A "Goodnight Moon" style birthday bash

Scott turned ONE just over two weeks ago.

My husband and I have been miserably sick since then.

I am going to pretend there's not some sort of correlation - you know, the kind that goes like, "If you hadn't run around so much, and gone so overboard for a party that your kid won't even remember, then you wouldn't have gotten so run down and gotten so inexplicably, unbelievably ill."

The truth is, Scott's party was waay over the top. And I am not sure I'd ever do it again. But I am very, very happy I turned into one of those moms, went a little nuts and lived the experience. I am very happy with the way it turned out.

I decided early on that I wanted a "Goodnight Moon" themed-birthday party -- not only because its one of Scott's favorite books -- but also because it was a play on this super-cute "Bedtime Stories" theme birthday party/bridal shower I saw on this ridiculously fantastic/cute blog for moms and party planners who have way more time and talent than me.

Deciding on a theme and a color scheme (blue, yellow, green) was easy. Executing it was far more difficult, as I am SOOO not a crafty person.

But I found a lovely woman (Thanks Shana!) who took my idea, and created all the "paper products" for the party - invitations, menu cards, yard signs, milk bottle labels, you name it. She even made the pieces of a birthday banner using the theme and colors to tie everything together. (Special thanks to my sister, who did a fabulous job stringing it into one cohesive, beautiful-looking wall hanging.)

Yard signs...

Food labels

Note the beautifully strung banner in the background...

The invitation

To keep with the theme, we decorated all the tables in the house to look like beds. My mom (aka Party Planner Extraordinaire) had the brilliant idea to buy the fabric in bulk from JoAnn's, and then she and my mother- in-law helped me portion it out, and wrap little pillows at the "head" of each table. We also decorated each with one of Scott's favorite books and a little stuffed animal.

The "Curious George"/Monkey-themed table

Main food table with Goodnight Moon book and stuffed bunny

The "monster" themed table

Food was simple - sandwich trays and chips, and milk and cookies, and, of course, the cake.

I love, love, LOVE my son's first birthday cake. It was made by Let Them Eat Cake in Phoenix -- the same bakery that did my wedding cake, and they did an incredible job. I walked in with the Goodnight Moon book, and a picture, and they built the most stunning, 3-D Replica of all the key elements from the story - the rabbit, the three little bears, the two kittens, the red balloon and the mouse. Plus, they carved it like a book!

And they made the most adorable little smash cake for Scott!

We told all the kids to come in their favorite PJs, and set up bubbles and games outside for them.

And with Daddy egging him on, Scott worked very hard at turning himself into a smurf.

After a quick bath and a costume change, it was time for presents! Tank's friends and family were very, very generous - he got lots and lots AND LOTS of gifts.

Like I said, it was a blast.
But I don't know that I'll have the energy to throw a party like that again -- at least, you know, until he turns 2!

More pics from the big day:

This is the only family photo we have from the day. Apparently we were too busy to take pictures.

Scott with Grandma Richardson

Scott with his Grandma Kathy, who flew in from California.

Grandpa Richardson starts the present brigade!

I LOVE this bib!

Scott's Great Grandma Richardson (Nahnee) and his Great Grandma Anderson (Gee-gee) partied too.

Scott's newest playmate, his adorable cousin Peyton. Check out those piggies!

Sometimes you gotta take a break from all the chaos to do what you normally do...like, you know, play with the outlets you aren't supposed to touch.

One little boy, in the midst of so many presents.

New toys are awesome!

Touchdown! I love being the birthday boy!

A special, special thanks to Beth at Lizzie Bee Photography for taking 99 percent of the amazing photos you see here!

It's the simple things...

I love holding Scott's hand as he tries to take those first few wobbly steps, how he struggles to say "book," and how he works so hard so hard to grasp a crayon.

But sometimes, all the would be developmental milestones are eclipsed by much less momentous, but equally amazing moments.

Today, I introduced my kid to the pleasures of Oreos (with milk from a sippy cup of course.)

Behold, the pure joy that comes from eating the greatest cookie ever invented, for the very first time.

Diagnosis: asthma

I remember when I was pregnant. Jim and I would have lots of conversations about our hopes for Scott. Many of those discussions focused on traits or genetic markers we hoped we would pass on.

My love of reading and writing and my compassion. Jim's common sense, his good logic and his ability to understand math. Our interest in travel, our willingness to try new things, our passion for good food and other cultures.

Of course, we also talked extensively about things we hoped Scott WOULD NOT inherit. My lack of balance, my rotten eyesight, my inability to compute anything with numbers, and Jim's horrendous spelling, to name a few.

Unfortunately, Scott is a product of his parents, and sometimes, that does mean bad news. Sorry kiddo!

I took our Tank to the pediatrician (again!) this week, after he got booted from daycare (again!) with a fever. I figured it was an ear infection. I was wrong.

The preliminary diagnosis: asthma, and maybe allergies.

Mommy has both, but it never occurred to me that these were problems that might also plague my son - especially at such a young age. But the doctor looked at his charts, and considered the fact that he has had a near constant runny nose since January, a persistent cough that just doesn't seem to go away (even when its 120 degrees) and a tendency to make a wheezy sound when he's congested. He said "he acts like a kid with asthma" and referred us to an allergist.

We're still waiting to schedule that appointment.
But in the meantime, we now get to add a nasal spray and twice daily breathing treatments to Scott's schedule. The breathing treatments involve putting a mini face mask over Scott's nose and mouth and hooking him up to a nebulizer that makes a ridiculously loud noise as it pumps a mist-like medicine into his lungs.

The first session went about how I expected:

Mommy get this damn thing off me. Now!

Eventually, I figured out that Scott semi-tolerated the five minute treatment if I held him on my lap, with his security blanket, while we watched Sid the Science Kid.

Brave little boy.

And I am exceedingly thrilled to report that after being bribed with post-treatment milk and some goldfish, Scott is acting like a relatively happy kid again.

He shows absolutely no interest in touching or going near the nebulizer though.

9/11

I've spent a lot of time reading and watching the news this week, reflecting on the 10 year anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks.

Like most Americans, I was profoundly impacted by the horrific destruction of the Twin Towers.

As a reporter, I spent most of those early hours and days feeling like two people - the normal person who was horrified by blazing buildings, terrified workers jumping from the top floors, soot covered New York residents and visitors who fled down the streets in panic as the buildings fell - but also, the journalist who buried those feelings and went on autopilot to cover the story.

A decade later, and I still have vivid memories of where I was that day, and how I spent the hours after...the tears I couldn't hold back when I saw crowds of people lining the streets, waving signs, flags, offering bottles of water and cheers of support to the exhausted rescue workers who kept trying valiantly to find survivors.

I think, in many ways, our country has changed for the worse since then. Yes, we are resilient. Yes, we have moved forward, yes, we have pressed on. But we are angrier, and more polarized. The tone of our debate, the nature of discourse is no longer respectful.

I find it all a bit sad and depressing.

And yet, this weekend, I've found reason to celebrate. The 10th anniversary of the terrorist attacks is omnipresent, like a fog that won't quite lift.

But my immediate, small, selfish and utterly self-centered little world has been centered on cupcakes and balloons and "So Big" and an utterly perfect, completely innocent, blonde-haired, blue eyed little boy who is celebrating his first birthday.

When I found out Scott was due on September 11, I hoped he would come earlier...or later...but not on his actual due date. I think my obstetrician felt the same way, because he "changed" my due date on all the medical charts to read September 12.

Ultimately, Scott was born on the 10th...but his entire birthday weekend celebration has taken place against the backdrop of the 9/11 anniversary.

And I realize now that that is okay...because he represents the future. Rebuilding. Hope.

I would like to think Scott will live his whole life without having to witness the kind of destruction and tragedy that was 9/ll, but I know its unlikely and naive of me to think he will be that lucky.

But for now, he's completely innocent and unspoiled. And as his mother, I am going to do my best to keep it that way for a long, long time.

Scott Alexander Rough arrives

Today my little man is ONE. A whole year old. Gulp. I am doing better than I thought. Of course, yesterday I was a total basket-case...a weepy sobbing mess, who couldn't -- or didn't want -- to accept the fact that her little baby is growing up.

On this Saturday, though, I am determined to have a different frame of mind. I am going to celebrate my son and all his accomplishments over the past 12 months, and look forward to all the "firsts" still to come...

But before we get to the party...I wanted to take a look back -- 365 days ago. September 10, 2010.

Much of the following was written in those first hazy days after Tank was born. I've done some minor edits for clarity, but have left the bulk of the text intact.
This, my dear son, is a letter from your mommy to you. It is the story of your entry into this world. Happy First Birthday!
Mommy and Daddy love you very very much.


I actually expected to meet you a week or so ago. But you made me wait, and wait and wait. But you were so worth it! I went to the obstetrician  on Friday, September 3, for my 38 week checkup. My doctor, (who rocks!) had me do a stress test. Basically they made mommy sit in a big comfy chair and strapped some stuff to my stomach and listened to your heartbeat for 30-45 minutes.


(This is a requirement for us old moms. The official term is "of advanced maternal age" and in today's world, it means anyone who is 35 or older. Yes, I know, at almost 36, I apparently have one foot in the grave and am ready for a walker.)


 Anyway, the doctor came in and shocked me by telling me that I was in the early stages of labor. He pointed to one line of the test which showed I'd been having regular contractions every three to four minutes. For the record, I felt nothing.


But he told me he was on call all weekend, and said you might be making your appearance as early as that night. I called your Daddy, told him the good news, and then went to the office for a couple of hours with the goal of cleaning up some files and getting things in order before my maternity leave started.


But as typical with my job, all hell broke loose, and I ended up working late. I came home and impatiently waited for the tell-tale signs of labor.

This is me and you, about two weeks before you were born. I don't know how I walked without toppling over.

But none arrived. 
Six days later I was back at my doctor's office wondering what the hell you were still doing in my stomach and whether you'd ever be gracing us with your presence. I think the nurse was thinking the same thing because when I walked in, she greeted me with: "You haven't had that baby yet???"


(Very astute woman.)


So here it was, Thursday the 9th, two days before my due date. Dr. DeSanto did an exam and it showed utterly no signs of progress. I was dilated only about 1/2 a centimeter. You were stubborn even in the womb.

Next came the ultrasound. The doctor found some calcification of the placenta and a drop in amniotic fluid. The calcification equals dead spots and suggests that it is nearing the end of its usefulness.

He decided we shouldn’t wait any longer, and scheduled me for a medically induced delivery at Scottsdale Shea Hospital on September 10. He told me to go home, get some rest, and wait for the hospital to call and tell us they had a bed available.

So Daddy and I went out to dinner that night and had a very nice meal at Tommy Bahamas restaurant. It was weird - it was just us, but we knew things were about to change in so many ways that we couldn't even begin to imagine. We went home early and packed the car and the hospital bag. The hospital called me at 3:30 a.m. (I had actually just drifted off to sleep and missed the call, but woke up 15 minutes later.)

We arrived about 4:30 a.m., and were situated in our delivery room by 5 a.m. 

I was put on IV fluids and a Pitocin drip to get the labor going.

Things did not start well. The nurse on the duty (whom Daddy quickly began calling “Nurse Ratchett”) blew out two of my veins – one in each arm – trying to hook up the IV. She also conducted what may have been the most painful internal exam I’ve ever had, (I seriously felt violated) and then said she couldn't find my cervix. (Which meant a second person had to do the same exam all over again.)

My contractions started soon after the Pitocin was delivered and they rapidly got stronger and more painful.

But you refused to budge, you stubborn little bugger. And a second exam five hours later showed I had made absolutely no progress.

Fortunately, there was a new nurse who came on duty at 7 a.m. – her name was Anita, and we were lucky to have her. She was wonderful. Grandma and Grandpa were at the hospital too, and everyone was eager to meet you.

But you would make us wait many more hours and give us repeated scares before you took your first breaths.

The problems began around 10 a.m.. As Mommy's labor became more intense, your heart rate would drop significantly with each contraction, and then skyrocket back up again (the doctors think it was because the reduced levels of amniotic fluid and deteriorating placenta were putting too much pressure on the umbilical cord.)

In any event, Anita didn't like what she was seeing and turned down the Pitocin to slow the labor. Mommy was also put on oxygen to help you out a little.

You felt much better. So the doctors turned the Pitocin drip up again to get the labor moving. But then you again started showing signs of distress. So the drugs had to be turned down. This pattern repeated itself over the next several hours. Mommy moaned and got grumpy. Daddy paced the room and checked your heart rate monitor every couple of minutes

The pain was so bad from the labor drugs that by 11 a.m. (six hours after our arrival), I needed an epidural. Unfortunately, I hadn't progressed at all, and was only dilated one centimeter.

Because you repeatedly showed signs of distress and had an erratic heartbeat, the doctors had to keep turning the drugs on and off. I also was only allowed to lay on my right side, because your heart rate would plummet if I rolled onto my back or my left side. 

(And thanks so much for taking it easy on me, by the way.)

By 1 p.m., an unplanned C-section was starting to look like a real possibility. I was very upset, because we didn't want that. But more than anything, I wanted you to be safe and healthy. And the doctors had said that while you were fine for the time being, you couldn't continue like this for too much longer.

And it certainly didn't help that in rooms all around mine, mothers had come in, labored and delivered their children. And here I was, still waiting (very impatiently now) to meet you.

By 5 p.m., you really weren't feeling well. The nurses stopped the drugs and let both of us rest while they called Dr. DeSanto. He determined I needed a C-Section and arrived at the hospital just before 6 p.m. to talk to us and prepare for the surgery. I was still in my bed, lying on my right side, being pumped with fluids and on oxygen. (And I was trying not to be jealous of my sister, your Aunt Kristy, who delivered your cousin in like 42 seconds.)

By 7 p.m., we were in the final stretches of getting ready for your arrival. Mommy was given an additional epidural to numb my entire abdomen as well as drugs via an IV that were supposed to counteract nausea.

Unfortunately, one caused a very bad reaction and mommy went coo coo bananas.

I tried to rip off the fetal monitors and leave the hospital. I told Daddy I was going home. I was panicking and shaking violently. Anita held me down and daddy did his best to calm me.

Once I was a bit more settled, the doctors wheeled my hospital bed into the surgery room. It was now 7:15 p.m. 

Daddy donned a hospital gown, booties and a cap. I was stripped of all clothing and put on a surgical bed, with my arms stretched out at my sides. The room was cold. There was a drape blocking my view of my stomach. My arms shook violently, even though the bed was heated -- a continued reaction to the anti-nausea drug.

I thought that with the epidural I wouldn’t feel anything, but I quickly realized that was not the case. Even after they turned up the drugs, I could feel it when Dr. DeSanto pinched my stomach. When he cut, it felt like a fingernail rubbing across my skin. Not painful, but still pretty freaky.

I heard the doctor say that I would feel a lot of pressure and "some tugging and pulling." And boy did I. It didn't hurt, but it felt really weird and uncomfortable. 

Then, at 7:29 p.m., roughly 15 hours after we arrived, they pulled you into this world. 

You didn't cry right away...they had to do some suctioning on your mouth and nose. But after a few seconds, you let out a bloodcurdling scream, and it was the best, most amazing sound daddy and I had ever heard.

You were tiny - only 6 pounds, 12.5 oz., and 19.5 inches long, but you were healthy and perfect and sported a full head of beautifully curly, blonde hair.

Daddy, who said he didn't want to "see anything" during the birth, temporarily lost his mind. The doctors asked if he wanted to take a picture, and he popped up over the drape with the video camera in hand like he was a Jack in the Box on a spring.

I also recall the doctors repeatedly saying, "Lens cap. Lens cap. Lens cap" and I remember thinking, "Don't they have more important things to do right now than help my husband with his videography skills?"

In any event, thanks to your father, we have this awesome, graphic shot of your birth:

Scott Alexander Rough, about two seconds old...

And a couple more, just a minute or two later:

Mommy and Daddy spent four days in the hospital, and you had tons and tons of visitors. It's hard to believe its been a whole year. Thank you for all the joy you've given us over the past 365 days. I can't wait to see what you have in store for us over the next 12 months!

But for now, here are some more pictures from your very first days on this earth.

Getting you all cleaned up.

Look at that beautiful blonde hair!

Day 3, first family photo!