And a Happy New Year

Did you all have a Merry Christmas? We certainly did!

Full of silliness and family and food and fun and Farkle (have you played it? It's addictive!) and late night and too much traveling.

Presents we didn't want (aren't there always?) and those we did, and more importantly, memories made with family.

My parents and Carl's mom are coming to us for New Year's, and then that will be the end of an exhausting and rewarding holiday season. Whew!

Next year, family? You get to come to us.

Ho ho ho.

Posers

Poor Grace. Second-year molars are no fun, especially when you've just woken up from a nap and you mother and sister want to do silly pictures on the computer (mostly because Mamma is trying to put off packing for the trip north to visit Oma and Grandpa and GG and Aunt Zizzy and Uncle David for Thanksgiving).

However:

Those peanut butter cookies Mamma made? Those go a long way toward making you feel better. Though not enough to smile for the camera, still.

That's ok. Your sister will smile for the both of you. She loves posing.

It is, I think, going to be a looong car ride north tomorrow.

A weekend without Daddy

So J.D. went out of town this weekend. Note to friends and family: please stop getting married in cool faraway places. We are poor, and we have a baby that we can't take on a plane and who views the car as a torturemobile spiriting her toward her doom. Also, I do not like having the full yoke of parenting squarely on my shoulders. If J.D. ever leaves me with primary custody of the kid, I am going to have to join a cult just so that I have someone around to tell me when I am doing something stupid, like letting the baby have a taste of the fake butter goo in my bag of microwave popcorn.

So I went home to spend the weekend with my family. They are v. v. good at telling me when I'm doing something stupid, so I feel safe with them.

We had a busy weekend. We gave Lulu her first taste of solid food (not counting the popcorn goo).

It was funny. While she happily nommed the fake chemical butter sludge, she kind of acted like the organic bananas and carefully expressed breastmilk I fed to her, one fingerfull at a time, were poison of the rankest degree.

Those are tears in her eyes. TEARS for the saddest banana in the world.

After the first rush of crying, she seemed to start to warm up to the whole eating thing. But she didn't seem to enjoy it as much as you would think a baby who rocketed from the first percentile to the 85th percentile in weight in a mere four months would enjoy real, honest-to-goodness food.

My child: defying expectations since March 2011.

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We went to the beach! Because we are contrarians, my family, all of us, we saved our first beach visit of the year and the first of Lulu's entire life for a 60-degree day at the tail end of a rainy weekend in SEPTEMBER. The surf was rough and the beach was deserted, except for some people playing with their dog and a couple posing for engagement pictures.

My dad did his best Richard Nixon impression in his work clothes, walking on the sand in his suit and dress shoes:

I dabbled Lulu's feet in the waves, and watched her brow screw up in confusion as she touched sand for the first time.

I love the beach. I especially love Ocean View. It's a humble bay beach, kind of scrubby, ringed with twisted live oaks, dive bars, and wind-stunted pine trees. Real houses border right onto the sand, where real people live year round. One of those houses, a modest brick rancher, belonged to my great-grandparents, and was the hangout for everybody in the family for forty years. It's long since been sold, but it feels like our house, still, and so the beach still feels like our beach.

I know that in a couple of years, a trip to the beach with Lulu will involve a long hot walk over burning sand with bags and bags of sunscreen and umbrellas and toys and shovels and snacks and water and OH MY GOD IS THAT A SHARK? and WHY CAN'T I SEE YOU ARE YOU DROWNED? and NO, I SAID WE ARE LEAVING AND I MEANT IT GET BACK HERE. Long gone will be the days of baking thoughtlessly in the sun with a stack of magazines and a pack of cigarettes. I know that having kids is going to ruin the beach for me.

So I am glad we got to enjoy it together at least once.

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The weather continued to be beautiful through Monday, and Monday night, I decided that I wanted to get some fresh air as I slept. My mom and aunt came in as I was getting ready for bed and saw the bedroom window wide open, Lulu's portacrib perched right under it.

And this was apparently one of the stupid things that my family is not afraid to tell me I am doing. Because. The crib. Under the window. I was just asking for my child to be stolen away from me in the night. A terrible burglar was going to creep in and take her. They were sure of it. They saw it on America's Most Wanted. There was that woman who killed herself after Nancy Grace accused her of murdering her kid even though she wasn't a suspect? Her baby was stolen out of his crib in front of an open window on a night JUST LIKE TONIGHT.

It really isn't worth arguing statistics with them. Especially not my mom. She lectured me for weeks about taking down a huge heavy mirror over Lulu's crib in our room at home and I sighed and didn't want to, but then I finally did and the next day THERE WAS AN EARTHQUAKE. It was like God reached down his mighty hand and said in my mother's voice, "I TOLD YOU SO." My mother's nagging has now been sanctified by God, and she knows (KNOWS) that she is the only thing standing between my child and certain death.

So I closed the window. And then when she left, I opened it again.

And then I had the kind of really delicious night you have when you sleep in the fresh air and it's all cool and then I woke up at 6 AM and I looked over and there was one perfect beam from the rising sun falling on the crib, illuminating it, and IT WAS EMPTY. Lulu was NOT THERE.

And I freaked out. And I am ashamed to say that most of the freaking was not, oh my GOD, my baby has been kidnapped, so much as it was oh my GOD, my baby has been kidnapped and my mom is going to be so mad at me.

I sat there, doing what I usually do in situations like this. I tried to figure out a way I could blame this on J.D.

But he was in Maine! This was all me. I'd lost my child and now I would have to go on Nancy Grace and kill myself.

I had just taken the first ragged breath of hyperventilation when my aunt came in holding the baby who had apparently been crying in her crib all morning while I slept on, unawares (more evidence that I am a BAD MOTHER). Lulu had a poopy diaper, and my aunt doesn't do poopy diapers, and I was so relieved, and nobody mentioned the WIDE OPEN WINDOW RIGHT THERE and all was well.

All the same, I was glad when J.D. got back yesterday, because now if this happens again, I can blame it on him. And also because I missed him. But mostly because he brought me pretty earrings. From Maine.

Coming Home

"What's that?" Joy asks, pointing out the window.

"That's the college where Oma goes to school, and where Mamma went."

"Oh. And what's that?"

"That's the library. And the fire station."

...

"Where's Grandpa?"

"He's at work. Did you know that Mamma used to work there, too? And this is where Mamma and Grandpa used to come have lunch a lot, when we worked together."

...

And around the other corner, there is the college where Papa, and Auntie Lizzie and Uncle David all went to school, and graduated the same year. Here is the movie theater where Mamma and Papa had their first date. The church where we got married. Here is the bank where Mamma cashed her first paycheck, then after a few years opened her first checking account. This is the bridge I used to shiver my way across on my way to work from school when it was too cold for my car to start (and yes, the irony of walking across town in weather too ferocious for my car to run in has never been lost on me).

These are the streets I know like I know my own name. This is the town where, if I don't know you, I know someone in your family, and if you don't know me, you know my father, or my grandfather. You or someone in your family probably went to school with one of my seven aunts and uncles.

This is home, and I love being able to share it with the littles every time we come back to visit my parents, especially now that Joy's old enough to ask questions and understand.

But it is bittersweet, too. We have moved five times in seven years of marriage, and will move again soon. And again. I accepted that when Carl and I chose to pursue a different path, a path that requires more schooling for him, and in different places, and maybe, in ten years, a chance to settle down and put in roots.

But it won't be here. And my girls will never have that sense of family history in a place that I do.

And maybe that's not such a bad thing after all. Maybe it's good for them to start fresh, to make their own way, unencumbered by family baggage or expectations.

And at least I know that we will always have this to come back to. This land where my roots are sunk deep, it is a part of them, whether they know it or not, because it is a part of me, and I am part of them.

Maybe, just maybe, we can carry some of home with us wherever we go, instead of needing to come to it. I hope so, anyway.

We are home for the Annual Memory Walk this year, in honor of my grandmother who has suffered from Alzheimer's more years than anyone deserves. Memories, especially family memories, always hang heavily on me around this event. And so the homecoming is even more poignant than usual, especially with Joy starting to ask more questions about family and history.

Riding in cars with babies

So you're going on a long car trip with your infant! I have some tips for you.

1. Everything you might need during the ride needs to be easily accessible, NOT packed away in your suitcase in the trunk. Fill a diaper bag until it is bursting at the seams with toys, wipes, burpcloths, portable pump and parts, change of clothing, et cetera. Be sure to put your wallet away down deep at the bottom of the bag, so that you can hold up a whole host of cars at tollbooths. Don't think of it as being unprepared: think of it as helping all the people in the other cars cultivate the virtue of patience.

2. Be sure to take advantage of this opportunity to introduce your child to some of your favorite music. Cue up some Clash on the old iPod. Turn the volume up so baby can hear.

3. Oh no! It appears that infants, like everybody else, do not like Sandinista! Turn up volume even louder to cover sound of crying.

4. When you realize the crying can be heard over Joe Strummer's jangling guitar, take the exit for the nearest gas station in order to effectuate a diaper change. Yeah. Tell yourself it's the diaper, not your own stupidity, that's the cause of this.

5. If it turns out the meltdown was partly caused by a DEFCON-5-level diaper blowout, be sure to park near a trash can. Or else you will have to carry a compact tricorn bundle of baby shit all the way across the parking lot, with people looking at you and wrinkling their noses in your wake.

6. Now that she is clean and dry, Baby has decided she is hungry! Good thing you packed that travel breastpump and all its little parts, right? Commence to pump in backseat under cheerful-patterned Hooter Hider. Realize you are inept at using Hooter Hider, and have accidentally flashed bus of church campers parked at the neighboring pump. In situations like this, a rueful smile is appropriate. Also, putting the offending boob away posthaste.

7. Resort to can of poisonous formula in trunk in order to feed child. Even though you just said you were done with formula, forever. Everyone knows the normal rules don't apply to the open road.

8. Go into convenience store for bottled water to mix said formula with. Listen to the dulcet sounds of your child screaming from inside a car 50 yards away while your husband presumably tortures her. In a fit of temptation, buy pack of cigarettes with water. It doesn't mean you smoke again! It doesn't mean you've UNQUIT! You're just having an interlude. Take one secret, beautiful puff off vile, tempting cigarette while hidden behind Dumpster.

9. Realize what you are doing. Hurl cigarette and rest of pack into Dumpster. Pour water all over face and hands to get rid of offending smell/dangerous second-hand smoke. Feel guilty. You are a horrible mother. Go back to car, horrible mother, and mix a bottle for your starving child. When you reach car, she is no longer screaming, and no longer hungry, but still fussing with the kind of general unhappiness experienced by characters in a novel by Dostoevsky.

10. Salvage horrible situation with artistic picture taken of child and husband at outdoor picnic area. In twenty years, you will not remember the migraine mounting behind your left eye. You will look back fondly on this picture and think it was a nice trip. Be sure to mention to young parents how easy it all was, so that they can simultaneously hate you for being smug and despair about why WHY GOD it isn't that easy for them.


This post brought to you by a whole lot of bad parenting. And also Coca Cola!

I'll keep it with mine

My mother's family--cousins, aunts, uncles, greats--all lives in the same town I (and they) grew up in. My dad's family, however, is scattered across the country, from the East Coast to the West Coast and all in between. When I go home for a visit, I usually see bits and pieces of the large puzzle of my mom's family. I hardly ever get to see dad's all in one place.

But over Labor Day weekend, the stars aligned. My dad's sister came into D.C. from the Pacific Northwest for a work conference. My aunt and uncle, who live an hour out of the city, decided to drive in to see her. Not wanting to feel excluded, their sister, who lives in the Midwest, decided to drive down. Then we all drove down to the beach, where my parents and extended family live, as one big wagon train of folks and fun. So much of my family--mom's side and dad's--all in one place. It was heaven.

The visit was perfectly timed. Not only because the weather was perfect, or that we could all say goodbye to summer together, or that there were no hurricanes or earthquakes, but because, selfishly, I wanted to show off my child at her best. And Lulu is just a peach at this stage of her development. She's little enough still to be squishy and cuddly, a perfect helpless smoosh of baby who just wants to be held and cuddled. But she's old enough now to be fun. She smiles and coos and jabbers and leans over toward people when she likes someone and wants them to hold her up, the first compliment she's ever been able to give. She laughs at everybody's jokes. She's obliging that way. I loved being able to see my family interact with her. And I loved seeing her interact with them.


She was very popular, as you can see.

There were so many wonder moments for me in this weekend visit. Seeing Lulu with her cousin, Kay, who's eleven and the most awesome kid. That was one. They already love each other so much. Kay is an only child, and after the difficult pregnancy I had, there's a very real chance that Lulu might be, too. I worry about that, about her possibly lacking the kind of bond that I have with my own sister. But Kay calls Lulu "Sissy," the way my sister does with me. "She's my sister," is how Kay introduces Lulu to people. "My sister of the heart," she says.
A quick kiss isn't just a kiss, then, you see. It's a sweet little moment between sisters. It's the start of a lifelong friendship.

Seeing Lulu with my Aunt Judy, who is young and cool and who I always have looked up to--I like to think that I was the Lulu to her Kay. She has two great, creative, funny, passionate, super-smart kids, a wicked sense of humor, an adventurous spirit and is pretty much my role model for all things parenting, if not all things in general. I don't get to see her often, and when I do, I want to get her opinion on everything, to talk things over, to study her and learn about how to do the things she's done. During this visit, I found myself watching her with Lulu, watching so intently, to see how to do it, to make sure that I do things the right way.


There was one picture I took, of Lulu and her Mammaw, my mom, that reminded me so much of a picture of me and my own Mammaw, one that is creased and a little worn from being carried to every law school final, so that I could have her smile there with me for support, urging me on.

I love the thought that one day she'll take this picture with her to her first surgery or when she plays for the first time at Carnegie Hall or to clown college for her make-it-or-break-it juggling final. We're setting the bar high for her, obviously.) I know Lulu's not really laying down memories yet, but until she can, I'll keep them for her.

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On our last day in town, we caught up with some old friends--both mine and Lulu's. Mike is my oldest friend in the world--I met him the first day of kindergarten, twenty-six years ago this month. We went all through school together, elementary and middle and high school, where we met Sarah, and Erin, who became Mike's wife. Almost a year ago exactly we all found out that we were having babies, and that we were due exactly one week after another, like stairsteps. Of course life is full of ups and downs, and we ended up, thanks to prematurity and going over due, missing our due dates by a mile. But our kids are still like stairsteps: Lulu was born in March, Erin and Mike's little boy in April, and Sarah's in May, a week or two later than expected. Whenever J.D. and I are in town, we like to catch up with our friends and favorite little fledgling families.


As you can see from the photo, the kids don't seem to take too much notice of each other right now. But I know that they'll be fast friends someday. And I love it so hard, the symmetry of it: my oldest friend's kid being my kid's oldest friend. I love that Lulu has friends, already, even if she doesn't have, you know, fine motor skills and control of her bladder. Friends are far more important than those things, anyway. Right?

By the time we left, Monday evening, I was fighting allergies and sunburn, nursing an ear infection, worrying about work. I was also about ready to kill all of these people I love so dearly, as my sleep-deprived child wailed for the third day straight for her nap and was denied it by all of the people who wanted to play with her and love on her. I just wanted to go home and go to sleep, but we had a four-hour drive ahead of us, made even longer by the myriad stops I knew we would have to take to soothe our screaming infant. My mother and I started World War III as we packed the car over whether or not the baby would succumb to overheating and fry like an egg if I made her wear SOCKS on the long ride home.

"Why the shit do I put up with them?" I asked J.D., as we drove northward, homeward. It was finally quiet--except for Lulu grizzling and the ringing that had started up in my sinus-goop-logged ear. "They're so crazy. They're all insane."

"Yeah," he said. "They are. But they're worth it."

And I didn't say so--it would only encourage him!--but he's right, you know.