Tuesday, April 27, 2010

A good day for ducks.

I had always rather liked rainy days, especially in springtime.  I found it peaceful to listen to the rain fall through the newly emerged leaves and the joyful twittering of happy wet birds.  I got lots accomplished too, the rain somehow focusing me on some bit of paperwork or household chore.

Oh, how these days are no longer those days.  It has been raining for 60 hours.   Stuck in the house with a cooped up toddler and a whiny cat, I have decided I'm putting one of them out in the rain this afternoon; the jury is still out on whom. We'll see how things go after nap time.   My son is a gentle, accepting boy.  His even tempered approach to navigating the world is a daily lesson for me.  "What would Bar do," I think to myself sometimes when I am particularly frustrated and feel like throwing things.  Since I cannot always eat, shred, or ignore my problem until it goes away, I am often left to work it out on my own, but even considering his Zen approach to living calms me down and clears my head.  There are two things that Bar abhors, being stuck indoors and being dressed.  60 hours of consecutive wet and cold has been tough on my little naked naturalist.  The cat has similar dislikes and it is quite clear that she blames me for this stretch of bad weather that is ruining her springtime outdoor fun.  She follows me around the house stomping her little white feet and yowling, a veritable storm cloud of crooked attitude and pent up energy.  I've never tried to dress her, but Bar spends a fair chunk of time laying things on top of her and she doesn't seem too thrilled about it.  So far today it has been his socks (removed and tossed in a fit of nudist pique), his uncle's slipper, a copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar, the television remote, and a few pieces of dried papaya.  Cue more stomping and storming by both, the cat because the partly chewed sticky bits of papaya were too great an assault on her dignity and Bar because she got up and ruined his lovely tower.

The sun broke through the clouds for the briefest of moments as I've been writing this.  There is, perhaps, hope that we will all be soon released from our indoor prison.  If it appears again, I will pull the tarp off the firewood and picnic outdoors anyway.  The child will have to be dressed, but maybe he won't notice if there are leaves to look at and wet grass to rub his hands upon.  I'll make tuna for lunch to make Her Grumpness the cat feel extra included.  Yes!  There it is again. Hope returns to this bleak land. 

And now, perfectly timed, the sleeper awakes.

Friday, April 23, 2010


I've just been dealt a healthy dose of it.  Mrs. Powell, I owe you an apology.  In the time it took me to proofread my last post, Bar, the little darling, removed his diaper and finding therein a turd of significant size began to finger paint my carpet and ottoman with it.  All your kid did was forget his iPhone.  Mine, it seems, is clever enough to remove his own diaper, but not to avoid playing with what he finds there.  Sufficiently humbled, I now return to scrubbing the carpet. 

What if Bill Buckner worked for Apple?

He'd be this guy, Gray Powell.  Gray Powell walked into a beer garden a few nights ago and left, sitting on the bar, his prototype iPhone.  Oops.  I'm probably the last person in the blogosphere to catch on to this little story, so I'll not beat it to death much further.  But, as it was discussed in my living room last night, I realized that in all my musings about what Bar may or may not become, may or may not do, it has never once occurred to me that he might grow up to be, "that guy who leaves his prototype iPhone in a beer garden."  I somehow doubt that thought ever crossed Mrs. Powell's mind either.  So, to my son, dear Bar, I say this to you now on this most public of forums; should you ever commit a comparably boneheaded act and become, say, "the guy who accidentally mislays the only set of keys to the space shuttle," I will still love you without end or reservation, beyond limit and reason, but please, please don't.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

The Ems

It's 10 PM.  Do you know where your children are?  I can certainly account for mine.  My little nursling is wrapped around my midsection, long outgrown but not abandoned his Boppy pillow, fretting and nursing his way back to sleep.  I expect this bout of wakefulness is brought about by his ever closer to arriving seventh tooth.  Teething has not been kind to Bar and me, or any unfortunate soul who lives within earshot, and should I ever meet the Tooth Fairy in real life I expect I'd have some unkind words for her at best or, at worst, I'd punch her in the mouth and be done with it.  But, whatever the reason he has awoken, here we are, nursing, and, er, blogging in the dark both finding a kind of comfort in this now well established routine.
First, however, here is a list of things I would rather be doing.
1.  Watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer.  I had to stop at the dramatic height of season 5, episode 10.  Bummer.
2.  Having a ciapirinha.  Because caipirinhas are yummy.
3.  Getting an aroma therapeutic massage.  
That's pretty much it.  This is an otherwise peaceful time for me knowing that, as Bar's universe gets bigger by the day and his control over it increases dramatically, touching base with me, mom, once even twice a night helps ease us both into this brave new world called toddlerhood.  Tonight for dinner, we shared a meal of pancetta, peas, and big hunks of Parmesan cheese by candlelight - even babies deserve a pleasant atmosphere for dinner.   How grown he is, I thought to myself, noting the bits of asparagus still stuck in his hair from lunch as I plucked out the newly introduced bits of his all "P" meal.  And here we are now, no fancy cheese or cured meat would satisfy his need in this moment.  Milk, momma - mmmmmmm.
It's now 10:40 PM and Bar is happily snoozing again.  And look, plenty of time left to finish Buffy.  Everybody wins.

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

A good egg

How does one begin a blog? I find I have no idea. So, I suppose I will begin by simply beginning. I may revisit some past events or musings in later posts or eventually offer more explanation for why this blog exists at all. But, for now, starting from here will have to do.
This is Bar. He is my son. He is the fruit of my body, the light of my life, the spark of my soul. To most everybody else, I reckon he is just a boy. That's fine too. He enjoys egg salad, the cat, and "reading" the newspaper. On extra good days, he'll manage to combine all three and I find myself the proud owner of a kid, a cat, and a pile of shreds and mush all an identical shade of yellowish grey. Being his mother, I think that the sun rises and sets on him and his mushy piles, so I don't mind. I'm also reasonably fond of the cat.
Bar is one whole year old. He and I, and the cat, have spent our days playing and reading, eating and sleeping, growing and learning. Every new mother I think is amazed at how fast time moves when her child is developing daily more of his brain and body than she will for the rest of her life. It's a humbling realization and one that sets me into a tailspin of blind panic and terror if I dwell too long on the notion that I'll not be able or even around to protect him from so many frightening things - smog, war, the pressures of becoming a great man (or even a pretty good one). More on all that another time.
Today is only the beginning of a simple blog about food and drink, navigating motherhood, and celebrating life as I've got it.
And with that; here is Bar's favorite egg salad recipe.
2 hard boiled eggs
2 heaping tablespoons mayonnaise
1.5 teaspoons dijon mustard
1 teaspoon capers, rinsed and drained
1 large multigrain cracker
Smoosh the eggs - the capers together until they reach the consistency of, well, egg salad. Smear it on the cracker and give it to the baby. Best enjoyed outside in the sun with an animal friend on a pile of newspapers or a blanket.