Recycling

For some time now, Ellie has been inventing her own signs for things.

In September, I noticed that her sign for Mary, her speech pathologist, is to point at her cheek. Mary is happy with this, because she says that it's really the sign for candy. I don't know what made Ellie come up with this, unless she gets that it's speech therapy and she's sort of indicating her mouth. Or Mary's sneaking her candy when I'm not looking.

In November, Ellie developed a sign for balloon. It looks like she's reaching up, grabbing the ribbon, and pulling a helium balloon down to her while looking up at it. It's the cutest thing.

In October I started showing Ellie lots of pumpkins. Evidently, "pumpkin" is hard to say, and eventually Ellie made up a sign for pumpkin. It's the same as her "nurse" sign, a little fist up near her cheek, rocking forward and back.

I should have known that we were about done nursing.

Lizzi the Pug

Ellie's been working on enunciation lately, with no great prompting from us. All of a sudden, last weekend, "more" became "mo-oh(r)" rather than "muh".

For the past few days, she's been obsessed with the dog's name. As with most words, she's also obsessed with the object when she learns to label it well enough that everyone can understand what she's saying. So she's been all over the dog. Well, she's all over Lizzi when she can catch her. Lizzi is still much faster than Ellie at getting on and off furniture, though she's never far away when Ellie has food. And it seems that my growing little string bean is always having a meal or a snack, which she loves to share with her friend, "Dizzi" or "Dzizzy."

She's congested lately (when isn't she?) and having trouble sleeping. After practicing saying, "Lizzi" hundreds of times from when she first saw the dog at 8:00 yesterday morning until bedtime, Ellie cried out for Lizzi from her crib. Not for mama, not for dada/daddy. Lizzi, I think you have a new job! Go soothe that baby and rock her back to sleep!

Also, hooray for winter!

And, for some reason, the way these pictures get compressed it looks like Ellie has one eye squinted more than the other. Sometimes it's the left eye, sometimes the right. But in the uncompressed and live versions, both eyes look pretty much the same!

The Mom Salon

Hey, cool! I was featured here as "Today's Featured Post." I like their categories, so in the spirit of reciprocity, note the cool new link in my Invisible Friends sidebar.

Judging Mothers

This is a really good post.

A Little Bit More About My Breasts

Speaking in generalities, of course: When you're pregnant, your breasts get fuller. And then when you're nursing, at first they're a lot fuller. Quite literally, with the spraying in the shower and dripping on your toes and whatnot.

I know one mom who quit nursing late one winter, when her son was about 4 months old, because she didn't want to have to buy new spring shirts one size larger than her normal size. No kidding.

Towards the end of breastfeeding, I was not pleased with my breasts. They seemed . . . flabby. Isn't that attractive? Aren't you glad that you read that about me? I tried to resign myself to it. Oh well, I thought, I guess I just never take off my bra again. I guess this is what having kids does to you.

But - now it's two weeks later and they seem to have gone back to normal! Alleluia! What a lovely surprise. Unless they're about to punk me by deflating any moment. I don't know how all this works, having never gone through it before.

Update: Ellie and I went shopping today and bought two new bras for mommy. Bras that don't have peek-a-boo panels for easy access! Wahoo! It turns out that I wasn't imagining things. My cup size went back down one to my pre-pregnancy size, which has apparently made them firmer. And that's just fine with me!

But the Fire is so Delightful

Hey, my blog is back! It was an uncomfortable day or so, trying to see my blog and encountering an ominous black screen instead.

The weather here is finally and delightfully winter-appropriate, with highs in the twenties. We're about half done with all of the Christmas decorating, and nearly done with all of the Christmas shopping. That just leaves the cards, crafts, and baking. It's all fun!

So we're having another week of comfort foods here, with chicken pot pie on Sunday, chili on Monday, chicken and stuffing today, and Swiss steak in the crock pot tomorrow. Friday a few friends are coming over for junk food and a Linda Carter as Wonder Woman marathon while Paul goes out with a buddy.

This weekend we'll get the tree and Paul will put the rest of the outdoor lights and wreathes up. Last weekend we went to the hanging of the greens at our church . . . in matching sweaters.

I'm feeling festive! Happy St. Nicholas Day!

Wicked Good

The first act left my jaw on the floor. If you'd asked me about the show during intermission, I would have sounded like an uncultured Midwesterner. "I don't - I've never seen - wow!" My mother, who always made a point to insure that we were regularly exposed to music, theater, dance, and art, would be embarrassed.

But the costumes! The lighting! The set! The acting! The music! The singing! It was all amazing. I don't think I've ever seen anything quite like it.

I was a little less impressed with Act II. Some of the punny lines followed too closely on the heels of tragedy. There were a couple of very small lighting gaffes. Some of the deviations from the book were frustrating . . . spoiler coming . . . like the happy ending, for example.

Still, it was a great show. One of my favorite things about the story is the discussion of the perception of evil: how a woman who doesn't look or act "pretty" but speaks her mind with unpopular opinions is considered Wicked. Some of my favorite things about the musical were the duets between the real main couple in the show, Elfaba and Glinda. There were a couple of harmonizing parts where I had goose bumps all over. Stephanie Block can really bring down the house.

But - how did everyone keep from getting all green when they touched her?

Eggnog and Boycott

. . . but don't boycott Eggnog!

Last night I put Eggnog in Ellie's cup at dinner. I nattered along as I placed her cup and napkin in front of her, as I do, saying, "I put something different in your cup tonight; it's not milk; it will probably freak you out a bit."

She was otherwise occupied with her pizza and corn, and I don't think that she heard a word I was saying. But eating pizza and corn is thirsty work, so she immediately grabbed the cup and started chugging down the eggnog. I thought that the taste and texture would register and she'd immediately sputter and spit it all out.

She didn't. She drank that cup dry!

I was recording "The Little Drummer Boy" on ABC Family tonight, and it got me thinking about how annoyed I was to be watching ABC Family. This is the station that shows Pat Robertson's The 700 Club. Folks, these are not family values.

Please consider writing to ABC and Disney, letting them know that your family will not be watching their stations/movies, or buying any of their products until they stop irresponsibly airing this hate-filled and not family-friendly program.

Thanks!

Racism

Apparently, I missed Blog Against Racism Day. Thanks to PK for the wonderful post about it, and to Charlie in her post's comments, demonstrating how far we have to go.

My thoughts branched out from there, thinking about the stereotype that southerners are more racist than northerners.

I don't think that's exactly true.

Sure, the Klan was and is more active in the South, and some of the most loquacious and unapologetic racists hail from down yonder. But one big reason for that is that there are a whole lot more African Americans down south than there are in the Midwest, or most anywhere else in the country (excepting large cities).

Yeah, there are a lot of racists in the South, and many of them are at best unashamed of and at worst proud of themselves and their racist heritage.

But you know what's up with racists in the North? We just hide it a little better.

We talk a better game, but we don't worship with, play with, or have children with very many people of color, by and large. Most of our spouses and best friends look a lot like us. And that's just as racist, in its own way.

I've seen southern racists interact quite comfortably with African Americans.

And I've seen (liberal) northern (hidden) racists acting really really uncomfortable if the subject of race comes up when there's a person of color in the room. I've seen my friends, coworkers, self try to avoid talking about race and race issues at all.

Contemporary Worship

Ah, what a hot topic, eh? That's me, unafraid to poke at the really big controversies in the world today.

I've been noticing a huge increase in the popularity of "contemporary worship services" in traditional reformed Christian churches over the past several years. Contemporary worship is the style of worship that I most associate with conservative evangelical Christian worship services.

There are two issues to unpack: my discomfort with the service itself, and my uncomfortable associations with the style. First, the prettier part, my concerns about the service itself.

This is a bit complex. I'm not a complete stick-in-the-mud traditionalist. I *love* Avery & Marsh. I prefer the UCC's use of inclusive language in hymns, especially the Doxology (side-by-side with the traditional version).

But I hate the "praise music" heard at most contemporary services. Why? At first I thought it was because it all sounded the same, and none of it is set to the glorious strains of real music (Bach, et al). Then I realized that there's more to it. The lyrics are all about, "Praise Jesus! We love Jesus!"

That's fine, of course. But shouldn't there be a bit more? Shouldn't a hymn sound notably different from a Top 40 hit (where you could substitute "girl" for "Jesus" and have the song make just as much sense)?

Shouldn't we talk more about God, more about why Jesus is so great, rather than just blathering on about the love-for-Him part? And we shouldn't just talk about what Jesus did, either. I believe that what we do, how we live our lives, is more important than the specifics of what we believe.

Right, so the music is a big issue. Most of the rest of the service is OK. At our church, we have the same clergy officiating, the same sermon, the same scriptures read aloud in both the traditional and contemporary services. So there's no problem with the message or the messenger. I'm also not rejecting the stupid projection screen out of hand. I hate the look of modern technology in church (the comfort of the familiar in worship and the exclusion of the distractions of everyday life are important to me). But as (my) Paul allows, there is something to be said for getting everyone's heads up out of their hymnals.

The other thing that really bothers me about the style of the service is the praise team standing up front with their microphones. This is the segue into the uncomfortable associations bit, but first I want to note that I don't like looking at the praise team. To me, they look like performers. I don't like clapping for soloists on the chancel steps who look like they're singing on stage, and I don't like everyone staring at the praise team like they're rock stars on tour. To me this reeks of idolatry or something - I'm still working on it - and I prefer to contemplate the cross, the stained glass, the arched ceiling, the ministers bent over their hymnals, anything other than these smiling performers.

I don't quite know what to say about the style and my prejudices. I see the praise teams' arms go up and eyes go closed, and I'm tuned out. I'm expecting slick ministers who've never been to seminary but have the glorious gift of gab, telling me that I'll burn in hell for voting pro-choice. I'm still working on this, but it's a long, uphill slog.

Can't we be contemporary, evolve with the times, engage our youth, and still do it right? Still be Presbyterian?

My Breasts

Yesterday, I was killing some time at Borders while Dobbs was putting new tires on my Passat, and I decided - on a whim - to order an iced gingerbread latte. For me! No worries about caffeine intake and how it might effect Ellie's bedtime. Later, I had a diet soda - with caffeine! Just for fun! Just because I could! It was wonderful!

OK, here's how it went down.

Wednesday morning, Paul decided to let me sleep in. This was wonderfully thoughtful, because I hate mornings on principle and had been up very late the night before preparing for the holiday weekend travel and festivities. But it wasn't so cool, because I had to shower and be at work on time for a meeting. There was no time to nurse Ellie. No biggie, there's still nap- and bedtime, right?

While I was packing on Wednesday afternoon, Paul put Ellie down for her nap. No stress, we usually don't nurse at naptime anyway and I was in a hurry to get out the door. When we arrived at my parents' house on Wednesday night, Paul insisted on putting Ellie down to bed himself while I was unpacking and greeting. "Hey!" I nagged. "Are you trying to tell me that it's time I weaned Ellie? It's been over 24 hours now since I've nursed her."

The idea didn't sound as awful to me as I thought it would. I've been resenting the nursing for a while, but when she's shown decreased interest in the past, I've freaked out and not wanted to stop.

In the morning, she didn't ask to nurse and I went back to sleep. We kept up that pattern all weekend, and she didn't ask me to nurse once. I thought that things might change when we arrived back home on Sunday evening.

Paul read Ellie her bedtime story, as usual, then started trying to rock her down to sleep. I came in with a cup of water, at which point normally she would start chanting, "Mama! Mama! Mama" and reaching for me with some urgency.

Not that time. Now it's been nearly a week, and I'm thinking: never again.

And I'm not sad, much to my surprise. I intend to nurse again someday. I was feeling tied down by and resentful of the nursing, after 25 months. I can't explain that logically; it's not like twice a day was a really big time sink. It's an emotional response that has developed in the last couple of months.

In the last several days, I have felt like being touched again (Paul really likes this part). I feel like I have more to give Ellie: more patience, more touches, more snuggles.

I was once afraid that I would feel like we'd lost a connection, that special mother-child thing, once we stopped the one thing that only the two of us could do together. That has not been the case at all.

I loved nursing Ellie. I'm looking forward to nursing another baby (or 2! or 3!) someday. But I'm glad to be through for now. Who knows. Maybe I'll go wild and take an antihistamine - without guilt - next time I'm around a friend's cat! Many things are possible.

The Drive

We had a wonderful Thanksgiving weekend at my parents' house. Both of my sisters were there, with their dogs and significant others. I got to see my youngest sister choose her wedding dress, which is stunning. One fall wedding, one winter wedding, and one summer wedding. That's the three of us, in a nutshell.

The drive up last Wednesday went very well. Anticipating the holiday weekend traffic, we took the "longer" route, cutting across southern Illinois on I 70 then heading north up eastern Illinois on I 57. Despite all experience and conventional wisdom to the contrary, the trip took under 6 hours, with one brief stop for Subway.

"Ellie, do you need to go potty? We're going to stop for a potty break and to eat sandwiches."

As we pulled off the interstate, "No! No no no no no!"

And after about 5 minutes in Subway, before any of us had finished our sandwiches, "All done!" When we didn't get the hint fast enough, she screamed until we hustled out to the car and got back on the road. Ah, 2. I love it.

On the way home on Sunday afternoon, we decided to brave the Chicago holiday weekend traffic and skirt past it on I 80, cutting diagonally across Illinois on I 55. In theory, this is the "short" route and should take about 5 hours, plus stops.

First there was construction traffic. Hours of it. But the electronic signs kept promising a swift end to the problems, so we kept plugging along. It grew dusky and colder. It was windy and the sky started spitting at us. I was seeing yellow and considering one of the construction workers' Johnny-on-the-Spots. Ellie was chanting, "Potty! potty! potty!" from the backseat. We only made it to Tinley Park before our first stop, surely a new record.

Eventually we left the congestion of 80 for the relatively rural wilderness of 55. Wait, no. More traffic. Eventually, we discovered a demolished double tractor-trailer off the road on our side, causing some incredible gawker traffic congestion.

Things improved for a while. All of a sudden - BAM! Bumpety bumpety bumpety bump.

The car - which I'd just had fully serviced two days before the trip - was now on the shoulder with a blown front right tire. Normal wear and tear. That the mechanic didn't feel was important enough to share with me. So Paul was out in the deafening wind changing a tire on the side of the interstate while I tried to load everything (and I do mean *everything* - we do not travel lightly) back into the trunk on top of my "worn" tire. I'd like to take this opportunity to send a big Thanksgiving THANK YOU to the state trooper who sat behind us with his lights on, deflecting traffic, and to all the drivers who didn't hit us.

20 minutes later, Ellie and I needed another potty stop.

Then Paul was falling asleep and we pulled over for - guess what? - a potty stop and driver change.

Then it started pouring so hard that I couldn't see the lines on the road.

Nearly 8 hours after leaving my parents' house, we arrived safely home. The weekend was great. And surely our next trip, in December with the added interest of snow and ice, will provide us with at least equal entertainment.

P.S. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire was awesome. Absolutely incredible. I love the Quidditch World Cup, the arrival of the two visiting delegations to Hogwarts, and, as always, Rupert Grint stealing every scene in which he appeared.


P.P.S. Done. We're done. At 25 months, Ellie's weaned! I'm not as ambivalent as I thought I'd be. Neither is she. In more than 5 days, she hasn't asked me to nurse once. She mentioned it to my mom once, but I think that she just wanted to see me.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Have a wonderful, safe, and warm (in all the important ways) Thanksgiving this year!

My New Friend

Ellie has made me a new friend. I have met other moms I like through play groups and Gymboree, it's true. But this is the first time that Ellie has formed an attachment to another little girl, starting a chain of events that leads to me getting to know the girl's mother and liking her very much. Ellie changes and enriches my life in so many ways just by being. The newer ways in which she influences me, by taking actions all on her own, take my breath away. Thank you, Ellie.

On an unrelated note, Ellie really loves chapstick. She purses up her lips for it, which is adorable, then kisses me on my cheeks with her sticky, chapsticky lips. That part is a little gross, but it's a major triumph because we're moving away from full-on use of the tongue in kissing, which is nice. Fortunately, she only tongue kisses Paul and me. When others ask for a kiss, they get a precious blown kiss from an appropriate distance. Paul and I have been wondering when Ellie would learn to kiss without licking our cheeks. It looks like pursing her lips for my beloved chapstick has done the trick.

The Efficacy of Torture

On television, especially on CIA shows like 24 and Alias, torture is a very effective way of getting timely information from detainees.

Those tortured have rarely been convicted of anything, but they're almost always bad guys. And they always give it up in the end.

Have you ever noticed, however, that torture never works on the good guys?

It seems to me that to believe in the efficacy of torture as a reliable and effective interrogation method, in the face of evidence to the contrary, is to have a childlike belief that those on our side are always much stronger of character and will than our enemies.

Two, Two, and More Two

Physically, Ellie's two. She's wearing mostly 24-month clothes, she's learning to walk, she's getting better at feeding herself with a spoon, and she's interested in learning to use an open cup.

Behaviorally, Ellie is very two. In addition to the straight-up cute stuff, like the tickling games and brief phone conversations:

Hi, Ellie!

Hi! Hi! Hi, Mama!

Did you have a good day at school today?

Blah Blah Blah BLAH BLAH blah-blah.
Mulk! Mulk!
Bye! (slams phone down.)

Bye!

There are also the not-so-nice but still adorable and developmentally appropriate milestones. Like the way Ellie loves to say, "No no no" and "Uh oh!" as she drops or throws everything onto the floor.

Chronologically, Ellie is two. 25 months old already! She had a Dora the Explorer-themed party with guests: two little girls from her school (both with Down syndrome) and her 10-month old buddy (formerly known as the cutest little plague carrier in the world.) Ellie loves Backpack, so that's what I did for her cake. I went, perhaps, a bit overboard. She cried when we cut backpack, and would not eat any. The toddler-friendly pinata (no hitting) was also a bit scary when Dora's bottom opened and the prizes started falling on her head. Otherwise, the party was a success.



But that's just the fluff.

Mentally, Ellie might just be two as well. Granted, Ellie's pediatrician only sees her irregularly and mostly hears her success stories. And at Ellie's lengthy and wonderful two-year-old check-up, Ellie presented her doctor with a picture of herself, "Muh!" she indicated with a hand to her chest, as she passed the picture to Dr. Jan and mugged adorably. That's a pretty cool cognitive leap, to realize that the cute baby in the picture is, in fact, herself. Dr. Jan said that although she's so young and these things are impossible measure, etc., etc., of course Ellie has above average intelligence for someone with Down syndrome. And, in fact, she probably has above average intelligence, period.

Verklempt.

Now, Dr. Jan is an optimistic sort, so I'm very pleased but am not counting Ellie's chickens before she can. But I did mention the doctor's assessment to Ellie's developmental therapist today. This woman is the local gymnastics coach for Special Olympics, has a Masters in Special Education, works with children ages 0-3, and is trained as a school diagnostician (testing and evaluation). She's been working with Ellie for well over a year, and she said:

"Don't lower your expectations."

I won't, Ellie, I won't. But I also won't push you so hard that you're miserable. I want you to accomplish all that you can, and I am thrilled beyond measure that you might have the opportunity to go away to college someday, but I will try to let you choose your own path.

Happy (belated) second birthday, sweetheart.

Unbecoming

I'm feeling a little ugly.

I have a friend and co-worker I'm jealous of. I never used to be. And I still like her just as much as always. But, but.

Recently she was promoted. We were at the same level, promoted in lock-step twice. Now, although we still have the same jobs, she's technically a significant level higher than I. It's a promotion I almost surely would have gotten too if I'd stayed at work full time rather than taking a year off then coming back only part time.

I understand the way I feel. I don't regret that I chose to stay home with Ellie, and that I have chosen to make my former career secondary to my new career for now.

But that doesn't mean that I don't miss the way things used to be, too. I miss being responsible for bringing in millions of dollars of revenue for the company. I miss traveling all over the country making presentations to introduce our textbooks to educators and decision-makers. I miss the pace, I miss the excitement.

I still love the work and am very grateful for this perfect job arrangement I've got. But I'm also still jealous.

No, Not Yet. Soon.

Setting the scene:
Ellie took her first independent steps in August, when she was 22 months old. 2-1/2 months later, at 25 months old, she can walk from Paul to me, or walk from one play area at school to the next. Her range is about 10 feet. Because of her slightly low muscle tone, she can't progress quite as quickly as most kids from those first steps to running all over the house. I estimate that she's at least a couple of months away from being a truly independent walker.

Dear parents of typically developing children,

You ask me if Ellie is walking yet, and I respond that she is still learning. Then you tell me, "Be careful what you wish for," or "Count your blessings!"

Stop it.

You complain that it's so hard, chasing after an active, curious toddler all day. I'm sure it is. But really, you should be counting your blessings too. Every day, I am grateful for mine. Regularly, I comment that if I had to have a child with a disability, we've really hit the jackpot with this one, in so many many ways.

But. Imagine having to carry your 2-year-old every time you leave the house. Imagine every trip to the park, carrying your heavy child from the car to the playground, then from one piece of equipment to another.

It's hard to control an energetic toddler in the store, I know. Why don't you just strap him into a shopping cart or stroller? Oh, he wants to get down and explore so he screams when he's strapped down?

My child feels the same way and responds the same way. But if I take her out of the stroller, she doesn't just run around and get underfoot. She sits down, right on the wet, filthy floor. So it's screaming in the stroller or struggling in my arms, everywhere we go, all the time.

It's not always much fun to go out, as you can imagine. She can't stand next to me while I open the car door, pay the cashier, or fish something out of my purse. She's in my arms or on the floor, because she can climb out of that stroller in no time flat.

Please feel free to tell me the things you find wonderful about my child. Please feel free to tell me how beautiful, how clever, how sweet, how wonderful you find her. But please think before you talk. And please don't act like I somehow have it easier than you do, just because my child is doing some things more slowly.

Thanks,
--Sarahlynn

Sarahlynn needs . . .

On a friend's blog I found this exercise: Do a google search for "[Your first name] needs", and discover what the Internets think you really need.

That sounded interesting.

I only had one hit. It was a comment on my husband's blog from an opinionated friend of ours, suggesting, "Maybe Sarahlynn needs to Get involved in the rocking Ellie back to Sleep."

As if I'm not . . .

How to Stop Rape

As the weather here has plummeted from the 80s to the 40s, so too is this blog taking a sharp veer today.

This is an awesome post addressed to men about rape. Read it, really. It's got really good advice for all men, not just men who rape. Because, as we all should know by now, there's nothing that a woman can do to prevent herself from being raped. Nothing. Men have to stop rape, period.

Another must-read is this charmingly helpful post on How to Prevent Rape, aimed at the correct target audience.

On a lighter note, Ellie, Paul, and I are all feeling much better today. And, as far as I know, none of us was raped today. All good. I did burn my thumb pretty badly with spaghetti sauce, but no day is perfect.