The best present I ever got

Dear Peanut:

Happy third birthday! I cannot believe how big you've gotten, and how utterly beautiful you are. I can't believe the way you talk, like a self-assured mini-adult in 3T clothing. How could I ever sum up in a letter or a blog post what your arrival meant--and continues to mean--to your daddy and me?

In every moment since I got my first glimpse of you (your tiny feet) I have been so blown away by the intensity of parenthood. I never imagined that I could feel the things I've felt since you came into the world. I can't put into words what I felt when I tried and tried, in those early days, to get you to latch on to my breast. The utter joy when we succeeded, the bleak sense of frustration when we failed. The look on your little angel face when you woke up in the middle of the night, anticipating a feeding. I will never forget that look! It was so hopeful.

How can I explain how much we've loved every minute of your life? How scrumptious you were as a chubby little baby? How astonished everyone was when you stood up and walked at 10 months? How funny it was when you danced and danced? How proud we were as you started doing more things on your own, from feeding yourself to climbing the jungle gym to even, most of the time now (praise Jesus!) using the potty.

Every day I'm so excited about what you'll do next. In every stage so far you've been a different person, and each one has been amazing to behold. You'll never know how happy you've made us by coming into our lives.

Three years ago today I got my best present ever, my amazing fabulous Peanut baby. Happy birthday, my sweet girl.

Love,

Mommy

Out of the mouths of smart-alecky toddlers

The other day when I picked the Peanut up from day care, she came running up to me, flung her arms around my legs, and announced to all present, "I want to keep my mommy forever!" And birds sang and rainbows sparkled in the sunny skies, and I basked in the glories of motherhood.

This morning I went into her room to snuggle with her a little bit before we started our day. She took this opportunity to look deeply into my eyes and say, "I have a little butt and you have a big butt."

Naturally

The bridges are falling down and the public schools have to beg for money to provide luxuries like paper and books and we should maybe think about doing something about this whole global warming thing before, you know, Manhattan disappears into the sea, and New Orleans and vicinity remain a moldy debris-covered hellhole because we never bothered to clean up after that little weather problem they had down there a couple of years ago, but hey, we still need to spend hundreds of billions of dollars shooting and bombing people (mostly civilians) who never harmed us.

Osama bin Laden must be laughing his ass off.

Sprinting to safety

It was late in the afternoon, yesterday, and the Peanut and I were on our way back from one of our local playgrounds. She was in her stroller, where she doesn't always want to be, lately. She is getting so big -- she'll be 3 in a week! And now she wants to walk everywhere. But thank God yesterday she was in her stroller.

We were crossing a side street not far from our house. I glanced both ways before stepping into the intersection. I took a few steps and then I saw it: a tank of a gray Mercedes sedan, barreling down this suburban street at an unimaginable speed. (50, 60 mph?) I clutched the stroller handles and sprinted out of the way, reaching the sidewalk again a minute or two before the car came to a screeching halt, the smell of burnt rubber heavy in the air.

The driver and his passenger were talking, gesturing, not really paying attention. They turned right and sped off.

I pulled the stroller to the far end of the sidewalk, leaned against a building, tore my cell phone from my purse, called 911. The dispatcher told me a couple of times to slow down, because I was shaking with rage and she couldn't understand me. I was transferred to the local police department, and I gave them the license number, which I got a good look at before the car took off. The police told me they would look for the guy.

I called the police station back later in the evening and was told they were not able to find him.

What a metaphor, I thought. This is what it is to be alive now, and especially what it is to be a parent--always to be running for cover from some damn thing. Praying like hell that we're going to make it.

Best writing seminar ever

I just came back from beautiful Washington, D.C., where I attended this workshop, which offered the best discussion on writing and editing in the corporate environment I've ever been lucky enough to take part in. Plus lots of jokes involving assless chaps.

As a special bonus, I got to hang out in the hotel bar on Monday night with the presenters, Steve Crescenzo and Jim Ylisela. If you ever get to go to one of these events, be sure to have a drink or two with them. You won't be disappointed.

America the Beautiful

Trinity Church was packed that day, six years ago. The swaying crowd sang many songs, among them "America the Beautiful." When we arrived at this stanza:

O beautiful for patriot dream
That sees beyond the years
Thine alabaster cities gleam
Undimmed by human tears!
America! America!
God shed his grace on thee
And crown thy good with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea!

it was impossible to keep from sobbing. A stranger, an elderly man, sat next to me. We looked at each other and embraced as we sang and tried to wipe the tears from our eyes.

My hope for this Sept. 11 is that we all live long enough to one day see the "patriot dream" of America restored.

There is such a thing as a tesseract

Long before Harry, there were Meg and Charles Wallace, kid lit heroes for the ages. I've just read that Madeleine L'Engle, the author of the indescribably brilliant "Wrinkle in Time" series, has passed away at 88. I must have read those books a hundred times as a kid. God, they were amazing. In many ways "A Wind in the Door" is my favorite. I loved the cherubim, Proginoskes.

I still have my original editions, as a matter of fact. I cannot wait for the Peanut to read them.

My feelings exactly

This is brilliant -- both the diary and the many very insightful comments. I see I'm not the only one staying up nights.

Stay, Larry, stay!!!!

This is completely fabulous, for a number of reasons:

A: The longer Wide Stance Larry hangs around, clinging desperately to his Senate seat, the longer the cable teevee goofiness will continue, which means way less attention paid to the official lying about how awesomely the "surge" is going in Iraq, and

2: Should he somehow remain in office long enough to make it to the next election, it will give us the opportunity to pick up a Senate seat in freaking Idaho. Somewhere, Karl Rove is weeping.

Also, Larry gets bonus sheer-unadulterated-wackiness points for hiring Michael Vick's lawyer. (Because nothing says class like an association with a guy who electrocutes animals for fun.) At moments like this, I desperately regret leaving the newspaper business. Think of the snarky headline-writing opportunities!

Irony is officially dead

I just about drove off the road laughing when I heard this on the radio earlier: the sterling integrity of "World Wrestling Entertainment" has been compromised by steroid use.

Well, that didn't take long

Sooner or later in these GOP sex scandals, somebody comes up with a nice raunchy Dr. Seuss parody. ("I am not gay in my senator pants.") Awesome.

How long until he finds Jesus?

We have a Tom Tomorrow cartoon on our fridge that I just love. In the first frame, over an illustration of a stereotypical fat white Republican guy who happens to be in bed with a man, a woman, somebody dressed as a clown, and a giraffe, it says something to the effect of, "Should we assume that ALL moralizing right-wing Republicans are closet sexual libertines, or just some of them?" And the fat guy in the picture is checking his watch and saying, "Look at the time! I have to give a speech on traditional family values in an hour!"

I thought of this cartoon when I read about poor misunderstood Republican Sen. Larry Craig. What is he, like the 15th such Republican lawmaker caught with his pants down, so to speak? It's so hard to keep track.

Can Craig's discovery of a newfound devotion to his faith--or perhaps a trip to rehab--be far behind? (No pun intended.)

Birthdays

This weekend we got together with my parents to celebrate a couple of birthdays--my dad's 75th, and Mr. Fraulein's Birthday That Shall Not Be Named. We walked around the Mystic Aquarium in the tropical humidity, enjoying the seals and the penguins and the cownose rays and the beluga whale, and I got to thinking about fatherhood and the past.

First, my dad's past. Contained within the man my father is today--leaning on a cane, suddenly--are all the men he's been. The soldier going off to Korea, rakishly handsome, at 18. The hipster grinning out of the old photograph, slouching in his trim suit and skinny tie, a drink in his hand and my mother on his arm (skinny and elegant in a tight-waisted, flared 50s dress) in his 20s. The balding guy with the 5-o'clock shadow, the huge grin, and the toddler in his arms in his 30s. The guy who has spent his whole life in a complicated relationship with his extended family and God, whom he never forgave for taking away my twin brother, his only son, at birth.

I think a lot about the Daddy I worshipped as a little kid (an only child, Daddy's little girl) when I watch Mr. Fraulein with our Peanut.

The Peanut certainly loves me, and she often looks cautiously to me for my approval. She wants me to read to her and sing to her, and last week we had such fun hitting the outlets together (we scored big time at the Carter's and Stride Rite outlets--our first true mother-daughter shopping trip!) But as much as I believe and hope we will always have a special mommy/daughter bond, the place the Peanut holds in her heart for her daddy is sacred.

The Peanut loves her daddy with ferocious abandon. Yesterday we sat eating lunch, post-aquarium, and she asked him a question, but he was distracted and didn't answer right away. She thought for a second that he was ignoring her. She burst into furious tears. But once she got his attention all was right with the world again.

He's her best friend.

When Mr. Fraulein's Significant Birthday approached, I put out cautious feelers about what I should buy him. Getting presents for this husband of mine is difficult under any circumstances, as he never wants anything, but this was a special case. At first I thought maybe I'd throw a party or something. But when my inquiries were met with dark mutterings about walkers and Metamucil, I decided to drop the party idea.

Hopefully the best present Mr. Fraulein will get for this birthday (aside from Alberto Gonzales suddenly resigning!) is the knowledge that his youth is wrapped up in the Peanut's childhood. As long as he's still the dad who acts goofy and makes her giggle, he'll be even more than young at heart.

Fashion adviser, age not-quite-3, available for consultations

This morning as I sat eating my bland Weight Watchers CORE plan breakfast, the Peanut walked over and took an appraising look at my outfit.

"Are you wearing that to work?" she asked, aiming a withering stare at my admittedly not very fashionable khaki pants and rayon jacket.

"Well, yeah, I was planning to," I said. "What's the matter -- you don't think I should wear this?"

"No."

She won't be 3 until October. God help me when she's a teenager if she already hates my taste in clothing!

Like the way things are going?

Keep voting Republican.

Dirtbag dog murderer to own up to dirtbagginess

Who's surprised? These coddled, overpaid waste-of-space professional athletes are beyond pathetic.

Brilliant post on fatherhood and masculinity

By David Neiwert at Firedoglake here:

It’s impossible, I think, to put into words the immensity of the rewards that come with it: you watch them grow in body and spirit, become real little persons with real minds and dreams and desires all their own, and you bond with them in a way that lasts for life and maybe beyond. I’ve done many good and rewarding things in my life, but none of them — not even marrying a great woman, or publishing three books, or building up a good blog, all of them great things — has meant quite as much as being Fiona’s daddy.

Carcinogenic FEMA trailers and presidential politics

So it turns out that those trailers that were supposed to have been supplied to homeless victims of Hurricane Katrina--the ones that were long delayed, and came in inadequate numbers to begin with--were built with materials containing high levels of the carcinogen formaldehyde.

Thad Godish, a formaldehyde expert with Ball State University who has acted as an independent expert in evaluating the FEMA trailers, said the formaldehyde levels were very high _ some reaching more than 1 part per million _ in some trailers previously tested by federal regulators.

At such high levels, he said people, especially children younger than 6, are likely to be affected. "You're simply sick all the time," Godish said. "It's basically upper respiratory, nose, throat irritation, headaches, fatigue."

Just add that to the list of the ways the Gulf Coast has been screwed by this administration.

By the way, I've said it before and I'll say it again: those who think that this country--after it turned a completely blind eye to the wholesale, LITERAL destruction of a predominantly black region--is ready to elect a black man to the presidency are kidding themselves. Think about it: after the hurricane, not only was the Gulf Coast never rebuilt, but for the most part the story of the ongoing devastation has disappeared from public view, except for the occasional shameful revelation like the one about the FEMA trailers. The story has evaporated from the news because for the most part, people don't care.

And I believe that what's true for Barack Obama is equally true for Hillary, although for slightly different reasons. If one of them is the Democratic nominee, we are going to lose, and lose big.

We are simply not there yet. Racism and sexism are so deeply engrained into our culture, I personally doubt whether we'll ever be in a place where a minority or a woman could win the presidency. It pains me to admit that this is how it is. With so much at stake, is this the time to risk it?

Overheard in the Pre-K One Room

One of the Peanut's teachers tells me that her aforementioned best buddy C. was heard yesterday to comment, as he gazed at her lovingly, "(Peanut's real name) is so beautiful."

This kid, he still kills me.

Friday lit. blogging: Last word on "Deathly Hallows"

Am I the only one who thinks it's hilarious that the Minister of Magic (the wizard Prime Minister) who is put under the Imperius curse, performing unspeakable acts at the behest of a sinister group of puppet-masters, is named "Pius Thicknesse"? That ought to be George Bush's Secret Service code name.