Playing Cariboo, the Cranium preschool game, with Annabel is quite a lesson in patience. Especially for Jed, who is intent on playing by the rules, which stipulate one must FIRST select a card and THEN select a corresponding door to unlock in the quest for burried treasure. It doesn't help that Annabel always wants to pull a green card and doesn't much care if the cards match the doors she's planning on opening. When luck has her finding Cariboo treasure (colorful rubber balls) that must then be placed into into their designated area for a spectacular game finale, she runs and hides in a cunning display of spherical hording.
"No, dis my special. Dis MY special!"
A war of wills has errupted. It does no good when they move on to the next activity - letter puzzles. Suffice it to say, she knows where all the characters go, but she's NOT going to say their names aloud --
"I not know, I not know."
-- no matter how nicely he asks.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
THE YAYA REPORT:
What's happening at the other mom's house ...
It's a Barney day at YAYA's. YES!!!! There's FINALLY a chink in the armor, dear readers. Yaya felt a little feverish last night so today she's taking it easy, kicking her feet up with Annabel, watching some movies and eating bon-bons*. Annabel probably thinks the end of the world is upon us. Afterall, this kind of thing ONLY happens at HOME. *(I made the bon-bon thing up).
It's a Barney day at YAYA's. YES!!!! There's FINALLY a chink in the armor, dear readers. Yaya felt a little feverish last night so today she's taking it easy, kicking her feet up with Annabel, watching some movies and eating bon-bons*. Annabel probably thinks the end of the world is upon us. Afterall, this kind of thing ONLY happens at HOME. *(I made the bon-bon thing up).
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
So many books, so little time
Just a few days ago we received a package from Great Aunt Maureen containing a treasure trove of books from Politics and Prose and a very cool pint-sized bag to lug the veritable library back and forth from ama and papa's house to Lori's and back home again. She will NOT be parted from them.
So if you are looking for some interesting reads check out the following titles:
"What Would You Rather Be?" by William Steig, illustrated by Harry Bliss. This is a sweetly drawn little book that Annabel loves because she gets to CHOOSE as we go along. For the record, Annabel would like to be the stone, the man (not the knee or elbow), the dog, the snake, the elephant and the BOY hockey player (not the girl hockey player).
"Widget" by Lyn Rossiter McFarland, illustrated by Jim McFarland. There are absolutely NO questions (or fidgeting) when we're reading this one about a homeless dog that takes up residence with a house full of cats. Always a good sign when they can't take their eyes off the page.
"Shoes" by Elizabeth Winthrop, illustrated by William Joyce. Annabel is as interested in footwear as the next toddler, and this vintage-esqe (c. 1986) volume is charming. It's cleverly rhymed and beautifully illustrated. The topper is it's making Annabel think about trying on something other than her well-loved "purple murples."
"Jennie's Hat" by Ezra Jack Keats. If you've got any residual fear of avian life as a result of Hitchcock's "The Birds," you may want to steer clear of this book. For the rest of us, however, it's a delightful little tale of a not-so-gracious girl who is helped realize a dream by some of the feathered friends she feeds at the park. And the pictures are more ART than illustration.
So if you are looking for some interesting reads check out the following titles:
"What Would You Rather Be?" by William Steig, illustrated by Harry Bliss. This is a sweetly drawn little book that Annabel loves because she gets to CHOOSE as we go along. For the record, Annabel would like to be the stone, the man (not the knee or elbow), the dog, the snake, the elephant and the BOY hockey player (not the girl hockey player).
"Widget" by Lyn Rossiter McFarland, illustrated by Jim McFarland. There are absolutely NO questions (or fidgeting) when we're reading this one about a homeless dog that takes up residence with a house full of cats. Always a good sign when they can't take their eyes off the page.
"Shoes" by Elizabeth Winthrop, illustrated by William Joyce. Annabel is as interested in footwear as the next toddler, and this vintage-esqe (c. 1986) volume is charming. It's cleverly rhymed and beautifully illustrated. The topper is it's making Annabel think about trying on something other than her well-loved "purple murples."
"Jennie's Hat" by Ezra Jack Keats. If you've got any residual fear of avian life as a result of Hitchcock's "The Birds," you may want to steer clear of this book. For the rest of us, however, it's a delightful little tale of a not-so-gracious girl who is helped realize a dream by some of the feathered friends she feeds at the park. And the pictures are more ART than illustration.
THE YAYA REPORT:
What's happening at the other mom's house ...
"Jacques" and "Just Gus" (yes, you win Mom) are having tea at the green table.
- Lori
*Nah-na-na-na BOO BOO.
*(That's me gloating).
"Jacques" and "Just Gus" (yes, you win Mom) are having tea at the green table.
- Lori
*Nah-na-na-na BOO BOO.
*(That's me gloating).
Monday, May 08, 2006
Scream like you mean it
On my father's birthday I gave him this photograph of Annabel, which was taken on the occasion of the first time she ever played dress-up.
The next day he praised the quality of the photograph, but wondered if she had been unhappy when I released the shutter. He thought she might not have been having fun.
As I pondered his question, I wondered if my father was starting to join my mother in her quest to have just one "SNAPSHOT" of her granddaughter. Something unpretentious and off the cuff. Something to prove the child is, in fact, more happy than sad or serious. Translation: A photograph that showed her as a child and not an object.
Long before I had been dubbed "mamarazzi" by my partner in crime, I had taken great pride in the fact that I was an observer first and a photographer second.
I click back through my favorite photographs of our Ittybit, and try to see what I've captured from their points of view. What is real? What is exaggerated? What is contrived?
I have wrestled with this dilemma before; wondering what effects all the marveling at my daughter through the lens of a camera (not to mention editorializing on every move she makes) will have on our relationship later on. I have, on occasion, purposely left the camera at home so that I am forced to be in the actual moment instead of the Kodak one.
As I assure my father that she was indeed having fun under the big floppy hat and feather boa, I am reassuring myself. I know even the smallest of momentary traumas are exaggerated when they are stopped for all time.
THE YAYA REPORT
What's happening at the other mom's house ...
She's crafty. After plucking 48 dandylions from Lori's yard, swinging in the swing, pretending to fish (catching mostly sharks, which required her to cut her line) and reading stories to Brianna, who was home sick today, Annabel made little girl and boy mice. No word as to names, although I tried calling them Gus and Jacques. ... Lori explained to me the error of my ways: "Usually, Siobhan, we let the kids name the mice."
The next day he praised the quality of the photograph, but wondered if she had been unhappy when I released the shutter. He thought she might not have been having fun.
As I pondered his question, I wondered if my father was starting to join my mother in her quest to have just one "SNAPSHOT" of her granddaughter. Something unpretentious and off the cuff. Something to prove the child is, in fact, more happy than sad or serious. Translation: A photograph that showed her as a child and not an object.
Long before I had been dubbed "mamarazzi" by my partner in crime, I had taken great pride in the fact that I was an observer first and a photographer second.
I click back through my favorite photographs of our Ittybit, and try to see what I've captured from their points of view. What is real? What is exaggerated? What is contrived?
I have wrestled with this dilemma before; wondering what effects all the marveling at my daughter through the lens of a camera (not to mention editorializing on every move she makes) will have on our relationship later on. I have, on occasion, purposely left the camera at home so that I am forced to be in the actual moment instead of the Kodak one.
As I assure my father that she was indeed having fun under the big floppy hat and feather boa, I am reassuring myself. I know even the smallest of momentary traumas are exaggerated when they are stopped for all time.
THE YAYA REPORT
What's happening at the other mom's house ...
She's crafty. After plucking 48 dandylions from Lori's yard, swinging in the swing, pretending to fish (catching mostly sharks, which required her to cut her line) and reading stories to Brianna, who was home sick today, Annabel made little girl and boy mice. No word as to names, although I tried calling them Gus and Jacques. ... Lori explained to me the error of my ways: "Usually, Siobhan, we let the kids name the mice."
Sunday, May 07, 2006
A rose by any other name
We spent a good portion of the day today searching for puffs, the cotton-headed dandylions that disperse hang-gliding seeds with the gentlest breeze. It's been so long since I've picked one of these nasty little weeds with something else in mind than depositing it on the compost heap that I'd almost forgotten how delicate and ethereal they can be.
One after another, we picked as many as we could find. I chose the ones with full globes. She didn't care if they only had a few seeds clinging to an empty stem. Just the idea of it made her happy. Who knew such joy could be contageous?
Other things I learned today:
* Annabel knows ama Linda lives in Minnesota but doesn't know we live in New York
* She will sing Happy Birthday! over and over again at dinner unless it is ACTUALLY someone's birthday. (Happy Birthday, papa).
* Toast should NEVER, under any circumstances, touch (or even be on the same plate as) scrambled eggs.
* Jed and Annabel can fit in the tool box on his new crane truck.
* Tire swings are completely underrated for playground pleasure. New rating: 9.0.
UPDATE
A couple of days ago I told the internets our CO detector was waking us up at night. And while we did open up all the windows and go right back to sleep, we also called in the fire department the following day to sweep the place and find the cause. Turns out the problem is Jed's forklift. When its battery is charging it emits some kind of hydrogen gas. The KFD claims the fumes are not carbon monoxide but will set off the detectors anyway.
I'm fairly certain this kind of thing doesn't happen to too many folks. It's just what you end up having to deal with when you are part of a circus (or you live in a barn).
One after another, we picked as many as we could find. I chose the ones with full globes. She didn't care if they only had a few seeds clinging to an empty stem. Just the idea of it made her happy. Who knew such joy could be contageous?
Other things I learned today:
* Annabel knows ama Linda lives in Minnesota but doesn't know we live in New York
* She will sing Happy Birthday! over and over again at dinner unless it is ACTUALLY someone's birthday. (Happy Birthday, papa).
* Toast should NEVER, under any circumstances, touch (or even be on the same plate as) scrambled eggs.
* Jed and Annabel can fit in the tool box on his new crane truck.
* Tire swings are completely underrated for playground pleasure. New rating: 9.0.
UPDATE
A couple of days ago I told the internets our CO detector was waking us up at night. And while we did open up all the windows and go right back to sleep, we also called in the fire department the following day to sweep the place and find the cause. Turns out the problem is Jed's forklift. When its battery is charging it emits some kind of hydrogen gas. The KFD claims the fumes are not carbon monoxide but will set off the detectors anyway.
I'm fairly certain this kind of thing doesn't happen to too many folks. It's just what you end up having to deal with when you are part of a circus (or you live in a barn).
mobil home - traveling circus
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
She IS my daughter
HIM: Annabel, come help me make dinner.
HER: No Daddy. Nooooo!
HIM: Why not?
HER: Cause I'm a BID girl NOW!
ME: *giggling ... You GO girrrrl!
HER: No Daddy. Nooooo!
HIM: Why not?
HER: Cause I'm a BID girl NOW!
ME: *giggling ... You GO girrrrl!
Friday, May 05, 2006
Just another manic midnight
This time it wasn't the wakeful, woeful cries of ittybit that roused us from a sound sleep. I wish. Instead it was the insistent buzz of a smoke detector, or so we thought when Jed tumbled out of bed and sleepily looked for cause of alarm.
I, of course, trained to ignore errant office fire alarms unless I see, smell or sense smoke, stayed put. After several minutes and the dissassembly of every smoke detector in the house, Jed ascertained that the mechanical mayhem was being caused by the digital carbon monoxide detector we bought this winter. Now I was FULLY awake. The readout showed 30 parts per million and growing. By the time I found out what the PPM reading meant it was headed for 60.
Oh the silent, scentless killer - CO.
I saw the worry in Jed's face, and the desire that this turn out to be a faulty alarm. I am ready to wake up Annabel and run from the house as he is investigating the potential causes for the build-up.
I begin ticking off the list:
*The furnace is off, but it is used to heat water. ... could that be it?
*It's not the wood stove, we haven't used it in weeks.
*The dryer is electric, as are the range and other household appliances.
The only other thing I can think is one of Jed's big trucks was left idling in front of the house and the fumes drafted inside ... collecting enough of the killer vapor to finally -- after single alarm chirps each night for weeks -- set the REAL alarm loose.
"Oh ... maybe that's it," he says, opening the windows and turning on fans.
After a few minutes of outdoor airflow the numbers start to subside. He decides to go back to sleep.
However, I can't let go of an image in the movie "GARDEN STATE," specifically the scene where Jean Smart tells Peter Sarsgaard and Zach Braff "Oh... guys? Don't stay in here all day. I had to take the batteries out of the carbon monoxide detector; it was beeping all night."
So, even though the monitor registers "0" again, I am still WIDE AWAKE and I'm pretty sure I might never sleep again.
I, of course, trained to ignore errant office fire alarms unless I see, smell or sense smoke, stayed put. After several minutes and the dissassembly of every smoke detector in the house, Jed ascertained that the mechanical mayhem was being caused by the digital carbon monoxide detector we bought this winter. Now I was FULLY awake. The readout showed 30 parts per million and growing. By the time I found out what the PPM reading meant it was headed for 60.
Oh the silent, scentless killer - CO.
I saw the worry in Jed's face, and the desire that this turn out to be a faulty alarm. I am ready to wake up Annabel and run from the house as he is investigating the potential causes for the build-up.
I begin ticking off the list:
*The furnace is off, but it is used to heat water. ... could that be it?
*It's not the wood stove, we haven't used it in weeks.
*The dryer is electric, as are the range and other household appliances.
The only other thing I can think is one of Jed's big trucks was left idling in front of the house and the fumes drafted inside ... collecting enough of the killer vapor to finally -- after single alarm chirps each night for weeks -- set the REAL alarm loose.
"Oh ... maybe that's it," he says, opening the windows and turning on fans.
After a few minutes of outdoor airflow the numbers start to subside. He decides to go back to sleep.
However, I can't let go of an image in the movie "GARDEN STATE," specifically the scene where Jean Smart tells Peter Sarsgaard and Zach Braff "Oh... guys? Don't stay in here all day. I had to take the batteries out of the carbon monoxide detector; it was beeping all night."
So, even though the monitor registers "0" again, I am still WIDE AWAKE and I'm pretty sure I might never sleep again.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Oil and water
Okay. Okay. Okay. I know you must be sick of all the portraits in bathing lately, but I just can't wrap my little mind around anything else. Well I can, but I've decided that those among you who are familiar with my penchant for catastrophizing should be spared the full disclosure of my latest fear gone fatal: the annual visit to the opthamologist (yesterday), who checks to make sure the nevis on the inside of my eyeball is staying put and that the family history of glaucoma hasn't caught up with me yet.
It will suffice to say: I am fine.
Instead of returning to work with pupils the size of saucers, I went with Jed to pick up miss not-sleeping-anymore from Yaya's house.
It is always something special when our routines get a little mixed up. Take for instance an impromptu bath before bedtime. Since we also messed up our routine by going to the pub (to celebrate 12 months of eye health with greasy food) I thought we might as well cancel bathtime, too. I mean, really, she's gone WEEKS without proper baths before, what's one more day?
As any good reverse pyschologists would expect, a mere 10 minutes before bedtime she was begging for a bath. She is, afterall, fully embracing her terrible twos.
"Wanna baf, peas."
How could I resist?
Even her protruding lower lip (which made its appearance after I told her hair washing was part of the deal to delay bedtime) seemed just one more thing to love about my little late-night bathing beauty.
THE YAYA REPORT
What's happening at the other mommy's house ...
All work and no play is right up her alley.
Yaya, visiting her father yesterday, brought home some toys from her own children's past, and Annabel couldn't have been more excited if I'd left her alone in the big girl section of our local toy store. Among the items Lori snared from her father's house was a Fisher Price vacuum cleaner, which Annabel immediately decided had the magical ability to transform her into "Cinderedda." To illustrate, Lori holds the phone out toward Annabel as she pushes the cleaner across the floor. I can clearly hear her singing "Someday my prints will tum."
"Here you are slaving away and hoping someday some man will come and rescue you from your drudgery," Lori laughs sardonically. "I can tell your mom is so proud right now."
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Mother, may I?
I think my attitude about motherhood (or lack thereof) spared me from constant and bitter disappointment. I had no idea what I was doing, and I didn't pretend otherwise.
You see, I didn't EVER want to be a mom. I didn't ever want to be pregnant. I didn't ever want to be married. I've now done all three, yet all along the way I thought the worst: I was going to lose my identity, I was going to hate being pregnant, I was going to be a terrible mom. None of that has come to pass (with the exception of the last one, which remains to be seen for the next 20 or 30 years).
I have listened to a LOT of women drone on about how they would NEVER give their kids pacifiers; they'd never let them eat junk food or watch television; they'd never let the children cry themselves to sleep or have a moment of discomfort if it could be avoided. They were going to raise gifted children who were self-aware and self-actualized. In short, they were going to be supermoms. They had it all mapped out. They KNEW the right way and that's all there was to it.
I just sat quietly and listened.
If there's one thing I knew, it was not to count on anything I "KNOW."
My mom got very sick when I was about 27, nearly a decade before my own daughter was born. I learned I was not the person I thought I was the moment she told me the news. While I could do physical things for her (shave her head after chemo started making it fall out in clumps) I could not TALK to her. I couldn't be in the same room with her if she cried or got angry or even mentioned the words "cancer" or "death." My reaction stunned us both. To this day (and she is still with us, though not in the health she would have liked) she will not tell me anything BAD unless it can't be avoided.
I bring this up because I don't think any of us know how we are going to be under stress -- ever. Although I never thought this parenthood path would be mine, I've come to ADORE the life I have now. This love, however, has not made it any easier. Nothing is a gift. All progress seems hard fought and over thought. Worry and mom, I've learned, are identical except for their parts of speech. And yet, despite all of the gray hair growing from my scalp like weeds, I am strangely able to let things go. I am able to know, in my heart, that I am doing the best I can, and while I am always striving to do better I will not berate myself (or others) for the mistakes we are all destined to make. We are, after all is said and done, human.
"Forgive" is my new mantra. I now firmly believe having doubts is a good thing. I think when you have doubts about yourself or you think you will screw everything up you have no place to go but up.
You see, I didn't EVER want to be a mom. I didn't ever want to be pregnant. I didn't ever want to be married. I've now done all three, yet all along the way I thought the worst: I was going to lose my identity, I was going to hate being pregnant, I was going to be a terrible mom. None of that has come to pass (with the exception of the last one, which remains to be seen for the next 20 or 30 years).
I have listened to a LOT of women drone on about how they would NEVER give their kids pacifiers; they'd never let them eat junk food or watch television; they'd never let the children cry themselves to sleep or have a moment of discomfort if it could be avoided. They were going to raise gifted children who were self-aware and self-actualized. In short, they were going to be supermoms. They had it all mapped out. They KNEW the right way and that's all there was to it.
I just sat quietly and listened.
If there's one thing I knew, it was not to count on anything I "KNOW."
My mom got very sick when I was about 27, nearly a decade before my own daughter was born. I learned I was not the person I thought I was the moment she told me the news. While I could do physical things for her (shave her head after chemo started making it fall out in clumps) I could not TALK to her. I couldn't be in the same room with her if she cried or got angry or even mentioned the words "cancer" or "death." My reaction stunned us both. To this day (and she is still with us, though not in the health she would have liked) she will not tell me anything BAD unless it can't be avoided.
I bring this up because I don't think any of us know how we are going to be under stress -- ever. Although I never thought this parenthood path would be mine, I've come to ADORE the life I have now. This love, however, has not made it any easier. Nothing is a gift. All progress seems hard fought and over thought. Worry and mom, I've learned, are identical except for their parts of speech. And yet, despite all of the gray hair growing from my scalp like weeds, I am strangely able to let things go. I am able to know, in my heart, that I am doing the best I can, and while I am always striving to do better I will not berate myself (or others) for the mistakes we are all destined to make. We are, after all is said and done, human.
"Forgive" is my new mantra. I now firmly believe having doubts is a good thing. I think when you have doubts about yourself or you think you will screw everything up you have no place to go but up.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Things are looking up
I think this might just be the week I shouldn't have gotten out of bed. It's just shaping up that way and it's only Tuesday. The way it's going, tomorrow looks to be just a whole-nother set of neuroses waiting in the bushes to ambush me.
Let's just skip to the good part, shall we? The highlight of my day yesterday was bathtime. Annabel got into the too-small baby tub without much fuss, especially since the "You not wash my hair?" thing has been really working to her advantage. However, unbeknownst to her, I was crossing my fingers behind my back when I nodded in affirmation this time.
Exactly five minutes into the soapy fun, at a time when she was sufficiently clean and letting down her guard on my continued hovering, I dropped the no-tears shampoo bomb. I got her hair wet, sudsed her up, and rinsed it clear before she had the chance to get up and slop soapy trails through the house.
Don't let the look fool you, though, she continued to splash and have fun until she got even more pruny.
THE YAYA REPORT
What's happening at the other mom's house ...
I'll tell you what's NOT happening. A Nap. The midday siesta is NOT happening at Yaya's house today. Annabel is apparently too busy trying to suffocate the other toddler on the premises to be bothered with the pesky business of napping.
Let's just skip to the good part, shall we? The highlight of my day yesterday was bathtime. Annabel got into the too-small baby tub without much fuss, especially since the "You not wash my hair?" thing has been really working to her advantage. However, unbeknownst to her, I was crossing my fingers behind my back when I nodded in affirmation this time.
Exactly five minutes into the soapy fun, at a time when she was sufficiently clean and letting down her guard on my continued hovering, I dropped the no-tears shampoo bomb. I got her hair wet, sudsed her up, and rinsed it clear before she had the chance to get up and slop soapy trails through the house.
Don't let the look fool you, though, she continued to splash and have fun until she got even more pruny.
THE YAYA REPORT
What's happening at the other mom's house ...
I'll tell you what's NOT happening. A Nap. The midday siesta is NOT happening at Yaya's house today. Annabel is apparently too busy trying to suffocate the other toddler on the premises to be bothered with the pesky business of napping.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Good weather, bad karma
I'm not sure, but I think my weekend may have been craptacular, literally and figuratively.
Please bear with me as I recap:
We had FABULOUS weather. Fabulous! Which of course means Annabel was severely constipated and didn't want to do anything but sit around and warn us "I'm pooping."
As one might surmise, her warnings of impending poop didn't materialize into anything substantial until after 4 p.m. on Saturday.
Although we tried to take her mind off her tummy troubles, it didn't work. We attempted a walk to the park, but as soon as we got there she wanted to go home. She was "pooping." So instead of playing on the slide, or taking a hike as I had planned, we wasted the bulk of the day sleeping. I can't believe I'm complaining about GETTING SLEEP, but it really was too nice of a day to fritter away in bed.
Sunday, I told myself -- just a mere seven full diapers away -- would be a better day. Afterall, we have our weekly yoga class. Of course, I was wrong.
Turns out my yoga studio is getting evicted. How's that for bad juju?
Since Annabel was three months old, we've been traveling to Great Barrington to run a FREE yoga class for moms and babies, thanks to the generosity of Berkshire Mountain Yoga for the lend of its beautiful studio. Over the past two years, it's turned into a class for moms and … well … anyone who wants to show up, regardless of whether they calculate their ages in weeks or decades.
This week, however, when I unlocked the door there was a note waiting for me that explained the director hadn't been able to contact the landlord for six months, and that the lease was up at the end of May. So as of May 28, Berkshire Mountain Yoga will be homeless.
So, happy birthday to me: No more yoga, mom.
On a positive note, however, one of my favorite bloggers Mom-101 has nominated one of my posts as "A Perfect Post" for the month of April.
It's quite an honor for me, especially coming from such a skilled writer as she. Thank you Liz. I guess I don't have to mention it was a nice bit of sunshine in an otherwise bleak but sun-shiney, poopless, non-relaxing weekend.
THE YAYA REPORT
What's happening at the other mom's house ....
A seething mass of putrid
That would be the diaper bag. Turns out the smell of used diaper that wafted in my car all weekend was, in fact, coming from the diaper bag. Lori detected it this morning as she sat at her computer checking her e-mail while Annabel napped. Her nose pointed her in the direction of DOWN. (The location of where I drop the bag of useless crap I tote around but never {apparently} check).
Now mind you, I noticed the smell but had decided it was A.) The remnants of my olifactory sensations after the SEVENTH smelly diaper I changed or B.) the garbage bag I had thrown a banana piece into Friday morning.
She couldn't believe I had ACTUALLY left a dirty diaper in there for her to find with her keen sense of smell. She was right. I hadn't. I had, however, left a little bag of leftover dinner from two weeks ago, a care package from my mom and dad who had been watching the kidlet. My mom had been careful to remind me to put the remants of a dinner I hadn't gotten a chance to eat in the refrigerator. But having NOT found the bits in a cursory search, I assumed she had forgotten to include it in the bag and forgot all about it.
Not too bright, am I?
The YAYA REPORT today is brought to you by FREEBREEZE. It doesn't work to kill smells, it just masks them in a more putrid way.
Please bear with me as I recap:
We had FABULOUS weather. Fabulous! Which of course means Annabel was severely constipated and didn't want to do anything but sit around and warn us "I'm pooping."
As one might surmise, her warnings of impending poop didn't materialize into anything substantial until after 4 p.m. on Saturday.
Although we tried to take her mind off her tummy troubles, it didn't work. We attempted a walk to the park, but as soon as we got there she wanted to go home. She was "pooping." So instead of playing on the slide, or taking a hike as I had planned, we wasted the bulk of the day sleeping. I can't believe I'm complaining about GETTING SLEEP, but it really was too nice of a day to fritter away in bed.
Sunday, I told myself -- just a mere seven full diapers away -- would be a better day. Afterall, we have our weekly yoga class. Of course, I was wrong.
Turns out my yoga studio is getting evicted. How's that for bad juju?
Since Annabel was three months old, we've been traveling to Great Barrington to run a FREE yoga class for moms and babies, thanks to the generosity of Berkshire Mountain Yoga for the lend of its beautiful studio. Over the past two years, it's turned into a class for moms and … well … anyone who wants to show up, regardless of whether they calculate their ages in weeks or decades.
This week, however, when I unlocked the door there was a note waiting for me that explained the director hadn't been able to contact the landlord for six months, and that the lease was up at the end of May. So as of May 28, Berkshire Mountain Yoga will be homeless.
So, happy birthday to me: No more yoga, mom.
On a positive note, however, one of my favorite bloggers Mom-101 has nominated one of my posts as "A Perfect Post" for the month of April.
It's quite an honor for me, especially coming from such a skilled writer as she. Thank you Liz. I guess I don't have to mention it was a nice bit of sunshine in an otherwise bleak but sun-shiney, poopless, non-relaxing weekend.
THE YAYA REPORT
What's happening at the other mom's house ....
A seething mass of putrid
That would be the diaper bag. Turns out the smell of used diaper that wafted in my car all weekend was, in fact, coming from the diaper bag. Lori detected it this morning as she sat at her computer checking her e-mail while Annabel napped. Her nose pointed her in the direction of DOWN. (The location of where I drop the bag of useless crap I tote around but never {apparently} check).
Now mind you, I noticed the smell but had decided it was A.) The remnants of my olifactory sensations after the SEVENTH smelly diaper I changed or B.) the garbage bag I had thrown a banana piece into Friday morning.
She couldn't believe I had ACTUALLY left a dirty diaper in there for her to find with her keen sense of smell. She was right. I hadn't. I had, however, left a little bag of leftover dinner from two weeks ago, a care package from my mom and dad who had been watching the kidlet. My mom had been careful to remind me to put the remants of a dinner I hadn't gotten a chance to eat in the refrigerator. But having NOT found the bits in a cursory search, I assumed she had forgotten to include it in the bag and forgot all about it.
Not too bright, am I?
The YAYA REPORT today is brought to you by FREEBREEZE. It doesn't work to kill smells, it just masks them in a more putrid way.
Friday, April 28, 2006
How fast they grow
Dear Annabel,
I can't believe it's been more than two years since you came to live with us. From the moment we took you home from the hospital we marveled at the perfection of you.
As I looked into your closet and chest of drawers this morning, I was reminded of how fast you are growing. The overalls I bought just a few weeks ago will have to have their straps adjusted for the second time. You are fully out of all of your 18-month clothes. There are still garments from your first year in the top drawer. I can't make myself pack them away just yet.
I went to work on Monday morning, leaving you with Lori, speaking three-word sentences and came home Monday evening to find you having whole conversations with your toys that included all parts of speech. You looked up at me and asked, "Are you OTay, Mama?"
Did it show?
Now that you are growing into the person you are to be, I just wanted to say that, from my vantage point, you are still the girl I knew you to be from the start: strong willed, opinionated, intelligent, compassionate, lovely and amazing.
Love,
Mommy
THE YAYA REPORT (SOON TO BE THE YORI REPORT):
From the other mom's house ...
Fractured fairytales, episode 1.
Lori didn't want the BABY BOY to have Annabel's crayons so she thought long and hard about a way to keep the players separated.
"How would you like to color in your playpen?" she asked. To which Ittybit answered enthusiastically in the affirmative. Not only did she take her shoes off to make herself more comfortable as she colored, but she had to ward off even MORE attention from THE BOY.
"There she was a princess in her tower and he's the prince who can't get inside. The only difference is that in this fairy tale the princess wants time to herself: 'What do I have to do, build a moat? GET AWAY!'"
... So much for lovely.
I can't believe it's been more than two years since you came to live with us. From the moment we took you home from the hospital we marveled at the perfection of you.
As I looked into your closet and chest of drawers this morning, I was reminded of how fast you are growing. The overalls I bought just a few weeks ago will have to have their straps adjusted for the second time. You are fully out of all of your 18-month clothes. There are still garments from your first year in the top drawer. I can't make myself pack them away just yet.
I went to work on Monday morning, leaving you with Lori, speaking three-word sentences and came home Monday evening to find you having whole conversations with your toys that included all parts of speech. You looked up at me and asked, "Are you OTay, Mama?"
Did it show?
Now that you are growing into the person you are to be, I just wanted to say that, from my vantage point, you are still the girl I knew you to be from the start: strong willed, opinionated, intelligent, compassionate, lovely and amazing.
Love,
Mommy
THE YAYA REPORT (SOON TO BE THE YORI REPORT):
From the other mom's house ...
Fractured fairytales, episode 1.
Lori didn't want the BABY BOY to have Annabel's crayons so she thought long and hard about a way to keep the players separated.
"How would you like to color in your playpen?" she asked. To which Ittybit answered enthusiastically in the affirmative. Not only did she take her shoes off to make herself more comfortable as she colored, but she had to ward off even MORE attention from THE BOY.
"There she was a princess in her tower and he's the prince who can't get inside. The only difference is that in this fairy tale the princess wants time to herself: 'What do I have to do, build a moat? GET AWAY!'"
... So much for lovely.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Scrub-a-dub dub, kidlet in the tub
Oh, yeah. That's our little dirt girl splashing in the bath. She's over her fear of soap and water, for a little while anyway. Three days in a row now she has gone willingly into the tub. She has even asked for more water.
It just fills my heart with warm cozy dust bunnies when she sings songs she splices together from memory. I especially love it when she adds words that are far beyond my grasp of English. One of her favorite numbers, I am pleased to report, is still the "Itsy Bitsy Pieader climbs up the rain, tinkle, tinkle stars."
We're diligently working toward every-other-day hair washings. So far we've done NOT-in-a-MILLION-YEARS shampoo sessions, and they are not fun. Last night, I'm pleased to report that Annabel DID raise a washcloth to her hair and let the ends get damp. ... I guess it's a start.
It just fills my heart with warm cozy dust bunnies when she sings songs she splices together from memory. I especially love it when she adds words that are far beyond my grasp of English. One of her favorite numbers, I am pleased to report, is still the "Itsy Bitsy Pieader climbs up the rain, tinkle, tinkle stars."
We're diligently working toward every-other-day hair washings. So far we've done NOT-in-a-MILLION-YEARS shampoo sessions, and they are not fun. Last night, I'm pleased to report that Annabel DID raise a washcloth to her hair and let the ends get damp. ... I guess it's a start.
THE YAYA REPORT:
From the other mom's house ...
Originally uploaded by toyfoto. We had a visit from Mabel today. Annabel really enjoyed being the mommy.
(She is) "so cute and kithing me!"
Originally uploaded by toyfoto. (She is) "so cute and kithing me!"
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Car Wars, nothing but Car Wars. If they would bar wars, no one would come ... (sung to the tune of Star Wars)
I hate my car.
At the risk of sounding ungrateful (my sister sold me her extremely well-cared-for car for the low-ball price of what the dealer would have given her on a trade), I have to say it again ... I hate my car.
It's not that I feel as if I were a Saab 900 person driving a Dodge Dart, I have never been an admirer of cars. However, I don't think I've ever really HATED a car before now, either. Somehow, in my heart of hearts, I believe I'm an underground girl living in the sprawling suburbs.
My initial problem with the vehicle was focused on the fact it has an automatic transmission, which means that I am not only getting fewer miles per gallon, I am also suffering left-leg atrophy on the occasions I am NOT launching myself through the windshield by putting both feet on the break.
But my discontent has grown into monster proportions: I just hate what it represents.
When Bush took office gasoline was $1.59 a gallon ... now it's topping $3 and is expected to reach $4 this summer. (My appologies to my European friends who are paying as much as $7 a gallon and have been for years). This guy thinks that he can save a few cents of the prices by halting additions to the oil reserves (something that was happening anyway) and stripping away our infantessimal environmental safeguards just to help his friends in the oil biz gain even more profit.
They say this is all market driven, that people LOVE their cars. Yeah. Well. Really, I think it's all about some bill of goods companies keep selling us. Got cheap gas? Buy a Humvee; Environment your concern? Get a hybred; Gas eating into your food budget? Go to hell. Forget conservation, keep on truckin' lest the terrorists win.
I can't help but squint my eyes at the four-doored liability parked in my driveway and pine for mass transit. I spend more than an hour in my car every day of the week, every minute of it wishing I lived in a city where a train could take me to work as I read a book or work a crossword puzzle or get a head start on a column.
THIS JUST IN: THE YAYA REPORT
... from the other mother's house
Sitting in the backyard counting Teddy Grahams, Annabel decided a tiny chickadee hopping nearby was trying to steal the beloved treats away from her. She collected them all and brought them to Lori, complaining that the bird wanted to eat her cookies.
She munched away, eyeing the tiny bird, while Lori assured her chickadees don't eat Teddy Grahams, they eat worms and insects. After a ton of WHYs, Annabel decided the bird should try dessert just this once and offered up her last tasty bear.
At the risk of sounding ungrateful (my sister sold me her extremely well-cared-for car for the low-ball price of what the dealer would have given her on a trade), I have to say it again ... I hate my car.
It's not that I feel as if I were a Saab 900 person driving a Dodge Dart, I have never been an admirer of cars. However, I don't think I've ever really HATED a car before now, either. Somehow, in my heart of hearts, I believe I'm an underground girl living in the sprawling suburbs.
My initial problem with the vehicle was focused on the fact it has an automatic transmission, which means that I am not only getting fewer miles per gallon, I am also suffering left-leg atrophy on the occasions I am NOT launching myself through the windshield by putting both feet on the break.
But my discontent has grown into monster proportions: I just hate what it represents.
When Bush took office gasoline was $1.59 a gallon ... now it's topping $3 and is expected to reach $4 this summer. (My appologies to my European friends who are paying as much as $7 a gallon and have been for years). This guy thinks that he can save a few cents of the prices by halting additions to the oil reserves (something that was happening anyway) and stripping away our infantessimal environmental safeguards just to help his friends in the oil biz gain even more profit.
They say this is all market driven, that people LOVE their cars. Yeah. Well. Really, I think it's all about some bill of goods companies keep selling us. Got cheap gas? Buy a Humvee; Environment your concern? Get a hybred; Gas eating into your food budget? Go to hell. Forget conservation, keep on truckin' lest the terrorists win.
I can't help but squint my eyes at the four-doored liability parked in my driveway and pine for mass transit. I spend more than an hour in my car every day of the week, every minute of it wishing I lived in a city where a train could take me to work as I read a book or work a crossword puzzle or get a head start on a column.
THIS JUST IN: THE YAYA REPORT
... from the other mother's house
Sitting in the backyard counting Teddy Grahams, Annabel decided a tiny chickadee hopping nearby was trying to steal the beloved treats away from her. She collected them all and brought them to Lori, complaining that the bird wanted to eat her cookies.
She munched away, eyeing the tiny bird, while Lori assured her chickadees don't eat Teddy Grahams, they eat worms and insects. After a ton of WHYs, Annabel decided the bird should try dessert just this once and offered up her last tasty bear.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Invention is the necessity of mothers - Helpful Hint #2
It's been raining for two days and the park at the end of the street seems like a continent away. We've been trying to get to the playground every chance we get now that the weather has changed from naughty to nice. This afternoon, after a marathon nap, Annabel and I went to pick up "Amah" and go shopping.
Amah wanted to get ittybit some new spring duds, and we figured a rainy Sunday was probably a good time to go shopping. Annabel was stoked. Of course when we got to Old Navy (the stand-alone store, because everyone and their mothers were at the mall) Ittybit was sorely disappointed. As we walked through the sliding doors, her dismay was phrased in the form of a question: "Where's the food, mama?"
Luckily her thunderclouds never errupted into a storm because a minute was all it took for her to spot the brightly colored soccer balls in the center display area. It was all downhill from there. She happily played soccer with me and Amah and even some of the store clerks. She ran and jumped and tossed a few free throws up and down the aisles.
She didn't forget about the lack of food between chip shots into the capris and purple flip-flops. While we were waiting in line to make our purchases she gently let us know she'd like a snack. "NEED FOOD NOW, MAMA. FOOOOOOD."
Somewhere between T-shirts and PBJ bagels the rain let up. All the puddles ripe for splashing in. As luck would have it we had no extra pants but we did have rainboots. Though her feet stayed dry her pants were drenched from the ankles up.
I'm not sure why I thought this wouldn't be an issue, but I naiively assumed i could just strip off her soggy togs and have her sit in the carseat with a blanket. Nope, no way, no how, never in a million years! "Not wanna be Nakey."
Of course we bought everything except PANTS.
So I try to trick her by putting the sleeves of a tunic on her legs and telling her they are stretch pants. After I get her all buckled in, she pulls the shirt bottom up to her chin and lets me know my ruse has failed. I can tell by the look on her face she's already thinking about her learn to dress books at home and wondering if I couldn't use a refresher course - "This is a SHURT, mama. Not pants! Not pants."
***Of course if you try this tip on a kid not confined to a carseat, pull the shirt up over the diaper and snap the onsie over top of the "pants." Fair warning: Bunching may occur.
Ummm. ... update. Helpful Hint #2a - Waste not, want not ...
Me: Can I have the sourdough bagel with peanut butter?
Bagel guy: Sure. Would you like anything else?
Me: No, that'll be it. She'll never eat the whole thing ... I mean she'll probably just lick off the peanut butter and I'll get the rest.
Bagel guy: ........?!?!!
Me: I said that outloud, didn't I?"
Amah wanted to get ittybit some new spring duds, and we figured a rainy Sunday was probably a good time to go shopping. Annabel was stoked. Of course when we got to Old Navy (the stand-alone store, because everyone and their mothers were at the mall) Ittybit was sorely disappointed. As we walked through the sliding doors, her dismay was phrased in the form of a question: "Where's the food, mama?"
Luckily her thunderclouds never errupted into a storm because a minute was all it took for her to spot the brightly colored soccer balls in the center display area. It was all downhill from there. She happily played soccer with me and Amah and even some of the store clerks. She ran and jumped and tossed a few free throws up and down the aisles.
She didn't forget about the lack of food between chip shots into the capris and purple flip-flops. While we were waiting in line to make our purchases she gently let us know she'd like a snack. "NEED FOOD NOW, MAMA. FOOOOOOD."
Somewhere between T-shirts and PBJ bagels the rain let up. All the puddles ripe for splashing in. As luck would have it we had no extra pants but we did have rainboots. Though her feet stayed dry her pants were drenched from the ankles up.
I'm not sure why I thought this wouldn't be an issue, but I naiively assumed i could just strip off her soggy togs and have her sit in the carseat with a blanket. Nope, no way, no how, never in a million years! "Not wanna be Nakey."
Of course we bought everything except PANTS.
So I try to trick her by putting the sleeves of a tunic on her legs and telling her they are stretch pants. After I get her all buckled in, she pulls the shirt bottom up to her chin and lets me know my ruse has failed. I can tell by the look on her face she's already thinking about her learn to dress books at home and wondering if I couldn't use a refresher course - "This is a SHURT, mama. Not pants! Not pants."
***Of course if you try this tip on a kid not confined to a carseat, pull the shirt up over the diaper and snap the onsie over top of the "pants." Fair warning: Bunching may occur.
Ummm. ... update. Helpful Hint #2a - Waste not, want not ...
Me: Can I have the sourdough bagel with peanut butter?
Bagel guy: Sure. Would you like anything else?
Me: No, that'll be it. She'll never eat the whole thing ... I mean she'll probably just lick off the peanut butter and I'll get the rest.
Bagel guy: ........?!?!!
Me: I said that outloud, didn't I?"
Friday, April 21, 2006
By the skin of our toenails
Last week I got undressed and turned on the shower, adjusting it 20 degrees cooler than usual. Annabel sensed something evil afoot and turned on her heels and RAN.
So I grabbed a towel and gave chase. I caught her in the livingroom. After a struggle involving sitting down, going limp and kicking and screaming while I peeled off her clothes, into the shower we went.
I swear she can leverage her mere 25 pounds to rival my own. As she held on to the frame of the shower stall refusing to go even one inch closer to the water, I had to enlist the help of the DAD to get all the way inside. Did I mention that the piercing shreiks didn't stop until after the shower was turned off, and she was safely ensconced in her sleep-suit?
Did I mention that because of this routine I have allowed her to be a grunge girl for far too long? I absolved myself from the label of bad parent by adopting the assumption that at least she doesn't have thick hair. A damp wash cloth will suffice, right?
But now, as her hair grows longer, I have deciding this is the battle I must fight, and this is the one I must win.
Last night I demanded she take a bath. I bartered with her, a trip to the park for a bath. She tried to reneg but I refused to budge. She tried to stand up but I called her father into the bathroom to sit on her. After a few minutes she was happily playing in the warm sudsy water. "Now that's not so bad," I cooed as I piled her up with colorful toys.
"This is fun," she giggles. "But not wash hair."
Ok ... in this skirmish we're making a little progress, but the war is far from over.
THE YAYA REPORT:
... what's up at the other mom's house ...
"Annabel and (baby) were playing so nicely today. I couldn't believe it. They played side by side in the sandbox for the LONGEST time. Of course, that was until she put sand in his mouth and then I had to tell her 'oh-no, we don't put dirt in people's mouths. Yucky'."
So I grabbed a towel and gave chase. I caught her in the livingroom. After a struggle involving sitting down, going limp and kicking and screaming while I peeled off her clothes, into the shower we went.
I swear she can leverage her mere 25 pounds to rival my own. As she held on to the frame of the shower stall refusing to go even one inch closer to the water, I had to enlist the help of the DAD to get all the way inside. Did I mention that the piercing shreiks didn't stop until after the shower was turned off, and she was safely ensconced in her sleep-suit?
Did I mention that because of this routine I have allowed her to be a grunge girl for far too long? I absolved myself from the label of bad parent by adopting the assumption that at least she doesn't have thick hair. A damp wash cloth will suffice, right?
But now, as her hair grows longer, I have deciding this is the battle I must fight, and this is the one I must win.
Last night I demanded she take a bath. I bartered with her, a trip to the park for a bath. She tried to reneg but I refused to budge. She tried to stand up but I called her father into the bathroom to sit on her. After a few minutes she was happily playing in the warm sudsy water. "Now that's not so bad," I cooed as I piled her up with colorful toys.
"This is fun," she giggles. "But not wash hair."
Ok ... in this skirmish we're making a little progress, but the war is far from over.
THE YAYA REPORT:
... what's up at the other mom's house ...
"Annabel and (baby) were playing so nicely today. I couldn't believe it. They played side by side in the sandbox for the LONGEST time. Of course, that was until she put sand in his mouth and then I had to tell her 'oh-no, we don't put dirt in people's mouths. Yucky'."
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Commuter tax
"I want to dive, Mama."
That's how we begin and end every commute lately. She's decided it's not befitting her place in the family to be relegated to the carseat. She want's to be in control.
She's extremely crafty, too. Notice how she calls me "MAMA" when she wants something. She knows it's my weakness. She's even figured out she can drive me up a wall by calling me "MA," the most recent of incarnations of my role to her. First I was Mama, then Mommy then, heartbreakingly, Mom. "Ma" is a word that I don't even want to think about. I'd rather she call me the big bad MF-word than "Ma."
And so, for ten minutes as we pull out of the parking lot and on to the road to Yaya's house, we go over the rules of the state and how they stipulate she has to be at least 16 before she will get to ride behind the wheel. I think she got the point I was trying to make, however, when I told her if she wanted to drive before she turned 35 she'd better not call me "MA."
THE YAYA REPORT:
What's up at the other mom's house ....
This just in: Tierney picked her the "first official dandalion and Annabel said "Thank you Tierney, I love it, I love it so much." Then it got windy and she said she had to keep it safe so she stuck it in her shirt and then told us "shhh its sleeping!" (your daughter is completely nuts).
What's up at the other mom's house ....
Yesterday: "Hello, mama? We need oros. (oranges) Det them peas. Okay. And Chicken? Okay, okay, okay, okay. Bye!"
This just in: Tierney picked her the "first official dandalion and Annabel said "Thank you Tierney, I love it, I love it so much." Then it got windy and she said she had to keep it safe so she stuck it in her shirt and then told us "shhh its sleeping!" (your daughter is completely nuts).
What's up at the other mom's house ....
Yesterday: "Hello, mama? We need oros. (oranges) Det them peas. Okay. And Chicken? Okay, okay, okay, okay. Bye!"
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
The other mommy
After reading numerous Web logs questioning the state of feminism in the 21st century, most recently a brilliant post by Mom-101: The F Word, I have decided to weigh in on the discussion from a slightly different perspective.
There is something that doesn't happen enough, in my humble opinion, in the world and on mommy blogs -- mine especially: The extolling of virtues of those behind the scenes -- namely daycare providers -- who are helping us raise our children and ensuring that feminism flourishes.
I'd like to introduce you to Lori, our baby's stay-at-home-mom. Annabel calls her "Yaya," while I often refer to her as "the babysitter" in this blog. I always wince before writing "the babysitter," because it's not a word that aptly describes what she does for our family, and most especially for what she does for Annabel. She is the reason I am able to work, retain health insurance and keep my sanity. She is a friend, a mother and I just can't imagine her NOT being in our lives.
This is our story:
When I was five months pregnant this woman -- the wife of my husband's friend and someone I only knew in passing -- told me she was unhappy in her job. She knew I was planning on returning to work, and she had been praying for God to guide her. She was leaning toward the idea that her path was leading to me. She was thinking she would want to take care of our child when I eventually went back to work.
I was silent. I knew her family enough to know that in addition to raising two beautiful girls, she had also suffered the death of a child and a late-term miscarriage. I knew her as an intelligent, eneregetic, ethusiastic and empathetic mom who loved Disney World and Christmas stories and public television. I knew, without question, that having this woman provide daycare for my baby would be the best of all possible scenarios. Even, I am ashamed to admit, if one of those scenarios included me being the at-home mommy.
But I couldn't ask her to give up a CAREER to watch MY baby. That was something, I told myself, she would have to decide.
For the next four months, neither of us mentioned the conversation.
Once the baby came, she visited bestowing gifts. She looked sad and didn't seem interested in getting too close. So, I began calling around for placements. There were none to be had. I began to realize that even if I could find a facility willing to take on my child I wouldn't get a choice. I couldn't leave my daughter with a stranger much less the only place willing to take her at that.
I called Lori seeking the name of a woman her husband had previously recommended; a woman whom he and Lori had used when their own children were small. She was silent. A long pause, and then quietly she asked me if I had given any thought to what we had talked about way back when.
I nearly cried.
Turns out neither of us had thought of much else since that conversation, but each had so much hope invested in the prospect that we couldn't even let words escape us. Even I - the heathen - have to admit that devine intervention cannot be ruled out.
Of course there have been struggles. There are religious and political differences as well as occasional communications break downs, but nothing that I would call outside of the normal 'family' growing pains.
I can even say with complete honesty that I haven't once been jealous of Annabel's love for Lori. I am grateful for it. She is another strong, independent woman for Annabel to admire and an inspiration for her mother to model.
When we first started this endeavor I told Lori I thought about this arrangement as "women helping women." Now I'm telling you fine folks, I couldn't have been more right. Two years and one month later, I just want to say thank you to Lori for being in our lives.
Note: How cool is this? Mom-101 nominated this as one of her picks for best post of April. Thank you, but I'm a little verklempt. Please, talk amongst yourselves.
There is something that doesn't happen enough, in my humble opinion, in the world and on mommy blogs -- mine especially: The extolling of virtues of those behind the scenes -- namely daycare providers -- who are helping us raise our children and ensuring that feminism flourishes.
I'd like to introduce you to Lori, our baby's stay-at-home-mom. Annabel calls her "Yaya," while I often refer to her as "the babysitter" in this blog. I always wince before writing "the babysitter," because it's not a word that aptly describes what she does for our family, and most especially for what she does for Annabel. She is the reason I am able to work, retain health insurance and keep my sanity. She is a friend, a mother and I just can't imagine her NOT being in our lives.
This is our story:
When I was five months pregnant this woman -- the wife of my husband's friend and someone I only knew in passing -- told me she was unhappy in her job. She knew I was planning on returning to work, and she had been praying for God to guide her. She was leaning toward the idea that her path was leading to me. She was thinking she would want to take care of our child when I eventually went back to work.
I was silent. I knew her family enough to know that in addition to raising two beautiful girls, she had also suffered the death of a child and a late-term miscarriage. I knew her as an intelligent, eneregetic, ethusiastic and empathetic mom who loved Disney World and Christmas stories and public television. I knew, without question, that having this woman provide daycare for my baby would be the best of all possible scenarios. Even, I am ashamed to admit, if one of those scenarios included me being the at-home mommy.
But I couldn't ask her to give up a CAREER to watch MY baby. That was something, I told myself, she would have to decide.
For the next four months, neither of us mentioned the conversation.
Once the baby came, she visited bestowing gifts. She looked sad and didn't seem interested in getting too close. So, I began calling around for placements. There were none to be had. I began to realize that even if I could find a facility willing to take on my child I wouldn't get a choice. I couldn't leave my daughter with a stranger much less the only place willing to take her at that.
I called Lori seeking the name of a woman her husband had previously recommended; a woman whom he and Lori had used when their own children were small. She was silent. A long pause, and then quietly she asked me if I had given any thought to what we had talked about way back when.
I nearly cried.
Turns out neither of us had thought of much else since that conversation, but each had so much hope invested in the prospect that we couldn't even let words escape us. Even I - the heathen - have to admit that devine intervention cannot be ruled out.
Of course there have been struggles. There are religious and political differences as well as occasional communications break downs, but nothing that I would call outside of the normal 'family' growing pains.
I can even say with complete honesty that I haven't once been jealous of Annabel's love for Lori. I am grateful for it. She is another strong, independent woman for Annabel to admire and an inspiration for her mother to model.
When we first started this endeavor I told Lori I thought about this arrangement as "women helping women." Now I'm telling you fine folks, I couldn't have been more right. Two years and one month later, I just want to say thank you to Lori for being in our lives.
Note: How cool is this?
Mom-101 nominated this as one of her picks for best post of April. Thank you, but I'm a little verklempt. Please, talk amongst yourselves.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Helpful household hint #1
Diaper wipes work wonders on CDs and DVDs.
When the Walt Disney classic "Cinderrrrr-edda" became so grungy (from being dragged all over the house by grubby little toddler fingers) that it skipped right over the introduction and Annabel's favorite song, I decided it couldn't hurt to try a little experiment. Figuring the disc was one step away from going in the trash, I swirled a diaper wipe around its scratched and smudged underside, then dried it on the tummy of my T-shirt (circular motion). Voila! Just like new.
Annabel was terribly impressed and I was dumbfounded. I still can hardly believe it worked! Of course, now she thinks all cds should get the Tummy rub.
When the Walt Disney classic "Cinderrrrr-edda" became so grungy (from being dragged all over the house by grubby little toddler fingers) that it skipped right over the introduction and Annabel's favorite song, I decided it couldn't hurt to try a little experiment. Figuring the disc was one step away from going in the trash, I swirled a diaper wipe around its scratched and smudged underside, then dried it on the tummy of my T-shirt (circular motion). Voila! Just like new.
Annabel was terribly impressed and I was dumbfounded. I still can hardly believe it worked! Of course, now she thinks all cds should get the Tummy rub.
Sunday, April 16, 2006
She's not bitter, but she wouldn't get too close to the Easter Bunny after the hunt took a blood-thirsty turn
I should have known by the barrier that this was going to end badly. The tape keeping the throng of sugar-craving toddlers at bay read "CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS." Parents all around us were laying out strategies for their kids so complex I expected at any moment one of them would pull a chalkboard out of a stroller and diagram the game plans with arrows, Xs and Os.
We didn't go to our town's Easter Egg Hunt last year. We thought it would be too chaotic for a child still learning to walk. Instead we held a little hunt of our own in the front yard. With a little help, she found the eight eggs filled with Cheerios in short order.
But this year we had gotten to the community hunt a half hour early, fearing the consequences of being late. As we stood behind the tape, keeping Annabel amused with songs and games, between her pleading for us to let her "do out there and pict some ayes." She was SOOO patient. And then the man with the megaphone informed us they would be starting with the youngest group soon, but asked for parents who would volunteer to guard the borders so there would be eggs enough for the next gaggle of gigglies.
Jed said I should go out there. He thought it would entice her to run out to me, picking up eggs as she went. While my inner mother was screaming for me to tell him she would need help, I didn't say anything. Off I went to be a minuteman. When the signal was thrown, hundreds of tots broke rank. Except for Annabel who clung tightly to her father's stainproof pants. By the time they got out to me, all the eggs were gone and I had forgotten my job and let dozens of kids into the next territory. By all accounts it was a dismal failure.
When we got back to the line where it all started, Annabel realized that there would be no egg for her to pick. And the tears started to flow like rain. Talk about heartbreaking. What's worse, the crowd was dispersing and no one seemed to notice the little girl with the empty basket. As we stood there like deer in headlights a neighbor came over to see about the tears. Their daughter had gotten four eggs. (She had been to the event last year and was a professional marksman at the tender age of two). With a small conversation about giving one of her eggs to Annabel, she happily handed over two.
I have never wanted to hug a child more than I did that very minute. I think Annabel wanted to hug her too.
Click on any of the pictures to see them larger.
Friday, April 14, 2006
A stranger in our midst
Tonight we successfully kept the television in its upright and locked position. It took some doing, but we were able to keep her interested in puzzles, coloring and books long enought to forget about "Curse of the Were Rabbit," all three "Winnie the Poohs" and "Totoro."
We're not proud of it, but Annabel is a television junkie, especially when it comes to Japanese animation and English claymation. (Let there be no imitation). So tonight after she went grocery shopping with Jed and we walked around in the rain, I was surprised when she decided she wanted to play puzzles on the porch rather than become a potato on the couch. For more than an hour she put together all of the foam alphabet and numbers puzzles and half of the shapes puzzle before she decided she'd like to color. She was happy to read, and sit at the table for dinner and play with playdoh after the dishes had been cleared away.
As I sit and study her through squinty eyes, I wonder: "Just who is this imposter? Certainly she is NOT our child."
When it's time for bed, I think, she will return to me. But instead another child clamors into her room, climbs up on the bed and says "Booktime!" This one has weasled two chocolate eggs and an extra book before bedtime. And when it's time for the final "Big Hug" and "Little Kiss," she offers me an olive branch. Mommy, do det your cam-ra. You can take pishers."
It may have been a stall tactic but boy was it sweet.
We're not proud of it, but Annabel is a television junkie, especially when it comes to Japanese animation and English claymation. (Let there be no imitation). So tonight after she went grocery shopping with Jed and we walked around in the rain, I was surprised when she decided she wanted to play puzzles on the porch rather than become a potato on the couch. For more than an hour she put together all of the foam alphabet and numbers puzzles and half of the shapes puzzle before she decided she'd like to color. She was happy to read, and sit at the table for dinner and play with playdoh after the dishes had been cleared away.
As I sit and study her through squinty eyes, I wonder: "Just who is this imposter? Certainly she is NOT our child."
When it's time for bed, I think, she will return to me. But instead another child clamors into her room, climbs up on the bed and says "Booktime!" This one has weasled two chocolate eggs and an extra book before bedtime. And when it's time for the final "Big Hug" and "Little Kiss," she offers me an olive branch. Mommy, do det your cam-ra. You can take pishers."
It may have been a stall tactic but boy was it sweet.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
The dark, bittersweet goodness of the Easter bunny
"What'll it be," I ask, dishtowel draped over my forearm, bowing slightly in her direction as I lean the sippy cup containing warmed milk against it for her inspection.
"Uhm .... Oh, I know. Chotola ayes!"
Welcome to Chez Grincheux -- The place where the ingestion of protein is only attained through barter.
She is silent as she accepts the beverage and commences slurping.
Her face is turned away but her eyes have rotated to the edge of their orbs and are fixed on me.
"How about pancakes?"
No sound.
"How about waffles?"
Still, there is no response other than the sluice of fluid drafting up through the cup.
"Eggs and sausage?"
"Oh, yes, Mommy. Chotola ayes, please."
Easter is fast approaching, and, even though she hasn't fully grasped the concept of a cute and cuddly bunny bearing confectionary delights, Ittybit is nothing but observant.
For weeks I've tried to explain, with varying degrees of success, why all those bags of colorful foil-wrapped candies were piled at the edge of the grocery conveyor belt. And, more importantly, why we couldn't buy them.
I thought I wove a fascinating tale of an elusive oversized, personified long-eared mammal (classified as a rodent until 1912), who, once a year, travels the world dispersing candy to good and deserving little girls and boys. I opined in excruciating detail how his quivering rabbit whiskers and lop ears lead him to grocery stores far and wide so that he might procure fresh candy for all the children. (I consider leaving out the part about the furry beast's nasty side, the part about his pension for hiding the aforementioned goodies under shrubs and flower beds, but decide that talk will be for another year).
Obviously, I explained, we had to make sure the sweet treats were available to him along his long, long route, lest good and deserving children be disappointed.
Her blank stare and furrowed brow tell me all I need to know.
"Mom, you are in need of electro-shock therapy."
Of course, it takes the babysitter just 10 minutes and Spot's First Easter lift-a-flap book to answer all Ittybit's questions. "Oh, I like chotola ayes, too," she exclaims as "YaYa" tells her Hippo is eating all the eggs while Spot is saving his for later. "I'd like to eat one, too."
"YaYa" chuckles and tells her she'll have to ask mom about that.
Something tells me my answer won't be satisfying, but I stop at the store anyway and wonder if she'll at least eat some toast with her chocolate eggs.
"Uhm .... Oh, I know. Chotola ayes!"
Welcome to Chez Grincheux -- The place where the ingestion of protein is only attained through barter.
She is silent as she accepts the beverage and commences slurping.
Her face is turned away but her eyes have rotated to the edge of their orbs and are fixed on me.
"How about pancakes?"
No sound.
"How about waffles?"
Still, there is no response other than the sluice of fluid drafting up through the cup.
"Eggs and sausage?"
"Oh, yes, Mommy. Chotola ayes, please."
Easter is fast approaching, and, even though she hasn't fully grasped the concept of a cute and cuddly bunny bearing confectionary delights, Ittybit is nothing but observant.
For weeks I've tried to explain, with varying degrees of success, why all those bags of colorful foil-wrapped candies were piled at the edge of the grocery conveyor belt. And, more importantly, why we couldn't buy them.
I thought I wove a fascinating tale of an elusive oversized, personified long-eared mammal (classified as a rodent until 1912), who, once a year, travels the world dispersing candy to good and deserving little girls and boys. I opined in excruciating detail how his quivering rabbit whiskers and lop ears lead him to grocery stores far and wide so that he might procure fresh candy for all the children. (I consider leaving out the part about the furry beast's nasty side, the part about his pension for hiding the aforementioned goodies under shrubs and flower beds, but decide that talk will be for another year).
Obviously, I explained, we had to make sure the sweet treats were available to him along his long, long route, lest good and deserving children be disappointed.
Her blank stare and furrowed brow tell me all I need to know.
"Mom, you are in need of electro-shock therapy."
Of course, it takes the babysitter just 10 minutes and Spot's First Easter lift-a-flap book to answer all Ittybit's questions. "Oh, I like chotola ayes, too," she exclaims as "YaYa" tells her Hippo is eating all the eggs while Spot is saving his for later. "I'd like to eat one, too."
"YaYa" chuckles and tells her she'll have to ask mom about that.
Something tells me my answer won't be satisfying, but I stop at the store anyway and wonder if she'll at least eat some toast with her chocolate eggs.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Survey says ...
So I took this Web poll from Chatterbean to find out jest whet kinda a mom I em.
Turns out, after I ernestly answer the fifteen questions, the computerized, non-scientific results inform me that I'm a "zen mommy." When the world is falling apart around me, it says, I am calm as a cucumber.
But I wanted to be a "slacker mom" not a vegetable, I grumble and refresh the toggle buttons to try it again.
The first time I took the "Mommy" test I was surprised to find the inaugural query asking for my gender. Of course this time around I choose the "MALE" toggle and moved on: How many children? None; How do you unwind? I smoke; What kind of lunches to I make? What ever I can rustle up at the 7-11 on the way to the sitter's house; Do you have a job? Nope.
After finishing the revisions I shipped off the answers into the ethosphere and in seconds the results were back in my inbox:
"You are a zen mommy."
Perhaps zen mommies are slackers.
Turns out, after I ernestly answer the fifteen questions, the computerized, non-scientific results inform me that I'm a "zen mommy." When the world is falling apart around me, it says, I am calm as a cucumber.
But I wanted to be a "slacker mom" not a vegetable, I grumble and refresh the toggle buttons to try it again.
The first time I took the "Mommy" test I was surprised to find the inaugural query asking for my gender. Of course this time around I choose the "MALE" toggle and moved on: How many children? None; How do you unwind? I smoke; What kind of lunches to I make? What ever I can rustle up at the 7-11 on the way to the sitter's house; Do you have a job? Nope.
After finishing the revisions I shipped off the answers into the ethosphere and in seconds the results were back in my inbox:
"You are a zen mommy."
Perhaps zen mommies are slackers.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Games we played this weekend
... with Amah and Papa
"Made tupcakes you, mama. I made you tupcakes. See! THERE!"
"Tum on, Tum on ... stop following me .... AHHHHHH."
"I'll have pata, and that and that and that. What are you havin' papa?"
(To waitress) "Papa's donna have Tunafush sanweege."
... with Mommy and Daddy
"Dance you me."
"I lub you. I LUB you!"
"Bid Hug peas. Bid hug."
"Pick up me."
"I do up there, daddy. I do up there."
"I want to hep make toffee."
"No pishers, Mama."
"Dance you me, mommy."
"Do it again."
... with Maddy and Maggie:
"Sit for bituts, Maddy and Madowin ... Sit for bituts."
"Play tatch with me, Madowin. Play NOW! Do det it, Madowin. Do DET IT."
"Made tupcakes you, mama. I made you tupcakes. See! THERE!"
"Tum on, Tum on ... stop following me .... AHHHHHH."
"I'll have pata, and that and that and that. What are you havin' papa?"
(To waitress) "Papa's donna have Tunafush sanweege."
... with Mommy and Daddy
"Dance you me."
"I lub you. I LUB you!"
"Bid Hug peas. Bid hug."
"Pick up me."
"I do up there, daddy. I do up there."
"I want to hep make toffee."
"No pishers, Mama."
"Dance you me, mommy."
"Do it again."
... with Maddy and Maggie:
"Sit for bituts, Maddy and Madowin ... Sit for bituts."
"Play tatch with me, Madowin. Play NOW! Do det it, Madowin. Do DET IT."
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Yard kings ...
What to do on a Saturday off, you ask? Well normally we would be hunkered down in front of the woodstove playing the "Cinderella" DVD over and over again. But NOT this particular Saturday.
Inspired by our dear cousins, Josh and Sara, (whom you can find at their blog) we decided to get off our duffs and get rid of some of the debris winter deposited on our front lawn.
Annabel helped us rake up the rocks, and she helped us pick up the branches that had fallen from our blackwalnut trees and placed them in the wheelbarrow (or near abouts). The best part, however, was when she got to ride with the detritus to the compost heap. After a morning of this we got our rewards, too: she came right in and demanded a NAP.
Inspired by our dear cousins, Josh and Sara, (whom you can find at their blog) we decided to get off our duffs and get rid of some of the debris winter deposited on our front lawn.
Annabel helped us rake up the rocks, and she helped us pick up the branches that had fallen from our blackwalnut trees and placed them in the wheelbarrow (or near abouts). The best part, however, was when she got to ride with the detritus to the compost heap. After a morning of this we got our rewards, too: she came right in and demanded a NAP.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Interview with a toddler ...
Boo, What are your dogs' names?
"I'm ANNA-BEL!"
Oh ... I'm sorry. Can I still call you Abba, though?
"Shore, shore."
Abba, What are your dogs' names?
"uhm ... Mad-gee?"
... and ... ?
"uhm ... Mad-O-Win?"
Which is your FAVORITE dog?
"ARLY!"
"I'm ANNA-BEL!"
Oh ... I'm sorry. Can I still call you Abba, though?
"Shore, shore."
Abba, What are your dogs' names?
"uhm ... Mad-gee?"
... and ... ?
"uhm ... Mad-O-Win?"
Which is your FAVORITE dog?
"ARLY!"
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
This is not going to be pretty
So we have a binky-addicted two-year-old who has been weaned from daytime access with a moderate degree of suceess. The problem, however, lies in the fact that her mother (that would be me) gives her unrestricted access whenever she's sick. As you might imagine the whole process of doing without a soother has to start all over again once she's back on the mend.
So I am hoping the Internet will help: If you had a child who successfully gave up the pacifyer before they went to their first kegger, or if you even know of one, please (I beg of you) share a little of the magic in the comments section. Thank you.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Upstairs, Downstairs
As you might have guessed, Annabel has recovered from her cold and was able to spend an exciting weekend hobnobbing with her peers (which means I got a chance to hobnob with their moms).
Since Annabel was born, I've wondered whatever happened to those indoor playgrounds for toddlers that seemed to spring up in every shopping mall across the country? They all seemed to disappear once my water broke.
Well one has popped up in GLENS FALLS, and let me tell you it's FANTASTIC.
What Explore! doesn't have is the plastic feel of mass-marketed mayhem. When you are asked to take your shoes off in certain areas, you realize it's a little more like home. However this home - in addition to colorful, wainscoated walls - has a castle complete with wardrobe and dressing room; a grocery store with a better produce section than a mega store; and a restuarant-syle play kitchen that would rival any TV celeb chef's galley.
Before you say: "What's wrong with you!!! Get out in the fresh air, it's free!"
Let me tell you: Any place that offers parents an option of massage or a yoga class as well as a complementary cup of coffee while they wait for their kids to go tunneling through a two-story human gerbil habitat before careening down a twisty-turny mega slide is well worth the seemingly exorbinate cost -- $8 for tots and $4 for their respective big people. On a rainy day especially or as a once-in-a-while splurge, I'd say this place is a bargain at twice the price.
The only downside of Explore! was that my friend and I didn't have enough time to hobnob during the more than four-hour playdate. We were having too much fun going down the two-story slide with our ittybits.
Since Annabel was born, I've wondered whatever happened to those indoor playgrounds for toddlers that seemed to spring up in every shopping mall across the country? They all seemed to disappear once my water broke.
Well one has popped up in GLENS FALLS, and let me tell you it's FANTASTIC.
What Explore! doesn't have is the plastic feel of mass-marketed mayhem. When you are asked to take your shoes off in certain areas, you realize it's a little more like home. However this home - in addition to colorful, wainscoated walls - has a castle complete with wardrobe and dressing room; a grocery store with a better produce section than a mega store; and a restuarant-syle play kitchen that would rival any TV celeb chef's galley.
Before you say: "What's wrong with you!!! Get out in the fresh air, it's free!"
Let me tell you: Any place that offers parents an option of massage or a yoga class as well as a complementary cup of coffee while they wait for their kids to go tunneling through a two-story human gerbil habitat before careening down a twisty-turny mega slide is well worth the seemingly exorbinate cost -- $8 for tots and $4 for their respective big people. On a rainy day especially or as a once-in-a-while splurge, I'd say this place is a bargain at twice the price.
The only downside of Explore! was that my friend and I didn't have enough time to hobnob during the more than four-hour playdate. We were having too much fun going down the two-story slide with our ittybits.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
The Itsy Bitsy (but excruciatingly long and drawnout) Spider (on Vimeo)
View this clip on Vimeo
As our gift to you this spring, we present you with a song. Please forgive us, we haven't cleaned the house and we're singing with our mouths full. We also made up many of the words and can't carry a tune in a bucket. On the bright side, however, no animals were harmed in the making of this "vimeo" clip.
Enjoy.
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