By This Time Tomorrow

Tomorrow morning, I will be getting up bright and early, packing my bag into the car, dropping Ryan off at his grandparents’, and heading to the hospital with my husband to have a baby. What a strange thought that is!

How completely different this is from my son’s birth. Being a first baby, I assumed he’d be at least a few days late, if not more. So when I woke up at 2am a week and a half before he was due, having had no prior symptoms of labor, and realized that my water had just broken and I was having contractions, it came as a complete surprise. And I also assumed that, since it was my first baby and he was likely to be rather large, that my labor would go on for a good long time – instead, the whole shebang from first contraction to “here’s your baby” was a grand total of 10 hours. With this baby, I was convinced it would be early, I’ve been having contractions for weeks, and I’ve been pretty far dilated and effaced for a week, so I’ve definitely been expecting things to happen for quite a while now!

But at long last, tomorrow is the decreed day. I know that inductions can often take some time, but according to the nurse, “one whiff of Pitocin” and I should be right into full-fledged labor. The baby is ready, I’m ready, even my body is ready, but somehow the signals have gotten a bit stalled, so one quick jump-start and we should be cooking with gas!

It really is a completely different feeling this time. On one hand, I’m more confident because I’ve been through it before. I know I don’t need to worry about the epidural being painful. I know I don’t need to worry that it won’t work for me. I know that the nurses will coach me through everything I need to do and that Herb will be able to be by my side. But on the other hand, I know some unpleasant things, like the fact that I’m probably going to throw up during labor (a lot), and that I’ll also experience several other unpleasant physiological processes that I won’t share with the general public. But I also know that I can do this. I CAN DO THIS. I’ve done it before, and I can do it again.

And after I do it, we’ll have a beautiful new member of the family. That thought alone will get me through the day with no problem at all. Bring it on!

My Body Is Mocking Me

Today marks the official two-weeks-to-go point of this pregnancy, and I couldn’t be readier. When I got close to the end of my pregnancy with my son, I really didn’t know what to expect, and I was assuming that I wouldn’t deliver until my due date or even later, so I wasn’t really watching for signs at this point. I was actually very surprised to wake up a week and a half before my due date because my water had broken and I was having contractions. But with this baby, I’ve been convinced all along that I’ll go early, so I’ve been eagerly looking forward to any and every sign of impending delivery.

With my son, I wasn’t aware of when he turned head-down, it wasn’t obvious when he dropped, I had almost no Braxton-Hicks contractions, my cervix wasn’t dilated at my last doctor’s appointment, and my water broke right when my contractions started. I really didn’t have much advance warning at all. It was just BOOM! Heeeeeere’s labor! But with this pregnancy, I could tell you exactly the day that the baby turned and dropped. I’ve been having Braxton-Hicks for a number of weeks and today I’ve been having them all day long, about half an hour apart. (I know they're Braxton-Hicks because they're painless - whoever thought I'd be WISHING for pain??) And I was just over 1cm dilated at last Monday’s appointment. I think my body is mocking me for all my expectations.

My husband has been warning me all along not to get my hopes up for an early delivery. He’s kept reminding me that if I expect to go into labor two weeks early and I don’t, I’ll be horribly disappointed. Whenever I tell someone, “I have two weeks to go, but I think it will be less than a week,” he says, “It’ll probably be in three weeks.” And he’s probably right. Even if he isn’t right, he’s wise. Because that extra week will seem like an eternity. An eternity of acid reflux, full bladders, and waddling.

So I guess I’d better just suck it up and plan on being in one piece for three more weeks. You hear that, body? Three more weeks! I admit it! This baby isn’t coming early, it’s coming late! So I’ll just have to wait for it.

I just hope my body isn’t wise to reverse psychology.

Hero Worship

One of the delightful things about childhood is hero worship. It starts with toddlers and goes all the way through the teen years. For teens and tweens, it’s likely to be a star athlete, or a famous movie actor, or a popular musician. The hero worship takes the form of posters on the bedroom wall, collecting stats or albums or DVDs, and reading articles online and in teen fanzines. It might even include imitating the hero’s haircut or style of dress. The kid would love to grow up to be as famous, rich, and talented as his or her hero, but they know that’s not likely.

Younger kids, ages 5 to 10 or so, are more likely to pick a hero they actually know. At this age, the hero worship is in the form of a crush, and can be on someone either the same gender as or a different gender from the child. My teenage niece, Kayla, works at a sports camp for kids, and has become the focus of hero worship of a 7-year-old boy in her class. He chooses which game to play each day based on which group she’s leading, and generally idolizes her. When I was in high school, I was a library page, and the 5-year-old daughter of one of the librarians chose me as her hero. She followed me around, trying to do what I did, flip her hair like I did, walk like I did. She told her mother how byooooo-tiful I looked every day, with my pretty hair, and my pretty clothes. In both cases, the kids mooned over us heroes, and wanted to be with us and be like us. They yearned to grow up just like us and to have all the wonderful confidence and independence that we had (in their eyes, anyway).

But the most fun hero worship to watch is that of toddlers. Their hero worship tends to be centered on a family member, and my son Ryan is no exception. He has two big heroes: his Daddy, and his cousin Troy. His hero worship is mainly manifested in unrestrained glee any time he’s with either of them. His face lights up like a Christmas tree when Daddy gets him out of bed in the morning, or when he hears Daddy coming down the stairs after work, or when Daddy comes out of the study after having been home but frustratingly unavailable for a few hours. Ryan gets so excited that he can’t even run to give Daddy a hug – he simply squeals and throws himself on the floor, then peeks up at Daddy and squeals some more. Eventually he manages to hurl himself at Daddy’s legs and cling on like a little octopus. When Daddy leaves for work, he often stands at the foot of the stairs with a quivering lip, pointing at Daddy’s retreating figure and pathetically calling, “Dada? Dada?”

And he behaves similarly with cousin Troy. When Ryan was born, Troy was ecstatic to finally have a fellow boy cousin amid the sea of girls in the family. The two of them bonded from day 1. In fact, as soon as Ryan started to learn proper names, he gave Troy a secret name which seems to have meaning only to him: Mun. No-one is quite sure where it came from, but Ryan is quite adamant that Troy’s name is Mun. When we practice saying everyone’s name in the family, the exchange usually goes something like this:
“Ryan, say ‘Bammy’.” “Bammeee.”

“Say ‘Pappy’.” “Pa-pa-pappy.”

“Say ‘Rosemary’.” “May-may.”

“Say ‘Holly’,” “Haw-lalala.”

“Say ‘Jim’.” “Jeeeem.”

“Say ‘Kayla’.” “Tayla.”

“Say ‘Troy’.” “MUN!!!” (Said with a big grin.)

When we pull up to their house and we ask who we’re visiting, does he say “Jeeem” or “Haw-lalala” or “Tayla”? Nope. We’re visiting Mun. Anyone else who happens to live there is just a little extra bonus. Mun is the point. Mun is the one Ryan runs to hug first, and the one he wants to play with. He loves everyone in the family, but Mun is special. Mun is his hero.

This weekend Troy has been staying overnight with us while he’s rehearsing for a show near our house. Ryan is thrilled by this development, and has taken advantage of the chance to pounce on him first thing in the morning, swim with him in the evening, and play with him every chance he gets. His favorite game is the Mun train: He runs up behind him, wraps his arms around Troy’s legs, pushes him to march, and goes “Woo woo!!!” like a train whistle, with Troy as the engine and Ryan as the caboose.

It’s hard to say who gets the biggest kick out of that game, Ryan, Mun, or Mum and Dad. There are definitely big grins all around.

I’m sure that someday Ryan’s hero worship will move on to a different figure, and that will be a very sad day for Mun. But I suspect it will be an even sadder day for Mum.

What Kind of Mother Am I, Anyway?

Yesterday, I offered my child up for sale on Facebook. Yes, I was only kidding, but I’ll admit that if I’d gotten a better offer than a peeing cat I might have given it a split-second’s consideration. Seriously, I love my child more than life itself. I’d throw myself into the path of a moving train for him. But yesterday was one of those days when I was hoping for that train to come by and put me out of my misery.

I should have known it would be a rough day when he woke up at 7am instead of his usual 8 or 8:30. But I figured that with that early rising he’d be eager for an early (and hopefully long!) nap. And in fact, when I put him in his highchair for a snack at 11:00, he was moving in slo-mo and his eyes were beginning to glaze over. By 11:30 I was certain he’d be out cold in a few minutes, so I didn’t even tempt fate by asking him to climb the stairs to his bedroom. I picked him up to carry him upstairs and he laid his head on my shoulder and “koala snuggled” his arms around my neck. I turned on the air conditioner and a lullaby CD and tucked him in his bed with a few soft toys and a book, convinced that he’d fall asleep within moments, then slipped down the hall to lay on my bed until I was sure he was asleep.

For a few minutes, all was quiet, then I started to hear him chatting quietly to himself. Then I heard the quiet thud of a little body slipping from the bed to the floor. Then I heard the jingle of the jinglebells hanging on the outside doorknob of his door and I immediately ran down the hallway. When I came in the room, he was happily jingling his bells (which he had stolen from the knob and then re-closed the door) and was headed for a stack of toys, having already turned off the A/C and the CD and turned on the overhead light. I took the bells away and told him to get back into bed, which he did without question. I turned the A/C and the CD back on, gave him a kiss, reminded him one more time to stay in bed, and turned the light off on my way out.

Only a few minutes had passed before I heard the distinctive sound of venetian blinds being rattled and raced back in to scold him. Much to his father’s chagrin, he had already bent them badly out of shape and I was afraid of him making them any worse. He looked at me with big innocent eyes as I ordered him back into bed yet again. I decided to sit in the rocking chair and watch him for a few minutes, but when I realized he was much more interested in marching up and down the bed than in laying down and sleeping, I knew that wouldn’t work. So I heaved myself into his bed (and if you’ve never seen an 8-months-pregnant woman maneuver herself over a bedrail, you’ve missed out on an impressive sight), patted the pillow next to me, and convinced him to “come and snuggle with Mama”.

He immediately threw himself down next to me and commenced fake snoring. Ever hopeful, I threw my arm over him and waited for him to fall asleep for real. Ha! Silly Mama. That lasted for about 8 seconds before he jumped up and began throwing each of his toys and stuffed animals out of the bed, one at a time. I warned him, “all gone” with each item, and he solemnly repeated my words each time. Block? All gone. Bear? All gone. Book? All gone. He even pulled the pillow from under my head and jettisoned it. And then he leaned over me and peered at the detritus on the floor, pointing and looking at me hopefully. “Nope, all gone,” I told him. Unfazed, he then turned and crashed into the wall. Discovering what a delightfully loud noise that made, he began pounding on the wall with both fists until I couldn’t take it any more and told him “Enough!” Surprisingly, he stopped, and then announced to me, “Poop!” while patting his bottom. He then threw himself on my head, leaving no doubt in my mind that it was time for a diaper change.

At that point, I gave up on any hope for a nap for either one of us. I changed his diaper and brought him back downstairs to the playroom, where he commenced racing laps around the room while I collapsed on the couch and watched him. Every once in a while there would be a pause before he came around the corner and I found myself carefully listening to hear what trouble he was getting into in the back hallway. I’ve never been able to decide which is more disconcerting when he’s out of sight: absolute silence or unidentifiable crunching noises. Either way, it must be investigated ASAP. In this particular room, silence is usually the more serious problem, since it usually means he’s gone into the study with all the tempting electronic equipment with its exciting buttons and lights. I found him holding the baby monitor up to his ear and asking, “Hello? Hello?” while my wireless mouse lay on the floor without its battery cover. I returned the monitor to its cradle, found and replaced the battery cover on my mouse, and escorted him back to the playroom, regretfully closing the study door with its wonderful air-conditioned air inside.

Without the study to explore, he managed to find trouble all over the rest of the room. He ran through the vertical blinds. He threw all his toys into the big aluminum tub. He moved them from the tub onto the top of the toybox then flailed his arms to knock them all over the room. He opened all the cabinet doors that he’s not allowed to open. He tried to throw things at the glass doors, the television, and Mama. He finally broke the camel’s back when he ran up to me and very deliberately gave my leg a hard smack. I grabbed his hand, gave it a good slap, looked right in his eyes, and fully aware of my own hypocrisy, shouted in my sternest “angry Mom” voice, “No! No hitting!” I guess I finally got it right that time, because instead of his usual giggle when I scold him, he puddled up and started to cry. I started to cry a bit myself, and scooped him into my arms and told him I love him even when he makes me crazy.

He calmed down after a quick snuggle and we laid down on the couch together and played, until suddenly something struck him as hilariously funny and he executed what I’ve dubbed the “happy puppy wriggle”. You know how puppies, especially really big breeds of puppies, get so excited that their whole bodies nearly convulse with excitement? That’s what he does. Unfortunately, as he kicked out with both feet with his full strength, he managed to kick me full-on in the pelvis with one heel. I literally saw stars, and doubled over in pain (or as close to double as I can get these days) while I waited to get my breath back. I couldn’t scold him because it was completely unintentional, but it just felt like adding insult to injury (or injury to insult, to be more accurate). I started to get up from the couch and was rewarded with a fresh stab of pain. So much for the grocery shopping trip I’d planned.

By the time my husband called to say he was on his way home from work, I was definitely ready to sell this kid to the gypsies. So what kind of mom does that make me?

I’m pretty sure it just makes me human.

The Pros and Cons of the Big Boy Bed

With the new baby due to arrive in a little more than a month, my husband’s nesting instincts have kicked in, big-time, and one of his recent projects was setting up my son’s “big boy bed”. We had a set of bunk beds in the attic, complete with a bed rail, so we opted to bypass getting a toddler bed and move Ryan directly from the crib into a twin bed. I was a bit nervous as to what he would think of it – and more importantly, whether he’d be willing to STAY in it – but my fears were apparently groundless.

The moment we brought Ryan into his bedroom with the new bed in it, his face lit up like a Christmas tree and he scrambled right into it with no prompting from us. He immediately began jumping up and down, throwing himself on the pillow and snuggling into the fleece blanket, and rearranging the finials on the bedposts, all the while grinning and happily repeating, “Bed! Bed!” In fact, the first night he slept in his new bed, the first thing he said when he woke up in the morning was, “Bed!!”

My biggest fear about having him in a bed was that he’d get out of bed in the middle of the night, still half-asleep, wander out of his room and fall down the stairs. The way our stairway is designed, a standard baby gate won’t attach at the top of the stairs. The solution I came up with was to “bell the cat” by hanging a strap with several loud jingle bells on it over his doorknob, so if he opened his door I’d hear it and wake up. Fortunately, I needn’t have worried, since he loves his bed so much that he hasn’t even made an attempt to climb out, either after a nap or in the morning. The closest he’s come to wanting out is to call, “Mama, mama, open!” or “Mama, up up up!” in the morning – and even that is only after he’s been wide awake and playing in the bed for half an hour or so.

I have discovered one small drawback, though: the bed is just enough longer than the crib that the video monitor doesn’t quite show the foot of the bed. So if he crawls down to that end, I can’t be certain that he’s still in bed, and I can’t see if he’s getting himself into trouble. This afternoon, after I put him down for his nap and was watching him on the monitor, I saw him crawl to the foot of the bed and vanish, and then I started hearing an odd series of noises that went something like: [click] [hum] [click] [silence] [click] [hum] [click] [silence]. I listened to it for several minutes before I realized that the little monkey had discovered the on/off switch for the window air conditioner and was happily flicking it on and off and on and off!! He’s definitely going to grow up to be either an engineer or a juvenile delinquent (or possibly both). But he’s my big boy now, and I couldn’t be prouder of him. Even when he’s being a monkey!

Ducks, Docks, Donuts, and Dirt

One of the highlights of every summer since I’ve been married is time spent at my in-laws’ house on Cape Cod. It’s a good-sized house, so our visits are often shared with grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins, and often other family or even unrelated friends who’ve become family. So this past Thursday afternoon, we threw a bunch of stuff into the minivan and headed down the Cape.

To elaborate on that last sentence, I really do mean “threw a bunch of stuff” very literally. In the past, we’ve had to minimize and calculate to make sure we can fit everything we actually need into the trunk of a sedan. There were always tradeoffs: Do we really need to bring the full-sized stroller? Can we manage with the small umbrella stroller? Do we need the highchair or can we take turns feeding the baby on our laps? How many diapers do we need to bring for three days? Can I manage three days in the same pair of shorts without grossing everyone out? And of course, these questions were often asked as we stared into the full trunk in frustration, with 20 “needed” items still sitting forlornly in the driveway. But with a minivan, we literally tossed anything inside that we could possibly want, never mind need. It was great! Unfortunately, the drawback to this laissez-faire method of packing was a lack of organization that resulted in our leaving behind my husband’s backpack, which included all his toiletries and clothes (fortunately I had packed his swimsuit in a separate bag, so all was not lost). But it was the Cape, and it was vacation, so we rolled with it.

My son Ryan had first experienced the Cape House last summer as a 7-month-old. His enjoyment of it back then was pretty limited to sitting inside a giant inner tube on the lawn and being crowed over by dozens of adoring relatives at the annual family summer party. He was non-mobile enough at the time that it was easy to plop him somewhere with something interesting to watch and just sit back and relax myself. Ha! Not so this year. As soon as we brought him inside, my now VERY mobile 20-month-old was off and running around the house exploring every nook and cranny. He carefully pointed out each clock, turned every lamp on and off, and strained to reach every wall switch. He threw all the throw pillows on the floor, peeked in every cabinet, and attempted to fall off the porch into the bushes.

And then, he found the beach. (One of my favorite features of the house is that it’s right on a good-sized pond so the porch affords a lovely view of passing kayaks, sailboats, and various wildlife, not to mention a small private beach.) But even better than simply the beach, he found the ducks. A mother duck with 8 adorable, fluffy babies swam by to beg for handouts. Cousin Troy grabbed the sleeve of stale crackers which was waiting for their arrival and rushed down to the beach with Ryan eagerly following. Enthusiastic but not completely clear on the concept, Ryan imitated Troy throwing bits of cracker to the ducks by throwing handfuls of sand to them. Fortunately, the ducklings weren’t overly clear on the concept either and just as enthusiastically swam over to explore the splashes where the sand had landed in the water. Ryan turned to me several times and pointed at them, excitedly announcing, “Ducks!!” I was just thrilled that he made the connection between actual ducks and the animated and cartoon versions he’s seen on Curious George and in books.

When the ducks had had their fill and gone on their merry way, Ryan took advantage of being near the water and splashed a few inches into the pond (he would happily have plunged right in if it weren’t for his stick-in-the-mud mother who insisted he put on a swimsuit before that particular exploration). He was curious about the feeling of wet sand between his toes, and found a big flat stick to dig in the wet sand with. After a few barely-thwarted attempts to squat in the water to play, I hauled him back to the house to get him into his swimsuit.

Daddy gladly took over at that point (Ryan was not the only one eager to go play in the pond), and soon they were both suited up and ready to dig in the dirt and swim. One of the many items tossed haphazardly into the minivan had been a set of sand toys, and Ryan happily explored the bag of goodies. Buckets and shovels and molds, oh my!

He also enjoyed floating in the pond with some assistance from Troy.

And of course, a few swim lessons from Daddy:

The next morning we took a drive to pick up the morning paper, and on the way stopped by the docks to admire the boats. Ryan was as impressed by the real boats as he is by his toy boats, and happily waved to the various captains and passengers with an enthusiastic (and loud) “Hi!!!” to them followed by the announcement, “Boat!!” to everyone on shore who might not have noticed.

On our way back to the house, we stopped one more time for coffee and donuts – a special treat that Ryan rarely gets. He deigned to share a chunk of glazed donut and a bite or two of chocolate glazed while he watched Mary Poppins in the DVD player, his eyes glazing over as it approached nap time. I figured that he would settle right down in his crib for a nap when we got back, but I don’t know WHAT I was thinking. There’s no napping on vacation! As soon as we were back at the house, he insisted on running around again, stealing beanbags from Uncle Jim’s game, being chased by ever-patient cousin Kayla, climbing on the picnic table to see what Pappy was doing, and giggling while racing past Aunt Holly’s and Bammy’s legs. He didn’t want to miss out on a moment of fun at the Cape house!

But one of the highlights of our visit, to me, was our outing to a Falmouth Town Band concert. The town has a lovely bandstand with a great stretch of lawn that plays host to band concerts every Thursday night. Families set up lawn chairs and spread out blankets, others sit in their cars and honk appreciatively after favorite numbers. Herb and Ryan and I merely plopped on the grass and sat back to enjoy the fun. Ryan was tired enough that he was content to sit in my lap and sway along with the marches, his eyes wide as he took in the rows of shiny brasses and watched the cymbals and timpani clashing and crashing. At one point he did get up to chase another small boy next to us who was running in circles, as small boys do. It reminded me of the many other summer concerts I’ve been to throughout my life, both as a performer and as an audience member. I suspect that you could go back in time a hundred years and, other than the clothes and cars, see exactly the same scene. Families relaxing, children running about chasing fireflies or each other, people clapping in time to familiar marches, happily ignoring the occasional missed note or muffed entrance.

Families relaxing and having fun together: that’s what summer vacations are all about. That, and ducks, docks, donuts and dirt.

My 30-Minute Pregnancy Oasis

Generally, when Ryan takes his late morning nap, I take one right along with him. But with yesterday’s heat and our pool being open, I decided to eschew a nap and go for a swim. I boldly donned my bikini (warning my neighbors to avert their eyes) and went in the pool.

If I could, I would magically give every pregnant woman in the world access to a warm swimming pool. There is nothing more perfect for erasing almost all the woes of pregnancy. The buoyancy of the water gets rid of that “can’t get comfortable” feeling, the perfect temperature erases the too-hot-too-cold-hormonal-temperature thing, the warmth soothes puffy fingers and ankles and achy muscles, the quiet lapping of the water against the side of the pool calms the crazy mood swings, and the water itself hides the resemblance to a beached whale.

I will admit that I don’t particularly suffer from the latter symptom. Of all my pregnancy woes (and they are legion – ask my poor husband), one that has never been an issue for me is body image. My non-pregnancy figure is naturally relatively slender; in fact, my figure has generously been called “boyish”. In other words, I’m kind of flat-chested, with hips that don’t look curvy relative to my thick waist. So pregnancy gives me the great boobs I’ve always wanted, and a big baby belly (combined with that late-pregnancy sway) gives my hips the illusion of being curvy and voluptuous. Plus one fringe benefit of being so sick at the beginning of this pregnancy is that I lost ten pounds in the first two months, mostly from my thighs (woot woot!), so my biggest problem area is more slender than usual. I have never felt as sexy and beautiful as I do when I’m pregnant.

But I will also admit that a pregnant woman in a bikini, although not exactly unattractive in some ways, just looks goofy. Pregnancy, in my mind, is the anatomical equivalent of a mullet: in theory, very practical; in practice, kind of silly-looking. But pop that bikini under the surface of a swimming pool and no-one else needs to know about the silliness.

So for thirty whole minutes yesterday afternoon, I escaped from my pregnancy woes in my private aquatic nirvana. Even the birds cooperated: the chickadees sang me their love calls, the blue jays chattered socially instead of scolding, the cardinal came for a visit and wolf-whistled at me, and the mourning doves stopped by to coo their approval. I think I might just need to spend every nap time in my backyard haven. Just don’t peek over the fence before I get into the water!

Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, or, The Joys of Pregnancy Hormones

Today being the unofficial beginning of Memorial Day weekend, this morning my husband and I were both looking for links and music to post on Facebook in honor of our military heroes. You know, emotional music and pregnancy hormones are a very volatile mix. My husband found a beautiful rendition of “Here’s to the Heroes” sung by a boy soprano and while I was listening to it, he posted one of the most poignant (and one of my favorite) sections of Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address, and between the two, I of course dissolved into a puddle of tears.

Now, it seems to me that I should get a pass on this one, because the poignancy of those words combined with that glorious music is enough to make the hardest heart a bit softer and to bring tears to the ears of the most unemotional among us. But I will readily admit that these days I am moved to tears by much less than this. In fact, I can be moved to tears by an insurance commercial, or a toilet paper commercial, or even the occasional car commercial. Of course, I can also be moved to tears by the cap of a new gallon of milk that won’t tear off, or by an unsuccessful attempt to tie my own shoelaces, or by a blob of gunky toothpaste in the sink.

Occasionally, the tears have no known cause at all, like a few days ago when we were in the car and my husband suddenly noticed that I had tears pouring down my cheeks and asked what was wrong. “Nothing,” was the sobbed reply. “Are you sad?” “Yes.” “About what?” “Nothing!!!” followed by more sobs. And it was perfectly true. I just suddenly felt absolutely miserable – about nothing at all. All the emotion was there but none of the backing reason.

Fortunately, the tears are often followed by laughter as I know how ridiculous these outbursts are. Logically, even when my hormones tell me I’m miserable, I know that I have no reason to be sad. Knowing that you’re not miserable and yet feeling miserable is a very disconcerting sensation. It’s a strange feeling that I suspect cannot be fathomed by anyone who hasn’t been through it. And it brings a kind of giddiness in its wake that is equally unfathomable.

I am grateful that I have a husband who is able to roll with the punches and not take my emotional outbursts overly seriously – and yet, he takes ME seriously. He never minimizes my feelings or dismisses them; he accepts that they are real, even when they are baseless. I appreciate that he doesn’t need to completely understand how I feel in order to allow and even support me feeling that way. He just hops right along for the ride. And that’s why I love him.

I Am a Mom

I’m guessing that it’s not news to anyone who’s ever read my blog before that I am, in fact, a mom. But I feel the need to announce it, because I just got my official Mom Street Cred: I bought a minivan.

When my husband first brought up the idea of trading in my beloved Honda Civic sedan for an SUV or minivan that would actually hold a double stroller in the trunk and accomodate two car seats plus adult passengers, I was terrified. Despite the fact that I learned to drive on a huge Plymouth Gran Fury station wagon that seated about 12 people, since then I’ve only driven tiny compact cars. My first two cars were Honda Civic hatchbacks and even my current sedan was smaller than most. The thought of driving something as big and heavy as an SUV or a minivan filled my heart with fear and trembling. But I agreed with him that upsizing was a necessary evil, so we both started doing our research.

The thought of driving a van for the first time on unfamiliar roads with a car salesman yammering at me from the back seat brought me to tears. So wisely, my husband suggested that we rent a minivan for an upcoming weekend trip, to let me get a feel for driving a bigger vehicle without a stranger watching me. By that point, we had eliminated SUVs as having too few seats and being too high off the ground, and were seriously considering the Honda Odyssey minivan, both because it got excellent ratings in all the reviews we could find and because the familiarity of a Honda cockpit was very comforting to me. So my personal research department (AKA my wonderfully patient husband) searched all over town to find someplace that would rent us an Odyssey for the weekend. No luck, but he managed to come up with a good deal on a Kia Sedona, so I agreed that any kind of minivan would be a useful experience, and he picked up the Kia and brought it home, then had me drive it to his sister’s house, a very familiar journey.

Pulling out of our street onto the main road was probably the most nerve-wracking part of the trip. I was surprised at how high off the ground I felt – it was like driving my own car sitting in a lawn chair on the roof. But as I got off the city streets and onto the highway, I was surprised but relieved to find that it didn’t feel as ponderous or heavy as I’d expected. In fact, it had more pep than my sedan. The only time I had any sense of the weight of the van was when I was making a tight turn at a high speed. I had another minor nervous moment when I had to back the beast out of a parking space at a busy highway rest stop, but even that was more manageable than I expected. I ended the weekend confident that I would be able to survive, and possibly even enjoy, driving a minivan. (The satellite radio tuned to the Broadway station might have contributed to that impression.)

That feeling was confirmed a few days later when we found a 2008 Odyssey at a dealership and took it for a test drive. As expected, the familiar Honda cockpit helped to put me at ease, and since we had our son in the back seat, he helped to distract the salesman a bit and I could concentrate on my driving. We took the car on the highway and on some back roads so I could get a feel for how it handled under various conditions. I even turned around in a parking lot and laughed when I realized that this big beast had a tighter turning radius than my little sedan! I found that very comforting.

Then last night, we went to a dealership that had a number of Odysseys on their lot that fit our criteria: right year, right body type, right mileage, right features, and of course, right price. One of them had more bells and whistles than most, even the backup camera that had originally been on our “must have” list but that we’d been unable to find in any other vehicles at other dealerships. The sticker price made me catch my breath a bit, until my husband reminded me that the “online” price (and the one we would be paying) was considerably less than that. (Of course, that also reminded me of how much I hate car dealers’ deceptive and manipulative selling tactics, but that’s another whole blog entry.) Our wonderful saleswoman, Luda, had us take it for a test drive, and instead of yammering on about how wonderful the car was, she chatted with my son in the back seat (and let him play with the DVD remote, which endeared her to all of us immediately) and let the car sell itself, which it did.

My husband and I had a little chat in the waiting room and agreed that this was the car we wanted, and within an hour I had signed, initialed, and gotten copies of a whole stack of paperwork promising that this would be my very own mom car. So today I go to the bank to have them cut the biggest check I’ve ever written and then back to the dealership to drop it off and sign, sign, sign my life away on another stack of paperwork. And then just wait a day or so for them to get new plates and detail the car to ensure that new car smell, and she’ll be all mine!

And yes, she is definitely a “she”. I had joked to my husband on the way to see the car that I was thinking of naming it “Stan the Van”, but this car is much too elegant and ladylike to be a Stan. In fact, I was so grateful to our saleswoman for being so helpful and unpushy that I’m thinking of naming it in her honor: Ludmilla, or Millie, for short. I just hope that she and Gustave get along.

Do You Know What I Know?

Like most toddlers, Ryan is always happy to show off his new tricks to anyone who’s willing to watch (or listen). Within the past few days, he’s had both a babysitter and his grandmother, Bammy, to show off to, and he took advantage of it both times. He ran around like a crazy boy, putting a box on his head and marching around, demonstrating his ability to put his potty seat on the potty without help, pointing out each and every wall in the room and proclaiming, “Wall!”, and breaking a few eardrums demonstrating his understanding of both the concept and the word “echo”. He’s very proud of what he’s learned.

But he doesn’t always need an audience. Sometimes he’s perfectly content to be his own audience. Yesterday morning, I woke up to a quiet recitation of his entire vocabulary coming from the other end of the hall. He had woken up and was entertaining himself (and unbeknownst to him, me) by going through his whole repertoire, just like a little parakeet. Uh-oh. Ball. Pooh. Potty. Wall. K (clock). Cuckoo. Pee! (“Pee” is always said with an exclamation point. He is a boy, after all.) Book. Mama. Poop! (Also always said with an exclamation point. Still a boy.) Vroom. Moo. Baaa. Neigh. Woo woo (that’s a train whistle). Woof woof. Up. Down. All done. Potty. (That one is apparently worth saying twice.) What. Why. Bye-bye. Bum. Eye. Bear. (All right, we’re from New England: he says bayah. Whattaya gonna do?) Rar. (That’s his lion/tiger/bear/dinosaur noise.) Ah-boom. Ah-ah-ah-choooo. Balloon. Echo! (Said in either an ear-splitting screech or a barely audible whisper, never anything in between.) Bee. Blue. At that point he had apparently exhausted himself and went back to sleep for 20 minutes or so, then woke up and did it all over again.

I love that’s he not only aware of all the new discoveries he’s making, but also that he’s just as delighted by them all as I am.

 

Pregnancy: The Ghost of Christmas Future

I am writing this entry at three o’clock in the morning. No, I’m not up with a sick child. No, I wasn’t out partying and am just getting to bed. No, I didn’t have a four-hour nap yesterday. No, I’m not even having trouble sleeping because I can’t get comfortable. Yes, I’m exhausted. But one of the joys of pregnancy (for me, anyway), is periodic bouts of insomnia.

It seems to me that a lot of the symptoms and discomforts of pregnancy serve to prepare a woman for having a small child. Pregnancy insomnia is practice for those long nights when the baby just won’t stop crying unless you’re walking up and down the hall with her in your arms, or for those nights when he wakes up every hour on the hour and wants to be held. Those funny leg twitches you get in the middle of the night give you practice jiggling a colicky baby on your knee for hours on end. Not being able to find a comfortable position to sit in gives you practice for finding the exact position in which the baby will finally relax and stop crying.

But above and beyond all those practice skills you’ll need in a few months, there are lots of discomforts that give a mother sympathy for a baby. What are the biggest complaints of a small baby? Gas and diaper rash. The boxes of Prilosec and giant bottle of Tums on my nightstand are proof that I have sympathy for any digestive issues, and between the hemorrhoids and the constipation, you’d better believe I have sympathy for any disorders of the “undercarriage”. Even the difficulties of eating – like feeling starved, but just not wanting to eat – are often echoed from pregnancy to newbornhood.

So instead of letting myself get frustrated at the heartburn, the soreness, and the exhaustion, I’m trying to think of everything the new baby will be going through and trying to fix this moment in my mind to give me patience when he or she is dealing with upset tummy, sore bottom, and tired crankiness.

And then I’m going to get myself some warm milk, sit in the rocking chair, and turn on some soft lullabies. After all, it works for the baby.

Wow!

For the past few weeks, Ryan’s vocabulary has been absolutely exploding. He picks up a new word or two almost every single day. Of course, a few of those words are merely mimicking something he hears someone say, but with no understanding of the meaning. For example, we tried to get him to say “thank you” the other day and got something that sounded vaguely like “takoooooo”, but he didn’t repeat it and he didn’t say it in the right context. But some words he grabs onto and relishes and uses every chance he gets. When I see him begin to play with his food instead of eating it, I often ask him, “Are you done?” and now he’s taken to announcing “Done!” whenever he’s finished with his dinner, or when his sippy cup is empty, or even when he’s ready to get out of his high chair. He obviously understands what “done” means. But my favorite new use-it-all-the-time word that he’s picked up is “wow!”.

I’m not always sure exactly what he’s referring to, but he seems to understand that “wow” means you’re looking at something new, or interesting, or different. And he often repeats it many times in succession, often with increasing (or at least varying) intensity or inflection. “Wow. Woooowwwww. Wow! WOOOWWWW!” In the morning, when he wakes up, we often hear a few quiet wows, apparently as he contemplates the excitement and adventures of the new day. Saturday night, we were visiting friends in New York and stayed in a hotel room with Ryan’s porta-crib beside our bed, and we woke at 3:45 am to the sound of a small voice excitedly (if somewhat drowsily) exclaiming, “Wow. Wow. WOW. Wow! Wooooooowwwwwww.” I’m not certain if he was even truly awake or not, but I can only assume he had just had an amazing dream.

The speed with which his vocabulary is growing is incredible to me, and the fact that the vast majority of his words are clearly understandable and used in the right context makes me shake my head in wonderment. That little brain is absorbing and learning at a rate that is just astonishing. His whole world is opening up as he learns to talk about it, to express his thoughts to the rest of the world, and to communicate with other people.

Wow.

Pardon Me, I Think I Got Some Quirk on Your Shirt

I knew that my husband Herb was the man for me when I discovered that instead of rolling his eyes at my quirks, he merely laughed and humored me about them. When he discovered my complete lack of a directional sense, he bought me a GPS. And when he discovered that I name my cars, he shook his head, laughed, and admitted that his sister does, too.

I bought my first car when I was 20. It was a wee, peppy, brownish-red hatchback that I dubbed Tess. She served me well for many years and when she finally succumbed to high mileage and body rot, I traded her in for a brand-new, wee, peppy, bright blue hatchback named Willy. Willy also served me well for many years, and eventually succumbed, not to high mileage (although he was up there), but to my need for a “grown-up” car. He was supplanted by a graceful, elegant, sleek, burgundy sedan named Marguerite, which was the car I was driving when I met my husband.

Marguerite was actually a major contributor to my receiving the family seal of approval, at least from my niece and nephew, who were about 12 and 10 at the time. At one of our early meetings, they shyly asked me if my car had a name, and were surprised and delighted when I introduced them to Marguerite. They giggled and told me that when Uncle Herb got his car, he refused to give it a name so they named it for him. In keeping with his (Uncle Herb’s as well as the car’s, that is) stodgy nature, and inspired by the license plate bracket advertising “Smith Motors”, they dubbed his car Mr. John Smith. And of course, after we were married, they informed me that Marguerite was now Mrs. John Smith – although she still goes by Marguerite socially.

After 13 years and well over 200,000 miles, Mr. John Smith, like an elderly pet, was beginning to cost more for maintenance and repairs than it was worth for the resulting increase in lifespan, so (unlike with a pet), we immediately began to look for a newer model. And just yesterday, Herb brought home a beautiful, sleek, suave, three-year-old, European model of elegance, having left Mr. John Smith behind to begin his next life as an ashtray. I had already claimed naming rights, assuming that Herb had no interest in bequeathing a suitable moniker on the new arrival, even going so far as to tell my sister-in-law that although I had loosened him up considerably in our three years of marriage, convincing him to name a car was beyond even my considerable powers of persuasion.

So as soon as he pulled into the driveway in the new car, I announced that he looked like an Angelo. Herb shook his head and laughed – and then informed me that he couldn’t possibly be an Angelo, because he’s German, not Italian. And he promptly suggested the name Dieter. I objected that Dieter made me think of the old Saturday Night Live sketch with the creepy “touch my monkey” guy, which immediately led us both to suggest “Hans or Franz!” – which we also just as promptly vetoed. After throwing around a few more German names, one or the other of us came up with Gustave (which makes us both think of the brilliant composer Mahler), and we agreed that the car was, indeed, a Gustave.

Who knew that my quirk would finally rub off on him? I know that he’s still just humoring me, but the fact that he was willing to jump right in and participate in my quirk makes me very happy. Now if only I could get his sense of direction to rub off on me a little…

In Theory and In Practice

For some reason, my husband and I were discussing Yogi Berra quotes the other day, and we agreed that one of his best is, “In theory, there’s no difference between theory and practice. In practice, there is.”

In theory, I love being pregnant. Bringing a new life into the world, feeling a baby grow and move inside my body, watching my own body change and ready itself to sustain a new life – it’s amazing and humbling! In practice, being pregnant can be pretty miserable. Nausea, heartburn, constipation, headaches, incontinence, mood swings, hemorrhoids, itching in places that should never itch, swollen ankles, skin turning dark in weird places, stretch marks, skin tags – it’s amazing that any woman volunteers to go through it more than once.

But here I am, one of those women who voluntarily, intentionally, and determinedly is going through it a second time. And if you’re wondering why, after that list of symptoms, rest assured that at times I wonder why myself. But here’s the answer that I come up with every time: pregnancy may be nine months of misery interspersed with moments of joy, but motherhood is a lifetime of joy interspersed with moments of misery. From that first moment in the hospital when they laid Ryan on my chest and I looked into that tiny, perfect face, I forgot about any of the sickness and pain I’d gone through to reach that point. And even now, as I’m in the midst of the unpleasant symptoms, I can look forward to the moment when I meet this baby for the first time and know that once again, all the memories of my current discomfort will melt away.

Everything is always easier in theory. It’s predictable, it’s fixable, it’s all laid out and nothing is unexpected. But in practice, life throws you curve balls. The symptoms that responded to medications last time don’t respond this time. I have symptoms I never had before. My expectations of what I’d encounter and how I'd deal with it are completely off target. With a second pregnancy, theory gave me a false sense of security about what I was in for, and practice deflated my confidence and made me start all over again from the beginning. But with a second pregnancy, I also have the foreknowledge of exactly how amazing motherhood will be – with the first pregnancy, I only had the theory, but with this one, I have the practice. And in this case, the practice is so much better than the theory!

We Should Have Named Him Tenzing

Ryan is reaching the age that I refer to as the “mountain goat” stage. He will climb on anything he can reach. I’ve caught him with his foot over the top of both the crib rail and the playpen fence, about to sling himself over. I had always assumed that he jettisoned his comforter, blanket, and stuffed animals from his crib every morning because he was bored; now I realize he was just creating a landing strip for his Great Escape.

Sofas and chairs are no longer objects to sit on, but objects to be scaled. He will pull a kitchen chair across the room so he can stand on it and reach things on the counter. I am convinced that it’s only a matter of time before I leave the room for 30 seconds and come back to find him perched on top of the refrigerator. No longer does he merely climb on the seat of the sofa, but he pulls himself to the top and tightrope walks across the back. I even caught him standing up in one of the office chairs and pulling himself up and over the back.

He’s discovering new purposes for all his toys: the ramp he used to roll balls down is now a stool that gets him high enough to dive over the side of the playpen. The wooden mailbox, the toy trains, even the small upholstered chair are all merely stepping-stools to freedom these days. The ride-on zebra and the wheeled cooler he used to push around the room are now mountains to be climbed.

And objects need not be inanimate to be climbed. He is just as happy to climb onto the back of the couch by standing in my lap and climbing up over my head and shoulders as he is to climb directly onto the back. (My hair makes an excellent hand-grip.) He’ll even grab me and shove me where he wants me to be so he can scramble up my body like a kitten and reach a light switch or a cupboard or whatever intrigues him that’s otherwise out of his reach. If I am ever foolish enough to sit on the floor of his playpen to play he immediately steps on whatever body part is handy and clambers up and over me to get over the wall.

It’s a good thing that the weather is getting nice enough that we can visit playgrounds often. Hopefully he’ll burn off much of his need to climb by scrambling up ladders and stairs and by his constant attempts to walk up the slide from the bottom. He happily pulls himself up onto play horses and cars that are intended for older, taller children. He gladly accepts the challenge presented by any climbing area, or in fact any structure that can be climbed, whether intended as a climbing area or not.

Eventually, he’ll either discover some other mode of exploration and leaving daredevil climbing behind for a while, or at least he’ll grow tall enough that he won’t need to climb as much to get into the trouble he’s seeking. But until then, my reflexes are becoming impressively sharp. I guess that’s one of those unexpected bonuses of motherhood.

Talk To Me

My son Ryan is reaching the age where he can both understand and speak quite a few words. It opens up a whole world of communication between the two of us. Often, this communication is very helpful. For example, when he’s starting to feel sleepy and he’s ready for a nap, either I’ll ask him if he’s “ready to go up?” and he’ll start up the stairs toward his room, or he’ll announce “up, up, up!” to let me know it’s naptime.

Sometimes it’s helpful but a bit embarrassing. When he has a dirty diaper, he’s taken to proclaiming, “Bum!” to let me know. Helpful, but embarrassing, at least in public. And, being a boy, of course another of his new favorite words is “pee”, which he uses to point out the toilet every time he walks past a bathroom, but which he also uses to announce to anyone in the house whenever Mommy goes to use the bathroom. It’s not so bad when Daddy is the only other one home, but when we have guests it becomes a bit of an overshare.

Sometimes his newfound conversational skills are just the tiniest bit too limited. Every afternoon as I bring him downstairs from his nap, as soon as he sees the front door he requests, “Ball! Ball! Ball?” and then gets frustrated because he doesn’t understand my explanation of “after lunch” or “first we have to put your socks and shoes on”. I’m hoping that he’ll begin to understand the words “wait” and “later” very soon, but for now the poor kid gets apoplectic trying to convince me to take him outside to play ball when all I want to do is put on his shoes before we go outside.

But even with his conversational limitations, the fact that we now have give-and-take conversations where we both obviously understand each other is amazing to me. He happily complies with requests for a kiss or a hug, or to bring me a toy, or to throw something in the trash, or to show something to Daddy. Instead of merely pointing and grunting when he wants something, he can now often specifically ask for something that’s out of reach, like a book or a ball or a teddy bear or a pillow. He’ll even pick out a video by the picture on the cover and bring it to one of us, telling us which one it is by announcing “Pooh!” or roaring like the Lion King or making a monkey noise like King Louie in the Jungle Book.

But I’d better cut this entry short – I hear a small voice from the other room announcing, “uh-oh”…

Frustration, Frustration

As he approaches that magical year-and-a-half mark, my sunny, happy-go-lucky, good-natured, easygoing child is suddenly developing a tendency to periodically throw himself on the ground in abject misery. Why is this, you may ask? The answer, I can tell you in one word: Frustration.

The most difficult part of being a toddler, in my humble opinion, is the fact that your brain is developing so much faster than your physical skills. My son’s curiosity continually drives him to try to figure things out, to manipulate them, to make them work. And he gets frustrated when he’s not tall enough, not strong enough, and not coordinated enough. He’s about half an inch too short to reach the hallway light switch, and after straining at it for a few seconds, he throws himself down in frustration. He knows he needs to turn the deadbolt to open the front door, but he’s not quite strong enough to turn it all the way, so he screams in frustration. He knows that he needs to stretch his sock out to get it on his foot, but he’s not quite coordinated enough to get his fingers and his toes to work together, so he sobs in frustration.

It’s a hard time of life to be in. The world is his oyster, but nobody gave him an oyster knife so he’s stuck licking around the edges, waiting for someone to lend him a hand. He wants to dress himself, but he still has to wait for Mom or Dad to help. He knows where the basketball hoop is outside, but he can’t go play unless someone opens the door for him and helps him down the steps. He really wants to eat that bowl of rice but it keeps jumping off the spoon before he gets it in his mouth. It shouldn’t be a surprise that he cries in frustration sometimes – in fact, it’s more surprising that he doesn’t cry in frustration ALL the time.

As a mom, it’s really hard for me to watch his frustration, especially when I’m the cause of it in some ways. It frustrates me when I can’t explain to him that we need to put on his socks and shoes before we can go outside and play ball. It frustrates me when I see him struggling to master a new skill and I have to force myself to let him struggle instead of simply doing it for him. It breaks my heart to see that little tear-stained face begging me to let (or help) him do something that just isn’t safe. But I’m discovering that sometimes being a good mom means being a tough mom. It means standing by and watching my baby struggle. It means letting my child learn that you can’t always do what you want to do. Sometimes, it even means taking away something fascinating (but dangerous) and hard-heartedly ignoring the tears of frustration and anger that follow.

But those moments when I do allow him to struggle and suddenly he masters a new skill, or does something without help for the very first time…those are the moments when seeing the pride and delight in his eyes makes it worth every tear we both shed in frustration a mere moment earlier.

Happy Anniversary to Us!

Yesterday was our third wedding anniversary, and my wonderful husband spoiled me rotten by whisking me away to Newport for a whirlwind 24-hour trip. He made all the arrangements in secret and surprised me with a lovely, romantic, relaxing celebration.

We dropped off our son at my in-laws’ and headed down to Newport. When we arrived, our hotel room wasn’t quite ready, so we left our bags and took a stroll through downtown Newport, checking out some lovely boutiques and finding a quaint pub for lunch.

We found the glassworks shop where we had bought a lovely glass vase last year, and since the third anniversary is the glass anniversary (under the contemporary calendar, at least), we decided to find another knickknack as an anniversary present to ourselves. We chatted with the shop attendant and after considering a sculpted glass wave and a charming, curly-tentacled octopus, we settled on a lovely, deep amber glass vase similar to the one from last year. That wrapped up, we headed back to the hotel.

We had spa appointments, and since our room wasn’t ready, they took us in early; Herb for a massage and me for my first-ever facial. We disrobed and snuggled into the spa’s plush robes and comfy slippers and waited in the comfortable love seat of the lounge, listening to the soft trickle of a fountain and enjoying lemon-scented water until our attendants came to get us. The aesthetician settled me comfortably on a heated bed and examined my skin, which she pronounced “beautiful”, once she recovered from her horror over my admission that my skin care regimen consisted of soap and water plus an occasional dab of moisturizer. (If she knew I was lying about the latter she’d probably have fainted.) But she laid out an array of lotions and potions, told me to relax, and commenced the most thorough cleaning, exfoliating, massaging, steaming, masking, toning, and tightening that my skin has ever experienced. My pores have never been so clean and tight as they were when she finished with me, and my skin has never been as velvety smooth and glowing. I met Herb back in the lounge and he looked as relaxed as I felt. We dressed and went to check into our room.

Our bags were waiting when we arrived, and we took a few moments to check out the view before we began dressing for dinner. It was quite foggy by then, so there was little to see, but we could hear the haunting but lovely call of a horn buoy echoing through the mist. We found a television station that was showing clips of historic and beautiful sights around Newport, so as we relaxed, we enjoyed learning more about the fascinating city we were in. After that quick break, we got all dressed up for dinner – Herb in an impeccable white dinner jacket and onyx studs in his collar and cuffs, and I in a brilliant blue cocktail dress with the beautiful pearl necklace and bracelet Herb had given me for Valentine’s Day and my birthday. As we headed through the lobby, arm in arm, the concierge noted how elegant we looked and wished us a lovely evening. Herb brought the car around and the valet opened the door for me and gave me a smile and even a slight bow as I went through. Ever the gentleman, Herb opened my car door and made sure I was comfortably seated before closing me in.

Our dinner reservations were at the Castle Hill Inn, where we had eaten last year. After our meal last year, I pronounced it the finest meal – and in fact, the finest dining experience – I had ever had. I wondered if this year would be able to meet that standard. I never should have doubted. From the moment Herb dropped me off and went to park the car, I was treated like royalty. The hostess opened the door for me and escorted me to our table. We were the only diners in the room, which was a round, glassed-in section of the building that looked across a narrow lawn and out onto the ocean. The fog was so thick that the world seemed to vanish past the hedges with no glimpse of ocean in sight, but still the sound of a lonely foghorn echoing over the sea. A few wild bunnies were having their dinner at the edge of the hedges, adding a bit of country charm to the scene. And as the evening wore on, the gray fog took on a deep blue hue, eventually fading to a midnight blue-black, turning the windows to mirrors reflecting the glow of the candles on the tables and the sconces on the walls.

Our waiter remembered us from last year, as he had been our server then as well, and immediately brought us complimentary glasses of champagne. We toasted ourselves and then began to peruse the menu. Several dishes were familiar from last year, but several different items had been added to the menu. Herb recalled what a delightful way the waiter had of describing the various dishes, so we asked him to elaborate on several of the menu items. I was thinking of either the lobster or the duck, and was leaning towards the lobster, but after his vivid and mouth-watering description of the duck, I decided to go with his recommendation. He returned shortly with two freshly baked rolls still steaming from the oven, which he served by masterfully manipulating a pair of spoons like tongs. I enjoyed the bread while Herb studied the wine menu, eventually requesting a taste comparison of two different choices, again beautifully described by our waiter.

Shortly after the wine arrived (I didn’t have a glass, but I did thoroughly enjoy swirling and smelling Herb’s glass, and sampling a tiny sip), the waiter returned with an amuse bouche. This year’s tantalizing mouthful was a tiny slice of delicate veal served over a bed of chopped spring vegetables and garnished with a artistic swirl of veal jus. The meat melted in your mouth and the vegetables tasted like they had come from the garden less than five minutes ago. It was the perfect taste to stimulate the appetite and the senses.

Our first course arrived: Herb had scallops, served three in a row on a long narrow plate, with colorful and tasteful sauces and accompaniments adding both beauty and flavor, and I had a bowl of sunchoke soup. The soup was presented as a shallow bowl with a cake of lobster and other seafood topped with spring onions in it, and the waiter poured the rich broth over it with a graceful flourish. (Can you tell that the presentation of the food at this restaurant delights me as much as the food itself?) The soup was rich and flavorful, but somehow magically managed to not be filling, but instead to stimulate my appetite for the main course.

After a pause during which we were presented with two tiny bowls each containing a perfect scoop of strawberry-mango sorbet as a palate-cleansing intermezzo, our main courses arrived. Herb’s lamb was elegantly presented as two “lollipops” gracefully leaning against each other over a bed of vegetables and gnocchi. My duck breast arrived on a long, narrow plate, the tender, juicy slices leaning against each other like a splayed deck of cards, surrounded by swirls of salsify puree (no, I’m not sure exactly what that is either, but I can assure you it tasted magnificent) and laying over a cake of something marvelous involving potatoes. Neither of us spoke for several minutes as we took our first bites, both of us closing our eyes in ecstasy and making small, involuntary moans of pleasure as our taste buds were overcome by delicious sensations. We quickly exchanged bites, assuring each other than both meals were equally exquisite. I paused between bites, both to give myself time to thoroughly enjoy each succulent mouthful, and also to be sure to pace myself so I wouldn’t run out of room to finish the magnificent meal.

The crowning glory of any meal, in my opinion, is dessert, and I had no doubt by this point that the dessert could live up to the glorious dinner. Herb and I both selected the chocolate trio – and for once, we opted to each get our own instead of sharing. Our accompaniments of coffee (mine) and cognac (his) arrived just before the elegant desserts. On each plate, the words “Happy Anniversary” were spelled out in chocolate in an elegant script.

And they did not disappoint. From the rich chocolate cake with hazelnut ice cream to the spicy sponge cake with whipped cream topping, to the rich smoothness of the pot au crème, the dessert was the perfect ending to a perfect evening.

We arrived back at the hotel in time for a quick dip in the pool and soak in the whirlpool. The mist and rain had begun to cause my knees and hips to ache a bit, so I carefully perched myself on the edge of the whirlpool, soaking in the soothing heat of the water and letting the powerful jets massage my feet. I found a step that was the perfect height to stand on to get my hips in the water without immersing my belly, and dangled my hands in the water while I watched a pair of sisters frolicking in the swimming pool. Herb and I laughed and imagined Ryan and Rutabaga doing the same eight or ten years from now. Soothed and relaxed, we headed back to our room and were soon sound asleep in our soft, comfortable bed.

We woke up to a clear morning with only a few high grey clouds and a temperature at a very comfortable 60 degrees. We took another look at the view from our patio and could now see the harbor full of boats and the picturesque Newport shops. We shared the view with a pair of huddling seagulls.

We stopped at the concierge desk to ask for a breakfast recommendation and the question was hardly out of our mouths when the concierge told us firmly, “The Corner Café” and handed us a map, while wishing aloud that she could join us. The walk was just the right length to work up an appetite, which was a good thing, since the breakfast was both generous and delicious. There were a few other diners, several of whom seemed to be regulars who ordered without a menu and were handed their morning paper as if it had been delivered to the restaurant specifically for them. The waitress/proprietress had a charming Irish brogue and brought me a perfect mug of tea that immediately flashed me back to my days in Zimbabwe and my visit to England. Herb had a mug of hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and a sprinkling of cocoa powder that he immediately pronounced delicious. My French toast was made from thick slices of homemade Portuguese sweet bread and served with maple pecan butter that melted into a rich glaze. I dipped each succulent bite into a puddle of real maple syrup and cooed in ecstasy, alternating the sweet gooey bites with crispy, smoky bacon. Herb’s pancakes were fluffy and light, and he managed to clean his plate. Sadly, I had to bid a sad farewell to the last half of my second giant slice of French toast, because I simply did not have enough room for all its rich goodness. We bid farewell to our charming hostess, promising to return next year, and headed off for another stroll to burn off our breakfasts.

We stopped by a few more quirky boutiques and admired the local architecture, stopping for a few more souvenirs before heading back to the hotel to reclaim our bags and head for home. As we were driving out of town, Herb spied a formalwear shop and decided to make a quick side trip, since he’s been looking for a new black bow tie. As he chatted with the owner about how difficult it is to find a tie-it-yourself bow tie and they commiserated about what a shame it is that no-one wears white pique shirts any more, I browsed the selection of cufflinks and shirt studs, and found a beautiful set of Masonic links and studs. I had been looking for something similar as a gift for Herb for several years now, so I was delighted to stumble across this treasure. But there was yet another treasure to be stumbled across in this shop: there was a photograph behind the counter that seemed to be of a man dressed as Tevye from “Fiddler on the Roof”. When we asked him about it, the owner admitted it was him and immediately began quoting lines from the show in a marvelously rich, sonorous voice. He was delighted to hear that we were also musical theater performers, and we exchanged stories about the groups we worked with. He pulled out another photo of himself in character, this time as Jud Fry from “Oklahoma!”, and broke into one of Jud’s songs in a rich, resounding baritone voice. Of course, we took his contact information and invited him to check out the Reagle Music Theatre of Boston – especially since the shows Reagle has on the schedule for this summer just happen to be “Fidder” and “Oklahoma!”. He was so delighted with our chat and with the fact that Herb was a Mason that he gave us a generous discount on our purchases, and we left feeling that we had made a delightful new friend.
 
We arrived at Herb’s folks’ just before Ryan finished his nap and were able to fill them in on all our adventures and hear the report that Ryan had behaved himself admirably and had thoroughly enjoyed his own adventures before he woke up. It was wonderful to get away, but it was just as wonderful to be back home. It was such a lovely anniversary that I think we’ll have another one next year at the very same time.

 

I Remember Mama

My mom was a very humble woman, in the nicest possible sense of the word. She always thought of herself as ordinary, average, even dumb. She wasn’t ordinary, she wasn’t average, and she most certainly wasn’t dumb. Although I will admit, she couldn’t spell a lick. I used to tease her because on her grocery shopping list, she always spelled “hamberger” with an e instead of a u. And she usually wrote “spag” and “broc” because she knew she’d never get “spaghetti” or “broccoli” right. And any time Sue or I needed help with math or science homework, she’d send us straight to Dad.

She may not have been especially academic, but she was very, very wise. When I was in middle school, she had the wisdom to keep her thoughts to herself when I announced that I was considering dyeing a big magenta streak in my hair. When I was a junior in high school and I came home early from school in tears because a friend had just been killed in a car accident, she had the wisdom to not say anything, but to just hold me in her arms and stroke my hair and let me cry. When I was a sophomore in college and I called her to say that I wanted to live in Africa for the summer, she had the wisdom to keep her fears to herself and let me stretch my wings. She had the kind of wisdom you can’t learn from books and classes.

But even better than wisdom, Mom had faith. Not just a Sunday morning kind of faith, but a deep-rooted, always learning, heart and soul kind of faith. The kind of faith that is apparent in every word and every action, in every fiber of a person’s being. And it was her faith that carried her through this illness. Most patients in her situation would snap at the nurses, complain constantly (and with good reason), and be angry and bitter. But not Mom. She was unfailingly gracious and polite to the medical staff, always cheerful and optimistic, and although she fought her illness every step of the way, she had a serenity about her fate that can only come from a deep-rooted faith in God. And those around her saw it. Her nurses and doctors often commented on it. They all said what a joy she was to work with, what a loving and kind person she was, and what a sunny and hopeful attitude she always had. And if they ever mentioned it to her, she told them in no uncertain terms that her faith in God was what gave her the strength to endure her illness the way she did.

It was absolutely typical of Mom that the day we met with her doctor and were told that her cancer wasn’t responding to treatment and that hospice care was the next step, as we were waiting for the ambulance to take her back to rehab, Mom said to me, “After I’m gone, I want you to give my Bible to Dr. Natarajan. I know she’s searching, and I think she’d really read it.” And, also very typical of Mom, she paused and then asked me, “Do you think that would be weird?” With tears in my eyes, I told her that no, that wouldn’t be weird at all. And I strongly suspect that that Bible is the most meaningful gift that doctor has ever received from a patient.

But the most meaningful gift that I ever received from my mother was simply a lifetime of watching a woman of great wisdom and great faith live out that wisdom and faith every day of her life. She may have seen herself as ordinary, average, and dumb, but to me, she will always be extraordinary, far above average, and pretty darn smart, to boot. And I pray that I will be able to honor and carry on her legacy of wisdom and faith by being an example of wisdom and faith to my own children. In fact, I might even start spelling hamburger with an E.

Martha Metcalf, 1939-2011

Thank You, Baby Monitor

One of the beauties of modern technology for parents is the ability to watch our children unobserved. A video baby monitor comes in very handy for this.

This morning, I woke up a bit before Ryan’s usual get-up time, so I went downstairs to catch up on e-mails before he woke up, and I watched him on the monitor. Since our bedroom is just down the hall from his, I am very used to hearing him sing and coo and run through his entire vocabulary (“Ball! Up! Bye-bye! K! K! K! Ba-dup-uh-dup! Uh-oh!”) to himself for a while before he yells to get up. But this was my first chance to actually watch him as he wakes up. I loved seeing him go from barely stirring to sitting straight up and deliberately ejecting every item from his crib within a few seconds. I laughed at his (nearly successful) attempts to throw his leg over the top of the crib rail and escape. I laughed even harder as he sat in the middle of his crib looking around as if wondering, “Well, what next?” And I smiled as I watched him playing with his own toes, rolling back and forth just because he could, and even bouncing up and down and rattling the crib bars for effect.

This afternoon, I am watching him go down somewhat reluctantly for a nap. He played with his toys for a bit, then threw himself down on his tiger pillow and began making gargling noises. I’m not sure if he was trying to fake me out with fake snoring, or if he was just amusing himself, but I was certainly amused either way. And he’s currently making motorboat noises while shoving his blanket through the crib bars and then fishing it back in again.

I consider myself very fortunate that he is so good at entertaining himself. It gives me a huge amount of freedom to do chores around the house, to get dinner on the table safely without a small, curious child underfoot, and occasionally to just lay on the couch and catch a quick (and often much-needed) catnap while he is safely in his playpen. But to be honest, I’d much rather just sit and watch him while he plays. I love to see his curiosity, his fascination with his own body and abilities as well as the world around him, and his eager exploration of everything within reach. And I appreciate all the modern conveniences that allow me to take a secret peek into his world.