roots + wings

a day at the (children's) museum

2012-01-23T17:00:00.000-06:00

Ryan doesn't get to do these kinds of things with Maya as often as we'd like; he works too hard, but because we had to leave his car in the Twin Cities after his work party (oh, forever-designated-driver-mama I am), we decided to do this as our other-reason-to-come. We done got ourselves a family membership and toured a few of the galleries--turtles and fox costumes and ants painted on walls.

A small space where children painted shoes in study with famous artists. A series of exhibits that are mimics of rosy-life: markets and mailpeople, front porches and roses in buckets.

The most popular for Maya was a how things work kind of space, particularly those that involved water. She dipped her hands in, collected airy balls, tested wheels.

Oh, and how paper is made. Made me think of this.

And my favorite space, which will be departing shortly--the land of stories. She adored it too, of course. Of course.

ryan's work party; baby's first bowling

2012-01-20T23:00:00.000-06:00

He did well, considering he had a little off-balance weight hanging from his side. And a few beers.

Sarah, who likes to peek at Maya's pictures on Flickr for a little pick-me-up, is a co-worker in the Chicago branch (or rather, she is the Chicago branch) and loved to hold Maya, as long as she wasn't "wiggly":

Then Maya and Ryan fed each other some cake.

A chilly January Friday at a swanky bowling ally. Maya taste-tested calamari, salmon, chicken, risotto--all new to her. She also showed off her drinking-from-a-glass skills, and ran around like a maniac during cocktail hour. That's my girl.

maya's first swim class

2012-01-19T20:56:00.000-06:00

Legend has it, I'm on some instructional video, or was on the news, or something along those lines, swimming before I could walk. In seventh grade, I used to get physically ill in my math class because the class after was gym and the instructor, Coach Graham, was relentlessly cruel in my athletic inabilities. But in the swim unit, he praised me; I was the third strongest swimmer. In high school, I was on swim team, though I fully admit, I was never really any good, though I did sometimes anchor the JV relays.

We missed Maya's first swim class due to surgical healing. And in our first, we whirled into The Wheels on the Bus with the rest of the class, going up-and-down as smoothly as we could. I hadn't been in a pool since... 2003? 2004? My PCOS-shape humbles me. But one gets over such embarrassments when it comes to one's offspring.

L to R: Stefanie and Carson, me and Maya, Melanie (and Malena)

Stefanie and I met Melanie at the cake decorating class this past December, and the three of us are now hopping around the pool with our just-over-one-year-olds. I love the way we fit into that gossiping-mama clutch, the way our heads all bow towards our babes, our mouths open, speaking of new words (Carson saying, "Ball, ball" to us) and such.

I couldn't really keep up with her once we got into the wading area of the rec pool. The mothers leaned in and said, "She really has no fear, does she?" No, I said, casting my eyes up, she doesn't. She ploughed straight through, even as the water inched up and up and I caught her as her bottom bobbed up.

Below is Melanie cruising down the slide with her babe; I did the same, only I flipped onto my back partway down so we landed with a smack and plunge, but Maya took it in stride.

life should always / be like this

2012-01-18T20:37:00.000-06:00

I know there are photographs where I'll look back and I'll think: That was it. That was when my heart was at its fullest. Funny thing is, I keep taking photographs like that. Has my heart burst?

pre-book club play date

2012-01-17T12:12:00.000-06:00

We went to Emily's a little early, before book club (The Solitude of Prime Numbers; my thoughts here) and the girls ground into her toys, learning a bit about sharing, a bit about gloating, a bit about toppling over on hardwood floors.

They're so sweet together, though still in mostly parallel play mode. Maya will snatch and then offer back. I'm learning when to hover, when to guide, when to sit back (this should be most of the time, but it's hard because I want fairness to prevail).

I'm so grateful one of my best friends has her first, only weeks younger than my own. We parent so differently in the smallest of ways: Olivia is on a strict schedule, which means she indicates hunger as the hour spills over, pulls into the breast when she is ready to nurse--the routine tells her so--and me? I worry that I am too lackadaisical about routine, until I gave it some thought and realized: but we do have a rhythm. It's not ticking like the clock but jagged like breathing. Sometimes we hold and carry; sometimes we are metronomes. Both girls are growing so well, are such content little ones. I asked Emily, if the babies were switched, if Maya would fall into the routine life and if either girl would thrive as much--I think yes, that Maya would adapt to timing and Olivia wouldn't mind slipping around a bit--because both of these mamas have these great pumping hearts that love love love their daughters so much, that provide a safe environment for our girls to thrive. And thrive they do.

derby bout: zombie prom

2012-01-16T12:52:00.000-06:00

We stopped by the Urtels' house beforehand, which was Angie-less as she was preparing to whoop some major Killmore Girls booty in the bout. Maya did get a few licks in from their eleven-year-old pup Bear. We went to Chatterbox Pub and had local soda and I satisfied a days-old craving for mashed potatoes.

(Maya is sporting a sweater made by my mother made entirely of sock yarn; she has a matching pair of pants and socks and they are adorable and wonderful and perfect. The first pair of socks that seems to fit her exactly right! And I've always wanted a knit pair of pants for her. And the sweater! It fits her so perfectly and has this sweet little cable going up either side... I also am in love with blues and blue-greys...)

There were two musical acts--the pre-game warmup was Savage Aural Hotbed, a "found object" band, mostly percussive, some creating sparks. (Halftime was the less-enjoyed Koo-Koo Kangaroo, accurately billed as a blend of Beastie Boys and Sesame Street, though without either's charm.)

Maya's dear friend Olivia brought her family. My poetess friend Opal came and brought a friend. My old high school friend Chris, who has become good friends with Angie, also came with a friend. Lane and much of his family and other friends were there. Last year, it was just the Kiefers and the Urtels straining to figure out what on earth was going on down there and now we're a great pack in the stands. I picked up three shirts, one for each of us and another for my former student Brianna who has come to the last two bouts with Freak Squad splayed across the back.

We're so proud of Angie: she sure knows how to move on that track and her team really did grind the other 159-38. Congratulations, Ctrl+ Freak.

the painting and the cleaning

2012-01-14T21:47:00.000-06:00

2012 is a reading year

2012-01-12T14:35:00.000-06:00

Some photos of Maya from the past few days; somehow, most of them have her with a book in hand. I love that last one, which is becoming more typical: Maya in her new chair, reading to herself. She has the sweetest little singing voice as she pages through.

the texans come to visit

2012-01-11T14:21:00.000-06:00

It was supposed to be a houseful. We were supposed to have twenty-some adults and children climbing our walls, pulling books from our shelves, tugging at the dogs' ears.

Instead, it was x-rays and urgent care.

The supposed-to's started a little earlier in the week: Ryan was supposed to travel to Marshall for work, but once Maya's temperatures remained around 103 and she became lethargic, limp in my arms, he bowed out and turned home. We took her to the doctor's, where she was put into a contraption for an x-ray, which came back showing the possibility of pneumonia. Our temperatures soared to 105 and, with a heavy heart, we canceled the friends-portion of the birthday party I'd been planning for months.

And on Saturday, four grandparents, one aunt, and one uncle watched Maya, while my husband took me to urgent care after my throat's soreness kept me awake much of the night. Sleep was ridiculously fraught the whole week--Maya couldn't sleep well, my temperature kept swinging from frigid to steaming, and some nights, I went downstairs and stared at the walls in restless frustration. My own diagnosis? An ear infection and tonsillitis.

But Chelsea and Cole braved it up from Texas and came into our germ-infested home, as did Maya's grandma and grandpa and grandma and grandpa, and we celebrated in style, if not a bit more quietly. (In style = me wearing pajamas most of the time.)

She's such a sweetheart. Antibiotics, bandages, nothing really got her down.

And the traditional smashing of the birthday cake was predictably hilarious. At first, she'd bring her little paw down, her fingers pinching, and come within centimeters, look at us and grin, as if she were "threatening" to pulverize it. Something in her knew she wasn't "supposed" to destroy food on her tray. But we encouraged her--go on, go on!--and she gleefully plunged one finger into the center of the cake. The rest, as we say, is history, and Cole even set himself up for a fistful of cake and repaid her sloppy love with a strange retelling of one of her birthday books.

I miss them so much already. I felt that dumb-with-sickness coziness, that squint-eyed happiness having our family in town. And now, in the aftermath, Maya climbs onto her chair made by her grandma, plays with her plane given by her other grandparents (in celebration of her three plane trips in her first year of life), reads stories, pets her new dog-sized deer (Zephyr has finally calmed and accepted it as a member of the house), and on.

It was no where near what I had planned in my head: a hand embroidered felt birthday crown, a sewn bunting banner proclaiming Happy birthday Maya!, a from-scratch cake decorated by me, a poem printed, bags of homemade goodies (these will still be distributed, so I am keeping that glory a secret for a little bit longer), my father was going to sing songs and play the guitar for the littles (oh, he still played). But, instead, we still got the most perfect of weekends with the most perfect of company.

dear maya | one year!

2012-01-04T13:27:00.000-06:00

Dearest, sweetest little bear:

You've turned one year old! And this welcoming of the second year of your life has been a bit bumbling--you had surgery the day before, and that surgery required you to go under twice and now you have a jagged cut all bandaged up (you hate that bandage and keep pulling it off, you turkey).

And now? We both have fevers. Mean little fevers that have caused the ambient air to swing from freezing to firing and we're sleeping terribly. But we snuggle so close together.

This recent month has you rumbling all over the house, climbing up, bringing props to get you higher and higher in this house. You and the dogs are getting along better now; Zephyr appreciates the food you crumble behind you and Penelope accepts your gentle pets a bit better. Gatsby is your household best friend and Libby tolerates you. But only a little.

You've added doggie to your clear-as-a-bell word list. The only other word on that is Hi!, and the clear-as-mud words are still kee-kee for kitty and mumumum and dadadada. You also give me a funny little laugh when you want to nurse, but you also use the sign for it too.

You remain: sunny when you wake up. Often I'm turned to the wall and you will pat me on the back and say, "HI!" and I'll turn over and you'll give me this big grin and our day has begun.

Your schedule is something like this: we're aiming for a new bedtime of ten o'clock (at your daddy's request) and we have managed to get closer to eleven. You wake around nine-ish. You nap around two-ish. Everything is thoroughly -ish as far as timing goes. As a stay-at-home-mama, these things matter less.

You attend: library story hour and chatter at everyone. You sing in your own sweet way when we do lap songs and you call back when stories are read and you say hi!hi! to everyone and you are the one who is moving moving moving the whole time. Other mamas look amazed. You are friendly and sweet and will share, though you also take too. I'm reading a book called Positive Discipline not because you are naughty but because I'm not quite sure what my role is in playgroup situations. Do I intervene? You've only been moving beyond parallel play for a few months now, and you certainly won't enjoy it if your mama is hovering, making sure everything is fair with your playmates.

You tend to: um, bite. You're biting again. You just got your seventh tooth around the holidays and we're waiting on that eighth, which is why I think you keep shoving things into your mouth, which can include your mama's arms. Ouch, kiddo. So I'm learning about redirecting, etcetera. You're pretty complacent about distraction.

You, my sweetest, my little bud, my one-year-old. My toddler, my climber-of-all-things. My light in this dim winter. I know what all the mamas are talking about when they say You've never known love like this. I am ridiculously protective. I am a mama-bear. I swell with happiness. We walk down the road and there is a vague shape, a maybe-car coming toward us, and my body shifts, already ready to bear the imaginary impact, the nothing-threat, the keep-you-close and keep-you-safe. Every star, I wish: Long, happy, healthy. I want your life to be long and good, for you to be content with your path, and for you to have health the whole while. I wish this for you as candles are blown you: long, happy, healthy.

birthday cake from papa

2012-01-03T18:53:00.000-06:00

second day of a new year (+ surgery)

2012-01-02T18:00:00.002-06:00

She was not to nurse six hours prior to arrival, and somehow, her little internal timer ding! woke at twenty to, filled, and at 1:44 a.m., she turned back to the pillow. She woke at five, angry, and he rocked and then I rocked and forty-five minutes later, I slowly leaned back and we slept just a little longer.

We woke so early, my husband's arm snaking out of bed, ten more minutes ten more minutes, and then, a bagel and cream cheese, a weather check, and we bundled ourselves up and away and on the same path we took almost a year ago today.

She's not like her mommy; she's not a monster when she wakes up, growling and begging please don't talk to me when I haven't had enough sleep. Instead, she smiled at all the nurses and wandered the hallways, padpadpad, in her oversized pajamas, the shirt hanging from her like a dress, her curiosity driving her from doorway to doorway, chanting Hi! Hi! as she'd meet someone new.

Eventually they came and tagged her, as they did my breast for the biopsy so many years ago, a little X marks the spot (X mars the spot), which she far from loved, and we were told about it all again: the anesthesia, the mask, the fight, the excitement, the eyes-rolled back, the IV, the depressor, the shelling of the pea.

I wore yellow and told her it was to match her. I wore blue booties and a blue cap and thought of how Ryan looked a year and a day ago. I carried her there, to that cold room, and she stood, leaned into me and wailed as the heart monitor was affixed to her back. I lay her down and kept my face close, telling her, I know, I know, I'm here, I love you, you're so brave, so good, I know, I know and the mask went on, that small, small mask, the one that fit her too well, and I thought of how awful it is for such small, small masks to exist at all. Her eyes slowly closed. They had her wrapped in blankets and as her eyes began those last flutters, they said, "Mama, this might be the time when you give her a kiss." So I pulled the mask off my face, so glad she knew it was me from the eyes only all that time, and kissed her and hoped.

In the hallway, I had to be guided. I had promised myself I wouldn't be that mother, the one who would wail or get in the way, the one who would frighten her daughter. I promised myself I would save any crying for later, that I had to keep that brave face on for her. But as I stepped to the other side of the door, I pulled the cap from my head, the mask from my mouth and the nurse cooed, "No, no, we need you to keep that on." As she tried to raise it to my head, I kept turning the wrong direction, kept trying to leave in the opposite way we were supposed to go. She had to help me back into the cap, and when we got onto the other side of the safe doors, the sterile zone behind us, she prompted me to take off the gown and I began and she gently said, "Here, let me get those ties for you." We shocked one another a few times, a zap of cold air, static electricity I hoped I carried away from the operating room, left none behind, and when I sat back down into the seat in the prep room, I bawled.

And I kept myself busy, after I found myself twitching: I watched all the videos of Maya on Ryan's cell phone, hoping that would carry me to the end of the time. It didn't. We played Mah Jongg. I read a little. The nurses came, then the doctor, and all had gone well: they removed a plump cyst from her left eyebrow, this creature that formed as the plates fused, this ebb-and-flow cyst that would never go away and was a threat of rupturing if she fell on it just right, infection and painful disruption to follow. Maya, my little offspring and his, would be the toddler to fall on it just right.

Then we found out this happened: she woke up, bright-eyed, as the anesthetist said, and rubbed the spot and it began to bleed again. (Did you know cysts have their own blood vessel? Cruel pathway.) And her brow began to swell, a halved golfball, and she had to go back under, a false start at awake, her brow wrinkled in that way it does (the nurse imitated it). They cauterized the vessel and we waited again. In my head, I chanted I want my baby back I want my baby back I want my baby back.

The surgeon came again, telling us it was the right thing we did, which is, somehow, exactly what I needed to hear, because I've questioned myself so much since we decided to do it--she may never fall that way, am I just bothered by it aesthetically?, is this something she'd like?, what if that turn that no one wants to happen happens? The doctor held out his hand, his thumb and finger looped in the OK-gesture, showing us the squashed-coin, the egg of it, the depth that went beyond that surface dome, the permanence of it and the permanence of the solution.

She came back to my arms sleeping. Ryan reads a text: Are you a nervous wreck? I ask: Who thinks I'm a nervous wreck? Pause. Do I seem like a nervous wreck? Ryan nods and says frankly, Yeah. Yeah?! I thought I had composed myself quite well. Nervous, yes. Wreck, no. Jumpy, OK. Eavesdropping as the doctor read his notes into a recorder, hearing about the bleeding during surgery--it's worth keeping in the notes, oh no--before it broke back open, threatening to bruise half her face.

She was angry we wouldn't let her pull away the metal patch, angry at the IV still in her arm. We watched the breathing and heart monitor rise and fall--dropping to 90% and 180 beats when she was most irritated, slowing back to 100% and 130-some when she was resting, listening to the soothing music, watching the birds and muskrats on the small television monitor. Mostly, the angry came in flashes and she remained still and peaceful.

She was sweet and heavy in my arms, the nurse building a nest around us, my body the warmest edge, and she in the center, the warm heart. My warm heart.

She's fine now. We're on the other side of a three-and-a-half hour nap, and she remains bandaged and slightly more mellow than usual. Just now, she's tapping Penelope on the head with a bowl from her play-kitchen, proclaiming, "Da! Da! Doggie!"

first day of a new year

2012-01-01T16:54:00.000-06:00

pa-rum-pa-pum-pum

2011-12-29T01:29:00.000-06:00

christmas day, in photographs

2011-12-25T21:32:00.000-06:00

christmas eve, in photographs

2011-12-24T20:12:00.001-06:00

Happy Christmas Eve.

sledding and eclair cake

2011-12-23T23:00:00.000-06:00

Last Christmas, the little ones were hip-deep in the snow and Maya was rooting around in my abdomen, kicking along, and a few days from now, I was spending Christmas in the bathroom with the worst stomach bug I've ever had.

But! This year, Maya is the only grandkid in the K household (oh, Hadley, feel better soon--Maya's cousin, who was born a little over a month ago, had a respiratory illness that had her in an ambulance from one hospital to another and a worried mama at her bedside and now, they cannot leave the house as she heals; I wish we could draw the map closer and bring their home into this neighborhood) and she had her first sledding adventure in the front yard. Four dogs, one toddling baby.

Ah-hem. One flying baby. And below, a series of photographs, a piece of Maya's experiences that I can never get back: the introduction to eclair cake, which created something of a monster. I took her spoon to refill it with a little pudding and graham crackers; there was some shrieking. I waited until she understood this wouldn't get her what she wanted, then handed it back to her, the little looney. She was pretty chill when the sugar-loading was over, then she fell asleep in the car on the way to the shops for our last-minute holiday purchasing. She loved stomping around, one parent keeping up while the other did the shopping. Oh, Maya, you boundless little imp, how I love you so.

solstice pajamas!

2011-12-22T18:37:00.000-06:00

My mother came, four-and-a-half-hours, to help me wrestle with my sewing machine and produce three sets of solstice pajamas, a tradition I've been looking forward to since I spotted it on other blogs. We made three pants sets, each of the same flannel and I got the same print on matching shirts. Some day, we'll have more little bears to fill into pants, and then I'll maybe not feel compelled to match the adults, but this year is the first as a family that is more than two, so we become bears, relishing the light that is the solstice.

at the table

2011-12-20T01:41:00.000-06:00

We took Maya to her first pizza parlor this past week, where she had her first taste of pizza crust and even a few sundry toppings and cheese. She loved the water fountain behind her ringed with poinsettias, a plant we could never have with our plant-chewing cats.

The other night, Ryan made dinner for us: chicken, edamame, asparagus, and he funneled couscous into a heart-shaped cookie cutter. No, for those of you who know my husband. He did not eat anything green that you see on my plate. The world has not ended. Maya, however, did.

She's my girl, though, through and through. She loves breads and pastas, the little carbo-loader. And she's got the energy of a Kiefer, so she can burn it all off.

Tonight, she drank water from her first straw, mastering it immediately. She had a whole slice of pickle and snuggled up for her nap on my chest smelling of it. She had chicken and beef, tasted ketchup for the first time.

I began to realize that I have begun to feel it's now time to consciously pull back on nursing. We still do it regularly. She still wakes in the night, but with her in bed, it's easy to shift from nursing to sleeping. But this isn't a part of the equation; this isn't an issue. I don't have plans to stop but simply edge down. An extended weaning process, perhaps.

It's such a joy to watch her discover new textures and flavors. She still lights up when I give her the sign for milk. It's still a comfort when she needs it. But, I think, I'd like to see what's going on with my body beneath the covers, you know? See if my body can return to its rhythms on its own.

a december neighborhood stroll

2011-12-18T22:30:00.000-06:00

I have restless legs syndrome. I've been taking iron supplements. Sometimes it smashes into me and I begin to alarm Ryan (and others around me) with twitching. My neck even.

So my poor husband began suggesting things, one of which was a little stroll--get outside, get some sunshine, move your limbs. We bundled Maya: the hat (which you'll see later) was made by Martha, the striped jacket is from one of my mother's trips to France, the green blanket was made by Ryan's mother, the pants are handmade from a shop on etsy, and her boots have bears on them.

Last year, the year before, all the years I can remember, at least in this house, we've had a layer of snow on the ground this time of year. Today was warm, little lozenges of snow leftover in shadow-pockets. I gazed up into a lilac bush--lilacs in winter.

Below: check it out! Maya has hair! Not a lot, but look at that sweet tuft. It's so soft--sometimes I just run my chin or cheek against the top of her head to feel the silkiness of it.

Her little nose turned pink but it was warm and she was pretty content. She was a bit more fascinated by the dogs playing and digging in the stones, but we introduced her to her first sliding adventure:

These dogs used to be the center of my photography-subject universe. We still love them. This evening, Maya walked right up to Zephyr and hugged him. She also pointed to the kitty when we asked "Where's the kitty?," though she's been pointing at the ceiling when we ask, "Where's mama?," and Ryan tried to comfort me by saying, "At least she thinks highly of you." Her favorite pointing-object is the Christmas tree, but I think that's mostly because it's covered in a bunch of hanging toys. She keeps pulling the plush partridge-in-a-pear-tree off and carrying it around, taunting the cats with it.

And because I like to share her accomplishments, she also managed to manipulate a coaster set from the stairs--by turning it sideways and pulling it through the bars. Ridiculous. She reaches farther and farther all the time.

The walk didn't cure the restless legs (though later, a steaming bath helped a little), nor has it chased away the blues that have are following me like a cloud, but it's still good, even in a funk, to spend this time with the two of them, with the five of us, with the late autumn air.

Tonight, I'm working on a project for Maya for Christmas. This might be the only year I can blatantly make something for her right in front of her. Made those solstice pajamas that much easier. I will share a making-post soon. But for now, I leave you with this image, and you can imagine yourself on our happy little autumn stroll:

(Um, right after, I wheeled the stroller through a pile of poo and then Maya slipped through the leg holes. But we caught her. And I didn't get the dog poo on anything else. But I had to share, in case you think this was completely serene and clean and pristine and other rhyming concoctions that imply we aren't bumblers. And by we, I mean mostly me.)

birthday post two: practice cake

2011-12-16T21:32:00.000-06:00

Maya's birth-twin's mother (Stefanie, you know, my former doctor, whose son Carson was born three hours after Maya just down the hospital hall) suggested I add-on to this cake decorating class Community Ed. was putting on, so I scrambled at the chance--two evenings! out! with a girlfriend! making stuff uninterrupted!--and began to hate the smell of Crisco-based icing. Wah.

And then made a bazillion bright-pink roses. And wondered what on earth had gotten into me.

They're rehearsal cakes for our kiddos' birthdays. Mine: used store-bought icing because I was too exhausted to make it from scratch (promising to do so with the "real" cake); swore as it slid into the glass cake stand topper as I drove to the high school and smeared icing all over the sides (whoops); laughed instead of swore when the cold Minnesota winds swept many neon-roses off my cookie sheet and into the fields--be free, little roses, be free and send some tiny woodland creature into sugar shock!

What else does one do with a bazillion bright roses and ten days before Christmas and no desire to make room to freeze the dang thing? Why, a Gertrude Stein cake, of course. A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose. There. This made me feel immensely better. I may have the handwriting of an elementary student when it comes to cakes and the frosting skills of a pre-schooler, but at least I have the cheekiness of a graduate student.

We've been slowly hacking away at the cake. Maya even tasted some frosting. Before her first birthday. I'm uncertain as to what I want to do for her actual birthday-cake, but I'm mulling. And attempting to un-sugar-shock myself. Twitch. Twitch.

book baskets

2011-12-15T00:07:00.000-06:00

She loves to read them too, page through slowly, saying things as if reading to herself, to me. But she also loves climbing, which means this book basket is fair game too: book baskets and holiday boxes, pressed up against sofas and entertainment centers, her center of gravity so wonky, her little body so high.

our first tree

2011-12-14T12:44:00.001-06:00

Two years ago, Ryan bought me an attachment flash for my camera. I played with it that day and quietly set it aside, hating the aggressive nature of the flash, the blinding of my subject. But then, as we were putting together our hardware-store tree, Ryan asked me to take it out again, as a favor to him. OK, stompstomp. And then: I played with the settings. I still blinded Maya (look at that face up above!) and Ryan, but it was worth it. Some day, I'm going to learn how to edit photos (and I have a little tool in the form of a tutorial done by my sister, who edited our holiday family photo for us), but for now, I will delight in this new discovery.

There are some ornaments new to this year: books transformed, small embroidered bits. There were a string of ornaments I held back for our first tree. There are the Alaska-themed ornaments from our honeymoon, a Statue of Liberty one I bought on the day he asked me to marry him, little Boston swan boat ornaments from the Boston trip we took the spring things changed.

We watch the tree, wondering which of our five mini-residents will pull it over first. Maya seems to be our frontrunner as she plucks felt gingerbread men and plush partridges-in-a-pear-tree from the lower branches. She seems so delighted though--and I love, at night, when all the other lights are out, and there is that white glow. I remember when I was smaller, loving this, and loving squinting my eyes so that the tree would blur and the white would become little stars, sharp juts of light.

We won't be opening presents under this tree, not this year, but we'll gaze at it. Ryan and I have been together for over a dozen years now, and this is our first tree of any serious merit. I knew I'd want one when we started to have children. And there it is. And there she is, at the base of it, saying "Bah! Wah! Dah! Wah-wah! Aeeaaaah!"

nrsg bout two: sail the seven seas

2011-12-10T14:51:00.001-06:00

She wouldn't be so thematically dressed if it weren't for my mama, who came in from Wisconsin to help me wear my machine down: pants, crown, and a quilt not pictured. Part of the thrill of the derby is accessorizing the bear.

I love the above photo of Maya and her papa. She's so zippity quick with her grabbing.

We settled into the stands: Chad came up from Winona, Lane and his parents, some of Angie's former co-workers, my former student. Across the way, Casey and Meryl and a friend of C's. We're so happy to have a specific team to cheer for. And out came Angie, also known as Ctrl Freak:

I don't have to explain how happy I am when I get photographs of Maya with some of my favorite people on this earth. Here is Maya and Meryl:

And someone dressed up as Jack Sparrow, warning Maya not to worry about the Canon. Wah-wah.

Maya seems to know what is to come. Below, a scrambled photograph, but that derby girl at the bottom? Angie in one of her falls. Later, she said none of them hurt a bit.

Maya and Brianna, who confessed, after the first jam, that she wanted to be in the derby too:

Here is almost our whole book club (strange that we've never had our photo taken together before): me - Angie - Meryl - Casey (missing Emily):

Lane and Angie sneaking jello shots. And Maya showing off her walking skills.

A quick spin in Minneapolis' habitrails. And then, home we go.

birthday post one: making invitations

2011-12-08T09:30:00.000-06:00

I took a platen class. I even had a one-on-one lesson in the basement of the Minnesota Center for the Book Arts. Meryl and I hauled this machine in, fine tuned it, and you would think I'd manage to operate it properly, but I embarrassed myself, a string of nights trying to bully that thing into action.

Maya observed and laughed. I whispered I hate you as the form inked onto the timpin. I forgot all kinds of things and ran out of time. Next year's invitations will come from the Kelsey. This year's, which have gone into the mail and RSVP's are already coming back, were done on the Vandercook with Meryl guiding me through:

She prompted me as any good teacher might: What's this called? The drum.

I held up my form, asked her if she thought I should put the image on the front page and the text inside the card. She paused then said, "If you'll pardon the pun, it might look a little barren." Oh! [I thought: we wanted to try naturally the next time but my cycles haven't even returned yet so I'm afraid and I don't like this new insurance and I don't want to stop nursing any time soon so I couldn't even start medication anyway and I'm thirty-two years old and would like more than one maybe even three but maybe that is selfish because I'm lucky enough to have the one and I'm not looking forward to all of those tests and lifting my legs up and counting and temperatures in the morning and why is it so easy my cousin's wife is pregnant with number seven and my girl friends talk about the next one and how they map it out because they can expect to get pregnant within a few twitchy calendar pages and--] I said, "Kick me in the place, why don't you?" I said it jokingly, because, you know, it was funny, and I do love a good pun (but how was it a pun?) and maybe I would have made the joke myself--probably!--if I had thought of it first.

She looked at me strangely and continued arranging the press gear.

I don't know how we returned to it. But somehow, she told me she meant this: bearin. She didn't understand how I could have been so upset over this--what, we can't joke about bears? And what do they have to do with--. Oh. Oh!

Oh, Maya, the things your mama does when she's making invitations for your first birthday party. The ways in which she is ensconced in her own silly body. Can't help it.

The Vandercook adventure was a success, and I am eternally grateful to Meryl for unswamping me from this project and helping me get these little guys into the mail; her own week consists of college-hopping (three colleges, three classes, and she just picked up a fourth one online) and Midway editing and book arts projecting and planning for a trip to Hawai'i' and a three-month move to Oregon and dealing with cars getting totaled and what-all else. It's no small favor: namaste.

I enclosed two photographs: one of Maya around a month or two and the other taken at ten months in her Halloween costume. Hooray for the bear! I had also made a print of this bear from the zoo, but I picked the wrong thumbnail. Who would want to steal her thunder anyway (as if a real bear could--)?

I'm excited to reveal other bits and bobs for her birthday. There are several preparations already in the works--the goody bag is going to be fantastic--geared towards the adult and children guests alike. Tonight, I have my first cake decorating class. T-minus less than a month until my baby turns one!

the living room nest

2011-12-06T21:04:00.000-06:00

This is how it starts: she leans into a pillow and does something she hasn't done in months. Or what I think is something she hasn't done, but I learn. It's not that. It's not spitting up. It's her first stomach virus.

So we strip the pillow, strip her, give her a washcloth bath, tuck ourselves back in. And again. And again.

During the day, I hold her in my lap--no. She clings to me, her legs wrapped around the curve of my stomach, her arm on my shoulder. She's alert and content but refuses any breaking of the bodies. She burns brightly, her cheeks become mottled pink. I run the external thermometer across her forehead--mild fever. And across her cheek--a full degree higher. My own is the reverse, a full degree cooler. I press my cheek to hers, hope it balances out.

On Saturday night, just as we are preparing for bed, I fold myself on the sofa in child's pose, tell Ryan I am not feeling so well myself. Maya needs a bath; she's had several in succession. The laundry thunks in the other room.

Two or so hours after Maya and Ryan have fallen asleep, after I've tossed a bit, tried to read myself into slumber, I crawl out of bed and begin my own struggle with the stomach flu. Once I return to bed, Ryan quietly slips out, is gone for a bit, then returns. He, too, has it. And this is how we spend the night, rotating back and forth, one parent in the bed, a pillar of pillows replacing the mate, Maya sleeping through this constant crossing.

In the morning, Maya beams up at us, her sleepless, bewildered parents.

Ryan says, "You have it too, how come you are smiling?" He says it in a voice of love, in a nose-to-nose, you bring me happiness voice. I am earnest in my reply: "Because she is better than us." And I don't mean this disparagingly or sarcastically. I mean this in the truest sense--this is the girl who cut six teeth and we barely noticed the discomfort, the girl who falls at yoga or story hour and the crowd winces and she hops to, right back up, waddling along.

We made another living room nest for Sunday. It's how I recovered from my two surgeries last year, Ryan beside me. It's how we weathered a cold. A blown-up mattress on the floor, so we don't have to go upstairs much, so the dogs can still keep us company, so we can nudge them toward the door.

We're better now, on the other side of the worst. It was sudden and brief for the two adults, less than twenty-four hours, but that moon-span was one of the most difficult we've had, and Maya's a bit longer, with so much laundry. I'd launder the neighborhood for her though. Every last stitch.

dear maya | eleven months

2011-12-03T15:20:00.000-06:00

Dear Maya:

It's that time again, that one-month mark, and here we are, at the momentous month-before-your-first-birthday month. December, with snow on the ground and you, my love, are smiling through your first stomach virus. My poor baby! It's terrible to watch you make that wailing-cough that marks the start of Get the towel! Quick! and this, the first, a surprise flat across my pillow, my head just-lifted right before, as you thrust your upset body across me and whomp, there it was, stomach virus.

Why do you smile so soon after? I suppose for the same reason you bark out three sharp bursts after your flu booster and are done. The same reason you rarely cry anyway--only when you are hungry, dangit, or you don't want to go to sleep but must.

You are officially a toddler, but only in the walking sense. What other sense might there be? There is some contention, and I have some agreement--there is a mentality to the term toddler, an association that involves some moderate vocabulary (beyond the sounds of kee-kee and dadadadada and mumumum) and interaction. You're nearly-there though. You're a bright little bugger and amaze me every day.

I love this: you kiss. At first, it was an open-mouth of delight when my big face would approach your little one, but now you've learned to purse your lips a bit. I ask: "Can I have a kiss?" and you sun your face with mine, and there's a little peck and some delight on both our parts and sometimes you offer your smile up for another go. Sometimes I am shocked with delight when I feel a little brush and there you are, giving me a kiss without my even requesting it. I love this time, when it's OK to kiss your mama right on the mouth and you're not embarrassed by any affection. You're adorably more reluctant to smooch on your papa though, and I think that has something to do with his furry face.

You've still got six teeth. You still sleep between us at night. You still go to sleep around midnight. You still know how to turn pages, especially if we ask, "Can you turn the page for me?" as we're reading and we pop up the right board a little higher (we're only hinting a little bit though). You still love to read books to yourself, pull them from the basket and whisper to the pages. You still love to snuggle. You're still exhaustingly adventurous. You still nurse quite a bit.

But you also love organic puffs and yogurt and various mashed up foods. You love bananas and bread. You've taken to tossing whatever you don't like over your left shoulder, tucking it behind your ear: slivers of meat, peas, whatever food we have sitting before you that is less appealing than what we've just now offered you... and you love to offer the food to the dogs and Gatsby also. You've learned to pull pieces from a hunk of bread and drop them to the dogs so you can prolong the experience. And you are unbearably hilarious when you do the continual dropping. I mean this, honestly. I know I shouldn't laugh so robustly when you do it, but I'm charmed. We hand you your cup and you grin and drop. Hand, grin, drop. Zip, zip, plop.

I often ask, What did I do to deserve this? I know I try to be a decent person and I've married a really fantastic guy; in many ways, I think I spent all my lucky bits when I partnered up with him. But you are fantastic. You are a good baby in so many ways. You've spoiled me. To wake up to you, to spend my day with you, to love, to long. Sometimes I look at you and think, What will I do when she's all grown up? I know I'm blessed with much longer, a great future, so I shouldn't be selfish and think so far down the line--the world deserves you too--but I'm greedy and want this, right now, this, to be my always.

Well, maybe not exactly this moment, since you're still urping all over. (Your papa jokingly pointed out how he's been holding you through this sickness, but the only throwing up you've done has been on me, and I said it could mean one of two things--one, you're trying to tell me something about how you really feel about me or, and I hope it's this one, if it's anything at all, you simply feel I'm a safe place to do this sort of thing, in which case, barf on, my love, barf on.)

(Yeah, you think I'm silly, don't you?)

I love watching you dance. You sometimes will squat-kneel and then bounce up and down on your calves and "Wah-ahah-ahah!" in rhythm or you'll just bob your head in time to the music. You played your grandpa's guitar a little this past month and you always like to tap on your papa's. We already knew you loved drums of all sorts, and we discovered at your other grandparents' place that you like the keyboard. Is it a childlike love of sound, or is this something specific to you? Have you got that quiet love of music in your veins? Your da plays the guitar, your grandda, your aunt married a guitarist, and your ma played the violin for a wee bit. In fact, that grandda is actually polishing up a musical he wrote; it's a little Avenue Q-naughty, but we'll still take you to see it this summer. You've already listened to many of the songs over break while I was critiquing it. I love the idea of tying bells to your feet and listening to you jingle as you move around the room.

We took you to Little Movers' Yoga last week, and you walked around--"like a peacock," Emily said--and sometimes you came back to me for the interactive songs and swaying. You've now wielded crayons and fingerpaints. We went to the Children's Museum and we spent some time at the library's story hour.

Oh, Maya. I try to burn you onto my memory. You, just like this. Because you change so fast, every day, you change.

And you're always, always beautiful.
Love you. Gros bisous.
mama

princess painter pants

2011-11-30T20:38:00.000-06:00

Maya and Olivia had their first Little Movers yoga session at Blooma, and because of the witching hour and traffic in the Twin Cities, Emily had us over for a little play date. The girls exchanged a princess crown and experienced some finger (and diaper and leg) painting:

maya and physics

2011-11-28T18:48:00.000-06:00

I saved the crinkled paper with only her marks on it, slipped it into the window well, know it will be the starting point of many more. She's more interested in flipping them about--my husband's face bemused as one crayon leaps over her shoulder and onto his plate of lasagna and salad. This is how the world works to her now; it is a physics experiment. Gravity, tunneling, the motion of one baby-turning-toddler from one space to another.

maya's first thanksgiving

2011-11-27T17:23:00.000-06:00

Last year, I was fat and padding around my in-laws' home. This year, we returned to tradition, made our way down the swoop of Lake Michigan and into the smallest of towns, the lake in the woods, my grandma's home on Middle Sand Lake. Every visit, I wonder, with her kidneys as they are, her multiple dialysis treatments each week: will this be the last? I'm so glad Maya Marjorie has been able to see this Marjorie Sue--not once, not twice, but three times now. She has twisted her little finger-spires onto my grandma's palms, has traced the lines, has said things in her pixie-language to her, little secrets for the name-sharer.

So this is the first thing for which I declare thanks: four generations.

My mother's voice in the kitchen.

We brought the turkey again: ordered it from the local co-op, who purchased it from a local farm, where the turkeys are free-range and organic and delicious. This turkey simmered in merlot and tumbled from the bone and Maya tucked her piece behind her left ear, tossed it over her shoulder like making a wish for luck with salt, which is what she does with the things she's least interested in, like peas with the skin still on and too many oyster crackers. This left crevice is the place the dogs love most after she's swept from her chair and toddling in the living room.

She did eat the buds of the broccoli, tasted the fresh cranberry sauce of apples and oranges and, of course, cranberries themselves, and loved the stuffing the most. Easy little cubes of bread and she loves the pumpkin pie, which, rumor has it, was made from a pumpkin scraped clean, denuded by my patient husband, when my mother decided from scratch was the way she wanted to make it.

I'm grateful for the mornings, when we wake up and her barely-there hair furzes up in the back, little wisps of bedhead. I'm grateful for the moment when he comes home, and some days, it's just in time and I haven't showered yet and she's hung onto me like a monkey because her nose has run for days, but even on the most ordinary of days, how good is that unique way she lights up for him. I'm grateful for nights when the three of us fold into our bed, Maya between us, the little bell ringing against her parents' edges, her singing to us, flapping her arms up and down in glee, her hands on our faces, her saying ouch now when she smacks us, as if her patting-exploration were called this and not how her parents react, her Yah! Yah! Daddeee! call.

I'm grateful this is my life. Grateful for the days, for the nights, for the soft movements of sleep and the sweet care of daylight. I'm grateful to look down and see Maya "reading" to herself from her book basket and whispering to each magical page. I'm so glad I get to love her for all of my life, that I can share that love with someone who means so much to me, that our bodies crashed together and made this creature who glows in my heart.

middle sand lake again

2011-11-26T17:41:00.001-06:00

We dragged my mother outside for another sequence of family photographs, and I've sent my favorite (along with my favorite from our autumn family photos) to my sister, who will do some fancy Photoshop magic and voila!, we shall have a pair of family photos to go in our holiday cards. (Above are the photos I took while we headed back inside.)

Of course, I can't resist sharing this outtake from my mother's camera because Maya looks so goofy--maybe like she's going to take a bite out of the camera-woman:

today, at middle sand lake

2011-11-25T17:21:00.001-06:00

She's grown so much since her last visit here, when she was fourteen weeks old. But she's essentially the same adorable babe, ridiculously so. She says to all: Happy thanksgiving! I hope you are able to spend time with loved ones this weekend. I'm going back to my disposable turkey pan now; it's great for standing in and surfing in and crinkling and smashing and sledding and wearing on my head and...

in which my daughter channels her mama

2011-11-24T16:35:00.000-06:00

Our Thanksgiving was spent on the road, but we left early enough, and Ryan championed nearly the whole drive (oh, husband, thank you--for letting me sleep in the car, for getting up with the dogs early), and we arrived before the sun set. A record.

Maya decided, at her precocious age of nearly-eleven-months, that she would channel me as an itty bitty and helped my father play the guitar--"helped"--and tugged his glasses off in repetition. He sang a few songs that have now planted themselves firmly in my head, but that's OK because she delighted in a little head-bobbing and giggled at the plunking sounds of the strings when she smashed her hands against the frets.

And just in case there wasn't enough happiness in the pictures before, here are a few more of Maya and her great-grandma, the one whose first name is her middle name: Maya Marjorie Kiefer and Marjorie Sutton. So much to be thankful for.

music (wo)man

2011-11-22T15:54:00.000-06:00

Maya has now pounded the (plastic) ivories a few times at her grandparents' place. Poor Sassy in the background, looking a bit worse for the ear-wear. She's even shakily standing up on the darn thing, doing a little wiggle, and she loves to watch her Grandma Sue dance joyfully (behind me, so I couldn't sneak any photos, curses!).

We can see how she fits into the Kiefer fold, and I'm glad I had plenty of exposure to Jimmy and Jack for this. She has exuberance! energy! verve! curiosity! willingness to crawl over and under everything! desire to taste it all!

And now, Hadley. Just six days ago, the Kiefers welcomed another little into their fold: Hadley Susan Reid, born last Wednesday. Photos that follow are stolen from either Megan or Sean's Facebook page:

(Megan, by the by, for those who don't know, is Ryan's younger sister, if you are trying to calculate how Hadley and this crew are related to the bear.)

next summer

2011-11-21T20:04:00.000-06:00

1/ Our garden will be resurrected. We did let it have a fallow year, though we still got: strawberries, raspberries, and a perfect, tiny pumpkin. We'll blanket it with compost and pamper it in the spring. I am grateful to Angie for sending along this Tend post, and I have a copy of Roots Shoots Buckets and Boots: Gardening Together With Children. I look forward to having our own family traditions--often Ryan picks out one new vegetable to try for the year (my favorite was carrots, and we almost had perfect corn one year), and I want Maya to have her own corner that belongs to her--she can put whatever she wants into it, and I'll help her tend that spot, but it's really going to be hers. I've ordered a few accessories for her too.

2/ We will not miss any camping trips. Our annual trip with the Urtels and Chad (we should call ourselves the ErUrMen or something, a little combination of our last names) didn't work out this year, the first in six, because Maya and I were flattened by a mighty cold. I even went the year I was battered about by morning sickness. We will go this coming June, and I hope to add a few more state parks to our collection.

3/ Ryan got me a canoe last Christmas! And I never got it registered, never put it in the water. I'm a horror. That's at the top of my to-do. There are books at the library about good places to go in our humble state, and we'll have to collect some life vests too. This bitty is going to start swim lessons upon her first birthday, which is when the schedule starts at our local YMCA, and given her exploratory proclivities, she might try boat-hopping. At eighteen months, she won't quite be swimming the 500, but even now, she's not afraid of the water, loves it, and one summer Penny spilled from a canoe at my grandparents' lake and I unthinkingly hopped in after her, so at least I know I have some semblance of instincts.

how she's moving lately

2011-11-20T19:56:00.001-06:00

first snow

2011-11-19T11:00:00.000-06:00

First snow of the season, that is. I have to clarify; I went into labor while snow was falling and January had just begun.

Maya has taken to walking with her father's help robustly. She's sputtering at six-or-seven steps in a row without hands or furniture for balance. She's eating bananas without me mashing them before, making a grand mess of herself. She's saying, "keekee" when Gatsby is near and labeling her father as a variation of "dada." She will sweetly offer her face when I ask, "Can I have a kiss?" and sometimes will initiate the process herself, sometimes let it be a tag-team effort. I ask, she offers, she offers, I ask. She lets me know when she wants more of something with head bobs and gestures and knows how to come to me when I offer my hands and how to ask to be held by approaching me in a particular way. She will "read" to herself and knows how to turn the pages (often in the correct direction) and to look at the left page first, then the right. She pets the cats and dogs more gently, though I still catch her chewing on the end of Gatsby's tail once in a while. She loves to watch videos of herself and loves other babies and children, will watch them at restaurants endlessly.

Right now, she's covered in banana-gloop and contentedly painting her highchair tray. I expect I'll be reporting her transition to toddlerhood soon enough. Her mobility limits different things now; each stage of her growth has limited and expanded my world in such different ways. She's learning to climb on top of things--couch pillows, book baskets, so that she can reach what she's yearning for (usually the thing we took away from her earlier, like a dog fuzz or an envelope we need to shred). I admit, I have taken to napping when she naps once again. And oh, how I love our naps, that quiet intake of our breath, and the way she looks so wise when her face is relaxed, as if her mind, at rest, is processing all that wonder and curiosity that surged just moments before.

a minnesota children's museum visit

2011-11-17T20:42:00.000-06:00

"While we try to teach our children about life,

our children teach us what life is all about."

-- Angela Schmidt

Before we got there: I had to turn back home to fetch something, I ended up circling myself out of a parking garage, Maya had a forward-facing explosion, the likes of which I haven't seen since her newborn days. Oh, happy, for good diaper-bag packing, and back-up outfits that are favorites too. And happy for play date best friends who are very patient and content themselves in playing with smooth stones in the gift shop until this harried mama arrived with her babe in arms.

There is a look a baby gets, most exemplified in the photo of her pressing the button for great horned owl, that means rapt fascination, and this look sprung up on Maya's sweet mug constantly in our time in Habitot, a room that was almost perfect to let her run wild (there were stairs, and she's not quite ready to be unsupervised on stairs, no matter how shallow). I should say: she ran wild, but her mama was not far behind, more at risk for falling in her slippery socks. And the room was perfectly simple: the floors gently sloped, and there was a division of experience, from pond to prairie to woods to cave bluffs, with a carpeted bridge she swore she could walk across on her own, and a space of winter with bells to ring. There was never too much: three buttons to sound out animal calls, three strands of jingle bells, a soft nest with soft stone-colored eggs, a few touches on the texture wall, a hollow with a simple animal costume or two. No feeling of being overwhelmed and plenty of opportunity to make the kind of observation about the world that lights one up from within.

I see a membership in our future, a regular pilgrimage to this fantastic place, and I love that we're only at the beginning. There are so many other spaces for the fostering of wonder, and I think it is safe to say that my heart is happiest when I'm watching this little bear engulf and embrace the world with such verve and joy.

in progress :: seven seas

2011-11-14T14:04:00.000-06:00

This is sometimes what happens when a mother like mine comes to visit: the world of crafts explodes in my living room.

Initially, the plan was to make a set of solstice pajamas (using this flannel).

The plan exploded when we went to the craft store. Why did we go? Oh yes, for part of the favors for Maya's first birthday. (It's a surprise.) (So is the set of shirts that will go with the flannel pajamas.)

But we got distracted. The next derby bout is pirate-themed, so I wanted to make her a pirate crown. Above, the progress.

Then we saw some pirate fabric. So I decided we should make some derby pants. Then we saw some more pirate fabric. I couldn't decide which to get, and my mother so tellingly suggested, Get them both. So I did.

There are now two pairs of pants in progress and as of this afternoon, all I have is the cuffs to sew. I did it all by myself, with my mother looking over my shoulder.

We laid out the pattern board and immediately: zip and zip and zip. Maya, it turns out, loves the feel of cool corrugated cardboard under her knees. (That's her grandma / meme's voice at the end there, inviting Maya off the cutting board so, you know, maybe we can finish something before midnight.)

But we miscounted how much fabric we'd need for the pants (only half a yard, and we got a bit over a full yard of each), so we decided to combine the fabric with some mermaid quarters I had to a Maya-sized quilt, and then we had leftovers from that, so the very first thing I got done yesterday was a doll-sized quilt for her bear:

Ah-hem, Disco Werewolf. He loves it. Stayin' alive!

Ryan has returned from a work trip to Tennessee and my mother has headed back to Wisconsin with a car full of persuasive essays to grade (sorry, Mom!) and tonight, I have yoga. It's a nice, peaceful life we have around here. Arrrr!

dear maya | ten months

2011-11-10T17:37:00.000-06:00

Dear Maya:

This month's letter is late for one good reason, one less-good: in happiness, we have been busy, watching Aunt Meryl shine as a book artist, watching Aunt Angie bump hips as a derby artist, and meeting your new cousin Caleb on the other side of Wisconsin, all in rapid, exhausting succession.

In less lovely news, you have had back-to-back colds; this most recent one has those snot sneezes that resemble garden slugs, and oh how you do not adore having your nose swiped, no matter how kind the wiper.

We've had some lovely autumn celebration trips this month: to Wisconsin for Halloween and to the apple orchard with your papa and with Emily and her little Olivia, we went to the farm:

It's still amazing to me that you and Caleb are even allowed residence in the same category of baby. You're on the verge of toddlerhood: you stand now from a crouch on a regular basis and you've now take two steps in a row, twice. I keep flashing the video recorder on you in hopes of catching those two shuffle-steps, but I haven't quite gotten it yet. We have plenty of this drunken stagger:

I'm not as good at video-taking as I am at photo-taking, and I know now, with your rapid changes, with your grandparents a state away, it might be a nice thing if I could get better at this. For now, I know there is appreciation for this wobbling, grainy, darkened variation.

I'm still finding ways to be myself, a self-outside-of-you. I spent a lot of October at the Minnesota Center for the Book Arts, helping Meryl put together her artist's book, and also taking a class for myself. I also became Assistant Poetry Editor over at Midway Journal, which has allowed you lots of fun paper to make nests with when I'm reading through the slush pile, and some of my own work, with you as a centerpiece is being accepted by journals elsewhere. It's nice to see these worlds converging.

But I'm also finding myself more comfortable in that mama role. More confident. I've come a long way from the dark-winter-place, and you've always been that new love of my life.

You still: sleep between us. For a good nine or so months, you slept in the crook of my arm, allowing me to roll you over my stomach when I wanted to switch sides, but this month, you've dropped all tolerance for this and have taken up your own space in the center of the bed. We still are attached in some way--your hand on my shoulder, my arm around your torso, your foot planted on my head. Your papa asked me if it is typical for babies to concuss their parents, and I said, yes, if they are co-sleeping. Recently, you slammed your hard head into my nose so roughly, I swear it would break and be crooked like your papa's. Fortunately, this was just hyperbole, but I kept checking to see if any blood was leaking out anyway.

You have started waking up early enough to go to story time at the library. I love love seeing you interact with other littles. I'm learning when to intervene (sharing is a concept that will be learned a ways down the road) and when to let you discover how to meet and greet. I can tell you this: poking them in the eye probably isn't the kindest, no matter how curious you are to the squish.

Our days give me smaller bouts of freedom. With your cold, you've been a bit of a clinger, but many days, you'll play by emptying your book basket, one book flung over your shoulder at a time, and then scoot across the floor with them as if they were skateboards or sleds. You love your stacking toy your grandma crocheted you and she knit you what she calls a Maya Bear, but we call Disco Werewolf.

When you fuss, it's not just hunger or exhaustion but protest. Don't leave the room! But you still will swing quietly while I shower; soon, you will outgrow it, or maybe you already have, and I will have to find new ways to keep you safe while I have my only-free-ten-minutes of the day.

You are an explorer. You climb things and crawl through things--you like to make your way underneath the end-tables in the living room, but since there are cords back there, we have to tuck pillows in odd places. Our house looks strange, with its makeshift baby gates, but when a house is built in 1890 and the attached dining room has six or so chock-full bookcases (and we know your favorite game!), then one must adapt.

I'm so blessed to be able to spend your littlesthood home with you. I enjoy teaching, but I don't love it nearly as much as I love your every change, love cuddling with you when you (we) nap, love seeing every time you shuffle two-steps. I love poetry, I love literature, I love making things with my hands, and this autumn, I'm finally learning how to balance, and embrace.

You are the best bear. I kiss your toes. Nomnomnom.

Love,
mama

cedarburg

2011-11-07T23:51:00.000-06:00

The drive there: an hour of cheerful chatter, two hours of sleep, and then a little burst, a swerve to the side of a farm-field, the quiet click of hazard lights, the desperate suck of a fretful near-toddler, still-babe. I love her so much, and it gave me such pangs to hear her cry out.

We made it long after the sun set, but with daylight savings, that is so incredibly early. We begin to settle into winter.

And there he was: Caleb Richard Nelson, just one-and-a-half weeks in this world, a mewling creature, my best friend's second son.

I told her: He reminds me of Mister Burns. And someone else. His lips moved. My friend Danno. It's a compliment. We love Danno.

Maya got to pet her first newborn, and she was actually gentle, which was remarkable. She whispered and cheese'ed (a word-sound she makes) and was read to by Richard while I showered, and Caleb had to zip to the doctor's to have his belly button cauterized and it was discovered he's lost still more weight--he was expending more calories sucking through the nipple guard than he was gaining from the milk. She worried over the struggle, but he flew solo smoothly.

Four of the best elements of my birthday today: I spent the morning and afternoon with my best friend, my daughter, and even a little time at a bookstore, and in the evening, I got home with enough time to spend some time with my husband and daughter. Three people, one place, and the night before, I even carved out enough time to read more than eight pages of my book.

I so love watching Maya be read to. I so love reading to her too.

My best birthday gift came from my husband in the form of a sweet note inside of my birthday card. I read it and got all bleary eyed. (And re-read it a few hours later. And cried again. So sweet.)

Unfortunately, the little bear gave me a few trickier birthday moments, such as wailing in the middle of the night, refusing to fall back to sleep or nurse peacefully or stop wailing and wailing. So much so that when I came down that morning, Richard and Kelly chided me, asking how I slept. Ha. As the day progressed, I realized what shouldn't be possible, but in a Minnesota autumn, anything is: a second cold rolling in. We just finished the cold with a fever and sharp cough and this is followed up with a deep congestion; the bear couldn't breathe. And she's been sneezing slugs of snot every since. She looks delighted in the above photograph, but I think you can see it around her eyes, which were glued shut after her nap, and maybe you can see what was to come, which was a hellish drive across Wisconsin, where my arm was wrapped and warped into the backseat, her fingers wrapped around my one, our listening to Mumford and Sons at high volume overandover with me often singing along, making up lyrics when the music quieted too much for her, me finally sending a message to my husband that we are going to have to give in and do infant medicine for the first time (save the baby Tylenol the doctor gave her before her first shots). I love her so; it breaks my heart to see her so unwell, and I keep asking baby Jesus, or the goddess, or whomever has any kind of control, to give me this stupid sickness and she can have the immune system boost. I hope tonight's sleep is better than last.

And I hope Kelly forgives me for the quick exit. I meant to stay an extra night, but after Maya's wailings beating out any of Caleb's or even Christian's nightmare, I didn't want to disrupt any more of this family adapting to a new edition, and even worse, I fear we may have left a trail of germs, new ones, when we were so careful to wait the night after he was born, when I was quaking in fever-chills, and she was discovering a whole new love of her life.

There's room for it all, isn't there? Your heart, it just grows wider and wider.

bang, bang!

2011-11-06T12:56:00.000-06:00

We dressed her in her official derby duds: a tulip crusher North Star Roller Girls onesie, pink skull legwarmers and matching pill skull soft shoes. No, the pink was not a nod to the opposing team, but a way of me avoiding what a cute little "fella" I have there.

The bout sold out--and fortunate for us, we had already bought our tickets, and friends got there early enough, so we had a pair of rows, and no, no, Sia is not drinking that beer, it hasn't been opened yet.

So Maya got to watch her "Auntie Ctrl Freak" in her very first derby bout, and I cheered from the stands, wearing my own Banger Sisters blue, and I hopped around, trying to get a decent photograph of Ang, though they have these intensely good photographers, and there she is, skating around, and the announcer shouts out, Molly? Molly! Your favorite control freak wants to wish you a happy birthday! and I grinned like a fool, and the bout was incredibly close--if only they had just a little bit more time--their last jam could have gone either way.

What I love most about these last two nights, seeing Meryl's work and Angie's too, is that I get to show my daughter these fantastic things women can do. The world is wide and big and women can be powerful and strong and creative and so many levels of wonderful. I have such a great circle of girl friends who believed she could so she did--Emily running so many races this autumn, Kelly being brave with another birth and a rocky start, etcetera. Maya will grow and admire, just like I do.

PS: NSRG photo set here.

maya's second art opening

2011-11-04T23:15:00.000-05:00

Maya donned her Whitman onesie and headed into the November night to Minneapolis, home of the Minnesota Center for the Book Arts, and place where her Aunt Meryl (one of my dearest friends from the MFA program) had an opening for her artist's book, accompanied by five other emerging artists. The concept of the MCBA mentorship is this: one has a solid start in one particular arts field and wishes to converge the experiences with that of the book arts. MCBA gives some funding, some coursework, a mentor, and a year later, six stunned and talented artists find themselves surrounded by friends and family and little cups of wine and babies who can crawl. (The three above? That's Olivia on the left, and Maya, doing her poking thing, and Fred, who is visiting with his folks from Michigan, who were doing a weekend letterpress immersion.)

Maya managed to get passed from one loving set of arms to another: above is Shawn (yes, Shawn of the he-tattooed-my-arm, of the Meryl's-husband variety) and Opal too. She also flirted with most of the crowd, including Amanda, who is one of the artists, and pregnant with her first.

We let the babies explore a bit until we realized there were beer and pickles (no, it was classier: beer and wine and pickles and cheese and crackers and olives and asparagus and whatnot), so the girls grabbed some pint-sized samples and we hung out by the upstairs Vandercook where Maya commenced to drooling pickle all over her (she smells like pickles, people would point out) and crawling across the storage cabinets.

And then Sia and his parents, Casey and Ardeshir, arrived, and it's always lovely to see Sia, not just because he is incredibly charming (and set the bar awfully high on cute, and our book club got an infusion of cute in the past year) but because he is about half a year ahead of Maya, so I can see her future, so to speak, whenever we greet him. And Casey gets to try it all out and report back and I fumble right along behind her.

There was performance art. Maya was fascinated. She was also just as fascinated with the crowd, gazing up at the artist.

I think it's fair to say Maya has a bit of a crush on Shawn; perhaps this is because he was one-half of the first art opening she attended. Perhaps because Shawn's arms are open and happy to hold her; he is the hugging sort.

Or maybe it was the tie.

Either way, Maya has once again been exposed to one of the niches of my world, along with plenty of other sweet babes, and I wonder if one day she'll love paper and textures as much as I do... and as I write this, I realize how entertaining the contemplation is, given her incredible attraction to paper-in-the-mouth.

[A post in which I take a closer look at the art: dream of a perfect interface (four)]

warm baths and cold colds

2011-11-02T23:10:00.000-05:00

This little branch of the Kiefer family is sharing a cold.

It started on Tuesday, when the bear and I headed to the farm, and that thumbtack soreness in the back of the throat settled in. Wednesday, sore. Thursday, ache.

I emailed Kelly that night, told her how she could get a hold of me, asked if there was anything else she wanted me to bring. Her own mother did the same; I wonder how much was premonition?

Unfortunately, I couldn't meet Caleb in his first days, but I will meet him in his first weeks. The cold.

Friday night, we stopped at my parents' house before we headed to his parents' house, and in the passing of a few small hours, the world began to spin and I wondered why my leg-bones were being replaced with cartilage.

So: fever, shakes, chills, sleep, that burst of heat, the slick-sweat on the back of my neck.

And Maya got it on Monday.

And Ryan has it today. He went to sleep at eight o'clock, and his head explodes at every small movement, every noise above a whisper. Needless to say, we might be sleeping outside of the family bed.

The best comforts: knowing that your daughter is safe while you rest in bed with a book of poems. Taking a long shower or a hot bath. Down comforters. Stew.

Also: when I was upstairs on Friday night, in the bed I slept in at Christmas, I thought to myself how much it felt like the holiday, when my insides burst out either end to my outsides--there must be something about a chilly evening, with a Kiefer grandchild loud in the kitchen, an ache in the bones, that just screams holidays! to me.

Or, it's this: being taken care of by very loving people in a time when the body needs it most, turning one's self over, the vigilant self that is hyper-aware of where the baby is at all times--there is something beautiful about that feeling when the body relaxes, knows The Baby is in good hands, knows it's OK to let go.

maya's first halloween costume

2011-11-01T16:28:00.000-05:00

She doesn't love hats. We were acclimating her.

My mother made Maya's first Halloween costume--she is a bear! Rar! She knit the hat and thumbless mitts and crocheted the bear feet-paws, then added felt claws. She cut pink felt to make the letters of Maya's name, serifed font, just as I like it.

We stopped at my parents' house on the way home this weekend. She fell asleep for a three-and-a-half hour nap right after these photos were taken.

I have recently discovered that taking any kind of organized photograph of Maya is difficult. She wakes from a nap and looks serious. She gets outside and is distracted by the dogs, the sounds of leaves.

She's becoming more and more a little girl. Busy and sweet.

family photographs

2011-10-31T23:37:00.000-05:00

We used his parents' yard as a backdrop--those colors!--and I adore the green of the yard with the yellowy orange of the trees. Autumn is so hard to catch in this corner of the map.

For my (ah-hem thirtysomething) birthday, I asked my husband for a family portrait. My mother has done a few weddings and senior portraits, and she came over just after Maya's nap, which meant she was a bit more serious than she tends to be, and also a bit more distracted (hi, if you had four dogs romping around a greeny patch, you'd watch their circus act too), plus, she's at that age where grandma is still a stranger, and wow you should have seen how she lit up when it was just me and her and her da was hopping around behind my mother like a cheerleader on too much Halloween candy.

Of course, I cannot relinquish the lens, so my camera was toted around our brief photo shoot, and here's what I saw:

I love this little girl of mine. I uploaded the swinging photo (third from bottom) to Facebook, and my dear friend Emily pointed out how much more she looks like a little girl than a baby--is it the teeth? Yes, I said. Yes, it's those toofers, but it's also her face that has slimmed down, and it's that I can hear her voice in those photographs, and it's more conversational and less just-about-noise. It's beautiful, either way. It's her walking with her papa's hands in hers. It's her so close to walking on her own. It's her telling us things very sincerely, even if we don't have vocabulary to connect us yet.

welcome to the world, caleb

2011-10-28T12:52:00.000-05:00

These photos are from Kelly and Richard's Facebook pages, where they have announced the sudden arrival of their second son, Caleb Richard Nelson.

Ryan received a phone call at two in the morning, telling me Kelly's water had broken. She told him to tell me to stay here and leave in the morning, so I settled back into the fitful state that has passed for sleep in our family bed the past four nights. When I woke, it was seven in the morning, Maya was wailing again, and I went to state on FB that I was headed to their town, to tell my mother, who was expecting me this afternoon, when: a little update popped onto the screen.

Baby arrived.

7:27 am, 7 lbs 2 oz., 20.5 inches.

Zip, zip. I knew the second would be fast, but zip! So fast, the epidural didn't even get a chance to register, and she felt him as he tore into this world. Oh, Caleb, you speedy little bugger, look at you, how much you look like you belong in that family.

Check out photographs of Christian's arrival here. Or here. When I was thinking of becoming a doula. (I still wouldn't mind. It's just that my stay-at-home-mamaness wouldn't allow for that kind of unpredictable scheduling.)

I should have just gone and moved in with the Nelsons until he arrived. I feel a little Eeyore-ish about the whole matter, but nothing could be done about it, and I'm actually thrilled: that it was so fast, that it was essentially smooth (save some pretty shockingly painful contractions), that Richard was able to return from Chicago so quickly, that her own parents were able to make their way down and get her to the hospital so fast.

Another reason I hate that she's moved farther away.

I'm so proud of my Kelly, and I'm dying to get down there, to embrace her and give her a big smooch and have Maya poke her in the eyeballs. When did I see her last? Eff, when she was moving. Sometimes I have fantasies about rippling the map as one might a picnic quilt and bringing certain cities closer together.

We have decided to hold off on my heading to the hospital; I've had a cold for a few days and would not want to give it to a newborn. We'll see how I'm doing tomorrow or the next day, but we are still going to Green Bay, where Maya will don her first Halloween costume, and we'll have some family photographs taken and my mother will help me back into the rhythm of this small project. I can feel some ghostly straining in my body, and I have to clamp down, remind myself that colds do not look good on hours-old babies.

six things my parents did

2011-10-27T17:41:00.000-05:00

There are so many ways to come into your own as a parent--I happen to read a lot of books. Too many books, most likely. (I'm culling a list of favorites here.) I peruse the internet, admire the stylings of other blogging mamas.

But one of the best ways to become a good mama is to look to the mamas you admire: there's Kelly for her deep grace, Megan and her mother (my mother-in-law) for their bottomless patience.

And there are my own parents who, lord knows, aren't perfect (we are all human) but have done so many good things that I would be lucky to bring a fraction of them into my own parenting:

1/ I've been thinking so much about this one, and that is the subject of faith. Ryan grew up Catholic, and I respect that. But I wouldn't be honest if I were to honor that tradition and have Maya baptized in this faith and agree to raise her in this way (and neither would Ryan, truth be told). I'm fine with others bringing faith into her life; I happen to have been content with my agnosticism. I'm also incredibly admiring of my parents' choice to raise me as open to faith, particularly since one is also agnostic and the other atheist, and the atheist of the pair was the one to always take us to church when we requested. (He always enjoyed a good hymn and teaches the Bible as literature, so I am guessing it wasn't complete torture for him.) They let me become baptized in the faith I selected, which was Presbyterian, though I never returned as a member, and supported my sister in the same way. Faith, I find, has many benefits, and I think my own life is lived well with those benefits but without the structure of organized religion--I try to be as good as I can, as thoughtful and considerate, and I keep stories and song close to my heart. I do miss out on the community that a church can bring, but I, in turn, also have a close knit collection of girl friends that makes my heart swell, I get along well with my family and his, and I'm learning there is also the community of new mamas (story hour at the library! this can be our church!).

2/ Speaking of books and worship, my parents gave that to me. Gave, not forced. They read, and I read too. And when I went through that nasty Baby-Sitters Club phase, she let me fill up my shelves. When we were young and visiting my mother's home state of Massachusetts, we would go on literary tours of the area--the Alcott House, Walden Pond, the House of the Seven Gables. They gave me authors to love and the desire to write myself. My mother gave me a cloth-covered blank book, which became my diary, which became my writing notebook, which became, thirty volumes later, the place where my first book would be born.

3/ That giving and opportunity is so crucial. When I was in middle school, I saw talented friends who took various lessons, and I cursed, wishing my parents bullied me into lessons of some sort. But on the other side of that time and finding talent, I know that lessons are only as good as the kid who takes them makes them. I took violin lessons eventually, and I loved playing the violin, but I didn't practice. I was decent but I put the violin down when I graduated high school and it's a thing of my past. They embraced my desire to learn, but also let it be up to me to take it to the next level. I look forward to finding out what Maya's passions will become and helping her find outlets for that.

4/ My parents never gave us rewards for grades. We never had a certain amount for every A, and while my friends made money off their good grades, they gave me this message: the reward should be the learning. And it was.

5/ My mother's biggest love, aside from her family, is her job (coupled with France, which, essentially is her job). She taught high school French for a good long while, and her retirement is a whole other issue. For me, teaching is wonderful and I deeply enjoy it, but I love writing more. So choosing to be a stay-at-home mama was simple. I hadn't really thought of it until I became one myself, but my mother really gave up a lot to be able to stay home when we were small. It was important to her, just as things like making our baby food and making us sweet clothes and sweaters were too. I value those things--that by hand, which has translated to squash in our freezer and knitted kicking bags for her last winter. (It's also translated into a fantastic Halloween costume, but not by my own hands--by my mama's--which is ohsospecial). She's also going to help me this coming month make something by hand that I hope will become a holiday tradition for my family.

6/ I grew up in Chattanooga, where there are issues of prejudice, though I've long since learned the northern states have their own troublesome variation, and one message that was clear to me was to not allow myself to become prejudiced myself--to respect other people no matter the skin tone, faith, orientation, handicap, etcetera. These kind of hatred were unacceptable in our home, and perhaps the best was the fact that it never occurred to me to have a varying viewpoint until I was older and recognized that cruelty in others.

There are so many others--a quirky sense of humor, a singing in the shower, a love of other countries and cultures--that I will treasure and attempt to pass on to my own littles.

My mother's birthday is coming up--a week from Halloween--and I've been thinking a lot about those good things and high hopes. We haven't seen the grandparents since the August weddings, which makes me feel naughty indeed, and this weekend will be a whirlwind of family. Just the kind of weekend I love.

eveland family farm

2011-10-25T20:10:00.000-05:00

Full photoset on flickr.

It was a blustery day, and Emily and I took our babes northwest to check out some llamas and alpaca and sheep! (Sheep!) The girls got to play around in the dirt and, surprisingly, Maya did not try to put everything into her mouth (just most things). I forget that not all babies are alike, so when I talked to Olivia in a grumbly voice and then kissed her on the forehead, she burst into tears, which made me feel like a real arse; I had "trained" Maya to laugh at such monster-talk by laughing afterwards myself. Each baby is in tune to his or her mama, but all mamas are certainly not alike.

We took a hayride and helped Emily pick out pumpkins for her football party this coming weekend. Maya stood between the pumpkins, pounding them like the bongos she so desperately loves, and sang out into the crisp autumn air. We learned that Olivia prefers the rattling objects, like the egg shaker Maya played with at story hour at the library this morning, so they could be a two-girl percussion set.

I continue to hold fantasies about a small hobby farm in my future, though the reality of that is nil. Maybe Maya will have a hobby farm when she grows up and her mama can live in the guest house and knit her little things as rent.

book club

2011-10-24T13:31:00.001-05:00

Yesterday, we hosted book club, and I lifted the strange barrier between living room and dining room and discovered just how un-baby-proof our entire house really is. Maya's friends Olivia, born eighteen days after her, and Sia, born in July of last year, joined four of the five book clubbers on a sunny Sunday afternoon, and my kind husband departed with the pups for a little while to tire them out a little. Those tails were getting a little too wily for my tastes, thwapping each of the shorties in their happy faces.

We learned: Maya's form of greeting is to plant her palm on her friend's face and explore. Toys are much more fascinating when they are new, and by new, I mean novel and not fresh-out-of-package, of course. Stairs are fascinating. So are dog food bins. Memoirs that recount shockingly difficult times are not (usually). If you have a friend in the roller derby, she will bring you discounted tickets and a new bumper sticker. One can teach a toddler mine but also please, which comes out puh-puh. The difference between size two diapers and size three diapers is astounding. Butternut squash soup is perfect on an autumn day. I will not oversalt the kale chips next time. There will be a next time. Gatsby is not only patient with Maya but with other littles as well.

Also: Maya loves pulling books from the bookcases.

She's doing it now, as I write this, and I'm sighing and knowing there is no solution except patience. (I will channel Gatsby, I suppose.) She's interacting with the books. I'm re-erecting the barrier. She has her own little basket of board books downstairs and one upstairs and I'm going to redirect and when she is less likely to tear the pages (oh that riiiiiip sound I've heard so often), I will re-introduce books of other textures. Until then, the chewable kind only please. Or, perhaps, the most digestible.

Side note: Kelly sent an indestructible book to Maya and it is our favorite. She can carry it around in her mouth like she likes, she can chew it and pull at it and slide around the room on it. It's phenomenal.

Tonight: yoga. Tomorrow morning: storytime at the library. Tomorrow afternoon: farm with Olivia and Emily. Life is good.