Pleiades Bee

The Knee Clutch—Again

kara.uhl@gmail.com (Kara) — Mon, 08 Aug 2011 02:56:00 +0000

I took this picture of Owen mid-July and, looking back through my blog, realized I took almost the same picture of Sophie when she was about Owen's age. (Owen, in general, is a little more frantic.) You can read about it here. Now, of course, it's times two. (And some days, times three.)

"The quickest way for a parent to get a child's attention is to sit down and look comfortable." —Lane Olinghouse

Up Late for Apple Pie

kara.uhl@gmail.com (Kara) — Thu, 04 Aug 2011 03:38:00 +0000

Two nights ago Sophie helped us make an apple pie, which took an hour to cook. As such, she got to stay up past her bedtime because we decided it would be cruel to have her help make a pie, smell the pie while it's cooking and then not be allowed to eat it. Because of bedtime. In the summer. Plus, Grandma and Paw Paw were visiting and grandparents always mean a bending of the rules.

By the time the pie cooled and she ate all her vanilla ice cream and didn't even try the pie and then asked for more vanilla ice cream (we said no) it was 9:30pm. She curled up on the couch and asked for a blanket. I told her there were several nice warm blankets and quilts on her bed. And that it was time for bed.

She was done. It was well past her bedtime. We had visitors. She had been allowed to stay up late for dessert. She was in the mood to argue. We talked with her. Argued with her. Pleaded with her. And then, finally, I scooped her up.

Cradled in my arms, she made a round of quiet goodnights to everyone in the room. She protested once again.

"No." I said. "It's bedtime."

She looked at me then, and in the softest voice said, "Do I have any other options?"

It was the sweetest and funniest thing. And how did she know that would get to me more than screaming, "I don't want to go to bed!" Of course, I still put her to bed. As she had no other options. Which dismayed her greatly.

"Anyone who thinks the art of conversation is dead ought to tell a child to go to bed." —Robert Gallagher

A Thank You Note from Colleen

kara.uhl@gmail.com (Kara) — Fri, 29 Jul 2011 04:36:00 +0000

We recently received the following e-mail:

Dear Aunt Kara and Uncle Andy,

Thank you for....

The clothes that keep me stylish. (And lets me know what team to root for).

The diapers that keep my bum dry.

The socks that keep my toes warm.

The toys that keep me smiling.

And the advice that help Mom and Dad know what to do!

Love and miss you both!

Love, Colleen

I love that we're able to pass these things on to Colleen (I've been saving them!) and am so grateful for everything that's been passed down to us, from family, friends and even strangers.

Sometimes I wonder how—and why—the big box baby stores do so well when there are so many beautiful, useable and wearable used baby items out there. A summer goal of mine is to return bins, clothes, toys, bottles, Bumbos, a breast pump, books and many, many other baby-related things to their rightful owners—and pass along what isn't wanted back to someone else who wants and needs them.

Reuse and recycle—words so popular today yet so much a longtime natural part of raising children. Craigslist is a form of this. As are garage sales, Goodwill and consignment shops. It pains me to see toys that could easily be cleaned or repaired out on the curb for trash pick-up. An Exersaucer should last many, many children. As should links. And plastic cars. And baby dolls. And even items that get significant wear, like strollers.

I think about Bumbos. They're easy to clean and practically indestructible. But they're expensive. And they're only used for about a year. They've been around for awhile (but are new enough that our parents wonder what they are and then comment on the fact that they never had—or needed—them when we were babies). And yet they're on every registry I print out. One was on ours, when pregnant with Sophie. But shouldn't there be enough used ones to go around for this year's newborns? I understand new is nice and I appreciate the many new things we have. But I also wish I had sought out more used things when pregnant the first time around. It's something I did much more of when pregnant with the boys. I had had several generous showers with Sophie. I didn't want another shower for the boys. But yet I needed double of many things. Used was so easy to come by. And helpful, to us, financially, and to other parents, eager to create space in their basements and attics.

So pass along, don't throw away. And if you are in need of something baby-related, do let me know. Now that the boys are 14 months, our attic is quickly filling with all those plastic things that made our lives so much easier those early months but are already no longer needed. And I'm eager to return the kindness that was given to us.

And yet, I confess: While I'm happy for the growth, it's surprisingly hard to let so many of these things go. I remember when my parents gave Sophie that Reds T-shirt. And I remember the first game she wore it to, how she acted, what the weather was, how excited I was to take her. But even though I no longer have the shirt, I have the memories. And pictures. And little space. And no matter how loved, I believe a thing in use is better than a thing stored away, to what? Stumble across in a dusty box 10 years from now? No, I'd much rather see a picture of my niece in my inbox, ridiculously dressed up to show off what's been given, what's passed and what's to come.

"We are not to throw away those things which can benefit our neighbor. Goods are called good because they can be used for good: they are instruments for good, in the hands of those who use them properly." —Clement of Alexandria

Happy 1st Birthday, Quinn!

kara.uhl@gmail.com (Kara) — Fri, 29 Jul 2011 03:48:00 +0000

Matt and Christi's beautiful son Quinn turned 1 several weeks ago and we were so grateful to be able to attend the party—November was the last time our children and Quinn played together and everyone has changed so much.

Owen, Sophie, Quinn and James, crawling up and down, up and down, up and down two steps.

Happy birthday, buddy! We're so happy you live (a little) closer now (Michigan vs. North Carolina) and we can't wait to celebrate many future birthdays with you.

"May you live all the days of your life." —Jonathan Swift

Ashley & Mark's Wedding

kara.uhl@gmail.com (Kara) — Fri, 29 Jul 2011 03:30:00 +0000

We finished our drive home from vacation on a Saturday and that night a sitter arrived at our house to watch the boys (yes, it was a bit crazy). We decided Sophie was old enough to stay up late for a wedding, and she was invited, and she loves to dance, so we got her all dressed up for Ashley and Mark's beautiful reception at the Oscar Event Center (oh, how Jungle Jim's has changed!).

Heather and Jimmy

Corie and John

the beautiful bride

Matt and Christi

Our dancing queen—she was shy at first, but late into the evening she taught all our friends "Daisy's Dance" and everyone was doing it on the dance floor. "Jump forward. Jump backward. March, march, march. Clap, clap, clap. S.l.i.d.e to the one side. S.l.i.d.e to the other side." Again and again and again.

Danielle and Corie

Joe, David and John

I think he's convincing her to smile.

Dancing is hard work. Especially when it's past your bedtime.

Congratulations, Ashley and Mark! We had a wonderful time at your reception.

"There is no more lovely, friendly and charming relationship, communion or company
than a good marriage." —Martin Luther

Sunrise Shell Hunting

kara.uhl@gmail.com (Kara) — Wed, 27 Jul 2011 03:51:00 +0000

"One cannot collect all the beautiful shells on the beach; one can collect only a few, and they are more beautiful if they are few." —Anne Morrow Lindbergh

Sophie's Trip with Nini and Pop Pop to Buy Shrimp

kara.uhl@gmail.com (Kara) — Wed, 27 Jul 2011 03:49:00 +0000

Each family made dinner for everyone one night of the trip. While my sister and I simply went to the grocery, my parents managed to find a place where they could buy fresh shrimp for their meal, directly from the men who caught it. I didn't go with them to purchase the shrimp, but Sophie did, and these are my parents' pictures from the outing.

"No life is so happy and so pleasant as the life of the well-govern'd angler." —Izaak Walton

An Afternoon Walk to the Beach

kara.uhl@gmail.com (Kara) — Wed, 27 Jul 2011 03:35:00 +0000

When the cold sets in in only a few months' time, and I long for the sun, I will remember this walk—this perfect, perfect walk.

"To see the Summer Sky
Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie—
True Poems flee." —Emily Dickinson

A Day Trip to Wilmington

kara.uhl@gmail.com (Kara) — Wed, 27 Jul 2011 03:24:00 +0000

We took advantage of a rainy day to visit Wilmington, NC, where we had lunch at The Oceanic.

After, we explored the town—and had ice cream.

"In my mind I'm goin' to Carolina
Can't you see the sunshine
Can't you just feel the moonshine
Ain't it just like a friend of mine
It hit me from behind
Yes I'm gone to Carolina in my mind." —James Taylor

Ocean Isle Beach (Picture Overload)

kara.uhl@gmail.com (Kara) — Wed, 27 Jul 2011 03:16:00 +0000

Ocean Isle Beach, NC

Our little bumblebee spent hours digging in the sand.

Pop Pop and James

sweet Colleen, always with her thumb in her mouth

My mom made beautiful (reversible!) sun bonnets for each grandchild.

I absolutely love this picture. Drunk on cold milk, napping on the beautiful beach quilt my mom made, listening to the sound of waves crashing, seagulls calling and Sophie laughing.

My parents watched all four children while Katy, Tom, Andy and I enjoyed the water.

the Rees family

Sophie, thrilled to be spending an entire week with Daddy.

Our brave Sophie—it took a lot of encouraging words to get her to venture into the water some days, and even then, we often had to hold her. "Swing me! Dip me! Swing me! Dip me!" Tired arms followed.

I love Sophie in pigtails. She hates them.

I could have spent hours, every day, at the beach with Sophie.

Sophie also loved making, what she called, mud puddles. Every day, we dug these for her. She's quite particular in how they're made, however—and how fast her construction workers worked.

My idea of beach heaven.

Sophie's idea of beach heaven.

James tolerated sitting in the sand. Owen did not.

sunset

playground fun

We celebrated a belated Father's Day with my dad.

Katy makes the best cards.

He's excited about his Paul McCartney tickets.

The boys doing the thing they love most—standing on a couch and looking out a window.

The boys doing the second thing they love most—drinking milk.

a sweet nap

cousins conversing

beautiful Colleen

Andy "watching" the boys.

I love when a day simply requires a blanket, some towels, a chair, flip-flops and a kite.

Sophie

The kite flying was a bit anti-climatic—perhaps Sophie will enjoy it more when she's older.

sandy shoes

Somehow Sophie always got the beach chair—and I always got the sand.

One hot afternoon, while the boys napped, Sophie and I went shopping and stopped for ice cream (this is her second scoop—there was an unfortunate mishap with the first).

We came back to find Katy and Colleen relaxing in the hammock.

Sophie fell asleep snuggled up with me—I can't remember the last time this happened.

This was the view from our back deck.

Strawberry shortcake for dessert, which Sophie loved.

Sophie staying up late ...

playing hide-and-go-seek with Dad.

This was the boys' first time in a pool. Thank goodness for grandparents as we certainly needed an extra set of arms.

It was Colleen's first time in a pool, too!

a Sophie-sized beach towel

James enjoying the pool deck more so than the pool.

Out of all the toys we brought, the kids loved the "pillow pile" the best.

Uncle Tom made a pretty cool fort for the kids—that was popular, too.

my dad

my mom

cousins and siblings

grandparents and grandchildren

Katy, Tom and Colleen

Mom and Dad

my kids

my family

"Find what brings you joy and go there." —Jan Phillips

Ocean Isle Beach—The Trip There

kara.uhl@gmail.com (Kara) — Mon, 25 Jul 2011 03:15:00 +0000

James has no idea he has a 12-hour car ride ahead of him. (Andy is tying the gate to the top of the van, after we ran out of room inside of the van.)

I'm pretty sure I packed most everything baby-related in the house.

We listened to Charles Dickens' "Great Expectations," and the boys laugh and cry, and Sophie laugh and ask how much longer (over and over and over) throughout the drive. We also managed to drive through tar, which Andy had to scrape off with a tire iron (he didn't want to use the tire iron, but resorted to it after stepping in a mound of fire ants and through poison ivy while trying to find a suitable stick, instead). Somehow, stuff like this always happens to us on car trips.

Sometimes, the beach seemed very far away. To all of us. But all in all, Sophie did as well as can be expected considering she's 3. Especially because she refused to play with any of her toys (including a new one, gifted to her from us specifically for the trip) or watch any of her DVDs on the portable DVD player because, as she said, she wanted to "save them all for the beach." So, for the most part, she sat in her seat and looked out the window the entire drive, despite our repeated attempts to convince her that it was OK to play with her toys and watch her shows during the drive and at the beach. Andy claims this personality trait, unreasonable stubbornness, is my fault. Stubbornness, maybe. Unreasonable, no. I'm sure, in her mind, her patience was entirely reasonable. But oh did it make for a long trip for her. I still don't know how she did it.

We ended up spending the night at Katy and Tom's house, in Winston-Salem, NC. We arrived around 2am. Katy and Tom graciously moved Colleen to their room, and I put James in Colleen's crib, Owen in Colleen's pack-and-play, and then spent two hours trying to convince them that it was 2am, not morning. I ended up sleeping, in my clothes, in the nursery's glider. We were up at 7am (why is it children never sleep in?) and on the road again.

More Dickens. More laughing. More crying. More not playing or watching anything (other than the passing scenery outside the van windows, growing more and more ocean-like the longer we drove) from Sophie.

I think car trips are most difficult for crawlers. An infant's idea of stretching is simply being held. A toddler or child's idea of stretching is running around (easy to do at a rest stop). But a crawler needs to crawl and clean crawling space is often difficult to come by. So stops for food often turned into outdoor picnics—here we're eating at a school, closed up for the summer. (And here, although still many miles away, we could finally smell the ocean. I loved that.)

We made it—our beach house in Ocean Isle Beach, NC.

Owen meeting his cousin Colleen for the first time.

Owen shoving his finger in Colleen's eye for the first time.

All four children seeing the ocean for the first time.

James eating sand for the first time.

And I cried, for the first of many times, during this trip. I spent many summer vacations as a child at the beach. And even as a little girl I knew, someday, I would take my family to the ocean. And I crave the ocean. And it had been a long time. And something about the heavy ocean-scented air; and watching Sophie, wide-eyed as she took in the enormity of it all; and seeing the small marks my sons made as they crawled through shell-littered sand for the first time; and putting the tip of my finger in my mouth so as to taste the salt (as I always do)—I was overcome. And grateful. And suddenly, the long drive and lack of sleep seemed totally, totally worth it.

"Everything in life is somewhere else, and you get there in a car." —E.B. White

Sophie's New Trick

kara.uhl@gmail.com (Kara) — Sat, 23 Jul 2011 01:19:00 +0000

Sophie to me, as I'm coming out of the bathroom: "Mom, GUESS WHAT!"

Me: "What?"

Sophie: "I can carry the boys all by myself now."

Me: "What?"

Sophie: "I can carry the boys all by myself now."

Me: "You picked up the boys."

Sophie: "Yes, and I carried them all around the entryway."

And then she showed me.

Turns out she can pick up one of her brothers and carry him all around the entryway.

(The boys, by the way, are not at all thrilled by her newly acquired skill.)

"At the end of the day, a loving family should find everything forgivable." —Mark V. Olsen and Will Sheffer

Owen's 1st Haircut

kara.uhl@gmail.com (Kara) — Tue, 19 Jul 2011 13:52:00 +0000

Someday I imagine Owen twisting his head away from me, pleading me to stop running my fingers through his hair. But he can't talk yet. And he doesn't twist yet. And I love his hair. (Even when sticky with cereal bar in it.) It's thick. And shiny. And there's now enough of it that if you put him to bed too soon after a bath, he wakes up with parts of it sticking up and out and away. I realize that, to strangers, this simply looks like bad parenting. (Doesn't that mother own a brush?) But I find it terribly endearing.

People started saying, "Have you cut his hair?" "His hair is so long!" "He needs a haircut." (Andy, especially.) I ignored them. In part, because I loved his hair the way that it was. Shorter meant less material to run my fingers through. But also, in part, because it took so long for Sophie to grow her hair. I wasn't used to a baby of mine needing a haircut so early, so young (and yet, he's 1!).

Nicholena, who cuts my hair—and Sophie's hair—carefully trimmed Owen's shiny hairs as he sat on Andy's lap. I took one-handed pictures, while trying to calm a tearful James in my other arm and convince Sophie that she didn't have to go potty just yet (it was a different experience from Sophie's first haircut).

He was so good. And when finished, he looked so much ... older. More little boy. Less baby. But he's not twisting away. Yet.

"Why don't you get a haircut? You look like a chrysanthemum." —P. G. Wodehouse

Cousins

kara.uhl@gmail.com (Kara) — Thu, 14 Jul 2011 03:23:00 +0000

Colleen and Sophie, June 2011

"The family is one of nature's masterpieces." —George Santayana

Lollipops for Father's Day

kara.uhl@gmail.com (Kara) — Thu, 14 Jul 2011 03:10:00 +0000

Sophie helped me make muffins and wrap the two presents she chose for Andy—yogurt melts and lollipops. I talked and talked and talked to her about the meaning of Father's Day and the very idea of presents (something the recipient would want, not something the giver would want) and still, after a very long and trying shopping trip, that's what we ended up with. Upon giving him the gifts she quietly asked if maybe he would share ... (He also got two video games, though, to make up for this.)

She did make a lovely card.

Sophie then insisted on a tea party with her real tea set. Again, I tried to persuade her to do activities Andy would rather do, but the meaning of the holiday was lost on her this year. Maybe next year. (And thanks, my love, for being so happy and willing and generally wonderful, regardless.)

"Fatherhood is pretending the present you love most is soap-on-a-rope." —Bill Cosby

Happy Birthday, Mom!

kara.uhl@gmail.com (Kara) — Thu, 14 Jul 2011 02:42:00 +0000

"We turn not older with years, but newer every day." —Emily Dickinson

Mean Stories and Sleep

kara.uhl@gmail.com (Kara) — Thu, 07 Jul 2011 20:32:00 +0000

These days, bedtime takes about two hours. This includes baths, pjs, cups and bottles of milk, stories read, sound machine on, night lights on, fans on, overhead lights off, poem recited, kisses goodnight. All of this takes about 30 minutes. The rest of the time we're convincing Sophie that "stories" aren't going to come out of her floor and eat her.

We have no idea how or why she imagined these "stories" up. But that's what she calls them—"stories." There are two. One is a giraffe story. The other, a pig story. And while she's in bed they come up out of her floor and cause her to scream. Loudly. When she screams we run to her room and find her, wide-eyed, red-faced, cheeks and nose wet with tears and snot, absolutely and completely terrified, so panicked she can hardly control herself. (And, of course, this is about when the boys wake up crying, because of the screaming.)

At first we sat Sophie down and talked a lot about make-believe and reality. We talked about the nature of stories (I find it so interesting she calls them that). We had long discussions about what's real and what's not. This only made her angrier. She accused us of not believing her (which was a fair accusation because we of course, do not). We thought, by convincing her these stories weren't real, her fear would lesson. But her terror, to our deep dismay, only grew. Not because the stories were coming more frequently, but because, I believe, she felt like she could no longer count on those she loved and leaned on for support most—her parents.

So we did some research. And contacted our pediatrician. And discovered that she's too young to fully grasp reality versus make-believe (which is still troublesome to me as I truly believe she grasps it when reading books and watching TV—maybe I'm wrong). But after sleeping with her in our bed night after night (feeling her roll and toss and fling her limbs into our faces and finally giving up, letting her sleep horizontally to the headboard, arms across Andy's face and feet ever-so-randomly kicking me in the stomach) we were willing to try anything—even if it meant telling a lie, which is, that we believed her.

So the next night all three of us got on our hands and knees and had a talk with those stories. We banged our fists on the floor and yelled, "Stories! You listen here. You are not allowed to come out when Sophie is in her room. Do you understand?" Three ears to the carpet, we waited for a response. I jumped up. "They said yes, Sophie! They promised!"

Things got a little better after that. We'd put her to bed, bang on the floor and yell at the stories, wait for a response, and then we'd promise to check on her until she fell asleep. First one minute, then three, then five, then 10 and 10 and 10 until she drifted off. Every night, we'd have the same conversation:

Sophie: "How many minutes?"

Us: "10 minutes."

Sophie: "Is that long? Or short?"

Us: "Not long."

Sophie: "Not 10 minutes. One minute."

Us: "Let's try 10 minutes to start with this time. Just see how it goes. It's not long, promise."

Sophie: "No! One minute!" (The panic look begins to blanket her face.)

Us: "OK, OK, one minute."

Sophie: "One minute."

Us: "One minute."

Sophie: "Promise you'll be back?"

Us: "We promise."

Sophie: "Promise you'll be back?" (Her voice is higher pitched this time, concerned."

Us: "We promise!"

We never got rid of the minutes completely, but we did manage to stop her from waking up in the middle of the night and convincing us (bleary-eyed and willing to say yes to anything just so we could go back to sleep) that she should sleep with us. And we did this by pure bribery.

After sleeping through the night in her own bed for a week, she earned her first Build-A-Bear.

(We let her pick out everything and oh, what a bear it was—neon hearts, glittery ballerina outfit, sparkly pink plastic shoes, multiple hair bows and a voice saying "I love you I love you I love you" every time you squeeze its hand.)

Success.

Or so we thought.

After a long vacation, the stories are back. The pig one and the giraffe one, both hell-bent on eating her and taking up our evenings, night after night.

If we were having bedtime issues because she simply didn't want to go to bed, I'd let her cry. I'd let her scream. She's 3. And I don't have much patience for that. But our daughter is absolutely terrified of these stories. In her mind, they're real. And the look of terror that crosses her face when they "come out of the floor" scares me so much that sometimes I wonder if I'm trapped in some horror movie and they really are there and I just can't see them—that's how panicked she gets.

We decided we can't let her sleep in our bed anymore—when she's in our bed, none of us get a good night's sleep.

So now Andy curls up under a blanket on the floor, right where the stories come out. And he stays there, while I put the boys to bed. And he stays there until she falls asleep, while I do the downstairs clean-up alone—a chore that used to go much faster when both of us were doing it. Sophie is slow to fall asleep—she plays with her doll, sings to herself, flips through books and usually only nods off a good hour after being put to bed.

I would be so ever-grateful for help with this. Advice. Solutions that worked for you. Yes, it's frustrating because our nights—the one time we have to read, watch a show, game, clean, be together—are being eaten up with this whole going-to-sleep process. But what's even more frustrating to me is that my daughter truly believes a giraffe or pig "story" is going to eat her up, literally. I would do most anything to never again see that look of sheer terror on her face. She's 3. Her life should be void of such panic and worry and concern. As someone who is always battling stress I don't wish that type of intense stress on her—not now and honestly, not ever.

So thanks in advance. And hopefully, soon, bedtime at the Uhl household will be filled with silly, thoughtful, funny, serious and beautiful stories only—stories children look forward to, not fear.

"There are very few monsters who warrant the fear we have of them." —Andre Gide

Daddy's Rainy Day Fort

kara.uhl@gmail.com (Kara) — Wed, 06 Jul 2011 03:35:00 +0000

The boys loved this fort (Sophie's bedroom fort was too fragile for them to play in). And, if you look closely, you can see someone else who loved it, too.

"Growing old is mandatory; growing up is optional." —Chili Davis

Filed Under Things I Don't Want to Hear My Children Say

kara.uhl@gmail.com (Kara) — Sun, 03 Jul 2011 13:54:00 +0000

Me: "Oh, Sophie, we really need to cut your toenails!"

Sophie: "I know, Mom. I've been really bad about eating them lately."

"Pretty much all the honest truth telling in the world is done by children." —Oliver Wendell

Utopia

kara.uhl@gmail.com (Kara) — Wed, 29 Jun 2011 03:15:00 +0000

"I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each." —T.S. Eliot

A Rainy Day Fort

kara.uhl@gmail.com (Kara) — Fri, 24 Jun 2011 12:51:00 +0000

"The best kind of rain, of course, is a cozy rain. This is the kind the anonymous medieval poet makes me remember, the rain that falls on a day when you'd just as soon stay in bed a little longer, write letters or read a good book by the fire, take early tea with hot scones and jam and look out the streaked window with complacency." —Susan Allen Toth

Happy Birthday, Babe

kara.uhl@gmail.com (Kara) — Fri, 24 Jun 2011 12:43:00 +0000

I love that you're playing again. And I love all that you are and all that you do. Happy birthday. (And thank you!)

"Music washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life." —Berthold Auerbach

Charlie

kara.uhl@gmail.com (Kara) — Fri, 24 Jun 2011 12:31:00 +0000

Sophie's Great Aunt Susan and Great Uncle Dale visited us for a night, along with their son, Charlie. We introduced them to Cincinnati-style chili at Skyline (and they treated us to dinner—thank you!). And Sophie had a blast playing with her ever-patient and ever-fun cousin. It's not easy being asked over and over and over again to play hide-and-go-seek, run back and forth across the porch, color, pretend to be the tickle monster or sit for long periods of time in a very pink room. But Charlie did these things, again and again, despite my attempts to rescue him. (Thank you, Charlie! She still talks about you, all the time.)

"You are worried about seeing him spend his early years in doing nothing. What! Is it nothing to be happy? Nothing to skip, play, and run around all day long? Never in his life will he be so busy again." —Jean-Jacques Rousseau

Date Night, Past and Present

kara.uhl@gmail.com (Kara) — Sun, 19 Jun 2011 04:45:00 +0000

Tonight, while my parents are at Shaker Village celebrating their 35th wedding anniversary, Andy and I hired a babysitter to watch all three kids for the first time and we dined at Brio where I had the lobster ravioli and Andy had some sort of chicken pasta dish and then we saw Woody Allen's "Midnight in Paris," which we both enjoyed, and I wore my nest egg necklace and a new, cream-colored cotton skirt, and only called the babysitter once (for which I was proud).

The children were fine. We are all fine.

Me, especially.

The night out was much needed. And upon returning home, Sophie heard my voice in her sleep. And woke. "Mama?" I went upstairs, cupping the back of her head with my hand, guiding her back to bed. I pulled the quilt all the way up to her neck, something I remember my Grandma doing once, when we spent the night at her house. Sophie smiled. I crawled into bed with her. She really smiled.

"Did Annie go home?" she sleepily asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Oh," she said.

"Did you have fun?" I asked.

"Yes," she said.

"I came back," I said.

"Yes," she said.

"I'll always come back," I said.

"Yes," she said.

A pause.

Then, "Scratch my back."

I did. Her eyes grew heavy, then closed for good.

I often think back to Saturday nights when I had no children, Saturday nights when dinner and a movie was only a luxury, a special event, because of how much it cost, not because of the logistics of childcare. But this homecoming, curled up in a pile of handmade quilts with my daughter in her pink and orange polka-dotted pajamas, a stuffed giraffe and a fabric bunny squished between the iron headboard and our heads, beats any out later, at-home quieter, more frequent Saturday homecoming of the past.

For this, I am thankful.

"You can clutch the past so tightly to your chest that it leaves your arms too full to embrace the present." —Jan Glidewell

Let's Make Wishes

kara.uhl@gmail.com (Kara) — Wed, 15 Jun 2011 16:46:00 +0000

Lately, Sophie is obsessed with wishes. (And the word "obsessed." She uses it constantly. Like when Owen is trying to take her baby stroller from her—she'll run to me and say, "Mommy, Owen is obsessed with the stroller. Make him stop!"

She demands puffy white dandelions on our walks—she makes wishes while she blows them. She demands pennies when she sees a fountain—she makes wishes while she throws them. And when in the car, her favorite game of the moment is "Let's Make Wishes." It's quite simple. She says, "I wish" and then makes a wish. She then yells, "Your turn!" And you must say, "I wish" and then make a wish. She then yells, "My turn!" And on and on.

During one family car ride I decided to write down her wishes on the back of a receipt. (Our wishes, which Sophie insisted we share, involved being able to go to the beach tomorrow (mine), being able to play Xbox more often (Andy), having time to do yoga (mine), not having to go to work (Andy) and, of course, several involving Sophie being a good listener, using the potty, etc.) Her wishes are as follows (I love them):

"I wish I could be a really brave girl while I watched Aladdin."

"I wish I could stay allllll night at the big park."

"I wish that Zoey had a big, big, big, tumbly slide."

"I wish there was a beeeaaauuutiful rainbow in our yard."

"I wish I could climb up a ladder all by myself without Daddy, Mommy, the boys, Mia or Tucker."

"I wish [something about being a bad listener]." (We couldn't hear her so we asked her to repeat this wish.) "I can't tell you. It's a secret wish."

"I wish Zoey would share." (We then had a long—in toddler time—conversation about sharing in general. Because of course Zoey shares sometimes. And of course Sophie doesn't share sometimes, too. They're children.)

This is when she decided to end the game.

"When you love someone, all your saved-up wishes start coming out." —Elizabeth Bowen