Maxwell House

I'm reading a book by an author I confess I've never heard of, although I suspect he's pretty famous: William Maxwell.  It's a slim little novel called So Long, See You Tomorrow, and I found a passage from it that I like a lot.  Here it is, and most of it is but one sentence delivered in a litany to make your chest tighten:

'Without the heavyset aristocratic man snoring away on his side of the bed, without the fresh-eyed child whose hair ribbon needs retying; without the conversation at meals and the hearty appetites and getting dressed for church on time; without the tears of laughter and the worry about making both ends meet, the unpaid bills, the layoffs, both seasonal and unexpected; without the toys that have to be picked up lest somebody trip over them, and the seven shirts that have to be washed and ironed, one for every day in the week; without the scraped knee and the hurt feelings, the misunderstandings that need to be cleared up, the voices calling for her so that she is perpetually having to stop what she is doing and go see what they want -- without all this, what have you?  A mystery: How is it that she didn't realize it was going to last such a short time?'

Going Downton

One Degree of Kevin Bacon

Apologies, my nine loyal readers, for the blogger's block.  We've all been working through colds here, luckily staggered by a couple of days so that Ben and I could bail each other out.  The adults were stricken first, and we sort of thought that Milo was some kind of baby Superman with no apparent microbial kryptonite.  Nope.  He's got it, too, although it doesn't seem to be changing his disposition too much.  In fact, I think he's found it to be a rather pleasant distraction from the pain of teething except when we have to stick the bulb syringe up his nose to suction out his snot.  Mmmm. 

None of that is really important.  What's important is that Ben and I have developed an unhealthy addiction to Downton Abbey.  Don't worry -- no spoilers, here; we're only through the first show in Season Two, but we worked our way swiftly through Season One, and I kind of can't stop thinking about it, even though it's soap-opera schlock dressed up in Masterpiece garb.

I'm enjoying the Upstairs, Downstairs quality of the show, obvi, and the personalities of the characters were established sufficiently quickly to let the viewer enjoy their little quirks.  I've got a few ideas for DA merch.  Here they are: 1. the Thomas action figure who, when you pull the string, smokes, smirks and makes ill-advised passes at attractive Turkish diplomats and square-jawed gas-blind WWI convalescents 2. the bumper sticker that reads, 'Lady Mary: so good, it killed him' 3. the card game which tests the player's ability to tell the difference between side-by-side pictures of Edith and Hello, Dolly! era Barbara Streisand 4. glue-on Carson eyebrows that express disdain for common behavior and 5. a miniature tub filled with Yorkshire pudding in which the Dowager and Mrs. Crawley wrestle for control over Dr. Clarkson.

Anyhoo, looking forward to continuing the marathon after Milo goes to bed tonight.  And ready for the Great War to be over.  The foxholes and hand-held camera work don't seem to be the BBC's strength.

Dog Days

I love watching the Westminster Dog Show, but I have this compulsion when doing so to compare the dog contestants to their celebrity human counterparts.  See below: the Clumber Spaniel bears a striking resemblance to Cheers alum, George Wendt.  Boykin Spaniel, a ringer for Diana Ross.  It's not a perfect science, I'll admit, but it's as good a way as any to spend a Valentine's evening.  If anyone can remember the name of the breed of dog that looked just like Jason Segal, leave me a note in the comments section.  Seriously, it's killing me.

George Wendt	Clumber Spaniel
Diana Ross	Boykin Spaniel

Stackable Milo

So, the reason I thought of the subject of this post is that we have a million pictures of Milo around our house.  We're with him all the time, but we still like reminders of him.  Even when Ben and I are out alone -- like when we went out to the movies, just the two of us, the other weekend -- we whip out our phones to look at pictures of him, like the purpose of the "date" we're on is not to have alone time, but to miss him together.

At any rate, all these pictures made me think about the fact that Milo already is, and definitely is going to be, about a million kids all at once.  The pictures tell the story.  There are already so many iterations of him.  There's tiny baby Milo and the Milo who started to sleep through the night.  There's the Milo that cries when he wakes up from a not-refreshing-enough nap and the Milo that beams at you when you come in to get him from a night of restful sleep.  There's the Milo that's hungry and the Milo that's tired.  The one with the sweetest little upturned lips and rosy apple cheeks; the one who is overjoyed to handle a new (or even old) toy; the one who takes pleasure in making a very high-pitched squeal when he is excited.

And all of these versions of Milo have the other ones underneath, a palimpsest of Milos that speak to how all of us have this accumulation of selves that make up our self.  And parents get to watch this stuff from Day One.  Which is awesome.

The Other Ballgame

Looking like a proud little gnome

There are probably some things about parenthood that you can expect: the sleepless nights; the gobs of excretions; the triumph you feel at your child's victories; the way you can't stop grinning at your baby's smiles and belly laughs.  But nobody prepares you for the ridiculous waves and waves of empathy.

Well, I take that back.  I guess in some ways, a mom is prepared for being attuned to how her baby feels because she can actually feel the kid inside of her -- the elbows and knees, the nudges and kicks.  But when this baby is finally a separate entity, and has a personality and feelings of his own, and needs that he articulates in specific ways -- sometimes adorable, sometimes frustrating and sometimes heartbreaking -- that's a whole 'nother ballgame.

Crankiness doesn't quite count.  Yes, Milo's crankiness when he won't take naps absolutely makes me cranky.  But it's when the cries seem to mean something, when they seem like more than just "I'm hungry" or "I'm tired" and they have this (at least perceived) note of anguish in them that I feel like crying for him; okay, every once in a while when that happens, I get something in my eye.  Like an eyelash or a piece of volcanic ash.  I knew I would hurt for him, but I couldn't have known what that would feel like.  It feels rough.

And I just have to be consoled by the thought that I will also take empathic pleasure in his happiness, in the things that bring him joy.  His big old grins already have that effect on me.  When he cries, I am sad, but when he laughs, thank goodness, I laugh, too.

Baby Pick-Up Lines

I have monkeys on my feet.  Wanna dance?

Brave New World

He got a discount on the obscured seat

Sometimes I think that, with the exception of folks like Barack Obama or Richard Branson or Charlie Sheen, most of us have a routine to our days that is pretty similar.  When I'm teaching, and I'm doing The Catcher in the Rye for the eleventh time in my career, to be sure, there are always going to be new questions -- insane, or inane or incredibly thoughtful -- but mostly it's the same schtick; things in the classroom will usually go pretty much the same way, with the rare exception of fire drills or having to kick someone out of the room; faculty meetings will generally be excruciatingly similar and predictable each and every time, with the same rude person not having silenced her cell phone, which then rings with some loud and ridiculous Klezmer tune and then she has to excuse herself from the room, simultaneously trying to look embarrassed but also like a V.I.P. while saying loudly, "Wait, I'm in a meeting..."

But it's not like that for babies, is it?  Every hour, every few minutes, seems to deliver a whole host of new, amazing discoveries.  Like a truck going by on the street outside.  Or making eye contact with the cat.  Or realizing that you can blow raspberries and drool all over yourself.  And it's probably good that babies can't speak, because what could they even say when every single day is a mind-blowing experience?  When they are just astounded by the silhouette of branches and power-lines against the sky?  Or they realize that clouds move?  Or how incredible it feels when the wind whispers against their face?  They'd just sputter wow, wow, wow non-stop and sound like idiots.