Quality Time

"His account of fiction-reading as “quality time” builds on the feminist ethnographer Janice Radway’s counterintuitive 1984 thesis that clawing back time from housework to read romances asserted women’s right to an inner life. No matter how patriarchal the content of their pulp paperbacks, Midwestern housewives made the act of sitting down with a book revolutionary."

            -Leah Price, NYT Book Review, 10/19/21, re. 'Everything and Less' by Mark McGurl

Whoa.

This made me pause, and eased something in me.  I have been thinking a lot - a LOT - these past two years (two years!! more, actually) of how we value our time and ourselves.  The pandemic pulled the rug out from under us and left us in limbo, blah blah, collective trauma blah blah. I'm not AT ALL diminishing the pain of this experience but I am so tired of this still being true and trite and yet there it is.  I want a different damn story.

(Gotta redirect before I head down the Twilight Zone path noting 1,000,000 deaths in the USA while folks around me blithely take their masks off, oh wait, they never wore them)

Here's the point.  I stopped working when the schools shut down in March 2020.  And by "working" I mean at a paying job, because hey, I was still working to take care of my kids and myself and my house and so forth.  But that's not "work" in any validated way.  So that was ok for a while, we could manage financially, I got unemployment, my days were relatively full, it was new enough that a time out still seemed temporary.  But.  But.  You know what happened, right, it wasn't actually temporary, it's STILL going on! 

So.  The kids went back to school, and I did not go back to work.  I didn't need to go out and get a cashier gig or some such, and we had (have?) plans to travel, to build a house, to do things with life that made it impractical to get a meaningful job.  And there's the rub:  how to find meaning?  Why are we here, what is life all about, sing it Eric Idle.  Let me dust off my philosophy degree (or we could just watch The Good Life?).

If I sit around for an hour and read the newspaper or a literary book, that's a good use of time.  If I practice music or exercise, that's a good use of time.  Go for a hike, good. Clean the house,  good.  If I watch TV or read schlocky fiction, that feels like a waste of time, almost shameful, right up there with day drinking (...it's 5:00 somewhere...).  But why??

What is the value of one hour of my life?  Or all the hours?  Why is it better to do something productive or practical - wouldn't I rather hang out in a hammock for an hour than scrub the bathroom?  So why does that feel wrong?  I can read Thoreau and the Idler and all the stuff about slowing down and self-care and meditation and agree but it still *feels* wrong.

Actually, the productive and practical stuff makes a little more sense.  The newspaper v. TV is harder for me to parse.  Or even playing music - because there is no end goal or benefit in a practical sense, I'm not going to be a professional, so why is that a better way to spend time than just lazing about listening to a podcast?  This is not a new or profound question, and I'm sure there are some very thoughtful answers out there about high/low culture and of course it all comes back in some way to the damn Christo-fascist white supremacist patriarchy, that's the new roads leading to Rome thing, but I'm just trying to find my own internal guideposts.

Basically I'm looking at myself and my place on this planet and in this society and feeling pretty nihilistic.  But also optimistic?  

I had somewhere I wanted to go with this, and there is a lot swirling around in my mind, but these days I have trouble focusing and articulating my thoughts. There's a whole midlife crisis peri-menopausal meaningful work/identity abyss piece that ties in. Finding the thread, or weaving together the various threads, seems out of reach.  Maybe I'll come back to it, and over time, will be able to tease it out more effectively.  To get back to the original quote:  thank you, Janice Radway, via this book review.  Asserting my right to an inner life is the validation I didn't know I needed.  

Rage, Rage, Against the Dying of Our Rights

The SCOTUS draft leak re. reversing Roe v. Wade is all over the news and social media.  I don't really have anything to add to the discourse, certainly no expert angle or insight or analysis, just parroting those I've read and respect, and fuming at those I don't.  

I feel outraged, angry, infuriated, fill-in-your-Roget-of-choice.  And incredibly sad.  And terrified.  And frustrated.  And hopeless, which in some ways is the worst.  Because I'm not likely to be personally impacted by any new laws; I'll always have the ability (by which I mostly mean money, along with white cishet privilege) to take care of myself.  All this storm-the-gates-and-lock-arms-and-get-arrested energy has nowhere to go.  So we march, again, and nothing happens, again?  How many fucking posters with clever slogans can I paint?  Why bother?  What substantive actions are there here for me?  Why can't I find them?  (Typo-ed that as fund them, which is actually one useful thing I do.)  Ok, go vote, yes, of course, of course, but when the people we vote for aren't actually doing the things we voted them in to do, what then?  Calls and letters, no signs that they're making a difference.  Not to mention voter suppression in the places it matters most.  This country is off the rails, headed exactly in the direction we've been promised, no surprises here, actually.  And the hypocrisy continues to be stunning.

This is bleak.  There are signs of light, of fight, of promise.  And the occasional cleansing dog with a hula hoop, or beaver having a birthday at the zoo.  

Justice Alito cited Matthew Hale, a 17th century jurist who supported marital rape and sentenced women to death for witchcraft.

Misinformation and disinformation are rampant and dangerous.  Thankful for those putting out accurate info.  A fetus is not a person, and a coat hanger is not necessary.

Ben Franklin included a recipe for an abortifacient in a popular math textbook (via Molly Farrell in Slate, 5/5/22)

Anyone should be able to get a safe, affordable abortion for any damn reason at all, and it's nobody's business.  It's just healthcare.  And it's just one piece of the reproductive freedom/justice picture.

Things are already dire in several states, for women, for POC, for LGBTQ folx, especially trans youth.

This is the civil rights movement of our age.  

Flash Fiction

From Rebecca Makkai's daily writing prompts on twitter (#365prompts)

Day 62:  No one knows where this underwear in the living room came from. We just did laundry, and there it was, in the basket, but it's not ours.  So...?  Laundry at home, not a laundromat, so that's not an answer.  No recent sleepovers for the kids, but even so, this is a big pair of granny panties with unicorns on them.  Not likely to belong to pre-teen boys (no judgment, I'm just talking about the size here). It's quite disconcerting.  Should we post it to NextDoor?

Day 63:  Patricia admits, mid-dinner party, to believing in Bigfoot.  "Look, when you find a pair of panties this big in your living room *and* there are the giant footprints outside, well, if it quacks like a duck...!"  Argument ensued over the likelihood of Bigfoot's underwear choices or even wearing any at all - but not over his (her? their?) presumed existence.  Hm.  

Day 64:  The same purple bicycle has been locked to a bike rack at the edge of campus since 1997. If you were observing it carefully, you'd notice the occasional shimmer in the air nearby, and suddenly you'd see a person where you're pretty sure nobody had been a moment ago.  This person would invariably be dressed oddly, just a bit off the norm, as if they were a tourist who'd read about local customs but not quite gotten them right.  Since the development of in-home fabric recyclers, it's gotten harder and harder to come by the old stuff.  Thrift stores have had to go underground and museums have snapped up the best of what's left.  Even so, visitors cobble an outfit together and find their way to the purple bike, for an adventure in the past.

Day 72:  The genie who lives in the Arizona Iced Tea bottle is kind of trashy.  Can't even keep track of their unicorn underwear, dammit.

Day 79:  Hector's first Scrabble championship is off to a worrisome start.  He thought he'd had it all figured out, studying the dictionary, learning all those words-that-aren't-really-words (come on, nobody says "za" for pizza, it's ridiculous, language is alive and all that but there are limits), working through the mental math of triple word scores... he's got this.  And then.  Well.  Then he sits down at the board, makes respectful eye contact with his opponent (more on her later), and goes completely blank.  Like, completely.  Beyond blank.  He draws his tiles and doesn't recognize a single squiggle on them.  

Day 85:  The Botanic Garden benefit ends in bloodshed.  Women run, screaming, tripping over their heels and sprawling, hats flying off, pearl necklaces flying apart.  A deep voice laughs:  it is the plant at the heart of the mayhem, a "new" species the Garden Club was so proud of, a relative of the Venus fly trap but oh, they did not realize that they would be the flies!  

Day 89:  After all these years, Mia is finally learning to play the accordion.  Her grandfather left it to her, and it's been in the closet, gathering dust and layers of guilt, ever since.  

Um... hello?

 Yikes.  I knew it had been a long time since I'd written/posted, but I hadn't realized it was quite that long. Almost 10 years.  So many ramblings in my head that could have been written down for... who?  Why?  Turns out as we move more and more into a put-it-all-out-there world, that's not what I want.  But obviously it's not just a diary I want, either, or I wouldn't be typing this online.  Hmm.  

I guess it's really for me, but also with a sprinkling of accountability, sort of.  That's not quite right, since nobody is holding me accountable, but knowing other people *might* read it keeps it a level above cringeworthy (I hope!).  But man, why anybody would want a Twitter etc account with hundreds or thousands or millions of followers is beyond me.  I just want a few friendly folks to laugh at my jokes and share in my rage and withhold judgment.  

In the Lynda Barry and Austin Kleon and Neil Gaiman way of the world, the thing is worth doing for itself, and may turn out to lead down some unexpected and worthwhile paths.  So here we are.  Again.

Oh, but I don't eat as much cheese anymore, sadly.  

-xoxo- 

Happy New Year

Well, I admit I feel a certain compulsion to write something today, but I don't know what.  Not an end-of-year reflection or highlight reel.*  Not resolutions.  Not anything especially meaningful; I just want to mark the day.  Too many days have gone by unnoticed, just like every other day, and sometimes it seems important to step out of that routine.

So.  Another jaunt round the sun, and here we are.  Not just another day, even though it was just another day.  A little tricky to explain why we celebrate to my little one.  He is more excited about it being our dog's birthday - bacon cake!  At least I can watch the celebrations somewhere further east so I don't have to stay up until midnight.  Hooray, it's already 2014 in most of the world!

Ok, I think that's what I've got for now.  After all, tomorrow is another day.

Here's to peace, joy, love, and adventure.

Happy new year, y'all.


*but maybe outtakes, the blooper reel?  I'll think about that.

Bikini Lines

Spring has sprung, at least according to the sunshine and flowers, and all the flesh on display around town.  Although I'm not a prude, I always surprise myself by being slightly shocked when we go from bundled-up to spaghetti straps and short shorts.  People just seem so naked after a winter of layers.  It  takes me a little while to adjust, and then bring on the sundresses!

Except.  This year I've still got my post-baby body flapping around.  It irritates me constantly because nothing fits, and then as soon as something does fit, it all changes again.  Grump.  And I hate shopping - maybe because I've always had a hard time finding clothes that fit well and look good.  But even more, I hate that our celebrity-obsessed society does its best to make us feel like crap if we don't look a certain way.  Lots of folks have written about this (and yet plenty of girls are stressed and starving themselves) (yes, some boys too), so here's my angle:

The Aztecs (I think it was them, anyway) used to treat women giving birth as warriors, with all the respect and admiration and recognition of courage and danger it involved.  That's sort of how I feel - more than the beautiful new-age images of dolphins leaping and flowers blooming, birth is sweaty and messy and scary and angry and loud and wonderful and painful and bloody.  And we should wear that with pride:  Look at this body - these stretch marks, this flappy belly, these saggy oversized boobs - they created life!  From scratch!  Fuck yeah!

Instead of looking for clothes that flow and drape and cover, I want to go out into the world in a skimpy outfit and be admired for it.  I don't want to rush from locker room to swimming pool, but to strut proudly.  This should always be true, regardless of the cause for the shape, but in this case I want everyone to know, because it's a big deal.  I should wear that bumper sticker:  I'm so crafty, I make people.  These are my battle scars, my medals of honor, and I want them to be seen in that light.  Look upon this body and feel awe!

Lives to be Lived

I just got around to reading the final 2012 issue of the NY Times magazine; they always end the year with "The Lives They Lived," a collection of bios of people who died that year.  It's a good mix of interesting lives, some that ended too soon (the Beasties' Adam Yauch) and some right on time ("Oh, God, there are so many beautiful things in the world which I will have to leave when I die, but I'm ready, I'm ready, I'm ready." --Maurice Sendak).  Didn't seem like there were any that went on too long - but that's a topic for another post, another day.

Mostly extraordinary folks, with a smattering of more ordinary.  But the thing that I kept thinking as I read was that every one of them started out as a little baby, perfect and innocent and with a whole life ahead of them.  (No, this is not going to segue into anything about Newtown or related incidents, though that was mentioned in the magazine too.  It's just too sad, there's nothing I can add to that except more heartbreak and anger, which is not where I want to go with this post.)  All those people were once a tiny bundle of need, of adorable, of instinct and emotion and raw materials. Someone took the time to feed them and respond to their cries and find tiny socks to fill their tiny toes with sock fuzz, to watch them grow, to clean up their poop, and, hopefully, to surround them with love.

And those babies responded by transforming.  Their baby survival tactics (be cute and be loud!) got them through those first months, got them standing on their own two feet and making their way in the world.  And they made good choices and bad choices, and they continued to grow and change and become, reacting and learning and adapting to the world around them.  Until they got to the end, and we read about them in the paper, and reflected on their lives and our own.

As I stare at my own baby, now 3 months old, with his oh-so-kissable chubby cheeks and enormous grin and quivering lips and grasping fingers - and I do stare, all the time, all day long, and there is no better view in the world - that's what I see:  a whole life of possibility ahead.  He's still so totally unformed (and yet so perfectly formed, right down to the eyelashes and ear folds; how does that happen?  It's completely ridiculous and amazing and miraculous.  Go biology!) - even my 3-year-old has begun to narrow his paths simply by becoming who he is, so far removed from the babe he once was.  (Nature?  Nurture?  Surely some of both, and we may never know the difference)

I realize this is no great insight, that all adults were once babies, that all babies have a future wide open ahead of them (well, some have more width in their future than others; once again, another post...).  But I just can't stop thinking about it, thinking back on the paths that all those written about took.  About how it all comes back to a tiny seed, bursting with hope and joy and wonder.  Something so small - accidental, even, in some cases, and really hard work in others - turns into something so great.  Who will you be, little man?  As Dr. Seuss says: "You are you, and that's truer than true!"

Life Cycle 101

Turns out it's much easier for me to talk to my toddler about my vagina than about death.

They're both just biology, as far as I'm concerned, but when answering questions about birth, I can point to body parts and pictures and draw on analogies (it's just like the tube slide at the park!) and concrete answers (hopefully the baby won't land in the potty, but someone - the doctor?  your papa?  will catch him when he comes out).  Death?  Not so easy.

We've had a few neighborhood pets (a bunny, a cat, a dog) get put down this summer, very old and sick and not unexpected, but well-loved beings who were a regular part of our lives.  So the questions still come up:  'Where's ____?  Where did she go?  Why won't she be back?"  Hmm.  And we also visited some older relatives who are struggling with their health, which brought up related questions.  How to explain without making it too scary?  I don't want to compare it to sleep, and I don't want to focus too much on how it will happen to everyone.  I'm not going to say things I don't believe - she's chasing rabbits in doggy heaven! - that pretend it's a happy ending.  Of course we can't know for sure what happens, and I'll allow that there are more things on heaven and earth, etc. etc., but basically things just stop.  What does that mean to an almost-3-year-old?

It even comes up in silly little ways:  Harry, the dirty dog, plays dead in the story.  He lies there without moving.  No, that bee can't sting you - it's dead.  That means the body stops working.  Why?  The blood stops flowing, oxygen doesn't make it to the brain... as the science gets complicated, it starts being ridiculous and unhelpful to try and explain.  Hey!  Was that a helicopter?  Do you want some ice cream?  Let's go to the park!  Topic successfully evaded once again.

And birth?  To quote:  "That's just silly!"  I can't say I disagree.  (okay, okay, also wondrous and amazing, but come on, y'all)

WARNING. CAUTION. ATTENTION.

Do not inhale helium.  Helium reduces and can eliminate oxygen available for breathing.  Inhaling helium can result in serious personal injury or death.


Inks used on this balloon conform to government standards that relate to children's toys.  Keep dry.  Water can cause the inks to bleed.  


This balloon may conduct electricity.  Do not release outdoors.  Do not use near power lines.  Misuse may cause personal injury.


Not suitable for children under 36 months due to potential small parts.

All this on a single happy-face balloon from the dollar store.  Repeat in French for full effect.  Ideally with a chipmunk voice from having inhaled helium.  God bless America!


*     *     *     *     
Side note:  100 posts!  Huzzah!

You can lead a horticulture, but you can't make her think

Oh, Texas.  You've done it again.  You gave us Six Flags and Austin City Limits, so it ain't all bad, but when it's bad, it's really really bad.  Yup, we're talking about education.  The recent news about the Republican plans for the state that unfortunately influences schools across the nation.  Some of their brilliant ideas for improving things?

-Allow teachers more latitude with discipline, because corporal punishment can be quite effective.

I guess in a state that hands out the death penalty so often, violence is the answer.  Reminds me of when I taught in New Mexico and had parents offer to write me a note giving me permission to hit their kid because that's how they did it at home and that's the only way to make 'em pay attention.  Um, no, actually, we don't do things that way, sorry, but thanks for your help, always good to get the families involved.  I guess it's better than the ones that didn't show up or answer calls at all.  But those were awkward conversations, and I'm sad to say they happened more than once.

-Stop teaching higher-order/critical thinking skills, because they will cause students to question their fixed beliefs and undermine parental authority.

WTF, Lone Star?  This is like all those people who vote for a guy they want at their bbq, instead of someone who comes off as a snob.  You know what?  I want the president (or any politician, really) - the leader of the free world, the commander-in-chief of one of the most powerful nations - to be a heck of a lot smarter than I am!  Sure, fine, let's knock back a beer and a burger, be a (wo)man of the people, but really, just have your shit together for your job.  Same goes for the future of our world:  these kids are going to grow up and face a heap of trouble, and I want them to be able to think creatively and problem-solve their way through the mess we leave behind.  Make good choices.  Pay attention to the world around you and be able to react in ways that make it better.  Why would parents not want that for their kids?

As much as I've been irritated at the media for inciting the red-blue divide in a land that's much more purple, and as much as I believe we all really do have more in common than not, these are the moments that make me wonder how we can possibly make it as truly united states.  There are just some divides that seem impossible to cross.  Maybe if I went to Texas and talked to those folks, we could find a way to understand each other, but this just seems like such a fundamentally different way of being in the world.  I hope it turns out to be all talk, and that the people who are in the classroom and making the real decisions make the right ones.

Legend has it that Dorothy Parker was asked to use the word "horticulture" in a sentence, and replied with my title.  This news reminded me of her response, but I've gotta say, I've got a higher opinion of the ladies in that profession than the men (pretty sure they were, mostly anyway) who spouted forth this garbage in the name of progress and better education.  Yee-haw.

Flip. Flop!

(a 5-minute quickwrite from summertime 2009)

Flip.  Flop.  Freedom.

Sweet release from a winter’s worth of smelly closet.

Ahh.

Shuffle shuffle shuffle – sunshine. 

Hot pavement.  Splintery boardwalk.  Sand.

Abandoned, as the feet fly into the water, oh so blue.

Flip.  Flop.  Fish!

Priceless protection for pattering pads

$3 thongs – can shove into a bag

travel the world and the neighborhood

flippin’ and floppin’ – man, life is good.

Kicked off at the hammock, the beach, and inside.

Let those feet breathe, dance, slip and slide!

2011

A very incomplete and haphazard look back...

1.  I made my first hard cheese!  Sort of.  Well, I did make it, but it didn't quite turn out how I'd hoped.  It was a farmhouse cheddar, made with the brilliant press my brilliant husband made.  I fretted and fussed about whether it was aging properly, if the temperature was right, if the humidity was controlled, what about adding a damp sponge, what are those spots, are they mold, should I worry, but cheese is just mold after all... and then it turned out, and it was actually edible!  But a tad odd, flavor-wise, maybe over-aged.  So we were going to cook with it, get creative, but then we didn't, and it sat in the fridge, and then it did get moldy.  After all that misplaced bother, I ruined the cheese at the easiest part and my glory went with it.  Stuck to soft cheeses after that, but there's always next year.

2.  We chased ducks.  Frequently.  With great enthusiasm.

3.  More fun with fermentation... inspired by Sandor Katz, I harvested wild yeast for an Ethiopian honey-wine, and made a control mead as a comparison.  It was very exciting when the bubbles started appearing in the vapor-lock, and I was so good about taking daily notes, being scientific about it - until I wasn't.  They are still sitting in my cupboard, far too many months later.  I have no idea what lives in those bottles now.  They don't look or smell scary, but somehow I don't think they're just getting better with age.  If I ever brave it, I'll post my results.

4.  We chased sheep, too.  And had wagon rides.

5.  Took students on a field trip up to Portland.  We ate from food trucks and felt very urban.

6.  I did lots of yoga, and felt good about myself.  Then I did much less yoga and felt less good.  Cause, or correlation?  Now I'm getting back into it, spurred on by my two-year-old who loves to do downward dog and happy baby, and has invented ocean pose (standing with feet wide, chest forward, arms back, goofy smile).

7.  Two weeks in Europe, cha-cha-cha.  A remote Alpine village and the Eternal City.  With family, food, and fun.  What's not to love?

8.  Summertime:  the park, the hands-on science museum, biking with the trailer, playing in the fountains, hiking at the lake, eating ice cream.  Oh, and rafting!  And a toddler campout, whoo-hoo!  And we borrowed a friend's campervan - oh, the memories.  It was lovely.  Next summer:  back to backpacking.

9.  We picked fourteen pounds of blueberries!  Still making smoothies with them.

10.  Outrage at the world alive and kickin' with a little help from Jon Stewart.   Can't tell you how often I find myself saying, "we saw this guy on the Daily Show..."  I do also catch NPR occasionally and read the Sunday NY Times.  (I share a subscription with 3 neighbors, so there's actually incentive to get up early to get the sections I want first.  That would be the Review and Styles.  And then I get the magazine after everyone else because I like to do the crossword, but they tend to stack up, adding to the general clutter in our house.  It's a good system, overall, though we've never managed to sit together, drinking coffee and discussing what we read.  Someday.)

11.  Learned to play the ukelele.  My debut performance, a duet with my man at our neighborhood open mic:  "In Spite of Ourselves" by John Prine and Iris DeMent.

12.  Back to school for everyone.  Rapped about US history (I'll post that soon) and challenged my students to an Iron Chef contest.  Reaffirmed how good The Outsiders is to read with kids.

13.  Was an Emerald Citizen for Halloween, as part of an Oz group.  My little one was the Lion, and his buddies were the rest of the crew.  We had some princess and witch mamas, too.  It's the kind of thing I swore I'd never do, but I love the parade and it's no fun if you're not in costume, and it was pretty sweet, actually.  Still won't dress up my dog, though.  With the occasional antler exception.

14.  Drumming!  Mostly taiko.

15.  Kicking ass at Celebrity, which is always super-fun, and not actually about the score.  For some reason Jesus shows up in every game - maybe we should read something deeper in that?

Happy New Year!

Stolen Moments

(there's gotta be a million things with that title...kinda makes me want to track them down)

I'm supposed to be somewhere else, doing something else.  Nobody knows I'm here.  Nobody knows what I'm not doing.  It's a rare quiet moment to myself, a moment that feels not-quite-naughty, and oh-so-nice.  I'm enjoying the silence, and the ability to focus on one thing or let my mind wander, as I please, without the constant peripheral scan that is toddlerhood filling the space.  It's just me filling the space, or not filling it.  I know that later I'll regret not having used this time more productively, but right now, this is worth it.  I so rarely get to be irresponsible anymore.

It's delicious.

Two

Just over two years ago, my boy came into the world and everything changed. The biggest surprise is how much fun we're having, how entertaining this toddler is. And the part that was expected but is no less powerful because of it is how profoundly I love him, and how something in my soul has shifted to embrace this new role.

I've read a lot about other people's experiences - some heartwarming, some heartbreaking, some that bring on the giggles, some that make you tear your hair out. In one way or another, they're all cliches, no matter how well-written, but they're all also very true. I don't know that I have any new words to add to this, so here are a few of my kid's instead (and you'll get a feel for what tickles us pink, not to mention our generation, as we train our own personal Teddy Ruxpin - it's a great feedback cycle, because he likes to make us laugh, which then makes him laugh, and on and on):

"Stop! Hammertime!"

"Ice ice baby"

"A palpable hit"

"Need more marmite please"

"Hello salaam konnichiwa-wa"

"Baila baila"

"Zola come!"

(responding to "Who you gonna call?") "Ghostbusters"

And of course all the usual daily conversation and quoting and chattering to himself. The way he is growing his language is just fascinating. Life is a play-by-play, with lots of repetition from him and demanded from us, and it amazes me how he puts together new sentences and draws connections across contexts and even time. He absorbs the books we read and the songs we sing and counts pretty well and is starting on the abc's. I'm beginning to understand what's behind Rosetta Stone, though I've never actually tried their system.

The part you can't tell from reading this is the adorably hilarious way he says things, pronounced not quite right, and possibly not even intelligible if you don't hang out with him a lot. (This would be one of those cliches - every baby talks cute and funny, right? - that we marvel at despite their triteness. Just because it's not new in the world doesn't mean it's not new in our world. And better, cuter, funnier than all the other babies.) I've never managed to capture it well (where are you when I need you, phonics?!) and I'd rather not do it wrong, but I hope I remember it. I may have to try for some audio recordings. It's almost more about the emphasis and pacing than the sounds, actually.

And he still uses sign language all the time, which I love and hope we continue. And all sorts of other things are happening - climbing, riding, painting, swinging, picking tomatoes, throwing balls, being naked, eating, chasing the dog, counting, singing, hugging, napping, waking up, seeing friends, playing outside, doing puzzles, fun running....it's kind of an awesome life.

I don't know where I'm going with this - I just wanted to mark the occasion in some way. It's a big freaking deal (my language monitor has kicked into overdrive; it used to just be on at school and off at home, but hearing my toddler shout "HOLY CRAP" forced me to pay a little more attention to what comes out of my mouth) (though I do snicker when the sailor talk sneaks out) (and now I've even lost track of where this sentence was going...). The days of afternoon whiskey tastings and lazy mornings sleeping in are on hold for a while. But the snuggles and dancing and hanging out are pretty awesome.

He tries to climb back in to my belly sometimes, and it just ain't gonna happen. He's out for good, so watch out, world!

30DSC-3: A Song That Makes You Happy

(yes, hello, here I am again, the time, she flies, the blog, she lays fallow...)

A song that makes me happy? There's lots of those. I even made a mix once upon a time called "The Happymaking Mix," but I'm not sure I can remember what's on it. I may be able to find it somewhere, but I may not - in an episode that did not make me happy, my car was broken into and things were stolen, mixtapes among them.

This was years ago, when I was on my way to Boston from Denver via New Orleans. I was visiting a friend and parking was an issue - I found a place where I could legally (and for free, except not really, in the end) leave my car for a few days. I checked on it regularly and made merry, listening to live jazz and planning alternate life paths: a job building floats at Mardi Gras world and living a short ferry ride across the Ol' Miss in a sleepy, beautiful historic district....I still wish I had stayed, sometimes.

But then I checked on my car and found the window broken! The horror! See, everything I owned at this point was in my car. My whole material life. A nice yellow chair (which we still have and love) and several bags of clothes and miscellany. I lost my favorite hiking pack which traveled across Europe and a handful of mountains with me, a Gregory pack which they no longer made. Every time I take the new one out, I lament this loss. I lost all the clothes inside of that pack, nothing I can specifically remember except that now and again I wonder why I can't find a certain hat or shirt and then realize they were in that bag. And a case full of tapes, mostly mixtapes, completely irreplaceable. None of that stuff was worth much except to me - ain't that always the way?

I called it in, with low expectations of the N.O. P.D., who lived up to their name. Insult to injury? I got a parking ticket (in a different spot, one with a broken digital meter that didn't display how much time remained) the morning I left town. You can imagine how I took that - in pieces, with swearing and stomping calmed only by a last beignet from the Cafe du Monde. Oh, but they weren't done with me - they tracked me down, in a new state that didn't match my driver's license or car info (still registered in CO). I wrote them back, explaining the whole thing, down to the broken meter, very politely. They sent a new bill, doubled. I wrote again, less politely. They sent a new bill, doubled again, with threats of a collection agency. I swore a whole bunch more and wrote them a damn check.

And I still love New Orleans, and long for the life I might have had, though I've never been back.

Um. So. A song that makes me happy? Let's go with "Life Is Beautiful" by Keb Mo, because I heard it at the end of a movie last night and it moved me in a way no song has done for a long time. Possibly because most of what I listen to these days is aimed at the under-2 crowd. To be fair, many of those are songs that make me happy. How can you not be happy about tap-dancing rhinoceri?

But I'll stick with the Keb Mo for my answer. Let's go dancing on the juke-joint floor...

30DSC-2: Least Favorite Song

Another ridiculous one. But easier, I suppose, than the favorite. I'll just go with the first response that popped into my head: anything by Alanis Morissette. So whiny and irritating, at least that's my memory of it, since I haven't actually listened to anything by her since "Ironic" was on the radio all the time.

When I was in high school and college and actually paying attention to music, I was kind of a snob about it. I was quick to dismiss bands as bad (all the fruit ones - Blind Melon, Lemonhead, the Cranberries - oh how I mocked my hallmate for her Smashing Pumpkins habit) or embrace unlikely ones as great (Skinny Puppy, anyone?), especially if it might move me up a notch in certain eyes. I've become much more generous in my old age, thinking less about the image and more about my own enjoyment. So there's really nothing on my iPod that embarrasses me, not even the Little Mermaid soundtrack ("everything's better down where it's wetter, take it from me!").

I'm almost tempted to go give Alanis a listen now, but I just can't shake the memory of how annoyed I would get. Nothing personal, but I'm not sure even my new forgiving ears could take it - ironic, eh?

30DSC-1: Your Favorite Song

Well, that's just a ridiculous question. Last time I looked at our music library, iTunes showed that we have something like 24 days worth of music, if played nonstop (it's on our other computer, or I'd check the exact numbers). 576 hours. 34, 560 minutes. That's more than 10,000 songs. Ten thousand! And that's just the music we actually own. How could I possibly have one favorite song, for all my moods, for all times of day, for my stuck-on-a-desert-island mishap?

I have a thing against repetition, too, so even the songs I love become otherwise if I listen to them too much. The radio (how quaint!) has ruined many a song for me this way. (This is potentially a problem with a small child who is all about repetition, but that's neither here nor there.)

But not answering at all is a copout, so here is my right-now answer to this question, with signs posted about the right to change my mind as often as I want.

[...tick...tock....tick...tock... This is harder than I thought, coming up with one song I'm willing to claim as my favorite. Even just a favorite. I'm back to "this is ridiculous," but still want to choose something... tick...tock...]

Ok: "I Will Survive" by Gloria Gaynor. Of all the songs that ran through my head just now, this is the one that I cannot listen to without singing along, without turning up the volume, without getting up and dancing/acting out. Many other songs are better in many ways - I wouldn't actually want to listen to this right now - and I know I didn't even think of many songs that would live up to the label of favorite, but it'll do.

And hey, maybe the underlying empowerment message would get me through the dark days under that lone palm tree.

30 Day Song Challenge!

Today was the last day of school for me, and I may have to get on the annual obligatory blasting of Alice Cooper (after the baby wakes up, that is), although I don't quite feel that same sense of release this year.

I made a mix cd for the kids in my class, and I was tempted to put "School's Out" on there, but gave in to my better, more adult self (or perhaps simply to the fear that a few of the parents wouldn't take kindly to it). It was really nice to spend a couple hours just listening to music, my music, not baby music (even the good stuff gets old). To pay attention to it as more than just background, to sink into the memories and stories that go along with each song. So I thought I'd use the Facebook song challenge as an opportunity to do more of that. It'll take me more than 30 days, and I hear the kid waking up now, so I won't even start, but here's the list so I can get back to it as I have time:

day 01 - your favorite song
day 02 - your least favorite song
day 03 - a song that makes you happy
day 04 - a song that makes you sad
day 05 - a song that reminds you of someone
day 06 - a song that reminds you of somewhere
day 07 - a song that reminds you of a certain event
day 08 - a song that you know all the words to
day 09 - a song that you can dance to
day 10 - a song that makes you fall asleep
day 11 - a song from your favorite band
day 12 - a song from a band you hate
day 13 - a song that is a guilty pleasure
day 14 - a song that no one would expect you to love
day 15 - a song that describes you
day 16 - a song that you used to love but now hate
day 17 - a song that you hear often on the radio
day 18 - a song that you wish you heard on the radio
day 19 - a song from your favorite album
day 20 - a song that you listen to when you’re angry
day 21 - a song that you listen to when you’re happy
day 22 - a song that you listen to when you’re sad
day 23 - a song that you want to play at your wedding
day 24 - a song that you want to play at your funeral
day 25 - a song that makes you laugh
day 26 - a song that you can play on an instrument
day 27 - a song that you wish you could play
day 28 - a song that makes you feel guilty
day 29 - a song from your childhood
day 30 - your favorite song at this time last year

18 Months

Hey baby – you had your half-birthday last week, on May 4. A year-and-a-half old.. Not sure why this date seems like more of a milestone than 17 or 19 months, but it does, and here we are. I think I’ve finally gotten beyond feeling surprised that we have a baby, and now it’s just life.

Though you’re not really a baby anymore. You’re a full-blown toddler, a real boy, with a pretty awesome personality and a lot to say. Toddler isn’t even the right word, because it doesn’t show how fast you bounce when you zoom around (zoomtoddle?), or the shock on your face when you trip over your own feet and go splat, or the joy you find in being alive.

I look at pictures from the early days, and I’ve already forgotten what that’s like. So I want to try and capture a little bit of you who are now, even though I know I can’t get it all down. In theory I prefer living life to recording it, but I already regret not taking more pictures and (yipes) videos. So here’s something of a snapshot of this moment:

You are all about doing it for yourself these days, as you get stronger and taller and smarter every minute. You can reach those buttons on the washing machine now, and climb up onto the chairs, and you want to choose the shirt you wear. Or not wear, more often choosing to be as naked as possible.

Your latest obsession is with the car keys. You’ll stand at the car for 20 or 30 minutes, trying to get them into the lock on the door, pushing away my hand if I try to help guide the right key in. When you get a key stuck in far enough that it stays, you let out this wicked cackle, a burst of “ha!” as you stamp your feet and wave your arms. It’s hilarious, until we have to take the keys away, and then you let out an ungodly wail.

You’re learning new signs and words all the time. You say mama and dada and pop and ba (ball or bus). Dog, of course, your first real word and still a favorite. Ka is your car/go/keys word, almost always said together with the sign for keys, which you learned after seeing it only a couple times. Nyummy-nyummy is food, and you slurp for water, putting your hands to your mouth for both.

You’re a good eater, more interested in having what we’re having or drinking out of our glass than anything special for you. And you have strong opinions about what you want, and sometimes we can’t tell, and then we’re all frustrated. When in doubt, peanut butter seems to do the trick. Or tofu. Sometimes all you want to do is give your snacks to the dog. You know how to tell her to sit and lie down, and she’s always gentle taking treats from you.

Other signs: ball/more (fingerbabble makes it hard to tell, sometimes, but usually we can figure it out with context or by asking you), banana, dog, bird/duck/frog, gorilla (also an old fave). Flowers – you’re so cute: you’ll squat down to smell them, and pull us with you as you make the sign. Bath, cow, water, book. (some top hits these days include Mr. Brown Can Moo, Doggies, Goodnight Gorilla, One Little Duck, Go Dog Go, various baby sign books). I’m sure I’m leaving things out – oh, milk! - can’t forget that one. A sort of universal arm wave with various noises can mean airplane, elephant, truck, butterfly. Please and thank you charm everyone.

When we go to the Science Works garden, sometimes you run gleefully down the paths, but more often, you just stand at the gate, opening, closing. As you let people through and they say “thank you,” you'll sign it, and they always think you’re blowing them a kiss. At home, you’ll stand in the window, so excited to be able to get up on the ledge. You watch for bees and cats and wave to the neighbors when they walk by. It’s adorable.

You are super energetic and active when you’re awake, and you sleep well at night and at nap (except when your big teeth are coming in). You love to play with balls, kicking, tossing, watching us shoot hoops, sitting on the couch and throwing them for us to chase. Sound effects make you happy. As does dancing to music. Although you still ask for “Cows” sometimes, you’re more into the Barnyard Dance and especially the Tickle song. Snuffling like a pig always gets you giggling.

You love the bath – splish splash! Water in general: puddle jumping, throwing rocks into the lake, smacking at the tetherball base after it rains (dibble dibble dopp…). Pouring water from one cup into another, experimenting with amount and speed. Climbing! You can make it up the ladder on the play structure now. Slides are sometimes fun. You love to be outside, or out running errands. You’ve just started showing interest in the sandbox, and are figuring out that you don’t really want to eat the sand.

You are so observant, learning so quickly from watching us, watching older kids, trying things out yourself. You’re getting more social, too, with other babies, almost all a little or a lot older, so you have a lot to observe. You use tools well, turning over tupperware to step on, or grabbing my finger to push a button, or reaching for something under the couch with a long wooden spoon.

Bodies are fascinating for you, and you'll point out all the bits emphatically - head, ear, toes, teeth, belly button, nose. Tongues sticking out make you laugh, from the first time you noticed it in the Global Babies book to when the dog pants to anytime at all, and you'll stick yours out too to show how fun it is.

You like to be helpful, bringing us our shoes when we ask, and putting things back where they belong. Sweeping and vacuuming. Mopping up when you spill (or when Zola drools). You recognize us in pictures, and kiss yourself in the mirror. It’s amazing how much of what we say you understand, and how well you can communicate back.

There are so many smiles, giggles, snorts, grunts. Shrieks of joy and loud yawps as you talk back to the ducks and frogs. It’s a fabulous soundtrack to our days. And when we hug, and you say “Bobo” (from the book), it’s the best thing ever.

It takes a lot of energy to keep up with you, and it can be hard to get things done. But when we’re in the moment, we really have a good time. And it’s true: the days are long but the years are short, so we’re trying to be in the moment as much as possible. Turns out having a kid is really fun – at least when you’re the kid.

I’ve been writing this in bits and pieces, as I do so many things these days, and every time I come back to it I think of more (penguins!). It’s impossible to get it all down, and it's not as poetic as it might be, but it's better than nothing, so I’m going to stop here and let it be enough.

You are smart and strong and beautiful and funny and adventurous. May the fourth be with you, little man (yes, that’s a Star Wars reference). We love you, forever.

The Not-Quite-Cruelest Month

(although with this icy weather after being taunted by a few spring sunshines, and with being icky-sick for a few days, it sort of feels that way...)

Did you know that April is Poetry month? I meant to post a poem a day. Oops. Here's one by e.e. cummings:

o sweet spontaneous

O sweet spontaneous
earth how often have
the
doting

fingers of
prurient philosophers pinched
and
poked

thee
,has the naughty thumb
of science prodded
thy

beauty how
often have religions taken
thee upon their scraggy knees
squeezing and

buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive
gods
(but
true
to the incomparable
couch of death thy
rhythmic
lover

thou answerest

them only with

spring)