Seafood Gumbo for the Toddler's Soul

Riley amazes me every day. She finds wonder and magic in the most random places, places that are old news to us big people. So I really appreciate watching her tackle something new because it's a chance for me to see something I've known or done for years from a whole new perspective.

The beach is no exception. Our five days out here at Grandma's have been all about relaxing and recharging, but I'm finding fun and insight in unusual places, thanks to the blank slate that is my daughter. I tend to think of myself as Riley's teacher in pretty much everything, but if I really pay attention, I find this old soul in a tiny new body has a lot of wisdom to impart.

Lessons she's taught me this week:

1. Be proud of your belly. This is something I've struggled with my entire life, as have most women. But Riley really owns her bikini. Her perfect little tummy leads her everywhere she goes, counter-balancing her tiny hiney. She's always happy to draw attention to it. She pats it. Back on land, she lifts her shirt to show it off. It appears to be her favorite body part. I really hope that lasts. I'm still trying to find peace with my form. But I look at her and remind myself that my waistline was blown out for good reason, and paunch that haunts my closet used to be home to the greatest thing I've ever done.

2. Sand is a fabulous full-body exfoliant. Riley loves to sit in wet sand at the waves' edge. She claws through it, rubs it all over, rolls around in it and digs her heels into it. As a general rule, I hate sand. It wedges itself in uncomfortable places, tracks through the house, ruins food and makes me feel crusty. But I found myself playing in the sand with my daughter as if it were a newly-discovered artistic medium. It actually felt good on my feet. It smoothed out a few rough spots on my heels, reinvigorated the skin on my legs and made great plopping sounds as we watched it glob off our wet fingers and splash back into the tiny pool we'd dug.

3. Meet waves head-on, and don't be afraid to make them. From her first brush with a wave, Riley was enchanted. She couldn't wait for the next foamy crest to splash. She squealed, kicked, waved at them and signed "more" as each one passed. It never occurred to her to be scared, even when she got a face full of salt water. That really impressed me. We sat with her on the water's edge so they'd run over her at foot-level as they were petering out. We also carried her out far enough that we could dip her feet down into the larger ones as they rolled through. She loved both. In our little hole back on the edge of water, Riley made mini-waves in her little pool by running her hands through it. Between our dips in the surf and parking on the sand, I found myself anticipating the swells almost as much as my daughter. Until this trip, it was just rushing water that could sting my eyes and -- like sand -- the source of crusty skin.

4. Sea gulls can be cool. Riley was transfixed by what I'd always considered to be ratty garbage collectors, the pigeon's surfside counterpart. She yelled at them, told them hi, waved at them, ran after them. They'd calmly strut away as she approached, which only made them even more captivating. So I found myself studying Nemo's arch-enemy much more closely than usual. I won't go so far as to say they're pretty, but they do serve an ornamental purpose if Riley finds them so enthralling.

5. Leave the party while you're still having a great time. Riley is a very well-behaved child, and she thrives off of an audience. She loves to work a room, a crowd or a beach. Cute babies naturally draw attention to themselves simply because they're cute babies, but Riley goes the extra mile with her cheerful greetings, waves and aforementioned perfect belly. She's too little to know when she's hit the wall, but it's crystal-clear to everyone else. We had some social outings and beach trips this week that dragged on longer than they should've because my husband and I were still having a good time. That came to an abrupt end once Riley came fully in touch with her inner Grumparumpasaurus. So Mom and Dad need to work on our timing and take our exit cues from our pint-sized American Idol.

At least that lesson applies to our trip. We're headed back to Colorado today, even though I'd love a few more days of life lessons on the beach from Riley. But we'll be back, and I'll have my laptop handy so I can keep taking notes from my little girl.

Life's a beach

We're in Florida right now visiting my mother-in-law in her fabulous beachside condo. We came this time last year when Riley was about three months old. This trip is waaaaaaaaay more fun.

For one thing, Riley has long since decided that she likes us and she'll stay. That was still up in the air a year ago. She was crying all the time. There was some crazy talk last year about the kiddie pool, but wiser minds prevailed. This year, she has a fabulous bikini, a month of swim lessons under her belt and a zig-zag, bow-legged power walk that Mom and Dad break a sweat to keep up with.

But we've managed pretty well so far. Between the beach and the pool, we have the perfect setting for a G-rated version of Girl Gone Wild. She gets so excited, she waves hi to everyone she sees, including sea gulls and the ocean. She squeals as we dip her toes in cresting waves and maintains a happy growl as she digs her fingers through wet sand.

Life is good.

Fashion forward

This hysterical hat was an Easter gift from a family friend. Riley was about 9 months old when it arrived. She was happy to wear it for about a month. Then nothing could convince her to keep it on.

But one day last week before she even got out of her PJs, she rediscovered it. Once I held her up to the mirror and she saw how stunning she looked in it, she refused to take it off for the rest of the day. Now every morning she hunts it down and struggles to pull it on by herself. After a minute or so, she stops, looks up at me expectantly and hands me the chapeau. Once I've set the blossom at the proper tilt and pulled the edges over her ears, she goes about all of her important Riley business with that ridiculous hot pink flower flapping on her head.

There are many reasons why I love the new hat ritual, above and beyond the obvious cuteness. It's a developmental milestone. This is Riley's first real assertion of personal taste and independence. She found the hat, she decided she liked it, she tried to get it on by herself.

It's also one of those random funny moments where I see the wheels turning and I know she's got some kind of logic pattern to why it now makes sense to love this hat. I don't know what the reason is, but I know it's a good one.

I just hope that in 50 years or so when she's eligible to join The Red Hat Society, http://www.redhatsociety.com/, that fabulous group of ladies who wear red and purple hats, she has a copy of this photo. I want her to know that she's always been bold enough to clash her colors and go fashion off-roading.

Because as much as I want to hold her close and protect her from any and all bumps on the winding road of her life's journey, it's even more important to me that she can navigate those twists, turns and jostles all by herself. So if a brash splash of fuschia and violet somehow helps her make sense of her map and personal compass, color wheel be damned. As far as I'm concerned, the pink and purple combo is the new black.

Inexperienced not just preferred, essential

I learned many things during my week away. Off-the-record chats with Pentagon brass about Iraq were far more enlightening than any news reports I follow. I got a CPR refresher course and figured out the location of a pretend casualty's brachial artery as fake blood shot in my face. In a strategic gaming exercise geared toward producing bright ideas for battling an Avian flu pandemic, I was humbled by what a monstrous beast public officials wrestle with when they try to take charge of a national disaster.

But the most important lesson of the week strikes much closer to home. Directly at home, in fact. The next time I leave, I need to find a stand-in who is far less competent than my mother. This person really just needs to be less competent than myself, and this is a challenge right up there with trying to close the borders to a virulent outbreak.

I came home to a spotless house, a jovial baby and pampered husband. It was a complete nightmare. After a week of care by the Uber Mother, my family is loath to return to my standard of care. Riley doesn't understand that we can't go outside every time she points to the door. My husband doesn't understand why I can't accomplish the same levels of cleanliness and culinary prowess as my mom while achieving professional success. When I asked him to hold Riley while I was chopping vegetables, he had the audacity to tell me that "Your mother did all that with a baby on her hip."

Insert expletive-filled comeback here.

I knew when I left that my shoes would be more than filled. In fact, they burst at the seams. My mother is Mary Poppins, Julia Childs and Merry Maids all rolled into one. To make matters worse, she's skinny and looks 10 years younger than she actually is without dying her hair or ducking under a knife. It's just wrong on so many levels.

Not that I have deeply-rooted issues (DRIs).

So as I thumb through the yellow pages for therapists, I'm making a mental list of those DRIs. I'm not even going to try to kid myself that I won't do some level of mental damage to my daughter over the next several decades, but I will promise her this: if she ever leaves her family in my care for a week, she won't come home to a clean house. I figure it's the least I can do for her.

Home again, home again, jiggety jig

I got to the airport on time. I got on my plane on time. We took off on time. We made good time. We were even going to be early.

I could all but see the white spires of DIA when the pilot announced that we would have to circle Kansas for a few minutes as we waited for weather to clear. About half a circle in, he announced we'd been diverted to Colorado Springs. I already knew the maddening answer, but I asked a stewardess any way: Was there any way I could get off? Of course the answer was no.

My husband was at the Springs airport waving at our parked plane, one of about 20. He suggested I fake a heart attack. I pondered the long term effects of getting arrested on an airplane simply to save myself an hour-and-a-half of driving home. Common sense and pride over my blank rap sheet prevailed.

I eventually got home two hours later than I should've. But my mother and husband had managed to keep Riley up for a quick and cheerful greeting before I took her upstairs to settle in for the night. It had been a long, hard, fantastic week away. But Dorothy's cliche rings true: There's no place like home.