Levedy

Audio Book

On the recommendation of one of the gals at the last Stitch and Bitch this past weekend, I downloaded an audio copy of Why Gender Matters.*

It's very intriguing. I listen to it and knit while Bean's asleep. Some of his theories seem a little far-fetched, but his opinion is backed by copious amounts of university-based biological and psychiatric research. It's very interesting to think that the 60's and 70's notion of providing gender-neutral education actually does a disservice to both girls and boys, albeit for different reasons.

*Did you know that the Clark County Library District lets you download certain book and audio titles right off their web site? Cool! One less opportunity for me to see sunshine!

10 Months

At ten months, you finally have two things that are necessary to duke it out in this family: teeth and moxie. The teeth (okay, tooth) certainly helps with eating the countless foods your Yiayia plans to feed you. I know that Yiayia intends to turn you into a gourmand, but you accept dill-rubbed salmon and plain old graham crackers with the same gusto. Good for you.

The moxie makes me proud and anxious at the same time. You can’t yet talk, but that hasn’t stopped you from arguing your point with your dad and me. Intermixed with your babblings and hootings are episodes of balling up both of your fists and grunting with such authority and wide-eyed enthusiasm that we have no choice but to agree with you, whatever it is you’re trying to say. Your grandmother once told me that the best and worst parenting decision she made was to raise daughters who speak their minds and stick to their guns. Your moxie makes me proud, but annoys me when I want to do things contrary to The Will of the Bean: horribly wicked, unforgivable things like leaving the room you occupy or disallowing your grabbing the contents of your diaper.

This month you experienced a bright, sunny California day while toddling around on fresh grass for the first time. You loved it. You learned to sniff things, namely fresh-picked lemons. You also exercised your pitching arm with those lemons and your Thea Stella’s head. Luckily, she forgave you. You are so very close to walking, and it frustrates you that your body can’t quite keep up with your desire to be bipedal. Your legs will soon succumb to The Will of the Bean, but for now, we’ll all let you amble while you grasp our fingers.

You love turning pages, splashing in the bath, and playing with empty containers. I let you play with an empty teapot box the other night, and you were enthralled for an hour. You loved looking in it, flipping it over so toys would fall out, and chewing on the corrugated edge. You find wonder in everyday objects; every box or rubbery wrist band or Chap Stick tube holds some secret entertainment that only you can pry out of it. I love that about you. Plus, it makes it easy to not buy you toys constantly. Bored? Here’s a wooden spoon! HOORAY FOR MOM! SHE’S THE BEST!

You weigh almost 18 pounds (yes, I took you to the UPS Store to get you weighed.), which puts you in the 25th to 50th percentile for girls your age. While it makes me worry less that you’re too small for your own good, in practical terms, it means that I am no longer able to fit my 10 month old daughter in 3-6 month clothes. You fit into 9-12 month clothes, which is appropriate for your age, but I can no longer get away with dressing you in gender-neutral clothes. I try to buy you clothes that aren’t (a) too pink and girly, (b) designed to make you look like a miniature teenager and (c) festooned with ruffles and “I’m a princess” lettering.

There’s a reason that you don’t have a single scrap of princess-y decoration in your room, or a plethora of Disney Princess hooey in the house. I don’t like what it purports to teach you. I don’t think that children should be raised like royalty. Playing pretend is fine, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be brought up thinking that you are entitled to fawning treatment and coffers stuffed with toys. Princesses generally don’t do laundry or the dishes, and that idea is a NON-STARTER in this household. Your father and I expect you to pull your own weight around here, and as soon as you can walk, you can GET A JOB.

Your communication skills are improving. So far, you can use sign language to say: milk, all done, hello, bravo, and WHAT YOU ARE FEEDING ME SUCKS, WOMAN. I guess perspicacity coupled with mouthiness is genetic. Man, are your pubescent years going to be FUN.

In the meantime, continue smiling, giggling, and sniffing lemons on sunny days. I hope that you love mornings tucked between your dad and me while sucking down a bottle as much as I do. However, if you would stop stomping on my boobs to crawl over me to get a better view of the cat glaring at you from across our bedroom, I’d appreciate it.

Love,
Mama

Mushy

Twelve years ago today I got my first kiss, from a boy who turned out to be my first love, who became the man that I married and started a family with…

..and a cat. We own a cat together.

Our two-year anniversary is in a few days, but we only chose that wedding date because it was the nearest Saturday to this date. Because this date is special: it started us on the path that has led us to matrimony, parenthood, and arguing over whose turn it is to change the litter.

I wouldn’t trade a day of it. I love you, honey.

And it’s TOTALLY your turn.

Home again, home again, jiggety jig

We're back, and LA was great.

Here we are at the Getty. All smiles and sunshine, the lot of us.

Bean had a lovely time playing on grass for the first time in her life, gumming Meyer lemons from Tula's tree, and being generally well behaved and not too destructive.

I had a very relaxing outdoor shower, and, since (big)Sophie was with us, it was easy to leave Bean in capable hands so I could do other things. Important things, like nap on a Tempurpedic mattress.

Off to LA LA land

This weekend we are heading to LA to visit with family and see the icon exhibit at the Getty.

(big) Sophie promised to be ready to go by 9:45 so that we can be on the road and have our trip better coincide with Bean’s nap schedule, yadda yadda.

I’ll eat my socks if she actually follows through.

I’m totally paranoid about driving the car for such a distance as I WAS A SUSPECT IN A HIT AND RUN. Before we leave, I’m going to take pictures of the car with today’s newspaper in the frame. I’m secretly petrified that we’ll incur some damage to the car and then I’ll be forced to call a lawyer because I will claw the cop’s face who tries to impound my car next week when I take it in for inspection.

But I digress.

LA will be lovely, family will be lovely, and Bean will get to toddle around a graphic designer’s stylish, Westwood LA house for the weekend. (Read: Oh, the things you can smash!) Wish us luck.

The wonders of culinary chemistry

I came downstairs yesterday to the smell of cooking hot dogs in my kitchen. Unless the Bean finally figured out how to make them herself, there was no obvious reason for the hot-doggy odor.

Turns out, the dishwasher was in its drying cycle, and a rubber spatula (from Le Crueset! Dammit!) had fallen down onto the heating coil. I used tongs to grab it off the heating coil, and marveled at the charred wood and at the charred and smoky rubber (vinyl?) spatula.

But then I wondered: what in the hell do they put in hot dogs to make them smell exactly like charred rubber?

My funny Valentine

Today is Valentine ’s Day, and, since our anniversary is 12 days away, we don’t make a big deal of the day. A card and chocolates, maybe, but no fancy dinners or anything like that.

However, since it is Valentine’s day, I’ll post something in honor of the occasion.

Some tidbits about my husband:

On the weekends, he doesn’t want me to leave the house until immediately after Bean goes down for a nap. That way, his actual solo time with the baby is kept to a minimum and mine is kept at the maximum.

BUT

No one loves that baby more than he does. She delights in riding on his shoulders and helping him with his computer, namely by ripping the keys off the keyboard.

…

He almost always ends up falling asleep with his right hand on his right cheek. You have a 50% chance of picking which one.

…

He never brings me roses , not because he’s a putz, but because he knows I don’t like them. He scours multiple florists to scavenge enough yellow gerbera daisies to fill a vase, knowing that they’re only going to last a day or two, because he knows they are my favorite.

…

He watches me undress, not because he’s a perv, but because he waits for me to wiggle out of my pants. It’s unconscious, the butt wiggle, and not at all flattering, but he loves it.

…

He doesn’t like leaving the house without his wedding ring on.

…

He loves me, for all my faults and imperfections. You know, all two of them.

...

I love him more each day. His is the face I want to see at the end of the day. His are the arms I want around me, and his are the cheeks I kiss every day.

You have a 50% chance of guessing which ones.

I love you, honey.

Holy Hit and Run, Batman!

I got this letter in the mail yesterday from the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department’s Hit and Run division stating that my car was suspected of being involved in a hit and run accident on Superbowl Weekend.

The accident took place on Sahara and Lamb. I’ve never even been to Sahara and Lamb. That’s a sketchy neighborhood on the other side of town from me.

I told her that I’ve never been to that intersection, and I certainly wasn’t involved in a car accident that weekend, and can’t they send out a detective to look at my car and see that there’s no damage to it? She wouldn’t go for it. I told her that there must have been only a partial plate taken at the accident, because it WASN’T ME, but she said no, that the full plate number was taken, and it was a 2006 white Honda just like I registered, so I should just get my felonious ass down to the police department to save them the trouble of hauling me in themselves. (Okay, she didn’t say that, but that was her tone of voice.)

So now I have to take my car to the Police Department on E. St Louis (for non-Las Vegans, that’s an even SHITTIER neighborhood than Sahara and Lamb) for them to look at two weeks from now. I’m all paranoid. What if I get in an accident between now and then? What would it look like if I take my car in with damage on it?

I’m pissed that I have to take the time out of my schedule to clear my name. I wish they could just send some dopey beat cop to see that my car is FINE. Harumph.

Also: If I were in the accident, wouldn't waiting two weeks for an inspection give me time to replace any damage to the car?

Bucket Hat

I knit something wool (woolen?) for the first time. I knit Bean a bucket hat using yarn that I bought at Michaels. I also felted for the first time, which sounds like I have a dirty hobby, but it just means that I made it fuzzy and tight.

(I know. I know, Office fans. “That’s what she said.”)

I’m making a bigger one for me. Then Bean and I will match!

Pearly White

I've been convinced that Bean has been teething since she was two days old. She had all the signs: excessive drool, middle of the night waking with pain, stinky diapers, chewing on anything and everything, and yet: NO TEETH.

So for the past month she's had no symptoms. No pain, no (abnormally) abominable diapers (just the regular abominable level), no fever, no pink cheeks, no drooling, nothing. I became convinced that she was going to be the only second grader on a soft food diet.

I got dire warnings from Athena (she with the child with four teeth) about the horrors of teething, the screaming, the gnashing, and the moans of misery. But still nothing from Bean for the past month.

Yesterday, she took an extra long morning nap and looked a little spacey for the first part of the day. And this morning? TOOTH.

Wow. She must have a high pain threshold or something. Or perhaps it's the constant stream of Tylenol and tequila I put in her bottles. JUST KIDDING, SOPHIE.

It's Tylenol and ouzo.