My father was an excellent speller. After he retired, he and my mother did the New York Times crossword every day at lunch. My mother is very good at crosswords but has a tendancy to swap vowels and create other unusual spellings. My father relished knowing the correct order of letters.
He shared with my mother a devotion to proper grammar. Shortly after my father died, my mother, an English teacher from an era when sentences were regularly diagrammed, told me, "I think I fell in love with your father because of his complex sentences." After a pause, she added, "And maybe he fell in love with me because I could tell him why they were beautiful."
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Monday, December 27, 2010
In memoriam
My father died at 4 am on Monday, December 6, 2010. His last few months were a struggle, for him, for my mother, for me, for their close friends. The images of him bedridden are powerful and hard to overcome. I am trying to remember earlier times. I will record here pieces of those memories.
Before standing for any length of time became difficult, my father loved to cook. He cooked turkeys for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Occasionally he digressed with a goose or a duck, but he always came back to turkeys. He cooked oysters, grilled or steamed open, and oyster stew was the traditional New Year's Eve meal in our house.
When I was a kid, he often baked brownies on Saturdays. He liked them with nuts, but he would grudgingly substitute raisins for me. This was but one of many ways I complicated his gourmet plans. The most notable and long-standing obstruction I created was becoming a vegetarian at 13.
My father cooked and ate as relaxation and distraction, from work before retirement and from his own ailments later on in life. He did not relish the challenges posed by other people's needs and demands. He wanted an enthusiastic and largely undemanding audience for his meals. I fought with him over food--my father and I both subscribed to some version of "you are what you eat," so what to place on the table was an existential question.
I preached the evils of his nightly bowl, or bowls, of ice cream, which became more and more of an obsession for him. When he was starting to have mobility problems the summer before he died, I refused to get him his second serving of ice cream, and defiantly he went to get it himself. He fell in front of the refrigerator, the first of a couple of falls. Of course, I felt guilty--am I then the self-righteous daughter who denies her ailing father his small pleasures, causing him injury? He was not above creating this narrative himself, but he would not have planned an actual fall. This fall and the subsequent one caused no broken bones, but some bad bruises and an increasing family feeling of helplessness.
And so the memories of earlier times keep coming back to more recent times. The culmination of everything, it seems. How do you come to a place where the end is not the culmination but merely a phase, a "transition" time?
Before standing for any length of time became difficult, my father loved to cook. He cooked turkeys for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Occasionally he digressed with a goose or a duck, but he always came back to turkeys. He cooked oysters, grilled or steamed open, and oyster stew was the traditional New Year's Eve meal in our house.
When I was a kid, he often baked brownies on Saturdays. He liked them with nuts, but he would grudgingly substitute raisins for me. This was but one of many ways I complicated his gourmet plans. The most notable and long-standing obstruction I created was becoming a vegetarian at 13.
My father cooked and ate as relaxation and distraction, from work before retirement and from his own ailments later on in life. He did not relish the challenges posed by other people's needs and demands. He wanted an enthusiastic and largely undemanding audience for his meals. I fought with him over food--my father and I both subscribed to some version of "you are what you eat," so what to place on the table was an existential question.
I preached the evils of his nightly bowl, or bowls, of ice cream, which became more and more of an obsession for him. When he was starting to have mobility problems the summer before he died, I refused to get him his second serving of ice cream, and defiantly he went to get it himself. He fell in front of the refrigerator, the first of a couple of falls. Of course, I felt guilty--am I then the self-righteous daughter who denies her ailing father his small pleasures, causing him injury? He was not above creating this narrative himself, but he would not have planned an actual fall. This fall and the subsequent one caused no broken bones, but some bad bruises and an increasing family feeling of helplessness.
And so the memories of earlier times keep coming back to more recent times. The culmination of everything, it seems. How do you come to a place where the end is not the culmination but merely a phase, a "transition" time?
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Cough drop and unscrewed door stop
Recently, my father has been unable to remember the word "catheter" and sometimes "cough drop." He is a mathematician who always did speedy calculations in his head, but on Saturday he thought 400 times 500 was 20,000.
The other day I was practicing a handstand and decided to kick up against a door. The door was not latched, so as my heels made contact, the door opened, my legs flailed, and I fell to the ground, knee scraped. What happens when the details we depend on vanish?
My daughter is just discovering that she can peel garlic cloves and unscrew door stops. She says "ya ya," and "ma ma," and "wow!" She has learned to reach for a hand before going down stairs, but sometimes she gets impatient and starts down alone.
I tell my father again the word is "catheter." I take my daughter's hand, this time before she falls, but maybe not fast enough next time. I wonder how to hold on to the details and at the same time not depend on them too much.
The other day I was practicing a handstand and decided to kick up against a door. The door was not latched, so as my heels made contact, the door opened, my legs flailed, and I fell to the ground, knee scraped. What happens when the details we depend on vanish?
My daughter is just discovering that she can peel garlic cloves and unscrew door stops. She says "ya ya," and "ma ma," and "wow!" She has learned to reach for a hand before going down stairs, but sometimes she gets impatient and starts down alone.
I tell my father again the word is "catheter." I take my daughter's hand, this time before she falls, but maybe not fast enough next time. I wonder how to hold on to the details and at the same time not depend on them too much.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Debt as a keyword
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The cost of our highways
My alphabet soup of New York subway commuting (F to A or Q) has been replaced by a barrage of numbers: 23 to 14 to 96 to 75. On the subway, an occasional mysterious line closure reminded you of casualties on the tracks, but these tended to be human and voluntary. The numbered highways wear their casualties like trophies, and they are four-footed and without choice. On one morning I pass three raccoons, a deer, a coyote, several squirrels, and a mouse. I owe them each a tribute, I think, as they lie there, bloody and exposed. How can we ever repay the debt we owe the animal kingdom?
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Neighborly visits, Whitmore Lake style
I have received three unexpected visits in recent weeks. Combined, I believe they paint a fairly comprehensive portrait of current semi-rural Michigan life. Two of my visitors left with the answers they sought, but the third was disappointed.
Yesterday afternoon two burly (or, perhaps more accurately, bulky) men knocked on the door. The dog went crazy, causing one of the tough guys to back up to a safe distance in the middle of the front yard. When I removed the stroller and other obstacles to clear a path to our rarely-used front door, the brave representative said,
I apparently provided a similarly acceptable response to the mother-and-daughter Jehovah's Witness team. The mother asked if I agreed that the Florida preacher intent on Koran burning was similar to the kind of craziness predicted by passages in the Bible. Craziness is craziness. Absolutely. I accepted the related pamphlet, and they left content.
Alas, I was not able to my third visitors with the same level of satisfaction. The apparently licensed pot growers from down the street arrived looking harried. They wanted to know if I had seen anyone unusual drive by. I explained that I do not know all the cars that drive down the street (nor do I spend my days watching the traffic). They wanted to know if anyone had gone by who looked like someone who might have stolen their plants. Had the foreclosers come by first, I could have had an answer for them. I didn't think I should throw the Jehovah's Witnesses under the bus like that--after all, we agreed about the preacher in Florida.
Yesterday afternoon two burly (or, perhaps more accurately, bulky) men knocked on the door. The dog went crazy, causing one of the tough guys to back up to a safe distance in the middle of the front yard. When I removed the stroller and other obstacles to clear a path to our rarely-used front door, the brave representative said,
"Do you know your neighbors across the street?"
Not sure what the correct answer was, I hedged: "Not well," which happens to be true.I discovered that these gentlemen were wanting to change the locks on my neighbors' house since it has gone into foreclosure. (That makes it the fourth house on our block.) They were hesitant to do so because the barking dog inside indicated residents who would be returning. They wanted my confirmation that people lived there. Thinking I might at least be doing the dog a favor, I assented. "Occupied," Burly #1 wrote on his form. Mission accomplished, they left.
I apparently provided a similarly acceptable response to the mother-and-daughter Jehovah's Witness team. The mother asked if I agreed that the Florida preacher intent on Koran burning was similar to the kind of craziness predicted by passages in the Bible. Craziness is craziness. Absolutely. I accepted the related pamphlet, and they left content.
Alas, I was not able to my third visitors with the same level of satisfaction. The apparently licensed pot growers from down the street arrived looking harried. They wanted to know if I had seen anyone unusual drive by. I explained that I do not know all the cars that drive down the street (nor do I spend my days watching the traffic). They wanted to know if anyone had gone by who looked like someone who might have stolen their plants. Had the foreclosers come by first, I could have had an answer for them. I didn't think I should throw the Jehovah's Witnesses under the bus like that--after all, we agreed about the preacher in Florida.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
in honor of Gradene
My Aunt Gradene, my mother's only sister, passed away on Monday morning, October 11, in Fort Worth, Texas. I saw her three times in my life, and yet her passing leaves a large hole in the family. She was a cat lover, a former breeder of grey Persians, whom she would line up in a row at their feed dishes for Christmas card photographs. The feline occupancy in her home at one time was 25.
Gradene was famous for quirky and belated presents. She continued this tradition with my daughter. In February, after O.'s first Christmas, we received a box containing a stuffed lion, with a monkey and hippopotamus in its arms. By pressing the lion's paw, the whole trio sang, "In the jungle, the mighty jungle..." At first, O was terrified, but she warmed up to the gift in later months. As had been true with Gradene's gifts throughout my childhood, our cat and the dog were fascinated by the smells accompanying the present.
The first time I met my aunt, she came to visit us in Washington D.C. when I was 2 years old. There is a photograph of me doing a half-headstand position on the lawn of Monticello, where we went for an afternoon picnic. My tall, sunglass-wearing aunt looks on, her legs elegantly folded to the side as if riding the lawn side saddle.
She visited again at least 25 years later, in the Pacific Northwest, where my parents retired. At that point she had already survived reconstructive tongue surgery, treating cancer of the mouth. She was even harder to understand than she had been with her deep Texas drawl.
A few years later, I drove to Texas with my two dogs on a pilgrimage to my mother's roots. I visited with Gradene and her late husband Lester during hot spring evenings in their backyard (my dogs were not allowed in the house in deference to the last remaining Persians). Gradene could only eat through a straw, but Lester took me out to all-you-can-eat buffets around Dallas. He told stories of my mother's family, knowing that I was there in part to understand the painful experiences that led to my mother's self-imposed exile from Texas.
I wanted Gradene to meet my daughter, her only great niece, but it was not to be. I will tell O. my stories, and my mother's stories, and try to pass on what I can of Gradene's survival skills.
Gradene was famous for quirky and belated presents. She continued this tradition with my daughter. In February, after O.'s first Christmas, we received a box containing a stuffed lion, with a monkey and hippopotamus in its arms. By pressing the lion's paw, the whole trio sang, "In the jungle, the mighty jungle..." At first, O was terrified, but she warmed up to the gift in later months. As had been true with Gradene's gifts throughout my childhood, our cat and the dog were fascinated by the smells accompanying the present.
The first time I met my aunt, she came to visit us in Washington D.C. when I was 2 years old. There is a photograph of me doing a half-headstand position on the lawn of Monticello, where we went for an afternoon picnic. My tall, sunglass-wearing aunt looks on, her legs elegantly folded to the side as if riding the lawn side saddle.
She visited again at least 25 years later, in the Pacific Northwest, where my parents retired. At that point she had already survived reconstructive tongue surgery, treating cancer of the mouth. She was even harder to understand than she had been with her deep Texas drawl.
A few years later, I drove to Texas with my two dogs on a pilgrimage to my mother's roots. I visited with Gradene and her late husband Lester during hot spring evenings in their backyard (my dogs were not allowed in the house in deference to the last remaining Persians). Gradene could only eat through a straw, but Lester took me out to all-you-can-eat buffets around Dallas. He told stories of my mother's family, knowing that I was there in part to understand the painful experiences that led to my mother's self-imposed exile from Texas.
I wanted Gradene to meet my daughter, her only great niece, but it was not to be. I will tell O. my stories, and my mother's stories, and try to pass on what I can of Gradene's survival skills.
Friday, October 8, 2010
First birthday past
Since I wrote last, my baby has turned one year old. She is walking, and has a gait rather like a trot when she is in a hurry to get somewhere. She has seven teeth, four on top and three on the bottom.
Just last night she started scooping up water in the bath with her little plastic cups. I always scoop water over her to rinse her and wash her hair. I had never seen her imitating that gesture with such intention.
I bought a baby brush and comb for her birthday, which I forgot in the flurry of party and other presents. I thought of it as something more utilitarian than entertaining, really, but to my surprise she enjoys the brush very much. She smiles when I brush her hair, and immediately began reaching for the brush to try it herself.
She also enjoys having her teeth brushed, with the little plastic finger brush and her strawberry-banana toothpaste (which I still can't quite imagine is good for her--but it is Earth's Best). My finger is in constant danger of being chomped, but as long as she seems to think it is such fun, Mama will put up with a sore finger.
Just last night she started scooping up water in the bath with her little plastic cups. I always scoop water over her to rinse her and wash her hair. I had never seen her imitating that gesture with such intention.
I bought a baby brush and comb for her birthday, which I forgot in the flurry of party and other presents. I thought of it as something more utilitarian than entertaining, really, but to my surprise she enjoys the brush very much. She smiles when I brush her hair, and immediately began reaching for the brush to try it herself.
She also enjoys having her teeth brushed, with the little plastic finger brush and her strawberry-banana toothpaste (which I still can't quite imagine is good for her--but it is Earth's Best). My finger is in constant danger of being chomped, but as long as she seems to think it is such fun, Mama will put up with a sore finger.
Friday, August 27, 2010
2 am: me and the truckers on I-23
When I bought a co-op apartment in Brooklyn, I did not realize until it was too late that I was on a commercial thoroughfare, masquerading as a tree-lined residential street: Caton Ave., the truckers' route to Long Island. Now, in Whitmore Lake, I am less-than-home-run-hit distance from I-23. The house across the street has the expressway in their backyard. And the street between me and that house is Main St., which gets its fair share of speeding traffic as well.
Am I subconsciously drawn to arteries of movement? In fact, I do live not too far from train tracks either, but the intermittent train whistle is far more welcome than the constant drone of the automobiles. In Seattle, although I chose a quiet dead-end street for my house, I was right under flight paths into Seatac. Maybe my next house could be next to shipping lanes instead.
For some reason, the sound of the traffic has not bothered me until recently--perhaps because I have only recently stopped falling asleep the moment I lie down, and so have time to ponder flaws in my environment that might be disturbing my otherwise peaceful brain waves. I try to focus on the night noises behind/above/below the traffic. The trees around the house are filled with critters singing their regular songs. I imagine that they are not consumed by the thump-thump of car wheels, so I should focus on that natural hum instead of the transient human bother.
Am I subconsciously drawn to arteries of movement? In fact, I do live not too far from train tracks either, but the intermittent train whistle is far more welcome than the constant drone of the automobiles. In Seattle, although I chose a quiet dead-end street for my house, I was right under flight paths into Seatac. Maybe my next house could be next to shipping lanes instead.
For some reason, the sound of the traffic has not bothered me until recently--perhaps because I have only recently stopped falling asleep the moment I lie down, and so have time to ponder flaws in my environment that might be disturbing my otherwise peaceful brain waves. I try to focus on the night noises behind/above/below the traffic. The trees around the house are filled with critters singing their regular songs. I imagine that they are not consumed by the thump-thump of car wheels, so I should focus on that natural hum instead of the transient human bother.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Marching band practice behind my back
True to the geese's instincts, the temperature was 60 degrees F when I left the house this morning. The giant "M" of the U of M stadium stands out against a blue sky out the window of my office (only mine for a couple more weeks). I opened the window to try to mitigate the air-conditioning, and I can hear distant drums, which I assume is the university marching band practicing, because that seems appropriate to the vista. Football season is soon upon us--not something I was conscious of in New York, but I remember from growing up here how football Saturdays change the feel of Ann Arbor.
Because my residence in this office was only temporary to begin with, I was not able to rearrange the furniture, so my desk is positioned facing away from the window. I am sentenced to turn my back on the sky and the trees. J is building us a home office/studio/workshop, however, and there I will have windows all around. I will not miss too much the gold "M" that I can only see by twisting my head.
Because my residence in this office was only temporary to begin with, I was not able to rearrange the furniture, so my desk is positioned facing away from the window. I am sentenced to turn my back on the sky and the trees. J is building us a home office/studio/workshop, however, and there I will have windows all around. I will not miss too much the gold "M" that I can only see by twisting my head.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Time for geese
I heard geese honking after sunset tonight and saw their formation through the trees. They must be heading south already. I feel summer ending before I really wrapped my arms around it--not enough outdoor swimming or picnics. But the garden did get planted, herbs and vegetables were harvested, and the baby did play in her wading pool, so I suppose we have respected the season.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Midnight hawk
The cat sits on the windowsill like a hawk. Is there a fly on the other side of the window pane? She and I alone are awake, thinking of missed opportunities.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
A Northwest sunset
I am sitting on a bench between salal bushes getting sun spots in my eyes from a Northwest sunset. The sun will set in less than 20 minutes over the Straits of Juan de Fuca, behind Protection Island from the wooded bluff that my parents call home. As of today, we (J, K, O, and I) have been here for one week.
I keep trying to work, squeezing fragments of time in between conversations, walks, meals, outings, playtime, and nap time. I am agonizing about a work decision that must be made--the clock is ticking. I feel as if I am making a decision for many people now, not just myself, and the thought of unknown repercussions is paralyzing. The Northwest is also not usually where I come to find clarity of mind, given how many of the years I lived here I spent wrapped in fog.
I keep trying to work, squeezing fragments of time in between conversations, walks, meals, outings, playtime, and nap time. I am agonizing about a work decision that must be made--the clock is ticking. I feel as if I am making a decision for many people now, not just myself, and the thought of unknown repercussions is paralyzing. The Northwest is also not usually where I come to find clarity of mind, given how many of the years I lived here I spent wrapped in fog.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
On the way to work: the one-car family
We are still a one-car family. We need another car--desperately--and we are even pre-approved for a car loan, but we cannot decide what to get. It is a whole lifestyle question: do we get a diesel car and convert it to vegetable oil (ethically appealing but logistically daunting and financially uncertain)? do we impoverish ourselves and get a newer hybrid? or do we just go with the most fuel-efficient used car we can find? but what about having enough room to take family trips? We tried a road trip to Wisconsin recently in our Toyota Corolla, and it was NOT comfortable: the 90-lb dog either sat in the passenger seat or in the backseat, where the one adult in back was sandwiched between the fur and the hard plastic of the baby seat. In either location the dog spilled over his designated area.
K, our teenager, is in favor of an SUV-type vehicle. J refuses to consider such a thing. Yours truly would ideally love a Eurovan but realizes this is not the most practical choice. I found an ancient milk delivery truck online and thought that could be the solution, except that it had no real seats and certainly no good place for an infant carseat. J would also like a truck to use for hauling lumber both for house projects and if he takes on carpentry jobs again. The milk truck might do for that, but the fuel efficiency would be questionable.
Until we resolve this dilemma, I get driven to work by J and the baby most days. Yesterday, we were on our way in to Ann Arbor, driving along Whitmore Lake Rd, when we spotted a fluffy, tan and black dog running confused in the opposite lane. Of course we had to turn around and stop traffic to rescue it. It got willingly into the front seat and sat there panting. It had Humane Society tags, so I attempted to call--but was rerouted to Verizon financial services! Yes, our service had that very morning been suspended because of a past-due bill. Unable to call anywhere, we decided to drive to the Humane Society to deliver our find.
Apparently this runaway had been returned before. The name was Coco. Coco's fur was matted, and we concluded that Coco deserved better owners, but alas, we left her (or was it a him?) there. Half an hour later, after navigating through construction and A2 art fair traffic, I got to work. Along the way, in between nursing the baby in the backseat, I called and paid our Verizon bill.
Now, we would not have had this whole adventure together if we were a two-car family, and we might never have picked up Coco. I guess we are waiting for a sign to make the transition to two vehicles, and until then, we travel as a pack.
K, our teenager, is in favor of an SUV-type vehicle. J refuses to consider such a thing. Yours truly would ideally love a Eurovan but realizes this is not the most practical choice. I found an ancient milk delivery truck online and thought that could be the solution, except that it had no real seats and certainly no good place for an infant carseat. J would also like a truck to use for hauling lumber both for house projects and if he takes on carpentry jobs again. The milk truck might do for that, but the fuel efficiency would be questionable.
Until we resolve this dilemma, I get driven to work by J and the baby most days. Yesterday, we were on our way in to Ann Arbor, driving along Whitmore Lake Rd, when we spotted a fluffy, tan and black dog running confused in the opposite lane. Of course we had to turn around and stop traffic to rescue it. It got willingly into the front seat and sat there panting. It had Humane Society tags, so I attempted to call--but was rerouted to Verizon financial services! Yes, our service had that very morning been suspended because of a past-due bill. Unable to call anywhere, we decided to drive to the Humane Society to deliver our find.
Apparently this runaway had been returned before. The name was Coco. Coco's fur was matted, and we concluded that Coco deserved better owners, but alas, we left her (or was it a him?) there. Half an hour later, after navigating through construction and A2 art fair traffic, I got to work. Along the way, in between nursing the baby in the backseat, I called and paid our Verizon bill.
Now, we would not have had this whole adventure together if we were a two-car family, and we might never have picked up Coco. I guess we are waiting for a sign to make the transition to two vehicles, and until then, we travel as a pack.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Eating in, eating out, fever up, fever down
I am now contemplating pesto recipes--with basil, with arugula, with almonds. This is not how I have typically spent my evenings, but cooking has taken on a new priority in my life. I speculate the following reasons: first, with the baby, I am at home more in the evenings; second, I now have a garden which makes cooking more exciting since I can use my own homegrown ingredients; and third, maybe I am just getting older.
Yesterday I ate out for both lunch and dinner, work-related events where I could not fully appreciate or pay attention to the food because I was having conversations with potential employers. Both were in funky locations: lunch at the (apparently) famous tuba museum in Okemos, and then dinner at Traffic Jam and Snug in Detroit. I chose the latter and was proud of myself for finding it online, after trying various Google approaches to "Detroit restaurants," hoping to weed out the overpriced Italian and touristy pizza joints. Any place that makes both its own beer and its own ice cream is worth trying. I tried the oatmeal stout under the watchful eyes of a giant deer head.
I came home feeling somewhat ill. The food was good, but I think I have gotten out of the habit of eating restaurant food--or maybe I was just exhausted from almost four hours of driving and multiple interviews in one day, including worrying about Baby O, who developed a fever in the middle of all of this.
The fever continued for 36 hours or so. We think it was just from teething, but since she had never had one before, in all her 10 months, it was cause for drama. We gave her dropper-fulls of vile cherry-flavored acetaminophen, which contains frightening ingredients like sucralose, things I would have hoped to avoid having my child consume for at least another year or two.
Finally, just an hour ago, she woke up for her late evening nursing, and clearly she felt better. Lo and behold: her fever had broken! Now we hope her normal temperature holds. I stayed home from work today, with the rationale that she needed to nurse while she was feeling poorly, but I need to go in tomorrow.
I wish that such a speedy recovery could visit the other members of my family whose health is under attack: my father and my aunt. I learned that yesterday afternoon, while I was reading the ingredients of cherry-flavored acetaminophen, my father was visiting the emergency room. I believe his symptoms are side effects from the latest of his many medications, but the investigation continues. He is back home, with a possible surgical procedure to be planned and other vague solutions.
My aunt in Texas was admitted to the hospital this weekend with pneumonia, a very serious condition for someone with her combination of health issues. She has never met Baby O. I still hope she gets to.
Yesterday I ate out for both lunch and dinner, work-related events where I could not fully appreciate or pay attention to the food because I was having conversations with potential employers. Both were in funky locations: lunch at the (apparently) famous tuba museum in Okemos, and then dinner at Traffic Jam and Snug in Detroit. I chose the latter and was proud of myself for finding it online, after trying various Google approaches to "Detroit restaurants," hoping to weed out the overpriced Italian and touristy pizza joints. Any place that makes both its own beer and its own ice cream is worth trying. I tried the oatmeal stout under the watchful eyes of a giant deer head.
I came home feeling somewhat ill. The food was good, but I think I have gotten out of the habit of eating restaurant food--or maybe I was just exhausted from almost four hours of driving and multiple interviews in one day, including worrying about Baby O, who developed a fever in the middle of all of this.
The fever continued for 36 hours or so. We think it was just from teething, but since she had never had one before, in all her 10 months, it was cause for drama. We gave her dropper-fulls of vile cherry-flavored acetaminophen, which contains frightening ingredients like sucralose, things I would have hoped to avoid having my child consume for at least another year or two.
Finally, just an hour ago, she woke up for her late evening nursing, and clearly she felt better. Lo and behold: her fever had broken! Now we hope her normal temperature holds. I stayed home from work today, with the rationale that she needed to nurse while she was feeling poorly, but I need to go in tomorrow.
I wish that such a speedy recovery could visit the other members of my family whose health is under attack: my father and my aunt. I learned that yesterday afternoon, while I was reading the ingredients of cherry-flavored acetaminophen, my father was visiting the emergency room. I believe his symptoms are side effects from the latest of his many medications, but the investigation continues. He is back home, with a possible surgical procedure to be planned and other vague solutions.
My aunt in Texas was admitted to the hospital this weekend with pneumonia, a very serious condition for someone with her combination of health issues. She has never met Baby O. I still hope she gets to.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Green beans and baby independence
Today Baby O ate green beans for the first time. It is a thrill watching her pick up little pieces in her hand, raise her hand to her mouth, and then try to figure out how to unfurl her fingers at the right moment and right angle for the green bean to be consumed. Sometimes she does it while watching me, as I watch her.
She also enjoyed some goat cheese and challah bread today, not to mention egg frittata, grapes, and raspberries. She has gone quickly from an all sweet potatoes and rice cereal diet to daily menus of stunning variety.
Another first for her today was being left with someone other than her parents, for a whole hour and a half. According to the report we received: she went for a walk in her stroller, saw bunnies in the grass, and then took a nap in her stroller; she woke up, played peek-a-boo, climbed stairs, and took books off shelves, and thus was entertained enough not to cry once for her parents. This must be a good sign--we are raising an independent baby--but of course, it makes me wonder, didn't she miss us at all?!
Meanwhile, her parents experienced the novelty of both riding in the front seats of the car at the same time. We went to Friends Meeting, where I kept my blackberry on vibrate next to my leg, and checked regularly in case I had received a text message that somehow failed to vibrate--not the best circumstances for appreciating meditative silence.
I grew up in the Ann Arbor Meeting, and I do find the silence relaxing even while being on baby message alert. The sweep of the wooden beams and the leafy garden area outside the glass doors give me reassurance of continuity, to be found even in the most winding of paths.
She also enjoyed some goat cheese and challah bread today, not to mention egg frittata, grapes, and raspberries. She has gone quickly from an all sweet potatoes and rice cereal diet to daily menus of stunning variety.
Another first for her today was being left with someone other than her parents, for a whole hour and a half. According to the report we received: she went for a walk in her stroller, saw bunnies in the grass, and then took a nap in her stroller; she woke up, played peek-a-boo, climbed stairs, and took books off shelves, and thus was entertained enough not to cry once for her parents. This must be a good sign--we are raising an independent baby--but of course, it makes me wonder, didn't she miss us at all?!
Meanwhile, her parents experienced the novelty of both riding in the front seats of the car at the same time. We went to Friends Meeting, where I kept my blackberry on vibrate next to my leg, and checked regularly in case I had received a text message that somehow failed to vibrate--not the best circumstances for appreciating meditative silence.
I grew up in the Ann Arbor Meeting, and I do find the silence relaxing even while being on baby message alert. The sweep of the wooden beams and the leafy garden area outside the glass doors give me reassurance of continuity, to be found even in the most winding of paths.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Jake's acupuncture day
Jake is our dog. (Well, he was J's and J's daughter K's dog, but then as households merged he became my dog, too.) Since our move back to Michigan, he has had some anal gland issues--I will not go into details, but suffice it to say that this has been stinky and unpleasant, for him and for us. We thought he would be relieved to say goodbye to the hot pavement of Brooklyn and return to his old house and big backyard, but perhaps he missed the off-leash time in Prospect Park more than we knew. Or perhaps it was too much change in routine, since, as our new vet hypothesizes, he has a lot of wood (the element) in his personality, and those of the woody element like routine and to be in control of their environment.
Yes, this afternoon we were analyzing the elements of Jake's personality, at our acupuncture consult with our new vet--whom I would like to have as a new best friend, but so far the relationship is strictly professional. After a discussion of his history--which also felt like a discussion of our relationship history and therefore a bit like couple counseling--Jake received many small needles along his back and in his legs. We had to try to keep him relatively still for 25 minutes. The needles were intended to unblock stagnant energy on the liver meridian (or something close to that description). He did not seem to mind too much, but he was very enthusiastic when we finally put his leash on him to leave.
I am now contemplating the idea of taking Tiger Lilly, the cat, in for acupuncture, because I want to know what her dominant element is and what she would do with the needles. I am not sure what to say the complaint is, unless there might be some treatment for the psychological condition that causes her to drag stuffed animals and dirty socks around the house yowling whenever anyone is trying to sleep. In the past, we have discussed taking her to a pet psychic to see if we could uncover the hidden need or trauma that she is expressing, but in the end I think we were scared to find out.
Yes, this afternoon we were analyzing the elements of Jake's personality, at our acupuncture consult with our new vet--whom I would like to have as a new best friend, but so far the relationship is strictly professional. After a discussion of his history--which also felt like a discussion of our relationship history and therefore a bit like couple counseling--Jake received many small needles along his back and in his legs. We had to try to keep him relatively still for 25 minutes. The needles were intended to unblock stagnant energy on the liver meridian (or something close to that description). He did not seem to mind too much, but he was very enthusiastic when we finally put his leash on him to leave.
I am now contemplating the idea of taking Tiger Lilly, the cat, in for acupuncture, because I want to know what her dominant element is and what she would do with the needles. I am not sure what to say the complaint is, unless there might be some treatment for the psychological condition that causes her to drag stuffed animals and dirty socks around the house yowling whenever anyone is trying to sleep. In the past, we have discussed taking her to a pet psychic to see if we could uncover the hidden need or trauma that she is expressing, but in the end I think we were scared to find out.
Russians with hats
Last night I had a rare opportunity to be in the YMCA sauna at 9:30 pm, after a nice swim. Three ladies chatting in Russian shared the sauna with me. Two of them were wearing matching white hats, with brims. Why wear a hat in a sauna? Any Russians out there want to clarify if this is a common practice?
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Bastille Day beer and mowing
Since it is Bastille Day today, I imagine having a dinner of some sort of roasted wild bird with a buttery sauce, paired with an elegant red wine. I would wear an Hermes scarf and might smoke after dinner. But instead, we are vegetarian and live in Whitmore Lake, so we are having rice pilaf and sauteed kale, with Oberon beer (brewed in Comstock, MI).
A Google search on "bastille day whitmore lake" turns up mention of a 2009 Bastille Day race in Fenton, Michigan, but not much else. Apparently the residents of southeastern Michigan are not lining up to play boules.
My partner Jeffree is mowing the yard. This makes me wonder why mowing the grass seems like such an American activity. I imagine the French who do not live in Parisian apartments to have meadows of wild grasses and flowers instead of lawns. While romantic, this notion does contain a grain of truth if the number of titles listed on Amazon.com under "American lawn" are any sort of evidence (exhibit A: "The Lawn: A History of an American Obsession," by Virginia Scott Jenkins).
Ah, the travesty of the manicured lawn... but just to be clear: our lawn is far from manicured. It has many weeds in it, since it is never chemically treated, and the flower beds are taken over by poison ivy--another problem the French do not have. Per Wikipedia: "Many Europeans who hike in the US and Canada are surprised to find that such a hazardous plant exists so commonly on the continent." Indeed! I am also surprised--constantly.
This brings me to the other Michigan hazard: the mosquito. The Wikipedia article on the mosquito does not tell me how prevalent it is in France, but I did uncover an interesting article from last summer about the French spraying farmland to kill mosquitoes who were at risk of crossing the channel into England: "French officials launched the commando operation after insect experts warned that as many as six billion mosquito larvae had started hatching in swampland near the France-Belgium border--– less than 100 miles from the south coast of England." I wondered for a moment why the French would care if their mosquitoes ended up in England, and then I realized (ah, the tangled web of the Web) that the article I was reading was from the Telegraph, so clearly they were worried about the potential migration, even if the French had other motivations.
Nevertheless, here's to the French, poison-ivy free and drenched in buttery silk! Vive la revolution! (don't know yet how to insert accents in this blog, so I apologize for the lack thereof)
A Google search on "bastille day whitmore lake" turns up mention of a 2009 Bastille Day race in Fenton, Michigan, but not much else. Apparently the residents of southeastern Michigan are not lining up to play boules.
My partner Jeffree is mowing the yard. This makes me wonder why mowing the grass seems like such an American activity. I imagine the French who do not live in Parisian apartments to have meadows of wild grasses and flowers instead of lawns. While romantic, this notion does contain a grain of truth if the number of titles listed on Amazon.com under "American lawn" are any sort of evidence (exhibit A: "The Lawn: A History of an American Obsession," by Virginia Scott Jenkins).
Ah, the travesty of the manicured lawn... but just to be clear: our lawn is far from manicured. It has many weeds in it, since it is never chemically treated, and the flower beds are taken over by poison ivy--another problem the French do not have. Per Wikipedia: "Many Europeans who hike in the US and Canada are surprised to find that such a hazardous plant exists so commonly on the continent." Indeed! I am also surprised--constantly.
This brings me to the other Michigan hazard: the mosquito. The Wikipedia article on the mosquito does not tell me how prevalent it is in France, but I did uncover an interesting article from last summer about the French spraying farmland to kill mosquitoes who were at risk of crossing the channel into England: "French officials launched the commando operation after insect experts warned that as many as six billion mosquito larvae had started hatching in swampland near the France-Belgium border--– less than 100 miles from the south coast of England." I wondered for a moment why the French would care if their mosquitoes ended up in England, and then I realized (ah, the tangled web of the Web) that the article I was reading was from the Telegraph, so clearly they were worried about the potential migration, even if the French had other motivations.
Nevertheless, here's to the French, poison-ivy free and drenched in buttery silk! Vive la revolution! (don't know yet how to insert accents in this blog, so I apologize for the lack thereof)
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Butterflies on display
First blog post. This seems momentous. I imagine a blog as tapping into a stream of consciousness and capturing fragments of it, pinning them onto the electronic page like butterfly specimens: water taking wing until fixed.
Since no one is reading this yet, how does it differ from a journal entry? Perhaps in that it is a message sent into the virtual world, while my journal keeps its covers closed beside my bed.
Since no one is reading this yet, how does it differ from a journal entry? Perhaps in that it is a message sent into the virtual world, while my journal keeps its covers closed beside my bed.
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