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.