From rash patrol to bargain patrol

Last week Clementine was sick, and it wasn't no fun for no one. She had a terrible fever and gave up on sleeping entirely, meaning Nate and I would cradle her hot little head in our hands all night long, looking for a position that would stop the shrieking (hers and ours) long enough to eke out a few hours of sleep each night. She presented no other symptoms, which had us guessing (along with Emily with an M) she had roseola, which is a couple days of fever followed by a rash. We had the fever. We got no rash. Or did we? Nate and I thought every little bump was a rash, and we haven't really figured out if the big rash of bumps she had for a few hours on Friday was the roseola or the result her asshole mom, who gave her a bite of ice cream before realizing there are peanuts in it. I thought we had left the neurotic new parent days behind us, but you have never seen anything quite so pathetic as the two of us bugging the hell out of our daughter by poking at every skin imperfection trying to figure out if it was "the sign" we were awaiting. She was happy unless we were prodding at her, but prod we did until she put her foot down and learned the new fun trick of throwing her body back out of our hands in the ultimate active passive resistance move ever. Yup, she's a funny little one.

Because of the threat of a looming illness, we did not travel to Chicago for my niece's baptism as planned. The idea of visiting a plague upon the houses of the windy-city children we would have met over the weekend was too much to bear. The way roseola is spread is though saliva and snot, and since Clementine's favorite activity is pulling pacifiers out of other kids' mouths, chomping on them a bit and then returning them to their owners, I decided we would most certainly spread the love if we attended. Instead, we stayed home and got into all sorts of trouble during one of the busiest weekend of the Detroit summer.

First there was Birmingham Day on the Town. Birmingham is a rich (and kind of snotty) northern suburb of Detroit, and it has some fine shopping I can't afford most of the year. On Saturday, however, the whole town went on sale, nowhere as much as the Purple Bear, a store with ridiculously expensive but mostly fabulous clothes for kids. They had boxes of $5 and $10 stuff, and I went a little crazy. Think Clementine was a fashionista before? Oh you just wait until you see her new gear. Thankfully Karen (no kids) was with me and Lisa (a daughter to whom Clementine is indebted for at least half her wardrobe), or else we would have put ourselves in bankruptcy for clothes for kids who would probably be just as happy in nothing. But oh are we so vain.

The Fourth Street Festival is this wild, arty block party in a hidden corner of Detroit. It has art and food and beer and cool stuff and four or five stages of awesome bands, and it is just generally one of my favorite festivals of the year. The neighborhood is a cool cooperative with some communal parks and green spaces, a huge chess board and an art car that has flames shooting out of its mouth. We usually spend the day there and skip out on the night stuff because by then we are either overserved or ready for the Concert of Colors (see below). This year, sigh, I didn't get down there at all. After my shopping shenanigans, I had to get darling C. her nap, and by the time she woke up it was 103 and sticky and I'm just so damn lazy. But Nate got a pass from the office, and he went down, dissed the Muldoon's, a band with two kid guitar player/singers and their drummer day, but loved some of the other stuff he saw. Here is the new face of parenting: when he got home, I cuddled up to the beer on his breath and made him describe everything he saw. I did not tell him about Clementine's diapers, pooping or breastfeeding--it would have shattered the illusion of coolness I was nurturing.

On Sunday, we hit the Royal Oak Garage Sale and got this fantastic early-70s chopper-style tricycle for Clementine. We saw a little girl riding it around, and when we went to check it out, Clementine leaped out of her stroller (duh! we unstrapped her first) and shook her head vigorously every time we tried to remove her from the trike. How could we not buy it? And how could we pass up the vintage kissing Dutch lawn ornaments by friend Laura found there for me? I can't wait to finish my backyard!

The rest of the day was errands and house stuff until we went down the Concert of Colors, a weekend extravaganza of free concerts. I was bummed this year that they moved it from Chene Park, which is on the water, to the Detroit Symphony Orchestra building, but that was before it was 100 degrees in the shade. I forget every year how much I like that festival--it brings out all the hippies and heads, all the cultural pockets of the city, all sorts of cool, interesting people, and they all mingle in the streets and in front of the stages. It's very family friendly, and I love the opportunity to relive my previous life as a Dead Head (oh, yes, those were ugly, unshaven times) and revel in gratitude for getting back to burgers and grooming. Don't get me wrong: I loved that time in my life (or shall I say I loved that life? I feel like I've had quite a few), and it always reminds me of Ithaca, New York, a town that mingles Ivy Leaguers with communes to interesting effect. We saw some great bands and some even better dancing, and with that the weekend was over. How do you return to work after all that fun.

Clementine is on the mend, I think, though she scared the hell out of us last night by taking a tumble from the bed. The dangers of cosleeping, I guess. I she was so restless that she rolled across the bed on off, reawakening the neurotic new parent feelings in me and Nate once again. We were just thinking of working on getting her in her crib, but I might have taken three giant steps backward last night when I got to comfort her after her fall. AND she slept all night. Almost.

We've got the fever...

...and not for the flavor, either. Clementine has a raging come-and-go fever, and today is the first day I've been able to leave her to get some work done in my office. I've been trying to work at home while she takes her hot, sweaty little naps, but things are piling up, not that I can muster up too much energy to care.

She woke up on Monday with a fever but was in a great mood all day long. She had a terrible night with a super-high fever that I couldn't break with Tylenol or cold compresses, but Tuesday she was at a normal temp most of the day. Last night was the worst so far, though, with 102 degrees (in the armpit because I just can't fathom the rectal temp yet--she's hot, it's bad, how much more exact do I need to be?) and goosebumps all night long. She felt like like she was on fire, even her cute little hands. We did cold compresses again, which, because she was wearing a tie-dye, has left her stained blue, and she again woke up, took some Tylenol and has NO FEVER. It's a mystery, but can I just brag about how well-natured she's been through the whole thing. It hurts to be away from her, but I know she's with her dad and happy this afternoon.

Detroit distraction

We're throwing a wedding shower tonight, and I am totally unprepared. I don't know how it has happened, but my office looks like one of those rooms they might feature on a reality show where they turn something totally trashed into a miraculous, usable room. I'm not going to even bother getting that ready for tonight, but I have some cooking and cleaning to do downstairs that will keep me busy all day. I should have gotten a lot more done last night, but we went downtown instead on a Clementine date (she met up with Hudson, and we hung with his parents as per usual).

I haven't come up with a way to describe Detroit that has remained true for very long. It's a city that is constantly changing--sometimes for the better, sometimes not. In recent months, it has all been positive. Bringing the Superbowl here meant that a lot of new businesses, restaurants, bars and cash infiltrated downtown, and now there are lots of pockets of developed areas that are amazing and fun to hang out in. I used to think Detroit was a city nature was determined to reclaim. Half the buildings in town have trees growing through the middle of them; they've been abandoned, picked over and left to disintegrate. Others have had 50 lives--the style of the building may be old and Art Deco, but the features have been painted over or even hidden by a facade, and even the resale/consignment store that was the last occupant has long given up. But now there are new buildings and concentrated efforts to restore the old ones.

When Nate and I were looking to buy a house, we tried very hard to find one in the city. There are some great old ones that need as much TLC as the one we ended up buying just outside (literally, we are two blocks north of the city line) Detroit. It was hard, since we aren't locals, to find the right kind of neighborhood to put that much effort in, and once we did, it was impossible to imagine having to drive to the suburbs anyway for big grocery shopping trips (the pickings are slim in the city) and other services you just can't get in the city. Things are changing now, though, and it makes me wish we had moved down there. If we ever finish the house we're living in, Detroit would be the first place I'd look for so many reasons. Not only would I like to be a part of the positive change that is taking place, but I'd like Clementine to grow up with a city mentality, and I'd like her to live someplace diverse. Hazel Park is the opposite of all that, and I can't bear the thought of her playing in the park with kids who scream some of the racist and ignorant things we've heard them scream now that we have parent ears and are listening for those kinds of things.

Courtney and Adam are some of our only parent friends, which alone makes them awesome to hang out with, whether or not we have the kids with us (although come to think of it, I'm not sure the four of us have ever done that). They live in Detroit, which means that going out in the city is easy. They are also becoming the kind of friends you don't have to make plans with a week in advance with three structured activities, which is really all I want in friends these days. We met them at the Cass Cafe by Wayne State, and once Clementine had totally trashed the restaurant by gumming and then dropping every single piece of food we gave her, we went down to Campus Martius in the heart o' the city to eat ice cream and enjoy the weather. We actually thought we might be enjoying a concert, too, because it's one of those great green spaces they are using to draw people downtown--all sorts of activities and programs to get people down there. But alas there was no music, so we were entertained instead by our darling little kids. Clementine amused herself by slapping Hudson around a little because she doesn't really understand gentle touching, and Hudson got frustrated when we left him on his tummy for too long. His lack of mobility so far means he can't chase Clementine down, which might be her saving grace for right now. Once that kid can move, I think she'll have met her match.

Party preparations call. I think we're going to go with low lights and candles tonight so I don't have to scrub the floor.

Vacation, all I ever wanted

I can't get the damn Go Go's out of my head today 'cuz I'm still in a vacation frame of mind. I'm only just now getting caught up with laundry and camping unpacking, and I sure as hell haven't grocery shopped. Priorities, people. We've been trying to be outside as much as possible, and Clementine needs her daily bike rides to keep her happy. I think she's pissed off about returning to real life schedules and as a protest has given up on her good sleeping habits. The last two nights she has been wide awake and whiny from 2-4, which makes for whiny parents the next morning.

I did spend some time last night working with our vacation pics, of which there were far too many. I need to slow down with the digital and take a little more time framing my shots, but it's easy to get carried away.

Our first day at the beach was the first time Clementine had seen waves or sand. She wasn't sure how she felt about either at first, but she warmed up tot he sand right away. The waves were another story. Although they captivated her, and she constantly walked toward them, the lake was way too cold, and she invariably started freaking out when she got up to her belly. So on the sand she sat:

I'm not sure what her obsession with beer is (I contend it is just the bottle concept), but pretty soon she was just one of the adults chillin' on the beach with a cocktail.

The outdoors totally zonked her out, and she napped so well. She loved being in the tent, and its various windows and doors meant we could use it as a crib and playpen too:

She wouldn't keep a hat on her head (and don't even start on her helmet, which she spent a good amount of time trying to pull off her head while also stretching her neck to unreasonable lengths), so the bandana was the next best thing:

She LOVED the bicycle, even if she did hate the helmet. We had to pry her out of the bike seat most times, and some times we just let her use it as a chair.

I

t's Michigan, so of course there were lighthouses to visit:

Her hair in this shot kills me, as does the fact that someone let her eat macaroni salad, which violates a major rule in my house against introducing mayonnaise (the most disgusting food on earth, I think):

And because Clementine was so anti-water, Nate had to use the beach to practice their surfing moves. I think they're going to take their act on the road...

Like I said, I took about a thousand of these puppies, so if you want to see more (including the horrifying pictures of me in a bathing suit, though you can imagine I've edited most of the truly terrible ones out), click on one of the above pictures and check 'em out. I do believe there was never a cuter camper than my little girl.

562 miles later...

We've returned from an amazing week in what everyone calls the great Michigan "Up North," even if Ludington is actually more out west than up north. Sure, we got off to a rocky car-packing start, when Nate and I were ready to ring each other's necks over what to pack and where, but once we hit the road and then promptly had to repack on the fly so someone could sit on a big, uncomfortable backpack near our ever-screaming, car-hating love of a child, we were set. The week was one of those fabulous vacations: we slept in (even Clementine), stayed up late, had lots of naps and ate tons of great junk food. We hiked, biked, canoed, sat around campfires and spent loads of time on the beach. There was much ice cream, an occasional beer, some shopping and tons of merriment, and Clementine, ever the traveler, was fantastic. She loved bike rides (she even cried when we would try to take her out of the bike seat) and eating sand at the beach, and the fresh air turned her into a napper and pretty good sleeper.

If there were any downsides, they were:

1. Nate lost his wallet, which made us frantic with worry for a little while. It turns out that the Ludington police found it, but we didn't find that out until we got home. It's not that we didn't check there--it's just that the police office was CLOSED from Saturday through the 4th of July and we felt a little bashful about dialing 911. A great big hassle, but at least Nate doesn't have to sit at the DMV today for his new license.
2. Using the breast pump while camping is at best a pain in the ass, at worst a little unsanitary. Let us not dwell on it: let's just say it sucked.
3. Clementine learned the concept of no. She can't say it, but she can vigorously shake her head in disagreement with just about anything. "Do you want to eat?" "Can I have a kiss?" "Shall I sell you to the gypsies?" All of these are answered with vigorous head shaking.

But other than that, it was a glorious, glorious time. We were bereft at the thought of coming home and meandered our way through the middle of the state imagining all the other trips we are going to take before the end of the summer.

We got home in time to hook up with Clementine's boyfriend Hudson and his fabulous parents Courtney and Adam for the last day of the Tastefest. We missed most of the best bands on earlier days, but there was plenty of eating to be done and lots of crowds for Clementine to greet with her smile and new constant waving--it's so cute, it almost counteracts the head shaking no. When we got home last night, she showed off her new talent of walking, yes WALKING, across rooms and over all sorts of stuff. I know not what to do--isn't she still supposed to be my baby?

Today I'm back aat work, which is somehow easier to manage now that I've signed my contract for next year and am reminded that I do make some money here. If only I could keep track of it. I also had a wonderful midday delight that feels almost as scandalous as an affair: I met a man for lunch. OK, the man was Nate, but it was exciting because we dined together alone in public with no baby and no hefty babysitter fee to pay. Nate has transferred back to the home office of his firm (away from the floundering, festering sore that is Ford these days), and now he's just minutes away. I forsee many of these liasons as the summer progresses.

I managed to only take about 140 photos last week at the beach. I'll will hopefully get to them tonight becasue unpacking seems too painful.

Hey! Ho! Let's go!

We're stuffed to the gills with crap (who knew you needed so much stuff to spend a week in the woods with a kid) and ready to head out to Ludington for a week of fun and camping and the BEACH! There will be sun, there will be waves, there will be good food and beer and friends, and we're bringing along some great tunes. Back after the 4th will tales from the camping-with-a-toddler front.

Traveling girls

Darling C. and I have had a busy week, starting with a quick trip to Chicago from Sunday night to Wednesday (yes, still driving like a crazed trucker in the middle of the night because it's the only time darling C. will tolerate the car). We were visiting my friend Crystal but also got to see my sis and her kids a bit AND meet the new guy my mom is dating. That's a lot for just a few days, but Clementine took it all in stride as usual. That girl is made to travel, and we had a few delightful mornings just hanging out in the city. As I'm sure I've said before, Crystal's place is gorgeous, and it's in a great neighborhood that we can walk around in a ton. I would almost never need a car if only I could find a way to live there (hello, lottery!), and Clementine really thrives in the city atmosphere. Every time we went out she was happy to see so much action and so many interesting people; she again assumed her role as the goodwill ambassador for the child-rearing set and charmed the running shorts off of all the hip youngsters who were wondering why in the hell I was blocking the bike path in order to let Clementine take in the views. They would scowl, but she would laugh and reach out to them. The one time I took her out in the stroller I kept thinking to myself damn, this is one friendly city, but I think all the smiles coming my way were because she rides in the stroller with her feet up on the edge and a little gangsta lean to the left while greeting the masses with smiles and giggles. She also loved chilling at home, where we enjoyed great views and made a friend of Crystal's sculpture Harold, which my niece Abby hates and makes me cover with a sheet when she's around.




Yeah, that's the life. Crystal's moving back to Portland soon, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't putting a voodoo curse on her real estate agent hoping she won't be able to sell the apartment right away, leaving it free for my family's further city adventures.

My sister's kids are a riot, especially my niece Eleanor. Have you met them? Eleanor is younger than darling C. but weighs about the same, sparking lots of comments from people everywhere who love and adore her big chub. It's lucky that K.C. has had a kid before or otherwise she might feel a little crazy at all the comments that get hurled her way. Eleanor seemed to develop a bulemia problem for a while there, earning her the nickname Ralph because she spit up so much, but she's doing better these days, despite crazy neighbors who coo "Fatty, fatty two by four" at her while squeezing her delicious cheeks. Clementine was way into Nora, too, though I'm not sure if the attention she was showering on her cousin was always the best intended. When they arrived at Crystal's one morning, it appeared that Clementine was kissing Nora, just climbing right into the baby bucket and laying some slobber on her. I thought it was cute, but then I noticed the teeth marks in Nora's forehead. Then Clementine started stealing Nora's pacifier, her blanket and anything else Nora had her eye on. Hmmm...is C too young to be jealous? Look how innocent she appears here:

I came back to D-town to find things at work ever more complicated because the young kid who works for me is backing out of his two-year commitment to us to take some ad job in Chicago. This screws me in so many ways, but I'm choosing to ignore it for now and enjoy my vacation. My what? My vacation. On Monday we leave for a week of camping at the Ludington State Park, and I'm so excited. No phones, no Internet (I will get over the anxiety about no email by the third day, I hope), and all sorts of fun outside. I think Clementine is going to have an amazing time, even if she's giving up most of Tastefest, one of my favorite Detroit summer activities. It features tons of bands, local and nation, on a bunch of stages. She was rocking out in my belly last year and will be sad to miss some of the fun on the outside this year. I think she'll also be sad to learn that camping means no phones. I know it's wrong to indulge temper tantrums, but I honestly couldn't handle one more instance of her losing her shit when I wouldn't let her have my cell phone, so I gave her an old one to play with, and she won't go anywhere without it. It's kind of unnerving when kids start aping you, isn't it? I wonder where my almost 10-month old learned to do this:

Not so good after all

Clementine's desire to put everything she can touch in her mouth finally caught up with her the other day. Know what doesn't tast so good? Dirt:

On a roll

As I continually dash "I'll nevers," today we stopped for a Father's Day ice cream treat, and I can add "I'll never give her refined sugar before her first birthday cake" to the trash heap. Because she is looking unusually cute and is gregarious with all those she meets, the woman at Shaker's couldn't help but give Clementine a little baby ice cream cone. Think she liked it? Ummm...although I can't keep her from throwing her sippy cup, her dinner, her toys or even her own precious lamby on the floor again and again, I had to pry the mess of mashed up cone from her vice-like grip and initiate a scream-fest, the likes of which we have never known. Nate's still trying to calm her down, and I imagine I'll never be able to drive past that ice cream stand again. Where's the camera when you need it? Nate snapped these with his camera phone, although they don't really do justice to the absolute bliss she fell into from the very first lick.

Working at home

Think multitasking is being on the phone while composing an email to your employees and IMing your boss while the photocopier runs off 100 of whatever so-and-so needs? That's so last year for me. Multitasking this morning has been emailing work, returning 6 messages (six! before 11 a.m.!) with the mute ON while people are talking and OFF when I'm talking so they aren't distracted by Clementine's lovely chatter or incessant song that emanates from her LeapFrog globe every time it's jostled, allowing her to rifle through my paid bills so I can finish posting reunion photos to the school's website and shoving ice cubes in her mouth to sooth her very sore gums (top two teeth on the way!) while trying to stay on top of my inbox. Know what would be better than working at home? Not working at all. Yup. I said it.

Yesterday I got to daycare to find Clementine in a too-big 1980s Garanimals Snoopy sweatshirt and too-small unmatching pants because she had pooped all over her other clothes. No big deal except we were off to a BBQ and it was at least 80 degrees outside. I stopped at TJ Maxx to get her something easy and cheap and cool but had to wait forever in a line of incompetence before trying to dress her in the trunk of my car. Then she fell asleep on the way and shat herself once again. I didn't have it in me to try to eat in my lap and keep her from jumping off the porch after the dogs at the BBQ, and since I didn't know anyone well enough to say "Here, watch my kid so I can jam some chow in my face," I went home early to eat with Nate. Today I have some odd pinched nerve in my neck that keeps me from being able to look to the left or pick up darling C. without totally wincing, and I'm trying desperately to pick up the slack from my boss' impending departure but still make it so I can be in Chicago on Monday and Tuesday as my friend recovers from surgery--I am her nursemaid. WTF?

Did I already say something about needing a summer break? Whatever happened to popsicles and flip flops, bike rides and picnics? Hell with wanting to be in college again--I want to be seven! Will someone pretty please make me a PB&J with the crusts cut off and bring it outside where I'll be practicing my penny drop on the bars?

School's out for the summer...and it don't mean a damn thing for me

The rush of the end-of-year school stuff is over for now (prom, graduation, reunoin, year-end meetings, etc), the faculty have left us the hell alone and we've launched our new intranet, so why do I still feel so damn busy? There are many things about adulthood that suck, and not living my life by a school schedule is certainly one of them. I need a summer vacation!! While it looked like my job was actually going to make good on a promise to be family friendly and give me summers off, that was just a lark--they can't follow through with any of their promises to make it easy for a working mom to both work and be a mom, so here I am in mid-June in my office and miserable. I'm not going to complain too much more, though. I've decided instead to drag this place kicking and screaming into the working mom's world. Clementine is only going to be in daycare 3 days a week tops, and I'm going to work from home the other 2-3 days if it kills me (and them). There ain't no way I'm gonna miss out on my walking, talking, smiling little honey's first summer. And that's it. I'm also taking all the vacation time off I can to hit the road and have some fun. We're going camping for a week at the end of June, and that's just the beginning of our adventures. Know who else is ready for summer?


Catch!

The weather has been beautiful, but it's about to get much hotter. We've been hanging out in the yard as much as possible, and we were finally able to introduce Clementine to the beloved Impala. Yes, this is the car in which Nate and I were married, the car which he built with his dad and family when he was a young teenager, the car which carried us across the country on the world's best road trip. I would love to say it's the car in which Clementine was conceived, but that happened in the winter time (the Impala don't know no snow), and I'm pretty sure neither of us should have been anywhere near the wheel of a car that night (if it's the night I think it was) anyway.


Although I love seeing her play in the Impala, I'm not so sure about taking her for a ride in it. It's a 1965, so the whole seatbelt thing was an option. There are 2 in the front and none in the back. Since there is no airbag, I think that means I can put her babyseat in the front, but I feel so hyper-programmed not to ever ever do that. Anyone have knowledge of how babies and classic cars can get along? Needless to say, I can't even think about the day she decides to learn to drive the thing.


I guess it's back to work for now. That or I need to haul my cookies outside and go for a run before the day turns into a scorcher. I haven't mentioned my lofty goals here for fear of feeling trapped and unable to back out, but I'm training to run a half marathon, emphasis on the HALF. I know 13 miles isn't such a big deal (especially compared to the 26 that constitute the whole thing), but I have been feeling like I need a new goal. When I was knocked up, I was at the gym almost 5 times a week sweating, running (until almost 8 months!) and chanting "easy and comfortable labor" to get through it. Know what? It totally worked! But since Clementine came along I haven't been as good as I want to be about being in shape. My training is pretty low key, but I'm amazed at how easy running can be if you do it enough. I could give a shit about speed--I'm much more interested in distance, and a long run isn't nearly as awful as it used to be. I ran a 10K a few weeks ago and struggled to finish; now I can run about as far and talk and laugh the whole time--with someone, that is, not just crazy by myself.

But I digress. The sooner I'm outta here, the sooner I'm rollin' with my girl. Look at the attitude:

Christmas in June: another "I'll never" shot to hell

I have long bandied about the idea that I'll NEVER fill my house and my yard with that brightly colored plastic Little Tykes shit that seems to be rotting under a film of dust and pine needles in every backyard in suburbia. My objections are many--the aesthetics, the lack of durability and subsequent recycling, the ubiquity, etc. etc. Sure, I knew I'd incorporate a few big plastic toys here and there, but I was plannig on doing so thoughtfully and placing them among the wooden kitchen set from Land of Nod that I so covet or the handmade swingset I imagined Nate and I constructing outside.

In the great big book of things I thought I'd never do, yesterday I loaded up my car with all sorts of plastic goodies for inside and out that my boss is getting rid of before his big move to Ohio. We got a slide, a few things with wheels, all sorts of toys that sing and ring and pop and hop and all that stuff. I was sheepish as I pulled into my driveway, thinking Nate might lose his shit as seeing so much plastic, but as we were pulling it out of the car and Clementine was shrieking in delight, we couldn't deny what a good idea it all is. OK, maybe not ALL of it, but she was so damn happy pushing the little cart around and riding on a little sit-down scooter that my heart melted. Seriously, I had to restrain myself from going to Targt to buy even more. There we sat on the driveway, these little drab blobs of flesh amid a sea of primary plastic colors, and Clementine could hardly handle so much fun. In fact, she had her first big tears and all tempet tantrum over toys when Nate pulled her off of one of the wheelie things to take her inside to eat. Oh what joy.

In my alternative baby book, this is really only #94 of the "I'll nevers" I've broken, right behind I'll never feed my kid jarred baby food and I'll never have a babysitter I haven't known for at least a year. Stay tuned for more...

Rock out with your tot out

One of my favorite things about living in Detroit: all the free concerts and festivals outdoors in the summer. It's the way I'm hoping to get to see some of my favorite bands without having to give a small ransom to a sitter and feel like I can't stay for the second encore because her mom will be wondering why the hell we keep her out so late. It's also the way we will be able to get Clementine to shows without having her ingest all the second-hand smoke and develop hearning problems and be otherwise scarred from being dragged from bar to bar as an infant so her parents can maintain their sense of themselves as hip, music-loving city folk. We've let go of the delusion, but we still want to go to shows when we can! This weekend is the Detroit Festival of the Arts, and on Friday night one of my all-time favorite local bands, Blanche, played a great set. We had Clementine with us, we all rocked out a little, she danced and we dodged all the hipsters in their tight Levi's, messy shags and white leather shoes who were wondering why the hell there were so many f-ing kids at the show (it's an arts fest, morons, and parents can be cool people, too!).

Yesterday we went back, even though the music wasn't the greatest, to walk around, drink beer in the sunshine and hang out with friends. Clementine decided to go on a sleep strike and declined all her napping opportunities. Did this make for a cranky, irritable baby who slept terribly when at last we took her home for the night? NO. In fact, I am beginning to suspect she may thrive on no sleep whatsoever. She was gregarious, charming the masses from her stroller so that all we could see in the throngs passing through the art fair were these dumb grins down at her. She got to hang out with her boyfriend Hudson and had a grand old time crawling around in the grass, grabbing his pacifier (thank heavens that's all 'cuz last time she was reaching for third base) and shouting and smiling at all the passers-by. We took her to a party later for our friend Rich and took separate cars in anticipation of a total meltdown that would lead to one of us rushing home to spare revelers her tears and antics. Know what? No such meltdown came. She was clearly overtired, but that manifest itself in adorable smiles and nonsense conversations, dancing on her knees and twice taking half a dozen steps totally on her own. She was the belle of the ball, though I was pretty sure her head would start spinning around if we stayed much past 8:30. Lest you think that's where the story of her sleepless delight ends, hold on to your seats. Once I got her down (which took almost and hour because she was so wound up) she slept THE WHOLE NIGHT. Until 6, when she just needed a minute or two of cuddling before she slept until 8. Yes, 8. I am speechless. I know this is what most 9-month-old babies already do, so I'm not expecting applause and oh my goodness how do you do it, wonder-parent? But for her this is a big deal.

So today the plan is to maybe hit a few more bands but also pay attention to our crumbling house. Our big dilemma, though, is whether or not to deprive her sleep and hope for a repeat of yesterday, or to recognize it was a fluke and get back to business. I feel like the good parent thing to do is demand she nap before she gets to rock out, but am I really argue with a near perfect day? And what the hell am I doing blogging on such a beautiful morning anyway? She's got her "Be Loud" t-shirt on and is taking that as a literal commandment, singing and laughing while rolling around with Nate. I think it's time for a pig pile!

zzzzzzzz

My darling, wonderful, sparkling little girl decided to share her sunshine with the world this morning at 6 a.m. I know for a kid this isn't really THAT early, but when you're living on a tight margin, a carefully balanced system based on a specific bed time and the subsequent ability to sleep until 7:15 a.m., the hour and a half you lose (even if it is to watch your impossibly cute daughter play) takes its toll almost instantly. I cannot keep my eyes open. Not even when driving. Especially not when working. I suspect not even while pumping. Why on earth doesn't Starbucks deliver in emergency situations such as this?

9 months

Dear Clementine:

So you’re looking at the hole in this collection that comes between 7 months and 9. It’s true: I forgot to do an 8-month letter. Not forgot, really…I just got busy. It’s crazy hard work to enjoy you every minute I can AND hold down a job, and sometimes I have to let some things go in order to spend as much time with you as possible. This whole working mom thing is all about balance, and I can’t tell you how strange it is to make decisions these days. I don’t want to do anything but hang out with you when you’re awake, so even when I have the chance to jump ship for a few hours, I rarely do. After 9 pm it’s another story, although I’m usually too busy trying to keep up with house stuff do much more than hang out with your awesome dad. I hardly ever blog from home at night, so I missed a lot of the play-by-play of your 8^th month. Sorry—living it was way more fun.

It’s a shame I didn’t get to it, though, because these last two months have been so full of change! You went from hardly crawling to pulling yourself up to racing around the house on your hands and knees to standing on your own to, yesterday, taking your first tentative step without any support (OK, it was like half a step, but it is simply the beginning!). And all that doesn’t even get into the ways you have become more interactive with us—your sparkling and sometimes challenging personality is showing in so many neat ways. You certainly associate me with a long string of “mamamamamama” noises you make, and from time to time you aim your “dada” at your dad. You also say something that sounds an awful lot like duck when we are in the bathtub playing with them, and you say “gook” as we play with your many books (you still won’t sit still for us to read them to you, but you do like to turn the pages). You want to play with us and have us chase you around the house, you are fascinated by other people (though sometimes a little afraid and clingy, too) and always quick to smile at the world. You have the best smile ever, kid. And that’s not just because I’m your mama. You are also eating better than ever (chicken curry an Thai food—we’re so proud!) and have overcome your fear of being spoon-fed, though most of the time you’d still rather do it yourself. That’s your independence showing. You also like to flex that sweet little muscle when we won’t let you have our cell phones or the remote control. You can’t be kept from what you really want, and we’ve seen more than one temper tantrum, which has us nervous for what’s to come. The stairs also make us nervous. You’ve taken to climbing them at warp speed (and fuss if I hol you around the waist for support) and are extremely happy with yourself once you’ve made it all the way to the top. Yeah, it’s totally time to get those baby gates up. You're a busy girl.

I continue to discover things about myself that have changed because of you and your amazing presence in my life. Most recently I’ve been looking at my career and wondering how the hell I’ve ended up where I am. It has been hard for me to be back at this demanding job at a time when I feel like I should be focusing almost entirely on raising you, but I’ve been proud to find a balance between parenting and work that gives us all a lot of great things. As that has evened out, however, the writer in me has started to wonder when it’s her turn to be important. Poetry used to be the center of my life, but while I was trying to figure out how to live (and I mean literally live—like eat and clothe myself and have a place to live), I got a little sidetracked. Then you came along and I got a lot sidetracked and found myself happier than I’d ever been in my life. Some poets would roll their eyes to hear me say it, but happiness like this doesn’t necessarily breed or nurture the best poetry. I write when I’m puzzling something out, when I’m angry, confused, hurt, confident, assertive. Not when I’m blindly happy watching a baby roll around in front of me. Then, my mind just turns to mush. Happy mush, but mush nonetheless.

But I’m eager to get back to writing, to do something about which I feel passionate. I think it’s important that you see me working with passion, interest and direction so you know why I’m not there to wipe your nose every single time, or care for you every single second. I want you to see me as a vital, inquisitive, independent person, and I don’t want you to think of me trudging off to work at a job I do just to get a paycheck or to meet an end. I don’t know what all this means right now (I’m just babbling, aren’t I?), but I do want you to know that I consider my own happiness and success a big part of my job as a parent. Maybe not right now as you’re learning to walk, but as you form your idea of yourself and begin to form your goals, I want you to take risks, to seek happiness, to be reckless and go after what you want. I don’t know why I’m going on and on, but I just want you to know that from the very beginning I’ve been thinking about how every aspect of parenting is something I want to do well for you.

OK, one last story. An image, really. This morning as I was peeling myself out of bed way too early in order to get some stuff done, I looked back to see you all curled up with your dad. I’ll always regret not running to find the camera because you and he were both turned toward my side of the bed, your hands folded in the exact same way and your little mouths slightly open in your deep sleep. It made me think of this Japanese movie I once saw called After Life. I don’t remember it well, but I do recall that the movie was about people who had died and could choose one moment of their life to live in for eternity. I’ve had a lot of those moments in the last nine months, starting from the very first minute I held you in my arms. But for now, this morning is the moment I want to curl up in, the moment I want to suspend myself in forever. I want to go back and curl right up beside you both—my two favorite people in all the world—and just watch you sleep.

I love you,

Mama

Windy City withdrawl

I wrote this on Friday night but forgot to post it until this morning. Duh!

No, I didn't extend Memorial Day weekend into Memorial Day week. My lack of posting is (sadly) not because I'm packing my bags and moving to my friend Crystal's place on Lake Shore Drive, buying a Bugaboo and living a sleek, urban existence. I'm just lazy. We had an excellent time out and about in Chicago, and coming back to the reality of work (a lot of it), a dirty house and lots of shit to do has made blogging impossible. Never fear--that's what Friday nights are for now that I'm a parent. Who wants to go to the movies or happy hour when they can be in jammies in front of a computer by 8 p.m.?

We left a day early for the weekend so I could absolve my guilt, confess to my mother that I was coming in for the weekend and offer her a day in the suburbs so she wouldn't feel left out. It's not that I don't want to see her. We go to Chicago a few times a year to see family and friends, but we never get to see the city. A glimpse here and there on the way in or out of town, but I have been hankering for some adventure. And let me tell you, nothing says adventure like taking a stroller out on city streets. But I digress. We spent Friday with my mom and her friend Judy, who makes Clementine all sorts of fabulous clothes. It's true that some of the clothes ride on the tricky side of cute, but for the most part they are fabulous. I'm particularly in love with this impractical bonnet because Clementine really looks way too cute in it:



OK, so she also looks a little worried, like is she really going to make me go out in this?, but she really grew to like it as I kept forcing it on her head, wondering why I find it so fascinating.

We headed downtown Friday afternoon to stay at my friend Crystal's amazing place right on the lake. She's in Europe, so we got to pretend like we owned the place, which in our world means trashing it. We walked around her neighborhood a ton, found all sorts of great restaurants and shops and hit it all hard. I know Mama C-ta is thinking I went to Psychobaby to spend all my cash, but I was determined to find new frontiers. On Saturday we went to Roscoe Village (a 2 mile hike from Crystal's, but I wasn't yet ready to face taking a cab with a stroller). There is a cute restaurant there called the Kitsch-n on Roscoe that had a huge outdoor table for my brood and my sister's brood, and after we stuffed ourselves on fabulous brunch, we hit the shopping. There were lots of shops, and almost all of them were baby-oriented. I can't remember all the names, but there were children's clothing stores, a toy store, a gallery that sold stuff by local independent artisits (including some neat onesies), boutiques, denim shops, etc. etc. Some of the stuff was outrageous, but I skipped past the $113 jeans and found a few good deals. The best part was just walking around witheveryone.

Some Detroit friends joined us in the city later that day, and we spent some time wandering through vintage clothing stores and down city streets. Yes, I live in a city (Detroit), but it is nothing like Chicago with all its neighborhoods and spirit. I'm sure if I were more articulate I could put my finger on what it is that makes it such a damn fine city, but we had a great time just breathing it in. We braved the "L" with our stroller (no elevators in most stations, and it is no easy task to get the damn thing, even folded up, through the turnstiles) becasue it was waaay too hot to wear Clementine in one of our many baby carrying contraptions, and she was such a trooper that anyone we inconvenienced didn't mind. I'm not kidding. She was like to Goodwill Ambassador of the child-rearing set, waving and smiling at the world while we cut in front of them and did other things with the stroller that used to totally piss me off as a pedestrian. We hit the chic Armitage shopping district, went back and forth on Broadway for ice cream, shopping and sights and even dined in a Thai restaurant and creperie, all with the World's Best-Behaved Baby. I'm not just bragging here--travel is definitely this kid's thing.

But don't take my word for it. I have photographic proof:

Hanging out in Lincoln Park, swinging, cruising and charming joggers by the dozen

Pondering Lake Michigan, which was 60 degrees and way too cold to dip her toes in

Hitting the city streets even after bedtime because her parents still had more they wanted to see

Did I mention Crystal has a pool? This is Clementine's first real swim, and she loved it

So although the weekend felt epic and life-changing--I could really see how different my whole groove would be if I could actually WALK to a store or restaurant that doesn't sell Lotto and Liquor (the only destinations in my lovely vicinity)--this post can't really capture it. I just loved the feel of being someplace new, of really getting into it and not worrying too much about my tourist checklist.

But now we're back to reality and doing our best to make it work. And by work I mean I'm cruising the web at all hours trying to figure out how we can visit all sorts of new cities this summer on our very limited budget. Any suggestions?

Mother of the year

Dear judges:

I hereby submit these photos as further evidence that I deserve the title "Mother of the Year" for 2006. While the sunburn and hungover trampoline stunts were impressive, I think you will agree they pale in comparison to my new method of keeping my child contained:

She also appears to be having a nutritious snack here, no doubt something delicious left behind by the dog. Lest you think we are overly cruel, I assure you we do let her out from time to time:

Click on the above photos if you still need more convincing.

Yours,
Punk Rock Mama

Hasta Luego

Just in case you notice the slacking is more than usual around here, we're off to Chicago tonight for a long weekend. I may well be able to update on the road, but you never know.

Clementine + Hudson = Tru Luv 4Ever

I haven't gotten to write like that since my hot and heavy 8th grade romance with Jeff Melzer (which sadly ended in his dumping me to ask Ann Lorden to the 8th grade dance, the jerk), who wrote me at least three notes a day and called me every night for hours and hours of nonsense on the phone. Ah, my first french kiss. Such nostalgia. We had all sorts of codes in our notes, and I think there was even some fancy folding now and then--footballs, swans, origami for the hormonal set.

And now my fast little hussy of a daughter has launched her own love life, this time falling head over heels for a boy named Hudson. He may be a little bit younger, but he's very advanced for his years; sure, he has some hang ups about not being able to roll over yet, but he keeps his very own blog and has some very sophistcated thoughts. Look how eager she is to teach him about love:
Not to mention tenderness:
And although I'm not really sure what she's doing here (maybe practicing dentistry because Hudson is the kind of guy who will certainly stand behind his woman's career) I'm certain it is done with love:
It's a good thing we adore Hudson's parents and can confirm he comes from good stock because there's no talking Clementine out of it. She's smitten.

Goodbye and goodbye and goodbye

As you might surmise from the thought-provoking title to this post, this was a weekend of goodbyes at our house, three to be exact. We said goodbye to Clementine's first car seat, to a large bicycle and to a beloved pet. It was exhausting.

The car seat is obviously not such a big deal because I never loved the whole baby-in-a-bucket thing I had going on. Sure, it was handy when she was asleep and I was mobile, but let us all recall for a moment the great car terrors of her early months. I could go nowhere, so it wasn't such a bonus to me that if I was able to make it out of the house and through the screams of terror and last long enough that she would also fall asleep I could pick the seat up and transfer it without much effort. Lately hauling that thing around was wonderful exercise and my flabby biceps will certainly miss that little bit of flexing they get these days, but Clementine was busting out of it and I had to either strap her down to the point of pain and frustration or let it be loose around one of her shoulders (thus negating the point of a car seat--why don't I just let her sit shot gun with me?). She hated both options, so we desperately searched our local Targets to find one that wouldn't cut into my ridiculous internet shopping problem or look awful in my car. Is it so wrong that I don't want anything brown in my black interior? Or anything with animals on it? We found a good evenflo one that looks like a little egg, and I was surprised at my own restraint because you know (given my expensive taste in high chairs) I wanted the $300 Britax one with the cushy cow print fabric. Am I cheap for not buying my kid the top of the line in safety? I did pause to think about that and the kind of social Darwinism that rewards those of means with increased safety and comfort but I decided that the expense was for the gullible. How much safer can a seat three times the price of most others really be? Three times as safe? I just don't buy it. It doesn't matter much anyway because despite having more room to kick around, Clementine cried the entire way to daycare and the entire way home. I just can't win.

We also said goodbye this weekend to the pregnant lady bike. The what? you ask? The pregnant lady bike, of course. The bike Nate and his friend David built for Red Bull Dragster Day, a very cool, funky race they held in downtown Detroit pretty much on my due date. When we saw the posters calling for entries last June I knew Nate had to do it--he loves to tinker with bikes and do crazy artistic stuff, so the fact that I would be in labor or about to burst had no bearing on whether or not. In fact, it gave him a theme: the bike was called "You're doing WHAT on my due date?!" As it turns out, Clementine arrived a wee bit early, so here is my least favorite picture of everyone but her. My husband in a diaper, me a few days after birth (and still lookin pregnant--thank god whoever took the picture managed to get my stomach in the shot) , my beautiful and very fresh child and the pregnant lady bike in all her glory:

It's a two person bike, and Nate and his friend Rich were dressed as babies "crowning" as they raced down the strip (click on the pic to see some of them in action...and full shots of them in diapers). Amazingly enough they didn't win--a smaller, more streamlined bike took the prize. Who would have thought? But the bike has lived on with us for the last 9 months, occasionally being dragged out and ridden around the neighborhood to secure our title as the world's oddest neighbors (a hard title to hold to here as our neighbors are always drunk and acting fools). Nate convinced some guys from Critical Mass to take her off our hands, and we will look for them as they block rush hour traffic in a large, lovely homage to childbirth.

Our final goodbye is still hard to talk about, though I know many will think it's a little disingenuous of me to say that. We put Kitty down on Saturday because she was in renal failure, living in our basement, not eating and peeing uncontrollably everywhere. Kitty has been in my family forever, but no one has ever loved her quite as much as Nate, who is taking this very hard. For my part I was struggling with Kitty since bringing a baby home. I know it makes me a horrible pet owner, but all of the sudden the tufts of cat hair, the cat shit licked off in the middle of my living room and the incessant meowing from yet another needy body were sometimes too much. Not all the time, but sometimes. Of course now I'm full of guilt and think my neglect is probably what killed her, but our vet assured us there were other forces at work. Besides, Nate loved her more than three good pet owners, so he totally balanced me out. As the old saying goes, though, you don't know what you have until it's gone. When Nate came home from the vet I had a good cry thinking of all the time with Kitty I'll miss. I'm especially sad Clementine won't have her to play with. Enough said. She was such a pretty cat that for a few minutes Nate and I joked about having her stuffed so we could still gaze upon her, but in the end we decided to have her cremated. It's morbid, but I've been surprised at how profoundly even this small brush with mortality has effected me. I'm sad about Kitty, but I can get worked up to even bigger tears when I imagine having to deal with other deaths, deaths I won't even mention. And so it is goodbye, Kitty:

Today as been a Bangles-worthy Manic Monday, cut short at work by the fact that I am a total MORON and forgot my breast pump. By 2:00 my boobs were hard as petrified grapefruits and I could literally feel flames rising off them. I had to flee. I hope to avoid further mishaps as the week progresses, as I'm angling for an early start to my long weekend--we're heading to Chicago to act like tourists, not just like people visiting family. I'm putting together a long list of things to do, not the least of which is examine Roscoe, home of the Kitchen on Roscoe (very cute little diner) and a dozen cool baby shops. Maybe I can start a life as a travel journalist--my angle, of course, will be traveling with a kid and still trying to be cool. No Disney store for me, thank you very much.

This week in pictures

I know that so far just about every age has been my favorite, but I've been feeling particularly luckly lately to have such a happy baby, exploring the world, laughing and causing all sorts of mischief. She has been so much fun that Nate and I are getting even less done at home just so we can sit around and watch her. I just uploaded some new pics to Flickr, but here are some of the highlights:

Our little circus girl loves to walk on her hands. The first time she did it she laughed harder than I've ever heard her. Now it's just a regular thing she likes to do (is it wrong that I'd so much rather see her run off and join the circus than become a republican? No, that's called parenting!):

She's been standing on her own for a few seconds at a time, but I'm never fast enough to get a picture. She's also trying her hardest to simply stand up from a seated position, which means she spends a lot of time like this:

Her dad couldn't be happier that she loves his whack-ass old VW. When she got grease all over her fingers he almost peed he was so excited.

So in lieu of any sort of real thoughts (other than it's finally Friday and I never thought I'd make it through the week), some photos.

She'll keep us company in hell

My little sister is in the throes of planning her youngest daughter’s baptism and is enjoying all the complications that come with planning an event that demands the presence of all concerned family members. She is trying to find a weekend in the summer when everyone in and out of state can be there because heaven forbid anyone miss the head dipping and sheet cake that are the main attractions of the event. I’m certainly not belittling anyone’s desire to participate (let me be clear: I’m all for the faithful having their special day), but I do pity K.C. because everyone else has an idea about when and how and where, and she doesn’t know what to do or who to prioritize. Her husband’s grandfather, for example, is up her ass to get it done SOON, before eternal damnation fall upon sweet Nora, and he doesn’t seem to understand that summer is a busy time for everyone. On top of it all, her in-laws, who have agreed to host the after party (strange to think of the after party to a baptism when usually those words signify to me partying until 4 a.m. and needing to puke in order to go to sleep—ah, nostalgia), are in the middle of a divorce. They’re going to stay in the house together until after the party, but, hey, that’s not a lot of pressure.

What gets lost in all this, I think, is the meaning of the ceremony, which doesn’t need all this witnessing in order to mean something. But I guess this is true with just about any important moment or ceremony—it is easy to lose sight of what the day is about because you have to balance family, tension, all sorts of expectations, other people’s needs, food allergies, what have you. What wins: the perfect ceremony for you at the expense of other people’s wishes and feelings, or a ceremony of compromises to keep everyone happy? I’m watching my friend Karen go through this as she plans her wedding, too, which has become a big, formal and (though she will never admit it) very traditional event when she had initially thought of it as small, informal and very personalized.

But none of this is why my little family of three is going to hell. Here it is: we have no intention of baptizing Clementine unless she wants us to, and even then we will have to look long and hard at who can take responsibility for such a huge spiritual undertaking because it certainly won’t be us (Nate can count on one hand the number of times he has set foot in a church, and I am agnostic at best). Lots of the old biddies with whom I work think this is incredibly unfair of me, this lack of regard for darling C’s eternal salvation. My office mate, for example, always asks me if maybe I shouldn’t go ahead with it “just in case.” In case of what, I’m not sure—in case there really is a God? In case something happens before C finds her way to Jesus? In case the world ends? The way I see it is that if there is a God and she cares about baptism even a little, my chances of going to hell are way higher if I get up in front of a church and promise (meaning LIE) to raise Clementine with some sort of Christian doctrine than if I wait until she is able to make decisions for herself. I’m not going to get all high and mighty here, but I think that is a much more honest approach than people who get their kids baptized and then never take them to church. I intend to take C to church when she’s old enough to understand it…and to a synagogue, some temples, a mosque. I want her to know the stories and tenets of these religions so she can choose the role one or many of them will play in her life. I see that as a much bigger responsibility than baptizing Clementine and never thinking about it again.

And while my feelings on this front a resolute, I still like the idea of a party, a ceremony that marks Clementine’s coming into our world. Yes, there is a birthday on the horizon (distant but there nonetheless), but I’m thinking of something more along the lines of a once-in-a-lifetime faux baptism to welcome her to our universe. I have some ideas about how something like this will go: friends, family, fairy godparents, a gathering, a cake and some symbolic offerings for Clementine’s future, but there are still lots of details to work out. I thought of having it on a solstice (can I be more of a heathen?), but as more and more time passes I think it may have to wait until her birthday.

The only thing I need now is a good retort to all the people I work with who are wondering what the hell is wrong with that tattooed mama who won’t baptize her baby. They think I’m doing this to be different, to be outrageous, and they can’t be convinced otherwise. I’ve started talking about how lonely we’ll be in eternity if Clementine gets to go to heaven, but most people’s senses of humor on that topic just aren’t that reliable. I fear I offend them way more than they let on. Maybe I need to consult Dear Abby—she’s always so sharp with the it’s-none-of-your-business comments.

Another oops!

OK, so I just now realized that I totally missed my 8 month letter to Clementine, and although I feel like a jerk (seriously, how can the 5^th of a month pass by me so easily now—have I somehow forgotten?), I’ve decided that it’s much more like real life to win some, lose some and move on. I don’t need to write an 8 months, 11 days letter to validate myself, do I? I didn't even start these damn things until she was 5 months old, so what's the big deal? Her perpetually unfinished baby book will not have her mother’s reminiscences from every single moment of her life, but I bet she’ll live and still manage to have a sense that I love her more than anything and have done nothing quite as wonderful with my life as watch her grow up. Besides, I’m going to write a heck of a 9 month letter, and I think it’s important to start the “I’ll do better next time” cycle of mom guilt now, so I’ll be really good at it once she’s a teenager and disappointed in my every small failure.

Just another day

Here’s what I learned yesterday: Mother’s Day is a lot like a birthday, a day that requires celebration and recognition, the level of which is largely dependent on the person being celebrated. Some people don’t care at all and are happy to get a card or a nice word. Others want fireworks, flowers, bells, whistles and all the stuff in between. The distance between expectations and reality can be the difference between a good day and one that ends in tears or an angry trip to the grocery store. I talked to a lot of moms yesterday and today, and I have yet to hear from anyone (except my own mom and stepmom, of course) who had a great day. Most of the people who had crappy days have small children who can’t really celebrate the holiday in their own right, so I think this is more a comment on husband-wife relations than anything else.

My sister, for example, “got to” host a brunch for our mom and her mother-in-law, and got a $25 gift card from Target from her husband, who purchased a new printer and a card for his own mother. Another friend of mine also had brunch responsibilities for her mom and mother-in-law but received no card or celebration of her own. She was then made to feel guilty for indulging in some junk TV (Britney and Kevin’s True Hollywood Story) and so escaped for a solo trip to the grocery store for some time by herself. My other good friend (I’m purposely withholding names here), who bought me a lovely Mother’s Day card that made me feel very special, spent her day doing laundry and cleaning the floor. What's the deal, here? Are my expectations just silly and way too high?

My day started nicely enough. We went to breakfast at the place we do most Sundays, and then we went to a flower market and bought a little something for the garden, which I haven’t even started working on this year. That was it, though, and I was a little bothered by the lack of celebration, much to both my surprise and Nate’s. He was thinking this was a holiday on par with Valentine’s Day—why celebrate love just once a year to please the Hallmark corporation? But I was disappointed and the day ended on a pretty low note. Sure, all days should involve celebrating moms, but I think the notion of one special day is kind of cute. I remember all the crafts we would make in school when I was younger: the collages and picture frames with macaroni glued on as decoration, the wall hangings and painted planters. I can’t wait until I get those things from my own daughter, and I was bummed to have not much to show for my very first Mother’s Day. In Nate’s defense, I should mention he was going to get me a tattoo to celebrate, but I realized too late that DUH! you don’t do silly things like that when you’re breastfeeding. And he always does nice things for me, even brought me flowers last week, although he was adament that they were "just because" and not for Mother's Day. I think he thus felt surprised and caught off guard that I wanted something so mundane, silly and common as a Mother’s Day celebration, so there was a lot of tension as we tried to sort things out. At one point he demanded we cancel any sort of future celebration for Father’s Day, but why would I want to miss out on an opportunity to celebrate all the important and wonderful ways his life has changed since Clementine came along, even if it is for spite?

So now I’m left thinking a lot more about what the holiday means and why I wanted it to be acknowledged. For one, I do miss all the loopy, romantic things we used to do for each other before we settled into our blissful and comfortable marriage. I agree that there are holidays that are pointless to make a big deal out of, and I do think that sometimes forces conspire to ruin big days. When you have high expectations for a day—a birthday, Thanksgiving, etc., you are almost always disappointed. But motherhood is new to me, and I’ve doubted just about every decision I’ve made since I became a mother. It is an exercise in losing control, in wondering, in taking flying leaps into a void and hoping it all turns out OK. Thus far, I’ve survived, and I think I wanted to be pampered and recognized for that. I know Nate marvels at how I’ve adapted each and every day, and he is the only person in the world I would want to do this with. He tells me all the time how great I am doing, how lucky he and Clementine are. So why did I need a bigger deal to be made of it yesterday? Am I an egomaniac or something? I feel like an ass, and he certainly felt hurt to think I don’t see his appreciation. I do, I do, but I’m weak. I wanted something more, something I didn’t articulate, something I didn’t know I would crave. I feel silly, but we were able to recover by the end of the evening and I'm fine today, if not a little embarassed for pouting so much.

Shit! More to think about, but I’m late for a meeting. Mondays really suck.

You're not alone

Oh, my sad little blog, how I neglect you. Does it comfort you to know you are not alone? These days, I neglect just about everything and everyone. I certainly feel like I neglect my daughter. I know I neglect work. Here are only some of the other things I neglect (in no particular order), just to make you feel better:

1. Laundry. There are at least 4 loads heaped in piles on my basement floor at any one time. We did two last night, and there are still 4 to be done.
2. My cat. How have I not shared this with you? I neglect my cat and now she is punishing me by peeing all over the house. She is sick, very sick, and Nate has to give her IVs every night. See, neglect can kill, and I do have funny pics of the IV thing.
3. Photos. I have hundreds I haven't edited or posted.
   
4. Dusting. We're going to start naming the dust bunnies in the house and pretend they are pets. Who needs the cat?
5. My health. It's so much easier to order out than cook healthy food, and it's so much easier to collapse from exhaustion than to actually exercise.
6. My ass. See above. It deserves its own mention, though, because I can't use the whole I-just-had-a-baby excuse much longer.
7. My thank you notes. I owe friends and family so much gratitude, and I can't find time to write out a simple card. My other mom friends have no trouble, but I am simply an ingrate. I cringe when I think of it.
8. Clementine's baby book.
9. Any sort of photo book, archive or storage system--thousands of photos of the last few months, maybe a dozen prints. If the Internet explodes, it will be as if my child never had an infancy.
   
10. General correspondence.
11. Friends, near and far.
12. Family, all of whom are far away, which is a huge pain in the ass.
13. My eyebrows. Seriously, it's bad.
14. The newspaper. I'm averaging about 2 a week on a good week. I didn't even know about Britney's second pregnancy until yesterday, not to mention the latest bad news about our country and government.
15. Dishes. How many of these are cleaning related so far?
    
16. My car. Clean? Wax? Oil change? Why do these things need so much maintenance?
17. My bills. Ask my sister--I'm a deadbeat who misses deadlines and forgets to pay things.
18. Email. I have a lot to answer but just no time.
19. Reading real books. Not parenting manuals, not magazines. Whatever happened to a good book?
20. Writing. Have I mentioned my advanced degree in poetry? My unfinished manuscript? My hundreds of pages of journals and prompts?
21. My marriage. Family bed + fatigue + insanity = neglect
22. Running. I used to run all the time. Now I'll be lucky to puff my way through next week's 5K. Last year, I had the best excuse ever (pregnant, ahem), but this year...not so much.
23. Philanthropy. Volunteering.
    
24. Movies. The last one I saw in the theater was Brokeback Mountain.
25. My vacuum. What is this strange word?
26. Yardwork. You could braid my grass and harvest the weeds.
27. Intellect. See points 19 and 24 about books and movies but include also the way my vocabulary has deteriorated and now includes calling Nate "Daddy" and talking a lot about poop.
28. Manners.

Dang! I was going to try to make it to 30, but I just realized I've been neglecting one of my most important duties of the day: PUMPING. And while I do type one handed very well and have even found ways to balance the bottles so I can have both hands free to drive or do hell knows what, I'm starting to worry about the inevitable boob sag that will come when this nursing parade is over. And so like that, I'm off to further neglect you, poor blog. But now maybe you're not feeling so lonely.

More weekend fun

What I couldn't expand upon last bight becasue I was so freakin' tired is how much fun the rest of my hungover Sunday was with my little girl and Nate. It was beautiful weather, so I put on my darkest shades and went over to my friend Laura's house to lounge around in her pretty backyard. What I learned from this experience is that it is very important, when you are hungover, to go to a house where there are no other small children. People there will likely be excited to entertain and play with your child while you lie on their lawn furniture and slurp water. Sure, you may have to change a diaper or two, but your contributions can be minimal.

Laura and Dave have a great big trampoline, and I thought it would be fun to roll around with little Miss Clementine for a while. Know what trampolines produce a lot of? Static. And giggles. Her hair instantly sprouted out in all directions, and she LOVED as I bounded her around. Other than one misjudgement that popped her well off the surface of the trampoline and which she enjoyed nonetheless (see below for photo), she stuck to the surface of the thing and crawled around picking up leaves and little bugs. Such bliss.

Static:

Giggles:

One big bounce:

A fine Derby indeed

I survived my annual Derby bash...just barely. I don't know how it was different from last year, but 2006 saw the party consume 5 bottles of varying qualities of borboun to 2005's paltry 1 and 1/2. Oh, yeah, last year I was knocked up, so there's the difference. I proudly stayed sober until most guests left and then went around like a homeless women drinking all the half mint juleps that people left behind. Have I become cheap or was this a new form of denial? I hope I don't catch anything. I later stayed up with our friends Dave and Karen, sipping the finer borboun until I realized we were having an in-depth conversation about how much we all loved each other. Yup, time for bed. Know what I haven't missed in my year and a half of pregnancy-induced sobriety? Hangovers. Sunday was desperately hard, and I spent the day queezy and being pampered (and Clementine lived on previously pumped and frozen milk as I dumped mine out until after I was done feeling dizzy. OK, it's also because I had a margarita when we went out for lunch, but it was a hair-of-the-dog gesture more than anything else.

I'm still exhausted and recovering, but there are some mighty fine photos to be seen on Flickr, including a series of Karen getting progressively more intoxicated--you can see it in the eyes. Click on one of the shots below for more.

Ho hum

So it's Friday night at 8:00 p.m. and I'm wondering how I've ended up home alone with my sleeping kid on a night that used to be pretty fun for me. I've got a party to plan and a house to clean and I'm all alone, despite plans to the contrary. A few weeks ago one of my friends was all "I'll come for Cinco de Mayo, we'll drink margaritas all night and get ready for your party," and then tonight it was, "It's 7:30, I have to get home to hang out with my boyfriend." Humph. I know my life has changed a lot since I had a kid and there are a lot of things I'm not too flexible about (bed time, for example), but I like to think I follow through and am more than willing to set aside special time to be with a friend or family member who needs it. I'm also more than willing to make my home like a disco or a club so people don't notice that I've been overrun with motherhood and toys and a whole new life. How desperate. Yuck. And how naive--here I am with a bottle of tequila, a sink full of dirty dishes (yes, in addition to a house to clean--it makes me even madder), toys everywhere and hours and hours to clean it all up by myself. Maybe I'm being deluded, but I'm starting to suspect that there is no gap wider than that between a gal with a kid and one without. Until you've been here, you can't understand the isolation and frustration (and no, I'm not forgetting about the joy and elation--I'm just going with my mood for a minute). Even when I can articulate it to people, which I did tonight, they don't seem to get it. And what kind of person leaves a mom with a sink full of dirty dishes? I mean really.

And where is Nate during all this? He's at a party, which I'm glad of because that guy hardly ever takes time to go hang out and do stuff that interests him. I'm thrilled beyond measure that he's out carousing, and I hope he comes home drunk and tattooed. He DESERVES it for so many reasons. I'm feeling like a bit of an ass, though, because I should be with him. We went briefly, but I rushed through it all sensing my friend's clock was ticking. OK, the party was a little out of my league and Clemetine needed to go to sleep, but I still should have put Nate first. I sometimes think I sacrifice my time with him too easily because he is so dependable. We've been together forever, and I'm so sure of him that I don't always put him in the prime organizational slot he deserves or blow off my friends just to hang out with him. In the end, I know I have those minutes late at night and early in the morning when we are just who we are: a family, best friends, lovers, two people who just are.

Stop reading this crap--it's just a pity party. I'm going to go wash dishes and get ready for a party I'm not all that excited about now. Tomorrow will be different, I know, but this is just one of those moments you can get lost in. Blogging is probably better than picking up the phone and bitching at someone, so here it is. I feel a little like I'm in junior high, whiny and hurt on a Friday, so I'm going to go do something no junior high student can do: a shot of tequila and an R-rated movie. While I'm doing dishes, of course.

Strawberry Clementine Alarm Clock

One of the joys of cosleeping I don't appreciate enough is that I never ever need an alarm clock (except if I have a really early meeting). Sure, the kid doesn't always sleep through the night, but she's pretty good about getting up every morning and crawling around between us, knocking her cute little head against ours in her form of a kiss. It's hard to get out of bed most days because she's so damn cute, acting all surprised to see us when we peek-a-boo out from beneath the covers, squeezing our noses, just loving on us in general. Know when it's not cute? At 5 a.m. Sure, she was cute and playful, the same loving little baby we could roll around with for hours, but it was 5 frickin' a.m., an unholy hour if you ask me. Sure, I could have gotten up and gotten a good start on my day, but who are we kidding? It would be nice to do yoga, eat an actual breakfast, maybe even blow dry (or at least brush) my mop of hair. But sleep is SO MUCH SWEETER.

To remind myself that Clementine is sweet at all hours of the day (I've been pretty grouchy on this lack of sleep), I just uploaded come pics of our recent bike ride. She loves the bike but hates the helmet, which is too big to be safe, I know. I am a terrible parent.

And maybe this is why she hasn't been sleeping so well lately:

I don't really have to tell you it's closed, do I?

Send in the troops!

My big-ass annual Derby party is this Saturday, and I haven't made much progress as far as making my home palatable for visitors. There are toys everywhere, random baby stuff like diapers, hats and carriers all over the dining room, and there are Cheerios literally under foot in every single room. Luckily, my friend Courtney came over to help last night, kicking my ass and making me grudgingly admit I might be a hoarder. The problem is I love me some garage sales and like to fill my house with funky finds. I haven't known Courtney all that long, but she sure got a crash course in my wackier side last night after trying to figure out where to put all my pens, strange card games, jewelry, art and fabulous 80s orange Betsy Johnson sweater with a huge zipper down the sleeve. After all that, she still stuck around and even donned a terrible mu mu (is that how you spell it? moo moo? mumu?) her boss gave her to wear to a weeding this weekend.

After she left, I finalized the menu and for the first time in my life see the convenience of things like Bisquick and pre-made pie shells. I usually go all out for any sort of entertaining (Thanksgiving takes me a few days in the kitchen), but this year I'm channeling that freaky Sandra Lee from the Food Network and working in some semi-homemade options so I don't totally lose my marbles. Menu will include some southern specialties like corn pudding, biscuits, tea sandwiches, ham (cooked in Coca-Cola, a little white trash tip that makes it OH SO GOOD), salad, roasted brussel sprouts and, of course, mint juleps. Guests wear their southern finery and can wager on the winner. It's a grand time, although last year was a lot more subdued because a.) I was pregnant and b.) I realized I had been making the mint juleps wrong in years past and adjusted the amount of alcohol DOWN, leading to less drunkenness. Nevertheless, someone did fall off a bike into our bushes, and my friend Karen slugged Nate because he beat her at cards.

Tonight I will have to be a white tornado in the house and may even try to sneak some grocery shopping in because tomorrow night I'll be home alone while Nate celebrates a new holiday : Syncro de Mayo. I'll try to explain that without making him sound like a total geek. He owns a Volkswagen Quantum Syncro from the 80s. They are apparently good little cars and have a cult following--there is an extremely active listserv of owners that Nate spends a good deal of time on. His friend KP lives near us and has about a dozen of these cars, no joke. Syncro de Mayo was his idea, and I swear people are coming in from out of state to attend. I know not what to say except that I LOVE how odd my husband is.

I have a ton of pictures to post of Clementine's first couple of bike rides and our trip to Iowa. Maybe somewhere in all this craziness I'll get to that because even with a helmet on she is too too cute. Which reminds me that we now have official unbiased confirmation of that fact (not like we needed it). We went to our favorite BBQ joint, Slows, earlier this week and were enjoying our meal when the manager came over to ask how the food was. "Oh, and look!" she exclaimed. "It's Clementine." We don't go that very often, so I was surprised until she told me it would be hard to forget the world's cutest baby. How true, how true. OK, so maybe she didn't say WORLD'S cutest, but she definitely implied it.

Note: This post has been edited. Apparently I spelled Syncro wrong initially (spelled it Synchro, which seems logical to me) and someone sure had something to say about that.

Was it heaven? Nope, just Iowa

So I fell off the face of the earth last week, but it wasn’t because I was drowning in work. OK, I did have a lot of work, but I also celebrated Clementine’s recent success on our trip to Washington, D.C. by taking her on yet another family pilgrimage to Des Moines. Since tickets to fly there are bizarrely expensive (seriously, who wants to go there for fun?), we decided to drive. Since Clementine still hates the car (and I think it’s cruel to put a little kid in the car for 10 daytime hours), we decided to drive through the night like old times. Since we have been blessed with the happiest baby on earth of late, it was surprisingly easy.

Nate and I are huge road trippers, and since we spent many years after college together and in love but living states apart, we are all too familiar with late nights on the open road with only the destination in mind. It did seem like a cruel slap in the face when we had a child who hated the car—kind of the ultimate test of our ability to be parents—but we’ve coped well, and I think the driving all night solution worked for the most part. I have to qualify that, however, because my normally easy-going husband is becoming increasingly type A, uptight and inflexible, and we had a little demonstration of that when we arrived at out hotel at 3:30 a.m. only to be told that they hadn’t kept a room for us. There was some big sports festival at Drake University, and there was no room at the inn. Any inn.

To me this seemed like no big deal. We have traveled all over the country and the world together, and we’ve certainly dealt with worse. We’ve slept in train stations and airports, we’ve missed planes (OK, that was all me), we’ve gotten terribly lost and had all sorts of unpredictable shit happen to us in strange places, and we’ve ALWAYS survived. If ever there was one of us who dealt with these unpredictable situations poorly, it was you-know-who (hint: not Nate). But this whole parenting thing has altered my temperament in some serious ways, and it seemed clear to me that while this SUCKED, there was an easy solution that didn’t involve waking up his grandparents who didn’t even have a couch for us to crash on anyway. Clementine was fast asleep in her car seat, so why not head back to the lovely, clean and inviting rest stop a few miles back, lean our seats back to catch some Zs and make an appearance at a more acceptable time? While this is eventually what we did, it was not before a bit of a temper tantrum and a lot of fuming. Even when we were happily snuggled in our car and I was feeling a bit of the adventurousness I thought was lost when we had a child, Nate couldn’t let it go. He was so steamed about it, I couldn't even sleep. I was going to avail myself of the free internet in the rest area (seriously, did I mention the place was LOVELY. I know it sounds odd, but the great state of Iowa has got it going on in the rest area department) to blog about what a jerk he was being, but I had let my computer battery run out and forgotten the plug like an asshole (thus none of the blogging and catching up I had planned to do from the hotel Saturday night while C. was sleeping and Nate was visiting with his family).

I mention all of this not as a passive aggressive attack on Nate. Of course it sucked that the hotel forgot about us, and he was right to feel mad. I’m getting worried, though, because he has been more and more upset about little things lately, and I miss my easy-going, calming best friend. I feel like we’ve switched roles completely: he gets ramped up about every little thing, and I am the one asking if it really matters. Last night, for example, he spent a better portion of the evening pissed because the new CD player is broken. He was hopping mad because the shit you can buy these days is just cheap and no good and he used to have a CD player that worked for 20 years because it was made when quality mattered and the whole world is against him and life sucks because the CD player should just work. Seriously, I need to find a way to help him find his way back to himself because he can’t be feeling too happy all angry and tense like this. Then again, maybe it will blow over; things are getting easier as Clementine grows up. Also, family can be very stressful, and I tend to become a bit of a freak when I go to my mom’s as well.

Other than the drama of arrival, we had a nice visit with Nate’s family. Clementine rose to the occasion and was sweet as a peach, even if she was just a little mama-hungry and clingy from time-to-time. She was teething and a little cranky (and Nate’s grandma was apparently channeling my mother the activity director for a bit and devised a grand plan to separate me from Nate and the baby for an afternoon so the baby could be schlepped all over the city to meet heaven-knows-who, which didn’t help matters), but who can resist her ready smile and cute little quirks? She’s making kissy noises, makes this funny little scheming hand gesture (I have some pics of that to post) and is trying her damndest to stand on her own. I was glad she got to meet her great-grandparents and see her grandpa again, and she loved Nate’s cousins. I got to go to a fabulous vintage clothing shop, but I didn’t get my Paul Revere’s breadsticks as I hoped. They are my nostalgia food—I practically lived on them in college.

We trekked home all night Saturday and managed to eek some pleasure out of yesterday after catching up on our sleep. We did yard work mostly while Clementine supervised from her pack-n-play. We also tried to enjoy a little picnic outside, which just about impossible due all the neighborhood dogs. I don’t know why I haven’t said much about the joy that it is living among the racist Nascar fans that make up my soon-to-be-transitioning (I hope) neighborhood because they are always good for a laugh. The dog thing is no laughing matter, though, because EVERYONE has some sort of big, scary dog that was purchased for a sense of security but ultimately relegated to bark outisde in protest (I believe) of the ill treatment they receive. No one walks the dogs or trains them—it is just a novelty that wears off quickly and leaves behind a pile of shit that no one wants to clean up.

Now I’m back to work and trying to get a whole lotta done. That’s especially hard after a weekend with my girl because I can’t help wondering what she’s up to. We have a ton to do this week in anticipation of our annual Derby party on Saturday. Last year was rough because I couldn’t have any mint juleps; this year will be a new kind of tough with a kid under foot. My my my.