Lawyerish

Friday Baby Dance Party: Royal Wedding Edition

Felicity donned her best sailor dress today in honor of the nuptials of Wills and Kate.  Because, really, is there anything better than some doughboy-style whites?  (One of my favorite things in New York is Fleet Week, because the sailors in those Fancy Free outfits -- sorry, uniforms -- are just so freaking adorable.  Even though I am old enough to be their mom.)

Felicity interrupted her morning playtime to observe the solemn wedding mass with appropriate respect.

Then she gave some color commentary:

Gorgeous dress, very classic and demure, yet grand enough for a commoner-turned-princess.  I approve.

Does William ever smile?  And who's the redhead with the smirk and the swagger?  You think he'll still be single in about twenty years? 

Evidently, the Queen does not sing the national anthem.  I guess it would be weird for her to sing "God Save [Me]."

I need to travel by horse and carriage more often.  Screw the stroller.

They seem cute together and all, but you call that a kiss?  I guess they've been together for eight years, but come on.  Put some oomph into it!

Eh, back to the Little House books...

Sunny Side Up

I am wearing pants that I got for $3 at the Gap last summer.  I just thought you should know that before we go on.  They're nice, work-appropriate pants, and they were on clearance for some crazy cheap price, plus I had a coupon, so they ended up costing less than a latte.  I kind of keep expecting them to unravel or simply disappear while I'm walking around, because $3 for business-y pants seems somehow wrong.

Our Easter was a near-perfect day.  It was warm enough to go without jackets, and the predicted rain didn't show up until evening, and we had some extremely awesome ham for dinner.  But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Felicity lost interest in her morning bottle as soon as she saw the Easter basket on the coffee table with the "Congrats!" balloon tied to it.  (Evidently Easter balloons are not a thing, but we wanted to replace her long-lost birthday balloon; naturally, this time around her enthusiasm has waned.  She's such a tough customer.)  We pointed out one of the hidden-in-plain-sight plastic eggs that was nestled by the TV, and she proceeded to seek out the other five with equal parts curiosity and skepticism. 

And the purpose of this is....what, exactly?

Surely there will be something great inside here, like loads of chocolate or -- wait, it's EMPTY?  Seriously?

After some hot cross buns (those suckers are GOOD; why had I never had one before?  Who can I sue for this 35-year deprivation?), we got Felicity gussied up in her Easter finery and then Joe and I dressed in...clothes.  We figured she looked good enough that whatever we wore was incidental. 

Then we headed out to church.  We walked to one in the neighborhood instead of trekking downtown to our usual house of worship, given the constraints of naptimes and meal schedules and general sloth. 

I had figured that the place would be packed, as Easter services tend to be, but I was quite wrong.  Aside from the fact that they'd never seen us before, the clergy probably thought we were there to decorate the sanctuary.  A few other couples and families slowly trickled in, but all told we must have totaled 50 or fewer souls.  Admittedly, our neighborhood is not exactly awash in Episcopalians and this was the less-popular 9am service, but still.  EASTER. 

I let Felicity amble around for a while before the procession started, but her exploration met a bitter end when she fell and smacked her head on a pew.  Fortunately I had a spare pacifier in my purse that silenced her rafter-shaking screams.  She was so good for the rest of the service.  I had brought a few things to keep her entertained, but I figured that being forced to sit in my lap for an hour-plus would be a non-starter for Ms. On-the-Go.  Somehow, though, she was fascinated enough by all the standing/sitting/kneeling, the music, the chanting and the stained glass windows that she held it together. 

It was a nice service and everyone was so welcoming that we will surely go back.  Clearly, they are a congregation welcoming of frazzled-looking mothers with frizztastic hair. 

The day turned out to be so beautiful that we headed back out after Felicity's nap for some playground time.  Our gratitude for the warmth and sun rapidly turned to griping about how it was actually kind of TOO hot and humid, JEEZ, can we get some SPRING up in here before we dive into summer?  We're ingrates like that. 

After Felicity tired of the playground and toddled around on a muddy hillside for a while, we took our fun indoors and Felicity slept for 2.5 hours (long naps are the greatest thing ever).  Later, we dug into the aforementioned ham (throw a ham in your slow cooker, rub with dark brown sugar, pour in about a half-cup of maple syrup and a cup or so of pineapple juice and cook on low for 8 hours -- OMG SO SALTY/SWEET AND DELICIOUS) and retired to the couch.

Alleluia, indeed. 

Friday Baby Dance Party!: Mixed Media Edition

Felicity has been doing a lot of arabesques and attitudes lately.  I'm not sure what that's about, but I am choosing to see it as an expression of her natural affinity for ballet.  I mean, obviously.  Check it out -- she's working on her Swan Lake poses already:

(Yes, the leg could be higher and more turned out, but we have some time to work on her technique.)

She's also working on her percussive expression on a regular basis. 

Though sometimes she just wants to grab her purse and go shoppin' instead of cultivating her artistic talents.

But then she always comes back to work on her moves. 

(By the way, the photo in the last post was of Felicity, not of me!  The Apr 81 stamp was the result of Hipstamatic "retro dating", which is kind of silly.  And confusing.  We do look alike, but not QUITE to that degree!  Also, I was five in April 1981.)

Finally, for the first time ever, I present to you...a video.  I KNOW.  WOW!  Welcome to the 21st century, eh?  It features some month-old footage of our little walker (who is now much steadier on her feet) and my awful-voice narration (I would like to think that I do not sound this idiotic in person, but I suspect this is a futile wish).  Check it, y'all. 

(I actually have a better video of her "dancing", which would clearly fit better with the theme of the FBDP, but I could not get that sucker to upload.  Flip software SUUUUUCKS, which is probably part of the reason they are not going to make the Flip anymore.  LOLZ.)

Well, NEVERMIND.  It keeps crashing and won't load.  Mixed media FAIL.  If you're dying to see it, here's a link instead.

Live Forever

Well, I hope the world doesn't run out of Fresca, because according to The Longevity Project, I am going to live roughly one thousand more years:

"Cheerfulness, optimism, extroversion and sociability may make life more enjoyable, but they won’t necessarily extend it, Howard S. Friedman and Leslie R. Martin found in a study that covered eight decades. The key traits are prudence and persistence. 'The findings clearly revealed that the best childhood personality predictor of longevity was conscientiousness,' they write, 'the qualities of a prudent, persistent, well-organized person, like a scientist-professor — somewhat obsessive and not at all carefree.'"

All this time, I've thought that my "somewhat obsessive" nature just made me a neurotic fun-killer, but hey!  Turns out that my dogged devotion to routine, boundless need to please, careful adherence to social norms and manners, and constantly furrowed brow are good for something! 

When I think of the word "carefree," I think of a woman on a swing, dressed all in white, her long hair thrown back in the breeze, against a totally white backdrop.  I'm pretty sure this is a mental image from a 1980s-era maxi pad commercial.  To run with that metaphor, I'm the girl who has never worn white pants, for fear that I might get my period -- no matter what day of the month it is. 

Some part of me has always felt like this was a bad, almost shameful, way to live -- that by being "prudent and persistent" I was somehow missing out on all the fun.  But I know of no other way to BE.  It's definitely the way I was wired from the get-go; there are pictures of me at Felicity's age in which I'm looking at the world with great concern.  You can almost read my thoughts -- Should my brother be running into the ocean like that, without checking for sharks/rays/errant shards of glass beforehand?  Why is that little boy sad?  What if there is a fire?  What should I be doing right now to improve my chances of getting into Yale?

Almost 35 years later, I may not be a candidate for a maxi pad commercial, but it's not as though I live my life in a total state of panic.  I have plenty of fun.  I do!  I laugh; I smile; I play; I relax!  Some people might even call me laid back or easygoing.  (Shut up.  It's POSSIBLE.)  But in every circumstance, I am conscious of so much. 

As one example, on my wedding day I don't remember fretting much at all; on the whole, I felt serene and ecstatic and loved and joyful.  It was as close to carefree as I get (AND I was wearing all white, so perhaps that is part of the secret to throwing caution to the wind, after all).  But I am positive that I devoted a bit of mental energy that day to worrying whether our guests were having a good time or whether I might faint at the altar or whether I could make it through the ceremony without doing the ugly cry.  I still had the time of my life and I danced all night long, but I did at least consider those things. 

It's not as though being "conscientious" means sitting dourly in the corner, sneering at everyone else's enjoyment of the world.  It just means, for me anyway, that my inner monologue never really shuts off.  There are always other people's emotions or experiences for me to think about (sometimes in an anxious way, but often not); there are ever-lengthening to-do lists to keep track of; there is all the input from reading (books, articles, blogs, Facebook) that I need to mull over and process; there are distant events to ponder; there are past moments to go back over with a figurative fine-toothed comb. 

I used to hope that Felicity would be the opposite of me in many ways -- that she would have more of a devil-may-care approach toward life and an unending sense of adventure.  But the fact is, I will be thrilled if she's a lot like me in terms of conscientiousness (obviously, she'll be whoever she's going to be, and I will love her to the edges of the cosmos regardless, but you know what I mean).  There's nothing wrong with being a little bit hyper-aware, a tad cautious (if only to avoid trips to the ER, since I do not do well with blood); there's also something to be said for not needing dramatic things to be happening all the time, for being polite, for observing the world with empathy.  For conscientiousness and prudence and persistence. 

And now I have all the more reason to be pleased if she turns out that way, since evidently it will help with my plan for her to live forever.

More of the Same

I've been trying to think of something even remotely interesting to write about, but nothing has really sprung to mind.  I have a brutal lingering cough that makes me sound tubercular and gets me dirty looks on the subway.  The weather still sucks, except for the one day a week it doesn't (usually Monday, just to twist the knife in a little deeper, but this week we got a half-nice day on Sunday that partially made up for the typhoon conditions the day before).  We went out with friends Saturday night and Joe, out of the blue, made a "Real Housewives of Atlanta" reference that almost made me fall off my chair laughing (he asked if someone was "tardy for the party"), because...well, you kind of have to know Joe to understand why that is so freaking funny, so...nevermind. 

See what I mean?  Our life is enjoyable and lovely, but it's not giving me a lot of material.

This weekend on the half-nice day, we took Felicity to a playground, and I swear she could have stayed there for days.  She quickly became a "Give a Hoot, Don't Pollute" ambassador (for a minute, all I could come up with for attribution there was Smokey the Owl, but I knew that didn't sound right -- was it Woodsy?  Woodsy the Owl?  There are holes in my brain, I swear), finding, pointing at, and trying to pick up (icky!) every piece of detritus in the place -- nearly oblivious to all the thrills that could have been had on the many climbing/swinging, sliding apparati, she focused on gum wrappers and fallen leaves. 

She finally seized hold of someone's discarded nub of sidewalk chalk, and she WOULD NOT let go of it.  She must have carried it around for an hour and a half.  Up and down the slide, toddling around the faux stockade, "jumping" on the swinging bridge -- she would not release it from her grip.  Finally, I was able to trick her into dropping it in favor of an especially attractive twig. 

Apparently, I am going to be wearing that bloomin' trench coat and scarf for the REST OF MY DAYS. 

On Saturday, which was the extremely not-nice day, I have to admit that I was cursing New York for its mall-less-ness.  I usually love that I can walk to virtually any kind of store you can think of, but after day 1,342 of it being cold and shitty, I just wanted to get in a car and DRIVE somewhere and then get out and go into a vast, climate-controlled haven of retail bliss.  I wanted to amble about with Felicity in her stroller and not have to have my head on a swivel while crossing countless streets, always fearful of a rogue cyclist or surly turn-maker (dear NYC drivers: if I have the walk signal and you are making a turn onto that street?  I STILL HAVE THE RIGHT OF WAY, so don't give me That Look when you almost run me over). 

Yes, I could have gone to the Time Warner Center, which is the Manhattan nod to suburban shopping plazas, but it's not sufficiently mall-like, when a sprawling, flat, Gap-embracing place is what you really need.  It's a little too upscale and a little too small, and definitely too vertical, such that going there with a stroller means you will spend half of your life waiting for elevators.  It's great for lots of purposes (like our dinner at Landmarc that very night), but it wasn't what I was craving. 

You may notice in this picture that (a) Felicity is still drinking her milk from a bottle and (b) I am still holding said bottle for her.  I am not the slightest bit worried about either of these things, as she is wholly capable of drinking from sippy cups, as demonstrated by her sucking down of water from cups at each meal, and she definitely does have full use of both her arms, and in any event giving her the morning and evening bottles are the only times I really get to hold her and inhale her heady scent (at all other times, she is TOO BUSY to be cuddled).  

I am somewhat curious, though, about how and when one eliminates the first-thing-in-the-morning milk and the before-bed milk (regardless of receptacle) -- it's less about the means of delivery for me than about the fact that she wakes up HUNGRY and it would seem very weird to toss her into her high chair and slap down some cereal instead of having our nice little bottle-snuggle first thing, when we're all quite groggy.  Same at night -- I guess at some point she just won't NEED the extra milk in her belly to get her through the night, or to help coax her toward bedtime as part of our evening ritual?  I'm sure like all transitions, it will happen somewhat organically and we'll figure it out, but I'm curious about other people's experiences, too.

This is Felicity barging into the bathroom during my shower this morning.  I am putting it here for posterity, to remind myself in ten or fifteen years that there was a time when she wanted to hang out with her Mama even when I was washing my hair. 

Booked!

Let's start with an extremely random question:  what do you call aluminum foil?  Do you refer to it as foil?  Tin foil?  Reynold's Wrap?  Something else? 

I myself am a "tin foil" girl, and I think it sounds very Southern when I say it.  Kind of like ten FOHLL.  I really don't have that much of an accent most of the time, but when we need more Reynold's Wrap, suddenly I turn into Paula Deen (y'all).

Secondly, I don't think I ever updated you all on our vacation plans, after I obsessed over where we should go and you were so kind to weigh in with advice! 

(If I did tell you, then just ignore this post.  Early senility!  It's what's for dinner.)

So!  We decided to rent a house in Nantucket for a week in July.  And my parents decided to join us!  Which means:  short flight + our own kitchen + our own pool (heated to 86 degrees, God bless the owners) + sauna and hot tub + fireplace for cozy evenings + grill + beach two blocks away + bikes (one with baby seat!) + BABY GEAR RENTALS (genius! I am even renting TOYS for the week, in addition to a stroller, a crib and sundry essentials, so that we don't have to pack it all!) + a rental car + a short jaunt to Town by bike, foot or car + built-in grandparent babysitters + loads of family-friendly activities to be had = ahhhhhhhhhhh.  The perfect blend of summery fun, without too much travel-agita or disruption of HRH's schedule. 

I am extremely jazzed about this.  Joe is going to bust out the seersucker and Felicity and I will don sunhats the size of patio umbrellas and we'll be good to go!  I wish we were leaving tomorrow.  This has been one long bitch of a winter.

A month before we leave for ACK, though, Joe and I are going to gird our loins and leave our preshus baybee for a few days. 

Excuse me while I choke back a sob.

I kind of want to throw up just thinking about it (which is just the way you want to feel about a relaxing couple's weekend, no?), but I know it will be fun and I know we will enjoy spending time together in one of our favorite cities, and I sure as hell know that I am going to enjoy the shit out of sleeping in a fancy hotel bed and waking up, oh I don't know, sometime AFTER 6:30 in the a.m.

We're going to Chicago, staying at The Elysian (which is kind of a pretentious d-bag of a hotel name, but the place looks awesome), and attending a bunch of alumni-type events for the Mister, plus trying to cram in some other Chicago-y stuff (Harold's Chicken had best be open this time around!) and friends-seeing and the like.  Felicity will be staying at home with J, and I know they'll have a bang-up time, but I am already worrying that she will forget us or feel abandoned or, you know, be orphaned when we die in a fiery crash. 

I'm fun like that!  Anyone want to take me along on your next vacation?

And as long as I'm talking about vacays, we have also planned a family getaway for the fall (it's never too early!).  We're going to explore the Berkshires -- an area of the world that's like two hours from my doorstep yet in which I have never set foot.  We're renting a cottage that's part of an inn/B&B sort of thing, and I'm hoping there will be fall foliage and Norman Rockwell-esque towns galore. 

Thankfully, for that one, this gal will be along for the ride.  

Thirteen Months

When Felicity wakes up in the morning or from a nap, she wants to be picked up and held for a while while she hugs the stuffed pig that she sleeps with.  After a few minutes, she reaches up, pats the side of her head and says, "Bbbb-bbbb."  So I put her bow in her hair and set her down, and she totters over to the mirror in the living room and admires herself. 

She is also very interested in hats.  "Hat!" she says, when Joe has on his weekend baseball cap; we'll go for a walk in the park, and every two minutes it's "hat! hat!" interspersed with "dowwwg, dowg" as she spies the many neighborhood canines. 

Her birthday party balloon is long dead, but she still points to the ceiling and says "balloon up" when it crosses her mind. 

She's become finicky about her reading material; she goes over to her shelf in her room or the basket in the living room and pulls out book after book, inspecting each one for plot development and critical acclaim before settling on the one she wants to read.  She'll bring the chosen one over to me, then pat my legs saying, "ap, ap" until I pull her onto my lap.  After hearing the story, she goes back through the book, turning the pages and pointing out all the dogs and cats or, if there aren't any, babbling about the illustrations.

 

I think she might be a bit on the dainty side.  She feeds herself finger foods with ease (and without making much of a mess, for which I am grateful), but she prefers to have me feed her if a spoon is involved.  Occasionally she'll grab the spoon, but then she just wants to bang on her tray with it while I get another one and continue to feed her.  It's possible she doesn't care about messes but is instead enjoying her mother's servitude to her whims, but either way I can't say I mind.  The one time she dove into a bowl of yogurt and veggies with her hands, I wished I'd had a hose nearby for the cleanup.  It was most displeasing. 

This weekend, it was finally warm and dry enough to let her walk around on the grass in Central Park (after a requisite turn on the swings, of course), and oh, did she WALK.  She perambulated around the Pinetum for more than an hour, falling with some frequency but always pressing on when I lifted her back onto her feet.  She didn't want to push herself back up, because she seemed not to like the feeling of the dirt on her hands (again, my kind of kid), so she would fall and then wait for me to come help her up (I hesitated once and she looked around, her hands held up a safe distance from the ground, and made a throat clearing sound as if to say, "AHEM!  Maidservant!  Your services are required!"), then tear off in another direction.  Fearless, yet delicate.

She's still very much in a Mama Phase; she usually cries when I leave the room, and sometimes she gets upset when I try to put her down (though much of the time, she squirms in my arms and says, "DOWN" in a very firm tone).  Today I was home sick and every time I staggered out of the bedroom after another multi-hour nap, she burst into tears upon seeing me and ran over to wrap herself around my legs, crying, "Mamamamamamama!"  I guess it sort of blew her mind to have me and J here for the whole day.  Either that, or she was distressed that I was dressed like a homeless person.

Despite her clinginess, she's also quite the little explorer.  Over the weekend, I took her to the Museum of Natural History and let her loose in the Hall of Ocean Life, which is a huge, dimly lit expanse ringed by dioramas of walruses and sharks and such.  When I first put her down, she hugged my legs and whined for a moment, then took off toward the middle of the room.  She didn't even look back or check to see where I was; she just ran around in random directions, occasionally breaking toward the stairs and crawling up them (which I did not know she could do) until I wrangled her back down.  She spotted a guy carrying a museum brochure (she is OBSESSED with paper of any kind) and nearly tore it out of his hand before I grabbed her and reeled her in.  This time, since we were indoors, she didn't want me to help her when she fell; she would take spectacular spills and stoically go into downward dog and stand back up, then keep on truckin'.  Unless she smacks her head, she is almost never ruffled by falling anymore.  She has places to GO.

And she goes onward and outward and never collapses... 

Party Redux

Not to retread old ground, but personally, I do not think you've seen enough photos of Felicity's first birthday party. 

In particular, you have not gotten to witness the sheer horror on my child's face as she was presented with her birthday cake (admittedly, said cake was a slanty, collapsing fright, as the photographic evidence confirms, but still -- it's delicious, little one!  hold yourself together!).  Until now, we haven't seen any stills of that moment, because at the time I was busy trying to comfort our traumatized baby, and Joe was videoing the whole thing (and I am STILL trying to figure out how to post those Flip mofos on here without breaking the Internet -- meanwhile, perhaps in 2022 I will be able to share the one-year musical/video montage I had made). 

So here's the post on Laura Boyd Studio's blog featuring some of the gorgeous photographic highlights (oh, to have such talent!), but really I think you need to watch this slideshow for the full effect:

Felicity is One!! from Laura Boyd on Vimeo.

And then, if you want to go ahead and shatter your heart into a million pieces, watch this one of her newborn session, from when she was a mere ten days old:

Felicity's Newborn Photos from Laura Boyd on Vimeo.

(Both videos have music, which adds to the soul-ripping-ness of them, and are best viewed in full-screen, with tissues nearby.)

 Now I swear I will lay off the first birthday stuff and move on with my life.

Maybe. 

The First Wives Club

My name is Owen.  You don't know me (my people are friends with this Lawyerish chick), but you probably know someone like me, someone who has suffered the indignities and injustices that I have suffered.

Once upon a time, I had a happy, carefree life.  I was doted upon.  My people took me canoeing on the Delaware River.  They read to me as we lazily floated along in the sunshine.  They scratched me behind my ears and curled up next to me in bed at night.

 

I helped them through medical school and law school; I'd sit for long hours in the shaft of light on their desk, frittering away my own valuable youth to help them achieve their dreams. 

 

In return, they bought me nice coats and called me their "firstborn."  They always made sure I looked my best, with frequent grooming and pedicures.

 

Then, one day, they went away for a little while, and when they came home, they brought with them this...thing.  It squalled all the time and spewed random fluids at unexpected times.  From that point on, my life changed completely.  Far from even being second fiddle, I became persona non grata in my own home.  There were no more snazzy outfits, no more canoe trips.  My people batted me away when I tried to get a taste of the angry hairless dog they had acquired.  They just threw my food in a bowl once a day with no sense of delicacy, and they let my hair grow embarrassingly long.  I became shaggy and unkempt.  I had no choice but to -- ahem -- do indelicate things in the middle of their family room rug, to remind them that I existed at all. 

Now, there are three of those miniature people.  THREE.  What unmitigated gall!  What ingratitude!  They're rambunctious and loud, and while they sometimes deign to acknowledge my existence, it's never been the same.  My people will never be mine again. 

Please.  If my plight sounds familiar, share your own story.  You are not alone. 

******

My name is Miles.  You might remember me from when my person used to write about me all the time, with love and affection, as if I were the center of her world. 

Like Owen, my people used to lavish attention on me.  They took me for long, unhurried walks in the park; they brought treats for me to eat during warm-weather picnics; they called me their "son."  They photographed me all the time and kept pictures of me on their phones to show friends and passers-by.  They made sure my nice lady friend came to stay with me when they went on vacation.

And yet, one day about a year ago, they came in the door with this raisin-like being, who completely disrupted our happy home.  Our schedule was completely thrown off; my walks got shorter and shorter; and my people spoke to me in a tone that I did not appreciate. 

This is the only photo I could find of myself from the past YEAR.  A year, people!  See how I tried to make nice in the beginning?  And yet! 

I had to register my objection early and often.  I tried as many different things as I could to show my disapproval of this turn of events -- barking at the slightest noise, waking the raisin up as much as possible, un-learning my house training, refusing to eat, licking myself excessively, leaving pools of bodily secretions hidden around the house -- but still they let the raisin stay. 

I'm at my wit's end.  Until I met Owen (we've been corresponding for some time), I thought I was alone.  So please, if you know someone who has suffered like we have, listen to their story.  Tell them we understand, we've been there.  There doesn't seem to be a cure for this predicament, but at least we don't have to suffer in silence.

*****

Yeah, I'm Atticus.  Now get that camera out of my effing face.

You know what?  Quit your whining.  You want hardship?  I've got your hardship right here.  I got rescued from an effing Dumpster in a g-d- blizzard when I was eight weeks old, then I was shuttled from home to home until I landed with these people, who ended up just crapping all over my finally happy life by getting a needy, whiny DOG.  I needed that freaking dog like I needed a hole in the head.  Then these MFers brought the kid home, and I was pretty sure I was sunk.  I thought I would be back on the streets in no time.

But you know what?  I played nice.  That's right.  Low-pro.  I slunk around, kept quiet, and held in my hairballs for months.  And then?  When the kid became mobile?  I hung with her on her own level, on her terms.  Let her smack at me and pull my tail, without so much as a peep.  Now I purr and head-butt her, and she laughs and laughs. 

Who's higher on the totem pole now, suckers??  Who gets extra attention from everybody now, mofos?  And who got to be one of the kid's first words?  HUH?  Yeah.  That's right.  ME.  I didn't hear her saying "dog" until a few days ago.  Before that, it was months of "at! at!" as she pointed at me and petted my head.  Ha HA!

That's the way to play it.  Maybe it's time to change your game, bitches.

Weekend of Winning

Well!  I managed to pull off the half marathon, despite my extremely lackluster training.  It was my slowest half ever (by two minutes), but since I hadn't run one in over two years, I'll take it -- the most recent one I did before today was the 2009 Brooklyn Half, when it was roughly ten thousand degrees out, the water stations ran out of, uh, water, and I took a spectacular fall on the Coney Island boardwalk just a hundred yards from the finish (graceful!).  So in many ways, given that I remained upright and I didn't come close to perishing from dehydration, this was an improvement.  

It was one of those rare long runs (for me, anyway) when I didn't agonize over the number of miles to go or long for the thing just to be OVER, already; somehow, the energy of the crowd, and the knowledge that my homie Cathy was out there slogging through it, too, pulled me along and I hit the right stride, and it all just sailed by.  And, oddly enough, I saw Al Roker strolling alongside the course at Mile 11, which reminds me that in another race a couple of years ago, I spotted Hoda Kotb running by the pack in the opposite direction.  We just need to add Kathie Lee and Meredith Vieira sightings and we'll be all set in our Today Show Running Bingo game.

I have to say, I adore the all-women's races, not only for the sweet swag (tampons, energy bars and Lady Speed Stick!), but also for the girl-power mood and, frankly, the far less pungent B.O.  I find that the women's races are more laid-back and involve far less jockeying for position, which in co-ed fields always seems to involve a lot of elbows and cranky sidelong glances and huffiness -- I always want to be like, dude, there are ten thousand of us out here; maybe you should try to PR some other day, eh?  Anyway.  Today was fun, although I think a 10K sounds far more sensible.

Felicity is over her roseola, and the worst of the teething seems to have passed, and it's like she's a different kid.  For the past couple of days, she's been mellow and pleasant and sweet and giggly, and wow, we're glad to have her back.

She's had this mylar balloon since her birthday, and although it's on its last leg, it is the source of endless fascination for her.  Ever since her party, she has pointed to it the moment she comes into the living room ("uuuup!"), and whenever we encounter a balloon in a book, she points up toward the ceiling.  As her shiny balloon friend has deflated over time, she has pointed to it and said, "down."  It's going to be a sad day when she wakes up and finds that it has completely died (and I think that day is going to be tomorrow).

She's also been eating like it's going out of style, and has become highly preoccupied with certain foods -- if you open up a granola bar, or anything else in a crinkly wrapper, she says, "Mum-Mum?  MUM-MUM??" and points at you accusingly, as if you're withholding it from her.  Mum-Mums are these rice cracker things that are evidently some form of baby crack, however dry and bland they may appear to be.  She has one at lunch every day with some hummus on it, and it seems to occupy a lot of her waking time, anticipating that moment.  She also holds bananas in high regard, and although she can say the word "yellow," when she sees that color she usually says, "Nana!" 

Oh, and one of my favorite developments is that she has started asking for her nap sometimes.  She'll be in the middle of playing or reading, and suddenly she'll say, "Ap.  Ap!" and walk toward her bedroom.  You could just about set your watch by her schedule, which is highly satisfying to my routine-oriented nature, and seems to keep her humming, too.  She will also gambol into the kitchen when it's mealtime, or she'll start rubbing her tummy until one of us gets the hint.  I much prefer this mode of communication to the wall-melting screams that have usually been her way of sharing with us that she's a bit peckish.

To recap:  I have a kid who loves eating, sleeping and reading.  Yep, it's safe to say she is mine. 

She's been very huggy lately, when she's in the right mood -- she usually reserves most of her affection for her stuffed animals, but we're getting our share, too. 

Yeah.  This kid is a-ok.