Try Try Again

I want to be a perfectionist in all things. And I fail miserably. But when it comes to knitting, I endeavor to get it right (even when it gives me a splitting headache). Charlotte's pink sweater is precious, but the discovery that the sleeves were three-quarter just wouldn't fly. So last night I ripped out the hems and went at it again. Paul napped after a successful and fun Thanksgiving with the kids and out-of-town family...and I worked, knitting needles in hand. But the sweater is perfect now, suitable for at least a few months wear, and I'm happy. So now, on to the Christmas stockings. I plan to make four, one for each of us, in slightly different colors. I'll be lucky if I get one done by the time Santa arrives.




















I have a head cold that insists on lingering and a whopping sinus headache. So church was a miss (must make it there soon to adopt our family for the holiday!). I put Charlotte down for some much-needed tummy time. And while she turned her head a few times, she prefers to slumber on her belly. Cute but misguided, my dear. Harry tries very hard to join her on the mat, if only for the attention. This morning, when that proved unsuccessful, he began swatting her in the head with a sheet of newspaper. At least it wasn't a book.

Giving Thanks

I don't have a huge family. The births of my two children pretty much doubled my small circle of kin, but I am blessed to have a brother, sister-in law and two nephews who live a few states away, in Vermont. They decided to join us for Thanksgiving, their first chance to meet Charlie face-to-face.
During their whirl-wind journey we visited friends, participated in the Del Ray Turkey Trot with both the kids (kudos to Bonnie for joining us, despite West coast jet lag), ate a heaping turkey dinner and shop-shop-shopped at Nordstrom (perhaps Bonnie's favorite place on Planet Earth.).

Paul, and the boys went to the newly-remodeled American History Museum where they battled the crowds, which were conspicuously absent in the shopping malls. Good for Bonnie and me, bad for the, you know, economy. Good luck Mr. Obama.


Harry absolutely relished the attention shown to him by his uncle Doug, who read him stories, and cousin Reid, a strapping 13-year-old who is both brilliant and already wowing all the girls with his dashing good looks (look out Mr. Pitt).














Before the family left, Harry was presented with an awesome early Christmas gift -- a garbage truck with all kinds of movable parts. Funny, too, since Harry's favorite book of late is "I Stink," the story of a NYC garbage truck.

Charlotte took all the visitors in stride, posing for photos in her new sweater, the pink one mom has been knitting recently. Note please that mom welcomes all compliments on the sweater, which is already too small for said baby. She gets points for trying, right? Today, we unravel the sleeves and try again.

I Blame the President Elect

It was decided that we'd follow the time-tested methods suggested in the potty training books: strip toddler down, place potty within view, and wait. So why, not, I thought, just let Harry go bare while we were in the kitchen last night, and see if his potty proved alluring. That's when Paul and I got into a spirited discussion (read: argument) about the President elect and his plans for government contractors. Would he be ditching the lot in favor of government-employed scientists, or is it unnecessary worry. Suffice to say we fell on different sides of this debate, and in the process of making our points, we sort of forgot about Harry, who was happily roaming the kitchen sans diaper. Then I noticed the puddle near my feet. "Is that pee??" I laughed and Paul went to fetch some paper towels.....that's when he spotted the baby-sized pile of, yes, poop right next to the potty chair. While Harry clearly needs more practice (and I need more Mr. Clean), he did provide for gales of laughter. Good try buddy. We're rooting for you. Now where are those diapers?

Five

Ms. Charlotte, proving herself to be an awesome baby, did a five hour stretch in her bassinet last night. Five hours! I'm so proud of her, wasn't even annoyed when she vomited all over the kitchen floor. Who cares. Five hours! She even cooed through her morning bath, no tears. What a girl. Now if I could just find her something to wear for Thanksgiving dinner. My friend Jen, whose daughter is always dressed so adorably, loaned us a few things for the holidays (trying to do my part in with the rotten economy...borrowing not buying...it's so hard to restrain!), but everything is still a bit too big for Charlie, 6-weeks-old as she is. So the credit cards may make an appearance today at "Why Not" or my other Alexandria favorite, "Nina's Closet." Shopping for a precious little girl - Oh the agony.

Simple Pleasures

When I was about Harry's age I was photographed in my highchair, licking angel food cake batter off an electric beater tine. My brother, who is 18 years my senior, is also in the shot, greedily licking at the sweet goop. I made the world's finest chocolate chip cookies last night (not my recipe so I can brag -- secret ingredient? Sea Salt and 24-hour refrigeration, published this year in the NYT), introducing Harry at long last to the simple pleasure of cookies and milk. His reaction was a very pure "mmmmmmmmm." This picture reminds me very much of that day, let's see...38 years ago. All that's missing is uncle Doug. He's coming to visit for Thanksgiving. Maybe we can coerce him into a little cookie batter love fest while he's in town.

Little Man

It was big times for our little man last night. It started with his first shower! Sorry, no pictures since dad was also rinsing off. But there they were, under the waterfall of drops, rubber bath toys scattered at their feet. He liked it, but perhaps not as much as his new potty. He greeted the plastic pot with a big "hi!," inspected it inside and out and then stripped down and gave it a try, complete with reading material. No action so far (could you go with someone snapping pictures?), but we're taking it slow. No pressure Harry!

Sleepless In Alexandria

It occurred to me at 3:30 a.m., in the midst of a groggy feeding, that I used to stay awake at night just to watch Harry sleep. My heart would swell as I'd just gaze at him, my first little miracle. Funny how second miracles aren't quite so scintillating. Beautiful, wonderful, precious and cherished, yes, but last night, as I gazed at Charlotte, preferring for the first time to watch her slumber instead of taking my own opportunity to hit the pillow, I was reminded how second children just don't always score all the perks. In some ways, they're luckier. More seasoned parents make better, calmer parents and in turn, probably turn out more adjusted little ones who, for example, are willing to sleep without being held all the time. As a result, Charlie is a much better infant snoozer than her brother.

I recall the first time Harry threw up -- and I'm talking one of those Linda Blair Exorcist projectile vomit experiences -- I just lost it, sure he'd need to be hospitalized. There were calls to the pediatrician, chapters of speed reading in baby books, great wrending of hands. And of course it was nothing more than gas. Charlotte is already a champion puker and mom and dad are taking it in stride, this time with a lot of patience and laundry detergent on hand. To date she has visited the doc a mere fraction of the times we hauled in her brother. Sometimes it's good to come in second.

Included, some photos from Friday's mothers' group.: Harry picking through the pantry in search of food. And Charlotte in the gentle arms of my friend Holly.

Wide Load

Shortly before Harry was born our friend Bill presented me with this cover from the "New Yorker." At the time I thought it was funny. Now, not so much. Notice, if you will, how you can hardly see the baby peeping out through all the gear. I know that woman. She's me, struggling to decide which stroller, which diaper bag and what bottles to bring on a one hour journey away from the house. Do I have two sizes of diapers? Am I armed with a blanket, a burp cloth, a binky, a cheese stick? A fruit snack? A book? The list is endless, and still I inevitably forget something. Surely I'll have all the kinks worked out by the time my kids head off to Sidwell in the shadow of the Obama girls.

Potty Parity

There is a right way and a wrong way to potty train a toddler. In hindsight, Harry has spent the last few weeks announcing "pod-ee, pod-ee"...but his very tired and distracted parents could only shake their heads and ask each other "what's he saying?" Well tonight's declaration was made with authority and we finally got it. You mean "Potty?" I asked, totally incredulous that my son could even be thinking about potty training since God knows I'm not. Seemingly so relieved that someone finally understood, Harry made a dash for the bathroom...the door locked, he ran to the stairs in what seemed a search of the upstairs loo...So hey, I can be accomodating. I opened the bathroom door, if only to see what this boy would do. Then, in a brilliant act of parenting, i pulled down his pants and, yes, poop filled diaper, and put him onto the seat. Big mistake mom. Yes, curiosity was driving me. But what ensued was so messy that it merits no more digital ink. Many wet wipes and a bath followed. So tonight, I shall read Dr. Sears' chapter on potty training and listen more closely in the future. I think it's going to be a long while before we achive potty magic, but I give him credit for trying. Paul and I, however, get a big, fat "F."

By the Numbers

Everyone asks how it's going. Well, today was a challenge -- frazzled, boobs aching, house a disaster worthy of federal aid, but that's just the way it is with two little kids. If it's not a challenge, either the kids are in a coma or you are. I spent the morning trying to make it just to the afternoon when we headed off to my mothers' group for a play date -- a place where Harry could stuff himself with baked goldfish and I could talk with other moms who just know.

My day, by the numbers:

2 -- hours between feedings
5 -- times I changed a dirty diaper before leaving the house at 11:45 a.m.
2 -- timeouts before finishing my first cup of coffee
0-- finished cups of coffee
6 -- loads of laundry that lay scattered on the basement floor in need of folding
1 -- offer by Paul that we hire the nanny for half days on Friday
1-- number of times I have said that hiring a nanny on Friday would spell my defeat as a mom
3 -- minutes spent in the shower
4 -- times that both children have been crying in concert
4 -- times I've thought about the glass of wine I'll drink with dinner

And still, I can not count the number of blessings, there are just too many.

Special Delivery

It was just wrong that we never got a photo of Dr. Hibshman, the wonderful OB who delivered Charlotte. So at today's appointment I made sure to snap one. Charlotte wore her special mommy-made sweater for the reunion. And was so excited, she yawned for the historic photo.

Shampoo

Charlotte got her first trip to the salon last night. Her hair is lush, but no scissors have touched her locks just yet. No, mom needed a cut and Glynn Jones was happy to share his very luxe LA-style salon (was he?) with an infant. Charlotte got many oohs and ahhs but mom can't say it was the most relaxing hair cut, trying as she was to keep the inches of wet, newly shorn hair off her daughter's face and protect her from the hot blow drier. Frankly, it couldn't have been over fast enough. How ironic that when we arrived home we found a box from Aunty Elaine, filled with trinkets for the baby, including barrettes and hair clips. I can't wait!

Double Vision

Children's features change. Harry's certainly have in just a few short months. But so far, Charlotte is the spitting image of her mom as a newborn (and not just the shock of reddish hair). Right now, anyway, I have my own little mini-me. Even her lips, which I thought favored the Barnes side, look like mine did as a baby. We'll just have to see how things shake out in a few months. Baby Charlotte is pictured on the right.

Cold Duck

Harry was a spring baby. Charlotte basically made her debut at the end of the fall and wow, today I discovered just how hard it is to take a picture-postcard perfect walk with your baby when the wind is whipping and the chill puts the temps down in the 30s. My sister-in-law Jessica assured me last week that hey, the Inuits take their babies outside when it's 20 below, what's a little cold in DC? But man, we got about a half mile when I decided Charlotte was just too cold and we turned for home. So, we sat inside watching cheesy Pay-Per-View (me, not her) and I knitted while she napped on my lap. Overall, a picture-perfect few hours of bonding, but hardly a fresh-air bonanza. On the plus size, her sweater is half-way done. Maybe it'll help her stave off the winter chill on our next outdoor "adventure."

It's All Happening at the Zoo

I learned three things yesterday. Sometimes it doesn't matter if you forget to pack the pacifier, the wet-wipes, the camera or the right stroller...or even argue about it with your husband. You can still have a great time at the zoo. Harry got remarkably up-close-and-personal with a couple elephants (a word he still can't pronounce...hey, it's a big one), the pandas and even the super endangered and reclusive red panda, which sidled right up to him. Credit the blustery cold, absence of crowds and a little luck. We are officially a winter zoo family, declares Paul.

Number two: It doesn't matter how closely you watch your children, they can still surprise you with horrifying feats. Chartotte was two inches from me, seated in her bouncy chair, and somehow Harry managed to take the Swifer pole and plop the square, hard mop head on her head. Creative, yes. But oh so wrong my friends. I'd show you a picture but I was too busy slowing my heart to grab the camera.

Three: Do not leave any child below the age of 12 alone with your knitting. I'm making an adorable, very hippie sweater for Charlotte...if Harry will let me.

When Harry Met Charlotte

I was a writer in my former life. Then I had a baby, then another baby. Now I work as a magazine editor, beating up writers for a living. While I've missed writing, blogging has never, ever interested me. How I laughed when I saw the latest Doonesbury storyline: Veteran Washington Post reporter takes a buyout and begins blogging. However, and you knew there'd be one, recently my friend Jen mentioned that she'd been keeping a blog as a journal for her sweet daughter Caroline. While I'm pretty good at sending the in-laws photos, I constantly chasten myself for having yet to begin a baby book for our 18-month-old, Harry. Now enter Charlotte, our newborn. Do I even remember where I put her hospital bracelet? So in essence this blog will serve as a chronicle and an ode to my beautiful and funny children, the babies I hold so dear.

It was six sleepless weeks ago that Harry met his sister. Despite untold worry, they hit it off, or I should say he hit it off with his sister, without hitting her. In my zest to hold back the inevitable tide of sibling rivalry, I insisted we buy him a tricycle, the "Air Navigator," a triumph of German engineering and inflatable tires. While the trike brought great joy, it was totally unnecessary. Harry immediately took to calling Charlotte his "baby baby" and loves to stroke her hair, albeit with the ham handed graced of a toddler. When she's awake, he tries to feed her the dog's kibble, and rocks her with vigor in her bouncy seat, to which Paul and I shriek "no!" and ready our explanations to social services. At this moment he's trying to convince her to play with his blocks by dropping them on her head. It's a tall order for a playmate who is still trying to master the fine art of passing gas.