This morning, at precisely 10 am, Clara was ready for her usual plateful of Annie's organic Mac and Cheese with ketchup for dipping.
"Mai! Mai buck-kell!" she argued with me when I tried to buckle her into her booster seat. "Me mai! MINE!"
"No, Mama wants to do this fast. Not right now. Maybe you can buckle tonight."
"Mommy! No! Me new nis. Nis me. Mai!" She pushed against her tray with her hands.
"Do you want noodles?" I asked impatiently.
Her face collapsed into a toothy baby grin. She chuckled. "YYeessss."
I brought her a big pile, still warm from the saucepan.
"Oi oi oi oi-yewdles. EEEEeeee-yewdle yewdle yewdle," she said, suddenly sorrowful, as she dunked a peace sign-shaped noodle into the ketchup. Translated, this means, "Oh, noodles! Noodles, here we sit again, friends on the long journey of life. Wilt thou continue to be my friend, o noodle? Or wilt thou betray me like thine customary partner, the tomato sauce?"
Wilbur came through the dog door.
"O dosh doggie! 'Id da eeewwdles 'ake u drow up? O doggie. Aiiiiddle. Ay-dle, Aydle, Aydle. Oidle, oidle, oidle," she lamented.
I had never heard her say something like this, but it sure sounded like the following: "O gosh, doggie! Did the noodles make you throw up? Ai, doggie. Poor, poor doggie. Ai, Ai, Ai! Oi! Oi! Oi!" If she had suddenly produced and tied around her head a Babushka, or whipped out a parcel of firewood to carry on her back, I would not have been surprised. Scenes from Fiddler on the Roof flashed through my mind.
"'Ilbur! 'Bur, doggie! 'Bur dog. Burr-y. Burr-yee." She paused, thinking......"Beh-yee. Beh-yee." She looked at me for approval, and patted her belly. "Beh-yee butt-ton." she said, worming her finger around to find her belly button though her jammies.
"Clara, are you done eating?"
"Nope. Hhhhhhhhehh!" she yawned. She brought her ketchup-soaked hands up and ran them through the sides of her freshly-combed hair. She picked up another noodle for dunking. "Eeeee-yewdle in da dup. Bash. Bash o E-yewdle," she said, which means, "Look at the little noodle in the ketchup! It's a bath. A bath for the noodle."
"Mmmmmmm....Yessshhh. Nai no no?" she asked another noodle. "Hes, nai no. Nai no now." ("Yes. Do I know it? Yes, I know it. I know it now.")
I put some laundry in and wiped the dog hair off the kitchen floor. I felt like a snack.
"Done!" Clara said, just as I was about to dig into my own succulent pile of noodles. "Mommy, done! Done, done, done!"
Sighing, I wiped her down and set her loose. Wilbur did not have the foresight to escape, or perhaps he was too intent on searching for stray noodles that might have fallen to the ground. Clara half-collapsed on him, hugging him luxuriantly and resting her head against his fur. It was still a form of torture, but at least she wasn't pulling his tail or menacing him with the dog-door cover.
"Do you know what, Clara? I like it when you are kind to Wilbur."
"Tiss tiss 'Bur," she said, attempting to plant a smooch on the end of his snout.
After a moment, Wilbur escaped from her clutches and she wandered over to the top of the stairs.
"Eed, 'stairs. Eeeed, 'stairs!" ("Mom, I would like you to come downstairs and read to me.")
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Friday, August 17, 2012
Wilbur Goes Missing
On Monday night, Wilbur escaped from our yard without his collar. I'd taken it off because he kept jingling and jangling up and down the stairs, keeping Clara from napping. I'd forgotten to put it back on when we left to go grocery shopping.
The next day, I posted on Craigslist and went to the animal shelters in the area. I filled out a "Missing Dog" form at the shelter where we'd gotten Wilbur.
Clara wiggled in my arms while the clerk at the shelter's front desk filled out our report.
"Down! Dogs! Tats!"
"Nope. I need you to sit still. I promise we'll go look at the dogs and cats after we finish here."
"Would you like to pet a bunny after?" the clerk asked, glancing up. It was like asking William Faulkner if he'd like a mint julep. I had to hold Clara's knee up to her chest to keep her from lunging from my hip.
The clerk continued typing for a moment and then looked up at me through her bangs.
"I'm going to ask you a very strange question."
"Uh, okay."
"Have you seen anyone strange in your neighborhood lately?" she asked in a low, confidential voice.
"Um, no."
"There's just...we have a person who's been kidnapping Dachshunds," it sounded like she said.
"Oh," I replied. That's ridiculous, I thought. Why would someone kidnap a wiener dog? And why is she telling me this? Wilbur, although low to the ground and long of torso, is not a wiener dog.
After we finished the report, we petted a big, white bunny, visited all the dogs, and spoke in high, caressing tones to the kitties through the plexiglass barrier.
The first day of Wilbur's absence was faintly blissful. The house seemed very clean and quiet. But by day two I had developed a low-level sense of dread in the pit of my stomach.
"Don't worry, he'll find his way back. Wilbur's a smart dog," said Simon.
"No, he's not," I replied.
"Well," conceded Simon, "But he has the tracking chip in his shoulder."
"Doggie?" Clara asked throughout the day. "'Bur? Doggie?"
If we get him back, I promise never again to yell at him for puking on the carpet, I thought.
On Thursday night, I had a message on my phone: "Hi, this is Tameesha calling from the shelter. I have good news and bad news. The good news is we found your dog. The bad news is he's with his previous owner, and we think you need to file a police report."
I called Tameesha back and she clarified: The previous owner had relinquished Wilbur and another dog when he was admitted to a psychiatric hospital. Ever since he'd gotten out of the hospital, he'd been hounding (no pun intended) the animal shelter, looking for his dogs. We'd been told when we adopted Wilbur that we needed to change the registration information on his chip, but somehow this detail had eluded us. We were always under the impression the shelter had done it for us. So the chip actually contained the previous owner's information.
The previous owner claimed he'd gotten a call from a vet who'd come upon Wilbur and scanned his chip. But, said Tameesha, it was not impossible that the previous owner had actually dognapped Wilbur from our yard. She wasn't saying he had done it, mind you, just that it was a possibility. I thought I had heard the clerk at the shelter say, "We have a person who's been kidnapping Dachshunds." Actually, she had said, "We have a person who wants his dogs back."
Tameesha gave me the previous owner's first name and phone number.
"I don't think you should let him have your dog," said Tameesha. "He doesn't seem capable of caring for him properly."
It was true that Wilbur had been about twenty pounds overweight when we got him, and had seemed unhealthy and uncomfortable.
I thought it extremely unlikely that Wilbur had been dognapped. How could the previous owner have known where we lived? Still, I called the Boise Police. Well, said the police, there was no way to tell if Wilbur had been stolen from our backyard. Therefore, the previous owner--since he had the dog and wasn't giving him back-- was only guilty of withholding our rightful property from us, or something to that effect. There was no report for that kind of thing.
I had the Boise Police call the previous owner. I thought it best not to have direct contact with him. The Boise Police spoke with him and called me back. They said he was offering to buy Wilbur back, and that he really, really wanted to keep him. However, the previous owner would agree to give him back to us if we wanted him. He didn't want a police record.
No, we didn't want to give Wilbur back, I said. Could the police pick him up and bring him to us? The police thought the man was totally reasonable, and that I should call him directly. Otherwise, we should call the Nampa Police (the previous owner lives in Nampa, about twenty miles outside Boise). And yes, the Boise Police finished, it was possible, even likely, that the Nampa Police would tell me to call Boise back.
"Oh, for crying out loud," I said.
I called the previous owner.
"Hi, I'm the owner of the beagle Basset Hound in your possession," I said when he picked up.
"Isabelle, right? I'm going to need you to bring your paperwork that proves you adopted Boomer," he told me. "Is it your name or Simon's that is on the paperwork? Your husband's name is Simon, right?"
"Uh, I'm not sure whose name is on the paperwork."
"Well, whoever it is, they're the ones who need to come. With the paperwork. And they need to bring photo ID, too."
"Fine," I said. Talking with him made me feel panicky, as if he would find some way to elude us.
We arranged to meet at an innocuous public place for the hand-off. When Simon got home from work, we all piled into the car. Clara was in her jammies. We staked out the drop-off point and waited. Finally, a tall, slowly-moving man appeared, leading Wilbur on a harness and leash.
The man wore big, black, sensible shoes. His head seemed small for his body, and his glasses were thick and oddly-shaped. His teeth were bad. I sensed something like clinical depression: moments of clutching control that faded to shame, not contrition. Slow movements, as though the air were actually corn syrup.
I felt him warm to us immediately.
"Well, look at that," he said when Wilbur bounded towards us to be petted nearly to death.
"I wish there were some way we could both enjoy him," Simon told the man. "But we couldn't let such a sweet guy go."
"All that matters is that he go to a good family," the man said. He never asked to see our paperwork or IDs.
From the car, I watched him walk away. His shoulders were slumped. If loneliness made your skin blue, he would be all indigo. I hoped he would be okay without Wilbur.
The next day, I posted on Craigslist and went to the animal shelters in the area. I filled out a "Missing Dog" form at the shelter where we'd gotten Wilbur.
Clara wiggled in my arms while the clerk at the shelter's front desk filled out our report.
"Down! Dogs! Tats!"
"Nope. I need you to sit still. I promise we'll go look at the dogs and cats after we finish here."
"Would you like to pet a bunny after?" the clerk asked, glancing up. It was like asking William Faulkner if he'd like a mint julep. I had to hold Clara's knee up to her chest to keep her from lunging from my hip.
The clerk continued typing for a moment and then looked up at me through her bangs.
"I'm going to ask you a very strange question."
"Uh, okay."
"Have you seen anyone strange in your neighborhood lately?" she asked in a low, confidential voice.
"Um, no."
"There's just...we have a person who's been kidnapping Dachshunds," it sounded like she said.
"Oh," I replied. That's ridiculous, I thought. Why would someone kidnap a wiener dog? And why is she telling me this? Wilbur, although low to the ground and long of torso, is not a wiener dog.
After we finished the report, we petted a big, white bunny, visited all the dogs, and spoke in high, caressing tones to the kitties through the plexiglass barrier.
The first day of Wilbur's absence was faintly blissful. The house seemed very clean and quiet. But by day two I had developed a low-level sense of dread in the pit of my stomach.
"Don't worry, he'll find his way back. Wilbur's a smart dog," said Simon.
"No, he's not," I replied.
"Well," conceded Simon, "But he has the tracking chip in his shoulder."
"Doggie?" Clara asked throughout the day. "'Bur? Doggie?"
If we get him back, I promise never again to yell at him for puking on the carpet, I thought.
On Thursday night, I had a message on my phone: "Hi, this is Tameesha calling from the shelter. I have good news and bad news. The good news is we found your dog. The bad news is he's with his previous owner, and we think you need to file a police report."
I called Tameesha back and she clarified: The previous owner had relinquished Wilbur and another dog when he was admitted to a psychiatric hospital. Ever since he'd gotten out of the hospital, he'd been hounding (no pun intended) the animal shelter, looking for his dogs. We'd been told when we adopted Wilbur that we needed to change the registration information on his chip, but somehow this detail had eluded us. We were always under the impression the shelter had done it for us. So the chip actually contained the previous owner's information.
The previous owner claimed he'd gotten a call from a vet who'd come upon Wilbur and scanned his chip. But, said Tameesha, it was not impossible that the previous owner had actually dognapped Wilbur from our yard. She wasn't saying he had done it, mind you, just that it was a possibility. I thought I had heard the clerk at the shelter say, "We have a person who's been kidnapping Dachshunds." Actually, she had said, "We have a person who wants his dogs back."
Tameesha gave me the previous owner's first name and phone number.
"I don't think you should let him have your dog," said Tameesha. "He doesn't seem capable of caring for him properly."
It was true that Wilbur had been about twenty pounds overweight when we got him, and had seemed unhealthy and uncomfortable.
I thought it extremely unlikely that Wilbur had been dognapped. How could the previous owner have known where we lived? Still, I called the Boise Police. Well, said the police, there was no way to tell if Wilbur had been stolen from our backyard. Therefore, the previous owner--since he had the dog and wasn't giving him back-- was only guilty of withholding our rightful property from us, or something to that effect. There was no report for that kind of thing.
I had the Boise Police call the previous owner. I thought it best not to have direct contact with him. The Boise Police spoke with him and called me back. They said he was offering to buy Wilbur back, and that he really, really wanted to keep him. However, the previous owner would agree to give him back to us if we wanted him. He didn't want a police record.
No, we didn't want to give Wilbur back, I said. Could the police pick him up and bring him to us? The police thought the man was totally reasonable, and that I should call him directly. Otherwise, we should call the Nampa Police (the previous owner lives in Nampa, about twenty miles outside Boise). And yes, the Boise Police finished, it was possible, even likely, that the Nampa Police would tell me to call Boise back.
"Oh, for crying out loud," I said.
I called the previous owner.
"Hi, I'm the owner of the beagle Basset Hound in your possession," I said when he picked up.
"Isabelle, right? I'm going to need you to bring your paperwork that proves you adopted Boomer," he told me. "Is it your name or Simon's that is on the paperwork? Your husband's name is Simon, right?"
"Uh, I'm not sure whose name is on the paperwork."
"Well, whoever it is, they're the ones who need to come. With the paperwork. And they need to bring photo ID, too."
"Fine," I said. Talking with him made me feel panicky, as if he would find some way to elude us.
We arranged to meet at an innocuous public place for the hand-off. When Simon got home from work, we all piled into the car. Clara was in her jammies. We staked out the drop-off point and waited. Finally, a tall, slowly-moving man appeared, leading Wilbur on a harness and leash.
The man wore big, black, sensible shoes. His head seemed small for his body, and his glasses were thick and oddly-shaped. His teeth were bad. I sensed something like clinical depression: moments of clutching control that faded to shame, not contrition. Slow movements, as though the air were actually corn syrup.
I felt him warm to us immediately.
"Well, look at that," he said when Wilbur bounded towards us to be petted nearly to death.
"I wish there were some way we could both enjoy him," Simon told the man. "But we couldn't let such a sweet guy go."
"All that matters is that he go to a good family," the man said. He never asked to see our paperwork or IDs.
From the car, I watched him walk away. His shoulders were slumped. If loneliness made your skin blue, he would be all indigo. I hoped he would be okay without Wilbur.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Playgroup: Entropy Wins Again
Today, when we pulled up to the curb outside playgroup, Clara was wearing only her diaper. She'd slept a little longer than I expected, throwing off my timeline. I'd grabbed her from her crib when she'd finally awoken, changed her diaper like an origami expert on crack, and shoved a high-nutrition cookie into her hand on the way out the door. I put her in a sundress and sandals on the sidewalk outside the playgroup host's house.
Finally, we made it inside. Mommy craziness is one thing. Playgroup, I've found, is a whole other kind of schizophrenia.
While I was in the sitting room, trying to engage in grown-up chatter, Miles and Clara got into a tussle over the Kozy Coupe. Miles' mom was in the kitchen, putting together some snacks. Miles tried to wrench open the Coupe's door while Clara was sitting inside. She grabbed it from him, shrieking, "Miiinnnne!"
"Now, Clara, let's share with Miles," I said. Clara blue eyes bored into me, the edges of her irises burning with betrayal. I sighed. "Okay, guys, let's do the timer. Clara, you can have it for two minutes and then it's Miles' turn."
They both looked at me blankly and then simultaneously abandoned the car.
A moment later, Clara ran past me, shouting, "'Nack, 'nack,'nack, 'nack, 'nack!"
Evelyn, resplendent in colorful bloomers, was eating a cookie.
"Kiki! Kiki!" Clara said plaintively. I gave her half a cookie and she took a bite and abandoned the rest on the coffee table. Evelyn finished her cookie and began to play with a plastic carton of eggs next to Clara. Clara reached for the plastic eggs, and Evelyn reached for the rest of Clara's cookie.
"Evelyn, that's Clara's cookie," Evelyn's mom said.
Evelyn seemed to hesitate, her sweet, milky-complected face looking out the window. Then she turned to me and gave the cookie back.
"Here you go," she said softly.
Meanwhile, Miles' mom patiently took him upstairs for a chat about throwing things. He'd started winging his toys across the room.
Alma swooped in on the abandoned Kozy Coupe. She wore a homemade pinafore dress with blue pinstripes and fringed brown moccasins. She smiled, revealing her two bottom teeth, and cheerfully waved at everyone from the Coupe.
"Bye-bye! Bye-bye!" she said. After awhile she got out and Miles, who had come back downstairs by then, took a turn in the Coupe. Alma suddenly wanted back in. She seemed overwhelmed by the need to be in the Coupe. She turned fragile, her big eyes welling up with crocodile tears. She snuggled her face into the crook of her mom's neck and curled her legs up under her so her bottom stuck out like a stinkbug's.
At that moment, Clara, having finished with the egg carton, took a header from a rubber bouncy horse into the side of the Coupe. Her wails mingled with Alma's, and she ran to me to nuzzle her sweaty, salty-teared face into my neck. Miles stood in the middle of the room and looked from Alma to Clara with his trademark crooked smile. Then he made his mouth go squarish and tried to approximate the sound of their crying.
After Clara felt better, and I'd kissed the place where she'd hit the Coupe, I sat on the couch to hold Madeleine. At five months or so, Madeleine is simply scrumptious. She has delectable little cheeks and rolls of fat on her thighs.
Clara grabbed my hand and tried to pull me to the floor to play with her.
"Clara, I am holding the baby. Do you want to play with the baby, too?"
She did not. She wanted me to hug her with my free arm. Then she wanted to sit next to me and play with the plastic carton of eggs. Alright, her posture seemed to say as she leaned against me. She guessed she could be nice to the baby for a little bit. After a minute, though, growing increasingly incensed by my preoccupation with Madeleine's cute little hands and feet, she muscled her way onto my lap. I was forced to give Madeleine back to her mom.
I brought Clara into the kitchen for more snacks and came back out in time to see Miles chuck a wooden mallet across the room with a triumphant shout. The mallet flew end-over-end, like an ax thrown by a Viking. It whacked into the wall next to the TV. I choked back a snort of laughter. The kid has an arm.
Finally, we made it inside. Mommy craziness is one thing. Playgroup, I've found, is a whole other kind of schizophrenia.
While I was in the sitting room, trying to engage in grown-up chatter, Miles and Clara got into a tussle over the Kozy Coupe. Miles' mom was in the kitchen, putting together some snacks. Miles tried to wrench open the Coupe's door while Clara was sitting inside. She grabbed it from him, shrieking, "Miiinnnne!"
"Now, Clara, let's share with Miles," I said. Clara blue eyes bored into me, the edges of her irises burning with betrayal. I sighed. "Okay, guys, let's do the timer. Clara, you can have it for two minutes and then it's Miles' turn."
They both looked at me blankly and then simultaneously abandoned the car.
A moment later, Clara ran past me, shouting, "'Nack, 'nack,'nack, 'nack, 'nack!"
Evelyn, resplendent in colorful bloomers, was eating a cookie.
"Kiki! Kiki!" Clara said plaintively. I gave her half a cookie and she took a bite and abandoned the rest on the coffee table. Evelyn finished her cookie and began to play with a plastic carton of eggs next to Clara. Clara reached for the plastic eggs, and Evelyn reached for the rest of Clara's cookie.
"Evelyn, that's Clara's cookie," Evelyn's mom said.
Evelyn seemed to hesitate, her sweet, milky-complected face looking out the window. Then she turned to me and gave the cookie back.
"Here you go," she said softly.
Meanwhile, Miles' mom patiently took him upstairs for a chat about throwing things. He'd started winging his toys across the room.
Alma swooped in on the abandoned Kozy Coupe. She wore a homemade pinafore dress with blue pinstripes and fringed brown moccasins. She smiled, revealing her two bottom teeth, and cheerfully waved at everyone from the Coupe.
"Bye-bye! Bye-bye!" she said. After awhile she got out and Miles, who had come back downstairs by then, took a turn in the Coupe. Alma suddenly wanted back in. She seemed overwhelmed by the need to be in the Coupe. She turned fragile, her big eyes welling up with crocodile tears. She snuggled her face into the crook of her mom's neck and curled her legs up under her so her bottom stuck out like a stinkbug's.
At that moment, Clara, having finished with the egg carton, took a header from a rubber bouncy horse into the side of the Coupe. Her wails mingled with Alma's, and she ran to me to nuzzle her sweaty, salty-teared face into my neck. Miles stood in the middle of the room and looked from Alma to Clara with his trademark crooked smile. Then he made his mouth go squarish and tried to approximate the sound of their crying.
After Clara felt better, and I'd kissed the place where she'd hit the Coupe, I sat on the couch to hold Madeleine. At five months or so, Madeleine is simply scrumptious. She has delectable little cheeks and rolls of fat on her thighs.
Clara grabbed my hand and tried to pull me to the floor to play with her.
"Clara, I am holding the baby. Do you want to play with the baby, too?"
She did not. She wanted me to hug her with my free arm. Then she wanted to sit next to me and play with the plastic carton of eggs. Alright, her posture seemed to say as she leaned against me. She guessed she could be nice to the baby for a little bit. After a minute, though, growing increasingly incensed by my preoccupation with Madeleine's cute little hands and feet, she muscled her way onto my lap. I was forced to give Madeleine back to her mom.
I brought Clara into the kitchen for more snacks and came back out in time to see Miles chuck a wooden mallet across the room with a triumphant shout. The mallet flew end-over-end, like an ax thrown by a Viking. It whacked into the wall next to the TV. I choked back a snort of laughter. The kid has an arm.
Friday, August 10, 2012
Baby Trees
A few days ago, we stopped in at the Co-op in Boise's North End for lunch. We were on our way back from the library, and Clara was starving. I found a shopping cart and tried to sit her in the child's seat in the front.
"No, Mommy!" She made her legs stiff and straight as two bedposts. I gently karate-chopped the backs of her knees to bend them and then worked her feet through the leg holes on the front of the cart. She collapsed to one side and stared up at the ceiling. "Mommy, noooo!" she moaned, shaking her pigtails from side to side. I brought the buckle up to snap it across her belly and she arched her back and tossed her head back as though I'd just administered a fatal blow.
"No, Mommy! No buck-kell!"
"Are you kidding me?" I said. "There is no way we're going without the buckle. I know you too well, Sweet Pea."
"'Nack, Mommy, 'nack!" She pointed to the salad bar and display cases filled with pastries and miniature cakes. I filled a small container with some split pea soup, got us some bread to go with it, and grabbed a container of spinach farfalle.
"Eedles," she said, pointing at the farfalle. I opened the container so she could see the bow-tie pasta better. "Yiiiik," she said.
"But you love noodles!"
"Eedles," she nodded, as if to concede, "Yes, I do love noodles. Noodles are cheesy and shaped like tiny shells or miniature bunnies. These are obviously not noodles."
Along with the farfalle and soup, I got some containers of broccoli salad and coleslaw, and I grabbed a yogurt.
We paid for our food and found a seat at the bar. Clara flatly refused any of the pea soup and looked at the coleslaw with deep suspicion. She wanted little bites of bread dipped in yogurt, but I was determined that she eat some vegetables.
Just two months ago, Clara drank low-sodium V8 with enthusiasm, and could take down an entire portion of Lebanese salad on her own. She ate oranges and blueberries and strawberries from my garden. She ate peas by the fistfuls. Then she started getting horrific diaper rashes, so we had to cut out most of the fruits and veggies in her diet to determine what her skin was so sensitive to. We came to the conclusion that her body's not very tolerant of citrus fruits and blueberries.
We kept her away from fiber awhile to let her bottom heal. Then we were stuck in the conundrum of which veggies to keep away, and then we became overwhelmed and sort of let the whole veggie thing slide for a week or so. She became a protein and carb baby. Grumpy. Constipated. Paradoxically craving bacon and large quantities of cheese.
Last weekend, Simon and I, being the very astute parents we are, realized there are more veggies and fruits than just those of the citrus variety. There was no reason for Clara to miss out on the good stuff.
At the Co-op, I fished a tiny broccoli spear out of the broccoli salad.
"Look, a baby tree!" I said. It's what my parents always called broccoli when I was little.
"'Don't eat me! Don't eat me!'" I made the broccoli spear plead. "Sorry!" I replied to the spear and chomped it voraciously, like a pterodactyl. The man sitting next to us shot me a sidelong glance, and I had a sudden mental glimpse of what he must have seen: mother attacks broccoli spear with flashing yellow teeth while making weird, growling sounds.
Clara started to giggle.
I straightened in my chair and tried to wipe my mouth with more decorum.
"How about if we put these next two baby trees to bed?" I said. I laid the spears in the fold of a napkin.
"Oh, yesh," Clara said softly, patting the napkin over them. "Bash," she said, dropping a dollop of yogurt on them.
"Okay, now you try the next one," I said, handing her a tiny piece of broccoli.
She put it carefully in her mouth. Then she popped her tongue out and said, "Yish!" The broccoli rolled out and fell to the ground.
"No, Mommy!" She made her legs stiff and straight as two bedposts. I gently karate-chopped the backs of her knees to bend them and then worked her feet through the leg holes on the front of the cart. She collapsed to one side and stared up at the ceiling. "Mommy, noooo!" she moaned, shaking her pigtails from side to side. I brought the buckle up to snap it across her belly and she arched her back and tossed her head back as though I'd just administered a fatal blow.
"No, Mommy! No buck-kell!"
"Are you kidding me?" I said. "There is no way we're going without the buckle. I know you too well, Sweet Pea."
"'Nack, Mommy, 'nack!" She pointed to the salad bar and display cases filled with pastries and miniature cakes. I filled a small container with some split pea soup, got us some bread to go with it, and grabbed a container of spinach farfalle.
"Eedles," she said, pointing at the farfalle. I opened the container so she could see the bow-tie pasta better. "Yiiiik," she said.
"But you love noodles!"
"Eedles," she nodded, as if to concede, "Yes, I do love noodles. Noodles are cheesy and shaped like tiny shells or miniature bunnies. These are obviously not noodles."
Along with the farfalle and soup, I got some containers of broccoli salad and coleslaw, and I grabbed a yogurt.
We paid for our food and found a seat at the bar. Clara flatly refused any of the pea soup and looked at the coleslaw with deep suspicion. She wanted little bites of bread dipped in yogurt, but I was determined that she eat some vegetables.
Just two months ago, Clara drank low-sodium V8 with enthusiasm, and could take down an entire portion of Lebanese salad on her own. She ate oranges and blueberries and strawberries from my garden. She ate peas by the fistfuls. Then she started getting horrific diaper rashes, so we had to cut out most of the fruits and veggies in her diet to determine what her skin was so sensitive to. We came to the conclusion that her body's not very tolerant of citrus fruits and blueberries.
We kept her away from fiber awhile to let her bottom heal. Then we were stuck in the conundrum of which veggies to keep away, and then we became overwhelmed and sort of let the whole veggie thing slide for a week or so. She became a protein and carb baby. Grumpy. Constipated. Paradoxically craving bacon and large quantities of cheese.
Last weekend, Simon and I, being the very astute parents we are, realized there are more veggies and fruits than just those of the citrus variety. There was no reason for Clara to miss out on the good stuff.
At the Co-op, I fished a tiny broccoli spear out of the broccoli salad.
"Look, a baby tree!" I said. It's what my parents always called broccoli when I was little.
"'Don't eat me! Don't eat me!'" I made the broccoli spear plead. "Sorry!" I replied to the spear and chomped it voraciously, like a pterodactyl. The man sitting next to us shot me a sidelong glance, and I had a sudden mental glimpse of what he must have seen: mother attacks broccoli spear with flashing yellow teeth while making weird, growling sounds.
Clara started to giggle.
I straightened in my chair and tried to wipe my mouth with more decorum.
"How about if we put these next two baby trees to bed?" I said. I laid the spears in the fold of a napkin.
"Oh, yesh," Clara said softly, patting the napkin over them. "Bash," she said, dropping a dollop of yogurt on them.
"Okay, now you try the next one," I said, handing her a tiny piece of broccoli.
She put it carefully in her mouth. Then she popped her tongue out and said, "Yish!" The broccoli rolled out and fell to the ground.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Ugly Baby gets a makeover
Bear, bear!" Clara said this morning, pointing to her toybox. She is still not tall enough to reach into it. I emptied the whole box and didn't find her bear. It wasn't in the car or the clothes drier (where it mysteriously lands from time to time, along with crayons, rolls of toilet paper and the odd book or two).
"Would you like your baby?" I asked, and ran upstairs to retrieve Ugly Baby from Clara's crib. Ugly Baby holds a privileged position between Clara's stuffed dog and stuffed bunny in the crib.
I brought her downstairs and stacked some puzzles on one of the chairs that belongs to Clara's small table and chair set. Then I sat Ugly Baby on it and tied her in place with an old black fabric belt. The belt distressed Clara..."What was I thinking?" she seemed to ask me. The belt was a fashion piece, not a tool to restrain her baby. She insisted I undo it and then looped it loosely around her neck, in a very rakish way.
"Not your neck, remember? You can put it around your waist," I reminded her.
She sighed and complied. Then she went to the bin that holds all the plastic food and brought Ugly Baby a whole roast chicken and a green pepper. She tried to make her drink from a watering can.
Feeding Ugly Baby made Clara think she might be hungry, too.
"'Nack."
"Would you like a yogurt?"
"Yes."
She voiced her extreme vexation at not being able to haul both Ugly Baby and Ugly Baby's cradle up the stairs. I helped her out and, when we got to the top, she pointed at her booster seat.
"Bee-bee! Tair!"
I put Ugly Baby in her booster seat and pulled a big chair out from under the table so that it faced her. Clara sat on the big chair and tried to feed her yogurt to Ugly Baby. I got the sense she wished Ugly Baby could really ingest it, but she was also relieved she couldn't, because it meant there was more yogurt for herself.
I filled a saucepan with soapy water to scrub the kitchen floor. Clara dunked Ugly Baby into the water and mopped Ugly Baby's face with a small, articulate little hand. Then she wrapped her in dish towels and laid her somewhat ceremonially on the kitchen floor. Ugly Baby looked like she was wrapped in a funeral shroud, awaiting burial.
Clara came over to me and pointed at Ugly Baby with a sense of pride.
"Bee-bee, bash. Bee-bee, wet. Mess. Bee-bee, bash," she confided to me.
"I know. You gave your baby a bath and that is a very good thing to do. Babies can get very dirty," I replied.
"Bee-bee, bash," she agreed.
"'Nack?" she continued, after a moment.
"Really?! You just had yogurt."
"'Nack, Mommy."
"Maybe you want lunch."
Clara held Ugly Baby in the crook of her arm and offered her bits of cheese while she ate lunch. She crooned, coaxed and cajoled. She cupped one of Ugly Baby's cheeks tenderly in one hand.
Ugly Baby, alas, was looking uglier than ever. Her pants were smeared with a fresh coating of ketchup (Clara eats ketchup with everything, including cookies and cherries). She was soaked from her dip in the soapy mop water, and the diaper we had put on her the day before was sodden. (The diaper was one of Clara's, folded down for a better fit.) On top of everything, something was wrong with Ugly Baby's face. Simon sometimes treats Ugly Baby's head like a makeshift stress ball, and perhaps because of this, one of her cheeks has collapsed.
"Dipe," Clara said after lunch.
We took Ugly Baby upstairs and gave her a fresh diaper. We pulled off the ketchup-coated pants. We rooted through Clara's old baby clothes until we found a white tank top with a cupcake on it that she wore at six months. The tank top fit Ugly Baby like a dress. Clara was pleased beyond words.
"Would you like your baby?" I asked, and ran upstairs to retrieve Ugly Baby from Clara's crib. Ugly Baby holds a privileged position between Clara's stuffed dog and stuffed bunny in the crib.
I brought her downstairs and stacked some puzzles on one of the chairs that belongs to Clara's small table and chair set. Then I sat Ugly Baby on it and tied her in place with an old black fabric belt. The belt distressed Clara..."What was I thinking?" she seemed to ask me. The belt was a fashion piece, not a tool to restrain her baby. She insisted I undo it and then looped it loosely around her neck, in a very rakish way.
"Not your neck, remember? You can put it around your waist," I reminded her.
She sighed and complied. Then she went to the bin that holds all the plastic food and brought Ugly Baby a whole roast chicken and a green pepper. She tried to make her drink from a watering can.
Feeding Ugly Baby made Clara think she might be hungry, too.
"'Nack."
"Would you like a yogurt?"
"Yes."
She voiced her extreme vexation at not being able to haul both Ugly Baby and Ugly Baby's cradle up the stairs. I helped her out and, when we got to the top, she pointed at her booster seat.
"Bee-bee! Tair!"
I put Ugly Baby in her booster seat and pulled a big chair out from under the table so that it faced her. Clara sat on the big chair and tried to feed her yogurt to Ugly Baby. I got the sense she wished Ugly Baby could really ingest it, but she was also relieved she couldn't, because it meant there was more yogurt for herself.
I filled a saucepan with soapy water to scrub the kitchen floor. Clara dunked Ugly Baby into the water and mopped Ugly Baby's face with a small, articulate little hand. Then she wrapped her in dish towels and laid her somewhat ceremonially on the kitchen floor. Ugly Baby looked like she was wrapped in a funeral shroud, awaiting burial.
Clara came over to me and pointed at Ugly Baby with a sense of pride.
"Bee-bee, bash. Bee-bee, wet. Mess. Bee-bee, bash," she confided to me.
"I know. You gave your baby a bath and that is a very good thing to do. Babies can get very dirty," I replied.
"Bee-bee, bash," she agreed.
"'Nack?" she continued, after a moment.
"Really?! You just had yogurt."
"'Nack, Mommy."
"Maybe you want lunch."
Clara held Ugly Baby in the crook of her arm and offered her bits of cheese while she ate lunch. She crooned, coaxed and cajoled. She cupped one of Ugly Baby's cheeks tenderly in one hand.
Ugly Baby, alas, was looking uglier than ever. Her pants were smeared with a fresh coating of ketchup (Clara eats ketchup with everything, including cookies and cherries). She was soaked from her dip in the soapy mop water, and the diaper we had put on her the day before was sodden. (The diaper was one of Clara's, folded down for a better fit.) On top of everything, something was wrong with Ugly Baby's face. Simon sometimes treats Ugly Baby's head like a makeshift stress ball, and perhaps because of this, one of her cheeks has collapsed.
"Dipe," Clara said after lunch.
We took Ugly Baby upstairs and gave her a fresh diaper. We pulled off the ketchup-coated pants. We rooted through Clara's old baby clothes until we found a white tank top with a cupcake on it that she wore at six months. The tank top fit Ugly Baby like a dress. Clara was pleased beyond words.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
High Heels
Last Tuesday, as I was bringing Clara in from the car, I tickled her side with my fingers and said, "Dee, dee, dee!" I've been doing that since she was old enough to chortle and she's always loved it. But on Tuesday she pushed my hand away and said, "Dop. No. Dop." Then she scowled at me and said, "Down." I put her down and she ran away to play.
On Wednesday, while I was making my bed, she opened the dresser drawer where I keep my workout gear and donned three of my sports bras. She wore them like bandoliers. It wasn't long before her arm got tangled and she shrieked in indignation. I tried to help her and she got more angry.
"You know what? I don't want you to play with these," I said, taking the bras off her. "I don't like the way you get tangled up. I don't like it when you put things around your neck. You know that's not safe."
She looked at me with a very level, steady gaze.
"Mommy," she said, and then wiggled past me and back into my bedroom. She ventured into the darkness of the closet and emerged a moment later with two different high-heeled shoes: a silver heel with a glittery buckle that I wore on my wedding day; and a sleek, black heel I last wore about a year ago. I don't wear heels very often.
"Shoes, Mommy," she said, and struggled to put them on. They were extremely hard to figure out. She didn't understand where the strap on the silver heel should go and stuck her foot through backwards. The shoes were tipsy and sharp, and this was confusing, too. She laid them on their sides, but that was even sillier. She couldn't walk on the sides of her feet.
"Mommy! Shoes! Nai nunnew shoes."
I stood the heels up side-by-side and lowered her into them. Her tiny feet barely reached the point where the soles started to rise. She looked down the outside of her leg at the silver shoe. She seemed to tilt her foot in a little so she could get a better idea of the way the heel sloped elegantly to the floor.
After a few shuffling, sliding steps, she stepped out of the heels and went back into the closet to rummage. She came out with a dirty pair of Simon's athletic socks.
"Socks," she said matter-of-factly. Did I think she didn't realize that you needed socks with shoes? Well, she didn't wear socks with her Crocs, of course, but this was a different thing altogether. Clearly, these shoes required socks. And no, she didn't need my help. If she could only find the holes to put her feet in.
She struggled and struggled and finally she sighed.
"Mommy, socks."
I put them on her.
It seemed strange that these socks went all the way to her diaper. On Daddy they only went partway up his calves.
I helped her back into the high heels and bunched the socks down around her knees.
Luckily, the silver sequined purse was nearby. She knew how to hold a purse, but in this situation it was especially important to hold it delicately.
On Wednesday, while I was making my bed, she opened the dresser drawer where I keep my workout gear and donned three of my sports bras. She wore them like bandoliers. It wasn't long before her arm got tangled and she shrieked in indignation. I tried to help her and she got more angry.
"You know what? I don't want you to play with these," I said, taking the bras off her. "I don't like the way you get tangled up. I don't like it when you put things around your neck. You know that's not safe."
She looked at me with a very level, steady gaze.
"Mommy," she said, and then wiggled past me and back into my bedroom. She ventured into the darkness of the closet and emerged a moment later with two different high-heeled shoes: a silver heel with a glittery buckle that I wore on my wedding day; and a sleek, black heel I last wore about a year ago. I don't wear heels very often.
"Shoes, Mommy," she said, and struggled to put them on. They were extremely hard to figure out. She didn't understand where the strap on the silver heel should go and stuck her foot through backwards. The shoes were tipsy and sharp, and this was confusing, too. She laid them on their sides, but that was even sillier. She couldn't walk on the sides of her feet.
"Mommy! Shoes! Nai nunnew shoes."
I stood the heels up side-by-side and lowered her into them. Her tiny feet barely reached the point where the soles started to rise. She looked down the outside of her leg at the silver shoe. She seemed to tilt her foot in a little so she could get a better idea of the way the heel sloped elegantly to the floor.
After a few shuffling, sliding steps, she stepped out of the heels and went back into the closet to rummage. She came out with a dirty pair of Simon's athletic socks.
"Socks," she said matter-of-factly. Did I think she didn't realize that you needed socks with shoes? Well, she didn't wear socks with her Crocs, of course, but this was a different thing altogether. Clearly, these shoes required socks. And no, she didn't need my help. If she could only find the holes to put her feet in.
She struggled and struggled and finally she sighed.
"Mommy, socks."
I put them on her.
It seemed strange that these socks went all the way to her diaper. On Daddy they only went partway up his calves.
I helped her back into the high heels and bunched the socks down around her knees.
Luckily, the silver sequined purse was nearby. She knew how to hold a purse, but in this situation it was especially important to hold it delicately.
Friday, August 3, 2012
Play Group
Today we went to a new play group. It's the second play group we belong to. The first play group was started by our neighbor, Kami, and is mostly made up of women and their kids from her church. They are Mormon. At least, I think we belong to that play group. We get invited to it a lot. I'm pretty sure you don't have to be Mormon to be in it. (My propensity for joining clubs outside my cone of familiarity goes way back. There was the Korean-American Writing Workshop in Manhattan, the Gay-Lesbian Book Club in Pennsylvania, and the Jewish Club in college--way before I met and married my Jewish husband).
We got invited to our second play group last week, when we bumped into an old acquaintance named Liz in the grocery store. Liz and I were pregnant at roughly the same time, and met each other through the Y. Late in the fall before Clara was born, when I was heavily pregnant and weepily craving babies (to hold, not eat), Simon and I went to look at the newborns in the nursery of the hospital where we planned to deliver. The nursery had a window, and the hospital lined the babies up in their little plastic crates just inside the glass.
Liz and her husband were inside the nursery, getting a lesson in swaddling. Unbeknownst to me, their baby had just been born a day before. He was screaming bloody murder, and the nurse was clucking her tongue and cooing at him while she efficiently wrapped baby blankets around his tiny body.
Liz and her husband finally wheeled the plastic bassinet out into the hall, murmuring, "It's okay, buddy," while the baby continued scream and crane his newborn neck. The pregnancy hormones must have been working overtime, because the baby's cries left me disproportionately distressed (and also strangely satisfied, the same way pickles can make you wince and smack your lips at the same time).
And now Miles is about nineteen months, five or six weeks older than Clara. He's very smart, tow-headed, and has a super-cute, crooked little smile. Clara calls him, "Mice."
Besides Miles, the play group includes Evelyn, a sweet little dumpling that's only a week older than Clara; the very independent and adventuresome Alma, 18 months; and a delectable little cream puff named Madeleine, who is five months old.
Today the kids played in a wading pool outside and snacked on graham crackers and cheese that was cut into different shapes. Clara stole Miles' cup and stepped all over Alma in her haste to play with the potty that had been brought outdoors for emergencies. She was duly contrite, though.
The pool water was cold and she wanted to snuggle on my lap for awhile.
We got invited to our second play group last week, when we bumped into an old acquaintance named Liz in the grocery store. Liz and I were pregnant at roughly the same time, and met each other through the Y. Late in the fall before Clara was born, when I was heavily pregnant and weepily craving babies (to hold, not eat), Simon and I went to look at the newborns in the nursery of the hospital where we planned to deliver. The nursery had a window, and the hospital lined the babies up in their little plastic crates just inside the glass.
Liz and her husband were inside the nursery, getting a lesson in swaddling. Unbeknownst to me, their baby had just been born a day before. He was screaming bloody murder, and the nurse was clucking her tongue and cooing at him while she efficiently wrapped baby blankets around his tiny body.
Liz and her husband finally wheeled the plastic bassinet out into the hall, murmuring, "It's okay, buddy," while the baby continued scream and crane his newborn neck. The pregnancy hormones must have been working overtime, because the baby's cries left me disproportionately distressed (and also strangely satisfied, the same way pickles can make you wince and smack your lips at the same time).
And now Miles is about nineteen months, five or six weeks older than Clara. He's very smart, tow-headed, and has a super-cute, crooked little smile. Clara calls him, "Mice."
Besides Miles, the play group includes Evelyn, a sweet little dumpling that's only a week older than Clara; the very independent and adventuresome Alma, 18 months; and a delectable little cream puff named Madeleine, who is five months old.
Today the kids played in a wading pool outside and snacked on graham crackers and cheese that was cut into different shapes. Clara stole Miles' cup and stepped all over Alma in her haste to play with the potty that had been brought outdoors for emergencies. She was duly contrite, though.
The pool water was cold and she wanted to snuggle on my lap for awhile.
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