I wonder as I wander

I apologize for not giving due notice that I would be bowing out of the Christmas Blog-a-day Challenge for a week (which, it seems, was for me a blog-an-every-other-day Challenge) while we spent some time in Port on the Neches with my parents, where the bayous are aplenty and the internet is dial-up. At least at my parents' house. They do have a computer--one that could easily make it into a computer antiquities museum--that they probably start up about once a quarter when my mom checks her email which is full of cutesy and annoying forwards from her friends who actually know how to forward things. My favorite thing about staying with my parents is that my mom is always telling me, demanding even, to go take naps while she entertains the children. They also have this awesome sunroom full of fun toys where Harper can play as loudly as she needs to and Hudson can nap in an entirely different part of the house. It seems palatial compared to our cozy little set-up. You might think that Hudson would sleep great while we are there. Unfortunately he realizes that he is Somewhere Different and this is Terribly Vexing to him for around 3 days. Once he settles in it's about time to go home. It then takes him a day or so to get settled back in at home. I didn't mean to create this fastidious little man. If we end up with a houseful of kids, I'm sure I'll look back and give a wise, self-deprecating chuckle when I think about how I tried to get a toddler to play sotto voce while I unloaded the dishwasher with nary a clink of fork against spoon.
What if I pick a poet a month and read a poem a day for an entire year? I think I'll start with Yeats. January is a gloomy Irish kind of month.
I knew Mrs. B would want to see "Sweeney Todd" because she was to the theatre born. There are lots of good musicals that center around a rather ominous premise ("The Sound of Music"--Nazis, ""Fiddler on the Roof"--pogroms, "Les Miserables--French Revolution..) BUT it's to provide conflict and maybe there's a ballad in a minor key and a mean looking fellow in a uniform. From what I've read about "Sweeney" there is on-stage and now, on-screen, throat slitting. And even if the violence is really stylized I still say eww. It's probably terribly bourgeois of me but it seems a musical should be more about singing and dancing and less about throat slitting and revenge. This is a whole issue that has seeped into the arts in the last 50 years or so. For something to be Important it has to be shocking.
I have lots of new pictures but can't download them until we find the white cord thingy that I haven't seen since the move.

with the angelic hosts proclaim

This is this time last year. She was afraid of the hand mixer and only Daddy and Elmo could be of any solace. Yesterday at the park Harper made a new friend named Alex and she and Alex played catch and each of them had a successful throw which the other then successfully caught. I think that might be fairly impressive for a 2 1/2 and 3 year old. After the game of catch wound down, Alex was feeling chatty. "My Mommy is at the doctor," he confided. Oh? "Yes, and the doctor is Ripping OFF her TOENAIL." Wow, Alex, that's a lot of information for a Mommy to give a 3 year old. Okay, I didn't actually say that but I kind of wanted to. Especially when Alex continued on with increasingly disturbing details about the Procedure. I've had some rich and instructive discussions with a couple of different friends lately about the how-to and whether-to of innocence guarding with an increasingly curious child. When I was student teaching long ago, my supervising teacher had included a short book called Hiroshima in one of the units I was supposed to teach. It's a first person account of the day the atomic bomb was dropped. We had read some parts aloud in class and this kid raised his hand and asked, with a stricken expression, "Could this happen again?" I hated to tell him the truth, but he was a freshman in high school. Even if he was little for his age. I want Harper to feel safe about her toenails.
She put on a little performance for Chris and Stacie today. A rousing version of "Hark the Herald Angels." She takes a deep breath and really belts out with the angelic host proclaiming. It is Loud.
Is there anyone on the planet that will pay to see "Sweeney Todd"? It sounds appalling. Is it supposed to be ironic?

as they shouted out with glee

I've been remiss. It's HARD to blog every day. Familiarity breeds contempt and all that. I have not yet sent Christmas cards. In fact I have not yet purchased Christmas cards. Thanks to my friend Jo, I do now have a Christmas cd to enjoy. It sounds like a group of British kids having choir practice. There's a piano and it seems like the kids might be in charge of the percussion. It's perfect. Too bad it has to be returned to the library in a week. Harper has started asking somewhat rhetorical questions. She'll say, "Are we going to the park, or no?"--the intonation itself is enough to make you giggle. She'll say it as we're getting ready to walk out the door to go to the park. She isn't seeking an answer. She's just enjoying the asking. She has also been ravenous the last few days. "Is there kiwi, or no?" "Did you bring a little box of raisins, or no?" Hudson has decided his favorite place to poo is the highchair. While he is eating. It reminds me of that "Seinfeld" episode when Kramer was doing food preparation in the shower. Speaking of the inane but rib cracking HI-larious, we have just discovered "The Office." Oh, boy. We get to start at the very beginning.

the government will be upon His shoulders

My husband has gently informed me that a dipthong is two vowels that make a single sound. So 'th' doesn't count. I mostly just like using the word dipthong, even if it makes me a malapropist. Malaprop-er? 'Fricative' is another fun word I remember learning in a linguistics class. I don't remember what it means either--I think the letter 'f' is a fricative. If so, Hudson is fond of fricatives and not dipthongs. You should start at the top of this post and read it aloud. Because it will make you smile in spite of yourself. Hudson cried from 2:30 until around 4 last night. He'd get quiet for a couple of minutes and I'd drift back to sleep and then he'd start up again. All that to say I titled this post with the intention of writing some incisive political commentary, but I am just too tired. How long has it been since we've had a president who could speak another language well enough to not need a translator when he visits a country where the language is spoken? I don't mean 4 years of high school Spanish or French--really fluent. There's this part in The Once and Future King where Merlin turns young Arthur into all of these different animals in order to teach him wisdom and perspective. I don't think the philosopher-king types are lining up to be president of this country. Who can blame them? The process is tainted. Iowa is like high school on the day we filled out our scantrons for class favorites. I don't begrudge the fact that some retiree got to have coffee with Mitt Romney this morning or that a single mom at a shelter got a hug from Hilary, I just think it's a little out of balance. If I wanted to actually meet one of the candidates I pretty much need to hang out with people who have concert halls named after them. And those people don't tend to play at the park.

Messiah

My header up there got squished somehow. I'll get J. to fix it. He's had a beastly cold the past 3 days. He stayed home with Hudson this morning and Harper and I decided to go to a church down the street because I'd driven by and seen "Handel's 'Messiah' this Sunday, 10:45" on their sign. On the way there I sang a little of the Hallelujah chorus and asked if she'd like to hear a choir sing it. "Do you mean the Stinky Poo-Poo song, Mommy?" she asked. If you are new to the blog you'll not know that I made up a little ditty while trying to encourage her to use the potty and I borrowed some melodic elements from Mr. Handel. So I fessed up to the artistic license I had taken and explained that the song was really about Jesus. So, here's how it went when we got there.
1. We had never been to this church before and no one talked to us. I even had on my "I'm glad to be here" face AND was carrying a cute toddler. And yet.
2. We sang a couple of carols before things got started. Which made me glad. We only sang the first and last verses though. Which puzzled me. We only sing Christmas carols a few weeks out of the year. And STILL we can't make time to sing all of the verses? (Boy I am determined to be in a dither about Christmas music this year.)
3. The "Messiah" got started and, considering the choir and orchestra appeared to be members of the church and not professionals, it sounded pretty good, right up until..
4. Things ground to a screeching halt so that, wait for it, the pastor of the church could Preach a Sermon right in the middle of the "Messiah" because, apparently, he had something to say that Handel and the librettist (a Mr. Jennens) didn't manage to cover.
5. He seemed to have a lot on his mind. We left.
6. No "Hallelujah!" for us today.
We did sing it in the car on the way home. Not the same. I couldn't stand up because I was driving.

Little Drummer Boy

And girl. This is about as close as the two of them get to playing together. People often ask how Harper likes her baby brother and I answer, "Well, she's pretty indifferent, actually." Even now that he is finally getting old enough to play, she hasn't altered her attitude much. Except, of course, to tell on him. She was partaking in some direct admonishment ("NO NO Hudson!) until I told her that I am the Mommy. Now she says, "Say 'not in your mouth' to Hudson, please Mommy." Hudson, of course, thinks Harper is MAGNIFICENT. He lights up at the mention of her name and does whatever he can to be near her. John Steinbeck wrote a delightful book called Travels With Charley that describes a cross country trip he took with his black standard poodle as his only companion. Charley has more personality than most humans you've met. When something meets with his approval, or he needs something, he makes a particular sound. I think Steinbeck spells it "Ftt." Anyway, Hudson makes the exact sound. When I get him up in the morning he gives me a bright smile and then "FFFttth" (he puts an 'h' on the end--poodles can't do dipthongs). I suspect he enjoys the way his new teeth feel on his lower lip. It is also a decidedly happy noise and when I tell him, after he has been changed and fed, that we'll now be going in to see Daddy and Harper he takes a breath and, "FFFFFFFFFFFFFtttttttttttth!" Some mornings Harper gives him a bright, "Hi buddy!" Other mornings, like this one, she'll say, "Please put Hudson down."

Go Christmas!

That's the actual title of an actual song on the cd my Mom, bless her, bought for us when I asked, and I quote, "For a Christmas cd with Christmas carols--you know, songs that talk about Jesus being born and stuff." She showed up, rather apologetically, with something called "The Coolest KidzBop Christmas Ever!"because I told her I liked it when they had the kids singing. Only I'm not so crazy about the kids singing "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer," and "Jingle Bell Rock" so we took a little walk to Barnes and Noble today to see if we couldn't exchange it for a little "Joy to the World." A big fat nothing. Even the "Christian pop" compilation was a little too heavy on the "Mary, Did You Know?" and not heavy enough on the "Ave Maria." Ok, Ok. I don't begrudge musicians for not wanting to do the cover tunes, and there are certainly recently penned Christmas songs that I think are good ("Breath of Heaven" is pretty and Chris Rice did something sweet with "Welcome to our World") but would it be terrible if the Jars of Clay just sang "Hark! the Herald Angels Sing" without some kind of weird jazzy syncopation? Or, even better, if they rounded up a group of kids and had them sing it? I really don't mind if Harper wants to sing "Frosty the Snowman" when she passes the inflatables, I just want her to hear a really lovely version of "Angels We Have Heard On High" as well. I tried singing "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" to them while we played in Harper's room today and they both stopped what they were doing and stared at me with what seemed like sick fascination. It's a hard song. And I'm no Julie Andrews. Harper asked me to stop.

Joy to the World

I wish I had a really good Christmas cd. Any suggestions?
Well, we are moved. It took two entire days to walk our every possession across a ten foot hallway. I remember hearing Tommy Nelson say one time, to illustrate an exercise in futility, "you're swabbing the deck on a sinking ship." That's what this felt like. But we'll be saving almost $400 a month. For the same amount of space. My dear mother came to occupy the kids and my dear husband did the lion's share of the moving and then the cleaning of the vacated space. He also sustained two wounds and I one. All inflicted by our bed. An errant staple on the box springs gave me a fairly impressive gash on my right pinky. This happened pretty early on which meant that I spent the rest of the time trying not to use my right hand. It turns out we really need all of our fingers and both hands to move our every possession across a ten foot hallway. Even with everything we threw away and gave away there is still so much in between me and simplicity.

O Tannenbaum

I think I'm going to have to bow out of the Blog a Day Christmas Carol Challenge for a few days. We are moving into another apartment on Tuesday and will be sans internet for at least a couple of days. And there will likely be other pressing priorities. I don't like change. It makes me melancholy. Alas. It's being forced on us by our apartment complex. They've decided to update our already modern apartments by adding faux wood floors and stainless appliances. We're moving into the apartment across the hall. We have yet to begin packing. It's a good chance to simplify, give away and throw away.
Last night I told Harper that I found something she had done frustrating and she reached out, stroked my arm gently and said, "It's okay Mommy. YOU'RE okay Mommy," and planted a tender little kiss right on my wrist. It's hard to be stern when there's so much cute flying around.

to be jolly

There is just not much funnier than a toddler who puts her shoes on the wrong feet. It cracks me up every time. I almost let her wear her Mary Janes wrong when we went somewhere this week so that everyone else could laugh with me, but decided that might be a bad podiatric decision. Something else that made me giggle this week--one of the Take Your Picture With Santa Santas at the Galleria. There's one that looks just right. He has a long fluffy white beard, a jelly belly, and little Benjamin Frankin glasses. His understudy, however, who must work weekday mornings when I guess they figure the crowds will be easily impressed, has a beard that is really more like vacation stubble AND these enormous gold aviator-style glasses circa 1975. He looks unkempt. You could tell the parents in line really wanted to ask when the other Santa would be there.

Peace on earth and mercy mild

I've already told you how much I love the military commemoration. Well, this morning Harper and Hudson and I were at the Children's Museum and I was doing the We're Strangers But We're Moms Chit-Chat Routine with a couple of nice ladies and we were on to Phase 2: How Old Is He/She? (Phase 1 of course being, "He/She is SUCH a cutie/has so much energy/looks JUST like you!") and Mom #2 said her boy would be turning 2 next week and Mom #1 said, "Gosh I don't even know what day it is today," and I piped in, "It's December 7--Pearl Harbor Day," and Mom #1 said, and not in a particularly nice way, "No, that's on December 4, or maybe the 5th. Anyway, it's NOT the 7th." I was a bit taken aback because, while I'm no history whiz, I do have a fair number of dates tucked away in my head. I was pretty sure I was right but she seemed VERY determined that I was NOT. She even whipped out her day planner to check the calendar. At this point Harper had moved on so I followed her, not wanting to gloat.
On a more humbling note, my dear Mrs. B has gently reminded me that the Carmina Burana probably doesn't rank as high art because of the coarse nature of parts of its libretto. Apparently, there is some mention of flatulence. Flatulence never sounded so good though, huh? Speaking of, Harper is learning to say excuse me when said emissions occur only she thinks it's all very amusing. She'll burp and announce, in a very loud voice, much louder than the Offending Noise, "EXCUSE ME I BURPED!" or "I TOOTED PARDON ME!" I wish I could say that in Latin and set it to a haunting dirge.

Angels we have heard

I've been thinking about high art and low art. Jamie had a little quiz thing on her blog a couple of months back that helped ascertain what sort of reader I am. I ranked pretty high on the 'snob' end of things, apparently because I like literature--and not just the required high school stuff. You got more points for Tender is the Night than for The Great Gatsby. I majored in English--they pretty much awarded me with a degree for having spent 4 years reading lots of books. I don't, however, enjoy snobbish thoughts. I do confess to a certain disdain for popular fiction (there are exceptions) because I just think it's frustrating when people don't take their vocation seriously. I think lots of writers stop short of the quality they could attain because they find lots of people who are satisfied, even thrilled, with what they currently write. And this frustration bleeds over into the other arts as well. People mistake popularity with quality. So Britney Spears latest album outsells Alison Krauss what, a hundredfold? And Alison Krauss outsells a recently released album of sacred music performed by a Houston choir that one reviewer proclaimed, "evocative of heavenly glory, whether accompanied or a capella" (and he's not a critic prone to effuse) probably a thousandfold. Here's what instigated my rant today though. On our way to the park we pass neighboring yards that are chock full of inflatable, holiday fun. There's an igloo that houses Santa and Frosty, who take turns popping out. There's a carousel with snow, penguins, polar bears and Santa all enjoying a ride. Harper thinks it is all JUST FANTASTIC. Her eyes get all sparkly, she commends Santa and Frosty for doing such a good job taking turns, she gets positively rhapsodic about the carousel. Toddlers are all about the low art, it seems. She much prefers singing "Where is My Hairbrush?" by Larry the Cucumber, than the "Carmina Burana." (I'm just kidding--she doesn't really sing in Latin) So here's the question: should I take a knife to the inflatable snow globe? Will doing so ensure that Harper will better appreciate Rembrandt? Seriously, I feel the quality of my posts is waning with the December challenge. I think I'll take on politics tomorrow. The New York Times is newly fascinated with the Huckabee campaign.

where the snow lay dinted

It's from "Good King Wenceslas" who, I remembered reading on something in Prague, was never a king, but was decidedly good. I just looked it up. He was a duke. The carol is about the philanthropic duke's venture out into the cold snowy night to render succor to one less fortunate. His page doesn't think he can walk another step so the good duke tells him to walk in his big snowy footprints. So J. got home yesterday, plunged ONCE, and the toilet complied. I was convinced it was because of my arduous work beforehand. After some gentle questioning, J. ascertained that my whole Theory of Plunging was amiss. I had always thought the goal was to use the suction to pull something up so that it could then go down. Apparently, that is not the case.
A nurse came to our house yesterday to draw our blood and test our urine and weigh me (that's right--he had his own scale even) because we are getting life insurance from Jodey's best friend who sat in our living room and witnessed the blood draw, the weigh-in, and, poor boy, the hand off of the urine. A perfect end to a perfect day.
Today, on the other hand, IS glorious. Spent the morning at the zoo with good friends. Rode the carousel. Let's end with a picture since it's been awhile.
Hudson likes to keep his toes curled up sometimes.

in the bleak midwinter

I'm pretty sure there's a chapter in one of Martha Stewart's books: "Nothing Says Welcome Like a Toilet That Just Won't Flush." So far today:

*the toilet has overflowed AND defied all efforts to be plunged
*when I needed to put the soaking wet towel that had toilet water on it into the washer I could not because I first needed to put away the mountain of folded clothes stacked neatly on top of the washer which really don't have a place to be put away because there is a baby living in our closet
*which made us late to meet friends at the park which meant we needed to take the car. Which was on empty.
*phone battery: dead
*forgot to take Hudson's food to the park which meant he had to eat when we got home which meant that he got to sit in the highchair first which made Harper so sad that she started crying inconsolably
* Hudson had been asleep approximately 30 minutes when the UPS guy knocked loudly on the door. Three different times because he kept forgetting things
*He goes back to sleep for around 4 minutes at which point the yard guys with their leaf blowers on full power start wandering aimlessly up and down right outside our apartment. Where there are no leaves.
*He is noisy, presumably because the world is noisy.
*Harper wakes up having slept about a third of her usual nap
* We have company arriving any minute.
*My hair is enormous, my clothes don't match, my back hurts from all the plunging.
I feel so gracious.

Once in Royal David's City

This is my favorite carol and I'll tell you why. The first time I ever remember hearing it was when I was visiting my friend Yvonne the Liverpudlian in England and we went to a Christmas Eve service in this cavernous old church and there was a choir of men and boys and they sang it and it was dark and there were candles and it. was. sublime. I remember reading once that the old cathedrals were built to make us look upward and realize that God is Most High. What a wondrous and mystical thing to be reminded that God is Most High right when you're celebrating God being born most low.

There's a line in the third verse that I would've done well to sing to Harper today:
Christian children all must be
Mild, obedient, good as He.
We had to leave the park early today because she just could not keep it together. She cried when another boy was swinging by her friend Joseph, she cried when she dropped her car while she was riding the airplane, she cried when it was time to share her car. She's generally NOT histrionic in the least. Let's hope tomorrow is a day less cranky.

Away in a manger

Or, as we refer to it at our house, Baby Jesus in a Box.
In the bathtub last night, Harper's bath animals were playing and she decided Seahorse was hereafter to be referred to as 'Padua.'
"Did you say Padua?" I asked.
"Yes, Padua."
"Where did you get that name Harper?"
"Ikea."
"Ikea?"
"Yes m'am. Ikea has lots of names."

She has been to Ikea twice. It apparently made an impression.

Gentle Mary Laid Her Child

I have accepted Jamie's challenge to blog each day in December whilst using Christmas carols as titles. Won't this be fun! The connection will be oblique at times but together, we will find it. Last night Harper was playing with Hudson in the little play yard thing while I got her dinner ready. He was giggling so I asked, "What's so funny?" I'm giving Hudson a hug, she said. I looked over and it turns out what she really meant to say is, "I am lying on top of Hudson with my full body weight and he is laughing because apparently that's what babies do when they have sustained a liver laceration from blunt force trauma." I got her off lickety split and he was making this weird, pained sort of groan because before the hug happened, he'd apparently been sitting up on his knees which were now folded underneath him at a strange angle. It's a good thing babies are so bendy. Everyone was ok. Harper kept asking, "What I did?" So we had a big discussion about The Nature of Hugs.

itsy, bitsy spider

We're in the car coming home from the Galleria and Harper starts singing "The Itsy Bitsy Spider." This is not unusual. It's a favorite. However, it is ONLY sung (and this is important) when she has seen a spider. I assume she must have seen a spider on a billboard and don't pay much attention. When she's singing the 5th refrain I ask, "Where did you see a spider, Harper?" It's on the window, Mommy, by Hudson's head, she explains. This is a little startling, so I turn around for a quick glance. And there it is, right where she said. Only I can't tell if it's inside the car or outside. I'm going 55mph on the highway and it's a trifle difficult to get the appropriate vantage point. I exit to head home, all the while taking quick glances to make sure the spider is staying put. When I stop at a red light I can finally take a good long look. Only the spider is gone. I panic a little.
"Harper, can you still see the spider?"
"Yes, m'am."
"Oh," I say, trying not to sound anxious, "Where is it? Is it on Hudson's carseat?"
"Um, it's on Hudson's face." (she is casual, a little curious maybe)
"Harper, are you telling Mommy the truth? Is there a spider on Hudson's face?"
"It's on Hudson's head."
So.
I careen into a bank parking lot, leap out of the car, run around to Hudson's side and...there is the spider. On the door. OUTSIDE of the car. I check Hudson just to make sure there weren't two of them working in tandem like those European pickpockets. He was spider-free. I get back in the car and put on Stern Voice.
"Harper, Hudson did NOT have a spider on his face. You need to tell Mommy the truth. Do you understand what that means?"
"Yes, m'am."
We talked a little more about The Nature of Truth. I'm pretty sure she didn't get it. Next time I should probably skip the Kierkegaard reference.

To sleep, perchance, part 2

Hudson would like everyone to know that on the eve of his 10 month "birthday" (that's for you, Mr. Bowser) he finally decided that maybe the world would not end if he slept 12 hours at a stretch. After a few disastrous nights at my parents' over Thanksgiving, J. decided we needed to throw a Hail Mary. Here's what that looked like: he blew up an air mattress and we slept on the living room floor. And Hudson had his closet door and our bedroom door between us. He could not hear or smell or otherwise sense that I was just a few feet away. We're hoping that a few nights more and he'll be cured of his night waking habit. And hopefully, we can move back into our bed. Though the air mattress isn't too bad--I just feel like I'm about to roll off most of the night. J. looked at Murphy beds online the other day. They are large and expensive and, I suspect, not very comfortable. It would be sort of European to have the living room double as our bedroom. J. is the Master of maximizing space. We're moving to a new apartment in a couple of weeks. We'll still just have two bedrooms but I have a feeling he's got a Plan.
On Sunday when we got home, I managed to set off the VERY loud smoke alarm while Harper and Hudson were napping. Neither of them woke up. Of course if I have the audacity to rustle the sheet too loudly while turning over in the middle of the night, that's enough to wake him up. Ah, selective hearing.

Wave your banner, part 2

Okay. I just did a Google search for some information about how to do a better job of getting more solid food into Hudson without compromising my breast milk supply. The first link was to an on-line forum of moms who are members that league with the Spanish word for milk. (I don't want this post to be a link--see?) So, these ladies have given me some useful information in the past, and some not so useful. But generally, I have respect for an organization that promotes breastfeeding and I think it's good that so many of our generation are doing it even though our own mothers weren't encouraged to. For the record, I had a REALLY hard time with it the first time, but kept it up until Harper weaned herself at around 10 months (which is when I got pregnant with Hudson). It was lots of work (pumping 4-5 times a day. mooooo) and painful for probably 5 months. I supplemented with formula when even the pumping didn't suffice. Bottles and pump parts to wash all day long. It just wasn't fun. This time, thankfully, it is blissfully easy. So I'm planning to keep doing it. I don't have a cut-off date in mind. I assume we'll figure it out when the time is right to stop. So, back to the triple-L forum. I did get some helpful tips on when I should be giving the sweet potatoes and spinach. What I also got was this quote: "Routines are for dancers, schedules are for trains," and mothers who closed each post with descriptors like this: "co-sleeping, cloth-diapering, baby-wearing, attachment parenting..." and the list went on. There were even cute little icons that showed Mommy putting cloth diapers in the washing machine and wearing her BF toddler in a sling. There was even an icon of a little bed with Mommy and Daddy on each side and a little baby head in the middle. I could figure out what BF meant, but there were lots of other acronyms that I couldn't. So. I was reminded of an interview I saw on the Today show probably 2 years ago. This mother and her baby had been in a car accident in which a huge truck had driven off an overpass and landed on their car and they'd escaped without injury. Pretty miraculous. Matt Lauer asked the mom, "How are you? How is the baby?" and her response, no kidding: "She's great! She's 6 months old and 100% breastfed!" You could tell he didn't know quite how to respond. Sooo...she has superpowers as a result? would've probably been my reaction. Anyway, it's idolatry, plain and simple. We take good things but we base our entire identity around them. We put our faith in them, find our purpose in them, take undue pride in them. It's everywhere, by the way. This is just the place where it was glaring today. Pick a subject--homeschooling, eating organic, theology, patriotism, the environment, politics--and you'll find people worshiping. I do it too. This concludes my most strident post to date. Hudson just woke up. I wish I had an icon that showed me grimacing as I put his disposable diaper in the Diaper Genie.

vanity, vanity...

I knew the weather was changing before I saw the forecast. How, you ask? My thumb told me. That's right. In true octogenarian fashion, I seem to have a little arthritis in my right thumb that acts up when the weather gets cooler. I just turned 37, making me around 10 years older than most of the bloggers I enjoy. Most days I feel younger. I managed to prolong adolescence into my late 20's, got married at 33, had my first child at 34, my second at 36 (which meant there was, no kidding, an "ADVANCED MATERNAL AGE" stamped on the outside of my chart at my OB's office) and here I am: a not-so-young Young Mother. A little arthritis might not be such a big deal when most of your day is spent relaxing in an Easy Boy watching CNN (which is what my arthritic Grandfather tended towards. He got rather fiery and political in his last years), however, it turns out that I use my thumbs approximately once per second. So here's how the day went:

Pick up Hudson from pack-n-play (ouch)
Change his diaper (ouch)
Change his clothes (ouch)
Get Harper out of bed (OUCH!)
Get her dressed (ouch)
Pull top off her yogurt (ouch)
Put 30 pound stroller outside (OUCH! OUCH!)
Help Harper with shoes and socks (ouch)

You get the picture. We really use these opposable thumbs! I finally had to take an Advil. So this, I think to myself, is why people really fear aging. It's partially the loss of one's stunning good looks, (hah) but mostly, we just don't want to be in pain.

Here's something else I was thinking about yesterday when I wasn't distracted by my infirmity. When the weather is this sublime, we are outside. We spend two hours at the park (including the walk) each morning, and another hour and a half in the afternoon. When we're inside, we're either eating, sleeping, or getting ready to go outside. We don't play with play-do, build with blocks, color, paint, or even read very much. I think, after some worrying, that I decided that this is okay. This is probably the only time in Harper's life that the only thing she really has to do each day is eat, sleep and play. Everything we'd be doing inside is really just a simulation of what we can do outside. We talk, we listen, we run, we sing, we swing, we draw with sidewalk chalk, we share, we tell stories. We have school, I suppose. Serendipitously.

Wave your banner

I meant to post on Veteran's Day. I love holidays that help me remember to be thankful. I actually almost started to cry when we were walking to the park last Friday and there were all of these flags billowing in front of houses in our neighborhood. Once in college I started weeping during my 20th century British history class. The professor, a natty, bow-tie wearing, white handlebar mustache sporting fellow named, fantastically, R.J.Q. Adams, was talking about how an entire generation of young British men was lost to World War I. And how all of these young women never married because of it. He then went on to celebrate what winning the war had meant for the world. Powerful stuff, but still a little weird to cry in a British history class.

Harper likes sitting in the Bumbo seat to eat raisins. Hudson has learned how to hoist his small body right out of the Bumbo seat. There is a recall on the Bumbo seat because apparently, the instructions on the back explaining how to use it safely are not big enough for some people. Once babies can hoist, don't leave them in it folks. Until they are almost 2 1/2 and like to sit in it to eat their raisins.

I've been reading some interesting blogs about parenting. Something I need to work on: following direct orders with "Okay?" Example: "Harper, after you finish lunch, we're going to use the potty and take a nap, OKAY?" It's as though I'm asking her permission or giving her a choice in the matter, which I am decidedly not. I remember learning in a linguistics class that in Japanese, there are lots of words used to avoid being direct. Because deference is considered a cultural norm. I think my teacher even said that when someone asks what time it is, you say, "It's about 2:15," even if it is exactly 2:15. I think that's interesting. I tend to be indirect because it seems more polite and I like to avoid all appearance of conflict. But I want Harper to obey me the first time I ask her to do something, and I don't want her to think I am uncertain about what I am telling her to do. So, I'm going to be mindful. Okay?

The Have Nots

This morning at breakfast after I'd put Hudson down for his morning nap, Harper requested a recitation of Things Hudson Is Too Little To Touch. Never too early to start relishing the misfortune of others. Those of you following the Potty Saga might have a passing interest in the fact that she took her big girl superiority into the bathroom soon after and made her second deposit in the Bank of Poo. She has also decided that the suitcase potty can indeed serve her well when she is at the park or Children's Museum. We have tentatively re-entered the world, albeit with lots of conversations about What Our Body Is Telling Us at 15 minute intervals.

**DISCLAIMER** I am not being reimbursed for the following endorsement. (though it would be kind of cool if I were)
Something good happens this time of year and its name is Coffee Mate seasonal creamer. I'm partial to the Pumpkin Spice, though the Peppermint Mocha is also good. (I tried the Gingerbread this morning and it was disappointing). I'm not kidding you, gentle reader, for a mere $1.77 you can get a couple of weeks' worth of almost Starbucks caliber coffee goodness. I'm not pretending it's healthy. Let's face it, it's called cream-er, and I'm pretty sure I don't want to know what chemistry is involved to necessitate the -er. Coffee is, for me, primarily a drug, but I feel okay about enjoying it.
One more thing. Usually when I put Hudson down for his naps it's a pretty tidy business. I sing for about 30 seconds, put him down, he pops his thumb in, rolls over on his side and we're done. Not so just now. He really didn't think he needed a nap and he expressed this by pushing up into a sitting position, bursting into a most pitiful cry, and, incongruously, clapping his little hands. It was like two fat little starfish smacking together in a rainstorm. I wish I could say I was of stern enough stuff to turn on my heel and march out. Indeed I am not. He and his fat little starfish clapping hands got picked right up. I am NOT Babywise at moments like that.

developmental millstones

Yes, the misspelling is intentional.
Micturition: from the Latin, micturire, to want to urinate. I have not blogged in several days because we have taken up the gauntlet. This picture, taken this weekend, will, barring backsliding, be the last picture of Harper wearing a diaper:

She is also sporting one of J's bowties. Those are sea turtles. So, the reason diapers are easy is because they allow you and your kid to be sort of blissfully unaware of micturition and his good friend defacation for sometimes hours at a time. With the wearing of The Big Girl Panties comes Constant Vigilance, which isn't hugely popular. I'd say it's going pretty well though. I don't think it's premature to say she has some mastery over micturition. The worst part is being confined to home. I got overly optimistic after some early success Monday morning and assumed that meant she was ready to use her portable little suitcase potty at the zoo. Silly me. We then tried the park yesterday morning. Again, not a good idea. She really likes toting around her portable suitcase potty but has yet to actually deposit anything in it. So today we are home. All day. I have a headache. And Harper seems grumpy. I tried to explain to her that unless she's willing to void al fresco, home we will have to stay. So, J. passed the bar, Hudson learned to crawl, Harper learned to use the potty..what impressive thing, you ask, have I learned to do this week? Well, I made up a potty song to the "Hallelujah" chorus of Handel's Messiah. Would it offend Handel, do you think, to know that "stin-ky poo-poo" actually fits quite nicely?

Our very own Atticus Finch

So, a lawyer passes the bar...

That's right, kids. My dear husband has done it. He is an Official Lawyer. He has the bow-ties, the round, tortoise shell spectacles, and a head full of useful words like tort, muniment, and unconscionability. He could also, I have no doubt, take down a rabid dog with a single shot, though it would grieve him deeply.

And if he tires of the law, there's also his considerable skill as a sous-chef. Here is what it looks like when he prepares Harper's dinner:
Other exciting family news this week: Hudson, having expressed little interest in locomotion thus far, decided it was time to crawl. I had put him down for a minute to peel Harper's banana and he saw a patch of sunlight on the carpet that he simply had to touch. He got on all fours and, showing a blatant disregard for such expected precursors as the "commando crawl", slowly made his way over with nary a tummy drop. I think the patch of sunlight was a disappointment, but he's discovering the many enticements of the Wider World. And Harper is discovering her hoarding reflex. Her new favorite phrase: "Hudson is too little to play with my _________."

Entropy

It's the Second Law of Thermodynamics. The world tends towards disorder. It's because it takes more energy to keep things ordered. The natural world is lazy, as are we. This is an interesting theological reality as well. No weeds in the pre-Fall garden. So. This is our post-Fall coffee table. Just two days ago, J. had it completely cleared. He is the tidy one in the family. Harper and I tend to clutter. My favorite things are the sandals Mr. Corncob is wearing as a hat, and the wild ride Spiderman is enjoying on Lewis the Dog. Spiderman joined the family on Saturday, which around here is referred to as Daddy's Day. Harper's favorite things about Spiderman: that he can do the splits, and that his web-spewing hand is making the sign for 'I love you.' So instead of fighting crime, Spiderman runs around our apartment saying "I love you!" in a high-pitched voice and jumping into the splits. Spider-femme.

lord of the gourds, part two

Here we are supporting Harper's pumpkin passion. This picture was taken by Andrew, an 8th grader who will be going to Alaska in December with his church choir if they can just sell enough pumpkins. Here is a picture of Harper when she realizes that she will not be allowed to single-handedly finance the trip by purchasing and bringing home the entire pumpkin patch:

She did get to bring home the one she's holding and another big one for the patio. She was a happy girl.
We are loving this weather. Twice daily trips to the park this week. I know that autumn is the metaphorical season of decay and all, but it is glorious in its entropy. Things fall apart and it can be a joy to behold.

the sparkly scooter of Somebody Else

We're walking into the park yesterday and Harper sees a scooter with sparkly princesses on it parked just outside the gate and she says, "I want to ride that." No, we're not going to ride the scooter, I tell her, it's somebody else's. She accepts that fairly well, scampers into the park, and goes about the business of sliding. A few minutes later I see a concerned look on her face as she's coming down the slide. As soon as she gets to the bottom she scurries around underneath the slide in hot pursuit of something. Hudson and I follow her to see what it so urgent. It is the little girl to whom the scooter belongs and she has retrieved it and would be riding it if it were not for Harper, who has planted herself in front of the scooter and is saying, "Please get off the scooter, please. It's Somebody Else's. You can't ride it, it's for Somebody Else. Please get off please." (I was, it should be noted, rather pleased with all of the 'pleases') So it turns out that Harper has been thinking for awhile now that Somebody Else is an actual person who has loads of cool toys that she isn't allowed to touch. Somebody Else also tends to leave his sippy cups around, and often, pieces of his snack on park benches. All of it denied to Harper. Somebody Else is not required to share.
Something else (or could it be the mysterious Something Else?) funny happened yesterday. While I was changing her diaper before her nap, Harper was holding her puppy Jeff (who used to be named Wadsworth. It's a long story) and she lifted up her shirt and pretended to breastfeed him. "Jeff wanted some milk," she said casually. Usually Jeff gets a bottle. And sometimes pasta. She has two dolls, Baby Gus and Joshua, whom she condescends to mother about once a week. She has never felt compelled to breastfeed either of them. Or give them pasta. I put a diaper on Joshua last week after noticing he'd been naked for about 3 months.

Let them eat cake, and whine

That's Hudson enjoying some carrots. He would prefer that you not notice the pink bib inscribed "Princess." He does have boy bibs, there just wasn't one handy. So, I've been thinking about food. And here's something I've noticed:

1. There are certain foods that have lots of calories but seem as though they shouldn't, because you can eat rather copious amounts and not feel very full.
Examples: ice cream, queso, milkshakes, M&Ms, chips

2. Then there are foods that have lots of calories that actually seem as though they have lots of calories.
Examples: Milk Duds, cheesecake, lasagna, cupcakes, pizza

3. And foods that, tasty though they may be, never let you forget that they are good for you.
Examples: broccoli, spinach, apples, Ezekiel bread

So, if the logic follows, it seems like there ought to be food that's really good for you AND tastes as though it has lots of calories. I can't think of anything. There are healthy foods like avocados and nuts that have lots of calories. But I can't think of a single low calorie food that tastes high calorie. Hm.
My favorite candy this time of year: the limited edition vanilla Tootsie Rolls. Try them.
My least favorite genre of book: the tell-all autobiographies grown-up children write about their famous parents. Francis Schaeffer's son Frank has a new one. J.D. Salinger's daughter. A.A. Milne's son (how could you, Christopher Robin?!). The main intent seems to be to tell the world that, though lots of people think their parent was AMAZING, they had Actual Flaws. How shocking.

mites, both dust and widows'

Here are some numbers I pondered over the weekend:

*TEN: number of years it takes for a mattress to DOUBLE its weight in dust mites and other debris (including insects, food particles and "other unpleasant matter")

*$172: price of the pair of jeans I tried on Saturday and really wanted to buy with some birthday money my parents gave me. They were great jeans, but I just couldn't do it because...

*$250: amount of money it takes for Operation Smile and other similar medical groups to repair a cleft palate in the Third World

*$95 million: amount of money Lakewood Church spent to turn the Compaq center into a church building

*$12 million: amount of money my church wants to raise in order to build a church building (it's been meeting in a local community college and, before that, an elementary school since it was started 10 years ago)

*$20 million: amount of money another local church wants to raise to expand/improve their current building

*508,001: number of children world-wide whose lives could be changed with a $250 surgery if just these three churches donated the cumulative proceeds from their building funds, and I donated my birthday money

I realize I'm being overly simplistic. I don't care. I just used the cleft palate example because there was an article about it in The Wall Street Journal last week. There are myriad other worthy causes. And I'm sorry about the repulsive mattress statistic. I just couldn't keep the fascinating nastiness of it to myself.

killing me softly at Kroger

So I ran into Kroger last night on my way home from Freebirds (I do not as a rule like Mexican food. I do enjoy the Freebirds) to grab a couple of things and what do you think I saw there? Well, it was Friday night, so, of course, it was open mike night in the deli/prepared foods section. There was a lady, she was around 60 I'd say, accompanying herself on an electric keyboard and singing light pop from the 70's and 80's. You know how high school marching bands try to play pop music only they can't do the syncopation because I guess their feet would get all tangled up or something? That's what this lady sounded like! As though if she ventured from the metronome someone would fling a freshly prepared, ready for the oven lasagna at her. I scanned my groceries to the dulcet tones of "Take it..to the limit". I was tempted to record the performance on my phone (only I don't know how) and send it to the Eagles. And since we're on the rather odd subject, why does the Randalls by me have a sitting area with a cozy fireplace? Are there people who actually want to stay for a while and relax at the grocery store?
Tonight I was helping Harper with her long-sleeved pink pj shirt and she said, "I'm like Jesus." Oh, I said, How are you like Jesus? "Because of my pink shirt," she patiently explained. "Does Jesus wear a pink shirt?" I queried. "No, Jesus wears a brown shirt." Ah, of course.

physics

Harper is pretty agile, as you can see from the arabesque. She has, however, suffered a couple of notable exceptions this week. On Tuesday while trying very hard to NOT take a nap, she fell out of her crib for the first time. I'm actually amazed that it took 28 months considering her seemingly insatiable curiosity. She did NOT enjoy the fall and hasn't tried again. Then yesterday at the park while she was standing on the jungle jim (I'm not sure what else to call this--you know, the thing with stairs and tunnels and slides) singing "Happy Birthday" to a little boy she'd just met, she somehow managed to get her bent knee wedged between two of the bars. It took a bit of painful manuvering to get her free. She then proceeded to fall out of a swing and get a face full of mulch. She kept asking, "What happened to Harper Anne?" on the way home.
On another note, I am already tired of the 2008 elections. And the ads haven't even started in Texas. It's frustrating that it costs so much money to become president. It's because we are complacent. The candidates spend millions of dollars buying ads because they know that's just about the only way to break through the inertia. At this point it's basically a popularity contest. I'm pretty convinced that it doesn't really matter who the president is. There are lots of people who will passionately disagree with me. But I've been paying attention for around 20 years (Bush-Clinton-Bush) and the changes seem superficial. I'll still vote, mind you, I just won't be excited about it.

Federal Reserve Chairman..from the block!

I am up way too late. Jennifer Lopez and Alan Greenspan are on Letterman. That's fun contrast, huh? Wonder what they chatted about backstage. "Gigli"? Interest rates?

networking a l'enfant

At the park this morning, there were some older kids apparently enjoying a Columbus Day holiday from school. As their nannies chatted at a picnic table, the kids congregated on the jungle jim. One of the boys, a first grader (he later announced), climbed on top of the tunnel slide and shouted, "Who here has been to Cirque du Soleil?" He waited for a response, got none, and proclaimed, "Well, I have--at Disneyworld." A few minutes later, he and a couple of the girls, who appeared to be a little older (8 maybe), were digging a hole (which they later filled with a rather impressive amount of mud) in front of the swings and I heard this exchange:
Girl 1: At Pooh Corner, you can dig two feet down into the sandbox and there's a concrete bottom.
Cirque du Soleil Boy: You went to Pooh Corner? When?
Girl 2: I went there too.
So then they figured out if they knew some of the same people. It was like a cocktail party with mud instead of cosmopolitans. Pooh Corner, by the way, is THE preschool you go to in Houston if you want to go to THE prep school that will get you into Yale or Dartmouth or Smith.
On a less socially satirical note, I would like to show you a picture of what Harper's hair does when it's 99% humidity:
Sorry it's sideways--I'm not sure how to turn it. Anyway, can you see the ringlets? I was going to show you a picture of MY hair in the 99% humidity but it's just too depressing. Forty-five minutes with the Chi and it's still a wiry, poufy mess. And, seriously, there are MANY other things I ought to be doing with those 45 minutes.

Peripatetic

It means walking while teaching. I love words, which makes me a logophile. I also do lots of walking while teaching. Harper is newly fascinated by crosswalk lights. We have to cross a busy intersection to get to our parks, and we spend most of the walk anticipating and then processing how TERRIBLY exciting it is to see The Orange Hand and The White Man With No Face On. That's right. She calls him The White Man With No Face On. So we get to the park and Harper starts rhapsodizing about that most joyful of moments when It's Safe To Walk When I See The White Man With No Face On! My parents were here Tuesday and my dad went to the park with us.

My dad: It sounds like she's saying (lowers his voice and whispers dramatically) "the WHITE man."
Me: Yes, that IS what she's saying.

I explained it but I think he still found it a little scandalous that she was going on and on about The White Man (With No Face On). It is rather scandalous to end a sentence with a preposition, after all.

Claps, shoots, and treesus

While Harper and I were at the doctor's office on Tuesday, Hudson learned to clap. J. was playing a little something jazzy on the guitar and, apparently, Hudson had to find a new way to physically manifest the groove inside. Clapping will do nicely, he thought to himself. He is also sleeping so much better at night the past two weeks. Perhaps the two things are related. I took them on Thursday to try to get their picture taken. It was Hudson's first time and he did fine. Harper, however, was NOT interested in posing. The photographer was NOT interested in being helpful either, which, as you can imagine, was frustrating to me. If I could take a decent picture of the two of them by myself, I would not seek out professional help. She (the photog) just sat still and said, in this monotone voice, "ok. smile." This is what happens when you tell a toddler to smile:
They squint up their eyes and do this fake thing with their teeth that in no way resembles their actual smile. You should probably instead do something silly that will make them laugh. Which I would think would be Photographing Children 101, but apparently not. Ironically, as soon as she and her life-stifling lack of energy lumbered away (I use that rather disparaging verb intentionally--she seemed weary and burdened) to see if any of the shots were good (hm, nope) Harper started twirling around to the music, giggling away, and Hudson, caught up in the moment, started to clap and squeal with glee. I almost called after her to come back but realized the futility.
One last thing. Harper has decided that the plural form of tree is tree-sus. I can only imagine she's trying to find a rhyme scheme for the poem she's composing: Jesus and the Treesus.

Cinema Lament

If you looked at my profile you might have said to yourself, "Why, it seems as though she stopped watching movies in 1995." I think that's when the long BBC version of "Pride and Prejudice" came out. My other favorites are even older--I'm pretty sure "The Mission," "Amadeus," and "Glory" were made in the late '80's. And "Chariots of Fire" goes back even further. The thing is, I haven't stopped watching movies. I actually watch lots of movies, though rarely in the theater these days. I just don't like many of them. There are movies I appreciate (like the Lord of the Rings trilogy--those were pretty to look at and well-made) and movies I think are funny or have well-developed characters or good performances or, RARELY, good writing (any of the three Whit Stillman films--actually, no, just the first two), but there haven't been any that have something transcendent about them. OR there are those that are powerful, but they are so heavy laden with violence or sex or profanity that you feel like you need a dip in a ceremonial mikvah bath when you're finished. And you feel like you can't recommend them without substantial caveats, and, let's face it, if there have to be caveats, you probably shouldn't be watching it OR recommending it. I like bio-pics (though J. doesn't) but I always feel like I've been bamboozled when I actually read about the person and discover that some key plot point was total fiction. Ugh, and romantic comedies are just down-right dumb these days. "Music and Lyrics" and its ilk make me want to sue someone to get my two hours back. So, I am ready for your suggestions. What am I missing?

and.....RELEASE

Harper has a superpower. She can, it turns out, drink her weight in fluids, and then hold her urine for upwards of two hours. Perhaps we can get her a guest spot on "Heroes". Here's how we discovered her gift. A couple of things happened during Monday's resounding potty training defeat that made me think she might have a urinary tract infection. So I called the doctor and asked how we'd go about diagnosing that. I knew what she'd say--they needed clean urine to test. Which meant that unless we were willing to subject her to an in and out catheterization (which, while not the MOST barbaric of medical procedures to perform on a child, easily makes the top 3), we would have to get her to pee in a cup. I guffawed and maybe even snorted a little on the phone. The doctor suggested we strip her down and put her in the bathtub. So. J. picked up the sterile specimen cup on his way home from teaching his class and I spent the morning following her around with her sippy cup. She drank at least 20 ounces. I put her, and her alarmingly distended belly, into the tub, and........nothing. We sang songs, we drank some more juice, we danced a little and... nothing. J. came in to check on us and realized we needed to be a little more aggressive. He got in there with her. He tickled, he sang, he lifted. She giggled, she sang, she jumped and demi-plied, and.....nothing. I am on my knees, dangled over the side of the bathtub, trying to keep the cup in the proximity of the anticipated flow. Forty-five minutes it took. But we got it, yes we did. A veritable geyser it was. J. took it to the doctor's office. No infection. So, we're thankful. And, sadly, sore. J's wrists hurt and my back was aching. And, after months of talking about how we put our peepee in the potty, Harper now understands that what we REALLY do is spend lots of time playing with Mommy and Daddy in the bathtub THEN we peepee in the green cup.

My kid could draw that

This is Harper drawing Bob the Tomato from Veggie Tales. She's getting pretty good at faces. I saw a preview for a documentary about a 4 year old who is a modern art prodigy. I think it's called "My Kid Could Draw That," which is, of course, the reaction most of us among the non-cognescenti have when we see modern art. Apparently the kid gets a savvy agent who starts convincing people to pay thousands of dollars for her paintings and then it turns out maybe the kid is getting a little help from her parents. Let the record state that I in no way aided Harper in the above depiction of Bob the Tomato. We've all been a little out of sorts and cranky today. Potty training may beat us yet. The thing with having young kids is that just when you really feel like you're hitting your stride, it's time for some new and likely disruptive developmental milestone to show up. I was remembering the halcyon days of last week when Harper and Hudson were napping simultaneously for 2 hours each afternoon. Now she's all cranky about not being able to relieve herself whenever and wherever she pleases, and Hudson, after subsisting quite blissfully on breastmilk for almost 8 months is wondering why I keep trying to shovel peas and sweet potatoes into his mouth. J., who tends to be an iconoclast when it comes to things like pediatrician recommended timetables, wonders why I get into a dither. It's because I am a Rule Follower. A Non-Wave Maker. An icono-phile?

Abe

Tonight while she was in the bathtub, Harper was playing with an empty baby soap bottle. She was calling the pump part a "bubble wand" and she wrapped it in her washcloth, giggled, and said, "The bubble wand is getting married." Presumably because the bubble wand was wearing a veil. "And who is the bubble wand going to marry?" I asked, thinking she'd choose Henry, the blue octopus who a few minutes earlier had been strolling with the bubble wand around the edge of the tub. "The bubble wand is going to marry...ABRAHAM LINCOLN!" she exclaimed. Of course. Every bubble wand's dream man.

Raspberry Hair

We've had some communication problems today. I was stirring Harper's yogurt this morning and I mentioned that I could see the raspberries in there and, oh boy, some pears are in there too! and Harper said, looking dismayed, "Hairs?" "Not H-H-Hairs," I assured her, "P-ears." "Hairs?" she said again, growing concerned. "P-P-P-Pears," I said, trying to stay upbeat. I finally convinced her that YoBaby doesn't even MAKE raspberry-hair flavored yogurt. While she ate her yogurt she got really excited about something and she kept saying it. It sounded like 'green tiger'.
Me: What about the green tiger?
Harper: Not green tiger, Mommy, GREEN tiger.
Me: I'm sorry Harper, I can't understand you--are you saying 'grandfather'?
Harper: (slower this time, a trifle exasperated) No, NOT grandfather, green TIGER.

I still don't know what she was saying. Usually I can get her to give me a little context and I can figure it out. I think I might be losing my hearing. I was thinking today about my high school student council sponsor, Mr. Lionel Rowland. The poor fellow really needed a hearing aid and you'd say something like, "I think we need to do a fund raiser," and he'd say, as if it were a completely reasonably request for a student council meeting, "So you say you want to go to the zoo to see an alligator?" We got lots of mileage out of poor Mr. Rowland. Have I become Mr. Rowland?
My parents were here yesterday and we went swimming. Harper leaned a little too far out of her floaty and got a face full of water. At dinner she was remembering it and asked, "What happened to Harper Anne?" I asked what she thought had happened. "My face went under the water," she said, looking a little apprehensive. I told her she was okay because grandfather had been right there to help her. Today she was talking about it again and she said, "Harper Anne's face was under the water but it's okay because grandfather was right there to help me!" Isn't that something that at this stage in their verbal development we can even shape their memories for them??

Golden

Today. It's just been glorious. The weather in Houston will break your spirit if you let it, but it also will create this intense appreciation for the days like today. So, that's our backdrop: this brilliantly sunny, not so very humid, almost cool day. We worshiped at Ecclesia--a group who exude grace and humility and service. Harper loves it there. She throws her arms up and exclaims, "We're singing about JESUS!" and even did a little soft-shoe interpretive dance while a guy played the guitar during communion. We came home, napped (except J.--he studied), then walked to the park. Simple. Extravagantly good.

It's a penguin, silly

Harper found this little baby mitt on the floor of our closet and decided that wearing it transformed her into a baby penguin. She pronounces it "ping-goin." It's a funny thing to watch an imagination emerge. It can also be lots of work to keep up with all of the eccentricities. Toddlers create these little rituals. It's your job to figure out which ones are an essential part of their security and which (like the baby mitt/penguin transmogrifier--any Calvin and Hobbes fans out there?) turn out to be a pleasant diversion forgotten as soon as the mitt falls to the bottom of one of the toy bins. I remembered, when I heard wails coming from her crib one night last week when J. was putting her to bed, that I had forgotten to fill him in on an important new development. He came out looking puzzled. "Did she hurt herself?" I asked. "She kept saying something about her blanket," he said. Oh, that. You are supposed to make the blanket into a fish and then it swims down to snuggle under her chin. I thought he should probably rush back in there. He did not go back in to do the fish blanket. He is sensible. The next night she wanted me to make the blanket into a ping-goin. The last couple of days it's been a frog.
Speaking of caving to one's children, I completely surrendered to instant gratification with Hudson last night. I was too weak from sleep deprivation. Tonight, I have resolve of steel. Plus, we went to Babies r Us today and got a mattress and lowered him down into the bottom of the pack-n-play, which I, the eternal optimist, am hoping will be the panacea. One of my many theories/excuses for his troubled night sleep was that the top bassinette part was getting too wobbly for him and he felt like he was falling every time he'd move. Hey, if those mother penguins can march hundreds of miles (that might be slight hyperbole) to gorge on fish to regurgitate into their babies' mouths, the least I can do is buy a mattress or make a blanket into a frog.

To Sleep, perchance.

It is telling that when I went looking for a picture of Hudson sleeping, this was the most recent one I found. It's from around 5 months ago. The boy has certainly slept since then. In fact, he naps well most days (2 naps, each around 2 hours), and will even tease us into thinking he's going to achieve Sleep Through The Night Status by doing it several nights at a stretch. Then he decides he's had enough of the extended quiet of night. And he must make his displeasure evident. By screaming. Which wouldn't be a big deal if he had his own wing. Or even his own room. Technically he HAS a room--the walk-in closet in our bedroom is all his. It's just that it is 4 feet away from my sleeping head. So when he is awake, we are awake. Last night my sweet husband shared one of his earbuds with me (he's been sleeping with either earplugs or white noise/music/podcasts since Harper was a baby) and from 2:30 to 4am we listened to a hilarious podcast called "Catholics in a Small Town." It was consolation, but we. are. tired. Tonight will be better. He will wake up and instead of thinking to himself, "Well, I believe I'd like a little snack and snuggle from the mother and I will, therefore, let out a most impressive wail until this comes to pass," he will think, "I will honor my mother at this moment by sucking my thumb and drifting back to sleep." Let it be, let it be.

Smocked

Hudson has noticed that he has yet to star in any posts. He said he prefers social to political commentary, and felt the last post was a touch strident. So. Here in the south, there are two types of mothers: those who think there is nothing cuter than a boy with smocking on his usually pastel (and often seersucker) clothes, and those who listen to their husbands when they say, "Not on MY son, you don't!" I am mostly the latter, but I thought these little turtles were cute and I figured the green was rather boyish. Apparently not. When he wore it to church, a man gave Hudson a big grin and asked how old SHE was. Sorry buddy. After almost 7 months of quiet observation, Hudson has decided he's ready to engage in some dialogue. To let you know he's ready to begin, he lets out a piercing squeal that sounds like a whistle. That's your cue to look at him, and say something, or, as he seems to prefer, sing something. When your little performance is over he will then offer this astute review: "Nnnnnnnnnnnn. Ahhhhhhhhhh." Then, if he's really impressed, another whistle. At this point you might think you can return to washing the dishes or slicing the strawberries. You will be mistaken. He would like more. The encore should involve singing AND dancing. Or, at the bare minimum, energetic motions. "Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes" was very popular this morning. Which is unfortunate considering I pulled something in my lower back yesterday. A martyr for the cause, that's me.

Kiwi Apples

Harper and I shared an apple at breakfast. The sticker on the apple had lots of information: organic, Fuji, New Zealand. If I'd had a world map on the wall (which I've been intending to do for a while now) I would have shown her just how far that apple had traveled. So, I guess it's nice that we can get any kind of fruit or vegetable just about year around now that the world is so small and all, but is this a GOOD thing? I read about a new book by Barbara Kingsolver (she wrote The Poisonwood Bible which I read years ago. I remember it being, forgive the pun, a little bitter. For a great book written by another bitter former missionary kid--wow, do you suppose that's an authentic literary sub-genre?--read The Good Earth instead) in which she chronicles the year she and her husband and kids spent living on a farm eating only what they could grow themselves or could buy that had been grown locally. No apples in September for them. Or strawberries in January. I probably want to read it. This picture is Harper trying to wink. Everything on her plate came from California, incidentally.

Lords of the Gourds

Tonight I watched a documentary on PBS called "Lords of the Gourds." We don't have cable. It was about people who raise giant pumpkins. I really like watching documentaries about regular people who, it turns out, are really good at something: spelling (see "Spellbound"), Scrabble ("Word Wars"), crossword puzzles ("Wordplay"), and, in this case, getting pumpkins to grow really, really big. The world record is 1,460 pounds. The pumpkin you see above weighs in at around 26 pounds. This was taken last week. Harper LOVES pumpkins and is thrilled that they will soon be appearing in big crates outside the grocery stores and on the front porches of houses on our way to the park. She does not, however, call them pumpkins. They are so very special to her that she has a twin language with them and in this language they are called "DOUGH-gi-dize" (rhymes with "go see guys"). Last fall when she started saying it I thought it might be a cute little speech impediment. It's clearly intentional at this point. So, the pumpkin costume was purchased mid-October of last year and, while she would carry it around and hug it for hours at a time, she didn't actually manage to put it on without crying rather hysterically until sometime around Christmas. It now lives inside a tent in her room and some mornings, like this one, she'll pull it out and say, rather carelessly, "I'm going to wear my dough-gi-die now Mommy."

Elimination Communication

We walked to the park to play with some friends this morning. It's great to watch the kids play and get to have good, if fractured, conversations with like-minded friends. Definitely worth venturing out in the 157% humidity. So, let's talk about Elimination Communication. Word of caution: it has to do with poo. Mothers (and the elderly; see Shakespeare's "Seven Ages of Man" speech in, I think, As You Like It) spend inordinate amounts of time pondering poo. Several months ago I read an article in a rather crunchy (as in granola) mothering magazine about moms who, instead of filling up landfills with disposable diapers or polluting the water supply laundering cloth ones, were instead potty training babies as young as a couple of weeks. That's right--a couple of WEEKS. The trick is in figuring out your baby's poo and pee "cues" (the Communication) and dangling them over the toilet to Eliminate. Sometimes there's a little Pavlovian signal--whistling( "Zippity Do Da"?) or making a hissing sound. Well, it now seems that EC has reached mainstream status--an article on msn.com last week. (If I knew how I'd link to the article. I do not. I see that my husband turned 'Luddite' blue in the previous post so you could link to something helpful.) After changing FOUR poo diapers in an hour and a half one day last week, I began to see the appeal. We are starting potty training with Harper (after months of fits and starts--she was probably ready to start when I was nine months pregnant. It is not possible to bend down to put a toddler on the potty at nine months pregnant) and she does a great job of Communicating just AFTER she has Eliminated. This morning at 4:30am Hudson Communicated quite loudly that he had, indeed, Eliminated, and would like very much for me do something about it, post haste. So, it turns out my children have Elimination, Communication down pat. It's the Communication THEN Elimination that needs work.

Ahem.

Well. Some introductions to begin, I suppose. All the David Copperfield (Dickens, not the magician) cr*p, as our friend Holden Caulfield would say. He was rather profane. Just a shield. There, see, already I digress into literary commentary. Remembrance of things past. I don't read much these days. Books for grownups, that is. I read (aloud) Mother Goose, Elmo's First Babysitter, Caps for Sale, and, this week's obsession, The Tale of Peter Rabbit. (I skip the part about Peter's mother being a widow because his father ended up in Mrs. McGregor's pie.) I am a wife and mother. Wife of one, mother of two. Harper is two and a quarter, Hudson is seven months. Apparently, "mommy blogs" are quite the thing these days, making up a considerable majority of the blogosphere. I read an article about it. I think political blogs run a distant second. Maybe I'll write about politics too. I like this Mike Huckabee fellow from (wince) Arkansas. I don't know much about him except that I read in an article that he used to be pretty fat and now he's thin. He went on a diet and exercised. Probably good preparation for the Oval Office. My husband set this blog up for me because he is 5 years my junior and, therefore, exponentially more tech-savvy than I. I am a Luddite. I'm not sure EXACTLY who Ludd was, but I know that Luddites eschew technology, or maybe are afraid of it, or maybe feel superior to it. I've only seen it used in context--in New York Times articles. You see a pattern emerging--I read articles. Lots of them. I read World magazine cover to cover each week. The Houston Chronicle each Sunday. First Things when I'm needing something a bit more strenuous. I used to read lots of books. Now I take naps and read articles. And blogs. That's enough for a first post.