On Not Being Grateful Enough

It seems like there has been a lot of sad, strange news lately, and I am trying to gain some perspective.

My friend Jo's husband went into the hospital with a stomach ache upon returning from vacation; This Saturday, just 5 weeks later, he passed away from pancreatic cancer, leaving behind his wife and 18 year old son, Max.

A colleague in my building recently learned that her husband has a degenerative brain disease that has created a state somewhere beyond manic-depression or bi-polar disorder, a condition that includes emotional desensitization and a decreasing ability to remember who he is, or his family.

Both women, only 50ish, lost their life partners, their best friends, the fathers of their teenaged boys, the men they have lived with their entire adult lives. Jo did not have enough time in the passing, and can not really fathom that Graham is not coming back. Emily had a long, slow, and despairing loss, and will continue to "lose" her husband for as long as he lives--in a violent state of forgetting--and it could be a long, long time.

These are two situations that I can't begin to imagine surviving.

They are situations that make me wonder why I get so angry when the bathroom garbage is overflowing at work and I am the only one who ever empties it (I'm not your mother, people); when commuters won't let you out before trying to push into the subway car (I'm pregnant, people); and when Dave and I quarrel over the teeniest tiniest thing, and allow "fault" and "blame" and "who did it wrong" to seep into the hairline cracks between us, where I hope they won't expand, like the sapling that grows up to split the boulder it stems from.

The garbage, the subway, who forgot to wash the knives or close the cupboards- these things are petty complaints, but I suppose they are a part of life, and a part that we don't realize as petty until we see them in the light of something much more serious. There's a passage in Bel Canto, the book I'm reading now, where hostages in a bungled kidnapping in Latin America become demanding, emboldened by their restlesseness. The author writes, "but there was also this: nearly 18 hours had passed, and still no one was dead. If what a person wants is his life, he tends to be quiet about wanting anything else. Once the life begins to feel secure, one feels the freedom to complain." In our daily lives, we take it for granted that life is secure. It is too easy to take on guilt in the face of unfair death, to believe we are never grateful enough.

Still, we can learn something. Jo told me that she and Graham made it twenty years in this era of divorce because they shared such a sense of humor about things. At the funeral yesterday, most of the speakers reflected on Graham's sense of wonder, and his refusal to take himself, or his work, too seriously. What he did take seriously was his love for Jo, his pride in Max, and his belief that they were his whole life and future.

I can only hope that Dave and I can make that true for ourselves. Actually, I can do more than that. I can work to make it true.

Turns

The other night, while getting Clio ready for bed, she rediscovered the door stopper in her room. It's one of those metal coils with a rubber end that boings and recoils when you push down on it- which Clio proceeded to do again, and again, and again. Then, she sat back in the corner, pointed at me, and said "Turn!"

I must say, it's refreshing to have a toddler offer you a turn at anything, but she is certainly progressing in the sharing department. Last weekend at the shore, there was another little guest at the Schapiros, a one-year-old named David. Apart from some gentle pushing or tugging here and there, they got along fabulously.

(Here's Clio pushing)

(And David tugging).

Clio happily shared her cool travel eat-seat with David, and David shared some awesome balls, blocks, and books about trucks with Clio. But the absolute best thing that Clio got to share was David's sunglasses. She thought she was very cool, indeed.



And also thought the best part about sunglasses is that you can take them off and put them on. Again. And again. And again.

Down the Shore

We had the good fortune to spend the weekend in Lavalette, a quiet town on the Jersey Shore, at Marni's in-laws beach house. At first Clio was not so sure about the sand (though she was very enthused about playing in the pebble driveways of the Shapiro's street: "Rocks!" was a common refrain throughout the day); but uncertainty gave way to fascination, and we took some good, cold walks along the beach. Clio stared down at her shoes as they kicked up the sand, and tended to weave inadvertently downslope, towards the water. She never did warm up to the idea of the ocean, though. When she realized she was getting close, she would say, "No want it. No water," and insist on being carried back up the shore, to a safer distance.

Maybe in the summer she'll get into it.
(More photos to come- Marni took some great ones on the beach)

The Colors of the Rainbow

I've been thinking about the possibilities of video lately- thanks to Isaac's dad, Sam, I was invited by the folks at Babble to throw my hat in the ring for a new, sponsored video blog; they were looking for a video-diary style, with mom and child both figuring prominently in the narrative. As a writer-in-the-basement-in-my-spare-time, I was thrilled by the invitation; as a mom about to expose herself (and child) to a broader public, I was less so, so I turned down the opportunity (with thanks).

Really, video is not my thing- I don't have the best eye, and I'm more about reframing a moment into something meaningful than manipulating its meaning as it's happening (more hind-sight than of the moment), but I love that the invitation made me to think differently about the possibilities of the medium. Like last weekend when I was lying in bed staring at the ceiling fan, and I could hear Clio reading books down the hall in her room, I wished I had the video camera. It was a slice-of-life that said as much about me and our family life as it shared news of Clio with friends and family.

This video is none of the above. It's straight Clio, doing her thing. Also, it is the most unflattering possible angle of me (thanks, Dave) - so much so that I almost did not post it here. For the record, here at the 5-month mark I am definitely showing, but my thighs etc. are not nearly as inflated as this video might lead you to believe. (I had a post up my sleeve about my current stats, the recent "pop," and the fact that the new baby has become really active over the past few weeks, and so on, but I guess I've sort of blown it here, in just one sentence.)

I suggest you just focus on Clio. And Marni, who looks adorable in her "Mrs. Shapiro" tank top.

it's a....?!

We went for the 20-week anatomy scan today, and confirmed that Second Baby Peterson will in fact have 10 toes, 10 fingers, and 4 chambers to its beautiful, beating heart.
Lots of things came back to me from the first time we did this, too; like how much the spine really got me: the idea that this creature that has bee growing (inside me!!) for just 21 weeks has so much tiny detail, so many individual parts, sometimes feels beyond comprehension. This time, the feet kind of did it, and the balled up little fists with all the metatarsals showing. (Dad, are they called metatarsals in the hand, or just in the feet?). It was also funny to be back at the hospital for the first time since we brought Clio home. Dave suggested we revisit the birthing room, but I declined.

Ayway, the ultrasound magic all got a little stalled by the process. We waited for an hour in admitting, only to be told that we could have gone straight up to Ultrasound (the opposite of what Ultrasound told me when I made the appointment). I was VERY crabby about this, partly because Dave has reformed my habit of lateness (and replaced it with lateness anxiety), and partly because I couldn't remember if this was the ultrasound that required a very full bladder, so I had provided one- but had timed it for my appointment, not for the hour long wait. So things were a little uncomfortable in the waiting room.

Upstairs, having clearly missed the appointment, we waited another hour, at which point I spoke to the receptionist about rescheduling (as I was now on the brink of missing my afternoon appointment at the office); guess when the next available time was? MARCH. (Is there a baby boom going on or what?) So we stayed. And we went through the whole ultrasound process TWICE because the Dr. noticed that the technician's dates all showed me to be, on average, 19 weeks pregnant when I am supposedly 21 weeks along, so we went back and remeasured everything.

Long story short, the more time we spent at the hospital, the more tempted I became to find out the sex of the baby, especially when the technician dispelled all myths about false identifications with stories of giving herself ultrasounds and determining her babies sex as early as 12 weeks into her pregnancy. We talked about what it would change to know: basically, if it's a boy, I would strive to buy Clio more gender-neutral clothing, and if it's a girl, I would stop worrying and go even further down the path of Pink.

Ultimately, though, I think I would be disappointed to know, immediately after being told; not because of the verdict one way or another- I don't really care what we have- but more because of the loss of having that news still out there in front of us, waiting for the great birthday reveal.

New Vocab: Chillax

Dave and I recently learned this new word. To oversimplify a lot (and perhaps to offend the sensitive while I'm at it), we were listening to some piece on NPR in the car, about an English professor teaching Shakespeare or poetry (depending on which of us you believe) to teenagers at a high school or college (ditto) in the 'hood (on this point we agree), and when describing one of the characters, a student says something along the lines of "you know, he's all chillax."

Chillax. Let's just contemplate that for a moment. (I feel as old and white as William Safire right now, and actually think this would be a perfect subject for On Language. Incidentally, his most recent piece refers to the origins of the terms blog and blogger- a tidy little connection I was not expecting when I linked to it!). Anyway, the girl had to explain to the professor that chillax was a contraction for chill and relax(ed), and that basically by combining the two synonyms, you emphasize both.

We think this photo of Clio illustrates the concept beautifully.

The Making of a Sports Fan?

I know, I know, where have all the pictures gone? Who wants to read all these words when they can look at adorable or hilarious pictures of Clio?

For various technical reasons, we've been on a touch of a photo-taking hiatus, but I've got a few for you today. And, bonus: I'll get all historical on you, too.

Now, we all know that Superbowl Sunday is, like, a huge deal for most men, everywhere. And this year, New York happened to be playing. To be clear, Dave and I were not watching in support of the Giants because they are the New York team, but instead because they were the major underdogs, playing against big cheating jerks. (As Dave put it, the Patriots are like the Yankees; and guess what? We hate the Yankees. We boooooo the Yankees.) So, big game; even bigger than usual. (And the commercials did not fail to disappoint for once! Did you all see the Justin Timberlake Pepsi ads? Or, maybe it was Coke... I guess if I can't remember, that's a commercial that is disappointing someone- like the brand strategists who put it together).

Anyway. Any of you with small children who "aren't allowed to watch television" may have noticed, as we did, that the game started a bit inconveniently early. So, here's Dave, "reading" to Clio while actually watching the game.
And getting caught in the act.


And, flashback to July 9, 2006 when Clio, a mere 4 days old, got a nice warm place to sleep while her Dad watched the world cup finals.

And got caught in the act.


She doesn't actually seem too interested in sports at this point. If Dora played football, that might be another story....