Wordless Wednesday: Supper, brought to you by the colour 'orange'

Munchkin learns to walk

Well, she did it. She learned how to walk. Just shy of fifteen months old, but boy does she find it funny. Pynchon and I have spent much of the weekend ping-ponging her back and forth between us, increasing the distance from a few steps ... to a few more steps.



She's lurching like a drunken sailor (and laying sloppy kisses on the camera lens, too), but we couldn't be prouder. And we probably couldn't laugh much more.

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You know, right, that she was a total whining, wretched, face-slapping, daddy-hating, mommy-clinging, nap-striking, tantrum pitching ... toddler today right? To make up for the glorious two days previous?

Update from the barnyard: a weekend report

It's the end of the summer. We're trying to have one more summer weekend before school is back in session and Pynchon 's busy season gears up. We've got one day left of our long weekend, but I can tell you that, so far, it's really been a highlight of the whole summer for me.

I wondered last week why Munchkin needed to know the various noises made by sundry barnyard animals: how could I have been so daft as to forget there's a 'farm' in the local giant park? Seriously. There's goats and chickens and pigs and peacocks and llamas and a tortoise and bunnies and deer and a mule. Additionally, train tracks run through the park, and a tourist-service local passenger railway runs through every hour or so. It's baby heaven:


Look! It's a goat! And that red blur is the train. We were bleating and tooting like crazy there for a couple of minutes.

Munchkin and I were on a mother-daughter expedition, leaving Pynchon at home to do the vacuuming and listen to loud rap music. I like getting some time by myself with Ms. Munchkin: our time during the week feels very rushed, and weekends allow me the leisure to just go with her flow, to get to know her again. It's kind of amazing to me how much she changes from Saturday to Saturday, and how it happens when I'm not looking: in the rush of morning, trying to get to work; in the rush of evening, making sure she's fed, cleaned, and put to bed on time; in the hours of daycare, when I can't see her at all. This weekend I learned that she can tweet like a bird; she can walk; she looks around for her audience before pitching a fit; she smiles for the camera, on cue; she shakes her head no, or yes. New.

She has a new game: she has discovered that our kitchen linoleum is slippery, and that if she lies on her belly, she can propel herself backwards at a pretty good clip, using her hands. To wit:


She's just crashed into the heating grate, and is gearing up for a second go at it. I'm laughing a lot lately. She's just so fun.

Anyhow.

So I got up with her at 6 on Saturday morning, letting Pynchon sleep in. We all went out for brunch together later, but I brought her to the park to play, and say 'hi' to the animals. She mutters to herself in the solitude of the carriage, and I delight in her unselfconsciousness, her simple pleasure of making noise, of waving at people, of pointing at squirrels.


Here's something good to know: babies who crawl probably shouldn't wear white socks in their maryjanes through the morning dew:


Can you see the outline of her shoes? Please note her funny crawl technique: right foot flat on ground; pull forward; drag left foot underneath bum; sit on bum; repeat. That's why the left sock is so much filthier than the right.

We are so lucky to live where we do: we walked to the park with the zoo and the train. It also has a lake and a boarwalk, with benches and a gazebo, beautiful shaded picnic areas, and sportsfields. Across the lake, we look through the windows of a beautifully designed research institution that holds public lectures and concerts. We exit the park, onto the edge of uptown, where we buy new socks (natch) and head to Starbucks, where Munchkin eats and outrageously priced fruit salad and poses for the camera.


I can't help but laugh when I look at this. She's looking less like a generic baby, all button nose and big blue eyes and stunned vacant look. This is a face she makes deliberately when the camera comes out; it is her own unique arrangement of her features for the delight of others, her own self-presentation to the world. Goofy and beautiful. Heartbreaking.

It's all happening so fast, this coming to self-hood, growing out of all her summer clothes, making up games on the kitchen floor. Today I cut her bangs: she could hardly see. Running my hands through her hair, I idly made little ponytails, and was shocked to discover how much hair she actually has. Then:


Can you see her little ponytails? We have matching mother-daughter hairdos. I've spent the rest of the day staring at her, crawling around, standing, staggering, with this big-girl hairdo, little face open to the world, exploring. Watching her sit in the grocery cart like a big girl, lobbing food-stuffs into the back of the cart when they are handed to her. She knows what to do.

I like the weekends. I get caught up. I like this post: it's disjointed and full of images. Like my weekend. Random bits of happiness and a little bit of wonder.

Forgetting

Today, after I dropped Munchkin off at daycare, I drove right back home. I staggered up the stairs yanking shut the curtains as I yanked off my skirt, grabbing my earplugs and shuffling over to Pynchon's side of the bed. I have a terrible sinus infection, you see, and all. I. want. to. do. is. sleep. And Pynchon's side has the alarm, which has a nap function to assure I don't sleep longer than two hours. I set it. I crawled in on this not-my-side of the bed and snuggled myself down.

And felt immediately, unbearably sad. You see, I'm forgetting things I thought were etched in my memory forever, acid-burned grooves on the brittle tin surface of my consciousness that are, it seems, rusting over into something softer, less distinct.

Pynchon and I change sides of the bed every six months or so, mostly because he has a tendency to sleep on top of me. On his back. If we change sides, it takes a couple of months for his subconscious to change direction. Since Munchkin's been born, we've changed spots a couple of times, and the first night that I sleep on the 'wrong' side I'm struck hard by a sense memory of my last tenure in that location: "Wow," I'll think to myself, "last time I was here was the night I went into labour," or, "When I was on this side of the bed, I had to get up twice every night in the cold to feed her? Do you remember the screaming?" It wasn't a recollection, not like I was thinking back. It was more a forceful collision of the now with what my body had come to expect from a certain sleeping position, on this side or the other, near to the window or near to the closet. Like both now and then were real and coexisting, like suddenly Munchkin was six months old and a newborn.

Today, though, today I lay down and I just felt ... tired. Sick, and headachy. The pillow and the sheet smelled like Pynchon. The quality of light was a little different on this side than on mine. But Munchkin was still a toddler, and I was assaulted by no overwhelming physical sense of a different time for us. No suddenly being in the moment of going into labour, no sense of those first three months, no shiver of long and dark winter nights, sleeptraining and sleep-deprived.

I'm losing that time. I can feel it slip through my fingers, time that was so raw and intense and all-consuming. I don't really remember what it was like to be pregnant. I don't remember what it was like to stay home with my newborn Miss Baby. I look at the pictures now and they seem to be of other people. I wonder, "What did I do all day with her?" and think, "Gosh, she sure was cute." I know (in part from what I've written here) that I felt housebound and desperate, and that she cried a lot more than the photos suggest, but I don't feel it like a punch in my stomach the way I used to. The way the four-song rotation on her travel mobile used to make me anxious and nauseous, even if she wasn't in the house? It's all gone. I'm forgetting.

You know how I really know? The one really clear memory I retain from those early months is my incredulity when people would fondly pat Miss Baby and say wistfully, "Ahhh, it goes so fast." "No it doesn't," I wanted to shout. "It's terrible and long and gruelling and terrifying and dull and isolating and nervewrackin and I've never slept so little and done so much." But now? Now I kinda feel like it's gone so fast. And it's never coming back.

Mama? Wake up! Let's go play.

Tribute

I heard today that a friend, colleague, and mentor of mine died yesterday, after a longish fight with cancer. He was a 'computer' friend: that's what we had in common, and although he didn't know about this blog, I think he would have liked it. Among other things, he was a passionate parent as well as a dedicated technophile. As a tribute to him, I'll cast out into cyberspace the note I've just written to send to his family.

Dear K--,

I am so sorry to hear that Terry has died. I received the news from P-- C-- today: I haven't seen Terry since I moved away from Edmonton in 2004, although we have exchanged emails, and that the news of his death has hit me so hard is a testament to the strong influence Terry has had on me, and how very much I have valued his friendship. He is already missed.

You may remember me from the O-- Project parties? Skinny, pale, black hair? I also worked for Terry at the T-- lab for several years, and taught for H-- Program, and worked under his direction on the C-- Project. Terry was an intellectually rigorous, but silly person, a joker with a mind like a steel trap. I learned so much from him: about databases, and XML, and all kinds of computer tics and tricks. But I also learned a little more about how to be a decent human being. Terry's curiosity about life, his very strong affection for his family, his zest for travel, and his enthusiasm about computing left a lasting impression on me. More, he was a friend, a trusted confidante to share a beer with, with the gang at Remedy, or at a conference.

I can't imagine the pain and loss you must be feeling, but I wanted to write to tell you how very sorry I am, and how much Terry meant to me. I am so glad to have known him: it has enriched my life immeasurably.


Terry is on the far left, in the white shirt. I'm in the sunglasses. This is in Edmonton, at the very best café for lovers of espresso, at the end of a long day of XML encoding training for workers on the C-- Project.

The world is a sadder place for your absence, Terry.