Deutschland, Deutschland

Oh marvelous! We've reached Germany. This is how Patton must have felt.

Or maybe that analogy isn't exactly correct- But it's just marvelous to speak German and be understood, rather than feeling like an eternal fool. Plus, we're staying in a hotel instead of our incredibly LOUD and echo-filled Parisian apartment. We weren't in the new hotel room two minutes before Hub-D was asleep on the bed. The other detail he loves about Germany are the separate Bettbezüge, or comforters, on the bed. I am a notorious cover-stealer, and the German system completely thwarts me.

We're in the town of Würzburg for my cousin's wedding, and there is a wine festival occuring at the same time. Have I mentioned that I'm glad I'm not pregnant? The town square is filled with revelers eating local specialties and drinking the wines presumably sourced from the vineyards overlooking the town. I can't wait to join the party! I'm writing this post while waiting for Hub-D to answer some work e-mails at another Internet Cafe.

Chebbles has completely adjusted to the time schedule here, and we're leaving for the US in just a few days. Fab. Right now, she and Grandma R. are snoozing in their own cozy, upholstered, non-echoey room at the hotel.

I feel like I'm coming home when I'm in Germany -- or maybe it's just the relief after the wild ride of Paris. There is so much food here that I love that's unavailable in the US -- and the country just makes sense to me. I understand the locks, the rules, the context, having lived here and being such a freqent visitor, thanks to my extended family here. Würzburg itself seems chock full of chipper Bavarians, half of whom are drunk from the wine festival. And I can communicate with them!

My abysmal French was such an exercise in humiliation every time I had to whip it out. And I got so flustered in a boutique yesterday while attempting to buy some little skirts for The Chebs that I left my credit card behind and had to cancel it last night, as I didn't have time to retrieve it from the store before we left for Deutschland.

Yesterday was such a flurry of activity, capped by a marvelous "Batoboat" trip that Hub-D and I took up and down the Seine. The boat let us off at the Eiffel Tower and we walked all the way down the Left Bank to Saint Germaine de Pres, where we ate goulash and spaghetti, then went to the famous Cafe de Flure for the most marvelous cup of hot chocolate I have drunk in my life. The hot chocolate seemed to effect all of my limbs, putting me in a state of chocolate-induced paralysis. It was all I could do to re-collect my ecstatic limbs from the chair outside the cafe and head into the Metro station, heading back to The Marais to shower and pack our bags in preparation for today's train ride.

And the ride went beautifully! In Paris this morning, Hub-D threw himself in front of a cab with the fervor of Anna Karenina this morning, forcing the one "at large" taxi to pull over and wait for us. The driver wigged once he learned how many people and how much baby equipment was going to be shoved in his taxi -- "this will take cinq minute!" he hollered at me exasperatedly once he learned I planned to install a car seat in his backyard.

"No," I replied, "Une SECOND." Loser. And I was right -- her massive Britax Marathon was snapped in and ready to go before he was. Then everyone got frustrated with my pronunciation of "Paris Gare L'est" because I pronounced it "Gare L'ouest" and everyone started haranguing me as to whether we should go to the EAST or WEST train station.

I was so crabby at that point, I felt it best to just spell the word for the driver, rather than point out that there IS NO west train station in Paris.

We boarded the train and found our compartment -- so lucky to have one all to ourselves! I felt like an idiot for buying Chebbles a ticket for the trip, but it was primarily a function of my crappy French upon buying the ticket.

The Chebs enjoyed exploring the train, toying with the hand brake (my assumption is that she's too little to actually PULL it, right? But how embarrassing would that have been?) and racing down the halls, screeching with glee, calling out "All Aboard!"

We took her to the dining car, where I was delighted to order our first German sausages of the trip and share them with her. The girl LOVES Nürnburger Wurst, I tell you. It was the first meal she devoured in days. Due to her resistance to eat grains in any form, and no unadulterated meat, France was a struggle for her. What kind of kid doesn't eat croissants? Mine, apparently. She had been subsisting on pommes frites and heated-up veggies for most of the week.

But she's found her processed-meat Shangri-La here in Germany, and now, in her massive porta-crib at the hotel, she is almost certainly dreaming of the lunch meats and würstchens in her future.

And I am having a waking dream about all of that wine waiting for us down the street. So I'm wrapping it up here, and will go an harangue Hub-D into leaving. It's already 11pm, and I don't know how long they're pouring!

But Paris, we've only just begun!

What the heck? We're leaving Paris the day after tomorrow, and we have so much left to do. Chebbles has finally adjusted to the time schedule, and we've all fallen into a nice routine.

Hub-D and I escaped the city today and took the train to Chartres, where the famous cathedral knocked our socks off. It's dedicated to the Virgin Mary, and it's a pilgrimage point for pregnant women who are asking for the safe birth of their children. So I said a silent prayer in there -- if I'd had the required 2 Euro coin, I would have lit a candle for all he past and future fruits of my own womb.

And guess what? In France, Mother's Day is June 3! I'm trying to score a second Mother's Day present from Hub-D. It's only fair.

On Thursday, we head to Germany, where my cousin F. is getting married. How will Chebbles handle the eight-hour train trip? It remains to be seen! When we took a train from Munich to Florence last year, I was breastfeeding, so I just stuck her on the boob whenever she got antsy. This year I have no such tool. Wish us luck!

The internet cafe is closing yet again. What's up with this guy, closing his internet cafe all of the time? We are getting a good chuckle out of the difference in service in Paris, versus our hometown. People have been uniformly helpful and gracious for the most part, but we have a hard time understanding all of the closings and semi-hilarious refusals of money.

OK, off to dinner with ma mere.

Bon soir

We made it to Paris!

The good things, are, of course, that we are in Paris, we are all in good health, the city is beautiful, and there is a merry-go-round down the street from us that features a fire engine, a helicopter, and a big pink UFO that goes up and down.

The bad news is that our rental apartment is an echo chamber. If anyone clears their throat, or turns the page of a book, or thinks something very strongly, everyone else in the apartment can hear it clearly. This is not ideal, particularly with a sleepless toddler who is thrown off her sleep schedule and wants to go outside in search of motorcycles, little dogs and merry-go-rounds at 4 o'clock in the morning.

Our rental apartment is good in some respects -- it's located in the heart of the Marais, a fascinating district that was once packed full of Ashkenazi Jews, and now features a few remaining delis, temples, and sobering memorials. It was also in this district that many of the minor aristocracy built their mansions in the 1700's and 1800's, and many of these massive stone structures have been converted to museums, most notably the Picasso Museum, which is a stone's throw from our house.

The apartment is an extreme renovation of part of a small estate here in the Marais. It's huge by Parisian standards, and we share a courtyard with a set of interesting neighbors, including the three-year-old O., whom Chebbles loves with such intensity that she calls her "Cousin." (O., equally entranced, calls Chebbles "May-May.")

But the apartment is ultimately bizarre, owing partly to the owners' short stature. When we first arrived, I spied a wedding picture of them in the foyer, and I did a double-take. The are SHORT people, very short -- their whole family. Unfortunately, this creates something of a death trap for those of us who are not short.

When the owner of the rental company called to make sure we had settled in already, Hub-D related that he had just slammed his head into the diminutive doorframe (It throbbed for two days). "That's what you get for being a tall American!" he said. Zut alors, indeed.

All of our fears regarding the non-childproofed nature of the house turned out ot be unfounded, as the owners have toddlers of their own! Unfortunately, though, the child safety gate they installed at the top of the deadly stairs, is broken and nonfunctional. When we contacted them at their home in California to ask how we might fix it, their response was, "But it was working when we left!"

So Grandma R. has rigged up a series of Chebbles-deterrent devices, including upturned stools and her locked stroller. So far it's working, as The Chebs (now known as "La Chabelle") wants to be outside all of the time anyway. She wants to see the river and the Notre Dame and the chairs outside the cafes and the cobblestones, and all of the marvelous cigarette butts that populate the gutters of Paris.

Hub-D and I have been able to tour around town, eating the famous Ile Ste Louis ice cream, dashing into the Louvre in the midst of a booming thunderstorm, and climbing all the way to the roof of the Arc de Triomphe last night, despite having consumed a bottle of Chablis. (I had to sit down for a long time afterwards, so as not to toss my cookies...)

OK, we need to wrap up our session at the Internet Cafe. All is well -- some head injuries and sleeplessness -- but we're in Paris for cripe's sake! We're going to head out now and paint the town rouge.

Au revoir

I don't know whether we'll have internet access in Paris, so I wanted to leave a note here to say we'll be back the second week of June.

Perhaps I will be able to post from Europe, but I don't want to count on it.

I can barely believe we're about to undertake this journey, and I'm spazzing out -- what to pack, what I might be forgetting, how The Chebs will weather the time difference, etc.

Also, I have begun to worry full-time about the stairs in the apartment we're renting. What if Chebbles wakes up in the middle of the night, climbs out of her Parisian crib and falls down the stairs? I asked the rental company if they know where we could get baby gates, and they replied that they don't think anything like that exists in France.

How do French children manage? Or is this part of the population decline they are experiencing?

Furthermore, the rental manager wrote: "The stairs are the reason that I feel this apartment is not the best for children, but it is such a beautiful apartment that I understood when you reserved, that you would simply have to take care of your daughter here."

Egads, man! Perhaps he should have written, "I assumed you were a careless and inattentive mother, and you valued the beauty of your rental apartment over the safety of your only child."

Then, when I asked if he might be able to provide some extra sheets, so that we may cover the apartment's white sofas, he responded with a virtual ZUT ALORS!...

"I assume that you will not be eating on them. There is a full dining room table with eight chairs, and a small leather sofa in front of the tv, so there is no reason for anybody to ever eat or drink on the white sofas."

This is a man who, if can be assumed, has never come in contact with a toddler. I, for one, would enjoy the conversation he would have with Chebbles as she nabs a handful a grapes from the kitchen counter and darts out toward the white sofas:

"L'enfant! S'il vous plait! There is NO REASON for you to eat or drink on the white sofas."

Monsieur, may I remind you that children do not require a reason for their actions? Regardless of the number of chairs provided in the dining room, they may endeavor to sit upon multiple surfaces.

But the stairs, OH, the stairs. I need to remember that The Chebs has happily and safely spent the night in non-child-friendly locales before, and she will be under the watchful eye of three adults.

Also, Chebbles will not be in the apartment very much, as Grandma R. has already planned multiple excursions throughout the city, sure to take up the child's every waking hour. These include donkey rides, merry-go-rounds, trips to the outdoor markets and goodness knows what.

We'll just have to be SURE that she doesn't get any donkey hair, carousel grease or market detritus on the white couches... mon dieu!!

How are you feeling?

Chebbles received a "Leap" for Christmas. Perhaps you're familiar with this little guy? He sings the alphabet and claims to be her best friend. I record little things about her (where we live, who loves her, our cats' names) and he barfs the information back out, to her delight.

He accepts little cartridges in a compartment in his back, each containing a special lesson. They're about going to the potty, and going to bed, and useful life information like that. The one we're listening to now is about FEELINGS. He sings songs about feelings, and tells Chebbles that all of her feelings are OK, and that it's good to express these feelings.

As I listened to to Leap expound his theories of expression this morning, it occured to me that he's left out a LOT of feelings.

The feelings he does discuss are:
* Mad
* Sad
* Happy
* Frustrated
* Proud
* Sleepy
* Silly

But it's rare that we experience those feelings exclusively or purely. As I explained to Chebbles this morning, it's a little more normal to have combinations of those feelings -- any combination.

For example, Mad/Silly, Sleepy/Frustrated, Sad/Proud. We've experienced all of these combo-emotions in our household today alone. And it's not even 10am yet.

Plus there is a panoply of omitted emotions I feel Leap should include, such as:
* Malaise
* Running Late
* Hormonal
...and my personal favorite...
* Exuberant Beyond All Reason (See "Chuck E. Cheesing")

I feel we're cheating The Chebs by alleging that feelings can all be fit within Leap's tight definitions. Hub-D and I are more complicated people than that. Maybe we need a new, improved Leap cartridge, designed especially for our family. He could sing malaiseful songs, or perform "Calm the Hell Down" for those Chuck E. Cheese moments.

Sunday Summary

* Chebbles is now fully obsessed with the pacifiers. She has found her stash of newborn "binkies" and enjoys gnawing on them throughout the day. I figure -- why fight it? I'm not going to get her bigger pacifiers that actually fit her mouth, and like most of her fads (remember when she would only wear the one dress, every single day?) she'll lose interest eventually... right?

* We just came back from a wonderful birthday party, where Chebbles met little Baby K. She was enraptured with that infant. Chebbles gently pointed out her tiny mouth, eyes, nose, and fingers, and leaned her face close into the baby's. It was the most voluntary, sustained physical affection I've ever seen her proffer another human being. It did make me sad, thinking that she's probably at least a year away from having her own baby brother or sister, but we'll just visit Baby K in the meantime.

* We leave for Paris in three days. I still don't know what I'm going to wear to the wedding in the castle, but I feel mellower about the whole deal. They are lucky we are hauling our heinies all the way from Kalifornien for their nuptials. If we're dressed appropriately, that's just a bonus.

* The Chebs now wants to cherry drop from my arms ALL THE TIME, and it's a blast.
She walks up my legs, up my belly, then launches off my chest, landing squarely on the floor -- all the while holding my hands. If that's all I am to her -- a vertical trampoline -- that's enough for me.

* Our garden is already filled with zucchini blossoms -- big orange mamas that promise a summer filled with fresh squash. Are we going to become one of those families that have so much zucchini, we are laying it on neighbors' doorsteps in the middle of the night and running away?

* Everyone keeps telling me it's going to be a disaster, taking a 20-month-old on a long transcontinental/trans-Atlantic flight. But what they don't know is I have a fully charged DVD player, three "Sesame Street" DVD's AND three "Thomas the Tank Engine" DVD's. So really, what could possibly go wrong?

* The Chebs is getting freckles. I'm finding a new one at least once a week -- one on her nose, one below her lip, a couple on her feet, and one on her shoulder blade. Hub-D looks at me askance as we discover the freckles -- have I passed down some horrible FRECKLE gene to our child? But Dude's got freckles too. I just don't want them to harm her modeling career, you know? (And yes, we use plenty of sunscreen!)

* I just finished reading two books that I heartily recommend. The Thirteenth Tale and The Shadow of the Wind. They are good old fashioned gothic-style novels, with dark hidden secrets, fires, villains and baby dramas aplenty. (Not for the pregnant.)

* And finally. Hub-D caught The Chebs in a jumping extravaganza yesterday!

The Riddler of Amazon.com

Back in 1998, Amazon.com asked me to come in for an interview.

Imagine my excitement! I caught a plane to Seattle for the day and strode through the rain into that amazing new "dot-com." I was brimming with ideas for their public relations efforts, and I already pictured myself working at one of their makeshift desks, all of which were crafted from used doors.

They treated me like crap. They proposed to hire me for junior job for which I was overqualified, and introduced me to a woman I'd be working with -- fresh out of college and wearing alarming pigtails. They made me wait long stretches of time between interviewers and every corner of that office reeked of haughtiness. Then came... The Riddler, a lady executive with a buzz cut.

"Riddle me this," she said as she strode into my windowless interviewing room. "You're on the other side of a door of a dark room. The room contains one chair and one dangling light bulb, and in the hallway, there are three light switches. The light bulb only responds to one of the switches, and you may only open the door once to check whether you've chosen the right light bulb. What do you do?"

"For one," I thought, "I never EVER work at Amazon.com."

I had to wonder... how many times in my potential career at Amazon.com would I be faced with a dark room and a malfunctioning light switch? And in retrospect, I find it unforgivably cruel to start off a conversation with a nervous interviewee by throwing out a riddle that you find just FASCINATING.

I shrivelled as I desperately contemplated the riddle. "Are you sure there is no way to peek under the door?" I asked, smiling.

"No. You cannot peek under the door," she said impatiently. The minutes ticked by.

I never got it. I never got the riddle. She had to remind me that there was a CHAIR in the room, so the only way to determine whether you found the correct light switch was to try one light switch for a few minutes, then turn it off. Then you should turn on another one before opening the door. If you find that the room is light, then the second one is your switch. But if the room is dark, you should push the chair under the light bulb and feel it -- if it's warm, then the first light switch is the right one. If it's cold, then the third switch is the correct one.

What terrible thing happened to this woman when she was a child that makes her delight in torturing hapless young interviewees like that? It's not OK to chuck riddles out there in a stressful professional situation.

I'll admit that the riddle is clever. I like it, in fact. But I will never forgive Amazon.com for subjecting me to that woman.

Instead of joining their turd-populated dot-com, I joined a little PR firm in San Francisco, then started my own PR firm which has blossomed. Inspired by that lady's idiotic behavior, we are extremely respectful of anyone who interviews with our firm. It pays off -- so often, even when it doesn't work out for someone to join our company, they recommend our agency to others.

So kiss my grits, Amazon.com. You missed out on a great hire that day, when I slunk out into the rain, feeling like a five-inch-tall moron because I didn't propose FEELING the light bulb.

Garage Sale of Despair

We all know how obsessed I am with my neighbors' divorce, and the catalyst thereto. This morning brought a flood of activity that made it all feel more real.

B. and V.'s house has been sold to a seemingly nice family with two teenage girls, one of whom professes to be a babysitter (jackpot). But still, I find the divorce so unsettling.

They put all of their belongings on the lawn this morning, and by the time Chebbles woke up (6:20am), there were already vultures leaping into the wreckage -- people divesting B. and V. of their dishware and picture frames and vases. My handyman bought their child's microscope and some other neighbors made off with a bunch of board games.

B. was serene throughout the day -- bargaining with passersby for the furniture he'd owned for three decades. Perhaps I can't imagine his state of mind because I'm in such a different place, a place of accumulation, a place of a very bonded marriage. We're trying with all of our might to add children and assets to our family, and B. is so thoroughly on the other side of that coin, sloughing off everything he has ever accumulated.

"Come back tomorrow," he called to me, as Chebbles and I walked out of his driveway, empty-handed. "Maybe there will be something you want."

"Oh yeah," I said, "Then I'll just have to have my own garage sale in 20 years to get rid of it AGAIN."

"Or you might enjoy having it in your home," he said quietly, and sat back down to his dinner -- a bowl of rice in a for-sale chair, on a driveway covered with 33 years of detritus.

.

Thank HEAVENS!

Here it was, Day 30 of my cycle, and I was on the cusp of thinking I might be pregnant. I dearly DO want to be pregnant, and of course getting my period today makes me wonder why I'm not pregnant (looking askance at the steam room at the gym).

But we leave for Europe in less than a week, and now I will be worry-free, I'll be done with my period, and I will eat every soft cheese and deli meat I can get my hands on.

Was there ever a more perfect and romantic time and situation for me to travel? I am traveling to Paris with my curious child and her adoring grandmother, plus I'll spend beaucoup time ALONE with my handsome husband for the first time since our honeymoon.

Now that my period has arrived, there is nothing stopping us from enjoying ourselves to the hilt. Yeah, sure it's always a bummer to find out we didn't "catch an egg," but this month? Pop the corks, France, we're on our way!

What in the world should I pack for France?

I enter a conundrum when I'm packing for a trip to Europe -- either I will be comfortable, and potentially look like an American ass in gym shoes and a wrinkle-free wardrobe OR I try to "fit in," and I end up blistered, and uncomfortably chic.

When I lived in Munich, I would get so annoyed with the American tourists who would stand in the middle of Marienplatz -- especially the young guys in their white gym shoes and college sweatshirts -- shouting to passersby, "WHERE IS THE HOFBRAUHAUS???" They would inevitably be growing goatees during their European adventures, and I would do my best to pretend I was NOT one of their fellow countrymen as I passed them by.

I don't know why I feel so compelled to "disguise" myself when I'm travelling, but I just don't want to look like an obvious tourist. I want to blend in with the natives, so that I might garner some respect in restaurants or when I'm asking directions in my super-crappy French.

I went to Paris a few years ago, and I wore such unreasonable (cute) shoes that I was tearfully begging the pharmacies for blister remedies, and applying said remedies to my torn-up feet on busy street corners.

So I'm looking for advice. What should I pack? Should I just accept that I'm a California suburban mom and pack cargo pants and running shoes suitable for scaling the stairs of the Notre Dame? Or should I try to do our country proud and spiff it up for a week? And just WHO am I trying to impress?

OK, back to staring at my empty suitcase.

It ain't cool being no jive turkey

Our teenaged babysitter helped put The Chebs to bed last night, and accidentally turned the heater in her bedroom up a million degrees. See, if you turn the heater "on" without specifying a temperature, the heater assumes that you want to cook a Thanksgiving turkey.

Hub-D and I were dissecting The Sopranos in the living room, and we kept hearing her call out and cry from her room. Usually she'll "squawk" a few times during the night, but never fully wake up. And if we go into her while she's squawking, it only serves to wake her up and make it nearly impossible for her to go back to sleep.

So we ignored her pleas for assistance because we had to figure out why in the world Tony Soprano would kill Christopher Moltisanti -- Hub-D felt it was because Chrissy was a liability, and I thought it was also because Christopher was turning into a horrible father -- which is why Tony continued to bring up the broken car seat throughout the episode.

Meanwhile, The Chebs continued to croak for someone, ANYONE, to come rescue her from her hellhole bedroom.

But we held to our resolve for several more minutes, lamenting how, with just three Sopranos episodes left, there is no way David Chase is going to tie up all of the loose strings, particularly the Russian, who we last saw bleeding, but alive, in the snow.

Finally, when she began to make noises akin to a missionary on a cannibal spit ("oohhhhwwwooooo....oooWOOOO"), we went into her room.

A wall of heat hit us in the faces as soon as we opened the door. It was 92 degrees of pure African jungle heat in there.

I whisked her from the room, unzipping her thick PJ's, and Hub-D opened the windows and tried to cool it down. Then we three retired to the guest room, where we The Chebs called out in a husky, pathetic voice, "juuuuuuusssssyyyy....juuuuhuhuhuhsy."

So Hub-D hustled together two big sippy cups of cold water, which she downed within minutes. And I sat there berating myself for a few minutes... I had been out for sushi for a friend's birthday, and I should have checked on that heater when I came home! I had thought I'd explained the heater properly, and the babysitter is usually very smart, but OH CRIPES almighty, here was my child in a manmade fever, croaking and guzzling and crazy hot.

Once I finished making it about me, Hub-D and I gathered round our sweaty but cooling child and read stories. He changed her diaper and I re-set the heater to a nice chilly 70, and after a half-hour of cajoling, she went back to sleep without a peep.

But the point is, why is Tony Soprano's gambling habit suddenly emerging, and how is the Phil Leotardo situation going to resolve?

Things we have to change about our lives

#1 We've got to buy a house by the beach, where The Chebs can don a wetsuit and play all day long. She's never been so filled with joy as when I took her down to the beach in San Diego this weekend.

#2 We have to get a dog. Preferably a little dog like Wolfgang, our friends' pug. Or maybe we should just dognap Wolfgang. It's no exaggeration to say these two are in love.

We should probably also try to add two older brothers to our family, in addition to an easy baby like our friends' baby -- all of which were Amelia's cup of tea. Plus, there were the pacifiers. Chebbles rediscovered them at our friends' house, and she stole and sucked them every chance she got. Each morning she would wake up, stand up in the Pack-n-Play and ask, "Binkie?"

Oy, kid! You kicked the habit at four months' old, what's with that? She would stare at herself in the mirror, sucking on them, or let them hang out of her mouth like a gangster's cigarette. So she wants to reinstate "binkies" in her life. Is that a bad road to go down? My sense is "yes," but I don't want to be unnecessarily mean or staunch about this subject.

So anyway, we've returned from San Diego, still sandy and super-tired, with new goals in life!

Hellmouth

Oh, THIS is why the life of a stay-at-home mom is not all bonbons and glamor. Our dear, even-keeled Chebs has been teething over the last day, and NOTHING makes her happy.

I sit her in the swing.

** NO! Wrong swing! **

So I sit her in the other swing.

** Not this swing EITHER! You IDIOT! **

The crying is constant, and at the smallest provocation. I believe that at the time of this photo, she was upset that her friend had the same hat. The fashion faux pas just pissed her the heck off.

I've been grumbling to her face about it, for which I feel somewhat guilty.

She starts wailing because, oh, I don't know, I threw away a two-day-old apple core she had forgotten under the couch, and I just say, "Oh my GOD, Chebs, are you in a contest for the most annoying baby?"

And when she bucked her head into my ear with all of her strength, I just up and cried. "Man, Chebs, that hurt like crap," I whined through my tears.

So I guess my daughter and I are seeing some new aspects of each other. My formerly picture-perfect baby has transformed into the teething, raging monster of snot and ill-tempered behavior. And her former saintly mother has developed a form of maternal Tourette's.

Tomorrow we leave for a long weekend in San Diego, with my friend who has three kids and an excellent sense of humor. She's going to need it when she sees the two of us stumble off the plane.

My child is a mess

It seems pointless to wash her off because she's just going to look like this again within ten minutes.

She loves playing with dirt, sunscreen, orange slices, rice cakes and bubble solution. And now that the summer is upon us, she's demanding these things, then smooshing them all over her face and hair.

Why does no one else's kid look like this?

We just came from a "Kindergym" experience at a Jewish Temple in Oakland. There were about 50 kids there, and mine was the only one with pink paint spilling out of her ears at the end of the day. I put her down for her nap like that -- I peeled off the bigger chunks of dried paint and dirt, then chucked her in her crib. Her feet currently look like she's been shoeless and on the run from the law for at least two weeks.

A friend said to me once, "If I ever have a child, I'm going to wash her face a lot more often than you do."

JEESH! The whole task is so Sisyphusian (you know, the dude who pushes the rock up the hill for all eternity?), because the moment she's up from her nap, she'll be in the backyard, scouting for jam or any other kind of warpaint to redecorate her filthy mug.

Why bother, people? I bathe her most nights, or take her to swimming lessons, where I'm sure we leave an unsightly ring around the rim of the pool when we leave, but she's Chebbles. And no matter how many times I hose her down, she's going to return to her Chebblerific state.

Eddies

I'm mostly "over" my December miscarriage.

The medical bills have finally stopped coming. I can hold babies and stroll blissfully through the infant section of Target. I am no longer panicking every time I get my period, and I don't feel like CRAP all of the time.

In fact, I'm pretty contented right now, with the veggies growing in the garden and my nude toddler leaping into her wading pool, hollering, "Mama too" until I step in with her.

However, sometimes there is an eddy.

Sometimes I get really depressed, unexpectedly and with little provocation. Although it feels severe, these eddies are brief, and I'm released from that crappy feeling within a few hours of its descension.

The other day, I was overwhelmed with an extreme feeling of inadequacy. I am not good enough -- not a good enough friend, wife, mother, housekeeper, writer, you name it -- I suddenly felt like the worst, most troll-like woman, seething and creeping around the shadows of my home.

I had a little mean voice pop up in my head, chiding me about the unfolded laundry, about my forgetting to buy the plastic plates at Old Navy, and thought, "I don't DESERVE to have friends, I'm just so shitty at everything."

By sundown, it lifted. I felt better. But I was scared by it. I thought I'd kicked the worst of the bad feelings.

But sometimes, there is an eddy.

Redbook is cool

"Good Housekeeping" has always been my favorite wifey-mag. Although they eliminated the marvelous "novel" section (does anyone else remember the one with the man who contracted AIDS from a glass shard? Good stuff...), GH has the best recipes and advice columns.

But now I'm prepared to throw aside my fifteen years of GH loyalty in favor of the marvelous REDBOOK. Why? Because they made a terrific decision to post a blog featuring
Julia's infertility story.

Julia is a marvelous writer, and she has eight more days of waiting before she gets the blood test back with the results of her IVF cycle.

REDBOOK, you rock! This is the first time someone has honestly covered the finer points of frustrated childbearing in the wifey-mag forum.

So if you have a moment to immerse yourself in a well-told and highly suspenseful tale, I recommend scooting straight over to REDBOOK, casting a pithy glance in the direction of Good Housekeeping along the way, and read Julia's well-told and ongoing tale.

Oh please no

We all know how much I want to be pregnant.

Except, heh, this month.

Sure, we tried to get pregnant, aided by the now-repaired and seemingly functional OV-Watch.

But can I meekly proffer that a pregnancy this month would be highly inconvenient for me?

I don't want to be pregnant in Paris, for cripe's sake! I spent weeks tracking down the perfect rental apartment for us in the Marais district close to the Picasso Museum. Plus, we're planning to stop in Portland on the way back, to hike and play with our Washington State Cousins. This trip contains so many potential thrills, and so much train-riding excitement -- I don't want to have it RUINED by a BABY.

Perhaps I'm still bitter from our December trip to Hawaii, for which I really want my money back. Six weeks pregnant at the time, I spent the majority of that trip barfing on the condo sofa, unable to hear the waves crashing or see the sunset due to my crippling nausea. Even the word "Kauai" makes bile come to my throat now.

And, if you'll permit me a further descent into bitterness: IT WASN'T EVEN WORTH IT. I stayed off my feet, choked down vitamins and took progesterone religiously, and I STILL MISCARRIED. I have no baby to show for my ruined vacation.

So, basically, it would be a lot more fun to GET pregnant in Paris than to BE pregnant in Paris -- the land of wine, listeria-laden soft cheeses, and 1,000 stairs of the Metro.

Ergo, unique to this month, I am wishing that our efforts didn't come together. PLUS, if we were unsuccessful in conceiving this month, Dr. W., my daring RE, will be amenable to dousing me with Clomid, or even hooking me up with an IUI cycle, upon our return.

And, to me, an IUI cycle sounds like heaven on earth. Perverse, but true. It sounds almost as great as a glass of wine with my husband, late at night in the glow of the Eiffel Tower, yes?

What in the world do I do about preschool?

I have The Chebs signed up to start a Montessori preschool on July 5, but I'm starting to re-think the whole thing. Most kids don't start preschool until they're three, right? She'll be just 22 months in July, and I wonder if I could do better by her by taking her on adventures all summer long instead of cramming her into a classroom this early?

I think my emotions are very much in the way of my making any kind of rational decision.

I spoke with a preschool director the other day about Chebbles. I had the balls to put forward my assertion that Chebbles is "gifted." The director treated my "gifted" presumption with the skepticism she's earned from hundreds of parents insisting to her that "no, no, MY kid is definitely gifted" over the years. So I started blathering to the poor woman that *I* was gifted in school, and Hub-D is "even more gifted than I am," blah blah. I'm sure she was delighted with my hysterical recitation of IQ scores. Jeesh. Anyway.

She asked me a few questions about Chebbles. Does she like interacting with other kids?

"Uh, just a little. But she mostly just likes moving dirt around the backyard for hours at a time, and she does NOT like to be interrupted." (That's a symptom of giftedness, YES, huh? Yes?)

Ultimately, she said that kids tend to do better starting no earlier than age three -- they might get burned out on preschool if they start too early. And IF Chebbles is indeed gifted, I would do better giving her one-on-one instruction, and/or hiring someone skilled to build on her talents, rather than having her conform to any kind of classroom setting at the point.

But the other kids seem to have such fun at preschool! And the preschool is near Target, where I imagine I would just troll the aisles looking for interesting craft projects ALL BY MYSELF for hours at a time (see: dirt-moving giftedness, maternal influence). And my friends send their happy, well-adjusted children to this preschool, so I would also be able to socialize with THEM as part of our preschool experience.

THEN AGAIN, once Chebbles' academic career starts, it will go on for decades, until she graduates the International Academy of Jewelry and Dirt Management. She and I are NOT ready to start this endless schooling now. Even though she's growing like a weed and hopelessly sophistocated in many pursuits, she's still my baby -- and I feel that babies need to be with their mamas if they scrape their knees or want to talk about a dream or have a weeping grievance that is inscrutable to any other human being.

Yeah, OK, this whole thing is probably about my miscarriages. I don't have a baby in the oven right now, nor do I have one in my arms. I have a terrific toddler who demands my whole day of attention, and I'm thrilled and exhausted at the same time. I signed her up for this preschool when I was pregnant, and now that the situation has changed, it seems that *I* am not ready for this step.

Because motherhood is really about me, right? And what I want? Because heck, I'm gifted.

Pixieland opens for the summer, The Chebs is on hand

Despite a morning of driving rain, we arrived at Pixieland just as it opened. The rides were all unridden, and the cotton candy was just being blown into massive clouds.

We made a dash for the Merry-Go-Round, and the attendant gamely let us have the first ride -- all to ourselves!

Chebbles chose her horse with careful deliberation. "Star," the black beauty, was the lucky steed this time around.

After The Chebs was unstrapped from "Star," we strolled over to Melissa, the face painting balloon lady. Chebbles had never had her face painted before, but after watching big girls enjoy the rite at the Farmer's Market on Sunday, she was ready. She stood stock still and answered the face painter's questions very quietly and earnestly.

"Would you like a flower?"
"OK... yes please."
"What is your favorite color?"
"Pink."
"OK, put your hands down by your sides," the face painter said.

Chebbles threw her arms down to her sides with military precision, seeming to sense that her full cooperation would lead to a PINK FLOWER (with glitter) on her cheek and her hand.

Although it was freezing outside after the rain, and I only condoned an hour of Pixie-mania, it was a marvelous morning. We even enjoyed when the little antique car ride broke down, twirling the steering wheels and posing for Mama's camera.

What we're watching this morning

The Chebs' fascination with Spiderman is insatiable!

I first started showing her the trailer for "Spiderman 3" which was a mistake -- way too scary for a 20-month-old child, despite my own interest in the content.

So I found THIS video, which we've watched approximately 100 times already this morning.

I adored this show when I was little, and it brings back cozy early morning memories of my own.

"Is he strong? Listen BUD! He's got radioactive blood!"

Of course now I found a typo in the classic opening... the first time that Spiderman sees the "Jewelry Store" it's spelled "Jewlery" store. How could I have missed that all these years?

Garden of Hope Sprouts Septuplets

Last year I experimented with our garden plot. Having never planted a garden before, I threw a bunch of sunflower seeds into the dirt and they actually grew.

This year, I went a little nuts with the garden. I read in my "Feeding the Whole Family" book that the American Indians planted what they called the "Three Sisters," which was corn, squash, and beans together. The theory of the planting is that the beans grow up the corn and provide extra nitrogen while the squash leaves shade the roots. This is also supposed to be a nutritional boon, these three plants eaten together.

So last week I enlisted Chebbles as my gardening apprentice and we took to the garden plot. We tilled the soil together (I with a shovel, she with her bare hands), incorporated some planting mix, made some slovenly "rows," and chucked a bunch of corn, beans, and pumpkin seeds in there. In the middle, we stuck a few tomato, cucumber and zucchini seedlings, in order to guarantee some form of success with the operation.

Chebbles loved the project, as it involved burying things in the dirt and getting muddy with Mama. There was some momentary confusion on her part, after the planting was done, when I told her we could no longer tromp around in the soil because the "baby plants were growing under the soil." But, sensing how pissed I'd be if she re-entered the plot, she abandoned the pursuit and reassumed her position messing with Hub-D's bicycle pump and covering the backyard sidewalk with chalk doodles.

Each morning, we faithfully water the garden from our neighborhood irrigation canal. It goes something like this:

Mama: Time to water the garden, Chebs.
Chebs: I help.
Mama: Right on, you man the lower part of the hose and tell me where to water.
Chebs: (grabs hose) Right there, Mama. RIGHT THERE.
(Mama zones out, thinking about what a hippie she is now...)
Mama: AAAAH! Chebs, do NOT drink the canal water! YUCK.
Chebs: (gulp) OK. (places hands in front of spray, redirects it on Chebs and Mama)
Mama: No, AAAH! This water is from the CANAL! It is filled with DUCK POOP and bacteria, it is not for touching or drinking.
Chebs: TEEERia!
Mama: That's right, now everyone go inside, wash off and change.

To our mutual delight (mostly mine, as Chebbles is primarily interested in WHEN she might be able to re-enter the garden), the garden has sprouted, with dozens of corn sprouts, beans sprouts, and maybe pumpkin sprouts, plus hundreds of unidentified weeds.

Although many of the sprouts are crowding one another, I can't bear to perform any kind of "selective reduction" on the garden. I know it will suffer for that. But when you're in my current reproductive state, you just don't screw with life. Call me the horticultural Bobbi McCaughey, but I'm just going to let the sprouts do what they will for now.

See ya

Chebbles and I have some marvelous friends who live in The Presidio in San Francisco.

They have invited us to come play in the creek behind their home, which boasts an inordinate number of bird species, rocks, mud, and other Chebbles-centric fare.

So as soon as Chebbles wakes up from her afternoon nap, we're skedaddling straight into the city to enjoy the sunny weather and avian fantasyland with our pals.

Except... Mama has no idea how we're going to get home.

If you haven't heard, there is no good way to get back to the East Bay, due to a speeding fuel truck having melted the relevant freeway.

This is highly inconvenient for Chebbles! There are rocks to be moved, and laughs to be had, and the only way to transport ourselves to the far reaches of the Presidio is by vehicle.

So yeah, see ya. We may never return home again. Our back-up plan, if we're stopped from jumping over the freeway hole Hazzard-style, is to live under the freeway in our car.

It will have been worth it! Presidio or bust!