Alex and Phoebe and the People in the Radio

My stepdad has a house cat named Phoebe. Phoebe is a beautiful white cat, except that she has no teeth. Seriously, there's not a tooth in the cat's head. I don't know why. My stepdad doesn't know why. She was like that when she wandered up to my mom and stepdad's back porch. Phoebe is also terrified of all living creatures except for my parents. Anytime visitors come around, she runs to one of the back bedrooms and hides under a bed. I think I've seen the cat once, and really, all I saw was a streak of white zipping across the den as she fled my presence.

Alex has seen Phoebe a few times. Perhaps it's because of his small stature, but Phoebe hangs around for a second or two to size him up before she disappears. Every now and then, she'll actually sneak up on him when he's alone in a room and scare the living daylights out of him. Christmas Eve, we spent several hours with my mom and stepdad (and the mostly invisible Phoebe). As usual, when things got a little dull, Alex and my stepdad grabbed their flashlights and went hunting for the kitty. This is a regular activity of theirs. I want you to try to visualize a 6-foot, 3-inch granddaddy and his almost-2-year-old grandboy, armed with flashlights, tiptoeing from room to room, peering under beds and calling ,"Meow, meow! Here, kitty, kitty!" That part right there is better than any show you'll ever pay to see. Then, they'll find her, and Alex will be thrilled for moment and then he'll want to go outside, and we'll all go back to doing whatever we were doing before.

Yesterday, Alex found the Mr.'s flashlight in the TV room. He demanded that I turn the "yight" "awck" (off), to which I asked if he wanted me to turn it on (We still don't have that on/off thing down yet.) "On," he agreed. So I turned it on. He immediately shined the light under the couch and called "Meow? Meow!" I guess he thinks cats live under furniture now.

I told my mom about this, and she reminded me that I once believed that people lived inside the radio. I did. I thought that behind the AM/FM dial there was a stage like that on the Grand Ol' Opry (my parents were way into country music), and that the artists were teensy tiny people who played on the stage and that's how I heard Loretta Lynn or Kenny Rogers singing on the radio. I mean, come on. It made more sense to me than the science of radio waves would have.

It amazes me how children's brains work at this stage. How they take what little they know and use it to make sense of the new things they encounter. Alex's cognitive development and reasoning skills fascinate me. The daily signs that show me he's trying to make sense of and participate in the world around him make me proud. I crack up to hear him "wing it" when he's talking and substitutes the /k/ sound for any sound that he's not sure of or can't pronounce. Of course, this habit is only a teensy bit embarrassing when he announces that he sees the big "cock!" truck in the Target parking lot.

At least he's not looking for the people that live in the radio, right?

Mmmm, presents.

New: The stand mixer for which the Mr. said he saw no need, since I already have a perfectly functional hand mixer. As he feigned his objection, the package was already en route to our house.


Old: The cookbook published in 1970-something by my hometown ISD's PTA. It includes recipes from my mom, my grandmother, my aunt, and several childhood friends' mothers. It wasn't exactly a wrapped-and-under-the-tree present, but one that my mom had set aside to give me when we went to visit on Christmas Eve. She's "out" of cooking, she says, now that there's only my stepdad and her at home.

Gratuitous Al pic, in which he is also thankful for Mom's presents because they inspired her to make a practice run on the recipe for his birthday cake (which will look prettier than this one, let's all pray):

From Ours to Yours

May you find exactly what you were wishing for under the Christmas tree.

Slacking is a Virtue

Last Christmas, I was overwhelmed. WAY overwhelmed. I don't think I truly understood the level of overwhelmedness that I experienced last Christmas until I began preparations for this holiday season.

It's something I've said over and over again: New motherhood kind of kicked my butt. Last December, I had four months of doing the working mom dance under my belt. I was thrilled that Al had adjusted so well to "school," but I was devastated to think that that perfect, nurturing situation would not be permanent.

Al's first birthday was quickly approaching, and I had weaning on my mind. I also realized that having an early January baby meant that I would forever have to plan birthday parties and send out birthday invitations the week before Christmas. That's brilliant timing right there, y'all.

On the work front, I was packing to change classes mid-year.

I was pretty much hanging on by a thread.

My thread-clinging became painfully evident the Monday before Christmas. We had spent the weekend with my dad's family, exchanging gifts with people we see once a year (that's a whole 'nother post right there), sleeping in a strange bed with a sleep-eschewing almost-toddler. When we got home Sunday night, I stayed up late getting clothes and lesson plans and bottles and lunches ready for Monday.

The week before, I had frantically been trying to complete the list of gifts to purchase for the gift-exchange at my dad's, so I still had a few things to buy before Christmas.

That's how I found myself that Monday afternoon, after The Weekend of No Rest and a full day of work, in a bookstore buying a giftcard for one of Al's teachers. I had requested the card, tendered my payment and was ready to head out when the cashier asked for my phone number.

Um.

*crickets*

Total blank. Nothing. Nada.

I know my home phone number. It is a very easy number to remember. But that day, my mind had already checked out, and I was sure my body wasn't far behind.

I made something up, snatched up the card, and got the hell out of there.

For days, that moment haunted me, and other similar moments followed. I actually feared that something might be wrong with me. Something was wrong, alright, I was tired. And stressed smooth out.

This year, though, things are a little easier. I'm pretty sure the the presents I'm giving don't suck and I've found time to make some special goodies to share, and I can pretty much guarantee that there will be no more forgotten phone numbers. In part, I think it's because I've found my groove on the Motherhood Highway. In part, I think it's because there are fewer things that are wigging me out this year.

But mostly, it's because I've finally learned to let some things go (like those baskets full of fancy homemade cookies I used to give) and embrace the fun stuff.

A Share.

Last week, Adam Lisagor housesat over at kottke.com, where he mentioned an article that appeared at 43 Folders. It was there that I stumbled upon a one-year-later tribute to Leslie Harpold (of the now-defunct Hoopla and Smug) in which Lance Author shared some of the advice and opinions that Leslie had imparted during their friendship. From there, I voraciously Googled and devoured everything that I could find that Leslie Harpold had written. Unfortunately, very little is still live, but the pieces that are available are brilliant.

The tributes are many, and they leave me feeling sad (and in a way, ashamed--I call myself an internet junkie? Pshaw.) for having just learned of her work and her life and her death after she was already gone.

I'm midway through some of the archives right now (God bless Jason Kottke).

Tress Distress

The screaming and wailing and rending of garments and gnashing of teeth that you may have heard this weekend was nothing more than Al's violent protests against a long overdue haircut. I don't care what the experts say--I sincerely believe the boy may possess nerve endings in his hair strands because that kind of crying and snot-spraying could only be precipitated by some sort of serious injury.

Miraculously, Al emerged unscathed, save for a gappy-looking haircut. I managed to cut my finger pretty good.

This was the worst haircut experience yet. After Al's second store-bought haircut last spring, I swore that I would never again subject poor little blue-haired ladies to that kind of scandal during their weekly beauty appointment. Then, we had a couple of not-so-horrible-but-nowhere-near-pleasant haircuts here at home over the summer. The last two--the worst two--have involved all three of us. I seriously wonder if Daddy's Boy isn't playing it up a little for his pa's benefit. Next time, I'm taking him to one of those just-for-kids places, and we'll see what happens with experienced professionals who are equipped to deal with difficult, haircut-hating toddlers.

If no blood is spilled, it will be an improvement.

Why get a stupid haircut when I could be throwing dirt and stomping cow patties?
Parents just don't understand.