Now with less kitchen sink!

It has been a very exciting day for us at the punk rock household--nay, it has been an exciting weekend. Today, after lots of hard work (all of which was done by Nate, although I did promise at one point that if we did this I would TOTALLY HELP; I suck), a big and wonderful breakfast at Club Bart, a long bike ride and a trip to the park, we drove the Mercedes around the neighborhood on straight vegetable oil for the first time ever. It was rocky at first as the system "burped," but it was shortly smooth and very tasty smelling sailing.



I daresay even Miss Clementine enjoyed tooling around on the inaugural ride, and we all know how she feels about the car (though that has kind of changed now that she has turned around and can face the world). She was either ecstatic at the idea of being the most ecologically conscious child on the block, smacking her head as if to say "My crazy parents," or she was practicing pulling a blanket up over her head when riding in the back seat of the french fry mobile on her way to school:



But mere mechanics is not all the weekend had to offer. Clementine and I enjoyed a great morning downtown with Hudson, despite the tomfoolery of social awkwardness near other parents I detailed below (and yes, in case you are wondering, I am totally ignoring the fact that I am such a loser an internet shrink sought out MY BLOG to give me tips on social interactions via the comments section. As far as I'm concerned, it just didn't happen). We saw a parade, went to Eastern Market to get all sorts of goodies (thank heavens that for once I had the stroller), played in the park, had yet another long bike ride and, much to my family's shock and amazement, took almost NO pictures. I don't think I'm cured or anything (I just uploaded three dozen more photos to Flickr--I have a PROBLEM, people, and I need HELP) and I certainly don't think Clementine had a single second when she was less than photogenic, but I managed to only photograph a very serious looking Hudson and a very serious spelling error all day long.





I like to think it was the spelling that had Hudson so worried, but I think it was really that he was horrified his parents seemed to be paying no attention to him as he ate grass--I swear, he practically mowed the whole park with his teeth. Were I not there to shirk social niceties in order to care for him, who knows what his fate would have been. Who knows??

But the really cherry on the top of our weekend cherry was a rousing trip to Target Friday night after discovering that the best Mexican food we've been able to find in Detroit is sadly not in the city. We've done Mexican Village and we love us some authentic ambiance, but the food at this place near the *gasp* mall was really the closest we've come to tolerable since Agave shut down, no doubt for having the biggest asshole greet people at the door and scoff at them if they ask for a high chair. But I digress. I think my Friday evening can only be described in song, so channel some Madonna channeling Eva Perrone and sing this to the tune of "Evita:" "Don't cry for me De-troit hipsters, the truth is I hardly miss you! There were my wild days, my bars and galleries, but now there are errands...on Friday evenings." OK, that didn't really work and I think it is now obvious that I'm losing my mind, but I had a great time getting lots of shopping done while the whole world was out having fun and living interesting lives. We're taking Karen (she of the shuffle board and booze and karaoke) down on this one, too--I think she had more fun with us in Target than she normally does when she's out with adults who stay up past 10 p.m. and can't tell you everything there is about breastfeeding and infant bowel movements. Proof that Target rocks just as hard as any youthful night out: costumes.



Yes, we are losers. But we're losers who all have new toys from Target and got a good night's sleep on Friday. How many hipsters can say the same?

We capped the weekend off with a quick trip to Ann Arbor for the judge's wife's birthday party. I haven't had many moments like this as a parent (or really in my life at all), but the second we walked in the door of the restaurant, I knew it wasn't the best place for us. We love Julie and were happy to celebrate with her, but no one (NO ONE) had brought their kids, and everyone was dressed to the nines. We weren't out of place--everyone was super nice to us because we have the cutest baby in the world, after all--but it was hardly the family gathering we had thought it might be. There were politicos there and lots of social connections to be made, and we were absolutely blindsided by it. We copped a seat in a corner booth and let Clementine try her hand at the very chic vegetarian finger foods all around, and then we very quietly and quickly made our exit--happy we could have been there to celebrate but happy also that a kid is always the perfect excuse to leave a party even without much social grace. The old me would have been a little mental over misreading things, over not "doing it right" or talking to the right people, dressing the right way. But here's a way motherhood has really strengthened and improved me: I simply didn't care. We are who are: flip flops and dress skirts, longish beards and babies at birthdays, and I'm fine with it. I'm actually a little proud of it. As we left, I called my friend Laura and invited my little family over for pizza and fun in their backyard. That's the kind of Sunday that never blindsides me.

And speaking of proud, I don't want to brag or anything, but Clementine slept through the night last night. Yes, from 8 p.m. to 8 a.m. with only a whimper early on in the evening. I realize this is something most moms say about their 6-month-old babies, but I'm taking rejoicing where I can find it. Sadly Nate and I were too stupid to hightail it to bed ourselves to enjoy deep, uninterrupted sleep. No, we stayed up until 2 and thus didn't get any more sleep than we usually do. I've got my fingers crossed for tonight, though.

And STILL speaking of proud, did I tell you I discovered the secret of parenting?

Let her inherit my bad skin

Or my wonky eye. Or my propensity to cheat at cards. Let her inherit my good teeth or even my height (a little on the short side), but please oh please oh please do NOT let her inherit my social awkwardness. It will cause her enough distress to have a socially awkward mother who cannot make or maintain normal friendships with the parents of her playmates, so please don't make things worse by making her socially awkward as well.Please.

I was really thinking I had this licked--in fact, I went out this week with my friend Courtney and hung out with her friend Liz and had a great time. I even talked. I had things to say! I wasn't a freak show, and I totally made a new friend. So I know it can be done.

But then I went to this neighborhood celebration downtown and encountered a bunch of parents my age who had kids close to Clementine's age, and I was once again the quiet, unable to connect type who just gazes upon her child and follows her around in order to avoid social contact. It's not that I didn't try--I did. But I did some awkward shit in trying to connect with other parents (and I think therein truly lies the problem: my experiences with parenting are what I'm least confident about, so forming acquaintances based on this one common idea, that we are all parents, is toughest for me because I'm so insecure about what the hell I'm doing). One mom said, "I work for a judge," and I, desperate to connect on some level, said "I am best friends with a judge!" Leaving aside the fact that I was totally the girl in the front row of class screaming "Pick me! Pick me!" it's not like I lied--it's just that using the word "best friend" to describe important people in your life who are over 60 is totally weird and not quite right. If I'm not the "Pick me!" girl, then I sound like one of those girls in high school who calls her mom her "best friend"--even if it's true, it implies an inability to connect with people your age. Duh! I have that in spades.

To complicate matters even further, a few of these parents are bloggers, and I still haven't figured out how to handle that in social situations. Do I walk up to the woman I recognize from her photos and say, "Hey! You always write about how socially awkward you are...I'm socially awkward, too! Let's be friends!" Do I have to fess up right away: "I read your blog," so she knows I know? Instead, I handled it by NOT talking to her at all, by not introducing myself (Courtney did, but she's going to be mayor of friggin' Detroit some day because she knows people EVERYWHERE we go--we're friends because she has enough social skills to make up for my complete lack of them). I was better at talking to the parents of a little girl who is very close to Clementine's age. They blog too, but I only discovered theirs a few days ago and am not as steeped in their life and exploits. I did want to make out with the mom when she explained that her daughter didn't sleep through the night until she was 14 months--a kindred spirit! No, I didn't actually TRY to make out with her, but I did have to resist the urge to desperately clutch at her and her husband and say, "Please let us skip over these awkward first encounters--I am not good at these things. I am better with time. I am funny. My husband makes odd stuff and we are good for a laugh and our house is very fun to visit. It doesn't matter if you never really like me--we have kids, and I want my kid to play with your kid, who doesn't live in the hillbilly heaven where our house is, who wears Chucks and BabyLegs and is very cute, who won't teach Clementine to use racial slurs. Please, for the love of all that is holy, let us be parent friends and go to the zoo and eat dinner in restaurants at 5:30 so we can still do our bath and bed routine." Or something like that. Instead, I said "Nice meeting you" and followed Clementine around as she wandered through the park aimlessly after the dogs who were all there dressed up for the dog parade.

I feel bad that I'm not able to make friends who have kids because Clementine LOVES being with babies and toddlers and kids of all ages. Within a 10 minute drive of my house, I hang out with exactly 1 family with child. There are a few more kids in our life if I'm willing to drive further, and I don't want to denigrate the amazing friends I have with older kids or no kids at all--they are the light and love of our small, biological family-less Detroit lives. But who do I call on a beautiful morning to go to the park with us? Who has a kid that Clementine can tickle and hug (her favorite bonding activities)? Hudson is going to get sick of us if we're not careful.

I'm being pulled out the door to go ride over to our breakfast place. Nate is almost done converting our '83 Mercedes to run on veggie oil--if he works enough today, we'll have our inaugural ride by sunset. We're heading out to the a party with The Judge (see, I told you we're best friends) and his wife tonight--it's a surprise birthday, and SURPRISE! we don't have a gift yet. To do, to do. Happily it's distracting me from the fact I'm back to work tomorrow. Yes, we're back to that: I just don't want to go. Ever.

The goods

As evidence of the often hidden side of my truly bifurcated personality--one part goody goody corporate raider, one part independent writer/artist/rocker/wild child--my very belated Mother's Day tattoo, belated because apparently injecting dye into your skin while breastfeeding isn't recommended behavior. I think the reactions of the people I'm closest to also serve to illustrate my divided nature. People either love it and oooh and aaah when I show it to them, or they are horrified by how BIG, how permanent. Whatever. It's not quite finished yet--the stars need to be colored, and there's a background we didn't get done, but the general idea and Clementine-inspired nature of it are pretty clear.



And despite the fact that this is numero 5, I'm still not looking forward to the stern disapproval of my dad when he either reads this or has occasion to see me in a t-shirt. I'm embarrassed that as a 31-year-old grown woman I still let him have this much of an effect on me, but I guess it's just how it is. It doesn't matter in the end because I LOVE LOVE LOVE it, right down to the cat-eye shades on the sparrows and the itchy itchy scabs that I'm trying to keep at bay so it heals correctly.

Playin' Hooky

Blessed be the day care provider for taking off today for West Virginia, leaving me no other option than staying home with Clementine. As it turns out, I would have been off anyway as my boss turned to me this week in a particularly mind-numbing meeting to say, "You've had a rough go of it these last two weeks. Why don't you take Friday off to spend with your daughter." Did I say "Look at my calendar, bozo, I'm already outta here?" No way! A simple, "Well, if you insist" will suffice.

So here it is 9:30 a.m. after a miserable night's sleep (she snuffled like a woodland creature seeking out food all night long when she wasn't shrieking) and we've already had a wonderful time. The best part about it is that all the mistakes are mine today--she won't see a lick of TV, not even the "educational shows" that Julie justifies at day care, but I can't guarantee she won't hear the word "fuck"thousand times if we go anywhere in the car. Hooray for parenting. We tried some new foods for breakfast, but my little gal wouldn't even look at a scrambled egg and totally turned her nose up at peanut better. If I hadn't watched her emerge from own body, I would doubt she was my child on that alone. Peanut butter is my stranded-on-a-desert-island food, my comfort food, my go-to food, and I can't imagine my life without it. Sure, it means I've probably exposed her to allergies and will spend my whole life rabidly avoiding foods with traces of peanuts so she doesn't blow up like a balloon, but I love me some PB.

We've also already had a jammin' dance party downstairs. She picked out her record du jour, The Pretenders, and we did a host of dancing, including the Flashdance stutter step, some general body jerking, a cool head roll that looks a little like she's trying to learn to break dance and then some couples dancing, which involves her trying to throw herself out of my arms for a dip or a lift. She grabbed the maraca, gave me a tambourine and then we shook it with all we've got. I think this means no gym necessary today.

But what is necessary? I have one inclination to fill the day up doing all the stuff we never can together. It's too yucky for finding a good park now, but we can touch every single toy in the house before too long (even the annoying plastic ones), maybe go to Ikea to get some bookshelves, poke around the Book Beat for some new reads..who knows. At some point I guess she will be tired of me staring at her and petting her hair, so we'll have to find an adventure after napping. Oh, sweet napping. I've spent that time a thousand times over already--I will read, read, read, I will write to Dr. S about the sheath of poems she sent me so long ago, I will clean my office, I will write, I will blog, I will not check my work email, I will not preen in the mirror, staring at my tattoo for hours. Surely Clementine cannot sleep for the thousand lives I want to live during nap today.

A girl could get used to this, especially when she's had a week where she feels like her job is eating her soul and that she doesn't see her kid enough. I'm resisting the urge to whine, the existential crisis that comes over me in cycles now, but I love being home--not just to be with Clementine. I feel like my brain got turned back on this morning when, instead of getting in my car and autopiloting to work, I looked at a whole, blank day, just me and my daughter and started wondering how we could spend it. Free will!

OK, she's using the optical mouse as a telephone, crying "Hi! Hi!" into again and again. I'm off for something a little more imaginative.

Flashdance

First of all, I don't know why the hell I was bitching about being the mom tossing Cheerios into the backseat on the way to work. Sure, it's not the healthy let's-sit-down-and-eat-as-a-family breakfast Donna Reed had for her kids every morning, but what a boon to discover a box of not totally unhealthy snacks in your car when you're so hungry you could eat your own hand and have to get to a meeting in front of 100 parents and don't want your tummy to rumble. Once again, I bow in humility before the great parenting god who laughed at my Cheerio-to-go resistance. Will I ever not have SO MUCH to learn.

And speaking of learning, Clementine is picking up some cute and crazy things every day. When I got home last night she was so excited to see me that she did this crazy little foot stomping dance like the one in Flashdance. OK, so she didn't have the one-shoulder sweatshirt and legwarmers, but she had that little flutter step down. I was very flattered that the sight of her mother brought that out in her, but then her do it when she tossed a magnet into the kitchen garbage can and again when she saw her doll Whatti (named by my niece and I still don't have a spelling) and yet again after she tried to crawl fully clothed into the bath tub. So maybe it's not all about me, but it sure is damn cute.

What's not cute is this ugly sleep phase we're going through. Nate and I have been wimps up until recently, feeding her all night long whenever she fusses just to buy us some extra Zs. Not only do I think she uses the bottle for comfort she prolly doesn't truly need, but I'm so damn tired lately that I end up spilling milk all over me and the bed, meaning if I don't change the sheets right away the whole room spells (this whole cow's milk thing is soooo different than breastmilk). So we've stopped bringing a bottle to bed, which last night meant about two hours of whining and tossing. She rarely wakes up all the way, but she tossed and turns and kicks and screams and whines, and I can't believe any of us an get up and walk the next day. I'm seeing it as a duty to get through, though, because I think we all deserve a night's sleep. No, I'm not sleep training her or letting her cry it out hard core (she's still in our bed, after all, and I'm done apologizing for that), but I'm going to see if a few more days of bad sleep might take us to a new level of good sleep. I'm holding out for a hero here.

I gave myself a little post-nursing, your-kid-turned-one, express yourself present yesterday and have a whole new trick up my sleeve (literally). I'm pretty psyched, but I have to go back for another sitting to finish the whole thing off. I can't decide if I'll post pics when it heals up or if I'll wait until I finish it. For now, I'm going back to bed to see if I can't squeeze in another 30 minutes before the get-to-work rush sets in.

Some days a working mom can't win

I swear I'm not trying to be the world's biggest whiner, but I have had one of those days. You know the kind. I woke up late, the baby woke up even later. I ran through the morning feeling like I was forgetting something, couldn't dress myself, choked down some coffee (yes, back on the caffeine), thank heavens Nate dressed C and somehow scooted us out the door. But I had to write a check for the day care lady at the first traffic light. That made me remember she was totally out of Clementine's diapers, so I pulled over at the nearest Rite-Aid where I realized Clementine hadn't had breakfast (she was going nuts at the candy bars), so I threw in a box of Cheerios and spent the remainder of our drive tossing them back to her and damning my stick shift for making morning multi-tasking so hard.

I threw her in the door at day care because I was so late for work and then realized I didn't have my camera for morning convocation. Damn. Luckily, Karen had left hers at my house and it was rolling around in my backseat for a week waiting to be returned. So I grabbed it, made it to the ceremony, couldn't get anything to work right and eventually made it to my office to find 445 emails in my account--so much for even using the photos to write a story. Granted 100 of the emails were from a few weeks ago, 150 from last week, so it's not like they cropped up over night, but I had to get serious about answering them. But then there is the generic email I have to answer, another account with 60 emails. Writing? Photos? My actual job? Who has time? I'm tech support now.

I spent the rest of the day frantic, a to-do list spiraling out of control and my perspective waning. How would I ever get it all done? I hate when it gets like that, my fingers madly typing, my whole self overwhelmed. My friends pop by my office and I can't even look at them except with these crazy eyes that scream "Stay away! I'm MAD! A lunatic!" And then I get so wound up I think I have to quit my job immediately because nothing is worth this kind of stress, not to mention being the last mommy to day care to get her love, with whom I have spent a whole 20 minutes of time today. This is where things get dangerous and I think of all the things I haven't done with my life (a book, my writing, more travel) and will now never do. Not because of my kid but because of my job. And then, there you go--I'm whining again. I feel trapped, overwhelmed. These are not new feelings--they are at the heart of my struggle as a working mom.

But then I go get darling C. from day care, and she runs over to give me a hug and a goofy grin. Today she has learned where her tongue is, so when you ask her she opens her mouth and is so damn proud of herself she can't keep from laughing. The whole day melts away, and I'm sane and happy and myself. OK, not entirely true. I took a brief detour into the garage when I got home to sit by myself in Nate's convertible and *gasp* smoke a cigarette. I don't smoke (and neither does Nate anymore, yet there were emergency cigs tucked away in a glove compartment), but it seemed like the right thing to do. Very dramatic. I was very proud of myself.

But THEN things were better and I put on my sweat pants and took care of my family and was just so grateful and happy to be home. So today sucked more than most, but because of it the evening was better than most. I have to call it even, huh?

My loverly sister posted some fabulous pictures of her brood today. Don't you want o go take a peek?

The Birthday Bash

Almost a week later, I have cleaned the cake frosting off the baby monitor, thrown away the wrapping paper (though the toys are still all over), organized the cards and finally sorted through all the pictures I took of the big day. It was more than I could have ever hoped for in a birthday party and faux baptism (which I've taken to calling a blessing because it makes my mom happier).

Last Sunday, the weather was perfect and we set up for the event by dragging all of the bicycles from our garage and getting them spiffied up for the bike parade. Clementine, whose obsession with bicycles grows stronger every day (when we get home at night she runs over the garage, bangs on the door and says "bi-bi-bi"), was thrilled to see some of her friends even brought their own bikes. She was checking them all out before we took off:

People rode tall bikes and long bikes, folding bikes, Taxi bikes, Stingrays, trikes and all sorts of different contraptions. Even my mom rode one, ever in the spirit (maybe because her new boyfriend was along?):

After our parade, Clementine donned her Tiger hat, which is a Chinese folkloric tradition--apparently babies wear this hat on their one year birthday to catch all the heavenly goodness falling from the sky between the tiger's ears. Thankfully it had a tie, so it stayed on her head for the duration of the faux baptism ceremony despite her best efforts to remove it. Clementine, you want that heavenly goodness, don't you? Good. Put it on.

I knew I wanted to do some sort of blessing for our girl because, although we have no intention of baptising her, I do want to provide some sort of foundation for spirituality and divinity, for asking questions and believing in things. I asked guests to being a small symbol of a wish they have for her future, and I also asked them to write in a little book what they might be willing to teach her as she grows older. I started the ceremony by reading Sylvia Plath's "Morning Song," a poem I read again and again when I came home from the hospital with C., and I somehow managed NOT to cry, not even when I read the last line, which always gets me. On cue, Clementine started to sing a little as I read about her clear vowels. It was very sweet.

Then we went around the circle and presented her with our symbols. I gave her an unpolished Petosky stone so she would always remember where she came from, what her earliest adventures were and to look for beauty everywhere, even in an unpolished stone. He dad gave her a tiny old wrench, which she popped into her mouth right away, so she would always be able to solve her problems. She got a Buddy Christ from my sister and her family, a Bible from my mom, a Tiffany luggage tag from Aunt K., a rock in the shape of a C and some dream coins from the Lamberti's, flowers, a Virgin Mary nightlight, some funny glasses and a picture from her boyfriend Hudson, and she got inspirational books, a collage, poems, a special chair for contemplating, lovely little toys, some poems and stories, a promise for fishing lessons from Uncle Dizzle and lots of wonderful goodies I'm sure I'm forgetting. Even her Nonny and Grandpa sent something from Arizona to wish her good reading. After the presentation, I read Margaret Atwood's "You Begin," another great poem, and our Clementine was blessed, baptised, welcomed and ready for cake.

She wasn't sure what to make of the cake at first, but she took to it pretty quickly and managed to get frosting EVERYWHERE.

I know that's part of the fun, but she's not real fond of being cleaned up, so her head was all sticky for the rest of the party until the sugar rush faded and left her crazy tired, the kind that makes it seems like she's having more fun than she's ever had before, but then in the blink of an eye is crying and screaming and just so ready for bed, guests be damned.

My family took off after the party came to an end, which meant we three had Labor Day to spend together not doing much. You would think I could have sorted pictures then, but there were SO many. Click on any below to go see the overindulgance than is a first-time mom with a digital camera.

Another series

Cousins once again together, once again we parents search for a shot of the three of them. This is the third attempt. First there was Washington D.C., then there was the park and now the pre-birthday celebration:

I'm starting to think this is the Holy Grail of family photography. Three children, one camera, all of them looking in the same direction, all of them eyes open and maybe even smiling--it shouldn't be this hard. I'm wondering if we're going to have to involve medication or television if we ever want this to work. I kind of like the foibles better than I would a real shot, though.

A day at the zoo

I'm a such a nerdy first-time mom. I took over 200 pictures of Clementine's birthday party and faux baptism!! By the time I can post them all and write about it, she will be graduating from college. It's either that or I'll post from work. What am I thinking? I can't even remember to eat and pee at work these days, so maybe I'll have to pull an all-nighter. I had a dreadful day at work--more than any one person can do in a week, much less a day. Plus the assistant I was about to hire took a job somewhere else. PLUS I hit a dumpster with my car trying to get out of a parking place. Hell's Belles I need a drink.

But before that, let me extoll the virtues of the zoo. We are fond of it, even if Clementine could care less about the camels (though she is starting to take an interest in the penguins and makes the baby sign for dog whenever she sees anything with fur). If nothing else, it is a great place to go for a long walk far, far away from my white-trash ghetto of a neighborhood (did I tell you about the bullet in the roof of my car yet?? Yeah.). Before the birthday bash, we took the whole gang there for a little stroll.

Not only did we walk with the roos and spot the mountain lions, we also got to hang with the tragically hip playgroup, a group of parents with Bugaboos, rock-n-roll hair and more black clothing than an undertaker's convention. While normally I would look at those kinds of people with recognition and longing, watching them talk on their cell phones while they pushed their $900 strollers and fluffed their hair made me loathe them. See? I can competitive mother like the rest of them. It should be an Olympic sport.

I should get back to the hundreds of birthday pics calling my name, but I can't stand the thought of being in front of the computer another minute. Check back soon for party pics. They're really effing cute if I do say so myself.

One year old!

Dear Clementine:

Warning: here comes the schmaltz. Last night I had a lot of good stuff to tell you, but a rough night's sleep, an evil day at work and a private birthday celebration have knocked it out of me. What remains borders on greeting card but comes straight from my heart.

Last night your dad and I stayed up late and talked about the night we experienced one year ago, the night you came into the world. When we tell the story to other people, we always talk about how I didn't know I was in labor, how quick it all went once we decided to get to the hospital, how easy the labor seemed in retrospect (though I think there are still a few nurses at the hospital who have their own stories of how not easy I was making it). What we don't talk about with other people are the hours the three of us spent after all that, after the nurses and midwife left, after all the drama of your arrival. Remind me to tell you about those sweetest of hours someday, as they are the closest thing to nirvana and pure, true I've ever experienced. I can't wait to sit down with you (when you are at a point that you understand more than where your tummy and ears are) and tell you all about the moment my whole life changed. Before you came along, I thought I had everything all figured out, and I was even a little cynical about life. But you have, from the moment you arrived, opened me to a world I can't explain to anyone else (though look how hard I try), and someday I hope I'll be able to explain it to you.

Tonight for your birthday your dad and I chased you around the house, took you on a bike ride, watched you eat lasagna and then surf on your Sit and Spin (you seem unclear on the concept of "sit") while saying "Hi Daddy" and "Mamamama" before bath and bed time. Who would have thought that in just a year you would learn to do so many things like recognize us, smile, move your appendages and eat real food, much less roll over, crawl, walk and even talk? You are a miracle, and every day with you is amazing.

I started these monthly letters to you late and then let them drop off the last few months. I had high hopes for this one-year note being the end-all, be-all, but I think I've realized in the last year that when trying to balance all the stuff I want to say to future you and spending time with the actual you, I need to always stick with present Clementine. It's not that I want these precious first moments to slip away or run together (though they are) and won't sacrifice time at work or with your dad to record this for us, it's just that I am so happy being with you and thinking about you that these letters don't seem so important. When I was still settling into this role of mother, still working out the kinks and feeling like I was the first woman in time to ever ever be a mother, they were helpful for me, like a diary or journal. As I grow more confident, I need that outlet less.

But I still want to treasure this one-year anniversary of you, and I'd like to take a minute to tell you some things. I have no idea what the future will bring to either of us. What I do know is that you are the single best thing I've done with my life, and bringing you into my wonderful family with your dad has brought me nothing but happiness and unfathomable joy. No matter how either of us mess up, how we drift apart (or don't) or what we become, I will always remember the first moment I held you in my arms and fell in love with you. You can do nothing to change or sever this, and you must always know I love you no matter what.

See, I told you this would be cheesy. What mom doesn't feel this way about her kid? Still, I want it on record that I will strive to let you feel this love every day. I make all decisions with you in mind (but not in a creepy, I'm-nothing-but-my-kids kind of way) and really can't wait for all our future adventures. I'm sorry I'm so lame and haven't said anything more meaningful here. I want to get back downstairs to sort through the millions of pictures I took this weekend at your birthday party, and I need to clean up the kitchen from dinner. See, kid? This is life. I'm so happy you're a part of mine.

Happy Birthday, peanut.

Love,
Mama

Cleaning house

365 days ago I was in labor and just about to actually admit it. I had been in labor all day but was out shopping with Karen and thinking that I had some strange incontinence problem--not that my water had broken.

We've had one hell of a weekend--a birthday party, a special parade, a faux baptism that was lovely, an actual Labor Day parade and another birthday. Needless to say, my house is a wreck, we're all living on a massive sugar high and no one is excited about returning to the grind tomorrow. I'm about to go kick some ass in my kitchen but had to hit the hard drive first and post some photos from our camping trip a few weeks ago. I took about a gazillion pics of Clementine's awesome birthday party and had to make way to post them in the next day or two.

But before all that, let's look back at some of the cutest Clementines of the last few weeks. Wearing the same shoes as her daddy:

Dancing like a fool at the Ukranian Sunflower Festival to the Polish Muslims:

Wearing the badest dress ever:

Kicking Aunt K's butt at all games while camping:

Click on any of these for an overdose of darling C.

I'm going downstairs now to talk to Nate about where the last year has gone and how much we love our little girl. Much birthday posting will follow.

Memorable firsts

It's the big birthday weekend, my mother is already here and I'm dead tired. We will no doubt spend a good deal of time reflecting on the last amazing year of Clementine's life, so I'm glad we started off the weekend with a very memorable first. While I was at the salon getting my eyebrows a much-needed grooming, Clementine shoplifted. That's right, when we got back into the car and a mile away I noticed she was chewing on something new. It turned out to be an $18 barette. Yes, $18. Of course she stole it--she didn't want to have to cash in her college education to pay for it!

Now she's a wanted criminal. Some may say it's negligence on my part, an early sign of the terror she will be or the beginning of her life of crime. I prefer to think she was making a statement about the absurdity of our world when people are paying $18 for a barette. Seriously.

Nah-nah-nah-nah! Hey-hey-hey! Goodbye!

It's officially over. Last night was my first since beginning the weaning process that I didn't end up soaking myself with unpredictable leaks. I keep thinking it's over, but then I'll be in the middle of an important meeting or standing in front of a huge faculty meeting and then BAM! leak, leak, leak.

But here I am today ready to throw my breast pump out the window! It's finally over, and I can't believe I made it as long as I did. So long sucka:

Rest assured Clementine will still be breastfed through her first birthday, my only goal. I have enough milk to float a small ship, so now instead of pumping, I'm just defrtosting.

Let us not speak of my now miniscule breasts. They look so sad and deflated. I am sad and deflated, but now my T-shirts look a lot less Pam Anderson, and that's just fine by me.

Just about a year ago...

We were waiting. We were excited. We had no idea what was about to happen to our lives. We even thought that crib would see some action. *Sigh* We had so much to learn. Look, I seem giddy.:

I remember thinking at the time that I hadn't gotten grossly big or anything during my pregnancy. I was clearly crazy or so hormonal that I couldn't register things normally. The picture below makes me want to hurt Nate--not just for taking such an unflattering photo (I swear, I'll never sit down in future pregnancy pics) but for ever ever letting me leave the house in a shirt with horizontal stripes. I mean, really. Why is he so thoughtless?

I've been waiting for the big bloat that I imagine is gunning for me since I stopped breastfeeding. These pictures alone make me want to put down the chalupa for some nuts and berries. All that aside, I did love being pregnant. I miss it sometimes!

We're in high holy countdown for the big birthday. I'm feeling very nostalgic and can't look at too many pictures of the little girl without crying. What will I be like when she goes to college?

The Chicago files

Three weeks late, but I finally got around to sorting through the pictures of our trip to Chicago. There are many gems, but my favorites are certainly when we try to get darling C and her cousins into one shot. These are best viewed as a series. Case in point:



Like trying to herd kittens.

It was a trip of firsts. Clementine's first train ride:

Her first hot dog (she's not a fan):

Her first donut:

And her first family picnic:

Now maybe by next weekend I will post the photos I took of last weekend's camping trip. Click any of the photos above for a gazillion more.

Waking up

And for once I'm not talking about my midnight rendezvous with my sleep-resistant child (although I could be--she was up last night as usual).

Sometimes I think I've spent the last year in a selective coma. Politics? Wha? Huh? Current events? War? Part of it is survival--how much depression can you heap upon a woman who has already been pushed to the very edge of what she thinks is possible? And part of it is just not having time and energy for much more than Project Runway after getting yourself and child ready for the day, out the door, to daycare, to work, through a full day, then put it in reverse to arrive home for dinner, bath, bed and an hour of down time.

Today, though, I attended the Michigan Democratic Convention in support of one of our great friends Julie Donovan Darlow, who is running for regent of the University of Michigan. I started the morning thinking I was going to get a few signatures, cheer for a friend and then get home for a nap, but I was very quickly impressed by this whole world that has been sailing along without my paying attention in the last year. I got to hear politicians speak (including our troubled governor, who reminded me how close I am to living in a red state--a thought that keeps me up nights), I got to be around all the passion and fervor that comes with politics, and I got to feel a little jolt of the real world, the there's-more-to-life-than-diapers-and-the-life-you-eke-out-in-between-them world. I felt so recharged by it all, so committed. And now I am home thinking I need to get way more involved in shaping a world where I want my kid to grow up. Isn't that the ultimate act of mothering? Making the world the place you want for your kids?

Another significant act of mothering, though, has to be the procurement of fun and outrageous adventures, which is what motivated me last night to drag my darling C. and loving husband to the Ukranian Sunflower Festival in a nearby suburb. While not as polka-fabulous as the Sausage Festival we have been to in the past, there was plenty of church-sponsored gambling, ethnic food, crafts and a white elephant sale for all of us (though I missed out on a fabulous vintage hair drier chair that would have been awesome on my front porch). We also got to see the Polish Muslims, a crazy band that brought out the amazing dancer in darling C. She was out on the floor like a madwoman, bouncing up and down, chasing other kids around, trying to catch the lights cast from the disco ball. It was a sight to behold. She wanted nothing to do with us, of course, so I let her careen around the floor, flirting with the whole crowd of clapping, cheering people she thought were there to see her and her alone. It was a fabulous night.

I'm going to take myself and my new political consciousness to the tattoo parlor today to see if I can't work up some little art in honor of Clementine's 1st birthday. That's right--the house is a mess, there's no menu and I have tons to do, so I'm just going to avoid all that and go be frivolous. Isn't America wonderful?

Sick day

We've been battling a mean cold here since our weekend away (I believe we got it from the carrier monkeys--my neices--in Chicago), and although Nate and Clementine seems to be faring fine, I'm flat on my ass. Today I sent them off to work and daycare respectively and spent the whole day on the couch moaning and reading and sleeping and feeling sorry for myself. I felt a little guilty for not keeping C. home with me, but I got over it quickly when I realized I haven't been alone in my house for more than an hour in almost one whole year. I decided to delight in it as much as I could between coughing fits and sneezes, dizzy spells and naps. It was heavenly, and I may just be feeling better. I also started a book, finished another, read three days' worth of newspapers, caught up on the stack of magazines at the base of my stairs and watched Continental Divide with Blair Brown and John Belushi (total cheese). I am so damn productive I can't believe it. Of course I didn't get any work done, I didn't clean my house or do any laundry. I know I'm not supposed to do that shit when I'm sick, but we're bordering on crisis here. I need to get in gear.

Things have been so crazy at work that I forget how important it is to have some time to oneself. Time with Clementine is non-negotiable, so I need to be better about either getting up early or using the evening for more than just vegging out. I need to get back to my writing, despite the odd ways my job keeps pulling at me, and I need to be vigilant about keeping creativity alive in my house. In fact, I need to take more sick days...only not when I'm too sick to enjoy them

Day three of grilled cheese

In which we continue to eat hunks of fatty cheese between huge slices of bread because:

1. I no longer have time for grocery shopping, balanced meals, meal planning or cooking of any kind.
2. I overzealously bought cheese at the Cheese Haven, a huge and yet divey little cheese shop we stopped at on the way home from camping this weekend.
3. We apparently never ever want to poop again.
4. I L-O-V-E my panini maker to an extreme and perhaps troubling degree and will make ANYTHING if it can be cooked on it.
5. I have totally run out of steam and food no longer holds any pleasure or interest for me unless someone else prepares it. And delivers it to my home. And cleans up my dishes when I'm done.

Tonight my goal is to send out long overdue invites to Clementine's birthday bash and faux baptism, a blowout of huge proportions that will happen on Labor Day weekend amidst the chaos of the Michigan State Fair (helllooo Alice Cooper and leagues of carnies), the Detroit Jazz Festival and the arrival of my mother for a weekend that isn't about her. Holy hell, we'll see how it goes.

So I must get to it. Then I'll have to plan a menu. Then maybe start to clean because it may take two weeks to make this place presentable.

Still to come...long overdue Chicago pics and new pics from camping. Hoory!!

Ouch. No, really. Let's talk about my boobs.

What have I done to myself? It took a long time for me to decide to divorce myself from the pump and get little C. off the breast milk, but once I decided I was done, I couldn't get it over with fast enough. Which is why I sit here tonight in pain, my boobs gigantic, hotter than a fresh cup of coffee and hard enough that, could I detatch them from my body, I could easily use them as bowling balls. It ain't pretty over here, especially because my right boob is ridiculously larger than my left. It always had a little more milk, but this is a bit much. I may be prone to exaggeration, but I don't think I'm overstating that my boob is as big as Nate's head. Seriously. And it looks bizarre. I could have probably done this a little less cold turkey, but when I imagined myself hooking up to the pump for another week, month, whatever, I reached a real breaking point. Enough is enough.

I think a lot of my guilt about cutting off C's precious milk supply has subsided, and I feel like things are really going to feel normal again soon. Not that it wasn't normal before, but lugging a breast pump everywhere we went and feeling like I was shackled to it was hardly the breastfeeding experience I thought I'd have. Nevertheless, I'm really sad to see it end because this is the first time since I realized I was preggers that I won't share a physical connection with my little girl. When I was pregnant, I loved feeling like I had this little surprise inside me, this unknown factor that I was incubating until it was ready to emerge and change our lives (the world?) in some measurable way. And all these months feeding her, I felt very much like the connection continued, like I was doing something tangible to support her growth and development. I know I'll continue that in other ways from now on, I just appreciated the obviousness of it.

The other thing that has got me a bit emotional about giving up the pump is that it's such a clear indication of how much my baby is growing up. I was telling a friend the other night that I'm still mystified every second that I'm doing this--I'm a mom, isn't that wild? The change in my feelings and emotions has been profound in me, much more than I ever imagined, and I'm discovering the depths of that every day even now. Pumping (which is so strange to keep typing--I wish I could just say breastfeeding), in an odd way, was a physical manifestation of all of these intangible feelings of maternal change. I don't know how to explain it any more than that, but I felt like it was a badge that marked how different my life is now. Without my little Medela backpack to tote around, what proof do I have that I'm doing this.

I'll tell you. The proof is this amazing little girl who is walking, charming the masses, talking just a bit and becoming more of her own little self every day. She is almost one year old, and as I enjoy every second with her, I also mourn that I will never again hold her as the little newborn I brought home. It's such a psychotic feeling sometimes to be so in love with who she is, so excited for who she will become and at the same time bereft as we pass by who she has been. Sigh. I know I'm getting dramatic here--I think the giant supply of milk welling up in me is making me a little wacked out hormonal again. I'll be glad to be evening out soon.

And I'll be glad to return to blogging more about this wild mama ride when the summer settles into the new school year and I'm not so damn busy. I've been too crazy to make time for a lot of things this summer, but I'm proud of the way we've lived. OK, we're like gypsies that don't do laundry and can't sit still (my mom would say we have wheels on our butts), and we're like whores because we'll go anywhere with anyone if it sounds like it could be an adventure. But I think that's good. Clementine is a great traveler, and I hope I give her a healthy dose of wanderlust so she wants to explore the world as much as we do.

But I don't want to get ahead of myself. Right now I need to get to bed because we're off for a camping trip with newlyweds Karen and Dave. Which tent will be up all night? Hard to tell. Which up-all-night tent will be having more fun? That's easy.

I have a gazillion pics from our fabulous weekend in Chicago, but for now can only direct you to one my sister (much less lazy than I) posted. It is of Clementine passed out on the couch in front of the TV the night my mom babysat her. I was nervous about the endeavor but had little reason to be. My mom was patient with Clementine and did get her to sleep, inconvenient as it was. But then she told me that she never once changed C's diaper, but I'm trying not to think of that. Just look at how sweet she is.

I owe lots of people email (Sarah, Emily, new mama Dawn, etc.) and promise to get to it when I return from what will likely be the last trip of the summer. Internet, I have missed you and it will be good to be back in touch soon.

To pump or not to pump

I've been a very bad blogger. I've been a very hard worker and a pretty good mother while being a bad blogger, though, so I'm not feeling too bad about it. We've enjoyed a fabulous weekend in Chicago, we've survived some turmoil at work and I'm doing my best to squeeze every last drop of fun out of the summer.

But there's just this one thing on my mind today: I think I'm ready to stop pumping. OK, I better be ready to stop pumping, because I've been reducing my milk supply drastically (and enjoying the engorged, porn-star-esque boobs that go with that) and am hoping to be done by the weekend. I didn't last exactly a year (50 weeks, dammit), and I'm having some sort of guilt about that even though I know it is totally irrational. I mean, I pumped for almost a year, but I had nightmares all night about being on a crashing plane that suddenly righted itself when I got my daughter to latch on. Think I'm a little neurotic?

That's what's brewing over here, but I am still manic and trying to escape my desk, so that's all I have time to write.

Friends in high places

So many times this summer I have found myself mid-activity thinking oh my god, this summer sucks so bad. Usually I'm at work. More often, though, I find myself mid-activity thinking best. day. ever., which means I'm prolly a little nutso and need to talk to someone. I'm up, I'm down, I'm all around. I'm coming down from one of those best-weekend-ever feelings and am just about to crash into worst-workday-ever, so before I arrive at the door of the bitter barn, I best recap all that was good and wonderful in my weekend, trying to savor all the details in hopes of making it to the next.

I took a day off on Friday, and after hanging out with my dear little C. all morning, we packed up and headed out to the post Grosse Pointe area, where my friend Courtney's parents live. Grosse Pointe may be all that is evil in a suburb, right down to the fence--literally a fence--constructed in parts of its border with Detroit, but when you have a friend who can help you make that evil work for you, it's all good. GP has these fabulous city parks with pools, rolling hills, boardwalks along Lake St. Clair, barbeques, etc. etc., but you have to have a park pass to enter them. You have to live in the particular Pointe (there are confusingly several--GP Farms, GP, Park, etc.) in order to get the pass. No, you can't even buy your way in for a day--you must be a resident in order to use the facilities. While it's a little country-clubbish, I have now seen the dark side and it is beautiful. Call me a hypocrite, call me white bread, call me a cake eater, call me whatever--the GP parks are amazing, and I will officially do all I can to get there whenever possible. Courtney and I packed up young lovers Clementine and Hudson and set off for the "splash pad" park, a wonder which is hard to explain but so fabulous to experience I can't even begin to describe. It's like a little water wonderland, where kids can run through various water sprays, stand beneath pails of water that dump on their heads, run over water jets. At first Clementine was a little overwhelmed, but eventually she was ready to pitch her crib in the corner and live a homeless lifestyle just to lay claim to the splash pad every day. I think the city would probably frown on that, but it really was fun.

We got home in time to take Nate to our favorite Cuban restaurant and then hit the bookstore in downtown Royal Oak, which is apparently what many parents of young children decide to do when trying to have some semblance of a life. The kids' section was packed with obnoxious kids who were fighting over the Thomas the train set, so we let Clementine tug all the stuffed animals off the shelf before pretending she picked out this book so we could justify buying it. Such cool pictures! Of course the rock n roll one is on its way to my house soon as well.

On Saturday, we went to the Detroit Urban Craft fair, which was pretty fun, although it was not air conditioned and Clementine was like a little heater on my back. I've been to the Bizarre Bazaar in Cleveland, Art vs. Craft in Milwaukee and Renegade Craft Fair in Chicago, so I have seen a lot of the stuff people were selling there before. One can only buy so many wacky stuffed animals, shit made out of records or cool t-shirts before enough is enough. I did, however, purchase a fabulous shirt that has a necktie as a collar, and some shoes made of flooring. Yes, it sounds weird to buy shoes made of flooring, but they are really cute and cool, and I've been wearing them non-stop since I got them. Check them out here, but she sold them at a reduced price at the craft fair, so I'm not sure what her whole pricing scheme is.

Saturday night we went out with our favoritest rocking friends David and Laura to celebrate her birthday (Happy Day, Laura!) and see The Raconteurs. We started with some fine Chinese food and then proceeded to one of the best shows I've been to in a while. Their set was short, but they rocked hard, and I must admit that although I've been over the Jack White phenomenon for a while, I was totally blown away by the way he jammed on his guitar. They all seemed to have a ton of fun playing together, and it felt very spontaneous and fun--not rehearsed, polished and boring. The highlight for me was an ear-splitting cover of Nancy Sinatra's "Bang Bang," which I must find a bootleg of or I may die. I keep singing it and hearing Jack's rebel yell in the chorus, and it may dive me nuts is I cannot possess it and listen to it at will.

After the concert we had drinks and dessert because it was so painfully early, and by the time we got home, Clementine was fast asleep in her crib. Did you see that? In her crib. She slept there all night, and we didn't' hear a peep from her until 7 the next morning. Glory, glory! Had we managed to go to sleep at a normal hour, we would have had so much more sleep than we have in the 11 months since her birth, but I'm not griping. Not waking in the 2-4 spot is a glorious thing. Are we turning over a new leaf here? Let's not talk about last night and pretend it is thus.

We woke up Sunday and biked into Ferndale for breakfast before an old college friend and her very cool husband brought their daughter over for a day of play. It was all very parent-ish and exhausting but fabulous. I kicked their daughter in the head accidentally, so they'll probably never call us again, but if they do we'll be very psyched to hang out with them.

And now work. I'm scheduled to visit my family in Chicago this weekend since none of them has been here all summer and they won't come meet me at the beach for a weekend of fun. No, instead I'm hauling my cookies there for the third time, and my mom is being a total head case. Every time I talk to her I shorten my trip by a day, so I'll be breezing through once again with a week's worth of things to do and only three days to fit it all in. Clementine and I are taking the train so that Nate can join us later and we can all travel home together. That is, unless we pick up a new used car along the way, which is what we're hoping because, crazy as it sounds, I can't wait to see my new car and get one that can run on veggie oil. Yes, veggie oil. But that's a post for another day.

Further adventures in parenting

Lest you think the silence on this blog is because Nate and I have graduated into super-parents with full lives, lots of rock 'n' roll, a well-behaved child and no problems whatsoever, I present to you the following evidence that we still don't know what the hell is going on:



I don't know what I was thinking. Sure, she has mostly mastered having a bowl on her high chair tray without overturning it a thousand times. Sure, she is ready to start drinking cow's milk. But I don't know why I thought she was ready to drink from an actual cup by herself. In my own defense, I gave her the milk in a sippy cup first, but she didn't seem to be getting much out of it. Since it was full of cow's milk and not icky breast milk, I gave it a few slugs and discovered that gee, it is hard to get milk out of this thing. No wonder she was so pissed of. Like an idiot, I took the top off and thought I could hold the cup to her for a sip or two. Well, my independent little lamb would have none of that, so she grabbed the cup and had a few slugs on her own, much to my surprise. Hmmm, she is advanced, I was still thinking, as she tilted her head back and pour the entire cup over her head.

But that's not the worst of it! She was so shocked and then so instantly upset that I found it very funny and ran for the camera. So now there is photographic evidence of how terrible I am, and she can point to these photos in her therapist's office one day and talk about how all she wanted was a hug.


At least there's no photographic evidence of my smirking face.

Other parenting misadventures to date haven't been nearly as exciting, though I did make a startling realization last night as I was cleaning up dinner. Remember how you never needed to know how much you don't want to sit on my furniture? Well, if I ever try to serve you anything out of Tupperware, don't accept! Clementine loves to play in the kitchen cupboards, so my mom's friend got me bundles of throw-away Tupperware to put in place of the dangerous array of canning jars and other glass shit in my bottom cupboards. As I cook dinner or do stuff downstairs, darling C. pulls the Tupperware out, puts it back and starts over again. This invariably means it gets all over my floor, where it is stepped on my any variety of people, kicked around on all her spit-outs and left-overs and comes into contact with lord knows what kind of germs. And instead of cleaning it out before I use it, I just pick it off the shelf and put food in it, never thinking of what that piece of plastic has touched. I never thought much about it until I was jamming pasta into one of them last night and saw a dainty little footprint on the lid. Umm, yuck.

And in other arenas of yuck, apparently the world's best toy in now the toilet. Nate and I were occupied in the office the other night and let Clementine have the run of the upstairs. She was happily bringing us all her stuffed animals to look at until it grew very quiet. Hmmm, I thought, this is not good. And then I heard the splashing. She was already up to her elbows in the bowl when I got there. One more thing to babyproof, I guess.

Much has been going on in our lives in the last week, not the least of which is the exciting news that Clementine got cuter. Don't believe me? Look:



I KNOW. I can hardly handle it myself. Click on it to see a few more--she really stumbled into some good lighting that day.

My friend Karen tied the knot on Sunday, which was a ton of fun. The night before I spent with her in her bridal suite--the very first time I've slept away from Clementine since she was born. It wasn't so hard after all, especially since I got to see her first thing the next morning because I had accidentally turned the convertible to "Accessory" instead of "Off" (damn old cars!) and needed Nate to come rescue me. Very convenient. The wedding ended up being more work for me than I ever could have imagined, but it was worth it to see Karen so happy. I gave a toast which went over pretty well--most everyone said it was good, except of course the groom who said nothing--but it's not like it was hard to follow the other toaster who started his with this little ditty: What do you do when you're walking in a forest and come upon an elephant? Wipe it off and apologize. After a minute or so while everyone processed the joke (come, did he say? wipe that off? oh heavens!), there were boos and a general upheaval that precluded his finishing thoughts. Much dancing ensued, and although she is loathe to admit it, the bride might have been the tiniest bit overserved. So was my husband (on a work night no less!). For proof, go check out a few of the wedding photos, including this gem of Nate dancing (yes, dancing--a testament to how much he had imbibed) on the stage (yes, they hopped the stage in her J Crew wedding gown) to some wild bump and grind song. What fun!

World's smartest baby

I thought it was amazing when she started to walk at 9 1/2 months, but this is just too much:



I finally loaded a few weeks' worth of pictures, including some of her new hot wheels


Click either one above to see more.

And now for something completely different...

...me PRAISING the institution of day care. Yes, my job sucks these days and yes I would love to have a bit more time with my kid, but here's what day care means to me these days:

1. Someone else can watch Clementine for a few hours as she kicks, screams and shrieks at the top of lungs, pulls hair and hits when someone does something crazy like keep her from biting into a live electrical wire or take away the bottle of dangerous poison she is likely to drink. Yup, you can have the temper tantrums because my patience is wearing thin.

2. I haven't changed a dirty diaper in over almost two weeks! Wet, yes; dirty, no. She's always at day care when the urge strikes her, and last weekend she had a little bout of vacation constipation. I've almost forgotten just how disgusting it is, but I'm worried that means my gag reflex is coming back.

Cherries and tantrums and brides, oh my!

If you had seen me yesterday, you would have thought of those old Calgon commercials where a frazzled looking woman has a kid pulling at her skirt, the phone ringing, a pot boiling over on the stove and her hair all wild and crazy around her. It was just one of those days--work was overwhelming, Clementine was needy and there just weren't enough hours to get all the shit done I needed to. Today's not much better, but I keep thinking if I can make it a few more hours I can go home, survive bed and bath time and then veg on the couch watching Miami Ink and dreaming of the day I stop breastfeeding and can get my Clementine-inspired, belated Mother's Day tattoo. Or maybe I'll just dream of being Kat Von D, the chick tattoo artist who is one of my many personal heroes. Or maybe I'll just sit on the couch and compose my letter of resignation, which I do in my head sometimes when work gets rough.

One of the reasons it has been a little hectic is that I got to go away again last weekend. It has been a summer full of travel, and I'm really enjoying getting out on the road with my family and seeing this crazy state. Our awesome friends David and Laura have introduced us to the Michigan phenomenon of "Up North" in its various incarnations, and this past weekend we went up to a little town outside Traverse City, home of the annual Cherry Festival, called Elk Rapids. It was everything I wanted in a weekend away, and the only sucky thing about it was coming home. The town is nice and vacationy--some shops, a great city beach, a park, cool houses and a yummy bakery--and it is situated in a neat corner of Michigan, giving us time for a day trip that let us see all sorts of new things. Clementine, who has been a fantastic traveler on most of our other road trips, has quite a little stuffy nose, so she was more terror than usual, but it didn't slow us down very much. OK, so the idea of taking her to an outdoor fireside poetry reading failed miserably because she thought everyone was there to hear her shout and scream and cry, but that was our only misstep. We were able to enjoy a day at the beach and one poking our heads into towns (read: shopping) like Glen Arbor and Leeland, and we even visited the very cool Sleeping Bear Dunes. I can't wait to get back to all these places and get to know them even more. Someday Clementine will really appreciate her nomadic parents, and I know she'll always love her some David and Laura, who have been with us through some of our best and worst travel moments.

Back here in the real world, we are dealing with some troubling developments in Clementine's behavior: mainly the temper tantrum. When I take something away from her (ummm...like the hair dryer cord or the lead door stop that could crush her toes into oblivion) that she really wants, she will throw a total hissy fit and shriek louder than a baby her size ever should. It is honestly otherworldly. I was able to excuse it for a few days as a side effect of her cold, and I'm still pretending deep down that it's possible, but I also have a sinking feeling deep inside that I've already somehow totally fucked up my job as parent and have created a spoiled baby. Maybe it's not that bad, but at 2:30 a.m., she was up shrieking and kicking and pulling hair/beards and causing some parental discord between the one who wanted to leave her shrieking alone in her room and the one who picked her up and caused the other to look like the evil, abandoning parent. It really just takes me back to those newborn days when, at some wee hour, Nate and I would yell at each other with the little energy we had after weeks of no sleep over something inane that we could certainly agree on after rest and in broad daylight. So yeah, my kid is kind of broken, and I just don't know what to do to fix her. It still seems impossible to me that my little love has turned into a calculating, manipulative child who needs me to be firm, but I'm getting worried that I've spoiled her. Is that the giant parenting machine infiltrating my brain? I feel very insecure in my parenting skills in these times of crisis, and I try to remember that I have my own instincts to follow. My instincts tell me not to fight against the fits, but I'm afraid I'm headed toward being that awful mom in Target who just continues shopping while her demon spawn runs wild, banging into shit and throwing temper tantrums over not getting a barbie or some other shit toy.

Between work and parenting it's amazing I have time for much else, but my friend Karen is getting married this weekend, so I'm also involved in much briding [and I'm having fun, Karen, so stop reading this and get back to finishing your programs!]. She's holding up pretty well, but it's hard as someone who has lived through the experience to hold my tongue when she's all distraught over flower arrangements, chair covers and the like. I want to tell her that in the end none of it matters, but brides can't hear that, can they? I don't want to generalize, but I think it's safe to say that anyone who has been through the planning and execution of a wedding probably comes out of the experience having realized that their color scheme, music selection, flower arrangments, etc. weren't the make-or-break-it factor they thought in the planning process. But just try to tell that to a bride who is pretty sure the entire tenor of her marriage will be set by the song she and her hubby use for their first dance. There is no listening. Karen is hardly a bridezilla, but she is definitely lost in the details, and while I'm getting wrapped up in the fun of it, I keep thinking how even the informal celebration we had after we got hitched in Vegas was probably more than it needed to be. I would have had a much bigger house down payment if I really had just rented a park picnic shelter and grilled myself. But I digress. Karen has just come in to show me her wedding hair, and if she can get the top to look less like a football helmet, it is very lovely [go finish your programs, Karen--you know it does really look like a helmet, but the back is very pretty and you will be a gorgeous bride.].

She and Dave spent hours at my house last night working on their music mix because the one traditional wedding element they decided to opt out of was a DJ or band. Instead, they're using my iPod. I'll be interested to see how this works out for them since dancing is a big part of why people like going to wedding receptions--that and the liquor. For those of us in the non-clubbing set, it is the only time we get to truck out onto the dance floor and make fools of ourselves. That doesn't happen at the shows we go to in Detroit, where you are really just supposed to nod/bang your head and stand there looking cool. Thank heavens Karen's sister sent some dance song ideas their way to make sure there was something mainstream that everyone can relate to--I can't wait to groove to Madonna and Riyannah (or however the hell you spell that), two secret, guilty MTV pleasures I treat myself to while pumping in the morning. I'm pretty bummed that Karen got Dave involved after she and I had worked so hard, though, because he's taking music way too seriously, voting off some of my favorites, thinking that if there are one or two cheesy dance songs people will leave the wedding saying "Well, that would have been fun if it weren't for the Hokey Pokey. How lame can you get? Their marriage is doomed!" Sure, I was against the YMCA at my wedding, but know what? Everyone in the house danced their asses off. And none of them like the Ramones or the Pixies because you just can't catch a beat there. I got over it, and people had a good time. So I'm trying not to take it as a big fuck you that last night Dave overruled that inane Cha-Cha song that Karen and I always dance to at karaoke night and she LET him. I love being told to sliiiide to the left, even if it is the dorkiest thing in the world, and it's not like I've asked to do the Chicken Dance (although, after some wine, I totally would). I love Karen to death, but she's a little too eager to throw her friends under a bus for her man sometimes, and this might be the last straw. I mean, can you imagine a wedding where you don't get to do any stupid dances? [Get back to your programs, Karen--the Electric Slide doesn't count! Even after I went into the Victoria's Secret dressing room to help you find a bra for your dress, no cha cha? But you said yes to Eric Clapton, my least favorite song in the world?? I think you'd kick me in the ass if Dave told you to, and that's just lame!]

This blog took me a whole work day to do because of all the shit in my inbox. I guess I gots to get back to it. I have some great pictures of the amazing shrieking baby that I may or may not get to between my tattoo fantasies tonight.

The most adorable spaz

One of the best things about this whole growing up thing is how the tables have turned over here. It used to be that Nate and I would run circles around our little girl, flailing toys in her face and trying to make her laugh...or at least react. Tonight as I was watching her run (and I mean run at a pretty healthy clip) in circles through our house, throwing her toys this way and that, smiling and waving like a little wildwoman, it hit me that she is the one who entertains us these days. We just sit back and watch her try to climb up on the couch (her little leg trying to find something to get up on) or pull her train around for hours. Whatever did we do before she came along?

Tonight we overdid it on the fun, however. After squealing with delight a little past bedtime, she quickly turned from an adorable little firecracker to a hell-baby. She totally lost her shit and started perfecting her new tantrum scream and this funny little passive resistance move where she throws her arm and head back, arches her back and goes totally limp when you try to pick her up. I know she's testing us, and I think I fail when I start laughing because it's so damn cute. She's got some spirit, that girl!