Whew

I am elated to have made it home from San Francisco--the journey was a challenge that I was both psyched about and in high planning mode over (my way of managing my anxieties). I called the airline a couple of days before our departure and they said there were 15 empty seats on our nonstop flight from Pittsburgh to San Francisco, so I decided to take the carseat. Of course, the seats were all taken when we arrived at the airport, which was also the case for our first, longer leg on the way back. It turned out we could have used it on the final, short hop from Detroit to Pittsburgh, but I had gate-checked it when the San Francisco to Detroit flight was all full. However, as Erin pointed out, it did give us the option to take a cab out in California, so that was a nice benefit.

I had really had no idea what to expect, having never flown with a small baby before. Gillian doesn't like being held in arms for long periods of time, and she is often uncomfortable while nursing, so I wasn't sure what I'd be able to do to comfort her. I thought that maybe the vibrations from the plane would help, but with 11 hours of flying in front of us, I was really hoping things would turn out okay.

As it turned out, she was a total angel. She cried hard as we were getting on the plane in Pittsburgh, since she was in a wrap carrier and I was using my hands to stow our bags and everything rather than soothe her, but she had stopped by the time we took off (I think maybe even by the time the whole plane was loaded), and she barely whimpered for the whole 5 1/2 hours, alternately nursing and sleeping. On the return flight, she was fussing as we took our seats, but she ate once we were settled, then napped for 2 1/2 hours straight, and finished out the flight sitting on my lap and looking around happily until landing.

We were seated one seat down from this totally obnoxious guy who began the flight by turning to the passenger between himself and me and saying loudly (in reference to being seated near me with Gillian), "I know--bummer, right? I mean, dude, if a seat opens up, just bolt up there and take it. Just jump up and take it even if the seat-belt sign is still on!" After the 4 1/2 hour flight was over, he leaned over and said, "She was awesome! That was an awesome flight!" and I wanted to say, yeah, the only person who was kind of a jerk was the grown man, not the three-month-old baby. I mean, nobody wants to be seated next to a baby, but you know, why be a hater?

In all, though, people were incredibly kind to us. I was by myself for most of the trip, toting a backpack and stroller with a carry strap on my back, and Gillian in her carseat on my arm (or some other configuration of backpack/stroller/carseat/baby/wrap), and we made it through various security checkpoints and peoplemovers and flights and shuttles without incident. Several thoughtful souls even went out of their way to offer to help, including a kind of cheesy guy in his early 20s who had previously been trying hard (and unsuccessfully) to hit on a pretty girl nearby. It was a really hard trip--keeping Gillian happy and managing all of our gear--but it was, in all, successful in that we got there and back safely, and it was even disaster-free. Thanks, God, for smiling on that one.

Activities

Gillian's Current Faves:

5. Tolerating sister's attempts to "feed baby allbyself" with empty bottle

4. Smiling back: first slow and subtle, then with big grins, arms and legs wiggling gleefully

3. Saying things like, "Haaarr!" and "Gwaaah!" and "Hmmmmmwweeeh"

2. Opening mouth when others' faces approach for kisses

1. Getting fatter by the minute

Gillian's Former Faves (Now Triggers of Dismay):

4. Staying up past 7:00 p.m.

3. Watching Mommy fold laundry/cook dinner/clean

2. Watching Mommy write conference paper

1. Watching Mommy on Facebook

Planning, Plotting, Packing

To lug or not to lug? That is the question.

For my upcoming trip to San Francisco with Gillian, the carseat would be a big hassle to lug around, but she would reliably sleep in it for hours on the plane (in contrast she is often uncomfortable in arms and wakes frequently). I would definitely take it if I knew I could use it, but the chance of an open seat seems rather small. Lots of certain inconvenience in exchange for an infinitesimal chance at escaping what could be total misery for 6 hours each way or could be fine.How to calculate those odds? There's a reason I'm not a math professor.

Rhymes with the Right Reason, Anyway

Me, trying to teach AC what babies can and can't have/do: Allison Clare, should we give some ice cream to the baby?

AC, impishly: Nooo!

Me: Why not?

AC: Too tall!

Early Signs of an Intellectual's Disinclination to Labor

Me: Allison Clare, will you put away this cloth that you got out?

AC (taking off in the other direction to climb onto the couch): No. Run 'way. Sit in chair and fink.

Party On

Yesterday we had my seminar students over for a little lunch party. It was fun to have them, and also fun to cook . . . we don't do as much entertaining since we've had the little ones and it requires more juggling and maneuvering to pull things off. I made up some ribs, macaroni & cheese, blondies, and brownies the day before during naptimes and after bedtime. April, our babysitter/angel-sent-from-heaven, picked up baguettes on her way to our house in the morning, and I threw together some sandwiches with turkey/cheddar/apple and roast beef/provolone/roasted red peppers and a strawberry walnut salad. I had vinaigrette to dress the roast beef sandwiches but couldn't think of what to put on the turkey ones until I hit on honey butter, which may have been a mistake since now I've been putting it on the leftover bread and eating it by itself . . . no wonder my post-pregnancy weight loss seems to have reversed itself in the last week.

Anyway, it was fun to think of a menu, and the nice thing about college students is that they will basically eat anything with gusto and delight whether it turns out right or not. Allison Clare loved having them over. She would say things, and they would all laugh, and then she would smile coyly and say, "Silly friends." Gillian was a little tired and fussy, so Sam and I passed her back and forth like a little hot potato. It's not like the old days of kicking back at parties, but life is a new kind of party all the time.

Gratitude

I was changing Gillian tonight--her roly-poly little body so warm and soft in her purple fleece pajamas with little owl faces on the soles of the feet, and her little gummy grins--and I was thinking about how she's becoming more interactive now. She is heartbreakingly sweet, sometimes seeming almost sad, kind of reserved in her personality, but then breaking forth with these joyous smiles when you smile at her. And I was thinking about how much I love those smiles, and the ways Allison Clare too expresses her happiness . . . today AC wanted to wear her monkey costume when she got up from her nap, and when I put it on her, she hugged herself and said, "Monkey coat on!" Then she ran out of her room but stopped and turned around toward me, her tail swinging around behind her, and called back with a big smile, "Fank you, Mommy."

As I remembered those "fanks" and reflected on Gillian's smiles, I thought that I finally understood a little of why maybe God really wants our praise. I've heard skeptics say that only an arrogant God would demand so much praise, and I've myself thought that maybe God wants our praise because it is his due, so it's kind of like our living in accord with justice to give him the praise he deserves . . . as if praise and thanks were desirable primarily as acts of obedience and respect. But I don't want Allison Clare's thanks or Gillian's smiles primarily because they buck up my ego or because I want them to be grateful children, even though both of those things are probably part of it. Mostly, I love those things because it just makes me so incredibly happy that those little girls are happy, and because I'm overwhelmed with pleasure and gratitude of my own that they relate their happiness to me (I feel like, "Really?!?!!" So excited!). It strikes me that maybe it's less about God's seeking acknowledgement of his position, and more about His sheer pleasure in us, that he loves us so much that he wants us to love him because he enjoys it. I know, probably a "duh" point to those who have a better sense of God's heart than I do . . . but it was my lesson from parenting for the day. :)

Fanks Be

I took the girls to church--Sam didn't go with us, which was really my fault this time. I decided at the last minute that I did indeed want to go (we've been pretty derelict in our church attendance--more on that later), and he helped me get the girls ready instead of getting ready himself. When we got there, there wasn't anyone in the nursery, so I brought both girls into the service with me. We have 20-25 minutes of singing first, which Allison Clare likes, but this time she had spotted the chocolate milk I had brought as a bribe to get her to stay in the nursery, so she kept asking for it rather loudly. Fortunately, no one could hear her over the music, so I held her off. At the end of the singing, our pastor began a prayer, and everyone bowed their heads and closed their eyes.

Except Allison Clare, who looked around and said happily and loudly, "Mommy! Close eyes. Go sleep now! Mommy close eyes, go sleep!" So I quickly pulled out the milk and gave it to her, hoping it would quiet her down. Nope: "Fank you, Mommy!" I tried to shush her, but she just kept saying even more loudly, "FANK YOU, MOMMY! FANK YOU!" She said it six times or so, until I realized she was trying to get me to say "You're welcome," which I finally did. She quieted down and drank her milk, and I took the opportunity to put Gillian into the stroller and sneak out before our disgrace was increased further. Ah, worship.

Hamburgers andMeatandCheeseandMilk--Oh My!

Saturday was beautiful here--bright and clear and cool. I've been teaching just one class this term, the senior capstone seminar on Melville, and my students had their presentations on Saturday morning. They were wonderful . . . as I told them on our last class day, when you have a tiny baby at home, you never want to leave her, but they were so great to work with that I enjoyed every single class with them. They were smart and hardworking and funny and they took the work so seriously--it was a joy to know them, and I was especially glad to have them this term.

Later in the afternoon, we took the girls to Allison Clare's favorite place, McDonald's. It's funny how she has gravitated toward it, since we didn't make a big deal out of it the first time we went. But she immediately seemed to recognize that it was a place for kids, and she loves going there so much that we love taking her there and have to work to limit our visits. You can see her excitement here. I love her little hop-footed dance.

[Translation: Hamburgers and meat and cheese and milk! And--straw! Ice cream! Oh yeah! Okay kay kay. Where are you, Da? 'Kay. 'Kay. Daddy, Daddy, Daddy . . .]

We also went to the Spring House, a dairy farm with a country store and restaurant afterward, where Allison Clare got to see some goats, eat an ice cream cone, and climb around on a tractor, which she has talked obsessively about ever since. Maybe she will be a farmer, and make her Grandpop proud.

Keeping It Real

Amid all the cuteness and sweetness of the month, the psychic pressure of one moment this afternoon almost made me leave my body for an instant. Gillian was wriggling anxiously, beseeching me with distressed eyes and starting to wail; Allison Clare was beginning to sob in her high chair that she wanted to get down or have more juice (impossible, since she had thrown her cup overboard to who knows where); and I was frantically trying to finish comments on student presentation drafts fast enough to get the three of us out of the house and up to campus before the department secretary left for the day so that I could make copies of the flyers for tomorrow's senior capstone seminar panels and then go grocery shopping before dinnertime. Couple all of that with: I haven't slept for more than a few hours at a stretch in three months (not that anybody's counting), I pulled a muscle in my shoulder two nights ago, and the air conditioning was broken so it was rapidly becoming sweltering in the kitchen. Breathe, Tara, breathe.

Thankfully, this moment--and the others that have been like it--didn't last too long. When I came home, Sam had installed a window air-conditioner. Allison Clare gave me a hug while I was sitting on the floor, and then pulled back, ran across the floor and said, "Run and hug!" and came flying across the room to leap into my arms (repeat several times, with giggles and her saying, to herself apparently, "Silly Munchkin" at the end). Gilly fell asleep on her side at first with her fat cheeks pooching down onto the bed in a little puddle of chubbiness, and all was right with the world. For a few minutes, at least.

One-Sided Conversation

Allison Clare, after the bunny piece fell out of her puzzle and onto the floor:

"Oh, poor bunny! Bunny fell downed! Poor, poor bunny! I sorry! Y'okay? Here, kiss, kiss. Mwah! Mwah! Poor bunny! Better now. Go in. Stay dere."

This was all the more surprising after her response of complete feigned ignorance yesterday, after she kicked her baby sister in the head (accidentally?), but it was still nice to see her showing a little compassion, even for the inanimate . . .

Indian Princess? Sure!

We went to a party yesterday to celebrate the end of the semester at my department chair's house. Our department is kind of famous for its potlucks--the year I was hired, they conducted searches for three positions and brought a total of nine candidates to campus. They held a potluck dinner for each of the candidates. It must have been grueling; the following year we conducted one search, and just the three potlucks felt like a lot . . . it felt like we were in the CIA or something, bringing in a new person each time and enacting our rehearsed roles in a scenario designed to ensnare. Everybody brought the same dish or kind of dish, we discussed the same topics and shared the same stories, etc. I can't imagine doing it nine times. We joke that when someone retires, we should put in the job posting what dish we are looking for (e.g., "We have an opening for a salad but would also consider a casserole if vegetable-based").

Anyway, besides the dishes, people brought spouses and children, and one little six-year-old girl named Sophie, who has been really sweet to AC in the past, took her under her wing. Sophie had brought a book of Disney fairy tales, and she read them to Allison Clare. "Sit steps," AC suggested. And so they did, with AC's little hand on the small of Sophie's back while they cuddled together and Sophie read aloud. Sophie would stop periodically and explain things to AC: "Do you know what gold is? It's really really big and shiny." Those of us who were eavesdropping also got a kick out of when Sophie suggested that they read Pocahontas "because you kind of look like her."

Yum

When Gillian was first born, I thought that her feeding was going to be much easier than Allison Clare's. Gilly latched right on in the delivery room and nursed for an hour and twenty minutes, whereas it had taken Allison Clare about three weeks, with lactation consultants and little plastic aides. Gillian did feed right away, and on a decent schedule, but soon she started choking a lot and would stop breathing for several seconds, to the point where she would turn very blue. For a while, these episodes happened as often as every feeding, and she had to go get a bunch of tests done.

They all turned out fine, and she seems to have learned to coordinate her swallowing and breathing much better these days. She hardly ever chokes, though her feeding is definitely not as untroubled as Allison Clare's was after the first few weeks--Gillian has to stop and re-start many times, and she arches uncomfortably and fusses sometimes while feeding. All of this makes me really grateful when her feedings go well and when she seems contented afterwards. My favorite after-feeding compliment comes when, just after finishing, she licks her lips thoughtfully and smacks them together several times, like a plump little balding gourmand savoring the last notes of a fine wine. How appreciated I feel!

The Fee Relations

As I mentioned in my last post, we went out to Cincinnati this past weekend to introduce Sam's parents to their newest granddaughter and to celebrate the imminent arrival of Sam's high school friend's baby son. We had a great time all around--I always love seeing Sam with his friends from high school. There's something about really old friends, a level of trust I guess.

Gillian, of course, was our easy traveler. She napped most of the time in the car, fussed just a little at the baby shower (our first stop), and then slept at night as if she were at home. She was adaptable and cheerful with all the new environs and people. Allison Clare was really excited to see Mamaw & Papaw and her cousins, and she ran around chattering and playing. She was great while awake, but all the excitement just wore her out I guess, so she had a hard time settling down and woke up FOUR times screaming inconsolably. If we had had Gillian first, we would totally have thought this parenting thing was super easy. Sleep training? Who needs sleep training? Just put her in her crib and she falls asleep on her own! Baby gear? The baby doesn't need anything--just amuse her with smiles and love-pats!

But fortunately, we had been (and still are) suitably humbled by parenting Allison Clare. Who, for example, wailed in sheer devastation for ten minutes, sobbing on the floor of our bedroom this afternoon--and why? Because I had changed out of my shirt from work into a t-shirt. Apparently, she preferred the work shirt ("Nooooo . . . white shirt on . . .). Ten minutes of sobs like her heart was broken. I think it is her Fee genes . . . my mother-in-law calls them "Fee fits" and apparently they can be produced by the little women of the family as well as the grown men.

The Crack-ifier and the Skeptic

Neither Allison Clare nor Gillian ever took a pacifier as a comfort object, both of them seeming annoyed by its intrusion into their tiny mouths. However, we kept a couple around and Allison Clare would occasionally play with them as toys when she came across them--usually when we were in the kitchen and she needed distracting, so I would give her the white Tupperware container that held the pacifiers and some other odd plastic baby items.

Then, recently, Allison Clare became very interested in the pacifier as sleep aid. She was playing with one at naptime or bedtime a couple of times, took it to sleep with her, and got attached enough to request it. Since we had escaped the need to wean her from the pacifier as a baby, we were reluctant to let her get too attached to it at this point, and told her no when she started requesting it. She seemed to have forgotten about it until tonight, when we returned from a trip to see Mamaw and Papaw in Cincinnati. Sam was putting her to bed, and the following exchange ensued:

AC: Daddy, get purple pass-fye-in.

Sam: What? What do you want?

AC: Please?

Sam: Okay, I'll be right back.

(Sam goes and returns with a purple teacup.)

AC: No cup. Pass-fye-in, pass-fye-in.

Sam (coming to our room where I'm feeding Gillian): Do you know what pass-fye-in is?

Me: Pacifier. (Discussion ensues, and we resolve not to give in.)

Sam (returning to AC): I looked, but I couldn't find it.

AC (helpfully): Downstairs, in kitchen.

Sam goes downstairs and then returns: The pacifier is all gone.

AC: Right back. White bowl.

Sam: I looked, but it was all gone.

AC: Try again.

My Little Hot Dog

Allison Clare loves going to all kinds of stores--so much to see! But she especially enjoys the "dresses store," which is what she calls Target because the main entrance is near women's clothing. She began recognizing Target long ago, first saying, "Walk hand!" to indicate that she remembered being able to walk by herself, holding our hands, and wanted to do so again. Then she started calling it the dresses store, and after we had once eaten a snack in the little cafe there, she bolted into it the next time and cried happily, "Snack snack snack!"

Today she, Gillian, and I went there to pick up a prescription for Gilly around lunchtime, so while we were waiting, we shared a kids' meal and some "tatin chips." The cashier praised AC's angelic behavior. To which I thought, thank goodness she caught us at a good moment--but AC truly was behaving well then, sitting in her little red high chair, sweetly eating her hot dog and apple slices and rejoicing over her milk. "Bunny on it!" she pointed out happily. "Brown one." Since she's not always well behaved in public, I cannot be proud of my parenting skills on that front; I can just enjoy the moments as they come. :)

It was a little past her usual naptime as we were driving home, so I told her she would go take her nap when we arrived. "No go up da stairs. No nap!" she stated decidedly (she used to say "up downstairs" but has recently adapted it to something between that and "up the stairs"). Three minutes later at our front door, however, I snapped this picture. I'm not sure why it moves me so much that she fell asleep clutching her milk bottle, worn out from the sheer pleasure of a half of a tiny Target hot dog.

A Fine, Upsitting Citizen

Gillian is really getting interested in the world, smiling these knowing smiles and practically alight when we lay her on her playmat with the baby gym and its dangling toys arched over her. Today she sat on the couch with me, propped up and looking around and burbling, for over an hour. She has been very easy in most ways, but not very comfortable outside of her beloved bouncy seat; I haven't been able to lay her in the Boppy or anything, or even reliably put her in the sling or carrier because she arches her back and fusses uncomfortably (due to her reflux, we think), so today was very exciting for both of us.

All About Eve

Not that I'm really the mother of all living. Just feels like it when Sam, both girls, and the cat all need to be fed different things. :)

Yesterday, JS observed that I've been rather anxious lately, and a few hours later, I happened to read a scholarly article a friend had copied for me about the pressures borne by contemporary mothers (three of us had been chatting about parenting--one woman with two kids ages 4 and 6, me with my toddler and newborn, and another woman expecting her first child). The article described the competing ideals that pull at us, tracing the history of these ideals through representations in the media. It was a fantastic article, and one of the things that stood out to me was the idea that we are supposed to be "relaxed, spontaneous, and prepared every second for the possibility that our kids could suddenly be killed." How true . . . from laying them on their backs to sleep, to cutting the cords on our blinds lest they strangle, to placing our purses in the backseats with them so we don't forget them in cars, to banning toys with lead, to eschewing foods with high fructose corn syrup (which I don't even do, being an avid consumer of such foods for myself), there's quite a lot to learn about and remember.

And I'm a student at heart, straight As in subjects I didn't even care about, much less in the responsibility for caring for the two most dependent and vulnerable people I love. But another thing the article described is how mothers today seem to be expected to have professional-level expertise in first-aid, medical diagnosis, consumer products, nutrition, psychology, early-childhood development, and more. The Internet makes it possible to gather information on these things, and as a result, I can tell you the brand of slings recently recalled and how many babies died in how long in what positions while using them. I can also tell you the rates of SIDS deaths by month in the first year of life, the most common reasons for recalls of juvenile products, the most choke-able household objects/foods, and how many children have died by either being driven over in their families' cars or drowning in household buckets. Part of this is my fascination with all information, and part of it is my memory for weird patterns and facts. But parenting has accelerated my information-gathering habits into overdrive, which while interesting and even occasionally useful, has not been good for the restfulness of my mind and spirit.

Coupled with all of this, I hear the voices of the people whose parenting I respect in my mind when I'm faced, so frequently, with the challenges of my very strong-willed toddler. I wonder what would work best with her, how to help her learn to master her will so that it does not master her, and so on. She's a moving target for all of this attention, however, as her needs change so quickly, and that means that the parenting calculus is ever more complicated.

And as these insights came together in my mind, JS's observation and the article I'd read, I realized that I had given some thought to what I needed to jettison in order to become a better mother (e.g., outsourcing house cleaning and eating meals that are more quickly prepared), but I hadn't thought much about what parts of mothering itself I was willing to discard. I'd never felt pressure to be the perfect mother, but I realized that of all the voices that I hearken to in my head, the ones that are most important are God's, of course, and Sam's, since he is my partner in all of this.

And I suspect God is actually pretty uninterested in a lot of the ambitions that contemporary parents have for their kids. It might be a commonplace to observe that lots of kids today are overprogrammed, but it's less common to say that maybe God doesn't care care exactly about how intentionally intellectually stimulated my children are--he wants them to be curious, I think, and interested in the world and critical enough not to be foolish, but not necessarily to have their brains exercised with educational goals in mind. And that's probably because he cares a lot less than just about anybody I know in the world about where they go to college, or whether they go at all, or whether they even finish high school. I say this as someone who obviously highly values education as a good . . . but there might be lots of "goods" that my children are uninterested in, or that they don't really need any propulsion toward. I personally learned to read by reading over and over the Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden mysteries, and watched as much TV as I wanted as a child. My parents didn't do anything to try to encourage me to read (though they were totally supportive, driving me to the library to get my haul every week), and as a result, I read whatever I wanted and loved it. Perhaps I might have made a better academic with a more formative reading plan, or maybe I'd read more classics and criticism in my spare time. But I don't think I would love reading any more--most likely, less.

And that's what it seems to me that God would want Sam and me to cultivate in our children--the passion for the things that he's created their hearts to love and seek. For Allison Clare right now, she's pretty passionate about Elmo, Blue's Clues, shapes, hamburgers, and letters. When we were at the mall the other day, she spied a sign and ran over to it to read the letters out loud to me. Then as we walked away, she called back affectionately, "Bye, letter B! See you tomorrow!" Who knows what to make of that? I couldn't teach that kind of love.

Nobody's Fool

As Allison Clare learns more words, we're constantly amused by her interaction with idioms. She's still learning "you" and "me," having had them backwards for a while. It makes sense: I say, "Do you want Mommy to help you?" so she says, "Help you" when she means "help me." Same with "carry you," "feed you," etc. She offers to help by saying, "Help me!" or plaintively requests, "Help you" when she gets stuck with (or in) something.

She's recently begun incorporating words for abstract ideas. This morning, I changed her diaper, stood her up, and tried to kiss her belly, which she loves but can hardly bear for the tickling. She often instructs me, "Kiss tummy" but then dissolves in giggles and clutches protectively at her midsection before I can even get close. Today she squirmed away and laughed, "No kiss tummy! No kiss tummy!"

I said, "I can't kiss your tummy? Then whose tummy can I kiss?," trying to trick her into saying her own name.

But she was one step ahead of me, announcing "Nobody's tummy!" and dancing away in triumph over the opportunity to trump me with a brand-new word.

Little Gillian is also vocalizing in new ways. She has just started gasping with almost-laughter, and my very favorite thing about her, I think, is that if she is unhappy and I smile at her, she pauses for a moment, then bursts into an enormous grin. Sometimes while she is lying there grinning, she squirms with happiness and tilts her head back to look up and away, like she is overtaken with her private enjoyment of the moment . . . the way you enjoy an irrepressible smile and look away when somebody catches your eye in a boring meeting and you realize you're both having the same hilarious thought.

If at First You Don't Succeed

Today was kind of hard--I was trying to get seats reserved for a flight that I'm taking with Gillian to San Francisco for the American Literature Association conference. First, I called US Air, and was told that United is the carrier (though it is a USAirways flight). Fine. I called United, waited on hold for forever, and when I finally got someone, she told me that she had a bad connection and I needed to call back. Infuriated with USAirways, I moved on to the next leg of the flight (handled by Delta), waited on hold again, and when the representative answered the phone, said that I had two questions, the first being how to change my name on my frequent flier account, and the second--it didn't matter, because although he was the reservations agent, he transferred me summarily to what he said was the frequent flier office as soon as the first few words were out of my mouth (thus ensuring that I would have to wait forever on hold again to get my seat reservation). Of course, he didn't even transfer me to the frequent flier people as he had said--he somehow connected me to someone in charge of military reservations. At least that person was incredibly helpful, and I was pathetically grateful.

In the meantime, however, as I was navigating phone tree after phone tree and waiting on hold for 15 minutes at a time, Allison Clare was periodically overtaken with the irrepressible need to talk to whomever I was talking to. She would shriek, "TALK TOO! TALK TOO! SAY HI! SAY HI JEW-EE" ("Jew-ee" being her name for JS, who's my most frequent morning phone chat partner). Anyway, at one point, I couldn't get her quiet and I was trying (after having been on hold, transferred, etc.) to speak into the automated system, which couldn't register my answers because of her interference. I carried her into her room for a time-out, finished the conversation, and went back to get her.

She was crying and sweaty--all damp-faced and contrite. "No yelling," she promised, without prompting.

"Yes," I said, "no yelling. Can you be a good girl now?"

"Yes," she said sweetly, burying her head into my shoulder with a sobby sigh, "Try again."

May

Sam was in Cleveland for a conference this weekend. I made an extra effort to take mental notes of things the girls and I did, things Allison Clare said, etc., to tell him each night, and the exercise made me realize how much I wish that I were better at writing things down. I kept a journal for Allison Clare of her first year, but I haven't done as well with the one I began for Gillian--thankfully, a friend gave us a calendar that has helped me try to preserve at least little glimpses of her first year too. Clearly, keeping after the two little girls has not been compatible with much time for writing (or thinking or personal grooming, for that matter).

Anyway, thinking about it today, I decided that for the month of May, I would try to write down all the tiny moments of sweet joy, utter hilarity, and public humiliation that make up our lives right now. I was planning to write them in the girls' journals, but instead, I think I'll put them here because I know their Mamaw and Grammy will love them and it is, after all, Mother's Day next Sunday. :)

So here goes:

Friday (not technically May yet, but whatever): I put Gillian down for tummy time in her crib. She doesn't get a lot of tummy time because I'm always afraid Allison Clare will step on her, or worse. It was kind of chaos upstairs because Sam was packing to leave, the babysitter was arriving downstairs, and I was getting both girls ready. Gilly was lying on her tummy, and Allison Clare (having not seen her sister facedown very often before) was peering through the crib bars, yelling at her, "Turn around! Turn around!" What a cheerleader. I took AC down to the babysitter and Sam went off in search of something he wanted to pack, and when I came back up to Gillian, she was still struggling to lift up her head and looking a little confused, like "Where did everybody go?"

Saturday: I took the girls out on errands in the morning. Babies-R-Us to buy a shower gift and then Barnes & Noble for a treat. "Would you like a scone--see, this triangle?--or a muffin, Allison Clare?" "COOKIE!" She is definitely her father's daughter. There happened to be a story hour beginning, so I thought we would try it out. All the other kids, both younger and older than AC, were sitting on miniature benches next to their mommies, silent and rapt as they listened to the story. Allison Clare, however, immediately attempted to climb up onto the stage to get to the guy reading the story--all cheerfulness and determination. I ended up having to pull her back and put her into the stroller, which of course caused tears of devastated disappointment, which in turn made us leave the story hour, which turned the tears into rage. Outside, we had a little talk. "Allison Clare, what did you do that was bad?" "No yelling. No crying." "That's right. Can you be good if we go to another store, with no yelling and no crying?" "Yeah. Perfect!" Aim high, sweet one. 

We later went out for ice cream, and then Allison Clare got to watch more of The Sound of Music, her first real movie. She loves the kids singing and dancing and has already memorized some of the songs, singing them to herself while we were getting ready for the bath. She wanted to watch the puppet show scene again, which she indicated by telling me she wanted to watch "lady baby doll" again. She also love the "cuckoo song," especially when Liesl says, "Yes?" and her father says sternly, "No!" Allison Clare acted out both parts for me running around the bathroom in her diaper, "Yes? No!" (giggles).

That night was kind of hairy because I discovered Gillian had a low-grade fever, and because she is under 12 weeks (by just a few days even), the after-hours nurse pretty much ordered me to bring her to the hospital. She said if it were a bacterial infection, it could get very bad very fast, so I shouldn't even wait until morning. It was bedtime, so I called a couple of friends to see if AC could stay with them possibly, but they were probably putting their kids to bed and I didn't get hold of anyone. In the meantime, I kept checking, and Gillian's temperature went down to normal. I was strongly motivated to avoid the hospital because we had had a similar event with AC when she spiked a temperature, we were instructed to bring her in, her temp was normal by the time we got there, and yet they wanted to do all kinds of due diligence--she had a chest X-ray, blood work, and we stopped them from doing a lumbar puncture since her temperature was normal. So I called them back and I didn't have to take Gillian in, thankfully--she was her smily, cool, rosy self again. I think she might have just been overheated from the hot day we were having, and the sun in the sunken room shortly before I took her temperature.

Today: Took the girls to church. Allison Clare cried for me in the nursery, so they brought her out to me, and I kept her in the service with me for as long as we could manage. Then she wanted to "find girl"--Elizabeth, the 5-year-old little buddy she adores, who was probably in her own Sunday school class--or "go downstairs" by which she meant upstairs, onto the stage where our pastor was preaching. I held her hand and let her walk around in the back of the auditorium for as long as I could, and then when she kept talking too loudly (pointing at the lights on the walls and naming the shapes: "Star! Square! Triangle! YAY ALLISON CLARE!"), I whispered, "Allison Clare, do you want to go get a doughnut?" And she said, again overly loudly, "OH WOW!," grabbed my hand, and trotted off to the door. I scooped up Gilly, peacefully sleeping away in her carrier, and we were off.

After stopping for doughnuts, we went to the grocery store, where AC got to fulfill a long-and-fervently-held wish to ride in the cart that is shaped like a car. It is also the size of an SUV and hard to push around the store, but she was almost the most excited I've ever seen her, as if it were an amusement park ride. Gillian rode in the big basket, and AC sat in the driver's seat. She twirled the two steering wheels, telling me, "Mommy, two circles!" and when we paused for me to pull something off the shelf, she bounced up and down in her little driver's seat and yelled, anxious for us to keep going, "Mommy, drive away! Drive away!" like we were fleeing the scene of a crime.

She often needs to be reminded to say "please," but she has gotten "thank you" down (though the "th" sound escapes her), and hearing her say it could break your heart, like when she woke up crying from a nightmare, and as I left after comforting her, she sleepily called out "Fank you, Mommy."