Girl Detective

G. Grod and I are expecting again. Drake’s little sibling is due in late February. This is a bittersweet thing for me to write. While we planned and want to have more than one child, we have several close friends who are struggling to get or to stay pregnant. I’ve become very aware that congratulating someone on pregnancy is very strange–hey guys, good job on you know what!–while the positive attention that pregnant women and women with new babies attract can be like a twisting dagger to those for whom life is far less fair. While I’m excited for us, I’m sad, yet hopeful, for our friends.

For the past three months, I’ve been fatigued and nauseous, which has not done a lot to help my writing habit. If I every get over this rotten cold (two weeks today and counting) I hope to feel better, generally, and be more consistent with this weblog and get back to work on my novel. Because, come February, life’s going to get a lot more complicated.

I’m not sure the State Fair visit number 2 was a good idea. I left with a stomachache, probably having sampled one food too many (honey/sunflower-seed ice cream, I’m lookin’ at you.)

Unsurprisingly, the fair is much easier to manage with 2 parents to each child, rather than on mom-to-man defense. Drake had his first pronto pup, the Minnesotan version of a hot dog on a stick, dipped in batter and deep fried. Apparently, corn dogs are an Iowa thing, according to our friends. We also had fried cheese curds (I miss them already), Puff Daddy on a Stick–thai sausage wrapped in puff pastry on a stick drizzled with a peanut sauce (Sausage Sister & Me does badly named but delicious fair food. We also enjoyed their Little Sistazz, finger-food sausage slices in puff pastry), then root beer, a breakfast burrito with guac from Tejas (free coffee!), roasted sweet corn, mini-donuts, Cinnie Smith’s mini cinnamon rolls, and finished with a cider freezie for Drake and the regrettable ice cream for me, which has lost its place on the list. G. Grod got to see a butter sculpture of one of the princess candidates being carved, so he felt his mission to the fair had not been in vain. I see the butter sculptures like most regional oddities–once is perhaps more than enough. Then again, G. Grod only feels the need to go to the fair once a year, as opposed to me, who wants to go as many times as it takes to try all the food that I fancy.

My must-have fair treats list is now honed to cheese curds, Sister & Me sausage, World’s Best french fries, roast corn, Sweet Martha’s chocolate chip cookies, mini donuts, 1919 root beer, and Cinnie Smith’s mini cinnamon rolls.

The food critic for the Star Tribune, Rick Nelson, listed these at the not-to-miss foods that debuted this year. Of them, I only tried the cinnamon rolls and Puff Daddy, but both were so excellent that I will add the other items to next year’s list to try. Of course, next year’s fair visit will be more challenging, since it’s likely I’ll be herding both Drake and his little sibling. Perhaps I’ll need to make three trips to try it all.

- Frozen Mocha on a Stick (Minnesota Farmers Union Coffee Shop, Dan Patch Avenue at Cosgrove Street).
- Mini cinnamon rolls (Cinni Smiths, Murphy Avenue at Cooper Street).
- Sorbet in hollowed-out fruit (Key Lime Pie Bar, Cooper Street at the Skyride).
- Spiral Chips (Sonny’s Spiral Chips & Sandwiches, Food Building).
- Puff Daddy on a Stick (Sausage Sister & Me, Food Building).
- Smoked salmon wrap (Giggles’ Campfire Grill, Cooper Street at Lee Avenue).

I took two-year-old Drake to the Minnesota State Fair this morning with another mom and her son, and I’m happy to say he had a better time than he did last year. The State Fair is one of my favorite events of the summer. I don’t care about rides, or attractions, or displays. I go for the food. Last year, Drake hardly ate a thing. This year, he was much more engaged.

We started with breakfast burritos at Tejas in the food building, then ran out to get a cup of 1919 root beer and a small basket of World’s Best french fries to watch local television personalities Chef Andrew and M.A. Roscoe do a guacomole-making demonstration. Drake didn’t want either the burrito or the excellent guacamole, but he tackled both the root beer and french fries with enthusiasm. Our next stop was my friend’s priority, the roasted corn stand by the grandstand. The boys ran up and down, always coming back for a bite of the roasted, buttered corn. Next was Sweet Martha’s for a cone of chocolate-chip cookies and a cup of milk. Drake and his toddler friend started dancing to the music coming out of the arcade next door. We continued on to the baby animal barn, which has the somewhat concerning name “Miracle of Birth” building. I’ve given birth, and miraculous wouldn’t be the first adjective I’d choose. Messy fits better, I think. We saw a baby horse, baby turkeys, baby sheep and a new calf, but I had to leave before we went further. The crowds were too much for a small building, and Drake was screaming and kicking in my arms. He was soon appeased, though, by a cider freezie from the agriculture building. As we made out way back to the parking lot, I tried a new treat with an unfortunate name, the Fudge Puppy, which is a piece of Belgian waffle on a stick covered in chocolate and topped with whipped cream. My friend and I agreed that it was good, but no different than a chocolate covered fried doughnut. Much more impressive were the mini cinnamon buns at Cinnie Smith’s, new this year to the fair. The little buns were airy and not greasy, hot but not scalding, and had just the right amount of cinnamon-spiced goo. The frosting was a good complement, but only in moderation. I regretted a too-enthusiastic dunk of one of my last minis.

There were a few of my favorite foods that time and toddlers did not permit me to sample: fried cheese curds, mini-donuts, sausage, honey-sunflower-seed ice cream and a lemon shake. Luckily, we have another fair trip planned for the weekend, so I will have one more opportunity to indulge my annual craving for delicious and spectaculary unhealthy foods.

2002 State Fair entry

For Drake’s birthday, his grammy kindly sent a bookstore gift card. It was burning a hole in G. Grod’s wallet so we went book shopping this weekend. Plus, I think G. may have harbored a small hope that maybe he or I could justify getting something for ourselves, like the new TPB–trade paperback–of Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norell, or the Low CD The Great Destroyer. We were good, though. We used it all on Drake.

Choosing children’s books has been more of a learning curve for me than I would have thought. My mom thoughtfully kept all the books from when my sisters and I were young, and I oversaw the kids’ section of a large used book store for a year. I felt pretty knowledgeable about kids’ books. But a former colleague from the bookstore shared that he spent years collecting a tremendous children’s library, yet all his kids want to read is Pokemon. Like him, having a kid sharpened my appreciation for what really works. Omnibus collections of multiple stories (George and Martha, Curious George, and Madeleine all have these) are heavy for toddlers to lift and too long to read in one setting, causing tears once the book is shut. Deluxe editions, like The Essential Eloise by Kay Thompson, contain extras that might be interesting to adults, but do not make easy reading to children. And some stories are just disliked, either by parents or by the kid. Both my husband and I dislike Curious George stories, which are long, disjointed and often feature odd or disturbing details, like George being kidnapped from the jungle and later smoking. Other books are fine once or twice, but can become tiresome when asked for several times in a row. Some of our books receive a temporary, and some a permanent, time out. Some of Drake’s favorite books are classics from when I was a child, like Bedtime for Frances, but some of the most successful new books we’ve acquired have been recommendations from other parents. Pancakes, Pancakes by Eric Carle, and several of the mouse books by Kevin Henkes are now well-loved and oft-read books in our library.

As I struggled to winnow our choices, I was reminded why we normally shop in used book stores. Yes, there are some dodgy ethics about the author not getting the proceeds, but I just can’t argue with the sheer bang for the buck of the used books. (Last week, for example, we got 11 books–one for us, 10 for Drake–for $30.)

New bookstores, though, have their own joys, like a wide selection, including new releases, of non-shabby books. I was torn by all the choices, though. Should we get new books, classics, hardcovers, paperbacks? Just as I’d finally made my decisions, G. Grod drew my attention to the book clutched in Drake’s hand. He’d made a choice of his own, so I had to put back a copy of Ferdinand by Munro Leaf. Here are our new books. Try to guess which was Drake’s pick.

Kitten’s First Full Moon by Kevin Henkes
Make Way for Ducklings by Robert McCloskey
Swimmy by Leo Lionni
Katy and the Big Snow by Virginia Lee Burton
Lift the Flap: Things That Go
I Am Not Sleepy and I Will Not Go to Bed by Lauren Child

Drake turned two over the weekend, and we invited a few of his friends and their parents to our house to celebrate. The parents had a good time, the kids played well together, and Drake was still wound up the next day from all the fun. We ordered pizza and I made three kinds of cupcakes: yellow with chocolate ganache frosting, dark chocolate with cream-cheese frosting, and carrot with vanilla-bean cream-cheese frosting. For party favors, we went shopping at our favorite used bookstore and got a selection of Drake’s favorite picture books, by Kevin Henkes, Russell Hoban, and James Marshall, mostly. I was very stressed getting the house in order beforehand, but I love the aftermath of a party–everything is tidy and presentable.

G. Grod is back to work these past few days after his gall bladder surgery, and is tired, but in no pain. He is rather cranky at the continued restriction on fatty foods–and who wouldn’t be?–but is being a good sport. Drake is confused and put out that G. Grod can’t pick him up, but we’re managing. Some friends (saviors, as far as I’m concerned) brought us meals to help out, other friends have made sure that we have what we need, and still other friends wrote and called to check in and give cheer.

We are very thankful for friends, near and far.

Within the last few months, my toddler son Drake has become much more affectionate. He asks to give and receives hug and kisses. He’ll also give a little squeeze to my arm or leg while he says, “Keethe,” because he lisps just a little.

It’s both strange and normal to see this change. Strange, because I’d resigned myself to the fact that he wasn’t a very snuggly guy. And normal, because I’ve been shown again and again not to make assumptions, and that everything changes all the time. Part of me wonders if this is simply his development. Another part wonders if it can be coincidence that he became more affectionate about the same time as our lives finally seemed to settle down. A lot of stresses fell away this past spring, and I can’t help but feel the change in his behavior meant that he noticed, too.

I saw the playground dad yesterday (and, as is typical of playground interactions, I have no memory of his name, but I do know his son’s) I told him of our recent disastrous restaurant experience. He confirmed what I knew to be our key mistake–going with another family + toddler. His advice was for just the three of us to go early, to avoid crowds and keep the stimulation lower. He affirmed that dining out was a good thing for a family, and not something to be hastily given up.

Drake isn’t two for a few weeks, but it seems like he is for all intents and purposes. And that has become my answer for all questions, lately. Why is he throwing a tantrum? Why does he want me to read the same book four times in a row while he ignores others? Why is he so giddy and happy? Why won’t he eat sweet potatoes anymore? Why does he say “outside” then play with his trucks?

With a baby, and still with a toddler, there aren’t many concrete answers. One hard thing for me about parenting has been to soldier on without an answer. I think my vague parenting strategy, which I formed but have trouble following, is not to fret away the good times, and not to freak out during the tough ones.

After Drake was born, my husband G. Grod and I continued to dine out occasionally. We would keep Drake in his seat or his stroller for as long as he’d tolerate it, then one of us would hold him while the other person ate, then we’d switch. As Drake grew, though, so did the force of his displeasure, as well as his ability to evade rudimentary restaurant high-chair restraints. After a few challenging dinners, we decided that perhaps we’d take a break from restaurants for a while. It didn’t make sense to pay for an experience that no one enjoyed.

But I met a dad on the playground who encouraged me not to give up, and recommended the restaurant he worked at as a good place for little kids. I also didn’t want to give up because I enjoy dining out. So last Friday night we decided to give it a shot, called some friends who also have a toddler, and went to the restaurant that the playground dad had recommended.

It was a disaster. The nearly two-year-old boys were thrilled to see each other, and got wound up immediately. Their shrieks of delight earned concerned glances from an elderly couple. They splashed their hands in the indoor fountain until our waitress warned that it was dirty. They then got furious when we took them away. The boys refused to sit in the high chairs and were uninterested in food. When we took them outside they didn’t want to stay in front of the restaurant, but ran down the block. We had just gotten appetizers when my friend asked if we should pack everything up and go. Everyone agreed, and we continued the meal in her backyard, where everyone was a lot happier. (Until G. Grod’s gall bladder attack two hours later, that is.)

The good news is that we were brave enough to give it a try, and adaptable enough to make a new plan when the original one failed. The bad news is that we may have to give even family-friendly restaurants a miss until Drake gets a little older. I don’t want to keep putting him, and us, into a situation that clearly doesn’t work.

Chasing my toddler Drake with a full dropper of baby Motrin:

“Don’t run from the drugs, sweetie. They bring happiness and relief.”

Yet I told the truth. After the Motrin, both he and I were happy and relieved, because the most challenging parts of the day (i.e., screaming and tantrums–mostly his) were over.

Drake is approaching his 2nd birthday. At his 18-month checkup, my husband G. Grod and I were abashed to admit that Drake wasn’t talking much; he made a lot of noise, but little of it was words. The doctor asked how many words he had. We generously said about eight. Then the doc asked how many words Drake said that other people would recognize as words. We generously said two or three. Since then, Drake’s language has had continuous momentum. I was not surprised to feel relief. What I have been surprised to feel, though, are twinges of sadness as he barrels along developmentally.

As do many children, Drake would identify animals by their sounds, or his approximation of their sounds, rather than by their names. A cat, for instance, was a “Beow.” As a responsible, teaching parent, every time he said “beow” I said, “the cat says Meow.” I emphasized the M and made sure that he could see my mouth as I formed the word. So it was with both great excitement and sadness that one day he looked back at me and said, “Meow.” A few months after that, he said, “cat.”

So now Drake knows that a cat says “meow” and he can communicate that with his own words. He has also shifted from “bu-POHN” to “button.” These are correct, and indicate that he’s learning and growing. I never thought I would, but I will always feel a pang for those sweet, brief days when a cat was a beow.

We bought this wheeled attachment for Drake’s car seat for Drake’s and my trip to see my family in central Ohio, where he got some good quality time with my parents and his aunts and uncles.

It adds wheels to the car seat for easy transport through the airport onto the plane and off. It allowed me not to take the stroller on the trip, and ensured that travelling with Drake by myself was much more manageable. I wish we’d had it ages ago.

Travelling went mostly well. Drake was a little scream-y, perhaps due to incoming molars. Going out, the sour-faced woman in front of me did not seem to appreciate my apology, but the kind woman with her daughter in back of me assured me that it does get easier over time. And coming back, the man at the gate went above and beyond to get Drake his own seat so I could bring the car seat on with me and not have to hold him in my lap, and our flight was smooth and early.

Drake threw an on-the-ground, kicking, screaming tantrum after the 4th of July parade, though he did enjoy seeing the fire trucks and horses. He also very much enjoyed frozen custard, a lemon shake, and french fries with ketchup and vinegar. He won’t be two for while yet, but I think he’s got some of the behaviors already, both good and challenging.

Drake has been off his feed for the past couple weeks, and he’s never been a very portly toddler. So lately when he looks up at me with those huge, hazel eyes, and says, “Buh, mom?” I silence my conscience and cut off a little sliver of butter and hand it to him. He gobbles it down.

There are worse things.

Right?

We all know that each child differs from the next and that their academic needs are best met when we take these differences seriously. We also know that schools have enormous difficulties in this regard and are openly desperate to do better. Two pillars of the current education debate–tracking of students and class size–are intimately connected to this larger question of individualizing education. Yet the novel approaches and creative solutions thus far conjured by educators have not altered the primary design flaw of schools: They are mass institutions and thus by definition ill suited to the academic needs of individuals.

Homeschooling parents have a distinct advantage over public-school teachers when it comes to individualizing education. (P. 20)

Family Matters: Why Homeschooling Makes Sense by David Guterson, was book #43 in my 50 book challenge for the year. I’ve already received some flak because I’m considering home school for my child. (I’m considering public school as well, but no one gives me sh!t about that, do they?) But Guterson, a high school teacher who is also the father of three home-schooled children, makes a compelling case for it. Beyond the point I quote above, which I think is a very strong one, he also continuously emphasizes that parents should be actively involved in their children’s education, whether it is in a school or at home.

If I looked to Drake for affirmation, I might wait a long time. When I returned from my college reunion on a Sunday after last seeing him on a Thursday, he cried, “Ma!” and ran toward me, then stopped suddenly in front of the car door and began to play with the keyhole. I was completely forgotten.

The other night a friend offered to watch him so my husband G. Grod and I could go on a *gasp* date. Drake immediately brought books to her. As we prepared to leave, she asked him, “Doesn’t your mom look nice?” Drake glanced up, then said, “No. Bye-bye. Please read.”

From Bookslut:

There’s coverage of Lionel Shriver, the US-born author who won the Orange Prize yesterday for We Need to Talk About Kevin, at The Scotsman, The Independent, the BBC, The Times, the CBC, Reuters, and This Is London. Much is made of her traditionally masculine first name and her decision not to have children. (Quick, how many male authors have you seen get quizzed incessantly about their lack of offspring? I think it’s about…let me do the math here…yeah, about zero. Ah, vive le double standard.)

Well, yes, but the male authors who don’t get quizzed haven’t written a book with a main character of a mother who doesn’t form a bond with the child that goes on to commit mass murder.

If Ms. Shriver doesn’t want to have kids, I applaud her decision to buck convention. The premise of this book smacks of an extreme apologia, one which, however well-written, doesn’t compel me to read it. A simple “no, not for me” would suffice.

Apparently the end of May/beginning of June is when I make big life changes. A year ago I resigned my job in advertising to stay home with my toddler Drake, then 9 months old. Both immediately and since, I have never once regretted the decision. Drake was frequently sick in daycare, and both G. Grod and I missed a lot of work. Drake’s health improved dramatically upon leaving daycare. Staying home allows me to focus on two of my priorities, Drake and writing. Work took a lot of my peace of mind, and didn’t compensate for it in other ways.

I recognize this feeling. It’s that life is pretty good. The last time I felt this was about three years ago. At that point I felt my life, my job, my relationships, my marriage, my living situation were all pretty good. I could either maintain the status quo, or try to move to a new stage in life and start a family. Things didn’t proceed quite as planned.

I was troubled by hip pain and insomnia during pregnancy. Labor and birth did not go well, though they did result in a healthy baby. I had a series of medical problems after the birth, work deteriorated, Drake was continuously ill in daycare, I resigned, we sold our apartment, bought a new house, moved, and my husband promptly lost his job.

Finally, though, spring arrived in its half-assed fashion to Minnesota. The snow mostly stopped. We began to meet people and make friends. My husband found a job. The weather is sometimes warmer. Occasionally the sun even comes out. Drake and I are able to get out of the house with fewer layers of clothing. I am able to see what life is like when we are not in crisis mode.

Drake is often a joy to be around. I’d be lying or delusional if I said he was that way in general. After all, he’s a person, and none of us is good company, always. I finally realized that it is unreasonable to expect him to be cuddly and laid-back, since these adjectives have never been used to describe me, so I better start appreciating him for what he is, which is active and curious. He is learning his letters and numbers, but has trouble with multi-syllabic ones, like W and 7. He also has trouble with multi-syllabic words and usually only pronounces the first. This can make for problems in understanding, since Toe and Toast sound alike, as do Pea and Pete. Drake is excited to recognize letters and numbers in the world, and often shouts them out with delight in public. At home, he likes to “hide” under the cushions on the couch. He’s pretty easy to find, since a large part of him is usually sticking out. He no longer puts every single thing in his mouth. He still loves to be read to, and has memorized passages from his favorite books, so that we can leave out words and he’ll fill them in, as with the “tiddely pom”s in one of Winnie the Pooh’s songs. This can sometimes be unfortunate, as when he runs about chanting “I die,” a line from Edward Gorey’s The Epiplectic Bicycle. (So much for encouraging non-cutesy children’s books.) Yesterday I noticed that he could hang on the bar over the slide; it used to be out of his reach. Today I noticed that the pants I bought too big at Christmas are definitely too small. Life keeps changing.

Outside, the weather is chill, grey and rainy. I have a lingering cold. It is easy to feel laid low by these things. Instead, I’m reminded that I have a very different life from the one three years ago, one in which I read, write and get to spend time with a developing person. I am glad the crises have died down, so I can appreciate this new life.

My toddler Drake likes to hear the same books over and over. My husband G. Grod and I have “disappeared” a few of Drake’s more tedious choices. Fortunately, most of Drake’s favorite books have passages I enjoy with each reading.

From Winnie the Pooh by A.A. Milne.

Then, suddenly, [Pooh] was dreaming. He was at the East Pole, and it was a very cold pole with the coldest sort of snow and ice all over it. He had found a beehive to sleep in, but there wasn’t room for his legs, so he had left them outside. And Wild Woozles, such as inhabit the East Pole, came and nibbled all the fur off his legs to make nests for their Young. And the more they nibbled, the colder his legs got, until suddenly he woke up with an Ow!–and there he was, sitting in his chair with his feet in the water and water all round him!

From Best Friends for Frances by Russell Hoban.

When Frances got to Albert’s house, he was just coming out, and he was carrying a large, heavy-looking brown paper bag.
“Let’s play baseball,” said Frances.
“I can’t,” said Albert. “Today is my wandering day.”
“Where do you wander?” said Frances.
“I don’t know,” said Albert. “I just go around until I get hungry and then I eat my lunch.”
“That looks like a big lunch,” said Frances.
“It’s nothing much,” said Albert. “Four or five sandwiches and some apples and bananas and two packages of cupcakes and a quart of chocolate milk.”
“Can I wander with you?” asked Frances.
“I only have one lunch,” said Albert…”I think I better go by myself. The things I do on my wandering days aren’t things you can do.”
“Like what?” said Frances.
“Catching snakes,” said Albert. “Throwing stones at telephone poles. A little frog work maybe. Walking on fences. Whistling with grass blades. Looking for crow feathers.”

From Olivia Saves the Circus by Ian Falconer.

“Was that true?” Olivia’s teacher asks.
“Pretty true,” says Olivia.
“All true?”
“Pretty all true.”
“Are you sure, Olivia?”
“To the best of my recollection.”