Maggers Turns Three

Happy Birthday Maggie! Typing this today I am overwhelmed by the fact that you are three. It seems impossible that three years ago I was in a hospital bed, 5 cm dilated, 100% effaced with broken water and still not in labor. Thank god for pitocin, because once I got that, you were born in less than 40 minutes. One Push McCall should have really stuck more than it did. Oh well.

You are very proud of the fact that you are now “a big girl”. “I not a little girl Mama, I a big girl.” However, last weekend, after your repeated pleas to go into the bottom bunk of Owen’s bed and abandon your crib, this fact was put to the test. As you lay down in the bed and looked around, you eyes grew wide. You jumped out of bed, saying “Mama, I not a big girl. Look at me, I still little. I still very, very, very little. I go downstairs.” It was impossibly cute, and the best thing was when Owen was tearful that you would not be sharing a room, you said “Owen, I just not ready. I’ll be ready soon. I give you a kiss.” I don’t think anyone can argue that for a just turned three year old, you have a very good sense of yourself. You know what you want, when you want it. And this a very good quality, even if at times it borders on bossy, and, believe me, it does.


Recently, you were moved from the 2 year old class to the 2/3 class at preschool. There were some concerns that you might have a bit of difficulty, emotionally and academically. But you did extremely well, took it in stride like “a big girl” and caught up no problem. You are so smart. I try to stress this often since you also get a lot of “she is so pretty” comments. You are both, and I want you always to know that. And somehow, I don’t think you will forget.


Yesterday, I looked up famous birthdays and you share yours with Joan Crawford. And nope, I am totally not going to sugar coat it. You have a temper. Maybe not wire hangers in the closet temper, but close. Your Dad and I are thankful that you were second, I fear that if we had not had Owen first, we would cater to these episodes and make you a mini-megalomaniac. But unfortunately for you, we have been “through the shit” and we know when to walk away when a crazy eyed semi-psychotic toddler has a fixed idea. You will wail, howl, cry. All of this will not even cause us to raise an eyebrow, and when you realize this, which is often quick, you pick yourself up, huff on over and say, “I sorry. I need a hug.” Oh, by the way, you give the best hugs. They are full body in, arms tight across the neck, head firmly pressed against the chest awesomeness. And I am Boston Irish Catholic, we don’t ever like to be touched (except, when intoxicated), so yeah, best hugs.


Also, you just happen to have this older brother that you adore. I know at some point you will be reading this and say, “Oh my god, Mom. I SO did not like Owen.” But guess what? You did, and you do, you idolize him. You imitate what he does constantly, you demand his attention, which he thankfully gives (see temper). You love your brother, so, so much. And he you.


Maggie, you make me so happy. You make your Dad so happy. I can’t imagine my life without you and have a hard time remembering it without you. I feel so lucky, so blessed, and so overly emotional right now so I am going to stop before the waterworks come. My baby girl, my monkey, my little spitfire full of piss and vinegar I am sure to regret 10 years from now, I love you. Thanks for making my life so much better than it ever could be without you.

Love, Mama

P.S. Your singing is just sort of rad.

The Half Decade Mark

Five Things for Owen on this his Fifth Birthday:

1. You Love Cars 2. You love to play races with your cars, lining them up, rolling them and yelling at Maggie when she takes them. The fact that you asked for Cars 2 bedding with that being your favorite present has only added to your love affair, but also your oddness as what five year old wants bedding. However, let me clear about something - it is pronounced Piston Cup. There is only so much your Dad and I can do to remain straight faced when you cry out that you have just won the “Pissing Cup.”

2. Holy Cow, Competitive. I feel that this is somehow my fault, given that this is surely retribution from God for my own transgressions against my parents. The other day after you defeated your father and me in a riveting game of Xbox Kinect Twister, you said to Dad when he was reading bedtime stories, “Daddy, guess what?” “You and mommy are doofuses, I’m the winner.” Yep. You also throw a major fit when you do lose, “Why I lose Daddy?” “Why you beat me?” And then you sulk. So now we are forced to expunge the “it is only a game”, “it is suppose to be fun” and “it is not about winning” mantras. Again, totally retribution or competiveness is a genetic trait, which I am thinking it is.

3. Mr. Sensitive. It is hard to believe that the same person who is a hyper competitive a*hole . . . err kid, can also be amazingly sensitive and sweet. But true! Yesterday after Maggie woke up from her nap, and was not feeling well. You asked to draw a picture “to make her feel better.” And then as she lay like a slug on the couch, you came up to her, rubbed her head and said “Aww, Maggie, feel better.” This empathy is one of your best qualities.

4. You Are Funny. You do things like this (by the way, go 9ers!).



5. You are the Best. As your parent, I know there is some obligation to make blanket statements like this. But I can’t really remember when you were not part of my life, which must mean that my life is exponentially better with you in it - or I am just really, really tried, which can totally be a possibility. You are my Os, my son, my first born and there will never be anything better than out of the blue hearing you say, “Mama, I love you.” I love you too Owsie. Happy Birthday.

P.S. How were you ever this small?

Ten Things About Maggie McCall On This Her Second Birthday.

1. Strawberries. I do not believe there is anyone on the planet more in love with strawberries than you. I have to hide the pints below the carriage at the supermarket so you don’t go into hysterics shouting “STAHHHBEERRRRIIIEEESSS.” After giving you a half a pint, you will return with the empty bowl 3.2 seconds later, your face covered in strawberry juice, moaning “More, more, more, more.” Strawberries are freaking expensive, and it is your crack.

2. Your Hair. Holy cow, I don’t even know where to begin with this one. Your hair is nuts. It is fine and curly, not tight cork screw but sort of long dangly curls that are always dry. This is what you looked like on Saturday when you woke up:



Wow. Thank god for conditioner and elastics, because if strawberries are your crack, this is your crack ho hair. Is it wrong to liken a 2 year olds hair to a crack ho, I don’t think so.

3. Owen. I believe that your brother is your favorite thing on the planet, aside from strawberries. Ohwin! Ohwin! You love him. You follow him around imitating his every act. Which is not good when he is doing something wrong, but hey, I decided to have two kids, and that is my punishment.

4. Fearless. You really have no real fear that I can see. In fact, a few weeks ago you at 22 pounds decided that it was an opportune moment after your 45 pound brother stole your car to tackle him, put him in a head lock and then throw him and you to the ground. I think you realized when you smacked your head, that your next assault would have to be better planned.

5. Rage. I think it is apparent that you have a bit of a temper, you always had. God forbid I got my boob to you 0.0003 second late when you were a baby, but now when you are mad, you throw up your arms and shake your clenched fists, a screaming malcontent. Its pretty hilarious. We try not to laugh, but its really hard. You look like the cover of Platoon for crying out loud.



6. Sunglasses. Just let’s say you like them:







7. Hugs and Kisses. You are very responsive with kisses and hugs to anyone. Which in the family is fantastic, but when we are leaving MUNI for the street, and you start saying bye and hugging the person next to us, well that is a tad bit too friendly. But also pretty awesome.

8. Dancing Maggie. Your dance moves are sick.



9. Toy Story 1, 2 and 3. I am pretty sure if you could replace your father and I with Woody and Buzz, you would.

10. The Mags. That is what we call you when we are not calling you Maggie, Maggers, Maggaroons, and her Magsesty. I think your brother said it best last night when I told him that today was your birthday and remember to wish you a Happy Birthday, “Mags is crazy. I love her.” I know your father and I feel the same.

Happy Birthday Maggie. We love you.

Further Proof I Lack the Girl Gene

This morning as I went about the business of the morning - waking up to Owen, saying hello to John, getting milk for the boy, getting Owen's food for the day ready, dressing, dressing Owen, walking out the door - when John says "Owen, don't you want to wish your Daddy Happy Birthday." Yeah, whoops! Am I not the worse person ever? I totally forgot. And you know why, because I am not truly a girl. Sure, I have boobies, had a kid, and watch Sex and The City, but deep down somewhere the internal gene that makes girls go goo goo and gaa gaa over such things as shopping, hair styles, manicures, Brad Pitt, leggings, and birthdays is missing. In fact, at this moment I am trying to recall the day we got married. I know it was July - but beats me if it was the 20th or the 22nd. I think the 20th, but I would not put money on it. But somehow I know that the New England Patriots won Superbowl XXXVI when Brady spiked the ball with 7 seconds on the clock to set up Adam Vinatieri's 48 yard field goal kick to win 20-17 against the Rams on February 3, 2002. So what does this mean? No girl gene! So Happy Birthday John McCall, I love you very much.