Grace

"...and now, let the weak say I am strong,

Let the poor say I am rich

Because of what The Lord has done for us;

Give thanks..."

- "Give Thanks", by Don Moen

Dear God,

I don't know where to start thanking You for the mercy you've shown our family this year.  I would not ask that a minute of confusion or fear we might have experienced be rescinded, because I can clearly see how such moments fortified our hearts with a steadiness and trust that is learned only when we follow you across dark waters without looking down in disbelief.

I know that You don't require me to make a checklist of your recent miracles involving our daughter just because it's Thanksgiving, but in my typically selfish way, I think I need to see some written down here in this space so folks other than you and I know of some of the everyday miracles that encourage us so much.

I thank you for a communicative child.  I am so grateful that she is able to express with clarity what her needs and wants are (as much as an infant possibly can).  If she had been more difficult to decipher, there's no telling what state her health would be in now.  

I thank you that Ava has the drive and desire to try with all her might to do things that are physically challenging for her.  When she takes a tumble because she's knocked herself off balance reaching for a faraway toy, my heart swells with pride because she was bold enough to go beyond her comfort zone to go after what she had her eye on.  

I thank you that we have the means to feed Ava through her button when she can't take enough by mouth to keep up with her needs.  Please give me wisdom and insight as we explore new methods of food preparation and eating which encourage her development.

I thank you for compassionate friends and family who have been our buoys when we felt drowned in responsibilities and difficult choices.  

I thank you for the therapists who seem to enjoy watching Ava respond so well to their guidance.  

I thank you that she has health insurance.  We'd be up a creek without it.

I thank you for all the children at church who are so excited to see her every time we walk through the door.  It moves me so much to watch them play with 

her and watch them swoop in to the rescue when they think someone or something has upset her.  It's so important to me that she grows up to know that she is an important and beautiful square in the social quilt of our community, and I think these kids are sewing her right up into it without a second thought.

And in my own cross-eyed kind of way, I want to thank you for the innate ability you instill in new mothers to perform all manner of taxing tasks while their sleep-fueled engine is running on fumes.  When I ask for rest, you either provide it generously or you renew my strength to make it to the coffeepot.  

Remind me every moment throughout this holiday season that your footprints precede wherever I may roam, and your fingerprints are all over everything set my hand to (even the pumpkin pie I accidentally doused with smoked paprika last night....  Maybe that was your way of telling me to GO TO BED so I wouldn't be such a weary grump when the family comes over this evening).  

Thank you for Ava's first Thanksgiving.

Our bottle runneth over.  

Like a Champ

Ava is becoming a munchmaster!

For all the issues she's had with bottle feeding, Ava seems oblivious to past feeding problems when she's got a tray full of NOMables in front of her.

We started with the typical purées cereals -- oatmeal or rice mixed with the gentlest of nature's offerings, such as apple, banana, or sweet potato -- and quickly deduced that her palate responded best to strong tastes.  For instance, she'll gum at some squash mush disinterestedly until I add a squirt of mustard.  Now THAT'S a party in your mouth, she seems to think.

Once I figured this out, I grew bolder.  I stopped buying Banana Creme puffs, opting for semi-spicy sounding alternatives like Garden Tomato and Ranch.  When we would go to eat at a Mexican restaurant (which you must learn to do as an Arkansan, lest you starve), I would give her avocado smush with a dressing of lemon, or a dot of salsa on a spoonful of queso blanco.  I'd try to hide my shock as Ava gobbled each offering then thumped the table with her thumb, which in her private sign language means, More, Here, Now.

And now, after a couple of months of practicing with dissolvable puffs, I suddenly noticed her little tongue going through the motions of rolling food around her mouth while her gums did a fairly convincing job of mincing like teeth. Hey, I thought, that looks an awful lot like chewing!  Let's stick something chewABLE in there and see what happens....

And so I gave her a pickle chip.  She pinched it and placed it in her mouth with the utmost caution.... And then her eyes lit up like Clark Griswold's Christmas display and the angels sang as she thought, "WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL MY LIFE, THOU CUCUMBER OF THE ANGELS???"

It's going to be an interesting Turkey Day.

Keys

BANG!

Why Ava Is Easier Than Pugs

Why Ava is easier than pugs 

We used to have pugs.

As far as dog breeds go, they're way up on the top of my list.  They possess layers of squeezable fat rolls (even when they're skinny, they still manage maintain a few).  Their personalities are commonly gregarious and agreeable, and they know no better than to believe that the whole world is their friend.  They expect nothing more than foo from the table and pats on the head.

But there's a dark side, too... Which is why I have officially decided that raising Ava is much easier than raising pugs.

To illustrate, I will present a few examples in which to compare our two cuddly subjects:

Situation #1:  Mommy's muscles are aching and her head is pounding from a long day of taking care of Mommyish things.  What do you do?

Ava's answer:  Allow Mommy to place me in a buzzy bouncer seat next to the tub where I will play contentedly with the toys that dangle from the bar above my head.  Occasionally I will babble something cute to signal to Mommy that I am still happy to be doing exactly what she wants me to do.  

Pug's answer:  Slam the flat of my head against the jammed bathroom door until it comes flying open, then take a flying leap onto Mommy while she's slumped in the water.  She will then perpetuate the game by springing from the tub, rolling up a magazine and tearing around the house in hot pursuit of me until she breaks down in tears because you're like "having a four-legged toddler who can run under furniture".

Situation #2:  Daddy has set out a decorative bowl of Holiday Hershey's Kisses on the coffee table.  They are shiny and presumably yummy.  What can be done about this?

Ava's answer:  Rake my fingers across the bowl and gingerly pick one up and flap it from side to side by its little flag.  Receive praise for honing my fine motor skills, as I learned in therapy.  Remain blissfully unaware that this item is edible...at least for a few more months.

Pug's answer:  Wait until Mommy and Daddy are away, then stand on the glass coffee table and consume every single one of the kisses (being careful to spit out the foil wrappers somehow), as well as a few Christmas tree ornaments for good measure.  Spend the rest of the evening soaking up their attention as they prepare for your imminent demise....which surprisingly, considering how much caffeine you ingested, never arrives.

Situation #3:  You have to take a whiz.  

Ava's answer:  Let loose in your Luvs, then keep playing.  Mommy will catch a whiff and change them soon.  

Pug's answer:  Go pee outside.  Let Mommy see you pee outside.  Then save up just enough piddle to pee on the rug, the formal living room sofa, and the pile of clothes in the closet.  Wait for Daddy to ask Mommy why she didn't just let you outside to pee.

Situation 4:  You've just finished dinner, and Mommy scoops the remainder of your baby food and her and Daddy's spaghetti into a scrap container which will eventually be scraped clean outdoors.  You might still be a bit hungry.  

Ava's solution:  Flap your chubby little arms and declare "Bah!" until Mommy sits you down with a bottle.

Pug's solution:  Wait until Mommy puts you outside to attend to your business, then track down the pile of food refuse that's been dumped at the edge of the yard and whork it down as fast as you can.  Run inside and find the lightest shade of carpet in the house, then commence to act as a firehose of twice-eaten tomato sauce and spread the love.  Really project while Daddy is running you out the door like a quarterback on fire.

As you can see, both child-rearing and pug ownership come with their own unique set of precious memories.  And believe it or not, for every palm-to-the-forehead moment we had with Jarmo, Amos and Delilah, there were ten others filled with snuggles and fun to make up for them.  

When we became pregnant with Ava, I swore that we wouldn't be THOSE people who dumped their animals as soon as we had a new baby to focus on.  I knew I could make it work, somehow.  

And then, after weeks of hospital stays and grating stress, I knew that we couldn't be the attentive owners that we needed to be.  It was stupid of me just to hold onto them for the sake of pride, knowing that they'd never understand why they were locked up so much.

So they went to live on a farm.

NO, not the proverbial farm.  An actual goat farm in Texas.  One I found through a local pug rescue.

Maybe one day in the far future when Ava is much older and Mommy and Daddy's nerves are sufficiently mended, we might consider giving Ava a pug of her own.  They're so sweet and patient with kids.  Or at least ours was.  

But one Sqwoosh is enough for me right now.

X.

Dear Ava Leigh,

Today you are ten months old.  (When I tell people, I must say it with a lisp and they exclaim, "TWO MONTHS?" and ogle you in wonder as you sit up and wave at them.  Oh well.  I'll never see them again.  I hope.)

It breaks my heart and fills me with joy both at once.  I always thought that parents were being melodramatic when they yabbered on about how "they grow up so fast" and how they'd "blink, and my baby is eighteen."

Well, I'm here to tell you they were RIGHT. This growing up stuff is for REAL.  

Whyyyyyyyyyy?

Ugh, I need a stuff shot of Ovaltene to get through this entry.

Before I send you on an eye-rolling spree, let me first say that your Daddy and I will do our best to reign in our fears of the world enough to allow you to do things appropriate for your age (and as I'm writing this, I'm having daymares of some punk in a jalopy picking you up for prom).  I just wish you could begin to comprehend the feeling of watching your helpless, needy newborn turn into an assertive little girl with preferences and reactions all her own. 

A part of me thrills to watch you discover how helpless you AREN'T.

For example, if they're a toy or a sock within close proximity to you, I have no doubt you'll roll or reach toward wherever you need to retrieve it from in order to put it in its rightful place -- your mouth.  And while you prefer some of your toys over others, dang, girl, you love a good flappy sock.

It gratifies me to know that all of the rhythmic drumming I've done with (and often on!) you is beginning to pay off in discernible ways; you definitely have a fascination with interesting rhythms.  Bah humbug on Baby Bach, you seem to say; bring on Beyonce and The Black-Eyed Peas!

We've recently discovered that the tune that revs you the most is the theme song to Big Bang Theory (which I accidentally just wrote as "tehroy".  Honey, you  MUST LET MOMMY SLEEP A LITTLE!).  I can watch your expression go from piqued to gleeful as soon as the Barenaked Ladies get to the "the earth began to cool...." section of the song.  As they say here in Grant county, it gets you as stirred up as a stomp-head moccasin (and for those living above the Mason-Dixon, I refer to the snake, not the shoe). You waggle your little red head, you slap your fatty thigh, and sometimes you clap your itty palms.  

All the single babies, all the single babies.....

Which brings me to another thing which signals to me that you're really growing up -- you like to impose yourself on your surrounding environment.  Whether you're kicking your bath water out of the tub or pulling cousin Ana's bib over her face (no, NO!), your curiosity makes the world your playground.  

Something that gives me perspective on how much you've grown up is how you now have expectations toward other people. You express your needs toward me because I'm the one who gets to keep you all day and meet them (for which I will forever be grateful to Daddy, who works so hard to support us).  Then when Daddy walks through the door, you know that he's your playmate and jungle gym.  Aunt JessJess is the one who helps you do your baby flail jump (otherwise known as the ice cream and cake dance).  Pawpaw is the fellow with the yankable beard.  Granny always sits down to show you a book.  You seem to have come to a point where you expect these engagements from each of us and you enjoy them -- unless, of course, you're beyond tired but don't want the fun to end, and you're alternately laughing and boohooing....then it's Mommy to the rescue!

I dig gettin' my cuz buzz on....

 ...but we wear each other out.

I really can't believe that you're sooooo big (which I often say in the same saccharine voice as your Fisher-Price sing-along puppy toy), and sooooo smart.  You've been saying "da-da" for nearly two months, "ma-ma" when you're feeling frisky, "they-they-they" when you're being cheeky, and you like to whisper when other people are lowering their conversational volume, too (which I'm beginning to realize you like to use as bait to draw me closer so you can then blast me with a high-decibel "DAAA!").  I even catch you whispering during church as would any good Baptist.  So far, you seem to comprehend the meaning of "sssshhhh!" in such social situations..... for about thirty seconds at a time.

Your favorite mode of self-expression, though, is the raspberry, which is how most conversations with you end.....

As will this one.

I love you, Sqwoosh!

Mommy

Missing

As the holidays loom just over the horizon, I cannot remain untouched by the sentimentality of the approaching season.  As anyone who has lived with me for any length of time will attest, I seem to indulge my tendency toward melancholia when days grow shorter and our calendar grows dense with winter festivities.  Yes, I know there is medication for that.  But some feelings are better sat with than stuffed in a closet and denied.

To be honest, a part of me doesn't mind lingering in the past, spending time with these hounds of winter.... Especially this year, since my memory seems the only binding thread to those whose shadows departed from my door before the arrival of our daughter.

There are so many individuals missing from my social sphere whose absence evokes no small amount of fondness and longing, shaded with a tinge of regret.  

Some simply slipped from my daily life and were carried from reach by the rolling motion of passing years.  Some fell through fault lines of self-imposed separation, or simply by the dictates of distance.  A few I lost as collateral damage in a divorce.  And many are on the other side, perfect, whole, awaiting.

As the Beatles song goes, "Some are dead and some are living....In my life, I loved them all."

I miss my brother-in-ink Ben, whose tea on the lawn tete-a-tetes I now recognize as one of the few meaningful and positive moments of my single year in college.  I would like to hear him read Shel Silverstein to Ava with his flawless storybook-character diction.  

I miss my great-grandparents Tom and Pearl, whose lives gave mine a solid and dignified legacy to trace.  I wish Ava could follow Tom through the furrows of his garden and experience the thrill of picking something and eating it fresh from the vine. I wish she could learn to make drop biscuits with Pearl.

I miss Natalia, whose artwork still fascinates me. I would like to watch her fingerpaint with Ava and tell her tales of her youth in Russia or her years drifting in a houseboat through the watery underbelly of North America.  

I miss Aunt Laveta.  I wish that Ava could go to the movies with her at Christmastime, share a bucket of super-buttery popcorn with her, and just hear her laugh.

I miss Eric and Hila.  I wish that Ava could share a meal with two of the most joyful people I ever shared a table with.  I also wish that Hila could teach Ava a few choice phrases in Hebrew.

I miss Aunt Relda.  I wish that she was there to bring Ava a Dr. Pepper when she didn't feel good at school.  (I'm not sure what that worked in me back in the day, but it always did!)

I miss the Dorsey & Crawford families.  I wish they were here to model to Ava what rugged individualism and a tribal family lifestyle looks like ....and to teach her the difference between excellent coffee and swill.

I miss Granny and Pawpaw.  I would love to show Granny each and every facial expression that Ava inherited from her, and I wish Pawpaw could teach her the game of checkers and let her wear his hat with ear flaps.

Most of all, I miss Grandma Bennett.  I wish that she could see how the Bennett blue eyes defied the odds one more time in our daughter's genetic inheritance.  I wish she could see her own furrowed brow creases mirrored in Ava's "What you talkin' 'bout, Willis?" expression.  And I wish that she could watch Ava play with (a probably eat a little) wrapping paper on Christmas morning.

.....

I'll pause to spend my imagined encounters with these dear ones on cold mornings before the house awakens, or during nursery evenings in the glider with a babe in arms.

Some of these I may attempt to locate and try my luck at borrowing a snippet of their precious time so that Ava will know for herself how lovely they are. 

But all season long, there's no doubt that these ghosts-in-the-chimney will visit my sweet child through my stories, and through the moments of connection and kindness they once showed me, which now shades to the way I have learned to demonstrate love to my daughter.

Sniffle Cheeks

It's a quarter after four on Sunday evening.  Ava is sleeping soundly beside me, her tiny body cast in a sideways sprawl in the middle of our queen-size bed.  Her feet are still in her fancy socks from church, and they're tucked beneath my elbow in a position that reassures her of Mommy's presence.  I remain still, yielding to my assumed function as emotional blankie/human radiator.  She turn her head and gives a cooing sigh, then accepts a pacifier and assumes a new pose.

Ava awoke this morning with her first full-blown cold.  At least I hope it's nothing more than a cold.  

Even though I know that runny noses and snot rockets are par for the parenting course, I still can't help myself from pulling my mea culpa sign out of the closet and wearing it around my neck for awhile.  Why did I think it would be grand for all of us -- baby included -- to be out in the biting November wind on Saturday?  The short-lived pleasures of fall foliage and sunshine proved too tempting, and I pushed the stroller (AND Daddy) in and out of half the storefronts on Bathhouse Row until we were all sufficiently worn out and craving the comfort of beds that awaited us an hour away.

I pray with all my humbled heart that these sneezes lead to nothing more than a few yellowed shirt sleeves.  We're in unfamiliar territory, and given her predisposition to respiratory issues, I'm as nervous as a beetle in a can of coffee beans.