Learning to share

...but sometimes, Spit Happens. (Check out Ben's bib!)

Ben's turn...

Andy's turn...

"MINE!"

Andy and Ben have been "hanging out" (drooling over the same blanket) since they were 2 months and 1 month, respectively. It was just this last Sunday that they began playing together, actually sharing toys instead of parallel play. Both sets of parents couldn't have been more pleased. This new stage is SO much fun.

ISO...

To be posted in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette:*
Wanted: A Best Friend. Confidante and walking partner, coffee or tea drinker, mother or child-friendly Grown-Up. Must be willing to hang out without a shower or make-up, wearing jeans crusted with peanut butter, on a kitchen floor covered with crumbs. Must be willing to interrupt conversation with "don't put that in your mouth!" or "get down from there!" Must be willing to read the book Everyone Poops for the tenth time in one day. Must be candid and forthcoming about your past, must want to share your hopes and dreams about the future.

You are especially encouraged to respond if: you have a slightly self-depricating sense of humor, you are somewhat anxious or neurotic, if the traits you most despise in others are pretentiousness and snobbery, if you enjoy the following authors and publications: Anne Lammott, Sarah Vowell, Jane Austen, Mothering Magazine, Brain Child, Sun, Yes! and Ode.

You may be of a different race, religion, or sexual orientation. You may be crunchier than I am and never shave your armpits. You may wear blue eyeshadow, enjoy football or a juicy steak (even though I do not). However, please do NOT apply if you are Republican, pro-Bush (the president) or think the war in Iraq is a Good Idea. Please do not apply if you were ever with the "in" crowd in highschool. You should identify more with the main character from Welcome to the Dollhouse than with any of the Heathers from Heathers, and you understand both of these references.

Reply to box ISOaBF

*only kidding, but on the other hand....why not? I met Mike through a personal ad. I haven't had a "best" friend in a long time...

The one and a half year old

Happy 18 month birthday, Andy!



Prepared for more rain! March was a very wet month.

Friends

Note from Andy

"Truck! TRUCK TRUCK TRUCK! Truck.... Ball? Ball! Ball BALL!"

"SIDE? SIDE! outSIDE! SIDE! SIDE! Truck?!"

"Choo Choo! CHOO CHOO! Ball? Truck!"

"No no. NOOOOOOOOO NOOOOOOOOO. No! NO NO! Side?"

"Ehl-mo. Ehl-mo. EHLMO TRUCK! TRUCK! TRUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!"


"....peeze?"

Tastes like Chicken

Our son is no longer a vegetarian. He ate a chicken flavored dog biscuit today.

Why would any self-respecting parent allow her son a dog biscuit, let alone admit to it? Well, start thinking of the most annoying sound you’ve ever heard--like when you were little and your Saturday morning cartoons were interrupted by the high pitched “eeeeeeeeeeeeeee” from the Public Broadcasting System--then amplify this sound by 1,000, and you’ll begin to have some idea why I gave into Andy’s cries for one of Lucy’s dog biscuits.

Our morning went something like this: Andy woke up and wanted to watch his Fire Truck video. I let him watch it once. As soon as the credits rolled, he was overcome with devastation. The world would end if he couldn't watch that Fire Truck vide just one more time! My lighthearted “all done!” wasn't working, so I desperately looked for a distraction. Then I spied them: Lucy’s organic Newman’s Own Dog Buscuits on the counter.

“Look Andy, pictures of doggies. See the doggies? Here’s one that looks like Lucy.”
Sure enough, the bag of treats piqued Andy's curiosity, but not because of the picture on the package. He saw COOKIES inside!

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!"

“Yucky. These are for Lucy. Yucky for Andy.” I tried my best, but his demands not only continued, but increased in pitch and volume.

So, I read the ingredients. Nothing that could really harm him. I’ll give him a taste, he’ll realize how terrible it is, and he’ll believe my word from now on. This was my thinking when I handed him the heart shaped dog biscuit.

And so my story ends with Andy happily toddling around the house, carniverously devouring every chicken-flavored morsel of his dog biscuit.

Brrrr...

The weather has taken a turn for the worse. The bay area is experiencing about the same temperature as Pittsburgh right now--warm for a Pennsylvania winter. This has me very worried... if I can't get out of the house to walk or jog in a relative heat spell, then what are my prospects for next winter?

But that's my mind getting ahead of itself, as it often wants to do. My thoughts and I have not been friends these past few days. My thoughts have been preoccupied with domestic tribulations: who knew that an apple-juice soaked down comforter would require two hundred minutes in the tumble cycle in order to dry? And, why oh why did we spend $25 on Chinese herbs that our immune system-challenged toddler refuses to take? The putrid smelling herbs may, in fact, be a healthier alternative to antibiotics, but how are we ever to know if we can't get Andy to take them?

I guess we'll just go back to the acupuncturist next week. Andy will exercise his lungs for another hour, while she (Chinese acupuncturist) bribes him with sweet herb candy and pokes him with a few more needles. We'll drive home, and put the exhausted boy to bed. He'll pass out for over 3 and a half hours.....! And Mike and I will agree that was the best money we ever spent.

Beach Day

It sure didn't feel like the middle of winter last Saturday in Santa Cruz! Andy spent the afternoon at Natural Bridges State Beach with his grandparents, aunt, uncle and cousin.

Mike and I gave up the paperback novel in hand, relaxed day at the beach of times past, in favor of chasing our sand-throwing toddler. When will he sit still long enough to make a sand castle?

Andy's Twin

Andy with his Pop at the wharf in Monterey. The fogginess is from a yogurt smear on the camera lense...


Helping Mommy make breakfast yesterday.

Don't Call CPS

Mike is returning home from Orlando Florida late tonight. He's on his last official NASA speaking engagement. Is it a bittersweet moment for him? Nah--he's relieved to get out of there. NASA Ames is a sinking ship, he tells me, and we have this administration to thank. Bush wants to go to the moon, but won't invest in the science that would make the endeavor worthwhile.

Anyway, Mike's gone. Andy is asleep (yesss!) So what's a lonely gal to do?

It was a toss-up between watching the first season of The Gillmore Girls on DVD, and catching up on my favorite mommy blogs. I chose the latter, and now have to add my own two cents on the experience of mothering.

Here is the diaper changing trick that has changed our world (please don't call Child Protective Services):


That's right, no more somersaulting toddler catapulting himself from the changing table! He is helplessly pinned beneath the weight of Dad's thigh; it is useless to resist! Useless!

Mike really likes this technique; he thinks it's some sort of ancient Judo hold. I'm happy to have both hands free to do the dirty business. I can't take credit for the maneuver, however. Thanks go to Kristin from the Boulder Creek Walking Moms.

More excitement regarding Andy's language development... A few days ago, when Mike asked Andy if he was ready to turn around after a long walk, the little guy pointed down the road and signed "more". After such a display, what could Mike do but keep plodding along?

And...today, after Andy and I played "This little piggy" with his toes, he looked up at me with a grin, signing "more"! We must have played about a dozen times before I passed out.

He's an awfully persuasive little signer.

The Boy who would live in a bubble

Our three weeks of wellness and fairly decent sleep came to an end last night, when Andy was overtaken with yet another cold and fever.

In his brief span of good health, he enjoyed many baby and toddler visits: seeing baby Hayley, hosting baby Cayenne overnight, attending 2 year old Olivia's birthday party, and hanging out with Elijah, Alyssa and Avery. We had plenty of park visits and hosted our first playdate yesterday with the "Boulder Creek Walking Moms".

So, somewhere in this drool covered toy exchange, some kid infected my kid. And then, unknowingly, my kid infected other kids. We'd have to never leave the house again to avoid this cycle. And not leaving the house equals mommy in the loony bin. So, we'll take our chances with the cold and flu season.

On the bright side, Andy is getting better and better at communicating with us. Even though he can't ask us to take his temperature, he has no problem asking for his comfort items: "bi" (binky), "juice", and of course, "Elmo" (which is often the first word on his lips in the morning...)

Some other new words include "stick" (he's really fond of chasing our neighborhood cats with the fallen tree branches), "Cy-cy" (for Lucy the Pug), "Duck" (after a visit to the pond), and "moooon" (after being convinced it was more than a "ball" in the sky).


Andy's signs are more exciting for us than his words, probably because we made a greater effort to teach them: lots of "more", and "hot", and sometimes "cheese" and "hurt".

And I can't fail to mention the car, truck, train and farm animal noises. He's pretty good at them. He can even do an elephant. That's not a talent I can claim. He must have got that from his dad.

C is for Cookie

Our son is addicted to gingersnaps. They're the no trans-fat, Swedish variety, but still a cookie. Somehow, I can't bring myself to deny him this pleasure. Aren't they wholesome? They're brown and sweetened with molasses. A cookie my grandmother would approve of. So, when Andy requests gingersnaps for breakfast, lunch and dinner, he receives them. But when the bag is finished, I don't intend to buy more. We'll have to go the "Elmo" route, feigning a puzzled look: Elmo, who's that? Cookies, what cookies?

(I haven't posted in several weeks, and this is what I come back with...gingersnaps...)

Since my world is about to be turned completely upside down in a few short months, I've been trying to focus on the little pleasures in life. Those pleasures that will stay the same. There will be plenty of gingersnaps and Seseme Street in Pittsburgh. It's not as if we're moving to Antarctica (although the winter wear would be the same.) And Andy would love those penguins.

The truth is, I'm excited to experience the seasons, and life on the other coast. With housing prices among the lowest in the nation, we'll be able to afford a lovely home. Our own home! To become homeowners in the bay area, I would have to work full time. And all we can afford is a one bedroom condo in East San Jose. (No thanks.)

In the meantime, Andy is my example of living in the moment. In his world, there is no shortage of love, Elmo and cookies.

16 months old today!

Patience...

Patience, and more patience....(Deep breaths; trying not to hyperventilate.)

Oooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Oooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmm

That's all today. Sorry, no pictures. You really wouldn't want to see where my lense was aimed, anyway.

Discovery

Painting with (and sometimes on) Avery at the Children's Discovery Museum of San Jose

A Picture and a Thousand Words

This photo is quite revealing about Life with Andrew* these days.

First, note the smile. He is feeling MUCH better today! We've all had a full night's sleep, which is cause for celebration.

With closer inspection, I invite you to notice a few more things. Check out those nasal passages. No more flowing tubes of flourescent yellow mucous! (OK, so he's still a little snotty, but that's to be expected for a few more days.)

Check out his bottom teeth. A little blueish tint to them, you say? They may in fact be rotting, since he won't allow us to brush them, but that's not why they're discolored. No, the little man had a blue crayon for breakfast! And see if you can spot the lone molar that broke through his gums a few days ago--yahoo! (Three more molars are on their way...)

Grandma Carol, he LOVES the cloth books he can carry on his wrists around the house.

And finally....Andrew is wearing the latest in Haven't Left the House Today toddler fashion: the onesie he slept in, unsnapped (because exposing ones underwear is the trendy thing to do), and a pair of sweats, so he won't freeze, cuz it's a chilly 60 degrees in the house.

*I've taken a liking to "Andrew". Is it because he's growing so quickly, and Andrew seems more appropriate than Andy for a man of his stature?

More photos--thanks for looking:

After the Storm

Felton, like other parts of the Santa Cruz mountains, was heavy hit by last week's storms. Fallen trees and branches, power outages, floods and slides are common here in the winter time. Luckily, so are the sunny 60 degree days, like today, that warm us and restore our spirits. We were fortunate not to suffer any storm damage, and neither did my parents.

Now that Andy is on the mend, we've been out enjoying the sunshine. Uncle Karl and Lucy came by this morning, and played with Andy in the backyard. Uncle Karl is fabulous at letting Andy get down and dirty in the mud, investigating the tanbark, twigs and earthworms. If Andy happens to get a little wet while splashing in the firepit full of rain water? Karl simply removes his shirt and lets him splash some more. All this I'm keeping appraised of from the window like a Nervous Nelly. Hmmm... maybe he's too cold out there without a shirt on, and he's sick after all. Oh, good, now he's in the sun. But wait: sun exposure! Skin damage! Cancer!


Lucky for Andy, he has an uncle who doesn't worry about those things.


Signing "more" chocolate chip cookies, Daddy!

In Sickness and in Health

I feel a little guilty when I use this blog to rant about the trials of parenthood, but there are times when a woman just has to vent! This is one of those times.

Andy's newest accomplishment is not one I'm particularly proud of. He has figured out how to seal off the back of his throat, gargle, and purse his lips in order to spew medicine across the living room. The fact that he can coordinate this effort without breathing is, in fact, remarkable. At the same time, he is wildly flailing his arms and legs, thrusting his head from side to side, and turning different shades of purple. At just one year old, he requires a small army to be administered antibiotics.

We took Andy to the pediatrican again yesterday. It was almost 5:00, and we didn't get the usual peppy greetings from the office staff. Probably because, from the moment he entered the building, he began shreaking continuously.

The doctor, surprisingly, was her usual cheerful self. "My goodness, he does seem to be a bit angry, doesn't he?" (Mike and I looked at each other, thinking that was the understatement of the year.)

"Would you like to give him some Tylenol with Codeine?" she asked. The clouds parted overhead, and halleluiahs were sung by a chorus of angels from on high.

"Yes, please," one of us finally answered. Tylenol with Codeine sounded much better than sedative or tranquelizer, some of the words I had been thinking of during our long, unhappy drive to the Capitola office.

The trick was getting the magic elixer down the throat of our spirited boy. Mike and I tried giving him a dose in the waiting room. (See second paragraph to see how well that went.)

Our pediatrican came in to help upon hearing Mike's cussing. "Try giving him a little bit on each side of his mouth," she suggested.

"Oh, you are a tricky one!" she remarked when Andy spit out half of the dose she gave him. Mike and I felt a glimmer of satisfaction that the professional had little more success administering medicine than we had. How the doctor could remain so cheerful after a full day with screaming babies and their frustrated parents, however, was beyond me.

Andy slept well last night, whether it was because of the Codeine or the new strain of antibiotics. The night before was too hideous to relive in writing. Let me just mention it involved Baby Einstien at midnight, and the Teletubbies at 3 am.

Many of my ideals have gone by the wayside during this illness. I am now that parent who has cookie crumbs between the couch cushions. This is payback for all the times when I'd babysit as a carefree teenager, and be mortified--absolutely aghast--to find a half-eaten moldy hotdog and bun by the couch in the living room. Or a melted icecream cone on a different three year old's pillow. Payback for casting judgement on the moral characters of the mothers (never the fathers) for their serious lapses in cleanliness and common sense.

Now I understand the pitfalls of living with a toddler travelling the house with food. And I'm just too tired to care. Very soon, I won't even notice anymore.

'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!