I play with dolls all day. I also play with large-piece puzzles, coloring books, I run a mean game of chase, and I can throw together an impressive meal from a pink plastic shopping cart filled with wooden food. This is, mostly, my work.
Of course you know. Of course you understand. I expect many of you live here too. But do you respect this? Do you see this as real work? Is this a job that deserves credence, credibility, and admiration?
I ask 'you' but really I mean ME. Today, playing actively with my daughter in front of a woman about to head to her academic job, I felt- embarrassed. I thought, what is she thinking of me right now? No, that's not true. I assumed what she might be thinking. I assumed there was amusement, a little sympathy, pity, perhaps a touch of contempt. This is how she spends her day? This fulfills her?
Gulp.
Well, yes. Of course. This is my child. Spending my time with her is fulfilling, enriching. Mostly.
Of course I have other passions. Doing this- one word after the other, watching a page fill up- in a flow, it thrills me. I love it. I stopped caring if anyone reads it. Currently, I'm not even concerned with content or rhythm, simply the exercise of putting one word after the other, flexing these muscles again after a season of dormancy. This is a passion for me.
I have always said, I could read forever. I could read away most of everyday, probably everyday, and never mind the scenery around me never changing. Look at this book! Look at these words! Look at these thoughts, these ideas. Breathe them in.
What might, in olden days be called domestic work interests me. Not cleaning so much. Ask anyone who's been to my house. Ask my parents. But cooking, knitting, learning about a garden, there are little delights here.
And most of my day is motherhood. And most of my devotion given is playing. Most of my day is on the floor, shifting around, holding some small inanimate object- a doll, a stuffed animal or maybe the flat one-dimensional puzzle piece Dory's given life and personality and breath to by bringing it into her game- and speaking in funny voices. I play 'baby', I play 'mommy,' I play 'Dory,' I play her best friend 'Lily,' I play 'daddy.' She wants them all in there and I mostly oblige.
For reasons I will not go into now, it is important to me that Dory be home, that she's been home with me these last few years. We have worked- oh we have worked- to make that a possibility. I do, actually, work even now, a nanny-for-hire, you might say, taking her with me, as watching another person's child affords me the luxury to spend time with my own.
Yet even as I feel inspired to this, I work to value it. I learn to see this time as worthwhile. I learn to regard our interactions, her play, as important. I write these words as no lecture, no higher ground attained, simply a message of what I hope to one day know. Here is the divine understanding I hope to reach: being with my child is important. Playing with my child is important. So much happens right now, on this subterranean level, bits and pieces of a soul and character and spirit taking shape. I will only know the fruits of this labor, and even then only a fraction of them, after she is grown and gone.
Louise Hay's affirmation today feels fitting: My life is a mirror. The woman, academician from earlier, the one trying to convince herself to head to work, the one openly dreading getting into her office, she is nothing more than a mirror. Her thoughts? Her assumptions? All mine.
I am only reaching, working, trying to remember: my child is important.
Showing posts with label Dory. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dory. Show all posts
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Ahhhhhh
Yesterday Matthew (essentially) finished his semester. There is one class left, a review class, but tests, papers, and presentations are done for the summer. He will have nearly three full glorious months to work and be with us before he starts his student-teaching in the fall.
AHHHHHHH...
Apparently I've been, unconsciously, looking forward to this for some time. Because the feeling in our house last night was one of mild and quiet jubilation. Here's what a celebration looks like in our house these days:
chatting in the kitchen, while cooking dinner, Dory running around us
one of us leaving to do something with Dory
Dory nursing for a bit from all the excitement
eating said dinner
spending most of dinner trying to explain to Dory she may sit on the table, during said meal, but may not stand, jump, walk around, or squat on table
cleaning up dishes
not so subtle attempt to coax Dory to bed
Matthew getting in bed, in said attempt
Matthew falling asleep at 8pm
Dory and I playing quietly in living room, with Thistle and Shamrock radio show playing in background
Dory and I in bed, her falling asleep while we read, as she says, The Yor-yax
Dory asleep, Matthew rolls over, around 9:30, says "so tired..." commence more soft snoring
I close out the night by taking Georgie out to use the bathroom, turning out the lights, and reading a bit of Chickens magazine
We are wild and crazy guys.
And speaking of wild and crazy, here's our adventurous girl, doing a little tree-climbing at Baby M's house (where I nanny) this past Friday. She very much likes climbing trees. I imagine being one to two feet off the ground must be invigorating to the three feet and shorter crowd...
Is she beautiful or is she beautiful?
AHHHHHHH...
Apparently I've been, unconsciously, looking forward to this for some time. Because the feeling in our house last night was one of mild and quiet jubilation. Here's what a celebration looks like in our house these days:
chatting in the kitchen, while cooking dinner, Dory running around us
one of us leaving to do something with Dory
Dory nursing for a bit from all the excitement
eating said dinner
spending most of dinner trying to explain to Dory she may sit on the table, during said meal, but may not stand, jump, walk around, or squat on table
cleaning up dishes
not so subtle attempt to coax Dory to bed
Matthew getting in bed, in said attempt
Matthew falling asleep at 8pm
Dory and I playing quietly in living room, with Thistle and Shamrock radio show playing in background
Dory and I in bed, her falling asleep while we read, as she says, The Yor-yax
Dory asleep, Matthew rolls over, around 9:30, says "so tired..." commence more soft snoring
I close out the night by taking Georgie out to use the bathroom, turning out the lights, and reading a bit of Chickens magazine
We are wild and crazy guys.
And speaking of wild and crazy, here's our adventurous girl, doing a little tree-climbing at Baby M's house (where I nanny) this past Friday. She very much likes climbing trees. I imagine being one to two feet off the ground must be invigorating to the three feet and shorter crowd...
Is she beautiful or is she beautiful?
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Seed Starting
(Dory on her John Deere)
Is it March that comes in like a lion? February left like one and March still growls a little. Yet new growth, life and adventure is on the horizon. We started seeds two Sundays ago.
Taking what feels like a lifelong collection of cardboard egg cartons, we got out our seed starter dirt and got going on the dining room table. For anyone who doubts these are the actions of novices, we laid down no towels or newspapers and Dory's first action was to take out a scoopful of dirt, with her little Garfield spade, and pour it all over herself. She announced, this was her shower. I wanted to lecture, on 'where dirt belongs,' I wanted to start sweeping and cleaning up around her. I would have done, too, had not some little instinct, some little voice, called out to me, reminded me of something I already almost forgot- this is supposed to be fun! Dirt is not meant to be tidy, clean, and I expect keeping it to 'where it belongs' is almost impossible. Shower on, little one, shower on.
This was a two step process, playing with dirt with Dory and then actually starting the seeds on the floor of our living room, on a picnic blanket, long after she had fallen asleep, while (talk about getting back to the land!) the Oscars played in the background. We are your modern, homesteading family. In progress.
This was a two step process, playing with dirt with Dory and then actually starting the seeds on the floor of our living room, on a picnic blanket, long after she had fallen asleep, while (talk about getting back to the land!) the Oscars played in the background. We are your modern, homesteading family. In progress.
For the first days my confidence was high, but lately its flagged a little as we see no evidence of growth. Surely its coming. They're in the windows, they're working, surely its coming.
Do we need one of those heat lamps, people? This is my concern.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
It's Started...
We ordered seeds Tuesday night. In Friday's mail we found...
Included was a free seed packet for wildflowers and also a note apologizing for any delays as they were swamped with orders. Tuesday night order, Friday morning delivery. Concern about delay in delivery? That is good service.
On Saturday, we went to our local nursery and what an experience. Being afflicted with Budgetus tightus and so shopping very little, I've discovered walking into a store can be sensory overload. This is true especially for little ones. Dory has been to Target a handful of times in her life and the last two times, she looked around in wide-eyes wonder, and said, "Mommy, yook at all dis stuff!" I either want to flee, overwhelmed, or I want to start buying everything (its so cheap!) and so must flee, to protect our hard-earned and carefully rationed budget.
Walking into Stanley's however, was, well, lovely. It was well lit (naturally, from a durable glass ceiling), the air felt clean and clear (from the tables and tables and tables of plants), the sounds were soothing (from the many outdoor fountains, yes something ornamental, to buy, I realize). And their employees weren't just helpful, they were eager. Passionate. Excited to help.
And for someone, such as myself, who knows nothing on this matter of gardening, except what I've recently read or gleaned from conversation, this was of tremendous value. For instance, when you're filling your own beds with dirt, you need lots of dirt. LOTS. My expectation of four or five bags- I was a little off. A cheerful, knowledgeable employee, a woman, in fact, I'd seen at our downtown library's storytime with her two boys, informed me, we need a 'scoop'. She directed us away from purchasing at their store and pointed us towards two different mulch companies where we might get our scoop. The Wow-factor is high with Stanley's folks. We bought a few bags of organic compost, to complement the scoop, a bag of seed starter dirt and (here was my impulse buy) a small impatiens to tend in our window until its warm enough to transplant. That is one draw back to starting with seeds; there's no immediate green something in the house.
Grandpa Mojo kindly and generously donated time and energy into preparing wood for the boxes during the week. He came over Sunday and he and Matthew set to work. Magic happened. Our vegetable beds started to take shape.
The building of the boxes...
Just a few steps closer to our first, real garden, and my dream of a self-sufficient life.
(Somehow I failed to get a picture of the other two finished beds, in daylight, so this will suffice for now.)
There you go. Start some seeds this week indoors (luckily we are an egg eating family, so we'll get some mileage out of all these cardboard egg cartons I've saved). Get our scoop this weekend, mix dirt and let's see what happens.
I must stop here to marvel- this is, I hope, much of our vegetable and fruit consumption for the year. And it fits in a yellow manila envelope and costs less than $3 to ship. Even if half of our garden was a major flop, the money saved (not to mention other factors, fuel, cost to the environment, etc) is immense. We will come out so far ahead. This does not include the great amount of family time, sunshine and enjoyment I expect us to reap as we work this garden together. My only question: why haven't we done this sooner?
Actually, why isn't everyone doing this?
Included was a free seed packet for wildflowers and also a note apologizing for any delays as they were swamped with orders. Tuesday night order, Friday morning delivery. Concern about delay in delivery? That is good service.
On Saturday, we went to our local nursery and what an experience. Being afflicted with Budgetus tightus and so shopping very little, I've discovered walking into a store can be sensory overload. This is true especially for little ones. Dory has been to Target a handful of times in her life and the last two times, she looked around in wide-eyes wonder, and said, "Mommy, yook at all dis stuff!" I either want to flee, overwhelmed, or I want to start buying everything (its so cheap!) and so must flee, to protect our hard-earned and carefully rationed budget.
Walking into Stanley's however, was, well, lovely. It was well lit (naturally, from a durable glass ceiling), the air felt clean and clear (from the tables and tables and tables of plants), the sounds were soothing (from the many outdoor fountains, yes something ornamental, to buy, I realize). And their employees weren't just helpful, they were eager. Passionate. Excited to help.
And for someone, such as myself, who knows nothing on this matter of gardening, except what I've recently read or gleaned from conversation, this was of tremendous value. For instance, when you're filling your own beds with dirt, you need lots of dirt. LOTS. My expectation of four or five bags- I was a little off. A cheerful, knowledgeable employee, a woman, in fact, I'd seen at our downtown library's storytime with her two boys, informed me, we need a 'scoop'. She directed us away from purchasing at their store and pointed us towards two different mulch companies where we might get our scoop. The Wow-factor is high with Stanley's folks. We bought a few bags of organic compost, to complement the scoop, a bag of seed starter dirt and (here was my impulse buy) a small impatiens to tend in our window until its warm enough to transplant. That is one draw back to starting with seeds; there's no immediate green something in the house.
Grandpa Mojo kindly and generously donated time and energy into preparing wood for the boxes during the week. He came over Sunday and he and Matthew set to work. Magic happened. Our vegetable beds started to take shape.
The building of the boxes...
Just a few steps closer to our first, real garden, and my dream of a self-sufficient life.
(Somehow I failed to get a picture of the other two finished beds, in daylight, so this will suffice for now.)
There you go. Start some seeds this week indoors (luckily we are an egg eating family, so we'll get some mileage out of all these cardboard egg cartons I've saved). Get our scoop this weekend, mix dirt and let's see what happens.
I must stop here to marvel- this is, I hope, much of our vegetable and fruit consumption for the year. And it fits in a yellow manila envelope and costs less than $3 to ship. Even if half of our garden was a major flop, the money saved (not to mention other factors, fuel, cost to the environment, etc) is immense. We will come out so far ahead. This does not include the great amount of family time, sunshine and enjoyment I expect us to reap as we work this garden together. My only question: why haven't we done this sooner?
Actually, why isn't everyone doing this?
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
What Will They Say About Us?
Since Dory started enjoying books (really enjoying them, not just wanting to mouth them or rip the pages) we've been reading stories at bedtime. This has been months now, maybe even a year? Hard to recall in fuzzy mama memory.
Occasionally its a quick night; on nights where she's exhausted, she's out in the middle of the first book. Most nights, its anywhere from three to eight stories and lately I've felt impatient. Impatient to finish, for her to fall asleep.
(Dory at eighteen months)
(Dory at two and a half)
(Last week, napping the day after I declared 'She's all done with naps, I think!' Ah, we wise and all-knowing parents...)
(Dory at eighteen months)Last night, on the sofa, I performed my typical feats of nursing and reading simultaneously. Just as thoughts, that mental chatter, started to pop up ("surely it will be soon; she must be tired") and words to follow ("one last story, OK, sweetie? Last one."), an entirely new image popped into my brain. I imagined her, as an adult, relating to me how our ritual of reading at bedtime was a cherished childhood memory. I heard her, really, almost heard the words, saying she treasured that time, she felt special, loved, safe and valued. That she, as an adult, appreciated that we would read "one more story" and then "one more story" after that, that we read them gladly and with pleasure.
(Dory at two and a half)And the words "last one, last time" disappeared. We read until she fell asleep, somewhere near the end of "The Sword and the Stone" from Walt Disney's Classic Storybook, a book she loves though I don't think she's actually seen one movie from the entire collection. And then for another half hour after that, we stayed cuddled there on the sofa, she, this long, slender toddler, sprawled across my arms and I imagined myself, saying back to her, in those later years, "Dory, our bedtime stories are some of my best memories too. Some of my very best."
(Last week, napping the day after I declared 'She's all done with naps, I think!' Ah, we wise and all-knowing parents...)Monday, January 31, 2011
New Bedtime Ramblings
While naps are not entirely gone, they are mainly phased out. At two and a half, Dory can handle a good solid ten to eleven hours straight waking-time before nerves start to fray. An hour after that she goes to bed. So suddenly I have free evenings! Already I have started some laundry, emailed a few friends about getting together for lunch, eaten a quiet dinner, and found two different Meryl Streep films to alternate watching. (Julie & Julia and Defending Your Life). I don't watch nearly as much television as I once did (any guess as to why?) and it feels positively glutinous that, with the press of a "Back" button I get double Meryl. Her laugh, in both films, is infectious.
Other happenings.
I want to learn to sew. I have many friends who are accomplished sewers but only one in town. She has recently moved. I am now faced with finding time for class (difficult) or finding a book, getting out the machine my Grante Suzanney so kindly loaned me and just figuring it out. I want to be brave and bold and just do it. So tonight at the library I checked out Socks from the Toe Up. Exactly. A knitting book. I'm not ready for brave and bold sewing but I am ready, after four and a years of knitting, to learn a new cast-on. I will stay posted on progress.
The library trip merits a mention. Tonight, Matthew surprised Dory and I by arriving at work (where I nanny) and picking Dory up. They came home to play and, when I left work twenty minutes later, I stopped at our neighborhood library and... wandered. Now, Dory and I visit the library weekly. I consider her an avid reader by the number of books she enjoys having read to her. We come away with a stack for her every time we come home. Because of Dory (well, mostly- I might have had a few) I have officially hit my book loan limit and had to put books back. (How many does Knox County consider too many? Anything over 35.) I mean only to make the point, I get my library fill.
I had one book on hold to pick up. Yet to wander the shelves, even for ten minutes, on my own... temptation was too strong to dash in and out again. Just like, I imagine, anything in life, it can be nice to do it unaccompanied. I gave myself a few extra minutes and just wandered. Because of this I discovered the socks book and a new Amelia Peabody mystery that I would not have known was available had I not chosen to meander. I might also have come home with Barbara Kingsolver's , a book I've read a couple of time nows, but which I always find inspirational, especially as my fingers start to dog-ear pages of these new seed catalogs.
What a good, happy ending to a strange, bumpy month. Welcome, February!
Other happenings.
I want to learn to sew. I have many friends who are accomplished sewers but only one in town. She has recently moved. I am now faced with finding time for class (difficult) or finding a book, getting out the machine my Grante Suzanney so kindly loaned me and just figuring it out. I want to be brave and bold and just do it. So tonight at the library I checked out Socks from the Toe Up. Exactly. A knitting book. I'm not ready for brave and bold sewing but I am ready, after four and a years of knitting, to learn a new cast-on. I will stay posted on progress.
The library trip merits a mention. Tonight, Matthew surprised Dory and I by arriving at work (where I nanny) and picking Dory up. They came home to play and, when I left work twenty minutes later, I stopped at our neighborhood library and... wandered. Now, Dory and I visit the library weekly. I consider her an avid reader by the number of books she enjoys having read to her. We come away with a stack for her every time we come home. Because of Dory (well, mostly- I might have had a few) I have officially hit my book loan limit and had to put books back. (How many does Knox County consider too many? Anything over 35.) I mean only to make the point, I get my library fill.
I had one book on hold to pick up. Yet to wander the shelves, even for ten minutes, on my own... temptation was too strong to dash in and out again. Just like, I imagine, anything in life, it can be nice to do it unaccompanied. I gave myself a few extra minutes and just wandered. Because of this I discovered the socks book and a new Amelia Peabody mystery that I would not have known was available had I not chosen to meander. I might also have come home with Barbara Kingsolver's , a book I've read a couple of time nows, but which I always find inspirational, especially as my fingers start to dog-ear pages of these new seed catalogs.
What a good, happy ending to a strange, bumpy month. Welcome, February!
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Sing! Sing a Song!
Its Saturday morning, Matthew and Dory are playing in the living room and I am tucked up in bed, with this laptop, a stack of books, a candle burning and I can see about two inches of Knoxville snow* out of my window, an occasional flurry sweeping in another handful of snowflakes. And for some reason, I have the song from Sesame Street ("sessy street" as Dory calls it) in my head. This version particularly. We are thoughtful and limiting on what Dory watches, but Sesame Street is still a classic to me. Especially scenes like this one.
I have no special blog to write today, except for working to build a habit. So I'll mention the books by my bed right now.
Simple Abundance: A Daybook of Comfort and Joy by Sarah Ban Breathnach
Coop: A Year of Poultry, Pigs, and Parenting by Michael Perry
All New Square Foot Gardening by Mel Batholomew
You Are Your Child's First Teacher by Rahima Baldwin Dancy
I also have the Winter 2010 of Interweave Knits
Also
Angelina on Stage and
Llama, Llama Red Pajama
And I've just been invaded- time to read those last two books! Will write more about my reads later. Definitely a theme developing though... What books are you starting this new year?
And I'll mention, just now Dory thrust a crayon and piece of paper at me to make our grocery list. She said we need; Bread, Eggs, Cheese, Blankets, Sofa, Pillows, and Curtains. Sounds like an ideal list for a wintry Saturday to me.
Happy snowy Saturday to you!
*Knoxville snow: an inch to three, melts fast, rarely stops up traffic or sticks on roads, but sends our whole town (myself included) into a frenzy for bread and milk. Everyone goes to get bread and milk. Gluten-free, dairy-intolerant people race to the supermarkets for bread and milk. Causes me to wonder, is this some strange plot by our local grocery stores to sell more bread and milk in these crazy diet days? Just a thought...
I have no special blog to write today, except for working to build a habit. So I'll mention the books by my bed right now.
Simple Abundance: A Daybook of Comfort and Joy by Sarah Ban Breathnach
Coop: A Year of Poultry, Pigs, and Parenting by Michael Perry
All New Square Foot Gardening by Mel Batholomew
You Are Your Child's First Teacher by Rahima Baldwin Dancy
I also have the Winter 2010 of Interweave Knits
Also
Angelina on Stage and
Llama, Llama Red Pajama
And I've just been invaded- time to read those last two books! Will write more about my reads later. Definitely a theme developing though... What books are you starting this new year?
And I'll mention, just now Dory thrust a crayon and piece of paper at me to make our grocery list. She said we need; Bread, Eggs, Cheese, Blankets, Sofa, Pillows, and Curtains. Sounds like an ideal list for a wintry Saturday to me.
Happy snowy Saturday to you!
*Knoxville snow: an inch to three, melts fast, rarely stops up traffic or sticks on roads, but sends our whole town (myself included) into a frenzy for bread and milk. Everyone goes to get bread and milk. Gluten-free, dairy-intolerant people race to the supermarkets for bread and milk. Causes me to wonder, is this some strange plot by our local grocery stores to sell more bread and milk in these crazy diet days? Just a thought...
Thursday, June 3, 2010
We watched a friend's little girl today. In an effort that all we mothers constantly strive to achieve, my friend wanted some balance and so planned to take a yoga class, a little patch of time to herself. As her daughter is beautifully attached at her age, we both knew this might prove tricky for said little one. They came over early, to settle little daughter in, and after a bit, my friend left and her daughter (a lovely, lovely girl who is only a few weeks younger than Dory, is even slighter than our girl with that blow-away-in-the-wind delicacy and has the soulful brown eyes of a poet) did exactly what you might expect and dissolved into tears.
For a while she was inconsolable, sitting on my lap and crying, and saying "mama, home, mama home," in that way that could actually break your heart in half if I didn't know what's she's starting to learn which is that mama will come home again. Mama will come home, hurrying, rushing, speeding, so glad to be home and so incredibly refreshed from her two and a half hours of time on her own. Mama will come home, there is little in the world as certain as that. In about two hours. Two hours is a hard thing to explain to a person who has no concept of anytime except Right Now.
Off and on this little girl cried and I would hold her while she did (I actually held her nearly all the time- she recognized, I'm quiet sure that, my possession of breasts meant sitting in my lap put her in much closer proximity to the good stuff than, say, sitting at Dory's baby piano. Sure it wasn't her good stuff, but- it's still nice to be close.) Dory played around her, sometimes engaging me or both of us and other times just playing and occasionally shoving her friend enough to the side of my lap to get her own good stuff ("the bobos" as they're known around here). And sometimes this little girl would watch, would look up, interact, and seem to have a very good time. And then something would remind her of mama and she would dissolve into tears again.
And it reminded me of anytime I've ever seen any friend with a broken-heart. The way you sort of limp along, and then slowly start to get your step back and then- bam!- you drive past the diner you always ate at or hear that song you both used to laugh at, but secretly loved and suddenly you're weeping on the kitchen floor. We were on a little walk in front of the house, Dory in diaper and shoes, marching along with purpose (remember, she knew exactly where her bobos were) and me holding our little friend on my hip, following, talking about leaves and sticks. And this girl suddenly said "stick!" with such enthusiasm I picked one up and held it out to her. At which point she melted in my arms, sobbing, "stick, mama, stick," in a way that said clearly, "this is just like the stick mama and I once picked up." And I did what I think most good friends do- I validated her feelings. "Yes, I know you miss mama. And maybe that stick makes you think of her. It can be tough when mama's not here. Even hearing she'll come back doesn't always help. Yes, I know. I hear you."
Off and on all morning, this was the experience. And then mama came home and it was exactly what you expected- daughter lights up, beams, than cries a little more and then it's done. The emotions are out, expressed, mama's home, she survived, and everything is right with the world again.
Mostly it made me realize/remember/get hit with that bolt of lightening- what's so bad about treating our children the way we treat our friends? If you go to a friend and say, "I've experienced this loss that I'm not sure I'll pull through or even how to start..." would your friend reply "oh, it's fine, get over it"? Or "stop crying! he'll be right back!" The emotion is the same for them as it is for one of us when we've been romantically wounded, only, I expect it's much worse. They don't yet understand permanence, impermanence, a run to the store, time to one's self. Yet how often do we dismiss their hurt because we (big, wise, moon-faced grown-ups that we are) can logically see the other end? Maybe its not treating our children as our friends (though that doesn't seem so bad either) but treating them like our friends that might make these relationships run a little smoother. And letting them know, they're worth the same respect as someone more than three feet tall seems like a good place to start.
For a while she was inconsolable, sitting on my lap and crying, and saying "mama, home, mama home," in that way that could actually break your heart in half if I didn't know what's she's starting to learn which is that mama will come home again. Mama will come home, hurrying, rushing, speeding, so glad to be home and so incredibly refreshed from her two and a half hours of time on her own. Mama will come home, there is little in the world as certain as that. In about two hours. Two hours is a hard thing to explain to a person who has no concept of anytime except Right Now.
Off and on this little girl cried and I would hold her while she did (I actually held her nearly all the time- she recognized, I'm quiet sure that, my possession of breasts meant sitting in my lap put her in much closer proximity to the good stuff than, say, sitting at Dory's baby piano. Sure it wasn't her good stuff, but- it's still nice to be close.) Dory played around her, sometimes engaging me or both of us and other times just playing and occasionally shoving her friend enough to the side of my lap to get her own good stuff ("the bobos" as they're known around here). And sometimes this little girl would watch, would look up, interact, and seem to have a very good time. And then something would remind her of mama and she would dissolve into tears again.
And it reminded me of anytime I've ever seen any friend with a broken-heart. The way you sort of limp along, and then slowly start to get your step back and then- bam!- you drive past the diner you always ate at or hear that song you both used to laugh at, but secretly loved and suddenly you're weeping on the kitchen floor. We were on a little walk in front of the house, Dory in diaper and shoes, marching along with purpose (remember, she knew exactly where her bobos were) and me holding our little friend on my hip, following, talking about leaves and sticks. And this girl suddenly said "stick!" with such enthusiasm I picked one up and held it out to her. At which point she melted in my arms, sobbing, "stick, mama, stick," in a way that said clearly, "this is just like the stick mama and I once picked up." And I did what I think most good friends do- I validated her feelings. "Yes, I know you miss mama. And maybe that stick makes you think of her. It can be tough when mama's not here. Even hearing she'll come back doesn't always help. Yes, I know. I hear you."
Off and on all morning, this was the experience. And then mama came home and it was exactly what you expected- daughter lights up, beams, than cries a little more and then it's done. The emotions are out, expressed, mama's home, she survived, and everything is right with the world again.
Mostly it made me realize/remember/get hit with that bolt of lightening- what's so bad about treating our children the way we treat our friends? If you go to a friend and say, "I've experienced this loss that I'm not sure I'll pull through or even how to start..." would your friend reply "oh, it's fine, get over it"? Or "stop crying! he'll be right back!" The emotion is the same for them as it is for one of us when we've been romantically wounded, only, I expect it's much worse. They don't yet understand permanence, impermanence, a run to the store, time to one's self. Yet how often do we dismiss their hurt because we (big, wise, moon-faced grown-ups that we are) can logically see the other end? Maybe its not treating our children as our friends (though that doesn't seem so bad either) but treating them like our friends that might make these relationships run a little smoother. And letting them know, they're worth the same respect as someone more than three feet tall seems like a good place to start.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
A Post in Pictures
In the words of Paolo Nutini, "I put some new shoes on/And suddenly everything's right..."
Story hour
What is 'Things You Find in Your Refridgerator When You Have a Toddler'
Baby Napoleon
The latest art house film: "Diapered Dollies, Pantsless Baby"
The latest hit song from the '30s: Walkin' My Monkey Back Home
Silly face kind of day
Story hour
What is 'Things You Find in Your Refridgerator When You Have a Toddler'
Baby Napoleon
The latest art house film: "Diapered Dollies, Pantsless Baby"
The latest hit song from the '30s: Walkin' My Monkey Back Home
Silly face kind of day
Monday, April 26, 2010
POV
Dory is asleep and this is our living room right now:
And instead of doing anything about that, I'm going to direct you over here to check out two new Dory videos- one of her and her dad, the other (and pretty darn interesting, I think, though you might attribute that to me being her mother) is a little video she took when I (please don't tell my husband) let her carry around our Flash recorder yesterday morning.
I can't remember if this is the one or not, but if I'm singing in the background, forgive me. And if Matthew asks, she overpowered me, stole the camera, figured out how to work it by herself and that is definitely, 100% not me singing in the background.
And instead of doing anything about that, I'm going to direct you over here to check out two new Dory videos- one of her and her dad, the other (and pretty darn interesting, I think, though you might attribute that to me being her mother) is a little video she took when I (please don't tell my husband) let her carry around our Flash recorder yesterday morning.
I can't remember if this is the one or not, but if I'm singing in the background, forgive me. And if Matthew asks, she overpowered me, stole the camera, figured out how to work it by herself and that is definitely, 100% not me singing in the background.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Open Doors
This morning, while using the bathroom, I heard Dory bust into a wail and a chorus of "mommy-mommy-MA-AHmee!" I, many parents with toddlers understand, had the bathroom door open (oh, yes, not-yet-parents, there will be a time, no matter what you might say now, when you poo with the door open- just wait) and could hear her clearly. So I called to her, coaxingly, "Mommy's in the bathroom! Can you come in here with me?"
There was a brief pause in the cry, and then a moment later it was taken up again, with even greater gusto. This wasn't the all-out, full-lungs, lusty yodel of a newborn baby, but more along the I'm-exasperated-with-you cry, or I-really-expect-better-service-than-this cry. So while I sensed the need wasn't urgent, (this wasn't an "a piano just fell on me!" yell or, more likely, "I've shut one hand in a book and with my other hand am squeezing it closed because I don't yet understand the physics of the situation!" yell) I found myself hustling to get to her.
I found a very sad-faced baby standing in front of the other bathroom, the half bath we almost never use, where the door was, in fact, closed. And, even after she saw me, and I picked her up, she insisted we open the door to make sure, I assume, I wasn't somehow in there still...
I wish a good Sunday to you all! And here are some Easter pictures from, oh, only a month ago, where I can't help but think she looks like she wandered off the set of The Sound of Music...
There was a brief pause in the cry, and then a moment later it was taken up again, with even greater gusto. This wasn't the all-out, full-lungs, lusty yodel of a newborn baby, but more along the I'm-exasperated-with-you cry, or I-really-expect-better-service-than-this cry. So while I sensed the need wasn't urgent, (this wasn't an "a piano just fell on me!" yell or, more likely, "I've shut one hand in a book and with my other hand am squeezing it closed because I don't yet understand the physics of the situation!" yell) I found myself hustling to get to her.
I found a very sad-faced baby standing in front of the other bathroom, the half bath we almost never use, where the door was, in fact, closed. And, even after she saw me, and I picked her up, she insisted we open the door to make sure, I assume, I wasn't somehow in there still...
I wish a good Sunday to you all! And here are some Easter pictures from, oh, only a month ago, where I can't help but think she looks like she wandered off the set of The Sound of Music...
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Sunny Days
I thought I would share some pictures from last Saturday... Dory, in the words of Sheryl Crow, wanted to soak up the sun.
Before we left the house that morning, for our first walk of the day, decked out in her new pink spring jacket (thank you Grandma Cindy!)...
Dory, by her own choice, carries the poop bag, for cleaning up after our doggie. Of course, the bag was empty at this point...
Me: Are you ready to go home?
Dory (points the other way): Nope.
(I like the fact you can see my shadow and, if you look closely, note I'm clutching a mug in my hand, as I'd brewed some really strong hot Irish tea. This gives me about a quarter of the get-up-and-go Dory rolls out of bed with every morning.)
Dory sits on a rock, at the park, on our second walk of the day. We saw another mother, with her toddler poised on a nearby rock, taking lots of pictures and trying to cajole her six year old son into posing too. I got Dory to do the same, in that she sat still for about two minutes, watching the other family. Then she was done and ready to get rambling again.
Dory, no jacket now, as this is our third walk of the day and its gone from forty something to sixty plus degrees outside. To me, her expression says: "Can we please GO? We've been inside ALL DAY."
We spotted this guy, hiding in the flowers. Dory surprised me with her stillness. I expected "CAT! Meow!" followed by subsequent kitty terrorizing. But she looked, announced, "Cat. Meow." and then on we went.
And, as all walks end, the ceremonial setting down of the walking stick... You, Child of Nature. Me, Mama who Need Sun Hat and Good Sneakers.
Before we left the house that morning, for our first walk of the day, decked out in her new pink spring jacket (thank you Grandma Cindy!)...
Dory, by her own choice, carries the poop bag, for cleaning up after our doggie. Of course, the bag was empty at this point...
Me: Are you ready to go home?
Dory (points the other way): Nope.
(I like the fact you can see my shadow and, if you look closely, note I'm clutching a mug in my hand, as I'd brewed some really strong hot Irish tea. This gives me about a quarter of the get-up-and-go Dory rolls out of bed with every morning.)
Dory sits on a rock, at the park, on our second walk of the day. We saw another mother, with her toddler poised on a nearby rock, taking lots of pictures and trying to cajole her six year old son into posing too. I got Dory to do the same, in that she sat still for about two minutes, watching the other family. Then she was done and ready to get rambling again.
Dory, no jacket now, as this is our third walk of the day and its gone from forty something to sixty plus degrees outside. To me, her expression says: "Can we please GO? We've been inside ALL DAY."
We spotted this guy, hiding in the flowers. Dory surprised me with her stillness. I expected "CAT! Meow!" followed by subsequent kitty terrorizing. But she looked, announced, "Cat. Meow." and then on we went.
And, as all walks end, the ceremonial setting down of the walking stick... You, Child of Nature. Me, Mama who Need Sun Hat and Good Sneakers.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
The Littlest Reader
The napping schedule around here is fairly loose. Typically I nurse her down in bed anywhere between one and three and she'll sleep for one to two hours. Dory brings books to naptime, carrying a stack in her short, sturdy arms and saying "booksss, booksss, booksss." We'll read a few different ones, several times over (can you call yourself well read when you read "The Very Hungry Catepillar" and "Night-Night Little Pookie" several dozen times a week?) before she's good and dozy. When she wakes up she gives one short, loud cry that lets us know to come get her. I think she's so accustomed to us responding quickly to her, it doesn't take more than that.
This is the the foundation to what happened yesterday.
Dory and I read a stack of books and she fell asleep. Fast forward to an hour and a half later. Matt and I were in the playroom and heard some noises from the monitor. Dory stirring. Then... quiet. A few minutes later... rustling. Then... quiet. This went on for nearly fifteen minutes before I had to know what was going on. Walked into the bedroom and saw this...
Beautiful.
This is the the foundation to what happened yesterday.
Dory and I read a stack of books and she fell asleep. Fast forward to an hour and a half later. Matt and I were in the playroom and heard some noises from the monitor. Dory stirring. Then... quiet. A few minutes later... rustling. Then... quiet. This went on for nearly fifteen minutes before I had to know what was going on. Walked into the bedroom and saw this...
Beautiful.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Not Yo Ordinary Breastfeeding...
Before I started this post, I went to kellymom.com, a great and well-regarded site on breastfeeding, looking for statistics on the number of babies in America who breastfeed past the age of one. Than I remembered, I don't really care. My guess? Not many. Under 10% I'd bet (again, in America) and that's probably shooting high. While I've done my reading on the benefits of extended breastfeeding (of course it has a name- doesn't everything these days?), I'm not going to report that here. This is more of a what-works-for-us approach. And as a nursing mother of a bright, bounding, brilliant toddler, I thought I'd share some experiences here.
Thoughts on nursing a toddler... this is not your infant nursing. Those first six or so months, breastfeeding was a quiet time, a peaceful time, Dory still fit neatly in my arms, we gazed at one another or slept together while she nursed. This was a rich experience for the two of us and for Matthew as he often sat next to us, watching Dory's face as her expression relaxed, her eyes closed, she became dreamy, and eventually slept. We were serene, filled with love and tenderness. Those are the words I would use.
At the time, I might have also called it: intense. Constant. Demanding. No one else could provide what I had (especially as Dory wanted nothing to do with a bottle). She nursed on demand and her demands could be high. That is the other side. But, now, in that dreamy way we all have when we move farther away from a certain period in life, I mainly remember how calm and loving our nursing time was. And stationary. Very stationary.
No longer. My nursing toddler is a child on the GO. When she was smaller and I would settle down to feed her, I tried to remember, bring a glass of water, a good book, a snack, wear something comfortable- you're going to be here for a while New Mama. Now my main thought? Lady, hold onto those boobs.
Dory still breastfeeds on demand, but it can be anywhere from a half-hour nurse to bed to a thirty second drive-by.
She can nurse: sitting, laying down, kneeling, standing, bending over, kicking one leg to the back (then switching sides), draped across my belly, performing baby yoga, and sometimes even dashing across the room.
There is no understanding of modesty. For her, that is. Regarding my modesty. She happily yanks up my shirt or thrusts her arm down it, tugs at my bra straps, unzips my coat. She'll find a pillow, settle on the floor, and pat the space next to her, seeming to say, c'mon Mama, let's get this dinner going. Too bad we're in her grandparents' living room. If given her druthers, she likes the whole chest-area available, (buffet-style, you might say), but this typically only happens at bedtime, when she and I are cuddled in bed and I'm just glad to be sitting in one place for longer than two minutes.
The cuddle time. That's my favorite, when I hold her in my arms, she taking up all of my lap, nursing happily, and gazing up at me with such total trust in her eyes. Sometimes I'll make silly faces and she'll smile. The tenderness in that moment is inexpressible.
For us, there is so much value in this relationship, this extended breastfeeding. There is an immediate comfort for her- this is something she knows. In this world where she has- how many new experiences a day? Dozens? Hundreds? Thousands? Who could say for sure? This is something dependable, faithful. Even our relationship, maybe especially our relationship, shifts and changes all the time. She tests boundaries, limits, possibilities, her own power. As she gets bigger, more mobile, more independent, more adventurous, this- the safety of her mother's breasts- is still a constant. The power of a comfort zone is a rich and heady thing when your world grows exponentially every single day.
A friend of mine, when I asked her about nursing her eighteen month old, expressed it this way: "She has an emotional connection to breastfeeding. As she gets older, she won't need this anymore, but right now this is still a need. I wouldn't feel right taking that away from her." That sums it up for me.
But for anyone who would like more reasons for prolonged nursing (scientific ones, not my woo-woo, namby-pamby, follow-your-gut stuff) you can read up on benefits here. Excellent info. For more on this method termed "child-led weaning" API gives a good, brief description here. And for La Leche League's thoughts(THE authority in breastfeeding) on the subject bop over here.
And for any mamas out there, thinking, "just us?" you're not alone! We have surrounded ourselves with like-minded mamas, most following along on this "extended" schedule, past six months, nine months, a year, and beyond. I think I speak for Dory and I both when I say: Power to the nummies!
Thoughts on nursing a toddler... this is not your infant nursing. Those first six or so months, breastfeeding was a quiet time, a peaceful time, Dory still fit neatly in my arms, we gazed at one another or slept together while she nursed. This was a rich experience for the two of us and for Matthew as he often sat next to us, watching Dory's face as her expression relaxed, her eyes closed, she became dreamy, and eventually slept. We were serene, filled with love and tenderness. Those are the words I would use.
At the time, I might have also called it: intense. Constant. Demanding. No one else could provide what I had (especially as Dory wanted nothing to do with a bottle). She nursed on demand and her demands could be high. That is the other side. But, now, in that dreamy way we all have when we move farther away from a certain period in life, I mainly remember how calm and loving our nursing time was. And stationary. Very stationary.
No longer. My nursing toddler is a child on the GO. When she was smaller and I would settle down to feed her, I tried to remember, bring a glass of water, a good book, a snack, wear something comfortable- you're going to be here for a while New Mama. Now my main thought? Lady, hold onto those boobs.
Dory still breastfeeds on demand, but it can be anywhere from a half-hour nurse to bed to a thirty second drive-by.
She can nurse: sitting, laying down, kneeling, standing, bending over, kicking one leg to the back (then switching sides), draped across my belly, performing baby yoga, and sometimes even dashing across the room.
There is no understanding of modesty. For her, that is. Regarding my modesty. She happily yanks up my shirt or thrusts her arm down it, tugs at my bra straps, unzips my coat. She'll find a pillow, settle on the floor, and pat the space next to her, seeming to say, c'mon Mama, let's get this dinner going. Too bad we're in her grandparents' living room. If given her druthers, she likes the whole chest-area available, (buffet-style, you might say), but this typically only happens at bedtime, when she and I are cuddled in bed and I'm just glad to be sitting in one place for longer than two minutes.
The cuddle time. That's my favorite, when I hold her in my arms, she taking up all of my lap, nursing happily, and gazing up at me with such total trust in her eyes. Sometimes I'll make silly faces and she'll smile. The tenderness in that moment is inexpressible.
For us, there is so much value in this relationship, this extended breastfeeding. There is an immediate comfort for her- this is something she knows. In this world where she has- how many new experiences a day? Dozens? Hundreds? Thousands? Who could say for sure? This is something dependable, faithful. Even our relationship, maybe especially our relationship, shifts and changes all the time. She tests boundaries, limits, possibilities, her own power. As she gets bigger, more mobile, more independent, more adventurous, this- the safety of her mother's breasts- is still a constant. The power of a comfort zone is a rich and heady thing when your world grows exponentially every single day.
A friend of mine, when I asked her about nursing her eighteen month old, expressed it this way: "She has an emotional connection to breastfeeding. As she gets older, she won't need this anymore, but right now this is still a need. I wouldn't feel right taking that away from her." That sums it up for me.
But for anyone who would like more reasons for prolonged nursing (scientific ones, not my woo-woo, namby-pamby, follow-your-gut stuff) you can read up on benefits here. Excellent info. For more on this method termed "child-led weaning" API gives a good, brief description here. And for La Leche League's thoughts(THE authority in breastfeeding) on the subject bop over here.
And for any mamas out there, thinking, "just us?" you're not alone! We have surrounded ourselves with like-minded mamas, most following along on this "extended" schedule, past six months, nine months, a year, and beyond. I think I speak for Dory and I both when I say: Power to the nummies!
Monday, January 18, 2010
This Post Brought to You by the Letter 'P'
Dory's vocabulary grows in the most interesting ways. I expected it to run along the lines: daddy, mommy (OK, maybe I hoped it would by mommy, daddy, but either way...), doggie, bath, I want to go to the park, I'm going to a movie with my friends where are the car keys...
Turns out, learning how to speak a first language is a bit slower, more erratic, and far more entertaining than I imagined. I've seen friends with their children, translating, with a parent's expert ear, conversation that is totally alien to me. Dory has been no different. What I consider perfectly formed words might still be incomprehensible to your man on the street. To my mind, she has a list of words that she's more than mastered now. Some are traditional: daddy, dat (that), doggie, bat (bath), ucks (yucky) and, most recently, mommy. Some I did not expect that she just loves to say are: duck and sock. All day long, socks come off and on from the joy of announcing "shhhock" as she tugs them off her plump little feet. And she absolutely thrills anytime she can point out a "duc-K, duc-K, duc-K." She knows a few of her friends' names: Ike (Isaac), Emme (Ember), and Lana (Alana, and, technically, the name of her friend's mother, but still). Favorite problem word? Uh-oh.
By far, though, what sends her quick, bright mind into frenzied delight: the letter 'P.' Anything with the letter 'P.' Appa (apple). Hipa (hippo). Pwoops (oops). Pot (Spot, based on her favorite literary character). Pata (pasta). Pei-pei (pee-pee). Po-hee (potty). Pway (play). She's even tried piwhoa (pillow).
I did not foersee how important language would be right about now. She's almost eighteen months and Matthew and I are realizing, she understands a lot. I mean, A LOT. We-have-stop-saying-that-word a lot. We started to notice it around fourteen months. She seemed to understand us beautifully. Her brilliant parents? Not so much. This was the trouble. We couldn't understand her and this was incredibly frustrating for all parties, as she would speak traditional toddler "eh-eh-eh" (sometimes accompanied by pointing) and Matt and I took turns trying to figure it out holding out random items and saying "this? you want this?" I noticed, we were treating her the way a lot of Americans in foreign countries behave: speaking LOUDLY and slooooowly. It wasn't pretty and not, probably, our best moments as parents, though we were trying.
Then- dum-dum-dum-DUM!- inspiration struck. Sign language! Our friend, the aforementioned Alana, started teaching her daughter sign language when she was about four months old. By one year, her child could sign almost one hundred different signs and understood almost twice as many. Yep. World domination is next on her baby's list. I marveled at watching her sign different animals, wanting to go up or down, play on the swings or the slide eat crackers or cheese. It was amazing.
We started on a much, much smaller scale with a few signs for Dory, the ones we could remember and that seemed to be important for her to communicate. Eat (as in "do you want some food?"). Milk ("or would you prefer some milk?"). More. Thank you. Oh, and bear (that was all Matthew, big Chicago fan that he is- and let me tell you, Dory cannot see a bear without enthusiastically signing it, probably her favorite sign to date).
Now we're to the point where she shows us when she's hungry, wants to play, wants to sleep, wants Mama (by signing milk), and she's even made up her own sign for color which is to wave her hand through the air like she's writing (right now, Granny Suzanney is murmuring, "Baby Genius, like I told you...")
My thoughts on signing? Absolutely worth it. If there's a Baby Two, we'll start much earlier. What a relief and pleasure to communicate with her without it dissolving into tears (on her part) or behaving like monkeys at the zoo (that would be Matthew and I). We picked up a book from the library on Baby Signs and took off. I've even wondered if the signs have helped with her language because we waste less time trying to figure out what she wants and spend more time talking to her like the interested and brilliant little person she is.
And for any of you wondering, yes, Dory has said her first curse word. The one that rhymes with "sit." And, yes, she has on several occasions pulled it out and said it a few times, just to practice, I guess.
And yes, it was Mommy who slipped and said it. Thank you very much.
Turns out, learning how to speak a first language is a bit slower, more erratic, and far more entertaining than I imagined. I've seen friends with their children, translating, with a parent's expert ear, conversation that is totally alien to me. Dory has been no different. What I consider perfectly formed words might still be incomprehensible to your man on the street. To my mind, she has a list of words that she's more than mastered now. Some are traditional: daddy, dat (that), doggie, bat (bath), ucks (yucky) and, most recently, mommy. Some I did not expect that she just loves to say are: duck and sock. All day long, socks come off and on from the joy of announcing "shhhock" as she tugs them off her plump little feet. And she absolutely thrills anytime she can point out a "duc-K, duc-K, duc-K." She knows a few of her friends' names: Ike (Isaac), Emme (Ember), and Lana (Alana, and, technically, the name of her friend's mother, but still). Favorite problem word? Uh-oh.
By far, though, what sends her quick, bright mind into frenzied delight: the letter 'P.' Anything with the letter 'P.' Appa (apple). Hipa (hippo). Pwoops (oops). Pot (Spot, based on her favorite literary character). Pata (pasta). Pei-pei (pee-pee). Po-hee (potty). Pway (play). She's even tried piwhoa (pillow).
I did not foersee how important language would be right about now. She's almost eighteen months and Matthew and I are realizing, she understands a lot. I mean, A LOT. We-have-stop-saying-that-word a lot. We started to notice it around fourteen months. She seemed to understand us beautifully. Her brilliant parents? Not so much. This was the trouble. We couldn't understand her and this was incredibly frustrating for all parties, as she would speak traditional toddler "eh-eh-eh" (sometimes accompanied by pointing) and Matt and I took turns trying to figure it out holding out random items and saying "this? you want this?" I noticed, we were treating her the way a lot of Americans in foreign countries behave: speaking LOUDLY and slooooowly. It wasn't pretty and not, probably, our best moments as parents, though we were trying.
Then- dum-dum-dum-DUM!- inspiration struck. Sign language! Our friend, the aforementioned Alana, started teaching her daughter sign language when she was about four months old. By one year, her child could sign almost one hundred different signs and understood almost twice as many. Yep. World domination is next on her baby's list. I marveled at watching her sign different animals, wanting to go up or down, play on the swings or the slide eat crackers or cheese. It was amazing.
We started on a much, much smaller scale with a few signs for Dory, the ones we could remember and that seemed to be important for her to communicate. Eat (as in "do you want some food?"). Milk ("or would you prefer some milk?"). More. Thank you. Oh, and bear (that was all Matthew, big Chicago fan that he is- and let me tell you, Dory cannot see a bear without enthusiastically signing it, probably her favorite sign to date).
Now we're to the point where she shows us when she's hungry, wants to play, wants to sleep, wants Mama (by signing milk), and she's even made up her own sign for color which is to wave her hand through the air like she's writing (right now, Granny Suzanney is murmuring, "Baby Genius, like I told you...")
My thoughts on signing? Absolutely worth it. If there's a Baby Two, we'll start much earlier. What a relief and pleasure to communicate with her without it dissolving into tears (on her part) or behaving like monkeys at the zoo (that would be Matthew and I). We picked up a book from the library on Baby Signs and took off. I've even wondered if the signs have helped with her language because we waste less time trying to figure out what she wants and spend more time talking to her like the interested and brilliant little person she is.
And for any of you wondering, yes, Dory has said her first curse word. The one that rhymes with "sit." And, yes, she has on several occasions pulled it out and said it a few times, just to practice, I guess.
And yes, it was Mommy who slipped and said it. Thank you very much.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Presenting... Presents!
Pictures I know a lot of people have been waiting for... Christmas shots!
These are highly abbreviated. This girl, between Matthew and I, our family here and our family in Texas, had FOUR Christmases. That's not a joke or the latest Vince Vaughn holiday film.
Dory had a grand day. She loved opening her gifts, they never seemed to overwhelm her and she wasn't even bothered by the constant flash of cameras going off.
(a baby grand piano- in pink)
(a rocking horse)
(a piggy bank- a wise thought in these trying economic times)
(monkey hat- fashionable and warm)
(another piggy bank, this one shaped like a Chicago Bears helmet)
(a pic of the abundance of gifts)
(stacking blocks)
(more blocks)
("Good Night Moon"- the glow-in-the-dark puzzle)
(Dory inside the chute off the side of the indoors tent- that's right a TENT- she got)
So Dory, this is your second Christmas- how do you feel about that haul?
That's what I thought.
Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and, I'd like to personally thank all Dory's grandparents and her great-(and cool!) grandmother for doing their part to bolster the economy. It was good work by you all.
These are highly abbreviated. This girl, between Matthew and I, our family here and our family in Texas, had FOUR Christmases. That's not a joke or the latest Vince Vaughn holiday film.
Dory had a grand day. She loved opening her gifts, they never seemed to overwhelm her and she wasn't even bothered by the constant flash of cameras going off.
(a baby grand piano- in pink)
(a rocking horse)
(a piggy bank- a wise thought in these trying economic times)
(monkey hat- fashionable and warm)
(another piggy bank, this one shaped like a Chicago Bears helmet)
(a pic of the abundance of gifts)
(stacking blocks)
(more blocks)
("Good Night Moon"- the glow-in-the-dark puzzle)
(Dory inside the chute off the side of the indoors tent- that's right a TENT- she got)
So Dory, this is your second Christmas- how do you feel about that haul?
That's what I thought.
Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and, I'd like to personally thank all Dory's grandparents and her great-(and cool!) grandmother for doing their part to bolster the economy. It was good work by you all.
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