Twelfth Night, or As You Will

Harper has, to this point, rarely had strong opinions about her clothes, but that has begun to change. She has begun to change, in fact, several times a day, to the point that I've had to reprimand her because the laundry, it overwhelms. She was so excited about the Arrival of Fall that she dug around in her closet until she found a garbage bag full of fall and winter clothes from last year, which she greeted like long lost friends who are all just a touch short in the stride. She has been wearing them, ninety degree weather notwithstanding. Here are some samples of her burgeoning sartorial sensibility. Be forewarned that she is bold in her assertion that polka dots and stripes can, and definitely should, be worn in perfect harmony. And that floral gardening gloves are a perfect accessory:
A little Degas pose, a kicky knee sock, a little sister wielding a tiny plastic container:


Knee socks are factoring large in her overall look. We found some cute ones on sale at Target that are conveniently polka dotted and striped.

In completely unrelated news, I've had four friends have babies in the last couple of weeks. Everett, Clayton, Lauren, and Crowley...you are a beloved bunch. The miracle that is a newborn baby gets me every single time.

As You Like It

For the last week I have had a peanut butter and Nutella sandwich for lunch almost every day. Except yesterday, because we were out of bread. And I thought about just having peanut butter and Nutella with no bread, but that seemed a little desperate and sad.

No, I am not pregnant.

No, the kids do not get to eat peanut butter and Nutella sandwiches. They have almond butter on Ezekiel bread with some raspberries on the side. Or something similarly healthy and decidedly not infused with hazelnut chocolate spread. We have, as a family, been going to Paciugo for gelato once a week for the past three weeks. It is the kids' first taste of ice cream that isn't soy or rice-based. They are, as you can imagine, Big Fans. Both Hudson and Harper have chosen chocolate (or "chot-yet" in Hudson-ease)each time, and Helena has had mango.

I saw "As You Like It" in London many years ago. Outdoors in a park. It's a silly play. Confusing. A girl pretends to be a boy for some very complicated reason that I can't recall. But I do like the names Rosalind AND Celia, and remember presenting them to the husband as possibilities when we were naming Helena. I believe he gave them both a resounding NO, for some very complicated reasons that I can't recall.

Speaking of comedy that isn't particularly comedic, the kids are in the phase of taking normal words and pretending they are hilarious. A few weeks ago it was the word 'toe'. I would say, "Hudson, what would you like for lunch?" and he would answer, "An almond butter TOE sandwich!!" and he and Harper would just about pass out with the laughing. The hysteria-inducing phrase for this week is "NOBODY NOWHERE!!" Harper will say, "Hudson, you are NOBODY NOWHERE!!" and he will say, "There is a NOBODY NOWHERE in the bathroom!!!" and then there will be giggles a million and I will sigh because it is so loud.

I've just finished The Painted Veil by W. Somerset Maugham, and for the first time ever, I think the movie might be better than the book. The book isn't bad, it just isn't as deeply redemptive as I found the movie to be. I like restoration. I need restoration.

The husband has been watching "Man vs. Wild" with Harper and Hudson, and yesterday I had to tell Hudson, "Yes, but when Bear Grylls is home with his family and not trying to Survive In The Wild, I am CERTAIN he puts his pee-pee in the potty and NOT on the ground." I thought it was really cute that Hudson introduced himself to a new friend as "Hudson Bear" on Monday. And then they chased balls around and tried to figure out who was taller.

Harper was trying to get Hudson to help her pick up a few days ago and she said, "Hudson! Use your BIG MUSCLES to go put the blocks up in your room!" I did not teach her that. It worked, incidentally. He's also gotten pretty good at feeding Helena her yogurt:


To celebrate the last day of summer, we went swimming this morning. It's supposedly going to get a bit cooler here this weekend, so this may be our last splash of the year.

We've had Sasha for around 8 months now, and for 8 months she has slept in her little crate in our room. And in the past month, for unknown reasons, she decided this was a wholly unsatisfying state of affairs and had begun to whine. So we got a water bottle and squirted her in the face when she whined. Which she found unpleasant, but not enough so that she stopped whining. And I found groping for the spray bottle at 4 am to be quite frustrating. So I did something I said I would NEVER DO. I gave her a Silkwood-style scrub down and then, can you guess? We have a dog in our bed. Actually, after the first night when I slept very little because Sasha seemed to think that curled up in the general area of my womb was her own personal heaven, I insisted she stay on the husband's side. And now she does. She and the husband are quite pleased with themselves.

Henry VIII

We went to the zoo today and there were some new meerkittens (which reminds me of the book Life of Pi, which the husband and I read aloud to each other back in the Days Before Kids) and a zookeeper told me that it had been a bit of a Meerkat Scandal, because the mother of the kittens was not the dominant female in the mob (I just looked that term up on Wiki, so it might be incorrect, but it fits the story quite nicely) and usually this means the dominant female will dispose of the babies. Which is just so horrible. There is so much that is disturbing about animal behavior, really. Anyway, the zookeepers managed to spirit the babies away and gradually reintroduce them, and the dominant female had accepted them. Though while we were watching, the poor mother (Hagar?) was trying to nurse all six babies at once, which was so exhausting apparently that she folded over and fell asleep on top of them, and then three of the other adult meerkats came over and started intruding and nibbling on the babies in what I really hope was a gesture of goodwill and grooming, and not a taste-testing.

In other disturbing news from the animal kingdom, the husband stepped out into the backyard last week to smoke his pipe, and a beheaded bird came flying off the roof and landed right in front of him. He looked up and there was some sort of Bird of Prey (a peregrine? a falcon? it was BIG.) peering down, irritated that the decapitation had been interrupted. The husband calmly walked back inside and got the camera, quietly telling me that under no circumstances should the kids walk outside. In an odd twist of fate, I had, a few nights before, watched "The Other Boleyn Girl" and had spent some time feeling incredible revulsion and sadness that humankind ever (and still does!) used beheading as a form of punishment. There's really just the one story, told over and over. Fallen, fallen, fallen.

Clearly I am still in my blue phase.

Last night at dinner Helena was having bow-tie pasta with eggplant marinara, and about halfway through, she got a twinkle of recognition in her eye and begin placing each piece up on top of her hair. Like a bow. Which was very cute, and necessitated a hair washing. I didn't get a picture, but this is another funny thing she does lately. Because carrots are for ears, apparently:Yesterday I asked her if she wanted a piece of toast and she emphatically DID, so I popped the bread into the toaster and she burst into tears. I tried to explain that the bread would be right back, all warm and toasty, but she would not be convinced.

I have some more swirling thoughts about sovereignty and Sovereignty and how I think Harper's cranky demeanor over the past couple of years can be directly traced to the moment she realized she was not the sun, and how Henry and all the earthly kings who came before him and after him got so angry when they realized that they, for all their power, were not the sun. I am not the sun. I did not make the sun. I am to the point where that does not make me cranky. Though I would like some absolute allegiance from these two, who have managed to play together without bickering and screeching for about 15 minutes total out of the past two days. I got pictures:

Love's Labour's Lost

The title would have been cuter if I had actually managed to post this yesterday. Ah, well. There was a terrific episode of "ER" in the early days called "Love's Labor's Lost." It was about a woman who delivers a preterm baby and then the unthinkable happens. I won't spoil it in case you ever come across it on cable and get drawn in. Speaking of heart-rending television drama, I came across "Saving Private Ryan" a few nights ago and said to myself, "Only an hour and fifteen minutes left. I seem to remember the really hard to watch stuff is at the beginning when they storm Normandy. And, gee, I can't remember, DO they indeed Save Private Ryan?" And with that, I broke an important personal movie watching commandment: DO. NOT. EVER. WATCH. WAR. MOVIES. I carved this particular commandment into stone when I was in college and watched "Glory" for extra credit in a history class I was taking. It took me weeks to recover; possibly months. Perhaps I have yet to recover. Then my roommate persuaded me to watch "Platoon" and I couldn't even finish it and still thought I might need to be hospitalized with the trauma. And it seems every couple of years I would think that maybe I could handle it: "A Midnight Clear" which I thought might not be quite AS excruciating because it's about an act of surrender--nope, heart torn to shreds. And the Kenneth Branagh "Henry V", which managed to devastate me in iambic pentameter. Then there were movies that pretended they weren't war movies. "Legends of the Fall" comes to mind. One minute you're watching these glorious vistas of Montana, and the next there's poor Elliot from "E.T." all tangled up and dying in the barbed wire in France. Or "Schindler's List" which I of course knew was going to be terribly upsetting, but I watched it anyway, because I just felt as though I should. Speaking of Schindler, there's an olive tree planted in his memory at Yad Vashem, the holocaust memorial outside of Jerusalem. Now there's a place that will cleft your heart in twain. There's a huge pile of shoes. Shoes that belonged to actual people and their actual children who had no idea they were on their way to their horrific end of days. And there is this black cavern with a single candle reflected in thousands of tiny mirrors, the names of the children killed being intoned quietly in the background. My heart is physically aching anew just thinking of it right now. This, my friends, is a very cheery post. So, back to Private Ryan. It turns out there is lots to destroy me in the last hour and fifteen minutes. And yet I couldn't stop watching. I was able to pinpoint what it is that is so terribly upsetting to me, other than the obvious theme that war is a horrible horrible hideous horrible state of affairs. I get incredibly stressed and anxious and horrified in the battle scenes when it's so loud and chaotic and smoky that you can't tell who the Good Guys are. And I really could have lived my whole life without realizing that in the heat of battle, it's as easy to shoot your best friend as it is to shoot the enemy. So then I haven't been able to get past that metaphor and I lie awake in bed imagining what it would be like if we had never been to war ever. Would the world have been destroyed long ago? Would we be speaking Russian? German? French? Arabic? Cherokee?

Now, let's have some happy news. Well, Harper read two books all by herself today: Snow by Uri Shulevitz (she even sounded out 'Shulevitz'!), and The Yellow Ball by Molly Bang. Helena likes to wear Harper's bike helmet, which is much too large.
She's also gotten proficient at pushing her baby in the stroller while holding a tympani mallet.
Baby is pronounced "bubby", which is also the pronunciation for puppy. My kids talk funny, all three. Hudson has been doing lots of actual vacuuming, after first checking with me to make sure that army men do indeed vacuum. Of course I wanted to answer, because of my current bout with war melancholia, that sure, army men vacuum as long as they aren't being shot to bits in a bell tower by a Panzer tank while Edith Piaf softly plays on a victrola.