Some Easter Cheer

A little dancing with Stella's new Side Snap signature move.



And a little doll quilt that I made with a kit purchased from etsy. It's an Easter treat for my girls.

While Helping Around the House: Or How We Know It's Been Awhile Since We've Cleaned the Place Up

Helping me in the yard:

"What's that, Mom?"
"A weed. Can you help me pull them?"
She exclaims, "Yes!"
"Mom, there's an unner one. An unner one, Mom. An unner one, an unner one."
Ad nauseum.

Helping Jamie in the yard:

"Poop, Dad! Yuck."
"Yep, there's poop. I'm picking it up."
"An unner poop, Dad. An unner one, an unner one, an unner one."
Ad nauseum.

Helping us finish the prayer before dinner:

Jamie says, "Amen."
Stella says, "Oh, man."

More Words

Upon awaking:

"Mommy, did you sleep? Well?"

"Yes. Did you sleep? Well?"

"Yes"

***

At breakfast:

"I want some."

"Some what?"

"Some showmy."

"Showmy?"

"Yes."

"Show me what you want."

Points at yogurt and says "showmy."

I realize that she now calls yogurt "Show me" because I never understood what she wanted with her frantic grunts and pointing so I would open the fridge and say, "Show me." And she always wanted the yogurt during these exchanges. Thus yogurt = "show me."

***

After returning from an outing with her dad.

"Did you have fun?"

"I had bun."

"Did Dad have fun?"

"Yes. Dad have bun. Gigi have bun. Mom have bun?"

Always.

Represent!

This is a classic Gianna posture: craning around me to see what Stella is up to. And, of course, a small little smile acknowledging how cool her big sister is.

I thought it was high time for some major Gianna face time on the stellarstories blog.

The Kind of Thing Her Aunt Will Appreciate

The continuum of emotions that a baby experiences throughout the day are many. The same, I believe, can be said for adults. However, babies are not as good at masking them. Here Gianna is incapable of masking an emotion. Just what it is I cannot put my finger on.

In Other News

Gianna likes to eat food. She doesn't want baby food. She wants apples and macaroni and peas and eggs and all kinds of stuff. She doesn't really want me to feed it to her either. She wants to be left alone. She deigns to allow me to spoon-feed her yogurt in the morning.

The dogs enjoy this tremendously.

Also, did you know that most hoses have lead in them? Apparently so much so that they're required to put a warning label on the hose. I noticed this right before I unwrapped a new hose to water my, supposedly, organic vegetable garden.

You aren't supposed to drink out of these hoses. Neither should you use it to fill your child's swimming pool or a tub for a waterbirth. I will be returning it to Target.

Lead is known to have caused cancer in the state of California. (This is what it says on the warning label.) Especially when the water is warm does the leeching factor increase. I read this while in the state of Arizona with summer fast approaching.

Stella-isms

Originally uploaded by alishialinn

With the advent of speech comes many new stories:

In the car this morning Stella is yelling, "Stop it!" and throwing her hands up over her face. We're trying to figure out who she could possible be yelling at. Jamie reasons, "The sun is getting in her face."

And she's telling the sun to "Stop it!"

***
When she finds something of mine she wants to play with I say no. When that doesn't work I say, "That's Dotchie's"

"Dotchie's?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

That settles the matter. She leaves it alone.

***
Our household's new favorite cereal is Kashi's Autumn Wheat. Stella loves eating cereal. She always says she wants, "Some."

"Some what? What do you want?"

"Some!!!" And she gesticulates wildly toward the box.

"That's called Autumn Wheat. You want some Autumn Wheat?"

"Awnum Wheat?"

"Yes."

"I want some Awnum Wheat."

This is now a very familiar refrain.

While Standing in Stella's Bedroom

"Stella, three years ago this wasn't your bedroom. We didn't have any kids. We were able to come and go as we pleased. But now we have you and Gigi and we're happy. Well, I'm happy. I can't speak for your father."

"I'm happy."

"I happy. Mommy Daddy happy?"

"Yes. We're happy."

"Gigi happy?"

Gigi grins.

Things My Home Invasion Has Taught Me

• Fruit flies have red blood
  
• They are easier to catch if your hands are slightly damp
  
• They are wily prey
  
• I am evolving as a predator
  

"I Said, 'Daddy, Wook at ME!'"

Stella is at the stage in her language development where she acquires sentences instead of words. It's quite interesting. Especially after having had such a seemingly long period of stagnant word acquisition.

This morning she helped me make the oatmeal. That's another skill that has advanced. She's very good a stirring with her little wooden spoon. The first time she helped me it was more of an uncontrolled thrashing. This morning she could've been doubling for a Food Network celebrity chef.

The bonus is that she's extra willing to consume meals when she's been involved in the preparation.

This morning I told her to call for her dad to come look at her while she cooked.

She did.

And she proceeded to repeat the sentence throughout breakfast.

"I said, 'Daddy, come wook at me!'"

In addition to which, she's starting to recognize her way around town. This creates some sadness when we turn down our street to go home. She admonishes us to continue west toward her favorite park by yelping from the backseat, "No! Go THAT way! Go THAT way!"

And when she sense our proximity to Chick-fil-A she acknowledges it with a simple, "I want some!"

And, yes, everything she says does need an exclamation point.

Home Invasion

Have you ever had fruit flies?

I have them now. They are making me insane. I clean constantly. They don't go away. They multiply. They bug.

I think they're coming from my compost pile. But why hang out in the house? I have cleaned the counter and put every speck of food away for weeks now. I'm exhausted by the siege. Tomorrow my dad is coming to help me move that cursed pile. We'll see how things go.

I got an email from my doctor--"MRI is OK!" His words.

New hair in a bad* photo at the end of a long day:



*"Bad photo" in my world means poorly lit.

Even More to Say

When it was obvious she was having a bowel movement:

"Stella, where are you supposed to go poo poo?"
"On da potty."

Well, it's a start.

She also knows how to tell you that she wants a treat when she is sitting on the potty.

Had to get an MRI today. They had to put some sort of contrast dye in me. I want informed that I would have to "pump and dump" for twenty-four hours. For the uninitiated, that means Gianna cannot have my radioactive (I exaggerate) breast milk for twenty-four hours.

In breastfeeding realms there's really nothing sadder than having a tired, hungry child cry the cry of wanting to nurse and being physically unable to satiate that cry.

She did, however, take a bottle. This is good. But I will be happy to get back to nursing tomorrow morning.

Right after my first haircut since Thanksgiving.

Here's a before:



Notice the mullet happening in the back? It will be sent a-packing tomorrow.

Do you detect a glow? It's that contrast dye surging through my veins. It's "harmless." That's why I can't breastfeed my child.

Language Explosion!!!!

It's true what they say. You know They, don't you. They're fun.

Anyway, they say that kids suddenly start talking. We're experiencing this in Hansoniana Land. For the longest time Stella has said the same few things. Just this week she's started venturing out. It's almost like she wanted to be sure she knew what she was doing.

One day at lunch time she said, "I want tacos." I'm acclimated to having to decipher what she's trying to say. There's no way she actually wanted tacos, right? I'd never heard her say the word and we so rarely have tacos. I wasn't sure what she wanted.

She gestured toward the freezer and managed to dig them out from all of the frozen food in there. Tacos. She knew what she wanted and where to find them. It just made me wonder how long she'd been working on that word.

This evening she very deliberately said, "Help." It was so funny sounding. So calm and collected. She needed help getting out of her seat. "Help." That's it.

Did I mention that she said "shit" a few weeks ago? Damn. She's learning.

Mistakes I've Made (So Far This Week)

I was distracted by Stella and didn't completely fasten Gianna into her car seat.

I left the house with no snacks.

I let Gianna chew on an apple all the way home because it kept her quiet.

I impatiently yanked Stella's arm and said some naughty words.

I know I'm forgetting something.

I was losing my mind so I took a walk. This is restorative for me, therapeutic. I like to look at all the plants and take note of their growth and see if there are any changes my next time around.

While I was walking I was thinking about Lent. Yesterday was Ash Wednesday. We took the girls to get ashes. It marked the beginning of Lent and the approach of Easter. I am thankful for such rhythms in the liturgical calendar.

Christ was born at Christmas and we all celebrated. But here comes Easter. A more serious holiday. A chance to contemplate all our shortcomings and make amends--or at least try to. Intend to amend. Grow more towards the Light of Jesus.

And this is what I noticed on my walk. All the plants and weeds and flowers, they are all growing toward the light. This is what they do. If you have a plant in your house growing imbalanced, turn it around and it will change course. Even the weeds grow toward the light. Sometimes I feel like a weed. I know I'm not and I know that many of my careless infractions are not a big deal, but this is the time of the year to examine my more serious infractions: being ungrateful, unforgiving, selfish, jealous, cold-hearted.

It's very easy to convince yourself that you don't deserve a certain "injustice." Or that you deserve more privileges. I think of this as Oprahatic spirituality. "Make a little time for yourself everyday. Get yourself a treat, stop sacrificing for others." To a certain extent this isn't bad. It can reach a point, especially when you're in the business of small children, where it can be damaging.

Raising children is work. It is sacrifice. It's a lot more than physical labor. It's not indulging in misery or selfishness. It's not keeping track of wrongs and annoyances--these are things that I do. However, my goal this Lent is to become more for my husband and my kids. More what? I'm not sure yet. It will be what I think about until Easter. Nay, what I pray about until Easter.

I think it's very easy to think of having children as a self-centered enterprise. They are yours and you have them to complete some sort of milestone. You stop before they take over your life. But having children is sacrifice--a sacrifice of time, money and a certain way of life. I don't always enjoy the sacrifice. Does that mean I've made a mistake? No.

This is where I think our culture is hard on parents. There is no opportunity to air your grievances without people saying, "Well, you shouldn't have had children, or not so many." And this applies to whether you only have two or as many as eight. I think this is unfair to parents. Anyone who has adult children, I assume, would not say, "It was not worth it." Children are not a dream or ambition that can be abandoned, so why would we want to make parents feel bad? Why not just say, "This too shall pass. It will get better"?

While I have and will make many mistakes with my children, they are not mistakes I've made. They are a lot of work. But they are good work. And I am thankful that Easter comes once a year so I can reflect on my mistake and become more for my family. More what? I'll keep you posted.

Most Meaningful Thoughts Ever

I frequently think of things worth recording in the busiest times of the day: meals and pre-nap. That's when I have my golden thoughts. Or when I'm driving in the car. Then when I have some time to myself I can't recall anything noteworthy--and by noteworthy I mean something that I would be interested in reading a year from now.

This morning we tried to get ourselves presentable and out of the house in time for Stella to go to her little preschool class. This did not happen. I was plagued by varying degrees of Urgent Needs and Unclothed Children and Poopy Diapers. These were staggered throughout a ninety minute period wherein I got no relief of any time to get myself dressed. All in a day's work.

We managed to get out of the house by nine. I called my friend Theresa and was lured, willingly, to her house where I learned that she makes breakfast almost every morning. And I mean eggs, pancakes and biscuits and gravy--not all on the same day, though. I partook of leftover biscuits and gravy and it was SO FREAKING GOOD. I inhaled it. Then we talked about being busy and nursing babies and I think I articulated the fact that I frequently don't eat enough throughout the day because I'm busy with children and this is why I currently weigh less than I did in high school. This might be desirable for some but it is probably the source of my constant fatigue, confusion and difficulty concentrating.

I'm trying to figure out how to organize my life so that I can wash, dry, fold and put away laundry all in the same day. I'm also trying to figure out how I can remember my shopping list at the grocery store. Oh, and how to enjoy life in the process.


Totally unrelated photos:

Stella has some tea.


How her toys look after she goes to bed.


Gianna meets Gracie.


Sweet, soulful eyes.

Reading My Own Archives

It's funny how much you forget from one child to the next--and not much time has lapsed. I was reading my own blog tonight trying to get a handle on when Stella started sleeping through the night. Unfortunately, I didn't write much. I shall now recall for posterity's sake.

She slept with us, quite accidentally and then habitually, until about nine months. I remember the night it started. She was less than two weeks old. I remember every time night approached I felt this slight fear of the unknown. The unknown of the first time parent.

One night I must've fallen asleep nursing Stella. I woke up about two a.m. and thought, "Where's the baby?" She was not in her little Co-Sleeper next to the bed. Then I realized she was asleep in my arms. So I rolled over and plopped her between us. And so it began. It made life easy.

Once she became a very active sleeper and none of us was getting much rest we decided to transition her to her crib. This was around October 2006. It was horrible. She would wake up after nursing to sleep and cry in her crib. It took much support from Jamie for me to allow her to cry for more than five minutes. I always thought I would be able to let my kid cry it out. But I couldn't. And I still can't. However, Stella did have to spend some time fussing. It probably took two weeks of bummer bed times but eventually she slept in her bed for a good twelve hours. I don't regret having her in our bed. It was a precious time. And it didn't spoil her as right this moment she is slumbering in her very own bed. (Well, her crib. Still.)

Gianna's been a thrasher since the early days. She had to be swaddled in order to sleep. Nice and tight. She's largely slept in the little Co-Sleeper next to the bed. Lately she's been sleeping next to me as I've been weaning her from her pacifier and this coupled with teething has caused her some sad restlessness. She's six months now and I anticipate the sleeping to only get better.

Am I tired? Sometimes. Mostly in the morning before coffee. But, honestly, I'm not often bedraggled. I take naps when the girls do--this helps. And I generally try to take things easy. There's always tomorrow. I don't feel a tremendous need to ALWAYS be on top of things. I like to be rested enough to be pleasant and able to handle the daily stress. But I think being a little tired is part of the sacrifice of parenting. And the rewards of parenting are so great that I can't imagine trading rest for children.

While It's Winter Elsewhere

We're enjoying our summer. A recent visit to the Desert Botanical Gardens with Grandpa and the soon-to-be-gone Dotchie!

Let the Fun Begin

I just downloaded the software for our scanner. I have one word for you:

H-O-T-T

HOT!!

A Variety of News of No Report

When a small child misses a nap buckle up because it's gonna be nasty.

Jamie and I are usually in agreement about parenting. I say this not because we have talks about it--because we don't really. We're both usually mild and understanding. Tonight was hell-bound because of a missed nap. It doesn't make for pleasant dinner tie, but it's possible to endure.

We don't yell, though we do get frustrated. We don't throw things, though we might want to. We endure. And then one of us usually quips, "My life!" This is a statement that can cover over a multitude of sins.

Someone hogging the coffee corner in the kitchen?

"My life!"

Someone being too slow out the door?

"My life!"

Someone crowding you at the sink?

"My life!"

You get it.

Stella was virtually inconsolable at dinner. She wanted peas. In a bowl. Now out of the bowl. Now milk. Not milk. Now water. Now a plate of food previously refused. Now put her shoe back on.

"My life!"

This is where the like-minded parenting works. We put up with a certain amount of fuss, but when things get excessive Jamie will pick her up remove her shoes and put her in her bed to settle down.

It's nice not to worry about someone being too severe with your child. I don't have to worry about Stella being belittled over a bad dinner. I don't have to worry that Jamie will overreact and throw something in frustration and wind up scaring her disproportionately. It's nice.

This is something good to think about when looking for a partner. Thankfully, I just lucked out because I wasn't with it enough to really consider these things very much.

While the dinner drama played out little Gianna ate her butternut squash and sweet potato mash. I'm thinking how funny it is that she gets to grow up with a chorus of Stella's fits in the background of everyday life. She's quite used to it. It doesn't really ruffle her feathers as long as you continue to shovel in the goods.

In addition to which Jamie will be planting some seeds. He's going to be growing some veggies. Five years ago Jamie was growing veggies and sweet peas at his parents house. When I asked him to bring me some of the flowers he agreed. The only contingency was that I couldn't think that he was, his words, "Pitching woo." Five years ago he had someone else that he was interested in. Five years ago I didn't care. But that's a whole other story...

The Results Are In

And things are normal for now. This is good. I can continue getting on with getting on. This is good news. An answer to my prayer.

In other news, we are settling into our post-holiday routine over here. This has been a killer week because Jamie has had parent/teacher conferences for four days in a row. This means very long days for me--oh, and for him, too. One day he left the house before seven and didn't get home until after six. It's days like these I think of my sweet college friend April, also know as Bliss Cake, who has been living this grueling schedule six days a week for more than a year while her husband gets another advanced degree.

There are large communities of women living in apartments or on-campus family housing while they raise the children of said advanced-degree-pursuers. Whenever I consider my position miserable I contemplate them and their position--their patience and perseverance in the long, cold winters of places like South Bend, Indiana and Chicago, Illinois. Little Bliss Cake will be welcoming their third child into their lives any day now.

I say all that not to call their positions miserable. Merely to remember the other ladies in the trenches. Women with husbands who are full-time students. For I shall be joining their ranks in the not-to-distant future. I also extend to them a warm welcome to come to the desert. We have a spare bedroom--for only a short time--feel free to come and nestle yourself in the warmth and go on some walks with us.

In the summer while I am holed-up in the AC down here in the desert I will read of your walks by Lake Michigan and cry tears into a little hanky by my bed. Then I will use some frequent flier miles and flee to the north and visit my dad on his little isle. I hope.

This TIme Last Year

I have had this refrain trailing my thoughts frequently:

This time last year I did not know that I had cancer.

I cannot say that I didn't have cancer this time last year, only that I was unaware of its presence.

I had to have my tests, blood work and ultrasound, on Friday. I cannot say that I am awaiting the results without any fear. There is, of course, that thought in the back of my mind. What if?

What if I have another tumor? What if things are a little off?

I do not mean to be dramatic, but this is what resounds within me lately. So much so that the collision of my tests and Jamie's return to school forced me into prayerful repose on Sunday night. I had no other way of depositing my fear, sadness, grief, anticipation and thankfulness.

I am thankful for the cancer that was found. I'm thankful for Gianna, without whom we could possibly still be unaware of my tumor. I'm thankful that she survived my surgery last February. I'm thankful that my surgery in September showed no cancer in any of the biopsies or washings. I'm thankful that those who disagreed with my decision to keep my ovary expressed their opinion and have quietly supported me since then. I'm thankful that though they may think me naive they have not blatantly said so lately--as I am highly sensitive right now.

I'm worried. Almost more worried of the "I told you so" attitude that might prevail if anything is fishy. I'm worried that people will be angry with me for jeopardizing my family's happiness and relative calm.

But amidst all this I am also hopeful. Hopeful that all my worries and anxieties will return void.

Because this time last year I was anticipating the birth of a new child. A new Hanson was going to enter the ranks. This time last year I didn't have to think of childbearing as controversial or potentially harmful.

That said, I am thankful for 2007 and all that it revealed; physically, emotionally and relationally. I'm glad that Jamie and I survived and that we are stronger for it. But I am really hoping that everything comes back fine.

The Learning Curve

Sometimes you master things easily. Sometimes there's a bit of a learning curve. Gianna seems to have fallen off the wagon. She can't figure this one out. Last week she had it down. This makes me laugh because she was so frustrated. I imagine her thinking, "What happened? I used to be able to do this."

No Title

It is 8:27 pm and both children are asleep. This is monumental. It is no doubt due to the fact that we just completed two days of riotous partying and curtailed resting. It was fun but I'm looking forward to getting back to the normal.

We had Christmas dinner at our house this year. This was Jamie's experiment to see how well he could cook a turkey. Thank you, Guests, for being our guinea pigs. Jamie's turkey was a success. Very moist and tasty and cooked in a decent time frame. He also made the stuffing, potatoes and gravy. He's such a Renaissance Man--thinker, reader, father, husband and great cook.

We had a smattering of folks: parents, siblings, old and new friends.

Stella received many great and thoughtful presents and fun was had by all. At least they were nice enough to say they had fun.

And so completes the Christmas Day festivities for 2007. Bring it on, 2008.

(I am very tired and uninspired. Can you tell?)

Sisters

The preshus-ness that is Stella and Gianna all smooshed together in one swing:




And in one bed:

Laptop, I Lament Thee

I have been out of the habit of writing because of the recent death of my laptop's power cord. Due to poor design of the iMac of four years ago, the power cord is especially susceptible to, how shall I say, childish tampering. We have lost three power cords to Stella's wily ways. I know it's not all her fault. My dad would tell me something like, "Well, you know what you should do? You should always unplug it and wrap it up and put it somewhere high."

Yes. I should. Should have!

On to recent events. This winter time has been dramatic. Many fits and tears. Many Stellonian beseeches to, "GO!" Where, you ask? Anywhere. The girl wants to go all the time. And while we don't always indulge that desire it is necessary to get her out of the house. She frequently wants to go when Gianna is sleeping. And I am loathe to wake the baby.

As I type this Stella is happily coloring and talking in her special language. It's fun to listen to--when she's calm. She often loses her wits when she wants something and we can't understand that language.

"Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Getchu getchu go. Beebee shay wowa. At ta bebees. A baby, a baby, a baby."

"Up, up, up."

This is what she is saying to me right now. And that is why I don't get to write much anymore. She always wants to get in my lap--which leads to other things she wants to do. Most of which she's not allowed: free reign of the digital camera, pounding on the keyboard, touching the beautiful monitor.

And now she's left me chanting another familiar refrain:

"Shoes, shoes, shoo-es!"

Growing Up

While growing up I liked to sit in my dad's lap or snuggle up next to him while watching TV. I remember how much I liked being close to him. Knowing that he would let me be there as long as I liked. I was able to feel his warmth, his chest rise and fall and the scruff growing on his face. I was able to examine the scar on the tip of his chin that he got from a diving board. It's a feeling like no other. Being able to sit close and still in the lap of your parent.

It is this fact that I often recall--purposely--when I am settling Stella down at the end of an emotional bender or getting her ready for bed. I remind myself how peaceful and centering it was to be physically close to my dad's body. Recalling this enables me to sit with her--and Gianna--for longer than my impatience or mental list of things to do would normally allot for sitting.

I can feel her long limbs tangle my waist and her hair tickle my nose. I feel her breathe and it calms me after a usually long and busy day. I can feel the weight of her body press into my chest and eventually all her muscles melt and relax when she surrenders to her fatigue.

I don't do this because she is incapable of falling asleep on her own. I don't do it because she always demands that someone sit with her. I do it frequently for myself. Because I need to feel her close to me while I can. I need to feel the little body that used to be fully encapsulated inside of me. I need to feel her calm and peaceful because so much of the day she is so many other busy things.

And I do it because, I imagine, all those cliches are all true. When your kids are grown or you're laying on your deathbed you're not going to wish you squeezed in one more load of laundry or wiped down one more dirty counter.

And She's Too Big For Her Crib

Because tonight, in protest to bed time, she tried to crawl out and did not succeed. I left her while she did her usual crying and protesting only to hear a most unusual yelp after a few seconds. I ran in to find her sprawled on the ground, mouth agape and forlorn. Such a bummer of a way to end the day. Of course, we sat in the big chair in her room and settled down. Both of us.

Meanwhile, Gianna snoozed. And right now she's got two hours on me. I need to go catch up!

Happier bed times:

And She Likes to Lick Stuff!

In addition to her continual consumption of dirt, Stella has taken to licking things. She was licking the laptop's power cord last night. (No, not a dangerous part. She won't be electrocuted. I may be laid back but I'm not a ninny.) When I commented on this Jamie said, "She was licking her library books in the car."

Odd.

And no, I don't think she has pica. It's probably much more boring and pedestrian. She likes to lick. I liked to smell things when I was a kid--new tape, library books, school handouts, etc.

(I've resorted to writing about things like this because the alternative is Cat Stevens-fueled nostalgic ditties that will make you question your existence and that of God. I'm depressing when I reminisce.)

My Kid Likes High Fiber Cereal

As I write this Stella is on her third bowl of Trader Joe's High Fiber Cereal for the day. I shit you not. (Pun intended!)

This might seem like a really great thing for a two year old to love, but consider the result. Yesterday there were three diapers of the "Number Two" persuasion to change. There were four on Sunday! Four. The Sabbath. The Day of Resting. Not the Day of Changing Many Number Twos by a (sniff, sniff) Two Year Old.

I laughed as I was tried to teach her the word "bran" when she wants that particular cereal as opposed to her guttural grunting. It went something like this:

"Stella, say 'Bran.'"
"Dan."
"Bran."
"Dran."
"BRRRAN."
"THRAN"
"BBBRRRRAN."
"Wan."
"Bran."
"Whazat?"

It's good to eat bran and other high fibers. I like to think of the "insoluble fiber" coursing through my colon soaking up renegade food particles and preventing the development of cancerous polyps.

We all like this particularly bland bran cereal. We go through two boxes a week. We're just your regular old fam-a-dam.

(Pun intended!)

Buh Bye, Bloon

When I was in sixth grade I wondered if my right and my left would ever come naturally to me. It was one of those difficult concepts for me to grasp. I still say left when I mean right. Not all the time, but frequently enough for it to be disturbing. My friend Caroline taught me how to hold my hands up with thumbs out--see the left hand becomes an "L." You'd be sad for me to know how frequently I indulge in this reminder.

That's why I'm not shocked it takes me a long to time get the hang of this parenting gig. I took Stella in for her two year check up and I got a little handout with useful information. The thing I've thought about for days is the section that talks about being positive rather than negative when giving directions. For example, instead of saying, "Don't run," try, "Walk slowly, please."

I am conscious of this throughout the day. I was conscious of it this morning when I was walking the girls and I forgot Stella's jacket so she wanted me to hold her so she'd stay warm. Really, that's a pleasure. Sure, I'll hold you, little girl.

Then she wants to get down and go in the neighbor's yard.

Please, no.

Then she runs into the middle of the street and this always gets a strong yelp and a swat on the butt for emphasis. Really, though, how bad is a swat through the jeans? She never cries and is barely phased. Awesome. Great parenting. Random swattage that proves no point.

Then she runs back into the neighbor's yard and I chase her. She turns to say, "Uh oh" as she looks over my shoulder. Is this a clever deflection of my attention? No, Gigi is rolling into the street.

Thanks for your help.

***

I am constantly reflecting these days. Constantly aware of how quickly time goes by. the days, weeks, months. Is it supremely self-absorbed to record that sadness here? That pre-nostalgia for future empty-nestedness? I decided it is not. There is nothing new about the way I feel. There is nothing so poignant in my love for my children and their baby-ness. Everyone feels this. Not everyone writes about it. Some don't dwell on it.

***

Life is full of letting go. Stella lost a balloon today. She let it go and the helium carried it up. This was a heart-breaking event for her. She cried and mourned that little balloon. She stood out front and watched it until it couldn't be seen anymore.

I wanted to distract her so she'd stop crying. It occurred to me that this was selfish. I just didn't want to be bothered with the tears and the noise. I still have a memory of losing a balloon when I was at Disneyland and I was about Stella's age. It is a sad first thing to lose.

I cried for days when the exchange student from Iceland (or was it Greenland?) returned to her regular fourth grade class in her homeland. I no longer remember her name, but her departure made quite an impression.

Stella will lose much more than a mylar balloon. It's how she deals with that loss that is important. So I stood out front with her until she couldn't see that balloon anymore. We said goodbye and waved, "Buh Bye, Bloon." We blew some kisses. And when she brought it up again later, with sadness, I concurred. It is sad. Does it make it less sad to act like it never happened? Does it hurt her less to diminish the loss?

Writing this all out makes me feel like I'm emphasizing some sort of over-parenting. I don't want to make mountains out of molehills. But right now Stella's sadness is relative to her life. She lost that balloon and it broke her heart. She doesn't realize how many balloons will come into and out of her life. And someday she'll have the same feelings over friends and boys and jobs and other things she loves. I'm just trying to start small alongside her so when the bigger losses arrive maybe she'll be able to share with me.

Have I told you lately that I love her? And little Gianna, too.

Worth Mentioning

This weekend we traveled North. There are parts of Arizona that get rather cold in the winter. We went there so we could use the sweatshirts and jeans that we own--to be good stewards of the fabrics entrusted to our care.

While traveling through one of the many interesting towns we saw this sight:



We realized how urban we are when we didn't think that those could possibly be real cows. It had to be a modern art installation on that hillside.

I learned that if your husband drops his favorite eyeglass cleaning cloth/chamois in the Safeway parking lot, you can bet that the Marine veteran with eagle eyes will find it. Does that sentence make any sense? (When in Globe one must give a shout out to Sandy!)

We learned that Stella reads labels before drinking her beers:



This one, apparently, is up to snuff.



And we learned that Gianna gets cuter by the day. Especially when wearing the cool hat that Auntie CJ made for me a few years ago. Swanky!



When we returned we learned that Gianna is acquiring a sense of humor. And she gets a kick out of Buddy and Tiny.



We learned that Stella gained a paltry seven pounds in the last year. She's three feet tall and twenty-seven pounds. That's why she reads beer labels. She has to be aware of the alcohol content and pace herself accordingly.

Last but not least, I learned that when I throw toothbrushes in the garbage I should bury them lest Stella decide she does actually enjoy the practice of oral hygiene. This morning I had to lock her in the bathroom with me while I took a shower. The girl gets lock jaw when you try to brush her teeth. However, I heard the sink going on and off and I peeked around the shower curtain to see what was up and caught a glimpse of her wielding that discarded tool like a pro. At least she was thorough.

I Got the Bug

I tell ya, man, this writing thing, I just have lots to record lately. Who knows why?

Stella knows how to open my laptop. This made me think about the large chasm that will permanently exist between her childhood and mine. I mean, my big technological indulgence as a child was the Texas Instruments Speak and Spell. This was a big deal because it was portable and it taught you how to spell really challenging words like hat, fat, shat (heh. not really). I remember becoming very confused with its pronunciation. You had to figure in the poor pronunciation when you were counting how many words you actually misspelled. Because the sounds would get all addled. And if you thought it said, "Spell bat," and it really said, "Spell that," you could hardly be at fault. I mean, right?

This got me to thinking of all the things that she will think of differently than I do. Take Michael Jackson for instance. As I sit here typing this I am listening to The Jackson 5 on my iPod. (Which is a whole 'nuther subject.) When I was a kid Michael Jackson was still cool, popular and representative of a African American male human. This cannot be said today. If I tell her when she's older that I used to love Michael Jackson she will think I am some sort of freakazoid. She will have no idea that miniature scale Asian teenagers fainted at the mere knowledge of his nearby presence. She will not know the terror that was inflicted upon his fans when his hair caught fire while filming a Pepsi commercial. Besides, what's plain old Pepsi anyway?

Like I said, I'm sitting here listening to my iPod. I received it from my brother two weeks after Stella was born. He received the upgrade for his birthday so he was no longer in need of this iPod. However, my receipt of this gift coincided with the conclusion of the era in my life where I might possibly have a moment or need of filling any silence in my life with music. Surely you jest, you say. Reader, I jest you not. Today is probably the third time I've placed these headphones in my ears to partake of my iPod luxury. And while I was at it I played some Solitaire, too.

This whole experience is making fantasize about some parallel universe where I have a job that I commute to on a subway. I live somewhere that is always cold thereby necessitating jeans and a scarf. I have to fill my time on my urban commute by plugging in my little iPod and listening to music. Or perhaps books. Whatever. This parallel universe is pliable. But the only part of this universe that I envision is just that commute. I grab a coffee and get on the subway and off I go to my job. But in this universe I never actually have to go to the job. I don't have a fantasy job. Unless it's something like Jenna Rink's job in Thirteen Going on Thirty. She makes it look fun and stress-free to be a big shot magazine editor.

Someday I'll download that movie onto a super tiny video device and watch it with my daughters. And then I'll direct them to the following little treat on youtube:



The man had mad skills! "Mama always told me, 'Be careful who you love. Be careful what you do, before a lie becomes the truth.'" Truer words have not been spoken, Michael.

For Your Viewing Pleasure

To think Christa almost didn't come over the night this video of spontaneous pleasure was recorded.

"Texas, Here I Come (Went)"

Last weekend we traveled to Texas for a wedding. It was an old roommate of Jamie's. We braved the airplane with the girls and found that we were rather successful. Of course, Stella didn't totally grasp that she was 30,000 feet above the ground, but she was fascinated by the take-off and landing part of the trip(s). We had one stop one the way there and two on the way home. Other than those superfluous stops, flying with the children was not bad.

I started to get really nervous before we left. I was leaving my comfort zone--and theirs--for the unknown (read: the unknown sleep schedule). I would like to think of myself as easy going (Jamie insert guffaw here) but I know that I am most definitely not when my sleep is either threatened or compromised.

Of course no one but Gianna got to take naps. Stella was up late but slept late, too. She shared a bed with her dad, so I think that made the trip successful for her. And every morning she'd wake up in the hotel room and say, "Hey! Look! Look! Look, Mommy!" as she pointed at the large television set. Then she proceeded to turn the TV on.

We ate lots of Chick-Fil-A and snacky foods.

I'm glad I went. The wedding, what I saw of it, was a beautiful. Jamie was one of the groomsmen so I spent most of he wedding in the vestibule wrangling the children. Stella met another little girl named Sasha. They ran around with each other and crawled with a baby that was just as wedding-rambunctious. When we got to the reception Jamie said Sasha and Stella saw each other again and smiled and waved giddily.

I'm all for making positive traveling experiences as I love to travel.

And right now I just glanced at my kitchen counter. I have all the ingredients for a soup for dinner. A soup that Jamie actually likes. This is an outrageous experience as my husband rarely comments on his enjoyment of meals (that I make) or only likes meals that require tremendous preparation that is only undertaken by the likes of his mother or grandmother. Perhaps if we dated longer before we married and I was really worried about whether or not Jamie liked me I would've slaved in the kitchen to make homemade noodles for his favorite beef stroganoff. But as it was, there was never a doubt about whether or not he liked me.

More on that later.

If you look hard you can see Stella, Gianna and myself in this photo. We are waiting at the car while Stella grabs a few zzz's as Jamie attends the wedding rehearsal. Thankfully, November in Dallas is unlike November in Phoenix in that you can actually wait in the car.


Excited Gigi.


One of Stella's first photos: Gianna's thigh.

Brace Yourself

I have just put Stella down after a long day. It has not been a difficult day or a particularly grand day. Just a day. Her grandpa came over and played with her. She put her stuffed animals to sleep over and over again. Her bears, Papa and Baby, a lion who she calls, appropriately, "Rrrarr," her cat that she calls, "No," which is her version of a cat's meow. That's what she calls cats--No.

She tucked them in and bid them all a "Nigh Night." This is how her world works.

She played in the tub and looked up at me with her wet hair and face. It is at this time that her little unibrow is more pronounced than usual. She gathered her "Shish" and her "Gucks" and put them in her bucket.

This is not unusual. This is very normal.

But sometimes it is in the rhythm of these very normal tasks that I am overwhelmed. And, embarrassingly, I am moved to tears at the sight of my own child.

Our child, our children, my child. What is it that is so overwhelming? To me it is the fact that here is this little cosmic force that I have unleashed into the world. She will grown and change and still be, cliche as it is, my baby.

As I held her before bed I told her that she's my favorite first baby. I was flooded with the memories of two years ago. Before she was born. All the expectancy. All that I had no idea about. All that was prescient and on its way. I knew that life would change, but I assumed that change would be in diapers, in physical labor, in the amount of bodily fluids I came into contact with on a regular basis.

When you read about how to prepare for a child--as a consumer--you're told to get multiples of everything. Multiple bed sheets, multiple burp rags, onesies, sleepers, blankets and on and on. If you've never had a child before you're thinking, perhaps, "I know this child of mine will be loved by me, but I cannot conceive of that love yet. But I do know that it will pee through its sleepers and poop all over the bed and spit up on the blankets. I can conceive of that. I know how to prepare for that."

It is impossible to prepare for the love and the fear that enters your life when you have a child. I look at Stella--all two years of her--and I think of all that she has ahead. All the superlatives of life and the firsts and the work and fun and it blows my mind to think of her out and about acting on her desires and dreams. It's thrilling and frightening.

And I think of how this evening I was sorting through some of Gianna's clothing that she has outgrown. I made a pile to save. Such a mundane action with so much pluck. I made a pile to save for another child. I think of how my perspective has changed. This time last year I found out that Gigi was on her way. And now it all seems so brilliantly timed. Really, there was no timing. There was no planning for either child. But what if I had planned. What if I had planned on waiting until we were married for three year before I had a child? Three years was last December--two months before my ovarian cancer.

Life is unpredictable. And I know it might see macabre to say this. But when I find myself quiet and alone with either child, sniffing their heads and handling their limbs and taking in the weight of their body against mine I have to imagine a life without them. A life after them. A life if they were taken from me. I have to know it would be OK--after a long while--to carry on. That these children, these gifts from God to me, make my life so full but they do not complete it. If I don't realize this my daily flounderings are much more devastating.

I have to tell myself that it's OK to write whatever I want to remember here. I find myself editing things before I write them down. But I realize this blog is a future gift from me to my children. I want them to be able to look back and know how deeply and daily they are loved. And part of the love that I have for them is couched in a fear of losing them.

That is something this last year has given me. Something for which I am thankful as I enter into this season of thanks and giving.

Spousal Comminique

from Alishia 1:44 pm (1 minute ago)
to James
date Nov 5, 2007 1:44 PM
subject the hell?


Cast: Stella & Alishia
Location: Stella's pre-nap room
Time: pre-nap
Occurrence: Alishia slapped in the face by an angry Stella
Resolution: Stella swatted on the thigh and left for dead in her crib

this? this is my thanks?

Speaking of Little Sisters

Mine lives in town now--for a while. Long story.

But here's a fun little glimpse into her life--and logic. While she's here she's living at our dad's house. For all you non-Phoenix folk, he lives in Fountain Hills. This is a beautiful suburb but a long haul--about forty-five minutes from my house. About thirty from her work and thirty from where she works out, etc.

One day she stopped by my house in between errands and working out. She had bought chicken to make my dad for dinner. She wanted to work out first. Here's the conversation in the car on the way back to my house from the grocery store:

Cast of Characters:
Alishia (32 year old female, wife, mother-of-two, clad in frumpy clothing that she wore throughout her pregnancy but only recently noticed was xhilaration SLEEPWEAR!)
Christa (28 year old female, sister-of-one, wearing nice, chic workout clothes)
Stella (almost 2 year old, eldest child, I guess it's worth mentioning she's wearing Circo--represent)
Gianna (four sweet months, wearing a Onesie)

Alishia: -----
Christa: How long do you think the chicken will be ok in the car?
Alishia: Why?
Christa: I want to go workout before I go home.
Alishia: Let me remind you it's still hot here, don't leave your chicken in the car.
Christa: It's only for a little while. I'll just do cardio.
Alishia: OK, so you'll put the chicken in your car, drive from my house to 24 hour fitness, twenty minutes, workout, another thirthy minutes and then drive back to Dad's, another forty minutes. And you want to leave the chicken in the car that whole time?
Christa: ----
Gianna: wah, wah wah wha, eh eh eh
Stella: jibberty . blabbity, goigiggiy, thithistliy, mommy, daddy, baby, mommy, daddy, baby, mommy, daddy, baby, mommy, daddy, baby (ad nauseum).
Christa: I'll put it next to the frozen corn. It will be fine.
Alishia: Ahh, yes, a package of frozen corn, individually frozen pieces of corn, mind you, that take no time to thaw out, will keep your chicken above that danger zone temperature in your car at the tail end of an Arizona summer. Remind me never to eat your food again.

She continued to insist that All Would Be Well. I did not inquire after the meal or whether or not this sequence of events actually occurred.

I'm only saying this for Dad: Beware!


Don't worry, Gigi, you're still safe as long as you're breastfeeding!

"It's My's"

This a frequently uttered refrain in our house. And at the public parks--which we can go to now since we don't sizzle in the sun. We only slightly roast now that it's almost November.

Stella has become possessive of all things. Not of all her things, just all things.

Just to clear up any confusion, following are a few things that are hers. That way if you're ever at our house, you'll know what not to touch:

This man. This Daddy. This is hers.


This baby. It's hers.


All these toys. At someone else's house. These are hers, too.


And all these toys at our house. Hers.


And just so we all got it straight. This baby. Hers. No one else can touch it except me. She allows me so I will take care of it so that she can attend to the rest of her dominion.

Don't Worry, Mrs. Miller!

I purchased one last night! Even though Gianna's going on four months I see no signs of her thrashing abating. I gambled and I think I will have won in the long run! And this morning when she was thrashing about I thought, "I can't wait for that Miracle Blanket to get here." I only wish they had them in toddler sizes for assuaging bad attitudes.

Mrs. Miller!

Can I try your Miracle Blanket?!!

Nap

You are laying beside me swaddled as tight as burrito. You have a pillow tucked over your legs to keep you from kicking yourself awake. It's against all the doctor rules, but it's the only way you settle down.

Such a Baby

This is evidence of why people are called babies when they're acting emotionally irrational.

Just woke up from her nap:


Threesecondslater:


Milk in the belly:

OK, Now, Really?

I now join the throngs of women who get excited over things such as this:



Seriously, though, I saw Jessica on Oprah (yes. shut up.) and she literally charmed the socks off of me. Which, I guess, is something she's quite adept at considering she met Jerry Seinfeld at the gym just after returning from a three week Italian honeymoon with her first husband. Long story short, now she's a Seinfeld.

Dem Boots

These were the boots recently acquired at Target for Stella's Halloween costume. Conveniently, we are going to a wedding for one of Jamie's old roommates in Texas two days after Halloween. Will the boots make the trip? What say you, Reader. Cast a vote.

Sibling Harmony

Obviously, when one child is so small that it can neither protest or steal your toys it's very easy to experience sibling harmony. There is a genuine affection on Stella's behalf for her sister. When Gianna cries, Stella wants to investigate and give her a kiss. She likes to greet Gianna with a full body hug in the morning. This usually consists of Stella climbing on our bed and laying her body across Gianna's. Stella tries to calm down a sad Gianna when we're in the car by saying, "Baby, shhh. Baby, shhh."

For now Gianna is very compliant. I put her in the dolly stroller and Stella proceeded in pushing her around, checking in on her well being and generally enjoying the presence of her sister. Stella is also very willing to share her stuffed animals with Gianna. Most likely this is because she can reclaim them according to her whim.

It is her whims, after all, that are sovereign. These days approaching two years old are filled with unintelligible complaints and outbursts about unequal ratios of cottage cheese to pasta at lunch time; or perhaps the discovery of a dog consuming an errant grape on the floor. Then there's always the very heartbreaking discovery of toys remaining on the window sill hours after she placed them there.

She Reads!

It's that time of night.

We come indoors from out. We have just finished composting our dinner and raking the rocks in our Zen garden. Although we are already relaxed and connected with each other and the universe, we try to squeeze in a little reading. Because that's what the public service announcement on the television recommends.


Stella suggests, "Let's read Richard Scarry. He teaches us all about the world called Busy Town where animals and small invertebrates happily co-exist. We should all be so, what's the word, Gianna? Tolerant, yes."


Gianna is distracted by the love song of J. Alfred Ceiling Fan. His fancy grooves have seduced infants for generations. Softly but sternly instructing, so as not to wound Gianna's Spirit of Learning Stella says, "Gianna, stay on task, I'm trying to share with you the beauty that is Reading."


"That's more like it."

Cue the Sexy Bond Girl

I will start to call the TV "Auntie" so Stella can talk about all the fun she has with her "Auntie." Before I had her I thought my children would never spend time with their "Auntie" and how all the kids I babysat for spent a horrible amount of time with their "Aunties." Oh how words/thoughts/deeds/judgments come back to haunt you once you have kids. I know that "Never Say Never" is already a James Bond movie, but I think it should rather be a movie chronicling the life of a self-righteous, know-it-all woman transitioning into new motherhood!

Only a Relative

The following video is around TWO MINUTES long. I realized this after the conclusion because I was so enraptured by the interaction between my two progeny that the world seemed to stop and I lost all track of time as they conducted themselves as the little sisters that they are. Proceed accordingly:

Grandparents will probably watch the entire thing. And return for seconds and even thirds.
Same with Auntie CJ.
Aunts and uncles (OK, the only other ones, Nate and Stasia) will perhaps make it through at least 3/4 of the video depending on how time permits--they're busy getting their own nursery ready.
All other loyal fans...surprise me.

Halloween at Mary Coyle's

We visited Mary Coyle's again. Last time I was there Stella had a meltdown about the ice cream. This time she couldn't really handle the decor in the entryway. It was a bit intense Halloween decorating for a family establishment. Stella was not ruffled by the ice cream, but rather by the rumblings and cackling coming from the entryway. She clung rather tightly to her father.

Jamie's not a big baby dad. He clicks with toddlers more. He's good with Stella. Takes her on outings, plays in the yard, reads, gives her baths and all that jazz. His mom can vouch for how well he handles Stella with TV and ice cream--real champ! But here he is with Gianna after having lulled her to sleep.

A First for Everything

This is the first time Stella elected to sit in her aunt's lap--and smile!

8 Days Old

Stella started sharing her toys! Already!