Fourth of July Fun and Scary Sparklers!

Zuzu did not like fireworks. This was her third Fourth of July and the most scared she's been. Daddy passed around unlit sparklers, and then after everyone else lit theirs, she begged him to take hers away and put it back in the box. So I took her inside, much to her relief. Once inside she wanted the doors and windows closed. She absolutely did not want to watch through the window. She relaxed once her cousins came back inside after lighting the rest of the fireworks. "Fireworks all done?" she asked happily.

Bear slept through everything.

This was a fantastic Fourth of July. The weather was ideal. And I spent it with my favorite people, my sister's family!

The kids did an art project that we are calling Fireworks in a Night Sky. And Uncle Todd did too.

There was also cookie decorating, berry cake baking, outdoor playing, and outfit changing!

6 months of Bear

Bear is 6 months old today!

Writing fails

I’ve always believed in the power of writing. I’ve always loved to read, always loved to write, largely disagreed with people who think online interaction is shallower than face-to-face interaction, elevated writing somewhat over talking. Spoken words vanish into the air; writing lasts. Conversation is haphazard—the sound an orchestra makes when it’s tuning up at the beginning of a concert. Writing is what happens when the orchestra begins to play: purpose, meaning, melody.
    I’ve always known that writing can move hearts and minds. It can make you see things from another point of view and feel things you’ve never felt before.
    I even love the way the letters of the alphabet look on a page.
    But there’s one subject in which writing fails. Before I became a mother, no writing ever convinced me of how wonderful it would be to have children. And that is so strange to me now, thinking back. How could I not have known? I shouldn’t have needed to read something—I should have just been able to look at a child, for instance—but the thing is, when all else failed, writing also failed. The language that speaks best to my brain still couldn’t convey what happens when you hold your own baby.
    Actually, what happens is not at all complicated. It is this, precisely this:

 

I remember the way people described raising kids. The ups and downs. The exhaustion and the joy. The sacrifices and the rewards. In my mind, child-rearing seemed similar to the way I feel about exercise regimes or mountain climbing—most of the time it’s just a lot of work. Most of the time, you don’t even really enjoy it. It gets in the way of what you really want to do. But then you reach some milestone or some pinnacle and you look back and think, I’m glad I’m here. I’m glad I stuck to it. Arguably worth it—but not by a huge margin.
    That’s a completely wrong way of viewing it. It would be more accurate to compare life without kids to a world without color. Maybe it’s a wonderful world (I quite liked my life before kids), but it’s black and white, and life with kids is life with color. And when people talk about ups and downs, the downs in the color world would be, say, that some of the colors aren’t pretty. It’d be crazy to think a few ugly colors would be reason to prefer a colorless world. Or you could say that life without kids is like being in a wheelchair, and life with kids is gaining the ability to walk and run. The downs would be things like pulling a muscle or getting out of breath. Real things to complain about, but not reasons to prefer a wheelchair!
    That’s why it was hard to write after Zuzu was born. I wanted very much to address my pre-motherhood self, explain about motherhood, convince the girl I was to be more eager to take the leap. But if the first billion people to write on this subject couldn’t do it, I didn’t expect to be successful.
    That’s why it is still (curiously) a bit harder to write about Zuzu than about Bear. Because underneath the patty-cake songs and the discussions of pooping on the potty, I still have a trembly sense of awe over the way I feel toward my firstborn.
    I don’t know why Bear made it easier to write again, but he did, and I’m glad.

Stay-at-home baby

I think Bear likes being a stay-at-home baby. For one thing, he gets to watch Zuzu all day long. When I watch him watch her, I actually feel kinda bad for Zuzu that she doesn’t have an older sibling, so she misses out on all this great entertainment. The other day, Zuzu pretended to pour a bucket of soup on Bear’s head, and then began a laborious process of cleaning him by transforming toys into imaginary soap dispensers and then toweling off his head and torso and limbs one by one. The whole thing was fairly invasive and time-consuming, and all the while Bear sat there quietly in wide-eyed fascination.

He likes to examine things. He seems like he wants to take things apart and put them back together. He leans forward—almost constantly, putting steady persistent pressure on the hands that are holding him back, deeply focused on objects before him. He doesn’t cry or act frustrated when he can’t reach something, he just leans and leans and leans. Since he can’t quite sit on his own, when he leans forward he will just fold double if allowed. And I usually have to use two hands when I carry him on my hip, because he leans forward with such determination.

Part of his examination procedure is, of course, to put things in his mouth. That’s typical baby, but Bear looks like he’s taking notes when he does it. New object appears. Begin by staring. Next, examine with fingers. What does it feel like? What happens when you shake it? Next: examine with mouth. What does it taste like?

He’s big and heavy and plump and feels so good to hold. I’m not into co-sleeping but I’m a fan of co-napping, and so is Bear. For the most part he’s at his happiest when he’s being held. In fact, he’s rather insistent about being held most of the day.

Zuzu (2 years, 6 months, 20 days)

These warm humid days, Zuzu has ringlets all around her face, golden curls that come loose from her rubber band and fall beautifully across her forehead and next to her cheeks and float in the air all around her head.

We just went to this summer’s first Thursday night concert in the park, and Zuzu joined the other kids running around and dancing in front of the band. I watched her holding hands with girls she’d just met. I watched her run and run and run in circles, with her brisk little short steps that make her curls bounce. I watched her trip and fall and get up and brush herself off and keep running.

We watered the plants in our yard with a hose. She loved doing it. She held the nozzle and kept the water going for the length of time it took me to sing “Mary Had a Little Lamb” on each of four bushes that Daddy just planted. Then she carried the hose across the yard and watered the garden. She sprayed her feet with water. I kept instructing Zuzu on where to point the hose, and meanwhile Bear was in the shade in his bouncy seat crying. Zuzu got fed up with me hovering and said, “I’ll do it. I’m doing it! You check on Bear!”

The other morning we made scrambled eggs. Zuzu cracked the eggs, added salt and pepper, and whipped them with a fork so well that I didn’t even have to finish the job, I just poured them into a pan and cooked them.

We’ve just started introducing some baby food to Bear. The first time, Zuzu wanted to feed him. I thought that would be a bad idea, but she was persistent so I yielded and let her try. It was entirely successful. She was as gentle and patient as could be. “Keep that in your mouth!” she’d say while scraping the dribblings off his chin with the spoon.

She was recently helping me change Bear’s diaper and suddenly said, “He’s holding my hand!” I looked down to see that this was true. Then she said, “I like him. I’m gonna keep him.” I don’t know if she was quoting us or that line from Frozen.

She loves—loves—talking about our extended family. She likes it when we sing “He’s got the whole world in His hands.” She shouts out names of family members she wants us to insert into the song. “He’s got the Omas and the Opas in His hand …” etc. for both sides of the family.

She talks so much and so well that it sometimes makes her seem older than she is.

Bear thinks she’s a mix between an angel and a superhero. He watches her with so much love and fascination on his sweet little face.

The end of one adventure

I am, at this moment, at the end of one adventure, and about to embark on a new one. The new one is that of being a stay-at-home mom. It's what I’ve longed for and daydreamed about, what I’ve prayed for, planned for, saved for, hoped for, waited for. This new adventure is what I’ll soon be immersed in, head to toe, with all my heart—and tears and sweat—and to say that I’m ready, that I’m excited, is not even to begin to touch on how I feel.
    But the old adventure was a good one. At this moment, my foot is still lingering at the exit and I still have my eyes on the old adventure.The old adventure—that of being a working mom—had more blessings than I could have imagined at the outset. These blessings are in my mind right now; I’m flipping through a mental photo album, slowly, lovingly, gratefully.
    To the company where I worked for the last five years—I love the people that I saw every day within your walls. I’m listening to their voices in my head right now, and thinking of their smiles and their laughter. I love the office with its windows and its plants.
    To daycare: I will miss your bustling halls at pick-up time. I’ll miss the artwork on the walls. I’ll miss reading the board outside Ginny’s classroom, finding out what songs she sang and art she made and lessons she learned. I’ll miss the teachers, still smiling at the end of each day. Ginny was so happy there for two years, and Andersson was happy there for his couple months. I felt such peace and gratitude leaving my kids there during the days.
    I am saying goodbye right now to much that was important to me. Some things that were hard. Some things that were wonderful. So much that I’m grateful for.
    The old adventure is over—the orchestra has stopped playing, but the song is still hanging in the air, and I’m listening wistfully to its echoes.
    The new song’s about to begin.
   
    I think it’s gonna be AWESOME.

The cruelty of teething

When Zuzu was teething, I remember thinking, why does this have to be the way we get teeth? It’s terrible. One by one all these little knives have to slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, slice their way through a baby’s gums. Like Zuzu, Bear started teething around four months. And he will be teething off and on for the next … year? It doesn’t seem fair. These are babies. Why do they have to endure this?

Last night I noticed that his gums were bleeding. Okay, okay, so I guess you have a reason to be so cranky, little man.

It is one of my failings as a mother that I never kept track of how many teeth Zuzu had. When people asked, I should have been able to say, “seven.” Not: “between four and ten?” Even when she only had two teeth, I had no idea if the tops of any others were poking through. After all, you can’t tell a nine-month-old to open wide so you can inspect their gums. You have to stick a finger in there, and I promise you it’s going to get chomped on.

So I probably won’t be better with Bear. I’m already not better. His top gums feel pokey, but—how pokey? Tooth pokey? Or just pre-tooth pokey?

You’d be surprised how often teeth are remarked upon in babies. Once your baby has sprouted teeth, everywhere you go it’s “look at those toofers!” We heard this so often with Zuzu that my brain began to think toofers was a real word.

Back to how long teething takes. We’ve had a month of buckets of drool, irritability, bad sleep, and cold symptoms that may or may not be teething-related. And all we’ve got to show for it is pokey gums.

I want two teeth, then a break. Who do I take this up with, the tooth fairy?