One Fish, Two Fish, Red fish, Blue Fish

This morning we had a family outing to the New York Aquarium, just off the boardwalk in Coney Island,


with mixed results.

The first tank you encounter upon entering is a large, lovely, tropical display, with elaborate coral and fish in every color of the rainbow, and Clio did the appropriate shrieking, pointing and squealing. When we pointed out the beautiful (And big!) cownosed rays (like giant sting rays, but not that big), she was really into it for all of five seconds, until one of them did its graceful glide right towards us, and Clio started saying "I don't want it. No ray." over and over again. Chanting, really.

And this became a common refrain: The walrus (huge, magnificent) and its calf (pride of Brooklyn, advertised all over the subways): "No want it. No Walrus."

Furry seals? No.

Adorable family of penguins? A dozen varieties of sea horse? Billowy, ethereal jellyfish? Not even they.

And forget about the sharks, giant turtles, and other large swimming things.

You know what Clio did like? A murky tank of tiny, tiny snails.

I kid you not. These things were so small, at first I thought they had just forgotten to put the "exhibit closed" sign behind the glass. But there they were. The tiniest snails, with the tiniest shells, I have ever seen.


Clio hung out in front of that tank for quite a long time, and it seemed to break her of her "No want it" mood: she ran around this last exhibit with gusto, insisting we take off her jacket so she could get comfortable, stay a while. She grabbed us by the finger and led us through the darkened corridors. I think the kid's got a thing for subtlety: after the snails, the showstopper was the sandfish display, with little wisps of nearly-transparent white fish that skim the water's bottom and cover themselves with sand to blend in. This sophisticated camoflauge was no match for one eagle-eyed toddler.

My favorite? The moon jellyfish. There were giant tanks of them, backlit in neon colors, in a portion of the exhibit called "Alien Stingers." I wouldn't want to encounter them in the wild (see Starring Sally J Freedman as Herself - okay, so those were man-o-wars, but in my childhood mind's eye, they all got clumped together into something very scary), but they do make a beautiful sight to behold.

Dreaming of Minnesota?

This morning, Clio woke up asking for Papa. While I got her out of her sleepers and into pants, she just said "Papa? Papa? Papa?" over and over. When we went downstairs and sat down in the danish rocker for a little pre-breakfast snuggle, she started saying Nonny.

I tried to explain that Nonny and Papa are in Minnesota, far away, and that we can't see them right now. She looked at me and said, "Laila and Owey." I wasn't sure I heard her right (Laila and Owen are Lizzie's kids, who also live in Minnesota and who Clio has only spent time with on a handful of occasions.) I asked her to say again, and sure enough: "Laila and Owey."

Then, on the way to day care, completely unprovoked, Clio started saying Shooda. I asked if she was talking about her cousin Lucia, and she said "Yes. Shooda. 'Inn." Lucia and Finn.

I think she must have been dreaming of Minnesota last night.

This Just In...

My mom found one of the shots of Lizzie and I on the deck- this one happens to be from the back, so you can't really see any resemblance to our preent-day photo in a reent post, but don't you just love that particular tone of 70s snapshots? So nostalgic; I love how the yellowish cast just conjures an era so completely.

Thanks for sending, Mom!

Pretty

This morning Clio requested to wear something "pretty" to Day Care. It started when I went in to get her up, wearing a top with a rhinestone-encrusted circle at the peak of the V-neck (like one of those popular diamond-circle necklaces embedded right into your clothing), and she immediately reached for it and said, you got it, "pretty." Later, when we went up to get dressed, she said "Clio, pretty," and affirmed that she'd like to wear a dress, please. And her fancy party shoes. And a green barrette with a duck. No, a purple barrette with a bear. ("Purple Bear!"). Apparently when she got to Day Care and got out of her coat, she paraded around the room, rubbing her hands down her dress and pronouncing it "pretty." That's my girl.

I was famous for my fashion choices as a kid- so much so that my brothers STILL find hallmark cards about the tendency, and every once in a while friends and colleagues will ask about some of my themed-phases, just for fun (the 3d grade Equestrian phase, the 7th grade Secretary phase, the 12th grade- yes, 12th- Laura Ashley floral romper phase). According to my mother, I started picking out my own clothes, completely, when I was 2, causing the neighbors (the afore-mentioned Lizzie, Amy, and Carrie's Moms) to wonder aloud how my mother found the courage to let me leave the house "that way". From a young age, I believed in layering pattern, and felt that flowers matched flowers, plaid matched plaid, and so on and so forth. I also had a thing for fuzzy tights, clogs, and dresses, dresses, dresses. Another of my mom's favorite tales is of a dress I spotted at Zaires, at least 2 sizes to big, that I had to have and did in fact wear for a number of years until I finally outgrew it. She's been scanning all kinds of pictures lately- maybe she'll send one on (she know's exactly what I'm talking about!).

So I should have wondered when Clio might take an interest. She has been trying to dress herself lately, but up until this happy morning, I thought it was purely a matter of function; form is so much more fun.

And speaking of pretty, Marni just sent me this picture from her wedding day: check us out in our furs, against a backdrop of Manhattan: how very, very glam!

First Blood

Well, it was bound to happen sooner than later: Clio fell down went boom. Luckily, this did not happen on my watch. The first time my Jetta got a ding (back when it was brand-spankin'-new), I literally fell to my knees on the streets of Hell's Kitchen and emitted something like a strangled wail. In fact, the weight of ownership and the responsibility of marring the initial perfection of something completely mine was just too much, and I vowed to buy used forever. (what's another ding, right?) I guess I've learned that a little patina goes a long way, and sometimes kids get hurt. They just do. In this case Clio apparently tripped over her own feet when she and Dave were running home from Day Care, and cut her lip on her tooth. She healed up quickly; in fact, if Dave hadn't told me, I never would have known the next morning (especially since he hid the evidence; the bloody parka was already in the dryer by the time I got home!) In the end, I'm glad I'm just seeing these pictures now, where enough time has passed to be sure there's no residual damage, like internal injuries or Brain Cloud any of those other vague and threatening things that everyone gets on Grey's Anatomy.



They also say kids are pretty resilient. I think Dave took this the same night:


Yup. Not bothered, so I guess it's best if we're not, too.

Best. Christmas Present. Ever.

Lucia and Finn (with plenty of help from their parents) went all out for Clio's second Christmas (I keep wanting to call it her "First" Christmas- last year she seemed to have an excellent time, but clearly had no clue what this pagan celebration of trees and presents was all about). Check out the colossal gift, and the impressive wrap-job:


These kids could NOT wait for Clio to open this up. Unfortunately for them, Clio fell asleep in the car on the way to their house, and ended up napping through lunch, causing them to wait an interminably long time. Finn spent some of that time INSIDE the gift, moving the whole thing around like it was on remote control. I spent much of that time telling my parents that they were going to inherit this house of a present, and that Clio could visit it when she came to town. Maud assured me we could get it back to Brooklyn.

Maud, of course, was right: behold the genius of the pop-up house (Finn and Lucia each did a lot of demonstrating)


In addition to the new house, just perfectly Clio-sized, one of the greatest things about spending several days with Clio's cousins was this:




Clio and Lucia are about 2 years apart, and they could not have had a better time together; maybe this second baby wasn't such a terrible idea after all!

When 2 Blogs Collide

Over the holiday, we got to spend a morning with the Hewitts, they of The Hewitt Chronicles, an excellent mommy blog that I often refer to and shamelessly encourage you all to read. (The blogger, one of my very oldest friends in the world, makes me laugh and cry with almost every single post.)

Liz Edwards and I have been friends, along with fellow cul-de-sac neighbors Amy and Carrie Losleban, for 30 years. One of the things that sucks about living in New York is that Lizzie, Amy, and Carrie live in Minnesota, along with their kids Laila and Owen, Abigail Claire and Ian, and Morgan and Greta (respectively). Now, especially with so many girls within playing range, there is a sense of deja vu on the (very rare) occasion that any of these girls get together. Not least because personality seems to be as genetic as anything, and in one way or another these girls are a reflection of their moms.

I've been tearing the house apart for three days trying to find my favorite picture of Liz and I from our childhood, but no such luck; you'll just have to imagine it: we're about 4 and 5, we have our hair in a ton of little braids, and we're smiling like big goofballs on the deck of my parents old house.

Now, here we are in 2007:



When Dave was taking these pictures, I found myself a little embarrassed that Lizzie's kids are so well behaved, but mine is, well... not always willing to sit still. You know what though? Laila is just like I remember Lizzie: polite, a little proper, slightly soft-spoken, but very observant and intelligently funny. And everyone who knew me when I was Clio's age says she is just like me: spirited, independent, often laughing. I suppose we pass some of things down by example, but if you do go to the Hewitt Chronicles, specifically to this post, you'll see how much is simply in our DNA.