It's a . . .

. . . boy!

Christmas morning couldn't possibly be complete without . . .

. . . Guitar Hero.

'Twas the Night before Christmas

And a very lovely one it was, our first Christmas Eve with just the three of us.

We lazed around all morning. Had German pancakes for "breakfast" (at noon). John convinced Evelyn to fall asleep, unassisted, for nap time within 20 minutes of when he put her down (a minor miracle these days). After nap, we headed over to the Church of the Heavenly Rest for their Christmas pageant, which was perfect. Then, we came home for soup, bread, and cheese. The particulars differed, but these three ingredients, we have discovered, were part of the typical Christmas Eve dinner for both Pretes and Barretts. After that, Evelyn hung her stocking and we read the Christmas story again for good measure.

Then she went to bed. With her jingle bell. Which was confiscated within about 10 minutes.

John and I just finished wrapping gifts and straightening up a little bit, so we're ready to roll. It's only 10 p.m.!

I have to say, I miss our family, both Pretes and Barretts, but I don't miss hurriedly "opening" gifts we didn't even bother to wrap in 5 minutes the morning of December 23, rushing around all day on last-minute errands and packing, struggling with a toddler on a late night flight, and waking up exhausted to unpack on the 24th.

Recently overheard

"Old MacDonald had a farm

E, EIO

On that farm he had a H

EIEIO

With Hhhhh, Hhhhhh here

Hhhhh, Hhhhh there

Everywhere Hhhhh, Hhhhh

Old MacDonald had a farm

E, EIO"

Thank you, Letter Factory, for making this moment possible.

Tradition . . . tradition

Lest you think that we are neglecting our holiday traditions in favor of repeated trips to the post office, let me assure you that celebrations of the season are alive and well here.

Trimming the tree

Gingerbread building and decorating. This year: a train.

Family Christmas movie night: Miracle on 34th Street (1994). This was momentous. For the first half of the movie, Evelyn sat transfixed, frequently pointing at the screen and saying, "He's the real Santa," "The real Santa. The real Santa is coming to town," etc. It's definitely the most interested she's ever been in a movie. Up next: White Christmas.


And finally, although this is not specifically a holiday tradition, french braids are certainly a Barrett family tradition of some sort. These survived the morning fairly well but were no match for naptime.

Follow up : UPS

Since this is fresh in my blog history, I thought I'd provide a little follow up to my "Ode to Doormen" post from last week.

John and I finished up most of our Christmas shopping via Amazon this weekend. After receiving a flurry of tracking emails, I settled in to see what our local common carriers would have in store for me this week. Today, UPS attempted a delivery at my apartment while I was gone. The driver failed to check the reason why he could not leave the package. Then, he checked boxes indicating that he would deliver it on an unspecified day sometime between 10:30 a.m. and 5 p.m. Obviously, I would need to change the delivery address or make arrangements to pick up the package at will call.

After a few hours, the InfoNotice number finally started working, and I logged on to change delivery on my package. I was surprised to see this InfoNotice associated with, not 1, but 2 packages. One of which was delivered today at 2:30 and signed for by a "DR." Which brings to mind a couple of questions.

First, why was one package delivered but not the other? In this case, the undelivered package contains an item worth less than $10. Second, since he was filling out one of those handy papers anyway, what exactly prevented the UPS driver from just jotting me a teensy little note saying, "By the way, I left another package for you in apartment X." Or possibly an even shorter note that just said, "Apt X." Cryptic, maybe, but I think I could have puzzled it out. Third, who is DR?

I'm off to the post office to pick up (at least) two packages tomorrow morning, then back to my favorite UPS facility in the Bronx to pick up that undelivered package later in the day. And possibly score some illegal substances. Okay, not really. This time.

It is important

If you are going to be temporarily uninsured, to have an unsuspecting friend or family member to whom you can text pictures of injuries and ask whether those injuries warrant paying out of pocket for a visit to the pediatrician. Fact of the day: Should your child partially rip off his or her fingernail, no need to worry unless he or she rips out the base of the nail, in which case, someone should stick the ripped off nail back into the base so it doesn't grow shut. Lovely. Thankfully, such dramatic measures were unnecessary, since I almost vomited all over the Trader Joe's checkout counter as it was.

On the plus side, being uninsured saved me a weight check in the middle of the holidays and an hour or two of trying to control my toddler in the obstetrician's office yesterday. So far so good.

Ode to doormen

In the past week, I have been to the post office 3 times to pick up packages. Each time, the process took at least 20 minutes of waiting, although that seemed longer with Evelyn yelling the whole time (i.e. "I'm stuck! I'm stuck!" "I want out!" "I want to go home!" "There's not enough room." "It's too full." "I'm stuck! I'm stuck!").

My third post office trip, today, was a real winner. In addition to the package I had come to retrieve (which of course, I was unable to retrieve during my second post office trip, last night), I noticed while standing staring at the counter for 20 minutes that a package right behind the worker had our last name written on it in big bold letters. This intrigued me since I knew of at least 2 things that were mailed over 2 weeks ago that had yet to arrive. When I reached the counter, I presented my slip for the package that had brought me there, then told him that he had another package of mine for which I had never received a slip. He laughed.

"No, really, it's right behind you."

More laughter.

"I'm not kidding. It's right there. See it? Right there. Behind you. With L-A-S-T N-A-M-E in big black letters on it? Yeah, that's the one."

This is the same post office that has managed to only forward about 10% of our mail. I understand when catalogs and junk mail don't get forwarded. Secretly, I kind of appreciate it. But reimbursement checks from my husband's employer, baby shower invites, and other things sent first class mail are typically passed along right?

Our troubles aren't limited to USPS. Earlier this week, my mother-in-law almost called Amazon to report something she had sent to us as stolen. A "Poblano" had signed for it while I was out two days earlier. I asked the super if he signs for packages but he said no. Apparently, the word spread after I talked to the super, and as it turns out, a neighbor had signed for it on my behalf. His English wasn't great, so I guess I can't really fault him for not leaving me a note, but it would have been nice if the UPS guy could have slipped one of those little papers under my door telling me where he left it. A few days before that, UPS left a prominently labeled package containing electronics outside my door. Luckily, no harm befell it. Funnily enough, a week prior, he refused to leave a large package of diapers without my signature. I would have ended up running out had I not borrowed some extras from a friend. (For the uninitiated, it is not always possible to find reputable brand of diapers in your child's size at the corner store, even if you're willing to pay five times what you would pay online. The last time we ran out, John couldn't find anything other than Duane Reade brand in size five during his late-night run. She leaked out of every single diaper she wore from that package).

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. My UPS/FedEx/USPS track record before moving into a doorman building was less than ideal. There was the time John ordered me an Ipod and it got stolen off the UPS truck. Twice. The (innumerable) times we changed delivery on a single item and UPS unilaterally decided to start shipping all items for our address to the address specified for the one changed item. The time FedEx returned some of our wedding gifts to Target.com because we were gone for a week and a half and therefore missed the little slip of paper. Of course, I found this out only after trekking from the upper east side all the way to 42nd street and 12th Avenue. The only time I remember crying during our wedding planning was when we went to the post office to mail our invites. The only time I've been solicited to buy narcotics in New York was when I went to pick up a UPS box from 138th street.

For the past three years, I've lived in the dream bubble of 24-hour doormen, and man has it been great. No one ever followed me into the building (I think I've got about an 80% hit rate on people sneaking in here - 80% of the times I enter or leave the building, someone else enters without buzzing up or unlocking the door themselves). I could leave things for people. People could send things to me. And every day I got a smile and hi when I came in and out.

In fact, having a doorman was so great, so wonderful, that I didn't even know how good it was. I must have blocked out all the non-doormen frustrations. When we were first looking at apartments to buy, I was totally on board for a unit in a nondoorman building. How foolish.

One of the first times my brother visited us at our former doorman apartment, he asked me, "Doesn't it bother you how they're sort of supposed to serve you? How they always do this or that for you? Doesn't it make you a little uncomfortable?"

No, no it does not. Not one little bit. Sigh.

Kids say the darndest things

Evelyn and I have been spending a lot of "quality" time together on the subway lately. Necessity, as they say, is the mother of invention; our increased transit time has led to the development several new joint activities. First is Evelyn asking me to read to her and me saying I can't because I don't want to vomit all over the subway floor. We usually settle on me holding the book so she can see the pictures and turning the pages without actually reading anything.


Another newly rediscovered favorite is singing, as long as it's Old MacDonald or Christmas carols. I am allowed to sing only the requested song. Singing of a nonrequested song leads to loud protests (e.g., "No, not that one. Not That One! NOT THAT ONE!!! THE TOY ONE! THE TOY ONE!! THE TOY ONE!!!"). If the requested song is Old MacDonald, I am required to sing verses based on animals of her choice. Our Old MacDonald has a very diverse farm with top animals being a lion, a fish, and a giraffe. (Since giraffes apparently have limited vocal abilities, Old MacDonald's giraffe makes a loud chewing noise.)


Yet a third new game is name that letter. Or the sound it makes. Or both. I love this one because it's so fun to see her learning her letters thanks to innumerable viewings of The Letter Factory; that DVD has been on repeat in our house for about a month now.


A week or so ago, we were playing this game on the A train. Those in the know will recall that the A train is also the 8th Avenue Express and the Fulton Avenue Express. I know this because of the handy electronic signs, like so:





The A train's sign circulates among 3 or 4 different messages, refreshing itself every few seconds. Every time the sign changed, Evelyn excitedly called out the first letter or two of the newly displayed phrase. Particularly, the first two letters of F U L T O N S T E X P. At first, no one really noticed. After a few repetitions, though, the toddler cheerfully yelling semi-obscenities and then clapping her hands to congratulate herself caught the attention of some fellow riders. Attempts to point out other letters on the train were unsuccessful in deterring her interest in these particular letters. Unfortunately.


We've been riding the C a lot more lately. It has older cars with paper signs.

I get by with a little help from my friends

We've had a lot of changes around here lately.

Moving*

Glasses

(John dressed her, although she added the tap shoes herself.)

Coming soon**



Luckily, we've also had lots of help from friends and family. This holiday season, we're thankful to have made it through everything intact to this point.


For the record, I would not recommend selling your home in a declining market, moving everything you own (knowing that you will be moving it all again within 4 months), applying for financing in a difficult credit environment, and convincing your two-year-old to wear glasses all simultaneously while in the throes of early pregnancy nausea and migraines.


(*We don't yet know where we'll end up permanently, although it will be in the vicinity of our old apartment. We're in temporary housing while we evaluate our options and will let you know when we have some idea of what we're doing.)


(**Early June 2010)

Storybook ending

Yesterday was stake conference. Evelyn and I were running late, of course, and she was begging to wear her tap shoes, so I let her. We ended up sitting in the gym: wood floor + metal chairs + tap shoes + 10 minutes late = bad combo. Two hours of toddler wrangling later, John and I were both exhausted. Maybe, he said, we should rethink our plan to have lots of children. Maybe just two. Maybe just one.

One long nap and a batch of cinnamon rolls later, we were all in a little better spirits. Evelyn wanted oatmeal for dinner, which was fine by me since there were only two servings of shepherd's pie left overs. Evelyn is very sensitive to temperature. Although she sometimes confuses whether something is "hot" versus "cold," she consistently refuses to eat anything at either extreme (ice cream and popsicles excepted, of course). I brought her the oatmeal, and it was still a little hot (i.e., not completely lukewarm and disgusting yet). So, she asked me to blow on it, which I did. I then returned it to her.

John: Is it too hot?
Evelyn: No, it's not too hot.
John: Is it warm?
Evelyn: No, it's not warm. It's not too hot. It's not warm. It's just right!

John: It's like something out of a story book.

Well said.

Boycott?

Without in any way minimizing the much more serious struggles and heroic actions of those who have gone before, I have to say that I am tired of being treated like a second-class citizen on the bus. I offer two examples.

Yesterday, Evelyn and I took the bus back from Boston. It was inexpensive, and that was its only recommending feature. Evelyn is energetic and opinionated. She is also only two years old. She is not capable of sitting perfectly quietly for 4+ hours, and she should not be expected to be able to do so. Unfortunately, this apparently means that taking her on a bus ride is practically illegal, according to the multiple people who loudly, conspicuously expressed their displeasure with her presence during the ride (E.g., "I can't believe that child is screaming AGAIN! If only the mother would DO SOMETHING instead of just sitting there. They really shouldn't expect us to put up with this.") I spent the entire time alternately trying to ignore them, trying to make sure Evelyn didn't understand what they were saying about her, and more importantly, trying to avoid vomiting due to a migraine + motion sickness. It was a fun trip.

As we prepared to disembark at 34th street and 8th avenue, one of our fellow passengers verbally assaulted me in front of all the other passengers. Using various choice words, she emphatically expressed her opinion that (1) Evelyn obviously "cannot handle" a bus trip, (2) I am a bad and irresponsible mother for bringing her on the bus, (3) I made everyone else's trip miserable, (4) I should be forced to compensate the other passengers for the harm I inflicted on them by bringing her on the bus, etc, etc, etc. No one, not one single person, gave me so much as a slight smile of encouragement during or after this tirade. I then had the distinct pleasure of carrying my 30-plus-pound toddler and two bags while pushing a stroller with a carseat in it and pulling a suitcase for over 1/2 a mile trying to find a cab. Four available cabs passed me before someone took pity on me and hailed a cab on my behalf. It was a rotten day.

Today, Evelyn and I took the bus crosstown on our way up to see the Fehlbergs. My world-class headache from yesterday had yet to leave, so I still felt pretty lousy. A few blocks in, a man asked me to hold Evelyn on my lap so he could sit down because it "wasn't right" that she be allowed to take up a seat. (And no, I was not in the seats you're supposed to vacate on request for the elderly or disabled). The gentleman next to me kindly got up instead so Evelyn could remain in her seat. I was informed again in no uncertain terms that it was wildly impolite of me to allow him to do this and that my toddler belonged on my lap if I wanted to bring her on the bus. His rudeness was somewhat mitigated by the woman next to me, who rolled her eyes and glared at him the rest of the trip.

All of which leads me to wonder whether parents are the new second-class citizens. And whether some of these old people shouldn't think long and hard about biting the hands that will feed them 20 years from now.

I think it's a hit

'

(Although I just realized I sound more excited about it than she does in this video.>)

"Two" day

Evelyn's real birthday is Monday, but for those in the area, we're celebrating tomorrow (Sunday October 4) at 11 a.m., a decision we made about 5 minutes ago, thus the late notice. We'd love to see you if you don't already have plans.

Obsession

In my years to date, I've learned that obsessive thoughts are rarely (perhaps never) interesting to anyone other than their thinker. This holds true across a wide variety of topics, including but not limited to:

-whether you look fat

-whether the boy X who sits beside you in class likes you (usually, no)

-whether it's a good idea to cyberstalk boy X (again, usually, no)

-whether boy X thinks you look fat

-whether you will get into Y school (and it's corollary, whether you will make law review)

-whether you want to marry your boyfriend

-whether your boyfriend wants to marry you

-whether you will land Z job

-whether your offer on that apartment will be accepted

-whether the seller will back out before she signs the contract

-whether you will pass the board

-whether your bathroom will be done before you move in so you don't have to live without a toilet

-whether you will be able to get pregnant

-whether you will have your baby soon

-whether you will ever experience a full night's sleep again

-whether you should go back to work

-whether your husband's company will go bankrupt

-whether your husband will lose his job

-etc.

Having obsessed over all the topics above, and many more, I speak from experience when I say that no one, including my future self, finds ramblings on these topics interesting. Not even a little bit interesting. And since my current thoughts are consumed by another list of whethers - whether we will be in contract on our apartment soon, whether the contract will close, whether we will be homeless as of November 2 - I have decided to spare you all.

In the meantime, enjoy this first preview into our family photo session from Saturday, courtesy of the very talented Kathryn.

The Reports of My Death Are Greatly Exaggerated

We will be back with new posts soon. Or in a week. Or maybe two weeks. Well, you get the idea.

Out of my control

Backstory: For the past 10 days, I have enjoyed a rapidly progressing form of what I thought was hives. Originally, actually, I thought it was bug bites, and I cursed the mosquitos of Montreal. It quickly became clear this was something more when blotches started spreading over my back, shoulders, and chest. Perhaps I'm allergic to the hotel soap, I thought. When it kept getting worse days after I had returned home, I reconsidered. I tried to think of anything and everything that had changed about my soaping or eating habits and instituted a major reversion to 3 weeks ago. I packed away a brand new container of moisturizing body wash and threw out dozens of delicious sugar plums from my food coop. I even stopped wearing the new makeup I bought two weeks ago (although none of the blotches were on my face, I wasn't taking any chances). Basically, I made myself crazy trying to figure out what I was doing to cause my rapidly degenerating skin problem. As the situation progressed from worse to even worse, I finally made an appointment with my dermatologist.

In the meantime, Laurel came to town. Ever one to display my freak-show side, I immediately regaled her with a close-up of my stomach and shoulders. "Hmm, that's odd," she said.

A few minutes later: I'll be interested to see what your dermatologist says it is. I have a little theory.
Me: If you're right, is it dangerous?
Laurel: No.

Another few minutes later: So, what's your theory?
Laurel: [Blah blah blah medical term] It's basically a rash that starts on your trunk then spreads up your neck and eventually down your arms and legs. Usually it doesn't spread to the face.
Me: What causes it?
Laurel: They really don't know.
Me: How do you treat it?
Laurel: You don't. There's no treatment.
Laurel: And . . . it lasts about 6 to 8 weeks.

For some reason, I found this hilarious. In that way things are hilarious because they aren't funny at all and you can't believe you let yourself stress so much on a topic about which you could do so little. If she's right, I am going to let out a long string of crazed laughter as I go home to dig out all my discarded body washes while eating sugar plums until I can't stomache even one more.

History repeats itself, again

Growing up, my family used to do the family reunion scene every year. On odd years, it was Aspen Grove with my dad's side of the family. We're inculcating John and Evelyn to this Barrett tradition next week. On even years, we drove to Myrtle Beach with my mom's side. We usually caravanned. The first time we went, I was riding separately from my grandfather. He had promised to buy me some french fries, so he reached into his wallet to pull out a couple bucks for me. I am told* that I peered over his wallet and then promptly told him, "I want the one with the two and the zero on it." I was perhaps 3 or 4 at the time.

Evelyn has similar inclinations.



Just after we stopped the camera, she went on to say, "Daddy, I want a credit card please." OK, so we coached her a little, but still, I think we're in trouble.

When I was little, the same grandfather used to keep a neverending oatmeal cookie jar. I never opened the lid to find it empty, and therefore, I learned early to ask for "cookie" whenever we went to his house.

Evelyn has been a little trickier (as one must be with parents), but in pursuit of the same goal. Yesterday, she spent a lot of time talking about Cookie Monster. She kept telling me, "Cookie Monster."

Emma: Cookie Monster?
Evelyn: Yeah, okay, Cookie Monster.
Emma: What about Cookie Monster?
Evelyn: Cookies. Eat cookies.
Emma: Cookie Monster eats cookies. Yep, that's right.

This conversation played on a 3 minute loop several times during the day.

Separately, John has been teaching her more advanced versions of her name. She's known how to say "Evelyn" for some time; he's taught her both her first and her last name, with even her middle name occasionally thrown in. She's not perfect, but often if he asks her for her name, then asks her for her full name, she hits the major points of her first and last name.

Friday night, we were walking home from a friend's house. John said, "What's your name?"

Evelyn: Evelyn!
John: What's your full name?
Evelyn: Cookie Monster!

We both broke out laughing and then took her to McDonald's for an ice cream cone. I'm pretty sure ice cream and cookies are perfect substitute goods in most toddler economies, which is probably why she now refuses to list her full name as anything other than Cookie Monster.


*Have been told multiple, multiple times, in fact, which I think must mean that my parents believe this anecdote somehow illustrates something meaningful about my personality.

Celebrity

The past few weeks have been exciting ones here in the Big Apple. And I'm not just talking about the drama of walking outside to a sunny, cloudless sky and then finding myself drowning in street water 20 minutes later. (We stay at home moms of toddlers have to savor unpredictability and changes to our routine where we find them, sometimes.) No, over the last month or so, I have been privy to several celebrity sightings.

Don't be jealous, but while running behind a 60-pound stroller in 80 degree heat the other day, I saw, with my very own eyes . . . Peter Jacobson. Twice. (We were circling the park in opposite directions.)

Then, earlier this week, I "ran" into Mark Feuerstein rehearsing lines on the East River Esplanade.

At this point, you may be saying to yourself, Wow, these are lame celebrity sightings. I don't even know who these guys are. In fact, I did have to look up their names, and it took me a few minutes to place them as characters on television shows I happen to watch. But by a broad definition of the term, they probably qualify. All of which got me thinking, what is a celebrity anyway? People, usually attractive people, who are recognized, by name or appearance, to a large number of people whom they've never actually met in a given society or area? It's all relative, isn't it?

And that definition is really broad enough to include a wide variety of people, which brings me to my third and most exciting celebrity sighting.

Sighted, in Montreal last weekend. Tall, brown hair, hazel eyes, great teeth. You may not know him, but if you're LDS in NYC, you've probably at least heard of him. And I had him all to myself for 3 days (in celebration of our 5th anniversary). Lucky, no?

Evelyn's favorite words this week

Email.

Ipod.

Funny.

I couldn't agree more, baby.

Photos courtesy of Kathryn

Clingy

Evelyn has become particularly attached to both John and I lately. With regards to me, this has manifested itself mostly by the unimaginative tactics of clinging to my legs (sometimes between my legs, inside my skirt, cute, no?) or wrapping her arms around my neck--boa-constrictor-style--in the presence of strangers. This from a child who at 10 months would crawl over to strangers at church, pull herself up on their pant legs, and demand that they read to her.

With regards to John, her behavior has been a little more interesting. It started with her crying when he left the apartment wearing casual clothes. In the early phases, she seemed to realize that suits were for work, but polos and shorts were for playing. Dad leaving to go to work - acceptable. Dad leaving to play - not OK. Then, last week, she started pulling on the shoulder of his coat in the morning and telling him to take it off. Apparently, if Dad is not wearing his suit jacket, he can't go to work. The tricky part is getting him to take it off.

This morning, I came back from running to loud screaming. I am told that the goodbye process began with Evelyn trying to climb in the stroller so that Dad could take her to work with him. When even that compromise position failed (fine you can go; but I'm coming with you), she pulled out her last weapon--crocodile tears with a well-played accompanying pout.

I'm leaving all this behind for an anniversary trip to Montreal this weekend, thanks to a kind (and at the time she agreed to do it, a somewhat underinformed) sister. What, I forgot to mention that you now have to rock her to sleep for naps? Must have slipped my mind. Good luck, Careen!

At least she's still cute.

Excerpts from a DTR

Late one night, the Prete family couch


Pretes: We need to have a talk


NYC: What is this? A talk? Are you breaking up with me?

Pretes: Not breaking up, no, but we do need to talk. We've been together for awhile now. Lately, though, it seems like things are getting a little stale. I mean, is this relationship going anywhere?


NYC: What do you mean?

Pretes: Some things, you're great at. You're fun, cute, a good city to impress my friends with, but when it comes to other things, you really fall short. Particularly, you're always trying to get me to spend more than I can afford. Everything costs too much, and not just the good things. Even things that are no brainers other places - a (rental) car (nevermind an actual car). Preschool. A babysitter. Decent produce. And don't even try to tell me "I know this place . . ." If I have to add one more place to my register that requires me to carry 40+ pounds of stroller and toddler on and off a bus or subway (trailing off)

NYC: I don't think you're giving me enough credit. Have you checked out Time Out New York lately? There is tons of free fun, everywhere, all the time. What about Central Park? What about a free community pool right around the corner from your apartment? What about the dozens of playgrounds?

Pretes: I'll ignore for now the question of whether anything is "free" when it's paid for with income taxes of over 10% and growing, but haven't you ever heard of a back yard? And don't even get me started on rainy days. Or cold days. Which, come to think of it, are pretty much the only kinds of days we've had in the last 6 months. I could create Neverland meets Disneyland meets Chuck E. Cheese in my basement and entertain the whole neighborhood for less than what I would pay for one child to belong to a decent indoor playspace for a year or two. Face it, you're high-maintenance.




NYC: So are you.




Pretes: I want things to work out between us. I really do, but I have needs, and I can't just put them aside to fit into a mold that pleases you. I need space. I need free time and means to pursue my interests. I need support from you, not just the other way around. I want a large family, and I'm not sure how you're going to handle it. I mean, do I really want to raise kids with you? I don't know.




NYC: No relationship is perfect. No one place can have it all. We both know I'm not the cookie cutter choice. Our path together isn't going to be easy. But are you really ready to throw it all away? I think, deep down, easy isn't what you want. You're easily bored. Convenience isn't everything, you know.


Pretes: I guess what I really need to know is: Are you willing to work to make things better between us? Do you expect me to do all the adjusting, or are you willing to change, too? Will my sacrifices start paying off one of these days? Where do you see us in 5 years? 10?


* * *




As is typical 0f DTRs, the conversation did nothing to resolve the differences between the parties, but no one wanted to break up, so they stayed together anyway.

Imitation

I have often heard people say imitation in the sincerest form of flattery. In our household, the opposite seems to hold true. Here, imitation is more akin to a cruel form of reproof.

Evelyn's most repeated commands to her baby:

"Get down."

"Sit down."

"Sit DOWN!"

"Sit down BOTTOM!"

"Hold on."

"Minute."

"Hold ON!"

"Patient."

"No no."

"No no no. No no no."

"Shhh."

"Shhh. Sleep. Night, night!"

"Stinky poop."

"Don't rip it!"

You Learn Something New Every Day

When: Today, on our way back from the pool, 10 minutes past naptime
Where: Uptown 6 train

Evelyn screams vigorously for 2-3 full minutes because I won’t let her get out of her stroller and walk around the subway car. She has been playing with my sunglasses, but now throws them on the ground to show she’s serious. A minute later, she starts playing with the strap on her sandal.

Two stops later, a woman about to get off the train hands her a pamphlet from a local art show. The pamphlet has a flower on the front. As she steps off the train, this kind Samaritan turns and says, “You may think it’s tough love, but it’s bordering on child abuse. She obviously needs something to play with. Child abuse!” She then exits.

Approximately 30 seconds later, Evelyn hands the pamphlet to me because she's having too much fun playing with her sandal to keep track of it.

* * *

Lesson of the day: Only children whose parents mistreat them throw temper tantrums.

Fellow city moms beware: The next time your child is throwing a fit in a public place instead of in the privacy of your car because, well, you don’t have a car, a visit from child protective services could be just around the corner.

Father's Day

John had a bang up Father's Day this year. First, I let him sleep in on Saturday, a rare treat for either of us round these parts. Then, I planned a fantastic dinner for Sunday (which we didn't eat until Wednesday, but it's the thought that I'm counting). As if this weren't enough, Evelyn and I finished up by taking Daddy on a scintillating tour of our family's latest real estate acquisition. Our city space has grown by the size of a 4x4x4 cubby hole at Manhattan Mini Storage on 62nd street.

I think John was particularly impressed by our new space's fantastic location - 10 feet off the floor, and accessible only with an enormous ladder delicately perched on wheels that appear unable to pivot, convenient when moving it in and out of the narrow aisles.

No, Evelyn, we don't climb the ladder. No climbing.

Oh, well, nevermind.

* * *

I know, I know, we outdid ourselves, but Evelyn was adamant that this year be better than last year. She's grown quite attached to Daddy since last Father's Day. Most recently, she asks for him several times a day in conjunction with requests to watch Signing Time. This behavior initially had me puzzled, partially because she rarely watches Signing Time anymore, but also because even when we do, John almost never watches it with us. Last Sunday, I turned down another Signing Time request only to hear the theme song start up a few minutes later. Little stinker, I thought, how did she turn that on? But the TV wasn't on. The sound was coming from the bedroom. I walked around the corner to see Evelyn giggling with anticipation as John started up a Youtube Signing Time clip on his Ipod Touch. Mystery solved.

Thanks for always making everything more fun, Dad. We love you!

Bad Habits

This will probably not be news to anyone, but I have a long history as a nerd. Example: When I was in 3rd and 4th grades, we lived a little less than a mile from the elementary school. In that school district, only students who lived 1 mile or more from their zoned schools were bused, so we were stuck walking every day. In the wintertime, this led to amusing antics for onlookers as my 9-year-old self struggled to carry home a heavy backpack and violin over ice-packed sidewalks. When the weather got warmer, the walking was less demanding, and I took to occassionally reading while walking. This was, perhaps, even more amusing to onlookers. Certainly, my parents and siblings still enjoy teasing me about it. I may or may not have also been known to sit alone reading over lunch in the middle school cafeteria. Cool, I know.

Thanks to premium denim and eye surgery, among other things, my nerdiness lives a little further below the surface now than it used to, but at the end of the day, you are who you are, and you can change only so much.

***

As a mother, I want the best for my daughter. I have attempted, therefore, to avoid exposing Evelyn to some of my bad habits in hopes that she will not develop the same vices. It's too late for me to prefer classical music and the history channel to today's top country and ABC's Thursday night line-up, but maybe I can point the next generation toward better practices, I think, eliminate the weaknesses from my line going forward so to speak.

As it turns out, my efforts at self denial may have been in vain. For, despite appearing to be John's mini-me, Evelyn is my daughter, too, and while some things are taught, others are bred into us in ways that defy logic. I present to you Evelyn's activity of choice while walking to the tram Thursday (side note: she walked from our apartment to the tram, then to the toddler park on Roosevelt Island with no breaks - that's over 1.2 miles).

And later, while waiting for Fox at the playground.

Nature: 1, Nurture: 0

Placeholder

Not all deep thoughts are appropriate for blogging (this is most definitely NOT my journal), and I have had very little to share lately. We are off to Boston to help Laurel move into her apartment and blow off some final steam before residency, but in the meantime, I offer this placeholder post for the family.

What have we been up to lately?

-Shopping for clothes in our closet, a recession-friendly strategy. These shoes were pronounced "cute" as was the pair of black and white striped pants, but the latter only if worn as a "shirt."

-Play dates

-Relaxing with a few good shows

See you next week!

For anyone who has asked

Why my sister is living in North Carolina, randomly, for five months, I give you . . .

. . . the beach.

Now I kind of want to live there, too. Who wouldn't want to live on "Topsail Island," on Topsail Beach, in fact, which you reach by driving through "Surf City," and which has an astonishingly wonderful lack of both neon signs and high-rise hotels. Just rows and rows of cute little beach houses (or beach mansions in some cases).

We played in the sun and sand. Not the water, though; no, definitely not the water, as per Evelyn's demand.

(action shot)

(Laurel's beach house (1/2 of it anyway))

When it rained, we drove to Wilmington for McDonald's ice cream cones and diet cherry limeades, and visited Costco, Sam's, a non-ghetto Old Navy, and Super Walmart within minutes of each other (twice).

We also took a very interesting and informative visit to a museum on the site of a former Civil War fort, where Evelyn decided she loves to run around outside in the rain.

Can we go back next summer, Daddy? Pretty please? Evelyn promises to reprise her role doing cute things such as spending an entire morning calling both Laurel and I "honey" and making "ice cream" cones with her bristle blocks.

Or taking off her pajamas instead of sleeping. Whichever seems funner at the time.