watch him grow

Twelve beautiful months of Garrett.

happy first birthday, garrett!

Dear Garrett,

Happy birthday, my baby boy! One year ago today, you entered this world and my life. As I look at you now, playfully scooting around, exploring and mimicking everything around you, it's hard to remember how tiny and helpless you once were. The day you were born is still crisp in my mind, though life before that is getting harder to remember. A life without you just isn't complete!

You've done a lot of growing up in the last year, and I won't hesitate to say that a good chunk of it happened in this last month. For one, you are mobile! I've waited a good long time to see you scooting about, and I can honestly say that I'm so happy to finally see you on-the-go that I don't mind the messes you leave in your wake. I can't proclaim that you are technically crawling; your preferred method is more of a monkey-like scuffle on your bottom. But it gets you where you want to go (usually the bookcases and the scanner), and that makes all of us happy.

Speaking of mobility, you have also recently developed the skill to pull yourself up to a stand (and not just when you're being cheered on). It's made putting you down for naps and bedtime in your crib a little more challenging, and it's been the result of a few more bumps, bruises, and tears, but it makes me feel so proud to see you standing tall. Before too much longer, you'll be brave enough to move your feet without my hand-holding help, and won't that be fun!

You have also been busy growing teeth. This month you sprouted three more, all on the top, thus bringing your total number of pearly whites up to five. They were the reason for some days and nights of painful crankiness, but to watch you eat is to assure me that you're glad to have them. You've started favoring bite-sized portions of "grown-up" foods to your pureed meals, which you like to either feed yourself or have me feed to you using a fork. Your favorite dish is meatloaf with a sticky Dum-Dum sucker for dessert. I have to admit that I'm quite fond of your toothy smile with its accompanying scrunched up nose, and, now that you're getting bigger, wouldn't trade it back for your gummy grin for anything.

Warm summer weather has taken us outdoors more often. After a few tries, you finally decided that you enjoy bathing in the sprinklers and fountains at the park just as much as you like being pushed high on the swings. Sadly, spending more time in the blossoming sunshine has made me and your doctor realize that you've got a bad case of seasonal allergies. It breaks my heart to watch you sniffling and sneezing when you should be smiling and happy, so hopefully we'll be able to soon find a way to calm down those miserable symptoms. Sitting on our front stoop with you in the cool of the evening, blowing bubbles or just watching people walk past, is quickly becoming a favorite past time, and I find myself looking forward to that time each day.

Garrett, my boy, I love you! It's been wonderful getting to spend the last year with you, and I am eager for many more to come. Keep growing healthy and strong, just as you are, but don't forget that you will always be my first-born baby boy.

Love,
Mama

central park

Perhaps because of the shade-giving trees, or perhaps because there are just fewer heat-creating buildings, Central Park often feels cooler than the rest of the city. Saturday was sunny, warm, and humid, so we decided that exploring the more comfortable wilds of the park would be a fun way to spend the day. So we topped Garrett off with a dose of Benedryl to combat the allergy symptoms we knew were inevitable, what with being outside among greenery and blossoms and all, and we jumped on the first train out of Brooklyn.

First we took Garrett to ride the carousel, where, despite this being his first ride, he knew exactly what to do. He held onto the pole with two tight hands and didn't let go until it was over.

Here are some carousel factoids for you: A carousel has been in operation on this site of the park since 1871. These particular horses, however, are the third group to ride here, the first two having burned down. They originally belonged to Coney Island, but have been circling here since 1951. According to park legend, the very first carousel was powered by a blind horse and mule.

We then found our way to Central Park Zoo.


It's a small zoo, but that didn't make it any less worth seeing. The seals were playful, as were the polar bears. The penguins were entertaining to watch as they waddled and tripped into the water for a swim where they chased each other around like black and white bullets. Tropical birds swooped overhead in the rain forest exhibit, and I've never seen so many turtles lounging on logs in the sun in my life.

watching the seals with Dad

hanging out next to the snow monkey exhibit with Mama

Next it was off to the Conservatory Water to watch the radio controlled model sailboats paddle through the pond.


By this time Garrett had fallen asleep in the stroller, and we were warm and tired as well, so we started to head back to the train. The walk was pleasantly cool, though, so we took our time and stopped at this great little juice bar on Lexington Avenue for the most delicious smoothies I've ever had. Think blueberries and strawberries mixed in a raspberry sorbet with apple juice, and then start drooling.

Just a few blocks away from the subway and we were pelted with a sudden thunderstorm. We made a mad dash for the protection of the underground, but that didn't keep us from getting soaked. Luckily, it also didn't keep us from giving two thumbs up to a summer Saturday spent outside. There's always more to see and do in Central Park, especially in the summer, so I'm sure we'll be back again soon.

my little monkey

I'm not sure if it can technically be called crawling, but Garrett's monkey-like movements sure get him where he wants to go. (And by "where he wants to go," I of course emphatically mean "absolutely everywhere.")

some faces

I was searching online for clipart from The Friend that I could use for my nursery lesson this Sunday. As I was clicking through images in the "people" category (the lesson is on "I Belong to a Family"), I came across the gems you see below.

Why do these children's faces warm my heart so? Well, only because they were cut out, laminated, attached to large popsicle sticks, and used as visual aids for one of the talks nearly every child in my family gave at one time or another during our years in Primary.

Want me to share the talk with you? I still have it memorized.*

Some faces are round,

some faces are thin,

some faces are freckled,


some have a long chin.

Faces of children
are different, it's true.
But each child is special,
there's only one you!

*And speaking of memorized Primary talks, one of these days I'll have to tell you about the very first talk I gave in Sharing Time when I was a four-year-old Sunbeam. (Which yes, I had memorized.)

frozen

I don't know how people got by in the days before the electric freezer, because I'm here to tell you that I'm addicted to mine. It's nothing fancy: just the top portion of my Frigidaire. But, oh! The frozen solid wonders it holds!

There's the chicken (boneless/skinless, as well as ribbed breasts, drumsticks, and thighs), the ground beef (portioned into one pound chunks), the grated cheese, the extra loaves of bread, the vegetables, the hot dogs, the pork roast, the hamburger buns, the fish sticks, the Italian sausage, the flour tortillas, the meatballs, the sticks of butter, and the second loaf of meatloaf my recipe made last week. And let's not forget the ice cubes and the popsicles, necessities to beat the summer heat.

Though I don't have any in there currently, other things that taste delicious frozen are Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, Swedish Fish, and grapes. Really. Go freeze some. You won't be sorry.

I like to imagine that one day I'll be the kind of woman that is lucky enough to own two freezers: one attached to my refrigerator in the kitchen, and another (standing or chest style) stashed away in the basement or garage. If ever that day comes, watch out because I'm sure I'll start sale-shopping and stockpiling like the world's going to end tomorrow!

There's only one drawback to the electric freezer (besides the requirement and cost of electricity), and unfortunately it's a pretty major one. If you want to whip that frozen chunk of ground beef into a delicious dish of stroganoff, well, you'd better think ahead of time because baby, that beef's gotta thaw! So while it's pretty fantastic to have the option to stockpile and store all sorts of goods away in the cold recesses of the freezer, you've got to think sooner than thirty minutes before you want to eat to begin the thawing process.

Which means that we won't be eating barbecued pork sandwiches for dinner tonight.

inside and outside

Inside fun, with a game of "now you see me, now you don't":

And outside fun in the park sprinklers:

scanned hand

This

plus

this

equals
this

Also, this?This is the reason why nothing in this house is safe anymore. It is also proof that his latest talent isn't only showcased in the crib.

i am allergic to massachusetts

And so is Garrett. Well, I suppose I shouldn't generalize too much. So let me rephrase: We are allergic to Massachusetts in June. All that green. All those blossoms. Though they're a seriously miserable problem for everyone else in my family, I seem to have gotten away with only the traveling variety of hay fever: I'm fine when I'm home, wherever I may be presently calling home, but the minute I hit the road for some fabulous summer weekend destination, I come down with a horrible case of the sniffles. Like the time, two years ago, when we inadvertently planned a trip to Mascoutah, Illinois, during what turned out to be a weekend of high spring pollen counts. I never thought I'd be so grateful to know that allergies run rampant in my extended family as well, but, see, my uncle had a stash of Claritin he was willing to share with me.

Anyhow, all sniffles and wads of Kleenex aside, we got home last night from a weekend trip to the Berkshires. The reason for the getaway was a party, held at the Darger family's barn just outside Pittsfield, hosted by my aunt and uncle to celebrate the recent marriages of two of my cousins. I love the city, but love getting away sometimes, too. It was nice to be able to relax, and even nicer to get to visit with so much family. The barn party was a blast, full of delicious food, which was grilled to perfection by Blake, and baked, sliced, and arranged by everyone else. Even though every ounce of in-between time was spent blowing my own nose or wiping snot from Garrett's, we had a wonderful time.

This is the barn. Isn't it fabulous? Inscribed inside above one of the doors is the line, "It was the kind of barn children liked to play in," from Charlotte's Web, which I thought to be most fitting.

And here we are, taking a break from the constant nose-wiping and sneezing.

There's no doubt that trees grow in Brooklyn, but I do sure love the fact that, now that I'm back in my cement-surrounded home, my head is less congested and I don't have to blow my nose as often.


***
While we were gone, my computer-savvy brother created a fabulous new header for my blog. Isn't it awesome? Thanks so much, Tyler!

naptime

But who wants to take a nap when you can stand up and explore the nether regions of the crib...


...while pulling silly faces...


...and letting out silly screams?


(At least he stopped licking the wall, which is what he was doing when I first found him not sleeping.)

hazelnut & ginger sue

This is Hazel.



She's in my nursery class, and never hesitates to answer questions and share personal experiences during our lessons. She also comes to the weekly playgroup where she likes to romp around the playground equipment with her little friend, Bruce.

Hazel is full of sparkling energy and dazzling personality. Every time I see her, she runs up to me, happily yells, "Lindsay!" and gives me the most delicious hug. Not only is she my good friend, but she loves Garrett. It gives her no end of pleasure to plant herself two inches away from his face and say, "Hello, Baby Garrett. How are you? Do you like me, Baby Garrett?"

A few days ago I was at Hazel's house. She fell asleep on the couch during my visit, and consequently missed saying goodbye to me before I had to go. After I'd been home for about a half an hour, the phone rang. It was Hazel's mom. Hazel was in tears, distraught that I'd left without saying goodbye. It was thought that maybe a phone call to her friend Lindsay would help cheer her up. We had a lovely conversation, despite the heavy, sad sniffles coming from her end. I assured her that she was still my good friend, and that Baby Garrett still liked her. I like to think that our phone call sort of made up for our missed goodbye.


This is Hazel's little sister, Ginger.



She's still too young for nursery, but not for playgroups at the park!

Ginger is quieter than her exuberant sister, but she likes to sit on my lap, tell me the new words she's learned, and show me her toys.


Hazel and Ginger are moving away to Virginia in a few days. I can't even begin to tell you how much I'll miss them! In my wildest dreams, I never imagined that a pair of toddlers would grow so attached to me -- or that I would grow just as attached to them in return.

It's a good thing I've got some inexpensive bus options so I can go visit them. Temporary goodbyes are much more manageable than permanent ones.

allergic

I think my blog reconstruction is just about finished. You like? I'm digging the 3-column layout, the color scheme, and the overall cleanliness of the template. What I'm NOT liking is the fact that, for the life of me, I can't get my cute Brooklyn Bridge masthead to fit in the header space. I'm crossing my fingers that I can enlist the help of my brother who, last time I checked, could work magic in the realm of PhotoShop. If all goes according to plan, it will hopefully be back soon.

So, remember those red, Childlike Empress eyes that Garrett was sporting in yesterday's Abs of Steel video? Well, after a long night of rubbing, crying, and not much sleeping, this morning those same eyes, now all gunky and set against his already pale white face, looked like something out of low-budget horror film.

Fearing a bad case of conjunctivitis, I took him to the doctor where the diagnosis turned out to be allergies. I hadn't considered this possibility, but I suppose it makes sense - nearly everyone I'm related to suffers from horrible seasonal allergies. We were sent home with eye drops and some antibiotics (his eyes might also be slightly infected, so to cover our ground, he'll be getting a round of penicillin), and instructions to dole out regular doses of Benedryl to keep him from scratching his eyeballs into unrecognizable shreds. I'm taking him back tomorrow for a follow-up appointment to make sure the swelling around his eyes has gone down.

And if this wasn't enough, right after our appointment we had to head over to the lab to get the blood work done for his 12-month well-check up in two weeks.

Poor boy.


And now, if you'll excuse me, Red-Eyes here desperately needs the gunk cleaned out of his eyes and will then, based on the screams I'm predicting will result, need some quality time with his mama.

under construction

It's summertime, which can mean only one thing: construction. I don't know about you, but I can't think of a more perfect time to do a wee bit of redesigning here on the blog. So for the next [hopefully short] while, Adventures with Lindsay might look a little messy. Consider yourselves warned.

Unlike road construction crews, however, I'm all about turning a wait into worthwhile entertainment. So to hold you over, here's a little video of Garrett showing off his abs of steel. Pardon his red eyes; it would seem that his weekend fever was the result of a little cold.

and sometimes they just flip out

Garrett is a sweet, sweet boy. I don't see why any of you have reason to doubt that fact since I tend to primarily promote his charming personality on this blog. And since he's lately become a cute little copy-cat, his hugs have become all the more endearing.

You know how you have that natural tendency, intensified by a small head nestling into your shoulder, to pat a child's back when you pick them up and hold them close? Well, Copy-Cat Garrett, his head nestled snugly in my shoulder and one arm clung tightly to my neck, has lately started patting me on the back. I love hugging that boy - always have, and I'm sure I always will - but the second those hugs are returned, I pretty much melt into a wishy-washy, happy little puddle.

But you all know, I'm sure, that he isn't always an angel baby sent straight from heaven. Oh, he has his days. Especially lately, owing, I'm assuming, to the fact that in the last week and a half he's sprouted three more teeth. That, and he's also growing up, which can sometimes be frustrating. For example, he has decided to refuse any and all pureed foods (unless it's rice cereal with mashed bananas...he can't get enough of those!). As soon as I bring a spoonful of strained sweet potatoes to his lips, his hand, quick as lightning, flicks it away. A backhand like his might one day lead to a successful tennis career! No, he wants "big boy" food, or "whatever Mom and Dad are eating." Okay. Fine. I found these adorable utensil sets from Gerber that made it easier to fork-feed him small bites of "real" food. And now he's happy, we're happy, life is good.

Except for last week, when I went in to get a quick haircut. I took Garrett with me as I always do. He's never been anything but patient as he sits in his stroller and watches me. Only this time, just as I was nearing the end of my shampoo, he pulls out his sad, pouty lips and quickly progresses to a full-blown fit. It took me about ten minutes to calm him down, and even then he'd only stop crying if he was sitting on my lap. Okay. Fine. I convinced my stylist to let him stay there and while she snipped away, I focused my attentions on keeping Garrett still and happy. Which meant I couldn't as meticulously watch the way she was cutting my hair...but whatever, right? So long as Garrett wasn't crying.

But then she pulled out the blow dryer. I like to get my hair dried after a trim because it's easier to check afterwards for spots that need to be evened up. Plus, it's nice to have it done professionally every once in a while. Now, Garrett has watched me blow dry my hair nearly every day of his short life. And it's never been a problem. Only now it suddenly was. The blow dryer had been on for all of 30 seconds before Garrett started to flip out. Off went the dryer and on went my attempts at every trick I could think of to calm him down and assure him that he didn't need to be scared. But my work was in vain, for every time my stylist started again to dry my hair, Garrett would freak out and start screaming. We went back and forth, blow dryer to scream-fest, for about 20 minutes before I, apologizing for the umpteenth time, decided to just forget the blow dry, paid, and went home.

Back in front of my own bathroom mirror, I gave my trim a once-over. It didn't take long to find the effects of my not being able to keep a meticulous eye on how my hair was cut. Because my hair wasn't parted right during the trim, I was left, when I went to part it how I normally do, with chunks two inches long drooping down below the rest of my hair. I assure you, I almost flipped out just like my son did! Luckily, though, between Blake and I, we're pretty handy with the scissors and, I must say, we cleaned that mess up quite nicely.

So anyway. Garrett's a cute little keeper for sure, but even he has his days. It's nice, though, that at the end of those long, hard days, we have our hugs to look forward to.

happy father's day, part two

Aside from the hamburger-with-potato-wedges-and-watermelon dinner (one of his favorites) that I whipped up for him, and the tie and "casual Friday" shirts Garrett and I bought and wrapped up, Blake received the following for Father's Day:

• a new calling as ward clerk,
• extra meetings before and after church as a result of the new calling,
• a lingering cold and cough, and
  
• a feverish son.

He's had a long day. (In his own words, "Yeah, it's been a rough Father's Day. I feel like crap.") But despite his own weariness, he still found the energy to give his sick baby boy a rock-a-bye.


He really is a wonderful father. I love you, Blake!

for the fathers in my life, on their day

Edward loved me. He did. He'd always wanted a boy and here I was. He'd expected more, of course, from my arrival. A muted brilliance, a glow, maybe even a halo of some kind. That mystical feeling of completion. But none of that came. I was just a baby, like any other -- except, of course, that I belonged to him, and that made me special. I cried a lot and slept a lot and that was about it; my repertoire was very limited, though there were those moments of peaceful clarity and joy when I stared up at my father from his lap, my eyes beaming, as though he were a god -- which, in a way, he was. Or godlike anyway, having created this life, having planted the magic seed. At those times he could see how smart I was, how bright, he could visualize my potential in the world. So much was possible.

But then I would start to cry again, or my diaper would need changing, and he would have to hand me over to my mother who fixed all that and fed me, while Edward watched helplessly from his chair, suddenly tired, excruciatingly tired of the noise, the sleepless nights, the smell. Tired of his tired wife. So he missed the old life sometimes, the freedom, the time to think things through -- but did that make him different from any other man? It was different with women, they were made to raise a family, they had the attention span for it. Men had to go out of the house and work, that's the way it had always been, from the time of the hunter-gatherers it was so and still was today. Men were torn in this way; they had to be two people, one at home and another away, while a mother had to be but one.

In those first weeks he took his job as a father quite seriously. Everyone noticed: Edward had changed. He was more thoughtful, deeper, philosophical. While my mother took care of the day-to-day things, he brought vision to the task. He made a list of the virtues he possessed and wanted to pass onto me:

perseverance
ambition
personality
optimism
strength
intelligence
imagination

Wrote it on the back of a paper bag. Virtues he'd had to discover himself, he'd be able to share with me, free of charge. Suddenly he saw what a great chance this was, how my empty-handed arrival was actually a blessing. Looking into my eyes he saw a great emptiness, a desire to be filled. And this would be his job, as father: filling me up.

[...] He was a father, and he did the things a father was supposed to do. He played some catch, he bought the bike. He packed lunch for the picnics to the mountain overlooking the town, the great city of endless promise, from which he could see the spot where he first did this, and then that, and over there were he made his first deal, and there where he kissed that pretty woman, and all the triumph and glory of his short life. This is what he saw when he went there, not the buildings or the skyline, not the tree groves or the hospital where they were building the new wing. No: it was his story, the story of his adult life spread out before him like a landscape, and he would take me there and hold me up so I could see and he would say, "Someday, son, this will all be yours."

This passage, from the novel Big Fish: A Novel of Mythic Proportions by Daniel Wallace, reminded me of the way I've perceived fatherhood in Blake. Over the past year, Blake has proved to be not only a loving husband, supportive of my efforts to keep house and raise our son, but a wonderful dad. He is kind, gentle, patient, and playful -- everything a father should be. Garrett is one lucky little boy.

And I am one lucky little girl, privileged to be the daughter of a wise and experienced father and father-in-law. Both have taught me well what it means to be firm, yet full of love. I love them both dearly, and am grateful for the fathers they are to me, and the grandfathers they are to my son.

Happy Father's Day!

lindsay with an 'a'

I have known for many years that, when it comes to the spelling of the name Lindsay, there is much scope for the imagination. Lindsay, Lindsey, Lyndsie, Linsey, etc, etc. I know them all, and not just because my own name has been thought to own each of these spellings, but because I can pair a face with every variety.

There's Lindsey, who, when she was little and lived down the street from me, used to feed "pizza" to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles with my brother, Riley, by slipping pieces of bread down the sewer hole in front of our house. And there's Linsey, whose underwear "caught fire" at a slumber party. And of course one can't forget Lyndsie, who has been a bosom friend and kindred spirit since we discovered we shared the same name and therefore thought it appropriate that we eat lunch together on that first day of 7th grade. Yes, there have been many Lindsay's in my life.

When I was younger (and less forgiving), my life would become a perfect graveyard of buried hopes each time someone misspelled my name. The variety that irked me the most was Lindsey. I realize that it's an honest mistake, given the long 'e' sound in the second syllable, but it still sent me into the depths of despair. I like my letter a.

There was a time, though, when I didn't particularly like the name Lindsay. It seemed too plain and hopelessly without any thrills. I sincerely wished, and often imagined, that I had been named Charlotte. Charlotte was by far a much more romantic sounding name. But after being told one day by my dental hygienist as she cleaned my teeth that I looked exactly like a Lindsay, I decided I might as well take what I was given and run with it -- so long as it was spelled with an 'a.'

What difference does it make how it's spelled? you may be asking yourself.

"Oh, it makes such a difference. It looks so much nicer. When you hear a name pronounced can't you always see it in your mind, just as if it was printed out? I can; and [L-i-n-d-s-e-y] looks dreadful, but [L-i-n-d-s-a-y] looks so much more distinguished. If you'll only call me [Lindsay] spelled with an [a] I shall try to reconcile myself to not being called [Charlotte]."

At any rate, isn't it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes, spelling or otherwise, in it?


(Um, yes, I am, in fact, presently reading Anne of Green Gables, and the further along in the story I get, the more I catch myself wondering if perhaps Anne - with an e - Shirley and I are kindred spirits. Anyway, I'm happy to report that I have grown wiser and more experienced since my first reading of the book, and am consequently now finding it perfectly delightful and myself eager to devour more.)

picnic in madison square park

This summer, Madison Square Park is hosting free kids concerts every Tuesday and Thursday morning. In celebration of the fact that the heat wave has so happily ended, Garrett and I hopped on the subway and trekked to Manhattan to enjoy some music in the park.

Unfortunately, the timing of the morning nap did not coincide well with the timing of the concert. We arrived just as it ended.

Fortunately, though, I had packed us a picnic lunch, which we had arranged to eat with Blake, whose office is just around the corner from the park.

We had some time to kill before Blake could join us. The place was swarming with nannies, strollers, and kids, which made the playground impossibly crowded. So we sat on a park bench and people watched. Here are some things we noticed:

• Of the hundreds of adults pushing strollers around the park, I'd say only maybe 5-10 percent of them were the actual parents of the children they were toting. The majority were nannies.
• New York City squirrels are as aggressive as their human counterparts.
• It's hard to know what to say to the toothless, homeless lady who sits down next to you on the bench and who wishes to make conversation concerning your adorably wiggly little boy.

It's not often that we get to eat lunch as a family, and even though there was nothing spectacular about the fruit and sandwiches I packed for us to eat, we still had a lovely time. Maybe if I'm feeling brave enough to face those vicious mommy (or I suppose I should say nanny) crowds, we'll try this excursion again -- and try to time the nap better.

i guess the lord must be in new york city

So over the weekend a disgustingly oppressive heat wave settled in over the city. We're talking hot and humid, with the heat index sizzling at a miserable 105 degrees (give or take...some places have reached 110, they say).

Not fun. Especially when your apartment is not yet equipped with A/C.

But I'm trying not to think about that. Because, despite the sticky sweatiness, I am still of the opinion, shared by Brooklyn-born crooner, Harry Nilsson, that "the Lord must be in New York City." And here is why:

• Public parks with fountains of cool water for splashing in. (Even though Garrett could care less for the sprinkling water, I thought it was wonderful. And the breeze coming off the bay only made it better.)

• Friends who open their air conditioned homes and invite you in for afternoons of blissfully cool companionship. (And even though I'm too, too sad to see some of them move away, I am pretty happy that they're going to sell us one of their A/Cs when they go.)
  
• Karen, my most recent landromat friend, who, upon hearing we had yet to purchase and install a window A/C unit, offered to let us borrow her box fan for as long as we need it.
• That, again, we're blessed to live in an apartment with windows on three sides, allowing for delicious, fan-directed cross-breezes.
• The local availability of Wyler's Authentic Italian Ices.
• Cool baths and showers, which we all take many of each day.
• A multitude of air conditioned libraries and museums easily within reach throughout this city.

With the threat of thunderstorms this evening, the heat wave is expected to dissipate enough that by tomorrow the temperatures will be hovering closer to normal. To which I say again, "I guess the Lord must be in New York City."

Hallelujah and praise be.

In other news, after waiting an obscene amount of time for it, we finally have a mobile boy on our hands! He's not technically crawling, but he's learned well enough how to scoot around. (Yes, the scanner has become his new favorite obsession. And yes, I've been happily spending my time rearranging our apartment.)

waiting for the bus

an irresistible charm

In her essay, "Moving On,"* Nora Ephron describes her love affair with her New York City apartment. It was an old building, with more problems than pleasures, but it had character, a certain charm that she couldn't help falling for.

When I first read the essay about a year and half ago, I wondered if I'd ever be privileged to live somewhere that I found enchanting. At the time, we were living in a cookie-cutter apartment which had been built in the late '70s that was livable, but which had no personality.

I couldn't have imagined then that one day soon I, too, would be living in an old (we're told this building is World War II-era) New York City walk-up apartment, one with perhaps more problems than pleasures, but one which has a charm I have found myself falling helplessly for.

Want in on some of the enchantment?


This is the door into our living room. We never close this door, but I love that it's there all the same. I love the paned glass. I love the glass doorknob. And I love the skeleton key hole.


This is a view of our crooked ceiling as seen from the living room couch. I love how it bends. None of the walls in this apartment are straight, and as we hung curtains, we seriously questioned whether or not levels were used during the construction of any part of this place. But how many of you live in homes with crooked walls? Isn't it charming?


We are blessed in this apartment to have windows on three sides. Each room has two tall, narrow windows, with the exception of the bathroom, which only has one smaller window. Such a contrast to our former apartments, each of which only had two windows in the entire place. I'm also head over heels in love with our fire escape access. I've always found a spark of romance in the idea of a city fire escape window, and no matter how dirty or how crowded the view from it is, you cannot convince me otherwise.


Do you appreciate a good doorknob as much as I do? These old things are littered throughout our place: in doorways and closets. Sure, they're paint splattered, and sometimes they get stuck, but where would the charm be if they weren't this way?


Even though they've been the cause of a few bumps and bruises, I still love our hardwood floors. By all accounts, these are the original floors, and, despite the creaks and cracks, I love the character they are crawling with. I have an idea that these floors have been loved by more than just me, else why, after 60 years, would be still be in such good condition?

There are other things I love about our home. I love our bathroom. It's itty bitty, and there's really no storage space in it to speak of, but it has a tiled bathtub, a window sill that, so long as I maintain it, is fairly resistant to mildew, and it has the best shower head I've ever been lucky enough to wash myself under.

I love our kitchen, which is also small (we can't open the fridge and sit at the table simultaneously), but which is so naturally well-lit, it's hard not to want to cook in there (on a lovely and updated gas stove, no less). Sure there's no dishwasher or even a garbage disposal, and yes, the high chair has to be stored in the entryway when not in use, but the floors are nicely tiled and I wouldn't hesitate to call this the best kitchen I've ever had.

I love the radiators. They're not the prettiest accents in each room, but there's something to be said for the history of the building that they represent. They sometimes heat too well, requiring us to open windows on bitter February nights, but the crackling sound they make in the winter is surprisingly comforting.

I know that someday we'll have to leave this place, that we'll have to move on. And despite its inevitable necessity, I dread that day. Because this isn't just where I live. The roots we put down a few months ago when we moved in have lovingly wiggled their way into the walls, and will eventually grow so deep that we, like I imagine former residents have also done, will have to tear ourselves from them and leave a part of us to linger forever after. It will be hard, but true love wasn't meant to be easy.



*for an abstract, see here. To read the entire essay, either track down a copy of the New Yorker from June 5, 2006, or get your hands on a copy of Ephron's book I Feel Bad About My Neck.

top o' the muffin to you!

It seems that lately I've become a big fan of muffins. They're usually pretty easy to make, there are countless varieties (so it's hard to get bored of them), whipping up a batch gives me a great excuse to use my really cool stoneware muffin pan, and I don't know about you, but it's just hard to beat a simple Saturday breakfast comprised of fresh, homemade muffins. Tonight we tried a new recipe, Maple-Walnut Muffins, which went splendidly with our German Pancake And Fresh Fruit dinner.

Maple-Walnut Muffins

6 tbsp butter
1 cup flour
1/4 sugar
1 tsp baking powder
pinch of salt
1/2 cup sour cream
1 egg
1/2 tsp vanilla
2 tbsp maple syrup
1/4 cup finely chopped walnuts

Preheat oven to 400. Prepare muffin tin and set aside. In a medium bowl, melt butter in the microwave. Meanwhile, sift flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt into a large bowl. In the medium bowl, whisk melted butter, sour cream, egg, and vanilla until well blended. Add butter-sour cream mixture to flour mixture and blend. Stir in maple syrup and walnuts. Divide evenly into muffin cups and bake 18-20 minutes, or until golden brown. Makes about 8 muffins.

I strongly suggest you all try these out sometime -- they were delicious! I'll probably double the recipe next time since six just wasn't enough. (Our stoneware pan makes six larger muffins.)

And now, I'm curious: what is YOUR favorite muffin recipe?

(Because, really -- did you think I'd divulge the secret of the tasty Maple-Walnut Muffin without expecting something just as delicious in return? Yeah...not likely.)

baby faces

Generally speaking, Garrett does not yet have the patience required to sit quietly while I read him a story. Oh, he enjoys a rushed reading of Are You My Mother?, and, if Blake does the voices right, he'll giggle through Sandra Boynton's Moo, Baa, La La La!. And let's not forget how holding onto and turning the pages of the LDS Hymn Book makes sitting in cramped chapel pews all the more thrilling. But story time at our house, though it is most certainly an encouraged activity, is still in that early hit-and-miss stage.

There is one book in our children's library, however, that apparently has the power to calm a tantrum and replace a shrieking wail with a pleasant smile.


It's called Peek-a-Boo!, and it belongs in a board book series called Baby Faces by Roberta Grobel Intrater.

The book is simple enough. It's comprised of only a few words, but many large, close-up photographs of babies. Garrett, who, like most kids his age, finds that faces of other children are incredibly fascinating, can't seem to get enough.

Other books in the series, which we don't own ourselves, but which we have looked through on visits to our neighborhood library, include:

• Sleep,
• Splash!,
• Hugs & Kisses,
• Eat!, and
  
• Smile!.

Is this series great literature? No. But it doesn't seem to be a bad way to teach my son to appreciate that the contents of a book can in fact be more delicious to devour than the binding.