Zoe has the book Rainbow Fish, by Mark Pfister. It’s a very popular book. I think it came out when my brother was young because I remember him having it, although I have no memory of reading it to him, possibly because I was expected to read The Lorax full time. But Zoe loves fish (just like her namesake Grandma Sally (sniff)) so she sometimes asks that it be read to her. I have to say, I sort of hate it. It’s one of those Important Message books, which I don’t object to on principle, although they do tend to be less fun to read than books without Important Messages. But I’m not sure I like the Message. The book has Rainbow Fish, with very shiny, pretty scales, feeling superior to the other fish and unable to make friends. When another fish asks Rainbow Fish for one of his pretty, shiny scales, Rainbow Fish says no. So no one wants to be his friend. Then he goes to the magical octopus or whoever and the magical octopus tells him to share his scales and then he’ll have friends. So he gives all his scales away and then people want to be friends with him.
I just want to clarify what I said to my sister-in-law regarding same-sex marriage and the state. I do want them to get married without the approval of the government, and mainly it is for, yes, selfish and superficial reasons, like, I want to celebrate their commitment to each other now, and I want to be able to refer to her fiancee as her wife or her spouse or whatever they are going to use now instead of whenever either California or Illinois gets off its ass.
The other word she says that isn’t a real word is “Yoo-wah!” which she seems to employ as a sort of war cry. I also forgot splish-splash and choo-choo on the original list. She also identifies Noddy, a British children’s book character, by name.
First of all, I think we can add “Don’t touch!” and “Thank you!” to the list. And I think we may have successfully changed “Shit” to “Shoot.” Which could be a whole post in and of itself, about how I don’t want to be the kind of mother who cares if my daughter uses curse words, but I also don’t want to be the kind of mother that gets a reputation in the kindergarten for teaching her daughter to curse. But that’s neither here nor there.
I forgot the fake-sleeping sound she makes that I can’t possibly transcribe but you all know what I mean – the fake light snoring you make to “pretend” you’re asleep.
I forgot about “Whee!” and “A-Boom!”
Words Zoe says (1/16/2010)
Uncle Mark (Uh Mo)
(sniff) (for a flower)
Hoppy (What a bunny does)
Whoo (sound an owl makes)
Moo (sound a cow makes)
ooh-ooh ah-ah (monkey)
Oh! (cuddling a baby)
Down (dog command)
Jason and I went on a date yesterday! Hooray!
Avatar was exactly what I expected. It looked absolutely breathtaking. The plot was utterly forgetable. The one pleasant surprise was that I though Giovanni Ribisi did a really excellent job with his corporate asshole role. But I mainly remember him as Phoebe’s brother on Friends; maybe his performance wasn’t a surprise to people who have seen a lot more of his movies.
I wish I had more to say on these topics but it was just a very pleasant time. Burgers, beer, big-budget movie. A good date!
First of all, I have made a comprehensive list of all the books Zoe already has. As soon as I figure out how to make that widely available, either through here or through our Mobile Me gallery, I will.
Second of all, I want to reassure the none of you who read my last post about not being an adequate girl that I feel a little better now. The hairdresser I went to the other day said she can’t blow out her own hair either. So I feel better about my girl skills, although not so confident in her hairdressing skills.
And finally, while I was doing some cleaning up, I saw that I had started a blog when I started trying to get pregnant and there were some interesting posts in there, at least to me, so I’m republishing them here:
December 7, 2007:
I’m trying to get pregnant. I feel like that should start a blog wherein I am 46, not 26, and there’s something more to “trying” than “having sex with my husband.” But none of that is true. At this point, there’s no reason to suspect that the traditional method of trying to get pregnant won’t work. Ptooie. (For those of you who are not Jewish, I just spit on my hand to ward off the evil eye.)
This is my second month of trying. Last month, I was absolutely convinced that I’d get pregnant right away. I woke up every morning for a week feeling very hot and slightly nauseous. It meant nothing. In fact, I was probably getting excited about non-existent symptoms. My period was due the day before Thanksgiving, which seemed so exciting to me, to be able to tell my family over Thanksgiving weekend. When it didn’t happen, I was more upset than I really should have been. Most people don’t get pregnant their first month. So I’m trying not to get all excited this month.
This is also the end of my first quarter of my last year as a grad student. I attend UChicago’s Divinity School, and I’ll be finishing my MA in June. And then I’m done. I’m not applying to the Ph.d program. I’m simultaneously massively relieved by this, and a little bit edgy.
Not applying for the Ph.d program means that this year, I can be supremely relaxed. No begging for professors’ affection. No writing sample to worry about. And I can just enjoy my classes without really being concerned about the grade I’m going to get for them. It’s blissful.
On the other hand, I feel like kind of a sellout. And this, of course, speaks to my ambiguity on the staying-at-home-to-raise-kids thing. Plus, I know I can’t be a stay-at-home-mom forever, and I’m afraid I won’t be good at anything. I was going to say, “anything else,” but that’s assuming I’m a good graduate student, which I’m evidently not.
So these are the themes this blog will be exploring! Hooray!
December 8, 2007:
I am feeling terribly nauseous again this morning.
It doesn’t mean anything.
It doesn’t mean anything.
It doesn’t mean anything.
December 20, 2007:
I don’t have my period yet. It was due Wednesday.
But guys, it doesn’t mean anything. I know that. I’m regular like clockwork, but one day is hardly . . .
I’m not excited.
I’m not excited.
I’m not anticipating sly hints and winks at my grandparents this weekend.
Or taking the pregnancy test Sunday morning when my friends are all there.
Because it doesn’t mean anything. My period will probably come while I’m out this afternoon.
December 28, 2007:
I took a pregnancy test last week. It came up positive. I’m going to see the doctor today.
Well, that’s not true. I’m going to see a lab technician, who will do a more sophisticated (I hope) version of the pee-on-a-stick drugstore test, and probably charge me out the ears for it, and then my insurance probably won’t cover it for one reason or another.
But who cares? I (maybe) am pregnant!
So that’s interesting. For those of you a little slow on the uptake, or reading this many years in the future, I was, in fact, pregnant, and that pregnancy became Zoe.
Sometime, somewhere, they gave classes on being a girl. And I was absent. Like the day they taught right and left.
I can’t do my hair. Both of my sisters are excellent at hair. I can’t seem to manage it. How do I get to the back of my head, and how do I do it without burning my hand on the curling iron? What do I do with the pieces I’ve already “done”? What product should I use, how much, and at what point in the process? And where are all my hair products, anyway? I swear I used to have some hairspray somewhere.
I have always been a bit of a failure at being a girl. Growing up, it was the thing my stepmother and stepsister were good at, not me. I was good at school. When I was in college, I got a job at Aveda, and my family kind of laughed at me. “You?” was the general consensus. “What are you doing working at Aveda?”
I think working there helped me a little. I learned how to apply eye shadow. I started washing, moisturizing, toning, and exfoliating my face regularly. I kept my nails polished and neat instead of biting them because customers would see my hands when I showed them our products. I used to marvel when I got ready to go to work that I could go from looking like me to looking like a girl who wouldn’t have talked to me in high school in the space of about ten minutes.
But I never mastered hair styling. Even when I was working there, if a customer needed help with hair products that went beyond the hair product descriptions printed on little cards on the shelf, I went and found another salesgirl. And I remain totally hopeless now.
It’s the new year, and so I’m feeling a little reflective. I’ve always been sort of nerdy, scruffy. And, in high school at least, that meant scorning the other kind of girl, the kind of girl who blow-dried her hair to perfection even when she was just putting it up in a ponytail. And I went to college with a bunch of other nerds. That meant that, while I was not nearly the most fashionable person in the room at any point, I was also rarely the scruffiest. But I’m a grown-up now, and I’m feeling a bit torn about the whole thing.
On the practical level, I can’t really look like a fashion plate every day. I have a 16-month-old. If I don’t have someone else in the house to watch her, in some other location, I can’t turn on the blow-dryer, because it’ll scare her, or the curling iron, because she’ll find a way to burn herself on it. My clothes will be covered in drool, snot, or spilled food ten minutes after I put them on.
But on another level, I’m feeling a little low due to my scruffiness (which is part and parcel with my weight). Growing up, it was okay with me that I wasn’t good at the girl stuff, because I was good at the school stuff. But I’m not in school, and I only have a small, part-time job. So the scruffiness is both worse than it usually is and more bothersome to me because I have little else to feel like I’m doing well.
That sounds too depressing. Let’s reframe it. Maybe it’s just the only thing I feel I’m not doing well. I do my job (pretty) well and I like it. My house looks pretty nice. It needs a lot more decor, but I’m fine with taking that slowly. I may not be in school, but I read an awful lot. I am a good cook and I’m getting better. My daughter is doing just great. I try to keep myself from resting too much of my self-esteem on how she’s doing. It’s dangerous for me and for her. But for now, I suppose I can take a little bit of maternal pride in the fact that I have the most wonderful, adorable, beautiful, smart, curious, and capable child in the whole wide world. 🙂 It’s just my hair. I’m sure I’ll figure out a way to manage it in the next few months.
Happy New Year!