proclaiming it from the landing

Garrett has something important he'd like to say...

I cannot tell you what he just said, but I can tell you that he did eventually make it down the stairs. In fact, I can even show you:

And, yes, he is wearing his squeaking shoes. Aren't they fun? They sure make trips down the stairwell to pick up the mail more entertaining.

celebration

First of all, a big thank you for all of the kind birthday wishes sent my way -- the comments, cards, gifts, emails, phone calls, and Facebook messages. Really, I feel so loved!

I had a wonderful day: Garrett gave me the best present a toddler son could give his mother -- he took a nearly 4-hour-long nap. It was unprecedented, and oh-so wonderful. Blake came home on time from work bearing a beautiful long stem rose. As a family we scarfed down chocolate cake and ice cream, after Garrett, displaying his latest talent, helped me blow out the candles.


Blake top secretly arranged for babysitters on Saturday, then whisked me off to Manhattan for a date. We had a delicious dinner at a hip little cafe called Penelope (the spinach artichoke dip? So, so incredible), then stepped in a few of my favorite stores (Fishs Eddy and Anthropolgie) where I managed to part with a little birthday money. On Sunday, my visiting teachers, who are Ukrainian and Russian, told me I couldn't have a truly happy birthday unless I had a box of real Ukrainian chocolates to celebrate with. And oh, my... I think they were right.

It was a weekend of celebrating, and it was grand. But now I'm worn out, so please excuse me while I go put my feet up.

one-two-three

January 23rd. One-two-three. Just like that, today I am 27.

I used to think it'd be pretty awesome to have been born in 1945. My birthday then would have been 1/23/45 -- one-two-three-four-five. But if I had been born in 1945, today I would be 64. I think that today I'll take the number 27, thank you very much.

After all, as Blake reminded me last night, the number 27 is a pretty great age to be, mathematically speaking. A month ago, he graduated from the age of 27, so he ought to know, right? Twenty-seven is three cubed, he said, and it's only once in your life that you are three cubed. Apparently that, along with a few other equations which I can't remember at the moment, makes the number 27 pretty magical.

A lot of people have already passed along happy birthday wishes (thank you, Facebook!). They have all hoped that my day is a good, happy one. I hope that it is, too. I hope that Garrett keeps his whining to a minimum. I hope that Blake is able to come home from work on time tonight. I hope that the weatherman keeps his promise and the predicted tropical mid-40s tempertures really do surface because this Below Zero business we've been dealing with lately is getting pretty old.

And you know what else would make me happy? Comments on my blog. (Really, who doesn't like comments on their blog?) I hope that today I hear from all those of you who read what I write. I love knowing who my audience is. I love knowing why you keep coming back. So, if you're reading this, please drop a note to say hello. It's as easy as one-two-three.

his tree grows in brooklyn

Blake has recently grown interested in the art of bonsai. For his birthday I gave him the funds necessary for him get started with his new hobby. Over the weekend we visited the Brooklyn Botanic Garden so he could pick out his tree and supplies. He is now the proud owner of a Chinese Elm tree.


Without the meticulous pruning and training of branches and roots required to keep bonsai trees small, this teeny tiny elm tree has the potential to grow to fifty feet tall. But you know? I think the little version is pretty charming.

inauguration day

New York's governor, David Patterson, in an impromptu interview during NBC's Inauguration Day coverage described well my feelings of this historic transition of leadership. He said something to the effect of how impressed he was with Americans today, Americans who have been able to put racial and political differences aside to recognize what a momentous day this really is. We might not all agree with his policies, he said, we certainly all did not vote for him on Election Day, and we might not all support his reelection, but it is clear to every one of us just what Barack Obama's inauguration as our 44th president means to this country. Obama was not my first pick to lead the United States, and I'm anxious for the changes he has promised, but I am nonetheless very proud today to be an American.

a healthy pair of lungs

This afternoon Garrett proved to all the world that he has indeed evolved into a toddler. He was due for his 18-month well check up, and, unfortunately, we had to wake him up early from his nap to get him there on time. This did not bode well.

He did relatively well making the transition from crib to coat to doctor's office. But as soon as we sat down in the waiting room, he lost it. And it only got worse once we were called back. He screamed for the nurse, he screamed for the doctor, he screamed when we tried to calm him down. And, of course, he screamed for the shots (but I whispered in his ear that I was okay if he wanted to scream during that part.) He was not -- I repeat, not -- a happy camper.

Luckily, despite the tantrum, his doctor was able to give him a thorough check up. He is perfectly healthy and seems to be right on target developmentally. (I had to laugh when the doctor asked if he periodically threw toddler-like irrational fits. Um, hello?!) Here are his stats:

Length: 33 3/4 inches (75th percentile)
Weight: 24 lbs (25th percentile)

Still long and lean, just like we like 'em. I was pleased, though, when the doctor commented happily at his weight gain over the last three months (he's up over a pound and a half) because have you seen my child eat lately? Or, I suppose I should say, not eat. I'm surprised he's actually gained any weight at all, considering how adept he's become at playing with and picking at his food. Apparently something is, in fact, making it to his stomach.

Anyway, we got out of that office as fast as we possibly could. Did I learn anything from this afternoon's writhing scream-fest? I did indeed: never, ever, under any circumstances, schedule a doctors visit for the middle of nap time. Seriously.

i (heart) new yorkers

First, a little riddle:

Q: A plane crash lands on the Hudson River border of New York and New Jersey. On which side where were the survivors buried?

A: Nowhere! They were survivors!

Okay, that was lame, I know. But I couldn't help myself.

***

As it's plastered all over the news, I'm sure you've heard about the commercial US Airways flight that made an emergency crash landing on the Hudson River only minutes after takeoff. (If not, you can read up on it here.) People have been calling it nothing short of a miracle, and while it was indeed incredible, I like to believe there was more skill and heart involved than luck. An experienced pilot, a trained flight crew, and quick civilian and uniformed first responders all contributed to the complete success of the rescue.

While the pilot should rightly be hailed as an incredibly skilled hero, I am just as equally impressed with the first responders, the majority of whom were nothing more than witnesses who happened to be in a position to help. Before even the first 911 call was placed, Hudson River ferry boats were on the scene pulling passengers out of the plane. They were soon followed by NYPD-commandeered Circle Line tour boats, the Coast Guard, the FDNY and trained divers. I've no doubt that witnesses along the riverfront and watching from the windows of their high-rise office buildings feared this was another terrorist attack. And yet, by all accounts, they calmly alerted authorities and stayed nearby to offer an extra hand of help.

People can whine all day about how cold-hearted New Yorkers can be, and yes, we all have our bad days. But I'll tell you what: I have never been so impressed by how eager they are to help perfect strangers, whether those strangers have just gone down in an engine-failed plane, or whether they, like me, are often just lost in the city and need directions. Or need help lifting my stroller up subway stairs. Or help holding a heavy door open. These busy, hurried, city dwellers could easily pass these people by without a second thought. But more often than not they don't. They pick up the slack and keep things moving, even if it puts them behind schedule. And, you know, I'm really glad that they do. They make the burden of urban life lighter and remind me that the majority of humanity really are instinctively good.

orange muffins

I got a mini-muffin tin for Christmas, and this morning I took it for a test run with a recipe for Orange Muffins that I found a while back over at Cafe Johnsonia. Oh my, were they heavenly! I'm going to have to make another batch soon because apparently I have a new addiction to feed.




Orange Muffins

1 cup sugar
juice of one orange, about 1/2 cup
8 tbsp (1 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature (I never have real butter at home, so I used margarine; they turned out fine)
1 cup sugar
1 tsp finely grated orange zest
3/4 cup sour cream
2 cups all purpose flour
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp salt

Preheat oven to 375. Grease or line muffin pans. Mix 1 cup sugar with orange juice. (To juice the orange, I used my awesome newish melamine reamer.) Set aside.

Place 1 cup sugar in a mixing bowl. Add the orange zest and rub it between your fingers until it is sandy and wet. (If this doesn't make you feel like a professional chef, I don't know what will.) Add the butter. Beat the butter and sugar until light and fluffy, about 3 minutes.

Sift or whisk the dry ingredients together. Add 1/3 of dry ingredients to the creamed mixture and beat, followed by half of the sour cream. Add another 1/3 of the flour mixture, beat, and add the remaining sour cream. Add the last of the flour mixture and beat. The batter will be very stiff.

Transfer the batter to prepared muffin pan. For regular muffins you will use almost exactly 1/4 cup of batter. Mini-muffins will take 1-2 tsp of batter.

Bake at 375 for about 25 minutes (9-11 minutes for mini-muffins), until inserted toothpick comes out clean. Muffins will be lightly golden. Allow muffins to cool before removing from pan.

If desired, dip the tops of the muffins in the OJ/sugar mixture. (Desire it: seriously, this sweet glaze is the icing on the cake...or muffin. Whatever, but it's oh-so tasty.)

Yields: 12 regular, 36 mini

***

In other, totally unrelated news...did you know that New Yorkers are a prime target audience for the Utah ski industry? I would have never thought, but judging by the 5,000 commercials advertising powdery snow and a hopping night scene on the Park City slopes that I've seen over the last few days, they must be. But I suppose, like the commercials inform me, there are 48 daily flights from NYC to SLC, six of which arrive before noon, so apparently it's not as far away as one might initially think. I've never skied before in my life (yes, I am a Provo girl, born and raised), but these 30-second snippets sure have a way of making me homesick. We need a tax return so I can sneak away for a visit.

mama's turn

Lindsay, November 1983

Garrett, December 2008

There's no denying that Garrett inherited my blond hair and my fair skin, but the general consensus at our house usually is that he looks much more like his dad than his mama. Even Peggy, the Chinese owner of the laundromat I use, often exclaims how much he looks like his dad -- "Except for his hair, of course," she throws in for good measure.

When we first started assigning Garrett's features out to his parents, we decided that from the nose down he was all Blake and from the nose up he was all Lindsay. Generally we still consider this to be the case, although snippets of both of us sneak into the other half on occasion. For example, the shape of Garrett's eyes come from me (well, from my family, anyway: there are moments when he looks exactly like my mom when she was little and when he's being mischievous, he gets the same gleam in his eyes that my brother, Riley, got in his eyes right before he'd get in trouble). His eye color, however, is certainly not my light blue. Instead it is identical to Blake's sister, Brittany, as we learned when we matched the two of them up over Christmas. Also, the fact that his tongue is forever dangling out is definitely a habit I passed down.

Honestly, though, as I look through my small stash of baby photos, I think Garrett looks more like his dad than he does like me. There's no doubt that I passed certain features onto my son, but, aside from that hair, I'm of the opinion that his more dominant traits (round cheeks, wide mouth, and cleft chin, to name a few) came from Blake.

Lindsay, Nov. 1983, from the nose up

like father, like son

Blake, 1981

Garrett, April 2008

Please tell me I'm not the only one who sees a definite resemblance here.