Sanity, rallying for

I am the last person who would want to go to a political rally: I'm terrible at keeping up with current affairs and have almost no political views past keeping the good guys in and the bad guys out. I always voted (when I could - I have no vote here and Ireland doesn't do postal voting for emigrants) because even if I didn't really know who the best candidate was, I wanted to have my say in keeping the crazies out of government.

But when Jon Stewart of The Daily Show, and his nemesis Stephen Colbert, announced that they would rally with anyone who showed up willing in DC this Saturday, in an effort to reclaim sanity for the everyday person, I knew this was something I wanted to be a part of. The idea was an apolitical rally, for people who don't usually go to rallies because they don't have strong views one way or another. One part big huge in-joke, one part very serious statement on behalf of those of us who don't make statements (except on our blogs).

So on Saturday morning, right after Monkey's last soccer game of the season - he got a trophy! they all got trophies! he was so pleased with himself! - we and a friend whose wife was out of town and desperately sorry to be missing the action headed down to the metro station to get in on the action.

And promptly turned around, because there were no parking spaces left.

B dropped us off, took the car down the road to park at the nearby supermarket, and walked back up. There was a HUGE queue of people snaking halfway round the car park up to the station entrance, but we realised to our great relief that these were people who didn't have SmartTrip cards - out-of-towners who'd made the journey this far and weren't going to let a little thing like a mile-long queue stop them partying with Jon. Good for them. We hung around near the other side of the entrance and, once B showed up again, waltzed in, pausing only to swipe our SmartTrip cards like pros.

Happily, we live at one end of a metro line, because once everyone on the platform with us had boarded, the train was pretty much full. I don't normally nurse Mabel much in public any more, but I willingly did so on the train (and later, in the station as we missed one jammed train home after another) because it was coming up to naptime, and I'm sure anyone sane would prefer a quiet nursing toddler on a crowded train to a screaming, writhing one. And in a tiny way, I felt that was the sort of thing we were rallying for, anyway: the right to not be judged by people whose business it is not.

We got out at Chinatown and as we walked down 7th Street, the traffic began to cede to the people and the view before us was just a mass of bodies.

A bit like this.

The rally had started at noon, and by the time we got there it was probably close to 1pm, so we hadn't a hope of getting onto the Mall. We got to where we could hear the loudspeakers - sort of - and basically wandered along in the throng, up one side, round the back of the stage - a strangely calm area - and down the other side a little bit, munching our packed lunch as we went, stopping to climb a tree beside a museum here and there, generally just admiring the costumes, the signs, the bonhomie, and enjoying the spectacle. Monkey was bored, but stayed put in the stroller with a sandwich to keep him occupied; Mabel napped on her dad's back for an hour or so; and there we were, at a rally.


This is the best view we got of the stage. We couldn't make out anyone on it.

A few highlights that will stay with me:

• All the lovely people we chatted to on the train, especially the ones who had come far - I met a couple from Brooklyn on the way down, and a couple from Connecticut on the way back - who were planning to drive back that night. (They say the trick is to go through Manhattan in the middle of the night.) They were the really dedicated ones, compared to those of us who just meandered over to our local station and popped downtown as we might any other Saturday. (Well, not exactly.)

• The guy trying to climb a tree who had a whole section of the crowd applauding for him.

• When the giant marijuana leaf offered to hug Monkey:

"What's that, Mummy?"
"Hmm. I think it's some kind of plant. It looks a bit like a cactus, doesn't it?"
"Why does the giant cactus want to hug me, Mummy?"
"Let's just keep going. Oh look, there's a good tree for climbing."

• People dressed as various superheroes (to Monkey's delight - we saw fully grown Spiderman, Batman, Captain America, and several others, in a cohort), a gorilla in a suit, lots of Where's Waldo/Wally-s, PacMan and Miss PacMan, and a topless lady (not a costume: actual boobies).

• When Mabel, who had woken up, decided the most fun way to use the leash was to dangle from it as her father hoisted her into the air. (I had her on a leash as soon as she was out of the Ergo: even though I'd written my cellphone number on both kids' arms before we left, I wasn't taking any chances. There are some people, apparently, who view children on leashes as cruel and unusual punishment: all I can assume is that they've never been in charge of an active toddler in a crowd. They're a godsend. And if your kid doesn't like the leash, it won't work, so if you see a leashed child walking along beside its parent, chances are they're - wait for it - perfectly happy to be there.) Anyway, Mabel was greatly enjoying being carried this way, so much so that if you tried to pick her up into your arms she'd wriggle and scream until she was put down, but once you tried to walk she'd go ragdoll again and wait to be lifted up. The people we passed thought this was hilarious, and there was nudging and pointing and giggling and I really wanted to shout, "She likes it, you know." I just pretended I wasn't with them.

• Lots of hilarious signs, none of which I can remember now. There's a good collection here. I really wanted to make ones saying "Down with this sort of thing" and "Careful now", but I don't think a lot of people there would have got the Father Ted reference.
  

I have nothing to compare it to, but it did seem to be a particularly goodnatured crowd. They say, though such estimates are notoriously biased, that there might have been 220,000 people there. I'm really glad we went, just to be counted.

Things of import

Oh dear. I very much fear that we've just spent a large amount of money to import across the ocean a bunch of crap that will end up in the next school yard sale.

Our shipment arrived in Baltimore on Monday night. On Wednesday morning, I hightailed it up the I-95 to the customs building there, small person in tow, to get somebody to stamp a vital piece of paper (and yay, not charge us any extra money for importing our own belongings) and back in time to squeak into the nursery school car park with seconds to spare to pick up Monkey at 11.30. (I did have a backup plan in place in case we'd hit traffic, but luckily we didn't. We also managed to avoid driving in the torrential rain of both earlier and later that day, for which I was very thankful.) Poor Mabel was so pissed off by the long car-ride (45 minutes each way, with only a boring trip on my back to a big building with lots of serious people to break it up) that she refused point blank to get into the car the next day until I swore it was only to go as far as the supermarket, and there'd be a bagel in it for her. (Then again, there always is.)

Today, B rented a truck from those sneaky people who pretend it's really cheap until you discover they're going to charge you for every mile you drive, went up to Baltimore again, and loaded all the boxes into it, and then out again at the other end. I came back from a busy morning out with two babies (zwei! zwei babien!) to find them all neatly piled in the front room.

So far I've unearthed B's entire back catalogue of cassette tapes, his shot-glass collection, a plastic mixing bowl, a battered sieve, a very cheap bedside lamp with an Irish plug, some nicknacks I never liked, a Casio calculator (solar powered - the cutting edge of 1987 technology), and a picture of me at the Grand Canyon.

In fairness, there've also been some lovely pasta bowls I'd totally forgotten about, a huge serving bowl that goes with our Denby dinner service (not yet unpacked), a lot of glasses, and 8 teaspoons that almost match our cutlery. (As God is my witness, I'll never go without teaspoons again. Cue sunset.) And a lot of paintings (my Dad does watercolours in his spare time). Our walls will also never be bare again.

And B is nerdily pleased to once again have his entire Zoid army on the same landmass.

A walk with Mabel, part II; or why fresh air is highly overrated

If you're one of my Facebook friends, this is the long version of today's status update.

It was a beautiful day. Mild, breezy, washed clean by yesterday's rain, with stunning autumn colours. I thought it was high time I got back into my routine of walking to school for Monkey-collection. I'd been sadly out of practice since the grannies' visit, and driving is so deliciously easy... Also, on the three days a week he stays to lunch, pick-up time is 12.30, which just happens to be Mabel's naptime. So there's always the teeny tiny worry that she might fall asleep on the way and take most of her nap while I'm walking instead of while I'm sitting down with a nice cup of tea.

But we set off, with plenty of time in hand for the 25-minute walk. On the way, we passed a friend, with her toddler sitting up happily in the stroller and her preschooler (who had not stayed for lunch and therefore gets out an hour earlier) walking along beside her. I looked at my watch and marvelled at her patience: it had taken them almost 45 minutes to get that far. I didn't have such time to dawdle: we'd be making the return journey at a faster pace, in order to be home quick-smart for naptime. Spit spot, as the lady says.

Despite the unseasonal warmth, Mabel was wearing a bright turquoise raincoat she'd caught sight of earlier and had to have. It's the sort that is basically rubber outside, so she must have been well insulated. This didn't bode well for keeping her awake. But several rounds of her current favourite, Sing a Song of Sixpence, did wonders. (I don't quite have the tune right: I seem to sing the same melody for every line, so I probably sound like a tone-deaf plain-chant monk. Luckily, she doesn't complain.) Despite some serious droopage halfway there, she made it to the school conscious. Win!

Grabbed the boy, located his lunchbox, said bye to the teacher, and turned around in the blink of an eye, give or take a nod to the goldfish. Then the ructions began.

[Stroller background: We have a Bob Revolution stroller. It's the best jog stroller you could ask for, and even though I've never jogged a step in my life, and hope never to have to, I love it too. It steers like a dream and has marvellous suspension. It's not a double, but there's this handy area in front of the seat that's supposed to be for the rider's feet and works very handily for a second - older, competent, unsecured - child to perch on. (I'm sure the Bob people do not endorse this use of it. It can probably lead to broken ankles if you turn the thing around too quickly. I in no way advise you to use your stroller, or anyone else's, in this manner.)


This is the best picture I can find to illustrate my point. Here Mabel is in the back (last year; her legs are significantly longer now) and Monkey is cheesing at the camera from the front.


And here you see Monkey asleep kneeling on the front with his head in the back part. On a train in Germany. Obviously.

] (closing that interpolation about the stroller here <-)

So Mabel had ridden down in the stroller, despite some initial protests. I had the Ergo with me, but was hoping to keep her in the Bob for most of the journey home, so she wouldn't fall asleep too quickly. Monkey hopped on the front and away we went.

The problem with this configuration (her in the back, him on the front) is that ever since she was old enough to exert her personality, she has objected to it (the configuration, not the personality) by kicking him in the back when he obscures her view - that is, all the time. When she was small it just tickled, but now her legs are long and strong enough to practically push him right off. Which means he has to teeter on the very tip of the front, dragging his feet and making it almost impossible for me to steer. So that's just not tenable. But the boy is lay-zee. When there's any sort of wheeled vehicle available, I just cannot get him to walk. And after a few hundred yards of Mabel yelling to be let out, and Monkey sitting on the wheel and stopping me from going anywhere much anyway, I gave in and swapped her out. So now he's happy, ensconced in his throne, resting up after his hard morning's play-dough pummelling, and she's walking along merrily beside us. This will never last.

Past the football field, through the park, beside the lake. The scenery is gorgeous*. The leaves are autumnal. I feel all glowingly home-school-y as I let them drop sticks over the bridge into the water below.

(*Monkey has announced that he can't say "beautiful" or "gorgeous" because he's a boy. He just calls things "cool," apparently. I can't find out where he got this from.)

But then. Mabel starts running in the wrong direction. I decide the honeymoon is over and try to put her on my back, whereupon she pulls out her trump card: "But I have a poo!" And yes, a quick glance down the back of her nappy reveals a large gold nugget of the stuff. Darn. I really don't want to smush that all up in her bum, and - more to the point - she really doesn't want me to either. I don't know if you've ever tried to put a toddler into a back-carrier on your own, but you really do need their cooperation for that particular manoeuvre.

So on we went; Monkey quizzed me from his seat of leisure on the moral dilemmas raised by a recent tv programme, while Mabel alternately ran ahead towards the traffic (we were back out of the park now) and lagged behind to check on a leaf, a stone, or a mote of dust. The warm, sunny day became the unbearably bright and sweat-making day and my stress levels rose as Mabel's naptime ticked past. Forty-five minutes to this very spot (where we'd passed the others earlier) started to sound eminently reasonable, and I realised that my friend didn't necessarily have any more patience than I do; it takes as long as it takes, and you just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other and pulling/encouraging the walker along, and eventually, some time, you will get home.

At the bottom of the hill, about seven minutes from home (yes, I'm being ridiculously picky - but it's more than five, and ten sounded too long), Mabel finally ran out of steam. I had to feel sorry for her: a pooey bum and well into her naptime, and there she was gamely trying to jump off a rock in someone's front garden instead of slogging up the horrible hill to home. I would have done much the same. At least, I would have just sat down on the rock and cried... but then, there's the pooey bum to consider... I had no choice but to stuff her in the Ergo, and this time she must have been really exhausted because she couldn't muster enough wriggling to prevent me. I motored up the hill, taking breath only to gripe at Monkey about how much easier this would be if he would just walk, for heaven's sake, and made it through the door, dripping and grumpy as all get out, just as Mabel's head started to nod on my back.

She woke up, I had to change her anyway, and by the time I tried to nurse her back down to sleep in bed, she was wide awake and chatting in her very cutest incarnation.

Wherupon Maud took a valium and checked out for an hour or five. I wish.

It's a long way

Mabel was "helping" me do a counties-of-Ireland puzzle given to us by a well-meaning relative a year or two ago. It's actually quite tricky and has been fairly educational for myself and the husband. The children enjoy the loud sounds the wooden pieces make as they fall to the floor.

She had helped B with it yesterday, so was familiar with a few of the names. As I worked my way up the west coast (the easy side) she hoarded all the other pieces and I heard her muttering, "Lim'ick, there's Lim'ick. Where's Tipp-a-ary?" She particularly likes Leitrim, which she pointed out is remarkably like a dachshund. (The county shapes may not be strictly geographically accurate, since in real life the country doesn't need jigsaw bulges and inlets to keep it hanging together.)

In a little while, I had managed the whole thing, almost. "Fermanagh, goes with Monaghan. We need Fermanagh. Have you seen it? Is it on the floor?"
She peered down. "There's Fe'managh."
"Will you get it for me?"
"I get it for you Tuesday."
I'm waiting for her to ask me to spot her a hamburger.


*************

It occurred to me that recent nights' terrible bedtimes may be some sort of nighttime manifestation of separation anxiety, since Mabel has also been very unwilling to let me leave after putting her back to sleep on the first waking. This has led to annoying things like my finally getting to brush my teeth at 1.30am, or having to take out my contact lenses in the dark in her bedroom (it's okay; they're disposables). Not to mention the annoying thing that is my not getting more than 20 minutes a night in my own bed.

(Interpolation: Mabel has an elevated status now: her mattress went up on the futon it belonged to for the grannies' visit, and I decided to leave it there when she went back to her room and call it her bed. As it was for her brother before her. It has the advantages of being somewhere between a single and a full in size, so there's plenty of room for us both, and dipping somewhat in the middle so she's unlikely to fall off. It also has no sharp corners, which I like for a child who enjoys throwing herself dramatically around. On the down side, it squeaks and creaks and clunks and ba-joinnggggs every time I move, so sneaking out after she's fallen asleep is that much harder. I'm thinking she might get a real little bed from IKEA for her birthday.)

Anyway. I went to Ask Moxie and searched "separation anxiety 2 years" and whadaya know, there's a great big developmental spurt just around this time that gives them separation anxiety and sleeping problems and tantrums and you name it. I have to admit that sometimes the sceptic in me thinks that whatever random number of weeks or months or years you ask Moxie about, she's got a sleep regression for that; but all those commenters chiming in about the hellish time their just-two-year-olds are giving them still made me feel better.

So I was able to be just that bit nicer to the poor child when she woke up last night, now that I can assume that it's not going to last forever and that after the hump things might even improve significantly. I doubt she'll be sleeping through the night in two months' time (as her brother was, the one I thought then was the terrible sleeper), but only waking once would be heaven. I was afraid that I'd turned her into a committed co-sleeper and I'd be stuck in her bedroom till she was seven (and that may yet be the case), but perhaps it's not so bad.

But also: developmental spurt? The child can already climb everything there is to climb at the playground, say the whole alphabet, spell her brother's name, and ask you why the chicken crossed the road. What's she going to be doing next - quadratic equations? In Latin? While scaling K-2 and perfecting her standup routine? I dread to think.

A walk with Mabel

Okay. You need to go to sleep. You keep running away when I try to nurse you down in your room, so it's the Ergo for you, Missy. Into the stroller, Monkey, you'll have to come too, because I can't leave you behind.

[Five minutes later, the wrong one is asleep. I curse (inwardly, natch). Mabel is still chattering blithely.]

- What that, Mummy? What that noise? What that, Mummy? You say something, Mummy? What you say? What you saying?
- Nothing, Mabel. I didn't say anything.
- What that, Mummy?

[I strain to hear whatever it is she's talking about. She hears all the little background noises that my ears are so used to just cancelling out, so I really have to think about it.]

- I think it's a drill.
- Man? Man with a drill? What man doing, Mummy?
- Making holes. Go to sleep, Mabel.
- I can't see man. Man making holes? With a drill? There's a doggy. Look, Mummy, see the doggy? Doggy say woof woof. You sing the song about the doggy in the window woof woof woof? You sing the song, Mummy?
- No, Mabel. No more songs. Go to sleep.

[I wonder how I can bludgeon her into silence. Luckily, she's on my back so the logistics are too awkward. I slog along.]

- ...The maid was in the garden, counting out her money... You sing the song for me, Mummy? You sing the blackbirds baked in a pie? 'Winkle 'winkle 'ittle how I wonder what you like a diamond in the 'ky... Can I sing a song for you, Mummy? I sing ABCDEFGLMNOP, Mummy?
- I'm not talking to you any more, Mabel. It's nap time. Put your head down and go to sleep.
- What you say, Mummy? You not talking to me any more?
- No. [arggh]
- You not talking? I go to sleep? I run away so we have to go for a walk?

[She puts her head down. A few seconds of silence. We pass the women with the dogs and one of them says "Hi." I try to look polite and manage to muster a grimace, instead of taking out a shiv and silently stabbing her, repeatedly, for what's about to happen. Head comes up.]

- What that, Mummy? Those doggies? That the doggy behind the fence? Say woof woof woof?
- [Seethe]

Old-Hat Reviews: Nine

This film was so unthrilling that I almost started blogging it while we were still watching. It looks great on paper: amazing cast, songs, Italy - how could it miss? And yet...it's just not compelling at all. We stopped halfway through and I felt no compulsion to finish it tonight beyond a basic duty to the nice people at Netflix.

Daniel Day Lewis is very good - he really does disappear into the character excellently and is very believable as the charismatic Italian director who's lost his way in both his private life and the film he's supposed to be making. It also stars Penelope Cruz, Nicole Kidman, Kate Hudson, Marion Cotillard (of fishtail dress at the Oscars fame, or at least that's what I always think of, not having actually seen any of her other films), Judi Dench, and Sophia Loren, for heaven's sake. (Whom I'm afraid I thought at first was Shirley Bassey. Sorry, Sophia, but you need to lay off the fake tan. Or the carrrot juice.) It should be great, no? But the story is kind of boring, the songs are in no way memorable, and it all gets very very meta at the end.

Chicago lite perhaps, but I won't be rushing out to buy the soundtrack for this one. Italy looks beautiful (as it should) and it's prettily lit and shot and the ladies are lovely and sexy and whatnot; it's all very picturesque, but there's no soul. Italy in the 60s has classic cars and lots of sunglasses and sharp suits, but there's a very contemporary feel to it - nothing like, for stark contrast, the amazingly gorgeous Talented Mr Ripley, where you just wanted to melt through your screen and emerge in a sun-drenched piazza to have a cafe latte and biscotti with Gwynneth Paltrow. And I'm not just saying that because of Jude, to whom I am somewhat partial. (At least, I was before he started shagging the nanny. Idiot.) It reminded us of what was possibly the best bit of all of Angel: the Ciao clip. (If you didn't watch Angel this will seem completely pointless, but believe me, it had me falling off the sofa in giggles.)

So, in short, not worth it. Though I suppose at least it gave me something to blog about. But I think I'll let B go back to manning the Netflix list.

Love bombs

I read this article the other day, and liked it. It describes "love-bombing" as a technique for re-setting a child who is particularly off kilter - giving them a whole day of mummy (or daddy) love and permissiveness. Read the article before you judge, because it's hard to describe succinctly.

I know some people maintain that life is hard, and the sooner kids grasp that fact, the better able they'll be to deal with it. So they let their babies cry themselves to sleep because they'll have to fall asleep on their own for the rest of their lives, or force the shy-phase preschooler to talk to strangers because that's how polite adults behave.

Personally, I think we would do no harm - and maybe plenty of good - by love-bombing our babies as much as we can while they're small. I'm not talking wild and unmeasured indulgence here, but just taking the opportunity to hold them and love them up good and proper while they'll let us. It should pay dividends now and later. Life is hard, and if we can give our kids a protective cushion they can count on at home, they'll be better able to cope with the jagged edges of outside.

This works on the large and small scale. We all know that you can't spoil a baby - for the first year, more or less, there's no way that miniature person is trying to manipulate you: they're just doing what comes naturally - looking for comfort, food, warmth, reassurance. You can't love them too much. But even when they're older; if I spend half an hour during the baby's naptime watching kids' tv with my four-year-old snuggled on my lap, I count that as money in the bank towards the rest of the day's debits, when I might be yelling at (sorry, strongly exhorting) him to put his shoes on so we can go out, or putting his sister first because she's smaller, again.

So go love your children while you can, before they do something really annoying and/or grow up.

Faking it

Why is it that, when children fall asleep with you, they make sure to toss a leg or two nonchalantly over yours, and maybe an arm across your chest as well, just to ensure that you can't creep away without their knowledge. Even in their sleep? It couldn't be, could it, that they're cunning little buggers? No, I'm sure it's purely coincidental. Or innate, or something.

Mabel just now propped both legs up on me as she conked out. Monkey at this age used to fall asleep, finally, with his head resting on top of my head, for maximum imprisonment and minimum comfort.

Monkey and I have come to an agreement: I'll cover his ears for him without complaining, if he'll go to the bathroom when I can see he has to go, and not three hours later after a succession of increasingly teary shouting matches. So far, this is - sort of - working. It's really picking one horn of the dilemma and landing myself on it, but at least it leads to a quieter life and a happier household, and I'm hoping he'll grow out of the need for the sensory deprivation faster if I don't make a big deal of it. (I'd also like him to start opening his eyes again. I'm mostly trying not to think about that.) I know he can go by himself if he has to, because he did on Monday when I was out and a friend was watching him, so I'm satisfied we don't need to call in the shrinks just yet.

******

It dawned on me the other day that I am really, truly, a soccer mom. I bring my kid to soccer practice, so I must be. It's a bit of an adjustment: I liked being the pregnant lady, I was delighted to be the woman with the baby, I love being the mother of the cute little ones, but soon (far too soon) I'll just be somebody's mum. It seems unfair, perhaps because I so vividly remember what somebody's mum is like from the other side of the fence - the side when it's your playground, your classroom, your teacher, and the mums are the gathering hordes outside, waiting lovingly to retrieve you from being just another one of many and bring you home to your domain, where you're one among few, and life revolves, to some degree, around only you.

People's mums have perms, and slacks, and cardigans, and coffee mornings and dinner parties. Times have changed, and I've never had a perm, but I do like my cardigans, and khakis are the slacks of the noughties. (Though three seasons of the year I live in my jeans. I'm a trendy mum.) I know, because the supermarket's canned music tells me so, as I hum along the aisles, that I'm the one who's supposed to be doing the grocery shopping these days. All this time I've been pretending to be a grown-up, doing the things grown-ups do, and now it turns out that these small people I've nurtured in my bosom (and their friends) think that's just what I am. How they betray me, reeling me in to motherhood by letting me bask in their reflected cuteness, and spitting me out all too soon, all haggard and grey and looking like somebody's mum.

Perception is everything. "Fake it till you make it" really just means fake it until everyone else thinks you look like it.

Goodnight kisses

Bedtime with Mabel has been a bit of an ordeal lately.

I've taken to sitting her on the potty before bed, as she's amenable, and she had started using it as a procrastination measure, dramatically exclaiming, "But I have a pew" to get out of the bedroom once we'd settled in. This way at least I can pre-empt that, even though I really have no interest in having a totally potty trained baby just yet: I like being able to change her when it suits me, not whenever the mood strikes her to drag us all to the bathroom. But I know well enough not to look this particular gift horse in the mouth, so I'm trying to go with it.

For the last two evenings, after sitting down and squeezing out a couple of drops, she's leapt up, turned around to face the potty, and announced, "I going to use my penis."
"Mabel, you don't have a penis."
"Yes I do have a penis." She peers down over her tummy.
"No, Mabel. You have lots of other good stuff, but you don't have a penis. If you had a penis, we'd be able to see it."
"Oh."

Then we're in bed. I start to nurse her. She squirms. She squiggles. She wants to lie down. She wants the other side, the "big side".
"Mabel," I sigh, "they're both the same. You just had this side."
But I shuffle over anyway.
Eventually, she straddles me, wags a finger admonishingly in my face, and says, "You stay there. Fi' minutes." She slowly gets off the bed, pretending to look for a dolly on the other side of the room. Then she slyly glances at me, sees her opportunity, and makes a break for freedom: out the door (ajar, for light), and slithering down the stairs like an eel, to run into the family room and climb up into the stroller, head down, "hiding" from inevitable retrieval.

I console myself, as I mount the stairs again with my wriggly, giggly, wide-awake burden ("I not wide-awake. I Mabel.") that her brother was a terrible sleeper too, and look at him now. Hard out with a bead of sweat on his nose because he's directly under the glare of his bedside light. Every night, when Mabel's finally asleep, I turn it off, leaning precariously over from the top step of his loft-type bed on one tippytoe. The step creaks and my sweater might brush his face, but he doesn't budge, even with the click and the sudden darkness. And there he'll stay, till 6am. There's hope for Mabel yet. I think.

Mommybrain

At some point last night or early this morning I woke, sort of; glanced in the half-light at the head beside me (and a bit lower), and thought: "No, not you. You're not supposed to get any. Gerroff." And disturbed the poor innocent sleeping toddler whom I'd mistaken, in my befuddlement, for her big brother.

I used to do that a lot in the early weeks and months after she was born. I'd look down at the head in the bed and wonder whose it was - the big one or the little one? Sometimes I was half in a dream state and couldn't tell for quite a few seconds. It didn't really matter, I suppose, but if it was the big one, then where was the small one gone?

This is called mommybrain. When you're pregnant it's pregnancy brain - which almost cost us $600 in early cancellation fees of two phone contracts because I read "October" and understood "September" - and after you've had the baby, it's post-partum brain. But when the dust has settled and your hormones and brain cells are supposedly back to square one, it's just plain old mommybrain, and it's here to stay.

Mommybrain is the reason I always know where the small pink spotted sunglasses are, and where the plastic binoculars are quite likely to be, but managed to lose my favourite jeans for a week because I put them in a different drawer.

Mommybrain makes me cut the crusts off without being asked and inspect all slices of bread for (a) seeds and (b) holes before doing anything with them.

Mommybrain is what keeps me wide awake and ready for any action that may be needed at 3am, but falling asleep drooling on the sofa at 2.30pm every afternoon.

Mommybrain must have something to do with the way I can always remember the kids' names but never the adults'.

Mommybrain is definitely the reason the $20 cashback I got at the supermarket last week is still in the pocket of my other jacket, wrapped up in a receipt and a roll of coupons I'll never use, while I have a grand total of three singles in my wallet.

And I would very much like to blame mommybrain on the fact that the good sofa now has some purple accents courtesy of a small girl with a marker, but I must own up to the fact that it's really the fault of the Internet. Take that, Internet.

What have you blamed on mommybrain lately?

Old-Hat Reviews: The Time Traveler's Wife

The movie, not the book.

I enjoyed the book a few years ago and looked forward to reading it again, but then my mother-in-law stole it* and I haven't yet managed to get my hands on a replacement copy. So I felt that by now I was far enough removed from the written word to watch the film without getting all annoyed about it. (Because some people did, you know.)

[*In her defence, I have to say that she didn't really steal it. She liberated it from the bonds of my bookshelf and sent it on its way in the world to be enjoyed by others. My mother-in-law views books as fluid objects, transcending ownership. I view books as mine, living on my bookshelves, to be lent out with caution and recovered zealously. But since I had appropriated her copy of Never Let Me Go in similar circumstances the same year, and she almost always leaves us whatever she's finished reading at the end of a visit, I'm in no position to take the high ground here.]

I'm blessed (from the perspective of one who enjoys re-reading books and gets great value out of a big reveal - again) with a terrible memory for details, once any length of time has passed. (I was a great exam candidate so long as I could review everything the night before, but ask me to integrate a whatsit or define a function these days and you'll be met with a blank look and a referral to my husband.) What I remembered from the book, apart from the basic plot of the bloke cursed with sudden bouts of uncontrollable, naked, time travelling, was that for some reason I had got it into my head that he was Harrison Ford. Ford is, of course, too old for the part, but such logic had no place in my head. Transferring my affections to Eric Bana was a bit of a leap for me, but I managed to accept his Henry fairly well - it probably helped divorce the on-screen story further from the written version, which was no bad thing for me.

Claire-in-my-head was the girl from Six Feet Under (Lauren Ambrose) - perhaps influenced by the fact that her character in that was also called Claire, and that she's a redhead. Rachel McAdams was a bit too dark of hair, but she's prettily generic-looking and was okay in the part, I thought.

I don't know what sort of experience this film would have been for someone who hadn't read the book: I suspect they might be left in the dust as the complex logic of this particular iteration of time travel was, sort of, brought to life. Of course, there's always an element of suspension of disbelief needed, and much as I love this sort of thing, I usually do end up at some point gesticulating wildly at the screen and going, "But, but, but..." like a broken record as my disbelief crashes to the ground and my logic circuits kick in uninvited. And this one really messes with the mind when it comes to predestination versus free will, because unlike some other time-travel scenarios, in this case there is only one future. And if you know it and you can't change it, what's the frigging point of anything, really? Gah.

The narrative moved very quickly, but such is always the way with films of books you've lived with and allowed to get under your skin. There's no way you can ever love a film like a book. There was hardly any time for the sense of foreboding and imminent disaster that I remember, the long-drawn-out fears for Henry's feet and legs and ability to get out of trouble fast, the repeated visits to the scene of his death, with a little more information being gleaned each time.

It was a decent enough way to pass the time, and mostly just made me resolve to get my hands on the book again. Maybe this just wasn't the right medium for this story; it's much, much better in words. Even Harrison Ford couldn't have made it work.

Frustration

During the summer, Monkey had occassion to visit a particularly odoriferous public bathroom with his father (Brighton Beach, UK, in fact, if you're looking for the one to avoid). He did his business as had been painfully obviously necessary for the past while, but insisted on having his nose held so that he couldn't smell anything. This was just as awkward as you might imagine it would be, but B complied so that they could get out of there and back to the important occupation of getting wet and muddy at the British seaside.

This sensory overreaction has continued, and Monkey still asks for his nose to be held when performing somewhere less than lovely. This is just about this side of reasonable, as far as I'm concerned, and I will usually, grudgingly, help out.

Problem is, it's getting worse. He has now decided he doesn't like the sound of the stream hitting the water, and wants us to put our hands over his ears whenever he goes to the bathroom. And then, the other day, his aim seemed a bit random, and I told him to watch what he was doing more carefully. Whereupon I looked down (my hands clamped tightly over his ears, remember) and discovered he was totally doing a Stevie Wonder on the whole thing: he doesn't want to see it either, so he's started shutting his eyes.

This leads to an awful lot of yelling in the bathroom. (His aim is surprisingly good, considering. But it's a recipe for disaster, surely.) Add it to the reluctance to go in the first place, that brings a hopping, wriggling child to the brink of the porcelain, hardly able to pull down his pants by now because he's been needing to go for the past two hours; and the desire to just slap some sense into him is very very strong.

I do know that slapping doesn't actually induce sense, so I walk away and leave him to it once the vital actions have been accomplished.

Not protesting too much, I promise

The visitors have gone and my stress levels have plummetted accordingly. I have a cold, Mabel is having a new! improved! sleep regression, and I think Monkey may be sickening for something because he just voluntarily took a nap. Also, B has signed up for another marathon in a month's time. Business as usual, then.

Elsewhere on the Internets, the lovely and very amusing Amalah is pregnant with her third. This news has sent me into a flurry of ambivalence. You know the way, when you're pregnant, you are especially aware of all the people, locally and in the media, who are also pregnant, and count their babies as somehow connected to yours? So my Monkey is a close relation to such exalted socialites as Suri Cruise, Shiloh Jolie-Pitt, Violet Affleck, and Gwen Stefani's son Kingston, as well as the kids of various bloggers I was reading while pregnant. Amy's Noah is about six months older than Monkey, and her Ezra is just one month older than Mabel, so I feel that we've kept pace pretty nicely, and it's always fun to read about people whose kids are the same age as yours.

But now. Number three, eh? In truth, the only urge I feel to rush out (I mean, upstairs) and get myself knocked up again to keep up is just to say, "Look, I could totally do it too, if I wanted to." I think that's why I keep putting off doing the grown-up thing and getting the Mirena (apart from the fact that I don't have prescription coverage and I somehow don't think I can get B's doctor to prescribe it for him, even though it's really for both of us; I'm sure that's discrimination); something in me wants to retain the - at least theoretical - ability to get pregnant again at the drop of a hat/[insert your own hi-larious alternative article of clothing here], even if I never redeem my chips for the big prize (but you have to buy your own mini-van).

Intro/extro

I wonder, do baby introverts like to fall asleep alone, while baby extroverts need company to get to sleep (and even to stay asleep)? It's just that my children fall in to the latter category on both counts; whereas I never had any trouble going to sleep by myself and probably tend more towards the introverted.

But then, such personality definitions are much more a sliding scale than a black or white dichotomy, and I'm not sure how much of my introversion is just force of habit as an only child.

Care to weigh in with some more data points for my very scientific survey?

Documenting the generation gap

There are, I think, two photos in existence of me with my grandparents. One is on my kitchen wall, in a collage of photo-album rejects, and the other is in my parents' album at home. In the first I'm about 18 months old, and in the second I'm about 4, maybe. My grandfather died when I was 7, and though my granny was hale and hearty (if increasingly petite) till I was 17, I don't think we have a lot of photos of her.

(These are my maternal grandparents I'm talking about. My father's parents both died before he even met my mother.)

I never really appreciated those photos, but now that I have my own kids, I find that one of my main aims in life is to document the times when the generation above me intersects with the one below me. I don't really know why this should be: what is it that's so fascinating about the juxtaposition of age with youth, especially when genes are shared? I don't know that these pictures will be particularly precious to my children later on - perhaps they'll just be meaningful to me as the middleman.

[I am often reminded of a quote of Nigella Lawson's (which I will have to paraphrase because I can't find it just now, but it's something like this): "When I was a child I lived in a totalitarian state run by my parents. Now I live in a totalitarian state run by my children. It is never, it seems, my turn, but maybe that's just as well." (If you're ever looking for a recipe book that's also a good read, by the way, I highly recommend Nigella, especially How to Eat.)]

So here we are with a grandmotherly visit, and I picked up the camera the other day and got a few nice shots.


Here's Mabel discussing something important with Granny K. Mabel has taken to commenting "Hmm. Interesting," when she sees something that intrigues.


And Monkey looking for hungry ducks with Granny D. We took some bread to feed the ducks at the lake, but they were all singularly uninterested. The way Monkey yelled excitedly at them to come over here at once for some delicious bread may have had something to do with the hasty retreat they kept beating.

And one from our UK trip in the summer, because I wouldn't want to leave out Grandad. Maybe at Christmas I'll manage to get one decent photo containing both my parents and both my children at once.

Visitation

Have I mentioned, by any chance, that my mother and my mother-in-law are coming to stay? Tomorrow. Simultaneously, together, and at the same time. In unison, even. Please allow me to let a small "aargh" escape my fingers, just here, between you and me.

I mean, it's a great idea and it will be fine. It's just. You know.

My mother-in-law is a seasoned traveller and was last here in May, just before we moved into the house. She saw it all newly painted and lovely (except the kitchen, which wasn't quite finished), but didn't get to stay in it. My mum, on the other hand, hasn't been here since Monkey was 18 months old, or thereabouts. This is not because she doesn't love us as much, but rather because my Dad has bad circulation so can't make the long flight, and she's nervous about travelling on her own - I think last time she got caught up in some seventh circle of customs and couldn't find the exit for a while; and she's a good bit more vague and fluffy (let's say) now than she was three years ago.

So when my husband's mother offered to bring Mum over this autumn so she could see us in situ in the new house, she jumped at the chance, and has been looking forward to it (and probably planning what to pack - she is related to me, after all) for a good five months now.

The two grannies get on very well, and my mother-in-law is actually going to head off up to Boston to see her other US-dwelling son and grandsons for the weekend, so we won't have them both here for the whole week. But it does involve a certain amount of meal planning, house cleaning, and bed arranging to be able to put them both up with the dignity they're due.

I think we'll be moving the futon (which used to be Monkey's bed) up to Mabel's room for Granny K, while Granny D (who will be here the whole time, and is after all the senior granny) gets the actual guest room. Which now has curtains on one window (yay) but not the other (boo). Mabel will sleep (with/without me) on the airbed in our room.

Daytimes will be a mixture of doing the same as usual with Granny/ies in tow - because they've both seen the sights before and honestly want to just hang out and get an idea of what we do - my mum will happily come along to the supermarket and goggle at the enormous aisle of cereal boxes or what have you - and a few nice outings, maybe to the National Arboretum and the National Harbour, both of which are close, easy, and attractive.

We've moved Mabel's car seat over to the middle, forward facing because it didn't work the other way, and Monkey's booster just fits beside it, leaving one rear seat and the front passenger seat available for a granny each. (If all six of us are going somewhere, we'll take both cars.) Mabel was concerned, when I explained this plan, that Granny would be sitting in her car seat. I haven't yet broached the fact with her that there will be two Grannies at once. I think that will be much too confusing until they're both here. (Mabel was also concerned yesterday that Humpty Dumpty had fallen off the wall. I had to reassure her that he was okay, despite the reported failure of every last one of the king's horses and men.)

Anyway, if you don't hear from me for a while, it's because I'm busy being the hostess with the mostess, or alternatively escaping to hyperventilate in my room for a few minutes.

Mabel's terrible, horrible, no good, very bad morning

(With apologies to Judith Viorst)

Mabel woke up on Friday in a grump.

She couldn't find her baby. The new one with the pacifier and the eyes that open and shut. Mummy looked in all the usual places, but baby wasn't there.

Mabel took her big brother to school and went to Gymborama. But she didn't feel like running and jumping and climbing with all the other little kids. She felt like having a nap, but it wasn't nap time.

Mabel went home and felt grumpy. Mummy still couldn't find Mabel's baby. Neither could the people in the shop they had been in on Thursday.

Mummy decided to get the big green potty chair from the box in the basement. Mabel was excited about the big green potty chair in the basement. They brought it up to the bathroom together. But then the big green potty chair did not operate the way Mabel thought it should. She wanted it to go on top of the toilet, but Mummy said she couldn't make it work that way. Mabel was Disappointed. She made her Disappointment Known.

Mummy was in a rush trying to pack things for their night away before they had to get Mabel's big brother from school. Mabel wanted a nap, but it still wasn't nap time.

Mabel put on her backpack, ready to get in the car. She went upstairs with Mummy, and then started to follow Mummy down again. Mummy was trying to remember everything they needed.

Bump bump bumpity bump went Mabel. She had fallen down the stairs!
Ouch, thought Mabel.
Oh no! thought Mummy. Mummy felt Very Bad.

Mabel cried a lot, and nursed to make herself feel better. It still wasn't nap time, but Mabel fell asleep for about a minute.

By which she somehow reset her entire body clock and no longer needed a nap. Hooray!

*******

Thus began a terrible cycle of no nap followed by early bedtime leading to very early mornings leading to no or very early naps, yada yada, out of which we have not yet emerged. However, Baby was found by Monkey the next day, stuffed in the top step of the stepstool. We do not know who put her there.

The End.

Supporting role

My husband runs marathons. I have nobody to blame for this but myself. Well, sort of.

Four and three-quarter years ago, when we moved to this area, I found the local library and discovered that story time for babies happened on Tuesdays at 10.30. The next Tuesday, I showed up early, and got talking to a mum who had a daughter who looked about the same age as Monkey (8 months at the time). In fact, her daughter was exactly two days younger. We promptly handfasted the children, gave two llamas to bind our promise, and became great friends. She happened to mention that she ran marathons, and I said, blithely, "Oh, my husband would be interested. He's always said he'd like to run a marathon."

The end.

Of my life.

No, not really. But the end of my life as the wife of a casual runner. He joined her club and their excellent first-time-marathoners programme, and I said "Okay, just one marathon then."

We just got back from his eighth.

I didn't understand then that a marathoner (or anyone who runs distances, even if it's a 5k, and I say this as someone who doesn't even run for the bus, so you all have my undying respect and admiration) is only ever trying to beat their own best time. So you can't just run one. You have to keep going. And going. And going. It's a bit addictive, apparently, especially for someone like my husband, who was built for running and finished his first marathon smiling and saying, "That was fun!"

Anyway. When you're the supporter instead of the runner, a marathon goes something like this:

• Leave the house in a rush just at naptime for the baby. Watch all your plans for the perfect nap crumble as she proceeds to stay awake and/or wail for all of the journey. (Poor Mabel had had a bad morning, but that's another blog post.) Manage to remember everything vital except the camera.
• Drive a couple of hours to a town near the marathon site. The ugly town, not the cute historic one with the attractive restaurants, but the one where all food options are fast and very plastic except for the local diner, which has stink bugs inside the windows. Eat there anyway because the portions are huge. Call fries with ketchup and chocolate milk respectively dinner for the kids.
• Stay somewhere called the Turf Motel. Discover that despite the name, the room is actually fine. The free breakfast, however, is a steak. You feel you are not the target market.
• Spend a long, long time getting the baby to sleep. Spend a long long time fruitlessly trying to get the preschooler to sleep. Get the baby back to sleep again. Curse hotel rooms in general and marathons in particular. Watch your husband cart a yelling child out of the room under his arm, return momentarily for the car key, and come back half an hour later with a fast asleep child. (Vaguely assume it's the same child, but don't check too carefully.)
• Get some semblance of a night's sleep.
• Hear your husband leave as quietly as possible at 5am to get the shuttle bus to the start of the race.
• Remain in denial as long as possible while the baby wakes up the moment the door clicks shut.
• Give up.
• Proceed with resignation as the chirpy baby, who despite her enormous vocabulary and excellent communication skills, does not seem to understand "indoor voice," let alone "whispering," takes you to the bathroom to do a wee (yay, and yet I'd so much rather we were all still asleep) and wakes up her brother, who could certainly have done with another hour or two.
• Get everyone dressed and proceed to front desk to enquire about breakfast. Laugh derisorily at fat man who tells you that the restaurant opens at 8am. (It's six about now.)
• Get into the car to go to McDonald's.
• Realise that McDonald's is directly opposite the motel. Drive there anyway.
• Savour your hot coffee and greasy breakfast as the children climb on the (plastic) seats and drum on the tables and sing songs, spurning food. Try to ignore them and pretend they belong to someone else. (Except that you know if they were someone else's you'd be thinking they should be sitting down quietly. As they're your own, you're just happy they're happy. Everyone else can go take a flying leap.)
• Return to motel. Collate belongings, consult maps, thank deities for Playhouse Disney (which is a big novelty now that we only have PBS - they greeted old friends like Handy Manny and Special Agent Oso with shrieks of glee).
• Get both children and all belongings to the car in one journey. (This is a great achievement made both easier and harder by the fact that Monkey is big enough to pull the bag along himself. The problem is that Mabel really really wants to do it too. Instead. Cue dramatics.)
• Now the fun part. Your mission is to get to a point on the marathon route before the runner you're supporting gets there, in order to cheer him on his way for a couple of seconds. This involves the happy intersection of your ability to predict where he will be at what time, to follow maps without a navigator, to find a place you've never been before despite being hampered by road closings due to the marathon in question, to park legally (preferably), to get both children out of the car and warmly enough dressed to hang about in the early morning and fed enough not to complain, and to stand by the side of the road clapping and cheering a bunch of poor sweaty benighted strangers who are either grateful or oblivious, while stopping the children from running away or joining the race. One child will fall asleep.
  
• At some point, if your calculations are correct and the stars align, you will see your target and his gratitude and delight in seeing his loving family at some surprising point along this route of torture, around mile 13, or 19, or 22, will make it all worthwhile.
• Go back to the car. Load everyone in again. Wake up sleeping child, to their dismay.
  
• Drive to the marathon end, where you may or may not manage to do it all again, depending on how far along the course you intercepted the first time.
• Greet your conquering hero with a big congratulatory kiss and the promise that next time you'll definitely make a banner.

Actually, I was thinking that we should get a cowbell, so that I can shout "More cowbell!" at opportune moments. Funny? Maybe? Maybe next time.