Speechless

So, until people are one or two years old, they are quite literally speechless. Watching a baby learn language is, in my opinion, one of the most fascinating and rewarding parts of parenthood. That is until something like this happens..

And then you're the speechless one.

Sorry Ahh Shit.. I mean.. Aunt Shugs!! We love both you and Uh Oh.. er.. Uncle Dutch!

Hell

Dante and Milton have made egregious miscalculations in their assessments of hell in the form of a very obvious omission. Dante's circles are incomplete as such, as is Milton's burning, sulfurous terrain.
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Rich and I, in the middle of enduring a very long "staycation" in our house over spring break, looked at each other, exasperated. In that raspy, "I see dead people" voice, the one only used in the face of some supernatural terror, he whispered, hardly audible,"Dear God. We have a toddler.."
"How in the hell did this happen?" I responded in the same hissy tenor.

And then we both started sobbing.

Earlier, I was horrified to find banana smeared all over the keyboard and screen of my laptop. I turned to Rich and began to complain, when I remembered that earlier that day, Toddler Jack had taken a crayon to Rich's. Unfortunately, it was too late. The statement was out. That's when we broke and started remembering all of the mischief that took place that day related to the actions of our almost-two-year-old Jack. The statements came rapid fire and generally began with "And then he...", "And then.." In the interest of brevity, here is that frantic exchange, ordered more cogently than the original and in a bullet point list (because it's alot):

* Computers - one artistically adorned, the medium being crayon, the other glazed in a sticky fruit compote.

* Shoes firmly planted.. in the flower pots...in the house.

* Items put away (somewhere) for the future:
- One half-eaten jelly bean
- One hairbrush (Daddy's)
- Ten pairs of socks (his)

*Items put in the trash (that were thankfully recovered):
- A check in the amount of $13.50
- A lovely necklace and one earring
- One copy of Alice in Wonderland
- One television remote
- One book of Christmas postage stamps
- One pair of glasses

* Bathtub - One toy boat played with in bath, the same boat that needed to be bailed out, as did apparently the bathtub itself.

* Climbing Practice (freestyle):
- On top of the dinning table
- On top of the bar stools
- On top of a dresser, using the back of a couch as a spring board

* Number of fits thrown: 5, not including diaper changing ones

* Number of diaper changes: 5

* Number of time-outs: 1, including fit

*Number of headache pills taken by parents as a result of fits: 4 (2 ea)

* Number of glasses of wine consumed: 4 (2 ea and counting)

* Percentage of patience lost by parents: 99.9% (.1% away from total breakdown)

And we're really good, attentive parents! I can't imagine the catastrophe that must happen in homes where parents aren't as attentive, or in homes where, and I shudder to say it, more than one toddler resides!
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Dante and Milton clearly never spent very much time with an almost two-year-old kid. Surely, they would've considered them when writing their epics..

(Though all of the items on this list did actually take place in one day, I have to say that I have the best kiddo in the world! He's smart and sweet and wonderful... which is why we can endure the storm and which is why all of our spare change is going to the local vineyards.)

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Hell, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Parade of Lights

My mom owes me twenty bucks.*

During the last afternoon of her visit, we piled in the car to get our ritual town coke** and decided to check out the prices for our community's "Parade of [Christmas] Lights" exhibit. The sign read, "$15 per car Monday-Thursday; $20 on the week ends."

Fully aware that our one-and-a-half year old son, Jack, loves lights we knew we had to go. Evidence: when Jack wakes up he runs to the living room, points to the Christmas tree and says, "chee!" (his word for tree, the sentiment being, "Momma, could we please turn on the lights on the Christmas tree?"), and then he whirls around to the kitchen and says, "nomin?," translated as "snowman?" our other light-up decoration we keep by his seat at the kitchen table. And then there are the lights around our front door, a little strand of red and white that we haphazardly threw up just to say we decorated. At night he sees lights on the other houses in our neighborhood. He points at them and yells, "Oh Wow!" And then there are the normal lights in the house - the fan light, and the bathroom light, and the kitchen light, all the normal lamps and flashlights, etc. that he notices. With delight he exclaims, "Ooooh!" as we illuminate each of them through the course of the evening.

That afternoon Mom said, "Ginger, you have to take Jack to see the Parade of Lights. In fact you might have to leave the Christmas tree up all year! He loves it! I'll leave you the money to go. Just promise me you'll take him!"

She forgot to leave the money, but we were convinced we had to go.

And we went.

We left right as the sun was slumping on the horizon and the sky was that gorgeous deep blue, the color that makes a whimsical impression and then quickly fades to black. I wanted to be sure to be at the front of the line at that moment in order to avoid the crowd. Already lines of cars, bumper to bumper, sat in two lanes full of families who were eager, if not a little impatient, to see the festive spectacle. I remembered to bring snacks and the eclectic "Happy Holy Days"CD my friend Russell for us. All was perfect!

When we got to the entrance, we paid, turned off our headlights as per the sign, and I pulled Jack out of his car seat into my lap so that he could see better. We drove through the maze of lights. There were a million things to see: blinking toy soldiers, a hundred Santas making toys, reindeer attending flight school, angels heralding, elves having snowball fights, deer leaping, squirrels throwing nuts, - a billion, trillion things to look at!

Despite the glowing wonderland around us, Jack was most interested in the floorboard of the car. He squatted on the floor and did his best to be in the way. He found the car's hazard light button which he rhythmically pressed in time to the Happy Holy Days CD. We tried to point and squeal like he does every morning to trick him into being interested, but he fussed and wanted down, and needed to do everything except look at lights. In short, going to the Parade of Lights was a nightmare for our son.

At the end of the trail was a lovely carnival complete with rides, funnel cakes, and pictures with Santa. Jack looked around, blinking, drooling, bored. We even took him on his first carousel ride. His expression remained blank as the horses went up and down and the lights spun around him. One cup of wassail later (Rich and I needed something to make it worth our while), we got back into the car to head home. Our baby had defeated us.

As soon as we pulled into our driveway and drug ourselves out of the car to come inside, Jack saw the piddly lights around the door. For the first time that night and with an expression of complete awe and wonder on his face, he exclaimed, "OH WOW!"

Of course.

* Mom, You don't really owe me $20. You do too much already! :)
** Town cokes are sacred.

Installment One: Fear

The first time I heard the knocking I thought it came from behind me. My first thought was one of fear. Someone was watching me and they had bumped something against the window. Because it was dark outside, I wouldn't be able to see who it was, but they could clearly see me in my house with the lights on. I told myself to be rational, that the sound was probably my neighbor, Tony, closing the gate to his backyard. But before I could calm my nerves, I heard the same soft knocking sound at my front door.

It was 9:30 PM. If someone was knocking on my door at 9:30, it was way to late to open it. Again I tried very hard to entertain the notion that maybe it was nothing, that I had imagined the noises and that I was just a little nervous about being alone in the house. Surely it was the TV or something else ridiculously ordinary. I muted the TV just to prove to myself that it was nothing. No noise. Phew.

I went back to what I was doing and tried not to remember any thrasher movies I had EVER seen in my entire life. I tried not to think about all of the CSI's and SVU's and Criminal Minds that began with knocking at the front door and that obviously ended poorly for the person inside the house. When I looked down I saw that my hands were shaking. And the knocking came again.

Cautiously, I walked toward the door. If it truly was something or someone roaming around the house at that inconvenient hour, I had to confront it or ignore it, depending on what I found. It seemed like it took me hours to reach the front door, I was creeping so slowly. Finally, I peeked out the side window next to the door, eyes halfway closed, not wanting to see what it was. To my relief and annoyance, I saw nothing.

Then I heard the knocking again, but it was coming from the baby's room this time.

I was trembling, but resolved. No one and nothing would keep me apart from the baby. Hell no. With a new found courage, I straitened my back and walked to the baby's room door which was closed. I couldn't hear anything, so I leaned in to listen more carefully.

All of a sudden the door rattled! I stumbled back in fear, stifling a scream. My mind was reeling. Whoever or whatever was making the noise was not only real and in the house, it was was in his room. I would have to fight!

I flung open the door with as much bravery I could muster and it jumped out at me with a cry!

It took my mind a few seconds to catch up to the realization that what had startled me was my very own cat.

"Damn cat!" I thought, still shaking. "Jeez, Ginger! What the hell did you think it was?" I asked under my breath. Thinking about the answer to that question was way too much to acknowledge.

So the cat had been trapped in the baby's room and the knocking I had heard in the living room was coming from the baby monitor! After standing stunned for a minute, I went into the baby' s room. He was still asleep, thankfully. The ruckus had not woken him. I tucked the blanket around him, then I sheepishly shuffled back to the living room, turned on more lights for security, walked to my bedroom and buried myself under the blankets.

You're probably wondering why I'm so skittish. There is an answer. Multiple ones, actually. Check back for installment two.

Wordy-Gurdy

My one-year-old son likes to find books for me to read to him. He drags them off of the coffee table and across the floor, and then lugs them into my lap. He says, "Dat." I understand he means, "Momma, please read this to me." I pick him up, cuddle him in my lap, and read. Usually, one time through is not enough for him. He hits the book and says, "Dis," which means,"Please read this again, Momma." I do. After three times through, I've usually had enough. He has not. "Dis. Dis!" he says. Sometimes I go through the book backwards. Sometimes I make up new text or try it with a new accent. Oftentimes I sing. Outrageously.

Mostly, I just turn the pages and say, "de de de de de de" or "fa fa fa fa faaa."

Why?

Because sometimes I get tired of words - reading them, hearing them, saying them, writing them. Plus it's all the same to him.

De-Comp is no exception to the word boredom and sometimes it seems that the blogosphere is indifferent to the meaning anyway. So, until I feel revived or my spirit is renewed, to you I politely point to the screen and say, "fa fa fa fa faaaa."

A Week of Cheers! and Jeers.

Cheer!: The convertible bra - that claims to be strapless, backless, and push up, depending on the occasion - is truly convertible! Standing in front of the Victoria's Secret mirror that instructed me to "strip" in neon red, I realized that in this bra my bosoms went from less than perky bobbers to "you can start me up," va-va-va-voom fantastic! Welcome back to the surface ladies! (and welcome back sideways glances from men)! And watch out Betty Paige! Strip, indeed!

(p.s.. Dear VC, I love the new fitting/customer service system! You guys rock!)

Jeer.: Unfortunately, the convertible part of the bra also converts my stomach into two ginormous muffin tops. Great top to muffin top in a single glance to my midsection. It's fair to say that I do have some body fat to speak of. I did have a baby and all. But seriously, Kate Moss is as waifish as one can get; she's almost inside-out, she's so (too) skinny! And I would wager most of my life's savings on a bet that even Kate Moss would have a muffin top in this thing. Ok, probably not. But it helps me sleep at night to think that. Plus, my life's savings is like three dollars, or something.

Cheer!: Regarding School - Next week is the last week of school! Everyone is so excited, including the teachers who have stopped counting days and started counting minutes! There are very few of us rocking in corners, muttering incoherently to ourselves. I have everything ready for exams and check out, so I really can see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Also, I got fifth place in the ranks of teachers voted to read names at graduation. Only the first four read! (This is a victory, friends. Believe me. If you don't understand, try saying "Onegbule" or "Fuc Duc Dong" or "Oluwakanyinsola Obayan" correctly in front of a packed auditorium, these kids' mommas being among the many. Hell, try saying "magna cum laude" correctly. It sucks. But I don't have to do it!!)

The litmag is OUT! It looks phenomenal, thanks to my great staff! (Pictures to follow.) Temporary Utopia , the release party, is over. :)

Jeer.: I still have to make a failure list for those who won't make it. I get so angry when kids put me in this position - having to tell them that I'm sorry that their great aunt Gladys flew in all the way from Buffalo for the commencement, but she'll have to go home. "You're not walking across the stage this time, but chin up! There's always summer graduation." (sigh) I should mention that I do everything I can to help my kids pass. EVERYTHING. Ironically, they have to really work at failing. :(

We have to sell 100 magazines in a week. That's what happens when your deadlines get pushed back two weeks because of AP/IB testing that you forgot was happening the week before the mag was supposed to go to printer.

Hey, y'all! Want to buy a literary magazine for the low, low cost of $15?

Cheer!: My baby is turning one in two weeks!

Jeer.: My baby is turning one in two weeks.

Midnight in the Garden of Good and Silly

When she said it, I imagined that I was sitting in that midnight Savannah garden, eerie moss draped over everything, shrouding unrecognizable images, blurring my perception of security. I had just gazed into the eyes of that mischievously knowing voodoo woman who had looked across the veil and seen a warning, one that made my skin crawl. A feeling of uneasiness enveloped my heart.

But that was my imagination.

In reality I was sitting in Nanny Delaney's living room in broad daylight. I was picking up Baby Jack B'Hat after a challenging day at work, and all I wanted was to get home, kick off my heels, enjoy a cup of something nice, and play with the baby. I had made the mistake of mentioning to Nanny Delaney that last night - the past three nights, actually - Jack had woken up screaming, that it wasn't crying, even. It was like something was hurting him, badly. It was a blood curdling scream that had me flying from my bed to him before my brain had fully recognized that it was 3:00 am, that there might be some sort of danger, or that I was awake at all. But I didn't say all of that. All I said was, "Jack's been waking up screaming in the night. I don't think he's sick. Do you think it could be teething?"

That's when she said what she said. Before I tell you what it is, I have to say that I had heard it before. Because of that, I was able to both give some credence to her statement, as much as repetition allows, and also I could be dismissive of it because I had already thought about it through a lens of rationality. The idea was bogus, I decided.

So, here's what she said.

"No, I don't think Jack is sick or teething. He's seeing spirits. Babies are more connected with the spiritual world, so probably there was some soul passing through his room, and it woke him up and frightened him."


When I was a kid, I was terrified of seeing anything supernatural. In my defense, I had a huge imagination. As I've mentioned before, I thought my parents were robots like in Superman III, and there were times I was terrified that they might malfunction someday, that their skin would melt off and I would be staring at their silvery, wiry, singed innards.

Also, I had been taught that the spiritual world was very much tangible, that the angels and demons were literally waging war in my backyard - fighting for the mortal souls of this earth (read 'fighting for my mortal soul that happened to be steeped in sinful thoughts and actions'; read 'it's all your fault, Ginger.' That was my perception, anyway). I knew that in the Bible there were many folks who were visited by angels, and that sometimes in the modern world angels might drop by on occasion to warn you about impending doom, to go over battle plans, or just to play Q-Bert or something, though obviously "hang out" angels were usually sent to people who were dying or to those in the Big Brother/Big Sister program (poor, angel-needing souls).

I knew of stories where some one's recently deceased grandfather came and sat on his granddaughters bed to read her one last story and to give her some sort of comfort, the proof being that the the next morning the bedspread was still wrinkled where he had sat.

All of this was supposed to be comforting - to help us understand that there is life after death, and that if I loved God enough and in the right way (i.e. Jesus is the son of God, baptism by dunking NOT sprinkling, etc.), it would be paradise.

Despite all of these "comforting" ideas, I was TERRIFIED. I actively prayed every night that God would NOT send me an angel or a dead grandparent. I didn't think I could handle it, and God wouldn't send me anything I couldn't handle, right? It was the deal*. "Please, please, please, please - nothing supernatural tonight- please!"

This is why what Nanny Delaney said was a bit unsettling. I obviously didn't want some errant spirit passing through the baby's room. It's also why every time he screams, that thought lingers in my brain, which leads me to the occurrences of Wednesday night.

To be continued..

* A professor at my recent trek to Rice said, "By the way, God not giving you stuff you can't handle.. (laughing) Bull shit. Things people can't handle is why they go crazy." I agree.

At least we're home

This is just a quick note to say that we're home safe. We had to make a midnight drive back -- the baby (finally) asleep in his car seat, Rich hanging over a sick bucket for 6 hours. They both have a nasty stomach virus, and I'm doing my best to help, though helpless is exactly what I feel..

In related news, this morning I awoke to find a baby cricket in the kitchen sink. I tried to save it, using the ole paper under the bug relay. In the end, I got the cricket outside, but I think I broke two of its legs in the process.

I hope this doesn't reflect poorly on my nursing skills.

Guess What We Did Yesterday..

We performed our civic duty...happily.

From the Gut

Last night after Rich had sung Jack to sleep, he went out to the "little outside" (our backyard) to bring in Casey Cat for the night. I was in the other room getting ready for bed when I heard Rich come in, riffle through a drawer, and go back out.

I wasn't sure exactly what was happening, so I listened for a minute, heard nothing out of the ordinary, and then followed Rich outside because it was too quiet. That's when I saw an unusual sight:

Rich was standing remarkably still four feet away from the corner of our yard, steadily shining a flashlight where the fences meet. I stood there for a second or two trying to assess the situation. In those very brief seconds, my brain crawler went something like this: "What is he looking at? Is the cat OK? Should I call for help? Should we be on high alert? I have a golf club.. no a bat..Damn, I know I'm for gun control, but maybe I should rethink it. Is that a cadaver? Buried alive? An arm coming from the ground? Mexican mafia..." and so forth. And as my paranoia went from healthy fear to certain global doom, Rich looked over at me and said very mater-of-factly, "Look. A possum."

"Oh," I sighed, a little disappointed, I have to admit.

"No it is! Look. I've never seen a real possum before."

"Is the cat OK?" I asked, not so much impressed by the possum.

"Yeah," he said, "they're friends. They were smelling each other when I got out here. See look. Casey isn't even puffed up."

"Is the possum trapped? Do we need to call animal control?" I asked in hopes that the possum could find his way out of our yard so that it could share this Disney experience with someone else's cat.

Ignoring my crankitude, Rich declared, "Man. I can't wait for Jack to be big enough to come outside and see stuff like this. I'll say, 'Look Baby Jack! A possum!' and he'll be all, 'Cool Dad! That's awesome.'"

"Will you teach him that possums are marsupials?" I mocked.

"Oh. Are they?" he questioned, followed immediately by, "Oh right! The opossum is North America's only marsupial."

And then the laughter came. I realized at that moment that I hadn't laughed in a really, really long time. And I couldn't stop laughing because, damn, Rich is adorable and I'm delighted that he's such a great Dad, and because um, when did Rich apply for, get hired by, and make a documentary on North American Marsupials? I laughed hard. Outloud. From the gut.

And it felt so good.

Adjusting Luna - tic

OK. I promised myself I would no longer use my blog as a diary where I would gripe and moan about my personal life. "Save it for the actual written diary," I told myself, "where I can safely vent without beating the hell out of myself (emotionally) for having sold my soul to the post. I should be strong enough not to need back pats in comment form."

That was the first lie.

If you've ever seen me actually write anything, you know that I use colored pens that represent specific patterns and moods. Even for work, when I am in a particularly peaceful mood I use green pen, and if I am pissed, I use my teeth to angrily pull the cap off of the red one. I have quirks and compulsions that dictate how I do everything. And even something reletively small, like chosing which cd to listen to, can become a dramatic, life altering experience for all of the fretting I do. And if I can't figure it out, I shut down..completely.

Writing it out can help. OK, not so much with cd selection, but with other things. Why I thought I could keep my personal life out of the blog is beyond me. Plus, I spent an entire afternoon covering up/tearing out the sad days from my diary so that if Jack ever found it, he wouldn't know how crazy I am. Like he wouldn't know after one crisis evening when I break down because I can't decide if I should make spaghetti for dinner or macaroni and cheese. But the diary is not working for me these days. The empowering wo-manifesto that begins it is covered in dust bunnies.

I have been successfully off of mood-altering medication for five years now. I have compensated for this by using various mind tricks.. er methods. I fend off the anxiety attacks by using mantras like, "This is anxiety. It isn't real. Breathe in. Breathe out. In and out."

The depression has been more of a trickster. I feel close to that emotion. It is the most comfortable of all of them. I have to work exceptionally hard at not welcoming "the sad", or allowing myself to dismiss it as nothing worth mentioning.

That being said, I guess I need to mention it.

I know my hormones are out of whack. They have been for more than a year. Since I miscarried Dot, I think. This isn't an excuse. A friend asked me the other day how my life has been affected (positively and/or negatively) postpartum. My answer was not OK. So I didn't mention it. And I won't here. Suffice to say that something needs to change for me, whether I go back on the meds or seek another solution.

For now, I recognize that I need to do what's best for my baby and for Rich. I'm not sure what it is, yet. But hopefully, it will come to me. Either that or work will distract me.

Work starts next week.

and we were never being boring..

I am so bored with myself. Unfortunately this is not a great time for self-reinvention, seeing as my attentions are elsewhere - serenely staring at my newborn's sleeping face for example, OR serenely staring at my newborn's screaming face. All I can do is stare...serenely.

I think I've been boring for the last 10-12 months, actually. It must be something hormonal having to do with maternity and the fact that a pregnant woman's whole being is completely wrapped up in making a baby. That includes all of the (mis)firing synapses in her brain which also stare serenely at each other, waiting patiently for the time when the Hugo Chavez article in the recent The New Yorker magazine is both informational and entertaining, the topic potentially being conversation worthy at the next coffee house standard. I mean who doesn't want to know about Hugo Chavez? Seriously, is he a heroic, eccentric revolutionary or is he one vote away from being a power wielding psycho? Plus 'Venezuela' is such a fun word to say!

But nope. Hugo is a no go. And all of the vaguely interesting repartee that might normally reside on the tip of my tongue is listlessly lying on the couch in front of the Game Show Network, staring serenely at a newborn.


(sigh.)