Have You Hugged Your Brother-in-law Today?

Yesterday was my brother-in-law John’s birthday. Well, I have two brothers-in-law named John. The one who’s hitched to Mark’s sister Lori is the one who’s now 31. We decided to take on generational guardianship of the thirties, since at ages 31 and 39 we are bookends to the decade. I’m not exactly sure what our responsibilities will be in these self-assigned posts, but we determined they were no doubt quite weighty.

So while attempting to bathe Kate last night, I called John to say happy birthday. He and Lori had young Gavin asleep and were enjoying the end of their meal–upholding his lifelong tradition of having lasagna as his birthday dinner. They’d also dug into a bottle of outstanding Surh-Luchtel wine, as they are wont to do. Say what you will about Lori and John, but you won’t go thirsty at their house. Those two have taken the at-home happy hour to all new levels.

During some of those very happy hours we’ve gotten calls from them. “Heeeeey!,” John will say. And you just know he’s been dipping into some single malt or a bottle or two of his home brew, and has made the wife a Manhattan.

It’s excellent having a brother-in-law and sister-in-law who presumably like us enough to dial our number under the influence. In those calls Mark and John talk about some baseball event or other that has them all fired up, or we swap stories about the kids. Maybe Lori and I will deconstruct some not-terribly-dramatic-but-fun-to-talk-about family episode. It’s all good clean fun, and frankly leaves Mark and I wishing A) we were drunk too (just seems like it’d double–or quadruple?–the fun), and B) that we lived closer to those guys.

John is in the Coast Guard, and is reassigned every 2-3 years. So, with them moving all the time and us generally staying put, maybe we will live close-by at some point. I defer to the language of my people (Rhode Islanders) when I say if that were to ever happen it would be “wicked awesome.” I would love love love Kate and her future sib(s) to get to know Cousin Gavin and his future sib(s) in the way you only can when you grow up alongside someone and come to look out for them through life’s adventures and mishaps. With my cousin Nancy as living proof, the cuz bond can be as strong as the sibling one if nurtured appropriately.

But also, Mark and I would love to be able to sit in the same room with Lori and John for happy hours, instead of doing them over the phone and in different time zones.

Last night John and I chatted about nothing special. He’s someone who I can get a good smack-talk workout with. He’s funny and quick, and is as happy to make up shit on the fly and run with it in the course of a conversation as I am. And I guess one thing I’ve always been curious about and impressed by with John is his Coast Guard thing. Before his and Lori’s wedding, I don’t think I’d ever met a Coasty(?), and that’s too bad. What a group of good eggs those boys are! John’s little nephew was the ring bearer and was really into hanging out with the big-guys in the wedding party. Many twenty-somethings would be more interested in focusing their energies exclusively on hitting up the bridesmaids (and I’m sure there was plenty of that going on too), but these guys were genuinely patient and sweet with the kid. And you could tell he was so proud to be in an inner circle with them. Maybe it’s just John’s friends who are that cool, and I’m giving credit to the Coast Guard on the whole, but I’d like to think it’s a trait that goes beyond John’s posse. All this is to say it’s been great getting to know someone from a world I knew nothing about, and being so pleasantly surprised by what a cool world it is. [Insert Coast Guard high-five here.]

Mark has an orange Coast Guard t-shirt that he wears fairly often. I know he’s also thrilled with his sister’s hubby choice, and wears that shirt with a bit of pride. I assume so at least, since the shirt is kinda bright…

So, my hat off to you, John. Happy birthday, sir! I am happy to be part of the same family with you, and not just because I get to be part of the Christmas gift swap that you enjoyed lording over me, or because we’re the only ones who know the true pronunciation of the word aunt.

Harboring a New Addiction

Gentle Reader:
(I’ve always wanted to say that. And the singular form of “reader” is no oversight. Hi Dad!)

Perhaps you’ve been perplexed by my blogging hiatus. Wither that stream of drivel she’s been so diligently doling out? Why can’t I get the latest mundane fact about Little Miss Kate’s development? [She is clapping her hands incessantly. V. cute!] And, moreover, does this mean I’ll have to get some work done now?

Fear not, G. Reader. I am back after having been drawn in by a force so mighty I’ve had no power to fend it off. I’ve been wooed by it’s charms and have now quite willfully, quite passionately, succumbed to it. It’s called Linked In. Yes, the online networking site has taken over my formerly “normal” healthy life.

How did this start, you ask. Innocently, I assure you. Last week Kate and I had lunch with the enchanting and always-amusing (okay, and well-dressed too) Andrew. In our hour together he managed to give me a run-down of no less that eight of our co-workers from The Former Agency. I was enthralled by stories of their shiny new professional exploits, and amazed that Andrew had the run-down on so many of them. There’s no doubt that Andrew can work a room, but he revealed to me that his tapped-in savoir-fair is due in large part to his love affair with Linked In.

So, I went home and decided to drink the Kool-Aid. Throngs of people have been extolling its virtues, but for some reason–even though many of them are folks whom I respect immensely (those who I don’t respect shall never know who they are!)–I was resistant to buying in

Ah, I say *buy* but there is actually nothing to *buy* with Linked In. Sure you can get some fancy extra bells and whistles for a fee, but in it’s most basic form, Linked In is free and a v. cool concept.

Essentially how it works is that you can email all the fabulous (and boorish) people you know from work or life and ask them to link to you via this website. As you comb through your mind, you think, “Wow. I know a lot of cool, smart people!” So there’s a fun element of popularity narcissism that goes along with it. Even if you grow lazy and don’t stay in touch with all the contacts who are linked to you, if they update their profiles when they change jobs, you’ll still be able to find them some day. And (if they so choose) you can see a list of all you contacts’ contacts, and so on, and so on. This is fun if you’re one of those people (like me) who likes reading the resumes of people you don’t know, even when you aren’t looking to hire someone.

Oddly, I’m not even looking for work right now. And maybe that’s part of the drive behind this for me. When I do think of the work-world (and it’s surprisingly not often) I admit to feeling a bit out of the game. So something like Linked In makes me feel more engaged. And when I rise like Phoenix from the ashes in search of my next plumb gig, I’ll be in a blaze of networking glory. It’d suck having to call someone who I considered a friend and be like, “You know, Kristen? Kristen McClusky? Brown hair, sarcastic, we shared an office for 3 years…”

The other thing is, with Linked In more is better. The more contacts you have linked to you, when you some day want to apply for a job at say, The Gap, you can easily find that one of your esteemed contacts used to work there and may have some advice for you, or someone for you to talk to there. And if you don’t have a direct contact who fits the bill, heck, one of their contacts–or their contacts’ contacts–might.

It’s a small world after all. It’s a small, small world. (Join in!)

So the more is good thing is just what I need to show that I can do a good job. My enneagram sign is The Achiever, and from everything from doing laundry to presenting to clients to signing my name on a credit card receipt, I want to do a good job, damn it. (At times, a very frustrating personality driver.) Therefore, I crawled into bed the other night at 12:30AM (this translates to 5AM for people without babies) causing Mark to ask what the hell I’d been up so late doing. “Linked In,” I whispered hoarsely. “I’m obsessed.”

So now, a few days later, I have not written in my blog. I’d love to say that I also haven’t showered or eaten or whatever, but we all know that’s not true. I *have* collected 63 contacts and have 58 outstanding invitations! I *have* compulsively checked email to see if the people who I invited to link to me have done so. And I’ve tracked down a hilarious old Kenyon friend, several other less side-splitting but still wonderful college folk, and many former co-workers who I’ve spent more time toiling away in an office with than I’ve probably spent with my husband altogether in the course of our relationship. I haven’t produced a child with these people, but I have produced myriad pitches, proposals, spreadsheets, PPT decks, you name it—many of which were nearly as painful to birth as Kate was, and took three times as long.

Finally, I have a confession to make. Sadly I have also, in essence, handed the crack pipe of Linked In over to my dear friend Julie. Since receiving my invitation to become one of my contacts, she has engaged in a fervid and relentless campaign to amass contacts. Before my email, she was a stranger to Linked In, so I have no one by myself (and my selfish desire to get at her contacts) to blame. Her husband emailed me today asking what it was I’d introduced her to, lamenting. “We haven’t seen her for days.”

Poor thing. Perhaps we can find some form of Linked In methadone and Julie and I go into treatment together. I’m sure between us, with all our contacts, there’s got to be someone who can get us into a really good program.

Farewell, Katie

Katie Couric, that is. For those sub-stone dwellers, Wednesday was Katie Couric’s last day after a 15-year stint on the Today show. And uncool as it is to admit, it kills me that she’s leaving. This is right up there with my despair over Judging Amy going off the air, though the Katie Couric thing is probably remotely more socially-acceptable to admit.

The thing is, I didn’t even watch the Today show very often, but it was somehow comforting knowing it was there. I’m one of those can’t-have-the-TV-on-when-it’s-sunny-out types. Or at least, I’m assuming there are others like me, and that collectively we make up a type. So, the last time I really indulged in the show was during The Rains.

There truly is something down-to-earth and likeable about Katie Couric. She’s articulate and all, but can be really goofy, and shares a good deal of personal stuff on the show that makes her seem like you and me, not some rich celebrity. Not that I didn’t already know everything that there was to know about her from my mother.

My mother was a world-class Katie Couric fan. Aside from the more largely known facts of her husband’s death from colon cancer, my mother knew that Katie was one of four girls, and the youngest. (Starting to sound familiar?) She was the celebrity daughter my mother never had. For all her accomplishments, my mother was bursting with maternal pride. And she’d ruefully express concern over Katie’s bad haircuts, or love life exploits. It seemed that despite the fact that she was one of millions of other fans, my mother saw herself as having a unique connection to Katie Couric. I guess that’s the secret to her success.

For the record, my mother also adored Matt Lauer. “He got his start in Rhode Island, you know!” For anyone who might have thought he cut his teeth in some other market, my mother had a grass-roots campaign going to ensure she spread the word that he started on Evening Magazine in Providence—our own back yard!

So, once in an unusual twist of Bruno-family geo-positioning, my sister Ellen, my mother, and I were all in New York City at the same time. Mom was watching Ellen’s kids as she did some film thing, and I was passing through to visit Mike and Lorin before a trip home to Bristol. The gods would never smile on us this way again, I thought. My mother was hardly one for jaunting off to NYC at the drop of a hat. I suggested I pick her up at a painfully early hour at her hotel, and we make ourselves part of the nuisance that gathers outside the Today show studio. My mother was thrilled with the idea, and I think she got plenty of mileage out of the adventure before we even went.

Of course, that morning I woke up with the after-affects of a few glasses of wine throbbing through my skull. But I felt like a parent who’d promised an excited child something. I dragged myself awake and managed to shower and get from Brooklyn to Manhattan.

Tragically, Katie Couric was out that day. We were peering into the studio and didn’t see her. I thought my mother would be crushed, but she brushed it off and focused her attention on the dashing Matt Lauer. “Look at the cut of his suit! He dresses so beautifully.”

Mark Tivoed the show that day, and in a pan of the crowd you can see Mom and I waving along with all the other camera-hungry fans. And I have some good photos too. Mom was wearing a blue scarf on her head babushka-style.

When she was sick she told me that day was one of her “highlights.” And in the days that I was home taking care of her, we would wake up every morning and tune into the show on the old kitchen TV with the rabbit-ears antenna. Even when she was in an ornery sick-of-being-sick mood, or I was stressed because she was clearly not eating the eggs I’d cooked her, we could sit in front of the Today show and let the light and chipper mood of it all wash over us. Of course, half the fun was making fun of things. “Celine Dion. What a puke,” she’d say. Or we’d ravage the culinary merits of the meal a guest chef had prepared.

So last night I finally tuned into my recording of Katie’s final show, and had a good bawl. With Mom gone, the show had provided me with some connection, some continuation with her. And not only does it kill me that she wasn’t around to call when the announcement was made that Katie was leaving, it just sucks that for me here now it won’t be the same any more.

As Marie pointed out, Mom would have been happy at least that Meredith Viera was stepping in. She went to the Lincoln School in Providence, you know.

Head-Banging, Baby J, and Gratitude

When Mark got home from work tonight and was playing with Young Kate she leaned forward, biffed her cheek against the coffee table, and started bawling. After comforting her he started to berate himself (aloud) for being a negligent parent. Yeah, yeah, I thought, and casually interrupted him to say she’d managed to somehow bang her head about six other times today, so he shouldn’t beat himself up over it.

I realize that if I only had an hour a day with her, as Mark sadly does on weekdays, I’d probably be right there where Mark was, tossing on a hair shirt and cursing that I’d ruined a few precious minutes of quality Kate time. But one of the glorious things about being home with Kate is that I have a front-row seat to all the dramatic, tedious, and mundane events of her life. I have behind-the-scenes access to the super-stinky diapers, thrilled-to-see-you post-nap smiles, car-seat babble, food fights, whining, puking, drooling, farting, and everything in between. So to me, a small contusion to the head–even one that’s due to not diligently guarding her noggin–doesn’t really rate. I need to be sure to remind myself regularly how fortunate I am for that.

Earlier today, Kate and I had some fun in the sun with Lisa and beautiful bedroom-eyed baby Jackson. Lisa is one of my favorite humans and friends. She was one of the brave gals willing to wear a flamingo pink dress at my wedding, to grapple with fastening the 2,137-odd buttons on my gown, and to have known throughout our friendship when I’ve needed a sympathetic ear versus a slap upside the head. And yet today, here we were with our 8- and 9-month-old babies who have probably been in the same room a total of four measly times.

Part of the reason is general life busy-ness. Part is geography. When she and Alex left SF they settled to the south of the city, and despite their fervent lobbying, when Mark and I left years later we went east. But the most significant reason why we haven’t spent more mom-’n'-babe time together is that Lisa took the swan dive back into the work world after having Jack.

Unlike me, Lisa found one of those Holy-Grail-like “Jobs You Like to Go To.” Granted, it came after years of crying in the parking lots of jobs she hated. So, when young Jack came on the scene, there was a reason that exceeded sheer finances that bolstered her return to work. As much as she wanted more time at home, Lisa feared that if she didn’t reinstate herself at her job, she’d never find a plumb workplace like it again. I hope for once that her usually stellar intuition was off there.

How does the story end? Well, after 5 months of giving the mother-and-commuting-professional balance an impressive fair shake, Lisa traded in the office job to report to lil’ Jack. She told me today how she realized that at times she was just going through the motions with the baby since she had so many things to do to get through each day. She didn’t have enough time to just hang out and enjoy him. You know, watch him hit his head a couple dozen times in the course of the day and think nothing of it.

Hooray! I’m teary-eyed with the thought that Lisa and Jackson will be able to enjoy life as best chums and partners in crime. It’s such a treat for me, that I can’t help but wish that all my mama friends have as much fun in this job as I do.

Granted, the weeks when you’re housebound from rain, and the days when the half-pint wails incessently for no good reason, can make the thought of a 3-hour conference call or developing a spreadsheet with pivot tables seem like a party. But those times are few and far between. And even with them in the mix, I need to remember to remind myself (a meta-memory task) how lucky lucky lucky I am to have all this time with my little love-bug. And remember to thank Mark for bringing home the bacon (and thereby marginalizing his own Kate-time), so I can be with her.

I’m also happy to report that Lisa, Jackson, Kate and I now have a regular date. We’ll be seeing each other every other Monday (alternating visits between Burlingame and Oakland). And hopefully those dates will breed more gatherings—maybe even an occaisional grown-ups-only night on the town.

Yippy doodle. Life is good.

My Longs Hat

In one of my recent forays to Longs Drugs I stumbled upon a rack of sun hats that were 25% off. I’d been thinking I needed something to protect me from the sun since I’m out walking with Katie-Pie a lot, and by the end of the day all the sun had been giving me headaches. I was also fearful that by August I’d have the leathery skin of a sunbathing octogenarian from Miami.

Anyway, I first picked out a bright orange hat thinking maybe it was secretly the most fashionable one there. I wasn’t sure that I liked it, but for all I knew it was a look that was all over the runways in Milan. (I’m fairly certain that much Italian couture ends up in the Longs sale aisle.) Then I considered the chocolate brown one. Mark’s fashionable Aunt Terry told me once brown is a good color for me, and I took it as gospel. Then I saw a plain old tan one–a color both non-descript and unassuming. After much hand wringing, I decided to make the $11 plunge on the tan one. (In my working days I would have spent 10 times that on something I liked half as much without a second thought. And yes, that is a math word problem.)

This hat has changed my life. Okay, so not really, but I love it. And I’ve somehow convinced myself that it’s kinda hip too! It’s just a floppy canvas hat with a big brim. I wear it with the goggly sunglasses I bought years back when I was in some short-lived Sophia Loren mode. Every morning when we go for walks I toss it on, and Kate wears her hot pink sun hat with the Lilies of the Valley pattern. Together we are a knockout pair.

It may not even take years for me to look back on this hat and determine how absolutely absurd it is. That day may be right around the corner. But I figure that wearing a silly hat will facilitate Kate looking at photos of us from this summer some day, and saying, “My God, Mom! What were you thinking with that hat?”

I’ll just lie and tell her that hats like mine were very chic at the time.

Greetings Summer

It’s extraordinarily boring to complain about the high cost of Bay Area real estate. Yet, at times you’re compelled to nonetheless.

To combat the urge, I generally say “Insert real estate rant here,” when I’m talking to someone and I feel the need to kvetch come over me. It’s not that I’m avoiding being labeled a complainer. I have no issue with that. It’s just that everything that has ever been said about it all has already been said. It’s like you’ve been married to the person you’re talking to for 50 years and can finish their sentences, but in this case it’s about finishing the whole conversation in your mind before you even have it. So why waste the breath.

Well, we’re just back from a simply glorious weekend in Santa Cruz with Sacha of mother’s group fame, and her hub Joel and baby Owen. It was a great Memorial Day weekend kick-off to summer. Aside from the fact that both babies reverted for three nights to newborn sleep patterns, and managed to at times wake each other up to double the fun, Santa Cruz cast its spell on us. There is something about the place that’s relaxing in a very unpretentious way–little houses, beautiful beaches, surf shops, and restaurants with ocean view decks serving drinks and overpriced, mediocre seafood. You get the feeling of “real summer” there that you just don’t get in the Bay Area.

Within a few hours of our arrival we’d all started fantasizing about having a vacation home there. Joel said maybe they should get a place for a month. I was determined to own the very house that we were renting. It was architecturally head and shoulders above most of the other places, the gardens had intimate sitting areas that felt very European, and the oversized mismatched wicker chairs had a shabby chic, relaxed elegance. Perhaps Stan, the owner, would take a liking to the little McClusky family, determine we needed the house more than he did, and in a great act of charity… Well, I can dream.

On Saturday while Mark was riding his bike and the Grippando clan was napping, Kate and I took a stroll through the ‘hood. There were 2 open houses that we wandered into. The first was a spectacular 3-bedroom 2-bathroom house with an amazing gourmet kitchen, large sunny rooms, an immense hot tub, and a small artist studio in back. It was $2 million. Okay–getting an idea for the market here, I thought. But what floored me was the 600-square-foot bungalow–and I mean bungalow–further down the street. The place had one tiny bedroom and a kitchen so minute that the stove wasn’t even a standard size. It was one of those dinky ones with 4 mini burner coils on top, about half the width of a normal stove. There was nothing special or interesting about the place, and it wasn’t even *on* the water. It was selling for $945,000. Staggering! Well, I guess in the future we’ll be enjoying Santa Cruz from the comfort of a vacation rental.

Of course, vacationing with two wee ones is a new adventure in and of itself. We were tied to the house at nap times, ventured out for happy hour drinks at 4:00 before the babies’ bath times (and melt downs), ate all our dinners in, and our “night life” consisted of heading to bed at 10:00 and tending to crying babies at 3-4 hour intervals. This morning, Mark and Kate started their day in the living room (while I endeavored to finally sleep) at the painful hour of 5:15. Joel and Owen joined them soon after. A year ago 5AM would have marked the mid-point of a 10-hour night’s sleep.

Despite the sleep deprivation, we did have fun. Mark commandeered the kitchen and grill and turned out some fabulous meaty meals. Cousin John McClusky and wife Jenn came down last night and brought some great wine and Fred Steak along with their fine company.

And if you forget that it’s 7AM and that you’ve barely slept the night before, a walk on the beach at that hour is nothing short of glorious–clear blue skies, the smell and sound of the ocean, and friendly locals taking their dogs for their morning walks. It’s also a quiet time to hug your baby, tell her all about the ocean you grew up near, and marvel at how grateful you are to have her in your life.

A Luxury I Can’t Afford

What do you do when your baby is crying unless you’ll hold her, your stomach is growling for a long-overdue breakfast, and you have to pack for a long weekend–including gathering BBQ food, wine, baby food, and clothes for you and the wee one, and somehow get it all into the car so you can pick up your husband from work in two hours? Write in your blog, that’s what! I don’t have the disposable income I once had, nor do I have the unfettered time to check email or get into more than 3 pages of a book at a time, so writing has become my Calgon-take-me-away bath. Even when I should be doing a million other things. (Mark, assume I’ll be late to pick you up.)

I’ve been thinking a bit about communities lately. For many many years one of the most dominant ones in my life was the office. The people I worked for and with, and who–big-girl as it seemed–worked for me. By virtue of simply spending so much time in that world, and being so tired after departing it each day, it was my default community (family, Mark, and friends aside of course). And sadly those folks often did become parenthetical when work demands occupied my psyche.

Like a dinner party where you invite people who don’t know each other and everyone hits it off, it’s nice when someone from one realm of your life makes the move into another. Work is becoming a distanter and distanter memory (a grammatical joke the likes of which my father and I make), but yesterday I had the pleasure of having lunch with someone from that world.

John can not only order sushi in a really good Japanese accent (though, what do I know), he’s a kick-ass creative director and all-around good guy. We didn’t work together for all that long, but did get thrown into one of those understaffed, impossible-deadline plumbs of an account together. And amidst the mayhem, John was always a joy to work with. This is a guy who has not only redesigned and revitalized websites for dozens of Fortune 500 corporations, he’s also a Buddhist monk who has fasted for weeks at a time, and, more incredibly, not *spoken* for several-month stints while meditating. It’s not often that you’ll find these qualities housed in the same human. So, John is also no longer working at The Former Agency, so we were able to talk about Life After as though we both swam across a river full of leeches and got to the other side without a single one sticking to us. Our lunch was essentially us double high-fiving each other on the banks of the new shore, and thumping each other on the backs. Hooray! I am happy that John is now on this side with me. The Former Agency had a lot of issues, stresses and politics, but it also had some extremely talented, smart and funny folks. I’d hate to lose them just because my new job doesn’t require me to have a building security badge.

In my moving-to-Oakland-after-13-years-in-SF, leaving work, and having a baby time (when I go for change, I go all out), my need for new communities was nothing short of desperate. The one that has saved my emotional hide, welcomed me with bleary eyes, and been a haven of humor (and food) is hands-down my Oakland mother’s group. (Hello mamas! I salute you!) This is one extremely fab group of women who Kate and I have spent at least one afternoon a week with since Kate was 3-weeks old. It’s made up of 11 baby-mama couples, and there’s not one rotten egg in the bunch! And I realized a while back that we’re comprised quite amazingly of all straight women, who are even married to the men we had kids with. Did I mention we are in the SF Bay Area? This is astounding. Not that it’s better or worse for us to be this way, just *weird* in these parts. Hell, we could all pick up and move to San Diego or something and no one would bat an eyelash at us. Well, maybe some Republicans would. At any rate, it’s wonderfully affirming to have a group of people you feel comfortable enough around to talk about cracked bleeding nipples (not mine, thank God), the challenges of career and parenting, and the wonders of so-and-so’s head circumference being in the 95th percentile. Whatever your concern, quandary or need for celebration, these women have your back. THANK GOD I found them.

The other community I’m proud and happy to say I found is at Chaparral House–the nursing home Kate and I hang out in on Wednesday afternoons. It’s home to Kate’s wonderful adoptive Grandma Rose, Gladys, and Dorothy, the other volunteers, like Janet, who have so much respect and interest in the residents there, and a caring nursing staff–especially the Tibetan nurse who whisks Kate out of my hands the second she sees her and says, “Tell Mama bye-bye. You come with me now!” This week as we were walking out, I peered into the activities room to see that Sandi was custom-making sundaes for everyone. “Come on in! What topping would you like?” Why, don’t mind if I do, I thought. The grocery store and Kate’s overdue nap could wait 10 minutes. As I ate my sundae with Kate grabbing for the spoon, I looked around at some women in wheelchairs and a volunteer setting up a large-print Scrabble board (who knew?) and realized how at home Kate and I were there. Four months in, Chaparral House has become a super-cool new place that Kate and I are lucky to be part of. Thank you volunteermatch.com!

So here I stand on the far banks of the river barely able to see The Former Agency any more. And the bonfires on this side are blazing. I’m holding on my hip the most important young member of my new life, sweet Kate. At one fire the super-cool mamas and the babies from my mother’s group are gathered. At another the gang from Chaparral House are hanging out in their wheelchairs, with Rose admonishing them to not give Kate the evil eye. And by my side is the love-of-my-life, the one I’ve been luckiest to manage get on my team, Mark.

I’ve made it to the other side, and it rocks here.

8 Months Old and a Slap Upside the Head

Today our wonderful gift of a sweet angel baby is 8 months old, or two-thirds, as Mark has enjoyed saying. It’s so terribly boring to drone on about how deeply and absolutely we love and adore her. We can say it to each other of course, and tell her all the time, but I still feel the need to shout it from the proverbial rooftop.

Again, it’s a time when it rots that my mother isn’t at the other end of 401-253-8370 any more. Dialing that number is ingrained in me, and I think she was home and answered the phone 99.5% of the time I called. (One of the perks of having a hermit mom. That is something Kate will never benefit from, unless I am suddenly overcome with agoraphobia.) So yeah. I want to call my mother and tell her ad nauseum how beautiful and sweet Kate is. And not being able to makes me feel like I’m having to contain my excitement. I’m not so good at that.

So today she is 8 months old. And I think Mark and I have done a pretty good job with her thus far. From what we can tell she isn’t on drugs, and I haven’t heard a single swear come out of her mouth. And aside from occaisionally turning her nose up at her dinner, and not yet knowing how to change her own diapers, I think our challenges with her are reasonable. Someone asked me at the nursing home today how old she is and when I told him I said, “It seems like it went by fast, but also like I can’t remember the time before her.” Of course, that was just me trying to say something profound. I do remember napping whenever I wanted to and having the freedom to go out at night on a lark.

So far Kate has eaten sweet potatoes, summer squash, carrots, apples, pears, peas, avocado, bananas–and rice cereal and oatmeal. But I feel like I need to introduce some of the less-sweet and enticing foods so she doesn’t grow up only willing to eat candied yams with mini-marshmallows for every meal. So on our way home from visting Rose at Chaparral House, we stopped at Berkeley Bowl.

If you have never been to Berkeley Bowl and get aroused by produce, this place is for you. It’s like a fruit and vegetable stand on steriods with a fancy gourmet grocery store attached to it. And the variety. Oy! In the realm of eggplant alone, you could probably find 8 types. Sure, we’ve all heard of Japanese eggplant, and think that we’re pretty food-savvy because of it. But Berkeley Bowl will bust out something like Orange Siberian Eggplant, and show you who’s boss. It’s humbling.

The down side of Berkeley Bowl is that everyone else in Berkeley knows how great it is and at any given time, one-half of the city’s population is there playing bumper-cars with their shopping carts. Those erstwhile hippies get all agro over the veggies too. I’ve seen turf wars there more nasty than one I saw in NYC when two women were fighting over a pair of pants at a Donna Karan sample sale. (Maggie: I’m thinking I just may need a riot shield after all.)

So the most divine and excellent of all small people, Miss Kate, and I were wandering the aisles looking for some food to cook, puree, and freeze in ice cube trays. I was carrying her in the Ergo, which is a kind of front-pack thingy that is more fun than having the kid in a far-away stroller (i.e. I can get to her easier to smother with love in the Ergo). Here we are, two innocent produce-gawkers trying to determine what’s what, when a guy who is speed-walking frantically and weilding a yellow plastic shopping basket decides he’s in the wrong aisle, spins around, and smacks my precious sweet Katie in the forehead with his basket.

She was so shocked it took a second for her to do anything. I mean, it seemed so long that I wondered if it even really hit her, or if she was just going to shrug it off. Oh no. She let out a volume-11 wail that had Mr. I’m-in-a-Hurry practically wetting his pants. Good. Serves him right.

I was hugging the poor girl and hoping it was one of those things we could push past pretty quickly, since The Aggressor was clearly feeling terrible and I immediately went to my typical trying-to-make-him-feel-better place. Silly person that I am. When she wasn’t settling down quickly, the guy came to his senses and returned to his impatient mode. “Can’t you bounce her up and down some?” Why oh why didn’t I have the presence of mind to say, “So you’re going to clock my baby in the head with your hard shopping basket, and then tell me how to soothe her?!”

Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to have a goose egg or bruise on her forehead. The long-term psychological fall-out is, of course, TBD. Despite that, I think she’ll be wearing a helmet on all future Berkeley Bowl outings.

Christmas in May

I ventured down to the basement today in search of my bag o’ bathing suits. Our basement is pretty big for a California basement–or at least everyone who sees it seems all surprised by it. And of course, when there is space to fill with crap, one tends to find crap to fill it with. Mark and I excel in pack-rattery anyway. So there are about 25 boxes of books we have no room for upstairs, bulky kitchen appliances we don’t often use, furniture from my mother’s house, boxes of out-of-season clothes that we never unpacked when we moved but are maybe now in season again (hard to tell), and a new layer of baby-related gear and clothing.

So, I was spelunking through it all. Within 4 seconds I’d forgotten why I was down there and just started checking stuff out, and trying to cull through and organize it a bit.

I’ve always liked to store things properly, but with my mother gone, I feel especially protective of the things that were hers. A) It’s old and/or valuable, or just something I really like, and B) it was hers and even if it was an old sock I’m sentimental about it. (I truly have held onto pairs of socks that were hers. Wait for me to show up on Oprah with some psychiatrist who is guiding me through throwing out theadbare tennis peds while I’m cry convulsively.)

After focusing on the clothing situation (piles to bring upstairs, piles to donate, oops–this goes in the maternity box), I A.D.D.ed my way over to the holiday section. With all my Christmas stuff plus my obsession with Halloween costumes, it’s practically a holiday “department.” I realized that some Christmas boxes could clearly be condensed. One just had bubble wrap in it that had once protected ornaments, and two long cotton tubular sacks with pink closure ribbons at the ends. I had no idea what the hell they were for and was going to (uncharacteristically) throw them away, when I noticed a paper note pinned to one that had “12 days of Christmas” written on it.

Oh my God. How cool. They were the custom-made storage bags for the Christmas wall-hanging and Christmas tree skirt Mark’s great grandmother, Grandma Kohl, had made. For some reason, standing there in the basement, I wanted to almost cry. Thank God I didn’t throw them out.

Mark’s great grandmother is long gone. I’m pretty sure she’s Mark’s mom’s mom’s mom. And as far as we can tell she’s the red-head who is genetically responsible for Kate’s strawberry blonde locks. The women on Mark’s mom’s side of the family LIVE FOREVER. I mean, these women have amazing staying power–into their 90s most of them. And I think they have tended to be pretty on top of their games into their dotage.

So, somewhere in her 90s, Grandma Kohl, crafty woman that she was, made Mark and his sister Lori (and likely all her other great-grandchilden) these amazing Christmas tree skirts, and wall-hangings that depict each of the 12 days of Christmas. They are tacky and flashy felt-and-sequin things that are truly exquisite. I have loved them dearly since Mark’s mom sent them to us this fall. (In his bachelorhood Mark never had need–and likely desire–for them.)

Both pieces have incredible detail–depicting everything from lords a’ leapin’, to Santa and a chimney, to partridges in trees with little porcelain pears hanging from them. They were assembled not only with flamboyant artistry, but with incredible care and attention to detail. The Christmas tree skirt even had a line marked with loosely-sewn white thread indicating where to cut so the circle could be wrapped around the tree. They stir up something in my inner Martha-Stewart soul. I guess it’s respect for such quality work, together with a love of family, traditions, Christmas. You don’t spend so much time on these things unless you love Christmas, and the people that you are making them for. And to think that the woman was in her 90s!

When Peggy sent them to us, it was oddly like getting a gift from the grave for Grandma Kohl. Here we were, still newlyweds and with a young baby, setting up house. It was clearly time for us to have and love these pieces. They are now part of our family’s Christmas tradition. Something Kate’s red-headed great great great grandmother made for us without even knowing Kate or I would be there to enjoy them.

I managed to easily find the tree skirt and the wall-hanging and to carefully move them from the box and garbage bag they were in to the cotton storage bags. Thank you, thank you, Grandma Kohl. I promise to always use the proper storage bags to keep your hard work safe, and when she is old enough, I will tell Kate about how special these decorations are that you made for us long ago. I’m also saving your hand-written tag–it’s something that seems to connect you to these things, and to us, even closer.

Fallen Acorn, Distance from Tree, etc.

Last night our new friends Melissa and Adam (hi y’all!) came over for dinner. They made themselves a small human, the wickedly cute Raulie, a month before we finished making Kate. And with them we’ve developed a new way of entertaining which involves an early start date so the babies can roll around together, feeding and bathing the babes, then putting them to sleep (Raulie in the porta-crib in our office) to allow the grown-ups to eat, drink and be merry. (Amazingly I consumed more wine last night. Hello, Betty Ford Clinic?) It’s actually a very nice way to spend an afternoon/evening and makes me feel all 1950s. Really not sure why, other than I guess it feels like good wholesome fun, and that’s what they had back then.

Over dinner I asked Melissa what take she has on Raulie’s personality. She said, “Well, he’s nothing like us.” Raulie is a high-stim kid whose nanny takes him for walks on busy streets so he can check out the traffic. The quiet tree-lined Berkeley streets are a bore to him. And he’s a huge smiler, who turns it on the moment he sees someone (friend or stranger).

No, Melissa and Adam are not dour non-smilers, and I imagine they occaisionally enjoy watching cars go by (who doesn’t, really?)–but in general, this little man seems to be carving out his own personality path at the tender age of 8 months. This struck me, because it ends up Kate is not much for the smiling herself.

Kate’s cousin Gavin will be in politics some day. At age one he’s practically shaking hands and kissing babies at grocery stores. And with the name Gavin Stone, a senatorial career is undoubedtly in his future. And the kid smiles! He’s got a grin on his mug even when he’s reached the end of the table that’s been supporting him and crashes to the floor. A big dog runs up to him, knocks him down and licks the length of his face. Gavin: Still smiling!

Now Kate, God love her, does and will smile, but she’s parsimonious about it. She doesn’t just give them up for anyone. And at times this is a bummer. Those old ladies at the grocery store, for instance, are quite tenacious. They move in on Kate to admire her big rosy cheeks, then utter a stream of baby talk aimed at eliciting a smile. In response, Kate gives them her classic what-up-with-you? look, her huge unblinking eyes taking them in indifferently. Tenacious Old Lady only takes this as a challenge, telling me she’s a grandma herself, you know. Kate, Winner of All Staring Contests, is stone-faced. It can go on like this for what seem like days, so I often jump in with a little white lie–”Oh she just got up from a nap!” I say. “I think she’s still a little groggy.” Then we make a run for it.

Since having a child is the purest form of narcissism, this smile thing gets me. Anyone who has known me for more than 30 seconds knows I’m out in the world to get to know as many of the other humans as possible. I’m hard-wired this way, as if in my final resting place they will be handing out awards to those who have met (or spoken to) the most people. (Oh, and everyone I meet needs to love me too.) So what gets me with this Kate thing is she clearly doesn’t care. She has an idly-bored way of reacting to people who are scratching under their arms, jumping up and down, and making monkey noises for her. Which isn’t to say she’ll never smile. She just won’t when someone really wants her too.

I guess I’m just getting used to the fact that you go through all the months of weight gain, baked-bean cravings, and having to sleep with 8 pillows tucked along your body, only to get to the oddly-surprising realization that this baby is its own person. Be that as it may, I’m still looking forward to getting to know her.