Don't Fear The Diaper

I think I'm on an all-music themed roll here at Casa Nonlinear. First it's the Beach Boys, then I go banana-song crazy, now I'm humming Blue Oyster Cult. But yelling "more cowbell" belies the seriousness with which I take the issue of diapers. Specifically, Ada's current hatred of the diaper change.

I just don't know what is going on with the reigning king of no pants. She, like most babies, used to get a bit squirrelly when laid down for a diaper change. But now? Now she screams the moment she THINKS there will be a diaper change. She screams as I lay her down, screams while I do the sign for "change", screams louder when I actually take the diaper off, twists and screams while I try to wipe her off, screams and crawls away when I momentarily turn to pick up the clean diaper. She writhes and cries as I try to get the new diaper on and continues to cry until several minutes after the change. For a while she could be placated by getting a toy to hold, and when that stopped working she was amused when I gripped a toy in my teeth, wiggling it maniacally over her. Neither technique is working any more. (By the way, I now know one of the reasons babies drool so much. Have you ever tried to hold a toy in your teeth and murmer to your child? Drool city.)

I was so proud of Ada at 8 months; she would stop fussing when I signed "change" to her. "How brilliant she is," I thought. "She understands what I am doing and is happy once she she's in on what we are doing." Um, apparently knowing what's happening is not sufficient solace for the 11 month old Ada. Please tell me that this is a stage that she'll grow out of. Even better, tell me she'll grow out of it soon. Tomorrow would be good. I hate feeling like I am torturing my child, but leaving her in wet or poopy diapers is not a viable option. She's remained almost completely diaper-rash free so far, and I'm not giving in now. Chris has tried bribing her, but given the size of our backyard, I don't think we can fit any more ponies in there, at least not without some kind of special permit.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

Look, you gotta lose this guy. A bad clown will really fuck you up.
Lucy (Shakes The Clown)

Ode On A Ecuadorian Banana

Ada's ongoing love for the world's most perfect food has on occasion led Chris and me to literally sing its praises. Here are a few of our household's top (banana) hits:

The Knack's My Banana

Ooh my little yellow one, yellow one.
Why can't every one be mine, mine, Banana?
Ooh you taste so fun, taste so fun.
Love to eat them picked right from the vine, Banana.
Never gonna stop, give them up.
Such a yummy fruit. Always have it for my lunch
eating all my yellow loot.
My my my i yi woo. M M M My Banana...

Arrowsmith's Dude (looks like banana)

Crawlin' to a store on the shore
Its picture graced a poster on the door
She a long lost love at first bite
Baby, maybe you taste wrong
But you know it's all right - that's right

At lunch we're having the time
Of our lives until somebody says
'Forgive me if I seem out of line'
Then she whipped out a peel
Tried to take my fruit away.

Dude Looks Like Banana
Dude Looks Like Banana
Dude Looks Like Banana
Dude Looks Like Banana

Barry Manilow's Copacabanana

Her name was Lola, she sold bananas,
With yellow peelings in her hair and some fruit cut down to there
She would make smoothies and do the chopping
And when she made banana bread, Tony was filled with dread.
Fruit fell on the floor, they cooked from 8 till 4
They were young and they had each other
Who could ask for more?

At the Copa, Copacabanana
The hottest spot north of Havana (here)
At the Copa, Copacabanana
Fruit shakes and passion were always the fashion
At the Copa....they fell in love

Banana (to the tune of Tomorrow from the musical Annie)

Banana, Banana,
I'll love ya, banana!
you're only a bite away!

What are you singing around the high chair at your house? I can't be the only one doing this. (Please, I hope not.)

Fun, Fun, Fun

On a recent "night out"* I heard Peter Ames Carlin read from his new biography of Brian Wilson. The reading made me realize that there are some hard-core Beach Boys fans out there and that they take the band's music really seriously. Growing up in southern cal, I'd never thought more of it than the background music to those montage scenes in movies where the kids frolic on the beach while their parents think they are at school.

I guess I should not have been surprised that people take the Beach Boys seriously. Take any band and you are likely to find adherents who adore everything the band has done and take great offense at any suggestion that the band is less than perfect. Take AC/DC fans. I have nothing against AC/DC, but man, those people have no sense of humor.

While I'm unlikely to spend a lot of time playing and replaying Pet Sounds, or trying to parse Smile lyrics any time soon, listening to Carlin speak did get me in a bit of a Beach Boys mood. Today I found myself carrying Ada to the couch, singing "Everybody loves nursing, nursing U.S.A."

*Ok, my exciting night out was a trip to see a taping of the locally-produced public radio program Live Wire. Yes, I go out not to drink or dance, but to sit in the dark at a younger, somewhat hipper (she says defensively) Prairie Home Companion, minus the guy with the long face telling stories about his hometown. Actually, I was pretty excited for this, because in addition to the Wilson biographer and a funny monologue by Marc Acito, the show featured performances by both Robbie Fulks and Stephen Malkmus. For a geek-girl like myself, it was pretty fun to be just feet from alt-country and alt-rock legends. (Look how geeky I am, using the word "legends".)

Mother's Day Ride

Or, evidence that we do occasionally take Ada someplace other than the park.

Except in this case, we took her to a park. But it was a park in a different city, so I think we should get credit. But she loves the park. She's started to recognize our local parks, and makes an excited grunting noise when we approach the playground at the elementary school down the street. On mother's day, the park was just an extra bonus attached to the main event - Ada's first carousel ride.

I think baby's first ride on the carousel is one of those things that sounds like it will be more fun than it actually is. The whole thing was pretty entertaining for the adults. Chris and I were charmed by Ada's look of amazement, and the grandparents were thrilled to be there for a "first". For Ada, the experience was a bit confusing, if ultimately worthwhile. You'll notice that despite the fact that Chris has a firm hold on the girl (and she's wearing the mandatory horse-rider "seat belt"), Ada is not taking any chances with this bucking bronc. She's got a firm grip on her dad's shirt, just in case he gets distracted by all the pretty lights and the music and oh! is that popcorn I smell?


We inadvertently put Ada on a horse that did not go up and down. In retrospect, this was a lucky break. Although she did relax a bit once she realized her dad wasn't going to let go and that every 30 seconds or so she saw her grandfather, grandmother and uncle wave at her as she went past, the experience was a bit of a sensory overload for the girl. An added perspective shift might have sent Ada over the edge. She was already getting close to nap time when we got on the ride. She immediately sacked out in the car on the way home, no doubt exhausted by trying to reconcile the hard plastic horses in the carousel with the kind, smiling ones in her books.

A Working Mom's Long Day

It was a long day.

Up at 4:30. (Ada is really a trooper when she's sick, but she takes it out on us by getting up extra-early.) I drowse and nurse until 5, when Ada decides it is time to crawl-dance around the bed. I pick her up and we go downstairs.

At 5:45 Ada decides she's tired. I put her in bed and crawl into my own bed. Despite setting my alarm for 6:15, I wake up at 6:30 when Chris pokes me. I make a mental note to get a new alarm clock one of these days. I shower, dress and put my stuff together before Ada wakes up again. I pick her up, kiss her and hand her over to Chris before leaving the house.

On the way out I notice that the tomatoes I planted this weekend are looking wilty, so I grab the watering can. After an hour drive I'm at the office. I work on the introduction to my report, review my presentation, pump, talk to my boss, check only a few blogs. I try to decide whether it is better to wear a slightly stained (what is that, milk? toothpaste?) sweater or a ten year old suit jacket to the presentation. My big boss assures me that it is ok not to wear hose, for which I am eternally grateful.

I hold out until 11:15 before eating my leftover husband-made shrimp fra diavolo. At noon I take a short walk to the farmer's market (snap peas and shortbread cookies). I talked to this great woman standing on the corner with a pro-peace sign:The sign behind her reads: "War, An Unnecessary Evil" How awesome is she, standing on the corner with half a dozen other pro-peace activists, just letting people know how she feels? So awesome. When I am 70 I hope I am half as cool as this woman.

Back at the office I start to get nervous about my presentation. For some reason it is scarier to talk to a group when they are all up in big chairs in a semi-circle around you than it is to talk when everyone is sitting around a table. I'm thinking it would have been less stressful if I'd been presenting to this group instead:
I arrive early and sit in the back of the almost-empty hearing room. I introduce myself to the woman staffing the task force and scope out the members to get a better sense of the their level of interest and knowledge. When it is my turn I walk up to the desk as the previous presenter is getting up. This woman, who administers a program at my old agency, smiles broadly when she sees me. She's one of those people that always looks in command and under control, so I am buoyed by her small gesture.

The presentation goes fine, but I intermittently feel that my tongue is too big for my mouth. I don't say anything obviously stupid, but I wonder whether I should be so casual with these people. Plus, I forget the etiquette, and only remember half-way through the meeting when Joel addresses the legislators correctly. Damn.

I stop by the office to pick up my milk bottles, cookies and sweater. I talk to my big boss about the presentation and vainly attempt to organize my files. The ride home takes 80 minutes. Instead of using the time to talk to a cross-country friend I listen to OPB's coverage of yesterday's primary. I decide that it is okay that I didn't turn in my ballot. This was first time in as long as I can remember that I've missed a chance to vote, but apparently I was not alone. With only about 30 percent turn-out, apparently a few of my fellow Oregonians were unmotivated as well.

I'm home in time to sit on the bed with Chris and Ada. She is in a great mood, and he's pretty happy too. I start the bath and then go downstairs to clean up a little before nursing Ada. When I put Ada in bed she looks up at me with a little smile before turning over to talk to herself a little before sleep.

While I plant the few remaining plants that I've been putting off dealing with, Chris makes us (a delicious) dinner and mojitos. I send a work email and then eat, read blogs, vegetate in my post-mojito stupor. (What a cheap date I've become!) I should be heading to bed but instead I'm watching Lost from earlier tonight. And thinking how great I have it.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

(Thanks to Dr. Stephanie for the photo)

The apartment is a laboratory in which we conduct experiments, perform research on each other. We discover that Henry hates it when I absentmindedly click my spoon against my teeth while reading the paper at breakfast. We agree that it is okay for me to listen to Joni Mitchell and it is okay for Henry to listen to the Shaggs as long as the other person isn't around. We figure out that Henry should do all the cooking and I should be in charge of laundry and neither of us is willing to vacuum so we hire a cleaning service.

Audrey Niffengger
The Time Traveler's Wife

Love and burning nostrils

People may talk about tears making their eyes burn, for me crying is a pain in the nose.

Each night after hanging out on our bed as a family, I leave Chris and Ada. They start her bath-books-bed routine, and I usually join them in time to provide the "boob" portion of the evening. Although I love to participate in Ada's pre-bed routine, when I am around after the bath she often wants to nurse right away. With me around she barely tolerates getting dried off and tucked into her sleerper. When I am there she won't stand for reading books with her dad, which is something she visibly enjoys when it is just the two of them. We used to do the books before the bath, but now that Ada's feeding herself, the mess on her clothes is just too much.

While waiting for my command performance, I usually clean up Ada's dinner mess or get in a little web time. Sometimes I sneak upstairs early to spy on my family. The mirror in the hall lets me see Chris and Ada sitting on the bed reading "Peekaboo Kisses" or "Charlie Parker Played Be-Bop". Standing in the hall one night last week, I watched Ada sitting in Chris's lap as he did voices. Ada giggled and reached out to the page. I welled up and felt the sting of the tears in the top of my nose.

Love the couch

We have a small leather couch in our "side room" (the room with the thirteen year old tv, a giant framed poster of John Coltrane's face, and a bunch of Ada's toys). Ada loves the couch. You know that line from the beginning of The Truth About Cats And Dogs, where Abby says: "We can love our pets, we just can't LOVE our pets."? Ada's love for the couch reminds me of that line.

Thinking about it, it is probably more accurate to say that Ada loves to love the couch. When we are in the side room, my gal likes to sidle up to the couch and give it big, wet baby kisses that leave Ada-slobber all over the seat and arm. I think we need to get out more, both for her sake and the couch's. Now that she's got four teeth, I'm not sure the couch can take much more of her love.

Really boring posts

This is one of them. One of those really boring posts where I say thank you to the women who are not Ada's mama but who have mothered her and helped me mother her (sometimes by mothering me).

Thank you Ellen, Sally, Arleen, Karen, Anne, Aarin, Ruth, Janeen, Rachel, Katie, Gretchen, Kathy.

Happy Mother's Day to you. And thanks.

Blog sitting

I'm over at Motherhood Uncensored's place today, making a mess. (This isn't meant to be self-deprecating, mess is what the post is about.) Anyone interested in why I am messier than you can click over to Kristin's site and check it out. And please, I told her I'd replace whatever I ate, so let me know if you make a dent in that chocolate cake she left on the counter.

While we are there, Ada and I thought we should check out the neighborhood. We are off for a walk around the neighborhood.

Made up holiday, real life mamas

Her Bad Mother suggested people share a mom blogger or two. So here we go, with one mama I have read for a while (and met in person) and another I just found:

Heather of Life In Mamaland recently did something very impressive. She stepped out of her comfort zone to tell a co-worker how she felt about an offensive email the person had sent to her. As bloggers, we have space to speak our minds online. It is easier to be honest here, where we know we'll get support from other parents. In person it can be hard, but Heather was honest with her co-worker. The co-worker responded just as you'd hope she would, but even if she'd been less responsive, Heather did the right thing. That's a brave mama, and she deserves to be celebrated.

I just started reading Blue Moon Mama, but I'm already a fan. I love that she describes herself as "a happy young liberal feminist absurdist existentialist". I love that she calls her son the Squeaker (and that he gets indignant when he doesn't get his own ice cream). And her son is clearly a genius. For evidence, see this.

Sunday may be an excuse to buy cards and spend money, but can also be a nice chance to celebrate cool moms. Happy Mother's Day!

(In honor of Her Bad Mother and her good idea, here's what she'd call a gratuitous baby photo. This one gives evidence that "the face" is back, at least occasionally.)

Share The Love

Today Her Bad Mother had a great mother's day idea: write about a mama blogger you love and share it with your readers and hers. I love reading this kind of thing and I'm a big proponent of telling people how great my friends are. Recently I wrote about how glad I am to know Bridgermama and her boys. I've got some more love to share, but for now I will share another kind of love (because sometimes you see something so hideous it would be a crime not to share):



Weeks ago I told Chris that for mother's day I wanted him to build me a screen door. (Our front door is a weird size, so it will be hard to find a pre-made one for it.) But just in case he gets any crazy ideas, I want to head this one off at the pass. (Chris, you are welcome to buy me anything you have your eye on at Redux. Any time, really.)

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

A prank depends on (society's language expectations and constructs). If you end up seeing further into or through a situation, then the prank was a lesson; the prank was the vehicle for giving you a new insight. A prank only victimizes to the degree that people are attached to their level of reality - that's what it's really about. The more uptight and constipated someone is about their reality, the more the prank is offensive. The consequence in reality never outweighs the information gained through the prank. After all, the victim walks away. The victim is not hurt - only psychologically - but for his own good. Of course I'm thinking of good pranks, not regressive jock pranks.

Jerry Casale
media critic, founding member of Devo

Mom's Wonderlap of Slumber

Despite giving me all the classic "I'm Tired" signs (yawning, eye-rubbing, ear-pullilng), Ada talked to herself for ten minutes this afternoon and then had a whopping TWENTY MINUTE nap. I decided this was not enough, so I picked her up and nursed her. She promptly fell asleep for another TWO HOURS. Go lap! Good thing I had a compelling book by my side, 'cause sleeping baby is worse than sleeping cat on the lap.

A Room Of One's Own

On Friday I got an email from a woman at one of the contractors I worked with at my last job. A big part my job was contractor-wrangling: holding their hands as we discussed financial spreadsheets; arguing with them about prices and contractual responsibilities; soothing ruffled feathers over minor and major issues. You know, day care for CFOs. It had its ups and downs, but overall it was one of those jobs you are glad you did but are happy is over.

This woman has always been very nice to me. She wrote to let me know that her boss (the Chief Operating Officer) was leaving her organization, and to ask if I was interested in putting my hat in the ring for the job. This is totally flattering, but suggests the great extent to which this woman overestimated my knowledge and abilities. Putting aside the fact that I don't think I am ready to go back to full time paid work just yet, I immediately started day dreaming about what it would be like to work for this organization. I checked the company's web site, I figured out the route I would take to get to the office (and how long that would take), I considered whether I'd get an office. I thought about this last thing for a while.

An office is one of those silly I-shouldn't-care-but-I-do perks that I've never had. In the ten years I have been on a career path post-graduate school, I've worked for the federal government, a consulting firm (stationed in a state agency), and state government. I've always worked in cubicles, and although there is a certain we're-all-in-this-together camaraderie associated with life in cubicles, it also means I have heard way more than my fair share of bad radio sing-alongs, office gossip, and personal information I'd rather not have known. I once endured 20 minutes of my boss's secretary on the phone discussing her hysterectomy in vivid detail. As horrifying as this was to overhear, it was made worse knowing the person who was (loudly) relaying it: a woman with an intense Rhode Island accent, dyed black hair with an inch and a half of grey roots, and dark stockings under white sandals. (Think: morbidly obese Cruella DaVille with less fashion sense)

After I emerged from my dream-state, I looked around at my current job site. On Fridays I work from home, and (despite the fact that we have a huge wooden desk from the 1930s) I take up residence on the bed in our office/guest room. Propped up by my husband pillow, I stretch out with the laptop on my legs, my phone within reach, files spread all over, and at least one empty toast plate tucked somewhere in the mess. Although on this day the timing of Ada's nap allowed me to shower before work, I often work unshowered and in my pjs. It's a good set up (may video conferencing never gain mass popularity).

No matter how good this COO job is, no matter how much it pays or how flexible they are, they are never going to give me an office this good. The coffee will never match what I've got downstairs, and the snacks won't be as delicious and available. And although this is the casual west coast, I'm doubting the polka dot jammies will fly, even on Fridays.

Good thing that I'm not qualified for the job.

Hi Ho, Hi Ho, it's off to eat goat I go!

While reading Mom-101's excellent post about blog trolls, I remembered the following:

When my father was little, his mother used to read him the story of the Three Billy Goats Gruff. My grandmother is a Polish immigrant, and although her English is impecable (she arrived in New York when she was 9), she spoke Yiddish with her parents and might have missed some American fairy-tale vocab. She has always been the kind of person who does not like to face questions that she doesn't know how to answer. Rather than face the possibility that my father or his brothers or sister might ask "Mom, what's a troll?", my grandmother read the story as: "...and under the bridge, there was a great big dwarf."

Bath Time is Papa Time

Most nights after Ada eats dinner, Chris and I take her upstairs to hang out on our bed for a while before bath time. This is one of my favorite times of day. Ada loves it too. I am not sure if it is her full belly, the knowledge that she'll soon be in the (beloved) bath, or something else that puts her in such a good mood, but even when she's been completely exhausted and crabby before dinner, afterwards she's happy and energetic. We pull off her shoes and socks and she arranges them, moving them around the bed repeatedly. We tickle her, do "this little piggy", sing and make her giggle. It is the one time of day when she's sure to have the undivided attention of both parents at once. Even better, we are at her level, reclining on the bed while she crawls around and over us.

Chris spent this afternoon at his school's graduation, leaving Ada and me to entertain ourselves on a rainy Sunday. Our usual routine went fine until we got to the bedroom. Ada was happy enough, but she kept pulling herself up on me and leaning over to look out the door. She was hoping to see Chris coming up the stairs to join us. The girl loves her Papa.

Five Friday Photos

free ice cream day

Ada's been boning up on partial differential equations. She's hoping she can finish up that PhD by her second birthday

Better than singing in the shower

I've found a hidden benefit to life with a baby: unrestrained singing in public.

I enjoy singing. Sadly for me and anyone within earshot, I have a terrible voice. I love to sing along with the radio, but due to my vocal limitations, I avoid singing in front of other people. Singing when alone in the car, yes; karaoke, no. (The exeption is honky-tonk country music, which allows me to put on a "bad" voice appropriate to the music and pretend to just be hamming it up. Oh, and rap, but my bad memory makes it kind of difficult to keep that up.)

Even if I had a good voice, I am not sure I'd feel comfortable singing on the street. Despite being a "live and let live" liberal (and someone who has broken mainstream conventions such as not shaving my legs in college), I am kind of a weenie and easily embarrassed about social conventions like singing in public places.

But now singing in public is part of my daily routine. Ada and I take walks daily, and with her strapped to my back, I sing to entertain her between sightings of dogs, cats or children. Granted, I am mostly singing "The Wheels on the Bus" and "Red, Red Robin". But sing I do, proudly.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

I was trying to eat some pizza. I was not trying to conform to the faceless puppet masters of society. Yet sometimes, if you are an automaton, that is the same thing.

Chuck Klosterman
One Slice With Extra Meaning

Who cares what other people think?

Apparently, we do. Chris's favorite uncle gets us a magazine subscription every year for Christmas. This started maybe 5 or 6 years ago, with a subscription to Rolling Stone, a magazine I thought was really cool when I was 14. I know, I missed the magazine's heyday by a decade or so, but my girlish tastes were somewhat suspect. As I recall, at 12 I was way into Seventeen.

But back to Rolling Stone: it was never a subscription we'd asked for, and not one we particularly wanted. Sure, it allowed us to feel superior as we scoffed at Christina Aguilera's outfit or mocked the pouty little boys of Good Charlotte posing on the cover. Still, I felt some embarrassment every time the magazine showed up in our mailbox. We let this go on for a couple of years before telling Uncle thanks, but we'd prefer something else. Oops, too late, he'd already renewed. Our timing was off the next year as well. Then we made it in time, but couldn't decide what to get instead. We wanted something we'd actually enjoy reading, but didn't want to financially tax the Uncle. The latter requirement is the hard part, as there are few magazines as cheap as RS. (RS practically pays you to get a subscription. They must be raking it in on those full-page ads for Pontiac and Tommy Hilfiger.)

Plus, we already get a bunch of magazines - The New Yorker, Cook's Illustrated, Sunset, Gourmet, Living. Yes, Martha Stewart's Living - yes, it is lifestyle porn, what of it? You enjoy your pornography, I'll enjoy mine. I'm a sucker for the production values and slick photos of leaded glass windows. Ok, and the projects. You just tell me you didn't enjoy learning how to make a silk purse from a sow's ear. Plus, the subscription is another ongoing gift, as are the NYer, Sunset, and Gourmet. (I used to subscribe to the more diy Ready Made too, but then we moved and I let it lapse . . .)

Finally this year we managed to get to Uncle in time, and ask for a different subscription. We ended up having a big talk about it, because he kept suggesting that we get Esquire. Speaking of lifestyle porn . . . unfortunately, not my lifestyle. (nor Chris's, as it turns out.) Why would we need a subscription to a magazine that tries to pass off ads for $4,000 watches as content? But Uncle was adamant. So to head off the full year (and who knows, multi-year) subscription, Chris signed up to get a trial copy. It was as expected - glossy photos of the hot new model/actress on the scene, ten page spreads on men's clothes that Chris would never buy, hard hitting articles on why Dick Cheney is a jerk. (Ok, so I am happy to see the Dick-is-a-dick articles, but I can get those anywhere.)

The magazine is now in our bathroom, where all good trash reading ends up. But this is the bathroom Ada's nanny Juniper uses when she's here. Juniper is a Portland hippy, child of even bigger hippies, and excellently feminist and ecologically minded to boot. Yesterday evening after Juniper had gone home, Chris started to worry about the Esquire in the bathroom. He's sure that she sees this magazine and has formed a view of Chris that doesn't match with the real man. So far I have been too embarrassed to mention it to her at all.

Oh, and the full-year subscription we are getting from Uncle this year is Harper's, which is great. Or, it would be, if we ever read more than just the index. So I feel guilty, knowing good reading is left unread month after month. But when did I think I'd get to it? Did I mention I'm also trying to get through all those other magazines, plus write here occasionally, hold down a part-time job, and oh yeah, parent my child? Something's got to give, I know. Just don't make me give up my Living.

Bathroom humor

Sunday night, in the bathroom. I floss while Chris brushes his teeth. I look in the mirror and notice my sweater.

Me: I've been wearing this inside out. All Day.

C: (through the toothpaste) Mmmhmmm.

Me: And did you notice?

C: Mmmhmmm.

Holy Crap, She's 10 Months Old! (A Photo Essay)

My crawling



babbling


teething


banana-lovin'


girl


is 10 months old today

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

And now, because of the bad karma this had no doubt engendered from the Universe, I was going to be blinded in one eye. No more playing catch. Only one option for winking. For my birthday, people would give me parrots.

- Leo Allen, Blind Rage

The Most Depressing Kid's Song In The World

A couple of nights ago Ada protested bedtime, so Chris went up to soothe her. He came down after 10 or 15 minutes.



Me: Is she out?

C: Yeah. I rocked her and sang Puff the Magic Dragon

Me: Oh great, the most depressing song ever. I mean, the kid abandons the dragon, who gets depressed and won't leave his cave.

C: My mom sang it to me as a kid and I never thought about it that way. Maybe kids see themselves as Jackie Paper, growing up and moving on.

Me: But as a kid, when I thought about getting older it didn't preclude continuing to play with dragons, had any been available.

C: Yeah. I guess I just thought Jackie Paper was an idiot.


As a side note, when I googled for images using "Puff magic dragon" I got a link to this. And I won't link to it, but if you do a google image search with those words, there is another site with an interesting dragon. I just don't want to think about what making it felt like.

Update: on further reflection, I should have said that people not ok with internet nudity should probably not run that search.

The people that you meet, when you're walking down the street

Scene: a street in SE Portland
Time: Sunday afternoon

Ada and I were on our way to our local overpriced but super conviently located grocery store, when someone called out to me. It was the ever charming and self-depricatingly sarcastic Bridgermama, along with her adorable child and lovely husband (the latter won't be mad that I called him lovely, will he?) They were out for a stroll in Ada's local park, with a side trip to a cute kid's clothing shop in the neighborhood. Well, that's what they said, anyway. Bridgermama has already copped to stalking my house. Not because she likes ME so much, but apparently she's planning where she'll put her sofa once she convinces my family to move out. (I planted some dahlia bulbs this weekend, I hope that works with your overall plans.)

While we were all stopped for a little chat and baby-ogling, a woman walked by and admired the kids.

Woman: Oh, what cute babies! How old are they?

Bridgermama and me, stumbling over one another to say: Nine months and ten.

Woman: Are you, like, best friends?

(awkward pause in which we try to understand why a stranger would ask us that, and consider how to say no without insulting the other person)

Bridgermama: No, we are just friends.

The woman walked on, and so did we, laughing. After I said goodby to Bridger, et al, I went into the grocery store feeling very glad I am friends with this family. Bridger is adorable, but I know lots of cute kids who have parents that are not intreesting to me at all. Both of Bridger's parents are funny and sarcastic. They are so entertaining that I am not sure how they can be from the northern plains. Call me a coastal snob, but aren't those people supposed to be earnest and unironic? Maybe they are just putting on a good act for me, and at home it is all hotdish, lutefisk and hard backed chairs. Whether their sense of humor is an act or not, I am enjoying getting to know this sweet family.

Plus, our kids have similar taste in toys.

We both shop at Fred Meyer

A number of wonderful women have blogged about the guff given to a breastfeeding mom at a Portland Fred Meyer. (For non-Oregonians, FM is like Target with a grocery.) I do not want to repeat what these other women have said so well. But I do have something on my mind.

It seemed obvious to write a letter to Fred Meyer's headquarters. I shop there regularly. I can walk to one and the trip is an almost weekly routine for Ada and me. I'd hate to stop going; the store carries organic bananas, contact lens solution, drill bits and Levis. I do want see the company policy changed, for my own good and for nursing mothers in general. So I wrote Fred Meyer a letter - from the outraged parents of a nine-month old. I showed it to Chris and he agreed, and it went in the mail.

It is great that so many women are standing with this nursing mom. I love that we are saying that it is unacceptable to treat nursing as something dirty. If a nurse-in is called, I'll be there. But it is not enough for us to stand together as women. We need our male friends and partners to stand with us. They may not ever breastfeed, but this is about their children too. We need to remind men to speak up for the values they hold. They need to help us present a united front in support of families and children. These are things most of the men in our lives do value, but about which they may not think to shout.

When men stand with us it lets companies know what they stand to lose if they do not support our issues and respond to our concerns. Fred Meyer (and its owner, Kroger) care about keeping customers coming in the door. And men may not be the majority of grocery shoppers, but they buy electronics, they buy magazines, they buy flat head nails and athletic socks (all things women buy too, just hang in with me, ok?). It is great that Fred Meyer knows we are pissed. Let's let them know that the men in our lives are too.

Caps, Caps for Sale! 50 Cents a Cap!

Did anyone else have the book "Caps For Sale" when they were kids? I loved this book. It's got monkeys, repeating words, a guy napping in a tree... I will have to find a copy for Ada.

In the mean time, a couple people have mentioned that they might like one of the hats made by my pal Stephanie. Anyone interested in buying one of these knit and felted wonders can contact Stephanie. She designed the hats, so if you are a knitter you might ask her about the pattern. The gal does have a day job, but she said she'd be happy to talk to you if your head (or that of someone you love) is cold. (Despite the title of this post, I can't guarantee that Stephanie will let her creation go for that low a price.)

Mmmm, Delicious Schmutz

Our friend Hill collects sentences and phrases he has never heard before. One favorite in heavy rotation around here for a while: "every time I barf at night". It cracked us up. I mean, what is funnier than daily vomit?

Today I have a new one for Hill's collection. As she made a crawling tour of the house, Ada stopped periodically to show us where we need to baby-proof and to pick up microscopic bits of lint. I know this latter skill is normal; Mama Without Instructions has mentioned that Henry is a master of the lint-pick. Nevertheless, I'm not crazy about Ada being our vacuum, and I told Ada as much. Hence, today's new phrase:

"In this family, we are not lint eaters."

Poorer but wiser

Apparently when your care provider calls 911 because your child gets sick and her mom is 50 miles away at work, if the EMT decides that she does not need a ride to the hospital, your insurer will not pay for the EMTs time. (Ada is fine now and I'm glad she didn't need the trip.)

Oh, and when your husband rushes home to be with his child, he won't be able to talk his way out of a speeding ticket, though he may be able to get the amount of the ticket reduced. Cough ($100) Cough.

Update: Turns out that despite being a health policy wonk, I didn't know that if you call 911 and they send an ambulance to your house (versus you just calling an ambulance company to take you to the hospital), the county pays for the EMTs time. Well, you pay indirectly, through property taxes that fund 911, but still - no bill for the nonlinear family. Um, except for the ticket and resulting increase in car insurance rates. So never mind what I said about my insurance. And for my Canadian friends, stop feeling so smug about your health care system. We, your neighbors to the south, are jealous enough as it is.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

If everyone contributes information to the map, pretty soon there will be no more rest-room problem.

-Wansoo Im
Adjunct professor of urban planning, Rutgers University

Can't Be Pacified, Won't Be Pacified

Ada is sick again. I blame Monkey-boy, who was here last Friday and had a snot-festival at the time. Whatever the cause, Ada's got it now, on top of teething. She really has been a trooper. Despite only sleeping 30 minutes today, she's been perky and happy. She can breathe alright when sitting up, but lying down brings on full nose-plugged horror. This is where the problem lies; she is used to going to sleep with a pacifier. Currently she needs her mouth for breathing and has decided that breathing is better than sucking. (Somehow she manages to do both when nursing. Can someone explain why my breast works with a cold, but the pacifier does not?)

I got her to sleep ok, but within a half hour she'd woken up and I could not get her pacified, either literally or figuratively. When I went into her room, I found that she'd somehow gotten her pacifier into the bottom of her baby sleeping bag Letting that remain a mystery, I plungered her nose, gave her tylenol for the teeth, nursed her and when she got droopy I tried to lay her in bed. She spat out the pacifier and proceeded to scream as if I was jabbing her with sharp sticks. (I wasn't.) This is when I decided that Ada learning to sleep without a pacifier might be a good idea. Having run out of other ways to help my daughter, I went downstairs hoping she'd exhaust herself quickly and fall asleep. Ha! After listening to her cry for 20 minutes, Chris and I gave up on the tough love. Chris is up there with her now.

I feel so guilty that I am sitting next to the monitor, through which I can hear her wailing. It isn't enough to be sitting in the room under her bed, which lets me hear her cry without the monitor. No, I have to punish myself by broadcasting the noise direct to my ears and heart.

It is going to be a long, long night.

Stephanie's Super Chapeau

The excellent and talented Stephanie (thank you Chris, for luring this woman up to Portland to work with you) recently designed some very cool hats. She made one for Ada and asked if I would be ok with Ada appearing in a photo or two wearing the hat. Of course! I happily agreed to Ada's likeness appearing on a knitting site. Stephanie recruited a couple of other kids and (after a trip to the taqueria to fortify ourselves with meat) we all converged on the lawn near Stephanie's office for a little sunny-day photo shoot. While Stephanie took pictures that actually did a good job of showing the HATS, I took a couple that highlighted the kids. Here are a few that may give you a sense of Stephanie's cool design as well as allow you to see that, yes, it is sunny in Portland once in a while.

Yeah, I know that a skirt with no tights, was maybe not the SMARTEST fashion choice I've ever made, given the sitting and photo-taking. What can you do?






I included that last photo because it is just such a darn cute picture of the three year old. Plus, even though you can't see Ada's face, it gives a nice view of the hat.

The reason the six year old (yes, she's six, can you believe it? She looks so much older to me) is holding Ada's hands, is that on the day the pictures were taken, Ada did not want to wear the hat. (A bit embarrassing, when someone has just given her a beautiful hat, but oh well.) In Ada's defense, it was pretty warm out, and I don't think I would have wanted to wear a hat either.

(Stephanie, you'll be glad to know that we went out for a walk this weekend and Ada wore the hat happily for a nice long stretch. She only yanked it off after her father decided it was crooked and tugged on it, thereby bringing it to her attention. )

Kicking the New Knowledge

Chris and I have been on the run trying to keep up with Ada's new skills. She had a big weekend. To wit:


(1) As of Friday, Ada's heil-wave (she's been throwing her arm in the air but not waving anything) has morphed into a more socially acceptable out-thrust arm that includes opening and shutting her hand in a good facsimile of a wave.

(2) Ada started clapping on Friday. This may not seem like a big accomplishment, but until now she's preferred to hold my fingers while I clapped. Now everything is clap-worthy to Ada, including her ability to clap.





(3) All last week Ada was crawling a little, but only the 2 steps needed to then reach out and snag a toy before sitting back down to chew on the object of interest. Thursday she did a little more, but stopped abruptly when I tried to video tape the event. On Saturday, my mom and I left the house for a while, during which time Ada had an extended crawl that spanned three rooms. She followed her ball from the side room into the dining room and the kitchen. I was sad that I'd missed it, but happy that Chris and my dad were around to see it. Later in the day we laid out a path of cheerios, which she dutifully followed, crawling and eating her way across the room. Chris was on first shift Sunday morning while I slept in a bit. When I got up, Chris told me how exhausted he was. "This is a lot harder now," was how he characterized it. I can already see that just keeping her away from the diaper pail will be a full time job.

We are all fairly amazed that so much stuff is coming together at once. On Sunday morning, my father walked into the room and asked my mom: What else has she learned to do?

My Mom: Well... she stood up and recited the Declaration of Independence.

My Dad: Did you piss yourself?

Such is life at Casa Nonlinear. We are so proud we are soiling ourselves. Thank god for the diaper service.

Lessons Learned Last Week

Lesson One: No more naps before bed.

After a lovely visit with Bridger and his mama on Thursday, Ada was fine for a while at home, but then got all cranky and late day crabby. Chris and I played with her, distracted her and tried to bribe her to crawl*, but eventually Chris resorted to holding Ada and dancing. I'm not sure if it was the Beastie Boys that did it, but within a few minutes Ada was out. She napped on Chris's chest for a while, waking up about 6:15. We fed her dinner, learned not to leave her in her high chair within reach of the dining room table**, got her bathed, booked and boobed. As I was nursing her I knew something was not right. She normally gets all snuggly and sleepy during her pre-bed nursing. Thursday she was fidgety, playing with my shirt, my nose, my mouth. When I put her in her bed her eyes popped open and she mooched all around. She was quiet for a few minutes, but then started to cry and complain. Chris took his turn soothing her, and finally managed to convince her to go to sleep after an extended calming session, including bottle-feeding.

*Lessons Two and Three: While the television remote placed several feet from Ada can act as a sufficient crawl-motivator, once you pull out the video camera to document this amazing new skill, Ada will suddenly forget how to perform said skill and will instead sit on her butt performing her incredibly endearing but somewhat less earth-shattering half-wave.

** Lesson Four: After feeding Ada noodles at dinner, Chris got up to get a washcloth. Ada took the opportunity to reach over to the table and grab the newspaper. Yanking the paper off the table sent the container of noodles and soup plummeting to the floor. I fervently hope that lesson five is not: chicken stock makes your cheap Ikea rug smell terrible.

Me Me Me Me Meme

I was tagged and I feel torn. It is nice to be noticed, but I dread the part where I have to tag other people. What if they get mad? What if they laugh and say "ha! You little worm, I will ignore your puny tagging efforts"? What if they think I mean grafitti and I come home to "nonlinear girl is a big nerd" spray-painted across my front walk? I guess I can worry about that later. For now, six things about me:


1. I was Warren G. Harding's campaign manager.
2. I was once chased across the room by a mechanical scorpion.
3. I scaled K2 carrying a giant teak cross.
4. I'm intercontinental when I eat french toast.
5. I dated Rudyard Kipling in high school.
6. I used to play professional basketball.

Ok, only 2 is true. And 4, I guess.

Let's try again:

1. I hate that I have to wear glasses, but I am perversely proud of how bad my vision is. Whenever I talk about vision with people, I hear "oh, my eyes are so bad." They are never as bad as mine.

2. I have only been to a casino once, and that was for work. At the time I worked for a federal agency, evaluating States, Tribes and other organizations receiving federal funds. Along with two colleagues, I travelled to Wisconsin to talk with representatives of a Native American tribe. (I've forgotten which one, but they have a casino, and not much else.) The only place to stay in the town was at the Tribe run casino-"resort". Really it was a motel with a casino attached. It was February, and the land next to the motel was filled with ice sculptures from the previous weekend's winter festival. When we checked in, the clerk gave us each ten dollars worth of chips. I am sure that accepting the $10 broke some kind of rule, though we were allowed to accept gifts under, I think, $20 in value. The nice folks at a Tribe in New Mexico gave me a coffee mug, at another I got a calendar from the Tribe's child care program.

After putting our bags away, my coworkers and I headed to the casino to lose our free money. We chose slots. I played until I'd won and then lost an additional $20. I walked out with the free $10. My female coworker played until she lost the $10. My male coworker put in $20 or $30 bucks of his own, but he was the big winner of the night. I'll admit that when his machine started dinging and the coins started rolling out, it was kind of exciting. He ended up winning a couple hundred dollars. But did he buy dinner for my other coworker and me? Noooo. Bastard.

The thing I remember most about the trip was that my female coworker's mother had recently been hospitalized for depression and we had a long conversation about a New Yorker article on the renewed popularity of shock treatment as therapy for major depression.

3. I asked my now-husband to marry me. By postcard. Lucky for me he said yes.

4. I find it hard to pass up a chance to have chocolate ice cream with peanut butter in it. Even if I am full, if it is offered I can not refuse. If it is available in an ice cream shop, I can't get something else.

5. I have watched every Firefly episode at least three times.

6. I have tried and failed to learn to knit and play bridge.

6.5 Really that first paragaph should have been thing 1 about me: I am lousy about chain-letters.

With that in mind, I tag
Life Without Instructions
The Small 'Stute Voice

They are people I know in real life and if they decide they don't want to participate I won't be upset. I hope they can forgive me. I also tag Bridgermama because I know she's already been tagged and I told her she could list me in her tag list. But that's it. I am usually very good about following instructions, but I just can't.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

I arrived back here in July of 1999, ostensibly to visit my beloved papa for the summer, completely unaware that he was about to murder an Oklahoma businessman over a ten-per-cent stake in a nutria farm. But from the moment I bought my ticket I had a premonition that I wouldn't be returning to New York anytime soon.

Gary Shteyngart
A Love Letter

To celebrate your birthday, let me embarrass myself

My friend kvr celebrated her birthday in a fabulous way: by asking friends to embarrass themselves in public. The invitation read:

"Celebrate the anniversary of my birth with dinner, drinks, and a little public humiliation! Bring an old angsty diary, old poetry, funny old letters, etc. to share with the crowd. It's like karaoke but with more embarrassment and less singing."

What an excellent idea! Unfortunately, I spaced that the event was coming up and by the time I realized it was happening it was too late to get someone to watch Ada while I went. (Too bad Chris was at a work event that night. He doesn't keep a journal and would never want to get up in front of people to read out of it if he did.)

Re-reading old journals in an attempt to find something to read for kvr, I realized something. My teen writings are pathetic. Not a shock, but I had hoped they'd be funny pathetic, not just dumb. Unfortunately they are either self-flagellating, mopey or oddly random. I like self-revelation, but am not sure I'm ready to share the worst of my youthful journals. Knowing that I wrote much worse than this, I hope you'll be kind as you read a couple of my mopey entries (the first from the end of middle school, the other from my last year of high school).

June 18, 1986
Graduation was today. I'm happy and sad. Katie came, and she gave me this really nice silver bracelet. I don't even know why I ever liked Kenny. Yesterday I was walking and I came toward Lanie and Kenny at two different angles. Kenny told Lanie that he'd miss her. I said that she wasn't the only person he'd miss (implying that he'd miss Rachel). He said "Oh, Rachel. Well, I won't miss you."

Today he acted like I wasn't alive when he saw me at graduation. He hugged some other girls goodbye but acted as if I didn't exist.

NB: in middle school (7th-9th grades in LA) I set my love-interest sights low. I didn't pick the cutest or most popular boy to crush on. No, I picked a tall, red haired, gangly geek. At 13 I knew that I'd be rejected if I tried for a popular kid. Apparently I was also too weird for the nerds, too.

After spending my awkward middle school years telling my journal that I wanted a boyfriend, I got one. Well, first I traded in my glasses for contact lenses, then I started high school and had a string of boyfriends who liked me more than I liked them. I spent high school getting together with boys who expressed interest in me, because they'd expressed interest. My appearance had changed since middle school, but my sense of self as the ugly girl was still with me. I didn't understand what was motivating my behavior at the time, and I repeatedly wrote in my high school journal about resenting my boyfriends for one thing or another. My senior year, I started dating a guy I'd been friends with for several years. At first I'd resisted, but eventually got together with him in part because it was the path of least resistance.

May 1989
I'm sick of having to report to someone every time I want to do something. I am sick of planning my time according to how much time I need to spend with my boyfriend - and THEN how much I can do other things with. I am tired of feeling responsible to another person, and for another person. I hate feeling tied down, and caught. I hate not being able to say anything, something as simple as "Hey, I'm excited because I got my housing forms" or "Guess what? I got a job as a life guard!" because it will depress him. I hate smelling something undescribeable, and both missing him and hating him at the same time.

If you have gotten this far, either you are a glutton for punishment, enjoy reading about other people's embarrassing teen years, or are secretly gloating that your teen writings were at least better than these. Whichever is the case, I would love to see some of your old journal entries. You don't have to share anything too horrible. (Believe me, I held back on some of the worst stuff.) If you are too shy to disclose your writings, share an old letter. I'm still looking for the note I saved from my first boyfriend. He wrote it when I was breaking up with him, and it soulfully declared "I don't want to loose you!" (italics added to emphasize the annoying spelling error, which added fuel to the fire of my desire to dump him).

Please won't you share? You know you've got something good hidden away. I promise not to laugh.

Open Letter

To the selfish jerk who stole tulips from my flower bed:

Yesterday there were tulips in my parking strip. They were just ready to open, their orange-red noses poking out of the green. Today there are a bunch of severed stems. You came along and cut my flowers.

What made you think that the flowers were a gift made only for you? There was no sign, "free, please take." If I want to give something away, I put up that sign. But I did NOT put up a sign, because I didn't want you to take my flowers. I wanted them to bloom in my garden, to enjoy them and to let others enjoy them. Now only you get to enjoy them.

Why would you steal my tulips? Did you need a gift for your lover, but you were too poor to buy flowers? Did you feel a spontaneous urge to fill your home with beautiful spring blooms, but were too cheap to shell out for them? Were you feeling blue, and needing something bright?

And why MY flowers? Several of the houses on this block have lovely tulips growing in their yards. Last year my neighbor generously told me to come cut tulips from her yard. They were in bloom and she told me she wanted to share the bounty while it lasted. I am sure if you had knocked on her door she'd have graciously offer you some as well. But instead you stole my flowers. The ones I picked out at a visit to the tulip farm in Wilsonville, after wandering the entire place looking at all the colors, sizes and shapes. The ones I planted when I was pregnant and thinking about how they'd bloom in the spring, just before my daughter was to arrive. The ones I looked forward to during the long, dark days of winter.

Thanks for robbing me of one of the pleasures of the garden - of working hard to make things grow, not just for myself, but for my neighbors and people walking by.

But I am confident you'll be tracked down. I put my 5 year old neighbor Ben on the case. He had a lot of good suggestions for catching you, which I won't detail here so that you aren't tipped off. I will say that the banana on the sidewalk, that was Ben's doing.

Love your spam!

I got a weird email today. Addressed to me by name (well, by moniker), it opens "Love your blog! Hope you will check mine out as well." It is basically spam for this woman's business (booking entertainers for and planning children's parties). Which forces me to ask: party planners for kids' birthdays? Ada is a bit young for the big kid birthday extravaganza, but really? Who does that? (Outside of the Hollywood/Hamptons rich and famous, that is.) Aren't little kid birthdays cake and ice cream, balloons and maybe games or a run through the sprinklers? Maybe a pinata? And older kids, that means bowling, skating, high tea, right? I remember one year my mom organized for a group of us to go a children's theater production. We all dressed up.

I also wonder who else out there got this spam. I can't be the only one. Somehow I doubt that this woman really loves my blog and that's why she wants me to participate on her on-line market research.

(Maybe not so) Random quote and (definitely) unrelated photo of the week

I have no regrets today and no doubts. I am proud of the past, I am at peace with the present and I'm excited about the future, which holds as always America's brightest days and mine, too.

- Representative Tom Delay

Creeped by the Crawlie

Ada and I were sitting in the side room where most of her toys live, when I looked over at the low shelf. We've shoved all her books into a cubby-like shelf, figuring it is easy for her to get at but we can control the scourge of toy-spread throughout the room. Right, so I look over and see a multi-legged insect scurry along the base of the shelf, and up under a book. I only saw it for a second, but I think it was one of these. Blech.

I hate silverfish. They creep me out in a way other bugs do not. Spiders I am fine with. They do good things, like eat other bugs. Flies are annoying, but not upsetting. Ok, so I don't like cockroaches, but I don't get all squirrelly and jump on chairs when I see them. (Though now that I think of it, I am happy to be living in a part of the country in which cockroaches are much less likely to be my neighbors. And whatever they tell you in Florida, Palmetto bugs ARE cockroaches.)

Back to our guest: I jump up and grab a cloth diaper, and carefully but quickly pick up all the books on the shelf. I don't want to teach Ada that bugs are scary and icky (seems like so much more work for me if she gets that kind of phobia). I'm not screaming EWW! but I'm intent on finding the bug. No no avail, apparently. I picked up and inspected all the books, but somehow the silverfish made its escape. There is a back to the shelf, so I don't know how the bug escaped, unless the darn thing darted back off the shelf while I was getting the cloth. This bothers me, because now I know it is there, waiting for me. I am sure that very little twitch is the wiggle of a feeler, every tickle comes from its many toes.

Ada by the numbers

Times today that Ada showed all the signs of wanting a nap, but changed her mind once she was in bed and I'd walked out of her room: 1

Small pieces of egg yolk that Ada picked off the tray, put in her mouth and then spat out: 12

Times that I looked up from the newspaper to find Ada staring at me (and no doubt thinking what neglectful a mom she has): 2

Minutes that Ada's 9 am nap lasted: 67

Seconds after I buttered some toast that Ada announced that she was awake: 19

Objects Ada stuck in her mouth, pulled out to examine and returned to her mouth: 33

Number of those objects that were paper: 0 (She does not willingly remove paper from her mouth)

Number of times Ada lunged for paper and got some in her mouth before I could stop her: 2

Number of children in the doctor's waiting room that Ada charmed into making fools of themselves for her: 3

Number of those children that I didn't want to touch Ada because they'd just picked their noses: 1

Number of times Ada non-verbally requested to be moved from mom's to dad's to mom's arms while at the doctor's office: 6

Percentile length for age that Ada is curently: 90

Times Ada peed while undressed at the doctor's office: 2

Times she managed to spray mom with her urine: 1

Times since getting home that I've thought "why does it smell like pee in here?" before remembering I am wearing peed-on pants: 3

Times per hour that Ada grabbed my shirt in order to stand up, only to decide within 10 seconds that something on the floor required attention: 7

Times Ada broke out in full-fledged crying out of annoyance that she could not move a toy bucket twice her size: 1

Times Ada then managed to flip toy bucket over and dump its contents all over herself: 1

Times Ada scrunched up her nose in her new half smile, half grimace: 541


Times Ada made the scrunch face after I told Ellen she's doing it all the time: 0

Percent of the day that I felt intense love for my daughter and joy that she's in my life: 100

White's Bite

Ada is teething again. She's drooling more, she's spitting up again, and she's biting me again. For some reason, the first thing I think when she nips at me (other than OUCH!) is "it's the White's Bite!".

White's is a boot brand popular with firefighters and cowboys. In fact, I know about the brand from Chris's cowboy uncle, who owns a pair. Uncle Cowboy and I don't see eye to eye on, well, on pretty much anything, but he does offer a glimpse into a world that I would not know otherwise. (The fact that this happens to be a totally sexist, Republican, anti-environmentalist world is sort of a bummer for me. I take heart in the knowledge that he's only related to Chris by marriage.)

I should take back that statement about not ever seeing eye to eye with Uncle Cowboy. There was that time during the Clinton administration when we both agreed that the president wasn't our favorite. (To him, Clinton was way too liberal, to me he was not liberal enough, but we did agree for about 3 seconds.) Also, I enjoy telling jokes to Uncle Cowboy, especially when they are risque or otherwise run counter to how he sees me. And then there was the time we talked shoes.

About the shoes: White's are very expensive, but apparently also very durable, comfortable boots. Well, comfortable after a while. Uncle Cowboy told me that he'd wanted a pair of White's for a long time, but for years was too poor, and then too cheap, to shell out for them. Finally he got a pair, and was excited to get his feet into these legendarily comfy boots. But they weren't comfortable. In fact, Uncle Cowboy found wearing the boots was excruciating. And after he'd paid so much for them! He went back to the merchant to complain and get his money back. When he got to the boot shop and told the guy his tale of woe, the salesman laughed. He told Uncle Cowboy, "You got the White's Bite!" A very confused Uncle Cowboy was then told that OF COURSE the shoes hurt. He hadn't yet followed the process to make the boots fit to him. The salesman told him to fill a tub with water and, wearing the boots, step into it. Get the boots good and wet. Now get out of the tub and keep the boots on. Until they dry. Sleep in them if you have to. (this is the part that cracked me up, thinking of this fireplug-shaped aging cowboy lying in bed with his damp White's sticking out from under the covers.

Uncle Cowboy was skeptical, but he tried it. (The store wouldn't take the boots back, so he didn't have much choice.) It worked! The boots molded to his feet, and suddenly became super comfortable to wear. It sounds so good it almost makes me want to get a pair. Almost. What does this have to do with Ada and her teeth? Nothing, really. This has just been on my mind lately, so I thought I'd share it with you. What, you'd rather I posted four paragraphs on the toothmarks on my breast? Never mind, forget I asked.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

I met a ghost, but he didn't want my head,
He only wanted to know the way to Denver.
I met a devil, but he didn't want my soul,
He only wanted to borrow my bike awhile.
I met a vampire, but he didn't want my blood,
He only wanted two nickels for a dime.
I keep meeting all the right people -
At all the wrong times.

-Shel Silverstein

Milk mustache

Chris and I have been fairly conservative about what we feed Ada. Despite the fact that she took to her first foods immediately and enthusiastically, we have held back on adding too many new things too quickly. (Oh yeah, that was going to be a neutral statement, nice job there NLgirl.) Lots of people feed their kids all kinds of things early, and that's fine for them, but we were being slow. Until today.

I blame my friends. Our east coast like-parents-but-without-the-emotional-baggage-of-parents friends were in town Sunday. (How great of them to make a side trip to see us in Portland, when their main trip is to LA for a conference. Plus they brought gifts, and not all of them were for Ada! And they took us to dinner and were generally fun and entertaining to be around. They are the best non-parents a gal could ever hope for.) Fran was saying that she fed her (now grown with three children) daughter an Awful Awful when the child was 8 weeks old. She survived, right? Better even, the daughter is now a tenured professor at a prestigious east coast university with a good women's basketball team.

The awful-awful was on my mind later in the day when Ada and I met up with Ellen and Monkey-boy for a walk to the park. All day I'd been craving sugar, but I wasn't sure what I wanted. Maybe I was just thirsty. No matter. We were in the park around quarter to five when Ellen says, "Let's get ice cream cones before dinner!" Who am I say no? Especially to Ellen, who is much more health-conscious than I am. When she wants to feed her toddler ice cream before dinner, I pretty much have to go along. Plus, I wasn't worried about Ada, who hasn't had cow's milk (other than yogurt, which she hated). I knew I wasn't going to give my 9 month old ice cream, much less right before I walked her home for dinner and the bath-bed routine.

Yeah. Well, I wasn't going to give her ice cream. But apparently that rice cracker I offered her, when compared to the beautiful, beautiful ice cream Ellen, Monkey-boy and I had in our hands, it just didn't measure up. Thinking the girl was getting fidgety because she was tired, I picked her up. Oops. She went right for my cone. Once she got it in range, she dove for it, spreading chocolate all over her face in a wonderfully (and stereotypically) infantile way. I pulled the cone away, but having gotten a taste of the good stuff, Ada screamed in horror at the loss. Luckily, there was some vanilla on the table. It was Monkey-boy's, but he'd tired of it. Which begs the question, what kind of kid signs "all done" half-way through a scoop of ice cream? Apparently not mine. She sucked down several spoonfuls of Monkey-boy's abandoned treat.

Before Ada could scale the counter and jump into the ice cream tubs, I prepared to flee the shop. But first I swore Ellen to secrecy. Except she had already snapped a photo of the girl scarfing some vanilla, so I knew I could not count on this being "our little secret." I knew J would see the picture, and since I don't currently have anything with which to blackmail him, I doubted whether I could keep things under wraps. Knowing this, I came home and immediately told Chris about my transgression. He was elated (no doubt thinking of all the ice cream he'll be able to eat and blame on Ada forcing him into...)

Well, Ada's baby book certainly will be complete. First smile, first roll, first elicit ice cream before dinner. All in all, a banner day for Ada and mommy.

Boy Boy Boy Boy Boy Girl Boy Boy

Ada's friends are all boys, and I like it that way.

Monkey-boy, Henry, Pawie, Dylan! and Leo all make her laugh; she loves their antics and is truly amused by whatever they do. Much of Ada's wardrobe comes from Monkey-boy. Her shoes are his hand-me-downs, she wears his old jeans and red shirts, along with all the pink things everyone gave us before she was born. I love that she is around boys who goof off for her, bring her toys and do whatever they can to make her laugh. As she grows she will engage them more, playing and exploring her world with them.

Don't get me wrong, it isn't that I don't like girls. I'm thrilled to have one. It is just that when we spend time with girls at playgroup, I feel surrounded by a sea of pink. Worse is the feeling that the parents (ok, the moms) appear concerned about their girls being girly enough. There is a weird undercurrent of gender patterning that makes me uncomfortable. At one playgoup a mom said to Chris that a particular toy was a great plaything, "you know, for a boy." What? How is a ball not a good girl toy? Kids - babies - Ada's age don't know or care what physical sex they are or what the rules are for their gender. I know there are some innate differences between girls and boys; I have seen them in action. But why teach kids the "rules" so early? Ada has some great clothes, and I'll admit to caring about clothes myself. But every time someone coos over her outfit I cringe a little. I hate the idea that she's learning that clothes are what people think girls should care about, that being cute is important.

I think I worry about this - especially the focus on the importance of "cuteness" - in part because I was never cute. I was a huge child, the tall gangly brown haired, brown eyed girl with the long weird limbs sticking out of too-short pants. My childhood best friend was short and adorable, and people were always telling her that. I was jealous that she got so much attention (and that I didn't) for something neither of us could control. I am fairly sure that Ada is going to be a big girl too. It has been not quite nine months, but she has not dipped below the 90th percentile for height yet. I'm tall and her papa is 6'5". It seems inevitable that she'll be tall and that her growth will happen early.


Cute is over-rated. Cute doesn't help you reach the top shelf, cute doesn't let you see over people's heads at a rock club. Sure, cute can get you noticed, but it can also teach you that attention is something you get for reasons having nothing to do with your brain or your heart. I want Ada to run with the boys and throw like a girl. And I do think Ada is cute. (Ok, I think she is fucking adorable.) But I don't want her to think that I love her because she's cute. I don't want her to worry about cute at all.