When someone who understands my sense of humor (or, maybe, puts up with it) asks how the baby is, I like to say something to the effect of "He's dumb as a post, but just the sweetest thing!"
My mom, who is the nicest person on earth, and who loves her grandbabies, objects to this. "He's not dumb!"
Okay, okay, he's not dumb. First of all, he has figured out several words and signs. He can do the signs for milk, nurse, bird, dog, eat, fan, and a few others. He has also said a number of words including mama, dada, Azadeh and Zadie, hi, bye, yeah, all done, and damn good attempts at cat, bird, book, Boompah, grandma, and some others. There are some things he says that you know what he means even though he doesn't articulate it well. For example, book is still "BOO." But he's like, gesturing at or grabbing for a book, so the meaning is clear.
Speaking of which, he loves books. He is legitimately gleeful when you grab a book to read. His favorite is The Little Blue Truck, but there's no book he doesn't like. The only one he has mixed feelings about is Little Shark, which has a shark finger puppet in the middle (poking through all the pages), and he can't figure out how it moves, so it kind of freaks him out. He'll try to flip it over to the back super fast, and I'll pull my finger out. Then he'll turn it back to the front and I'll wiggle it again, and we can do this game for a LONG time. He'll stare at the finger hole, stick his own finger in it, turn the pages... It's like he knows something is up, but he can't quite figure it out. One time he reached out to pet the shark and I pretended it was going to bite him and he drew his arm back in revulsion. I love that book.
He can't walk yet, but he has tremendous fine motor skills. He has a board with pegs in it that you can hammer in, and instead he likes to pull the pegs out, then carefully place them back into the hole. I handed him a bowl and spoon one day, thinking he'd bang on it, but instead he turned the bowl over and put the spoon in and took it out over and over again. He has a toy screwdriver and screws and he loves to try to put the screwdriver into the slot. And god forbid you try to feed him something with a spoon and you want to hold that spoon. He wants the spoon. And he wants to eat with it. He'll try over and over to dip his spoon into the food, but he has a hard time getting the bowl part facing up. Still, his persistence is amazing. Tonight he actually did get some risotto to his mouth on the spoon. He also loves to brush my hair. One day recently he did it for about ten minutes.
Pretty much anything that qualifies as a problem to solve, he wants to solve it. He wants to try to put the lid back on the snack packet. He wants to put the lid on the frozen yogurt. He wants to push the buttons on the computer and flip the light switches. He wants to enter the password on my phone.
He's also an unparalleled escape artist. There is no high chair (save our own at home) that can hold him. We've gone to restaurants with about three different kinds of high chairs, but he can slip right out of the belt and stand up. He was in the cart at Target the other day and the belt was actually really snug, but he wriggled out, stood up, turned around, and balanced his hands on the back of the seat back like he was the captain of his ship, ruler of all he surveyed. (Mom says he came by this honestly, and that I was an escape artist, too.)
So is he talking a lot? No. Some of those words he's said it's almost like he said it just to prove he could, and then he quit saying them. But he's certainly not dumb. He's my little motor-skilled, book-lovin', problem-solvin', tool-usin' Houdini, and I'm crazy about him.
I read this today. I was sort of shocked at how intellectually dishonest it is. So, Jason Riley, okay! Let's talk.
Why isn’t it more a matter of concern to the left that so many black
babies aren’t brought into the world?
To begin with, pretty much no liberal is going to be on board with increasing population growth. Overpopulation is an enormous burden on resources, and it is terrible for the earth. To be clear on the race thing, though, we don't want extra white babies either. No extra babies, please and thank you. If the abortion rate were to go down (and that would be great), we would want it to be because there were fewer unintended pregnancies in the first place.
Also, statistics are... statistics. It may be true that the black abortion rate is higher, but the black birth rate is higher, too. It's not like abortion is leading to declining numbers of black people.
After videos surfaced that show Planned Parenthood officials discussing the sale of parts from aborted babies...
Back up, holmes. That needs to say "doctored videos," and "donation of tissues" instead of "sale of parts" if you want any degree of accuracy. Planned Parenthood didn't do anything wrong, and it is certainly not selling baby body parts for profit. And I know you get to define your terms -- you wrote the article -- but technically it isn't a baby until it's delivered at or near full-term.
Most Republicans, however, realize that a government shutdown over abortion would be no more successful than the one in October 2013 over the Affordable Care Act. The GOP majority in the Senate today is too narrow to overcome an inevitable veto from President Obama, and a sympathetic Washington press corps will be eager to ensure that the left’s shutdown narrative prevails.
This is one of my favorite bits of the article. It basically says "Republicans shouldn't shut down the government because then the liberal media will tell everyone that we shut down the government." Like, really? Can you hear yourself?
In all likelihood, it will take a Republican in the White House to reverse ObamaCare and a pro-life president to end taxpayer-funded abortions.
Ugh, "taxpayer-funded abortions." This is one of those things that conservatives just keep saying until someone believes them.
Shutting down the government when Republicans control the House and the Senate would only allow Democrats to argue more credibly that the opposition cannot be counted on to reduce legislative gridlock and govern responsibly.
So increasing gridlock and failing to govern responsibly might allow people to argue credibly that you contribute to gridlock and... I give up.
The political left obsesses over racial disparities in bank loans or college admissions or police shootings, but “largely missing from the debate,” wrote Zoe Dutton in the Atlantic magazine last year, “is discussion of abortion’s racial disparity.”
Perhaps to Riley's surprise, I agree that this disparity is a problem. Abortions are often expensive, difficult to obtain, and come for some women with a difficult emotional component (though almost all women express later that they do not regret their decision). I would support working to reduce abortions by increasing the availability of birth control, making sure women have proper access to health care, making sure students have appropriate and accurate sex ed... As a pro-choice person, I would like to see abortions be rare. I think they're not the best method of birth control. I'd like to reduce unintended pregnancies. A pro-choice motto I am really on board with is "Every child a wanted child."
A popular explanation for the racial divide is that abortion rates are a function of poverty. Low-income women are more likely to terminate a pregnancy, and black women are more likely to be low-income.
Yes, can we work on fixing that? You've probably heard that the wage gap between women and men is that women make 78 cents for every dollar a man makes. You may not have heard that black women make only 64 cents on the dollar! I think Riley and I have different priorities, but I would definitely prioritize fixing that disparity.
Yet there are limits to this argument. Hispanic households are comparable to black ones in finances, sexual activity and use of birth control. Yet Hispanic women choose to abort at a rate much closer to that of white women than black women.
The sad truth is that many black women are not acting irrationally when they decide to terminate an unwanted pregnancy. They are playing the odds. Out-of-wedlock Hispanic birthrates are above average, but Hispanic marriage rates are comparable to those of whites, which is not the case among blacks. Most Hispanic children are raised by two parents, while most black children are not. Many black women may be choosing to abort because they don’t believe the father will stick around to help raise the child.
Oh! Oh shit! Do you realize how hella racist this sounds? It's also completely mythical. Can I get a Jeopardy-buzzer-sound up in here?
But if liberal activists and their media allies are going to lecture America about the value of black lives, the staggering disparity in abortion rates ought to be part of the discussion.
You're not hearing us. Black lives matter. Black women's lives matter. Their ability to choose the size of their families, to decide when to carry a child, those matter. That's why we fight for safe, legal abortion.
I agree that the racial disparity is a problem, but not for the same reason this writer seems to. He seems to be framing it as "look at all the babies that aren't being brought into the world" and I'm seeing it as "here is a health issue that disproportionately affects black women." I have the same concerns about tobacco use among African-Americans (it's much higher than average, by the way), and I think it should be addressed.
But Riley's article is full of inaccuracies, half-truths, myths and outright lies.
Yesterday a friend of mine posted on Facebook that she'd had to be evacuated from Harbin Hot Springs because of one of California's summer fires. A big one.
Later, at dinner, Zadie asked if we could go to Harbin next weekend. Sure, I said... assuming the fire's out by then.
This morning the news was clear: Harbin was gone.
So even though you probably don't know the place, I'm going to stretch out and remember and grieve a little.
I first went to Harbin with an old friend when I was about 19 -- twenty years ago. The first thing I remember is that it took forever to get there! The road wound around back and forth up a mountain above Calistoga for nearly an hour, and Calistoga wasn't a short trip. Every time we'd round a new curve, I'd think it must be near, but no, just more dappled sunlight.
I was skeptical at first. I mean, I'm a bit of a hippie, but soaking in a hot springs in the woods with a bunch of naked people? And for goodness' sake, it was run by something called the Heart Consciousness Church. I wasn't at all sure I'd like it. But then... then you get there and the place smells like bay and lavender, and the gate is shaped like a dragon, and if you wake up in the morning by the rushing stream, there's likely to be a deer looking at you, and frankly, a hot springs is a lot like a very relaxing bath. I was won over. I soon went back without my old friend, and I went back many times alone.
Once I went during a busy summer event. The pools were crowded and boisterous. I felt a little crabby. A skinny little gay guy suggested we take off and get lattes in the cafe instead of hanging around the pools. While we were there, we cooked up a plan to pick the mulberries that grew over the big swimming pool, and we took them and made pancakes near where he was staying in the Meadow.
Another time, I went upstairs to Fern Kitchen above the pools to make tea before bed. One guy got out a guitar, and then another grabbed a small drum, and then they handed out shakers and improvised instruments, and we all made music in the kitchen until someone came up from the pools to ask us to hush (fair enough; the pools are a quiet area).
Little spontaneous treats like that happened a lot. I remember once sitting on the deck when someone said he was going to lead a tour of the gardens in ten minutes. Harbin had a large food garden, from which it stocked the little grocery store, and he showed us all around it, letting us have little samples of things, including fennel seeds, which I'd never tasted before.
On several occasions I went to the movie theater, a room with long steps and pillows, but no chairs. We would sprawl around and watch something like Gods and Monsters, sharing popcorn someone had made in the kitchen just before the movie started.
I went to the Thursday night dances many times, too, dancing, as they say, like no one was watching.
I also soaked a lot. I love the hot pool and the silent meditation pool. I have never liked to have my fingers wrinkly, though, so I used to hold my fingertips above the water. Several times, people asked what I was doing, whether it was some meditation or sun salutation or something. Nope. But I never minded chatting with people who'd come ask.
I went with Monkeygirl several times, too. Once we went in about March, and it was really cold. We were camping, and at about four in the morning, after putting all our clothes and hats on, tossing and turning, I turned to her and we both sang, "I got my head shaved..." It was the first line of a popular song that was apparently running through both our heads. We realized we weren't going to sleep in that cold, so we walked the mile-ish walk back to the pools to sit in the warm water until dawn.
She and I used to love to eat there. I remember once we made ourselves about two heads of broccoli with garlic and butter. Other times we'd pack fruit, carrots, tomatoes, hummus and bread and laze around on the decks snacking in the sunshine.
After my divorce, I went there a lot, trying to figure out who I was when it was just me -- no one to talk to, no one to camp with. I wrote a lot of poetry, some of it godawful.
I went in all seasons. I love summer, so sunning on the deck and then splashing in the pool was probably my favorite. I got a hell of a sunburn there once. But I liked it when it was raining, too. The pools weren't so crowded, and my body was still warm even as the rain hit my face and hair. Once I remember just having had enough of the rain, so I spent the afternoon in the library, reading and dozing on the couch.
After I met Sweetie, I was up there once during the summer. I had gone to the changing room to brush my teeth and went outside afterwards and sat for a while on the edge of a planter. I saw a shooting star. I used to always wish on stars, but somehow I had a feeling that I didn't need to anymore. I knew that Sweetie and I had a future together made of reality instead of romanticism, and I just enjoyed getting to see the star without attaching any meaning to it other than that. I had what I'd wished for.
There was lots to Harbin besides the pools -- lovely decks on which to sun, a poolside cafe that served the most amazing sandwiches (fig and triple-cream brie with honey -- oh), a labyrinth to walk, old Victorian buildings covered with heirloom roses (Cecile Bruners -- they smell amazing), a restaurant, and many trails around the mountain. I had heard early on that there was a "tea house," but on several walks I never could find it. Once I went so far I found the Harbin auto shop!
I took Zadie several times. Kids are only allowed in the swimming pool and the heart-shaped warm pool. She loved it there from the beginning and often asked to return. She liked to walk the labyrinth, or up the short trail to the waterfall and the statue of Quan Yin. Once I told her about the teahouse, she was determined that we go. We went on one meandering walk and didn't find it, but ended up on the other side of the pool area we'd left from. She insisted we try again. This time we asked for directions, and we finally found it -- a low building on the edge of the ridge overlooking the valley. We lay inside for a long time, and she wanted to write in the journal there, and then we hiked back down. We went maybe twice more, sometimes running into other groups of people who were pretty charmed by her. She was calmer there than she was most anywhere else.
The last time we went I was pregnant with Lochlan. It felt good to be warm and weightless. I felt beautiful. We played in the heart pool all day. I was sure the next time I came back, I'd have two children with me.
So the place is burned down. It was more than some buildings, of course: the people all got out safely, and that's important. I hope the deer and some of the other animals got away, but I'm sure there were casualties. And they will rebuild, I'm sure of it. But in the meantime the bay trees are gone, the meadow is gone, the garden, the kitchen, the theater, the decks, Quan Yin, the wind chimes, the tea house, the overhead lattice and the grapes that grew on it, the bridge, the cafe, the roses... all of it is gone. And I'm going to miss it a lot.
We had Lochie's party today. I made a beach ball cake and cupcakes, and we had several beach balls around the yard. Many people came, and Lochlan got lots of nice presents. Among the notable ones were a hat from Grandpa John (he and Lochie play with Grandpa's hats a lot), two xylophones from Granny (yes, two), a Darth Vader sweatshirt from Maral and Ryan, and a plush doll from Z* (I mean, I paid for it, but she picked it out) that he really loves. Then right around 2:30 (afternoon nursies time) he cried and could only be comforted... you guessed it. So I nursed him, and pretty much everyone stood up and was like "Nice seeing you! Happy birthday, gotta go!" And the place cleared out.
Sweetie and I were talking the other day, and we said well, Lochlan doesn't talk much, he can't walk, he doesn't sign, he can't clap... but MAN, is he happy! He has the most infectious smile and laugh, and everyone around him basically can't help feeling happy when he's happy, which is most of the time. And if you were looking for good qualities to have, I can hardly think of a better one than that.
With Zadie's gift, after I said "Hold it up to show Grandma!"
*A little story about the doll from Z: When I was in Chicago while pregnant with Z, I saw the sweetest doll, a little peapod baby in a green pod jacket. I don't know why I didn't buy it for myself, as I just fell in love with it. Plus, we had been calling the baby Peapod! Anyway, not too long later, I had my baby shower, and my cousin gave me that very doll. It was called SweetPea, and Zadie loves it still. Well, a few weeks ago we were in East Sac Hardware (a wonderful store that also carries a variety of non-hardware items) and we saw SweetPea's near-twin, a little green blanket with a peapod-baby head and satiny trim. Zadie really wanted to give it to him, knowing how much she loved her SweetPea. Today, she decided that at least until Lochlan could name it himself, we should call his toy PetePea. I think that's fantastic. Above is a not-very-good picture of Lochlan with PetePea.
Lochlan and Daddy while he enjoys a cupcake.
Just minutes before his 2:30pm Declaration of Done. (In his Grandpa hat.)
I'm sorry -- I cannot get the order right on these. (Shaking my fist at Blogger.) The first one is today, second is October, and third is September 4, 2014.
Well, I've reached that familiar stage of summer where I wish we'd gone camping more, I wish we'd gone to the pool more, and I'm remembering that we never did go to Raging Waters or the fun pool complex in Elk Grove. Regrets... I've had a few.
Ah well. I always feel that way, and then I get back to work and remember that there are weekends! And there will be Apple Hill and Halloween and park playgrounds when it's NOT blazing hot, and we'll all be fine and have lots of good times.
I recently read Dorothy Sayers' Gaudy Night, and it was just an awful, teeth-pulling experience, and yet it was probably more about me than about the book. Here's how it felt for me to read the book.
The dean laughed. "Well, we have all been on our toes after last spring's events, of course." Miss Lydgate flinched. "Surely we don't want to bring up all that again?" Harriet looked from one to the other, "You're not saying...?" The bursar interrupted. "Never! Only that if it were to have happened that way, it would surely be a black mark on the school." Miss Hillyard disagreed; "Only some would take it in that fashion, I'm sure." The warden bristled. "Miss Hillyard, I'm sure you wouldn't want to offend our guest?" Miss de Vine argued that all that was in the past, but Harriet wasn't so sure. Now here's my problem as a reader. First, although it seems like there may be seven people in the room, the dean, Miss Lydgate, Harriet, the bursar, Miss Hillyard, the warden, and Miss de Vine, in fact the proper names and the titles are used interchangeably, so that although there are about thirty characters to keep track of, you also have to remember which one is "the fellow" and which is "the scout" and I'm not good at that sort of thing. I needed a chart. Furthermore, whatever "last spring's events" and "all that" are were COMPLETELY unclear to me. I had no idea what they were discussing most of the time because they were being so goddamn coy about everything.
She walked along the High Street where she had agreed to meet Peter. Good looking, rich, well-mannered, smart, and loyal Peter. He had asked her to marry him every six months for the last five years, but she obviously couldn't agree to it. There he was, waiting for her at the tea shop. He was prompt, she'd give him that. They strolled to the gardens. "What a lovely morning, my dear Harriet. Or as the old poet said, 'Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit.'" She chuckled, and finished for him, "sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua."
"Ah, Peter retorted, but 'Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat.'"
Harriet blushed, and they turned away from the river. But the thought nagged at her. Why had he, after all, used the present plu-perfect form? What the devil could he mean by it?
So first of all, it's not at all obvious why she can't marry the guy. In fact, she seems downright hostile to this perfectly pleasant dude. Apparently, the answer is to be found in some previous book, but I'm sure as hell not going to read a bunch of other books to find out. I am too lazy.
Second, perhaps in 1935 most halfway decently educated people had a passing knowledge of Latin, but that is no longer true. And there was a LOT of Latin in the book. In fact, a pivotal final scene made no damn sense until I Googled it.
Peter and his nephew, Saint-George, ambled across the courtyard to her. "Well met, my lady," said the lad. "Say, why did the chicken cross the road? To get to the other side!" He amiably nudged her elbow.
Well! If she was going to be treated that way, and publicly, she'd have something to say about it. She penned a strongly-worded letter of rebuke to the boy, and a brief note of apology to Peter. Peter's apology note for the poor behavior of his nephew arrived in the post that afternoon, and he must have sent a strong message to the boy himself, as Saint-George's profuse apology came by courier after the dinner hour.
Seriously, this is why I can't read Jane Austen, Henry James, etc. Someone is always getting wildly offended at someone's act or remark and, because I have so little understanding of the social mores of the day, I have NO IDEA why. I remember in one of the books I read for college, a girl was being courted by a guy, they went to a dance (with permission), they danced, and the next day the family was ready to leave the country and burn the house down in embarrassment over the damage done to her reputation. I had to ask the professor what the hell happened. (If you're wondering, too, the chaperone had to take home a sick kid, so she was unchaperoned, even though she didn't know it.) Anyway, I know that's the way it was back then, but it's insanely stupid, and I can't get past my modern sensibility to pretend otherwise. I'm making up the sections above, obviously, but there was seriously a scene where the kid told a joke and a flurry of apology letters and rebukes were sent around over how badly Harriet had been treated. I still have no idea what happened that was so offensive.
Anyway, I hated the book, not because it was a bad book, but because I can't keep track of so many characters (and their various titles), because I don't know Latin, and because I have very little understanding of (or patience for) the stuffy politesse of the time period.
Thus far, Lochlan hasn't really gone crazy for a toy when we've been in a store. Well, up until last weekend. We had waved stuffed animals at him on any number of occasions, and he was happy (he's always happy), but had no strong reaction. But last weekend was different.
We went to Beers Books, a used and new bookstore, as we often do. I wandered with him over to the kids area, where, for decoration, they have several stuffed animals high on top of the bookshelves. "BUH!" Lochlan practically shouted. Now, Lochlan calls nearly everything some version of "buh," but that sounded like his buh-that-means-dog. I followed his gaze. He seemed to be looking at a large, red stuffed animal of Clifford the dog. "BUH! BUH!" He reached his arms out towards it and bounced up and down. "BUH!" He was definitely looking at Clifford. That gave me an idea.
I turned around to leave the section, and he turned, his eyes never leaving Clifford. He seemed distressed as we walked away, and he continued to hold his arms out toward it. "BUH!"
I asked at the front counter the author's name for the Clifford books. The young lady looked it up for me, and we went back. "BUH!" In a few minutes' searching (the alphabetization is somewhat suspect), I found the original Clifford the Big Red Dog book. I bought it for him.
Now here's the funny thing. He loves books. He looks around the page at the pictures, crawls to me if I lay down with one of his books, and seems generally interested in other books. But the Clifford book -- he grins, he laughs, he pats the pages, and he interacts. Oh yeah -- if I ask him on the page where Clifford is "hiding" if he can find Clifford, he either looks right at the spot or touches it with his finger. He is legitimately thrilled about this Clifford book.
Anyway, in a year, maybe he'll be over Clifford. Maybe by the time he's ten, he'll ask what he liked when he was a baby, and I won't remember. But I'm putting it down here so there's a record. At 11 months old, the first book he really loves is Clifford the Big Red Dog.
You're going to need this as a soundtrack. Just push play. Go ahead.
We decided to drive to Sunset Bay campground near Coos Bay, Oregon for our mostly-annual family camping trip. We checked the Google Maps. We checked the GPS. No matter what route we selected, it ended up looking like close to ten hours. So we packed up some road snacks and an audio book and some tunes and Z's Kindle and hit the road at about 8am last Friday, after stopping for fresh bread and coffee.
It wasn't that bad. We stopped about three times -- at a rest stop, for gas, and for Taco Time, and we did make it by about 5. Everyone else was already settled in, and our sister Michelle began cooking dinner while we set up our tent. We had masala burgers on naan with garlic chutney -- delish! Our site and Michelle and Bruce's site were adjacent, and we knew that two groups would be staying for only part of the time, so we decided to let the larger campground be for the eight of us (us, our kids, them, their kids) and all the cooking stuff and the fire, while the smaller one would work for the people who were only staying for two or four nights.
Across the pathway and down one was a HUGE RV site with a nice big pad for our sister Maryam and her partner Allan. Better still, they were next to the really nice bathrooms with hot showers. Even better in Z's opinion, there was a sort of no-man's-land with a little creek and logs and things between the sites that all the kids converged on to pretend they were in the wild, while still basically being visible from every angle.
Maryam's daughter Kelsey and her husband Wes arrived, and that was the first time we'd met him. He seemed like a really decent guy, and I'm glad to have him in the family!
Friday night we sat up talking and drinking, and that night it was pretty cold and uncomfortable. We'd bought these new "camp beds," but they weren't much better than sleeping on the ground. I was warm enough when I rolled onto my right side to nurse the baby, but if we adjusted to my left, my sleeping bag gaped open, and I suspect it was in the 40s. So a rough night, in general.
But in the morning there was coffee and pancakes! That solves a multitude of ills! We enjoyed the lovely morning, and then we all trekked out to Shore Acres and the Simpson Estate, where an interpretive ranger told us all about Louis J Simpson, a rich gadabout turned timber tycoon who built an amazing home and English gardens in what was otherwise a wilderness. His house burned down, but he donated the estate to be turned into a state park. It was a great tour, and then we went down to Simpson Beach, which was one of those ones with the nice rocks and shells to make shining piles of.
That afternoon we dinked around (Wes and I played a card game) and for dinner that night Maryam made spaghetti and Kelsey made garlic bread. We ate ourselves silly, drank some more, and stayed up late talking again.
Saturday night I was kept awake by someone hammering in tent stakes -- forever. By the sound of it, he was hammering in about sixteen of them, and it was after ten! When he finished, a car alarm went off, and if the length of that episode was any indication, the owner had to dig for their keys in a deep gravel pit. So I was almost but not quite asleep when I saw the flash. I thought for sure it was lightning, even though the evening hadn't seemed stormy. Sure enough, about 25 seconds later, thunder BOOMED overhead. A few minutes passed, then lightning, about 20 seconds, and thunder that didn't so much boom overhead as shook the air and rattled your eardrums. It was one of the loudest thunder crashes I've ever heard. I am fairly unflappable, and I know perfectly well that thunder can't hurt you, but I was flapped. It was gut-roilingly loud. It sounded like two locomotives had crashed right about where my car was parked. There were about six more thunderclaps total, and of course Sweetie and Bruce got up to protect our things from the rain, Maryam got up to check on Kelsey and Wes, and there was a great deal of movement and noise from the campground, but we all counted under our breaths, and it got down to 8, then 5, then started going back up. Shortly after it hit about 25 again, it was gone and we all settled back in. It didn't even rain that hard.
The morning was an eggs and bacon and toast morning, and then Zadie and I went to a camp activity where we made beads out of elderberry twigs (and sanded them with horsehair, "the potscrubber plant").
Then we all went to the Sunset Bay beach, which was a short walk from the campground, and we took shovels and pails and dogs and snacks and just generally had a lovely, beachy time. Michelle made dinner that night, a wonderful tomato-y Persian dish called Lubia Polow (forgive my spelling!). Kelsey and Wes had to go, but my father-in-law and his wife, Hossein and Anne, arrived and took their campsite.
That day during our tent clean-up, Reza asked what the valve on the end of our camp beds was. The what? It turns out that they self-inflate!! Yay! So that night was far more comfortable. Plus, I figured out a fix for the cold, too (my bag has an extra snow flap thing, and if I zip it on just one side, it can cover the open zipper like a blanket).
At this point, I'm going to admit that I didn't keep any notes, or even take many pictures (my phone died the first night, because I forgot to turn off the searching-for-signal things), so I sort of forgot what we did. I am pretty sure we had sort of a low-key camp maintenance day. We got more ice from town. We ate some soup. We had a hot shower in the family showers. We went to junior rangers and did a scavenger hunt. Maryam and Allan had to leave in the morning, and they took our niece Katie with them, since she had college classes to attend. I think her brother found this somewhat of a relief.
On Tuesday, Zadie and I went to the beach alone (well, with Lochlan) because it was low tide, and we wanted to tidepool a little. We saw an octopus tentacle (well, part of one) and a gross fish head and entrails. We also saw about a thousand little bubbly spots where crabs were under the sand, but we never could quite dig one up.
That afternoon, we all packed up our beach things again and went to Bastendorf Beach, a couple miles north on the coast. It was one of those perfect, sandy stretches. The kids played Frisbee and built a sand castle with their grandpa. Sweetie and Bruce took a long walk. Michelle and Anne and I relaxed and kept an eye on the baby, who was mostly eating sand. It was perfect.
That night I made "Yum Bowls," a rice bowl with toppings like beans and tomato and avocado. At some point, we did let Zadie toast marshmallows. She mostly likes to light them on fire and blow them out.
On Wednesday, we caught the actual tidepool walk, guided by the ranger. Unfortunately, I felt a little unstable on the seaweed-covered rocks with the baby in a carrier, so Michelle and Zadie went by themselves. They made their way out slowly, but ultimately got quite far and went around the end of the jetty and out of sight. I perched on a rock and watched one small tidepool, where I saw a crabfight, petted an anemone, and saw tiny fish dart around. When they came back, we stopped by another scenic lookout where some whales were spouting and sometimes breaching. We also watched seals for a bit. I didn't see a whale spout (I took Zadie to the bathroom), but Michelle did.
That evening I made chili and cornbread on the campfire grill. It was the first time we'd cooked over the fire, but it worked so well that then we made several more meals over the fire! Reza was very proud of his hot cooking fires. We made hash browns, toast, bacon, and grilled cheese sandwiches that way!
Thursday morning Hossein and Anne had to go, so we had one last quiet day. Bruce, Kellen, and Sweetie played a game (Samurai Swords) and the rest of us, Michelle, Zadie, Lochlan and myself, went to the beach again.
We had grilled cheese and tomato soup for dinner, and it was perfect and we tried not to stay up too late, although I think we all wanted to.
The next morning we had to break camp, so Michelle and Bruce made breakfast while Reza and I packed up the car. Lochie helped me spill my coffee, so we got another cup for the road, and Sweetie helped me spill that one, so it was kind of a groggy, crabby first part of the drive. We were all very sad to leave each other, and not just because we had so much fun, but because we really, really love and like and admire and respect each other and make each other laugh, and we don't get together nearly often enough. For the first time in a long time, Sweetie started talking about how feasible it might be to try to move back to Oregon someday.
The drive home kind of sucked, but not because of traffic or anything. It was just long. And there was smoke and fires and an ugly car accident, and that whole ugly stretch of nothing between Shasta and Sacramento, and also we were bummed to be heading home.
Other non-chronological notes: we had bought cinnamon rolls and "morning buns" from the store for breakfasts, but then we ate hot breakfasts every day, so they were going to go to waste. Michelle and I decided they might make a good break pudding, so I mixed up eggs and milk, layered torn-up pieces of the rolls, and made a center layer of blueberries and a bit of brown sugar, and put the whole thing in a dutch oven on the fire. It was a bitch to clean up, but it made a really delicious breakfast!
Note for next year: we are going to need more tequila.
Zadie lost her favorite pair of shoes to the tide and blamed (unfairly) her dad. That was an afternoon that everyone went to the beach but me and Lochie, who had a lovely long nap in the tent.
One afternoon, Kellen and Zadie and I played a version of Scrabble that, to accommodate them both, was somewhat chaotic. Still fun, though.
The Oregon coast is cold. The nearby (but INLAND) town that the weather service reports from is about twenty degrees warmer than right by the ocean, which the campground was. In two hours, we went from about 108 (in Roseburg) to 68 (at the campground). I had packed only two warm long-sleeved shirts, and I really needed something more significant. I don't think I got down to just a t-shirt except for maybe once.
One brilliant decision by me was to bring my fleece footie pajamas. I may have looked like a white trash abominable snowman shuffling to the bathroom early each morning, but my feet were warm (though not constricted), my boobs were easily accessible by zipper without leaving my tummy cold, and I didn't have to sleep in clothes, which I abhor (though sometimes do when camping).
And as for the Bonnie Tyler, on the way to camp we'd played the song (via Sweetie's mega 80s playlist) and gotten it stuck in our heads, partly because we were discussing it. Like, whose job is it to just sing "turn around" a hundred times? And how does that song go from a quiet little duet to "FOREVER'S GONNA START TONIGHT" in like five seconds? Anyway, we kept bursting into song the first day, and it just got stuck in everyone's head. On Thursday, we were still going, "Turn around..." It was the theme song of the trip.
Hossein was a very proud grandpa, and very excited to meet Lochlan.
Cousins. Kellen was super sweet with Lochie.
Sand castle building time!
And just... sand.
The finished product.
Reza's awesome cooking fire (and my chili and cornbread).
Returning from the tidepool walk.
The three Peigahi men. Reza says that in this picture, he might perhaps see a resemblance to his dad. Maybe the nose, a bit, he says.
"We're gonna teach you how to walk."
I managed to studiously avoid doing any dishes, but I did make it my job to clear the dish-washing area, heat the water, fill the tubs, etc. But here's my handsome hubby (complete with camping beard) and his sister collaborating on the dishes. You can even see Lochlan in the carrier. "What a man, what a man, what a mighty good man..."
Here's a funny thing about me: I am always looking to the future. I have been planning for retirement since I was 23. I'm impatient. I rush things. It's just my nature. And even with the kids, I find myself looking forward to their next accomplishment, next milestone. What is the next, newest thing??
Zadie had her Occupational Therapy evaluation the other day. It was much shorter than the speech one, and it was very active, so that was better for her (although actually, I had a feeling she enjoyed the challenge of the speech one, and when I asked her later, she confirmed it). The therapist, Lisa, was testing fine and gross motor skills -- things like hopping on one foot, or passing a penny from one hand to another. To no one's great surprise (although don't tell her this later -- I'd feel disloyal), she's on the low end of average, rating at the 38th percentile. She can't really ride a bike yet, needs to work on her handwriting, ought to practice tying her shoes... all of that. But because she still ranks within the average range, she doesn't qualify for therapy. Which is fine with me. The therapist gave us several good suggestions for things that will help her coordinate her movements, many of which are household chores, so yay!
But a few of those things are "self-care" items. Brushing her teeth, washing and combing her hair, etc. And while we make sure those things get done, we've been giving her a lot of help. I still (until this week) put her toothpaste on the brush for her. We still washed her hair for her and combed it about half the time. We run her bath for her. I button buttons and tie shoes. It's faster and easier and makes sure it gets done more quickly, but we've been advised to let her start taking charge of all those things. So, this week, we have. And it's been kind of hard! I love combing her hair. I like washing it and pouring the rinse water so it doesn't get in her eyes while she squints and wrinkles her nose. I would still trim her nails if she would let me. I'd paint them if she'd let me. But the more she does these things on her own, the more independent she becomes, the less she's my baby! She's much too big to wrap in the towel, carry to her dad and say, "I found a little flower fairy!" But until this week, she wasn't too big to soap up. And now she is. And I'm a little sad. I think her dad might be a bit, too -- he was actually the primary hair washer, which he did as "Pierre," the French-Transylvanian hairdresser. They grow up so fast, right?
I'm trying to quell my natural impulse somewhat with the boy. I keep thinking of a video I took of his sister when she was ten months old. She said several words, made a few signs, makes puckery kisses, and says "mmm" about several foods or pictures thereof. She even plays pat-a-cake fairly well. Lochlan does none of that, basically. Oh, he can say a few words, but he reserves them for when they're really needed. Mostly, as my mom said yesterday, he knows we'll respond to him even if he just grunts. He can't sign, or clap, or pucker, or stand un-aided, or really crawl without being on his belly, or... you know, basically anything except be adorable. So part of me is like, "Hurry up! What's the next milestone?" But part of me is a little happy for it. I'm jealous of this baby-time, and I need it, I need him to be my sweet little baby for a while, knowing he'll be my last. Someday soon enough, he'll be walking and talking and climbing play structures and causing trouble, but for today, even though he's a big little dude, he's still my little baby, and I like him like that.
Incidentally, though, the boy has WAY more hair than she did at his age, and a mouthful of teeth -- he just got his first molar, and the next one's almost in. So he has nine teeth!
