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| Yesterday morning D was ambling around the living room in his usual fashion: yawning and scratching the back of his head with great ferocity and focus. The bristly, rhythmic sound was like an electric toothbrush. "You look like a dog!," I laughed. "Like a dog scratching behind its ear."
"No!", BG cried out, "No!" We are used to her objecting over any old thing (saying the word "blueberry" in the same sentence as "strawberry", wearing slippers to get the laundry, you get the idea) so we thought it was her general contrariness. But then she insisted, "You look like a polar bear!"
Hunh? I don't think we have ever discussed polar bears. What goes on in her little head is a mystery.
I think DB is going to be my little tomboy. She is way more active than BG was at her age and she climbs up and onto everything--watching her makes me think of Cirque du Soleil, if it was staffed by bear cubs. Her naughtiness du jour is to climb up on the choo choo train seat and stand on it backwards and bounce, which is really dangerous since it's on wheels. Coming soon to an emergency room near you....*sigh*
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| My grandfather, an avowed nationalist, gave me my Korean name. It means "loyal", with a particular emphasis on Korean patriotism. I suppose he hoped I would dedicate my life to Korean culture and politics, but I feel I've done my part by marrying a Korean guy with some truly FOBby habits.
My failure to reunite the two Koreas notwithstanding, I think I fit the name in the sense that I am fiercely loyal to my loved ones. (When I say "loved ones", I don't mean everyone I should or could love, like the people from my sophomore year Bible study, or the nice people at the Kidney Foundation who I gave money to last year. If you know me, you know that I like a lot of people. I trust quite a bit fewer. And the number of people I really love--well, you could probably fit them all in the basket of a hot air balloon.)
It's not necessarily a great gift, my love and loyalty. A certain amount of slavering devotion is involved, which can get sort of wearing unless you are likewise dependent on me for all nourishment and sleeping quarters (namely: Doodlebug). And you must always be careful not to mention that Person X has crossed you, lest Person X goes down in my nigri libri forever.
I'm not sure where I'm going with this, except that after so many years of Fido the Dog-ging it in this manner, I think I'm going to have to rethink how I express my devotion. For one, the whole Kung Fu trope "you-killed-my-cousin's-father's-sister's-brother-so-now-I-kill-you" is ridiculous, and if you really want the job done right, the Lord is much better at that sort of thing. For another, change is brewing, and my loved ones are going to need a much braver and stronger kind of devotion from me.
Ugh--I hate it when I pontificate like this, I feel all Sister Mary Martha Potato Chips, you know? Much too heavy for a Saturday night. I am going to eat some Twizzlers and sit in front of the TV.
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| We are moving. I have hesitated to post anything about this because D has not yet told his family, and Very Bad Things happen when the internet finds out things about us before his family does. I can understand this. But I have decided to try to start writing a little bit every day (or nearly) and most of what I am thinking these days has to do with moving.
Moving involves a certain amount of dredging: you open a box from the back of the closet and the bridesmaid dress from your sister's wedding is rolled up inside. And the memories flutter up out of the box. You don't want to know the memories that fluttered up when I found an unseemly number of tube tops in the underbed storage.
I found my stash of Halloween costumes and I set them aside so I can festoon Doodlebug in Hello Kitty caps and whatnot and take pictures. Oh the indignity of childhood. I'm sure Babygirl will cheerfully volunteer to don all the costumes all at once.
I'm actually shocked at how little jealousy Babygirl has displayed about this fat little interloper who mouths all her toys and takes up so much of Mommy's time. Maybe it's her kind and relaxed nature, maybe it's fierce pride in her baby sister borne out of a rivalry with her cousin, who also has a new baby at home, Baby "Eton", who is only 11 days older than our Doodlebug. I don't think that's it, though, because Babygirl is very invested in Doodlebug's happiness. I once told Babygirl that Doodlebug was sad and missed her big sister when Babygirl goes to school, so now when Doodlebug cries, she says, "Don't cry, baby, I'm here, I'm here, it's okay!"
One of Babygirl's favorite games is "Family", in which she plays Mommy, I play baby, and Doodlebug either plays Big Sister or Baby Eton. My role is strictly circumscribed: she feeds me and then the food runs out and then she instructs me to cry. Doodlebug's role is to comfort me when I cry, but she doesn't follow Babygirl's stage direction as well as I do. She's much better at playing Baby Eton.
I'm glad Babygirl plays Mommy with such tenderness. I raise my voice more often than I'd like and I resort to threats very quickly because I am impatient for her to register acknowledgment. But because I swing to extremes, I'm also constantly cupping her face in my hands and telling her how beautiful and important she is to me. I didn't realize how often I do this until the other day when she laid her hand on my cheek and said, "Mommy, you're so beautiful." Believe me, it's not because I look beautiful these days. I have a box full of discarded tube tops that can tell you that.
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| One unexpected benefit of having kids was that D and I each got our own mascot. Babygirl has always taken after D: chub of cheek, unsurpassed in gas production, stubborn as all get-out. Doodlebug, on the other hand, reflects my shyness around strangers, pointy chin, and worshipful attitude toward older sister figures. What is most marked is her complete disregard for others when she sleeps. Doodlebug and I share a queen-sized bed (D has been relegated to the spare room), and morning always finds her smack dab in the middle of the bed, with me either curled around her like a question mark or teetering off the edge of the bed. Several times a night, I pick her up and move her over a few feet, but it's a futile gesture--within 20 minutes I have a little bundle of blankets snuggling against my arm.
I know she's ready to get up for the day because she'll shimmy over to me and punch me in the boob until I wake up. She just stares at me with these huge liquid brown eyes and paws at me, waiting for me to open my eyes. It's like sleeping next to a baby deer with no manners. But I can't get too mad--when I finally wake up, she breaks out into this huge smile and rejoices by kicking her fat little feet.
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This is where Doodlebug really diverges from her older sister--Babygirl was fond of D and me equally, which is to say: meh. Babygirl liked us well enough, but it wasn't until later that she would keen and arch if she were placed in a stranger's hands, and that phase only lasted about two weeks. Doodlebug, on the other hand, has eyes (and clingy arms and legs) for only one person. Can you guess? Shall I show you my massive forearm, sinewed and striated by holding my Doodlebug all day long? She will tolerate her father for short bursts of time, but the instant she hears or sees me, she starts to wail and looks at me in supplication until I pick her up. I'm touched. I'm tired.
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Doodlebug's little teeth buds finally cut through a few days ago. It looks like someone crushed a pearl and strewed the crumbs on her gum. Unlike last time, I did not discover the teeth buds by hearing them scrape against the spoon as I was feeding. Not that my dental attentiveness has improved, it's that Doodlebug hates solid food. Babygirl gobbled it up from the first, but Doodlebug spits it out automatically, like a vending machine rejecting a wrinkly dollar bill.
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| I posted this on FB first, but then I thought it might be a nice palate-cleanser for those of you who are not on FB and really, really did not want to picture me in 1eather pants. Sorry about that.
You have been warned: Trader Joe’s organic strawberries are TERRIBLE. I don’t like to buy fruit at Trader Joe’s. Usually, their apples are mealy, their grapes are old and weeping brown juice, and their bananas are bound together in these fascist little bundles. (Okay, I admit I am one of those annoying people who break off individual bananas that look good to me instead of buying them in bunches. But I swear I can tell which bananas have little tarantula footprints on them, and I refuse to buy them.) But today, I just couldn’t bear one more trip to the produce market and I didn’t want to wait for the weekend farmer’s market. As any parent knows, each stop one makes on the errand chain exacts a great price. Each in-and-out of the car involves: ensuring all sippy and snack cups are topped up, portage of said cups, hoisting hefty children in car (often getting kicked in any number of tender spots—yes, women have many tender spots, both north and south), singing “Mama Look a Boo Boo” at full volume to entertain children, then hoisting hefty children out of car (tenders once again tenderized by small kicking feet), keeping track of hefty children and their cups at each errand stop, hoisting hefty children back into car…you get the picture. Lather, rinse, repeat. (Your kids may not be hefty but my girls are both 75th percentile for weight and feel as dense as osmium.) Anyway, so today I decided to save myself an extra trip and bought the strawberries at Trader Joe’s. I should have been tipped off by the fact that they were ORANGE. Even the seeds looked weird—all pronounced, as if they were tiny little goiters. I tried one when I got home and it was sour with an undertone of bitter. Sour with an undertone of sweet is like what you taste when nature has not yet ripened your friendly little berry. Sour with an undertone of bitter is like what you taste after a night of tequila shooters and bad judgment. UGH. Trader Joe’s has once again lured me in with enticements like seven varieties of all-natural string cheese! and then turned on me with the little orange horrors he calls “Organic Strawberries”. Friends, do not be fooled. | | |
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