The Beautiful
Three things there are more beautiful
Than any man could wish to see:
The first, it is a full-rigged ship
Sailing with all her sails set free;
The second, when the wind and sun
Are playing in a field of corn ;
The third, a woman, young and fair,
Showing her child before it is born.
by W.H. Davies
Thursday, March 29, 2012
I don't feel small.
I'm officially ten weeks off from being overdue with this baby, and I already feel huge. That said, twice in the past three days, people have said to me "But you look so *tiny*!!"
The thing is, I don't look tiny. First of all, I'm over six feet tall. I wear size nine and a half shoes. Secondly, I'm quite pregnant. There's nothing tiny about this.
I'm not sure if this is one of those things that people say because they think that if they honestly report what I look like I'll burst into tears or something, but I won't and it's just wrong.
Even F knows it.
A few nights ago, she and I were working on putting her toys back in the bassinet that functions as her toybox. It's a sysiphian task involving me picking toys up and putting them in the toybox while F quickly retrieves them and replaces them onto the floor.
In goes a ball, a stuffed dog, a xylophone, a wooden block. Out comes a ball, a stuffed dog, a xylophone, a...
"Mama whaddis?!" she waves Millennial Barbie over her head. I know she knows what "dis" is, so I return the question.
"You tell me, who is that?" I hand her the tiny brush that she uses to stroke Barbie's hair. "Who is it?" I repeat.
She looks thoughtfully at the Barbie for a second, and then "HANNAH!" she exclaims, beaming at me.
So HC is Millennial Barbie. How sweet, seriously.
P is still trying to convince F to call her "Glamorous Older Sister," which, being the mouthful that it is, has not yet caught on, but she clearly agrees with the underlying message.
The last time F identified something as me it was this picture of Winnie the Pooh.
And there was nothing subtle about it. She looked at the picture, pointed to it, and said "MAMA!"
The time before that, I was a polar bear.
Ah well, at least the girl's honest.
The thing is, I don't look tiny. First of all, I'm over six feet tall. I wear size nine and a half shoes. Secondly, I'm quite pregnant. There's nothing tiny about this.
I'm not sure if this is one of those things that people say because they think that if they honestly report what I look like I'll burst into tears or something, but I won't and it's just wrong.
Even F knows it.
A few nights ago, she and I were working on putting her toys back in the bassinet that functions as her toybox. It's a sysiphian task involving me picking toys up and putting them in the toybox while F quickly retrieves them and replaces them onto the floor.
In goes a ball, a stuffed dog, a xylophone, a wooden block. Out comes a ball, a stuffed dog, a xylophone, a...
"Mama whaddis?!" she waves Millennial Barbie over her head. I know she knows what "dis" is, so I return the question.
"You tell me, who is that?" I hand her the tiny brush that she uses to stroke Barbie's hair. "Who is it?" I repeat.
She looks thoughtfully at the Barbie for a second, and then "HANNAH!" she exclaims, beaming at me.
So HC is Millennial Barbie. How sweet, seriously.
P is still trying to convince F to call her "Glamorous Older Sister," which, being the mouthful that it is, has not yet caught on, but she clearly agrees with the underlying message.
The last time F identified something as me it was this picture of Winnie the Pooh.
And there was nothing subtle about it. She looked at the picture, pointed to it, and said "MAMA!"
The time before that, I was a polar bear.
Ah well, at least the girl's honest.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Valentine's Day
In my usual timely fashion, I thought I'd share with you how seriously we take Valentine's Day at our house.
Very. Seriously.
P was up late the night before, so he needed to sleep late on the big day. I'd been up for hours when he finally emerged. His expression and demeanor hovered somewhere between Rip Van Winkle and "I eat brains."
Standing unsteadily in the kitchen, he pulled a yellow post-it note out of the sleeve of his robe with a mournful expression on his face.
"I made this for you last night while you were sleeping. I wanted you to see it when you woke up. I was going to put it someplace special. And bring you tea in bed. I guess it didn't work out."
He shuffled over to F, who watched him quietly from her highchair, bottle in mouth.
"There." He said. "Now it's someplace special."
In case you can't see it, it's a cat face hidden by an enormous heart. PRECIOUS.
What did I get P, you ask? A jar of pickled onions, duh.
SO ROMANTIC.
Very. Seriously.
P was up late the night before, so he needed to sleep late on the big day. I'd been up for hours when he finally emerged. His expression and demeanor hovered somewhere between Rip Van Winkle and "I eat brains."
Standing unsteadily in the kitchen, he pulled a yellow post-it note out of the sleeve of his robe with a mournful expression on his face.
"I made this for you last night while you were sleeping. I wanted you to see it when you woke up. I was going to put it someplace special. And bring you tea in bed. I guess it didn't work out."
He shuffled over to F, who watched him quietly from her highchair, bottle in mouth.
"There." He said. "Now it's someplace special."
In case you can't see it, it's a cat face hidden by an enormous heart. PRECIOUS.
What did I get P, you ask? A jar of pickled onions, duh.
SO ROMANTIC.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Doggy Comforts
Normally, F is a sparkling little cannonball of sociability, powering around, campaigning for Most Beloved Empress of the World. She's not afraid of strangers. She doesn't bat an eye at being left with a babysitter. Airplanes and restaurants are just more opportunities to greet her adoring public.
This aspect of her personality is truly delightful, even to me, the Mother-in-waiting with decidedly hermit-like tendencies.
I say normally, because we all have our off days, apparently.
Last Tuesday when I got F out of her crib in the morning she was her usual cheerful, bubbly self and we discussed the day ahead of us. I asked her what she wanted to wear and she expressed no opinion but wanted me to understand that her favorite stuffed animal, Aye the otter, should be included in the conversation. On the topic of breakfast, she communicated a desire for an egg, cheese and some cheerios. Then, I asked her if she wanted to go play with the other kids at storytime.
She looked me directly in the eye and said, "No."
F only learned the word "no" a few weeks ago, and she uses it quite liberally, even when she actually means "yes". "No" with F doesn't always mean "no", no matter what they tell you in school.
So I ignored her and continued with preparations for our outing.
Cleaned, fed, dressed and ready, we arrived at the library and slipped into storytime without a second to lose. We sat down next to a little boy F's age and his grandmother, two of the regulars of whom F is quite fond.
Peyton, the little boy, was delighted to see F and ran up to her in greeting. She wasn't having it.
I didn't push her, but hoped that she would warm up when the music rattle-shaking started. We all got in a circle. F got wide-eyed and serious. I ignored it outwardly, but inwardly couldn't help but notice her changed personality; I'd never seen her act this way before.
It wasn't until "Ring Around the Rosy" when the father to our right reached out to F and she literally curled up in a ball, squeezing her eyes shut and covering her ears with her hands, that I realized we should really just go home. It was an off day.
Why? I have no idea. I'd never seen it before and I haven't seen it since. But F knew the moment she got up that she was in no mood for socializing, and she even warned me.
I have three thoughts about this.
One is: Oh Girl, I know. I have that feeling like 5 days out of the week. It's ok. I understand.
Another is, I'm really blessed not to have a temper-tantrum-throwing child. Despite the fact that everyone likely thinks her fetal-position-blocking-out-all-sensory-data is indicative of some sort of abusive homelife, she didn't disturb the library's "Shhhhhhhh!" policy. That would just be rude.
The final thought is: YOU'RE EIGHTEEN MONTHS OLD! What is with this sophisticated emotional life? Don't I get at least another 12 years before I have to deal with this?!
When we got home, she immediately sat down and looked at books silently for about 10 minutes until I let Ulrich von Dog in, and then she made a bee-line for him. He was tired after a long walk with P and flopped down on the floor.
This is what happened next: she laid down on the floor next to him, cheek to the stone and just looked into his soft brown eyes. The two of them stayed in this position for several long minutes.
This must be why families need pets.
This aspect of her personality is truly delightful, even to me, the Mother-in-waiting with decidedly hermit-like tendencies.
I say normally, because we all have our off days, apparently.
Last Tuesday when I got F out of her crib in the morning she was her usual cheerful, bubbly self and we discussed the day ahead of us. I asked her what she wanted to wear and she expressed no opinion but wanted me to understand that her favorite stuffed animal, Aye the otter, should be included in the conversation. On the topic of breakfast, she communicated a desire for an egg, cheese and some cheerios. Then, I asked her if she wanted to go play with the other kids at storytime.
She looked me directly in the eye and said, "No."
F only learned the word "no" a few weeks ago, and she uses it quite liberally, even when she actually means "yes". "No" with F doesn't always mean "no", no matter what they tell you in school.
So I ignored her and continued with preparations for our outing.
Cleaned, fed, dressed and ready, we arrived at the library and slipped into storytime without a second to lose. We sat down next to a little boy F's age and his grandmother, two of the regulars of whom F is quite fond.
Peyton, the little boy, was delighted to see F and ran up to her in greeting. She wasn't having it.
I didn't push her, but hoped that she would warm up when the music rattle-shaking started. We all got in a circle. F got wide-eyed and serious. I ignored it outwardly, but inwardly couldn't help but notice her changed personality; I'd never seen her act this way before.
It wasn't until "Ring Around the Rosy" when the father to our right reached out to F and she literally curled up in a ball, squeezing her eyes shut and covering her ears with her hands, that I realized we should really just go home. It was an off day.
Why? I have no idea. I'd never seen it before and I haven't seen it since. But F knew the moment she got up that she was in no mood for socializing, and she even warned me.
I have three thoughts about this.
One is: Oh Girl, I know. I have that feeling like 5 days out of the week. It's ok. I understand.
Another is, I'm really blessed not to have a temper-tantrum-throwing child. Despite the fact that everyone likely thinks her fetal-position-blocking-out-all-sensory-data is indicative of some sort of abusive homelife, she didn't disturb the library's "Shhhhhhhh!" policy. That would just be rude.
The final thought is: YOU'RE EIGHTEEN MONTHS OLD! What is with this sophisticated emotional life? Don't I get at least another 12 years before I have to deal with this?!
When we got home, she immediately sat down and looked at books silently for about 10 minutes until I let Ulrich von Dog in, and then she made a bee-line for him. He was tired after a long walk with P and flopped down on the floor.
This is what happened next: she laid down on the floor next to him, cheek to the stone and just looked into his soft brown eyes. The two of them stayed in this position for several long minutes.
This must be why families need pets.
 |
| Ulrich, you're the only one who understands me. |
 | |
| I'm here for you, kid. |
Put On Your Costume
I spent this evening listening to excerpts from the first recording in history to have sold one million copies.
It came out in 1907. That year, Rudyard Kipling won the Nobel Prize. The first taxicabs began operating in London and NYC. It was two years before construction would begin on the Titanic.The Cubs actually won a World Series. The automatic washer and dryer were first introduced. My great-grandmother was three years old, and she didn't die until I was in college.
I was supposed to have spent this evening writing a fundraising piece for a certain non-profit, but somehow...I got distracted. Now I just need to force myself to put on my writing hat.
Vesti La Guibba, translated lyrics:
Act! While in delirium,
I no longer know what I say,
or what I do!
And yet it's necessary... make an effort!
Bah! Are you not a man?
You are a clown!
Put on your costume,
powder your face.
The people pay to be here, and they want to laugh.
And if Harlequin shall steal your Columbina,
laugh, clown, so the crowd will cheer!
Turn your distress and tears into jest,
your pain and sobbing into a funny face – Ah!
Laugh, clown,
at your broken love!
Laugh at the grief that poisons your heart!
It came out in 1907. That year, Rudyard Kipling won the Nobel Prize. The first taxicabs began operating in London and NYC. It was two years before construction would begin on the Titanic.The Cubs actually won a World Series. The automatic washer and dryer were first introduced. My great-grandmother was three years old, and she didn't die until I was in college.
I was supposed to have spent this evening writing a fundraising piece for a certain non-profit, but somehow...I got distracted. Now I just need to force myself to put on my writing hat.
Vesti La Guibba, translated lyrics:
Act! While in delirium,
I no longer know what I say,
or what I do!
And yet it's necessary... make an effort!
Bah! Are you not a man?
You are a clown!
Put on your costume,
powder your face.
The people pay to be here, and they want to laugh.
And if Harlequin shall steal your Columbina,
laugh, clown, so the crowd will cheer!
Turn your distress and tears into jest,
your pain and sobbing into a funny face – Ah!
Laugh, clown,
at your broken love!
Laugh at the grief that poisons your heart!
Friday, February 3, 2012
Proud as Peacock Chair
January was a big month, mostly because I impulse bought a pair of hilariously gigantic retro peacock chairs at a garage sale that don't even fit in my house. Literally, not decoratively.
Everything fits in my house decoratively because I don't believe in any kind of design consistency.
Eccentric is the new chic.
Just ask my husband. He knows all about eccentricity.
Not to be confused with electricity, mind you, because he knows very little about the ways of muggles.
The point is, here are my chairs. P and I are featured only in the very first picture. The rest are just my friends and neighbors.
Everything fits in my house decoratively because I don't believe in any kind of design consistency.
Eccentric is the new chic.
Just ask my husband. He knows all about eccentricity.
Not to be confused with electricity, mind you, because he knows very little about the ways of muggles.
The point is, here are my chairs. P and I are featured only in the very first picture. The rest are just my friends and neighbors.
Friday, December 2, 2011
Baby!
Greetings, bloglings.
My maternal grandmother (the real, live Manners Fairy) once told me to never apologize for lateness in a thank-you note. Just write the note, mail it, and count your blessings that you didn't go and forget.
On the one hand, I feel like this advice should carry over to the blogosphere, like, don't apologize for not blogging. Just write the blog, post it, and walk away. For one thing, apologies are boring. For another thing, if you keep a blog like mine, then pretty much all your entries would be apologies and you may as well call it "Bumbling through Remorse: Lessons in Self-Reproach".
All that good advice aside, I would like to offer an explanation. After all, in this case my explanation is kinda fun.
Here's a hint: It's the same excuse I used last time.
Why I can't blog and be 1-3 months pregnant I really couldn't tell ya, but there it is -- we're having another baby!
I'm due the first week of June, in case your wondering and no, we don't know the gender yet but will soonish. I have already gotten my hands on a second crib and I'm keeping my fingers crossed that both babies sleep through the night in the same room like it's their job and don't bother each other at all. Because it's good to stay realistic in these circumstances.
So I'm going to round out this little entry with our first photo of Baby #2. Believe it or not, the baby is facing up and you can see the profile. You know what they say, if you can read a fuzzy sonogram in real life, take a poor quality cell phone picture of it.
Clears it up every time.
My maternal grandmother (the real, live Manners Fairy) once told me to never apologize for lateness in a thank-you note. Just write the note, mail it, and count your blessings that you didn't go and forget.
On the one hand, I feel like this advice should carry over to the blogosphere, like, don't apologize for not blogging. Just write the blog, post it, and walk away. For one thing, apologies are boring. For another thing, if you keep a blog like mine, then pretty much all your entries would be apologies and you may as well call it "Bumbling through Remorse: Lessons in Self-Reproach".
All that good advice aside, I would like to offer an explanation. After all, in this case my explanation is kinda fun.
Here's a hint: It's the same excuse I used last time.
Why I can't blog and be 1-3 months pregnant I really couldn't tell ya, but there it is -- we're having another baby!
I'm due the first week of June, in case your wondering and no, we don't know the gender yet but will soonish. I have already gotten my hands on a second crib and I'm keeping my fingers crossed that both babies sleep through the night in the same room like it's their job and don't bother each other at all. Because it's good to stay realistic in these circumstances.
So I'm going to round out this little entry with our first photo of Baby #2. Believe it or not, the baby is facing up and you can see the profile. You know what they say, if you can read a fuzzy sonogram in real life, take a poor quality cell phone picture of it.
 |
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
