And usually it’s Jack the (Gas) Ripper…

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde popped in for a visit this evening. Jack went from a good two hours of on and off screaming to perfectly happy baby. Screaming. Then happy. SCREAMING. Not a pleasant way to spend an evening. He may or may not be teething. He may or may not have been bitten by a radioactive spider. He may or may not just be curious as to what our limits are. We have no idea. And just when it seemed as though we were in for a marathon session it ended and Happy Jack was back with a coo and a squeal and his flushed little face all agrin and laughing.

I don’t mean to question God– I really do believe that he’s in control and has a good hand on all of us. But I do wish he’d have put in indicator lights with babies. Or an instruction manual. Or a techline. Readout? Mute button?

Sigh.

Step away from the Spoon…

Jack tried cereal last night.

No.

We tried to feed Jack cereal last night. He’s got the whole spoon going into the mouth thing down really well– opens like a little bird and the whole bit. It’s keeping the cereal in his mouth that he needs to work on. Swallowing the cereal before drooling it all down his chin…

Hopefully his table manners will improve before he goes to college.

Meanwhile, lest I get spam from the American Pediatrics people — rest assured that Jack’s still getting 6-8 squares a day from his Mom and we’ve promised Dr. Tim that we’ll stick with this for the time being. The rice cereal is just an added bonus.

Or it was supposed to be. Trouble is we can’t personally attest to the taste. It’s mixed with breast milk so none of us are planning on trying it any time soon. Which, if I’m not mistaken, was part of the problem last night. We got some very wary looks from our boy. Uncle Andy is pretty sure that Jack would rather have had the mashed potatoes the rest of us were eating.

All in due time peanut. For now it’s just you and me.

Oooh. This potato peeler sure is fun. No. Wait. It isn’t.

Why is all the fun stuff made for babies and not grown ups?

I’m watching Jack Rabbit tentatively bounce in his “Johnny Jump Up” (actually it’s called a Jumpester… but that’s not nearly as fun as the name they had when we were kids.) and I’m thinking that, darn it, I want one. It looks like fun. And he’s not really enjoying it as much as I think I would. (Sometimes I don’t think he at all has a grasp on how much he should be enjoying life right now. Ingrate.)

Sigh.

The forecast is cloudy with brief pockets of sunshine

Jack’s been fussy these past two days. Not much like himself at all. It’s a little exasperating. He’s fed. Diapered. Warm. Entertained. But not gurglingly happy like he usually is. He’s been rather sober. Very serious. As though he’s mulling over the fact that his parents might not be able to put him through anything but trade school at this point. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that. God knows our roofers all make more money than we ever will.)

I’ve checked for teeth. So far there’s nothing in his gummy mouth to indicate that he’ll be chewing meat any time soon. And I’ve checked my diet to see if I’ve over or under indulged in any crucial palate. (Apparently my old habits of nearly a half gallon of orange juice a day wasn’t conducive to breastfeeding. Go figure.)

I miss his usual self. His funny little bird noises and awkwardly new giggles. The sideways glance that breaks me up every time. These past two days I’ve only gotten little snippets of my Jack’s good nature.

Still. I like the excuse to spend an entire day cuddling him. That’s all that has worked today. Poor little man.

No need for GPS here

It’s easy to get a little isolated. Jack and I tend to hunker in when it’s especially cold out. Our world shrinks to the walls of the living room (with occasional forays into the laundry room in the basement or the kitchen to retrieve some tidbitty morsel…) We play on the floor a lot. Jack has some marvelous blankets on which to play. One is very bright colored. As are his little rattles and toys that are strewn about it. When I tuck up Jack into the rocking chair to feed him or have a cuddle the puppy tends to curl up on the quilt d’jour or climb up into the chair with us. (Some times this means the dog ends up standing on poor Jack. It must be very disconcerting to be eating your mid-morning meal and find a dog nearly your size standing on you so nonchalantly.)

Today we listened to Jack’s CD of Sandra Boynton’s Philadelphia Chickens. It’s a hoot. And an improvement over listening to his mother’s made up sing songs about the day. (My aria on diaper changing gets old even to him.) And we watched the Today’s show’s coverage of the death of Johnny Carson. (Very sad news.) The routine of the day was broken up considerably by a visit from my Mom who’d come to stay with Jack while I ran to the dentist. (It took him all of about 30 seconds to forget me and coo at her.) And the UPS guy surprised us with a visit late in the day. (My Friend Ericka sent me communion wafers. I love them. They’re wonderful with a nice glass of red wine.)

Robby’s return at the end of the day is always welcome. I’m off solo duty. Guard duty is lonely without a buddy to chat with. We tell him about our day (and sometimes there is a lot to tell between the puppy’s version, the baby’s version, and my own spin) and ask about his.

I like our little world. It makes me grateful for emails from farther flung pals. And Entertainment Weekly and Newsweek and the celebrity chats on Ellen Degeneres’ talk show. I’d be lying if I didn’t think about taking big trips (and small ones) when I get cabin fever.

But mostly Jack and the pup and I have a nice little foxhole here.

The House that Jack Built

It’s impossible now to imagine this house without Jack. He’s a mass of energy that we orbit now in our home.

Today we skipped church and stayed in. Outside, yesterday, a foot of snow fell. It was a beautiful thick snow in the morning but turned, by the late afternoon, into not so much ado. Emails from farther flung pals paint exotic pictures of being truly snowed in… Sigh.

Jack likes most, these days, to “stand” while he’s on our laps. It’s a very funny thing to see– his little body standing so straight and tall and his head wobbling about like a drunken sailor with tourette’s syndrome. He squeals, now and then, with the sheer joy of it all. He also blows bubbles and almost has a raspberry down. The dog, we think, is jealous– not only of the mere existence of the baby but all his nifty Opposible Thumb Tricks.

And today– marvelous thing– while he played on my lap and I read to him the genius of Hand Hand Finger Thumb– he giggled. If it’s true about baby’s laughs and fairies then there must be so very many tonight.

Hand Hand Finger Thumb is our favorite book these days. (Next to GoodNight Moon but that hardly counts since we’ve memorized it and added to it…) Jack’s Auntie Ericka gave us Hand Hand Finger Thumb for Christmas and it’s become a daily addiction. Jack loves the “Dum ditty dum ditty dum dum dum” parts. Who are we kidding? so do we…

I’m not sure how to count off four months. Do I do it in diapers? (Dear God but he’s gone through quite a few!) Do I count it in grins? cries? the hours of sleep deprivation? Laundry?

I love the anticipation of Christmas. I always have. The long build up– the way that slowly it creeps into your conscious and then Jingle Bells! it has surrounded every aspect of your day and then it’s ChristmasEveandyouarewearingnewjammies….

I’ve always hated the day after it’s all over. If I weren’t so careful I’d almost hate the moment of waking up on Christmas morning itself because it’s all over then.

Jack is a mix of that. Sometimes I catch myself mourning what has already passed even while I am giddily anticipating all that’s ahead. It takes my breath away. He really does.

We had a good thing before Jack came along– the Boy and the black dog and me. We lived in a very cozy nest with wonderful family and dear friends. Jack’s just made it all clearer and brighter and more achingly wonderful.

Wah! I miss my silly pals.

If you read this blog you know that I am a clumper. I tend to have clumps of friends. There are a few exceptions here and there– but most of my closest pals tend to be part of a clump.

My Western Clump (most of them live to the south and west of me) was supposed to meet in Chicago next weekend. It’s an odd group on paper– we’re all different ages (though there’s a big knot of us in our mid thirties) and in all different places… and by that I mean geographically (though I resent Illinois and Indiana as they house many of my pals and aren’t exactly a hop and skip down the road. It’s hard to meet for dinner when you have to plan a minimum of 4.5 hours in advance…) as well as married/single/cohabitating/hermiting (though I’d give the majority of numbers to the first two almost evenly split down the middle…).

Babies and children are still in the minority unless you count puppies and kitties and cattle. (Yes. Cattle.) And while the thought of issuing forth an offspring from one’s loins completely paralyzes part of the clump in fear and terror and need of alcohol (a dangerous addition… it’s how some of the clump were concieved themselves) almost all are kind enough to embrace the little people that do occur. (Poor wee Katherine is forever scarred by the “bad monkey” toy sent to her parents… and yet, to be fair, it was accompanied by a “good monkey” or should we say, child appropriate monkey, toy especially for her.) Ericka’s greatest nightmares involve baseball fields, bustles, and boobie-fed babies and yet she rode the 8 hours to Wisconsin in the backseat next to our Jack on his first big road trip. It wasn’t just bravery– it was love. And the weird bond that we all share to some degree was passed on to the next generation.

Professionally we are mostly in the same field. (Robby’s an infiltrator now… but he lays low and drinks beer so they tend to overlook that?) But we’re all over the map in terms of professional levels and professional education. Some rank at the top and have nifty titles of Director or Site Manager or whatever the rank happens to be. I’m at the bottom and therefore the most peon. Of course, after stepping in cow poo and then swiping the shoe clean on to the trousers of another who really minds who out ranks whom?

It amazes me when we are all together how seamlessly we fit. How ridiculous and serious the conversations might be. How we can run a joke into the ground, dig it up, and rebury it again. We are to our treasured punch lines like the Greeks are to burial.

We come together when we can– and always, one or two or more are missing because of their jobs or families or finances… and still, by the time we meet with them again they are familiar with the stories they missed in such a way that, in time, it’s impossible to remember that in the original version they weren’t there at all.

It’s a wonderful clump. And, like I said at the beginning, we were supposed to meet in Chicago next weekend. It looks like we won’t. It looks like jobs and families and finances have conspired to the entire clump apart for another 6 weeks or so… It’s making me think, “Grrr.”

And it’s making me very grateful to know such a clump in the first place.

Sixth Grade

Maddie, my niece, is a sixth grader. I was lucky enough to score some time with her today. That’s saying quite a lot because she’s got a very full schedule these days… Between school and homework and band and jazz/tap/ballet/pointe classes and church and her friends, well, it’s not easy to get in to see her. Thank goodness for Martin Luther King day.

We went to Ann Arbor where I took her to my own little piece of Nirvana– a little shop that stocks quite a few colors of Converse low and high top canvas sneakers. I am a huge fan of the Converse high top. And, as it turns out, so is my Maddie. They’re very big amongst the sixth grade set these days. So big that Fridays are unofficial (which, amongst the sixth grade set means very official) “Wear Your Converse Day.” Today I learned which color(s) each of her pals have… and which colors Maddie covets. We debated the merits of each and matched them up with various people we know. We even found a pair for my sister/Maddie’s mother. My sister, you realize, would no sooner be caught in a pair of Converse than I would in stilleto heels. (To be fair, my sister wouldn’t wear those either.) Still, if she decided to join us, she’d wear, we think, the khaki canvas pair or the linen.

Maddie went with grass green. Very cool. I’m a little jealous.

It was fun hanging out with her. I’ve loved her for a very long time. Even in gestation. I miss her being small enough to tuck up into my arm… and yet I appreciate the very nice girl she’s turned out to be. Today we chatted about nothing in particular and everything, too. Teachers that we can’t stand (my high school homeroom teacher was a real ogre) and kids that freak us out and the mortification of getting a french horn case down the narrow aisle of a school bus with stupid boys making stupid boy comments. It was fun. Her sixth grade experience reminds me so much of mine. Her pals are very similiar to the ones I had that year… and I can see what’s ahead for her next year and I’m excited for her.

As Aunts go, I’m a very lucky one.

Go Away Stupid Morton Salt Girl

When it rains it pours. Or at least drips in my Jack’s room. Arrgh.

What makes it ESPECIALLY maddening is that we put on a new roof this summer. Before Jack arrived. So that Jack would not contend with a leaky house. And, while the roof leaked in various rooms of the house his room was leak free. Until we put on the new roof. Now it’s his little room that has the plastic bowls and cookie sheets drum drumming with the syncopated rain drops.

“Drip Drip Drop Little April Showers” has been dripping and dropping in my head all week. Makes me want to kick a skunk.

We’ve run around with the roofer people. I think they’re playing us. Catergorizing us as saps that they can pull money out of. Robby says they aren’t so dishonest.

I don’t care. My boy’s ceiling is a mess and his little room, so sweet and cozy, is dismantled into the hall and other places with his crib and armoire draped in dropcloths. Arrgh. It’s no tsunami– I realize. And in the grand scheme of things it’s a very little nuisance. Until the basement started to grow damp with the ongoing rain. And my Mommy called.

That’s when I sat down on the washing machine and had a nice long sob. (Couldn’t sit on the floor– the water from the over saturated and still somewhat frozen ground was coming through the otherwise invisible cracks… Very disconcerting. It’s why I would NEVER build near a river.)

Today it’s no better but it’s a little less overwhelming. Again. It’s no tsunami. A few minutes of the morning news and a quick skimming of this week’s Newsweek and I’m aware that, all told, I’m still a very lucky girl. Jack and I were taken out for an iced Chai (delicious) and a dip into the sale racks at the Mall. Sister Trish bought me a very comfy blue sweater and I cashed in my Gymboree bucks for a few things for Jack. Back at home the Boy came home with daisies for the new vase that Friend Ericka (and please, understand that she is a capital F Friend and not a Quaker. Nothing ticks off Ericka more than Quakers right now. I doubt she’d even touch a canister of oatmeal…) brought me this week. The computer is untouched by the rising or descending water in the house and the temperature has dropped to the point of stopping the dripping.

We’re good until the thaw and the ice-dam damage. Hopefully, by then, the little brown long-sleeved thermal onsie at Baby Gap will be on sale.

To all the Nurse Hathaways. And Judy, too.

I’ve been thinking, lately, about the nurses that helped us out while we waited for, during, and after Jack’s arrival. And my pal Judy.

At the Museum, Judy is the other week day tour person. It’s just a facet of her job and yet that’s what she gets defined as being. The Tour Guide. Judy and I have long held that what she does, when she gives tours, is very important to a small museum. What we do s have conversations with the people on the tour– be it a couple or family or group of senior citizens or fourth graders (no difference on the last two… really but there isn’t). We have conversations and we try, sometimes harder than others, to make connections between the past and the present. Usually it’s not so hard to do– both of us give a heck of a mean tour. We love telling the stories we do and sharing our goofy passion with the people that follow their AAA books to us.

Just because it comes naturally to us doesn’t mean that it isn’t work. And just because it’s only a part of our job doesn’t mean it isn’t the most important thing we do. Sometimes it is. Sometimes the connections we make have far reaching conclusions– the people we talk to for three quarters of an hour might be so inspired to help support our museum or another or take their kids to some historic place instead of a NASCAR race next summer. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.) They might have learned something or heard a snippet that made them pick up a book to find out more. Or prove us wrong. Or stop the evil lady in their town that wants to tear down important old buildings.

Long ago, when I was on the eve of my practice teaching semester of college, my mother gave me some of the wisest and most useful advice I’ve ever had– to remember that the real backbone of a school and the real power is in the hands of the secretaries (they were still “secretaries” back then) and the custodians. Be nice to them and it would reap benefits. And it was true.

And that, in this disjointed day, brings me back to the nurses on my mind. For most of the last year I’ve spent a lot of time at the local hospital where our obstetrician practices with prenatal appointments and then the stay in the hospital after Jack’s awkward arrival, and the subsequent post-baby visits– the last of which was today. The persons I saw the most were probably Clara and Audrey at Dr. Boo-Boo’s office. Today it was Clara that had the unenviable task of the Weigh In and then the pre-paper gown chat. (It’s the equivilant of the little non-taped chats that celebrities have with the producers on Talk Shows. Oprah doesn’t have time to weed out the good stories. And Dr. Boo Boo can just read the chart to see if my blood pressure’s okay.) Clara asked after Jack and me and how this motherhood thing is going. Audrey admired Jack’s pictures and marveled at how it is already three months since he was born. As always they made me feel much more comforable and normal and validated in any twinges or oddities than the books have. Back early in gestating Jack I had, one day, horrible unexplainable pain. When I panicked and feared the worst it was Clara that talked me down and correctly determined that I had gas. (Who knew. I’m not a gassy person. Never had it like that before.) And every time I checked out it was Audrey that handed me the little card that told me when to be there next. And a funny little bonmot about her little daughter.

I was a little sad when I left their office. And trust me that’s not a usual occurence. Usually I’m very happy when the next appointment is a whole glorious year away. But I’ll miss them and all their support.

For them it’s just conversations that come naturally. I’ve come and gone– just like my tour people. If I were to spot them at Meijer’s or the movies I’d have to rush to explain who I am while they politely waited. (I know. School kids do it to us all the time, “You’re the history Lady!”) Still. There is a take away. Not sure what it is other than utter awe at what they do and how well they do it…but, eventually, it’ll have a butterfly effect, too. Maybe gratitude will have to be it for now. Gratitude’s a good thing. I’ll take it.