"Why Are You... The Way You Are?"

Yesterday while Ellen was napping, Eddie and I happened upon a rerun of "My So-Called Life." Angela was talking to Jordan when he turns suddenly, putting one of his arms out, his hand above one of her shoulders and corners her into a near kiss against a fence. Then he asks her, "Why are you.... you know.... the way you are?" Then he leaves. HE LEAVES. She catches her breath and tries to ask him, "How am I?" He doesn't hear her (or can't/won't answer her in front of his buddies). As he walks away, she's even more desperate to know his answer so she takes a few steps forward and says a bit louder, "How am I?" She's left with no answer.

I'm totally guilty of looking to others to find out How I Am. I just... you know... need to stop it.

I also look to family, home, hobbies and duties for a quick definition of me. I need to stop that too. Maybe it's not the How or the What that we are, but the Why.

A Collector's Item

Many months ago, I was with the family at Babies-R-Us to purchase a last-minute shower gift. (I don't think there is any other kind of gift, other than the last minute one. Have you SEEN Babies-R-Us on a pre-shower Saturday morning? It's filled with women dressed to go to a shower, stopping by to get their gift. I digress.) Along with our gift, we purchased one of the featured diaper bundles. If I can recall, the bundle included a lot of diapers, some wipes, and some type of unnecessary wipes case - all in a large, branded, plastic tub. After all of the diapers and wipes were used and the unnecessary case was discarded we were left with the tub. It has served many uses.

1. Hamper
2. Toy box
3. Shoe box
4. Catch all
5. Car
6. "Box"

It is currently called "Ellen's Box." She calls it that. She likes to get in it and sit. And then stand. And then sit again. In between the sitting and the standing are many, many trips outside of the box to retrieve items to put in the box with her. Then they go out of the box (so she can then get out of the box, pit it up, and start the process again). It's all great fun. Today she brought colors into her box, one by one, and decorated it.


When you have a kid in daycare they are sent home with their little art projects, the pieces they've painted, glittered, stamped and smeared. In the beginning, Eddie and I saved every. single. one. One and a half years in, we keep the really pretty ones. Just today I pulled a piece of art from his car and held it up to him in a gesture that said, "What are we going to do with this?" He responded, "I wouldn't mind if we didn't keep that." But we're keeping the box. It's performance art.

"We Are Now Composters."

Earlier this summer, Eddie, Ellen and I visited a friend in Alabama. She put us up in her beautiful house in the country. The house sits on a hill and from the kitchen we could see the deck, that overlooked the pool, that was next to the garden, that was next to the horse pasture. In her kitchen we cooked meals together, gossiped like old times, and watched Ellen chase her dogs around the house.

During the course of one of our conversations while preparing a meal, I spied a beautiful, chrome bucket sitting on her counter. I asked her what it was for. "Compost," she said. "We have a compost pile behind the fence." I remembered that her father maintained a compost pile in her old back yard, here in Baton Rouge. When I was 16, I remember thinking it odd that when I was over for dinner or to spend the night, her family treated the vegetable scraps differently than my family. MY family just tossed 'em. HER family cleaned the kitchen after dinner, all of the dishes and counters and table and everything except the purposeful pile of vegetation. After all was done, her father would gather the scraps and head outside. To the compost pile. HER father had a rose bed in the front yard, and I assumed he used it for that. MY father cut the grass and trimmed the edges, that was about it.

When we returned home from our Alabama vacation, I had big dreams of gardening and building and painting and rearranging and COMPOSTING!!! But to make any of these things happen with a full-time job, a very nearly two year old and dishes and clothes and cooking... pesky little things like "needing to get some sleep" sometimes get in the way. So I set my bar really low.

I mean, who can't compost, right? It's just putting this part of the trash over here, instead of over there. Right? No. Turns out you need a bin. And a place to put the bin, a place with "good drainage." Once you get the bin, you find out that you need some chicken wire or netting as a barrier to the soil you need to till before you put the chicken wire down and the bin on top of it. Keep me honest if I'm not doing my math right, but THAT'S A WHOLE 'NOTHER TRIP TO THE HARDWARE STORE, PEOPLE. So, once received, the bin may or may not have sat in our garage for a few weeks.

Today Ellen went to her grandparent's house for a hefty portion of the day.
Today Eddie had the day off from work.
Today I got a text at 2:24 pm with the picture below attached. It read, "We are now composters."

I still lack the fancy, chrome compost bucket. But I'm on my way. I wonder when I'll get the text, "We now have a pool." That'll be a good picture.

Family Portrait, A Still Life

Between the couch and the hallway, there is a little piece of house. The shoes go there. Nobody decided, they just do. They pile up and up until they're worn again or someone accidentally puts them away. Yesterday evening there we were, our little family, perfectly captured in the first cast-off pieces of the mid-week day.

Where Oh Where Did My Youth Go?

After two full days of being down for the count (so sick I couldn't move), I finally have some energy and seem to be on the mend. What is my first priority?

Dishes.

Mining the Journals #2

In class assignment, Leadership, Providence, RI. September 19, 2000

Why I chose "Brave."

When asked to choose only one word that describes me and to decide that in only three minutes, there's really not a lot of time for soul-searching. I know that if I were given more time to think on it, I probably would have discarded my choice as presumptuous. Brave does not equal fearless. In fact, the mere definition of brave implies that some amount of fear must come first. Brave is being afraid but getting on a plane anyway. Brave is closing your eyes and jumping out from the platform and into the water. Brave is getting in the car after the accidents.

I am scared.
I am brave.

Bad Hair Day

I'm sick.
I have a full-time job and dirty dishes in the sink.
I am a wife as well as a mother to a very nearly two year old. She never runs out of energy.
My lymph nodes are swollen.

I have a presentation at work tomorrow.

Almost regretting the whole NaBloPoMo thing right about now. I'd say I'm phoning this one in, but folks, I'm really givin' it all I've got.

A Piece Of Life In Providence

From my journal:

3.9.2000

I'm sitting here at this desk, facing a wall, but I have a framed picture of my Sparky tilted and resting against it. This moment I see him there, on the beach in Charleston. His curly hair is moved, but captured still, by the Atlantic breeze.
I know that he's looking down - reading the instructions to the camera I used to take the picture. But it looks like he's sad or wistful, posing maybe.

It's a great picture to look at. I takes me back to the moment as a picture should.

I am surrounded by my Sparky. The bible he bought for me back in 1996, the printer he's letting me use, his note he left for me in my book sack for my first day of class... even so... I miss him.

My room mate is leaving tomorrow for the weekend so I have three days alone with my thoughts. I'm considering some studying.

There are a few prospects in the friend arena. I have to decide whether or not to discard my hermit crab shell. To call or not to call - that is the question. It is almost like I don't want to belong here. Actually, it's exactly like that.

I like the adventure part, but the actual "living" here thing isn't conforming with what I consider to be my identity.

I look back at the picture of Eddie. I can see my reflection in the glass. We're almost together in the picture. My eyes fit perfectly in the middle of the sky.

Tears In Tuscaloosa

There was a big football game tonight. I would probably fall well short of "super-fan" status, having fallen asleep on the couch during the game - only to wake up in overtime as my team was just about to win with the final score. I'm happy for the win not only because it's fun to watch my team win, but because of what it does to this city. For a moment, we are united in joy. For a moment, while the confetti flies, all is forgiven because there is only room for celebration. I wish life could be this way more often, on a crisp fall night.

Muse

To Blog:

Step 1. Wake up the computer.
Step 2. Tap a few keys on the keyboard and wonder why nothing happens.
Step 3. Ask yourself, "WHERE is the wireless mouse?"
Step 4. Realize that your husband, who was home with your daughter today, probably turned off the keyboard so said daughter wouldn't re-set the desktop again (we still can't fix it back) while chanting, "keyboard, keyboard, keyboard."
Step 5. Turn on the wireless keyboard.
Step 6. Remember that the wireless mouse is missing. Briefly look around the room for the mouse (an unforseen drawback to the wireless mouse - apparently you can misplace it).
Step 7. Leave the room, enter the bedroom where your husband has just fallen asleep. Wake him up by asking, "Do you know where the mouse is?"
Step 8. Wait for him to wake up a little. Pretend you didn't know he was already asleep.
Step 9. Listen while he tells you that, no, he doesn't know where it is. Then take his advice to "go look in the closet."
Step 10. Exit bedroom, re-enter room with computer and open closet. See mouse alone, on the floor. Pick up the mouse.
Step 11. Bring it to the desk and click it a few times, then wonder why nothing happens.
Step 12. See Step 4. Replace "keyboard" with "mouse."
Step 13. Turn on wireless mouse.
Step 14. Log into your blog
Step 15. Look around for inspiration.

The Very Best Chocolate Cake In All The Land

I don't want to ever lose this recipe. It was given to me by a former co-worker, Sue. I felt like we went through war together and I will never forget her. Mostly because of this cake. Actually, it's a lovely way to remember her.

Chocolate Bundt Cake

For the cake:
1 (18.25 oz) box dark chocolate cake mix
1 (3 oz) box instant chocolate pudding mix
1 (16 oz) carton sour cream
3 eggs
1/3 cup vegetable oil
1/2 cup Kahlua (may substitute with milk)
2 cups semi-sweet chocolate or peanut butter chips (or 1 cup of each)

Preheat oven to 350°.
Grease and flour a 10 in bundt pan.
In a large bow., combine cake mix, pudding mix, sour cream, eggs, oil and Kahlua.
Beat until ingredients are well blended.
Fold in chocolate and/or peanut butter chips.
Batter will be thick.
Spoon into prepared pan.
Bake in preheated oven for 1 hour, or until cake springs back when lightly tapped.
Cool 10 minutes in pan, then turn out and cool on wire rack.

For the Glaze:
1 oz square semi sweet chocolate (or 1 oz of chips)
1 tbsp unsalted butter (I've used salted and it's worked JUST fine.)
1 cup powdered sugar
1 tbsp cocoa powder
1 or t tbsps warm milk

Melt the chocolate and butter together in the microwave until just melted.
Stir it together.
Stir or sift together the powdered sugar and the cocoa.
stir a little of the powdered sugar mixture into the chocolate mixture.
Add a small amount of the milk and stir.
Add in the rest of the powdered sugar and whisk together until smooth.
Pour over the top of the slightly warm cake (or serve on the side.)

That's it. My husband has become emotional over this cake. It's a go-to recipe for a wow dessert. It's easy to modify or substitute ingredients and it reminds me of Sue. Can't get any better than Bundt.

Of course, I've never really tried a babka.

The Second Of November

My sister would have been 29 today. There's really no other way to say it, rather than it's weird. I don't like that she's gone. It's been eleven years. I was six years older than her. We rarely got along. I'm jealous when I see my friends interact with their siblings as adults. That is a relationship I will never know. That's hard. Admitting that is hard.

Happy Birthday Kath.

Love,
Kris

Old Dog, New Chase

I saw a dog chasing a cat today. I was on my way home from 1 1/2 trips to the store.

Let me explain: I went to the grocery store this evening for the first time in a long while untethered by a toddler. I was drunk with freedom, the freedom one can only know and appreciate when they're not trying to convince the un-convince-able to stay in the buggy while attempting to find 11 specific items on a list among the other 14,352 in the store. I was walking slowly down the aisles, reading the labels and may or may not have lingered longingly in the school supplies. I made my way to the check-out and completed the transaction with zero extra buttons pushed on the debit card payment thingy. I left the store, put all of the groceries in the trunk, returned my cart and got back into the car without trying to convince the un-convince-able that her car seat is a "special chair". Like I said, I was drunk with all of the freedom. I made my way 2/3 of the way home when I realized that I had forgotten a key ingredient in the evening's dish. I had to go back. To the store.

This time, I went in with purpose. Directly to the missed item. Directly to the check-out (carefully avoiding the eyes of the woman that JUST checked me out). Directly back to the car.

With everything necessary from the trip safe in my trunk, I drove home. This is where I saw the dog and the cat. At that moment, watching a dog chase a cat made sense. I've seen the dog around the neighborhood a lot and I've never seen her move this fast. In fact, she's hobbling most of the time. I've always assumed she was ...older. Witnessing those two animals playing out predictable roles gave me a comfort that there may still be predictability. I just may have to look for it. Being a new parent (yes, she's almost TWO and I still consider myself "new") brings unpredictable days, or days full of unpredictable-ness. That makes me tired. I'm tired.

I'm trying to take inspiration from the dog today - the old dog that had the energy when her instinct kicked in. C'mon instinct.

And Then She Saw The Sun

When Ellen was born I was scared of her. She was very small and incapable of communicating in metaphors. She didn't speak a language I understood and she needed absolutely everything. This isn't to say that my maternal instincts were completely lacking, they were there - just buried under crippling amounts of insecurity, which I then tried to bury further by shoveling on some insane notions of what it meant to be a perfect mother. I lived tried to live like that for several months. I don't recommend it. Now that I've tried both, I like sanity much better.

In these 15 months following her birth I've gotten to know her. We jive. We hang out. We talk. The balance has shifted from being scared of her to being scared for her. My genetic make-up dictates that I have to worry about something - so right now, it's pretty much her most of the time. I have to remind myself to enjoy the moments of our lives as they happen, not trying to catch up on what she and Eddie are laughing at in another room because I was near the dryer trying to perfectly fold a towel, a towel that she'll most likely pee on in the next 24 hours.

A few weeks ago, she and I were in the house together and I was trying to balance "getting things done" and spending time with her. She was in the same room with me, an invisible tether carefully crafted with the help of a closed bedroom door. I was folding laundry. One eye on the laundry, one eye on the tot.

I think I'm relatively close to figuring out that you can actually only do ONE of those things at a time - but there are days I am blinded by an extra helping of optimism and hope (and maybe a little desperation because the laundry is piling up) into thinking that I can still do both.

I know she's o.k. because I can see her near the window, so I'm matching socks. Stripes, solids, dots, small, medium, large... and I notice that she stops. She never stops. She's always talking and moving and running and climbing and reaching and grabbing. And doing. It can seem like indiscriminate busyness, all the time, everywhere. But she stopped. She stood almost motionless and stared down, where the sun shone through the window and onto the floor, right next to her feet. I stopped too, to live the moment.

I watched her slowly move her arm in and out of the sun beam, seeing that she had control of the motion of the shadow it created. She purposefully spread her fingers and turned her hand over in the light. I can imagine she felt the warmth and noticed the difference. I watched her learn. Just as quickly, she abandoned the task and moved on to my closet where I had to prevent her from tasting the heels of my shoes.

I wanted to remember that moment because in it, I wasn't worried and I wasn't scared. I was captivated. I was held at attention by the way the sun found her curls, by the intentional way she moved her hand, by the sappy, campy wonder of it all. When I worry for her, for when she's older, I hope I can remember this. I didn't have to help her find the light. She found it on her own.

Fifteen Minutes In The Morning

Before six.

I finish my bath.
His turn.

He gets out of the bed, where he's brought her to snuggle.
My turn.

The door is closed.
I hear the sound of water running.

I hope it doesn't wake her.
She smells like morning and
love and
curls and
talks sometimes in her sleep and
then giggles and
worry (because I can't live without her) and
urine (because you don't change the diaper when you want to snuggle)
for
fifteen minutes in the morning.

His shower is over.
His turn.

The Daughter And The Dog Food

Cody is our miniature schnauzer, our little boy that we've had since May of 2004. He was totally here first, so we were going to try not to change too much about his life just because we decided to add a baby to it. That was the plan.

However, that's unrealistic and unavoidable when you have a baby and a pet (at least for us) but there was no way to KNOW that until we experienced it. You couldn't tell us that things would change with the dog after the baby arrived. No way. Cody was our baby. He was our boy.

Now, he's the dog that's threatened with death and a life in the backyard when he barks while Ellen is napping. Or threatens to bark. That's the truth. He's the dog. He fights for his attention, he's often in the middle of everything and at times, his saving grace is that Ellen adores him. Ellen will laugh at Cody when nothing else is funny. She'll follow him around the house to see what he's doing and ANY TIME she hears him at his food or water bowl, there's no distracting her. She's right there.

We keep Cody's food out in the open, in an area easily accessed by a curious toddler. Why? Because it wasn't a problem when she wasn't walking and she has never shown an interest in the food by itself until recently. Also, Cody has never had a set time to eat. He eats when he wants and it has always worked. Rather than attempt to modify his eating habits, we're attempting to teach our child some discipline.

Recently, Ellen will walk over to the food bowl and stand there and stare at it. It's clear she understands that she isn't supposed to touch it - because she doesn't bend down and reach for it. We've covered this many times. But she wants to touch it. So she stands there. Thinking. She's now come up with a new plan. She reaches out for it with her foot. She extends her little, socked foot out to brush the edge of the dog food bowl, testing us.

My one-year-old is trying to get around the rules with a technicality. I can't wait until she's sixteen.

Did You Just Call Your Daughter "Train?"

Eddie and I had a baby girl on the afternoon of December 15, 2009. We named her Ellen, after my grandmother. It is an incredible responsibility to name a child. Huge. We considered everything we could - What would it be if someone shortened it? How could you lengthen it? Would you make fun of that? Does it rhyme with anything cute? Funny? Obnoxious? Dirty? Then no. Had we seen a movie where the villain was named that? Then no. That kid in third grade that stole from me? That name is forever tainted. That name makes me think of big hair - it's out. This name gives me the snobby vibe. Out. Rejected. N. O. Too girlie. Too butch. Too popular. Too weird. Too old. Too 1984. No, no, no.

So, we settled on Ellen. Yes, this honors my grandmother. Was it the only thing left after we were finished rejecting? Maybe.

However.

Ellen is what we call her some of the time. Her nickname is Train.

Some of the paths taken to a nickname are clearly marked and visible. Russell = Russ. Eugene = Gene. Timothy = Timbo. Ellen = Train? Well, that just sort-of happened.

When she was a wee little tot, still brand new, she suffered from a relatively mild case of constipation. Not pretty, no, but we were welcomed to parenthood with that one, so we'll claim it. After a few diaper changes and no poop, I would encourage her on the changing table while trying to entertain myself. I sang. I made up songs for my baby, encouraging songs, to coax the poop out of her while I bicycled her legs in the air. Our favorite was a little ditty to the tune of "Do You Know the Muffin Man?" It goes a little like this:

"Ellen rides the poo poo train

the poo poo train

the poo poo train

Ellen rides the poo poo train

it stops at Station Five."

Ellen rides the poo poo train. Every so often she did. Then she became "Diaper Train," "Stinker Train," "Choo Choo Train," "Ellen Train," and eventually just "Train." There are just so many things you can do with Train. The possibilities are vast and most of them are funny. Just this afternoon Eddie let me know that he was going to pick her up from daycare, referring to it as the Train Station.

In front of friends and strangers I sometimes forget myself and I do call my daughter "Train." It is totally her name.

At Random

Getting back to posting on the blog after completing that pregnancy marathon and the first year of my child's life. No excuses. I've been missing the outlet. No resolutions here, just hoping to post more often.

The Real Reason We're Having This Baby

This past weekend Eddie and I were able to cross off an impressive two of the tasks on a running list in my head to ready our home for this tot. I am wise enough NOT to write this list down, but to reveal those items that are necessary to accomplish with the time we've set aside to do so. Actually committing the entire list to paper, screen, or anywhere else he could see it would be foolish. It could scare him away. Most of the items on the list involve an effective reorganization of the storage in our home to accommodate the newest member.

It's great to be able to finally share this verve for getting everything in order. I'm always motivated, because I get a natural high from the result. Case in point. Eddie's motivation stems from getting a head start on being a good dad. He's giving, kind and wonderful. And I will totally be taking advantage of this. The baby needs new cabinet doors next to the fire place in the living room.

After all of the work is done, we will have to rename the toilet paper room. Only 21 more weeks left to complete the list and consider yet another name for something.

Week 19

Milestones and Blind Trust

The first time we heard the baby's heart beating was supposed to be the moment that would let me release every crippling fear I had about being pregnant. It didn't. So I'd set another milestone to look toward, hope for The Moment that would free me, that would allow me to experience absolute joy. That instant didn't come in the presence of a doctor, a sonogram technician or while on the other end of the phone listening to a nurse with test results. It was the moment I decided to experience joy.

Just before I made an appointment to speak with a counselor, one of the steps on my way to That Pregnant Glow, my youngest aunt gave me the soundest piece of advice I've received in recent memory. She said that no matter the emotional preparations I'm attempting for the worst-case scenario, if it happens, it won't hurt any less. Why was I wrapping myself in worry when I could just be happy?

Just be happy.

It seems so simple. I have a gift for over-complication. Although I'm in a much better place than I was at week 10 or even week 15, I'm still on my way to absolute bliss. I'm smiling and looking forward to every little moment.

Week 18