It's my birthday and I'll reminisce if I want to

My birthday starts in a couple of hours. My dad is already giving me a hard time about how I tend to get a bit crabby on my birthday. Well, wouldn't you - a birthday is supposed to be a person's "special" day, and when that day falls on a day that most people feel some pressure to make special, how can it not be a let down?

Maybe I need to let go of the childish idea that a birthday is "my" day. And really, I have had a number of great birthdays to outweigh the ones that were disappointing or downright bad. Tomorrow I am going to one of the places I liked the best when I was twelve, the Getty. Before the Getty Center, there was just the museum now called the Getty Villa, a Roman-inspired building and grounds filled with ancient Greek, Roman and Etruscan artifacts. The Villa was recently reopened after an extensive renovation.

While I really like the new Getty Center (especially the architecture of the buildings and the grounds, plus the photography collection, which - unlike a lot of their other non-classical art - is really great), I am excited to see the Getty Villa again. One summer my friend Katie and I took a creative writing class together. The class was in the mornings and we had our afternoons open, which was both a joy and a curse. Some days we went to my house and watched the 7 videos then available on a public access music video program. (I saw Institutionalized almost every day that summer. That song got so deep into the crevices of my brain that I can still sing the whole thing in head-thrashing glory.) Other days we went on excursions: to the mall; to Westwood; and once every week or two to the Getty. We went so many times that my mother got suspicious. Even though she and my dad love museums and took my sister and me to ones all over the country, she thought there must be something else going on to get us to this museum on such a regular basis. At one point she made me write a report on an artwork, to prove that we'd actually been to the museum. How sad is it that I was such a geek that I was in fact going to the museum, instead of lying to my parents and getting stoned behind the junior high?

The truth is that I loved going there. To get there we took a bus out the Pacific Coast Highway and got off at the base of the property. We hiked up the driveway, feeling particularly mature and cultured. We wandered around the gardens and through the galleries. I wasn't one to linger on too many things, but I did have a favorite painting on the second floor that I tried to visit regularly. It was a painting of a girl - royalty I think - and her little dog. She just looked so satisfied, as an insecure pre-teen that was compelling and astounding. Plus, I loved the detail of the painting, the brushstrokes making up her fur collar, the way her skin stretched across her cheeks. Somewhere I still have a
postcard of that painting.

And yes, Katie and I loved the cafe. We loved how adult we felt ordering snacks and taking them out to the patio to gossip and laugh, munch and sip. The Getty was so different from the architecture ofLos Angeles , where everything feels new and impermanent. This felt old and real. I think Katie felt this too. She more than me was a person enamored with the past. She moved back east for college and was thrilled to get decked out in L.L. Bean and attend a capella concerts on campus.

Just writing about the Getty and what it felt like to be there has done what my father's little lecture could not. I am excited for tomorrow. Ada will love running
around the museum, and though she probably won't stop to really admire many of the ancient works, I think she'll appreciate them in her own way. And then we'll come home for champagne, gumbo and my grandmother's recipe marble cake. Happy birthday to me! (And happy new year to you!)

Interfaithful

Listening to a piece on NPR last week about how interfaith families celebrate the winter holidays, I started thinking about the way my family celebrates.

To call my relationship with Chris "interfaith" is kind of a stretch. I am Jewish by birth and by culture, but I am not religious. I almost never go to synagogue, I rarely fast on Yom Kippur, and I eat pork and shrimp. Chris, despite the meaning of his name, does not consider himself Christian. His family celebrates Christmas as a chance for family to be together, to get merry and bright and stuffed with cookies, but not so much as an occasion to meditate on the birth of a savior. Chris is just as likely to cheerfully call out "Happy feast of the unvanquished sun!" as he is "Merry Christmas!"

But we do enjoy traditions. I love the Jewish holidays - Passover especially, but also Chanukah, with its candle lighting and oil-fried potatoes. This year we celebrated on the first night by inviting friends over. I mumble-mumbled through the prayers before we all dug into dinner. Another night we shared the lighting of the menorah with Ada and a three year old pal. Our visitor wanted to know why we didn't blow the candles out after we sang the song. Then again, now that this girl is in preschool and has learned about Santa, she's apparently a bit miffed that her parents don't celebrate Christmas. I'm thinking a three year old may not be overly impressed by solstice unless it comes with gifts.

How could you not enjoy something that encourages adults to put a restored sled in their dining room?
We celebrate Christmas with Chris's parents every year. After a decade of such celebrations, I am fairly committed to the traditions of my new family. I love icing sugar cookies. I appreciate being able to sit around in my pjs drinking coffee christmas morning, waiting until 11 or so to eat German pancakes, Texas grapefruit and Canadian bacon for breakfast. I like that the grapefruit always come from this one place, in the same yellow-brown box with the tissue paper swaddling.

The first couple of years that I joined Chris at his parents' house, I was a little weirded out by Christmas. The Christ part wasn't a problem, because as I mentioned, he doesn't make much of an appearance at the in-laws' house. It was the presents, the boxes and bags and more boxes of gifts. THIS was what I had managed to escape, the love expressed as intense consumerism that is so much a part of many Americans' lives this time of year. It was nice to get gifts, but it was kind of exhausting, too.

After that first Christmas with this family, I mentioned to my mom how different it was from how we'd celebrated Chanukah when I was a kid. She responded saying how glad she was that she and my dad had not had to wait for a once a year holiday to get us things, that we'd been financially comfortable enough for them to get us things all year. While her answer made sense at the time, in retrospect what she said was less about whether my parents could afford to buy us gifts, and more that they would not understand giving a big pile of gifts (that are never about "need" and all about "want"). As a child I could not even really have envisioned a pile of gifts of the sort some of my friends must have been getting. It just didn't fit my family, and I didn't grow up less happy because of it.

And ok, Chanukah is really a minor holiday in the Jewish calendar, just one more celebration that boils down to "they tried to kill us, we didn't die, let's eat!". It became a big thing in the west because of Christmas. How can you look at a kid, who's had "he knows if you've been bad or good" drilled into her head and give her nothing? My parents apparently couldn't, and we celebrated Chanukah with candles and latkes and gifts all around. We got fun gifts the first few nights, but half way through the holiday we'd start getting cheerfully wrapped 3-packs of underwear or socks instead of toys or games. For several years we also got stockings filled with oranges and candy and toothbrushes.

Now that Chris and I are a bit older, we celebrate Christmas with my in-laws with fewer gifts and more game-playing, cooking and story-telling. This year Chris's dad asked me what I thought about Christmas, whether it bothered me to celebrate something that was not my tradition. I told him what I loved about it. If I had hated it, or wanted to get out of it, I could have made excuses for why I had someplace else I needed to be. But I never did, because with Chris and his (now my) family is where I wanted to be. Now that we have Ada backing out is much less of an option, so it is wonderful that Christmas with the family brings up feelings of joy rather than dread.


This year, Christmas for Ada was all about family. Being with her grandparents is such a gift for Ada and for them. After a month of talking about her "boompa" Ada finally decided to give her Grandmother a name too. Saturday afternoon she busted out with "gamma" and we practically heard nothing else as she yelled, cooed, bubbled and crowed the word over the next four days.


She could not get enough of her grandparents, hugging them, playing with them, helping bring wood inside for a fire, pointing out (and pulling off and replacing) the ornaments on the tree. And Ada continued to be in love with the cat, who has learned to tolerate if not appreciate Ada's friendly gestures and squeaky attention. Chrstmas would have been a success in her eyes with just the stocking to explore. What could be better than an orange, a toothbrush, and some toys? (Well, maybe the addition of some chocolate, but we are holding back on that for another couple of years...) Ada's first conscious Christmas was a bit like mine. She was so amazed and overwhelmed by the gifts and the wrapping and the more more more that she practically passed out in my arms by 10:30am. She learned fast that there is nothing better on Christmas day than to open presents in your pajamas and then take a nap.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

Why just crush people, when you can crush their souls?
Jiro

Open Letter to Zupan's Market

To the Manager of the Zupan's Market in Southeast Portland:

I know that you are trying to be multi-cultural and friendly to your Jewish customers, but a little research might improve your results.

I was recently in your store to purchase some eggs and heavy cream (for a delicious "practice" birthday cake my husband was making for me) and noticed the free-standing display of "Chanukah" items by the yogurt case. I saw packages of matzo, matzo meal, kosher wine and egg noodles. While these items overflowed the shelves, I did not see any candles, driedles or potatoes. Although all the proffered items are undoubtedly for Jewish holiday celebrations, none them are actually for Chanukah. Furthermore, I have noticed this same display offered on every Jewish holiday. This is akin to displaying egg coloring kits, marshmallow chicks and chocolate bunnies for every Christian holiday.

Would it be too much to have a holiday display that actually offers foods and sundries appropriate to the holiday in question?

Yours in Celebration -
Nonlinear Girl

I hear the secrets that you keep...

Ada talks in her sleep. I can relate, since I used to do it too. It is adorable to hear her murmuring to herself, even though it makes it a bit harder to know when she's up from a nap and when she's just working things out in REM.

Wednesday I was working at home in a room across from Ada's. While Ada was napping, Juniper went upstairs twice to get her. She heard some muffled babbling and jogged up the stairs, only to find the girl flat out in her crib. Now if only I could get the sleeping Ada to tell me where she hid her left shoe.

And speaking of shoes, Ada got some new boots for Chanukah. I was rooting for the blue ones with cherries, but she liked the pink cat-face pair. She really likes them, which is useful and fairly adorable. (I'd show you a photo, except blogger has been refusing to let me upload photos for days.) The boots aren't just fashion, they are a project. To wit:

Chris: Your daughter was really intent on putting her boots on herself today.

Me: How'd that go?

Chris: Not so well, especially since she wouldn't let me take her shoes off first.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

If you really want something in this life, you have to work for it. Now, quiet! The're about to announce the lottery numbers..

Homer Simpson

Happy Chanukah

Things got busy on Friday night, so my Chanukah notes come late on evening #2:

We had dinner with friends (brisket and latkes). As I may have mentioned before, Chris makes a fantastic brisket. Better than my mother's. One of the guests, a Chinese qigong master, was particularly interested in hearing the traditions and lore. Or maybe he was just really into the He'brew Chris bought to go with dinner.

Ellen brought gifts.

For me:

For Chris:
And a bag of bacon.

You can see that everyone was pretty thrilled:


And yes, that white bear ("bear," not to be confused with "bear," the one on the left) is holding a dreidle. He also wears a yarmukle, though that is hard to see in the photo. Weirder than the bear itself is the fact that the toy came to us from Chris's cousin in northern Idaho, who pumped a bunch of quarters into one of those claw machines to get it for Ada. Which begs the question, what is a Jewish themed bear doing in northern Idaho?

Ada was asleep by the time the latkes were cooked and on the table, but we offered her some today. Apparently I have the only child in the known universe who doesn't like fried potatos. She's spurned french fries, and now latkes. If she wasn't such a sweets and carbohydrates fiend I would really start to wonder whether she could be my child.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week (late night edition)

My hovercraft is full of eels.

Michael Palin

Curb Your Enthusiasm

It just isn't cool to be so enthusiastic. For example, you read blogs. Maybe you read a bunch of them. Some you read religiously, others casually. Ok, enough distancing - I read a bunch of blogs. I've got a few daily reads, maybe six or so. Maybe more. The "must reads" vary with my level of infatuation and the business of my schedule. Others I read every few days, when I have the time or bloglines says there are several posts. I skim, looking for a post that speaks to me. (Stop shaking your head, you do it too.)

The first time I met one of my regular reads we talked about blogs because we didn't know each other enough to talk about much else. (Hold on, see, already I am shying away from full enthusiasm. I first typed "one of my favorite bloggers" but then decided that sounded to sycophantic. I mean, we are just becoming friends. What if she thinks my enthusiasm makes me creepy, like that guy you went out with once in high school but were frightened away from when he came on too strong. You'd see him coming down the hall and duck into the girl's bathroom to avoid his love notes and pathetic interest.)

But now I have met Debbie a few times and watched her son smile and wander and chatter. So we talked about other things, Portland, kids, clothes, kid clothes (including a cute idea she has for her shop), etc. But as I have found bloggers will do, we started to talk about blogs. She mentioned that she'd gotten some weird traffic from posting photos of her shoes (and subsequently took the photos off, which apparently failed to foil the shoe-fetishizing googlers). She started to say something about this post, and I butted in with "I think that is the first thing I read of yours!" - acting all gushy and pathetic. She probably didn't notice, concerned as she was that she'd made some kid-visit faux pas (which she didn't).

And if it wasn't enough to be dorky and effusive around new people, then there was that tuba thing.

The tuba that made Ellen and me wish we played
What grown woman gets so enamored of the idea of two hundred people tooting holiday songs and wearing coordinated stocking caps? Even though it was fun. Dorky, but fun. The only disappointment was not the tubas, and certainly not the octogenarian conductor (who was, as one would expect from a tuba-loving, family concert giving, thin and kindly man, funny in an incredibly corny way). No, the Christmas songs were the problem. For the most part they are really freaking slow. But rather than yell (as I wanted to) "PICK UP THE PACE, TUBAS!" I enjoyed the moment for what it was.

As further evidence of my utter dorkiness, I offer the following photo of myself at Tuba Christmas. Not only did I allow this photo to be taken of me (making this face and wearing this hat) but then I self-mockingly post it on my own site.

Ah well, some people really are gluttons for punishment.

So yeah, I just can't help myself. Despite being more easily embarrassed than I wish I were, I tend to be too enthusiastic in a way that the hipsters at the coffee shop down the street would scorn. Have scorned. But then Ada steps in to remind me that enthusiastic is okay. Because no one is enthusiatic like a toddler. Her joys are written all over her face, they radiate in the way she shivers with happiness when her PAPA! walks through the door at night, they leap from her when she declares "'ken!" (her take on "again"). As much as I might wonder about what makes her want to read that book 7 times in a row or play some little game over and over, it is fun to see her clear and unembarassed enthusiasms. Today it was the picture of the llama family in a book, her car, bear, and a little game with me and later with Chris in which we repeatedly hid under a blanket with a toy frog. Who we were hiding from, or why was not clear, nor were these details important. What was important was that we were in this game together, hiding under a blanket, laughing, getting kissed by a toy frog and one another, and emerging, just slightly over-warm, into the bright light before covering up again for another round.


When Ada's enthusiasm for this game outlasted mine, Chris took over and was deemed a good substitute. Lucky for us all, frog will play until Ada tells him to stop.

The best part about Christmas

Crossing my fingers that Ada wakes up from her nap in time for us to go downtown for Tuba Christmas. Because really, what could be more awesome?

The site lets you see where and when there is an event near you. And surprisingly, they appear to be everywhere. Who knew?

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

The instability of human knowledge is one of our few certainties. Almost everything we know we know incompletely at best. And almost nothing we are told remains the same when retold.

Janet Malcolm
Strangers in Paradise: How Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas got to Heaven

How to leave the country and then never leave the house

I was going to write a post about my Thanksgiving trip and tell you all these details pretty much guaranteed to bore you to tears, but instead I will just show you some of the photos I took. Most of them are from the house we rented, because we didn't leave much. Yes, I went to Mexico and sat on my butt; eating, drinking, playing cards and occasionally getting up to cook, swim or dance. I would be embarrassed if it had not been such a good time.

My pal Chloe, modeling a sign in the kitchen.

Here's my vote for the "item I would most want to steal from our rental house" award. I didn't steal it, but who wouldn't want a cheesecake photo of a stranger, cradled lovingly in an ornate metal star? (Jenny? You are with me on this, right?)

Some of the many virgins in and around the house:





(Edited to add: in retrospect, including the photo with Chris might be confusing. I didn't mean to suggest that my husband is a virgin. Sorry about that, hon!)

It isn't true that we didn't get out of the house at all. On one trip out of the house we stopped by "Pasteles Alemanes Chris" to visit with Santamouse:



Next year we are planning on Karaoke. The photos should be good.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

The goddess Iris was an Olympian messenger, and boy, was she a hoofer. Day after day, she walked the rainbow that bridged heaven and earth. As you might expect, with all that walking, she often picked up rainbow pieces on the soles of her feet, so that wherever she walked on earth, her footprints bore flowers in all the colors of the rainbows she'd traveled.

Ketzel Levine
Plant This!

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

Why must I feel like that? Why must I chase the cat?

George Clinton
Atomic Dog

My weird things

Jenny at Mamadrama is asking people to share their weird stuff. Her weird stuff is hard to beat, but I thought I'd share the following.

On my cell phone:




In my living room:


I share these things not because I hope I will win Jenny's amazing dog painting. Ok, I do hope that, but I know that this weird stuff, compared to other weird stuff, is not really so weird. So I am really sharing these items because they make me so happy. The pirate-boy has been in my phone for several months. I had an extended conversation with him about his pirate-ness. He was so sweet, in a scary, plank-threatening, "arrr" yelling kind of way.

The painting I love even more. First, it is a painting of a DOG in HOT PANTS. How can you not love that?

Second, this painting was given to me by my coworkers at my favorite job ever. This job had the great job trifecta: interesting work; wonderful coworkers; and an encouraging, funny, supportive boss.

When I quit this job to move out of state, the whole office spent a celebratory "teambuilding"/going away party day at my boss's beach house in Michigan. We played mini-golf, barbecued, and lounged on the beach. Then they gave me gifts! A couple of my coworkers put together a report about me in the style that the office produces, with findings and recommendations. They prepared me for my move to Rhode Island with a copy of the film "Outside Providence" and a homemade Mrs. Potato Head. She was gorgeous. They also bought me the dog painting.

Several months before this, I'd seen this and other paintings by Kristin Thiele. At the time of the show, I knew I wanted one of these paintings. Unfortunately, I also knew that if I wanted to pay my income taxes, the painting could not be mine. Fortunately, my friends knew my love for these paintings, and presented me with the hot pants dog at the end of my farewell party day. I am still close with a couple of my ex-coworkers, and my old boss periodically sends me his newest bad jokes. The painting is in a place of prominence in my home and in my heart. (Plus, did I mention it is a dog in hot pants? It is!)

And now for something not weird, but very cool:

Local mom made good (makes goods? makes good goods?) Debbie recently opened a cool online store that features her beautiful kid clothes. I am a big fan of the balloon pirate design, but recently noticed that she also makes shirts that read "the past means nothing to me" which may be just as good. In any case, I urge you to check her out, and urge you even more to purchase her lovely designs. Why, you ask? Supporting talent isn't enough for you? Well, in case you need another reason, how 'bout this: it will keep her busy. If you've ever read Debbie's blog, you'll know that her brain goes about five million miles an hour. And without too much work to do, Debbie might just fall apart. I mean, how many people do you know that stay up working until 2 in the morning and then sound perky and daisy-fresh on the phone the next morning? I called her at 5:45 am just to check, and the daisy smell practically knocked me out through the phone. (Ok, I didn't call that early, but I did call at 9:20 and she seemed pretty darn alert.) So go buy something already, will ya?

Lying in it

My childhood was one long independent study in Economics. As a practitioner of the dismal science, my mom's parenting style drew heavily on her professional interests. Television was limited to one hour a day, which as a kid I thought was just to torture me. Later I realized this was my mother's idea of an experiment in choice theory. Would I rather watch Mork & Mindy or WKRP?

Every choice is fraught; picking one thing means letting go of something else. To some extent, learning this lesson as a child only served to increase my indecisiveness. The longer I held off making a decision, the longer all options were open. The period before a choice is made is delicious and painful. Everything is possible, but by waiting too long I might lose the chance to make an active decision, as one or more possibilities go away. (cue the Rush)

But this is not a post about my refusal to make decisions. This is a post about a choice - the choice to go on a trip without Ada. This choice is really my mother's fault. The first year after college, Chris and I found ourselves far from our parents at Thanksgiving. A good friend of Chris's lived a few hours south of us and invited us to join him for turkey and stuffing. That first year it was just the three of us, along with our friend's housemate and a ferret. The main thing I remember about the housemate is that he wore some unfortunate cologne, which we smelled a lot more of than we wanted to because our friend's ferret knocked over a bottle the guy had left on the floor of his room. Other than that, it was a good Thanksgiving and we decided to do it again the next year.

The second year we were joined by our friend's girlfriend (Chris's and my ex-housemate from college), plus another college friend. Each year a few new people would join us. Some only come once, others come back every year. We drink, cook, eat, play cards, go for walks. When I read Lumpyhead's Mom's post about her annual outer banks weekend, I was reminded of my friends' annual tradition. We've been doing this for fourteen years. Each year it is a bit different, but every year I am reminded how much I enjoy seeing these friends and having this tradition.

When Ellen and Jiro, and then Chris and I, had babies, we knew that would affect our tradition, but we plowed forward, finding houses that would simultaneously accommodate sleeping children, trash-talking card players and drunken chefs. Last year we met on the Oregon coast, which made it easy for Chris and me. For years, two of the Thanksgiving friends have lobbied for moving Thanksgiving to a warm place. To my mind, Thanksgiving works well in a wet, cold climate, but after celebrations in Wisconsin, the Massachusetts cape, upstate New York, and the Oregon Coast, I can kind of see their point. One of my Thanksgiving friends lives in Mexico, so we decided to make this the year we venture south.

Although we could take Ada with us, there were many reasons not to. The plane flights, time change, sleeping in unfamiliar places. Oh, and the chance for both Chris and me to sleep past six am several days in a row. So I did what my mother taught me to, I made the choice to leave Ada with her grandparents. And of course I am feeling a little torn. The choice to go away without my daughter has me feeling guilty; for doing something fun without her, for leaving her when she can't possibly understand that I love her and will come back to her soon. It is all that normal parent stuff, the love mixed with fear and guilt.

Yes, a little torn. But I am leaving her with her grandparents, who love her and take great care of her. They love her so much and are so good with her that I should be worried that she won't want to come home after five days with them. And I know she will be ok. I've made my (warm, sunny, relaxing) bed, and now I have to lie in it.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

Some say that Happiness is not Good for mortals & they ought to be answerd [sic] that Sorrow is not fit for Immortals & is utterly useless to any one a blight never does good to a tree & if a blight kill not a tree but it still bear fruit let none say that the fruit was in consequences of the blight.

William Blake
Letter to William Hayley
October 7, 1803

Sweet Sixteen?

Since it is months away from the NCAA basketball tournament, it can only be a how-can-Ada-be-that-old post.

Ada is 16 months old, and for the most part it is just incredibly fantastic. She's busting out with little phrases, mostly of the "Ada cracker" variety. While preparing for a friend's visit by making the guest bed, Ada was entertaining herself by making that effort difficult. Chris recently taught her to pile the pillows in the middle of the bed and jump on them. (I know, maybe not the best idea ever, but what can you do?) She decided that while I was making the bed was a good time to try this out. She bounced around exclaiming "dump! dump!" (I guess Js aren't in her range yet). Not getting the response she wanted, she tried a different tactic, looking up at me and saying what sounded like "I dump!"


After Chris and I stopped laughing, we asked one another to confirm what we'd just heard. Yeah, I heard it too. I know kids this age generally refer to themselves in third person. Makes sense, since what a young child hears all the time is everyone calling her by name. After a while Chris and I realized she was saying "Ada jump" but eliding it to "A-dump."

So my daughter's first sentence sounds like "I dump." Definitely one to store our hearts, maybe breaking it out when we meet her future high school boyfriend.

Beyond the world of words, Ada is maturing in other amazing ways. She sits with her sippy cup of milk every morning, cuddled in my lap while I read her books. She even shows interest in ones that do not feature cats on every page. She's aware of her surroundings and provides a running commentary on what we see on our walks around the neighborhood. She knows Dylan's house from Paul's from Avery's. She talks about bridges and cars and the river. She routinely charms strangers out of sugary snacks at the farmers' market.


She's also scaring the crap out of me. In the past month we've witnessed Ada have a couple of really intense tantrums. This new phenomenon that has blown like a hurricane through our house. Though not (yet) routine, the intensity of her rage and its physical manifestation had me in tears. Both times the tantrums have seemed to come from nowhere. They happened at the end of the day, so maybe fatigue and hunger play their parts, but she's been tired and hungry before without turning into a screaming, arching, flailing monster. When it happened I was completely at a loss. I just hugged and tried to soothe her like I did when she was a colicky four month old. After a minute or two I successfully redirected her for a while until she was calm enough to try dinner without her bucking so hard she risked hitting her head on the back of the chair.

I can not express how frightening these tantrums were to me. They were so unexpected (particularly the first one). Her anger was so intense and I am so unprepared for this new behavior. I naively thought that tantrums didn't start until after two, maybe even later. Apparently I was wrong. (I hope I'm wrong. The alternative is that this is just an Ada thing, which is so much scarier than normal kid-terror.)


Several times recently someone at the park or in a store has commented on what a good natured child Ada is. "Usually" I say sheepishly, a bit embarrassed to be speaking ill of my child to a stranger, but unable to lie and say that she is as ideal as she might appear. I remember these moments from when Ada was an infant. Those colic months were so hard, that even when Ada was sleeping peacefully or cooing sweetly, I could not help but let people know that life with her wasn't all bunnies and flowers. She was hard work, and I wanted people to know it.

Now I am more able to accept the complement on my child's public demeanor, but I still sneak that little hint of "yeah, but." It isn't pretty, but it is a way of coping with this new type of parent-stress. And really, these moments have been so few compared to the hours with my funny, sweet and charming child. Much of my time with her is fun these days, and I really enjoy watching her change and grow. This struggle is about me as much as it is about her. How much can I focus on the positive rather than fretting that her hard moments might be signs of a looming problem? I started writing this post to talk about how great 16 month old Ada is, but thrown by one night's struggle I found myself writing about the difficulties of this age instead. So really, though it is hard, it is also easy. Big hug, whispered words, huge grin, skittering run easy.



Edited to add: the raincoat is from Polliwog in Portland.

Updates From The Road To No Nursing

Weaning Phase One (Mourning Morning?)

It was not the plan to eliminate morning nursing first. We heard all the people who told us that morning was the last to go for them, the one time their children were most attached to keeping. But an opportunity arose and we grabbed it. One Monday both Chris and I had to get up early for work, so we were downstairs, showered and dressed and semi-coherent before Ada woke up. When she woke, Chris brought her downstairs. I held her on my lap and gave her a cup of milk.

Ada responded well to the first week of our new routine. Then the first Saturday with no morning nursing Ada seemed to realize that this new thing was permanent. She was pissed. There was screaming and complaining. Eventually there was crabby, grudging book reading. After a few days this evolved into happy book reading. Well, happy for her. I'm a little groggy first thing, and Ada is a demanding little monkey in the morning. (You know the routine. She commands: "Cup!" "Book!" "Pick up the pace, mama!")

As thrilled as I am to have Ada sit on my lap and read books in the morning, her attachment to particular books has gotten old fast. My boredom led us to take a trip to exchange library books and another to buy a passel of 50 cent books at Goodwill. Why buy four books at $6.99 US, when you can buy a zillion at Goodwill? Ok, some culling is needed, and admittedly I did end up with one book (on opposites) that is going back via a donation (I am not keeping a book that suggests Boys are the opposite of Girls. That is just not correct. Plus the Up/Down examples are just confusing.) But I also got a cool Caldecott medal winning book, plus some other gems.


Weaning Phase Two (Break-Out)

To eliminate day nursing, Chris and I settled on the "fall break" weaning method. We planned this phase of weaning to coincide with Chris's school break so that he would be around to put Ada in her crib for naps. We figured that after a week of no day nursing she'd be over it and I could go back to taking her upstairs at naptime without hearing screams for me and my breasts.

Like many things in life, the initial attempts were extremely painful, but the longer term is going well. Attempt one at nap-without-nursing was gut wrenching. Ada showed all her tired signs (loss of coordination, extra hilarity at small jokes alternating with crabbiness...) and Chris picked her up and asked if she wanted a nap. The problem is that he asked in front of me. So although she said "nap, nap, nap" she was confused and annoyed when he took her upstairs. (I mean, she doesn't know everything, but she's fairly clear that he is no help in the nursing department.)

Our girl made some noises I have never heard from her. Pisssed off, ear-piercing screams. Wow. But they subsided fairly quickly and she napped well. The pre-nap screams went on for a few days, and although they were hard at the time, in retrospect (because I am so much more clear-headed from the remove of several weeks) it was not so bad. Now she is napping with no nursing first, either talking to herself a bit first, or just turning right over in bed the moment we put her down. (I hesitate to even mention this, for fear of jinxing it.)

I am still nursing before bedtime, and will continue to do so until Thanksgiving. I feel torn about what I hope happens with that change. Part of me wants to be done, but I love the cuddle time and singing to Ada in her darkened room and the intimacy of tired mother and sleepy child. So we'll see.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

It occurs to me in a blinding flash of insight that all movies and TV shows are derivations of the shows that preceded them, they are almost the same but watered-down, not as good.

Cynthia Heimel
Seen It, Done It

Say it with me

It is totally normal that my 16 month old would rather assert her independence than eat.

It is totally normal that my 16 month old would rather assert her independence than eat.

It is totally normal that my 16 month old would rather assert her independence than eat.

It is totally normal that my 16 month old would rather assert her independence than eat.

It is totally normal that my 16 month old would rather assert her independence than eat.

Why Ada Is Very Likely Not My Daughter, Reason #72

While snacking on crackers, Ada noticed me putting green beans into a container. She threw down the crackers and demanded "bean-bean!"

Evidence that I am NOT the least crafty person ever

While Ada napped one day last week I worked on my "trick or treat" pumpkin. I'd seen this idea in a magazine and decided to give it a shot.

This is the front of the pumpkin (unlit, very unspooky)

Pumpkin front (lit, kitchen lights on)

Pumpkin front (lit, kitchen lights off)

That night I watched "Friday Night Lights" and carved the back of the pumpkin. Here's what it looked like on Halloween:


I know in my heart of hearts that I should just have picked one of these photos. But I loved this pumpkin too much to pick one. But I've gotten my pumpkin-pride comeuppance. A visiting pal astutely noticed that now that the pumpkin has dessicated a bit, the letters have morphed a bit. The R and the E have sort of merged, and my lovely pumpkin now declares "TWAT."

Oh, and Ada had a great time dressed as a giraffe. Evidence: