Christmas update to follow...

..but for now, read this article from Rochester's alternative newsweekly City, which contains this glorious nugget:

The challenge as a parent is to raise children who neither talk like pimps nor spend hours in dark labs measuring bat balls.

(Oh, and sorry in advance for getting My Humps stuck in your head.)

How lovely are thy branches!

Harrison points at our Christmas tree and says "Ooooh!" every morning when he wakes up and every afternoon when we get home, and usually a few times in between. He does it when he sees the picture of the Christmas tree in The Night Before Christmas.

"Oooh!"

Where did he learn that?! What a funny little sponge.

Please...

...let this ruling be the turning point back from the brink of theocracy and the prospect of Harrison getting a public education in creationism:

"the fact that a scientific theory cannot yet render an explanation on every point should not be used as a pretext to thrust an untestable alternative hypothesis grounded in religion into the science classroom or to misrepresent well-established scientific propositions"

So scary. Thank, er...God!

Can I tell you guys's something?

Harrison got a new teacher, Meredith, last week, and I am so relieved because: 1. I like her; 2. she knows what she's doing; 3. she knows A LOT of songs; 4. she is attentive to Harrison and can tell me specifics about his day and his development; 5. she's adhering to the curriculum instead of just feeding, changing, and keeping the kids from biting each others' fingers off; and 5. she's a graduate student and uses proper grammar and punctuation. (Yes, I realize that I am a grammar snob, [Can I say that without one of you combing through my posts to find my numerous typos and mistakes? Please?] but something is wrong when the "teacher" sends home a picture of fish that Harrison has colored that says, "Harrisons Happy Fishes").

Harrison's new teacher is a library studies master's student, studying to be a children's librarian. She has 8 years of experience as a toddler teacher and nanny. This lady knows her stuff, and I feel relieved that she's there and that Harrison doesn't have various, temporary floaters helping out the (wonderful) assistant teacher anymore.

I'm glad that the program manager took her time to find someone very qualified who will end up staying for a while. Honestly, I don't think the instability and disorganization of the last two months bothered him in any way, but it bothered me.

Image: Boog Pillow

I am the Grinch

Doug thinks I'm a Scrooge, but I'm just not going to give in to the crazed parental gift-giving that overtakes most Americans families. The kind of family that goes into debt at Christmas. The kind where the present pile spills out several yards beyond the diameter of the tree and threatens to sustain itself by feasting on small children.

Growing up, Val and I usually got one toy apiece, some socks, and some underwear. Often the socks and underwear were wrapped together in one box, so that really only counted as one present anyway. Not having grown up with crazed American Christmas, my mom (Hi Mom!) didn't get the point of wasting an extra box and an extra sheaf of paper just so we'd have another present to open under the tree. (We're actually still trying to convince her that wrapping presents in this fashion is just wrong.) My parents made it clear that they couldn't afford to buy us a pile of toys, and we knew that it was them and not Santa that had to pony up the dough.

It was the present-opening at my grandparents' house that we looked forward to. Every year after Thanksgiving dinner they asked us to make a list of the things we wanted, usually one big toy and a couple of outfits. I have such vivid memories of this—sitting on my grandma's mushy sofa, pouring over the Montgomery Ward or Sears Wish Books, and picking out what I wanted.

[I remember choosing Western Barbie one year. She had a jazzy white, silver, and black jumpsuit the likes of which no cowboy has ever worn. She also had a plastic white cowboy hat and one eyelid that could wink if you pushed the big button in her back. That's what cowgirls do, you know!? They wink and wear skintight body suits and all you need to do to make it really authentic is yell, "Yeeeeeeehaw!"]

So that was my Christmas: I got a few things I needed and a few toys, and I was pretty happy. More than anything I looked forward to making construction paper garlands with my sisters, which we draped over the French doors that opened into the sun room where our family's tree stood; setting out homemade seating cards and little white cups filled with dinner mints at each place setting at my grandma's drop leaf dinner table; and all the board games that we'd play with my extended family when the meal was done.

Next year Harrison will understand enough about Christmas that we can start to read Santa stories and have him make a wish list. I do want him to believe in Santa and in magic. The geek in me knows that there's not enough magic in the real world.

But it frustrates me that holiday magic has gotten completely co-opted by consumerism. Already, there's pressure from other parents, other mothers to buy buy buy. What does Harrison want for Christmas? And what are you getting Harrison for Christmas? When asked by people that I don't really know or who don't know Harrison, it feels competitive.

Harrison is 19 months old. He doesn't know what the hell Christmas is. He doesn't know what toys exist other than the ones that he already has. He doesn't watch much TV, so he doesn't see toy commercials or discuss the latest hot thing with his friends. In fact, he doesn't have any friends! He doesn't know who Santa is and he's still more interested in the gift wrap than the gift. He doesn't pay attention to characters or franchises or product placement or cross promotion.

I know the day is coming soon when he will enter a target demographic. He'll be aware that other kids are getting loads of plastic junk and that he's not getting the same amount of plastic junk. He might be a little upset about it. Still, I don't want to sacrifice the good things I can afford for my family by going into debt at Christmas. I don't want Harrison to have a sense of entitlement for that mountain of presents under the tree. I'm excited to create traditions for our family that are not about consumption.

Harrison's not going to get just socks and underwear, but I do refuse to be that woman wrestling other moms for the last Dancing Elmo on the shelf.

Overheard

"Why are you consumed with destructive energy?!"

Image: Tree Hunters

Image: Extremely Worried Sorting

Last night

Evil toddler stands next to couch where Mama sits, grunting and patting couch cushions.

Mama: "Up?"

Evil toddler: "Up!"

Evil toddler gets boost and proceeds to smack Mama in face repeatedly.

Mama grabs ET's hand: "No! Hitting is not nice!"

Mama gets up from couch and sits away from ET, avoiding eye contact and ignoring, as instructed by parenting books, Super Nanny, and Nanny 911.

ET begins hitting self in face repeatedly.

ET: "Nah nii!" ("Not nice!")

Mad Hot

Doug and I enjoyed this great little film yesterday.

If you didn't already realize that kids are simultaneously amazing and weird after watching Spellbound, this is further proof.

Carnival

Come one! Come all! Come see the performing monkey Harrison! Step right up!

See his amazing act of mimicry: What does a cow say? Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm! What does a cat say? Meow! What does a dog say? Grrrrr! What does a sheep say? Baa!

Watch as he dances freakishly on command!

Be entranced as he points at different parts of the human body with little or no coercion!

Witness his breathtaking ability to throw any item into the kitchen trash bin!

Behold as he"brushes" his own teeth and "wipes" his own nose!

Just a nickel a trick, folks! A nickel a trick!

What!?!

Rothschild® Toddler Boy's 2-pc. Snowsuit
Was $79.99; Now $31.99
Includes bonus headband
Cell phone pocket in jacket
Self-adhesive tab at pant hem for improved fit
Two-piece snowsuit includes jacket with inside cell phone pocket, CD/MP3 holder and glove pocket. Pants have three pockets. Polyester; polyester lining. Washable. Imported.

[Updated to add:
A: Maybe I should get Harrison a cell phone [for Christmas]?
S: Damn. He already has one. He does need an MP3 player though.
A: Do you think he wants the ipod photo, or the ipod nano?
S: Actually, I think he might like a Blackberry instead. He's very busy.
A: Right. Lots of playdates to coordinate, and those hostile takeovers of playground toys.
S: Exactly. And I do wish he'd stay in better touch while he's at daycare. If he had the Blackberry, then he could send me emails at work and text message my phone while I'm en route to pick him up.]

Sicko

Harrison's been sick with a fever, ear infection, and respiratory illness. I brought him into our Hot Pediatrician last week and she immediately rushed into the room when we got there because he was wheezing like he had swallowed a miniature bellows.

"How long has he been like this?"

"Uh. Two and a half days or so?"

Disapproving look.

"You're going to be here a while." Which we were, as Harrison was given three 15-minute treatments of nebulized Albuterol, an oral steroid to open up his lungs, and some Tylenol to get his fever down.

"If he ever sounds like this again, you have my permission to come straight here without an appointment."

Sometimes I feel like such an incompetent novice at parenting.

Anyway, after seven days of three different drugs, one allergic reaction, and five days of no eating and being Mr. Clingy, Hot Pediatrician officially gave him a clean bill of health yesterday.

I guess that explains how he was able to eat five waffles at daycare. Five.

I said, "Were they the small kid-sized waffles?" and held up my fingers in a 2"x2" square. "No. The adult-sized waffles."

Five!

I'm glad things are back to normal, but after a similar gorge-fest at dinner last night, I fear that kid's going to eat us out of house and home. He must be making up for being too sick to eat much on Turkey Day.

Image: Cuckoo

Doug should know better than to make a silly face at the camera.

What's a loving spouse to do besides post it on the Internet for public viewing?

Image: Ear Infection, Lung Inflammation, Fever, JoJo, Blankie, and Skullcap

Satanic Toy Gets Revenge

Oh my god. This particular Satanic toy apparently is not only Satanic, but also sentient, internet savy enough to read my previous blog, and evil enough plot its revenge, because last night it woke up at 2:20 AM and pulled some kind of Maximum Overdrive shit and woke everyone up with its Boohbah farting noises and dancing. Then it did it again two minutes later, and Doug ran out into the dark dining room to go to Harrison's bedroom and kill it and stepped in a pile of cat puke and then Harrison screamed and screamed for the next forty minutes.

I'm tired and scared. Who knows what it's going to do tonight?

Weekend Bliss

I went away this weekend with my good friends Ashley and Suzanne. We stayed in this lovely little house in Letchworth State Park--home of the "Grand Canyon of the East"! It was a great weekend. The weather was perfect--in the 60's and blue and sunny, as you can see.

We hiked and drank warm cider with rum, ate yummy food, sat by the fire, and talked. And talked and talked and talked. And didn't have to work. And didn't have to do housework. And didn't have to mother. And didn't have to do anything that we didn't want to do for about 25 hours.

It was a much needed break and present to ourselves and "thank you" to each other for love, friendship, and support and advice in motherhood.

Thank you again, ladies--it was wonderful!

And thank you Doug for solely parenting The Beast!

Update: Ashley just wrote to inform me that she was "deeply saddened" that I made no note of the fact that Letchworth was absolutely "gorges." Well, Letchworth was just GORGES. Happy now, Ash? (I just knew that you secretly loved that I kept making that joke over and over. And over.)

More Evidence that Parenthood is the Toughest Job

Exhibit A:

Coworker Mike and wife Donna discover that a human hair has wrapped itself around 3 month-old son Jayce's toe. Toe is bloodless and cut but survives.

Exhibit B:

Coworker Tom's 4-year old son Thomas Jr. insists on wearing Halloween cat suit unless it is being washed. Wears cat suit to store, school, bed, etc. Sleeps on comforter on floor and refuses to have nails cut because he is a cat.

Toys Obviously Made in Satan's Workshop

If one were to, say, give a child a toy that doesn't do anything except make blaring distorted sounds when you either throw it or push a button, one should not be surprised if such child's parents throw said toy through the windshield of one's car.

Not that that we'd ever do such a thing.

We love all the toys that Harrison's been given.

Really.

Thank you all so much, you wonderful people!

Image: Leafy

City Living

Anyone that talks to me for a bit doesn't have to wait long for me to start raving about my public education. Magnet schools are such a great resource in Buffalo--they are the option my parents took for both me and Val. Admission was not based strictly on test rank. Affirmative action was also a factor. (Though I'm not sure if this still the case because there were several lawsuits contesting racial admissions "bias" in the nineties.) The result was a very diverse population of above-average performing students with parents who were enough invested in their education to enroll them in the test. I can't imagine how different I would be had I not gone to Olmsted and City Honors.

Still, my fellow City Honors alums have long debated the fairness of testing into Buffalo's magnet schools. It was fantastic for those few students that made it in, but what did it do to the remaining population of Buffalo Public school students whose honors populations were reduced? CHS and the other magnets are championed as some of the best schools in the state and even the country, but where does this leave the other Buffalo Public Schools and their students and communities?

There are magnet and Montessouri schools in Rochester, but unlike Buffalo the city uses a lottery system. I'm torn about this. On the one hand, it's great that all kids have the kind of opportunity I had. On the other hand, I question whether these schools spend more time with lower-performing kids or behavior problems. Does it dilute the advanced curriculum to have these schools open to all students regardless of ability? Does that even matter as long as previously tracked underperformers end up doing much better because they are in a more challenging and academic environment?

Harrison and I went to the neighborhood elementary school #42 yesterday to vote. It's a nice looking school. It's older, made of brick, and doesn't have that factory look of most modern schools. It's like the schools I went to. It's well maintained and the inside is cheery and decorated with projects, artwork, and plants. We went around 3:15 when school was getting out. The student population is racially diverse. Lots of parents were there picking their children up and the other kids were being led out by teachers to their cheese buses. Everything seemed normal and encouraging. On its face, it's certainly no public hazard that requires investigation by Jonathon Kozol.

Doug and I talked about 42 school when he got home and are entertaining the idea of sending Harrison there. That may be the backup plan if we cannot get him into one of the Rochester magnets or the city's montessouri. The regular city schools also use a lottery system. Seventy percent of seats in neighborhood schools are set aside for the attendance of neighborhood kids. Once the lottery has filled those vacancies, the remaining 30% of seats is opened to other children in your school zone. There are three zones. The magnet and montessouri programs are completely based on lottery and open to all children regardless of zone. What this means is that the high-performing schools tend to have many applicants and that many children end up at lower performing schools because of space issues at their first, second, or third choice schools.

Montessouri starts at age 3, which would mean that Harrison could start in September 2007. It may sound a little crazy to start thinking about this so far ahead, but the plan for Harrison's schooling has to be factored in when we start thinking about baby #2. It's going to be really tight (read: impossible) financially if we have two kids in daycare or private school.

Here are the stats I found for 42 school:

Has a passing rate of 50.8% on the grade 4 English language arts exam (2005) and 54.7% on the grade 4 math exam (2003).

Now, I am the daughter of a public elementary teacher and I want to stress that I do not put that much stock in standardized testing. Still, without much else to go on, I have to say this is TERRIBLE.

The stats for the public magnet/Montessouri are absolutely encouraging

Has a passing rate of 100% on the grade 4 English language arts exam and 75.0% on the grade 4 math exam (2003).

But will we make the cut? What if we don't make the cut at any of the magnets and end up at one of the schools with a 20% passing rate? What if my kids end up at two different schools?

I am furious that this is an issue—that there even is a decision that we will someday soon have to make about this. It makes me want to sue someone. That's already been done here in New York State (http://www.cfequity.org/) but so far nothing has changed. The bottom line is that kids that live on one side of an imaginary line get tracked into the Ivy League, while kids on the wrong side of that line are lucky if they make it through highschool. If that sounds like a dramatic exaggeration, it's not: 70% of kids that start in the Rochester City School District end up dropping out.

I am not worried that Harrison will be a dropout. I understand that dropout rates are directly tied to poverty and parental education and involvement. I am worried that Harrison will not have the access to the quality of free public education that he deserves--just like every other child. I am upset about what this means for my family and for society in general.

One of the reasons Doug and I chose to live in the city is to take a stand against sprawl and white flight. One of the ways we can support this city and hopefully turn things around here is to send our kids to public school. That is our goal for now, and I hope that we can make it work.

I'd love to hear your thoughts on this. What are your plans for your kids? What are your experiences with public education where you live? I'm turning comments back on for now, but if I get deluged with comment spam again, they'll be turned off.

Update: Sorry. Had to turn comments off again. Damn you comment spam!

55 hectic hours in the life, plus an early thanksgiving

Friday we left work at noon to get ourselves to Olean to visit Doug's best friend Dom and his wife Morrelle and finally meet their four-month old Ava. They were up from Fort Lauderdale visiting Dom's mom. We hadn't seen them since their wedding party in August 2003.

How fascinating to see how parenthood has changed them. It makes me think of course about how much I have changed and how much Doug and I have changed since Harrison was born. I feel so conflicted whenever I'm around little babies. I simultaneously get the worst baby pangs and want to get to baby-#2-making as soon as possible while also feeling so thankful to be past that age, or at least past that stage of first time parenting. It's interesting to see newer parents with first infants and observe how unsure and nervous and protective they are. I know I was like that too.

Anyway, Ava was beautiful and we had a great, if short, visit with Dom and Morrelle. Morrelle and I of course swapped the necessary notes on breastfeeding, loneliness, identity, ecstasy, work, and money as related to parenting and motherhood.

We made breakfast plans and they were quite shocked when they asked, "So what time do you guys get up?" and we said "Six thirty." Ah, to be a stay at home mom with a child that sleeps in. Harrison's schedule is great for the work week, but he doesn't yet understand the concept of sleeping in on the weekend.

Saturday morning, Harrison's hunger couldn't be staved off by cheerios and raisins after 8 am, so we finally called over the Dom's to get their asses up and out the door.

We were charmed by Ava's napping through the meal and then by her fresh smiles and gurgles and babbles. They were charmed by the way that Harrison pounded back 2.5 pancakes, fresh farm sausage, and a cup of applesauce. What a difference a year in age makes.

We stayed Friday night and Saturday morning with Doug's parents. Even though Harrison sees them less frequently than my parents, he's at the point now where he remembers them from visit to visit. He knows their house and runs to find grandpa as soon as we get there so that he can honk his nose and pull on his ears. He knows that grandpa is the keeper of electronic handheld games and many remotes.

After a quick driveway visit Saturday afternoon with Lori and nieces Lili and Zoe, we were off to Buffalo. As always once we entered my parent's house, my mom took over, which we are so grateful for. We got to take an hour nap before walking the two blocks over to Mike and Inga's house, where they were having a pre- Kaiva's Christening bash for family and closest friends--a great evening with food and drink and music singalongs. Harrison was whisked away at seven by my parents, but not before he and his girlfriend Ella had an intimate roll in Inga and Mike's bed.

Harrison woke up around 6:20 on Sunday morning. He's still not back to his old 7 am wakeup time. Thankfully, my mom got up with him. I got up at 8:30 to find them in the driveway. Harrison had a nice assortment of leaves and branches clutched in his hands. My mom gushed about his morning and digestive accomplishments.

We had a nice, relaxed fall Sunday morning. It was almost 70 out and sunny. Harrison, Doug, and I took our first, non-stroller/carrier walk. We kept our goal modest: right around the corner and up to Hertel Avenue to the café for Doug's coffee and back--a five-minute round trip for an adult. Harrison did wonderfully. We only carried him once we got close to Hertel and then held him in the coffee shop. He didn't mind, since he got to carry his branch in there, and then we headed back down the street kicking up the leaves piled on the sidewalk.

Harrison napped and we had lunch with my parents, then went on to the church and Kaiva's christening. The highlight was when Kaiva started vocalizing/roaring/shrieking during the minister's blessing. The other highlight was a realization that I love that I know Inga's family and other friends, especially Angela and Ella, and that they know my family. I love that because of weddings, showers, and now Kaiva's milestones, I know Mike's family as well. And they know mine.

After the service , a reception, and a quick gathering up of our stuff from my parent's house we headed home in a crazy windstorm. Harrison and I snoozed together in the back seat.

Got back at 7:15 last night.

*************************************
I'm beginning to realize just how grown up and thankful I feel. I feel so grateful for my wonderful husband and son. I love spending time with them and being around all of the families of which we are a part, either through blood or friendship. I love feeling part of a larger community and continuum of family and friends and parents and especially mothers.

It was a hectic weekend and I am exhausted, but it was lovely.

Image: At the zoo

That bastard Benjamin Franklin Part II

I'm so tired that I can't even comment, except to say remember this post? Well, now instead of the not-wanting-to-go-to-bed problem, we have the getting-up-before-the-ass-crack-of-dawn problem (as in 5:40 every morning since the clocks fell back).

Goodbye. We're moving to Arizona.

Happenings unrelated to bologna barf

1. New this week! Harrison gives hugs on demand. Oh the sweetness of that soft hair and those little hands reaching around my neck...
2. New this week! Harrison figures out that the sound of sound changes if he inserts index fingers into ear-orificies. Harrison inserts than removes fingers repeatedly while giggling.

I hate bologna

I can't remember the last time I had bologna, but I do remember liking it as a kid. We used to go to the playground at School 80 in Buffalo at Highgate and Eggert in the summer. They had a free summer program with arts and crafts and games and free lunches. I remember being afraid of the teeter-totter...always worrying that the kid on the other end would jump off and I'd plummet to the ground and get hurt. I also remember that the free lunches would get dropped off in a cardboard box by a big truck. The bologna sandwiches in those lunches were chilly because the food was kept so cold. The little plastic cups of apple juice were filled with sweet apple slush that you had to eat with a spoon or slurp out of a big hole in the foil top. We only got wheat bread at home, so the processed white bread was a treat, just like the bread at grandma's house. I used to love to squeeze two or three packs of yellow mustard onto those bologna sandwiches.

Fast forward 10 years to high school, when I realize that bologna is the lowest form of luncheon meat and that eating it is akin to consuming cold hotdogs.

Fast forward to college and my quasi-vegetarian days where I banish all sausage and cured meats from my diet. (Insert crude jokes here.)

Fast forward to present day where I've done a total one eighty and decide that to dine on cured and mystery meats is a worldly and cultured pursuit: Vietnamese banh mi, Italian salami, panchetta, and prosciutto, burritos with locally made chorizo, gumbo with spicy andouille..yum yum yum!

Still. Bologna is pretty much where I draw the line. Bologna is a little too processed. Too pink. Too…creamy. (Also on the other side of that line are processed meats with the word "loaf" as part of their name (like "turkey loaf") and items that contain the word "food" in their name. Like "cheese food"---if you need to clarify that the cheese is food, then actually the cheese is not food. And it probably isn't cheese.)

But I digress and will get to the point: Friday Harrison had a stomach bug and hurled up an entire day care bologna sandwich all over my kitchen floor. Now I'm thinking that 2005 is the first year for me to not just hate bologna, but to despise bologna. To loathe bologna! To curse bologna!

It was bad. I had to put Harrison in the exersaucer and leave the room because I was retching. That's how bad it was.

Damn you bologna!

Image: Superman

This is the costume I made for Harrison. More views are here.

Image: With Gramma

Image: By Aunt Val

I am green and it'll do fine

This is a birthday gift from the heavens, by way of Doug.
Yes, there are times when I actually start welling up because it makes me that fucking happy.

Harrison keeps getting blonder and blonder, and I'm beginning to question whether there was some kind of infant switch at birth. If he ends up not liking The Muppets, that will be the proof.

Harrisonese

Is it wrong to encourage Harrison to say nonsense words like "Dah DOO!" just because they sound so darn cute?

Man, we could make him say ANYTHING. I'm drunk with power.

Sweet baby Jesus, I'm a slacker.

We are recovering from our week of insanity, where I only slept in my own bed two out of seven days and poor Harrison was subjected to nearly 1000 miles of car travel. (Yes, I Mapquested this just for fact-checking purposes-- that's how dedicated I am to accuracy on this here blog, folks.)

The wedding weekend was perfect. There were many memorable moments, which you can ask me about privately, but the hellion-related low/highlights were certainly Harrison struggling out of my father's grasp during the end of my reading of the Song of Solomon and running up to "help" me end with a big finish, to the amusement of the guests. And then there was the time Doug and I took part in the vow renewal (just like Moonies!), while we held Harrison and he struggled and cried, ran away, and then started playing the piano in the reception hall. It was really romantic. (Strangely, Doug has had this running joke where he says to me in his best soap opera melodramatic voice, "Sarah, will you marry me….AGAIN?!" The "again" is about two octaves lower than the rest of the sentence. Anyway, he was angry afterward that he had forgotten to ask me this right before the vow renewal. Yes, he's corny. Yes, I love it.)

Alas, there will be no pictures of Harrison dancing, because by 7:15 he had passed out in his stroller with his feet propped up on the piano bench like a hobo (you know the type: those 23 pound hobos that sleep in strollers near pianos). He was whisked away at nine by my parents because he needed to go to bed. My mom argued that he could sleep in their hotel room under the guise of giving Doug and I some alone time that night, but when I checked in with them after we arrived back at the hotel around 11:30 the Monster was sitting up in bed bright-eyed and bushy-tailed with my poor exhausted parents who couldn't get him out the door fast enough.

Bookends

Harrison's great-grandpa Harold (Doug's mom's dad) passed away on Friday. He was 80, at home, and surrounded by family when he went. He was the last of Harrison's great grandpas and often called him "Hamilton." It was genuine forgetfulness the first time, but after that we suspect he was just taking the piss. He was a good guy and a loving grandpa, and we will all miss him.

It's been an exhausting and sad week, but I was really struck by how much better it was because of Harrison's presence and shenanigans. He kept us all engaged, and he made everyone laugh and say repeatedly, "Is he always this busy?" (Our answer was "Yes. Every waking moment.")

Having started the week with a sad event, we end it with a happy one: Val and Tara's long overdue wedding reception in Massachusetts. I'm catching a ride up early with Jenna and am not feeling much regret about not sharing the five-hour car ride with a screaming 1-year-old. That honor will go to my mom, who undoubtedly will be in hog heaven.

I will be sure to post some pictures of the beautiful brides--and of Hamilton shaking his groove thing out on the dance floor.

Jeremiah and Jedidiah

This link will take you to a CNN article about a family that just had their 16th child. The article reveals that the father is a former Arkansas state representative named Jim Bob and all 16 kids have names starting with J, including the atrociously named 11-year-old Jinger, 8-year old Joy-Anna, and the newborn Johannah. (The latter two aren't so much atrocious names as it is atrocious that they were named so similarly. From there it's not really such a big insanity leap to name their inevitable next two sons Prince Michael and Prince Michael, is it? Thankfully they couldn't do that because apparently whatever freaky religion they belong to maintains that God will smite them if their babies' names don't start with J.)

On the one hand, I'm thinking, "16. 16? 16!!! How do they handle it when I am just scraping by with the management of one?" On the other hand, I'm thinking "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" On the other hand (yes, I have three), I'm thinking, "At some point enough people actually voted for this nut for him to win!? That explains a lot about the South."

One thing I have learned

Washable crayons help keep walls clean, but also dissolve in saliva.

Another guilt-ridden rant

Ashley and I have been discussing these posts from the Baby Center forum on potty training.

My son will be 3 in six weeks and has yet to go on the potty, I've tried everything so I thought till a co-worker suggested a big sticker callendar and an explained treat at the end of the week for a certain amount of stickers. That will be my next try till then good luck with the potty training.
8:07 AM on 09/28/2005 Rhonda

Hi I'm a parent of an almost 2 year old who is potty training- I would like to encourage Rhonda in something- if you are not home with him during the day, it will probably be even longer till your son potty trains, because there is no consistency between daycare/babysitter and mom... Maybe you should consider staying home to raise your son if you can, so that you can potty train him, and then he will have the benefit of having a parent around all the time... I don't know your situation, but that is one thing I know makes a huge difference, in all aspects of a child's life, is having a parent there to do those important things. Good luck, though...
1:55 PM on 10/03/2005 Anonymous

Let us put aside Rhonda's apparent disdain for punctuation and focus on the many levels of idiocy in Anonymous' response-- the worst of which being that trying to persuade someone who might actually already be a stay at home mom to stay home so that they can clean up another human's shit and piss from a variety of surfaces and fabrics is just not very persuasive. Gee, Anonymous, thank you for pointing out that children benefit from having parents there to do the "important things." I'm sure Rhonda never thought about that before. I'm sure now that Rhonda's son is 3 and about to start preschool that she really should reconsider her choice to be a working mother. Everyone who reads the forum thanks you, Anonymous, for your incredible insight and prowess at solving these complex problems.

Still...despite my recognition that Anonymous is truly dumber than a box of hair, I am still manipulated into feeling guilty. How ridiculous is that?!

And since we're on the subject and already in ranting mode, if I have to hear Oprah say one more time that being a stay at home mom is the toughest job in the world, I am going to bludgeon myself with the remote control, because being a mom that has to work is pretty damn tough.

Not So Fine Motor Skills

For the last couple of months Harrison has been pointing to his mouth whenever we ask, "Where's your nose?" At first we tried to ameliorate the problem by instead asking, "Where are your lips [teeth/gums/mandible]?" Then, amazingly, he managed to get the answer right every time.

Now, however, he points to the right side of his head whenever we ask him about his nose. The thing is, if we ask him, "Where's daddy's/mommy's nose?" he gets it right, so he knows what a nose is.

I think we may have figured out the problem yesterday at dinner when he poked himself in the left eye with a spoon and then reacted by grabbing the right side of his head.

It's turkey time

Looking for a great book that will help you teach your child to gobble? This is the one to do it.

Man, we are so going to have to start watching our language.

Image: The Professor

Why do I not read parenting books?

Because they promote lies like this:

"Your child's understanding of the world is growing rapidly. For instance, he no longer thinks crayons are something to eat."

Image: Doug's Black Eye, Day 4

Image: The King of Nastiness

Happy First Annual Harrison Day!

All week, I've been mentally preparing to write a very detailed post about today--First Annual Harrison Day!

It was a year ago that I, Doug, Lori, and our parents sat in a waiting room at Strong and hoped to find out that all they needed to do to fix our child was slice open his head in a hairband of ear-to-ear stitches and cut out a cyst from inside his forehead. It's a terrible thing when that is the good news, but considering the alternative, we were so relieved when the neurosurgeon came out and confirmed that that was all that needed to be done. Instead of going into great detail about Harrison's surgery and its aftermath, I'll just share a few of my most vivid memories:

The moment when the young resident came to get Harrison was absolutely the worst moment of my entire life. We had thought that one of us would be able to accompany him into the surgical unit, but we couldn't, so we waited in the staging area with him and then the resident came, we said our goodbyes, and then he picked Harrison up and carried him through the double swinging doors.

I will also never forget seeing Harrison for the first time after his surgery, propped up in the PICU on the big hospital bed, still sedated, looking perfectly fine except for the giant, bloody zig-zag sliced into his head.

Finally, I remember, just a day after the surgery, how the wonderful nurses in the regular peditric unit brought Harrison a play gym and he went crazy laughing and smiling and batting that thing, even though his head had by then swollen up to the size of a watermelon and he could barely open his eyes. That was when Doug and I knew that everything would be alright.

So that's that. I'm going to leave it behind and move onto the big news of the day, which is that last night Harrison gave Doug a big fat shiner!

You know in the old cartoons when, say, the Coyote's plans would backfire and he'd get hit on the head with a big rock or mallet and a bump would rise up to the tune of an ascending slide whistle? Well, you thought that was fiction, folks, but that is exactly what happened to Doug's upper cheekbone just after Harrison head butted him. I was in the kitchen finishing up dinner when I heard Doug run into the bathroom yelling, "Harrison just gave me black eye!" I laughed, thinking he was just kidding, but when I went out there there was this inch-wide, inch-high, dark blue, um...ball right under Doug's left eye.

He looks pretty tough today. Too bad he has to admit that he got beat up by a one-year old.

Happy First Annual Harrison Day!

Uncle Matt

Harrison's honorary Uncle Matt visited Saturday. He leaves for Mozambique and the Peace Corps a week from Wednesday, so Harrison will be three when they next meet.

We will miss you, Matt. Two years is a long time, but Doug and I will make sure that Harrison knows you when you return. We'll tell him about the good work that you are doing and how proud we are of you. We'll get out the big atlas and show him where you live, on the other side of the world. We'll show him Japan and Vietnam too and tell him about our time together there. We'll tell him how we wouldn't have met without you and how you and Aunt Lori played matchmaker, and we'll show him pictures of our wedding and point out how you stood with us as we were married.

Stay safe, Matt. Write when you can. We love you.

Babelfish

English/Harrisonese

Mama/Mama

Dada/Dada

Hi/Hi

Ball/Bah

Bubbles/Bahbah

Bye Bye/Bahbah

Banana/Bahbah

?/Beebee

Updated 9/19:

Kitty Cat/Bahbah

The Bottomless Pit

According to everything I've read, a child's stomach is about the size of his fist. So how is this possible?

Two slices of cantaloupe, a soy sausage patty, a half-cup serving of black beans and rice, and a mountain of wax beans.

Gone.

Once he'd cleaned his tray, he went to work on whatever had dropped in the bib pocket.

The next day it was three chunks of cheddar cheese, one barbequed pork rib with lemongrass, a nectarine, a half cup of green beans, and corn. Lots and lots of CORN!

Overwhelmed

As I mentioned in my last post, I've been having a hard time getting my shit together this past week. To be more precise, I embarked on my current funk about 10 days ago when the news started coming out of New Orleans—too many pictures of mothers and babies separated, reunited, dejected, and forgotten. So much has been written about the tragedy there and the reasons behind it, that I won't make an attempt since I couldn't do it justice, but I will say that I was fully cognizant of watching, reading, and hearing the reports out of the Gulf with motherhood-colored glasses. And I am angry. Angry that this happened, angry at Bush, angry at FEMA, angry at a system which does not value all of its citizens equally, angry at people that are so surprised that this is their America, and most of all angry that Harrison will learn about all of this someday. And when I say "all of this", I don't mean just the government's disgraceful response to Katrina, but the whole thing. Katrina revitalized the feelings of sadness and dejectedness I've been quietly carrying around since November.

On Labor Day weekend in 2000, before the days of Harrison and mortgage payments, I took Doug to New Orleans as a belated birthday present. We wandered the Garden District and the Quarter, had beignets and coffee at Café Du Monde, and listened to the jazz at Preservation Hall. We read in our Lonely Planet about how New Orleans was one of the most segregated and violent cities in the US, and we were a little afraid when we visited Saint Louis I Cemetery, because LP warned that its location on the Quarter/ghetto border made it dangerous for tourists.

Five years later, this Saturday morning (like most) we went to the Rochester Public Market—our favorite place in the city. I've written about it before. Like Saint Louis I, the market is located in one of Rochester's poor, primarily black neighborhoods, but not far from the thriving, urban, primarily white East, Park, and University areas. Yuppies, immigrants, neighborhood people, elderly couples all rub elbows there. The produce vendor at the end of the first set of stalls yelled,"BONANAS!" like he does every week. He called out "Three red peppers for a dollar! One dollar! One dollar! One dollar! One dollar!" and on and on until he'd run out of breath and everyone clapped and cheered. Everytime I'm there, it reminds me of the open-air markets in Vietnam, in Italy. It makes me think of places I've never been, Elizabethan markets, markets in Baghdad, or ancient Alexandria. It makes me feel connected with the diverse people that are there and all those that have come before. It is bustling with commerce in its purest and most innocent form, bursting with harvest and life, and it is invigorating.

When we returned, while Harrison napped, I learned that my coworker Linda's 19-year-old son Lee had been killed in a motorcycle accident on Friday. This family had also lost a 17-year old son seven years ago to cancer. That so much tragedy could befall one family, one wonderful mother, is impossible to fathom, and I cried thinking about Linda and her husband and the mere whisper of the possibility of ever losing Harrison, or two Harrisons.

That afternoon, we went on to a family reunion at Lime Lake and things were good, surrounded by Doug's sister, parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and my three beautiful nieces and nephew. Harrison and Zoe played together on the beach and in the water.

Tuesday, after spending three straight days with him, I missed Harrison terribly, and all I could think about was that he was in his first day in the Toddler room. Things were chaotic there when I picked him up, and they had run out of daily reports, so I didn't have a good sense of his day, when he'd napped, how he'd eaten, whether or not he had pooped. There were 7 hours of his day that I didn't know about, that I couldn’t get back, which was hard, especially this week when all I wanted was to have him close. Once again I felt a crushing guilt that I had abandoned him with strangers and was a bad mother.

Then there were the idiotic and telling comments from the government, from Chertoff and then from the Bush family. On Tuesday, the California legislature passed the bill legalizing marriage between "two persons", but yesterday the Governator said he would veto it.

How is it possible that in such a short time so much has happened, to me, to friends, to strangers? That one thousand religious pilgrims died in a stampede in Baghdad? That my lovely friend Terra gave birth to the beautiful baby Beatriz Grace? That so many people in the South lost their homes, their jobs, and everything they knew? That Harrison has learned to run? That on Saturday I held him in the water and he experimented with weightlessness, pulling his feet up from the bottom and giggling, looking up at me and the sky with glee while he floated and I swished him around by his arms. That Wednesday after Lee's funeral, Linda and her family had to go home without him, but on that same night before I put Harrison down to bed he reached up and touched my lips and laughed when I smiled.

Life is terrible and full and beautiful all at once.

The last dog days

Between a weeklong cold that is still kicking my ass and feeling overwhelmed and sickened by the reports and images of the horrible goings-on in the South, I've been negligent in posting.

Here are some images of a different sort from our much-needed long weekend.

Alice and the Mad Hatter

I & H 1
Originally uploaded by Hoops_.

Click here for a slideshow of Harrison and Cousin Ivy's Tea Party.

Waiting for Planet Blisstonia

Hearing this story on the drive to work really did nothing to help the 2005 Campaign to Reduce Public Crying. It also made me a lot more sympathetic to my Aunt's insistence on chauffering my 10-year-old cousin to and from school, pressuring him to be a priest, and not letting him play outside on the street or partake in other pre-teen activities like going to birthday parties or wandering the mall with a chaperone (because of The Terrorists! You know they are totally targeting Buffalo malls.). Before I had my own son, I used to think she was crazy--now I'm not so sure.

Listen to the audio.

I need to either gather up my family and go live in an Appalachian lean-to or find a charismatic leader and wait for the mothership.

He's finally got a piece of the pie

On Friday, I walked into daycare briskly, ready to swoop up Harrison, cover him with special "Yay! It's the weekend!" kisses, get home, and pack for the dreaded 5-hour car ride that would take us to Northampton and our weekend with Val and Tara. So there I was, happily moving in for the kisses, when the manager bounded in to hand me a "Move Up" Slip. As in, movin' on up from Infant Two to the next classroom: Toddler One.

It was one of those times when I really had to stop myself from crying in public. (Yes, I really do try and exercise self-restraint in the public-crying department. Can you imagine how much crying there would be if I didn't!?) It was also one of the moments when I really hate daycare. I hate that Harrison is being shuffled up a little early because they need to make room for more money--er--babies, in the Infant rooms. I hate that he's inevitably going to get less attention there, because the child to teacher ratio is going to go up by two. I hate that he has to be reunited with Jackie the Bully*. I hate that he has to once again leave his familiar teachers and classroom and develop whole new relationships and trust and learn a whole new routine.

I think part of the problem is that I also hate having my attention drawn to the fact that my baby is growing up so quickly and will actually be fine in the big kids' room, where there are more structured and scheduled activities and naps and mealtimes.

The good news is that the Toddler tuition is actually $15 a week cheaper than the Infant tuition--only come September they are raising the rates in all the rooms by $10, so we'll actually be paying only $5 less, but, hey, as my dad says, "That's better than a poke in the eye."

But I don't know. Maybe I'd rather be poked in the eye than have to pay for a service that I don't even want, if it meant I could spend my days with my boy.

I just need to get over it. I'm getting over it.

Oh, Guilt of the Working Mother--bane of my existence--be gone!!!

***********************************************

*Some random background on Jackie the Bully:

• Jackie's preferred method of greeting is pushing Harrison down or tapping him on the head.
• Doug and I thought Jackie was a girl for the first six months, so we always referred to him as "she" when talking to the daycare teachers, who must have thought we were nuts.
• Jackie only has one arm.
• Jackie's clothes are often dirty, which is sad.
• Doug and I sometimes privately call Jackie "The One-Armed Nelson." Get it?! Because of the bullying, and the wrestling move, and the one arm, and the Simpsons!? Oh, we are so clever and mean!

See, saw, seen

S: Did you know that ***** only pays $520 a month for both of her boys to attend Catholic school?
D: Really?
S: Yeah, that's CHEAP. Almost $1000 less than daycare for two kids.
D: Well, that is cheap, but they do say stuff like "I seen it on TV."

Maestro

Watermelon Ball

Last night Harrison returned from another three-day visit to Grandma and Grandpa H's house. He was supposed to be returned shortly after I got home from work, around 3:30, but, apparently oblivious to my aching heart, my parents didn't pull into the driveway until 5:30! My mom says they couldn't leave because he was napping, but Doug's convinced that she wanted to keep him just a little bit longer, so maybe the word she meant to use was kidnapping. (Yes, this is the same grandma that last summer suggested that she take Harrison to her house during the week, since Doug and I would be at work anyway, and she would bring him back on the weekends.)

So yesterday evening, Doug and I just wandering around our yard, waiting, pulling weeds, and looking up like dogs every time a car drove past: "Is it them?"

Anyway, we are so happy to have him home, because, you know, even though we say that we can't wait to have some time alone with each other before he's gone, and we always make big exciting plans to go to R-rated movies and restaurants that don't have kids' menus, once he's actually gone, we spend a lot of time sitting around and saying, "I miss my bubby," calling grandma for real-time updates, looking at pictures of him, and in my case this week, actually crying over some old baby photos that I hadn't seen before--an episode I'm blaming on premenstrual hormones. (In my defense, and as Ash and Suzanne can attest, I've cried over much less. Let's just say the last incident involved shedding tears over a dairy product and leave it at that.).

And no matter how much Doug and I try to endear ourselves to each other with affectionate gestures and witty repartee, we can't even begin to compete with the charm of a one-year old rolling a watermelon around the kitchen floor, saying "Ba! Ba!" (Ball! Ball!) and farting every time he tries to pick it up because it's heavier than a bowling ball and four times bigger than his head.

Which is exactly what happened as soon as we brought Harrison into the house.

Could this morning get any more gross?

In reverse chronological order:

7:15 AM- Drove in to this Morning Edition piece about prison dentistry and the phenomenon of "meth mouth." It was no classic driveway moment, but I sat in the parking garage and could not stop listening. Following this, I'm sure my recurring tooth-disaster nightmares will be starting up again.
6:50 AM- Got peed on 10 minutes after getting out of shower, while prepping Harrison for an emergency morning bath (see below).
6:40 AM- Noticed a smell coming from Harrison's room, which we determined upon entry to be puke: hours-old puke consisting of barely chewed chicken and carrot bits. The scatter pattern and presence of bits in hair revealed that pukee rolled around in puke in his sleep.

Contrary to popular belief, there is a downside to having a child that sleeps through the night.

Image: "We don't bite our friends"

Image: Ed Grimley

Changes

Despite the usually early hour (6:30ish), Harrison's morning feedings on weekends are a treat. We bring him into our bed and snooze and cuddle while he lies on pillows between us, drinking his milk. He usually takes a break midway through the bottle and roams around the bed, attacking and snuggling, head butting and kissing, burying his face into pillows, getting off the bed, getting back up, throwing things between the headboard and the wall, and fishing them out again. After a bit, he finishes his bottle and then the bed-roaming continues.

Yesterday, after Harrison's morning feeding, Doug and I made the long-procrastinated move to retire all of Harrison's bottles. It's something we had been moving toward for a few months. At daycare, he's on the cup full time, and at home, for juice and water, but we were still giving him his morning and nighttime milk from his avent bottle with the nipple attachment.

The bottle is one of the last remaining baby vestiges, and I've been reluctant to let it go. It's the only time I can get Harrison to snuggle and sit (relatively) still. Doug feeds him every weekday morning, so I get the bedtime feeding and always look forward to that quiet time. We snuggle into the nursery chair and read bedtime stories while Harrison lazily sucks. He's able to hold the bottle with one hand and the other he uses to run his fingers through his own hair and point (grunting) at the book stack when the current book ends.

Anyway, yesterday during Harrison's nap, I put away all of the bottles and nipples. Doug suggested we keep a few out, but I felt that we needed to quit cold turkey. Harrison is fully capable of drinking from the cup, so it's not like he would starve, and I knew that because I am not eager to come to terms with the fact that Harrison is no longer a baby, if we kept any out it would be too easy for me to regress to the bottle. So they're all away, and Harrison is not pleased.

Every night after I get Harrison dressed in the living room after his bath, he gets down off my lap and walks into his room and picks up his bottle which Doug has set on the window seat cushion. Last night, he looked from Doug to me to the sippy cup that was there instead, pointed at it, made a questioning noise, and then decided that rather than eat, he'd like to play with the fan.

This morning, Doug reports that he flew into a rage at being presented with the cup.

I guess change is hard for everyone.

I heart Target

Ashley blogged yesterday about boring her imaginary friend Jesus with stories about her (mis)adventures with Emma, and I just can't stop laughing at this bit of dialogue: no! please! stay!! i haven't told you about what happened the other day at target yet!!

I realize this probably makes no sense whatsoever to you non parents, but I know just what she is talking about, and I'm not sure whether I'm laughing out of pity or empathy or just a sense of the ridiculousness of the whole burning daylight dilemma.

I remember a coworker telling me on a Monday a year ago that she took her numerous kids to the mall on both Saturday and Sunday, and I had some terribly critical, esoteric, and absurdly naive thoughts that had something to do with conspicuous consumption and "Those poor, poor children. I'm only going to take Harrison to parks and museums--not (gasp) stores!"

The thing is, you can only spend so many hours playing outside in 90 degree heat, and Target has air-conditioning. It's 10 minutes away, which means you can get home quickly if any tantrum or poop-related emergency occurs. Harrison can yell and scream and grab stuff, and no one gives us dirty looks. You don't have to pay to get into Target or park in the parking lot. And there are many pretty, pretty things for mama and baby to look at and play with and yearn for (anti-consumerism be damned!).

Maybe I'm delirious from the heat. Maybe my brain has become completely engulfed by the pulp that is The DaVinci Code (which I cannot bear to put down despite my English literature degree). I know that everyone has read it but me, but I will summarize by saying that one of the recurring themes is that The Truth about divinity is everywhere, in plain sight. We just never see it.

Well, I am here to testify that my preparenthood guilty pleasure of Target shopping has escalated into a postnatal epiphany that I have found God, and I don't care if Jesus finds Target adventures boring, because I know that Target is His Heavenly Throne.

Image: Bed

Supermom

This weekend was spent visiting with our brand new niece, Lili Caroline, who was born on Wednesday, and is a perfect little creature with a nice, round head and the longest baby toes you have ever seen.

My conclusions:

1. Harrison was never that small, no how! I don't care if the hospital scale said that Lili actually weighed one ounce more than he did at birth. It's not possible.

2. Lili was chowing down on mom juice like nobody's bidness. No latch problems. No indecision about whether to instantly fall asleep or to shriek insanely. Just slurp slurp slurp. Apparently, it takes more than a year to get over breast-feeding rejection. Man, am I stockpiling some guilt to unleash on Harrison some day. Whoo hoo!

3. Either Lori has a secret superhero identity or I am the biggest wimp on the planet. She went to the farmer's market Saturday morning and then we visited at her parents all day Saturday, from 1 until 9. And she didn't take a nap. And she and I went for a walk. And she helped with dishes and getting lunch going and fetching cool drinks.

All this three days after pushing a human being out of her vagina--a human being with what the doctors said was a larger than average head circumference.

I'm seriously trying to figure out how this was possible, because at three days postpartum (mind you, the day after getting home from the hospital) I was in no shape physically or mentally to do anything other than (barely) tend to Harrison, sleep as much as possible, and change giant, blood-soaked pads. I certainly wasn't up for 8 hours of socializing at my parent's house or taking a goddamned walk.

Doug suggested that the difference was psychological, that maybe my perception of how delicate I was postpartum was all in my head. After stabbing him repeatedly with a dull blade, and after some reflection, I think now that maybe in some ways, he was right. With your first birth, your postpartum recovery is not only about healing physically and getting back to normal hormonally (a process which is different for every woman and every birth), but also redefining yourself as a mother. And that is a slow and often painful process.

The first few days home from the hospital are so surreal. You take the same car home from the hospital. You return to the same house. You unpack the same bag that you packed with so much anticipation at 36 weeks. But everything is different, and as all those new baby greeting cards remind us, "Your Life will never be the same."

At 64 weeks postpartum, I can honestly say that life is still weird. Things are "normal" now, but normal is constantly different. There's a routine, but it's always changing, because Harrison is constantly changing. And I've gotten used to that flux.

Where does that leave us? Maybe second and subsequent post-partum recoveries are easier, because they are limited to purely physical healing. If you're already a mother, you don't also have to deal with a complete and instant identify transformation. So if you have a relatively easy birth (i.e., quick labor, no tearing, no episiotomy, no stitches), maybe on day 3, you can plan on taking a walk with your sister in law and making a morning trip to the market.

Here's praying. . .

Image: Swinger

Harry Palm

Harrison has a new friend. We'll call that friend "Little Harrison." Little Harrison's been around since the beginning, but Harrison never paid much attention to him before. For some reason, lately Harrison really likes Little Harrison. He's quite enamoured with him and spends a lot of time and attention on him.

Doug and I don't want Harrison to think that there's anything wrong with being affectionate toward his friend, but somehow we just can't stop ourselves from pointing and laughing hysterically whenever those two are...er...hanging out.

Narcoleptic

Can anyone tell me why, say, a person would spend forty minutes at bedtime in his crib singing, playing with his music box, flinging himself about, jabbering, and decidedly not sleeping when just a few minutes earlier said person was so exhausted at the dinner table that he was chewing watermelon with his eyes closed and his cheek resting in a pile of sliced carrots?

It's just a hypothetical question, of course.

Image: Special Delivery

Childless Again

Harrison left yesterday for a two-day trip to Grandma and Grandpa's house--his first overnight without us. Dinner was quiet and the conversation consisted of Doug and I repeating over and over "This is weird" and then cackling gleefully because we didn't have to pick up 70% of Harrison's dinner off of the floor and scrape smooshed cheese from the highchair. But then we ended up staying in and watching Six Feet Under because we forgot we were capable of actually leaving the house together after 7 PM.

I kept forgetting that Harrison wasn't asleep in his room. I believe I now how some sense of what it feels like to be an amputee with a phantom limb.

Tonight we're going to take naps after work and then go on a HOT DATE--to a restaurant, hopefully one without booster seats or high chairs or screaming babies or children's menus. And then a movie! And then a walk! And then out for ice cream! And then drinking and dancing! And then to a strip joint!

Actually, I don't think we could possibly squeeze it all in after work and before the bars close at 2 AM, but goddamn it--we could do it all if we wanted to!

The freedom is positively intoxicating!

Wizard Worries

I really should have timed this child-bearing thing better, because having to feed, clothe, and keep Harrison from maiming himself on household objects is seriously hampering my Harry Potter reading.

Image: Attack of the Green Bean Monster

Night and day

My Type-A personality has always made me one of those people that obsesses over what was going on ____ ago. You may have gleaned that from this blog here, here, and here, for example.

Let me illustrate:

Just an hour ago, I was snuggling my sweet baboo.
Four years ago, Doug and I were in Spain, on our honeymoon.
Six years ago, we were on the beach in Thailand.

Things have been awesome lately: Harrison has been pumped up with antibiotics (resistant bacteria—here we come!), so he's been free of the various Day Care Plagues. We've been marveling at his mind. He understands so much now, and it's amazing to see it working. The words that we know he understands are mama, dada, kitty cat, sit down, no, and kiss. He loves splashing around in his pool. He laughs and smiles all the time. He's starting to wave. He goes to get his shoes when he wants to go outside (which is always), then he bangs on the screen door. He's also taken to going into my closet, picking out a handbag, and then carrying it around the house. The handbag that he chooses on any particular day doesn't seem to coordinate with his outfit, so I don't know what his criteria are. He stalks the giant towers that we build for him out of blocks and books, and then smashes into them like Godzilla destroying Tokyo. He also likes taking his extra blankies out of the wicker basket in his room and dragging them around the house. And didn't you know how fun it is to look back at them as they trail behind? Just walk looking over your shoulder and throw caution to the wind that there might be objects looming ahead that you might crash into, like, say, walls!

Things are good and I experience many, many moments of absolutely pure joy.

A year ago I could not have imagined being at this point. It was around this time last year that we began to get an inkling that the little, leaky dimple on Harrison's forehead was something serious. Something that turned out to be a nasal dermal sinus tract with an accompanying cyst. A year ago we began the seemingly endless string of visits to the hospital for the MRI, the CT scan, and consultations with the pediatric neurosurgeon and the plastic surgeon. And worst of all, a year ago, we began the tortuous waiting (waiting waiting) for an unscheduled surgery that (in the end) would result in 70 stitches, the removal of the cyst, and (thankfully) the determination that the doctors did not have to saw my little baby's skull in order to excise the tract because it ended just beyond the skin on his forehead.

The specter of this surgery and its endless dark possibilities hung over us a year ago and lingered until September 20. It clouded the entire summer and early fall, and everything that we did.

A year ago, I was angry and terrified, and there were whole months where I was unable to be completely present as Harrison's mama, because this anger and terror were constantly flickering in the back of my mind and in the depths of my heart.

What a difference a year makes.

Feed me with your kiss

Harrison has learned how to kiss us on command--big, sloppy, opened-mouth kisses aimed in the general direction of our faces. So of course Doug and I spent the bulk of the weekend requesting kisses at a frequency normally seen only at a kissing booth. By the end, Harrison was pretty much just ignoring us or giving us a look like (sigh) "You want me to kiss you AGAIN?!?!"

But last night (yipee! the thought of it still gives me shivers!)--right before I tucked him into bed and sent him off to sleep with wishes of sweet dreams and don't let the bedbugs bite--last night, I got my first goodnight kiss ever.

Oh, golly, am I in love!

Image: Sitting on the stoop, drinkin', and wearing matching outfits

Our Home, the Cuckoo's Nest

I know I've mentioned this before, but I am becoming increasingly convinced that Doug and I are attendants in a looney bin. A looney bin with one patient. The patient is not a cat and his name beings with an H. I bet you can't guess who it is!

Maybe he's not clinically insane. Maybe he's got OCD. Maybe he's doing an impression of Dustin Hoffman with autism. Maybe he's gotta watch Whoppner. Whoppner's on at 7. Gotta watch Whoppner. Gotta watch Whoppner. Gotta watch Whoppner.

Last week, he had to walk over to Doug and touch the cracker he was eating to Doug's lunch plate before he'd take a bite. He'd go play, then come over, tap the cracker against the plate, take a bite, then walk away. A few minutes later he'd do the same thing.

O-kay.

The other day, he was inexplicably compelled to twirl in a little circle at the edge of the rug each time he walked across the room.

Yesterday, he spent 15 minutes in the corner of his room putting a box on top of the hassock. Climbing on the hassock and sitting next to the box. Pushing the box back on the floor. Getting down. Putting the box back on top of the hassock. Climbing on the hassock. Etc. Over and over and over. He was completely absorbed. Doug and I could have gone for a walk around the block and he wouldn't have noticed. Instead, we just sat there staring at him with our eyebrows raised, wondering, "What the HELL IS HE DOING?" And still it continued. Up went the box, up went the kid. Down went the box. Down went the kid. Again and again.

Finally, I had to drag him away to get him ready for bed. It was 7 o'clock.

Had to watch Whoppner.

My, how times have changed

Four years ago I was getting ready to say "I do" when the minister asked me if I would love, honor, and cherish Doug for the rest of my days.

Yesterday, I answered "Blueberries!" when Miss Sandy asked me if I might know why Harrison's poop was black.

Image: Leaf-eater

A Walking Contradiction

After four straight days of full-time parenting, I'm trying to figure out how it is possible for me to feel both completely in tune with the dread of having to burn daylight and also be on the verge of tears when I had to leave him this morning.

Image: Seed of Chucky

This is what happens when you don't know how to blow your nose--snot comes out of your eye and your eyelids stick together. Who knew?

Val said he looks like Chucky.

Image: Enjoying a Swim

59 week update

A summary of Harrison's latest skills and accomplishments:

1. The Conquering of the Great Ring Stacker. Not necessarily in the correct order of rings, so sometimes they don't all fit on, since he might, for example, put the red one on first, which is the smallest one, so only one more can get jammed on after that. And then—oh boy—let's try putting a block on top just for kicks! Gee, is it fun!
2. Shuttling objects: blocks, clumps of cat hair (have the words "clumps of cat hair" ever appeared so much in one blog? Perhaps I should rename it?), bits of newspaper, whole newspapers, laundry, more cat hair. He loves bringing over these random objects and handing them to you, but sometimes he tricks you and almost hands it over, but then runs away smiling and going, "SYKE!" Well, not that last part, but he finds it funny to play tricks.
3. Feeding people. One bite for him, one bite offered to whomever is around. Frankly, it's usually not that tempting of an offering because it's something like banana dipped in red sauce or a partially eaten, soggy graham cracker
4. Playing tunes. He's been waking up quietly from naps and night-sleeping and the first thing we hear is his crib music box being turned on. Then off. Then on. Then off. Then on. Then…you get the picture.
5. Self-flagellation with box tops. This isn't so much a skill or an accomplishment, but Harrison has taken to holding up this big metal cookie tin lid or the shallow wooden block box in front of his face and hitting himself in the forehead. Repeatedly. And giggling. ?????
6. Reaching out for things that he wants. It's not pointing exactly, but he reaches his arm out and grunts in the direction of a desired object. Examples of desired objects include the living room chandelier, the porch wind chime, trees with leaves, dangerous kitchen appliances with pretty, pretty cords and fun electricity
7. Downward-facing dog. The world is more fun when you look at it upside-down between your legs!
8. Dancing a happy dance. Rather indescribable. The phrase, "Jogging in place" does not sufficiently convey the absolute cuteness of this jig.
9. Lap-sitting. By far the most endearing of the set. World's littlest butt tries to insert itself on parent's lap or next to parent's own, much larger (well, in my case) butt. Execution is not always successful and owner of little butt often ends up tipping over. Almost always happens with a book in tow. When the first book is read, little butt retrieves another book and then attempted lap-sitting resumes. Repeat numerous times until all 5,286 books have been read.

Image: Tongue

Kids are disgusting

Yesterday, after I posted about the mulch-eating, hurling-into-the grass incident, Ashley and I were chatting about how desensitized we are to the nastiness of our respective offspring.

I offer as evidence:

Last night, Kama's over for dinner and we're sitting around the kitchen table eating, and Harrison's in his highchair eating some Morningstar "chicken," and carrots, and some wheat bread, only he's got this cold and cough, so everytime he coughs, he makes this hacking sound and spits out whatever half-chewed up food is in his mouth. Several minutes of this pass and Doug and I just keep on chatting and eating, while this big pile of gooey food on Harrison's bib gets bigger and bigger. Kama is looking pretty repulsed, so I say, "Is that bothering you?" And she says, "I'll just try not to look at it!"

And Doug solves the problem by nudging the pile into the bib pocket.

Image: Extreme Sports for 1-year olds

Ode to the Working Parent

Before I had Harrison, I was deluded into thinking (like all childless people) that I could just fit a baby into my old life. The reality is that the dance of juggling work obligations, parenting, the stress of parenting, and the maintenance of a home and household is unbelievably intricate and complicated and sometimes depressing.

I think the biggest deficit in my fantasies was not being able to account for how I would feel as a parent. I'm not just speaking to the infinite love that I feel for Harrison, but also the accompanying self-doubt, guilt, stress, and fear that is constantly nagging at my consciousness. I didn't really realize how mentally and physically tired I would be all of the time (and this with a child that has slept at least 6 straight nighttime hours since he was 6 weeks old). I didn't realize that simple things like taking a shower would require planning. I didn't think about how Doug and I would orchestrate shoveling snow, vacuuming, grocery shopping, doing maintenance on our house, taking care of our kitties, preparing dinner, doing laundry, gardening, or washing the dishes—all of these tasks we used to share that can now only be easily done either by one of us at a time, because Harrison needs constant attention, or after Harrison goes to sleep. I didn't realize how full the weekday hours between 2:30 (when I pick Harrison up from daycare) and 7:30 (when he goes to bed) would be and how once he does go to bed, I wouldn't always (okay, usually) have the energy to finish up the daily chores, or go to the gym or the movies with my girlfriends, or read a book without falling asleep after 10 minutes.

The longer I co-parent with Doug, the more I am in awe of single parents who manage to raise successful, well-adjusted, and intelligent children while maintaining their own sanity. Honestly, I don't think I could do it. The obvious reason for this is the sheer amount of time, effort, and attention that parenting requires. It's certainly not a thankless job, but it's an exhausting one. Add to that the necessity of working outside of the home 40 or so hours a week and I don't know how singles do it—financially, physically, or mentally.

Harrison has been fighting an apparently antibiotic resistant infection for the last month, and I've been so torn between the need for him to stay home and get well and a feeling of guilt and fear about taking more time off, given that I was out of the office with him three weeks ago, sick myself two weeks ago, and was in OR for two days this past week.

It's a dilemma that I'm sure many working parents are familiar with, and it's ridiculous, especially since I work for a very understanding company and am entitled to take as much sick time as I or my child needs. But despite the official policies, I hear people making comments and snide observations about others who've taken a lot of time to tend to their sick kids—people with children of their own who should certainly know better than to add to the immense pile of guilt that parents, especially working parents, already have. How is it possible that I can feel both guilt about going to work and sending Harrison to day care and guilt that I'm shirking work responsibilities by staying home with a sick child? As I said, it's ridiculous and it's maddening.

And, yes, it's trite and clichéd, but despite the stress and fact that there just aren't enough minutes in the day to do everything that needs to be done (to say nothing of the things that I'd actually like to do!), it is also really the truth that it is worth every minute. Well, most of the minutes. Not the ones where Harrison's screaming because I took away the clump of cat hair that he was planning to eat. Or the ones where I have to clean up the carrots that he hurled onto the kitchen floor because he just doesn't like carrots this week. Or the ones where I have to hold him over the grass in the front yard because he's throwing up after gagging on that piece of mulch that he just tried to swallow. Or the ones…Nevermind. I'll just stop there.

It's all good.

Happy Father's Day!

I will be leaving today for a Nguyen family wedding in Portland OR, so Doug will be a single parent from 7 tonight until Sunday afternoon. This means that for 60+ hours, he's going to be mostly alone with, and the lone caretaker for, a child who is on the move every single second of his waking hours—a child whose alias is now Hurricane Harrison because he leaves a path of devastation in his wake—a child whose secret superhero identity, I will finally reveal to you all, is Destructo.

Doug tells me that they're going to have a wild boys' weekend and invite some girls over, but my prediction is that the weekend will mostly involve Doug chasing Harrison around and urgently muttering sentences that begin with the words, "No..." "What..." "Put down..." "Get away…" and "Stop…"

I don't know what I'm going to come home to on Sunday, but it might not be pretty.

Before the torture begins and you resent me forever for leaving, Doug, let me butter you up by offering you some heartfelt Father's Day thanks:

Thank you, Doug, for being such a thoughtful husband and father. On Mother's Day you got up with Harrison and let me sleep as late as I wanted (just like you always do on Sundays). You bought me flowers and made me fresh sausage and french toast stuffed with blueberries. Thank you for making me feel appreciated and loved on my first Mother's Day. I'll be in the air Sunday morning, so thank you for waking up early with Harrison on Father's Day too.

Thank you for being so unbelievably strong and keeping me together during Harrison's diagnosis, testing, and surgery.

Thank you for being so comforting and understanding after I had to go back to work, when I cried every morning in the car after I said goodbye to our little baby.

Thank you for agreeing to be the one to drop Harrison off at daycare everyday, just because it's hard for me to say goodbye.

Thank you for reassuring me (over and over) that it was okay for me to stop breastfeeding Harrison at 6 months. You were right—he didn't die.

Thank you for being so supportive of my decision to cut back my work hours to 35 per week so that I can get more time with Harrison every afternoon. Thank you for working a full 40 hours so that we can afford to do that.

Thank you for laughing with me at people who suggest that you're really going beyond the call of duty by "babysitting" when I need a night out with the girls, by buying Harrison books, or by changing his diapers.

And finally, thank you for being my full partner in raising our amazing son. There is nothing in this world that has ever made me happier than seeing the two of you together.

Image: Hot Naked Guys

Image: Look at the camera!

Aquaphobe

Doug bought Harrison a little purple wading pool on Saturday.

HE HATES IT.

He hates it so much that he screamed and flailed and bucked at bath time the past two nights, as soon as he realized I was lowering him into the tub.

Aiyah!

Secret Angel Man

At this point, Harrison has been in daycare longer (7 months) than he stayed at home with us (6 months). Still, it's weird to me that he has these 35 of 168 hours a week that I don't really know about. He has a little life of his own, with a routine and social network and friends. And since he can't talk and tell me about his day, the only record I have of his 7 daily hours at daycare is his Poop Report, which also has information about his nap time, what he ate, and what his other activities were: e.g., "Went Outside," "Sang Songs," "Read Books," "Visited the Grammas and Grandpas," "Played in Gym" etc.

As Harrison has gotten older, my love-hate relationship with daycare has been trending toward the love end of the scale. At the beginning, I felt 100% hate/guilt. Now that he's mobile and communicative and devouring experience, day care is a good place for him. Even better, now that he's older, he can really participate in our center's intergenerational programming.

Yesterday, Miss Sandy told me that last week when they went to visit the Grammas and Grandpas in the nursing home, Harrison had made a special friend in one of the Grammas. The other kids in the class didn't want to sit with her, but Harrison sat on her lap and visited with her for the whole time. She was delighted. The woman's son and daughter-in-law happened to be visiting and they took pictures of Harrison and their mother.

Earlier this week, the woman passed away in her sleep

I don't even know her name, but I am so proud that Harrison was able to meet her and make her happy for that brief visit.

I miss him every single day, but sending him to daycare is getting easier.

And I hope I get copies of those pictures.

The best virus name EVER!

I am SO GLAD that Harrison's hot pediatrician diagnosed him with an ear infection last week because Doug just saw her on the news this morning and she mentioned that the Coxsackie Virus is going around.

Oh man, if that had been the diagnosis I would not have been able to contain myself.

I am not kidding. The Coxsackie Virus!

It's the little things...

...that melt my heart. Like watching your father cut up some bite-sized papaya, put it on your tray, and then work quickly to squeeze a drop of lime juice on each tiny piece.

: )

Life is good.

The Third Word

Harrison has added a new word to his vocabulary. The word is "Muh!" and it's the only thing other than "mama" and "dada" that he says with any consistency and reliability. It has something to do with food or eating. He says it while eating and also when he wants more of something. (That something is always fruit.) We'd like to think that he's actually trying to say "More!" but really that's a bit of wishful optimism.

MUH!

My apologies

Harrison, I'm sorry that you've been so sick for the last 5 days that yesterday when you woke up you couldn't open your eyes because they were glued shut with goop. I'm sorry that you had to endure 10 minutes of your father scrubbing at your face with a warm wash cloth before you were able to see anything.

I'm sorry that yesterday afternoon, when you were feeling so much better and we were playing in the yard, I wouldn't let you eat any grass, mulch, or maple-seed helicopters, even though you really wanted to and tried to repeatedly.

I'm sorry that when we were playing on the porch, I let our 7 year-old neighbor Alexandra put your bangs in a little unicorn pigtail on the top of your head.

I'm sorry that the other neighborhood kids then laughed at you because you looked like a big dork.

It's just not your week.

Image: Peace

The Week in Review

I've mentioned a few times on this blog that while I am so excited about the potential in Harrison and for his life, I also live in fear of his loss of innocence. Right now, his capacity for trust is amazing. His period of stranger-anxiety lasted all of two weeks back in late March, but now he's such a brave little boy. He struts his little bow-legged strut fearlessly up and down the driveway, up and down our street, at the park, and at my office. He smiles at strangers in the supermarket and pulls himself up on the pantlegs and skirts of my friends.

On Saturday on our way out of the public market, Doug stood by with Harrison in the Kelty (thanks, Ash!) while I was at a stall buying some green beans and cantaloupes when we heard some scuffling and looked up to see two young boys, maybe fifteen years old, being pinned to the ground by two uniformed police officers, who had guns drawn. The police then removed a shiny silver gun from one of the boys. The shoppers and vendors went on about their business while the boys lay there on the ground and the officers finished patting them down and then handcuffed them.

I suppose we could have gotten hurt in the scuffle, but when we went back to the car I quietly cried behind my sunglasses thinking about those boys and my boy and wondering what happened to them and how an incident like that has become the norm in an urban market filled with immigrants, farmers, and yuppies like us—something to glance up at briefly but then quickly dismiss. It's too difficult and overwhelming to really consider the tangled reasons related mostly to racism and accompanying poverty, but also to sprawl, education, mcmansions, drugs, consumerism, hopelessness….and the list goes on. And it's everyone's fault. And so few people care. And even fewer people do anything to change it.

But these were boys. Young boys. And I'm sure their mamas got a terrible phone call that morning and it probably wasn't the first time.

…………………………………

We'll call Tuesday Black Tuesday, because Dubya came. Thousands of Rochestarians came out to support him and hear him talk about social security. About 750 of us attended a peaceful protest downtown to voice our dissent with his various policies. It was depressing and exhilarating all at once, as I always find protests and rallies to be. I was struck and inspired by the number of elderly people there, and by the attendance of students and families with their children. I stood on Court Street across from about 7 kids under the age of 15. They were holding a gigantic banner that said, "No blood for oil" and were hooting and hollering at the passing cars and having a ball.

……………………………….

On Wednesday I watched Finding Neverland for the second time. It's a film about a lot of things, but two of the main themes are loss of innocence in children and the importance of remaining creative, optimistic, and filled with hope and imagination. It's a beautiful film, and this time I cried even harder when Johnny Depp's character said, "young boys should never go to bed; they always wake up a day older.”

This week, everything seemed to point me in the same direction: I can't keep Harrison a little boy forever, but I don't want him to grow up too quickly either. I want him to be recognize his privilege and learn empathy and compassion for others. I will do my best to teach him about the world as I understand it and encourage him to want to learn about it for himself. And I hope he never loses the amazing capacity for laughter, mischief-making, trust, love, and faith in humanity that he has now.

Image: Lounge II

Image: Lounge

Let Freedom Ring!

Let it be known that at 7:15, on the evening of 24 May 2005, our household was officially freed from the bonds of economic slavery to the formula corporations when the one-year-old Harrison successfully (and happily) consumed and digested his first bottle of whole bovine milk!

Hip! Hip! HURRAY!

Bbbb-Bad to the Bone

I have attempted to reconstruct Harrison's apparent to-do list from this weekend:

1. throw toys behind baby gate into fireplace
2. pull photo albums out of book case
3. when presented with food on spoon, eat 4 bites, then bat spoon away
4. when presented with finger foods, eat 1 bite, spit out, but accept same food on spoon
5. find sleeping cat, pull said cat's fur/tail/ears
6. eat any extracted fur resulting from #5
7. pull lid off kitchen garbage
8. once lid has been removed, pull kitchen garbage onto floor
9. wait for bathroom door to be mistakenly left open in order to a. unroll toilet paper; b. put hands in cats' water bowl; c. figure out how to flush toilet by violently jiggling toilet handle; d. eat dirty kleenex found in bathroom waste basket
10. remove doorstops intended to prevent swinging of doors
11. swing doors open/closed repeatedly until fingers/toes are pinched
12. attempt to pick up any ants encountered outside
13. remove all clean diapers from basket on changing table
14. remove all barricades placed in front of wastebasket next to changing table
15. remove and wave over head all dirty diapers from wastebasket next to changing table
16. attempt to remove parents nose/lips/ears by biting or pulling
17. commence screaming whenever parents interfere with 1-16

Image: Tiptoeing Through the Tulips

Damned to hell we are, hmmm?

...for planning to leave Harrison in daycare for an extended day just so that we can go see Revenge of the Sith

Still a Bobblehead

Harrison had his one-year well baby visit yesterday and here are the results. I know you've been waiting with bated breath.

Weight: 20 lbs, 10th percentile
Height: 29 inches, 25th percentile
Head Circumference: 65th percentile!!!

And even though it looks REALLY weird down there and "a lot of dads get worried," his you-know-what is apparently totally "normal."

Oh, and we are so going to have to switch pediatricans when Harrison hits puberty because this one is just too damn hot. Doug and I are thinking of joining the FLDS, if she's interested.