the modernity ward

Mysteries of the Universe, in Two Parts

Part the First:

Whilst entertaining friends the other day, I walked past my bedroom and caught a whiff of something downright unholy emanating from...where? I excused myself to hunt around in corners and closets until, under the bed, I found a pile of, um, something. Something bad. It may have been vomit, it may have been poop; it could have come from a cat or a dog. Either way, it had to be dealt with, so I moved the bed and scraped up the nastiness. Up close, I realized it had no odor, possibly because it was at least a week old. The smell was coming from the garbage truck downstairs, and soon wafted in through every window.

So basically there was a pile of cat sick under my bed for a week that I never noticed. And the garbage smells.

Part the Second:

We got our customary free balloon at Trader Joe's today, the red that Sophia had very politely asked for and that we had carefully tied to her wrist. Somehow, getting into the carseat, the thing came off and disappeared off into the blue. She was inconsolable.

Now, usually our policy is "One shopping trip, one balloon, no matter what." Blah blah life lessons and all. But she'd been so sweet about asking for it, and so happy to have it, and so compliant about everything -- and I was pretty sure it was a tying mistake on my part that led to the rogue balloon. I was comforting her in the car, on the verge of going back into the store, when a man appeared with a new balloon for her. He'd seen the moment of loss, and I guess he must have run as fast as he could back into the store to get the balloon. He smiled, offered the balloon, and then he was gone.

If you know me at all, you'll know it's totally out of character for me to say "Bless you!" (to someone who hasn't recently sneezed). But it was the only thing that seemed remotely fitting. I cried half the way home at that small display of human goodness that meant everything to a tiny girl. And her maudlin mama.

Nephew-a-go-go! And, Is There Anything Cuter Than a Deeply Conflicted Two-Year-Old?

Check out pictures and highlights at Mamadeus.

* * * * *

Sophia is dealing remarkably well with the prospect of upcoming earthshaking change, which is unsurprising, since she usually handles things like spilled orange juice or untimely delivery of crackers with grace and aplomb.

In other words, she periodically shouts at me that "You CANNOT have a baby! There is NO BABY in there! There is NO BABY comin' out!"

I don't argue, but neither do I concede. A few minutes later she assures me that "If you have a baby, I will find a NEW MAMA."

"A new mama?" I ask. "And you won't live with me?"

"No," she says. "I will go live with a new mama."

"Well," I tell her, "even if there is a new baby, I will still be your mama. I will always be your mama. No matter what. D (who recently had a second baby) is still S's mama, yes?"

She considers this, and allows that she will simply move to a new house, and Dada can come. "May I come?" I ask.

"Okay," she says. "But not a new baby."

* * * * *

When Sean arrives home a few hours later, she is bouncing on the bed, joyfully yelling "Baby! Baby! Baby!" She asks if she can see pictures of babies on the internet. Picking up an old toy, she suggests the baby might enjoy playing with it. "And wearing my baby shirts that are too small for me, because I am a big girl!"

The next day, we're back to NO BABY IS COMING OUT.

* * * * *

Why bother telling a two-year-old so far ahead of time? Chanukah is a million years away; the passage of time is mysterious, and my belly is just a little bit round, obvious to me, maybe, but certainly not to most. Well, for one, Sophia comes with me to midwife appointments -- and she got very interested in that business with the Doppler. "You lied down on the table!" she recounted in awe. "And the midwife put a stick on you! And it made a sound!"

I gave a one-sentence explanation about a tiny little baby growing inside, not to come out until after the last night of Chanukah, and that was that. A week or so afterward I heard her explaining to her friend S, new big sister, that she was having a new baby too, in the wintertime when it's cold, after Chanukah. A lot more makes it in than I expect, with that kid. So I gave up a long time ago on keeping anything hushed, and decided to go with matter-of-fact, age-appropriate explanations.

Which yield, in the longer term, conversations like this:

Sophia: Midwives help babies come out.
Me: Yes, that's what they do.
Sophia: You helped Poo have her baby come out.
Me: That's right, I was there.
Sophia: You are a midwife, mama!

Hee.

Two Things

First, a nifty trick for setting up a glass baby bottle in a pinch. With a name like Smuckers, it has to be BPA-free!

Second, preschool. Man oh Manischewitz. Sophia had a bit of a meltdown when gently asked to climb down from a chair (it was time for music circle), because while she is impervious to the most furious mama-yelling, she will weep for days over the gentlest (perceived) correction. "Watch out, honey, your fingers might get caught in the drawer!" once derailed an entire Thanksgiving dinner, leaving extended family members baffled and guilty. Then there was some sort of incident I didn't see in which "a boy HIT me!" and I had no idea whether it had been a deliberate cuff or an accidental brushing. We've been talking about what to do when someone hits/pushes/otherwise manhandles us, which entails informing the hitter "Don't hit me! Hitting hurts!" and seeking the help of an adult if needed, and she was eventually able to practice on her friends (harmless brush-by push, gave her a reason to work her skills), but she freezes, deer in headlights, when confronted with most kids.

Three things leave me hopeful, though. 1) would be the wonderful teacher M, who seems to totally get Sophia and was full of good suggestions for how to work with her. 2) was the fact that, when asked how preschool went, Sophia grinned big and said, "Gooooood!" 3) is the nap we both took upon arrival home. Two solid hours, man. And she's still tired enough for bed.

As am I. Shadrach, Meshach, and to bed we go.

She's an Indie Rocker, and Nothing's Gonna Stop Her

Coming home from our rainy-day fun at Ikea (ball pit! macaroni and cheese!), Sophia whined and fussed in the back seat. "I want to go to the park! I want to go to the circus!* I want hey-ya-ya-hey-ya-ya!"

Having listened to that particular CD about seven frillion times in the past month, I declined, but put in the Fratellis' "Chelsea Dagger" at middling to high volume. She murmured something about liking it, and passed out. She's asleep in the next room as I type.

This is totally in character for her. Loud punky music reliably conks her out. The only time she ever fell asleep at a family gathering was after somebody busted out the Wii and Guitar Hero at Passover. (Which, I must point out, Sean totally rocked on his first try.) A cousin belted out "Satisfaction" at a not-particularly-kid-friendly volume, and Sophia drifted off peacefully on the sofa surrounded by matzo crumbs.

I guess it's fitting for a kid who attended a Pixies show as an 8-week embryo. Oh, sweetie. May it serve you well in high school and beyond, the ability to be lulled to sleep by the wildest night.

*Cirque du Soleil is setting up right now, and we pass their tents on the way to and from Ikea. She tells me she wants to "ride the circus steed;" that Madeline and Pepito, they're bad influences.

Sophia is taking a "nap" in the other room, although frankly there are a lot of clanking sounds coming from that direction. And now someone, I can't imagine who, is rattling the door like an unjustly accused character in a bad prison play. Hmm.

So here's this, about bisphenol A and how the powers that be are kinda sorta waking up to how awful it is. Props to Canada too. May we look forward to a world in which we are not assaulted by hormone mimickers at every turn. Amen. And thanks to Sonya and Ann for the tip.

Um, what else...well, I have just a couple things to do (complete project outline for class tonight, prepare for LLL meeting, go to store and buy #%@&! goat milk that seems to be out of stock everywhere, make supper, clean house just a teeny bit) by 6 p.m. so I'm gonna run, but I'll leave you with this note that I have written in my head to the usually awesome parental denizens of our neighborhood park.

------------------------------

Dear Hipster Dads, Devoted Mothers, and (one hopes) Adequately Paid Nannies:

When I am watching three children under age 3 at the park, and one of them drops a truck that one of your kids left at the top of a play structure, narrowly missing somebody's head, despite my shouting and ultimately unsuccessful efforts to prevent aforesaid, it is absolutely unhelpful for you to shoot dirty looks at me and my charges and mutter obviously nasty things in various languages. It is also charmless when you see me (shortly thereafter) strap the kids into the stroller and 1) roll your eyes and 2) heave theatrically obvious sighs of relief at each other. I can see you, you jackasses.

Thank you.
&c.

Side note to random daycare ladies we passed as we left the park:

Saying "my, aren't those children big to be riding in a stroller!" will earn you no points with me. (Or, I imagine, with the empathetic crowd at the park.) I hope the gaggle of children you're guiding across the trolley tracks get in a Sharks-vs.-Jets altercation with the kids already in the park. Then every last adult in the goddamn place can blame the others for their out-of-control children.
Best &c.

Until Somebody Calls the Copsen

Man, do you guys rock. I have a bookstore list THIIIIIIS long, and just as soon as I'm over this cold I'll sell my kidney (well, one of my kidneys*) and hand the proceeds over to Barnes&Nobazonowell's.

So, the cold. Sophia seems to be on the other side of it (although the cough is apparently ours to keep), and I'm tired as a mofo with a sore throat of the type one might expect in a novice sword swallower. It's fun; I start the day as a throaty sex kitten and go to bed as a drag queen done up as Bea Arthur. I might call my mother and threaten her with Shady Pines for a while.

I have shit to do, peoples, but the stats homework and the T-Tapp (sorely neglected this week) will go begging. Sophia got a big girl bed today, and she is now sacked out in it, but Sean and I have to deal with the snowstorm of styrofoam beads, the shantytown's worth of cardboard, and the remains of the crib. We won't stop until somebody calls the cops. Or we pass out as though surrounded by an invisible sea of Milwaukee's Best cans. Say, that 'minds me: we were listening to that song in the car, and after it was over and we were into some Peter, Bjorn and John, Sophia piped up from the back seat: "I want the Copsen song!"

"Copsen?"

"Yeah, the copsen song! Somebody call the copsen!"

Ahhh. Yes.

Tomorrow I'll tell you about the other things I did this weekend: namely two articles of clothing sewn by me! Maybe also some recent knitting pictures. Yes. Good times.

*Do you read a lot of David Sedaris?