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:

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

Junk collecting, is, to this day, one of Rosenfeld's favorite hobbies, and an auxiliary outlet for his artistic energies. A few years ago, he accumulated too much stuff and decided to dig a hole and bury it all in his backyard.

Lauren Collins
Mink Inc.: How Ervin Rosenfeld sewed up the hip-hop crowd

Things that scare me

(An incomplete list)

Rejection

Going into debt

The following scenario: I walked Ada to a friend's so she can share nanny time Monday morning. I walked home and after an hour sitting in front of the computer, I tip my head down and an ANT falls onto the table. From my head. Bleh, how did that happen?

Being without wireless

Being forced to read and politely comment on a poorly written and ill-conceived white paper. You know, theoretically speaking.

Being left out

Earwigs

Those free floating low moods

Chris wanting to take the computer with him next time he travels without me

Reoccuring dreams in which I have to make my own contact lenses out of newspaper


Can we go back to earwigs? 'cause, ugh, just looking at that photo creeps me out.



What scares you?

What do you do all night?

After going out to an author talk/mom-gathering with fellow bloggers (neither of whom I had met before, but who were both very charming and funny), I...

• Briefly consider checking my email/blogging but decide instead to go up to bed.
  
  
• Tell my husband all the interesting and funny parts of the evening, even as I consider what I can blog about.
  
  
• Wonder whether/what my companions will write about the evening and meeting me.
  
  
• Think about hair and how unfair it is that some people have such amazing long curls while I suffer from the blandly mid-length, not a curl in sight yet completely frizzed out in places 'do.
  
  
• Consider whether Amy Scheibe (the author whose reading we attended) realizes that she kind of lost us when she talked about her live-in nanny.
  
  
• Feel catty for even thinking that, considering what a pro-mommy, we-are-all-connected kind of event this was.
  
  
• Decide it is ok not to feel at one with all mothers, given what Amy said about the tendency for there to be an upswing in all things pro-mom during wartime. (See WW1, WW2...) Interesting point, and as an editor she's got to know that momlit is a nice little marketing niche. But her book seemed funny and I was entertained by the reading, so what's with the snark? Why do I have a stick up my butt about fiction targeted at women (much less at mommies)? Is it a holdover from continually refusing to allow my bookclub to read books I find insulting to my intelligence, gender and common sense? I think that I am resistant to this kind of book (mommy lit) because it is such a hot marketing niche. I'm sure the sponsors of last night's event (a mom-focused cable channel that also dabbles in blogs) like to get women together for discussions and snacks. But they also want to promote their ventures, and this is a cheap way to do it. Pay for some two-buck chuck, some crackers and cheese and Voila! buzz for you and your featured authors.
  
  
• Laugh about how quickly a literary event turns into a discussion of breast-feeding, naked children and naked parents and how much sex is expected/wanted/hoped for after babies.
  
  
• Inspired by some things Ms. Scheibe and this clever blogger said last night, I wonder how to write a full post about the extent to which (mom)blogging provides a format in which we are supported for sharing our insecurities, failings and misgivings, at the same time we are ridiculed or slammed for pronouncing our strengths and joys (particularly when those are outside of the traditional realm of parenting/wifedom, or suggest we value other things as much as our families...).
  
  
• Decide to think about these things in the morning, roll over and slide quickly into sleep.
  

The Chris and Ada Show

Ada: Cup!

Chris: You want a cup?

Ada: Cup! Cup!

Chris: Do you want water in a cup?

Ada: (points to Chris's beer) Cup!

Chris: You want a beer?

Ada: (nods vigorously)


***
Aaaarrrrr you ready for the bath?

Ada has a whole routine around the bath. It has evolved some as she's developed; we now spend less time singing made-up lyrics to "rubber ducky" and more time playing with bath toys. Before Ada gets in the bath, she dumps a bunch of soft plastic letters into the tub. The letters are great, because they stick to the tile walls. (Slapping one high on the wall and pointing it out to Ada allows us to wash the shampoo off her without any of us crying.) We put Ada in the bath, and she stands there for a while. She is resistant to sitting down right away, and likes to pee into the bath before she submits to sitting.

Chris talks Ada through the bath, telling her he is going to wash her hands, her neck, her toes. Tonight I heard him saying "arrrr." She repeated him, "arrr"ing back, and they went back and forth like this several times. Just when I was convinced he was teaching her to talk like a pirate, he picked another letter and said "jayyyyy."

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

This holiday season, millions of Americans will go on vacation, a gamble that plays right into the twitchy hands of the pickpocket and the double-jointed brain of the con-artist. The only way to protect yourself, of course, is to cultivate a debilitating fear of humanity and never leave your basement.

Jason Roeder
Thieves Are Everywhere

Search me!

I'll admit it, I like to see how people find me. Recently I've seen some trends in the searchers' queries. Crying is a big query topic. Some people seem to be looking for help figuring out what is going on in their own heads:

music triggers crying

why am I crying so much

why do my eyes sting when i cry

very emotional cry very easily

"seen me cry" tears cried

crying tears what triggers them

and for all you pregnant folks out there:

I cry all the time pregnant

While other people seem interested in why other people are so teary:

why do some people cry so easily?

do you cry easily and why?

Why do some people cry easily

cry and response

A number of people find me by googling IVF related terms and phrases. I'm not sure why the person who searched for "I-love-hormone-injections" didn't stick around, but searchers seeking for fertility information pretty much never do.

And now for some of my recent favorites:

dead rat smell and pregnancy

blue-footed booby toy

what does funky cold medina mean

"i make a pigeon" (we have Dutch to thank for that one)

babysitting diaper mishaps (seeing this, I imagined a 14 year old alone with her charge, furiously googling to see what to do.)

pregnant lady travelling in aircraft snaps

"fearful crouching masturbators" (how can I be the 4th hit for this?)

Diapered + Humiliated+Pacified (speaking of fearful crouching masturbators....)

one linear jokes

Slack Jaw

A few things -

1. Do you know how hard it is to eat left-over pizza when half your face is full of novocaine? I do. I hope the numbness wears off before my all-afternoon meeting.
   
   
2. Sorry to those of you who read me via bloglines or some such and are seeing that I have dozens of "new" posts. I've jumped to beta and am tagging all my old posts. I will be done in a day or two.
   
   
3. As a certifiable old lady (mentally, if not literally), I want to know why live music is such a late-night activity. I mean, plays and dance concerts start at a reasonable hour, so why does your favorite band not go on stage until 11:30? (Yes, Chris and I crapped out on our plans to hear the Detroit Cobras play last night, because the show didn't start until 9:30, and we knew that with an opening band, the Cobras would not take the stage until a time that is (pathetically) too late for us to be up. Sigh. At least we got to use our date night to have dinner out together.)
   

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

Although some Business Horizons readers may doubt whether anything can be learned from an anger-ridden Fifties scribbler, much less an Irish management dropout, it's time we looked at the seven sizzling secrets of Samuel Beckett's success.

Stephen Brown
"Fail Better! Samuel Beckett's Secrets of Business and Branding Success"
Business Horizons, March-April 2006

First things first

Motivated by a post by the Queen of Spain (who was herself motivated by Women's Voices. Women's Vote, I wanted to encourage you* to vote this November. Toward that end, I offer you a little memory about my first time voting. (*and by "you" I mean those of you who live in the United States. Other yous I encourage to vote whenever it is that you vote wherever you live.)

My story starts in Florida. Not the Florida of hanging chads and Jeb. My Florida was more swimming in the apartment pool, ballet lessons and palmetto bugs. This was the early 70s, and as a mere 4 year old, I started kindergarten. Apparently in Miami you could enter kindergarten as long as you would be 5 by the end of the calendar year you started. My birthday cuts it close (my parents call me an Old Year baby) but my parents apparently thought it was a good idea, so into school I went. My first day was memorable, in part because I was stung by a bee on the top of my head. What I remember most about kindergarten is that we had to sleep head to foot at nap time (a kid or two had a persistent lice problem), one of my classmates was named Barbie (which bothered me because she was a brunette) and I learned to say the Pledge of Allegiance with a southern accent. ("Pledge" is one of those words that did not come up a lot at home, so my accented teacher taught me to say it "Plaaydige.")

But where was I? Oh right, my first time voting. The point of that little trip in time is that because I started school young, I left for college at the tender age of 17. So living in a new city, being "on my own" (sort of) offered new experiences of all types. When I got my first chance to vote I was excited. Probably more excited than is reasonable. Even at 18 I knew that whole "what's one vote?" line, but I was still pumped. There is a sense of possibility on election day. Even when things go really wrong later in the day, when you march into that polling place I feel that My Vote Will Count! I Will Be Heard! This Is Democracy In Action! Now all Oregonians vote by mail, but when I first voted Oregon still had voting booths and you actually had to leave your home to vote. (I was going to write "put on pants" but I am not sure if there was any such rule outlawing naked voting. If not there probably should be. How distracting.)


Oregon used to have these thick blue pens for filling in the ballot. Maybe not as traditional as New York's mechanical levers, but still fun. Big Blue Marks for my choices, plus a little on my fingers. It probably took all of 5 minutes, but I voted! I'm an adult! Woo hoo! All day I was buzzy about my "accomplishment." (Dork dork dork.)

About the "Oregonians vote by mail" issue: I wonder about people newly able to vote, about what they are missing here in Oregon. It feels so anti-climactic to vote by mail. I miss the opportunity to walk to my polling place, chat with the retirees and other poll workers. I miss slapping an "I voted!" sticker on my shirt and feeling absurdly patriotic for having done my citizen duty. But I have to admit that it is easy. Fill out the ballot at your leisure, stick it in the envelope and either toss it in the mail or drop it by the county office down the road. A University of Oregon study found that Oregon's vote by mail increased voting by people with disabilities, homemakers and voters 18 to 38. Hard to argue with success. So I can suck up the loss of the sticker. I still love to vote.

Two years ago I went on vacation

On October 15th, 2004 I had the embryo later known as Ada implanted into my uterus. Actually, I had two embryos implanted, but the other one became twins (oh, I know, can you imagine three at once?) and neither of those two made it past about six weeks. But I digress.

The doctors said that I should take it easy for a day or two after the implantation. Despite knowing that people get pregnant on ski trips and while training for marathons, when you've gone to all the trouble to get pregnant, um, with assistance, it is hard not to want to do everything "right" to make the pregnancy stick. I wasn't up for a 26 mile run, but low-level activity seemed like a good distraction. I knew that I would not want to sit around the house too long, and going to work while I wondered whether the embryos would attach sounded like a recipe for disaster. ("Let's see, is there anyone in the building who hasn't already seen me cry?")

A vacation was in order, so Chris and I hopped into the car and headed south. We were headed to my sister's in Berkeley, but our first stop was my cousin's home on the coast. My cousin is a mostly retired geologist who still writes papers with younger researchers. At this point I think he does it to keep sharp, and because he enjoys interacting with younger people. [He also likes getting them in trouble. Once when he was in Iceland for a project, the team had brought flares in case anything went awry. On the last night he was on the site, he convinced the research assistants to set off a bunch of the flares for fun. The next day he left the country, so he wasn't there when the local authorities stopped by to let the grad students know how not ok it was to be shooting off flares in the middle of the night in Nowhere, Iceland.] My cousin is the kind of old man who wears a bolo tie and rakishly placed cap and looks eccentric and fun. Which he is. His wife is less flamboyant, but smart and lovely in her own right. She never wears bolo ties, but did agree to honeymoon in Japan in the 1950s. Plus she came to my graduation in a cap with a propellor.

Currently my cousin and his wife spend a good part of their time traveling the world so that he can give talks and collect awards. He's won the geology equivalent of the Nobel prize. When my cousins are not globe-trotting, they live in a small town on the Oregon coast. It is beautiful but, like much of Oregon outside of the Willamette Valley, kind of red state-y. My cousins love visitors, especially those with a liberal bent. We went to the one cafe in town that caters to Democrats, drove and wandered around the area on a sight-seeing attempt cut somewhat short by wet weather, went out to dinner at what passes for haute cuisine in those parts, and admired my cousin's collection of Chinese communist propaganda posters.

We had a good time with them, but I felt weird not telling them that I'd just had IVF. Superstitiously, I worried that if I told them or in any way suggested that I might be pregnant, the embryos would detatch themselves and flush themselves right out of my body. Crazy, I know, but investing so heavily in a chance to get pregnant will do that to a person. So after a short visit with my cousins, we got back in the car and headed south again. It was kind of nice to be in the car most of the day, sedentary yet hurtling forward. Chris drove while I read magazines and nibbled at snacks.

My sister and her man greeted up with a fabulous meal. (Did I mention how much my stomach enjoys having a restaurant guy in the family?). We wandered around the bay area eating, enjoying a science playground and wandering up and down streets around San Francisco and Berkeley.

My sister is brilliant and funny. As I have mentioned before, my in-person relationship with my sister changed forever when I met Chris. Although we have always been close and often use one another for support and cheerleading, once Chris and I got together my visits with my sister tended to include him. We've carved out some "sister time" but for the most part have included Chris in our adventures. And my sister has borne the brunt of that. After all, I'm in love with Chris, so having him along is no problem. My sister had to do the adjusting. She and Chris get along well and are both in-laws and friends, but I recognize that this latter relationship took energy on both their parts. And meeting my sister's then-boyfriend made me realize it was time for me to make such an adjustment. Spending time with my sister with her guy around was an adjustment. Pair that with my fears about whether the embryos would attach, what pregnancy would be like, whether I'd be a good parent, and well, it was somewhat of an odd vacation.

I am not normally a superstitious person, but on that trip two years ago, I was looking at everything for meaning, taking everything as a sign. Even as I hoped to be distracted, everything reminded me of my possible pregnancy. (It is a bit like buying a car that way. You start thinking about buying a honda and suddenly the streets are filled with them. You want to be pregnant and the sidewalks are choked with waddling, center-heavy women.)

Two years ago I was thinking a lot about family, about what I wanted out of life, about when my next shot in the ass would be. Everything in my life isn't perfect, but I did get what I most wanted two years (and three years, and...) ago. And life with Ada is still what I want. I am still thinking about many of the same things that preoccupied me two years ago (though the space taken up by shots is now filled with dirty diapers). Though I am thinking about the same things, I feel a lot more positive about them. I know I am a good parent, even on the days I have done a less than stellar job at it. Today feels like a world away from two years ago.

On this October 15th, we are hopping once again in the car and heading south. This year we are only going on a day trip to see Ada's grandparents. Just in case Chris starts feeling nostalgic for the days when he acted as my syringe-wielding nurse, I'll be wearing double padding and keeping him away from sharp objects.

The best day ever

A day at the pumpkin patch.

Or, the post of a thousand photos.


This weekend I was alone with Ada while Chris was at a conference. Despite my worry about whether we'd get tired of staring at one another for four days, I had a near perfect weekend with the girl. On Saturday we had a best-day-ever kind of day. This was the best day ever for me because not only did Ada have a great time on our excursion, not only did I skillfully handle day 3 of solo-parenting (now, with more outings!), but the girl had a long nap in the middle of the day. That Ada's naps are either long or in the middle of the day is not ever to be counted on. Getting both in one day was so great, so the rest of the day being good was just gravy.

Luckily, this was also the best day ever for Ada. First, we went on two, count 'em TWO bridges to get to the pumpkin patch. Ada, like her parents, is a sucker for a good bridge. If I fail to point out that we are on a bridge, she emphatically reminds me "bridge!" (which sounds more like "bige"). On this trip, Ada got to exclaim twice, and while she wasn't occupied with shrieking gleefully, she was busy hugging the horse her grandmother bought her. (This being-a-baby thing is a total racket. Ada's grandma visited for grandma's birthday, and brought gifts for Ada.)

Ada and I were meeting my brother-in-law, his girlfriend and her son. I wasn't sure how far behind us they'd be, so I took Ada to the barn to see the animals. Let the best day ever fun begin! Ada's joy was, as we say in my family, standing beside her. She did not know what to make of all the real live animals that were just like those in the books, but moving! and making noise! and moving! I should have predicted this, given how she reacts to the cats and dogs she meets in our neighborhood. It was definitely one of those moments parents talk about. You know, the "having kids is so great because you get to see things for the first time all over again!" moments. Ada loved the animals. Loved them in a run-back-and-forth-between-the-pens-gawping-and-smiling-and-pointing-and-then-running-back-to-see-the-pigs-oh-the-ducks-no-the-llama-wait... frenzy. She made all the animal noises.

Well, except for the llama. What exactly DOES a llama say?











And when I asked her what the goat says she responded "llama! llama! llama!" I didn't actually hear it say that, but they are pen mates, so they are bound to be tight.

Ada was a little skeptical about the hay ride but was thrilled to see all the pumpkins in the field. She toddled off into the field, alternating between trying to pick up pumpkins weighing more than half her body weight and grabbing at vines in order to take the "sticks" with her. D (the kid in the orange shirt) was great with Ada. He brought her pumpkins, carried her between the rows, carved a face into a small pumpkin and otherwise entertained the short girl.



After an extended discussion of which pumpkins were the "right" pumpkins, the "best" pumpkins, we hopped back on the hay cart, paid for the pumpkins and made a beeline for the elephant ear booth. My brother-in-law's gal is a connoisseur of the elephant ear, and guided me through this new experience. Looking at the size of those monsters, I talked her son into sharing one with Ada and me. Sadly, my camera battery died before we got our hands on this fried dough deliciousness. It is probably just as well, since between shoveling in the stuff into my own mouth and parceling out bits for Ada, I got a little greasy/sugar-and-butter coated.


Mid-snack I realized that almost all the sugar-bomb, dinner-thwarting treats Ada has experienced have come without Chris. My husband loves sugar and late at night often asks if I've got any cookies. So I feel a bit guilty about dosing Ada with sugary snacks while Chris was out of town. But not guilty enough not to buy a second elephant ear to share with the kids. Mmmm, greasy...


I take care of Ada by myself all the time. Spending so much time with her this weekend was nothing new. But it felt different because with Chris out of town for four days, it was just me. Before he left I'd been worried about what I would do at the end of the day when she was whiny and I was tired and minutes stretched to hours. When Ada was tiny and colicky I could swear that she'd ramp up into special fits when she knew I was going to be alone with her for an extended period. But this weekend Ada was on her best, most adorable, sweetest behavior. She's too young to understand how it feels to be in charge alone, but she managed to give me the lovely gift of a wonderful weekend nonetheless. And writing this days after the elephant ears are only a pleasant memory, I know it isn't just the sugar talking.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

Photo Credit: Janeen

Destiny is not a matter of chance,
it is a matter of choice;
it is not a thing to be waited for,
it is a thing to be achieved.

William Jennings Bryan

So why does she wake up if I sneeze on the other side of the house?

Cooking dinner one night last week, I heard a double beep. It sounded like a smoke detector, but less insistent. That's it, a polite smoke detector. I looked around, heard two more beeps. After a moment, two more. I kept cooking, and Chris headed upstairs.

Chris heard the beeps, and thought they must be coming from our bedroom. But no. Beep Beep. Chris realized the sound was coming from Ada's room. Beep Beep. Turns out that putting a humidifier directly under the smoke detector isn't a great idea.

Ada's room is pretty dark at night, so Chris turned on the light to get at the ceiling mounted smoke detector. Amazingly, Ada did not stir. She didn't move at all, not with the beeping, not with the lights on, not with Chris moving around making noise. This from a child who wakes up from a nap if I just think about walking past her room while she's sleeping. Chris said he knew she was alive because of the snoring. Now if only she could sleep this deeply when she's not sick, I could learn to clog dance during her naps.

She's bitching about stealth ads again

Mayberry Mom and Chaos Theory both took on blog ads on Wednesday.* I'm personally not bothered by the ads and have an easy time tuning them out. I can't see putting them on my site, given the low volume traffic.

So ads, whatever. But what IS bothering me is the emails and comments I am getting from bloggers wanting to increase traffic to their sites by suggesting I do a "swap" with them - if I put their site on my blogroll, they'll add me. The emails always start with some version of "I love your blog" "I really enjoy reading your blog" "great blog."

Um, if you are such a big fan, how come you've never commented before? I know there are people out there who read my and other blogs and never comment. (My husband is like that. He loves you all and reads religiously, but almost never leaves a message. Except at Sweet Juniper.) Fine, lurking is cool. But really, if you have a blog and are chatty that way, seems like you might have offered a comment or two at a blog you think is so great. And that comment might have come before you so enthusiastically gushed about how great my blog is and oh-yeah-do-you-want-to-pimp-my-site-for-free. Especially if I have never seen or heard of your ad-encrusted site. Especially if it is a site featuring "cute" photos of people's kids. Why do I need to go to a random site to see pictures of children I don't know? At least with the blogs I already visit, I know something about the kid before seeing them wearing a goofy hat or smiling through a chocolate ice cream facial. I am guessing that you don't know anything about my site, other than that it is written by a mom. 'Cause really, my own child notwithstanding, I fucking hate cute.

I am sure I was not the only recipient of this "offer." And I know I've complained about this kind of marketing before. But it just bugs me, and bugs me in a way that ads that are clearly ads just don't. Oh, and this is where I wish I could borrow Metrodad's brain for a minute. If he was writing this post, it would be really funny and cutting, yet inclusive and loving. I'd force that guy to be my new best friend if he didn't live across the country and if I didn't think my current closest pal would threaten to cut him if I told her that. (But really, she'd love him too, if she read him regularly.)




*They swapped blogs for their paired posts, so the links posted take you to the posts they've written, but not to their blogs.

Random quote and unrelated photo(s) of the week

(This beauty has been for sale for months, but so far, no takers.)



I am grateful to those who are keepers of the groove. The babies and the grandmas who hang on to it and help us remember when we forget that any kind of dancing is better than no dancing at all.

Lynda Barry
One Hundred Demons

The Milk Bar is Closing

I am one of those women for whom nursing was the easy part of being a new mom. As Ellen tells it, just after Ada was born the girl practically commando-crawled up my belly to reach my breast, latching on immediately and vigorously. I never had mastitis, plugged ducts or other routine but painful problems that commonly plague nursing mothers. (Ok, I did get thrush, but that was when I was pregnant, not breastfeeding.) Ada has always been an avid nurser. She took well to solids too, and at 15 months only nurses a few times a day. At this point it sound be easy to just cut her off. Who knows, maybe it will be easy for her. But it isn't easy for me.

I enjoy the quiet time with Ada, the chance to hold her warm body and hum or sing to her. Especially now that she's walking, the girl is all about movement, making those cuddle moments rare And though I don't have a problem with so-called "extended nursing." I am facing a deadline: Thanksgiving.

Every year since college, a group of my friends have gotten together for Thanksgiving. We rent a house and barely leave all weekend. If we are someplace scenic, we take walks, but mostly we sit around playing cards, cooking, eating, drinking and trash-talking. Usually the weather encourages this sloth. We've gathered in Wisconsin, on Cape Cod, the Oregon coast and upstate New York. One of my Thanksgiving friends has been living in Mexico for the past several years, and has been advocating for a warmer destination for long before that. This is the year that the group has agreed. So we are headed to Mexico for Thanksgiving. This is great, and Chris and I decided that it will be more fun without Ada than with her. As much as I love her, she's not yet a great traveling companion. So Ada will stay home with her grandparents while we flee the country.

This is where I run into a problem. I need to (at least mostly) wean her in the next two months. Ada is not looking very interested in weaning. I have heard that waiting too much past a year makes it a bit harder to wean, as the child gets more "attached" to the breast. Ada's only 15 months old, so I think we are still fine as far as that goes. And truthfully, I probably wouldn't have been in a hurry to make a change if we didn't have this trip coming up.

Right now Ada is only nursing when she wakes up in the morning, before nap(s) and before bed. When I am not home with her, she goes without (ok, she gets milk, but without the breast). She survives just fine, as she does when someone else puts her to bed. But when I'm there, nothing but the real thing is good enough. I want to wean her down to the before-bedtime before we leave. Being apart from both Chris and me for four days is going to be a big enough change for her without cold turkey weaning.

So, help a brother (ok, a mother) out? What have you done? What worked? How can I get on the plane without being racked with guilt, clutching my engorged breasts?