So we are working on about Day 4,000 of Drought 2007. Despite my jubilant blog post about rain one day in July, we really have had no rain at all in recent weeks. Nashville--and the rest of Tennessee--is just brown now. It's roasted in a series of 100 degree days that would give Twentynine Palms a serious run for its money. I moved from one desert to another. Hmph.
So I've been working on a little project. I've been trying to teach William how to do a rain dance. Now, given a lack of Native American heritage, I sort of had to, well, make up my own rain dance (which may be why it's not working). I made it up the other day, late in the afternoon, on a day in which gray clouds hung in the sky as if it oh, just might rain but didn't.
Here's how you do my rain dance: shout rain! rain! rain! and squiggle your fingers downward in the universal itsy-bitsy-spider-down-came-the-rain motion, first to the right, then to the left, then to the center. Then you do a little jig in place for about five beats, making sure to wave both arms over your head a lot. Then you repeat the whole thing. And repeat it again until you're exhausted.
This is big fun when you are nearly 16 months old and have gallons of energy to spare. William especially loves the rain! rain! rain! part. He's even starting to catch on to the finger-squiggle part. Maybe if we do the dance often enough, it will help?
But you know what's funny? When we lived in Twentynine Palms, we rarely had rain and we knew not to expect rain very often. So I rarely even thought about rain. I may have missed it, but only in an abstract way. The area's default status was dry and brown, and I was accustomed to it. Here in Nashville, it is supposed to be green and lush, and well, it's not. It's sad. It's still greener than the desert, of course, but everything that is supposed to be lush is parched and shriveled instead.
So William and I have taken to staying indoors as much as possible; every day, we find a new thing to entertain us inside. In the last two weeks, we've hit three different story hours, gone swimming in the indoor pool at the Bellevue YMCA, had a play date at a friend's house, gone to the library about four times, gone to the Green Hills mall, gone to the Cool Springs mall with another friend and her toddler, gone to the play area inside the Bellevue mall and so on. I really want to take William to the zoo, but in this weather? No thanks. And I haven't pulled out the water table in weeks, either. It's just too hot out there. Even without the desert's relentless sun, the heat and the bad air quality make the prospect of hanging out in the yard sound kinda yucky.
So here we are, in in the midst of what feels like it will be endless summer. And I thought I'd only feel that way in Twentynine Palms!
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Thursday, August 16, 2007
In the tub
William in the bathtub tonight.
It looks like he doesn't have any front teeth from this picture, but I promise, they're still there. I meant to get some pictures of the monkey shower curtain, to show off the new bathroom decor, but I got all distracted by the naked wet baby in the tub!
It looks like he doesn't have any front teeth from this picture, but I promise, they're still there. I meant to get some pictures of the monkey shower curtain, to show off the new bathroom decor, but I got all distracted by the naked wet baby in the tub!
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Loonies in the cereal aisle
So William and I went shopping for groceries today at the local Kroger. We were contemplating my hastily-scrawled shopping list and methodically trawling up and down each aisle, when an older woman pushed her cart up next to ours. She beamed at William, happily swinging his legs from his seat in the cart, and said, "Oh what a beautiful little girl!"
I smiled nicely and said, "Actually, he's a boy. But thank you! It's the long eyelashes."
She said, "Oh, well, then. Those are beautiful eyes he has, so it was just easy to make the mistake." She smiled and waved at William and trotted down the canned vegetable aisle.
On the very next aisle, as I was trying to figure out where the heck the Kroger people stock the raisins (William's newest favorite snack), we came upon the same lady. "Hello, there, you are such a pretty girl!" she called to him and waved.
Huh. Had she not heard me when I said he was a boy? Not that it really matters, but it's been a really long time since anyone mistook William for a girl. He's a toddler now, and he really looks like a boy now. An amazingly handsome boy, sure, but a boy nonetheless. Plus, he was wearing navy-and-white striped shorts, a very plain, non-ruffly T-shirt with sailboats printed on the front, rugged brown sandals, and a denim hat. He definitely looked like a little boy. Which he is.
I didn't bother to correct her, but William looked up at me with a bemused expression. He knows he's not a girl. Pretty, maybe, but a girl? No way! Now this is the really weird part. We encountered that woman at least twice more and both times, she commented on what a pretty girl my son was.
And that, my friends, is why they invented the "smile and nod." So useful when you encounter dotty old ladies in the supermarket who insist that your grass-stained boy is a sweet little girl. I mean, heck. If I had a little girl, you really think I'd miss out on the opportunity to dress her up in girly little clothes? I mean, hello!
But hey, it got me thinking. So when it came time to make dinner, I donned my apron and I put one on William, too. What's good for the goose, etc. etc. He looked pretty good, I think.
I smiled nicely and said, "Actually, he's a boy. But thank you! It's the long eyelashes."
She said, "Oh, well, then. Those are beautiful eyes he has, so it was just easy to make the mistake." She smiled and waved at William and trotted down the canned vegetable aisle.
On the very next aisle, as I was trying to figure out where the heck the Kroger people stock the raisins (William's newest favorite snack), we came upon the same lady. "Hello, there, you are such a pretty girl!" she called to him and waved.
Huh. Had she not heard me when I said he was a boy? Not that it really matters, but it's been a really long time since anyone mistook William for a girl. He's a toddler now, and he really looks like a boy now. An amazingly handsome boy, sure, but a boy nonetheless. Plus, he was wearing navy-and-white striped shorts, a very plain, non-ruffly T-shirt with sailboats printed on the front, rugged brown sandals, and a denim hat. He definitely looked like a little boy. Which he is.
I didn't bother to correct her, but William looked up at me with a bemused expression. He knows he's not a girl. Pretty, maybe, but a girl? No way! Now this is the really weird part. We encountered that woman at least twice more and both times, she commented on what a pretty girl my son was.
And that, my friends, is why they invented the "smile and nod." So useful when you encounter dotty old ladies in the supermarket who insist that your grass-stained boy is a sweet little girl. I mean, heck. If I had a little girl, you really think I'd miss out on the opportunity to dress her up in girly little clothes? I mean, hello!
But hey, it got me thinking. So when it came time to make dinner, I donned my apron and I put one on William, too. What's good for the goose, etc. etc. He looked pretty good, I think.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Minor league baseball cracks me up
David's office organized a "welcome" event this evening: everyone received tickets to attend the Nashville Sounds game against the Albuquerque Isotopes at the Sounds' Greer Stadium in a sketchy part of downtown Nashville. Despite the fact that the Sounds, the triple A affiliate for the Milwaukee Brewers, are a pretty good team, they play in a stadium that makes the old Memphis Chicks stadium (i.e. the place that had to hold 25 cent beer nights to get people to come) look upscale. The Sounds' stadium itself is like something time forgot: I've seen nicer high school baseball stadiums. But it's appropriately ramshackle and cheerful enough to suit the weirdness that is so integral to a good minor league baseball experience.
Here is why I love minor league baseball games: they're so hilariously bizarre. The game is almost...okay, definitely...secondary to the spectacle. The games, the contests, it's all so random. Even David and I, avowed baseball fans, get distracted by the weirdness, and we don't even mind. How can you mind? It's half the reason to go!
"I feel like we're in Bull Durham," I said to David as we took our (rickety) seats on the third base line. No snorting bull patrolled the outfield wall, but there were terrific advertisements for Hamburger Helper and a service that extolled "let's talk trash!" And man, if I thought that airline seats were close together, clearly I had forgotten what it was like to attend a minor league game. Even when we stood up to let other people pass by, they barely had room to walk. We perched happily on our seats and hoped they wouldn't collapse and looked around.
So what if it was hot and the stadium not exactly pristine and new? Not one self-important person halted us to make sure we had tickets for our section. No one searched my bag when we walked through the gate; no one confiscated my whole-wheat Goldfish, raisins and cups of water for the little prince, even though the signs said that no outside food was allowed. No one accosted me to apply for a credit card and receive a cheap beach towel. No creepy over-eyeshadowed American Idol-wannabes crooned the national anthem as if they were dreaming of morphing into Shania Twain; the singer was a young boy who was there courtesy of the Make-A-Wish-Foundation, and he was off-key and flat the whole time, and it was one of the best and most sincere renditions of the anthem I've heard, and it was wonderful. And they were selling Chick-Fil-A sandwiches in the concession stand!
And it only got better. We had a row of happy, uncynical preteen kids behind us who loudly and enthusiastically cheered for their team--we love team spirit, yes we do!--and they waved and yelled at the mascot, a muscled-up anthropomorphized animal named Ozzy (a dog? a wolf?) who was prone to dropping to one knee and pumping an arm a la Jim Morrison/the Lizard King or swiveling his hips as if he were attempting to channel Elvis but somehow evoking Jose Canseco. William didn't care much about the juiced-up mascot, but he loved these kids. He was constantly standing up on my lap to watch them cheer and clap and sing. We're munching on ballpark food, watching our team drop about a hundred fly balls in the outfield while a gaggle of sixth graders belt out, "Spider PIG, Spider PIG, does whatever a Spider PIG does. Can he swing from a web? No, he can't; he's a PIG. Look out! He is a Spider PIG!!"
When he wasn't trying to leap off my lap to hang out with the cool kids behind us, William ate an entire Chick-Fil-A sandwich all by himself. And then he tried to eat mine. And he made noises of interest at David's hot dog. But while we held firm on the "no hot dogs" front, we gave in when it came to ice cream in a helmet. I mean, if you can't have at least the ice cream in a helmet at a baseball game, what's the point of going?
Weirdly, our ice cream helmets had the St. Louis Cardinals logo printed on them. Did they run out of helmets with the Sounds logo? Or did they never exist? Have the Sounds always sold paraphernalia with the logos of competing teams (or the parent organizations or competing teams), or was this a special occasion? No one knows. Our stadium cups (a dollar each!) had the Sounds logo on them, which makes them perhaps more appropriate souvenirs but less bizarre, which is somehow less fun.
But the best part of minor league baseball is all the weird stuff they plan to appeal to the fans. No superstar players here. I guess the marketing folks worry that baseball, just baseball, isn't enough to hold people's interest, so they hold all these weird events all during the game. We watched two boys--Hal and Cal or whoever--compete against each other in the "who can put on the frozen T-shirt the fastest?" contest. Both boys got to keep their frozen T-shirt when the contest ended. There was the keg rolling contest down the third base line. One keg ended up in the home dugout. I think the event was rigged. However, it is also possible that the kegs were not full. I couldn't tell. There was the dizzy bat contest with the acoustic guitars. There was the grocery-pick-up contest, where several girls huffed and puffed all over the field, picking up cans of something or other and putting them in bags (did someone win? I don't know). Two other sets of teenagers fastened cords to each other and dressed in helmets and pads before dragging each other up and down the right size of the outfield in some bizarre relay.There was probably a point to that one, but I missed it. Or maybe not. In fact, I think it would be that much better if there was absolutely no point at all.
So you've got the pitcher warming up with a few pitches, while ten-year-olds chug by just a few feet away with an armload of Del Monte green beans. Or you've got the infielders tossing the ball around to stay loose while Ozzy the...er, dog? fox? wolf? mascot races a four-year-old around the bases and pretends to collapse and die of heat exhaustion, lying prostrate on the ground, just shy of third base.
You just don't get this stuff in major league games. Okay, yes, in a major league game, you typically get much better baseball. And okay, usually the players are people you've heard of. But there's never a keg-rolling contest. And not once have I ever left a major league baseball game with a loaf of bread. That's right; we left the game at the end of the eighth inning with the stroller, our souvenir cups, our St. Louis Cardinals ice cream helmets, the diaper bag and a loaf of Sara Lee whole wheat bread. How's that for a "thanks for coming"?
It just doesn't get any better than that.
Here is why I love minor league baseball games: they're so hilariously bizarre. The game is almost...okay, definitely...secondary to the spectacle. The games, the contests, it's all so random. Even David and I, avowed baseball fans, get distracted by the weirdness, and we don't even mind. How can you mind? It's half the reason to go!
"I feel like we're in Bull Durham," I said to David as we took our (rickety) seats on the third base line. No snorting bull patrolled the outfield wall, but there were terrific advertisements for Hamburger Helper and a service that extolled "let's talk trash!" And man, if I thought that airline seats were close together, clearly I had forgotten what it was like to attend a minor league game. Even when we stood up to let other people pass by, they barely had room to walk. We perched happily on our seats and hoped they wouldn't collapse and looked around.
So what if it was hot and the stadium not exactly pristine and new? Not one self-important person halted us to make sure we had tickets for our section. No one searched my bag when we walked through the gate; no one confiscated my whole-wheat Goldfish, raisins and cups of water for the little prince, even though the signs said that no outside food was allowed. No one accosted me to apply for a credit card and receive a cheap beach towel. No creepy over-eyeshadowed American Idol-wannabes crooned the national anthem as if they were dreaming of morphing into Shania Twain; the singer was a young boy who was there courtesy of the Make-A-Wish-Foundation, and he was off-key and flat the whole time, and it was one of the best and most sincere renditions of the anthem I've heard, and it was wonderful. And they were selling Chick-Fil-A sandwiches in the concession stand!
And it only got better. We had a row of happy, uncynical preteen kids behind us who loudly and enthusiastically cheered for their team--we love team spirit, yes we do!--and they waved and yelled at the mascot, a muscled-up anthropomorphized animal named Ozzy (a dog? a wolf?) who was prone to dropping to one knee and pumping an arm a la Jim Morrison/the Lizard King or swiveling his hips as if he were attempting to channel Elvis but somehow evoking Jose Canseco. William didn't care much about the juiced-up mascot, but he loved these kids. He was constantly standing up on my lap to watch them cheer and clap and sing. We're munching on ballpark food, watching our team drop about a hundred fly balls in the outfield while a gaggle of sixth graders belt out, "Spider PIG, Spider PIG, does whatever a Spider PIG does. Can he swing from a web? No, he can't; he's a PIG. Look out! He is a Spider PIG!!"
When he wasn't trying to leap off my lap to hang out with the cool kids behind us, William ate an entire Chick-Fil-A sandwich all by himself. And then he tried to eat mine. And he made noises of interest at David's hot dog. But while we held firm on the "no hot dogs" front, we gave in when it came to ice cream in a helmet. I mean, if you can't have at least the ice cream in a helmet at a baseball game, what's the point of going?
Weirdly, our ice cream helmets had the St. Louis Cardinals logo printed on them. Did they run out of helmets with the Sounds logo? Or did they never exist? Have the Sounds always sold paraphernalia with the logos of competing teams (or the parent organizations or competing teams), or was this a special occasion? No one knows. Our stadium cups (a dollar each!) had the Sounds logo on them, which makes them perhaps more appropriate souvenirs but less bizarre, which is somehow less fun.
But the best part of minor league baseball is all the weird stuff they plan to appeal to the fans. No superstar players here. I guess the marketing folks worry that baseball, just baseball, isn't enough to hold people's interest, so they hold all these weird events all during the game. We watched two boys--Hal and Cal or whoever--compete against each other in the "who can put on the frozen T-shirt the fastest?" contest. Both boys got to keep their frozen T-shirt when the contest ended. There was the keg rolling contest down the third base line. One keg ended up in the home dugout. I think the event was rigged. However, it is also possible that the kegs were not full. I couldn't tell. There was the dizzy bat contest with the acoustic guitars. There was the grocery-pick-up contest, where several girls huffed and puffed all over the field, picking up cans of something or other and putting them in bags (did someone win? I don't know). Two other sets of teenagers fastened cords to each other and dressed in helmets and pads before dragging each other up and down the right size of the outfield in some bizarre relay.There was probably a point to that one, but I missed it. Or maybe not. In fact, I think it would be that much better if there was absolutely no point at all.
So you've got the pitcher warming up with a few pitches, while ten-year-olds chug by just a few feet away with an armload of Del Monte green beans. Or you've got the infielders tossing the ball around to stay loose while Ozzy the...er, dog? fox? wolf? mascot races a four-year-old around the bases and pretends to collapse and die of heat exhaustion, lying prostrate on the ground, just shy of third base.
You just don't get this stuff in major league games. Okay, yes, in a major league game, you typically get much better baseball. And okay, usually the players are people you've heard of. But there's never a keg-rolling contest. And not once have I ever left a major league baseball game with a loaf of bread. That's right; we left the game at the end of the eighth inning with the stroller, our souvenir cups, our St. Louis Cardinals ice cream helmets, the diaper bag and a loaf of Sara Lee whole wheat bread. How's that for a "thanks for coming"?
It just doesn't get any better than that.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Worries
I recently learned that the son of a girl who attended Rhodes with me was critically injured in a freak accident in the home. Apparently, the little boy, who is around William's age, pulled a television set over onto him. By the time, the paramedics arrived, he was not breathing, but they managed to resuscitate him and rush him to the ICU at Vanderbilt.
When my friend Mary Clare relayed the news to me via email, I sucked in my breath in horror that something like that could happen. I actually felt my heart rate speed up. Then I had that urge to immediately check on William to make sure he's okay, the sour rush that shoots through my stomach and up my throat anytime I hear about something horrible that could happen to my own child. My next reaction was to feel intense sympathy and helplessness for the parents of that little boy. He is receiving excellent care, but I know they must be completely exhausted and traumatized.
David caught me staring at our big-screen television last night and said something to the effect that our TV is too heavy for a toddler to pull down. I guess he's right, but it still made me worry. So many things can happen that we can't anticipate. I never fully appreciated that before I had a child, but now it never completely leaves my head. Even when I'm not consciously thinking or worrying about something happening to hurt my child, it still stubbornly lingers there at the edges of my subconscious.
Is that something that accompanies parenthood? I guess I'd have to say yes. My parents say they still worry about me and my brother, and it finally makes sense to me. You can't control everything that happens, but by George, you can worry about it! I guess the things you worry about change over time, but the concern never goes away.
I hope the little boy in the ICU at Vanderbilt continues to make progress. I simply cannot imagine being in the place of his parents right now, but I ache for them.
When my friend Mary Clare relayed the news to me via email, I sucked in my breath in horror that something like that could happen. I actually felt my heart rate speed up. Then I had that urge to immediately check on William to make sure he's okay, the sour rush that shoots through my stomach and up my throat anytime I hear about something horrible that could happen to my own child. My next reaction was to feel intense sympathy and helplessness for the parents of that little boy. He is receiving excellent care, but I know they must be completely exhausted and traumatized.
David caught me staring at our big-screen television last night and said something to the effect that our TV is too heavy for a toddler to pull down. I guess he's right, but it still made me worry. So many things can happen that we can't anticipate. I never fully appreciated that before I had a child, but now it never completely leaves my head. Even when I'm not consciously thinking or worrying about something happening to hurt my child, it still stubbornly lingers there at the edges of my subconscious.
Is that something that accompanies parenthood? I guess I'd have to say yes. My parents say they still worry about me and my brother, and it finally makes sense to me. You can't control everything that happens, but by George, you can worry about it! I guess the things you worry about change over time, but the concern never goes away.
I hope the little boy in the ICU at Vanderbilt continues to make progress. I simply cannot imagine being in the place of his parents right now, but I ache for them.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
More advice, plus the tale of a tantrum
Two more good pieces of advice to add to my list from a few days ago.
The first is courtesy of my own dear old dad: when you're 17 (or 21 or 30), and your father offers to buy you some tools, don't scoff; take him up on it because one day you will need them. You may not appreciate screwdrivers when you're 21 (except for the Smirnoff variety), but you sure will be thankful that you have them when you are a new parent and every single freakin' baby device requires the deft use of a Philips head screwdriver. Take the tools. Tools=good.
The second is this: when you're cooking, err on the side of adding too little salt rather than too much because you can always add more salt later. It's harder to take it away when you've already dumped it in there. Then you end up feeding your poor starving resident husband too-salty scrambled eggs and he gamely eats them anyway because he's wasting away from working without eating but you know they were lousy and doesn't he deserve better than that for working 100-hour weeks in the NICU?
On a completely different note...William is still somewhat in the clingy mode, almost a week after returning home. He's started screeching really loudly when he wakes up, and it just escalates. When I walk into his room, he has big wet tears on his red face, and he's nearly hysterical. Then it takes forever for him to really calm down, and woe unto you if you pick him up and then try to put him down while he's still wound up. Earlier today, he woke up too early from a nap. He was a mess. Screeching, crying those big tears, arching his back, having a regular ol' fit. But nothing made him happy. Not milk. Not ice water. Not reading one of his Maisie books or an issue of Babybug (his current obsessions). Not being held.
Finally, he stopped shrieking enough to sit in my lap and lift the flaps for a few pages of a Maisie book, but as soon as we reached the end of the book, he went nuts again. It's like he is trying to let us know that he is an honest-to-goodness toddler now, and with that label comes the right to have regular loud tantrums for no discernable reason. Luckily, he eventually consented to drinking some milk and reading the Maisie book again, and that seemed to do the trick. Weird, though.
And he was in perfectly fine spirits the rest of the evening, even though I dragged him to the library to check out books. When we got home, he just toddled merrily around the family room, depositing chip clips (for some reason, he loves to steal the chip clips out of their drawer and play with them) in the end table drawers and bringing the animals from his Noah's Ark over to me and then snatching them away and running off with a giggle.
Toddlers=weird.
The first is courtesy of my own dear old dad: when you're 17 (or 21 or 30), and your father offers to buy you some tools, don't scoff; take him up on it because one day you will need them. You may not appreciate screwdrivers when you're 21 (except for the Smirnoff variety), but you sure will be thankful that you have them when you are a new parent and every single freakin' baby device requires the deft use of a Philips head screwdriver. Take the tools. Tools=good.
The second is this: when you're cooking, err on the side of adding too little salt rather than too much because you can always add more salt later. It's harder to take it away when you've already dumped it in there. Then you end up feeding your poor starving resident husband too-salty scrambled eggs and he gamely eats them anyway because he's wasting away from working without eating but you know they were lousy and doesn't he deserve better than that for working 100-hour weeks in the NICU?
On a completely different note...William is still somewhat in the clingy mode, almost a week after returning home. He's started screeching really loudly when he wakes up, and it just escalates. When I walk into his room, he has big wet tears on his red face, and he's nearly hysterical. Then it takes forever for him to really calm down, and woe unto you if you pick him up and then try to put him down while he's still wound up. Earlier today, he woke up too early from a nap. He was a mess. Screeching, crying those big tears, arching his back, having a regular ol' fit. But nothing made him happy. Not milk. Not ice water. Not reading one of his Maisie books or an issue of Babybug (his current obsessions). Not being held.
Finally, he stopped shrieking enough to sit in my lap and lift the flaps for a few pages of a Maisie book, but as soon as we reached the end of the book, he went nuts again. It's like he is trying to let us know that he is an honest-to-goodness toddler now, and with that label comes the right to have regular loud tantrums for no discernable reason. Luckily, he eventually consented to drinking some milk and reading the Maisie book again, and that seemed to do the trick. Weird, though.
And he was in perfectly fine spirits the rest of the evening, even though I dragged him to the library to check out books. When we got home, he just toddled merrily around the family room, depositing chip clips (for some reason, he loves to steal the chip clips out of their drawer and play with them) in the end table drawers and bringing the animals from his Noah's Ark over to me and then snatching them away and running off with a giggle.
Toddlers=weird.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Misplaced post
Well, heck.
I just published a whole long post that I'd saved as a draft, and it appears under the most recent post of the Holden Beach pictures. Humor me and scroll on down to read it, wonchyou?
Gracias.
I just published a whole long post that I'd saved as a draft, and it appears under the most recent post of the Holden Beach pictures. Humor me and scroll on down to read it, wonchyou?
Gracias.
Monday, August 06, 2007
More Holden Beach photos
A couple more of my favorite Holden Beach photos:
What does this remind me of?
"And when there were no crawdads to be found, we ate sand."
"You ate what?"
"We ate sand."
"You ate sand??"
"That's right."
Bonus points if you can identify the movie.
Here's another photos, possibly my favorite:
That's just William all over: in motion. And happy. And with dirty hands.
Here's one of me and William on the beach. Not too many of those. I'm no bathing suit model these days (or, er, any days).
Eleanor wrangles both Graham and William in the baby pool on the porch:
We didn't really intend for William to swim in the baby pool in that outfit. He went over to splash his hands in the pool, and well...before I knew it, he was completely soaked anyway, so I just tossed him into the pool.
William hugging his new buddy Graham:
William and Graham, despite being four months apart in age, are almost exactly the same size. Poor William; he's so much used to being bigger than other babies. I bet Graham outgrows him by the next time we see him.
Here is the Wyckoff clan, all cleaned up for dinner at Betty's. In retrospect, I'd like to say that it's a very good thing that we took this picture before dinner and the ensuing mess. (And no, I am not just alluding to the hushpuppies.)
One of the best pictures ever of William with his daddy:
We had a good time! William misses his ready audience, though. He's been crying a lot when I put him down, which is pretty unusual. It's like he's begging, just begging me, to please let him entertain me. Life's a stage for the little prince. I would guess, however, that he doesn't miss the Super Duper Sunscreen Application, though. Even with the SPF swim clothes and hats, he still got saturated with sunblock every time he went out to the beach, and he's not a big fan of that process, to put it mildly. Well, he'd better get used to it. He's David's and my kid, and we're so white, we practically glow in the dark. William had no chance at olive skin.
What does this remind me of?
"And when there were no crawdads to be found, we ate sand."
"You ate what?"
"We ate sand."
"You ate sand??"
"That's right."
Bonus points if you can identify the movie.
Here's another photos, possibly my favorite:
That's just William all over: in motion. And happy. And with dirty hands.
Here's one of me and William on the beach. Not too many of those. I'm no bathing suit model these days (or, er, any days).
Eleanor wrangles both Graham and William in the baby pool on the porch:
We didn't really intend for William to swim in the baby pool in that outfit. He went over to splash his hands in the pool, and well...before I knew it, he was completely soaked anyway, so I just tossed him into the pool.
William hugging his new buddy Graham:
William and Graham, despite being four months apart in age, are almost exactly the same size. Poor William; he's so much used to being bigger than other babies. I bet Graham outgrows him by the next time we see him.
Here is the Wyckoff clan, all cleaned up for dinner at Betty's. In retrospect, I'd like to say that it's a very good thing that we took this picture before dinner and the ensuing mess. (And no, I am not just alluding to the hushpuppies.)
One of the best pictures ever of William with his daddy:
We had a good time! William misses his ready audience, though. He's been crying a lot when I put him down, which is pretty unusual. It's like he's begging, just begging me, to please let him entertain me. Life's a stage for the little prince. I would guess, however, that he doesn't miss the Super Duper Sunscreen Application, though. Even with the SPF swim clothes and hats, he still got saturated with sunblock every time he went out to the beach, and he's not a big fan of that process, to put it mildly. Well, he'd better get used to it. He's David's and my kid, and we're so white, we practically glow in the dark. William had no chance at olive skin.
Excellent Life Advice
I was thinking about Miller's new baby the other night, and mulling over what advice I'd give to Miller as a brand new mom. Then I remembered that when I was a new mom, I 1) was too exhausted to listen to other people's advice, 2) found that other people's advice often didn't work for me and my non-sleeping, championship-eating-contest baby, and 3) what do I really know anyway? Most of what I've done and still do is the result of trial and error, and it's not like that's something easy to pass along.
So then I thought, hey, I could write down Excellent Life Advice for Mabry (and my other friends' new babies) instead. She doesn't have much life experience, so it's not like she'll have many pre-existing opinions. I've been mulling that over since I hit on that idea. Obviously most of it won't be relevant for awhile, but I should probably write it down before I forget it anyway. Most of it falls under the general category of "Be prepared," but here's what I've got so far:
Excellent Life Advice, no. 1: Wear sunscreen. Okay, so I ripped that one off. Still, it's good advice. Preferably SPF 30 on your face.
Excellent Life Advice, no. 2: Carry some kleenex with you. Even if you aren't prone to runny noses (which for at least the first 15 months of your life, you will be, if William is any indication), it can serve many useful purposes. See: public bathrooms without any toilet paper.
Excellent Life Advice, no. 3: You really don't have to pretend like you know about something that you don't. For example, you're at a party, and someone starts talking about something like oh, the origination of the long-standing dispute and ensuing violence over the Kashmir region, or maybe Cajun-Thai fusion cuisine, or the Sarbanes-Oxley Act, or say, whether the German author Gunter Grass is a complete and total sellout for acting as the voice of the post-WW II German people while secretly concealing his own involvement with the Nazis. Don't know anything about the topic at hand? Just listen. And don't be afraid to ask questions. This is one of the best ways to learn about new things. And bonus: you won't sound like a total idiot when you make a pronouncement that turns out to be completely off base.
Excellent Life Advice, no. 4: Bring water with you wherever you go. The airline industry disagrees with this ELA item, but they're stupid.
And that reminds me....
Excellent Life Advice, no. 5: Avoid the Dallas-Fort Worth airport at all costs.
Excellent Life Advice, no. 6: Know your limits. Never installed tile in your own bathroom before? Think it might be beyond your abilities? Listen to your gut. Call in the professionals before you screw something up irrevocably (or at least expensively).
Excellent Life Advice, no. 7: Believe, really believe, in something. Or someone. Maybe it's God. Maybe it's the First Amendment. Maybe it's that all people have some good in them. Maybe it's that they should never have instituted the designated hitter. Maybe it's all four. I personally do believe in all four. For further examples, see the movie "Bull Durham." But not until you're older, of course; I think it's rated R.
Excellent Life Advice, no. 8: Keep a book with you, or at least in your car or your bag. You never know when you're going to get stuck in a long line or in a waiting room.
Excellent Life Advice, no. 9: Look before you sit down. This should be fairly self-explanatory.
Excellent Life Advice, no. 10: Treat yourself occasionally. Buy yourself those Junior Mints at the movie theater, or pick up a copy of that new book you're dying to read but will have to wait months to get through the library. It's the little things in life, I think, that can really make you feel good when you really need to. Me, I like Twizzlers.
I'm sure there are lots of other lessons in life that I could impart, but hopefully I still have many more lessons to learn myself. Also, I made the colossal mistake of yes, not writing a couple down when I woke up in the middle of the night with a good idea, so I forgot them. Maybe that should be another one: keep a notebook by your bed in case you have a great idea in the middle of the night. Of course, that assumes that you are a writer and also that your handwriting is good enough in the dark that you'll be able to decipher what you wrote the next morning.
Feel free to add your own advice in the comments section...
So then I thought, hey, I could write down Excellent Life Advice for Mabry (and my other friends' new babies) instead. She doesn't have much life experience, so it's not like she'll have many pre-existing opinions. I've been mulling that over since I hit on that idea. Obviously most of it won't be relevant for awhile, but I should probably write it down before I forget it anyway. Most of it falls under the general category of "Be prepared," but here's what I've got so far:
Excellent Life Advice, no. 1: Wear sunscreen. Okay, so I ripped that one off. Still, it's good advice. Preferably SPF 30 on your face.
Excellent Life Advice, no. 2: Carry some kleenex with you. Even if you aren't prone to runny noses (which for at least the first 15 months of your life, you will be, if William is any indication), it can serve many useful purposes. See: public bathrooms without any toilet paper.
Excellent Life Advice, no. 3: You really don't have to pretend like you know about something that you don't. For example, you're at a party, and someone starts talking about something like oh, the origination of the long-standing dispute and ensuing violence over the Kashmir region, or maybe Cajun-Thai fusion cuisine, or the Sarbanes-Oxley Act, or say, whether the German author Gunter Grass is a complete and total sellout for acting as the voice of the post-WW II German people while secretly concealing his own involvement with the Nazis. Don't know anything about the topic at hand? Just listen. And don't be afraid to ask questions. This is one of the best ways to learn about new things. And bonus: you won't sound like a total idiot when you make a pronouncement that turns out to be completely off base.
Excellent Life Advice, no. 4: Bring water with you wherever you go. The airline industry disagrees with this ELA item, but they're stupid.
And that reminds me....
Excellent Life Advice, no. 5: Avoid the Dallas-Fort Worth airport at all costs.
Excellent Life Advice, no. 6: Know your limits. Never installed tile in your own bathroom before? Think it might be beyond your abilities? Listen to your gut. Call in the professionals before you screw something up irrevocably (or at least expensively).
Excellent Life Advice, no. 7: Believe, really believe, in something. Or someone. Maybe it's God. Maybe it's the First Amendment. Maybe it's that all people have some good in them. Maybe it's that they should never have instituted the designated hitter. Maybe it's all four. I personally do believe in all four. For further examples, see the movie "Bull Durham." But not until you're older, of course; I think it's rated R.
Excellent Life Advice, no. 8: Keep a book with you, or at least in your car or your bag. You never know when you're going to get stuck in a long line or in a waiting room.
Excellent Life Advice, no. 9: Look before you sit down. This should be fairly self-explanatory.
Excellent Life Advice, no. 10: Treat yourself occasionally. Buy yourself those Junior Mints at the movie theater, or pick up a copy of that new book you're dying to read but will have to wait months to get through the library. It's the little things in life, I think, that can really make you feel good when you really need to. Me, I like Twizzlers.
I'm sure there are lots of other lessons in life that I could impart, but hopefully I still have many more lessons to learn myself. Also, I made the colossal mistake of yes, not writing a couple down when I woke up in the middle of the night with a good idea, so I forgot them. Maybe that should be another one: keep a notebook by your bed in case you have a great idea in the middle of the night. Of course, that assumes that you are a writer and also that your handwriting is good enough in the dark that you'll be able to decipher what you wrote the next morning.
Feel free to add your own advice in the comments section...
Friday, August 03, 2007
End of beach week 2007
We've had terrible Internet access issues all week here at the house in Holden Beach, but hey, at least the weather was mostly good! There was a storm the other night, but we would have already been back up from the beach by then anyway. And what's a beach vacation without at least one torrential rainstorm, anyway? But like I said, the weather really was good most of the time, so we logged plenty of beach time.
The obligatory family photo from Holden Beach:
On another note...
I want to formally announce the birth of my dear friend Miller's new daughter: Mabry Parker Herring was born on Saturday, July 28. Congatulations to Miller and her husband Nathan. Yay! I can't wait to meet Mabry in person. Miller called on Monday, and she said that she can't stop looking at her. I remember the feeling, the feeling of awe that this little person was just inside you and now he/she's here, looking at you. Miller, if you're out there, it gets even better, too.
The obligatory family photo from Holden Beach:
On another note...
I want to formally announce the birth of my dear friend Miller's new daughter: Mabry Parker Herring was born on Saturday, July 28. Congatulations to Miller and her husband Nathan. Yay! I can't wait to meet Mabry in person. Miller called on Monday, and she said that she can't stop looking at her. I remember the feeling, the feeling of awe that this little person was just inside you and now he/she's here, looking at you. Miller, if you're out there, it gets even better, too.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Holden Beach, Year Two for William
We're at the beach! It's late July, so we have made the annual pilgrimage to Holden Beach, North Carolina, where we pile in a couple of beach houses with longtime family friends and enjoy the ocean and camraderie.
William's second trip to Holden Beach has been a little more interactive than his first trip. Last summer, William was barely more than three months old. David and I ran back and forth between the beach and the house, running ragged on baby duty, changing diapers and feeding William and responding to his cries when he got really grumpy. We had a good time when we could get away and get down to the beach, though, but obviously William was too little to do anything or to be out in the sun. William's beach time was limited to a couple of early evening walks in the Baby Bjorn and one tentative dip of his tootsies in the Atlantic Ocean at sunset.
This year, however, William is a big kid. He gets to go to the beach every day and play. And so he is learning about the Joy of Playing in the Sand.
And with shells. Here are some photos from Sunday:
In fact, we have learned an important lesson. (God, am I always saying that or what?) You don't need to buy expensive beach toys (not that we did, cheapo parents that we are). You just give your kid a bucket and some shells and say, "Go crazy, kiddo!" Which is pretty much what we did. Naturally, William had to taste the sand. And the shells. And maybe even the bucket. But then he realized that it's even MORE fun to fling wet sand around. Wheee! Look how far the sand can fly!
He looks very serious in these photos. He wasn't especially serious the whole time, but I took most of these when we first ventured out onto the beach, when he was still relatively clean.
He was tentative at first on the sand, but eventually he settled in and dug in and had a wonderful time. Luckily, he doesn't take after his father at the same age in one regard: William isn't afraid of the sand.
And here are some photos from today. By today, William was an old pro at this beach thing. He was ready to plow right into the sand and water today. No warming up necessary.
William and his daddy and his uncle Mark and I worked on building a big lake with a wall around it, so William could have his own personal little salt water pool to play in.
It is kinda fun to get dirty in the sand, isn't it?
I haven't had the chance to get any pictures of them together on the beach yet, but I do have a very cute picture of William and his new friend Graham with their big friend Benton. Graham is Alethea and Glenn's son, who's about four months younger than William--and just as big. I'll work on getting some beach shots later this week...but in the meantime...
William's second trip to Holden Beach has been a little more interactive than his first trip. Last summer, William was barely more than three months old. David and I ran back and forth between the beach and the house, running ragged on baby duty, changing diapers and feeding William and responding to his cries when he got really grumpy. We had a good time when we could get away and get down to the beach, though, but obviously William was too little to do anything or to be out in the sun. William's beach time was limited to a couple of early evening walks in the Baby Bjorn and one tentative dip of his tootsies in the Atlantic Ocean at sunset.
This year, however, William is a big kid. He gets to go to the beach every day and play. And so he is learning about the Joy of Playing in the Sand.
And with shells. Here are some photos from Sunday:
In fact, we have learned an important lesson. (God, am I always saying that or what?) You don't need to buy expensive beach toys (not that we did, cheapo parents that we are). You just give your kid a bucket and some shells and say, "Go crazy, kiddo!" Which is pretty much what we did. Naturally, William had to taste the sand. And the shells. And maybe even the bucket. But then he realized that it's even MORE fun to fling wet sand around. Wheee! Look how far the sand can fly!
He looks very serious in these photos. He wasn't especially serious the whole time, but I took most of these when we first ventured out onto the beach, when he was still relatively clean.
He was tentative at first on the sand, but eventually he settled in and dug in and had a wonderful time. Luckily, he doesn't take after his father at the same age in one regard: William isn't afraid of the sand.
And here are some photos from today. By today, William was an old pro at this beach thing. He was ready to plow right into the sand and water today. No warming up necessary.
William and his daddy and his uncle Mark and I worked on building a big lake with a wall around it, so William could have his own personal little salt water pool to play in.
It is kinda fun to get dirty in the sand, isn't it?
I haven't had the chance to get any pictures of them together on the beach yet, but I do have a very cute picture of William and his new friend Graham with their big friend Benton. Graham is Alethea and Glenn's son, who's about four months younger than William--and just as big. I'll work on getting some beach shots later this week...but in the meantime...
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Musical grandparents
Boy, was William confused this morning!
One grandmother (Mama Dee) put him to bed last night, and his other grandmother (Mama Judi) came in to wake him up this morning. Mom said he looked at her like he wasn't quite sure what was going on! He was already asleep last night when my parents arrived via the Natchez Trace. So he had no way of knowing that his Mama Judi was sleeping right next door to him all night long.
Here's William hanging out in our new kitchen with my mom:
And he quickly initiated her into another (new) rite: helping him climb down the stairs like a big boy. Which is quite terrifying actually, but he refuses to go down the stairs any other way:
And William was also happy to show off his new swingset. John came over again and helped him go down the (really impressively tall) slide, too. Here's just a random shot of William playing in the yard after dinner:
One grandmother (Mama Dee) put him to bed last night, and his other grandmother (Mama Judi) came in to wake him up this morning. Mom said he looked at her like he wasn't quite sure what was going on! He was already asleep last night when my parents arrived via the Natchez Trace. So he had no way of knowing that his Mama Judi was sleeping right next door to him all night long.
Here's William hanging out in our new kitchen with my mom:
And he quickly initiated her into another (new) rite: helping him climb down the stairs like a big boy. Which is quite terrifying actually, but he refuses to go down the stairs any other way:
And William was also happy to show off his new swingset. John came over again and helped him go down the (really impressively tall) slide, too. Here's just a random shot of William playing in the yard after dinner:
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
My birthday, etc.
It's my birthday today. 33. Whee! I like the symmetry of the number 33, but I'm sort not convinced that's how old I am. It just doesn't seem like a real age, and certainly not a real age that I could be. I mean, heck. I remember when my mom was 33. It wasn't that long ago, either.
But hey, if turning 33 gets me taken out to dinner, to a real adult restaurant, where I don't have to bring along crayons, sippy cups, mandarin orange bowls, bibs or plastic spoons, I guess I'm fine with it. In fact, I know I'm fine with it. David's taking me out to dinner tonight in honor of my birthday; we're going to a place called the Germantown Cafe, and Diane and Aaron are coming over to babysit.
Wow, I couldn't tell you the last time that David and I ate dinner together in a restaurant without William. Not that we take him out to dinner anywhere nice (or inappropriate for a child), but you know what I mean. I won't know what to do with myself without having a small wiggly person to wrangle. It will be freaky. Excellent freaky, of course. I'll have half the table all to myself! I don't have to move all the cutlery and glassware, and oh, well, everything out of the way of a curious and curiously long-armed and determined small boy. I won't have to shush a young boy who loves to hear his own voice echo off the big high ceiling. I can order a glass of wine and not have to constantly rescue it from sticky hands. Because it's one thing if your toddler knocks over your glass of ice water. It's another thing when people's eyes widen as you walk by, carrying a toddler who smells like a liquor store.
* * * * *
Yesterday, John came over to visit. He and I put together the new water table for William. William's friends Jake and Jadyn have one, and William fell in love with theirs a couple of months ago, so when we moved here, I told David that we'd have to get one for him. He loves to splash in the bathtub, and he doesn't even have to sit down on his bottom to get to splash with the water table. Needless to say, it was a Big Hit.
It was a win-win for everyone. William got to get wet and splash around. I didn't have to clean anything up. The nearby tree got a much-needed drink of water afterward. An excellent toy. I'll put it on my "to recommend" list.
But hey, if turning 33 gets me taken out to dinner, to a real adult restaurant, where I don't have to bring along crayons, sippy cups, mandarin orange bowls, bibs or plastic spoons, I guess I'm fine with it. In fact, I know I'm fine with it. David's taking me out to dinner tonight in honor of my birthday; we're going to a place called the Germantown Cafe, and Diane and Aaron are coming over to babysit.
Wow, I couldn't tell you the last time that David and I ate dinner together in a restaurant without William. Not that we take him out to dinner anywhere nice (or inappropriate for a child), but you know what I mean. I won't know what to do with myself without having a small wiggly person to wrangle. It will be freaky. Excellent freaky, of course. I'll have half the table all to myself! I don't have to move all the cutlery and glassware, and oh, well, everything out of the way of a curious and curiously long-armed and determined small boy. I won't have to shush a young boy who loves to hear his own voice echo off the big high ceiling. I can order a glass of wine and not have to constantly rescue it from sticky hands. Because it's one thing if your toddler knocks over your glass of ice water. It's another thing when people's eyes widen as you walk by, carrying a toddler who smells like a liquor store.
* * * * *
Yesterday, John came over to visit. He and I put together the new water table for William. William's friends Jake and Jadyn have one, and William fell in love with theirs a couple of months ago, so when we moved here, I told David that we'd have to get one for him. He loves to splash in the bathtub, and he doesn't even have to sit down on his bottom to get to splash with the water table. Needless to say, it was a Big Hit.
It was a win-win for everyone. William got to get wet and splash around. I didn't have to clean anything up. The nearby tree got a much-needed drink of water afterward. An excellent toy. I'll put it on my "to recommend" list.
Monday, July 23, 2007
More compare and contrast
Y'all know how much I love to do the compare-and-contrast thing.
Here's William on July 22, 2007: that is to say, yesterday:
And here's a shot of him on July 22 last year:
Eeeee, so different!
Sometimes I look at William, and I remember, intellectually, that he was once a tiny little baby. But I can't really conjure up in my head a clear picture of that little guy. His current image is what is lodged firmly in my brain now. But when I look back at the old photos, it's like, "Oh yes! I remember that so well!" Insert gratuitous cliche here about how they grow up so fast, etc. etc. But you know, it's only a cliche because it's true...
Here's William on July 22, 2007: that is to say, yesterday:
And here's a shot of him on July 22 last year:
Eeeee, so different!
Sometimes I look at William, and I remember, intellectually, that he was once a tiny little baby. But I can't really conjure up in my head a clear picture of that little guy. His current image is what is lodged firmly in my brain now. But when I look back at the old photos, it's like, "Oh yes! I remember that so well!" Insert gratuitous cliche here about how they grow up so fast, etc. etc. But you know, it's only a cliche because it's true...
Sunday, July 22, 2007
15 months and counting
William turned 15 months old today.
The milestone update: He is walking, feeding himself with a spoon AND with a fork (sometimes), drinking out of an open cup under supervision, and seems to understand more and more words every day. He also now says "Go!" and "Wow!" in addition to the words he was already saying. He likes to carry around the little cork coasters that are supposed to live on the coffee table. And he loves to swing on his swingset and even go down the slide (with some help). And oh boy, does he love to tackle an unsuspecting Mommy or Daddy and roll all over them, giggling and shouting the whole time. (We love that, too.)
But he is starting to assert even more opinions; for example, he may say that he wants a "ba" but when you hand him a banana, he may push it away with disdain and a cry of outrage. Or he may clutch at it like he's dying of emphysema and it's an oxygen tank. He may reach out for the sippy of milk that is sitting on the table, but when you place it on the high chair tray, he immediately topples it off onto the floor, where it leaks all over the place. Then he's mad about that. Do you know how many times each day I've started to say, "William, what do you want? I don't know what you want!! Do you even know what you want?" If only he had more words: verbs, adjectives, something!
All together now: Every day is an adventure.
We took him to his new church today for the first time, and that went well. The rest of us attended the 11 a.m. service, while William played with trains and cars and ate Ritz crackers in the nursery. He didn't even look up when David and I walked out the door and left him.
He did, however, enjoy seeing his grandparents there, and I think they might have been a little pleased to see him, too...
With Daddy after church:
Aww, my two boys are so sweet together in their blue outfits. William was wearing a darling little smocked button-over-the-shoulder outfit with teddy bears on it; I bought it in Natchez. And would you believe that it's a size 2T? It is so ridiculous to constantly be amazed at the rate at which he's growing, but I've always been a master of the ridiculous...
The milestone update: He is walking, feeding himself with a spoon AND with a fork (sometimes), drinking out of an open cup under supervision, and seems to understand more and more words every day. He also now says "Go!" and "Wow!" in addition to the words he was already saying. He likes to carry around the little cork coasters that are supposed to live on the coffee table. And he loves to swing on his swingset and even go down the slide (with some help). And oh boy, does he love to tackle an unsuspecting Mommy or Daddy and roll all over them, giggling and shouting the whole time. (We love that, too.)
But he is starting to assert even more opinions; for example, he may say that he wants a "ba" but when you hand him a banana, he may push it away with disdain and a cry of outrage. Or he may clutch at it like he's dying of emphysema and it's an oxygen tank. He may reach out for the sippy of milk that is sitting on the table, but when you place it on the high chair tray, he immediately topples it off onto the floor, where it leaks all over the place. Then he's mad about that. Do you know how many times each day I've started to say, "William, what do you want? I don't know what you want!! Do you even know what you want?" If only he had more words: verbs, adjectives, something!
All together now: Every day is an adventure.
We took him to his new church today for the first time, and that went well. The rest of us attended the 11 a.m. service, while William played with trains and cars and ate Ritz crackers in the nursery. He didn't even look up when David and I walked out the door and left him.
He did, however, enjoy seeing his grandparents there, and I think they might have been a little pleased to see him, too...
With Daddy after church:
Aww, my two boys are so sweet together in their blue outfits. William was wearing a darling little smocked button-over-the-shoulder outfit with teddy bears on it; I bought it in Natchez. And would you believe that it's a size 2T? It is so ridiculous to constantly be amazed at the rate at which he's growing, but I've always been a master of the ridiculous...
Friday, July 20, 2007
The waiting
I have two very pregnant friends who are currently under instructions to rest. Resting is one of those all-purpose types of advice that people like to give pregnant women and which pregnant women like to ignore (who, me? But I rested for a whole day before I gave birth to William! Don't I get credit for that?)
But it becomes a little more urgent when a doctor or midwife doles out the advice to rest. So right now, Natalie and Miller are resting. At least, they are supposed to be resting. I know them both, so that's why I wrote "supposd to be."
And they are waiting. Resting and waiting do not especially go well together, I found out when I was plodding through that last month of pregnancy. That's particularly true if you're a relatively high strung, Type A personality sort, as I was. I chafed at the advice to rest. I had stuff to do! I had laundry to do, carseats to get installed, things to organize. Who had time to rest? I didn't even allow myself much free time to rest because I resisted it so much. I worked at the newspaper down in Palm Springs right up until about two or three days before my water broke, much to the chagrin of my husband and family, who were utterly convinced I'd go into labor somewhere on a dusty desert road at night while driving home. But I was stubborn, convinced that I wouldn't go into labor until long after my due date. I was betting that I'd be at least a week overdue. I loaded up my puffy body in the Mazda each morning and tooled on down the hill to my job. I had plenty of time to rest, I told himself.
The day after I stopped working, I managed to prop myself up in bed with the laptop computer and a can of cherry limeade. That was my Official Day of Rest. I read, I surfed the 'Net, I watched some TV. Then the next day, I was busy busy busy, doing all sorts of things; running errands, getting the car seat installed, having dinner at the local terrible Chinese restaurant with some women from my officer spouses' group. But it was okay, I figured. I still had plenty of time.
But I had forgotten something important. I had forgotten the warning issued by my friend Phuong, who has one lovely child and is now expecting another. "Don't buy into the myth that the first child is always late," she intoned during one of our phone conversations.
Sure enough. My water broke the next morning, eight days before my due date. "What?" I said, a little outraged. "What about my time to rest? I was supposed to get time to rest! I'm supposed to be resting, not having a baby?" Ha ha. Not 24 hours later, I was holding William in my arms. I didn't get any rest after that for oh, what, six months?
That was perhaps the first big lesson I learned about being a parent. Perhaps you want things to be a certain way. Perhaps you plan and organize and expect things to be a certain way. And to some degree, you do have some control: the color of the nursery, whether you choose to use cloth or disposable diapers, if you are going to let your baby have a pacifier. But at some point, it doesn't matter how much you want things to go a certain way. You cannot, no matter how much you want to, control it all. There are certain things that will happen that are out of your control, infuriating as that may be.
However, that hard-won knowledge proved to be very useful to me as the little red baby unfurled his curled-up arms and legs, and like one of those speeded-up filmstrips of a daylily bursting into bloom, grew into William. He became a person, is a Person. He has opinions and preferences, and no matter how much I may want to change them, I cannot. Every day, he asserts more control over himself, over his environment, over his interactions with me and his father. Every day, he becomes even more of a person, more himself.
I once read newborn babies don't understand that they are separate entities from their mothers; they instinctively believe themselves to be extensions of their mothers. And for many months, I felt that way about William, as he surely felt that way about his relationship to me. He was not separate, he was not other. He was an extension of me, part of myself. On some deep level, he will always be that, but he is growing more independent. He sees himself now, I believe, as himself, not as part of me anymore. He is his own self.
And with that assertion of self comes challenges. I may want William to lie down meekly on his changing table so that I can wipe his bottom and put a clean diaper on him. He feels otherwise. And he makes it clear, very loudly and with great effort, that he would prefer to, say, wiggle around, bare-bottomed, until he can stand up and then slap his hands with great force against the Spider-Man sticker on the wall. And it doesn't matter how much I work to wrestle him back down to the table, he will expend just as much energy working against me because we don't want the same thing. Sometimes, I win. Sometimes, he wins. Mostly, I win, since I am bigger and I'll be darned if my toddler's going to run around without a diaper on. But sometimes he wins, and I don't bother putting the shorts or overalls back on over his diaper because frankly, I'm tired, and he really really really wants to talk to Spider-Man.
I am stubborn. My husband is stubborn. Our child is stubborn. We truly are three peas in a pod, aren't we? But we all have learned so much from each other. And we still are.
So, back to the whole resting and waiting thing. I could advise my friends to rest, but they both know how hilarious that would be coming from me. I have been trying to encourage them in their attempts at resting and cheerleading their success. But I have to admit that I'm doing a lousy job at waiting myself. I can't wait for good news!
But it becomes a little more urgent when a doctor or midwife doles out the advice to rest. So right now, Natalie and Miller are resting. At least, they are supposed to be resting. I know them both, so that's why I wrote "supposd to be."
And they are waiting. Resting and waiting do not especially go well together, I found out when I was plodding through that last month of pregnancy. That's particularly true if you're a relatively high strung, Type A personality sort, as I was. I chafed at the advice to rest. I had stuff to do! I had laundry to do, carseats to get installed, things to organize. Who had time to rest? I didn't even allow myself much free time to rest because I resisted it so much. I worked at the newspaper down in Palm Springs right up until about two or three days before my water broke, much to the chagrin of my husband and family, who were utterly convinced I'd go into labor somewhere on a dusty desert road at night while driving home. But I was stubborn, convinced that I wouldn't go into labor until long after my due date. I was betting that I'd be at least a week overdue. I loaded up my puffy body in the Mazda each morning and tooled on down the hill to my job. I had plenty of time to rest, I told himself.
The day after I stopped working, I managed to prop myself up in bed with the laptop computer and a can of cherry limeade. That was my Official Day of Rest. I read, I surfed the 'Net, I watched some TV. Then the next day, I was busy busy busy, doing all sorts of things; running errands, getting the car seat installed, having dinner at the local terrible Chinese restaurant with some women from my officer spouses' group. But it was okay, I figured. I still had plenty of time.
But I had forgotten something important. I had forgotten the warning issued by my friend Phuong, who has one lovely child and is now expecting another. "Don't buy into the myth that the first child is always late," she intoned during one of our phone conversations.
Sure enough. My water broke the next morning, eight days before my due date. "What?" I said, a little outraged. "What about my time to rest? I was supposed to get time to rest! I'm supposed to be resting, not having a baby?" Ha ha. Not 24 hours later, I was holding William in my arms. I didn't get any rest after that for oh, what, six months?
That was perhaps the first big lesson I learned about being a parent. Perhaps you want things to be a certain way. Perhaps you plan and organize and expect things to be a certain way. And to some degree, you do have some control: the color of the nursery, whether you choose to use cloth or disposable diapers, if you are going to let your baby have a pacifier. But at some point, it doesn't matter how much you want things to go a certain way. You cannot, no matter how much you want to, control it all. There are certain things that will happen that are out of your control, infuriating as that may be.
However, that hard-won knowledge proved to be very useful to me as the little red baby unfurled his curled-up arms and legs, and like one of those speeded-up filmstrips of a daylily bursting into bloom, grew into William. He became a person, is a Person. He has opinions and preferences, and no matter how much I may want to change them, I cannot. Every day, he asserts more control over himself, over his environment, over his interactions with me and his father. Every day, he becomes even more of a person, more himself.
I once read newborn babies don't understand that they are separate entities from their mothers; they instinctively believe themselves to be extensions of their mothers. And for many months, I felt that way about William, as he surely felt that way about his relationship to me. He was not separate, he was not other. He was an extension of me, part of myself. On some deep level, he will always be that, but he is growing more independent. He sees himself now, I believe, as himself, not as part of me anymore. He is his own self.
And with that assertion of self comes challenges. I may want William to lie down meekly on his changing table so that I can wipe his bottom and put a clean diaper on him. He feels otherwise. And he makes it clear, very loudly and with great effort, that he would prefer to, say, wiggle around, bare-bottomed, until he can stand up and then slap his hands with great force against the Spider-Man sticker on the wall. And it doesn't matter how much I work to wrestle him back down to the table, he will expend just as much energy working against me because we don't want the same thing. Sometimes, I win. Sometimes, he wins. Mostly, I win, since I am bigger and I'll be darned if my toddler's going to run around without a diaper on. But sometimes he wins, and I don't bother putting the shorts or overalls back on over his diaper because frankly, I'm tired, and he really really really wants to talk to Spider-Man.
I am stubborn. My husband is stubborn. Our child is stubborn. We truly are three peas in a pod, aren't we? But we all have learned so much from each other. And we still are.
So, back to the whole resting and waiting thing. I could advise my friends to rest, but they both know how hilarious that would be coming from me. I have been trying to encourage them in their attempts at resting and cheerleading their success. But I have to admit that I'm doing a lousy job at waiting myself. I can't wait for good news!
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
The playhouse out back
Diane (William's Mama Dee) took a break from helping us unpack all our kitchen gear to introduce William to his new backyard playhouse this afternoon. William was charmed by the little door, just the perfect size for him, which he proceeded to opencloseopencloseopencloseopenclose.
This all lasted until David looked out the back door and saw what they were doing. He waved his arms and bellowed some warning about staying out of the playhouse until we can clean it out because William might catch the plague or something. I'm not sure how you can catch the plague from a little wooden playhouse built about five years ago, but hey, maybe they're teaching all sorts of esoteric stuff in medical school now, right? (But we do need to get out there and clean out the little house so William can play in it without getting filthy, if not contaminated by a deathly disease.)
William was a good sport about it. In fact, he was willing to pose for a few pictures on the back steps of the big house, too. I think this picture really conveys the essence of William these days. The porch rails are perfect for a rousing hilarious game of peekaboo!
In fact, here's another back steps photo from the other night:
This all lasted until David looked out the back door and saw what they were doing. He waved his arms and bellowed some warning about staying out of the playhouse until we can clean it out because William might catch the plague or something. I'm not sure how you can catch the plague from a little wooden playhouse built about five years ago, but hey, maybe they're teaching all sorts of esoteric stuff in medical school now, right? (But we do need to get out there and clean out the little house so William can play in it without getting filthy, if not contaminated by a deathly disease.)
William was a good sport about it. In fact, he was willing to pose for a few pictures on the back steps of the big house, too. I think this picture really conveys the essence of William these days. The porch rails are perfect for a rousing hilarious game of peekaboo!
In fact, here's another back steps photo from the other night:
Rain!
It's raining.
It's raining.
It's raining.
It's RAINING!
It's raining, it's pouring, the old man is snoring....went to bed and bumped his head and couldn't get up in the morning! Yeah!
I can't quite believe it, myself. I mean, I lived in the desert for four years, and before that in San Diego, where it didn't exactly pour on a regular basis. Then I move to Nashville, and it's in the midst of one of the longest droughts in recent history. But I can see the rain washing merrily down the gutters (gutters!), and the trees seem to be stretching toward the sky to soak in more of the precious rain. I am half-considering going outside and dancing around in the rain for awhile. Hmmm. Perhaps I should wait until I've met all my neighbors first before I act too much like a complete lunatic.
And darn. William's napping. He's missing the rain!
It's raining.
It's raining.
It's RAINING!
It's raining, it's pouring, the old man is snoring....went to bed and bumped his head and couldn't get up in the morning! Yeah!
I can't quite believe it, myself. I mean, I lived in the desert for four years, and before that in San Diego, where it didn't exactly pour on a regular basis. Then I move to Nashville, and it's in the midst of one of the longest droughts in recent history. But I can see the rain washing merrily down the gutters (gutters!), and the trees seem to be stretching toward the sky to soak in more of the precious rain. I am half-considering going outside and dancing around in the rain for awhile. Hmmm. Perhaps I should wait until I've met all my neighbors first before I act too much like a complete lunatic.
And darn. William's napping. He's missing the rain!
Monday, July 16, 2007
William's new room
One of the best things about our new house here in Nashville is that William finally has his own room. He had to share a room in Twentynine Palms with our guest room furniture, which left him almost no room to play. That didn't bother me too much when he was a little baby because his play space was pretty much limited to the borders of his activity mat anyway.
(Plus, I tried to console myself that babies don't know the difference between a perfect, decorated nursery and a makeshift one. Perfect nurseries are mostly for mommies anyway, let's admit it. With that belief, I felt okay with not having the perfect nursery at first. That is, until I saw other babies' nurseries. Then I felt sad that William's stuff was just crowded into a room with a bunch of other stuff, while other babies had these lovely little coordinated retreats with curtains that matched their crib linens and their names spelled out in letters on the wall. After seeing one such little room, I went home and looked at William's nursery, and sighed over the way the guest room bed and dresser were wedged in next to the crib and changing table. William didn't seem to mind, and I knew it was silly of me to mind--especially since I've already admitted I'm not the wall-mural-painting type--but part of me still wished I could've had the perfect nursery for him from the outset. However, having a double bed in William's room turned out to be very useful for those early morning wakeups when he'd want to nurse at 6 a.m. But still. I think the lack of a perfect nursery was just one of those guilty-over-not-being-the-perfect-mom hangups that for better or for worse, some of us...okay, I... will always have.)
As William got older and more mobile, his half-room was less than ideal. The hodgepodge, non-coordinated factor mattered less than the reality that he didn't have anywhere to play in there. Plus, it meant that all his toys lived in the (increasingly messy and crowded) family room.
Here, he lots of floor space, lots of room in which to play or just make a big mess, or both. So without further ado, here is William's new room!
Now he has room to practice walking in his own room:
The new room may not be designer-perfect, but it's a whole lot more coordinated than the last room. It is still a work in process, too. I have a Pottery Barn Kids rug that matches the crib linens, but I need to clean it first. It's dusty from the old house and from the move. My next task after that is to figure out what to put on the walls. The previous owners left us a choo-choo train clock, so that will go up. And I found these wall hangings that Loretta sent to us last year, and one is a monkey print, so those will go up, too.
It just feels good to have a nice little room for my son. He seems to love it so far, too; he loves to drop to the floor and rest his cheek against the carpet. I guess it's such a novelty that he's just enjoying it as much as he can. We're trying to make the new room as completely toddler-proof as possible so he can hang out in there when we're trying to get stuff done. That way, we won't have to set up the dreaded play yard.
And here's a good look at all his teeth, for those of you who haven't had the chance to see them in person:
(Plus, I tried to console myself that babies don't know the difference between a perfect, decorated nursery and a makeshift one. Perfect nurseries are mostly for mommies anyway, let's admit it. With that belief, I felt okay with not having the perfect nursery at first. That is, until I saw other babies' nurseries. Then I felt sad that William's stuff was just crowded into a room with a bunch of other stuff, while other babies had these lovely little coordinated retreats with curtains that matched their crib linens and their names spelled out in letters on the wall. After seeing one such little room, I went home and looked at William's nursery, and sighed over the way the guest room bed and dresser were wedged in next to the crib and changing table. William didn't seem to mind, and I knew it was silly of me to mind--especially since I've already admitted I'm not the wall-mural-painting type--but part of me still wished I could've had the perfect nursery for him from the outset. However, having a double bed in William's room turned out to be very useful for those early morning wakeups when he'd want to nurse at 6 a.m. But still. I think the lack of a perfect nursery was just one of those guilty-over-not-being-the-perfect-mom hangups that for better or for worse, some of us...okay, I... will always have.)
As William got older and more mobile, his half-room was less than ideal. The hodgepodge, non-coordinated factor mattered less than the reality that he didn't have anywhere to play in there. Plus, it meant that all his toys lived in the (increasingly messy and crowded) family room.
Here, he lots of floor space, lots of room in which to play or just make a big mess, or both. So without further ado, here is William's new room!
Now he has room to practice walking in his own room:
The new room may not be designer-perfect, but it's a whole lot more coordinated than the last room. It is still a work in process, too. I have a Pottery Barn Kids rug that matches the crib linens, but I need to clean it first. It's dusty from the old house and from the move. My next task after that is to figure out what to put on the walls. The previous owners left us a choo-choo train clock, so that will go up. And I found these wall hangings that Loretta sent to us last year, and one is a monkey print, so those will go up, too.
It just feels good to have a nice little room for my son. He seems to love it so far, too; he loves to drop to the floor and rest his cheek against the carpet. I guess it's such a novelty that he's just enjoying it as much as he can. We're trying to make the new room as completely toddler-proof as possible so he can hang out in there when we're trying to get stuff done. That way, we won't have to set up the dreaded play yard.
And here's a good look at all his teeth, for those of you who haven't had the chance to see them in person:
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Upstairs, downstairs
We have seventeen stairs in our house. Seventeen stairs separate the first floor from our second floor. Since we had no stairs at all in our old house, I worried for weeks about William and these stairs.
Well, earlier today, William learned to climb them. Apparently, once he figured them out, he figured them out. Tonight, before bedtime, he climbed the entire seventeen stairs at once, with one very very slight hesitation on the landing. That's seventeen stairs. Seventeen stairs at once. It's a loooong way up, but William "No Fear" Wyckoff wasn't deterred!
Well, earlier today, William learned to climb them. Apparently, once he figured them out, he figured them out. Tonight, before bedtime, he climbed the entire seventeen stairs at once, with one very very slight hesitation on the landing. That's seventeen stairs. Seventeen stairs at once. It's a loooong way up, but William "No Fear" Wyckoff wasn't deterred!
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