Bummer.

via Addison Road.

Wrong about the Baby Jesus

Another day, another art museum. We found ourselves at the Walters today.

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.

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?)

Ian went to the Walters for the first time when he was almost 3 months old.
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.)

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.

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.

This wandering from work to work led us into the 18th Century galleries, where there is lots and lots of Baby Jesus.

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.)

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.

"His diaper, Mamma!" he whispered, shocked.
"Yep, his diaper's off. Maybe he took it off after his mamma put him to bed."
"But Mamma! His diaper! Is OFF!"
"Yes, it is. I wonder if that made his mamma mad."

Later, we're on the main floor, stopping for a juice box before leaving. Ian grabs my hand and says "Change! muh diaper! Mamma."

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.
"Yes, that's what the picture is, but you know I won't leave. I'm right here."
"Changin' muh diaper!"
"Yes! Changing your diaper."
He stares off into space for a long moment.
"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.)

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.

"Well, yeah," she said. "Sometimes babies take their diapers off. It's okay. See, Baby Jesus was just like you!"
"No," he said firmly. "Baby Jesus."
"Yes," I chimed in. "That's kind of the point, that Jesus was a person."
"Not a person. Baby Jesus."

He'll get it eventually.

the dreaming continues

we're playing on the bed this afternoon. I lie down
He lies down with me, face to face, and shuts his eyes.

Me: Are you dreaming?
Ian: Yes! I am dreaming!

we lie still for about 20 seconds, making the sleeping sound.

Ian: Mamma, get up! You are! dreaming too!
Me: Yes I am. I'm dreaming too! What are you dreaming about?
Ian: Wheels. What are you dreaming about?
Me: Fish. I always dream about fish. (True.)
Ian: NO!!!!
Me: Well, you asked. I'm just telling you. I was dreaming about fish.
Ian: NO!!!!!
Me: Occasionally I dream about babies.
Ian: NOOOOOO!!!!!! No babies! No fish! Dream about animals!
Me: I guess I could try that.
Ian: Giraffes. Giraffe animals.
Me: Okay. Let's go back to sleep. I'll try to dream about giraffes.

(30 seconds of pretend sleep.)

Ian: I was dreaming, but now I wake up. You dreaming?
Me: I was. I dreamed about giraffes.
Ian: Good.
Me: Baby giraffes.
Ian: (very satisfied) Good.
Me: What were you dreaming about?
Ian: Wheels. And fish.

(Incidentally, the internet is very obliging - I typed 'dream fish' into google, and up popped this 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.)

Today

1. 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.
I stroke his forehead.

"I'm dreaming," he says, almost whispering, his eyes still closed.

"What are you dreaming about?" I whisper.

"Wheels," he sighs back, in rapture.

20 seconds later he pops up and runs over to the wall.

"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.


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 Unphotographable, which I saw via photojojo.)

Lest you think it's all soft focus Johnson&Johnson commercials around here, let me also tell you this one:

3. he's standing on a kitchen chair, and begins hopping up and down.
I explain to him why this is not a good idea.

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!"

Why 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.

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.

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!

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
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.

This photo from Gregwar at MosaicArtSource.com, which has many many cool photos, as does his Flickr.

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.

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!

wow.

(smile)

There 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 these excellent stories.

I'm still kind of an amateur. I've only been at this for 2 years, after all.

The Happy Tale of a Boy and his Lobster

My darling child stayed home from daycare Wednesday, at the suggestion of his day care provider. Since she was the one who had to clean vomit off his socks and shoes on Tuesday, we thought that was a fair request.

As usual, the throw-up was the first and last symptom. Immediately upon clearing the offending stuff out of his tummy, Ian feels FABULOUS!! and wants to play!! Usually something involving wrestling!! And I must say that being a mommy has stripped away most of my squeamishness - while it wouldn't occur to me personally to wrestle a barfed-on baby (or kiss him on the lips, another fav of his), the ideas isn't as upsetting as it used to be. (I can also watch snakes on TV - great huge fangy snakes!! - without my skin crawling.)

Anyway, my point was, no vomit, and unseasonably warm sunny days, and me and the kid at home. I didn't want to take him anywhere crowded, in case he did have something contagious, but our neighborhood's playground is deserted for most of the day, so we went out to play. Me and Ian and his lobster.

See, our Christmas tree is still up, but the branches are a tad droopy, so some stuff has dropped off. We put all our unbreakable (and un-chokable) ornaments on it, so the fallen stuff doesn't matter much. One of the ornaments is a wooden lobster, which I think we got to commemorate our honeymoon trip to the Canadian Maritimes. I do believe it used to sit on a little wooden lobster trap.

So Ian has taken a shine to this little lobster. He carried it around for much of the morning, watched Elmo and Bob with it, showed his sippy cup to it (but did not offer it any Pedialyte), set it carefully on his little desk so it could watch him work a puzzle.

And then he took it to the playground. I offered to hold it several times, and was rebuffed every time.

He sent it down the slide before him.

He walked it up one of the climbers.

He balanced it carefully on the playground equipment when he needed to run in circles.

He carried it in his fist when we went for a walk around the neighborhood and gave it a breathless audio tour ("Wind! Chimes!!") ("Tismas!!! Lights!!")

And then he threw it down and broke its claw off.

When Ian breaks things, it forces me to a moment of decision. Routinely, it is something about which I have just said 'Don't ______ the ________, you might break it by accident." (Don't gallop the camel from the nativity set, don't drop the clay frog, don't throw the lobster.) When he does, it takes every fiber of my meager mothering to not say "SEE?????"

He didn't throw it down in anger. (It's not that the lobster had offended him in some way. Or pinched him.) He threw it down because he wanted to feel what his body feels like when he throws. He likes it. It's like jumping. As a matter of fact, it usually includes some jumping. He's learning about his body and its limits and what its good for.

About a third of the time, I actually do say something like "See? What did I tell you?" Maybe a quarter of the time. Maybe less.

Whether I say it or not, I remember all the things I broke by accident when I was a kid. They come flying past, like the doors and pocketwatches in the beginning of the Twilight Zone. A colonial inkwell. The carved back of an antique chair. A gold chain that has been my great-aunt's. A very large reverse painting on glass. German glass Christmas ornaments from the 20s. Plates and glasses and serving pieces far too numerous to mention.

(This is why I can't watch Antiques Roadshow. It makes me queasy.)

And so, yesterday afternoon, I gathered up about 6 things, and Ian and I had a gluing party. We re-attached the camel's leg, and the frog's leg, and the heads of two resin cat refrigerator magnets. And we glued the lobster's claw back on. (And I glued my fingers together, and somehow got a glob of glue on my lower lip, but I did manage to keep Ian from gluing himself to anything.)

I think we will have regular gluing parties.

I had really a good childhood in nearly every way, but at some point I got the message that I must never make mistakes. That the mistakes I made were terrible and irreparable, (and also to be expected because I'm kind of a screw-up)...and pretty much where shame came from.

And, yes, I know that glue won't solve everything. And that he has to learn limits and discipline. And he is, and he will, honest.

But I want him to see that lots of mistakes - his and other people's - aren't tragic. That reparation is real, and most mistakes really aren't the end of the world. Not even the end of the lobster.

Heather Armstrong is my Hero

We found the... fruit snacks at the store, although using the word fruit here is a bit generous. I would have gone with polycarbonate snack, but I guess that would require more ink and less lying. Whatever. We bought two boxes...

Dooce.

Delicious.

My son points to a photo in a wildlife calendar.

"Muffins!" he says, and smiles proudly.

"Oh, no, honey, you say 'puffin'. P - p - p puffin! Those are puffins."

"No! Is muffins,' he says adamantly, and then looks up at us with a little twinkle in his eye. He's making a joke.

"Puffins," daddy tries again.

"NO!! IS! Muffins!!" He stamps his foot, and then looks up sideways, smirking.

Our little Ogden Nash.

Baby, if you're a sickness, I don' need no cure.

Husband (squinting at the one and only print that our accursed printer has been able to eeek out): We can't send this.

Me: Why?

Husband: People will think he has something.

Me: ?

Husband: With that hat. Covering all his hair. People will think he has cancer or something.

Me: Well, yeah! Something! Something like f-ing awesome taste in hats!!

the best picture I took this year:

for the second-best, go here.

hooray for me - I finally took MANY gigs of photos off my laptop, which meant that I could finally remove the 412 files (half of which were unrepenant crap) from my camera.

This means:
I have spent part of the evening reminiscing over the year (since the pictures dated back to June) and marveling over how much my child has changed in just 5 months

I am considering getting my eyes checked (I SWEAR they all looked focused when I took them)

I want to buy soundtrack music for my home movies (Bubbly)

I have to buy more photo frames, or perhaps a house with more walls

I STILL don't know why Kodak software maintains thumbnails for deleted ormaged files. It's driving me insane.

I have no idea where my child got his moviestar looks. I mean, his father is handsome, but in a totally different way - the suave and debonair/tall dark and handsome way. The kid looks like Christopher Robin.

Pleads together? Speeds together?

Life with a for-all-practical-purposes-already-two-year-old is exhausting, but rather good. I have a couple hundred adorable pictures in my camera (and a couple hundred blurry ones too) but my hard drive is so full of pictures that, if I download these, Picasa will crash my computer and probably set it on fire. So we'll have to wait on the pictures.

He's a very attractive child these days -he stood still for a home haircut last weekend. He even let Eric clip several of his nails without the usual wet sheet wrap. (I AM KIDDING. We have never, repeat NEVER, wrapped our child in a wet bedsheet.) (It would probably work, though.) If we work in a little personal care time every saturday morning. we'll probably have a fairly decent-looking kid, without the Wolverine adamantium claws.

He's also fun. He's talking quite at lot, with new words every day. Today, I sneezed, and he said "Bless you."

His best trick - he's been doing this for months - is this.
We tell him to do something.
He replies (as a matter of course, regardless of the request) "NO!"
One of us gives him a big admonishing eyeball and says "Excuse me?"
At which point he makes BLYTHE DOLL EYES and ask sweetly, "No, please?"

So, tiring, but rewarding.

Also, since the tiny corner playground in our neighborhood has been finished and re-opened, I have become much fonder of our development. We go play there nearly every day, and so I am starting to get to know the kids (and the other parents) who live nearby. And, though it isn't like I've found a new BFF, I do find the neighborhood much livlier now that we're a tiny bit connected.

Ian (who, it must be said, talks just a little like Scooby Doo,) asks every day about the playground. This is the way he asks:

"PLWAYYY?!?!??!! GWOUND?!?!???!!!?!?

[He uses that inflection for practically everything. He also has a little trouble with compound consonent sounds, like the 'nk' in the middle of 'monkey'. He gets a little wetness into it, like it's Hebrew. This is particularly cool when he catches sight of the photo of my brother and his wife that's in our living room. He sees it, and it's as if he's never seen it in his life - he gasps (this is actually true), gapes at me, and then shouts "UNKCHCHCHUL?!?!?!? SHANDY?!??!?!?!?!"

Uncle Sandy had dinner with us last week. Ian practically had an aneurysm when he walked in the door.]

We were at the playground after dinner tonight. Ian was starting to get tired (ah ha! My evil plan was working!) and I was ready to scoop him up and take him inside. He was sitting in the bouncy rubber mulch, and I leaned down to pick him up.

At the same time he decided to stand up.

The collision with his shockingly hard little head made me reel, and after a moment, my nose started to bleed. First a trickle, then a gush, which I tamped with my scarf, a pink pashmina-ish sorta thing. I wanted to hide it from Ian, who I thought would be upset be the sight.

While I tried to hide the blood (and get those little cartoon stars and chirping birds from circling my head), Ian decided that it would be a great time to mount the big slide (something he does safely all the time)and then go down it ON HIS FEET.
(Something which cannot be done safely by anyone.)

He made it most of the way down, before falling face-first onto the edge of the slide. No damage, just a bloodied lip. I pinched my nose closed with my left hand, picked him up with my right, comforted him a little, and we staggered home.

Trump Hell

we've just returned from 24 hours in Atlantic City.
all three of us.

I KNOW.

Atlantic City is an occupational hazard for variety entertainers - like falling off your unicycle, or getting papercuts from palmed cards. I've been once before, and Eric and Charon have been a couple more times, always to see friends perform.

This was actually a great opportunity - a magician Eric admires, who lives and performs on the west coast, had a booking in AC, and agreed to spend a day with Eric and do some show-doctoring. And that part (you know, the point of our trip)was totally totally totally worthwhile, more than worthwhile - I can already see good effects from the coaching he received.

We stayed at the Trump Marina, a multi-million-dollar COMPLETE HOLE miles from the ocean. Okay, not a complete hole. The sleeping room was very nice. It had the most fabulous chaise over by the window, upholstered in cream linen, and the bed was fantastic. Great linens. Not a bad view. Really good design all around. Whenever we were in the room, we were happy.

The hotel also has a lovely pool, which unfortunately someone carelessly left outdoors in the rain. Since it was not only drizzling but also 68 degrees all weekend, that didn't work out for us.

They also have a nice spa, but until Ian and I can get parallel massage tables, that's not going to work out either.

In fact, I would say that this hotel was the least hospitable environment for a toddler that I have ever seen.

"Duh," you're saying, "Who takes toddlers to casino hotels?"

Well, idiots, to start with. In my defense, I want to say that I was thinking that Atlantic City would be like Vegas. You'd think that would be a safe bet, right, ha ha?

Atlantic City is NOTHING LIKE VEGAS. IN ANY WAY.

We first went to Vegas several years ago for a gig. I expected to hate it - almost didn't go. I ended up completely loving it. We stayed at the Mandelay Bay for the first part of the trip, which was GREAT; when it came time to pay for our own lodging, we moved down the strip to the Monte Carlo. Which, though it lacked the marble bathrooms and Dale Chihuly ceilings of other hotels, was still pretty nice. (Scaling down, in that case, meant going to a hotel that only had 4 pools.)

I was shocked at how, well, accomodating everything was. Though I'm from the country, I'm kind of an urban girl at heart, and I have internalized the idea that 'the world was not set up for my personal convenience.' Except in Las Vegas, it is.

Tired? There's a bench right here! Bathroom - 10 feet to your left. Warm day? Well, for heaven's sake, don't walk down to the Walgreens - take the free monorail. Thirsty? Oh, honey, let me bring you a drink - what, just a soda? You sure? Well, okay....

Plus, as if you needed it, everyplace is brimming with entertainment, either paid (the art museum at the Bellagio, the big evening shows) or comped (we saw Mac King's daytime show for free) or really free, out on the street! Choreographed fountains! Hot air Balloons! Pirate Battles! Singing gondoliers! A fire-breathing dragon! Okay, so the dragon was looking a little shopworn, and Merlin's arm had fallen off. I didn't care, and I can guaran-damn-tee you that Ian wouldn't care.

Ian, in fact, would have been totally happy to stand in the window and watch the Luxor's diagonal elevator all day. I'm totally sure. The fountain show might have been too much for him. He would have gone into a pleasure coma.

I wasn't expecting a pleasure coma, but a bench might have been nice. A public area with, you know, seating. A lobby. Like at a hotel.

That's all I was expecting. I was expecting the hotel where we were staying to be like...a hotel. Hospitable. Accomodating. You would think they would want to make a nice place, so people will want to come and gamble.

But pretty much the motto of the Trump Marina is: gamble or fuck off.

There's not even SHOPPING, people. There's not even anything to buy if you win, except dinner and Trump t-shirts. (And really cheap costume jewelry. I got 2 watches. I am waiting for my arm to turn green.) You would think they could scare up a Versace, a Juicy Couture counter, something vulgar.

Nothin'.

But there's no place to sit down except at a slot machine, no place to stand except in line, no place to buy a paper (AT ALL), no place to let a baby be a baby. It's barely even handicapped accessible, despite the HUGE number of wheelchair users we saw there.

How gruesome is it?

we went for a 60-minute walk in the rain.


So, to recap:
1. The Trump Marina's success is based entirely on entropy. Once you're there, you're not within walking distance of anything else, and so there's not much competition.

2. If you are not actively involved in shoving coins into something, Trump Marina thinks you're dead weight, and would prefer not to do you any favors. It is a hellish place to spend an afternoon, let alone 24 hours with a hyper toddler.

3. East coast hotel pools belong indoors.

4. Be nice to the staff; they really appreciate it, plus you get to leave eventually but they come back every day.

5. We really, really need a new bed.

Metropolitan Refridgerator of Art

We're very proud.

We've been to the beach.

he liked it.

On Dooce, Heather Armstrong recently referred to vacation with a child as SUFFERING, and I wouldn't go quite that far.

Quite.

Ian had a wonderful time at the beach. An insanely wonderful time. Which is to say, apparently something about it drove him insane.

I know that, because shortly after he went completely insane, we stopped briefly at the Jockey outlet for our bi-annual underwear upgrade.

Ian chose to entertain the assembled underwear shoppers by grabbing two gold-colored women's thong panties, on hangers, and running through the crowded store, squealing, twirling them over his head in interlocking circles. Like, I don't know, some sort of underpants drill team.

And I dutifully chased him, mostly to avoid the disapprobation of my peers, because I think we all know it wasn't like I was going to be able to catch him or anything.

That wasn't the only incident, but kind of indicative. It captures the general texture of the week. I know I've complained about him recently, but he's normally not like THAT. We're fairly proud of his ability to join is in restaurants and stores (for reasonable periods) without incident. Strangers are always praising him for his good behavior and even disposition.

Ha ha.

Some snags aside, it was actually fun - we stayed right up at the boardwalk, and could walk down to the ocean carrying nothing more than a room key. For years, we stayed on the outskirts of town, and carried enough stuff each day to start a small lunar colony - food, clothes, books, a tent. This year, I could literally get up and go for a swim in the ocean CARRYING NOTHING. This is the only way, and I don't care how old and crappy the motel (ours was somewhat crappy) is or how rowdy the kids are outside after dark (barely rowdy even by Bethany standards. No lie, there were a bunch of high school boys playing guitar and singing Wonderwall on the boardwalk at 9pm.)

And, of course, it was emotional for me, seeing Ian take to it the way he did, and seeing Eric be such a dad. It made me think about how the beach has kind of 'been there for me', from babyhood through college and singlehood and wife-hood, and now with a beach baby of our own.

It's like a flipbook of snapshots - there's me and mom in matching sundresses at Avalon, there's dad throwing Sandy over the waves; there's me in my red white and blue racing suit in 1972; there's my mom after the stroke; me and Paul and Chuck; me and Dorney and Chuck and Larry..there are all the pictures of me that Eric has taken, holding up a rubber frog at Funland, shading my eyes by the jetty. There are even pictures from our pregnant trip, 2 years ago, when it rained the whole time and never got about 70. I'm obviously lost - huge, uncomfortable, already tired of waiting but mentally paralyzed, completely unable to think about what I'm waiting for. The rain pounded the dunes, and I stood out in it, shooting video of the whipping grass.

And now Ian, running in and out like a sandpiper, dropping handfuls of sand after the receding wave, showing the ocean who's boss.

We're going again in 6 weeks.

www.themonkeyman.com

Pleased and fairly stunned to report that we survived Artscape!

I mean, who would do that? Who would take a 1-year-old to Artscape?

In fact, if you're like many people, you're asking: who would even go to Artscape? At all?

It's the annual outdoor arts fest in Baltimore.
It is always always always scheduled for the hottest days of the year. With the highest humidity.
Perversely, it's always completely mobbed with people, hundreds of thousands of them. Many visit the small press tents and the art installations, but many more come looking for cheesesteaks and funnel cake.
(Since most art -and most art patrons- do better INDOORS, some of the art and performances are tucked away in buildings and courtyards around the Maryland Institute campus. NOT SO with the cheesesteaks and funnel cake, which are right there on the street - at least a mile of food vendors. This leads the waggish to refer to it as Food-Scape.)
Plus, they sell yards of Coors on the street starting at 8am.
And you park like a mile away. (I guess the walk to your car gives you time to sober up. I hasten to add that, when I lived in Baltimore, in the next neighborhood overm and could easily have stumbled drunkenly home, the beer was not as much of a feature of Artscape.)

I love it.
I love everything about it.
I love the art, I love the art cars, I love the outdoor concert where you sit on the hillside at Mt Royal Station. (It's where I saw Taj Mahal, Betty and Johnny Clegg. Different years.)
I love a cheesesteak.
I love the several hundred art and craft vendors.
I love the idea of showing experimental short films in a tent in in the middle of the street on a Saturday afternoon in July.
I love the way guerilla art projects seep into other parts of town.
I love the people standing outside Theatre Project, inviting people to their original one-act plays like a barker at a sideshow.
I love that there's a ferris wheel, and it's free, and so people bring their little kids and walk around eating popcorn and have conversations about sculptures. That makes me so happy I could practically faint.

I love that it's the same weekend as Otacon, so that, as you drive up Charles from the Harbor, you see people - SERIOUSLY, LIKE A HUNDRED PEOPLE! walking down in homemade elf costumes.

(incidentally, the internet is a making us all smarter, I just learned the word "glomp".)
(I've had them, I just never knew there was a word for them.)

Anyway, I threw Petulant Baby in the car this morning, and I really didn't think we would get all the way to Baltimore. I thought we might get to the ATM, and maybe the Target. But it was such a beautiful day that, once I got him strapped down, and was driving with the windows down and the radio on, I said "To hell with it! Artscape or Bust!"

He obligingly fell asleep, and work up in a stroller on Charles Street.

Of course he protested. I was actually a little nervous - was he just going to be a little crab, a surly little crankypants, and harsh everyone's buzz until I capitulated and took him back home?


We were saved by a monkey.

That's Django, with her friend Jerry. After the jerk chicken stand and the line for the ferris wheel, they were the first thing we came to upon entering Artscape. A welcome sight indeed, as Ian was completely transfixed for...a long time. I got Jerry's card - he does lots more than just pimp monkey kisses, though that was most in demand today.

Anyway, watching Django kiss other children was plenty of entertainment for Ian, and the thrill of a real live monkey - not just on Animal Planet! But in person!- created enough afterglow for him to sit happily in the stroller while I purchased and ate a piece of cherry pie from Rodney.(Ian declined.) AND while we looked at some handmade jewelry and some of this and some of that - a crocheted OBEY afghan and some cool photos
and it was really fun and a nice day SO WE WENT HOME.

I'm ambitious, yes, but I am not stupid. I only put an hour and a half on the parking meter. I knew that he'd hit his fill line eventually, and I was almost spot on.

But I'm really really happy.

Since we have entered the run-up to the terrible twos, I sometimes (ha ha SOMETIMES, that's a special literary device I learned in school, it means PRACTICALLY CONSTANTLY) feel very put-upon. "Oh, fine," I think to myself, "I'll just never do anything fun again. I'll just spend the rest of my life sitting around a townhouse in the suburbs saying 'good job!' and 'Come on, eat one more carrot,' and 'Ew, who has a 'tinky butt? Who? WHO?' until I am too old to enjoy anything except {God forbid} bringing the snacks for travel soccer and complaining about the coarse language in mainstream movies. I am so screwed."

So to be able to take my son to Artscape - even the smallest northeast corner of Artscape, for an hour - really makes me happy.

Comedy 101 - midterm - multiple choice

fig. 1

IF Daddy was dressing hurriedly for a gig

AND a couple of hours later, Mommy and Baby emerge from the bathroom, clean, shiny, wrapped in fluffy towels

AND IF Momma, as she is prone to do, plops Baby onto the bed for a towel-off, a vocabulary lesson, a little smackerel of soy milk, a diaper and a story

1. what item has been left on the bed?
a. something harmless but personal, like a single dirty sock
b. something precisely the size of a baby's esophogus, like a collar stay or the cap from the toothpaste
c. a blunt object or two (ref fig 1)

2. and what is done with that object?
a. it is brandished to humorous effect
b. Baby jokingly holds it near his mouth, checking to make sure Momma is looking and is appropriately horrified, at which point he dissolves into delighted laughter at his obviously excellent skills as a practical joker
c. somebody's getting bonked in the damned head.

Extra credit: how many times, in repeated attempts to repeat the words "Shoe Tree", does Baby mutter "shit..." while Momma's lips go numb from pursing so hard?
b.

Lord, show me the way, the Devil's tryin' to break me down.

Somehow, The World's Cutest Toddler, with his generally pleasant diposition and his easygoing manner, has been stolen by fairies. The changeling they have left in his place is...well, he's kind of a dick.

He pitches horrible public tantrums with no provocation. He cries for an hour at a time. He throws food. And thinks it's funny. He wants to be held, held, held, and freaks out if you need to shift position. Unless, of course, he cannot bear to be touched at all.

Things we have done to discipline him in the past have no effect at all. My serious admonishing look makes him laugh out loud.

Plus he has learned to escape from his crib, so the idea that we can leave him for some quiet time and, you know, get something done for an hour...that's all over. He's capable of going up and down stairs, so basically he has the run of the house now. No house will ever be sufficiently child-proof for this. Even if we moved all the furniture out, we'd still have to bar the windows.

So these are some tiring days. It's hard work, frustrating and disappointing a child this much, let alone trying to keep him from cracking his skull. While I have no real desire to quit this mothering gig (okay, only intermittant desire) I have wondered several times if I can't get some sort of a transfer to another department.

He's very needy, is the thing. He's teething like hell (apparently that's precisely the word I mean) and having a growth spurt, and it seems that he's really scared of us abandoning him. He has trouble relaxing unless we're both visible. This is tough, since his dad has gigs all weekend, including one Sunday in ANOTHER STATE.

Well, if it sucks to be me these days (and it does) at least I'm aware that is sucks much, much more to be my kid.

Looky Daddy rules. Be sure to read back a few weeks for the story about the toe.