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.