Tally Ho!

Yesterday rocked, in a somewhat unexpected way. The Duran Duran mini-show was lovely, they did a short acoustic set in a small, intimate setting, and there was a Q&A portion wherein Simon and John got to be all kinds of charming. Nick and Roger were not there, oh well. And my childcare set-up ended up not working out at the last minute, so we brought HR along thinking we could take turns hanging out with him outside the venue, but he was welcomed inside. Luckily it wasn't too loud. He liked it OK (or DID he? What are we trying to say here, baby?).

The crowd got a bit much at times and it cut into his naptime, but all in all it was a great experience. Even if we were shut out of the meet-and-greet (apparently only mysteriously selected listeners were granted this opportunity - if an adorable baby and a mama with huge weaning boobs aren't part of the criteria of meeting a rock band, I don't know what could be). I can't complain. For one, I got to see Duran Duran for free, and relatively close up (they are still so handsome). I got to leave work early, enjoy the gorgeous weather, and most importantly I got to spend most of my baby's birthday with him. I think he liked that part.

"How we spent your first birthday" - that will be a good story to tell him somewhere down the line, even though he'll probably be totally embarrassed that this was the band. Whatever parents like just isn't cool, I'm willing to accept that.

How's the sleep training going? I'm glad you asked. We've made some great strides in that area. No, he's not sleeping through the night yet. But the results of this effort are irrefutable. Usually it would take me 20-30 minutes to bounce him to sleep, putting him down, picking him up, killing my back until he was out. Here's how the new crib-bound strategy has worked out so far:

Night one: 30 minutes from put-down until sleep, lots of crying
Night two: 20 minutes, about 10 minutes of crying at the end as he tried to settle in
Night three: 12 minutes, maybe 3 minutes of it total in tears.

I'd say we're mighty close to a breakthrough. Honestly, putting him to sleep initially was never the issue for me, I sort of loved the cuddly closeness of it, but the fact was he didn't know how to go to sleep without it and I realized this was hurting us all in the middle of the night. The book I'm using as a guide says that I can use whatever method I need to get him back to sleep, so long as we're consistent with the first put-down, and that within two weeks he should have the tools he needs to skip those wakings altogether. It's an amazing feeling to have that possibility in my grasp.

The question on everyone's mind, of course, is why didn't we do this months and months ago? Part of it is that I underestimated the baby's ability to self-soothe, and part of it is that maybe he wasn't actually ready. And maybe I wasn't. So though I am not confident enough to declare this the fix-all yet, I think we're all as ready as we're gonna be, and things are going well.

To celebrate, here's the latest Beastie Boys joint, which I like more than any song of theirs since Ill Communication, maybe even Paul's Boutique. Plus everything about this video is a foxy revelation, even that little hobbit rapping.

One

For someone who fancies herself a writer, I sure am at a loss when it comes to writing about the big things. Give me the plot of a 1980s sitcom episode and I can riff for a 1000 words. Give me an event like, say, my baby boy's first birthday and all I can do is stare at the screen and kvell.

But here's a little note, for posterity:

April 27, 2011

Dear Harrison Romeo,

I had an inkling all the time I carried you, and before that when I dared imagine who you might be, that you would become my whole world. Then the nurse nestled your sweet cheeky noggin against my chest and it occurred to me that there could be something bigger than the world. I knew right then that nothing would ever be really important to me unless it involved you. And all the sleepless nights and stinky diapers and psycho worries later, that's still the way it is.


Dada and I love you more than there's love in the whole universe. We love you mucher than much, bigger than big. It doesn't make us special--most everyone feels this way about their own children--but it makes us yours. Forever and ever yours. Even when you're a teenager - you can hold me to that. 


Thank you baby Chucko for making us a family.

 Happy, Happy Birthday to our son! We love you all day, and all night long, for all the days and nights of our lives.

People Really Do Win

Night one of project Go the Fuck to Sleep went quite well, actually. Mike and I decided to do a modified cry-it-out method wherein we'd let HR put himself to sleep, but we'd stay in the room, because neither of us could bear the thought of him getting sick again, all by his lonesome. The key was not to remove him from his crib for any reason. And it worked, brothah! It took plenty of shushing and patting and reassuring, but there was no vomiting and 30 minutes after we first lay him in his crib, he was fast asleep. He did wake up for his usual 3 a.m. "let's cry and cry because we're too tired but don't know how to go back to sleep" routine, but according to the book I'm using as a guide, that'll happen for awhile until he gets used to sleeping on his own. Night two is supposed to be the worst, so if we can make it through this one, it should be downhill in the good way.

But like you care about any of that. What you really came here for was to hear about how I'm going to meet Duran Duran tomorrow and maybe give me advice on what one might wear for such an occasion (I'm asking Kari specifically because she's the only one I know who has also had this honor).

Here's the story: Mike and I have been trying to get tickets for tomorrow night's show since they first went on sale and were shut out in the first hour. We're unwilling to pay inflated broker prices, so we decided to let it go even though we both love the band in a feverish, Bieberesque way that goes back to our childhoods. Mike heard through the grapevine that the oldies station (I KNOW) was giving away free tickets to this private show/meet-and-greet tomorrow afternoon, so we've been half-heartedly trying to score that way (there are only so many times I can listen to "Nowhere to Run To" and local furniture store commercials). Cut to: this morning, the very last day of the contest, Mike's off getting groceries and I'm cleaning banana out of the baby's finger webs when they make the announcement to call in. So I'm like, what the hell, grab my phone, and lo and behold I'm the 20th caller. I never win anything ever if you don't count the life lottery in general, but hot damn, because of my magical dialing prowess I will now be able to describe to you in detail the shade and depth of John Taylor's crow's feet. Sorry radio that you're a dying medium, but I'll take your tickets and run thank you very much.

I know it's like asking for a unicorn when I already have a pony, but if they play this I might actually faint. Maybe if I tell them it's my baby's first birthday and it was his request?

Party Down

Scenes from the weekend:

A rippin' good time.

So you're saying I'm supposed to put this mess in my mouth?

Oh yes, I get it now...

The party was a success, and HR did very well being the center of all that attention. Toys now outnumber people about 25:1 in our house, and I might never see the shelves of my refrigerator again for the bounty of leftovers (and the Easter bunny's subsequent visit) but it's all, all, all, all good. I highly recommend the informal open-house tactic for a first birthday party, especially if you have a small abode. Oh, and if you can get your own grandmother to do the catering, all the better! (What would we do without you, Gram?)

Again I'm so overwhelmed with thankfulness, there are so many words, I just can't get them out right now. Suffice to say it was a very special time for our family, and even though our buddy won't remember it, we will, despite the likelihood that the next birthday will be here before we know it.

Now Mama's got a ton of work to tackle, and no pumping breaks to interrupt the flow. It's a weird, nagging feeling, like I'm forgetting something, and I'm sure it won't go away soon. But I can think of plenty of good things to do with that hour I'm getting back each day. I'm keen to return the pump so as not to be charged for another month, but I want to make extra sure I won't need it again because we're already having some poo issues brought on by cow's milk. Oh, transitions.

Speaking of: tonight is night one of the great "extinction/gradation" bedtime experiment. Send tranquilizers. For the parents, of course. I'll let you know how it goes.

Misty With Iggy

HR doesn't turn one until next week, but we're celebrating his birthday this weekend and every time I think about it, I feel like I've got something in my eye. Dust or something. Fine, I'm a hormonal Mama, but I think I've earned it. It's so crazy to think about him being a year old. Everyone tells you it goes by in a flash and when you're in the depths of thrush or teething or whatever you're hoping will pass, it's an eternity. But now I look back at pictures of him at three months, five months, eight months... he's changed so much, I can hardly remember those times though I know I've enjoyed them. And this is the best so far, he's got such a personality! I'm aware it's only going to get better, and go quicker. Whatever "they" tell you about the first year of a baby's life, even if you don't believe it at the time, it's true.

This time last year, when I was waiting for the baby to be born, when I was sure he was going to be a girl and we were still calling him Pablo because he was due on Cinco de Mayo, I wrote, "What I take away after all this indulgent navel-gazy-processing is that, as we bring Pablo into a downright heartless world, he or she is going to be born with a leg up just because of this community of love into which I myself was born. The best I can do is perpetuate it, and hope I'll have somehow influenced the little one to do the same as she grows."

It comforts me to read that and not have changed my mind about it in the least. Because in the back of my mind I'm always concerned that I'm doing everything wrong, from what I feed him to the way I put him to sleep to whether he's exposed to too much TV to however he's dressed for the weather. The parental fail button is forever in my mind's eye, ready to be pushed. But I never, ever worry about how much he's loved or shown he's loved, from Mike and me or from the rest of the families we're part of that was mainly a matter of luck when we were born. Neither of us has ever questioned that we were embraced and protected by those who were supposed to embrace and protect us. And that HR's turned out to be one jolly elf of a baby boy so far, I figure if we just keep getting that part right, we've got some leeway in terms of getting anything else wrong. I just have to keep reminding myself of that when I'm cycling through the ways I've screwed him up on any given day. We've got ourselves a happy, healthy soon-to-be toddler and we couldn't be more grateful, more overjoyed. I didn't think I could be any happier than when I got this guy

And then he turned into this guy and totally proved me wrong.

This next week is going to be a weepy one, you've been warned. But that said, I just downed a huge, strong iced coffee and I'm riding an excellent buzz. If I were alone in my office, I'd crank this up and shake the ants out of my pants.

Housekeeping

My dream last night starred this guy.

 I only found out his name in the last few months now that he has his own show (it's David Denman), but he has been one of my celebrity crushes from forever, since I only knew him as Roy from The Office. I get the Jim Halpert thing, I do, but I always secretly loved Roy. Well, it's not so much a secret anymore. Anyway, nothing really happened in the dream outside of a little flirtatious banter, but it was a lovely change from my usual rotation of baby anxiety nightmares. And he wasn't wearing that stupid scarf.

Important news: I have decided upon the cocktail of the summer of 2011, and for me it will be the Negroni. Most any cocktail made with Campari will do, but this is the jumping off point. I'm usually a gin and tonic girl, and I'm sure there will be those, but I'm feeling all languid and earthy Sofia Loren and Big Night and other fun delicious red-sauce Italian themes for the warm-weather months. I know you're very relieved now that that's established. Come over and I'll mix you up one, I know a fabulous trick involving orange peel and a lit match to finish it off. Salut!

Enough Class for Wine, Still Handle Patron

Last night was my little matzoh ball's first Passover seder and he spent it crashed out in the pack n play while we reclined and feasted upon brisket and wine and sweet potatoes and other chosen-friendly delicacies. Which is as it should be. He'll have many years to look for the afikomen and whine through the reading of the haggadah. It was so nice to hang out with family, and to have more of that to look forward to this weekend for the Easter portion (someday HR will be psyched to be part of an interfaith dealie) and the little party we're throwing for the soon-to-be birthday bug. It's an informal affair with spaghetti and a big old sheet cake from Costco and immediate family and a few friends. Not too different from my own first birthday, if Super 8 film is to be believed, though I'm sure that cake was homemade.

And with as little fanfare as I can muster, I have decided I am pumping for two more days, enough to get us through my workweek, then returning the godforsaken thing to the maternity store for all eternity. Milestones are coming fast and furious 'round these parts these days. Look out!

My new song I'm loving is "You Be Killin Em" by Fabolous. Yes, I typed that entire line with a straight face and no secret irony. But it wouldn't be me if I didn't harbor a host of nitpicky reservations. For one, Fabo's a little too impressed with his own cleverness in the "shoe-icide" line, and I still can't quite make sense of "donkey with a Juan Valdez." I'm not so out of touch that I don't know the colloquial usage of "donkey", and I'm unfortunately old enough to get the whole Juan Valdez thing with the coffee and the donkey riding and the glavin, but every time I hear it, I'm composing a letter to Fabolous for the purpose of clarification.

Dear Fabolous, are you trying to say that the subject's ass has a moustache and a poncho? That it's 100 % Colombian? Are you sure it's even a compliment? I'll continue to overlook the grand travesty of spelling that is your professional name if you stop writing lines that make my brain hurt. Sure I let L'il Wayne get away with just about any nonsensical thing he can come up with, but you sir are no Dwayne Carter III. Signed, a Concerned Listener

Ahem. Don't let my overthinking ruin it for you. Already I'm willing to accept that whatever respect you may have had for me went out the window 15 entries ago, but don't miss out on a perfectly fun song because of that.

You Ain't a Beauty, But Hey You're All Right...

It's a gorgeous day here in Boston, on the chilly side, but not terrible. I'm not sure if it's perfect weather for running a marathon, but it sure is good for watching. Most people have today off, but not me, baby. Which suits me just fine because I'm leaving early anyway to attend a seder for the first night of Passover. I drove in early with Mike and HR in tow and we had a leisurely breakfast (latest baby eating triumph: HR tried pancakes, and apparently he is indeed my child) and now my men are playing and waiting around for me at my workplace until it's time to get on the road to Pesach (aka my in-laws' in the burbs). It's nice to hear that little voice from somewhere outside my office while I get things done. I'm really looking forward to seeing everyone this evening, especially my niece (no offense everyone else, you understand). In the meantime there's work to do, which actually includes popping down to watch a bit of the race because I have some runners for whom to cheer because they raised a ton of money for my organization. Nice work if you can get it, eh?

This has nothing to do with anything, except it has everything to do with everything by virtue of being a great song.

New Jack Swing-y

I have a bunch of long, thought-out entries in the works, meditations on very important subjects such as karaoke, embarrassing escapades of my youth and having a one-child family, but I can't seem to commit to one today and make it be done. It's good to have the pickings there for when I'm ready, though.

Today I'm all about toasted scali bread for second breakfast (thumbs up!), making plans for a low-key shindig for HR's first birthday, and engaging in the usual Thursday work blitz.

Oh, and haunting youtube for a very specific purpose. I listened to a lot of music when I was young, some of it really good, but that's boring to write about, isn't it? I find people's closet-likes to be ever so much more interesting. And often more danceable. To get it out of my system for the time being, here's my wrap-up of the frankly awful (except for Digable Planets, maybe) but personally beloved hits of the 1990s. I may have owned the cassingle of one or more of these songs (if you don't know what a cassingle is please GFY), I'm not saying for sure. But here's a four-fer, to ease you into the weekend. I had to force myself to stop because this could easily expand to a dozen. 

Enjoy, darlings! I can think of about three of you who don't have to be told.

The 90s Were Even More Ridiculous Than I Remember

This could not be a colder, wetter, ickier excuse for an April day. So here are five meditations I'm using to warm my bones:

-Sangria time! My friend and I have a tradition that the first time the thermometer tops 70 degrees, we mark the occasion with sangria. I was pregnant my last two springtimes, and she was for one as well, so we've got a lot of making up to do.

-So You Think You Can Dance returns next month.

-My sister's bachelorette weekend and subsequent wedding in June are going to be off the proverbial hook.

-Wisteria and lilacs are coming.

-The Red Sox will find their way out of this quagmire, I'm telling you!

Off now to try to solve some platform issues on my computer. I have no idea what I'm doing. Like that's ever stopped me before. But first: everything about this is sort of terrible, but just save us all some time and admit you love it.

Pop Culture Drive-By

I read Eat, Pray, Love way back when it came out and was surprised by how much I liked it. I rarely read memoirs, for one, and I think that garnering sympathy for having what appears to be a self-indulgent breakdown that results in a sponsored world tour is a tough thing to pull off. Still, Liz Gilbert won me over. I had heard that the movie was crap-ola, but I wanted to see it anyway because of the travel/food porn aspect, and it definitely delivered there. But the screen version of Liz made me punchy. She was such a wang, totally unlikeable. Any charm she displayed was courtesy of being played by Julia Roberts, I mean, I could really only think of her as Julia and not Liz. And the message, to me, was that all you have to do is have a rich white person crisis and whine a lot and then reap the rewards of international travel and a Crudup/Franco/Bardem triumverate. Not that I would want to dally with any of those gentlemen, oh heavens no. But really Hollywood, way to take something pretty cool and make it a dreaded chick flick (nothing against chick flicks, just bad ones). Props to the wardrobe department, though - now that I'm momjeans, I found myself coveting Julia's entire warm weather collection with the big pants and tunics and purty green dress.

By request:
 

For the record, I do not endorse the glorification of pimp culture, and dang, I didn't realize how much this song is basically Nuthin' But a G Thang redux, but I still like it. Did I rock Da Brat's look from the entirety of 1994 and most of 1995? Yes. Did I wish to put my hair in those twists? Also yes. But I think we're all pretty thankful that it never came to pass. Considering what I said earlier about wanting a closet full of linen and muslin, it's staggering how far I've come in merely a decade and a half. Have a lovely Tuesday.

Do Do Do Do Do, Do Do Do

What a beauty of a weekend! We were able to get out for walkies every day, and it was so very good for the entire E family. Plus the Red Sox started showing up to games, which is always nice.

My little baby boy is changing so fast, faster every day. He's cruising like a madman, just thisclose to taking steps on his own, and his latest adorable thing is that he gives real love-hugs to his stuffed animals. Part of me wishes I could keep him this age forever. But the other part of me that needs a full night's rest is not having that. The latest bedtime fuckery: the breaking through of a tooth. It'll always be something. We continue to roll with it. Someday it's gotta happen. Someday. He's also figured out how to bite Mama during nursing, so it's yet another incentive to get the weaning going already.

Most of the free time I had this weekend was sucked down into the black hole of my Kindle, as I can't stop reading Under the Dome. That's the double edged sword of the thing, it's perfect for travel, and is a great space saver--I'm lugging around a few ounces vs. ten pounds--but it's just not the same to huddle in bed with an e-reader. That's what I get for choosing gripping books instead of slow-movers. Oh well, I'm all in now. It really does hit close to home, maybe that's why I like it so much.

The time spent with Nik last week has really gotten me on a hits of the 1990s kick, so this week I'll be reliving some of the great hip-hop and R & B singles of my teenage years. Beginning with this little sparkler.



Just try to get through the day without that running through your head. Remember when teenage singers used to wear clothes and things? Good times.

The Sweet With the Bitter

The first Major Vacation of our lives as a family was a roaring success! We had so much fun, and the beautiful weather was a balm for all of our souls. I'm convinced it cured HR's cough. The traveling itself, about which I was most concerned (because who wants to be the people with the screaming baby on the plane?), was relatively easy. He slept through both flights, tolerated the many car trips without a meltdown and rolled with all the schedule mess-ups like a pro. He also proved to be an adventurous little soul, showing  a new interest in table food like guacamole and flatbread, and adoring his first swim in a pool. We're all glad to be home now that we're here, but as getaways go, this was golden. Plus I made an effort to stay in the moment and didn't waste my last day thinking about how it was over.

The highlight, even moreso than the weather: spending time with my girl Nik, who I haven't seen for nearly two years. She's had a boiling poop-cauldron of a year, but she's feeling well right now and looks fantastic and it was so great to hang out and finally introduce her to Senor Diaperpants. She's just one of those friends with whom a couple of years don't make a difference, you just pick up where you left off. We laughed ourselves into oblivion with a lifetime's worth of private jokes, but I think Mike and Niki's awesome husband were able to have some fun too. Next time we'll make sure to spend more than one day, it just went too fast.

The rest of the time we hung out a cute little resort, chilling on the beach, at the pool, at the tiki bar, on our balcony, just enjoying the warmth and togetherness. Our good friend/traveling companions' parents live in the area so we spent some time with them there, too. All in all we're very lucky we were able to make it happen.

I know that HR would be happy doing anything anywhere at this age, he was actually probably relieved to be back to his crib and toys and such, but it was nice of him stay chill despite the shake up to his routine for his parents' sake. Good on ya, buddy. Keep it up, and someday we'll take you to a wretched place you really want to go like Storyland.

Tuesday night's arrival was a bit of a rude welcome to reality, with the onset of baby's first pinkeye and the devastating news that, though we were half expecting it, we were hoping wouldn't come to pass. But life was lived over the past week, and lived well. And as ever, I'm grateful. Photos to follow someday, once I get a chance to load them.

I'm not quite ready to post a song for Leo. It's too soon, most things I hear that remind me of him, even the joyful things--especially the joyful things--make me cry. But here's something that seems to capture the current melancholy of my mind. 



"It's the freakiest show!" I'll be damned, I guess Leo's in there too. Be well, everyone.

I Always Thought That I'd See You Again

My vacation was perfect and amazing and wonderful and I'll tell you all about it tomorrow.

Today, I'm too heartsick, and I will be for awhile, because we learned that we lost a dear, dear friend while we were away. Leo was a true original, and the most genuine caring soul I have ever met. He was wise, he was kind, he was fierce and fun, and he was there for everyone, especially those who didn't have anyone else. He's single-handedly responsible for repairing many a person's broken sense of self, and beyond that his joy in life was total and infectious. He was the stone dropped in the center of the pond, and we were all the lucky ripples receiving his loving energy. A lot of people talk the talk of peace and acceptance, but he walked the walk, in his Converse All-Stars, waving a bundle of burning sage.

It'll be a long, long time before his loss will sink in, and there is much tribute to be paid. But for now, I will just take this opportunity to remind everyone how short life is, how easy it is to take a person for granted, and how, if you were lucky enough to know this man, was a shining example of how to do it right.

Oh Elder Leo, you will be missed more than you can possibly imagine.