On night waking and attachment

It took over 30 minutes to walk to the bakery.

Ada woke me up at 2:30 asking me to fix her star. Bleary eyed and confused I followed her into her room where the lights were on and every toy was on the floor, along with most of her bedding. I looked at the clock in her room. What is happening?

I quickly pieced it together that it was, in fact, the middle of the night and told her the star would have to wait, as would combing her princess' hair, finding Yellow Pony and any other play-related request. A meltdown ensued as she semi-obediently climbed into bed and told me in no uncertain terms that, "I am so, so, 'specially sad, Mama." Truly the cruelest part of toddlers is how expressive and naughty they are all at once.

I fed a now wide-awake Olive (we moved her into Ada's room—now "The girl's room"—about 2 weeks ago and it's been smooth transition, gratefully) and 20 minutes later climbed back into bed with Mike. Only seconds later we heard the rattle of the shape sorter in the other room and Mike jumped up and took it from there. Bless him.

Liv woke up at 5 til 6, was alert and happy as can be and I wondered why on a night that I went to sleep at 10:30 I still felt so tired. I brought her in bed with me and she kicked and cooed and batted at my face until she drifted off for a bit around 6:30. That only lasted 15 minutes or so and she was up again, chatty as can be. She's such a smiley little thing. All I have to do is look away for a few seconds and then meet her eyes again and she gets all crinkly-eyed and gummy. She's a real happy baby. I finally feel like her mother, and not just her sustainer. Our relationship is blossoming into one that's based in smiles and loving interactions and not just the daily tasks of keeping her alive. It has been a huge blessing and helped me keep my guilt at not "bonding" with her as much at bay. I've always had a visceral, instinctual bond with her, but now I giggle with her and look forward to our interactions. She's my Liv. I know her. And I feel true to myself when I say that I love being her mother.

I've expressed it here before, but I can't get over how different mothering my second child is. People said I'd be able to enjoy it a lot more; that I'd be less worried about every little thing and the hard stuff would come more naturally to me. And that's mostly been true. But I enjoyed struggling and overcoming (nursing) with Ada. I felt like we were a team. I was in raptures over every expression. I would sing to her endlessly, talk to her endlessly. And with a second I spent more time away from her than with her. I nurse her while getting out a project for Ada or picking up breakfast. As soon as she's content, to the floor she goes so I can get to one of the other 10 things that either need my attention or are half finished (completing a single task start-to-finish in one sitting has become a major accomplishment). I felt distracted and unable to do it all. I had to consciously make time to sit and smile with her.

But something has changed in the last few weeks. Maybe Ada is less needy and understands that a new little person at our house does nothing to displace her or our affection for her. Maybe I am just out of the postpartum fog. Maybe Liv's new-found voice and near-constant smile are to blame. Not sure, but whatever the case, I feel so much love and attachment to Olive that sometimes I have to catch my breath. In the same way I can't wait for Mike to get home from work so I can relate 100 anecdotes about Ada from the day, I look forward to getting him close so we can watch our second baby bloom. You can't fully relate expressions. You have to experience them to feel it from head to toe. Olive makes me want to smother her in kisses.

Right now, in this moment, motherhood is so good.

Tummy time is always (usually) and group effort. Ada always feels quite proud of herself.

This probably put Liv at risk of mauling and drowning. But I'm pleased to report no baby was harming in the making of this photo.

That's the last of 'em

Ada came outside and met me at my easel after she woke from her nap. She was chewing something.

I ask, "What's in your mouth?"

"What's in your mouth?" She repeats. (Because answering questions is something that has somehow eclipsed her).

"What is it?" I ask again. Pointing.

Chewing.

I keep probing. "Where did you find it?"

"I found it in my mouth."

Yes. Brilliant. Of course!

"I need you to open the box of candies so I can have eat more candies. I need candies."

And that is how Ada polished off my last five Cadbury Mini Eggs.

Accepting need

A week ago I would've told you that Mike had gotten Ada's bedtime routine down to a fine science. A book. A story. Turning on her favorite songs. He stays for one. Then he tells her he'll be right outside the door (and she repeats, "Daddy will be right outside the door" about 600 times while he says, "Yep, that's right, sweety" until he has closed the door behind him.

But lately she's been a bit more needy. And I've been a bit more tired. Which isn't exactly a winning combination.

Last night I tried the tried-and-true, almost too sterile approach. Book. Story. Song . . . but she seemed so scared that I was going someplace far away. Like she could sense my anxiety about getting her to bed and on with my night.

I paused outside her door as she cried in her room, and accepted that some nights your kid just needs you more than other nights, and tonight, my baby needed me.

I knelt by her bed and told her I wanted to talk about our day. I tried to pick out all the bright spots—the dinosaurs marching song during storytime at the library, eating a frosty on the deck at Grandma Colleen's house, jumping in the pool to Daddy—and forget all the screaming fits and embarrassing public meltdowns that filled up a majority of my day. As I mostly talked and she mostly listened, her eyes lit up and she would insert her variations on the day as we went. At one point she said, "Remember last week when we went to the doctors and she listened to the baby's heart and it went, 'Wha-oo-wha-oo-wha-oo' and you were a such a good girl at the doctors. And—" she paused and her dark eyes wide and serious, "you're going to be a big sister when Baby Liv comes so soon." She expressed several other sentiments regarding the baby, including the fact that the baby will give her Abby Cadabby when she comes (?).

I kissed her a thousand times before I skirted out of her room. And I left feeling lighter and less anxious and accepted that some nights a mom just needs her baby more than other nights.

2 Years-old

It's amazing to me that my baby is two. What's more amazing is that she won't be my baby come June. There will be a new little face around these parts (I still am having loads of trouble wrapping my mind around this). In fact, my heart at once bursts and breaks when I think that Ada won't be my only child soon. Is this normal? I'm such a swarm of conflicting feelings. On one hand I can't wait to add another little person to the mix. I can't wait to see Ada as a sibling. I can't wait to cuddle and new warm baby and introduce it to the wonders I've slowly discovered the last two years with Ada. On the other hand, the thought of dividing my time further, of spending even less with Ada and Mike and art is a complicating and conflicting thought.

But back to my darling Ada girl. She knows her ABC's and can almost count to 20 unassisted. She can sing all the words to Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and knows several other tunes that she puts most of the words to (Jesus wants me for a Sunbeam, Stars Were Gleaming, Mary has a little Lamb, Row, Row, Row your Boat, Elmo's World Theme Song . . .) She describes things with several adjectives, "Ada wants her purple ciucio with tiny, purple stars." Literally. She has said this to me on several occasions. She speaks in third person 100% of the time and often narrates everything she's doing or experiences. She mimics nearly every word I say. She picks up quickly on emotions. She loves to draw and paint and can do it for several hours a day. She loves Elmo. She seems to prefer book stacking to book reading these days (but perhaps it's because she's tired of our selections at home. . .) She can build the train track by herself but gets frustrated easily when the pieces don't line up on the first try. She loves wearing dresses and necklaces and hats but also loves to run and jump and climb, throw balls and play at the park.

She is a completely different baby than she was when we moved out here in August. In fact, I don't think she's really a baby at all anymore. This growing up business is even harder to watch from the outside. She's more and more fun by the minute (and often more challenging) but the phases pass so quickly and she's shooting up like a weed I'm not sure how much more growing I can take.

Can't we just put things on hold for a bit? A little bit? Please?

Ada, I love you so much my insides turn to pieces. You are the brightest joy of my life. Happy 2nd Birthday, sweetie.

On self-raising

For a few reasons, I sometimes I feel like I'm raising myself. There are moments in nearly every day with Ada that mirror home videos from my childhood so closely it's hard not to wonder if my mind has made-up said videos and replaced my own little toe-headed-toddler self with Ada.

She colors for spans of time equal to toddler eternity (thirty, forty-five minutes?! She can't even watch Sesame Street for this long) and while she does she often sings to herself, or narrates her drawings. If she sees one of her "pretty dresses" she insists on putting it on right that instant and then proceeds to "spin like a princess" before moving on to adorning herself in every necklace I own. Her mind seems to constantly be humming, processing, sorting information. Perhaps all toddlers in general seem a bit preoccupied because their little brains are taking in so much each moment. She easily collapses in frustration when she can't communicate like she wants or the moment she feels itchy (sound familiar, Mom?)

But I also feel like I'm raising myself (or, really, continuing the work my parents started). Being a baby having babies, there is still lots of room for self-raising. When I see Ada's tantrums I get so self reflective ignoring her behavior—waiting out her storm—is easy. But it makes me realize I don't take a lot of things well either. Is mothering always like holding a mirror up to yourself every day? People always say they learn more by having kids than by being a kid. And it's true. Because you see so much of yourself in them, moments of intense examination come all-too often.

My abusive boyfriend-child

I had a friend tell me that toddlers are like abusive boyfriends and we are like their low self esteem girlfriends. "We keep coming back to them, love them more and more each time."

It makes me feel like a crazy woman sometimes. How is she at once so endearing and maddening?

This morning I was over-the-moon in love with her. She was shirtless, doing a veggie dance and taking laps around the kitchen while eating "pock-warm" (popcorn). She would pause about every 30 seconds and stand back from her whiteboard to exclaim, "Oh my goodness! Look at THAT!!" She sang, "And everywhere that Mary went, Mary went, Mary went, Everywhere that Mary went, Mary went, Mary Mary went."

My heart couldn't take it.

*     *     *

In an obvious moment of deep contemplation Mike turned to me the other day and said, "Isn't it crazy that we have the capacity to create people we'll someday associate with?"

"Like, our children?" I had to clarify.

"Yeah. You know—don't have any friends? Have some babies."

So weird. Though it is becoming truer and truer. Ada is turning into my buddy.

*     *     *

Most buddies of mine, however, don't take dry erase marker and scribble up and down the length of their shins before coming in to ask for forgiveness and wipe. (See what I mean?! Abusive. But how could I not love her even more after her obvious try at rectification?) Or throw themselves to the ground and start writhing because I filled their cup with water rather that milk.

When I put her down for a nap  she looked up and apologized again. "Sorry, Mommy. No, no color on pants. Color on paper!"

What was going to be a reluctant, guilt-inducing, not-so-motherly, begrudgingly bestowed kiss turned into a shower of smooching. She hated it.

I love her for it.

my two loves at the park on my 60 degrees, sunny birthday

Christmas kink

The day after Christmas we packed up and headed to Heber for two nights at a cabin with Mike's family. The cabin was beautiful and spacious. We rented snowmobiles that everyone was anxious to try the next day. We packed sleds and dufflebags full of gloves, scarves, hats, thermals, coats, snow pants and boots. It was to be 3 days of snow play, cozy fires, hot cider, games, and family bonding.

We arrived around 4 and had pizzas for dinner. After, the family all headed downstairs to play air hockey, watch the grandkids wrestle and play. Soon the kids were ready to watch a movie (or a moomie, as Ada calls them, though she's never sat through more than 10 minutes of one so I'm not sure what her fascination is...) I headed upstairs to make popcorn and before the microwave dinged Mike was carrying a crying Ada up the stairs.

She had climbed up to the second rung on the bunk bed ladder (only about the height of a kitchen chair), slipped, and taken the full impact of her fall onto the tile floor with her right arm.

(L) waiting at the Instacare, in the middle of saying, "It huuuurts." (R) Didn't hurt bad enough to keep her from using that arm to color with. She the bend in it? Her other arm looks totally straight by comparison.

It was readily apparent to me that something was more wrong that just a routine bump on the head. I noticed what I initially thought was swelling in her right arm right away as I held her, but had a gut feeling it was worse. I went to the couch, pulled up her sleeve and knew immediately her arm was broken. Her arm was very bowed and after comparing it to her left arm, I knew we needed to suit up, brave the snow and head to the hospital.

On the drive there was sang a few primary songs which calmed her down almost immediately. We drove 10 minutes the wrong way on Highway 40, too flustered to follow a map, before turning around and getting to the hospital.

Too happy to have a broken arm, right? Or just loopy because it was after 10 pm at this point.

The wait was more miserable for us than her. The x-ray confirmed it was a greenstick break in both bones so they paged the orthopedic surgeon to come and set her arm. We opted for sedation so we wouldn't have to listen to our screaming baby as they bent her bones back into place. She fell asleep, with her pants down, ready for her shot just minutes before the anesthesiologist came in.

Still coloring with her broken arm (after pushing the ER doc away with it...my little toughy).

They gave her a dissociative anesthetic that caused a temporary disconnect between what she felt and what she remembered. She tried so hard to talk through the whole thing.

Gradually as the drug too affect her speech became slower, more slurred, her eyes started ticking back and forth like she was in the car watching telephone polls zoom by out the window. Eventually she was catatonic and the orthopedic surgeon came in to set her arm.

I was at her side, watching the whole thing up close. Mike said he was surprised that the guys just grabbed her arm and with his hands straightened it all out. I found that particularly comforting, actually. Sometimes I feel like medicine is too removed from our bodies. Everything is done with machines and not much is left to intuition and personal care and trusting our hands.

As the doctor set her bones she let out the saddest, slowest moan I've ever heard, "Ooooooooooooooouuuuch-eeeee." I felt my heart break a little further every second she sustained her slow-motion-cry. As she came out of the affects of the drug, he began hallucinating. The anesthesiologist said adults who are put under this way often talk about strange hallucinations. Ada hallucinated about bubbles. She raised her arm and began popping the imaginary things. Minutes passed and she recognized me, wanted to talk about mommy and her cousins and daddy.

All was right. Except for her purple fingers. Oh, and her broken arm.

We went back a week later for the hard cast. Hot pink. She began crying the second we stepped foot in the hospital. "Gee-na car!" (Get in the car!") "Bye bye! Gee-na car!"

She basically screamed the whole time we were there. But she got a stale sucker and a teddy bear out of the experience so it couldn't have been THAT bad. Plus, now she examines her cast with pride every time she undresses and says, "Ada's cool cast. It's pink."

I asked her last night if she wanted to take it off on Friday. She immediately cradled her arm and said, "No take it off! No take it off! Ada's cool cast! It's pink!"

(With any luck cast comes of tomorrow!!)

Featuring an ugly red coat

The last few days in Washington were spent cleaning and packing and organizing so coming home from our holiday in Utah would be a pleasant, relaxing experience. Everybody knows you need rehab after a vacation. Somehow they often leave you feeling hung over from all the happy memories made.

We left fairly cold weather in Washington (with those mums still holding on for dear, numby life!) and arrived in mounds of snow in the frozen Utah tundra. Ada couldn't have been happier. I couldn't have been colder.

A few days after arriving she somehow got us all out of the house before 10 and on a sub-arctic walk around the neighborhood. There's a spot from one of our home videos growing up that has my sisters and I playing in the snow on the deck of my parents' Grandview home. My mom is playing commentator while we chase each other and catch snowflakes in our mouths. She says something like, "There's some sort of golden rule where the amount of time it takes to get ready to play in the snow must be twice as long as the time the kids actually play in it." I thought about it every time we got suited up to head outside. Did I mention that Utah is like an arctic subcontinent?

Ada walked off the plane wearing a sign announcing our big news around her neck. It was fun to wait and announce my pregnancy until we were there with our families in person. At nearly 14 weeks I felt super proud of our secret-keeping skills. It took everyone a little bit to realize what Ada was wearing. Seeing their faces was priceless.

I've been feeling relatively good, but more sick and tired than I did during my pregnancy with Ada. I'm sure half the fatigue comes from tearing after my toddler day in and day out and not having the luxury of sleeping in any more (oh the days of sleeping in!!)

We've drilled the phrase "Ada's going to be a big sister because Mommy's having a baby!" into Ada's head. I've heard her say it to her toys (and while she leaves out half the words it still never gets old). We're excited and hoping to build up how great babies are so Ada doesn't get too jealous when the little bundle arrives at the end of June.

Loosen

I felt like a good mom today. Mike took the computer with him for the day, so I knew there could be no crutches (i.e. Elmo and Renee & Jeremy videos) used as distractions and time-buyers. I looked out the window. Fog. It looked cold even though the weather report said it would be in the 50's.

It had been months since I'd gone on a run. For me, usually the hardest part is getting out the door. In today's case, I had to change a tire on the stroller (my pseudo-fix from last Summer just isn't cutting it anymore). But I suited up, geared up, babied up, and out the door we went. I was so happy and it wasn't too cold.

When we got to the park I let Ada out of her stroller and we chased each other around the statue until the fluffiest white dog in the world bounded over and we let it lick our faces.

She wanted to jump in the puddles. Normally I groan a little inside thinking about the mud and the water, and the uncomfortable whiny baby that usually emerges from the the water. Maybe the run invigorated me. Or maybe I've been inspired enough by other women lately who let their kids lap up water from puddles and explore to their hearts content. Either way, in she went, hopping up and down the length of the shallow pool. After a few minutes she sat down in it, her fleece pants acting like sponges. I told her to stand up, she responded with a squawk, and I realized that the damage was already done.

So she sat in the water for a few minutes until every inch of her were soaked from the waist down.

After we was done I stripped her down to just her diaper and coat, put my sweatshirt on her—legs through the arm holes—and zipped her up tight in the stroller sleeping bag. We jogged home quickly, not stopping once on the way.

The morning set the tone for the rest of our near-perfect day.

Maybe I should loosen up a little.

In every heart, there is a room

Most of the trees are bare, acting has home to more squirrels than leaves, but there are still a good bunch holding on to their shaky leaves and keeping things feeling more like Fall and less like Winter here on Capitol Hill.

Ada and I spent a crisp morning at the park. It was deserted but for the leaf blowers and riding lawn mowers making more noise than clean spaces. We wandered around a bit, trying to find dogs to pet and tunnels to hide under while sharing crackers and kicking leaves. We ran for nearly a block, all the way to 11th street and then balanced on the edge of the sidewalk back towards 13th.

Having an empty playground meant that I got to chase Ada all over it. Up the stairs, down the slide. Up the ladder, down the ramp. We rode the springy bikes together and crawled under the slide.

I remember being pregnant with Ada and thinking, "Geez, I love this little human!" I had no idea just how completely she'd win me over. My friends have adorable kids, I've got World's Best nieces and nephews and cousins who are darling and charming and smart. But none of them are my Ada. My stubborn and feisty, independent but fiercely needy, assertive, curious, and endlessly entertaining Louise. I guess it's good we're hard-wired to adore our own. Otherwise the seemingly semi-hourly tantrums would probably push me to auction her off to the highest bidder. Not.

Becoming a mother made me realize that our hearts know so little of how much room there is inside. I didn't feel like room was made when I had Ada, but rather room I didn't know existed was filled.

An Ada update

I keep telling myself I need to write about my Ada girl but haven't made the time to do it in months. Like babies always do she's changing and growing and learning so rapidly that I'm already forgetting the sound of her saying, "Lo-fee" (lotion) or "Agn" (Ali) as she has replaced them with closer adaptations ("lo-she" and "A-wee"). She's needing to rely on me less and less and an interpreter, which is magical and heartbreaking all at once.

She knows about half of the letters in the alphabet and can sort of sing the alphabet song with me if we trade off lines. (I start off "A B C D" and she says, "E E E," "H I J K," "L me me me me," "Q R S," "T V V," "W X," "Z Z Z.""Now I know my," "A B Cs," "Next time won't you," "E E E".) Same thing—trading off numbers—goes with counting to 12, though for some reason 7 has recently reverted to a 4 . . .

She's still as active as ever. She'll often say ". . .Set, GO!" to herself and take off doing laps around the kitchen table. She climbs everything and has a proclivity for balancing on the edges of things and teetering while saying, "Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!" She loves wrestling and chasing and getting tickled (Dad is the best at all of these).

She is still equally enthralled with cars and necklaces alike and loves to paint, draw and play with play dough. Some of her other fascinations include fans, water, mermaids, dogs, ties, and puzzles.

Most mornings she'll wake up and begin talking about various friends from church, "Eden is fun. Rupert is fun. Sasha is fun . . ." She's fairly outgoing, often walking up to strangers and giving them a love and a kiss (awkward alert). When riding our bike she likes to sing songs together and often initiates Freight Train  or You Are my Sunshine. I'll never tire of our bike rides.

She loves to be understood and often repeats phrases until I repeat them back, letting her know that I've understood. Some days I can't believe I understand my baby talking to me. When did she get big enough to form words and sentences and independent thoughts?

When it comes to sharing, she'll freely share with inanimate objects (cars, trees, strollers, lights) or things that couldn't be less interested (squirrels, birds flying 20 yards overhead, dogs we pass while riding our bikes), but with other kids—that's another story completely. Something to work hard at, I suppose.

Basically, Ada is a completely normal toddler doing very normal toddler things, but because she's mine I think she's just remarkable.

I want to be a Swede

November also played host to DC's Kids Euro Festival. Delegations from each of the 27 European Union Member States hosted free plays, musical performances, workshops, screenings and other events for kids in the area. There were only two that specified ages 1-3 as a good fit for their event, so we were sure to make the most of the few performances we went to.

The first was at House of Sweden, the building that houses the Swedish embassy. It's a beautiful, modern, clean, Scandinavian structure right on the Potomac that made me want to march up and apply for Swedish Citizenship right then and there. The performance and activities they provided for the kids was equally as impressive and cool. Several Swedish families were there (and Ada was mistaken for a Swede—she has enough of it in her ancestry, maybe 'mistaken' is the wrong word).

The performance was really simple but I was amazed at how entranced even the busiest of bodies became when it began. Ada and I had front row seats and it helped to be right up in the action.



I think the performance served as a lesson in sharing to the kids and a lesson in the simplicity of play for the adults. I know it helped me realize how focused simplicity trumps many other kids of play. I came away happy to live in a place so rich with opportunity and creativity. I love that I can share in these experiences with my daughter and help cultivate a spirit of adventure and learning and creativity as we take on new things together.

The second performance was at the Kennedy Center on the Millenium Stage. It was an evening performance so we got to bring Dad along with us. This performance was by a troupe from Bologna, which made us extra excited to check it out. A link of the performance can be found HERE.

P to the O to the T-T-Y

You know when you're so behind in blogging that you just want to toss your hands up and jot down, "We celebrated Halloween and a week later Mike had a birthday" instead? I'm about there. It's paralyzing because I have the nagging compulsion to want to write chronologically. The more behind I get the I am the less likely I am to ever want to write anything because it means backing up two weeks.

Sigh.

I'm going to try and fight that compulsion today.

Ada has become increasingly resistant to her diaper and increasingly aware of how uncomfortable it is to sit in your own wasted. Going in her diaper is always followed by a lot of tugging, waddling, and, if she's wet, exclaiming, "STHOGGY!" If it's messy, on the other hand, she sticks her chin up like she's howling at the moon and in a low groan says, "poooooooop-py! Pooooooooop-py." It sounds much like a cow mooing, actually.

Tuesday I figured, let's go for it. Ada diaper free. Me on her like a hawk and asking her 8 million times if she has to go potty until by the end of the day she only responds with raspberries and squawks.

By noon we had our first victory (who knew she could hold it for 3 hours?!) #2 right where it belongs. We cleaned up and while I was mid-victory-text to Mikey I heard my cattle-baby lowing, "Poooooop-py" and there it was: the sneak attack poop. She went on the rug literally 20 seconds after going the first time and shooting her enthusiastic little arms into the air and shouting, "AH DONE!" Then she stepped in it 4 times before I could get my hands free and armed with wipes.

Mamma mia.


Yesterday seemed to be going better. Until she squatted over her vehicles puzzle to relieve herself. Fortunately the pieces were scattered everywhere so it had some holding capacity. And at least her urine went in the water-appropriate vehicle: the submarine.

Let the adventures continue. We're in this thing for the long haul.

Sandy

Ada, gearing up for Sandy

Hurricane (I mean, ahem, Super Storm or what? Tropical Storm) Sandy didn't do much here aside from make us rather stir-crazy. Mike was supposed to take a test Monday that was turned into a take-home exam. Ha. Taking an exam with Ada and I around? Not a chance. Luckily our neighbors upstairs let him crash their kitchen exam-style and take it upstairs on Tuesday.

The same Tuesday where it was raining lightly and cloudy all day and everything was still shut down. I know, I know, better safe than sorry. But it was hard not to feel a bit silly when I flipped on NPR and opened my computer to see the devastation up north of us.

We had prepared well with water and food (in fact, I didn't go grocery shopping again until Saturday, as in, two days ago). I decided that other things that should go in hurricane-prep kits are distractions for toddlers (and mothers alike). Stickers! Fun treats! Silly string! New toys!

By the end of day two my creativity was spent.

Much of our time was spent playing and reading. We played with play-doh and paints and crayons. We took bath (two in one day!) and wore lots of fancy things likes gloves and necklaces and bows.

Ada got in a new habit of wanting to show Mike everything and anything she put on.

One necklace, "Daddy! See me! Daddy! See!" and she charges right up to him, plants herself inches away, sticks out her chin and grins. I get where she's coming from, like a true Anderson, Michael gives really great reactions and always makes you feel like a million bucks.

(Speaking of, Happy Birthday, Love!!)

It's now habitual. We change her diaper, "Daddy see me!" She puts a flower behind her ear (and even though it falls out before she gets to him), "Daddy see me!"

I'm not sure why it took us so long to venture out of the house. I guess it's probably because I hate being wet and cold, but when we finally did we found a few fallen trees and lots of leaves on the ground. It felt so good to breathe air than hadn't been recirculated in our 700 square foot apartment for nearly 48 hours.

Needless to say we spent nearly all our waking hours Wednesday out doors. There were way too many leaves that had yet to be crunched, dogs that had yet to be bothered, and slides that had yet to be slid on.

It felt so good to be back on the bike after nearly a week of not riding.

Wednesday felt like waking up and kicking into gear after a holiday weekend. I feel really fortunate to consider Sandy a holiday when so many others consider it their ruin.

Bursting

We carved pumpkins last night while listening to Kate Nash's Pumpkin Soup (I know the lyrics have nothing to do with Halloween, but I listen to it every October nonetheless), and Ben Gibbard's Thriller cover.

I took over the small pumpkin, while Ada and Mike tackled the big guy. With a Sharpie.

Yikes. It was so ugly. And to make it even uglier, I added glasses.

We all laughed. Me at the pumpkin, Mike at me, and Ada at the two of us.

We had hearty bread, with jam and spreads, chili and squash. While I was washing up Ada and getting her ready for bed, I came into the kitchen to see Mikey separating out the pumpkin seeds. He left them in the big stainless colander and I assumed I'd put them in after running to the grocery store. When I got back the house smelled like roasting seeds. That Mikey. What a keeper. He seasoned them with a few spicy spices (of course) but they're addictive. Like, I'm contemplating buying another pumpkin just for the seeds.

Today Ada and I biked to the National Mall and went to the Museum of Natural History. It's probably our favorite. There's lots of space to roam and wonder. On Tuesdays the Butterfly Pavilion is free. We got our complimentary ticket and hoped in line before taking a walk through the greenhouse-like tunnel absolutely brimming with butterflies.

Have I mentioned how magical Capitol Hill is in the fall? Every time we go out I can feel my heart filling with grateful thoughts. By the time we get home it's nearly bursting. The ride home together was perfect. The leaves in the District are just beginning to change and fall. We pedaled up Jefferson Drive, along the Mall, and had the street nearly to ourselves. We passed the pool in front of the Capitol Building and watched dozens of seagulls land and take flight again. We rode up the hill on the grounds of the Capitol, and finally ended up at the top where a hundred tourists had their cameras out.

East Capitol may be the most pleasant street to bike down in the whole District. We stopped at a traffic light and waved to the police man parked on his motorcycle. We cut through Lincoln park on the way home and all the while I kept thinking, "Man I have it so good. How do I always find so much to complain about?"

Today was one of those days that are so calm and reassuring that you're sure something crazy is about it hit. I hope the craziness is just more calm perfect crisp Autumn days. Wouldn't that be wild?

Vegetarians and mosquitoes

Ada is slowly turning me into a vegetarian. She has started bawk-bawk-bawking every time we eat chicken in a low, slow way to herself as she turns her fork over and over again in her small hands. It's like she's thinking hard about the fact that what she's eating used to have feathers and flap around. I'm sure I'm giving her nearly 20-month-old brain way too much credit here. Regardless, the reminder is a little much at the dinner table (or maybe just what we need?)

The mosquitoes are still in full swing at our house. Ada calls them bees and thinks it's delightful to watch them fly around in the sunlight, making their small bodies glow. I've been pretty good at arming us against the blood-suckers, but realize that their new favorite sweet spot on Ada is where I don't put bug spray: right around her eyes. She has two bites in her eyebrows and a few right below her eye. Poor girl.

When I pointed this out to Mikey he commented that Ada must have "Mommy's blood" (my ankles and feet are covered). "Daddy's blood gives mosquitoes the 'bitter beer face.'"

these photos are completely unrelated to this post. Here's Miss Lou on the steps leading to the Library of Congress

We spent the morning there earlier this week in the Young Readers Room. An excellent find, indeed!

They both make me laugh so much. I think I'll keep them around for a while . . .

The accomplice

We woke up this morning and ate chocolate chip cookies in bed. I thought, "This is a start to either a really great day, or a really terrible day." Sometimes it's hard to know.

By 9 The Lou was bathed and dressed and taking turns with Giraffey trying on various bowls for hats while I unloaded the dishwasher. As I was finishing up she ran off into another room. I closed the dishwasher, walked into the bedroom. No Ada. I peaked around to her side of the room. Again, no Ada. I went into the bathroom and there she was in the still-full bathtub (I think I have a serious personality defect where I forget to drain the tub nearly every time she bathes) completely dressed with Giraffey in the water sharing her ba-ba and brushing her teeth.

Some days it feels like Toddlerdom is kicking my butt.

The hum

I haven't written here as much lately. Part of it is that I don't have much to say. The other part is that I don't know how to articulate my thoughts. I've been thinking a lot about what it means to be a women, and a Christian, and open, and God-fearing, and full of faith. I've been thinking about peace and contentment and how you find it when things seem less-than-peaceful and you feel less-than content.

I've found a lot of help while on my knees. I've felt so good and happy this week. And it's been much like weeks previously: parks, bike rides, a walk around the block, a trip to the National Mall a few times, reading the same books for the umpteenth time (and wishing she would listen to me read the books I  want to read sometimes), trips to the grocery store, samples at Costco. Only this week I've been full of gratitude rather than full of "I seriously need a new couch"-type thoughts.

Life hums on.

We attended the National Book Festival last Saturday. Ada was in heaven. From the bands, to the books, to the oodles of babies, she could have spent all day there. We had plans that afternoon to go swimming with friends, however. It was fun to stretch on our suits one last time (I thought the beach was the last time...) before the chill sets in. I loved chatting with friends from Bologna (and wishing we were back there. I would so go back, even though it's so far away).

Yesterday Ada and jumped on the bike and headed to the Air and Space Museum. This is always one of the most crowded. Not as much fun with a toddler. She was more excited about the fans on the ceiling and riding the escalator than the ROCKET SHIPS hanging from the rafters. We spent 20 solid minutes sitting in a hot air balloon basket eating Pirate's Booty and string cheese. I'm gearing up to take her to an art museum one of these days. The Hirshorn, maybe?

Ada is learning new words by the minute it seems. She is beginning to try everything and pick up things I didn't even realize. She's also in a strangely lovey phase. She gives kisses to everyone and has been giving "loves" to the couch. (?) It's silly 'round these parts. She's also becoming more assertive and lets us know even more clearly (i.e. screaming louder and thrashing harder) when she has a "need" not being met.

This morning she woke up particularly happy. She hung out in bed with us for a bit and then saw the ghost in the living room and had to go in and give him a kiss with a big, "Muahm!" Mike and I talked about how much we love her and listened to her play. Then it was quiet for too long and the silence begged me out of bed. I found her bathing the ghost in the toilet and patting her own head with water from the bowl. Yikes.

Constant vigilance. . .

A new language

I'm beginning to understand parenting park-speak. It's a way to talk indirectly to other parents by speaking through your children's hypothesized interactions.

Example 1: A muddy kid is scuffing around under the play ground. When the baby gets up, the dad, slightly embarassed by their dirty child to the sight of your clean (for once in her life) one, introduces his son to your daughter and says, "Say, 'Hi, my name is Max! I'm not usually this dirty.'"
 
I used the tactic yesterday when I sprayed bugspray on Ada's head, causing her hair to look much more like greasy spaghetti than fluffy-fine baby hair. "Say "Hi! I'm Ada. My hair usually isn't this greasy. My mom put bug spray in it cause the bugs like me." To which she responded, "Yesth! Yesth!" paired with several exaggerated nods. (Have I mentioned her new lisp?)

She's such a good sport.

To her, lest she forgets

taste testing the National Mall

My Little Louise,

It's been a while since I've written you. It's important to me to express you to in written words just how much you fill my heart so if you're ever in doubt years down the road, or you need an extra breeze in your sail, you can find certainty and gentle wind here.

I've looked at you often in the last few days bursting with emotion. I feel the world for you.

I have felt sad that you're not surrounded—nearly bombarded—with so, so many faces who love you, who play with you, who sing to you, who toss you up in the air just to hear your laughter. May you never forget that you are part of a strong family made up of many different parts woven tight to keep you safe and loved.

I have felt excited that you have so much in front of you. You've been around the world and back, and now we're on the other side of the continent you were born on making yet another new home. Your eyes are so wide. You learned the words "bus" and "ambulance" within days of arriving. We've already visited the zoo and a museum. You have made new friends and identified every hat-wearing person on the street with an excited, "HAT!" You're going to grow so much here. And what a great place to grow.

I have felt sorry for you. Always moving. Never settling down. I know just how worn out I get by all of it. I think it must take a toll on you too.

I have felt responsible for you. Not that I don't feel this way always, but I tend to feel an extra weight when we're far away from the village that raised me. I have to sing you all the songs, and read you all the books, and teach you all the things a toddler needs to know—like colors and shapes and animal sounds and when to be quiet and when to run fast. I have to dress you and arm you against the mosquitoes. I have to make sure you're fed and bathed and happy and feel safe. I'm your mama. It's my job, and I love it. It's just my job. (And your dad's). But sometimes the thought that the many hands that helped so much when we were in Utah are too far to reach out here makes me scared.

Above all, I have felt gratitude for you. You wake me each morning, punctuating the ends of all your words with a silly "sth" sound (why do you do this, by the way?). You love me and help me feel place. Not to mention that you truly are the best ambassador your dad and I have. We met dozens of people on Sunday because you wanted to make sure we knew they were wearing a "TIE!" or because they had a little one of their own. You make people laugh and smile. You were blessed once that your light-hearted personality would uplift others. I think you uplift others every day, especially your parents.

What would life be like without you, my Ada Lou?

I love you true.

Love,
your mama