tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-290218832024-03-14T00:41:22.066-07:00The Mulligan YearsMy friends swear that our baby won't remember any of this...at least for a while longer. Do-overs? Seriously?
God, I hope so.betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14661372862480428752noreply@blogger.comBlogger88125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29021883.post-372712781849931392012-06-13T18:25:00.003-07:002012-06-13T18:25:46.126-07:00Not even "my little moogy"?Ian and I are leaving the Chik-fil-A and getting into the car.<br />
<br />
Ian: Mom, I don't want you to call me any more names.<br />
<br />
Me: (raching my brain to recall a way I've insulted him)........names?<br />
<br />
Ian: Right. From now on, I just want you to call me Ian, or Miller, or Mitchell, or Henning.<br />
<br />
Me: Aw, okay.<br />
<br />
Ian: or Child. Child is okay.<br />
<br />
Me: How about Son? Is Son okay?<br />
<br />
Ian: Son would be okay.<br />
<br />
Me: How about Sweetie Bear?<br />
<br />
Ian: no.<br />
<br />
Me: Cookie Puss?<br />
<br />
Ian: NO.<br />
<br />
Me: Noodle? Widdle Pooky?<br />
<br />
Ian: NO!<br />
<br />
Me: Cutie Booty? Nu Nu Boo Boo?<br />
<br />
Ian; MOM!!!<br />
<br />
Me: okay, okay, fine. Ian it is.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Ian: Sweetie's okay too.betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14661372862480428752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29021883.post-75448244583044589712012-06-11T18:43:00.000-07:002012-06-13T18:44:02.384-07:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-large;"><b>And then 3 years passed.</b></span></div>betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14661372862480428752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29021883.post-46366446750658281562009-05-07T16:17:00.000-07:002009-05-07T16:20:42.175-07:00Ian: You are mean. No - you are crazy. Crazy!<br />me: Hey, dude. You remember how, last night, Daddy reminded me not to call people crazy? Because it was not a good word to say? Well, he was totally right. We're not going to call people that, okay? You remind me and I'll remind you.<br />Ian (mutters) you're crazy.<br />Me: What does that even mean? What does "crazy" mean, Ian?<br />Ian: (very emphatically) It means when you are not awesome.betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14661372862480428752noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29021883.post-87487407221239165372009-05-06T12:49:00.000-07:002009-05-06T12:54:52.481-07:00Nice TryMe: You were so good at the doctor's office!<br />Ian: You were right. He is a really dood [that's how Ian says 'good' -ed.] doctor.<br />Me: What should we have for lunch?<br />Ian: Ummmmm...Cheeburger Cheeburger!<br />[regional chain lunch counter - there's one near church.]<br />Me: That's a pretty good idea.<br />Ian: Wait, how about..............Lollipop Lollipop??!<br />Me: Wow! I don't know where there's one of those!<br />Ian: (sighs, looks out window.) They're all far, far away.betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14661372862480428752noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29021883.post-86215461083339070902009-04-16T18:05:00.000-07:002009-04-16T18:21:48.856-07:00I promised that, the next time we had a cork to screw, I'd show him how it worked.Ian is obsessed with the corkscrew. <br /><br />He was being Mr. Crabass this afternoon, and I suggested a picnic to jolly him up. We ended up sitting on a blanket the deck, eating grapes, cheese, and Girl Scout cookies, helping dinosaurs climb the Eiffel Tower. It was quite relaxing.<br /><br />I opened some sparkling apple juice (Ian wanted soda, which was not going to happen, but this compromise allowed me to sit around under the beautiful blue sky and gaze at buds and hold a wineglass and kind of kid myself that I was drinking wine.)<br /><br />But we needed a bottle opener to open the cap on the apple juice, and the first one I could find was on the big corkscrew. Which looks like a person, and airplane, and, not surprisingly, a dinosaur. <br /><br />No preschoolers or Mommies were harmed in the eating of the picnic.betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14661372862480428752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29021883.post-42194023784654672892009-04-14T19:46:00.000-07:002009-04-14T19:51:13.809-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SeVK05bT7GI/AAAAAAAAAeI/A77mpchKqjY/s1600-h/egg+hunt.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SeVK05bT7GI/AAAAAAAAAeI/A77mpchKqjY/s400/egg+hunt.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324744407064505442" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SeVKuGxoGBI/AAAAAAAAAeA/yJf9JfLO6B8/s1600-h/ian+in+flowerbed.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SeVKuGxoGBI/AAAAAAAAAeA/yJf9JfLO6B8/s400/ian+in+flowerbed.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324744290388678674" /></a><br /><br /><br />We had to explain to Ian that, while the Easter Bunny comes to most kids houses during the night, she visits minister's kids in time for dinner. <br /><br />The Lord is risen indeed. I have tonsilitis.betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14661372862480428752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29021883.post-20889382735796330732008-11-17T16:56:00.000-08:002008-11-17T16:58:55.274-08:00closed for the moment:Thanks for stopping by. Right now all the action's over at www.funkyfatgirl.com, where I have already failed the NaBloPoMo Challenge but am still concentrating in efforts.<br /><br />Such as they are.betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14661372862480428752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29021883.post-37270518767913012292008-10-24T20:32:00.001-07:002008-10-24T20:41:23.048-07:00obilgatory pumpkin pics.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SQKTxSFPB2I/AAAAAAAAARc/kaz11K-bfnU/s1600-h/chase+3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 630px; height: 256px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SQKTxSFPB2I/AAAAAAAAARc/kaz11K-bfnU/s400/chase+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260929789598828386" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SQKTpDyBQhI/AAAAAAAAARU/npJect8a1Bg/s1600-h/punkin+chase+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SQKTpDyBQhI/AAAAAAAAARU/npJect8a1Bg/s400/punkin+chase+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260929648321184274" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SQKT575BUpI/AAAAAAAAARk/Wt6UGOOMeak/s1600-h/punkin+hug.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 197px; height: 295px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SQKT575BUpI/AAAAAAAAARk/Wt6UGOOMeak/s400/punkin+hug.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260929938260841106" border="0" /><br /><br /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SQKThkIKNOI/AAAAAAAAARM/cvg9I6OtdkY/s1600-h/punkin+chase+1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SQKThkIKNOI/AAAAAAAAARM/cvg9I6OtdkY/s400/punkin+chase+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260929519565026530" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SQKTxSFPB2I/AAAAAAAAARc/kaz11K-bfnU/s1600-h/chase+3.jpg"></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />guess i'm a mommyblogger.betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14661372862480428752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29021883.post-23142322720836969722008-10-19T20:35:00.000-07:002008-10-19T20:41:21.305-07:00guess where we went.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SPv9TlRPc0I/AAAAAAAAARE/cK6iiE6eQM0/s1600-h/avam+1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SPv9TlRPc0I/AAAAAAAAARE/cK6iiE6eQM0/s400/avam+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259075502748955458" border="0" /></a><br />this probably doesn't ring any bells<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SPv9NU-oUXI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/Mi45fvDbw2U/s1600-h/avam+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SPv9NU-oUXI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/Mi45fvDbw2U/s400/avam+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259075395296711026" border="0" /></a><br />nor this, I imagine.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SPv9GxYkR8I/AAAAAAAAAQ0/Li9gLqpfD2s/s1600-h/avam+3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SPv9GxYkR8I/AAAAAAAAAQ0/Li9gLqpfD2s/s400/avam+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259075282662606786" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SPv9AbjrwnI/AAAAAAAAAQs/lwg5O46M6Ao/s1600-h/avam+4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SPv9AbjrwnI/AAAAAAAAAQs/lwg5O46M6Ao/s400/avam+4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259075173724439154" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SPv823Hgs4I/AAAAAAAAAQk/U4K6t_PJ4tY/s1600-h/avam+5+conga+line.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SPv823Hgs4I/AAAAAAAAAQk/U4K6t_PJ4tY/s400/avam+5+conga+line.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259075009323774850" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SPv8qBBppKI/AAAAAAAAAQc/stZcKtIVEsw/s1600-h/avam+6.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SPv8qBBppKI/AAAAAAAAAQc/stZcKtIVEsw/s400/avam+6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259074788645250210" border="0" /></a><br />this might do it<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />or, in context....<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />guess what can be purchased there? Quite inexpensively.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />we like museums.betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14661372862480428752noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29021883.post-1696158359964598602008-10-06T19:54:00.000-07:002008-10-06T19:56:26.695-07:00we heart the woods<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SOrPveqJWnI/AAAAAAAAAM0/8t7wObHN050/s1600-h/ian+in+the+woods.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SOrPveqJWnI/AAAAAAAAAM0/8t7wObHN050/s320/ian+in+the+woods.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254240329871743602" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SOrPvyjQBrI/AAAAAAAAAM8/YAHran6To9s/s1600-h/ian+in+the+creek.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SOrPvyjQBrI/AAAAAAAAAM8/YAHran6To9s/s320/ian+in+the+creek.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254240335211529906" /></a>betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14661372862480428752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29021883.post-69861315577552452542008-10-05T19:58:00.000-07:002008-10-05T19:59:23.248-07:00Everyone's a critic.me: Come on, get in the car, sweetie.<br /><br />him: NO! I don’t want to ride in your car! I want to ride in Daddy’s car!<br /><br />me: Sorry, dude, not today. Hop in.<br /><br />him: I don’t want your car! Mommy’s car is SCARY!<br /><br />me: Scary? (wtf?) What could possibly be scary about mommy’s car?<br /><br />him: All the bad songs.betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14661372862480428752noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29021883.post-28516098249316331072008-09-13T18:08:00.000-07:002008-09-13T18:28:28.469-07:00You sure are.Incidentally, I can vouch for <a href="http://www.blogher.com/who-knew-toddlers-can-tell-time">this.</a><br /><br />And now, I present 3 scenes, two from today, one from a week or so ago.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">1. Ian the Comedy Writer</span><br />Scene: Our station wagon. Ian is strapped into his seat; Eric is driving, I am in the passenger seat.<br /><br />Ian: Knock knock!<br />(<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">eric</span> and I exchange a look that says, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">hmmm</span>, this is new.)<br />Eric: Who's there?<br />Ian: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">PINEY</span>!<br />Me: Um, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">piney</span>? <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Piney</span> who? (subtext: What? <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Piney</span>? what the...?)<br />Ian: A <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">PINEY</span>! And it REALLY SCRATCHES!! (hoots with laughter, which is so <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">contagious</span> that we also start laughing.<br /><br /> It's been more than a week, and we still have absolutely no idea what it means.<br />And it's gotten a whole lot funnier.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">2. Ian the Performer (a monologue.)</span><br />Ian and I are at the lakefront in our town. We've eaten our sandwiches, played on the playground for hours, and are now (with more than a modicum of resistance) making our way back to the car. Ian detours up a ramp and onto the huge concrete stage at the lakeside <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">bandshell</span>. I accompany him, to make sure he can't take a header off the front.<br /><br />Ian: (stages just off-center, all the way downstage, his eyes raking the empty hillside) I am a magic magician! And I am doing a magic show! Which of you kids would like to come up on MY stage?<br />(Turns to me) No one is coming on my stage.<br />I shrug - sad but true. Some nights, it's just like that, kid.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">2. Ian the Naturalist</span><br />A little closer to the car, Ian spots of ducks standing on the shore, a foot or so from the water, grooming and conversing. He steps toward them, and I catch his arm.<br /><br />me: Not too close, honey.<br />Ian: But I want to meet the ducks! Can I pet them? They have furry feathers!<br />me: I don't think they'll let you, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Neen</span>. I'm sure they'd jump in the water to get away. They're scared of people getting too close - they're wild animals, after all.<br /><br />Ian: (pauses to think. Then:) But I am a wild kid!betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14661372862480428752noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29021883.post-47893100604043722562008-07-30T18:12:00.000-07:002008-07-30T18:46:49.076-07:00<a href="http://www.lookydaddy.com/weblog/2008/07/dark-and-stormy.html">Read this lovely brokenhearted reflection about being a new parent.</a><br /><br />It's weird. I am very happy. Right now, I am blissfully happily married, breathless with happiness about my work, happy as a mom, happy with where I live, pretty f.ing happy.<br /><br />And I know a lot of brand new parents, and I often have a chance to talk about what Ian's infancy was like.<br /><br />During Ian's infancy, I was not happy. Not happily married. Not happy where I lived. Having zero fun, which was hardly surprising, but thinking that might be a permanent state of affairs. And - this made me feel most hopeless - having lost any scrap of joy in my work. Exhausted, about to capsize on a wave of bad chemicals, desparately in love with my kid. Just overcome. You know, the usual.<br /><br />And I wonder why I can't sugarcoat that. Not even a little. I cannot bring myself to tell little white lies about that first year; I'm not even tempted. Am I just mean? Selfish? It's not to make myself look good - in these stories, I am not a hero, and not a helpless victim either.<br /><br />Do I just love a good story that much?betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14661372862480428752noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29021883.post-49758521416170213452008-07-18T05:01:00.000-07:002008-07-18T05:16:12.244-07:00And all I can say is: Exactly.I complain a lot, on both my blogs, especially about being a parent. I tell stories about horrifying behavior (like the underpant drill team incident) and moan about having to adjust my internal pace to that of the Dead Worm Patrol. Whine whine whine.<br /><br />Antonia thinks she does too. One never minds when Antonia complains on her blog <a href="http://yetanotherbloomingblog.blogspot.com/2008/07/before-i-go.html">Whoopee</a>, since it's always snortingly funny and creative, and accompanied by photos of her daughter in huge costume hornrim glasses or Billybob teeth.<br /><br />But some people must mind, because Antionia has written a response to a reader whom she has frightened - "<span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 85%;">Poor em.s read my post about Blogher that bemoans how boring and tedious it is to be a parent. Em.s is 14 weeks pregnant, out of the first trimester and ready to get excited about the most wonderful journey life has to offer, and I come along and tell her it's going to be AWFUL." So she says <a href="http://yetanotherbloomingblog.blogspot.com/2008/07/before-i-go.html">this</a>: </span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 85%;"><br /></span><blockquote><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 85%;"><blockquote>...Because I have Esme, I can roll down grassy banks in parks without feeling silly. Because I have Esme, I can walk through London making monster noises. (One day last month I inadvertently made a monster noise at respected no-neck media personality Sandi Toksvig, and you can't put a price on that.) Because I have Esme, strangers smile and start conversations with us, strangers who would normally walk by with grumpy faces.<br /><br />I can't put into words how good the good times are - I can't do them justice - and I don't feel the need to write about them here. I just enjoy them. [...]</blockquote>And all I can say is:<br />"Exactly."<br /><br /><br /><br /><blockquote></blockquote><br /><br /></span><br /><br /></blockquote>betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14661372862480428752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29021883.post-39385690516518601322008-07-15T20:15:00.001-07:002008-07-15T20:19:39.228-07:00greetings from the cincinnati zoo<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SH1oI3LLaaI/AAAAAAAAAKs/usv46pprxdA/s1600-h/all+happening+at+the+zoo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SH1oI3LLaaI/AAAAAAAAAKs/usv46pprxdA/s320/all+happening+at+the+zoo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223445644278720930" border="0" /></a>the sort of bird that rides on rhinos<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SH1oJWUJCAI/AAAAAAAAAK0/_lzDoyuRotQ/s1600-h/bird+eyelashes.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SH1oJWUJCAI/AAAAAAAAAK0/_lzDoyuRotQ/s320/bird+eyelashes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223445652637812738" border="0" /></a>the sort of bird that looks like a drag queen<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SH1oKCtaHOI/AAAAAAAAAK8/ueONCATOxjU/s1600-h/the+lion+sleeps+tonight.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SH1oKCtaHOI/AAAAAAAAAK8/ueONCATOxjU/s320/the+lion+sleeps+tonight.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223445664554949858" border="0" /></a>the sort of lion that looks like a display at FAO Schwartz<br />(alternately, Aslan's standin)betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14661372862480428752noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29021883.post-80194749761432397592008-07-15T20:11:00.001-07:002008-07-15T20:15:07.037-07:00what we've been doing<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SH1nFo2vkfI/AAAAAAAAAKk/LKVMa-92cII/s1600-h/cupcake.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SH1nFo2vkfI/AAAAAAAAAKk/LKVMa-92cII/s320/cupcake.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223444489383678450" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">enjoying treats<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SH1m6uOwngI/AAAAAAAAAKc/Z_Hz1QBvRvY/s1600-h/ian+outside.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/SH1m6uOwngI/AAAAAAAAAKc/Z_Hz1QBvRvY/s320/ian+outside.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223444301848026626" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">hangin' in the great outdoors<br /></div>betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14661372862480428752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29021883.post-57063187623303576302008-05-02T18:02:00.001-07:002008-05-02T19:19:18.486-07:00Last weekLast week, a bunch of people from our congregation spent a Saturday morning on various helping projects - some helped renovate houses, some did landscaping or stream cleanup, and about 10 of us went to a retirement home to visit the residents. <br /><br />There were quite a few kids on our team; I signed us up for this one because I thought it would suit Ian. He's friendly, he's a good talker, he can sing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." <br /><br />Okay, seriously: I signed up because I'm on staff at this church, and I need to be living out the vision of the church and modeling wholehearted participation and MAN ALIVE DO I <span style="font-weight:bold;">NOT FEEL LIKE</span> DOING CHURCH STUFF ON A SATURDAY UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. So that's the full extent of my suffering for the kingdom - spending a couple of hours visiting old folks in the day room. Yes, I am a fine, fine example. I felt like I had to sign up for something, and so I found something that I could do with the kid. Nice, eh? Why yes, I am quite saintly. I am one saintly mother. <br /><br />And may I just point out, my little tiny ridiculous suffering is NOT particularly compounded by the fact that it was a nursing home, on account of my mom's long stay in one. So no credit is due me for overcoming nursing home squick. <br /><br />Anyway, here is my point. The group took nosegays to some residents, and those were well-received. We found a quite corner, pulled out the markers and made some greeting cards to pass out. That was fun.<br /><br />And then the group kind of split up, and we found ourselves visiting some ladies in another common room. Each was in a wheelchair, kind of wheeled into random positions, not to watch TV or look out a window or converse. One woman was parked on the linoleum, and someone from church was chatting with her, and she was clearly distressed, shouting. And I thought, okay, we'll be fine over here singing for the unresponsive patients for the rest of the hour. No way we're visiting the shouter. <br /><br />But I do have some small sliver of heart, and it got the better of me. I saw the distressed woman gazing at Ian, and I couldn't conscience staying away. We can over and said hello. Ian took her hand. She frailly stroked his hair. <br /><br />Ian cracked out the A material: from "Hi! I am Ian!" through "I am talking! To you! We are talking!" and even a quick verse of "Home on the Range". It's a great program, really. A surefire hit. <br /><br />As the program went on, though, the woman became distressed again, and started shouting - "I'm sick!" "I want to go home. Can't you please take me home?" "This is an awful place, I would never come back here." "I'm dead already." She was weeping. <br /><br />Krista and I fell into a silence. Ian looked at the woman, the looked at me. <br />He cocked his head and said "That lady says she is sick." <br /><br />Yep, I said, that's why she's here, so doctors can take care of her.<br /><br />"She wants to go home," he said. His heart was breaking, just beginning to crack.<br /><br />Yes, she does. You know what that's like, huh? <br /><br />He stared at her for a long time. "She is very sad."<br /><br />Yes, she is. You're right, Ian. She is very sad. <br /><br />Ian put his head on my shoulder. <br /><br />Eventually I pulled myself together a little, and we prayed, with Ian holding her twisted finger. We stayed with her for a while. Eventually we went on and said hello to some more people. Ian was a little shyer over the next hour.<br /><br />In the afternoon, his father woke his up from his nap. He looked up from the crib and said "Daddy, are you happy?"<br /><br />"Yes, I am, Ian. How about you? Are you happy?"<br /><br />"Yes. I am happy." <br /><br />If I tell him I don't have all the answers - if I tell him that I, his mother, the person who explains things, doesn't know why some people are desperately unhappy, and there's nothing we can do to solve their problems AND YET God expects us to be with them and hold their hands for their sake and God's sake and I will never in this life know why...<br /><br />...does that make his world more frightening, or less frightening? <br />More sad? Or less sad?betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14661372862480428752noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29021883.post-62409615524178567382008-03-13T19:34:00.000-07:002008-03-13T19:38:31.538-07:00it's been a while since we've had a photo so<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2028/2308407219_cd7b2e27e5.jpg?v=0"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2028/2308407219_cd7b2e27e5.jpg?v=0" border="0" alt="" /></a>betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14661372862480428752noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29021883.post-91082835072128894672008-03-13T19:07:00.000-07:002008-03-13T19:15:32.760-07:00Recent Events1. Ian recently tried to hypnotize us at the dinner table. He asked for a treat, and when we refused, we gazed calmly across the table at us and began to rock very slowly and subtly from side to side, whispering "but yesssss....cccinnamon rolllllll.....yesssss......" <br /><br />2. In the living room the next day, Eric did a magic trick for Ian that climaxed with the revelation of a small silk rainbow streamer. Ian picked it up from the floor, laid it gingerly around his neck like a stole, and smiled at Eric: "Now I'm a princess!"betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14661372862480428752noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29021883.post-12375669331017276642008-02-19T16:49:00.000-08:002008-02-19T16:56:30.319-08:00Bummer.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/R7t5QzHGPeI/AAAAAAAAAKE/vJmsCztBmCE/s1600-h/child_safety+bonding.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_NgBt6Z8oC8Q/R7t5QzHGPeI/AAAAAAAAAKE/vJmsCztBmCE/s400/child_safety+bonding.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5168858326842621410" /></a><br /><br /><br />via <a href=" http://addisonrd.com/WordPress/">Addison Road</a>.betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14661372862480428752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29021883.post-39300176041744237852008-02-18T18:26:00.000-08:002008-02-18T19:37:57.727-08:00Wrong about the Baby JesusAnother day, another art museum. We found ourselves at <a href="http://thewalters.org">the Walters</a> today. <br /><br />It's a rare gem. Though it is not usually open Mondays, as private museums tend not to be, it was open today, the huge golden doors swung wide onto Charles Street. It's quirky and weird, reflecting a personal vision about collecting and art and what's valuable. It's small and managable, close to free street parking and cheap lunch counters. It's free. All the time. <br /><br />PLUS over the past few years, they have devoted tremendous resources to making the museum a real family place, with events and activities and interpretive materials for kids as young as pre-school. (This was not true when I lived a few blocks away from the Walters, but then, I didn't need it to be, did I?) <br /><br />Ian went to the Walters for the first time when he was almost 3 months old. <br />We go several times a year, and some of the staff recognized us today. (Granted, we are hard to miss, the World's Cutest Toddler and his purple-haired aging hipster mom. We tend to make an impression.) <br /><br />This morning, we went directly to the playroom in the basement, and played with blocks and puppets for an hour. The puppets at the Walters totally rule over all other hand puppets on earth. The playroom has a slight Heraldry/Chivalry theme, and so the puppets include lions and griffins and dragons, as well as camels, skunks, rats, bunnies, and whatever else the FolkManis people were making that season. Yeah, I know, they're retail puppets - you would think that I would reserve this sort of enthusiasm for one-of-a-kind works of art - but on the other hand, they seem to be surviving rough toddler play and baby gnawing awfully well. Nothing to (ha ha) sneeze at.<br /><br />Anyway, after about an hour, I was able to lure him into the elevator and get him upstairs to look at some pictures. He wasn't interested at first, but then some temple statues got him, and we went on our traditional hunt for animals in the artworks. We saw bears, horses, monkeys, peacocks, dogs and bunnies. And lions.<br /><br />This wandering from work to work led us into the 18th Century galleries, where there is lots and lots of Baby Jesus. <br /><br />Pictures of Baby Jesus are interesting to both of us (I can only feign interest in horse paintings for so long) and so we talked about each one: how does his momma look in this picture? Does she look sad? "NO! Is HAPPY!" She looked kinda tired to me, but maybe I was projecting. What color is his blanket? Does it look soft? What animal is he petting? (There's a whole room of huge paintings of Baby J hugging the Paschal Lamb, by the way. While this symbolism isn't new to me, it hit me square in the chest with a kind of meanness today.)<br /><br />We came upon a smallish painting of a naked, sleeping Baby J, and I hoisted Ian up so he could get a good look. Ian looked at me with a concerned face. <br /><br />"His diaper, Mamma!" he whispered, shocked.<br />"Yep, his diaper's off. Maybe he took it off after his mamma put him to bed."<br />"But Mamma! His diaper! Is OFF!" <br />"Yes, it is. I wonder if that made his mamma mad." <br /><br />Later, we're on the main floor, stopping for a juice box before leaving. Ian grabs my hand and says "Change! muh diaper! Mamma." <br /><br />I get him into the ladies and strapped onto the changing table. He identifies the figures on the international safety label: "Is baby! Is momma! Is leaving!" He's not alarmed, merely reporting on the content.<br />"Yes, that's what the picture is, but you know I won't leave. I'm right here."<br />"Changin' muh diaper!"<br />"Yes! Changing your diaper." <br />He stares off into space for a long moment.<br />"Mamma, I was wrong about the Baby Jesus." (Yes, he said it just that grammatically, and yet it somehow sounded more like Scooby Doo than Ellen Page.)<br /><br />I asked him what he meant, and he wasn't quite as clear in explaining, of course. But he did get across that the diaper - Baby J's missing diaper - was still bothering him. He may have trouble sleeping tonight, thinking about it. As we were leaving the museum, he stopped to discuss it with the woman behind the membership desk. <br /><br />"Well, yeah," she said. "Sometimes babies take their diapers off. It's okay. See, Baby Jesus was just like you!"<br />"No," he said firmly. "Baby <span style="font-style:italic;">Jesus</span>."<br />"Yes," I chimed in. "That's kind of the point, that Jesus was a person."<br />"Not a person. <span style="font-style:italic;">Baby Jesus</span>."<br /><br />He'll get it eventually.betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14661372862480428752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29021883.post-59938835715137879442008-02-10T18:20:00.000-08:002008-02-10T18:44:22.159-08:00the dreaming continues<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://filaman.ifm-geomar.de/images/species/Kycin_u4.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://filaman.ifm-geomar.de/images/species/Kycin_u4.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />we're playing on the bed this afternoon. I lie down<br />He lies down with me, face to face, and shuts his eyes.<br /><br />Me: Are you dreaming? <br />Ian: Yes! I am dreaming!<br /><br />we lie still for about 20 seconds, making the sleeping sound.<br /><br />Ian: Mamma, get up! You are! dreaming too!<br />Me: Yes I am. I'm dreaming too! What are you dreaming about? <br />Ian: Wheels. What are you dreaming about?<br />Me: Fish. I always dream about fish. (True.)<br />Ian: NO!!!!<br />Me: Well, you asked. I'm just telling you. I was dreaming about fish.<br />Ian: NO!!!!!<br />Me: Occasionally I dream about babies.<br />Ian: NOOOOOO!!!!!! No babies! No fish! Dream about animals!<br />Me: I guess I could try that. <br />Ian: Giraffes. Giraffe animals. <br />Me: Okay. Let's go back to sleep. I'll try to dream about giraffes.<br /><br />(30 seconds of pretend sleep.)<br /><br />Ian: I was dreaming, but now I wake up. You dreaming?<br />Me: I was. I dreamed about giraffes.<br />Ian: Good.<br />Me: Baby giraffes.<br />Ian: (very satisfied) Good.<br />Me: What were you dreaming about?<br />Ian: Wheels. And fish.<br /><br />(Incidentally, the internet is very obliging - I typed 'dream fish' into google, and up popped <a href="http://sambali.blogspot.com/.../entheogen-glossary.html">this</a> page, which informs me that certain species of fish can be enjoyed for their halluncinogenic qualities. In the pacific, says the page, these are called Dream Fish.)betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14661372862480428752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29021883.post-7342282115770744992008-02-04T11:58:00.000-08:002008-02-04T12:50:12.512-08:00Today1. We're playing in the living room.He rolls over into my lap and closes his eyes. He does his fake sleeping noise, which is somewhere between a shhh and a snore.<br />I stroke his forehead.<br /><br />"I'm dreaming," he says, almost whispering, his eyes still closed.<br /><br />"What are you dreaming about?" I whisper.<br /><br />"Wheels," he sighs back, in rapture. <br /><br />20 seconds later he pops up and runs over to the wall.<br /><br />"Now I'm painting," he informs me, and sure enough, he makes florid gestures with a clean watercolor brush, with the wall as his pretend canvas. <br /><br /><br />2. This is a picture I did not take: a puddle we played in today. What it doesn't show is two tiny soaked shoes, having landed in the center of the perfectly round, ankle-deep silty puddle, and the 30 or so sets of concentric circles spread out over its surface, each a different size, one for each drop of the splash that was made when he landed. (This is my lame little tribute to the beautiful <a href="http://www.unphotographable.com/index.shtml">Unphotographable</a>, which I saw via <a href="http://photojojo.com/content/">photojojo.</a>)<br /><br />Lest you think it's all soft focus Johnson&Johnson commercials around here, let me also tell you this one:<br /><br />3. he's standing on a kitchen chair, and begins hopping up and down. <br />I explain to him why this is not a good idea.<br /><br />My husband chimes in "Oh, that's great. We'll be checking into the emergency room, and he'll be holding his skull together, telling the nurse "I deserve this!"betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14661372862480428752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29021883.post-35775470906342184472008-01-21T14:11:00.000-08:002008-01-21T14:47:18.819-08:00Why I smiled when Ian cried today...because he was crying bitter tears, really wailing and struggling, upon BEING TOLD THAT HE HAD TO LEAVE THE ART MUSEUM.<br /><br />The Visionary had a free admission day, and I thought this was perfect - we could plan on an hour or so of museum-going before his nap, and if he happened to hate it and lose patience and begin the Display of Antisocial Behaviors, we could just leave. Because it was free, and I would not have to regret not getting my $12 worth. <br /><br />He LOVED it. He could not get enough. We spotted animals in the Rumi collages, babies in the All Religions exhibit, and ourselves in the many mirrored surfaces. A couple of hours? No problem! <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/101/298491190_89fc96a058.jpg?v=0"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/101/298491190_89fc96a058.jpg?v=0" border="0" alt="" /></a>His real favorite was the giant cast-bronze-and-stained-glass Icarus that falls in slow motion through the main stairway, and rises and falls again all day long. He <br />twists down at a barely percievable rate towards the mirrored slice of sea on the floor below. Ian was riveted. I could not believe it. We climbed the stairs to get close - we followed him down. The sunshine glints from the skylight through the colored glass feathers. He has marbles for eyes and a red throng that's a mosaic of mirrors. <br /><br />This photo from Gregwar at <a href="http://mosaicartsource.wordpress.com/2006/12/29/">MosaicArtSource.com</a>, which has many many cool photos, as does his Flickr. <br /><br />Anyway, I acknowledge that this may not last, and that looking at pictures (or even giant winged men on cables) will almost certainly grow stale at some point. It never has for me, but I didn't start at 2. Trips to art sites will one day mean much eye-rolling. I know. I know.<br /><br />But he cried! He tried to get away! He was stunned when I suggested that we leave the paintings behind! He would rather stay and look at art than go run up the hill, or eat lunch, or even see Uncle Sandy! <br /><br />wow.<br /><br />(smile)betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14661372862480428752noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29021883.post-42794458859325492902008-01-13T19:45:00.000-08:002008-01-13T19:47:50.700-08:00There are worse thing I could do...I need to save this link, so that the next time I am kicking myself about being a crap mother (ref. "SEE?!?!??" from the last post) I can think about <a href="http://www.finslippy.com/finslippy/2008/01/we-are-all-winn.html">these</a> excellent stories. <br /><br />I'm still kind of an amateur. I've only been at this for 2 years, after all.betsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14661372862480428752noreply@blogger.com0