Music

We've come to a point, Chebbles and I, where we need more music. We listen to our Music Together CD ad nauseum, and it's time to expand our musical horizons.

Part of my problem is that I don't listen to popular music anymore. I'd be happy to expose her to current adult music, but I just don't know any, as I've been isolated from "popular society."

All I know are the tunes from my 20's, which seem kind of depressing as we listen to them now. Man, that Sting was down in the dumps! Most of The Police songs are about unrequited obsession and resultant suicidal thoughts -- and although it might FEEL tragic when Mama insists on combing Chebbles' hair even though it HURTS and she already said, "No" -- I don't really want her following Sting's morose lines of thought.

See, she's already singing "I'll Be Watching You," which is just creepy coming from her rosebud lips.

So I think I'm going to listen to children's music for the next several years of my life. It's easier than trying to keep up with actual "hipsters" or plumbing through my music collection for upbeat tunes (So long, Sarah McLaughlin).

If you can think of any kid-friendly recommendations, please let me know!

These are some that my friends have collected as of late:


* "Sing-A-Longs and Lullabies for the Film Curious George." Everyone raves about this album by Jack Johnson.

* They Must be Giants: "No" and "Bed, Bed, Bed." Also, Chebbles and I have been listening to their song, "Why Does the Sun Shine?" since she was tiny. The lyrics are from a 1959 record called "Space Songs" and it describes in detail the anatomy of the sun.

* Dan Zanes "Wonderwheel," "House Party," and "Catch that Train" (I've already discussed how I want to throw my nursing bra on Dan Zane's stage.)

* Jonathan Richmond (Apparently, he's an adult singer, but silly enough for kids)

* Peter, Paul and Mary (We had "Peter, Paul and Mommy" growing up)

* Charlotte Diamond seems well-loved and well-reviewed

* I've recently discovered Elizabeth Mitchell's "You are My Sunshine" album. I could listen to the first song on that album every day of my life.

* "Baby Loves Jazz." These are cool versions of old songs you know (If you’re happy and you know it, ABC, etc).

* "De Colores and Other Latin American Folk Songs." These are in Spanish, by Jose Luis Orozco.

* "A Duck in New York City," funny songs by Connie Kaldor, based on a book about a Broadway-bound duck.

* "For The Kids," various artists (Cake, Barenaked Ladies, Sarah McLachlan, Remy Zero, Tom Waits)


So what else? I mean, until Sting releases his upbeat children's tunes ("I'll Be Watching You" -- the remix about a nice nanny?), I'm at a loss.

Finite amount of love

"Oh look at that Otto," I said to Chebbles as we played with bubbles on the front porch.

Our cat was sitting underneath the Madrone tree, stretched out majestically, black and white in the dappled shade.

"I love him, don't you?" I asked Chebbles.

This really pissed her off.

"NO, Mama!"

"You don't love Otto?" I asked casually, as I've become accustomed to unusual statements coming from the direction of toddlers.

"No, YOU don't love Otto," she said.

"Oh, but I do! Look at him!"

"Mama, NO. Don't love Otto. I'm... NOT... sharing."

"You don't want to share Mama's love?"

"Not share Mama with Otto. Not share Mama with Z (her playmate). I don't share Mama."

I see. So it seems I've been added to the short list of things that she absolutely will not share. In her mind, just like cookies, crackers, and popsicles, a Mama's love is a finite thing. And she has laid claim to the whole article.

To test this new principle, I asked Chebbles if Daddy could love Otto.

"No, Daddy NOT love Otto."

So sorry, folks and felines everywhere, we're spoken for.

Three Men in a Tub

"You want boats in your bath?"

"No."

"I think the boats are cool. Let's just put them in."

"No."

I dump a bunch of boats in the bathwater with Chebbles. She plays with them listlessly. She fills one boat with bathwater and sips from it delicately.

And I start thinking, "I don't think she likes the boats."

"Well, what kind of things does she like? What should I look for in a bath toy for this child?"

And that's when I remember it: The Fisher-Price "Three Men in a Tub," possibly the baddest-ass bath toy ever invented.

See, Chebbles wants people for her bath, just like I did when I was little. And when my sister and I were growing up in the 1970's, those people were the Butcher, the Baker, and the Candlestick Maker.

Vaguely scary in their work get-ups, betraying little emotion regarding their plight, the Three Men in a Tub bobbed around in our childhood bathtub for years on end. I think one of the men went missing at some juncture, leading to an unsatisfying TWO men rattling around their plastic tub.

Despite this, in our busy bathtub, The Three Men always had some misadventure going on. Plus there was a BELL at the top of their tub that made a satisfying little "ding."

Apparently Fisher-Price stopped making the Three Men in a Tub bath toy back in 1985. How could it have gone out of vogue? Was it deemed sexist?

I plumbed around on eBay for an old Three Men in a Tub set -- I figured I wouldn't be picky -- maybe the paint would be chipped or it would be some knock-off -- as long as my daughter got to hang out with those rad dudes, I would be happy.

But I must not be the only one gripped with bathtime nostalgia, because these sets are going for a tidy sum -- and the only two sets I could find were tragically flawed. One was missing the BELL (unacceptable), and one had neither the Butcher, the Baker, nor the Candlestick Maker, but was just a tub with a couple of Playskool characters dressed in drag.

So of course I bid on them both -- between these two flawed sets, there is a complete toy to be had. I have dimming hope of possessing these sets -- the competition seems fierce, and I can't see spending a lot of money making this particular dream come true.

In the meantime, howsabout some boats?

So long, and thanks for all the bug bites!

We flew back from Mississippi this morning, and the trip was a success all around.

The purpose for our trip, Hub-D's grandmother's memorial service, was of course solemn. But it was a fascinating place, and Chebbles traveled like a champ, sleeping in strange rooms in unfamiliar Pack-n-Plays and greeting strangers with all of the southern hospitality she could muster.

On the trip, by the way, she began to inflate her age. The nice people of Mississippi would bend down and ask her how old she was. First she said "three," then she heard another little girl say "five," and so she stuck with "five" for awhile. We started asking her constantly, "How old are you Chebbles?" just to gauge the current extent of untruths. But when I plied her this morning on the way to the airport, she just said, "No, NO, Mama." I guess she was sick of the game. (Data point: She is 21 months old.)

We also explored the Memphis Zoo, which contains REAL PANDAS. Hoooo boy, we were excited to introduce Chebbles to a real live panda, seeing as she has nurtured a life-long fascination with the creatures.

The panda exhibit did not disappoint. Both of the pandas were gnawing on bamboo, right near the glass where we could interact with them. Chebbles was taken aback at first, but gradually warmed to their presence. She found a stick of bamboo lying outside their enclosure, leaned against the glass and gnawed on it in unison with her panda pals. I wondered briefly about the origins of this little stick of bamboo that was now firmly in my child's mouth... was there panda saliva on it? Panda poo? And how many other toddlers had pulled the same photo-op that day? But as it usually the case, she was having a good time so I just let her do it.

The other thing she loved about that area were the guitars. As soon as we arrived in the Memphis airport, she was drawn to all of the pictures of the guitars, and the encased guitars and the guitar songs playing everywhere. The child loves guitars. Before the memorial service, a few cousins were practicing guitar, so I roused Chebbles from her nap and brought her out to the living room, where she was regaled with "Twinkle Twinkle" and the "ABC" song. Then she plucked at a guitar by herself for awhile, strumming a few tunes of her own invention while Hub-D held the strings, playing different notes.

So we made it through the trip, but I have one question for you, particularly those of you who have outed yourselves as native Deep-Southeners...

What in the world bit Chebbles all over her body? My theory is that a little bug of some description snuck into the hem of her PJ's and chewed on her all night long (or maybe it's something she caught from the bamboo...). But she was covered with miniscule and randomly placed bites all over her torso the next morning. My first thought was, "Oh Christ, it's chiggers!" (Having fallen victim to my own rather gruesome chigger attack in Texas three years ago...)

The swelling went down within a few hours, and she didn't seem to be bothered by the mysterious bites. But I'm left to wonder... a rare Chinese bamboo-ridden parasite? Or something that happens all the time to babies of the South?

But anyway, we're back, and glad to be here. Fewer pandas, but now we've got a chigger-free crib.

Mississippi Bound

I don't know what's wrong with me, but I have it in my head that everyone lives on plantations in Mississippi.

We're going there tomorrow for Hub-D's grandmother's memorial service, flying into Memphis and driving straight down into northern Mississippi.

And I have it in my mind that everyone will be drinking sweet tea or mint juleps on gracious verandas, sitting in rocking chairs and mopping their brows with embroidered handkerchiefs.

We're going to visit some of Hub-D's family while we're there, and as I envision this process, I imagine us pulling up these long drives lined with weeping willows. And there should be servants, then, yes? They would be opening the doors for us and calling our daughter "Miss Chebbles."

I'm just now reconciling myself with the fact that people are probably normal in Mississippi, and it will be like California, except with a lot more humidity and slightly worse school systems.

We'll see.

Auf Wiedersehen, Television

We're getting rid of our television. The whole thing is going out the door. We may replace it with an aquarium someday, but I am so grateful to be rid of it.

Some people are normal TV watchers. They can get interested in something, they tune in and enjoy that, then they turn the TV off and go about their daily lives.

I am not one of those people. Once I get into a program, or into a genre of television programming, I start revolving my life around it. I'll think, "OK, I'll put Chebbles to bed a half-hour early because I want to watch 'The Sopranos!'"

Or, for example, if a friend should call when I'm catching up on "Medium," I'll snarl at the phone, roll my eyes, and pause the show while they leave a message.

TiVo kind of helped me. I was no longer beholden to watching shows at a certain time of the day. But then again, I could watch infinite programs -- all of the "Medium"'s in a row or the entire "Monk" marathon without commercial breaks. "Just one more," I'd croak after midnight, even though I have a 6am wake-up call with The Chebs.

Both Hub-D and I are unhappy with how much TV watched as kids. We still recall the line-ups of the Pittsburgh television stations. I watched tons of "Land Before Time," "Speed Racer," "Three's Company" and my babysitters' favorite... "Guiding Light."

Oh yeah, I watched so much "Guiding Light." I was there when Fletcher and Maureen Bauer had their affair in Beirut. I was there when Lujack romanced the blind Beth by mutely playing the piano. That's how long "Guiding Light" has been in my life.

What else could I have done with that time? I could have found actual guiding lights within reading or friendships or after school activities, but instead I would sit religiously before "Guiding Light" and speculate whether Josh was ever going to forgive that Reva, and if he would ever step out of that wheelchair.

There were two reasons that brought us to the final decision to get rid of our television at this time:

Chebbles LOVES the TV. She gets hypnotized in precisely the same manner that we do. She'll be happily running around the house, then she'll find the television on -- and she'll stop dead and watch, mouth agape.

Plus, what the heck is on TV anymore? Now that Tony Soprano is dead, we can't find any compelling programming. It's boring, predictable and deadening. Especially now that I've seen all of the first season of "Super Sweet Sixteen."

When I called to cancel DirecTV today, the woman tried her darndest to get me to keep our service. I told her, "We have a toddler, so we don't want a TV in the house anymore."

She was stunned, "Just for the summer, you mean?"

"No, forever. We are getting rid of our television completely."

"But I could sign you up for our Family Plan for $29.95 a month, and you'd get all of the great children's programming."

"What great children's programming?," I thought to myself. Look at those two words together:

"Children" and "Programming"

I don't want Chebbles to be programmed by anything coming out of a television. I don't even want to send her to school -- her mind is so pure and open, she has no guile and creates massive games throughout the backyard involving washcloths, the broken stroller and a dessicated zucchini.

So July 10 is our last day of TV in our household. After that, DirecTV shuts down and we send our television down to live with Grandpa, who can't wait for some HDTV action!

Mama, take me back to Gymboree

Chebbles has seen a lot of the world in the last year. She's ridden Parisian merry-go-rounds. She's relished massive bounce houses. She has fallen in love with the Oakland Airport.

She has dug massive holes in our backyard, decorated our entire yard with chalk, created the Eiffel tower from topsoil and had more interesting bugs on her skin than you can shake a stick at. Oh, and she has shaken sticks.

But for some reason, nothing quite compares to the glory of Gymboree. We all know I have my objections to Gymboree. When I discovered it last year, I found it to be too clean, too corporate. The teachers are hit-and-miss. Now they've started charging $15 for kids to come to their open gym times, and their songs' repurposed lyrics still give me the creeps.

But she loves it! And she talks about it constantly. She forced Aunt E. to dream up dozens of new verses to the "Gymbo the Clown Goes Up and Down" song, and she reminisces about one short Gymboree visit for weeks. Today, our local Gymboree had little stuffed animals dangling from the holes in the play equipment and she just about lost her mind.

So it looks like we're heading back to Gymboree. Last year I let our membership lapse because she was getting bored during the Level III classes. Even Teacher Julie agreed that Chebbles was DONE with Gymboree.

But recently we've joined them for some Open Gym time, and I'll be darned if Chebbles doesn't have a whole new take on the place. It may even rival the Oakland Airport.

So I'm swallowing all of my objections and we're going to a Preview Class next week. It's $200 for a 12-week session, but that includes all the Open Gym time we want, and Chebbles wasn't nearly done with her conversation with the dangling animals.

Pop went my Jetta

It's possible you didn't know that a 1997 Jetta can POP like a Jiffy Pop.

In 1998, I moved to The City of San Francisco, bringing my almost-new 1997 black Jetta with me. Why had I bought this car? It had been impractical in the Boston snow when I bought it, but I thought it looked "sporty" and it came with a bike.

So I pulled into SF, and I promptly learned that a car in San Francisco is much more of a liability than an asset.

Oh, the tickets you can garner! I was in a constant state of moving my car from one block to another early in the morning every day, and by 1999, parking spots in San Francisco were as rare as a job that didn't pay you in stock options.

So instead, I left my car at my company's paid lot in a sunny spot South of Market and started taking the bus. Sure, it got broken into a few times, but it was better than the headache of trying to park it within the vicinity of my apartment. And I wasn't ready to shed the "sport"-mobile just yet.

About a month passed since I parked the car. So I ambled over to check on it. It had been a sunny month, and the beams had been shooting through the sunroof into the black upholstery, reflecting from the sporty black exterior and back into the windshield for a month.

The Jetta, I should mention, is also a nicely well-sealed vehicle. What it lacks in reliability, it makes up for in sheer Tupperware-like capabilities.

The car had popped. The dark glass sunroof had buckled outward and popped, spraying glass within the interior of the vehicle as well as into the parking lot. It had apparently gathered heat throughout that long month, and popped precisely like a Jiffy Pop over a campfire. Except instead of toasty popcorn, I was treated instead to a cascade of glass bits, and the snorts of the State Farm claims agent.

"We've never heard of a car 'popping' before," he said. "Are you sure it wasn't broken into?"

"I'm positive. The car expanded from the heat within it, and the sunroof was the weakest element, so it popped straight out of its sunroof."

I fixed the car, and sold it shortly thereafter, cautioning the buyer (a young woman clearly entering a sporty phase of her life) to crack the windows in the sun, for the love of Pete.

Can you see him?

I was sitting at our kitchen table, finishing a snack while Chebbles played in her bedroom. I glanced up from the table for just a moment when I saw him.

It was a boy of about six years old, asleep on our living room sofa. His body was curled away from me, and his face was obscured by a throw pillow, but he was wearing shorts and a shirt, and he had short, straight dark blonde hair.

For an instant, it seemed perfectly natural.

Then I realized I don't have a son, let alone a six-year-old. And there was no boy on my sofa.

Nevertheless I was buoyed by this vision. He was there, just for a moment, like a flicker -- from the future?

And I realized that, if not this cycle, there will be another. And if not that cycle, there will be yet another. And if hope fades in one arena, our light will shine on another.

He was there, my friends.

.

I'm sorry but this is bullshit.

It's now been a year since my first miscarriage, a time when everyone in the world said, "Just watch, you'll be pregnant within a few months and you'll still have a baby in a year!"

Then I was pregnant six months later, then not pregnant two months after that.

So here I am in the heat of the day, minding my own business and getting my period. Part of the bullshit part of it is that it's Day 30 of my cycle. I hate it when my cycle toys with me like that. I was excited, despite every rational thought I could muster up. I started thinking about how I would wait to take a test until I was on Day 32, when it would just definitely be positive, then I could surprise Hub-D with the positive result on Father's Day! Woo-hoo.

But that was not to be. How could I not be pregnant? It defies all logic!

My RE, Dr. W., felt confident I would be pregnant soon, based on the great looks of my ovaries, excellent blood test results and uterine clean slate. And everyone in the WORLD had predicted I'd have a baby by now.

I'm not mad at everyone in the world, partially because I was among them in their prediction. Nor do I want to buy tickets to the Bitter Train, where infertile couples sometimes ride off into the sunset, kvetching about all the crappy advice and useless medicine they were offered. No, I don't wish to resent others' pregnancies or their well-meaning advice.

But that doesn't mean I'm not still MAD. It's still bullshit, even if there is no one to blame.

I'm glad we have an appointment with Dr. W. on Tuesday, where I can demand we go pedal to the metal with any kind of intervention she can dream up, because I do not plan to dwell here for time immemorial. No, I want a ticket out of this Period Land, just not on the Bitter Train.

There's still a baby in this process for us, isn't there?

Rocking out

"That was such a great concert. I need to rock out like that every so often."

Thus spake the woman walking behind E. and me as we left The Police concert. I couldn't have said it better myself.

The Police played some predictable tunes, all tarted up with special effects and guitar solos, but then they also trotted out some songs I hadn't thought about since I graduated high school -- songs so glorious, that they should only be played at top volume while screaming the words. "So Lonely," was the best example of that.

I didn't know I still had all those lyrics memorized, and I didn't care that we were the only ones standing in our section, because the rocking out was mandatory. My sister and I lost our minds at that concert -- jumping and dancing around, hollering and swirling our hair around while the McAfee Coliseum lit up with big images of Sting, Stuart and Andy.

The place was completely sold out, and we were caught in throngs of humanity as we attempted to buy merchandise ($95 dollars got us a sweatshirt and a T-shirt), use the bathroom, and buy beers. But everyone looked just like us, excited people in their 30's and 40's, witnessing the miracle reunion of our beloved Police!

Heading to The Police

What does one wear to The Police concert? And how much do you want to bet that the majority of concert-goers will be wearing vintage Police T-shirts? I used to have a Sting concert T-shirt, but I wore it to tatters, before it was cool to wear T-shirts to tatters.

Chebbles is playing an an improvised Slip-n-Slide with Aunt E. in the backyard. It seems a shame to leave this idyllic scene and traipse across town and pay big bucks for a concert, when we're pretty happy sitting right here.

But that's lame-O talk. It's time for Mama to go out and get her Message in a Bottle.


PS: Other things I will do when I get my period include using Retin-A and insisting to my RE that we employ PGD for our next cycle. Better living through chemistry, I say.

This month's plan

I'm frustrated that we're not pregnant yet. And this month looks to be another bust.

So this what I will do once I get my period...

* I will call the preschool where Chebbles is enrolled to begin next month and officially relinquish her hard-won spot there. Instead, I'm going to keep her home with me until she turns three, or until I'm too infirm to care for her. While I'm hale and unpregnant, I can MOM all I want!

* I will create a little portfolio of Chebbles photos and send it in to our local, legitimate modeling agency. Go ahead, make fun of me. But I'm just too intrigued by the whole process, and by the $125/hour she could accumulate in her college fund. Apparently the catalog shoots are fun for the kids. Of course if I discover this is not the case, then we won't do it.

* I will make my office into a working paradise. You just watch me. These empty boxes and accumulations of trash will be history. This room will be the envy of Virginia Woolf.

* I will cook things that grow in my garden, using timely recipes I discovered in this month's Good Housekeeping. I will nourish my family in a startlingly organic and close-to-the-earth manner. I will be the envy of Barbara Kingsolver.

* Finally, I think I'll set up a tent in our backyard.

Garden of Growth

Last year I planted sunflowers. I needed something fast and glorious to bloom with all due expediency, taller than my sadness, brighter too.

And they did, they shot up out of the soil and treated us to flowers through the fall.

But this year I needed something better. I needed something I could count on to feed our child, something I could learn from. So Chebbles and I squatted in the soil, dug little holes and dropped in seeds. Corn, pumpkin, cucumber, tomato, zucchini, beans.

And like last year, I tended them with my leftover maternal energy. I had bigger sadness this year, I needed this garden to to work out.

And it worked. With a combination of dumb luck, bat guano and the ministrations of our housesitter during our absence, we have a meaningful garden in our backyard.

I am astounded by how much I've learned since my miscarriage in December. I've become close to people I did not know or appreciate before. I've learned that it's possible to survive something so terrible. And I planted a garden that grew like gangbusters. And wouldn't you know it, some sunflowers came back too.

Now, who's up for some zucchini?

The Police

Don't be jealous, but I have tickets to go see The Police reunion concert on Wednesday night. My sister has flown in from Boston to join me at this epic event.

We're excited because our tickets are just far enough away from the stage to allow us to fantasize that it is still the 1980's, but we're far more self-assured and attractive than we were then. AND if we had indeed time travelled back to the 1980's, then we would be the same age as Sting.

We're pretty sure that Sting isn't going to be able to resist us, and will probably invite us backstage, where we will inform him regretfully that we are now married, so the affair(s) that he would suggest to us would simply not be a possibility. We would all be a little sad about that, but then the conversation would turn to yoga and travel and he'd get out a battered guitar and sing an acoustic version of "Tea in the Sahara" to us, emphasizing the "sisters and I" line, and we'd swoon.

He'd offer us some interesting organic English beverage and he'd proffer his theories about "The Sopranos" finale, and before we knew it, it would be time to return home, and he has to travel to his next gig in LA. And Stewart Copeland would knock on the door discreetly and say they had to get moving, so Sting would hug us really hard to his chest.

"Don't cry, Gordon," we would say (because he would have asked us to call him by his real name by then). "Because you were really great tonight, and we'll always love you. You can send us a 'message in a bottle' anytime, dear friend."

Reassured, he'd wipe his tears with a bamboo fabric hankie, place his guitar back in its case, and steel himself for our final departure from the Macafee Coliseum.

"Eiffel Tower!"

The one thing that really stuck in Chebbles' mind about Paris was the Eiffel Tower.

Not unlike Richard Dreyfuss's character in "Close Encounters of the Third Kind," who kept making drawings and sculptures of Devil's Tower, where the aliens were due to land -- The Chebs continues to draw and sculpt the Eiffel Tower. She crafted one model out of potting soil, and yesterday she forced her babysitter to draw it over and over again on the back porch with chalk. Let's hope it rains sometime soon, or we're going to be adrift in mini towers for the rest of the summer.

The Bee Show

This morning, I was casting about for something to do with my daughter.

I'd been up since 4:45am (thanks, Paris) and she was up an hour later. There aren't many activities available to one at that hour, particularly when one is trying to be somewhat quiet as to allow a husband to continue sleeping.

It was then I noticed that, just as the sun shone on each plant on our yard, the bees would arrive with it. The shaded plants held little appeal, but the ones illuminated by the sun became instantly popular with the bee population.

So Chebbles and I sat in front of a freshly lit lavender bush and watched what we called, "The Bee Show." She sat down on the sidewalk next to me and repeated, "Bee Show!" There were always three or four bees close to us, providing a great deal of entertainment.

I was glad I hadn't succumbed to my earlier temptation to turn on the television instead.

I told Chebbles that the bees were taking a drink from the lavender blossoms. "Sippy cups," she said, indicating the tiny dark purple flutes.

"Yep, they're sippy cups."

And I thought about my life, and how peaceful it really is. This child is so observant, so bright and cooperative. She just acquiesced to a trip through Europe, and now, she readily tuned into "The Bee Show." We watched a bee get stuck in a spider web cleverly embedded in the plant.

The spider came dashing out of its hideaway and tried to take the bee captive, but the bee just kicked it away with its strong hind legs, found its footing on a leaf, and methodically cleaned its thorax of the little bits of web it had collected.

It drank from a few more lavender sippy cups and flew away.

Class

What do you do when you're attending a wedding in a foreign country, and you discover that you are tragically underdressed? Then, despite your unworthiness, you are served a many-course dinner in a giant mansion from the times of Louis the Fourteenth?

And you are surrounded by people in tuxedos and sparkling ball gowns, and there you are in your shapeless "summer frock" that would have been perfectly appropriate for most America weddings, but at this event, you might have been better showing up naked.

You're already feeling out-of-shape and out-of-place, and many of the other attendees are shunning you, because who wants to be seen with the couple who showed up in a dark suit and a summer FROCK, for God's sake?

To top off the meal, you are served an exquisite plate of lavender-flavored ice cream, a strawberry "whip" of some description (although even using the word "whip" here underscores the classlessness), a kumquat and pot of creamy stuff, even though, I must repeat, you DO NOT deserve it...

What does one do in this situation?

Whip out the camera, people! And start snapping some flash photography of the FOOD.

Note: the empty chair next to Hub-D, of the fellow wedding attendee who couldn't stand it anymore.

Plums

Our neighbor's tree, which conveniently leans into our yard, is now dripping with almost-ripe plums. They are way too sour for my taste right now, but The Chebs thinks they are just right.

You love the cockpit

Hey Chebs, don't you LOVE being in the cockpit?

This is one of those cases where a parent (specifically, me), brutally uses their child in order to do something that THEY have always wanted to do.

When we boarded the plane to Paris, the pilots greeted Chebbles and asked her if she'd like to sit in the pilot's seat and see the cockpit.

"OH YEAH!!!" I said, although Chebs had zero interest in the excursion, and was freaked out by the sheer volume of knobs and lights and buttons. She was ready to get the hell out of the cockpit within about three seconds of entering it.

BUT NO. Mama wanted to take a picture. Stand still and look happy, because you love the cockpit, child. Trust me, you love the cockpit.

Homeward bound

La Cheb is taking her last Washington State Nap, as we're off for the airport when she wakes.

Home is so close now, after these weeks of travel -- living in the echo chamber, drinking bottles of French and German wines, dealing with sleeplessness, darting through thunderstorms, eating a dozen different pastries, reading a mystery novel set in our Parisian neighborhood (Murder in the Marais), riding a "Batoboat" with my husband down the Seine, watching the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame skid by, while fantasizing about how appalled the French would be if we started a Jet-Ski rental company on the banks of the Seine.

Chebbles was a hero throughout our trip, gamely accepting our moves to new sleeping quarters and new countries. Luckily, her great love of processed meat was well appeased throughout our travels, but I'm looking forward to pumping her full of fresh fruits and vegetables in the safety of our own home again (Fewer pommes frites, more pommes du Gala).

Hub-D is already at the house, having flown home yesterday, and reports that Otto has gained so much weight in our absence that his collar is now completely obscured by a fat roll. He's an emotional eater, what can I say? Miss J., our lovely baby- and housesitter, gave him as many cuddles as she could, but he clearly suffered from a miniature broken heart while we were away. Or maybe he was frustrated with the anxiety of not knowing how "The Sopranos" ended -- he doesn't have the manual dexterity to operate the TiVo, and all of the neighbor cats probably knew the ending and taunted him with it.

So we're packing up the few things that Hub-D didn't already take home, and heading to PDX for the hour-long flight home. I can't wait, but it really will be a spell broken.

Where will we go next?

Reentry shock

But I don't want to go home and have all those responsibilities again! The Chebs and Hub-D and I are in a spell of our vacation, having landed so comfortably in the lap of our Washington Cousins. If I walk back in the door of our house, I'll have too many things to think about -- I won't be able to just play with The Chebs without the phone ringing or the doorbell or some other responsibility cropping up.

Oh goodness, and I'll have to COOK again -- I've gotten so used to other people doing it for us.

I have two appointments already made for my return. One is to the dermatologist, because I want to start taking Retin-A again -- Europe was a tragedy for my skin. What was it? I washed my face religiously, but maybe all of the creamy sauces that expanded my waistline also greased up my face. Whatever the reason, I'm insisting on Retin-A once more. Even the term "cystic acne" makes my stomach curdle.

I went off of Retin-A when I was pregnant because that's apparently a drug incompatible with pregnancy and breastfeeding. I stayed off of it because I was pregnant, then breastfeeing, then pregnant again while I was still breastfeeding, then not pregnant, then trying to get pregnant, then pregnant, then not pregnant, then... whatever! The end result is my face is a disaster, and while I'm NOT pregnant for this interminable period of time, I might as well have a good complexion.

I've also made an appointment with the reproductive endocrinologist, because I've waited patiently for four months to get pregnant after my operative hysterscopy, and... nothing. While it's afforded me a chance to go to Europe and eat soft cheese and drink red wines, and to non-nauseatedly root on my friends' pregnancies, I'm tired of waiting.

Over breakfast this morning, our six-year-old cousin asked me, "Remember your miscarriage?"

"Yeah, I do. That was pretty sad," I said.

I wish everyone would just bring it up casually like that from time to time. Seriously, I do. I kind of miss having it as a topic of conversation, and it sits in the back of my mind waiting to be acknowledged sometimes.

OK, my living child is crying from some corner of the house.

Greetings from the Columbia River Gorge

You know how sometimes you sit down at someone else's computer, in someone else's home office, and you realize what a CRAP view you have from your own office?

We're visiting our cousins in southern Washington State this week, having flown from Frankfurt into Portland yesterday, and I am now sitting at a computer station that overlooks the Cascade Mountains and the Columbia River -- a sheer wall of pine trees rises above the water on the Oregon side. It looks like the cover of "Snow Falling on Cedars"... that is my best sleep-deprived way of describing how good this view is.

I ought not complain about sleep deprivation, as The Chebs was a marvel on the trip home. It was a 10 and a half hour flight from Frankfurt and she cried maybe once, for about 5 seconds. She even napped for several hours, then charmed the Lufthansa flight attendants into making her a meal of her very OWN, with German sausages and fruit chunks, with gummi bears and chocolate for dessert. She watched tons of cartoons from the TV station in her seat, and thus allowed me an opportunity to discover just how violent the old Disney cartoons were. I'd say that someone gets bonked on the head an average of once every five seconds. But if it kept Chebbles engaged, and allowed me to watch "Music and Lyrics" while eating my last good German meals, then OK!

I can't write long as I'm heating up some lunch and Hub-D wants the computer, but I'm brimming with things to tell everyone about... particularly the WEDDING, which I screwed up in several ways, and, in short, I SHOULD have brought my Posh Spice outfit.

But I'll have to leave that for another day, as a stew waits downstairs and I have to keep staring at the gorge.

Tomorrow is the big wedding here in Würzburg. I also studied the invitation futher... it is NOT taking place in the castle, as I thought. Instead, it will be at the Käppelle overlooking the town. Not a bad spot, but it's not the "Tom and Katie" affair I had originally anticipated. What am I going to do with my "Posh Spice" costume now?

I also have a word of caution for anyone attending Würzburg's wine festival... the Erdbeerbowle is alcoholic.

Erdbeerbowle is an innocent-looking beverage served in a clear mug with festive little strawberries floating on top. My confusion came from my high school German textbook, "Unsere Freunde" ("Our Friends" -- were all foreign language textbooks this fruity?) In "Unsere Freunde," one character (Hans-Peter) has a party for his sixteenth birthday. His dad makes a big gross Leberkäse (liver cheese) for the occasion, as well as a big Erdbeerbowle. Herr D., our German teacher, neglected to mention that kids were drinking alcohol at Hans-Peter's birthday party.

So I spent all of these years thinking that Erdbeerbowle was something akin to a red Jell-O-ish beverage. And I was excited to see it offered at the wine festival last night.

I haven't been so hung over since COLLEGE. That thing was deadly! As I was gulping it down, I asked some a nice older Bavarian woman sitting at our table if it was alcholic. "Yes!" she repied, "Don't drive anywhere tonight!"

"That's funny," I thought. "Here I am drinking a bunch of wine, and she's warning me about the dessert beverage?"

My head feels like it's in a vice. Even though my ever-loving Hub-D finished off the drink for me, when I started getting woozy, so I didn't even finish the whole thing -- I woke up this morning still drunk. Even the delicate finches in the breakfast room sounded loud and annoying to me.

I think my big mistake was eating the strawberries themselves, which had been soaking up the alcohol since God only knows when... since the days of Hans-Peter's party?

I guess the only good news is that the driving age here in Germany is 18, so there is no chance that the wasted attendees of Hans-Peter's party drove home. Whew.