Conversations with Adelaide

Right now, my eldest child is howling like a banshee in her room. Why, you ask? I have no idea. This comes on the heels of my youngest howling like a banshee and of course the instant I get him settled for the night, Addie takes off. And yes, I do have a husband, but he's post call and is thus indisposed (aka sleeping so soundly that a brass band couldn't wake him, never mind a few crying kids).

And the night of "Hell no, we won't go!" bed protests is coming on the heels of a longer week in which we battled a virus that felled each of us like a tree for 48 hours, one right after the other.

All of which is to say that my idea of posting more is predicated upon a healthier and markedly happier household. In the meantime, here is a short collection of Addie conversations. I've been documenting these as the days go by, so it's a perfect post for tonight. Most of the work is already done! 

One day, mad at Graydon for clinging to a toy she wanted: 
Addie: Grady! You are NOT a snow princess ANYMORE. (Obviously the worst insult she could think of...) 

Me: Do you want to read a book together?
Addie: Yes.
Me: OK, how about Each Peach, Pear, Plum? (A long time favorite)
Addie: NOOOOOOOO!!! It's MY TURN TO CHOOSE.
Me: Fine. Choose.
Addie: Ummm...how about this one?( holding out Each Peach Pear Plum)
Me: (sighing) Good choice.

During a torrential downpour
Addie: Mommy, WOOK! The rain is DANCING.

Me: Addie, please don't scratch your booty while you're eating.
Addie: (stares blankly at me)
Me: OK? Do you understand?
Addie: A Pig says "oink oink".
 Me: I'm going to take that as a "yes".

Me: (putting Addie in bed) I sure do love you.Addie: I wubb you, Mommy.
Me: I love you because you are my precious daughter.Why do you love me?
Addie: Because you are a biiiiiiiig huuuuuuuuge Mama.
Me: Um...thanks?

Disclaimer: This one only makes sense if you remember the first scene of Despicable Me. We were looking at Addie's favorite book about the architectural wonders of the world. We came to a full page spread of the Pyramids of Giza.
Me: Ads, do you remember what these are called?
Addie: JUUUUUUSTTTIINNN!
I died laughing.

Title Change

I've been wanting to change the title of my blog for a while. All Things New was always a temporary title, except that it stuck around for a while, while I let the ideas about a more fitting title percolate in my mind. And believe me, I considered a lot of different things.

I considered something sweet about our treasured family life. Simple Gifts. No, sounds like a Hallmark movie. OK, how about a pun on our name? Ewalden Pond. Stupid and pretentious at once, an impressive feat. Where's Ewaldo?  Tempting...but no, none of us look good in stripes. Something to do with my interests? I like riding horses. Bareback Mama. No. No. Ten thousand times no.

Then I literally dreamed of a name. As in, I saw a name on a sign in my dream. Not a billboard or a street sign type of sign, more like a sign you'd hang in a nursery with your baby's name on it. The name was Stardrinker. I loved that for about five seconds until I realized it sounded like an alcoholic's blog. Then I was not living for it, so much.

Moving on.

I might have mentioned that I'm not an outdoorswoman in my last post. That is sort of true and sort of untrue. I don't like camping, it must be said, but I am actually good at fishing and riding horses, and I do like hiking.

This is a good time to tell the story of my first hike, so indulge me while I Spinderella (also a tempting alternate title and a fitting homage to Salt n Peppa...but no) for a second here. I had never been hiking in my life until I met Tim. So we move to Boston to go to graduate school together and he says "We now live in New England. We must go hiking. This weekend." and I got really excited about this prospect. So I borrowed some boots. Huge rookie mistake. (Yes, that was an alternate title for this blog too) and off we went to New Hampshire and Mount Monadnock.

I will never forget how I felt as we left the parking lot and started walking up the trail. I was so excited. The trail was wide and the incline was gentle and the aspect was invitingly tree lined. I couldn't wait to wander up to the top in a leisurely manner whilst having deep philosophical conversations about nature and civilization and everything in between.

You can imagine my surprise then, to find myself grimly grappling my way up a mountain face a mere half hour later. No trees, no wide path...indeed, there was no path at all...and certainly no gentle incline. This was thigh shriekingly shin scrapingly intense hard work, scrabbling up rocky slopes and climbing up to the top of the mountain.

I will also never forget the look on Tim's face or the sound of his laughter when I confessed to what you may have already guessed: I had no idea that hiking was far more similar to climbing than to walking. I honestly believed that hiking was just a brisk walk done on mountain side. I was seriously clueless (another alternate title).

And when we reached the summit, I was speechless. You need air to talk, and I was suckin' some serious wind. But it was amazingly beautiful. We didn't know this before we started, but Mt. Monadnock offers 360 degree views from the summit. You can see land in three states on a clear day. Despite the blisters and the sore muscles and mistaken assumptions, I was hooked.

You see, hiking is all about the journey. The view from the top means more if you worked to get there and took the time to appreciate each stage of the landscape you passed through.

Which FINALLY brings me to the new title. You had to hike through this post to get to my point. Apologies, and I hope you don't have blisters.

I like hiking, but it's hard work. In similar fashion, I love being home with my kids, but I find being a homemaker to be hard work. It's not being a mother that is hard work ...well, most of the time, anyway. It's more the cooking/cleaning/yard/crafty schtick that I suck at find challenging. But I really want to excel at it. All my life I've been ambitious. I've always wanted to be good at whatever I was doing...and I don't see why this should be any different. If I'm going to be home...and I am....then why not study the craft, practice it, and improve myself? The worst that happens is that I"ll learn something about myself, even if it is only that homemakers can only be bred and not trained.

Hence, Hiking Mount Olympus. Because I'm working my way up to domestic goddesshood and trying to savor each step of the journey.  I'm hoping to post more often, and I'm going to post about a broader variety of topics. The posts about my mishaps adventures in cooking and cleaning and crafty type things will be entitled "Domestic Goddesshood".

Grandparents, put the phone down. I promise I am still going to post about Addie and Graydon. I'll call those posts "Where We Are", as you may have already noticed.

And I'm going to post about other randomness, which I'll entitle something clever cheesy like "Musings from the Mount". Other randomness being things like books, music, spirituality, and politics. Yes, politics.

And that's really the reason for my "post titles". Because if you already know you don't like my politics, you can ignore those posts with ease. And if you CHOOSE to read them, then on your head be it. Don't be steppin' to me with your angry "why are you so ...." comments if you bring it on yourself. That's all I'm sayin'.

OK, I even type more Southern when I get fired up. You can take the girl out of the South, but you cannot make her enunciate her words (Another possible title. Too long though). Even when she's typing. Or typin'.

I've debated whether or not this is the best forum for those random topics, but I frankly don't think I'd maintain another blog often enough to justify a separate one. I'm not looking to be the next great political voice of our time, but I might post about current events from time to time.

But in truth, I still expect this blog to be mostly about the family and our journey to wherever we're going. That's what I enjoy blogging about the most. And that brings me to the final title I considered for my blog: Happy and I Know It! (No, too nursery school. Clap your hands!) 

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.”

Sink or Swim

 ^ An oldie but a goodie for your listening pleasure.

One of the perks of being a stay at home mom (hereafter known as SAHM) is the whole summer shebang. A round of days at the pool/park/people's backyards/back to the pool again is not bad work if you can get it. I confess, I sometimes feel guilty when my husband comes home from work, all weary and white-faced in his suit, and asks what we did and I say "Well. I went to spin class and then I took the kids to the pool and we had a picnic with our friends and took long naps and then we went outside and took pictures and blew bubbles...". Then I remember that he never ever has to scrub a toilet or experience nipple cracking and it feels slightly less cruel and more like justice.

Summer in Minnesota is lovely and my life is pretty charmed. Unless, of course, you consider that my eldest child acts like a dadgum hellion at the pool. Charging into the water as deep as she can go, blithely ignoring my frantic pleas not to endanger her life. Or running on the concrete in a dead heat to escape the fenced in pool area entirely. Or wallowing in the mud in the playground instead of playing on the slides. Or totally ignoring all her toys until some other kid borrows them and then attempting to hit/splash/otherwise intimidate the other child. Or refusing to poop (despite being potty trained) until she enters the water. 

I could go on, but I won't. Suffice to say, I have yet to enjoy my pool time with Adelaide this summer.

We did the pool thing yesterday and while I was attempting to discipline Addie, Graydon fell face-first into the water and had a few seconds of underwater time. Needless to say, I felt like the world's worst Mama. I was totally frazzled by the time we left.

I pondered all this last night and happened upon this article in the meantime. Why Are American Kids So Spoiled?

This was a timely read for me. If you don't have time to read the whole thing (it's four pages and not the usual TNY 12 pager), I'll briefly summarize. Two teams of ethnographers studied child rearing habits in Los Angeles and in the Amazonian basin and found two extremes of behavior. In the Amazon, toddlers routinely cooked their own meals over open fires. In LA, 25 year olds don't know how to cook their own meals and still rely on Mom to pre-chew their food and deposit the mush into their gaping maws. Slight exaggeration, I just wanted to be sure you were paying attention. 

The authors posit a couple of theories for the prolonged childhood of the average American youth and you can decide for yourself how much validity their ideas possess. I personally think there is some real meat in what they're saying.

Now, I don't plan to have Addie cook her own lunches anytime soon. (Book club: I know you are flashing back to The Glass Castle right now!). But I do think that in order to get more respect, I need to give her more respect. In the pool scenario, that means that I need to respect her intelligence. She's not stupid. If I let her get in over her head...quite literally....then she will quickly learn that I'm not just meeting a word quota for the day and I actually mean what I say. Obviously, I'm not planning on letting her struggle for long here. But I'm going to do less to get more out of her. Because right now I honestly don't think she listens to much that I say and frankly, I'm getting a little tired of being tuned out by a toddler.

And while I'm working on a better give and take with Addie, I need to be sure that I'm not sinking under the weight of my own expectations. I worry about being judged by other parents as being cruel or indifferent or just plain negligent if I let Addie fail or get herself into a pickle. I'm coming to realize that 1) I'm my own harshest critic and 2) other people are too busy with their own kids to notice me anyway and 3) they've most likely been there before in one way or another. After all, I don't judge other parents that have toddlers melting down in Target or at a restaurant or at the gym drop off because I have sooooooo been there, done that, and written the blog post about it.

Anytime that I have a discipline issue with Ads, I try to approach the problem with a negative and a positive strategy in mind. The negative in this case is letting her fail...or flail, if you will...until she figures out that deep = bad. And the positive will be that I'm going to take some time each trip to try to teach her how to swim. After all, it's not like I want her to drown, for the love of Pete. That's obviously a long term solution, but it's a good constructive thing we can do together.

And the good news? Once you know how to swim, you can stop yourself from sinking anytime that you like.

Following that disastrous pool morning, I was lying down with the kids to take a nap. Addie was dreamily murmuring her internal monologue to me, which went something like "Pool pool, so fun, swimming, with Mommy, "that's too deep!" (in her imitation of my voice), Calum, Jen, our friends, Riley, Miss Cold (Nicole), we were splashing...hey, pool, come back!" and so on and so forth. Graydon was nursing and we were all falling asleep in that lovely mix of dappled light and shadow that only happens on summer afternoons. And I felt it again. "It" being that effervescent mix of happiness and contentment that fizzes up through your tummy all the way to the top of your head and the soles of your feet.

We drifted off to sleep together, all of us, and I remember savoring the feeling of my mind and body letting go and letting be, and feeling like I was sinking into sleep. But as I think about it now, I'd say we were swimming instead of sinking. And I enjoyed every minute of it.