Parlor Tricks

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Well, look who learned a few things!

A friend asked why we were saying “bad baby” to Lucie.

  1. She won’t say “baby” without the modifier.
  2. It’s funny and sometimes accurate.

Lucie said “da da” a long time ago.  Mama K chooses to ignore that fact.  Now she says “mama.”  It’s very cool until you realize that she means either food or water.

We don’t know where she learned to smack her head, but she started doing it one night.  Then we started doing it, too, and we pretended like we taught it to her first.  Denial is a parent’s best friend sometimes.

Finally, you would think that for as much as she walks around that she would have a bit less of a food gut.  Oh well.

My Road Trip: Summer of 2015

A photo essay by Luciana Roe, age 1.5

I got in the big moving house... that didn't seem so big after three days of living with four other grown ups.
We all packed into the big rolling house… that didn’t seem so big after three days.
I stretched my legs at the local rest stops along the way.
I stretched my legs at the local rest stops along the way.
Grandpa took me to a concert in Bozeman, Montana.
Grandpa gave me a ride to a concert in Bozeman, Montana.
Oh, Grandma, too.
Oh, and Grandma, too.  We listened to the band as Mama K finished her half marathon.
'Merica!
‘Merica!
We played with our friends at their farm: Three Fiddles Farm!  We ate the most amazing fresh vegetables and learned about their business.
We played with our friends at their farm: 3 Fiddles Farm. We ate the most amazing fresh vegetables and learned about their growing business.
I guess I wasn't invited to this party (with Farmer K, Farmer M and Farmhand Baby I), but I hear it was fun...
I guess I wasn’t invited to this party (with Farmer K, Farmer M [not pictured] and Farmhand Baby I), but I hear it was fun…
And I got some new toys for the plane ride back, since Grandma and Grandpa were headed to Michigan and we needed to fly back to the Pacific NW.
At least I got some new toys for the plane ride, since Grandma and Grandpa were headed to Michigan and we needed to fly back to the Pacific NW.

Since I liked my trip to 3 Fiddles Farm so much, Mama C said I should post a link to a website with more info so that others can see what they’re all about.

Farmers M and K From "Yummy Montana: Depot Farmers Market" blog: http://yummymontana.blogspot.com
Farmers M and K of 3 Fiddles Farm
From “Yummy Montana: Depot Farmers Market” blog: http://yummymontana.blogspot.com

Stylin’

“If you a fly gal

Get your nails done

Get a pedicure

Get your hair did.”

– Missy Elliot

Sit still? This is a joke, right?
Sit still? This is a joke, right?
“What is this, the 1990’s? I want an Uber, not a taxi.”
Bang(s)!
“Thanks for keeping my stylish wings!”

Bedtime Story

Every evening the mamas check in on their Little Bug after she is put to bed and before they close their own eyes to visit their own dreams for the night.

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One time, not too long ago, the mamas peeled their tired bodies from the downstairs sofa and reluctantly turned off the stream of “Band of Brothers” before it sucked them into another captivating episode.  They gathered their sleepy dogs and trundled up the stairs, hand in hand, shutting off the house lights as they went.  “Mint Chip, Mint Chip,” they whispered down the hallway, since Little Bug’s pajamas were a fresh, minty color and, her hair was the color of a chocolate candy.  “Mint Chip…”

The mamas crept into Little Bug’s room with care not to trip on the books strewn about from an earlier, um, episode.  They softly spoke to her and expressed their love and care as they covered their sleepy darling with a nearby blanket.  Little Bug did not even wake up as they swept her hair away from her tiny face and stroked her resting hands with theirs.

Without opening her eyes, Little Bug rolled gently over and the mamas sighed with adoration.  Suddenly there was a break in the silence.

Bbbbbbbffffttt.  Pfft.

Little Bug tooted.  Mama C then woke the baby with her uncontrolled, juvenile laughing fit.  In vain, the mamas pushed each other out of the room as quickly as they could, leaving the baby confused and slightly perturbed.

The end.

The Secret

I am one of those comically bumbling parents who lead with entertaining anecdotes.  These stories make up more than 1/2 of the blog contents thus far.  Can you blame me?  Humor unites us as human beings– parents and non-parents alike.

Photo on 10-4-15 at 3.42 PM

Well, a recent article has finally exposed parenting for what it really is.  It turns out that we are more than just custodians of the destruction forged by our wee ones.  Lo and behold: we love our kids.  A lot.  Check out “I Really Love My Daughter, but I’m Not Supposed to Talk About That” by Jennie Yabroff as featured in the Washington Post blog.  Here is an excerpt that I especially like:

Much of the daily routine of caring for a small person is low-stakes. My daughter and I share a bagel. At the pet store she tells the fish she is happy to see them again. The only way to transform these mundane events into anecdotes, which can then be strung together into a narrative, is to neuroticize them. So I emphasize frustration, embroider calamity. Our daughter sticking her hand in the tank to “pet” the fish, then scooping her wet hands into the bin of bird food while I shriek at her to stop, agitating the rabbits, which start banging in their cages . . . now we’re getting close to a story.

I tell this story to my husband when he comes home at night, hoping to make him laugh. I tell this story to underscore how hard this job is, how poorly I am executing it, how utterly I am at the mercy of a three-foot tyrant in sparkly tights. I tell it to reassure him that I am still the sarcastic, ironic person he married, that motherhood has not made me soft-headed and moon-eyed, liable to weep at a Diapers.com commercial (though I do). I tell it to practice what I will say to the other moms at Saturday morning gymnastics, where we stand around with our puffy eyes and takeout coffees, trading polished complaints about our ungrateful, ill-tempered little monsters, additions to the canon of stories of parenthood as the worst thing that can happen to a minimally self-aware person other than not having kids at all.

The joy of parenthood is not a story; it has no plot. It is a series of moments, unspoken. At the park, a father swoops up his son and kisses the top of his head in a single, flowing gesture. At the pizza place, a mother and daughter share an after-school slice, the daughter wiggling on her chair, waving her hands, the mother listening, smiling. Glimpsing these moments, I wonder what other, secret joys these parents are hiding, what furtive raptures they harbor. I wonder if they, too, sometimes wish there were more words to bridge the public story of being exasperated by your offspring to the point of defenestration, and the profoundly intimate experience of having a tiny pair of hands reach inside your ribs and wrench your heart open like a stuck window. I haven’t yet found a way to ask. I haven’t yet found a story to tell of this: On the way home from the pet store, my daughter held my hand for three whole blocks, not just the intersections. The top of her head still smells like honey.

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FAQ

And SPStW,BDA (stuff people seem to wonder, but don’t ask)

Any more in the future?

We’re trying.

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How does that work?

Well, when two mamas love each other… they look through a donor database and make an appointment for inter-uterine insemination (IUI).  No Petri dishes or drugs–just the injection.  We could do this at home, but opt for the doctor’s office because there seems to be a direct relationship between stuff we really shouldn’t spill (e.g. hot beverages, red wine, paint) and the likelihood of spilling.  A limited sperm sample costing hundreds of dollars?  Butterfingers.

Is it the same father?

Yes, but we call him the donor to be clear.

What’s he like?

Besides generous?  Though we know a few stats, we keep details to a minimum in hopes of reducing the expectations that we or others have for Lucie.  Also, we don’t have a photo because the donor is local and we live in a small, inter-connected city; this helps to preserve the anonymity.  And prevents an awkward elevator ride in the inevitable future.

Oh, come on.  No details?

His heritage is 1/2  Japanese, and then Puerto Rican, Panamanian and Portuguese.

Who is going to carry the child?

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Mama K again.  This decision was due to a number of factors: desire/willingness, age, health, and job flexibility.  Besides, many people (including a handful of knowing medical professionals) believe our current daughter to be born of Mama C.  Seriously, though… we feel extremely fortunate to be able to have a choice in the first place.

Got any potential names for the new baby?

Nice try.

Last question: Rolling Stones or Led Zeppelin?

See for yourself.