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.