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.