'Til Death, Dammit.

I don't know why they're so tired.  I sleep fine, as long as someone nurses me constantly after dark and puts my binky back in my mouth after each of the 8,000 times I spit it out at night.

Making up from a sleep-deprivation-induced marital skirmish last week, this exchange took place as we read our respective books (his on statistics, mine on hiking - neither of which we practice) and attempted to make up (MULTITASKING!) before going to sleep.

SLB:  (grudgingly) I love you, you know.
Me:  (pain in the assishily)  Say it all romantic.  Say it like Shakespeare.
SLB:  (ghoulishly) WOOOooooOOOOooooOOOOOO!   I looooooove YOOOOOUUUUUUU...

At which point we both laughed, because Shakespeare is dead and the only way he can say anything, even romantic stuff, is like a ghost.  Ha!  Silly dead ghost bard making us stop hating each other!

And that, my friends, is why I can't stay mad at this face for long.

"I'm sorry for all the times I was always wrong and you never, ever were wrong.  Never.  Not once.  Have some flowers"

We Took The Long Way

Last Tuesday was SLB's and my 8th wedding anniversary.  He surprised me with tickets to tonight's Rhett Miller show at the Triple Door, where we were certain to hear our wedding song, "Question."  You know, just like you're certain to hear it now.



Happy belated anniversary, SLB.  I'd say O.K. all over again every day, all the time, forever.

Bizarre Love Triangle

A snippet of today's conversation.

Mama:  (softly, adoringly at her cherubic only child)  Livy, I love you so much.

Livy:  (shrieking, with a glint of cruel ardor in her eyes)  I LOVE BROBEE!!!!!



And, with friends and skillz like these can you blame her?  Sigh.  First runner-up is first loser, Mama.

(p.s. - Remember the time I lived with 2 girls in college who listened to this every damn day? 

I didn't until today, and now I'm confident that this song will be as stuck in my head as Angie Hart's haircut is stuck on it.)

Buddies!

As we've been slowly shifting the chaos of our new home into order and comfort we've been escaping the pressure of the mess by spending time with our buddies.  Last week we had a big adventure at the Pacific Science Center with some friends from our newborn PEPS group.  We met up with Sandy and Gavyn (Hayndy and Gammin) and Katie and Liam (Tatie and Umum), our old buddies (BUDDIES!) from when the kids were about 2 months old. 

Halloween 2009: Gavyn is the cranky cow, Liam the wise bear, and Livy the chunky one-footed headless monkey (along with Willa the grouchy ladybug and Clara the gleeful pumpkin).

Liam and Livy yuk it up.

Livy and Gavyn holding baby hands.

It's been wonderful watching our kids grow up together and watching each other grow up with our kids.  It's almost impossible to believe that they were once little lumps of babyness now that they're all full-fledged toddlers.  When I first had Livy I'd inwardly roll my eyes when more experienced mothers talked wistfully about their children's infancy being gone in a flash.  Now I'm on the other side of that equation and, sigh, where did our babies go?

Apparently they've gone to the big water table at the Science Center,

Livy was soaked.  Gavyn was EXTRA soaked.  Liam miraculously ended the day dry.

off to control the water-squirty thingie with the serious intensity it deserves and requires,

With great power comes great responsibility.

and into a big, fake helicopter to push buttons with even more focus and intensity.

Pilot Liam and copilot Livy readying their craft for takeoff.  Phantom Mama playing paparazzo.

3 heads are clearly better than 1: Gavyn joins the flight crew and Phantom Sandy joins the photo corps.

Serious business.

They're such good lifelong friends that even this crime of passion was eventually forgiven.  Remember, you always hurt [most] the ones you love [most].

Only one child was harmed in the making of this film.

Katie later told me that Liam woke up during the night after this accident crying "Neenee!  Vivy!  Owie!," but that didn't stop him from loving us again this week when we 6 met up at the zoo for more good times.  Because that's how it is with friends who've become family - you can hurt each other, then laugh together, and sometimes fly helicopters together and love each other through it all.

Promises

Olivia, that loving little cherub, has a great new trick.  Whenever we're out in a crowd, usually when shopping, she likes to reach out toward people, grin, and say "HI!" in her cutest voice.  Absentmindedly, I'd been saying "Are you making buddies?  Is that your buddy?" whenever she'd do that.  So now she skips me as the middle man and just shouts "HI, BUDDIES!" at anyone she thinks will say "hi" back.  And that's where things get weird, because about half the time the person she's just greeted won't say hi back.  I've seen people stiffen and avert their eyes as if she'd just asked them for change.  It's cold, it's weird, and it's far more socially awkward than saying hello to a cheerful little girl.

How dead inside do you have to be to give this smile a cold shoulder?

So, I hereby promise to greet in kind any child who says hi to me.  I'm happy to teach kids by example that if they go out of their way to be friendly that their effort will be reciprocated.  Also, I promise to buy lemonade from any sidewalk lemonade stand.  I do not promise to drink it, but I promise to make my quarters jingle in the piggy banks of young entrepreneurs.  Yeah, it's nice to be nice, and it's even nicer to teach kids to be nice through our niceness.  God bless us everyone.

Rock Stars

Left Coast Melancholy

My lady love...

Today is exactly the kind of day that makes me miss living in New York the most.  It's clearly autumn; the air is just a little crisp and the most peripheral leaves are starting to turn orange and red on the trees, but the sky is a cartoon blue and the sun is shining.  This kind of autumn day is rare here, where things turn gray long before they turn cold, but it's typical of New York.  Those were always my favorite days.  If I were back now I'd do my favorite weekend trek and take the subway from our apartment in Brooklyn Heights up to 116th St., stop in at Labyrinth and Bank Street to fill up my backpack with treasures, and then wander my way downtown and across the bridge back home.  It's an all-day adventure, which is part of its charm.  It's like taking a little trip without being more than a long walk home, but the effect upon arriving home is that of having been gone, rather than just out. 

So Seattle is home now, and that's good.  But some days it just can't hope to be good enough.

Birth Control

Yesterday while shuffling through papers for Olivia's immunization records, I found a stack of the activity logs we kept from her first two months out of my belly.  SLB designed them based on the Swedish Hospital chart we took home with the baby.  Each day is represented by a chart with a space for times, meals, pee diapers, and poo diapers.  We found these invaluable when Livy was little and sickly and we were taking care of her under the direst conditions of sleep deprivation.  Writing down every successful feed and every dirty diaper was comforting before she started thriving and blossomed into the hearty lass she is today.  And reading these logs now is a sharp reminder of how difficult it can be to take care of a newborn.

7/16/09, 3 days old.  Leaving the bed is for losers without newborns or major surgery.

For example, on July 14th, the second day of her life, something (diaper change, feeding, or both) was going on with Livy at 1:00, 4:30, 4:50, 6:00, 10:15, 11:30, 3:00, 4:05, 5:00, 5:15, 6:45, 7:30, 9:00, 9:40, and that's before she really started eating.  Also, that chart indicates only the bare bones of infant care (food in and food out) and doesn't include things like rocking her, rewrapping her swaddle, or begging her to shut her face so that we could sleep.  Don't think it got any better once she started chowing down and bulking up.  On August 22, the last day for which we have a chart, she required basic care at 1:15, 4:00, 6:00, 9:45, 10:30, 12:30, 3:30, 4:15, 4:45, 5:45, 7:00, and 10:20.  The scariest part of this whole thing in hindsight is that we had an easy baby, too.  At least Livy was generally content during the breaks between basic care.  Imagining that the interstices between entries could have contained wild, frantic screaming makes me wonder how the parents of needier babies survived their children's infancy.  It also makes me want to buy those parents stiff drinks and stoically salute them like we're veterans of the same war. 

Also interesting are my semi-coherent notes from those days, such as the 3:40 am note on July 31 that says "Bellybutton [sic] off!" or the mark in a particular #2 column that is an infinity sign with an exclamation point behind it.  At least I kept my sense of humor if not my memory of a lot of those events.  In fact, I can only remember twice when I felt overwhelmed by the experience of being a new parent, and the rest of the time I kind of enjoyed it.  I was tired, but I was happy.  This could easily be the result of maternal hormones, sleep deprivation induced memory loss, or looking at the past through Percocet-colored lenses, but I think the answer is far, far schmoopier than that.  I think I've forgotten the pain of those early days because their intensity bleaches to transparency in comparison with Livy's awesomeness.  She's so rad that she made me function with a degree of radness I hadn't known was possible.  It's as if her every dissatisfied wail was a rallying cry.  "Come on, Mama!  Leap up to my level and care for me in the impeccable manner that I deserve!  Also, wipe my butt!"  And I did, readers.  I did.  At least, I hope I did (the impeccable part, not the butt part.  The butt part I most certainly remember doing.).  We'll leave that for Livy's future therapist to decide.

8/25/10.  The literate nudist and her fancy hair.  TOTALLY worth every brain cell lost to lack of sleep in the past 14 months.

Little Moments

Lately Olivia has been very interested in climbing, but since we live on one level and don't have room for climbing toys she mostly climbs me.  I spend a lot of the day lying or sitting on the floor while she tries to scale me.  This is what that looks like.



These are the little pieces of her late babyhood/early toddlerhood that I'm going to miss, just like I miss the "interminable" hours of holding her while she slept on my shoulder as a newborn.  I'm trying to remember the good stuff as it happens, even when it's disguised as boring, repetetive, or mundane stuff.  These are good summer days.  These are good times.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OLIVIA LEE!

At 4:14 today Olivia turned 1 year old!  What a big girl, and what a lightning fast year!  I can't believe it, because it's not a believable thing.  Wise and knowing parents tried telling us how quickly the time goes when you have your first little one, and we nodded politely while wishing they'd just stop being all sadly wistful and change the subject.  But they were SO RIGHT.  And now I'm doing it to you, readers.  The time goes so, so quickly.

365 days ago, Olivia was this girl:

And now she crawls all over the place, talks to us in words and signs, eats her own meals with her own hands, splashes in any water she can find, loves kitties and puppies, dances to every beat, and makes us fall in love with her anew with every toothy grin.  How could anyone believe that?  How is it possible that it's true?

While I ponder the unponderable, enjoy these highlights from Livy's first first birthday party at Grandma and Grandpa Snyder's last weekend.  A fine time was had by all, except the cat, who hid under the bed.

Livy enjoys ripping Aunt Amy's glasses off of her face and wearing them herself.

Aunt Katie and cousin Emily grab a snuggle.

Most of the assembled clan picnicking under the trees.

Olivia's first birthday cake - carrot and raisin sweetened with apple juice concentrate - baked with love by Aunt Katie.

Ever ladylike, she gently explored the top of the cake...

... until it talked back, at which point she mauled it.

Victory!

A quick dip in the pool to clean off the big schmutz.

Then presents were presented, opened, and ignored in favor of their wrappings.

Then another dip with Emily, who loves Livy enough to withstand even the largest likelihood of sitting in baby pee.

Happy birthday, Livy!

We love you!

Best Day Ever

Today is Olivia Lee's first birthday party ever!  Her real birthday is a few days from now, so I can't get too weepy and poignant and nostalgic yet.  But a little bit of weepy, poignant nostalgia never hurt anyone.  Consider it an appetizer.

Livy was about 4 weeks old in this picture.  A weaker version of myself would be embarrassed by my postpartum puffiness and sleep-bedraggled hair, but this is one of my favorite pictures of Livy's early days.  I remember this nap because it was one of the first where we were both able to catch a few winks and, therefore, one of the first times that I thought that I could handle new parenthood with some finesse and ease.  Maybe it was the oxytocin-inducing snuggles, maybe it was the sleep, but this nap solidified Livy and me as a collaborative team in this new adventure together.  It seems to have worked well so far.

Summer of Awesome: Weaver Edition

Hello, readers, friends, and whiny bitches (*cough*Mom*cough*) who hound me to blog!  I am back from a little vacation, followed by a little staycation (my current favorite portmanteau), followed by some heat-induced malaise, followed by this post.  But all of this, friends, has followed a miraculous visit from our wonderful midwestern-via-east coast friends, the Weavers.

No, not those Weavers

The Weavers are the white buffalo of friendship, couple friends 1) whom both SLB and I love immensely and equally, 2) who love SLB and me immensely and equally, 3) who are fantastic as the individual sums of their parts, and 4) who are even more formidably rad as a team.  They're like the Wonder Twins of friendship, if the Wonder Twins were lawyers and spouses rather than extraterrestrials and twins.

No, not those Weavers, either.

The Weavers bookended their trip to a luxury yurt (a concept so northwesty, it's Canadian) on Vancouver Island with visits to we three kings of awesomeness here in Seattle.  We visited the zoo with Livy and took in a Mariners game (which Mr. Weaver, being from Ohio, quaintly called "The Reds Game" to our delight and derision) on Father's Day, and we exorbitantly paid our mouthy babysitter so that we could enjoy The Metropolitan Grill and The Barking Dog with our friends.  Olivia loved playing peek-a-boo with Mr. Weaver, and she enjoyed the fear in Mrs. Weaver's and my eyes whenever a right-handed batter came up to the plate threatening to wound us with foul balls.  She's a smart kid, and she knows a good Weaver when she sees one.

But those aren't them.

The best night, for me anyway and who the Hell else's opinion matters on this blog?, was their last night with us in Seattle after their return from the great white north.  After all the initial thrill and thrumming excitement of our reunion, it was comforting to find that on night three after a weeklong intermission we fell comfortably and casually into our warm old habits.  Our table at Volterra was like so many other tables in New York, Columbus, and Seattle over the years.  We fondly teased Mr. Weaver about his embarrassingly rightward political leanings, marveled at how Mrs. Weaver is the fastest talker and most creative cusser known to man, and enjoyed SLB's wry one-liners at everyone's expense while I enthusiastically spoke too loudly, clapped too much, and made too many awful jokes.  It wasn't a night out; it was a homecoming regardless of geographic location.  For others, home may be where the heart is.  But for me, home is where the Weavers are.

But not those weavers.

Wherein I Turn So Sentimental That I Grow a Second Vagina

Regardless of my reputation for being acerbic at best and a huge freaking bitch at worst, I've always loved this poster (available tons of places - you do the research):

I particularly like that the sentiment is not expressed as a directive, but rather as a mere statement of fact.  Thus, my oppositional side isn't incited by some strange do-gooder poster telling it what to do, and the angels of my better nature can peek through the hazy pall cast by the demons of my bitchery.  It is nice to be nice, and life is so much more pleasurable when we can access the parts of ourselves that are able to agree and act in accordance with this truth.

Lately I've been thinking a lot about Plato's often repeated quote "Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle," particularly in my fragility following Kylie's death.  When store clerks are nasty to me, I want to tell them what has happened to our family just so that they know that they're being rude to a person with a heart and not some abstract defined as "customer."  Likewise, I've found myself striving for empathy and compassion in a more meaningful way, because I can't know or tell who in my casual daily encounters is in pain or is struggling with something greater than I can imagine.

I've noticed that crucibles endured and rubicons crossed can bring out either the best or the worst in people.  Weddings, births, deaths, moves, victories, and failures all bring with them opportunities to rise to the occasion or to plummet to far below the occasion's demands.  This observation has borne itself out predictably during the past month, and I've been amazed at the generosity and understanding of some people and shocked by the thoughtlessness of others. 

And so, unlike the gentle reminder provided by the poster above, I'm just going to go ahead and beg you, internets and world in general, to let trying circumstances bring out the best in you.  Being kind, warm, and understanding is not a weakness, and being selfish, cynical, and cold is not a strength.  There is always a moment of choice preceeding an action, and in that moment is always an opportunity to act for good.  So, please consider this uncomfortably earnest plea in those moments as you encounter them.  You'll be happier, and I'll give you a gold star if you do.

For inspiration, watch this (via Mightygirl via someone else).  See?  It's nice to be nice!

10 Months!

It's the 13th, which means I have to marvel yet again at how quickly my girl is growing up.  10 short months have gotten her from an inert lump of skinny, bruised grumpiness to a jolly little lady whose grins are matched only by her chubbles.  She says both "dada" and "mama" regularly now, is working hard toward crawling, and has started giving honest-to-goodness hugs.  She's amazing, and I'm delighted that she's ours.

Today we celebrated by rolling around on the bed, tackling, tickling, and snuggling.

"I'm gonna get you, Livy!"

"Not if I get you first, Mama!"

We called a truce and got each other.

It was a win-win...

...because we are both such good catches.

Milk & Cookies

It's been a relatively slow week here at Me Show Central, what with me getting over a cold and all.  There has been one bright, shining moment in the darkness of rhinovirus malaise, and that is that Livy began using sign language yesterday.  I've been signing basic words (milk, eat, mama, dada, help, and more, mostly) to her for a few months now, and yesterday she was able to tell me in tiny hand-words that she wanted milk.  It was near bedtime and I was stuffing her into her pajamas after her bath when her tiny fist made the udder-squeezing motion that indicates a request for milk.  So I skeptically asked, "do you want milk?" and when she opened her mouth like a hungry baby bird while pumping her fist I contorted into ugly tears of love and pride I never thought possible.  We communicated!  My sweet little baby lumpkin talked to me, and I understood her!  It was amazing!  We spent a few minutes celebrating with hugs and kisses before I got her her bottle.  She then made the sign for milk as she drained her bottle and suffered endless kisses from Mama before drifting into sleep without a murmur.

If I react like this because she has mastered such a rudimentary skill, what's going to happen when she's in a school play?  Or when she wins her first chess tournament?  Or when she sweeps the leg at the All Valley Karate Tournament?  I'm going to look like a freshly crowned Miss America every time that child does something even moderately correctly, let alone successfully achieves something noteworthy.  While I know that what she's done is entirely ordinary, at the same time I am convinced that Olivia Lee has just proclaimed her genius to the world with her tiny fist.  And the chest-thumping glory of the latter will always, ALWAYS trump the level-headedness of the former.  You throw that fist, Livy.  Baby pride!

Practicing her victorious move at around 3 months old.

In other news, we have out of sad necessity become connoisseurs of yet another brand of ass cream.  I am pleased to announce that Boudreaux's Butt Paste (available at your local retailers or at http://www.buttpaste.com/) is delightful.  It is, miraculously, nearly the exact color, textue, and scent of unbaked chocolate chip cookie dough, minus the chocolate chips.  The presence of Boudreaux's Butt Paste in my home means, though, that I can never take Ambien.  I am certain that if I ever did SLB would find me in the middle of the night sucking butt paste straight from the tube in a somnolescent and gluttonous stupor, and that is a sight my daughter and the world never need to see.

Airing out the tongue and tushie in anticipation of a pasting.  The tongue was disappointed.

Sick Day

Livy's got RSV, which is scary doctor talk for "a really bad cold".  Sadly, she's also got the something else that makes her have a fever and vomit, too.  The doctor thinks maybe it's a UTI, which would require baby catheterization to diagnose.  So, if she remains fever- and vomit-free for the rest of the day, we call it an anomaly and leave her ladybits alone.  If she heats or throws up, though, we've got to go back to the doctor and shed a few tears.

So, Olivia is sick.  This is true.  But Olivia is also just fine.  This is true, too.  I've just spent the last half hour reading a blog by a mama whose daughter is profoundly and permanently disabled.  Her little lady may never be able to live independently and is delayed in just about every developmental way possible.  My heart breaks reading about their story, especially for the mother whose helplessness in the face of her daughter's challenges reads so strongly in some posts.  I can't imagine what it must be like to watch your child struggle day after day without being able to help.  And I'm really, really lucky that I don't have to.  And I'm really grateful that Olivia is healthy and happy despite her snotty nose and sour tummy.  And I'm grateful that I know that it's mere luck that separates the mamas whose babies are sick for a week and the mamas whose babies are sick forever.

When you decide to have a child, it is essentially like putting your quarter in a slot machine and pulling the handle.  Yes, the odds are weighted more heavily toward general health and happiness, but there's never a guarantee.  We lucked out in winning the baby jackpot.

And so, yeah, it sucks cleaning up puked on clothes.  But today I'll do it with a grin on my face, because that's such a small chore in the face of all that's possible.  And I'll worry over thermometers and uneaten bottles and sticky tissues, but thank heavens that's all I'll worry over.

Just Born Firstborn

Remember when Olivia was a little baby?

So tired.  So happy.  Even after 20 hours of labor and a major surgery I couldn't sleep because I was too excited.

Kuato escapes her swaddle

Welcome to the gun show.

All that dark hair!  Where did all that dark hair go?  And where did all this blonde hair come from?

It's the most bizarre feeling to be nostalgic for events that happened only 7 1/2 months ago, and it feels so disloyal to the magical baby I enjoy now to miss that skinny little baby back then.  But, I do.  We've taken thousands - THOUSANDS - of pictures of Livy in the last half-year, and they seem woefully too little to assuage my heartsickness for my sweet, new, tiny, fresh baby daughter.  I thought the term "babymoon" was a pile of touchy-feely, new age, Seattleite garbage until now.  I really was happy during Livy's first weeks.  I just couldn't see it through all the fatigue and anxiety of new parenthood.  I wish I could take a trip back to July 13th like a ghost of babies past just to take a deep whiff of that sweet girl's head, smoosh my face into her cheek, and then leave her to her bewildered mama and daddy.

My girl, I love you infintely more each day.

02/20/10

And, my girl, I love you as infintely as I miss you.

07/13/09