Zoo

We dressed you in your leopard print romper and then sent you out to greet the animals.

You ran, we estimate, at least a mile. We don't have to do the slow, barely-moving-while-our-one-year-old-dawdles walk with you because you are incapable of walking at a regular pace.

We got to see some bear training and I'm considering adopting the protocol for home use. Basically, the zoo keeper holds up a big shape (circle or star or square) and the appropriate bear then comes forward, noses at a mesh gate or sits on his haunches below a faux cliff, and is fed. It seems so simple. And the bears clear up all their scraps. They also bathe themselves and spend a LOT of time napping. HINT HINT.

Hi! Wow! Hot!

Rainy this morning after an incredibly long spate of beautiful fall weather. Now the leaves are turning to mushy brown mulch in the gutters and the smell of their last hurrah is everywhere.

You were lovely this morning. You brought me both your Thomas trains and I sent them careening over the carpet. You brought them back over and over, hurling them quite ungracefully into my lap. You have figured out how to throw now, though not with any accuracy. Your bottom left tooth (beside the two middle ones) is quite visible and your upper left is just beginning to sprout, just a thin sliver of white.

You rub your hand across your chest when we ask you to say "please" and you say "buh" for "book" and "eee" for "eat." Your three favorite words remain "hi," "wow," and "hot." This is appropriate, I think, since you are a child of exclamations not sedentary nouns. In bed this morning we practiced putting my gold barrettes into your hair and Daddy's hair and my hair. When I asked you to give Daddy a kiss, you leaned forward and pressed your soft sweet cheek against his.

It's been a busy week. We spent a few days at Grandma and Grandpa's house so Daddy and I could go away for an evening. You woke up at 5:30am on the morning we were away, but other than that, your behavior was fairly normal. Daddy and I went to Brit's Pub and played pool and darts and then drank martinis back at our motel (well, I drank a martini, Daddy wisely stuck with beer). The next morning we walked to Barnes and Noble and (because the espresso machine was broken in the cafe) had to read our books and magazines while sitting on a cold heating vent by the window that faces Nicollet Avenue. I was reading about WWII Russia so the cold seemed somehow appropriate--and my latte (scored from Panera) seemed ridiculously luxurious.

Yesterday we spent a lovely morning and afternoon with Carlo and Anjuli. You sensed immediately that Anjuli was a safe, loving, and malleable adult and so you spent most of the day bringing her truck books and waving them at her so she would read to you. Carlo was exceptionally sweet, wiping your ever-snotty nose and patiently withstanding your shoe and dog attacks while he tried to sleep. It was lovely to see you interacting with both of them and it made me sad to think about how rarely you will get to do so.

The mood in our house is a little tense these days. Your father has sent out lots of applications to various jobs--so we're now holding our breath and crossing our fingers. Your father feels the stress the most, I know. He wants to make a lovely life for you and me, Thiz, and feels like this is his responsibility (though it isn't) and so the stress of being continually untenured and untethered wears him down. The uncertainty is stressful for me for different reasons. Unlike your father, for me half of the excitement of any new experience is anticipating it. Reality is never perfect, but anticipation can be. But right now none of the jobs, none of the predictable outcomes are exciting to me. Moving to California or remaining jobless in Minnesota are both less than lovely outcomes in my book. So I'm praying for the ability to remain open to possibility, to take each day as it comes, to recognize that I might not know what is best for us, and for the energy and optimism to make the best of whatever happens. Something I definitely suck at.

Last night on T.V. we saw a preview for a movie called Unstoppable. "It's a biopic of the life of Thisbe Agnes Jothen," said your father. And I agreed. Full steam ahead.

Here Be Dragons

The title of this post refers, of course, to the areas on ancient maps that were unexplored, unknown, unremarked upon territory. The places where the mapmaker would stitch a serpent or dragon into the smooth surface of the sea.

It also refers to your Halloween costume. Since there may be more than one Halloween costume, since it might be too balmy on Halloween to dress you in the costume, since we are often looking for ways to amuse ourselves--we stuffed you into the costume a few days ago and made you run around the house while we laughed. The video should give you a clear sense of what that looked like. (OK, the video won't upload--here's a picture instead. Check back for the video later.)

The What You Do Now update consists of the following:
1. "Wow," you say, all the time "wow, wow, wow."
2. The fake cry. Ah yes, the wrinkling of the nose, the squinting of the eyes, the screechey whine. We're so thrilled.
3. Pure and shiny love of your father. He's a rock star and you're the groupie. I walked in the door after work today and you smiled at me. Then smiled again, more coyly, and hugged Dada's knee. "He's mine," your smile said.
4. The whine and point. This gesture is repeated, sometimes blindly, until Mama picks you up or gives you something that at least vaguely interests you.
5. Given a phone or cell phone, you immediately hold it to your ear. "Hi," you say, "hi?"
6. Eating fiend. Yesterday for dinner: banana, half an avocado, a mashed potato, an adult serving of broccoli, and a bunch of pot roast for good measure.
7. All things truck or vehicle related. Your love of "The Happy Man and His Dump Truck" has almost been surpassed by your love of "The Little Red Caboose."
8. You can run.
9. Two naps today but sometimes only one. Often only one 45 minute nap per day. But by 6:30 or 7:00pm you are done, totally finished, fried, wiped out, a manic mess.
10. You hair is growing thicker and darker at the base of your neck. The fine blond hairs on the top of your head cover your forehead and almost touch your eyes. Their are wing-like tufts of hair over your ears.

A few nights ago, watching you climb the stairs, I got that clutch in my throat. It never happens when its supposed to--i.e. birthdays, holidays, and other theoretically moving moments. Nostalgia and ethical epiphanies are reserved for the mundane times when you're least prepared to care. ANYWAY--you were climbing the stairs and I was thinking about the you we knew a year ago. This blob, this beast, this darling fragile thing. I was thinking about how I couldn't then possibly imagine this creature that you are now, nor can I imagine the creature you will be a year (two, three, ten) from today. And it's supposed to be a normal thing. It's growing up. It's what happens to the living things you push out of your vagina. Duh.

But what if someone else I loved (your father--or my mother my father or Anjuli or Martha or John or Dorothy or Peter or Rach or, or, or), what if one of these people changed that dramatically over the course of a single year? Seriously. What if you father picked up French, reinterpreted his understanding of himself, reestablished how he would relate to each person in his life, taught himself to surf, and unearthed an entirely new philosophy on permanence and impermanence in the course of a single year??? Would I still love him? Yes, of course. Would I be exhausted by trying to keep up with each new development, by attempting to understand his new vision of himself, by coping with the frustrations and disappointments that so much new knowledge inevitably brings? Hell yes.

So yes, it's a big deal this whole growing up thing. Staying in tune with anyone going through this amount of change would be difficult--staying in tune with someone who can't talk is really fucking difficult.

Thanks goodness for humor and grace. Thank goodness that this week you decided to poop in the bathtub on Daddy's watch instead of mine. Thank goodness for grandparents who will pitch in so Daddy and Mommy can go away together for a night. Thank goodness that watching you take shape is also awe-inspiring and beautiful and nothing short of miraculous.

You are a map and here be dragons. Here and here and here. I am so glad. No one likes a map with all the countries drawn just right. Where is there to go?

Walking

The temperature is supposed to top out in the low-80's today. Our morning walk was beautiful. You babbled happily for almost 40 minutes. I love hearing your voice ebb and flow over my shoulder, cooing and whispering directly into my ear. I asked you to point at things occasionally and you did--tree, car, house, Luxy. You don't have much range of motion from the backpack, however, so you mostly look like you're doing a little "Heil Hilter" salute--or that's what it looks like from the corner of my eye.

We stopped to listen to the wind in the trees. Because it's autumn and the leaves are drier, the trees are suddenly louder and more brittle in their rustling. "Listen," I said, "it's the sound of the wind." But it's not, really. The wind doesn't have a sound of its own; on the other hand, the leaves don't make noise without the wind. So were we listening to the wind or the leaves? And seriously, could I be any more Zen right now?

Anyway, after the wind we checked out some milkweed pods. A group of elder bugs was clinging to a closed pod, all of their little insect arms working the crease, trying to get in. A few of the pods were open so I let you wiggle your fingers into the gossamer fluff.

A half mile behind us, a train was making its way through town so we stopped to listen to the whistle.

I let you pull a red leaf from an oak tree. You dropped it just as quickly.

Then we were home. I read nursery rhymes to you--one about having a sailor for a daddy and another about not beating your donkey but feeding him corn instead. You were still wearing your somewhat atrocious pajamas (lavender, Pooh, white fur collar) when I put you down for your nap.

Now it's an hour and twenty minutes later and I'm not sure what to do--you never sleep for this long. I suppose I will pour coffee from the cold silver percolator and warm it in the microwave. While it's warming I'll move the laundry to the drier and then I'll take my mug, add cream and sugar, settle into the couch, and I will proceed to read exactly two sentences before you--

--wait, I think I hear you now. Scratch the coffee.

Nevertheless: it's a beautiful day. I love you.

Chillaxing

It's been a lovely weekend, Thiz. The first that we've spent entirely in Northfield in what seems like a long, long time. Yesterday was Homecoming at St. Olaf. We went for a long family walk in the morning. Blue skies, crisp and sunny. All the grasses brown and dry, all the trees on fire. Wind making tiny tears at the corners of our eyes. Luxy panting. You riding on Daddy's back in the backpack, white knit cap and a too-large alpaca coat. The sleeves covered your hands so all your gestures looked large and prophetic.

When we got home I put a chicken carcass in a pot with onions and carrots and parsley and salt, covered it with water and set it to simmer. Your father peeled apples from Grandpa Judy's farm and made a crisp (Betty Crocker, the cookbook with the melted cover). You napped.

When you woke we put you back into your pack and hiked over to the football field. Silver bleachers filled and more students and alumni standing on the track around the field. Black and gold sweatshirts, the smell of popcorn and hot dogs. It was half time. Four people standing nervously and coldly in the middle of the green while a disembodied voice inducted them into the Olaf Athletic Hall of Fame. We talked to Sarah and Steve and Anna; we braved the bookstore and bought you a huge black knit hat with a gold lion emblazoned on the hem; we ate cookies and drank cider and walked back home.

Greg and Carsten came over for dinner: chicken soup and dark stout and canned pineapple. You couldn't focus on eating because you were so intent on Carsten. You followed his every move.

You went to sleep just fine but woke up twice because of teething pain (we think).

Today Daddy sang "Lord of All Hopefulness" in church. You wore a velvet lavender dress, tights, and (because we have no dress shoes for you) your brown sneakers. When I picked you up from the nursery I braced myself for the nursery workers' usual thinly-veiled critiques of your behavior. "She certainly has attitude!" or "Well, she's certainly something all right!" or "She was a little needy but played fairly well for some of the time." Today there were new nursery workers, clearly highly intelligent and far more emotionally sensitive than the previous nursery workers. "She was so terrific," they raved, "she just did so well!" and "We were just talking about how if we ever have kids we want to have daughters just like Thisbe" and "We don't know what you guys are doing, but it sure is working wonders, she's such a great kid." For a while I wondered if I was inserting my own script into their mouths or if perhaps Peder had paid them off. But they seemed sincere.

The afternoon was filled with more mundane things--you peeled off the skin of a yellow onion and then proudly threw a piece of dog poop at me in the park. Then I hid bites of pancake in your wooden mailbox and we looked at a very PC book about babies from around the world. Rwanda baby! Thailand baby! Bhutan baby!

Tonight we'll have frozen pizza. Mommy will go to a book group to discuss "Little Heathens," a book she has yet to read. Daddy will stay home and watch baseball or "Mad Men" or both.

It was nice to just be together as a family this weekend. Sometimes I'm so intent at protecting my "own" time that Daddy and I end up passing you back and forth. Oftentimes the time we all spend together is harried time, exhausted time. We forget to relax together, to putter around together, to read together, to stop worrying about the next thing and who will accomplish it. It was a blessing just to be. Amen.

Keeping Score

Lots of sunniness and brilliant blue sky action this week. The flood waters are abating. Runny noses are drying up. Homecoming is on the horizon.

I spent the first few days of the week just feeling incredibly blessed. You finally emerged from this cocoon of not-yourself-ness into this vivid, drooling, hugging butterfly. You were smiling like crazy and so BUSY. As you putter around the house you truly look like you have your own agenda in your head, something like:

"Open mailbox door. Put plastic peacock figurine inside. Close door. Turn around. Walk to books. Pick up book. Carry book to ottoman. Bang book on ottoman. Toss book aside. Pick up black measuring cup. Taste. Wave around. Bring measuring cup to mailbox. Open door. Close door. Open other door. Retrieve peacock. Drop measuring cup. Abandon both. Peruse cookbooks. Pull largest one from shelf. Consider recipes. Notice wicker basket. Explore contents of wicker basket. Discover plastic bag. Taste. Grind plastic bag between teeth. Hold plastic bag between teeth while noticing pile of folded laundry. Topple laundry. Choose lavender pants. Position lavender pants on head while still experiencing plastic bag between teeth. Notice water cup on table. Point to cup and whine at Mama. ETC, ETC, ETC"

Somewhere in the midst of all of this, you'll wander over to Daddy or I and hug whatever part of us is accessible. All while smiling or babbling. You say "ot" for "hot" and "ar" for "car." You still don't say "Mama" or "Dada." Mostly you rely on pointing or bringing to us an item that represents your next activity choice (i.e. your shoes if you want to go outside, a book if you want to read, Luxy's Chuck-It if you want to throw the ball with her). You stand by your chair if you're hungry. You point to the kitchen counter if you want a banana.

You eat like a horse. Noodles of any kind are still the running favorite. You have also developed a lovely new tendency which is to run your fingers through your hair repeatedly during mealtimes. The results, while amusing, require immediate attention (i.e. a thorough shampoo) so we have taken to making you wear a winter hat while you eat.

My thoughts are not in order this week. This post clearly lacks a theme or narrative thread. What I wanted to say, I guess, is just that while the week began blissfully, it has ended not so blissfully. Rejection slips in the mail, nap protests, early wake-ups, a childcare opportunity falling through, a messy house, and the never-endingness of it all seeming never-ending rather than simply like the rewards and trials of a life well lived.

You woke at 6am this morning. I nursed you and tried to put you back down. You were having none of it. I told your father to get up with you. He was having none of it. "That doesn't seem fair to me," he mumbled. And later: "why is it that you're always the one telling me what to do?" Finally he took you downstairs. But I couldn't sleep. I lay in the dark, adding up the number of hours that each of us spends with you every week. I turned on a light and scratched my calculations on the back of an envelope.

I know in a marriage you're not supposed to keep score. But sometimes I think the person who made up that rule was a man; he knew that if the scores ever did get added up it would be clear who was getting the short end of the stick.

I'm torn between knowing, deep in my heart, that things even out eventually, that my husband is doing his best, that this kind of intensity won't go on forever--and feeling like if I don't stand up for myself no one will, that it would be easy to get whittled down to nothing, and that the rejection slips will continue to pile up unless I fight, even with the person I love the most, for time with the blank page.