Sock it to me

hands on, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Last night when I got home the house was silent.

For exactly seven minutes I was alone in an almost empty house. I quickly went to work preparing to turn my hard day's work into milkcicles, and spent the next precious few seconds of alone-time ignoring the dog (who was jumping around like a crazy tumble weed trying to get me to feed her) and sifting through the mail.

Mmmmm. Bliss. (Too bad it was only circulars and catalogs).

Then, this seven-minute sojourn ended with the muffled thud of the car door and the rapid pounding of a tiny mitten on the window glass.

"Hellllllllllllllllllllllllllllll-O," she calls. "Anybody there?"

And it doesn't stop until bedtime. ...

"I have a great idea! Why don't we do a project together. You can get down the craft box from the closet and we can do something together. I know. Let's make valentine's cards for Lori and Great Aunt Maureen (whose cards were waiting for her when she got home). Or ... I know ... Let's make a sock puppet. I'll get this old sock from my drorer and you can watch me. Sit right over there. No. Not there. HERE. Ok. Well maybe not this striped sock. That's not good. Will you go get me a sock that's good? Oh. That's a great one, Mom. Good JOB!

"OK. Now. I will put on the eyes and the nose like this. You could sew it for me, I guess, but I'm thinking it would take too long. And glue is better. I like glue. So I will just use glue like this.

"OK. Now he needs a collar. I think he would like a ribbon that is here. See. Pink. You wrap it around and then glue it. ... Well I'm having some trouble here. Could you help me here? Just glue it down. No, not like that. More like around it rounder. Yes! That would be perfect.

"OK. Now we need some pom-poms. I would put them around her just like this. But they will fall off. So I don't think this glue is really working for it. Maybe we need some of that other glue. This one here. The GLUE STICK!!!! That's what we need.

"OK. Now we need some feathers for arms. And I think the glue stick will be perfect for this job. I tried to get the pink and the blue and the red feather on. But it won't stay. And it needs arms and head feathers, too. Will you help me with that? No. It needs to go here. And you have to have them stand up. Not OUT. UP.

"THAT IS BEAU-TEE-FUL. You are doing great WORK!

"OK. Now I have to go to the potty. Can you just wait here? Maybe dad needs to get you a rootbeer.

"I'm back. Daddy said he didn't have any rootbeer but that he would make you a ritamargo if you wanted. Oh, I don't know. Did you see I wrote my name on the em-bell-ope all by myself? I'm going to let the sock dry now and then I'm going to put it in the bag so I can take it to school sometime. I think that would be a great idea.

"Later if I take a shower will you let me splash you with cold water? I promise it will be warm. I promise it's true. I'm being true!

I think I have Suburban Dwelling Fever

bundled up to get the mail, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Growing up, I heard the term "Cabin Fever" at lot at this time of year.

Usually it was someone trying to describe why mom was in a funk.

I always wondered why they called it that: CABIN FEVER.

It sounded so … rustic; so quaint.

I suppose it must have something to do with a simpler time when log homes dotted the landscape and a quick trip to the corner store took four days and a team of horses. Once the snow came, going out into the world just wasn’t an option.

But how, one might wonder, has such a quaint term survived as equine ingenuity evolved into combustion engines, and cabins in the woods became a horseshoe drive of split-level ranches tucked neatly into bedroom communities.

We have all manner of technologically-enhanced togs that makes it easy to withstand winter’s worst. Aside from the elemental snow and ice and cold, there’s really nothing that society hasn’t tamed in winter. For example, there’s really no such thing as seasonal produce. Want fresh strawberries in the dead of winter? Someone’s growing them somewhere, so they’re never more than a truck ride away.

There’s so much to do out in the world during all seasons, especially with our modern all-wheel-drive and all-hours-merchants, how is it possible to get cabin fever?

Now I know exactly what causes it. And it's not the length of the day or the angle of the sun in the sky.

Children cause cabin fever.

You thought their germy little mitts spread only the common cold and minor cases of typhoid, didn’t you?

As I look at my firstborn, dressed in a tutu and cleats as she dusts the house with her cache of tiny toys, it becomes apparent how my sloth has set in.

“Let’s go for a walk,” I say, amplifying manufactured excitement. “We’ll get all dressed up, put The Champ into your old bear suit, and we’ll walk into the village for some cocoa!”

“No. It’s too cold. We can do that when it’s spring,” she answers.

Children, with their slow-motivating natures and their inability to withstand any one activity for more than the time it takes the commercial to change – not to mention the inevitable happenstance that once you get them dressed in their layers of socks and thermals and snow pants and winter jackets and five-fingered mittens and hats and scarves, someone is going to have to PEE -- are festering Petri dishes of the bacillus that causes the mind-wasting illness, Cabin Fever.

Eventually I end up grateful she’s not the outdoors type. By Februrary's end the idea of corralling two kids in the muck and slop for a wintry beverage she won't drink anyway, not to mention having to keep track of hats and gloves and boots on the trek over to the shop, makes me an immovable object staking claim to my favorite end of the couch nearest the woodstove.

Grateful but also guilty.

While others are getting out into the world breathing in really cold air and exercising their minds and bodies, we are listening to bad television and trashing the house. The only exercise I get any more is climbing and reclimbing the stairs to do the previous week’s worth of laundry.

That's why I've decided this was the weekend to turn off the TV, forget the linens and head for the slopes.

That’s right, folks. We’re going skiing ... or snowshoeing or something.

(OK … You can stop laughing. It could happen).

It is entirely possible I'll get the kids all bundled up -- that Ittybit will actually wear her hat -- and we'll go out into a wintery wonderland.

I'll admit, there's an equal shot we may only make it to the mail box. But I swear I won't care either way. Getting outside has to be a step in the right direction.

Hearsay vs. photographic proof

smell these. Do you think they're clean?, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

My husband really thinks that I once handed him a carton of milk and asked him to "smell this. I think it's bad."

Ever since this mysterious request (because I do not recall EVER asking ANYONE to smell-taste-test ANYTHING that I thought had turned toward the dark side) he's been playing the role of a martyr and trying to exact revenge.


In my defense I would like to offer the following items:

Exhibit # 1:
I don't drink milk. Don't even put it in my coffee. I put YOGURT on cereal. I DON'T DRINK MILK.

Exhibit #2:
I am a tosser. I will toss things that have gone a few days past their expiration date even if they look and smell fine. I will toss TUPPERWARE: I don't care how much I paid for it if the science project inside sounds like it has a heartbeat. I have no qualms about waste. I don't care if people are starving in China, there's NO WAY I'd send them garbage to eat.

But does he care?

Nope.

He still wants to get even. He even finds new and spectacular ways to twist the knife.

"Here! Smell these socks. I don't think they're clean."

vomity ... sleepy ...

sick today ... but still cute, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

but still cute. ...


And still able to be entertained by his big sister, some bamboo spoons and Pampered Chef hats drums.

What will I wear to the commencement?

Because I have just graduated - magna cum laude - from The Dr. L.S. Google School of Medicine after surfing around for an eight-year stint.

Last night, having nothing to do but worry, I decided to find out exactly what the doctors were looking for when they performed this test.

I Googled lasix renogram and compared pictures from Silas' test to a results from a test of a kidney with an known obstruction.

Before we turned in last night (early, so we'd be able to get up before the crack of dawn today for our consultation with the Big Kahuna) I said to Jed: "You know. I'm not a doctor or anything, and I could be wrong, but I think we're going to get some good news tomorrow."

I was right.

*does happy dance. *twirls. *knocks stuff over. * picks up objects. *tries to right them. *doesn't work. *aw, who cares? *GOOD NEWS!

Doc Kahuna says the boy's kidneys are BOTH functioning well and he expects the kink will dekink itself at some point without intervention. He can't say never about surgery, but he's scheduled our next appointment for June and made it an in-office scan as opposed to a hospital one.

The only sad news in there is that since we won't be going to the main hospital for tests anymore we won't be stopping at Starbucks and treating ourselves to mocha lattes either. We'll have to be happy with the Green Mountain Coffee they sell in the cafeteria downstairs from the urology practice. Oh well, at least we'll be saving money.

*** oh. Almost forgot the FUNNIEST WORST part. The part that signals unequivocally it doesn't matter WHAT you name your kids, someone is going to get it horribly wrong.

You might remember last time we were at this office and the name on the boy's chart somehow got changed from Silas to Elias? Well this time when the nurse called his name she pronounced it Cialis. Oh yes she did.

I took this yesterday ...

self, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

In the pump station.

It was one of several arm-length shots I did for my mug that will be plastered in the new magazine's signature page.

I felt pretty good.

Today, I feel a little like 10 pounds of poop in a five pound bag.

And still there's tomorrow to look forward to.

*pay no attention to the visible bra strap

**le sigh.

Mercury in retrograde

scan 3, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

It must be a coincidence, but it's starting to creep me out a little.

The last time I had to deal with something BIG ... namely the birth of our son ... Mercury was in retrograde.

The thinking on this phenomenon is that since the planet Mercury rules communication things in that department get a little haywire during the four times a year when the planet appears to slow down and move backward.

So it turns out Mercury is again in retrograde, which, were I the superstitious type, in my mind would account for the slight mixup today at the hospital where Silas had his procedure.

We kind of ping-ponged back and forth between the nuclear medical department and radiology looking for a rather elusive pediatric nurse capable of installing an IV.

A very attractive nurse from the pediatrics floor was finally found and, after a somewhat torturous ten minutes, was able to get a 20 guage line in on the boy. He ended up smiling and flirting with her at the end of the ordeal, but who wouldn't? She was terribly cute.

The technician in charge of inserting the catheter had problems, too. Making me a little crazy with her question about whether it had been difficult to catheterize him the last time.

Well, yes and no.

Yes, there was a problem the last time. The catheter was defective and had to be replaced. And No, the process itself seemed to go well.

Soooooo.

Aside from that, the test went much better than I had envisioned. He cried. He'd be a robot if he didn't. No one likes to be strapped down, pricked and have a tiny hose snaked up their privates.

But then he stopped crying and fell asleep during most of the hour-long procedure.

The technician who actually took the radioactive isotope out of its lead case and sent into hurling into the boys kidneys so it could be recorded going through his system for the better part of an hour was a doll.

She made the whole thing much easier for us, the worried parents.

Silas made it easier, too. He was a trooper. Total rock star. Once he was free from the tubes and the contraptions he smiled as if nothing had happened; as if the whole day was just starting again. He even giggled a little for his reluctant torturers.

Of course it wouldn't be OUR story if the doctor's office didn't call on our way to the test and tell us that they were canceling our consult. The Big Kahuna was down with the flu. Probably the same one that had me in the turlet for six hours last week.

So we don't know the results of the test and we'll be drumming our fingers until Friday.

I hope Mercury is back on track by then.

A little blue bird of distraction

Dear Silas,

What a strange child you are. A baby and a boy and an old man tucked into one little body.

You cry and I melt. You laugh and I melt. You look at me with what I know intuitively is LOVE and I turn into a melty puddle of goo.


Just the other day we all went as a family to a children’s theater production of one of our favorite books "Don’t Let The Pigeon Drive The Bus." As the house lights dimmed I wondered if you'd get scared. The thought had occurred to me as I was buying the tickets, but I knew that whatever happened – even if your screaming filled the auditorium – it wouldn't be the end of the world. Someone -- probably me -- would take you down the aisle and out the door and walk you around the lobby until the fears were replaced by something as astounding as a ceiling fan or swivel chair.

A minute or two before the music boomed loud signaling the beginning of the show, your sister pirouetted out of her seat and landed chin first on the floor. She wasn't hurt, but she wanted her mommy. Your father reached out for you and you sat happily with him while I calmed Annabel and watched your face for signs of angst.

You sat stock still, eyes riveted on the stage. Wherever the players went your gaze followed. You never once looked in my direction. Every time the blue pigeon, with the cockney accent, pecked her way on stage saying 'coo-coo,' you chortled.


It was strange to sit next to you in the theater. That hour of comfortable silence, with not so much as a peep or fidget from you a seat away, made me see you how others tell me they see you, too. How people marvel at your ability to "just hang out." You are the fabled child I've heard stories about; the one who tenaciously tries to get that thing just out of their reach without getting frustrated. You just quietly get on with the business at hand.

As we get to know your personality, there are other things we've always known. Things always at the back of our minds.

Lately I've been writing around what's been going on in my mind: Your left kidney.

Instead of writing about the Lasix renogram we have scheduled for tomorrow, I’ve been obsessing about the state of perpetual Christmas in our house, one-liners and one-hitters that could make me NOT think about the fact that for at least two hours tomorrow morning somebody in a white coat is going to strap you to a table, prick you with a needle and watch as radioactive isotopes go snaking through your tiny body.

As my heart breaks listening to you cry, these people in scrubs will just be doing their jobs.

I agonized over this decision to go through with the test. I asked all the questions I could ask of the people who file your charts in their offices. I even finished my eighth year of schooling at the Dr. Google Academy of Second Guesses and came to terms with the procedure.

If you were older (like as old as me) I believe this test would be a snap. But you are not older. And I can not take the test for you. And the test may very well seem like torture.



Its difficult to be the parent right now because of the impossible position: I want this test to prove that you are fine and your kidney is functioning well, but I don't want the procedure to have been unnecessary. I didn't want to see you strapped down ever again, and yet I can't be your mother and not keep my eyes open the whole time.

I just wish there could be an irreverent blue pigeon to waddle into the middle of it all and take our minds off it.


Love,


Mommy

Dances with tree

tree dance, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

It's official. Christmas is over.

Don't know what to give your sweetie for Valentine's Day?

wax nostalgic, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

How about recycled wax buildup?

mmmmmm. So good.

Well it's almost February

christmas tree, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

So I've slapped up the new masthead.

Although, I must admit, shamefully, the Christmas tree is STILL standing on our sun porch. Dry as a popcorn fart. But while it's standing there MOCKING ME with all its dry, pine scent, it is no longer adorned with ornaments -- thanks to an unusual burst of energy last weekend. I have hope that by the end of this coming weekend it will be dragged to the edge of the road by my husband.

I'd do it myself but I don't think it'd be wise with Annabel leading the way (down our steep stairs) and Silas tucked into his sack (trying to get fist fulls of needles into his mouth) with his octopus arms reaching out.

So ... let the screamfest begin!

Down for the count

brother bear, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

This is the last photo I took of the kids before I became an incubus for viral plague.

Aren't they cute?

I mean. I was a little concerned that Brother Bear here would topple, head first off the step while I tried to focus the camera, but Ittybit turns out to be a first-class seatbelt in that regard.

But I digress.

The day went on without any other concerns . ... well I did have a tension headache starting late afternoon, but nothing that really would herald the

Vomiting.

Diarrhea.

Aches.

and.

Pains.

symptoms which reared their ugly heads that evening.

You know ... Just your run-of-the-mill, overall full-body grossness.

Luckily the kids haven't gotten it yet. And the man wasn't out of town (or sick) so he could be the feeding, changing "don't put that in your mouth" parent for the day when it turned out the Babysitter's husband was home sick, too.

Of course I woke up this morning (feeling much better, thankyouverymuch) to find an earthquake had rocked our livingroom and a cyclone had blown similar debris through the kitchen.

"You know I did keep it pretty neat for the first three hours. ... you should have seen it then!" He laughs ... as he offers me a quarter cup of coffee.

Well, I had been feeling better.

I mean really ...

fine-line, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

How often do you see a cop on a horse pull over a car?

Bedtime stories: A cautionary tale

sleep/fret, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

When the cat's away ...

The mice inhabit the bed.

And they sleep diagonally.

If sleep is even what it's called.

One fidgets.

The other kicks.

Both make the king-sized bed seem only kid-sized.

And then the mommy sleeps on the couch. With the dog.

Who farts.

And growls at the cat.

Impulse buy

concentration, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

We do so love our art projects in this house.

Jed sometimes clucks his tongue and gives me the stink eye when I come home bearing a white and red bag with the distinctive bullseye dotting it everywhere.

He hates convention. From his artistic pedestal on high, he looks down his abstract expressionist nose at the die-cut scrapbooking-shouldn't-be-a-verb flowers I bought that became her obsession for days.

He hates the coloring books that litter our floors, with their black-bordered princesses or pirates, telling you in all their commerical perfection: "Stay inside the lines."

NO! He tells us. Don't stay in the lines; swerve! Go crazy! Be free.

"Don't go to dollar stores. We don't need anymore pom-poms," he begs, chasing a glittery, furry globe across the floor for the umteenth time that evening.

We have enough crayons, markers and paint to color the world. Don't buy another version just because they're cool.

But what do you think should happen when HE takes the kid to Staples and she finds THESE?

He grabbed them right out of her little pudgy hands and tossed them in the cart.

"What? They were cool! I wanted them, too."



*dusts hands*

The highchair wars

next week, college, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

What the ...

The baby's been eating what arguably can be called real food -- pureed vegetables and soupy cereals -- for only a month now and already I'm noticing a trend.

He gets pretty excited by the increasing proximity of the booster chair. It means food.

He doesn't like fruits just yet. He makes unbearably cute wrinkled faces when his lips touch banana, apple or pear. But he'll eat the rice cereal mixed with sweet potato or squash like it's Grandma's homemade pie.

However the spoon is driving the poor boy crazy. He wants it for himself. He wants to hold it, and lick it clean and stick it in his ear if that's where it ends up. Doesn't matter. He. Wants. The. Spoon.

And if you take it away you will break his heart into a billion little pieces.

Now I am going to toot my own horn here -- because no matter what you all might think of me -- I'm not really quick on the uptake. Just this morning in the car Annabel and I endured 20 minutes of screaming during the morning commute before I thought to turn on the CD player and pump up the volume on the Dave Matthews CD that's been in the slot so long it must be stuck. Finally, we were able to enjoy the soothing sounds of musical silence for approximately 3 minutes until we reached our destination.

I digress.

I'm tooting because once I got the boy to calm down, I reached into the utencil drawer and retrieved ANOTHER SPOON. Yes folks, I played a little game of "I'll trade ya" with the pablum eater.

"I'll trade you this yummy spoon loaded with potato mush if you give me that empty old crusty one you've been sucking on now for the last half hour ..."

Worked like a charm.

Now all I need is a drain in the floor so I can use the hose for cleanup.

I know what you're thinking

You've been coming here for the last 21 days wondering to yourself: "when, for the love of mike, will she be taking down that holiday banner!?!"

I mean, sheeesh. You hate those people who leave up the Christmas lights until August.

This banner, dear readers, isn't the only thing still standing from our holiday celebrations.

So is this:

It's still Christmas at our house, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

I figure, when I finally get off my ass and find the time to pack up the tree ornaments and haul the frasier fur (and for those of you worried about fire safety, this baby has shed remarkably few needles and the branches are still quite supple) to the curb, I'll replace the masthead, too.

I'd advise you check back again after Valentine's Day.

This little light of mine

Contemplation, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Mommy: Oops. I forgot, there's no school today.

Ittybit: NO SCHOOL?!? Why not?

Mommy: It's Martin Luther King Day.

Ittybit: Martha Cooker King Day? Who's Martha Cooker King?

Mommy: MARTIN LUTHER KING was a man who worked hard to make sure black people got civil rights. That's the right to be treated fairly and equally.

Ittybit: And white people too?

Mommy: Well the white people had all the advantages, so they didn't need anyone fighting on their behalf.

Ittybit: Why?

Mommy: Well, because a long time ago, even before I was born, people OVERTLY discriminated against people for being or looking different. And that's not right.

Ittybit: And then what?

Mommy: Martin Luther King taught people to stand up for what was right.

Ittybit: So it's better now?

Mommy: In many ways it is better. But it's more subtle now, and unfair things still happen. So we still need to remember. And that's what this day does. Help us remember.

Ittybit: But you didn't remember I had no school today.

Kiss, kiss ... bang, bang

kiss, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Now can I have my seat back, please?

His and Hers' home improvement

jed, bubble wrap, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Him: I had planned to install the new replacement windows in the kitchen today, but I also had a meeting scheduled.

Me: *blank stare.

Him: I wasn't sure if I'd be able to finish in time so I put up some bubble wrap just in case I got called away.

Me: *blink. blink.

Him: But I never got around to putting them in anyway.

Me: I see that.

Him: I'm really liking the way the light comes through the bubble wrap, though.

Me: Nice try, but we are NOT having bubble wrap curtains.

Every Day is Sunshine ... In my eyes

morning commute, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

I ended maternity leave the first of October. Fifteen weeks after I'd begun it.

The ending also came with a new beginning. A new set of expectations, a new set of worries and concerns: a new daycare provider and even a new, longer commute that brings me past ancient buildings, forgotton farms and furry creatures never before seen in these here parts especially not a hunnerd years ago.

Some days I bring my camera, and if the car is still and the traffic light, I hold my arm out and take a few snaps of the scenery as we pass by.







Annabel sometimes asks to take my camera. And she snaps away, recording the seat back or the top of her brother's head.

Other times she instructs me on where to look: "There's a horse coming up. Take its picture. .... There's a really good tree. Take it. Take it. DO IT. Don't forget the Llamas!"

It's funny how I go past this place every day, and yet I've only been inside twice. Neither time while making the trip from our house to the sitter's. Not enough time. Not enough energy to release two kids from the car and heft one inside while corraling the other; not enough patience, no matter how nice it would be to have a warm cup of coffee and a fresh scone.

I also can't seem to get past this old broken down farm with it's myriad travel trailers and rambling buildings. Maybe it's the curve in the lane that seems like a nice, safe place to let my mind wander from the road a bit. Maybe it's the highs of the trees and the lows of the land with nothing else in between that has me revisiting time and again with my camera. ... Whatever it is, I can't seem to get past this place.









Course, it would be a little easier some days if we weren't traveling East.

"MAMA! Can you tell the man who works the sun to turn it off?"

How first they practice to deceive

The making of a Mudslide, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

"Mother! I dropped one.

"Don't worry. It's still good. I can eat it.

"Oh no! I dropped another one!"

Ittybit, light and dark

shadow, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Ittybit: I got in BIG trouble this weekend.

Terri: How's that, sweetie?

Ittybit: I throwed the busy fish at my mommy and she took away my carrots and made me clean my room. All. By. Myself.

Terri: Well, gee. Why'd you throw the busy fish at your mommy?

Ittybit: I don't know. ....

But THEN I got in BIGGER trouble after I wouldn't get off the bed when daddy told me to. He made me go to my room.

Terri: Well, why wouldn't you get down off the bed?

Ittybit: Oh, I was just having a bad day.

A second helping

needs a wipe, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Ever notice that flavors seem to meld and mellow the second day you eat anything?

It's not always the case, but sometimes the leftovers just taste better on the second day.

I know a lot of moms who feel that they've shortchanged the second (and not like the short sheeting effect of college pranksters) child by having a first child holding on to the apron strings and poking around in the pots as they're trying to get the food to the table.

For me, it seems the second child has a kind of clarifying effect.

There's a generous serving of "oh, yeah, I remember this" kind of delicacies as well as a smattering of "MMMMM. This is different.

Maybe it's my forgetful mommy brain or just the jogging of a flabby memory that leads me to relive the early days with Annabel through the second round of firsts with Silas.

She was bigger at this age
She didn't like avocados either
I don't remember if she held her own bottle.
She definitely didn't drink from a sippy
I don't think she babbled nearly this much
but she was too busy trying to move
I wonder if she would have liked the sling?

And then you realize what's the problem ... it's not in the ignoring of the first when you have a second, it's all the stuff you learned in the meantime that makes the second seem so second-nature.

And with that comes a stunning amount of regret. A stunning amount of worry that you may feel closer to one than the other, even though you love them both the same. The same. Only different.

Sitting. Not still.

I am a rocket man, I wanna be in Jack's band, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Dear Silas,

Two days ago you couldn't sit unsupported at all.

You'd lean too far backward or sideways and topple immediately.

But last night (and again today) you found the balance and perhaps even the rhythm of sitting.

It's strange to me how these past months, as I get to know you, I've thought you a docile, placid little guy. Content to sit and watch. I've dubbed you coy but not terribly shy. Not immediately frustrated but also not easily distracted from things that torment you.

I love how you look at your sister. I love how you screach in a rock-star-like range to get her attention. I love that your happiness is loud and vocal. (I even love that your crying in the car can often be quelled now with Dave Matthews ... although I'm sad sometimes it can't be touched by the voices on NPR.)

I love your surprises. Because every day as you reach out, as you turn things over and figure them out, you are a new and delightful soul.

Love,

Mama

An epic tale in sixteen words

I'll Get You, My Pretty, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

With one fell swoop, the baby took the camera away from the mama and ate it.

The surrogate

changing dipes, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Ever ask your kid what they want to be when they grow up?

I know lots of people recoil from the answers, especially when said answer seems to pigeonhole a certain fairer gender into a role their mothers and grandmothers have been fighting against for generations.

For instance:

When the kid says "Nurse" the adult says, "Why not be a Doctor?"

When the kid says "Secretary" the adult says "How about being an Executive."

Of course no one gets too put out when the kid tells you they want to be a princess or a ballerina, because what are the odds? Right?

But when they say to you ... I want to be a mom and a wife ... what do you say?

I know lots of people, myself included, who say 'Yes, but you can be so much more.'

As I'm saying it -- as I'm telling my daughter that she can be a wife someday if she chooses to be, and she can be a mommy, too, but she can also be a writer or an artist or a lawyer or a banker or a politician or a nurse or a secretary as well if that's what she wants -- all I'm thinking is being a mommy is huge. It's perhaps the biggest thing she'll ever be, and to many, many, many people -- perhaps even herself one day -- it won't be enough.

Of course this mothering gig may never happen for Ittybit ... not the way she wants it to, anyway:

MOMMY: "What do you think you want to be when you grow up?

ITTYBIT: "I'm going to marry Elias when I grow up because I want to be a mommy. But I want you to born my babies, OK, because I don't want to get cut."

I guess now is as good a time as any to let her down gently. Hardly anyone's birthing plan ever goes the way they thought it would.

Some spooky things about New Year's Eve

the shadow, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

I told you a bit about our New Year's Eve exploits, right?

No? But you saw some of the pictures, right?

Perhaps I had a little too much of the bubbly ...

Well, better late than never. ...

So we wrangle ourselves an invitation to a bash at Clatter Hall -- the not-so-humble abode of some dear friends (not so humble now that most of their painstaking renovations are compete) -- and show up with the kids at our usual half-hour earliest.

Annabel could not contain her glee at the idea of staying up until midnight to ring in the new year, despite the fact that she understands neither concept.

After our coats are hung and our offerings of cheese, crackers and bottles of champaign, procured at the last possible minute, are abandoned on the kitchen counter we skitter off to the porch, where trays of vegetables and candy confections are spread out on a knee-level table.

Ittybit gathers a fistful of shell peas and runs off to find her friends. And save for a few hot-pink flashes through the living room and back into the porch for more crudite, she is on her own.

Silas, on the other hand, is always at arm's length (except for the moments when he is baby-napped by dozens of infant deprived revelers.

At one point, Annabel found a tradition of her own to try out. With her father's help, the pair burned a champagne cork and proceeded to endear themselves to the guests by asking them if they would like their faces painted.

Oddly enough, 7 out of 10 folks -- including yours truly -- couldn't turn down a preschooler bent on blackening faces.

But I suppose I wasn't the only one surprised by what happened after midnight. ... And I'm not talking about a gaggle of neighborhood carolers who'd apparently got waylaid after Christmas. I'm talking about Annabel's disappointment at having to wear her coat home.

"Wait. I thought it would be spring?"

"No honey, The New Year doesn't change the seasons. It's still winter."

Yeah ... No, you can't go by her

I've eaten peas, celery, cucumbers and carrots, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

We had a medical day today. A well-baby, well-child extravaganza that started in the morning and stretched into the afternoon.

Got everyone into the car in time to drive through an apocalypse if we had to just to be on time. And strangely enough, we left on dry pavement and arrived an eternity later in a whiteout with two inches of accumulated snow.

Of course the real fun was juggling two semi-nekked children as each had to go in different directions. Suffice it to say Annabel did a wonderful job reading the eye chart, peeing in a "hat" and getting a shot.

Annabel told the doctor that she liked broccoli, cucumbers, peas and yogurt (but only the plain kind not the kind with the fruit). And that she also liked raccoons, but not to eat. (whew). The doctor's mouth was only slightly agape (no spittle or drool visible) when Ittybit took a gander at the eye chart on the wall and noted that she liked "the frame."

She apparently doesn't see too many art movers kids.

Silas, however, screamed his way through the scale, the examination and the immunizations.

The doctor asked how he was doing. Was he rolling over from both sides? Pushing up from his tummy?

"Yes. Yes. But he's not pulling himself up to a seated position yet. By this time with Annabel we had to retire her cradle and pull the bassinet insert out of the Pack and Play."

"Oh, Annabel was always precocious," she warned. "You can't judge a normal child by her."

So for the record:

Annabel, at 4, weighed 30 pounds and measured 38 inches tall.

Silas, at 6 months, weighed 14 pounds 8 ounces (5-10 percentile) and measured 25.5 inches (10-25 percentile) and head circumference 42 cm (10 percentile).

Comfortable silence

Happy New Year, fellow flickrers, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Dear Babies of Mine,

I had resolved to try and breathe more (and scream less) through my frustrations.

I had hoped to start living more in the moment and not in the dark cave of my thoughts.

Perhaps I should be more positive, since the clock has not even struck midnight yet and already I'm appologizing for losing my intentions. Because I know I will.

Like so many resolutions prior, I don't expect this one will last too long into the new year. I am, afterall, the same person I was yesterday; the same person I was a year ago. I am the same person I will be tomorrow.

But that isn't really true of either of you.

With Silas changing into a kid more each day; reaching out for toys to activate and strands of hair to pull, I've also watched Annabel change and grow into a little girl.

When he cries in the car she sings to him, or searches for his binky, or plays peek-a-boo.

Often it works to calm him but yesterday nothing helped. He was just too tired and in need of sleep.

With a long road ahead I reached back and took her hand. It was warm.

"Mom. You've got the wrong hand," she said quietly.

"No I don't. I have your hand."

And with that the car fell into a comfortable silence.

It's enough to give me hope that anything is possible. That maybe the intention of wanting to be something else -- something better -- is enough. For now.

Happy New Year, babies.

Love,

Mommy

And now we are four ...

i can still hear the laugh, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

SHE: Hey dad! The Christmas tree lights are BEE-YOOOOOU-TIFUL!

HE: Really? I was just in the livingroom and they were turned off. How did they get turned on?

SHE: I plugged it in. Don't worry, I still have all my fingers.

Somebody must have bribed her ... that's all I can think

her name is Selene, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Remember I told you about my vision for an Earthy-crunch Christmas? A holiday without a cadmium-lead-toxic-cocktail of toys?

I spent hours and hours on Etsy, scoured the Web for toys that didn't have the Made in China label and plunked down dollars for lots of things I assumed would be well loved a long, long, time from now ... when she was older, and could appreciate the beauty of natural fibers.

I was wrong.

Tonight Annabel played with the handcrafted doll for hours. She carried her around in her new doll sling, rocked her in the new horse swing and put her to bed in her basket, being careful to wrap her in her blanket and tuck in the doll's own softie toy.

I still don't really believe my doll-dissing daughter has adopted this little beauty as her charge.

Perhaps this newly discovered love of dolls was jump started by fact that I had a a sling made for her in the same fabric as mine.

But who can predict the mind of a preschooler? I've was even wrong about the name. (I thought she'd likely name the doll after her favorite TV personality, Emily Yung).

"Her name is Selene. ... or maybe Angelina ... No. Selene. I'll call her Selene. Yeah, that sounds good."