The Kiddie Cocktail

2011 - My Year In Review

I don't often do things like this, but I rather like this questionnaire, which I swiped from Sundry and Hilarity in Shoes. I barely remember what I did an hour ago, so it's kind of nice to look back at my year and dig up the stuff that deserves to be remembered.

1. What did you do in 2011 that you’d never done before?

I was away from my daughter for an entire week for the first time in our lives. My mother in law generously offered, and I happily accepted. I had the most amazing week, which included the perfect weekend in NYC with one of my best friends, and two days of celebrating my husband's birthday.

2. Did you keep your new year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

I've mentioned before that I'm not much for resolutions. However, I did say I wanted to be a better wife. I tried. You'd have to ask my husband if I succeeded. Will I make more? Eh. Probably not really.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?

No one close. Far-flung friends and friends from the interwebs only.

4. Did anyone close to you die?

No. Whew.

5. What countries did you visit?

The many countries of my mind. International travel is just not in the cards right now. I'll dust off my passport again someday.

6. What would you like to have in 2012 that you lacked in 2011?

Another baby. Oh, wait, did I say that out loud? More patience. Especially for my daughter.

7. What dates from 2011 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?

-A day in late winter when one of my best friends called, told me she wanted a divorce from her husband (another close friend), and asked if I could help her find an attorney. It was the second marriage of a close friend that I watched fall apart in the span of a few months. I'm still in shock about it, because they, as a couple, were such a huge part of my life and my support system. It's sure as hell made me examine my own marriage under a microscope.

-The magnificent, perfect late June weekend that I spent in New York with one of my best friends, Maya. It could not have been more amazing.

-Three nights alone with my husband for his birthday. We ate well, pretended to be hip and cool, slept late, walked down the street holding hands, and sat on a roof deck watching the sun set over Capitol Hill, giddy, finding our old selves there, under the veneer of parenthood.

-A perfect long July afternoon at our community pool. We'd gotten home from vacation, and found our AC broken. We redeemed the disaster by spending as much of the next day at the pool as possible. It makes me wish the summer were still going on, and that every day was like that day.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

Just keeping it all afloat without being institutionalized. This working-parenting-living gig is not for the faint of heart.

9. What was your biggest failure?

Every time that I yelled or lost my temper at my daughter or husband for no good reason.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

A weird bone splinter thing on my big toe early in the year. Pain solved by not wearing heels for a month. A stomach bug in March that felled everyone in the house, one by one, and that took me too long to recover from, thanks to some weird drug side effects. I also had two of the most horrific colds I've ever had this year. One was over the summer, and involved a sore throat so bad that I was positive it had to be strep, and it wasn't. The second cold I got right after Thanksgiving, and made me realize just how very much snot a human head can produce (a fuckton, if you must know, in technical terms). Nothing crazy, but I used to get sick maybe once a year. And then I birthed a petri dish of ebola child.

11. What was the best thing you bought?

Two fabulous, unique, well-made dresses from Emmett McCarthy's boutique in New York. I didn't know who the heck he was, and stumbled into his shop, finding myself in this lovely, tailored oasis from the summer style hell that is the maxi dress.

12. Where did most of your money go?

Probably (1) childcare and (2) wine. These things are related.

13. What did you get really excited about?

My new Kindle. It was a gift from my husband for Mothers' Day, and it's made me really embrace reading again. Not that I ever stopped, but damn, I treat that thing like a slot machine at Vegas, except it spits out words instead of quarters. I'm just so happy that the 3,000 books I can have on there don't take up any room in my space-limited urban rowhouse.

14. What song will always remind you of 2011?

Anything from The National's "High Violet" album.

15. Compared to this time last year, are you:

Happier or sadder?  Happier. A major factor is that my daughter is older, and just so much less needy of me. And that she sleeps. SLEEP.
Thinner or fatter? Thinner. I think.
Richer or poorer? Richer, in all ways.

16. What do you wish you’d done more of?

Sleeping. Time alone with my husband.

17. What do you wish you’d done less of?

Stressing out over stupid, insignificant things. When I'm tired or busy, it's just too easy for me to get overly wound up over all the wrong things.

18. How did you spend Christmas/Hanukkah?

We celebrated Christmas at our house on the 24th, and had a lovely relaxing day full of presents, a fire (in the fireplace!), wine and good food. I really think I want to do it that way every year because the stores are open, so you can run out and get that extra bottle of wine or stick of butter. December 25 was spent (1) driving to New Jersey for my husband's family's annual Hanukkah party; (2) ditching the kid with her grandparents and seeing a movie; and (3) eating tasty Chinese food with the family like a good Jew. The 26th was an all-day family Hanukkah fest full of bagels, latkes, lox, laughter, wine, presents, fire, more wine, desserts, wine, more presents, happy kids running around with their cousins. It was all awesome, and I wish I could do it every day.

19. What was your favorite TV program?

Game of Thrones, hands down. I am a giant nerd.

20. What were your favorite books of the year?

Ohhh, so many to choose from. I loved The Help, and read it for what it is - a great story, set in a certain time and place, with extraordinary characters. So glad I read it before all the proverbial shit hit the proverbial fan when the movie came out. A Discovery of Witches also stands out, and I can't wait for the next books in the series. Finally, I went on a YA dystopian fiction tear, and my favorites were The Hunger Games series, The Uglies series and Divergent (eagerly awaiting the next books). There wasn't fiction quite like that when I was a YA, and some of it is really good. I am also a nerdy 16-year old girl at heart.

21. What was your favorite music from this year?

I listened to "High Violet" and "Boxer" by the National kind of nonstop. I also loved everything from the Treme soundtrack - it makes me so homesick/nostalgic for New Orleans.

22. What were your favorite films of the year?

Ha ha ha ha ha ha, ohhhh. Um, see, I never go to the movies. I didn't go all that much even before having a kid, and now we only go when we have parent babysitting, because it's hard to justify $15 per hour for a $10 movie. I saw exactly two movies this year in a theatre: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part 2 and Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. By default, they were my favorites.

23. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

I was thirty-goddamn-eight, damn it. Old. Sigh. I always try to stretch the celebration out to several days. My in laws were visiting, so I got to go out for two consecutive nights (crazy, right?) with friends for great food and beverages. I had to work on my actual birthday, and was getting my kid's cold, but tried to rally for dinner out with the guy and the girl anyhow.

24. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

Winning the lottery. Duh.

25. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2011?

I've been trying to spruce up my quality basics with some color and print and different non-solid, non-boring fabrics- hello, Anthropologie! I covet all of you. I also bought and wore and liked two pairs of skinny jeans, which I swore I would never wear again since I lived through the '80's.

26. What kept you sane?

(1) Wine. (2) My husband. (3) Running outside. Not necessarily in that order.

27. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2011.

This sounds so cliched, but don't take the great things in your life for granted. Stop and appreciate them. Thank your husband for everything he does. Screw making dinner - order takeout or make grilled cheese -  and sit down on the floor and play with your kid. Hug everyone. Tell your mother in law what an awesome, generous, creative babysitter she is. Call your friends and send them unexpected presents. I just saw friends' lives crumble around them this year as their marriages dissolved, as they mourned lost loved ones, and as they tried to pick up the pieces. I was scared and humbled by their losses, and it makes me want to appreciate the living daylights out of everything I hold dear.

Merry Christmas! Happy Hanukkah! Happy New Year! Happy whatever OMG someone please hand me a drink and I need a nap

It's kinda been like that, this past month. Let me 'splain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up.

Three! Three! THREEE! My girl is three! Three birthday parties, so very many cupcakes,  fun, sore feet, BIG GIRL. Then, Thanksgiving, which is just like Norman Rockwell but with a gaggle of New York Jews (Erwin Rockowitz?), plus MOAR BERFDAY on account of four of the five little kid cousins have November birthdays. Next came the worst, most horrific mucus-laden cold ever in the history of the world which attacked just before a 4-day cross-country work trip to sort of the middle of nowhere in Oregon. (Think I'm kidding? Look up Roseburg, OR.) Still, traveling alone with the world's worst cold was still 847 times easier than traveling anywhere with a small child. My snot and I got to read lots of books.

Roberta (@DCZia) 12/2/11 6:24 PM Oh my god, my head is full of snot. I am utterly besnotted.

And I got to wear this:

Home to continue drowning in nasal secretions, and marking my days by the number of wet pants sent home with my allegedly potty-training child. Managed to get a Christmas tree.

Roberta (@DCZia) 12/4/11 6:53 PM Tree decorated, football on, happy child, awesome dinner, glass of wine, Christmas tunes, a few moments to myself. This is Sunday.

Didn't manage to fully unpack.

I think she wants to go next time.

Then off on another work trip to the north shore of Lake Michigan in December (yes, I get to go to ALL THE HOT SPOTS). I also did this on the way (I blame the mucus):

Roberta (@DCZia) 12/12/11 5:40 PM I just realized I left my Kindle in an airplane seat back pocket. I fail at Kindle ownership. Dumbass.

Back home to a panic of ordering and addressing holiday cards and madly clicking through all of Amazon to order Christmas and Hanukkah presents for everyone. Plus a minute amount of actual going to a store and dealing with the other humans. And some burning questions about perfect holiday gifts.

Roberta (@DCZia) 12/11/11 1:04 PM My husband is not allowed to come to IKEA without his phone ever again. This is a complete clüstërfückën.   Roberta (@DCZia) 12/14/11 9:33 AM Does everyone really want Vi@gra for Christmas? My e-mail spam would lead me to believe that they do.

Somewhere in here, this happened:

Roberta (@DCZia) 12/11/11 9:07 AM I may be forced to conclude that The Age Of The Nap is over. Shoot. Adieu. Sigh.

The multiple crazed calls to American's Lost and Found in Chicago actually paid off, and restored my faith in humanity. It was practically my very own Miracle on 34th Street.

Roberta (@DCZia) 12/15/11 2:11 PM Thanks to several people Doing The Right Thing, American is Fed Exing my Kindle, and it will be back in my absent-minded paws tomorrow.

And holy crap, I don't even know what else, because it is all a blur of UPS Store trips, gift cards, ugly red sweaters at office parties, extra fees for rush shipping, address labels, wrapping paper, and ribbon, and I wished I were a brown paper package tied up with string, because then I could just LIE THERE under the tree and look at the pretty, pretty lights.

Roberta (@DCZia) 12/9/11 9:08 PM My sweet Jewish husband just does not understand my desire to sit and look at my pretty Yule tree, bless his li'l Ashkenazi heart.

One of my best friends sent me this.

It's a Beyonce The Giant Metal Chicken magnet, in case you couldn't tell. Knock knock, motherfucker. Just read that Bloggess post. That will explain it all.

And then for some reason, we decided it was a good idea to have a party on December 23, because we weren't going anywhere. So we invited neighbors and friends and small children over. Drinks were drunk, much soup and cheese and chocolate was consumed, the adults chatted, the small children ran amuck, and a good time was had by all. And there was this:

Roberta (@DCZia) 12/18/11 9:12 AM My daughter gets the words "nipples" and "antlers" confused. Holiday hilarity ensues.

We did Christmas/Yule on December 24, and had a great day at home, unwrapping presents, making beef bourgignone, and sipping wine in front of the fire.

Roberta (@DCZia) 12/24/11 4:05 PM Christmas Eve dinner: beef borguignone. Using butter like my life depends on it.

We drove to New Jersey on Christmas Day and did Jewish Christmas, wherein my husband and I went to a movie, and then ate really good Chinese food with the family. More present overload on the 26th, with the annual family Hanukkah fest. More wine, bagels, lox, whitefish, present unwrapping, wine, fire, repeat. We drove home yesterday, the car bumper practically dragging on the Turnpike due to the load of the kid's loot, good grief. The four hour trip somehow took eight hours due to traffic, construction, rain, and I don't even know what.

Roberta (@DCZia) 12/27/11 6:47 PM Our 4 hour trip home to DC from NJ is at 7 hours and counting. How do I loathe thee, I95? Let me count the ways...

And now I'm sitting here in a stupor in my office, wishing I had just a teensy weensy bit more leave time, so I could still be on vacation. Because it all really has been uncommonly wonderful, if uncommonly busy. I'm happy, my kid is magnificent, and I am afloat in good cheer from the family and friends I am so lucky to have. Drink Sing we joyous all together, heedless of the wind and weather.

 

Three

You just nod and smile when parents tell you, "It goes so fast." You don't understand until you are here, when you can't believe that it has been three years. It has been three years* since I met you, my beautiful girl, my lovely. It's passed in a blink. Yet, when I look at photos of you as an infant, it seems impossible that such a tiny thing is you. You were the sun of my world then; I had no idea how much brighter you would shine. 

Everyone notices your hair, your magnificent mop of strawberry blond curls. Your hair seems to strike something deep, and people come over to talk to you, to tell us stories about a brother or sister or daughter who had hair just like that, and how amazing it is. I try to tame it into softness each morning, as you screech with every pull at every snarl, but it's a wild tangle at the end of the day; you are too busy for it to stay perfect. It mirrors your energy, your verve, your liveliness. I will be sad the day that you discover the blowout. 

You are somehow old enough to be in preschool (PRESCHOOL!), thriving. Your teacher tells us that your smiley, bubbly personality that lights up the room. That the other children gravitate towards you, attracted by your energy, and by your penchant to be silly whenever someone else is. One of your new friends is Clara, who is quiet, and who you seek out in class, asking her to do things with you. You are a leader, an instigator. Ms. Lindeman tells us that you are also a peacemaker, that you try to mediate disputes among your classmates. I wish I could be a fly on the wall of your classroom, to see all of these facets, to see you bloom, and marvel at you. 

Your Year of Age Two has been mostly lovely. We converse, we play, we imagine, we run, we wonder, together. You have left almost every shade of babyness behind, you are truly a Little Girl now. Sometimes, I try to encourage you to be a Big Girl, but I also think, not too fast, Little Girl, not too fast. 

As you've come closer to Three, your ideas, your fears, your angers, and your joys have also grown bigger and brighter. You aggravate, exasperate, amuse us, and dazzle us in turns, minute by mercurial minute. We have tidal waves of tantrum, where there used to be none, over the smallest things - pajamas, a cup. You want so much to do everything yourself, even the things I am sure you cannot do. Sometimes, you prove me wrong, and then I am humbled and proud. 

Right now, your favorite things are: chocolate milk, lollipops, popcorn, Cars 2, fuzzy winter pajamas, macaroni, Chicka Chicka Boom Boom, your polka dot shoes, any pair of pink pants, your ladybug rain boots, your teacher, your friends Luke and Rome and Clara and Nia, running down the sidewalk full-tilt, climbing anything that can be climbed (and many things that should not be climbed), eating Cheerios with milk, riding piggyback on Mama, riding to school on the back of Papa's bicycle, painting, Play Doh, and pouring water (or anything else you are allowed to pour), helping Mama make smoothies and coffee in the mornings. 

Your least favorite thing is to have to stop doing anything that you are engrossed in for any reason, unless you are very, very hungry. Or unless a trip across the street to the dry cleaner is involved, where the doting Korean owners unfailingly admire you and give you stickers. 

Some things are the same. How you will go and go and go and go and GO until we slow you down, insist that it is time to sleep. Your laughter, easily brought to the surface with some light tickling, a funny face, a chase. When I look back at old photos and videos, I realize how essentially YOU that you were, even then, even at less than one year old. Your smile, your laugh, are so astonishingly unchanged.

As always, you are ever more you, ever so much more so. I can't believe how much I want to be with you. Most of the time. There are many days I am grateful to ship you off to school, where they can funnel your energy, stimulate you, teach you, without butting up against the tears and fury that you seem to save especially for me. I know it's because you can let your guard down with me and feel safe with all of those emotions, so big in your tiny body. Some days, it is hard.

Then on other days, the big emotions are positive, where you just say, out of the blue, "I love you soooo much, Mama!" I die. I melt. I am yours. My big, big (little) girl. The happiest of days, of years, of lives to you.

 

*Let's all pretend it's actually Novemeber 19, and that I got this posted on my girl's birthday.

Some days it is like this

Some days, it is like this. I step outside, and the breeze flows over me like water. I inhale, drinking, the air, and it quenches a thirst in me as deep as that for water, and my feet begin to irresistibly step, step, step. I feel twitchy with energy, with the need to be out here, with the need to stretch my legs, to run. The sun dazzles my eyes, and I step, step, step, and turn my iPod up louder. "Success is my only motherfucking option, failure's not." My feet pound through the pavement, feeling loud and heavy and strong as bombs, as I plant them down in time to Eminem. Lose yourself.

Some days, it is like this. My feet turn over almost of their own accord, carrying me up and over the 11th Street bridge, rhythm never slacking. The breeze picks up as I crest the bridge over the Anacostia, and I drink it in. Today, I am strong. Today, I am fast. I am at the top, and flying down the other side, light on my feet, agile as I navigate the sharp turn in the path at the bottom of the bridge, my feet tapping the pavement.

My iPod conspires with music that makes running feel like dancing, my legs springy, as I step, step, step, dance, step. I shake off a muscle beginning to knot in my shoulder, I ignore my hard breathing, drown it in the music and the strength in my steps.

Even at the end, slick with sweat, breathing hard, my legs feel they could just keep going, the sun dazzling my eyes, swallowing the wind like water. Some days it is like this.

Halloween magic

As a kid, Halloween was one of those holidays that we lived for. The air was chilly and crisp, the decorations went up, we spent too much time trying to scare the living daylights out of each other and ourselves with scary stories and cobweb decorations and bloody monster masks. I could dress up as anything I wanted, be anything I wanted. The rules were suspended, and we got to wander around the neighborhood after dark, stay up late, ask friends and strangers for all the candy we could carry in our bags, and eat Hershey bars and Smarties for dinner.

I feel the same kind of anticipation and excitement now that Helene is old enough to understand some of the specialness of Halloween. I knew that I wouldn't get to choose her costume any more - my girl has her opinions now. So when I first asked her, a couple of months ago, what she wanted to be, she said, "witch!" She'd been a witch last year, and we had books about witches. I suggested other things: she could be a cowgirl like Jessie in Toy Story, a pirate, or an astronaut. She could be anything. No, a witch, she kept saying. I enlisted my mom's help on a costume; she bought one, e-mailed me a photo, and I showed it to Helene. "Do you like the witch costume that Grandma found for you?" "I want to be a ghost. YOU can be a witch." No matter how many times I asked, she insisted that she wanted to be a ghost. I showed her pictures of Halloween ghosts in story books, and ghost decorations, and each time she said, yes, she wanted to be a ghost, like that. My mom bailed us out again, made her a ghost costume, a sleeveless white tunic, and a white hood, with a gas-station style nametag that said "GHOST" in case it was not obvious.

Over October, we carved three different jack o'lanterns, visited two pumpkin patches, and bought numerous small and large pumpkins and gourds for decorations. Enamored with the pumpkins, Helene would insist on bringing some of them into the house from the front steps almost every time we came home. She saw little ghost lights at a neighbor's house, and my mom bought some for her. We carved the final jack o'lantern, hung all the lights, and arranged the pumpkins on the front steps.

Yesterday, Halloween morning, Helene kept asking "Is it Halloween? Is it Halloween?" Yes it is, sweetheart. But you have to wait until after school to wear your costume. "There's my ghost costume!" she said excitedly.

Seth went to pick her up at school. He texted me: "Warning! She says she wants to be a witch." Well, kid, it's a good thing that your mama and Grandma Wanda think of these things, because there just happens to be an emergency backup witch costume in your size hanging in the basement. Apparently, she was quite upset at any suggestion that she be a ghost. What changed her mind so completely, I will never know.

She seemed tired and a bit listless when I got home. We made sure she had a snack, to stave off hunger or candy-induced mania, and then tried to get her ready to trick or treat. Suddenly, she didn't want to go. She wanted to open the orange Play Doh instead. And I found myself threatening my child that we were about to go trick or treating without her, actually having to CONVINCE her to GO GET LOADS OF CANDY FROM PEOPLE. Enough mentions of candy seemed to do the trick, and we costumed her up, and set out for a trip around the block.

Last year, her first year, it was pretty magical. We went early, on a sunny and warm evening, with two other kids of the same vintage. They did it all themselves, climbing the steps, knocking on the doors, even saying thank you. She wore her costume, including the hat, the entire time. She walked almost the whole way herself, clutching her hard-earned candy bag.

This year, I think she was a bit tired. She kept asking to be carried, didn't want to go up all of the stairs. When her jack o'lantern treat bucket banged on each wrought iron step, she would cry out "OW!" on the pumpkin's battered behalf. We didn't make plans to go with any other kids, so there was no one to egg her on. Her imagination has also grown, and she finds things scary now that she didn't before. She was not prepared for adults in costumes, the pirates and soldiers and Cruella deVilles and witches that we saw around the block. We had to walk with her up to all of the houses. We made our circuit of the block, and she was done, asked to go home.

I remembered that our neighbor across the street had specifically told us to come by. She's older, and I knew she'd lived in that house for a long time. She didn't have any decorations up, but was ready for us with a big bowl of candy. She gave Helene more candy than strictly necessary, and we started to talk. She told me how much she loves children, and seeing them in the neighborhood. She's lived in that house since she was eight years old, inherited it from her parents. Seth and Helene wandered off, but I kept talking. She wants to have all the kids over when the weather gets warm again, make ice cream in the back yard. I told her that sounded amazing. She told me (to my surprise) that there used to be a streetcar on our street, and she used to take it up to the Mt. Pleasant neighborhood.  She told me how the block used to be, with so many families and children, all over at each other's houses. And then there were some bad times, when people moved away, and there was crime, and no children. "But now, I get to see it a second time, all the children in the neighborhood," she said, as we watched groups of costumed kids laughing in the coming twilight. I could have talked to her forever, listening to the stories and the history of my street. I told her that I hoped we would talk again soon.

We headed home, turned on our lights and decorations, took off Helene's costume, turned up some Halloween tunes and got ready to hand out candy. We let Helene eat a fair amount of candy, but not too much. Then, the knocks came at the door, and handing out candy turned out to be the hit of the night. She wanted to hold the bowl, and dole out candy carefully into each waiting bag. We ended up sitting out on the front steps with glasses of wine, waiting for more kids to climb the steps. "What is she? What is he?" Helene asked of each costume, as she hand-picked special candy for each fireman, Wolverine, train engineer, Green Lantern, butterfly and princess. She delighted in looking at the costumes, at giving the candy out, at saying "Happy Halloween!"

Finally she started to fade, getting clumsy and weepy and indecisive with exhaustion, and we knew we had to turn out the lights and lock the door, because she would not let us hand out candy without her. She was sound asleep before I finished singing to her.

It wasn't what I'd imagined for her third Halloween. I thought she would be more interested in trick or treating. I wanted it to be as charming and new as it was last year. But the truth is that she wore her costume for less than an hour, that she had an unsightly fat lip and scrape on her chin from a fall on Sunday, that trick or treating was not the highlight, that we should have gone earlier when there was more light, that we should have gone with some other kids, and that she was a little scared by the whole thing. As a parent, it's hard to lower your expectations sometimes, and to not want so much for your kid's childhood to be exactly like yours, or exactly like some perfect imagining, because it's not going to be. It's hard to open up, and experience that magic that you're seeking in some other way than what you're looking for.

We had some moments last night that still give me high hopes for future magical Halloweens. We sat on our front porch and talked to all of our neighbors that came by, people that we got to know just a little bit better last night. Helene continued to be entranced by our lights and jack o'lanterns glowing in the cool October night, going down the steps periodically to examine them. The streetlamp across from us flickered eerily on and off, lending instant spookiness to the trickling parade of trick or treaters down our street. I got to know one special neighbor better, a piece of living history. And Helene delighted in making other kids happy giving them those tantalizing sweets in shiny foil packages, our porch light transforming them into mysterious, sparkling treasure, for just this one magic night.

Midsummer nights

She's gotten too big for the portable crib. We tried a little folding camp cot, which she latched on to and loved for two nights, sleeping soundly. But the next time, she flopped around in her sleep, tumbled the short distance to the floor, and had to be rescued, carried to the safe island of the king-sized bed in the downstairs bedroom at my in-laws' house on Martha's Vineyard. There, I put my arm over her, snuggled her next to me as I'd done when she was a newborn, and she rubbed my forearm as she drifted back to sleep, her unruly curls tickling my face in the dark.

After that, I was resigned to her sleeping in our bed while we were at the Vineyard. She was delighted. I made sure to tell her that this was special, for Grandma and Grandpa's special house only, for this huge bed only, and that we wouldn't do it when we got home. At home, she gets to come into our bed in the early morning, when she wakes up at five thirty or six. I stumble down the hall to get her, and snuggle her under the covers between us. Sometimes, she cuddles and plays and chats, as we all come awake. Sometimes, she falls back asleep for some more precious minutes, maybe thirty, maybe an entire blissful hour, her warm little solid body pressed against mine. We don't have her in bed all the time, because no one really sleeps well with all of us in there all night. I always like the idea of her small warmth more than the reality of her flopping in her sleep, clutching at my arm, her hair unbearably itchy on my neck, kicking off the covers. Yet, I long to have her near me, comforting her, allowing her to fall back to sleep with such ultimate security: Mama's arms around her, Papa snoring softly on the other side of her.

It was different at the Vineyard. I don't know whether it was just that we were on vacation, and a thousand times more relaxed than we are in our regular life, or if it was that vast expanse of king-sized bed in our favorite bedroom at the house, or the sheets cooled by island air, or the sounds of water and birds drifting through the open windows. We all slept deeply, soundly, for the most part. Except when Helene would get crossways between us, like the crossbar in a capital "H" and end up kicking someone with her strong little legs and feet. I'd have to turn her 90 degrees, position her back in a place where we could all share sleep again, and there would be some wailing from the half-woken child, until I could snuggle her back under my arm again, back to dreaming.

Putting her to sleep at night was the hardest part. I couldn't just say goodnight, and leave her to fall asleep, as we do at home. She was a little afraid to be in the room alone, and I was a little afraid she'd fall out of the bed if she wasn't asleep. So every night, I laid next to her in the dark, in that great big bed, until she fell asleep. Like too many things about parenting, it was equal parts resentment and love. I just wanted her to sleep now, so I could slip away, join my husband and friends with a glass of wine in the living room, or under the stars in the hot tub. Yet at the same time, I loved helping her go to sleep, lying next to her, singing, talking, sharing in the soft summer dark.

She can talk now, really talk, about things that happened that day. About what we are going to do tomorrow. About what is right in front of us. I don't remember what we whispered about in the dark those nights. What I remember is that I suddenly had a flash of our future, of the two of us, lying in the dark, trading secrets and stories, perhaps in a tent or a cabin, or in the basement at home, just two girls whispering and giggling in the safety of darkness. Stories come out of people when you talk softly, gently in the velvet night, in ways that they would not in the starkness of daylight. And then, then, I began to savor the this time, this night, this sharing of this big, lovely bed with my daughter, realizing I wanted her always to lie next to me in the dark and tell me stories.

Instead of lying there, counting minutes, resenting, I put on my pajamas, and lay still on a midsummer's night, next to my girl, listening, laughing. I thought, we need to get a king sized bed at home, so there is more room for children. My girl murmured, and turned her head on the pillow. I touched her red-gold curls with a gentle finger, heard her breathing slow, deepen, and I drifted off to sleep to the sounds of her even breath, my arm curled over her as I did when she was first born.

 

Lessons learned

This is what I learned this weekend:

1) Do not, under any circumstances, give a small child a rather large cup of fantastic, intensely flavored, delicious, double dark chocolate gelato in the time between dinner and bedtime. You will regret it and want to call in an exorcist. Because what you might have forgotten about chocolate is that it has caffeine in it. I am sure that the lovely, intense dark chocolate gelato had, ah, more than the usual amount of caffeine than regular old chocolate ice cream. Your child weighs 27 pounds soaking wet. There could be some math involved here with grams of caffeine per pound of body weight, but it is not necessary, because res ipsa loquitor: the thing speaks for itself. Specifically, the thing ran almost all of the half mile home from the gelato shop. Then, when the thing was put to bed, it yelled, wailed, howled, begged, screeched, pleaded, thrashed, and kicked to be let out of bed. For an hour and a half. And then the thing also woke up at 1:00. 4:00 and 5:30 am, until the thing was hauled into Mama and Papa's bed in the faint hope of everyone getting more sleep.

The answer to this is obviously to administer the chocolate gelato at breakfast, when there is ample time for its effects to wear off before bed.

2) When hiding child bribery/Halloween candy, put it in a safe hiding place, where your children and husband will not find it. However, do not put it in so safe a place so that you completely out-think your own dumb-ass self, and then you cannot find the candy when it is desperately needed for life-saving bribery purposes. The same thing goes for hiding precious jewelry when going out of town. Popular places to hide such jewelry from the odd house thief are in a shoe box, or the toe of a winter boot.

The candy finally turned up stashed inside the corner cabinet tucked inside the salad spinner. The pearl necklace has not made a reappearance. I'm wondering if there are things like truffle pigs that could sniff out pearls?

3) Apples in your house are approximately 837 times larger and more numerous than they appear on the farm. Pick-your-own fruit places are fun weekend family outings. You get to be outdoors, where city children can run around a farm, pick apples, and see that they really do grow on trees and Mama was not making that crazy shit up. You're issued a basket, and you can take a wheelbarrow if you like, which is handy for hauling apple baskets, small children, etc. up and down the rows of apple trees. The sky is blue, the sun is shining, you're with good friends, the children have got the hang of this apple picking thing and are happily putting apples into baskets, and eating one here and there. You go up and down the rows, just getting a few of each kind that you want to try: Fuji, Honeycrisp, Jonagold. Your bucket doesn't look that full. You pet the farm animals, have a picnic, bag up your apples, and pay $12 for the privilege of hauling them home. You plan to make an apple pie for tonight, and imagine that will take care of a good number of the apples. When you carry the bag of apples inside, it seems much larger than it did on the farm or in the trunk of the car. The apples seem to have multiplied. Exponentially. You pick out six good looking pie candidates, and make your pie. The pie crust barely fits over the pile of apple slices in the pie pan. You wrestle the top crust into place, put it in the oven, and go back to inspect the sack of apples. It does not appear smaller since you removed six for the pie. You suspect it is actually larger. You realize that you also already had apples in the fridge, from the farmer's market, and that you are supposed to get more apples on Tuesday from your CSA.

You slice up an apple to accompany dinner. The small child refuses both the apple and the apple pie. You sigh, look up recipes for applesauce, store the apples in a cool, dark corner of the basement, and wonder if apples would go as fast as doughnuts if you put them in the kitchen at your office.

Decade

I can't believe it has been ten years since we woke up to the incomprehensible sight of a plane hitting one of the World Trade Centers in New York. It is both just yesterday, and an age ago.

My mother said today that she hoped we would be out of town, out of DC all this weekend. I couldn't figure out why, at first. I thought, there's no hurricane coming. Then I realized she was talking about this tenth anniversary of 9/11. No, Mom, sorry. We are not leaving. I refuse to be paranoid, refuse to be afraid. This is my home, and we have things to do.

I don't have anything profound to say, no story to retell. I already said my piece earlier this year, as it happens. I will spend this 9/11 as I have all the others since 2001: quietly remembering.

So, this happened

The Olive went to preschool. PRESCHOOL.

 
 
 
 
 
 
PRESCHOOL.

There have been some tears. Not an excessive amount. She is in a fantastic small Montessori program where she will get to do eighty seven thousand intellectually and physically stimulating and nurturing things. Her teacher, Ms. Lindeman, is an absolute genius child wrangler. I have seen her in action, and I am so not worthy.

It's funny. I'm all over-wrought about her being away from me all day. But, um, duh, she's ALREADY been away from me all day for two years (and how, how, how has it been that long? WTF, time??). But...but...it was at our house, with our nanny, who coddled and loved and spoiled her, and she slept in her own bed, and....Then this devolves into a bad guilt spiral of "maybe she should just go part time...she's so little....and we'll patch together some childcare....and I will quit my job and stay home with her more...and....and...and...." It's dawning on me that we are never, ever going to be able to really let go of our children, are we?

She's ready. She is. On the first full day, yesterday, she napped just fine on her own little cot with her nap mat. Yesterday, when I got her, she didn't want to leave at first because she was listening to a book. But then, it hit her full on that mama was there, and she came out sobbing for me, the relief and need just washing over her. She asks us several times, just to MAKE SURE, that Mama will come get her from school? She talks in an awed kind of voice about Ms. Lindeman, and her eyes get big, and her face lights up with expectation.

She has cried a little bit at home before she goes, and I can see she is trying not to, trying to be my big, strong brave girl as I tell her she is. She cries when she gets there, but she goes in the room, finds a book, some blocks. Ms. Lindeman told us that yesterday was her "coming out day" when she finally abandoned the book corner to explore all the other activities in the room, discovering the wider world.

But still, when I pick her up at the end of the day, she will hurl herself at me, and I will hold her, and we will end our day, going home, still needing each other.

Monday random

When all the world is a hopeless jumble, and the raindrops tumble all around, it's time do do a random blog...*

Last week, all I planned to do was wallow in post-vacation depression, procrastinate a lot, and work my way slowly up to full-blown panic at the fact that my tiny little baby is going to preschool soon (PRESCHOOL!), but, well, other things intervened.

1. The Earthquake. Holy crap, we had one! I was in my office (probably procrastinating), when there was some shaking, some rumbling. The hell? I thought. The first thing that I concluded was that there had been an explosion at a nearby construction site. We are in a "redeveloping" neighborhood, and are utterly surrounded by huge construction sites. More shaking, more rumbling, the floor actually rolling, light fixtures waving away on the ceiling like perverse flowers in a breeze. Then, the second thing I thought was BOMB. We live in DC. I work on security issues. I am an obnoxious building emergency warden. This is how I think. BOMB. And then the rumbling and shaking kept going, got stronger. I almost laughed, realizing, oh, I GET IT, it's an earthquake! An earth ride, as one of my friends from San Francisco used to call them. I was honestly relieved that it wasn't a bomb, because again, this is DC, this is how we think. Of course, I shot off a Tweet, because I am a social media whore:

@DCZia Roberta

HOLY FUCKING EARTHQUAKE IN DC. Or something. For serious.

23 Aug via web

I ditched my heels for flip flops, and grabbed my handbag, making sure I had phones, wallet & keys. I donned my orange emergency warden vest (which is in serious need of some Bedazzling) and shooed my fellow employees out the stairwell and to our evacuation rally point. Once out there, of course I turned to Twitter, which had all the best info AND kept working fine, thanks for nothing AT&T. I also realized that I had a bottle of champagne in my bag, because I'd done some errands over lunch, including a wine store stop. That's right, if you evacuate with me during a natural disaster, I bring teh interwebs AND the booze.

All kidding aside, everything was fine. I left work when The Powers That Be excused us, and scooted home. I live a mile and a half from my office, so no traffic snarls for me. The worst casualties were a very tired child (earthquake disturbed her nap) who was falling asleep in her tacos at dinner, and some crooked pictures around the house. Nothing even fell off of a shelf in our 115 year old house. Unreal.

2. The Hurricane. Like the rest of the more northerly East Coast, we were in the path of Hurricane Irene. Here is what we did to prep: (a) bought propane; (b) and beer; (c) starting drinking shortly after lunch; (d) charged up all the iDevices; (e) drank too much wine, went to bed early and slept mostly soundly, waking up a few times to marvel at the howling wind and pounding rain. That about covers it. Woke up Sunday morning to gawk at all the downed trees, and felt grateful, since it's exactly six years since Hurricane Katrina. It could have been a lot different.

3. Regularly Scheduled Panic. My wee tiny baby is somehow almost three years old and starts preschool on Thursday. PRESCHOOL. I coped by applying name labels to everything in sight, getting hysterically indecisive about which after-school activities we should register for, and drinking before 5:00 pm.

4. Death, Shock, Grieving. I found out this morning that a colleague passed away on Friday night. He had chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, his health was not all that great, but it seemed he would stubbornly carry on for a long time to come. He succumbed to pneumonia. I am in shock. This man was like a foster dad to me at work; I'm around the age of his daughters. He was stubborn, and smart, and moody, and prickly, and generous and witty and knowledgeable all at once, and I got along with him well. I learned so much from him. We talked about everything from Jeeps to horses to guns to railroading to natural childbirth (you can't say that about every colleague). It is still that time where it seems impossible for this person to be gone, for the world to never hear his deep belly laugh again, for his office to be still and quiet and empty. My heart hurts for his family, who has lost a father, a grandfather, a husband.   

And so I start this Monday, in a random jumble, trying to just be grateful for what I have, here.

*With deep apologies to "Over the Rainbow" - the little known intro verses.