'Zat you, Santa Claus?

An eventful second Christmas for Andy! He became reaquainted with his grandparents, great-grandmother, aunts, uncles, two cousins, and four first cousins once removed. (I had to google for the correct term, but Andy will call them cousins). And how could I forget the furrier members of the family? (Yes, I mean the pets). Andy held his own with a German Shepard three times his size, a chocolate Lab with a lethal tail, and an aged Yorkshire Terrior.
Andy with Sierra
With Grandma and Pap-pap
With Chris and Courtney
Mary and Jim paid a surprise visit from South Carolina.
Nana had to bribe Andy with a cookie.
Playing with Pap-Pap
At the Zoo, in the Manta Ray tunnel with Aunt Michelle

My parents noticed a growth spurt in the course of just a week. Andy learned to say "ho ho ho!" to pictures of Santa. He signs "more" and "hot". He climbs onto and off of couches and beds. He walks at a much faster pace. And, a first sentence:

He commanded his Grandmother: "Ball, off!" He wanted Gram to take the glass ball ornaments off of a package so that he could play with them.

Today as I put his new (size 24 months!) outfits away, I had to pack up his size 12 month clothing to make room. He has outgrown his soft-soled Robeez shoes, too (sniff, sniff)...

Baby, it's cold outside!

Actually, we're having a warm spell in Western PA. It's 44 degrees outside (up from 6 degrees when we arrived on Monday night). So, what would be a teeth chattering experience in the Santa Cruz mountains, is cause for shorts and sandals in Pennsylvania (OK, not quite....but still a noticable difference)!

We spent our first night with Mike's parents in greater Pittsburgh. The next two days, we stayed with Michelle in Johnstown, which is 2 hours east of Pittsburgh. Johnstown is the site of early industrial boom and then the terrible flood of 1889, which killed over 2,000 people (considered the biggest U.S. natural disaster at the time). After a visit to the Flood Memorial, we learned that this "act of God" was in fact caused by men, including the area's bigshots Andrew Mellon and Andrew Carnegie, who failed to maintain the dam that held their exlusive lake retreat, 450 feet above the city. The flooding was also caused by the pilfering of the forests along the river. Sad, how history can repeat itself (we couldn't help but think of the poorly maintained levees in New Orleans, and the loss of the wetlands surrounding the city). Here is the site of the Johnstown tragedy:


Andy couldn't have cared less about the area's history, but he enjoyed sledding at the park across from Michelle and Craig's Park Hill home:


He was mostly frustrated with the snow at the park, however, because it nearly came up to his waist. He couldn't move without diving face first into the powder.

Now we're in Evans City, PA, at the home of Matt, Donna, Chris and Courtney. Here is Andy enjoying cousin time with Courtney:

Dreaming of a White Christmas

...in Pennsylvania. Pete and Carol have several inches of snow on the ground, blanketing their decorations of the Nativity, Santa, his reindeer, and a giant Frostie.

We can't wait to see everyone, and hope the snow stays for Andy to play in.

Speaking of the little Elf, here he is wishing you a Merry Christmas. (Mike is not so sure about the stockings, but he indulges me.)

And here are Santa and Mrs. Claus, from Andy's point of view. They were kind of frightening, and loud, so he kept his distance.




Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

This Christmas, embracing my Inner Geek

Photo courtesy of Mike
I would like to become a member of the Sarah Vowell Fan Club. Mike and I were first introduced to Vowell as the voice of Violet, in the animated film The Incredibles. Since then, we have discovered that Sarah Vowell's literary voice is more intriguing than the sarcastic, nasally, perfectly teenaged whine she brings to the character of Violet.

We sat transfixed through the DVD's special features, as the character Violet became flesh and blood in the eerily similar real-life person of Sarah Vowell. Sarah is interviewed in her office, which is adorned with memorabilia of presidential assasinations, and her collection of snow globes.

"Now that I portray a superhero, it's something my family and friends can get behind. I didn't get too much enthusiasm over my research on Garfield's assasination," she quipped during the interview. We watched the featurette twice, and wanted more.

Later, I saw her appearance on John Stewart's the Daily Show, promoting her book Assasination Vacation. Mike checked out the book from the library, which turned out to be an educational and surprisingly funny series of anecdotes on three US presidents and the men who wanted them dead. Since, Mike and I have worked our way through her previous books, reading The Partly Cloudy Patriot, and now Take the Cannoli. I'm looking forward to devouring Radio On: a Listener's Diary. Vowell is also a commentator for NPR's This American Life.

What is it that so appeals to me about her writing? It's not just that her political views agree with my own, only she's far more educated and entertaining about them. Her appeal is more than her candor and wit, and the fact that she inspires me to see historical dimensions in the public places of everyday life.

She's my heroic anti-hero. She's the Shrinking Violet of Superheroes, who has both the power to disappear and the boldness to "withstand embarassment. Maybe even seek it out. To take nerdiness to its most dizzying....extremes...to stick out my tongue at the (tormentors) of the world, run back to the baritone horn of life, and blow mighty and proud," (from Take the Cannoli).

When Mike gave me the Incredibles Violet action hero for Christmas this year, I burst into tears. Because I'm grateful for the man with whom I can take nerdiness to dizzy extremes. Who helps me embrace my wounded inner geek. Who makes me feel like a giddy kid again at Christmas time, playing with my action figure doll with posable arms and legs.

Mike (and Sarah and Violet) inspire me to use my own voice.

Confession

I had an insight after my mom came home from lunch and dropped off Lucy.

Instead of taking my parental frustrations out on Andy, I take them out on my mom. Instead of committing child abuse, I commit mother abuse. Which is probably more insidious, because there's no agency to report it to.

I'm sorry mom. I'm sorry that I blame you for everything in my life from having a stubborn son to my sloppy, unkept house.

I know it will eventually "come back at me". Unless that's one of the benefits of having a son.....

We love Lucy!

I am now a proud auntie to Jessica's newborn, Lucy. Lucy is a Wellington Pug. Andy and I have enjoyed puppy sitting on our days home together, while Jess is at work. The two cousins share a remarkable many traits. Consider:
They both bark at other dogs.
Neither are housebroken. Lucy prefers to poop behind the Christmas tree; Andy has many favorite places around the house.
They both love to play in the backyard and eat tanbark.
They both vie for my constant attention!

That last trait, needing constant attention, is what's keeping me from adding a Pug to our own family. It is tempting. Lucy has a sweet, mellow temperment, and loves to snuggle. Andy giggles deliriously while running after her. I have Lucy withdrawls when we return her to her mommy...

Today I'm officially on Winter Break. Instead of starting laundry and packing for our trip to Pittsburgh on Monday, I'm here blogging while Andy pounds on the television set in a desperate addict's plea for Elmo videos. He got a buzz from inadvertently starting the DVD we left in the player from last night (The House of D--and we don't recommend it).

OK, I just tore him away. Thus starts my lifetime role as my kid's buzz-kill. He's on my lap now, pacified by Iggy Pop's Nightclubbing, the first song that popped up on Mike's iTunes. (Which begs the question, what exactly is Mike doing on his days home?)

Anyway, Andy is rocking out. The kid has rhythm.

Oh, spoke too soon. He just let out an anguished howl in the direction of the TV.

Have I mentioned that my son is strong-willed?

We've got to end this Seseme Street addiction. Other kids may politely hand their parents the remote control in request for more of the sweet muppet stuff. (A parent at the park shared her son's habit of doing this.) Not our little guy. He knows what he wants, and there's nothing subtle about his demands for MORE! VIDEO! NOW! (No words yet, just high-pitched wailing and pounding of fists.)

Which is why, when Mike came home from work last week, I very pitifully asked: "Can we trade him in for a Pug?"

Mike reminded me that Lucy isn't nearly as creative or interesting as Andy, who tried to hang both play-doh and underwear from the Christmas tree.

Where's the manual?

It's been one of those mornings. Before I vent, here are some pictures taken at Johnson's Christmas Tree Farm in Boulder Creek.



After three attempts to get Andy down for a morning nap, I wondered if he was outgrowing the need for one. I've read that sometime during the second year, toddlers will downsize from two naps to one nap. I'm not ready for this to happen, and wanted desperately to consult a Book of Andy, to get a difinitive answer on the napping subject. Why didn't God give us a copy of such a book upon the birth of our darling bundle of joy? I mean, I pushed out all 8 pounds 11 ounces of him. I would have gladly delivered an instruction manual.

The answer, I'm afraid, is that there is no owner's manual because, although I am Andy's mother, I do not own him. The difficulty is finding the balance between his need for autonomy and my need not to spiral into a pit of depression.

I guess that sounds pretty dramatic. The truth is, now that he is finally down for a nap, I'm feeling much better. I also called Kristin, who filled me in on her own drama-filled morning with her nineteen month old daughter, Avery. Turns out they almost missed Kristin's doctor appointment because Avery decided to use the potty. Trouble was, she didn't quite make it into the potty, but all over the bathroom floor.

After hearing their tale, Andy's lack of nap, and lack of desire to sit in his new potty chair seemed less catastrophic.

Mike and I bought Andy a potty this weekend, and checked out books and videos on the subject of "infant potty training". We became interested in the idea when Lara and Eli's seven month old daughter Alyssa came to visit dressed in a cotton diaper without cover.

"No diaper cover?" I asked Lara. She told us that they were practicing something called "elimination communication". This involved watching Alyssa for cues to her need to pee or poo, then taking her to the toilet. Alyssa rarely goes in her diaper anymore. In fact, Lara had cancelled their diaper service.

Mike and I had never heard of this idea. We watched in amazement as Lara held Alyssa over the toilet several times throughout their visit. Alyssa did go in the potty. She did not wet her diaper once.

I thought about the expense of diapers, the stink of the diapers in their pail wafting into the living room. I thought about how Andy squirms and howls over diaper changes. I thought, this isn't a bad idea.

Well, three days into giving potty training a try, I'm ready to take the potty and throw it into the no-man's land that is the garage. Maybe in a few months we can revisit the idea of potty training. Andy is just unwilling to sit on the little potty or the toilet. There are too many other exciting things for him to do, and I don't want to fight him on this one.

Will he be ready at 18 months? 24 months? Three years?

What sayeth the Book of Andrew?

Pretty Woman

Today is Gram's birthday. When visiting her, I asked if she'd watched any good movies lately.

"Well, nothing, really. But I have been wanting to watch Pretty Woman. I can't remember the opera he takes her to."

Mike and I sent Gram a copy of the movie, so she can spend her birthday with Richard Gere and Julia Roberts at La Traviata, an opera about a prostitute who falls in love with a wealthy man. (We're hoping that she and Pop can operate the VCR...)

The days in which Gram stayed up late sewing curtains, and rising early to bake bread, are long gone. But her romantic imagination is alive and well. Her eagerness with this subject always catches me off guard, since she is the wife of a Christian minister. She's never had a drop of alcohol; she's never danced; she's never played cards.

"All you need is a little black nighty, girls," she told my cousins and me, while watching Jerry Maguire some years ago.

"Just walk with your chest out, like this," she told my sister and I once, when she could still go walking on the nature trail by her house. Some elderly men passing by took note.

She's told me, many times, that she is still in love with the man she married over 50 years ago. She's still hoping to be wooed by him.

Happy Birthday, Pretty Woman!