Frak 'U'

We are having a hard morning.

Ayla is obsessing over her letter.

Preschool starts with circle time. You sit on your letter on the circle rug. The first day Ayla sat on the letter 'A' and was pleased as pink punch.

But Ayla did not get assigned the letter 'A'. Pert, upright, charming little 'A'. Ayla was assigned the undulous,unctuous, sinking depths of 'U'. My first born likes things to be neat and orderly. She decides, with her own reason, how things should go, and she has a very difficult time if life does not unroll the way she imagined it would and should. Ayla starts with 'A', she sat on 'A' first, 'A' should have been her letter.

"How was school?" I ask Ayla.

"I sat on the 'A' and then I got up to use the bathroom and a girl sat on my 'A' and the teacher told her to move but she wouldn't move."

or,

"Ayla, at school today you will play outside, you'll play in the house, you'll sing a song, maybe you'll draw a picture. . . "

"But will I have to have circle time?"

"Yes."

Silence. Folded arms. Cross face. "I HATE circle time. I don't want to go to school!"

All of this stress (it is stressful for a child like Ayla for there not to be order where she believes it should be. I feel stressed when there's no order in my life, and I'm not four) and disappointment culminated in an Ayla who, this morning, asked me nicely if she could stay home, folded her arms and demanded to stay home, shouted at me that she HATES school, and finally, in the hallway, began crying and begging me please to take her home, she did not want to go to school, she wanted to play with me and Indy.

She was out of school on Tuesday with a bit of a cold. Otherwise, I'm telling you: I would have whisked her out of there.

Ayla was coaxed, crying, to the inferior 'U' on the circle mat. Indy was pulled out of the classroom, crying and kicking (her usual leaving Ayla routine). I stood in the doorway hiding from Ayla but watching her sad little face with tears rolling down.

Miss Kim persuaded me to leave but I wanted to punch her in her smiling face. The umbilical cord thirsted for her blood. It will not abide the sound of tears.

Then Indy and I walked to Starbucks and walked home. We do this a lot in the mornings, but this is the first time we had ever done it without Ayla. Only Indy skipping along beside me. No Ayla running a block and then getting tired and climbing gangly-limbed into the stroller.

I missed her.

It made me very sad. And so I cried.

A Sorry Excuse

Miss Indiana Sophie Tuttle did in fact turn three years old on August 15, 2009.

She did not get blogged about, due to the sturm und drang over Ayla's first day of school.

(Side note: the German term 'sturm und drang' was the inspiration for the name of the school Durmstrang in the Harry Potter novels)

Noah made some really good food and if you want to see a lovely picture of it, head over to my sister's blog.

It was fun to have Indy's birthday because the beast is a charmer and she gave us a multitude of happy exclamations to soothe our tired ears. Wow, cool, awesome, great, and thank you all poured like sweet honey from her lips. And unlike Ayla, Indy was not apt to open a present, throw it down, and start crying because you bought her a purple sparkly live unicorn with rainbow hair instead of the pink one that she asked for.

Happy Birthday, Indy. Thanks for being my daughter. I couldn't survive motherhood without you (and your sister too).



















(A note on Indy's outfit: Yes, I would have loved for my Indy to look a bit more gussied up and prettified for her 3-day pictures. But my little fashionista changes her clothes about every 33 minutes. (JUMP!) If you don't let her choose her own clothes, she cries. It's not worth the battle. Plus, what kind of mother makes her lively little lovely cry on her own birthday?)

POST-EDIT: That is not a third nipple on Ayla's chest. She fell on the raw metal edge of her scooter handle bar. Domo Arigato, Hello Kitty.

First Day of School--Ever

Ayla was excited and wouldn't let me hold her hand in the hallways.

They filed in, hung up their backpacks on the hook by their name, and sat in the circle for story time.

I was doing ok until we started to leave
and Indy started yelling
"C'mon, Aye-yah! Aye-yah, C'mon! Let's go!"

Then she started crying but not
before
I did.

Dear Mom

Dear Mom,

I don't remember which Halloween it was that I was Rainbow Brite. Maybe you don't either. But I bet you remember sewing that costume. It was perfect. I remember that to me, it was absolutely perfect. It had the big puffy arm things and the big puffy rainbow leg warmers. In my memory, dad painted a star on my face.

I remember being in a room with you. I think it was on Dexter street, but of course, I'm not sure. You were interviewing me. Well--you were interviewing Rainbow Brite. I believe I requested an interview and you obliged while getting me into that costume. You asked me questions about my horse, Starlight. About the sprites, and my favorite sprite, Twink. I think you asked me what it was like bringing color to the world.

I loved Rainbow Brite. I loved that huge, homemade costume. I don't think at seven or eight or nine, I was sentient enough to know that the costume I so loved was an expression of your love for me. But I know now.

A mother-daughter relationship is messy. We end up all tangled up in one another. Enmeshed. Some mothers--like the Other Mother in Coraline--consume their children. Some undermine them, rob them of confidence or sense of self. You did so much better than all of that. You gave me what I try to give Ayla and Indy--the freedom, and the ability, and the courage, to be myself. Not an actress, like you. Not a crafty sort of person. Maybe (here's the tricky one!)not even a Lutheran. (Uh-oh. I guess giving your children freedom to pursue their own passions can be a double-edged sword. Now watch Ayla and Indy grow up to be gender-role worshiping anti-feminists. Or Fundamentalists. Or Republicans. Horrors!)

Which is important. Equally important as everything else you did, when we were small. Driving to field trips. Baking cookies in winter. Blasting music on Christmas and Easter morning (it still feels festive to me). Listening to me, and never laughing at me. Being a woman of strength so I could learn to be one too. Reading The Secret Garden to me--and then letting me read The Secret Garden to you. Once, on Humboldt street, I woke up from a nap and found you and dad in the kitchen. I was sure, at that moment, that you had never been happier to see anyone or anything in your life than you were to see me. (Now, as a mother of napping toddlers, I realize your feelings upon seeing me up and at 'em again may have been something less like joy and more like resignation. But I didn't know that, then.)

All those things were so important.I want to tell you how much all that means to me now. But mostly, I just want to say thank you. Mostly, I just want to say that I love you.

Happy Birthday, Mom.


Love,
Britt

I'm So Excited

I'm so excited! I'm so. . . well you know the rest.



Since many of us have been so enjoying The Time Traveler's Wife, I thought you might like to know that Audrey Niffenegger's next book, HER FEARFUL SYMMETRY, will be released next month. September 29, to be exact.

You might be interested to know that like virtually everyone in the literary world, Niffenegger is friends with Neil Gaiman. She did a large amount of research into graveyards for HFS, and so when Neil Himself needed to learn about graveyards for his Newberry award winning novel THE GRAVEYARD BOOK, Audrey, in a moment of fearful synergy, showed him around London's Highgate Cemetery, and, we can only assume, displayed to him her fearful savvy.

Sorry.

While we are on the subject of books:



THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO is the first book from Swedish author Steig Larsson. I picked it up after hearing it reviewed positively on NPR. It is a crime novel.

Yes, that was hard to admit.

Crime novels and mysteries are not usually my cup of joe. But after reading Tana French's incredible IN THE WOODS and her eerie follow up, THE LIKENESS, my mind was softened toward the genre. Let me tell you, if you don't read certain books because they are considered genre novels, you're only hurting yourself. You are sparing yourself from some truly wonderful writing simply because you are a bit of a snob. Take a deep breath and get comfy with your snobbery. Then try admitting that someone who writes "fantasy" (like Tolkien, LeGuin, Gaiman?) or "mystery" (Wilkie Collins, Edgar Allan Poe?) could conceivably be. . . a decent writer.

Dragon Tattoo author Steig Larsson died after turning in the manuscripts for three books. The books have since been hugely successful. He was a journalist and an activist, exposing racism and sexism in Swedish government, and because of his views received many death threats during his life.

The book is very intelligent. It deals with government and politics and Swedish culture, while at the same time unravelling a great mystery. Many mysteries seem to get a bit of a kick out of killing off young women in all sorts of horrendous ways. Larsson uses the death of or violence against women in his novels as a way of saying, Look. See what is being done.

Mainly I enjoyed it because the main character spends a lot of time driving around Sweden downing latte after espresso after coffee after latte. I enjoyed the book taking me to snowy Sweden, eating strange Swedish sandwiches (egg, cheese, caviar) and bacon pancakes. And downing all that coffee.

Off to have a latte and dream of snowy climes.

On The Range

I am feeling quite sorry for myself, and I thought you all might want to join me in feeling sorry for myself, too.

Mr. Vesuvius is traveling to Chicago for a few days. At an undisclosed point in time. He is traveling WITHOUT ME. Let me repeat: Mr. Vesuvius intends to abscond with himself, secreted away in the warm confines of a chase, borne across plain and field of corn, SANS HIS COMELY AND MAGNANIMOUS WIFE, to the vast sweeps of the metropolis Chicago.

Wife will remain at home to tend the children and feed the Indians. And you never know what a young wife might do, left alone in the wilderness with but the company of herself, her babes--still in small clothes--and the unsettling yet alluring presence of the savage braves.

Most likely she will live at McDonalds and the giant breakfast food at cherry creek mall.

Feel free to send pity offerings--coffee beans, espresso drinks, books, soft t-shirts, magazines, red wine, dark chocolate, etc--to young wife at her home address. Don't hesitate, my dears. We all know you are charitable indeed. But most humble about it, at that.

Raising Junior

When Ayla was a newborn, I thought she was Uncle Junior from the Sopranos.

Yes, really.

I don't expect you to understand. I can only tell you the truth. You see, when I gave birth to my first child, my hormones served me up a pretty wild cocktail. Some women get lovey-dream-unicorn potions. Some seem to get bliss in a bottle. I think mine must have had the hormonal equivalent of absinthe in it, because I was pretty sure my life was over, and that in my arms, all day long, I cradled and rocked and soothed Uncle Junior.

I was terrified to leave the house. Not because I was worried about germs. I was worried my baby would scream and people would stare at me and judge me and know I was a bad mother for having an infant that actually cried, and may even report me to social services, because that woman's baby was CRYING, for heaven's sake, and what kind of mother gave birth to a child that would actually CRY? Because you know what they say about babies: Crying in public one day, raising communist armies the next.

So I was spending most of my time sitting on a couch holding Ayla and watching tv and trying not to think about how I'd never be able to read a full magazine article again, let alone an actual book, and writing? Forget about it. That was a dream for people without uteri, clearly. So we were watching The Sopranos. A lot. Episodes back to back, three or four a night. I don't remember a lot about season one, but I do remember this: Uncle Junior was a tyrant. He ruled that family. He kept them all on a short leash, and they were obliged, nay, forced, to be at his beck and call. You did what he wanted, when he wanted it. If Uncle Junior wanted baked ziti at 4 a.m, you made it for him. If he wanted to throw it up all over you afterward, yet let him do that too. You didn't piss off Uncle Junior because he would throw a tantrum. Raise an almighty ruckus. And if he did, you might end up crying, feeling helpless, feeling out of control of your own life. You could find yourself curled into fetal position in an old Toyota on the New Jersey turnpike, rocking yourself and knowing that life as you knew it was over. Or standing in the dog food aisle at Target holding nursing pads and four boxes of Abuelita and trying to remember how you got here in the first place and whether or not you actually have a dog. He might deprive you of sleep, if you did not comply with his demands. Or, you know. Put a bullet in your brain pan.

Are you starting to see the connection? Little burrito-baby Ayla Beloved was ruling our lives surely as Uncle Junior ruled those Sopranos. That, my Green Fairy hormonal happy hour special, and Ayla's beautiful but scrunched, wrinkled, wizened little face, were all causing me to gaze down into the eyes of my nursing baby and become convinced that I was, in fact, nursing Junior Soprano.

(Note to those of you considering having babies: Newborns make you so deliriously tired that you may actually hallucinate you have birthed an 80 year old,bespectacled, cranky mob boss. Or maybe these days, you will think you're nursing Naveem from Lost or Admiral Adama from BSG or Tracy Morgan. Just know you are not alone.)

Ayla no longer reminds me of--or appears to actually be--Uncle Junior. I mean, sure, yesterday she did demand I drive her to her favorite Italian bakery for cannolis and on the way there arranged a hit on Brobee, that monstrous green thing from Yo Gabba Gabba that she hates, but what kid doesn't want to see Brobee get what's coming to him?



No, friends. Ayla cut her own bangs on Sunday. As soon as I find my hook-the-camera-to-the-computer cord, you will see pictures. But for now, you'll have to satisfy yourself with this knowlege.

These days, she reminds me of Amelie.

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