The Mother Load

Kate's daily schedule:
1. Get up.
2. Feed the baby.
3. Dress the baby.
4. Pack the baby's lunch.
5. Now that Jason is up, fed and dressed, it's Lucy's turn.

This is officially our second Mother's Day. Shoot, it's one of many unofficial ones.

This mother's day I am thankful for Kate: the blog posts, the patience, the great cooking, the fact that she's my best friend, my biggest supporter, toughest critic, and, of course, the fact that she does this without pay.

Really, there is a reason men aren't mothers. Frankly, we just don't have the stones - read into THAT what you want. They love us unconditionally. They care for us with every breath. I had a stomach bug this week and my mom must have called me about a hundred times to see if I was ok. My mom, she's alright.

Granny (Kate's mom) visits every week and takes Lu to the museum. The kid talks about it for three days before the trip. Now she also talks about cookies from Granny all the time too. But it's all about love...and lemon cookies.

So thanks to Kate, Granny, Baga, GG and all the mothers out there. I couldn't have done all this without you. Literally.

Sometimes...

Sometimes, when you have had a series of long days, and you're too tired to make dinner, and there's laundry everywhere, and all you can do is lie on the couch and hate everyone...the baby will ask, "Are you tired, Mom?" and insist on covering you with HER blanket, and give you Duck, and pat your back very sweetly. Sometimes that is what gives you the strength to get off the couch.

Little Miss Manners

Manners are important. They make meals nicer. They help people get along better. And sometimes, they're only thing that allow Lucy to live at our house.

She says "thank you" in a sweet, slightly lisping way almost every time you hand her something or do something for her. She says "please" more often than not. She guffaws and says "escuse me" when she passes gas (and will prompt others to do the same if they forget). We haven't been strict about teaching her these things, but she's caught on. I'm grateful, because it seems to me that good manners can disguise a whole host of flaws.

Even in a total meltdown, she understands the power of these words enough to muster a few of them. "NO, THANK YOU, MOM. NO, THANK YOU." She screams this when I am violating her by...changing her diaper. Or moving slightly outside her narrow margin of error. "THIS ONE, I WANT THIS ONE. PLEEEEEASE," she shrieks, collapsing into sobs because I have chosen the wrong book (life was clearer before pronouns). She knows the words but has not yet grasped the subtleties of tone or even volume. I want to explain, "It's nice when you say 'no thank you,' but when you scream like that it makes Mom's ears bleed."

Still, I appreciate her effort at civility. Politeness is crucial to her survival at our house and beyond.

Odd Duck

I came home today to find Lu wearing a dress with a bikini top over it and a striped visor on her head. She looked like an Alzheimer's patient on her way to a bridge game. Nini explained that it was what she'd wanted to wear. How can you argue with such a distinctive fashion sense?

I took her to a party on Friday where she acted pretty civilized — worshipfully following Jamie's nieces around, dancing and making friends. Then she discovered the dog cage...er, crate in the upstairs bedroom. She busily crawled in and out. And in and out. And in and out. She'd make a sidetrip to steal change from a dresser or strum the banjo in the corner, but she was, oddly, lured by the cage. Which made me wonder, could it be this simple? A cage?!

She's been singing weird songs, and the dressing in strange outfits, and you know, the fascination with the cage. I think maybe she is odd. I say that reverentially, if not a little fearfully. I am odd, and so is Jason, but only in the hidden, apologetic way of people who want others to like them. I was so odd as a fourth grader that I gravely told my only friend, a Vietnamese refugee named Thuy, that I was an alien, but not to worry, because I was a really nice one. She raised her hand and asked to be moved to a new chair — but she went on to be a cheerleader. I made her, really.

My oddness got better (or more discreet), and mostly I am only odd on the inside. I look for the hidden odd in other people. Odd is not be confused with eccentric or interesting (or arty or cool or affected) — those are totally at odds with odd. I could do a whole point/counterpoint list about what is and isn't odd, but it makes no sense. No one wants to be odd. You just are. Sadly.

And I think Lu might be. In which case, she will resent her parents less.

Too Many Syllables, Too Many Nice Things to Say

There are these women I know, and we had a get-together to celebrate and mourn the departure of Veedub. Yes, Veedub. Like the car. Only she is a Lady. Using the capital L seems serious, but Veedub is not. Her name is Virginia Welford Taylor — now Virginia Welford Taylor Miracle, married to a charming man with the very Old Testament name of Jedediah Miracle. He has not seen a burning bush that we know of, but I have not given up. Anyway, Veedub is not "Virginia," she is "Virginia Welford." I would no sooner call her "Virginia" than I would call my Aunt Mary Jane "Mary." I am not sure of the origins of "Veedub," but it has a locker room quality that is sweet and incongruous.

Despite the genteel inconvenience of having a five-syllable first name, she is an amazingly practical girl. She tells it mostly like it is: she's smart, decisive, compassionate and full of humor (when appropriate, which is almost always). The only clear betrayal of her Southern upbringing is...manners. She writes thank-you notes on embossed stationery. When you invite her to your quasi-adolescent holiday party year after year, she always brings a PRESENT. A good one. Not some dumb bottle of wine (which is always welcome here, by the way).

Veedub is a good woman, with good manners and an even better mind. I have decided that I might not pay for Lu's MBA, but I will pay for her to go wherever Veedub is and learn to be a marketing bad-ass. And more importantly, learn to be a good woman.

Tonight, some potential object lessons for womanhood emerged. Can Lu learn from MacKenzie how to overcome a shitty fashion moment and still be the toast of the fourth grade? Learn from Mary Ellen how to survive sex-starved prison thugs? Learn from Lauren how to persevere, even though an Ivy League education might be disappointing to certain parents? Learn from Abby how headphones — and an EYEPATCH — can manage unwanted social contact at the office? Learn from Wendy how to make a perfect (and EVIL, EVIL) brownie? Learn from Kelly how to live in 900 stylish, organized square feet?

These are good skills, and I hope Lu will learn them all. In the meantime, the very least she can do is write thank-you notes. They make everyone happy.

Curious

"What's this, Mama?" This question comes up all the time, because, you know, she is two and doesn't know what most things are. And when your answer doesn't make sense to her, she repeats and repeats and repeats the question. Sometimes I lie or grossly oversimplify just to make her stop asking. A backhoe is "a big truck that digs." The little cartoon jockeys printed on my blouse are "some guys with hats."

"Who's this, Mama?" She wants to know everyone. People in pictures, on TV, in the grocery store. For now, she seems satisfied with general labels like "a lady," "a man," "the cashier," "a family." I have not yet resorted to making up actual names for all these strangers.

"Where are we, Mama?" She asks this at odd moments. Like when we are at home. "What do you mean, where? Austin? Earth?" It strikes me as a strangely existential question.

For now, thankfully, she has not asked "why?" That's when the real lies start.

I Bow at the Altar of Anne Lamott

When I got pregnant with Lucy, I had doubts about my fitness as a mother. After what seemed like a long time to get pregnant, fickle creature that I am, I...wondered. Was this a good idea? Mothers are saints. Mothers are Good with capital G. Mothers don't lose their car keys at least once a day. I felt like I did when I got married, when I bought a house: "Don't they know I am incompetent?" I was afraid that all the weak, gross parts of my soul would be revealed.

And then I read this magic book: Operating Instructions, by Anne Lamott. It is an honest account of this fabulous, crazy woman's first year as a mother. She describes in hilarious detail all of her feelings. She is no saint. She is a little scared and incompetent. And she is good with a little g. The kind of good that is the best we can hope to be as mothers.

I worship this woman, who both lowered and raised my expectations about motherhood. And tonight, Magpie and I went to hear her read from her latest book, Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith. This one is about, well, faith. The only subject in which I am even less skilled than motherhood, besides maybe calculus. I am hoping Anne Lamott will sort this faith thing out for me too. After all, I have a husband, a house, and a baby. And I still spent 45 damn minutes looking for my car keys this morning. But maybe I am alright, even good.

Satan Has Ears

He's seven and a half feet tall. He wears a menacing, frozen grin with honed buck teeth. And the ears! Oh, the tall, pointy ears with their radar-keen ability to find children, hunt them down, and...give them candy.

Despite the fact that Lu missed the basic point about the candy (which she really knew nothing about until this weekend, thanks to all you well-meaning Easter present-givers), she recognized the basic evil of the Easter Bunny. WAY scarier than Santa. "He's too scared-y for me, Mama," she told me between heaving sobs, as she and Jason hid in a corner of the El Paso Country Club during the festive post-egg-hunt brunch. She has confused the words "scared" and "scary" in such a smart, efficient way that if you hear me talk about how scaredy something is, just deal with it — I am evolving the language along with Lu.

The whole morning was not scaredy. Just the pre-hunt part, where all the kids, divided by age, milled around waiting for things to get started, many of them looking like they wanted to puke. Lu was anxious. She was trying to find her A game. It was not unlike the start of a triathlon (if you think of Gu as candy).

Once the hunt/race was underway, Lu had a great time. She wasn't quite as fast as I'd hoped, but I could see her competitive spirit showing when she began to take eggs out of other kids' baskets. With the help of her cousin Alyssa, who has a multi-year track record as the winner of the Golden Egg (which yields some fantastic, cellophane-wrapped basket that I am glad not to have to take home), she made quite a haul.

During the post-hunt brunch, Evil Bunny loomed large. A big PR campaign of juggling, schmoozing, kissing babies. Lu could see right through him. She didn't even get to enjoy the kid buffet of chicken strips, macaroni, hot dogs and various other yellow-beige-brown foods. And sadly, neither did Jason, who would have enjoyed it more than most kids. They slunk in the shadows, while the rabbit ran the room.

Lu is not done with Evil Bunny. He may have won this round, but she is training, waiting for next year. And in the meantime, she has a chocolate voodoo rabbit she intends to punish. One ear at a time.

The Unfortunate Haircut

I have been contemplating cutting Lucy's hair for weeks now. It has begun to have the indecisive, fluffy quality of someone who is growing out a hairstyle. No blunt edges, tufts in sticking out in odd places. A little like when I had that bad Jennifer Aniston shag in 1995.

We are in El Paso for a long Easter weekend, and I decide that the only way I can cut her hair is with the magical help of Baga. As Baga distracts her with a doll, I wet a comb and cut. And cut. And cut.

Now, instead of having a vague non-hairstyle, she has the kind of haircut that makes you say, "Aw, does your mom cut your hair?" The kind of haircut I had until I was about nine (and partially blame for my lack of social life in elementary school). You know, bangs a little too short and too close to the ears?

She's a cute kid, so this haircut is not going to ruin her life. But if she had a beard she would look like an Amish farmer.

Lucy Lies

Lucy is sitting in her high chair in the kitchen, eating some salami. I am in the bedroom doing some important motherly task like folding laundry or applying self tanner. I hear her giggling. When I go back in the kitchen, her hand is outstretched to Ramona, who is licking her chops. The salami is gone, and Lucy looks guilty. She says, nodding her head, "I ate the salami. I put it in my mouth. Yep."

Yep.