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!

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.

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...