Sunday, May 27, 2007

Thursday, May 24, 2007


I’ve been so busy just enjoying you lately that I’ve stopped narrating. Let’s catch up, shall we?


Our second Mother’s day together was perfect. We celebrated with your Gamma & Gampa on Saturday, so we were able to spend Sunday just lolling around together. You and Daddy woke me up with breakfast in bed (which you immediately demanded be fed to you) and showered me with gifts from Tiffany and Nigella. Yay! Then we packed up the car and headed off to the Arboretum. It was a beautiful day and when we found a patch of grass we let you out of the stroller to wander around. The minute we set you down you started running and grunting this insane little laugh. I wish wish wish I had recorded it. It was like a mix between a movie villain and a monkey. Best sound I have ever heard.


Oh! And look what we had made! It’s you! On a pillow! Which you can say: “pillllaouw.” Each grandma has one, as do we. Because we are drunk with our love for your punim. Drunk!


You have learned your first command: “up!” Though when you say it you finish with a raspberry: “upppprrr!” Also, you don’t really know what “up” means. It can mean its proper definition: “Please lift me onto your lap/hip/bed/couch/chair.” Or it can mean “Let me out of this goddamn highchair/carseat/person’s grip.” I guess to you it just means, “other.”


You pooped in the tub again. After the first time, I relayed the story to a coworker (that’s right, I tell people you pooped in the tub. I will continue to tell people well into your adulthood) and when I got to the part about our inability to extract the poop from the tub she suggested using the cats’ litter scoop. Genius! Did we remember that advice? No! What did I use instead? My bare hand!


Nope, still not eating food.


I know I’ve mentioned your fondness for dance before, but I just can’t believe how much you love a booty quake. The other day I walked into your classroom to find the music blaring and the tots all rocking out. The other babies were bouncing and jumping and throwing their hands in the air (it was almost as though they just didn’t care) but not you. You were in the center of the floor, crouched down and doing this modern dance move with your arms. It was Martha Graham meets Madonna. But maybe the cutest part of your Need For Dance is that when you see us watching you get shy. You’ll pause and look embarrassed for a moment before the music overwhelms you again.


Lookit, you ate a popsicle:

Nope, doesn't qualify as food.


OK, that’s all for today. You continue to be our reason for living and our love for you grows more and more obsessive every day. You know, as it should be.

Friday, May 11, 2007


Sunday will be my second Mother’s Day as an honoree.

In my youth Mother's Day was barely a blip on my radar. A card for my mom, a bunch of flowers: done and done. Then, after Josh & I were married, I started hosting a big brunch for my mother and his entire family. Waffles from scratch served with mounds of hand-whipped cream and sliced strawberries, mimosas, cheddar popovers, smoked salmon egg scrambles, painstakingly-chosen little objects of our love and devotion. It was an ordeal but I loved every minute of it.

Then, when we started trying to get pregnant and it wasn’t working (you know, for two goddamned years), it became a more difficult day to face. I continued to host the massive brunches and dole out the darling little tokens, but it stung. There was literally nothing on Earth or in Heaven that I wanted as much as I wanted to be a part of that gang of mamas, but I just could not get my lady parts to comply. My sincere smiles of love and appreciation became a frozen and bitter rictus. I would miss entire conversations because I was silently reciting my mantra: “Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Do not cry until after they leave. Are you crying? Stop it.”

Dash was four months old on my first Mother’s Day. The fellas took me to LACMA for a picnic and a visit to the dinosaurs ('though Dash lost his shit and we had to pack up and go home early.) There were no champagne flutes or Grand Marnier French toast. It was a thermos of wine and grocery-store sandwiches. It was a patch of grass on a sunny day and a baby who Did. Not. Want. To. Be. There. It was a family of three and it was the most excellent Mother’s Day anyone has ever had ever. Ever.

Friday, May 04, 2007