A letter to Phookie from her mom

Dear Phookie,

I didn't love you when I was pregnant with you. I'm sure that if someone would have asked, I would have said that I did, and I would have meant it at the time. But I would have been wrong. I didn't love you then, because I didn't know what love was. Not this kind of love, anyhow. Not the kind that struck me in tandem with the lightning bolt that was striking outside the hospital window the moment you were born. I saw you, the doctor handed you to me, and I knew what love was. Instantly. Lightning, pure lightning. Some moms say it took awhile for them to bond with their babies, and everyone agrees this is perfectly normal. But you, Phookie, you were lightning.

I was worried I wouldn't have any maternal instincts. I had no experience with babies. No diaper changes under my belt, not a single one. And yet, there you were, and we were going to work it out. The thing was, there was no working it out necessary. You were my baby, and I instantly knew what to do with you. That's not to say things were easy, or that you never cried, or anything of the sort. I just felt instantly as if we, you and I, little Phook, were made for each other. I held you constantly. I nursed you whenever you seemed inclined. I didn't sleep for five months, not because you were up all night, but because I was up all night, staring at you. The nightlight glow and the cold winter and the ten million kisses you will never know about and I will never forget. The preciousness of it makes it hard for me to breathe as I think about it now. I had wanted you for so long, and there you were. And perfect too. The blessing of you is incomprehensible.

You started growing up a little bit, in the tiny ways babies grow up every day. The reason parents yammer on about the milestones their children reach, as if they are the most amazing thing that ever happened, is that they are the most amazing thing that ever happened. A little creature that moments ago was moving solely in flinches and eyelid flutters is now rolling over. Crawling. Standing. Walking. Tell me that isn't the most amazing thing that ever happened. Amazing. You, Phookie, are amazing. Watching you crouch like a toad and play for what seems like an hour with your little stacking cups, reorganizing and stacking and nesting little cup in big cup, concentrating so hard and just figuring it all out is, for me, like unlocking the deepest secrets of the universe. I have been given an all access pass to what it is that matters. And it is you. Watching you put the red cup in the orange cup, I know what matters. I no longer question the direction my life is taking. I am not worried about where I am going with myself. I am not haunted by anywhere I've been, or any turns I have taken. I am not sick with indecisions or decisions or what ifs. I am living. I am not waiting for anything to change, or anything to start, or anything to stop. My life is happening now, and the future is just some place I will take a look at once I get there. You are my now. You have brought me sublime happiness and peace, just by letting me take care of you. I know I'm supposed to be too smart to be content with making you laugh while changing your diaper. But content is what I am. I am so lucky.

You, you, little Phook. You are too much. You are so funny. You are so good at playing peek with the shower curtain. You are so good at snorting like a pig. You are so good at climbing staircases and being proud every time you get to the top. You are so good at tackling cats. You are so good at shoving food in your mouth. You are so good at pulling at my shirt as I stand at the kitchen sink. You are getting pretty good at kissing. And waving. And you're even thinking about getting good at saying some words.

You know, Phook, when I thought about how I was going to write you this letter, I thought that its theme was going to be the loss of your babyhood. How it's my job to start letting you go, even now. I was going to put down some thoughts on how difficult it has been to watch you wean yourself, and learn to walk, and all these other things that illustrate how quickly you will really be gone, off living a life that doesn't involve me wiping the spaghetti off of your face. But as I write this, as hard as it is to contemplate that very notion, I am not feeling particularly full of loss. I am feeling so blessed for the opportunity I have had to be your mother for the past year. I am feeling so excited for the amazing things you will do in the next year, and the next. I am feeling certain that every day is a gift. Some days do involve a little bit more poop and drool than I typically like to see on packages addressed to me, but there is something in every single day that is a gift. That being said, I have to admit that I will cry a little bit today, this day you have gone and turned into a one-year-old. How could I not? After all, the sun is setting on your babyhood.


But watching you chase the sun just might be worth letting go of your hand.

Thank you, Phookie. It has been a beautiful day.

~Mom

Some thoughts on the pervasive nature of Cheerios

This might qualify me as a bad parent, but Cheerios are the currency of a token economy in the House of K. When Phook gets rowdy, I bribe her with Cheerios. Specifically, I use the unit of Cheerio when I am preparing her meals and she is impatiently rocking the high chair across the room and growling, when she is sick of our mega-walks a few miles in and I want to continue, and during church services. A Cheerio in the mouth generally equals a relatively soundless child, and sometimes that is the preferred state. Of course it doesn't work when they are praying for some recently deceased lady whose relatives are weeping in the next pew, but it generally buys a little bit of time. Oh, yeah, and every once in a while when I want to sit down for 45 seconds, I buy that time with Cheerios too. Maybe I'm setting up a terrible system of rewarding behavior that should just be expected, but I'm not interested in really putting much thought into it. I employ the Cheerio in this home. Besides, I'm helping her cholesterol. In my family, it's never to early to start that.

But the fact that I do a little bribing with the big yellow box isn't really the focus of this post. No, what I want to talk about is the simple fact the Cheerios are the most mobile non-living entity the world has ever produced. They're like plants that pollinate one another via transfer on a human or a dog. They stick to everything, and end up in every conceivable location. I have found Cheerios in my bra (undertit, specifically), on my ass, in my socks, in my bed, in my fridge, on my walls, in my cats' fur. And I didn't put them there. Once you introduce Cheerios to your home, they spread like mold. Seriously, what is up with this? You can sweep your kitchen and vacuum your house, but you can't ever really eliminate a Cheerio population. I want to know what is going on.

One theory is that they stick to Phook's spitty palms and then end up deposited wherever she locomotes. Another theory is that the cats bat them around when I'm not looking. Another theory is that they are the true legacy of Roswell. But why are they nestled underboob in my bra at the end of the day? Do they seek warmth and nurturing? Wendell, I hereby request that you consider them a critter and look into it.

So that's it. I just wanted to throw it out there that Cheerios are a serious hitch in the giddyup of my housekeeping game. I want to know where Cheerios get their power, and then I want to harness it and use it for good, once and for all putting a stop to the Cheerio evil that is sweeping the nation.

Okay, gotta go. I'm packing my Cheerios and going camping for four days. Check ya later.

Every now and then, you have a great day

Now, as mentioned in this post in which I viciously maligned my husband for being the bearer of many bad and/or nonexistent gifts, I had it on good authority that I'd be making a trek to Six Flags Great America in Gurnee, Illinois as part of my birthday present, which was July 17. Now, Big K's birthday is on October 3, and that is nearing. And our anniversary is on October 18. So as we have descended further into poverty, the use of this trip expanded in scope considerably, and it became a celebration for my birthday present, his birthday present, and our anniversary. It clearly needed to happen, or we'd be disregarding a number of events.

Sunday, it happened. Big K and I got up, woke our Phookling and deposited her at the home of the Grandparents J, and were motoring towards Illinois by 7:15. We arrived at Great America about 3 hours later, excited and full of licorice nibs. We surrendered an amount of money at the gate it takes me over 12 hours of butt wiping to earn, despite having $15 off coupons for each admission. We then proceeded to the Superman ride, which is a tremendous ass kicker of a coaster. They strap you into a seat in a fairly standard configuration, but then tilt the whole train so you are suspended from the thing, your vulnerable belly pointed towards the ground. You then ride the whole ride like you are flying, with the train hanging from the bottom of the steel track rather than riding on top of it like a standard coaster. Now, Big K, despite being a coaster enthusiast, is afraid of heights. Go figure. So we are being pulled up the giant incline before the ride really launches, and he looks over at me and very calmly says, "Why am I doing this?" You surely had to be there, but it was hilarious. This ride is insane. Particularly when you go through a loop which has the effect of slamming you onto your back with gravitational forces that Mr. Wizard can tell you about in greater detail, but which I will simply say rocked my socks. This is a great ride. And I'd know. In addition to Great America, I've had the pleasure of tasting coasters at Six Flags Magic Mountain in California, Cedar Point in Ohio, the rides on top of the Stratosphere tower in Las Vegas, that Tower of Terror thing at MGM Studios in Florida, as well as partaking of bungee jumping, skycoastering, the Skycraper ride featured here, and many other things I surely overpaid to experience. Granted, I couldn't get on the Discovery Channel with this resume, but I clearly have some credentials as a thrill seeker. So it's a good ride.

We then spent some quality time on the Vertical Velocity, the Giant Drop, the Iron Wolf, and other lovelies. Then it was time to eat, which involved a meal combo (large slice of pizza and three cheese bread slivers) at a pizza place for the bargain price of $8.99 each, soda an additional $3.99 for a large. That should be illegal. More rides followed, including one of my personal favorites, the Raging Bull, which we rode twice, and Batman, an oldie but goodie. At this point, I was struck by the stark realization that I am old. You know how I know? My intestines told me. They were all up in my face like, "Bitch, get off the damned ride. Don't make me force you to reverse eat your thirteen dollar lunch." I have never in my life been greeted with the sensation that I needed to stop riding roller coasters. Put me on a tilt-a-whirl or even a merry-go-round and you will see spew, but I can generally coaster continuously. Um, no. I admitted this to Big K and he was relieved to hear me say it, because he too was ready to call ralph on the big white phone. There was nothing to do at that point but drop another $8.99 on a funnel cake sundae and another $3.99 soda, so we sat and enjoyed our fatness for awhile. Then we rode the wooden monstrosity that is the American Eagle, walked the midway, and Big K won his baby Phook this lovely prize on one of those games where you swing a mallet really hard and try to ding the bell thing:


We then cruised the train around the park with our oversized Scooby, and hit the Superman one last time on our way out the door. The trip would not be complete without a pit stop at the outlet mall from hell nearby, and since we had some time to kill, we hit that joint up. We stopped at a purveyor of watches, where Big K discovered a watch that featured the logo of his beloved Wisconsin Badgers. It bore the hefty price tag of $95 and it was not on sale. I gently pushed him to snap it up, since he so clearly wanted it, but he couldn't bring himself to spend such an audacious sum on himself. I then declared I was buying it for him for his birthday. (That's over 13 hours of butt wiping.) He's just the type of guy who never wants anything. If you buy him a shirt, he's irritated because his worn ones are good enough. So to see him want something very badly and choose to walk away kind of melted my little grinch heart. He walked out of the store with the watch on, and it was the happiest I've been in a long time to see him have something he wanted. Plus, he had picked me out a sweet sporty watch with a pink face from the clearance bin, so I had on a new watch myself. So our self-deprivation tanks were momentarily out of order, and it was awesome. We were prancing around that damned mall. Funny how things become so much more meaningful when you can't just snap up whatever strikes your fancy.

Next we hit up a seafood restaurant where I ate a vat o' seafood (complete with giant lobster bib) and Big K had crab-stuffed shrimp. All was right with the world and I made out with my drawn butter. After no more could be crammed into our grills, we stumbled out of there to our car, giddy and exhausted with the excess and freedom of the day.

But I'll tell you what. I think it is right near impossible to forgot about your kid once you go and make one. We took great interest in all the kiddie rides, and theorized which ones Phook will like when she's big enough. We looked at the many tandem strollers rolling around that place, and discussed the merits of each for the day when we need one. We talked about the awesomeness of our kid at 15 minute intervals. Phook was with us in spirit, and not necessarily by choice. Your kid is like an appendage...they are just always with you. No wait, that's not even right, because you can survive with a chopped off appendage. Your kid is more like something that is invasive on the cellular level, inseparable from your basic humanness. Quite frankly, you can't ever really leave her at home. And that's okay, I think. I don't really ever want to go anywhere without her.

It's a cold, rainy day...

And my cats are doing this...

Phook, biped

The baby. The former baby, that is. As I type this, there is a small biped roaming my living room. Ol' Phook took her first tentative steps around 10 months, and now at 11 months she is walking distances of 30 feet or more before going down with a resounding "boom" (sound effect provided by mom of course). Big K and I sit here and stare at her like she is an alien, freshly landed from Melmac and ready to eat cats. Holy shit. The other thing that is weird is that she is a small creature. As of her 9-month checkup, her weight was only in the 25th percentile and her height in the 60th. So she looks really weird walking, weirder than even your standard 11 month old. Yesterday we were at this "splash park" thing at a park a bit north of The Woods, and she was roaming around through all of these oversized faux flowers shooting water and stuff and there were all these other moms there with their little bipeds and they were all looking at her like she was a walking hunk of muenster in her little swimsuit bedecked with strawberries. As was I. When you're nursing your phookling for hours at a time in the wee hours of a cold winter's night, it is just so hard to imagine that in the time it takes to blink, your phookling is going to be walking around your house screaming with self pride.

And the determination. Perhaps, despite having her father's face, hair, eyes, expressions, and ass cheeks, she is my daughter after all. This kid is intense. When she works on walking for the sake of walking, she gets up, walks until she falls, gets up, walks until she falls, over and over and over again, not looking at anything around her and never deciding to just crawl because she can. If she wants to go upright, she will get there upright. Over the last couple months, I have often tried to do the thing where you grab your baby's hand or hands and hold them and help them walk. She has never consented to this activity, not even for a single step. If Phook is walking, Phook is walking, and she'll have none of your assistance, thank you. And then there is her bub car driving, pictured at the top of this post. She still drives this thing around the entire first floor of our home, screaming with joy and crashing into everything, inanimate object or sleeping mammal. She pretty much runs behind it at this point. And then she'll get it stuck behind an end table or under a kitchen chair. And then she screams and jacks on the thing like a mad crazy dog. Absolutely no patience, this kid. Just goes wild with frustration until she gets it jacked out of its spot or until someone helps her. She does the same thing with this play grocery cart at daycare. She will not abandon it for a toy that is available. Oh hell no, not this Phook. I see that this is something we will need to work with her on as she grows, managing these disappointments, these inconveniently stuck bub cars that we face throughout life. This kid has her mind made up.

So, yes, it appears I am really dealing with a person here, a person with a personality that will serve her well and and also piss her off quite regularly. Aw, Phook, this is gonna get interesting.

September bears many gifts

People, do you know what is coming up at the end of the month? Well, Phook's 1st birthday (WTF on that count, by the way). In addition, the season premieres of my shows. My shows are as follows:

• Grey's Anatomy, which really pissed me off with its season finale. However, I still find myself getting quite excited about September 27, what with it being the season premiere (not to mention Phook's 1st birthday). Here's hoping they make some beautiful music this season. I want high intensity love affairs and snappy, witty banter. I want a hot elevator. Don't let me down, Shonda.
• Desperate Housewives, which I fell in love with during its first season, and which I have been clinging to hopefully ever since. When I watch it, there is a lot of me wanting to jump through the television screen and attack Teri Hatcher with extreme prejudice, but every now and then they still manage to muster up a snappy little sequence that I consider must see TV.
  
• Brothers & Sisters, which debuted this past year. I sincerely hope they don't fall prey to the sophomore slump, because this show was just so freaking good right out of the gate and I don't want to have to deal with disappointment. Do you watch it? Watch it. Seriously. My favorite character is Kevin, because sarcastic bastards are my cup of tea. Oh man, pump it, pump it, pump pump it up, people, because I am jacked about seeing my friends who live in the entertainment center again. Calista, you scrawny hellbeast, I even like you on this show. That's saying something.

So I am excited that I am seeing print ads for the premieres of these shows. My Phook-ripped copies of Us Weekly are ripe with two-page spreads getting me ready to rock. Right now, I'm feeling a not insignificant urge to write a couple hundred words justifying this excitement and explaining that I really don't watch a lot of TV, I have lots of valuable personal interests, and I exercise daily, but fuck that noise. I like these shows and everyone can eat it.

Now, I don't want to go crazy and get wooed into another show, but I'm really considering getting on board with this new Dirty Sexy Money show, or Rancid Rotting Meat or whatever it is that it's called. I don't know that I want to incorporate another weekly hour of mandatory viewing into my life, but freaking Newsweek even recommended it. And I love those crazy bastards at Newsweek. Plus, I'm considering breaking up with Desperate Housewives if they don't come through this year, and this could be my rebound relationship. I don't know, what do you think? Is this going to be a good show? Should I watch it? Yeah, I think I will give it a go.

One other thing about these shows is that I don't watch them alone. The fact that Big K is hooked on my chick shows notwithstanding, Auntie Hode (who is, by the way, currently donning armor for her second year as a high school social studies teacher...go Hode!) has a shared love for these masterpieces of the small screen. We watch them together, despite being over three hours apart via automobile. She calls during every single commercial. One special thing about this is that our local network stations are not exactly on the same page, and we finally figured out that she sees everything like 28 seconds before I do. So she'll be gasping and freaking out while I'm still watching someone walk down the hallway. If we are on the phone during, say, the entire season finale of Grey's, she now knows to keep her yap shut until I too start gasping and seizing. It's a delicate operation. To call attention to the upcoming festivities, I made her a decorative calendar with all of our friends on it, clearly marking the days of the premieres for her scheduling convenience. I present to you the following:

So, friends, there you have it. Counting the days, buddies, counting the days.