Thank Heaven for Little Girls

This moment is probably more shocking to people who didn't meet their child as a toddler and have had longer than ten months to get used to this idea, but...my baby is growing up. One indication is that strangers don't tell their children, "Be careful of the baby!" as much now. Usually they say, "Be careful of that little girl!" At least her recent willingness to wear a barrette has put the kibbosh on all the "cute little boy!" comments.

At the park two days ago, I was certain even before we got out of the car that the toddler on the slide was the same age as Jarrah. In fact, I was correct to within 10 days. When I remarked on this to her mom (who was polite but not chatty) she said, "Yes. But yours is so big, and so independent." I was actually thrown quite roughly into a full-blown panic by this comment, suddenly convinced that the CCAA makes a regular practice of doctoring the ages of abandoned children by as much as two or three years, and perhaps Jarrah is actually a mute five-year-old. After all, she is huge--not so much chubby anymore, but very tall and solid, much bigger in general than other kids her age, and not at all wobbly or hesitant. And yes, she is independent. She doesn't need or want my help to do much, and charges ahead in new situations whether I'm following or not. Later, when I told David about my theory, he said I needed to remember that Jarrah was a "cute blob" when we met her, with only eight teeth and unable to walk. Um yeah, I wasn't thinking about that. ;) David also said that he thought this mom was paying Jarrah a compliment. Ah. Can you see why I need to be married to this guy?

Anyway, a lot of things have gotten easier. Jarrah is very sturdy, flexible and has excellent balance, so I don't need to help her do as many things these days. That is a huge blessing for my lower back. She says about 40 words (I think), and her system of gestures and sound effects has gotten quite sophisticated, so I know what she means more often than not. She can also follow my "suggestions" (read: commands) no matter how many sentences they are. She is slightly less cooperative than she was when I met her, about getting into the car, or leaving the park, or not running away at the zoo, but I would still have to describe her as an agreeable, even reasonable child (for instance, she seems to truly respect the mighty power of cars and buses, and won't stray from the sidewalk if I make a point of reminding her. This might be less remarkable if my nickname for her wasn't "Magellan.")

Her hair has gotten long and shaggy, and we don't plan to cut it for a while, so tethering devices are necessary. Her tiny white teeth have become larger, and she has a lot of them (maybe most, except her two-year molars?) The only part of her that's still jiggly is her belly. She still loves to eat, and can pack in several pounds of fruit at any meal, but she's grown particular, and has a noted aversion to carbs (minus noodles and potatoes, which always get the thumbs up.) Bread in any form is anathema, as well as most proteins save deli turkey, but like the baby Moses she will sooner reach for a cherry than a chocolate cookie when presented with both.

She has increased her affection for books, and I might even describe her as a voracious reader, or at least a voracious bossypants about making other people read to her. She carries stacks of books around the house, and has favorites. She is an excellent mimic and dancer; even precise, small movements are noted and copied. She has suddenly developed an interest in crayons, and even drew on the wall for the first time today--a rite of passage, yes?

She likes climbing up onto anything--the bed, dining room chairs, tall ladders, play structures meant for eight-year-olds--but won't sit to eat unless we strap her in. She gets manic in the evenings and tears around yellling, flinging balls at us; she's mellower in the morning, but at all times of day she is insistent on "help" with all her playing and projects.

I've noted with delight that she is a very social child, growing instantly bored of any park if it's empty, and happily following children of any age to see what they're up to, then copying them. A couple days ago, she followed a boy of seven and his 20-ish brother, and was undeterred by them assiduously ignoring her. She did everything they did--built their sand castle, threw her body in the path of a tickle fight, rolled down hills. I wasn't sure if, or how, to intervene. She is taken with spontaneous urges to hug children she's never seen before, flinging her arms around them and frequently bringing them to the ground with surprise. Often, both the hugger and huggee love this unexpected wrestling match, and laugh and laugh. Sometimes, the huggee is frightened, and runs for the protection of mommy's legs. I'm not sure what to do about all this hugging: I figure it beats pushing, hitting or biting, but I hope she doesn't hurt anyone.

Today Jarrah and I went to the zoo, just the two of us, and it was a lovely afternoon. Several times I was struck by the difference, just in a zoo day, in nine months. She walked next to me as I pushed the stroller, and sometimes listened when I said "Stay with mommy and hold my hand." When we ate lunch, we sat across from each other at a picnic bench, and she was reasonably good about staying in one place. She recognizes some of the animals, and calls them by name, occasionally intelligible. Most of all, she truly understands that the zoo is the place where you go to look at "ann-muls," and I think it's this wondrously evident sense of perspective she has that affects me so profoundly. She has had experiences, and has integrated them into her memory, her knowledge, her preferences. Having never spent time with children before, I have never watched these developments, and they amaze me.

On the way back to the car, she spotted the old-fashioned carousel at the edge of the park. She's been on carousels a few times recently, and adores them, and I have seen with a pang that she doesn't even need me to stand by her horse anymore, let alone support her from falling. She sits up with beautiful, proud posture, and holds the pole in front of her lightly with both hands. She doesn't need to hold the pole, but her mommy asked her to. She understands that we wait in line to get on, and that when the music stops, the ride is "All duh!" She laughs with delight when the horse rises the very first time, but after that, she is focused. She concentrates on waving to the people outside. At the same time, she is studying the carousel, and she shows me the different animals, the other people, and eventually, the inner mechanism of the ride itself, the places where gears go up and down, because from the very first second that we met her, she has been trying to figure things out.

Which is pretty amazing, really. What I mean is, do you know what I've noticed the most in nine months? That somehow, with no help from biology, geography, language or anything that makes any sense, she is--bizaarely, yet undeniably--David's and my daughter. She spins, and dances, and hugs. She flings out her fingers and widens her eyes whenever an occasion could benefit from a little flair. But she also concentrates, not on toys, but on stolen household items and gadgets that she intends to dismantle and reconstruct, tirelessly, with great precision. Tonight she understood instantly that to inflate her beachball she had to pull out the valve and blow into it, even though we hadn't shown her how.

Pretty uncanny, huh?

The Crush

Might as well write it on the bathroom wall or embroider it on a pillow: Jarrah loves Miss Theresa.

Miss Theresa is one of Jarrah's teachers at My Gym. On any given day, there are about five, all charming young women except for one vaguely troglydytic man of indeterminate age. Jarrah enjoys getting attention from all the teachers, and will grace anyone who engages her with a brilliant smile for their pains. But Miss Theresa...well, Miss Theresa is special.

I started noticing the preference a few weeks ago. Jarrah won't sit long during circle time, and once Miss Theresa started running after her, it was all over. Jarrah never sat down at all after that, not even for a second, because why would she want to do that when it was so much fun to have Miss Theresa chase her and pick her up?

It wasn't until a couple weeks ago that Jarrah started approaching Miss Theresa during free play, during time she could otherwise have been on the swings, the trampoline or (gasp) the Space Ride. She would gaze up at her coyly, and then emit a long stream of unintelligible babble that tonally resembled, "Miss Theresa? Do you like me as much as I like you? 'Cause if you do, would you go in the ball pit with me?" Miss Theresa would laugh, and spin Jarrah around, saying, "Jarrah, you are so funny!"

One time when this happened, I had to look away because my eyes filled with tears. I actually had some kind of junior high flashback in which I suddenly felt I wasn't cool enough to be Jarrah's mother, and that she was abandoning me like yesterday's onesie for a younger, hipper mom. First infertility and now this, I lamented inwardly. When will I be loved?

I tried to get over myself. After all, this is a 22-month-old we're talking about. She's completely id-driven. Probably Jarrah accepts me as her mom, but it's Miss Theresa she wants for her FRIEND. I'm sure that will be happening a lot in future so I might as well get used to it.

Last week, things really got a little kooky. First, Jarrah wandered over to the room where they keep all the toys (strictly off-limits to the kids) and spotted Miss Theresa in there, all the way in back, eating her lunch. She stood in the doorway and indicated with word and gesture that Miss Theresa was to come out and play, with Jarrah in particular, and was not to tarry in this objective. Her requests grew louder and increasingly strident. All the other staff members started giggling at Jarrah's insistence. Miss Theresa waved to her (she always handles it well) but of course she didn't come out. Jarrah had to be dragged away.

At the end of the class, Miss Theresa was working at the desk, signing people up for classes. Jarrah saw her from across the room, and took off at high speed. She flung her arms around Miss Theresa's legs and screamed, "Ma-MA! Ma-MA!" Now I really wanted to go and hide. What must other moms be thinking? What must Miss Theresa and the other teachers be thinking? That Jarrah is beaten and starved at home and kept chained to a wooden chair? Part of me could see the humor and part of me was mortified.

That night I went to book club and told my friends that Jarrah is shopping for a new mom. They laughed and said I should be glad that Jarrah feels such passion and shows her feelings so freely. That this could only be a good thing. Harumph. Okay.

Today I braced myself for The Wonder of Miss Theresa. Sure enough, when Jarrah spotted her, she pointed and told me repeatedly about her myriad attributes. She also played peek-a-boo behind her legs several times, and lit up like neon whenever Miss Theresa "found" her.

But I flatter myself that Jarrah's attentions do not go unreciprocated. Jarrah is kind of adorable at My Gym. Sure, sure, she won't sit down, but she never cries, or whines, or finks out on trying something scary or hard. I think she sort of delights people with her funny little smoker's laugh and the way she screams "Hip-Hip-Hooray!" during the songs. I think Miss Theresa has not been immune to her charms. And by the way, I am like chopped liver during their little tete-a-tetes. I stand by like a silent, menacing pimp. I try to smile non-threateningly and make jokes about Jarrah the stalker, but neither of them pay attention to me. I might as well be one of the slides.

Today Miss Theresa took time out of her hectic schedule to seek out Jarrah a few times. And each time, I watched for Jarrah's reaction, feigning indifference. Each time it was the same. Miss Theresa approached, and Jarrah beamed. And then Miss Theresa reached for her, and Jarrah ran away, not even looking back, on to her next amusement. There are so many, after all.

That saucy little flirt. Playing hard to get. And anyway, Jarrah's got good taste. Miss Theresa is my favorite, too.

Patron Saint of Hot Beverages

I am miserably sick. Like, can't enjoy anything sick. Since we've had Jarrah, I've had about four colds. In nine months. Readers, I averaged one cold a year in my old life. And this cold is the worst because I have a heaving, hacking cough. I haven't had a cough, I kid you not, in about five years. Despite cough syrup and tea, my jaw aches from clenching it in an effort to keep my skull from exploding or possibly being blown off my shoulders. I know I shouldn't complain, but it all feels particularly unfair coming as it does on the heels of my food poisoning week. I guess I should just be grateful that I felt good on my birthday, right? Right.

I did have a cute thing happen this afternoon. I was having my Nicole time, which I spent shopping (I know that makes it sound like I can't be that sick, but believe me, it was like torture, and the shopping was NECESSARY, it was important, life-altering shopping, you know, like WORK) and wanted to cap it off with a cup of tea and a magazine in some cozy establishment. Problem is, I somehow moved to a neighborhood that doesn't have such an establishment, not even one. I think it's because the median age is 80 and most of these folks don't think loitering in coffee shops seems like a good time. Most of these folks probably also don't have a toddler at home. Anyway, I don't normally patronize Starbucks (it's no sacrifice: I think their coffee tastes like sludge) but I finally noticed one in my neighborhood today and decided I'd have to settle. When I walked in, I was actually taken aback by its coziness: stuffed chairs and paint in warm fall tones, music I listened to in college while staring mistily into the middle distance, and signs advertising the one thing they make that I like, the Holiday Peppermint Mocha. I approached the counter and a perfectly adorable redheaded boy (I've always had a soft spot for orange kids) asked me what I would like.

"I'd like some hot tea," I said. "Do you have different kinds?"

"Yes," he replied, and with something more akin to rapture than apathy, he proceeded to describe the dozen or so teas they carry on a special little key ring. With each name, he detailed the flavor and bouquet like a wine steward, and I bobbed my chapped nose up and down and tried to focus my puffy, pink eyes on what he was showing me.

"Another thing you can do," he said meaningfully, "is mix two flavors. For instance, you could do a Calm (Chamomile) and a Fresh (Mint) together. This would be particularly soothing if, let's say, you had a cold with a sore throat and cough."

I was suddenly alert. "Yes, yes, let's do that, then."

He continued looking at me meaningfully. "I'm going to give you a Venti [their largest size] because it's the same price anyway, and then you'll have more. Here's some honey, which I recommend you use."

I smiled at him, almost in tears. "Thank you."

He added, "It's a good idea to drink a lot of liquids."

"Thanks," I said again, wanting to hug him. "I'm really glad I came in here so you could take care of me."

And you know what? I meant it.

I Turn 40 And It Is Good

It's been a week and I've only just touched down from Planet Birthday. I am a big believer in extending the day for as long as possible, but may I say that if my '40s are anything like my birthday has been, then bring 'em on!

First, let's give credit where credit is due. I don't know what I did to deserve such a husband, but whatever it was, someone should give me a medal. Not only did David go beyond what was listed in the "Make Birthdays Special" column of the marriage contract (what, you didn't have that column?) but I was genuinely surprised more than once.

The day began after a refreshing repose wherein Jarrah snoozed until nearly 8:00. Thanks, baby! When I finally got up and ambled sleepily towards the computer, David asked if I was ready for my first birthday surprise. Readers, I was. He told me to log on to "sams40th.blogspot.com" and up popped a blog he'd created for friends from afar to offer birthday wishes and memories. Within seconds, I was totally bawling. Dear ones, I am going to thank you all personally as soon as I can, but may I say that your beautiful words and often hilarious photographs meant so much to me that the whole birthday could have wrapped up right there and I still would have been the luckiest girl in the world.

But, soft! There was more. David brought out some non-virtual gifts. There was a touching and hilarious trio of flipbooks, those old-fashioned collections of photos that appear to be moving when the pages are flipped from front to back. David had sent in a snippet of video from which the company used the still frames to re-create the piece of video as a flipbook. Does that make sense? My favorite is called "Snacks," featuring Jarrah just days after we met her, two-fisting it with a couple of rolls bigger than her head (also see "Elegant Ladies" and "Seasoned Traveler"). The second gift was a little more "ma'am-like" in the best way: a gorgeous necklace with three Tanzanite blue stones as the pendant. Then, when I walked in the kitchen, I saw a gift I've been coveting for some time: a video frame, which shows a photo for a few seconds and then slides to another, with room for thousands, so you never get bored of looking at the same picture.

Wow! Already my birthday cup runneth over. But now we were off to a new pancake restaurant downtown called Richard Walkers, where we had the best apple souffle pancake of all time and a glorious sunny-crisp fall morning on the side. Though the excursion ended with an extremely smelly diaper in our midst, that was only a reminder of how lucky we were to be eating pancakes--finally--as a family.

The morning continued with a stop at DSW shoe warehouse, where birthday karma struck me hard and I discovered a single pair of size 8 Kenneth Coles with a wedge heel and the comfort quotient of slippers on the clearance rack. The clearance rack, Readers. Do you see that teeny, tiny tear on my cheek?

A brief stop home for a grilled cheese cooked by my darling husband (Vegemite for him, plain for Jarrah and me) and I was off again to a spa "mini-day," including a mini-facial, a mini-massage, and a maxi-blowout to de-frizz my 40-year-old hair with the new blonde highlights. They even let me apply my party face at a makeup station with perfect lighting, so I headed back to my car with lipstick and a sassy bubble flip, needing only to slip into my dress and slide into my new shoes before the festivities continued.

Everyone at the salon kept asking what I was doing that night, and I answered truthfully that I didn't know, but there would be people involved and that I had to look smashing. When I got home, my sister Lindsey was there with her boyfriend and her dog to greet me, and between fielding birthday calls and opening parcels I was quite busy until Nicole the Wonder Babysitter arrived (with a card for me, the angel!) quickly followed by Mary and Paul to pick us up in their spanking new car!

I wasn't that surprised when we pulled up at Baja Betty's (after all, I'd said to David months earlier "One place that might be good for my birthday is Baja Betty's") but you could have knocked me over with a tortilla chip when we walked into the bar and I spotted Lindsey talking to a gal who looked uncannily like my friend Liz, who lives in Switzerland. Hold the phone--it WAS Liz! She and David had plotted to surprise me, and not only was she here for the party, but the next morning we were off to The Oaks at Ojai for a glorious spa trip. I was jumping up and down and screaming, and had to sedate myself with a tall, frosty margarita. There were lots of local friends at the bash, too, and Mary had prepared a Leaning Tower of Cupcakes that was pretty bitchin', not to mention perfectly yum. I was smiling so hard all night that my face hurt. Things got a bit fuzzy after a couple margaritas but I'm afraid I was not hallucinating the man in the assless chaps, who was only one in a slew of scantily clad revelers. Like every year, I got confused: "Why does everyone dress up in costume for my birthday?" Then someone explains that it's also Halloween, and I'm sorted out for another year.

David had arranged an opportunity for me to belt out some show tunes in honor of the occasion (he knows me so well) but since most of us have babies and others of us were jet-lagged, we skipped the karaoke bar and packed it in on the early side. I didn't have any let-down, though, since I knew the next day would bring another adventure, and three of our guests were staying at our house.

The next day there was a grand group for bagels at our place, and some feverish packing for a noon train. The only bleak part of the whole weekend occurred on that train, since it was almost as crowded as one I'd taken years earlier in Europe, where I had to sleep curled around an 80-year-old nun in a sort of cargo hold. We had seats (riding backwards on the non-ocean side), but many others didn't, and the whole train was fetid and stinky you couldn't get into the cafe car. It was also delayed, and by the time we got to Ventura, it was dark and we were starving. I tried calling the only local cab company, but they were dismissive and we ended up standing on the platform in the dark with a homeless guy yelling "Nice butt," wondering if we'd ever see our spa dinner. When the cab finally came, a little old lady we'd befriended was going to be left alone, so we insisted that she come in our cab and we took a 20-minute detour to her house. Shortly after that, our driver, who was built like a bodyguard, announced he was stopping for gas, pulled into a little station, and vanished. Completely. "I think he wants to make us into a stew," Liz whispered, and I wish she hadn't because then I was convinced that my payback for a great birthday was going to be visiting a wood chipper instead of the spa. Much later, he emerged, and we saw him go shopping at the convenience store. After what seemed like hours, he returned, and I clenched my teeth as we wended up a one-lane highway through the dark woods, only relaxing when the lights of Ojai finally appeared.

Luckily, the Oaks is the friendliest place on earth, and when they saw our travel-worn state, they welcomed us right into dinner without having to check in first. Soon after, I found myself lying in the dark for a "bedtime yoga" class. And so began a blissful couple of days characterized by fabulous fruits and veggies that I didn't have to cut up myself, tribal dance, losing my bathing suit bottoms during aqua aerobics, sunrise walks through the foliage and foothills, lots of yoga, and a hot rock massage. There may have been a "spa girls on the lam" night on the town involving ice cream, but what happens in Ojai, stays in Ojai. There were also lots and lots of dishy chatfests between two friends of 13 years, but, again, see above. ;)

David had arranged our return trip to enable our first annual trick-or-treating with Jarrah, and an hour after arriving home we were off to Synthia and Scot's for pizza and x-treme fun for Jarrah, who got to boss around three-year-old Hannah and four-year-old Leigh, both of whom had the charm and good manners to accommodate her. Jarrah loved walking from house to house, but only because she was excited by the decorations and the opportunity to shove her way into other people's homes. She had never seen candy before (I know what you're thinking, and I'm not an idiot: I figure I've got six months, maybe a year, before the jig is up) and wasn't sure why she was being required to carry stuff, but she found the general glee contagious and only occasionally overwhelming.

And even then the birthday celebration was not over, because I had Liz to myself for another whole day. On Wednesday she got to experience the mayhem of Border's Babies, and we both got a lot of shopping done. We also watched Jarrah wrestling with three children whom she literally stumbled upon at the park, and who were more than game to let her hug them to the ground. To salute our American heritage on Liz's last night away from Swiss-German food, we went to Outback Steakhouse (yes, yes, I see the irony, but trust me; I'm married to an Australian, and their food bears no relation.)

Thursday was a bit cold and sad, with Liz departing at the crack of dawn and back to business as usual with Jarrah at My Gym. Still, even though I was worn out from celebrating, I retained a rosy glow from the festivities, and just enough energy to bake my dear husband an apple pie for his pains. No doubt the delights of the past week have me looking younger already.

Getting In Touch With My Inner Ma'am, or 40 Is The New Black

Although to my ears it sounds like someone else talking when I say this, I am turning 40 on Saturday. Once when I was teaching an autobiography workshop to retired folks, a gal wrote a piece about her 40th birthday party; the theme had been Death. Her friends dressed in black and rented a hearse to take her out for Scorpion Bowls. Instead of finding this macabre or even funny, I was simply confused. I asked her why death was the theme of her party. Perhaps she thought I was a bit dense, but she was nice enough to hide it. "Oh, you know," she said, "Forty and death just go together like peas in a pod."

Okay. That was a long time ago. These days, for $3.95 any Hollywood gossip magazine is happy to tell you that 40 is the new 30. (Or, if you are fortunate enough to know my in-laws, they will tell you just because they're sweet. Thanks! :)) And I certainly don't feel 40, whatever it's supposed to feel like. I have a few gray hairs, but they're balanced by my girlish breakouts. I have laugh lines, but no furrow between my brows, and for that distinction I am proud. I feel a bit stiff when I stand up suddenly, but I can still dance like a chicken in front of other people on Friday afternoons.

But I can't kid myself. Even five years ago, I got carded in dim restaurants. (Yes, yes, very dim, okay, you've made your point.) My college students were often wide-eyed with shock when I revealed my age. (Of course, anything over 30 is probably hard for them to get their minds around.) But lately, I have been counting, and the tally cannot be ignored: the ratio of "Ma'ams" to "Misses" is now running about 10 to 1. Gulp. It's official: I'm a Ma'am.

You might argue that people are just being polite, deferential to a customer. Sure, sure. But you don't "Ma'am" someone unless you are reasonably certain of their demographic. No 2o-year-old in three tank tops with a Bedazzled cell phone and a wad of gum gets "Ma'am"-ed. At least I don't think so. What does a "Ma'am" look like? Does she wear sweats all the time? Figure lipstick is too time-consuming to reapply? Always have circles under her eyes? Need a Wonderbra but keeps forgetting to buy one? Doesn't know the correct hair products?

Probably my "Ma'am-ness" is a composite of these things and more. The "more" might partially include, let's say, pushing a stroller. With a baby in it. Whose face is covered in Cheddar Bunny dust. I wonder, though, if...and this is kind of creepy if I think about it too long...a Ma'am also has a certain look on her face. A certain expression in her eye, a certain way she smiles. Or doesn't smile, because she's too tired or distracted to remember what was funny. A certain quality that reveals to the world: "I am Ma'am; hear me roar. I eat non-Ma'ams like you for breakfast. Now out of my way so I can go take a nap."

Then I have moments where I know being a "Ma'am" doesn't complete me. For instance, it is almost Halloween. Halloween may be my favorite time of year. As a child, it fell just three days after my birthday, giving the impression that the whole town had finally gotten the news and would be lining up at their front doors to shower me with candy--how did they know it's exactly what I wanted? I continued trick-or-treating until I was 16 years old (that year I dressed as a baby) and, although I was short, could no longer withstand the withering comments. Having to give up this annual event seemed cruel and unnecessary punishment for something I couldn't control.

Jarrah has been getting very excited about Halloween. She doesn't exactly know that, but she knows there's something in the air. Our neighbors have pumpkin lights out, and she points to them every time we leave the house and exclaims, "Dzeh-zeh!" (Your guess is as good as mine.) She touches each real pumpkin she sees, marveling that something she'd never noticed before is suddenly everywhere. She points frantically at the black cats and witches that hang in every establishment she frequents. And while she's still refusing to try on the perfectly adorable Tigger costume I bought her, she delights in carrying her plastic pumpkin candy holder around the house, full of pilfered electronic devices.

There's only one person more excited about Halloween than Jarrah. Today on the car radio they played "Thriller," which puts me in a mood that might only be understandable if you also graduated from highschool in 1984. I did my best to drive safely while performing the monster moves from the Michael Jackson video. And in the rear view mirror, I spied Jarrah, jazz hands aloft, doing them right along with me. I got tears in my eyes, Readers. Truly.

Now, In This, Our Year Of Becoming A Ma'am, I am able to reclaim my rightful place on the doorsteps of southern California, dressed in a wig and feather boa, looking as un-Ma'am-like as I can be. In fact, I'm realizing that I might not have an inner Ma'am at all, just an outer Ma'am.

And the birthday? The theme is going to be Life, baby. My darling husband, under heavy threat of copious guilt, has planned some surprises for me (and to give you an idea how special that is, the last time he surprised me we got engaged.) I am tantalized by tiny hints from my near and dear that fun is in store. But I want to thank my friend Cheri for giving me some valuable perspective on birthdays recently. I don't know what's going to happen, but I feel uncommonly serene. Whatever it is, I'm going to be all about the love and appreciation. I'll keep you posted.

And The Mome Raths Outgrabe

Reason #1,067 why my life is weirder than other people's:

The gym on Friday evening. I am riding an endorphin buzz from a very vigorous NIA class and a subsequent hot, steamy shower. The scene finds me zoning out in front of the mirror, dotting on concealer in a meditative manner. I can sense someone to my right but we are ignoring each other--I think--in the tactful way one does in locker rooms.

"I did something really interesting today." At first I'm not even sure she's talking to me, but then I realize she has turned to face me and is only a couple feet away. I reluctantly drag my gaze from my pinkish visage and apply it to her face, as politeness seems to demand. I don't wait long for the pay-off:

"I ate half an avocado..."

There is probably less than a second that transpires between this phrase and the one that follows, but that is more time than it takes me to ascertain that I've made a terrible error in interrupting my ablutions. I am actually slightly stunned, as if I've been gently slapped, by the raw beauty of this non-sequitur. But the rest of the sentence is shortly forthcoming:

"..and the other half I put on my face. Then I coated that with buttermilk, and I put some olive oil on, too."

Now my attention is divided into two nearly equal halves: the half that wonders if she is, genuinely, crazy (but do crazy people work out at the gym?) and the other half that is plunged into a wave of nostalgia for the days when I used to wash my hair in mayonnaise because Seventeen magazine said it was a good idea. It wasn't.

Now she is saying something about "incredible softness" and seems to have shifted her focus to her decolletage, but there's a roaring in my ears and I can barely hear her. Then, a single directive pierces the fog:

"Feel!" She thrusts her shiny-looking, shelf-like bosom, clad in some sort of scoop-neck leotard, directly into my air space. Readers, it's moments like these that I am convinced that I am part of some kind of cosmic test: how much embarrassment can I experience in any five second window and not implode?

And I ask...what would you do? Seriously, what would you do? I make the only choice I feel is available: I poke her swiftly in the chestal region with my index finger. "Wow! Soft!"

"It's because it has alpha-hydroxy acids."

"Mmm!" I am reduced to Jarrah-speak.

Wherein I Am Sorely Tried

This weekend was the hardest trial of parenting yet. I'm not saying it won't get harder; I know I am but a naive waif on that score, but man, this was tough. And since many of you have read here how we fared for two weeks in a hotel room in China with a new baby, I'll have you know that this was harder. Why, dear Readers? Because in China, David and I were WELL. By some miracle, the two of us sailed through three cities, two and a half weeks, and seven plane flights with nary a sniffle or pang of stomachache.

We've been home nearly nine months, and while we've had our ups and downs, and one of the three of us has occasionally been under the weather, we've avoided that other certainty of life (along with Death and Taxes) that lurks where you least expect it: Food Poisoning.

Now, I don't know for certain how we contracted the dread FP. All I know is, Saturday afternoon we were having a grand time with friends at an outdoor social event, and by Saturday evening, something was rotten in the state of Denmark. "I think I'm going to throw up tonight," I told David. "Why do you say that?" "Because I haven't been hungry all day."

David looked skeptical. He asked if I was currently nauseous, and when I said no, his skepticism increased. Ah, you'd think after eight years in my company, he would know that a day in which I go longer than three hours without clamoring for a snack is indeed a sign of impending doom. But I have known myself longer than that, and I knew, Readers. I knew.

After dinner I threw up, right on schedule, and soon after David began complaining of stomach pains. Now, he's a very empathetic man, but since we'd eaten the same lunch, I was concerned. We both took to bed on the early side, forgoing a week's worth of TV stashed in our DVR.

In the morning, I felt even worse, and so did he. And here was the rub: a certain not-quite-two-year-old in residence was footloose and fancy free at seven a.m., and not the slightest bit interested in our gastric distress. Nope, not even a little. I have chopped up toddler meals when I'm falling over with exhaustion. I have changed poopy diapers when my head was as stuffed as a trussed turkey. But Readers, I have not done these things while wracked with waves of nausea. In fact, in all my years, I've done precious few things while in this state, a list of which can be concisely printed here:

1. Moaned
2. Groaned
3. Curled on the bathroom rug for hours at a time
4. Attempted to sleep, or at least to remain as still as possible

There you have it. My experience with nausea has been extremely self-centered, to say the least. There is no one else in the world when I feel the urge to vomit coming on. But now, suddenly, that is utterly, profoundly, No Longer True.

Jarrah was as perky as ever Sunday morning. She wanted a large breakfast. She wanted roughhousing on the rug. She wanted to play with blocks and hear stories. She was beyond miffed that no wholesome outing had been planned for her disportment. I thank my lucky stars that when I tossed her in the crib just before noon, over an hour before she usually goes down, she settled down to sleep immediately, and David and I both passed out for a blissful three hours in which, inexplicably, she didn't make a sound.

The sleep helped a bit, enough for me to think a family outing to the park would be a good idea. As we were preparing to go, I started feeling not quite right, and had the foresight to ask David to get me a plastic bag for the car. He returned with one that had a small hole. "It has a hole," I told him. "So don't use it," he responded. Clever man. But, again, sadly, with the not knowing me very well. I would never have asked for that bag if it hadn't really seemed necessary.

Sure enough, we'd just pulled onto the freeway when the bag became very necessary indeed. So necessary that Jarrah started screaming from the back seat, perhaps concerned that her mommy had met the Exorcist, or maybe just annoyed that I was drowning out "Victor Vito." At any rate, 2006 will go down as the year for many Firsts: First trip to China. First child. First romp in the ball pit. First episode of hurling in a moving vehicle. The latter is one I do not care to repeat.

Home Equity

Jarrah has developed a strong sense of fairness. It goes like this: if I ask her to do something, I have to do the same thing. Exactly.

When we get to music class, I take her shoes off because otherwise she stands on my legs during circle time and pinches them with her sneakers. Well, fine, but after her shoes are off, she points at my feet and says: "Mmm." "I have to take my shoes off?" I ask, needlessly. "Yesh." I am then the only barefoot mom in the class, but we all make concessions.

The teachers have asked the children to wear nametags (which are prepared before our arrival) so they can personalize the songs. All righty. But when I slap Jarrah's nametag to her hoodie, she points to the pile of blank stickers and says--you guessed it--"Mmm." "Mommy has to wear a name tag?" "Uh-huh." I write "SAM" on my sticker (again, the only mom so adorned) and slap it on my hoodie, feeling like a moron.

I am wearing the hoodie, by the way, because when I poked Jarrah's arm through the sleeve of hers before getting in the car this morning, she reached into the passenger seat with the other arm and extracted mine, dangling it from a finger and looking at me meaningfully.

If she sits down to examine a rock or blade of grass or chunk of driftwood (as children are wont to do) she pats the sidewalk next to her. Pat, pat, pat. She'll keep patting, patient as ketchup, until I sit down on the ground next to her, hoping my lower back doesn't seize up on the way down. Then and only then is she free to stare at the item in question for five minutes at a time, ignoring me completely.

The new policy can come in handy. For several weeks, I would say "Time to wash hands!" when we came in from the park and she'd react by stomping her feet and bawling. But one day I just said, "Jarrah, Mommy needs to wash her hands. Wanna come?" She did. "Wow, my hands are getting so clean. Wanna try it?" Up onto the stepstool she went, and punched a little hand under the running water. When you put it that way, Mommy, I guess it's only right.

Usually I don't mind these "requests." After all, there's very little noise involved, and she is easily satisfied. But every now and again I feel resistant. A couple days ago, I took her socks off when we came in the door because she has been sprinting across our hardwood floors and sliding into walls and furniture from lack of traction. Well, okay Mommy, but "Mmm." "I have to take my socks off?" "Yeah." "But my feet are cold." She gave me a look, which seemed to say, "And that is relevant here because...?" "Oh, all right. Here they go. They're off. Happy now?"

She smiles at me. "Yeah." Very happy.

Laundry Day

I know I'm the song lady (could it be the suppressed bard in me? ;) but I had another musical moment tonight. In a coda to my laundry post, we've now had a second opinion on our loud, dirty washer and the gentleman, in a charmingly thick Eastern European accent of indeterminate origin, said (and I'm paraphrasing here): "I could take your money, and a lot of it, but do yourself a favor and get a new machine."

So, our picaresque journey led us (not for the first time) tonight to Sear's, and a young man named Romeo, who was all alone on his balcony (I know, wrong way around) waiting for us to appear in the moonlight. David and I tag-teamed between Jarrah and negotiating the details of the water bill rebate on our environmentally-friendly, Consumer Reports-approved new Kenmore front-loader.

Jarrah was in rare form. She made me open 14 ovens (I counted) while repeating the same phrase: "Mmmm, what's for dinner?" When I showed her a catalog for garbage disposals and said "Wanna read a good book?" she nodded briskly, turned her face away, and began to back her bum in my general direction--the signal for "Sit your ass down, little mama, because I plan to enjoy this story in comfort." She moonwalked and break danced (as my former hip-hop teacher used to say, she "went to the floor") and brought me several armloads of plastic napkin rings from an undisclosed location. She also brought me a stack of folded Levi's, and a Tow Mater engineer's cap.

While I was replacing the purloined goods, I decided to show Jarrah how funny it is when Mommy runs backward, and then suddenly runs forward, the better to grab a hysterical little monkey and squeeze her, my, what big teeth we have. I was smothering her and roaring like a dinosaur at one point when I tuned in to a snippet of Whitney Houston song:

I get so emotional, baby
Every time I think of you
I get so emotional, baby
Ain't it shocking what love can do?

I sang a bit of this to Jarrah with some practically professional Paula Abdul-style choreography circa 1988, but my voice broke a little bit on "shocking." Which is surprising, see, because Whitney is right in my range. ;)

Stunt Double

They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Okay.

Today at My Kid's Clubhouse, Jarrah's friend Anton got very excited about some plastic dinosaurs. He leaped up and down in his socks (socks are required) and then slid into home base on the slippery linoleum. Only home base wasn't there. He wasn't hurt, but I reached out a hand to help him up. This was followed by a crescendo-ing howl from behind me, and Jarrah came tearing into view. She positioned herself in the general area of Anton's spill, and kicked her legs like a Rockette, only both at the same time. Down she went, like a vaudevillian on a banana peel. She lay on the floor, looking pleased with herself. "Okay," I said, resisting the urge to applaud because I don't think 21-month-olds can read sarcasm. "You know how to fall, too. Hooray!"

A little later, I sneaked a peak at my New Yorker (doesn't that make me sound all cultured and whatnot? 'Course I should add that when it arrives these days I plunk it onto the kitchen counter with the thought "Huh. That's the one with all the words.") on one of the curiously uncomfortable video rockers. I could see Jarrah in the corner of my eye, busily frying up a whole plastic chicken in the back of the plastic RV. Seconds later, however, she threw herself into the rocker next to me.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi," I said.

"Mmm!" she said, pointing at my magazine.

"You want a magazine?" I asked. She nodded. "Okay, then." I handed her a copy of Real Simple (I want to go on record and say this one was not mine. I will own up to US Weekly and In Style but agree with the mythical Libby Gelman-Waxner that "Real Simple sounds like the lifestyle publication for people with head injuries.") She opened it, and draped it over her lap. Then she leaned back in the rocker with a prolonged sigh. Her bangs covered her eyes. (Her barrette, as usual, was newly lost--do I have to buy them by the pound?)

"Had a hard day?" I asked. She nodded. "Feels good to relax with some light reading, doesn't it?" She nodded again, and grinned. Then we both lay back in our rockers, stealing a few precious moments to escape the weight of the world.