Baby in the City

My feet are blistered and raw. I can't leave the air conditioned indoors. I have an emotional hangover. I'm certain at least one passenger on the 370 from Chicago to GR is talking about the "horrible crying baby" that ruined her peaceful ride. But what a day!

Rowdy and I had our first little adventure together. A lovely, warm 7am Dr. D brought us to the train station:

So exciting! One word of advice: if there's a little black speck moving on the toilet seat, Do Not Sit Down! Unless you want to go home crabby. I was a little nervous of sitting after the toilet incident, but eventually need for rest wins over fear of buggies. Even for babies. Rowdy spent some quality time with Froggy Friend:

And then she took a nap:

For thirty minutes. Some wake time. Then another nap, for another thirty minutes. So on all the way to Chicago. Welcome Union Station!

Then we started walking. And walking and walking and walking ...

Rowdy loved everything. Everyone smiled at her (of course!). And Mama's feet didn't start hurting until the 2 mile mark. Only half mile to go. But we made it!

And a lovely day with my wonderful friend Kerry Cohen and her adorable youngest son, my adorable youngest daughter and yummy food (thank you Charlie!). Not to mention hot footwear and gorgeous hair (neither mine, by the way. I was more messy and wrinkled). A quick ride back to Union Station (Thank you, Nancy!) and off we chugged toward home:

Pretty sunset:

A nice lady offered to hold Rowdy for part of the last hour. Rowdy bathed her in burp-up, which was awfully sharing, I thought. The woman didn't seem so appreciative, but whatever. Little Rowdy was soaking in Travel Excitement by that point. Sleep? Who would suggest such a thing! She nipped and napped, finally crashing at 11pm as we pulled into the station.

Miss Rowdy didn't care for her last few minutes on the train - mean mama woke her from sleepies to pack her up in the sling, sling on the backpack, and head out. One early-20s girl shot her many dirty looks, as if glaring daggers at a delirious, screaming baby will HELP anything. Would it be mean to admit I hoped that gal made a visit to the creepy-crawly bathroom stall? My other thought: "Rowdy will cry for a moment, but you will be a B@!#% forever."

A day of adventure, fun, friendship, challenge. And worth every exhausting minute!

Dear Teachers of the World

At this very moment, I have five field trip info sheets on my refrigerator. One Field Day sheet, one special book report thingy to do (another sheet), and the various papers of info for other activities like ballet recital info for Mud Pie, band concert for St. Nick. Just a moment ago I received an SOS from Fish's teacher: "We need drivers for the field trip tomorrow! And volunteers for the end of school party! And items for the gift for our student teacher! And a lunch mom for today!" And and and and ...

I know not everyone at this school has four kiddos; some might consider four kiddos about two (or three) too many. But I do know everyone with kids at any school is busy up to their eyeballs at the end of May. Whether planning vacations (oh, to be so lucky!), fixing backpacks and homework folders so they can last three more weeks, or debating 5th graders on the value of practicing their band instrument when the school year is so close to being over. We're swamped.

Teachers, I love you. But can we breathe a little? Regain our sanity a moment?

Ok, I'm being whiney. Call the Waaaahmbulance. Why so grumpy, you ask? I think it was second grade.

I'm in favor of parent involvement. Of course I am! I was on library committee until Rowdy was born, I take photos for Boosters, I've tried to plan one party and drive for one field trip for each kid this year. We've attended nearly all special events from Carnival to concerts to Fund Racer to Mom's and Dad's nights. But add to this volunteer involvement, mandatory involvement and you get ... me. annoyed.

For Fish's class we started the year with Log Cabins. A "family" project. I spent hours picking up sticks, showing Fish how to use the hot glue gun, collecting pebbles, scouring the craft store for deals. I got photos from Grandma Daisy -- Fish's Great Grandma who was born in a log cabin in, like, 1815 (kidding Gram!!! XOXO!!!) -- and made a cute little "What it was like in the Log Cabin" info sheet from a letter Gram wrote. I even hooked a mini rug for the teeny tiny log cabin's sandpaper floor and planted real plants in the teeny tiny log cabin garden.

Once that project was over, we had a Biography Poster. I spent a lot less time with Fish picking a biography from the library, typing his report as he dictated, helping him find photos of King Tut online, helping him glue them to his poser board, encouraging (forcing) him to color and decorate his poster.

After that we had the Revolutionary War Wax Theartre. This was St. Nick's project, not Fish's, but still. Weeks of Goodwill Hunting, sewing, listening to St. Nick practice his speech, more sewing. A little more sewing. (I believe I've mentioned my hatred for sewing.) All to transform St. Nick into a very convincing young Benedict Arnold.

And now, at the very end of the school year. Fish again. Chapter Book project with ... drum roll.

Hats. Homemade hats. Homemade @#$%$#@ hats.

I don't know, I think this was the straw that broke the camel's hat. Back. Whatever. Fish called while I was at the grocery store last night to tell me he made his hat. With duck tape and peppermints. My thought? Thank god, now I don't have to help him with it. Has he read the book for the report yet? Um, I haven't asked. And you know what? I might not. That's just the kind of negligent mom I am.

On Delight and Education

Three years ago we quit homeschooling and put St. Nick into third grade and Fish into Kindergarten (Mud Pie was a little bug then). The school decision was tough: the rock solid elementary in our school district: lots of resources, great test scores, good teachers, new building. Or the little charter school: diverse, energetic, with a moral focus curriculum. We toured both and were blown away by the in-person difference.

Cute little charter school: full of zeal and energy! The tour guide (someone from the office) was delighted with us, with our kids, with the school.

District school: bored administrator with a hint of cynicism toward the children we passed in the halls, very little interest in our kids, no interest in us as parents or what we could offer to the school. The cool building got her excited, however. Yeah, that was one cool building.

We opted for the charter school.

We've been weighing school options again for the past little while. We've liked our charter school for the past three years. But ... some important things bug us, and we're in this great district, so why not take advantage of it and its reputation? Besides, the kids would switch into the system for high school. Start now and make the transition easier. Right?

So we toured the school again. The main differences: the kids are older and could ask questions and the building is older and tired after a long school day. The result? Administrator masking boredom or fatigue, slightly annoyed with my kids and their questions (I warned her that they were talkers), and not so excited about the building this time around. I guess the newness had worn off.

My question now: does everyone at a school need to be as delighted with my children as I am? Do they need to be delighted at all? Maybe I simply observed the market at work: the district school takes whatever kid who can verify his or her address. The charter school needs to "win" families, to sell them on the benefits of their school. Or maybe simple personality difference. I deal with the charter school tour guide quite a bit, and she's naturally zeal-ful and energetic. Maybe the administrator is naturally ... neither of those things.

Dr. D and I decided that there's no way to really take the pulse of a school without going there. The decision now: do we stay with what's known and deal with what bugs us, or do we jump in. And risk. If only decisions like this were as easy as, say, when to start Miss Rowdy on solids: i.e., when she starts waking up ravenous every two hours at night. Ah, for an easy life.

Mud Pie at Assembly

On the plus side, we did get to meet a number of teachers, and they were every bit as energetic, engaging, fun and kind as the charter school counterparts. St. Nick especially liked the art teacher with her free-flowing style and attentive manner.

A New Name

So little Penny has earned a new nickname: Miss Rowdy. Some variations: Rowdypants, Rowdybooger, QuitBeingSoRowdyandGoBacktoSleep.

Miss Rowdy has been waking two, three, four times a night lately. Not screaming in pain, rather just for kicks. And I do mean that literally. Her nursies are like a wrestling match. Squirm, kick, glug glug. Every five seconds she has to "check in" with me, give me a delirious sleepy little smile, then back at it.

Back in dream land she squirms and wiggles all over the crib. Sitting on my lap at the dinner table she kicks both legs and smashes rattles on the table with both hands. When she's playing, her floor toy sounds like one of those wooden wind chimes. During a hurricane.

Plus she just discovered the Joy of Noise. Her sweet little shriek of delight can shatter glass. I'm not making that up. Ok, maybe just a little made up. But unless she learns volume control soon, the whole family will need earplugs.

We love our Penny from Heaven who is now a great big 4.5 months old. And we love seeing her personality appear, more and more every day. I have a feeling I'm not going to finish off the flock with an easy bird, however. This little sparrow is, in a word, Rowdy.

Recreation

This week ...

• One minivan breakdown which took three days to fix (its Brain died, and yes that's as expensive as it sounds).
• Two all-morning meetings with Baby.
• Three dozen diapers sold online.
• Arranged one newspaper article featuring cool stuff friends did.
• Five million phone or Skype calls.
• Six million hours in the Jeep - see minivan above and note: Six people will NOT fit in a five-passenger vehicle.
• Eight gazillion emails.
• Half a book read.
• Eighty ooglesalakfhgozillion gallons of nursie-milk-spit up on my shirt(s) (and skirts, shoes, floors, etc.). 

This is what I do after a long, stressful week:

On Cottony Clouds

Will you be bothered if I wax eloquent a bit, you my singular reader? If so, hmm, I don't really care. I'm going to anyway! Haha!

So here it is. I love cloth diapers. They're so ... fluffy and soft and sweet (sometimes). They're so effective and useful and inexpensive. They're so cuddly. Can you picture it?

Diapers are also much like plot, aren't they? Absolutely essential and sometimes messy?

I often think of plot as the bones inside a body, or the undergirding of a building. Here's where I get to mix metaphors, like playing in the mud. Industrial and urban is cool right now. We love interiors with exposed brick and copper piping. As far as I know, however, we don't like exposed wiring and rafters open to the sky in Michigan, in January. Many books I read have an overexposed plot. Not photographically overexposed, mind you. Exposed like the creepy guy in the overcoat at the bus stop. These books are anorexic, jagged edges of bones jutting out. They're the books that make you want to tap the author on the shoulder and say, "Uh, excuse me, but your plot is showing."

Other books are fluffy. Soft. They're plot marshmallows that have been put in the microwave for ten seconds on high. They're the guy in the low-riding sedan. They need Weight Watchers and a crowbar to pry off the excess layers of 1970s paneling and a sandblasting to clear the 1930s lead based paint to get to the gorgeous red brick below. They're the diaper with so many layers they never fully dry and always sort of stink, so much bulk baby can't sit up. They're a problem.

Yet there's also a range of what works. I love the urban streamlined design, but I also love Victorian frills. So long as both are in the right place. I don't want the historical 1910 colonial stripped down to plaster and lath; I don't want the high-rise condo decked out in lace. Just as I don't want my sweet baby girl peeing out of her too-small outgrown diapers, no matter how much I love them. The fluff has to match the baby; the structure has to match the book. Genre, audience, intensity, all factor in when making the Plot Decision. At the end, the goal is a book that's not like Papa's chair, exposed springs and unsanded wood that leaves splinters in Goldie's bum. Not like Mama's chair, either. So soft the poor girl suffocates. It needs to be like Baby's chair. Baby's diaper? A perfect fit, soft and squishy, Just right.