Lazy Postday

It is so, so lazy of me just to post another cute photo when there really is so much to write about. What about our visit to the pumpkin patch on Sunday? What about the fact that my company is bought up for real now and I find myself with 330,000 new coworkers? What about all the thoughts I'm having about Naomi's language skills and her cognitive skills and what kind of gap does or does not exist between the two? What about my concerns about not immediately going to the the little sleeper when she cries out in the night, and the ensuing muses on the metaphor of stern parenting for our own thoughtless refusal to meaningfully engage with the countries in the world that clearly demand some meaningful engagement? What about the fascinating research essay on the origins of Halloween that I just read today? What about the incredibly amateurish Halloween costume that I am attempting to sew for Naomi? What about the fact that Jim finally brought home the xbox he has been threatening to buy for the last few months? I could go on and on, but I'm not going to. Instead, I'm just going to post another photo.

The Bunny

Our Neighbors to the North

The fact that a few hours of driving puts us in a different country seems to be an irresistible lure for us; again last weekend we found ourselves in Canada. This time we eschewed the ferry ride for a road trip complete with a long, long wait at the border crossing. Our destination? Vancouver. This trip was inspired by my friend, who purchased a night’s stay and a horse-drawn trolley ride package at a charity auction we attended together. Honestly, she wasn’t bidding to win. But when she did win, I began plotting how we would all sneak away to Vancouver for a beautiful fall weekend.

The hotel location was a little hipper than we really required. Needle exchange? Gay book shop? Cecil’s Exotic Show Lounge? All within a one-minute walk. On the first night we walked across the street to the Two Parrots, which looked like a tiki-themed restaurant. In fact, it was a tiki-themed bar. When we asked for a high chair, the waitress looked at us for a long minute, as though to help us understand how absurd the request was, before answering in the negative. We thought it would be alright, ordered ourselves some pints and some dinner, and watched Naomi fling herself around on the grimy bar chairs with the singular sort of hyper energy that only a very tired small child who has just spent four hours in a carseat can really master. We got the food packed to go, pounded our pints (which is a good way to get your money’s worth, if you know what I mean), and went back to eat amidst the strange juxtaposition of a gigantic king-sized bed in a tiny closet-sized room.

On Friday we took a funny little boat (Aquabus!) to the Granville Island public market. It has all manner of tasty foodstuffs, including a famous sausage place and a doughnut place that, if it’s not famous, is at least famous with me. When naptime encroached, Naomi and I jumped the Aquabus back to the hotel side of “False Creek,” while Jim left the food building and explored some of the art galleries and shops. It was after naptime that things really picked up, with a trip to the Capilano suspension bridge, north of the city. When you see the bridge (if you are not Jim, who has a pathological fear of heights), you really don’t think it is going to be a nerve-wracking experience. It is marketed as an attraction, not a thrill. But when you get out to the middle, holding a squirmy toddler as tightly as you have ever held anything in your life, deciding it’s more important to keep both hands on the toddler than it is to use one of those hands to attempt to steady yourself with the swaying, creaking cables, keeping your eyes fixed on the far side even as sweat drips into them, well, that’s when you realize that your safety-loving, height-fearing husband might actually be on to something.

On the far side of the bridge, though, was a “treetop adventure”, where we walked around on even more elevated, swaying pathways, and admired monstrous trees and trout-filled ponds. Was it worth the trip? I think so. On the way back over the bridge, I put Naomi in the back pack carrier, held on to her leg amid great complaint, used my free hand for the cables, and did some deep breathing exercises. Then went to the gift shop for some fudge.

Saturday was another trip to Granville Island, with our newly arrived (and about to depart) friends (who ended up in a smoky room with no crib, and decided that one night of that was just about enough). And another doughnut. In the afternoon, we enjoyed our absent friends’ free carriage ride around the beautiful Stanley Park. Our driver and tour guide kept shushing us (Naomi), as part of the ride experience was her witty and informative monologue (the driver, not Naomi). If you’re ever out somewhere and a toddler is making a lot of noise, and you think to yourself, geez, can’t those parents keep that kid quiet? The answer is no. They really can’t. Which is why we mostly avoid situations where a short and inappropriately loud chatterbox will be considered déclassé. But once we got on that carriage, we couldn’t just hop off and attempt to find our way back through the miles of park road. So, she chatted. And flirted outrageously with the woman behind us, who was the sort who calls out witty answers to the tour guide’s questions, and who definitely appreciated the attention from the crazy baby in front of her. The driver tolerated us. Did I mention the weather was perfect? It was a good day to be at Stanley Park.

Saturday night, Jim and I ate a weird but admittedly delicious tower of cream puffs from “White Spot” restaurant (which is like a swanked-up Canadian Denny’s) and pay-per-viewed The Davinci Code. In an ironic twist on the possible liberation from gender roles and restrictions enticingly dangled by the sacred feminine, I was unable to stop obsessing about how perfect Audrey Tatou’s hair looked. If you haven’t seen the movie, it is one of those “real time” narratives that takes place over the course of just a few days, and the characters are always on the move and don’t have a chance to change or shower or freshen up, as far as I could tell. Nevertheless, Audrey’s hair is a masterpiece in every scene. Those French women have it made.

Sunday morning, woke up, ate breakfast, drove home. Another good visit to our neighbors to the north. Canada, you do right by us.

Chicken Walk Tea Party (Attire: Diaper Casual)

25th Percentile!

For parents who were taught as children to place a great deal of importance on their report cards, the periodic, regularly scheduled doctor’s checkup provides the analogous experience projected onto our teeny offspring. At every visit, the nurse measures the kid’s head circumference, length, and of course, weight. Yesterday was Naomi’s 18-month-old visit, and after struggling along since January in the 7th (seventh!) percentile for weight, we have finally succeeded in chunking the kid up to the 25th percentile. Hooray!

There was something about being in the bottom ten percent that made us feel like we were seriously failing at our parental jobs. The doctor, however, kindly chalked it up to the four bouts of horrible stomach flu the bunny endured in the late winter. Further good news- her chronic ear infection is cleared up, so no ear tubes for the bunny! Her height is holding steady at the 50th percentile, and her melon head is still riding high in the 95th percentile. My mom is quick to assume that is both cause- and effect-related to how smart her granddaughter is, ignoring the fact that her granddaughter’s father and mother both have big giant (though not particularly smart) heads of their own.

The nurse also ran through a list of things Naomi should be able to do, and I was a little flattered at the way she breezed through it- I took this to mean she was sure Naomi was doing fine. Can she stack blocks? Does she have at least 20 words? She asked whether Naomi can stand up and sit down when we tell her to, and we both looked at each other and wondered, can she do that? Because we haven’t really ever told her to stand up or sit down, that we could remember.

Anyway, here are the milestones of the past few months that the nurse didn’t ask us about. Some are charming. Some are not as charming.

• Naomi likes to put imaginary sunscreen on us. When we are cooking (me), playing the piano (the maestro), sitting around, whatever, she comes up and starts rubbing the stuff onto our legs.
• Naomi can count to…two. Which in a way is not much better than not being able to count at all, and in a way is kind of a huge difference, really. She also likes to march around the house shouting “1-2! 1-2! 1-2!” If she has two similar items in her hands, she will look at them both and say “Two cups!” Of course, she thinks five comes after two. So we have not applied for her mensa card yet.
• She knows yellow, red, blue, green, and purple, and I suspect also brown, white, and pink. Orange is a toughie, for some reason.
• If I am on the computer or Jim is playing the piano, she will take our fingers and tug us away from our chairs, saying “Daddy, all done. Mommy, all done.” Meaning, we are done doing what we were doing, and it’s time to stop it and start playing with her. Sheesh.
• Luna the dog is in constant attendance whenever Naomi eats (or does anything, pretty much), and for reasons I am not that clear on, Jim likes to loudly send her away or scold her. Every so often, we will hear a much smaller voice saying, in the same stern tone, “Loooonha, NO! No no!” Luna minds Jim about 40% of the time; she minds Naomi 0% of the time.
• Naomi has learned the second line of “Twinkle, Twinkle.” Instead of singing it, though, she recites it over and over, all mashed together, with a lot of emphasis on the last word. So it sounds like “UpabahwodsoHIGH! UpabahwodsoHIGH!”
• Occasionally, Naomi will sit down and open a book, and begin gabbling away, very earnestly, as though she were reading the book aloud. Her voice is weirdly monotone and none of the stuff that comes out of her is recognizable as words. It only lasts for twenty seconds or so, but it is pretty engrossing.
• After a trip to the zoo, where we saw an armadillo in the nocturnal exhibit, Naomi fell in love with the word. Armadillo! Armadillo!
• In addition to endlessly pretending to feed us, her animals, and herself, Naomi now pretends that she or her animals have owies that require the application of imaginary ice. This gives you some idea of what goes on in her hardscrabble daycare world…
• Sometimes when we put Naomi to bed, she says, “Bye, Honey!” Hee.

Whistle while you work...

In honor of Labor Day, I am going to hang on to the theme of the last post, my job. It seems I am not the only one who is taking a look at her workaday world this month. One friend has determined that her dream life of research in academia is perhaps a bit more selfish than she wants to be, and that shifting the focus to teaching is a good alternative path. Another friend is thinking of leaving her hectic, low-paying service-to-others job to get a higher paying, less hectic, service-to-paying-clients job. And I know I am not the only person who has asked him or her self this month, what job do I really want to be doing?

When I had my big job epiphany last week, it wasn’t that I had arrived at the elusive answer to that question. When people ask how my job is, I equivocate. It’s OK. You know, it’s not the most interesting thing in the world. And so forth. Last week it occurred to me that my job really has so many good things going for it, and I need to start viewing it that way. The commute is short, and I am only about 12 minutes away from the bunny’s daycare. The boss is dreamy about flexible hours and working from home when necessary (I abuse the flexible hours a bit but have been very conservative on the working from home option). The building is across the street from a swanky shopping center where I have fifteen lunch options and a nail place where I can get my eyebrows waxed and be back at my desk within twenty minutes. (Even when some other part of my face also gets waxed, thanks to the plain talking aestheticians at “Finger Paints”: “You sure you don’t want that waxed? You got a lot of hair!”) I have an office with a door, free coffee and tea, and bagels every Friday. And with the afore-mentioned buyout on its way, who knows what other kind of swag! I am challenged, somewhat, by the work, and for the most part, I have almost no job-related stress. I needed to face up to the truth: my job rocks.

So, right. That’s where I was last Monday. On Tuesday, the person handling some high profile, time sensitive documentation task was out sick, and I was randomly selected to be her understudy. And my stupid email program kept telling me I couldn’t send more email because… I had too much email already. You’re using our program a little too well! No job-related stress, did I say? Because I had heard this document needed to be finished that day, and because no one was answering my questions about whether the further changes needed to be added, I was preparing, at the end of the day, to drive the twelve short minutes to the daycare, bring the bunny back to my office, buy her some animal crackers from the vending machine, and get back at it. (She has visited the office before, and thoroughly enjoys playing with my plastic plate and jar of peanut butter.) That scenario was averted, but the stress level continued through the end of the day Wednesday. More lively than usual? You bet. But threatening to my new outlook.

Also threatening to my job love was a bizarre bathroom encounter that occurred right in the middle of the stress patch. As I was walking into the Ladies’, someone was walking out of the Gents’. I said hi to the person, walked into the bathroom, and was suddenly aware that someone had walked in behind me. I turned around, and it was…the guy who had just walked out of the men’s restroom. Wha wha wha? Here’s where the story gets really embarrassing, because of what my brain offered to my mouth to say: “So, you’re just going to walk into the girls’ bathroom?” What? GIRLS’ bathroom? Anyway, the guy stopped, and said, “Must have eye trouble.” He then took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes, to really drive the point home that something was wrong with them, rather than just getting the hell out of the bathroom. The GIRLS’ bathroom. He repeated his line about eye trouble, but by this point I had walked back to the door and opened it, and gestured him out. He put his glasses back on. I think he said he was sorry on the way out, and I think I said something like, it’s alright, goodbye now.

But, ugh! It was not alright! I have walked into the men’s room on more than one occasion, usually at a bar or restaurant after I had a few, and two steps in I see the urinal, have the split second moment of realization, gasp, and flee. Not so this man, who seemed confused as to whether he was in the Ladies’ (Girls’) or at the optometrist. Plus? He had just gone to the bathroom, in his rightful place, with the urinals and all. He was done! So what was up next for him? Did he think they had moved his desk into the ladies’ room? Was he looking for the free coffee?
So yeah, happy Labor Day, fellow workers of the world. I’ll be celebrating my day off by using my luxurious in-home bathroom without the fear of anyone walking in on me. OK, anyone over the age of two.

The Corporate Life

Last week I learned that the company I have worked for since March (Company A) will be purchased in the coming months by gigantic Company B. Today, in addition to providing us with some really nice bagels and fruit for breakfast, Company B bussed us to the swanky Bellevue Westin for a little rah-rah and some free lunch. And a benefits discussion. The light fixtures in the Westin’s grand ballroom are at once amusing and extremely distracting- they are basically large circles of glass globs suspended on wires, like luminous water balloons dangling from the ceiling. For the first part of the day, we sat at long tables draped with black cloths, with notepads, pens, and water at each seat, and every so often a cosmo glass full of tiny, delicious foil-wrapped fruit candies. Which I totally meant to pour some of into my purse before we left, and forgot. Damn!

Of course, we opened with a video, showing headline after headline (after headline) of the acquisition, backed by rousing rock-n-roll. Newspapers and websites all around the world are covering this acquisition! And Company B has a really on-the-ball public information department! Then the video switched to scenes that I assumed were meant to represent the many industries that use our products, which included astronauts, oil wells, and people scurrying around the sidewalk, maybe in the financial district? Then, more astronauts.

When the CEO of Company A addressed us on the phone, his slides flashing on the big screen offered a perfect opportunity to play “a picture is worth a thousand words,” wherein you attempt to identify the real message of the slide by studying the seemingly random photo that always seems to go along with the bullets. “What drove the decision?” asks the slide. And the picture answers, “A view of the blue sky from within a small grove of tall trees.” “We wanted to be a billion dollar business,” says the slide. “I wanted to be a shiny, mirrored-glass skyscraper, seen from below at a sharp angle,” says the picture. “What does this mean for the company?” asks the slide. “Why, it means a beautiful suspension bridge, dramatically lit, in the rosy dusk,” says the picture. Or dawn. Whichever. “What does this mean for you?” asks the slide. “It’s a two-lane highway, stretching toward the horizon,” says the picture. The “Opportunities at Company B” slide declares, in the photo, that I could join the cast of yet another L&O spin off. And “Our Rewards” are that we get to sit around a glass table and smile for a camera that is directly over our heads. Cheese!

The free lunch was, I must say, delectable. They had some kind of marinated grilled veggie antipasto that could have been improved only if the people ahead of me in the buffet line hadn’t taken all the eggplant slices before I got up there. I am still a little jittery from my flourless chocolate something or other and cup of decaf. I confess a weakness for sitting in giant hotel ballrooms and eating some tasty trifle accompanied by coffee that has been carefully poured into my tiny hotel coffee cup by a uniformed banquet server. Dessert just tastes a little sweeter under these conditions.

After lunch was the benefits discussion, led by an HR manager from Company B, who was in general quite likable except for his unfortunate over-use of the phrase “at this point in time.” I had the guy next to me ask whether Company B covers maternity leave as short term disability (Company A does not). He said Company B gives you 100% pay for six weeks if you have a baby. Sweet! Not that this information is any more relevant to me (at this point in time) than it was to my seat neighbor, though he did get a laugh by asking the question.

Weirdly, none of the seven hundred questions we lobbed at the boogie woogie bugle boy concerned stock options. Back in the day, tech people considered stock options to be part of their entitlement in life. Free coffee! Subsidized soda machines! Stock options and lots of them. Now, there seems to be a don’t ask, don’t tell attitude emerging about stock options. Company A gave me exactly zero options when I started here (but I was loathe to say anything as they came miraculously close to matching my previous salary). What will you do for me, Company B? Make me love you. I’m just saying. Oh, and thanks for the lunch.

Once Bitten...

When I got home from work on Monday, Naomi and her dad were sitting on the front steps. Naomi always gets the cutest, biggest smile on her face when she sees me after a long time apart- it has evolved a bit from when I used to pick her up at daycare and she would signify her recognition (and happiness?) with a gaping, wide open mouth. I can only guess that I made a similar face at her? Like an open mouth of wonder and surprise? Something? Anyway, now she smiles a really beautiful and definitely genuine smile (which I stress only because lately she has become the biggest fake laugher ever). In contrast with this little sunbeam, though, was a particularly grim expression on Jim.

“You’ll never guess what happened today,” he said. “Look at her face.” Looked pretty cute to me. He turned her head so I could see her cheek. There was a round red welt- it looked like she had fallen asleep on something hard and painful, and this was the result. For a minute I didn’t know what I was looking at. It made me think of the old Phantom comic strip, with the guy who wore purple all the time and had a ring in the shape of a skull that left a nasty and unmistakable imprint on the jaw of whatever villain he socked. Was Naomi in a fistfight with a superhero? Or a gangster?

Jim must have sensed that I really would never guess. “It’s a bite,” he said. Augh! Apparently some kid at school was hugging and kissing Naomi (cute!), and then decided to get all Cape Fear on her (wait, not cute anymore!). She did not seem to be in the least bit traumatized by it, but for a few minutes, I really was. I didn’t feel angry at the kid, really, but I did feel upset. And weirdly helpless. When I talked to the teacher the next day, she said the biter was really into hugging the other kids, and just got carried away. Um, can I assume you’re planning to keep Toothy from getting huggy and kissy with the other kids from now on? She said they were going to try. So reassuring.

In the interest of full disclosure, about three weeks ago, Naomi bit… me. We were goofing around and laughing, and during one playful jostle, she just opened up her mouth and chomped down hard on my upper arm. It really hurt at the time, although she didn’t break the skin, and I had a little round bruise for a few days. I know that she didn’t bite me to hurt me, and I know that she wasn’t really aware of what she was doing. She was just worked up and excited, and that manifested itself as a chomp. I should probably have viewed it as the gift of a teaching moment; instead it was more of a yelling moment. But she hasn’t bitten since then. The point, I guess, is that I know kids bite. They are puppy-like in their scrappiness and in their manifestations of play and exuberance. But there is part of me that would have liked to have a similar teaching (yelling) moment with the tot who bit my kid’s face.

A postscript: in past idle surfing, I have come across some parenting bulletin boards that contain cheerful anecdotes from parents who claim to have cured their biters by… biting them back. I didn’t give this sort of crackpottery a second thought, but now that I have had a biter (and bitee), I am reminded of that advice, and all I can say is, Ewww! Is there really someone out there biting their baby? Stop that right now!

The Evening Good News

You know how sometimes it seems like you just get one piece of bad news after another? Well, not today! Because when I say this, I am actively omitting everything I hear on the actual news, and because the stars are lining up nicely for many of my friends and loved ones, I find myself in a situation where I keep getting one piece of good news after another. It’s great! So, ready yourselves for some unnecessary exclamation points, ladies and germs…here comes the good news!

Jim’s sister and her husband have adopted a baby girl. Just like that- Naomi has a new cousin, and we a new niece. We have seen her already through the magic of Skype. Naomi calls Jim’s mom “Ah-ma” and after we saw her on the computer with the new baby, Rachel, Naomi would periodically, throughout the day, say, “Ah-ma, Baby.” Hee. Rachel will be one month old in a few days. Teeny!

Jim’s other sister and her husband, who are living in Canada now, have bought a house! We don’t have many details yet and I am sure they are feeling a little overshadowed by teeny Baby Rachel, but it is still great news for a couple of M’sian transplants looking to put down roots in Canada. Oh, Canada!

My own personal sister had recently been diagnosed with skin cancer, and has since had all of it removed and is apparently none the worse for wear. Hooray!

My other sister and her husband and kids returned this month from a ten-day trip to Washington DC. The kids are just at the right age to get the most out of this trip (13 and 10), they got to stay with our wonderfully gracious aunt and uncle in Maryland, and they never, ever take vacations. Knowing all of this about the trip had me completely jazzed for them, and of course, the trip was a big success. Welcome home!

Another pair of good friends in Chicago have put a bid on a condo, and are waiting to hear whether all their fix-up demands are going to be met. I don’t think I am jumping the gun in considering this good news, as they have been mulling over becoming landed gentry for a while now, and it is so good that it is happening for them. From all descriptions, the condo rocks. Good job, C and B!

We got a piano!

Our friends in St. Paul had a lovely baby girl, Eleanore Marie, just before we got back to MN for a visit. And they had their house totally redone. Crazy! Congratulations, D and R! Incidentally, nearly everyone in MN seems to be expecting a child. Good for you all!

None of the great news is really ours (other than the piano), but having so much good news in just a few weeks makes it feel like things are going great for us, too. Naomi has started in her new class at “school.” She is a little early in moving up, and is smaller than everyone else, although one of her baby class compatriots who moved up at the same time has the same not-quite-there hair in a blonde shade, so Naomi is not the baldest looking toddler in her class. Heh. She seems to really like it, although every day when I ask her what she did in school, she says “Water.” I don’t know what that means, exactly.

OK, some of the good news is ours- Naomi’s friend Carmen brought over matching rainbow ponchos made by a friend of her mom. Thanks, Carmen’s mom’s friend! These ponchos are the bomb!

The Spirit Realm, or One Completely Random Post

Feel free to skip this long blathery post, which is unlikely to make much sense. Lately more thoughts of a philosophical or metaphysical bent than are usual have popped into my head. There are a lot of factors contributing to this. One is that I re-established contact a few months ago with a friend of mine from college, who told me about his faith (paganism) and also told me a lot of his thoughts on Christianity and the Christian God (nothing like a new perspective!). Another is our own search for a new church after we left behind one that we really liked as part of our big move. Another, of course, is just the unavoidable desperate headscratching that one is forced to engage in when paying any attention whatsoever to the big news stories of the day (war, another war, genocide, child soldiers, starvation, the missing Baby Suri). Lately, the news reports about psilocybin experiments, that left test subjects feeling as though they had gone through a profound mystical and religious experience, have caught my attention (and someone’s blog that mentioned this also caught my eye, but more on that later). Throughout all these things, I start to wonder if there is something in people, and specifically in me, since I have no way of knowing how these things feel to other people, that inhibits spirituality and connectedness. For the sake of this post, I am tying these concepts together, but it could be connectedness to God, if God is specifically your thing, or connectedness to the great life force, or to the universe, whatever. In my ramblings, here, spirituality is what enables the connectedness, and I am wondering what it is that either makes it more difficult to find the connectedness, or turns one away from it altogether. In a class a few years ago we read Brian Swimme’s book The Sacred Heart of the Cosmos. Swimme proposes that consumerism is the current cosmology, the thing that gives meaning and purpose to our lives, and that in place of that, we should be watching the sunset with our kids and explaining to them that we are rolling away from the sun, not that it’s setting, but we’ll see it again when we roll back around, and that we are fortunate little semi-sentient whiffs in a vast creation that is given by the great generosity at the heart of the universe. I loved reading this book, despite my clumsy summation. It does seem important to try to instill in the youngster the importance of following the credo of generosity inspired by creation, whoever we believe is responsible for it. But for me, there is definitely something in the way a lot, and if I were the same believer I was as a child, I would know it was the devil, or original sin, keeping me from God. I don’t know what it is, now- laziness? Inertia? Consumerism? Still original sin?

On a slightly different tack (but related in the sense that it is in this same misty realm of thought), my sad habit of clicking “next blog” over and over, after I catch up with the affairs of my blogging compatriots, led me to this blog, which had posted its first and only entry just that day. It caught my eye initially because the writer was talking about those psilocybin experiments, and it had only been a few days since I heard the NPR report about these tests (I couldn’t find that story on the NPR site, but here’s something similar on CNN. The experiment was so interesting to me, because it made me wonder if there is some part of the brain that is in charge of the spiritual and the mystical and the whole connectedness thing, and whether we have been slowly losing access to it. Anyway, the writer of this blog posed vaguely similar questions, which was cool, but also declared that his work was in investigating claims by children that they had had a previous life. Wha…? It sounds like some kooky stuff, except that he is not a “researcher,” he’s a real Researcher, at the University of Virginia. I know, being connected to a university isn’t any kind of guarantee that you’re not a complete kookoo pants, but it does offer a check on the work that you do, to some extent, and a legitimization (he admits in his blog that his work is “out there”). Anyway, why was this so intriguing to me? Because in all my recent musings, I felt like one manifestation of this spiritual “blockage” that may or may not be prevalent in society (rather than solely within myself) is that while lots of people may be out there thinking about these things, it seems like it’s unusual for people to be talking about them, and it’s difficult for me to write even a quarter of the way to the things that go on in my head. Yet here was a man whose JOB it was to investigate claims made by children that they had been someone else before. Thereby, you know, making the discussion of souls or life force or at any rate, human beings separate from the body they ride around in for a time, into a genuine study. Neat!

Silly blog reader that I am, I asked the guy whether he thought it was possible to try to wire up a kid right, so that they could connect more easily to that part of their brain, or whatever it was, that would give them a greater sense of connectedness and unity throughout life. This sounds like a crazy question now- it was spur of the moment. But he responded that it seemed like the thing to do was to raise the kid with an openness to spirituality. I put it on my list, but I sure wouldn’t mind more help with this one.

Lovely Victoria...

Can our vacation be over already? On TV right now, the local fireworks displays are snap, crackle, popping over the odd soundtrack of Beach Boys and Guns-n-Roses tunes, while all around, neighbors are conspiring to wake a certain sleeping baby by flouting the local firework ordinances. Work is tomorrow! Alas and alack. I could certainly get on board with a permanent four-day weekend mandate.

We got to see some other country's nationalism on display over the weekend, as we found ourselves in Victoria, British Columbia, just in time for "Canada Day." We both sheepishly agreed that it just didn't seem as obnoxious to have your car streaming the maple leaf as you drove about town (self-loathing liberal Americans!). Victoria is a beautiful city, at least it was when we were there- we overheard a lot of jokes to the effect that Victoria has two seasons- winter and July. We pick July! Sunny and gorgeous for us, thanks! (The fireworks display music has gone from Sousa to "Sing, Sing, Sing", to the current ballad, "R-E-S-P-E-C-T, find out what it means to me!" How about not firing missiles at us on our national holiday, North Korea! Sheesh. Oh, oh, and now it's Bohemian Rhapsody. Who was in charge of this playlist?) We had a beautiful ferry ride over to the Canuck side, and the ship's pilot was nice enough to point out the pod of orcas off the port bow. No one on the boat knew what that meant, of course, so we all rushed back and forth until someone actually spotted them. Sillies.

We had some fish and chips, saw the woolly mammoth and the first nation art bonanza at the Royal Museum of British Columbia, sneaked through Fan Tan alley to have dim sum in Canada's oldest Chinatown, and drove out to Oak Bay to have a cheesy, dessert-packed "high tea" at a tea house called The Blethering Place. And of course, there was room service:

Our hotel was located just a block from the Parliament building, where Naomi got the idea to pick clover flowers and put them in our toes:

There was much shopping to be had on Government Street, which is why we had to declare this sweatshirt when we came through customs:

On the last day, we visited the justly famous Butchart Gardens, where Naomi charmed the other tourists with her cute dress and over-tired-toddler shenanigans. Although she appears calm in this picture, note that she was being restrained:

Oh, Canada! Thanks for having us.

Cheeky Little Monkey-Bunny

Since there has been a shortage of Khoo and a surplus of Ler in the Khooler report of late, it seems about time to focus on the shortest member of our family (if Luna stands on her hind legs…) a bit. The Bunny, as she has been known to her father and me since she was born, is slowly, inexorably declaring herself, through her actions and her speech and her understanding, to be less and less of a baby. Of course, she refers to herself as a baby when she sees pictures of herself, and calls all her classmates at school “the babies.” Actually, she is the second oldest in her class, so maybe she’s just being uppity?

Besides being terribly good at walking and running, showing us that she is able to climb up onto the coffee table and couch, saying all manner of interesting words (watermelon, egg, elbow, knee, animal), and dancing, our bunny is becoming, to quote her raised-in-a-former-British-colony father, quite cheeky. She is no longer just along for the ride. When I pick her up, she dissolves all the joints in her body so that she can slide back to the floor. When I tell her it’s time to get dressed for school, she laughs and runs away. She asks for things that have occurred to her entirely on her own, like a particular food, or even, this weekend, a bath. Who are you all of a sudden?

This morning, the bunny did something entirely new, and her dad and I are still talking about it. We were reading a weird but sweet little book we got from the library, called Little Fur Family (by Margaret Wise Brown, and illustrated by the excellent Garth Williams, whose drawings you may remember from the Little House books and the truly awesome The Cricket in Times Square). In the book, a little fur child gets up, goes out to play, gets home, and gets put to bed by his loving fur parents, who hold his paw and sing him a song. I improvised the tune of the song, and Naomi wanted me to sing it over and over. I sang it about three times before I noticed that her voice, saying “more, more” sounded a little strange. When I checked her face, her little lower lip was quivering, and her eyes were filling with tears. This picture, of the fur family putting their fur child to bed, holding his paw, and singing to him, had apparently moved her to tears. Because for sure it was not my singing.

Yes, this anecdote has a high sap factor. But it is killing me, not because it’s so cute, although, geez, it really is, but because it is a glaring bright reminder that every time this little girl wakes up with an additional major synapse all myelinated, she is going to be a different person than she was the day before. And we will have to be as well. We will have to go from being cheerful parents who willingly and easily meet the needs of a fairly predictable little emotional robot, to hopefully being cheerful parents who go on trying to meet those needs while facing the fact that their little robot is becoming a person with FEELINGS. Not just reactions, real feelings. It’s hard to articulate why this feels like my parental responsibilities have just quadrupled.

Beware...Dream Journal!

There is a distinct genre of nightmares based on the premise that one shows up for class without realizing that it is test day, and is forced to take the test without any preparation. This has not only been a recurring nightmare of mine, it actually happened to me FOR REAL once in college. In Astronomy 101. I showed up for the study session (after, um, a couple of missed classes), and I was given a seat number. I actually asked the TA what the number was for. Heh. Somehow I got a C on that test. Ah, multiple choice.

Anyway, it’s been a while since I had one of these dreams, and I was speculating that it might have something to do with the fact that I was getting farther and farther away from any school-like experience. Then last night, the dream returned and handed me a seat number. But it was different from a lot of the other versions of the dream. It was closer to a bad dream than a true nightmare. Instead of a regular college class, it was the class I took a couple of years ago at Hamline University, when I was pregnant- a graduate seminar on the concept of “home.” And in the dream, it wasn’t the last day, it was somehow three days before the last day, and someone was asking me whether I got the big paper finished, the one that was due in three days. So I immediately began to scheme and plan for how I would be able to pull off this ten-page paper, well thought out and well researched, in three days. And really, it didn’t panic me the way the immediate test dreams always did. Maybe because I always waited until the last one or two days to write my papers?

But in the quick calculations for how I was going to pull this off, I had to figure in time for going to work, cooking and cleaning (such as it is), and taking care of Naomi. And I realized that it was going to be really tiring and I wasn’t going to enjoy it. Whine. Now I am wondering if this dream is somehow a peek into my slowly maturing psyche. Panic isn’t great, but there’s something exhilarating about finding yourself face to face with an unexpected and extremely difficult problem that you have no choice but to attempt to solve immediately. These days the problems aren’t so difficult, and they are much less urgent. Finding a solution is more about…finding the time to make the solution happen. Boring! But also? Good.

Supporting the Troops

Today we had a reception at work for one of our own (one of our own coworkers, that is) who is being deployed. All the way deployed, to Iraq. All the way deployed, to join his combat engineer battalion in the unenviable task of clearing roadways of IEDs. His beautiful wife and their two elementary school age sons joined him at work for this little shindig (we all donated money to give them a weekend away somewhere, and weirdly, spending money for the kids). If I imagine Jim breaking the news to me that he’s going to be going away for a while, a long while, and I’ll have to stay home with the baby and attempt to keep it all together while he puts himself squarely in the way of lethal harm, my imagined response is something like “The hell you say.” (I got all single mother huffy yesterday when I had to cook dinner and care for Naomi, while he was out mowing the lawn and talking the rescue rooter guy through his exploration of our roof drains, for pete’s sake.)

I know it’s no picnic being an Iraqi these days. But I also thought being both anti-war and supportive of the troops wasn’t completely impossible. This send-off party got me thinking, though, that it would not be so easy to look a soldier and his wife and children in the eyes and say, This is a mad, massive boondoggle you’re off to. I wish you luck surviving in that crazy mess we made for you. When I thought about what I would say if I had to say something to this man (I didn’t, thankfully), it didn’t seem sufficient to say, honestly, that I wished him well, and the best of luck. I found myself thinking all those corny untruths that people inevitably bring out in support of the troops.

I guess what I am saying is that it’s pretty easy to understand the “defending the American way of life” nonsense that people are always saying on the news (and by people, I mean the loved ones of soldiers who are caught up in or taken away by this particular fight), because it would take a whole different, dark kind of courage to say to your loved one, “You are risking your life for something wrong. You are leaving me here to go off to a reckless, unjustified conflict. What you are doing doesn’t make any sense.”

The News Roundup

Yesterday I took the nipper and the dog to the little local park again, and there were no neighborhood bullies outside that one house to yell at us. Whew.

That lasagna turned out great. It didn’t look very good (because for some reason we had fat free mozzarella in the house, and I used that, and although it says it melts well, what that means is that each little individual shred of cheese melts by itself in its own little space, and does not join the others), but it tasted yummy. I will definitely make this no-boil air headed uneven layered last minute turkey recipe again.

I have met the elusive baby across the street! As I returned from a dog walk, I saw the whole family out on the porch of the steakhouse. The mother called to me and asked if I wanted to meet the baby. Yes I did! He is 6 weeks old now, and has his mother’s nose. His name is Jonathan. I have since purchased little Jonathan a cute cow-themed onesie and matching bib from one of the egregiously overpriced children’s stores at the mall (I had a gift card!), and I will wrap it up and give it to them this week. Done and done.

Jim and I and our sidekick ate at the Pal Do Korean Restaurant Sunday night. The nice owner lady was not present (my guess is she was at church or a church-related activity). While we were there, we heard both Elvis AND the new Korean pop music. So, they have expanded their selections, but only by one selection.

Last but not least, I am now also enjoying hoof and mouth disease. My version is just mouth-based, so I have a weirdly sore tongue (feels like I have scalded it with hot coffee every day this week). When Jim had it, it was mostly throat and whine based (just kidding, honey!). I hope it feels better by tomorrow, when we are celebrating Father's Day with all you can eat sushi. Oh yeah.

A Party at the Beach

Naomi’s best friend forever, Carmen, turns one year old today. Happy Birthday shout-out to Carmen! On Saturday her parents threw a pretty fantastic party at Saltwater State Park near Kent. The park is right on the Puget Sound, and below the picnic tables is an embankment of gigantic rocks that tumble down onto the rocky, tide-strewn beach. The park smells aptly of saltwater, and the view across the water to the forested hills on the other side is, while not breathtaking, simply and pleasantly beautiful. The weather alternated between warm, cold, dark, bright, threatening, cajoling, delightful, glary, calm, and gusty. And yet, it never rained. Hooray.

Carmen’s parents have a lot of friends, many with kids, some with a lot of kids. So there were easily twenty kids there, maybe more, all running around with the punching balloons and bubble solution my friend had packaged into beach pails (shovel attached). I learned some things about kids and parties. They are all going to want the cake with the pink frosting, no matter what the other choices are. When it comes to certain activities (blowing out the candle on behalf of the baby), they are total team players. I also learned a couple of good jokes. Why is six afraid of seven? Because seven eight nine! And what did the zero say to the eight? I like your belt!

The food was plentiful and delicious. The gifts were reasonable and appropriate (we brought this awesome moose, and had our irrational gift-choice pride rewarded by the loving attention of the birthday girl).
The kids were jovial and appreciative. At one point, a certain little Julio saw Naomi walking toward him with her arms out, and he thought about it for a moment, then gave her a hug. Hee! Besides the unexpected hugging, Naomi’s sleep-nazi parents lightened up and let her stay at the party a full five hours without a nap (completely unprecedented!). She also got to eat her first small bite of hot dog, some potato salad, guacamole, cake, of course, and some grilled corn on the cob.

Carmen’s parents have said this is the last of the big giant birthday parties. But I hope they relent. I would go to a party like that every weekend if I could.

Animals and Disease

Is it one of the marks of a humane(r) zoo that visitors find it difficult to see the animals, busy and fairly hidden as they are in their simulated natural environment? If so, we can feel good about the zoo (Woodland Park) we visited for the first time last weekend. Naomi thoroughly enjoyed seeing the foreground animals (mallard ducks!) at the expense of the distant main attractions (real live giraffes!). She did get to see some goats and sheep up close, as well as some teeny, tiny ponies. (On the fence of the teeny, tiny pony pen leaned a grumpy veterinarian, waiting for the elderly pony to pee so she could collect a bit for a UTI test. Sounds like intern work to me, ma’am. )

Overall, it was a really good time. Naomi tromped along the zoo trails, shared my ice cream sandwich, poked around the butterfly enclosure, and patted a sheep. I know it is only a coincidence that three days after the zoo visit, the daycare called and said I had to come and get Naomi, since she had symptoms of hoof and mouth disease. Ok, not really, but hand, foot, and mouth disease sounds awfully evocative of the original. The promptly consulted doctor said it wasn’t from the zoo, that it was very contagious, and that there was absolutely no reason not to take her back to school, since all the kids were going to get it anyway.

Today for Show and Tell, Naomi would like to share a virus of hers that will give you blisters on your hands and feet, and little sores in your mouth. If you’re lucky, you will also get a fever. Enjoy!

Target Market

On my Raisin Bran box, I discovered a movie trivia question. The movie? Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. I am guessing that I am about forty years and maybe a chromosome off from the consumer Kellogg's is trying to impress with this cereal box fun.

Elvis has left the building

In celebration of Friday, I headed to Papa Murphy's to pick up a take and bake and a salad. Yep, that's what it's come to. If I have not already endorsed this particular product, let me do so now. Papa Murphy's pizza is delectable. No, it does not compete with the deep dish Chicago pies, or Z's pizza (RIP) on 6th Street south of the University of Arizona. But for chain pizza, Papa Murphy's is definitely superior. Yes, you have to pick it up yourself. Yes, for god's sake, you have to bake it yourself. Nevertheless. Also? It is three blocks from our house.

While the enthusiastic teens assembled my pizza, I trotted over to Pal Do World Korean Market to pick up some beer. Although in some ways it would be nice to have a boring old supermarket around the corner from our house, I am mostly glad that instead we have Pal Do. Because I have done the Murphy's and beer run before, I know that the good people at Pal Do politely request that I spend more than ten dollars if I am going to use my credit card. So I had to play a quick game of Supermarket Sweep in an attempt to boost my Tsing Tao purchase over the ten spot limit.

At Pal Do World, there is, naturally, a vast assortment of Korean and Japanese food. But there is also quite an extensive assortment of "European" food. There are some very tasty baked goods in the front, from some place called the Euro Bakery. There is in fact an entire aisle labeled "European" food. (Really, the only kind of food that Pal Do expressly doesn't carry is...American. So we do not shop there for bread, cheerios, canned peaches, milk...you get the idea). I headed down the European aisle for something else to buy (ridiculous why I did not just find an ATM...), and found a great number of jars of food that were labeled not just in another language, but in many cases, in another script. And the food wasn't identifiable, even when seen through the glass. It's one thing to try something new when you at least know the name of it. It's another when you don't even know what it's for. One jar tried to be helpful- along with the Russian words, there was an English name: "A chunky relish." Mmm. Even knowing the English name? Does not help me understand what I would be taking on buying this jar. So I settled for some wafer cookies with cocoa hazelnut filling. For some reason they were called Neopolitans.

I forgot to mention that Pal Do World has two restaurants, one Korean, one Japanese. When a certain contingent of Malaysian in-laws were here for two months, we spent many a dinner eating Korean food at the Pal Do restaurant. The woman who runs the place was wild for my in-laws, for my husband, and for my baby. Sadly, she has some eye condition which makes it difficult for her to see me. But the food is good. It is these once frequent dinners at the Pal Do on which I base the following bold assertion: the background music at Pal Do is always, always Elvis Presley. And not, as you might expect, an entire range of early Elvis, Vegas Elvis, gospel Elvis. No, it was the same dozen or so songs, over and over. You ain't nothing but a hound dog, crying all the time. Don't be cruel to a heart that's true. Everybody in the old cell block, dancing to the jailhouse rock.

Once, during the beer run where I learned of the ten dollar credit card rule (and the cashier let me off with a polite mention), I made a comment about how he must be a little tired of Elvis. He just looked at me. Today, I went up to the counter with my Tsing Tao and my Neopolitans and my bunch of bananas, and noticed that the cashier was singing along with the storetrack, and that it was very definitely Not Elvis. It was peppy Korean pop music, and the singer jovially shouted the chorus, like a Korean Chumba Wumba (as did the cashier). My total was $13.92. I have eaten about that many Neopolitans, two slices of Papa Murphy's, and one bottle of Tsing Tao. And that, ladies and gentlemen, was my Friday night.

The Baby Across the Street, or, Serious Overthinking

This is more like a letter I should submit to Miss Manners or Dear Abby (love your work, Miss and Dear!) than an actual event worth ruminating on. Even so, I have given some thought to it already, so I may as well go all the way and give some thought to it out loud (so to speak). The issue in a nutshell is: our neighbors have had a baby- what should my response be? Keep in mind that the longer I ruminate, the more I have made a default decision for myself. The history is thus…

The house across from ours is a piece of new construction on a street of 1956 split levels. It’s big and red and has gables, a funny brick-walled front yard (with impeccable groundskeeping) and a wide front porch at ground level. And it seems it is not just a house, it’s a home. An assisted living home, to be exact. Mobility buses coming by many times a day to schlep the assisted livers here and there, and when we first moved here and I wasn’t yet working, I got a little jealous that these assisted livers seemed to have so much more of a life than I.

Also living in the “Steakhouse,” as my local friend has dubbed it (because of how it looks, not any darkly comic sense), is a family of four- husband, wife, and two small children. They are from some eastern European country. I assume that the woman looks after the residents, and the man looks after the building (though it could be the other way around. He certainly mows the lawn, more, though...). Our association with them has been limited to occasional waving (especially waving at the man and his children, who sometimes go out for little walks in the neighborhood).

At Christmas time, as is the tradition in my family, I loaded up a few plates with Christmas cookies and candies, and carried them to each of our neighbors’ houses. The only one who was around to receive their goodies was Sheila, who celebrates Hanukah instead, but was still very gracious about accepting the cookies. When I brought a plate to the Steakhouse, a young woman who works there took them from me, saying, I’m not the owner, but I’ll give them to her. Fast forward to Easter, a few weeks ago. The doorbell rang (an excitingly rare event), and when I opened it, there stood the woman from across the street. Whom I have never met or spoken with or even really waved at, since it’s her husband who is outside much more often. Unsmiling, she handed me a plate of pastries she had made for Easter. I thanked her, hugely smiling, and asked her (recklessly!) if she was expecting (because she looked about six months pregnant). She said she was due in two weeks (Wha?). She told me her name, Adina (I am spelling it on a whim here). I told her if they needed anything, to call on us. She said they would be just fine. Kind of meanly, it felt like.

And of course, she had the baby. We have seen him from our windows, tucked into his baby bucket and covered with a blanket, being carried in and out of the car. Catching him outside once, I asked the father if the baby had come, he said yes. I asked the little boy if he liked his little brother, and he gave me a very sour scowl. We know the baby is here. We don’t know the family very well. But they have made a kind gesture to us (the Easter pastries were pretty tasty), they are a young family with a new baby, and they are our neighbors. I want to do something nice for them, on the other hand, I fear (a little irrationally, I’ll admit) that doing something for them will be perceived as something like meddling, which I genuinely don’t want.

Am I mired in a simple cultural difference? I know Americans are more grinny and boisterous in their attempts to be “friendly” with others (especially me! I blush a little at my uber-friendly try at conversation with the borderline sullen Adina as she handed over the Easter sweets). Or is she genuinely just not a warm, friendly person, perhaps one who would neither notice nor care about an extra pack of onesies and a Hallmark card? This is one situation where the golden rule might not apply. I would want my awkwardly smiley, new-to-the-street neighbor to come over with a small, cute baby present if I had a new baby. To me, that would be just great. But also? I think it’s easy to see how not everyone might feel that way.