Henry & James shared a 3-year/1-year appointment at the pediatrician's a couple of weeks ago.
In fact, we've had a lot of doctor, for us, this month. A week or two before his scheduled visit, Henry was struck with a mystery wintertime virus that sent his temperature spiking up to nearly 105, causing a febrile seizure that we were told was in fact quite mild. I believe it now, but at 11:30 at night, when your kid's eyes that he has barely opened all day are wide with terror because his body is jerking uncontrollably, the word mild does. not. register.It's just not in the lexicon at all. We called 911.
In spite of his obvious misery, Henry was excited by the ambulance pulling up in front of the house--a reassuring sign. On the ambulance driver's advice, we drove him ourselves to the ER--after first waking James from an unusually sound sleep, naturally--where we watched the nurse give him liquid tylenol, he got tested for flu, strep, and pneumonia, and we then waited an hour or two for the doctor to tell us he had a mystery wintertime virus that would probably run its course by the end of the weekend (i.e., by the time the pediatrician's office was open again), as indeed it did.
And then, at the regular checkup, James's lead levels were found to be high, so we had to go back again for another blood draw. We're still waiting for the results of that.
In the meantime, sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. Here's the good stuff:
JAMES at 1 year
Weight: 20 lbs. (10th percentile)
Height: 29 inches (25th percentile)
Head: 46.5 cm. (50th percentile)
HENRY at 3 years
Weight:: 31.5 lbs (50th percentile)
Height: 36.75 inches (25th percentile)
BMI: 16.4 (50th percentile)
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
You talking to me?
It's a delight to see Henry developing new linguistic & cognitive tricks: Just lately, we are awash in metaphors. The snow was a blanket on a heap of dried grass this morning (a tired cliche from me, but from Henry, fresh and apt); when it fell yesterday afternoon, it looked like spider webs. With each bite of a corn chip today, he held it up afresh to decide what it looked like: a moon! a shoe! an angel! a ghost! a boat!
I particularly enjoyed his employment this morning of a different poetic device: personification.
He rushed into the bathroom, proclaiming he needed help unzipping his pajamas so he could poop. He then asked me to leave him alone, as he usually does. But just a minute or two later, he popped back into the kitchen.
"Are you done?" I asked, surprised.
"I thought I needed to poop," he said, "But my butt said, 'no thank you.'"
I particularly enjoyed his employment this morning of a different poetic device: personification.
He rushed into the bathroom, proclaiming he needed help unzipping his pajamas so he could poop. He then asked me to leave him alone, as he usually does. But just a minute or two later, he popped back into the kitchen.
"Are you done?" I asked, surprised.
"I thought I needed to poop," he said, "But my butt said, 'no thank you.'"
Monday, November 28, 2011
Economics 101
Monday mornings are hard for Henry. After two whole days of Daddy, he hates waking up to realize that Peter has gone to work. Almost every week we have some version of this conversation:
HENRY: I want Daddy to BE here!
ME: Daddy is at work.
HENRY: I don't WANT Daddy to go to work.
ME: I know. But Daddy has to go to work.
HENRY: Whyyyy?
ME: To get money. Daddy makes money for us to buy our food and pay for our house and heat our house and drive our car.
HENRY (happy now): And for me to throw in fountains! (Thinks for a bit.) And for James when he gets bigger to throw in fountains!
Better keep your nose to the grindstone, Peter.
HENRY: I want Daddy to BE here!
ME: Daddy is at work.
HENRY: I don't WANT Daddy to go to work.
ME: I know. But Daddy has to go to work.
HENRY: Whyyyy?
ME: To get money. Daddy makes money for us to buy our food and pay for our house and heat our house and drive our car.
HENRY (happy now): And for me to throw in fountains! (Thinks for a bit.) And for James when he gets bigger to throw in fountains!
Better keep your nose to the grindstone, Peter.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
That was the month that was
October, obviously, was a lost month as far as the blog is concerned. In brief, I turned 40, the Law School held its memorial for Dad, and our next-door neighbor got shot. In an ordinary year, I love October, and even this rather rotten iteration of it had its charms. But even those are mostly undocumented, because also this October, our computer was infected on two separate occasions with a virus that is even now keeping me from getting to the photos I'd like to post.
That being so, I will, for now, simply report that the month got off to a grand start when Henry received two pieces of personal mail--his first-ever letters--on the same day. Complete text follows.
From Henry & James's dog-cousin in San Diego, in reply to a letter Henry sent:
Henry!
I am under the table, waiting for dinner. What do you eat for dinner? I eat hard pellets. They taste like fish.
I went to the beach today. I ran and ran and barked and ran and ran and jumped and ran and ran and swam! Then I had a bath.
I hate baths! Do you like baths?
Love, Abby (the dog)
P.S. I know you can't read, so here's a picture: [you'll just have to use your imaginations here] <--- I rescued the ball from a giant wave! There were also birds.
From Ballantine Road, in response to momentous events:
Darling Henry,
Hello Sweetie. Congratulations on going poopoo in the potty. Wonderful and great job. We all love you. Love Auntie Virginia
Congratulations! Love, Eleanor
Will
Grandmama
That being so, I will, for now, simply report that the month got off to a grand start when Henry received two pieces of personal mail--his first-ever letters--on the same day. Complete text follows.
From Henry & James's dog-cousin in San Diego, in reply to a letter Henry sent:
Henry!
I am under the table, waiting for dinner. What do you eat for dinner? I eat hard pellets. They taste like fish.
I went to the beach today. I ran and ran and barked and ran and ran and jumped and ran and ran and swam! Then I had a bath.
I hate baths! Do you like baths?
Love, Abby (the dog)
P.S. I know you can't read, so here's a picture: [you'll just have to use your imaginations here] <--- I rescued the ball from a giant wave! There were also birds.
From Ballantine Road, in response to momentous events:
Darling Henry,
Hello Sweetie. Congratulations on going poopoo in the potty. Wonderful and great job. We all love you. Love Auntie Virginia
Congratulations! Love, Eleanor
Will
Grandmama
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Hope is the thing with feathers
Just a quick note this morning: James slept like a normal person for this first time, really, ever. He fell asleep in his crib (and I wasn't in it with him, as I've resorted to a few times recently.) He woke up just three or four times, fussing in an ordinary way, not shrieking. This morning he is cheerful, seems rested. What does it mean? Will it happen again?
It is a chilly morning, and Henry ate his breakfast sitting on the porch swing, swathed in blankets like the lava plug in a volcano. When I came out to check on him, he was looking east into peach & lavender clouds and told me excitedly that he'd just just seen a "whole bunch of little birds" fly away together. It's hard to convey how delightful it is to see him quietly contemplating his world and finding it good.
Moments later, with even greater excitement, he pointed to a hummingbird that was buzzing inquisitively around our porch, just at the level where a hummingbird feeder might hang. "Look!" he cried. "It's a little baby bird, looking for its Mama!"
It is a chilly morning, and Henry ate his breakfast sitting on the porch swing, swathed in blankets like the lava plug in a volcano. When I came out to check on him, he was looking east into peach & lavender clouds and told me excitedly that he'd just just seen a "whole bunch of little birds" fly away together. It's hard to convey how delightful it is to see him quietly contemplating his world and finding it good.
Moments later, with even greater excitement, he pointed to a hummingbird that was buzzing inquisitively around our porch, just at the level where a hummingbird feeder might hang. "Look!" he cried. "It's a little baby bird, looking for its Mama!"
Friday, September 16, 2011
Pow, right in the kisser
Peter reported this pre-bedtime conversation with Henry last night:
Henry: Mama kisses me all the time.
Peter: Do you like it?
Henry: Yes. You don't kiss me.
Peter: Would you like me to kiss you?
Henry. No. You're not a kisser.
I was quite startled by this exchange. He has thoughts about my kissing him? He recognizes that I am a kisser and Peter isn't? It's so easy for us to think that we know everything about Henry, having known him from the moment he took his first breath, while he doesn't know much about anything. But suddenly I am forced to recognize that in fact there are important ways in which the opposite is true. He already evinces the intense privacy of a child about his inmost thoughts, and who he will be is a mystery to us. Meanwhile, he is busily watching us and drawing his own conclusions, with a completely innocent ruthlessness: He will soften nothing, excuse nothing, judge nothing. He just sees what he sees. Very scary.
Henry: Mama kisses me all the time.
Peter: Do you like it?
Henry: Yes. You don't kiss me.
Peter: Would you like me to kiss you?
Henry. No. You're not a kisser.
I was quite startled by this exchange. He has thoughts about my kissing him? He recognizes that I am a kisser and Peter isn't? It's so easy for us to think that we know everything about Henry, having known him from the moment he took his first breath, while he doesn't know much about anything. But suddenly I am forced to recognize that in fact there are important ways in which the opposite is true. He already evinces the intense privacy of a child about his inmost thoughts, and who he will be is a mystery to us. Meanwhile, he is busily watching us and drawing his own conclusions, with a completely innocent ruthlessness: He will soften nothing, excuse nothing, judge nothing. He just sees what he sees. Very scary.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
A little woo
Late Sunday afternoon, I headed off for a solitary trip to Dirty Kroger. When I left, Peter was in the kitchen with Henry, James in his arms. Grocery shopping alone has become one of my luxuries, and I enjoyed myself plenty picking out tapioca starch and a new toothbrush. But when I was standing in line to pay, I was hit by a sudden lurch of panic, as if I were supposed to have the boys with me but had accidentally forgotten them somewhere.
Of all the hundreds of things I get scared about regularly, this is actually not one of them. I'm convinced that the intense and harrowing early weeks postpartum were, in part, nature's design to make sure that I never ever ever could forget from then until I die that I now am a mother.
A friend of mine who lived in LA told me once that a certain area of her brain was given over at all times to tracking traffic patterns so whatever else she was doing, humming along behind the scenes was her brain, working out how to get where, when, by which route. My brain now operates in the same way with respect to Henry and James, so that even when I am reading, or cooking, or talking to a friend, or crying my eyes out, I am also always keeping a mental eye on where they are, what trouble they could be getting into, and what needs to happen when to move them along to the next thing. In other words, the panicky feeling at Kroger was not just unpleasant, but truly surprising.
When I got home, I immediately started telling Peter about it.
"That's very strange," he said. "Because the whole time you were gone, Henry was inconsolable. He was crying and said his stomach hurt and that you were not going to come home. It was like he had some kind of panic attack."
I said something vague, and hopeful, about attenuated attunement across space, thinking a little about gold to airy thinness beat.
"A psychic tentacle," suggested Peter. He then went on to float the theory that the barometric pressure was awry and acting on us each independently in a similar way.
Oh, OK, fine. Still, the whole thing seemed very strange, as I kept feeling the need to say all evening. And I felt, momentarily, ever so slightly nudged back toward the optimistic agnosticism about the mysteries of the human condition that used to be mine.
Of all the hundreds of things I get scared about regularly, this is actually not one of them. I'm convinced that the intense and harrowing early weeks postpartum were, in part, nature's design to make sure that I never ever ever could forget from then until I die that I now am a mother.
A friend of mine who lived in LA told me once that a certain area of her brain was given over at all times to tracking traffic patterns so whatever else she was doing, humming along behind the scenes was her brain, working out how to get where, when, by which route. My brain now operates in the same way with respect to Henry and James, so that even when I am reading, or cooking, or talking to a friend, or crying my eyes out, I am also always keeping a mental eye on where they are, what trouble they could be getting into, and what needs to happen when to move them along to the next thing. In other words, the panicky feeling at Kroger was not just unpleasant, but truly surprising.
When I got home, I immediately started telling Peter about it.
"That's very strange," he said. "Because the whole time you were gone, Henry was inconsolable. He was crying and said his stomach hurt and that you were not going to come home. It was like he had some kind of panic attack."
I said something vague, and hopeful, about attenuated attunement across space, thinking a little about gold to airy thinness beat.
"A psychic tentacle," suggested Peter. He then went on to float the theory that the barometric pressure was awry and acting on us each independently in a similar way.
Oh, OK, fine. Still, the whole thing seemed very strange, as I kept feeling the need to say all evening. And I felt, momentarily, ever so slightly nudged back toward the optimistic agnosticism about the mysteries of the human condition that used to be mine.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
James at nine months
Height: 28.25"
Weight: 19 lbs. 4 oz.
Head circumference: 45.4 cm.
Which puts him in the 50th percentile right down the line.
His iron levels are a little low. I'm following roughly this approach to feeding him and would prefer not to mess around with iron-fortified cereal or supplements, so I'll make sure to give him more meat and do more cooking for him in cast-iron. He'll be rechecked in December.
Meanwhile, he remains as stinky a sleeper as ever. We were up seven times before 4:30 this morning, and I haven't been back to sleep since. His otherwise satisfactory doctor has nothing to suggest beyond leaving him alone in a room in the dark to cry. (When we were going through similar troubles with Henry, the doctor told his responding to his cries would--and I quote--"create a monster.") Leaving aside my profound discomfort with following that advice, it is a practical impossibility, in our 2-bedroom, 900-square-foot house.
Weight: 19 lbs. 4 oz.
Head circumference: 45.4 cm.
Which puts him in the 50th percentile right down the line.
His iron levels are a little low. I'm following roughly this approach to feeding him and would prefer not to mess around with iron-fortified cereal or supplements, so I'll make sure to give him more meat and do more cooking for him in cast-iron. He'll be rechecked in December.
Meanwhile, he remains as stinky a sleeper as ever. We were up seven times before 4:30 this morning, and I haven't been back to sleep since. His otherwise satisfactory doctor has nothing to suggest beyond leaving him alone in a room in the dark to cry. (When we were going through similar troubles with Henry, the doctor told his responding to his cries would--and I quote--"create a monster.") Leaving aside my profound discomfort with following that advice, it is a practical impossibility, in our 2-bedroom, 900-square-foot house.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
In which the Swedish dancing girls make an appearance
Things have been really difficult around here the last few weeks. James's sleeping habits have gone from bad to worse--night after night he wakes up eight, nine, ten times or more. And oh, I have a lot to say about sleep, sleep-deprivation, motherhood, rage, expert advice, toddlers and discipline, and the difference between child-abusers and the rest of us (hint: it involves being able to get help when you need it), but writing all that is just too damn exhausting.
So here's what I've got instead.
Postprandial conversation on the near west side.
Me: I'm thinking of going to a movie on Thursday night. That OK with you?
Peter: Oh! (Expressive of amazement, because I haven't gone to a movie in the theater for more than 3 years). Sure. I guess we can have our frat party here.
Me: Call in the Swedish dancing girls.
Henry: I want to have the girlie party Wednesday.
Me: That's nice. You want me to feel included, huh?
Henry: I want to have a girlie party RIGHT NOW.
Me: Who's going to come to your girlie party?
Henry: Girlies! (Duh.)
Me: Who are the girlies?
Henry: The girlies are aminals. Who live in the water.
Me: What do they look like?
Henry: They look like lily pads with frogs on them and the frogs go up up in the sky.
Peter: I think this sounds more like an acid party.
So here's what I've got instead.
Postprandial conversation on the near west side.
Me: I'm thinking of going to a movie on Thursday night. That OK with you?
Peter: Oh! (Expressive of amazement, because I haven't gone to a movie in the theater for more than 3 years). Sure. I guess we can have our frat party here.
Me: Call in the Swedish dancing girls.
Henry: I want to have the girlie party Wednesday.
Me: That's nice. You want me to feel included, huh?
Henry: I want to have a girlie party RIGHT NOW.
Me: Who's going to come to your girlie party?
Henry: Girlies! (Duh.)
Me: Who are the girlies?
Henry: The girlies are aminals. Who live in the water.
Me: What do they look like?
Henry: They look like lily pads with frogs on them and the frogs go up up in the sky.
Peter: I think this sounds more like an acid party.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Snips and snails etc.
Henry was ranging freely around the house this morning in the altogether, stroking his arms & his belly, the way one does, when he suddenly stopped to ask a question.
"What am I made of?"
Oh, dear. I made a stab at it. "You're made of skin and blood and bones and organs."
Which seemed, mostly, to satisfy him. He did want to see how far I was sticking to my story, by asking me what every single other person he could think of that he knows is made of. And then he threw in what he clearly knew was a trick question, slyly smiling. "What's Planty [Mom's cat] made of?" I said he was made of the same stuff as the rest of us, plus fur, at which point Henry moved on to another disquisition on butts for James's benefit.
(That's the same James, by the way, who is now pulling himself up to standing and then letting go--so that he can clap--and not falling down.)
"What am I made of?"
Oh, dear. I made a stab at it. "You're made of skin and blood and bones and organs."
Which seemed, mostly, to satisfy him. He did want to see how far I was sticking to my story, by asking me what every single other person he could think of that he knows is made of. And then he threw in what he clearly knew was a trick question, slyly smiling. "What's Planty [Mom's cat] made of?" I said he was made of the same stuff as the rest of us, plus fur, at which point Henry moved on to another disquisition on butts for James's benefit.
(That's the same James, by the way, who is now pulling himself up to standing and then letting go--so that he can clap--and not falling down.)
Monday, August 8, 2011
Eight months of James
For James on your monthday: Eight of the uncountable things I love about you.
1. The manic chortle you give right before I nurse you.
2. That I am, right now, your alpha and omega.
3. That I won't always be.
4. Watching you watch your brother, and seeing the seed of a relationship quite independent of me. (I hope it's a good one.)
5. Hearing you work the expressive possibilities of a single syllable, "bla," from joy to irate complaint.
6. The slightly anxious look you sometimes get after you've been smiling as beamishly as possible, as if you aren't quite sure that you're doing this new "emotions" thing right.
7. Your new-found love of clapping.
8. That you needed me and nuzzled me and tied me to the future right through the saddest week of my life. And you're still doing it.
1. The manic chortle you give right before I nurse you.
2. That I am, right now, your alpha and omega.
3. That I won't always be.
4. Watching you watch your brother, and seeing the seed of a relationship quite independent of me. (I hope it's a good one.)
5. Hearing you work the expressive possibilities of a single syllable, "bla," from joy to irate complaint.
6. The slightly anxious look you sometimes get after you've been smiling as beamishly as possible, as if you aren't quite sure that you're doing this new "emotions" thing right.
7. Your new-found love of clapping.
8. That you needed me and nuzzled me and tied me to the future right through the saddest week of my life. And you're still doing it.
Friday, August 5, 2011
Because I'm worth it?
Since I am woefully behind in my posting, I will just throw out a few random vignettes of our lives from the last few weeks.
1. My dear friend Ray was visiting last weekend. A tale-spinner, a phrase-turner, a word-coiner, a musician, a polymath, he also happens, by day and for pay, to be a historian, the author of a book about police in post-war Germany. So his gift to Henry was a perfect choice, coming from him: a toy police car. Ray was laboring under the misapprehension that Henry's passion for garbage trucks & mailmen reflects a prejudice in favor of civic officialdom, and that he would therefore rather have a police car than a Caterpillar truck. Henry in fact has an equal passion for all noisemaking motorized vehicles. In any case, he is completely smitten with the car, and takes it to bed with him at night. He speculated aloud about who might be driving it. "Maybe it's a police man," he said. And then, gladdening my feminist heart, he added, "Or maybe it's a police woman." Further thought. "Or maybe it's a police boy."
If I were a police department, I would definitely look into that. Sort of like candy-stripers.
2. One day at naptime, Henry was in his room building himself a poppin' hole, his term for a nestlike construct of blankets & pillows. The pillows were refractory, and he called out for me to come help him stack them up to his orders. I said I thought that was a job he should handle himself, and that he could do whatever he needed to with the pillows. "No, mama," he said. "I'm a little tiny boy, so I don't can do it."
3. One evening he & I were looking out his bedroom window noticing how pink the sky looked as the sun was setting. Henry listened, properly unconvinced, to my vague speculations about the trajectory of the sun and clouds and the Earth's atmosphere, then he proposed his theory: "Maybe a digger came by and made it pink."
4. James! He's on the move! Just in the last week, he has started crawling, sitting up on his own, pulling himself to standing, and occasionally taking naps. Henry now spends a lot of his time rushing around officiously snatching away anything he thinks James might possibly be about to crawl to/touch/put in his mouth, saying "No, James," in an ultra-bossy tone. He likes to educate James, holding up objects and repeating their names loudly and with unnatural clarity, as if he were a missionary amongst the savages. Example: one day, we were in the bathroom changing diapers, and Henry turned his backside to James, pointing at himself and enunciating over and over, "Butt, James. Butt."
5. And finally, on one of our near-daily trips to the Banneker Community Center and its huge playroom filled with toys, a 7-year-old boy I'd seen there several times before seemed finally to get up the nerve to ask me a question that had been bugging him for a while now: "How come your hair's so gray?"
1. My dear friend Ray was visiting last weekend. A tale-spinner, a phrase-turner, a word-coiner, a musician, a polymath, he also happens, by day and for pay, to be a historian, the author of a book about police in post-war Germany. So his gift to Henry was a perfect choice, coming from him: a toy police car. Ray was laboring under the misapprehension that Henry's passion for garbage trucks & mailmen reflects a prejudice in favor of civic officialdom, and that he would therefore rather have a police car than a Caterpillar truck. Henry in fact has an equal passion for all noisemaking motorized vehicles. In any case, he is completely smitten with the car, and takes it to bed with him at night. He speculated aloud about who might be driving it. "Maybe it's a police man," he said. And then, gladdening my feminist heart, he added, "Or maybe it's a police woman." Further thought. "Or maybe it's a police boy."
If I were a police department, I would definitely look into that. Sort of like candy-stripers.
 |
| In the poppin' hole. |
3. One evening he & I were looking out his bedroom window noticing how pink the sky looked as the sun was setting. Henry listened, properly unconvinced, to my vague speculations about the trajectory of the sun and clouds and the Earth's atmosphere, then he proposed his theory: "Maybe a digger came by and made it pink."
 |
| On the move |
5. And finally, on one of our near-daily trips to the Banneker Community Center and its huge playroom filled with toys, a 7-year-old boy I'd seen there several times before seemed finally to get up the nerve to ask me a question that had been bugging him for a while now: "How come your hair's so gray?"
Friday, July 15, 2011
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Allons, enfants
My dear niece Eleanor turned 17 today. For her birthday, I had proposed a luncheon party for her & her friends. I had envisioned white linen, proper china, and polished silver (silver what, I don't know), but as was entirely predictable, and to quote Aunt Virginia, we cut the gracious living & just ate (ham & cheddar crepes, tomato salad, & three-berry fool).
It also turned out that only Eva, Eleanor's 14-year-old friend, came. Although I'm pretty sure Eva's been 14 for about 2 1/2 years, she says no. It's hard to believe she's as young as that. (According to her, she's governed by her inner 55-year-old crotchety biddy, which I guess could explain some of it.) After lunch, the two girls, Jamie, Mom and I all hung out on the bed while Henry napped in the other room. We talked about lots of stupid things, like high-heeled shoes, and nice things, like I Capture the Castle and The Breakfast Club, and James scooched around as best he could on such a crowded bed and got kissed and tickled a lot.
It was so amazingly restorative! I should do more of my socializing in bed; it totally made me feel 17 again (the good bits).
It also turned out that only Eva, Eleanor's 14-year-old friend, came. Although I'm pretty sure Eva's been 14 for about 2 1/2 years, she says no. It's hard to believe she's as young as that. (According to her, she's governed by her inner 55-year-old crotchety biddy, which I guess could explain some of it.) After lunch, the two girls, Jamie, Mom and I all hung out on the bed while Henry napped in the other room. We talked about lots of stupid things, like high-heeled shoes, and nice things, like I Capture the Castle and The Breakfast Club, and James scooched around as best he could on such a crowded bed and got kissed and tickled a lot.
It was so amazingly restorative! I should do more of my socializing in bed; it totally made me feel 17 again (the good bits).
Friday, July 1, 2011
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Henry's story
Peter was away, fetching his parents from Gary for a visit. Henry, disconsolate, wanted to help me write a story as a surprise for Peter when he returned. I was amanuensis and prompter, but the story is largely Henry's work.
Here it is:
Henry and Dada had lots of good ideas.
Sometimes they climbed on ladders.
Sometimes they hammered hammers.
Sometimes they looked at diggers.
Sometimes they looked at statues.
[Here, Henry inserted a page of drawing and asked me to note that one bumpy bit was "Mountains for Dada" and another oblong bit, that he was surprised and delighted to have produced, was "A Banana for Dada."]
One day, Dada made a picture for Henry.
The picture was of lots of things Henry loves.
It was a picture of:
Dada!
and Charles Darwin [the dog, not the eminent Victorian]
and a cookie
and a bulldozer
and a wheelbarrow
and a sweet potato
and chocolate
and James
and a butt.
Here it is:
Henry and Dada had lots of good ideas.
Sometimes they climbed on ladders.
Sometimes they hammered hammers.
Sometimes they looked at diggers.
Sometimes they looked at statues.
[Here, Henry inserted a page of drawing and asked me to note that one bumpy bit was "Mountains for Dada" and another oblong bit, that he was surprised and delighted to have produced, was "A Banana for Dada."]
One day, Dada made a picture for Henry.
The picture was of lots of things Henry loves.
It was a picture of:
Dada!
and Charles Darwin [the dog, not the eminent Victorian]
and a cookie
and a bulldozer
and a wheelbarrow
and a sweet potato
and chocolate
and James
and a butt.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Sunday, June 19
Tough day.
I think I'll just put up a few pictures. They're a little tough, too.
I think I'll just put up a few pictures. They're a little tough, too.
 |
| With Mom, at Aunt Virginia & Uncle Dwain's house |
 |
| Apparently my second birthday. |
 |
| This expression is pure Dad. |
 |
| Obviously, I love this picture of us. |
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
James at six months
Weight: 17 lbs., 9 oz. (50th-75th percentile)
Height: 75th percentile
Head circumference: Ditto
Height: 75th percentile
Head circumference: Ditto
 |
| James's outfit is approximately 84 times as old as he is. |
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
A first
Henry fell asleep reading!
I once gave myself a bloody nose that way. (Not with a Little Golden Book, however.)
 |
Friday, May 27, 2011
An amour fou
I know it used to hurt my mom's feelings--or tickle her sense of injustice--when I used to tell everyone about how Dad read Pride & Prejudice out loud by the light of oil lamps one summer in Maine and changed my life, as if no one had ever read to me before, or when I would sing along with Ella Fitzgerald to Cole Porter's My Heart Belongs to Daddy.
Now I have an inkling how she felt.
At 2 1/2, Henry is besotted with Peter. The other day as we walked home from the store, his conversation the whole time was nothing but a love poem to his father. "There's Daddy's brown car," he said wistfully. "And there's Daddy's blue car, and Daddy's red car. Maybe Daddy's driving down the street in a big dump truck."
We passed a house three or four blocks from ours. "That's your house, Mama," he said.
"Is that where I live?" I asked. "Don't I live with you?"
"No, Henry lives with Daddy in our house."
A pause ensued. "I loooove Daddy."
Another thoughtful pause. "Daddy's sump'n, Daddy's really sump'n."
Now I have an inkling how she felt.
At 2 1/2, Henry is besotted with Peter. The other day as we walked home from the store, his conversation the whole time was nothing but a love poem to his father. "There's Daddy's brown car," he said wistfully. "And there's Daddy's blue car, and Daddy's red car. Maybe Daddy's driving down the street in a big dump truck."
We passed a house three or four blocks from ours. "That's your house, Mama," he said.
"Is that where I live?" I asked. "Don't I live with you?"
"No, Henry lives with Daddy in our house."
A pause ensued. "I loooove Daddy."
Another thoughtful pause. "Daddy's sump'n, Daddy's really sump'n."
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Sunday, May 22, 2011
That's my boy
Henry hopped onto his wheelybug this evening after his bath and announced that he was going to the grocery store.
"What are you going to buy?" I asked.
"Oh, kale and jellybeans."
"What are you going to buy?" I asked.
"Oh, kale and jellybeans."
Monday, May 9, 2011
A few more things Henry says
"I don't know where the other Daddy went."
This takes a bit of explaining. We were sitting on the front porch, watching Peter drive around the corner on his way home from work. Since Molly had parked in his usual parking space, he drove around the block & parked on the street instead. Upon seeing him approach the house from a direction completely different from where he'd been heading, Henry was deeply perplexed, and repeated this question over and over, all the way through bedtime.
"That's a funny-looking noise!"
Funny-looking, like crazy, seems to be an all-purpose modifier that means "delightful to Henry."
"What are you eating, Daddy? What are you eating WITH A SPOON?"
Occasionally, Henry goes into the bedroom and settles himself without a fuss into his nest of blankets on the floor. More commonly, he plasters himself against the crack at the bottom of the door, where he can watch whoever is in the living room and issue a running commentary/list of complaints, until we all crack and go to bed. Tonight, it was j'accuse all over again, when he deduced that Peter was trying to sneak a quiet bowl of ice cream while the babies were in bed.
Also, I just have to mention that I was taking a short walk around the park this evening, enjoying the sights of spring: At the west end of the park, householders tending their community garden allotments, Little Leaguers whacking balls, hipsters walking dogs; and at the east end ... a passing car with an enormous--real--parrot in the passenger's seat, and a couple of folks struggling to cover an iron lung with a tarp.
This takes a bit of explaining. We were sitting on the front porch, watching Peter drive around the corner on his way home from work. Since Molly had parked in his usual parking space, he drove around the block & parked on the street instead. Upon seeing him approach the house from a direction completely different from where he'd been heading, Henry was deeply perplexed, and repeated this question over and over, all the way through bedtime.
"That's a funny-looking noise!"
Funny-looking, like crazy, seems to be an all-purpose modifier that means "delightful to Henry."
"What are you eating, Daddy? What are you eating WITH A SPOON?"
Occasionally, Henry goes into the bedroom and settles himself without a fuss into his nest of blankets on the floor. More commonly, he plasters himself against the crack at the bottom of the door, where he can watch whoever is in the living room and issue a running commentary/list of complaints, until we all crack and go to bed. Tonight, it was j'accuse all over again, when he deduced that Peter was trying to sneak a quiet bowl of ice cream while the babies were in bed.
Also, I just have to mention that I was taking a short walk around the park this evening, enjoying the sights of spring: At the west end of the park, householders tending their community garden allotments, Little Leaguers whacking balls, hipsters walking dogs; and at the east end ... a passing car with an enormous--real--parrot in the passenger's seat, and a couple of folks struggling to cover an iron lung with a tarp.
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| Sometimes, Henry tells me James is a funny-looking baby. |
Sunday, May 8, 2011
James at five months
I have no statistics this time to back it up.You'll have to take my word for it: this is one big, beautiful boy.
No, wait, I have pictures:
Although I think of myself as the sort of person who doesn't celebrate Mother's Day, any more than Valentine's Day, I have to confess that I was no end tickled this morning to be presented with a bag of excellent coffee--just in time, too, as I had less than a single scoop left in the old bag & was about to be reduced to drinking Peter's Kroger-brand instant. Nor was I rendered unhappy after breakfast when Henry led me into the living room to find three potted plants (two of them warranted indestructible, the third a gorgeous orchid) and two packages, one marked from Henry and the other from James.
Henry's, as befits a boy who loves nothing--NOTHING!--better than to dig in the dirt, was a book about edible container gardening.
James, who is an endlessly good sport about being swaddled in woolens, had selected a knitting book.
To put the cap on this Spartan nonobservance of a Hallmark holiday, Peter called me on his cell phone, revealing the hiding place (tucked behind Julius Caesar) of MY new cell phone. Long though I have resisted, having children--and worrying about them--has finally won me over to the 21st century.
Later in the afternoon, Mom brought over a beautiful Kathe Kollwitz etching, Mutter mit Kind auf den Arm, which had been a gift to her from Jane and Andre and which had hung in her bedroom when we were children.
Peter and the boys and I then went for a walk at Lake Griffy, where we spotted a frog, three caterpillars, innumerable chipmunks, several geese couples, and a snake. Half of our party spent a longish time chucking rocks into a glinting and babbling creek, while I got in three rows of knitting, and a little quiet contemplation on the human condition, and the deeply disorienting coexistence of joy and heartbreak.
All in all, not a bad way to not celebrate the day.
No, wait, I have pictures:
Although I think of myself as the sort of person who doesn't celebrate Mother's Day, any more than Valentine's Day, I have to confess that I was no end tickled this morning to be presented with a bag of excellent coffee--just in time, too, as I had less than a single scoop left in the old bag & was about to be reduced to drinking Peter's Kroger-brand instant. Nor was I rendered unhappy after breakfast when Henry led me into the living room to find three potted plants (two of them warranted indestructible, the third a gorgeous orchid) and two packages, one marked from Henry and the other from James.
Henry's, as befits a boy who loves nothing--NOTHING!--better than to dig in the dirt, was a book about edible container gardening.
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| Now grow, seeds! |
James, who is an endlessly good sport about being swaddled in woolens, had selected a knitting book.
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| Don't be distracted by the pants; that's a hand knit vest on top. |
To put the cap on this Spartan nonobservance of a Hallmark holiday, Peter called me on his cell phone, revealing the hiding place (tucked behind Julius Caesar) of MY new cell phone. Long though I have resisted, having children--and worrying about them--has finally won me over to the 21st century.
Later in the afternoon, Mom brought over a beautiful Kathe Kollwitz etching, Mutter mit Kind auf den Arm, which had been a gift to her from Jane and Andre and which had hung in her bedroom when we were children.
Peter and the boys and I then went for a walk at Lake Griffy, where we spotted a frog, three caterpillars, innumerable chipmunks, several geese couples, and a snake. Half of our party spent a longish time chucking rocks into a glinting and babbling creek, while I got in three rows of knitting, and a little quiet contemplation on the human condition, and the deeply disorienting coexistence of joy and heartbreak.
All in all, not a bad way to not celebrate the day.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Le Weekend au Petit Trianon, part one
We were rustics this weekend. Saturday morning Henry & James & I met up with Mom at Bloomingfoods where we stood in line like groupies to purchase two rain barrels & a compost bin being offered at a low, low price.
Later in the day, we made a much-anticipated trip to Susan and Big James's homestead. The plan was for Henry to pet Susan's new rabbit, Juliet, but he was scared of her. We amused ourselves instead with the chickens.
Later in the day, we made a much-anticipated trip to Susan and Big James's homestead. The plan was for Henry to pet Susan's new rabbit, Juliet, but he was scared of her. We amused ourselves instead with the chickens.
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| Henry, Susan, and Bravepeep. |
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| Once Henry found the tools, he could have spent hours rearranging the gravel with them. |
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| The larger livestock, i.e., Taco. |
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Every other Tuesday
Recycling day is a big deal at our house these days. This morning dawned cool and rainy, Henry couldn't wait to get his clothes on. He didn't want to miss a minute.
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| The anticipation. |
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| Overwhelmed by delight: The truck driver honked at Henry. |
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| Unrelatedly, Henry uses a coffee pot to clean his sinuses. In the background, a giraffe takes a bath. |
James doesn't give a damn about the recycling, but he does love to watch his brother carrying on.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Things
I didn't realize until yesterday that another passenger had returned with Mom from Kansas City: Carolina.
Oh, Carolina. Doll of my dreams. Desideratum of my 10-year-old self. There is certainly something mournful about receiving your heart's desire when your heart no longer cares. I'm not sure I can adequately express the heaven it would have been 30 years ago for her to be in my house. She was everything I loved: pretty, old-fashioned, genuinely old, and above all, a doll! As a child I longed for her so fiercely, I couldn't believe someone wouldn't do something about it. I never asked for her, though. Children really are impenetrably private about their deepest feelings.
Carolina's been through the wars. She's a German doll who was bought by my great-grandmother at a steep discount during World War I, when German things weren't selling. She belonged to my grandmother, whose hair was used to make her wig. Mom rescued her from her stepmother's purge of the first wife's possessions, and she landed at Aunt Virginia's house, where she's been for the last half century and more.
Now, Aunt Virginia's breaking up housekeeping & sending her lovely things on to the next set of temporary homes.The persistence of things, when their makers & owners are so transitory, is disconcerting. As William said of Dad's wine, it can feel like a phantom limb.
Oh, Carolina. Doll of my dreams. Desideratum of my 10-year-old self. There is certainly something mournful about receiving your heart's desire when your heart no longer cares. I'm not sure I can adequately express the heaven it would have been 30 years ago for her to be in my house. She was everything I loved: pretty, old-fashioned, genuinely old, and above all, a doll! As a child I longed for her so fiercely, I couldn't believe someone wouldn't do something about it. I never asked for her, though. Children really are impenetrably private about their deepest feelings.
Carolina's been through the wars. She's a German doll who was bought by my great-grandmother at a steep discount during World War I, when German things weren't selling. She belonged to my grandmother, whose hair was used to make her wig. Mom rescued her from her stepmother's purge of the first wife's possessions, and she landed at Aunt Virginia's house, where she's been for the last half century and more.
Now, Aunt Virginia's breaking up housekeeping & sending her lovely things on to the next set of temporary homes.The persistence of things, when their makers & owners are so transitory, is disconcerting. As William said of Dad's wine, it can feel like a phantom limb.
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| Made by dollmakers Simon & Halbig. |
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Passing through
Mom arrived back in town this morning with Hope & Aunt Virginia, after an all-night drive from Kansas City. Mom admitted to having snoozed a little in the car; otherwise, she might have pulled off the second all-nighter of her life, scant months after what she claims was her first, which she spent cleaning her office.
We left them alone for a few hours to snooze before heading over for the afternoon.
Just before we left, I kissed Aunt Virginia goodbye. "I'm 81," she said, "going on 82. I know I can't live much longer. And I really want to see the people who are coming after me. I'm proud of you."
By now--assuming they've found all their toothbrushes, pillows, keys, and the cat--she and Hope should be on the road heading east in another all-nighter in their pickup truck.
We left them alone for a few hours to snooze before heading over for the afternoon.
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| Charles Darwin never wanted to be out of petting distance from Aunt Virginia. |
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| James napped on the living room floor. |
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| Henry napped on his cousin's lap. |
By now--assuming they've found all their toothbrushes, pillows, keys, and the cat--she and Hope should be on the road heading east in another all-nighter in their pickup truck.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
My lemon sorbet sweater
I made this:
A Russian boyfriend who had spent time in Siberia (not in the gulag or anything, but still!) and thus had some credibility when it came to unhappiness advised me during a difficult period of my life to think of one thing, however small, that could be counted on to give me pleasure, however meager. All I could come up with was lemon sorbet. “That’s perfect,” he said. “Now, whenever you feel anxious or sad, buy yourself some lemon sorbet, or put it on your shopping list, and you will at least be happier than you were before.”
In that spirit, I bought this yarn in the happiest color I could conceive of, sometime at the end of January.
Friday, April 8, 2011
James at four months
Weight: 14 lbs, 14 oz. (50th percentile)
Height: 25.25 inches (75th percentile)
Head size: 42.8 cm. (75th percentile)
The doctor said he's an A+ baby.
Height: 25.25 inches (75th percentile)
Head size: 42.8 cm. (75th percentile)
The doctor said he's an A+ baby.
Our literary visitor
For several weeks now, Henry has been talking about a ghost who visits our house. The first time it made an appearance, Henry explained that he had summoned it by knocking on the bedroom wall, causing it to apparate through the heating vent in the floor. Just lately, the ghost has taken up a sort of otherworldly Bookmobile service. It floats overhead and tosses books down to Henry, who picks them up and hands them to me, telling me the important themes therein. Nine times out of ten, these books are about puppies and boys playing on a playground. Sometimes there are snacks. Sometimes brothers. Once in a while it all gets kind of meta with the introduction into the book of a ghost.
At first I was intimidated by the pressure of telling one extemporaneous bedtime story after another. After all, isn't that how Winnie the Pooh came into being? Indelible characters, loving insight into the child mind, perfect mastery of the language, and generous lashings of Anglo-whimsey... it's all a bit much to pull out of oneself at bedtime on an ordinary Thursday evening. But really, all Henry wants to hear is that a boy went to the playground, slid down the slide, swung on a swing, threw a stick or a sweet gum ball into a puddle, and gave some snacks to his two puppies. Anything beyond that is gilding the lily.
At first I was intimidated by the pressure of telling one extemporaneous bedtime story after another. After all, isn't that how Winnie the Pooh came into being? Indelible characters, loving insight into the child mind, perfect mastery of the language, and generous lashings of Anglo-whimsey... it's all a bit much to pull out of oneself at bedtime on an ordinary Thursday evening. But really, all Henry wants to hear is that a boy went to the playground, slid down the slide, swung on a swing, threw a stick or a sweet gum ball into a puddle, and gave some snacks to his two puppies. Anything beyond that is gilding the lily.
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| The original Two Puppies: coincidental presents from two dads, Henry's & mine. |
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Sharks bite
A few years ago, in our courting days, Peter & I visited Chicago, where we museumed up a storm: The Art Institute, Science & Industry, Natural History, the planetarium AND the Shedd Aquarium. I remembered being charmed during a high-school trip to the aquarium by how the sharks seemed to press up against the glass in their huge central tank gawping at the people with the same touristic interest as the people displayed in them. When Peter and I were there, it was just the same, except maybe the sharks had grown a little jaded since 1987.
A six-or-so-year-old boy was one of the crowd. After a bit, he said to his mother, his voice quavering with intensity, "Mommy, I want to be a hammerhead shark." She offered some generic motherly response. "Mommy," he reiterated. "I really want to be a hammerhead shark. I really want to be a hammerhead shark." It was obvious that he thought if he could just make her understand the seriousness of his desire, she would do something about it.
That little boy popped into my head this morning--Dad's 68th birthday--when I was talking to Mom on the phone. "I miss Dad," I told her. And then I heard the little boy talking: "Mom, I really miss him."
I really do.
A six-or-so-year-old boy was one of the crowd. After a bit, he said to his mother, his voice quavering with intensity, "Mommy, I want to be a hammerhead shark." She offered some generic motherly response. "Mommy," he reiterated. "I really want to be a hammerhead shark. I really want to be a hammerhead shark." It was obvious that he thought if he could just make her understand the seriousness of his desire, she would do something about it.
That little boy popped into my head this morning--Dad's 68th birthday--when I was talking to Mom on the phone. "I miss Dad," I told her. And then I heard the little boy talking: "Mom, I really miss him."
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| Dressed to the nines for the Children's Corner Daddy Party |
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| On Porquerolles for Jabotte's 80th birthday party |
I really do.
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