Rock the Baby

OK, so I went to Nordstrom today, and on my way to the escalator I walked past this contraption, which completely mesmerized me.  It's a baby rocking machine, and it comes with a speed control and an MP3 connection, so the mommy can play soothing music or white noise or French lessons.  The Nordstrom folks had a white noise recording playing; you can hear it above the jibber-jabber of passers-by if you turn up the volume on the short little video.

My first thought as I gazed at this very pricy baby accessory was: I have lived too long, if I live in a world in which we cannot rock our own babies any more.  But then I thought, now wait.  I used an un-motorized "bouncy seat" with each of my three urchins when they were younger; does that make me a bad mommy, or a good mommy -- or a bad mommy who at least had a chance to rinse a dish or two before she picked up the kid again -- so maybe I was a bad mommy with clean dishes?

This baby rocking machine had me re-thinking all of my life choices.

So then I got to thinking some more. This contraption is kind of like when I put the inconsolable infant sunny girl, strapped into her carseat, on top of the [empty] laundry dryer and turned it on.  The dryer hummed and vibrated, and the sunny girl was temporarily soothed, and I lay down on the cement in front of the dryer, in case the baby sunny girl vibrated off of it.  I figured she would fall on me, which would make me a great mommy -- or at least a martyr, which is the same thing.

It's also kind of like when the infant tall boy would not shut up could not be soothed, so I loaded him and me into my little two-seater Honda CR-X (God, I loved that car), and off we went into the night.  I drove completely around the I-495 beltway that circles Washington, D.C.  That's sixty-four miles. Y'all, I did that more than once, and at the time it felt like a great solution: the tall boy slept in his carseat, I listened to a combination of oldies and talk radio, and no babies were thrown out of any windows.  A win for everyone.

The mommy gig is a tough one; you all know this.  And any help an infant's mom can get as she juggles her baby, her toddler(s), her groceries, her hormones, her laundry,  her intertwined love and angst, and her latte is help she should welcome.  Once, when I was trying very hard to pay for groceries and the newborn girl in charge had had it (she has been in charge since Day One -- believe it), a lovely woman said to me -- as I struggled to gently bouncy-bounce my screaming, hungry infant and find my checkbook and appear as if I was fine with the milk leaking from both of my breasts -- "I don't want to offend you, but would it help if I held your baby?" People, I could have kissed her.  Maybe I did; that whole post-natal era is a bit of a blur.

So my conclusion? Rock your babies the best way you can.  You are a great mom. You were a great mom.  You will be a great mom.  Being a mamma -- especially a new mamma -- is hard as shit. We deserve all the help we can get.  And in the middle of that "what am I doing?" moment, don't let anyone (including a snobby Nordstrom shopper) make you feel bad.

We're not rocket scientists. We're better -- we make rocket scientists.

Atticus and Jesse: best, best friends

A story without words . . . .

My advent calendar is like my life: always running a little bit behind.

Here's our pretty tree from a couple of years ago -- after the gifts had been opened.

Well, so let me share a list of all the things I have not done yet during this Advent season:

• decorate the Christmas tree with all my lovely ornaments, each of which has special meaning to me, but which I may or may not be able to find currently
• put lights on the Christmas tree
• acquire the Christmas tree
• bake any sort of scrumptious Christmas-y treat
• put twinkly Christmas lights up outside my home to welcome family, friends, and maybe a wassailing stranger or two
• wrap any Christmas gifts for my family and friends
• purchase any Christmas gifts for my family and friends
• hunt down the Christmas stockings and stocking hangers
• write a hilarious, not-too-braggy, chock-full-of-pictures Christmas newsletter to include with my Christmas cards
• mail any Christmas cards
• purchase, craft, or recycle any Christmas cards

My Christmas angst level is high, y'all.

It feels like I say this every year. But -- I am always able to slide into the pew in time to sing carols before Midnight Mass, and somehow the little baby Jesus is always able to celebrate another birthday.

And I have also realized that Santa has my back; it's just that I need to learn how to recognize his elves when they are all around me.  Somehow the treats get made (the sunny girl is my go-to baker); the presents get purchased (come here, Amazon-dot-com, so I can kiss you on the lips) -- and wrapped by Coleen and by the girl in charge (who has a system, of course). The Boy Scouts come through every year, with a tree, and greenery, and luminaria to welcome those wassailers and friends.  My family's Christmas mornings are always wonderful, and our Christmas Day is mellow (we all lazily read our newest books), and we continue our festive season the very next day with a kick-ass Boxing Day party.

So -- get thee behind me, Christmas angst!

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And here -- with no angst! -- is a "catch-up" batch of wintery and Christmas-y books for Advent:

DECEMBER 14:

  

Twelve Kinds of Ice, by Ellen Bryan Obed, is a nostalgic and old-fashioned seeming book about the different kinds of ice one family experiences as winter progresses.  From a delicate skim of ice on a pail to true skating ice, the narrator and her sister find a way to find joy and anticipation and fun.  The delicate and precise illustrations by Barbara McClintock match the tone of the writing -- the book evokes all the different feelings of winter.  I'm so glad to have found this book!


DECEMBER 15:

Kevin Crossley-Holland wrote a trilogy of books that re-tell the King Arthur story that the tall boy loved when he was younger, so I was curious to see how he "re-tells" the Nativity story.  His book -- How Many Miles to Bethlehem? -- is wonderful.  The language is sometimes whimsical and sometimes sweeping and majestic, as Crossley-Holland narrates the story through the voices of the various participants and observers.  And the artwork!  Oh my goodness, it's so gorgeous!


DECEMBER 16:

In A Perfect Day, Carin Berger creates a snowy world using collages made of ledger paper brushed with paint; the texture and depth in the illustrations seem to be a way of representing the unique quality of the light on snow.  The story of the children who emerge from their homes to play together is told very simply, but the pictures give the story a richness that will have young readers and pre-readers poring over the book themselves for hours.


DECEMBER 17:


A storybook called The Nativity seems pretty straightforward, and the reader might assume that it will take a reverent tone when it describes this most important of all births.  And the story is absolutely told with a serious voice -- taken from the King James version of the Bible.  But the illustrations by Julie Vivas are just the slightest bit kooky, so that everyone will delight in looking at the pictures.  Mary's belly is really, really big; the angel Gabriel has bright red hair, shimmery wings, and big work boots.  It's hilarious! I just wish, wish, wish I had been able to share this book with the urchins when they were little -- but I am happy that my sister's small boys will get to enjoy it (guess what they're getting for Christmas?!)

Book Lovers' Advent Calendar -- Day Six: The Feast of St. Nicholas

Today, even though it is the Feast of St. Nicholas, I cannot bring myself to eat a corned beef sandwich in honor of the pickled boys that St. Nicholas miraculously revived (sorry, Susan).  I did have a bagel for breakfast, so I am going to say that was in honor of the wheat that the good saint miraculously provided for his starving city -- although actually, I just really wanted a bagel.  And St. Nicholas did secretly throw gold coins into the stockings of three young girls in his town, thus saving them from prostitution and slavery.  So in honor of St. Nicholas I shall have gold foil-covered chocolate coins for lunch.  

I will wash down my chocolate coins with a Coke. Because I mean, come on!

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Here is a great book that has recently been re-published, Kersti and Saint Nicholas, by Hilda van Stockum.  Kersti is a naughty girl (though she is also brave and generous), and a good case could be made that she should get nothing but coal in her clogs on December 6 .  But St. Nicholas (Sinterklaas in Dutch), accompanied by his Moorish assistant, Pieterbaas, sees something more in Kersti -- and we do, too!

Here's the original cover, from when the book was first published in 1940.  When van Stockum was criticized for glorifying such a naughty girl in her story, here's her hilarious response:  "I claim no responsibility for [Kersti's] actions. I had a lovely, sweet, good little story for nice little children and Kersti just came and played havoc with it. She ruined the moral, shocked Pieterbaas, had a very bad influence on St. Nicholas and did not deserve a present at the end. I wash my hands of her."

Who needs med school?

Well, so once again while we were on our beach vacation, it came to pass that a member of my sister's family needed to have stitches removed.  It has become our family tradition!  So once again, Uncle Doctor soaked his medical instruments in vodka (you cannot be too careful, people), and prepared to remove the seven sutures that the cavalier cousin had acquired in some sort of college capers and/or shenanigans.

 

OK, so the other thing that is true is that the girl in charge is taking an EMT course this summer.  She hopes to be a doctor some day, but in the meantime, she is totally thrilled to own her own stethoscope and blood pressure cuff.

I know, right?!

 

So it made total sense to all of us that Uncle Doctor should give a lesson or two, and then the girl in charge should remove the sutures.  Because obviously.

Weird . . . no one asked the cavalier cousin how he felt about this plan . . . .

Well, so before the action started, Uncle Doctor whined a little bit about how the light wasn't very good, and quick as a cricket, multiple relatives pulled out multiple iPhones with multiple flashlight apps.

 

Uncle Doctor was much happier.  Then he showed the girl in charge how it's done.  She was riveted.

 

She wasn't the only one.

And then -- Uncle Doctor handed the scissors and the tweezers (from a cousin's glamour bag) over to the girl in charge, and she took out the rest of the stitches.

It was really cool!

Her hair was bugging her (and was making the cavalier cousin question the whole proceeding), so a cousin got drafted to hold her hair back -- STAT!  I'm sure there's medical terminology for this.  What is it?

Uncle Doctor was fabulous.  After collecting the cavalier cousin's insurance information and making him sign a liability waiver, he was totally chillaxed and calm, and was a great coach for the girl in charge, who was nervous and excited and nervous.  Her one terse comment:  "This is really fun."  Uncle Doctor grinned, and said, "It is, isn't it?"

Rules for the car

 

So the girl in charge has instituted a list of rules for behavior in the little red get-around-town car.  Sometimes the sunny girl has a hard time obeying.

1. No punch buggy at the driver.
2. No poking the driver.
3. No shooting the driver with Nerf darts.
4. The driver gets final approval of the radio station.
5. No licking the driver.

The last rule is a new one.  I don't even want to know.

All character, no plot: garden

 

These are leftover herbs from last year's garden pots.  Theme = resilient.

 

The sage is out of control.

The lemony-smelling something that I can't name but love to smell has taken over its pot, but the rosemary has found a way to lean way over to the side so it can get some sunshine.

We have wild strawberries everywhere.

It looks like I planted a pot of little pansies that are now thriving, but really I bought a pot and plunked it in this larger ceramic pot, thinking I would transplant it later.  That never happened, so the pansies just soldiered on without me.

This pot also came from the grocery store (just like the pansies).  I plunked it down beside my mailbox three years ago, because I thought it was festive:  it had daisies, and something red that died almost immediately, and a cabbage-looking something that was green and purple and that lasted through the first season.  The daisies do this every spring, and then burst into bloom at the end of the summer.

And I don't do a thing. 

Snapshot: Lazy Easter Bunny

The Easter Bunny is usually exhausted by the time he makes it to our house. He hides the eggs only in the most ceremonial sense of the word. It's true that he does sneak inside the house -- he knows that my bed-loving children would never bother to go outside first thing in the morning to look for eggs and risk getting the fuzzy socks wet. But the eggs are usually left in pretty blatant spots.

I sometimes imagine the Easter Bunny standing in my living room, smoking a cigarette and swaying with exhaustion (he drank too much Scotch at that party after the Easter Vigil Mass), flinging hard-boiled eggs without looking to see where they land.  Good thing, too -- because the teenaged urchins are way more interested in the candy he also leaves behind -- and in getting themselves wrapped around a mug of coffee.

The Elf on the Shelf can kiss my . . .

People, I hate that freaking Elf on a Shelf.  I know I am not alone in this because I have spent way too much time reading crap on the internet about the loathing other people feel for the phenomenon -- like this blog post, or this one, or even this newspaper article (which worries me because I think the author might not be entirely joking).  But none of these writers hits on the real reason why the Elf on the Shelf sucks.  They all wax philosophically about how we shouldn't lie to our kids, and how they don't like to promote the idea of tattling, and how it "diminishes parental authority."  And how it's creepy as shit.

Actually I'm with them there; it is creepy as shit.

But the real reason that every mom in the world should rise up in rage at the mere thought of the Elf on the Shelf is because WHAT THE HELL?!  Do I not have enough damned stuff to do?  Or to feel guilty about not doing?  The Elf on the Stinkin' Shelf is mean to moms.  I would say dads, too -- but we all know that moms are the Christmas beasts of burden.  Shopping, wrapping, decorating, begging someone to find our outside lights and put them up, baking superfluous sweets, making sure the teacher gifts are appropriate and clever, helping out with class parties or seasonal fundraisers and celebrations for school or church or scouts . . . .  I seriously spend most of my December hyperventilating because I am so very behind.  Y'all, it's December 23 and my tree is not decorated yet.

So do not even think about Elfing my Shelf, if you know what's good for you -- or I'll deck your halls.

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Today behind the door of the Advent calendar, we find a fabulous new book that I suspect will become a classic.  It's beautiful, and full of love and mystery and Santa!  The Lost Christmas Gift presents itself as a package that the adult narrator receives after it has been missing for years.  The storytelling is multi-layered, as we read the letters that the narrator should have received from his dad when he was a boy, along with his father's drawings depicting their adventure.  We also read the adult narrator's musings about his memories of that adventure.  It's wonderful!

It's beginning to look a lot like . . . oh, who am I kidding?

Ask me if I'm ready for Christmas.  Go ahead -- I dare ya.

I do have a Merry Christmas wreath, but this is only because the fabulous neighbor sent her Boy Scout son over to sell me one; she knows me and figured this would be the only way I would get one.  She was right.

Meanwhile, the sunny girl's Halloween hat looks great, stashed in the corner of my dining room, right where a Nativity should go. 

 

The autumnal garden flag got put out just before Thanksgiving, so I feel like I haven't gotten a full season's work out of it.  At this rate the Christmas flag will go out the day after Valentine's Day.

Here we gaze across a vista of laundry that needs folding, to the mantel where our stockings should be hung.  By the chimney.  With care.  But first I have to find them.  And put away the Easter bunny.

Note the lack of a Christmas tree.  It's looking bleak, y'all.

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Today,  the Advent calendar shows us a book that my family has loved forever.  The Cranberry books tell about the small town adventures of a group of friends who live in Cranberry, Maine.  In Cranberry Christmas, the friends are worried that they will not be able to ice skate on Christmas Day -- one of their favorite traditions.  Thank goodness, Mr. Whiskers finds an unexpected way!  When the urchins were little we had all the Cranberry books, plus Old Black Witch -- a favorite from my own childhood, also written by the Devlins.

I'm drowning in twelves -- and I can't stop singing about it!

Well, I mean -- what kind of Advent book selection did you expect on the twelfth day of the twelfth month of the twelfth year?

You all know, of course, that the twelve days of Christmas are actually the days from December 25 to January 6, when the western church celebrates Epiphany or Three Kings Day.

But those freaking twelves have been calling to me all day.  

And just for fun and because I have done nothing to get ready for Christmas, where nothing equals not one damned thing -- and because I am getting just the teensiest little smidge of a bit angsty about it -- here is a festive little Merry Christmas song that the fabulous Woodbridge Singers used to wow 'em with.  This twenty-first century choir does a swell job, too:

This is as crafty as it's going to get.

OK, so I am not a crafter.  I am not crafty at all, because hello -- when you're quilting or learning how to take pictures that are actually in focus or embroidering or re-finishing furniture or scrapping or developing your own film or designing jewelry, you are not reading.

I am a reader.  I am not a crafter.  But I did see some totally cute ideas for graduation gifts on Pinterest.

(Oh, my sweet Aunt Pat.  Pinterest.  I need to fan myself.  And I don't even have an Aunt Pat, but you know what I mean.)

And the crafty tasks looked somewhat do-able, if only because the writers made the [accurate] assumption that I am a crafting moron, so they talked me through the whole thing like they were kindergarten teachers.  Thank the Lord.

Well, so we have a friend who is off to Virginia Tech in the fall -- and she is so happy to be a Hokie which I don't get because  a hokie is a castrated turkey, but whatever.  Go, Hokies.

So I made her this ribbon board for her dorm room (and somewhere right now I just made a Residence Life professional cry into her gin, because they're not dorms.  They're residence halls.  I got a freaking master's degree in Student Affairs, and the one definitive take away I got from all that edifying was that they're not called dorms.  And no.  You can't have a ferret.)

The instructions for how to make the ribbon board came from a great yet demoralizing blog, 7 Layer Studio.  Shelley tricks you into thinking that she's just like you, and dang, isn't crafting hard for all us knuckleheads?  But take a look around her lovely blog, and you'll see that she's an artist.  And not in the hyperbolic way we talk about pretty blogs -- she's an artist artist.   Like, she makes art.  AND she redecorates her entire home for every holiday season.  I'm leaving out the part where she has three young children and she designs and makes all their clothes, and her husband is military, so they moved three times in the two hours that I was hypnotized into her blog.  It's exhausting just to look at the pictures, y'all.  When I got to the post where she laid a new slate and rock terracing system in her back yard -- moving all the stone herself -- I seriously had to decide whether I should just shoot myself because I suck so bad or go get another cup of coffee.  I picked the coffee.

And then I made the damned ribbon board thingy.

 

 

 

 

The other school organizer thingy I made came from Diane Henkler, a clever, clever DIY contributor to Momtastic.  This is a thing I will make again for myself -- and the girl in charge wants one for her dorm residence hall room, too.  It really is clever and just my speed -- because the secret ingredient is duct tape.  It anchors each of the layers of ribbon (as you attach them from the top down).  Brilliant!  I was too tired from reading Shelley's blog to take pictures of this project.  When I make it again I'll capture the moment or maybe not.

But I did torment myself a little bit more by going back to Shelley's 7 Layer Studio to follow this tutorial, which showed me how to make a festive as all get-out frou-frou bow to jazz up the organizer thingy.

 

I won't show you the step-by-step, because you can follow it on Shelley's blog just like I did (I literally sat in front of my computer, squinting anxiously at the screen to make sure I was doing it right).  She's pretty confident that I'm a moron, for which I'm grateful.

Still.  They're cute, aren't they? 

UPDATE:  Hey!  check this post out at: