the horsey tree

My son calls me babba. Not mommy; not momma.  Babba.  We’re not really sure how this started.  He said momma first, so I knew long ago that he knew how to say it.  But, he just decided that he wanted to call me Babba.  There was a point when we would say momma and he would respond very impishly and decisively, "Babba!"  It was, by all appearances, a very intentional choice on his part.

A while back, when he was really just beginning to talk, the one thing that he would choose to say to strangers (and friends, often) was Babba.  As he would start to warm up to somebody, he would point to me and say "Babba."  It was as if he were saying, "I’m starting to be ok with you now, so the first thing you need to know about me is that this is my Babba."  It was precious. Most people had no idea what he was saying, but would smile and respond to whatever they thought he was trying to communicate.  It was kind of like a little inside joke we had going on for a while.  I knew he was talking about me and I felt truly honored to be my sweet little boy’s Babba.

Part of me thinks that having now two children, I am entitled to the beloved "Mommy." Regardless, Cael is not to be disuaded.  He is fully conscious that I am his Mommy but is convinced that his Mommy’s name is "Babba."  So, he calls me by my name–his name, for me.

The question now is what his little sister will think of all this.  And when Cael will become too embarrassed to use the nickname he has assigned to me.  I will enjoy a more traditional title when it comes, I think.  But, for now, there is something sweet about our little inside joke.

We took our little lion and butterfly around our neighborhood on Wednesday night for All Hallows Eve.  Cael had a fabulous time.  He started off the evening very tentative.  At our first stop, he looked curiously at the bowl of candy, very unsure about what was expected from him….though enticed by those brightly colored little packages. We convinced him that it was ok to take some treats and after a few more houses, he had it down to a science.  He knocked boldly at the door, earned some cuteness points with a "roar!" and then snatched some candy from the bowl.  He did gladly offer an "Ay Too" (His still-babyish "thank you") to all these amazing people who were giving him treats.  His best roar of the night was at a sweet German Shepherd that was waiting inside the glass door while her owner went to get some candy.  I guess Cael felt confident and superior in his king-of-the-jungle suit.

It’s been a long time.  So long, in fact, that I forgot how to find my own blog.  I had to go to a friend’s blog and follow a link to my husband’s blog and then follow his link to mine.  So, if it took me that much effort to get here, I seriously doubt anyone else will stumble upon this post.  But, here I am.  Take two.  I’ve decided that I’ll give my blog another try–mainly for the sake of recounting stories about my sweet children, for my own good and for those far away grandparents, aunts and uncles who miss them.  Yes, them.  Take two.  Since my last, long-ago post, we have welcomed our little girl, Gillian Mae.  She is now three months old.  Big brother Cael recently turned two.  Life is full.

So, I will make no attempt to make up for the many unrecorded months since my last post.  That would make me want to quit blogging when here I am trying to start again.  So, I’ll just tell a simple story of how my two-year old made me laugh today.  

Cael has been sick for about a week.  It’s just a cold, but it’s the first of the season and it’s hitting him pretty hard.  Nap times have been rough.  So, bedtime has gotten earlier.  I left the table tonight while Cael and Josh were finishing dinner, so that I could run the bath water and speed things along for an early bedtime.  When Cael finished his meal, Josh got him down from his highchair without wiping him off (because he was going straight into the bath) and sent him to meet me in the bathroom.  He came running in with his excited still-a-toddler run.  I began to undress him when he picked a leftover crumb off his hand, popped it into his mouth, and happily proclaimed "Eat Supper!" 

Last year, for Halloween, Cael was Max from Where the Wild Things Are.  This year, I decided to stick with the children’s book theme and go with one of his Daddy’s favorites from childhood.  Now, if  you look back at the Curious George stories, he is mostly a naked little monkey (with the notable distinction of being tail-less).  He occasionally sports an outfit that is specific to the role he is playing in a certain story, but there is no characteristic Curious George clothing.  But, I was afraid that if I made him just a naked little monkey everybody would say, "Oh, what a cute monkey" and not "It’s Curious George!"  I think that the company that owns the license to Curious George has this same problem, as you always see Curious George stuffed animals and what-not with a little red t-shirt or baseball cap with that famous Curious George script. Anyway, I decided to dress my monkey in some red overalls with a "CG" on the front.  Cael wore this to our church’s Harvest Party a few weeks ago.  He looked adorable when he was standing up…..but every time he sat down all the little snaps between his legs popped open.  Yeah…so, red corduroy is not stretchy like brown fleece and those overalls, which I had attached to the monkey body of the costume made it a wee bit small upon the sitting.  So, for Halloween, I cut off the overalls and reverted back to the naked little monkey look.  But, he was Curious George nonetheless…and his Daddy even sported the too-small yellow hat I made to be George’s friend, "the Man in the yellow hat" and we had a good time delivering some of Abby’s pumpkin chocolate chip muffins to our neighbors. Here are some pics of our little George (with and without the overalls)…unfortunately, the ones from the other night didn’t turn out so well.

I did leave space for him to breathe….he’s just looking down here to show off his monkey face.

And the naked pics….

Cael desperately signing "please"…..He was ready for one of those muffins we’d been handing out all night. 

My Dad is a Redskins fan.  Growing up, I was very proud to be a Redskins fan, too.  We watched the games on Sundays.  And, when my oldest brother moved to Florida, I got to fill his spot in the annual trip to watch our team play the Cowboys.  We’d drive up to D.C., meet my other two brothers for lunch at Ledo’s pizza, they’d all eat the anchovies, and then we’d drive over to the stadium, grab some peanuts from an outdoor vendor and head to our seats for the start of the game.  We had two sets of two seats, a few rows apart.  My dad and I (oldest and youngest of the four-some) got the better seats, against the wall, under cover, behind the lady who wore the dangling redskin helmet earrings, red and gold beads around her neck and chain-smoked the whole game through.  We’d sit bundled up in scarves and blankets, with little heat packs stuffed in our mittens and freeze for 3 1/2 quarters. We’d always leave in the middle of the fourth quarter, chasing my dad through the crowd in his desperate race to beat the traffic out of the stadium.  Occasionally, we’d hear the best plays of the game on the radio in the car driving away.

I have good memories of "the game."  I liked being part of the action and joining in with the boys in their grand sports tradition.  My dad is a Redskins fan.  He always has been; always will be.  I think he has mellowed over the years in his Redskins fervor, but as long as I have known him, he’s been a quiet fan.  He sincerely cares about the outcome.  He’s content to sit at home with his cheese sandwhiches and pickles and watch–maybe letting out a grunt now and then….He rarely even catches one live game a year anymore.

So, this is what I knew of sports fans, until I married my dear husband.  Joshua comes from a deep tradition of baseball fans.  And, for some reason (partly, Ozzie Smith’s antics on the field), as a child, he picked the St. Louis Cardinals to be his team.  He grew up in Virginia. He is a DIE HARD Cardinals fan.

I have sweet memories of getting aquainted with the sport during our first year of marriage.  Josh bought this deal where we could listen to the Cardinals games via the St. Louis radio station, through the internet.  So, for hours on end, that summer our phone line would be tied up so we could listen to good ol’ Mike Shannon describe each swing, steer-ike, and fly ball.  During the World Series (void, unfortunately, of Cardinals) we decided make the grand effort to watch the games on TV.  We lived out in the country and didn’t pay for cable, so we couldn’t even get network channels clearly.  We bought a fancy antenna a really long cord.  We moved the TV into the kitchen (closer to the back door) and, each night, would yell back and forth–Josh holding the antenna up on the roof out back and me inside watching the static lessen and intensify–until we got the games in focus.  We’d stay up late, sitting at the kitchen table watching the games with the back door slightly cracked for the antenna cord.

So now, here we are in St. Louis.  And, the Cardinals are in the World Series.  Up 2 games to 1 against the Tigers.  We’ve got a little Mark McQuire doll hanging on the front door. The mood is tense in my house on game nights.  The cheering is loud.  I figure it’s the one time of year I’m not going to worry too much about the baby being awakened from a good night’s sleep.  His Daddy has every right to cheer.  He’s a Cardinal’s fan from Virginia, in St. Louis during a very good year.

It’s been a long night. It is time for Ice Cream and Chocolate and time to revisit the long-neglected blog.  It is time because the benefit of having a long night is coming out of it with a story to tell, or, as the case may be, a story to post on one’s blog.

Tomorrow, I am supposed to take a meal to some friends who just had twins.  Their second set.  In less than two years.  My sister-in-law, who is living with us, is working for this family and so I had planned to have the meal ready in the morning to send in with her.  I went grocery shopping today for the ingredients I didn’t have for the meal I planned to make.  But, as evening came around, I thought about this meal I was going to make and decided that, after several days of dealing with a sick and very needy little boy and running on less-than-usual sleep do to several late-night events recently, I needed to crash early and therefore opt for something easier.  So, I decided to switch my menu and make a quiche.  I have a really good quiche recipe that I got from a friend and it is the easiest good meal I make.  I knew that I had recently bought some refrigerated pie crusts (note that they come in packages of two–this will be important). I just assumed that I had everything else on hand.  This was mistake #1. 

I had already begun the quiche-making process when I realized that I was a bit short on Swiss cheese and did not have a can of evaporated milk. It was late enough in the evening now that there was no way I was going to go back to the more complicated meal I had originally planned.  Besides, I had four eggs cracked and waiting and a pie crust layered with onion and bacon on the kitchen counter.  So, I called my good friend a few doors down and she came through with the evaporated milk.  (She didn’t have the cheese but I decided I could make do with what I had.)  I left my good dog, Rolen to guard the house (and the sleeping babe) while I walked to my neighbor’s to pick up the milk.  We chatted for a bit. I checked out the door a couple times to make sure no one was lurking by the house and trusted my faithful, protective pooch.    Mistake #2?  Well, he didn’t let in any strangers.

But, he did eat my pie crust. And onion. And bacon.  Which he pulled right off the kitchen counter.  He cleaned out the pie pan and was downstairs hiding when I got home.  

So, I cooked some more bacon, and some onions.  I pulled out my second pie crust (Thank you Pillsbury for forcing me to buy two of your refrigerated pie crusts in one package.) and started over. My old faithful easy recipe is usually much easier than it was tonight.

I have one minute until the quiche comes out of the oven.  Then, I should probably take the dog out. 

In order to balance out the foul story of my last post and because C is having a terrible-horrible-no good-very bad-day today, here is something adorable that my little boy did the other day:  I was trying to get him to eat some chicken.  He’s not a big fan of meat (other than ground beef and that preferably smothered in spaghetti sauce). So, he quit after a couple of bites.  When he refuses to eat something, he does so ardently.  He clenches his little lips together and there will be no prying them open.  Occassionally if he laughs or screams, I can sneak something in, but I have to wait for an opening.  So, I decided to try and turn eating into a game. I picked up a piece of chicken and began to buzz it around like a bee–a chicken "bee" whose ultimate destination would be a certain little boy’s mouth. C thought this was funny, opened up and ate the chicken.  I did this for a couple of bites and then C picked up his own piece of chicken.  He spastically waved it around in the air for a minute (his version of the buzzing chicken bee) and then held it up for me to eat it.  Which I did (who could resist?). And, he laughed heartily.  So, for the next few minutes, we would take turns buzzing the chicken into each other’s mouths, both of us laughing at the silliness and sweetness of our little chicken-eating game.

Lesson for the day: Never put your one-year-old to bed in just a diaper. You just never know what might happen.

Do you really want the details?

Baby C went down for his first nap in a T-shirt and a diaper.  Yes.  Older, wiser mothers may have thought twice about this. They might have thought that any day now that one-year-old might turn his diaper into a toy and start exploring.  They might have had the foresight to pull on a pair of shorts or even a onesie or perhaps a straight-jacket to prevent such exploration.  But, alas, I suppose one must learn some lessons through experience as one begins her progression into the older, wiser mother category.  Anyways, to make a gross story short…C woke up from his nap.  I heard him talking but decided to leave him in his crib for a bit to play as I usually do.  The problem is, today he was playing in his doo…. As I found out when I went to retrieve him.  He had removed the diaper and THEN decided to poo and pee all over his sheets/bumper pad, etc.  The diaper itself was clean. The baby was a complete mess.  And, since everything at this point in his life is something to be discovered and, most of all, tasted…well…let’s just say his face was smeared with poo and he was sucking his thumb when I entered the room.

So, today was bath day.

When I was quite young and, I suppose, recently potty-trained but not yet fully trusted to make it through the night, my mom would scoop me up out of bed for mid-night visits to the bathroom.  She would set me on the toilet in my delirious state and tell me to "go potty." I would obediently comply. Then, back to bed.  I never remembered it in the morning.  My sister thought this whole routine was hilarious.  I was always a sound sleeper.  Some time I’ll recount the story of a certain night time visit from the tooth fairy. 

My sweet babe is so very sweet when, for whatever reason, he is disrupted from his sound night-time sleep. A few times recently I have needed to change his diaper after he has been asleep for a couple of hours.  Sometimes he can manage to stay asleep through the entire clothes/diaper change.  Most times, though, he just opens his little eyes, stares at me confusedly, though with utter trust, endures the changing and wiping and dressing without a peep and nods contentedly back to sleep.  Tonight, I put C down over at a friend’s house.  When it was time to leave, I scooped up the sleeping babe and his blanket and his doggie.  He looked around, but was still groggy enough not to care what was happening to him. I went outside, carrying the babe to the car, got only minimally wet from the sprinklers, and realized I didn’t have my keys.  I went back in the house to retrieve them, carrying my sleepy-but-no-longer-sleeping babe into the brightly lit house full of happy loud children. He was now awake but in a stunned sort of awe that turned back into sleep when we finally got on the road. We just made it home where, upon exiting the car, I bonked little C’s his head on the door frame. Note that throughout the whole ordeal, C is trying desperately to give in to his sleep and keeps resting his heavy little head on my shoulder. I, overwhelmed by his sleepy sweetness, can’t resist kissing his snotty little nose several times.

He is in his crib. With doggie and blanket. Back asleep. He never made a peep.

Tonight is the eve of my sweet first baby’s first birthday.

A few weeks ago now, our dear friends Aaron and Nicole spent their vacation time to drive half-way across the country to visit us. Josh and Aaron were roommates for a year in college. Nicole and I knew each other throughout college, but not very well. The summer after she and I graduated, I subletted a room in her apartment. That summer, Josh proposed.  I think it was the very next day that Nicole and Aaron got engaged.  The next Spring, in May, Josh and I got married.  A month later, Nicole and Aaron got married.  Josh and I moved to a little town south of Charlottesville where we rented our first home together–a cute little cottage with a wood stove and nice wooden deck out back. Aaron and Nicole rented a small house on a cow farm less than ten minutes away.

So, through some of the most significant events in our lives thus far (the whole dating, engagement, marriage thing) we had these friends walking close beside us, trying, as we were, to figure it all out. And, during that first year of our marriage, these dear friends were our community.  We would spend at least a couple nights a week together, sharing dinner or playing Bridge.  Our marriages were brand new. (They are still brand new, really.  But then they were months, not years, old). Alongside each other, we were learning to be wives and husbands. And we became dear friends. At some point, we stopped pretending in front of each other.  They saw us as we were. And they were ok with how we were. It was beautiful, really.

These dear friends are family to us.  We have seen each other only a few times in the two years since we moved away.  But, each time it is as if no time at all has passed, despite the fact that we now have an almost-one-year-old. They love our little boy and, while he changes the dynamics a bit, we still fill his naptimes with as many hands of Bridge as we can squeeze in.

So, it has happened slowly and not really very intentionally that Nicole and I have grown to know and love each other. We have just shared real life together and have become dear friends in the midst of it. We have low expectations for each other.  We don’t call or email regularly.  We don’t feel pressured to send Birthday cards. But, we have confidence in our friendship. When we spend time together I am uncharacteristically quick to let down my guard because, I think, I feel that I am known and loved. So, when we the four of us see each other in another six months or so, I have no doubt that we will pick up where we have left off. We will catch up on each other’s lives, relax in each other’s company, and play some Bridge.