potty” or something else inane required by Pre-K teachers.
Right now, when I tell you “NO” in my Most Severe And Stern Voice Ever, you immediately turn around, do what I was telling you not to do, and parrot back to me, “NO NO”. And then I laugh because I can’t help it and I let you completely dismantle the sound system to the television because, hey, we can buy another one, right? And you just look so damn cute. You now refer to all the things in the house that you aren’t allowed to touch as “no no’s” and your father is worried that you will grow up asking to turn on the “no no’s” in the room so you can see.
There isn’t a day that goes by that your Nana doesn’t call me and declare you a “genius” and most of the time I agree. Except if it’s one of those days you’ve tried to eat cat food or something of that nature. Then I tell her maybe we should hold off on our predictions until you speak English and we can actually ascertain if your IQ is above that of a towel rack. Or, maybe you are just a genius who appreciates the complete vitamin nutrition contained in the tiny little bites of cat food. Who knows?
The other day you stayed home with your dad as I had to work and Nana couldn’t keep you one Friday. I came home at lunch to find your father and you drooling asleep in the bed. You were wearing nothing but a diaper with a paci half falling out of your mouth and your father was pretty much in the same position minus the diaper and the paci. He woke up and I asked him what you had eaten for breakfast and he pronounced, rather proudly, that you had “some strawberries, a few cheerios, and some pepperoni”. I think this shows how far we’ve come in relaxing our rules concerning child care around here.
Just last night you fell down, hit your head, got very upset and then I swear to GOD you said something that sounded just like, “I want my MAMA” and you crawled to me and curled up in my arms and I held you and rubbed your sore noggin and told you that you were okay. And, inside, I died just a little knowing that soon you wouldn’t ask for me when you were hurt. That there will be a day when curling up with your MAMA isn’t an option and you will bonk your head and go about your business. Lord knows I do this pretty regularly. But there isn’t a day that goes by that inside I don’t WANT my Mama when I bonk my noggin, say something stupid, or just in general feel miserable and need some comfort.
And, all I can hope, is that 32 years from now, when you are my age, I have done a good enough job that you still feel that way too.
Happy Birthday, Toodle Bug. You are now officially a “toddler” and no longer a “baby”. I expect all that crying and pooping in diapers nonsense to end post haste.
In the infinite wisdom of N'Sync (and as a tribute to your Godmother Elizabeth whom you were named for) I leave you with these words, "Bye Bye, Baby, Bye Bye..."
I love you now and forever,
Your Mama
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