On Sunday, we took a family trip to the beach. As is befitting the vampire-like nature of our complexions, we left at the pleasantly shady hour of 5pm, still wondering if it weren't just a bit too sunny for us.
This was Sasha's first experience with the beach and the many things associated with it: sand, waves, seagulls. In all, Sasha does not care for the beach.
As soon as we got to the sand, we put her down barefoot and let her walk between us, one hand per parent. Walking on sand, Sasha found, is strange and bemusing. She did seem to enjoy it, but not half so much as walking on something normal, like, say, carpeting. It definitely rates over walking on grass in her eyes, though.
Itwasn't long until she saw her first seagull: She screamed! She pointed! It was as though she were saying, look, mommy and daddy, there is an animal! I must catch it and play with it! And she toddled off toward the seagull, each paw still held by one of us.
Despite the phenomenal laziness of the common beach seagull, it nonetheless eluded her. Maybe next time, little girl.
Once we got close to the shoreline and set up camp, we thought to let Sasha get her feet wet in the waves. This was a Bad Plan (TM). First off, Sasha decided that walking on the wet sand was decidedly icky, and tried to back up. But worse, the tide was going out, and it was difficult to gauge the sweet spot between staying dry and drenching the poor kid. After a rather long wait, Sasha complaining about the yucky wet sand the whole while, we caught a wave. The wave was icy! The wave was hard and sudden and scary! Worse, the wave was up to her poor little thighs!
For reasons that should be painfully clear, this single wave ruined the rest of her beach experience. She began to cry. We retreated posthaste from the water, and tried to distract her with the fun digging and burying you can do with sand, but it was not to be. She clung to our shoulders and expressed to us how very unsure of this weird place she felt. I buried her feet; she cried and stamped her way clear. Daddy built a sandcastle with a gully. Sasha kept a close eye on the waves, unimpressed by his architecture. I stomped on the sandcastle with my very best Godzilla impersonation, and she smiled! So we tried to let her do some stomping, and she cried. We cut our losses and went home shortly thereafter.
We have perhaps ruined the beach and the experience of beachiness for our daughter for all time. It is too early to tell. But even if this is so, we can consider ourselves as having done her no small favor. If she never cares to go to the beach, imagine all the sun exposure she will miss! Imagine all of the now-eliminated painful hours trying to find a swimsuit that make her look like a supermodel! Imagine all of the gross places she will never find sand on her way home!
My kitchen is: Cluttered of counter. Sasha has discovered that she can get into the bottom drawer of our pantry and help herself to the foodstuffs therein. This would not be terrible, except that she decides to help herself to those foods, destroying about half the package in the process. And let me tell you, half a package of graham cracker crumbs on your floor is no small mess. Therefore all of the graham crackers, pretzels, Goldfish, and other snackifoods that used to reside in that drawer now live on the countertops, until I can find a way to rearrange.
Ideally, I'd like to use that drawer for snacks she can help herself to, preferably in a single-serving format. I'm not sure how to do that and yet prevent her from opening, say, five containers. Any ideas? Is she still too small for the self-serve concept?
Close to two weeks ago, I embarked on an experiment in personal care on a level I have never before attempted. In the interest of of acquiring frizz-free, shiny, bouncy hair, and of regaining my natural curl, I bought a certain little book.
And then I stopped using shampoo.
You have to understand the relationship between me and my hair to understand what brings me to such a drastic measure. By most accounts, I've got terrific hair. It's got body and volume, it's healthy, thick, free of split ends. But lately, more and more, it's also been disappointingly free of curl. So what?
In the past, I've made reference to my naturally curly hair to my mother-in-law. She has, on more than one occasion, looked at me and said, rather delicately, "But your hair isn't really curly, it's more... wavy." And for reasons I cannot put my finger on, the idea that my hair is merely wavy torments me. And so I have set out to find my curls.
You see, curliness is a fundamental part of my self-image. It's possible, though difficult, for my hair to become mirror-straight, but it's just not who I am. I am the little girl who always looked like she needed to comb her hair because the curls sprang up again as soon as my mother's back was turned. I am the college girl who kept her hair back in a ponytail all the time because her shoulder-length blunt cut made her look like a pyramid-head. My hair, left to its own devices, does wisps and ringlets and fairy curls. At least, that's what I remember it doing.
But I've never had anyone to instruct me on the care and feeding of curls. I've known for a long time, for example, that I shouldn't really ever brush or comb my hair. And my hair never looks so good as the third day after I've washed it. But when I read Curly Girl, it was like someone shone a flashlight in my eyes and said "Hey, I'm talking to YOU!"
Mind you, I have not stopped washing my hair. I just wash it with conditioner, now. Every once in a while, I scrub my scalp with some conditioner mixed with brown sugar and baking soda. The first day after my first no-shampoo washing, my scalp itched like the blazes. But since then?
My scalp actually feels cleaner than it ever has. My hair is soft, softer even than Sasha's. And the curl? It's starting to perk up. And somehow, with my ringlets and wisps and fairy curls, I'm starting to feel a lot more like myself.
My kitchen is: Besplattered with applesauce. It's not pretty, but I guess there's no other way for her to learn.
Since Sasha has reached the ripe and mature age of 14 months, we have decided it's about time she started carrying her own weight around here. That said, she has her first household chore: Sasha feeds the fish.
The burden of responsibility does not seem to weigh too heavily upon her. In fact, the feeding of the fish is about her favorite part of getting up in the morning, and if she could, she would feed them several times a day. More or less every time she notices the fish are there at all. She is unimpressed with my explanation of water chemistry and why overfeeding is a bad idea. ("If the fish don't eat all the food, honey, it turns into poison, and then the fishies can't breathe anymore, and they get very sick. You have to wait until tomorrow.")
Of course, the top of the aquarium is far, far out of her reach, by design, so I hold her on my hip for the task. And I wouldn't dream of letting her handle the flake. Sasha's job is to toss in the sinking algae tablets. She'd love to do several at once, but I only let her do one at a time, because she gets upset when it's time to stop.
This is about how it goes: she pushes her paws into the canister, trying to get a fistful of tablets. I remove the excess tablets from her clutches and put them back. She looks at me sidelong, tries to put the tablet into her own mouth, gives me a wicked smile when I tell her the fish food is not for HER, and plunks the tablet into the water. This cycle is repeated about three times, varying depending on how seriously she is trying to eat the tablets herself. Eventually, I declare the feeding over and let her close the tank. She does this loudly and with much force.
I can tell that caring for a pet is having a beneficial effect on her. For example, she is learning that fish-feeding happens no more than once a day, no matter how volubly she opines otherwise. This valuable understanding of time will serve her well in the future. Soon, she will be ready for a puppy.
My kitchen is: Oh, who knows. It might be clean under all the bottles needing recycling, but I sure can't tell.
The elections are coming, the elections are coming; or at least the primaries. For these last years, I have been clinging to that strand of hope, the one gossamer idea: President Bush can not, will not, be re-elected. But I look at the Democratic field of candidates, and I despair. There is no single voice, not even a small few competing voices, speaking reason into the ears of their party and the nation.
Who could pull this discord into harmony? Kerry? Dean? My gut tells me no. Unfortunately, so do the polls.
Former Vice-President Gore gave a speech today about the flaws in the Bush administration. I couldn't agree with him more.
Gore could do it. Gore could put the fire in our bellies as we remember the agony and betrayal of those fateful 35 days in Florida. There are no few Americans who would feel that betrayal just as keenly today, if they were only reminded of it.
But he's not running for president.
Hillary could do it. But she's not running for president, either. She's busy at Congress, acting as our junior Senator here in New York. She is one of the few who have openly criticized our president on policy in our post-terror world. I remember the days when the opposition party opposed.
Whatever shall we do? Whoever shall we choose? I would forgive Hillary or Gore, either one, for breaking their word and making a run. I would forgive Gore the year of silence, the beard, the concession speech. I would forgive Hillary her book deals. It could be our best shot at peace, continued civil liberties, and the integrity of our Constitution.
If only, if only Gore would run.
Sasha has begun the lengthy and arduous process of learning how to take care of herself. The learning curve on this is years, nay, decades, so I don't expect any miraculous leaps into independence yet, but her attempts are truly noble and worthy of documenting.
First, there is the matter of feeding herself via utensil. Sasha clearly knows how to operate a spoon. She knows about putting the spoon into the food and stirring it. She also knows how to insert the spoon into her mouth. In fact, when you give her a wooden spoon and an empty piece of Tupperware, this is exactly what she does; pretend cooking, I suppose.
The parts in between, alas, are still hazy, and so a lot of her comestibles detour to her lap en route. She does not understand the fork, though they excite her tremendously. She does understand drinking from an open cup, but lacks a certain, shall we say, finely-honed control that would make this practical for her. She also isn't entirely clear on the part where you turn the cup sideways when it is NOT near your mouth, and all the fluid inside is suddenly gone. And sometimes, though not always, defying all prediction, you become wet. A mystery for the ages.
Sasha also brushes her own teeth. She has her own little baby toothbrush, and her own little baby fluoride-free toothpaste. I prepare her toothbrush for her every morning and every night, and she happily brushes away. It's endearing. However, she does not generally brush her teeth, per se. Let's just say that she gets the air inside her mouth (and sometimes her tongue) exceedingly clean.
She is trying very hard to take a more participatory role in getting dressed. So far, this means vigorously sticking an arm through the neck of her clothing, and getting upset when I try to correct the matter. She has also tried to dress herself all on her own. Typically, she grabs a piece of laundry (say, a pair of my underwear) and attempts to don it by, say, wrapping it around her neck. I can see she is fashion-forward, already going for shock value. I shall have to take this into consideration when shopping for her fall wardrobe.
Sasha is also taking her hair care more and more into her own hands. This began several weeks ago, when she decided she would no longer tolerate having her hair in a ponytail topknot any longer. This resulted, before too long, in a new hairstyle, with bangs. From time to time since then, she has tried to apply her own hair accessories, but since her method involves putting the hair tie or barrette on top of her head and then going on her merry way, she has achieved only limited success. She does brush her own hair now. Again, she has her own sense of style, and primarily brushes it all straight forward. With the back of the brush. But hey, if she likes what she sees when she looks into the mirror, it's not my place to question her judgement.
On a side note, she has sprouted tooth #5. We've also gotten her to walk as many as five or six steps, on her own, without holding onto anything. Her walking range if an adult is holding onto her hands is practically limitless, and yesterday, she walked the length of the mall this way. It won't be long until she's running.
My kitchen is: Dark and gloomy. My tomatoes are turning blue. The garbage is overflowing. But by this time tomorrow, it will be squeaky clean and lovely. Haha, I love being lazy and bourgois! And I'm going to play SimCity 4 all night! Haha! Take THAT, social conscience!