Year One

We had a birthday party for Desmond, because he turned one!
If I were to guess how old he was based on how many years I've aged since he was born or how many pounds I've lost I'd guess he's anywhere between ten years to two weeks old. But, in fact, he's one year old. So my parents and brother flew out from St. Louis and we threw a party at my sister-in-law's.
I think I may never host a one-year-old birthday party again, to preface. If Desmond were to ever have a sibling, s/he's already doomed. Or saved -- because it didn't seem like Desmond was having the best time of his life (that would be the day Dave flailed around the living room pretending to be a gorilla).
But I'd been planning this for months: a simple-to-make but hearty lunch menu of bbq brisket and baked beans (actually, the brisket wasn't that easy and was SUPER expensive. but also very delicious); a guest list that was generous but realistic; a cute photo-postcard invitation, specifying NO PRESENTS (Dave has a fear of plastic overload), but secretly knowing they would come; and, most importantly, the completion of a dissertation chapter to allow for a greater ease of socializing.
And it all turned out fine -- not everyone showed, which was a relief, but enough to make it seem like a party. Desmond, apparently, isn't fond of the limelight. But he was offered several supervised "be-alone" trips outside to calm his fragile nerves. And my mother likes to put things under my nose to look at when I already have quite enough under there to keep my attention. And my dad likes to do things slowly when things, for some reason I've concocted, must be done faster. Honestly, I was a perspiring, nervously-smiling, frosting-smeared mess by the end of the three hours.
But . . . I'm glad I did it . . . ? No, I am. It was fun and I got to see folks I haven't in a while, and come out as the mess I really am.

She's Alive!

I went to two -- TWO -- social events last week. After months of solitary confinement, I left my apartment after sunset and chatted with people over food and drinks.
Event #1
The Stroller Strides Christmas Party.
I've been attending this work out group for several months now -- not that you'd be able to tell, because I think I've lost exactly no pounds since giving birth. Nor have I really gotten to know any of the ladies. I get shy (*awww*). And also, it takes me a while to remember what people outside of university campuses talk about for fun. These work-out-mommies are all really nice. And I could care less if they've never heard of Lacan or chuckled over Tristram Shandy. But they don't watch Mad Men!?! And they don't think Liz Lemon is hilarious. I don't get it. So -- I've been keeping the chit-chat limited to the subject of how cute Desmond is. And he gives us so much to talk about, cause he's so darned cute. See? But the Christmas Party was real swell. I was a little anxious about it, and I'm never brave enough not to feel shy. But there was some good chatting going on -- mostly about babies. But also about other things. Check plus!

Event #2
Christmas Party hosted by a geologist at David's work
Dave was waffling on this one, he being 100X shyer than myself. But the host of the party had been really supportive of David and pushed for him to get a promotion. And I have a suspicion that Dave was getting a little sick of being the hermit-father, though I'm sure he'd deny it. So, at the last moment, Dave asked his dad if he wouldn't mind watching Desmond. And we used that free night to hang out with 50-year old, frizzy-haired state geologists. But it was nice. I talked with a young mother of three, the wife of an engineer. And Dave met people in his department. It wasn't a barn-burner -- and I slept like poop that night -- but it was nice.

How to Decorate a Dining Room

We moved baby Desmond to his own room a couple of weeks ago. Rather than putting him down to sleep in the dining room area -- which lies between the front living room and the hallway leading to the kitchen and back bedroom -- we housed his crib and new dresser in the back. This gave us the nighttime freedom to make noisy kitchen sounds and move from watching TV to grabbing an unneeded snack with ease.

The problem is -- Desmond is not a sound sleeper, and he's an early and exuberant riser. The back bedroom shares a wall with our very friendly neighbors who appreciate our concern but, I'm sure, would much prefer a full night's sleep (wouldn't we all). We've tried our best to sound-proof the room. I spent $60 at Joann's fabrics to make padded fabric wall panels, and Dave draped the room in blankets. But sounds still echo.

I don't think Desmond is sleeping any worse back there. But we are. Every little peep gets me out of bed to readjust and pacify for fear that louder noises are afoot, liable to wake the neighbors. And rather than letting him babble and moan when he wakes up at 5AM so that he'll learn to get up at the proper and just plain reasonable 6AM, I rush in to grab him and bring him to bed with us. This, apparently, is a delight to him -- but doesn't give us that much-needed extra hour.

The whole move has been the cause of early morning arguments. I want us all to just get used to the new arrangements for the sake of dinner as well as domestic aesthetics -- it just looks weird having a crib to creep by in the middle of the apartment. Dave wants it back the way it was for the sake of everyone's sanity. We can't (or I can't -- he's a pretty sound sleeper) keep popping up at every noise. And Desmond needs the vocal freedom to cry and moan and babble without all the parental fussing. He's right, damn him.

So tonight it goes back to the old, ugly arrangement.
My only consolation is that we only have three and a half more months on our lease. Two-bedroom house, here we come! Eventually.

Ikea Trip Threatens Marriage; or, Opposites May Not Attract

I love going to Ikea. Our trips are rare, saved for the transition moments when we've planned dramatic overhauls of our living arrangements. This weekend is one of those moments. We found a dresser on craigslist that will work as a changing table and will allow us to move Desmond into the bedroom and us into the "dining room." Desmond having his own room is a perfect excuse for an Ikea visit, an opportunity to pick up a kid's rug and some other things we need around the house.
Everyone, I think, must have a similar attraction to Ikea, especially on a quiet, unbusy afternoon. In fact, I just listened to a radio story about the store's opening in China which was promptly occupied by bored teenagers who used the little living rooms and kitchens and bedrooms as hang-out spaces in which to pass a lazy summer evening. With some meatballs on the side, this sounds like a perfect idea!
Yes, walking through the alternative universes of practically decorated spaces is inspirational and exciting and gets my synapses firing. Things on the top floor usually go okay for me. It's when we hit the "marketplace" that I begin to lose my mind-grapes. I know what it looks like from inside my shoes -- like a blur. I scan this cutely designed, reasonably priced object and before I can tell what the hell I'm looking at, I spy something across the aisle equally priced and just as cute. Should I get this colander, or this one? $4.99 or 9.99? Or this one for $11.99? But I have a colander. But this one is 4.99. or 11.99. These are colanders here, in front me. The one at home I can't see right now, so how do I know if it's as good as this one, that's only $9.99? I'm a mess, and it lasts the entire hour or so that I'm careening through the basement maze.
David is the exact opposite of me. But despite what you'd think, this does not help matters. His opposite to me is not calm, rational consumerism -- the kind that would gently chuckle at my mania and calmly remind me of all the colanders and hand towels and glass vases we already own. He is the kind of opposite that walks into the marketplace with a look of extreme skepticism and a resolute NO already formed on his lips. As I told him yesterday, he's like Desmond has become with the new foods we try to feed him: he pokes at it suspiciously and then closes his eyes and turns his head in disgust. This attitude does not counteract my frenzy. I think it may feed it, because now not only do I have to choose the items among all the items on my own, but I also have to yell at David and tell him to look at this thing in my hand, we need it right? Look at it! If only he'd look at it.

The Moe Syzlak Effect

Yesterday as Dave and I were approaching a garage sale, I had an imaginary conversation in which I was asked what I was looking for. "Oh, nothing in particular." This reminded me of a Simpsons episode that ends with Moe Syzlak swooping down with hand-made wings to save the day. As he's about to take off, an adoring fan asks where he's flying to. Moe shrugs and says, "Eh, nowheres in partickeller." As those words crossed my brain, they were uttered outloud by my husband. I turned to him and yelled, "Why did you say that? I was JUST thinking that! I mean, when you were saying it, I was thinking it. The words were in my head, but they were coming out of your mouth!"
And he said, "Oh well, when we were walking up to this garage sale, I was thinking they'd ask me . . ." And then he went on to tell me he was thinking the exact same thoughts. At the exact same time.
People, this is sad. In a couple of years, we probably won't even need to have verbal conversations. We'll be able to communicate with a series of winks and nods. Like baseball players. Which might be kind of annoying for Desmond. He'll learn the code eventually.

The One-Hour Evening TV Drama

I am currently deep into the third season of Mad Men, in which the ineffable Don Draper diagnoses the modern condition through his heartfelt ruminations for ad campaigns while juggling a harem of dark-haired mistresses.
Where would I be without my weekly one-hour evening dramas? I recently realized how long I've depended on them. I was watching "thirtysomething" when I was twelve years old. (Would this show hold up now that I'm in my thirties? I don't remember anything about the show except for Nancy getting cancer and Gary getting in a bike accident -- I think the rest was whining about kids and jobs -- which doesn't seem too far off.) Then "China Beach" -- some surfer dude, the camp prostitute with a heart of gold and Dana Delaney. Onto "Twin Peaks" -- of course my favorite of the bunch, cause it was scary and full of beautiful people (the choice between Bobby and James would eat at me for years.) Then a lull during my college years.
But then came the golden era of the one-hour cable drama: "Six Feet Under," "The Wire," and "Deadwood." With swear words and boobs!

Marriage and a Happy Baby

To backtrack a bit, we went to New York and attended a beautiful wedding surrounded by friends that I love to see but so rarely do. The wedding was way up in the Adirondacks in a lodge equipped with old-timey, cozy things -- like huge fireplaces, and a "There Will Be Blood" style bowling alley. The ceremony was simple and sweet, and by God, parted the rain clouds, so you know it must've been special. Someone did the sweetest, off-key version of Hendrix's "Waterfall" that has been stuck in my head ever since. I talked and ate and drank and pretty much had a gay old time. Was I walking around worried over the well-being of my baby (which again reminds me of "TWBB" -- "I've abandoned my child.")? Not really -- Dave was feeling a bit guilty, worried that he wouldn't remember us. But, after a few phone calls back home, I realized he was fine. He had a dog to distract him with occasional licks to the face. The nicest part, I must say, was to be with people I know the best and who say things I understand and who understand me when I say things. And who like to laugh a lot. I miss that.