Bloodthirsty

The rolling hills and corn fields of Roc

This will come as no surprise to those who know me, but I'm not really an outdoorswoman. For instance, I don't much like camping. My idea of an excellent vacation is one in which I don't have to do anything more arduous than turn the pages of a hardcover (no, I do not yet own a Kindle. SOMEDAY). Or languidly signal the cabana boy to bring me another frosty drink liberally festooned with plastic swords and paper umbrellas and bright bendy straws.

This is slightly unfortunate because my husband loves camping. He gets really excited about the idea of toting weapons that can also open cans and be used to suture wounds and sleeping on the ground and enthusiastically slapping insects every few seconds. Whereas for me, the idea of cooking all our meals, cleaning up said meals, and putting kids to bed without the benefit of actual beds, running water, electricity, or shelter from voracious insects and wild animals just sounds like my normal life made much more difficult and more uncomfortable. Thanks, but no...I will take an all inclusive resort any day of the week and twice on Sundays. 

You may have picked up on this but my biggest problem with camping is the bugs. I do not like bugs. And I'm very much afraid that I've imparted my hatred of the insect world to my daughter.

My first clue that this might have happened was when she brought me a caterpillar on her finger and said "Mom, wook, a CApertiller". And I thought "oh wow, she is marveling at nature, how beautiful" right up until the time that she shouted "KILLLLL ITTTTT" in a deep bloodthirsty growl and stamped on the poor caterpillar. 

Oh, heavens. But in light of the story I'm going to tell, I think she might be onto something.

So, here's the thing. I have become quite fond of Minnesota.

And how not, with light like this?

  But every now and again something happens that reminds me that this is not my native soil.

This is me, a transplanted tree, sheltering two smaller little trees. Tim is the massive expanse of sky. Not that he's massive. Just more massive than us. And more at home here. Even though my kids are also natives. OK, moving on.

There are a lot of mosquitoes here. People joke that the state bird is a mosquito. It's actually the common loon, which makes sense when you consider the winters here.Now, obviously, we have mosquitoes in NC as well. And they love my blood there and I don't like them there. But here...here the bites leave welts on my body the size of my palm. No kidding.This does not encourage me to cavort around in the wild, by the way.

And now the bugs have taken the assault to the homefront and like total bungholes have started attacking children. Poor Ads got eaten up last night. And she seems to share her Mama's intolerance of the MinneMosquit because she looks a lot like that monster from the Goonies. Except redder and with more hair.

Who looks this cute with one eye?

Her right eye is swollen nearly shut and her body is liberally splattered with quarter size welts. She looks at me (out of her one good eye) and says "I feeeeellllll" in a pathetic voice. I don't know why she doesn't finish the sentence...she feels what? bad? sick? hurt?...but it's incredibly sad.

We actually had to take her into the doctor TWICE to ensure that she wasn't suffering from periorbital cellulitis. Which she probably isn't, she's just suffering from crazy mosquitoes and taking Benadryl for the swelling and looking like a hot mess in the meantime.And she's on an antibiotic just in case she is in fact suffering from some kind of scary infection. Because she's too swollen for them to be sure, and it's just getting worse. Poor little pumpkin.

So now it's WAR. And I figure if the mosquitoes can go all Sherman's March to the Sea and burn down my house disfigure my kid, I'm justified in going chemical on their buggy ...thoraxes. Or whatever.

Bugs! Thy doom is nigh!

And that's another marvelous thing about resorts. No DEET required.

Where We Are: Adelaide at 2.5 years

Dreamer

Dear Addie,

It took me a very long time to complete this post, not least because you wrote all over my computer monitor with colored pencil. As in, I could not see the monitor for the very exuberant scribbles that covered every inch of it. (A Google search reveals that this is not uncommon and a little hand soap and a microfiber cloth have repaired the damage).

I didn't take a picture of the screen because I was too mad at you. You could see that I was furious (I think it was the crazy eyes and veins sticking out of my throat that clued you in) and you ran over to me, grabbed my hands, squeezed your eyes shut and said "Dear God. Pweeze help Mommy be patience." And I couldn't help but laugh. That's as good an illustration of any at you at 2.5 years old: moments of extreme misbehavior swiftly followed by disarmingly sweet and charming reactions that completely undermine my righteous wrath.

The closest I could get to catching your smile!

I think we will keep you. Though after you finger painted your bathroom in feces for the second time in the same day, it was a close call.

You always want a book when you go to the potty. Here you are reading Golf Digest.

 This is the first time that I've written directly to you instead of about you. And I will write about you again, at least until you get old enough to issue a "cease and desist" order. But as you get older, I feel more and more like the posts about you are actually for you.

Yes, I use this blog to keep our far flung family and friends updated on our life and your growth. But truthfully, I keep it for us; so that someday you will know exactly what you were like growing up and so that I can remember these precious and fleeting moments.

I was holding Graydon a few days ago and trying to fix the moment in my mind. I remember doing that with you also. I would think to myself "I want to remember this moment, exactly, just like this, for the rest of my life". So I reached for one of those moments, a moment located somewhere around the time of "Adelaide, age six months"...and I couldn't do it. I couldn't remember how your chubby little feet kneaded my stomach or how your eyelashes swept down over your flushed cheeks like perfect little fans. The now of you had driven out the then of you.

 It filled me with panic for just a moment, until I remembered this blog. And I felt 10,000 times better because we can look back at what I was thinking and feeling at the time, and in doing so, I do remember what it was like to be with a younger version of you. And I do remember the things that I listed above.

One of your favorite things in life is to be chased...witness the video of you and Rocky here. 

If I am ever having trouble getting you to stop playing long enough to go to the bathroom, or if you won't put your shoes on, or let me comb your hair, I just start chasing you. And you immediately start running and giggling. And once I've caught you, you let me proceed with the job at hand.

So now I am chasing you down again, and trying to pin you down long enough to tell you what your life is like at this moment.

Caught ya!

You are a typical two year old, blessedly so. You are difficult and strong willed and rudely healthy. You can (and regularly do) drink the dog water, public swimming pool water, and your own bathwater without catching so much as  a sniffle. But you like to put your own unique twist on every "normal" milestone.

For instance, you can count to ten. But you only do it in multiples. As in "3, 6, 9" and "1,3,5,7,9" and so on. You switch up which numbers you use but very rarely will you actually use ALL of them in correct linear fashion. I cannot figure out if you are like me and completely flatline in the presence of anything mathematical or if you are actually a math prodigy like your Aunt Bonnie.

And you know your ABCs. But again, you refuse to sing the normal tune of most kids. Instead you calmly identify individual letters in words. "Mommy, T and A and R and G" when we go to Target.

And you know all your colors and your shapes and you speak in complete sentences most of the time, though it is still "toddler speak" that only adults close to you can truly decipher. I love the idiosyncracies of your speech, which change all the time. Right now, you say "clip clops" for flip flops and you still can't say your "l's" so it's actually "cwip cwops". I think I will always call them "cwip cwops", personally. 

You pick out your own outfits. They are always very colorful. Sometimes I even let you leave the house in them. But usually not.

Your own choice

Another stunning ensemble. You seem to favor glitter, ruffles, and Disney Princesses.

You love books and demand your favorites over and over again. You like all the Fancy Nancy books (but you don't realize that her name is Nancy...you call her Fancy). You like Animalia and Best Ever Big Sister and a book about the Architectual Wonders of the World. (Your favorite? St. Basil's Cathedral in Moscow, which you say is a SPECIAL CASTLE which looks like candy. And you are so right, by the way.)

Speaking of candy, you ask me about 70 times a day if you can drink some soda, have some fruit snacks, or eat some chocolate. I'd say you have a sweet tooth, much like me. And like a typical toddler, you will eat only about 10 different food, total. And, in your inimitable fashion, some of them are very odd. Such as tuna fish, and havarti with dill (which you call "ah fish" and "white cheese" respectively).

I said you could be difficult and that is true. You are stubborn to the bone. And you enjoy provoking a reaction, even if it is negative. Sometimes you make me crazy with frustration because you "hear" me but you very rarely listen to me.

But I will tell you a secret. I like you this way. I like that your respect has to be earned and that you never do anything without first considering whether or not you want to do it. Because that will serve you well in life, in the long run. I never want you to follow the crowd or an authority figure "just because"...though I would like for you to give ME more respect because I suffered through a hellish labor to deliver your enormous body, thank you very much.

And finally, we pray together every night . You never fail to thank God for swimming pools, birthday cake, and "nice naps". And I quite agree, those are all evidence of a good God in heaven.

Sometimes I want you to stop growing and changing so quickly. You are moving so fast that it is hard for me to capture you on this blog. It's all I can do to keep up with you, but I love the challenge. And I love you, sweet girl!

Where We Are: Graydon at 6 Months

We are six months into the life and times of Graydon, and heavens, I am loving everything about this boy's story so far.

In most ways, he is a very typical six month old. He's hitting all of his milestones beautifully: he rolls like a whirling dervish, sits up unsupported, and eats, with great gusto and much mess, three solid meals a day.

He likes carrots. A lot.

In other ways, he is precocious. He said his first word yesterday on the Fourth of July: Da-Da. Said very clearly, distinctly, and with a huge smile and eyes fixed on Tim right after he walked in.  It was unmistakable. It seems impossibly early, but I checked my blog, and Addie said Mama right around the same time. And yes, he's kind of a Daddy's boy. I pretend not to mind this.

His sister dressed him. Please notice that the crown says "New Mom to Be". And that thing he's holding? A magic wand. And he's so pleased about it. Someone must have explained the concept of "bribery" to Addie.

In some ways, he is difficult. He doesn't sleep through the night yet. Are you kidding me? He wakes up predictably between 11 PM and midnight, again between 2 and 4, and gets up for the day at 6:30. And take his toys away at your peril (I'm looking at you, Addie). He will get FURIOUS in a hot minute if you take the thing he happens to be gumming. He breastfeeds like a champ, so much so, that a normal nursing position now bores him. He now attempts to nurse AND watch everything that is going around him AND perform the kind gymnastics that only prepubescent Chinese girls are capable of...all whilst attached to me. Can you say "niplash"? I'm living that dream.

His shirt says "usually stays awake." Touche, Target, touche. And that pink giraffe? Addie picked that out for "the baby" while I was pregnant.

I pretend to mind this. In reality, I love the middle of the night snuggle sessions and his crazy antics make me laugh. Even though niplash does suck. Pun intended.

In all ways, and at all times, he is adored. And he's so strong. He has already fought through some big challenges for such a little guy.

One month old, in the intensive care unit

G man, we are so glad that you are here and that you belong to us. And we are so thankful for you!

We love your crazy curly mohawk hair, your "blayzel" eyes (blue/gray/hazel), your dimpled grin, and your magnificent thighs (credit to Nicole for that descriptor!).

And most of all, we love your sweet spirit, your exuberant good nature, and your tender and loving heart. We would not be the same without you and we are so glad that you're our son. Happy half-birthday, big guy!

Guest Post: Desi

I'm working on posts for Graydon's six month update and Addie's 2.5 year update, but it is taking a while. Mainly because it would be easier to get a good photo of Big Foot than it would be to get a nice one of Miss Adelaide. Constant motion much, my child?

In the meantime, this is a kindasortabutnotreally guest post by my oldest younger sibling.

She wrote this while Graydon was in the hospital and I asked her quite some time ago if I could share it on my blog. She agreed, and it just took me a while to do it (four months, give or take a few weeks).

I've said before that I find it really difficult to process that time in the hospital with G man, but I do believe that post is lurking inside me. And I read her words again tonight, for reasons that I will detail later, and I thought it was really too good not to share. So, a love letter from my sister:

FOR GRAYDON

I see a young man - tallish like his dad, isn’t he? Not super tall, but pretty tall - taller than me, anyway.

Dimples for miles, canyon dimples! My dad’s black hair, straight as a stick and all over the place. There is a mischief in that divoted grin, and dark eyes, but I can’t tell yet if they’re a dark sort of blue, or maybe brown. Maybe hazel. Doesn’t matter - they’re a trickster’s eyes, slanted just a bit. Take one look at those eyes and you’re a goner - you’d allow him most anything. This will be a recurring theme throughout his life, and will cause him no end of grief, though he won’t realize it until he’s hurt someone. But he’ll learn. 

He’s a hockey player. In his pads, he looks so much older and bigger than he is; he looks like he could shove hard into another player and pin them against the screaming glass, grinding in with bull shoulders, hair wet behind a hard plastic mask. He looks almost scary with all that sports stuff on, but the moment he pulls down his mask and shakes out his drenched hair and grins (no black gaps in those teeth yet, thank God), he is only eighteen again, and the world at his feet.

And after, maybe when he’s old enough to sit down with his parents for a beer and a real talk - not a parent talk, but a real talk, between people who see each other for who they really are - no smooth expanse of marble but endless tiny flaws, endless tiny chips and cracks - maybe then, someone will tell him how scared they were, a very long time ago. The tubes and the white linens. The tiny fluttering heartbeat beneath translucent new skin. The gasping that filled those nights.

Someone will tell him, and he’ll only shake the black hair out of his sweet eyes and grin, and say, “Huh.”