six month old taco

Lydia turned a whole six months old back on December 23rd. I had every intention of writing this post then but before I blinked it was Christmas Eve, then Christmas, then more Christmas, then I felt a slight breeze as the end of 2008 flew by and HOLY CRAP IT’S JANUARY! So here we are.

Soon into her sixth month Lydia got to experience Thanksgiving Day as her own person. A year ago she was an itsy bitsy blueberry-sized thing when The Husband announced her impending arrival to an incredibly shocked collection of family and friends. This year she got to play with her buddy, Syon, who was also present in utero at last year’s Thanksgiving.

Right before Thanksgiving we were very worried about how Lydia would behave. She had been screaming as if someone was trying to poke her with needles for three days. Even her caregivers at her daycare were flummoxed. Then, almost as if by accident, The Husband figured it out — Lydia wanted to stand all the time. ALL THE TIME. Stand, stand, stand. You just have to hold her up for balance. Suddenly, her legs were the best toy she’d ever had.

From there, everything became interesting — all the toys, the kitties, Mommy’s shiny necklace — everything must be grabbed. Lydia was most pleased with herself the day she figured out how to pop her pacifier back in her mouth the right way.

Lydia got real serious about different foods this month. She started getting rice cereal at daycare almost daily and throughout the month we went through all the vegetables and applesauce. I never would have thought it, but peas are the #1 absolute winner, even over all the fruits so far. This girl could eat her weight in peas.

DSCF0202

Despite three months of chewing, drooling, and otherwise “teething” there are no teeth to show for it yet. She doesn’t seem to be all that impressed with teeth in general.

A few days ago The Husband and I were looking back at some pictures of Lydia from back when she was first born. How did she go from a six pound wiggily infant to a 15 pound bouncy, laughing child in two seasons? Mitosis is an amazing little wonder.

the house on main

*[Ed. note: written for my aunt’s requested Christmas Theme: a memory that occurred in their house, meaning the one my great grandparents and grandparents lived in — the one they now inhabit.]

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I have been ransacking the 8mm reel films of memories in my head, trying to come up with the best memory, the PERFECT one, that encompasses all that I have experienced at the house on Main Street. It’s a tough order despite all the memories I have created there. I don’t know if I can go with just one. Some of those memories have entered into the lexicon of my and my sister’s pseudospeak that seems to amuse our husbands: “Remember when we lost Lofty in the lamp?” “Cat muscles!” “Clip-clops.”

Some of these memories are only vague recollections. The video skips and there is little or no sound, so I make it up as I go along with the retelling. Others are crystal clear as if they were recorded with a newfangled HD video camera. In other words, don’t get your panties in a twist if I don’t have it just right — contents settle during shipping.

When my sister and I were young we came over to Ganny and Papa’s every Sunday afternoon for lunch. It was a highlight of the weekend for us to strip out of our Sunday best and dine on Ganny’s wonderful cooking while wearing our pinafores. Not only is ‘pinafore’ a great word to say — pinafore, pinafore, pinafore — they were fun to twirl around in, even if just for that limited amount of time. Cathy and I pretended we were wearing ball gowns and were attending a very important gala. We didn’t realize it at the time, but Mom most likely viewed this risque luncheon as a few less unwashable stains she had to deal with that evening.

Later in the afternoon we would sometimes get some ice cream in pink and blue Gerber bowls. Cathy and I then settled into playing Ice Cream Factory and we stirred and stirred our ice cream until it was like frosting, pretending we were whipping up a grand batch of ice cream for the kids. Then, being the ‘kids,’ we’d eat it.

One afternoon Ganny had been stuck on the phone for a while with a neighbor. I imagine she must have been rolling her eyes at my mother because pretty soon my mom got me to holler from the living room, “Ganny, can you help me with something?” I remember being a bit confused about this for a second because I really didn’t need any help with anything but Ganny quickly said into the phone, “Well, gotta go!” and hung up.

Living just a 30 minute drive away from Columbiana, sleepovers were rare, but they did sometimes happen. The feel of the house first thing in the morning was so different from a Sunday afternoon. When I got up the dawn would barely be shimming in through the windows; it felt a little cool after climbing out of the covers. Ganny and Papa would be up and in the kitchen. Ganny would fix me a wonderful cup of coffee in the green-banded pyrex cup with copious amounts of Pet milk and sugar from the mushroom bowl. As the dawn broke, blue light would begin to pour into the house. I imagine this is what the house felt like for my mother every morning when she was little.

A lot of the memories can get muddled in my head between what is real and what is something I read in a book. Whenever I dive into a novel, I tend to place the main characters into the House on Main. This house is just the best I know. It has a quintessential American house look to it, both inside and out. Plus, it has always had a home-like feel for me which I pass on to the characters I read about. In Harry Potter, the Weasley family live in this house in my mind — I just had to build on a few oddly-placed stories and lean-tos to follow the setting.

The 8mm reel of memories still spins in my head. I watch them frequently in my mind; sometimes randomly while driving to work or brushing my teeth and I will smile or even bust out laughing. This is sometimes a work hazard. But, also like video film, I keep finding degraded clips of scenes that I know I used to have. I wish I had an easier way than writing to get them all preserved because — you know what? — this ain’t easy.

I’ve come to the realization that people see me, first and foremost, as a woman

I really never thought that this would be a problem, or at least one that would irritate me. As a girl, I was raised to believe that girls are TOTALLY AWESOME and can do as much, if not more than, boys. Back then I thought it was great that while us girls could wear both pajamas or nightgowns, boys could only wear pajamas. Ha.

I still think us girls are quite kickass and I certainly know there are many perks to belonging to the gender. I just don’t think I should have to give up my respect or the desire for others to take me seriously just to have a guy hold the door open for me.

So I’m a woman — that puts me with 50% of the population. Amazing. Why is it so odd if I want to shove on some boots and get in the mud? I can see the wheels turning. Why is she driving that truck? Why isn’t she a guy? Why does he have boobs?

I hinder myself as much as anybody, though. Steven says, as only a husband can, “your problem is you’re too nice.” Nice. Curl your upper lip up and squinch your nose when you say it and you’ll see why I need to dial down the nice. Nice asks for people to walk all over you.

But what am I to do when I’m driving down the road and some large truck begins pacing me in the next lane? I refrain from looking over for a while because, hey, no need to be rude. Maybe he just needs the office number off of my work truck.

When I finally sneak a peek — curiosity getting the better of me — I see the driver doing this cutsie open-and-closed hand wave at me.

Geez, what the hell am I supposed to make of that? I don’t KNOW this dude, and I certainly don’t WANT to know him. Is he being a smartass? Is he flirting? He wouldn’t freaking do this crap if I were a guy; I know that much.

When I finally turn left and he speeds ahead, he is still waving at me from his side mirror.

I just hate crap like that because now all I have is second-guesses and assumptions as to what this goofball was intending. I don’t want to get so jaded that I immediately pull out the Gender Card — it’s best if that card does not get worn and faded before its time — but what else can I think? It’s certainly not an isolated event. I can’t even count how many times I’ve been honked at by large trucks . . . but why honk at all?

Why can’t I drive down the road in peace? Why can’t I ask the rental sales guy about a piece of equipment without him getting unnecessarily technical just to see if he can talk over my head? Why am I “that little landscaping girl” at almost 30 years of age?

I have got to make myself heard over my petite stature.

can’t win for losing

This year I made a change in my present-wrapping material to derail Renton’s nutty habits. Tecnically, you could say it worked — he hasn’t been caught munching under the tree once.

The problem, again, is Hermione. She seems to have a taste for raffia. Once again I am faced with presenting gifts encrusted with a glaze of cat spit.

Maybe next year I’ll wrap the presents in chicken wire and staples.

no vulgarity around the taco

The Husband and I thought that once Lydia arrived, our more swarthy habits would phase out on their own. That has proven to not be the case.

After a particularly loud burp while holding the girlie, we decided we should do something to curb our habits. The ‘quarter in a jar’ trick was quickly ruled out due to lack of quarters. Then I pounced on a plan.

“Okay, if I burp or cuss I have to wash the bottles (usually The Husband’s job) and if you burp or cuss you have to clean out the litter box (usually my job).”

“Whoa,” replies The Husband.

We had to think about it a minute before agreeing to the plan with farts added in. Both of these chores are completed on a daily basis and are abhorred by the other party. As a bonus, if one commits an error and is doomed to an extra chore, then all the more incentive for the other party to not commit a foul.

I knew I was going to be the first person to mess up. I knew this because while thinking I was going to mess up, “mess” wasn’t the word I was using in my mind.

Not ten minutes later, however, I was proven wrong when a loud belch was heard. I looked up to see a shocked expression on The Husband’s face, holding a smiling Lydia. He totally cleaned the litter box.

Of course, just as he was finishing up, I let loose with a loud belch while playing on the floor with Lydia. I found myself in the kitchen soon after, washing a mess of bottles and pump paraphernalia.

This is going to be really hard.

hypothetically speaking, of course

Steven: “Hypothetically, if we filled up a vacuum cleaner bag, where would I find more?”

Me: “Sears.”

Steven: “No, I mean in the house.”

Me: “Oh, the utility closet.”

Steven: “Hypothetically, if there weren’t any there, then where would they be?”

Me: “Then hypothetically, we would be out. Hey, what if, hypothetically, you were to empty out the full bag some and attach it back on?”

Steven: “Easier said than done. Hey, I could use the vacuum cleaner to suck out the–oh.”

five month old taco

Yesterday Lydia turned five months old. Happily, a Sunday, my optimistic self thought I would be able to post this on the day itself but, alas, Lydia decided it would be a Screaming Day. So here we are.

Lydia’s grabbiness continued this past month, so the Excersaucer was set up for her. There is a lot of crazy stuff on that thing to play with! It keeps her quite entertained if she’s in a good mood, but once she’s ready to get out she will let you know. Her little legs barely touch the bottom right now. Soon she’ll figure out the thing can bounce, too. Ohh, the discoveries that are yet to be had!

Halloween came about this past month, with more holidays soon to follow. No other holidays let you dress up as whatever you fancy, though. This year Lydia was a Ladybug. Her Nana was much pleased, as I had been hinting that Lydia would make an awesome Baby Vampire. Bluh!

More experimentation was performed this month in the form of rice cereal. Lydia doesn’t yet seem to be too keen on the taste and I am certainly not too keen on the mess. So when does she start making her own sandwiches?

For quite some time, Lydia would never nap in her crib, though she slept awesomely there at night. For naps, she would only conk out on the couch. That made me nervous because of the cats — one clumsy one, one snuggly one — and once Lydia started rolling over, we knew that had to stop. This past month, we seemed to have worked out the problem . . . somewhat.

She has to have a blanket. Specifically, a soft, white minky-type blanket her Great Aunt Susan gave her.

This is a great big NO-NO in the Rule Book of SIDS, so I am constantly checking on her with it. Speaking of which . . . be right back . . .

Giggles are here in earnest. It’s quite easy now to get her to laugh, but do so at your own risk. You will most likely send her into a fit of hiccups that will last for about 30 minutes or so. The Husband always thinks it’s worth it. She certainly doesn’t seem to mind, either.

Lydia’s biggest frustration in life right now is the dastardly event known as teething. Her gums bother her more and more each day — it’s my number one suspect for yesterday’s screaming event. Anything near her mouth is fair game for chewing, including me. Her poor hands are feeling the brunt of that, though.

Every day I check: any teeth yet, any teeth yet? I have this vision that once the first two pop through the rest won’t be as frustrating. Reality probably isn’t so shiny, but it gives me something to hold on to.

It certainly gives greater weight to that age-old song “All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth.” I hope Santa comes early to this household.

common thoughts

Ooh, GAMEDAY! Georgia game, too. You know it’s been a less than stellar season for both football programs when this game falls in the 11:30 a.m. slot. Ouch.

Well, War Eagle! ‘Tis my favorite game!

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The other day I was going over a wordy eleven page ordinance concerning tree conservation for a city in the Birmingham area. It was quite specific and even brought up DBH — diameter at breast height — something I haven’t thought of since my Landscape Bidding, Installation, and Maintenance class.

Then it gets to the directions for applying for a permit: you identify the tree in question by common name. Common name? Seriously? Yeeesh. Linnaeus is rolling in his grave, people.

Ohhhhkay. Let’s test this jewel of a thought out.

Find me a Tulip Tree. Go on — I’ll wait. Here’s a hint for Google: it has tulip-like blooms.

. . . . .

. . . found it yet? Ooh, did you find TWO trees?

Yeah, that can happen. ‘Tulip Tree’ can mean either Liriodendron tulipifera or Magnolia X soulangeana. These trees are also called ‘yellow poplar’ and ‘saucer magnolia,’ respectively.

So what’s the point of eleven pages of mind-numbing specifics if you only want to be confused at the end of it all if only because you don’t want to take ten seconds to Google a scientific name? (As to that last link, it’s ‘vomitoria’ for a reason.)

What was the point of all that work on my end as well? Drs. Eakes, Ponder, Kessler, and Williams didn’t drill all that Latin into my head for naught. Almost six years later and it’s still there. I’m gonna use it.

City officials can use Google.