This is what Naomi comes up with to do while her father plays Medieval II on the computer...
We're headed to Arizona- Merry Christmas, ya'll!!
Monday, December 17, 2007
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Holiday Petits Fours
It's four blog entries in one!
Open House, revisited
This past Saturday was our holiday open house, the method I have been employing in place of making a cookie plate for our neighbors. This way, I invite them to our house, where they can eat cookies (among other things), but if they don't come, in a sense, no cookies are wasted. Selfish and lazy? Or a good motivator to get our house cleaned in advance of Christmas? Either way, it was Saturday, and...well attended! We had four different neighbor houses represented (though I expected more, as I actually delivered the invitations in person, at a reasonable hour, and in most cases handed them to the neighbors), as well as two family groups of our friends, and a couple, one half of which is a coworker of Jim's.
Long time readers of this blog may recall that last year's open house went ahead even in the face of a ridiculous power outage during a very chilly week. That party was fifty-three degrees and lit like a pioneer house. So heat and light were two of the exciting innovations at this year's shindig. Everyone was chummy, the house looked decent, our tree is really pretty this year, and overall I would have to classify it as a success.
The only weird part is that no one really ate anything. I am a firm believer that if you are having people over to your house, there should be way too much food. So, there are always leftovers, but this time, it was like I had mice for guests. The toddlers did manage to finish off the bowl of grapes, so that was gratifying. Anyway, if you are hungry for a cheese ball, stop by- I have seven-eighths of one in my fridge.
Idaho-Ho-Ho
We visited our neighbors to the southeast on the weekend straddling November and December, and had a really good time. There was some madness at either end, as we navigated through the airport with a carseat, a stroller and baby bucket, additional carseat base (for the bucket), five carry-on items, two rolly suitcases, and two tots. Going through security with this caravan of babies and related items was pure theater of the absurd. We rented a mini-van on the Idaho end of the flight, and man-oh-man did it become obvious why people buy and drive these vehicles. Sheesh. It was all worthwhile when we got to spend time with our dear friends and their 18 month old son, Charlie, who is clearly infatuated with Muriel. She doesn't try to be irresistible...
Boise is a fast-growing town, and we could appreciate our friends' feelings of ambivalence at the beautiful new house they bought, built on land only recently repurposed from growing corn. They can see a farm out their back door, but their neighborhood is anything but rustic. The sky, of course, is still wide open in a way that it absolutely is not in our part of the country. Which reminds me...
Wait a Minute...What?
Normally I am an NPR commuter, there and back, which means I get lots of overly sobering news of the world, relentless presidential candidate coverage, and an occasional light-hearted feature. Jim is an NPR guy too, much of the time, but when I got into his car to go to work this week, the radio was tuned to a station with a format I must lovingly refer to as "JAMMIN' OLDIES!" I don't know if it was because I was driving to work at 7:20, a full two hours earlier than my slackerly time frame of late, or if it was just the particular song that was playing when I started the car on Monday, but I have continued jammin' to the oldies for a couple of days now.
And that is what led me to this realization (that of course I have had many times before, so it's not really that profound): songs are not always about what you think they are about. Although I am sometimes surprised how many songs from the eighties I can sing by heart, as a rule I am bad at making out lyrics in songs. But when you are commuting along, alone in the car, with the oldies jamming, it becomes somewhat easier to follow along. Which is how I discovered that a song I remember us singing the chorus (and not much else) to as kids is not about any of things I might have imagined it to be about -rather, the message of the song is, you are a cheating whore, and don't think I don't know it, because... I can see for miles and miles. I can see for miles and miles. I can see for miles and miles and miles and miles and so forth. Really, I don't advocate for people cheating on their partners, but this guy sounds like a bit of a jerk. Just break up, you guys.
If I knew you were coming, I'd have moked a cake
I have been keeping track of funny things that come out of Naomi's mouth for a few months now, and trying not to clog the blog with too much overly-precious observations about my kid, but I can wait no longer. These are a few of my favorite things:
moked - past tense of make, as in "I moked you some cookies!"
Doan forgot - forgot. She always adds a doan (don't) on the front, I think because she hears me say "Don't forget to do X". Her version is not negative, though. If you doan forgot to do something, you forgot to do it.
underpits - armpits, or underarms. I have taken to saying it this way, now, too, because it slays me when she says it, and I don't want her to catch on that it's not the common idiom.
Line used in defense of self, when she perceives me to be using an uneccessarily harsh tone with her - "Don't shout at me, I'm a friendly girl!"
Evidence that she is a glass-half-full person- While reading a book of Charlie's that demonstrates feelings by picturing Sesame street characters making various faces (worried face, happy face, confused face), upon encountering on the sad face page a picture of Elmo with a now empty ice cream cone, Naomi said "...But he could still eat the cone, though."
Finally, a quote so wacky, I had to write it down immediately. I love it because it sounds like she is speaking English as a second language. She has all the words to say this right, but the idea is coming too fast, so she just has to scramble around to get it out: "I figured out a thing! If you wear sunshine glasses in the wind, your eyes won't water!"
Open House, revisited
This past Saturday was our holiday open house, the method I have been employing in place of making a cookie plate for our neighbors. This way, I invite them to our house, where they can eat cookies (among other things), but if they don't come, in a sense, no cookies are wasted. Selfish and lazy? Or a good motivator to get our house cleaned in advance of Christmas? Either way, it was Saturday, and...well attended! We had four different neighbor houses represented (though I expected more, as I actually delivered the invitations in person, at a reasonable hour, and in most cases handed them to the neighbors), as well as two family groups of our friends, and a couple, one half of which is a coworker of Jim's.
Long time readers of this blog may recall that last year's open house went ahead even in the face of a ridiculous power outage during a very chilly week. That party was fifty-three degrees and lit like a pioneer house. So heat and light were two of the exciting innovations at this year's shindig. Everyone was chummy, the house looked decent, our tree is really pretty this year, and overall I would have to classify it as a success.
The only weird part is that no one really ate anything. I am a firm believer that if you are having people over to your house, there should be way too much food. So, there are always leftovers, but this time, it was like I had mice for guests. The toddlers did manage to finish off the bowl of grapes, so that was gratifying. Anyway, if you are hungry for a cheese ball, stop by- I have seven-eighths of one in my fridge.
Idaho-Ho-Ho
We visited our neighbors to the southeast on the weekend straddling November and December, and had a really good time. There was some madness at either end, as we navigated through the airport with a carseat, a stroller and baby bucket, additional carseat base (for the bucket), five carry-on items, two rolly suitcases, and two tots. Going through security with this caravan of babies and related items was pure theater of the absurd. We rented a mini-van on the Idaho end of the flight, and man-oh-man did it become obvious why people buy and drive these vehicles. Sheesh. It was all worthwhile when we got to spend time with our dear friends and their 18 month old son, Charlie, who is clearly infatuated with Muriel. She doesn't try to be irresistible...
Boise is a fast-growing town, and we could appreciate our friends' feelings of ambivalence at the beautiful new house they bought, built on land only recently repurposed from growing corn. They can see a farm out their back door, but their neighborhood is anything but rustic. The sky, of course, is still wide open in a way that it absolutely is not in our part of the country. Which reminds me...
Wait a Minute...What?
Normally I am an NPR commuter, there and back, which means I get lots of overly sobering news of the world, relentless presidential candidate coverage, and an occasional light-hearted feature. Jim is an NPR guy too, much of the time, but when I got into his car to go to work this week, the radio was tuned to a station with a format I must lovingly refer to as "JAMMIN' OLDIES!" I don't know if it was because I was driving to work at 7:20, a full two hours earlier than my slackerly time frame of late, or if it was just the particular song that was playing when I started the car on Monday, but I have continued jammin' to the oldies for a couple of days now.
And that is what led me to this realization (that of course I have had many times before, so it's not really that profound): songs are not always about what you think they are about. Although I am sometimes surprised how many songs from the eighties I can sing by heart, as a rule I am bad at making out lyrics in songs. But when you are commuting along, alone in the car, with the oldies jamming, it becomes somewhat easier to follow along. Which is how I discovered that a song I remember us singing the chorus (and not much else) to as kids is not about any of things I might have imagined it to be about -rather, the message of the song is, you are a cheating whore, and don't think I don't know it, because... I can see for miles and miles. I can see for miles and miles. I can see for miles and miles and miles and miles and so forth. Really, I don't advocate for people cheating on their partners, but this guy sounds like a bit of a jerk. Just break up, you guys.
If I knew you were coming, I'd have moked a cake
I have been keeping track of funny things that come out of Naomi's mouth for a few months now, and trying not to clog the blog with too much overly-precious observations about my kid, but I can wait no longer. These are a few of my favorite things:
moked - past tense of make, as in "I moked you some cookies!"
Doan forgot - forgot. She always adds a doan (don't) on the front, I think because she hears me say "Don't forget to do X". Her version is not negative, though. If you doan forgot to do something, you forgot to do it.
underpits - armpits, or underarms. I have taken to saying it this way, now, too, because it slays me when she says it, and I don't want her to catch on that it's not the common idiom.
Line used in defense of self, when she perceives me to be using an uneccessarily harsh tone with her - "Don't shout at me, I'm a friendly girl!"
Evidence that she is a glass-half-full person- While reading a book of Charlie's that demonstrates feelings by picturing Sesame street characters making various faces (worried face, happy face, confused face), upon encountering on the sad face page a picture of Elmo with a now empty ice cream cone, Naomi said "...But he could still eat the cone, though."
Finally, a quote so wacky, I had to write it down immediately. I love it because it sounds like she is speaking English as a second language. She has all the words to say this right, but the idea is coming too fast, so she just has to scramble around to get it out: "I figured out a thing! If you wear sunshine glasses in the wind, your eyes won't water!"
Indeed!
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Fermented Tofu...
For the uninitiated, hot pot (also called "Steamboat") involves a boiling hot pot of soup in the middle of the table, into which is thrown various meats, vegetables, seafood, and tofu, which are then fished out, dunked into sauce, and consumed. At the end, you add noodles and eggs, cook it a bit longer, eat the noodles and eggs with the last of the soup, and then fall into a stupor, stroking your painfully distended belly. Mmm.
The first time I had hot pot was at the house of our good friends G. and J. in Minnesota. They take this meal very seriously, much to our great benefit. At that first hot pot, G. endeavored to win us over to his side in the great dipping sauce debate. J.'s sauce was barbecue based (not Kraft barbecue, more like Korean barbecue) with hot chilies, I think. But G's sauce featured an insane amount of minced garlic, an equal part of chopped cilantro, and some kind of sauce base that held the whole thing together. Unlike dipping sauces from bottles (which we use in our occasional sad attempts to simulate the hot pot experience), it takes only a small amount of this magical sauce to satisfy the dipping requirements of a giant pile of tasty hot pot items.
For years (literally) after that, I would occasionally have a taste memory of that sauce, which was incredibly flavorful and delicious. We attempted to make it on our own, but we could never figure out what the sauce base was that held everything together. And for some reason, we never managed to just ask G. what the sauce was made of- when we wanted to know, we couldn't get in touch, or when we were in touch, we forgot to ask.
But this past weekend, joy of joys, we had a visit from G. and J. and their very cute toddling son A. After a trip to Pike's market for some very fresh seafood, and another side trip to the Korean grocery store around the corner, we came home and put our guests to work in preparing hot pot. Warning: the pictures that follow may be disturbing to vegetarians. As well as anyone who has a problem with outright gluttony.
So what was the secret ingredient in the sauce (in the bottom right of the photo just above)? Fermented tofu, of course, with a liberal addition of sesame oil. There are a lot of ingredients in Chinese food that sound like they would go into a witch's brew. Don't even get me started on the century egg. And fermented tofu, in addition to having a questionable (though descriptive) name, has kind of a funky smell and often comes in intriguing little brown clay pots. But believe me, it has its charms.
I know we will not be able to make the sauce on our own as well as G. makes it. But that is not the only reason we were glad to have these visitors around. It's been a fantastic year for visitors at our house, and it is one of the best things in the world to have good friends around our table. Come on over! The pot is hot.
The first time I had hot pot was at the house of our good friends G. and J. in Minnesota. They take this meal very seriously, much to our great benefit. At that first hot pot, G. endeavored to win us over to his side in the great dipping sauce debate. J.'s sauce was barbecue based (not Kraft barbecue, more like Korean barbecue) with hot chilies, I think. But G's sauce featured an insane amount of minced garlic, an equal part of chopped cilantro, and some kind of sauce base that held the whole thing together. Unlike dipping sauces from bottles (which we use in our occasional sad attempts to simulate the hot pot experience), it takes only a small amount of this magical sauce to satisfy the dipping requirements of a giant pile of tasty hot pot items.
For years (literally) after that, I would occasionally have a taste memory of that sauce, which was incredibly flavorful and delicious. We attempted to make it on our own, but we could never figure out what the sauce base was that held everything together. And for some reason, we never managed to just ask G. what the sauce was made of- when we wanted to know, we couldn't get in touch, or when we were in touch, we forgot to ask.
But this past weekend, joy of joys, we had a visit from G. and J. and their very cute toddling son A. After a trip to Pike's market for some very fresh seafood, and another side trip to the Korean grocery store around the corner, we came home and put our guests to work in preparing hot pot. Warning: the pictures that follow may be disturbing to vegetarians. As well as anyone who has a problem with outright gluttony.
Turns out a fish head makes good soup for the hot pot!
One of the two kinds of tofu, one of the two kinds of mushrooms, and of course, ferns...
I am more excited than I look about eating this bok choy. And Naomi is exactly as excited as she looks about eating these noodles.
The whole gang, minus photographer Jim, as usual. Notice Muriel hanging around in the background. No soup for you, baby!
So what was the secret ingredient in the sauce (in the bottom right of the photo just above)? Fermented tofu, of course, with a liberal addition of sesame oil. There are a lot of ingredients in Chinese food that sound like they would go into a witch's brew. Don't even get me started on the century egg. And fermented tofu, in addition to having a questionable (though descriptive) name, has kind of a funky smell and often comes in intriguing little brown clay pots. But believe me, it has its charms.
I know we will not be able to make the sauce on our own as well as G. makes it. But that is not the only reason we were glad to have these visitors around. It's been a fantastic year for visitors at our house, and it is one of the best things in the world to have good friends around our table. Come on over! The pot is hot.
Oh, and Happy Thanksgiving!
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Infestation!
It's bad enough to find giant insects in your home...
...but then on top of that, bats start showing up?
Yikes! Someone call pest control, ASAP!
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Weird and Weirder (in reverse order)
These two anecdotes have no relationship to each other, but for the fact that they are both...weird. Just in time for Halloween. Of course, a picture post with the photos of the season will follow this.
On Sunday we took the kids to the park to celebrate the fact that it was not raining. We brought a picnic along, including "Boo Chips", which are pringle-esque, but shaped like ghosts and jack-o-lanterns. The playground was crowded, as were the benches, but after sufficient running around, we sat at a picnic table and divided up the food. Naomi and I were sitting on one side, both straddling the bench, in her case, because she is too small for a picnic table, so her food was in front of her on the bench, and in my case, because Muriel was strapped on in the front pack, which made facing the table a little awkward. Jim was on the other side, handing out the food.
A few minutes after we began our picnic, a woman who had been sitting on one of the benches near the playground came over and sat at our table (on Jim's side, facing away from the table). I had noticed this woman earlier, because it wasn't clear that she was attached to any of the
kids or families, but was just enjoying the day. And also? Because she was a classic spooky old lady. She was bony, under long skirts and a velvet jacket, grey chin-length curls, a face both wrinkly and sharp, and an impressive nose. I pantomimed to Jim that there was a banana still in the bag, and that he should offer it to her, which he did. She declined the banana, but accepted some Boo Chips.
And so our picnic ensued. The woman did not speak English, but that did not deter her at all from conversing with us in whatever she did speak (something Slavic?), and hand gestures. Naomi and I were sharing an apple, and with the all the cutting pantomime, I really think the lady was trying to say, if you cut me off some of that apple, I'll take some. We didn't have a knife, though, and I am not so brotherhood (sisterhood?) of man as to let a stranger chew from the same piece of fruit as my kid. After a bit, Muriel woke up and began to fuss, as babies do, because her front-pack nap had been inadequate (this baby requires a lot of sleep). The lady kept pointing at me, grabbing her breast, and then making eating motions with her hands. And Jim and I, doing the ridiculously over-friendly smiling and laughing that makes Americans (and their assimilated spouses, heh) look like idiots the world over, pantomimed back the classic going-to-sleep pose (closed eyes, head leaning on folded hands). She's not hungry, she's sleepy. Unconvinced that we had properly understood her, she actually came around the table and pointed at my breast. Check! Understood! Back away!
I took Muriel out of the pack, as she enjoys a sunny day, like most people, and handed her to Jim. The lady said lots of incomprehensible things to Muriel, in a shrill, talking-to-a-baby voice, tried to get Muriel to grab her fingers, and the like. Muriel, though tired, tried to be a
good sport. It was getting late (late for Naomi's nap, that is), so we packed up our stuff and cleaned up, and she saw that we were going to go. She held out her hands to hold Muriel, and Jim relented (what can you do?). She started to sort of toss Muriel in the air (which she is by
no means old enough for), and then stood up with her, and started (jokily?) making off with her. She kept looking back at Naomi and me, and saying something, with a look on her face (again, a joking look?), which I assumed was something like, "Uh oh, I'm stealing the baby, ha ha!" I couldn't tell if she was aiming her joke at Naomi or at me.
Either way, I was totally not down with the joke. I kept saying, "Jim, get our baby." Jim laughed. "Seriously, get our baby." "Seriously, get our baby." I don't know how many times I said, it but over and over, with, I think, a big dumb frozen smile on my face, like I was playing
along. Jim finally got the baby, and we said goodbye, and headed for the car. It's not like she could have run faster than Jim, and somehow actually made off with Muriel. But seriously, don't walk off with someone else's baby! Especially if it seems like you are maybe a little batty and cannot make your comic intentions clear! Or, not with my baby, anyway.
The other weird anecdote stars the other kid. If I have not said it recently, Naomi is a really good kid. But like every two year old, she has a burgeoning reserve of cheekiness that sometimes gets the better of her. The other night I was trying to nurse Muriel, and I asked Naomi to leave the room, because her chirpy chatter is endlessly fascinating to
Murel, who must stop nursing and crane her neck around to try to get a look at her sister. Not only would Naomi not leave, she came over to the bedside table and began to play with a pretty little box of mine. She has previously damaged the lid of this box, and she knows she is not
supposed to touch it. So I said, Naomi, put the lid down. And she held it in her hand, and looked at me, and didn't move. I lost my cool, and raised my voice, and told her again to put it down. And instead of putting it down, she raised the box lid to her mouth and... licked it. Ha!
It was as if I had raised the stakes by yelling at her, and she had to raise them in turn, but couldn't figure out how to make her simple not-listening into something even naughtier. Ah, my creative, weird, cheeky kid.
Happy Halloween!
On Sunday we took the kids to the park to celebrate the fact that it was not raining. We brought a picnic along, including "Boo Chips", which are pringle-esque, but shaped like ghosts and jack-o-lanterns. The playground was crowded, as were the benches, but after sufficient running around, we sat at a picnic table and divided up the food. Naomi and I were sitting on one side, both straddling the bench, in her case, because she is too small for a picnic table, so her food was in front of her on the bench, and in my case, because Muriel was strapped on in the front pack, which made facing the table a little awkward. Jim was on the other side, handing out the food.
A few minutes after we began our picnic, a woman who had been sitting on one of the benches near the playground came over and sat at our table (on Jim's side, facing away from the table). I had noticed this woman earlier, because it wasn't clear that she was attached to any of the
kids or families, but was just enjoying the day. And also? Because she was a classic spooky old lady. She was bony, under long skirts and a velvet jacket, grey chin-length curls, a face both wrinkly and sharp, and an impressive nose. I pantomimed to Jim that there was a banana still in the bag, and that he should offer it to her, which he did. She declined the banana, but accepted some Boo Chips.
And so our picnic ensued. The woman did not speak English, but that did not deter her at all from conversing with us in whatever she did speak (something Slavic?), and hand gestures. Naomi and I were sharing an apple, and with the all the cutting pantomime, I really think the lady was trying to say, if you cut me off some of that apple, I'll take some. We didn't have a knife, though, and I am not so brotherhood (sisterhood?) of man as to let a stranger chew from the same piece of fruit as my kid. After a bit, Muriel woke up and began to fuss, as babies do, because her front-pack nap had been inadequate (this baby requires a lot of sleep). The lady kept pointing at me, grabbing her breast, and then making eating motions with her hands. And Jim and I, doing the ridiculously over-friendly smiling and laughing that makes Americans (and their assimilated spouses, heh) look like idiots the world over, pantomimed back the classic going-to-sleep pose (closed eyes, head leaning on folded hands). She's not hungry, she's sleepy. Unconvinced that we had properly understood her, she actually came around the table and pointed at my breast. Check! Understood! Back away!
I took Muriel out of the pack, as she enjoys a sunny day, like most people, and handed her to Jim. The lady said lots of incomprehensible things to Muriel, in a shrill, talking-to-a-baby voice, tried to get Muriel to grab her fingers, and the like. Muriel, though tired, tried to be a
good sport. It was getting late (late for Naomi's nap, that is), so we packed up our stuff and cleaned up, and she saw that we were going to go. She held out her hands to hold Muriel, and Jim relented (what can you do?). She started to sort of toss Muriel in the air (which she is by
no means old enough for), and then stood up with her, and started (jokily?) making off with her. She kept looking back at Naomi and me, and saying something, with a look on her face (again, a joking look?), which I assumed was something like, "Uh oh, I'm stealing the baby, ha ha!" I couldn't tell if she was aiming her joke at Naomi or at me.
Either way, I was totally not down with the joke. I kept saying, "Jim, get our baby." Jim laughed. "Seriously, get our baby." "Seriously, get our baby." I don't know how many times I said, it but over and over, with, I think, a big dumb frozen smile on my face, like I was playing
along. Jim finally got the baby, and we said goodbye, and headed for the car. It's not like she could have run faster than Jim, and somehow actually made off with Muriel. But seriously, don't walk off with someone else's baby! Especially if it seems like you are maybe a little batty and cannot make your comic intentions clear! Or, not with my baby, anyway.
The other weird anecdote stars the other kid. If I have not said it recently, Naomi is a really good kid. But like every two year old, she has a burgeoning reserve of cheekiness that sometimes gets the better of her. The other night I was trying to nurse Muriel, and I asked Naomi to leave the room, because her chirpy chatter is endlessly fascinating to
Murel, who must stop nursing and crane her neck around to try to get a look at her sister. Not only would Naomi not leave, she came over to the bedside table and began to play with a pretty little box of mine. She has previously damaged the lid of this box, and she knows she is not
supposed to touch it. So I said, Naomi, put the lid down. And she held it in her hand, and looked at me, and didn't move. I lost my cool, and raised my voice, and told her again to put it down. And instead of putting it down, she raised the box lid to her mouth and... licked it. Ha!
It was as if I had raised the stakes by yelling at her, and she had to raise them in turn, but couldn't figure out how to make her simple not-listening into something even naughtier. Ah, my creative, weird, cheeky kid.
Happy Halloween!
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Upright Citizens
The first order of business is to describe Muriel's dogged determination to always be either standing or sitting up. Of course, she is too little to do either, but she seems not to know that. Every time we plunk her in the bouncy seat, she does this hilarious ab workout routine that makes an otherwise luxurious recliner look like the most uncomfortable chair in the house. And there is no un-recline in the bouncy seat, so this sad state of affairs is going to continue until we find her something else to sit in, or she starts just walking around on her own. Naomi learned how to stand up and hold on to things at six months plus a week. Muriel's trainer has leaked information that leads us to believe she is on track to break that record.
Also, Muriel is starting to figure out that those hands she always sees waving around belong to her, and that with a little effort, she can do things with them. Like hold one with the other, hold that weird frog and turtle that always appear before her when she's in that way-too-reclined green seat, bring said frog or turtle up onto one of her shoulders or (somehow) to the top of her head and leave it there, and scratch little messages into mom's chest whenever she's in the Baby Bjorn. Oh, and escape from the nighttime swaddle, and bring them comfortably into her mouth, which uses them to make loud smacky, sucky sounds at 2:30 in the morning. Who knew they would be so useful?
On Tuesday night, the other small citizen of our republic and I attended a vigil for children's health care. I think the veto override vote is tomorrow, so if any of you all have a wavering Republican in the House (not your house, THE House), get thee to a phone. I was on the fence about bringing her along. On the one hand, good to be involved in a cause I am not a bit conflicted on, and good for Naomi to see what involvement (albeit not particularly efficacious involvement, I think) can look like. On the other hand, I dislike as a rule any appearance of using kids who don't know any better in the promotion of some position or other. Remember that "pass it on" billboard, with the three- or four-year-old girl on someone's shoulders, waving an American flag, and the word (I think) "Patriotism" below her? Yeech. What could be a less meaningful (and more manipulative) manifestation of patriotism, a problematic enough concept by itself?
Anyway, yeah, already sufficiently insured toddler girl in mom's arms on the street corner in front of Crate and Barrel, holding up her veto override sign for the well-heeled pedestrians and drivers of downtown Bellevue...I don't know. And lest anyone think that maybe she really did know why she was participating, she was pretty sure that people honked because they liked our signs.* I will not pain you with the details of our not-particularly successful conversation in the car on the way there about how all children should be able to go to the doctor...
My parents modeled participation in democracy in the sense that I knew they were voting, I guess. And there were always those little right-to-life roses on everything. But my wish for my kids is to really feel a part of the process, and feel they have a stake in it, in a way that I didn't. I am not blaming my parents- I have a particularly strong focus on myself (see: this blog) that is inherent in my personality- but I was apathetic about politics for a long time, because I didn't think it mattered. In fact, it rarely did matter to me because my life never changed much no matter who was in power or what they tried to do. I guess this is the legacy I do NOT want to pass along- that if it's not touching me, it doesn't matter. Because of course, the decisions of our leaders make a big difference in countless lives, and those lives and those differences matter, because they are my fellows. Fellow citizens, fellow parents, fellow children. (see what I mean? I am nearing middle age and am only just now figuring this out?!) This is what I want my two little citizens to bring out of childhood with them. I know about the stages of morality development, how self interest comes before other-interest and all that. But maybe actions of this kind will lead to habits on my part, and memories on their parts. Good luck to us.
*When you see those street-side sign holders and you're down with their message, people, give them a long, loud honk. Repeated honking is also good.
Saturday, October 06, 2007
Four Short Years
Wow, a post a month is not exactly a great record. I will pretend that there are readers who object to the long wait, and apologize. Sorry, ya'll.
This past Thursday was our fourth wedding anniversary. We celebrated by eating dinner later than usual (8:00 instead of 6:00), and in Jim's case, by waiting until 10:00 to fall asleep on the couch. Spicy! On the one hand, four years seems like a long time, that is, it's hard to believe that we've been married that long already. On the other hand, our lives have changed so drastically in those four years that it's difficult to see how all those changes could have fit into that span of time.
I remember as a teenager, or maybe a young twenty-something, asking my mom how she knew that my dad was the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. I was hoping for a peek into my mom's fairly secretive emotional life, and thrilled a bit to the anticipation of some semblance of girl talk between her and me- a rarity. I can't remember the exact words she used, but her answer was along the lines of "You know, we were just both at the age where people get married, so it seemed like the right thing to do." Was she just getting over a recent spat with my dad? Or did she really just get married because she was the right age, and so was he, and there they were, the right age, together?
The main piece of advice about marriage that my parents passed along to me (besides the one where my mom repeatedly harangued me not to get married before I finished my degree and found a good job) was to "marry a friend." Which, when you're a teenager, sounds ridiculous and even a little creepy. It was creepier still when my dad would explain that he and my mom didn't do that (but instead, just got married because she was so good looking, and he, the right age?), and this made it a lot harder when they ran into problems and had to work them out without a strong basis of friendship to stand on. I don't know how old you have to get before it's comfortable hearing your parents discuss problems in their marriage. They had their forty-fifth wedding anniversary (I think that's the right number) this year, so, all's well that endures well. The friendship must have seeped in along the way.
As with many pieces of parental advice that seemed at the time really not to apply to me, of course my parents were right about this. Having a good friend, one that you can really count on, by your side every day is absolutely the best thing about being married. It is a super sweet bonus if that friend is smart, kind, funny (goofy), strong, brave, a great father, a good singer, a good cook (if memory serves, ha ha, just kidding, honey), and last but not least, goooood looking. Reader, he is the bomb.
I thought it would be a palate cleanser to write about something other than my super cute and adorable girls and their winning ways and amazing vocabularies. And I could have gone the sitcom route and described all the things that drive us crazy about each other (I mean, not in a good way), or the absurd argument we had the other day about whether the giant powdered wigs that guys used to wear can be compared to something like modern day jeans in a historical big picture analysis of superficially inscrutable "fashion" (Me: they cannot! Him: they can!). Instead, I up the syrup ante with a little anniversary tribute to my man, and the institution that binds us.
Now married 4 years, in this picture, right around 4 minutes...
This past Thursday was our fourth wedding anniversary. We celebrated by eating dinner later than usual (8:00 instead of 6:00), and in Jim's case, by waiting until 10:00 to fall asleep on the couch. Spicy! On the one hand, four years seems like a long time, that is, it's hard to believe that we've been married that long already. On the other hand, our lives have changed so drastically in those four years that it's difficult to see how all those changes could have fit into that span of time.
I remember as a teenager, or maybe a young twenty-something, asking my mom how she knew that my dad was the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. I was hoping for a peek into my mom's fairly secretive emotional life, and thrilled a bit to the anticipation of some semblance of girl talk between her and me- a rarity. I can't remember the exact words she used, but her answer was along the lines of "You know, we were just both at the age where people get married, so it seemed like the right thing to do." Was she just getting over a recent spat with my dad? Or did she really just get married because she was the right age, and so was he, and there they were, the right age, together?
The main piece of advice about marriage that my parents passed along to me (besides the one where my mom repeatedly harangued me not to get married before I finished my degree and found a good job) was to "marry a friend." Which, when you're a teenager, sounds ridiculous and even a little creepy. It was creepier still when my dad would explain that he and my mom didn't do that (but instead, just got married because she was so good looking, and he, the right age?), and this made it a lot harder when they ran into problems and had to work them out without a strong basis of friendship to stand on. I don't know how old you have to get before it's comfortable hearing your parents discuss problems in their marriage. They had their forty-fifth wedding anniversary (I think that's the right number) this year, so, all's well that endures well. The friendship must have seeped in along the way.
As with many pieces of parental advice that seemed at the time really not to apply to me, of course my parents were right about this. Having a good friend, one that you can really count on, by your side every day is absolutely the best thing about being married. It is a super sweet bonus if that friend is smart, kind, funny (goofy), strong, brave, a great father, a good singer, a good cook (if memory serves, ha ha, just kidding, honey), and last but not least, goooood looking. Reader, he is the bomb.
I thought it would be a palate cleanser to write about something other than my super cute and adorable girls and their winning ways and amazing vocabularies. And I could have gone the sitcom route and described all the things that drive us crazy about each other (I mean, not in a good way), or the absurd argument we had the other day about whether the giant powdered wigs that guys used to wear can be compared to something like modern day jeans in a historical big picture analysis of superficially inscrutable "fashion" (Me: they cannot! Him: they can!). Instead, I up the syrup ante with a little anniversary tribute to my man, and the institution that binds us.
Now married 4 years, in this picture, right around 4 minutes...
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Gay King Zachy!
Naomi fears no word. She tries words out as soon as she hears them, and then tosses them into her everyday speech like croutons in a salad. Except in most cases it's more like marshmallows or chocolate chips in a salad- it's good to see (hear) them, just maybe not exactly where they show up. As C and B, our recent visitors, can attest, she practices her speech skills nonstop, which is why she is so darn skilled at yapping. Some recent language development anecdotes:
- We checked out "Curious George Goes to the Hospital" on our last library run, and in one scene, George performs in a puppet theater (because his feet are like two extra hands), and Naomi said "That looks like Theodore!" Looks like is Naomi's way of saying looks like, sounds like, reminds me of. Theodore is an elephant with a bad leg in another book that we have. Theater sounds like Theodore, so now every time we read one book or the other, she points out that although they "look like" each other, theater is a place to see a show, and Theodore is an elephant with a bad leg. To take this one step further, when Jim was wearing a brace on his wrist, Naomi informed him that his arm had a bad leg.
- Also in the same book (the Curious George one), George gets an operation. Later, when we were singing a particular verse of "Bananaphone" over and over (because Naomi likes to hear me say "Operator, get me Beijing-jing-jing-jing"), Naomi observed that operator sounds like operation. Now we must have similar exposition of these related words when either of them comes up. And she also likes to inform people that Beijing is a city in China.
- Again with the Curious George. Who knew these books were such a source for vocabulary building? George rides on a record player, loses his "valance" (we have a b and v mixup issue), and flies through the air. Whoopee! Naomi insisted on knowing who said Whoopee! I explained that it wasn't George, it was the narrator. Remember learning literary terms in high school? Naomi now has a head start.
- This one is not so much about vocabulary- it's just funny. Some Pottery Barn packages arrived, and Naomi was very anxious to open the one that contained the curtains, because it is the right size to come from her Grandma with presents inside. I had to work hard to persuade her that it wasn't something nice for her. Here was her position: "Look at my hands! There are no any presents in them!"
- Occasionally I will not be able to figure out what Naomi is talking about, even after much interviewing on both sides. Recently, this happened when she asked me if I remembered Gay King Zachy. Wow! I didn't. Where did Gay King Zachy come from? Finally we revisited a wacky book, "Nonsense Alphabets" written by Edward Lear (of "The Owl and the Pussycat"), and it turned out that after the one time we read it, she had managed to retain the verse for the letter X:
X was once a great king Xerxes,
Xerxy
Perxy
Turxy
Xerxy
Linxy Lurxy
Great King Xerxes!
Hee.
- We checked out "Curious George Goes to the Hospital" on our last library run, and in one scene, George performs in a puppet theater (because his feet are like two extra hands), and Naomi said "That looks like Theodore!" Looks like is Naomi's way of saying looks like, sounds like, reminds me of. Theodore is an elephant with a bad leg in another book that we have. Theater sounds like Theodore, so now every time we read one book or the other, she points out that although they "look like" each other, theater is a place to see a show, and Theodore is an elephant with a bad leg. To take this one step further, when Jim was wearing a brace on his wrist, Naomi informed him that his arm had a bad leg.
- Also in the same book (the Curious George one), George gets an operation. Later, when we were singing a particular verse of "Bananaphone" over and over (because Naomi likes to hear me say "Operator, get me Beijing-jing-jing-jing"), Naomi observed that operator sounds like operation. Now we must have similar exposition of these related words when either of them comes up. And she also likes to inform people that Beijing is a city in China.
- Again with the Curious George. Who knew these books were such a source for vocabulary building? George rides on a record player, loses his "valance" (we have a b and v mixup issue), and flies through the air. Whoopee! Naomi insisted on knowing who said Whoopee! I explained that it wasn't George, it was the narrator. Remember learning literary terms in high school? Naomi now has a head start.
- This one is not so much about vocabulary- it's just funny. Some Pottery Barn packages arrived, and Naomi was very anxious to open the one that contained the curtains, because it is the right size to come from her Grandma with presents inside. I had to work hard to persuade her that it wasn't something nice for her. Here was her position: "Look at my hands! There are no any presents in them!"
- Occasionally I will not be able to figure out what Naomi is talking about, even after much interviewing on both sides. Recently, this happened when she asked me if I remembered Gay King Zachy. Wow! I didn't. Where did Gay King Zachy come from? Finally we revisited a wacky book, "Nonsense Alphabets" written by Edward Lear (of "The Owl and the Pussycat"), and it turned out that after the one time we read it, she had managed to retain the verse for the letter X:
X was once a great king Xerxes,
Xerxy
Perxy
Turxy
Xerxy
Linxy Lurxy
Great King Xerxes!
Hee.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Tuesday Evening in the Park
On Tuesday evening, after hurriedly eating our spaghetti and meatball dinner, we drove up to Kirkland for an outdoor concert with a local community orchestra. I know what you are thinking. Either we need to just move to Kirkland and get it over with, or we need to get a calendar of events for our own city already. But in this case, Jim's coworker is a member of the orchestra, we saw them play last summer as well, and the venue is a grass-surrounded gazebo on the shore of Lake Washington- really lovely.
First, let me comment on the awesomeness of community orchestra programs. No one on the planning committee feels any motivation to go any deeper than the absolute surface of pop classical music. So most of these concerts are greatest hits concerts, and this one was like the greatest hits of all. "Skater's Waltz"? Check. "Eine Kleine Nachtmusik"? Check. "Carmen," "Camelot," "Stars and Stripes Forever," "William Tell Overture"??? Quadruple check.The weather was great, too. It has been a cloudy, gloomy couple of days (or, let's face it, entire summer, on which I would totally like my money back, Seattle area, you big cheater), and the clouds seemed to break up a bit just in time for the sunset.
We found a seat on the wall of a big planter, and also immediately bumped into the daughter of Jim's coworker. She shared her blanket with Naomi, and tried to share her snacks, but Naomi could not be convinced to eat a cool ranch Dorito, for some reason. Then Naomi began her starring role as cute little lunatic, becoming obsessed with the idea that she needed to see Brad (the coworker) up on stage, and dragging the helpful daughter closer and closer to the stage, at one point almost going up onto the stage, and finally, narrating to all around, for the rest of the night, with great dramatic sweeping gestures, the saga of how she really wanted to see Brad, and looked and looked, and couldn't see him because there were other people all around him. Wacky little girl.
For myself, I got confirmation of what I already know- that I am lonely. I clung to every scrap of conversation offered by Brad's wife, by Jim's other coworker and his girlfriend, by the high-school and college age daughters who patiently listened to Naomi's endless oral tradition. It's not as though work is some kind of social whirl- I can go for four or five hours at a stretch without speaking a word out loud when I'm in my office. But something about being in the house so much, and offering a constant stream of supportive chatter to the afore-mentioned kooky toddler, results in acute adult-conversation starvation.
I also got confirmation that Muriel is a super cutie, when two women and their daughters came from across the park to admire her. At least that's what I thought was happening, until one of the daughters, a camera-ready 13 year old, gave me her contact information, including the fact that she had taken a babysitting class and her mother was always close by for backup. Heh. Maybe if Muriel were six years old instead of six weeks. I didn't get a picture of Muriel that night (a shame!), but I just took one before her current nap (with a nice unflattering flash), so here it is.
First, let me comment on the awesomeness of community orchestra programs. No one on the planning committee feels any motivation to go any deeper than the absolute surface of pop classical music. So most of these concerts are greatest hits concerts, and this one was like the greatest hits of all. "Skater's Waltz"? Check. "Eine Kleine Nachtmusik"? Check. "Carmen," "Camelot," "Stars and Stripes Forever," "William Tell Overture"??? Quadruple check.The weather was great, too. It has been a cloudy, gloomy couple of days (or, let's face it, entire summer, on which I would totally like my money back, Seattle area, you big cheater), and the clouds seemed to break up a bit just in time for the sunset.
We found a seat on the wall of a big planter, and also immediately bumped into the daughter of Jim's coworker. She shared her blanket with Naomi, and tried to share her snacks, but Naomi could not be convinced to eat a cool ranch Dorito, for some reason. Then Naomi began her starring role as cute little lunatic, becoming obsessed with the idea that she needed to see Brad (the coworker) up on stage, and dragging the helpful daughter closer and closer to the stage, at one point almost going up onto the stage, and finally, narrating to all around, for the rest of the night, with great dramatic sweeping gestures, the saga of how she really wanted to see Brad, and looked and looked, and couldn't see him because there were other people all around him. Wacky little girl.
For myself, I got confirmation of what I already know- that I am lonely. I clung to every scrap of conversation offered by Brad's wife, by Jim's other coworker and his girlfriend, by the high-school and college age daughters who patiently listened to Naomi's endless oral tradition. It's not as though work is some kind of social whirl- I can go for four or five hours at a stretch without speaking a word out loud when I'm in my office. But something about being in the house so much, and offering a constant stream of supportive chatter to the afore-mentioned kooky toddler, results in acute adult-conversation starvation.
I also got confirmation that Muriel is a super cutie, when two women and their daughters came from across the park to admire her. At least that's what I thought was happening, until one of the daughters, a camera-ready 13 year old, gave me her contact information, including the fact that she had taken a babysitting class and her mother was always close by for backup. Heh. Maybe if Muriel were six years old instead of six weeks. I didn't get a picture of Muriel that night (a shame!), but I just took one before her current nap (with a nice unflattering flash), so here it is.
A Handful of Embarrassing Tidbits
- I am weirdly delighted that the ventriloquist won "America's Got Talent." I watched this show last year (I have already forgotten who won), but had to skip it this year due to a middle of the night wake-up on the couch which resulted in a hazy, unwanted, for some reason really horrifying viewing, on one of those Access Hollywood-type shows, of the footage of the blotto Hoff trying to eat the hamburger, which resulted further in me having a higher than normal case of the heebie jeebies when I see the guy on TV (which one does a lot when one indulges in "America's Got Talent"). I watched maybe forty-five minutes of the show altogether, in little channel flips, but still managed to catch the ventriloquist, and unlike so many of the contestants (my friend C. has offered that the name of the show should actually be "America's Got Skills"- dancing on stilts? Right, more of a skill...), he really does have talent. Also, so so out there that America's best new act, as they bill the winner of this thing, is a ventriloquist.
- I was flipping through the Pottery Barn catalog (because we need some specific drape-related hardware that is specific to these people, and it came in the mail, and whatever), and I couldn't help but notice that some bored catalog editor decided to sprinkle the pages of this direct-mail retail shop with inspirational quotes. The embarrassing part is not that I was reading the PB catalog, or that I just now used their own precious abbreviation for themselves, but that I really like the quotes. Which means I am going along too easily with the Pottery Barn ethos or whatever. The quote picker did a fine job. From Pab To the Lo Picasso: "Inspiration exists, but it has to find you working." And from Einstein: "Joy in looking and comprehending is nature's most beautiful gift." These quotes do not make me want to shop, however. So in that sense, maybe, quote picker, back to the library with you.
- This isn't really embarrassing, but it is a tidbit- Naomi has suddenly turned a corner, or is conducting some kind of social experiment, wherein every stranger is just a friend she hasn't met yet. So everywhere we go, she yells out "Hi!" to whoever we see. Even people that are twenty yards away and looking in the other direction. This is great when we're on walks, because there are people going by who fully intended not to make eye contact and give the minimum acknowledgement due to a passerby (in my book), and they are surprised into social grace by my obnoxious little diplomat. Hee. I hope this phase or social experiment lasts. It's fun.
- I was flipping through the Pottery Barn catalog (because we need some specific drape-related hardware that is specific to these people, and it came in the mail, and whatever), and I couldn't help but notice that some bored catalog editor decided to sprinkle the pages of this direct-mail retail shop with inspirational quotes. The embarrassing part is not that I was reading the PB catalog, or that I just now used their own precious abbreviation for themselves, but that I really like the quotes. Which means I am going along too easily with the Pottery Barn ethos or whatever. The quote picker did a fine job. From Pab To the Lo Picasso: "Inspiration exists, but it has to find you working." And from Einstein: "Joy in looking and comprehending is nature's most beautiful gift." These quotes do not make me want to shop, however. So in that sense, maybe, quote picker, back to the library with you.
- This isn't really embarrassing, but it is a tidbit- Naomi has suddenly turned a corner, or is conducting some kind of social experiment, wherein every stranger is just a friend she hasn't met yet. So everywhere we go, she yells out "Hi!" to whoever we see. Even people that are twenty yards away and looking in the other direction. This is great when we're on walks, because there are people going by who fully intended not to make eye contact and give the minimum acknowledgement due to a passerby (in my book), and they are surprised into social grace by my obnoxious little diplomat. Hee. I hope this phase or social experiment lasts. It's fun.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Drowsy But Awake
Before we had Naomi, a couple of coworkers of Jim's recommended the book "Healthy Sleep Habits, Healthy Child" to us. We (I) read it, and although it is not the best written book (a common thread in parenting publications, for some reason), the main points are important and good to know, and we became staunch (and to to childless friends, pretty aggravating) nap and bedtime advocates. I hadn't read it in a couple of years, and because it feels like Muriel is no longer in the newborn, "anything goes" period, I thought it would be a good idea to read through the 0-4 months section for a reminder of what's supposed to happen. As I was reading, last night, that around five to six weeks, patterns of "going down for the night" emerge, I realized that she has been falling asleep just after Naomi's bedtime (7:30, on our best days), usually in her swing, and going from there to the bedroom for the traditional three nighttime wakeups/feedings. So, neat, right? I should mention that although it is a bit of a drag waking up three times, the point of the wakeup has been eating and going back to sleep, so it's not entirely stupefying.
And then, there was last night. Jim turned the swing off and let her sleep in there until she woke up, just before 1. After she ate, I did everything I normally do to get her back to sleep- swaddling and rocking in her bassinet until I doze off, she makes her little grunty "I'm still awake" sounds, then I wake up, rock her bassinet some more, and eventually there are no more sounds and we're all sleeping. Except that last night, the night I am feeling all confident and well-informed on baby sleep issues, she didn't go back to sleep at all. Finally, at four-thirty or so, I brought her back to the living room (a.k.a., Jim's bedroom), put her back into the swing, made apologies to the groggy dad, and went back to bed. zzzz. The book advises that babies be put to bed (for naps and night sleep) "drowsy but awake," so that they can learn the process of falling asleep themselves. I wouldn't say I am in the position to be offering master classes on this particular process, but yeah, I'm pretty sleepy.
Despite her newfound party ethic, life with Muriel is good. I was worried that I would feel overwhelmed and unhappy staying home with a baby and a toddler, but I have found to my amazement and delight that I do not feel that way at all. I am finding Naomi to be really good company most of the time, and pretty agreeable in general. When I have some activity planned for her/us to take part in, such as an art project or an outing, I feel like a super mom. When I don't, we just dork around the house and read "One Fish, Two Fish" for the seven hundredth time this week, and I feel like a pretty good mom. It doesn't hurt that Naomi has taken to saying things like "You're a great, great, great Mommy that takes care of everybody." Hey, yeah, thanks! Nobody at work gives me that kind of affirmation, heh. "You're a great, great, great technical writer!"
I am worried that Muriel is not getting quite the amount of stimulating (constant) attention that her big sister got at the same age. When she generously offers to sleep through Naomi's breakfast, my doing the dishes, our reading of a hundred books, and a trip to the park, really, I just take her up on it. Even though the sleep book says (in a little inset text box) "Remember: never wake as sleeping baby," I can't help thinking that she's getting cheated a little.
There are so many things to say about both of them, and really, I should just keep a bulleted list going so I can throw it in here once in a while, but I hear one of them making nap is soon to be over noises, so this is it for now. I just have time for a shout out to the 'Tudes who visited us over the weekend- it was so fun, and way too short a visit, and Naomi enjoyed having you here, especially Maria's books, which she quotes now and then. Thanks for reading them to her, and thanks for coming!
And then, there was last night. Jim turned the swing off and let her sleep in there until she woke up, just before 1. After she ate, I did everything I normally do to get her back to sleep- swaddling and rocking in her bassinet until I doze off, she makes her little grunty "I'm still awake" sounds, then I wake up, rock her bassinet some more, and eventually there are no more sounds and we're all sleeping. Except that last night, the night I am feeling all confident and well-informed on baby sleep issues, she didn't go back to sleep at all. Finally, at four-thirty or so, I brought her back to the living room (a.k.a., Jim's bedroom), put her back into the swing, made apologies to the groggy dad, and went back to bed. zzzz. The book advises that babies be put to bed (for naps and night sleep) "drowsy but awake," so that they can learn the process of falling asleep themselves. I wouldn't say I am in the position to be offering master classes on this particular process, but yeah, I'm pretty sleepy.
Despite her newfound party ethic, life with Muriel is good. I was worried that I would feel overwhelmed and unhappy staying home with a baby and a toddler, but I have found to my amazement and delight that I do not feel that way at all. I am finding Naomi to be really good company most of the time, and pretty agreeable in general. When I have some activity planned for her/us to take part in, such as an art project or an outing, I feel like a super mom. When I don't, we just dork around the house and read "One Fish, Two Fish" for the seven hundredth time this week, and I feel like a pretty good mom. It doesn't hurt that Naomi has taken to saying things like "You're a great, great, great Mommy that takes care of everybody." Hey, yeah, thanks! Nobody at work gives me that kind of affirmation, heh. "You're a great, great, great technical writer!"
I am worried that Muriel is not getting quite the amount of stimulating (constant) attention that her big sister got at the same age. When she generously offers to sleep through Naomi's breakfast, my doing the dishes, our reading of a hundred books, and a trip to the park, really, I just take her up on it. Even though the sleep book says (in a little inset text box) "Remember: never wake as sleeping baby," I can't help thinking that she's getting cheated a little.
There are so many things to say about both of them, and really, I should just keep a bulleted list going so I can throw it in here once in a while, but I hear one of them making nap is soon to be over noises, so this is it for now. I just have time for a shout out to the 'Tudes who visited us over the weekend- it was so fun, and way too short a visit, and Naomi enjoyed having you here, especially Maria's books, which she quotes now and then. Thanks for reading them to her, and thanks for coming!
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Let The Wild Rumpus Start
Naomi was generously gifted with a big treasury of children's literature a few days ago (as a consolation for having lost forever the undiluted love and devotion of her parents), and it includes Where the Wild Things Are, a book I remember but that she has never read before. We read it together TWO times only, and since then she has been going around saying "I'll eat you all up!" and, more hilariously, "Let the wild rumpus start!" Seems like a good name for the "how it all went down" post that has been long forthcoming. So here it is.
In the interest of full disclosure, I wrote the complaint post about waiting for the ol' mucuous plug the day before the fourth of July, but then didn't post it until the day after. So right about the time I was posting it (can't remember now if it was before or after), the newly named "Red Curtain" actually did descend (thanks to M.T. for that), and gave me a genuinely giddy thrill. I had been having contractions that seemed more like the real thing to me since the night before, but they were not so strong as to keep me awake all night, so I had a decent amount of sleep. I called in sick to work, hoping that would validate my hopes, and hung around the house wearing an old sundress that was not maternity wear, but still fit over my belly, somehow. A picture of that would liven up the story; alas, no such picture exists.
Taking the day off was a good plan, not only because my contractions were getting stronger and more frequent, but also because all the preparations I had made for having the baby had kind of all worn off- that is, the clean bathroom and kitchen were no longer clean, the sheets needed a wash, etc. So it was housework and contractions for most of the day. We had been timing the contractions on and off during the day, and in the late afternoon, it started to look like things were standardizing a bit. Jim went to get Naomi at daycare, and I called my midwife, who said that six or seven minutes apart really wasn't that different from five minutes apart, and that I should plan to go into the hospital at 8:30 that night for a check. She said that if I was progressing, I could just stay and make things happen, and if I wasn't progressing, they would give me something to help me sleep through the night. As a person who is fairly committed to natural childbirth, I am embarrassed at how delighted I felt at the prospect of getting some morphine. It sounded great!
Our friend and designated toddler caregiver headed over to our house while I fed Naomi her dinner. I had a nice big contraction while trying to eat my PB&J, and Naomi said, "Mommy, why are you making that mad face?" Heh. I managed to keep the really hearty moaning in check until she got into bed. Then, it was all moaning all the time. Like every three minutes. Youch. Naomi went to bed at 7:30. Our friend arrived around the same time.
Jim and I left for the hospital just before 8:00 pm. I should mention that our garage door had broken the day before, though not completely (now it is completely broken), and Jim had figured out he could get the thing to close by pushing the button and then manually forcing it past the sticking point. So as we left for the hospital, there was a bit of slapstick as I attempted to follow his pantomime for when I should push the button again as he tried to force the thing down, his fingers with a spare grip on the tiny ridges of the door. Super duper absurd. I finally threw the button thingy at him, and he managed to get the door closed enough, and we departed. The drive to the hospital was very much like the drive to the hospital in movies or tv shows that feature a birth, except that we did not get pulled over. I was yelling away in the front seat, Jim was patting my leg and gritting his teeth. Exciting! And despite being in what was probably the transition phase of labor, I still managed to backseat drive on where we should park.
I should back up a bit and explain that the single most effective pain management technique during the last marathon go-round was being in the tub. I sat in there for a long time, and felt pretty good about it. When we toured the birthing center for this one, I was instantly smitten by the big giant whirlpool tub in each birthing room. Awesome. So during our trip to the hospital (which I felt fairly certain was going to be the real trip, not just a check and morphine shot trip), I sustained myself by imagining how much better I was going to feel once I got into that giant tub.
Just as we were arriving at the check-in desk, a woman who had been sitting in the waiting area got up and strode to the desk, effectively cutting us off from the attention of the receptionist. Then I had a contraction, and the companions of the woman made some significant throat clearing noises, she backed off, and the receptionist said some inane thing about me looking uncomfortable, but that she would get us back there as soon as the contraction was over. She told us to go to room 605, which I only remember because when we got to 605, the sheets were all in a big pile, and there was a guy mopping. The mopping guy said, "You're probably going to be in 606, because that one is clean." Hooray- I didn't have to wait for the guy to finish mopping.
I knew they had to strap the monitors on me for a while when I first got there, but I was very discouraged when the nurse (who had absolutely no sense of urgency whatsoever) told me that it would have to be for half an hour before I could get in the tub. Woe! She tried to get a urine sample from me, but despite following all advice on staying hydrated, it was not happening. As she hooked me up, she started explaining all that she would have to do to get the tub ready (fill it up, run it to get the jets all cleaned, drain and wipe down, refill). I felt more and more discouraged. Somehow the goal had switched for me, from having a baby to getting into the giant tub. And this nurse did not want me to reach my goal.
The gown was on, the monitors were strapped on, and it was time for the exam/assault. The nurse seemed flummoxed when she reached her entire arm up somewhere near my esophagus and then admitted that she was "having trouble" finding my cervix. Ow, I said, over and over. The last time I remember looking at the clock, it was quarter to nine, and I am pretty sure I said something to Jim about how I still had fifteen minutes to go on my "strip" (monitoring) before they would let me into the tub. Things started to whirl around a little. Some other nurse started poking me in the wrist, saying she was starting an IV. I remember asking why I needed an IV, and she said something about their protocol, and getting pitocin after the delivery. News to me. Someone said something about making sure my midwife was on her way, and then there was some banter about who else was available (no one!). The nurse said to let her know if I was feeling pushy. I was feeling pushy! But the nurse seemed not to believe me. Everything felt like total chaos. I decided to keep my eyes closed for a while.
Then I heard the voice of my midwife. She said, "I know you had to push a long time the last time, and I just want you to know, it's not going to be like that this time." Someone said something about seeing hair (yikes), and my midwife said if I wanted to push, I could. Someone made the usual offer of reaching down to touch her head, which I politely refused. So I pushed. About three times, I think. And then, there was the baby. Just like that! We got to the hospital at 8:15 or so, and Muriel was born at 9:03. Huzzah!
That's it for the birth story. Sorry for any details that seem too detailed. Life with Muriel in our family has been really pleasant so far, so, more on that another time...
In the interest of full disclosure, I wrote the complaint post about waiting for the ol' mucuous plug the day before the fourth of July, but then didn't post it until the day after. So right about the time I was posting it (can't remember now if it was before or after), the newly named "Red Curtain" actually did descend (thanks to M.T. for that), and gave me a genuinely giddy thrill. I had been having contractions that seemed more like the real thing to me since the night before, but they were not so strong as to keep me awake all night, so I had a decent amount of sleep. I called in sick to work, hoping that would validate my hopes, and hung around the house wearing an old sundress that was not maternity wear, but still fit over my belly, somehow. A picture of that would liven up the story; alas, no such picture exists.
Taking the day off was a good plan, not only because my contractions were getting stronger and more frequent, but also because all the preparations I had made for having the baby had kind of all worn off- that is, the clean bathroom and kitchen were no longer clean, the sheets needed a wash, etc. So it was housework and contractions for most of the day. We had been timing the contractions on and off during the day, and in the late afternoon, it started to look like things were standardizing a bit. Jim went to get Naomi at daycare, and I called my midwife, who said that six or seven minutes apart really wasn't that different from five minutes apart, and that I should plan to go into the hospital at 8:30 that night for a check. She said that if I was progressing, I could just stay and make things happen, and if I wasn't progressing, they would give me something to help me sleep through the night. As a person who is fairly committed to natural childbirth, I am embarrassed at how delighted I felt at the prospect of getting some morphine. It sounded great!
Our friend and designated toddler caregiver headed over to our house while I fed Naomi her dinner. I had a nice big contraction while trying to eat my PB&J, and Naomi said, "Mommy, why are you making that mad face?" Heh. I managed to keep the really hearty moaning in check until she got into bed. Then, it was all moaning all the time. Like every three minutes. Youch. Naomi went to bed at 7:30. Our friend arrived around the same time.
Jim and I left for the hospital just before 8:00 pm. I should mention that our garage door had broken the day before, though not completely (now it is completely broken), and Jim had figured out he could get the thing to close by pushing the button and then manually forcing it past the sticking point. So as we left for the hospital, there was a bit of slapstick as I attempted to follow his pantomime for when I should push the button again as he tried to force the thing down, his fingers with a spare grip on the tiny ridges of the door. Super duper absurd. I finally threw the button thingy at him, and he managed to get the door closed enough, and we departed. The drive to the hospital was very much like the drive to the hospital in movies or tv shows that feature a birth, except that we did not get pulled over. I was yelling away in the front seat, Jim was patting my leg and gritting his teeth. Exciting! And despite being in what was probably the transition phase of labor, I still managed to backseat drive on where we should park.
I should back up a bit and explain that the single most effective pain management technique during the last marathon go-round was being in the tub. I sat in there for a long time, and felt pretty good about it. When we toured the birthing center for this one, I was instantly smitten by the big giant whirlpool tub in each birthing room. Awesome. So during our trip to the hospital (which I felt fairly certain was going to be the real trip, not just a check and morphine shot trip), I sustained myself by imagining how much better I was going to feel once I got into that giant tub.
Just as we were arriving at the check-in desk, a woman who had been sitting in the waiting area got up and strode to the desk, effectively cutting us off from the attention of the receptionist. Then I had a contraction, and the companions of the woman made some significant throat clearing noises, she backed off, and the receptionist said some inane thing about me looking uncomfortable, but that she would get us back there as soon as the contraction was over. She told us to go to room 605, which I only remember because when we got to 605, the sheets were all in a big pile, and there was a guy mopping. The mopping guy said, "You're probably going to be in 606, because that one is clean." Hooray- I didn't have to wait for the guy to finish mopping.
I knew they had to strap the monitors on me for a while when I first got there, but I was very discouraged when the nurse (who had absolutely no sense of urgency whatsoever) told me that it would have to be for half an hour before I could get in the tub. Woe! She tried to get a urine sample from me, but despite following all advice on staying hydrated, it was not happening. As she hooked me up, she started explaining all that she would have to do to get the tub ready (fill it up, run it to get the jets all cleaned, drain and wipe down, refill). I felt more and more discouraged. Somehow the goal had switched for me, from having a baby to getting into the giant tub. And this nurse did not want me to reach my goal.
The gown was on, the monitors were strapped on, and it was time for the exam/assault. The nurse seemed flummoxed when she reached her entire arm up somewhere near my esophagus and then admitted that she was "having trouble" finding my cervix. Ow, I said, over and over. The last time I remember looking at the clock, it was quarter to nine, and I am pretty sure I said something to Jim about how I still had fifteen minutes to go on my "strip" (monitoring) before they would let me into the tub. Things started to whirl around a little. Some other nurse started poking me in the wrist, saying she was starting an IV. I remember asking why I needed an IV, and she said something about their protocol, and getting pitocin after the delivery. News to me. Someone said something about making sure my midwife was on her way, and then there was some banter about who else was available (no one!). The nurse said to let her know if I was feeling pushy. I was feeling pushy! But the nurse seemed not to believe me. Everything felt like total chaos. I decided to keep my eyes closed for a while.
Then I heard the voice of my midwife. She said, "I know you had to push a long time the last time, and I just want you to know, it's not going to be like that this time." Someone said something about seeing hair (yikes), and my midwife said if I wanted to push, I could. Someone made the usual offer of reaching down to touch her head, which I politely refused. So I pushed. About three times, I think. And then, there was the baby. Just like that! We got to the hospital at 8:15 or so, and Muriel was born at 9:03. Huzzah!
That's it for the birth story. Sorry for any details that seem too detailed. Life with Muriel in our family has been really pleasant so far, so, more on that another time...
Thursday, July 05, 2007
4th of July
It's funny to try to figure out how to explain the Fourth of July to a two year old, since I am not inclined to raise her believing that our country is superior to all others for reasons both earned and pre-ordained by God. Which reminds me, can someone explain the bumper sticker I have seen on a few different cars lately, that has a swoop of stars and stripes, and says "Power of Pride"? I have so many questions about the meaning of this slogan, I don't even know where to start. So if it is in fact the name of a drum corps or something, please tell me that so I can just let it go. But back to Independence Day. We talked about how it is like a birthday celebration for our country, the USA. Naomi, who likes to hear us talk, apparently, then asked what the name of some other countries are. Hee.
Where I am going with this is a general question of whether you are starting down a certain path if you focus on how you celebrate something and leave until later the question of why you are celebrating. Because a lot of Fourth of July activities are super fun, and talking about them in advance (and even learning about them when you are too young to stay up late enough to take part in them) is part of the fun, too. I don't know why we have parades on the Fourth of July, but we do. I am not sure what the apple pie thing is about, but yum, I made one! (It was ugly but tasted good.)
Anyway, yesterday was an amazingly beautiful day, and we went north one exurb to Kirkland for breakfast and the Fourth of July parade. We have a library book about a Fourth of July parade, so I knew Naomi would be into it, but seriously, it was like she had been waiting her whole life to be an appreciative spectator of a Fourth of July parade. She clapped and shouted hooray and waved.
The first part of the parade is the Children's Parade, wherein Kirkland's forty thousand children (seriously, it went on and on and on) pass by on their scooters and bikes and Barbie Power Wheels Corvettes, all decorated up with sparkly red, white, and blue doodads. Naomi kept saying, "Hooray for the children!" Ha!
Despite my problematic relationship with patriotism, I still cried outright when the World War II former POWs went by. Damn!
All the veterans got a lot of applause. After the veterans came a bunch of corvettes, each carrying a member of the Little League Championship team from like 1982, or something. Which means a bunch of 39 year old guys, riding above a blown up photo of themselves, age twelve. Weird. Coming as they did right after the WWII POWs, they didn't get quite as good a reception. There was some gigantic military vehicle (a Striker?) covered with signs that said "Support our Troops- and their Mission." Remember the sucker's choice? Sheesh.
My favorite parts of the parade? The retirement home group was awesome, with a couple of Rascal scooters and a fully ambulatory Statue of Liberty impersonator leading the way, and the retirement home bus (complete with shaded windows) following behind, clearly packed with residents, bringing up the rear. Yea!
And shortly after them- the DeLorean club. Hee!
Naomi's favorite was all the marching bands. She loves her some marching bands! The inner band geek in me is, well, geeked. Happy Birthday, USA. Thanks for letting us assemble peacefully, bedecked in patriotic colors.
Where I am going with this is a general question of whether you are starting down a certain path if you focus on how you celebrate something and leave until later the question of why you are celebrating. Because a lot of Fourth of July activities are super fun, and talking about them in advance (and even learning about them when you are too young to stay up late enough to take part in them) is part of the fun, too. I don't know why we have parades on the Fourth of July, but we do. I am not sure what the apple pie thing is about, but yum, I made one! (It was ugly but tasted good.)
Anyway, yesterday was an amazingly beautiful day, and we went north one exurb to Kirkland for breakfast and the Fourth of July parade. We have a library book about a Fourth of July parade, so I knew Naomi would be into it, but seriously, it was like she had been waiting her whole life to be an appreciative spectator of a Fourth of July parade. She clapped and shouted hooray and waved.
The first part of the parade is the Children's Parade, wherein Kirkland's forty thousand children (seriously, it went on and on and on) pass by on their scooters and bikes and Barbie Power Wheels Corvettes, all decorated up with sparkly red, white, and blue doodads. Naomi kept saying, "Hooray for the children!" Ha!
Despite my problematic relationship with patriotism, I still cried outright when the World War II former POWs went by. Damn!
All the veterans got a lot of applause. After the veterans came a bunch of corvettes, each carrying a member of the Little League Championship team from like 1982, or something. Which means a bunch of 39 year old guys, riding above a blown up photo of themselves, age twelve. Weird. Coming as they did right after the WWII POWs, they didn't get quite as good a reception. There was some gigantic military vehicle (a Striker?) covered with signs that said "Support our Troops- and their Mission." Remember the sucker's choice? Sheesh.
My favorite parts of the parade? The retirement home group was awesome, with a couple of Rascal scooters and a fully ambulatory Statue of Liberty impersonator leading the way, and the retirement home bus (complete with shaded windows) following behind, clearly packed with residents, bringing up the rear. Yea!
And shortly after them- the DeLorean club. Hee!
Naomi's favorite was all the marching bands. She loves her some marching bands! The inner band geek in me is, well, geeked. Happy Birthday, USA. Thanks for letting us assemble peacefully, bedecked in patriotic colors.
Mucous Plug? Or Bloody Show?
I begin this entry with a disclaimer that I know I am extremely
fortunate to be right on the verge of having a most likely healthy and
wonderful baby. Indeed, I am lucky. Please know that I know it, and forgive
the subsequent complaining. That said, the ninth month (or, as I am just
now entering it, the tenth month) of pregnancy is a virtual playground
of delights. Profuse sweating in strange, unmentionable places. Joint
pain in joints I normally never give a thought to. Irrational fears
about all kinds of things. Weird, unprecedented facial acne. Swollen
fingers. Grouchiness. When I read through this list, I realize I really don't
have it so bad. But it's funny that this magical time should be
dominated by me looking out for the sign of labor with two name options, both
of which are pretty gross. So I'm opening up the phones for a "Rename
the Bloody Show" contest- if you can think of a more pleasant and
auspicious name for the mucuos plug, I want to hear it.
The other interesting thing about being this pregnant is the weird
quality of becoming community property. People at work who normally never
speak to me, and often, in fact, completely random strangers will ask me
when I'm due and make other related comments to me. (Fortunately,
there has been no touching.) When my grouchiness is flaring up, I don't so
much like this. I know I am not super interesting on my own merits, but
now that I'm procreating, I'm good enough to chat with? When I am
feeling less grouchy, I know that's what lies beneath even the clumsy smart
ass comments ("Oh, that black dress is really slimming, ha ha!") is a
real excitement and joy at the prospect of a new life. People can't
seem to help themselves. So I hope I can focus on that part of it, and
less on the grouchy part of it. But really, I'm ready to just let the new
life out, to go back to being me, or at least, to having the baby on
the outside so that well-meaning strangers can speak directly to her
instead of me. Come on out, kiddo!
fortunate to be right on the verge of having a most likely healthy and
wonderful baby. Indeed, I am lucky. Please know that I know it, and forgive
the subsequent complaining. That said, the ninth month (or, as I am just
now entering it, the tenth month) of pregnancy is a virtual playground
of delights. Profuse sweating in strange, unmentionable places. Joint
pain in joints I normally never give a thought to. Irrational fears
about all kinds of things. Weird, unprecedented facial acne. Swollen
fingers. Grouchiness. When I read through this list, I realize I really don't
have it so bad. But it's funny that this magical time should be
dominated by me looking out for the sign of labor with two name options, both
of which are pretty gross. So I'm opening up the phones for a "Rename
the Bloody Show" contest- if you can think of a more pleasant and
auspicious name for the mucuos plug, I want to hear it.
The other interesting thing about being this pregnant is the weird
quality of becoming community property. People at work who normally never
speak to me, and often, in fact, completely random strangers will ask me
when I'm due and make other related comments to me. (Fortunately,
there has been no touching.) When my grouchiness is flaring up, I don't so
much like this. I know I am not super interesting on my own merits, but
now that I'm procreating, I'm good enough to chat with? When I am
feeling less grouchy, I know that's what lies beneath even the clumsy smart
ass comments ("Oh, that black dress is really slimming, ha ha!") is a
real excitement and joy at the prospect of a new life. People can't
seem to help themselves. So I hope I can focus on that part of it, and
less on the grouchy part of it. But really, I'm ready to just let the new
life out, to go back to being me, or at least, to having the baby on
the outside so that well-meaning strangers can speak directly to her
instead of me. Come on out, kiddo!
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Vacation!
I have taken more than a little vacation from regular posting, and since big life changes are on the way, it seems like a good idea to get a couple of posts out before I completely drop off the map. And it is an even better idea to write a little bit about our vacation while there still remains in my consciousness some of the relaxed, golden goodness it
bestowed upon me. So- on the first Saturday in June, we drove up to Anacortes to catch a ferry to a place I had neither
been to nor heard of before bidding on a week's stay there at a charity auction last fall, Orcas Island. This aution was
before I was pregnant, so a. I was a little tipsy and eager in the bidding, and b. didn't have any idea I would be eight
months plus pregnant on our trip. Turns out that neither factor was a factor- the place we won was a true prize, just the right size for our little family and our friends with their two little girls.
It was a guest house for what I can only imagine is a truly swanktastic
getaway home, just below. The house seemed to be newly redone, with slate tiles, a fantastic kitchen, a really oversized
tub surrounded by marble, a loft bedroom with twin beds (and intriguing little closets in the low walls, specially
designed to delight toddlers), a downstairs bedroom with a creaky queen, and even a laundry room. And, unlike other
getaway spots I have known, nary a taxidermic trophy to be seen. From the picture windows, and the big deck outside, we
spotted porpoises going by in the sound, as well as beautiful birds and hungry, ever-in-attendance black tailed deer.
Nevermind the staggeringly large slugs and snails (ah, the Northwest).
The first two days were sunny, and on the first day, we went to the Eastsound farmer's market, where carrying only locally
grown produce meant that there was, um, not very much produce to be had just yet.
Fortunately, the shaved ice crop had come in already! On the second day, Jim, Naomi, and I took a hike to several waterfalls in Moran State Park, then drove to the top of Mount Constitution for a really wonderful view of the San Juan Islands (of which Orcas is the largest, I believe). Through relentless conditioning, I managed to get Naomi to use a slow, booming, dramatic voice whenever she said "Mount Constitution".
It was pretty cool. After nap (which is something you say when you have tiny children along on your
vacation), the whole big gang of us went to Cascade Lake for some beach action. The water was too chilly for real swimming
(though I was ready, with my gigantic burgundy pregnancy swimsuit!), but the girls had a wonderful time digging in the
gravelly dirt that passed for beach sand.
We enticed them a little ways out into the water as well.
The next day marked the return of the clouds and showers that make Orcas Island the lush paradise where slugs the size of
your arm can flourish. We read books, played games, and ate a lot of overly large meals. The guys went out one afternoon
for a sea kayaking trip, of which I was intensely jealous, even as I saw the wisdom in sitting it out at this stage. The
girls hovered around the baby, played with all the pots and pans in the kitchen, and walked down to the rocky beach near
the house for some lessons in rock chucking from their dads. We took a short trip to the historical Moran mansion, where a
former mayor of Seattle and apparently huge Orcas Island fan recuperated from stress and just generally had a good time
(wonder if that huge bar on the main floor was open when he lived there?).
Our friends had to leave on Wednesday, but we decided to stay a little longer. We returned to Eastsound for lunch, some
groceries, and a visit to the free-wifi coffee shop (Jim's web surfing hobby having suffered considerably out at the uber
-relaxing, completely un-connected guest house).
On Thursday, we went in to town again, for pizza and gelato (can you
believe there is a local chain on the island- two coffee houses with tasty gelato?). That afternoon, we visited
Obstruction Pass state park, a place name not a little suggestive of gastro-intestinal difficulties. Oh well. The .5 mile
hike to the beach seemed a nice doable distance with a not-too-trail-hardy two year old, but it seemed much longer while
we hiked it. It was worth it, though, to find ourselves on the beautiful, sunny, rocky beach with a thick border of
driftwood.
As always, the hike back seemed shorter, though probably not for Jim, who was carrying the smallest member of
our party for most of the half mile. Unless you count the member of our party that I was carrying.
The return of the sun meant a beautiful ferry ride home on Friday.
Often a vacation can feel too short, or too rushed, or
too long, even, but this trip to Orcas Island, in so many ways, felt just right. We were sad it was over, but it felt like
it was over, not like we could go on staying in the "Tiny House in the Forest" (as Naomi called it) forever. Thank you,
Orcas Island, for a really wonderful week. Hope to see you again someday...
bestowed upon me. So- on the first Saturday in June, we drove up to Anacortes to catch a ferry to a place I had neither
been to nor heard of before bidding on a week's stay there at a charity auction last fall, Orcas Island. This aution was
before I was pregnant, so a. I was a little tipsy and eager in the bidding, and b. didn't have any idea I would be eight
months plus pregnant on our trip. Turns out that neither factor was a factor- the place we won was a true prize, just the right size for our little family and our friends with their two little girls.
It was a guest house for what I can only imagine is a truly swanktastic
getaway home, just below. The house seemed to be newly redone, with slate tiles, a fantastic kitchen, a really oversized
tub surrounded by marble, a loft bedroom with twin beds (and intriguing little closets in the low walls, specially
designed to delight toddlers), a downstairs bedroom with a creaky queen, and even a laundry room. And, unlike other
getaway spots I have known, nary a taxidermic trophy to be seen. From the picture windows, and the big deck outside, we
spotted porpoises going by in the sound, as well as beautiful birds and hungry, ever-in-attendance black tailed deer.
Nevermind the staggeringly large slugs and snails (ah, the Northwest).
The first two days were sunny, and on the first day, we went to the Eastsound farmer's market, where carrying only locally
grown produce meant that there was, um, not very much produce to be had just yet.
Fortunately, the shaved ice crop had come in already! On the second day, Jim, Naomi, and I took a hike to several waterfalls in Moran State Park, then drove to the top of Mount Constitution for a really wonderful view of the San Juan Islands (of which Orcas is the largest, I believe). Through relentless conditioning, I managed to get Naomi to use a slow, booming, dramatic voice whenever she said "Mount Constitution".
It was pretty cool. After nap (which is something you say when you have tiny children along on your
vacation), the whole big gang of us went to Cascade Lake for some beach action. The water was too chilly for real swimming
(though I was ready, with my gigantic burgundy pregnancy swimsuit!), but the girls had a wonderful time digging in the
gravelly dirt that passed for beach sand.
We enticed them a little ways out into the water as well.
The next day marked the return of the clouds and showers that make Orcas Island the lush paradise where slugs the size of
your arm can flourish. We read books, played games, and ate a lot of overly large meals. The guys went out one afternoon
for a sea kayaking trip, of which I was intensely jealous, even as I saw the wisdom in sitting it out at this stage. The
girls hovered around the baby, played with all the pots and pans in the kitchen, and walked down to the rocky beach near
the house for some lessons in rock chucking from their dads. We took a short trip to the historical Moran mansion, where a
former mayor of Seattle and apparently huge Orcas Island fan recuperated from stress and just generally had a good time
(wonder if that huge bar on the main floor was open when he lived there?).
Our friends had to leave on Wednesday, but we decided to stay a little longer. We returned to Eastsound for lunch, some
groceries, and a visit to the free-wifi coffee shop (Jim's web surfing hobby having suffered considerably out at the uber
-relaxing, completely un-connected guest house).
On Thursday, we went in to town again, for pizza and gelato (can you
believe there is a local chain on the island- two coffee houses with tasty gelato?). That afternoon, we visited
Obstruction Pass state park, a place name not a little suggestive of gastro-intestinal difficulties. Oh well. The .5 mile
hike to the beach seemed a nice doable distance with a not-too-trail-hardy two year old, but it seemed much longer while
we hiked it. It was worth it, though, to find ourselves on the beautiful, sunny, rocky beach with a thick border of
driftwood.
As always, the hike back seemed shorter, though probably not for Jim, who was carrying the smallest member of
our party for most of the half mile. Unless you count the member of our party that I was carrying.
The return of the sun meant a beautiful ferry ride home on Friday.
Often a vacation can feel too short, or too rushed, or
too long, even, but this trip to Orcas Island, in so many ways, felt just right. We were sad it was over, but it felt like
it was over, not like we could go on staying in the "Tiny House in the Forest" (as Naomi called it) forever. Thank you,
Orcas Island, for a really wonderful week. Hope to see you again someday...
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Made Up Self Interview
In the interest of making myself actually post something, I will now manufacture some categories to attempt to round up all the things I've been meaning to mention in this thing...
What's cheering me up: Work is really interesting right now as I have two projects that are finishing up before I leave for my three month "vacation." I really like to be busy at work.
What's bumming me out: I have pneumonia, or probably do, since there can be no x-ray to confirm it. I am getting better, though. I hate missing work when I am closing in on a big deadline.
Stupid thing that made me laugh: In the huge pile of dead computer equipment that had been cluttering up the hallway (and the feng shui, as my office neighbor pointed out) at work was a small printer whose explanatory post-it note declared, simply, "DIRTY PRINT JOBS" Heh.
Stupid thing that made me cry: Everything. No kidding. I'm up to fifteen times a day now.
Secret confession: I am a fan of the Gilmore Girls, and was genuinely sad when the show ended last week. Embarrassingly, see category above.
Bit of hilarity from Naomi: She named her baby doll (small, pink clad, with pink "binky") Clark. Where has she even ever heard this name before? Have I already mentioned her imaginary friend, "Dobo"?
I am now reading: Consumed (with some long important subtitle that I can't remember) by Benjamin Barber. It was my Mother's Day present from Jim after I got all pissy about the endless signs in the mall trying to make you feel like a loser if you don't spend some serious cash on your mom.
I have just finished reading: The Best Firefighters Ever, by Richard Scarry, in which Mr. Frumble, a little frazzled after having his pickle car flattened by a steamroller, pulls the fire alarm over a faint wisp of smoke in the next yard and summons Smokey, Sparky, Snozzle, and Squirty to blast the Greenbug family with water during their small-scale though still festive barbecue. At the end, all the named characters return to the firehouse, where the firefighters (who are all pigs) problematically grill sausages for their guests. Yikes.
OK, that's all the categories I can muster today. There is one (4-day!) week of work left before our Orcas Island Odyssey. You can bet there will be some photos from that! Happy Memorial Day!
What's cheering me up: Work is really interesting right now as I have two projects that are finishing up before I leave for my three month "vacation." I really like to be busy at work.
What's bumming me out: I have pneumonia, or probably do, since there can be no x-ray to confirm it. I am getting better, though. I hate missing work when I am closing in on a big deadline.
Stupid thing that made me laugh: In the huge pile of dead computer equipment that had been cluttering up the hallway (and the feng shui, as my office neighbor pointed out) at work was a small printer whose explanatory post-it note declared, simply, "DIRTY PRINT JOBS" Heh.
Stupid thing that made me cry: Everything. No kidding. I'm up to fifteen times a day now.
Secret confession: I am a fan of the Gilmore Girls, and was genuinely sad when the show ended last week. Embarrassingly, see category above.
Bit of hilarity from Naomi: She named her baby doll (small, pink clad, with pink "binky") Clark. Where has she even ever heard this name before? Have I already mentioned her imaginary friend, "Dobo"?
I am now reading: Consumed (with some long important subtitle that I can't remember) by Benjamin Barber. It was my Mother's Day present from Jim after I got all pissy about the endless signs in the mall trying to make you feel like a loser if you don't spend some serious cash on your mom.
I have just finished reading: The Best Firefighters Ever, by Richard Scarry, in which Mr. Frumble, a little frazzled after having his pickle car flattened by a steamroller, pulls the fire alarm over a faint wisp of smoke in the next yard and summons Smokey, Sparky, Snozzle, and Squirty to blast the Greenbug family with water during their small-scale though still festive barbecue. At the end, all the named characters return to the firehouse, where the firefighters (who are all pigs) problematically grill sausages for their guests. Yikes.
OK, that's all the categories I can muster today. There is one (4-day!) week of work left before our Orcas Island Odyssey. You can bet there will be some photos from that! Happy Memorial Day!
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Bunny Update
There is so much to say about Naomi these days that it is difficult to boil it down into a theme. So I am going the way of the technical writer (minus the succint quality, I am sure) and using bullets. –
- Naomi has a big(ger) girl bed now- she just completed her fourth cribless night. The bed is from IKEA (of course) and sports a nifty blue canopy kind of thing. She has fallen out twice already, but neither fall awakened her. Don't worry, we have created a landing pad around the gap, so when she falls out, it's into a pile of pillows. Miraculously (everyone knock on wood as you read this), she has not once removed herself from the bed on purpose.
- Does anyone else remember that Steinbeck story where the local developmentally disabled man plays back conversations he has overheard, in the saloon, for tips? Naomi could give this guy a run for his tip money, except that what she plays back are the things she hears at daycare. I am sorry to say they are almost all discipline-related. I am only going to say this once. Listen to my words. No hitting. We don't hit. Listen, are you listening? Do you understand? Do you understand my words? The comic twist is when her dad and I are subsumed into this dialogue of commands. Mommy, don't hit dancing bear (as though she has caught me in the act of assaulting one of her toys). Daddy, you take a bite of that sandwich RIGHT NOW. Whew.
- On the cuter, nicer side, she also plays back songs she has learned. There's something that sounds like "Goolee goolee goolee a-rum-sum-sum" or something like that, as well as some song that I assume has all the kids' names in it at some point, but Naomi only likes to sing it with "Colby." "Colby, Colby, Colby, let's take Colby!"
- I think I have already mentioned that Naomi is very skilled with context. By this I mean that she remembers words and phrases and grasps the context they are used in really well, so that she startles us sometimes by saying things that seem to imply a very complicated understanding of things and of language, but really, she just knows where to put certain words. It always keeps us guessing as to what she really understands. Probably more than we think. One example- I was cooking shrimp, and (against all child safety suggestions) picked her up so she could see what was in the pan. "It's shrimp," I said. "Shrim," she said. I said shrimp again, emphasizing the P. "Actually," she said, "actually, it's shrimmm." I stand corrected.
- Last night Naomi made a joke, and a decent one at that. For a while in December, when we were all sick all the time, she got her head around the fact that all of us have doctors, and each doctor has a different name. So if you had asked her what her mom's doctor's name is, she could have answered correctly. It happens that the doctor Jim sees is named Applebaum. Last night, during a brief revival of the what's your doctor's name game, she said, "Daddy, you should see Dr. Applebaum." Pause. "You should see Dr. Carrotbaum." Hee! Maybe you had to be there, but the fact that she laughed even before we did seemed to indicate that this girl was trying to be funny.
- I don't know how to explain this one, but she sometimes uses a slightly different voice, one that's a little lower in her throat. When she really gets going on a topic, she drops the second part of the sentence into this other voice. I have no idea where it comes from. This is completely different than the super squeaky, high-pitched voice that she uses when channeling the personalities of her stuffed toys, creatures she has created by chewing her bread or bagel, or her own fingers or feet. Mommy! Put a sock on me! I need a shoe!
- Whenever I arrive at school to get her, Naomi smiles a huge smile, announces to everyone that her mommy is here, and runs to me from wherever she is (lately, outside in the play yard). It is a joy I look forward to all afternoon long. No one else that I know is ever this happy to see me, let alone if they were to see me every day. Kind of sounds like I'm just in it for the love.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Girls' Imagination Gone Wild
(Apologies for the length of this post...) The morning after our guests left, I hopped a plane to Vegas, where my good friend from high school days lives with her husband and baby. When we finally found each other in the airport, my friend had her 10 month old son strapped to her front in a Baby Bjorn, and the spectacle of cuteness was almost too great to bear. In the interest of our "Girls' Weekend," though, we had to abandon the cutie with his grandma, head out for a sophisticated lunch (on a typical Vegasy artificial lake, where the appearance of a pair of Canada Minnesota
Actually, I don't really know what went down, but after locating the fellow, we followed his SUV up a very rough dirt road into the foothills of
We decided to stay around the main lodge, and our host (who was actually leaving- he had just driven up with us to make sure we found it and so he could show us the fantastically stocked liquor cabinets- ouch! says the pregnant lady) showed us around the place, and told us that he liked to just sleep upstairs in the murphy bed. After he left, we continued our Girls' Weekend by engaging in the well-known female bonding ritual of photographing each of the many, many dead and stuffed creatures which lived (or, you know, didn't live) in the lodge. I risk sounding ungrateful to the people who, out of sheer generosity of spirit, let two strangers stay at their ridiculously lavish getaway destination free of charge, but I have to say, surely there is a limit to the number of taxidermy elements you should include inside one building. The place, admittedly, was huge (maybe three thousand square feet?), but still: one bearskin rug, one cow skin, one stuffed turkey, a buffalo head, a moose head, an elk head, a deer head, two pheasants, a wolf, and the piece de resistance, a snarling stuffed mountain lion (or bobcat or something) at the top of the stairs in the loft. And let us not forget the towering antler chandeliers, antler wall sconces, and, in the bathroom, antler magazine racks. Both lavish and super creepy.
(One of my new friends...)
We chose the mini cabin closest to the main lodge for convenience, and also because the other two had dead animal wall art (the bust of a snarling badger, for example). Before dinner, there was an extremely slapstick episode wherein we frantically paddleboated away from one of the caretaker's friendly and very mangy dogs, who swam obstinately behind us with the calm determination of that robot cop in the second Terminator movie. After we prepared our yummy dinner in the ginormous kitchen (Which refrigerator has the condiments? Oh, this one over here.), and scrolled through three hundred satellite channels on one of the staggeringly large TV, we decided to head to the little cabin for some magazine reading and chit chat before bed. This is when things began to go, though not horribly wrong, just, I guess, wrong. As I tried to turn on the little TV, an ominous high-pitched whine filled the cabin. OK, so we wouldn't watch the Chris Rock DVD that someone had thoughtfully left in the cabin for us. We climbed up onto the bed plateau, and the whining started again. After which, of course, the lights went out, and despite an army of decorative candles, the lighter was not functional. As good a time as any for sleep, we decided. But as we laid there in the complete darkness, a feeling of unease crept into my consciousness. This feeling was followed by two complementary reflections. One: Was this not a perfect horror movie setup? Two women completely alone in a big nice facility in the middle of nowhere? A "caretaker" who lives on the property with a pack of dogs, that the women haven't met? A door on the cabin with a lock that does not function convincingly? The power going out? Never mind the subtext of women deserving punishment for leaving their husbands and babies behind. Yikes. Two: The Gift of Fear. Which is some book that has been mentioned more than once in an online advice column I read, and the gist of which, I gather, is that you feel freaked out by people or situations for a reason, and you should be grateful and go with that to preserve your safety, since personal safety should trump your wish to be polite and gracious.
So convened the little terror conference in my head, and I asked my friend if she would be bothered (or think I was a freak) if I just moved the rustic chair in front of the door. She agreed that it was not at all a bad idea. Thus fortified, back to bed, pitch dark, and the whining noise started again. Augh! We decided to move back to the main lodge. Which appealed to pregnant me, since that's where the bathrooms were, but still meant walking a whole twenty or thirty yards through the extreme middle of nowhere darkness to a big inviting lodge with twelve unlocked glass doors all the way around. And lots of dead snarling animals. We made the move (and eventually even went back to the cabin for the comforter, together, with a tealight on a bread plate). We went around the inside perimeter, locking all the big glass doors. We convinced ourselves that it was surely a bunny when the motion detector light outside went on, then off, then on again. And we headed upstairs, past the snarling bobcat, to make up the murphy bed and have our pleasant dreams.
So generous was my Gift of Fear that I decided it would be a good idea to just lie quietly as my friend's sleep breathing became obvious, so that when the psychopath did creep up the stairs, I could at least have a moment of perceived agency before the inevitability of my doom solidified. Eventually, sleep prevailed. I have failed to mention in advance my friend's predeliction for terrifying sleeptalking when under stress. So when I was awakened, some time later, by my friend sitting up in bed, pointing to the corner of the room, and shouting, He's over there! He's over there!, it only took me the longest thirty seconds of my life to realize that's what was going on. The logic of the half-asleep convinced me that my friend was going to climb out of bed and go tumbling down the extremely steep stairway, so I patted her hand and asked her if she was OK until she laid back down. Then, another hour of shallow sleep until the sky outside began to lighten.
Unless your horror movie involves highway driving, hitch-hiking, or the like, the sunrise always brings a welcome respite to the terror. And so it was on our
(It really was a nice place.)
Oh well. We did laundry, unlocked all the locked doors, tidied up, bid adieu to the menagerie, and headed back to town. After an embarrassingly long nap at my friend's parents' house (where I felt very, very safe, apparently), we fancied up for a formal event that was in honor of my friend's dad, ate some dry salmon and those tiny whittled down carrots that still have the greens on them, and did a couple of songs worth of frightening pregnant lady dancing (in my case) before heading home. My flight was early the next morning. Vegas, Baby!
Family Fun
It has already been more than a week since I returned from my weekend trip to Vegas, a weekend preceeded by a full seven day visit from my sister and her two kids (a sister who adorably and with all sincerity informed me that next time they would visit during the summer, and stay for much longer!), yet I have been unable in that time to come up with a decent post. I keep vacillating between telling about the visit and my trip, and giving space to the many toddler (or wait, is she officially a pre-schooler now?) developments and intrigues that bubble up these days. And also, maybe, I'm feeling lazy or uninspired. Too bad for me. So here is the jumbled account from receding memory of our time with family, and my time in Vegas, baby.
My sister (the middle sister, though they're both my big sisters) has two kids, a fifteen-year-old girl and a ten-year-old boy. Weirdly, they never thought to visit when I lived in
On their last full day, I took a day off and Naomi and I went with them to the aquarium and on a boat cruise from
On board: safe, sound, wearing a cute hat.
The part of their visit I am least proud of has to do with my nephew and his tendency to be a bit of a sore loser. I have read and repeated many times that it is easiest to be most critical of others when they exhibit tendencies that we share (and dislike in) ourselves. I know myself to be a bad loser. I can recall with cringes of embarrassment the mini-golf matches (I know) where a few bad putts sank me into a foul temper, or even the occasional mah jong game with the in-laws, where I declared that I was no longer participating. Eeee. So I feel even worse that I gave a ten-year-old (and one that I should be giving lots of love and a general pass on things, both as an aunt and a hostess) a bit of a hard time for getting so grouchy when Pictionary and Risk didn't go his way. In any case, Naomi loooooooved having her cousins around, and I did too.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Effing Daylight Savings
Remember last week when I was rhapsodizing about the dawn's earlier light, and walking the crunchy nature trail, and spring, blah blah blah? Well, daylight savings has come, and with it, the cold pitch dark of my morning walk returns. On the return route today (all sidewalk), just past the cheery harbinger of seasonal change, the camelia bush, the world's slowest construction crew (seriously, Naomi, Jim, and I could work together and get their 15 week "intersection improvement" done in a couple of weekends. Naomi could be the flagger, flipping her sign from Slow to Stop and smoking four packs a day like the pros all seem to...) had erected some barriers around 7-10 feet of re-poured sidewalk. Instead of crossing the street, I walked in the road around the barriers, and in the daylight savings pitch darkness, stepped into a giant hole, which caused me to "spring forward" onto my face. Awesome.
After scrambling out of the way of an oncoming car (so much for the reflective vest) and walking another fifteen yards down the sidewalk, I realized that my right ankle and left knee were hurting really bad. That was also the length of time it took for me to realize that I had fallen
right onto my stomach on the curb. And that although in my logical mind I know that little Fetus Khooler is traveling, basically, encased in a waterbed, and probably didn't even wake up (after her long night of poking me), I was slipping into a crazy panic that I had just ruined her with my careless early morning dog walking.
I fell once during my first pregnancy too. I was walking out of work, down a snowy path that was
of course completely iced up. I didn't even realize what was happening until I hit the ground, full out on my back. I lay there a moment, got up carefully, evaluated myself as uninjured, continued walking to my car, got inside, and promptly lost my shit. I remember calling Jim, crying, saying, What if I ruined the baby? His calming response (and immediate phoning of the midwives, finding out where to take me for some soothing fetal monitoring) was the best thing, because it gave me a glimpse into the near future, where labor and delivery lurked, where I would be all out of my head and not in control of the situation, and where I now knew there would be someone with a level head who would take care of things. Not that I didn't trust that before, but the test run was nice.
This morning, after the pain and panic set in, I found a little wall to sit on. I was still about a half mile from home, and of course had not brought my cell phone along. Even if I could successfully flag down a car with a driver who did have a phone, was I going to have Jim wake up Naomi and throw her in the car seat so they could drive half a mile to pick me up? That was what gave me renewed vigor, frankly, the thought of the display of cheerful fun I would feel compelled to enact when sleepy Naomi, in her jammies, encountered her mommy on the street corner, all teary and covered with construction dirt. So instead I limped along and indulged my right to a melodramatic homecoming. Jim was suitably concerned, though he tried to attach a little ice pack to my ankle with the raggedy t-shirt he uses to wipe up the floor after the dog slobbers water on it. When I demurred he told me I would never make it in battle or something like that. Note to self: bring some ace bandages into battle. Also, into our linen closet.
So, I got cleaned up, called the midwife's office for an early appointment, and took Naomi to school. In the flurry of concern from her teachers (brought on by my pathetic limp), I completely forgot to reassure them that her lunch contained NOT the strictly forbidden peanut butter and jelly, but rather, soy butter and jelly (now we need a soy substitute for peanut butter? Really, people, Mr. Peanut is not an animal. He is .... what? A legume? And kind of a dandy.) I headed to the midwife's office, where, after the requisite weigh in (sigh) and cup-peeing, a student helper located little Khooler's heartbeat on the first try. The midwife told me that although the baby was almost certainly totally OK, she was going to send me across the street to the hospital for another ultrasound. Whee. My third one. This baby is getting more in-utero camera time than Suri Cruise.
The ultrasound was fine, of course. The technician was nice, told me what it's like to have your
second kid when your first one is still a little tyke (summarized as "you get through it"). Then a doctor, I guess, came in, and started in on how it's super duper rare for them to see any kind of placental damage or abruption, which is what they're looking for, from a simple fall, and really you would only find that from a high speed car collision, but that with the medical environment being what it is, of course they are going to take a look anyway. You don't have any bleeding, right? Or Fluid leaking? he said. Huh? As though I had come to the ER straight from the street corner, in my reflective vest and dirt, demanding an ultrasound and hours of fetal monitoring, rather than being sent here by my duly diligent midwife. I am not hysterical with fear over here, Doctor Whoever You Are! But thanks for stopping by.
Anyway, wiped off all the ultrasound goo, limped off to work. Stupid Daylight Savings time, is all I'm saying.
After scrambling out of the way of an oncoming car (so much for the reflective vest) and walking another fifteen yards down the sidewalk, I realized that my right ankle and left knee were hurting really bad. That was also the length of time it took for me to realize that I had fallen
right onto my stomach on the curb. And that although in my logical mind I know that little Fetus Khooler is traveling, basically, encased in a waterbed, and probably didn't even wake up (after her long night of poking me), I was slipping into a crazy panic that I had just ruined her with my careless early morning dog walking.
I fell once during my first pregnancy too. I was walking out of work, down a snowy path that was
of course completely iced up. I didn't even realize what was happening until I hit the ground, full out on my back. I lay there a moment, got up carefully, evaluated myself as uninjured, continued walking to my car, got inside, and promptly lost my shit. I remember calling Jim, crying, saying, What if I ruined the baby? His calming response (and immediate phoning of the midwives, finding out where to take me for some soothing fetal monitoring) was the best thing, because it gave me a glimpse into the near future, where labor and delivery lurked, where I would be all out of my head and not in control of the situation, and where I now knew there would be someone with a level head who would take care of things. Not that I didn't trust that before, but the test run was nice.
This morning, after the pain and panic set in, I found a little wall to sit on. I was still about a half mile from home, and of course had not brought my cell phone along. Even if I could successfully flag down a car with a driver who did have a phone, was I going to have Jim wake up Naomi and throw her in the car seat so they could drive half a mile to pick me up? That was what gave me renewed vigor, frankly, the thought of the display of cheerful fun I would feel compelled to enact when sleepy Naomi, in her jammies, encountered her mommy on the street corner, all teary and covered with construction dirt. So instead I limped along and indulged my right to a melodramatic homecoming. Jim was suitably concerned, though he tried to attach a little ice pack to my ankle with the raggedy t-shirt he uses to wipe up the floor after the dog slobbers water on it. When I demurred he told me I would never make it in battle or something like that. Note to self: bring some ace bandages into battle. Also, into our linen closet.
So, I got cleaned up, called the midwife's office for an early appointment, and took Naomi to school. In the flurry of concern from her teachers (brought on by my pathetic limp), I completely forgot to reassure them that her lunch contained NOT the strictly forbidden peanut butter and jelly, but rather, soy butter and jelly (now we need a soy substitute for peanut butter? Really, people, Mr. Peanut is not an animal. He is .... what? A legume? And kind of a dandy.) I headed to the midwife's office, where, after the requisite weigh in (sigh) and cup-peeing, a student helper located little Khooler's heartbeat on the first try. The midwife told me that although the baby was almost certainly totally OK, she was going to send me across the street to the hospital for another ultrasound. Whee. My third one. This baby is getting more in-utero camera time than Suri Cruise.
The ultrasound was fine, of course. The technician was nice, told me what it's like to have your
second kid when your first one is still a little tyke (summarized as "you get through it"). Then a doctor, I guess, came in, and started in on how it's super duper rare for them to see any kind of placental damage or abruption, which is what they're looking for, from a simple fall, and really you would only find that from a high speed car collision, but that with the medical environment being what it is, of course they are going to take a look anyway. You don't have any bleeding, right? Or Fluid leaking? he said. Huh? As though I had come to the ER straight from the street corner, in my reflective vest and dirt, demanding an ultrasound and hours of fetal monitoring, rather than being sent here by my duly diligent midwife. I am not hysterical with fear over here, Doctor Whoever You Are! But thanks for stopping by.
Anyway, wiped off all the ultrasound goo, limped off to work. Stupid Daylight Savings time, is all I'm saying.
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