12 Months: Noble On Parade

As many wise women foretold, Noble started walking on her birthday. 20 pounds. 30 inches tall. Having trained for weeks with a couple steps to her credit, nothing could have prepared me for such a confident wobble. Tears at the ready, I was so thrilled and swollen with pride I had a hard time reacting in a way that wouldn't frighten her. A walking baby is visible proof that the project I've been working on for the last year does in fact have legs. Chubby, silken legs.

If you don't see the video above,  please follow this link for your four free minutes of a baby becoming a girl. We've watched it. Highly recommended.

To celebrate, we lunched at the restaurant where my water broke last year, but made a much more obvious mess under the table with whimsically dropped grains of rice. We took her to Little Land, where she hugged, clawed and socialized with her peers until nap time. Endorphins pumping, I gave her the keys and turned the A/C fan to full blast. "Take us home, you beast."

Back at home I baked a batch of dense, sunken, vaguely-flavored v/gf cupcakes and invited her tiny bestie Wiley, aged two and a half, to guide her through the birthday proceedings. I served animal crackers and berries so he would have something to feed her, (a favorite party trick) and filled the pool to maximum capacity. The dress code was after-five/garden party. Noble chose a pink tankini and navy blue bow for her hair, which stayed put for a record 2 hours. Bill wore disco shorts, Wiley none.

Turning one was a success. The toughness of her first cupcake was just toothsome enough for her tender teeth, and kept her busy for a nice long while. I put her back in the pool when she'd spread her frosting as far as it would go and scrubbed her clean with a bit of ball moss. I often stop and wonder what her life would be like if we'd stayed in the Northwest, picking fresh berries, hiking and visiting all the parks and islands and shores year round. To compensate I've been encouraging unlimited leaf sucking and stick tasting until the mosquitoes start to swarm. We spent a few days in August visiting Seattle, so she could meet her great uncle, big trees, mountain vistas and her newest passion: the beach.

I tried to warn her that water in the Puget Sound is a cold lover. Teasing you close as it laps and rushes, then slapping you fresh in the face with its icy smother. As she charged the surf again and again her gasping choked back sobs, and my feet were instantly numbed in pursuit. Back on land, she learned that sand is a warm friend full of secrets, and her appetite brought home extras every time we visited the shore. At home after I finished shaking it out of our luggage, I wondered if I should have bottled some. But saving things like that seems like a gateway to storing up fingernail clippings, and those don't really age with dignity.

Nine months of incubating and a year of feeding, changing, carrying, soothing, treasuring and soldiering on. I have regained almost all of my freedoms, -  not sneezing, coughing, running or jumping, - and have started to expand my imagination beyond raising a person. When we're alone together I try to leave her to her studies and experiments, and watch as she seeks and finds. Though her thirst for dirt is unquenchable, I'm comfortable letting her toddle out into the grass. The yard, serving ambrosia by the tiny fistful, is likely to be my best tool for weaning her from the breast, but we're taking our time. I thought I'd be more aggressive about weaning when her teeth grew in, but she's been surprisingly well-mannered. As long as I can provide a quiet, held space for her to relax and forget about her growing pains and spastic body and find a little peace for myself, I'll suffer the occasional love bite. And when she bites, how the love does flow.

11 Months: Dear Noble,

Hi Doll. The approach of your first birthday has me wondering about what to make you to commemorate the occasion. A smash cake is planned, but if I really wanted to treat you special I'd dump out the vacuum cleaner on your tray. You like fizzies and savories, kombucha, curry, refried beans, berries, and are still honoring the same bowl of oatmeal every morning. You are the first to tell me if an avocado has been a day too long on the shelf, and never seem to tire of being in your high chair, eating whatever you're offered, charmed and amazed by the vessel it arrives in. You're favorite food in taste, texture and accessibility remains toilet paper right off the roll.

While we watch you stand hands-free for extended periods, the probability that you might take a step at any moment keeps us bug-eyed and enthralled. Other things that have caught our eye:

Singing
Turning on/off light switches
Pushing whatever you can move around the house
Pulling wet clothes out of the dryer
Unplugging cords from the wall :(
Wedging your delicious, thick thigh in the security gate
Threatening to pause Daddy's work day with the push of a button
Holding things in your mouth while you travel down the hall
Rifling through the trash
Licking the trash can
Eating dirt, mulch, rocks and clumps of compost
Walking in your walker like a person who walks
Toileting

At a playscape you so delighted a little boy that he squealed at the sight of you, and you dissolved into tears. Yesterday you were sitting on your dad's lap while he was on a video call and startled so hard you lost it after he let out a loud laugh. I picked you up and you somehow maneuvered us both out of the room. When I'm holding you and absently stroking your back and you want to transform it into a nursing session, you move my hands to my shirt and pant expectantly.

Nursing is still a big part of our days and while I don't have a hard deadline to wean you by, I wonder where you'll get your teething comfort after my supply has left the building. At the end of the day after we've survived the dreaded pajama game, I shake up a bottle of soy formula and we nestle together on the couch. I am considering this our golden hour despite the raging sun at 6:30, because I can feel our glow. I recline in the corner of the couch with your cheek tucked next to mine, your body trapping my left arm, and while you deftly wield your bottle I wait, sizzling with satisfaction, sedated, wearing your weight like an x-ray apron. In the past I've struggled to call upon my happy place, to picture a sanctuary and hover there to reach a calm state. I don't know if I've ever been more vulnerable, wholly invested as I am and spacing out on the scent of your hair, but I've never felt this insulated or content. Thanks to this crushing love for you and your stillness I can fawn over tiny discoveries, like the downy blonde hair on your knees that grew overnight. Keep it up, Babe.

You're the best,
Mom

10.5 Months: Noble's Dishwasher

A Poem To A Dishwasher, by a young and curious girl


at night I thrash

sleepless, desperate to plumb

perchance to splash
in your murky depths
to storm your heavy, burdened racks
I knock at your door and wait
hoping you'll lower your drawbridge
and cast your musk to the heavens

today at the art museum
Mother asked what gallery I should like most to see
"appliances" I gushed
she rolled me into European art
I rolled my eyes
I wondered about you
shut up at home and moldering
are you missing me too?

10 months: Noble Grooves

At 10 months old, Noble's blathering about someone named Baap, twerking when she hears the right beat, attempting dangerous acrobatics and has turbo charged her crawl. She's noticed that the foam flooring in her room is ripe for chewing and dismantling, that electrical cords can be unplugged on a whim and wants to find her way inside the fridge before the door shuts real bad. She's screaming with someone else's voice when we put her to bed and has begun throwing mini-tantrums: arching her back, turning red and screeching with hot urgency whenever she feels the moment deserves it.

Writing these days is an impossible dream; facts and phrases hanging limply in the ether vanish when her tiny hands approach my laptop, plucking out keys, slamming out wild unplugged prog rock and reminding me that my dreams are not, for the moment, my own. Sharing has come naturally to this relationship, and it is truly a privilege to swap so many stories over farts and spilled food. It's like middle school really, but I've got better hair, more defined brows and a smarter wardrobe. My current best pal, as it was all those years ago, is a petite girl with a lust for life and a healthy sense of humor who inspires me to play up the slapstick.

We've settled into a routine since Bill was hired to work from home, one which unbelievably hasn't included any time in front of the TV until now. I feel like someone with the wherewithal to use a straw is ready to taste the next level of laziness, but she seems unfazed by the bewitching pull of HBO's Sesame Street Classic. Most of our hours are spent playing on the floor, puzzling over simple geometry, fighting on the changing table or crawling around picking up/binge eating debris off the floor. Bill and I have been wondering about choosing an eventual pet for Noble, but neither of us see the reason for a dog when she does so much of her own clean up after meals. We'd consider her preferences, if she had any. She's so loving and open to new experiences that there's little she doesn't respond to with enthusiastic cheer, save for kale, which she fumes at, sneezes at, and rubs all over her face to keep out of her mouth.

This past weekend I left her overnight for the first time so I could take a quick road trip alone. Driving to Houston in the rain I felt the zing of possibility. Might I pop into a shop hands free? Roll down the windows and blare a little Streisand? How many hitchhikers can I accommodate without the car seat? I met up with friends for delicious Thali, then spent the next day rearranging their house, the number one activity I've been craving since Noble arrived. I felt the thrill of pulling everything out of a room and creating a brand new space, solving riddles of efficiency and aesthetics, all the while wondering how I can implement such fulfilling work into my days at home while still caring for Noble full time. If it's possible, can I also get a little paid? Mysteries abound. Going back to work just to cover the cost of childcare is likely still a productive use of my energy, but the quest to find the ideal job that accommodates being present for tender moments like these is hard to give up on.

9 Months: Noble's Dad (Dear Noble)

Thanks to Judd for this hot snap

It's Father's Day, Baby. I'm so pleased to celebrate and to be sharing my favorite dude with you, that bearded paragon of masculinity - dadliness? -humanity??? - that won't stop smiling at you, your father. You may have heard him called Daddy, Babe, Bill, Billy, Ducky, or Bill Nice; he has many names. I call him Uncle Bill when I think his inner guidance counselor has taken over, and need a way to rebel against being helped. He truly is bubbling over with perspective, beneficent encouragement and appreciation for the most obscure notions, and if I didn't already have a favorite uncle (looking at you, Kerry!) I should hope to have one like him.

A beloved personality across many realms, Magic: The Gathering splashed his name into prominence many years before you were born, and gave him the worldwide fan base he deserves. An unsung philosopher and poet, passionate about social change, conversation and justice, his inquisitive presence has the power to diffuse surges of violence, (though he has been politely asked not to return to the state of Missouri) and more than once I've seen him come through many a traumatic ordeal unscathed. His ideal schedule includes a 4 mile morning walk, where he organizes his thoughts, writes lyrics and sweats through his shirts while rapping and schlepping fruit home from the store. If you happen to be into hip hop even a pinch more than I am, he's going to be thrilled. He's building a collection of songs, (don't forget this one with Berm and Swale,) that will no doubt serve as a timeline for his journey through his 20's, 30's, fatherhood, and beyond. He's a rapper baby, he's going to spit at you. His voice is just a vessel, but the hot fire he's shaping is the key to his innermost feelings. Unlocking his heart shouldn't be a problem though, as he's more than happy to talk at length about anything you want. And more. (And more.)

Before you were born he played in a recreational basketball league, and we attended all of his games. I filmed them for you, so at the first sign of interest we'll put together a highlight reel. Man, if you're into basketball he's gonna be over the moon.
For your first 8 months he was at home with you, having been a casualty of a mass lay off just a little while before you arrived. This means you were together a lot more than you have been lately, making googly eyes, nuzzling and bonding over things that crinkled and buzzed. Nowadays he spends his working hours at home designing games and coming to investigate your laughter at every opportunity.

He is a highly affectionate person, and dazzled me into a surprising tolerance of PDA when I was already well into my 20's. Can you conceive of your 20's? I have high hopes they'll be full and wild, lived to the max. Your dad was a real dynamo in his 20's, when I snagged him.  He's since grown into the breeziest, most effervescent husband I've ever had. An enthusiastic student, he is a great lover of habits and innovation. It is likely our shared love for life hacks that keeps our marriage afloat - that, and my stunning reversal of my ban on movie theater nachos. When it was just the two of us, I often scrimped on the basics to the point of mania - hovering nearby while Bill did the dishes to turn off the faucet between plates seems ludicrous now that I run a bath for you every night. I've barely glimpsed the surface of his skills, aggro micro-managing over-achiever that I am. I forget that people have been successfully managing their lives without me (you being the exception) and it's often a strain to contain myself. I rely on him to help me unpack my thoughts, balance our budget and open cans of pickles. He indulges when he discovers something like power clashing, and has a range of laughter I'll attempt to illustrate thusly: his courtesy laugh (you'll have one of these too) is a subdued, murmured chortle, what you'll hear most often is his easy, choppy chuckle, but when you hear his high pitched, rapid mad-hatter trilling warble you can be sure something ridiculous has happened. Likely in a basketball game.

So there you have it. He's traveling a lot this month so I had to draw on memories to paint this picture, but I think it is a faithful portrait. You're 9 months old, and you have your own opinions about him, but if you think you love him now, well, just wait until you see him dance.

9 Months: Noble "Extra" Mobile

I'm not a single mom. I can't think what a single mom thinks or cry single mom tears, but after a weekend traveling alone with Noble I have seen a grueling vision of my life without another parent. While Bill was in New Orleans for 4 days, I drove to Houston for a birthday party with a trepidatious sheen on my brow, dreading the 3 hour tour with a passenger who historically maxes out at 45 minutes. The drive was as I expected: lots of screaming and show tunes. It wasn't so much call and response - more like a metal/cabaret mashup demo with a Whitney Houston floater. The mix was a mess. For relief we stopped for a walk around my grandparents' house, now an empty and padlocked hundred-year-old husk (for sale!) with a front walkway hand-bricked by my dad. I urged my grumpy baby to take in the seat of her ancestors and appreciate the majesty of its gnarled and towering live oak while I tried out my pStyle (A REVELATION!) and unwittingly allowed chiggers into my pants.

Despite the blubbering and traffic and skin scoring, we had a really nice weekend. Noble got to splash and crawl around with her contemporaries while her mom looked on, exchanging a knowing smile with her old amigos.
My oldest and most pregnant of pals took me out to dinner, where we traded parenting parables and dusted off our 5th grade vibe. After one drink I was so loaded I was eating spicy food and preaching the timeless wisdom of Spiritual Midwifery. At the playground the next morning, Noble discovered tunnels, the euphoric oscillation of swinging and the idyllic teething relief of engineered wood fiber.

Thanks to Laura and Travis for hosting us for the weekend, for the night out and for arranging a mini Babypalooza in their living room. Congratulations on 2 years of keeping your little blondie alive and thriving!

Back at home it's so satisfying to be together again, and as if she was waiting for it, Bill and I watched as Noble stood unsupported for a hot second while considering a basket of toys. I keep forgetting she's going to be so different day to day, and that socializing yields such major inspiration. We've since attended a baby play group, storytime at the library, the local playground and IKEA to keep her social skills sharp. A swing and a tunnel have moved onto the property, and the ridiculous giggling that came with them makes me understand the appeal of loading up on toys. What's so great about leaving the house anyway?

At 27.5" and 15.5 lbs, Noble has a lust for life best glimpsed during her feral self-feeding frenzies, nightly immunity to sleep and evasive diaper changes. She's been pulling up since 7.5 months, so I took a chance the other day and set up her push walker (Thanks Wilsons!) which she conquered immediately and has been more daring than ever for it. She crawls to the edge of everything ready to dive, so we're teaching her to back into her dismounts. Taking her into the doctor for her 9 month check up I felt the need to explain all the bruises on her face, but decided against it. I don't explain all of my bruises. ...all of hers are from the kitchen table legs, all of mine are from her... I'm determined not to apologize, hover, protect her too well from germs or clean her too thoroughly after meals. I'm enduring unspeakable smells, brain-scrambling noise, making food around the clock, sleeping 6 hours a night and dimly wondering why my reflection looks so surprised. The disarray I've become accustomed to has me ignoring many housekeeping infractions, forgetting to care about exercise and I can't remember the last time I went this long without an oil change. I am wholly fatigued and desperate for control, but this is our time to be wild. I'm trying not to miss it.

8 Months: Noble's Mom (Dear Noble,)

Hey Squirt, Mom here. Composter, shitty vegan, karaoke fiend and first-time parent. Recently separated from my beloved part time clerkdom at our neighborhood library, estranged from the theatre and food blogging, I've been set loose in the stay-at-home mom-o-sphere to care for you full time. Since today is Mother's Day, I thought I might tell you a little about myself that so far may have been lost in translation.

It was your dad's idea to have a baby. I loved being pregnant, but dreaded your birth. Prone to bouts of doom, I was apprehensive about how much grit I could really muster when it came time to eject you.  I couldn't imagine what it would be like to meet you or hold your immaculate little shape. You will have noticed that your dad and I like to be comfortable at home, and as accomplished, body positive nudists we will likely let you run around naked long after it is socially acceptable. We just think you have a really hot bod.

I'm in a really fine marriage with someone who really gets it. I can recycle lame jokes and voices and movie quotes, rarely shower and vacuum day or night with impunity.
I'm a biter, but have held back enough to keep you alive. You find this amusing, and humble me with your laughter. With any luck we'll soon be able to share a few choice volumes of vampire fiction. Right after Harry Potter. But a little before Outlander.

I cut my hair when I'm agitated, your father's when he asks and will trim you up if and when you're ready. I avoid confrontation and I drive too wild, but have made adjustments since you joined the band. I am a(n) hyper vigilant perfectionist, but have been flexing my cool-it by letting you eat off the floor (at home) and inviting your dad to use the stove. My favorite job titles have been camp counselor, omelet chef, pizza delivery gal and circulation clerk. My oldest and best friends are from grade school, and my newest is YOU.
When I get angry, I chew my rage into a hard wad and stuff it into a compartment in one of my molars, never to be cracked lest I have to defend my tribe. Unfortunately, this means I'm busy chewing while I could be defusing tension, and it may be several hours before I'm ready to talk. During these times, please give your dad several hugs. I could probably use one too.
I take an elaborate cocktail of antihistamines for my dermatographia, a rare skin condition that turns your nails into my personal hell when you scratch through your teething pain, or - and please stop this immediately - bite the breast that feeds you. I am focused on tolerance, but have several glaring blind spots, and will likely still be taking time outs to breathe through my missteps when I'm too old to walk.

Music and fireworks are the only things that really keep me invested. Fleet Foxes will likely still be blasting through the halls when you're reading this, so if they're on right now I really hope you're not sick of them. FF and their sublime, paralyzing counter-melodies are the modern cornerstone of chamber folk, and do for me what CSNY did for your grandparents. I am so excited and panicked about the magnitude of music I have to share with you, I feel restless to get started. We've been loving Woody Guthrie's Songs To Grow On For Mother And Child, and are trying to push Roy Orbison and some early R&B at the moment. We're considering home schooling, but I know if the curriculum were left up to me, you'd never learn how to multiply fractions. Or any chemistry. Truly, I tap out halfway through Algebra 2. How do you feel about the steel drum?

I didn't wear a pair of pants that fit until I was 30, colored my hair at 11, and briefly thought I'd be able to fly on the trapeze. I prefer a period piece whenever possible, a tree museum to a theme park, and getting a tooth pulled to watching a live play. I had my first lead role at the tender age of 9 and my first show choir solo at 11, but clam up in group conversations. I'm a listener, a planner, a postponer, and a sour old crone about pop culture. I have medieval worries about a second child, owning a pet and leaving the house without a destination.

I lost my dad to cancer at 16, while I was closing Bye Bye Birdie and struggling to make friends at a new school. I have a half brother from my dad's first marriage who's 20 years older than me, and a sister - Auntie Jade! - who came along when I was 8 and already so covetous of my me time that I was late in appreciating her. She's 26 now, adores you, and brings me so much joy that I can't imagine not at least trying to round up a sibling for you pretty soon.
That's about it, Babe. I think you're so wonderful I started a blog about you and how nice it is being your mom, and how delirious I feel when you smile. You'll find my memory is pretty terrible, but remember this, you tiny darling: I am now, and will always be, privileged and grateful to have shared my life with you.
Only the most preposterous love and affection,
Mom