Mary and her great-grandmother

Nampa, Idaho

May 17, 2008

Mary: age 7 months exactly

Fern: still age 29

Consolation prize

Since David didn't get to go on an airplane with Mommy and Mary, Daddy took him on a train ride on the LM&M Railroad. It just so happened to be Curious George day, which was a nice bonus. But make no mistake--it was all about the train! As reported to me, David had the time of his life. Here are a few pictures.

To my grandma

(1977)

Dear Grandma,

Sometimes I can't remember things. I can't remember my cell phone number. Or where I put my keys. I can't remember birthdays, even when I write them on the calendar. I can't remember all the names of the people I taught on my mission, and I can't remember how to explain why I like Samuel Beckett's novels. Sometimes I can't remember what I did last weekend or what I'm supposed to do the next. Maybe you understand. Sometimes I wonder about the things I don't know I can't remember--because I have forgotten them.

One thing I hope I can always remember is when I brought my baby girl to meet you. I hope you can remember too. But just in case our memories fail, which they sometimes do, here is the story of Mary's visit. So we don't forget.

We arrived in the middle of the night, and you were sound asleep. I heard you wake up in the morning; the pain was intense, as usual. Mary and I surprised you there in bed. Immediately, it seemed, the pain melted away, or at least eased up a bit. I laid down on the bed with you and sat Mary by your side. I will be honest: She cried a little at first and turned to me for reassurance. I gave her a hug and turned her back to you. You cooed and oohed and awed, and Mary stared back intently with her knowing, wise eyes. And then she remembered you. She didn't see your aging body (the arms you insist on covering with three-quarter length sleeves)--she saw your spirit, who you really are. She recognized you from that earlier time, before you came to earth. You became fast friends, or, better said, renewed your friendship from before. You kissed her hands and made her laugh. She snuggled up close, touched your face, and smothered you with big, slobbery baby kisses.

What a fun day the three of us had! Later that morning, after you were dressed and had made it down the stairs (no small feat), we watched Mary play on the floor with the pink flamingo balloon. We talked, and I was happy to be with my loving, sassy, caring, charming grandmother. In the afternoon you accompanied Mary and me on a drug run (the legal kind). You helped me remember how to get to the hospital, and when we arrived, Mary had fallen asleep. So you kindly stayed in the car with her while I went inside to pick up your prescription and have it filled. Afterwards, you read my mind, and took me out for ice cream. Hooray! We got milk shakes to go from Sonic. At home in the family room we happily slurped our ice cream, and Mary watched us with envy. You informed her she would have to wait and get hers later secondhand. But she didn't want to wait. I got up to make a phone call, and I absentmindedly set my milk shake on the floor. When I returned, there was Mary, as thrilled as could be, chowing down on my milk shake like there'd be no tomorrow. Besides her first bath with David, it was happiest moment of her life! She was mad when I took it away (and luckily she's a second-child so I didn't panic and rush her to the ER for ingesting pineapple milkshake at age 7 months), and we laughed a lot about it. That night, after Janell and I picked up Chinese take-out, Mary got her hands in my noodles, but they didn't make it to her mouth, (unlike the pineapple shake). That was funny too. Mary is persistent, happy, and stubborn--just like her great-grandmother.

Saturday morning you, me, Janell, and Mary all lounged on your big bed. Mary was all smiles, giggles, and laughs as she joyfully rolled around in the blankets. That morning you inaugurated your new fancy shower, and then Janell, Mary, and I picked up a few things at the store for the new bathroom (as well as a new pillow for you--to replace the one you got for your wedding--yikes, Grandma, that's a long time to have a pillow!). We spent a wonderful afternoon with Andy, Charity, and little Caleb, who drove over from Twin Falls. We sat in the living room visiting and watching Mary and Caleb play. Mary, who surely had been missing her brother, was thrilled to see Caleb. Her face lit up as soon as she spotted him. Not surprisingly, whenever he left the room, she would try to follow. After dinner, we went outside to take some pictures. I know it was difficult for you to make it to the front porch, but I am so grateful, Grandma. I will cherish the pictures from that day, so thank you. Janell and I gave Mary a bath in your kitchen sink (she had a blast!), and you stayed outside on the bench with Andy, sharing a plate of strawberries with Caleb. We were all sad to say good-bye and goodnight--it was so nice being together--but we were also all tired and ready to get some sleep. You fell asleep the moment your head touched the pillow (your new pillow--Caleb had helped me dump the old one in the trash).

Sunday morning I brought Mary in to see you. You were tired, so you might not remember the way she looked at you. She studied your face carefully with gentle, patient eyes. And she left you with a slobbery kiss on the face. We weren't able to make it to church that morning, which is okay, because I don't know how I ever would have made my flight if we had. But I dressed up Mary in her Sunday clothes, and Betty and Nadine came over to meet her. You were sleeping when I left for the airport. I gave you a kiss on the cheek.

It was a special weekend, and I'm so glad I went. The best part was seeing you and Mary together, looking into each other's faces. It reminded me of the story you've told me countless times: How you went to the hospital after I was born, and you were able to hold me. But Grandpa wasn't allowed into the nursery. Only grandmas, no grandpas. Grandpa was jealous. You remember the first time you held me. You held me close and rocked me, and you looked into my face. You knew we were going to be good friends. And we are.

Love Always,

Your number-one and only granddaughter

With a daughter of her own now

Who is one more friend, eternally

P.S. Keep up the Spanish swear words! You are brave, and I admire you deeply for working through your pain and finding ways to cope, even if it's a little unorthodox. I love that sassy attitude, Grandma!

Difference of opinion

Apparently, we are in desperate need of a flower right in the middle of the front lawn.



This is the exact spot where David tried to plant his Mother's Day marigold. He wasn't successful. (The marigold is in the backyard, where it will get more sun.) But now, at every chance he gets, he moves this particular pot of flowers to that exact spot. And I always move it back. It's getting ridiculous. I know there are more important battles to fight, but I have chosen this one. I will admit, though, that I am getting weary, and thinking about setting a new trend in the neighborhood. A lone, random flower pot in the middle of the grass--when you see it in Better Homes and Gardens or hear it suggested by Martha Stewart, you'll know who really started it.

Doll Baby

The first time was in a Taco Bell. Mary was just a few weeks old. There was a table of friendly senior citizens next to us, and one of the gentlemen remarked that Mary was a "doll baby." On our way out, we stopped by their table so they could admire little Mary. We chatted for a minute or two, and when we left, they repeatedly insisted that she was indeed a "doll baby." I thought it was so sweet that they had called her a "doll baby," and I made a mental note to "remember that one time when Mary was called Doll Baby." At the moment I didn't realize it was going to be a lot more than one time.

Wherever we go--grocery stores, church, restaurants, the doctor's office, parks, airports, swimming lessons--the chances are good that someone will remark that Mary is a "doll baby." Now, it's not that unusual when you're accompanied by a baby and/or small child for people to stop you to comment on "how sweet" or "how cute" or "how adorable." (And thank you to those people!) What has been striking in Mary's case is her ability to consistently inspire people to use the phrase "doll baby." Before Mary was in my life, I had never given a thought to "doll babies." I'm sure I didn't even know what one was. But now I have been educated by the dozens and dozens of strangers who have stopped to admire my little girl--a "doll baby" is Mary.

So this is the story we will tell: Mary, you were a doll baby. You were such a beautiful baby that wherever we went, people were stopped in the their tracks. Older people, younger people, small children, big children. Busy people, bored people, chatty people, quiet people. Everyone wanted a chance to admire you, to have their hearts softened and their days brightened by your happy smile and shining eyes. "Doll baby! Doll baby!" That's what they said. Mary, here's what they mean: "The world has been a better place since you entered it." And I have to agree.

Smart

Today in speech therapy--

Miss Olivia: You're smart!

David: No, I'm David.

I smiled. (Progress! Read here.)

Flower power

It's amazing what a few pots of flowers can do for a dull rental house. As Greg said, "It looks like someone actually lives here now."

(Don't you love the 70's carport? We're the only people in the neighborhood who get to have both a garage and a carport! Acutally, I love the carport. Hmmm. I think I feel another blog post coming on . . ."Ode to a Carport.")

Happy Happy

Despite coaching from his teachers and his dad, each time this week when David has been prompted to wish me a happy Mother's Day, he has responded with an enthusiastic "Happy!" or "Happy Happy!" A very Happy Happy it's been!

My Happy Happy included my very first Mother's Day craft ever! (Thank you, Miss Julie and Miss Fran.) It was accompanied by a marigold flower that David had lovingly been tending at school since seedhood. (He still hasn't given it to me. As far as he was concerned, it's his flower, and he's already tried to plant it in the middle of the front lawn where he wants it to "Grow now!")

I also received flowers from both David and Mary! They were tulips, the table was wiped off, and they were delivered by an adorable little kid named David who did not smell like cigarettes. (I refer you to an earlier post.) After using his play-dough scissors to "help" me trim the stems, David carefully put the flowers in vases all by himself. Mary wants to eat the flowers, but so far she hasn't been successful.



A Happy Happy to you too!

Boonshoft

Yesterday morning, before Greg went up to school to work on his thesis, we all went to the Boonshoft Museum of Discovery. We bought a membership soon after we moved here. (I fancied myself taking the kids frequently, but so far I've never gone without Greg.) We do go together as a family every few months, and it's interesting to see how much David's abilities and interests have changed since the previous visit. This time he was finally big enough to operate the digger on his own!

A very Brady accomplishment

Phew! We did it. Last weekend Greg and I finished our monumental task of watching every single Brady Bunch episode ever! (Actually, there were only five seasons, so it wasn't that monumental, and we took lots of breaks to watch other things in our Netflix queue.)

We set out on this endeavor almost a year ago, when, last summer, I learned that Greg did not watch The Brady Bunch growing up. He didn't even know the kids' names, which to me was profoundly disturbing. Were our childhoods so dissimilar? I really thought we had a few basic things in common when we got married. I guess I just took it for granted that he would know that when Jan messed up the engraving on Mike and Carol's anniversary present that the kids would try to earn the money by entering a talent contest as a singing group called The Silver Platters and perform "Keep On" dressed in outrageously groovy costumes while doing repeated knee-bends. Doesn't everybody know that?

Now, it's not that I was a Brady Bunch fan while growing up. Quite the contrary. If anything, I was annoyed by the show. It seemed like it was always on. Just when I was in the mood for I Love Lucy, Tom and Jerry, or The Facts of Life, I would flip on the television and inevitably find the Brady family. So I endured thirty minutes of Bobby and Cindy on the see-saw or Marcia trying out for pom-pom girl while anxiously awaiting the start of the shows I actually liked.

Although I didn't especially enjoy The Brady Bunch, it nonetheless informed my worldview in several important, albeit indirect, ways. First of all, The Brady Bunch cultivated suspicion of my parents. For how frequently reruns of the show were broadcast, I figured it must have been unbelievably popular in its day. But my mom would not admit to having watched The Brady Bunch when she was a child. Never mind the fact that she was a busy, idealistic college student when the show originally aired. And that it never had more than mediocre ratings anyway. No one much watched The Brady Bunch when it was first on. It's actually my generation, watching it in reruns before Silver Spoons, that has made it any sort of cultural phenomenon. But, hey, I was seven. I didn't know any of that. What I did know is that I was absolutely convinced my parents had watched the Bradys during their childhoods and for some reason they wouldn't own up to it. I surmised that they were too ashamed to admit it. There was a lot to be embarrassed about--Carol's hair, the ginormous station wagon, an astroturfed backyard, orange formica counter tops, Alice's lame jokes, the "Time to Change" song, Cousin Oliver. No wonder they wouldn't admit they'd watched it! This is how I came to suspect that parents are not necessarily trustworthy.

As we all know, the most fascinating aspect of The Brady Bunch is the clothes. (It's like watching a car wreck--it's frightening and horrible and you want to look away but you have to keep staring.) Not only did my mom refuse to admit that she had watched The Brady Bunch when she was growing up, but she also wouldn't admit that people used to really dress that way. She would agree that there were a few bell bottoms and butterfly collars here and there in conservative Centerville, Utah, but she insisted that it wasn't as extreme as the Brady family. No matter how hard I pressed, she refused to concede that she had ever worn a dress so short her underwear showed. I didn't believe her. People really did dress like the Bradys, and this time I had proof: the picture of my dad in his plaid polyester bell bottoms. This further deepened my suspicion of my parents.

There is one more important lesson I must mention. I learned from The Brady Bunch that the bottom of the Grand Canyon is not a place I would want to visit--it looks like some dry, dusty gravel pit outside L.A. Years later, when I had outgrown afternoon T.V. in favor of talking on the phone to Deanna, my brother Andy and my dad hiked to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. Upon returning, my dad reported that the bottom of the Grand Canyon was remarkably lush and green. I didn't believe him. (Can you really trust someone who used to wear plaid polyester bell bottoms?) But then Andy confirmed that it was true: it was like an oasis, and there was even a swimming hole in Bright Angel Creek and a store where you could mail a postcard. The next year I checked it out myself, and it was true: The Brady trip to the bottom of the Grand Canyon had not actually been filmed there, or even a place that looked anything like it! I was shocked!! How could I have been so misled?! This is how I came to suspect that T.V. is not necessarily trustworthy. (While I have become less and less suspicious of my parents over time--yes, Mom, now I believe you--I have become more and more suspicious of T.V. Note "reality T.V.")

This time around with the Bradys I learned a few new things--like the fact that Mike gets his hair permed sometime after getting off the plane in Hawaii but before they arrive at their hotel, that the word "sex" is only mentioned once in the show's entire run (in the very last episode), and that in addition to the Grand Canyon and Hawaii, the Bradys also visit Ohio. In addition, I now know that the first and last seasons are really, really excruciatingly painful, but seasons 2-4 are campy and fun. I also wonder, while the Bradys certainly invite a good deal of mockery, if there is really anything wrong with a family who likes to spend time together, where the kids respectfully listen to their parents and care about one another, and whose major familial challenge is sharing the bathroom?

But after watching all 117 episodes with Greg patiently by my side (after all, this was all for his benefit!), I have to conclude that by far the most important thing I have learned from The Brady Bunch is this: My husband must love me a lot.

We love you, Uncle Chris, and thanks for the box

Yesterday David and Mary (and Greg and I too) enjoyed a visit from their very cool and very fun industrial designer uncle who was en route to a business meeting in "Cinci." Good times for all! (Including Mary, even though she doesn't look it in the pictures.) We're grateful to Eliza, Luke, and Evan for sharing their dad with us, and we hope to see them soon.



Uncle Chris was a big hit. Unfortunately for David, the fun with his uncle had to end...but not entirely. Chris brought us a box of baby clothes for Mary (thank you, Leslie!), and, once emptied of its contents, it, too, was a big hit (and it didn't have a meeting in Cincinnati). So the good times continued on today.

Hiding under the box and surprising Mom...

Nothing like watching an informational video about boats while sitting in a cardboard box...
I'm sure this was the highlight of Greg's day...

Mary's dream come true--a private clubhouse with her brother...

We love you, Uncle Chris! (And not only because of the box.)

Hair today...gone tomorrow?

This is Mary's hair today... (Greg is actually holding her upside down.)

This is to document how long her hair is...

(Most of the length is from her baby mullet.)

Tomorrow I am taking Mary to get her hair cut. I've been meaning to cut her hair for a while now--that baby mullet of hers is a little too long and scraggly. It's gotta go! I would trim it myself, except for the fact that she'd probably end up bald with my efforts to "even it out just a little bit more." (If only Redondo Beach weren't so far away...)

Mullet, so long!

(Like that play on words?)

Recovery

There is a limit to how much Dora the Explorer one kid (and his parents) can watch in a single week.

David's physical health may not be 100%, but it was time to focus a little on his mental health. David spent the weekend "recovering" by...

riding horses and making bubbles at the Daddy & Me carnival...

and helping Dad mow the lawn...

We're all looking forward to a little less Dora this coming week and a little more fun! Now if only Mary would get well...

Yellow marshmallows and other tips for the non-fisherman dad

When my brother Andy and I were little, we thought it our right, as kids, to have our dad take us fishing. Never mind the fact that our dad isn't a hunter-fisher kind of guy. (Our parents were more the VW bus type outdoor recreationists.) Finally, the opportunity arose, and, as part of our first backpacking trip, my dad agreed to take us fishing (due in large part to my little brother's amazing ability to annoy people into saying yes to anything). My dad was methodical in his approach to this, our first experience fishing.

First of all, he was very careful not to buy any new equipment. My dad uncovered one old fishing rod in my grandma's basement and borrowed everything else. I should have seen my dad's refusal to invest in any fishing gear as a sign that "fishing with dad" was not going to become a regular feature of our childhood. But I simply attributed it to my parents' tightwad tendencies. (These were the parents who, for our first skiing trip, opted for cross country--no lift tickets--and made my brother and I SHARE ONE PAIR OF SKIS because, well, renting one pair is cheaper than two.)

My dad was also thoughtful enough to let me pick out the bait myself. When we stopped at the general store, I considered my options in the bait aisle carefully, and I settled on a package of appetizing yellow marshmallows. Really. They looked exactly like mini-marshmallows with some sort of yellow coating (like Peeps). I remember them perfectly, I think in part because I spent the weekend trying not to eat one. (I didn't.) I was excited about these yellow marshmallows. I could imagine the fish looking up and seeing, not a slimy worm or some yucky bug, but a delightful little confection. Boy, were we going to catch a lot of fish! (My dad hadn't batted an eye when I brought them up to the cash register.)

Lastly, my dad took a very laid-back approach to when we fished. No need to get out to the lake at the crack of dawn, or return at dusk. We were free to fish under the high afternoon sun, which we did.

We didn't catch anything. Not even a nibble. So our first experience fishing was hugely disappointing, and we were left with little desire to try again. (But the backpacking part was fun! And not the last time.)

Years later, when I was a know-it-all teenager in high school and had picked up a few fishing tips from my hunter-fisher type boyfriends, I looked back on that first fishing experience and thought, "Of course we didn't catch anything! My dad is an idiot!"

When, a few weeks ago, Greg and I were watching David throw sticks in a creek, and Greg (who is not a hunter-fisher kind of guy) suddenly looked stricken, and turned to me and asked, "Alisa, what happens when one day David expects me to take him fishing?!" I responded, "That's easy. Just do what my dad did."

Now that I'm a parent, I look back on the fishing trip with my dad and think, "Of course we didn't catch anything! My dad is a genius!"

Mary's first curlers

I decided to stay in Ohio and curl Mary's hair.




(By the way, David, after several days of not getting better, is getting better.)