I have tried. I have failed.

I'm just going to say it.

American Idol is STUPID.

Please note, as you quiver with indignation, that I did not accuse anyone who likes it of being stupid. I usually watch a couple of nights of the beginning auditions if there is nothing else on, but this year there was just Too. Much. Stupid. So I didn't watch. Then, as usual, I have skipped the entire season because watching people sing is boring to me AND I simply cannot stand to listen to people sing when they are not on key. And that happens lots and lots when the Idol contestants get their Billy Joel or Barry Manilow or Bette Midler on. (Incidentally, from a very young age I also cringed inwardly during Solos Sung in Church by people who, inevitably, were a little flat, usually off tempo just a smidge, and sometimes holding the liner notes of their Amy Grant cassette in their trembling hand so as not to forget the second verse of "El Shaddai". Painful.) Anyway, even though I abstain during the season, I usually try to watch the final night, mostly because I like to watch people win things. It's just happy and sweet to see someone fulfill a dream, even the vapid dream of Pop Stardom. (I also like to watch the last 5 minutes of that show where they build people the fancy new house. Sometimes I cry a little.) So I got everyone to bed tonight and told the husband that we might want to watch a little Idol. We actually made it through the KISS abomination, mostly because I had to explain KISS to the husband who was too young and/or sheltered to know why in the world Gene Simmons kept sticking his tongue out. And then, hey, there's Steve Martin with his banjo! Except the girl singer was so flat and off tempo that I almost had to change the channel, but I persevered, because I enjoy Mr. Martin and his banjo. But then when the guy singers all came trotting out and launched into "IF you want my body AND you think I'm sexy" I exclaimed, out loud, "No! I just can't. It is JUST. TOO. STUPID." The husband, in solidarity, I can only assume, with husbands all across America, heartily concurred.

On another musical note, Hudson has discovered that while he is sucking his thumb he can use his index finger to tweak his nose and he hums a little and it's like a little nasal harmonica to accompany me as we sing before bed.

Our friend Izzy did a really good job taking care of Hudson at the zoo today. There was an awful lot of hand holding and even an attempt to pick him up which I would have loved to have a picture of except I lurched to intervene to ensure that the both of them didn't end up in a mangled heap right in front of the carousel. Mrs. B suggested that perhaps Izzy was practicing to carry Hudson across the threshold because, it seems, there's been some talk of Marriage.

Separate

I guess it's obvious I like babies. Always have. I don't remember playing much with baby dolls, but from really early on I liked the real thing. I couldn't wait to be old enough to babysit, though, as is probably often the case, by the time I was really old enough I was consumed with other activities and didn't actually do much of it. It's interesting that with all the baby love I had, I never actually spent much time dreaming about having my own kids. I think I might have secretly suspected that maybe I wouldn't ever get my own. Which would explain why, when I'm driving along in the minivan, I will glance in the rearview mirror, see the carseats and little people and think, "Why, when did THAT happen?" and then feel this overwhelming sense of wonder and gratitude. While each new developmental stage has its own delights (and, naturally, challenges) I really love having a small baby. I love that Helena is so simple in her needs and that I know how to meet them. I love watching her face when I'm about to feed her and she knows what's coming. It is pure adoration. There is something awesome about it--in the true sense of the word. Terrifying and magnificent.

We spent five days at my parents' house last week and it was delightful as usual. As we were pulling out of their driveway to come back home, I noticed that Harper was crying quietly in her carseat. She is usually very obvious (read:LOUD) in her sadness and this was a new, private grief. She has been changing lately in so many ways, and I think it's just a gradual shift in her realization of her place in the world. Unfortunately it mostly seems to be making her feel sort of isolated and sullen and disgruntled. I confess that I am not very patient in handling these new, complicated emotions and the undesirable behaviors that seem to accompany them.

Both Harper and Hudson hum while they eat. It's very sweet because I don't think they even realize they are doing it. They are just content and fulfilled in their endeavor and it manifests in happy sounds. Harper, from a really early age, could sing melodies on key. Hudson sings with gusto and it is so flat that it sounds nothing like the actual tune he's attempting. He does seem to have really good rhythm. So he'll be the family percussionist if we do our own Jonas Brothers thing.

I started reading Atlas Shrugged a couple of weeks ago and am only on page 63. It has over 1,000 pages. The cover art should really portray Atlas with a copy of Atlas Shrugged on his shoulders.

Three months

The sweet baby girl was three months old yesterday. She is doing lots of smiling, though I've yet to get a picture. She loves to be looked at and talked to and will reward me with coos and other very cute sounds if I give her undivided attention. She has chuckled a few times--the first time was while looking at herself in the mirror during her bath. Her favorite place, after the bathtub, is the changing table. It makes her very chatty. Which is adorable unless I have to change her in the middle of the night and she sees it as an opportunity for extended social interaction. She is only waking up once a night most nights, usually after 8 or 9 hours, then she eats and goes right back to sleep. She takes 3 naps a day and at least one of them is usually 3 hours. When she's awake she likes to do this:

Dancing Brother is way more entertaining than swinging farm animals. She hasn't quite made up her mind about the Bumbo:

Knock, knock. Who's there? Mommy.

It's interesting and at times, unfortunate, that as a toddler develops, he often acquires certain skills that get him into quite a predicament several weeks or even months before he develops the necessary skill to get himself out of said predicament. Climbing up? Much easier than climbing back down. Closing the door? Much easier than opening the door. Locking said door? Much easier than unlocking said door. A month or so ago while I was putting Helena down for a nap Hudson managed to get stuck in the bathroom. He closed the door then opened the drawer right next to the door. The door, unfortunately, opens inward, or, I should say, opens inward if there is not a drawer pulled out in front of it. It took me a minute to realize our predicament. "Hudson, can you close the drawer buddy?" Silence. "Hudson, it's mommy. CLOSE the DRAWER." More silence. The door would only open about an inch so I couldn't actually see anything and I started to get a mite concerned, remembering stories of toddlers drowning in toilets etc. etc. I get a little screechy. "HUDSON YOU NEED TO TALK TO MOMMY CAN YOU HEAR ME!?" Tiny little voice says, "Yes ma'am." Okay, not face down in the toilet. At this point the husband gets home from work (nothing says Welcome Home Honey like a small child trapped in the bathroom) and takes over. It's funny how the phrase "close the drawer" sounds kind of like "knock on the door". The husband would say Hudson, CLOSE the DRAWER and Hudson, obedient boy that he is would quietly knock on the door. This went on for about 30 minutes while the husband tried several different feats of kitchen utensil engineering/McGyver tricks to get the drawer closed. Nothing worked so he ended up having to force the door open which broke the drawer but not the door. As soon as he got out we played a little game we like to call This Is How To CLOSE a Drawer.

So I tell you that little anecdote because I am fond of foreshadowing. Harper has been really into bugs the last couple of weeks. Mostly rolly-polies, but we also have two June bugs and a lovely collection of slugs and snails courtesy of our friends Izzy and Abby. She loves these bugs with an ardor that will hopefully someday be bestowed upon an actual pet (today she found 6 cents on the floor and when I told her she could keep it she said she wanted to take it to church and give it to someone who needed it. Someone who maybe needed to buy a puppy for their children. Sweet. Sad, but sweet) and she tends to them and mothers them all day long. So this morning she found another rolly-poly to add to the squirming mass she already has. She noticed that the leaf she had in there was almost gone and suggested she needed to go out on our patio and retrieve another. Our patio is, thanks to the deluge this week, mosquito infested so I told her I would quickly go out and grab one. She agreed and said she needed to go to the bathroom. Helena was waking up from her morning nap as I stepped out. Hudson was watching "Sesame Street." I closed the door carefully so that no mosquitoes would get in and bent down to find a dead leaf because I read that the rolly polies prefer the decaying vegetation to the green stuff. Just as I was standing back up and had my hand on the door knob I see Hudson standing there with one thumb in his mouth and his other hand...click. That's right. Click. He looked pleased. I am locked on the patio. In my pajamas. And the only child inside the house capable of UNlocking the lock is sitting on the toilet waiting for me to wipe her bottom. Hudson has wandered back to "Sesame Street" because Mommy on the Patio is not as compelling, apparently, as Pets on Elmo's World. So I start knocking to get his attention. He comes back to the door, smiles sweetly, and knocks back. "Turn the LOCK Hudson! The L-L-LOCK!" Another sweet smile. Another knock. I realize the futility and decide that getting Harper to come is probably my only hope. So I go to the window closest to the bathroom and try to yell as quietly as possible because we live in an apartment complex and have 100 or so neighbors who might have still been asleep. "HARPER! IT'S MOMMY AND I'M OUTSIDE AND I NEED YOU TO GET OFF THE POTTY--IT'S OKAY TO WIPE YOURSELF THIS ONCE--AND COME HELP MOMMY! HARPER! GET OFF THE POTTY AND COME HERE!" This went on for around 10 minutes, during which I could hear Harper chanting, "Mommy! I'm finished! I'm ready to get off the potty!" Finally she realized that something was amiss, came wandering out, and unlocked the door. I got poor Helena who had worked herself into quite a frenzy, made sure Harper washed her hands, and sat down to the dulcet strains of "Pets, pets, pets! Pets, pets, pets! Pets, pets, pets, pets, pets! That's Elmo's world!"

Object the Snail

Perhaps you have ascertained by now that Harper Anne is a pretty funny kid. She says funny things all day long and sometimes I write them down and forget to give context, so I'll find a scrap of paper and it will have a quote like "I don't WANT to be my own independent country! I want to be Lightning instead" scribbled on it and I won't for the life of me be able to remember what in the world she was talking about. She has resurrected her strong desire to be called Lightning after having kind of forgotten about it for a few weeks. If I forget to call her Lightning she will (after having been told she is not to correct me again because I gave her the name Harper Anne and if I want to call her Harper Anne I will because I am the Mommy and that is that) click her tongue and find the "Cars" dvd case and tap on it while raising her eyebrows and whispering dramatically, "You mean....." When I do remember she is delighted, so I try to remember. She found a tiny little snail shell at the park a couple of weeks ago and named it Object the Snail. Object was actually an appropriate name because the shell appeared to be full of dirt and not slug, though Harper insisted Object was just taking a really long nap. Object took part in many fun activities before being abandoned for Car the Pumpkin, a small stuffed gourd she has been tending to since Sunday. This morning when she awoke she came into the kitchen as I poured her oat milk and gently reminded me that he had been up for 5 whole minutes and I still had not told Car the Pumpkin "good morning". So I did. I even gave him a good morning kiss.

It's been a full week so far. On Monday we went to the new and improved Children's Museum. The outdoor water extravaganza was incredibly popular with Harper and Hudson. The grocery store in Kidtropolis was also a hit.
My mom has been here for a couple of days while the husband is out of town deposing. Yesterday morning we went to the park. I took lots of pictures one-handed because Helena insisted on being cradled in the other arm. This park is HUGE and yet we kept ending up right at the perimeter--why is that?
And today we went to the zoo with our friends June and Trammell. We rode the train and just generally enjoyed being outside on such a lovely day. There were MANY field trips which made Harper cranky and when I asked her why she was bothered she said, "There are too many school children and I think if Helena starts crying they might try to hit her." After I assured her that I could probably protect Helena from a kindergartner with a pugilistic bent, she was able to enjoy herself somewhat. Here is a picture of that girl who is growing so fast.

of stains and stewardship and utilitarian calculus

If you had asked me before I had kids if kids should be allowed to play in the mud, I'm certain I would have answered in the affirmative. That was before I knew that mud stains are next to impossible to get out of clothes. If you had asked me before I had kids if I would care if my kids' clothes were covered in faded mud stains, I'm sure I would have told you that such things don't matter, and that I would never be so fastidious and vain as to care if my kids walked around in mud-stained clothes. As much as I love the idea of my kids frolicking and playing near a babbling brook (it was actually more of a ditch, but whatever) the truth is, Harper unintentionally stained a brand new pair of shorts, and Hudson muddied the only pair of shoes that fit him. Yes, they had fun. But I spent the whole time feeling clenched up at the time I was going to have to spend getting stuff clean and finding new shoes. And screeching at them to "stand BACK! Not IN the mud!!" I was THAT mother. The one in the commercial who makes her kid play in a plastic bubble so he doesn't get soiled. Part of me tries to remember that the shorts cost $8 and the shoes were 75% off and only cost $10. But if every time we go to the park it's going to cost me $18, is that worth the fun? I really just don't know. I want my kids to have self discipline but I don't want them to have an overburdening sense of responsibility at this point. I don't want them to think I am mad at them if they accidentally get mud on their shoes, but I do want them to realize that someone is having to clean up the mess.

We also have an issue at mealtimes because the dining area in our apartment is carpeted. That's right. Wall-to-wall and light beige. Now, while I agree that developmentally, it is all very good to let very young children drink out of regular cups and feed themselves independently, it is simply not good use of my time to get carrot juice and couscous out of the wall-to-wall light beige carpet. I do let Hudson drink out of a cup at lunch, but I hover and lurch if it looks as though it might spill. And we do have a drop cloth under his booster seat so that he can feed himself without too much consternation on my part. But again, if you had asked me before I had kids, I would have said something like, "The messier the better!! How else will they learn??" It's funny how cavalier you can be when you've never picked grains of couscous out of wall-to-wall light beige carpet. I also tend to take their clothes off if they are eating something that stains (red bell peppers and raspberries are impressively permanent) and Harper was still using a bib up until around a month ago.

So, there you have it. I'm open to shock and dismay, stain removal tips, and admonishment to just loosen up. I am also aware that the goal is kids with unstained character (well, perhaps stained and washed clean is a more theologically accurate metaphor) and I certainly want to have my focus on that and not silly distractions like a few brownish-white polkadots on a pair of bright green shorts.

Girl With Curious Hair

It's the title of a collection of stories by David Foster Wallace, the author of Infinite Jest, who gained a certain notoriety by committing suicide last year at age 46. Apparently it is very, very sad to be a creative genius. I've never read anything by him but would like to at some point. I've been reading an article about him in the New Yorker for around a month now. The articles are too long, or perhaps it is that fancy New Yorkers have more reading time than we Texans. When I am old and gray and nodding by the fire, as Yeats would say, I will read esoteric, rambling fiction. Speaking of being old and gray, I was having a conversation about weddings with our friend Izzy, age four and one half, a couple of weeks ago and she wondered if I would like to come to her wedding someday. I assured her that nothing would make me happier. She seemed pleased then, after a moment's reflection said, rather matter-of-factly, "Unless you are dead." Indeed.

Speaking of curious hair, I got mine lopped off. I don't have a picture of it yet but it is short, probably the shortest my hair has ever been. There are two types of curly hair--good curly and bad curly. My two eldest children have Good Curly, as do my friends Seana and Christine. It is the kind of hair that makes lovely ringlets. There is also Good Wavy, exhibited by my friend Brenda. It's hair that can be wavy OR straight with very little effort. As a child, I am told that my hair was Good Curly. As an adult, and once the high school perming madness grew out, my hair was relatively Good Wavy. When I began having children, my hair became BAD, VERY BAD Wiry, Poufy, Enormous Hair. It does not want to be curly or straight, it simply wants to be a Brillo Pad. So I got it cut off with hopes that the Brillo padness would waft gently to the floor and be swept away. No such luck. Again I am enslaved to the Chi.

Helena is now nine weeks old. She still sleeps for long stretches and is just generally pleasant. She is starting to smile and coo a little. She does get a little fussy between 5-6pm and the only thing that makes her happy is to be held. It is unfortunate timing. She doesn't mind reclining in the Boppy as long as someone is sitting next to her and talking directly to her. That can't really happen either so she ends up pretty sad. I try to end the time of sadness by giving her a bath, which she loves. One night, she was floating in the warm water in her little bath hammock thing AND the husband was vacuuming nearby AND I was talking and singing to her AND she found her fist to suck on. She was so blissed out--it was a baby nirvana.

Harper and Hudson have really been enjoying play-doh. And the book Katy and the Big Snow by Virginia Lee Burton. And I am tired so that will have to be all for today. Here is Hudson telling you where to go to find the elephants.And pretending to be Daddy. If you go to school long enough, you too can wear this jaunty tam-o-shanter.