box man

I like to think of this blog as my own personal answer to the Slow Food Movement. Like, really slow.

Because hot damn, I've got THINGS TO SAY, a whole backlog of 'em, and it's just not going to happen until we switch sides of Lake Michigan. Departure is set for Sunday, cavalry is coming tomorrow in the form of grandparents to corral the children, and you'll just have to imagine that our moving truck will be festooned with palm fronds and marigolds and ripe pomegranates and little swamis chanting good-luck mantras. Because I'm not going to post any pictures.

Hey, you should try this mixture of no-sleep, stress, and hormones, it's groovy!

So, Auden. Bless his little heart. We saw a contortionist at Bastille Days a few weekends ago, and he has been OBSESSED with the part of the act where the big tall man in a neon-green leopard print bodysuit folds himself into his tiny box. He calls him Box Man, and has been compelled to re-enact the routine at home. Like, all the time. And box man wears cool shoes, and box man does a funny dance, and box man walks LIKE THAT MAMA, MAMA WATCHING YOU?

He dumps out the recycling bin and crouches inside, he dumps his trucks out of their plastic bin and eases his butt down into it, he squeezes both feet into his potty and hunches over it, exclaiming, I'm a BOX MAN! He can do box-man in just about anything.

Fortunately for him, there are lots and lots of boxes. Boxes everywhere. Everything boxed. We are a Box Family.

After we move: video proof of these shenanigans, Isla crawling, and a story about a surgery from all the way back in April! With before and after pictures!

And I'll make 75% more sense!

Milwaukee, we'll really really miss you.

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the hair

I was going to write something, but I don't think I have to.

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happy father's day

four months

Dear Isla,

You are an exquisite creature.

You are four months old, and you have filled out deliciously. You are plump everywhere: rosy and glowing and sweet. I cannot stop myself from nibbling your cheeks, your neck, your thighs, your fingertips.

You coo and squeal and laugh. You regard me with a gaze so intimate and straightforward that it stops me short -- you are more than a cooing squealing laughing baby, you are a tiny god of infinite gazes, sagacious and wise.

You are a prodigious sleeper. Do you know how glad I am of this? I don't even know how to measure the gladness. It's a lot. When you wake up in the morning you don't even cry, you just murmur sweet little baby sounds from your bassinet and get happily tangled in your blanket.

You are rolling over now, which is hooray for you, but beginning-of-the-end for me. We won't be able to negotiate this, I can tell. You can't help yourself. But I think you like the rolling better than the resulting belly position, if your bellowing into the rug is any indication.

You have a sudden and urgent need for toys, and will grab for things with your whole body. Also, the hand-mouth reflex? OBJECT DETECTED IN HAND! OPEN MOUTH! CONSUME! CONSUME! Cracks me up every time.

I understand it, I want to do the same thing to you, you yummy baby.

You love Auden. You follow the sound of his voice; you giggle when he jumps, you guffaw when he rolls on top of you. I don't think he's quite as enamored of you, especially now that you are a threat to his monopoly on toy ownership, but I know he has his own fondness for you. Hidden under impulsive smacks to the face. Okay, forget it -- boys are jerks, it's time you learned.

You love music and singing, you are ticklish on the chub of your upper arms, you are fascinated by the pattern of the couch upholstery and greet it eagerly when I'm trying to feed you. You'd rather stand than sit, and I foresee some frustrating days of crawling ahead before you can run. I guess your papa and I are not capable of making babies that sit still and cuddle.

I'm watching you unfold with the same bittersweetness I felt with your brother. Can't you just slow down a little? Am I allowed to be wistful already for those blurry early days of you? There will never be another time like this, so I'm paying grateful attention to most every minute.

I continue to be under your spell, kissing and goofing endlessly to make you smile.

love,
mama

conversations

"Mama chase you?"
"I'm not going to chase you right now."
"I chase myself?"
"Yeah, I'd like to see that."

"I see excavator!"
"Do you see an excavator?"
"I ride it?"
"No, you can't ride on it."
"I ride it?"
"Nope."
"I ride it?"
"Uh-uh."
"I see another excavator?"
"Maybe."
"I ride that one?"

"Baseball!"
"Oh, there's the baseball stadium."
"I play baseball!"
"Sure."
"I try it?"
"Okay."
"Mama try it, too?"
"Yeah, I'll try it too."
"Papa try it, too?"
"Sure, papa too."
"Auden try it, too?"
"Yep, everyone will try it."
"Isla try it, too?"

"Red light!"
"Yes, the light is red."
"Red light, go!"
"No, silly, red light, stop."
"Red light, go!"
"No, red light, stop."
"Red light, go!"
"You're headed for a crash if you drive that way."
"Kablooie!"

"We go this way?"
"Where, to Kohl's?"
"Yah! Shopping toys?"
"No, not today."
"Kohl's?"
"Nope."
"Kohl's?"
"Nope."
"Kohl's?"
"No, honey."
"Kohl's?"
"No, we're not going to Kohl's."
"Kohl's?"
"No, we're going home."
"Kohl's?"
"Mrrphmmgghh."
"Kohl's?
"AGHHHHRRMMPPPHHHHGGGGGGAAAHHHHHH!"
"... ?"

grandma jo

Ach.

I've been on the fence about whether to post this. But it feels like a gaping omission if I don't.

My lovely grams died last month, at age 92. We drove to Michigan in time to see her alive one last time, and I had the honor of doing this sketch a few hours after she passed:

The image isn't complete without this this poem that my cousin wrote, which she read at the memorial service.

My Grandma's Arms


Babies cradled, flowers tended
Arms made strong with years of stirring, kneading
Hands that spent years caring for others

Fingers and hands composed many cards and letters
Arms that prepared delicious meals
Hands that created blankets for children

Loving arms that kept us close
Many years of work and wear
Now held in her Lord's arms.



-Rachel Redman (April 30, 2010)

Grandma Jo, we love you and miss you.

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technology vs. dinosaur

Cars face off with dinos.



Dinos attack from behind!



And win!

(Uncle Mike, dig the Lamborghini)

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