Laszlo's Life

Video, per Mom's Request

2010-12-02T08:14:00.001-08:00

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

2010-07-17T05:38:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-02T09:10:00.000-07:00

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!

2010-05-13T07:08:00.000-07:00

Thanks for the video, Sherri.

Blue Isn't

2010-05-11T05:46:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-07T15:35:00.000-07:00

Tender (and Other) Cliches

2010-04-27T09:50:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-29T09:14:00.001-07:00

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

2009-12-28T10:52:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-10T15:39:00.000-08:00

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

Favorite Word

2009-10-27T15:11:00.000-07:00

Laszlo loves saying "yeah" in answer to most any question.

Me: "How old are you?"
L: "Yeah."

Me: "How many fingers do you have?"
L: "Yeah."

He'll frequently answer yes to mutually exclusive options.

I'm sure he'll rediscover the joy of "No!" soon. Lately, the only time he uses "no" is when he's doing something forbidden. I'll hear him in the bathroom, saying "no, no, no, no, no," as he holds down the flush handle of the toilet (and we were an "if it's yellow..." family even before the latest drought. Oh, the sin of it!). Or he says it while unplugging the dustbuster. Or sometimes, as he does things that we've never bothered to forbid, like taking sand from his sand table and putting one handfull at a time onto the trampoline, (though perhaps he's recalling that the same behavior was not allowed when it was fistfulls of dirt from the raised veggie beds.)

I've re-read David Copperfield so many times that I can't watch Laszlo do any endearing behavior without thinking, "My darling boy," the way DC's mother always said it to him in private, furtively conveying all her love with those words.

Couple of Tree Pics

2009-10-27T14:40:00.000-07:00

A few days before the removal, grumpy Paul sweeps the deck for the third time that day. (After clearing the roof and the gutters.)

The scale, as seen from next door. All the neighbors and passers-by came out to watch.

This dude was amazing. He climbed like a monkey with a chainsaw dangling from his belt. He and the crane took down all three trees in less than six hours.

Off to the chipper! A squirrel was staring at me from the top of the fence as I took this: guilt and glee all at once.

And now:

Sun enough for citrus and the garden
No aphid poo on Laszlo's slide and trampoline
No more multiple deck-sweepings per day
Laundry drying outdoors without getting gummed up
Nothing to curse and shake our fists at when we go out on the deck. What will we do?

For Avid Fans of Peek-a-Boo

2009-10-17T17:05:00.000-07:00

The Most Elusive Prey

2009-09-18T14:51:00.001-07:00

If there's one thing that's highly prized and impossible to get enough of nowadays, it's sleep. On this trip, a combination of spiders, mold, noise and tight quarters are making it ever more dear. For any trip away from home detailed strategies are explored, outlined and executed, but anything short of Crib in Another Room also involves a great deal of anguish and prayer. Well, maybe not prayer because we're athiests, but desperate hope, and a deep concentration that borders on superstition: "if I just close my eyes and want, want, want so badly for Laszlo to fall asleep, (or stay asleep), it will happen."

And the truth is that if he's alone, he's a marvelous sleeper. On our first day in Missouri, I put him on Uncle Dan's bed surrounded by pillows and pacifiers, closed the shades and walked out of the room, and he didn't make a peep for three hours.

But we recently discovered that if he's in the room with us, we need a visual barrier in order for him to fall asleep and stay asleep. And at Dan's, that's not happening. In theory, there are two beds in the room, but one of them got saturated in a recent precipitation-leak event, and we've now spent two nights without it as ever so slowly "dries" in the sun room. So bed #2, on the floor, consists of the couch cushions with a fitted sheet. One might think this is the perfect spot for the smallest of us, while the two >5' people (me and Paul) could share the bed. And that would be true if it weren't for the population of brown recluse spiders with whom Dan unwillingly shares his house.

He advises us to shake out our clothes in the morning before getting dressed, because they like small, dark spaces.

And apparently, only the bed that's off the floor is safe from them, so obviously our Precious Child sleeps there. And it has to be away from the walls, too, because (Dan's theory is that) they are less likely to make it onto the bed if they can't bridge the 6-inch gap. Unfortunately, on our first night here, Laszlo's head fell into the gap a couple of times, then a leg fell in there, so I decided that sleep is more important than not getting bit by a poisonous spider, and put pillows around the edge of the bed, providing continuous and ample passage to the spiders, but preventing further head-wedgings.

On the other side of the bed is me. It's not a long drop to the carpeted-floor, so I'm not actually worried about him falling. If the second matress were dry, I would sleep on it and I think things might go better.

More riviting accounts of our Missouri sleep saga to come...

Adjusting

2009-09-12T13:49:00.000-07:00

I was able to remain in denial about being unemployed until I dropped Mom off at BART on Wednesday evening for a red-eye back to Massachusetts. We had a glorious couple of weeks of fun and laziness and extended familiality. We did all the usual activities: Steam Train, Little Farm, Discovery Museum, Academy of Sciences, as well as lots of parks and Peets'. Mom also introduced a new activity: walking to the end of the block and sitting on the curb at the corner of Solano and Masonic. From there, you can see busses (Buh!) trucks, BART passing overhead (Bah!), children walking to school, trees (Ah-Bo! en Espanol) and all of "city" life. On the way, you can pause to ponder every piece of litter, light-post and manhole in the way only toddlers do. EVERYthing is worth focused examination and remark. Case in point: Laszlo is newly aware of planes overhead and the distant tooting of trains to the west. Trains pass many, many times per day. I wasn't aware how many. But now I am because every time he hears one, he shudders and stops what he's doing to proclaim Doo-doooooooo!

Yesterday, Laszlo and I took BART and MUNI to the CA Academy of Sciences. Almost immediately upon leaving the house, I wondered if I was making a really stupid mistake not to bring baby conveyance of any kind. Embarking on a trip to the City with no stroller and no Ergo? It wasn't just the prospect of tired arms; carriers serve a dual purpose of containment when one has to, say, pee, or fish out bus fare. This all worked out okay, except he managed to open the stall door and exit the stall while I was peeing at one point. And he fell asleep on my lap when the N Judah got stuck at Church and Market for like fifteen minutes, preventing me from taking advantage of his nap by knitting or texting (geez, spell-checker get a clue: "texting" is most certainly a word by now). Nevertheless, I think this will be a regular activity for us. I also found out we can take the bus to the Tilden Nature Area fairly easily, and the bus is way more fun than driving.

Thus we begin a period of unknown duration, in which Mom-Toddler becomes the primary pairing, for better or worse. I'd prefer to have more balance--for myself, between being work and care-giving, and for Laszlo between mom-time and time with Paul and other adults--but I'm also excited to experience the world at a toddler's pace for awhile. Doo-dooooooo!

I do not like change

2009-08-21T16:38:00.000-07:00

In that way, I guess I'm like most toddlers. I haven't posted anything for ages, and I just looked over my draft posts from the last few months. There's Pusher, in which I describe my anxiety upon hearing the nanny's gleeful description of Laszlo retaliating against his nannyshare friend, Miles, by pushing him down (Sohan and Gigi, if this is the first you're hearing of this, my apologies). There's Wheels, in which I self-righteously proclaim that we're a biking family. And a couple of others that never went beyond being titled Discipline and Household Help. Those were going to be about our adventures with Dr. Jane Nielson (Paul likes her methods, but not her rationale. He says that what she calls "respectful" is really just manipulative, but nevertheless perfectly fine and effective), and a photo-montage (I'm throwing in that word without even looking it up, that's how brash I'm feeling) of Laszlo at the kitchen counter covered with flour, Laszlo with miscellaneous appliances, etc., respectively.

In short, BORING.

But we've got some authentic changes in the works over here. And I'm losing sleep because I FEAR CHANGE. And I'm going to be laid off when my paid leave runs out in mid-October. Then we'll find ourselves among the fortunate COBRA'd unemployed: fortunate to be paying $500 a month for Kaiser for me and Laszlo, (Paul has some lame coverage from U.C.); fortunate that I qualifiy for unemployment; hopeful that the Great State of California will be issuing real checks by that time instead of IOUs; grateful that we have a small financial cushion, and therefore Laszlo's amygdalic development isn't yet in jeopardy as a result of instability/homelessness, etc.; however still dubious about my punctuation, especially semi-colons.

Off we go. Wish us luck!

Marvelous Little Sounds

2009-07-19T05:42:00.000-07:00

Laszlo's repertoire of meaningful sounds is slowly expanding. We haven't had the anticipated explosion of verbosity, but the profusion of sounds is charming. He loves to whisper. Often, while he's nursing, he waves up at me, eyeballs straining sideways toward my face. If I want him to go back to sleep, but don't want him to feel ignored, I whisper, "hi." When he's done nursing, he starts crooning, "Ayyyyy," (hi.) When I respond a whispered, "hi," he whispers, "tsshh-ah-wshhh," his standard reply to anything we whisper to him.

And why is it that animal sounds are among the first that children learn to make? I mean, wouldn't you expect them to start with the things that are important to them? Wouldn't it make more sense to figure out a sound like "ow!" before the monkey sound, "oooh-oooh?" Paul figured out that Laszlo's utterance when he sees a picture of a duck, "wah-wah," is "quack-quack." Sometimes I can hear him lowing "oooh," in the next room, and I know without looking that he's talking to the cow piece from his stacking puzzle. All this before he's consistently saying any version of "mom" or "dad." Do cows and ducks, which he's rarely even seen in person, loom larger in his sphere than us?

In the realm of recognizable English words, "ba!" (ball) is still most highly favored, the branching out from there continues slowly. Any child under four is "bay-bay," and yesterday he started practicing "byeeee-byeeee."

Ana has taught him "ah-hya," (gracias). I don't think he knows when it's supposed to be used, except at the apparently random occasions when an adult says, "what do you say?" Speaking of thanks, I can't even express how utterly privledged I feel to have this child in my life. I really hate to gush, but really, the amount of happiness and fun and pure joy that this one little being has ushered my way is just mind-blowing.

Total Toddler

2009-07-02T10:56:00.000-07:00

That hapless woman at Border's with one hand vice-gripping a toddler's, while the other works at cross-purposes with the toddler's free hand in an attempt to replace all the items he's removing from the shelves? That's me. I used to wonder why anyone would bring a toddler to a place they so obviously can't handle. Now I understand that yes, they're fools, and I am too.

A woman with a limp infant staring placidly from his Ergo narrowly avoids us. She raises her eyebrows as our mass of struggling limbs spans the board book aisle.

Right after I extracted him from the trailer outside the book store, he started making the sign for food. Feeling smug about my maternal competence, I pulled a couple of individually-packaged Annie's fruit snacks from the cargo hold and sat with him on the sidewalk while he ate. For something to do, I read the ingredients and noted that although they're organic, actual fruit is rather late on an ingredient list topped by cane sugar. Now I'm trying to figure out if unrestrained toddler/store is simply a bad combination, or if he got all wired from the bunnies.

But really, he gets free rein to explore most of what's within his reach almost everywhere we go, so how's he supposed to know the difference between a store and the Discovery Museum? A warning to the childless: do not have us over.

This is when I realize We Have a Toddler Now. Other evidence?

1. He diligently practices saying "NA-oo" at all times of day and night. He started this new, contrarian bird call from his crib at 5:30 this morning.

2. He thinks that running away from me--usually toward the street--is the height of hilarity.

3. His response to us telling him not to do something is to do the thing again IMMEDIATELY.

Could he be any more typical?

Bo Bo

2009-06-29T06:16:00.000-07:00

Laszlo discovered a new word. He may have been using it for awhile, but the meaning became clear on Saturday afternoon during a visit from Julie, Scott and Jonah. We have our trailer park version of a kiddie pool, a cement mixing tray from Home Depot. It's more heavy and rigid than the usual pool, and short enough that he can get in and out on his own. It's small so it fits nicely on the deck and doesn't take a million gallons of water to fill.

We've been enjoying watching Laszlo run around naked outdoors on warm afternoons. (He no longer walks. Why walk when you can run? His protruberant belly takes the lead, and his legs can't quite keep up, each foot slamming flat on the ground just in time to prevent the face-plant--except when they're not. Arms flail goonily above his head.) We figure all the nakedness outside will be a good way to pottie train the passive, lazy way (my favorite). And he'll get his base tan.

Paul was on the deck with Laszlo and Jonah, when Laszlo looked at him and said, "Bo bo." Not knowing the meaning, Paul nodded and smiled. "Bo bo." Nod and smile. "Bo bo." Laszlo gets out of the water. And squats on the deck. Oh! Bo bo! This was followed by our usual poop-induced panic, flailing our own arms and running around goonily.

Parents out there will understand that besides being a gross story, this is actually a very exciting potty-training development. He's peeing on the pottie a couple of times a day already. Dare we hope that he'll be diaper-free by the time he's two?

...and all the Children are Above Average. Except Ours.

2009-06-19T18:54:00.000-07:00

We're enough lacking in modesty to be a little surprised that Laszlo isn't demonstrating genius potential, or at least above-average development. (Come to think of it though, I may have gotten by in school more on a combination of earnest effort and intelligent friends. But Paul at least, I am sure, has exceptional native intelligence.)

While a few of Laszlo's peers know so many words that their parents have stopped keeping track, the majority are saying at least twenty or thirty words that don't all sound like ba. Laszlo, on the other hand, makes sentences and entire speeches out of ba with a variety of intonations and occasionally some variation on the /a:/ sound. The favorite, which is a secondary mantra, is BYE-ba! BYE-ba! Lately, he has added bye-BAY-ba! He also says AH-ba! ("agua,") which started out as AI-ba!

He has also attained competence at /d/ in the case of AAAAH-Da! ("all done.") The first syllable takes three counts; the second, one.

Aside from those, most of the rest of his utterances don't resemble English or Spanish.

In contrast to Laszlo's Bam-Bam persona, other children seem thoughtful, deliberate and verbal. Laszlo's interests are more limited: balls, water, noises and dropping things. Is he going to become like the weird kid from my elementary school who dragged a stroller up the footbridge by Van Cleve Park, just to throw it off and watch it crumple? Is it possible that other children his age are doing puzzles and drawing with crayons? My inclination is to be unconcerned, but I do wonder occasionally...should we be pushing him to expand his behavioral repertoire? Did I eat something when I was pregnant that slows brain development? Was it the sushi?

His love of books is a consolation to me. He eagerly awaits the pages with cats, dogs, cows, fish and balls, and starts making the signs for the animals or calling out Ba! several pages in advance. You'd be amazed: almost every baby book has a cat, dog, cow, fish or ball someplace on some page.

And I'm thrilled he learns signs with acumen--at least those that don't involve finger differentiation. The latest, which I'm rather proud of, is please (open palm traces a circle on the chest.) If there's one thing I learned student-teaching 60 kindergartners, it's that manners shouldn't be underrated.

Don't get me wrong. Laszlo is absolutely perfect, of course. He's charming and chubby and affectionate. He's almost always happy. I am excited to see him and spend time with him every single day. AND he's slept through the night consistently since he was about nine months old. But can he please say words eventually?

Literary Pursuits

2009-06-04T09:55:00.000-07:00

Laszlo has recently developed a love of books. One of his favorites is Counting Kisses. Note the subtitle, "A Kiss & Read Book."

When we were given this book at the baby shower, I didn't get it about all the kissing. It seemed corny and sentimental. I may even have winced or grimaced a little. And when Laszlo was born--when they pulled him out after I'd been induced, infected, injected and incised, and a nurse brought him around the paper screen that had my head and Paul on one side, and the rest of my body on the other, and she asked if I wanted to give him a kiss? I definitely didn't get it then, either. A kiss, you say? A KISS?? No, no, no! This is when we're supposed to be skin to skin, and he's supposed to wriggle his mammally little mouth up toward my sustaining breast, and we're supposed to stay together, tired and happy and wrapped in blankets, and fall asleep until he gets hungry again. But here we are in the sterile operating room, and I've never felt worse in my life, and we both have infections and I can't lie here with him peacefully because there are about a hundred procedures that we both have to undergo...no, I don't want to give him a freaking kiss.

Now, I can think of nothing more satisfying than smooching my sweet boy's soft little cheek, and I understand why people get all gooey over babies and want to love them up so voraciously. Live and learn.

Laszlo's new love of books is a relief on several counts. First, it's meant that we've been able to eliminate bedtime nursing without his even appearing to notice. Second, it's a restful activity that I can enjoy after all the hours of activities that all seem to involve a lot of bending and picking up toys, balls, food, hats, pluggies, and the 30 lb. boy himself. Finally, I'm glad to know his development is branching out slightly from his usual gross motor obsessions.

We've established a very simple bedtime routine, consisting of a Naked Runaround (adopted from Cyrus and Isaac's nightly "Naked Run Around the House," and unfortunately often involving pee on the floor, but a baby likes a healthy breeze around his parts from time to time), Jammies (which he hates), Brushing Teeth (which he enjoys, thanks to Weleda's Children's Tooth Gel), and Reading Books.

I taught him a sign we use for "read" or "book," which is probably the standard, since it's so obvious--hands in prayer position, then they open like, well, a book. But he gets his signs a little confounded and instead of having his hands in front of him, pressed together and then opening, he just holds his hands palm up and shoves the heels into his chin, as if he's far-sighted and has to have the book two inches from his eyes. Oh shit, could he be farsighted?

East Coast Pictures II

2009-05-26T11:16:00.001-07:00

Laszlo seemed to adore cousins Cyrus and Isaac, and vice-versa. They were helpful, kind, and sometimes a little overwhelming.

Cyrus helps feed Laszlo morning oatmeal:

One of ten thousand hugs-a-day issued by Isaac:

Cyrus and Isaac were always pleased to assist with the pacifier.

In this photo, Isaac has precisely the expression he wore on the couple of occasions when I returned to a room after a momentary absence to find Laszlo crying and Isaac standing over him, saying, "Bite. Zazo," or "Pinch. Zazo." Zealous love.

Isaac hitches a ride on Dad's stroller

Rub-a-Dub-Dub. And somebody having a drink.

My brother Jamie, (sporting a capoeira-inflicted shiner) with Cyrus and Isaac:

Genell with Cyrus.

Lucas and Laszlo. We have a Giant Baby.

I cleaned out a couple of boxes of stuff I'd asked the Moms to save for me when I moved to California. They carted these from Minnesota to Arkansas to Massachusetts. Apparently, as a teenager I thought this stuff was really important (okay, I'm trying to make myself sound younger by saying "teenager." I think I was nineteen. That's embarrassing.)

I saved a lock of hair (??) which got stuck to an unidentifiable object, glued with an unidentifiable substance:

My precious childhood friends, many of whom went to the landfill after this, their final photo op. Many are missing important facial elements, and they range from pathetic to frightening. (I'm reminded of when Kirsten--then childless--pulled out her childhood stuffed camel with the missing eye and gash for a mouth, to the horror of my visiting niece, Bella.) I saved my homemade, leather holster and gun (we were gun-toting tots), model horses and Sasha dolls. The sow and snap-on piglets are still quite cute, and I brought them to the Vermont cousins.

Lumber, lurch, stagger, amble, saunter, trip, WALK!

2009-04-29T09:41:00.000-07:00

We're entering a new era. It includes being able to set the boy down outside, and things wandering around the house more readily, to appear in the oddest places--kitchen cupboards, the bathtub, and thrown over the safety gate into Blue's Territory. And the cutest shoes, which Paul calls "Li'l Peddlers."

Pictures from East Coast Trip I

2009-04-25T06:53:00.000-07:00

Laszlo and I bravely flew solo to the east coast for a three+ week visit.

Wisty (Wima) off for a walk with Laszlo

Mom (Juma) accosted while attempting her knee exercises

The Greenbachers, (minus Ani) crashed out after brunch

Laszlo and his uncle Darius

Laszlo and cousin Ani

A new game, (and now a favorite at home):

I don't see the intrigue. But it might be universal. Mom spent some time while we were here looking for a copy of a book called "A Flower Pot is not a Hat," which L obviously hasn't read.

I was so jealous. Why don't we have something like this? It's every weekday morning and includes three separate rooms of amazing pre-school and toddler activity areas. Best of all, it's run by a non-profit, so payment is by donation. There is a similar, smaller program in Greenfield. It's like New England is saying, Suck it, West Coast Progressives, Western Mass is truly family-friendly.

Potty, Ba! and our Trip Back East

2009-04-14T12:30:00.000-07:00

It's been way too long since I've posted, and I don't even have time for much of one now, either. I want to write about our trip--almost four weeks with cousins, grandparents and other relations--but I also just want to note a few developments, so that I don't forget when they happened, with hopes to elaborate in coming weeks.

1. Definite first word: Ba! (ball). And he seems so thrilled to be able to say something that has some meaning that he says it all the time: in the middle of the night, while he's eating breakfast, and when he wakes from a nap. He whispers it, bellows it, and croons it sleepily as he gazes into my eyes after nursing.

2. First steps: my mom saw him take a single step at their house in Massachusetts. Then on our way home, during a layover at Dulles he took two lurching steps toward a kind Chinese grandma who was gesturing frantically with a ziplock of Golden Grahams. It was an eight-diaper day, three of which were changed at cruising altitude, and a wicked diaper rash and no sleep had Laszlo in a highly irascible state. Just the time a little high-fructose corn syrup-laden breakfast cereal.

3. Ready for TMI? He's peed in the potty several times in the last week. The bathroom is so small and I got tired of not being able to open the door all the way, so I put it in his room. Conveniently, that's where he's most often nude, so I just started popping him on the seat, saying, "wanna pee in the potty?" and to my surprise, he's actually been doing it. This morning, he sat there and I kept asking, "wanna pee?" and I make this "pssssshhhh" sound. When I make the sound, he smiles down at his penis. He eventually did pee, but when I got him up, I saw he'd also made a lovely little turd. I took a picture. Don't worry, I won't post it. I also saved it so that Paul could see it. But when Paul got up, I forgot to mention it, and now he's out for the day. Really, is this the kind of thing one saves for a spouse? I'm sure he'd much rather have baked goods.

Representative Utterances

2009-03-05T10:25:00.000-08:00

Okay, these are not words. But he repeats them often enough that I've come to believe they have meaning, and constitute communication that has well surpassed Blue's capabilities.

When he drops something on the floor, "Uh-Aaah."

When I put food in front of him and warn hot, "Aaah" as he brings it toward his mouth. Unfortunately, the concept of things going from hot to not hot is beyond him, so even twenty minutes later, when he brings it to his mouth, he says "Aaah."

When addressing Blue, "Daaaaaa!" This may or may not mean dog, but our guess is that since he positively yells it, he's mimicking the way we address our almost-deaf canine. Of course, we actually never yell, "Dog!" at Blue, so maybe "Daaaaaa" is just something he enjoys yelling.

Desire is expressed with a whole-body shudder. This is the response when I ask, want some banana? and he sees me holding it, or when our Little Omnivore runs out of meat at the dinner table and we offer him more. His little body just can't contain the excitement, and all his muscles tense at once.

Laszlo is not a precocious child. He seems utterly average, developmentally speaking. (Of course, he has countless other charms, and we all know that Einstein didn't learn to talk until he was four, so he may still be a genius.) So I take great joy in the teeniest new behaviors and ways of interacting. Among these: lately, he likes to play Peek-a-Boo with my boob. (Peek-a-Boob?). He'll nurse, nurse, nurse, then stop and pull my shirt down over it. After a couple of seconds, he quickly raises my shirt again and grins at my nipple, as if he expects it to react in surprise. I can think of a few reasons why I should maybe not let him do this. I mean, it's still my body. Mostly. Or at least, I want it to be again. Ah, well. We'll see.

Teething Horror

2009-02-25T07:45:00.000-08:00

Friday: Cried for half an hour during the nap attempt at Julies, then low-grade moaning for an hour in the stroller. His constantly open mouth and refusal of pluggy gave me ample opportunity to review his gums, and holy moly! Or should I say holy molars!

Saturday: Copious drool, no appetite, more moaning. His first six teeth came in ages ago with little struggle, but the molars are a different story. He saturated the two spit-bibs I knit, plus six store-bought ones, and two changes of clothes. Paul and I were a two-person circus, tag-teaming to distract the boy. Laszlo's frustration threshold plummeted faster than the Dow. One failed try getting the ring on the stacking cone would be followed with a great inhalation, propelling a "Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!" of epic proportion. When presented with a new toy or a piece of banana, he would fling his head to the side like a Hollywood starlet. I'm pretty sure he even put the back of his hand to his forehead.

Sunday: In the morning, he napped, and napped, and napped--for three hours. Even then, we had to wake him so we wouldn't be late for noon brunch at Kevin and Shamus' (we were half an hour late). He groused and yawned the whole way over, and once there was quiet as a goldfish. I brought him a giant bag of toys, oatmeal and a snack, a change of clothes, the Ergo, a warm hat and a sun hat, and countless other minor necessities, but forgot the most critical items: diaper bag and booster chair. We put Laszlo atop two or three pillows, and Shamus produced a belt, with which we strapped him (to the chair, of course!) This proved effective, and he ate a bit of quiche and a lot of oatmeal.

By yesterday, he was back to normal. And yesterday, I carried our 46-pound, fifteen-year-old dog to the back of the EV, and to the vet, where we learned he was suffering from a probable kidney infection and severe dehydration. Two hours later and $500 poorer, I brought him home laden with medication. It looks like he'll be okay for now.

Silliness

2009-02-18T11:10:00.000-08:00

The other day, Laszlo and I were grocery shopping and he was blowing raspberries nonstop. It was a one-man version of the baked bean cookout from Blazing Saddles. He was kind enough to demonstrate his acumen in the area of goofy faces and funny sounds for the camera.

Dark

2009-02-05T05:36:00.000-08:00

My urge to listen to the Cowboy Junkies and eat sweetened, condensed milk straight out of the can does not portend well. Interspersed with the bursts of color Laszlo weaves into my days, the hope I have for the long-term future of our country under Obama's influence, and the wonder of seedlings sprouting, I can't completely emerge from the cloud of fear and anxiety at the prospect of being laid off soon. It eats away at me, and like many things, the anticipation is probably (hopefully?) worse than the reality. I've got a rational voice telling me that if it happens, it happens, and we'll take things from there. Our families won't let us starve or end up homeless. The real worst-case scenario involves not being able to spend time with the people I love and doing the things I love. I want to dig in to the stuff of life: cooking, gardening, walking, playing, doing. I don't want to live out my days in front of a computer screen, pumping my creative energy and critical mind into the cause of making a profit.

Fortunately, there are things that allow me to focus on the joy of the moment, and take me out of my darkness for chunks of time, the most effective of which is Laszlo. Every day, he has some new way of interacting, of demonstrating interest or intention. Yesterday, he became fascinated with a roll of packing tape I dropped on the kitchen floor. Did you know that packing tape has a hole in the middle? If the tape is flat on the floor and you drop a small ball into the hole, the ball doesn't roll away. Not so if you turn the tape 90 degrees!

Like a typical tot of his age, his current favorite game is, "I'm gonna git you!" He initiates it be crawling away as fast as he can--slapslapslap! His body wiggles like a waggy puppy. We're almost always too slow. Almost instantly, he sits up and half turns, like "where the hell are you? You were supposed to come git me!" I feel so lucky to have this perfect little guy to force me to be here now.

Whirlwind of Momness

2009-01-28T11:23:00.000-08:00

Laszlo, Wima and Goat at the Little Farm at Tilden.

Laszlo loving up Juma.

My moms, (a.k.a. Mom and Wisty, Judy and Wisty, or Juma and Wima) were here for almost two weeks. Our house is small, so when they visit, they sleep in a tent on the back deck. This works fairly well, since they're apparently unbothered by the BART noise. We put a powerstrip, reading lamp, space heater and bedwarmer in the tent, so it is both cozy and a fire hazard.

Since the dining room now triples as Laszlo's play area and my office, (we gated off the living room, which is now Blue's special area, in which he can be hostile with impunity), we replaced the lovely, big teak table we inherited from Paul's parents with the small, pine, warped and stained table retrieved from under the cabin in Bolinas. Now we can have a maximum of two people over for dinner, which is really kind of a bummer, because much as I detest stand-around-with-a-drink-and-make-small-talk parties, I really enjoy having four or five people over for dinner. (I don't like regular grownup parties because I suck at small talk, and tend to become self-conscious, boring and/or inappropriate.) Anyway, we were able to fit around our table, which was lucky since dinner is an important ritual for us, and with the Moms hanging out with Laszlo for long afternoon stretches, I was able to cook at a leisurely pace, with music and even a glass of wine.

Usually I have a long list of Things I Want to Get Done when Mom(s) visit. This time, there was just one item, but it was a biggie: get some veggies growing in our weed and dogshit patch. In recent years, I read Animal, Vegetable, Miracle as well as The Omnivore's Dilemma, which progressed me on the road to locavoredom (Locavoraciousness? Locavoracity?). I pretty much abandoned gardening when I had to say goodbye to my Richmond native plant and vegetable gardens about five years ago. But ever since watching Bill Moyers' Interview with Michael Pollan, I've been feeling like it's ridiculous to let our yard founder in poo for another year.

So after a trip to Berkeley Horticulture, we made raised beds by recycling the old deck Paul's dad built in Bolinas in the 60s. We planted Santa Rosa plum, Meyer Lemon, Fuji Apple and culinary Bay trees, plus onions, leeks, kale, sorrel, artichoke, a blueberry bush and a mess of herbs. And I surprised myself by not immediately dropping the ball when they left. Yesterday, I started a seedbed on the kitchen counter with broccoli, cilantro, parsley, peas, chard and spinach. I even planted the box from some fancy moisturizer from Elephant Pharmacy. It said it's made of whirled up newsprint and medicinal herb seeds. It said to soak the box and then plant it an inch deep, and up would spring, like a magic beanstalk, medicinal herbs. Not that I'll know what to do with them if they arrive.

The site:

The American Gothic version of this one was blurry.

Planted beds. The cardboard is unsightly, but functional.

Ham

2009-01-23T04:02:00.000-08:00

Laszlo has discovered that he can make us laugh by making this face, and he's conducting experiments using his new power. He made the face as I was tucking him in last night, as if checking whether he can use it to make me laugh at bedtime. It started out as a wrinkled-nose grin, and evolved to look more like a baring of teeth than a smile. I wonder if he's going to be a clown like his dad.

Yes, We Did!

2009-01-20T11:06:00.000-08:00

In the wake of Obama's inauguration, I can't resist sharing one quick story about canvassing in Las Vegas the week before the election. I'm not sure whether residential Vegas is composed wholly of gated communities, or if we ended up there because we looked so danged stereotypically wholesome (and let's face it, white) but Shamus, Laszlo and I spent three days furtively slipping through gates to get to the doors of Vegas voters. At one, some little girls who were riding their bikes near the entrance retrieved a key from the bushes to grant us entry. Some of these areas were exclusive, but others were fairly run-down apartment complexes that didn't at all fit my idea of a gated community.

We were in one of these complexes, made up of 4- or 6-unit buildings. I think it was mostly seniors, because we saw the most phenomenal collections of brick-a-brack in the kitchen garden windows while we waited (and waited and waited) for people to answer their doors. I believe this area supplies the cultural offal to the Salvation Armys across the country.

At one second-story unit, a woman in her 60's answers. Shamus and Elina: "Hello! We're helping get out the vote for Barack Obama." The woman looks uncomfortable, attempts to dismiss us with "We already voted with early voting," to which Shamus, with typical aplomb, gives the prescribed response, "May we ask if we can mark you down as a supporter?" Awkward silence with penetrating eye contact on her part. "Uh, that's okay!" I spit out, ready to let her off the hook. This is where we cut our losses and move on. But she pauses. She shuts the door halfway. She leans in. She mouths "Obama," and whispers, "I don't want him to know," while pointing to the right across her torso. All we can do is grin.

*Also on this trip, Shamus and I discovered that we both know ALL the words to The Boxer.

"Firsts"

2009-01-11T08:57:00.000-08:00

Laszlo's recent undertakings:

1. "Pointing" consists of extending his arm and pointing the back of his hand toward his object.

2. "Waving." He's mastering the baby-style hand-fold wave. But he does it facing himself.

3. "Hugging." Oh, how delicious! I think he's a late-hugger, and I cop to a secret fear that he was going to be a cold child who would dismiss me with an arrogant "oh, mother," when I try to cuddle him as a four-year-old, (much like how I imagine Niles from "Frasier" to have been as a child.) I think his "kissing" behavior at five or six months was actually an attempt to nurse on my cheek. But this seems like the real thing: from either a sitting or standing position, he deliberately falls into me with arms out and nuzzles his cheek against me. Does this count as a hug?

4. Gorilla-Walking. It appears to confirm Paul's occasional proclamation, (usually following a round of "eeee-eeee," "ooooh-ooooh" and banana-eating) that we are definitely primates. This method of perambulation is especially amusing from the hind view when he is nude.

5. Dropping, banging, flinging and scattering are still good fun, but he's developed a (so sophisticated!) interest in putting things into and taking them out of containers. Here he demonstrates with his favorite toys--little rattly balls and a mixing bowl. This morning he was engaged in this task for at least five minutes--a lifetime in baby time.

6. Me, now you, now me again, etc. This toddler version of taking turns (toddler version because he dictates the terms absolutely) is fun with almost anything! From the pluggy (yuck) to holding the spoon or shoe, to playing the recorder and xylophone. After snatching the recorder mid-tune, he plays it from the wrong end, humming into it like a kazoo.

7. Whacking self in head, repeatedly and intentionally. Is this normal?

Illusions and Delusions

2009-01-07T04:45:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I wish Laszlo were our second, or fourth or fifth child so that on nights like the last, I could be nonchalant. "Eh, vomit, so what? What's a little vomit?" But after his sixth round of regurgitating the pesto penne and broccoli we'd had for dinner, I couldn't escape the feeling that our little bubble of safety has been penetrated. Something got in. Oh, the many ways in which we're vulnerable! First of all, what got in Laszlo? Did he eat something noxious? Did we look away at just the wrong moment while he was popping, what, a cigarette butt into his mouth? Lying in bed, I hear a creek downstairs. A burglar getting in! Yes, the neighbors mentioned the burglar that's been coming in through unlocked back doors during the night. I'll go downstairs and probably get kidnapped, but I will be a hero and not scream and wake the baby. No, let's think about something else...the raised garden beds we're going to build when the Moms visit...we'll need that wood from Bolinas. What if rats get in to the vegetables? The neighbors had a rat and said part of the problem was our blackberries, which are right next to where we're going to build the beds. Will a chicken wire cloche keep them out? What if they're living under the house right now? There was that mouse that was living in the lining of the carseat in the garage, but I heard that mice live their whole lives within about a fifteen foot radius. I wonder if that's true. I wonder what a rat's radius is. What about the ants in the bathroom? We should really seal it up in there. Speaking of the bathroom, the joists under there could give out any time. The neighbor told me that when the last people lived here, the toilet actually fell through the floor into the garage.

Must get up. Must get baby monitor from Paul's office and sit with it cradled in my lap, listening to the boy breathe. And there's his steady breath. In. Out. In. Out. Everything is okay.

Green Soup

2009-01-06T13:17:00.000-08:00

We've been lunching and supping on Green Soup for three days. For a few minutes at dinner last night, Laszlo appeared to be rejecting it, and we faced the vexing possibility that we might have to give up our smug, "our child eats everything" attitude. But hallelujah, our smugness is intact: we discovered it was the metal spoon he didn't like. As soon as we served it with a wooden spoon, he was our veggie-loving boy again.

(*Laszlo reserves the right to join the ranks of toddlers everywhere who give up all foods other than puffed-up, high-glycemic index carbs. Today he tasted his first biscuit, and promptly lost interest in finishing his soup.)

The Recipe:

2 lbs. broccoli, stems peeled and sliced, florets roughly chopped
1 russet or two Yukon Gold potatoes, diced
4 T unsalted butter
1 onion
2 leeks, sliced thinly
1 medium carrot, sliced
6 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 t dried or 1 t fresh thyme
6 cups stock (I use chicken, could use veggie or maybe water)
7 to 14 oz canned tomatoes (any kind) or two Romas, chopped
8 oz fresh spinach, washed and coarsely chopped
1/4 C Italian parsley, chopped
1/4 t cardamom
1/4 t nutmeg
salt and pepper
1/4 c cream
juice of 1/2 lemon

1. Melt butter. Add onion, leeks and carrot. Cook over medium heat, stirring occasionally until soft, about 10 minutes.
2. Add the garlic and thyme, and cook, stirring, until fragrant, about 30 seconds.
3. Add stock, broccoli, tomatoes, potatoes and parsley. Bring to a simmer, cover, and cook over low heat for 20 minutes or until the veggies are cooked.
4. Add spinach, cardamom, nutmeg, salt and pepper, and cook for another minute or so.
5. Puree the soup in batches, reserving a couple of cups of veggie chunks if you like your soup chunky.
6. Return puree to the pot with the veggies and cook on low until it's heated through. Off the heat, stir in lemon juice, followed by cream.

This is a modified version of Broccoli and Spinach Soup from the New Basics.

Coincidence, or Shameless Corporate Co-opting?

2009-01-05T06:06:00.001-08:00

I noted on my way home from SF that the Powell Street Bart Station is sponsored by Pepsi this month. The ads span the length of the platform, although the name Pepsi is strangely absent. Instead, the logo replaces the 'O' in signs that declare such sentiments as, "Got Soda?" "Joy," and (get this) "Hope." Something seemed eerily familiar about their new, stylized logo. Is it my imagination? See what you think.

Pepsi's new logo:

Another logo one might associate with the word hope:

And now, the Pepsi logo rotated:

Fighting like Children; Fighting like Grown-ups

2009-01-04T16:53:00.000-08:00

Elina, Maureen and Kirsten at ToTM:

Get a stinger and a vanillatini in me and I will bore you for hours with the nuances of interactions, but sometimes it takes dear friends (and/or a fantastic view of the City) to shed true insight. Last night I enjoyed a Night Out with Maureen and Kirsten, ("Girls" Night Out makes it sound like we think we're 20. "Moms" Night Out is a little too Women-on-the-Edge-Thelma-and-Louise. "Womens" Night Out sounds like you're just avoiding saying "Girls." "Ladies" Night Out is not even under consideration. So I'm just going with "Night Out.") We just couldn't seem to get enough conversing in. I think we need a whole weekend or longer dedicated to ceaseless talk.

In one breath, I was explaining how as a child, I would intentionally goad my older brother until he hit me, then I would cry and get comforted by our parents. Just a few minutes later, I recounted Paul's and my usual fight pattern. It goes like this:

1. Disagreement and/or hurt feelings
2. Tension
3. Escalation and anger
4. Elina goads
5. Paul yells
6. Elina cries
7. Paul apologizes and comforts

Sometimes 4 and 5 are reversed, but at any rate there's a whole cycle of yelling and goading. Imagine never having made a connection between that and the childhood pattern! And here's how it relates to Laszlo. Since L was born, we've barely fought, but the other night, we got all the way to stage 4 with Laszlo right there with us. But with L there, Paul didn't yell. He was angry, that was clear. But his voice remained modulated. So instead of our usual stages 6 and 7, I realized I'd been goading, was mortified, and apologized. Has our child pushed us into more mature communication? I hope so.

Four Doors of our Own

2008-12-31T08:28:00.000-08:00

The logistically-challenging but mundane task of looking for a new car came to an end yesterday with the purchase of a 2003 Ford Escape. It was a bargain at $2k below KBB from a 20-ish, sideways-capped Scooter. We insisted he keep the sub-woofer, which was the size of a steamer chest and would have displaced the stroller. (In fact, we christened the car by changing a diaper in the back as soon as the sub-woofer had been re-purposed as a streetside title-and check-signing table). We've rescued untold numbers of pedestrians and quiet, residential neighborhoods from another window-rattling, bass-booming cruiser. I got in touch with a small facet of my own irrationality when I realized that the clincher for me was the Ipod-compatible sound system. I'll be able to hear Ira Glass so well.

We did paperwork with Scooter while Laszlo gnawed and salivated on his (Scooter's) roommate's nun chucks. (Until now, I always thought it was numchucks, or maybe knumchuks, or even gnumchucks, but never nun chucks. I just don't associate them with nuns.)

Regarding the vehicle's (ahem) class, I've tried on several response modes. There was denial: "It's not an SUV," minimizing: "It's really just a tall station wagon," defensiveness: "Click and Clack say it's a car-based SUV," embarrassment: "how will I feel pulling up at the Natural Grocery in that?" rationalization: "It's the only way we can go anywhere with boy and dog," or, "We mostly walk and take the bus anyway." Finally, there's acceptance, which sadly means facing my own hypocracy head-on. I don't like that one either. Click and Clack rate it a three on the embarassment scale, on which the Excursion is a ten, so maybe I'll just learn to live with that and try to learn to be less judgmental in the process. And Paul is going to have to remove the "Ban SUV's from carpool lanes" bumper sticker from his Civic.

Harrowing adventures on Auto Row:

The Car. I mean SUV. I mean car-based vehicle:

Demetri Martin Quote of the Day, "I wrapped my Christmas presents early this year, but I used the wrong paper. See, the paper I used said ‘Happy Birthday’ on it. I didn’t want to waste it so I just wrote ‘Jesus’ on it."

This is not a Poop-Free Zone

2008-12-29T05:20:00.000-08:00

Laszlo is going through a phase of vehement protest against being held down. He will NOT be constrained. Wiping his butt is a high-stakes battle. When you lift up his feet in one hand, he uses all core strength to writhe away, and ends up balanced on the back of his head as you use your remaining hand to dispense wipes, clean the up the poop, and remove the diaper from underneath him in such a way and to such a location that prevents spillage and smearage. Way back when I was pregnant, we went to dinner with Bob and Leah and I remember pondering the oddity of both parents excusing themselves to change Dean in the restaurant bathroom. Now I get it: One parent distracts, sings, claps, offers toys, plays peek-a-boo, etc. so that the other can change the diaper under conditions of relative calm and hygene.

Last night after a party we got home a little after his usual bedtime, (speaking of parties, does anybody know the etiquette for RSVP-ing with a baby? I tried recently to enter 2.5 into the "number of guests" field on Evite, but it only accepts whole numbers. I don't want any "a baby is a whole person!" replies, either. I know. But for party planning purposes, one might consider them either less or more: He will certainly eat less food and drink less booze than an adult, and he doesn't need a chair at dinner, but he actually needs about 1.8 spaces at the table, since that's how far his reach extends.) Anyway, after the party last night, I was trying to change Laszlo in a fast and painless way, and since there was no poop, I figured I could just change him while he stood occupied at his battery-0perated, mega-plastic, multi-colored pull-up table. Diaper off, no problem. Jammies on deck. New diaper ready, and...what was that odd sound? Did the outlandish contraption invent a new vocalization? Ug, no! That was the sound of a turd being released onto the rug. Paul and I are afraid of poo, so it took all our faculties to deal with this scatalogical emergency. I don't go so far as to cordon off the spot, but we did make sure to clean it well.

Holiday Cheer; Lesson Learned

2008-12-24T13:21:00.001-08:00

Baked cookies all day with Kirsten and Kate. Also drank eggnog and champagne and ate turnip soup. This was the first time I've seen June and Laszlo really interact, although you might note that June did most of the interacting.

Kate, always a hit with the Little Ones

Mandatory photo of toddler with chocolate face:

June's Christmas masterpiece:

Kirsten and Kate were vigilant about keeping Laszlo away from the old oven that gets hot on the outside. I was stupidly nonchalant about it, so when we were about to leave, I didn't notice when Laszlo started to cruise there from the cabinet, and scorched his little catcher's mitt paw! Everyone felt awful, especially Laszlo. He cried like I've never heard him cry before. This wasn't whining or fussing can't-get-to-sleep. It was pain and fear and Mommy betrayed me. I ran it under cold water for a few minutes, but I should have done it a lot longer. He cried all the way home and I sang a Music Together lullaby. I cried when I got to the line, "I will keep you safe and warm," because dang it! I didn't keep him safe! He wouldn't take his pacifier and wouldn't even nurse, and it took him about an hour and a half to fall asleep. I went in to try and comfort him several times, but only made it worse.

About hot stoves and other dangers, I've always just thought that as long as there's no long-term harm done, accidents just happen and children will learn from them. But I don't think he learned from this. It's not as if we were consistently warning him, "hot!" when he went near the stove. He doesn't know what hot means now any more than he did before. I learned a lesson, though, that I don't want to let anything hurt him, ever, ever, ever. And that is my plan. That's a good plan, right?

Poor Laszlo

He's unexpectedly complacent about the band-aid

Paul ate all the cookies. And by "Paul," I mean, "Paul and I."

TV

2008-12-22T06:53:00.000-08:00

I like television. The cable is wasted on me, especially since Laszlo's birth, but I watch whole series' on Netflix in the wee morning hours when I can't sleep (this is why my friends are asked/forced to accommodate my 8:00 or even earlier bedtime). I wake up around 4:30, start the oatmeal, make my tea and sit down to a quiet couple of hours of indulgence in knitting and TV. This is a yummy part of my day.

I just finished watching the first season of Mad Men, and I want to bow down and say THANK YOU, 70'S FEMINIST MOVEMENT* (and a quick nod to the Firefox's spellchecker for saving me the embarrassment misspelling "feminist," and, it turns out, "embarrassment." Geez, I used to be a decent speller.) The show is a chilling look at the dark side of 50's relationships and lifestyle: children get slapped, husbands sleep around, working women are denigrated and underpaid, housewives gossip, divorcees are ostracized, and of course everybody smokes and nobody wears seatbelts. The male main character calls his wife's psychiatrist, who shares with him the diagnoses he withholds from his own patient. In fact, after weeks and weeks of treatment, the first feedback he gives her is "you're angry at your mother." Way to go, asshole.

I've also been watching Arrested Development. It's politically questionable, but I've been taking fashion tips from Rita, played by the stunning Charlize Theron. She turns out to be retarded--one of the questionable aspects of the show, (not to mention the multitude of gay jokes. I can't quite grok whether the humor is enlightened or offensive.) And it turns out, I think, that her "fashion sense" is intended to be that of a seven-year-old, with embroidered hats, saucy striped stockings, braids and stuffed animal backpacks. Here's my attempt at fun and hip:

I'm working on it. I'm knitting the Roller Girl Legwarmers from Stitch 'n' Bitch Nation. I chickened out and used a conservative, brown tweed for the main color.

*You may have heard me say something like "boy, those 70's feminists really messed things up for us." And I may be thinking that when I grumble at Paul for not being more attentive to Laszlo while I make dinner, (and depending on my mood, I might also be grumbling about making dinner in the first place.) If Mad Men is an accurate depiction, then it would be Paul grumbling at me--or worse--for not keeping Laszlo out of his hair while I cook dinner.

knitted animals

2008-12-15T09:41:00.000-08:00

Here are some animals I've made recently. The owl pattern is from Hansigurumi, who is a genius when it comes to designing knitted animals. The hedgehog is my own humble creation, and the sheep is needle-felted.

(later noted: they all lean to the left, like good little animals.)

Food, Glorious Food!

2008-12-13T07:10:00.000-08:00

Laszlo loves everything. Well, almost. Last week, in an effort to get something healthy and cheap into his scrumptious, round belly, I cooked plain black beans. I chopped collard greens and cooked them with rice. For me, yummy quesadilla. For Laszlo, bland rice, beans and greens. We sat down to lunch and without pause he rejected the concoction by just keeping his mouth open and letting it fall back out. This is the first thing I've ever made that he wouldn't eat. Lesson for me? If I think it's uninspiring, there's a good chance he will, too. On the other hand, he loves chicken soup, greens and rice cooked with a little bacon and chicken broth instead of water, chicken and rice caserole with spinach and sundried tomatoes, steamed broccoli, coconut rice, garlic green beans, crunchy oven-fried fish, meatballs, couscous, olives, and oatmeal.

One of his first solid foods was artichoke dip. Rather unconventional to start a wee one off with a multi-ingredient and dairy-containing hors-d'oeuvre, but our indulgent neighbor gave it to him after Paul paraphrased me, "if he's reaching for it, he's ready for it." Oops.

Here's a video of Laszlo eating. The clips are chronological, beginning around 7 months. I learned three things from this process:
1. Laszlo eating isn't quite as amusing as I thought
2. You can't hold a video camera sideways
3. I listen to way too much NPR

Almost every day for the last four months, we've had oatmeal for breakfast. Here's my recipe. The date pieces dissolve and make it sweet so I don't need to add any other sweetener even with my dull taste buds. I usually cook it for an hour or more, but I'm sure that's not necessary (I'd guess you might need to reduce the amount of water a little if you're not going to cook it as long.) My brother and his wife tell me that grains (nuts, too) are more bioavailable if you soak them overnight. I haven't tried this, but they swear by it.

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LASZLO AND ELINA'S ALL DAY OATMEAL

Put in a saucepan:
1 cup thick-cut rolled oats (or a mix of rolled oats, barley, wheat, and/or rye)
1/2 cup date pieces*
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1 apple, grated
dash of salt
2 cups water

Bring to a boil over medium heat, then turn down to low and simmer until all the water is absorbed.

For the non-allergic, add a handful of almonds, chopped and toasted.

*The little pellets of date matter, tossed in oat flour to keep them from sticking together, available in the bulk section.

----------------------------------------

He likes it cold or warm, so in addition to breakfast, this is what he gets if he's still hungry after eating whatever I make for lunch, or as a snack, or after dinner. He likes to feed himself, sometimes with a spoon, and sometimes by the handful.

And now when it ends up stuck in his hair, it's New Ikea baby bathtub to the rescue! The bathtub has had an unexpected side benefit for my neglected houseplants, too.

Drowned Duck:

Eye Goop III

2008-12-10T16:24:00.001-08:00

After four calls to the advice line, three doctor visits, one culture, and two weeks of eye drops, all over a period of about a month, Laszlo woke up on Tuesday almost as encrusted as Lucy. Doc says that the passage between infants' noses and tear ducts are so short and undeveloped that sometimes things get backed up and, not to put too fine a point on it, snot comes out their eyes. Who knew??

Or it could be viral conjunctivitis.

Or bacterial conjunctivitis.

The Poor Fellow, still smiling:

Doc said that just in case it's bacterial, I should resume the drops. The second nurse I talked to had asked whether I still had the drops from the first round, but I'd thrown them away. When I called later and told the nurse I talked to that I'd saved the drops leftover from the most recent prescription, she admonished me to throw them away immediately, as they were "almost certainly contaminated." Fortunately, I ignored her advice, and doc gave the okay to resume administering torture with the contaminated drops.

This morning, I'm happy to report, he woke up gleefully goopless.

(I also asked our doctor to smell Laszlo's head. I've noticed he's stinky, especially in the mornings. At first I thought it was my morning breath, and I felt bad for him having to endure it. When I realized it was him, I felt bad for him being a stinky baby. The doctor couldn't smell it, but said that my sensitive schnoz (not his word) might be picking up some bacterial or fungal growth or rotting food in his neck folds. Although the doctor was very unjudgmental, I clearly need to work on his hygene. By gum, it's time to splurge the $7 for a baby bath instead of only bathing him when I have the time and energy to sit in the tub with him. The doctor said this was the first time he'd ever been asked to smell a patient.)

Waiting for the 18

2008-12-10T16:17:00.000-08:00

The Amazing Drum, 11/14/08

2008-12-10T15:44:00.000-08:00

Music Together begins each week with the Amazing Drum. It was a Big Moment when Laszlo was able to get to it on his own. It was immediately apparent he'd been dying--just dying--to get to it for all these weeks. That's Oren in the yellow shirt, and Oren's mom, Shauna. We're not sure why Laszlo started crying, but Shauna thinks Oren gave Laszlo a kiss on the head, or maybe a bite?

Halloween, sort of

2008-12-10T15:33:00.000-08:00

Parenting teaches flexibility, right? Here are photos from the Halloween party, held over a week late because of scheduling snags. Above, Anna and Iris. Below, from left to right, Oren, Ruby, Anna, Laszlo, Serena and Iris. Kirsten and Scott lent us June's devil costume from last year, but the day I put Laszlo in it for the nannies' Halloween shindig at the toddler park, he cried the entire time. See? Here is his with Ana and nannyshare playmates, Miles and Finn.

To Vegas for Obama!!

2008-12-10T15:25:00.000-08:00

Shamus, Laszlo and I flew to Las Vegas to canvass for Obama. The gated communities loved us. (I mean, come on, who could resist?) Laszlo was a trooper, Shamus was an enormous help; I'm not sure he knew what he was commiting to when we made the plan. We got to see Michelle Obama at a rally. We received a pep talk from Tom Daschle, who said, "and who's this little guy?" (Okay, it's a mundane quote. But he said it about Laszlo--that was clear, right?) And we got to spend a couple of hours on election day enjoying the sights. In this picture, Laszlo naps on my back as we make our way to Paris for dessert (chocolate, of course.)

10/17/08 at Sunset Roost

2008-12-10T15:21:00.000-08:00

Maureen, Kirsten and I celebrated our birthdays, children in tow, at the Sunset Roost. An unfortunate dearth of sleep forced Kirsten and June to go home early, but not before we all got to enjoy several hot tubs, baths and a couple of delicious meals.

Paul's 50th, August 2008

2008-12-10T15:16:00.000-08:00

We were over two months late celebrating Paul's Demi-Century. Laszlo enjoyed his first Seisiun in the comfort of Chris' lap; Dean looked cherubic in the Pack 'n' Play.

At Park Chow, August 08

2008-12-10T15:13:00.000-08:00

After an afternoon at the newly-opened Academy of Sciences, we had dinner at Park Chow, where Laszlo learned to use a straw.

He's too young to be mortified

2008-12-10T15:11:00.000-08:00

Huh? Paul goes to Hawaii April 08

2008-12-10T15:05:00.000-08:00

This is Elliott reposing after a long, uphill hike. Paul visited for (I think) two weeks, while I was home with 3-month-old Laszlo. How generous am I?

Favorite Face-Out-Totally-Tucked Moby Carry

2008-12-10T15:04:00.000-08:00

Talk to The Hand

2008-12-10T15:03:00.001-08:00

April 08, we drove to San Jose to take a hike with Maureen and Alana

2008-12-10T15:02:00.000-08:00

First visit from Wima

2008-12-10T15:00:00.000-08:00

Aunt Isabella demonstrates a face-out hold to the new parents

2008-12-10T14:59:00.000-08:00

In the hospital, we thought our baby never cries...

2008-12-10T14:57:00.001-08:00

Archives, the First Weeks

2008-12-10T14:50:00.000-08:00