not too long ago, our big girl turned two.  it’s been a great year and she’s come a long way from that slobbery one year old from last year : )

your accomplishments are many, so in no particular order, here’s the run-down:

you can say or sing (if the mood strikes) your a, b, c’s

you can count from 1-10

knows some colors:  black, blue, purple, green, yellow, pink, and calls everything red until you ask her again

you can hop, run, and dance

your dance moves are pretty sweet.  mostly you swivel around, moving your arms counter-clockwise, while bending your knees up and down.  “i’m dan-cing.”  yes, you are.  go, white girl, go.

you steal my fork at dinner time, trading me the “baby” fork

potty training lasted about two days a couple of weeks ago.  i’m in no rush.  and neither are you.

there is a big girl bed in her room now.  she took one look at it in her room and refused to get back in the crib.

at your doctor’s visit this week, you’re up to a whopping 22 pounds.  that would be the 4th percentile for weight.  poor kid.

besides your obvious cuteness, the other people automatically mention is how well you talk.  you’ve got quite the speech skills from someone who lives in the “quiet” family.  i think you get it from your aunt stacy, but that’s just between us.  today at the store you told the cashier “hi” and said “thank you” when she took your sandals to scan.  she said that you were so polite and told me “good job.”  that was cool.

your favorites are curious george, clifford, nemo, open season (your father’s fault), and dora.  when you want to watch tv you start off with the top of your list and keep asking until we say yes to one of them.  usually i just tell you no, but you’ve managed to figure out that dad is a major marshmallow full of goo that you can wrap around your tiny finger.  we’ve got the whole good cop/bad cop thing down to a science.  you’ve started to not ask me for permission, you just go to dad if he’s home.  it’s funny to watch him tell you to ask me.  you don’t seem really interested in that.

you got a tricycle from grandma and grandpa for your birthday.  your feet can almost sit on the pedals all the way, but that doesn’t stop you from wanting to ride it around.  it comes with a nifty handle for me to push you around, so you at least get to look like the cool kid on the trike even if i’m doing all the work.

you’re still snuggly and lovey.  you love giving and receiving hugs.  as long it’s immediate family members, otherwise they should stay at arm’s length.  they can appreciate your cuteness from a distance, no?

last night i asked if you were my sugar bear.  you said, “i’m momma’s sugar bear”  then thought about it for a second, “no sugar bear.”
but you’re my sugar bear, momma’s ella, ella-belly, and pumpkin.

Two cute.

if i look back at my old school photos from elementary school, it won’t take long for me to find it. there’s that one year that sticks out. it’s the one that documents the physical scars of my childhood in kodachrome clarity. i’ve got my best white turtleneck with snappy apples and 1,2,3 to remind people of my love of fruit and math (ha). a goofy half-smile as i kneel, hands innocently clasped over the felt-like tree stump i’m posed beside . and there, more unsettling than the fake tree, are my bangs.

my mother was a firm believer and ardent practitioner of the home hair cut. why go to a salon or even a barber when there were a perfectly good pair of dull scissors banging around in the junk drawer? ten dollars for a haircut? did my sister and i think we were the rockerfellers?

mother’s stylist’s chair was the toilet seat. i’d wet my bangs and dutifully plop down on the seat praying for a steady hand. with pictures looming the next day, i wasn’t feeling particularly hopeful. after eyeballing my hair momentarily, she’d carefully hack off an end piece to test the waters. some more water, a few comb throughs, another hack, the dull metal obediently gnawed away at it’s prey. every once in awhile my fidgeting would earn me an accidental stab in the forehead, compounding my injuries. a little more water, another brush through, a mandatory step back into the hallway to eyeball the progress, and the sound of the scissors chewing through the rest of my hair. all done.

and then the mirror.

well, maybe more tilt of the head, it’s kinda straight.

it’s got more zig than zag this time, so that’s a plus.

don’t worry, it’ll grow out.

unfortunately, not in time for pictures a mere 12 hours away, but at least now i have photographic proof to share with ella when we laugh at what i did last week.

for ella’s first hair cut we actually went to a salon and paid $15 for her to get .25 inches of her bangs trimmed. i was okay with it. but it took almost three hours from start to finish for us to get in, get trimmed, and get out. ridiculous! and it’s not like we’re the rockerfellers.

so while ella’s playing in the tub the other night, i get the bright idea to trim her bangs. they’re getting a little long, and i did it a few weeks ago with decent results. no problem.

so i dig my scissors out, start wetting her hair, comb it out and take a hack. hmmmm. not bad. stop squirming ella! go in for another swipe. comb, comb, wrestle comb back from ella. another hack. whoa. that didn’t look straight. crap! comb, comb, comb, wet, comb. still doesn’t look straight. another hack here, over there, a bit more on the one side. oops! sorry ella, didn’t mean to poke you in the forehead with the scissors. don’t cry!

okay. mommy’s done.

i put her to bed and her hair’s still wet so i can’t tell how bad the damage is. until the next day when i pick her up from daycare. i saw her and immediately start laughing. poor kid. she’s oblivious to her new “textured” look. unfortunately, her teachers aren’t. they want to know what happened to ella. i try not to laugh too hard when explaining myself.

so it runs in the family. and i think i’ve learned my lesson. at least until she’s old enough to sit still on the toilet seat.