Like Sunshine, and Rain

I honestly can't complain about my life. HR's doing great-- my cousin and her husband babysat him again last night and not only did he go to sleep for them in 10 minutes and stayed asleep the entire evening, he doesn't seem to be aware of this "separation anxiety" concept. That makes me feel quite lucky. He was up at his usual 3 a.m. and had an hour-long coughing fit, but that's just his cold, and I can handle it. Things at work are getting better, and did I mention a hundred times that I'm going to Florida tomorrow for a few days? I've got it indubitably good. I'm thinking about how things for a few people I love are really crappy right now, and it's hard to reconcile one's own joy with others' sadness. It's not that I feel guilty for appreciating what I've got, it actually makes me want to squeeze every drop of happiness from the good stuff when I can, because I know that the tides are ever turning. But I'd be remiss if I didn't acknowledge that I'm keeping them in my heart and mind as they go through their trials. Amy and Leo, you two are especially in my thoughts right now.

All this is leading up to how I was making yet another mental list of things that I adore this morning, things that never fail to make me feel good, and I planned to write about them here as always. And then I thought, maybe this isn't the time? But then I thought, maybe some of these things can make other people feel good too, people who need to feel good? I guess I don't need to justify what goes in my own space. Anyway, here are some things I'm all lit up about at the moment.

Like spring fever! It's a-coming, people, it really is. Sure we're going to get a Nor'Easter or whatever tomorrow, but we're thisclose to the whole world turning green and wearing skirts and dresses all the time and opening the windows at night and sipping tequila while listening to Steely Dan. I get this way with the promise of spring every year, and every year I marvel at how it doesn't get old.

And then there's Easter candy. No matter how you feel about the holiday, somewhere among the Cadbury mini-eggs and Swee'tart bunnies, there's something to love.

Here are a couple of movies I love that just make you want to give life a hug: Priscilla, Queen of the Desert and Linda Linda Linda. If you haven't seen them, give them a try. Or rewatch if you have.

I'm always inspired by getting a peek at writers' workspaces - this blog feeds perfectly into my obsession.

The E.L. Koenig book from which the blog took its title is no slouch either - reading From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, to me, is the literary equivalent of chicken soup.

Baseball season is starting!

Best friends for life are just that, even you haven't seen in ages. And I get to see one of mine this weekend! When we get together it's gonna be all like:

If you have happy love thoughts to share, please do, because someone somewhere can use them, and there's no such thing as an overabundance. Catch you all next week sometime.

Dance All Night, Play All Day

I haven't been writing about it because I said I wasn't going to write about HR's sleeping issues unless I had something positive to say, but I need to get this out. We've had one of those grueling runs wherein Mr. Man wakes up every night around 3:30 and won't go back to sleep, no matter what. I was doing great for awhile at cutting out the middle-of-the-night nursing, but when this happened for the mmmphth consecutive night, I resumed my post as the human pacifier. Because sleep, oh sleep, what lack of you will make a person do.

Cut to, last night: after seeking advice from countless avenues including friends who have had sleep success with their own young 'uns, I decided to give my last resort a try, the dreaded "Cry It Out" (when I see those words I always hear an ominous echo). We did our normal bedtime routine, and I rocked him for a few minutes, kissed him and put him in his crib, then I left the room. I decided to give it an hour, and if he was still crying after that, I'd resume my usual means. So he cried, and it was tough, but not as bad as I thought, and after five minutes I went in, patted him and told him I loved him. Then I left the room for ten minutes. Patted, reassured. Then 15 minutes. I watched him obsessively on the monitor the entire time. And by the end of that last 15 he was asleep. I couldn't believe it! He was capable of putting himself to sleep without too much trauma... this would change everything! Yes! So Mike went up to check on him a little while later, and found my poor baby drenched in sweat and vomit. Mother of the year, ladies and gentleman.

As I said, I was watching him and listening, and he did cough a lot, but he has been coughing due to a cold, and I never heard a noticeable upchuck sound. I just felt so bad I can't even tell you. I still feel terrible. Of course he was fine. We cleaned him up and put him back to sleep and he didn't wake up again until after four (and I was able to get him back down until after six) and when he was up for the day he was all smiles, all was forgiven. So the thing here is that, all things being equal, I could handle doing the CIO method for a week or so it is said to require. I'm strong enough, and it doesn't seem to fundamentally affect his temperament. But if it means stressing him out to the point that he's physically compromised, it's unacceptable to me. Admittedly it was dumb to try to start something like this when we're messing up his routine anyway by traveling, but the point is we do need to make a change when we get back. I'll talk to my pediatrician about it and see if he has any ideas. In the meantime, it's the old bounce/nurse/hope/coffee solution. We've made it this far, what's a little while longer?

Cripes. On the upside, I just ate the best salad I ever invented borne of random refrigerator contents: mixed greens, green beans, walnuts, blueberries, cold roasted potatoes, goat cheese and balsamic vinaigrette. So good. It's comforting to know I have a career in raw chef-ery if I eventually fail out of mothering.

I heard this on my drive in this morning, and it helped. 

Sick of Your Mouth and Your 2% Milk

The countdown is on: approximately 19 days of pumping left. At this point I'm only doing it to keep my milk supply going while I'm away from the boo during the day - it's not like I'm producing much any more, more often than not my three sessions only add up to one bottle for the next day and we supplement the rest with formula. As you know from my early agonizing here, it wasn't the ideal plan, but I made peace with it long ago. He's used to taking a bottle (we're slowly getting him used to a sippy cup) so I expect the transition, when we go to the cow-produced stuff, should be pretty smooth. I'm not giving up the breast completely though, I figure I will probably keep the nighttime nursing for awhile, and possibly first feeding in the a.m. if I have enough both for reasons both selfless (the antibodies and such can only do him good) and selfish (I'm not ready to give up that bond altogether). It's funny because in the beginning when the going was rough I couldn't imagine that there would be a time when I wasn't ready to be done with the whole enterprise, but somewhere around the 4th or 5th month everything just clicked and it's been a really great experience. And if I'm just going to lay it all out there, odds are good that I'll never be doing this again. So I'm not in a big rush to end it completely.

Once I do, though, I'm ready to get dronk! Not that I haven't been drinking all along, but moderately. I forget what a good old fashioned tie-on feels like. I do remember what hangovers feel like and I don't miss them. But I've got some big celebratory occasions coming up, and when I know HR is in good hands with a loving sitter, it's ON. Not that it will take more than three drinks to get me smashed now that I'm a mama, it's just one of those cliches that are based on truth. Stop me though if you see me accepting a glass of white zin. Isn't it amazing how you step back and look at yourself and think, "at one time I was this guy, but now I'm unequivocally this guy"? Oh, life.

No theme this week, just songs I like. Ween is in my top 5 bands of all time, and not only is this one of my top 5 of their entire catalog, but I was at this show. I was jittery because it was only the second time I had left HR and my sister almost got hit by an errant punch from a stupid fight in our vicinity but it was summer and we were on the Pier and the fog rolled in as it got darker and it was magical. 

A New Low

Another Monday, another test to my commitment to Sparklemotion or, you know, my place of employment. Arg. My upcoming mini vacation could not get here quickly enough.

Over the weekend the boy turned 11 months old, which hit me really hard. The reality train's bearing down on me, saying, "WOO-WOO, Next Stop One Year Old!" How can that be? In honor of the milestone, he went and picked up another whopper of a cold, poor buddy. Guess he's making up for all the sickness he didn't have the first 10 months of his live.The Florida warmth and sunshine will be good for him, for all of us, but sorry in advance to anyone who is on our flight on Friday. Start taking your Emergen-C now.

My brother and his fiancee came down for the weekend, so it was nice to just relax and hang out, and I also got to cash in on the pedicure gift certificate I got for Christmas from my secret Santa. It was so lovely and relaxing, and my feet are officially ready for sandals. So there you are.

Wishing you warm, happy, escape-thoughts, whether or not you need them.

Oh You Fancy, Huh?

HR slept a lot better last night, and I went to bed not long after he did for good measure so everything's looking rosier today, even on the work front. I have a long entry about infant sleep adventures I keep writing and revising, and I'm pretty sure at this point it will never be published because it's more helpful as self-therapy. As in most things, writing about it helps me work through setbacks and frustrations, so it's best kept just for me, for now at least. Maybe I'll write a book someday about my mothering experience, if only to reassure panicky first-timers. I stressed so much about everything at one time or another, and in retrospect it was for nothing. HR nursed more often than any baby anyone had ever seen and I thought he'd never outgrow that, but he did. He couldn't stay asleep without being swaddled for months longer than it takes most babies, but he outgrew that too. Somehow these little squirts have always found a way to grow and thrive without adhering to any kind of textbook or anecdotal timeline, and though most rational people understand this, sometimes lovingly well-meaning parents (fine, I) easily lose sight of this in the quest to do the best thing for our kids. And it helps we overthinkers (I know there are more like me out there) to know that pretty much everything is normal, everything is OK, and even if nobody you know has a kid like yours, it doesn't matter. Your kid is your kid and as long as you love him and meet his needs, he's going to be just fine. I still struggle to retain this mindset, but it really does make a difference when you start having confidence in your choices and don't let yourself get beaten down with all the "shoulds" and what-have-you. Also: see Babies if you haven't.

What I will say in terms of snoozing is that I think overall we're doing just dandy, the evidence being, as Mike often reminds me, that I can't imagine a happier baby. He gets enough rest somehow, even if he doesn't sleep a consistent 12-hour stretch at night. Bedtime is a lovely, close time based on ritual and relaxation and snuggling, and he goes to sleep without a problem, so that's great. The catch is that, the only other constant is unpredictability. You never know when he's going to sleep for a nine-hour stretch or be up every two hours. Every night's a roll of the dice. And I just need to adjust my mindset to handle that, to let it go and let things be what they are. So thanks, dear baby, for ever keeping us on our toes, and for teaching me every day about living for the moment.

That's more than enough said about that, I think. Now, if I had to choose between the two all-time great hoofers, I'd pick Gene Kelly over Fred Astaire every time. This would be obvious if you've known me for five minutes. But Astaire is very close to perfection, effortless grace in old-man pants. He just kills this number from Holiday Inn. Trust me, this is the only part of that movie that you need to see (unless you're a fan of washing your eyes after a good old fashioned racist musical number).

So Long, Violet Eyes

Surprise pancakes are the best pancakes of all. Last night my little gentleman had a pretty rough night, sleep-wise, hence so did we all. While the three of were lounging in bed at 6 a.m. (Mike and I were barely conscious, HR was somehow full of energy and happy as a clam), Mike said, "Did you want to go get pancakes or something?" I guess because he thought it would help me feel better about the latest nighttime backslide. What he maybe didn't consider is that you don't just casually dangle the prospect of pancakes in front of me, that's like saying "tavern" in front of Homer Simpson. So that's how we ended up at our neighborhood delicatessen at 8 a.m. It was great though, the place was relatively empty and we got to really take advantage of the coffee refills while HR behaved like an angelic angel from Angeltown and flirted with the waitress. I put away a shortstack of banana nut chocolate chip pancakes with a side of crispy bacon, and suddenly sleep began to seem overrated. I don't recommend eating like this every day, but today it really turned things around. And then I got to work. I'm not going to talk about work anymore unless I have something uplifting to say (beyond the obvious steady paying gig aspect).

Time to bring in the big guns, then, a guaranteed sprinkle of candy rain when things are otherwise mighty parched: this clip from the fantastic sitcom "What's Happening" (the embed function has been disabled, but I highly recommend taking the time to click on the link).  Obviously it's not from a musical, but it is sort of a musical number and since Mike posted it on his facebook page months ago, I can't seem to stop watching it. It just makes me laugh til I pee. And who couldn't use a good "lizz" today?

Speaking of Liz, RIP Elizabeth Taylor. So as not to memorialize you with such an undignified reference, thank you for all your great work, particularly Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.

Way Harder Than Sophie's Choice

What is your all-time favorite book? Also, how do you feel about that question? For me, there's no way to answer it with one title. No way. I'd have to break it down into categories, and even then I'd feel like I was hurting the feelings of other incredible books. When pressed, I always say Charlotte's Web by E.B. White, because that's an example of a perfectly written book. It's a children's lit classic, and it's easily accessible to children, but it's so magical because White doesn't write down to kids in any way. He's clear, but presents so many sophisticated ideas, and taps into emotions without laying on the treacle. In other words, he respects his audience. I've read it countless times as a child and an adult. We read it to HR when he was in the womb and I look forward to sharing it with him again when he's a little older. It makes me cry every damn time, but more importantly it makes me marvel over its artfulness and its truth. So yeah, it's an all-time fave of mine. But I have so many!

The entire Weetzie Bat series by Francesca Lia Block, for starters. There was nothing like this before, nor has there been since. The Secret History by Donna Tartt which I would rather re-read than do most anything. Judy Blume is my hero, and even though it's not her best book by far, re-reading Summer Sisters is an annual ritual so that goes on the list. Oh man, The Handmaid's Tale - don't you wish you could live inside Margaret Atwood's brain? Maybe not, it's a scary place, but scary smart. Sendak's Where the Wild Things Are - there to me is an example of a perfect picture book, it's brilliantly executed, and timeless. The Stand, come ON! I unabashedly love Stephen King and this is his masterpiece. Oh, and Lolita knocked me over - if you think you know what this is about, you haven't read it. Most recently I really dug Ann-Marie MacDonald's Fall On Your Knees, I'm not sure how new it is, but it was new to me. Hmm, I could do this forever. So I had better stop. But if you want to share, please do, I love to hear what people love.

OK, now watch this:



Like books, I could never pick a fave Gene Kelly number because they're all so spectacular. Me + Gene Kelly 4-EVA.

From This Moment On

It's snowing as I write this. I mean, of course it is. It's not surprising that it should snow this late in March, that's more the rule than the exception around these parts, it's just that it seems to compound the extreme whatever factor of this day. Things at work have become nearly untenable. It's not my coworkers or the job itself, that's all good. It's just that, without going into any detail whatsoever, it goes to show that when you declare a situation to be THE WORST, you're just asking for another to come along and be THE WORST-EST. I totally get that having a very sick child takes its toll, I can't even imagine. But most of us on staff are not trained to run a DSS or psych ward, and over the past few months it feels like it's what this place has turned into. I blame the supermoon.

Perspective check: we're not in the rubble of a massive disaster. The population of the place will change eventually. I get to go home at 6 o'clock and be with my sweet family. And HR has been a super sleeper lately, going down by 8 and sleeping straight through until 5, then going back for 1-2 hours after nursing. Sunday nights have sucked for some reason, I'm not sure if he can sense that I need the most sleep that night or what (and is disinclined to let me have it), but that's the only not-great part. If I can get 5 good nights out of 7, or even just 4, I have no complaints. Plus I think he's getting another tooth, and where teeth are involved all bets are off. So we're getting there, and really he is the most delicious boy. My biggest challenge is to not eat him up, I love him so. 

Back to spring, you magnificent douchebag! Thanks for showing up for a couple of days this weekend. We got out there and fully enjoyed it, my little stroller-hater boy even came around to a nice long walk. I'm so glad the season's on the cusp of change, in the way that I was dying for fall when it finally arrived. I don't have a favorite season, I even like winter (to an extent), but I get maxed out and ready for change after awhile. That's why I'll probably never leave New England. I don't mind that the nice weather doesn't fall exactly in line with the changeover dates, just knowing it's coming soon is almost good enough.

Big Love is over, and I did cry, even if I haven't been totally into the show for a long time. And I finished Downton Abbey and it was SO EXCELLENT, so go on and watch it post-haste and such. Now I have a slew of books to tear into, starting with Stephen King's Under the Dome (which I'm pretty sure is the #1 reason why the Kindle was invented). 

And just because I like you so much, here's one of my favorite scenes from one of my favorite movie musicals. It gets really especially good at about 2:35.

I Sprinkle Holy Water Upon a Vampire

Happy St. Paddy's Day, if you celebrate that type of thing. I am not Irish, but I do enjoy me some Guinness and Jameson's (HR's first name was thisclose to being Jameson - no relation. Or was it?) so I'll celebrate in my own way, in the comfort of my abode. In Boston it's St. Patrick's every day anyway, so I exercise my option to nip out to the pub, um, any other time of year. I get puked on enough at home.

That last part was an exaggeration for (questionable) comic effect - HR has never been a particularly spit-uppy sort. But being vommed on even once is enough, don't you think? The point is, I'm over this holiday.

What I am not over? The 60 degree weather that's supposed to happen. Bring it bring it bring it. And bring on our quickly approaching Florida jaunt, which begins two weeks from tomorrow. How lucky am I? That is not a rhetorical question. The answer is, extremely.

So you know I'm firmly on the Nicki Minaj love train. Her big single gives me chills every time I hear it. I do think it could use at least one more verse after Dreezy's, but what do I know, I'm not a member of the Young Money Militia. Yet. But it name checks David Ortiz and, like I was saying, chills. Here it is, and here's to whatever it is that makes you happy.

Not the River, But the Stream

I am a contrary sort. I chafe at being told what to do, and I especially dislike being told I can't do something. The thought of giving up something I like does not sit well with me. When I was pregnant I let go of this mindset, it was rather easy to do, because it was for an irrefutably good reason. But overall I'd rather have the option to have a little bit of everything at will than total feast or famine. You will never catch me doing a fast or cleanse of any kind. And this is why, when I used to observe Lent (9 years of Catholic school, what!) I was the queen of the loophole - I figured if I could make a case that tacking on something I don't usually do vs. giving something up would be more meaningful, everyone would win. And it turned out that somewhere in my sneaky snake machinations, everyone did. Everyone meaning me. In my attempts to outsmart authority, I outsmarted myself, but to a positive end. I'm thinking specifically of the one year I got it in my head that I wanted to attend 7 a.m. mass with my grandparents every day during the Lenten season. I was just telling my some people about this, so it's fresh in my mind.

I was probably nine years old, and not a huge fan of waking up early or going to church voluntarily. But I did it, every single day. I have to tell you I don't remember the mass part at all, but what stays with me is that I got to have alone time with my grandparents, which was something of a luxury. We'd go to mass in the freezing darkness, and afterward Gram and Pup and Aunt Laura (I just remembered she was part of the package) and I would sit around the table and have toast and coffee (hot cocoa for me) and share the paper and having that memory means more to me than any service I've ever attended. How could I have known that's what would come of it? I didn't know. I had no concept of the future, and that's as it should be, I suppose. The crux of this story is in no way a knock on religion, that's an extremely personal subject and when I address it in here I can only speak to my own experience. The point is that ruminating on things like this is as close as I come to spiritual.

I just had breakfast at that same table on Sunday, and though Pup and Aunt Laura weren't there to share the meal, in a way they are always there. I may not believe in an afterlife, but I believe in legacies created from love. And when I think of the word "sacred," the vision of that morning table so long ago is what comes to mind. So there you have it.

Family-Centric

This past weekend was tuh-riffic, but it went so fast I'm not sure if it actually happened. Some of you were there-- it did happen, right? The thing about living a 3+ hour drive away from the homestead is that going up on a Friday night and coming back Sunday afternoon--particularly when you lose an hour, jeez--it's just not long enough, and it's certainly not relaxing. But I've got my life to relax, yah? And these festive get-togethers are worth the cuckoo effects on my system.

My cousin (also a bridesmaid) and her husband gave HR and me a lift as Mike was representing our family at a separate gathering. He was pretty much a the best baby ever, sleeping for most of the ride and then going right back to hard sleep when we got to my parents' place. I took advantage of him being settled and ended up staying up chatting with everyone until 2 a.m.! I haven't seen that hour from that side of the night in ages. I couldn't believe it, but I was having a blast and could have just kept going.

Saturday was the shower, and it went off beautifully, no thanks to me. Everyone worked so hard! I'm once again grateful for my mother and grandmother and aunts and cousins and might-as-well-be-related friends who provided the food and decorations and did the set up and clean up. And I think my sister really enjoyed it. I had so been looking forward to doing my MOH duties and passing the baby around while all those ladies were assembled in one place, but my normally fearless buddy decided that it was time to be a mama's boy and cried every second I was out of his sight. Oh well. He was much happier and more his easygoing self when the crowd thinned. I really think he missed his dad, and so did I. It's not the same without him.

That night the party raged on and I was tempted to go out to the hometown bah with my siblings and their friends but I made the smarter decision, which was to go to sleep. At like 9 p.m. As I said it was the smart choice, though in the back of my mind I was sad to miss the fun. What can I say, that Perry instinct will always be with me. Never fear though, there is the bachelorette weekend screaming up on us, followed by the wedding in June which shall be one for the ages. Can't wait to dance to this, y'all!!!


 
We got a lift back on Sunday, and thanks to my cousin's genius loan of a DVD player the babe was a much happier passenger than usual. We were both psyched to reunite with Mike, even if I felt like I barely got to visit with anyone at home. May these split-up weekends be few and far between. Anyway, after all that extreme mama time it was very good for HR to have a break from me yesterday.

One more thing: my little baby nephew rolls over into double digits today! Clearly he has not been little nor a baby for several years, but probably to his mom and me he'll always seem that way. He'll never read this, but happy birthday, S-A-M, love the Queen of Somerville.

Little Words

I am still coming down from a pastry high with side effects from jacked-up daylight savings sleep issues besides, plus I'm being fed toes first into the Monday work meat grinder so I'll save my wonderful weekend wrap-up for tomorrow.

Please know that, in light of every terrifyingly sad thing going on in the world, none of the above is an actual complaint, merely a justification for why I'm not going to get to really writing today.

In the midst of my little trials, I'm trying to take every chance to appreciate my family and friends, and hold dear their health and safety for what it's worth. So tomorrow: whirlwind pre-bridal Maine adventures. Today: a song of hope and healing, for everyone.

Confessions Part I

Last night was a success all across the board! HR was a dream baby for his sitters (and for us when we got home - he slept better than he has for awhile. Guess you'd better move in, Ape), and we almost won trivia. We actually tied for first place, but ended up taking second in the tie-breaker. Boo for the other team who had a better guess about the number of dimples in a golf ball. The important thing was that there was beer and nachos and good adult company and I'm looking forward to doing this again soon indeed.

Speaking of, here's hypothetical question: if--hypothetically--one of your favorite bands was playing in town on your son's first birthday, would it make you a bad parent to get a sitter and go see them? Hypothetically? Personally I'd take it as a sign that you're supposed to go, like, the band's tour stop coincides with the very day of your child's birth, it had to be ordained by the stars or something.

Oh who am I kidding, I'm not soliciting an answers from anyone. Chances are very good that Mike and I will be spending HR's first birthday with Duran Duran. Le petit monsieur will not care or even know that it's his birthday. That's the beauty of babies: they are not that smart and you can put a lot of things over on them.

This weekend Mr. Baby and I are going up to Maine for the occasion of my sister's bridal shower, while Dada will be representing our family at my sister-in-law's thirtieth bash. It sucks that we have to miss the party (and that HR will miss out on seeing a lot of his family), and it sucks to be split up, but these things happen from time to time. I am looking forward to seeing people I love and getting down with some outrageous food. Technically, as the matron of honor, I am the hostess along with the other bridesmaids, but my mother and grandmother and the team of aunts and cousins and friends in our lives are pros at throwing these types of bashes, so I'm content to let them work their decorating and catering magic and help out how and where I can.

So there you have it, confessions of a trivia loser, callous parent and half-assed attendant. I feel so much better now. And while I'm getting things off my chest, I have long harbored an inappropriate, deluded, 1950s-Liberace-fan-style adoration for Rufus Wainwright. But really, can you blame me?

 

Gotta Get Back

Tonight my cousin is coming over to watch the bean and Mike and I are going on a very nerdy date. Yes, we're going to play team trivia, but not from the company that employs my husband so there's no conflict of interest. He can get out there and shine with his copious knowledge. It would be a nice thing to emerge victorious, but even if we don't it'll be an honest-to-goodness night out for us so there's no losing even if we don't win. In his entire life I've been the only one to put HR to sleep at night, except once when my mother watched him a few weeks ago. I think my cousin has her work cut out for her, but I have no doubt that she's entirely capable of getting the job done. I just hope that the separation anxiety period is short and it's not an evening of screams. I think he'll calm down as soon as we're out of sight and she can distract him, and worst case, he'll still up when we get home. I can live with that. I just have to let go and know that he's in good hands and even if he's a pill to his "auntie" everything will be all right.

In other news, I'm ready for spring now.  I can't wait to get out for early morning walks with my family, and to pick up a whole bunch of new warm weather clothes since last year I was newly post-partum and schlubbed around in a  gradual step-down from maternity clothing. My summery clothes from before pregnancy have either been Goodwill-ed due to oldness or are too big. And I'm bursting with anticipation at the thought of getting out there in the sun and showing my baby the flowers and trees and birds and all that hippie crap he was too little to notice last year. So c'mon c'mon c'mon already!

On my all-time-favorite-songs list, this is a top-tenner. That is all.

Say It With E

Happy Mardi Gras birthday to my old man! If you are lucky enough to know him, you already know he's pretty much The Guy (not to be confused with That Guy. He's not him), but you may not know that he is also The Dad. Our munchkin could not be any more in love with his pops, and the feeling is obviously mutual. So that's yet another aspect to celebrate on this day of his birth. I won't tell you how many he is, just that he's old enough...to party. And he deserves so much better than a dated McLovin reference.

The thing about fete-ing a person I have known and loved so long and with whom I share a million memories and inside jokes is that there are too many options for a song selection. I could go manifold equally fitting ways with my choice today, and it seems the only thing to do is go the straightforwardly mushy route. So. This one's for you, my best friend of all time. You know why.



See you in a few hours for birthday beer lunch. I really couldn't love you more, but ask me tomorrow and I probably will find that I do.

Et les Yeux

Ah, Monday you bitch. This was a great weekend, everyone was feeling good and we got out for dinner with friends and brunch with friends and some fresh air that was over 30 degrees- over 50 degrees even! It was a huge improvement over the last one to be sure.

As I've droned on and on about of late, in so many ways life with our infant son is just flying by. I keep wanting to stop and record everything, to make sure I'm cherishing every second. I get like this from time to time, and it's especially easy to do being that I'm an older first-time parent, I cop to obsessing just a teeny bit.  However, it seemed more than serendipitous when I came across something I wrote last year when I was super pregnant. 

From April, 2010: 

When we were in Maine a few weeks ago we watched a few old home videos. My brother was born in the mid-1980s, coinciding with the purchase of my family's first (gigantic) video camera, so most of his childhood is committed to film. I am not exaggerating when I say that he was the most beautiful child ever born. He came out special and adorable, and everything he did and said could just melt your heart. You can see me on these same videos entering my gangly teenage years, and though my interactions with him are clearly loving, they are just my every day reactions. It was my every day life and I took this little gem of a boy for granted. So watching those videos now makes me feel inexplicably sad. All I could think about was, did we treasure him enough? Did we even know what we had when he was right there? Is that how people get lost, when they are magic and nobody notices? He's still magic. He always will be, but who knows how much has to do with us? It's just that there's visual, talking proof of his life, how he was so clearly vulnerable, and his care was entirely in our hands. I panic, thinking, did we do a good enough job with what we had? 

I know my extreme emotional reaction is ridiculous. First of all, I was a kid myself, and my parents were the ones ultimately responsible for him and they are and always were awesome. And empirical data shows that Nick grew up into a pretty rad adult, and we've never to this day stopped being close. If I were to ask him to rate his childhood, I know I'd get a thumbs up all around. But I can't help it. I'm guessing it has everything to do with me being on the verge of giving birth, projecting my own fears about parenthood, but man oh man I still feel choked up every time I think of him in his footie pajamas opening xmas presents. When it's my baby's turn, will I be enough? 

I already know the answer to that. I will, and I won't. I'll do my best not to get so bogged down in routine that I forget to cherish my little sprout in some way every day. But it's going to happen. And it's healthy, I mean, I'm not about to raise a spoiled prince or princess who thinks the world orbits her precious behind. It's a fine line. But I guess I'm as equipped as anyone to walk it. If I'm mindful more than half the time, I think that can be considered successful. Maybe? Plus I don't even have a video camera, and maybe that's for the best. 

Reading that helps me in times like these when I feel like a lazy, ineffectual loser because I lack the moral fiber to do what it takes to get HR to sleep through the night. Hey, I'm just appreciating his baby-dom, people! But at the heart of it, it helps me think that we're on the right track, we're doing OK. Sometimes we take him for granted. Sometimes we want his adorable face to be quiet and go to sleep already. And sometimes I could weep over his fine little curls because I know I'll blink and they'll be a dry lock taped into his baby book. It's just reassuring to think that I'm living up to the parental goals that I set for myself, however small they might have been. Love the bejesus out of this kid? Check (how can anyone not?) Make sure he knows he's loved? Check (I'm assuming his dementedly cheery demeanor has something to do with us). Yes yes, he may indeed believe that his sweet chubby butt is the center of the universe, but there will be time to gently correct that notion. I'm comfortable with him knowing that he's the center of ours right now. Also: I do possess a video camera, a tiny, pocket-sized one that was out of science fiction back in the VHS days. It's actually my parents' new one, but they bought it for the baby so it lives at my house for now. So there will be lots of time in the future to look back and wonder where we went wrong, but I can't help but think that at best, if we keep doing what we're doing, we'll have a lovely record of what life was like with our own special snowflake when he was small to supplement our misty watercolor memories.

A memory that goes back to my early childhood is my grandmother leading this song around the campfire every summer... all the way up through last summer. I say a lot of things are aMAYzing, but that tidbit truly wears the adjective (as does the woman).

Happy 89th birthday, Memere!

That's Right, Ten

Today, along with my pumping supplies, I've packed a can of chickarina soup for my lunch and a jar of honey and a lemon and some teabags. Why, you ask? Obviously I caught the nugget's cold. Thanks, HR! I just hope I don't pass it back to him right away. I have this vision in my head of the offending germs ricocheting around our house like a very snotty bullet until infinity. It will be nice to have some warmer weather this weekend so we can all get out and air ourselves out.

Again, I'm aware it's just the beginning of the host of plagues to darken our doorstep, and I count us lucky to have avoided them until now. Did I mention that my baby turned 10 months over his recent convalescence? I KNOW. My little happiness inventory session yesterday was partially brought on by the idea that I need to really be relaxing and making a renewed effort to be in the moment with my doodlebug, more than ever, because he's going to be a year old in a minute and in my attempts to enforce routines and get us through obstacle over obstacle, I fear I'm not taking enough time to just enjoy his babyhood. As it is I can hardly remember what it was like before he could smile or roll over. What was our baby like when he was two months old? Five? Everyone tells you infancy is going to fly by and you never believe it when you're in it because you're elbow deep in regurgitated milk and keep being mistaken for a very tall, shaved raccoon and you're very much looking forward to the passing of that state thank you very much. I was at least. But I'm here to tell you, it's never as bad as you think it is, and even if it is, you look back and it's a blurry bittersweet rear view.

Babies! My stars!

To wrap up this week's musical theme, I give you Dave Chappelle's Block Party, which is a wonder of a concert film. I love the idea of it, I love that it happened. And Dave Chappelle, what a national treasure. Man I hope he's doing well. Anyway, the movie is chock full of iconic performances, I can't pick a favorite really. But I'll link this one, because it is quite excellent and urrryone is onstage for it.



I've seen a lot of sick things in my life (good-sick as opposed to bad-sick), and this ranks among the sickest. Can you even fathom what it would have been like to witness it in person? It's worth noting that this circa 2004 hip-hop preppy look is right up there with Audrey Horne of Twin Peaks as all-time-style-inspiration for me. Someday I'll have my coveted closet full of blazers and sweater vests and pencil skirts and Pumas. And I'll be too old to pull off the look by then, but I don't care.

You'll Be Smitten

I was thinking about the name of this blog, which I chose in hormonal haste, and now think is pretty corny and doesn't quite reflect me, what I write about, my life. Not that I'm not a corny person, or that my love of pie has waned even the tiniest bit, but you all know and are too polite to mention that it's way, way cutesy. I am not cutesy. However, I am lazy and I'm disinclined to go through the rigamarole of creating a whole new blog this far in. So I'm taking a cue to remind myself of one of the simplest ideas behind this online experiment: to cultivate joy in my everyday life. Not that what I've got isn't entirely joyous, but it's so easy not to notice it when there's a laundry avalanche spilling into your kitchen and you've been woken up five times in five hours with a cranky infant and you made a boneheaded mistake at work and you realize your new haircut is stupid. And by "you" I clearly mean "me."

I have an amazing life. It's not noteworthy or unusual in any way, but it's so good it would be a real travesty not to marvel over it on a regular basis. So here are some everyday little things that are too lovely to overlook.

The back of a baby's head. Come on!

The new Twilight Singers album is out and I have it! It sounds exactly like the other Twilight Singers albums, but I'm OK with that.

This clip from It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia - it's mad old, but it makes me endlessly happy (please excuse the picture quality)



Sea Unicorns! For Camber-ville peeps, have you driven by the window on Mass Ave that contains a seascape full of papier mache seahorses (including a stunning sea unicorn)? I don't know what this is, and I don't want to know, because it would destroy the magic. Just go see it if you can because I suspect one of these days it will just disappear.

The David Byrne Workout - I'll finish up today with a clip from what I think is the second best concert film of all time, The Talking Heads' Stop Making Sense. The weird, wired energy throughout the film is contagious. I'm telling you, watch this when you need a pick-me-up. It's tastier than Red Bull, and ten times more effective. Proven. Fact.

Let's Have a Smile For an Old Engine Driver

Yesterday I had a lump in my throat the whole day, just thinking about my ailing boo from whom I hadn't been parted for a second since last Wednesday. I knew he was just fine with his dad. Of course he was. But I think it was the combo of extreme sleep deprivation and disgusting gray weather, it put me in a dark mood and all I could think was what if? What if he never got better, what if he never regained his spark? Really, really stupid. I know. But like I said, sleep deprivation is a hell of a drug. Anyway the whole funk lifted when I got home last night and he was there smiling his exaggerated ham sandwich of a smile at me, almost 100% himself. Then he slept waaaaaay better, so we all slept way better. As of this morning I kissed my little booger machine goodbye and left the house much lighter in spirit. Let's celebrate being on the mend (including Mama's mental recovery) with a spot of musical genius, shall we?

Building on yesterday's selection, I decided that the theme for this week is songs from concert films. And lucky for you I picked The Who's bahn-burnah of a performance from Rock Circus. 



In fairness to the Stones, who could ever follow that? I think we can all understand why Mick and Co. sat pouting on this one for 30 years (damn, that's a big-ass pout).

Happiest of Tuesdays to you and you and you.