Mama? Mama? MAMA!

Pouffy., originally uploaded by theredheadedlefty.

Dear Toddler Monster,

You're pretty much lucky. That's the thing. I like you a whole bunch. Tonight, when you jumped in all of those nasty puddles and I worried that microscopic worms were crawling through your socks and making dreaded contact with your baby feet? I let it go because you were having fun and I didn't want to interfere with that. You fell onto the grass and made an "Ugh, that's disgusting" face. You wouldn't touch the grass with your hands because it was wet. I watched you do the worm to get back on your feet. You knew I thought it was funny, so you did it again. And again.

You're a very happy baby, and that makes me happy, too. Other people say you are spunky, which warms my heart. I think what they mean is stubborn, because you definitely like to do things your way (I'm not projecting here, either). That comes as no surprise, considering your father is the same exact way. Good thing I am sugar and spice and everything nice and (generally) a real breeze to get along with. Anyway, I think it is an important trait to possess, because you won't get anywhere in this world if you're mousy.

You're talking now and, for the first time, saying things I am having trouble understanding. That kills me, because I know YOU know what you need. It makes you mad, mad, mad. You wanted more yogurt this morning when we were cuddling in the chair, so you pushed me and said, "Go!" I scoffed at you. We get along OK, though, and good times like tonight (when all three of us were singing "Choo choo train" on the way home from the grocery store) happen all of the time.

Sometimes I marvel at how well you've worked your way into our hearts and lives and hope, hope, hope you aren't all conflicted during your teenage years (like I was). That'll be a real doozy, but something, for sure, we can discuss over Ben & Jerry's' Phish Food, OK? I love to talk about details.

One more thing, and this is a big one. I used to be an individual, too, before you came along. I didn't have a baby and wasn't a mother. Imagine that! I liked Mother's Day cards and always called my mom and grandmother on Mother's Day---but I didn't get the real meaning until you came into this world. Mother's Day is a big day. You can't yet thank me for waking up 5 times a night for 13 months, so I'm writing about it here so that we can talk about it later (when you're conflicted, perhaps?). Ask your father or your fairy godmother how much I used to sleep and that'll give you an idea of my love for you. Which is immeasurable.

Happy Mother's Day to me.

I love you.

Who did this amazing portrait of a mouth?

My dentist is really happy, despite the overwhelming odds that he will hate his career and suffer debilitating depression. Totally oblivious! Love him. And something else, too, which occurred to me as I was awaiting the drill, is, Why has no one in the world ever discussed the fact that dentist's offices have gigantic framed (and signed) photographs of mouths hanging like art on their walls? The mouths are gorgeous (but totally American) and it got me thinking about what someone might say about my mouth if it was photographed at close range and framed. SMILE.

I had my cavity filled today and the drilling didn't so much bother me, but talking about it here does (Oh, hell, who am I trying to fool? If you know me, you know I'd fall asleep with a Snickers bar hanging out of my mouth if I wasn't kept awake by the guilt of what that would do to Wynn, growing up with a toofless parent and all who can't control their binge eating). There are more pictures in the room of a trip he took to Yellowstone back in 2001 and one of them is of a giant bear, climbing a hill.

Me: "Do you mind me asking how far away that bear is?"

Him: "Oh, not far at all. From about here to that wall (pointing to the wall that was almost touching at the bottom of my feet, at most 3 feet away)."

Me: "Wow. That's close! How'd you manage the shot?"

Him: "Well, that was back in the day when people used to feed the bears."

Me: "Yeah, how sad. And then they're all breaking into cabins and chasing people's two-toned Wagoneers (or was John Candy in The Great Outdoors?)."

Him: "And I was in a car. So…"

Me: Cutting him off, "Ahhhhh…wu gat crtlee moks uh dffrse (with water and a vacuum in my mouth)."

(That certainly makes a difference.)

Him: "Yeah. But I am not an outdoorsy type person. I figured everyone should probably see Yellowstone. So I went."

Me: …

(How sadder! And who says I'm not an outdoorsy type of person anymore? I must have looked tired and old. Because if this life thing is about only the strong survive, it's sort of weird that my male dentist is presenting himself as a couch potato, right?).

The whole appointment went really well, only I left without feeling in the left side of my mouth. It was pretty cool and very entertaining, but I was slightly stressed about biting a hole in my mouth---which would really make life hard, considering I already have a canker sore right now (which is nothing like the one I had last summer before Erin's wedding, when I poured half a bottle of Kanka in my mouth before each meal, just to eat, fergodsakes).

If you have a money tree...

Would you mind if I swung by after work (yours) and plucked a couple hundies from its harder-to-reach, otherwise underutilized, branches? Branches of your choice, of course.

I promise not to be too greedy, but I've been infected by the photo'slr'us virus and it's got me itchin' real bad. First, I got my camera. Then I got some accessories. Last night, I bought a tripod. But! Oh! My! Now I need a detachable flash, like this or this or this. And what about a longer lens, like this or this or this.

Our for-the-sake-of-my-hobbies money tree withered away, in rather unfortunate circumstances, shortly after the baby was born and we headed to Maine for the sake of staying alive. The crazy weeds took over so that when we returned, all that was left of our tree was a tiny gray heap of switches and ashes (which, incidentally, is what B got for Christmas this past year---see below for a glimpse into his excitement).



As you can see, I'm a lady in need.

I'll bring my own ladder---if I fall and break both my legs, I promise not to pick extra to cover my medical expenses. I'll check my bags with you at the garden gate. I swear, I'm totally low maintenance.

I want. I need. Gimme gimme. Miiiiiiiine. It has gotten so bad that I've even considered a gawdy-piece-of-jewelry-pawn-swap. For Photography equipment. GASP!

Just. So. Tired.

Mama's tired, okay? I haven't yet figured out how to juggle like a pro and am currently fantasizing about a 36-hour nap. Exhaustion has become sort of a baseline for me. Here's the thing: I used to be a BIG sleeper. If I got nine hours a night, I'd be up for a nap after work before I hit the gym. I didn't have trouble sleeping when I was pregnant, and no one told me how difficult the postpartum sleep deprivation would be on my psyche (and attitude, relationships, attention, mood, and appetite). Why wasn't this one of those things people talked about at the baby showers? I appreciate truth.

After baby, I developed a legitimate phobia of nighttime that lasted for about 6 months. When the sun went down, I started getting all weird-like (It's almost her bedtime. She's screaming. I'll give her a bath, which she loathes. Then I'll nurse her for an hour and put her down, but lightly, because if she awakens, she'll freak. And then it will be at least 30 more minutes. She'll sleep for two hours, and then she'll wake me up. I'll nurse on only one side and hope that she goes back down. Then I'll creep down the hall and down the stairs and sit in the kitchen---in the middle of the night, with a snack---and pump the other breast. So that B will have milk on the days he's home with her. Then I'll go back to bed. And she'll be up in two more hours. When she cries, I feel like my heart has been jolted with a shot of adrenaline---for the record, I'm certain it's biological. This happens over and over until the sun comes up, for which I am eternally grateful.) Because I was nursing, and because she wouldn't take a bottle, and because when B got up I couldn't sleep anyway, and because I am nuts, I kept up the frequent night feedings until she was 13 months.

Public Service Announcement: Graduate school (and/or any professional expectations) and parenting a newborn well do not mix.

I'm a person who likes more information. I have all of the books and I ask all of the questions. During her first year, a mosquito bite equaled a visit to the pediatrician's office. I admit, it was over the top. But when you're in it, you can't do anything about it. And worst of all, I was finishing up my master's degree in social work (and learning a lot about attachment, early childhood mental health, and family therapy) and participating in a psychotherapeutic training program at the psychoanalytic institute, where they support the notion that daycare is the equivalent of parental neglect. THAT was no small thing. I will probably never get over the fact that we have to put her in daycare. And I know it is good for social development and, quite frankly, important to have some limits and, and: she puts her toys away and learns things very early, so there. But I also worry about food, TV, reading books, exercise, sleep, boo boos, diaper rashes, non-irritating lotion, other caretakers, play, music, and so on. Everything. It has taken over. And that makes me tired.

I wouldn't describe myself as laidback anyway, at least about certain things. Other things are like nothing, but I won't go into them now. It's just that my hypervigilance has been kicked up beaucoup notches, and I feel like I live in an anxiety cloud. I focus on caring for the baby and everything else comes next. And sometimes time for next never comes. I can put it this way: I cannot, CANNOT, remember things, EVER. I will take a list to the grocery store and forget about it. I put peanut butter in the refrigerator and leave keys in the lock, outside the door. I tell people I'll call them back and I don't. I miss doctor appointments. And I can't do two things (or more) at once---especially if one of those things is having a conversation. Exhaustion. Does this happen to you?

Today I'm wondering if I have allergies (Seasonal? Never had them. Do they come later in life?) or if I am actually sick. Pretty sure my immune system is on the fritz. I know I need rest, some SLEEP or I'll die, so I'll be going to bed early this week, for sure. And I know that I won't be sick at all in Maine---because we have help and help is HUGE. Ever long for the time when people just lived around their people? B and I want our village. Where's our village?

Kentucky Derby Hat Party

Kentucky Derby Hat Party, originally uploaded by theredheadedlefty.

This is actually after I won (for the third year in a row). B won "Hat of the Year" at our local pub, which comes with a $25 gift certificate. Since we just GOT RID OF OUR CABLE, I suspect this will be just what he needs to get down there to catch up on his beloved sports. Unfortunately, the Derby ended tragically---the horse that Hillary Clinton supported, the only female, was euthanized immediately following the race. Very sad.

Happy Lindsay!

Lindsay Visit May 2008 092, originally uploaded by theredheadedlefty.

Visit's happening. I love this picture, although I've been told I need to "learn flash fill."

Schnoogies

Schnoogies, originally uploaded by theredheadedlefty.

Nick and Lindsay.
He's at a cage fight.
She's sitting by me, too drunk to write.
He's drinking, too.
But she's cleaning her nails with a toothpick.
She kissed the dog
but says this is what she needed after working/
reading the political blogs in Arizona all week.
Ommmmm,
She's wanting to talk about
things that cannot be discussed.
Grace and B are intellectualizing things.
Grace is for choice and freedom
but also for...
"I mean, I believe that if women have more opportunities...
I am not talking about this anymore if it is being written on
a blog," she said.

Goodnight.

Then and Now

Then, what I heard: We want a yard for our kids.

Then, what I thought: And you probably want a white picket fence and a Wal-mart down the street. And a robotic dog that doesn't shed.

Now, what I think: I want a yard for my kid.

Now, what others think: And you probably want a white picket fence and a Wal-mart down the street. And a robotic dog that doesn't shed.

What do I think about what I thought? Absolute ignorance. I am ashamed. Who wouldn't want to have a space for their child to be creative and explore?

Toast to Publishing!

Fisherpeople, originally uploaded by theredheadedlefty.

B received word that his paper has been accepted for publication.
Which is super for his tenure portfolio.
And is something he has been putting a lot of effort into.
A really big deal---
Because if you work in academia,
you know how difficult it is to write
some of these scholarly papers.
This would never be published, OK?
By a peer-reviewed journal, anyway.

It's a lot karma-ish,
his energies toward his research.
And teaching, too,
because he is still feeling the sparkle
of his (very prestigious) teaching excellence award.
It's all coming back.
It is.

So, happy publishing, hubs!
Way to go.
You deserve this
and we are very proud.

Cheers!

Toasting to a Visit...

Happy Wedding!, originally uploaded by theredheadedlefty.

from Lindsay! She'll be in town this weekend from Arizon, where she moved with her hubby, Nick, almost one year ago. We met in graduate school---actually, just before classes started. We worked as research assistants (i.e., gossip queens) for one of our University's mental health research centers. I thought she was too "put together" for us to be friends at first (i.e., I felt pregnantly scrappy and she was tall and looked cute in all of her jeans). Turns out we love, love, LOVE each other and she and Auntie Grace are my two surviving pre-baby St. Louis friends (and their two is like other people's ten).

She's way ahead of me---Have I mentioned she proposed to her spouse? And that they are headed to Germany to live? And that she stuck with me through the first year of Wynn's life (when there is no doubt in anyone's mind that I went cuckoo)? And that she used to live in a tiny apartment where, when you visited, you had to bring your own chair? Love that.

Going to be good times. Renee, her mama, is one of my most regular readers here. Renee, count on the pictures, sister.

Say Wha...?

Say Wha...?, originally uploaded by theredheadedlefty.

At the Children's Museum, I had this conversation:

Me: How old is your daughter?
(My attempt at making polite conversation)

Mom2: 12 months, last week. How old is yours?
(Because you always return the favor)

Me: 21 months, yesterday.

Mom2: Wow! She's so tall!

(Me thinking, "So you're one of THOSE kinds of moms.)

Me: Yeah, she is tall, I guess! It's interesting, because both my husband and I are of average height.

Mom2: Well, don't worry. She'll slow down.

Me: I wasn't worried, actually.
(MAKING THE FACE, thinking her next step was, "So much for her having dainty feet.")

Mom2: ...

Me: Well, goodbye then.

Mom2: Oh, bye bye!

This guy had a nugget of glassy-ness in his paw.

This guy had a nugget of glass in his paw., originally uploaded by theredheadedlefty.

I had to put a sock on it. I performed minor surgery this morning. It required B hold him on the ground (while he grimaced and cried) so that I could squeeze out the pieces of sharp tiny stuff that had wedged their way into his foot. I tweezed them---there were three. I hope there aren't more. If it doesn't go away (or the swelling doesn't subside), he's going to the doctor.

That rascal! We made a special trip over to the Dr. today JUST to have him weighed. He hasn't lost a pound. He and Toddler Monster are, for sure, in cahoots.

Crested Butte Hills or Project #11?

What's up with subdivision names? In the suburbs? B and I went way out yesterday for a hike (in a park, on a river) here in MO and chuckled once or twice about them. The grandiosity! We passed one called New England Village. And you know there isn't a similarly constructed New England subdivision named Heartland(e) Estates or Midwest Columns. It makes me want to crawl under a pillow and hide. I grew up in a suburb, so I get it. And suburban Atlanta may be the worst of all. Probably is. Some of the names of subdivisions that were in my adolescent community are (Claire, please feel free to speak up here): Chestnut Ridge, Rolling Acres, Post Oak Square, East Spring Lake, Dorset, Mountain Creek, Arthur's Vineyard, Easthampton, Indian Hills, Waterford Green, etc. The list goes on. And on.

They're all about wanting to be something they are definitely not. You don't get the feel of the crisp air of a Rocky Mountain spring when you're driving down a street of mindboggling brickitude. And sameness. And none of it would actually be where it says it is. Or if it is, because many of these people have second homes, it's certainly not the Telluride you're dreaming about.

The subdivisions, or developers of, are increasingly competitive---in the 80s, my family moved into Chestnut Ridge (and I don't really know what a chestnut ridge looks like, but I don't think we had one of those in our subdivision---nevertheless, it was still a place that allowed for some great memory-making---and my parents really reinforced, "This isn't us, OK?" So I felt superior). But now, NOW, it's like an explosion of BETTER. For the sake of emphasis here, let's assume there is (for sure) a new subdivision (with homes all pooped out of the same construction model monster) called Versailles, where there are miniature elements of the original in the n'hood pool (Those minis? The developer found 'em when he image-googled "Versailles"). Oh, and suburban Versailles's teenagers climb up on the pool's mini models on summer nights to get high. Just saying.

Here's my niche: Don't take it, OK? I'll know you've taken it. I'm certain that it hasn't been done because I haven't seen it in Dwell. Go the other way, making a community of eco-friendly dwellings for families (and others for singles, perhaps) with ridiculously self-effacing names, much like the secondary schools in NYC (P.S. #3): Project #323 and, perhaps, the more affordable Project # 99---because you're in "The Projects" and there are a lot of people who've "traveled" out there (with post-collegiate education, plastic-framed glasses, skinny jeans, and a penchant for good scotch) who will find humor in it. And would never (otherwise) live in a suburban subdivision. And lately, those people have more and more money. So why not include them in the trend?

Latest in Language, 21 months edition.

Poop poop, please. Mowa yogi, please. Hug. Up and down. Doggie park. Doggie walk. Pink. Bus! Flowers. Toothpaste. Car. Truck. Choo choo ride. Monkeys. Birdies. Meow. Bunnies. Manny. Bar Harbor. Backpack. Round and round. Baa baa. And singing Baa Baa, Black Sheep. Wool. Full. Dame. Lane. Rocks. Throw away. Sit! Get down. Push. Mine. Knees. Eyes. Ears. Head. Neck. Hair. Bottom. Legs. Armpits. Elbows. Mouth. Nose. Pee pee. Buddies. Playground. Swing. Tea. Toys. Seat. Shoes. Socks. Hands. Toes. Shampoo. Elmo, Ernie, Bert, Big Bird, Grover, Cookie. Cook Cook. Cocka doodle doo. Moo. Woof woof. Frog. Yellow. I love you. Move on back. Help. Top. Milk. Cheese. Chicken. Banana. Teeth. Grapes. Blueberries. Horse. Baby. Park. Apple. Stroller. Zoo. Swim. Ball. Umbrella. Rain. Watch. Cup. Hot. Peanut butter. Fork. Spoon. No. Necklace. Bed. Book. Bear. Hot dog. Tickle me. Button. Ouch. Bump bump. Keys. Go! Airplane. Naked. Alligator. Higher, higher. One, two, three. Mouth. Cold. Yucky. Cup. Hat. Blue. Sweep. Boo boo. Phone. Teacher. Bubbles. Water. Orange. NUT! Cereal. Go-Cart. Penguin. Ducks. Quack, quack. Mimi. Ellis. Oh, Don. Belt. Balloon. Thank you. Run! Chip. Bike.

City crime down, except for (oh yeah, those!) the killings.

Which are up. But what kind of headline is that? And I swear they changed it, because B and I were so moved by the poetic flow of the original headline, crime down, killings up, or sumpin' like it, that we cut it out and taped it to our fridge (where all stupid things live temporarily). I can't possibly go ALL THE WAY BACK DOWNSTAIRS to make sure I'm correct, so you'll just have to believe me.

And if you don't live in St. Louis, you aren't even reading this, right?