3 is the Loneliest Number

When I was little, my mom had a rule: "You can have one friend over, or you can have three friends over, but you can't have two friends over. With three, somebody always goes home crying."

I have a long list of who went home crying. All too often it was me. Early memories of the Bizarre Friend Love Triangle include (with most likely to cry appearing first):
• me, Molly Peterson, some other girl from Brownies
• Nicki Ferraro, Jenny Cole, me
• Jackie Karr, me, Andrea Holder
• me, John Livington, Laurie Foreman
• me, Emily Davenport, some other friend from camp
• Emily Davenport, me, John Livingston

The list, pathetically, continues into adulthood, but I won't embarrass myself by sharing the overgrown playground politics. Suffice it to say, my mother was right.

So when I heard that the Stephens and the Websters were BOTH having girls, I immediately came up with...three. Small Person Stephens, Merriam Webster (the baby girls' respective prenatal nicknames) and Lucy will be spending a lot of time together, whether they like it or not.

Lucy will have an advantage because of her age and her bossiness, which is a trait she seems more certain to inherit from us than her height. Jason was legendarily bossy; his mother tells of him feeding specific lines of dialog to the other kids in their Star Wars role playing games. And me, well, I was that losing combination of bossy and dorky. I could rule for awhile, until it dawned on the other children what a woeful spaz I was: "Wait a minute, we're eight years old, we should be watching cartoons, not acting out Greek myths with our Barbies." Then they sent me home...crying. Maybe the bossy/oldest combination will work for Lucy, and she can successfully dominate little S.P. and Merriam.

It's paradoxical to wish for her to be the boss, much like it's hard to wish for her to be cool. I want to mitigate her suffering at all costs, yet I want her to be someone I would like (i.e. someone who has suffered a little). Mostly, I guess I should just wish for peace as we parents drink beer and have semi-adult conversations, while Lucy, S.P. and Merriam quietly torture each other, whoever the ruler is.

In Like a Bunny, out Like a Bear

Lucy has graduated from the Bunny room at school. They didn't have a ceremony or anything, but I did get a little teary as I hugged her teacher Rokeya on the last day. Lu was oblivious, desperate to eat some abandoned Cheerios she'd discovered under a high chair, which mysteriously grossed me out (or just embarrassed me? Maybe because they were someone else's Cheerios?).

So now she is Bear. Raaar! At first, the move seemed like going from first grade to high school. They sleep on mats on the floor during naptime. Are they kidding? They sit at little tables and chairs and eat their snacks off a tray. Like...people. I'm so sure. I was certain she'd be demoted back to the Bunny room within days.

But "raar" indeed! She has slept on a mat for four days in a row. Every successive day, she eats more and more of her snack, less distracted by the novelty of a tray to dump on the floor. The best part about the Bear room is the playground, where they spend most of their time. Lu has never even been to the park! She's afraid of grass! Yet every afternoon, about she and 9 other Bears can be seen wandering around the grubby, sandy playground. They dig, climb, push carts around, eat sand, observe the dog in the neighboring yard. They even paint on big sheets of paper taped to the side of the building. On Wednesday, I watched one Bear, smocked in an adult-sized t-shirt to cover her already sand- and snack-soiled clothes, stick a chubby paint brush in her mouth, then flash me a neon-green grin. They assure me the paint is non-toxic.

My own little Bear seems to be adjusting well. Yesterday, she protested when I picked up her sandy, sticky body to go home, the once-docile Bunny now ferocious in her opinion. For now, the mama Bear is bigger and has the car keys, so we went home.

Ambitious Toddler Seeks Exciting Opportunities

Lucy's not a baby anymore. I won't write sappily about how much I miss my baby (at least, not in this entry), because for the moment, I am in love with my new toddler. Her level of engagement with the world, with us, is so entertaining that I can't believe I tolerated having a worthless little newborn lump. I'm just kidding. Kind of.

As her toddler resume grows, I make plans for her future...
--She loves to read, whether it's one of her books, or the menu at a restaurant. She seems to understand words on a printed page. Pulitzer-prize winning author!
--She tries to count, pointing rhythmically to one thing after another the way we count out her Cheerios at breakfast. Mathematician/future checkbook-balancer (equally ambitious goals in my mind)!
--She knows where her ears, mouth and nose are, and can sometimes identify those same parts on other people. Physician!
--She can pick her nose and eat her boogers. Sometimes she will pick her nose and offer you one of her boogers. Um, McDonald's employee?
--When you give her a brush, she brushes her hair (or at least rubs the brush on her head, but she doesn't have much to work with). She also likes to brush your hair. Salon owner or celebrity stylist.
--She also knows what sunglasses are and where they go, though she refuses to wear her own. Secret service agent/very famous person.
--She is enamored with light switches and cabinets -- on/off, open/close. Cause and effect is satisfying. Scientist/inventor!
--She toddles. Her first stumble has become drunken little steps. She weaves around without help for a long time, and she gets more confident every day. Olympic athlete! Alvin Ailey dancer!
--When music comes on, she dances and bangs her hands. One of her current favorite toys is a xylophone. Jazz musician!
--Other current favorite toy: talking telephone. Receptionist.

My own goals and dreams aside, she can be whatever kind of person she wants to be. What's amazing is that she is a person! (By the way, Jason has now shown me how to make things bold on the blog, so you'll be seeing much more emphatic writing from me.)

362 Days

One year ago today, I went home from work early because I was feeling kind of sick. But when I got home, industriousness overtook me, and I tidied and folded and busied myself with soon-to-be-baby chores. I also made Jason take my picture, telling him I wouldn't be pregnant much longer. We met with Shelly, our doula, to talk about details of the impending birth. All week, I had that mixture of feelings I get before I go on a trip: excitement, anxiety, a mildly manic sense of purpose. Even though I still had two weeks to go, I guess I could just feel that the baby was coming.

The year has flown by, despite the fact that some of the days and nights were the longest of my life. I can barely remember the world before Lucy was in it. Here is a brief inventory of how things have changed for us:

Before Lu (BL): movies, together, at the theater
After Lu (AL): Jason, Netflix, while Kate falls asleep.

BL: Tuesday Karaoke at Club Deville
AL: Karaoke Revolution on the Playstation

BL: Saturday morning cartoons
AL: Saturday morning cartoons

BL: Friday happy hour fades into late dinner with friends
AL: Friday happy hour lasts until 7:30, the unhappy hour

BL: Sunday dinner, served at 10
AL: Sunday dinner, served at 6:30, consisting of very mushy foods

BL: 15 minutes late for everything
AL: 30 minutes late for everyting, but with a better excuse

BL: read important fiction, hip magazines, current events
AL: read books about making the baby sleep, feeding the baby, improving the baby, US magazine, or simply watch "West Wing" marathon after baby has finally gone to sleep.

Before Lucy, we were cool and smart and led a vaguely interesting life. After Lucy, we are almost everything we feared we'd be as parents, minus the minivan and public beatings in Wal-mart (so far). And to our surprise, we love it. Life after Lucy is magic.

Sick

Lucy has a virus. It's been two days of puking, diarrhea, fever, and misery at our house. After little more than drops of Pedialite and water in 48 hours, her pot belly has flattened out, her round cheeks hollowed. She is limp and heartwrenching.

Just hours before she began projectile vomiting at Claudia and Hauke's dinner table, she took her first steps. A barely controlled stumble, but three distinct steps toward me. I was so excited — and almost immediately, selfishly, a little sad. Those were really her first steps away from me. I got nostalgic for her tiny babyhood.

Well, her illness has brought us back to those early days. As Jason paces the floor, holding her while she cries inconsolably, I have a familiar thud of anxiety with every wail. The only difference is that in the early months, we had no idea how to soothe her. I often begged her, "What do you want, Lucy?" Yet now, thanks to Jason's recent efforts at teaching her sign language, we know exactly what she wants. Because she distinctly makes the sign for "water." Yet we can only give her cruel little sips so she doesn't overwhelm her fragile stomach.

Jason's heart is breaking over it. This is his first fatherly lesson in the difficulty of saying no to his little girl — even harder when she's speaking their special language.

The one blessing of her sickness has been her desire to be held. She crawls onto our chests like she did when she was tiny, her body hot and weak. She sucks her thumb fervently as though milk might manifest. Every once in a while she will give a little moan and look up, plaintively. It hurts that we can't make her better. But I know that soon enough she will be fat and busy again, walking away from me, too adventurous to be held.

Sign of the times

So over the weekend I decided that I should teach Lucy sign language. Up until now, I knew two signs. Hook 'em, which apparently is the sign of the devil in Norway or something like that. The other is, well, I think you can imagine what the other one is.

Who knew that sign language would be so fun? The sign for milk is like tugging on a giant imaginary...udder. Bath? Try rubbing your fists against your nipples. Oh and the hits keep coming. You can practice your own signs here. Amaze your friends. Talk to our baby. Learn a trade!

So the next time you see me and Lucy. It's not the sign for "loser" I'm trying to teach. Strangely, it's the sign for "daddy."

Danger!

Lucy is not walking...yet. But every day, she gets more daring and coordinated. I think it could happen soon. For now, she is content to crawl — fast — to her intended destination, and there is always an intended destination. She isn't out for a leisurely crawl; she's got bookshelves to empty, lint to eat. "Very busy girl" is what they call her at school.

At school, all this investigation and activity is fabulously safe. Everything is soft-cornered, carpeted, and closely supervised.
But our house is a minefield. Electrical wires, chokeable objects, sharp edges, tile floors, to name a few. The other day, I had the iron (not hot) on a dresser, the cord dangling off the edge within her reach. One yank and it would have been a Wile E. Coyote situation, only not funny. At all. The real hazards are those moments of inattention. A pamphlet from the pediatrician's office cautioned that the phone is the most dangerous object in the house. Lately, I know I am far too cavalier about leaving her unwatched in seemingly safe places.

When she was first born, I became morbid, obsessed with danger and death. This was a huge shift for someone who regularly leaves the house unlocked, goes running at night, talks to strangers, and crosses against the light. I am famously, stupidly careless with my person and my possessions. But the world suddenly got more dangerous once Lu was in it. My own sense of personal safety sharpened: I feared leaving her motherless. And what I feared might happen to her? I literally shudder to think.

Yet my sense of safety has dulled after 11 injury-free months. Yesterday on the town lake trail, we stopped with the jogging stroller to let Lu get a good look at a goose, and as the goose hissed and honked agressively, Maggie got nervous. She is the safety-conscious type. Her almost baby (Small Person Stephens) won't have to worry about being attacked by a goose or pulling an iron onto its head.

I must recommit to fear! Conjure up those morbid visions of Lu's newborn days! I have something more important than car keys to lose, after all.

The Scarf

It's been a while since I have written in this blog. Days of accomplishments and clever tidbits unrecorded, all because of my new obsession, knitting. As I type this I am wearing my new scarf, knitted for myself, by myself. I am almost as proud of this scarf as I am of Lucy. Unreasonably proud. It is lumpy and bright like a potholder from 1967. I have gotten several compliments on it, maybe because a) it is so noticeable that is demands attention -- to say nothing is to insult the scarf or b) I have been petting it a lot and smiling. Me (beaming): "Thanks, I knitted it myself." Yeah, you heard me, MYSELF.

I learned to knit on Saturday at a little lesson Mary Ellen arranged. Was funny to see eight youngish, smart, accomplished women hunched over needles and yarn, faces screwed into various expressions of concentration and consternation. Mackenzie actually referred to knitting as a sport.

Once I had a convincing rectangle, I found I couldn't stop. I knitted and the rectangle got longer. And longer still. With the exception of Lucy, so little that I do in my life has such a measurable and satisfying output (and unless you're counting diapers, ounces of breastmilk or loads of laundry, even Lucy isn't all that measurable). I wanted to say "Look! Look!" after every row. I whiled away two good hours of my life watching "The West Wing" marathon, finishing the scarf. There was laundry to be folded, a book to be read, home improvement projects to be done, and Portuguese to be learned (I like to ruin frivolous moments thinking of the edifying thing I should be doing instead of the thing I actually want to do). Still, I knitted.

I am not sure how far I will go with this whole knitting thing. Maybe I will stick with rectangles and fat, forgiving yarns and needles. I will be an unsophisticated but prolific knitter! Or maybe winter will wane and I won't want anything wooly anymore. But I have this one furry, yellow, orange, blue and green creation, proof of my new skill. If you see me and my scarf, please compliment me, even if you're lying.

Emerging from the Babble

Lucy speaks English. This morning Jason said to her, "Clap, Lucy!" — without clapping himself —  and she clapped. This thrilled me, and I kept squealing "Clap, clap, clap!" Which she did a few times, then got bored and started pushing her hippo around. The point is she demonstrated clear, independent understanding of a word. Unlike the time when she was four months old and I said "hi" and she sighed "hi" back. I talked out myself of the idea that she really was saying hi, not just making a noise, but for a long time I kind of believed it.

She has been recognizing word-object connections for a while now. She knows who "Mamama" and "Dadada" and "Clifford" are. She has crawled to her bookshelf when I asked where the books are. She gets very excited and lunges for me when asked if she wants milk. She knows who "Duck" is, but doesn't understand that "Duck" is not only her blanket, but also the rubber thing in the tub and the quacking creature from "Old MacDonald."

She has said some words, but like that initial "hi," they may just be sounds. She clearly says Mamamamama, Dadadadada, and mimics "duck," "dog" and "book" in little grunts. Despite the fact that she doesn't say many other English words, she is quite a talker. While she's playing or padding around the house, she babbles, practing her phenomes and prosody in involved conversations with her toys or the dogs. She likes to "read" out loud, pointing and turning the pages.

Beyond the language she has already demonstrated, who knows what else she understands. Now is clearly the time to quit cursing. I know from "This American Life" that the favorite swear word among the nursery school set is the f-word. I'd hate for Lucy's early verbal aptitude to be first demonstrated through the proper use of
f-ing as an adverb.

Family Albums

Thumbing through our brittle old family albums, I realize that we need to take more pictures — and take better care of the ones we have. I have been assembling some photos for my dad's upcoming 60th birthday party and have immersed myself in the sometimes blurry details of my family's past. There are photos of my mom and dad at fraternity formals, in the snow, around the house, with a brand new baby me. And in a few of them, they even seem to be in love (these people, now divorced some 25 years). I knew they were once in love, but I enjoyed seeing it for myself.

There are, of course, tons of photos of me. I can hear the flashbulb popping in my memories of moments both important and mundane. My mother, in her fanatically organized fashion, has my young life laid out in neat albums with dates and names. And looking now at this history, I am grateful she took the time to record it so well. Naturally, all Jason's and my own photos — at least up until we had something so important as Lucy to capture — are in boxes, early years piled on recent ones, Big Bend camping and what-was-her-name-again shuffled amid Florence and Madrid and New Year's Eve 1999. I am a faithful keeper of every memento, every scrap. I just lack the patience to catalog it all.

Currently, we have lots of pictures of Lucy and the people who love her. For now, it all exists neatly online. But how will Lucy thumb through albums the way I have lately? I know there will be a virtual equivalent of these faded albums, but it scares me that all this could go away if we forget to renew the domain name.