Creative License

Today, as I put on my running shoes, I noticed that one of my socks had a face and some stripes drawn on it. In Sharpie. A reclaimed sock puppet, apparently. These moments are frequent. Lucy thinks everything in this house — be it a sock, a medical bill, my work notebook — is just material for her art. The other day she put together a car/"speeder bike" using a security dowel from one of our windows, an Ikea stool and many, many Band-aids. I cannot argue with her ingenuity. But after a cooking injury last week,  I did have to bandage myself with Scotch tape and some random gauze I found (given to us to treat Milo's circumcision scar?), because we had no Band-aids. Someone is going to suffer for her art.

Sometimes...

...after a happy morning, after you have dropped off your genius six-year-old at school filled with confidence about her upcoming spelling test, as you take the almost-not-a-baby out of his carseat at preschool and he smells like the apple cinnamon yogurt he ate for breakfast, like an apple dumpling you just want to eat up, you are struck by the perfection of your life. But it only happens sometimes.

Out of Warranty

You know how your car starts to spaz almost immediately after your warranty expires? And maybe a third of what's happening is just hypo-car-ndria: what is that noise? It's a belt. OMG, I CAN TELL BY ITS PITCH THAT IT'S A REALLY EXPENSIVE ONE. I think maybe that's what my body is doing now that we're on high-deductible individual health insurance.  I have been having neck pain, most likely related to an unfortunate desk set-up, bad posture, hauling Milo around, blogging from the couch, the usual spine-abusing activities. But over the course of last week, I started to be aware of numbness and tingling in my hands. Then more. Then my feet. Then some internet detective action. Friends, don't Google "hand numbness."

So, by the time I arrived in my doctor's office Friday, I was hysterical. They didn't help. They sent me for an MRI Saturday, which included "MS protocol" (comforting!) with contrast (why spare any expense?). While chatting up the tech during the scan, Maggie used her charms to ascertain that no, I don't have MS. Thanks: that will be $895 and one very frightening weekend.

Indeed, the MRI showed no MS, just some cervical disc protrusions, probably not causing my symptoms. The current plan is take Aleve for a couple of weeks and see if I can manage whatever inflammation is causing the numbness — a course of action I could have taken for less than the grand I've now spent finding out nothing.

Oh, and I have a toothache. And a nagging cough.

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.