Call It What You Want...

The Little Boy is 10 months old today. Ten months! I can hardly believe it. Today he babbled with his tongue and blew spit bubbles and talked and crawled and ate pizza (yes! he ate pizza, cut into tiny bites and then the cutting was disregarded as he shoved handsful into his mouth at once until Mommy removed all but a couple pieces from his plate at a time) and tried to climb up over mommy as she sat on the floor and played with his toys and wore his jeans again (it was nice and cool) and went to the grocery store and even got an "I've been Krogering" sticker.

The cashier scolded the bagger (an older man who always talks to Mark) for giving him the sticker -- "He's too young for that" -- but Mark didn't even pull it off and put it in his mouth. I think he didn't notice it was there, because Carmen (the bagger) was talking to him. He got to give it up before naptime though.

It's kind of crazy to think that in two months, he'll be a year old already.

They say time flies. I doubted it. I was wrong.

Where has it gone?

As much as I hated it, I had to strap an adorable little boy back into the carseat today for a trip to meet Daddy at work to sign papers for the new mortgage.

We wanted to have him sign the papers, too, but considerate Mommy provided him a pile of toys from his backpack to play with instead. What did he do? First indicated there might be a pants problem by pulling a clean diaper out of the backpack and playing with it. (Daddy fixed it once the papers were signed.)Then he wandered around the room to check out the electrical outlet and slobber on the window. (Wonder how long until the window cleaners notice that?) Was a good little boy, doing his thing.

Then it was time to get back into the car. And the poor little boy, after a little over a week of lots of time in the car, rebelled. He screamed his sharp, piercing little scream. He arched his back. We got him into the seat, gave him a kiss, and shut the door.

And he started to cry. And scream. And scream. And cry. And shriek. And scream. This continued all the way home. His favorite CDs (feathers and Do-Si-Do from Kindermusik) have wandered out of the car after the trip. The pacifier that usually lives in the backpack and was used on the trip had made a dive yesterday out of the car and onto a rather excessively dirty garage floor for me to clean it by sticking it in my own mouth, and so was waiting for a dishwasher bath. Even his favorite radio music from when he was (really) little (hard rock) didn't sooth the savage beast.

He screamed for 45 minutes solid. You'd think it'd have worn him out enough to fall asleep, but no. That kid's got some lungs on him. I finally decided that if the music wasn't going to make him feel better, I'd just listen to something I like and turned on an Aengus Finnan CD. At least when I could hear it over the shrieks, it was nice. Quiet and calm. Like I said, when I could hear it.

Back home, it was straight to bed (not even a story). And please not the car, not again, Mommy. So we didn't go to the store. Daddy did it later (bless him).  

Whew!

After upwards of 2000 miles, six different beds, nine night times and eighteen naptimes -- observed or otherwise -- for the baby, six states, innumerable rest-, gas-, and diaper-change stops, one massive rain storm, and four very patient and friendly pacifiers, we are home from our grandparent-visiting trip.

Mark has proven up to the challenge and took it like a real sport. He was better in the car than we could have even hoped. He slept well in the hotels once we thought to cover his pack-and-play with a comforter from the hotel bed to block out the light. He ate everything he was given (sometimes with more eagerness than others) and only massively threw up on mom twice. Neither time was very convenient, I might add, and both times were orange.

And while we are not big fans of the pacifier from day to day, and do not let him have them except to sleep, they did become a small tool in the toolbox of ways to calm him down. his favorite thing is to have one in his mouth and one in each hand, and then to switch pacifiers every few seconds -- I suppose to keep them fresh? Yesterday in the car he had one in his mouth and was fast asleep in the car. He reached up with one hand and took it out, then reached the other (empty) hand to his mouth to replace it. He stayed asleep, but spent a little time funbling around the missing pacifier before dropping his hand back in place and going to sleep. Too cute.

Mark spent a great deal of time charming people -- and grandma and grandpa's house, at the churches we stopped at, at rest stops and restaurants, on the golf course -- yes, he was in fine form. We couldn't be prouder.

Nor could we be happier to be home. :)

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Mark is in hog heaven. Seriously. We're on his first trip to see his Grandpa and Grandma in South Dakota, and he's been a trouper. Starting with a 16-hour drive, spread out over three days, including weird bedtimes and strange eating arrangements, it seems to all be worthwhile now that he's getting to play with Grandma and Grandpa.

Grandma plays peek-a-boo with him in the kitchen, chasing him on all fours around the kitchen island. The laughter rings throughout the house. Then Grandpa takes him outside to play. (Then he samples the cat's food...again.) Then Grandpa helps him walk around, and Grandma reads his books to him -- even though #7 in the adding book is 7 rats, Grandma's least favorite thing in the entire world.

Everyone thinks he's adorable, and of course, he's been on his best behavior. Hurray!

We're on a trip out to visit the boy's grandparents, and thought that while we were in a certain idyllic state, we would stop off at a museum where a friend from my own museum is now employed.

We arrived at Fleabag Farms at 3 p.m. and were informed that the last tractor had just left to take happy visitors out to the 1700 site, the first stop on your planned tour of the farm. We didn't really care to get to the 1700 site, but only to the 1875 site, where the friend works, presumably in the Millinary shop. "I'm sorry. The last tractor just left. The only thing I could let you do is go out to the 1900 area." She then went on to describe the plan for travel, taking the tractor-carts to the 1700 site and then working forward in time to the 1900 site last before coming in to the gift shop.

"Is there any way to get a message to her?" I asked, recalling her mention of calling out to inform them the last tractor had left.

"We're a working farm. They didn't have these" she held up the phone-slash-radio "back in 1850." The snottiness factor was rising.

"Is there a place where the employees usually park, so I could leave a message on her car?"

"You can't get there. It's down a long private road. This is private property. We have over 500 acres."

Gee, thanks. I couldn't figure that out.

"We are a working farm, you know."

Yes, I know.

I called friend Ericka back at our own Fleabag Farm. "You can see the shop from the window of the gift shop!" she exclaimed.

"That's not what the lady at the desk told me. She said that was the 1900 site."

"Well, that's stupid." (I concur.)

We sat around outside, not willing to pay the $19 to get in just to see the 1900 site. (I got a professional courtesy of $1 off the admission price, and just to see one area.) Mark happily played in the grass, a breeze blew, and all was, well, less that perfect. Finally, at 4:30, we decided to re-enter the museum building to enjoy the air conditioning. Tim wanted just to go out the doors to the grounds, as we had concluded that no, the area kind ticket lady was sending us to was not 1900 but was indeed the 1875 town we wanted to see Merrilee in. However, I didn't have the guts to be such a scofflaw. I went instead to the gift shop.

"Where do most of the employees in the town park their cars?" I asked the Nice Gift Shop Ladies.

"Just along that fence," one said, pointing to the side of the shop and the nearby parking lot. "Either there, or at the maintenance building."

"Ok, thanks. We had wanted to see a good friend of mine from the museum where I worked, but we weren't allowed to go there because the last tractor had just left."

"Where does she work?"

"The Millinary shop."

"Oh, just go on back," Nice Museum Shop Lady said. "Go through the doors behind the ticket desk. There's no one there now."

She gestured us on, and using the map we had pilfered, we trotted off to the Millinary Shop, which we could see from the window of the gift shop, just as Ericka had suggested. Merrillee wasn't there, but instead was at the General Store, where we headed next.

The surprise on her face and her speechlessness were worth it as we stepped through the screen door. All was well in the world and Mark was cuddling with his Auntie Mer, playing with her buttons.

Perhaps sometime we'll get to Fleabag Farm early enough to take the tractor out to the 1700 site. But not if that sorely uninformed woman is working at the desk. She might send us to Minneapolis instead.

Of course this is about the baby.

He is working on mastering the small step-down between the kitchen and the family room. He has learned to step up into the kitchen holding mommy's hands and almost always judges it correctly, not kicking the step or overstepping, as it were. But getting down -- that's a little more tricky.

He knew right away to stop at the edge and never just blundered over the side to his death. We've walked to it, and he lets himself dangle in midair in mommy's hands until he lands safely below. But we (probably stupidly, as this barrier has been something for the time that keeps him from one place or another) have been encouraging him to try it for himself.

So he very gingerly reached down and down and down with his hands and successfully crawled down the little step. The next time, he got in a hurry. He reached and reached and reached and went tumbling forward. Very distressing.

This halted progress for a while.

The new thing is to sit on the edge of the step and then lower himself to the floor. Tonight he did it by himself as mommy dangled a favorite family-room toy in front of him (a cassette tape in its case -- rattly and snappy and terrific). He sat on the edge of the step, his feet on the floor, then turned and lowered himself to his knees until he was kneeling facing the kitchen, then turned around and headed for the prize. He also got a hug from mommy.

If one method has unpleasant results (like tumbling down), try another.

This email was sent out on the system at a workplace whose name will not be mentioned, by a person in management. Obviously not in the education department.

Should I bother with words? Probably not.

There it is, 9 yards of striped silk taffeta and 3 of the solid, 5 yards of fringe, a yard of beads and two of braid. And new shoes to boot. (heh heh.)

Compliments will be accepted at this website. :)

I am going to be (once again) the best-dressed chica in 1886 (with apologies to Laura and her rockin' silk dress).

My new dress is done, and as soon as I get pictures, I can attach one to this blog. Monday night there were some tears when I realized I couldn't get it done in time to wear it for Saturday of the 4th weekend when I am scheduled to be Mrs. Louden, rich temperance lady. But then I thought, perhaps...

Wednesday night sewing saw a lot accomplished, but quite a bit left to be finished. And then the wonderful thing happened... Ericka, queen of clothing at the Prairie, told me I could come by her place on Thursday and Friday to get it finished. So last night we worked until after 11, and then tonight we worked for another 3 hours and it isn't completely finished -- it needs decorative buttons, and a couple things don't hang exactly right and need taken off and rehung, and we'd like to put boning in the bodice -- but I WILL be wearing it tomorrow! HURRAY! Happiness all around!