The Kiddie Cocktail

Scenes from a weekend

I'm not dead.

I've just been traveling and insanely busy, in large part for fun reasons. Rather than not post because I am dithering about the perfect turn of phrase, I'm going to do a couple of mostly-photo posts. Mmm, pretty pictures are... pretty!

This first series has photos that I took over a long weekend at my in-laws' house on Martha's Vineyard, spent with one of my best friends. We call her Bex. She was my freshman year roommate, and we've evolved (or devolved) to the point over 20+ years that we speak our own language and practically don't have to speak. We do text a lot. Like teenage girl a lot. We don't get to see each other enough. She tolerates me bringing my camera everywhere and taking photos of everything, with nary an eyeroll, deities bless her. We had spectactular weather. We had no children or anyone or anything to take care of but ourselves. We ate whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted. I cooked perfect scallops one night. We walked on lots of beaches. We talked. Or didn't talk. It was fantastic.

 

Ferry from Woods Hole.

Bex, Philbin Beach.

Bex, looking like my own personal Title 9 Sports model, Philbin Beach.

This is what our day looked like. Philbin Beach.

The almost-neon green color of the lichen/moss/algae on these rocks was so striking. I've never seen it look like that.

Hunting shells.

Rock hopping.

Drift house, washed up on the beach.

Friends, beach, Cape Poge Bay, Chappaquiddick.

 

Cottage, Chappaquiddick. Bex and her daughters are renting it in August.

Fence, Lucy Vincent beach.

Sofa, Lucy Vincent Beach.

Suspicious persons in hoodies. (In tribute to Trayvon Martin.)

First bare feet of the year. Man, I need a pedicure.

Cairn, Lucy Vincent beach.

Lounging.

Cliffs, Lucy Vincent.

Black Dog breakfast. We don't mess around. Eggs Benedict, hash, pancakes, bacon. It fortifies us to say goodbye.

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.

 

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.

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.

 

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.

Summertime rolls...

For so many reasons, this summer has been about a thousand percent more awesome than last summer. Even though it's supposed to be 100 degrees (again) tomorrow, I'm good. I can roll with it, I can still say this summer is/has been/will be amazing. If you don't want to read all these words, just go peek at my Flickr set for the summer. That does sum it right up.

 

Reason 1: My kid is at least 50% more awesome than she was last year. Last year, she was one. God, one year olds, MY GOD. They are CHOCK FULL of mobility and energy, but they don't have the sense or attention span of a rubber ball, and they sure as hell don't bounce like one, so you spend all of your time chasingchasingchasing. Up the stairs, down the stairs, outsideoutsideoutside, OMFG don't FALL down the stairs, don't run off the sidewalk into the street, not under there, not over there, don't climb that, you're going to fall....oh shit, you fell (insert blood curdling screaming). Say what you will about two, but I have liked it a hell of a lot better than one. I wouldn't go so far to say that the Olive is rational, but she sure can talk a mile a minute, and understand even more. She can and actually WILL (mostly) listen to directions. She knows not to step off the sidewalk into the street, and she won't. I can now be one of those parents that can spend some time sitting on my butt on the playground, because my kid can climb up and down and over almost everything, and I don't have to worry. I get up for the occasional assist on a ladder, or to prevent an escape (because darn it, she knows exactly how all the gates work), or to get someone to share or apologize. She also sleeps all night, can climb onto her own chair, can be trusted to play in another room by herself, and even fetch me things. I sleep! My cocktails get left unspilled! I'm living the dream.

 

Reason 2: We joined a community pool. Which makes us so totally bourgeousie, I know. I know! (Even worse: it's a pool AND racquet club. Ayup.) But I so don't care because the pool is so goddamn awesome. It is hot and humid and utterly unfit-for-humans-swamp-ass around here in the summer, and the only two sensible places to be are indoors with copious air conditioning or outdoors and up to your neck in water. We got home from vacation last Saturday night to a house full of hot air and broken A/C in 100 degree weather. I cried while Seth found a friend to house us in their basement overnight. On Sunday, we bought fans and giant containers of raspberries at Costco, and spent four hours at the pool. FOUR HOURS. I am not a pool person. I like the water just fine, but I grew up in the Southwest, where there is no water. I have the pale, freckly skin of a Northern European mutt, so I was never one for tanning. I mean, we went swimming sometimes when I was a kid, and the public pools were fine, but it wasn't what I wanted to do all the time. However, no pool I ever went to is like this pool. There's a kiddie pool, a beach entry pool, splash fountains, a big pool, diving boards, a water slide, a snack bar (with ice cream!), a playground, tennis courts, volleyball, all nestled into grassy, tree-shaded grounds. Four hours passed in a blink, and I loved every minute of it, as did the small monkey fish child. I seriously want to go to the pool every day (who the hell am I??), and I'm going to be very sad when it closes after Labor Day.

Reason 3: Multiple trips to the Vineyard. (Yes, again, I know -I am appallingly bourgeousie, and my in-laws happen to have a house on Martha's Vineyard. Look, I'm incredibly lucky. I know! I appreciate it! I swear! I'll send you a Black Dog shirt!) Last summer, we had only one trip planned, due to everyone's schedules. It was at the very end of summer, the last week of August through Labor Day. 2010 was a long fucking hot summer and a long time to wait for grandparent babysitting and entertainment in one of my favorite places. I remember sitting in my office, practically laying on my desk moping, counting down the weeks and days and hours, because I felt like it was all I had to live for when it was 100 degrees and 75% humidity outside. And then, after our trip, just like that, summer was over. I really had post-vacation depression. I declared that in 2011, we were not waiting until the end of the summer to go just once, because my mental health would not be able to take it. So far - success! We have already been twice, and have a third trip planned. The first trip was over Fourth of July weekend (which no sane person should spend in Washington more than once. It's worth it once to see the fireworks on the Mall. After that you should just flee, because it's ungodly hot and full of sweaty people in really ugly patriotic clothing, white Reeboks and fanny packs). The second trip was last week, including the double bonus feature of my brother-in-law and his family live and in person from Australia. (Despite the fact that we had four colds, two respiratory infections, and one case of Lyme disease among us, the trip was generally a success). Our third trip is in a month, and we're also importing our own playmates- friends from the neighborhood whose son is the Olive's age. I have high hopes for more fun and less pestilence.  

Reason 4: The gift of one week. I got a week without the small child, for the first time ever. The longest I'd been away from her before that was about 48 hours. In that week, I didn't cook once. I had a perfect New York City weekend with one of my best friends that I never see because she lives in San Francisco. We ate well, had cocktails with lunch, got coffee whenever we felt like it, shopped, ate some more, walked and walked and walked and walked (as one is wont to do in NY when there is perfect summer weather), had some wine, saw old friends, and talked nonstop. I had time alone, where I read a ton, watched whatever I wanted (which was like, ten episodes of Glee -so hooked now), steyed up past ten (OMFG!), and lazed in bed in the morning reading. Finally, I got two days with just my husband, for the first time since our girl was born in November 2008. More great food, more walking. We actually held hands because no one had to chase a child! We talked and laughed and drank and went to awesome hip places in our 'hood, and stayed out late. BECAUSE WE COULD. We are about 400 percent cooler without a kid, I'm afraid. Though we probably lost at least 100 percentage points of cool for being so giddy at being without our kid for a couple of days.

 
Hello, lovelies! Maya holds our tasty lunch cocktails.

Reason 5: Burgers on the grill and sliced watermelon are so easy and totally count as a complete dinner. And you can eat it outside. On paper plates! FOR THE WIN.

Reason 6: Summer clothes. There are just so very many fewer of them than in winter. It is about 300% easier to get everyone dressed in the morning. Shirt, shorts & Crocs for the child, dress & sandals for me, DONE. Somewhere in me, I am sure I still have some romantic love for winter, for the cozy sweaters and fuzzy hats, and glasses of wine by the fire. I am sure that love will re-kindle at about the time the kid can dress her own damn self, because right now? Just thinking about all those hats and mittens and boots and sweaters and snow pants and layers and bits to be wrestled into and lost just makes me want to cry. So, just pass the sunscreen and the frozen margaritas, please, and yes, I think I will just kick off my flip flops right over there and dangle my feet in the pool.

 

2.5 - the state of the toddler nation

Some things just kill me, melt me. The way you get excited about certain foods, the way you say the words: "WICE! (for some reason, the way your little voice plaintively says "rice" just knocks me dead). Noodles! (which refers to everything from lo mein to bow ties)" Sometimes I have to keep you out of the kitchen, because you just demand everything you see "I want a BUh-NA-naaa! I want a orange! I want DINNER!" You are busy, busy, busy, and you forget that you are hungry until you come inside and those two minutes before I can get dinner on your plate are eternal, because you suddenly realize you are RAVENOUS and that you need to eat everything in sight! Right now! And you are going to lose your shit if you don't get some goddamn blackberries RIGHT THIS SECOND! As soon as there is food in front of you, it's shoveled in, the favorite bits first, then the hand hovering carefully over everything else, touching the sweet potato, but moving in favor of the chicken sausage.

You've been eating like crazy the last few weeks, with gusto and vigor, perhaps making up for when you were sick with that stomach bug and then with a cold. The quantities of clementines, berries, pasta, sausage, bread, waffles - they just astound me. Or maybe it's because you are outside practically every waking hour, if the weather is decent. Now that it is spring, now that the light lasts, you are out the door like a shot as soon as I get home from work. It doesn't matter that you and Yvonne just came from the park a bare minute ago. "Outside! I want to go outside! Mama, come outside! Don't you want to come outside?" I can't get upstairs fast enough for you, to strip off my work clothes, and find some shorts and sneakers so I can chase you down the street.

When we must stay indoors, you are an expert with the iPad. You know how to do things on it that I don't. You can find your shows on Netflix and Sesame Street on YouTube, and your games. Sometimes you need help, and then you cry for it impatiently, desperately - "HELP! HELP!" and OMFG, we can't get over there FAST ENOUGH to fix the glitch or find the Dora episode with the Bouncing Ball. Even then, you aren't often still. You practice your gymnastics moves, hands on the coffee table where the iPad is, feet on the sofa, body in plank position over the gap. The few still times often come in the morning, when only the two of us are awake, and you ask me to sit next to you. I cup my coffee in one hand, wrap my other arm around you, and bury my nose in the linen-sun-lily fragrance of your wild curls.

 

Patience is not your strong suit. Damn it, you are just like me.

Dresses have become utterly out of the question. Back in March, I could put a dress on you, and you would wear it. Now, no matter how many days in advance I introduce the dress, talk about it, or how many times you say you want to wear it....no dice. I get it over your head, and you realize it hangs below your knees, that your free-range running and climbing might be impeded and "OFF! DON'T WANT IT!" I barely talked you into a flowy tunic the other day, and called it a victory.

You do like to accessorize, though. Hats, shoes, beads and sunglasses are all carefully selected and put on at your whim, even if it is a knit cloche on a 75-degree day. Hey, you have to suffer for fashion, baby. You adore your ladybug rainboots, even if I couldn't find them in a size quite small enough for your tiny feet. You pull them on, clomp around, fall out of them, try it again.

A girly-girl you are not, so far. You give as much attention to trains and fire engines as to your doll stroller and doll houses. You will wear play beads and carry around a rubber ball. You choose your airplane pajamas as often as the ones with butterflies. You seem to have an affinity for pirates and astronauts. Yet you want to be sure that lost baby animals on TV or crying children on the playground find their mamas. You endlessly collect sticks and rocks as we walk down the block, down the alley, through the park. They are handed off to me, hidden in a bush, dropped down manhole covers, and then briefly mourned until another is found. Small rocks have to find big rocks to be their mamas and papas, and then, all is well.

You don't miss a thing. If you say that you see an airplane or the moon or the cardinal that's been living in our neighbor's tree, I believe you, because you are always right, and it is another second or two before my eyes can catch up.

I see your bravery and daring and confidence grow and I think perhaps I should start making you wear a helmet all the time. At gymnastics, you jump off of the end of the big balance beam into the big foam pit - it's HIGH. And then you want to do it again, and again, and again. You shocked us the other day by clearing three big cement steps at an old school down the street, all in one springing downward broad jump. You nailed the landing. And did it again. You cause other parents at the playground to gasp and run to rescue you, because they don't know and can't believe how far you can jump, how high you can climb.

You still can't quite reach the pedals on your tricycle.

The changes during this third (!) year of your life are not so dramatic and rapid-fire as they were during the first year and a half. They are subtler, but grander. I look back at how you were one year ago, and really, you are much the same, but even more so. Bigger! Better! Faster! More! You are still active, goinggoingoing until we make you stop. You still want to climb and explore nonstop, and still narrate everything. It's just all ever so much more so - your legs are longer and stronger; you can jump so much higher and further; climb up all the slides on all the playgrounds; run so much faster; talk ever so much more with so many words and imaginings tumbling out of your mouth. I must keep better track of the astonishing things that you say, that make us shake our heads, and smile and laugh so hard. All of your opinions are strong; you are never lukewarm on anything.

Is it possible that I can love you more? Is it possible that my love for you has grown bigger just as you have grown bigger? You are still a little thing, by the growth charts. But I watch your legs drape and dangle when I hold you, and I marvel at the time that the whole of you was just barely longer than your thighbone is now. It is simply not possible that you were once that small.

Even as you tire me out with your perpetual motion, you win me with your enthusiasm, and I am both relieved and sad when I put you to bed and lose your energetic company at the end of the day. I crave you, like the most savory dish. I must inhale you, like the scent of rain. You console my early morning when you snuggle in my bed and sometimes doze off for a little while, in a rare moment of stillness. I tell you how beautiful you are, kiss you, a hundred times a day, if I can. You are the best gift of my every day.

The sweet indulgence of ordinary days

Even though this is my third(!!) one, Mother's Day sneaks up on me. I forget that I'm one of those mother-type people now, too. So I didn't have any great expectations about Mother's Day, and we didn't make any big plans.

I could not have asked for anything more out of my weekend and my Mother's Day. We had amazing weather, to start with. Sunny and 70+ all weekend, with a few spring showers just at the end of dinner last night. I'm a fragile desert flower; sun makes me beyond happy. The small child was uncommonly pleasant all weekend long. Seriously delightful (except perhaps when trying to get her to nap).

Saturday brought me a toddler-free morning- errands without one in tow are sheer bliss. I was able to find everything I needed for my planned gardening at our awesome neighborhood hardware and garden stores, sparing me a much-dreaded trip to a big box store. (Home Depot just makes me cry. It does.) On a whim, I threw some wee garden tools for the Olive into my basket. On another whim, I stopped into a new coffee house for cappucino and a croissant. Just because I felt like it; and it felt so indulgent - me, alone, just sitting, for no reason other than that I felt like it.

I got home right after Seth and the Olive, and we went right to work gardening. She loved it. Loved it! For the first time, she really, truly helped instead of just "helped." I got her to fill a bucket with potting soil over and over, and bring it to me to put on newly transplanted day lilies. She helped me scratch up the dirt to prep it for sinking new stepping stones. She took her own watering can and watered all of the new plants. She was enamoured with every worm that I dug up and then sent wriggling back into the dark, rich loam, and we had to dig a few extra holes to look for more worms. I've dreamt of this day, when I could be out there with her, working, laughing and getting dirty.

 
 

We broke for lunch, attempted a nap (fail!), and then headed out to a first birthday party for the daughter of friends we don't get to see very often (win!). It was one of those fantastic parties, where you have a great time from beginning to end, where you feel gregarious and witty and meet new people, where you realize your kid is old enough to run around with a lot less supervision, where you just sit outside with a drink in your hand for hours, and talk and laugh. My only error was a failed execution of the proper water-to-food-to-wine ratio, which left me a leetle smidge more tipsy than I wanted to be, and gave me a bad night's sleep.

The Olive made up for it, though. She slept until past 7:15 on Mother's Day morning. This is utterly unheard of. She's usually up and talking a million miles an hour by 6:15; I'm usually awake before that, waiting to hear her wake and call me. For the first time in years, I got to lie in bed and read before anyone else was awake, one of my favorite indulgent pleasures.

But by 7:40, we were outside in our pajamas, on another beautiful day. I got some coffee for my wine-muddled head, the Olive and I searched the car for her missing shoe (found!) and my iPhone (found, but at my friend's house in Maryland from the night before. Oops.), drew with chalk on the deck, shared a banana, and pondered the rest of our day.

We ended up having a casual breakfast at Pound, the new coffeehouse I'd been to on Saturday. Their patio was surprisingly deserted, so we had it all to ourselves to share egg and cheese paninis, sip espresso, climb on and off the metal benches a hundred times, and watch the birds and squirrels in the tree canopy above us. Next, a trip to a favorite playground in hopes of encouraging an afternoon nap. The Olive can climb up the ramp of the slide by herself now, a trick she's been wanting to master since she could walk, watching the big kids and trying it over and over again. There was also plenty of running and jumping, because dang, that kid can run. Fast, and often.

 

Our next stop was Eastern Market, where my girl picked out a bouquet of pink snapdragons for me. She picked them for the color; what she doesn't know is that they look like the ones my mother used to grow in our garden in Santa Fe. A little grocery shopping for the week, some tastes of apple at the farmer's market, and back home for lunch. I got the patio umbrella out, brought the food outside, so we didn't have to go inside just yet.

That one glass of wine too many caught up to me at naptime, and Seth got the Olive to sleep by taking her for a ride in the car, then eased her back into the house and into her bed, while I got to lounge in bed and try to doze for a couple of hours. It was enough so that I was ready again for my girl when she woke from her nap and called for me. We had snacks, played with Play Doh, then (of course) back outside again for more digging and gardening, and some wandering around the block to pick up every stick. We had the luxury of nowhere to be and nothing to do, because my husband was cooking me dinner. I love to cook, but it wears on you when you do it all the time, and you have to feed small people who cannot wait to eat at 8:30 pm and would prefer macaroni to blanquette de veau. Having someone else (anyone!) cook a meal for me feels like the ultimate indulgence these days.

We ate outside again, drinking in the weather and the cool white wine, watching the Olive slurp spaghetti, taste the veal piccatta, shovel in creamed spinach (!), and eat her body weight in watermelon. It started to rain just at the end of dinner, but we stayed out there anyhow, under the umbrella, getting just a little damp in the passing showers. I got to play with my girl some more, and then break the news to her that our lovely day was over, and it was time to go upstairs for bath and bed.

I am always both a little relieved and a little sad when I have put my girl to bed at the end of the day. Relieved, because man, she's two and can be quite exhausting; but sad, because I miss her company. The sadness is always more pronounced on a Sunday night, because the weekend and my time of having her greedily to myself is over. The working day looms.

Exhausted, but satisfied, I went to bed and put off the reality of Sunday night with one more indulgence: my new Kindle. Holy shit, my husband (and daughter, nominally) got me a KINDLE for Mother's Day. The big Kindle, with the 9.75 inch screen and the 3G. I still can't believe it. We just did an iPad hand-me-down - Seth's mom got a new one, she gave Seth her old one, and I got Seth's. I was chugging along quite happily with the Kindle app. Even if I did covet the non-reflective, high-contrast, real book look of the Kindle, I was only going to drool at them online and not actually buy one.

 

You know why he said he got it for me? "Because you like to sit outside on the deck at Martha's Vineyard and read. And you can't read with the iPad outside. I know how much you like to do that." I still don't know what to say, and I haven't thanked him enough. I am grateful and humbled for this sweet man who somehow loves me so, in all my prickly and temperamental glory.

The Kindle is, of course, AMAZING (3,500 books! In my hand!). But the best gift this weekend was simply time. Just enough time to myself. Relaxed time with all three of us. Easy, easy lovely time with my girl. Who is ever more fun to be, as we talk and truly do things together now. The ordinary indulgence of time - there is never enough.

Denial is a river in Egypt and a necessity of birthdays

It's that time of year again. My birthday! I have always loved my birthday. Once again, I have managed quite well to stretch it out to a celebration lasting more than one day. My in-laws visited for the weekend, which made it possible for me to: (1) cook us all a really awesome dinner one night; (2) go out! After dark! With my husband! To a bar! With friends! Where we drank beer! And talked! We actually couldn't remember the last time we just went to a bar; (3) go out for a second night! To a hip restaurant! With friends! Drinking really good margaritas! and (4) go out shopping. In Georgetown. ALONE. I spent too much at Anthropologie, and rationalized it with the 15% birthday discount card, and enjoyed the hell out of it. I also got a much-coveted present from my husband and in-laws - one of these gorgeous camera bags, which I can't wait to get my greedy paws on. Today, on the actual day, I'm going out to dinner yet again, with my guy and my girl, to our favorite neighborhood spot, where we can all eat fries and share a milkshake and have good drinks and a good time.

 
Oyamel margarita. Slurp.

However, one thing has finally happened. I swore it never would, but it did. I am in total denial about my age. It's *whisper* thirty-um-yeah-um-cough-eight *whisper*. I still don't know when these things happen because I am still maybe like 25 in my head. And I sure think I look good for my age, maybe not 25, but younger than the number says. And if you don't think so, you'd better just lie your ass off, please. Because I'm feeling strangely embarassed to be that old. Shite.

It's just a number, that's all. I'm choosing to put it aside, ignore it for the most part. Just like I am also largely ignoring the fact that the Olive woke up with a runny nose yesterday, clearly feeling distinctly unwell, and that there's a suspicious cold-like tickle in my throat. I am ignoring the suspiciously increasing number of silver strands on my head, and the ache in my foot that tells me a podiatrist visit is due. I am ignoring that it's 32 and snowy and icy on my day, after being nearly 70 and sunny last week.

Because it's easy to ignore all those smallish things, when I spent three days listening to my daughter laugh and shriek with unfettered joy while playing with her grandparents, who have the most amazing patience and creativity with her. When I had time to read an old favorite book in front of the fire in my beautiful and creaky old DC rowhouse. When I got to go out with just my husband, laugh with friends, and feel like it was several years ago, in the lovely, adventuresome days of just us two. When I am overwhelmed by the number of people wishing me happy birthday on Facebook and text message; I know we all have electronic reminders of all this, but still, my friends took that moment to do it. When my daughter sang a happy birthday song to me this morning. I am lucky, so lucky, no matter what the number is.