Remembering Megan

A dear friend of mine, much more a sister than a friend, passed away a few years ago. Megan coped with manageable health problems much of her life but nothing prepared her friends and family for a diagnosis of lung cancer in 2004. She did not smoke. She was a young, beautiful, funny, vivacious woman. Eight months after the diagnosis she slipped away. I'm not sure any of us have really recovered, least of all her family. Paul and I considered naming Charlotte for Megan (Margaret was her given name), but in the end I needed to look into my baby's eyes without feeling that ache.

When Charlotte was born, her mother Robin sent us a dress that had been Meg's. I tucked it safely in the closet. Perhaps in the spring she'd wear it, when she was bigger. A month later I began shopping for a dress for Charlie to wear at Christmas. I came up empty. I thought it odd, but decided there would be no special outfit for her for the holiday. We had no big parties planned. There was no real need. Then on Christmas Eve I looked at our pretty tree and declared we would take a family photo. But what would Charlotte wear? I'd screwed up. Into her closet I went, and there it was, as if planned, Megan's lovely red and white dress. It fit perfectly. Megan was with us again, sharing our first family Christmas. It felt so right. Coincidence? Maybe....

War Paint

Harry loves to finger paint, draw (read: scribble) and dabble on his chalkboard (slash the air with gigantic pieces of sidewalk chalk, occasionally striking the easel). So yesterday we planted ourselves on the floor, squeezed globs of paint onto huge pieces of paper and tried to channel the Italian masters. Unable to recreate the Sistine Chapel, we instead dipped our feet in paint and trampled over the crisp white sheets. Even Charlotte got a turn, her floppy body assisted by mom. We were a mess. But as I'm quickly discovering, any good play session requires dirt, sand or washable paint. To that end, Harry endured two baths and two changes of clothes. It was before donning his second pair of slacks that Harry was put down for a nap in socks, a tee-shirt and a diaper. He decided to take the easy access to his nappy as a sign that he should strip off the diaper and pee on his bed....which he promptly did.

'All Aboard!'

Harry awoke Christmas morning to the 'whooooo whoooo' of a train whistle. Toddling down the stairs in his jammies, he found his trains rambling around a track atop a train table (courtesy his grandparents). The trains are about all he can think about. They're about all his father can think about. (see some video of said love at the bottom of this post). Mom is still refining her track construction skills. Let's see dad bake a loaf of bread or knit a sweater, OK?


Hoping to keep the train love alive, we took Harry and Charlotte to Washington's Botanical Gardens where they put up a terrific winterland train display that snakes its way through the plants. Harry absolutely LOVED it, not just the trains but the steamy jungle environment, the water features, the green of it all. If there had been food he probably would have moved in. As it is, we discovered our child is not even slightly afraid of crowds. Which terrifies me. He broke away from us a half dozen times, insisting on blazing the trail through the holiday stampede of visitors to DC. Going to have to keep a VERY close eye on this one. Forever. Speaking of which...

...This morning I combed Charlotte's hair into a Mohawk in tribute to her cousin Sarah, who has allegedly fashioned her green locks into a punk do. And she wonders why she can't find a summer job. Teenagers, gotta love 'em. Please remind me in ten years. I plan to have Sarah's mother on speed-dial when Harry turns 13.

On Dasher. On Dancer,...

Harry is safely tucked in bed, visions of sugar plums (or cheese and crackers) dancing in his wee head. The night's finest amusement was making Harry pose with Charlotte in his lap. He seemed both intrigued and honored. The best part, he didn't drop her.

Tomorrow morning he will wake to a train table, already set up with his choo-choos. Not sure who will be more excited. Harry, or mom and dad, who will no longer have to fold their 40-year-old bodies onto the floor to play with their son and his trains.

Merry Christmas all!

Tea for Two

I learned yesterday that Harry has a penchant for tea....or I should say...playing tea party. He's learned this particular social skill from his friend Lucy. Together at their home they sit on the carpet and share empty plastic cups of imaginary liquid, all the while muttering "mmmmm." Last night I gave it a shot, sitting down with him on one of the painfully tiny chairs that accompanies his painfully small table and "poured" us some tea. We don't have a tea set, so mom took out some white porcelain sake cups. Not the best choice, as it turned out, but more on that later.

Harry poured and I took to saying "mmmm." When my cup was "empty" Harry took it to the water spout on the regrigerator door and filled it up with pride. Second helpings. We had a lovely party. When asked who we should invite to the next tea fest, he said "paba," which is Barnes-speak for "grandad." Of course the story ends with Harry smashing his cup, like the Greeks, into the floor. Note to Leef: this is why children's tea sets are made of plastic.

A Christmas Miracle

After months of prodding and pleading, it was the love of a cookie that did the trick. This morning, faced with a butter cookie and the prospect of not having said butter cookie....Harry said "please." Not just once, but over and over until the cookie was planted firmly in his hands. Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.

Cookie, Cookie, Cookie Starts with 'C'

Staying home for the holidays is proving lovely after all. We're discovering time we've never had for fun, activities made considerably more fun with kids. Yesterday I baked cookies with Harry. Sure, I did most of the baking, but he was an invaluable helper -- eating raw dough, wielding cookie cutters with abandon, tracking spilled baking soda through the house. Honestly, it was great. My godmother Cynthia came by to show me the way, rolling out some of the sugar cookies and feeding Charlotte a bottle or two. Paul turned on some Christmas carols and by golly...I felt like one of Santa's elves. Harry learned a new word today. You'll never guess which one. He spent part of the morning stationed in front of the oven, pointing at the baking sheets, chanting "ookie, ookie, ookie."