Video, per Mom's Request

Pottie-Pottie-Bo-Bottie, Banana-Fana-Fo-Fottie, Me-My-Mo-Mottie, POTTIE!!

I wonder how long it will be before I can observe a turd in the toilet and not clap my hands and exclaim, "Yaaaay! poop in the pottie!!" It seems like a miracle: no more poopy diapers. And for the last three days, Laszlo has returned from daycare in the same clothes he was wearing in the morning.

When my friends, Ben and Irene got back from China six weeks ago, they told me about how families there don't really even use diapers. The Little Ones have clothing that's easy to move aside, and are encouraged to pee outdoors in public. (We let dogs do it, why not kids? Oh, that reminds me of an emergency pit-stop on the greenway under the BART track where I did used a plastic bag. And the time by the outdoor fountain in Enid, OK, where I used sticks to dig a little turd hole in the landscaping by a public building.) And apparently in a pinch (so to speak) they'll dangle a Little One over a trash can to eliminate. Ben and Irene bravely decided when they got back, no more diapers for Winslow. I was inspired, and we've been diaper-free (other than for sleeping) ever since.

This was so much easier than I expected it to be. The key for us has been to treat it like house-training a dog: If there's an accident, it's our fault for not providing the opportunity soon enough. So every hour or so, we say, "time to go pottie," and we take him there, or remove his clothing so he can pee outdoors. (This almost always works, but there was one restaurant dinner where he peed, then peed, then peed again in under 30 minutes. That's the only time when two backup changes of clothes didn't suffice.) The first three weeks included a lot of laundry, and unwavering vigilance and preparedness for the Poop Look. You have to swoop in like Superman when you see it! Now...now we're living the dream, baby. He actually tells us when he needs to go. And each successful trip ends with a ritualistic flush and the proud proclamation, "I'm such a big boy!!"

Wheat and Water

We visited Oklahoma for the wheat harvest and to be reunited with cousins once well-known, or as it turns out, still well-known because we stay the same far more than we change. It's a pleasure to discover that while small tensions tend to fade, affections linger for decades. I love my cousins.

It was HOT, unlike the Bay Area. We visited the family grave-site and took turns sharing memories of the departed. A couple of the women recalled being barred from the lucrative jobs of the harvest, like driving combines and tractors, because, as my grandma said, it would "joggle our insides." We recalled long hours in hot kitchens preparing meal after meal for the hungry harvest crews. Given my preference, I would have chosen the kitchen over the sun and the dust and mesmerizing boredom of driving a combine around and around the vast acres of wheat. My only substantive objection to my plight was the pay differential. As the boys made plans for their piles of cash, my female cousin and I were sent to the mall to buy clothes, and I was forced into itchy, ruffly confections suitable only to children who wish to sit quietly in a church pew. (My taste in clothing now runs to the odd ruffle or lace trim, but is still utterly practical. If I can't ride a bike in it or it requires ironing, I won't wear it. Pantyhose are strictly banned.)

My dad got to see the wheat harvest again, an event that yearly tugs at his heart, and which I think he feared he wouldn't witness again. Thanks to the fortitude of my brother, who undertook a cross-country drive with my two young nephews and our disabled father, Dad once again watched the combines making their rounds and had his nose tickled by the wheat dust in the wind. It was the first time in twenty years that the offspring of my paternal grandparents have gotten together.

Part two of our trip was to Tatanka Ranch. Each family had a small cabin and we shared meals in the lodge. I overextended myself by shopping for the whole group because of my uptight insistence on organic food. *Note: don't try to shop for 30 at Whole Foods and a pastured meat butcher in 90 minutes in a strange city with an imminent airport pickup and a toddler and father with Parkinson's in tow. And don't try to fit all those groceries in a mid-sized rental car with three adults, one child and luggage. Just don't. You will cry.*


The heat didn't stop us from enjoying a bonfire with roasted marshmallows and Laszlo's first S'mores. There was also swimming multiple times per day in the pool by the lodge. I picked up the phrase, "you need to..." from my moms as another way of saying "you must..." and Laszlo has now picked it up from me, as in, "I need to go sweeemeeeen!" and, "I need to eat hot dogs!" He used the former every time he saw the pool, and we spent hours per day in the water.

Speaking of water...I have a job! I start next week as a Grants Administrator Assistant with the San Francisco Estuary Partnership. I am very excited, and also relieved to be done with the roller-coaster of job-hunting. I finally get to indulge in one of my favorite tasks: planning ahead.

Wee!

Thanks for the video, Sherri.

Blue Isn't

Yesterday we had Blue euthanized. My memory of him is dominated by the last hard weeks, especially the most recent days, when he tripped over his left hind leg when he tried to walk, wasn't able to sit, and stopped eating. I think I'm sadder about his suffering in the final days than about him being gone.

So I went through old photo CDs in search of better memories and am posting them in hopes of partially over-writing the sad ones.




Laszlo didn't accompany us for the deed. We picked him up at daycare and prepared ourselves to come home to the empty house. Laszlo didn't seem to notice Blue's absence when we arrived home, which was to us a poignant moment. He didn't ask about Blue, but I think I said, "Laszlo, Blue died. He's not going to be here, and we won't see him anymore. Daddy and I are sad." Laszlo listened, then said,

"Mommy sad."

"Yes."

"Daddy sad."

"Yes."

Then Paul said, "Blue is dead."

What a strange concept for any of us, but especially for a small child. We're so used to thinking about him in the present tense, and now he simply doesn't exist. He isn't.

We took down the gate that partitioned the common space. Laszlo was far more interested in the gate procedure than the absence of Blue. His roughhousing had put several cracks into the gate hardware, so as we removed it, he wanted to use a screwdriver, too, and kept saying, "isss bwoken," even after it was gone.

And now our tiny house feels so much bigger. We're accustomed to sitting on the floor of the dining room or the step, and it took awhile for us to realize we can spill over into what used to be Blue's Space. Eventually, Paul and Laszlo sat on the rug in the living room. Later, Laszlo spent about twenty minutes running the length of the house at full speed until he was sweaty and out of breath. This morning, we sat on the couch and read Pat the Bunny.

I vacuumed. We're not going to be living in fur anymore. Or poop. It feels sterile. We're a very compact little unit, now. I think we're going to enjoy being pet-free. But for the moment, when I look at the empty spot where his bed used to be, the shiny floor looks all wrong.

Bye, Blue.

I Sound My Barbaric Cuteness Over the Roofs of the World

Tender (and Other) Cliches

Our recent pulls from the Pot of Universal Adorable Toddler Moments:

- Gloriously cute renderings of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, wandering in and out of key and substituting random syllables as needed, e.g. "Pa Pa Pa Pa Wirl so High..."

- He calls the Sikh cab driver--Mr. Singh--whom we frequently Hallo at the BART station "Songs."

- Obsessive love of band-aids.

- The protestation "Self, self, SELF!" when we try to do anything for him.

- The necessity to use games, songs, stories and make-believe to get just about anything accomplished, especially in the areas of changing clothes, going potty or getting ready to go. Our coercion and manipulation are bounded only by our own (fairly constricting) creative limits.

- After he ate his sausage and asked, "Mo hot dog?" and I replied, "It's all gone! You finished it!" he pointed to Paul's plate and proclaimed, "More hot dog right there!"

- When BART descended the tunnel that goes under the Bay, I said, "If your ears feel funny, you can open your mouth real wide." I forgot to tell him he could close his mouth, so when I looked over at him a minute later he was still straining to keep his mouth open as wide as possible.

-A carousel is a "roundy-roundy-uppy-down!"

- Tantrums, of course! Lately, it's a couple of times a week, but it puts a parent on edge and we sometimes feel like we're in the Twilight Zone (and Simpsons) episode where the mutant child has mental control over everyone around him. As his frustration builds, usually over failure to be understood (ah, haven't we all been there!), we try with increasing desperation to figure out a. what he wants; and b. whether it is within the laws of physics and safety. Of course, there's also the other kind of tantrum, where we know what he wants (to wear his jammies to school, to carry the pee-filled potty without help, to eat bowls-full of plain ketchup, etc.) and can't manage to effectively distract him after we've said No. I regularly reach to the depths of my patience as I force myself to sit nearby and just breathe and wait, occasionally checking if he's ready to move on and making sympathetic utterances. I realized recently that for me the frustration is really just with having to wait and do nothing, so I've decided to make it a little meditation exercise.

- Milestones: Gave up the crib in November (now has an awesome-Craigslist-find Ikea bed about which he often says, "Nice bed!" and has fallen out of at least twice, on the low setting). Weaned about a month ago. Learning to dribble a basketball. Holds a hamburger correctly and can take a bite. Had second birthday party and blew out candles (simultaneously inoculating the treat). Took first stroller-free plane trip. Pretends to change doll diapers. Does somersaults. Loves Elmo.

Peep

Ugh, where have I been?? Still looking for a job, but we have daycare, so you'd think I'd have ample time to blog now and again. Never underestimate the power of unemployment to dampen social inclinations.

This post is merely a peep to say, I'm still here! And I have some Laszlo stuff to post, too. Soon.

In the meantime, here are my latest creations. I'm working on a doll with a Waldorf-style head that's knit all in one piece, something I could sell on Etsy. I will also sell these dolls once they have hair and diapers.



And these dorky creatures are from Softies only a Mother Could Love. They won't be for sale because it's not my pattern. Let me know if you want one. (The recycled-sweater cosmonaut in the doll picture is for my nephew, Isaac's birthday.)




A very cute egg/bird from Itty-Bitty Toys.


And this is the banner I made for Laszlo's birthday. It's about twenty feet long.

How an Excursion to Holiday Puppet Theater became the Longest Night of my Life

Sometime around 3:00 a.m., in the semi-dark of our hotel room, blazing hot and crackling with static electricity, lit by the fluorescent lights from the ajar bathroom door, on the mattress I'd dragged onto the floor and with my body being used as a jungle gym, I finally started laughing. It wasn't a mirthful laugh; it was filled with self-pity and frustration. But just after climbing over me for the twentieth time, Laszlo looked at me and said, "Mama peetey," making the universal clasped-hands-to-cheek sign for sleep. Which, of course, couldn't be further from the truth. Through my laughter, I choked out, "Mama *trying* to sleep." From the other bed, I heard my infinitely patient dad's wheezy chuckle.

My brother, Jamie had set up a sort of path for Dad to take to the bathroom--necessary several times during that excruciating night--composed of the backs of chairs he could grasp. When Jamie suggested Dad and me and Laszlo share a room, I thought of having to help Dad during the night, and selfishly wished it weren't the only sensible option. Little did I know that my son would turn nocturnal, and we would be the burden on Dad.

I began the evening with a mild foreboding. Nothing new, this feeling accompanies me always where winter weather is the norm, and parenthood has exacerbated it. We all loaded into the old Suburban. Three children, my brother, his wife. Jamie helped Dad into the passenger seat. Dad has Parkinson's so he needs some help getting around. "Um" I wondered, eyeing the windshield wipers and trying to sound casual, as we started down the four miles of dirt road toward Brattleboro, "do you think there's a chance this rain will freeze?" (Where I come from, the temperature goes down at night. "Aha!" I was thinking, "it's raining. It will get colder and the rain will freeze on the ground. This will be slippery and we could all die.")

My hardened Vermont relations assured me it was very unlikely. Apparently it takes very specific conditions to make freezing rain, conditions that occur like once a year. (I swear, these people are so cavalier as they daily take their lives in their hands on icy, snowy or muddy roads that roller-coaster all over the place.) So I tried to forget my worries, but I admit that my attempted sanguinity took a blow when I learned that we were going to Putney, eight miles North of Brattleboro. That's eight miles further away from comfort and good sleep. Eight miles further from my knitting, my ipod, from Laszlo's vast pluggy collection. But I'm a homebody. Especially when cold, precipitation and night are factored in.

The puppeteers were talented, and Dan Zanes accompanied the show at an intimate theater. The show began at 7:00, the usual time when we start Laszlo's bedtime routine, but he was in good form as we waited for the show and Jamie brought Dad around to the wheelchair-accessible entrance. Unfortunately, it wasn't really a show for children and I had to return to the little lobby area halfway through to avoid disrupting it. Bedtime was past, and it was dicey trying to keep the boy entertained and quiet in the small space, separated from the house by just a thin curtain. What's more, he was hungry. Like an idiot, I hadn't brought any snack for him. There was a foil-covered paper plate set on a table prepared to serve punch after the show. Oh, how I tried to justify peeking under the foil and stealing a morsel. But in the end, I couldn't. Stress and fatigue were already battling fiercely against my serenity, and I didn't even know the worst by a long shot was yet to come.

The show ended and I gritted my teeth to withstand the crowded room full of punch-drinking merrymakers. We bundled the children up and loaded up the Suburban, wheelchair in the back, Dad in the passenger seat, children in their puffy coats somehow buckled into car seats. I felt a wave of relief to be headed back. The rain continued as we drove down I-91 and took exit 2 on the north side of Brattleboro. We started up the dirt road. I tried to contain my nerves, seated in the back next to Laszlo, who was trying to sleep and kept ordering "song!" I went through my whole Simon and Garfunkel repertoire, moved on through the Sound of Music and got stuck on My Favorite Things. As an antidote, I tried to recall a little Violent Femmes but could only come up with "...big hands, I know you're the one/Mo-my-mo-my-my-my-mo-my-Motha, I was made to love you, lova." So I went back to raindrops and roses.

In the way back of the monster truck, I couldn't really see what was going on, but after a couple of miles on the dirt road, it appeared that Jamie had decided to turn back. The car slowed and rotated as if on a center axis. Suddenly, we were facing downhill again. An oncoming car kindly pulled to the side so we could go by and we continued back down. It was silent in the car until we'd passed the oncoming car, and Jamie calmly said, "I'm not in control of the car right now." It was so smooth and mild that I never had time to be frightened for our lives. They began to discuss a course of action. I immediately suggested a hotel, and that's what we ended up doing without much debate. And a few phone calls later, we settled on The Colonial Inn and Spa, ever the best deal in town.

We're accustomed to a certain amount of ritual around bedtime, most of which unfortunately consists of props. Without books, pacifiers to sprinkle about, and a sleep sack there is no ritual, and it turns out, there is no bedtime either. By the time we got to our rooms it was about 10:00. Half an hour later, I'd moved the mattress to the floor and Dad had his path to the bathroom. I put Laszlo on the bed and lay down next to him, hoping for the best, but with great trepidation.

I couldn't have guessed how bad it would actually be. For two hours, he tossed and turned, making a valiant effort to sleep. He kept pinwheeling around and getting frustrated that the covers didn't follow him everywhere like a sleep sack. The blankets sparked with every shuffle. Then at midnight, a fairy tale transmogrification occurred, and instead of an exhausted toddler, I had a crazed hyena to contend with. If you had only audio, you would have heard "Eh? Eh?" (Request that I pull the sheet, the sparking blanket, and the bedspread up to his waist as he leaned back on a pillow), "Neigh! Neigh! Horsey! Neigh! Rock, rock, rock," (this as he flung himself across my waist and rocked back and forth, gearing up for "jump! Jump! Jump!" as he sprung onto the bare box spring to leap to and fro.

The tossing, turning, leaping and chattering was intermittently broken by a crying jag. Since I'd heard our neighbors talking earlier, I figured the walls were thin and they must also be hearing our hyena. I also kept thinking my dad must think I'm the most incompetent mom in the world. So I added chagrin to my exhaustion and stress. I tried every trick I knew: nursing, singing, rocking, shushing, admonishing, begging, ignoring, all to no avail. The last thing I did was to put a sweater on the boy. Since there was no sleep sack, and blankets were a non-starter, I figured a sweater was the closest we could get. I imagine it was coincidental and that pure exhaustion finally flattened him, but soon after I put on the sweater, sometime after 3:00, he finally slept, and continued sleeping until Jamie knocked on the door around 7:30.

My only consolation during the long night was that at least I'd have something to blog about.

random cute pics

Homegrown potatoes homegrown potatoes
What'd life be without homegrown potatoes