4 AM Feeding

How to Talk so Children Will Listen (hint: it involves cookies)

2012-02-01T00:17:00.002-05:00

There are lots of things that don't mix well with toddlers. Lipgloss and pageants come immediately to mind, along with clean houses, uninterrupted thoughts, and permanent markers.  After the last two months I can add "a parent on crutches" to the list.  It's just, well, impossible.

We returned from the ER with "sprain" as the official diagnosis, and I hobbled to the couch to watch Greg and our sitter, Clara, handle dinner, bedtime and clean up. Hmmm, this might not be so bad after all. Then Greg gently reminded me that he had an overnight business trip scheduled the next day. We extracted promises from Clara for all of her spare time for the next week. I crawled up the stairs and went to bed. Or, tried to. Just as it's impossible to find a comfortable sleeping position when one's stomach is swollen with child, it's also impossible when one's foot has taken on Elephant Man-like proportions.

The next day passed somehow. The fun began when we had to return to preschool, 48 hours after The Fall. Greg was still enjoying his 400 thread count business trip as I tried to get breakfast, empty the dishwasher and make lunches without the use of my hands.

Then came the moment of truth. I tried to impress upon my offspring the gravity of the situation. First, to the four year old: "Buzzy, you are my helper. You have to wait for me. You have to listen to me. You have to do EXACTLY WHAT I SAY."

She fidgeted, "Mommy, did you pack a straw in my lunchbox?"

Next, to the two year old--who, let's face it, was the weak link in this operation, present company excluded: "Rosie, you are a good girl. You must listen to mommy. You're going to wait for mommy. Right? Right?"

Rosie beamed at me. "Ess, Mama."

I opened the door, and Buzzy actually waited for me. Rosie tumbled out the door and promptly fell down the deck stairs onto the concrete driveway. She lay there for a minute, as I crawled to her.  As I approached, she jumped up and made a beeline for the street. "Buzzy, RUN." I yelled to the four year old whom I'd just implored to wait. "You have to stop Rosie. GRAB HER, GRAB HER!"

Buzzy paused, confused by my directions to tackle her baby sister. Then she enthusiastically went for it. "TAKE HER DOWN!" I screamed, as I crutched to the foot of the driveway as fast as I could. "TAKE HER DOWN!" Both the kids gaped, but at least it successfully distracted Rosie from pursuing her dreams of playing in traffic.

I wiped the spittle off my face, and we got to school without further incident. By the return trip, I had figured out that carrying a cookie in my pocket was a more effective, if somewhat less exciting way to get Rosie to the car. By the end of the day, I learned that getting a toddler to behave by talking to her rather than by swooping in to pick her up is sometimes possible but very time consuming.  (And that bribery worked the best.) Being "on" with Rosie, and even with Buzzy, was and is the most exhausting part of the injury.

That evening, my mother, who had read one too many Facebook statuses about her granddaughters in peril, offered to come to stay with us 'till I got back on my feet. We gratefully took her up on her offer. She will probably be more careful with her phrasing in the future.

Ashes, Ashes

2012-01-29T18:29:00.000-05:00

Preschool pick up is brutal. Picture hyper 3-, 4-, and 5-year olds released from their classrooms into a narrow hallway filled with parents and nannies jostling for the right of way, strollers, baby siblings in car seats, dropped mittens, plans for playdates swirling, "Mom!  I forgot my lunchbox!", whiny negotiations to play on the playground, the occasional wailing of someone separated from their primary caregiver, and, over the whole scene, glitter like snow falling from art projects held above the fray.

On December 5, we battled our way through that hallway.  I thought the hard part was over. Buzzy successfully begged a few extra minutes on the playground then ignored my obligatory "five minute warning" that it would be time to leave soon. She ignored my notification that the five minutes were up, and it was time to go. She ignored me counting to three. She ignored me saying I was leaving without her.  So I peeled Rosie off a ladder and left without her.

Buzzy's preschool tops a wooded hill.   The path down was too far from the playground, so I took a shortcut towards the car. I was angry. Heady with her four-year-old capabilities and armed with a fresh sassiness that I blamed on preschool (certainly she wouldn't pick that up that attitude at home, right?), Buzzy had been ignoring me lately. Despite her bravado, I knew she'd follow me to the car. Sure enough, she came running, circled around me, then bolted off in the wrong direction.

One step from the bottom of the hill and the sidewalk, I turned to watch where she was running--and down I went. A second later, I was on my hands and knees, blinking the stars away. Rosie was sitting happily on the sidewalk; I had obviously managed to set her down before my left ankle. . . exploded?

"Oh, my God. I am so embarrassed. I hope no one saw that." Blink. Stars. More stars. Still on my hands and knees. And I realized, "Oh, my God. I need help. Where is everybody?" Blink. Breath. Realize: I wasn't on the path; no one saw me.

Think. Okay. First: get Rosie before she wanders off, too. Thank God, I fell a foot away from my parked car. I somehow hopped and leaned on the car and strapped her into her seat. I waited for Buzzy who wandered back eventually, and talked her into the car.   I successfully touched my fingers to my nose and decided I could drive. I sang the three miles home to keep my mind off of what I was going to do when I got there. I still don't know how we all got inside, although crawling was certainly involved.

I called Greg and finally burst into tears. "I hurt myself; I can't walk; I can't take care of my baby; I don't know what to doooo!" He said he was on his way. Good man. Then, of course, I called my mommy. "Mommy, I hurt myself and I can't walk and I can't take care of the baby and do you think I broke my foot?" My mom reminded me that she was unqualified to diagnose me from Chicago and without a medical degree. She made sure that help was coming, and she said it would be okay.  I stopped crying. Our wonderful sitter arrived, and Greg took me to the E.R.  "Just a sprain," they said, when they reviewed the x-ray. A quick lesson on how to walk with crutches and we were out the door with the name of a doctor to call if I wasn't walking in a week.

"Man, it's going to be an ugly week until I can walk again," I remember saying to Greg as I jauntily used my crutch to punch the handicapped button to open the door.

Seven weeks later, my foot is still purple and swollen, I'm sporting an orthopedic boot, I need crutches to walk, and they gave me a temporary handicapped parking pass.

To be continued....

All done.

2011-11-02T15:23:00.000-04:00

Not to brag, but sleep was something I was always good at. According to my mom, I was a natural from an early age. With talent comes responsibility. I needed a lot of sleep, and I usually got it one way or the other.

I was apprehensive about parenting because I knew my sleep intake would take a hit. Of course, it did. With Buzzy, we went through bleary-eyed days. I consulted the sleep canon of Ferber and the No-Cry people, and eventually we worked it out so that we were reasonably well-rested. Buzzy even, God bless her, adapted to our late morning life style and slept in from time to time.

Then. Then came Rosie. You've seen Nightmare on Elm Street? Ha! Freddy Krueger is no match for my daughter. Rosie loved to cozy up and snuggle, but woe to the person who dare lay her down. We'd rock and sooth 'till her crazy curly eyelashes slooooowly dropped, only to have them pop open just as her body relaxed. Bleary-eyed days turned into grimly-exhausted weeksmonthsyears.

After she turned one, I tried cry-it-out, modified, then not-so-modified. You've seen Poltergeist? Yeah. Nothing compared to the screams coming from her room. She screamed 'till she was hoarse, then kept going. (Did I mention she has a bit of a temper?) I read the attachment theories, which are lovely and all, but a bit impractical if you have another child or want to shower from time to time. Nevertheless, I tried it for a while. My child is so attached I think she would crawl back into the womb if she could. After some deliberation, I decided that full-on attachment parenting wasn't the answer for me. Turns out, I need a little space.

She didn't sleep through the until she was 21 months old, which means I've gone over a year and a half without real rest. You've seen pictures of how the presidency ages people exponentially? I look like I've been running the entire G8 since the day she was born.

After my recent weeks of regular sleep, I started to feel more human again. Household tasks, like packing lunches and making dinner and even throwing in a load of laundry, no longer made me weep. I even organized a closet and wrote a blog post. Were there no heights to which this mommy could not climb?

Alas, it was not to be. It could be her teeth (again), her stomach (again), the phase of the moon (again), the fact that she's entering the terrible twos, or God-only-knows (again). But, she's taken to screaming every time she approaches her crib. My patience, however, is gone. I've been letting her scream (after ascertaining that, despite appearances, no one is sticking pins into her and that she has a clean diaper). Something may well be wrong, and she may be trying to tell me something, but she's going to have to save it for her future therapist, because I can't do it any more.

Boo (hoo) Halloween

2011-10-27T21:44:00.000-04:00

Halloween, when I was a kid, meant a home-made costume. It meant a trip to Minnesota Fabrics, fittings and pins, and "hold still!"  It meant that we had some of the cutest costumes in our classes, but that I had an eight-year-old's guilty envy towards classmates who had store-bought costumes (which, come to think of it, echoed my feelings towards kids with store-bought birthday cakes. I knew mine tasted better, but those gorgeous frosting roses were enticing).

As I've grown into mothering a bit and found myself responsible for how our family celebrates holidays, I've developed a real aversion towards holiday juicing. It seems that mid-September through January is one giant festivus marked by store-bought, blinking tablescapes, inflatable lawn decorations and too much cheap candy. Bah. Humbug.

I also realize I'm a total lunatic. Accordingly, I don't care or judge what other families do, decorate, eat or wear. We even enjoy driving around to gape at everyone else's lawn decorations. Then I enjoy breathing a sigh of relief and walking through my rather Spartan Indian-corn bedecked front door.

Hmmm... as I type this, I realize I may be less a humbug and more just lazy. But, let's stick with the principled stance.

Not surprisingly,  I fall into the homemade costume camp. I don't sew, so it's a bit challenging and I save my energy for babies too small to know what they are wearing or children old enough to somewhat appreciate it. All that to say is that I bought a used costume for Rosie this year off my mommy list-serve.

Last year, Buzzy was a home-made ladybug. As she took off her wings, she declared that next Halloween, she would be a kitty. We smiled and tucked her in.  A couple weeks ago, I asked what she wanted to be this year and she looked at me like I'd forgotten her name. "A kitty." Specifically, as it turned out, "A pink, brown and white kitty with a tutu."

After a trip to G Street Fabrics, some how-to Googling and minimal swearing, I produced a cat costume. With her school party tomorrow, I tried her ensemble on her tonight. She looked adorable. Until she burst into tears.

"What's wrong, honey?"  I thought maybe I left a pin in somewhere. But the problem was more elemental.

"I don't want to be a kitty this year."

"Oh. Um, what would you like to be?"

"A princess," she wailed.  "Or Annie."

Hmmm...  one grandmother gave her a Disney Princess Belle costume for her birthday (ahem, the one who NEVER bought her own children store-bought costumes) and the other grandmother bought her an Annie costume for her birthday. Buzzy is sort of musical-obsessed, and Annie is latest in the line-up.

Halloween, when I was a kid, meant I had no idea that I could change my mind after the trip to the fabric store. I, however, assured Buzzy that she could be whatever she wanted for the school party, for a costume party on Saturday, and for Halloween itself. She was worried I'd be sad, but I promised that she would not hurt my feelings one bit if she didn't chose the kitty. I wasn't lying, either. But--remembering the perfection of those frosting roses on my friends' birthday cakes--I do question how to foster an appreciation of original and creative things when the alternatives are so enticing.

Well, here's what I do know, at least:
(1) I should have focused my energy on Rosie--she's destructive, yes, but generally still amenable to my clothing choices, and
(2) I should have made Buzzy watch Cats before busting out my sewing scissors.

Happy Halloween!

Four (Otherwise Known As the Birthday when I Abandoned All of My Principles).

2011-10-18T20:53:00.000-04:00

If you ask Buzzy how she's doing, she'll enthuse, "I'm FOUR!"

Four years ago, I asked family and friends to go easy on the pink. I rolled my eyes at the Disney Princess Industrial Franchise. I envisioned wooden toys lovingly hand-carved, and one shelf to contain all of them. I planned to feed her whole foods, with sugar limited to an occasional treat.

Three years ago, Buzzy ate her first piece of home-made cake on her birthday. Her toys still fit on a couple of shelves. Pink crept into her closet, but there was nary a Disney character in our home.

Two years ago, Buzzy chowed down on cake and ice cream, and asked for seconds. We bought more storage for the playroom to contain a variety of plastic toys.

One year ago, Buzzy invited friends to celebrate her birthday with her. She devoured cake and ice cream, and licked the frosting off the candles. Her toys spilled out of the playroom, and we started finding My Little Ponies behind the sofa cushions. She only wore pink and purple.

One week ago, Buzzy invited her entire class, playgroup, and assorted family friends to her fourth Princess Birthday Party, which she'd been planning in detail for over six months. She wore a pink Belle costume, polyester and sparkly. There was a bouncy house, a face painter (who came with the bouncy for thirty bucks), a pinata, a six-foot square plastic sign of Belle, Cinderella, Snow White and one of the new princesses whose name I do not know that read, "Happy Birthday, Princess!" There was a conventional grocery store-bought cake with Crisco frosting and light-up princesses on it.

And there was one very, very happy little girl. . .

And a mother who realized that it was worth eating a little crow to see the look of absolute joy on her daughter's face.

Four Months Later, Or

2011-09-07T15:52:00.002-04:00

What I Did On My Summer ~~Vacation~~

1) I grew a toddler, so, yeah, the vacation's over. Rosie started walking (of sorts), so I've got a dainty-gaited kamikaze stepping about, launching herself from the sofa and trying to do pull ups on the countertops.

2) The toddler started chatting. She has no use for the "L" sound.  Normally, this wouldn't be a problem for a couple more years at least, except she also developed an affinity for a little stuffed Elmo doll. Or, as she calls him, "Homo." She was very popular when we vacationed in lovely Rehoboth Beach, home to many a rainbow-flag bedecked store. Whenever Rosie dropped Elmo, she cried, "Uh-oh, Homo!" Oh, the distress in her voice, when poor Elmo hit the street. Oh, the number of times he fell.  I was both horrified and mortified, as only the mother of a toddler can be.

3) Buzzy turned, as she would tell you, "three and three quarters." Which means, as she would tell you, that she knows a lot of things. Sometimes she thinks she knows more than her mama. So, that's been fun.

4) Buzzy encountered Mean Girls for the first time. Greg dropped her off at a summer program she attended for a few mornings each week, and reported that two little girls had run up to embrace Buzzy upon her arrival.  But the tides turned by lunch time. When I stopped by the Brown Room to take her home, she was mopey. I asked her what was wrong, and she quavered, "Chloe said I couldn't play princess with them because I wasn't wearing a dress."

I wasn't expecting to deal with cliques much before fourth grade, but I said something along the lines of, "Oh, honey, she's being silly. You can pretend to be a princess no matter what you're wearing." Buzzy shook her head, crying. "She said I had to be a BOY and wear BROWN PANTS." In my pink-loving, tutu-twirling little girl's world, being a boy who had to wear pants was bad enough, but nothing in her three and three-quarters years had prepared her for brown. She burst into tears.  "Chloe and Abby said I couldn't play with them."

I soothed and distracted and finally got her settled, then fired off an email to the camp director, asking if they could remind the three year olds to play nicely with all of their friends. Three year olds! Sheesh. Apparently, Chloe and Abby have a bit of a history. And they are on my list. Forever.

5) Mostly, though we enjoyed a lazier pace with family and friends. Lots of beach time, as the sand in the crevices of my car will attest for the duration of its existence. While traveling with a todder who still doesn't sleep through the night has its challenges, and I am more sleep deprived than I've ever been in my life (which may be why I can't remember more things we did this summer), I'm beginning to see the time when raising my charges may get a little bit easier--at least physically. Chloe and Abby indicate that other arenas are about to get a whole lot more challenging.

Almost Famous

2011-05-10T23:21:00.003-04:00

I am exactly one lost set of keys away from losing it. This morning, I sailed through the feeding, dressing, "Yes, I'd prefer it if you wore matching socks to school, but it is your choice"-ing, lunch packing, and general maintenance of my charges. We were even set for an on-time preschool arrival, which rarely happens (if Trinity Preschool handed out tardy slips, she'd have racked up some serious detentions already). I had the audacity to congratulate myself as I handed Buzzy her lunch bag. Then I reached for my keys. . . .

There are no atheists in foxholes or among mothers trying to get their kids out the door, but the problem with being a lapsed-Catholic-turned-almost-lapsed-Episcopalian is that you forget the go-to saint in these situations. (Apparently, St. Joseph is not the guy. I'm sure he has other talents, but timely key location is not one of them.) I tore the house apart. I implored Buzzy to help Mommy find the keys. I interrogated my 16-month-old to determine if she was responsible. She denied everything. I went through the laundry. I de-cushioned the sofa.  My keys had vaporized along with my cushion of time.

We were seriously late. Not only was Buzzy missing school, but Rosie was missing her music class--the highlight of her week and my favorite parenting activity. I searched unsuccessfully and wondered what kind of mother causes her kid to miss school because she can't find her keys. 'The dog ate my homework' carries more weight.

A frantic hour passed. My search revealed additional evidence of my parenting and housekeeping flaws: unsorted laundry, stinky kitty litter, stacks of papers to be organized, the teetering tower of books on my bedside table. I tried hard to stop crying on the stairs.  Why is this so hard? I only have two kids, for Pete's sake. What is wrong with me?

The kids picked up on my tension despite my super-phony assurances that everything was fine. Buzzy pretended that she lost her plastic necklace, and she got angry. "That's not famous," she yelled, causing Rosie to cry.

"What? Buzzy, that doesn't even make sense." I snapped at my three year old.

"Famous means nice." She explained. Whatever. I didn't have the energy to set her straight. "Famous means nice" it is.

I gave up on the keys. "Change of plans!" I announced cheerfully in my super-phony voice. We took a walk. We bought a fancy coffee for mama and muffin for the littles, and we all watched the water fountain, and we felt better. My normal voice returned.  "Mommy, you're famous," Buzzy said.  I didn't correct her this time. Instead, I reflected how thankful I am that we live so close to things like fancy coffee and water fountains, and that it wasn't raining today. We ate the lunch I packed for Buzzy as a picnic and returned home. I stuck Rosie in her high chair to eat a little more before her nap. As I picked up her bib from the kitchen table, my keys clattered to the floor.

Buzzy laughed. Rosie laughed because her sister was happy. I did not laugh. But I'm working on it.

Old Habits

2011-03-31T23:37:00.002-04:00

A thousand years ago, when I used to be a lawyer, I'd dash into Starbucks for my caffeine fix and sometimes see them. Mommies, enjoying a latte, glancing at the newspaper while their little one chewed a scone or slept in a stroller. "Who are those women?" I'd wonder, as I calculated how many tenths of an hour I'd have to make up in exchange for my coffee break (.4). "What lives they must lead. No deadlines, no stress. . . ." Then I would grab my coffee, which I drank without sugar to avoid standing in line for condiments (.1), and hustle back to the office.

Fast forward. I've scuttled my career and have kids in tow. But I still gaze at those women sipping their coffee, ~~flipping through the paper~~ checking their iPhones, and wonder about their lives. Because my trips to the coffee shop look a little different.

Today, we had no adult food in the house and I hadn't eaten when I picked Buzzy up from preschool at 1:00, so I planned to grab lunch, and pick up some bread and milk at the local coffee shop/bakery/wanna-be hipster hangout. But before we left preschool and its Lilliputian potties, I asked Buzzy if she had to use the bathroom. She said no. I asked if she was sure. She was.

At the coffee shop/bakery, I ignored Buzzy's whines for a cookie, ordered soup for myself and a scone for the kids, and sat us all down. To protest my cookie veto, Buzzy repeatedly threw her coat on the floor and picked it up. When that grew old, she announced she had to go to the bathroom. I strapped the baby into her stroller, and we navigated the crowded shop.

"I have SO MUCH POO!" Buzzy's three year old voice piped clearly. The crowd of hipsters parted like the Red Sea. She wasn't kidding, either, and sat on the potty for the long haul. She would have settled in with the Times if she could read.

After five minutes, I had to ask. "Honey, are you done yet?"

"No! I have more poo!" she said in a voice that carried well past the thin door separating us from the seating area. Rosie wasn't happy about being stuck in the stoller in the bathroom stall and started to wail. I began to wish for reading material of my own. Fifteen minutes later (.3), we finally left the bathroom.

My soup was stone cold, and a family of three was now sharing the other end of the table. They were all reading quietly--the father was halfway through Jonathan Franzen's Freedom, and the mother had something that looked equally serious. Buzzy, mood much improved after camping out in the potty, started chattering to Rosie.

It must be shared that Buzzy has the innocent and unfortunate habit of calling Rosie 'pussycat'. (We traced it back to Rosie's love of cats and Buzzy's book of nursery rhymes, which includes one about a pussycat going to London to visit the queen.) Actually, it's no secret after today.

"How's my little pussy?" Buzzy called to the baby in her high chair. The family of three looked up from their books in unison.

"Is my little pussycat hungry?" She shoved part of the scone in her sister's mouth. "Does my little puss want more?"

Time to leave the cold soup and to get my loquacious preschooler out. Halfway to the door, I realized I'd forgotten the bread (upon which my grand dinner plan of grilled cheese sandwiches depended), so I quickly returned to the counter to buy a loaf. In lieu of lunch, I also bought a cup of coffee. I still drink it without sugar to avoid standing in line for condiments. Sometimes, .1 of an hour is just too long.

Simply Irresistible

2011-03-18T18:32:00.002-04:00

Rosie's climbing stairs, cruising between the sofa and the very pointy-cornered coffee table, and trying to pull up on everything from the cat to random strangers' legs at the library. This baby took her sweet time deciding to move, so we're relieved to see her motor around--and, hey, if she makes some new friends while doing it, all the better.

The unexpected fall out is that Buzzy is jealous now, over a year after Rosie hit the scene. None of her projects are safe, and Rosie needs more attention to avoid injury (see, e.g., climbing stairs; the very pointy-cornered coffee table). Sometimes, Buzzy plays the baby--complete with potty accidents and acting 'naughty', then pleading, "But, Mama, I'm just a baby and don't know better!" Other times, when I have to tell her 'no', Buzzy morphs into a teenager. She slams her bedroom door and yells, "I don't want to hear any more. Just stop!" I am shocked at the ferocity of her three year old temper. Of course, we are trying to curb her tantrums, but she has me fearing for the teen years already.

In the meantime, comic relief abounds between the storms. Somewhere, Buzzy picked up the phrase, "It's not fair." She uses it whenever she doesn't like something. "Mommy, it's not fair that we're having tomatoes at dinner." "Mommy, it's not fair that I have to get dressed." "It's not fair that it's raining." Life isn't fair a lot when you're three. Especially when you don't have strong grip on the meaning of the phrase.

Luckily, most of the time, Buzzy tries hard to be a good big sister. In fact, she'd like me to let her feed, dress and bathe the baby. ("It's not fair" that I don't--but, in these parts, mis-matched three year olds get indulgent smiles, but mis-matched babies just have lazy mothers.)

One task she does take seriously is accompanying Rosie up the stairs. Buzzy likes to crawl up a few steps ahead of her, glancing backwards to make sure Rosie is following. She calls it "assisting" her sister, but she pronounces it "resist."

"Mommy, can I resist the baby?" Freudian slip or three-year-old vocabulary mix up?

Personally, I can't resist either one of them--but I'm keeping a close eye on both.

The Heavy

2011-02-26T21:44:00.001-05:00

I went to update this blog and, for one full second, could not remember its name. A signal, perhaps, that I should ~~post more frequently~~ get more sleep. At any rate, before my memory lapse, I set out to post about how sucky it is not to be the fun parent.

I am the heavy. I am the reason there is no sugar cereal and very limited TV. I am the reason for a reasonable bedtime, a quick bathtime, and "For God's sake, calm down", "Sit down when you eat", and "I didn't hear 'please'". I am the one who insists on sweaters and mittens, and stainless steel bottles filled with water. That gross organic peanut butter you have to stir the oil into? Yep. Greg's a Skippy man--the organic health food stuffed in our cupboards is all my doing.

I know they love me. This is not a bid to hear that, or reassurances of how I hold their world together, blah, blah, blah. Got it. Believe it. But: there is no denying the light in Buzzy's eyes when they fall on her father. Her spirit lifts. Even Rosie is under his spell: craning her neck to spot him when she hears heavy footsteps and calling everything "Dada." His secret? When he is around them, he is in their world completely. No eye on the clock or stove, no fingers itching to log on to Facebook.

He's been swamped at work and hasn't seen the children awake for a while. We visited him downtown for a half hour today, as he ducked out of the conference room for some fresh air. I had thought that Buzzy had been having a good day--we'd snuggled, we'd read, she'd danced and colored. But, when she saw Greg standing outside his building, glee overtook her. On our block-long walk to grab a milkshake, she clung to his hand. At Potbelly's, she climbed on his lap. When it was time to say good-bye, she pitched a temper tantrum on the sidewalk, "No, Daddy! Don't go back! Don't go to your trial!" [Point of clarification: he's a lawyer preparing to go to court, he's not actually on trial himself.]

On the car ride home, I tried. "Ooooh, look! A crane! I wonder what they're building?"

"Something sad."

I tried again. "I spy, with with my little eye, something pink."

She retorted, "Well, I spy with my sad eye something sad."

Okay, fine. I channeled my inner Mister Rogers. "It's okay to feel sad, honey. It's hard to miss Daddy." I let her wallow in it for the rest of the ride. And then, even though I really had to go to the bathroom, I stopped at the park on the way home. Her mood improved as she mucked around in the damp sand. We managed to have a decent dinner and bedtime, but I didn't light the gleam in her eye. The magic in her day was contained to that stolen half hour with Daddy.

Mommies are supposed to be calm and wise and unflappable. They are not supposed to say "suck" outside of the context of nursing. But, she's asleep, and I am tired, and let me just tell you that, sometimes, being the heavy really does.

Winter Adventures

2011-01-28T13:09:00.000-05:00

It snowed. In DC, it doesn't matter how much; the mere prospect of a few flakes is enough to close schools and, well, the federal government, too. So you can imagine the chaos when close to a foot fell in a couple of hours that overlapped with rush hour. Folks were stranded in traffic for up to eight hours on trips that usually took them 45 minutes. Live wires, downed trees, no power, cars abandoned on the roads, even thunder and lightening.

There are times when Greg and I gripe at our 'urban' bungalow's proximity to an ugly stretch of a busy road. Two days ago was not one of those times. Greg hopped on the Metro, walked two short blocks, and was home in 15 minutes. Our power remained on. He shoveled. Buzzy built a snowman. And dumped a container of sequins over it. Who needs a corncob pipe when there are sequins?

The next day, I was determined that the girls get out there and enjoy the winter wonderland. We bundled up. Then we had to go to the potty. Then we bundled up again. Approximately 50 minutes after the process started, we headed outside.

"Sledding" consisted of me pulling Buzzy in a sled up our unplowed street while wearing Rosie. We finally found a teensy-grade hill, but Buzzy seemed a little hesitant. I forced her down a couple of times; she said it was fun but she was ready to go home. Then she freaked out because a couple of random snow clumps were in her sled. Then she insisted on taking off her mittens. Then the sled ran over her bare hand. Then we came home. The end.

Happy Birthday Epiphany Baby!

2011-01-06T23:57:00.000-05:00

Every new year's eve, I'm struck by how silly our measurements of time are. Someone decided the year would turn at the end of December, but (as I often reflected while picking through slush in my heels trying to catch a cab on NYE) they really could have just as easily picked the end of June. Aging, too, seems arbitrary to me. I fully expected to feel the weight of that extra digit when I turned 10, but it felt exactly like nine had just the day before. And we all know ~~3 year olds who act like 18 year olds~~ 30 year olds who act like teenagers. At any rate, I never assigned much value to turning a year older, unless it got me a license or a drink.

Rosie, however, seems to be taking her upcoming first birthday very seriously. She'd been coasting happily for the past six months, still waking up twice a night and not terribly interested in solid foods or moving. I was so enchanted by her smiles and habit of clapping after I feed her that I sort of forgot that she was supposed to be crawling and pulling up on furniture and wrecking Buzzy's projects. But, a couple weeks ago, she finally started to accept the responsibilities incumbent upon a big one year old girl: chowing down on real food, crowing loudly, and scooting across the floor on her bottom. We've been forcing our little drunk sailor to stand to build up her leg strength, and today she lolled against a bench and said "hi!" clear as day to one of my friends. She loves to wave (albeit, backwards) and clap. She loves to call for, "Da, da, da!" ("Mama" is reserved for emergency calls to get out of the crib, but I'm frequently so close by that she does take me for granted, the little stinker.) She's started putting random things in her mouth and has quite a temper when I fish them out. Toddlerhood is five minutes away.

Much as I'm curious to see who this little being is, I've enjoyed her sweet babyhood so much that I hate to see it end, but that silly calendar tells me that it's time. Happy first birthday, Rosie, and many, many, many returns of the day.

01.01.11

2011-01-01T22:09:00.000-05:00

01.01.11

I'm trying to ignore how those numbers remind me of a binary code (not that I'm sure what that is, exactly, other than it has to do with computer programming), and instead concentrate on shiny, fresh starts and new beginnings. I kept thinking I'd get a few minutes of time to reflect on the past year and to prepare some resolutions for the year ahead. Or, if not full-fledged resolutions, at least time to think of a word for the year--that seems to be the trendy thing to do these days. But, as I close out 01.01.11, I have no word, no resolutions, and no conclusions from the past year. Wiped out from growing two littles into functioning people, I seem to have no time and even less inclination for my own self-improvement these days. (As my flabby tummy and disorganized house attest.)

As I type, however, I'm also gazing into a room containing a little, squealing, insomniac baby who is playing clapping games with her daddy and successfully avoiding bed time. She's not crawling yet, and shows no interest in cruising, but she did sprout a tooth. Occasionally, we (lovingly) refer to her as "Swivelbutt" because she moves in an ever-widening circle anchored by her Pampers. In the past few weeks, she's really become a little person, interested in table foods and trying to carry on conversations and pull the kitty's tail. She seems to be a slow bloomer, which I am trying not to worry about.

There will be time enough for cleaning out closets and taking Pilates. I resolve not to miss the squeals or the chance to nuzzle soft cheeks or kiss the sweet spot right under her ear. As for the three year old--she wants very little to do with me, especially when Greg (or, 'Godfodder,' as my Nutcracker-obsessed girl has been calling him for the past month) is around, but I resolve to try to enjoy her little-girlhood, and to not sell her to the circus. And to sneak kisses as much as I can (even though she already wipes them off), and to read lots of books to her, and to let her give credit to the whole wide world for teaching her things (even though it was mostly me and a little bit of Dora.) And that will have to do.

Kurbis Pie

2010-11-22T11:01:00.001-05:00

Strangely, Thanksgiving always reminds me of Germany due to our quest to try to celebrate it when we lived there for a bit. From the vault--a look at our pre-children lives. Seems a lot longer than five years ago!

***

There's apparently a German custom that, on your birthday, you're supposed to bring cake and cookies and champagne for your office colleagues rather than have them treat you. Sort of like grade school, with alcohol. In that spirit, we decided that Greg should have a little champagne reception at his office in honor of Thanksgiving (well, really it was to provide a distraction so he could leave early to go to dinner). In the great tradition of our Pilgrim foremothers, I decided to bake cranberry orange muffins. Okay, not exactly traditional fare - but easier and more portable than turkey and stuffing. Besides, I figured the Germans wouldn't care. Greg, however, insisted on pumpkin pie for his office on Thursday.

After searching long and hard and high and low and becoming just a little weary of this wonderful holiday before it even started, I found cranberries, muffin tins, and what the guy told me was a kurbis. (There should be a little sideways colon over the "u", but I'm thankfully back to an American keyboard, so use your imagination). Kurbis means pumpkin, in case you're not up on your foreign fruit vocab. I mean, it should have meant pumpkin. It really looked like a squash to me, but my phrase book is surprisingly deficient on gourd varietals so I was in no position to argue.

I couldn't find a pie tin, but found a torte pan that seemed like it might do the trick. Well, my first-ever from scratch pie crust worked, but only because the kurbis did turn out to be a stringy squash that baked up bright, neon orange instead of rich pumpkin-y brown. It actually tasted okay (not like a pumpkin, but not bad), but even let-them-eat-muffins-me couldn't let the Germans have such misconceptions about American cuisine. Ya gotta represent, y' know? I decided to write off the squash torte and focus on the muffins.

Later that night, Greg arrived home, bearing 4 cans of canned kurbis. Apparently the grocery store next to his office rivals Sam's Club in size, and they had the elusive fruits - canned, no less. There was much rejoicing. Then, I looked at the can. Kurbis und honig (honey) und some other word I didn't know. Hmmm. A disgusting combination, but it beats a squash. Then, we tasted the contents of the can. Turns out that the mystery word was "vinegar." We were the proud owners of 4 cans of pumpkin pickled in honey vinegar.

I don't know what eating this would do to a person, let alone an entire society, but the German diet may explain a small degree of the discontent that made Germany's last 100 years what they were. Needless to say, Greg's colleagues went without pie and now probably believe that we sit around and watch that crazy NFL football and eat muffins all day. So sue me. Pie drama aside, both of our Thanksgiving celebrations were merry and bright.

In other news, my German lessons at the Goethe Institute started today. Even though I repeatedly told them (in English, of course) that I couldn't speak German and was an absolute beginner, they were very German and insisted on giving me the placement test. Diplomatic relations were re-established when they decided I didn't have to take the test after all. Staring blankly at the test for a few minutes, then asking where to sign my name proved much more effective than any discussion. Hmm. I'll be back in school every morning for 4 weeks. I'm a little bit leery because I haven't studied since law school (well, let's be honest, since before law school), but am looking forward to the days when I might be able to leave the house without my dictionary. That thing gets heavy after a while.

In sum: our boxes arrived at last; we do have some friends and are regulars on the weekly curry night circuit; Greg is working hard, but still no weekends; and let me know if you need some pickled pumpkin to put in the stockings of the not-so-good this year. We've still got 3 cans.

Good Night Already

2010-11-09T22:59:00.001-05:00

Trying to find a toddler's sleep sweet spot is harder than pinning down the Holy Grail. Too much nap, and she's up babbling past 11:00 PM. We listen to her process her day on the baby monitor, then, inevitably, her door opens and her little p.j.-encased feet pound down the uncarpeted hallway. She periodically visits us downstairs. "I'm having trouble," she announces, before requesting food, water, stories, assistance with the potty, back rubs, a story, or a playmate. After a long day providing all of those things, I am done. I hiss at her to go back to bed. Greg's sometimes a softie, though (especially on nights when he's worked late and hasn't seen her all day), and gets her snacks as I seethe.

"Drop the nap," our more experienced friends have advised. But no nap, or too little nap, and, well, it's ugly from about 4:30 onwards. U-G-L-Y you ain't got no alibi UGLY. Every step is agony, every word is whined, she can't follow directions, and she can't self-direct. There's yelling and tears. She has me looking up boarding Montessori preschools on the no-nap days. So ~~I'm~~ ~~she's~~ we're clearly not ready to drop the nap.

I've been experimenting with shortening her nap: yesterday was one-and-a-half hours, but I heard her chatting away in her bed as I brushed my own teeth around 11:00. That's a problem because she didn't want to get up for preschool. She buried under the covers when I opened the shades, and I felt like I was trying to pry a teenager out of bed (albeit one with purple pacifier. Please God, may she not still have the pacifier in high school). Today, I woke her up after an hour and 15 minutes, and she exhibited the worst of both scenarios: a train wreck who refused to go to sleep.

I hear her up there now moaning, "Mooom-my. I'm having trouble!" And I think I'm going to forego trying to craft a conclusion to this post (because there clearly isn't one, yet), and pour myself a glass of wine, and go to bed myself. Maybe leading by example is the way to go here?

Homemade Halloween, Part II - The Elvish Curse

2010-11-05T11:24:00.001-04:00

All good Halloween stories have sequels. You can read the first installment here.

The tutu! Who knew they were so easy to make? (Certainly not anyone who buys one from these people!) It was my most successful craft project ever, which isn’t saying much, but it really did look nice even by a more discerning standard. Flushed with success, I turned my attention to ladybug wings. And that’s when my craft karma flew the coop. (Or the Elvish pox kicked in.)

To sum:

- Five minutes into project ladybug wings: I realized that recovering feather-trimmed angel wings was a terrible idea. It took a surprising amount of brute force to rip off the original covering. When I’d finished, it looked like I'd sacrificed a flock of chickens in my living room.

- Next lesson: using red tights instead of dyed-red pantyhose was also a mistake that I might have anticipated. Tights. They were indeed. I could not get them to stretch over the wire frame. I tugged, I pulled, there was inappropriate swearing. The wire frame and my Halloween can-do spirit were getting bent out of shape.

- I enlisted Greg’s help. I love him too much to divulge how he got the red tights to stretch over the frames, but suffice to say, he loves his little ladybug very, very much.

- I cut and glued itty bitty elf boots together in 15 minutes. They took one night to dry. And just five seconds to unravel when placed on itty bitty feet.

- Realized Rosie’s first Halloween costume is in serious jeopardy. Bought cute elf hat on Etsy.

- Refocused on pointy boots. I dug out my sewing machine--itself a Herculean task, as it had been buried under the boxes ~~we are going to unpack someday~~ in the basement. Re-learned how to thread it. Sewed itty bitty boots together.

- Machine appeared broken. Remembered 8th grade Home Ec. teacher talking about ‘bobbins.’ Re-learned how to make a bobbin. Sewed boots together again. Cursed choice of slippery material and despaired over itty bitty size. Finally finished boots.

- Why were there still feathers everywhere?

- Tried boots on baby. Realized that I’d cut the foot openings too small even for my little elf. I could not face the sewing machine again. I cried.

- But Halloween drew nigh. It was time to try swimming on the other side of my gene pool. My mother's family may not have passed along the sewing gene, but my father, and his father before him, believed in the power of duct tape. I busted open the too-tight seams and hemmed them with silver duct tape. Et voila. I had elf boots that fit. I rejoiced.

- Lesson learned: in the future, we will go straight to duct tape.

So, after a week where meals, laundry, cleaning and recreation fell by the wayside in the name of homemade Halloween costumes, my kids were finally outfitted. Buzzy loved her ladybug get-up. And Rosie? She kicked off her boots in minutes. Her hat fell off after the first block of trick-or-treating. But she twinkled up her little grin and said something along the lines of “mamamamadadadababab”, which I’m pretty sure is Elvish for “I love you.” (More likely, she was wondering why chicken feathers still adorned all of our clothes. Or perhaps expressing a desire for a costume purchased from Target next year.)

Homemade Halloween

2010-11-02T16:37:00.002-04:00

Gripped primarily by insanity and a bit by remembrances of Halloweens long past, when my mom took my sister and me to Minnesota Fabrics to look through the pattern books, I decided to make Buzzy and Rosie's costumes this year. Buzzy considered a puppy, a butterfly, an princess, a ballerina, a kitty, and a teddy bear before settling on a lady bug. What do those things have in common? Tutus, of course. When you are a freshly-minted three year old girl, even a Storm Trooper costume would require a tutu. As for baby Rosie, we decided to work with her ears and turn her into an elf.

Thank God that Google enables the easy mooching of others' creativity. A quick search assured me that tutus don't require sewing, which was fabulous. Despite coming from a long line of excellent sewers, my forrays into that domestic art always ended in lots of swearing and threatened violence. Google also told me that the ladybug wings could be constructed with wire hangers and white pantyhose dyed red. I wasn't too concerned about outfitting my baby elf. She had the ears and the grin. A cute hat and little pointy shoes, and I could call it done.

Off to the fabric store, where I bought the tulle and some silvery material that looked like they could be elf shoes. I dashed into the craft store and found a set of angel wings--wouldn't recovering them be much easier than trying to form old wire hangers? And Target had red tights - much easier than dying white pantyhose, right? And maybe Rosie needed a little, simple elf dress after all. I went to a fourth store and procured the felt.

"It's for my baby elf," I said to the clerk, excited by how crafty my purchases were making me feel.

The clerk appeared to be already in costume, sporting a Renaissance dress. She said something, but I didn't understand her.

"Excuse me?" I asked.

She replied, again, indistinguishably, then sighed. "I was speaking Elvish," she said. "Well, trying anyway. I asked what kind of elf she was going to be."

"Oh! Oh. Um. I don't know. Just an elf!" I wondered if I'd heard her correctly, and thought that maybe it wasn’t a costume after all.

"A Christmas elf?" she persisted.

"No. Um. Not Christmas. Just a general sort of elf." I said, aware that the line behind me was growing longer and less patient.

She looked disappointed in me. "You know, there's folklore about different kinds of elves. You should take a look."

"Okay! Will do! Thank you!" I grabbed my bags from the Elvish-speaking lady and left before she could put a pox on me.

It seems I didn’t move quickly enough. . . .

[To be continued.]

Remembering

2010-10-05T00:29:00.004-04:00

I parked, and debated throwing a coat over the two car seats in the back. As I entered the waiting room, I wondered if the other women could tell I had children. I was attending a workshop at Pulling Down the Moon, a holistic fertility center. Across the hall, there was another, more conventional fertility center. Even at 10:00 on a Sunday morning, both offices were busy, but the halls were whisper-quiet. The baby want was palpable. I tried to tread softly.

I was there at the invitation of my friend, Jenny. A writer who also wants to be a mother, Jenny holds journaling workshops to help those who are struggling with infertility. She wanted me to observe her teaching style, and I, a poor journal-keeper at best, eagerly agreed to sit in on her class. I hadn't anticipated the desperation in those rooms. I had forgotten.

Greg and I tried for a long time to have a baby. I was always healthy as a horse and not needed nor wanted much in the way of doctors beyond the usual check ups. But, after our carelessness didn't result in baby, we started counting days. Then, I cut out caffeine. My disappointment every month grew. Soon, it became desperation; the 28 days we had to wait before knowing again stretched interminably, yet I was getting older all too fast. Finally, Greg insisted we go to the specialist, and I--who had nary a cavity--was, despite my desperation, still somehow sure the doctor would laugh at us and tell us not to worry, that I still had plenty of time and things were fine. And I was wrong.

The imminent fertility specialist poked and prodded, and then exclaimed, "Whoah. Oh, boy." Which is not what you want the imminent fertility specialist to say when he is gazing at a screen of your parts previously unseen. Turns out, I harbored a fibroid tumor that was, to the best of my English-major understanding, acting as the mother of all IUDs. The imminent fertility specialist said that my fibroid (such an ugly, ugly word for an ugly, ugly thing) would require abdominal surgery to remove.

When I didn't get pregnant right away, I started to feel like my body was holding out on me. With the official diagnosis, I felt complete betrayal. I recalled grocery shopping with my mother when I was little. She had pulled a can off the shelf, then nearly dropped it in distaste. "See that?" She pointed to a swollen seam in the tin. "That bulge means these tomatoes are bad. You should never buy a can that looks like this." Silly as it sounds, I felt like that spoiled tomato sauce. I felt like Greg got stuck with a bad can.

I scheduled the surgery but researched alternatives. One book suggested that my fibroid was the result of blocked creativity. Great. I was unknowingly complicit with the fibroid. I wallowed in this for a while, wondering if the universe was trying to protect my unborn children from my lack of self-awareness. More guilt. I am good at guilt. I wondered if my fibroid represented all my guilt? This compounded the guilt.

One side benefit of major abdominal surgery is that it hurts too much to navel-gaze when it's over. Two months later, we got the go-ahead to resume our efforts. And I got pregnant on our first-but-really-hundredth try. Buzzy hit the scene nine and a half months later.

So, I am one of the lucky ones, both because I got my baby, and because, compared to many who sat in the waiting rooms and paced the halls, I got off so very, very easily. I know this. And therefore I had no standing to do what I wanted, which is to tell everyone there not to blame themselves. By all means, do the yoga and cut the caffeine and take Jenny’s excellent seminar, but do not feel guilty.

I didn't say anything, of course. But, as I push my double stroller through crowded grocery aisles, I am conscious of my good fortune. Even though Rosie still wants to eat at least twice every night, and I grumble as I stumble out of bed, I hold her milk- and sleep-heavy body for a couple of extra seconds, breathing in my blessing. I half-laugh through gritted teeth that I signed up for this when Buzzy breaks down in hysterics, pushing me away because, "I want Daddy. I like Daddy best."

Yes, I signed up. Those women and the whisper-quiet halls reminded me again how lucky I am to be so sleep deprived.

Back to School

2010-10-02T22:43:00.003-04:00

So, September. Last year, at not-quite two, Buzzy wasn't eligible for most preschools in our town, but I wanted her to have a constant in her life when the baby arrived, so I found a Mothers' Day Out program run by a Baptist church that met two mornings a week the next town over.

I guess it's not surprising that the Baptists went for full immersion from Day 1. On her first day, she met her teachers, all of her classmates, and the world without mommy all at once. She was crying when I picked her up--and not because she wanted to stay, but more because she couldn't keep it together for one more minute. She was in tears at every pick up for the next five weeks. Just when I was ready to pull her out of class, she settled in. Buzzy eventually ended up enjoying herself, most of the time, but I never thought she wholeheartedly loved it, and I always wondered if I was wrong to keep sending her.

This year, I looked for something closer to home. We were lucky enough to get a lottery spot at a lovely preschool run by the Presbyterians. They eased her in slowly. First, just she, Greg and I went in to meet the teacher and see her new room. Her first morning of school lasted only an hour, and only four of the eight children attended at once. When her first full morning rolled around, she had already grown attached to her teacher and the felt board. At pick-up time, the other children ran to their mommies, hugging their knees and brandishing their artwork. Buzzy glaced up at me and returned to the felt board. I couldn't get her to leave.

What a difference a year makes. We're both older and more experienced. I think we're also better suited to the kinder, gentler introduction. It's a wonderful feeling knowing that she loves school, and I wouldn't trade it for the world. But I sort of miss the knee-hugs.

There's No Place Like Home. Really.

2010-08-29T22:43:00.002-04:00

I grew up outside Chicago in a green and leafy suburb. Wheaton boasts a cute downtown, friendly post office employees, tight zoning restrictions and a ban on overnight street parking. The first time Greg visited my hometown was the Fourth of July. As we ambled over to Main Street to watch the parade, he looked around at the kids in patriotic hair bows and the families who'd left lawn chairs along the curb to stake out their spots, and he said, "You grew up in Disneyworld."

My current address, outside Washington DC has, shall we say, a slightly grittier feel. At least, our neighborhood does. We're off a main drag that's home to a couple of gas stations, used car lots and a 7/11. I'm somewhat hopeful because a yoga studio just opened up where Curves used to be. That seems like gentrification, but I really do miss the restrictive zoning and overnight street parking ban.

Several of my friends have stayed in or returned to Wheaton to raise their families, so when I visit, it's easy for me to fantasize what my life would be like. There would be friendly chats at the Jewel, the grocery store where you always run into someone you know. On Thursday summer evenings, my girls could run on the lawn at the town band concert. I would be able to see the doctor and dentist without waiting nine months for an appointment, and there probably wouldn't be huge waiting lists to get into a decent preschool. I wouldn't have a neighbor who (illegally) parks a rusty white van with flat tires on his unkempt property. There would be no bus fumes on my daily walks. And the babysitting would be fantastic: adoring grandparents, plus an evangelical college chock full of women who have pledged not to drink alcohol, many of whom are training for their elementary education certification.

I do recognize my wistful fantasies for what they are. While it might be easier to find a good babysitter, real life would be much the same there as it is here--and even more difficult in some ways, as our recent trip confirmed. Greg came with us to Wheaton, but worked in his firm's Chicago office every day. One morning, he boarded the express train along with a daddy who was with his two girls, around 7 and 8 years old. As Greg settled into a seat not too far from the family, he heard the father explain to his daughters, "Men are naturally superior to women. For instance, in athletics, men outperform women in every single sport (except some equestrian events, where women ride male horses). But that's okay, because girls are more organized and are better at keeping house."

You really can’t go home again, even when you go home again. My dreams of suburban bliss burst upon hearing about Greg's commute. The views expressed by that man do not represent those of Wheaton or all its citizens. Chauvinism is alive and well everywhere, and in today's crazy political climate, I'm more likely to hear that kind of conversation in DC than anywhere else. But, he tainted my daydream. I can't stop thinking about those two little girls who may believe their only hope for equality lies in equestrian events.

Ernest Hemingway described his home town of Oak Park as having "wide lawns and narrow minds." Twenty miles west, Wheaton's lawns are perhaps wider. And, apparently, there's at least one idiot who could give Oak Park a run for its money on both counts.

Oh, Captain! You're Home!

2010-07-11T01:41:00.001-04:00

We left off in April, with visions of Sugarplum fairies dancing in my aching head due to Buzzy’s infatuation with The Nutcracker Suite. I had to do something to make the music die. But what? People who say that toddlers should be ‘redirected’ from unwanted behavior have not met my daughter. Buzzy is easily the most persistent person I know, including the man who calls every week asking if I want to receive daily delivery of the Washington Post and then feigns surprise when I threaten to cancel my Sunday subscription if he calls one more time, precarious state of the newspaper industry be damned.

I hatched my plan. She’s persistent, yes, but she’s also still shorter than me. One day, the Nutcracker DVD and CD mysteriously got lost high up on top of the TV. The next time “screen time” rolled around, I knew I had to distract her with something that had all of her favorite things: children in the cast, dancing, singing, and brown paper packages tied up with string. You guessed it. I pulled out the big guns: The Sound of Music. It had it all (plus some disturbing stuff about the Third Reich that we sidestep by simply skipping from song to song.)

Given Buzzy’s history, I was prepared for her to embrace the new show. But the degree of her passion exceeded my expectations. First, she pretended to be Gretel and sang “So Long, Farewell” as she scooted backwards up our staircase on the way to bed. Then, she sang and scooted every time she went up our staircase. Then, every time she went up any stairs at all. I had to pick her up to avoid being trampled. You may have seen us at the mall? I was the mother with a toddler who was writhing in her arms and shrieking, “I’m Little Gretel. I’M LITTLE GRETEL.”

By late May, we had the stair situation under control, but Buzzy branched out. She stopped responding to her own name, insisting we call her “Gretel.” (“’Gret’ is my nickname,” she sweetly informed me.) She renamed us, as well. Greg, of course, became “Captain.” I am “‘ Fromine’ Maria.” Rosie, the baby, is “Marta.” (Marta in the movie is actually older than Gretel, but Buzzy overlooked the age discrepancy—presumably because Gretel has more lines).

My and Marta’s names usually fall by the wayside, but Buzzy has simply stopped calling Greg “Daddy” altogether. She races to the door when he gets home yelling, "The Captain is home!" The Captain seems tickled by his new moniker. She calls him “Captain” to everyone else, too, prompting one new acquaintance to ask me in which branch of the military Buzzy’s father served.

While hearing Buzzy try to yodel is always entertaining, I don’t know how many more times I can take her trying to hit the high note in “Do Ray Mi.” I’m also worried we might get a visit from child services. As I left the house last week, I heard the babysitter ask Buzzy, “Um, exactly how often do you watch The Sound of Music?” Buzzy replied airily, “Oh, I see it when the Captain is home.” The truth is that she watches a couple of scenes a week, at most—although the CD is usually on in the car. My goal is to be ready with a new movie the day she eyes her curtains and goes for the safety scissors.

Death by Sugarplum Fairy

2010-07-05T23:46:00.000-04:00

It was an impulse check-out of our library's copy of The Nutcracker Suite late November that started things off. Though Buzzy doesn't watch much TV, the ballet was one of my childhood favorites, and I added the DVD to our stack of books. After watching for 15 minutes, Buzzy was obsessed. She watched as often as we let her and cast the family in her living-room productions--insisting on choreography and stage blocking as true to the original as she could manage. She preferred to dance all the roles, simultaneously, but called on Greg and nine-months pregnant me to fill in for some of the corps.

After three weeks, we pried her fingers off the library's DVD and bought our own copy. Greg had a business trip to Germany before Christmas, and came home with a genuine nutcracker doll. Unfortunately, Buzzy was dancing the part of naughty Fritz that day, and promptly threw it onto the ground. (Since then, the nutcracker doll has gone through too many superglue surgeries to count.)

Tchaikovsky's music accompanied us everywhere. Baby Rosie kicked along to Act I in utero, and calmed to it after her birth. On Easter Sunday, The Waltz of the Sugarplum Fairy blasted from our car stereo as we raced to church. I realized something had to be done to preserve my sanity.

"You know, honey, The Nutcracker Suite is sort of a special Christmas-time show," I tried. "Let's put it away until Christmas comes again." Buzzy was incredulous. She insisted it was a dance for all seasons. I had to get crafty, or pull rank. I did both.

To be continued....

Summer Look

2010-06-03T15:34:00.002-04:00

Shirt accessorized by Popsicle drips and smudgy handprints. Shoes that empty sand all over the kitchen floor. A sparkly flower tattoo finishes the look. My look. The look I just wore proudly, if somewhat obliviously, home from the park and the grocery store. (I feel that the key to pulling it all together is to keep the two year old with you at all times--it's when you run out without the kids that it really raises eyebrows).

There was no Malice Aforethought.

2010-06-01T23:15:00.000-04:00

Let me preface this by saying that my mother cut my hair when I was little. (You see where this is going already, don't you?) I remember sitting on the tall, black stool in the basement draped in my father's shirt. I remember my mother saying, "Now, sit still." I don't, however, remember wiggling.

Fast forward several decades and a few more years for good measure. I am the mommy now. And I have a little one with a wild, exuberant, blond, curly mop. Buzzy's hair really would be her crowing glory if it weren't so often full of Play-Doh, sand and the remains of lunch. Gorgeous as it is, it's too long. I know this because her pigtails fall down by lunch time, and contain whatever she did or ate that day.

Because sedating one's toddler to cut her hair is generally frowned upon, the various professionals we've called upon for a trim haven't done a great job. Tonight, after washing out the yogurt and blueberries she had after dinner, along with a glob of peanut butter she had for lunch, I decided to try my hand at it. "How hard can it be?" I remember thinking. Remind me to abort whatever mission I'm about to undertake the next time I think that.

Buzzy promised not to wiggle. We even practiced sitting still. I brought out the good scissors (and, oh, how her eyes widened when she saw the sharp, un-child-safe blades). I combed her hair. I pinned up half of it. I snipped. All was well. I snipped again. And agai--SHE MOVED! Mid-snip! In one split-second, she took her chin-length bob to a layered look. I took a deep breath, steadied her and my shaking hand and snipped again--just as she twisted around, asking if she could play with the curls on the floor.

I finished as best I could and tucked her into bed with wet hair, fighting back tears of remorse. She was blissfully ignorant. When she saw the piles of curls on the floor, she said, "You did a good job cutting my hair, Mommy!" Oh, sweet girl. I wish everyone would judge the job by the amount of hair on the floor rather than by what remains on your head! I honestly don't know what awaits in the morning, except for a fairly certain trip to the barber.

Baby Stammtisch

2010-05-20T10:51:00.000-04:00

Rosie thinks she can talk. She babbles from her playmat: snuffy snorts, grunts, chortles and gurgles, and excited squees. She's not terribly particlar as to her conversation partners--lately, she seems to enjoy debating her hands. She's gained enough verbal and physical control over them to direct her thumb into her mouth. Another regular to these discussions is, of course, the Baby in the Mirror. Baby in the Mirror gives as good as she gets, and kindly stops talking when Rosie, mid-conversation, drops off to nap. I don't always grasp all the nuances of Rosie's chats, although sometimes her desires are strong enough to break the language barrier. I clocked her last conversation at over 30 minutes. Can't imagine where she picked up her chatty ways, but our resident gabby girl better watch out when her baby sister replaces those squees with actual words.

Bad Behavior.

2010-04-26T00:40:00.002-04:00

It was the end of a busy week. Buzzy's cousins had visited, and we'd all had a wonderful time, but their absence Friday morning left her out of sorts. Her behavior alternated--one minute, mopey and whiny, the next, manic and crazy with bad behavior. Note to the parenting police: I know I should say, "inappropriate behavior," but you should probably stop reading now because things are only going to deteriorate.

By Friday night, I was sick and tired all around--sick and tired of Buzzy's attitude, exhausted because I hadn't slept much, and I had such a sore throat and was so hoarse that my raspy whisper had prompted someone at the park to ask me if I was from New York. Greg had to work late. The baby was fussy. We got through dinner, bite by painful bite. Buzzy's bath, unfortunately, couldn't be skipped due to the aforementioned trip to the park. She kept turning on the cold water and shrieking in that piercing, two-year-old key when it splashed her body. I managed to keep from shrieking when it hit me, too, but the baby cried loudly from her bouncy seat in the hallway.

I gritted my teeth and figured I could make it--her bedtime and my sanity were just minutes away. But Buzzy squirmed from my efforts to dry and diaper her. I started yet another count to three, threatening the loss of her beloved story time if she didn't cooperate. Somewhere after two, she kicked her towel towards the baby. "That's THREE! You lost stories!" I roared. So much for remaining calm. Then, out of nowhere, I spanked her (undiapered and bare) bottom.

She stopped, looked at me with shock, then started sobbing. I was horrified. Buzzy had never been spanked. Generally, I don't think it's an effective form of discipline, and I don't approve of doing it in anger. So much for my principles. I stared at my distraught girl in the hallway, wanting to hug her but not sure if I would make her more upset. Then she well and truly broke my heart by coming to me and lifting up her arms for comfort.

"Oh, baby, mommy's so sorry." I murmured. "Mommy should not have spanked you like that. I should have a time out."

"But, Mommy," she said, tearfully, "You're a grown up." Oh, baby girl. Of all the ways to learn that her mommy isn't perfect and that grown ups make mistakes.

The baby continued crying as Buzzy calmed in my arms. I didn't want to leave Buzzy, but she looked at me, wearily. "Mommy, get Rosie." I went. Our bedtime routine resumed, calmly now. After I tucked Buzzy in, and her prayers were said, and we did our "good night, sleep tights", she added, "And, Mommy, try not to spank me again, 'kay?"

I recounted/confessed the events of the evening to Greg later that night. He questioned whether I should have apologized for spanking her. He's not a spanking advocate, either, but pointed out that, "Back in the day, it wasn't a big deal." I don't know. I will never forget her bewilderment that I did something wrong; causing that confusion and shaking her world seemed an injury bigger than the spanking itself. Is two too young to learn that mommies can make big mistakes? However, keeping my "Mother knows best" credentials when I'd spanked her in anger didn't seem right, either. Plus, obviously, I didn't want her to think that hitting was okay. I kept the apology simple and tried to move on quickly. I don't think I'll spank her again, and I sincerely hope Buzzy's a lot older before I demonstrate again how fallible grown ups--even mommies--can be.

Slow Learner

2010-04-10T17:08:00.001-04:00

All I want is sleep. But I must finish feeding the baby. Then burping the baby. Baby writhes and wimpers. Try the pacifier--no dice. My pillow calls to me; I'm falling over with exhaustion, but I'm prevented by a tiny little tummy full of agony. She's only happy when completely upright. Envision a contraption that would keep her upright that would not require me to be upright as well.

Burping, burping, still burping. Her body is stiff; she wails when I set her down. Shhh, shhh, sorry baby. Back up again. Pacing, and walking, and I am so very tired. Finally, I can't help myself. I fold that tense tummy into the swing, whispering apologies, and I collapse onto the sofa. She cries--then, we both fall asleep. There's a lesson in there somewhere. . . .

Three Month Love Affair

2010-04-07T21:57:00.000-04:00

It's that magical time of night. Buzzy snoozes upstairs, and we turn our undivided attention to ~~Facebook~~, ~~the laundry~~, the baby. She gets to be an only child for a couple of hours each evening. They say the second gets shortchanged on attention, which may be true, but I will say that I am savoring her sweet babyhood more than I did her sister's. Partly it's because there's a good chance she's our last baby. Partly it's because we have seen what comes next, and two is tough. But, mostly it's because she's just a doll. It's much easier to enjoy her than to write about her, but I need to record some of this before it disappears into sleep deprived oblivion.

This one smiles so easily, and has already chuckled a couple of times. She has lots of punky black hair that stick up, and ears that stick out (in a very cute way). She thinks she can talk already and coo's and oooh's right along to our conversations. She squeaks a lot in her sleep. She rolled over tonight (already!), for the first time. She still grips an offered finger in her little paws. Her eyes are blue blue blue. Unlike Buzzy, she isn't addicted to her pacifier. All of the doctors have commented on how strong she is, since day one at the hospital right on through to her shots last week. She's growing long, all too fast.

My doctor commented on how very pink she was when she was born, so I think I’ll call her Rosie on this blog. In real life, she's named for my mother--who informed me that her name was actually Rose for a while, until my grandmother changed her mind. (And neglected to inform anyone official, so my mom discovered it when she applied for her first passport and needed a copy of her birth certificate. But that's another story. Needless to say, Rosie works on a number of levels, and the poor child has a rich family history of nuttiness, which you already knew if you read this blog).

At some other time, I will record my battle involving the double stroller and the trunk of my car, the challenges of feeding one baby as the other one strips off her diaper and announces she has to go potty and needs help NOW, and the fun family times reading Those Can Do Pigs above the shrieks of an irate three month old. But, tonight, in the baby's first dedicated post, I will simply say that she's a joy and we are smitten.

Guilty.

2010-03-03T14:24:00.000-05:00

“How are you doing?” In the wake of our second baby, everyone wants to know. That, and “are you ever going to blog again?” Well, this is how it’s going, and this is why I haven’t posted since the baby was born two months ago.

This morning, we were preparing to leave playgroup at our friend’s house. As I gathered the detritus of my life (sippy cups, receiving blankets, diaper bags, snack traps full of Goldfish), Buzzy spotted the front door open and darted through it. I grabbed the diaper bag, sprinted after her, and caught her by the hood of her coat on the front porch. As she strained against my grip, I turned to my friends in the doorway. “Bye, Deby! Bye-bye, Jack! Thanks for having us over!” Jack looked like he was trying to tell me something, but I didn’t pause to decipher his two-year-old chatter. We proceeded down the front walk, me grimly explaining to Buzzy just how naughty she’d been to run away. We hit the sidewalk before it dawned on me.

I forgot the baby.

“I forgot the baby!” I exclaimed. Another friend had walked out ahead of me with her son and offered me an out: “I thought you were just going to get Buzzy in the car, then go back.”

Nope. “I forgot the baby!” I gasped again. I turned to Deby, still standing in the doorway, now doubled over with laughter. “Oh, my God! I forgot her! I’ll be right back!”

I buckled the naughty big sister into her car seat, then returned to the house. “Um, does it count that I remembered before I crossed the street?” She was sympathetic, having a two year old and a new baby of her own. I picked up the car seat, where the baby seemed unaware she’d been abandoned.

So, that’s how it’s going. The baby’s been, relatively speaking, the easy part. The two year old is testing limits, pressing buttons and, even when she’s trying to be good, is so curious and fearless that I fear for her safety.

I protest to the Mothering Court of Guilt in my head that, technically, I hadn’t really left without the baby, as we were still on Deby’s property when I remembered her. But it’s a losing argument. This sweet little girl child, this rosy-posy baby who came out so pink and who smiles easily and often, will never get the attention we lavished on Buzzy. She’s the second kid. While I am savoring her babyhood so much more, I take fewer pictures and I document fewer milestones. (Even her first blog post features her older sister.)

So, how am I? Trying to balance a precocious two year old with a precious little baby doesn’t leave a lot of time for analysis, but I foresee a backlog of cases in the Mothering Court of Guilt in the years ahead.

New Year's Day.

2010-01-01T14:04:00.000-05:00

2010 snuck up on me. I find myself sans resolutions at noon on the first day of the new decade. Getting through these last few weeks of pregnancy, celebrating the holidays and parenting a two year old with a head cold who can’t blow her nose and wakes up coughing during the night have left me just hoping we survive the next few months.

I am so grateful to be able to be pregnant, and we can’t wait to meet this new child, to find out whether it’s a boy or girl, to discover just how different a person he or she is from Buzzy. But, I don’t do well without sleep. I don’t do well when my house is messy (even though I don’t do well cleaning it, either). I don’t do well when Buzzy doesn’t do well, and of course I’m worried about how she’ll handle it all. It’s easy to anticipate the difficulties that the new baby will bring, but—not knowing this child beyond having his or her appendages lodged in sensitive places of my anatomy for the past 9 months—it’s harder for me to anticipate the joys.

Perhaps I’ll work on the positive thinking piece this year. And showering. Not necessarily in that order.

Weather-Ready

2009-12-19T23:01:00.000-05:00

Snow! Around 18 inches of it, which is impressive anywhere, but especially for DC--land of the preemptive school-closing and grocery-store-blitzing should there be a hint of a flurry in the air. I plopped Buzzy in front of ~~my new best friend~~ a Doodlebug DVD and stepped out into the winter wonderland to sweep off our front steps. I did leave the door open in case of emergency.

A few minutes later, I heard a little voice announce, "I weady!" Standing in the doorway was my curly-haired toddler, clad in purple footie pajamas, her boots, her mittens, and a pair of my maternity underwear that she'd pulled from the hamper and put on over the whole ensemble. I was so proud of her for knowing to wear boots and mittens that I have tabled the whole "we wear underwear under our clothes" conversation for another time.

Game On.

2009-11-19T13:49:00.006-05:00

It’s time for a fun game I like to call spot the rookie mommy mistakes! Read the story below, and see how many rookie mistakes you can find. Bonus points for finding the biggest one.

Today at the grocery store, Buzzy was perched in the shopping cart seat, giving me a running commentary on her shopping list (bunny noodles, peanut butter and purple food for the cat--in case you were wondering). We talked about colors and numbers and said hi to the dead fish over ice. I expertly steered my cart just out of reach of the canned pumpkin display, and headed to reward my angelic daughter with a cheese sample.

After I skewered the fontina, I glanced over at the cart and gasped in horror. In my two-second absence, Buzzy had reached behind her seat and grabbed the carton of eggs. [Hint!] She had one egg in her grubby little paw, and four more had fallen onto her lap.

I dashed over and rescued the eggs in the nick of time, thanking my lucky stars that I reached her in time to avert disaster. [Big hint!]

Back at the ranch, I unloaded groceries as Buzzy amused herself in the playroom adjacent to the kitchen. Then the phone rang. I stepped away from the pantry [hint] to answer it. Two fateful seconds later, Buzzy dashed to the pantry and dumped a box full of baby cereal. [A full and open box of baby cereal on the bottom shelf?! Hint!] The stuff is as fine as talc, and drifts of it still cover my potatoes and onions and bin of formerly clean towels and bibs.

I yelped. Buzzy met my gaze. "I go right to time out," she said. Yep.

Now, can you spot the biggest rookie mommy mistake? If you selected “thanking my lucky stars that I reached her in time to avert disaster” you are right!

Your prize: a nice time out. Way out. Perhaps to a hotel with high count sheets... without any (preparation of) supper.

I Can't See My Toes, But. . .

2009-11-18T13:45:00.002-05:00

My playgroup meets every Wednesday morning. (Ostensibly, it's Buzzy's playgroup, but that's semantics. From my limited observation, apart from the inevitable tussle over toys, two year olds are blissfully unaware that children their own age exist.) We met at a local park today. The moms chased after the kids, conversations starting by the swings and ending in the sandbox.

I was distracted because Buzzy kept stumbling. "I okay!" she'd announce, and trip off to another fall. I finally got her settled with a shovel and tried to remember what we'd been discussing when my friend looked down at Buzzy's sneakers.

"Oh, look at that! Are her shoes on the wrong feet?"

I looked down. Sure enough, Buzzy's purple Stride Rites were reversed.

My friend laughed, "I bet she put those on herself, didn't she."

I laughed. Nope. That proud parenting moment was all mine. Wonder what else I'm missing?

Mommy Dilemma

2009-11-12T20:54:00.004-05:00

Today at pre-pre school pick up, I arrived a few minutes early and found myself chatting with a Chic Momma. (There are some moms who manage tasteful lip color and trendy-but-appropriate clothes. There are others of us who may or may not have brushed their hair.) This particular Chic Momma said she was waiting to pick up her twins in the one-year-old class. (Apparently, some mommas can handle the lip color and baby twins, too.) Our differences went deeper than fashion, however. Our polite chitchat threw me into a parenting philosophical dilemma.

I usually pick Buzzy up a few minutes early because she used to have a rough time at the end of the school day. For the first few weeks, she'd cry for the last 10 or 15 minutes of class. It killed me to pick her up sobbing. I figured she was just tired and hungry, but those two things were within my power to fix, and I wanted to fix them. She's better now, but I still like to be one of the first moms there.

Chic Momma said that her twins were having a tough time with the separation, too. In fact, the school called her to pick them up early once before because they were so upset. "Oh, that's good," I said, thinking that if Buzzy were ever miserable enough to warrant a call, I'd darn well want to pick her up early. "I don't know," said Chic Momma. "I think they just have to cry it out. How else are they going to learn?"

Chic Momma had a cute haircut and valid point. I'm a softie. I know it--and if I had to deal with twins, I probably wouldn't have that luxury. But Buzzy's barely two, still so very young and tender despite her occasional sassiness and her amazingly absorbent mind. I don't want her to have to navigate the world without her mommy quite yet, although I'm trying to give her some room by letting her go two mornings a week. Am I nurturing, or too over-protective? How can you know? As Buzzy races towards the next big adventure, New Mommy is still taking baby steps, accompanied by a lot of self-doubt.

O Brave New World!

2009-11-03T21:32:00.007-05:00

We are two! Baby C can't really be called a baby any more, not even by her mama. Much as I'd like to deny it, all the signs are there. Babycenter's weekly developmental email title switched from "Your baby this week" to "Your toddler this week." When I tried to purchase a sweet little outfit for her at H&M, I realized that she'd outgrown the baby clothes and was now grouped in with the girls' sizes. . . where the styles are a little, shall we say, less sweet. All of a sudden, it's my kid who yells "Hey, Mom, watch this!" at the playground. I find some relief when she grasps my finger with her still-soft hand as we walk. And, of course, when I comment on what a big girl she is, she sorrowfully reminds me that she can't yet reach the monkey bars, which is the arbitor of big-girl status in her world.

Given all the evidence, I have no choice but to update her name on this occasional blog... Of course, I'm also 7.5 months pregnant and have no real names in mind for Baby No. 2, so I'm not going to agonize too much over Baby No. 1's new nom de plume. I present to you: Buzzy. She's a busy little bee, always humming with chatter and activity, so that's what we're going with. Stay tuned for more of Buzzy's adventures as I try to update more regularly. (Mommy bloggers much busier than I farming and sewing and such seem to be able to crank out a couple of posts a week--or at least a month--so that will be my goal).

First Day

2009-09-08T10:32:00.004-04:00

September means sharpened pencils and new notebooks--or, in our case, three clean diapers in a zip-lock bag and a sippy cup with her name on it. At the ripe old age of 23 months, Baby C is off to "school." Technically, it's a program called Mother's Day Out, and it's only two mornings a week. In light of Baby No. 2 due in Janaury, I thought it would be good for Baby No. 1 to have her own thing going on. I just didn't realize it would be so hard to say goodbye at the door. I confess to peeking around the corner before leaving the building. She was on a stool, curly head bent over the sink as she washed her hands with her teacher's help. And she looked so tiny! Gulp.

I'll get to savoring this alone time in a couple of weeks. I'll get to the basement that needs cleaning and the new, "big girl" room that needs decorating. Right now, though, I'm just going to sit by the phone in case the school calls, and think about my little big girl.

Little Miss Me-Do

2009-07-30T13:43:00.004-04:00

Baby C's decided that she wants to do it All By Herself, all of the time. Do what? Oh, just about everything she sees. Putting on her own shoes, pouring her own milk, driving the car, and lighting the grill. Lofty goals for someone not yet able to drink from a cup.

"Me do!" She says, pushing my hand away from her shoes and bursting into tears. "Me do!"

"Okay, honey, you try it." Her sobs abate as she attempts to navigate her feet into her Stride Rites. She rejects my attempts to help or direct. After a few minutes, she bursts into tears again.

"Honey, can Mommy help?"

"Ess." She says, giving me a radiant smile and handing me a shoe.

"NO!" she sobs when I try to put it on her foot. "ME DO!"

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Eventually, after a good half hour, she is dressed.

At breakfast, Little Miss Me-Do tackles putting the cap on her own sippy cup, which I surreptitiously tighten when she's not looking. All goes well until it's time to get into the car to go to the library. "Me do seat," she says, climbing into the car. Then she sits down on the floor of the car and grins up at me, clearly delighting in her mighty toddler power. I count to three, then lumber my pregnant self into the back and buckle her into her car seat. "No, No, NO!" She screams. "ME DO SEAT!"

"That is enough. We have to go now." I turn the key and she happily sings her ABCs (You know, the version that goes: "A-B-C-6-9-4-Y-Z! Now-know-ABCDS-next-time-sing!"). We get to the library, I unbuckle her, and she refuses to get out of the car. The crying starts again, but Baby C's happily eating old Cheerios off the floor mat. This time, it’s me.

Managing Expectations

2009-06-16T13:55:00.004-04:00

The reason for the radio silence over here can be explained by two little words. Morning sickness. I suppose the happier announcement would be that I'm expecting again, or that Baby C will be a big sister some time in early January if all goes well. But January is a long way off. In the meantime, it's morning sickness. Sadly, not the kind that's actually confined to mornings.

I'm slowly starting to feel better, though, so I figured it was time to dust off the old blog.

When I was pregnant with Baby C, we didn't tell anyone until the 12 week mark had passed. It's a bit early for my taste to share such news. Unfortunately, my body disagrees. I'm already showing to the point of getting questions as to my due date, (and I receive looks of shock and pity when I answer 2010.)

While grateful to be able to get pregnant, I've never been enlightened enough to think it a beautiful state. I wonder hourly why men are spared, and I have an earful for God on the subject if I ever get a private audience. In the meantime, Baby C runs wild through the house as I try to entertain her from the sofa by reading aloud from the informational packet my doctor gave me. Chapters include the following:

Excessive Salivation
Nausea
Heartburn
Constipation
Backache
Varicose Veins
Hemorrhoids

The packet is entitled, "Great Expectations... a guide to enjoying your pregnancy."

I'm pretty sure the irony is unintentional.

Three Strikes You're Out

2009-05-20T07:44:00.002-04:00

Baby C goes about her day, clutching the object of the hour (a pinecone, a stuffed cow, a sock she found) until she grows weary of holding it. Then she thrusts it into my hand, and says "Share!" Um, not quite. We're working on it.

Although Baby C knows how to say "All done!" and to sign "all done!", she's taken to letting us know she's all done by more direct means. She starts throwing whatever's left on her tray. For a 19-month-old, she's got a decent arm.

Yesterday, as the remnants of breakfast went flying, I sternly said, "No throwing food", and bent over to wipe up the now-very-scrambled eggs before they hardened into a cement-like glob. I felt something bounce off my back. It landed with a spray of crumbs next to me: a piece of toast. My own flesh and blood threw food at me?

"No. We do NOT throw food. We do NOT throw food at Mommy."

Baby C looked abashed, then she twinkled. "Share?" She asked hopefully.

Any suggestions?

Then and Now

2009-05-10T11:26:00.006-04:00

Date: Mother's Day, the late 1970's.
Place: Suburban Chicago.
Time: Early Morning.

While other mothers were festooned with corsages and wooed with brunch, Mother's Day found my mom crawling through the house, following a trail of yarn that led to our paltry gifts. My sister and I had unfurled skeins and skeins of yarn, over and under and through furniture legs and lamps. We thought it was such fun. All the poor woman must have wanted was her coffee, or to be back in bed. But she was a good sport. She always was, with us.

Date: Today
Place: Suburban DC
Time: Early Enough

I'm pleased to report that Greg and Baby C had the good sense not to follow my childhood example. Instead, I awoke to classical music playing, and Greg bringing me my first-ever breakfast in bed! It was lovely and relaxing for a minute, until Baby C wanted to share. Conveniently, she used the sheets as both bib and napkin. Ah, well, it was still sweet.

As I yawned and expressed my gratitude, Greg said, "Sorry for waking you up, but I thought I heard you walking around. Guess it was just the cat using the litter box."

Happy Mother's Day.

Sneezy

2009-04-25T21:51:00.002-04:00

Spring is--achoo!--here, and Greg's sneezes shake the roof and rattle the floorboards. The only upside to his allergies is the tiny voice that follows each explosive emission: Baby C's "Oddbessoo".

Bessoo, too, sweet pea. Always and forever.

Head, Shoulders, Knees and. . . .

2009-04-19T22:11:00.004-04:00

Head, mouth, ears, legs, arms, tummy, toes: Baby C's been able to name and point to most of the elementary body parts for a while now. It was time to expand our vocabulary. Baby C quickly learned her knees, so I went on. "These are your elbows," I said, pointing to her elbows.

"Elmo!" she said, enraptured, waiting for her favorite character to appear on her arm.

"No, honey--elBows, not ElMo."

"Bow," she said, and pointed to the bow in her hair.

"Yes, b-b-b-bows in your hair and el-el-el-elbows in your arms. Got it?"

She looked at her arms again. No Muppets appeared, but she was not deterred. "Elmos."

Fair enough. We have fingers, we have wrists, and Baby C, at least, has Elmos.

A Suburban American Take on Semena Santa

2009-04-10T14:36:00.004-04:00

Three years ago, Greg and I traded overcast and chilly Munich for sunny Seville, Spain. We wanted to see the Semena Santa (Holy Week) processions and celebrate Easter in good Hemingway fashion with a bullfight. (And get out of overcast and chilly Munich.)

The processions stunned me. Pilgrims walked through the stone streets to the cathedral as they had for centuries. The particularly devout trod barefoot. Everyone wore hooded capes and carried candles that stood taller than me. Knowing that tourism was a motivating factor for continuing the tradition did not stop me from feeling a bit voyeuristic as I watched from the sidewalk.

Well, today I took part in my own Good Friday act of self-flagellation. I went to Wegmans. It’s a huge grocery store 20 minutes away. I’d heard it was wonderland. I’d heard the prices were great. I’d heard it was so huge that it never felt crowded. Umm, that last part? That was wrong.

It was vast, but it was packed. The multi-acre parking lot was full at 10:00 a.m. We ventured inside to find masses of people pushing carts into each other. (Apparently, Wegmans changed their grocery cart dimensions recently, and folks misjudged the necessary turning clearance.) I needed a GPS in that place and had to repeatedly ask for directions.

Bruised and battered, we made our way to the butcher counter. The lady in front of me asked for the two pieces of lamb I’d been eyeing. Figures. When it was my turn, I distractedly ordered, then pried a jar of mint jelly out of Baby C’s grasp. The woman who had been in front of me came back and said, “Where’s my second piece?” The butcher, who had just passed over my package, said, “You wanted both pieces? I just gave it to her.” The lady looked at me. Of course, I offered the lamb back to her, but she very nicely let me keep it. I groveled in thanks and continued to try to check off my shopping list.

Over an hour later, we staggered to the check out counter with a few key ingredients still missing. Baby C had mutinied and I couldn’t take it any longer. If Wegmans had fresh rosemary, it was beyond my abilities to find it. As we rolled out to the parking lot, a car immediately started following me. Fine. They would have to wait through a backseat diaper change and an improvised snack for the wailing Baby C.

A good ten minutes later, I backed out, smiling icily at the car who had stalked us. It had been a nightmarish shopping experience, and I was grumpy. As we drove away, I remembered the kindness and patience demonstrated by the lady in front of me at the butcher counter, and started to feel a little guilty at my parking lot snottiness. All of a sudden it dawned on me that, thanks to her, I would be serving sacrificed lamb for Easter. I can only hope that, wherever she is, she got the last of the rosemary.

A Hypothetical

2009-04-09T17:55:00.003-04:00

If a purely fictitious Mother A bathed purely fictitious Baby B... er, C, and Baby C subsequently emptied a bowl of applesauce over her head, can Mother A get away with swabbing the mess with a damp paper towel, or must she bathe Baby C again? These are the questions I ponder as I dodge the flying food.

Boring Isn't All Bad

2009-04-08T14:14:00.004-04:00

As I've mentioned, swimming with Baby C is Greg's thing. Baby C LOVES it. Nearly every morning, she wakes up and asks, "Bading suit? Daddy?" Every day except Saturday, she's disappointed when I tell her it's not a bathing suit day, and she's stuck with her mama while Daddy goes off to work.

Last week, fully expecting her to reply "bading suit!", I asked Baby C what she wore in the swimming pool with daddy.

"Pee pee," she said.

Thus eradicating any slight jealousy felt by boring, old landlubber me.

Lost in Translation

2009-03-26T20:34:00.002-04:00

It's 8:35 p.m. I'm in my jammies. So is Baby C, although she was much less excited about putting them on. She's settled down with the six pacifiers she sleeps with, and I've got a glass of wine in hand. Bedtime, at last. Now that I have a moment to catch up here, I can't think of what, exactly, we've been doing to make me so tired.

Baby C's talking. A lot. And it takes every ounce of concentration to figure her out. Comprehension was easy at first, because her vocabulary was completely in our control. We'd point out a train, and she would sweetly lisp, "twain!" back to us. Now, however, anything she hears any where is fair game--including things that aren't actually words.

"Ooooh, ooooh!" = Fire engine or police car, of course. It took us a couple of days to figure that one out. When she hears laughter (even two rows over in the grocery store), Baby C says "hahaha." She forces the chuckle out with vigor, and people think they're being mocked until they realize the person emitting the sound is tucked into the little grocery cart seat and simply proud of herself for recognizing human emotion. Unfortunately, tears have a similar effect. When Baby C hears babies crying, she wails in solidarity.

She’s mastered the passive voice in the face of a potentially negative reaction. "It fell," she tells us solemnly, after she throws her spoon to the floor. But she is eager to claim achievements: "I did it! Did it!" after a successful run down the kiddie slide at the park. Actually, she will muse "did it! did it!" all the way home from the park, if she was truly impressed with herself.

"Die, die" had me not a little concerned for a while, until I realized it was her word for "drive." "Babewy", sadly enough, means Blackberry (as in Daddy's ever-present email machine). "Bear" which she had mastered, has turned into "ppffftt." We were concerned that she was losing words until the fragment of a kiddie song popped into my head. I think she's actually quoting a (horribly annoying) Wiggles song, in which they sing, "ssh, ssh, ssh, bear's fast asleep." Greg's not entirely convinced, but I think it's worth banning the Wiggles to see whether I stop hearing their lyrics in my head. Er, I mean, to see if her speech improves. Either way, I think it would make life easier.

Getting the Nod

2009-03-09T21:16:00.006-04:00

I think it was my law school roommate and dear friend K who first told me about the upsell nod. When she worked as a waitress, she was instructed to upsell booze to her tables by nodding as she presented the drink menu. Her inquiry, "Would you like to hear about our famous drink specials?" would be accompanied by subtle nodding, and the hapless customers were supposed to nod along all the way through an extra round for the table.

Wow! Could persuasion be so simple? I tried it on Greg: "Do you want to order take out tonight [nod nod nod nod nod]?" He agreed, but I attributed it less to my maniac head bobbing and more because he knew the alternative would be Cheerios for dinner again.

Despite my doubts, I find myself using the technique on Baby C. "Ooooh, look! Yummy applesauce! You LIKE applesauce!" [Then I nod vigorously and shove in a bite, nod some more, and repeat the routine.]

Baby C is clearly on to me. Tonight, with bedtime imminent after a bath and two stories, she started to point her mouth--her sign for being hungry. She's been trying to postpone bedtime lately, and I was doubtful. "Are you really hungry?"

She NODDED. "Applesauce!" she said. Then she looked at me, smiled, and nodded firmly again. "Applesauce."

No, I didn't fall for it. But I am a little concerned that I'm out of tricks, and she's not yet two. I wonder what technique the restaurant used to get customers to order dessert?

Water Baby

2009-02-28T17:37:00.005-05:00

(Blowing dust clouds off the keyboard.)

Hi-ho, folks. It's not-so-new mommy here after a few weeks when the effort of turning my quotidian activities into something fit for public consumption simply proved beyond my abilities or energy level. A nasty cold shared by all, stitches to Baby C's sweet little face, and a week-long, multi-leg trip back to the midwest will do that to a girl. We're home and on the mend, so let's pick up where I left off.

I believe that swimming is fun only when
(a) it is very hot, and
(b) I find myself next to a pristine body of water that is also
(c) predator-free.

Greg thinks it's fun to swim, period.

He decided to share his love of the water with Baby C, so he signed them up for Saturday morning swimming lessons. I made it clear that this would be HIS deal--I wanted no part of toddler wrangling in a high school locker room, or plunging into a urine-filled baby pool. Greg agreed that he would take care of everthing.

I decided to tag along to the first class... just in case. As we drove over, I asked Greg which bathing suit he'd packed for Baby C.

"Bathing suit? I have her briefs," Greg told me.

I pointed out that little girls don't wear swim briefs and asked for elaboration.

"I have the, um, the swim diaper." He said.

"Yeah, but they also wear bathing suits over their diapers. Remember, I pointed out where her bathing suit was?" I pressed.

Greg turned to me. "I didn't bring it." Long pause. "This is going into a blog, isn’t it?"

The Day the Triscuits Died

2009-02-08T11:09:00.002-05:00

Overheard at Mexican restaurant...

"Tristian, have you eaten any of your chicken?"

"Tristian, stop eating crackers and eat your chicken."

"Tristian, that's it. If you don't eat your dinner now, that's IT for Triscuits FOREVER!"

A Somewhat Magical Night of Mixed Metaphors

2009-01-25T17:22:00.007-05:00

We left our intrepid group approaching the Convention Center on their way to an inaugural ball. . . .

"Extra ticket?" whispered a bedecked woman furtively out of the corner of her mouth as we passed. Since she sported an updo instead of a baseball cap, it took me a second to realize what she wanted, but by then we were getting patted down in security, sending our little, glittery evening bags through the metal detectors, and finally walking through the doors.

We passed the bomb-sniffing dogs and approached the coat check, mindful of its dangers. (The Washington Post reported, "At Reagan's 1985 inauguration, a seriously logjammed coat room resulted in Mink-gate. Several guests' outerwear went missing, including [an] $8,000 fur. . . ." ).

Would there be a Mink-gate reenactment with my TJ Maxx wool coat? My mother in law took no chances. Earlier that day, she sewed nametags into all of our outerwear, even though there was nary a fur among us. We took our coat chits and headed into the ball room where 1,000 of our closest friends had started to celebrate... or, at least, line up to buy drink tickets. Some of the guests--not us--had paid (well) upwards of $1,000 and still had to shell out for drinks.

We walked by a group of chairs filled with decidedly un-festive people typing at their computers. My first party also attended by the press corps. We chatted them up, hoping for some information about the arrival of the Obamas. "Our ball was bumped," we were told. "The parade ran late, so their ETA is now 11:30 p.m."
Guess we didn't have to rush after all. We got in line to buy a lot of drink tickets, and proceeded to work our way through them.

It was like being at the wedding of someone you don't know very well. Few people danced, although--as at most weddings--there were three little boys who slid around the dance floor and tried their best break dancing moves. The Bidens made an appearance on a little stage, and the crowd roared (it was the Biden States ball, after all). Joe thanked everyone for their support, pledged his undying allegiance to Delaware and Pennsylvania, and kidded that he couldn't dance. He was right. They swayed for about three minutes and disappeared behind the curtain.

By then, the drink tickets had done their work and it seemed that the Obama's arrival had to be imminent. The room got louder, people started dancing a bit, and some started angling for a good spot next to the stage.

"This is stupid, this is stupid, this is stupid," I was thinking as I stood in line for rubber pasta. Then, I noticed some sort of color guard and a brass band setting up. The news swept the room: "They're here!” A crush of people rushed to the front. I flat-out ran up to the balcony, where I would have a chance of seeing.

The emcee announced "Ladies and Gentlemen, I present Barack H. Obama, the President of the United States of America!" Hail to the Chief played. Barack and Michelle entered. And, in that instant, it became a great night.

They paused, center stage, and the women mentally approved Michelle's dress (she looked lovely in person, although the pictures weren't so flattering). President Obama thanked everyone, told us to enjoy that evening because the work started tomorrow and then said, "Now, if you will excuse me, I am going to dance with my wife." And they did, and they seemed to really enjoy it, even though it was probably their 10th dance to "At Last" that evening.

After they disappeared behind the curtain, noise level went up again. Everyone was exhilarated by the sighting. People started exiting. Mindful of our babysitters who had to work the next day, we took one spin around the dance floor and headed out to see what had become of our coats. Thankfully, we had no problems. It had to be the nametags.

We trooped out into the freezing air and promptly turned into pumpkins. The streets were full of formally attired and very cold people who were all headed towards the metro or trying to find a taxi. We headed to the Metro and waited... and waited... a train came but we couldn't squeeze on, so we waited 20 minutes more. Then we had to transfer, with another long wait. You get the idea.

Despite the wait, the lines, the crowds, and the sheer number of used drink tickets, everyone remained in a good mood. It felt like America won the World Series. Holy Cow!

January 20, 2009

2009-01-21T10:54:00.003-05:00

O, long-awaited January 20! What a day you were.

In the days leading up to the Inauguration, lofty discussions about policies and political appointments gave way to logistics. The challenge: how to get into and around DC when all the bridges over the Potomac River and all of the downtown area were closed to cars.

High heels and formal gowns entered the equation when Greg announced that a friend of his had four tickets to the Biden States ball and that we and his parents were going.

In the end, Greg and I walked four miles home from Sunday's concert over the closed bridges and deserted highways. Quicker than waiting in a thousand-person line for the Metro. Yesterday, I decided not to subject Baby C to the crowds and freezing temperatures. We had an open house breakfast for Greg, his parents, and some friends who were heading downtown, then I watched history unfold on TV. Baby C obligingly napped through President (!) Obama's speech and Rev. Lowery's right-on benediction. Then, it was time to think of the ball.

A ball conjures images of Cinderella and magic. And, from start to finish, it was sort of a Cinderella experience--minus the fairy godmother. Forty minutes before the doors opened, I was covered in yogurt and chasing my naked baby down the hall before she could pee on the carpet. We somehow got her down to sleep, I squeezed into an old gown, and we called a cab to take us into DC. The taxi we called didn't show, but we found one down the street at the Halal Meat Shop parking lot. (There are advantages to living up the street from the Halal Meat Shop. Good lamb, and plentiful taxies.)

Even Cinderella's magical pumpkin coach probably couldn't have gotten through the closures that night. Military Humvees blocked road after road. We grew anxious. The Obamas were supposed to make an early appearance at our ball—we didn’t want to miss them. After an hour of painstaking navigation, we finally made our way to the Convention Center where six of the ten official balls were underway.

... and she's waking up. More later.

We Interrupt this Mommy Blog

2009-01-18T22:27:00.005-05:00

Live. . .
From D.C. . .
It's Inauguration Week!

It the eight years we've lived down here, I've never seen the city so excited. Actually, I've rarely seen the city excited at all; my chief complaint is that D.C. lacks electricity in the air. Well, today I stand corrected.

Greg's parents are visiting, which means that we have two captive babysitters. Basking in the glow of their adoring attention, Baby C barely managed to wave and blow me a kiss as I said goodbye to her. Then, Greg and I headed OUT to the National Mall to see President Elect Obama and the We are One Inauguration Concert. (And to see U2, who happened to be playing.)

Since most of the roads downtown and bridges across the Potomac were closed, we hopped on the Metro. You know you don't get out enough when a ride on public transit excites you. "Oooh, Greg, look! All the station lights are different! When did they change those?" Greg wasn't sure. "Oooh, look, Greg - when did they change the 'No Food' signs?" Greg didn't know, but I think he was relieved when I stopped loudly pointing out the Metro's capital improvements and turned my attention to the exuberant crowd.

Most folks were headed downtown to the concert, and everyone was laughing and talking with their fellow riders. Everyone. That people were talking at all was unusual (Metro transforms ordinary people into silent, dour and sallow passengers), and that they were chatting across racial lines even more so. We traded tips on where to get off with the family next to us and poured out of the station into a city eerily empty of traffic but strumming with foot traffic. (Interestingly, most people stuck to the sidewalks even though the roads were closed.)

The Mall was packed, but people were cool. No pushing and shoving. Screens were placed down the length of the Mall down to the Capitol building. We arrived too late to get through the security checkpoints in front of the stage at the Lincoln Memorial, so we joined the crowd in front of the Washington Memorial and gazed up at the (surprisingly small) jumbotron screen.

The Boss kicked us off, sounding good and scruffy. Movie stars read inspiring quotes between the sets. Someone let Josh Grobin sing. I'm embarrassed to say that Garth Brooks was one of the best performers and got everyone a little bit louder now with his rendition of Shout and American Pie. Stevie Wonder, Usher, John Mellencamp, Pete Seeger, Miss Mary J. Blige—all sounded great.

There was a sweet little old lady in front of us who had a pink scarf tied over her ears and under her chin. When Shakira came on stage, the little old lady gleefully cried out, "Oh, I love Shakira!"

For me, a diehard U2 fan, the highlight was Edge, Bono and the boys singing my favorite song, which commemorates Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Pride (in the Name of Love). Judging from the fact that I was the only person in the vicinity singing and raising my fist in support of the good fight, there were not a lot of U2 fans around me. Or perhaps they just get out more than me. Probably that. I’m pretty sure Bono and I shared some significant eye contact through the jumbotron.

All in all, it was almost like a two-hour sing-along on the Mall. People were unabashedly emotional, earnest, and polite. When Barack Obama took the stage, the crowd stilled. Then erupted. We are ready.

New Year, New Name?

2009-01-05T10:06:00.004-05:00

Much as we enjoyed the holidays and hated to see them end, the first day back to our normal routine brings a little relief. Greg and I un-decorated last night, although the pine needles embedded in the floor cracks remain, as do the nail holes in the bannister where I hung up a garland. These little scars make a house a home, right? Or do I need to vaccuum again?

I'm thinking that Baby C may be outgrowing her blog moniker. She's getting to be such a big girl, toddling about with her Charlie-Chaplin-like gait and typing furiously on my new Ipod (albeit while sucking on the pacifier she's managed to find). Stay tuned...

Merry Christmas to All!

2008-12-22T11:54:00.002-05:00

Christmas with a 14-month old...

Means that the bottom third of your tree lacks ornaments.

Means that every time she passes by the front door, we have to open it to see the lights hanging from the porch.

Means that we don't know who gave what to whom, since the gift tags to most of presents under the tree are scattered throughout the house.

Means that the Christmas cards are also scattered throughout the house, which is actually kind of nice because I see the smiling faces of our friends' children in odd places throuhout the day. Under the kitchen table are Kyle, Lucas and Olivia, and on the stairs are Gavin and Grady. Lucy was spotted in the sofa cushions.

Means that taking the picture of a very wiggly little person for our own card took nearly two hours and almost resulted in divorce due to the different artistic visions held by the parents.

Means that if you listen carefully, you can hear Baby C sing "la la la" during Deck the Halls.

Means that I have an excuse for listening to John Denver and the Muppets (best Christmas CD EVER).

Means that squeals of excitement and delight ring out over the boxes and wrapping paper.

Means it's all wonder and none of the want... pure magic!

Merry Christmas.

Nota Bene

2008-12-14T18:40:00.002-05:00

This is what I learned this past weekend.

When describing someone who plays devil's advocate, just for the sheer fun of being contrarian, one often says that such a person enjoys baiting another.

When describing someone who is an expert in the field, one often says that such a person is a master.

When describing a person expert at playing devil's advocate, however, one should probably not say that the person is a master baiter. Just sayin'.

Please Don't Squeeze

2008-12-11T09:29:00.002-05:00

The hottest toy of the season? I'm looking at it. It doesn't tickle or giggle, but it is rather... absorbent. Move aside Elmo--you've met your match. 2008 shall heretofore be known as the Year of Cottonelle.

As in the toilet paper. Specifically, the jumbo-pack of 24 double rolls. Encased in plastic, the Cottonelle forms a cushy, crinkly block that, to watch Baby C, is pure joy to climb over, push, and bounce upon. I'm quite confident that her exuberance over the TP is unmatched (at least in the Western world); she puts those women in the Charmin commercial to shame.

You may want to stock up. If this catches on, crazed parents may start lining up at 4:00 a.m. so their child isn't disappointed on Christmas morning. There will be a rush on the product, perhaps a shortage. Consider yourself warned.

Sew Slow

2008-12-10T10:02:00.002-05:00

Though I've been a mother for over a year, there are some basic realities that I apparently haven't yet realized. Free time, for example. I once spent it reading, catching up with friends, jogging, or various other recreational activities. Emptying the dishwasher wasn't on that list. It is now. My free time is when she sleeps, and I spend that time trying to clean the kitchen, do laundry, make meals, address Christmas cards, decorate the house, make shopping lists, take out the garbage, clean the cat litter, and other activities that make the hearts of stay-at-home mommies sing for joy.

So me thinking I had the time to make some little gifts for my nieces and nephew can only be attributed to being remedial at the whole realities of motherhood thing (not to mention remedial at the whole crafting thing). Those little gifts are the reason my house is in shambles and the laundry is piled up. As I stitch away in the ruins of my house, I realize that adding just one, tiny activity makes my whole day unravel. I should have started in July, in order to accommodate other activities I once considered non-negotiable, such as showering. Speaking of which, please excuse me. I’ve got to go brush my teeth.

Why there is (usually) a month between Thanksgiving and Christmas

2008-12-01T22:11:00.004-05:00

One might think that at least one out of 13 adults attempting the feat would manage to shoot a picture of six children. But you would be wrong. Last Saturday, a scant two days after giving thanks en masse, we gathered at my inlaws' house for a Christmas kick-off party. The eight parents, two grandparents, one grand aunt, and a great aunt and uncle were handily outmaneuvered by the six cousins, four of whom are three and under.

Perhaps our timing wasn't right. Maybe trying to photograph small children after a long car trip, a round trip ferry ride to an island for a woodland hike, and a family dinner was overly ambitious?

Picture all 13 adults yelling conflicting instructions to the kids. Baby C has a few words, but I'm pretty sure the directive to "turn right and look up!" is beyond her at this point. She started wailing. On top of the stage directions, some people tried to entice the babies to look up by making animal noises and clapping. Some people decided that the three year old could be scolded into smiling. (A surprisingly ineffective tactic.)

We may not have gotten a decent picture, but I think we did manage to capture the sights and sounds of family holiday togetherness.

Toot Toot Chuga Chuga

2008-11-21T09:38:00.001-05:00

Four teeth in two weeks, five first steps, and a cold that left Baby C sounding like a haggard old diner waitress with a two-pack-a-day habit.

There, now you're caught up.

The cold left Baby C (and me) too miserable to enjoy all of her milestones. For the last week, she's been clingy as a koala and just plain miserable. Diversions are hard to come by after a week inside, and one sleepless night I succumbed. I propped her up in front of the computer and started Googling. Dora didn't do it for her. Neither did Barney. Even more reluctantly, I started typing "W.. I...G...G...L...E...S".

For the first time in Baby C's life, the Australian quartet's songs rang through the room. Her glazed eyes focused. She clapped. She laughed. She offered the ultimate sacrifice: her paci placed gently on the computer space bar at the feet of her favorite band.

I suppose that's a milestone of another sort. The first time Mommy's high ideals regarding crap kiddy music and no screen time before age two fell in the name of buying five minutes of peace and quiet. Well, it had to happen at some point. Mommies can't live in ivory towers forever; at some point, they've got to face the real world, Wiggles and all.

Memories

2008-11-06T00:29:00.003-05:00

If you should be the lucky recipient of a kit that lets you imprint your child's hand in plaster of Paris at ages 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5, I humbly suggest waiting until the child is at least 10 years old before undertaking the project. True, you won't capture the sweet outline of your baby's wee digits, but you will probably avoid said wee digits gleefully plastering the kitchen floor, the cat, and the baby’s own hair. You will probably also avoid the baby stuffing a plaster-covered-fist in her mouth and sucking down the glop as it sets.

Rather than set her hand gently on the plaster, Baby C squirmed away from me, scooped, and ran. Instead of her little handprint, the kit showcases a gaping hole. All is not lost, however. If you squint at the cloudy waves of plaster on my hardwood floor, you can sort of make out her fingers. And they appear to be permanent.

Treat

2008-10-31T17:22:00.002-04:00

I carefully set out three pumpkins on the front porch, one of which is a toothless gourd Greg carved in honor of Baby C. I dump three bags of candy into a bowl and resolutely set it by the front door. Then I worry that the chiming doorbell might wake the napping baby, so I grab a book and a glass of apple cider and sit out on the porch, ready to oooh and ahhh over the little neighborhood goblins.

And I wait. And I wait. Then, crunching leaves--here comes somebody! Nope, just a dog walker.

Where the heck are the trick or treaters? When I was a kid, we trick or treated all the way home from school, and kept going well past nightfall. Today, though, my neighborhood is quiet.

I resist the urge to pass out candy to the commuters walking home from the metro. I eat a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. Then I read my book in the mellow afternoon, watching little bugs glint like dizzy dust motes in the last sun of the season. And I relax, for the first time in... a year?

Happy Halloween.

'Twas the 28th of October

2008-10-28T11:44:00.003-04:00

The Playgroup is coming!
The Playgroup is coming!

I gallop through the house, alerting all and sundry that we are about to be invaded. Baby C doesn't look up from the Cheerios she's eating off the kitchen floor. The cat opens one eye and goes back to scratching my sofa. Their message is clear: any preparations will be my responsibility, unless you figure (as I do) that the baby eating food off the floor negates the need to mop it.

I'm not worried about the six babies. It's their mommies who may not come in peace. Our playgroup met for the first time last week. Our hostess' abode sparkled. Current baby pictures hung on the walls, and dinner simmered aromatically in a crock pot. Now, it's our turn.

The only aromatic thing in the kitchen emanates from the garbage can. I glance at my bare bookshelves and calculate whether I can shelve all the books that have been in our basement for the past year. Probably not. Then I debate the merits of cleaning and decide against it. If I start mopping for this crowd now, there's no telling where it might lead by the time Baby C hits kindergarten. I settle on sweeping up the crumbs the baby missed, banishing the cat upstairs, and replacing the Pearl Jam CD with Kindermusik. Now, we wait.

God Bless Us Every One

2008-10-22T22:00:00.003-04:00

Tore myself away from my new Facebook addiction to inform my loyal readers about the issues of the day. According to the parenting listserve to which I subscribe, the issues of the day are how to keep squirrels from eating one's pumpkins, and the distressing news that the local mall pink slipped a favorite Santa Claus. Apparently, the guy had his own beard and has been delighting the kiddies for 18 years. He's even a carpenter during the off season, although no word on whether keeps elves. One mom lamented, "That Santa was particularly twinkly."

Upon reading the news, Miracle on 34th Street flashed through my mind and tears started to form (I've been very teary since weaning the kid, and that's my favorite Christmas movie).

Then I dug a little deeper. Turns out the mall broke Santa's contract because Santa and his real whiskers wanted $175 an hour this year. No wonder he was twinkly.

With the pumpkin problem solved (spray WD40 or blood meal to detract squirrels, or, as one woman suggested, you could always get your husband to shellac it), there is now a local campaign underway to bring back Santa. Did I mention that Santa hired a PR firm to aid his cause?

Is it too early for a holiday drink?

One Year Ago

2008-10-09T23:16:00.002-04:00

Today marks the one year anniversary of the last movie I saw in a theatre. Michael Clayton. Greg and I went to take our minds off the imcomprehensible idea that we would be parents the following morning. I remember shifting uncomfortably in the seat, unable to find a position to ease my backache. As I half watched George Clooney, I wondered what kind of mother I would be.

One year later I can tell you I'm the kind of mother who has every intention of baking her kid's birthday cake from scratch (it will be her first dessert), but who finds that her baking powder expired SIX years ago mid-way through the process. Sigh. I had thought that mothers automatically turned into organized women with freshly stocked pantries. Then again, one year ago, I was also convinced that Baby C would be a boy.

Carpe Diem

2008-10-08T21:37:00.004-04:00

My first blogiversary, like much of the past year, passed without me even realizing it. I've emerged from the shell-shock of very early parenthood, and events that fill my days seem to me to be less interesting to others. I treasure them nonetheless, taking mental notes that would be tragic for me to forget.

Must remember: the feeling of Baby C's warm hand on my chest as she falls asleep during these last days of nursing; how her legs kick in excitement when she sees her "da"; how she squeezes my arm when she's tired; her love of "dak" (rubber duckies); how she smiles at her six-month pictures that line the staircase wall; how she waves "bye-bye" long and solemnly; how she claps when I say "yay!"; the smile cracking her face when she swung for the first time at the playground; how she gives "kisses"--open mouth with more tongue than a 13-year-old boy; how she hums "nummmmmmm" as she eats; how she stationed herself under my parents' end tables to play; that her favorite toys are her stacking cups and her ball; how she grabs the poor cat’s skin in both fists; how she chortled and giggled as my father chased her under the dining room table; how she loves yogurt; how I was afraid she would never roll over and now I wish she would stop, at least during diaper changes(it's like trying to put Pampers on a squirrel); how frightened was when my uncle proudly presented her with a hobby horse, and how it took her a week to work up the courage to pat it; how the German lady in the Nordstrom's elevator noted Baby C's serious observation and said approvingly, "It's good that she's reserved, but I can see a smile in her eyes"; how she held up her arms for my mom to hold her tight; how every little thing is a cause for wonder that begs to be shared with her mama.

She's learning faster than we can teach her. Today, Greg's mom asked her where her mouth was. I was in the middle of saying, "We haven't learned that yet" when Baby C pointed right to it. Huh. Wonder what else she will show me she knows in the years ahead?

She still has her gummy smile. We thought she was teething as early as last spring, but she has nary a tooth. I don't need to make a mental note to remember it, though. We have over 1000 pictures from the last year. I just need to figure out how to keep on top of them all. Any ideas?

We Made It

2008-09-27T21:18:00.000-04:00

Baby C's little digestive system held for the duration of the flight back to Chicago, but her littler store of patience did not. The flight was full, the woman next to us was large, and the man in front of us tilted his seat back as far as it would go. Baby C ate through her snacks before we took off then turned her attention to screaming and writhing. I'm pretty sure the woman next to me (and perhaps all of Seating Group 3) decided never to have children.

Now, we're settled in my younger sister's former bedroom, both of us thoroughly spoiled by my parents. Greg's coming out tomorrow. Life is good.

Bananas

2008-09-18T16:35:00.002-04:00

Greg is a super dad, so I really shouldn't complain, but, well, without hapless husbands and their long-suffering wives, the mommy blog world would cease to exist, right? So, here goes.

Poor guy stumbled off the red eye and into bed where, to my credit, I did let him sleep for a few hours. But I wasn't feeling well again; Baby C had been up from 1:00-3:00 the night before, and my cold was on its way back. So when he woke up around noon, I decided to take a quick nap myself. Just for a few minutes, you understand. Accordingly, I didn't pass along the baby instructions that are usually conveyed during a changing of the parental guard (contents of last meals, time of last poop, and estimated time of next nap).

Three hours later, I awoke. Greg was valiantly trying to watch Baby C while working from home. I surveyed the kitchen and playroom and my eyes fell upon the one banana left in the fruit bowl. Before my nap, there had been two.

"You gave her a banana?!" I screeched. "She had one for breakfast! What were you thinking?!"

Greg, expecting accolades for letting me sleep, was taken aback. "She loved the banana. She ate almost the whole thing."

The man didn't know that bananas are a rare treat for Baby C. With their tendency to, well, stop things up for a while, I pump her full of fiber for the rest of the day and we're usually okay. But the implications of two bananas in one day rendered me nearly speechless. "No... no... no. Greg, I'm getting on a plane with her on Friday!"

So far, my fears have been well founded. Two jars of prunes are nothing against two bananas. So, do I give her a third banana before boarding and hope she holds? Or should I just accept my fate and bring several extra clothing changes for both of us?

Sick

2008-09-11T14:58:00.002-04:00

You know what I most miss about my pre-kid life?

It's not the luxury of carrying a tiny purse.

It's not being able to fly to Greece on a moment's notice.

A kitchen floor not covered in Cheerios? Clothes not covered in stewed fruit? Eyelids not covered by yogurt? Close, but wrong.

It's Sudafed. God, I miss it.

Baby C picked up some lovely waves-of-snot-producing cold from somewhere--I think it was the communal train table at the Barnes & Noble, but when your kid puts everything that crosses her palm into her mouth, it's hard to say with any degree of accuracy where the germs originated. She's finally on the mend, but I am down for the count today.

Supposedly, a nursing baby is protected by "mother's immunity", but ours seems to have expired. True, she's eating almost all solids, but I'm still nursing her a few times and therefore am forbidden from consuming most over the counter meds.

At least I know how to blow my nose. But that's another post. Probably best read when hopped up on cold medication.

Typhoid Mommy

2008-09-05T15:47:00.002-04:00

Odd. Just returned from my weekly Target run, where folks saw us coming and cleared a path through even the most crowded of aisles. One lady practically dove into a display of Brita water pictures when I steered the cart towards her.

"Well," I reflected, "It's not a busy time. Most of my fellow shoppers are other mommies. Perhaps they remember what it's like to have a curious, grabby baby in their cart."

Perhaps.

Or perhaps they feared contamination. Right before checking out, I caught a glance of myself in a makeup mirror. An oozy white crust appeared to be growing from my eyelids. I was horrified and confused. . . then it dawned on me. Desperate to get all of my errands done between Baby C's two naps, we left the house immediately after her lunch. Part of which (the yogurt course, apparently) was still drying on my face.

School Supplies

2008-09-02T11:42:00.004-04:00

DC weather lacks a certain crispness that would be appropriate this first week of September. Despite the mugginess and high temps, I feel like sitting down with a fat issue of Seventeen magazine, gazing at the Benetton ads, catching a whiff of the Babysoft perfume insert and plotting out my school year. (The facts that I'm all grown up with no classes to attend except Gymboree seem even less consequential than the weather).

Of course, in Illinois, we went back to school in August. It was too hot to wear our new fall clothes; the girls who tried always looked flushed and miserable by lunch. I think I owned one very special Benetton sweater and couldn't imagine affording another. Locker rooms smelled like hairspray and aerosol deodorant more than anything else. But, the August issue of Seventeen hinted of a more glamorous existence that might be mine with the right shade of lip gloss. Fresh school supplies promised that this would be the year I stopped procrastinating. And perhaps my class schedule would match up with the boy I liked, and he would be dazzled by my cool mastery of Language Arts or Social Studies! (Shockingly, that scenario never played out.)

I miss the anticipation September brought. Maybe I'll buy a new spiral and take some notes during Gymboree.

I Jinxed It

2008-08-27T00:53:00.003-04:00

Following a textbook bedtime, Baby C woke up around 9:30 tonight. After an hour of screaming (her) and crying (me), I decided she could watch Hillary's speech with me on CSPAN. Technically, she's not allowed to watch TV, but I'm willing to bet CSPAN incapable of actually shortening anyone's attention span. Plus, I was sort of taken by the sentimental significance of watching Hillary rally the troops with my daughter on the anniversary of the 19th Amendment’s ratification.

Baby C was ecstatic to find thousands of people wearing funny hats and clapping—her two favorite things! Bathed in the light of Hillary’s orange suit, she gazed up at the TV with a look of adoration rivaling Bill’s (bleh--was anyone else completely grossed out when he mouthed “I love you” to his wife as the camera focused in?) and beat her hands together throughout the whole speech.

Because this blog is nothing if not fair and balanced, we will see how she reacts next week when the Republicans gather in the Twin Cities. Although I suspect that Greg might actually enforce an earlier bedtime.

August Adventures

2008-08-26T11:07:00.005-04:00

August brought our first baby-related trip to the E.R. Baby C had been nursing a slight head cold for a few days. One night, (on the eve of a flight to Boston, of course), her breathing became very labored and she sounded like a baby seal coughing in her crib. A quick Google search revealed that she probably had croup. Croup?! I thought croup had been eradicated along with the mange. I remembered that in Anne of Green Gables, Anne saved croupy Minnie May's life with her nursing skills. Lacking a spunky, red-haired orphan of our own, we called the doctor.

The doc gave us two opposite home remedies of a steamy bathroom or cold air, but Baby C’s Flipper-like cough just got worse. So, at 1:30 in the morning, we went ahead to the E.R., praying that Clark was at a kegger or otherwise off-duty. Luckily we saw an actual doctor. Baby C got a shot of steroids, which made her feel much better (despite derailing her ‘08 Olympic career). I don't advocate hospital trips prior to travel, but she did sleep through a two hour delay on the tarmac the next day.

On that note, God bless the sound machine. I don't want to jinx anything by spelling it out, but it seems to be working! Amazing stuff, sleep. I feel almost human again, or as human as someone can when she's got stewed peaches drying in her hair. (Actually, the peaches seem to work just about as well as mousse.) Bring on the wipe warmer and the big plastic toys: I'm a believer!

Attention Target Shoppers

2008-08-23T22:05:00.005-04:00

Had you been at my neighborhood Target this evening, you would have seen lots of over-tired children melting down in the check out lane, and you may well have wondered, "What kind of parent drags their offspring out to a big box store so late?"

I do. I am that kind of parent. And I will tell you why.

She's Not Sleeping. Three weeks ago, Baby C started waking up at least four times a night. She also dropped her afternoon nap. As you can imagine, this doesn't do wonders for either of our dispositions (or my ability to post a coherent blog).

My standards did start higher, which perhaps makes the current situation even more painful. Before Baby C arrived, I airily assumed that we were not the kind of people who would have their baby out past a decent bedtime. I didn't want a house full of big plastic toys, I scoffed at the wipe warmer, and I thought a white noise machine for the nursery was overkill. The baby would sleep to the background noise of crickets (or of the TV downstairs) like her forefathers.

I have, shall we say, revisited several of my opinions. Tonight, after three weeks and two hours of infant insomnia, I concede that a 10 PM search for a sound machine at Target with a yawning baby beats listening to her shriek in her crib.

Unfortunately, Target carries neither sound machines nor infant barbiturates (kidding about the latter. . . sort of). I asked a gap-toothed employee about the sound machine. His English was more broken than his smile. “Sound machine? What is this? A machine that makes a sound only?”

I was aware at how ridiculous I sounded. “Yes. It makes sort of a quiet background noise. It helps babies sleep longer.”

He chuckled. “I have never heard of this. In my country, we just [he made a rocking motion with his arms].”

“Yes, I do that, too. I rock her. But, lately, she’s been waking up several times a night. She can’t sleep in my arms the whole time. I’m so tired. . . . Anyway, thank you.” I skulked away, never feeling more like the spoiled American consumer that I undeniably am.

I should have explained to the nice man that my stance on wipe warmers remains firm. On second thought, who knows what next week will bring?

Baby C Has Two Mommies

2008-08-03T23:32:00.004-04:00

Our friends have a theory that, sort of like a gosling will follow whatever it imprints right after it hatches, their toddler imprints which ever one of them happens to go into the nursery first thing in the morning. Some days, their kid is all about dad; other days, he only has eyes for mom.

They may be right. Around here, this was the weekend of Greg. Baby C wanted nothing to do with me. Unfortunately, her vocabulary hasn't kept pace with her fickle preferences. Sitting in her high chair, she cried "Mama!" I rushed to her side, only to have my arms pushed away. She held up her chubby hands to Greg. "Mama! Mama!"

"I'm Daddy, honey," he said as he picked her up.

"Mama," she said back and snuggled in. He shrugged, clearly thrilled to have been chosen. Let's hope he's as receptive to the label around 2:00 this morning.

You've Got Mail

2008-07-24T10:15:00.003-04:00

I shared baby at the beach pictures with my family and friends today. Kodakgallery informed me that my grandmother's email address is no longer active. She passed away last winter, but I didn't think to delete her from my address book. I don't think I will. Perhaps there's an automatic mail forward that Kodakgallery doesn't know about.

The Stroller Smackdown

2008-07-22T10:17:00.000-04:00

The first Monday after vacation was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. Every task I tried to accomplish somehow spawned 10 more things to do. Frustrated, I headed out of my Sisyphean house of horrors to go to the library, get an oil change, and assuage my frustration with an iced latte.

The library book I wanted (Barbara Kingsolver's The Bean Trees) was checked out. In the parking lot, I strapped Baby C into her car seat and tried to collapse her stroller to put in the trunk. The button that folds the stroller had fallen off. For fifteen minutes, the Peg Perago Aria MT and I wrestled in the library parking lot, with bemused patrons looking on and Baby C wailing from the car. We were evenly matched - I have opposable thumbs, but the stroller is bigger, stronger and more cunning. I finally won the throwdown. Exhausted, I detoured home to trade strollers before the oil change.

I loaded our newish all terraine stroller in the trunk and headed off for an oil change. I pried the now-sleeping baby out of her car seat, only to discover that stroller no. 2 had a flat tire. A lesser mommy would have despaired, but I laughed triumphantly. Was I not at Jiffy Lube, staring directly at an air hose?

My triumph was short-lived. The tire was not only flat, but had a severe leak. It has to be replaced. Still on a mission to get my latte, I lurched down the block with the bum wheel to the coffee shop.

At home, I couldn't get through to stroller no. 2's customer service, although the Peg Perago people offered to sell me the missing part for $5.00. "Didn't you try to get it for free?" Greg innocently asked when I told him my woes. I stared off into space and wondered about my life. Felt like sobbing, but couldn't muster the energy. I didn't make dinner. According to Web MD, I was depressed. I figured I'd have to go talk to someone, maybe get some meds. Whatever.

From the nursery, I heard Greg reading Baby C her night-time story. He selected Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day and personalized it just for me. Soon, both the baby and I were laughing. Some days are like that. Even in Australia.

*post script* I got some sleep. All is well. Turns out that stroller no. 2 just needed a new tire tube. The people got back to me Tuesday.

Vacation Inventory

2008-07-22T10:09:00.000-04:00

Pink cheeks (all)
Sunburnt shoulders (Greg)
Sand (car)
Sand (suitcase)
More sand (purse?!)
Cheerios (car)
Cheerios (stroller)
Cheerios (in my shoe?!)
Sand (it's freakin' everywhere)
Great pictures (still need to be downloaded)
Wonderful memories (all)
Sand (I give up)

Baptism.

2008-07-16T11:28:00.000-04:00

Greg's family spent summers at the Cape when he was a kid. July and August were tan and sandy days at the beach with lunch out of the cooler and, if the four kids deserved a special treat and Nan was buying, fries from the concession stand. The Atlantic was his playground. He learned to swim and sail and dive, and he can still hold his breath under water longer than anyone I know. The Cape is Greg's favorite place, Fenway included.

Last Saturday, we packed the car to bursting and headed to the beach. With Baby C so small, we didn't drive eight hours up to the Cape but are hanging out in Delaware for a week in a rented beach house with some friends. (They're brave enough to vacation with a nine month old because they have two sweet-hearted and impish girls, ages six and two.)

Greg couldn't wait to show Baby C the beach. He took his baby, sticky with sunscreen, up to the wild Atlantic waves. "See, baby." He held her out, let her feet get wet. She screamed at the surf and clung to him. "It's okay, baby. This is the ocean." Later, under the shade tent, she slept covered in sand. I pulled out sandwiches from the cooler. Greg swam past the breakers. It's summer.

Going Fishin'

2008-07-11T22:09:00.000-04:00

We're headed to the beach tomorrow. If Baby C stops eating sand long enough for me to post, I'll let you know how it's going. We're not off to the best start, considering that I haven't started packing yet. But, I have a list. That counts for something, right?

New Beginning

2008-07-06T23:57:00.001-04:00

Uh, hello? Is this blog on?

My long silence here is Baby C's fault. After nearly nine months of playing fast and loose with the kid's soul, we finally had her baptized last week. Her grandmothers are much relieved. The renouncing of Satan turned out to be the least of our worries. We had to clean the house for all the family who would be in town, so we also decided to throw a big party, sort of a baby-house-warming. Which meant that we finally had to unpack those boxes from our move last August. And hang curtains. And get pictures framed. And figure out what to feed all the houseguests. And repair the hole in the deck, weed the garden, buy a grill, rent a tent, discuss our ambivalence towards organized religion in hissed whispers to avoid alerting the more devout members of our family that our views may not be exactly orthodox, and, well, you get the idea.

Greg had emailed people to say “no gifts, please", but I got one anyway. We spend a lot of time as guests in our parents’ houses in our original hometowns (his: Boston, hers: Chicago), where it sometimes feels that real life unfolds without us. Baby C’s christening brought our families together for the first time since our wedding five years ago. Most of our local friends (and even a couple of long-distance ones, too) joined us. Having everyone together in our freshly-curtained house made me feel more established, somehow. I realized for the first time that our life in DC has a weight and substance of its own.

Milestones

2008-06-18T11:20:00.000-04:00

Moving. Baby C is the move and she hasn't looked back. Which is a slight problem, given that backwards is the only direction she's mastered. Her legs aren't in the game yet; she basically shoves herself along until she hits a chair or the wall. She spends a lot of time backed up into the furniture these days. We really must childproof soon.

Eating. Why they call it blowing raspberries, I don't know. But if you replace "raspberries" with "rice cereal" or "avocado" or "banana" or "apples" or "squash", you will have a good idea of how mealtimes are going around here. Forget taste. Food is mostly tactile experience for the 8-month old. She likes to squish it between her fingers, then mash it into her hair, then cram what remains into her face, where some of it might land in her mouth, which she likes to forcefully expel onto whatever is unfortunate enough to be within raspberry range. My floor and her high chair are covered in the cement-like remains of her meals. NASA could use dried brown rice to keep tiles affixed to the space shuttle.

Sleep. Baby C is remarkably bright-eyed. My sleep deficit, however, rivals the national debt. This morning, I ran the coffee maker. Without coffee in it.

We Wish You Much Success

2008-06-09T18:38:00.000-04:00

After nearly eight months on duty, the time has come for New Mommy to dip her pinky toe into the treacherous babysitting waters. Around here, before making any parenting move, parents consult with a list serve called DC Urban Moms. On DCUM, one woman wrote that her nanny was interested in babysitting another child occasionally to supplement her income. We exchanged emails and set up a time for all of us to meet.

At the door, the nanny's charge greeted us. He was one and a half years of blond little boy with a mouth purple from blueberries. He was very excited about the baby--or, at least, excited about her car seat and pacifier, which he tried to climb into and chew on, respectively. I felt a twinge of doubt.

But he calmed down, and the nanny was lovely and capable - a Mary Poppins by way of Peru, where she had been a registered nurse. The Other Mother seemed like someone I could deal with. Their house had been professionally baby-proofed (toilet guards - who knew?!). I repeatedly raised the issue of the kids' age differences, but Other Mother and Nanny Poppins assured me that all would be well.

As a dry run, I handed Baby C to Nanny Poppins and left the room. Baby C's separation and stranger anxieties both kicked in immediately, and she started wailing. Eventually, Nanny Poppins distracted her, and both she and Other Mother assured me this was normal and that she would be fine, the Nanny would be fine, and the little boy would be fine. Finally I believed them and permitted myself to think about having a few hours once a week in which to get things done without toting around a baby over half my size.

I got home to an email from Other Mother.

"Dear Elizabeth," she wrote. "It was a pleasure meeting you and your adorable Baby C."

Uh-oh. I sensed what was coming next.

"Unfortunately” – yep, there it was – “after thinking it over, Nanny Poppins and I realize that the age difference between Baby C and Blueberry Boy is probably too great after all. I promise this isn't because Baby C cried. Blah, blah, blah, We wish you much success in your future endeavors."

Okay, I made that last sentence up. But it was a rejection nonetheless. My dreams of grocery shopping without a stroller crashed down around me. I looked over at Baby C. "They didn't want us after all, honey."

"Bah," she said, stuffing her foot in her mouth. Indeed.

Greg's Anatomy

2008-06-01T15:57:00.000-04:00

When I found Greg lying outside the back door in a blinding thunderstorm, my first thought was that he had been hit by lightening. Turns out that he merely fell down the wet deck stairs... on his back. When he didn't outright refuse my suggestion that we go to the E.R., I knew it was serious.

At the ER, they asked him to rate his pain on a scale from 1 to 10. He said 8. Three and a half hours later, we were seen by Doogie Howser's younger brother, Clark, the physician’s assistant. Clark looked like he wandered off the quad to meet his fraternity's philanthropy requirement at the local hospital. He pressed on Greg's back and gave his prognosis: "The good news is, it's muscular, bud."

Greg said, "As I was falling, I was sure my back was breaking... but when I could walk I thought maybe a disk or something?"

Clark said, "Nope. It's muscular, bud. Pretty much the only people who break their back when they fall are little old ladies." Then he looked at me. "No offense."

Ummm, bud? So not cool, okay? I admittedly wasn't looking my finest. My hair was frizzy, and I'd just spent three and a half hours in the waiting room tending to my husband and baby.

"Actually, I am somewhat offended. I'm little and female, but I'm not that old!" I protested.

"Oh no, no, no. I meant someone much older than you," said Clark unconvincingly. "Anyway, I'll give you something for the pain. If you pee yourself, you need to come back and see a doctor right away."

Frighteningly enough, Clark has the authority to write a prescription for Vicodin. Greg is feeling much better. Baby C is the only one who peed herself. And I'm thinking seriously about Botox.

All I Want for Memorial Day Are Her Two Front Teeth

2008-05-21T22:51:00.001-04:00

Tired. So very tired.

Baby C is teething. Last night turned into a marathon session of rocking and nursing and, when those tactics failed, trying to distract my whimpering babe with books and toys. At first, I kept her room dark and quiet to induce sleep, but around 3 a.m., I tripped over a wayward copy of Stellaluna, and spectacularly crashed into a rattle before my leg banged into the dresser. After that, I turned on the light.

I proffered cool teething rings and frozen washcloths to numb her little gums, but she spurned all things cool or cold. I attempted to administer Children's Tylenol, but she spit it all out. Twice. By "spit out", I mean that she spewed the saccharine pink syrup down under the front of her sleeper, requiring a sponge bath and change of clothes – which went over about as well as you might expect at 4:00 in the morning.

Even more painful than my bruised shin, Baby C recently learned the "m" sound. Even though I know she's too young to associate the sound with me, last night she kept bleating, "Mmmmama." "Mama." And I obviously couldn't do anything to make her feel better. Ouch.

Coffee Coffee, Buzz Buzz Buzz

2008-05-18T14:11:00.000-04:00

Late Sunday morning, and all my charges are asleep.

Baby C snores in the middle of our giant bed, worn out from the rigors of teething.

Greg snores on the sofa in the living room, exhausted from revising a brief all night (and let that crazy fun Saturday night activity serve as a warning to the legions of readers considering work at a large law firm).

Kona snores on the off-limits chair, drowsy because, well, because she's a cat.

And I, bone-tired from enduring the rigors of teething with my daughter, setting up Greg with snacks and coffee, cleaning up after the cat who can only cough up hairballs on my comforter, and seven months of parenting boot camp, am WIDE awake.

Perhaps I should have resisted drinking the dregs of the coffee I brewed for Greg?

After over a year of very limited caffeine consumption, half a cup of Hills Brothers has left me wired. The energy shocks me. I realize that the fog in which I've been functioning is probably due more to caffeine withdrawal than sleep deprivation. The hit is fantastic: I feel alive! I have energy! I'm afraid I'm off the wagon for good. Now if only my hands would stop shaking, perhaps I could get something done.

She Who Will Not Be Ignored.

2008-05-12T11:34:00.000-04:00

Over all, we're surprised at how well Kona the cat adjusted to second-class citizenship. Absent-minded pats on the head have replaced the attention we once lavished upon her. She's still heartbreakingly hopeful, meowing around her favorite ball of yarn, hoping to entice us into a game of catch or chase-the-string. Sometimes she leaves the ball of yarn on my desk, as a pointed reminder of just how long it has been since we played. The other day, she upped the ante a bit.

I was trying to get through the Laundry Mound (a geographic phenomenon found on our bedroom floor). I opened the washing machine door and grabbed the wet clothes to stuff into the dryer. But something was wrong. I couldn't pull the clothes out--they were somehow stuck. I tugged a little bit, and discovered sweaters tied to sweat pants, intertwined with jeans. Kona's ball of yarn. She dropped it into the Laundry Mound, and it went all the way through the spin cycle, twisting around buttons and looping through sleeves. In the end, I had to cut the clothes free from each other. We're still picking out little bits of yarn from our pockets.

Kona isn't talking about the incident.

Beer Makes You a Better Mother

2008-05-06T17:01:00.001-04:00

We're home! Okay, we've been home for a week now, but I'm only now feeling motivated to do more than laundry and basic baby upkeep.

Munich was wonderful. The chestnut tree canopy over the biergartens filled in every day we were there. Imagine . . . restaurants with a supervised nursery and a fully stocked changing table! Though there aren't as many stroller-friendly ramps as in the ADA compliant US, someone always grabbed the front of Baby C's stroller to help me get it up the U-Bahn stairs. And I didn't feel weird nursing her in public, considering that there were naked sunbathers in the city park. Several of our friends had new babies, also. We compared notes, but I had nothing to top the advice from my friend's German pediatrician: "Beer makes you a better mother." Sauerkraut, however, does not - at least when the mother is still nursing. Poor Baby C and I learned that one the hard way.

The motivation for our trip was the wedding of one of our friends. For their first dance, the bride and groom waltzed, then most of the guests joined in. Not a we-just-learned-how-to-dance-in-the-living-room-last-week shuffle, but a full-on "shall we dance" capital W-waltz that would have made Yul Brynner proud. It was fantastic. Greg and I sat that one out.

Now we are back to suburban sprawl and too many choices at the supermarket. I know my memories of Munich are romantic and idealized, but all the better when life seems like one long round of diaper changes and stain removal. Some people have Paris; I will always have Muenchen.

Muenchen Redux

2008-04-27T06:52:00.000-04:00

Guten Tag from Munich! Greg and I got Baby C a little passport and brought her with us to Germany for a week. So far, so good... although traveling with a six month old has been interesting. No time to write all about it now, though. We spent nine months here two years ago, so I'm re-running part of an email I sent out then, with a quick update at its end. Enjoy!

***
Number of German classes skipped: 4.

Number of German words taught: 400.

Number of German words learned: 4.

German teachers may be the bravest people in the world. My intensive class contained around 9 students from all over Europe, if you include Turkey (which the student hailing from Turkey did, but those from traditional Europe disdainfully didn't), one from Japan, one from Korea, and one from Australia. Oh, and one from Morocco who insisted that he was "a photographer and a world citizen." Seeing as he spoke about 6 languages, I didn't giggle at this. Brian from Arizona was my only compatriot. He had moved to Munich to marry his German boyfriend and listed his occupation as "hausfrau" which our dear teacher, the sweet and somewhat conventional Frau Rosemary Schmit, finally understood was not a mistake after he showed up in black leather pants.

My apologies to all of you, but Brian and I confirmed every horrible stereotype about Americans' linguistic inabilities. We were, clearly and unavoidably, the class dunces. (It makes one very crabby to be the class dunce. I skipped a few classes, didn't do all my homework, and considered smoking in the girls' room, but figured that cry for help would go unnoticed here).

One day we had to say where we'd gone to school, and I laboriously said something to the tune of "I go to University, then I go to law school for 3 years" -- we hadn't learned the past tense yet -- and the class looked at me with naked incredulity on their faces. "That girl couldn't possibly be a lawyer! Poor thing doesn't even know what she's saying!"

The rest of the class zipped along, the German tripping merrily out of their mouths. Frau Schmit would occasionally try to include me in the conversation by slowly enunciating "Elizabeth, Wie viel Uhr ist es [What time is it]?" with a compassionate look on her face. I would mangle the numbers which told her that it was four past half before eleven (and this is how they express 10:34 a.m. here), and the class discussion would resume. They may have been discussing Nietzsche. I will never know.

Frau Schmit did face massive resistence the day she attempted to introduce divisible irregular verbs. As I understand it, the divisible verb consists of a verb and a prefix, but one puts the prefix at the end of the sentence for purposes that are not entirely clear. On that dark day, I was seated between Fauod the world citizen and Maximiliano from Verona. I didn't pick up the whole conjugation thing, but did learn a few good Italian and Arabic swear words. Even the teacher's pet from Turkey looked a little surly. Most of the class shared its angst over Glühwein later - usually, it was just the English-speakers who were driven to drink after class.

UPDATE: I just tried to order two bottles of a drink called Apfel Schorle (apple juice mixed with sparkling water - very popular). The woman came back with two pieces of Apfel Streusel. Not so thirst quenching, but I'm encouraged: at least it's the right fruit.

Lap Child: A Haiku

2008-04-21T15:07:00.000-04:00

Flight with Baby C
She cries, wiggles, then poos through
Diaper, on my jeans.

Yes, Virginia, there is a difference between Lee Highway and the Leesburg Pike.

2008-04-15T02:45:00.000-04:00

Greg and I are transplanted Yankees, doing our best to navigate our little patch of Dixie here in Northern Virginia. Despite Greg's truly impressive internal GPS, sometimes the South takes revenge. This past weekend, we set out on a jaunt to investigate a mega-sale on patio furniture. After an hour passed, Greg realized we were on the wrong road. (To my credit: I had no navigational duties. Full confession: if I'd had navigational duties, we would probably still be driving).

Baby C voiced her displeasure at being cooped up in the car seat, but the call of the patio furniture was strong, and we persevered. We found the right road, only to discover that the store moved but hadn't updated its website or Information with its new address. Because of the mega-sale, it took 15 minutes on hold before we got through to someone at the store (who told us that the new location... was across the street).

We straggled into the store, sweaty and smelling like Burger King (which we don't usually eat, but when our errand somehow morphed into a road trip, we applied road trip rules). We gazed silently at the collection of fire pits and giant umbrellas that stretched as far as the eye could see.

Baby C was hungry, and clawed at my shirt like a little monkey. Greg asked to hold her so she would cover the ketchup stain on his shirt. At that moment of complete and utter dishevelment, I heard someone exclaim, "Elizabeth?"

I blinked. Slowly, the wheels turned. The woman with the neat blonde ponytail was a former colleague from my old law firm. She's still practicing. Her perfect husband and adorable son stood by. All of their shirts were stain-free and neatly tucked. Former Colleague laughed, "We just happened to be driving by when we saw this store - we're looking for a little bistro table. What are you up to?"

I'm still not sure how I should have answered that question. On any level.

6 Months Tired

2008-04-11T02:08:00.000-04:00

Who's getting it. How they're getting it. Techniques for getting more. Sleep. It would be all I dreamed of, if only REM weren't so damn elusive.

(Yeah, that resolution has gone the way most of them do).

Baby C isn't a bad sleeper, but I've always needed at least eight hours. Six months of skimping have caught up with me. Yesterday, I followed the advice to "sleep when the baby sleeps" and crashed at 10:00 in the morning. The two hour nap didn't even dent the depths of my exhaustion.

So I was perhaps not the most patient or loving wife last night. We finally got to bed around midnight, but Greg couldn't put his Crackberry down. I asked him a few times to stop, and he solicitously blocked its dim light. But I lay there, listening to the little scroll down button whine on and on like a hamster wheel, and I lost it. From under the covers I arose like the ghost of Christmas past. I grabbed the front of Greg's tee shirt in my two hands .

"STOP IT! STOP IT! For the love of God, STOP BLACKBERRYING!"

I rolled over, contemplated feeling bad, but conked out before it could happen.

Baby C gets furious when she can’t sleep. Wonder who she gets that from?

Unnecessary

2008-04-07T01:58:00.000-04:00

I know I’ve mentioned that Baby C favors her father, but it’s getting ridiculous. Greg is finally home after a horribly long business trip, and he’s making up for lost time – I have to pry the baby out of his arms just to feed her. He was sporting the Baby Bjorn on a recent shopping trip, and all the saleswomen fell over themselves to coo at the pair of them.

“Oooh, she looks just like her daddy!”

“What a pair of cuties!”

I approached the counter with a dress I wanted to buy. “Wow,” said one of the saleswomen, looking me up and down. “She doesn’t look like you at all.”

Hula Woes

2008-03-27T22:46:00.000-04:00

My talents are few. I was never the best athlete. I was one of the worst singers in school. I can't draw or do crafts. Math continues to elude me. But one skill was mine. I could hula. In fifth grade, I was the hula hoop champ of Longfellow Elementary. Really. We had a field day, and I won that category. Obviously, that victory has stayed with me. I would hula hoop whenever the opportunity presented itself. (You would be surprised at how infrequently it did, but I was always ready.)

My friend's kindergartener recently showed me her new playroom and my eyes widened when I saw two hula hoops propped in the corner. We both took one. I popped mine over my head and began. The hoop shimmied down to my ankles. I gasped. I tried again. And again. The hoop fell to the floor every time. Maddie hula-ed solemnly, sympathetic to my distress as the truth finally dawned on me.

It was never skill. It was because I was the flattest kid in my entire elementary school. Now, après Baby C, I have an undeniable pot belly. I was actually somewhat okay with the potbelly until that moment in the basement. But no figure and no hula hoop? That's just not fair at all.

Jiggety-Jig

2008-03-26T10:21:00.001-04:00

Whew. Two and a half weeks in Chicagoland. Yep, Chicagoland. That's what we call it: Chicago and her vast suburban lands, including the lovely town in which I grew up. My observation that the Midwest is a friendlier place than the East coast isn't terribly original, but the difference always shocks me the first couple of days I land in either place.

At the post office in Virginia, the workers talk amongst themselves and seem mildly annoyed by the interruption of customers. At the post office in Wheaton, I was greeted at the door by an employee who invited me to use the automated system but, when I declined, handed me a number and ushered me into a short line. The lady behind the counter debated the merits of express mail for my shipping needs and noticed that I needed to re-write a suite number on my package. We chatted about her two daughters, and she ooohed and aahed over the baby. Despite our conversation, she had me out the door in three minutes, and that's with an impulse buy of some Forever stamps.

Outside, I noticed a police officer writing parking tickets (even in Wheaton, one must feed the meter). The unusual thing was that she was talking and laughing with passers-by. She even put down her ticket book to come and admire the baby, and informed me that she knew another person with my daughter's name, and that person was a lovely 16-year-old who played the viola. (Doesn't that sound auspicious!).

At this point, I started looking around for a bluebird to alight on my shoulder and sing Disney tunes. My mom's friend informed me that she spotted a bluebird the very next day in the forest preserve. No word on what it was singing, though.

Stomach Flu at 34,000 Feet

2008-03-10T22:08:00.001-04:00

It's amazing how the stomach flu concentrates the mind. With every fiber of my being focused on not throwing up, I forgot to worry about navigating the airport and our flight to Chicago without Greg. Wedged into our window seat, next to a man 6'5" tall (I asked), I couldn't even fasten my seatbelt, let alone try to disguise the fact that I was nursing Baby C. When she kicked our tall neighbor, he merely smiled and said he'd been kicked by taller women before.

When we finally landed, we straggled into the ladies' room so I could decide whether to hurl before facing baggage claim. I decided I could hold off, but that Baby C's diaper could not.

The airport bathroom changing table was half-hidden behind a wall. "You were such a good girl", I said as I changed the baby. "Good job on that flight." A concerned face popped around the corner, looked at me, and then relaxed when she saw the baby. "Oh, thank goodness" she said. "I thought you were talking to yourself!"

Maybe I was. Maybe I was.

Lullaby

2008-03-03T14:44:00.000-05:00

I know all the words that Bono has penned, but when it comes to nursery songs, I'm a little lyrically challenged. I just put Baby C down for a nap, with something along these lines:

Hush little baby, don't say a word
Papa's going to buy you a mockingbird.
And if that mockingbird don't sing,
Papa's going to buy you a diamond ring.
And if that diamond ring don't . . . don't... shine?
Papa's going to buy you a, er, a circus mime.
And if that circus mime should speak
Papa's going to buy you a ... chimpanzee.
And if that chimpanzee should... should... sneeze,
Papa's going to buy you a new set of knees.
And if those new knees should ... crack?
Papa's going to buy you a juicy Big Mac.

Funny how she doesn't seem to like it when I sing.

Morning

2008-02-28T11:25:00.000-05:00

Baby Girl,
Know that, once upon a time, you awoke every morning with a smile of pure glee on your face. The sight of your mommy made you laugh with delight. Your feet kicked with the excitement of a new day. Can you remember this? Can I?
Love, Mommy

12 (baby) Steps

2008-02-25T22:12:00.000-05:00

My post-partum Pilates instructor noted that Baby C was pacifier-free in class and asked if she used one. "Well, yes, sometimes," I admitted. "But it's not like she has a problem. She could quit any time she wants."

But can I? My mom saw me pop it in Baby C’s mouth as we buckled her into her car seat. "Why do you give her that pacifier when she's perfectly happy?" Knowing that there was no right answer to that question, I kept quiet.

Truth is, Baby C does enjoy her paci, and I do use it to keep her quiet at times. She used to go on real benders, but now she only uses in the car seat or the crib unless she's really upset. I fear, however, it was a gateway to habits that may be harder to break. She’s sucking on one fist right now, and I’ve seen her eyeing the second one.

Business Trips Suck

2008-02-19T18:38:00.001-05:00

You know you’re in a difficult profession when the talk around the water cooler (or, more accurately, the talk on the Starbucks run) is what kind of webcam provides the clearest picture of your kids, and whether you should upgrade from Skype to keep you connected to your family. Greg’s been traveling a lot lately. Missing the baby is killing him. He did buy a new webcam but also posted 8x11 pictures of himself over Baby C’s changing table to ensure she would recognize him when he comes home. Apparently, he wasn’t concerned about the association I might make between his face and her dirty diapers.

While Greg's been away, I've devoted my scant free time to sleep and laundry rather than blogging. Thrilling though they may sound, these activities don't lend themselves to exciting blog posts, either. It's really a vicious cycle that I am only now able to break since my parents are here for a visit, providing me with a little reprieve and ample material. For now, let’s just say that I can’t find anything in my kitchen, and that my electric toothbrush keeps conking out on me mid-molar because my dad keeps unplugging the charger in an effort to save electricity.

Why It's 80 Degrees in My Car

2008-02-03T23:04:00.001-05:00

My last car, a Geo Prism, was over 10 years old. I referred to it as my Flintstone-mobile, because one was tempted to open the door and use footpower to help it up hills. Only one gas station in town let it pass inspection, and the local carwash owner gently suggested that we not return after my license plate flew off during the rinse cycle. When I used to be a lawyer and had a hearing somewhere not Metro-accessible, I took perverse pride in driving it to work and parking it next to all the BMWs in the garage. After bumming rides throughout high school and college, I bought it my third year of law school. It was low-maintenance and ran well, if you weren't in a hurry. I loved that piece of crap car.

With the baby on the way, I reluctantly conceded that my Geo should be retired. It just wasn't safe. (I also suspected that the extra weight of a newborn would prove too much for it.) I donated the Geo to Purple Hearts, and we bought a Honda: safe with no personality and a big blind spot.

While it’s nice, albeit anti-climatic, to be able to merge without heart-stopping adrenaline, I still end up sweating every time I drive. The heat dial is located where my radio tuner used to be, so I inadvertently jack up the heat every time a bad song hits the airwaves. Baby C and I arrive everywhere hot and thirsty. I miss my Geo.