Grace Notes

Christmas Pics 2011

2011-12-27T15:16:00.022-05:00

1 & 2: Gillian at the mall for a Santa visit (AC was in constant motion with April in tow and therefore is unrepresented except for an occasional blurred streak through a photo).

3 & 4: Christmas I at Papaw's house with Uncle Danny, Aunt Gina, MaKahla, and Daniel.

5 & 6: Christmas II at home . . . Santa came!

7 & 8: "Don't look now, but I'm eating a lollipop in the sunken room!" and "See what Grammy and Pop brought . . ."

9 & 10: The thrice-decorated Christmas tree.

11: ". . . and now I'm eating COOKIES down here. Mom's really lost it! Life is so good at Christmas!"

In Which Gillian Finds Her Voice, and Allison Clare Weathers a Disappointment

2011-12-05T19:44:00.002-05:00

Actually, Gillian has expressed herself quite vociferously for a while now, becoming somewhat famous in her own tiny circle for the ear-splitting shriek she could emit when grievously offended. But just since Thanksgiving, she's started expressing more opinions and articulating more abstract ideas. It's a riot because she's still at that stage where everything comes out in a staccato monotone, and each thing she says is a complete surprise because it's new. So our conversations go something like this, from this morning:

Gillian, holding out her arm to me for examination: Arm! Arm!

Me, noting the red spot on it: Gillian, what happened to your arm?

Gillian: Bite it.

Me: Did you bite your own arm?

Gillian: Yeah.

Me: Why did you bite your own arm?

Gillian: P'cause. Want to.

Or this evening:

Me: Do you want to pick out the noodles for dinner tonight?

Gillian: How-bout . . . crackers?

Me: Gillian, that's not crackers. Those are cinnamon sticks.

Gillian: Yes. Is.

Me: No, it's not. They're cinnamon sticks.

Gillian: Yes. Is. Yes. Is. [Then toddling around the kitchen laughing with delight at her own crazy opinions, or the liberation of being able to express them--] Yes. Iiiiiiissss!

Allison Clare is also at a new stage of development, where she is beginning to understand the traditions and events that surround Christmas. She's learned a little from school, and a little from setting up the Nativity scene we have on our mantel. She understands that an angel came! And said, "Don't be afraid, Mary! You're going to have a baby!" And it's God's birfday! (However, the relationship among all of these facts is a little hazy, and where Jesus fits in is a mystery.) Similarly, she knows that Christmas will come when it gets cold and snows, and that Santa will bring presents for good little girls but maybe not naughty ones.

We didn't realize until this morning that she thought that decorating the tree was the act that would invoke Santa's presence, though this does explain why she was so excited about getting the tree. Thursday, we told her we'd get the tree the next day, and she asked us eagerly on Friday, "Is it tomorrow now?" We decorated the tree last night, and this morning, when she woke up, she rolled over in her blankets and asked with sweet expectation, "Can I go see my presents now?" And thus it fell to me to break the bad news that there were yet 20 days to wait. She rolled back under her blankets and remained there for another 40 minutes, only peeking out periodically to keep us updated: "I'm just really sad because I wanted Santa to come and bring my presents." She's hoping for Jessie and Bullseye dolls. Much easier than last year, when she wanted a baby grand piano.

Thinking of You, Wishing You Were Here . . .

2011-11-19T18:25:00.005-05:00

Here's Gillian this morning, thinking about April:

Translation: April. April all gone. Car. Ride.

Candyland

2011-10-31T21:48:00.003-04:00

Halloween day began with the girls fighting over an imaginary lollipop. Allison Clare was holding it. Gillian wanted a lick. Allison Clare refused. Gillian got a lick in and then scooted away. Allison Clare strode over to Gillian, swiped the air in front of her sister's face, and then returned to report cheerily to me, "I took the lick back."

But now the house is full of real candy because it rained tonight, so we had reduced traffic at our front door and have lots of leftovers. Plus we were walking the girls up our block for part of the time--slowly, as we were toddling at Gillian's pace--so we weren't manning our front door to give out the candy the whole time and missed some of the trick-or-treaters. When we were across the street at the neighbor's house, we actually saw someone go up to our door (we had turned the porch light off while we weren't home, but some little ones are undeterred). Allison Clare yelled, "Hey! There's someone going to my house!" I wanted to pretend it wasn't our house, though, because it was kind of sad--the little kid stood there for a minute, confused. But then we got there and handed out a few hundred pieces of candy while Gilly and AC rejoiced over their little hauls and the rare liberty of eating as much candy as they wanted. At one point, Allison Clare was eating three kinds at once--one hanging out of her mouth, and one in each hand.

Making a Joyful Noise

2011-10-20T16:44:00.004-04:00

Allison Clare has a new CD of kids' Christian music. It's got lots of songs that I remember from Vacation Bible School, and she and I were belting out "Do, Lord" together--"Do, Lord, oh do Lord, oh do remember me, waaaay beyooooond the blue!"

Gillian looked up at us grimly, shook her head, and gave us her review of our performance: "No blue. No sing."

But AC is, as always, undeterred, even when she doesn't quite have the lyrics right. She sings with great verve: "I've got a piece of Jesus in my heart" and "This little light of mine, I'm going to lady-shine, lady-shine."*

*"The peace" and "let it shine," for those who didn't grow up Baptist.

Schooling AC

2011-10-11T14:55:00.009-04:00

I'm desperately curious about what goes on at Allison Clare's nursery school, but of course, I have to play it cool or else she becomes super-uninterested in narrating her day. Today I asked her if she had had to put a stick in the yucky cup (the kids each have three popsicle sticks with their name on them, and if they break a rule, they get one warning and then they have to put a stick in the cup. If they lose all their sticks, they don't get a sticker for that day). I had kind of forgotten the sticks even existed, but today I asked her about it.

Me, offhandedly: So, Allison Clare, you didn't have to put a stick in the yucky cup today, did you?

AC: No. [Then, cheerfully:] But I did yesterday!

Me: You did? What happened?

AC, proudly: I was being naughty!

Me: What did you do that was naughty?

AC, lost in happy recollection: I was running . . . and jumping!

Me: What were the other kids doing?

AC: They were being nice.

Me: You were being naughty, and they were being nice? What were they doing while you were running and jumping?

AC: A craft. So then, I putted my stick in the cup and I didn't cry!

Me: Well, I guess that's good [or unregenerate? Who can know?]. Then what happened?

AC: I be'd nice.

If I had ever had to put a stick in the yucky cup as a kid, I can tell you, I'd still be devastated over it.

Net Gain and Loss

2011-10-03T14:07:00.004-04:00

Sam and I had our first joint conference presentation this past weekend, which was fun. The topic was using archaeological methods to teach the reception history of Uncle Tom's Cabin via a gallery of cover art from different eras published by the University of Virginia's E-text Center. It combined archaeology, new media, and Uncle Tom's Cabin, so we each had things to say, and the presentation was well received--all good.

Even better, the conference was held about an hour from my parents' house in New Jersey, so we stayed with them and they watched the girls while we were attending. They took the girls to Smithville, a little historic village of shops and restaurants, with people doing crafts, a merry-go-round, a little train, a duck pond, etc. We left them for about 90 minutes and by the time we returned, AC had acquired a pair of wings and a magic wand, and was asking all passersby, male and female: "Would you like me to make you a princess?" Then, tap with the wand. (My dad told me that my mom had asked AC, "Would you like a pair of wings, or a wand?" You can see how that negotiation went.)

The next day, we also got to put Gillian's toes in the Atlantic Ocean, a little ceremony that I have loved doing with both girls. Naturally, neither of them has been crazy about it. AC was about 6 months old, and the water was cold. This time, the water was warmer, but Gillian still didn't like the tide rushing in around her tiny feet. She was fascinated by it and loved seeing the waves come in from the safe distance afforded by a Boardwalk vantage point, but she was less enthused about going down and dipping her little toes in. (I, however, was filled with glee.) We went up on the Boardwalk for lunch afterward, and then Sam and I took Gillian home for a nap while my parents took Allison Clare around the Boardwalk some more. She scored a butterfly net, which she has been wanting for months.

The net features in the story I started this post to tell: This morning, back at home, Allison Clare "caught" Gillian in the net by throwing it over her head. Sam and I realized what had happened when we heard Gillian's sad little cry, a clearly identifiable wail that begins low and builds as she continues to endure whatever torment her beloved big sister has devised. But even I was surprised to hear Sam bellow, "TAKE THAT OFF HER! YOU TAKE THAT OFF HER RIGHT NOW!" (I have only heard him raise his voice maybe twice in our marriage, but he does not like AC to be cruel to Gillian, even inadvertently.)

Allison Clare looked at him, and then turned to regard her catch with great delight, clearly unwilling to remove the net. Sam tore down the three stairs into the sunken room (during which time AC casually lifted the net), tossed AC over his shoulder fireman-style, and ripped back up the stairs, through the kitchen, down the hall, and up to the second floor with her, saying, "When I tell you to do something, you DO IT. YOU DO NOT SIT AND THINK ABOUT IT FIRST." By then, AC's face had crumpled and she was hanging over his shoulder, one arm outstretched to me, screaming, "Mooooommmmmy!" Sam was moving in the opposite direction so fast she looked like she was in a bad sci-fi movie, being sucked into a vortex. I'm sure it sounds pretty heartless, but I couldn't help myself--as soon as they were up the stairs and around the corner, Gillian (who was already over it) and I had a good laugh in the kitchen.

The net is in the penalty box until AC demonstrates to Sam that she is capable of immediate obedience. I have my doubts about whether this standard could even be met in absolute terms, but Sam is a softie. My prediction is that she will have it back at the end of today.

Related note: AC informed me on the ride home from Grammy and Pop's that she prefers to have time-outs at our house because there is no timer at Grammy and Pop's. That child has preferences about everything.

More travelogue

2011-08-24T21:09:00.003-04:00

We arrived at my parents' on Sunday after a great visit with the two Js and Mr. Sinjin. All three kids had played a lot together, fulfilling dreams that Julie and I have cherished since long before we had children (or even husbands). Sinjin labored under this incredibly endearing delusion that Gillian was "Sinjin's baby" . . . as in, he would wake up and demand to know, "Where's my baby?" It was so cute that we couldn't bear to disabuse him of it, and in fact probably encouraged him by repeatedly asking him, "Whose baby is that?" for our own entertainment. He took a little brother's delight in pilfering toys from Allison Clare (they were his, of course, to begin with), but would sweetly bring them to Gilly and then become sternly disapproving if anyone else tried to touch them: "Nobody touch baby's toys!" Reminiscent of a toddler Patrick Swayze. RIP.

We got in to my parents' on Sunday, had a big feast that night of spaghetti and crabs my dad and his buddy had caught, and went to the Ocean City Boardwalk the next night. There, Allison Clare was so excited about the Ferris Wheel she'd glimpsed on the way into town that she refused to eat dinner (Mack & Manco's pizza, of course), and spent most of the meal chanting, "I don't want to eat pizza--I want to go to the Ferris Wheel--is it time to go to the Ferris Wheel yet?" Nonetheless, she had plenty of energy to run from ride to ride at the Wonderland pier. She rode on the boats she had stared at so longingly last year (when I wasn't sure she would stay in her seat on her own, as it's a kids-only ride). She rode them twice, telling me she just wanted "to keep ridin' the boats." But we also went on some spinning bears a couple of times and she went on a submarine that, strangely, floated upward. Whatever. Good times.

The next day we went to the Cape May zoo, where both kids were a little overtired--which AC manifested by treating the zoo like a running event, jogging the past the exhibits, and Gilly got cranky and started crying until she spied a puddle, which was so auspicious that she was charmed mostly out of the fusses. (She loves puddles. She calls them "uffles.") But Gillian got to see a giraffe, which seems to be her favorite, and Allison Clare got to feed ducks. Both of the kids slept like rocks last night.

They've also been feeding the horses Ozzy and Dasisy next door, riding around the yard in a cart that attaches to my parents' bikes, and swimming for hours in their little inflatable castle pool . At least, AC swims for hours and Gillian swims for minutes interspersed with periods of wandering around the gazebo, trying out various deck chairs, and hunting for snacks. They've done watercolor painting and played lots of what AC calls "hide and sink." In that game, she hides right in front of you, and then you close your eyes and count to ten. At ten, you say the traditional "Ready or not, here I come" and she shouts, "Here I am!" And then she wants to play again and returns to the same hiding place. It's so funny that we haven't bothered to teach her the real rules. I think she picked up the game from seeing it played but obviously hasn't quite gotten the spirit of the thing.

I'll post more pics soon. [April, if you're reading--which I know you are, because who are we kidding, you have replaced my mother-in-law as my most frequent reader--let me just tell you that that inflatable pool was a breeze to inflate with an air compressor. It took like 30 seconds. It was nothing like you and me lying on the living room floor blowing it up and trying not to pass out through two whole Food Network shows.]

In Today's News

2011-08-19T17:17:00.013-04:00

The girls and I are in New Jersey visiting JS while Sam remains at home creating a new class. While he slaves away at iPad apps, we are experiencing lots of Amerasian cuteness, hilarious "conversations" (Sinjin: Where's Daddy? AC: He's . . . gone. Sinjin: Why? AC: He's at work. Sinjin: Why? AC: Because he's doin' lots of things. Sinjin: Why? AC: Umm, where's your mom?) and the occasional awkward moment (such as multiple incidents of a very curious Sinjin interrupting AC on the potty, or when AC reached over to Dr. B at dinner, rubbed his forearm, and said, "I'm really sorry, but I don't have my own daddy").

AC and Sinjin are playing cooperatively much of the time, with occasional refereeing required. Gillian clings to my leg and watches the big kids with her wide brown eyes, in a constant state of fascination and mild terror as they tear past her.

Here are some pics from our recent activities (and a bonus video!):

Me: What are you doing? AC: Being a star.

A rare mutual embrace. Usually, one wants a hug and the other denies the request with a cruel flatness.

AC: Can I go ride on the apple with Lowly the Nerfworm? Because I'm Huckle.

"Ahh, finally . . . all to my self."

I wish I had gotten some pics of AC and Sinjin playing "soccer." It was more like Fetch--JS would kick the ball and they'd both tear off across the sunny lawn to get it.

Gillian loves to "rye."

Sister Wives, Walking Blankets, and Cupcakes

2011-06-30T21:27:00.003-04:00

I have just a few hours left to post in the month of June. We were in Flagstaff, AZ, for a month, and it was pretty heavenly as vacations go. Perfect weather--cool nights and mornings, bright sunny days. We saw the Grand Canyon (big, pretty). I got to see JS and Erin and Miss Abi, whose eyes really are that blue! I read a bunch of novels for pleasure. April and I discovered the Wildflower Bread Company, which is in the category of Panera but puts Panera to shame, and vowed to sample each of their beautiful baked goods (yes, we can! and we did). April babysat me as much as the girls, as she kept me company when Sam was out on several trips to remote areas to do some photography, and when he was working on a book project that lapped over into our vacation time by a bit. April is pretty much the fifth Fee, adored by all. By the girls because she can make everything into a fun game (even fingernail clipping! I am in awe). By me because she effortlessly managed to keep the toys under control, unload the dishwasher, clean up after dinners, and keep the laundry going (without being asked to do any of these things). By Sam because having her around meant he and I could check out the movie listings and decide to leave the house to see a movie that began in 30 minutes (an unprecedented level of freedom). I began calling her "sister wife."

Plus we stayed in this big house with a professional kitchen and a bathroom that was the size of our master bedroom at home, which was fun. Most of the toilets even had their own rooms, which was interesting, and surprisingly useful because Gillian could hang out in the bathroom without running her little hands all over the toilets all the time.

While we were there, Gillian started really walking. She'd taken steps before, but crawling--her odd little crabby crawl with one knee down and the other leg swinging wide in a big gallumping step--was still her preferred mode of transportation. Now, however, she walks everywhere, and our videos from the trip show her transition from slow, uncertain shuffling, to active toddling. She also developed an addiction to chocolate milk while we were gone. I've tried diluting it gradually, but when I got past a certain point, she handed the cup back to me, said, "All done," made the baby sign for "more," and then said, "Chocolate."

Allison Clare also took a step forward while we were gone--she figured out how to undo the zippers on her little tent bed, and since Gilly was in the Pack-n-Play, we started letting her sleep in a big-girl bed in their room. She would take the opportunity to roam around the room before she got back into bed to sleep, and occasionally she would fall asleep stretched out in front of the door, like a very lazy and ineffective watchman. Since we've been back, I've let her sleep on her mattress on the floor instead of in her crib, telling her that she could sleep there if she stayed in her room, but that if she came out of her room, she'd have to go back into her crib. Today after an hour of naptime, I heard two sounds from upstairs, wondered about them, then distinctly made out the sound of a door closing. I went upstairs to discover that she had left her room, had dragged a pillow and a laundry basket from our room, and was racing back to her room covered entirely in a blanket, like Caspar the Friendly Ghost. I think she thought that because she was under the blanket, I wouldn't see her; I'd just be like, "Hey, there's a blanket walking around."

She loves laundry baskets. She likes to sit in them--always has. There was a round one at the vacation house; she sat in it and piled a blanket on top of herself in a dome and announced that she was "being a cupcake."

Dream Big, Little Lady

2011-05-19T15:41:00.004-04:00

Sometimes amid the constant chatter, you see into Allison Clare's mind, and what is there is . . . odd:

"When I am a man, I will mow the grass."

"When I was a neighbor, I lived in that house. You could live there too. You'd be a good neighbor."

"I wish I was a baby. And I would fall down the steps! And you would pick me up! And say, 'Oooooh!'"

Monday Morning

2011-04-19T15:38:00.000-04:00

Two

2011-04-18T21:29:00.004-04:00

When you have two children, it's easy to get into binary thinking, assigning each child a role that is opposite the other's, even when the differences are not as stark as black and white. At least, this is true for me. Simply by virtue of their individuality, Allison Clare and Gillian are different, and it sometimes takes effort not to consider all of their distinctions in extreme terms.

Allison Clare has always been a very determined little person. I think I knew this about her before she was born. Her name had come to us on its own without research, but when I looked it up to confirm that it didn't mean anything bizarre, I read that it meant "Of noble birth" and "True." I felt, somehow, that this meaning suited the little person whose presence I really only sensed in a spiritual way at that time (except for the waves of nausea, but whatever). Anyway, I had this sense that she was going to be someone with a strong sense of right and wrong, someone who would rely on her own interior judgment. I pictured her clear-eyed, virtuous--the kind of child who would defend a smaller kid against a bully, the teenager who would scorn a proffered beer, a woman who would make her own decisions proudly and happily.

Whether for lack of experience or imagination, I did not imagine that this immoveable interior judgment, in the toddler years, would extend to such issues as clothing, and the rejection of it, or the need (if carried against her will up the stairs) to return to the bottom of the stairs and walk back up on her own recognizance. It never occurred to me that if I asked such a person to do something, and if she actually obeyed, she would--every single time--then turn to me and say archly, "Don't say thank you." (Back when she was two and had just started saying this, I asked her why she didn't want me to thank her when she did what I asked, and she said, "Because I need to do it all by myself.")

That thudding you hear? It's my head banging against the wall.

Gillian, on the other hand, little Gillian Rose. Her name means young girl, little rose. My rosebud. She's been more easily soothed, patient, adaptable, since birth. We'd put Allison Clare to bed as an infant and she'd sob off and on while falling asleep for 45 minutes--even as a toddler, she'll still yell out periodically for up to an hour and a half in the hopes that we'll come and clear up this big misunderstanding about a purported "bedtime" (this, of course, has never happened, but she persists in hoping). At bedtime, Gillian sits on my lap for a hug, smiles, says "brush" and opens her mouth to have her teeth brushed, which she loves. Leans in for another hug, then leans back to signal she's ready to be laid in her crib. Smiles and snuggles in her blanket. The only sound heard from her room is usually just an occasional giggle to herself as she falls asleep.

But under that generally affable nature, she is a pretty tough little cookie, I think. Over the past month, Sam and I have noticed more toddler-like behavior--the occasional tossing of something aside with a frustrated "Uunhh," and some tears over disappointments or sadness when a desired object is placed out of reach. She frequently gets the best of her big sister because she's a fearless, ruthless fighter. If Allison Clare is in her way, she'll simply clamber over her, impassive as a little Humvee over uneven ground. We have this hysterical video of her sitting on a toy motorized four-wheeler, pushing the button to make it drive forward. She couldn't even reliably sit up on it herself and her cousin was holding her around the waist, but she'd focus intently on the button, stab it with her tiny finger, and jerk the thing forward. Then, in the video, you hear Allison Clare say, "I better get outta the way" and you see a blur as she runs past, and then Gillian vrooms into the foreground.

So our Gillian isn't passive where Allison Clare is strong-willed. Rather, she seems to be her own kind of independent. She teaches herself new words almost every day, which I find almost alarming because it suggests this awareness, like a reminder out of the blue: someone is watching. And might start talking about what she's seeing. She comes out with odd first words for a kid; it's startling when your 14-month-old suddenly points to your face and says, "eyebrow." Eyelash. Toothpaste. Toothbrush. You're trying to feed her some chicken, and she looks bored and then stares at you and says clearly and distinctly, and you believe possibly for the first time: "Apple." Or you're looking out the open window and she notes the wind, if onomatopoetically: "Fffft." It feels like her vocabulary is growing less intentionally (on our part) than Allison Clare's, whom we coached and coaxed all the time. Part of me feels like this is some kind of neglect, like she's been left just to do it all on her own, and another part loves the sheer surprise of it. Anyway, you know how it is with roses--they're prettiest when they open on their own time.

A Room of One's Own

2011-03-04T13:58:00.007-05:00

During my last year in St. Louis, I moved out of the suburban ranch I had been sharing with a couple of other seminary students. We had made up an unconventional household of three unmarried girls in an otherwise very traditional neighborhood, and to be honest, I had hated living there. It was one of those developments with lots of rules, written and otherwise, about things like whether you could have a clothesline, and the neighborhood scold was always calling us to report violations of her aesthetics--my car parked overlapping the sidewalk when I had backed it up so someone could get out of the garage, etc. My roommates were good friends who had been very welcoming to me, but their friendship was undergoing certain strains at the time. I had been commuting almost an hour each way to teach for the first time (2 courses of composition with 25 students each, and a required 5 essays per course), taking my first two graduate courses in English, studying seriously and hard for the GRE in English (why? I don't know), and working at the seminary. I was exhausted and stressed, and something had to give.

So over the summer, I finished up the seminary job and moved closer to where I was teaching and taking classes, into a small, sunny apartment with hardwood floors and big windows. It wasn't an especially nice apartment--pretty basic, with dated metal cabinets in a kitchen so tiny that the only counter space was just big enough for my very small hand-me-down microwave. But my needs were basic and it had more room than I needed.

It was furnished almost entirely by happenstance because I was hoping to be moving away within the year to start a PhD program, and I was living mostly on a TA stipend of I think $4000 per semester. I had the futon and bookshelf that I had brought from Philadelphia two years earlier in my Honda Civic hatchback (my moving truck). A rickety table and chairs I bought for a few bucks from someone graduating from the seminary, and a desk and folding chair that I later realized were unconscionably uncomfortable. A full bedroom suite that somebody had called the seminary to donate when I was working the phone one day, and that me and my similarly-sized friend Heidi and our not-much-bigger acquaintance lugged up to my second-floor space. There were two mismatched loveseats from Goodwill, for which I think I paid $20 each--one I had messily sewn a green ginghamish slipcover for and the other I had covered with the comforter that was on my bed as a teenager (black satin with green leaves and peach lilies--classy!).

But what I remember about that apartment was its spaciousness and sunlight, and how free and happy I felt every day walking in there. I remember doodling the address when I first got it, the way some people do with their prospective married name. It is the only physical space that I've lived in as an adult that I actually long for when I think of it, that I feel a pang akin to homesickness for.

It's not that I want to go back, but I remember the space and the light and the simplicity--how it had everything I needed, how I was making friends with the other grad students in English and realizing that this was really what I wanted to do, how that apartment was where I opened my admission letter to UNC. It was the last space I lived in before my life got serious, back when everything was yet to happen--and the happening would take years of slow heartbreak and tedious headache. When I think of that apartment with nostalgia, maybe what I'm missing is who I was then, or who I wasn't yet, and while I'd never want to have to live a second time through the intervening years or give up the dear ones I have in my life now, I'm surprised now, thinking of it, how just knowing that space is there in my past feels like some kind of sanctuary.

RIP

2011-02-22T14:36:00.006-05:00

My mother-in-law passed away on Thursday. She was a conundrum to me, a knot of contradictions that I will likely never unravel, perhaps because we were in almost every respect entirely opposite. I loved her, but the wonderful and humbling thing about Brenda is that she loved me more. More than I loved her, more than I deserved, more than was even based on reality. She just loved.

Her funeral was, I must say, the least grief-stricken such event I have ever experienced. Without an ounce of triumphalism or phoniness, every member of the family and every one of the scores of friends that came to pay their respects were sweetly and calmly certain of seeing her again. Not that they weren't supporting her husband and sons in their loss of her physical presence in their daily lives, but it was with a certain gentle, caring warmth--a warmth that was worn and comfortable, like an antique quilt, not tinged with fear or grief or even emptiness. It was exactly as if she'd taken leave of us all for a long trip, and everybody had shown up to help out until we were all reunited again. There was that kind of shared, practical purpose, and that kind of untroubled anticipation.

Of course, this is what I've always believed about heaven, but for me, that kind of faith is something I have to remind myself of--especially these days, when I have a husband whom I need in a way I haven't needed anyone else in my adult life (which is to say that my daily life would become virtually nonfunctional without him, so intertwined are our domestic responsibilities as well as our emotional lives), and when it's a constant struggle not to be overtaken (at least not on every front) by contemporary parenting anxieties over my children's health, safety, psychic wellbeing, and development and my role in all of it. In this delicate web of interdependencies and responsibilities, I've come to care more about mortality than I ever did before.

Sure, I remind myself that it's eternity that matters, but it's easy for that truth to become a marginal note on a page that I'm writing entirely about this life, a note that ensures that what is on the page is factually correct, but that has been shifted out of the body of the text. And so, as much as I didn't really want to have to face this day--the donning of black, the shuffling off of the children to strangers in an unfamiliar church basement, the floral sprays, the body, the crumpled Kleenex, the introductions over deli trays--it's also a day that I don't ever want to forget.

Sisters

2011-02-14T18:12:00.002-05:00

Happy Birthday, Birthday Girl!

2011-02-13T15:22:00.006-05:00

Gillian turned one on Wednesday, and although a round of colds has meant we can't really invite anyone over today, we've got some cupcakes cooling and a birthday video to share:

Those of you not super-invested in photos of babies sleeping may find it interminable, but we're saps around here. :) Even sappier yet, there's another one coming featuring a sisterly theme.

Gillian Rose

2011-01-30T23:27:00.004-05:00

Gillian has always been more easily soothed than her sister, so when she was really tiny, it would have been easy to think that she was a more passive person. But we've always suspected that she had her own strong will, and that her willingness to go with the flow was because she was actively choosing to comply. It's hard to say why we had this impression, but it has been confirmed as she's gotten older, and better able to express her desires. If she can't get a toy to work, she takes my hand and places it expectantly on the toy (she's done this for months now). And when she's in her high chair and wants to be picked up, she now takes my hands and places them urgently under her arms to show me what I'm to do.

She's perched just between baby and very young toddler, and it's almost heartbreaking to see her begin to move definitively from one precious stage to the next. I love the soft sweetness where the back of her jaw meets her neck, when it's exposed for a second as she tips her head, and I can kiss it. And the little fold at her wrists that makes her hands look like they were added on separately, kind of like the joints on an antique Madame Alexandre doll that my mother had when I was little. Her still-bowed legs and her long feet, her tummy that is still round but is slimming out--I can tell when I hold her upright and move in for the "tummy kisses!" that she loves. Her baby proportions--how she stretches her arms all the way up and her hands are just barely above her head. Her soft lips when she falls asleep and I kiss her as I lay her down in the bed. Her murmer "tsss," with such a proud smile when she can lean forward with her mouth open and plant a kiss on me. How she squawks when she sees that Allison Clare has a clementine or some blueberries and she wants some too, and how she clambers all over AC in the bathtub (so much that Allison Clare has started forlornly asking if she can be bathed "first," meaning separately, and I can't blame her).

In the mornings, I put her in front of the mirror in our bedroom with a toy, and dash over to our bathroom across the room to do a bit of makeup application or brush my teeth, and then I hear the toy fall to the floor, and the fast swish-galump, swish-galump of her lopsided crawl (on one foot and one knee--the foot makes a great big step, and the knee a little one), and then I feel her little fingers on my hem as she tries to tug herself up. Oh, Gilly-Bean, my little cutie-pie, you're springing up so big already around my feet!

Tinkerbell

2011-01-10T21:28:00.003-05:00

We traveled to Hamilton, OH, this past weekend, and the girls got to visit with Mamaw and Papaw. Both of the girls travel pretty well, though after a while, Gillian can get tired of riding backward and half-reclined in her infant carseat. Allison Clare is endlessly entertained by television, so as long as she has a supply of DVDs and the occasional snack, she is fine. I've started packing her little Tinkerbell lunchbox with treats of the sort that we don't always have on hand at home, to offer at key moments.

This trip, the Tinkerbell box featured, among other things, those little freeze-dried yogurt melts for toddlers. Both kids like them, so Allison Clare got to hold the bag and every now and then I would ask her to give me a handful that I would kind of toss onto a blanket in Gillian's lap. And so we drove, Sam and I chatting and listening to music in the front seat, Gillian dozing or peering around in her seat, and AC mesmerized by the DVD player and the antics of Elmo and paying no attention to us at all. Or so I thought. Until I heard Gillian start wriggling around a bit fitfully, and I said to Sam, "I think Gillian is getting hungry." Then I heard a little voice pipe up from the backseat: "She don't like my food. She wants baby food." And then I looked back to see AC clutching her yogurt melts protectively.

I know she was speaking out of selfishness, and of course, sharing is a big part of what we are trying to teach Allison Clare these days. But every now and then I break character as Mommy and can't help but laugh out loud.

A Word of Thanks to Our Sponsor

2011-01-06T03:45:00.005-05:00

My mother-in-law, Brenda, is in the hospital tonight. She's expecting to go home in just a few hours, but this hospital stay has, I think, made everyone in the family aware of the fragility of life. Brenda is hands-down the most enthusiastic reader of this blog, and when I write about the girls (and let's face it, they are pretty much my only subject these days), I am always thinking of her. Of others too, but always of her.

Thus, this seems like a good place to say one thing that has been on my mind, since we don't really talk on the phone and talking is sometimes difficult for her these days--one thing that I didn't want to let any more time pass without saying.

And that is just . . . thank you. At Christmas this year, my parents once said, as they have said before, "Thank you for Munchkin and Gillian!" It's odd if you think about it, because while we have, in a sense, presented our parents with grandchildren (and I suppose we do the messy parts of raising children that allow our parents the fun of spoiling grandchildren), in a more significant sense, our parents have given our children to us. Maybe they've given us their genes, or maybe they've given us the dream of having children and sharing our warmest, tenderest memories from our own childhoods. Maybe they've given us some advice, or the example of parenting that has made us the particular kind of parents that we are, that has then shaped who our children are.

And further, my mother-in-law has given me my children because she has given me her child. That she did so with an open, warm, welcoming heart means more to me than I can ever say. It is typical of the generosity of spirit and sense of cheerful optimism that are among the first things I noticed about Brenda when I met her, and that have remained the central characteristics that shape my appreciation of her. I appreciate these things not only because it's really nice having a mother-in-law like that, but also because I experience them every day even more intimately in the way she has passed them along to Sam.

What--you might be thinking--cheerful optimism? Sam? And you would be right: Sam has made part of his express mission in life to become a grumpy old man, and he practices earnestly, devotedly, and often flawlessly every day. But he is unbelievably optimistic in his estimation of me and generous in his forgiveness (an art that I founder in but am trying at glacial speed to progress in, due to his much better example of this most Christian of virtues), and I know both from my own observation and from his explicit statement that these are qualities he has from his mother, along with the sweetness of his heart--a heart that is intact and strong because she has cared so lovingly and faithfully for it for all of his life.

So, thank you, Brenda, for my husband, for my children, for the life I lead every day that is happier--and harder, and richer, and sweeter--than I ever dared hope, and for your share in creating it. And most of all, thank you for the faith you've blessed our family with, and for the promise it holds that we share in an eternity with one another and Jesus.

A Fresh, Clean Start

2011-01-05T00:35:00.005-05:00

Allison Clare and Gillian had their first real bath together on New Year's Day. Previously, I had once kind of dipped Gillian in while AC was bathing, but I didn't want to put them into the tub together until I was pretty sure Gillian could hold her own a bit, as Allison Clare's love is sometimes a violent thing. The following video footage makes clear how things could, at any second, turn unsavory:

Gillian also decided to ring in the New Year by crawling. She maneuvers around in a kind of awkward manner, reminiscent of a very slow crab--she is on her hands and one foot, with that knee bent out, and her other leg crossed under her. Her crossed leg sweeps the floor, and the other day, she laboriously made her way across the kitchen in a little jumper and when she arrived at her destination (me), I found two large toys under the skirt that had gotten swept along in front of that leg. Then tonight, as I was changing her diaper at bedtime, I noticed that one of her calves looked red . . . almost like sunburn. At first I wondered if she was having an allergic reaction, and then I realized it was that poor dragged leg. Little silly. I've been calling her Scooter.

As Quoted In

2010-12-30T16:56:00.003-05:00

Besides her original remarks, Allison Clare also inserts into conversations lines from her favorite movies. Perhaps unfortunately, she has inherited the appetite for television and narrative in general that both of her parents share, and she loves the movies and TV shows that we've allowed her to watch. She wants to watch them over and over again, notices minute details that she'll remind us of months later, and every now and then chimes in with something she has picked up.

The other day, as we were driving up to the mall early one morning to meet up with Prin and do some Christmas shopping, I was alarmed to see the car's check engine light come on. It's never a happy sight, and this time the brake light and stability system light had also come on, which made me feel both more and less optimistic, as it seemed unlikely that a catastrophic failure had happened to our newish car's innards (though if so, it looked like it would be really bad).

What I was most worried about was that it might be unwise to drive any further. Sam was out of town, so he couldn't come and pick us up. I couldn't call someone else to get us or even get a tow-truck out since both kids would need carseats. Gillian's could easily be switched, but AC's is more permanently installed. I hadn't worn a coat myself, since we were planning on being inside all day, and it was 20 degrees out. Argh. So I was pulled over on the side of the road, flipping through the owner's manual determined to try to reason out what might be causing this problem.

And then in the silence, my focus was broken by a deadpan instruction from the backseat. "Just. Drive. The Car."

"What did you say?"

"Just. Drive. The Car. Mommy."

"Where did that come from?"

"Kermit the frog says that."

Oh.

[It turned out to be good advice, as I decided to risk it and drove to the dealer, where I was reassured that the lights were probably just on because the gas cap was slightly loose. They went off a while after.]

----

She is a master (mistress just doesn't sound right, does it?) of the deadpan delivery. Another of her lines is from Toy Story, where Buzz Lightyear thinks he is a real space ranger and Woody is disgustedly trying to remind him of his status. Allison Clare will walk up to me, point a finger my way, stare me down, and say, "You. Are. A Toy." and then burst out laughing.

It's funny how insistent she is, and how uncowed by us, considering her size. She weighs, what? 1/4 or 1/5 of what I weigh? A friend of mine recently posted a photograph on Facebook that her daughter had taken of her. It was shot from the kid's eye view, and from that vantage point, my friend looked incredibly tall. So Allison Clare is surrounded by all of these people who are as tall as trees, much stronger than she is, but she orders us around all the time and is surprised to be given orders herself. I mean, don't mistake me--it happens all the time that we tell her what to do. But as often as not, she'll just think about what we've asked her to do (come to dinner, pick that up, put your shoes on) and then say, as if she's mulled it over, "Naaah."

I wish I had my daughter's chutzpah. Which is another word she has picked up from TV. I don't think she knows what it means, but then again, I think she does.

In Her Own Words

2010-12-08T10:03:00.004-05:00

Every day with Allison Clare is full of conversation, whether she is having it with us, with passers-by, or with inanimate objects. The amusement makes up a bit for the extreme sleep deprivation. (Or maybe it's the sleep deprivation that makes me think it's funny . . .)

These conversations are rarely so noteworthy that I write them down individually, but I do wish that I were keeping better track of them because in the aggregate, the sense of her personality that they supply would complement some of the other scenes that are burned into my memory, such as my recent mortification in Walmart as she tried eating the groceries in the cart, tossed them overboard in an abundance of joy, followed up with hurling her own shoes out when the tossable groceries were removed (and then tried to eat the shoes when they were placed back on her feet). But I digress . . .

Right now she's working out the kinks in her understanding of possessive pronouns. She thinks "his" is "he's," which makes logical sense but also makes her sound like a little Frenchman: "Where's Daddy? I've got heeeeez hat."

Unfortunately, with this has also come her first expression of possessiveness--she used to be really good about sharing, even if other kids tried to grab toys away from her when playing. She'd just hand them over and go find something else. But lately, if Gillian tries to take something from her, or even to play with a toy AC isn't using, AC says, "No! Dat's my's."

And so, we are working on manners, both about possession and about being nice in general. She said to me the other day, "Mommy, stop it!" and I told her very soberly, "Allison Clare, you don't tell Mommy to stop it." So the next day, when I politely asked her to stop doing something please, she turned and said gently to me: "Mommy, you don't tell me to stop." Like she wanted to make the most of the teachable moment.

And when I denied a request for a snack before dinner, I was reminded kindly, "Mommy, be nice to me please."

We have our work cut out for us.

Here are a couple of other moments from the last few days:

AC, standing in the middle of the kitchen, perfectly straight and still, arms down at her side, looking ahead: "Mommy, look, I'm in the elevator."
Me: You are? Where are you going?
AC: I'm going to get some pizza. (Clearly the second-floor food court at the mall has made an impression.)

-----

AC, to the heating repair man: "Hey, man. Can you do me a favor?"
Heating repair man: "Sure, I'll do you a favor. What can I do for you?"
AC: "Could you get me an ice cream cone?"

-----
Me: Allison Clare, do you know what Christmas is?
AC: Hmm?
Me: Christmas is Jesus's birthday!
AC, without missing a beat: And we will have a cake, and God will put a candle on it and put the fire in it!

Psychological Realism

2010-11-13T15:01:00.006-05:00

Let's see: it's 9:11, so we must have left home at 9:05 and that will mean we'll get to Books & Muffins [Barnes & Noble] at about 9:45. We can go have our muffins in the cafe first and I can feed Gillian the banana-raspberry oatmeal baby food since she didn't eat much breakfast at home and hopefully that one will taste okay if she eats it at room temperature. Wow, why are they doing construction on Beau? I totally should have taken Wade--

AC: "Mommy, you are Cat in Hat. I'm Sally. This [pointing at Gillian] is Nick."

Me: "Okay, hi Sally! I'm the Cat in the Hat, and we're going to do some fun things today."

When I go to Clare's wedding and Sam takes Munchkin to Ohio by himself, I think I'm going to take the diaper bag since Gillian needs more stuff than Allison Clare right now. I can pack a smaller one for them, like that free one that we've never used. Should I pack a little bag for him and AC with her snacks before I leave? It would be really good if I could put some peeled clementines in it since she's so into those right now but would he remember to get them from the fridge? If I wrote a list of things, would he read it? I can kind of picture him ignoring it and going rogue and then encountering all kinds of inconvenience on the road from not having refilled the wipes container or whatever. Should I try to persuade him to read a list or let experience be his teacher?--

AC: "Do you have [something unintelligible], Mommy?"

Me: "What's that, Allison Clare?"

AC: "Mommy, do you have [SOMETHING UNINTELLIGIBLE, MORE LOUDLY]?"

Me: "I'm sorry, I can't hear you--what did you say?"

AC: "STRIPES, MOMMY, DO YOU HAVE STRIPES?"

Me: "Oh, yes, I have stripes. I have a striped hat."

Maybe I'll start packing this weekend because we have to get up at 3 a.m. on Friday for the flight and Thursday night I have to go to that talk on Steinbeck. It really is a bummer that I didn't know the guy was coming and assigned East of Eden instead of Travels with Charley. But then, they did so well in class on Thursday that it was probably worth it. Why is my Austrian student leaving all the native-born Americans in the dust? I was probably oversharing in class when I admitted while we were talking about the bug that is going around that I had coughed so hard in Max & Erma's that I threw up into my plate. What was I thinking? What's wrong with Gillian?

Me: "Gilly, honey, it's okay."

Maybe I should wear the red dress for the rehearsal dinner. Too tarty? With the shawl it's my best bet for the Mexican theme. But for sure the baby carrier will not coordinate. I have to wear shoes that I can take off in the security line. I should wear socks. I think I can reach Gillian's sunshade in case the light is getting into her eyes. That's better. Or maybe not.

AC: "What's wrong with Nick?"

Me: "Gillian, sweetie, we're almost there."

AC: "No, that's Nick. THAT'S NICK, MOMMY."

Me: "It's okay, Nick."

I think I should have done more with popular and scholarly sources in comp before this point. Oh well. I wonder how many of my Legal Fictions students know the word ordure and will therefore understand the last two parts of Time's Arrow. It was shocking that none of them knew what a chamber pot was. When did I learn what a chamber pot was? It's a lot like AC's potty actually. When did I learn what ordure is? I wonder if ordure and manure end with the same three letters for a reason. If so, it's weird that manure means from animals and ordure means from people since manure starts with man. Or maybe manure can be human too. Tenure? Poor Gillian, I hope she doesn't fall asleep in the car right before we get there.

Me: "Gillian, just a few more minutes, baby."

AC: "Nick is sad because she wants the Cat in Hat."

Here we are! Unload--stroller first, diaper bag attached, wallet, keys and phone out, Gillian in stroller--

AC: "I want to ride in the stroller."

Me: "Don't you want to walk and hold my hand?"

AC: "No, I want to ride in the stroller. And I need to to take my monkey."

Okay, so . . . sweater off. Ergo carrier on. Gillian in the Ergo, sweater back on, AC in the stroller. Away we go!

A Matter of Perspective

2010-11-08T21:57:00.003-05:00

Having a toddler makes me aware of the poverty of my own imagination. Tonight, AC was standing by the gate that leads to the hallway, tossing handful after handful of tiny cards (from a miniature deck she got trick-or-treating) through the bars. "Allison Clare," I said (perhaps a little wearily), "it's time to clean up our mess now. Can you pick up those cards please?"

"No," she said, still scattering away. "I'm just feeding the chickens some cheese."

Candy Outlook Good

2010-10-31T03:51:00.010-04:00

Allison Clare was cross when she woke up from her nap before Trick-or-Treat, and she didn't want to get dressed. I was sitting on the floor folding laundry, and when I'd suggest pants or combed hair, she'd run away saying, "No, I'm too busy right now" or "No, I need to go do X right now." Finally I said offhandedly, "Allison Clare, I bet you don't even know what trick-or-treat is, but I bet you're going to really like it . . ." (I'd introduced the concept in preparation over the past few days, but only vaguely as I didn't want her to think it was imminent until it was really time to go). She was still running from room to room, pantless, talking on about all that she was busy doing, and she didn't appear to pay any attention to my trick-or-treat monologue.

Then she appeared a few minutes after I'd finished, standing in front of me, hands in front of her mouth, asking with sweet, patient curiosity and this eagerness that showed she knew it was going to be something good, "Mommy, trick-or-treat what is it? What is it trick-or-treat, Mommy?"

Which of course made me want to say back to her, "Oh, do not ask what is it / Let us go and make our visit."

So I got my two little ballerinas into their tutus, and we gathered up Sam and we all headed out. I have to admit, Halloween was more fun than it had been since I was a kid. The first year we lived in this house, we gave out candy with our friends Andrew and Noel on our front doorstep, and that was really fun--Noel and I were both pregnant at the time, and Sam and I had only been living in the house for days, so I guess it was an exciting time anyway. But somehow, last year, I remember feeling kind of Grinch-like and irritated by some of the trick-or-treaters, primarily the teenagers who didn't actually say "trick-or-treat" or who were dressed in violent or overly sexy costumes. What can I say, I'm a prude, I guess. It just seems like a holiday for little kids, so it should be kept clean enough that you don't have to cover their eyes.

But this year, as we walked down our street, which for some reason attracts kids from all over the county and is therefore mobbed, we got to meet a lot of our neighbors for the first time. I find it kind of weird that in contemporary America, you can live a few dozen yards from people and not even know their names, so it was heartwarming to meet them and see that they were just as excited to meet us as we were them. They were all really kind to the kids, and maybe the reason that people come from all over the county is that a lot of our neighbors appear to be giving out full-sized candy bars, a standard we have not upheld at our house (we seriously give out 300 or so pieces of candy, so I don't think we could even afford to give out full-sized candy bars, and I am in awe of these people's generosity!). Allison Clare, predictably, loved it, even though she didn't even know what was really in the wrappers as candy is a relatively new experience for her--this was the first time she's really been able to have much candy.

Then today, she went to our church's Harvest Party, where there were lots of games, cupcake decorating, apple "picking," face painting (she informed me, "I need to get my face painted"--all business, like she was telling me she needed to get her oil changed), and a really cute little fall display where each family could get a photo taken to take home. She got to make a leaf rubbing onto a bag, and the bag was filled with even more candy, so she was delighted and went home to show Daddy (who was home trying to recuperate from a bad cough) her purple kitty face.

Here are some pics of our Halloween:

"What has she got?"

(Brenda, I think she looks a lot like you in this one!)

Gillian's first Halloween!

I think she likes it.

AC's after-party look: face painted, then smeared; hair undone; chocolate all over happy mouth.

Chronometricals

2010-10-18T21:51:00.009-04:00

Since we've had Gillian, something strange has happened in my personal mental universe. I have finally become synched with clock time. I look at the clock and think to myself, I have six minutes to do X; I do X, and then I look back up at the clock, and I have indeed completed the task within the allotted time. Occasionally, even when working with segments of time as small as 3 minutes or 75 seconds (the amount of time it takes to warm a cup in the microwave), I actually have time leftover.

I can honestly say that this has almost never happened to me before--certainly never routinely. Throughout my life, my basic mental state has been intermittently focused on a task at hand but generally absorbed by my own thoughts; I might accomplish something, or even a number of things, but it was all while thinking about something else, so I was used to losing minutes and even hours with helpless constancy.

A memory from childhood: I was often assigned the task of flipping the filmstrip to the next frame when we would watch them in school. You remember, right? There would be a recorded story, with a chime, and when the chime dinged, the person manning the little machine (which was supposed to be a reward) was supposed to turn the knob (?) to make it move to the illustration. I vividly remember that not only would I space out and miss the chime--not only would I fail to notice that we'd been on the same frame for way, way too long--not only would I fail to hear my classmates beginning to fidget and complain--but I would only be brought back to the space of the classroom by the whole class of other third-graders chorusing my name in irritated dismay. And even as I was rapidly flipping to the end of the film to try to catch up, I would know with dire, ashamed certainty that it would happen again the next time because there was no way I could keep focused on a task so repetitive and boring for the entire length of a filmstrip. Even as an adult married woman, I would set the oven timer, but not hear it when it went off; I would absently say to Sam, "I wonder why the oven timer hasn't beeped . . ." and he would say, "It's been going off every five minutes for the last fifteen."

But I have been somewhat brought down to earth, at least in the sense that I check in there more frequently and don't lose such huge swaths of time constantly, by having children. I have not wandered around the grocery store and discovered that nearly two hours have passed since some time before February 29, 2008, and I have not even lost much time at home since Gillian was born. There just isn't time to lose. I am suddenly realizing how other people can be so much more efficient than I am about certain things (JS and Sam, for example). I am realizing that if I stay focused, I too can become someone for whom time is predictable.

I think I may become somewhat less productive--I read not long ago about how disorder can be the most efficient organizing tool in the sense that it permits natural order to emerge, as when you don't organize your files but end up with the most frequently used ones at the top of the heap. But then again, that system wasn't working out as well for me since we've had kids because entropy seems to have accelerated, and my efficient disorder would rapidly become complete and utter chaos (un-ordered tasks would pile up because I couldn't return to them).

So perhaps this adaptation will allow us all to survive. I don't know; I would need some time to drift off into space and think about it.

Four Squares

2010-10-11T22:55:00.003-04:00

We've gotten Gillian up to four solid food feedings a day, and last night she slept from 6:15 p.m. to 7:30 a.m., waking only once at 3:00 a.m. for a feeding. Ahhhhh . . .

Or, We Could Stop Starving Her

2010-10-06T18:57:00.005-04:00

Last night was really bad again, and I called the pediatrician today to speak with the advice nurse. She said I should not need to feed Gilly at night at her age, and asked how much we were feeding her during the day. When I told her, she said, "Oh, she definitely needs more food than that."

Cue the Mommy-guilt, especially as a memory emerged from the hinterlands of my brain of having had an almost identical conversation with her at some point in Allison Clare's babyhood . . . probably about this stage.

Argh. I just can't keep up with how fast these little girls grow! Is this why AC is so tiny?

The Kiddie that Never Sleeps

2010-10-05T15:11:00.003-04:00

Gillian has largely been a self-soothing baby; she started putting herself to sleep at a self-selected bedtime at about seven weeks old, and though she didn't sleep through the night yet, she didn't usually cry when put down to sleep and her night wakings were very manageable.

Until a month or two ago. We went to visit family, and Gillian quickly got accustomed to my feeding her right away when she woke up (to keep her from waking up the whole household). When we came back home, I intended to get her sleeping through the night again and then move her from her bassinet by our bed to her crib in her own room.

Gillian, however, had other plans. She liked waking up in the middle of the night and (I flatter myself) having Mommy all to herself in the quiet wee hours of the morning. And, hours it became. She would wake up at 3:00 a.m. and I would attempt to soothe her and put her back into her bassinet. She would wail. I would wait it out for a few minutes. She would appear to go back to sleep. I would fall asleep. Within 5 or 10 minutes, she would jerk awake with the realization that she had not had the meal she had come to expect, and express her outrage. Repeat, repeat, repeat every 15 minutes until 5:00 or 5:30 when I would give in or just fall asleep with her lying next to me, nursing at will.

Side note: I'm not a big fan of co-sleeping (for myself and mine) because I am a pretty sound and occasionally violent sleeper. Plus, when something in my sleep disturbs me, I simply write it into the content of my dreams and continue on. Rolling onto my husband (who is 10x my baby's size)? Not a problem: I simply shift gears in my sleep and dream that I am flopping over onto a raft after a nice swim. I don't want to do that with my baby.

Anyway, things continued to disintegrate. Gillian quickly acclimated to our new routine and wanted to play for the couple hours in the middle of the night. She would cry (or sleep, cry, sleep, cry) if laid in her bassinet, but if held, she would smile and coo and pull on my face and generally enjoy the time while being charming beyond belief. I mean, she almost had me--I was almost ready to accept this as my lot in life. But she was also waking at other times in the night, usually around midnight or 1:00 a.m. and sometimes at 11:00 p.m. too, so I was getting less sleep than when she was a newborn.

So, now she's in her room and the last few nights have been brutal . . . she wakes a lot and cries out (and it does kind of kill me not to just go in and feed her, since it's what we both want, but not a good habit for her sleep). She has gotten better at putting herself back to sleep, and I think she's getting used to not feeding all night long, but oh my goodness, if this continues . . .

Little Talker

2010-09-09T22:20:00.003-04:00

The other day, when Gilly was fussing because she was already in her carseat and I was gathering up some things to get us out the door, I asked Allison Clare to go check on her, and then I overheard AC rocking the carseat and saying sweetly, " 's okay, Gin Wose. Mommy be right back. 'S okay. Munchkin's here." For all the ornery in my strong-willed little Ally Cat, her heart is often in the right place.

Lately, she has been singing this:

Twangkle, twangkle, litt-n sar,

How I watch you, what you are,

Up-abow-a world so high,

Like a dad-n in a sy,

Twangkle, twangkle, litt-n sar,

How I watch you, what you ARE.

Actually, her pronunciation has gotten better, but I just sort of wanted to preserve the phonetics. She has the will of an adult, or a teenager perhaps, so I sometimes almost forget how very little she is. When I remember that our battles (over things like putting on shoes to go outside) are occurring between me and someone who weighs 27 lbs, the desperation of her struggles sometimes makes a little more sense. Though I do sometimes wonder at it--like tonight, when she called down from her bed in a sudden, dire agony, "PWEASE, PWEASE, PWEASE, MOMMY COME HELP, MOMMYFIXITMOMMYFIXIT" and when I arrived at her bedside, I discovered the cause of all of this . . . was that the snap had come undone on the little flap that covers the zipper at the neck of her PJs. Oh, my daughter, my little Fee-fighter.

Fun Times Were Had By All

2010-09-09T22:16:00.002-04:00

Gillian has discovered that the one thing more fun than eating her first solid (e.g., very mushy) foods is this: letting them ooze back out of her mouth, sometimes assisted by her tiny tongue, then blowing raspberries through the ooze at Mommy.

Bad to Worse

2010-09-09T13:29:00.003-04:00

You know what's bad? When you are in the middle of teaching your 11:45 class, and the realization dawns on you--sinking with the certain inexorability of a weighted corpse dumped into still waters--that the class actually started at 11:30, which explains why all of your students were already seated when you arrived.

You know what's worse? When this realization happens to you on the second day of class.

(I mean, I'm just saying. Hypothetically, you know. Not that this happened to anybody specific. Certainly not anybody up for tenure this year.)

Kid Update

2010-09-03T10:54:00.005-04:00

Things with the girls change so fast that I can't keep up. We've been without an honorary member of our family since the beginning of August, when our dear babysitter April left for grad school (darn that recommendation letter I wrote!). She had been with us since Allison Clare was younger than Gillian is now . . . she even stayed here at the house when Gillian was born. Inexplicably, witnessing the chaos of our lives seems not to have deterred her from wanting to become a professor, so she is off to a master's program now but recently sent word that she's setting up Skype so she can keep a virtual eye on AC (and probably make sure that we are caring for her up to April's standards!). It's been less than a month since she left, but I can already tell that AC's language has changed quite a bit in just that short time: yesterday, I could hear her playing with her one of her new babysitters and her language was much more complex than I remember overhearing (somehow it was more noticeable when I only heard her and didn't see her at the same time), and, fortunately, more decipherable to someone new.

For the last two months or so, AC has been really into role-playing. It started out with her just pointing to herself and saying, "I Gin Rose [her name for Gilly]." She would want to be held like a baby, or burped. Then it would change mid-conversation. I'd be saying, "Hi Gin Rose, where's Munchkin?" and she'd burst out, "No, I Daddy!" Now her role-playing is related to books and movies: "Okay, I'm Fiona, you're Shrek. True love's kiss!" or "I'm Woody, you're Buzz, this [Sam] is Andy and this [Gillian] is Slinky Dog" (both movies, though she encountered them as books). Bewilderingly, she often refers to Gillian as Chris, assigning her the role of the African-American young man by that name on Sesame Street. Then again, the race and gender might be off, but they do share a certain rotundity and baldness.

She's learned some songs recently, and her favorite is "Where is Thumbkin?" though it started out "Where is somethin'"?

Gillian is discovering her capabilities as a person with hands. She's grasping at things and handling them all the time, and one of the only experiences that makes her crabby is when she wants to hold something that is out of reach. She has just started eating solid foods; we knew she was getting ready because she first started staring at them as they passed, then began yanking at my dinner plate if she was sitting on my lap while we ate and crying if I pulled it back on the table. So far she has had rice and oat cereals, and I bought some green beans at the farmer's market yesterday to cook for her ceremonial first meal. She seems kind of obsessed with books (they might be her favorite objects, besides a set of measuring spoons April gave us), and nothing delights her more than a Williams-Sonoma catalog that she can hold and crumple, making noise and watching the pretty pages flash by.

When she's happy to see you, she tilts her head and even her upper body way over, so she's hanging sideways, and beams (think Triangle Pose if you're into yoga). Against all reason or rational self-interest, she adores her big sister, whom any neutral observer would find it difficult to identify as friend or foe, since AC is always flailing knees and elbows, and shouts of joy or anguish, and the occasional flying object. But AC will be throwing a tantrum, and Gillian will turn to gaze on her with this gentle, radiant expression of benevolent delight.

She is the most even-tempered member of our household, heaven help her . . .

Try-a-Bicycle

2010-07-30T22:44:00.004-04:00

It's funny how often I start to write about Allison Clare and the phrase "obsessed with" comes to mind--each time she discovers something new in her world, she becomes fascinated with it and mulls it over in her mind all the time, pointing it out everywhere and talking about it. Since last month, it has been bicycles. We'll be driving down the road, and she'll pipe up from the backseat with joyful surprise, "Look, Mommy, a bicycle! A bicycle!" She'll spot them being ridden by kids in the street or toted by cars on the highway, adorning package labels, hanging on racks in big-box stores. Each time, she is amazed to find that an actual bicycle is "Right there! Right there!"

One day we were in Wal-Mart, running errands and burning time while Sam and a friend painted the hallway at home. She saw the bikes for sale and wanted so badly to try one that I gave in, even though I knew she'd be heartbroken when it was time to move on. Like me, she has no sense of scale or spatial relations, so she was disappointed when I told her the mountain bikes wouldn't work for her, but I found some cute little old fashioned tricycles and put her on one.

But something was wrong. She wanted to climb off right away, and wandered around the section, muttering to herself, "A hat! A hat!" She found the helmets (which I guess she had seen all the riders wearing in her many observations) and asked me to help her get one down. It was for children at least 8 years old and huge on her, but she didn't care. She put it on and toddled back to the tricycle. She looked like a drunken mushroom.

She rode that tricycle while I pulled it around, and cried when we left, and asked about it every few seconds for the remaining hour we were in the store (argh). Sam and I went back and bought one for her a few days later. By then she had learned that it had a special name, but she is a little mixed up and calls it her "try-a-bicycle," which is kind of apt, actually. It's like how she calls her small friend Elizabeth from church "Alittlebits."

Pool Party

2010-07-20T23:27:00.004-04:00

A few weeks ago, Allison Clare discovered that she can see down into the neighbor's pool if she is standing on the radiator cover (i.e., if Mommy holds her up there) and looking out her bedroom window. " There it is! Right there!" she'll tell me. "Blue one!" she'll add, just to make sure we're both seeing the same thing. Then she'll ask if she can go in, and I'll say no (we don't know those neighbors very well).

This daily ritual finally motivated me to venture out to the public pool, which turned out to be pretty nice. Our babysitter April came along, since I wouldn't have been able to watch Gillian and be in the pool with Allison Clare (the baby pool is closed, so it's just the big pool right now). The skies were cloudy, and it started raining as soon as we got there, but only some sprinkles for a few minutes. Allison Clare was, typically, really really really excited, but also cautious. She wanted to go in that big blue pool so badly, but as soon as April tried to help her into the water, she suddenly wanted to just stand on the side. Eventually we coaxed her in, and she loved being tossed in the air and swished around in the water.

The pool opens at noon, and we had brought sandwiches, but Allison Clare could not be persuaded to leave the poolside to eat. By the end, she had gotten so tired (it was way past naptime too) that she was just sitting on the side of the pool with her feet dangling; she's so little that they didn't even reach the water. But she wouldn't leave--I'd ask her, "Don't you want to go get a sandwich?" And she would say, "No. I sitting right now." As time passed, she got cold because she was soaking wet, and her little lips turned blue, but she kept sitting there, shivering away and looking somberly all around, taking it all in--I'd ask her, "Don't you want to go get wrapped in a big fluffy towel and snuggle?"

And she would say, "N-n-n-o s-s-s-snuggle t-t-towel right now. B-b-b--busy s-s-s-itting."

The Pick-Up Artist

2010-07-18T22:02:00.003-04:00

When she was really tiny, Gillian seemed to prefer her bouncy seat to almost any other situation. I would try to hold her, but she always arched backward, which made it necessary to hold her with two hands (and who ever has two hands free with a toddler around?). I tried a couple of our slings and carriers, but she also didn't like sitting with her legs tucked in and would push them fretfully against the fabric, and she was too little to ride with her legs out around my waist. I was beginning to get sad, thinking she might just end up growing up in her bouncy seat. Then I pestered Erin for a review of a wrap carrier I'd seen her using on Facebook, and ended up trying the Sleepy Wrap.

And--voila! Gillian became a happy rider. It's stretchy enough that she can move her legs around, and it allows her to face outward so that when she leans back, she just pushes against me instead of falling out. I actually got weepy I was so happy having her cozily snuggled up against me in it, finally. She loves to ride in it at home and when we are out (it has also solved the problem I was having grocery shopping, with AC in the cart seat and Gillian's carseat in the basket, and therefore no room for the actual groceries).

Now, as she gets older, she's less contented to sit around anyway, preferring to ride around so that she can see things. If she's sitting in her Bumbo seat and you approach her, she flails her arms and thrusts her tummy out to show you that you should put your hands under her and pick her up. She flaps with greater urgency if you delay; it is kind of irresistible, the flapping and thrusting.

I and Thou, sort of

2010-07-16T22:04:00.003-04:00

I've been endlessly amused by how AC learns the tricky features of language. Some things seem like they would be so confusing that I'm fascinated when she figures them out--like how the "I" and "you" in a single conversation keep changing back and forth in their referents. She has now figured out how to use "I" and "my" to refer to herself most of the time, but there are a few phrases that she has apparently learned as a single unit, not realizing that they contain the same interchangeable parts that she now knows how to assemble.

At bedtime, Sam and I usually divide and conquer, with one of us taking each girl. The other night, I came into the living room with Gillian where Sam and AC were playing, and sensing that it was about time for us to divide them up up, Allison Clare smiled up at me, reached out her arms to be picked up, and volunteered (in the phrase one of us so often uses), "I'll take Munchkin."

The Potty-Training Diaries; Or, The Rules of War; or, Rules Were Made to Be Broken

2010-07-12T20:55:00.007-04:00

Rule 1: Do not pressure the child about potty training; avoid creating anxiety.

Allison Clare has been using the potty occasionally since she was about 11 months old, but always on her own terms. Sometimes, weeks passed and she was uninterested in using the potty, and other times, she'd voluntarily use it several times a day. Far from being anxious about the potty, she felt cheerfully free to disregard it.

Rule 2: The child will let you know when she is ready to use the potty.

Weeks, months passed. AC showed no signs of being more ready. I tried incentivizing her with mini M&Ms or mini marshmallows. I tried purchasing special Elmo underpants. I tried repeated viewings of Elmo's Potty Time, which she adored and learned by heart but which had no motivating effect.

On the contrary, she decided she preferred diapers and told us so ("No use potty. Wear diapers."). At that point, Sam and I decided that she--and maybe more important, we--were ready. We came back from our post-semester travels, took a deep breath, and began potty training after her nap one day about a week ago at about 4:15.

By the time she got into the bathtub at 7:30 that night, I wanted to die some dramatic, inexplicable, psychosomatic nineteenth-century death (that would induce remorse in those left behind). I had imagined that she would have frequent accidents--like maybe one every hour or two. I had not imagined that she would have five accidents in three hours, including one that resulted in my leaving her crying baby sister in the living room while I scooped her up, little marbles falling out of her underpants as I raced with her to the upstairs potty, then laid her down in the bathroom, yelled "stay there," ran to retrieve the baby, put the baby down in her own room, cleaned up the big sister, cleaned up the rest of the house enough that AC could be released from quarantine, and then consoled my poor sweet newborn.

Rule 3: Do Not Make a Big Deal About Accidents.

What was terribly demoralizing about it all was that she didn't seem to care at all. In fact, the way I realized she'd had some of her accidents that first afternoon was that she would continue happily on her way, but walking like a little sailor with her feet wide apart because her pants were wet. I was really questioning whether we needed to somehow begin stigmatizing the "accidents," since she seemed so entirely untroubled by the whole process. Until now, there had been nothing in parenting--not AC's colicky early months, nor the midnight run(s) to Children's Hospital, nor even Gillian's recent projectile vomiting illness--that I had not wanted to be present for. I wanted to be the one to take care of them, to be there to calm them and clean them up and make everything right.

Until this, which I sincerely and to the bottom of my heart wished I could outsource. Wasn't there some . . . camp . . . that I could send her to? I could hardly face the next day.

But, magically, she seemed to get it the very next morning (day 2). Now we are a week into it, and she has little minor leaks sometimes, and one big accident when I was feeding Gillian and couldn't help AC get to the potty when she told me she needed to go. She is usually dry after her naps. And everyone gets potty trained eventually . . . right? It hasn't been so bad--like I hear about waging other kinds of war, it is long stretches of boredom punctuated by panic.

Oyez, oyez

2010-07-07T22:19:00.004-04:00

Allison Clare has developed a little verbal habit that is very cute but gives me a pang each time. I'll be slicing up food for her snack or putting away laundry or changing Gillian's diaper, and she'll be chattering away in a stream like, "Here's kitty cat. Here, kitty cat, here's a cookie--for yoooouuu! Where baby? There she is! Oh, baby wear purple socks. Like Munchkin. Where princess? Princess! Princess!? Donkey!? Shrek is sleeping. Blanket on, covered up. Wake up. Like Elmo! Go beach." But somewhere in there, she'll ask in this very sweet, curious little voice with an upturned face and a smile, "Hear me, Mommy?" and I will realize that at some point in her little monologue, she has addressed me. Maybe I was offered a "cookie" (any flat circle or crescent-shaped object, sometimes a CD or maybe an apple slice) or asked a direct question, but I was lost in my own thoughts or daydreams or just in the task at hand and I didn't hear her at first.

It would make me sad to interpret this pattern as my tuning her out, but I don't really think that's what I'm doing--at least, I hope not. Somehow the sounds associated with having a toddler register with me, but not until a few seconds after they happen, as if they must pass through a filter first, and the filter searches for sound particles that should register as alarming, prioritizes those sounds for instant response, and decodes the rest more slowly. This is what enables me to sleep through the nights even though she cries out in her sleep--that I don't wake up fully until her cries have lasted for a minute or so. After a several seconds or a minute or so, I wake up instantly and am completely functional, but before that, the poor little girl is on her own. Yikes. No wonder she has learned to interject, "Hear me, Mommy?"

Sam, who has never spaced out once in the whole time I have known him, says she has never once had to ask him if he has heard her.

Gillian Discovers Her Powers

2010-06-27T20:30:00.003-04:00

In the past week or so, Gillian has passed from the soft, observer newborn stage into the next, more active one. Just last week, her wiggles occasionally got her hands in touch with the toys on her bouncy seat, and today, she can manipulate those toys on purpose. She's almost breathlessly delighted at her own power, the way we would be if suddenly things began coming to life at our fingertips--what's happening? Can I do it again? Will it stop? Oh, wow.

She's also just been put into her jumper for the first couple of times, and has figured out how to touch down with her feet. She looks around gleefully, leaning way back in the seat and beaming toothlessly at all who are witness to her triumph.

On Not Walking on Water

2010-06-16T21:58:00.009-04:00

Yesterday, AC, Gillian and I attempted an ill-considered shopping trip to an outdoor mall (why did anyone build an outdoor mall in Western PA? No idea.). It was sprinkling as we got into the car to go, but I figured that the parking lot would be empty, so we wouldn't have far to walk to the stores, and things would be fine. But as we drove over there, the sprinkles turned to a torrential downpour. When we arrived, we sat in the car for a moment and then I said to AC, "We're not going to go in this store. There's too much rain."

"Go store," AC stated. Her first argumentative tactic is always just to insist and repeat. Sometimes, this approach is amazingly effective since I wear myself out trying to convince her of other options, while she simply keeps repeating "Marshmallow! Marshmallow! Marshmallow!" It's kind of a rhetorical jujitsu. Anyway, I digress.

I opened my door, stepped out, and got completely soaked before I could even get the back of the car open (much less pull out and open the double stroller, go around and get Gillian's carrier out and situated, and then go to the other side of the car to unbuckle Allison Clare and get her strapped in as well). I returned to my seat in the car and told her, "No, it's too rainy and wet."

"Use umbrella," she offered, helpfully.

"There's too much rain, Allison Clare. Look at how wet it is--see all the water?"

She peered out the window, then suggested matter-of-factly: "Get a boat."

Sometimes, her faith in me is rather humbling.

I Just Don't Want to Talk About It

2010-06-13T22:15:00.005-04:00

Allison Clare woke up in a bad mood from her nap today.

Me: Allison Clare, do you want to get up?

AC (crying): No get up!

Me: Do you want to stay in your bed?

AC (crying louder): No stay bed!

Me: Do you want Mommy to sit here in the chair?

AC (yelling): No Mommy sit chair!

Me: Do you want Mommy to go?

AC (with ever increasing frustration): No Mommy go!

Me: Allison Clare, what do you want?

AC: NO ASK!

A few minutes later, she volunteered that she wanted to stay in her bed, so I went and put away some laundry, and when I returned, she said cheerfully, "Hi Mommy!" The child is definitely on her own timetable.

Whew

2010-05-31T15:12:00.009-04:00

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

2010-05-26T15:35:00.003-04:00

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

2010-05-24T13:31:00.003-04:00

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

2010-05-20T17:19:00.002-04:00

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

2010-05-20T15:52:00.005-04:00

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

2010-05-19T11:22:00.005-04:00

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

2010-05-17T23:05:00.004-04:00

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

2010-05-17T22:58:00.003-04:00

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!

2010-05-17T22:29:00.005-04:00

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

2010-05-14T18:22:00.005-04:00

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

2010-05-13T23:09:00.006-04:00

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!

2010-05-12T21:37:00.003-04:00

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

2010-05-11T14:10:00.004-04:00

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

2010-05-10T17:29:00.003-04:00

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

2010-05-09T20:31:00.004-04:00

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

2010-05-07T23:14:00.004-04:00

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

2010-05-06T22:39:00.004-04:00

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

2010-05-06T11:27:00.006-04:00

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

2010-05-04T14:22:00.003-04:00

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

2010-05-03T20:31:00.002-04:00

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

2010-05-02T21:38:00.007-04:00

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. Gillian, of course, was a perfect angel through everything.

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."

Happy Birthday Wishes

2010-04-27T20:47:00.002-04:00

Easter 2010

2010-04-05T21:48:00.011-04:00

Easter was Gilly's first church service, Allison Clare's first Easter basket with candy, an egg hunt at our house with AC's little buddies Jamie and Luke and their mommies and daddies (with Gilly looking on as a tiny Grand Poobah), and sweet bunny dreams at the end of the day . . .

Shame

2010-03-17T10:17:00.003-04:00

Yesterday I did something utterly humiliating, and today I had to own up to it.

Let me begin by describing Sam's truck. He bought it to go out to Colorado and live wild and free, and he has driven it all over the country, used it to haul building materials for our house, and even moved my whole houseful of belongings to our current house. It is a symbol of his freedom, and maybe some sense of masculine capability.

More to the point, however, it has a full 4-seat cab, so it's kind of like an SUV with a 6-foot bed for the cargo area. It's very tall and long and wide and presents an impossible driving challenge for one, like me, who is decidedly ungifted in the area of spatial relations. I got it stuck once at school last winter when I parked next to a flagpole and someone parked really close to me on the other side, and I couldn't get it pulled out of the parking space without the flagpole cable thwumping and thwacking against the underside of the truck as I essentially drove over it. It was horrible. Even that maneuver required my pleading for spotting help from a random construction guy working nearby.

And so, perhaps it should come as no surprise that yesterday, when the street guys were working to repair the sidewalks on our street and I had to drive the truck to take Gillian to the pediatrician, I ended up backing the truck through the wet cement. But it was totally humiliating because . . . the sidewalk does not actually cross our driveway. And the piece of sidewalk with a 6-inch deep tire track permanently embedded in it is not, technically, even on our property. Yes, I was so far off our driveway that I backed it over the neighbor's sidewalk.

This morning, the sidewalk guys came back out to finish working on the rest of the street, and I could see them huddled over the patch of sidewalk that I had laid waste to, and I was so, so ashamed. I could barely bring myself to do it, but I did manage to get my rear end out there to apologize. They clearly were not delighted that their work had to be cut out with huge saws and replaced, but they guy was also kind of amused when I presented him with my abject apologies. "We'll take care of it," he said gruffly, "but stay out of the truck."

Out of the Mouth of the Babe

2010-03-15T21:37:00.003-04:00

It's been pretty hilarious to watch as Allison Clare's language develops. In the fall, she and I used to go to this bakery and get doughnuts on Saturday mornings, and they had a TV playing cartoons. She pointed to a mouse and wanted to know what it was. When I told her it was a mouse, she placed one finger thoughtfully in her mouth and looked like she was trying to figure out the connection. Similarly, she was delighted when her babysitter, April, whom she calls "Prin" (from back before she could say the L sound), gave her a Santa Claus apron for Christmas. To her, getting "a prin" from "Prin" made perfect sense.

Now when she cries and needs a tissue, she tells us that her nose is sad. In the mornings when I am getting ready, she thinks I put on my "wake up"--which is too close to the truth, really. She makes connections, like when she wanted a pacifier (having never really used one before), and I said, "Big girls don't use pacifiers," and she stared at me and then said, completely deadpan, "Braden. Pacifier. Too." As if to reproach my logic with the reminder that her little friend Braden from church does, indeed, use a pacifier.

And after seeing me nursing Gillian the first or second time, she had it all figured out, pointing to my chest and saying: "Two cups, baby's. Drink milk."

The Peanut and the Pork Chop

2010-03-09T13:22:00.006-05:00

You'd think that I was talking about my newborn as the peanut and my toddler as the pork chop, but no--Allison Clare's two-year pediatrician's appointment was today, and it turns out that she is just a little bit of a thing. She weighs 24 lbs and is 31 inches tall, which puts her between the 5-10th percentiles for weight and at the 5th percentile for height. Socially and verbally, she is doing well--she greeted the doctor with a polite, "Hi, Dr. Y__," after having practiced all morning because she was excited to be going to the doctor (she has a book with a doctor in it). Our pediatrician is really wonderful with kids, averting a few fearful tears by getting AC interested in her stethoscope. She said AC's temper tantrums (and breathtaking lack of awareness of her parents' authority) sound pretty normal, and she wasn't worried about AC's size since she's always been pretty tiny.

Gillian, on the other hand, is plumping up as if someone were inflating her. She'd only lost about an ounce of her birth weight in the first three days (compared to Allison Clare's having lost full pound in the first three days), and she then packed on 9 more ounces in the next week. Her cheeks are so chubby now that when she tips her head from one side to the other, they almost swing a little, like jowls. I don't know how much she weighs because she doesn't go back to the pediatrician until her two-month appointment, but I do know that the tabs of her diapers used to almost cross over each other in the middle, and now barely reach around her waist, even when they are fastened below her big round tummy. It's really reassuring to see her like this, especially after we had watched newborn AC practically shrivel before our eyes, and yet I'm a little crestfallen too, that my teeny girl is already getting so big, holding up her head, looking around at the world like she belongs in it now and is beginning to recognize it as home.

Recombination

2010-02-22T22:06:00.000-05:00

When I graduated from college, the baccalaureate speaker gave a somewhat bizarre address in which he admonished us not to have children. A biologist, he explained that the world was overpopulated and that we "of all people" would be encouraged to have children because of our "many talents," and we should resist by recalling the genetic dice-roll that is recombination.

Allison Clare definitely has a mix of Sam's and my personalities, most notably a double dose of strong will. It's as if she inherited every trait from both of us that could possibly reinforce it: Sam's decided preferences and touch of grumpiness, my energy level and stubbornness. She's also extremely observant with a startling memory. She has been delightful to us, if not exactly easy, mellow, or low-maintenance.

Gillian, on the other hand, is much more patient and adaptable, even as a newborn. She's still in her sleepy brand-new stage, but she rarely cries loudly unless really perturbed . . . it takes her a looong time to build up from fussing mildly to actually crying out (Allison Clare went from zero to sixty in about three seconds). Even at birth, she didn't cry loudly at first and the OB said, "We want to hear a loud cry" and suctioned her mouth, etc. Then she did comply, but honestly? She simply didn't seem that upset about being born.

Sam is more flexible than I am in some ways, and I am more so in others, so it I don't know yet whose personality, or what combination, she'll display, but I have to confess to taking a foolish delight in the resemblance she bears to my first photo. Why? I don't know.

"Neither Snow, Nor Rain . . .

2010-02-10T08:28:00.004-05:00

. . . nor heat nor gloom of night stays the stork from the swift completion of his appointed rounds . . ."

--(apologies to) Herodotus

Where to begin? With the big news first: our little Gillian Rose made her sweet entrance into the world last night at 9:26 p.m. She is a peanut--6 lbs, 2 oz., and 19.5 inches long. She has long fingers and toes, and dark hair like her big sister. She also bears an uncanny resemblance to her grandpa Merle.

Or maybe we should begin at the beginning, which is hard to pinpoint. This past weekend, we were hit hard by the snow. We endured a harrowing few hours when my contractions had gotten closer together and stronger, but we were totally housebound by 28 inches of snow, the streets were not passable for an ambulance (our failsafe plan)--and then our power went out. We sat in the dark and prayed that we wouldn't have a baby that night, and thankfully, she stayed put.

Then, with the forecast of more snow, and the contractions continuing regularly at about 8 minutes, we were concerned that I might be getting more dilated and then have a very fast labor like last time--while snowed in or powerless. We were fairly confident that we could get to the hospital, except that we also would have needed time for Allison Clare's babysitter to arrive (which could take a while if she was snowed in, plus extended travel time as she lives a bit away) or get her to a friend's house here in town. So we decided to go to the hospital to see if I was getting further dilated--we figured they couldn't say that I was not going into labor, but they might be able to tell us if I was.

10:00 a.m. Babysitter arrives, and we head unhurriedly to the hospital. The doctor says I'm 3 cm dilated. Suppposedly I was 3.5 at my last appointment, and more effaced, so no progress there. But they've had a couple of babies born in cars on the side of the snowy roads and at home in the last few days, so everyone is extra cautious and they want to monitor the contractions for a while.

noon-ish. No further dilation. Sam and I figure we'll stop for milk and drop off a package at the post office, then relieve the babysitter and send her home in advance of the storm. We wait for our official release, but they decide to have us stick around for another hour.

1:30. Contractions pick up a bit, with some at 6 minute intervals. The doctors are happy.

3:15 A different doctor checks and says I'm 4 cm dilated. I wonder if the difference is just subjective, but she says they're going to break my water. And the parts of me that are 1) hoping not to have a baby at home, 2) relieved that AC is already settled with her beloved babysitter, and 3) tired of waiting, all agree. They move us right into another room and break my water within a few minutes.

6:00. Still not much happening, contractions picking up to 4 min. but not too uncomfortable. 5 cm. dilated. We figure we are in for a long night.

7:00. Nurses change shifts and laugh at us because Sam is on his laptop and I am reading on my iPod Touch (I seriously love the e-reader function right now . . .).

7:45. Contractions are 2-3 minutes apart and getting more uncomfortable, to where I have to breathe through them. I tell Sam that I could pretty easily bear them like this, but I know they'll get worse, and possibly last a longer time than with AC. We weigh the epidural option and decide in favor of it.

8:15. I feel like I might need to push soon, but the nurse checks and I'm only 7 cm. I'm a little confused--isn't that supposed to happen at the time when you are fully dilated? And I'm impatient for the anesthesiologist--where is he?

He shows up and asks me to curl up on my side. This position feels almost impossible and incredibly painful, as I'm suddenly wracked with powerful contractions. I'm almost sobbing and pretty pathetic, as he's saying, "Curl your back toward me, honey, or I won't be able to get it in," and I'm whimpering, "I can't--please don't stop!" I can feel him working super fast, ripping my gown open and taping me up and shoving things around behind me.

8:30. Epidural is in, the nurse checks, and I've gotten fully dilated in the last 15 minutes. The anesthesiologist is now my best friend. I must remember to write odes to him, conduct parades in his honor.

8:45. Labor with an epidural is the best! I start pushing, feeling all relaxed and lazy, and suddenly Sam can see the top of her head. I ask for a mirror, and they set it up. I push when I feel a contraction, relax in between, and actually fall asleep (somewhat embarrassing, but I think only Sam noticed) between a couple of them. Everyone is standing around--two doctors, a nurse, and Sam--and we are all joking and laughing and making small talk and watching with interest as the baby makes her tiny bits of progress.

At one point, another woman on the floor is about to give birth, and our doctor asks if it's okay if she goes down to the other room for 5 minutes. In my epidural-induced bliss, I'm all about the largess--sure! I figure I might take another surreptitious nap, and we all chat some more and I peer down at the mirror and still can't believe that baby is actually going to come out, even though I can see the top of her head.

The doctor comes back after a few minutes. She asks if I can feel anything, and I feel like a furtive child--don't want to tell the truth (no) because I'm afraid they might lessen my epidural. But I do feel enough to be able to push, and I do, and suddenly I can feel that the baby is crowning, and there she is! She gave us a cry and was already pink and perfect. I had no tearing--it was a total breeze. She was born at 9:26, after about 40 minutes of pushing . . . including naps.

I got to hold her right away, and then they cleaned her up a little and gave her back to me, and as soon as I held her up, she latched on and nursed like she had been doing it, well, all her life. She nursed for an hour and 15 minutes while we called our families and waited to be moved into our room. It's a huge relief, since AC had such feeding issues. Gillian seems basically unperturbed by it all--she hasn't even needed a pacifier in the nursery . . . I just went down to peek at her through the window, and she was yawning and sleeping amid all the squalling.

We are so thankful to God for the blessing of her safe (and easy) arrival. Thanks to all of you who thought of us and prayed for us!

Mortification Free With Wedding-Band Purchase

2010-02-03T12:48:00.008-05:00

Email that I received from my dear husband today:

Hey Love -

I've authorized G [a favorite student who is in both of our classes this semester] to have my cell phone number in the event that your water breaks in class. But I can't find my number on my cell phone - remind me to buy a new one - and so, I was hoping you could give it to her in class.

Love you!
S.

Now, I love my husband. And it is a sweet, if incredibly misguided gesture of love that he has arranged to watch out for me and the new baby via the student grapevine. But seriously, it is one thing for me to harbor my private little anxieties, and yet another for my students to be conscripted into watch duty, scrutinizing me not for indications of what is most important about Melville's works, but for signs that I am about to drop a baby in their horrified midst.

The Teeth-Brushing Test

2010-01-31T21:08:00.003-05:00

A while back, I got on a mailing list for the catalogues publishers send out to advertise books for first-year reading programs. I get the sense that they really push these books hard because if they can get a school to assign a title for a whole incoming cohort of freshmen, it's a sale of 500 books (or in the case of a big school, 5,000) rather than a paltry one-class set of 25. The catalogues are really nice, with lots of descriptions and excerpts and blurbs, and they make it super-easy to get a ton of exam copies. Also, the books are targeted for a general audience, and lots of them are bestsellers in fiction and non-fiction, so they make for interesting reading.

And who doesn't love free books? Strangely, I find myself drawn more to non-fiction than fiction when reading the catalogues. In the past year, I've ordered books about teaching/teachers/schools, food experiments (a year of living on a local food diet, along with some Michael Pollan), the culture of medicine, essays by famous and non-famous people on their personal beliefs, memoirs of living with illness, and other assorted topics. I've read some of them through, and it's odd, but even though the non-fiction attracts me most when I read about it (in the catalogue), it never quite feels the same as reading fiction.

When I'm working my way through a novel, each section I read feels like a segment of highway on a long road trip, and with the best books, I feel like I'm in good company. I always loved driving long distances with one or two good friends, having the opportunity to talk and eat road-trip food and discover local curiosities. Even when I don't like parts of a novel, reading it still feels like miles are passing by--if it's slow, it's like being in construction or on a detour, where I wonder if the time is worthwhile, but I'm still hoping that the trip will ultimately pay off.

Reading non-fiction, apart from a few memoirs that stand out as exceptions, feels more like research. I don't know why, since lots of the non-fiction I've been reading is elegantly crafted and pleasant to read. But somehow, when I'm finished, I mostly remember an argument or two, and when I'm reading, I feel as if I'm on a search for something, and I'd just prefer to find it as efficiently as possible. I don't feel drawn back into a non-fiction book every night the way I do with a novel, and non-fiction rarely calls out to me in such a way that I need to keep reading while brushing my teeth.

The Labor Non-Movement

2010-01-30T15:32:00.001-05:00

I always thought that labor was a state that you went into at a discrete moment (with "My water just broke!" or "I'm having contractions--honey, it's time!"), usually within about 24 hours of actually giving birth. I didn't realize that a person could have contractions pretty much ALL day, EVERY day, varying only in timing and intensity, for WEEKS on end (4 weeks and counting). They have been as regular as every 4 minutes for several hours, and I've had individual contractions that have lasted as long as ELEVEN minutes.

So, I'm not sure how I'll really know that I'm in labor until the very end of the process, which is what happened with AC--except that we happened to be at the hospital already that time. Sam has a picture where I'm smiling and waving, about 7 or 8 cm dilated, and not really uncomfortable yet. The nurses would ask me to rate my pain, and I would say, "Um, I don't know? 2?" partly because I was too embarrassed to say "zero." That part of the labor was great.

But the part that haunts me is the 15 minutes when I went from minor discomfort to frantically scrambling around in the bed and calling out in abject terror, "I need to push--now!" I don't want to have that moment at home this time. But even home, with the comfort of my own bathtub that I am keeping scrupulously clean these days, would be better than 5) an ambulance, 4) the front seat of the truck, now that carseats take up the whole backseat, 3) my own car, with only AC as birth attendant, 2) the grocery store/Starbucks (the only places I go these days), or The Big Number One Place I Do Not Want To Give Birth: class.

Hanging In There

2010-01-23T20:27:00.002-05:00

So, no baby yet, and even though in an emotional sense, I can't wait to see her, in a practical sense, we are hugely thankful for every day that she stays in there where she belongs.

I haven't been able to concentrate on work to the extent that I had hoped; I've gotten some writing and work on my spring class done almost every day, but I've definitely been distracted by the false labor episodes. My mom asked me yesterday morning, "So, are you pretty sure that we won't be driving out there today?" and I had to say that I simply have no way of knowing, minute to minute. Today I had few contractions, but then a series of strong ones for an hour or two. Thursday, when they were pretty constant all day, I was hesitant to even put something in the slow cooker in case we wouldn't be around to eat it. I see a lot of quick foods in our future.

Plus, I've been trying to take it easy, and Allison Clare thus has been allowed to watch all the Sesame Street that she feels so bitterly denied of in her regular life (we usually let her watch just a little at the end of the day, while I'm getting dinner). We bought her a volume of old Sesame Street episodes for Christmas, and the set includes the pilot, which is kind of weird and hilarious. Big Bird has a pinhead, and they clearly haven't worked out the kinks of his character yet--he's kind of a doofus. Gordon has big curvy sideburns, and--get this--Oscar is orange. My confinement has been very educational.

Doing the Math

2010-01-20T03:48:00.003-05:00

[35 weeks @ (80% effaced x 2 cm dilated)] x 100% insomniac = completely counterproductive

Argh. At least we're 80% ready for the baby (in the absolute minimal sense) after a burst of probably ill-advised activity today . . . the rest will have to wait until AC is awake since some of the things that need to be sorted out are in her room.

I wish the new baby would sit tight for another week, ideally two, so we could be more confident she was really ready. AC was born 10 days before her due date, which was still full-term. If this baby is born within the next couple of weeks, she will be a late-term preemie (i.e., probably fine in the long run, but more risk of complications and a longer hospital stay). I just looked back at this blog and saw that last time I posted that I was 80% effaced, I gave birth less than 12 hours later. Yikes. I was more dilated then, and it doesn't really mean anything for sure anyway, but I really can't imagine that she's going to hang out for another 5 weeks until her actual due date.

I'm less worried about the birth itself than the orchestration of the logistics. AC was born so quickly that I feel like we need to be able to activate our plan for childcare and get to the hospital superfast, at any moment (last time, I didn't have painful contractions until I was almost 9 cm dilated, and I was pushing within about 45 minutes--fortunately, we were already at the hospital following up on a routine appointment that day . . . this was a blessing but has me somewhat fearful of giving birth without warning at home, in the car, or worst of all, in public). Since my parents live a day's drive away, AC's angelic babysitter, who is like a member of our family and one of AC's favorite people in the world, is on call and already has a bag packed in her car. And in case we have to head to the hospital with AC in tow, our friends who have a toddler (and hence a toddler carseat) are also on backup call so that they can pick her up and drive her back to our house if necessary.

Of course, the second labor could be completely different--this baby could decide to cozy in after all until 40 or 41 weeks, or she might position herself in such a way that I have a much longer labor, or my water could break at a different stage in labor. Who knows. She already seems different from AC. Maybe it's silly even to say, but she kicks differently. AC would push her feet under my ribs hard, or pound frantically like she was trying to bust out, or rest for long periods with barely any movement; this baby rolls around gently and quietly and almost constantly, in a very reassuring and peaceful way.

Even though I'd like her to stay inside for longer, I also can't wait to meet her.

Not Such a Very Big Sister

2010-01-14T17:23:00.001-05:00

People often ask me if Allison Clare is excited about her new sibling. The answer, unfortunately, is no, not at all. She just doesn't understand things that far out of her frame of reference--or rather, we can't communicate them to her. In fact, she seems to think our family is pretty complete the way it is; she especially loved a Christmas tree ornament of ours that showed a snowman family . . . she would point to each figure and say, "Daddy, Mama, Baby" with a triumphant emphasis on the last one, as if to say, "That's all you need."

Recently, she happened across the musical toy bar to her bouncy seat, which I had gotten out of storage for the new baby, and we had yet another conversation in which I tried, futilely but gamely, to prepare her even a tiny bit for how her life is going to change.

AC (fixated on toy bar): Song! Play! La la la.

Me: Yes, do you know who is going to play with that toy?

AC: Prin! [Her babysitter.]

Me: No, not Prin. Gillian*!

AC: Gin!

Me: Yes, do you know who Gillian is? Gillian is your sister.

AC: Friend!

Me: Yes, Gillian is your friend who is in Mommy's tummy.

AC looks down at her own tummy.

Me: She's in Mommy's tummy.

AC kisses my stomach.

Me: That's nice. Thank you!

AC raises her own shirt and points to her own tummy: Baby. Kiss baby.

Me: No, you don't have a baby in there.

AC, insistently: Mama, kiss baby. Baby!

Me: No baby, but I'll kiss your tummy, silly. You are going to love Gillian, and she is going to love you.

AC (spying something she discarded earlier and rolling off my lap to pursue it): Spoon! Find spoon!

Sorry, Jilly. Your sister may find an orange plastic spoon more interesting than news of your arrival, but your Mommy and Daddy are very excited to meet you.

*Working title

4:30 a.m.

2010-01-12T10:10:00.004-05:00

Four or five months of responding to night terrors (and trying multiple times some nights to decide which cries will resolve on their own) are almost worthwhile when you go in to her room at the behest of a bloodcurdling scream, her arms go around your neck, she calms down, and as you lay her back down, she says sleepily, "All gone sad."

Possibly Irritable, but Not Incompetent

2010-01-08T22:03:00.009-05:00

I don't generally like to call doctors' offices and ask questions; I hate feeling like an anxious, hysterical patient. But yesterday I called my OB's office (very calmly) because I've been having some contractions for about a week and a half, and they had gotten fairly constant and strong. I probably would have just assumed they were Braxton Hicks contractions except that last time, I was making that assumption a few hours before AC was born. So, since we didn't want to be taken by surprise by a little preemie arriving 7 weeks early (how un-Fee-like of her!), I figured it would be better to be safe than sorry.

Anyway, I talked to the call nurse about the contractions, and it was marginally helpful (Dr. B. was much more precise and helpful later--it's nice to have a friend who is married to someone in such a useful profession). But one of the things the nurse told me was that if I was a bit dehydrated, my "uterus could get a little irritable" and contract. For some reason, this completely cracks me up. I just picture my uterus getting really hissy and annoyed, and deciding she is fed up and taking matters into her own hands with regard to this houseguest ("You expect me to keep her here for nine months and you don't even give me anything to drink! Well, I've had it!"), until I do something to placate her, like lying down, resting, and getting her some tea.

It made me think about the language applied to these things--I've also heard of a problem called an "incompetent cervix," where the cervix can't hold the baby inside. It struck me as funny that one's reproductive organs could be called "irritable" and "incompetent," as if they were unhelpful retail clerks being judged by an exasperated clientele. I don't know if there is really a counterpart in terms of masculine physiology, except for "impotent," which strikes me as also gendered. I guess we expect men's organs to be powerful, and women's to do their jobs and be nice while at it.

Miss Independent

2009-12-29T21:38:00.004-05:00

True to her age, Allison Clare is growing very independent. Everything is "by self." We came home from a pizza party one night, and as we drove home, she was prattling about the party, naming the friends she had seen there, and remembering that she had eaten cake. "And pizza," I prodded. "Say 'pizza.'" "Pizza--by self!" she exclaimed, because apparently the fact that she held the pizza by herself was an integral part of the memory.

It is fun to hear her putting words together, even if it means she has her own ideas about things now. I was looking at a magazine while she played with her new Christmas kitchen set and table and chairs (oh, blessed new toys! and the newfound peace they bring . . .), and she realized that she had left her Elmo doll in her bedroom. "Find Elmo!" she said, coming over to me and pulling at my hands to take me walking through the house with her. "Mama, find Elmo." She looked at what I was doing, took the magazine out of my hands, closed it, and said, "All done book! Find Elmo!" All done book, indeed . . .

She received the Elmo doll for Christmas this year. It was a big relief for us to give it to her, because a few weeks prior to Christmas, she developed an enormous affection for Elmo but had no representations of him except a disposable diaper with his picture on it, left over (unused) from a trip we took months ago. She carried the diaper around, tenderly hugging it and kissing it and offering it to us to hug and kiss. It was awkward. We considered giving her the Christmas Elmo ahead of time, but we also thought about how exciting it would make her Christmas morning to find Elmo under the tree, so we held out.

So now, Elmo is her new BFF pretty much all the time, with just one exception. She was sitting on my lap, holding Elmo, and since it was almost naptime, I said, "Elmo is really tired. He wants to take a nap. Elmo is so tired!" She eyed Elmo thoughtfully, then hopped off my lap, threw him by one arm over the railing into her crib, and turned back to me to announce matter-of-factly, "By self." At not-yet-two, she is already nobody's fool, not even mine. Sigh.

Outcomes to Ponder

2009-12-17T19:22:00.004-05:00

Yesterday, Allison Clare asked for more juice, and I started to say, "You've had enough juice for now." But before the words were completely out of my mouth, she had thrown her juice cup onto the floor, which is a big no-no right now, marched herself directly over to the time-out corner, and sat down.

Does this mean time-out is working, or not working? Hmm.

Couples' Therapy

2009-11-30T15:51:00.005-05:00

Sam and I have just finished watching the first season of In Treatment, the HBO series about the clinical psychologist who ends up seeking therapy for himself. The series takes the pattern of his week, with a rotation of episodes in which he sees the same patients, ending with his own therapy session every fifth episode. The episodes are only 30 minutes long, and each of them is basically a conversation between two characters--in some cases, almost a monologue by one character. It could easily be performed on a stage set with just two chairs. And yet, even without a lot of filmic pyrotechnics, it's totally fascinating. We keep stopping the DVD to comment on the characters and their narration of their actions and motives. It has led to us talking a lot about marriage, particularly about what people (safely fictional ones) do to sustain or sabotage their marriages.

I've been interested in this because, as I've mentioned before, I'm curious about marriage, and about how to do the daily nitty-gritty of it. The abundant advice to put the spark back into marriage through the scheduling of dates and the purchase of candles or lingerie does not really get to the heart of what I am interested in thinking about. Those, to me, don't seem like the challenging issues. I mean, Sam and I really like hanging out, and we get to do so pretty regularly these days; AC is in bed by 8, and we get out by ourselves pretty much every week for at least a meal or something.

But what I wonder about are things like, how do we ensure that in five or ten or eighteen years, we still want the same things (besides parenthood)? Or, how do we ensure that--since we will inevitably want different things in some aspects of our lives--we are both satisfied and happy? I know, communication, blah, blah, blah. But I've noticed that sometimes unhappiness seems to creep up on people--the way you hear about people just waking up and walking out, having had some kind of real or false revelation. I'm not worried that one of us is going to do that, but I do wonder how you can tell how choices in the present will affect you and your marriage down the road.

For example, Sam is less satisfied career-wise than I am. Our school has a lot of resource issues that directly affect his work. He has to have regular, elaborate, time-consuming fights to get the software and equipment he needs, and he has to spend a lot of time maintaining computer labs and networks and doing things that are better supported at some other places. Me, I need basically just a room with working lights, a chalkboard, and a piece of chalk--and it would be much harder for me to find another job than it would be for him (2000 new PhDs last year, and 200 jobs). So my motivation to leave is low, and my prospects are not great; his motivation is high, and his prospects would be good. I don't want to give up my career right now; I love being able to spend a lot of time with Allison Clare and still have the intellectual and social outlet (inlet?) of working. But I also see Sam's professional discouragement as having a big impact on his overall morale and enjoyment of life, whereas I can envision multiple lifestyles for myself that I would enjoy. And who knows, down the road, how either of us would feel--me if somehow our choices led to my taking a job I didn't love as much, or Sam if he remained here and continued to feel discouraged in an area of his life that he usually loves?

This is only one of the questions that I wonder how, as a couple, you figure out. We talk and talk--we are big "communicators" and are both expressers of our feelings, ad nauseum I'm sure. But I wonder, how is it that we figure out what our particular marriage should look like down the road?

A "Win-Win" Situation

2009-11-29T23:01:00.003-05:00

Like her daddy, Allison Clare is always pleading for things that I am trying to ration. She'll ask to watch Ernie singing "Rubber Ducky" online over and over again, or she'll want cup after cup of juice, which we try to limit since if she had her way, she would drink juice all day and eat no real food. The other day, while asking to see Elmo and Kermit figuring out the meaning of loud and quiet for the millionth time (another Sesame Street snippet available on Youtube, and a favorite of Mommy and Daddy's since we are hoping the lesson will sink in), she looked up at me imploringly and seriously and said, "Win. Win." I didn't get it, and she kept repeating it, nodding slowly while staring intently at me (another of her persuasive tactics--the slow, "join me" nod): "Win. Win." Then she held up one tiny finger. "Win. Win."

I guess that even though she doesn't actually know what "one" means, she has figured out that when I say yes, it is often followed by "Just one." Just one Kleenex for you to pull out of the box and pretend to blow your nose with. Just one cookie. Just one song. For her, "one" is permissive in some magic and mysterious way.

We've been counting with her, and she has a rough understanding of one and five, but nothing in between. If we hold up 2-4 fingers, she unfolds the rest and then announces, "Five!" But the reason I think she doesn't have a very good grasp of the meaning of "one" is that when I was putting her to bed, I asked her, "Are you ready to go to bed now?" And she said, "No no no. One. One." One what?, one wonders, and one may never know.

Teamwork

2009-11-11T15:31:00.003-05:00

Sam's and my life together has always seemed to require a great deal of coordination. First, there was the work on the house, which meant that along with our actual jobs on campus, we were rushing over to the house before, between, and after classes to let contractors in, answer questions, buy supplies, finish up projects, etc.

Then we moved in, the work slowed down briefly, and we had Allison Clare. When I went back to teaching, we reactivated our tag-team plan of action, and between the two of us and a cadre of babysitters, housecleaners, and other students (Sam always has some helping him with one project or another), we have been getting by. And it's all good--busy, but good. This year, one of my favorite students is nannying for us for a few hours every day, and it has given us a world of flexibility so that we can both be on campus at the same time.

But still, occasionally, it all catches up with us. Last night, I put AC's diapers into the washer, ran them through a wash cycle, and restarted the washer for an extra rinse or two (the usual routine). I was sleepy, so Sam volunteered to throw them into the dryer after the last rinse. This morning after class, I went down to the basement and re-started the dryer for a few more minutes--it takes about a cycle and a half to get them totally dry, and we have it down to a science by now, so I didn't even look into the dryer.

Then before heading back to school this afternoon, I went to pull them out so that the babysitter could fold them when she first arrived (among her other angelic qualities, she has asked for chores to do while AC is napping). But when I opened the dryer--it was empty. Sam had started the dryer without putting the diapers in (because he thought he was re-starting it for the second cycle? because he had already taken an Ambien?) and run it empty. Then I had re-started the dryer, while the diapers remained in the washer the whole time.

Is life too complicated? Or are we just too absentminded for it?

Halloween Typecasting

2009-11-01T17:11:00.003-05:00

Apple Glee

2009-10-20T21:12:00.003-04:00

We took Allison Clare to visit a local farm today. She got to pet a goat, choose a pumpkin, and share a popcorn ball with me. But as you can see below, what she enjoyed most was bringing the apples home (if you look closely, you can see she has sampled more than one).

Top Chef: Imaginary Food Category

2009-10-18T23:24:00.007-04:00

Spring is my favorite season, but I do love fall cooking. Soups and stews and roasts--and Jewish apple cake, which may seem a little weird given that I'm the Korean daughter of an English and Italian family. But however the recipe reached us, it's a longtime family favorite, and I have always loved it. I baked one today and gave Allison Clare a little mixing bowl and wooden "foon" to play with on the floor.

I turned around a moment later to see her toddling up to the barstool in the kitchen and perching the bowl precariously on its top (which spins) to try to mix her imaginary ingredients. Somehow I found this incredibly touching--as if in all her studious watching, she had observed that you don't mix cakes on the floor; you put them up high and mix them there. A dining room chair seemed to better suit her height for her mixing and tasting, mixing and tasting.

I even managed to get a few seconds on video, an increasingly difficult task because she loves to watch herself on the camera playback, so most of our recent videos consist of her catching a glimpse of the camera, running up to it, and reaching for it while imploring "Baby! Baby!" Here is rare footage of her doing something other than that:

Rubber and Roads

2009-10-09T22:59:00.006-04:00

--for those who are seeing them meet right now.

Any of my close friends and any number of random acquaintances--along with a professional therapist or two--know that while I was in graduate school, I was enduring the prolonged trial of a (mostly non-)relationship that was largely static, with a delicately tortuous mix of high drama, poignant agony, erratic romance, pathetic betrayal, and dark satire. It emerged, devolved, reverted, and otherwise progressed at a glacial pace over a period of eight (yes, eight) years, mostly during occasional long-distance visits and overly contemplated letters.

When I think back on it, it's impossible not to feel foolish, and I knew even at the time that I was acting unwisely, gambling on things I knew better than to trust, and hoping against my better judgment that it would all work out in the end. Even though those years, from age 24-31, saw me gain a much more accurate sense of myself and what I wanted in other respects, I knew that within that relationship, I was becoming less secure and way more fragile--in other words, far less capable of participating in the kind of relationship that I wanted anyway.

And so, part of me thinks that during that time, and especially in that context, I was definitely at my most un-Christlike, or most unlike the person that God would want me to be: I was insecure, self-absorbed, depressed, and distracted.

And yet. I also wonder if something about being driven to the edge of my own personal sanity, about being out of control of my own heart, about living in the knowledge of my constant failure and helplessness over it, might have been, in fact, honest and profoundly true in a way that is impossible to access within the much neater boundaries of the kind of healthier relationships that I am now (and was then in other cases) more careful to establish. There's something so desperate and needy, so full of heartache and rage, about the letters of Paul and even the sermons of Jesus, that suggests that they weren't people who observed wise boundaries where the heart was concerned either.

In the end, I didn't successfully battle it out, or experience some spiritual victory that anyone could weave into a narrative of the power of faith; things fizzled and drifted and remained largely unresolved. And then after a short time, I met Sam, and our being together was inevitable in a way that meant there were no other considerations; thus, I moved on, but never really experienced a specific answer to the years of prayers that that relationship or that time would be redeemed in some recognizable way. And I don't need that; I just mean to say that I never triumphed; I just endured, and did that only involuntarily and only with a lot of whining and pathetic behavior--like a toddler with a temper tantrum who never seems to give up the desire for something bad for her or learn any lesson, but just happens to be distracted by something better. Except that maybe there in the midst of the kicking and screaming and crying was some authentic expression of myself, as sinner, that my efforts at dignity and concern for appearances otherwise shield me from. So while I don't ever really want to revisit that dynamic in my life, I also wonder if that doesn't explain the cross in "crucible."

Salience

2009-10-05T19:40:00.005-04:00

On Mondays, I come home after class for an hour or two to eat lunch and spend some time with Allison Clare before I head back for a stretch in the office. Today, I had a little errand to run--getting doughnuts for a department meeting to celebrate a friend's birthday. I popped AC into her carseat, and we went to the Krispy Kreme drive-through.

I yelled my selections into the microphone, pulled around, and paid. The attendant handed the box and waxed paper bag through my car window, and then, as we were driving off, I heard a little voice pipe up chirpily from the back of the car, "Yummmm . . . French fries."

Sigh. The child has only visited the McDonald's drive-through once or twice in her entire life, but it clearly made an indelible impression. We go to the farmer's market every week, and does she say, "Yum . . . broccoli"? She does not.

Number 1 Was Number 2

2009-10-02T14:22:00.008-04:00

--Not for the faint of stomach or delicate of manners. Seriously, please just stop here if that's you.

My enjoyment of parenting has not at all decreased my horror at the things it calls upon a person to do. Sometimes it's like being on a reality show (I know: how sad that I would see my life in terms of television, instead of vice versa) on which the host dreams up bizzare challenges and throws them at you, earnest, willing, trying-to-be-up-for-anything-mommy.

It all started yesterday afternoon, at the pediatrician's office, which as I've written about before, I love to visit for well-child checkups. As always, they were solicitous and kind and tolerated my relish in telling them about AC's new developments and miniature accomplishments. But she'd been having this low-grade fever that had spiked to almost 104, so the doctor wanted to check for a possible urinary tract infection.

Doctor: Of course we don't want to have to catheterize her to get a sample, but we do have this . . . bag . . . that she could . . . wear.

Me, tentatively: Um, she does use the potty . . .

Doctor, excitedly: Oh, that's much better! We'll do that.

Me: Well, she doesn't do it every time . . . [In truth, she does it maybe once or twice a day, but it's pretty erratic. She makes the potty sign regularly, but often doesn't want to stop playing to follow through, and we don't want to make it into a battle until we're ready to potty train her in earnest. Hence my distinct hesitation about my ego writing checks a 19-month-old body couldn't cash.]

Doctor, clearly having moved on in his relief and excitement: Oh, we'll get you some cups, and you can just bring it back in the morning!

And that is how I ended up locked in the bathroom for an hour this morning with Allison Clare, her feverish and VERY confused and unhappy about being stripped naked (but also bemused and pleased by being plied with more cups of juice than she has ever been permitted in her life 'til now), and me desperately trying to keep a sterile urine cup within inches of her while keeping her from grabbing at it and contaminating it. I basically chased her around the bathroom and tried to clean up and/or keep her from splashing in the three small puddles that I didn't catch before she finally consented to go on the potty, at which point I nearly cried with relief and elation over the successful "capture" and self-pity at what my life had become.

The title of this post refers to the fact that this incident involving Number 1 is the Number 2 most horrifying experience I've had in parenthood, the first being the time I was at Barnes & Noble 40 minutes away from home, out for the day with AC as a 3-month-old, sitting in a corner of the cafe, nursing her discreetly under a wrap, when I felt something dismayingly warm and wet on my leg and realized she had had an enormous, blowout breastfed-baby poop (for the uninitiated, that means it was roughly the color of mustard and consistency of yogurt) that had exploded up the back of her diaper, leaving a gob about the size of an ice cream scoop on my pants, there under my serene nursing cover. I stayed calm, let her finish, and tried to plan a strategy that would allow me to unlatch her without smearing it all around, get her back into the stroller without transferring the mess from her onto the stroller, and get us both with our gear from the cafe to the restroom without making it totally apparent to all the nearby bookbuyers that I was covered in human excrement.

That incident was definitely number one because of the public situation, though this recent one was a close second because of an added stressor, which was that I needed the urine sample within a short window of time: after teaching my class, before her nap, so that I could get it up to the lab before they closed for the weekend and be back in time for all of us to go out to another appointment. Like I said, it's been like a reality show around here, bizarre twisty challenges and all.

Autumn

2009-09-27T21:59:00.003-04:00

This season feels shrouded, overcast with some heavy pall. A few weeks ago, a colleague's wife died suddenly; she was just a few years older than Sam. Her gentle-souled husband is left to do--what? start over? In middle age, after working his whole adulthood building a life alongside her? I'd just had a conversation with him about the bathroom he'd finished remodeling in the house they had just bought, and about his new hobby of baking bread. And then there we all were at her memorial service, in black.

And just this past week, we learned that another endlessly generous friend has gotten some very, very bad news from his doctors. The spring we bought our house and ripped open all its walls and ceilings, he came over to offer some advice on how to solve a tricky wall-rebuilding problem; later that afternoon, unexpectedly, he returned with a couple of wood braces he had built in his shop, let himself into the house with a quiet "Hello" (we were all open doors then), and set about rebuilding our wall for us. Just because he thought it looked like we were having a bad day. We were, but it was one in a couple of months of bad days, and what I remember about that one day, and even about that couple of months, was this act of kindness and others like it.

I was thinking about these things, and about a couple of friends of friends who have lost or may be losing children, when we were in church this morning. Allison Clare had been running a very low-grade fever for a while, off and on, and then she had surprised us by sleeping until 10:00 a.m. Saturday morning. (Which, you know, leaves you 98% elated and 2% worried about whether she'll be okay when you finally go into her room.) I'm pretty sure that she was just worn out from a busy week, but it did make me think, there in church, about how what we love most tenderly is perhaps the most fragile and absolutely the most irreplaceable. Or it seems to be fragile, because the eternal is represented in flesh so undeniably, relentlessly perishable.

For me, I don't think that what faith provides most significantly is the knowledge of how to live my life (as I think a theologian would affirm), or even the power to do so (as a charismatic would promise). To be honest, I think I'm muddling through on both counts. Sometimes, I'm self-righteous or proud about how I'm doing it, which is certainly no credit to what or whom I believe, and other times, I just feel confused or skeptical or cynical. Sometimes I'm pretty sure that my faith is so insufficient that it doesn't even change me, that I'm no better than I would be without it--which is not to say that God isn't good or present or powerful, but rather to comment on my own smug slothfulness.

But here is the one thing that my particular, peculiar, rickety faith gives me that nothing else in my self-centered little world could: the hope that if I lost Allison Clare, I would see her again.

Pink Elephants

2009-09-25T21:15:00.003-04:00

Here is something not to do: Do not make a double batch of Nestle Toll House chocolate chip cookie dough, and most especially do not substitute Hershey's Special Dark chocolate chips. Do not divide the whole batch of dough into cookie-sized balls and freeze them in a Ziploc bag where they will be dangerously handy. Do not let your husband, who has willpower issues of his own and loves to tempt you, know that they are there. Do not think all day, every day, about the warm cookies the two of you could share every night after your child goes to bed, in just 12 minutes. Plus preheating time, that is, which is what I'm using to write this entry. There goes the oven.

And When She Was Bad, She Was Very, Very, Not That Bad

2009-09-19T21:23:00.004-04:00

Yesterday, Allison Clare had a temper tantrum of Vesuvian proportions. It started out with her collapsing in squealing fury on the sidewalk. I carried her inside, where she lay on her back on the hardwood floor in the corner, kicked her heels, and rolled from side to side with the force of her bloodcurdling screams. The source of her anguish? That I cruelly refused to allow her to run out into the street.*

I talk to my mom several times a week, and often get her perspective on AC-related questions. However, on this issue, I am getting the sense that her experience with raising me might have required very different skills from the present challenge of Allison Clare. As my mom recently told Sam, she remembers two times from my childhood when I was really, really bad.

When I was about fifteen months old, the first story goes, she took me to the photographer.

"And . . .?"

"And Tara would not--just would not!--smile."

"Oh. And the other time?"

"I took her to the butcher shop when she was three or four and the lady gave her a lollipop. And she refused to say thank you."

"Oh."

"And so I made her give the lollipop back."

Sigh. No screaming, no tears, no rolling around. No contest.

*Of course, when Allison Clare had decided it was over, she climbed onto my lap, smiled, and kissed me, still quivering with sobs. The child is a mystery.

Your Brain on Drugs

2009-09-10T22:03:00.004-04:00

One of the things I've learned in recent years is how much we are creatures of our chemistry. It's not just people I know who have found near-salvific life changes through anti-depressants; it's also the fact that I myself go from fairly even-keeled in my ordinary life to hair-trigger homicidal (in my mind) while pregnant.

To my shame, I have twice made little scenes at the grocery store, both times under the influence of progesterone. The sources of these conflicts have been trivial and absurd: the price of cereal (not as posted on the shelf because "that price [was] for the future") and a clerk's insistence (in response to a polite question about whether I could make a change to my self-checkout order) that if I didn't sign the credit card machine, the store would leave my credit card open on that machine "FOR. EVER." and the machine could no longer be used by anyone else because it would be frozen there, waiting for my signature, for eternity. It's not like I started screaming at anyone, but whereas I ordinarily would have been annoyed and maybe a little amused, I wanted to take somebody hostage and demand justice, or at least an accounting of the sheer absurdity of what had just been told me.

You wouldn't believe what goes on in my mind in response to things like the electrician gouging our new laundry-room countertop, or Sam's cousin continuing to spam her whole Facebook list with vaguely worded messages about "business opportunities" in spite of pleas from all her friends that she stop. It's as if the superhuman sense of smell that I have developed (tormenting, because as it turns out, the world mostly does not smell very good) is accompanied by an equally acute sense of personal injury and grievance at all manner of minor insult and not-directed-at-me inconvenience. I badly need to get some actual perspective, or take some kind of sedative, cocktails being sadly out of the question now, when I need one most.

Hey, Wait a Minute . . .

2009-09-03T18:05:00.004-04:00

S: I have no ice cream.

T: Poor you.

S: The right answer is, "Husband, I love you so much I will go to the store and buy you some tonight."

T: Isn't it supposed to be the husband running out to buy things craved by the pregnant wife, and not vice versa?

S: You're so right. I'll go and buy you some ice cream right away.

They Know About Us

2009-08-28T19:39:00.004-04:00

I've felt twinges of self-consciousness about our having another baby rather quickly, such as when a colleague recently responded to the news by saying "SO! Are you two planning to be our local Jon and Kate?" (Uh, no. There was a cautionary tale.)

Still, even having weathered that question, I was a little taken aback when this flyer showed up in our mailbox:

Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be nothing more personalized than an ad for a new line of Huggies diapers, called "Little Movers." I guess Facebook's almost creepily targeted advertising has gotten to me.

The Mortifications of the Flesh

2009-08-26T22:27:00.006-04:00

I had read that with the second baby, you show a lot earlier, and I have definitely found this to be true. It's as if my abdominal muscles (such as they were, let's be honest) just said, "We know where this is going" and surrendered.

Thus, I am facing a more extended season of maternity wear and therefore more total cycles of the same outfits. Last time, I inadvertently put off wearing maternity clothes probably too long. I had a pair of maternity jeans that I kept trying on, and they kept slipping down, so I thought that I wasn't big enough for maternity clothes yet, but as it turned out, those pants were just an exceptionally poor fit. As a result of this misjudgment, I persisted in wearing regular clothes to the point that 1) it probably looked tacky and 2) when I finally did realize my mistake, I actually felt relief at how comfortably maternity clothes fit.

I'm still in my regular wardrobe for now, but I began steeling myself for the inevitable by looking around for a couple of things to supplement my maternity wardrobe. The whole experience was incredibly demoralizing. Worse than shopping for jeans, worse than shopping for bathing suits. There is something just so depressingly delusional about a clothing line that advertises its "secret fit belly." Especially when you look at the online models, and all you can SEE is belly. Whom do they think they are kidding? Me, I guess (hence demoralizing). I looked at a couple of dresses, and for an instant found myself pathetically hopeful that the design of one seemed to offer a certain camoflauge. But then I thought, come on. Seriously. Are my students really not going to notice that I gain twenty or thirty pounds right before their very eyes, in the time it takes them to write three essays and read six novels? I don't think so.

Meanwhile, there is the diverting challenge of managing a toddler and bouts of (thank you, God, that it is not as bad this time) morning sickness. Which means that on those (not as frequent, so I'm really not complaining, I promise) occasions that I find myself hunched over the kitchen sink, I am also holding Allison Clare's hand in one of my own, while she, fascinated, jumps up and down next to me and says, "Blaaaah! Blaaaah!" because she is a stage of imitating everything I do. Charming child.

Now Showing

2009-08-24T15:45:00.001-04:00

Or, Fool Me Once, Shame on You; Fool Me Twice, Shame on Me

If you scrutinized the Boardwalk videos as closely as I did, this may not come as much of a surprise, but I seriously doubt that anyone else shared my motivation to determine whether my pants were bulging, especially with Allison Clare's wow-ing dominating the foreground. If you did notice, however, let me say at last that it was not just the Mack & Manco's pizza, Johnson's (warm, gooey, yet crisp) caramel corn, Kohr Brothers' ice cream, and boardwalk fries I had just consumed; it was a little early second birthday present Sam and I have been cooking up for Allison Clare. A bun, if you will.

First, some explanation: As anyone who has ever seen Sam in (. . . s . . . l . . . o . . . w . . .) motion can attest, he never moves quickly. We can be way late, or crossing a parking lot in the midst of a downpour, or in the path of an oncoming semi, and Sam merely accelerates from a stroll to a mosey. If I attempt to proceed at a normal rate, I feel him reach out from behind me and put an arm around my shoulders in a way that might look like a caress, but is actually a restraint, a lot like the hook that used to come out to pull the vaudeville act offstage. We say that he goes at Kentucky speed, while I go at New Jersey speed.

Thus, it seems poignantly ironic that he would be the architect of what feels like an accelerated family planning schedule. We had Allison Clare nine months and three days after our wedding, and this baby will be born pretty much exactly nine months after I conceded that we could even begin considering the possibility of having another. But Sam gave me the old "I have fertility problems!" song and dance, and being somewhat overly planful myself, I figured that it could take a while, that I was not getting any younger either, that we might end up pursuing adoption this time around, etc., etc. And there you have it: conceding we could start thinking about it was apparently all it took.

My last post was certainly no advertisement for our parenting abilities, but nonetheless, we are very excited. I am deliriously thankful not to have experienced morning sickness as severe/constant as the first time around. We won't know for about six more weeks whether it is a boy or a girl, but I feel certain that it is a boy. So far my prediction rate has been 100%, but one is hardly a statistically significant sample, so who knows?

AAAAAAAGH!

2009-08-21T13:25:00.002-04:00

. . . that's the sound Allison Clare chose to make, at the top of her lungs, while we tried to have dinner with my boss and her husband at our house last night. Our little monkey was not in a bad mood or throwing a tantrum, just in the mood to YELL . . . smiling the whole time. Nothing I tried worked--not giving her a bowl of blueberries to eat, or getting her attention and giving her a firm "no." She would look back at me seriously, then smile, suck in her breath, and let out another "AAAAAAH." Thankfully, our guests were very, very gracious and good-humored about it.

At her age, we can't reason with her, or bribe her, or threaten her, since she doesn't understand abstract language or cause-and-effect. I think we are just going to have to wait her out. Sigh.

Manly Talk

2009-08-13T13:14:00.005-04:00

In the various stages of demolition, renovation, and maintenance that we have experienced in this near-hundred year old house, I have gotten to witness lots of communication among tradesmen. It's a world that I'm not really familiar with, partly because I'm a woman and partly because I had almost never seen an actual repairman until I moved here--when I was a kid, my dad fixed pretty much everything himself; then I was a tenant; then I bought a condo, but it was pretty new. Even when I bought my own old house a couple of years before we got married, I mostly just pointed out the problem to whomever the home warranty company sent over, maybe got a "we'll take care of it, little lady" in return, and wrote a check, and all was said and done.

But my relationship with this house and particularly with it as Sam reconstructs it piece by piece has meant that I have gotten to witness much more rhetorically and sociologically complex dealings. I have seen the gleam in the eyes of two handymen, an electrician, assorted assistant craftsmen, and even friends who have stopped by, when we had what seemed to be an indestructible laundry chute that needed to be taken out. Each wanted to try his hand and his own set of tools at the destruction, as if it were some kind of fantasy or video game come true. I have also seen a row of seven tradesmen from different, unrelated companies who happened to be at the house for different, unrelated purposes, as they converged on the ridge by the side of the house to peer up at the chimney and emit guttural, good-natured mutterings that somehow--with no intelligible remarks I could make out--resulted in a plan of action for the masonry team.

For the past week, we have had a drywaller and his assistant with us. They've pulled down the wallpaper in the entryway, stairway, and hallway, which was a job Sam and I had been putting off doing ourselves since buying the house, and they've been working on replacing the ceiling in the basement, which has not been going well. Last night, Sam realized that there was a problem with the tiles, and they were all going to need to be replaced. I was dreading the conversation about it, since we didn't really want to pay more for the job, but a lot of the work was going to have to be redone. I had to break the news to the guy at first because Sam was in the shower, so I went down to the basement, showed him the tiles, and said that we were concerned about how they were fitting into place and thought that we were going to need to get different ones. He understood, but we both just sort of looked glumly at the miserable, poor-fitting tiles for a while, so then I said Sam would be down in a few minutes and made my exit.

Then Sam goes down, and I hear some lively conversation. Not unfriendly. Some back and forth and some "hmmm" and "umm-hmmm" and "ah!" and sounds of things being moved around. Then a burst of laughter and "Okay, man" and then some "I like this solution" and "Well, I really appreciate that." And then Sam comes upstairs and they're both all smiles and not only is the guy going to replace them for us, but he's very cheerful about it.

I feel that I could have achieved approximately the same practical outcome (tiles getting replaced), but I could never have made this fellow feel so happy about it. It's as if by having the conversation with Sam, he gets to feel that he has participated in some shared manly project, whereas if I had had to negotiate him into doing it, he would have just felt backed into a corner. I don't think it's malicious sexism as much as it is a de facto separate world, a world as encoded with subtleties as any female one, perhaps even more so because so much of its communication occurs without language.