Bated breath.

Hating being told to sit still for a picture.  2009.

I think we nearly lost our little dog this afternoon.

ClaireDog's been with us since Thanksgiving weekend 1998, when I scooped her out of a pen outside Wal-Mart and decided that I couldn't wait until Christmas to bring her home to Aaron. I went inside, bought a tiny harness and some food, and brought her home in a cardboard box. She was six weeks old and could fit in the palm of my hand. We wouldn't have kids for another seven years, but suddenly we had a baby.

She's been with us ever since, and her antics always entertained. She was a tiny puppy fireball who could hurtle herself over the back of the couch without touching it at all (skidding across the house on our hardwood floors on her rear end afterwards) and a "heat-seeking missle" that laid, panting, with her belly turned toward the flames of our gas space heater, baking herself until you couldn't touch her. (Then she'd stretch out belly-down on the coldest section of floor, recovering. Spa treatment, I called it.) She chewed on electrical cords until she shocked the tar out of herself on the a/c cord in her metal crate while we weren't home. She caught mice and floppy orange frisbees with wild and endless abandon. She fought the leash at first, hopping down the street on her hind legs, gagging, embarassing us to no end. She snowplowed through the yard at full tilt, spraying snow and pushing her body through the white cloud like a dervish. The first time we left town and left her with my sister, she immediately went into heat and started bleeding all over the place. My poor sister followed her around with little doggy diapers, trying to stop the chaos. We've laughed and laughed at her. God, she was nuts.

In Florida, she was my companion, digging with me in the sand as I built gardens and schemed to plant our front yard with natives instead of grass. She chased a giant black snake (harmless) that was living in our yard until he finally bit her in disgust and left forever. We would walk around the neighborhood retention pond, and I'd watch the bald eagles circle overhead and hope they weren't mistaking her for a rabbit. One day we came upon a giant momma sandhill crane and her baby, and had to beat a swift retreat as she spread her wings and advanced threateningly at us. She entertained our many visitors and gorged herself on fallen avocados from our tree. I remember crying and her licking my tears as we struggled through the horrid conflicts in our church (and employer) that led us to leave and head back to the Ozarks.

Now, she's a sleepy old thing who spends her days snoozing and asking to go outside. She loves to bake herself (still) on the sidewalk, even in this awful heat. When she's had enough, she comes and scratches at the door. (She's peeled the paint and scratched that old door something awful. I can't believe I let her do that. I do.) She loves carrots and cheese and any other treat she can scam from the kitchen; she loves the kids, and they've learned to treat her gently and love her, though not like Aaron and I do. She still thinks of herself as a fearful watchdog, obliged to bark furiously at anyone with a uniform, wheels or fur of any kind, or a tendency not to move right along out of her field of vision. As far as she's concerned, everything within sight is her property. Stay off your yard, neighbor. I have a fat geriatric minpin who's a-gonna bark you to death.

I've never had another dog. Before we had kids, she was our baby. She slept in our bed until she couldn't leap up anymore; then she slept on the floor in our room, until she started making a regular habit of peeing on the carpet in the hall. We tried and tried to get her to quit, but finally had to install a baby gate and keep her downstairs with the hardwood floors. She sleeps on her bed or on the couch now, and is apparently untraumatized by the switch. I still miss her warm body pressed against my feet. (Okay, I don't miss the hair in the bed. At all.)

Anyway. Today Aaron called as I was parking at the grocery store. She'd fallen out of an armchair in some kind of fit, and her hind legs wouldn't work right and her head was twisted and held hard to the right. She was panting hard. He sat with her, helpless, and I called the vet. There's not much we can do, he said. She'll either stop or she won't. Could be a seizure, could be a stroke.

Then, forty minutes later, her head straightened, and a minute or two later, she shakily got to her feet and tottered off for a drink. Aaron watched in amazement.

My sister says a 40-minute seizure would probably kill a person. But within an hour afterward, she was wiggling greetings and kissing us and asking to go outside just like she always does. I gave her half a baby asprin, as the vet suggested, and we'll go in for an exam tomorrow to see if there's any way to pinpoint or prevent the cause.

Hanging out with Gracie at the grandparents'.  2008?

There could be more of these, one after another. There could never be another. We really have no idea. Has she had them before, when we were gone? Will she have more, alone, when we're out of the house? How scary.

My sweet old dog. I'm thinking through 13 years with her tonight.

I know no dog lives forever. But how much time do we have left?

Why an Old House?

Why do I want to live in an old house? People ask that sometimes (or imply it with their eyes, as they see our somewhat chaotic life as we work to restore and update this home that we've chosen). I thought I'd take a little time and list some of my favorite details about this place. (I'd hoped to make it to 100, but I just don't have the stamina tonight.)

In absolutely no particular order.

1. I love the aesthetics of older rooms. Wood floors, big mullioned windows, higher ceilings. There's something peaceful about their spaces.
2. I love living WITHOUT homeowners' associations, because I'm an untidy yard person. Nobody's going to sniff at me if I leave my hose lying out in the side yard. If there's a bag of egg cartons on the front porch swing waiting to go to church (for a member's neighbor who sells eggs), nobody will be horrified. I do not have to water or weed my "lawn" or spray it with chemicals to keep the neighbors from being terrified of its dandelions. There is freedom in that for me.
3. We live on a steep hillside, but my backyard has a perfect garden-sized terrace built into it, because everyone used to grow their own vegetables. All I had to do was kill a little "grass" (see #2) and plant.
4. Our view. This was one of the first houses in the area, and we gaze over valleys in three directions. It's not a grand vista, but it's charming to have a little elbow room around us.
5. Our walls. Solid wood, 1" thick, where drywall would be in a modern house. Beat that for sound and weather insulation.
6. Our hooks and nails. Wherever I find a need to hang a robe, a cleaning brush, a picture, a plant... there's almost always a nail or hook already there to fill the need. And not just a boring modern robe hook, but a lovely patina'd wire one, full of character, or a chrome Art Deco model, sleek and striking. Makes me grin.
7. The flowers. The original owner was a hardware store owner, his wife a dedicated gardener. Come spring, our yard erupts with hundreds of pink hyacinths, daffodils, and some truly giant ancient shrubbery-- lilacs, a pink dogwood, and a giant fuschia azalea. It's gorgeous and fragrant, fodder for some truly amazing bouquets.
8. Mr. Perme's modifications. The second owner of the house was a WWII carpenter, and when something was in his way, he cheerfully altered it. The bottom stair to the basement, positioned to bang your shin terribly, has been rounded and sanded to avoid just that. A low ceiling beam in the porch's crawlspace has a notch cut out of it-- just tall enough, I imagine, for Mr. Perme to move through the space without cracking his head. Two closets were added upstairs (absolutely vital for modern life). A giant bookshelf was built in the dining room. The basement is full of wooden shelving, benches, worktables. I think Mr. Perme regularly as I move through the house-- we would never have time or attention to add all this ourselves.
9. The backyard's circular flower bed, ringed with a low wall of stones and cement, that I plan to someday make very useful (strawberries) or very beautiful (flowers).
10. Over an acre and a half.
11. The wild purple flowers that bloom in the thicket's shrubs on the side lot in the spring. I don't know what they are, but they're beautiful.
12. A neighbor who gardens and hangs out clothes on a clothesline and loves their old house like we love ours.
13. An enclosed back porch that makes a perfect playroom; the kids can play there, or bring their toys into the living areas, just a few feet from where I am in the living room or kitchen.
14. Old windows with wavy glass that we can easily repair ourselves. We've already repaired (okay, my husband has skillfully repaired) at least half a dozen of the old sashes, and the windows go from being impossibly heavy to lift to being able to raise and lower them with just a few fingers. We can replace broken glass, even repair rotten wood in the frames, easily, without having to replace entire windows. Incredibly sustainable. (Yes, they leak some heat and cold. It's worth it.)
15. The "E.P." childishly painted in a pseudo-stained glass "work of art" in the upper panes of Evelyn Perme's old bedroom. It's hidden by a valance, and I'm not sure I'll ever want it removed. It tells a story.
16. The smallest windows in the house are on the west and east sides, to shield the house from the freezing old and blazing sun. The largest windows are on the south side, to bring in light and heat in the winter, and light without heat in the summer. Every bedroom but one has windows on two walls, which makes arranging furniture a challenge but lets in wonderful breezes and air when the windows are opened. Double-hung windows will let cool air in the lower openings while letting hot air flow out the upper openings. Wonderful "green" design from 90 years ago.
17. Because of all this thoughtful design, and the fact that our living space is all downstairs and our bedrooms all upstairs, we've learned that the house is entirely livable 95% of the time without any heat or a/c on the upper floor. Enough heat rises in the winter to keep us cool, but not cold (as is good for health and good sleep); enough night air can be drawn in through the upstairs windows with fans in the summer to keep us cool enough to sleep. It's amazing, but I see no need to invest big bucks to install ductwork and a climate control system. 5% of the year, we're uncomfortable. That's a tiny amount.
18. The "J.O. Wilson, March 7, 1920" written in the concrete of the garden retaining wall. The original owner, leaving his mark. (The house was four years old by then; I think the date represents the day the concrete was poured...?)
19. The low stone wall on the south side of the house, lined with hundreds of iris plants that erupt in bloom twice a year.
20. The double-drainboard cast iron sink on its metal cabinet in the kitchen.
21. A cool basement for keeping potatoes and onions and such. (We're trying to grow our own this year and will need a place to store them.)
22. Wiring and plumbing that's simple and straightforward, and made of higher-quality materials than can now be bought at any normal price.
23. Insulation board that Mr. Perme has crammed into every imaginable crack and orifice of the basement and back porch. I'm sure it's part of why our utility bills are so reasonable-- but he was obviously obsessed.
24. The pull chains on the bare-bulb fixtures in the original closets upstairs, which turn on and off with such a smooth, flawless motion after 90 years. (I compare these to one modern one we have-- it's cheap, flimsy plastic and has to be pulled so hard that I'm afraid I'm going to break it each time I need to use it.)
25. The medicine cabinet oddly installed on the back porch, which has never been a bathroom. What on earth did they need to store there?
26. Woodwork that's heavy, thick, and elegant, on every window and baseboard and doorframe of the house.
27. The "pass-through" hole in the wall between the kitchen and the dining room, created by Mr. Perme when he got sick of bringing the telephone from one room to another via the doorway. (According to their daughter Evelyn, Mrs. Perme was NOT home when he knocked a hole in her kitchen wall, and she was NOT pleased when she returned.)
28. Mail delivered to the mailbox on our porch railing, rather than in a box out on the street.
29. A big front porch swing.
30. Big, big, big oak trees surrounding the house-- but not overhanging it. I especially appreciate the shade and privacy they provide in the summer.
31. A hook by the front door that's just right for a holiday wreath, and little cup hooks installed all along the front porch that hold a string of Christmas lights perfectly.
32. Our little one-car garage, made of local stone with the original tin tile roof still intact. (Now, I do wish we still had a door on that garage, but I guess one can't have everything...)
33. Gutters that feed directly into underground drains that dump rainwater far away from the house.
34. Concrete borders built on either side of narrow beds flanking the sidewalk leading to our front door: a perfect planting bed for hostas.
35. Old windows, hinges, window locks, panes of wavy glass, light fixtures, etc, all carefully preserved in the basement and shed.
36. A heavy old metal window fan, a gift from the Permes when we bought the house, that is strong enough to pull cool air in from every window upstairs on summer nights.
37. An old wood-handled flathead screwdriver, fished out of a window, that somehow works better for the old screws in our hardware and doorknobs.
38. Layers of linoleum and contact paper in the kitchen cabinet that tells the story of decades of decor changes. I'd never remove those.
39. Sweet pea vines that spring up, wild and crazy, and cover areas of the yard with blooms and fragrance in the summer. They're messy, but I can't bring myself to remove them yet.
40. Old glass storm windows on the playroom windows, that multiply the wavy-paned effect and make the room swim with light.
41. Rabbits that live in the thicket on the side lot and occasionally appear in our yard, nibbling clover. (I may change my mind about those rabbits now that we're trying to grow vegetables...)
42. Marbles dug up when we planted the hostas in the front yard: evidence of children playing on the sidewalk, long ago.
43. Oak floors downstairs, which refinished beautifully.
44. Original pine floors upstairs with lovely gaps between the boards because of their age. (Most of those floors are carpeted now for the childraising years, but someday, we'll refinish the rest of them too.)
45. A beautiful staircase with original dark wood on the railing and newel posts. I love how the finish on the posts is worn by the hundreds of hands that have rubbed against them as their owners traveled up and down the stairs.
46. Stairs that are markedly shallower than standard stair sizes today-- making them easier for little feet (and someday, old joints) to maneuver.
47. Funky old chrome handles on the kitchen cabinets.
48. Pocket doors on the living room and pantry doorways that still slide perfectly after all this time.
49. Old clown wallpaper on the back porch playroom's walls. I'll have to replace this soon, as it's getting fragile and discolored, but I love that it was obviously a child's place long ago, just as it is now.
50. A big, deep old cast iron tub in the bathroom, perfect for soaking.
51. A chimney that runs up the center of the house, with the perfect vent spot for a woodstove in the dining room already there. (Should we ever decide to invest in that.)
52. Flocks of bird visitors to our little feeders.
53. A front porch that's broad and deep enough for chairs and even a dining table, with broad concrete railings perfect for sitting on as well.
54. The beautiful original wallpaper still showing in my closet, and the unpainted original dark wood still visible on the trim inside the closets upstairs. Someday we WILL refinish the doors at least, to show off a bit of that beautiful wood that's underneath the paint.
55. Sturdy wooden ceilings that allowed my husband to hang my HEAVY choice of a dining room light fixture without ripping out ceilings to install additional bracing in the proper spot.
56. Soundproofing by the solid wooden doors and walls. So total, it's hard to hear my children crying from another room if their doors are closed. (Bad thing now, good thing in a few years!)
57. Windows that let in sunlight all day long, creating pools of warmth for my little old dog who loves to sleep in them. You can always find her on the east side of the house in the morning, the south in the afternoon...
58. The heavy cotton curtains decorated with Egyptians that are hanging over the utility shelving on the back porch. I wonder if they've been there since the US's Egyptian fad in the 1920s.
59. The little bars of soap I keep finding stashed in odd corners, even years after we moved in. Mrs. Perme's idea of air fresheners, I imagine... we find another one occasionally, like magic, even though we've certainly been over every inch of every closet already.
60. The giant glass bottle with pump sprayer that we found in the garage. It's perfect for spraying liquid fertilizer, and I love how it looks sitting on the old shelf in there.
61. The hilarious-but-very-useful utility shutoff valves that have been installed into the beautiful (but leaky) original exposed plumbing in our shower. It's very handy to be able to shut off the shower flow without adjusting the temperature knobs, but more than that, I love the sheer fuction-over-form ugliness of it: practical Mr. Perme strikes again, I'm sure.
62. The currently unused water cistern below the kitchen windows. It's dry and covered with concrete pavers and a birdbath right now, but should I ever get brave enough to fashion myself a rainwater catchment system, I have the perfect vessel right there to hold it.
63. A pole I just discovered this month near the garden. It probably used to support a clothesline, but will be perfect for me to mount a tall pole with my future bat house on it. (Bats eat thousands of mosquitoes every night, and that is probably my least favorite thing about this house... we are hounded by mosquitoes every evening here.

Whew, what a list. I'm sure no one is still reading at this point, and that's okay. It was lovely for my state of mind to write all this out. I'm feeling very blessed.

...those are also #27-90 of my gratitude items, because I've been grateful for each and every one of these old-house quirks as we've lived our lives in this home for the past two-plus years.

Thanks, J.O. and Mrs Wilson. Thanks, Perme family. You've prepared a lovely home for my family.

We are happy here.

I'd rather be knitting.

Darn.

I logged in, opened this page, hoping to write, and realized:

There are too many things to record, moments to share, discontents, hopes, fears, joys, worries. I sit in front of the keyboard and am helpless amongst the swirl. How do I pick which one to focus on? (When I try to write about a little of everything, it turns into a list, not a piece of writing, and then nobody's satisfied, most of all me.)

Swirl. Swirl.

Oh, forget it. I'm going to go knit on that sweater.

27) Knitting, which is mindless yet productive, giving both time to reflect and new challenges to overcome, and which provides me hours of entertainment and a sense of community at ravelry.com.

Speaking of community... (Look! The swirling cloud has parted! Something's emerging!) Here's a little topic that's on my mind:

How do you, as a parent, navigate the confusing waters of forging friendships with other moms? I want my daughter to have regular playmates, but darn it, I also want to feel secure that I am genuinely liked by their parents. My previous incarnation as Working Ministry Wife meant that I pretty much haven't needed to MAKE new friends for myself in years (as the church and my job always brought people into my life fairly naturally).

However, there seems to be no natural way to meet other toddlers and their moms when I'm raising two at home, putting them down for naps every afternoon, and then doing the dinner/bedtime boogie once they wake up at 4pm. Our church has exactly one other toddler in it, but for some reason, that mom does not seem to interested in anything deeper than a Sunday relationship. (I play the Insecure Mom Mantra in my head when I start trying to figure that out: Is My Kid Ugly to Her Kid? Is My House Too Dirty? Am I Too Dull or Ugly or Unwashed or Old or Sinful or Condescending? Did I insult her without knowing it? Am I somehow UnFriendWorthy? I know of no way to get an honest answer to that question, or even of how to ask it without sounding like the pitiful nerdy kid in youth group who everyone had to be friends with because it was the Christian thing to do even though he was about as interesting as a used toothbrush.)

I want good friends to share coffee with while our toddlers run amuck in our houses. I had that once, back before I had a toddler; she'd come over, I'd brew the coffee and stick in the Superman videos, and we'd laugh and ponder and pray and chat all morning. She let me convert her to Lasagna Gardening and the lust of Other People's Organic Material, and we spent hours lugging home bags of leaves and grass clippings for our gardens. I went to the hospital with her during the late-night scares of her second pregnancy, and took off work for days to help when she came home with him (and a giant spinal headache from the epidural). I'm realizing now that it was, perhaps, the best friendship I've ever had, and possibly the best I'll ever know in this life.

Given that I still have fifty years or so left on the earth, that's rather disheartening.

There is no ToddlerMama Support Group type meeting in this town, as far as I can find. I have no time to join organizations based on my interests (knitting, historic preservation, the arts, etc) to meet women I'd mesh with. Leaving our beloved little church to attend big churches with lots of toddler families doesn't seem right either. I mean, I love our little church. I generally hate the big ones, and the ones who have delusions of bigness. I'm afraid that, to have a big enough pool to find the kind of friends I'd like to have, I would have to belong to a church that would make my stomach churn on Sunday morning. (Surely that's not God's idea of a healthy spiritual situation.)

All I really know to do is to pray my pitiful little used-toothbrush prayer to One who knows how insecure and isolated I'm feeling about this. Here is my heart's great need. I lay it down there, and just keep going through our days, hoping that less lonely ones lie ahead.

Thirteen months.

You are over one year old now, sweet fella. I can hardly believe that. It seems like just a few weeks ago that I was nursing you in our chair, the copper leaves glowing on the oaks outside, as I ached for your struggling kidney and learned your face and the feel of your dear sweet body in my arms. You still lay in my arms for a while each night before bedtime, but now your arms and legs splay out from my body; you're so very big, but still we settle in for some nursing and a bottle, rocking in the dark. You are still my baby, just an evergrowing and everchanging one.

You're crawling now, at last, a sweet grabby little belly-slither that isn't quite perfected but nonetheless gets you where you'd like to go. Where do you most like to go? To our feet, to be picked up and snuggled in our arms. Your contentedness with our arms (and your bouncer, and exersaucer) is doubtless some of the reason that movement's coming late to you. And that's fine. All in due time, buddy. At your own pace.

We x-rayed your head at your checkup this week, just to make sure you did have teeth. They're in there, taking their time just as your movement is, hanging out, slow to appear. In the meantime, you're managing to eat an amazing array of food without teeth. Prunes; crackers; chopped chicken; cooked veggies. No problem for my fella! Gums of Steel!

Your laugh has two sounds to it: a lovely gravelly huh-huh-huh, and when you're seriously tickled at something, a lovely inbreath of a squeak. The squeak developed first, and the huh-huh followed a few months later, and both of them can make me breathless with love for you. You smile often, your eyes dancing with what looks like mischief.

Twenty pounds, six ounces. Three months ago, you were thirteen pounds. Apparently you needed some extra calories; we added some formula to your diet, and you've grown like a weed ever since. I'm so proud of your chubby little legs and your round little face now. It feels like we've conquered this together (along with your surgery, along with that nasty scalp infection last spring). You've been through a lot, little guy, and you just keep marching on, overcoming your hurdles and impressing the heck out of me. Out of all of us, actually.

Your hair was black when you were born, and you were almost bald for a little while, but now you're growing in a spiky, cowlicked head of dark blonde or light brown hair. Your once-blue eyes are turning brown, the same lovely deep brown that your daddy has. Your feet are still a little small (or is it that your sister's are huge and I'm unaccustomed to normal feet?). Your head seems big, since hats for your age group generally are too small for you.

The past month has been chaotic at our house; your mom and dad decided to remove some ugly paneling and add some drywall to parts of the house, and our world's been covered in drywall dust and mud splatters and primer and paint and (tomorrow, thank God) new carpet and re-installed moldings. You've hardly noticed; you soldier on, hanging out with us in the safe areas of the house, walking through the chaos just to get to bed. I sure hope that we're in this house for many many years, and that you'll ask someday to see pictures of how funky and dated this house was when we bought it, and be amazed.

Things you love: Your grammy and aunt Leigh. Your sister, always, even when she's bossing you around. Our sweet Clairedog. Being outside whenever possible. Toys. (No particular favorite, but you can sit with a basketful of toys for quite a while, playing with one and then another.) You love Cheerios, but seem to love pureed food and cereal a bit more, flapping and cooing with enthusiasm when we sit down with a bowl to feed you. Oh, and television, most especially the Fraggles DVDs at Grammy's house. Your binky (just like your sister at your age, one is absolutely required for bedtime). And always, always, you love to be held, love your milk (both kinds), and love your momma most of all.

And I eat that up. You are such a blessing, Quinton. The next year will bring your first steps, your first sentences, the beginnings of a relationship with you that's more verbal and less tactile. I'm looking forward to all that, but I must admit: I also love this gentle time of cuddles and bottles and watching you learn to crawl. Thanks for stretching your babyhood out a little longer; it is a treasure to me--

As are you. Happy Birthday, buddy.

Value your personal time. I mean it.

May those of you without toddlers please take a moment and be thankful for the following things:

1) You can poop alone, without a play-by-play commentary being given by your bathroommate
2) You can bathe whenever you want for as long as you want-- and again, alone and without commentary.
3) If you put something down, it usually stays where you put it.
4) If you have something to eat, you don't necessarily have to share it.
5) No one ever spits mouthfuls of your food that they DON'T like into your hand.
6) Generally, no one begins shrieking at the top of their lungs (or sobbing uncontrollably) at you before you understand what you've done to piss them off.

Just be appreciative of these things, is all I'm sayin'.

Six months.

Baby Q. Six months old already! (Okay. Technically, seven. You clever thing, you counted months. Sorry I'm late.)

Four months ago, you were recovering from your surgery at Arkansas Children's Hospital, and I was still in a bit of shock, that my little baby had such a birth defect that we'd needed to operate at three months old. You were still tiny then, and I handled your little body gingerly, with fear-- even though the doctors and nurses had told me that I could handle you normally.

You were just starting to get what we (and your pediatrician) thought was some seriously crusty cradle cap to go along with your excema on your legs and back. That crustiness would proceed quickly to oozy crustiness, and sometimes bloodiness, and patches broke out on your face and neck as I applied every cream and salve the doctor had recommended, desperately trying to make you feel and look better. You'd scrape your fingernails across your head until you bled, over and over. (That's when the socks went onto your hands on a constant basis.) I knew you were itching terribly.

None too soon, I gave up on that doctor and took you to a new one, Dr. Jackson. He took one look-- one tiny little half-second look-- at your scalp and gave me a different diagnosis, different medicine, and different things to do for you. A week later, you were all but cured.

We have a new doctor now, obviously. And I've learned something about trusting my momma instincts.

Today, you are all eyes and smiles, reaching for our faces, taking off my glasses, trying to grab at our water glasses to steal a sip. You're still not rolling over, although you do know how-- you just seem happy to lay on your back and hang out. On your stomach, you can raise your head up and look around while resting on your elbows, but within a few minutes your head lolls over and you flip yourself over onto your back again. That's about the extent of the "tummy time" I'm supposed to be giving you daily.

You've started eating a little bit of pureed food now-- avocados, oatmeal cereal, bananas-- and every item is met with grins of approval and eager swats at the spoon with your hands. (Sadly, we've still got to keep your "nubbin cover" socks on your hands most of the time, as your habit of scraping your head hasn't quite abated.)

You're a champion napper, sleeping an amazing amount of the day in two or three naps. You still love to cuddle, sitting happily in our laps while we watch movies (or Gracie's Sesame Street, which you stare at avidly). You love being outside and have quit screaming in the car almost entirely.

You're a skinny, long little fella these days, weighing 13.5 pounds at your six-month checkup. I'm hoping that eating some food will help bring your weight up a bit, and I worry a bit too much that I don't have enough (or rich enough) milk for you. Your sister was tiny until her first birthday, and she's big for her age now, so I guess that even if my milk isn't very rich, you'll end up just fine in the end.

Can't wait to know you better, little Q. We love what little we know about your personality so far; I'm sure you're going to be a fabulous little son and brother.

Flashback.

In either high school or junior high, I adored this poem. Can't remember which.

What a wonderful bird the frog are!
When he stand he sit almost;
When he hop he fly almost.
He ain't got no sense hardly;
He ain't got no tail hardly either.
When he sit, he sit on what he ain't got almost.

-Anonymous

I have not thought about it once in probably fifteen years. Came across it online tonight, and it brought a wide grin to my face. Then it occurred to me that other people may have seen my delight in these kinds of things a little odd.

I've never been one of those people who are wired to modify their behavior based on what other people think. Even in junior high, that most agonizingly self-conscious period, I shrugged if something that intrigued me was considered "uncool."

I'm not sure, but I'm pretty sure this poem would have been one of those things. I also wrote long notes to my friends in rhyme, had a pet pink JcPenney's shopping bag (rolled into a poofy ball) named "Durf," and made knotted friendship bracelets from embroidery floss a full year before the craze hit my school (which made me uncool at the time, but cool a year later when I was an expert and could design my own patterns).

I remember losing a friend in eighth grade because I refused to say that her bulimic vomiting and dare-based makeouts with Popular Boys was okay with me. I wouldn't answer questions about my sexual experiences (in seventh grade!) at a slumber party. Uncool. I kept on being a girl scout through high school despite its obvious uncoolness. I never did curl my bangs into an enormous Hairspray Cliff. And I didn't care if the popular people liked me or not, which was perhaps the greatest Uncool of them all.

Other than being smart and a girl.

...but I had a happy adolescence. I enjoyed my friends, had my secret crushes, excelled in band (flute) and academics and attended various gifted enrichment programs in the summer. A few guys liked me, and I generally didn't like them back, with one important exception who's downstairs sleeping in my bed right now. And I emerged from adolescence pretty much unscathed.

And really, I still like that silly poem.