Poor Me

At swim class today, I told Miss Taylor that I had reminded Indy not to let go of the wall if Miss Taylor wasn't holding her. I said this because I wanted to remind Miss Taylor that Indy is prone to letting go of the wall when Miss Taylor isn't holding her.

While Ayla did the best damn backfloat that has ever been done in the history of any Starfish level swimmer at Eisenhower Park, and heck, for all we know, at any swimming pool across the entire country, Indy hung onto the wall.

Then Indy climbed out. She told Miss Taylor, "I have to go see my mom! Oh. Mom's gone." (Mom wasn't gone, but was sitting outside the fence as the instructors requested) And she climbed back in.

While another child was doing a backfloat that was sadly far inferior to Ayla's-- hopefully he will not feel too bad about when he wakes up from nap and realizes that his good backfloat was all a dream and in reality, Ayla had him trumped for sure--Indy climbed out again. Then she did a stance that is meant to communicate alpha-ness to the swim park wildlife. She bends forward at the waist and pulls both her arms back in the air. She looks as if she's about to jump, but she's not. What she really looks like is an NFL coach screaming at a ref who has just made a bad call and lost them the game. Then she shakes her head back and forth as she talks. She wasn't screaming at any child, just sort of hulking over and jabbering at all of them, but it was most definitely meant to show dominance.

I am beginning to see that Indiana might be a problem.

Then it was Indy's turn to backfloat. Indy doesn't perform on request. She would like you to know that she is not your little cymbal-armed monkey with a coin box, thank you very much. After a moment of hanging on to Miss Taylor's shoulders, Indy came to her own conclusion. She would do a backfloat, but only because she wanted to, not because Miss Taylor asked her to. You got that, Miss Taylor?

At this point Ayla, from amidst a crowd of kids, began chanting "In-dy! In-dy! In-dy!" and mom shed a tear and stored this memory away to use the next time Ayla screams that Indy can't play with her anymore and Indy screams back "Poo poo YOU, AI-YA!!".

Indy backfloated for about five seconds before shooting her butt down and her chin up into the V-position. "Why'd you stop?", bemoaned Miss Taylor. "You were doing so well!"

Poor Miss Taylor. She has not mothered Indy for the last three years, else she would know the answer to that question. Indy does as Indy wants. If you think this is due to a lack of discipline, I invite you to come and witness Mr. Vesuvius and I trying to discipline Indy. It's like trying to stop a volcano from errupting. The volcano will errupt, no matter how many times you put it in time out or take away it's toys and treats or put it to bed early or tell it "NO NO NAUGHTY VOLCANO!!". It sees what you're trying to do and all, but it doesn't really care, it has hot lava to spew, thank you.

I do not have dominion over Indy anymore than I have dominion over the real Vesuvius.

After swim class, we went to the park. Yesterday Ayla and Indy found a third little girl to play with. For awhile they ran around in the grass and it was amazing to watch. Ayla and Indy shifted in precise alignment with each other without warning or words. They were like a flock of birds. They held their arms outspread and swooped and dived in perfect union. Like they had rehearsed this already, like some olympic choreographer had taught them ahead of time. But of course, they hadn't. They just moved together, intuitively, as one.

Today things did not go so well. Ayla wanted to play with a pair of older girls. One of them was that type. You know the type. I knew it the minute she condescended to ask Ayla how old she was. "I'm nine," she announced, as if she were announcing that her saliva was made of gold and she was going to single-handedly end world poverty. The two older girls spent a few minutes leading eachother from swing to slide, holding hands and ignoring Ayla.

Ayla, disappointed, wandered over to me.

"Mom," she said. "I can't play with them because they're stuck together."

She really did say that.

For a moment she looked so sad that I opened my big, recession-aching mouth and told her we'd go to McDonalds.

Which will probably be a better lunch then they had today, as I once again proved myself a total failure as a mother, ran out of jelly, and fed them peanut butter and Hersey syrup sandwiches.

But they were good.

(P.S. We found a bike for Ayla! Also, I did in fact take pictures this morning, but now I have lost the cord to upload them to my computer so you'll have to wait. Sorry.)

I'm Not Joking

The girls had their first swim lesson today at Eisenhower.

I failed completely as a mother and forgot to bring my camera. It was the first time I have ever had to get the girls to a class or lesson on time by myself in the morning, and I was a bit stressed. I don't know how I'm going to manage when Ayla starts preschool on WEDNESDAY AUGUST 19.

I thought the girls would splash in the kiddy pool and I would flip through a magazine in the shade, but alas. Even the best laid plans, and all that.

Ayla tells her teacher, Miss Taylor, that her name is Eva.

Indy grins, slaps her chest, and says (loudly) "My name Indy Gosa!!"

Indy dives into the kiddy pool and splashes around and generally ignores the teacher, who later says "Who can get their whole head wet like Indy?". I can tell Miss Taylor likes Indy because even though she's not exactly listening, the kid is cute.

Ayla was the first kid to be the leader in follow the leader, alligator walk style.

Then it was time for the big pool.

In a replay of an event that occurred in this family some 20 years ago, Heather playing the role of Indy and myself playing the role of my own mother, Indy jumps into the pool when Miss Taylor isn't looking and sort of propels herself forward but mostly sinks til all but the crown of her head is underwater.

I go running toward the class, shouting "She's! She's!"

Because clearly, "She's!" is the international word for 'my child can't swim but she thinks she can and now she's sort of failing could you please help her out with that?'.

Miss Taylor spots Indy, pulls her up, says she's sorry, and perches all the kids on the ledge for a SECOND lecture about how they must hold on to the wall when she's not holding them herself.

Indy jumps out of the pool and comes running at me--in the middle of class--and Miss Taylor says to me, "Sorry!", and then to Indy, "Walk! Don't run!"

I put Indy back in the pool.

Children kicking.

Indy breaks free again.

I put her back. Again.

Whilst I am putting her back, some other mom steals my chair.

Ayla volunteers to go out first on the paddleboard and does some first class kicking while Miss Taylor wields her around the pool and I watch Indy for another solo attempt.

Luckily, no more solo attempts were made.

Ayla has been trying to teach Indy to say her name. Indy's first word, at about 9.5 months, was "Awa". In the morning, and after nap, Indy would stand in her crib and call "Awa! Awa!". Which meant, of course, Ayla. At some point she stopped saying Awa and moved on to Ai-ya.

They go like this:

"Indy. Say 'ay'"

"Ay."

"Now say, 'lah'"

"Lah!"

"Now say, Ayla!"

"Say four. Saaay fooour."

"Indy. INDY! Say Ay-luh. Ayla! Say Ay."

"Ay."

"Say luh!"

"Aiya say four. Say fooouuur."

Ayla sighs. "Just forget it."

Ayla gets frustrated but I think it's karma for the idea that pops into her head when she sees this picture at Blockbuster:




She smiles and slyly says, "I want that picture to go in Indy's room."

(P.S We are on the BIG TIME LOOKOUT for a 16 inch girls bike for Ayla. The two my mom has kindly bought her in the past are too small for her now. If you see a good deal while out garage-saling, please call me. Loves.)

Bon Anniversaire

Fish Heads

Last weekend, Noah and I watched our daughter Ayla pick up a (cooked) fish head and suck out the eyes.

We did not cringe or flinch. Not outwardly. We smiled. We do not wish to teach her fear.

Before the eye-sucking, Ayla had examined the raw fish. Jiggled the jaw open-close-open-close. Prodded the tongue.

It was stiff.

Felt the scales and poked the squishy eyeballs.

Who knew this could be my daughter?

Indy has announced her fear of tigers.

"Tigers angry."

And Ayla has developed a knack for scary story telling.

Just listen to this gem:

"Once upon a time there was a fairy, and she was walking in a tree, and a squirrel POOPED AND POOPED all over it!"

I am not ashamed to say

I laughed quite hard.

May was a prime month for falling asleep in boxes. Indy knew this right away. Because,

as Ayla and I say:

Indiana. Knows many things.

Hush Little Baby

The New Lyrics.

I first sang this song this way for Ayla. Because the original lyrics escaped me. But Ayla hates it when I sing.

Indy, however, asks me to sing it most every night. If I start singing something else, she says "No, bird! Bird!".

This is my version:

Hush little Indy, don't say a word
Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird
And if that mockingbird don't sing
Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring
And if that diamond ring turns brass
Mama's gonna buy you a looking glass
And if that looking glass gets broke
Mama's gonna make you an omelette with no yolk
And if that omelette don't taste good
Mama's gonna make it taste like it should
And if my Indy's still not pleased,
Mama's gonna make it with ham and cheese
And if that omelette still tastes bad,
Then my little Indy be very sad
So hush little Indy, don't say a word
Mama's gonna buy you
A mocking
(kiss Indy)
Bird.



If you ever put Ayla to sleep, this is what you need to do.

You turn off the lights. Make sure she has her nipple (this is our word for binkie, because Ayla's binkie is a bottle nipple). Make sure she has her blankie. She might want her knuffle bunny. Then you stroke her forehead down to her nose between her eyes. And then you say, quietly and rhythmically:

The stars are sleeping.
The moon is sleeping.
The trees are sleeping.
The wind is sleeping.
(the first four lines are always the same. Then it varies every time.)
The earth is sleeping.
The rivers are sleeping.
The lakes are sleeping.
The flowers. Are sleeping.
The fairies are sleeping.
The elves are sleeping.
The gnomes are sleeping.
The trolls and goblins and witches are sleeping.
The pixies are sleeping.
The mountains are sleeping.
The ocean is sleeping.
The desert and plains and prairie are sleeping.
The sun is sleeping.
(next we move on to zoo animals)
The gorillas are sleeping.
The tigers are sleeping.
The elephants and lions and zebras are sleeping.
The wolves are sleeping.
The mice are sleeping.
The penguins are sleeping.
The fish and the frogs and the snakes are sleeping.
(go on until you run out of zoo animals and then go on to farm animals if you're in the mood)
And then, we always end with:
Grandma is sleeping.
Papa is sleeping.
Ferris is sleeping.
Auntie Hoddie is sleeping.
Uncle Justin is sleeping.
Eisley is sleeping.
Grandpa is sleeping.
Grammy is sleeping.
Auntie Mercy and Uncle Trey are sleeping.
Sophie is sleeping.
Zach and Suzy are sleeping.
Carlton is sleeping.
Doodoo is sleeping.
Gingy and Josh and Lucky are sleeping.
Daddy is sleeping.
Indiana is sleeping.
And Ayla. (kiss) Is sleeping.

(the last three lines are always the same too).




I included Ferris because he was always in our recitation before today. Today Ferris has left this earth but he will never leave us. In dog heaven, there are many fish. There are magic tennis balls that allow a dog to fit seven in his mouth at one time. There are grass and rivers until eternity and there is always good company. Always a scratch behind the ears. Always a stick soaring through the air. Always the memory of our love, lingering in the place of a dog's instinct; the place that never leaves. Happy Trails, Ferris. We will love you for always.

Sweet Serenity, Treasured Nooks

A little bird named Dalley A. Galuzzi (ask her what the A stands for and you may or may not get an answer) kindly asked me to post a list of book recommends here. And since I have been meaning to for a long time (because I am fond of a book, here and there, from time to time) here we go:


MY TOP FIVE BOOKS OF ALL TIME (the version that does not include 'To Kill A Mockingbird' although it certainly could)

1) The Time Traveler's Wife, Audrey Niffenegger



This book wins because it's highly entertaining, incredibly creative, beautifully written, and an un-mushy love story. I recommend this book all the time and only once did someone tell me they didn't like. "It was too sad," she said. I think she was missing the point.

2) The Book Thief, Markus Zusak



It could be number one. The story of a German girl growing up in a poor neighborhood in Nazi Germany. And her scrappy, starving, huge-hearted best friend. And a hidden Jew who dreams of birds and boxing. All narrated by Death. Don't worry. Death is not macabre, or giddy. He is poignant and tender and continually amazed by humanities ability to love even under the worst of circumstances. Warning: This book could change you.

3)The Crimson Petal and the White, Michael Faber



A rolling romp of a good read. Sugar, our heroine, is a prostitute in Victorian London who spends her downtime penning feminist pamphlets. Historical Fiction at its best.

4) Fall on Your Knees, Anne Marie McDonald



Dark and beautiful. Family saga. Incredible writing. Takes place in Nova Scotia. What more could you ask for? (You may never forget "She does! She does!". Just ask me and Hea.)

5) The Road, Cormac McCarthy



Yeah, it was good. There's not much really to say. It's all there in the book.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

6) The Handmaid's Tale, Margaret Atwood

So disturbing, in a safe way, because it could never really happen.

. . . Or could it?

Ok. Moving on.

Recommended:

A Thousand Splendid Suns, Khaled Hosseini

The Other Boylen Girl, Phillipa Gregory (book clubby with sex and corsets) (but not a bodice ripper)

The Red Tent, Anita Diamant

Snow Flower and the Secret Fan, Lisa See (book clubby)

Plainsong by Kent Haruf and An Unfinished Life by Mark Spragg for a new western

The Gravedigger's Daughter, because you have to read at least one Joyce Carol Oates

The Mists of Avalon, Marion Z

The Russian Concubine, Kate Furnivall (fast 'n fun)


Mysteries:

This is a new genre for me to read. New since 5th grade, that is, when I moved out of my Mary Higgins Clark and Dean Koontz phase.

MUST READ: In The Woods, Tana French.
Note--this book has mixed reviews on Amazon. If you are a typical mystery genre reader and like your endings tied up neatly with a kiss and a bow on top, this might not be for you. That being said, this book got under my skin like maybe nothing else I've ever read and creeped me out and haunted me for days. I read it last October and I STILL think about it. You have to use your imagination. Seriously. Let your imagination run wild when reading this book. If you don't mind shades of gray, you will love this Edgar Award winner.

And if you like that, read The Likeness, her second. It's almost as good. Which is to say, it's really, really good.

I WOULD READ ANYTHING NEW BY:

Margaret Atwood and

Lauren Groff. I got an ARC of her first novel, "The Monsters of Templeton" from Barnes and Noble because I am a special person. Special enough that I once got an email saying "Send us your address and we'll send you a free book!" from bn.com and it was legit. Nevermind that the email went out to anyone who had an account at bn.com. My speciality is not thus declined.

TMOT (the monsters of. . .) was Groff's self-described love letter to her hometown, Cooperstown, NY. I love magic realism. Our hero, Willie Upton, returns home from college to her hometown, Templeton, in mild disgrace. I keep trying to describe this novel and I just can't figure out how. There's a lake with a monster in it. Maybe. A search for the truth about one's past. A group of men who run together every morning. Two women from another century who wrote each other letters and one of whom may have been responsible for a great tragedy. Old-timey pictures of the author's actual ancestors. Natty Bumppo aka Hawkeye? He's there too. And a eerie narative from a Native American girl. Groff makes this all make sense. And you have a lot of fun watching her do it.

Her next was a book of short stories which is normally not my thing. But "Delicate, Edible Birds" is full of delicate, edible stories. Savor them.


And finally, a world on Alice Hoffman:

I discovered her in my teen years and so of course I can't guarantee that anyone will find anything as good as something that meant something to someone in their teens. (There is sense in that sentence somewhere, I swear). Magic realism is her thing too. Incredible and fantastical things, people, and situations presented in a thoroughly real way. Almost all set in New England so they come with a dose of reeds and cranes and early American mythos and blackberries. My favorites were:

Here on Earth
Turtle Moon
Blackbird House
Seventh Heaven
Illumination Night
Property Of
Local Girls

My least favorites were:

The Third Angel
Skylight Confessions
The Probable Future

But that could just be because I had moved on from my dear Alice by the time those books came out.

That's all for now. More to come later. We still have to cover: Fantasy, YA, Vacation books, Memoirs, and Neil Gaiman. Ah, the thrills!

Interim

Easter. One of us had our priorities straight.




The snow of satan:




Chocolate ice cream and the insecure spring.













We bounced on the bouncy castle:







It rained.





Daddy making English toffee:


Indy eating toffee:










Finally, I like this picture Ayla snapped of me whilst I was unawares, because my hair looks brilliantly red:

Desert Bound

Tonight I am headed to Palm Desert.

There are lots of old people there, and golf courses.

There are streets lined with country clubs, hidden behind twin rows of skinny towering palms, one after the other after the other.

Babe's is maybe the best place to eat in town and there's a pool in every yard.

It should be hot, but not too hot.(Not yet).

I am sad to be away from my girlie-kin goblin babes for Easter. Family, I know you will take good care of them, and take many pictures. I will try to call them on Easter.

I have a couple other blogs typed up but they will have to wait til after Easter.

Yesterday I was brushing Ayla's hair as she stared at herself in the mirror. She didn't want me to pin her bangs off her face. "Because I don't look like me," she moaned. She pulled her bangs down across her left eye and asked me to pin them there.

Wtf?

So I did. "Look at you," I said. "You're beautiful."

"No I'm not!" she said, tearily.

Oh no oh no oh no oh lord lord lord.

She is too young to be telling me that.

It made me pretty sad. I wrapped my arms around her from behind and rested my chin on her shoulder and told her how pretty she is. "Pretty" is a tricky concept for me. How do you assure your 4.5 year old that she's beautiful without placing too much emphasis on looks?

Disney doesn't help. Ayla wants bright red hair like Ariel. Long hair like Jasmine. Blonde hair like Cinderlla. She's too young to dislike her own looks. I watched Disney when I was young, and I don't ever remember feeling inadequate to those cartoon women-children.

But Ayla does. And it breaks my heart. I try to tell her princesses are brave and kind and rule their people justly and with love.

She doesn't buy it.

The Moody Blues

This is what we do when it snows:






They are like this all the time, just hugs and kisses non-stop, I swear:

I Will Not Say This On Record Again

Dear Noah,

You were right. I left the coffee pot on for four hours and then came back for a second cup.

Sludge.

Love,
Vesuvius