Summer's end

silas rides the ferris wheel (dad's), originally uploaded by toyfoto.

It was getting dark. Silas was asleep in his car seat before we pulled out of our grassy parking space. He was filled to the brim with the confusion of sights and sounds, not to mention the frozen fruits of the Dairy Bar. Annabel was clutching her hard-won prizes from the midway. (Hard-won in part because her parents were't so sure they wanted to let her try and win them.) She was spinning from fistfulls of spun sugar and frenzied carnival rides

The county fair has come and gone. Summer is over.

But it surely went out with a bang.

We traveled to visit some friends in western New York over the weekend, stayed overnight in a hotel with a pool, and sprinted back just in time to meet up with another dear friend and go to the fair.

Soon will be "back to school" time for one little miss.

It's hard to believe that in no time we will be wearing sweaters and coats and pulling on boots and hats. We will get the snow shovels and ice scrapers out of their summer storage spaces. We will turn up the thermostat and start wearing socks around the house.

Summer will be just a warm memory.

And then, soon enough, its arrival will be anticipated once again.

A place in my heart

Be Still gave him these when he was just a baby, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Dear Silas,

You walked over to your sister last night and gave her a bear hug around the waist. She kissed you on the head.

It was bedtime.

Both of you were taking spins on the wheeled cars in the hallway. She was careening past you while you were pushing yourself along, slowly.

Time for bed.

You followed her down the hall and into her room. She let you play in her closet.

You were quiet.

As we were reading our books for that evening - "The Mitten," "I Love You," and the next chaper of "Alice in Wonderland," you interjected.

Clawing your way onto the bed, you first went for the books and then for the play tent your father recently repositioned for optimum purposes of princess pretending.

But the bedtime, right now, is only your sister's. She has a bed. And a room, and a routine.

After she was tucked in, kissed goodnight and the lights dimmed I closed the door and walked to the space that will be yours.

The room is an afterthought: A corner leftover from renovations. A place for weary travelers to spend the night. It has a trundle bed I bought at a yard sale for $15 and a dresser I bought for you.

Nothing else.

No windows. No real doors. No space for much else besides walking in and out (or through).

When the ultrasound technician waved her magic wand and told me you were a boy, my heart sank. I wasn't disappointment because of you, however, rather I was disappointed for you. I knew this room would be yours. And I felt it wasn't enough.

Since then you've settled into our lives, but not really into our house. There is not place that's really yours. I've put it off. You were, afterall, a baby. A part of me could justify your being still a part of me. At night, in bed, with you kicking gently into comfort, I am reminded of when you were kicking on the inside. I can imagine you are still a part of me.

That night, as your sister settled down to sleep, I took you into your room thinking I might be inspired. You had no urge to get down. There was nothing for you here. Maybe some shelves for toys would make it more welcoming? Maybe a plush rug? Still nothing.

I heave a sigh and snap off the light: "I'll think on this tomorrow, boyo. Tonight you are still a baby."


Love,

Mama

Fear mongering is NOT a public service, part II

I have to say my faith in the system has been ever-so-slightly restored. Only it's not the US - as a government entity - that's done its homework, its a group called Judicial Watch.

Get a load of this.

My faith will greatly be restored if politicians would heed Judicial Watch's advice and not mandate this drug for our girls.

Fear mongering is NOT a public service

He handed me the bib.

It read: “Babies Sleep Safest Alone.”

I took it, thanked him, and used the blue-fringed bit of cloth to clean the toilet.

“Babies sleep safest with mommies who wake up to their needs,” I muttered to myself, knowing full and well that some mommies and daddies are able to do their best jobs as parents when their infants are crying it out down the hall.

I don’t judge. How could I? They know themselves better than I do. They know their kids better than I do, too. I don't believe they are inflicting harm on their children. By the same token, however, I also think parents who have adopted the family bed sleep style - those who have made the informed decision to do so, anyway - are not endangering their kids’ lives in the least.

My vantage point in this belief comes from being on both sides of the debate: Our first baby thrashed and squawked until she was put down in her own crib next to our bed. It seemed pretty natural. She was still in our room, and I would wake up at the slightest sound to check on her in the night. She moved to her own room at around a year, and we all started sleeping through the night again. The doctor assured us, if she needed us we'd know.

The second baby wanted to be held and cuddled and soothed. Perhaps it was the circumstance of a rough recovery from his birth and my inability to get up and down for night feedings that made him accustomed to my constant presence. For the most part he slept soundly in the crook of my arm or on my chest where I could not only hear but feel him breathe.

I can't report whether either of my kids' sleep patterns are good or bad or normal or abnormal; all I can say SHE still wakes up some nights and finds her way into our room, and HE is he is a BABY. He sleeps like a baby. But he won't be a baby forever.

So ... the long and short of it is this: I've become fond of co-sleeping. I think when done correctly, it can rewarding. I think parents should consider it one option of many.

The American Academy of Pediatrics doesn’t agree. It has come out solidly against co-sleeping for reasons of safety. Joining it in its efforts are the U.S. Consumer Products Safety Commission and – not so surprisingly – the Juvenile Products Manufacturing Association (the association for people who make cribs).

Between the lot of them was devised this four word campaign of public disservice.

While acknowledging that co-sleeping is widespread in many cultures, the AAP notes that “what’s often overlooked is that in countries where co-sleeping is routinely practiced, families almost never sleep in beds with soft mattresses and bulky covers. A baby may be less likely to smother when the family sleeps on a floor mat with only a light coverlet.”

However what the AAP overlooks seems mind boggling.

It seems as best as I can tell from reading, the reasoning all hinges on a three-year study in which 180 children (in an age range containing 12 million) died in bed with their parents or siblings. It makes no mention of the circumstances surrounding the deaths: Who was the adult? Mother? Father? Babysitter? Were they obese? Were they intoxicated? Taking medication that causes them to sleep more deeply than normal? And it doesn’t compare information from the same time frame that shows thousands of children died in cribs.

What’s really in play here is the imperfect world.

*We cannot know which parents will drink too much or abuse drugs.

*We cannot know how medications will cause each person to react.

*We cannot know who is in an abusive relationship, and who might turn to infanticide if stress becomes unbearable.

*We know there ARE dangers. There ARE reasons people SHOULDN'T co-sleep even if they want to.

And since we cannot know those individual things we, therefore, cannot condone. We'd rather put our overwhelming trust behind manufacturers to keep us safe. We'd rather trust an increasingly overburdened and financially strapped government agency to inspect and verify the goods.

The question I really don't understand is why? Why do we look at the family bed deaths of 180 infants, shake our heads and mount campaigns while thousands of infants die, alone, in cribs, and not draw the conclusion that EVERY SLEEP SITUATION HAS THE POTENTIAL FOR HAZARD?

According to one report, more infants die each year in house fires than died in adult beds for all three years of the study, many of whom might have been saved if their parents could have reached them.

It shouldn't be lost on us that it is the AMERICAN Academy of Pediatrics is in America where we have real issues with societal norms and differences. Nor that the AAP's precautions about sleeping arrangements go beyond the immediate safety concerns into the more social ones as to why it believes parents are co-sleeping in the first place: It suggests that parents who can’t afford to purchase a safe crib should be directed to financial aid; if the parent is sleeping with the child to “offset loneliness” it suggests counseling. It even goes as far to recommend that babies can be buffers when the marriage is troubled, and again recommends counseling.

All of these things make sense when looking at both hard data and anecdotal evidence, especially if you infer that their target audience is the poor, the illiterate or the potentially drug addicted. Or if you believe that coddling babies is making America soft.

But the truth -- especially about safety and sleep -- can't be gotten to in four words.

The real public service would be to explain how to we can be safer in whatever choices we make. How we can make the best choices for our own individual lives.

The only problem seems to be that the information won’t easily fit on a bib.

I don't think so

silly mommy, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Do I really need to explain what this look is all about?

I don't think so.

Do I really need to explain that whatever it is I've said has been met with skepticism?

I don't think so.

I could have said, "The sky is blue" and her answer would have been, "I don't think so."

Do I need to mention that we're never ever ever - not in a million years - going to be able to save up enough money for college for this one?

I don't think so.

Let's nope there's still money for scholarships in 14 years. ...

*Please don't say, "I don't think so."

Reason #523 why I am not cut out for polite society

#524 - I spent a considerable amount of time explaing WHY people should bring their kids to see a variety act performing in Hudson over the weekend that had been featured on HBO's Real Sex series.

#525 - I've spent a considerable amount of money to hype the troupe passively (by buying and wearing their T-shirts) since witnessing an "adult show" a few years ago.

#526 - I didn't even send a change of clothes today - you know ... just in case something accidentaly got spilled on the more titillating parts of the design.

Turning that corner

dinner, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

... between baby and boy.

Sitting by himself in a chair.

Eating from a plate.

Drinking from an open cup (sometimes).

And now saying words.

Unmistakable, only-mothers-and-caregivers-can-decipher WORDS:

"Go"

"Down"

"Gape" (grape)

And ... when referring to the one he used to call "Mama" ...

"Dumb"*

*Gee, the teenage years come at you quick..

Ties that bind

friendship ties, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

She may be raised in barn, but Annabel most certainly grew up in another house.

Lori's house.

Friendship has kept us in contact in the year since circumstance forced us to part ways.

However, necessity brought us back, at least for a day.

Sunday evening, after the babysitter had called to say she couldn't take the kids after suffering a serious asthma attack, I scrambled for coverage. I could take Silas to work, recycling is still fun for him, but Annabel needs more stimulation.

Jed was away, my parents need all the stamina they can conserve for extended child care needs, and I couldn't really take the day off.

I called Lori and asked her if she could take Annabel.

She quickly said yes. It was a kind of floodgates call.

All the old loves come rushing back, and even some new ones that we didn't know we had.

When we tumbled through her door the next morning - loaded with bags and toys and changes of clothes - it was as if time had never passed.

I sat on the floor with my cup of coffee and chatted while Annabel made for the coloring books. Silas, once he'd gotten his bearings, demanded release from the carrier and made for the bucket of wooden blocks.

In a few minutes I felt a distantly familiar hand ... on my ass ... pushing me toward the door. Annabel wanted Lori all to herself.

There were things to do: Play Doh to be sculpted, dolls to be crafted and friendship braclets to be bestowed by her daughter to mine.

"You can go, Mommy. You can go now. Are you donna Go now?"

It shouldn't have surprised me when I bent down to scoop up the boy and make our way out the door and back to the car that he'd resist.

He wanted to stay, too.

Phoning it in

*Call Me*, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

I started this post with the lie: I've never really been a phone person. As I was staring at the words, however, I had to admit my mother would probably disagree (and would likely be able to produce the 1980s-era phone bills to prove the contrary).

So, I backspaced a coupla-four times trying to get to my point, which is that I've never been as comfortable with the spoken word as I have been with the written word.

It's not uncommon. Rare is the person that doesn't stay up late into the night on occasion wondering what it was they said and how they sounded. Recriminating themselves for talking too much or laughing too hard. Wondering if we've asked the right questions of shown enough interest. Worried, perhaps, we've shown too much.

I'm accustomed to the idea that if you have nothing to say you should say nothing. Even if you HAVE something to say, you might be better off not saying it anyway ... better people think you smart in silence than made wiser to your stupidity ... or something.

Whatever it IS that makes it difficult to pick up the phone and just TALK -- express interest ... show solidarity .... see what's going on -- becomes more intrenched in my psyche with each passing year.

I'm sure it all started out the moment I realized I really had no reason for calling in the first place. There's was no pressing information to relay.

As your lives continue to be filled with things other than parties and pub crawls, you become more cognizant of the potential for bother. The baby is crying. Dinner is on the table. Time is divided by focus ... or the inablilty to focus, as the case may be. In my own mind I think I'd just be adding to the noise.

The phone gathers dust.

I'm sure I will eventually get to the point where I make my husband dial the phone and address the person who answers on my behalf just to avoid the awkward starts and stops in the conveying of intent.

"Hello. This is Siobhan's secretary, Jed? Hi. Yes. She would like to know if you have any plans next Thursday evening? No? Well, the reason I (I mean SHE) asks is that she had a crazy idea that you and she and perhaps four other people (I will be phoning next) might meet at the movies for a girls' night out?"

In social situations silence is hard to maintain.

It's uncomfortable.

And the reciting of unwritten transcripts will haunt you for nights to come.

How often I'd like to tell people, "just read my blog. I make more sense there than here."

Work. Space.

A comfortable chair ..., originally uploaded by toyfoto.

I can't tell you how wonderful it has been to bring my boy to work.

It's not ideal by any means. Not only is the place filthy with grime and often smells of printers' ink and press solvents, the boy - when awake - is into everything and everybody. So, while it's not something I'd want to do on a daily basis, every so often when the sitter calls off her services (on account of sickness) or the doctors' appointments make the commute to and from and to again about as comprehensible as driving to Florida for the weekend, it's nice to know work still works for the kid.

All we need is good ol' friend recycling, a phone and a comfy chair


... laptop optional.

What summer vacations are made of ...

What summer vacations are good for ..., originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Clockwise from top left:

Baths - Ama Linda has a tub. We. Don't. (But I'm not bitter).

Pesto - Ama Linda knows how to make and cook with basil. And she let's grandchildren sit on the counter.

The Backyard Birdsong Guide (for Eastern in Central North America) by Donald Kroodsma - and gifted by Aunt Bambi. Hours of fun. (And SO much better than the call of a rubber chicken.)

Cocoa - Lots and lots of chocolate products.

South Portland - where we have friends willing to cook for us and put up with our shennanigans.

Candlestick bowling - on a rainy day. New tradition, right there.

The light in Ama Linda's stairwell - 'round about noontime - it's golden.

Cocktail hour - begins upon arrival ... right on the dot.

Flashlights - They're always some fun.

Off line and out of touch - except for the DVD player in mama's computer ... and when the family parks in the driveway of Bufflehead Cove Inn and captures a whiff of its wireless.

Bowling - So much fun it's worth a second mention.

Bathtub - Of course there's also an ocean in Maine and we availed ourselves plenty ... I just didn't bring the camera this time. Beach sand and gadgetry don't really mix.

And central to it all. ... of course ... is the mid-day nap It, above all things, is what summer vacation is all about.

Just keep swimming (please)

and then there was one, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

It's summer.

I've worked for 11 years in the same place and have accrued four weeks of paid vacation time.

The next five workdays will tick off Week # 2.

We had so much fun in Maine ticking off lots of people during Week #1 that we're going back.

The house will be monitored by the sole surviving member of the swim team.

He's going to be feasting on time-release tablets, so he won't starve.

Snicker all you want; but I wouldn't try to break in and leave any garbage at our place, though. This guy is MEAN.

Can't say, not knowing

genie, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

What is this? What are we seeing?

Her first response to virtually everything is to break down in tears. Always.

Sometimes the tears are real. Sometimes they are crocodile. It's not always easy to tell one from the other.

We try and analyze what we're witnessing. Tired? Hungry?

Testing?

We are working on our poker faces and our resolve to stay out of the fray. She's got to figure this out herself.

She knows how even if we do not.

How about them apples?

Cub Reporter pitches story ..., originally uploaded by toyfoto.

I've begun calling Silas "The Ambassador."

He is working his way into the hearts of just about everyone he meets just like his sister has, only using an entirely different set of tactics.

Where she steamrolled her way in -- peppering her new friends with complex questions and leveling shrewd observations their way -- he is quietly reading people and taking notes. The more comfortable he gets the farther he roams and the more liberties he takes.

Take yesterday, for instance. After he gave up his good old friend Recycling and defeated the neerdowell Hat Rack, Silas settled down in the center of the city editor's desk (having demanded to be put there by trying to hoist himself up) and just stared at our man Franco until he was given a reporter's pad, a pen, a highlighter and a small lesson about the evils of tabacco and caffeine.

I had to shake my head: Here is another child of mine who already knows more about winning friends and influencing people than I will ever understand.

Seriously ... I'm beginning to think these apples of mine have managed to catapult themselves REALLY far from this tree.

Hat Rack meets its match

Good old friend Recycling has a rival ...

the lanky, neerdowell Hat Rack.

Sir Silas, with his faithful pal Back Scratcher, has taken up battle.

Hat Rack hasn't got a chance.

Secret escapes

up the skid, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Ever get the feeling that you have found the perfect place?

Sure its public, but somehow the spot seems to be off the radar.

That's what we learned about Schodack Island State Park this past weekend.

Tucked alongside approximately seven miles of the Hudson River in Schodack Landing, the park, which has also been designated as state estuary, is situated on more than 1,000 acres of field, forest and riverfront. A portion of the park shelters a Bird Conservation Area, which is home to bald eagles, cerulean warblers and blue herons that nest in the cottonwood trees.

The park also features boat launches, eight miles of multi-use trails*, volleyball nets, picnic areas with grills, playground and restroom facilities.

We went on a beautiful day that was interrupted only momentarily with sun showers, and it was almost as if we had the place to ourselves.

Cost: $6 per carload.

*note to hikers: stay on the path (there is poison ivy) and beware of mud wasps.

These things I wish

*That no one ever calls you stupid when they disagree with your opinion.

*That no one ever makes you feel stupid for thinking differently.

*That you never attack a person's intelligence because you disagree with their thoughts.

*That more people would come to understand we are not only responsible for our lives, happiness and prosperity, but we are also responsible for others'.

*That fewer people used the word "unfortunate" while meaning "undeserving."

*More so than anything else, I suppose, I wish we'd realize we can't always put ourselves in someone else's shoes and know how to walk down their path.

These things I wish.

Gonna Catch a Big One

Going on a Bear Hunt, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

The day had been ordinary, we all had our work cut out for us: employment responsibilities for the adults, play for the children.

Nothing was unusual. Everyone seemed happy.

But the sun is waning. The witching hours are setting in. And as night closes in, strange things start to happen.

Sudden fears pop up. Angry accusations. Every step lands in a potential minefield.

She is crying in the backseat of the car as we start the 11-mile commute home. A few minutes earlier she had been happy, bubbly; singing nonsense songs to make her brother laugh.

All of that was gone now; clouded over my the pitfalls of growing up.


"I'm so, so, so, so sad," she cries, and breaks into incoherant sobs.

I can hear the fatigue of a long day in her voice.

I am tired, too. I am at the edge where I would trade all the happiness in the world for a 20-minute commute filled with comfortable silence. I am at the very place where losing my patience meets screaming my head off.

But all of that building rage disappears the instant she finishes her complaint:

"I am not pretty. My hair isn't pretty. My clothes aren't pretty. I try and I try and I try but I am never going to be pretty. I am always just going to be me."

I do what every parent does when words their kids say rip at their hearts.

I search what's left of my mind to come up at a loss: Where. Is. This. Coming. From?
How could she think she's not pretty. Has she not seen this? Or this? I mean really?

In an instant, I jump to cruel world of summer camp.

"Where did you get that from? Who told you that? Did someone hurt your feelings at camp?"

No, she assures me. No one stomped on her tiny little ego. Again it's JUST her.

I am taken offguard by the outburst, but when I think about how to answer I realize I shouldn't be surprised.

Hasn't she been trying to look different lately? Wearing dresses? Wanting her hair to look just so? She is watching and comparing and accounting for every slight, every stern look.

She tells me more about the problem's genesis. The kids, weeks ago, who wouldn't play with her. They all had pretty clothes and pretty hair. That must have been the difference, she reasons. She wasn't pretty enough.

I feel like I'm trapped in a cave.

Of course I want her to grow up unaffected by societal pressure. I absolutely want her to be comfortable in her own skin, whether it's beautiful or otherwise. I know all about beauty being skin deep and in the eye of the beholder and underneath. But I don't want to tell her that beauty is unimportant, especially when it clearly holds importance to her at this moment in time.

I've thought about what I would say. I've pondered the possibilities. I've wondered if by telling our smart girls that wanting beauty is petty and shameful we haven't completed a circle begun when our grandmothers we're told they should be pretty and obedient. A circle that skirts the truth of the matter.

Yet I also thought I had more time to ease my way into the pool from the shallows.

Instead I dive into the deep end: I tell her that what she feels in normal; that we all feel unpopular and unattractive at times but that often these feelings, while real, aren't always true. We compare ourselves to ideals that can't always be met, and we're also not always the best judges of ourselves. ... I don't know how much she understands. She is, after all, only four.

But she accuses me of not understanding:

"You are a grownup. You aren't like me. You don't know."

"You are right I am nothing like you. But I was a child once, only I never had the gumption you have. I would never have gone up to a stranger and asked them to play with me. I never would have had the guts to try. Your father even talks about how amazed he is with your courage. You are not like me. You are better.

"This is all the tricky stuff of growing up, you know. ... We humans are silly. Sometimes we belly up to the things that scare us and give them a good old poke in the nose, other times we take those same fears and give them a pat on the back.

"It's really hard to figure out which to do when. Even when you are a grownup."

I look back into the rearview mirror, and see her blotchy face, calm and serene. I know from her expression that the conversation won't continue. She's not convinced, she's just moved on to another topic.

"Can we have ice cream when we get home?

Partially hidden

looking, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

I am fearful.

Anxious.

Worried.

The space between my shoulders pinches from tension.

I can be morose.

I think I wear these things on my sleeve when really they are just tucked inside my shirt pocket.

Hiding fear is what I do.

Facing fear is what I hope to teach my children to do, though I'm no longer sure such a thing can be learned.

Fear seems to be what we learn.

Well, actually it's gastropod mollusk to be more precise

hey ma, look!, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

ITTYBIT: Hey, Mom! Look!

MOM: Wow. It's a worm.

ITTYBIT: No! It's not a worm. It's got ANTLERS. It's a slug.

"So ... I guess my weekend was better than yours ..."

Which is what people keep telling me.

But really? I'm at peace with my weekend come this Monday afternoon. I am.

It is true, my daughter IS on the antibiotics again; this time for suspected lyme disease. Some of you may recall way back about three years ago a ring rash showed up around her right ear. The doc treated her for Lyme disease then, much the same way she's treating her again now: discover bullseye rash (two locations this time) treat with three-week course of antibiotics. Go team.

Also. ... I found myself buying Annabel a $40 toy at the toy store on Saturday morning, because I have the working mommy's affliction, known in Latin as "boneless-mommycanis?" She and her friend proceed to spend the rest of the afternoon making trucks and buses out of reclaimed cardboard and construction paper just to prove the scientific fact: Kids Always Play With The Box.

On Sunday there were several trying moments:

First, when the girl decided she did NOT want to go to yoga, that she NEVER wants to go to yoga again and that I should just leave her with daddy so she could have fun and clean the carpet. So I went with the boy, and we got caught in the rain.

More literally, we found ourselves chasing a storm that blew through the Berkshires on our way home, the same storm that evidently put a New Jersey music afficiando in the hospital after a direct lightning strike.

While Silas slept peacefully strapped into his carseat, my heart raced around inside my chest as each mile brought us newly downed trees covering the roadways. Eventually the road became impassable and we had to turn back and find another way home. All I could think was "a few minutes earlier and this would have been ... oh, nevermind. ... I'd rather not think about what might have been.

Although, perhaps, the best part of the weekend came 'round about 5 p.m. as we were all sitting around the couch, watching something probably inappropriate for preschoolers on TV: Jed doing whatever it is he does with his iPhone, me downloading pictures from the weekend to post on flickr, Silas running around eating things of the floor and Annabel using "the big scissors" to cut little pieces of paper into even littler pieces of paper for some "project."

You know: basically ignoring each other while multi-tasking.

Anyway, I look over at Annabel and discover that she has cut off fistfuls of her own hair and is piling it amid the scraps of paper.

Now, mind you, I don't hardly comb my own hair so getting all in a conundrum over the condition of hers isn't really on my radar. However, I was surprised when I looked up to see clumps of hair fall from her hands. She doesn't want ANYONE to cut her hair. Ever. So I presume that I might have frightened her with my tone when I suddenly burst out with the obvious: "YOU ARE CUTTING YOUR HAIR!!!!"

She immediately commensed crying.

Ididn'tmeantoIjustwanteditshortlike ....Ididn'tmeantoIdidn'tmeanto Ididn'tmeanto Ididn'tmeanto

Ah. Childhood. When I really looked at the damage I kinda hadta admit she did a better job than I ever have. Of course, the best part of this little experience was watching Jed unearth his sewing kit from the basement and help Annabel make a pillow for her dolls for the express purpose of saving the hair inside.

We'll probably try and get it evened out tonight. Jed's a little worried kids will make fun of her mullet.

But truly the best little moment of the last two days I was somehow lucky enough to save for posterity:



We are ALL officially in love with dance class.

And really? Silas? He is so damn cute lately it's frustrating. Late last night (when he should have been SLEEPING) he was playing hide and seek in THE ZOO. He started giggling like a mad man when I asked "WHERE DID SILAS GO? CALL THE GUARD!!!"

The brush off

NOUNS:

A few sheets of 80 lb drawing paper (we used Strathmore).
A few pots of washable liquid paints (we used Crayola).
Sponge or washcloth (for clean up).

VERBS:

Spread papers out on large table
Drip paints onto papers
Fold paper
Unfold

LOOK MA, NO BRUSH!

*Me thinks Rorschach had kids. No?*

Sidewinder

13 months , originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Dear Silas,

I've been wanting to note all the things you've been doing now that you are the ripe old age of one-and-some. I've wanted to talk about the curls of hair forming at the nape of your neck and your still-blue eyes. I know these traits are likely to change.

I wanted to remind myself how long your legs look to me now, and how startling that is because your sister, my only real measure of comparison, seemed much smaller at this age.

All these things change from week to week, month to month, year to year. I've wanted to get them all down before I forget. But life keeps getting in the way. There are all manner of things that must get done: Laundry. Doctors' appointments. Mundane tasks and everyday chores. It's easy to forget.

It will also be soon that we won't be calling you "Goofy toof," I'm just a little sad to say as now your top-right front tooth is deciding to decend, soon to even out your smile.

I've wanted to talk about the stream of gab you garble, and the speed at which you get from here to there. I want to remember how you toss a ball and "play fetch."

I know I will forget these things in time.

I may not forget the screams of unhappiness from earlier in the month, but I know I will forget how you shriek with joy as you run into my arms, bringing me the ball I tossed in your direction.

We humans have a tendency to remember the many challenges but few of the rewards.

I probably won't forget how frightened I was that you would stop nursing, now that the wiggly phase has set in.

I probably won't forget how you started to climb this month; taking every opportunity to teeter on the rickety stepstool and peer into the sink. Or how you turned diaper changes into an aversive sport.

I won't forget how it occured to me that when you say 'Daddy' you run to him with a smile but when you say 'Mama' you are merely looking at food.

I won't forget the understanding that your days of sleeping in my arms will be gone and the muscle memory forgotten.

But I also know I won't soon forget how you ran laps with the doll stroller around the kitchen island (though in time, I'm sure you won't mind if I do let that slip from my memory bank.) I won't forget how cute you looked in overalls or how much you love to run around without them (or anything) holding you back.

And I won't ever forget the kisses you started giving me with great exuberance. How could I ever forget that?

Love,
Mama

Morning Commute

me = old and tired, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

I never realized how many times I could be wrong in a day.

By 9 a.m. I'd already been wrong about sixty-seven times.

For example:
I'd been wrong about the breakfast.
Wrong about the clothes.
Wrong about the shoes.
Wrong about the status of cartoons.
I'd been wrong about the rain.
Wrong about the car.
Wrong about who got to sit where.
I'd been wrong about every song we sang and every game we tried to play.


It's just that kinda day I suppose.

By the time I go home ...

... well, I hesitate to tabulate the mistakes I will have racked up.

Let's just say bedtime will probably push it into the BILLIONS.

Maybe tomorrow will be better.

Ok, so here's my advice ...

wreaks havoc, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Stay. Perfectly. Still.

She's better at hitting a moving target by accident than hitting a standing target on purpose.

Got it?

Good.

Quiz next Tuesday.

We all have our toys

Some are just more creative than others. ...

For instance Annabel, with the help of her father, has made this



... out of carboard, construction paper, PVC pipe, a smattering of glitter and a slathering of paint. I helped make the beds her "princesses" sleep in out of clothespins and cardboard.



Of course our son is happy playing with pretty much everything ... even his own feet.



Jed's got his iPhone ...

and I ...

I have ...



Toxic waste.

Simple pleasures aren't always so simple

her turn, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

When she was a baby I called her sharp eyes and furrowed brow "storm clouds."

Sometimes I could circumvent the disaster, often times I just had to wait it out.

Even now that she's the grand old age of four the storm fronts roll across her face with rapid advance and ferocious intensity. And usually by the time all hell's broken loose there's little for me to do but hold my breath and hope to contain my own blustery rage.

I. WANT. A. POPSICLE!
YOU. NEVER. EVER. GIVE. ME. ANYTHING!
I. DON'T. WANT. TO ....

Mostly I think she is tired. She doesn't go to bed on time. She's not getting enough sleep. Who could expect a child to have the patience of a saint when their schedule is as hectic as hers?

And that's what I tell people when her ominous skies erupts into hurricane force winds: "She's exausted."

But as every parent must do, I wonder: Is she really tired or is she just a ... the word that must be whispered ... brat?

They say you have to choose your battles, but which are worth fighting?

Is this normal?

Do I give in to her whims to often?
Should I care more about all these little things that matter to her?
When I'm thinking, 'What's one extra popsicle in the grand scheme of things?' am I really leading her down the road to a lifetime of unhappyiness?

Sometimes I feel like my REAL job is to protect her from herself.

Brush your teeth
Take a bath
Wear sun screen

These are all the physical things that will hurt her over the course of her lifetime should she not do them NOW.

But what about all the little things now that she's not a baby ... The bending to her whims because it's easier and really, I don't have an opinion one way or the other?

Do they not add up to some form of decay as well?

Sharing the love (and the Secret Service investigation)

the usual suspects, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

I'm blog sitting at Little Bald Doctors today and decided 'What a perfect way to share the love while Andrea's on vacation than to share the third and final chapter of the ME and the BUSH FAMILY saga over there?'

I mean, I'm friendly that way. I like to share the love and widen the investigation.

Of course, tinkering around in her bloggesphere really made me a little envious. I mean did you know WORDPRESS has password protection features and really nice interface that seems much more intuitive than Blogger? It also has automatic spacing and it does html code all by its lonesome (with the toggle of a button). All the code and spacing I'd prepped? Useless.

... But I digress

Go. Read. Make a new friend.

But please, come back.

*Pretty please?*

Ah, the good ol' dog days of summer

The other day I revealed my first experience in Kennebunkport, Me., and the happenstance of finding a beach next to the Bush compound by the light of the moon and - it would seem - the seat of my pants. Today I will tell you the second part of the three-part saga: The first time I took my then-boyfriend's (and-much-later-husband’s) dog to the beach ... alone.

Now mind you (and Jed would disagree with me about this) his dog got a little strange when we all started dating.

We had each brought a dog to the relationship (Maggie was his and Maddy was mine). And aside from the certain economy of their names --they both answered to either Maggie OR Maddy whenever their selective hearing acknowledged being called – after a brief time residing in the same house the canine pair formed a pack.

His dog, Maggie, even became a little dog aggressive. That’s not to say that she ever BIT another animal, but she did scare many-a-people at the other end of the leash who were thinking that she might. My dog, Madeline, who had previously been a coward in the presence of stranger dogs, now took a cue from her older and wiser compatriot and barked heartily at their presence out in the world.

Of course this new gang we formed – one that no longer acquiesced to the whims of its founders - barked at everything that moved. Sometimes with an insistence on stampeding towards other dogs with the force of a herd of wild boar, sending terror into the hearts of all involved.

You may see where this is going ...

Jed and I were in his hometown on a the new girlfriend tour: I was being introduced to his boyhood friends. During one portion of the weekend he was busy slowing down his friends’ golf game by agreeing to play while I had decided to take both our dogs to the beach. How bad could it be? They weren’t bad dogs.

And the day was beautiful. It was 7 a.m. and the beach was mostly empty. I had stopped at a bakery on Chase Hill and gotten myself a cup of coffee to hold in the hand that wasn’t holding dog fecal matter … (WHY DO WE DO THIS? Insist on drinking coffee on the beach when inevitably ONE if not BOTH dogs will squat and leave a present that will need to be scooped up and carried for the remainder of the walk?)

... I digress ...

The dogs were happily playing in the surf and fetching tennis balls and sticks I threw for them.

Until.

There.

There, in the distance.

Very, very far into the distance.

Almost on the other side of the beach.

Was a familiar something.

A Q-tip person: White-haired and regal, walking a boneless spaniel and flanked by two men wearing dark green windbreakers.

I knew the green men were protecting the little white-tipped dot, and the dot was walking a "Millie" clone.

I froze.

Maddy froze.

Maggie froze.

And then ... Maggie RAN.

I grabbed Maddy’s collar - lest she get any ideas about collusion - and watched as Maggie got farther from me and closer to the white dot. She seemed to be a black bullet; getting faster and faster and lower and lower to the ground as she zoomed toward the former first lady’s morning constitutional entourage.

My body was frozen but my mind reeled with panic.

OHmygodJedsdogisattackingtheformerfirstlady’spooch.

WhatdoIdo?

TheywillshootJed’sdog.

Hewillneverforgivemeforgettinghisdogkilled.

Staycoolstaycalmpretendnothingiswrong.

And then, at the very second, just feet away from her target, Maggie stopped short, sniffed a little sniff and turned around. She loped back to me as if nothing had happened.

I felt faint.

When we finally passed each other a few moments later, Barbara (as I thought of her but would likely bumble for "your majesty" if I tried to actually speak) turned in my direction, smiled and gave me a little wink. Her wordless reassurance didn’t really help me calm down, though.

In fact, I still kind of feel like throwing up.

Only dirty on the outside

who gave him that? Oh yeah, I did, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Remember a while back I wrote about having a spasm in which I thought cloth diapering would be a good thing?

I went crazy buying mom-made dipes off etsy. Beautiful things, really. Some with pirates. Some with horses. Others were colorful repurposed or organic or soft hemp beauties. ...

Well. ... I'm not going back on my enthusiasm for using cloth, but I am wondering if maybe Silas has decided these new nappies are just too charming to actually *ahem* use.

So far each time he's been in one it's usually dirtied on the outside. Dust. Dog hair. Popsicle. ...

It's only when I "change" him that he let's loose ... on the floor, of course.

As promised ...

First and foremost, let's finally close the chapter on the birthday that ate two months shall we?

After much hemming and hawing and gnashing of teeth (not to mention trying to decipher the somewhat condescending responses to my internets plea for help from the experts as to how I could get my computer to play nice with my new camera) I was finally able to process the photographs from Silas’ second official first birthday party.

The fact that I am still able to function after the tiny ordeal, having stayed up well into the night, is a testament to the power of coffee.

So without further ado, here they are ... pictures from when Silas turned one year and one and a half weeks:




Not sure it was really worth the wait.

Ah well, moving on to the second thing: I will try and fulfill another promise I made to my flickr friends recently about telling the stories I have concerning a certain presidential family, which, during the past two decades, has become VERY familiar to the people of southern Maine.

I must first warn you that however much I would like them to, my stories DO NOT cast a dim light on the First and second First family. Yeah, I know. Shucks. Worst still: The jokes are usually on me.

Here we go ... part one:

VIDEO KILLED THE RADIO STAR

Way back when George H. Walker Bush (that would be the former CIA man who was VP to Reagan and then a one-term president himself) was newly a former president was also about the time I got my very first almost-new car (NOT to be confused with my first nowhere-near-new car that I saved from the junk heap and spent all my part-time-job earnings trying to keep tooling down the highway).

So with this almost-new, mechanically perfect automobile in my possession I went where no one in their 20ish right mind would ever consider to go for a little weekend away: the southern coast of Maine.

Now Friends, I had never been there before on my own; didn't even know Jed from granola. All I knew was that there was a ocean and it was only four hours away.

I don't really remember much about that trip other than my almost-new car (a Honda Civic the size of a honeydew melon) gave me some trouble parking in a little tourist town called York. As it turns out I couldn’t seem to maneuver the little thing into a parking space big enough for a Mack truck without power steering. (Yes, I am a weak link.)

After a small gathering of tourists applauded when I finally managed to sidle up to the curb (pulling forward and back, this way or that, no fewer than 48 times) I got right back in my car and headed farther up the coast to Kennebunkport where, I hoped no one had seen the clown show I made of parrallel parking.

But I digress ...

Ah, was it pretty there.

Being a young and idealist photographer, not to mention a slight bit of a *cough-cough* romantic, the first night I was there I found myself lured to the Harvest moon hovering seemingly just inches over the water. I walked and it walked with me. Like a pet. ... only a pet that was obedient.

I digress again. ...

Anyway, I followed that moon - that crazy moon - up Ocean Avenue and out of town. Further and further away from the lights and the hubbub. Suddenly. A beach. A tiny public beach made of rock and boulder. I pulled my almost-new car over to the side, took my camera and tripod and hoofed it out to seaside.

Dang, that moon was pretty.

A few seconds after I’d set up my camera two white paneled vans skid to a stop near my car on the road; their lights glaring down onto me a few yards away.

They wait. And watch. No sound just blinding light.

I can’t get pictures of the moon with those lights.

I get back in my car and head back to town ... where I buy a map.

And learn I was here.

And Friends, somewhere in Washington enshrined in some little folder, is a piece of paper with my name on it (probably) ... and I never got that picture of the moon.

Click in next time (which may be days from now, who knows) when I reveal the second in this three-part harmony opus: ME and The BUSH FAMILY.

Progress

I got a new phone today.





No. It wasn't an iPhone. More like the Batphone.

Although my guess is it works just about as well.

A Tide-y Prophet

Looks like P&G stands to make a Tide-y profit, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Welcome to the new economy, where less is less it just costs more. Of course it's entirely possible that in the old economy marketers laughed their way to the bank selling us less by watering it down so it would look like more ... but that's just semantics.

On the left you can see the detergent I bought about three or four months ago. On the right is its replacement, which I purchased last week for the same price. The small bottle claims to contain the same 96 loads-worth of soap.

Let's see if the claims are true, shall we? Two loads down ... 94 to go.

My guess is someone's taking someone to the cleaner's alright. Or maybe they already have.

My sentiments, exactly

listening, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

The most truth that can possibly fit on a t-shirt, without, you know, being hard to read thus making you look like a stalker as you TRY to read it, right here.

The things I miss

Dear Annabel,

When we returned from our Maine vacation Sunday evening and your amah and papa brought back your healthy (and suspiciously larger) goldfish I was a little taken aback by their exclaimations in my direction.

I had expected them to tisk over the sun exposure so painfully obvious on your lower arms and cheeks. I expected them to hiss inward upon seeing the angry, red striped wound on your upper arm, which from here-to-fore will be known as the "boogie board accident of 2008."

Not a word of recrimination.

Instead they looked at me and exclaimed how "beautiful" I looked. How much younger and rested I appeared even though I must be tired from the travel.

Immediately I was suspicious of their compliments. "They always say I'm too thin. ... Do they think I've gained weight? Do I look old to them?" I don't feel any different. Maybe it's just new shirt I bought for the trip - the seablue, overdyed jersey - that gives me a little restful glow."

Sad, really, I can't take a compliment. I try to shut down the thoughts as they come. They won't do any one any good.

As I relaxed into the idea of life returning to normal, regaining my unhealthy demeanor, your grandparents marveled again at how much you and your brother had grown and changed in a week. They spoke of how they missed you. They laughed about how "awful the fishy food smelled. They got a big charge out of watching Silas tottering toward them with a new steadiness and listening to you talk about finding the doll bed of your dreams at the craft fair your daddy's school held in the center of town.

My mind wanders back to the compliment. Tomorrow is Monday and the everyday starts again, this time with new twists:

You are worried. Summer camp and swim lessons start on Monday. You will have to meet new people, form new friendships. You tell your father you are frightened but don't mention it to me.

In the morning, on our way to the sitter's house, you tell me that you are scared; that maybe people won't like you. That it will be lonely. You beg me to go with you.

But I can't. I have work. Always work.

Instead I stay a little later at the sitter's house and talk about the choices you can make if things don't work out. "It's OK if you don't want to stay. A counselor will call Terri and she will pick you up."

Terri and I trade several phone calls so I can be there in spirit. I know what she knows: you are having a good time. No mention of leaving, you are smiling all the time, even as she sneaks away once you are engrossed in play.

She is there. I am here. I envy her.

I look forward to Saturday when you start dance class. Finally, something I won't miss.


Love and embarrasingly loud kisses,
Mommy

Sea monsters ... and other summer vacation discoveries

be very afraid , originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Silas, it turns out, has found his voice. And I don't mean the cute babbling sounds, the almost-words that for months now he's been trying to work into conversations.

He's found the SCREAM. The shriek. Without words it says: "I am not happy you just ... put me down ... picked me up ... took away that toy ... took away the glass beer bottle I'd fished out of the recycling ... started sweeping ... stopped sweeping ... put me in the tub ... took me out of the tub ... closed the refrigerator door when I was trying to grab myself a brewski ..."

I could go on and on, but even the fleeting memories hurt my eardrums.

Meanwhile, his sister had the time of her life playing with the kids of some friends we invited to help us battle Maine's state bird (the mosquito) and soak up (too much as it turned out) the sun on the gray sands of Kennebunkport's finest beaches.

Of course by the time the week had drawn to a close we were a little concerned that our friends would have gotten more sleep and had a better time if they'd camped out in the car, so raucus were our mornings and bedtime (lack of) routine.

Ah. Vacation.

Really it's just a code word for "spending the same amount of energy (if not more) doing different (and hopefully fun) things while pretending to be independently wealthy." The truth is everyone needs another one just to get over one.

Stunning how changing the pace a little, even if the vacation itself is somewhat routine, can really wear you out.

We always go to Maine. We always stay with Jed's mother (or at least at her house). We always go to get Thai food at Mekong Thai. We always walk the dog on Gooch's Beach. We always get coffee and muffins at The Landing or at Port Bakery. We usually go to Biddeford to check out the offerings at Goodwill. We sometimes go to Freeport, which according to at least one Maine comedian is some native word meaning "more expensive than the real sh*t."

We meet up with Jed's buddies from back in the day, who now have wives and children of their own.

We seldom deviate from the norm.

Even if we bring folks with us (which we've done from time to time) we pretty much do the same things we always do. We sleep as late as we can. We make breakfast. We go to the beach. We get lunch. We hang around the house. Build a fire in the pit. Make dinner. Drink adult beverages and watch movies by the the light of the computer's DVD.

We think so hard about grand plans that they never seem to materialize.

We've never gone to Acadia. We seldom get to Goat Island or even Goose Rocks Beach. We don't travel up the coast like we used to. We don't really explore.

Instead we put salve on our bug bites and soothers on our sun burns. There is always some boo-boo or war wound to take care of. We throw a stick for the dog. We make calls and plans with Jed's childhood friends. We play cards and board games and chat into the night. Sometimes we go on hikes or kayak rides along the river. We eat ice cream and smores and too many snacks late into the night. Sometimes we just sit and listen to the waves ... from the sound machine that helps Jed sleep but keeps me up.

We always think we should be doing more than just pretending we're Mainers at heart.

*** I told you I would have photos from Silas' birthday party, and I fully intended to follow through, however I somehow managed to take ALL of those photos in RAW and the new camera's RAW evidently requires an update in my browser/translator widgety gibbit to open ... so I need to do that. You know once I get the laundry done and the worklife back up to speed.

Soon, soon.

Word

classing up our toys, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Perhaps yesterday's malaise was the result of a delayed reaction to news of the death of George Carlin last Sunday.

Now, I'm not what one would call a devotee of his nor could I honestly say I enjoyed his humor ... appreciated might be a better way of phrasing.

I appreciated the cleverness and quickness of wit. I appreciated the down in the dirt, lay it on the line tack it always took.

It made you think differently. Even for just a minute.

But as old as I am I wasn't old enough to really understand what he did when he - and others like him - stood up and swore up and down for free speech.

I know there are lots of people out there who think the way we use our words has changed the world we live in; made it a meaner more hateful place. They might be right. I don't know.

What I grew up being told, however, was words can't hurt you.

I think about this because I send my child to preschool - a place I've here and there referred to as "The Marilla Cuthbert Academy for Unspeakably Charming Children" for all its gentle molding of its young charges -- in the hopes of jumpstarting the work of making model citizens.

Making model citizens is a lofty goal, and one that people like me - parents who have gone through their entire adult lives wearing the same uniform -- T-shirts, casual sweaters and blue jeans (well excepting for that very brief window of time in the late 80s when *shudder* stone and acid wash BLACK jeans were all the rage) have rebelled against.

We have stalwartly refused to march to the beat of the professional drummer. "Be your own person." "You don't have to wear a suit and conform." "You don't have to play by some lousy, corporate hack's rules. YOU CAN BE SUCCESFUL AND BE YOURSELF."

Of course there are naysayers. There are those who ascribe to the school of thought that in order to achieve success one must dress for it; one must speak its language; one must put away childish things and act with mature refinement.

We shrugged our shoulders, made a kind of half-snort, half-meow sound and said: "make me."

Then we set out to make our own way in this world - which had now become a horrible place where crimes were recorded in times per second and no one gave up their seat on the bus to either the elderly or the pregnant. A place where parents were raising their kids in bubbles and the kids were coming out worse than before. ... That world. Who cares if it really doesn't exist? We think it does therefore it was created.

But I wonder ...

Have words lead to this?

I shake my head. I don't think so. I can't think so.

No. I don't think the world is any worse off because aint slipped into the dictonary. The world didn't stop turning when women left the home in droves, headed for the workforce. And it won't spin backward because I refuse to wear a business suit, or force my kid comb her hair and wear matching clothes. Giving my kids home haircuts isn't an act of abuse.

I don't care if my kid's arms are marker covered or if she's got splotches of popcicle on her shirt. We all choose our battles. And the crusty dirt between her toes is a rite of passage.

Yet, I worry.

Am I making a mistake by not making more of society's norms? To hover ... not to hover?

I've already felt the sounds of mild alarm raised in the eyebrows and clucked tongues in my direction; the doctors and teachers ... other mothers.

Carlin said it, and maybe it applies to me, too:

"People who say they don't care what people think are usually desperate to have people think they don't care what people think."

Since becoming a mother I have to admit there is really no longer a vast luxury in "not caring what people think," because there are people - Little People - who are depending on not only WHAT but also HOW we think.

And we all believe thoughts are shaped by what?

That's right, WORDS; Big words, little words, good words, bad words and even sounds that make no sense.

Of course Carlin, in addition to being a tweaker of notions, was proably best known for his ability to knit four-letter words into warm sweaters of intricate patterns.

Swearing is fun. It makes us feel powerful and in command. I don't want my kids to think that there are "bad" words. I don't even think I want them to think there are inappropriate words. Only that there are alternate words, which might make the message more readily received.

As satisfying as a good curse word is, too often used it becomes difficult for people - even willing people - to hear you above the din.
We must remember that the individual words should never be more imporatant than their collective meaning.

I think Carlin understood that.

I hope I can help my kids understand that.

As a parent, it just feels so odd to wonder: "What Would Carlin Say?"

I'm sure he'd say this was all full of shite. He'd leave off the e.

** In any event we are off to Maine for a week of rest and relaxation. I'll tell you all about Silas' birthday party (or at least show you pictures) when we return.

Some days ...

automatic, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Some days it seems as if this here rambling, online journal writes itself.

Not today, though.

Today feels uninspired.

What's worse, I suppose, is that this lack of inspiration is also causing me to have a bit of an unwanted epiphany about the value of keeping track of every little thing about what is just life; writing it down while attempting to embed artful flourishes into what otherwise is utterly banal.

Could it be the blues? The blahs?

I don't know. I can't really put my finger on it.

Oh the mystery

the almost unknown reusable bag comic ..., originally uploaded by toyfoto.

"Mama? Why are our windows punctuated by skinties?"

It was unusually cold this morning. There was condensation on the windows of the car. Maybe she was asking about that. I don't know.

I told her to ask her father. He's dyslexic. He'd know.

Now we are one

now we are one, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

I don't know about you but whenever we have to go to doctors I can feel my blood pressure go up.

Even if I know in my soul of souls there is nothing wrong with my children that two shots of tequila (for me, not them) couldn't fix.

It's when I feel this way that the blindsiding always happens.

It's always when the doctor points out something you overlooked ... or missed while you were looking elsewhere ...

"So. How's he eating?"

"Well I suppose he's eating just breastmilk and air ... but he's still gaining weight."

"Yes, he is ... but according to this he's slipped off the weight charts."

My children have a tedency to do that. They hover low on the lines until they start walking, and then they walk right off the grid. You can't even hear the little thud when it happens, evidently they really are THAT small.

And yet, he's got good baby pudge. He's not the plumpy plump that looks so adorably edible on wee babes, but he's not skinny. He's just scrumptious. Since the nurse had made an error on his height (missing an inch of growth) the doctor had him weighed again, too. No error there.

My meditation begins: Don't worry mom. Don't worry mom. Don't worry mom. Don't worry mom. Don't worry mom. Don't worry mom. Don't worry mom. Don't worry mom. Don't worry mom. Don't worry mom. Don't worry mom. Don't worry mom. Don't worry mom. Don't worry mom. Don't worry mom. Don't worry mom.

Eventually I drown out my thoughts.

Until the nurse comes in with Annabel's chart and reads a notation that her hearing and eye tests weren't noted from her four-year examiniation back in December.

"I'm sure they tested her eyes," I say looking at the chart on the wall, "But I don't recall a hearing test."

A few minutes later, the nurse reappears with a box that looks like a portable record player and some earphones. She hooks Annabel up and tells her the rules to the game.

At first Annabel seems to play by the rules. She drops a block into the bucket whenever she hears a sound. She gets so good at this game that she starts to drop blocks even BEFORE she hears a sound.

Backing up the process. Let's do this again.

Now she's not playing the game. Now she's lining up the blocks against her leg and ignoring the sounds. When the nurse asks her if she hears it ... she says "I think I hear it." When the nurse asks her which ear the sound came from she points.

The game continues. But the rules have changed.

I think I hear the sound. ... This ear ... she points again. This time the nurse is silent. "Ok. This ear," she says, pointing to the other ear.

"That's not how it works, " the nurse says.

Back and forth ... sometimes she seems to hear, sometimes she just plays with the blocks.

She asks when the game is over. She's tired of it.

The nurse can't tell if she has a hearing problem or if it's just her age: that horrible fourth year, where truth and fiction become almost indistinguishable.

They want to retest her when Silas comes back in three months. Until then I'll be trying to force-feed the Champ and wondering if Ittybit is going deaf or just ignoring me?

Sigh. Oh, look. Just below. ... Rock show. no earplugs. ... Double sigh.

THE STATS:
Silas: One Year
weight: 17 lbs., 12.5 ounces
length: 28.4 inches
head circumfrence: 45.8 cm