Milostones: Animal Sounds and Kisses

As this blog is the only form of baby book I am keeping, I need to record that as of Tuesday, Milo says the following animal sounds:

  • Cow (sometimes he just puckers his lips in a silent moo)
  • Sheep
  • Dog
  • Pig/Chicken (some kind of oink/bock hybrid)

He also gives kisses: if you request one, he will lean into you, then pull back with a dramatic "mwah!" Oh, and he definitely understands English. When you ask him to sit down and drink his water, he complies (somewhat), and he will toddle over and hug Ramona or Clifford when directed.

Did I mention he's the cutest baby ever? In case you don't believe me:

Oh, Hi. Yes, It's Me Under the Hat/Excessive Makeup.

I apologize in advance for my appearance. I am in this strange weather system of grooming, where I get caught in doldrums of solitude that don't require mascara...or bathing. Apparently, any sense of hygiene or dignity I possessed was dictated by social constructs that don't apply when you are alone at home with the words and the ideas and the dogs. I now know that dry shampoo really only cuts it for two days (and you can wear a hat for the third). I have explored the full definition of the term loungewear, and have an area in the drawer designated "sis, those are totally pajamas, mkay?" The people at the Starbuck's have seen worse. And I have accepted that I am gross now.

Except when I am CUTE. I use capital letters because they capture the desperation of my cuteness, a hurricane of effort to overcome the grooming deficit acquired over previous days. I put on perfume. And eyeliner. And too many bracelets. Because I am happy to see you!!!!!!!!!!!! (Punctuation, like makeup, fails when applied to excess.)

Don't get me wrong. This freelance life is so good. You will note a genuine, calm smile underneath the hat/dry shampoo or lipstick/foundation, depending on which day you see me. I just need to perfect the styling.

Dream Dress

Is it wrong that I am going to buy this dress for Lu because I really want it for myself?

It's a confection of a dress, with gauze and cotton ruffles, but done in that subtle, offbeat J. Crew way. The moss green will match her eyes. It costs too much money. I am buying it anyway. But don't tell her, because she is "earning" it, thus providing us the leverage we need until Santa-power kicks in.

And, no, there's no way I would look up the size chart and consider the possibility of squeezing myself into a little girl's XXXL. That would be weird. And, yes, I realize there's a psychological term for this (though I may need an expert to tell me if this is technically projection or lack of separation-individuation). Whatever. It's a really great dress.

Scholarship Material?

After Lu's parent-teacher conference with Ms. B., I felt...[insert adjective to describe a combination of disappointment, lack of surprise, pride, amusement, concern. Am sure the Germans have one]. Ms. B. has high standards and she runs a tight ship, both good qualities for any captain of Lucy. She found lots of nice things to say, but I could hear the strain in her compliments. I wanted to tell her, "Save the 'stroke-then-kick' corporate coaching method for the people wearing tennis skirts, because it's a little obvious for the rest of us." I didn't. I listened.

I listened to her talk about how Lu is a gifted reader, the best in the class, but her writing is below where it should be given her reading skills. I listened to her catalog Lu's behavior problems: the constant talking, the attention-seeking spazzing out. I listened to her describe Lu's compassion and sensitivity (Ms. B teared up). I listened as she explained how Lu had scored on a beginning-of-the-year math assessment: in the middle.

In the middle. She had been a math superstar in kindergarten. Maybe she was just riding the Montesorri advantage. But the middle?

To be clear, Jason and I are not geniuses. We are both smarter than our academic achievements would imply, yet we're pretty regular. While I love to imagine that I am an untapped savant (what is my undiscovered gift??), I have enjoyed a good life as a bright person whose special skill is getting to know other people. It ain't bad, but Stanford doesn't give scholarships for Conversant in Current Affairs/Delightful at Parties.

But Lu...we have expected scholarships. Is it possible that her exceptional verbal skills have masked her mediocrity in math? Jason is starting to do math drills with her. I am upping our contribution to the 529.

I'm No Girl Scout

Last weekend, Lucy and I joined her troop at Camp Texlake for the weekend. The girls in the troop had a great time singing, kayaking, swimming and meeting other scouts. The moms in the troop had a great time chasing the girls around, getting to know each other better and drinking wine out of coffee cups. And getting busted by the director of the event after we were ratted out for aforementioned wine drinking.

You Know You've Been in the Hospital Too Long When...

...you know your way around....you have a regular sandwich order in the "Bistro." ...you've had the same nurse more than once. ...your United Nations of Nurses represents most equatorial countries from the Western and Eastern hemispheres, and you develop a nuanced understanding of the strong British colonial influence on women's names (Jocelyn...from Thailand, Maureen...from Cameroon). ...you've spanned the full spectrum of feelings from deep gratitude ("I love this place, they saved Dad's life!") to appreciation ("We should bake them cookies.") to wearied relief ("Well, they are keeping him pretty healthy.") to anger ("What are you people doing? Why do I know more than you?"). ...you understand that the system works to benefit all the participants — the patients, the nurses, the docs, the techs — but the interests of the group fight the interests of the individual. ...you hate your surgeon and love your internist.

Dad went home yesterday, and he seems to be headed in the right direction. Which, I hope, is the opposite direction of North Austin Freaking Medical Center.

Observations from an ICU, 3

Today is Friday, 9/24/2010 I know this for sure because it's written on the whiteboard in Dad's room. Every room in the ICU has one of the whiteboards where date is rewritten faithfully every day. The days do run together in here. And some of these folks are in sorry enough shape that I see why they'd need to write the year down too.

Dad is definitely on the mend physically, and now his mental health is a concern. He's just been cleared to receive liquids, which means he will get his bipolar meds after four days without them. He's begun to show signs of mania (only got about 1.5 hours of sleep last night -- on his current dose of narcotics, he should be asleep most of the time, which means he's manic in slow-motion). Right now, he's Fun Jim, the mildly manic, jokey version of himself, yukking it up with us and the staff. We just need to get this under control before he's running around the floor with his rear end flapping out of his gown while the staff tries to sedate him.