Christmas week

We had Christmas at our house on Sunday the 21st, the morning before we flew down to New Orleans to spend Christmas with Sean's parents and the Charbonnets (including Gillian's greatgrandmother, Adee). Unlike last year, Gillian really got the opening presents thing, and she pretty much refused to do anything without Baby Jesus from our Nativity scene for a couple weeks before that...and she had so much reverance for him. No pretending he was eating or going to bed. Just gentle touches and kisses. Very odd.
Christmas day for us was cozy. We couldn't help but think that next year will be more wild-but it will be here in our own home. The biggest gift for her was a drum set-fully functional, and a real instrument for kids 3-11 years old. She has shown such an ear for melody and rhythm that we wanted to encourage her. Obviously music lessons on melodic instruments will come, but she is just not able to process the discipline of lessons just yet, so we'll hone her rhythm skills for now. Sean built her a little stage with a little rug (complete with Christmas lights) to perform on. Here is a clip from her first jam session (punk rock Twinkle Twinkle Little Star-note the angst!):


Monday morning we headed out to the airport, and had a seamless check in, thanks to Sean's secret check in area and secret security line (if we had gone the way of Everyone Else, we definitely would have missed the flight). Timing was great, but then we sat on the plane for an hour. An hour of inconvenience seems like a blessing compared what might have happened had we tried leaving in the afternoon. O'Hare flights were a disaster for days after we left due to snow and ice.

Nonni and Grandaddy met us at the airport and Gillian went right to Bill like she sees him every day (Skype literally removes any weirdness between her and them after time apart). And just like last year, Sean's bag was lost by United (though last year it was everything but the carseat, which was fortuitous), and delivered after midnight. Gillian was sure she was in heaven with all that attention, and there was no shortage of hugs and kisses for her!! We stayed at the Hotel Provencial, which is a lovely old collection of buildings in a wonderful part of the French Quarter. We usual stay with family, but the usual digs were all booked with other relatives in town for the holidays, so it was a treat to stay in the Quarter, steps away from Cafe DuMonde and the French Market, and everything else we wanted to do aside from visit family.

The first night we had an intimate dinner with Adee, the Thornhills (Suzi's sister's family), as well as her cousin and brother. Gillian is *in love* with Suzi's sister Alyce ("Leesie" as named by her grandson) who she met once on Skype and has been enamored of ever since (she has been talking about her for at least a month), and they played all night with a tub of plastic bugs.
Wednesday was a wonderful day. Nonni and Grandaddy walked Gillian to the Audubon Aquarium in the morning while Sean and I slept in until 9, lounged around and mosied over to Felix's for a fat filled and delicious lunch of Po Boys, etouffe, and Oysters Rockefellar. Gillian had a three hour nap, and then we decided to go out to Jackson Square to hear some music. We danced to the music of the guys that are always in the same place, every year, playing Dixieland Jazz for tips. They had a young little white kid tagging along this time, who by all accounts was pretty amazing on his trumpet and singing.


Gillian enjoyed the street musicians and artists, especially playing guitar with the Gilly-sized puppets:


That night, we had dinner at a place with a giant blow up Santa and Penguin that Gillian had to give a hundred hugs and kisses to before she would grudgingly leave (to the amusement of others in the restaurant), and then we took her home and put her to bed and Sean and I headed out to Preservation Hall for some excellent and very traditional Dixieland jazz. The Hall is all about the music-no frills, rickety benches in an "L" shape in a pretty small room, no beer, no food, no smoking.

Christmas Eve day dawned bright and warm, and heavenly. Gillian got to go to the playground for the first time in over a month, but not before she experienced her first beignets, which, like any sensible person, she loved:

That evening was the big Christmas Eve party at Adees where Gillian was one of the 16 great grandchildren under 8 years old present that night, and it was a wild and crazy evening (Santa came, even!). A huge pot of crawfish etouffe filled the entire house with the smell of Christmas at Adee's, and visiting with all the aunts and uncles and cousins was wonderful and overwhelming, as always. Christmas Day was low key, with a small group for lunch, and we got on an empty airplane and flew home. The day we left New Orleans it was sunny and 80 degrees, and we arrived home to 4 inches of ice in most places (a couple on our windshield in long term parking) and as much as 8 on the sides of the road and bitter cold. In spite of that, it was nice to be home. We all had a blast and so appreciated everything Nonni and Grandaddy did to make the trip hassle free!!

Words and Gillyisms

I am sometimes amazed by Gillian's word associations. For example, we don't use the word "trip", but the other day I asked her if she wanted to take a trip with me to the store. She immediately said "Yes, Mama and G can take a trip on a rocketship". Sean recognized that this was an allusion to the Little Einsteins shows which Gillian saw exactly twice about three weeks ago. The first bit of the theme song goes like this:
"We're going on a trip in our favorite rocket ship,
Zooming through the sky... Little Einsteins
Climb aboard, get ready to explore
There's so much to find, Little Einsteins" (she burst into the song moments later)

Yesterday she wanted to go to the children's museum again, and I said we would go another day. Then she started singing a song with the word "another"-"Rain rain go away, come again another day"....

She has also started telling tall tales. When she went to the aquarium with Nonni and Grandaddy, she got some wild ideas about the "big shark" she saw and was all excited when she came back to the hotel, talking about the "Biiiiiiig shark that came and bit Gilly on the bum and made a BIG BooBoo right HERE (with pointing)." Tonight she bumped a chair and pretend cried and told me she "boinged her face" and "broke her cheek" and "need[ed] a new one", and that "Papa will buy it". Listening to her prattle is endlessly fascinating, and she talks a LOT, about every single thing she has seen or heard as long as her memory goes back.

Life flashed before my eyes or the Story of How I Almost Lost My Daughter and My Mind in 60 Seconds Flat

Today Sean and I decided on a mutually beneficial use of our afternoon where he would go to Will's shop downtown to use some tools he needed for his violin while I took Gillian to the Children's Museum to entertain her during an afternoon of awful weather. It is a great place to take her a) because it is free for me to take her there and b) getting dropped off makes it completely free. Plan began beautifully. Gillian and I had a blast. She loved playing with all the things and *gasp* they even had a room full of babies this time called "taking care" in the ever-changing "hands on" room. Gillian got to wash a baby in a bath tub and dry her (by the time she was done it was the cleanest baby that ever lived) and then put on a diaper and PJs and wrapped her in a towel, put her ina stroller for a walk, then gave her a bottle, rocked her in a rocking chair, and put her to bed. Hmmm...sounds vaguely familiar. We did all the exhibits. We climbed rope ladders, went down slides, played with butterflies, made choo choo trains out of builders supplies, and played with all the cool science stuff. Sean called around 4:30ish and asked if we could manage another hour and I told him we could, and I would take G to eat at around 5 and see him around 5:30 or 5:45 (he would be calling). So, per The Plan, Gillian and I headed to the food court at a little after 5.

The food court reminded me of an Indian Street Market-crowded, loud, and insane. I was really regretting not having the stroller as I went to one place to get my salad and another place to get Gillian's sandwich and she was running away for fun and spinning around in the throngs (probably one of the most stressful things I have done as a parent-getting food for us in a public place with no control over where she was). At that point I was wishing I had a few more arms and some dorsal eyes or maybe a leash for my ethereal dancing fairy daughter who was oblivious to the fact that she could be trampled or knocked down or kidnapped at any second. I couldn't hold her hand and our heaped tray of food at the same time.

I headed into the mess of tables and people and all their stuff and there wasn't a table to be seen anywhere, and the random ones I spotted had no chairs. I started to feel a little claustrophobic with all the people and strollers and winter coats laying across everything, but managed to find two chairs after asking every person in a 50 foot radius if they were using all of theirs. I got Gillian situated and we both ate peacefully for 10 minutes, and then she got bored with all the sitting business, and got down to resume her running back and forth to test her tether to me (and to test me in general) and maybe to see how many times I could say "Gillian, come here please. Stay near our table". NOTE TO SELF: NEVER EAT ALONE WITH YOUNG CHILD IN BUSY FOOD COURT EVER AGAIN. Not restful. Not relaxing. Stress. Finally I was finished and she ate the intermittent bite of ham and cheese until I was satisfied that she ate enough, and I got up to put the stuff from the tray in the trash can located 5 feet from our table. Then I turned around, and she was gone. Poof.

So in that moment that felt like thousands of moments all suspended in eternal spaces, I saw my life. The devastated mother whose daughter was kidnapped in a busy public place in a matter of 3 seconds when she turned her back, I saw them finding her dead from some sick monster of a criminal-my precious angel, my innocent sweet baby. My adrenaline kicked in, and my heart was pounding so hard I was having strobe light vision. I called for her. I looked around like I was crazy. I started looking at everyone with wild eyes yelling, "Have you seen my daughter??!?? Have you seen her???" She was nowhere. Nowhere. She just disappeared. I was sure she couldn't have run so far by herself. I ran back and forth like the criminally insane desperately looking for her in every chair, and in every face. After an agonizing amount of time (probably 45 seconds that felt like 5 minutes) and sympathetic looks for the lunatic (who was imagining she lost her daughter) from the masses, I, with canine ears, heard a little voice 50 feet away, and there she was at the table of another family across the food court. I ran and grabbed her, all teary and shaking and hugging her like she might evaporate, telling her to never never never do that again. I felt like God gave me another chance to safeguard my most precious thing, and I was grateful. I learned in that moment how your life can change literally in seconds. Someone could have grabbed her and taken off and she would have been gone, like a ghost.

So, out of sheer guilt for my terrible mothering, almost losing her, then scaring her with all my fear and love, we went to the Build a Bear Workshop. Gillian picked out a grey kitty cat to stuff, pushed the pedal to stuff it all by herself, chose a little and very special red heart from the bin of hearts, rubbed it between her little hands and gave it a kiss (because we want to always warm the heart of the things we love), and she put it inside the kitty before they laced him up. His name is Sam. And more than ever, I realized how fiercely I love her, and what her little life is worth to me, and how it could never be the same without her.

News

We have NEWS. There's good reason for my slack posting of late. It's because I have been racked with the exhaustion of early pregnancy...it feels weird to write that- I'm PREGNANT again. God willing, I'll stay that way until this baby is term. Early pregnancy with Gillian was a blur of sleep, naps, barely making it through my work day, and vague nausea. This time the sleepies are a hundred times worse because there is a toddler to attend to, and the nap options are few and far between. Luckily, we are just about out of the first trimester, and that is passing, along with the feeling of constantly being hung over. There is something surreal about going to bed by 8:30 every night and never feeling rested and being on a almost strictly-carb diet because only carbs have been kind to my stomach. The first trimester this time has been so much harder than with Gillian because I can't take care of myself first.

So, I was trying to post a little video of Baby B-we have yet to select a nickname-but my DVD reader is not cooperating. Photos of our two inch long wonder will have to do. We saw *him* at our ultrasound for the sequential screen last Friday (*Sean thinks this is a he, and through complicated logic, made the argument that he is a better guesser than I am, which wouldn't be all that impressive a claim (I was convinced Gillian was a boy so much that for 20 weeks I called her "he"). He was a little wiggly, but not the spastic little jumping bean Gillian was. For the record, I wouldn't mind if this child is mellow.

We have mentioned this to Gillian a few times, but it is beyond intangible. Her thoughts are kindof like this:

"Mama wants a brother
Gilly wants a sister
Papa wants a boy"

or "Gilly wants a sister-Mama go get one!"

or "There's a baby in Mama's tummy-So Yummy, So Yummy!"

I wish I could say I have been as consumed by this experience as I was the first time-when I ready every fetal development book that exists in my giddiness. But, I'm too tired. I'm just trying to function on a basic level. One thing that hasn't changed is my worrying that something could go wrong, but luckily I don't have the time to obssess over that worry like I did before.

Speaking of time and sleepiness.... Here are pics of our Little One at 11 weeks 2 days (1.75 inches long, with fully visible little hands and feet, nose, mouth, and eyes):

Exactly.

First thing this morning on the changing table:

"Mama's hair is brown,
Gilly's hair is blonde,
Cup's hair is PINK."

And so it is....

Crumbs

As Gillian fills my bedroom with the aroma of Vicks and the sound of Darth Vader with a chest cold (and insomnia for me), I am reflecting on a happier scene a few days ago.

I use to think Barney was the spawn of Satan. But, as nauseating sticky sweet as it is (what with all those Elysian cheeky-smiling, well mannered, polite, and respectful children), there is something to be said for teaching my daughter this:


There are worse things than a saccharine display of adoration by your devoted (at least in that particular moment) toddler.

Other universes

Today Gillian informed me that she made a Tweety-bird sandwich, alternately saying "tweet tweet" and "bok-bok, Mama"! Then she acted like a big monster and gobbled him up. Most gleefully his head, leaving a tiny bit left which she called "baby bird". She popped baby bird in her mouth and said YUM YUM! Then she told me she had a "fat belly" and that her tummy was full.

There are more than a few things I wish people had told me before I had a child. Whether or not I would have actually listened is another story. But I wish I realized how imagining things totally does it...so much that we didn't need to buy 70% of the things we own. Case in point-Gillian adores her pet rocks. If we happen by a particular yard, which happens to have a lovely assortment of rocks for ground cover, Gillian can pick ONE rock to bring home (this decision is not made lightly-it requires time and study and false starts). These gets faces and names immediately. They have a good life here. She made them an umbrella one fine day a few months ago (when she was neck deep in her umbrella phase), then decided the umbrella and "Bob" the Rock needed a table and chairs. Then they (Bob and his friends Rocky, Betty, Elliot, and Bug) needed a pool and kick boards like they have at the city pool we were frequenting at the time. The latest is that at their parties, they need cups and plates. My favorite of things is when I am holding one of the rocks and she gets right up in its face and says something like, "Do you want to go swimming in the pool, Bob??" like she's making an offer that is impossible to refuse. At bedtime, she tucks them in (her three favorites and toy ladybug) a cradle next to her bed and covers them tenderly with a washcloth blanket.

And who needs Matchbox City when you have posterboard and a marker to draw streets, houses, schools, and grocery stores with?? Gillian would have a MUCH harder time walking through town like a "big RA RA!" if the town was anything but flat.

I love these universes where everything is sentient. Everything can speak. Everything can dream. I want to live here full time. Life would be so Chocolate Factory-like. The second best thing, though, is having an imaginative child to lead you back to Neverland.

Fall again

It's the time of year when the trees lose their hair, and the ground gets covered in my favorite canyon tones-tree petals of gold and red and brown. The fall always feels so familiar somehow, so beautifully melancholy. A transition time between lush and barren. I always remember thinking on the big changes occuring this time of year...that my life mirrored the transition I observed everywhere around me. Gillian finally came home to us in the Fall. Auspicious things are happening this Fall for us, and seem to indicate that the next year will be ours to make of it what we will-even more so than usual.

Maybe it's the crisp clean air that makes me feel eternally optimistic right now. Maybe it's seeing that same sentiment emanating from others.... like the sweetness of the very young couple at the park the other day-I could feel their new love radiating out of their shy flirtation and lingering touches, and not so vague innuendos. I basked in it. It was lovely. And the Tibetan man and his son bridging two cultures and enjoying this playground in America, Chicago, so far from home... The son wore a Winnie the Poo sweatshirt on top of his traditional clothing and had the smilingest eyes I have yet to see in a child that young. Like he already knew the Great Secret. Maybe he does... At the playground that day, there were five languages being spoken and I had one of those moments when I was struck by how I love that Gillian will grow up surrounded by and appreciating so many different kinds of people. And I am grateful for that.

So the days march forward, and we are necessarily tumbling along with them. We are purging the excesses of summer now, preparing for the cleansing cold of the winter, and the rebirth of spring. The nights are growing longer and the days shorter for a while, until the last bit of life seems still. Once we remember where we come from, everything moves actively toward life again. This cycle is beautiful, really.

We are changing, and our girl is changing...fluid and transient. She is entering little girlhood. She likes getting her toenails painted and wearing daisy hairclips and cooking in her kitchen. As always in Fall, I wait with bated breath to see what and where the world will bring us. So far, no complaints because God is Good.

Savvy

Another little anecdote-this one is about dinner tonight. Gillian was being silly, and, being wise to the dozen cupcakes on the counter that had miraculously made it through 24 hours in the house, asked for one. I sized up how much of the food I had given her that actually made it to her stomach, and told her she needed to eat two more bites before she could have a cupcake. She then proceeded to negotiate. "One bite, Mama." Then took it a step further, picking up a single black bean from the plate. "One BEAN!" (Note: I told her that didn't count, and she did, in the end, eat Two BIG BITES with a spoon, and got her chocolate cupcake).

Grammar and Toddlers

Me to Gillian: Honey, can you give it to me, Please?
Gillian to me: NO, MY THIS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I can't help but love her clever supplemental word in the place of an object of which she cannot yet name. I told her it was, in fact, a Tupperware. To this she replied, "More tupperwares?"

Lightening speed

Gillian is growing like a weed. No, she's growing like a bolt of lightening. Quick and sharp and loud. She speaks in full sentences. She sings a good bit of the words of songs ("You are my Sunshine" and "I'm a little teapot" and (just yesterday) "Lollipop" are new to her repertoire). She draws monsters "with buttons" that have eyes, noses, and "mowfs". And she has added "Oh, Boy" to her exploding vocabulary for emphasis. For example, "Oh Boy, Mama, the monster [has] BIG HAIR" (while drawing) or "Ice cream, Mama, Oh Boy!". Since she has just recently gotten wise to gender (interestingly NOT because she has seen private parts as justification, but just because), I wonder what she thinks that expression means, exactly. Nonni happened to say "Oh, Boy Gilly!" her first hour here when they came to visit last week, and now it's an immutable part of Gillian's vernacular. But, the point is well made that we REALLY (and I mean, for REAL) need to watch what we say and how we say it. I've even taken to saying to the cat on the dining room table, "Excuse me, Kitty, time to get down" as politely as if I were talking to my grandma as to not encourage Gillian's inner hellion. Just yesterday, she told me to "wait there" and that she would "be back in a minute". Later, she told her toy Bug, "just a second" as she walked away to get something. These were before she started down the hall with her basket telling us she was going to work and that she would see us later. It is insane the clip that kids this age pick things up that adults say and do. Her imagination fascinates me too...tonight she picked up the coasters (out of the blue) and told me she was eating a sandwich. I asked her to make me one, and she brought me a book. We ate our sandwiches with lots of YUM YUM YUMs in between.

Last week Nonni and Grandaddy (who, for all intents and purposes will hitherto be called "Gaga" since Gillian doesn't concern herself with learning the proper way to say it) came to visit. I took the week off, and for the first time, really took advantage of all the help. I cleaned out my desk and my file cabinet (and if you aren't in awe, you don't understand what that means-I'm talking "insurance policies from 1993" kind of packratting). I shredded till my shredder shut down in protest, taking a nap until it could bear to eat one more electric bill from 1998. I moved my bookshelves into the living room to make room for Gillian's new playroom in my office (I am selling the desk and file cabinet. They are beautiful and solid oak, together weigh approximately 3 tons, and we will deliver in the City. Interested?). I secured the bookshelves, anchoring them to the wall in my paranoia of having them come crashing down on my child or someone else's should they decide to scale the shelves in search of the philosophy of Friedrich Nietzsche or the particulars of atmopsheric chemistry. I also cleaned and reorganized the hall closet, which is equally miraculous given it's previous state of disarray and how claustrophobic it felt to walk in there. Now it feels simply expansive. And my cluttered head breathes easier.

S and I enjoyed the help. We went out a few nights (btw-GiGi is now making a delicious Chocolate Martini at the O if anyone in RP is interested), slept in (after making a delivery of The Bean to the grandparents at 7 am), and didn't have to cook. It was heavenly. Gillian, who adores Nonni and Grandaddy, was on every day all day. She could barely stand to go to bed, and the first thing out of her mouth after calling us to come get her in the morning was something about Nonni and having a tea party. And, those of you who know my very extroverted Gillian are well aware that she adores and thrives on attention. She got plenty. We were worried about how she would do when the party was over-when the beloved grandparents had to go home-and we got back to business as usual. Interestingly, Monday she didn't seem to notice they were gone, but she didn't eat much. Tuesday and yesterday she was grouchy and still not eating much. We Skyped yesterday and when Nonni said she had to go, Gilly started crying (real tears) and telling Nonni not to go, but to come play with her (this was lump-in-throat inducing for me). So, her sadness has manifested in a different kind of way. Maybe not verbally, but she misses them. So Much.

All this has made me think good and hard about what it means to have support nearby when you are raising a family-emotionally and physically. It is really tough to be away from our family. That said, it makes us appreciate our friends and our family that much more.

Here are some moments from the past week that I wanted to share:

(Extra B-day)

Tea Party with Nonni

I wonder when the last time Gaga got on a slide was??

Playing music with Gaga

G swinging Elmo

G and Nonni being silly at Brookfield Zoo...

The 'hood

A couple of weeks ago, at about 5:40ish I heard 5 or 6 gun shots through the window. I heard a car tear down the street shortly afterward. Turns out there was a shooting ONE BLOCK away from our condo that morning. This is not the first time we have had a shooting so close (I can think of a few in the past year). The street a block away is a haven for drug dealers, thugs, and gang members. It is *almost* a ghetto near the train station. Frankly, every now and then it scares the hell out of me to have a young child near the riff-raff I see over there sometimes. One day my mother-in-law was out with G pushing the stroller through the middle of a bunch of kids on the sidewalk. They were on the way home from the little family grocery on the Sketchy Street when a car slowed down and pointed a cap gun at the crowd of kids, then they all shouted "GUN!" and hitting the ground. Even though that gun looked real, it wasn't, but it COULD HAVE BEEN.

Here's the ironic thing about gang members-they have remarkably bad aim. They always seem to target one person (usually another gang member) and inadvertantly shoot the 5 year old birthday girl, or the honor student leaving for college in two weeks, or the pregnant mother of two. It's all tragic, but my worries are about my blameless, pure-lit girl getting caught in the crosshairs. It's city living, after all...

It's funny, because in safe Florida, we didn't even lock doors. Maybe that is a thing of the past. I struggle with my concerns because I love the diversity of our neighborhood, I love this city, and I love my girl. I don't want to have to explain what a prostitute is or why she's hanging out by the stop sign on Wayne. Or why drug dealers torch fabulous new businesses coming into the neighborhood because they're afraid their unquestioned ownership of the block might be shaken. I struggle with how to maintain Gillian's innocence with the crazy city world all around us, while being truthful about what it is.

So, I usually don't go HERE, but I have to say it...

Yesterday I informed an old friend I probably won't be able to make her wedding because I will likely be deployed to hurricane responses in October (history tells me with an active season like this one has been that it is very likely). In her defense she sent a "save the date" a year ago, but I am on a response team whose month is October, and there's not a lot I can do about it (this makes me very sad, and I will go if there's any way on earth I can). Her response was, "Maybe I should start by writing a letter to George W and tell him he screwed everything up for everyone." This statement kindof left me scratching my head. What I think that meant was that she believes the current economic crisis is Bush's fault since "so many other people can't come either". Or maybe she means the hurricane?

I hear a lot of name calling when my friends talk about George Bush. I hear a lot of name calling (ignorant, idiots, "Christian neandertals" (that was my favorite, btw), etc., etc.) when I hear people talk about supporters of George Bush, or Republicans, or Conservatives-whichever the case may be (remember the front of that British tabloid in 2004, "How could 49 million people be SO STUPID?"). I pretty much think a person can have quite high intellect and lean either direction, so I don't quite get all that. I would love to see people attack the issues, the decisions, and the actions with a little bit of informed political salvo. I don't love George Bush and I don't like a lot of his politics, but I don't think he is a red neck bible-thumping Yee-Haw hell bent on destroying the country. I think he loves the country, I think he is a spiritual man (good for him), and I think he lives by his convictions (for better or worse). And, you can pretty much guarantee morons don't make it to the White House. He's not an idiot, maybe an rigid idealist, but not stupid. It's very convenient to name call when you've got nothing else.

So, this brings me to my point. Laying the blame of this financial crisis at the feet of the Bush Administration is political myopia. This problem may have started a much longer time ago, thirty years or more, under Jimmy Carter with the passage of the Community Reinvestment Act (1977). This act essentially required lending institutions to "meet the needs of communities", and paved the way for relaxing income and credit requirements for the issuance of home loans. Under the Clinton Administration, more low and moderate income families owned homes than ever previously recorded and the trend toward risky lending became even more pronounced. Although the idea of allowing everyone to get loans, regardless of whether they qualify or can afford them, to own a home is altruistic to the highest degree, it is amazing (to me anyway) that anyone is surprised that when the practice extends into overinflated housing markets that the bubble will burst eventually.

In 2003, the Bush Administration, concerned about increasing financial risks, attempted to provide more federal oversite to Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, but it didn't fly. At the time, the congressional majority felt future planning was unnecessary, given the robustness of the financial sector. Barney Frank claimed this was unneeded because "These two entities -- Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac -- are not facing any kind of financial crisis, the more people exaggerate these problems, the more pressure there is on these companies, the less we will see in terms of affordable housing."

Then who is at fault here? The overinflated housing market caused by the stratospheric ascent of housing prices in the past two decades? The folks who took out loans they really probably couldn't afford? The "predatory lenders" who deliberately targeted lending toward low and middle income people, bending the rules for who qualifies, and who, for years were seeing record profits and bonuses for their execs (MILLIONs each)? The federal government (under FIVE different administrations) that did nothing to stop or try to oversee this dangerously swelling monster (even a little) because times were so good for the economy, and no one wanted to see it end by pulling in the reins a little?

At any rate, I almost think we are remiss to bail anyone out. I'm not interested in the government buying up that much debt using taxpayer money, even though the financial greed of these companies is only rivaled by the federal government's own desire to overlook looming risk, instead focusing on whatever it takes to continue facilitating a booming economy. Let's make no mistake. This bail out isn't for homeowners. That bail out already happened with a $300 billion dollar program to aid homeowners that will begin October 1st. This is politics at it's finest, folks. It would be interesting to see how this would be handled if this wasn't an election year.

Happier things!

Enough of politics. Since this is GILLIAN's blog, here are some things we've been up to lately:

Counting (4 and 5 are consistently skipped, for reasons unknown, and things get fuzzy after 10):


Eating apples like a monster:


Singing about Monkies. On beds:

Is my kid a jerk, or is she just TWO?

Nothing could be more timely than the article A shared with me, reproduced for your viewing pleasure, below. Because Gillian's willful stubbornness and heady sense of controlling the universe is getting worse. Much worse. I mostly feel like I have the only kid around that acts like a little monster. About everyone else's seemingly perfectly well-behaved kids, Sean says "you never know what goes around behind closed doors." This is an obvious attempt to make me feel like maybe everyone else's kid throw tantrums, pitches fits, and fights then every step of the way too. At least sometimes. It's just that, as far as I can tell, no one really seems to want to share the dark underbelly of parenting with eachother. Maybe because they feel it would somehow reflect poorly on their parenting skills if they admit that their kid has issues (or that they have issues with their kid, for that matter). Our issues for the past week (on almost THE DAY Gillian turned two) are like this: The other night, Gillian's bathwater was getting tepid and it wasn't exactly tropical around here and she needed to get out (she wasn't wild about the idea of ending her half hour of bathing her Elmo over and over with bar soap-but he was CLEAN already. JEEZ.). I was trying to dry Gillian with a towel (she didn't want to get dry) after her bath (that she didn't want to end) and she was screaming so hard and crying that she threw up. Can you imagine being that upset because you don't feel like getting dried off, and being subjected to such cruelty anyway?

She acts like more of an jerk with me than with Sean, most likely acting out because I am home less. I can't get her diapers on without holding her down while she shrieks in protest. If I don't play the way she wants to play, she throws things, and sometimes herself, on the ground and thrashes around. She whines incessantly. I think she says "Mama?" 10 million times a day. She gets upset when I refuse to carry her around the house (which I have refused to do for a good many months now). She might ignore me when I am sitting next to her while she plays, but if I get up to move, she gets very upset that I have the nerve to try to do something else besides avidly watching her play. She follows the cats around yelling at them until they hide under the bed. Today we have decided, after telling her "No Hitting" for the millionth time in our sternest voice and eye-to-eye contact (to no avail), that she will get 60 seconds of time out from now on when she hits (she enjoyed one of these today, as a matter of fact). During dinner she put her feet on the table, and as punishment we pushed her chair out of leg's reach, and then she stood precariously in her high chair, with that "Do you dare me?" face on. Sean told her to sit down. She howled, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!". Nice.

I have a feeling that her third year of life will aptly reflect the title "Terrible Twos", for excellent reason. She is often terrible, especially since she turned two. There. I said it. My daughter Gillian often acts like a Big Jerk, and I can't even think of anything to blame it on. That doesn't mean I don't love her, or that she is destined to be an awful person. It means that, while I have known I have a very spirited, willful, and stubborn child all along (yes, tagging along with with all that awesomeness), we are in for it.

There was a little girl,

Who had a little curl,

Right in the middle of her forehead.

When she was good,

She was very good indeed,

But when she was bad she was horrid.

--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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Is my kid a jerk, or is he just 2?

My son bullies me, insults his mother and once punched an old man in the nuts. I know it's probably just a phase. But what if it isn't?
By Christopher Noxon

Sept. 8, 2008 My son pooped on me this morning.

The pooping occurred at approximately 6 a.m. after the 2-year-old leaped into bed and suggested that he'd be most grateful if I got up, escorted him downstairs and turned on his favorite program, a quasi-educational cartoon about a bilingual girl and her pet monkey.
What he actually said was this: "Daddy, up! Dora show! Dora show now!"

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On most days, "Dora the Explorer" is good for a solid half-hour of pre-breakfast calm. But not today. Today Oscar motioned to his midsection and said he "hurt." Woefully misunderstanding the situation, I kissed him on the head and loosened his diaper. At which point he tore off the nappy and grabbed hold of my leg. And then he pooped on my foot. This may or may not have been an accident. Looking up at me in the messy slow-motion moments that followed, his expression could only be described as satisfied.

I have two things to say about this. First: It is truly remarkable how tolerant of bodily waste one becomes raising small children. Before I became a dad, the news that my everyday routine would include being defecated upon would have sent me diving for a home vasectomy kit. It is some measure of how far I've come (or how low I've sunk) that Oscar's outburst prompted little more than an exasperated moan as I backed away in search of industrial-grade cleaning supplies. All of which is well and good -- there's no point getting overly worked up or grossed out over something so ubiquitous to family life that we parents simply call it "number two."

The second thing I have to say is harder to reckon with. Because the truth is this mishap was entirely in keeping with the general climate of aggression, crankiness, impatience and determined messiness that has come to characterize Oscar's personality over the last year or so. He demands. He resists. He screeches.

We've reached the point where I find myself seriously pondering the question: Is my kid a dick, or is he just 2? Because you never know. As much as it goes against the current mode of progressive, project-management-style parenting, I take it for granted that some kids are trouble right out of the gate. They're the preschool gangsters and playground terrorists, flicking boogers and insults at those they've identified as too weak to fight back. Just as some kids are born sweet-tempered and naturally gentle, others arrive as thuggish as HMO claims adjusters.
But heaven forbid you ever speak this basic truth among parents. Acknowledging a child's dickishness is truly one of the last taboos of modern family life.

A child may have "behavioral issues" or "developmental challenges," but the basic character of a kid must never be called into question. It's always, "Cody must be tired," or "Dakota needs a snack" and never, "Wow, Taylor's kind of a prick."

The trouble, of course, is that it's exceedingly difficult to distinguish garden-variety assholery from the normal psychosis of toddlerhood.

Some naughtiness is entirely normal, I know. The pileup of parenting books on my bedside table assures me that kids between 13 and 36 months often experience "challenging developmental steps." They're testing limits, exploring their autonomy, learning to control their emotions.

One need look no further than the table of contents of the modern standard, "What to Expect: The Toddler Years," to get a quick and terrifying picture of how toddlers operate. Whole sections are devoted to "antisocial behavior," "caveperson language," "crankiness," "annoying habits picked up at play group," "jealousy," "biting," "wall art and other destructive drawing," "toothbrushing tantrums," "coat combat," "repeated 'no's'" and "impatience (now!)"

You'd never know it looking at him, but my son samples freely from the standard menu of misbehavior. In pictures he's doughy and sweet with a mop of blond hair, big blue eyes and an irresistible grin. He couldn't be cuter, really. Most of the time, especially when he's at play, in the bath or asleep, he is by any measure the most perfect creature ever to grace the earth. Then he whacks you on the head with a spoon, laughs like a banshee and tells his mother that her new earrings are ugly and stupid.

Much of this nastiness is standard-issue obstinacy, but it mostly takes the form of an obsession with control. Control and honor. It often feels like I'm living with an embittered and incontinent samurai who must enforce his will and save face at all costs. As such, he's ritualistic and rigid, demanding that I and not his mother unbuckle him from the minivan or that he receive one red and one purple Flintstones vitamin or that his diluted fruit juice go in the cup with the frog and not the one with the rabbit. Any deviation from the script is met with screams of protest and a flurry of little flailing fists.

We've tried discipline, distraction and even strict adherence to his demands, but the maddening fact is you never really know when he's going to go ballistic. At an airport security checkpoint recently, he blew up when we removed his shoes and then found a new, more extravagant pitch of tantrum when we tried to put them on again. Later at a Chinese restaurant, he dumped his noodles on the floor and then ran among the tables, licking the tops of the Hoisin sauce containers. At a family barbecue last week, he greeted an elderly relative with a swift punch to the nuts (mercifully, he aimed left).

I wish I could say I take all this in stride, but the fact is it bothers me more than I can say. I've heard people without kids complain that parents have a blind spot when it comes to their own kids, that otherwise reasonable adults are only too happy to gush over the preciousness of their progeny while their little darlings run riot like English football hooligans.

I seem to have the opposite problem; instead of glossing over my son's misdeeds (or, say, chalking them up to standard-issue tomfoolery), I latch on to them as terribly important signifiers of my kid's true identity. Far more troubling than the chaos or general untidiness of parenthood is the ongoing agony of distinguishing passing phases from the first signs of what sort of person your child is and will forevermore be.

Never mind that his days are spent gnawing on blocks and smearing mucus across his cheek. Somehow, I can't help feeling that he came in fully loaded, that his identity is complete and while he may get better at sharing his toys and using the potty, this is pretty much it. This is him. Behold my son, the dick.

No wonder so few parents are willing to acknowledge their own kids' misbehavior. Doing so not only insults your offspring, it inevitably leads to reflection. For if my kid is a red-hot pig, what does that make me?

And the truth is I'm very familiar indeed with many of the despicable aspects of my 2-year-old. I too am often overwhelmed by a desire to kick and scream and punch creepy old strangers in the nuts. Like my son, I'm often irrational, hate being told what to do and cranky when sleep-deprived. But, really, who isn't? Aren't we all, on some deep and rarely acknowledged level, temperamental toddlers? We're just better at hiding and managing it, thanks to helpful crutches like cocktails, reality TV and cardio boxing classes.

For now all I can hope is that my son finds some crutches sooner rather than later. He just turned 3, actually, graduating out of "terrible twos" and into a period rumored to be less traumatic and tumultuous. My two oldest kids are 6 and 8, and I like to think they've never been anything less than the sweet and mostly respectful darlings they are today. If I'm being entirely honest, however, I'm pretty sure I could recall a horror story or three.

None of which lessens today's trauma. Developmental misbehavior may be a normal part of growing up, but pooping on your dad? That's just wrong.

Toddler Property Laws

I received this list of Laws at Gillian's 2 year doc appt on Monday. It certainly applies to Gillian's world view at this moment. As a matter of fact, she is almost a caricature of a two year old, she's SO two. Belligerant, stubborn, opinionated...but we'll take the bad with the oodles of good. So, here goes:

TODDLER PROPERTY LAWS AT 24 MONTHS

1. If I like it- it's MINE
2. If it's in my hand- it's MINE
3. If I can take it- it's MINE
4. If I had it a little while ago- it's MINE
5. If it's mine it must never appear to be YOURS in any way
6. If I'm building or otherwise doing something- all the pieces are MINE
7. If it looks just like mine- it's MINE
8. If I saw it first- it's MINE
9. If you are playing with something and you put it down, it automatically becomes MINE
10. If it's broken or damaged in some way- it's YOURS!

SO BIG!

Today Gillian is two. I wanted to write some spiritually moving thing about her being two, to express some existential wisdom about this motherhood thing. But alas, I am too tired for all of that. Suffice it to say she has changed my world in the most fundamental way, mostly for the better. A few thoughts, though, because today is a very special day...to my girl. Happy Birthday.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
You came to me full of angels
Full of breath
To remind me how to gasp for life again

You stayed with me
Though treacherous and winding paths
Pushed us off course

You walk with me
And remind me the sublimity and tiny beauties to be found
In our slow journeys

You try me
And in those moments, pure electric passion-lightening, slashing the sky-
I love your spirit

You sing to me
And remind me to find my voice
After all this time

We dance together, you and I
Every day, moving, and living
Every day, deeper and redder
You have taken permanent residence in this secret space

It's all relative

More on the topic of toddlers putting things together...

Gillian truly enjoyed going to bed for most of her little life, without question, but lately she seems to want reassurance that everyone else is going to bed when she goes to bed. Otherwise we might be having entirely too much fun eating ice cream and cookies and dancing, while playing with her beloved Tinker Toys, without her (I am convinced she believes that is what is going on by the way she will occassionally protest bedtime). So, after books when I put her down, I sing our going to bed song and turn on her music, and then we go through a thorough list of who is (at that very moment) getting ready to hit the sack: "Mama go nite nite...Papa go nite nite...Nonni go nite nite...Gaga (Grandaddy) go nite nite...Anna go nite nite...Julie go nite nite...Monika go nite nite...Elliot go nite nite...Elmo go nite nite...Lamb go nite nite...burpy go nite nite...feet go nite nite...(until we get to) GILLY go nite nite! Nite-Nite Mama!".

The odd thing is when I indicate it is nap time or bed time, her reply is a sorrowful, "Gilly Happy..." and then she starts to whine some about how she doesn't want to go Nite Nite, etc., etc. I suppose this is her way of letting me know she is in a great place, is not tired, and since she is so content and full of joy, there is really no need for sleep....because, you know, SLEEP IS FOR THE WEAK. (Sign me up. I am weak). After the initial protest, we are gold, and she dutifully rounds up her Burpies and gives Papa a Big Hug and kiss nite nite.

Her naps have dramatic endings, and she wakes up crying 90% of the time (??). I don't have a theory for what caused the shift from happy play to crying after waking up. Maybe she wants results faster and she learned if she acts as if she is experiencing excrutiating pain we are more likely to take her seriously. When I open the door, face stained with real tears (these outbursts are not just for fun anymore), she says "Gilly Happy..." unconvincingly, then (in case I didn't hear her the first time) "Mama!? GILLY HAPPY!!" much more so.

So, the word Happy denotes a few things, it seems, in her girl's life at the moment. Happy= true contentment, as in "I'm good, thanks for asking. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get back to [insert Very Busy acitivity]". Happy= "God, am I glad to see you. You left me in here, for, like, 33 seconds after I woke up, and I was getting worried you don't love me anymore". Happy = "You ARE happy, aren't you Mama? Why wouldn't you be? I mean, it's a glorious day, even though it's still pitch black out BECAUSE IT'S 5 AM. Heck, since we're all awake and don't have anything better to do, let's go watch the sunrise and go to the playground?!"

Kitties and Cats

Yesterday I was in the kitchen preparing lunch when I heard Gillian rifling through the cat food bowl. Shortly thereafter, I saw her striding back to the living room with Great Purpose, something in her hand. I curiously followed to find that she had settled up in the front sunroom with her current Favorite Stuffed Cat on Earth, "feeding" it a bowl of food fashioned out of a pacifier cap (it must not have made it into a box I packed up of her little baby things this past weekend). She had carefully selected FOUR pieces of cat food from the Real Cat Bowl to put in the cap, all of them hearts (she could have also selected the Xs or Os, but did not), and brought it up front to feed the kitty.

One of her "regular" chores is to feed our cats every night, which she loves. Oddly enough, she still calls cats "Meow-Meows" even though she calls them, like I showed her "Kitty-Kitty-Kitty!" when she feeds them. She also still exclaims "MEOW-MEOW!" when I show her a "C" for "cat" or a "K" for "Kitty" when we looks at letters in the bath.

I often find myself thinking toddlers are a perplexing bunch.

To my Daughter

Dear Gillian-

When you're old enough to read this, you might be surprised by how many intimate details of your life I shared so publicly. You might be embarrassed that I explained in painstaking detail, for the world to see, about things like your bowel movements (and subsequent experimentation using your own excrement as a new art form), or your moments of blazing divaness, and endless photos and videos of you nude or near nude (though I have been careful to keep your non-generic baby parts off limits, so I deserve a tiny bit of credit). I have written about the good and the bad of our experience together, because if I had only written about the good I would be bearing false witness to my own experience as a parent. And no child, even you (my amazing girl), is perfect.

I guess I do all this documenting so as not to forget the intimate details of our lives, at various moments, as we move through them together. I want to preserve these hourglass grains, to freeze them, so I can take them out any time I want, relish them, and remember us as we were along the way. One day, when you have something in your life you love more than anything else you have ever loved, you might also feel the desire to remember every second you have in that space.

And even in the shadow days, the days of transition, the ones where we have worn eachother so thin we're see-through...even then I love you. My awareness of just how much is made that much more clear by the perspective of our emotional highs and lows. These days, right now, are days like that. But even in the middle of this maelstrom, there are moments where you fill me up so much I overflow. For example, the other day you stubbornly insisted on carrying the two oranges we bought at the grocery all the way home, one in each arm. Even though you dropped them a lot along the way, you wouldn't put them in the bag and carry it. Because you had decided how you foresaw our trip home, and it included an orange tenderly cradled in each arm, and hell or high water, that is exactly the trip you intended to have...

Then there are days that glisten like diamonds-perfect days that feel like a dream. Days where I find myself thinking about how I'd always hoped being a parent would be like this. We play and I scoop you up-you are so small-and we laugh and we sing. Sometimes you pucker your little cupid's bow mouth and lean in for a kiss, which is usually followed by your favorite thing these days-a "Big Hug". For the record, there is not much else I'd rather be doing than sitting or standing anywhere with your tiny little arms wrapped around my neck, hands patting me on the back like you're the Mama...

I apologize in advance for all the times I will disappoint you. Infalliability is a part of the human condition, and I assume we will hurt eachother along the way. I apologize if you ever feel neglected because I have to go to work so much. There will be times where I am out of town or deployed somewhere and we won't have our gilded moments together. I have to admit that even if I didn't have to work I would, because I need something for myself outside of our home. I perceive my place in the world as a parent, a woman, an artist, and a scientist. All those things have to maintain equilibrium so I can appreciate all the facets of my life. Although I fantasized a million times about the idea of staying home full time with children, I would not have been fulfilled having done so.

So, on the cusp of the close of your second year of life, know you are adored, completely. You teach me every day who I am and what I value.

Love,
Your Mama

What we've been up to...

LOADS of fun with the illustrious Elliot Harvey, her pal and cohort in the back yard:



And, our girl graduating to playing AND singing...not words, but still. The girl's got skillz!!

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. (in our case Ms.) Hyde

I keep hoping this is a phase, and not what the Terrible Twos look like. My darling, precious girl, who happily (and independently) entertains herself and plays well with others all day long turns into a raging train wreck the minute I walk in the door from work (or 80% of the time on weekends when I'm with her, these days). This behavior started a couple of months ago and seems to be getting more intense lately, and I'm trying to figure out what it's all about. I can safely say that Gillian has always been strong willed, stubborn, and headstrong. These attributes are becoming caricatures of themselves, bigger and rounder and more bulbous as we enter this era of our experience together. And while I would never wish her to be a wallflower, it wouldn't be SO bad if she could tone it down a *little*.

I know what "they" say about attachment and separation anxiety with the mother, blah, blah, blah, and I've heard well meaning souls say things like "she only does it because she feels safe with you" and "she knows you won't love her any less if she throws tantrums". All I can say to that is "God, give me a break!". This is not a contrived thing. This is a fit of passion and absolute muleheadedness about not getting her way, nothing more and nothing less.

I can't cook, I can't do laundry, I can't make dinner, I can't do anything without her clinging to my legs screaming and crying, begging to be picked up. When we're engaged and playing or out together, she is wonderful and sweet (most of the time, anyway), but the moment my attention turns elsewhere, Ms. Hyde comes out. Obviously, the fact that I have always given her my undivided attention when I'm home has backfired. I never thought that would be a bad thing, but here we are. I should have forced this some by ignoring her a little bit, but then the guilt of depriving her of my loving attentiveness (when she already misses out on it 48 hours a week) sets in.

This has gotten to the point where I think some discipline is in order, and this morning she had her first time out (in her crib, for about a minute). I think we might have to give that a try more often, though I was hoping we wouldn't have to resort to it so soon. Time out was wildly unpopular, as you might imagine. But, the next time I asked her to do something and started counting to three, she did it.

So, we're entering uncharted territory. The Terrible Twos. But if I may have the audacity to beg The Powers That Be for three things, they are- PLEASE don't let recent wake up time (we're averaging 5:45 or 6 AM) be permanent, PLEASE let these molars come in very soon and give us all relief (today would be great), and PLEASE let this recent behavior be teething related!!!!

Ack. I am feeling very bipolar about where we're at. The great things are SO great, and the challenges are SO challenging.

Sleeping shambles

So, our most excellent sleeper is having issues. We're all having issues. My big plan (outlined in my previous post) to put G to bed later (9pm) didn't work. She still woke up, spry as ever, ready to play and greet the darkness with chipper little "HI MAMA! HI PAPA!"s in our ears at 6 am. Today made me decide we would try the opposite extreme. This morning she woke up at 5:30 am...fell asleep in her car seat at 9:30 am, slept 35 minutes, woke up ready to go go go, and then napped from 1:45-3pm. There were moments today when I was laying on the floor playing with her and caught myself dozing off while we were reading books (that's what weeks like this can do to a person). So, I decided to maybe try putting her down at her old bedtime- 7:15. I timed everything beautifully, and it seemed things were going well. We snuggled, rocked, had a bottle, read a book, and she seemed to want to go to bed. Just like the Good Old Days.

That is until a minute after I stopped responding to "Mama?" through the crack in the door and all hell broke loose. Screaming, freaking out, that gurgly cry that sounds like she's being strangled (I gave this 10 minutes)... I went back in to make sure she was ok and she got this huge smile on her tear-stained little face and said "NO Nite-Nite." Emphatically, just like that. The only thing that would have made it any more clear that she wasn't having any of this going to bed business would have been a good stomping of her tiny, very flat foot (thanks, Papa) to further articulate this flaming stubbornness. I gave her more Motrin, more Oragel, and held her next to her crib for 10 minutes or so. She seemed calm enough to try going to bed again (even leaning toward the mattress after some kisses like she always does), and this time, I was determined to let her scream until she went to sleep if necessary (since clearly the horrific demon cries were more because she didn't want to go to sleep that the fact that anything specific was wrong).

It was necessary. It took exactly 53 minutes for her to stop crying like that. 53 agonizing minutes that I spent wishing I could comfort her (and more specifically, make that sound stop). So much for putting her to bed early, since she cried herself to sleep at about 8:40... *sigh*

I have to think (and pray) that the reason for this is her molars (and not the new Way Things Are). I mean, the teething has correlated with the erratic sleep pattern. It's just that we're ALL exhausted and can't get any decent sleep. Why, when she can't even stay awake through mid-morning, would she continue to do this super early wake up routine?!? Thoughts/advice from anyone who has been through this? We're out of ideas...

***EDITED TO ADD (at 5am the next morning)***:
The end of this story: Gillian woke up at 1 am in pain (the cry gives it away), so we dosed her with Tylenol, Orajel, and gave her a bottle and she went back to sleep. She has been screaming since 4:45 am (when we dosed her with Motrin and Orajel), and is crying to "get down". I have to travel this morning and am leaving in 30 minutes. Needless to say it has been a rough night.

"Not So Fast" and other anecdotes

Not So Fast

Gillian has always slept like a brick made of lead. She has always slept from bedtime till about 8 am (and the intermittent 8:30 or 9 am, even more heavenly). This was a greater luxury than we could ever have imagined...as was clear with the withering look of "WE ARE SO NOT SORRY FOR YOU" I got when bemoaning this to Sarah and Manda the other day. Their children, for the record, are very early risers, and appear to have always been early risers. So, when I was whining about waking up at 5:30 or 6 am, they didn't feel much compassion. And Sean and I, not even close to morning people (though I miraculously manage to leave my house at 6 am every day for work), never truly understood their early-rising pain. A couple of weeks before the Big Girl Bed, Gillian started waking up at 6 am. Not just waking up, but waking up crying/shrieking this horrible crying like she's had a terrible dream. The kind of crying that startles you awake like you're having a heart attack and you jump out of bed to go see what the matter is.

Then after a glorious week in the Big Girl Bed, waking still at 6 am, she decided to start waking up somewhere between 12 and 2 am and staying awake for a few hours (the first of these coincided with the night of our giant electrical storm that knocked our power out for 24 solid hours; Gillian slept through the ungodly amount of huge thunder crashes and lightening and driving rain, but woke up after it ended and couldn't go back to sleep (it was about 90 degrees and HUMID). This happened a few nights, and after tending to her, giving her a bottle, etc., etc., she would cry and it would be agonizing for all involved, and we had to sleep train again. Letting her cry it out only took two nights this time, but it was still pretty painful. She's a bit more stubborn than she was when she was 6 months old... Anyhoo, we decided it's back to the crib for now. And we are also experimenting with going to bed later (between 8:30 and 9pm instead of 7:30-8pm). With the early rising, she sometimes falls asleep while she's eating or naps way too early if she's going to bed at 8; generally she isn't getting enough sleep. Last night we put her to bed at 8:45 pm, and she slept until 8:30 this morning. Now, THAT's more like it! We'll see if it works tonight. If it keeps working, then her new bed time is 8:45ish. We'll give the other bed a go when we feel more confident that she is back into a good sleep routine.

Ta-da!

I am building a puppet theater. I have never worked wood before, and so far it's a blast! Gillian loves puppets, and thank God her puppets finally came a few days ago (we ordered them two weeks before that). She had been resorting to making puppets out of the shirt she was wearing (makes its mouth go "ra-ra-ra-ra!" and then laughing like she just heard the best joke all day). Anyway, she now has enough puppets for all four kids that are here three times a week to wear one on each hand. For My-Child-Who-Likes-To-Animate-Everything puppets are a perfect fit for her budding imagination.

Singing

Gillian likes to strum her green ukelele (which she loves to tune to aurally displeasing (for us, anyway) chords) and sing to Allison Krauss. If I ever get around to downloading her videos from the camera and edit this one to an uploadable size, I will show you. It is awesome.

Bums

Gillian LOVES bums. She loves my bum. She loves Papa's bum. She loves her own bum. A LOT. She spends quite a bit of time talking about bums. She likes to note everyone in the room (and those not even in the house) who has a bum. I heard her exclaim from my room (while watching Sean get dressed), "PAPA'S BUM! SILLY PAPA!". So, shoes are out and bums are in as far as topics of current fascination. Oh, and my breasts. Bums and Boobies (booo-ees). Which is fine, except in public. Being fondled in public by a toddler is a little weird. But there are weirder things.

Eating

Life is so good in this department. Gillian can tell us what she wants to eat! She can tell us when she's hungry! SHE'S EATING BLACK BEANS AND LOVING THEM!! This is a far cry from the way things once were. I sat there today, eyes welling with pride, while I watched her eat a plate of black beans and cheese, cherry tomatoes, and chicken. Everyone is so much happier when Gillian eats.

SUMMARY

I know I have said this before, but this age is my favorite so far. The playing is great, the communication is so much more interpretable, the endearing things seem so much sweeter now that I am 100% sure of what is intended... Not that it's always a walk in the park. Ahem, let's use a different cliche, since a walk in the park doesn't denote ease to me the way it once did. Not that it's a cake walk. There are moments (like today in Home Depot when Gillian was laying on the filthy floor screaming at the top of her lungs because I wouldn't let her play with various Sharp and Dangerous Things) where you would love to leave your child exactly where they are and sneak out the back door, Beastly Baby style. That said, Gillian is awesome, watching her become so clever and creative and kind is my favorite thing to do, and seeing her interact with other equally fabulous little kids is one of the most riveting courses in human sociology ever.

Big Girl Bed

Gillian has started sleeping in her toddler bed. I put it together Tuesday, and couldn't get her off of it, she was so excited. I figured we'd just leave it there for her to check at at her leisure, and not pressure her to sleep in it. Thursday night she asked to sleep in it. I wasn't sure about how it would go. We did our usual routine, and it was time to go to sleep. I told her to get in her bed, which she did, and she asked for her sheet, like every night. I covered her and gave her a kiss and told her goodnight. As I was walking out, we did our little "Nite-nite" exchange a few times, per usual. As I was pulling the door to, I got a lump in my throat and a little eye stinging. "She's growing up", I, quite heavily, thought to myself. I didn't want to close the door and walk away. I desperately wanted to go pick her up and hug the last vestiges of baby to me, but I didn't. I was prepared for this transition to be tricky for her, but definitely wasn't prepared for it to be hard for me.

Since Thursday, she has slept in her bed every night. She loves her bed, and she sleeps the whole night through. I guess one day soon, we will break the crib down and store it. When I'm ready.

Our conversations kindof go like this...

(on trip back from music class-abridged):

G: walk, walk, walk! (bobbing side to side)
M: Yes, you ARE walking.
G (beaming): YES!
G: Flower. Yellow Flower.
M: And what color is that flower?
G: Purple!
M: That's right!
G (standing next to the sidewalk, pointing down): Grass! Green grass!
M: Gilly, you have to hold my hand to cross the street. Ready?
G: Car. Gilly Boom! (giving me her hand; this reply showed me she remembered the reason why I make her hold my hand when we cross the street (cars can hit you and make you go boom, which I had told her several weeks before that and which we had not spoken of since-I found that interesting))
(train passes by on the elevated track)
G: CHOO-CHOO!!!!!!!!!!!! CHOO-CHOO!!!!!!!!!! More? More Trains?
M: I bet there will be in a minute. It's rush hour. (and there were lots more)
G: RED car! (one favorite walking game is "what color is that car?")
M: Yep.
G: YEP! (nodding) YES!!
G (sitting on a building entry stair): Mama, sit?
M (sitting): Taking a rest?
G: Aye.
G: Doggie! White Doggie!
G: Mama's shoes. Gilly's shoes. PINK!
M: Your shoes ARE pink! Ready to go?
G: Aye.
G (pointing): Flower! (picking flower). More flowers (picking more).
M: What color are your flowers?
G: WHITE! and GREEN flowers!
M: Yep.
G: YEP!
G: (singing song from class and moving her arms while stomping): Go, Go, Go....STOP!
M: We're gonna go, go, go, we're gonna go go go, we're gonna go, go go and.....
G: STOP! (laughing and jumping during the exclamation-this continues in varying speeds, which she adjusts her arm and stomp motions for)
(I grab her Elmo and run up to the corner of a building ahead and hide, letting Elmo peek around the corner at her)
G (delighted): ELMO! Peek-aboo Elmo!
G (holding Elmo and putting her hand over his face and taking it off): peek-aboo! Peek-aboo! Peekaboo ELMO!!!! Hand? (taking one of Elmo's hands and giving me the other, so we're walking down the sidewalk holding his hands)
G: one, two, wheeeee! (swinging Elmo like we swing her when we are both holding her hands)
M: Wheee Elmo! Want to go again?
G (emphatic nodding): Yes!
M: one, two, threeeeeee!!! Wheee!
G (laughing): Silly Elmo!
M: Silly Gilly!
G: We're home!
M: Yes, we are home.

Something good and something not so much

The Good

We started with potty training last Sunday, and to make it stick, decided to "teach" G's stuffed Doggy to pee on the potty. In an oh-so-clever Jedi Mind Trick fashion, I soaked a wash cloth and squeezed it under and behind Doggie's fuzzy rump to make "pee". Gillian made him a potty by taking the little bowl out of hers so they can both pee at the same time. It goes down like this. I say, "Can you show Doggie how to peepee on the potty?", and make sure everyone is situated on their respective potty. Sometimes all of us. I squeeze the washcloth in Doggie's potty. Gillian makes an effort, then checks Doggie's potty. When there is pee, she exclaims with delight "DOGGIE PEE!!!!" and dumps his pee in the big potty so he can try again. The past four days or so, she has made substantial pee at the same time as Doggie.

So, we have spent some time in the bathroom for the past 6 days letting Doggie go peepee (this occurs while Gillian sits on her potty as well). I am delighted to report that last night when reading her book before bed, Gillian said "Peepee? Potty?" and off we went. She made a substantial deposit to said potty, not a drop in her diaper. She got to wipe with her prized toilet paper. I was busting with pride. "My, how the things that make me proud have changed", I remarked to an equally proud Sean. We had a similar experience tonight.

I bought her some underpants today at Target. She seriously digs the underpants. She likes that she is like Sean and I, all grown up. She said "Mama's pants", "Papa's pants", "My pants"!!

The Bad

Bad news is that Gillian had a seizure Thursday. Again. #4 and counting. I thought we were supposed to be done (most kids only have 3 of them in their toddlerhood and we have a lot more toddlerhood to go). This happened on Anna's watch. We told Anna this could happen, but I don't think she understood how terrifying it is. Gillian had a low grade fever, from teething we assume (still has it) since she has no other symptoms of illness except not eating (also could be from teething). Given her history of wanting to retain symmetry, I can only assume the are some molar tectonics going on on all four sides of her mouth. Anyhoo, apparently Anna was holding her (she is needy with the teething) when she stiffened, cried that awful cry, and began convulsing. Anna tried calling Sean three times before she got him (his basement shop has bad reception), but luckily he was working here that day. He said she sounded panicked the way a person would be panicked if they believed someone else's child was dying in their care and they could do nothing to stop it. She did everything I would have done, and I am officially sure that I couldn't have chosen a better person to care for Miss G. I left work early and got here, and Gilly was super needy and quiet. Anna told me what happened. When she left I gave her a giant hug and thanked her for doing such a wonderful job. She started explaining, tearing up, that she should have given Gillian medicine sooner, or noticed how warm she was getting faster. I told her I, as Gillian's mother, can't even prevent this. I remember how harrowing the first seizure was, and it is no less scary the subsequent times. At any rate, I have spent a lot of time thinking about the blessing that Anna and her sweet girls are to us and how happy I am to know how much Gillian's nanny loves her back.

A little bit of perspective

Today, my friend Lara had a little BBQ and invited some new parents she knows from work, her birth class, and her neighborhood. The kids generally ranged in age from 5 to 8 months old. Gillian, it seemed, was light years older that the other kids. Hearing the conversations around me made me consider where my head was at when Gillian was 8 months old (gestational months).

Back then, I was excited because we had recently started her on solid food (I had no idea the Sainthood I would earn in dealing with her and her love/aversion for putting things in her mouth and swallowing them). I just started back to work full time. We were nursing all the time when I was home, and I pumped three times a day at work (which makes me tired to think about). I was simply gushy over motherhood. Glowing with it. Loved to eat, breathe, and sleep it. So, for me, seeing these moms being glowy and gushy was sweet. Kids are generally so easy at 8 months old. I mean, you can still eat with both hands, your baby doesn't throw fits/try to channel Houdini at restaurants, they don't have such an opinionated determination about getting what they want (except the basic necessities, which aren't rocket science to read (like hunger, dirty pants, or sleepiness))....they will fall asleep in public places, they don't talk back (there are many other wonderful things about 8 month olds, but these are the major ones I can think of). I would love to hear the conversation in a year. It's a whole different ballgame then. No more discussing when someone's kid started sitting up, or which type of fruit they're on in purees, the change in the consistency of baby poop with solid food, or whether or not they actually move forward when commando crawling (while they sit there, smiling serenely, at a tri-colored sock). When your kid is almost two, it's all about how long it's been since your kid acted enough like a human being to actually sit in a restaurant for more than 5 minutes, or why it takes 65 minutes to walk 4 blocks (e.g., stroller aversion), or how you can stop your kid from drawing on the furniture, or teach them to refrain from pooping on the carpet.

I think one of the people might have gotten worried when she left her baby with me to go get some food. She came back and Gillian was trying to feed another baby some grass (I was distracted, per usual) and her kid, not quite able to sit up alone, was leaning precariously sideways because I was turned around dealing Old McDonald. Another couple of people asked me questions which I started to answer and stopped talking mid-sentence (I realized later at least two instances where I actually remember this happening) to pay attention to Gillian for one reason or another. The take home message here is: IT IS VERY VERY VERY HARD TO HAVE A CONVERSATION when you have a toddler, and NO, I DON'T HAVE ADD. We Moms of Toddlers can still hear you, we just have to take a second (ok, many seconds) to acknolwedge our Very Busy Child (or keep them from being destructive or hurting themselves or someone else). Now, that is not to say that when Gilly and I are with other kids her age that we don't manage fine, but that's because if the kids are all the same age, they can get it as good as they give it and you don't have to worry so much. Gillian was the oldest at this shin-dig, and at my most basic level, I was just thrilled she decided that babies were no longer for slapping (in fact, she decided she wanted to hold a real live baby (petting her and looking at me saying "Gilly, gentle"-relief-it DID sink in eventually!), and it was very sweet). When we are with other toddlers, all of us moms have conversations that are erratic, non-fluid, partly nonsensical, but we totally keep up with what eachother has to say. An indoor party of 5 toddlers is pretty much the max a reasonable person can manage, and that is pushing it (think: cat herding, except the cats are hellbent on getting into absolutely everything, every second). Fetes any larger can only be reasonably accomplished outdoors, where mayhem can reign supreme and your house isn't destroyed at the end of the day.

There are many redeeming things about Gillian and the age that she is at (independence, ability to communicate, more able to interact and be creative, etc.), but today I was struck by how much I have learned in the past year. I was reminded of what a very, very, very long road the past 22 months has been. Then I thought people are completely out of their mind to do it again given the amount of work it is to do once. *yawn* I am going to bed.

A thought about Motherhood

As I contemplate the complexities of Motherhood, I think, “Well, at least I’m not a Squirrel”.

Let me back up and tell you the whole story. When it rains either a) the raindrops hit our air conditioner, in the most irritating fashion to keep us from sleeping or b) the rain drips off the air conditioner in the window above ours Tell-Tale Heart style and rattles our sleep. So, to remedy this, we put an old pillow on top of our window unit. A simple fix, to be sure, but it works.

Well, until the Squirrel decided to live in it while we were on vacation. And who can blame it? If one digs through the outer material, there’s a wealth of warm and fuzzy stuffing to nestle into. I would say this Squirrel is not only industrious, but smart, making the universe work for her that way and all.

I say her because Wednesday morning, we noticed that she had birthed three tiny pink squirrels (see pics). Originally, they were nursing happily (when we saw them). I counted the three when she left to forage, anyway. Two weren’t looking so good by the afternoon. The third was pink and twitching, dreaming baby squirrel dreams. Later, I noticed only one baby and that Mama Squirrel was cleaning another (I saw her holding one up by the legs and cleaning it). Ooops, then I realized she was EATING it. I was horrified. I rationalized immediately...maybe it was dead anyway, and maybe she was hungry, so there was dinner, conveniently located in the nest. Obviously, she had already “taken care of” the third baby, which was nowhere to be seen. Later that afternoon I was a little concerned about her leaving the remaining healthy baby to go find food, until I realized she had eaten it too.





This was very disturbing, as you might imagine. I wracked my brain wondering why the two, happily nursing in the morning, were blue by the afternoon. Why did she eat the healthy one? Was it because she wondered what the point was of raising one measly baby if the others had died? A web search tells me that she might have eaten the babies for a few reasons, the first of which instills some serious guilt: she was afraid. My cats have found endless entertainment swatting at the squirrel through the window, and God knows I would have tried controlling that if I thought it would lead to a triple homicide. The others are a little more intuitive- not enough food around to feed everyone, too young of a mother, or maybe she knew she would have to move soon, and didn’t want to deal with a bunch of squalling pups (can you imagine-eating your baby if you didn’t want to hear it? Jesus, the animal world is HARSH). I looked for signs of remorse on her small, furry face. None. Not a tear shed, no moment of self reflection, nada. I think I saw her chatting it up with another squirrel, flirting in the tree across the sidewalk later that evening. Heartless. Seriously.

Anyhow, this was sobering, and surreal. Particularly as we are considering the idea of trying to have another baby. What an ingrate that Squirrel was to thumb her long, twitching nose at God who blessed her with THREE babies, all at the same time (of course, she might have thought the real blessing was to have the best meal she’ll eat all year). Doesn’t she know that some squirrels struggle to have even one?

Vacation (v.2)

Many of you are aware that Sean, Gilly, and I had our first vacation away (not related to holidays, which aren't terribly relaxing anyway) in about three years from June 19-29. We had the good fortune of being able to vacation with Nonni and Grandaddy, which not only entertained Gillian to no end, but freed us up to sleep, do yoga (me), and relax a little. OK, a LOT. They rented an absolutely gorgeous condo on the beach, which was ocean side and sported a massive porch where we spent lots of time talking, bonding, reading, and just thinking, sipping some variety of fruity beachy cocktail.

The view (sunrise, morning 1):

Our lazy days started with waking up when we felt like it (Nonni said "I'll get Gillian up" and we said "twist our arms!"). But, in spite of that, I woke up pretty early every day. I couldn't leave my internal clock at home, unfortunately. That was not an issue for Sean. We would do yoga before everyone else woke up (me), have a leisurely breakfast, read the paper, drink coffee (Sean) and chat in the morning. Then Sean would go down and set up our umbrellas, chairs, and toys at the perfect spot (right in front of our porch, but on the water), and we would mosey down there somewhere around 10. After a couple of hours of playing in the sand and swimming in the fabulously warm ocean (which I appreciate even more after this morning's trip to the beach and experiencing the NOT EVEN CLOSE TO WARM lake), we would leave our stuff down there, take G to the pool to rinse off and work on her swimming skills, and come back in for lunch, and naptime (definitely for G, but for anyone if they also needed a nap after ALL THAT WORK). Of course, this was my opportunity to read the first novel I have read since Gillian was born, sipping on a Stawberry Daquari or some other bit of blissfull fluff, lounging on the magnificent porch. Sometimes I would languidly dose, lulled to sleep by the beautiful peace of the melodic sound of breaking waves that stretched out before my cozy vantage point. When Gilly would wake, she had lunch, and we went back out for round 2 of beach time, with more fruity beverages, fresh fruit like pineapples or berries, and a whole different mindset and work and life seemed to float away. Repeat pool, then showers, dinner, and maybe a walk on the beach at sunset to complete the perfect day of doing absolutely nothing. I could get use to it, living that way. I bet I could do it at least a month before losing my mind from boredom. It was fantastic, and was exactly what a vacation is supposed to be.

We got to visit with family, spent much quality time with Nonni and Grandaddy, had a great night of dinner and talking with Sean's Grandmother one night and uncle Shep and Aunt Eleanor another night, and got to visit with Sean's sister Kim for dinner a couple of nights. My brother's wife, Dawn, and her sister came over to visit us one evening as well.
Sean and I each got to visit with old best friends as well, and we are all parents, so that was a blast, too. Marti, who I have known since the ripe old age of 14, and her husband Ty and beautiful daughter Laurel (who is a few months younger than G (birth age), and only 1 month (gestationally) younger) stayed with us for a couple of nights and enjoyed the beach with us. We had hoped for magical linking of their spirits like ours are linked, but I think they're not there just yet. Gillian was a little aggressive and jealous of Laurel being in her space, and Laurel was a bit shy and reserved, so we are thinking mystical bonding might be more realistic when they are a little more cognitively developed and interact a little more. Marti and I had plenty of mystical bonding-over fat-free brownies (not an oxymoron any more, my friends, as she showed me the light!), not fat free doughnuts, tantrum throwing children...er, um I mean the Joys of Motherhood, a more picturesque sunset walk, and an evening overlooking the ocean (the only not magical thing was the visiting roach friends that were hanging out on the walls and were about 2 inches long (interesting they didn't bother us, but I remembered one more thing that is great about living in Chicago-we haven't seen a roach up here in almost 7 years). Either way, we were so happy they were able to join us, and we finally got to meet eachother's girl. We marveled at the fact that somewhere in continuum of this existence, are two 16 year old us's that are snorting and rolling their self-righteous eyes at our grown-up, sell-out selves. All those poems we wrote about finding truth, and searching the ends of the Earth to obtain it...all that soul searching at Sanibel Island, and in State Parks, all that wild abandon, and heartbreak, and we found peace in what we once considered mundane. Who knew that real Love, real Truth, would be found in the everyday? Ahhhh....so, at last, we realized that THAT is what the Great Masters meant. I have so loved our journey, my dear friend!


Sean's old friend Andy and his wife Erin and their sweet, quiet little boy James came by for dinner one night as well. It was so nice to catch up and visit with them.

In general, with the exception of some attachment issues, it couldn't have been more fantastic, more ideal, more comfortable, and more enjoyable (they could try recycling at Jax Beach, but I digress). Many thanks to Suzi, who is the über Grandmother, mother, and mother in law, and who made everything perfect for us and for Gilly (and who, trying to cheerfully kiss Gillian goodbye at the airport, made me understand what the Pain of Separation really is (this is why I had a lump in my throat-know that she loves you just as much)). And many thanks to Bill, whose warmth, wisdom, and stories make every visit feel as comfortable as an old shoe. I believe Bill told me once that the recipe for a happy life is Family, Faith, and Purpose. We are so lucky to have such abundance.

(more pics, should you want to see MORE, are here).