Aaaaand We're Walking...We're Walking....

For the past three days, New England has burst from a long spell of rain and wind and cold into some of the most glorious spring weather you could imagine. The birds have broken into their spring love calls, the crocuses are bursting into bloom, the trees have tiny green buds peeking out from their branches, the snow is a distant memory, and the air has that wonderful smell that only comes with the new spring season. And the best part of all is: it's walking season!

Last month there were a few days with walk-worthy weather, but there was still snow on the ground, which made sidewalks impassable and walking on the shoulder dangerous. So the best we could do was walk around the yard or hang out on the porch. But for the past three days, Ryan and I have been able to take wonderful, safe, sweet-smelling walks every single day!

He's big enough now to sit up in the stroller without the car seat, so he gets to face front and look at everything going by. Which also means he tends to get the sun in his face for nearly half our walk. Luckily, I found him a cute pair of sunglasses. The only problem is that since he has such a big pumpkin head, I had to get a bigger kids' size, and his little button nose hasn't quite grown into them, so they tend to slide down and give him a sunglasses mustache when we go over bumps. The bows are also a little long, so when he leans back against the stroller back, the glasses push forward so that when he turns his head the glasses stay facing forward. I have to admit, I find both of those issues terribly amusing, although Ryan doesn't seem to share my hilarity. But eventually I get him settled and comfortable and off we go!

I find myself narrating everything as we pass, just like my mom tells me she did when I was a baby. I tell him the names of the birds that we hear singing (by the time he can talk he'll know a chickadee from a robin from a mourning dove), I bark at the neighborhood dogs and meow at the cats, I tell him the color of each passing car. We occasionally bump into a neighbor or a passing jogger or the mailman and we stop for a chat. (His sunglasses have been an excellent conversation starter.) I want him to enjoy seeing and hearing and smelling everything! I want him to be able to take it all in, to enjoy the fresh air, to love being in the outdoors.

And I can't wait until this summer when we take him on a real hike. We already have plans to go camping in the mountains - we have a new tent that's big enough for him and all his accoutrements, and a big framepack so Daddy can tote him up the mountain. (The teddy bear pocket is a very important feature.)

Which seems only fair, considering that Mommy toted him last summer!

But in the meantime, we'd better keep practicing so we're all in shape by the time summer rolls around. And so we're walking...we're walking...

New American Gothic

Most of you, I'm sure, are familiar with Grant Wood's famous painting titled, "American Gothic".

What many of you probably don't know (and I certainly didn't), is how that painting came to be. The story goes that in 1930, Grant Wood saw a house in Iowa that was built in the "Carpenter Gothic" style and decided to paint a picture of "the kind of people [he] fancied should live in that house" with the house itself as a backdrop. The man was modeled after his dentist and the woman after his sister. Although the painting was not necessarily intended to depict a married couple (Wood's sister often told people it depicted a father and daughter, perhaps to avoid the unflattering intimation that she would have married a man twice her age), it has become an iconic image of the American pioneer family.

There are many other iconic images of the American family found in art. The work of Norman Rockwell is rife with familiar family images, such as his beautiful Thanksgiving-themed "Freedom From Want".

And any child who grew up reading the "Little House on the Prairie" series is familiar with Garth Williams' lovely depictions of frontier life.

If these charming images depict life from years ago, what images of American family life of today will become iconic in the coming years and decades? To me, what makes these images iconic is their timelessness: little girls will always play with dolls and climb on their daddies' backs, mothers will always snuggle babies while watching older children play, families will always gather together for the holidays, and people will always soldier on through whatever hardships come their way.

So what images of my own family will last for years in my mind? Perhaps these:

because families dressing alike will always be cute,

because multiple generations of family will always gather together for photos on the couch,

because tiny, sleeping babies will always be precious, and

because, like the original American Gothic, there's just something timeless and wonderful about the whole family gathering on the front porch for a family portrait.

No Man Is an Island - Except When It Floods

The whole New England area got quite a bit of rain and wind this past weekend, and by Monday morning floods were clogging storm drains, washing out bridges and sidewalks, and just generally making a mess of everything. Herb called me on his way to work and informed me that we currently "live on an island", since our road was flooded out both to the east and to the west. He warned me not to try to run any errands (not that it took much convincing, given that I take to cold and wet the same way as most cats). He even had to talk his way past a police roadblock on his way home because our road was closed to through traffic. Despite his warnings, I wasn't aware of just how severe the trouble was until I found this YouTube video of a street a few miles from our house:

And once I saw it, it made me a little nervous. Sure, it had been a bit of an inconvenience to put off grocery shopping for one day, but nothing more serious than that. But after I thought about it, I couldn't help wondering, "What if I had to take Ryan to the emergency room?" "What if Herb had been in an accident and I couldn't get to him?" "What if, what if, what if???" It made me realize just how fortunate I am to be able to get anywhere I need to be without much difficulty.

When I was a baby, my parents only had one car. It was a big deal when my dad got a motorbike (he referred to it as a "motorcycle", but I've seen photos - it was barely a moped) so he could take that to work and leave the car for my mom. But before then, and all winter long after then, Mom had two little kids at home and no means of transportation. I suppose there were other people in the neighborhood who did have cars and were home during the day that she could have called on in an emergency. But in this day and age, the thought of not being able to jump in a car and go anywhere until Daddy comes home is...well, unthinkable.

And then there is the magic of the cell phone. Even if Mom did have a car to use during the day, if she broke down, or locked herself out of it (not that that EVER happened), she had to find a pay phone (and a dime) somewhere to call for help. And she had to have any emergency phone number she might need either memorized or written down in her purse (which was probably locked in the car with her keys - and her dime). I am so grateful that I can jump in my car and without having to think of or look up a phone number, call Herb at work OR home OR his cell while I'm heading for the hospital, or wherever else I desperately need to be.

So once again, I'm grateful that I live in an age of technology. It may be something we need to strive to control, to avoid letting it take over our relationships and social connections, but it's also definitely something that comes in handy when used correctly. On my little island, that's even more important than a radio made from coconuts.

Feed Me, Seymour

As of Ryan's last pediatrician visit, we have officially entered the world of solid food. She told us to start him on rice cereal, so naturally we stopped on the way home to pick some up. And the next day I went out and bought a high chair, since we realized a bit too late that both laps and the jumperoo chair are not particularly conducive to feeding a not-always-cooperative baby.

Given his size and appetite, as well as his propensity to put everything in his reach in his mouth, I figured that eating would be a snap. And that's mostly true. As long as you catch him in a good mood, he's more than willing to open his mouth. He even grabs the spoon himself (usually with his left hand - I'm starting to suspect he may turn out to be a lefty!), and leans helpfully toward each bite. And most of the time he manages to get at least some of the food in his mouth. (He did discover the lovely "splat" noise the cereal makes if he bites halfway down the spoon, but at least that means half of it goes in his mouth even if the other half goes up his nose, all over the tray, all over Mommy, etc.)

But I'd forgotten about one major issue: swallowing. He hasn't quite gotten the hang of what to do after the cereal goes in his mouth. So he usually ends up kind of rolling it around with his tongue, enjoying making smacking noises with it, and then just letting it dribble all over his face and chin. But if anybody can work the cereal goatee, it's Ryan. How can you not love the cereal-covered grin?

So we'll keep working on it, and I'm sure eventually he'll discover how nice it is when the cereal goes all the way into his tummy instead of just staying all over his face. But for now, I'll just keep enjoying the flecks of cereal in his hair, in my hair, all over the kitchen...it's all good.

Three on a Match

When I was a little girl, my mother would often make matching outfits for me, my older sister, and herself. Sometimes even our dolls would get in on the act with dresses made from scraps of our dresses. I loved dressing up like Mommy, and being the younger sister, I got the hand-me-downs as well so I could match Mommy twice as long, which delighted me to no end. So I suppose it was inevitable that Ryan would end up in outfits matching Daddy - and even Mommy as well.

Yep, that's all three of us wearing our matching Irish fisherman sweaters for the Reagle Irish Show. Daddy sings in the barbershop quartet every year, so he has a beautiful costume that includes a sweater embroidered with the words " 'tis himself".

I was filling in for the tenor at one performance, so I had a similar sweater boasting, naturally, " 'tis herself".

Well, since Daddy and Mommy already had matching outfits, of course Daddy was determined that Ryan get in on the act so we could be a complete set. We had some difficulties finding a wee Irish sweater (although Herb did find one that was actually TOO wee), but eventually Herb found an Irish import shop with a gorgeous hand-knit wool sweater in 24-month size. He brought it home on opening night of the show and I quickly stitched on the words " 'tis himself" and a shamrock in bright green thread.

Since the sweater is wool, Ryan did have a few objections when we first put it on him, and I was careful to put a long-sleeved onesie underneath so he wouldn't be too itchy. But once it was on we didn't have too many problems - until we tried to put him in the car seat, that is. The sweater is so bulky that we had to lengthen the straps as far as they would go and even then it was quite a stretch to wedge both baby and sweater into the seat and get him successfully strapped in. But as you can see, the result was well worth it. (Ryan might debate that point, but Daddy and Mommy definitely thought it was worth it.)

I have no doubt that I only have a few years to get away with the matching outfits before Ryan realizes how uncool it is and begins to object. (Boys get over that sort of thing much sooner than girls do, I'm afraid.) So I'd better take advantage of it while I can. But at least for now, I think he likes it.

Like Mother, Like Son

There is no doubt in the world that Ryan is Herb's son. Ryan is Herb's spitting image, so much so that strangers often blurt out remarks like, "Well, there's no doubting HIS paternity!" or "There's no denying who HIS daddy is!" I love how much he looks like his daddy - what greater joy can a mother have than to raise a son who is the image of the man she loves most in the whole world?

But I do occasionally find myself studying his features looking for a glimpse of my own face. The eyes could deepen to my grey instead of Daddy's clear blue, the little button nose could eventually mature into a honker like my own, the strawberry blond peach fuzz might darken to my natural ash brown (oops, I think I just outed myself there), the round face might slim down to my oval. But as he is right now, there's just not a lot of my face in his.

But what I am starting to see of myself in Ryan is some of my temperament. He's generally pretty laid back, but when he gets worked up he gets REALLY worked up. And he flips between the two on a dime. As my poor long-suffering (but unbelievably patient) husband can attest, my emotions ride that razor's edge as well. In general, though, Ryan is a very happy baby, easily amused and quick to laugh, fascinated by everything he sees and always delighted to be the center of attention. I recently realized how much this is like my own temperament when my mom gave me a pile of old letters she had written to her parents when I was a toddler.

When I was about 3 years old, my grandparents (who lived not far from us) spent a year or so in West Virginia with a volunteer organization called VISTA. Back then, with no internet or Skype or e-mail to keep us connected, my mom and her two siblings mailed them cassette tapes and long, detailed letters with updates, particularly about all the grandchildren. My grandmother had saved all these letters and they were eventually passed down to my mom, who recently rediscovered them and passed them along to me to read. I find them to be a fascinating window into my own childhood. For example, in one letter my mom comments that she was driving my sister (who was about 7) to all kinds of activities like Brownies and choir, and it was hard for me because it threw off my naptimes having to be schlepped all around town, which was not helpful to my disposition. "She gets so that if someone says the wrong thing to her she just disintegrates into a heap of tears." And yet, in another letter, she remarks that I am "a fairly happy-go-lucky kid, always bumbling merrily along, usually singing to herself", and in several others she mentions my funny hop-skip gait and my continuous humming or singing.

Thus far, Ryan could definitely be described as "happy-go-lucky" and he's already begun to sing to himself (well, "sing" to himself, anyway). And even though he can't walk yet, his funny bouncy march in the jumperoo will definitely develop into a funny hop-skip of his own.

So even though he may not look like me, he is most definitely my son. I just hope he hangs onto the happy-go-lucky part and outgrows the disintegrating-into-tears part!

Mr. Whipple Had It Right

I'm probably showing my age by referencing this, but hopefully at least some of you remember those wonderful Charmin toilet paper commercials with Mr. Whipple begging his customers, "Please, don't squeeze the Charmin!", all the while hugging a package himself.

Mr. Whipple couldn't resist the squeezable softness - who could? The package even has a cute baby on the label, since babies are always associated with soft squeezableness.

Well, pretty much everything about Ryan is soft and squeezeable. We had friends over for dinner last weekend who happen to be anticipating the arrival of their first grandchild in a few months, and when the grandma-to-be met Ryan, she immediately called to her husband, "Oooh, come feel how soft his skin is!" His arms and legs and face are so perfectly smooth. I often laugh that he doesn't have a single pore anywhere on his body - his skin is just a perfect, soft, supple sheet. Whenever I change his diaper, I kiss his belly because it's so soft and warm and, well, kissable. I rub his nose with mine all the time because it's so perfectly soft and smooth. And when he's getting ready for his bath, his naked, dimply little bottom perched on my arm feels like silky satin, it's so soft.

And then there's his hair - it's softer than a puppy's fur, softer than a baby chick, softer than the down on a duckling. I can't even think of anything soft enough to compare it to. It feels as soft as a muppet's fluffy ostrich hair looks.

(the resemblance is uncanny, isn't it?)

Even aside from Ryan himself, all of his stuff is soft. His stuffed animals are the softest plush, just begging to be cuddled and squeezed. His blankets are fleece or fur, and his clothes are all soft, nappy, touchable fabric. Everything around him is an invitation to pat and caress and snuggle.

(for those of you who have seen the "Sandy at the Dentist" video, this is NOT Ryan in the infamous "unicorn reindeer" outfit - but it's the closest approximation I could find)

So I'm with Mr. Whipple - I won't be saying not to squeeze anything, but I'll certainly be walking around giving the soft bundle in my arms all the squeezes and snuggles I can.

Snuggle Bug

One of the best parts of having a baby is having a warm little person snuggle right into your arms. Whether he's wiggling and crying and snurfling and getting various bodily fluids all over your shoulder while he's doing it, or whether he's quietly nodding off and sleepily fading into you with a soft hug, it's the most wonderful feeling in the world.

One of the things that makes it feel so wonderful is how perfectly trusting the baby is. He can relax in the knowledge that you will protect and take care of him, and that he is completely safe in your arms. And doesn't it feel wonderful to be trusted like that? It's a heavy responsibility, but also a great honor. I want to do everything I can to live up to that trust.

So while Ryan is snuggling under my chin, I am thinking about his future. I am planning on how I will teach him skills, like walking and reading, and how I will teach him manners and courtesy. I am planning on how to answer his questions like, "Why is the sky blue?" and "Who is God?" and "Where did I come from?" and "Why do people have to die?" I am thinking about what I'll say if he doesn't make the team, or if he flunks a test, or if his best friend ditches him, or if his girlfriend breaks up with him. I am thinking about what I'll say when he does make the team, or ace a test, or make a new best friend, or introduce me to his girlfriend. I'm imagining what he'll be like on vacation this summer, and next summer, and endless summers to come. I'm picturing him at 6 months old, and 6 years old, and 16 years old.

And I am mentally promising him that I will be there for him for all of those moments, joys and sorrows, successes and failures, loves and losses. And some of them I'll be able to help, and some of them will see me standing helplessly by. But I will be there, loving him, no matter what.

Because he'll always be my little snuggle bug.

A Shot in the Arm (er, Leg)

Part of Ryan's 4-month checkup yesterday was a round of vaccinations. As I've mentioned previously, Ryan is quite a trooper about getting shots. The first injection didn't even rate a reaction, and the second resulting in a loud holler of indignation and just a minute of being upset. It wasn't even a case of, "Ouch, that hurts!" so much as it was, "Hey, give a guy a bit of warning when you do something like that, will ya?" But the rest of the day was a bit of crankiness.

The funny thing about when Ryan is cranky is that there's still always an undercurrent of laughter waiting to come bubbling to the surface. He can be pouting and sniffing miserably, but if Daddy makes googly eyes at him and sings a loud, "Bing!", the pout will burst into an instant smile. Or if I jiggle him just right on my lap, the tears puddle up in newly-appeared dimples. Even watching himself in the mirror, he'll go from an unhappy pout to a delighted grin in a split-second. Further proof that this is simply a laid-back, good-natured child.

And that makes it that much harder to see when he does have a bad day. My heart breaks when he can't be consoled. When even a bottle doesn't relax him, but instead makes him arch his back and flail his arms and legs and screech in protest, I feel like I - and the whole world - am letting him down. Something must be seriously wrong to make Mr. Happy into Mr. Unhappy. I'm sure it's a very disconcerting feeling for a little one to feel ill and have no idea what it means - will he feel like this forever? why is this happening? how come it isn't being fixed? He has no way of understanding that the achiness is temporary and will prevent him from feeling much worse later on. He can't possibly understand that he'll feel better soon and will forget all about this little ill. His reaction to momentary pain or discomfort reminds me that he has no concept of past, present, or future, but that everything in his world is in the "right now". It doesn't matter that the pain will pass, because it's here right now. It doesn't matter that the pain isn't severe because it's right now. It doesn't matter that he didn't hurt a moment again because he hurts right now.

But the flip side of that is that anything that takes him out of being in the right now makes everything better: a squeaky duck toy, a frozen chewie, Daddy or Mummy making silly faces and noises, a bird flying past the window, even his own shadow dancing on the floor.

It's good to have simple needs.

The Reign of the World's Biggest Baby Continues

This morning Ryan had his four-month checkup, and I am proud to announce that he has kept his title of World's Biggest Baby! At 25 lbs. 8 oz. and 28-1/2 inches long, he is off the percentile charts for both height and weight. The good news is that since he was only in the 97th percentile for height (but over the 100th for weight) at his 2-month visit, he is actually slimming down (proportionately, anyway). He is in all respects a healthy, happy, strong, and strapping young lad!

And since he is doing so well, our next adventure will be starting on solid food. We stopped at the grocery store on the way home from his appointment to pick up some rice cereal for him to try. And of course, I had to pick up a few jars of stage 1 baby food for when we're ready to move onto that, as well. I don't want to rush anything, but the way he stares at us with such great intensity and interest when we're eating leaves no doubt that he's totally ready. He's fascinated by food, and I've been giving him baby spoons to play with and chew on so they won't be completely unfamiliar when we start putting food on them.

I'm a little sad to be leaving this part of infancy behind so soon, but Ryan is already starting to look so grown up and more like a toddler-to-be than an infant (ha! he really only ever looked like a tiny infant for about a week) that I might as well accept it and embrace it. My beautiful little baby is growing into a beautiful big boy, with all the new skills and excitement that come with that next step.

Before I know it, he'll be waving goodbye from the window of a school bus, asking to borrow the car keys, and filling out college applications. For now I guess I'll just enjoy him needing me to carry him around, and feed him, and dress him. And years from now, when it feels like he doesn't need me quite so much, I can remember these days when he was lost without me and know that somewhere deep inside, he will always be my sweet little boy who grins with delight at his mommy and daddy.

The Daze of Days

One of the most difficult things I've had to keep track of while being a stay-at-home mom is what the heck day of the week it is (forget about knowing the specific date; without my computer that's NEVER gonna happen). I suppose it's really more a function of not having a regular 9 to 5 job than of being a mom, but the problem remains: I can never remember what day of the week it is.

I've actually discovered a few tricks to help me out. Most of them rely on remembering what I did yesterday, which in itself can be a problem, but at least it's a start. For example, if I watched "24" last night (I might forget to watch but Herb NEVER would), I know it must be Tuesday.

If I heard the trash and recycling trucks in the morning, it must be Thursday -- unless it's a holiday week, in which case it's Friday. But if it's a holiday week, I'm already completely confused so the trash truck doesn't throw me off any more than I already am.

If I went to church yesterday, today must be Monday.

Occasionally there are additional clues, such as Herb going to Tuesday and Thursday rehearsals. So if he doesn't come home after work, I can at least assume it's one or the other. But that's not especially helpful when I'm trying to figure out whether to make him supper or not.

Fortunately, there are very few times when it actually matters whether I know what day it is. If either Ryan or I have a doctor's appointment, it's kind of a big deal. But most of those times, Herb is planning on going with us and he can keep track for me. So even that isn't an issue. But it does make me feel a bit scattered and out of touch at times. Thank goodness I can always check the computer to remind myself. The trouble is, a lot of the time I think I know what day is it so I don't check - but I turn out to have either missed a day or jumped ahead a day.

Oh well, I guess that's just one of the pitfalls of motherhood that you learn to live with. And I suspect that only a few short years from now, when I'm juggling karate lessons, and swimming lessons, and soccer practice, and choir, and youth group, I'll have a few too many reasons to remember what day it is. So for know, let's just call it "ignorance is bliss" and enjoy the blur!