The Waiting is the Hardest Part

Tonight we had dinner with the Weitzes, and after an initial bout of shyness, Lucy came around. She sang "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" and "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." She showed off her burgeoning understanding of sentence structure: "Lucy, what is your favorite color?" "My favorite color is red."

She and Andy discussed ice cream preferences. She complimented Megan's necklace. She ate some queso, a nacho, some beans that were "TOO HOT!" then "just rice first, okay?" Then the Mexican food and the novelty of new friends wore off and she began rearranging the furniture (chatting about food and books is not interesting when you are two and half). What is interesting? What is a fabulous bribe that buys you ten more minutes of chatting? And we're back to...ice cream.

But then I had to explain the part about the waiting. Patience. Very abstract concepts that Lu repeated as though talking about the waiting would make the time go faster.

"Patient is when you wait."
"I'm gonna wait and then I'm gonna have some ice cream, okay?"
"You still eating, Mama?"

Finally, we walked over to get ice cream. She got pink lemonade. I got vanilla bourbon. She ate all my vanilla bourbon, showing that she not only understands waiting, but also sharing.

While we were eating our ice cream, she announced, "I have to go potty," but then thought better of actually going into the bathroom. Why wait when you can just go in your pants instead?

Party Girl

A good laugh and a long sleep are the best cures in the doctor's book.
--Irish proverb

This weekend, Lu did a lot more laughing than she did sleeping. And also more screaming than she did sleeping. She spent Saturday at the Gaddis ranch: riding a horsedrawn carriage, swimming, drinking Sprite, bossing her two-year-old boyfriend Anthony around, bossing everyone around, really. There was no napping.

There was very little napping Sunday, then a huge fight about what to wear to Peyton Price's birthday party. I lost. She wore the bright orange hoodie dress with light pink socks — pulled all the way up — with gray and hot pink sneakers. Wardrobe aside, she was pretty good at the party. There was queso and cake, plus plenty of tiny, one-year-old toes to run over as she drove Peyton's Winnie the Pooh car.

Then onto Pie's house, where we had spaghetti and a few fits (related to her food being grabbed by one-year-olds who don't have as refined a concept of "mine" as Lucy does). For dessert, we tried on wigs.

We will pay for this weekend's unfortunate laugh/sleep ratio all week. Anyone wanna babysit?

P.S. Doesn't she look like some sort of deranged cherub in this picture? Which makes Matthew a...deranged cherub handler?

I Dream of Lucy

A while ago, Pie gave Lu this present, the most fitting present ever given to anyone, from anyone. Pie was so excited about giving Lu this present, you'd think it was a continent, a diamond mine, a perpetual trust! And Lu, for her part, was just as happy to receive it.

The present: a pink hat box filled with various dress-up items. Lu calls it her "Princess Box." Sequined, non-specific clothing items that can be worn as skirts or tops or cuffs or headdresses — harem attire. Plus a pair of sparkly plastic mules that, when worn on the wrong feet by a 2-year-old, click-clack on the floor like drunk woman leaving after last call. And a hat. And a pair of sunglasses. All in pink and purple and white. She's obsessed with it.

We attempt to drive home the difference between at-home attire (gypsy/hooker clothes) and go-out attire (t-shirts and jeans), but maybe this effort is wasted since the distinction will entirely reverse itself by the time she is 19. Meanwhile, if you see Lucy dressed like a low-rent Barbara Eden, just know that she won the argument, but I certainly tried.

Guh-ross

Gross Thing #1
I boldly decided to not only take two babies to the grocery store today (Lu and Laney), but to take one of those babies wearing panties. We went into the potty so that I could use it (with the stall open while Laney gaped and Lu pleaded with me not to flush). I did not flush, but did wash my hands extra vigorously as though it would somehow make up for the not flushing. Mere minutes later...well, all I can say is mind the puddle near the natural foods aisle. "Uh oh, I pee-peed," said Lu. "Uh oh, uh oh, uh oh," said Laney. I said some other things.

Gross Thing #2
When I was learning French, I taught Emily to say "Quelle belle vomit!" — a phrase she would use with great enthusiasm and frequency. It's totally nonsensical: it means "What pretty vomit!" Totally nonsensical until today, when Clifford ate most of a dumped-out box of crayons and then yakked on the rug, producing...you get the idea.

Some Things She Has Said Since 6 p.m. Today

Tonight at dinner: "Here, Mama, I have a present for you." Hands me a rock. "Do you like it? You can put it in your purse."

While "reading" the menu: "Dad, what do you want? You want some chicken nuggets? And some french fries?"

As the waiter was taking our order: "I want beans and rice. And a lemonade. And a Sprite. No, a Sprite. PLEEEEASE!"

Upon being asked what she learned at school: "I learned animals today. I learned a monkey and a elephant and a gorilla."

After dinner, when I needed to use the restroom and Jason had already left the restaurant: "I don't wanna go potty. I stay at the table and wait for you. I go potty at home." She is coaxed closer to the bathroom, but refuses to go in. "I stay RIGHT HERE and wait for you. I will." Coaxed into the bathroom, hovering in a far corner while I am in the stall. "Don't flush, Mom, DON'T!"

Leaving the restaurant: "It's not naptime now. No, it's not."

On the way home from the restaurant, discussing her imagination: "I fly way up in the air and wave to you. I'm really high. You're really little."

Pulling into the driveway: "I wanna take a quick bath, okay? Just a quick one."

During her bath: "I want all my letters. Is this a one or a 'i'? I think it's a one. 'J' is for Jason! 'H' is for hat! 'F' is for Frank! 'Q' is for quilt! I want a quilt when I go to sleep."

Being smooched after her bath: "I am delicious. I taste like chocolate."

Being put to bed: "NOOOO, I WANT THE OTHER BEAR. THE ONE ON THE COUCH!"

Material Girl

Yesterday, as we left Central Market, it had just stopped raining. Grim clouds met a sunny sky, resulting in...a rainbow! We stopped in the parking lot so Lu could see it, and she was captivated. Her response: "I want a rainbow, Mama. Buy it for me!" How to explain that rainbows aren't for sale? It's a poster-worthy aphorism.

I finally talked her into building a rainbow with her Legos. We are going to have to do something about this kid's values.

Parenting in Tandem

We decided to rent a tandem bike to ride through Vancouver's Stanley Park. At the bike rental place, we were both charmed by the idea of a tandem bike, which seemed like a good idea until the French Canadian girl at the cash register snickered (or was she merely being French Canadian?).

We quickly discovered the basic, challenging principle of a tandem bike: all the instinctual balance that it takes to keep one person on a bike, when multiplied by two people and meant to work together, is much harder than just riding a bike. To quote Pie on another subject, it's like trying to drive a standard transmission with one person operating the gears and another person operating the gas and the clutch. Extreme cooperation. Jason conceded the front to me after 100 meters, his having ridden a bike about 19 years ago and me having ridden one on Monday.

At first, we kept saying to each other with every wobble, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" Extreme cooperation is hard, but we got the hang of it. For instance, we agreed TOGETHER, that it was a good idea to get off the bike and walk it up a one-kilometer, steep-ass hill. Other good decisions ensued. And some laughing. And way less falling down than I do when riding on my own.

I think parenting is like that. Lu is our little bike: wobbly, unsure, second-guessing, we work together to propel her forward.

Peeking in Canadian Windows

The first stop in our Northwest trip was Vancouver, the prettiest city I have ever seen. Not pretty the way European cities are pretty (patinaed, with an authentic griminess), or even San Francisco (detailed and darling) or New York (so substantive it doesn't have to worry about its looks). Vancouver shines, bright with new buildings made of polished steel and green glass. Everyone is wearing effortless, slouchy layers of very hip clothing. They are seemingly from everywhere, stylishly global. The whole city seems to be saying, "Sore-y, we can't help it. We're just better than you." But Vancouver is not trying to make you feel bad, you can tell.

One morning, I ran along the waterfront past the fancy condos. All the green glass windows were open (windows open! in early September!), so I could easily peer in on their little Canadian lives. I saw families tucked into trim, modern breakfast tables, one with a couple of kids at their own pint-sized table which I recognized as very expensive. Others sipped coffee on their decks (good coffee from Scandinavian mugs, I guessed, but could not see as I ran along). The whole thing was like an ad for a Canadian real estate developer: Move here. You'll be a better person and you won't even have to learn a new language.

Lucy's Legitimacy

I wanted to title this post "Lucy is a Bastard," but Jason wouldn't let me. He thought it was too harsh, that "bastard" was too mean. Mean...but true. I found out today that Jason and I aren't married.

At least, maybe not married. Not legally married in any way that is proveable without a number of affidavits. I have had this suspicion for a little while now. A couple of years ago, I was doing some Internet searching/stalking of myself and others I Iove/am interested in, and I discovered this interesting site where you can look up old records. http://www.genlookups.com/texas_marriages/ And, interestingly, I did not find me and Jason among the rolls. I attributed it to a clerical error, the inaccuracy of the Internet.

Then last fall, after Nini got married, when she embarked on offiicially changing her name, she spoke of these official papers she got proving she was married. I was curious. I had never gotten these (nor needed them because I didn't change my name). I started to wonder where our piece of paper was: Did our priest forget to send in the paperwork? But I laid it on the Big Worry Heap, alongside such issues as "that hall closet is kinda gross" and "I should have better posture."

Today, I realized we were going to Canada. I mean, I knew we were going to Canada, but I realized my passport had expired and I might need something more than charm to get me across the border (charm still works well when crossing to Mexico, by the way). So I researched the documents we'd need, searched wildly in my office for my birth certificate, found my youngest sister's birth certificate (which lists her as a MALE, further to the flaws in the system!), then had to go down to the Bureau of Vital Statistics to get my own.

I filled out the necessary forms and saw that at the same time, I could get a letter of "marriage verification." So I decided to get my birth certificate and solve the mystery of our marriage all at once.

No record. No record of our marriage, seven years later. At least not at Vital Statistics. Our next step is to take it up with the county, who has our marriage license on file. Hopefully, any number of nice people who vowed before God and everyone to support our marriage would be willing to sign an affidavit saying they'd witnessed an actual ceremony. But there is certainly more documentation to pursue.

For now, seven years later, it appears we have been playing a good game of house! Here I thought I was being so modern by not taking Jason's name. For the nine hours I have been a common-law wife, I've been distressed. It seems I am more conventional than I thought.

For Lu's part, I think, with the right attorneys, she still stands to inherit the Sugawa fortune.

p.s. Sorry to all of you who gave gifts and ate cake (and even sorrier to those of you who sent gifts and got no cake -- you were truly robbed).