Postscript

Then tonight you took three steps.

The rain and clouds were leaving and cool air was blowing in through the windows and the front screen door. Sun was stretching down the hallway and you had your right hand on the wicker box in which we keep your Bjorn and your Ergo and your sweaters. I was just a foot away from you, holding out my arms.

And something in you decided to let go.

Three tiny, stuttering steps and then you collapsed in my arms. Daddy got a little teary though maybe he'll deny it. We love you so.

Farm

Dear Darling Thiz,

We are in the midst of a crazy time. Last week was spent at the Farm with Great Grandma Judy, Grandma Gail, and Grandpa Michael. You were busy: picking strawberries, eating grass, shaking your arms in frenzied excitement at the barn cats, reorganizing Grandma Judy's lower shelves, eating copious amounts of oatmeal, dragging Great Aunt Lisa's beaded purse around the living room, standing unsupported for brief periods (while Mommy and Daddy anxiously held our breath), giggling with Gail and Michael, riding in Michael's old stroller around Norskadalen, and napping for shorter and shorter periods of time (sigh).

You and I left the Farm on Sunday so we could come to Minneapolis and see Auntie Martha and meet her wonderful new beau, Sam. By the time we got home yesterday, you were fried. You were a delightful baby all week: full of smiles and giggles, joyously plucking dead bugs from windowsills and lint from heating vents, pulling yourself up to standing against my body, your small hands using my thighs, my breasts, my shoulders, my chin for balance. But last night you hit the wall. You didn't want to eat, you didn't want to be held, you didn't want to crawl or play. I put you to bed at 6pm and you woke today--happy, smiling, well rested.

Today is humid. Storms are threatening the horizon and my head is filled with everything I have to do before we leave for Holden. I am trying to think of everything you might need--distractions on the plane, clothing for cold and heat, Benadryl, finger nail clippers, bulb syringe, sunscreen, bug repellent, sun hat, bathing suit, baby monitor, baby soap, Tylenol, Ergo carrier...blah, blah, blah. So my mind is in a whirring pragmatic, instead of reflective, mode. I promise better posts when we return.

Canine Companionship

It seems impossible that I have not yet dedicated an entire post to your relationship with Luxy. Impossible because Luxy is essentially your favorite being on earth. If Luxy could produce milk, I am convinced you would ignore me altogether.

What has prompted me to write about Luxy today? Well, you have moved vocally toward a new syllable, one that sounds an awful lot like dog. Well, actually it sounds like "deg" or "dek" and kind of like "dick" but we're going to encourage "dog." Though secretly I hope that "dog" isn't your first word because "doggie" was your dear friend Eleanor's first word and it would be kind of sad for you to toally rip her off like that. I mean, I can understand wanting to be like Eleanor, she is cool: she pushes a lawnmower, eats chocolate cake, and walks. Who wouldn't want to be like Eleanor? Still, no one likes a copycat (copydog?). But then again, I guess I'd rather have your first word be "dog" than "dick" so maybe I should count my blessings.

And maybe I should just start a whole separate blog called "Your First Word" since every other day Daddy and I spaz out about it being something different.

But back to Luxy. When you first started to crawl, Luxy was wary and even a little nippy (well, she threatened nippiness). But she's adjusted now and has become the Dog of Tolerance. Some of your favorite pastimes involving the Dog of Tolerance include: batting at her collar, pulling fistfuls of hair from her haunches, and crawling though her legs. Dog of Tolerance's favorite pastimes involving Thisbe include: curling up at Kaethe's feet whenever Thisbe is nursing, shaking collar loudly outside Thisbe's room at 6am, and licking Thisbe excessively if she starts to get a wee bit too enthusiastic. I pray that your future friends will be equally accommodating to your intense, impatient, and passionate spirit, Thisbe.

At church, Pastor Tim ends every sermon by saying "God loves you, and so do I." Let me end this post by saying: "Luxy loves you, and so do we."

My Office Became Your Nursery

I am sitting upstairs at my desk for the first time in a long time, humid gray air leaking in through the windows and the sound of you bouncing in the exersaucer leaking up from downstairs. Daddy is talking in a quick and lilting tone and you are responding with fussy bursts.

Anjali left this morning after a piece of toast and mango tea. It was hard for Mommy to see her go. While she was here I felt on the cusp of being a writer again. We exchanged stories and offered criticisms, we drank beer and brainstormed inappropriate titles for bestselling books, we walked around the lake and talked about dialogue assignments and short stories that deal with violence. She was kind and loving to you, but most of all, took you in stride, like it was perfectly normal for you to exist at the periphery of all our discussions.

Downstairs, you just fell and bumped your head. So I left this writing and took you in my arms and brought you upstairs (singing the Nap Time for Thisbe song) and set you down gently in your crib and administered kisses via Mr. Meow. Now I am back at the desk and you are shrieking and I can barely concentrate on writing these words and I am feeling huge levels of impatience grow within me, fill me up, not just impatience but real rage that you won't stop so that I can focus--and now, now that you have quieted a little--a real sense of sadness that for me, the real work of writing--the creating and revising--can never be done, really done, in your presence. Maybe some parent-artists can successfully manage this, but I can't, and it makes me feel a little desperate that these two passions, these two small planets of work, have to exist in separate orbits. Of course, when I am with you I am gathering material for writing, I am honing my observation skills, I am paying attention to the way that language develops, etc. But I cannot write, really write, with you near me.

Last night, re-reading Woolf's "To The Lighthouse," I marveled at the length of her sentences. I am thankful for the permission she granted women to find a space of our own, room enough to let images proceed until their own ending, not the ending created for us by a cluttered house, a ringing phone, a wailing baby.

Safety First

Mommy is very careful about buckling you into your car seat (except for that one time back in December or January when I forgot). I am also very good at reminding Daddy to do it correctly. I say things like: "Are you really sure you buckled the base in tightly?" and "Did the seat click into the base? Did you hear two clicks, the front click and the back click?" and "Did you pull the strap tightly? It might need to be a little tighter than you'd think."

A week ago I was asking Daddy some of these questions (or maybe all of these questions, repeatedly) as I got into my car and he put you into his car. Finally, he gave up and put you where he thought you'd ride best (see photo above).

You'll be pleased to know that after shrieking and covering my face with my hands, I was actually able to laugh a little and whip out the camera to take the picture. That's right, Thisbe, I pushed down my desire to whisk you to safety so that the moment could be captured on film forever. Personal growth and good parenting do not always go hand in hand.

Stairway to Heaven

Yesterday you climbed all the way up the stairs. Twice.

You stood alone for 8 seconds. 8 seconds is a long time.

Today you contemplated taking a step. I could actually see this in your eyes. You considered. And then you plopped down onto your butt and crawled wherever it was you were wanting to go.

I will post pictures soon. Of the stair climb. It is hard to capture contemplation in a photo.

Raspberry Beret

She wore a raspberry beret / the kind you find in a second hand store / raspberry beret / and if it was warm she wouldn't wear much more / raspberry beret / I think I love her

Well, Prince said it first, but I think you exemplified the idea best.

She wore a raspberry beret / the kind Mama got at a spring garage sale / raspberry beret / it was warm and she smeared them all over herself /raspberry beret / I think I love her more than myself