I've been holding out on you.

Scott put a whole mess-load (around 80) of pics up on Flickr. They're from the past five months. The photo set is here but note that it's in reverse chronological order... if you know how to fix that, please leave a comment. I spared you the shot of my (or is it considered Nate's? maybe it's both of ours) placenta, burgeoning in a bowl at the hospital, as well as many dozens of shots taken by Tallulah. The girl has no sense of composition. Or even of how to keep her finger out of the frame. But damn does she loves the camera.

So enjoy the photos. The Family is getting excited about our annual Quaker retreat at Lake George next week. Should be full of swimming and running around and sleep troubles, but we have to take the good with the bad. As my friend Alice's mom used to always say, "laughter is always followed by tears." So, so true.

And! It's time to start feeding Nate "real food." That's in quotes because the nasty fluffy rice-powder that smells like pennies doesn't really count as food to anyone past the age of five months. I'll be attempting to spoon some thin gruel into his gob this very afternoon. Wish me luck.

Death and sad music.

Apologies for the lack of posts. We had the memorial service for my grandmother, which involved a lot of work in advance on my part: I had to transcribe an hour-long interview I did with her seven years ago. And then we had to make the actual 7-hour trip up to New Hampshire. We stayed at my dad's cousin's house, an 18th century farmhouse plus barn and working organic farm set on a hilltop. Gorgeous. We picked broccoli right out of the ground. There was also a puppy. I'll try to get pictures up on Flickr soon.

But the memorial service itself brought up a lot of questions for Tallulah. I had tried to prepare her for it in advance, but I had forgotten that she had no experience with churches and church services. The whole solemn scene, plus the "sad" organ music and hymns, clearly freaked her out a bit. Plus she kept asking, finally, "why did Gramma Neanie die?" and "where is she now?" during the actual service, while the minister or one of my parents spoke and Nate squirmed and fussed on my lap. The questions continued for days, and many stories were requested (and told) about people/animals dying and memorial services and the relatives being sad but remembering happy times with the person, etc. We focussed on how "Gramma Neanie's body stopped working because she was very old," trying to forestall the leap of logic that will eventually lead her to "someday mommy and daddy will die, too" and "someday *I* will die!" (I hope to get a handle on these in my own mind at some point.) It seems to have worked, as have our vague descriptions of an afterlife in which the dead person is happy all the time; she never panicked or had nightmares, at least, and the questions about it all have ceased, at least for now. She was a delight at the reception after the memorial service, though, taking off her shoes and trying to walk in some swim flippers she took from a Sunday school display.

Still. I am sadder than I expected about my grandmother Nean's death, considering that I knew that for many years she had been looking forward to the end of her physical suffering and frailty. She was the grandparent I was closest too, even though visits with her always made me anxious; she doted on me and my sister, as her only grandchildren, and put us under a lot of scrutiny, I felt, because of that. And she was a rather traditional person with very specific ideas of how things should be. My sister wrote a great post about her here.

My grandmother's wish was to have her body cremated, and my parents picked up the box of her ashes right before the memorial service. It was in a white paper shopping bag with a green clip art image of a droopy shade tree on it. It was strongly reminiscent of the image on the card our veterinarian's crematorium sent us after our cat died. Seeing it made me physically and existentially ill; a person reduced to a small box of ashes in a shopping bag. I know, it was only her body. But the truth is that she is completely and utterly gone.

We will return to the New Hampshire farm in the fall to scatter Nean's ashes. She wanted them scattered in the same spot -- a wooded mountainside stream in upstate NH -- as her husband's were scattered. After that I don't know when, if ever, I'll go back there again.

Language policegirl

Walking home from day care. The store I need to buy nursing pads from, Boing Boing, has decided to close 15 minutes early.

Me: Man! I can't believe Boing Boing closed early!
Lula: Dang it, Mommy! Boing Boing closed early!
Me: Shoot! Boing Boing closed early!
Lula: (seriously) Mommy, don't say shoot.

(At least I didn't say the word "stupid," which Tallulah has forbidden to be used in her presence.)

Also, if you say you're sorry, you're allowed to do it again.

After the kids had some semi-unsupervised play today I noticed a suspiciously bite-like mark on Nate's arm. Nate hadn't cried, and he's been grabbing everything he can reach and put into his mouth; I thought it was possibly self-inflicted. But Lula was the more likely culprit. I asked Lula. "Is this a bite mark? Did you bite Nate's arm?"
"No. But if I scratched him or poked him by accident, and it left a mark, that would be OK, right?"
Um. Right...?

In other news, Tallulah decided a couple of days ago (Monday, to be exact, while at day care) that she no longer wants to wear diapers. So we've been diaper-free, except for sleep time, since then! There have only been a couple of minor accidents thus far. I'm genuinely proud. Sad, huh? The only thing is we're about to take a road trip up to New Hampshire, since my grandmother died, and it's her memorial service this weekend. So I had to buy a portable mini-potty -- basically a ring, with folding feet, that supports a plastic bag into which a child can pee and poop. Lovely! And then you save the bag for ever and ever. "Remember that time in Vermont when we couldn't find a rest stop?" we'll say, years later. "The smell of this bag of poop really takes me back."

UPDATE: a couple hours after I posted this, I WATCHED Lula lean over and bite Nate (somewhat gently) on the cheek. He started whimpering a little. I yelled out for Lula to stop ("HEY!"), and she did; I said, "Did you just bite your brother on the cheek?" and she said, flat out, "No." I told her I had just! seen her! biting him! And I had told her not to, before! How do you teach a kid to tell the truth? Or to listen to you? I mean, I know you use punishments and rewards and you follow through and all that -- it's not a complete free-for-all over here. But still. This parenting thing is hard work.

A thing I am sure I will be saying again many times in the future

Lula, don't spit on your brother!

Stories.

Lula has been working on understanding some abstract concepts. Her way to understand things is to hear stories about them, and the fact that she knows that about herself and can ask for such stories directly is what blows my mind. Basically she has figured out that the best way to understand a word is to hear it in context. In a variety of contexts, really, since she asks for stories on the same subjects again and again. Recent favorite topics include:
shy dogs
details
labyrinth (that one came out of nowhere)
reasons

And after the hastily-improvised and very simple story has concluded Lula invariably asks for "the rest." Even if the plot has clearly wrapped up, all problems resolved, characters gone to bed, evildoers reformed, etc., there must still be more. And after the story has been extended past all reason, she commands: "Again." She likes the stories, is what I'm saying.

BTW, Lula's sleep situation has improved a lot. Scott figured out that he could do a modified Ferber method with her: tell her that he'd be back to check on her in three minutes, then five, then ten... and once she fell asleep (judged via a lack of chatter on the monitor), he'd just stop checking on her. Worked like a charm.

For the baby, we're helping him learn how to sleep at this very moment. The less said about that the better.

I leave you with another thing I never thought I'd have to say: Don't lick ANYTHING in the playground. (I mean, REALLY, people.)

We have a problem.

And the problem is that our kids don't like to sleep. Actually, I guess that wouldn't be a problem if I didn't like to sleep, myself, so maybe I'm the one with the problem. It would probably be easier for me to stop needing sleep than to get both children to sleep well.

Nate is asleep in his room right now. He naps OK in his crib during the day, you see. But around 6/7:00 at night he develops a sleepiness allergy. He begins to squeal and scream and shriek as if being murdered. For reals. And once he is (finally) nursed/patted/walked/bounced into unconsciousness, he will wake up instantly if placed in his crib. So he has to stay on one of us to sleep. Fun times.

It's a lot like how his sister used to be, not coincidentally. Her sleep problem has matured into a willful refusal to go to bed. Naptime is relatively OK, but nighttime is a horror show, and it has been for a long, long time. We do our nightly pre-bedtime routine, tuck her in, turn down the lights, kiss her good-night, and shut her door. Within a few minutes she's out and in the living room, asking for one stuffed animal or another, or for a drink of water, or to have her blanket placed upon her just so. If we have convinced her to stay in her bed (through a variety of threats/bribes/cajolings) she will scream out for us, sobbing: "Mommmmmeeeeeee! Dadddddeeeeeeee! Somebody come sit with me!!!!!" And if we give in, through our own weakness or pity or shame or exhaustion, and come in and sit next to her, in the dark, while she falls asleep? Well: she will try very hard to get us to talk to her. She will ask questions that are so random and charming that you will be tricked into answering them. "What color pants are you wearing, Mommy?" "Where's Daddy?" "What are you having for dinner?" "Tell me a story about shy dogs!" "What should I dream about, Mommy?"

And if you successfully ignore her questions and you can stop her singing to herself (and even the quietest singing counts, yes even humming) and you just stay there in the quiet darkness, with her all snuggled up under the covers with all the appropriate stuffed animals and sippy cups nearby, well, sleep must surely follow, right? No. Perhaps you will stay there for 10 minutes. Perhaps 30. Maybe even longer. Then her breathing will be regular and deep and you will try to leave, and as soon as you stand up she will murmur "don't go!" and if you tell her good-night and continue to leave she will begin to scream and howl just like she did BEFORE you sat with her. So what, exactly, was the point?

Eventually she does fall asleep, but it's due to some mysterious alchemy, some ever-changing specific combo of moves and tones of voice and words and timing. And after all that, more often than not, she will wake up during the night crying, again, needing more attention.

Add up the Lula and Nate bedtime situations and you have a complete and absolute nightmare. Obviously it requires both parents to devote their evenings to the children's sleeping projects. Once we get Lula down Scott and I have about an hour before our own bedtimes, and we spend that hour sharing baby duty. It. Just. Sucks.

I was going to make this post funny, somehow, but our sad daily reality is so bleak that I just can't. Here's what I am hoping: that Nate will grow out of this, and one day I'll put him down to sleep at night and he'll actually stay asleep. And then Lula will see him sleeping in his own bed and not getting extra attention from Mommy, and she'll decide that this nightly struggle isn't worth it. If anyone out there has some helpful and loving advice, I'd like to hear it.