Good Shepherds

There's a woman who reads my blog who had a baby with Trisomy 21 a few months ago. The diagnosis - shortly after the baby's birth - was a surprise to his parents. And as is often the case, it was a horrifying discovery. It was certainly scary, yes, horrifying to me when I learned that my first baby would have Trisomy 21, Down syndrome. I didn't know what to expect, but none of what I was imagining was good. I've written often before about not judging women for the choices they make in these circumstances. I don't believe that we can know how we'll feel until we've actually been in a given situation, and even then we can never be entirely in another's shoes. Each family must be allowed to decide what they can handle.

I still recoiled at first when I learned that she'd given her baby up for adoption. My first reaction was to compare her situation to my own. How could she? After seeing her beautiful, healthy, newborn son? How could she give him up? When I first saw Ellie, I was elated, I was smitten.

But there are differences. I knew about Ellie's diagnosis with 18 weeks to prepare. So surely she'll regret her decision someday; if she'd had the chance to get to know him a little, to get over the shock, to hold and love him a little, she'd have realized that she could do this.

Probably. Maybe not. The news is splashed, from time to time, with horrible, terrible stories about parents who could not cope. Perhaps worse still are the hundreds, thousands, probably millions of stories that don't make the news, of parents who harm their children - physically, sexually, verbally, coldly, hotly, in absentia - in less deadly ways because of their own difficulties coping sometimes.

I was already fighting against my initial reaction, when I found this post.

We are paving the way for our baby L to have the most wonderful life with a family who are 100% committed to him and his extra chromosome. Doesn't he deserve that rather than two people who are not sure.
He is worth so much more than 'not sure'.
. . .
Unfortunately, I am well aware that I probably will regret this decision. That it will hurt for a long time - maybe forever. But I would much rather feel that pain knowing that L is settled and happy than to have brought him home then regretted it. That's just a chance I am not willing to take.

She may regret her decision. But in the meantime, other than possibly the blogger herself, who is harmed? The baby was given the gift of life. And he has a home with a wonderful family who wants him. I think that speaks very nicely for itself.

In the meantime, for other parents who find themselves struggling with a difficult diagnosis: it is possible to cope, and even to he happy. To love and to grow, and to have a life you didn't imagine, didn't dream of, but are better - and happier - for.

To get there, you might need help. I wish everyone could have a doctor as good as my girls' pediatrician, who sees a lot of children with Down syndrome and who got us hooked up with all the specialists, therapists, and schools that we could ever need.

She led us to Good Shepherd School for Children, where Ellie attended preschool for 2 years. In the early days, Ellie's therapists - who came right here to our home - were more my therapists than hers. I can't tell you all the ways that they've enriched our lives together, and I miss them now that Ellie's a big girl in a big girl school.

Do you have a Kleenex handy? This is what they do:

I Wrote a Novel

Well, technically, I'm about 2/3 of the way done, but I won NaNoWriMo, and I don't feel inclined to stop now!

PARTY!

I'm off to go wake Paul up to celebrate.

Pet Peeve

False Tautologies

For example, I say, "I like X," and someone else hears, "Y sucks."

Or.

I say, "X describes Y," and someone else hears, "Therefore no other entities can contain any X whatsoever."

Note: precondition followed by assumption, without platform of fact upon which to base assumption. So annoying, so defensive.

I loved math in school, but if I had to narrow it down, I think that my favorite math class ever was the hard-to-describe course I took my sophomore year in high school. It was Algebra II, but it was an advanced course and we learned other stuff in there as well, including quite a bit of logic and whatever else the instructor was interested in teaching. I loved Geometry, and Trig, and I must have loved Calculus because I took a few years of it, in high school and in college. But Algebra II was one of the most valuable courses I ever took at any level of my education, because it taught me new analytical ways of thinking.

It's all a playful interest on my part, however. I like to exercise my brain with logic puzzles, but I have no desire to live and work in a completely logical world.

Thankful, Indeed

Everyone is feeling much better, and I never did get sick. We made it to my parents' house safely. Leftover Thanksgiving dinner was all the delicious fun and a lot less stress than the traditional meal always ends up being.

All in all, it's wonderful to be out of my own house for a little while and back in the comfortable clutter of my parents' home.

And Paul bought me an adapter so that I can power my laptop in the car, which allowed me to write nearly 4000 words on the drive! I'm not a great typist, but occasionally I can look up from the screen, and it was an interesting experience to be living in my fictional world, typing along, and looking out the windows at the dark Illinois landscape rushing by.

"There's a 24-hour Starbucks at the next exit!"

All in all, the weekend has gotten much better, and I am, as ever, Thankful.

And then Georgeanne’s shriek and Coralyn’s giggle brought him back with a blink, and he saw their colorful coats against the white snow and black trees, he saw the rolling hills and icy ponds, he saw Maggie’s face looking up at him, he saw the textures and pieces of his life laid out before him, and his heart felt so full, so full of love and longing.

Thanksgiving

We're not at my parents' house for Thanksgiving with my sisters, their husbands, and my sister's daughter, who was born the day after Ada and we rarely get to see. We're not anywhere for Thanksgiving. We're home, of course, but we won't be celebrating very much tomorrow; no one in my house is eating. The girls and Paul are not eating because of their GI bug. I'm not eating for two reasons: 1) I know that I will be struck down similarly very soon, and would prefer to have as little in my stomach as possible when that happens (I'll still eat toast, etc., as I become hungry). 2) My nose is so full of the unbearable stench of a house full of three people with GI bugs that it's hard to imagine wanting to eat.

This no good, terrible, very bad situation is exacerbated by a few things, most of which I'll call Paul, just for the sake of convenience. Since Paul is sick, he's very cranky and passive-aggressive. Since I barely cope with this much illness anyway, having a marginally civil co-parent is not easing matters. For example, if I notice that he's using diaper wipes on a freshly showered child, I might ask, "Oh, no, did she have more diarrhea?" And he might reply, "No, I just saw some on her and decided that it wouldn't be a good idea to leave it there." Unnecessarily sarcastic, rather than collaborative.

Further, he has very different ideas about cleanliness and germ-existence than I do. Granted, I was the one who took all those Biology courses in college. But his dad's got a Master's in Biology and is a high school Biology teacher, so surely Paul picked some of the 19th century concept of germ existence. But frequent hand-washing? Not so much. And, something germy (e.g. a used diaper wipe or soiled clothing) can apparently be set down on a surface frequently touched by other people (e.g. a chair) without leaving any germs behind. And the most disgusting things can be rinsed into the kitchen sink, despite all the dishes piled up in there.

Moving right along.

Thanksgiving. A couple of things about this whole illness have been wonderful. Yes! Wonderful! First, Ada seems to be through Part 1 of the illness, the throwing up part, and hasn't been nearly as sick as her older sister. Second, Ellie communicated with us! We took Ada to the doctor yesterday, and while she was being examined, Ellie told us that she was sick too. We blew her off nicely, thinking that she just wanted attention since her sister was getting so much. Then, after she'd been vomiting etc. for a few hours this morning, she told us that her throat hurt. So back to the doctor we went - and, indeed, Ellie has strep! (Ada's culture was negative.) This is the first time, the very first time ever, in more than 4 years, that she's diagnosed herself and given us the necessary information to help her. She told us her throat hurt! We took her to the doctor! She cultured positive for strep! And she got a shot of penicillin! Yay!

Where did she get the strep? Good question, and I do have a theory. The GI bug could have come from anywhere. Ada was sick first; she might have picked it up in the nursery at church, or anywhere else. After all, she's the one of us who crawls around on the floor, tries eating everything she sees, puts her dirty fingers into her mouth all the time, and gets passed around groups of people like a party favor.

But the strep part, I presume, came from Paul. He wasn't himself on Saturday night. (Note to the big crowd of people we had over here on Saturday: I'm sorry! But at least alcohol kills germs, and we sure had a lot of that!) I kept asking him why he wasn't participating in the party more, and he just said that he felt like sitting quietly and enjoying from afar, and that his throat hurt. We've all had a little cough/cold, so he insisted that his throat just hurt from coughing. I doubt that. I think he brought home strep. I wish he'd go get cultured. (Rob, I even used you as an example for motivation! No dice.)

So far, my throat's fine, and my stomach is a little off mostly because of what I'm smelling. I hope. Another bright and shining Thanksgiving light: I've written over 38,000 words this month, and am on target to hit the NaNoWriMo 50,000 target several days early. So I'm taking tonight off and going to bed. After I start a load of laundry and load the dishwasher.

I hope your Thanksgiving holiday is going better than mine!

How Do You Fill Your Days?

As Ellie and I were finishing up lunch, Ada woke up. I went to pick her up, and the phone rang. I took the phone with me and carried Ada back to change her diaper while talking to my mother. Then I sat Ada in her highchair, washed my hands, and got her some lunch. She wasn't too into eating; she's not feeling well today. I got her to have a sip of juice and a couple of bites of pureed oatmeal with pear.

While I was trying to make an appointment get Ellie's hair trimmed, Ada threw up all over herself and her tray. I got her cleaned up and into the bath. Ellie came along to "help." While I was dressing Ada after her bath, Ellie opened the refrigerator and got a fresh container of Quaker Old Fashioned Oats, and spilled the entire thing on the kitchen floor. I sat Ada down and swept that up. As I was finishing, I heard Ellie calling for help from the master bathroom.

Apparently, she and The (stuffed) Cat in the Hat needed to potty. Both were, apparently, successful. By this time, I'm a little pissed. I deposit Cat in a plastic bag to go downstairs to the washing machine, and I hear suspicious splashing. Ada has crawled into the hall bathroom (door opened compliments of her big sister) and is happily splashing her hands in the toilet. I wash Ada's hands and shut the bathroom door, then leave her to push her Radio Flyer wagon while going back to Clorox wipe the master bathroom floor after The Cat in the Hat's drippage. Big sister is having an extended session on the potty.

Ada's quiet, so I go back to check on her: she's fine, but the bed of the wagon is holding some sort of clear fluid. I clean this up with a cloth diaper and a Lysol wipe, then carry Ada back to sit with Ellie and me. Ellie's still on the pot, and saying, "Finish potty! Finish potty!" (This means: I need to finish going potty; don't rush me!) And Ada's rubbing her eyes, so I snuggle her and put her down in her crib. When I walk back into my room, I find that Ellie has decided to follow me to see where I was going with Ada. She did not wipe first.

By this time, I'm emitting a quiet but piercing noise, and Ellie's saying, "Mommy, no screaming!" I clean her up, the clean up the toilet, potty seat, and carpet just outside the bathroom while Ellie washes her hands for about 5 minutes. Then I wash my hands of the whole affair, both literally and figuratively.

As I've typed this, Ellie has put herself down for her nap (smart girl!) and Ada has fallen asleep too. I need to take a shower, then wake the two of them so that I can take Ada to the doctor to get the verdict on whether or not it's OK for us to travel tomorrow, to my parents' house for Thanksgiving.

Somehow this afternoon, I need to find time to get Ellie's hair cut, and then we are having an early dinner with friends, to meet her family who are in from out of town for the holiday.

Then Paul's got an evening meeting at church, and I'll come home to get the girls to bed, do laundry, pack, bake 4 loaves of quick bread (2 banana, 2 pumpkin), and write 2000 words.

No pressure. I'm sure glad I quit my job to live this life of leisure. For the record, the first part of that sentence is true.

What Year Is It?

I have been so off-kilter for the last few days. I've always been a little skeptical when reading authors talking about their characters taking on lives of their own, changing the stories, talking to them throughout the day, etc. (I know that some writers do seem to experience this, but others do not. I'm in the latter group.) For the most part, I know what my story is before I write it. I know who my characters are, and where their arcs end before I begin or shortly thereafter. The more practiced I get, the more I know before I start writing.

But I have been in a fictional fog for a little while, today especially. My last 20,000 words or so have been set in February 2012. And while the year isn't a huge deal, the month is really throwing me off. I keep looking at the trees and expecting to see preparations for new buds, not dead leaves gradually falling. I am thinking more about valentines than turkey sandwiches. I am looking ahead to our spring break trip rather than Christmas vacation. It's a weird, weird feeling, especially this time of year, when it usually seems like no other time of year can ever exist.

Genre Fiction

I've written before about genre fiction. Here, for example. And here. To sum up: I think that great quantities of rubbish are published by genre publishers (Romance, Science Fiction and Fantasy, Mystery) because they fit the template and readers will apparently buy anything that fits the desired template. This trend is good for getting published, but is bad for fiction in general. And it gives genre fiction a really bad name that it doesn't entirely deserve. There's some really wonderful, exciting, emergent writing going on in genre fiction, especially in SF&F, that's obscured from general readership by its association with the piles of dragon dung. At the core, good writing is good writing, and I'm the sort of reader who appreciates good writing, regardless of genre.

What I might not have shared before is that I've actually done a bit of genre writing, as well.

The first short story I wrote all by myself (without my mother writing the words down for me) was a fantasy story. I was in first grade, and I illustrated the story and taped the audiobook too; I was a jill-of-all-trades. As an adult, the first short story that I was really proud of, that I still think might have been published somewhere if I'd tried a little bit, was sort of a fantasy story as well. It doesn't fit a modern fantasy template, though, and is more Gregory Maquire than Anne McCaffrey.

And my first, failed, novel - to which I still intend to return at some point - was a mystery. I love good mysteries, and have about a dozen of them in my head; I just haven't found the voice yet in which to write them.

What's more surprising, it seems, to those who know me, is that I once thought about writing romances. The fall of my senior year in college was an interesting time for me. I decided that I really needed to break up with the guy I'd been dating since high school graduation before we ended up married. Around the same time, I decided that I'd been on the wrong life path since I was 9 years old. I realized, all at once and with no warning, that I really didn't want to be a doctor after all.

What now?!!

I thought about what I loved to do, and the answer was easy, even then: I love to write. Even when I wanted to be a doctor, I was secretly hoping to be Michael Crichton, publishing popular fiction rather than peer-reviewed studies.

But I have always been plagued by self-doubt, and I didn't think that I could do it. I knew for sure that I couldn't support myself and pay off my student loans by embarking upon a career as a novelist. But, I read up a little on Harlequin romances, and I decided that I could do that and make enough money to live. I just needed to learn the pattern, I figured, so I joined the Harlequin readers club and received my 4 books plus a complimentary gift each month.

I quickly realized that romance writing is not for me (this is that part that's not surprising to those who know me, or who have read any of my writing) but I kept my membership until I had a full set of wine glasses, and those are still the wine glasses we use today as, apparently, we failed to register for any at our wedding.

They're bright green, and they do make a wonderful conversation piece.

Structure

I'm on track to make the NaNo halfway mark (25,000 words) on Wednesday night, if I continue at this pace. That will, not entirely coincidentally, be the halfway point of the book (although lots of what I've already written needs to be expanded; that can happen later, after November) and the main crisis, which has been building since the prologue, will begin to explode.

My novel is divided into three parts, each of which should eventually be about 25,000 words. Part 1 spans 15 years and has a lot of shorter scenes: bam-bam-bam. The pace slows down, but the crisis picks up significantly in Part 2, which spans 2 months. Part 3 stretches out, is more introspective, and covers about a year.

Part 1 is fun, Part 2 is exciting, and Part 3, which I have not yet begun to write, is supposed to be lyrical and haunting. Ah, well, what's the use of trying, without making lofty goals? If I'm going to be a writer, this is the sort of writer I want to be. Can I carry a story on the merits of the writing, without relying on plot? We'll see by the second or third draft of Part 3. In the meantime:

Writing lesson from book club. The Time Traveler's Wife taught me that people can fuck in contemporary literary fiction. My characters, and my narrator, don't say that; though I think it would be interesting to write in a voice that could, someday. There is sex, though. And hopefully there's a little laughter too.

The undulating women, the thumping music, the pulsing lights, it all screamed sex-sex-sex. Mark closed his eyes and moved to the music, feeling fuzzy around the edges, feeling the beat and the lust in his muscles, in his bones, in the very core of his soul. There was no today, there was no tomorrow, there was no Maggie, there was no Mark, there was only this feeling, this being, right now. He was the beat. He was the music, the lights, the vapor of evaporating sweat steaming off the dancers.

Until someone threw up on his shoe.

Tales of the Journey: National Youth Workers Convention

Through the PCUSA webring, I stumbled upon a youth director talking about the recent National Youth Workers Convention. (Aside: there is a fascinating mix of progressive and conservative bloggers linked on that site.)

Anyway, youth director Brittany posted about a keynote speech by Veggie Tales creator Phil Vischer, in which he asked the question "Is this dream more important in my life than God?" in response to living his dream and then losing it.

In response to that question, Brittany said,

I realized that my dream really didn't have anything to do with God. It was just my dream. I owned it and expected God to fill in the missing parts. What a backwards idea about God, like I'm the one writing the story. It's easier sometimes to play the part of God rather than letting God be God and me be me.

I think I'm like that about my writing. It's hard not to be, when you want something so much. But I'd like to remind God that I have pledged that 10% of every single penny I make from my writing is tithed. (My tongue is planted firmly in my cheek, here; I'm being flip, not bargaining.)

NaNoWriMo update: I'm at 19,075 words and still liking it. My automatic counter widget (see right) isn't updating as quickly as I'd like.

Blogger Buzz: To-Do List (the book)

Blogger Buzz: To-Do List (the book)

Still Writing

Friday's Total Word Count: 17,140

I should be proud of what I've accomplished so far, and I am. And I know that Week 2 is when a lot of people hit the wall: it's starting to drag on a bit, and the end is not in sight.

But I am very concerned about running out of material. Given where I am today, I'm afraid that I'll say everything I have to say, I'll tell the story, and find that it's an awkward 25,000 words. I don't mind finishing up after NaNoWriMo is over; I expect that. But I do really care about this story, and in the end, I want to have a novel, not a novella.

Saturday night update: Today's Word Count: 16,908.

Yes, that's fewer words than yesterday, but I wasn't editing, just removing some stuff that will come back in towards the end of the story.

Today's progress: one of the most successful days so far. Worried about flailing, or failing, I spent tonight creating a detailed timeline for the main character and a list of all the scenes in the story, with rough size targets. Lots of words, none of which count toward the NaNoWriMo 50,000 target, although I'm still ahead of where I need to be to meet that target while continuing at a steady pace. The scene outline should go a very long way toward helping me stay on track to finish the novel with the three main sections appropriately balanced.

I've never come this far, and I'm not talking about word count. I think this piece has potential. I'm not afraid to write it anymore.

I Still Love Fall

Silly writer. Imagery is the sort of thing you go back later and fill in, after the characters are developed, after the plot's sketched out, after the NaNoWriMo word count hurdle has been met.

The weirdest change about Maggie during her pregnancy, though, was her hair. Mark had always loved Maggie’s thick curly hair, in that hard-to-describe color that was part chocolaty brown and part autumnal orange, all shot through with strands that shone pure copper and caught afternoon sun to turn her head into a burning pile of leaves. He loved to grab her hair in both of his hands and burrow his face into it, almost expecting the scent of crisp fall air and pumpkin pie spices. Maggie tended to choose shampoo based on continuously evolving criteria like price, bottle shape, brand name, ingredients list, and quality of marketing writing, though, so her hair’s perfume changed regularly, though it always overlay a smell that was purely, uniquely, Maggie.

While Maggie was pregnant, her smell changed slightly, and so did her hair. Her tightly wound curls became softer, gentler, still curls but more like paper links in a Christmas tree decorating chain than the springy store-bought ribbon on a child’s birthday present.

Wednesday's Word Total: 13,071
Thursday's Word Total: 15,086

Writing Poll

Writers,

How do you deal with longer pieces of work-in-progress? Do you keep the entire document in one large, cumbersome file for administrative ease? Do you keep separate files for each chapter? Some chunking system in between?

I've worked both ways, and have not yet stumbled upon a comfortable solution. I like being able to scroll up or down from where I'm writing - I don't always create sequentially or chronologically - to edit or verify a detail. On the other hand, large files are slow, and it takes a long time to move around in them. But it sure is a lot easier to compute things like word count in a single file rather than a chapter-by-chapter approach, and to ensure consistent formatting, page numbering, etc.

What do you do?

Today's NaNoWriMo word count: 11,120 words.

His Dark Materials

No amount of caffeine is keeping my head off my hand off the table, and even I am bored with the short section that I just finished writing. It's time to get some sleep!

Another successful NaNoWriMo day, all in all. My total word count is 9031 words, and according to the little spreadsheet Paul made for me, I needed to be at 8333 words to be on track. If I can keep this up, I might get a couple of days off at Thanksgiving! Or maybe just some lighter writing days to do more research and planning for the harder, later sections of the novel.

This is already the longest work of fiction I've ever written, by a hair. (I've written short stories, the first 5 or 6 chapters of a novel, and a longer pieces nonfiction/creative nonfiction/memoir, but most of my writing has definitely been in bite-sized chunks. I write a lot of beginnings before paralyzing in fear of failure. What seemed to me at one time to be great titles, great first lines, great opening paragraphs clutter my "Writing" folder.)

Moving on.

Have you read Phillip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy? We loved it. And we're all looking forward to the movie of The Golden Compass, opening in December. By "we," I mean Paul, me, my whole family (mom, dad, two sisters, various brothers-in-law), and a couple of good friends.

I'm not sure I want my daemon to be a chimp, though. I mean, chimps are clever, and that's really good. But they're not exactly sexy animals. Maybe you can help determine if I've got the right daemon?

The Really Good Guy

The NaNoWriMo website is currently down. This is frustrating, because once I've finished my writing for the "day," I count on being able to log in and input my new total, in order to watch my little blue status bar move slightly to the right.

So far, so good. I have a rough outline, I have a timeline, and at the end of day three, I have 5264 words.

Orange asked me what I'm writing this month. The "it's late and I'm really tired" version is this:

I'm working on a literary fiction, very character-driven novel called The Really Good Guy. The title character is a married-with-kids, 36-year-old workaholic who has always been described as a good person. More importantly, that's how he sees himself. And then he does something that's pretty awful. He has to deal with the consequences, but most importantly, he has to see himself as the sort of guy who'd do such a bad thing.

This story presents all sorts of challenges for me, not least among which are that my main character is older than me, male, and a workaholic while I'm an at-home mom. (That's whole different kind of working hard.) It's hard for me to keep his wife and kids in the background where they belong.

"Write what you know" is good, solid writing advice. And I am writing what I know, just in a different way. Sometimes using a narrator who sees the world from a different perspective can shed interesting light on a story.

It really is impossible for me to write well this fast. It's not, however, a wasted exercise. I might not have a beautiful, lyrical novel, but I often put pretty stuff in later, once the outline of the story is in place. I shade after I sketch. I upholster after I construct, and so forth.

At the end of the month, I don't plan to have a publishable novel. I hope to have 50,000 words, the bones of a really interesting story, consisting mostly of scenes and summary without a lot of connective tissue: a great outline that can be fleshed out and lifted up a bit into something that I can be proud of.

3 days ago, I had a few notes jotted down at the Borders Cafe. Tonight I have more than 5000 words of new, original fiction typed and saved. I don't care which words they are; I'm proud of that.

Give It To Me

OK, I'm disabling the word verification thingie until I get fed up with the spam again. This lowers the bar for commenting. Let's chat!

Second day NaNoWriMo total: 3680 (slightly ahead of the daily requirement to stay on track for 50,000 words in 30 days).

Write On!

Yo yo yo, it's NaNoWriMo; here we go! In general, I do believe in quality over quantity. But when I'm paralyzed, any movement is a positive development, even if it's just a muscle spasm. And at the end of the first day, I have more than 1700 words on the screen. For the record, Ada does not feel that this is the best use of my time. In turn, I do not feel that being up and crying 3 hours past successful bedtime is the best use of her time either.

Ada did the funniest thing last weekend. I was playing Wii with my sister in the family room while my mom was playing with Ellie in her room, down at the other end of the hall. Our family room and Ellie's room are like the weights on a barbell, with other rooms (a bathroom, my room, Ada's room) shooting off the main hallway to the sides. So it's not like a barbell at all, but the family room and Ellie's room are at opposite ends of a hallway, see?

Anyway, Ada got bored with the way LilSis and I were neglecting her, so she crawled all the way down the hallway to Ellie's room for some more stimulating company. Once she got there, she got up on her knees (tall kneeling!) and looked at me, while defiantly shutting the door. Her reach is impressive, but she is only 9 months old. So she'd push the door a bit, crawl toward it, push it some more, crawl to catch up, etc., until the door finally closed. Until the last possible moment, she stared right at me, meaningfully.

I got the message!

Just keep swimming

Last year at this time, my life couldn't have felt much worse. I was in an indescribable amount of pain, though I did try to put it into words.

In some ways, the past year has been the worst of my life. But in other ways, it's been phenomenal. We had a new baby, and have watched Ada grow into the most incredible, wonderful, surprising little girl. We've watched Ellie make some amazing developmental leaps, including potty training! We've refinanced our house down to a 15 year loan, and eliminated all but the necessary debt (fixed mortgage, extremely low-rate minivan loan, and consolidated student loans). We've forged new friendships and taken on new roles in our communities.

We've both adjusted our work lives: Paul to a more family-friendly job and me to staying home full-time and writing more. I've been talking with magazines about some pieces, and I even have published pieces in a couple of actual books. This part is difficult for me, because I am paralyzed by my fear of failure, which often prevents me from submitting and sometimes even keeps me from writing.

Not least, Paul and I have worked very very hard on our relationship, and while we're not perfect, we're in a much better place than I could possibly have imagined. In my wildest dreams and all that.

Here we are, then and now:
Halloween 2006

There are no pictures of me from last October, except for ones in which part of me is captured in a shot of Ellie, but she's adorable enough for all of us.

Halloween 2007

By day we're Mummy, Deady, and two Little Ghouls. By night we're Nemo the clown fish, Crush the baby sea turtle, and two crabs. "Yeah, I saw him, Bluey, but I'm not telling you where he went, and there's no way you're gonna make me."

Celebrity Ego

I really like Oprah, and I really like Ellen. In fact, I often watch Ellen; one Tivo'ed episode lasts for quite a few lazy nursing sessions when Ada's feeling nap-nursey but doesn't want to sleep on her own.

But, like so many other celebrities, they have so much money and so many people giving them exactly what they want, telling them what they want to hear, that it's unsurprising when they lose a little perspective over time.

A couple of years ago, Oprah spent some time on her show and in the media talking about a recent and shocking experience with racism. (A nasty, but funny version is here.) The Washington Post piece does a good job of explaining the situation as I see it, especially the last line: "But after-hours shopping is a favor, a perk. Not a right. There's nothing wrong with a store saying not tonight, madame, as long as the reason doesn't have anything to do with skin color. It's okay to say no to a celebrity, even when her name is Oprah."

Unless the security guard or sales clerk at the door said or did something that suggested that race was a factor in their decision not to let Winfrey into the store after hours - something that the security video does not show - then why assume that race was the reason she was kept out? It's hard for me to imagine the sense of entitlement that goes into assuming that you'd be let into any store you want, in any country, even if they're closed.

More recently is the situation with Ellen and the adopted dog.

I have an adopted rescue pug. When we decided that we wanted to adopt a pet from the local pug rescue, I filled out an application and submitted it. Lots of people want pure-bred dogs, so our name was put onto a waiting list. After our application was considered, a representative from the rescue group came over to do a home visit and ensure that our home would be a good place for a rescue pug. It was made very clear to me that if - for any reason - we couldn't keep Lizzi, we were to contact Midwest Pug Rescue first. This is because:
- the organization is responsible for insuring the safety of the animals
- there is a waiting list for dogs
- the organization needs to know where the dogs are, be able to check up on them, and ensure that the dogs won't end up back in the shelter system

Ellen's sense of entitlement became apparent when she kept saying that the "situation still has not been resolved," when, I believe, it certainly had. The rescue organization had taken back the dog and had given him to another family - a family who'd passed the rescue organization's screening policies and had been waiting for a dog.

"Resolved," to Ellen, apparently means getting her way. In this case: violating a signed contract, and taking the dog away from its current home and family. Nice.

Celebrities do a lot of good with their money and their influence. But of those to whom much is given, much is also required. Trying to keep a sense of perspective is a good place to start.

Pizza Party

Yesterday was Ellie's (somewhat belated) 4th birthday party. If there's anything she loves more than Finding Nemo, it's pizza. And I'm a huge theme person (if you hadn't noticed) so I went all pizza with the party.

The invitations were pizza themed. And when the kids arrived, they sat at the dining room table to decorate pizza placemats and party hats with stickers of common toppings.

Then I brought out the Boboli shells and bowls of sauce, cheese, pepperoni, mushrooms, and green peppers, so that the kids could make their own pizzas. While those were baking, they all played outside, then downstairs in the basement playroom.

After eating pizza to their hearts' content, the kids watched Ellie open presents and we sang some of her favorite group participation songs (stirring soup, I see the moon, these are grandma's glasses, etc.). And then we had cake, or, more precisely, cupcakes. Ellie doesn't much care for cake, but she has a mild cupcake obsession. This made a slight decorating challenge for me, but the end result was well worth it. The pepperoni are Fruit Roll-Up, the green peppers are Dots, and the cheese is shredded coconut with yellow food coloring.


First birthday: mini castle





Second birthday: Dora's Backpack





Third birthday: pug dog





Fourth birthday: pizza

The take-home gifts this year were aprons and pizza-related stickers instead of gift bags. This was a relatively simple party, but I don't know how people do this without two parents, two grandparents, and an aunt in town to help out. I can't even decorate a cake without at least two other adults hovering over my shoulder and giving me encouragement every step of the way.

Now that it's a couple of weeks after Ellie's 4th birthday, here's where she is. (I have a 4 year old! Unbelieveable.) She's happy to tell you that she's 4 now, if you ask. We didn't bother taking a spare outfit with us to church today; why bother? Her last real accident was . . . I'm not sure when. Nearly a week ago, I suppose. She's still in a pull-up overnight and for naps, but she's sometimes waking up dry so I have hope that we'll be able to give those up eventually too.

At Ellie's 4-year-checkup last week, her pediatrician was amazed. She kept calling Ellie a superstar, in every way. She's in the 95th percentile for height and weight for children her age with Down syndrome, and other than a little belly (especially during birthday month) is in great physical condition. She's all about the pre-reading skills, and apparently we need to be working on reading more seriously; the pediatrician thinks she's ready. She can count. She's never had a serious ear infection, and is, overall, a remarkably healthy kid.

I've come far enough to say, without hesitation, that we're very lucky parents.

More on Feminists and Cheating

Something to know about me: my parents are both psychologists, and my youngest sister is a social worker and marriage and family therapist. I strenuously reject any vocational callings in this area myself, but the tendencies are there.

Most people who divorce because of adultery regret it later. I've seen statistics at least as high as 80% for this, but my search for a definitive source took me to some scary places (You are a sinner if you divorce your abusive husband! If he hits you, it's because you were committing a sin by not obeying him!) so I've decided to abandon my search.

There are serial adulterers. Statistically, they are a minority, and there are lots and lots of people who do it once, in a perfect storm sort of situation (something going on in the marriage relationship that provided space for the affair to happen, plus stuff going on at work, plus personal issues in play, and so forth). That doesn't excuse adultery, but it does mean that there are lots of people - men and women - who might have an affair once and never again. Once they've recognized the patterns, the problems, the issues, they can address them and insure that the same thing doesn't happen again - if committing to a monogamous marriage is what they want.

Some marriages are based in love, some in lust, some in trust, some in friendship, some in companionship, some in shared passions, whatever. A great marriage might include elements of all of those things. But where the emphasis falls at any given time might vary throughout the marriage. And a relationship might have value beyond the obvious.

And what "an affair" means can vary widely from relationship to relationship. I know someone who believes that he has had an affair, though no one else was ever involved. This person placed too much importance on something outside of the marriage, at the expense of the marriage, and called that adultery. In this case, it was money/work. Another couple might not feel the same way about the same situation. And other couples have open relationships, where extra-marital sex is acceptable. Who's to judge, from the outside?

The words, the words, they begin to blur on the screen and I need to sleep. I'll close with two anecdotes. First: while stumbling around online, I found a piece by a psychologist who suggested that Hillary Clinton is conflicted by being such a powerful woman, so she feels that she must act like a doormat at home. How offensive! How reductive! How presumptive!

Second: I once had a friend who seemed to be the boss of her partner in every way. But she confessed to me that this was the comfortable public face of their relationship; things were very different in their private lives.

And I'll let that stand, rather than resorting to the obvious platitudes about judgement.

Feminists and Cheating

This is, I believe, the first time I've blogged about the Clintons' marriage, but it's probably not the last.

Senator Clinton on her marriage:

I know the truth of my life and of my marriage, my relationship and partnership, my deep abiding friendship with my husband. It's been enormously supportive to me through most of my life. Now obviously we've had challenges as everybody in the world knows. “But I never doubted that it was a marriage worth investing in even in the midst of those challenges,” she says, “and I'm really happy that I made that decision. Again, not a decision for everybody. And I think it's so important for women to stand up for the right of women to make a decision that is best for them.

She's right, of course, with that last sentence. And yet, what have women - what have feminists - had to say about Clinton's decision not to divorce her husband?

Many on all sides of the ideological divide have suggested that the only reason Clinton stayed married was because she wanted to stay "politically viable." OK, she's a public person; speculation is expected. Ugly, perhaps, but expected. (My personal speculation is that this marriage is - and probably all marriages are - more complicated than that.)

Some feminists have suggested that it's wrong, always wrong, for a woman to stay with a man who's had an affair.

This essay is typical of some of the comments I've read:

If Hillary acts as she does -- stands by her man -- because she loves him or her daughter too much, then her claim to being a feminist is open to serious question. . . . If feminists and the women's movement feel let down by the present sexual scandal, they have both Clintons to blame, not just Bill Clinton.

Right! Because being a feminist means demanding a simple, perfect relationship. And if your relationship becomes - gasp! - complicated, then you must end it immediately to maintain your feminist credentials.

I'm not here to defend whether or not Hillary Clinton is a feminist, or a liberal. I'm simply pointing out the ignorance and privilege of suggesting that anyone outside of a marriage has the right to determine its value to the partners. [Fortunately, it seems that feminists do get to be happily married, after all.]

It all goes back to the argument of choice. Some choices aren't feminist, even though those choices might be made by feminists. The choice to shave one's armpit hair, for example, is not a feminist choice, but it's a choice that I - a feminist! - make several times a week.

I'm not willing to put marriage in that bucket. I think that marriages are complicated things. I think that "adultery" can vary in definition from relationship to relationship (Does it have to be sex? What if it's virtual sex? What if it's an intense emotional connection only? What if it's a serious commitment to a non-human other, like work or sports? What if it's a serial physical act without emotional attachment?)

And I'm not willing to look at this marriage from way outside and say: she's an idiot for staying. She can't be a feminist because she stayed. Any woman who stays with any man who cheats is a doormat.

Ignorance informs comments like that. Ignorance about the myriad dynamics that go into a relationship.

I don't know the truth of what goes on in the Clintons' marriage, or even in my best friend's marriage. I know what they claim to be true, and I can believe them or not. I don't know if any couple should stay together or divorce.

I choose to let the people involved relationships make that decision for themselves.

Officially a Big Girl

“At what age were you/your kids potty trained?”

When I talk to people about having a daughter with Down syndrome, ages always factor significantly into the conversation. Although we expected these things to come much, much later- if ever - my daughter talked and walked when she was 1, knew her letters and numbers at 3, and was potty trained . . .

Some of our friends have different approaches to potty training than I do, and that’s fine. Certainly there is room for different opinions here. But until Ellie was able to tell me when she needed to go, walk to the potty herself, pull her pants up and down herself, and go days at a time without accidents, I didn’t consider her potty trained.

In fact, I decided not to put Ellie in big girl underpants until I thought she was ready to be nearly accident-free. She’s been comfortable using the potty since she was 18 months old. That’s 2-1/2 years, folks, that she remained in diapers after learning to use the potty. But consistency has been our big problem: she gets distracted and doesn’t remember to tell us when she needs to potty.

Also, it took a long time for her pull her own pants on and off; unlike many toddlers and preschoolers, she has never been interested in self-dressing or even dressing her dolls, so potty time remained a parent-help-required experience.

Another big hurdle has been parental reluctance. Neither Paul nor I were excited about consistently taking Ellie to the potty every hour for days on end, so we didn’t. There were huge benefits to us in this period. It’s lovely to be told once or twice a day when our daughter needs to go potty (no more poopy diapers!) and we could then change wet ones at our convenience. I got to avoid most public bathrooms and run errands or attend public events without patronizing horrible conveniences like the ubiquitous Johnny-on-the-Spot.

Did I mention that Ellie BM trained herself over a year ago? We've had very few poopy diapers since then, and absolutely no BM accidents at all since we moved to big girl underpants several weeks ago.

Eventually, for all of us, it was time to force progress. I found a book whose system I was comfortable with. It’s research-based, and was designed in the 1970s by psychologists working with institutionalized and severely developmentally disabled adults. (The book is also very much a product of its time, so consider yourselves forewarned.) It was then adapted for use with typical children, with an appendix added on for dealing with children with disabilities (this was the 70's; they use the "r" word). “Success” is measured by a child who recognizes the need to go, takes down own pants, goes, wipes, pulls up pants, empties potty bowl into toilet, and washes hands independently.

Interestingly, this was the same book my mom used to potty train me. She found it enormously frustrating – though it worked – and she pitched it rather than using the same approach with my younger sisters.

I was 2, by the way. Ellie was 3.

It took more than a day, and I still help out as needed, but she meets my criteria for being officially potty trained.

We’re so proud of you, Ellie.

Potty Training in Less than a Day by Azrin and Foxx

Glad to Meetcha

I've been active in online communities for many years, participating in email listservs until I discovered online discussion boards 7 years ago, and began blogging 3 years ago.

Lots of people from my online communities meet up from time to time. I've not been really into that. At national conventions and local meetings, I never made the effort to introduce myself to online personas from my listserv days. I attended exactly one bulletin board meet up ever (with two other women at a local coffee shop mid afternoon, a very low-key affair). And I haven't sought out many blogger interactions, either.

I have no idea why. I'm certainly not one of those people who thinks that online friendships aren't real; I know better than that. And I present myself as honestly as I can in my writing, but it's still a big leap to go from considered words on a screen to face-to-face interaction.

I've been reading Moreena, from Falling Down is Also a Gift, and now, The Wait and the Wonder. And, as is the way with these online things, I felt like I really knew her. I really cared. Even in that odd, one-sided sort of way that online relationships (and celebrity watching, and book reading, etc.) can foster. But if one of your friends were really sick, you'd bring over a casserole, right?

While Annika was in the hospital in Chicago a couple of years ago, I was in Chicagoland too, visiting family. So I put together a care package for Moreena - lots of people were sending things to Annika, but I've briefly been a PICU mom, and I figured that Moreena could use a few things for herself too - and took it up to Kohl's House.

Annika was very very sick, and Moreena didn't really have the time or inclination to pop over to a local coffee shop and gossip with me for hours. That was absolutely OK with me; I'd made the terrifying leap; I'd initiated a meet-up; I'd moved from thought into action.

A couple of weeks ago, I got an email from Moreena saying that they were coming down to St. Louis for a quick weekend visit. Was I interested in meeting up?

I was. Quick thrill of fear.

We went to Grant's Farm, and I wish I could say that it was perfect: a lovely fall day, the girls immediately bonded as tightly as if they'd been born conjoined quadruplets, the parents relaxing, laughing, and chatting together while sipping cider through a straw.

Not quite. It was really really really hot that day. And I'm a lot fatter than I like to be for leaving the house, let alone meeting new people. And Ellie was not fully potty trained. Which means that I was in a constant state of anxiety and pants-watching. Both of my girls were sleepy and a little cranky. There wasn't much opportunity for actual adult conversation. I'd pulled two all-nighters that week with sleepless Ada. And I was plagued by self doubt: I'd chosen the wrong activity! Is anyone having fun?

But I'm glad that we did it. It will be easier to do it again next time. And I really do hope that there is a next time: I've already got ideas for things to do and places to eat. After all, planning things to do with other people is a lot easier once you get to know them a little. Like, in person.

Paul, Ellie, Ada

Anni, Frankie, Ellie (who's not really as short as she looks in this odd shot)

Ellie is Four

Ellie turned 4 last week and had, I think, a perfect birthday.

She awoke terribly early, and her parents allowed her to crawl into bed with them. We all went back to sleep, taking a relaxed approach to the morning routine. (This wonderful morning moment brought to you by overnight pull-ups: ahh.)

When Ellie got up for real, she discovered birthday decorations in the family room/breakfast nook and we had doughnuts for breakfast.

Then there was school. Yay! And Nemo cupcakes for all! Double Yay!

Then the bus ride home!

And when mommy asked what she wanted for lunch, she asked for pizza pockets, then pizza. And got both!

Then nap, which didn't suck because mommy curled up in bed with Ellie and read Mother Goose until she fell asleep, smiling.

After nap, there was homemade lasagna for dinner! With a favorite friend joining us, and garlic bread, and corn.

Then gymnastics!
And treasured bath time!
And phone conversations with grandparents and aunts!

And more cake, this one with Nemo made out of black and orange Halloween M&Ms on top.


And, finally, bed.

My little Eleanor is proudly 4 years old, and happy to tell you so. There will be a party in a couple of weeks, when more family can be here.

Merry-land

I had a post (or twelve) that I really wanted to write last week (when Ellie turned 4! Stay tuned!) but didn't have time before we left town for our 4-day weekend mini-vacation.

We flew east to visit Paul's sister and her husband for their daughter's baptism. I really like Paul's sister and brother-in-law, and would even if they weren't family, and the parents of my new niece. Their 4-month-old is incredibly adorable, and very sweet. We had a lot of fun. Paul's folks flew out too, and it was nice to have the whole family all together. I've enjoyed the (at least) every-other-month thing we've been doing this year. It's particularly remarkable considering how widely spread we are: Wyoming, Missouri, Maryland.

Speaking of geography, here's a guilty admission: I was in high school before I realized that it was Wyoming with a "g". My father pronounces the name of that state as though it ends with a "y". I do know, however, that those periods should be inside of the parentheses. But it's just dumb and I can't do it. Dad also says "myoozim" and "nekkid." He was working on his doctorate when I was in elementary school, and I remember members of his thesis committee coming out to listen to him preach, and insisting that he work on his "accent." That was for his first doctorate. I guess once you've got one, you can talk however you like, since it didn't come up with the second, as far as I know.

It's not like I didn't know that there was a Wyoming, of course. I probably just never put the two places together, just like I knew that there were "or derves" served at parties, as well as "hors devors," but took a long time to realize that these two appetizers were actually one and the same (hors d'oeuvres, just to prove that I can spell it now). I'm thinking of a couple of other examples, but surely I've embarassed myself enough for the evening.

Back to family. I think it's possible that having a niece-in-law could be even more fun than having a regular old niece. Like there are some advantages to being a sister-in-law. By which I mean that although we're the same age, I don't feel the same competitiveness with Paul's sister that I feel with my next-youngest sister. We're missing all that history growing up. Likewise, I don't worry as much about when my niece-in-law (hereafter: niece Abby) reaches her milestones compared to when my children do. I suppose that there's still a part of me that's competing with MiddleSis for my parents' love, for my children as well as for myself.

Have I mentioned that I can't remember the last time I slept for 4 hours in a row? Surely, that's relevant here.

Both the girls were wonderful travelers this weekend. We had fun. Pictures to come. Good night!


Three little girls and their Nana, who's looking away from the camera because I haven't asked her permission.

Ellie petting Uncle Rob, face visible because he posts pictures of himself on his blog

"Huh. I never wanted a pacifier before, but I've developed a sudden and intense interest in yours."

Still Growing Up

When I turned 32 last September, I liked vanilla and I had straight hair. I didn't believe in therapy.

When I turned 33 this September, I liked chocolate and I had curly hair. I think everyone could probably use a little therapy.

I wonder what changes this year will bring!

2006 hair


2007 hair

Is This Possible?

Ada's new favorite word seems to be "Ada."

I've heard her say "Mama." (I really think she said it at least once, though it's definitely not part of her daily routine, yet.) She says "Dada" in appropriate contexts all the time. This morning, at 5:30, while she was reaching for him, was an especially appropriate context, in my opinion.

Ada sometimes repeats words she's hearing, too. At dinner, I might ask her if she's thirsty and wants water, and she'll say, "wawa." I was praising Ellie for having dry underpants recently, and Ada said, "dwy!" while clapping for her sister.

Today I held her up to a mirror, and she reached for her reflection, saying, "Ada!" (She also said Ada while reaching for her book later, and just as a noise to make from time to time.) She says her name the way Ellie does, which is slightly different from the way that Paul and I say it. The "A" is less of a hard sound, is almost a short "a."

Ada is 8 months old.

[Edited 10/15 to add that this morning, in response to a toy she couldn't see going "quack, quack, quack," Ada said "duck." Three adults heard her. That's a big cognitive leap: from labeling or repeating to knowing who makes what animal sound. Abstract!]

Down Syndrome Awareness

Everything, everywhere is pink right now. The grocery store, the lapel pins, The Ellen DeGeneres Show. A cure for breast cancer - or, even better, prevention - is certainly imporant.

But did you know that October is also National Down Syndrome Awareness Month?

If not, here's a great post about developmental milestones charts.

Proud Alumni

Until I had kids, I always kept my car scrupulously neat. My parents' cars are so full of junk (stacks of papers, books, gallons of water, cases of Diet Coke) that it's hard to find a place to sit. In reaction, the only non-standard thing visible in my car was usually dog hair.

Since kids, it's been much harder to keep a neat car. I don't have the free hands to carry clutter inside with me, nor the inclination to go back outside (leaving child unattended inside) to clean up right after returning home from every errand. So the car has become a bit more cluttered.

I don't put much on the outside of my car, either, and that's easier to keep tidy. In 2004 I had a Kerry sticker, but that came down on election night. I used to have a double helix-shaped Down Syndrome Awareness magnetic ribbon, but that stayed on the Passat and didn't transition with me to the Odyssey. The only other form of decoration I had on the Passat was my Washington University in St. Louis: College of Arts & Sciences window decal.

Now that Paul's driving the Passat, the alumni sticker has been bugging him. He's a Wash U grad too, but from the School of Engineering, and he doesn't want to be associated with the School of "Arts & Crafts." I don't blame him; I wouldn't want an Enginerd sticker on my car.

Paul gave a couple of talks at Wash U this week, and he picked up a new window decal for each of us (the ones we had weren't transferable, though they are removable). He's already affixed the "School of Engineering" sticker to his back window, but I find myself oddly reluctant to put my new sticker on the van.

It's not because I'm ashamed that I've grown up to be a minivan mom. (Well, I am, perhaps, a little, but that's not why I haven't put the sticker on the back window.) It's that I associate college stickers on the backs of minivans with where the children of the driver have gone, rather than the driver herself.

Which is a very interesting thing, actually.

Protect Historic Kirkwood! Or Not

For the past couple of months, I've been seeing red and white signs around Kirkwood:
Protect Historic Kirkwood
Preserve Our National Historic District
Don't Buy 407 E Argonne (now removed due to threatened legal action)
Taller Than Allowed Downtown?!?
Please Build It Lower!
and so forth
I find myself oddly on the other side of this issue.

Normally I'm the one railing against big box stores breaking up neighborhoods, the unfriendliness of suburban design toward walkers, and the ugliness of contemporary subdivisions.

But I am in favor of infill building.

I do not love urban sprawl, and I think it's sad the way that older, urban neighborhoods often empty out as people move to increasingly distant suburban areas. (Of course, the business and tax revenues tend to follow the people, over time.) Also, many older homes lack modern conveniences. Like adequate closet space and being free of lead paint. When managed well, new construction in established communities keeps the residential areas alive and desirable.

To that end, I support rigorous zoning laws, requiring a certain amount of green space on each lot, with the homes set back a certain distance from the street (and neighbors). I also believe in maintaining the look of the community, with homes of various ages and styles nestled comfortably next to one another.

When we were community shopping, one of the things that Paul and I loved about Kirkwood was the fact that there were often very large and very small homes on the same blocks. Neighborhood diversity was a big selling feature for us. And we definitely loved how the houses had a lot of variety: very unlike cookie-cutter subdivision homes.

Many of the infill homes I've seen in Kirkwood are beautiful. I'd love to live in a big Victorian home one day; I grew up in one and that feels like home to me. But I also want a big kitchen; convenient, off-street, covered parking; large closets; modern baths; updated wiring; and no history of lead paint (I'm really serious about the paint). If I had $750,000, I could live in my dream house today, in a huge Victorian with historic charm and modern luxuries, within walking distance of downtown Kirkwood.

Also, Kirkwood lost St. Joseph's Hospital. Bummer. But I think that the proposed "Active Living and Wellness Community" will be a wonderful use of the hospital's former site, even with the two four-story buildings (gasp).

I suppose I should be glad that people in the community care so much. It's likely that's part of what makes it such a lovely place to live . . . most of the time.

Way Up High

Apples, apples, way up high
I can reach them if I try
Climb a ladder, hold on tight
Pick an apple, take a bite
Apples, apples, way up high
I can reach them if I try.

This is the very first new song that Ellie learned in preschool and came home singing, expecting me to join in with her. But I couldn't, because I didn't know the song. I sat in on "closing circle" one day last fall and learned the tune, then looked up the lyrics on the internet when we got home, and we've been singing it together - complete with Ellie-led hand gestures - ever since.

It's so wonderful, as she learns things that I haven't been teaching her. And it's so scary, too, not least because I'm often not very good at understanding her yet, though she tries so earnestly to tell me so very many things.

It's scarier still that I'm so much better than others at understanding her, as she increasingly makes her own way in the world. But we're busy celebrating successes here today, and "apples" is one of the words that Ellie can say very clearly indeed.

"Apples" were the theme for the September STLBloggers Carnival.

14 Months is Way Too Long

"All good?"

"Couldn't be better!"

My friend's husband is safely back from Iraq, and they're enjoying a quiet week together in Hawaii. That text exchange (yes, we insist on using both capitalization and punctuation when we text) is the first and last I hope to hear from her until I am alerted to pick her up from the airport.

Amen.

I am breathing a sigh of relief and filling up my Tivo with America's Next Top Model, Private Practice, and Grey's Anatomy for us to watch together when she gets back. For while she will be coming home all-too-soon, he'll be stationed elsewhere for a while. She won't have to worry quite as much every day, but she won't have her husband home with her, either, so I'm sure she'll still need a little bit of juice box and guilty pleasures television.

Adding Patriotism to Our Daily Routine

Ellie's sitting on the potty:

"Mommy, puag! Pooag, mommy!"

"OK, Ellie. You say it with me this time. I pledge allegiance, to the flag . . . "

I wonder if I should add some Red, White, and Blue to the bathroom decor?

8 Months

I have not been particularly amazed by the ages at which Ada has reached various milestones so far.

Part of that is because I think we tend to forget how helpless little babies are, which is part of why we expect (and, often, receive) more rapid progress from younger siblings than first children. They have older child role models, and parents who are used to children exercising a bit of independence.

Ada has always been developmentally ahead of the curve: she held up her head securely the moment she was born (and could lift it while being on her tummy). She rolled over, sat unassisted, started crawling, grew 8 teeth, all of that pretty quickly. She also learned peekaboo, patty cake, and fake coughing,

But Ellie learned all of those things too, and if maybe a month or two or more later on some of the motor tasks, well, she was turning pages of books earlier, and playing the social games at least as well, as quickly.

I have enjoyed watching both of them progress, but I haven’t had too many set expectations of either girl, so I was pleased but not amazed when Ada started exhibiting her natural strengths.

No, the biggest surprise for me has been the trajectory of progress within a specific skill, rather than the expected differences in age at first reaching a milestone.

One day, I walked in and found Ellie sitting up in bed. “Did I leave her sitting up?” I wondered. I must have done, because it didn’t happen again for a while. Then it happened once more. Then again. Long pause. Several occurrences. It was quite a while before it was a mastered skill.

With Ada, I saw her sitting up in bed one morning, and then every nap and morning from then on. From emergence to mastery oh-so-quickly!

Ada turned 8 months old last weekend. She’s really getting quite chubby, and loves this whole solid food gig. She’s also getting too long for many of her 6-9 month outfits already, and she loves pulling herself up and trying to cruise on anything that will stand still long enough.

She goes to bed around 7:00 pm at her own insistence, wakes to eat around 5:00 am, goes back to sleep, then gets up for the day around 7:00. She might or might not nap a little throughout the day.

I’m leaving her with someone other than Paul or myself for short periods a couple of times a week, and the separation anxiety seems to be getting a little better.

Already she’s so huge. My little baby is much closer to being a toddler than an infant, now!

A Note on Politicians

The fallout from 2000 and 2004 has lasted a long time for me: I'm still burned out on politics. The relatively good year in 2006 didn't help it, and I'm just plain disgusted with most politicians. I hate their extreme weaknesses (bribery, prostitutes, pedophilia, inability to be honest and principled, etc.). It's all an image game, with people who want to be politicians playing to their audiences, saying what they think people want to hear, stating their "opinions" based on polling data.

That said, I do think we treat them unfairly. Politicians, like other celebrities, are asked to live their lives almost entirely under public scrutiny. Flashbulbs in their faces, reporters grilling their families and friends, no real escape from being on display.

Clearly, it takes an extraordinary sort of person to be willing and able to live this way. But then we judge these people by normal standards.

There's no excuse for breaking the law, your marriage vows, and standards of basic decency as many politicians seem prone to do.

However, we can't elect a guy who's charismatic and open in front of the cameras, then later accuse him of being addicted to seeking out that limelight.

And, dare I say it?

We can't elect somebody because he seems like a good ole boy we'd like to have a beer with, then complain that he doesn't have a sophisticated grasp of foreign policy.

It's been written before that we look for something different in candidates than we require of elected officials. That's certainly true, and so often we vote based on what we think we want. What we need to do is to be more realistic about what we're looking for in a president. Do we need to know all the details of his or her private life, or is it enough that she or he is a law-abiding citizen?

And certainly we need to know how our potential leaders really feel about the issues of the day - and whether their inconsistencies are proof of continued growth and understanding, or are rather a shameless chasing after votes. But we should definitely look beyond those willing to give pat answers to complicated questions, calling soundbites "leadership."

Silent Pens

This is hardly breaking news, but I'm still feeling a touch melancholy about it.

James Oliver Rigney, Jr., more commonly known as Robert Jordan, died on Sunday. He was only 58 years old. He seemed really happy before his diagnosis with cardiac amyloidosis. And he wasn't done with his life's work; he had so much left that he was planning to do. Very very sad. Lots of people die every day, and there's a war going on. So why does this matter so much?

Perhaps because, as a writer, he touched a lot of people. Sure there are valid critiques of his work. Still, I have read many hundreds of pages of his writing, and so someone I know - however distantly - has died. Too soon, too soon.

Madeleine L'Engle (LENG-el, Mom, I was right) also died this month. She was 88 and died of "natural causes." She had a robust body of work, comprising writing for adults and children, poetry and prose, fiction and nonfiction. Her work touched me too, probably more so than Jordan's. L'Engle's husband and son were already dead, and she had moved into a nursing home. Over the course of her slow decline, she had osteoporosis and a cerebral hemorrhage. She accomplished a lot in her life, and did some really interesting things. It's not such a terrible way to end.

I had other thoughts, about the disparagement of fantasy literature and its importance in our society, but it turns out that I don't want this to be part of a larger point. Two writers died. I find myself celebrating the life of one, and mourning the loss of the other. That's your time. Pens down.

Still Legal, Just More of Me

The Department of Motor Vehicles opened at 9:00 this morning, and Ada and I were out of there by 9:10 with my new driver's license - less than a week after the old one expired! We've been running errands all morning, and as I open my wallet to pay for things, it's weird to see a different picture of myself peeking up from my wallet; I'd had the last one for about 6 years.

But it was a momentous occasion not just because I got my picture taken, but because I finally changed my driver's license weight. I'd already decided to do it, though I wasn't sure which "goal weight" I'd choose.

After I sailed through the documentation presentation (passport, previous driver's license, current bank statement, and social security number), vision test, and identification of street signs portions of the process, she began asking me the usual questions:

Do you wear contacts, or just your glasses?
Are you registered to vote?
Do you want to be an organ donor?

(Both - though not at the same time, yes, yes)

Then:
You're 5'4"?
135 pounds?

She was looking right at me! With a straight face!

I laughed and told her what I weighed when I got pregnant with Ada, which is, presumably, a realistic goal.

Sea Turtles and Other Notes on Crawling

I'm at a bit of a crossroads with my blog, and I've been here before and found it just as frustrating. I like to take what's happening in my life and write little essays that tie pieces together, sometimes getting the general as well as the specific. But I also like to just jot down the day-to-day quirks and milestones of my daughters' lives, and I'm frankly not energetic enough to keep two records. So the way this works out is that in the first year or two, there are more blog entries that are just records of what the babies are up to, and fewer of the pieces of writing that I'm proud of. Because, while I prefer a more considered style of writing, it takes a bit more mental energy to turn milestones into enjoyable prose.

Today, Ada learned to crawl! She didn't take off like a shot, but she certainly moves a few feet at a time across the floor, grinning with pride or crying for her out-of-sight mama.

She also sat up all by herself for the first time today. I went in to pick her up out of her crib, where she'd been rolling and scooting around, and found her sitting, ready to be picked up.

She loves to wave now, whenever she sees someone she knows, or hears someone say, "Hi!" The even cuter part is that she does it backwards, opening and closing her palm toward herself. I think it's like she's so excited by her new skill that she doesn't want to miss a bit of it. My friend, Ada's "sponsor" (godmother by another name, I suppose) thinks she looks like Morpheus from The Matrix, saying, "Bring it." That too, I suppose. 7 days. 7 days until her husband leaves Iraq. Praying, praying.

Unfortunately, Ada is also dealing with some intense separation anxiety. And she's really past the age where I can easily take her with me wherever I go. I mean, of course I could take her along to my book club, haircut, birthday dinner date, marriage therapist, Sunday School class, etc. But I won't get nearly as much out of the events as I would if I weren't spending 90% of my energy entertaining the baby, who requires relatively little daytime sleep. I've learned that mama who goes out and does fulfilling things is a much better, happier mama. But Ada screams whenever I leave her, which leaves me with a dilemma: which of my friends do I trust enough to care for my baby but hate enough to put them through an hour or two of her screaming? Right now we're employing a rotating schedule, and hoping that Ada grows out of this phase soon.

We had a busy weekend. Saturday was the Great Forest Park Balloon Race, which we did not attend this year - something had to give! But on Friday night, we had friends over for dinner then drove into U City to pick up the light rail (two stops on the new line of the MetroLink) and take it to Forest Park for the Balloon Glow.

The next morning we went to the parade portion of the Kirkwood Greentree Festival, before heading home for the girls and Paul to nap. While they were snoozing, I went to the mall for lunch and shopping with girlfriends. After the family woke up and I got home, we headed back to the Greentree Festival, then did some shopping at Target. By bedtime, the girls were so over-stimulated that one or both of them were up every hour all night long.

Sunday morning was Sunday school and church, then brunch with friends, and in the evening we left Ada with a friend (see above) and took Ellie to see Finding Nemo on Ice, which she loved. $22 per ticket I could stomach. The costumes and special effects were good, as I would expect for a Disney show. But the souvenirs! Fortunately, Ellie was happy to drink in the experience, and didn't need a cheaply made, ugly plastic or plush takeaway to remember the experience. Silly flashing Nemo on a plastic stick? $20. Small plush baby sea turtle? $15. Sno-cone in plastic Nemo cup? $10. Ridiculous! And nearly every kid in the place had at least one souvenir.

I didn't even suggest a nap time today, for either girl. Ellie finished supper before the rest of us and asked to be excused. She headed into the front room to put her dolls to bed, and this is how we found her 10 minutes later:

"Secular Liberal"

Tonight, I am too tired to get into my incredibly busy weekend - much of which involved my church community - so I'll just jot off a little political rant. I listen to NPR (whenever Ellie lets me). I read Newsweek. I check the Google and Yahoo! news headlines. I watch The Daily Show. It might not be great, but it's what I do to keep informed.

Just so you know, I am so over the whole "secular liberal" as opposed to the "religious right" thing. So over it!

1) There are lots and lots of liberals who are religious.

2) Liberalism, when taken to heart, should be very tolerant of others' beliefs, even when they're not shared beliefs (indeed, aren't liberals often criticized by conservative talking heads for being "sympathetic" to Islamic extremists?).

3) Plenty of "conservative" political positions (especially regarding public assistance, immigration, and the environment) aren't terribly Christian at all.

When the media uses this language (over and over and over and over) what it says to me is that the media itself is fostering a divide, fracturing the debate from something that can be more nuanced into a either/or issue that doesn't reflect the complicated realities of our world.

It's sloppy reporting, journalistic short-hand, and anyone who finds him- or herself using the term "secular liberal" or "Christian conservative" should take the time to reexamine. Is the adjective necessary to the sentence? Are you talking about a specific subset of liberals, of conservatives? If so, make that perfectly clear.

Otherwise you're just cheapening the discourse and wasting space.

Another Year

In my family, my mother said "I love you" with wonderful, thoughtful birthday and holiday celebrations. She didn't always spend a lot of money, but all the details were creative and showed that she'd made a significant effort for each of us.

Before your birthday, she'd ask you to name your favorite meal. The morning of, you'd come downstairs to the kitchen to find streamers, happy birthday signs, and doughnuts. Doughnuts! (We normally had a very healthy home.)

We were encouraged to celebrate in the ways that made us comfortable - I usually wore a tie to school and called it my "birthday suit" - and for dinner we had our most favoritest foods homemade by mom.

There were presents, too, great ones, not brand name dolls or jeans, but surprising things she'd discerned that we'd really love to have just from listening to us talk to each other and watching us play.

And we had great birthday parties, though my parents never rented a bouncy house. My mom made an amazing, incredible, creative cake (always strawberry for me!), decorated the house, and invited as many children as the birthday warranted (9 on my 9th, etc.). She had great timing, starting new a game just before we lost interest in the current one. All our friends loved our parents, loved birthday parties at our house.

It's not that Paul forgets my birthday - how could he, with all the electronic reminders prompting him to remember? But it's just that it's so hard for him to do the things that I consider "thoughtful," to show me that he loves me in the language that I learned as a child.

And it's hard for me to understand that he really does care, that he struggles to find ways to show it.

Toddlerisms

Today was a difficult day, as my continued refusal to get adequate sleep is taking its toll. But it was also a lovely day: brightly sunny with an early fall crispness to the air.

Ada and I went to church this morning for her first MusikGarten class. My normally interactive daughter was stone-faced and solemn the whole time, just soaking it all in. It was not a terribly overwhelming experience, either, with only one other baby in the class this early in the year.

After "nap," we went back to church for Ellie's age-appropriate MusikGarten class, and Ada seemed slightly more comfortable. Ellie was almost unbearably excited the whole time, and there was lots of vocalization ("ehhhh!") and hand-flapping. These behaviors are becoming more frequent as she ages, which both puzzles and concerns me. As a baby/young toddler, she didn't do this at all. I'm being patient and hoping that part of it stems from her expressive language not quite keeping up with her emotional range at this point.

From the moment yesterday when I told her what today's schedule would be like, she's been talking about "Shoo-kick-Gar-en." By the end of today's class, she was already saying something that sounded a lot more like "music-garden."

For a long time, Elmo and Nemo were both "Elmo." Now they have their own names, or occasionally they're both "Nemo."

It's always a little sad when Ellie loses a cute little toddler way of saying or doing something. But, with Ellie, it's a bit of a relief, too, since it often takes her longer to reach each milestone, and a part of me wonders if she ever will.

What if her language never gets more understandable than this? What if she never does learn to jump? What if she never walks independently? That last is a reminder to myself that, of course, she did learn to walk, and before she even turned two. Likewise, she will jump someday, and she will continue to improve her enunciation and pronunciation, and someday I'll have moved on to wondering if she'll ever master keeping a safe following distance and using her turn signals reliably.

How's the writing going?

Well, since you asked . . .

I've been to bed earlier than 2:00 am exactly twice in the last couple of weeks. I can't remember the last time I was asleep before 1:00. This is largely a symptom of my own disorganization and poor prioritization/time management, but, nonetheless, it's exhausting.

Currently, I'm feeling enormous pressure to write (all of it self-inflicted). Simultaneously, I'm so tired that I feel numb and uninspired. As is the way of such things, it's hard to keep perspective and realize that one day I will be rested again, and I will have the energy to write. Because all of this is compounded by crippling self-doubt, where I'm so very afraid of failure that I can't even begin.

I know the correct steps to take to make things better: get more sleep, exercise more, make modest and achievable writing goals.

But if I had an easy time doing those things, I wouldn't be the person who's always running late, showing up with wet hair and bags under my eyes.

Calling?

I don't remember when I was last in a Cokesbury store, but after many years of subconscious avoidance, I dropped by today to pick up some books for the adult Sunday School class I'm leading again this fall.

I was wearing Ada in the sling and having a really good time, imagining myself buying and using everything in the shop. About this time, I noticed that I was clenching my right hand so tightly that my nails were digging into my palm. I started to feel a little panicky.

I felt like I had been running away from something for a long time. I felt like I was ignoring a calling, the most obvious calling, one of the first careers I ever considered (and rejected and considered and rejected). What child doesn't imagine herself, however briefly, following in her parent's footsteps?

But this is not what I want to do! This is not how I want my life to be!

And then I found myself in the marriage section, looking for a gift for a newly married friend, perhaps a book about adjusting to seeing herself as a spouse. And the books I found weren't what I expected for a United Methodist ministry. My choices tended heavily toward Dr. Dobson and an entire book built around dancing imagery - with the husband leading and the wife following.

And all I wanted was out. I paid for my books and headed for the door as quickly as possible. Fortunately, the urge has (mostly) passed. Again. For now.

Ellie's Family

Both of my daughters are so beautiful to me; I can happliy sit and look at them for hours. Ada is a classically beautiful child; people on the street tell me so. (More on that later.)

Ellie is just as beautiful, but in a completely different way. She is so different from me: her skin is so fair, and is missing the yellow pigment that underlies my own. Her hair is light, where mine is dark, and her eyes - her eyes! - are the most amazing, clear, bright, beautiful blue eyes I've ever seen. My eyes are warm brown, with flecks of green and gold, nothing like hers.

My face is pretty traditional; people are always telling me that they know someone who looks just like me.

But Ellie's face is so unexpected. She has these flat planes to her cheek bones, and these beautifully tilted eyes, that look so exotic when combined with her unexpectedly fair coloring. The effect is - to me - mesmerizing.

Surely every child deserves a mother who thinks she's the most beautiful child in the world, and has no cognitive dissonance applying that superlative to each of her children at the same time.

I have a friend who once talked about using an egg donor to conceive a child. Both of my daughters are genetically my own, so I can only imagine how that must feel. I feel like I have a small window into that world, however. Perhaps we each do: our children might be genetically our own, but they're also half other, our spouse's family.

And for me, with Ellie's Down syndrome, there's another peep hole in the wall. Ellie is obviously my daughter in so many ways. She is as much a part of my family as I am. But, when we're out somewhere with other people with Down syndrome and I'm noticing all the similarities between her features and theirs, it's always felt a little bit like she belongs to this other family as well to to mine, to me.

Surely parents feel that way as their children grow up and make decisions on their own, beginning to live their own lives. Like when I rebelled and dated a Republican for three years.

But different, too, because I've always felt this way, from the moment in my pregnancy when I learned about Ellie's trisomy 21. I brought a daughter into this world, into my family, but into another family too, one I can visit but never truly belong to.

Literalist

Recently, I wrote about what Ada's been up to lately. Here's an update on where Ellie is these days.

"MOMMY! Bye, bus! MOMMY! Bye, bus!" Imagine an adorable 3-year-old grinning and alternately hugging my leg and turning to wave goodbye to her bus driver, and you've got the mood of our new daily ritual.

When we get into the house, it's potty and hand washing time, then I open Ellie's backpack and we attempt to talk about her day. (Her contribution often involves a lot of non-specific talk about the bus.)

One day last week, I pulled out a piece of paper colored heavily with marker on both sides, explaining the way she's looked upon arriving home recently. How do you get marker on the backs of your own thighs while coloring? I can only imagine.

"This is beautiful, Ellie! Can you tell me about the picture?"

She looked at me consideringly, then replied, "Blue." And, pointing at various other places on the page, "Brown, yellow, orange, red. Green."

Well, yes.

The next day, she came home marker-free and with a piece of artwork that involved shapes pasted onto a piece of construction paper. When I asked her about it, she said, "Glue." I pressed for more details, and she counted the shapes, telling me that there were 6 items glued to the paper. Then she told me the name of each the shape and its color.

Her dolls are all named, "Baby." Or, "Doll." Or "Baby Doll." Or, for variety, "Dolly."

I love this kid.

I've been frustrated with my purse, so I went out recently - without the children! - to buy a new one. The next evening, Paul opened my new purse to get out the checkbook, and Ellie grew very concerned. It turns out that my new purse looks rather like my friend's, and she thought that daddy was getting into Elizabeth's purse! And that would be wrong! The next day, she commented on it a few times to me, in her Ellie way, obviously thinking it unusual that I was carrying around Elizabeth's purse.

I've often chuckled about Ellie's enjoyment of handbags - particularly the time when she packed for a road trip by placing 7 purses on her arm and walking to the car with that arm held stiffly out in front of her - but I never realized how much attention she paid to my purse and the purses of other women she sees. I thought her interest was focused on her own, Ellie-sized, fancy little bags.

Once again, Eleanor surprises me with how much she knows, how much she understands, and how thoroughly she processes what's going on around her.