The Transit of Venus

Yesterday, June 5, 2012, was a big day. It was Election Day. Only 24% of eligible voters bothered to vote. That's sad.

But aside from that, yesterday also bore witness to one of the rarer predictable celestial events: The Transit of Venus. Venus, the second planet from the sun and the planet closest in size and character to Earth, passed between the Earth and the sun.  This even happens in pairs, but the pairs of events are spaced many, many years apart. The last transit was in 2004. The next will be in 2117.

That is 105 years from now.

People were urged to check it out as it wouldn't likely happen again in our lifetimes. What they mean is, our lifetimes won't likely extend long enough to see it happen again. That's the sort of statistic that makes adults pause.

I didn't put the special glasses, obtained for the annular eclipse of just a few weeks ago, on you and urge you to look as I was scared you might look again without the glasses and hurt your eyes. You won't remember, anyway. And if you don't take to science, you may never know about the event.

But I probably share a hope with the parents of your other 2010 baby friends: maybe you'll see the Transit of Venus in 2117.  A few people live to be 107 nowadays and why not hope - even think or expect - that it might be more common by the time you near the century mark.

Thinking about events outside of my own lifetime is troubling. Thinking about events outside of your lifetime makes me feel entirely too mortal, small, and transient.

Footnote: Yesterday, on that celestially important day, famous Science Fiction writer Ray Bradbury also died. I hope he saw the Transit before he went. He was 91 years old and might have seen the 2004 event, but not one before that. Somewhat relatedly, he wrote a story called "All in A Summer's Day" about a girl who moves to Venus from Earth and misses the sun, which is only visible on Venus for 2 hours every 7 years. She is bullied for being the only person to know what the sun is like from her time on Earth. Her classmates cause her to miss the sunshine.

Ray Bradbury was the commencement speaker at my college graduation.

He was quoted in a newspaper article saying something I want you to remember and take to heart:

"In my later years I have looked in the mirror each day and found a happy person staring back." he wrote in a book of essays published in 2005. "Occasionally I wonder why I can be so happy. The answer is that every day of my life I've worked only for myself and for the joy that comes from writing and creating. The image in my mirror is not optimistic, but the result of optimal behavior."

Lies Your Parents Tell You

The other night, I accidentally stepped on a snail on the top step of our front path.  The crunch was loud and sickening. I hate stepping on snails. I like snails. They eat our vegetable patch and leave nasty, slimy trails, but I don't like killing them. It just feels like we have far too great an evolutionary advantage over these slow movers to wantonly squash them.

The look on your face, darling daughter, was horrible. You looked to my foot and then to my face, locking eyes with an expression equal parts horrified and accusatory.

"It's okay! The snail wasn't in there! It was just his shell! He's out for the evening. I swear."  "Yes, yes," chimed in Daddy.  "The snail moved away, he's on holiday, he needed a bigger shell."

Your knitted brow eased somewhat and you moved on to some other front yard mischief.

Later, I noticed two new snails eating the remains of their friends.  I could see the motion of their swallows, chunks of Cousin Snail moving through their snail heads and down their snail throats and into their snail gullets deep within their snail shells.

Maybe they don't need my deference after all.

Save this for when you're much older, Darling Daughter

I wonder if, years from now, when you're studying American history in high school or political science or gender studies in college, if this year will really seem as hostile toward women as it does currently, while we live in it.  I won't clutter this with links to what's gone on, but suffice to say, it seems like an insane number of voters are extraordinarily concerned with possible abortions and promiscuous women above all other concerns like the economy, national security, poverty, or the environment.  It's a bit of a scary time, frankly.

A lot of this came to a head a few weeks ago when a popular, loud-mouthed "shock jock" (oh I hope that term is unfamiliar to you in 15 years time), jokingly (he claims) called a young woman who testified to a congressional panel about access to birth control a "slut" and a "prostitute."  (Oh I hope those terms are unfamiliar to you in 15 years as well).

Let me pause here and tell your Nana to skip the next part. Nana, skip the next part. I think our views might diverge.

The Fidget at 19.6 monts (mommy's a little behind)

No, you don't need these yet, but given your parents, it's only a matter of time.

So, this is going to be short and we'll just do-it-up for the 20 month post - but your little blog has been woefully neglected lately. Because why? I started a new job? Guests? Travel? General laze - ding! winner!

You're certainly more of your own person every day. You like to impress upon us this fact as frequently as you can. Normally, this is done with a combination of kicking and yelling. But you're as sweet as you are feisty - not a bad combination.  (Though, if you're curious, more sweet would be welcomed, too).

Your Auntie Sarah came to visit in mid-September and compiled a grand list of Fidget words.  I'm still - a-hem - waiting on their being emailed to me, but suffice to say, you have lots and lots now and you're more willing each day to try your mouth at a new one, or two, or even short phrases or sentences. Daddy believes your first sentence was "me sleepy."  Other short sentences now include "it's okay baby" (these are all sort of one-worded slurs of sentences, but we know what you're saying) - you offer this to any fussing child we come across, mimicking our reaction to crying babies in books where mommy says "it's okay baby!" and pets the book-babies to calm them.  You're pretty cute when you try to do the same in real life. 

It's only lately that I've begun to realize we're done with baby things and that you certainly aren't the bald ball of pudge you were this time last year.  Each day your legs seem to stretch and your proportions morph from baby to toddler to kid.  I forget how young you still are as often as I forget how old you are.  The ever-changing temporal aspects of parenting still trip me  up.

Sadly, I find that parenting your new personality doesn't always bring out the best in me, but I'll work on it, kiddo, I promise.  Patience was never my virtue, though I think I had gotten better at it for a time. I've regressed now, to put it mildly.  Lucky for you, your daddy is far, far more patient. Hopefully, once you're past this innately impatient time in your life, you'll take after him.

More on these fluid few months soon.

The Fidg at 18 months (that's 1.5 years)

This is a pretty good illustration of you these days. The word on the street is "mercurial."  Such is the toddler way, however, and as sad as your sads can be is as happy as your happies are, so I'll take it.  The words are multiplying daily - we can understand them, though maybe not everyone. You have a funny way of first trying a word to yourself, sort of inside your mouth behind closed lips. Then you'll venture out and about with the word. Yesterday it was "lamp." 

This post is a few days late and, for now, short, because this is a time of transition for mommy.  Mommy doesn't do so well with change, but she's working on it.  But it has put me behind on some projects - like this record.  On the brighter side, though, we did get to spend a few quality weeks together - one all on our lonesome as daddy went to the Bonneville Salt Flats with Martin (you remember Martin, the one you scowled at for most of his visit? But then would also high-five? Yeah, him).  You're a pretty exhausting little kid, but I love the always increasing level of interaction and inquisitiveness.  You're growing.  It's not too-fast for now, but maybe it will be in retrospect.

One Year Later

Monterey Bay Aquarium 2010 and 2011

The Fidg at 17 months

Crazy like a Fidg. At Raley Field, July 31, 2011

It's happening.

You're teeth have come in. You know how to walk - to run! You're working on jumping. You dance. You've babbled for ages. But now . . . your words are coming.

"Cat" has been a favorite for several months now. Still your first and best word (though we think maybe the nod should go to "tickle" or "ticka ticka" which you've been using even longer thanks to the book Tickle Tickle).  Cat was joined by:

Banana
Cheese
Shake
Cookies
Carrots
Tickle (or followed this one)
One definite use of "Din-saur" per George pig.
Peppa (Peeeppa) as in pig
Teddy
Brown Bear (ba-beh)

And just this past weekend, a definite, gleeful ownership and application of mama and dada.  Pointing at us, calling the right person the right name. Chasing daddy down the street shouting dada dada dada! You're using your words and trying out more of them.  I couldn't be happier. Mom likes to talk, so she wants you to enjoy it as well.  And there's this lingering fear of whether your birth might have taken any sort of toll on you combined with normal parental worries about normal development.  Words, to me, are a sign that your noggin' is doing its job.

These new language skills, of course, aren't necessarily lowering your frustration at not being able to do things or explain things when you want to. The temper tantrums happen. Frequently. More when you're teething, we think.  And those molars are coming in.  Causing you to nurse more aggressively. Which mommy loves, of course. You swing back and forth between allowing us to change your diaper and actively thwarting all efforts toward cleaning your bottom.  That's fun, we love that. Tons.

It's hard to imagine that by this time next year we'll be having conversations.  More of you will be unlocked to yourself and to us.  Development is a magnificent thing to watch.

The Fidg at 16 months

Mom's a little late on this one.

You're 16 months old now.  We just celebrated your second 4th of July in East Sac style, just the way mom likes it.  You had fun. Eventually. Here you are crying on your stroller. I'm still not sure why and though it was wrong of us, we laughed a bit at your expense and took you picture.  Twice.  To be fair, we didn't realize you were crying initially. But you were.  I think you were tired and hot and overwhelmed. Maybe teething, too, that's usually a safe bet.

Poor little Fidget.

Lately, you've become quite the mimic. You feed your toys and brush your teeth and are just starting to follow along to "head, shoulders, knees and toes."  Watching your development remains lots of fun.  Cat is still your favorite and most frequent word, but there are others. "Fan" is a biggie.  At a recent Twilight Thursday at the Zoo, we went to see the giraffes. A keeper was there and feeding them leaves and they were SO close! So we ran up the platform ramp and I set you down. You went tearing off toward the other side of the platform, away from the giraffes. You pointed up and said "Fan! Fan! Fan!" at the ceiling fans swirling above. Atta girl.

You might say mama now and you might mean it, but I'm not totally convinced.

Last night, I was nursing you to sleep and you did something new. You didn't seem to want to sleep (not necessarily the new part). You rolled around the bed for a bit, eventually settling by my feet with your face half mashed under the pushed back covers.  You mooched around on your side, flopped your arm across the comforter, and went to sleep. Just like that. I had no idea what to do with you. So I picked you up, causing some more squirming, and deposited you in  your bed. You opened your eyes and I thought we'd surely be starting the whole process over again, but no, you just went back to sleep.

I emerged from your room to find your father scrutinizing the label on a baby tylenol bottle from which we had just dosed you for teething pain by the light of his iPhone.  It's fine, I assured him, you're just sleeping, it shouldn't be something we find so strange.  But we worry - we do. It's our thing.

You were fine, obviously. Though you did nap again today, in your crib, which is crazy. If this becomes a thing, that's fine. My theory is that you heard the neighbor talking about Ferber last night and decided that, to avoid that fate, you'd better just get with the program on your own.

Or maybe you're weaning, which I had earlier be complaining about needing to happen anyway. And if you are, of course, I had an immediate pang of guilt - was I rushing you? Unlikely you understood, though.  Basic commands, okay, but past that, not so sure. Hope not, in fact.

You're growing, though, no doubt about that. More inches and pounds, more teeth.  More words, more skills. More fear and more joy for mommy and daddy.  And more stress. Just different.

Ceremony

Dear Daughter,

Sometimes I'm struck with a heavy sense of your innocence while watching you play.  You have nothing to worry about. Sure, you act like you have a lot to worry about when you don't want your diaper changed, or your tired, or mommy takes away the knife you pulled out of the dishwasher when she wasn't looking.  But really, your only job right now is to explore, play, exist, and someday, sleep in your own bed. Climate change doesn't weigh on your mind.  You don't care about the current budget crisis. You aren't disturbed by the cancellation of TV shows done wrong by their networks.

You don't know that every living thing dies.  Including you. Including mommy and daddy.  And the cats. And that snail in the garden.

I suppose if I could wish for anything beyond your continued good health, I'd wish that no one and nothing you love would ever die.  But no one can grant me that wish.

This weekend I attended a memorial service for one of my clients. He was a good man. A young man (only 52). A family man. And a fire fighter.  It won't be too long until you know what a fire fighter is - they drive big shiny trucks and are very cool.  They are brave.  They are exposed not just to the danger of flames and the uncertainty of emergency situations - but to all the invisible dangers of poisonous gases and air.  This particular fire fighter died of cancer most likely caused from years of exposure to these dangerous elements.  He fought hard to beat the cancer, but he couldn't.  He left behind a lovely family and a profound sense of loss within several communities.

But this isn't a post about sad things. It's a post about ceremony.  Ceremonies are the collective, formal activities we undertake to mark occasions in our culture.  They can be big or small, public or private.  They can be jovial or solemn.  A memorial service is a ceremony marking the end of someone's life.  It's a time to remember the person and his accomplishments. It's a time for the family and loved ones to share treasured memories - those keep the person a live a bit longer, because as long as someone is sung, he remains.

I didn't know this fire fighter extraordinarily well, though attending his memorial confirmed to me that I knew the true him because he was described similarly by everyone who knew him.  He was kind and big-hearted. Fun-loving. A deeply spiritual man. And he loved his family most of all.

In one of my last email exchanges with him, he shared a photo of his newly born grand-daughter.  The email prior to that I had shared with him a photo of you.  Enjoy it, he said. It goes so fast.  And for him, it did. Much, much too quickly.

Fire fighters are laid to rest with a deeply moving ceremony in which bells toll, alarms ring, bag-pipes commemorate, drums beat, and hands raise in salute.  Your mommy was already sad because she was going to miss this fire fighter, but once those bag-pipes started, there was no halting her tears.  Mommy wants bag-pipes at her funeral someday, too.

From that ceremony, I went to another, and you and daddy came along. We went to your friend Lola' first birthday party.  Birthday parties are ceremonies, too.  Fancy dresses, cakes, candles, hats, balloons, and singing mark those ceremonies.  So do lots of pictures, hugs, and kisses.  And after the party we went to a concert in the park.  In itself, it was a bit of a ceremony - celebrating summer and long evenings. We shared the lawn with friends who will be married in a week - beginning a long series of ceremonial aspects for that phase of life, too. If we could've worked a birth into the day, we really would've hit the span of human experience.

I was very mindful of the fire fighter all day.  I thought that he would like a family attending a park concert and he would love a child's birthday party. I thought that I should mark these things with more ceremony and importance on a regular basis.  I thought about what we should all be remembered for at our final ceremonies.  I thought about how, while watching the video about the fire fighter's life that started with photos of him as a baby, I was struck with a different kind of sadness now that I have you - small one.  Initially I thought of the fire fighter as someone's dad and grandfather.  But then I thought of him as his mother's son.  Some day you might understand how much differently that last bit is than the bit before, in the range of emotions.

Everything I did this weekend was with the fire fighter in mind.  His example.  His words. His ceremony.

Make sure you embrace ceremonies - big and small, dear daughter.  They are what we most remember and they can help us figure out what's important.

The Fidg at 15 months

You are fifteen months old today, dear daughter. If you look back, I make lots of "where did the time go" comments in other monthly posts. All lies.  Parents are supposed to comment on flying time.  We're not supposed to say "hold lord, this takes FOREVER."  For a lot of the early months, that was my feeling.  These last 3 months, though, since you turned 1 year old, really do seem compressed.  I'm surprised that Easter was over a month ago. I'm surprised you look three months older, even though you are, indeed, three months older.

There's a lot of babbling still. You talk to us endlessly.   English words-wise, we're still pretty consistent with Cat, your version of Daddy, and now "nana" for banana and "cheeesssssse" for cheese and "chipssss" for chips but that sounds a lot like "shit" half the time, too.  "Cup" comes and goes.  And some syllable for "that" or "this" is common too, paired with pointing and wild gesticulation when you want something not immediately provided to you.

The tantrums are there. If we take away a toy that will surely blind, impail, or maim you presently, you demonstrate Center Stage levels of upper back flexibility, shriek, and throw yourself to the ground.  It's not really your best look.

We're coming closer to a time where discipline is going to be a thing we need to address. To do to you.  For now, distracting you or replacing one thing with another thing seems to be the best way to go, but I am slightly afraid of raising a monster. More precisely, I'm very afraid of my mother thinking I'm raising a monster. 

The crushing responsibility of raising a person weighs on me. For the first year, we were focused on raising a human being: feeding you, sheltering you, watering you, etc.  But it's your person I'm most concerned with now (when you're not running with pointy things, that is).  What if my kid is the mean one? The spoilt one? The one clearly indulged by her doting, doltish parents?  What if you're the mean-in-the-mathematical-sense one? I have to teach you to be kind. To share. To use your turn signal.  To not text during movies, parties, social gatherings, or church services.  To practice safe, kind facebooking.  Wow, I mean, wow. I don't want to screw you up.

Baby Doll

All of my kid's toys are animals of some kind. Birds, giraffes, ducks, donkeys (no elephants, of course).

We visited some friends yesterday who just welcomed their third - a boy - who joined his two older sisters and two energetic but friendly boxers (ooooh, the Fidg was IN LOVE with those dogs. When she wasn't backing away or running to mom for cover).

We congregated in the living room/playroom where there were mountains of interesting new toys to check out. So what did she go for?

She zeroed in on a [human] baby doll. Walked right over and plucked that thing right up.  Carried it around.  Mostly she just chewed on its head.

I don't know what this all means. But I don't think it means baby girls have an instinctual need to mother toys, objects or people.

Before we left, she was on to a kid's digital camera. I liked seeing that.

One of those people, in two ways

 

Today was the Fidg's first Kindermusik class.  I bought the class pass via LivingSocial, figured 4 weeks of musical fun was worth $29.  Naturally, she skipped her morning nap and is probably teething. Not a great combination for a toddler.  She was the second biggest child there - though there were several others her age.  She was digging the other babies - she loves other children usually.  And when one song required her to lay on the floor in front of me to have her belly tickled, she didn't so much giggle as stare, wide-eyed at the instructor.  What the hell IS this, she clearly wondered.  I can't help but feel an affinity to Fidg in moments like this. I think I made the same face the one time I attended a yoga class where we were told to bark.

The first way in which I was one of those people: I've read other bloggers discuss their kids in a protective matter. These kids have some idiosyncrasies or strong personalities and there's this "don't stifle my baby's burgeoning individuality" vibe that's always made my eyes roll like the wheels on the bus.  And yet, this afternoon, when each segment of class ended and the kids sang (parents sang) "let's put away the cars/fruit/scarves/shakey eggs" I couldn't help but think, why you gotta clamp down on my baby's exploration?  So she wants to stand on the drum? So what? So she beats it with her feet. Who cares?  And who takes away a shakey egg after 5 minutes anyway.

The second way in which I was one of those people: from the instructors perspective, I think we were a handful.  "Oh, Thomasina, you want an orange - no, okay, a purple scarf," "Oh, Thomasina, let's put the egg back, no, back, there you go, uh-oh, no, back in the box. Here, I'll put the boxes in the other room . . ," and at one point, the instructor reached over to start picking her up off the drum. I'm the parent letting her child run wild, aren't I? Mine is the disobedient one.  Not sitting quietly in mummy's lap like the other little girls?

But. No. I think she did alright for having no nap and being very tired and being in a new, exciting place. She doesn't want to march in a circle in mummy's arms. She wants to dance under the stereo and on the carpet with the cool lattice pattern that surely felt like freedom under her bare toes.

And that's fine with me.

We probably won't buy a longer class pass.

The Fidg at 14 months (and 4 days)

Well, my child, you are 14 months old. Zoomed right past that 1 year mark and already have two months down of your second year.  Though I nod my head along with the common comment about how fast you grow, I'm usually lying when I do it.  You're growing up at an appropriate rate of speed.  It's not too fast.  Some days - usually in the evenings when mommy badly needs a cup of tea or to catch up on TV, it's too slow.  These are truthful parenting thoughts, sweets. By the time you're old enough to understand them, you probably, well, will.

But each day is a delight, at least for a moment.  You're so very talkative.  There are still few words we recognize, but you jabber away at us, the cats, your toys, the wall - anything listening.  You run and are starting to venture into jumping territory.  You enjoyed your first, full-on scraped knee this past weekend, but it - like the raging, take-no-prisoners head cold  you shared with your parents the week prior - didn't seem to slow you down.

We attended mommy's 10  year college reunion.  The event caused mommy to be much to introspective for weeks in advance and worry much too much about superficial concerns. And some deeper stuff, too.  In the end, though, I spent more time with you than classmates, which was alright by me and fine by you. You had so much fun! There were kids! And your first bouncey house! (In 18-20 years, I hope you'll be back in a bounce house on parents field, but with a nice, cold beer to enjoy. Responsibly, etc.)  You bounced with your god-cousin, Lucas - the first time you've been together and both mobile enough to semi-interact.  Your god mother and I think you had a great time.

As you grow, I'm still excited for our future activities, baking, playing, strolling, singing, laughing, joking, learning.  But I realize, sadly, that I am wishing away your babyhood and someday will realize how little of it I truly lived and enjoyed. It's hard to be present when you're juggling so much and always trying to cross things off the to-do list.  Don't be as much like mommy on that point, Fidg.  You've got to find the right balance between the way I and your daddy look at free time and life.  If you err, you should probably do so in daddy's direction.

The Fidg at 13 Months

Fidg at the Zoo

Over a  year old now. That's crazy, little one.  You - and your friends - seem so much more grown-up now.  Toddler limbs getting longer, baby fat still there, but stretching out a bit.  You're still small with lots of small person needs, but you're growing and developing and evolving every day.

You'll be able to brag someday that you were an international traveler at a young age.  We just got back from England and you had a smashing time. You slept on the plane from taxi until nearly landing on the way there. We were amazed and appreciative!  In England, I could tell you were benefiting from the undivided attention of 5 adults: us, your grandparents, and your Aunty Sarah.  You learned to point while we were gone. It's an amazing step in communication.  You make two slightly different sounds when you point, one to indicate you want, and one to indicate you want to know what something is.  It's pretty adorable and it makes me even more exciting for you to learn some words and let me know what you're thinking.

You're all walking, all the time now, except, it seems when you're angry and jet-lagged.  Then you flump on the floor on your belly and crawl a few feet in frustration.  The belly flump is especially amusing.  Soon enough, I'm sure you'll add some arm and leg flailing and we'll have full-blown toddler tantrums on our hands.  For now, you just lay down to emphasize your dissatisfaction with our parenting choices.

You should know, for the record, that in Cath Kidson in Windsor, your father gave you a sheep-topped pencil to play with, which I took away, causing you to question our authority. So daddy then gave you back the pencil and bought it - choking hazard and all.  Maybe you'll get lucky and that will work when you want a car later.  File that away, dear.

Today is April Fools Day.  With current technology, most people opt to post false facebook updates or tweet lies to fool others.  I wonder what technological advancements will enable your pranks later.  I posted that I was pregnant again and you would be a big sister. It fished in a lot of people, but Alecia called out the prank.  Then Darci wished me twins for suckering her. 

I feel a lot of potential guilt about not giving you a sibling, my love, but I don't think it will happen. I fervently hope you will create your own sisterhoods and brotherhoods.  There are going to be a few onlys in the 2010 baby club - at least that's the thought so far. And you have Anya S. for older sister guidance.  And you'll have cousins who I hope will be like siblings.  It's very hard to balance, you see. And right now, I can't see a way to increase this party without unbalancing things.  It would take away from Fidg time and that would make me so, so sad.

Thirteen months old - such a big girl!  Soon you'll care about the animals at the zoo and not just about running around at the zoo.  That makes me happy.

Personhood

It's happening. She's becoming a person. A person with her own will. She's becoming her person.  The last month or so has seemed like a developmental spurt in the same way she used to grow like a pretty little weedy thing in the early months of life.  The clearest instances of this new personhood, however, peek through via any number of daily tantrums.  Her daddy didn't recognize them as tantrums and was surprised when I checked the "yes" box on the "does she have tantrums" question of a survey at a recent doctors visit.

You know those times when you take a away something she's playing with that she shouldn't be playing with? And then she yells? And sometimes there are tears? And lately she lays down on the ground to cry some more?  Yeah, that's a tiny, one-year-old's tantrum.  They are frequent and pretty cute. For now. Well, only sometimes.  She has opinions on some basic things like what she wants, when she wants it, and how she'd like to do things (answers: that what you have/that what I shouldn't have; now; her way). It's pretty amazing.

Language Acquisition

My daughter - MY daughter, duh - talks a mile a minute.  BabbleBabbleBabbleBabbleBabbleBabbleBabble all day long, lately. For about the last month. My theory is her mouth is powered by her legs- they are now walking, so her mouth has jumped ahead to running.

(Woe to anyone who ever tries to shut her up.)

She doesn't have many words that we understand yet. Cat. Daddy.  Her versions of those. She understands other words? Balloon? Her eyes go to the balloon.  Bring your monkey. Over comes the monkey - though more precisely, over comes to the toy next to her which is, in this case, the monkey.  I tried to get her to say balloon a few nights ago. Ba ba ba ba ballooooon, Fidgey. Ba ba ba balloooon, Fidge.  The closest we got was her definite mimic of the way one's lower jaw would drop and lips would smack with the sound ba.  Then she toddled off, far more interested in the actually balloon than the word representing it.

I've always been fascinated by language.  Linguistics is a cool word. A cool subject. How do we command these sounds into words and into common experiences and understandings. Have I ever really read the Iliad because I've only ever read translations? Can a poem really work outside its native tones?

Of all the reasons I sometimes wish I could be home more often with her, language is top most right now.  By this time next year, I hope, she'll be expressing herself with words. Asking questions.  We won't hear these awesome babbly sounds anymore.  She'll trade her language for ours. I can't wait to hear what she has to say.

The Fidg At 12 Months. The Fidg At 1.

My child is nothing if not cooperative

At 1556 on March 1, 2011, the Fidg officially marked the completion of her first year outside the womb.  She's been walking since Super Bowl Sunday, when she made her longest stroll yet in front of the crowd I'm sure she believed amassed for that specific reason.

One of the first, if not the first, photos of the Fidg

I've been waiting for at least a month - and probably 11 - to write this post. Yet I'm technically a few days late writing it. I've back dated it.  The internet is a lie, people. It's a lie!  But as with so many aspects of this journey, the words that should be so willingly running from my brain haven't been running at all. I'm sure I'll look back on this first year - and the pregnancy - with no greater regret than my regret of not writing more of it down.  Sometimes, the sincere stuff is just too hard to find.

This is how we both spent most of the first few months

Your birth story is here, Fidg, in all its dramatic and painful glory.  I've been dwelling in those memories quite a bit lately.  I don't want them to fade. I'm scared of letting them go. I'm scared of repeating the same experience and of never repeating the same experience.  I still harbor these semi-secret wonders.  As the kid the coaches and PE teachers told to stop dogging it, did I dog it on pushing?  Did I not try hard enough? Did I give up on 8 too often and had I made it to 10 a few times more, would there have been no section? Had there been no section would there have been lactation problems? Would there have been bonding problems? Were there bonding problems? Would there have been jaundice? Would the early days have been better? Easier? Even by a point or two?  Did I fail you from moment one? Did I fail myself and condemn myself to life with that hint of failure? Was it a rocky start or a no-rockier-thank-normal start? I'll never know.  I know I can't ever know, which is supremely annoying to your control-freak of a mother.

 No one told your mom how hard the early days would be, either.  There were some hints and lots of jokes, but man, was I under prepared. Woefully under prepared.   Even with a full time dad at my side, I was lost in a sea of lonely confusion, exhaustion, pain, and biological imperative.  Though I fret about your not having a sibling, I don't think I can go back there, not even to give you a brother or sister, and I would do almost anything to give you stuff.  There are questions there too: was it hormones? Was it normal? Was it excessive?

Amanda, 1 of only 3 non familial hospital visitors.

A lot of it was probably the stress and strain and pain of nursing you.  The retrospective on that will be in another post, dear Fidg, but suffice it to say, keeping you fed was all I did for about 12 weeks. Then I had two weeks to enjoy that I could keep you fed. Then mommy went back to work.

"Doesn't it go by so fast?" all the parents and non parents are trained to say.  I suppose it does, Fidg. Except I would say good portions of the year were excruciatingly slow. The fast bits were the good bits - your early, so hard to earn laughter.  The rare quiet evenings.  The rare stress-free outings.

I don't want you to think you were a total drag, kid?  You're not a total drag.  Mommy's just always been slow to embrace change. I usually run on a 6 month schedule, but for something as big as little you, I guess I needed to allow for more time. I also don't have patience for things I'm not good at, and I'm not sure I was very good a parenting in the beginning. I'm not sure I'm good at it now.  As a really rough analogy, it's like being camp counselor to the little kids. You're job is making sure they keep coming back to camp until they are old enough to make better people out of.  My job was keeping you alive so you could keep making those neural connections until  you're old enough to watch Sesame Street and converse about it.  That takes time. And I hate waiting.
 

Miss Independent

But I love you, Fidg. I love the seeds of personality in there. I don't even know how to describe you, but I know you, absolutely and without question.  I know your cry above others. I can hear your current voice even in your newborn voice.  I can see your expressions repeat through the months.  I can feel your being when we're apart - which is sometimes good and sometimes bad when it distracts me while I'm, say, driving a car, or making a speech of some kind.

I love you in the morning when you wake up with lots to say.  Babble babble. Lately, your noises take on a staccato cadence, with some rolling tongue and some endearing patterns.  T-kit-tee-kit-tee-kit.  Maybe you're saying kitty - you also say cat. Or your version of it. There are daddies in those words too. And some mamamama, but not quite in the same way as daddy.  You know words though - you understand more. You make connections that make me think of that Helen Keller scene - cup, a cup, this is the word for cup, this is a cup, this is language, this is meaning.  Your eyes go to balloons when you hear the word. You pick up your monkey when I say where's monkey.  With that come new fears. Not of baby f-bombs, but of culture and television and messages and gender roles and all sorts of the world's big and small evils.  How soon until you understand what the world is saying it wants from you? Will you agree with it? Disagree? Will you notice? Will you be a young skeptic? Will you be Thomasina, scientist and mathematician?

The days immediately after your birthday feel like a bit of a let down. Not a let down. They feel - normal. A new sense of normal not felt in a while. We hit that milestone. It's passed. It will never come again.  In fact, my biggest regret on the exact day of your birthday is that, despite happening to be home for it, I missed holding you at the exact moment the clock struck 1556.  I was downstairs loading the dishwasher. I'll never get that moment back. I'm more mournful about having missed it than I'd have thought.

But enough of all this for now. This rambling post that is, itself, not as great as I hoped when I started it - days ago.  We dwell in a state of "enough" these days. Good enough. Enough sleep. Happy enough.

But one thing I have more than enough of: my love for you, my one-year-old daughter. And in thinking about that, I'm taken back to our hospital room the day we checked out. With daddy packing the car and you and I waiting for discharge papers.  The glare was almost too much from the giant window. The blue sky scattered with clouds. I promised you the zoo. We're going to have fun, I told you, and choked up for the first time after an emotional few days.  We're having fun already - but the best is surely yet to come.  Happy Birthday, Fidget.

"In your face, mom."

What to tell other first-timers?

The good? The bad? The ugly?  And does it matter - will they actually believe you? And can a non-parent truly comprehend parenthood. I don't think I thought I could, but I now know I had no clue.

This post might seem negative, but it's not. It's intended to be matter-of-fact.

Things I Used To Do But No Longer Do:

1. Blog (and barely here)
2. Take photos - and I have the perfect subject, too.
3. Exercise
4. Eat even marginally well
5. Dress well
6. Be a dedicated, really good Y&G advisor
7. Enjoy things
8. Have time
9. Be more politically active
10. Have goals

That list is unfairly devoid of explanation:

1. Clearly I still blog, you're reading it.
2. Just don't have the time to get better at this. I should, though, because then there'd be less chance I would be IN the photos.
3. Still looking for that mythical 30 mintues a day or 90 minutes a week. I can't even get my kid in bed for the early shift right now. And I don't want to hear put her down and let her fuss. I'm not going to do it. So don't offer it as an option. It's not an option. It's not. an. option.
4. If I don't have 30 min to exercise, I don't have 30 minutes for a meal and I don't have time to grocery shop as often as I'd like (and those who know me, know I LOVE to grocery shop)
5. See items 3 and 4. I dress like I have stopped caring because I have stopped caring. If I could wear a burlap sack or a large, cardboard box in which I could travel without being seen, I would do so. And the really painful thoughts come when I consider my upcoming reunion. Barely anyone was there the year after we graduated for graduation weekend and barely anyone was there for the 5 year - so to them, I'm the same. Just as fat as when I graduated. Like the last 10 years didn't happen. And the lack of self-worth is a real drag.  Of course, I also had some cheetos with my lunch, so I'm just at the bottom of a shame well with no real motivation to escape. I ate my way into this.
6. I tried. I honestly did. I tried my hardest. I thought I could do it. I can't do it. I couldn't do it and  I didn't do it. Sure, I'm better than other advisors, but I wasn't the best I could be and I wonder if I just kept the title of Lead Advisor for selfish reasons.  The kids need more advising. This means we get a babysitter and get this kid weened before the next Bob I or I pass the reins to .... someone. There's no one. Sigh.
7. Of course I enjoy things. I enjoy lots of things. I enjoy thinking about things I'd enjoy. I enjoy eating and spending money. But you know what I shouldn't be doing right now? Eating and spending money. I'm fat and debt-poor. Sad.
8. I don't have time for anything. I think that's the biggest problem. I think if I could get to work at 9 that would help. But I can't stay till 6. And I can't change the current morning schedule right now. The correct partly line is "if I got home later, I'd never see my baby awake! Sad!" The honest party line is "if I got home later, that would leave Rob more time to occupy the baby and that feels unfair, so I guess I'll continue to do what I do now, be genuinely happy to see her for 20 minutes and then commence praying that bed time comes soon so I can sit on my ass, watch TV, and eat food." 
9. So many reasons for this one. See item 8. Also, employment limitations. Mostly time. No, both. 
10. That's an outright lie. I have so many goals my goals have goals. I have no time and even less energy to pursue them. THIS is parenthood, my friends.

Or is it? Maybe it's parenthood for those who didn't envision life where satisfaction was based in any measure on being a parent.  Those that wanted nothing more than to be a parent, those who clutch their ovaries at the sight of a cute baby and pine for the next newborn to cuddle probably have no lists of frustrations because they are doing what they wanted to do.

I'm not at all surprised that the recently appointed women on the Supreme Court are all childless.  I really don't see how you pair an aggressive career path with having children.  But that's wrong too because I know happy, successful mothers who delight in their jobs and their children.

Will my child hate me for these posts? What do I teach her about life and goals and balance?

My mother is getting worried reading this, I guarantee you. She really shouldn't freak out too much. My love for my daughter and my desire to do more, be more, exist in separate channels. That might be part of the problem, but I don't think so.  I've mostly accepted that the first two years or so of my daughter's life must be hers and not mine. But as we approach the first milestone, I have to pause to acknowledge there's so little me in my daily life anymore that I fear if I don't list the parts of me I've noticed going missing, they'll never come back.

Doll Trouble

Eek. I don't know, too real? Not real enough?  And the sociological angle:

One weird thing about Toy Fair is all of the stringent gender norms that are pushed in marketing-speak. Trucks are for boys. Transformers are for boys. Nerf is for boys. So what do girls get? This exceedingly creepy robo-baby, designed to train them to be mothers. Seriously.

So this doll isn't totally horrible (though, c'mon, we've all see that Twilight Zone, right? You know the one).  But why does it only interact with Mommy? Maybe it has a daddy-switch in the back, not sure. I wonder what message my daughter would get from this doll? Would this doll make me look bad?

[INT - MY HOUSE, 3 YEARS FROM NOW]

THE FIDG:

Mommy, how come my doll always asks for mommy? I ask for Daddy when you're at work? You're the one who is supposed to be home with me, right? Isn't that right mommy, you're neglecting me? My dolly represents cultural norms. Why are you forcing me to grow up in a culturally inconsistent household?

Right? I mean, who wants to live with that sort of guilt?

I'm going to need my mom to remind me to what extent I played with dolls and mothered my toys as a child. I remember stuffed animals more than dolls. I loved my American Girl doll when I was older. But I don't think I mothered it. I probably friended it.  I recall my little sister having the wetsy type dolls.  And I know my older sister was crazy excited to get my niece her first baby doll.  I am already, however, projecting onto my daughter and her toys my anger over the expectation that girls grow up all nuture-y and the message sent by "My First Ironing Board" or whatever.

Getting in the Game, Being in the Room

Capitol Weekly featured a piece today by Robin Swanson and Shawnda Westly addressing the continuing fallout from California's seemingly willful ignorance of its female power players and announcing the launch of a new website, by women, for women, and for California.

The site, www.politicalwomenca.com presents its mission thusly:

to give women working in politics a place to post their resumes so that employers can find high-quality women to work in campaigns, elections and political positions throughout California, and perhaps across the country. We want to make sure that we have a deep bench of women working in this business, so we continue to take leadership positions throughout the state - and take our seat at the table.

This site is only as useful as the content that drives it – so it’s our hope that women will take the plunge and start posting. In fact, we’re going to take the first resume poster to coffee, because we like women who aren’t afraid to step forward.

My gut instinct is to post my resume immediately. Not because I'm necessarily looking for a new job, but because I want it to be clear how much talent California has to offer. Come court me, right?

Except, yeah, I'm the sole breadwinner and keeper of medical insurance for my little family. Would my current employer see my bold statement in support of California political women as a bold statement in support of California political women? Or would my employer see it as a rude gesture to an entity that's been and is very good to me and show this ingrate the door?

Hmm ..... Before I had a kid, I might have chanced it. Now, can't do that.

Of course, I'm hardly alone in having those fears, right? Most people engaging in a job search do so somewhat, well, politically. If you're in a job, you don't risk it until there's a sure landing pad, right? We've all been part of those hushed conversations, the personal e-mail account exchanges, the "keep this on the DL, but . . . " Vallejo's run-ins.

And what of the founders comment that they like women who aren't afraid to step forward? Calculated to raise my blood pressure for sure. I've never hesitated to raise my hand, to step forward, to volunteer, to toot my horn, etc. Were it just me, like I said, I'd be doing that now. My friend correctly identified this line of reasoning as an excuse. It is an excuse. She's totally right.

Is there a way a website like this could allow us to step forward prudently? I have no problem stepping forward to illustrate the kind of experienced, educated, bad-ass talent available to employers. I just have a problem gambling my current employment to do so. What if the information were presented without a name? Sure, it's a damn small town and it wouldn't take much work to scare up the identity of a set of job experiences. But at least in the first pass, job-seekers would remain google-nonymous. Then would-be employers fork over $10 (payable to Emerge) to view the name and contact information of the resumes in which they are interested. Everyone wins! Especially when you factor in all the other biases such a structure could combat.

I know there are plenty of fantastic women who will leap on this service immediately and I'm already proud of them for doing so - and a bit ashamed of me for not doing so.

Hopefully, by the time my daughter is looking for work, this site will only need to exist for men.

Updated: This is from the site as well. Cool.