Thisbe Do It

Well, it's Sunday, November 13th and Dada and I are ready to throw you out the window.

Why? Well, because currently everything is a battle. Everything. No, that's not true. As long as we let you do whatever you want to do AND pay attention to you while you do it, you are happy as a clam. After your bath, for instance, you scampered naked over to the space heater in your room and crouched in front of it, the warm air slightly ruffling the pages of "Millions of Cats" as you read it aloud. I brought over the lotion and put a little on your belly so you could rub it in yourself. "No," you said, "attempting to grab the whole jar from me, "mine." "No," I said, "mine." You also wanted to do the sticky tabs on your diaper by yourself, zip your pajamas yourself, and brush your teeth by yourself.

In the mornings, we often bring you into bed for a few minutes so that Mama and Dada have a little chance to truly wake up before the lights and barking and whining begin in earnest. you like to sit on top on me, stroke my hair a little, look deep into my eyes, and say "MY Mama." If you weren't two, we'd think we were in the beginning of a stalker film.

You want control over everything and, since you don't really have control over much, you're now trying to manipulate your bodily fluids (your only real arsenal) in support of your will. To wit: last Saturday, during a two minute time out in your crib, you took off your clothes and your diaper and urinated all over the crib and floor. "Mama, come here. Mama, pee-pee," you said. This morning I wasn't feeling well and so, in what I assumed was a move of genius, I instructed Dada to take you to church. (When I'm well, church is all about God. When I'm sick, church is all about free child care.) You were having none of it. You were pissed. Dada wrangled you into diaper, clothing, and even into your car seat. But you were crying so hard that you puked. And that ended the trip to church and Mama's sleep in time. This evening, Mama wanted to use the bathroom without your presence. This resulted in another screaming fit, followed by a time out, followed by puking in your bed.

Now it's starting to sound like we're terrible parents. We're making our beloved child get hysterical to the point of puking. And maybe we ARE bad parents. Suddenly it feels like a war and the clouds of dust and debris are so thick that I can't remember if I'm supposed to be patient or firm or ignore you or show you that I am angry or laugh or re-direct or threaten or have another glass of wine.

The toughest part is that when you are getting your way and we are paying attention to you...you are awesome. Articulate and sweet, full of "thank yous" and "love you toos." When we asked you what animal you wanted to see at the zoo last week, you said "tapir." Your favorite game to play is "Going bye-bye. Look sad, Mama. Back now. Look happy, Mama." I call this the Prodigal Son game. Except when you "go bye-bye," I don't think you're off buying whores.

It's been forever since I've written so of course there is much more to say. The title of the post really says it all though. I know it's typical for a toddler to want to do everything independently, I get it. But it is getting hard to know when saying "yes" is an offer of patience and abundant love, and when saying "yes" is supporting the bad habits of a spoiled despot. And trying to know the difference all the time--well. It's hard. I think I'll have that second glass of wine. But I'll raise it to you, dear darling one. Because you are asleep and so it is easy to say "yes, yes, yes."

Oh Look! It's October!

Today is October 5th. October 5th and a high of 89 degrees. October 5th and the slide too hot to use, October 5th and I'll consider using sunscreen before I take you to the park. September was crazy. But now suddenly it feels like summer again and my body wants to lounge and my spirit feels incredibly lackadaisical.

Busy how, you say? Well, Dada has been busy applying for ordination (writing essays and taking psych tests and shopping for albs), prepping for his classes, applying for teaching jobs, and writing articles about Kierkegaard and Lady Gaga. Mama has been busy editing a book about vocation and attending Mentor Series events.

And you? You've been busiest by far. You're stringing words together into sentences now. Things like "Thisbe. Eat. Sit. Here. Nana." and "Book. Read. Couch. Now. Babar." and, my personal favorite "Drive. Fast. Police. Car. Come. Pay. Money." This weekend you used the word "the" for the first time and yesterday you said "him" in reference to Dada. Now we're waiting for the little words--the prepositions and pronouns and articles--that can connect your thoughts together. You've mastered so many nouns and verbs, now you're beginning to explicate the relationships between things. Not just meaning but clarity and coherence too.

Your energy is still through the roof. The other night before bed you literally ran over twenty laps around the couch. In a row. For fifteen minutes. Without stopping. Really. Jumping is another favorite pass time (couch to ottoman, ottoman to floor, stairs to floor, etc) but one that Mama is not such a fan of. Also of interest is categorizing people based on their possession of a "penis" or "vagina." As in, "Mama. 'Gina." "Dada. Penis." When we ask you what Luxy has, you say, "butt."

I am having trouble, maybe because I am brain dead from already writing three hours today, at being able to articulate exactly what has changed in you this last month. Mostly, the change feels more intuitive--you suddenly seem like a little girl instead of an androgynous, Godzilla-like toddler. Maybe it's the fact that you insisted on playing "pay for things with fake credit card" for twenty minutes yesterday afternoon. Maybe it's that you ask for "hugkiss" before Dada or I leave the house or maybe it's your longer hair pulled into pigtails or barrettes.

Maybe it was seeing you at the park a few days ago with a four year old girl who clearly wanted to befriend you. "Hi," said the girl, "my name is Olivia. What's your name?" "Iz," you said, pointing to your chest. "Friend," you said, pointing to her. Then you took her hand (and she, thank you Jesus, complied) and you walked off toward the swings together. It's one thing to watch you talk to us--it's another to see you using words to build a relationship with another person. Without prompting or staging, without me hovering nearby. And though my joy was tinged a little with the melancholy of "oh great tomorrow she'll asking her therapist about how to draw more firm boundaries with her mother," I was mostly just really, really proud of the person you're becoming.

[Note: photo is of you and Agnes and Karu from a month ago but I've been lazy about uploading and downloading and reloading and deloading photos.]

Hugging, Sneezing, Going Boompey

Three things I don't want to forget:

1. You now ask for hugs and kisses all the time. When I leave the house and when I return. "Kiss?" you say. Today you were in your highchair, covered with milk and cereal, as I left. "Hug?" you said. "I'll give you a hug from behind," I said. I did so and began to walk away. "Front. Hug?" you said. At bedtime it's even cuter. Dada and I draw magic circles on your belly and say good-night. You scramble to an upright position as quickly as you can and reach out your arms for both of us. I love that we end the day with a group hug.

2. Whenever you sneeze you say "bless you." Whenever anyone else sneezes you say "ah-choo."

3. Your current favorite story is David and Goliath. You request it a few times every day except that you refer to it as "Dave and Ga-ith." At the end of the story you nod seriously and say "boompey, go boompey" to describe the defeat of Goliath and thus the Philistine army.

On my watch, you've been sleeping in until 7:45, playing sweetly, and proffering truckloads of affection. On Dada's watch, you've been waking at 6:45, throwing numerous tantrums, and pooping on the floor. Maybe I shouldn't be smiling as I write this, but I am.

Thunder

On Saturday you will turn two or, as you put it when asked, "three." Sometimes, "four." Honestly, I feel like you've been two for months and months already so saying the age aloud doesn't make me automatically press my hand to my heart with a nostalgic sigh. This time of year, however, does always make me think not so much of the day of your birth (which, honestly, is a bit of a blur) but of the first few days and weeks afterward. The corn green and high, the crickets chirping, doors and windows open to let in the last few days of summer heat. I think of the hours and hours we spent on the couch, arranging you in your Boppy, trying to get you to latch, gazing at you while you slept. "Great Hyms of Faith," sung by the St. Olaf choir, worked like magic on your psyche and we played the CD over and over again, especially when you wouldn't relax enough to breastfeed. Now, when I hear the hymns I still sometimes feel like my milk is going to let down. I think also about the first few walks I took with Grandma Ricki (you curled and wrinkled in the stroller) down to the Ole Cafe, my netherparts tender and my stomach soft and bloated beneath my T-shirt. We would buy mochas and scones and then walk back slowly. And the season somehow fit my internal landscape perfectly--a warm haze over everything, nothing quite in focus, sleeplessness causing every moment to feel like a liminal one.

As you shrieked this morning, refusing to let Daddy touch you, hyperventilating until he brought you to the bed where you promptly laid on top of me, you head in my hair and your neck cutting off my larynx, I thought of what a different creature you are now, two years later. You've gone from 5 to 25 pounds, from brunette to blond, from screamer to speaker, from perfect shriveled nut to perfect full-fleshed little girl. And then there are the things that haven't changed: your strong will, your intensity, your mildly bizarre instinct for religious things. I remember being so hungry to know, in those early hours and days and weeks, who you were going to become. And it is blessing to see your personhood emerge, this human being I am so deeply proud to know--but also blessing to see that you have been you all along, that your self was there right from the start, it was we who didn't know the difference between what a baby does and what a Thisbe baby does. Because for us, you were both the first baby we had really known and the first Thisbe we had ever known.

You are still, I must admit, not an easy child. You compose frequent tantrums, instigate repeated battles of the will, demand almost constant interaction from the adults around you. Some of this is toddler behavior, but we are now wise enough as parents to know that some of it is also pure Thiz behavior. You're a stinker. But you're also wonderful. Now, after smacking Luxy in the face with a cup, you'll say (with ample sincerity), "sorry" afterward. You tell the other children at the playground "no" when they climb on the equipment but you're also quick to hug and kiss them if I ask you to say "hi." You know to whom each pair of shoes in the house belongs and you relish bringing them to us when asked. You also love to wear adult shoes around the house; strutting in my flip-flops is one of your favorite activities.

Your vocab is growing in leaps and bounds. "Peace car" you say when you see a law enforcement vehicle (which is either charming or deeply ironic depending on your view of police officers). When we read "If you Give a Moose a Muffin" you say the word at the end of every sentence. When asked to say your ABCs you say "A, B. A, B" When asked to count to ten you say, "three, four, six, eight, nine, ten!" or some such mildly random combination. After one occasion at the Northfield pool when we were made to get out of the water as a result of a distant rumble of thunder, you have become obsessed with the sound and you discuss it often.

At a recent play date picnic, Emily started to call you the "bolter" because, as the other kiddos played happily near the adults on the lawn, you repeatedly ran as fast as you could for the perimeters of the park. I'd turn away for two seconds and look up to see you in the parking lot or the tall wild grass or up to your thighs in the lake. When Gak takes you to Lake Harriet, you "swim" on your belly up and down the shoreline in the shallow water. In the bathtub, you find it hilarious to dump cups of water on your own head. Though sometimes around unfamiliar men you act "fake shy" for three or four minutes (probably a good thing), you're generally not afraid of much in this world. A blessing and a curse.

So, my dear darling one, two years ago today you were preparing for your grand entrance to the world. I have a video from that day that shows only the naked side of my belly and from time to time, you, rumbling like thunder underneath my skin.

Naming Genitalia

Argh! I've been terrible about updating lately with no real excuse other than general summer malaise. Much has happened. Judy's 90th birthday in Wisconsin, a mini Schwehn-camp weekend in the Dells, forays to the wading pool with Gak and Ampa, etc., etc. You have been quite the trooper, I have to say, and I've been enormously proud of the way you've embraced so many different family members. It was especially fun to watch you and Kaarn hang out together in Judy's yard. You followed your Auntie everywhere, overwhelmed with adoration after she showed you how to pick (and eat) the tart green apples from the apple tree and how to swing on the big girl swing hung from the maple on the other side of the lawn. You were thrilled to receive your first manicure and still occasionally point to your toes and say: "Red. Kaarn."

Your main development continues to be language. At least one new word every day, it seems, and old words lined up side by side to express real, live thoughts. Our favorite combo so far occurred while you and Dada were on a walk through the grasslands. You discovered a dead reptile in the weeds and thoughtfully remarked, "Snake. Bad. Bible." We choose to interpret this word string as the thoughts of an individual attempting to make ethical judgments about daily life (Daddy) or attempting to connect the an individual narrative with a mythic narrative (me). That it could also be the sign of a budding evangelical preacher is not a consideration upon which we love to dwell.

Along with all the delights of language come the challenges of language. I have been thinking a lot about Adam lately, about the challenges he must have faced in naming all those creatures, trying to find the sound or sounds to convey fur or feather, bulk or bone, cuddly or carnivore. And so Dada and I find ourselves faced with the trickiest of all naming ceremonies: child genitalia.

Really, vagina sucks. Vagina sounds like a spice rub for pork. Penis is no better, really, it sounds like a word you'd hear in passing at a lacrosse tournament. Actually, I'm sure it generally is. Anyway, parenting books are big these days on how VERY important it is for parents to create a shame-free environment for children to come to understand and embrace their own sexuality. This is why I nod encouragingly but avert my eyes when you caress yourself during diaper changes and say thing like "is the dolphin exploring?" when you let its bottle nose do some special sniffing around during bath time. As a writer, then, I feel this particular stress about finding a term for your netherparts that will convey a sense of intimacy without sounding like the name of a clown or a poodle. This is more difficult than it sounds.

Hoo-Ha? Va-jay-jay? Poo-tang?

Pee-pee? Wee-nee? Ding-dong?

I've thought about more abstract terminology like "special place" or "private parts" but I don't like using phrases that could also be used to describe secluded gazebos or Superfund sites. I also feel weird calling your vagina by a different name like "Samantha" or "Cristina."

But far worse than all these is the fact that right now when you reach down to pat your vagina during diaper changes, you simply call it your "butt." Your vagina is not your butt, Thisbe, and the only time later in life that you may confuse the two is when you're trying to give birth. At that moment, it might feel that you are pushing a head through your ass. Until, then, I want to give you a word or a phrase that is intimate but also conveys at least a sliver of self respect. I want you to love and respect your own body and I want to give you the confidence to expect others to do the same.

(So, um, for the first time in this blog's history, I would like to ask for help from the peanut gallery. Anyone found phrases or words that seem to fit these bizarre criteria? Help and sarcasm would both be appreciated. Comments, please!!!)

Rejection

Daddy is camping with his graduate school friends in 95 degree heat. Meanwhile, Thiz, you and I have been attempting to have some quality time. Except we went to Minneapolis and Gak and Ampa took over and then I didn't really see you for 48 hours but did manage to read the first 100 pages of Lolita and write 2,000 words. So that was good.

Last night, when it was time to go to bed, I walked into the sunroom to whisk you up the stairs. You were sitting on the couch next to Gak. The following is a word-for-word transcription of our conversation:
Me (brightly): Hey sweetie, it's time to go to bed now.
You (pointedly): Book.
Me: You already read a book with grandma.
You (emphatically): BOOK.
Me (resignedly): OK, we can read one more book.
[You proffer "Bambi." I sit down on the couch beside you and open "Bambi."
You (archly): No. Gak.
Me (apathetically): OK. Gak can read the book.
You: Go. Away. Mama.

Yep, that's right. Your second sentence EVER consisted of telling me to fuck off. It was the sentence equivalent of "Bup." So I sulked off dejectedly to the computer room.

30 seconds later you came dashing in. "Hug!" you said. "Really?" I said. "Hug!" you said again in a tone that sounded like you were asking for fifty push-ups in glaring Arizona sunshine. "OK," I said, lifting you onto my lap. You hugged. You kissed. "Did Gak make you do that?" I asked. "Yes," you said, "Buh-bye!" And you were gone.

There and Back Again

We are in the midst of a heat wave. The kind that makes one's glasses fog up when one steps outside. The kind that leaves a sheen of sweat across every inch of one's skin after walking for 2.5 blocks. The kind the makes one stretch lazily on one's bed watching re-runs of cooking shows while the fan whirs and whirs overhead.

When we left Seattle yesterday it was 62 degrees. The current temperature is 90, but with the humidity it feels like 105. It's the kind of weather extreme that makes be both extremely grateful for modern temperature control but also extremely uneasy. I realize that, just as when the temps turn arctic, much of my ability to DO anything comes from the fact that I'm not spending all my time figuring out how to stay warm--or in this case, cool. Daddy is going camping with his friends tomorrow. I am feeling alternately amused and terrified that he will bake into some sort of gruesome human Hot Pocket in the tent.

We spent the last two weeks at Holden. The time was not relaxing but WAS exceptionally renewing. At least for Mama and Dada. I'm not so sure you felt renewed being at Holden. I think you felt renewed when you returned home. You were exceptionally happy today, delighted to chase Luxy around the living room, to buckle your familiar high chair straps, to lug the unwieldy children's Bible up onto the couch. You loved Holden but I think it was also overwhelming for you: the dining hall filled with hoards of unfamiliar people at every meal, the non-uniform surfaces (rocky roads, rooted trails, crooked cobblestone paths) slowing your full-throttle running pace, the loving Narnia volunteers prying your hands from my shirt every morning to engage you in play. These things, I think, exhausted you. And although we were staying in a chalet, we were all crammed into one room, a sheet separating your Pack and Play from our bed, our clothes and books and (clean) cloth diaper inserts scattered on all available surfaces. You ended up in our bed every night (sometimes at 10pm, sometimes at 1:30 or 5:30am) and I think we all grew weary from not sleeping quite fully or restfully.

But then there was the loveliness: hikes to waterfalls, baby deer napping outside our window, eternal washing in Gak's sink, bubble-blowing with Dot, squealing contests with Holden, adventures to the Hobbit House and labyrinth, chipmunks available for chasing at every turn, etc., etc., etc.

And richness for your father and I: teaching people who wanted to be taught, engaging in discussions on suffering and health care, socialism, wilderness ethics, Augustine's confessions, and the nature of hope. There was laughter yoga and dishteam and staying up until the wee hours drinking boxed wine with new friends. Your father preached an amazing mini-sermon on the nature of freedom and I talked with Toni about how to weave together a memoir about the last days of Bethany's life. We didn't relax. But for a few days we got to be parents and friends and lovers and teachers and workers and worshipers and hikers and learners in a place that didn't ask us to separate these aspects of ourselves into separate categories. I sang hymns beside the people who came to my classes, I did dish team with the woman who cared for you in Narnia. In a society that often asks us to divide into a version of ourselves for different occasions, it is a relief to return to a place where the whole self is welcomed, is sufficient at every turn. So we're not relaxed. But we are renewed. I hope, at some level, that you are too, although your main reflection on the trip consists of: "Dada. Pee-pee. Hike." Because while we were hiking, Dada peed while you were in the backpack. And you thought this was worth a sentence.

Holden isn't perfect, by any means, but as people I think we live more fully and completely there, not versions of ourselves, but our whole selves, troubled and imperfect and filled with abundant grace. Or, as you would say, "Dada. Pee-pee. Hike."

Visitors!

I have been a lazy poster this month. In part because I accepted a summer school course at the last minute so I've been more busy than I thought I'd be. But also because we've had the joy of visitors. First, way back in May, John and Anna stopped by. We walked to the Cow and drank beer and walked back through a lovely rain. At the beginning of June we got to spend time touring boats and ogling tapirs with Grandma Gail and Grandpa Michael. Just this last Sunday, Martha and Sam popped by for a visit. They brought chard from their garden and freshly-picked strawberries. We roasted a chicken and feasted!

So here are pictures, without the stories that should accompany them because I am tired and/or lazy. Love, Ma.

Biba?

Well, things have turned around. You went from really sick to kind of sick to whiny to well. You are now back to full force Thisbe mode: running everywhere, demanding everything (pool, park, cookie, cracker), and by turns charming or annoying everyone. Your new favorite books are the Bible and Babar. Because you aren't yet exceptionally articulate, these words sound identical when you say them. "Biba?" you say. And somehow the conflation of the orphan who becomes King of the Elephants and the bastard who becomes King of the Jews is lovely.

Also lovely and mildly disconcerting is the amount you absorb every time we read. Let me begin by saying that the Bible is not a text that your father or I have hoisted upon you in ANY way. I have kind of avoided it, actually, in part because the children's Bible we have (thank you, Lorraine and Gary!) is direct and simple but also filled with people who look like they've been sucking helium. Bulgy cartoon eyes, bulgy cartoon hair, bulgy cartoon gestures. Eve's hair covers her boobs. Jonah's beard has five points, making it look like he has a starfish strapped to his chin. Naaman (whoever that is) wears lovely white bandages on his hands to indicate his leprosy. But you LOVE to read the Bible and you remember a ridiculous amount. When we get to the people arguing prior to the flood you say "bad, bad!" You identify the snake and the ark and baby Jesus. Tonight, I kid you not, you identified John the Baptist. Seriously. I think we read the story once. Though I suppose camel's hair is always a tip-off.

Your other favorite book is Where the Wild Things Are. You love the roaring and the gnashing and the rolling and the claws. I convinced you to wear pigtails yesterday and today simply by referring to them as "horns."

Last night Daddy and I made a grave parenting mistake. After Daddy accidentally woke you up at 10pm, you proceeded to cry and poop and cry until, after half an hour, we decided to let you sleep with us. Let that be the last time I utter those words in a VERY long time. Between 10:30 and midnight you slept exactly zero minutes. Instead, you took it upon yourself to remind us that it was dark. Over and over again. This meant you couldn't see us (duh) so you spent a great deal of time crawling back and forth between us in bed like a concerned spelunker (Dada? DADA??? Mama? MAMA???) Just when one of us was ready to hurl you back into your crib, you'd lean down and give the sweetest, most delicate kiss on whatever part of our faces your lips chanced to bump. You also spent some time stroking my hair back from my forehead and rubbing my back. It was the cute show in darkness. And though, at midnight, I made your father return you to your room, I will always remember the sound of your tiny kisses, magnified by the dark.

The Images I Know

The rain is clicking against the windows and the belly-rumble thunder is distant and occasional. Your eyelids are red and puffy and a blotchy rash is blooming down your back, across your belly, blushing out below your ears and between your fine blond hairs. Your hair itself is matted with sweat and sticky with the antibiotics that we failed to make you swallow. Your body is a fiery machine whose only job is to get better. When you are awake you are barely awake, eyes at half- mast, head rolling back from time to time, moving toward and away from a distant shore. We watch Elmo and Barney. Sometimes you want a book open too. Cat in the Hat or Green Eggs and Ham. The rhymes lull you, I think. You want only to lay on Daddy or lay on me, often squirming side to side for 20 or 30 minutes, trying to find the right position, the one that might make you finally feel better. You repeat "ow. ow. ow. ow" or "no. no. no. no" or "mama. mama. mama. mama." the tone both wheedling and hopeful and pathetic and heartbreaking all at once. You want us to take it away and we cannot and this is what it means to suffer.

We took you to the doctor for a battery of tests today and nothing was conclusive. High white blood count, blood oxygen 94 (lower than it should be), a slightly pink left ear, a ruby red throat--but no strep. No pneumonia. Likely just a virus with lengthy fangs. We put you on antibiotics just in case the infection is bacterial. But so far three days of this and no improvement.

As usual, there is so much more to mention. A visit from Grandma Gail and Grandpa Michael. Trolley rides and ship tours and forays into the wading pool. I spent a fantastic weekend in Iowa. Daddy spent time considering golf clubs and inserting rubber pieces into the wheels of my car so the steering wheel doesn't shake when I hit 70mph. But right now, those events seem like they happened ages ago. Sick time stretches out on either side of us. The wheels on the bus go round and round and round and round.

I also started teaching a class called Women's Writing, a class I kind of hope doesn't exist by the time you get to college. Anyway. We discussed Anne Sexton today. A poem called "Fortress" that describes a nap with her daughter. Here are my two favorite stanzas:

Darling, life is not in my hands;
life with its terrible changes
will take you, bombs or glands,
your own child at
your breast, your own house on your own land.
Outside the bittersweet turns orange.
Before she died, my mother and I picked those fat
branches, finding orange nipples
on the gray wire strands.
We weeded the forest, curing trees like cripples.

...

I cannot promise very much.
I give you the images I know.
Lie still with me and watch.
A pheasant moves
by like a seal, pulled through the mulch
by his thick white collar. He's on show
like a clown. He drags a beige feather that he removed,
one time, from an old lady's hat.
We laugh and we touch.
I promise you love. Time will not take away that.



I love you, sweetest darling Thisbe. Sickness makes the love acute, and harder.

Narrative!!!

Today you created your very first sentence. And then you said it approximately 50 times because you were so proud.

On your walk this morning with Da, Luxy ran into a deer and the deer promptly chased Luxy until Luxy got behind the deer at which point the tables were turned and Luxy was the chaser and the deer was the chase-ee. Super exciting.

When I arrived home from the coffee shop, Da prompted you to tell me about your excursion and you said:

Dee. (long pause) Chis. (long pause) Ux.

[Translation: Deer chase Lux]

Daddy and I were slightly elated. So were you. And even though you haven't said any new sentences (you've just been repeating that same one over and over), you are beginning to experiment with saying one word slightly after another, trying to figure out how they make meaning side by side. I have to say, it's pretty awesome. Way more awesome than just a single word, which essentially communicates only knowledge of an object or an action. This was a memory! A story! A sentence so close to being grammatically correct that it could grace the front page of a small town newspaper!

I have been able to complete this blog post with you in the room because you are so obsessed with fastening the buckles on your high chair. I write a sentence while you buckle. Then you sign "more." I unbuckle. We repeat the process.

It's Memorial Day. Heavy and humid and hot. Thick, thick air. You're wearing shorts for the first time this year. Yellow cotton ones that tie in the front. Your onesie is pink with tiny blue and red stars, which is as close as we get to being patriotic. Gak and Ampa Peter are on their way home from visiting the gypsies in France and Gail and Ampa Michael arrive on Wednesday. Tonight I am bringing cucumber salad and watermelon to a barbeque which means I think I can safely, finally say: summer is here.

Picture Roundup

It's often hard to post more than a few pictures per blog post because the uploading takes FOREVER and then often isn't successful. Anyway. Here are some lovely shots from the last few months, you with Grandma Judy and Grandma Dot and Grandpa Ark. The painting in the Grandpa picture is titled "Yawn" because it is so incredibly boring. Just FYI.

In other news: today you choked on a piece of chalk and then went to a hymn sing at Olaf hosted by Garrison Keillor. At the hymn sing it was revealed that you are not a true Lutheran because you were completely unimpressed with Big G and demanded to go outside instead. Blasphemy.

Also: it's finally beautiful outside! Hurrah!

And: you are developing a complex musical sensibility. In the car, when I start to sing, you interrupt and say "Da. DA!!!" The other day, when I tried to sing your lullaby to you in your crib, you screamed "no!" and then made the sign for me to give you a back rub instead. You better have a good little voice yourself, little lady, because I ain't takin' no criticism from someone who can't even sing "Twinkle, Twinkle."

Hail

You love to wash. You love your fingers underneath a running faucet. You pull your two-tiered wooden step stool to the kitchen then the bathroom. Today you said Elmo. At the zoo last week, you liked the camels best. When we ask you to sing, you form your lips into postures like your father's lips when he sings but you don't make any noise. You point out things that come in pairs. Two runners, two cars, two orange cones. Two. Two. Two.

The dandelions are up. The tulips are frothing with color. Purple like the saddest heart. Toenail polish red. You call Peter "ampa." Last night a funnel cloud over Lake Calhoun. I decided not to wake you.

Today heavy and humid and gray. The kitchen light flickering. "Would you like a time out?" I say. "Yes," you say. You are heavier. You are taller. We don't notice until all the sudden we do. Some mornings your face seems to have shifted overnight. Your blond hair grown to the bottom of your chin, flipping and fraying. You stir your couscous and tofu like a lunatic. You know A and B and I and O and P and S but not how to put two words together. Each thought is singular. Move. Sit. Wash. Plate. Water. Ball.

We found Bin Laden and killed him. We're testing equality on our ballots. Kate and William got married and everyone said the lace kept her dress tasteful. I am not jealous of the razor-sharp line she'll have to walk every day of her life. I'm glad you're not a princess though I think we have a flashy onesie at the bottom of a dresser drawer that argues otherwise.

Sool

I should begin by noting some cute shit you've done lately.

1. When we sit down to eat, you immediately hold out your hands to both of us so that we can pray. Lately, you've started to desire further prayer throughout the meal. Daddy and I will be eating our burgers, avocado falling out the sides, talking about frequent flyer miles or tornadoes or book proposals and you'll suddenly hold out your hands and say "pray, pray!" This behavior will be really darling until you join a right-wing evangelical church with a praise band called "His Kingdom Come."

2. Yesterday was Gak's birthday and I casually asked if you wanted to call her and say "happy birthday." And you said "hap-eye birf-da?" I almost peed my pants. We called Gak and you said "hap-eye birf-da" into the phone and she did pee her pants. Then you walked over to your book shelf and returned with the book about birthdays (touch the jewels in the crown! touch the spongy cake! touch the rubbery balloon!) which we haven't looked at since, like, Nam. "Birf-da," you said, showing me the book. I know, I know that babies are sponges, but I always assumed you were ignoring everything I said. It's bizarre to find out that you were listening when we read that book 4 months ago and that you remember it still.

3. Generally you're into words like pretty, baby, happy, etc. Except you pronounce the last syllable as "eye" rather than "ee" so it kind of sounds like you have a southern drawl.

Anyway, the main narrative this week has been the car. We said good-bye to the Honda and hello to a new (used) Saab. Then the Saab started flashing a weird warning so we returned it to the dealer so they could check it out and said hello to an obscenely large SUV. I have nothing against people who drive SUVs out of necessity. Like, they have three kids in car seats or a lumber business or a cheetah. Fine, I get it. But when I see the vehicle parked in front of our house, I want to hurl. Hopefully the Saab will be pronounced well and good and we'll have it back on Monday.

My Dad ("Ark") bought the Honda in 1993. When he was deciding on the color, he showed my teen-age self both options: gold and silver (apparently he was a girl scout at heart) and I pronounced both of them ugly. I was insistent that he NOT choose either of these colors. And he didn't. He rolled into the driveway in a car that was neither gold nor silver and explained that the dealer had another color option when he arrived that day: yun. I was satisfied. Yun was a much more complex and unique color. Plus, I felt really smart when I said it. Yun. I could feel my SAT scores increase every time I used the word. And use it I did, all the time. Knowingly, nonchalantly, condescendingly. Until one day during college when I tried to use it during a Boggle match and my opponent pointed out that it wasn't a word. And indeed, it was not. Grandpa Mark made it up and then USED in in context for the next FIVE YEARS. Cruelty, thy name is yun.

When it came time to choose this car, I told Dada I didn't want a regular, boring color. I wanted something interesting and unique. I am so glad he was able to find a sool colored Saab. Not silver, not gray, but sool. Maybe your prom dress will be sool too. I can only hope.

A Bus for Jesus

Jesus came back to life (again)! To celebrate, we want to the Chapel of the Resurrection on the campus on Valparaiso University in Valparaiso, Indiana. Grandpa Mark ("Ark") and Grandma Dorothy ("Dot") accompanied us. As did your baby doll, a snack cup filled with Teddy Grahams, a book about baby bunnies, a tiny toy choo-choo, an entourage of quarter-sized animals to ride the choo-choo, and a pouch of gummy bunny fruit snacks. These items amused you for exactly 30 minutes. Then you noticed the backside of the woman in front of us, a backside covered in a speckled silk dress and sagging through the opening in the pew. "Dot!" you shouted, "dot! dot! dot!" As you shouted you also poked at the dots...and I promptly removed you from the service.

You ran around the entryway for awhile and then discovered the wide spiral staircase that leads both up to the choir loft and down to the smaller chapel and bathrooms below. The stairs were high enough that you could go both up and down them on your very own, without assistance from me or the vertical golden rails that wind downward with the staircase. At the very bottom of the stairs, the golden rails create a circular cage of sorts, the bars spaced about 18 inches apart. The bottom of the cage is paved with black rocks and stones, most about the size of a softball, their edges unsmoothed so that walking across the surface is a thoughtful event. In the center of the stones is a baptismal font that looks like it belongs to a different age. It is a cylindrical mass of gray stone, the top rendered slightly concave to hold water. I thought of Machu Picchu, the giant slabs of rock used for ceremony or sacrifice or chiseled so that running water could be diverted into pools, gullies, basins. The stairs you walked upon were stone too, a deep burnt orange, flecked with bits of light and dark. You walked upon all this in your Easter dress, pink at the top, rows of pastel flower cascading to a ruffle at the bottom. Pink tights. New silver shoes with zero traction. I missed the majority of the service but I will carry in my memory the contrast of your small body against the complexity and weight and formality of all that stone.

After church you ate frozen macaroni and cheese and took a nap. The adults sat on the sun porch and drank martinis and ate pastel colored almonds and Cougar gold cheese and matzah. After you woke, Dada and I walked you to the park (still, admittedly, a little tipsy from the martinis) and watched while you tackled the slides and the bouncy bridge and the wood chips. Dot worked on her knees in the flowerbeds and Ark took a nap in the study (below a painting I fondly refer to as "Yawn"). In the late afternoon we watched you play on the porch: blocks and wooden train tracks, your stuffed animal entourage and a plastic ball nearly half your size. Your favorite toy was a plastic school bus with a button you could press to incite the vehicle to offer songs and commentary ("stop and go, stop and go, la la la" or "look at the flashing lights!" or "we're on our way to school!"). The bus passengers included a white girl with frizzy hair and glasses, a happy African-American boy with a book, a Latino(a)-transvestite bus driver, a dog, and a wheelchair. Never has there been a more politically correct bus. Jesus would have loved to drive this bus! Luckily, you also alerted us every time a bus (or something that vaguely looked or sounded like a bus) drove by the house. You sure do love yourself a bus.

Now we are home again. Actually, Dada and I are home and you are with Grandma Ricki and Grandpa Peter. I'm not sure who was the most thrilled with the idea of you spending the night, you, us, or Grandma Ricki, but it's been a win-win situation all around. It's been raining all day and the house is very quiet without you. I both want you home and want the quiet to go on just a little bit longer.

The Village Ahead of You

When I was in grad school and I needed to write a poem, I'd often give myself a prompt. I'd write from a work of art or I'd give myself a list of words to include in order to spice up my diction. Sometimes I made the limits more rigid: meter, rhyme, number of lines, number of words in a line, etc. Often I invented a speaker and made myself write a poem from the person's point of view. During my first year at Iowa I decided to write from the perspective of a mother who knew she was going to die soon. I imagined a daughter, what I might say to her. I imagined a modern, less-wind-baggy version of Polonius. I wrote the poem on Palm Sunday.

Today is Palm Sunday and I want to give the poem to you. I don't think I'm going to die immanently but being a parent makes me far more aware that I am already in the process of doing so. Lists of advice are futile but comforting too. I'm not the speaker of this poem, Thiz, my list for you would be different, but a part of me is in this poem too. So here you are.

[Note: this poem was published in "The Cresset" a number of years ago. I think I'm allowed to re-print as long as I mention that.]

THE VILLAGE AHEAD OF YOU

I am not sure how this ends. If the body

dissolves or is taken up, if the roof of sky

feels like cellophane or moss.

When I was five I wanted to be a hen so

at a petting zoo I reached below one

to collect an egg. Her quills were stiff

and the vanes were damp and warm, sticking

a little to my knuckles. She didn’t peck

or squirm or try to stop me. There’s something of Abraham

and Isaac in this. You should know

I would never have collected sticks to burn you.

Patty says she’d collect only green ones but Patty

likes to please everyone. I love you

more than God and I do not

accept the parts of the story where

bodies are taken up with a greater

plan in mind. You should love your home.

Lot’s wife did not turn back to watch

fire spitting from the shoulders and hair

of those who followed; she looked back

at her house and at her pasture.

Land gets taken up by fire too and possessions

are not always wrong. Wear something comfortable.

Sleep with my nightgown. Don’t try to look

after anyone else. Every town has a bell, bells

return us to ourselves. The second time

your father left I flew to Quito and was miserable.

It was Palm Sunday so I stood with a crowd

at the back of a cathedral. A girl gave me

a cross woven out of palm leaves, grit

at the corners of her eyes and brown, milky

irises. A basket filled with crosses

hung from each of her arms and she wore pink

bedroom slippers over thick brown socks.

She stood in front of me a long time, I thought

because of blindness. I was too sad to know

I was supposed to pay her. It is difficult to be happy

knowing the way that story ends. The point

is that we sing the songs and lay the palm leaves

down, that we turn to gaze at the man who sits

halfway up the mountain with his head between his knees.

I believe we will know when the time comes

what it means to crouch beside him, using both our hands

to raise his face to ours.

Password

You have been an explosion of development lately: teeth, words, and the consumption of a State Fair's worth of calories every day. You have become newly enamored with a baby doll we creatively refer to as Baby Doll and you often spend 10-15 minutes carrying her around pressed to your chest, sometimes absent-mindedly patting her on the back, sometimes heaving her down on the sofa or a chair, sometimes laying on top of her on the floor while making a weird humping motion with your hips (that we generally try not to see as a "humping motion").

You have simultaneously developed a mild disdain for books coupled with a hearty interest in letters. We sing the "ABC" song often and you call out "S" in the appropriate place. This weekend we bought you a 17x11 inch magnetic chalkboard with accompanying letters and numbers and you can already identify "O" and occasionally "I" and "S." the identification of "O" may have to do with your favorite sound to imitate which is "oooohhhhh" as in "ooooohhhh, look at that cute kitten" or "ooooohhhh, isn't that flower so pretty" or "ooooohhhh, Thisbe is humping her Baby Doll again." I think it's mostly Grandma Ricki that makes this sound excessively, but I am somewhat embarrassed to acknowledge that I, too, have been known to "ooooohhhh" on occasion. And I challenge you, dear cynical and older Thiz, to go and see that baby farm animals at the zoo and NOT make that sound. Seriously.

The word explosion continues. You were considerate enough to inform us about every truck or bus we passed on our journey from Northfield to Minneapolis on Friday. Each day you experiment with another word or two. Today we went to visit Jamie and Jennifer (and new baby Linus!) and you enthusiastically pointed to the dog entrance in their basement door and shouted "hole, hole!" Later, on a walk with Grandma Ricki, you identified (tree) bark and the dock on Lake Harriet. You are most verbally thoughtful as you try to distinguish "poop" from "toot" and those conversations are perhaps the most common and most meaningful in our household. [Thisbe: "poop." Mama: "poop or toot?" Thisbe: "toot" Mama: "toot?" Thisbe: "poop?" and so forth].

Some of my favorite moments of the last few weeks have been during your early waking moments. Because you have been waking too early (both in the AM and from naps), I often bring you into bed with me (or Dada and me. Or me and the mailman) and tell you that you need to sleep a bit longer. Sometimes you actually fall asleep and I get to feel the weight of your body snuggled into mine, your head tucked into my neck, your fingers curling around my shoulders. I get to feel the tiny shocks that stir your body occasionally while you sleep. My body was once your home and the fact that something in your body remembers this makes all the growing away and out of and into a little bit more bearable. I love you, sweet girl.

Why You Should Travel With 500 Extra Wipes

So after the Sea Shore we unpacked and repacked. We got into the car to drive to Wisconsin for Alyssa's (Dada's cousin) wedding. You slept in the sun in the back of the car and Dada and I drank mochas in the front. Until you woke and vomited a large amount of egg salad and canned peaches all over your outfit, your winter coat, your large stuffed dog, your small stuffed cat, your car seat, our car seat, and other items I'm not even remembering. Luckily, there was a rest stop 1.5 miles away. I stood you on a shelf in the rest station bathroom and you sobbed (vomit still covering your hands, your face, your front) while I opened our wheeled luggage and dug for clean clothes. There is nothing in the world sadder than a sobbing naked toddler in a rest stop bathroom. Well, OK, that's hyperbole, but it was sad.

Meanwhile, Dada was in a cleaning closet on his knees, using a hose and a swath of paper towels to wash the vomit off your clothes. The maintenance man sat on his swivel chair (in front of his desk in the closet) and would occasionally make a remark ("well, you're not the first folks to wander in here with this kinda situation") or to offer latex gloves. He wore an olive green work suit and a John Deere hat and offered us a yellow trash bag to protect your clean clothes from the vomit we couldn't wash out of the car seat. He was God. Seriously.

I can see that if I describe all of the events of the weekend, this post will become a novel. Other highlights of the weekend included washing explosive diarrhea from your pajamas (twice), drying your apple juice soaked jeans on a hand dryer in the women's bathroom in Perkins, and realizing (as we left the hotel) that the mysterious stains on one of our pillows (one of the pillows at the HEAD of our bed) were poop stains. Not my poop. Not Dada's poop. Your poop.

I know. I'm being such a whiner. There were good times too! You had a blast with your cousin Nora. You raced down the hotel corridors together and practiced simultaneous pool jumps together. You choreographed intricate dances together (as evidenced by the last post) and whined about various food products together. The wedding itself (or what I saw of it--you and I spent half of the wedding in the church basement contemplating a racially dishonest mural of Jesus and the other half in the wedding party's idling Limo Bus admiring various knobs, cup holders, and cushions) was lovely. Alyssa and Jake were lovely. Dada and I got to slow dance at the reception while Grandma Judy napped on the hotel bed next to your Pack and Play. Then (also at the reception) I had a Manhattan and was SHOCKED to learn that your father was not familiar with dance moves such as 1. the running man, 2. the Roger Rabbit, and 3. the lawn mower. Luckily, he is totally familiar with those moves now.

The events were lovely and the people were lovely---it's just that our little family, especially you, well, we were exhausted. We are glad to be home. Today you found three acorn caps and I found three molars, poking their way through your gums. I wish the daffodils would do the same.

(Not through your gums. Through the GROUND).

Love,
Ma

French Film

Dear Thiz,

Here's what you should do in 20 years:

1. Get yourself a glass of red wine. I, for example, am currently drinking Sin Zin.

2. Put some music on your stereo. Or your i-pad or i-phone. Or i-lab. Or just blink your eyes a few times to turn on the speaker embedded in your ear lobe.

3. The music should be something wordless and French. I recommend the first song on the Amelie soundtrack entitled J'y suis jamais alle. (I'm too lazy to figure out how to add accent marks. Or to figure out what the title means. I assume it's something sweet and a little quirky. Maybe the bad translation is "Happy You in Sunshine Bloom" or "Carousel Strangers.")

4. Sip the wine, listen to the music, and watch the video below. If you have the capacity to turn the video to black and white (via the thorn embedded into your retina) you should do so.

Sea Shore

You loved the beach. And why wouldn't you? Sand and shells and water. Running and running and running, barefoot and practically naked, people you love running just behind you, laughing enough so you always know they're there. What's not to love?

You ate your oatmeal on a deck overlooking the Atlantic and spent the early evening hours scurrying around the outdoor courtyard restaurants where we ate dinner. You hugged your aunt Agnes every chance you got. You slept in a closet in our bedroom (coat hangers moved out of reach). You frantically tried to escape the Bearer of Sunscreen, usually via a screaming, half-naked, tippy-toed run through the apartment. You failed to nap in bed with Daddy and I. Instead, as we tried to sleep, you would say, in a tiny-curious-mouse-voice, "poop?" And then "Poop?" And then "POOP!!!" You wore a T-shirt and ruffle-butt swim bottoms and a floppy, tropical-fruit bedecked hat during the day, hair damp and skin gritty from the sun. In the evenings, you wore a clean T-shirt and capri pants and sandals, hair wet with comb-lines, skin smooth and soft. You crumbled play-doh and sorted sea-shells and named two tiny Panda bears "Tit" and "Tat." (Tit was the girl and Tat was the boy. Duh.) You gave a lecture to a German couple on the beach and waded through warm, low-tide pools. You were terrified of the waves and then curious about the waves. You permitted us to bury your feet in the sand and you ate as many blueberries as your current caregiver would permit.

Now we are home. 10 degrees when we woke up this morning. Snow on the ground and ice on the car. I am in a terrible mood. I want another week in Florida. I want air you can just walk into--no sweating or shivering--just pleasant air on the skin. I want more green, more flowers and outdoor patios, more silver tongue of the moon on unsettled ocean skin. But you--well, as much as you enjoyed the beach, you seem quite happy to be home too. And I will now sound like a Chicken Soup for the Soul book about the heartwarming lessons children teach us when we least expect it BUT--the truth is, what is in front of you is the only option you understand. I mean, you also understand the option of "the animal crackers hidden on top of the refrigerator" but you aren't plagued by a different version of life that runs parallel to you, you aren't plagued by "what-ifs" or "other possibilities." This morning you had oatmeal and canned peaches and your stuffed cat. Familiar toys. The promise of playing trains with Daddy once the coffee was made. And you were happy.

Adam and Eve always struck me as kind of a silly story. I mean, Eve wasn't supposed to eat the apple, sure, but who doesn't want KNOWLEDGE? All my life, I've been taught how important knowledge is. My parents are teachers, after all, and knowledge keeps history from repeating itself and helps us empathize and makes us better pool players (reflection!). But lately, Thiz, I have been feeling crushed under the weight of it. All this knowing there is to do. I love being in touch with friends on Facebook--but now I check in to see if they've had their babies or published their books or seen "Avatar" in 3D. And then there's the world and its tsunamis and bombings, famines and disease. And then family and immediate friends and colleagues. Jobs to research and parenting techniques to perfect. For the first time in my life, knowledge feels like sin, feels like a kind of darkness. But I am terrified of ignorance too. I want to be a good Mama. A published writer. I want to be well read and kick ass at the Cow quiz night (insert shout out to Emily and Dan here)--but fuck. The tremendousness of all there is to know makes me feel hopeless and impotent too.

For three days I didn't check my e-mail and didn't (really) watch the news. I read a few chapters in a book. Heard about Japan straight from Michael on the phone. I sat on the beach with you and watched water fill up the hole we were digging. I want to learn the way you do. The knowledge that's necessary, that helps me move forward. I want to formulate questions before Google feeds me a million answers, most of which I cannot possibly use.

Packing for Florida

The words are starting to come.

"Purple, bus, truck."

Maybe, like the rest of us, your motivation has been in hibernation mode.

"Fox, put, car."

This morning you pointed urgently to the top of Dada's closet and said "hot, hot." We rolled our eyes, as we are wont to do, and explained that the ceiling was not a heat source. Then I noticed all of Dada's baseball hats. Oh. Hat. Right.

Two days ago, Dada asked you to say "Ma" AND YOU SAID IT. Just like that. And oddly, oddly, I now kind of miss "Bup."

Most things are referred to as "da" or "dis" or "dat."

In 48 hours we will be on our way to Florida! In preparation, we started to sort through some of your springtime clothing this afternoon. Short-sleeved, flowered onesies, striped shorts, toddler sized khaki capris. As I was ooohing and aaaahing over the clothes in your bedroom, I heard a scratching sound coming from the hallway. I went out to investigate.

You were sticking a fork into an electrical outlet.

I almost peed my pants. Seriously. Scooped you up into an "oh my god thank god oh my god" hug and didn't put you down for a long time.

The situation in Japan continues to worsen. Workers in Wisconsin have been denied the rights they deserve. The NY Times is no longer going to offer news for free. The world is becoming a flat screen that fits inside a purse. The shifts are physical, spiritual, intellectual, constant.
I wish the ordinary could protect us from the cataclysmic.

You will wake up from your nap. We will go to the doctor. You will cry. They will give you Tinkerbell stickers. The ground will continue to reveal itself. We will pack: a ladybug T-shirt, shoes that expose open patches of skin, JIF peanut butter on-the-go packs, monkey pajamas, a bib, a bowl, a spoon. We will try to manage the days as they come. Familiar objects that fit inside a suitcase.

Spring in Japan

Today it finally feels like maybe perhaps spring is beginning her slow inch towards us. Meaning: one of those winds that swirls, that seems to come from all directions at once, scarves constricting around necks and hair plastered across cheeks. Meaning: sun turning sheets of ice into puddles. Meaning: a down vest instead of a down coat by late afternoon.

In Japan, the details of spring are likely going unnoticed. On Friday an earthquake rocked the north eastern coast of Japan, creating a tsunami that sent a wall of water crashing over huge portions of the coast. The pictures of the wreckage are awful. Fishing boats collapsed on their sides, roads torn apart, factories consumed by fire. On Sunday 1,000 bodies washed up on shore in Miyagi prefecture. Just like that. 1,000 bodies.

On Saturday we will fly to Florida and you will get your first glimpse of the ocean. We will walk along the beach and look for shells and kelp and sand crabs.

Your uncle Michael is in Japan. He is far away from the disaster, in a city called Ogaki, hundreds of miles from the site of the tsunami. He didn't even feel the tremors.

But now there are problems with the nuclear power plants. In the paper they used the word "meltdown." Bits of radiation have made it as far as Tokyo.

Uncle John visited yesterday and as we sat on the couch, watching the season finale of "The Bachelor," he said, "I don't even know what all this means, how radiation travels, what it looks like."

Then on "The Bachelor" we watched the women, one in black and one in white, travel in separate limosines through South Africa. We watched the one with brown hair dip her toes in the resort pool while she thought about her future. We watched the blond say, "I need to know you're in it for the long haul."

You wore your blue corduroy overalls to lunch. You ate alfredo pasta and I ate a salad with Thousand Island dressing. Grandma drank decaf. She wants to bring her baby home but knows she's not allowed to do that anymore, knows Uncle Michael gets to choose how to protect himself.

Today it finally feels like spring is beginning her slow inch toward us. Meaning: proper burials for the dead. Meaning: contained radiation. Meaning: boats rebalanced on their keels, soldered roads, flames finally extinguished.

A Mama By Any Other Name

Every day, it becomes a little clearer that your unwillingness to communicate using language is due, not to a rare deformity below your tongue (I imagine a small toadstool), but to your obstinate nature.

Luckily, I am patient, understanding, and unwilling to wage silly battles around your linguistic development. Luckily, I am super chill about language. "Dude," I say to myself in my internal snowboarder voice, "the words will come when she's ready. Let her set the pace. Relax. [insert bong toke here]. For now, just think about ripping into that new powder."

It's too bad that snowboarder-voice often gets crushed by hypochondriac-wedding-planner-voice who says "Your child will grow to be a troubled loser who communicates only with stuffed cats. Also, she's dirty and why does your house look like crap?"

I love you, sweetest girl, but I have a sneaking suspicion that our relationship may not always be rose petals and swans and sweet new powder. And that's OK.

I thought having a baby meant that someone would call me Mama. It turns out I don't get to choose the way my child loves me.

(Or it turns out I finally have a reason to have another baby.)

Trees, Walking

Auntie Martha and Significant Other (aka "Signe") Sam are visiting and you are overwhelmed with joy. You brought them your entire library of books to read this morning, one by one, and Dada reports that as you walked across the room in front of them, you'd tilt your head to the side and give a faux laugh every now and again, just to remind them of the fun they must surely be having in your presence.

While you slept yesterday we ate sushi and Tagalongs and discussed Sam's proposal to produce a Marlowe play about gay King Edward in the studio space at the Guthrie. At dinner we filled tortillas with chicken and black beans and cheese and tomato and salsa and heard about Martha's interview with the head of LVC, how she gave him a run for his money with her questions about the Lutheran tradition of social service.

I'm teaching The Gospel of Mark and the graphic novel Marked in my composition course right now and so today I posted on Facebook my favorite line from the Gospel: "I can see people, but they look like trees, walking." The line is spoken by a blind man when Jesus has healed him only partially. Jesus spits on the man's eyes and then asks the man if he can see. The man responds with the tree line. Then Jesus covers the man's eyes with his hands again and the man's sight is fully restored.

I like this passage not only because I think it contains the most poetic line in a Gospel that's rife with dull, dry reportage on events, but also because it's the one time (that I know of, and I'm no Biblical scholar), that Jesus heals someone half-way. The rest of the time, it's either all or nothing, you're either blind/leprous/hemorrhaging/seizing/possessed or you're all better, full of new life both externally and internally. I feel half-cured today. Half-blind, half-faithed, half-hearted. The world is still shadowed with filmy gray snow. I feel betrayed by people I trusted. I love that there is a moment that describes this state-of-being in the Bible, that I can live in that moment today with hope that things will get better.

For instance. When I brought you into your room today for your nap, you danced. That's the first thing you do now, every time I bring you into your room. You run to the center of your pink elephant rug and quickly lift your feet up and down in one place--your version of dancing. Today you also practiced falling down. Dance, dance, dance, fall backward onto your butt. Dance, dance, dance, fall backward. Then you fiddled with the humidifier knob and fiddled with the space heater knob and fiddled with the stereo that sits on the bottom shelf of your bookcase. While I read "Spot Goes to the Beach" you tried to take the child-proof lid off a bottle of liquid Benadryl so my reading was accompanied by the click, click, click of the top not coming off and the click, click, click of your refusal to accept that particular outcome.

Plateau

You have slept in until 7:30 or beyond five out of seven days this week. On three afternoons, you took a two-hour nap. Your father and I don't know what to do with ourselves, really. On Thursday we were planning to go to the zoo. Dada came home from work early and we sat on the couch, waiting for you to wake up so we could visit the tapir. No dice. We planned for the same outing yesterday (thinking you could not POSSIBLY take another two-hour nap since you haven't, ever, in the history of your life, taken more than one two-hour nap in the course of a week). We sat on the couch, waiting to take you to see the gibbons. No dice.

You and I continue in what I hope will be the longest snot-marathons of our lives. You seem to be draining in a healthy way and your snot has subsided. Mine is still tinted a sickly green color. According to Mayo Clinic online, caffeine and alcohol do not help to cure sinusitis. In fact, these items are known to worsen ones symptoms. Which may be why you're getting better and I'm not.

We're facing another gray day today. Tis the season for puddles/ice/puddles/ice. When we go for a walk we dress you in wind pants, your pink boots, your too-small pink winter coat, your reindeer hat, and your black REI mittens. You have figured out how to run in the boots and you look hilarious doing so, a little clod of wayward marl, tumbling across the town home parking lot. You've also developed a propensity to scrape snow off the sides of snow banks with your mittens and you love to stomp your way through puddles. We cover blocks and blocks by moving from puddle to puddle, trying to avoid the dog poop that also appears in massive quantities as the snow melts (do people really think it disappears in the snow???).

Looking at photos and blog posts from a year ago, I am amazed at how rapidly you changed from week to week and month to month. Last year, over the course of three months, you went from not being able to sit upright to taking drunk-sailor steps across the living room. Now, the rate of your development seems slower and more opaque. At ECFE last fall, they passed out a chart that mapped child development. At 15 months there was a jaggedy, downhill line to symbolize a lot of "turning inward" and a struggle between dependence and independence. At 18 months, however, the line shoots smoothly upward into the great heavens of childhood genius. I very much admire this line, have been looking forward to its smoothness and incline for some time.

Now that we're there (you turned 18 months on Thursday! hurrah!), I feel a little disappointed. I know you've changed in the last three months, but not in remarkable, "don't they grow up before your very eyes!" kinds of ways. You know a few more words. A few. You're sleeping like a champ. You climb on things. Your manual dexterity is slightly improved. Your pointing vocabulary (i.e. images you can identify in books) has increased. But you haven't learned to whittle or sing American folk songs or put two words together into an itty-bitty sentence. I kind of feel like the line is a lie. That our line is a plateau, the barren horizon, the Midwestern field, all covered in snow.

Then again. Your favorite book right now is "Thisbe's Promise." Aunt Meghan and Uncle Nels bought this book for you after searching Amazon for products with the word "Thisbe" in the title. Surprisingly, it's not a bad book. It's about Thisbe and her Mama gazing out the window and remarking on things like hummingbirds and starfish and butterflies and whales. In the final image, Thisbe and her Mama are swimming with the whales and you like this image best. The catch is that the woman who wrote this book had a daughter named Thisbe who died of a slow, painful, degenerative disease. The reason Thisbe and her Mama are looking out the window is that Thisbe is "sick in bed." And at the end of the book, when Thisbe "feels better" and they "go for a walk" and "swim with the whales" well--well, I know what it means in a way that you don't. So I get tears in my eyes every time we read this book, because our sickness is snot, not malfunctioning nerves, and when the sun gets around to shining we really do get to go outside, and stretch our legs, and walk.

A plateau is a line you can walk upon. We'll take it.