Sticks and String

So, I tried a hard thing today, at least hard for me. I took a class with Jessica at Two Sisters and Ewe to learn how to knit socks.

I guess I got cocky. After my triumphant scarf experience back in February followed by a slightly less triumphant but ultimately successful hat experience in March, I figured I was ready for socks. How hard could it be? I mean, there are two of them, granted, but they don't look that complicated. You just need a cyclinder and a place for your toes, right? Maybe a place for your heels? Piece o' cake.

Jessica is already a pro at everything except maybe socks. Which is probably why she didn't start freaking out when I did, which was when I sat down at the table. In front of me (courtesy of Jessica's generosity and cornucopian stash) was a skein of "sock yarn," very pretty multi-colored stuff about the width of fishing twine. Okay. Next to it was a plastic packet of bamboo skewers, the kind I use for making Chicken Satay on the grill. Only it turns out they were actually knitting needles, and that I was going to be knitting with all five of them. At the same time.

Our teacher, Nadia, was adorable. She was sort of Goth and wore a knitted headscarf around her dyed-black hair that she probably made herself. "Let's start by casting on 48 stitches," she began. "Use a long-tail cast-on." A what now? Turns out my "cheap and dirty" finger wrap cast-on has been expedient but will not be the sum total of my cast-on education. She "demonstrated" how to pinch the yarn like a harp string between thumb and index finger, fling my hand open like a jazz dancer, and then swoop the whole thing downwards like a bird. Only then was I to begin jabbing one of the sticks hither and yon, in the hope that it would result in stitches on my needle.

I began to sweat and shake. That is par for the course when I learn something new. Nadia seemed a bit agog at my rudimentary skills, but she was polite. By some miracle, I figured it out, and managed to cast on my 48 stitches. Then she showed me how to "slip" the stitches onto the other sticks, 12 each until I had four, and then bind the whole thing together like a God's Eye from camp, sans Popsicle sticks.

At this point, I was feeling pretty cool. I had learned a new cast-on, and had accomplished some complicated stick architecture with the slipped stitches. In my mind, the socks were practically done. Then Nadia asked me to "knit one, purl one" in the round for 18 rows.

"Ummm...." I said. "Knit one, purl one in the same row?" I could tell that Nadia was having difficulty even comprehending my lack of experience. I have only knit and purled in alternating rows. To alternate stitches, I'd actually have to know what a knit and purl looked like, and I'd have to "prepare the yarn" after each stitch so it would sit in the right place.

That last bit was where she lost me. She said something about wrapping towards the top and bottom, which I never understood. I spoke of wrapping right and left, which she never understood. Then we settled on "do everything counter-clockwise," and I had a moment when I thought I was getting it. But every time I showed it to Nadia, she said, "You're twisting your stitches."

Readers, I don't know what twisted stitches look like, so I didn't know how I was making them. Stitch after stitch, I knit when I should have purled, and purled when I should have knit. I wrapped top when it was bottom, and bottom when it was top. I kept jabbing the needle through the almost molecular loops and reminding myself that using all those needles is a bit like driving in the snow: just don't look directly at it. Suddenly, I glanced up, head spinning, eyes glazed. I got up from my chair and wandered over to the other side of the store, where I tried to relax by touching the beautiful soft skeins of yarn hanging everywhere. Didn't work. Each one seemed to be taunting me, "You can't make socks out of us! You can't make socks out of us!"

I hate to admit defeat, even if something is hard. I have a childhood history of quitting hobbies that I'm still trying to shake. But I wasn't having any fun, and my eyes were really killing me. Nadia broke it to me gently: "If I'd known you hadn't done much knitting, I would have suggested that socks were a bit ambitious." A nice lady next to me touched my arm and said, "I donated my sock yarn. Let me show you this shawl I made instead." Meanwhile, a girl across the table who appeared to be six years old was whipping out the fanciest socks I've ever seen. Maybe she's been knitting since birth, I told myself. After all, babies have to do a lot of sitting around.

And Readers, why do they call it "knitting in the round?" That sucker was a square if I ever saw one.

But Not Underneath

Jarrah is taking swimming lessons right now at the YMCA. It's a two-week immersion program (hee hee) with parent participation. The Rupperts are in our class, too, by design, and a handy design it is, since they have been very helpful both in the water and out.

So far we've had a different teacher each time, and the second one, Miss Kaitlin, was better. Miss Nicki was perfectly sweet, but Miss Kaitlin was a bit more hands-on with the suggestions. And by the second lesson we were needing more suggestions because, well, Jarrah is not a natural fish.

The skills we've been learning include arm stroking, kicking, back-floating, ducking under and climbing out of the pool. I'm not being sarcastic about the last one--turns out that a big part of child water safety involves being able to get oneself out of the water once one has gone in. Most of these skills are accompanied by little songs, and sometimes the kids get a ball to throw and then swim towards it. Jarrah doesn't like to throw her ball, and when she does, she prefers that I convey her to the ball through my own efforts rather than hers.

And that's about where we are skill-wise, Dear Readers. Jarrah is very fond of the water, and I am fond of being in it with her, as she snuggles in my arms and hugs me for a half-hour that she otherwise wouldn't, since she's not a hugger. She hasn't cried or seemed scared, but she has some definite ideas about what she will and will not do in a pool. For starters, she doesn't want her face wet. She does not want to blow bubbles. She doesn't want to kick. She doesn't want to lay on her back. When gently coerced into prone positions where she begins to feel unsafe, her voice gets high and shrill and she repeats "No, thank you! No, thank you!" until I bring her back to hugging position. Strangely, though, she seems completely relaxed, smiling and laughing, until prodded out of her comfort zone. I guess that sounds like most of us.

There's a song that accompanies the dunking exercise that concludes the lesson, and it goes "Tick-tock! Tick-tock! I'm a little cuckoo clock! Tick-tock! Tick-tock! Now I'm ticking one o'clock!" Apparently, kids can be persuaded to dunk better if they get used to having their ears wet, so the teachers have encouraged us to wag the children from side to side during the "tick-tock" part, toss them in the air at "o'clock," and finish with a mutual dunking. We don't get that far, though, because Jarrah starts yelling, "No tick-tock! No tick-tock!" and clings to my torso like a barnacle. And you know what, Readers? I find that I don't much want to dunk, either. I've done it a few times, to be a sport, but it seems awfully wet and chemical-y. How was I ever on the swim team? Because, we've been told, going underneath is part of swimming. Who knew?

In any case, Jarrah is not in a rush to master basic water safety. I'm trying to be okay with that. I hear that being okay with things is a big part of parenting. Wish me luck.

Don't Touch the Boat

Jarrah has been enjoying movies lately. We went to see Shrek the Third earlier this summer, and today we joined the Rupperts for Ratatouille, which was clever and even incorporated some fun "foodie" references.

One movie that's made a big impression on her in recent months is Finding Nemo (though she calls him "Meemo.") For anyone who hasn't seen this colorful classic, it's about a little clownfish who gets captured off the Great Barrier Reef and ends up in an aquarium inside a dentist's office in Sydney. His father, Marlin, sets out to rescue him, at various times aided and hindered by a forgetful but adorable blue fish named Dory.

The film, in the manner of responsible kiddie movies, has a number of messages to impart, including "Love will find a way" and "Friendship can be found in unexpected places." A more subtle theme explores what we forfeit and what we gain by facing our fears.

And it's on the subject of the latter that Finding Nemo has the greatest impact on Jarrah. Nemo gets into trouble, indeed, the entire plot is driven, by a single instance of flagrant disobedience on his part. Not that Marlin, his doting but overprotective father, isn't also to blame. It's his overzealous warnings that provoke Nemo, embarrassed in front of his new school friends, to do the thing that Marlin commands him not to do: Nemo touches the boat.

A simple act, but one with swift consequences. Nemo places his little fin against what looks like a fishing boat, and seconds later, a masked diver appears out of nowhere to scoop him up in a net. "Never to be seen again" might apply, except that the diver drops his mask and Dory is able to read his address on it.

The scene is full of anticipation and dread. Marlin shouts to his son with increasing desperation, reminding Nemo of his limitations, and Nemo--stubborn, contrary--continues to swim past "the drop-off," defiantly heading for open water where he is an easy target for any predator. Nemo doesn't say anything during this stand-off, but the look on his face is familiar to anyone with a two-year-old. The look says: Make me. Go on, make me.

So much of my days with Jarrah is spent warning her about the perils of the world. Don't open the front door--someone might take you away. Don't wander off in the parking lot--a car might smoosh you. Don't stand on that chair--you might fall off and crack your head open. Don't eat any more raisins--you'll get a tummy ache. I warn and warn and warn and then I threaten and I warn some more. Does she listen? It depends. Sometimes she complies with nary a fuss; other times she seems not to hear me. Sometimes she looks right at me and does what she wants to do anyway, just like a certain orange fish.

"Don't touch the boat" is the one moment from Finding Nemo that Jarrah quotes exactly, and she quotes it often. "Don't touch the boat," she tells us, and then she adds something important. "Listen to Daddy." Then she'll reinforce it a few times: "Listen to Daddy; I no touching the boat."

It seems to me that the central message of toddlerhood is "Don't touch the boat." Don't touch the boat, my child. You have no idea what could happen, but I do, so listen to me. It's for your own good. Someday you'll understand.

In some primal way, this has got to be comforting to a two-year-old. If you just listen to Daddy, everything will be fine. The rest of the crap won't even happen. I can see wanting to believe this.

But the rest of the crap has to happen, or there's no movie--and there's no life. Someday she's going to touch that boat--who knows why?--maybe we won't even be there to tell her not to. And then she'll have to rescue herself. Notice that the movie isn't called Rescuing Nemo. Ultimately, Nemo comes up with his own plan to get out of the aquarium and back to the ocean.

Sometimes it scares me how little I can truly protect Jarrah. Telling her not to touch the boat may not be enough, or (as in Marlin's case) it might be too much. We just have to hope she knows that we'll always try to find her.

Happy Half

Jarrah is officially 2 1/2 this week. I really can't believe it. The book Your Two-Year-Old warns that 2 1/2 is a lot more terrible than plain two. Eek. I'm bracing myself. ;)

So...what's important in her life these days? Joy. Friends in general, including new adult friends. "See friends?" is often the first thing out of her mouth when she wakes up. Movies. "Fwimming." Making pretend pizza (though we've expanded into pancakes now.) Fruit, especially "BlackBlueberries." Anything with cream on it. Camp, where her mystery boyfriend Ethan is (I'm not sure I've ever seen this paragon of manhood.) Jump-jumps, though they can be "too hot." Copying people, even if they've just sliced off their own finger. Owies of all kinds. Imaginary (at least to me) things that are "gross" or "ewwww." Bees--she draws them and fears them; they "get mad and stink."

But she still doesn't care about cuddly stuff. No blankies (unless Joy has one), no lovies, no stuffed animals. The one exception is "The Baby."

Funny story about The Baby. Last summer, I took Jarrah to Target and she was making me crazy from the cart. (That part has not changed.) I finally turned her loose in the toy section, and lost sight of her for a bit. When I found her, she was carrying a small plastic baby doll, completely bald, wearing what looked like a turquoise warm-up suit from the '70s and a jester's cap. The doll and the outfit were filthy. I didn't want to make a scene, though, so I let her hold on to it for a bit. Then I forgot, and we were at the check-out.

"How much was this?" asked the checker. "It has no tag."

"Ummmm....." I said. I really didn't want to get into the likelihood that Jarrah had stolen it--perhaps forcibly--from another child.

"99 cents?" the checker replied. Those Target people--they're nothing if not efficient.

"Sure," I cringed. And so The Baby went home with us. She's never had a name. Jarrah calls her The Baby and so do we. I managed to wrest it out of her hands long enough to swab it with Clorox wipes and run the sweatsuit through the wash.

Ever since that day, Jarrah has slept with the Baby. At night, we tuck Jarrah under a blanket, and the last thing she says is "Baby?" One of us digs under the piles of scorned stuffed animals until she is located (she might very well be a "he") and tucks her under Jarrah's chin. Then she rolls to her side and snuggles The Baby, and goes to sleep.

I've noticed that the The Baby's feet are gnawed to nubs. I really don't want to know if it was Jarrah or some bereft child somewhere who was responsible for the carnage. All I know is, we better never lose that Baby, because we have no clue where to get another one. The Baby is one of a kind.

Who's Gary?

Just hope he's not hiding under your bed. Lately, Jarrah is very invested in Gary's whereabouts:

Sam: Guess what! We're going to the fair on Tuesday.
Jarrah: But not Gary.
Sam: No, not Gary.
Jarrah: Not Gary, okay?
Sam: Nope. No Gary.

After some trial and error, I've contextualized that Gary is actually "scary." How she came up with the idea that things are scary, I don't know. As I was explaining to Teresa while we were in Ohio, I'd hoped not to project my irrational fears onto my child by programming her with the meaning of "scary" or "scared." I just feel she's entitled to her own feelings, rather than having to inherit (ha!) mine. The exception to this lofty plan is cars: cars are scary, and they will SMOOSH you. That's right--SMOOSH--so hold my hand.

Gary is not the only code word around these parts. There's also "The Dark Side." As in, we are out to dinner and when we leave the restaurant, it's become "The Dark Side." She proclaims The Dark Side with a gasp of awe and appreciation--there's no telling when The Dark Side will manifest.

"Fish Fingers" wasn't terribly opaque, but I wish I didn't find it quite so charming. In England they have fish sticks, but they're called "Fish Fingers," rather like our Chicken Fingers here (those saucy Brits!) We know this linguistic variance because we've heard it on Charlie and Lola, but Jarrah has made the expression her own. She will grudgingly wield her fork for the first few bites of any dish, but when that conveyance becomes too taxing, she'll gaze up from beneath her lush lashes and inquire sweetly, "Fish Fingers?" If we say "Okay..." the fork is sent packing and her more expedient fist extracts half a bowl of penne in a single swoop. "Fish Fingers" is why we go through the jumbo box of Costco wipes every month.

A Mother's Work is Never Done

Yesterday at the fair, looking at cows in the livestock tent:

Sam: Look, Jarrah--that cow is making a poo-poo.

Jarrah: Big poo-poo!

Sam: It is big.

Jarrah: Mommy, you change it?

Detective-in-Training

Jarrah seems to be developing some freaky powers of observation. Or maybe she always had them, but we didn't know about it when she couldn't talk. Lately, I've been amazed by what she notices and remembers.

Yesterday, we were at my parents house, and I took Jarrah into my mom's den to put her pajamas on. She leaned against an arm chair and murmured, "Cherry Valley." I laughed. "You're right, Jarrah, it does look like Cherry Valley in here." Cherry Valley is where we stayed in Ohio, and like the den, it has dark, floral carpet, dark wood furniture, and cozy chairs. This made me remember that when we first arrived at Cherry Valley, which is white with flowers in front, she proclaimed, "Grandma-Grandpa's house!" Granted, there was some size differential, but I could see what she meant.

Jarrah got a present from her grandmother during our visit: a pair of lime-green Crocs. We are late to the party with Crocs, so I'm sure my educated readers already have several pairs, but just in case, they look like plastic clogs with big holes cut out of them. My mom presented Jarrah with the Crocs, and without hesitation, Jarrah yelled, "Hannah!" Ha! Jarrah's friend Hannah has some orange Crocs. I believe Jarrah has seen Hannah three times in her Crocs, and not more recently than May, but clearly she made a fashion statement. Jarrah was thrilled about her new "Crops," and insisted on wearing them out to dinner.

We went to a party at Robyn's a couple weeks ago, where Jarrah spotted a lunchbox shaped like a football amongst Jared's toys. "Ruben!" she shouted. "Ruben?" I repeated. Hmmm. Jarrah has a Ruben friend at preschool. Now he is going to camp with her. I approached his mom last week during pick-up time, as she was extracting a non-sports-themed lunchbox from her son's cubby. "Does Ruben have a lunchbox shaped like a football?" "Yup." "I think it made quite an impression on Jarrah."

The most mortifying instance of Jarrah's keen eye thus far occurred a few weeks ago at the FCC Kite Festival. We were watching a magician do some incredible tricks with bubbles, when suddenly Jarrah said to me, "I get your purse, Mommy, okay?" "Hmmm?" I said, distracted by the show, and the fact that there is often a two-second delay in my translation of Jarrah's sentences. But it was too late, and I was compelled to watch as Jarrah sprinted over to a lady I do not know, forcibly pulled her faux-Pucci-print Le Sport Sac from her shoulder, and headed back to me. Now, I admit that this is a distinctive bag; I get comments on it nearly every day. But what amazed me is that this lady's purse was not merely a similar print, or similar colors, but the exact same bag. Ergo, from Jarrah's perspective, it must be mine, and should therefore be restored to me post haste. I dashed over to intercede, relieved that the theft victim was extremely good-humored, even going so far to unzip her bag and display the contents, so Jarrah could satisfy herself that nothing more criminal than cloning had taken place.

I'll tell you, though, Readers, these incidents have made me a little paranoid about my everyday habits and behaviors. I had heard, of course, to curb my profanity lest I hear it repeated in a tiny voice, and I try to avoid shooting heroin in front of her, but I hadn't counted on a budding private eye living under my roof. No eating Hostess Sno Balls for us. No watching The Bachelor. No fudging on our taxes. Someone is paying attention.

First Family Vacation: Sunday

Departure day. I was a little blue that the time passed so quickly—I’ve been looking forward to this trip for months. We were slow on the draw and relieved to get a late check-out time, but still ended up being late to our breakfast date at the “greasy spoon” (her words) with Marlene, James and Jessie, our new friend from Milwaukee, whom we would be driving to the airport. Following a scrumptious meal of blueberry pancakes, we hustled back to Cherry Valley (with a brief pitstop to change Jarrah’s diaper in the back seat of the car on Main St.—hopefully we did not disrupt anyone’s impression of serene and pastoral downtown Granville) threw everything in our suitcases, and still checked out 15 minutes late.

We headed to Marlene’s house, and “helped” open wedding gifts (lots and lots of bowls of various composition) but the clock was relentless and all too soon it was time to leave for the airport. Jarrah had just made friends with Lea and Willy, and was kind of busy locking them both in the bathroom, so was not inclined to go. It was a moment we all resisted, but Route 16 beckoned.

Teresa had called with the portentous news that the airport was overrun with lines and delays, but everything went smoothly for us.

Jarrah was incredibly weepy on the first, short flight, and kept asking for her nap. When she actually asks, it's a bad sign. But we didn't want to encourage napping on a 40-minute flight and thus use up our "nap coupon" for the day before the 4-hour flight. By the time we got to Nashville, she was in no mood. In days of yore, a 50-minute layover might be spent in the leisurely pursuit of snacks and magazines, but not this time. I thought I was taking Jarrah's hand to walk her across the way to buy a banana, but instead she bolted, and she sprints like the wind. The airport was crowded (obviously) and within seconds she was out of my sight. With my heart pounding, I took off after her, but she had run 10 gates (!) before I caught up. I arrived just in time to see her chummily explaining to a stranger: "I run away from Mommy!" Basically, we're talking your average "Abduction Red Alert" nightmare. I strolled serenely towards her (all in show) knelt at her feet, and then walloped her bottom--just once. I'd never done that before. I really had no idea if it would be at all persuasive, but I was so furious.

I did myself no favors with that move. She lay down in the middle of the walkway, face into the carpet, and cried histrionically. When I lifted her, she was dead weight, and since she refused to walk, I had to carry her all the way back. As I walked, she used both fists to whack my face in a rhythmic motion--"whack-whack-whack! whack-whack-whack!" I gritted my teeth and did nothing, just soldiered on. I was sweating. I had a sudden strong yearning for my old life, when layovers were all about my needs, mine, mine, MINE! But my old life was nowhere in sight, and my new life was making a lot of noise.

The plane was pre-boarding when we staggered back, and Jarrah was asleep within minutes of take-off. She slept three hours. The girl was tired. I'm not unsympathetic to this. After all, I was tired, too. David also snoozed while I made good use of the laptop for a couple hours, and then finally got to read my book. We arrived in San Diego right on schedule, but had some shlepping to get our luggage onto the bus and then to the garage. Jarrah was starting to get the idea that we had not, as she'd hoped, made a permanent move to Cherry Valley. She cried most of the drive home, moaning, "Back to Che-wee Valley...Mommy Daddy go out to din-nuh...babysitter comes." I knew just how she felt.

First Family Vacation: Saturday

The big day! There was a non-scheduled plan to hang with Marlene while she dressed, but of course we were slow getting out the door, particularly since we needed not only to shower and breakfast, but dress up in our wedding finery. We made it to campus by noon, and the wedding started at one. Jarrah was in a mood, so David took her into town to get some sandwiches while I scurried upstairs in the student union to join the women. It was all very exciting, and I ended up getting to distribute boutinieres, carefully snap some amazingly complicated panels on Marlene's antique dress, offer lipstick advice, and generally behave like a bossy person of imagined importance, which is one of the things I do best. ;) Eventually, Gina and I carried the box of programs down to the rows of white chairs in front of the library steps, where I pinned white roses on the musicians and then greeted each arrival with a smile and a "Program for you?" That was fun. David had snagged some prime seats under a maple tree canopy, from whence we might have enjoyed the lovely ceremony except that Jarrah lasted no longer than it took to spot Teresa in the first few moments of the processional, occasioning gleeful shouts of "Teresa Parade! Teresa Parade!" before David was obliged to whisk her to an undisclosed location. I noticed that while the Dearly Beloved included many toddlers and babies, every last one besides Jarrah maintained a vaguely soporific state throughout the wedding, slumped on their parents shoulders as if sedated. After a while, I began to wonder if they were sedated, and wished someone had tipped me off to this handy wedding trick so that the three of us might have enjoyed the ceremony, too. David had to miss it, and I felt bad about that. I also felt bad that Marlene and James's first moments of greeting with the minister were partially obscured by Jarrah's departing screams. Sigh. It was a beautiful ceremony anyway, and I noted that one of Marlene's readers had chosen (been requested?) to read e.e. cummings's "I Carry Your Heart," which I myself have chosen when I was a wedding reader. Either Marlene and I have a psychic connection, or both of us saw In Her Shoes last summer. ;)

The reception was rockin', with a band called Lazy Boy and the Recliners jamming away when we reached the room, the center of which was adorned with a high tower of cheese and hummus, and all the crackers and fruit you could eat. There were bowls filled with something called "Mock Champagne"--no clue what was in there, but it was lip-smackingly refreshing. I loved that you did not have to wait to dance at this reception, nor interrupt your revelry with a slow sit-down meal, but could nosh and boogie in alternating bursts for several hours. I got to dance with the bride a few times, and I danced with everybody else a few more. I even cut a rug with a phalanx of toddlers, who wiggled their hips and were agog at this person who didn't seem to know she was a grown-up. ;)

Jarrah enjoyed herself, too, ate a great deal of the appropriately-named "Dream Cake," chased Jacob, and may have been dipping into the champagne if lifting her dress to flash her diaper was any indication. Hey, at least she had one on! The only tragic moment was seeing the older toddlers plotting to escape her relentless attentions, running away whenever she came near, or flinging her hand away when she reached for theirs in "Ring Around the Rosie." It hurt me to see how she could not be deterred, but lifted that little hand again and again as if there had been some mistake, clutching for nearby fingers, and finally moaning "Nooooo!" after the third or fourth or fifth time she was shaken off, but still didn't stop. My heart fills with love for her at times like these when I glimpse her unquenchable spirit. I understand intellectually that four-year-olds are toddlers, too, and there's no good reason they would want to play with a two-year-old, let alone consider her feelings, but it's still hard for a mommy to watch. Life is full of disappointments, and I am amused when she acts like the week is ruined because we're out of Yogos. Being rejected by people, though, is a very real hurt that never gets any better, no matter how old and logical you become.

We stayed until Jarrah seemed almost shell-shocked with exhaustion, and indeed she stared into the middle distance with her mouth hanging open the whole drive home, unable to muster speech. I'm sure she would have slept three hours, but we had to wake her after two to get ready to meet Teresa and Gina for dinner before our evening event. You know that Jarrah is really tired when she watches four adults consume hot rolls with honey butter and never even demands a bite, but she perked up when her mac and cheese arrived.

The post-wedding festivities kicked off at 8:00 at Brews Cafe in downtown Granville. You know a town is vigilant about preservation when even the Subway looks like the historical society. There was no one at the bar when we arrived (and we were late) so we strolled out onto Main St. in the sunset of a balmy June evening and joined the line at Whit's Frozen Custard, which was even mentioned in the Frommers. To call it ice cream would be to do it a disservice, so creamy and unctuous is its texture. We lounged at a wrought-iron table with our treats and people-watched, gabbing about the wedding and how happy we were to be there. Soon we were joined by another couple who had also found Brews empty, and our lively party expanded to six. I lay back and basked in the delight of being far from home in a beautiful place, laughing and peaceful.

Where was Jarrah in all that peace, you may ask? Back at Cherry Valley, with yet another perky Denison babysitter, Erin. Jarrah adored Erin, but I'd have to say she's the least experienced of all the babysitters we've experienced to date. When we returned at nearly 12:30 a.m., Erin cringingly noted that Jarrah had only recently gone to bed ("She said she didn't want to") and that she'd "had to use the restroom." That last part was unfortunately obvious from the stench in the room--apparently Erin had been overwhelmed by my diaper-changing instructions and had flung the dirty diaper into an open trash can. In the morning, I discovered why Jarrah's pajamas were all wet--her diaper was on backwards. Still, Jarrah liked her, evidenced by her plaintive call in the wee morning hours: "Babysitter? Babysitter?"

But back to the adults. Eventually, we all made it to Brews, friends new and old, followed by a rather strong Whiskey Sour since it was the last night. Marlene arrived still in her blusher veil, bearing an entire tier of wedding cake, with giddy, good spirits and a handsome, new husband. Much rejoicing and merriment ensued. We stayed until midnight and then raced to the car, fearing Erin might turn into a pumpkin and Jarrah would be unsupervised save for an autumn vegetable. I got a little teary saying goodbye to Teresa and Gina, who were leaving "at the ass-crack of dawn," to quote the always-eloquent T, but was consoled by the knowledge we’d be having breakfast with Marlene and James in the morning.

First Family Vacation: Friday

It's a good thing, because Friday dawns bright and early with my 9:00 appointment with the Spa Girls. Teresa and Gina pick me up, leaving me free to get ready on my own and leave David and Jarrah in their pjs, the better to sample the wonders of the hotel pool. The previous day, we'd taken a stroll around the corner to Coco Key, a water resort attached to Cherry Valley. I wasn't really sure what an indoor water resort might entail, but Coco Key is quite a wonder with twisty slides two stories high, and a sort of Lazy River on which you float in a tube. It wasn't crazy-crowded, the air was very warm, and the families were clearly having a ball. Jarrah didn't prevaricate, indicating that we were to put on her "baby suit" and go straight into the "fimming pool." The catch, though, is that Coco Key costs 30 dollars *per person* and that seemed a little steep to entertain someone who might go down the slide once and announce "All done!"

As it happened, we were wise to save that cash, because Jarrah LERVED the hotel pool. David proudly told me that she was very brave, and even rode a noodle without him holding on to her. She even told me later, as a point of pride, that she went "unna the watah," even though David said she definitely didn't like that part. I was only sorry I had missed it, since we never did find another moment to go in the pool.

So they had a great time, which is good, because I was off having a BLAST. I love a spa morning, and I love dishing with awesome women, and to be able to do both for four hours was heaven on a stick. Even better, Marlene had booked the entire spa for her 22 participating guests, and they had a central room she'd kitted out with bagels and mimosas so we could nosh and shmooze to our heart's content. My pedicure was fine, but my facial with the delightful Carrie was sheer bliss, even including full body comfort on a sort of Craftmatic bed that cradled me like a kitten. The best part was I never had to get bored like I sometimes do at spas, because my friends were in and out of the rooms to chat with me. Teresa even took my picture in a face mask, something that might have annoyed me except that I adore her so much. ;)

Our spa morning was meant to be followed by a "tour of local sites," which I reported to Carrie, who replied uncertainly "I'm not sure what those might be." Hee. Turns out we were supposed to visit the giant Longaberger basket (the Longaberger company is based in Ohio) and something called "the Mounds," which I never really got a straight answer about, but it all remained a mystery because Marlene was called away for an emergency dress fitting. She sent Teresa, Gina and I to Royal Thai for lunch, where we met David and Jarrah, and it was supremely delicious. At this point the sky was threatening a bit and there was a heavy feeling in the air that we really don't get in San Diego and that I find rather exciting. We thought we'd have time for a long snooze when we got back, but it was really just about an hour before we needed to get primped for the rehearsal dinner.

I had seen Denison University, where Marlene is Chair of Women's Studies, once before under a steel-gray sky and several inches of snow, but in June it was a leafy, brick paradise. It's a small school, but obviously one with a lot of money, because just driving onto the campus makes you want to go take an Intro to Philosophy class, so stately an edifice it is. The rehearsal dinner was in a gorgeous blond-wood room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking one of the tree-filled quads, and the glass sparkled with recent showers in the late afternoon sun as we took our seats. We had an elegant meal of which Jarrah ate nary a bite, and chatted again with Marlene's pals, some of whom were becoming old friends from previous encounters. We finished off the evening at the Cherry Valley bar again (you might think I was drinking excessively, but I stuck to Shirley Temples on this trip--I wasn't in a mood to miss anything) and David retired early with Jarrah while I whooped it up with various members of the wedding party.