This is what I've been reading lately:
David Copperfield
Charles Dickens
This one I read during the deepest throws of morning sickness.
In lieu of an original review here, I'm simply going to copy-and-paste from a letter I wrote to my mother-in-law, who loves Mr. Dickens, around that time:
"It's funny that you've been reading Dickens lately, because I, too, have been engaged with one of his books. But with a different response than yours, I am sad to admit. I'm reading David Copperfield, which I bought years ago because it was a required read for an English Novels class I took in college. I only got about halfway then, and -- fortunately for me -- my professor didn't like Dickens enough to test very heavily on that novel. I picked it up again just recently because I wanted something to read that I didn't mind associating with nausea. Well, I've again read through about half of it-- happily, but not lustily-- and am again contemplating laying it to rest. Dickens' prose is delightful and his characters endearing, but delightful and endearing can only get me so far -- about 400 pages of teeny print far-- before I start wishing that there was something more meaty to the text. Perhaps I should try one of his other novels."
(I didn't finish it.)
Long Quiet Highway: Waking up in America
Natalie Goldberg
Long Quiet Highway is the spiritual autobiography of Natalie Goldberg, who has most famously written "Writing Down the Bones," a book about writing that I adored. Unfortunately, I did not adore this book-- though I did, at least, read the whole thing.
In LQH, Natalie Goldberg details her journey from life as an a-religious secular Jew, to years lived openly as a spiritualistic hippie, and ultimately to her discovery of and integration into Zen Buddhism. The primary insight I gained from this book is that a daily spiritual practice is the central core of any sustainable spirituality. The two things that kept me from really enjoying the book were as follows:
1) Goldberg's spirituality seemed to degrade from an awareness of truth and light to an intense hero worship centering around her Zen Master. I wanted to shake her and be like, "This isn't about Katagiri Roshi! This is about sitting sazen! Aren't you listening to yourself?"
2) The writing style started to wear on me after a while. Goldberg is really big on concrete details, which can be charming, but after hundreds of pages of, "My friend and I sat in an rusty brick restaurant with black-and-white-tiled floors and shiny red booths. The waitress had puffy blonde hair and wore pink lipstick. We drank cups of black coffee and licked the dry crumbs that fell from our Danishes while we talked...." I started to get really sick of concrete details. Again, you might chalk this up to the fact that I was just plain sick.
Cold Sassy Tree
Olive Ann Burns
Excellent. I am a sucker for a good Southern novel. And this was a really good Southern novel. It had an excellent premise, fabulous writing, and very real characters. I can't describe it any better than the book review on the front of the cover: "Rich with emotion, humor and tenderness...A novel about an old man growing young, a young man growing up, and the modern age coming to a small southern town."
Two thumbs up for Cold Sassy Tree.
The Shell Seekers
Rosamunde Pilcher
One of my college roommates--an English major, even--really loved this book. She would vehemently defend its merits against the attacks of my other two English major roommates. My mother has had a copy of it sitting on her paperback shelf for as long as I can remember, and I finally decided to pick it up and give it a go. Fifty pages in I decided to give it a pitch.
It read too much like a cheap romance novel. There was a whole bunch of "telling" vs. "showing," long paragraphs of background information that would have fit better in flashbacks and hints, lots of fakey details you could tell were included by the author as a bit of wishful thinking--a childless career woman who slept with men like they were bed pillow, an apartment decorated all in white, a mother who spent her days feeding strangers in her warm kitchen while she mended at the "freshly scrubbed table." I kept getting the distinct impression that this book was not so much an attempt to tell a story as it was an attempt by the author to escape her own reality. I decided to endure all this, however, and see just what it was that English Major #1 liked so much about this book, but when I got to this scene, I hit a wall and couldn't make myself go any more:
(The following describes a woman who randomly met a man at a boat party in the middle of the Caribbean, spent two days frolicking with him on an island, and decided to leave her life in London as a successful magazine editor in order to live with him.)
"She finished The Mill on the Floss and started in on Wuthering Heights and then Jane Austen. She read Satre, Recherche du temps perdu, and, for the first time in her life, War and Peace. She read classics, biographies, novels by authors she had never even heard of. She read John Cheever and Joseph Conrad, and a battered copy of The Treasure Seekers.
"And as these books were all familiar old friends to Cosmo, they were able to spend their evenings deep in long literary discussions, usually to the background accompaniment of music; the "New World," and Elgar's "Enigma Variations," and symphonies or operas in their entirety."
Because every straight guy that you meet randomly at a boat party in the Caribbean is going to feel that he could include Middlemarch and Mozart on his list of old familiar friends. The entire image that came to my mind at this point--I could just see the two of them wearing matching turtleneck sweaters, Cosmo waving a pencil blithely in the air to Ein Klein Nachtmusik while pointing out a significant passage in Bronte --was so utterly repulsive to me that I actually slammed the cover shut. I felt brain cells draining out of my head and, though I frantically tried to stuff them back in, it was too late. They were gone forever. Don't let the same thing happen to you, my friends.
Loser
Jerry Spinelli
This was donated to my workplace and, after giving our clients ample opportunity to pick it out of the donation bin, I finally decided that it was meant to be mine. Loser, like every Spinelli book I've ever picked up, was a delightful read. Spinelli hasn't forgotten what it's like to be a child, and his novels really show that. Each one provides fresh insights into the innocence, vulnerability, and wounds of childhood.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Because everybody wants to hear, in great detail, about every time I've thrown up.
This second trimester has been a little weird. I do feel better--more energetic and less nauseous--and yet, I've been throwing up a lot more. I threw up once during the entire 13 weeks of my first trimester; I've thrown up 4 times during the 1 1/2 weeks that I've been in my second.
This is something I feel that I need to note on my blog because I am not a thrower-upper, which means that puking is a little traumatizing for me. Before this pregnancy, the last time I had up-chucked was 2004. The last time I barfed before that was 1998. The last time I blew chunks before that was was 1992.
Over the course of this pregnancy, I have thrown up in the following places: some lilac bushes, a gutter, my mom's bathroom sink, my kitchen sink, and on my kitchen floor.
My favorite occasion, if such a term could be used for so unpleasant an activity, was the lilac bushes. I was out for a walk with two friends--Nick and Nathan--when I suddenly started to dry-heave. I ran over to the nearest bushes, where, after much gagging and great effort, I deposited the entire contents of my stomach: 1/2 cup of bean-with-bacon soup, 1 prenatal vitamin, 50 mg of Zoloft, and 50 of Vitamin B6. The entire time I was retching, Nick and Nathan huddled in the background, horrified, and discussing what should be done.
"Do you think she needs some water?"
"Rach? Can we get you something? Do you need some water?"
"Rach?"
"Maybe we should run home and get her something to drink."
"Rach? Is there something we can do for you?"
I wanted to say, "Please just let me heave in peace!" But I didn't have the strength. When I finally got the situation under control, however, I was glad to have them. Nick gave me a hug while Nathan ran across the street to ask some strangers for a drink of water.
"Hi," said Nathan to the lady who answered the door at the house where he'd knocked. He was wearing knee-length dress shorts, blue canvas boatshoes, and a v-neck t-shirt with striped pastels. "My friend over there, across the street?" he pointed across the road, "She's pregnant. And, um, she just threw up. Could we get a drink of water?"
"Oh, poor kid," said the lady, squinting at me. "Of course she can have some water," She retreated into her kitchen and returned with a bottle of water. "You let me know if we can do anything else for her."
Nathan ran back across the street with the water. "She says let her know if they can do anything else," he said. The lady and her husband were both standing in the doorway of their home. I waved. They waved back. "I need a Kleenex," I told Nathan. "I threw up out my nose." So he ran back across the street and, after some gesticulating and animated explanation, returned with a Kleenex.
I blew the excess crap out of my nose, timidly swallowed some of the water, and waved gratefully again at the people who were still watching from behind their screen door. It made me glad to live in Shelley. And glad to have friends. Even friends who talk while you barf.
This is something I feel that I need to note on my blog because I am not a thrower-upper, which means that puking is a little traumatizing for me. Before this pregnancy, the last time I had up-chucked was 2004. The last time I barfed before that was 1998. The last time I blew chunks before that was was 1992.
Over the course of this pregnancy, I have thrown up in the following places: some lilac bushes, a gutter, my mom's bathroom sink, my kitchen sink, and on my kitchen floor.
My favorite occasion, if such a term could be used for so unpleasant an activity, was the lilac bushes. I was out for a walk with two friends--Nick and Nathan--when I suddenly started to dry-heave. I ran over to the nearest bushes, where, after much gagging and great effort, I deposited the entire contents of my stomach: 1/2 cup of bean-with-bacon soup, 1 prenatal vitamin, 50 mg of Zoloft, and 50 of Vitamin B6. The entire time I was retching, Nick and Nathan huddled in the background, horrified, and discussing what should be done.
"Do you think she needs some water?"
"Rach? Can we get you something? Do you need some water?"
"Rach?"
"Maybe we should run home and get her something to drink."
"Rach? Is there something we can do for you?"
I wanted to say, "Please just let me heave in peace!" But I didn't have the strength. When I finally got the situation under control, however, I was glad to have them. Nick gave me a hug while Nathan ran across the street to ask some strangers for a drink of water.
"Hi," said Nathan to the lady who answered the door at the house where he'd knocked. He was wearing knee-length dress shorts, blue canvas boatshoes, and a v-neck t-shirt with striped pastels. "My friend over there, across the street?" he pointed across the road, "She's pregnant. And, um, she just threw up. Could we get a drink of water?"
"Oh, poor kid," said the lady, squinting at me. "Of course she can have some water," She retreated into her kitchen and returned with a bottle of water. "You let me know if we can do anything else for her."
Nathan ran back across the street with the water. "She says let her know if they can do anything else," he said. The lady and her husband were both standing in the doorway of their home. I waved. They waved back. "I need a Kleenex," I told Nathan. "I threw up out my nose." So he ran back across the street and, after some gesticulating and animated explanation, returned with a Kleenex.
I blew the excess crap out of my nose, timidly swallowed some of the water, and waved gratefully again at the people who were still watching from behind their screen door. It made me glad to live in Shelley. And glad to have friends. Even friends who talk while you barf.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Newsletter: Months 19 and 20
Dear Little Boy,
Right now I'm sitting at the computer and you're sitting in your doorway jumper, happily hopping and spinning away. This letter is late--later than usual, even--so I've decided to roll the past two months into one. I'm sorry. But really, month 19 was a rough month for us--maybe one neither one of us would care to remember--so I won't dwell on it too long. In fact, we both spent a fair portion of your 19th month of life crying.
This is how it was. I, newly pregnant, was miserably sick and wanted to be left alone to die in peace; you, firstborn and spoilt, were unhappy about my inactivity and wanted to be romped with at every moment. It was all I could do to occasionally heft myself off the couch, heave you into your high chair, plunk some graham crackers and fruit cocktail on your tray, and pour you a glass of milk. You, on the other hand, felt that I should do more. So, while I tried to nap on the couch, you would crawl on top of me, pull my hair, bite any exposed bits of skin, and force me to stand up in my weakened condition, pick up all 26 wriggling pounds of you, and dump you into your "time out" pen. Upon your release from prison, you would run around finding illicit and dangerous activities in which to participate. And after I had been forced to leave my position of repose for the 30th time in 15 minutes to direct you away from the garbage can, I would usually begin to cry. This, of course, would make you cry. So we would sit together, amongst heaps of toys I was too tired to pick up and too tired to make you pick you, and we would bawl together. Gone were blissful daily walks to the park. Gone were happy romps in homemade tents in the front room. Gone were twirling dance sessions in the kitchen.
Month 20 has been better, however.
As you can see from the pictures, you continue to wax more and more adorable with each new dawn. Grandma Hanson frequently comments, "I just keep thinking he couldn't possibly get any cuter. Then he goes and does it: he gets even cuter. How is that even possible?" The answer is: I have no idea. And yet, it happens. It must be a miracle.
My favorite time of the day has become our mornings together. When I come in to get you out of your crib I always sing, "Good Morning! Good Morning! You're my sweetest little boy! Good Morning! Good Morning! To you!" while you bounce up and down on the mattress and smile at me. Then we sit in your rocking chair and cuddle and talk for 20 minutes or so. You suck on my hair and poke at my face and babble on in the sweet little toddler language that only makes sense to you; I giggle and squeeze you and help you remember what "eyes" and "noses" and "mouths" are. You eventually wiggle your way out of my arms and run over to unplug the nightlight, which I quickly confiscate, and we move on to the breakfast portion of our day, which is not nearly so pleasant, because it usually involves me throwing up and you throwing food.
I have had several people request that I mention here that you currently have a mild obsession with sitting on people's heads. Uncle Sue even went so far as to call it an "insatiable desire," pointing to the way in which you, post head-conquest, wiggle and readjust your behind in a way that seems to say, "this just isn't as satisfying as I had hoped it would be." No prone adult or child is safe from your bum-to-head assaults. Some even seek after them. The very first thing your Aunt Briar did when she came to visit was lie down on the floor because she wanted to see if you would really sit on her head like everyone said you would. You, of course, complied.
Your vocabulary continues to develop, and a cute thing you do is use one word for multiple purposes. For example, you say "no" for "no," "no" for "yes," and "no" for "nose." "Ahdah" means "all done," "all gone," "amen," and "the end." "Hottt" (and yes, you emphasize the 't' sound) can indicate anything thermally warm as well as anything that might be causing you mild discomfort. In fact, I just fed you some spicy hot V8, which made you declare with certainty, "Hottt!" I realized this month that you've been saying "horse" for a while-- but you pronounce it "hsss," so it took me several weeks to realize that's what you were saying. You also have added "choo-choo," "kkkkkiiii" (for icky), "iss," (yes), "wiaes," (please), and "ahwwo" (for hello) to your lexicon.
A bonus to your developing language skills has been the fact that you often tattle on yourself while participating in nefarious toddler deeds. "No," I'll hear you saying in your bedroom. "No. No. No." And sure enough, when I go to investigate, you'll be pulling diaper wipes out of their container. "No," you'll say from the kitchen, and sure enough, I'll catch you pulling rotten banana peels and shredded credit card offers out of the garbage can. And when I make my entrance, you usually look up with your big blues and say, "Uh oh."
One of your favorite activities is swinging, though people observing you from a close distance wouldn't be able to tell. You'll walk over to a swing, beg to be put in it, and then swing--without any expression--for as long as my limited attention span can stand it. You don't smile. You don't laugh. Other little kids will come over, swing, and leave, be replaced by other little kids who will swing for a little while and leave, and you will continue to swing and swing. Sometimes I'll stop you and say, "Are you done? Do you want down?" "No," you'll say. "Does that mean yes?" I'll ask, acting like I'm going to take you out of the swing, "No!" you'll say. So I'll push you for a while longer. I can talk you into playing on the other equipment briefly, but those are temporary distractions from the real purpose of the playground: the swing set.
There's been a fair amount of cross-dressing in your life as of late. You've taken to picking up stray articles of my clothing and putting them on yourself. This often comes across as quite fashionable. Here you are pictured wearing a halter top dress. While we were visiting at Auntie Collette's house a few weeks ago, cousin Calysta took it into her head to put you in a pink ruffly girl dress that fit a jumbo-sized doll her grandma had given her. It also fit you. You looked adorable and I wished desperately for a camera, though I must say that you didn't really look like a girl. You looked like a little boy dressed up in bloomers and a skirt.
For the most part, you are a joy to have around--I call you "my little sparkle"-- though we have been struggling to teach you that biting and hair pulling are unacceptable behaviors. It seems like nothing works. Saying "no" and showing you how to touch "gently" doesn't seem to have made an impact. Saying "no" and putting you in time-out hasn't touched you at all. Getting really mad and yelling just makes you giggle. We're hoping that time will help our situation, because your little teeth are razor sharp and your strong little arms can pull hair extra hard.
Love,
Mommy
Right now I'm sitting at the computer and you're sitting in your doorway jumper, happily hopping and spinning away. This letter is late--later than usual, even--so I've decided to roll the past two months into one. I'm sorry. But really, month 19 was a rough month for us--maybe one neither one of us would care to remember--so I won't dwell on it too long. In fact, we both spent a fair portion of your 19th month of life crying.
This is how it was. I, newly pregnant, was miserably sick and wanted to be left alone to die in peace; you, firstborn and spoilt, were unhappy about my inactivity and wanted to be romped with at every moment. It was all I could do to occasionally heft myself off the couch, heave you into your high chair, plunk some graham crackers and fruit cocktail on your tray, and pour you a glass of milk. You, on the other hand, felt that I should do more. So, while I tried to nap on the couch, you would crawl on top of me, pull my hair, bite any exposed bits of skin, and force me to stand up in my weakened condition, pick up all 26 wriggling pounds of you, and dump you into your "time out" pen. Upon your release from prison, you would run around finding illicit and dangerous activities in which to participate. And after I had been forced to leave my position of repose for the 30th time in 15 minutes to direct you away from the garbage can, I would usually begin to cry. This, of course, would make you cry. So we would sit together, amongst heaps of toys I was too tired to pick up and too tired to make you pick you, and we would bawl together. Gone were blissful daily walks to the park. Gone were happy romps in homemade tents in the front room. Gone were twirling dance sessions in the kitchen.
Month 20 has been better, however.
As you can see from the pictures, you continue to wax more and more adorable with each new dawn. Grandma Hanson frequently comments, "I just keep thinking he couldn't possibly get any cuter. Then he goes and does it: he gets even cuter. How is that even possible?" The answer is: I have no idea. And yet, it happens. It must be a miracle.
My favorite time of the day has become our mornings together. When I come in to get you out of your crib I always sing, "Good Morning! Good Morning! You're my sweetest little boy! Good Morning! Good Morning! To you!" while you bounce up and down on the mattress and smile at me. Then we sit in your rocking chair and cuddle and talk for 20 minutes or so. You suck on my hair and poke at my face and babble on in the sweet little toddler language that only makes sense to you; I giggle and squeeze you and help you remember what "eyes" and "noses" and "mouths" are. You eventually wiggle your way out of my arms and run over to unplug the nightlight, which I quickly confiscate, and we move on to the breakfast portion of our day, which is not nearly so pleasant, because it usually involves me throwing up and you throwing food.
A bonus to your developing language skills has been the fact that you often tattle on yourself while participating in nefarious toddler deeds. "No," I'll hear you saying in your bedroom. "No. No. No." And sure enough, when I go to investigate, you'll be pulling diaper wipes out of their container. "No," you'll say from the kitchen, and sure enough, I'll catch you pulling rotten banana peels and shredded credit card offers out of the garbage can. And when I make my entrance, you usually look up with your big blues and say, "Uh oh."
There's been a fair amount of cross-dressing in your life as of late. You've taken to picking up stray articles of my clothing and putting them on yourself. This often comes across as quite fashionable. Here you are pictured wearing a halter top dress. While we were visiting at Auntie Collette's house a few weeks ago, cousin Calysta took it into her head to put you in a pink ruffly girl dress that fit a jumbo-sized doll her grandma had given her. It also fit you. You looked adorable and I wished desperately for a camera, though I must say that you didn't really look like a girl. You looked like a little boy dressed up in bloomers and a skirt.
For the most part, you are a joy to have around--I call you "my little sparkle"-- though we have been struggling to teach you that biting and hair pulling are unacceptable behaviors. It seems like nothing works. Saying "no" and showing you how to touch "gently" doesn't seem to have made an impact. Saying "no" and putting you in time-out hasn't touched you at all. Getting really mad and yelling just makes you giggle. We're hoping that time will help our situation, because your little teeth are razor sharp and your strong little arms can pull hair extra hard.
Love,
Mommy
Friday, July 18, 2008
An Announcement. A Complaint. And a Cry for Help.
The Announcement:
We're expecting a baby in February. Hooray!
The Complaint:
I feel like hell. This morning sickness is unrelenting. I don't throw up, so I feel like I shouldn't complain, but being nauseated all night and all day without a reprieve is starting to wear on me. And it's not just the nausea. It's the exhaustion. And also the fact that the exhaustion and the nausea combine to make the world feel black, black, black. Almost every day finds me at my mom's or my sister's begging for company and assistance. I just can't stand to be alone all day with my very active little boy while I feel so terrible.
The Cry For Help:
I feel like I can't endure a single day more, let alone 3-5 more weeks (which doesn't sound like much, I know-- but that's a lot of very very long days of feeling black and sick and unhappy.) I tried mentioning it to my OB, who is a very lovely woman, at my first prenatal visit, but our conversation went something like this:
OB: So, you're pregnant! That's wonderful! Fantastic! So exciting!
Me: Yeah, thanks.
OB (big, bright smile): So how have you been?
Me: OK. I've had some morning sickness.
OB: Oh? Have you been throwing up a lot?
Me: Well, no....
OB: Why, that's wonderful! Fantastic! So exciting!
Me: Um, I guess so. I do try to tell myself that I'm lucky to not be throwing up.
OB: You're such a cutie! Well, come on. Let's go do an ultrasound. I bet you have a beautiful baby.
And she was off to the ultrasound room. And I, not very good at being pushy with people I'm not close to, obediently followed her out.
What would have been nice at this point in our conversation, however, was some questioning about the intensity of my nausea and perhaps some suggestions for how to alleviate it. But the truth is, I've read it all: eat saltines before you get out of bed in the morning, eat small meals throughout the day, try vitamin B6, try Unisom combined with vitamin B6, drink ginger tea, take ginger supplements, cut the iron out of your prenatal vitamin. And the saltines just make me feel worse, the small meals don't really make a difference (sometimes they make it worse), the vitamin B6/Unisom combo didn't work with Soren, ginger tea makes me gag, my prenatal vitamin doesn't impact my nausea, and I'm just a little uncertain about the ginger supplements.
But seriously. I know this is so lame of me, and that I'm probably the world's biggest wimp, but I'm really thinking if I have to go through this AGAIN for another child, I might just be done with two. I would LIKE more children, but this is just such a living nightmare for me that I can't stand the thought of doing it again.
And this is where I beg for suggestions for dealing with morning sickness, words of encouragement or hope, anything, really. Just throw a sick dog a bone, huh?
We're expecting a baby in February. Hooray!
The Complaint:
I feel like hell. This morning sickness is unrelenting. I don't throw up, so I feel like I shouldn't complain, but being nauseated all night and all day without a reprieve is starting to wear on me. And it's not just the nausea. It's the exhaustion. And also the fact that the exhaustion and the nausea combine to make the world feel black, black, black. Almost every day finds me at my mom's or my sister's begging for company and assistance. I just can't stand to be alone all day with my very active little boy while I feel so terrible.
The Cry For Help:
I feel like I can't endure a single day more, let alone 3-5 more weeks (which doesn't sound like much, I know-- but that's a lot of very very long days of feeling black and sick and unhappy.) I tried mentioning it to my OB, who is a very lovely woman, at my first prenatal visit, but our conversation went something like this:
OB: So, you're pregnant! That's wonderful! Fantastic! So exciting!
Me: Yeah, thanks.
OB (big, bright smile): So how have you been?
Me: OK. I've had some morning sickness.
OB: Oh? Have you been throwing up a lot?
Me: Well, no....
OB: Why, that's wonderful! Fantastic! So exciting!
Me: Um, I guess so. I do try to tell myself that I'm lucky to not be throwing up.
OB: You're such a cutie! Well, come on. Let's go do an ultrasound. I bet you have a beautiful baby.
And she was off to the ultrasound room. And I, not very good at being pushy with people I'm not close to, obediently followed her out.
What would have been nice at this point in our conversation, however, was some questioning about the intensity of my nausea and perhaps some suggestions for how to alleviate it. But the truth is, I've read it all: eat saltines before you get out of bed in the morning, eat small meals throughout the day, try vitamin B6, try Unisom combined with vitamin B6, drink ginger tea, take ginger supplements, cut the iron out of your prenatal vitamin. And the saltines just make me feel worse, the small meals don't really make a difference (sometimes they make it worse), the vitamin B6/Unisom combo didn't work with Soren, ginger tea makes me gag, my prenatal vitamin doesn't impact my nausea, and I'm just a little uncertain about the ginger supplements.
But seriously. I know this is so lame of me, and that I'm probably the world's biggest wimp, but I'm really thinking if I have to go through this AGAIN for another child, I might just be done with two. I would LIKE more children, but this is just such a living nightmare for me that I can't stand the thought of doing it again.
And this is where I beg for suggestions for dealing with morning sickness, words of encouragement or hope, anything, really. Just throw a sick dog a bone, huh?
Seth and Karen: July 4, 2008
On the 4th of July, my brother Seth married his sweetheart, Karen.
They got married in Sealander Park, a private park near my parents' home in Woodville, Idaho. It's always been one of my favorite places and now has even more reason to be so. The ceremony was performed by Bishop Kris Kelley and was very simple and beautiful. Only very close friends and family were in attendance.
Here we are: the warm and nurturing homemaker, the stoic and protective provider, and the wiggly and troublemaking toddler. :)
My mom and dad (far left) with my sister Collette (the cutie in the blue dress), her husband, Marty, and their four children (l-r: Calysta, Tessa, Marty, and Arielle). My brother Scott and his wife, Amanda, were not able to make it to the wedding. Turns out last-minute plane tickets from Houston to Idaho Falls are pricy.
We're very happy for Seth and excited about Karen joining the family. Congratulations you two!
We're very happy for Seth and excited about Karen joining the family. Congratulations you two!
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Summer Fun
Abe's Father's Day Gift
Doesn't he look handsome in his new suit? It's his first since his mission. And I don't want to tell you how long it's been since he left on his mission.
We bought a new car!
My Sweet Little Boy,
You are now 18 months old. Eighteen months! All at once eighteen months seems enormously long (weren't you born just yesterday?) and tremendously short (could I ever have not known and loved you?)
Last month I wrote about how excited I was about taking you to nursery. I was so excited, in fact, that early in the month, after a particularly trying sacrament meeting, I cornered the Primary president and held you toward her. "He's seventeen and a half months old!" I begged. Without hesitation she jerked her thumb over her shoulder, toward the nursery door. "Send 'im in!" After curtsying gratefully, I took you to the nursery, told them your name, and left you happily digging through the toy closet, throwing balls and trucks and dolls over your shoulders. "Bye honey!" I said. You didn't even look up.
It seems that every newsletter needs to include a park story. This is not intentional; it's just that I take you to the park several times a week. It seems like a good way to pass the time and it gives us both some much-needed sunshine and exercise. But my park story this month isn't really a story at all; it's just a moment that my mommy heart's internal camera captured, and wants to relate to you. We were at Goodsell Elementary, climbing around on the playground toys (incidentally the very same playground toys I played on when I was a student there), and I sat down on a swing while you ran off to play. Looking out across the paved portion of the playground, I reflected on those years of running across that blacktop-- the skinned knees, the double-dutch jump rope contests, the games of kiss tag, the huddles of half-frozen children, the alliances formed, the enemies established--when I looked up and saw you. There you were, running in your bumpy toddler way across the blacktop yourself, swinging your arms up to clap in the front, and then in back, a little rooster tail of soft hair poking up on the back of your head. You looked so little. And so grown-up. And so vulnerable. And so brave.
This past month you've discovered your mother's Achilles' Heel. You've found that if she's busy and you want attention, whining at her legs might gain you a sympathetic look and a pat on the head--but holding a book and whining at her legs will cause her to involuntary stop whatever she's doing, sit down, cuddle you in her lap, and read to you. You've also noticed know that you can push back your bedtime by a good fifteen minutes by begging for more stories.
Also, it turns out that I've been letting my politics infiltrate my parenting style. I discovered this one evening when Uncle Sue brought a politically active friend, Nathan, to documentary night. At some point during the dinner-making process, you got whiny, so I put you in your high chair and handed you some graham crackers, then turning my attention to other matters. Auntie Loriann, however, was watching you quite closely. "He's eating those crackers all wrong!" she exclaimed. "Look at him! He's shoving them all into his mouth! He just wedged one in sideways! Somebody needs to stop him!" I glanced over, saw that you were still breathing, and said, "He'll gag if the crackers get pushed back too far. He's fine." Nathan immediately pointed at Loriann and declared, "Liberal," then at me and assessed, "Libertarian." And he was dead right.
On that same evening, surrounded by a group of adults all terrified that you might touch the oven, you learned one of your now-favorite words: "Hot." It being summertime, this is a word you use a great deal. "Hot," you'll say when you step outside onto the balcony. "Hot," you'll repeat when you take another step. That puts your daily vocabulary up to: "Yes," "No," "Don't," "Meow," "Hot, and "Shoes." There are other words you might be saying (including the perennial "shit"), but we're not sure that you mean them yet. And I promise you didn't hear the s-word from me. Honest.
Your life's greatest comfort right now is hair. When you get tired or sad, you stroke the hair on the back of your head. If I'm holding you and you feel uncomfortable, you stroke my hair. You stroke Grandma's hair, you stroke Daddy's hair, you stroke Grandma's kitty's hair. The Relief Society president held you at church a couple weeks ago, and you stroked her hair. I'm really a short-haired person, but I have to keep my hair long because you love it so much.
The following is an excerpt from a note I left for your dad the other evening:
"Soren was so darling this afternoon. He slept until 3:30. When he awoke, my visiting teacher was here with her two children. Soren ignored Sydney, who's a year older than him, but was fascinated by Corbin, aged 7 months, who has a gigantic head and enormous blue eyes just like Soren's. At one point Corbin, who was lying on his belly on the floor, started to cry. Soren walked over, laid on the floor next to him, and smiled into his face. He also stroked his hair very gently. Then he tried to sit on Corbin's head. All of this--except for the head-sitting--served to lift Corbin's spirits. I was proud of Soren for responding to Corbin with (what at least looked like) compassion."
Speaking of your dad, I hope you know how much he, too, loves you. On Wednesday this week, the day that work takes him away from 8 in the morning until 11 at night, he commented to me over the telephone how much he was missing his "little toad." Later that night you woke up and I went into your room to comfort you. Your daddy, however, followed me in, hoping for a chance to cuddle you. He cuddled you in his arms and rocked you back to sleep.
Love,
Mommy
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
Jim Bob and Michelle Duggar
No, this isn't a picture of a kindly couple who are offering foster care to a dozen kids in addition to their own five. It's not a picture of the founders of a charter school and all of their charges. It's a picture of one family: one mom, one dad, and their seventeen biological children.I'll be honest, my initial reaction to the Duggars was one of slight revulsion. They are a deeply religious couple who decided that they would bear any number of children that God saw fit to give to them, citing the scripture, "Children are an heritage of the Lord." When I first heard about them, they already had fourteen children, all of whom have names beginning with the letter "J", and I thought that they had gone far too far. It just seemed gross, somehow. And so unhealthy for the woman who had borne a child every year for years. And those poor children! Homeschooled! Indoctrinated! Isolated! Wearing home-sewn clothes! But as the years have gone by and I've watched specials on the Duggars on the Discovery channel, read articles about them in online periodicals, and pored over their website (yes, I'll admit to a mild obsession), I've come to love the Duggars. If anyone is qualified to raise 18 children, Jim Bob and Michelle are. They are now expecting their 18th child. And I'm excited for them!
But the Duggars' belief that God is the distributer of children, a belief that is also promoted in the LDS faith, gives me a bit of an uncomfortable feeling. From my observations of the world, it would seem that children are distributed pretty randomly. An anecdote: My good friend Ressa recently moved into an apartment complex in Idaho Falls. She and her daughter were settling down one evening to watch a movie when a baby starting screaming outside their window. Ressa, thinking that the baby's mom was probably just letting the baby cry while she had a quick cigarette, ignored it. But the crying persisted, so she peeked out the window to see what the problem was. And sitting on the sidewalk outside her window were an 18-month-old and a 7-month-old, whom she recognized as the children of one of her neighbors. They were alone. So Ressa went outside and stood with the little ones, waiting to see if Mom or Dad would show up. She waited. No one came. So she took them inside, leaving her door open in case their parents came back, and gave them some cuddles and a little food. The littler one was covered in cuts and bruises and seemed really hungry. Her feet were bleeding. Both of the children were in very dirty diapers. Ressa finally called the police, who eventually found the two lost girls' mother passed out on the floor of her apartment, drug paraphernalia lying nearby. Police photographed the girls--their unchanged diapers, their injuries--and took them to Child Protective Services. But if I had to guess, they're probably back home with their parents now.
To further illustrate this issue, I'm including the following brief descriptions of the condition of children living in homes where meth is manufactured:
-The five children ranged in age from 1 to 7 years old. The one-bedroom home had no electricity or heat other than a gas stove with the oven door opened. Used hypodermic needles and dog feces littered areas of the residence where the children were found playing. Because there were no beds for the children, they slept with blankets underneath a small card table in the front room. The bathroom had sewage backed up in the tub, leaving no place for the children to bathe. A subsequent hospital exam revealed that all the children were infected with hepatitis C. The youngest was very ill. His liver was enlarged to the size of an adult’s. The children had needle marks on their feet, legs, hands, and arms from accidental contact with syringes.
-At another lab site, a 2-year-old child was discovered during a lab seizure. Her parents both abused and manufactured methamphetamine. She was found with open, seeping sores around her eyes and on her forehead that resembled a severe burn. The condition was diagnosed as repeated, untreated cockroach bites.
Source: Governor’s Office of Criminal Justice Planning, n.d., Multi-Agency Partnerships: Linking Drugs with Child Endangerment, Sacramento, CA, p. 9.
These are not isolated incidents. One pediatric website reports that 13% of children in the United States live in a home with a parent who abuses illegal drugs; another 24% live with one or more parents who drink heavily. And it's not just parents who abuse drugs: there are children living in homes physical, sexual, and emotional abuse is common. Some children witness one parent abusing the other; others are harmed themselves. Children in such dysfunctional households grow up feeling unloved, unimportant, and with a sense that life is meaningless. They don't understand how to function in normal society. They don't know what a healthy relationship looks like. They frequently begin a pattern of substance abuse early in life.On the other hand, there are millions of healthy, loving, stable people who are unable to bring children into this world.
So I guess what I'm saying is that it seems to me that if God is distributing the children, He's doing an awfully poor job of it. If God is in charge of fertility, one would think that he would be tying off the fallopian tubes and vas deferens of people who won't love, care for, and teach their children, and sending dozens of children to those who will. But as such is not the case, I'm wary of any notions about children being "sent" by God. I kind of feel like they just happen. Because if they don't, I've got a bone to pick in the next life.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Rub a dub dub...three kids in a tub.
Soren's cousins Maya (12 months) and Chase (2 1/2) came to visit a few weeks ago. They brought along their parents, Lara (Abe's sister) and Nathan. It was a really nice visit and the kids seemed to enjoy interacting with each other. Even in the nude. See below for details.
Soren and Maya started out with friendly introductions. "Hey there! You come to this tub often?"
Soren was pretty excited about having someone to bathe with.
He was more excited still by the addition of a third party, who decided that Maya and Soren shouldn't have all the fun.
The kids have all found something pretty awesome in the middle of the tub. Said Something Awesome was so cool it even illicited a Garfield-esque "oooooh" from Soren.
Maya showing off one of the many classy, expensive, and high-tech bathtime toys we've purchased during our many travels abroad and given Soren. This one we bought in Paris. It's called a "Boogre Suckre."
Soren and Maya started out with friendly introductions. "Hey there! You come to this tub often?"
Soren was pretty excited about having someone to bathe with.
He was more excited still by the addition of a third party, who decided that Maya and Soren shouldn't have all the fun.
The kids have all found something pretty awesome in the middle of the tub. Said Something Awesome was so cool it even illicited a Garfield-esque "oooooh" from Soren.
Maya showing off one of the many classy, expensive, and high-tech bathtime toys we've purchased during our many travels abroad and given Soren. This one we bought in Paris. It's called a "Boogre Suckre."Sunday, June 15, 2008
A brief tribute to my dad.
My dad has always been the blindly adoring sort. I remember many a morning as a teenager, I'd crawl out of bed and slink to the bathroom. I'd be engaged in some unattractive activity like zit-popping, my hair all tangled, mascara smeared under my eyes, when my dad would pass by. He's stop, smile, and say something like, "You look really nice today, Penelope." And mean it.
I also remember driving somewhere with him when I was in the throes of adolescent insecurity, sure that I was the fattest and ugliest person who had ever lived. We weren't talking about this, but I remember as we turned onto the freeway on-ramp he asked me, "Have you ever thought about being a model?" I just laughed, but I remember thinking that everyone should have a dad who thinks they should be a model. And while I didn't feel any more beautiful for his having said that, I did feel very loved.
And I would have to say that's the greatest gift my dad has given me over the years: unconditional love. Life is hard sometimes and it's fabulous sometimes. It can bring out the best and the worst in me. Sometimes I've lovable and sometimes I'm not-so-lovable. But it's nice to know that through all of life's ups and downs, my dad will always be there. Thinking that I'm beautiful.
Thanks, Daddy.
I also remember driving somewhere with him when I was in the throes of adolescent insecurity, sure that I was the fattest and ugliest person who had ever lived. We weren't talking about this, but I remember as we turned onto the freeway on-ramp he asked me, "Have you ever thought about being a model?" I just laughed, but I remember thinking that everyone should have a dad who thinks they should be a model. And while I didn't feel any more beautiful for his having said that, I did feel very loved.
And I would have to say that's the greatest gift my dad has given me over the years: unconditional love. Life is hard sometimes and it's fabulous sometimes. It can bring out the best and the worst in me. Sometimes I've lovable and sometimes I'm not-so-lovable. But it's nice to know that through all of life's ups and downs, my dad will always be there. Thinking that I'm beautiful.
Thanks, Daddy.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Newsletter: 17 Months
Dear Soren,
Your turning 17 months old means one thing to me: in 1 month you'll be old enough to go to nursery during church. Wandering around with you in the halls for three hours while you ransack other people's diaper bags and tear the fake grass out of potted plants is great and all, but I think it will be nice to put you into a soundproof room with four walls, other small children, and lots of supervision-- and just walk away. (I think you'll enjoy being there too, actually, but that's not what's important here.)
Words you now say on a regular basis include: "Uh-oh" (usually before you intentionally throw something off your food tray or down the stairs), "No" (pronounced "oh" and said in a very forlorn tone), "Ow" (generally accompanied by hair-pulling), and "Meow" (upon seeing a cat, of course). You have also said "shoes" on a couple of occasions and your Uncle Sue swears that you recently whispered "horse." Also, it would seem that you frequently up and out with an "Oh shit," but I'm pretty sure that you're saying something else, like, "What's this?" and it's just coming out all wrong.
Earlier this month you and I walked to a park and you pushed your umbrella stroller around in the grass like it was a plow and you a little plowboy. Then we went down the spiral slide together, you giggling every time, until my calves couldn't stand the thought of climbing to the top again. Instead I talked you into playing in the playground's wood chips, an activity that amused us together for quite a while. Later we drove to Auntie Collette's house, where you were passed from child to child while we sat around a campfire and roasted weenies.
You are the family darling, and generally loved and adored by all. Your Grandma Hanson, for example, insists on referring to you as her baby, and when you spend time together, she'll periodically burst out with, "I love Sorenelli! I love Sorenelli!" Grandpa Hanson is always happy to take you outside or roughhouse with you on the carpet. Auntie Collette calls you "Little Nephew," and practically begs me to let her babysit you. When we visited Yellowstone National Park this week with the Smiths, Little Marty insisted on riding in our car so that you could play with the K'Nex airplane he had made that morning. Tessa also had to take a turn riding with you. Calysta pushed your stroller along the boardwalks. And when the kids made a teeter-totter out of a felled tree, Arielle pulled you onto it and helped you ride. It was quite a sight: five kids on one side, Big Marty on the other.
Even Auntie Loriann and Uncle Sue, neither of whom would consider themselves big "kid people," and who do not take to just any old child, delight in your presence.
Today, however, you had a sad initiation experience into the Real World. Your dad took you to the park and-- because school is out now--it was full of other children. He sat down on a bench and let you wander off on your own. Pretty soon you were approached by a sour-looking little boy of about 5, who leaned down and pointed his fingers in your face menacingly. You stared at him blankly, then turned around and toddled off. The mean little boy then proceeded to shout at and kick you. At this point, your dad intervened, yelled at the kid to back off, and scooped you up into the safety of his arms. Your were shocked and saddened but recovered quickly, as you always do. I think I cried more about the incident than you did. At first I contemplated hunting down that kid and kicking his butt, but then I realized that a kid like that doesn't come from nowhere. I imagined his big brother or dad kicking or hitting him for no apparent reason. And I felt worse for him than I did for you. You had a pair of strong arms to protect and comfort you; what did that little boy have? So tonight when we helped you say your bedtime prayer, we asked that the mean little boy from the park feel loved and safe.
I frequently make lists of things that I hope to instill in you as you slowly grow into manhood. They vary, but a few things stay the same. I hope that I give you a sense that you are loved and lovable. I hope that I help you develop a sense of competence and courage. I hope that you learn to be compassionate, kind, respectful, and reverent towards every living being you encounter. I hope that you become self-disciplined and self-controlled, that you won't let what you want now keep you from what you want most. I hope that you develop the capability of thinking for yourself; I particularly hope that you will be able to think through the consequences of your actions. I hope that you will enjoy life and be happy.
Anyway, sweetie, I love you. I'm so glad we've got to spend another month of life together. You are my sunshine.
Love,
Mommy
Your turning 17 months old means one thing to me: in 1 month you'll be old enough to go to nursery during church. Wandering around with you in the halls for three hours while you ransack other people's diaper bags and tear the fake grass out of potted plants is great and all, but I think it will be nice to put you into a soundproof room with four walls, other small children, and lots of supervision-- and just walk away. (I think you'll enjoy being there too, actually, but that's not what's important here.)
Words you now say on a regular basis include: "Uh-oh" (usually before you intentionally throw something off your food tray or down the stairs), "No" (pronounced "oh" and said in a very forlorn tone), "Ow" (generally accompanied by hair-pulling), and "Meow" (upon seeing a cat, of course). You have also said "shoes" on a couple of occasions and your Uncle Sue swears that you recently whispered "horse." Also, it would seem that you frequently up and out with an "Oh shit," but I'm pretty sure that you're saying something else, like, "What's this?" and it's just coming out all wrong.
Earlier this month you and I walked to a park and you pushed your umbrella stroller around in the grass like it was a plow and you a little plowboy. Then we went down the spiral slide together, you giggling every time, until my calves couldn't stand the thought of climbing to the top again. Instead I talked you into playing in the playground's wood chips, an activity that amused us together for quite a while. Later we drove to Auntie Collette's house, where you were passed from child to child while we sat around a campfire and roasted weenies.
You are the family darling, and generally loved and adored by all. Your Grandma Hanson, for example, insists on referring to you as her baby, and when you spend time together, she'll periodically burst out with, "I love Sorenelli! I love Sorenelli!" Grandpa Hanson is always happy to take you outside or roughhouse with you on the carpet. Auntie Collette calls you "Little Nephew," and practically begs me to let her babysit you. When we visited Yellowstone National Park this week with the Smiths, Little Marty insisted on riding in our car so that you could play with the K'Nex airplane he had made that morning. Tessa also had to take a turn riding with you. Calysta pushed your stroller along the boardwalks. And when the kids made a teeter-totter out of a felled tree, Arielle pulled you onto it and helped you ride. It was quite a sight: five kids on one side, Big Marty on the other.
Even Auntie Loriann and Uncle Sue, neither of whom would consider themselves big "kid people," and who do not take to just any old child, delight in your presence.
Today, however, you had a sad initiation experience into the Real World. Your dad took you to the park and-- because school is out now--it was full of other children. He sat down on a bench and let you wander off on your own. Pretty soon you were approached by a sour-looking little boy of about 5, who leaned down and pointed his fingers in your face menacingly. You stared at him blankly, then turned around and toddled off. The mean little boy then proceeded to shout at and kick you. At this point, your dad intervened, yelled at the kid to back off, and scooped you up into the safety of his arms. Your were shocked and saddened but recovered quickly, as you always do. I think I cried more about the incident than you did. At first I contemplated hunting down that kid and kicking his butt, but then I realized that a kid like that doesn't come from nowhere. I imagined his big brother or dad kicking or hitting him for no apparent reason. And I felt worse for him than I did for you. You had a pair of strong arms to protect and comfort you; what did that little boy have? So tonight when we helped you say your bedtime prayer, we asked that the mean little boy from the park feel loved and safe.
I frequently make lists of things that I hope to instill in you as you slowly grow into manhood. They vary, but a few things stay the same. I hope that I give you a sense that you are loved and lovable. I hope that I help you develop a sense of competence and courage. I hope that you learn to be compassionate, kind, respectful, and reverent towards every living being you encounter. I hope that you become self-disciplined and self-controlled, that you won't let what you want now keep you from what you want most. I hope that you develop the capability of thinking for yourself; I particularly hope that you will be able to think through the consequences of your actions. I hope that you will enjoy life and be happy.Anyway, sweetie, I love you. I'm so glad we've got to spend another month of life together. You are my sunshine.
Love,
Mommy
Friday, May 30, 2008
Sunday Afternoon
Abe looking proud and a little surprised.
Soren's not allowed to eat bark, but that sure doesn't stop him from trying.
Swinging!
There is nothing more adorable than a toddler toddling.Book Review: The Secret Life of Bees
The Secret Life of Bees
By Sue Monk Kidd
Insightful. Warm. Glowing. Alive. Elegant.
By Sue Monk Kidd
Insightful. Warm. Glowing. Alive. Elegant.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Book Review: Escape
Escape
by Carolyn Jessop
(with Laura Palmer)
by Carolyn Jessop
(with Laura Palmer)
Escape is the memoir of a woman who was born into the Fundamentalist church of Latter-day Saints, a group she now refers to as "a radical polygamist cult." At the age of 18, Carolyn Jessop was coerced into becoming the fourth wife of a 50-year-old man. This book describes her personal experience of living in an isolated religious polygamous community. It follows her through 17 miserable years in an abusive marriage, 8 pregnancies, and her final decision to take her children and leave her husband, her community, and her church.
Escape offers a fascinating glimpse into a world that, because of the illicit nature of polygamy and the separatist doctrines preached by FLDS leaders, has long been hidden behind double veils of secrecy and isolation. The book sheds light on this American enigma-- and also draws you into the emotional aspects of that world. After reading for a while, you can't help but feel as though you, yourself, have been repressed, controlled, abused, manipulated, isolated, and mocked. During the four days that it took me to read this book (Escape is another book I dragged around with me like a security blanket), I found myself overflowing with anger at my husband, not because of anything he had done, but because the injustices inflicted on the women in the book were described so clearly that they made me feel as though my life, like the lives of so many FLDS women, had been taken from me by a powerful patriarchy. (Poor Abe would walk into the kitchen and innocently offer up some friendly words, like, "Hi honey!" which I would immediately pounce on with, "Don't look at me like that! I know the Male Gaze when I see it! I've got skills! A college education! I don't have to live like this!")
That said, this is not a book you'd pick up for the writing style, though it's not bad or even distracting; it's just not terribly spectacular-- and it can wax repetitive from time to time. Reading Escape occasionally feels like spending time with one of those people who tells you the same things over and over because they don't think that their their stories, perceptions, and ideas are important enough for you to remember. It sometimes feels as though the authors don't trust you enough to remember that Barbara was a wench or that Merrill treated his wives like naughty children. And once in a while, you start to wonder if they think you're just plain dumb. "Yes, yes," I wanted to say, when the authors kept spelling out things that were perfectly clear from the stories and experiences shared within the text, "Ruth's behavior spoke for itself in that situation. You don't actually have to say, 'Ruth was acting a little crazy.' I could draw that conclusion all by my big self."
Another issue I have with the overall novel is the gaping hole left in the text by the complete omission of Carolyn Jessop's spiritual journey. We hear about her expedition out of a culture and out of a marriage, but not much about what it was like to leave her faith. And while she speaks a great deal about the FLDS society and its expectations, and occasionally mentions that she remained faithful to her church for much of her life, she doesn't delve deeply into the spiritual aspects of her life as a believer. There is very little mention of her relationship with God, her prayers, her study, her spiritual experiences, or her thoughts about any doctrines besides those related to "the principle of Celestial marriage." Though she mentions receiving one priesthood blessing that was important to her, she doesn't elaborate on her feelings about that experience, nor does she describe any other spiritual experiences. I'm uncertain as to whether she left out spiritual content for personal reasons, or if the absence of spirituality (vs religiosity) is representative of how the entire FLDS church functions.
But despite its deficiencies, and the toll that it might take on your marriage, Escape is a book that I would recommend to anyone, not only because it's interesting, but also because it addresses an issue that is growing more and more important to contemporary Americans. While the Texas compound affair brought modern American polygamy to the forefront of American consciousness, increasing debate centering on the legal definition of marriage has also forced many Americans to take a second look at a long-outlawed marital practice. And while you may think that Escape simply underlines the reasons that polygamy should be illegal, Carolyn Jessop believes that decriminalizing polygamy would improve the lives of members of the FLDS, allowing families to "live honestly and in the open and with dignity," giving their children more opportunities to interact with the outside world, gain an education, and observe other lifestyle options-- key experiences that would allow them to confidently choose their own way of life.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Or maybe I could sell him to the gypsies.
Today is one of those days that has forced me to pull out the phone book, turn to the yellow pages, and start analyzing area daycare centers. I'm honestly starting to think that, despite what everyone at church says, it would be better if someone else raised my child and I just checked in on weekends and evenings to offer a smothering of mommy kisses and unconditional love.
It's just that every day is the same:
-Wake up to son's increasingly agitated whining sounds.
-Drag sorry butt out of warm, cozy cocoon of bed.
-Waltz into baby's room singing, "Good morning, good morning!"while baby bounces up and down angrily, rubs the back of his head, and does not smile at all to see you.
-Change baby's diaper while he kicks and thrashes. Wonder if you should be doing something different to make this diaper-changing process go more smoothly. Would a nicer voice or a meaner voice do? Would it be better to pin him down with your feet or follow him around with a baby wipe while he plays with his toys? Wonder if you've irreparably damaged his personality by not making/letting him "cry it out" when he was six months old.
-Follow baby around while he plays. Surreptitiously change him out of his jammies and into the day's outfit.
-Sit on couch in oversized floral muumuu while baby wanders around house, looking for something interesting to break or choke on. When baby starts whining to go outside, tell him it's "Bounce and Bounce Time." Hang up baby jumper in bathroom doorway. Insert baby. Remove oversized muumuu. Shower while baby opens every bathroom drawer and removes all items from each drawer. Periodically leave shower to confiscate any particularly dangerous-looking items from baby, who screams in rage and ends up slamming his head against the door frame in the process, increasing the fervor and volume of said screams. Feel resentful because baby has infringed upon your sacred shower time.
-Towel off, dress in one of the three outfits you own, remove baby from bouncer, replace him in a high chair. Bustle around kitchen in an attempt to find some food item that will at least plug up the child's cry hole until you can find something more nutritious for him to eat. Tell him that instead of yelling, he should say, "Please, mommy, I would like some food. Please." Wonder why he's not talking yet. Think of all the other babies his age who can say please. Wonder if it's your fault he doesn't use words. Wonder if you should get his hearing checked. Wonder how much speech therapy will cost. Calculate necessary budgetary adjustments to accommodate said therapy. Remind yourself that people all over the world eat nothing but rice and beans every day.
-Feed baby canned fruit, an egg, and some granola. Watch him devour the egg, play with the granola, and throw fruit pieces onto the floor--plop, plop, plop. Wonder if he's going to die of a fruit and vegetable deficiency or egg overdose. Ask him not to throw food on the floor. Take his tray away. In the nick of time, stop him from diving headfirst onto the floor below. Wash his hands and face while he squirms and fusses. Ask him why he's being such a Mr. Grumpypants.
-Follow baby into front room. Read to him from the three cardboard books he hasn't eaten yet. Play chase and giggle. Build a tent. Play in tent. Sing a song. Note time. All of these activities have consumed all of ten minutes of the day.
-Discouraged, leave child to his own devices. Pick up current read and try to distract self from stifling boredom and guilt. When child begins to whine to go outside, pick him up and say, "Why don't you help mommy do the dishes?" Attempt to clean up kitchen with a 25-pound baby in one arm. Worry that you respond to whining too much. Wonder if you're encouraging him to whine. Fret that he might grow up to be a whiner and that nobody will ever like him.
-When baby starts whining to go outside again, show him his other toys. Build towers out of blocks for him to knock over. Sing another song. Tell him a nursery rhyme. Play with the ring stacker.
-When baby starts throwing a fit about something he doesn't like, heave a great big sigh, say, "OK. You can throw a fit right there." And sit back down with your book. Decide that when he calms down you'll take him outside.
-Outside, baby is only interested in dangerous and forbidden things: climbing the crumbling porch steps, toddling off the sidewalk into the street, playing with the neighbors' toys. After five long, mindless minutes of removing him from said danger/forbidden objects, pick up child (who arches back and kicks legs) and wrestle him into his stroller. Push strollered child, who immediately calms down upon realizing that you weren't trying to force him into a vat of boiling tar after all. Worry that you should be able to exert more control over child using verbal commands, rather than brute force. Wonder if spanking should become a part of disciplinary tactics. Fret that he's growing up to be a spoiled brat.
-Allow child to run freely in the neighborhood park. Think about how handsome he is. Watch him toddle/running across the asphalt and feel a little prickling in your eyes. Build woodchip hills together. Kiss baby's chubby cheeks. Sit on swing with baby on lap until nauseated. Slide down twirly slide with child on lap until exhausted.
-Load arching/kicking baby into stroller. Walk home.
And by now it's maybe 10:00 am.
The day will continue similarly, dragging on in a long, slow, painful series of mindless games and lots of worrying, interrupted only by a blessed hour or two of nap time, in which I usually read, sleep, clean with both arms, or talk to my sweetheart. Every day Soren and I read the same stories, sing the same songs, play the same games, eat the same foods (mostly cereal, pancakes, eggs, and fruit cocktail, truth be told), clean up the same messes, and move the same toys around from room to room.
I worry that Soren is bored and understimulated. I wonder if he would be happier in a daycare center where he could interact with other people, be given planned/nutritious snacks and meals, play with new toys, hear new stories, learn new games. I wonder if he would be happier with a mommy who didn't resent being at home all day long, bored out of her freaking mind and wishing that he would just take a goshdang nap. On the other hand, I fret that he would suffer undoable psychological damage if he were to spend even a single day of his life in a daycare center. I think about the horror stories I've read in newspapers about babies molested in daycare centers. I think about the words I've heard resonating from the church pulpit, warning that young children need to be with their mothers during the day, not in a daycare or a preschool.
I wonder if I'm miserable because I'm just an unhappy person or if I'm miserable because I, like Soren, am bored and understimulated. I wonder if a change in circumstances would help, or if I would be just as unhappy working full time as I am staying at home full time.
And these are the uplifting thoughts about motherhood that I have found to share with you today.
It's just that every day is the same:
-Wake up to son's increasingly agitated whining sounds.
-Drag sorry butt out of warm, cozy cocoon of bed.
-Waltz into baby's room singing, "Good morning, good morning!"while baby bounces up and down angrily, rubs the back of his head, and does not smile at all to see you.
-Change baby's diaper while he kicks and thrashes. Wonder if you should be doing something different to make this diaper-changing process go more smoothly. Would a nicer voice or a meaner voice do? Would it be better to pin him down with your feet or follow him around with a baby wipe while he plays with his toys? Wonder if you've irreparably damaged his personality by not making/letting him "cry it out" when he was six months old.
-Follow baby around while he plays. Surreptitiously change him out of his jammies and into the day's outfit.
-Sit on couch in oversized floral muumuu while baby wanders around house, looking for something interesting to break or choke on. When baby starts whining to go outside, tell him it's "Bounce and Bounce Time." Hang up baby jumper in bathroom doorway. Insert baby. Remove oversized muumuu. Shower while baby opens every bathroom drawer and removes all items from each drawer. Periodically leave shower to confiscate any particularly dangerous-looking items from baby, who screams in rage and ends up slamming his head against the door frame in the process, increasing the fervor and volume of said screams. Feel resentful because baby has infringed upon your sacred shower time.
-Towel off, dress in one of the three outfits you own, remove baby from bouncer, replace him in a high chair. Bustle around kitchen in an attempt to find some food item that will at least plug up the child's cry hole until you can find something more nutritious for him to eat. Tell him that instead of yelling, he should say, "Please, mommy, I would like some food. Please." Wonder why he's not talking yet. Think of all the other babies his age who can say please. Wonder if it's your fault he doesn't use words. Wonder if you should get his hearing checked. Wonder how much speech therapy will cost. Calculate necessary budgetary adjustments to accommodate said therapy. Remind yourself that people all over the world eat nothing but rice and beans every day.
-Feed baby canned fruit, an egg, and some granola. Watch him devour the egg, play with the granola, and throw fruit pieces onto the floor--plop, plop, plop. Wonder if he's going to die of a fruit and vegetable deficiency or egg overdose. Ask him not to throw food on the floor. Take his tray away. In the nick of time, stop him from diving headfirst onto the floor below. Wash his hands and face while he squirms and fusses. Ask him why he's being such a Mr. Grumpypants.
-Follow baby into front room. Read to him from the three cardboard books he hasn't eaten yet. Play chase and giggle. Build a tent. Play in tent. Sing a song. Note time. All of these activities have consumed all of ten minutes of the day.
-Discouraged, leave child to his own devices. Pick up current read and try to distract self from stifling boredom and guilt. When child begins to whine to go outside, pick him up and say, "Why don't you help mommy do the dishes?" Attempt to clean up kitchen with a 25-pound baby in one arm. Worry that you respond to whining too much. Wonder if you're encouraging him to whine. Fret that he might grow up to be a whiner and that nobody will ever like him.
-When baby starts whining to go outside again, show him his other toys. Build towers out of blocks for him to knock over. Sing another song. Tell him a nursery rhyme. Play with the ring stacker.
-When baby starts throwing a fit about something he doesn't like, heave a great big sigh, say, "OK. You can throw a fit right there." And sit back down with your book. Decide that when he calms down you'll take him outside.
-Outside, baby is only interested in dangerous and forbidden things: climbing the crumbling porch steps, toddling off the sidewalk into the street, playing with the neighbors' toys. After five long, mindless minutes of removing him from said danger/forbidden objects, pick up child (who arches back and kicks legs) and wrestle him into his stroller. Push strollered child, who immediately calms down upon realizing that you weren't trying to force him into a vat of boiling tar after all. Worry that you should be able to exert more control over child using verbal commands, rather than brute force. Wonder if spanking should become a part of disciplinary tactics. Fret that he's growing up to be a spoiled brat.
-Allow child to run freely in the neighborhood park. Think about how handsome he is. Watch him toddle/running across the asphalt and feel a little prickling in your eyes. Build woodchip hills together. Kiss baby's chubby cheeks. Sit on swing with baby on lap until nauseated. Slide down twirly slide with child on lap until exhausted.
-Load arching/kicking baby into stroller. Walk home.
And by now it's maybe 10:00 am.
The day will continue similarly, dragging on in a long, slow, painful series of mindless games and lots of worrying, interrupted only by a blessed hour or two of nap time, in which I usually read, sleep, clean with both arms, or talk to my sweetheart. Every day Soren and I read the same stories, sing the same songs, play the same games, eat the same foods (mostly cereal, pancakes, eggs, and fruit cocktail, truth be told), clean up the same messes, and move the same toys around from room to room.
I worry that Soren is bored and understimulated. I wonder if he would be happier in a daycare center where he could interact with other people, be given planned/nutritious snacks and meals, play with new toys, hear new stories, learn new games. I wonder if he would be happier with a mommy who didn't resent being at home all day long, bored out of her freaking mind and wishing that he would just take a goshdang nap. On the other hand, I fret that he would suffer undoable psychological damage if he were to spend even a single day of his life in a daycare center. I think about the horror stories I've read in newspapers about babies molested in daycare centers. I think about the words I've heard resonating from the church pulpit, warning that young children need to be with their mothers during the day, not in a daycare or a preschool.
I wonder if I'm miserable because I'm just an unhappy person or if I'm miserable because I, like Soren, am bored and understimulated. I wonder if a change in circumstances would help, or if I would be just as unhappy working full time as I am staying at home full time.
And these are the uplifting thoughts about motherhood that I have found to share with you today.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Book Review: Cloud Atlas
Believe it or not, I do have interests outside of Soren. One of those interests is reading. I've been thinking lately that I would like to keep some sort of record of the books I read, and I figured: why not on my blog? So you'll be seeing occasional book reviews appearing here, in which I will briefly rate the book in several reading categories that matter to me. And this is all starting today with a book review on......
Cloud Atlas is a fascinating and experimental novel format that essentially weaves six novels into a united whole. It's difficult to explain, but the author himself does it effectively through metaphors, using the voice of one of his characters: "Spent the fortnight gone in the music room, reworking my year's fragments into a "sextet for overlapping soloists": piano, clarinet, 'cello, flute, oboe, and violin, each in its own language of key, scale, and color. In the first set, each solo is interrupted by its successor: in the second, each interruption is recontinued, in order. Revolutionary or gimmicky? Shan't know until it's finished, and by then it'll be too late..."
Writing Style: Mitchell is a divinely gifted writer who deftly occupies six vastly different styles, voices, and genres that are all tied together-- and not only through obvious content connections. Shared themes unite the stories, bringing harmony to what otherwise might be perceived as literary dissonance.
Plot: You laugh, you cry. You carry the book with you to the bathroom. You hold it in one hand while stirring batter with the other. You bring it with you to work in case you get stopped at a red light on the way there. You release a guttural moan when the author takes you out of one plot and deposits you in another. And then you get addicted to the next plot. And you laugh. And cry. And carry the book with you to the bathroom.
Setting: Oh. My. Gosh. The settings. The settings! They are all so different and yet-- so real. I don't doubt them for a minute. While reading, you start to wonder: has this man lived in the South Pacific? United States? Korea? France? England? During the 19th Century? The 20th? The 25th? How old is he anyway? And can I get in touch with his time-travel agent?
Characterization: It's difficult to create characters that seem so unstilted that your readers start talking about them like they're friends. (Maria Doria Russell accomplished this feat in The Sparrow-- I read it years ago but still occasionally bring up Ann and Emilio in casual conversations with Abraham, who is always confused at first: has he met these people?) And I'll be honest, Mitchell didn't create characters whom I felt that I knew. But that doesn't mean they weren't good characters: they were. They were well-formed and interesting. But I walked away knowing that they lived in book land and I lived on earth. Which is fine.
Ethics/Morals: This is one of those books I would love to write at least a half a dozen papers on because it was so theme-rich. I will not write these papers because I am lazy and unmotivated. But Mitchell addresses many important issues. The one that struck me the most was the novel's multi-angular exploration of the concept of power.
Other: I originally picked this book up to read for a book club. It flopped. No one (including myself) could get into it. No one (including me) read it. But last week I was desperate for something to read, so I picked it up again and committed myself to 100 pages before setting it aside again. And after about 50 pages, I couldn't put it down. So keep in mind that while it's a slow starter, you may very well find it worthwhile to persist through the beginning.
Cloud Atlas
by David Mitchell
by David Mitchell
Cloud Atlas is a fascinating and experimental novel format that essentially weaves six novels into a united whole. It's difficult to explain, but the author himself does it effectively through metaphors, using the voice of one of his characters: "Spent the fortnight gone in the music room, reworking my year's fragments into a "sextet for overlapping soloists": piano, clarinet, 'cello, flute, oboe, and violin, each in its own language of key, scale, and color. In the first set, each solo is interrupted by its successor: in the second, each interruption is recontinued, in order. Revolutionary or gimmicky? Shan't know until it's finished, and by then it'll be too late..."
Writing Style: Mitchell is a divinely gifted writer who deftly occupies six vastly different styles, voices, and genres that are all tied together-- and not only through obvious content connections. Shared themes unite the stories, bringing harmony to what otherwise might be perceived as literary dissonance.
Plot: You laugh, you cry. You carry the book with you to the bathroom. You hold it in one hand while stirring batter with the other. You bring it with you to work in case you get stopped at a red light on the way there. You release a guttural moan when the author takes you out of one plot and deposits you in another. And then you get addicted to the next plot. And you laugh. And cry. And carry the book with you to the bathroom.
Setting: Oh. My. Gosh. The settings. The settings! They are all so different and yet-- so real. I don't doubt them for a minute. While reading, you start to wonder: has this man lived in the South Pacific? United States? Korea? France? England? During the 19th Century? The 20th? The 25th? How old is he anyway? And can I get in touch with his time-travel agent?
Characterization: It's difficult to create characters that seem so unstilted that your readers start talking about them like they're friends. (Maria Doria Russell accomplished this feat in The Sparrow-- I read it years ago but still occasionally bring up Ann and Emilio in casual conversations with Abraham, who is always confused at first: has he met these people?) And I'll be honest, Mitchell didn't create characters whom I felt that I knew. But that doesn't mean they weren't good characters: they were. They were well-formed and interesting. But I walked away knowing that they lived in book land and I lived on earth. Which is fine.
Ethics/Morals: This is one of those books I would love to write at least a half a dozen papers on because it was so theme-rich. I will not write these papers because I am lazy and unmotivated. But Mitchell addresses many important issues. The one that struck me the most was the novel's multi-angular exploration of the concept of power.
Other: I originally picked this book up to read for a book club. It flopped. No one (including myself) could get into it. No one (including me) read it. But last week I was desperate for something to read, so I picked it up again and committed myself to 100 pages before setting it aside again. And after about 50 pages, I couldn't put it down. So keep in mind that while it's a slow starter, you may very well find it worthwhile to persist through the beginning.
Monday, May 12, 2008
The Case of the Shy Bladder
(If you're offended easily by talk of the pottying processes, you should maybe not read this one.)
So Abe's brother Quentin has been living with us since February. The idea when we had him move in was that he would get a job and start saving money for college, but months have gone by and he has extended very minimal effort in the direction of obtaining some gainful employment. His days have been passed sitting blithely in front of the computer, sleeping and eating when it seemed convenient, and participating in family activities when moved upon by the power of the woman of the household.
Our initial condition for him had been that if he didn't have a job within two weeks of his arrival, we were shipping him back to New Hampshire. Sadly enough, those two weeks came and went, Quentin didn't get a job, and we couldn't find it in our hearts to send him back. Fortunately, another condition we'd set for him was that he needed to pay $150.00 in rent each month to help offset the increase in expenditures on utilities, groceries, and gasoline that his presence here would inevitably create. And this one we've been tough about. So tough, in fact, that when May 5th arrived and Quentin couldn't find the cash for this month's rent, I took his computer as collateral.
And lo and behold, on May 6th, he'd found himself a job.
Which is really where our story begins.
Quentin had been offered a job at Wal-Mart as a member of the nighttime floor cleaning crew, contingent on his passing a drug test within 24 hours of his interview. So on May 7th, I drove a full-bladdered Quentin to the drug testing office. I decided that Soren and I would wait in the car, imagining that it would only take Soren about 45 seconds to reduce the waiting room to rubble while simultaneously ingesting an entire People magazine, and also imagining that signing in, filling out paperwork, producing a urine sample, and surrendering the pee couldn't take more than 15 minutes from start to finish.
Oh, how wrong I was.
After an entire hour of singing Sesame Street songs and watching Soren push every button on the dashboard multiple times, I decided to call Quentin and see if there was a long line, if the paperwork was extensive, or if he'd failed the test.
"Hello?" he answered.
"Hey Quentin," I said. "You about done in there?"
"I don't know."
"What's going on?"
"I'm just drinking and waiting."
"Drinking and waiting? Didn't you tell me you had to pee several hours ago?"
"Yes."
"But it's just not coming now?"
"No."
"Well, um, how much longer do you think it's going to take?"
"I don't know."
"Not even an estimate?"
"Nope."
So Soren and I drove over to my friend Loriann's office. We spent another hour gabbing with her and making hearing aid box towers until she had to leave. So I again called Quentin.
"So, um, you....produced....yet?'
"Nope."
By this time, Soren was past ready for his nap, so I putted the car around in the foothills of Idaho Falls while he snoozed in his carseat. We drove up hills, we drove down hills, we drove past a wind farm, we drove past an alfalfa farm, we drove past several potato farms. It was really a nice drive, tainted only by the fact that I knew that I was devoting an entire afternoon to the production of a small urine sample.
Finally, two and a half hours after I'd dropped him off at the testing center with a completely full bladder, Quentin succeeded. He lost all his inhibitions. He cut himself loose. He went completely crazy. And he peed in a cup.
As we drove home, I tried to get him to explain to me why it was so hard for him to empty an already-full bladder on demand.
"I mean, gosh," I told him, "I had to do it every single time I saw my obstetrician while I was pregnant. And I was extremely fat, which meant that there was a lot of arm reaching awkwardness and a complete visual obstruction. And yet, I produced. Every month for nine months. And also, I produced while in labor at the hospital. So please, please explain to me what it so difficult about going into a quiet restroom with a full bladder, by yourself, while not in labor, with a very clear view of what you are doing, and producing a little urine. Please explain it to me!"
But he could not. "It's just so demoralizing," was all he said.
And the next day he got offered a job working as a gardener for the Idaho Falls temple, which means he didn't even really need to take that drug test at all.
And so are the days of my life.
So Abe's brother Quentin has been living with us since February. The idea when we had him move in was that he would get a job and start saving money for college, but months have gone by and he has extended very minimal effort in the direction of obtaining some gainful employment. His days have been passed sitting blithely in front of the computer, sleeping and eating when it seemed convenient, and participating in family activities when moved upon by the power of the woman of the household.
Our initial condition for him had been that if he didn't have a job within two weeks of his arrival, we were shipping him back to New Hampshire. Sadly enough, those two weeks came and went, Quentin didn't get a job, and we couldn't find it in our hearts to send him back. Fortunately, another condition we'd set for him was that he needed to pay $150.00 in rent each month to help offset the increase in expenditures on utilities, groceries, and gasoline that his presence here would inevitably create. And this one we've been tough about. So tough, in fact, that when May 5th arrived and Quentin couldn't find the cash for this month's rent, I took his computer as collateral.
And lo and behold, on May 6th, he'd found himself a job.
Which is really where our story begins.
Quentin had been offered a job at Wal-Mart as a member of the nighttime floor cleaning crew, contingent on his passing a drug test within 24 hours of his interview. So on May 7th, I drove a full-bladdered Quentin to the drug testing office. I decided that Soren and I would wait in the car, imagining that it would only take Soren about 45 seconds to reduce the waiting room to rubble while simultaneously ingesting an entire People magazine, and also imagining that signing in, filling out paperwork, producing a urine sample, and surrendering the pee couldn't take more than 15 minutes from start to finish.
Oh, how wrong I was.
After an entire hour of singing Sesame Street songs and watching Soren push every button on the dashboard multiple times, I decided to call Quentin and see if there was a long line, if the paperwork was extensive, or if he'd failed the test.
"Hello?" he answered.
"Hey Quentin," I said. "You about done in there?"
"I don't know."
"What's going on?"
"I'm just drinking and waiting."
"Drinking and waiting? Didn't you tell me you had to pee several hours ago?"
"Yes."
"But it's just not coming now?"
"No."
"Well, um, how much longer do you think it's going to take?"
"I don't know."
"Not even an estimate?"
"Nope."
So Soren and I drove over to my friend Loriann's office. We spent another hour gabbing with her and making hearing aid box towers until she had to leave. So I again called Quentin.
"So, um, you....produced....yet?'
"Nope."
By this time, Soren was past ready for his nap, so I putted the car around in the foothills of Idaho Falls while he snoozed in his carseat. We drove up hills, we drove down hills, we drove past a wind farm, we drove past an alfalfa farm, we drove past several potato farms. It was really a nice drive, tainted only by the fact that I knew that I was devoting an entire afternoon to the production of a small urine sample.
Finally, two and a half hours after I'd dropped him off at the testing center with a completely full bladder, Quentin succeeded. He lost all his inhibitions. He cut himself loose. He went completely crazy. And he peed in a cup.
As we drove home, I tried to get him to explain to me why it was so hard for him to empty an already-full bladder on demand.
"I mean, gosh," I told him, "I had to do it every single time I saw my obstetrician while I was pregnant. And I was extremely fat, which meant that there was a lot of arm reaching awkwardness and a complete visual obstruction. And yet, I produced. Every month for nine months. And also, I produced while in labor at the hospital. So please, please explain to me what it so difficult about going into a quiet restroom with a full bladder, by yourself, while not in labor, with a very clear view of what you are doing, and producing a little urine. Please explain it to me!"
But he could not. "It's just so demoralizing," was all he said.
And the next day he got offered a job working as a gardener for the Idaho Falls temple, which means he didn't even really need to take that drug test at all.
And so are the days of my life.
Sunday, May 04, 2008
Newsletter #2
Dear Soren,
Today you are 16 months and 3 days old. All month long I've been saving up things to tell you about yourself, but now that I'm actually sitting at the keyboard, my mind's gone blank. Let's see....
Yesterday your father and I spent some time cuddling on the couch, leaving you to your own devices for a minute or two. While we gaggaged and googooed at each other, you sat leaning against the half-wall in our front room, quietly playing with your stacking cups. Too quietly, we commented to each other, but you didn't appear to be doing anything naughty, so we carried on.
A UOS (unidentifiable odoriferous scent) drifting across the room soon motivated a change in plans, however, and I arose to check your diaper. I didn't even have to peek into the thing, as I could see from some yards that a thick brown paste was oozing out of the back of your pants. I called for backup, and your dad, holding you at arm's length, whisked you off to the bathtub. At the same moment that I noticed that there was fecal matter smeared all over the wall, your dad removed your shirt and discovered that thick tendrils of poop, like so much ivy, had climbed all the way up your back and into your hair. We hosed you off in the shower despite your many and loud verbal protestations. When we reported this event over Sunday dinner this afternoon, your Uncle Marty commented that all new parents should be issued a pressure washer.
This month you've developed a few new communication skills, namely saying "brrroombrooom" whenever you see anything with wheels; shaking your head vigorously whenever you perform a no-no; and waving "bye-bye" whenever it appears someone is about to take their leave. Your head shake and your wave are painstakingly and endearingly deliberate: you very consciously turn your head from side to side and twist your wrist back and forth like a beauty queen.
This month your Uncle Scott graduated from BYU's business school with a Master's degree in Information Systems. We drove down to celebrate with him. After the actual ceremony, we attended a dinner at Auntie Mandy's parents' house. Calysta was loitering because she wasn't hungry, so I asked her to keep an eye on you while I ate and visited with the other grownups. When I later peeked into the front room to see how you were doing, I found that you had made friends with the local Episcopalian pastor's husband, a small quiet man with a mustache, and that he was blithely sharing his baked beans with you. You'd take a bite, run around the room for a minute, and then run back to him to beg for more, puppy-style. He seemed to think you were cute and not at all germy, so I immediately decided he was the most charming man alive.
You're usually just that free and easy-going when it comes to meeting new people. There are some exceptions, however. That same day I took you to the BYU Bookstore to meet some of my old friends there. Valerie, a darling woman who works in the HR department, came out to hug the two of us. You, however, did not approve of her warm greeting, and slowly removed her right hand from my shoulder, then her left hand from yours, handing them back as if to say, "Did you lose these? Because I'm pretty sure they don't belong to us."
After the graduation party, we drove (with your Grandma and Grandpa Hanson) further into Utah, to a little town called Huntington, to visit my Grandma and Grandpa Hanson, who had never before met you. It was night when we started up Spanish Fork Canyon, and you were exhausted after a very long, very busy, nearly napless day. You finally fell asleep in your carseat as we wound our way through the canyon, but lights falling from lamp posts and little towns would occasionally flash hard through the windows; you would awaken and begin wriggling around and crying in discomfort. I held your little hand and sang you songs until you fell back to sleep, watching your sleeping baby face in the sliding shadows and wondering how to describe in words the sensation of having one's heart squeezed in the grasp of a 15-month-old baby boy.
We slept in the attic room at great Grandma and Grandpa Hanson's house for two nights and they found you delightful. Grandpa observed your antics with a twinkle in his eye, and Grandma, who can't see much anymore, commented several times on what a "choice spirit" you are, though her fondness (and blindness) did not prevent her from yelling at you for driving a toy tractor on her piano keyboard. On Saturday the two of them-- amid their usual barrage of bickering--made us some authentic Mexican Tamales, wrapped in corn husks and everything. This tamale making is a skill they picked up a few months ago, at the ages of 89 and 90, at a workshop they attended in Price. I hope that they will live long enough for you to have some memories of them. They are good people.
Love,
Mommy
Today you are 16 months and 3 days old. All month long I've been saving up things to tell you about yourself, but now that I'm actually sitting at the keyboard, my mind's gone blank. Let's see....
Yesterday your father and I spent some time cuddling on the couch, leaving you to your own devices for a minute or two. While we gaggaged and googooed at each other, you sat leaning against the half-wall in our front room, quietly playing with your stacking cups. Too quietly, we commented to each other, but you didn't appear to be doing anything naughty, so we carried on.A UOS (unidentifiable odoriferous scent) drifting across the room soon motivated a change in plans, however, and I arose to check your diaper. I didn't even have to peek into the thing, as I could see from some yards that a thick brown paste was oozing out of the back of your pants. I called for backup, and your dad, holding you at arm's length, whisked you off to the bathtub. At the same moment that I noticed that there was fecal matter smeared all over the wall, your dad removed your shirt and discovered that thick tendrils of poop, like so much ivy, had climbed all the way up your back and into your hair. We hosed you off in the shower despite your many and loud verbal protestations. When we reported this event over Sunday dinner this afternoon, your Uncle Marty commented that all new parents should be issued a pressure washer.
This month you've developed a few new communication skills, namely saying "brrroombrooom" whenever you see anything with wheels; shaking your head vigorously whenever you perform a no-no; and waving "bye-bye" whenever it appears someone is about to take their leave. Your head shake and your wave are painstakingly and endearingly deliberate: you very consciously turn your head from side to side and twist your wrist back and forth like a beauty queen.
This month your Uncle Scott graduated from BYU's business school with a Master's degree in Information Systems. We drove down to celebrate with him. After the actual ceremony, we attended a dinner at Auntie Mandy's parents' house. Calysta was loitering because she wasn't hungry, so I asked her to keep an eye on you while I ate and visited with the other grownups. When I later peeked into the front room to see how you were doing, I found that you had made friends with the local Episcopalian pastor's husband, a small quiet man with a mustache, and that he was blithely sharing his baked beans with you. You'd take a bite, run around the room for a minute, and then run back to him to beg for more, puppy-style. He seemed to think you were cute and not at all germy, so I immediately decided he was the most charming man alive.
You're usually just that free and easy-going when it comes to meeting new people. There are some exceptions, however. That same day I took you to the BYU Bookstore to meet some of my old friends there. Valerie, a darling woman who works in the HR department, came out to hug the two of us. You, however, did not approve of her warm greeting, and slowly removed her right hand from my shoulder, then her left hand from yours, handing them back as if to say, "Did you lose these? Because I'm pretty sure they don't belong to us."
After the graduation party, we drove (with your Grandma and Grandpa Hanson) further into Utah, to a little town called Huntington, to visit my Grandma and Grandpa Hanson, who had never before met you. It was night when we started up Spanish Fork Canyon, and you were exhausted after a very long, very busy, nearly napless day. You finally fell asleep in your carseat as we wound our way through the canyon, but lights falling from lamp posts and little towns would occasionally flash hard through the windows; you would awaken and begin wriggling around and crying in discomfort. I held your little hand and sang you songs until you fell back to sleep, watching your sleeping baby face in the sliding shadows and wondering how to describe in words the sensation of having one's heart squeezed in the grasp of a 15-month-old baby boy.
We slept in the attic room at great Grandma and Grandpa Hanson's house for two nights and they found you delightful. Grandpa observed your antics with a twinkle in his eye, and Grandma, who can't see much anymore, commented several times on what a "choice spirit" you are, though her fondness (and blindness) did not prevent her from yelling at you for driving a toy tractor on her piano keyboard. On Saturday the two of them-- amid their usual barrage of bickering--made us some authentic Mexican Tamales, wrapped in corn husks and everything. This tamale making is a skill they picked up a few months ago, at the ages of 89 and 90, at a workshop they attended in Price. I hope that they will live long enough for you to have some memories of them. They are good people.
Love,Mommy
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