Millions of Books

I was looking back over this post when I realized my confessions were a bit lame; however, I'm revealing one more today.  It's definitely an addiction and one I don't plan on giving up for Lent, though I may be convicted by the end of this post.

Let me "'splain", as Raggedy Ann & Andy would say.

This past weekend, after a grueling half day of test driving cars--yes, I realize I should be glad that we even have the money for car payments; nevertheless, looking at cars, much like looking at houses, can be a staggering task--Blake and I had our first night out sans Lucy since Christmas break.  We bought a half-off coupon for the Drafthouse, used an old gift card for our snacks at the theatre and were congratulating ourselves on a night cheaply done when we caught sight of Half Price Books.  Two 40% off coupons were burning a hole in my pocket.  What we hoped would happen was that we'd come out of there with an item each--something to nourish our souls or at least transport us.  What actually happened--and this is usually how it goes--was that we bought five new books for the Precious and her brother.

Five books culled from a pile of at least 15 accumulated from 20 minutes at HPB.  We always cast a wide net and then do a draft.  It's the only way to get out of there without losing one's soul.  So much for our "cheap date."  Instead of stopping for dessert somewhere, we opted for the wallet-friendly  pint of ice cream from HEB and headed home sheepishly, justifying ourselves as we drove.

By the time we got home, we'd come full circle--we can't stop buying books.

Why do I squeal with delight when finding a book I'd thought existed only in my vivid imagination--that same edition of a classic fairy tale that my mother read to me time and time again--that sequel to Corduroy--that companion to Goodnight Moon--that hard-back copy of The Wizard of Oz with original drawings?  How can I put this into words?  Who would I be without all the characters living in my imagination, the moral of some story, the whimsical beauty of a certain illustration?  The books I read in part shaped me into who I am, and despite my flaws, I'm grateful--grateful for parents who took the time to read--Heidi, The Hobbit, Tales of the Kingdom, The Chronicles of Narnia, the Bible.  Granted, there are some books I've read that I'd rather not have Lucy read because of the way they affected me, but for the most part, what I read became the sturdy blocks from which I built my world.  (Case in point, The Roly Poly Puppy actually made it into a song I used to play a few years back.)

I'd say that a good 75% of my kid's day revolves around books--not necessarily reading them, she could be stacking or dumping or flipping through pages, and I'm totally fine with that.  The fact that she asks me--out of the blue--to find an illustration of Jesus and Mary or the page on which a lone bear appears in The Color Kittens fills my heart with delight.   When it comes down to it, I'm tickled to remember that Jesus taught with stories--it makes me feel a little bit better about staying up late to read The Happy Prince or letting dinner go in order to finish a book for book club.

So that's my treatise (ha!) on books and why I'll keep buying--just maybe not during Lent, because I think I'm being convicted to give up consumption for awhile.  There's always the library!

22 weeks

To the beautifully coifed, flawlessly made up mom in the cape and skinny jeans:

You look lovely, but could you possibly take it down a notch?  You're making the rest of us look bad.

On My Watch: Tongue Injury

Written the day after Lucy's first bloody accident:

Yesterday was one of those days when your heart jumps to your throat.  A day when you fight back hysterical tears as bright red blood spills from your sweet baby's mouth, when you weigh the options:  emergency room trauma vs. waiting it out to see if the gaping hole in your child's tongue will ever stop gushing.

So, yeah, if the above paragraph seems utterly overdramatic, talk to my raging pregnancy hormones.

I was letting her be more independent, letting her climb up and then drop down and land on her feet--it was a matter of inches--centimeters, really.  She'd done it before.  This time, the Precious biffed the landing and fell, arms outstretched, bumping her chin.  No way was she letting me see her tongue, but when she opened her mouth to utter that injured, angry cry, I could see blood around her teeth.  Maybe she'd lost a tooth?  Forcing myself to calm down, I eased her onto a park bench and rummaged in my bag to find that I'd left our First Aid kit at home, leaving only boogie wipes to soak up the blood.  She had been swallowing it, I realized, and when she finally calmed down enough to open her mouth, I saw the gaping hole in her tongue.  Blood streamed out of her mouth and all over her t-shirt.  In the moment it seemed to me that I'd never before seen so much blood.  She wouldn't let me near it.  At that point, panicked again, I grabbed the Precious and ran for the car, dialing Blake's number as I ran.  No answer.  I called the receptionist at the school and said there had been an accident, though Blake was surprisingly calm when he answered.  


As I explained the situation and my thoughts on tongue stitches, Lucy played quietly on my lap in the front seat, while her daddy Googled "toddler tongue injury."  "Buttons," she lisped.  She'd stopped crying, but her tongue was still sporting a hole and still bleeding.  Blake instructed me to head to the school, as we were only minutes away; he had a feeling we weren't going to need the emergency room.  Lucy dutifully drank water and only fussed a bit when I strapped her into her seat--thank goodness someone was calm!  I was again close to tears--my therapist was calling me about the appointment we were supposed to be having that day--and I breathed a prayer, aloud most likely, because Lucy said from the back, "I ok, Mommy, I ok."  O, my sweet baby.  


By the time I'd reached the school, I had calmed down--she needed no calming, and Blake was on his way out of work.  His internet research led him to believe that there were much worse scenarios than ours on the toddler tongue injury spectrum and that we just needed to  head to HEB and buy popsicles for her to eat.  He magically produced gauze from his pocket and got Lucy to open her mouth--she was already yelling something like "HEB--I ride in cart!"  What a hot mess--blood all over her new tee, snot all over her face, hair matted to her head.  


When the shock finally wore off, we were standing in the ice cream aisle and Daddy was proclaiming it to be a calorie-free day.  Strawberry yogurt pops and Blue Bell in hand, we left the store laughing, and despite two horrific re-bites during dinner, Lucy was jumping around before bed like a crazy lady on The Price Is Right.  Never mind that I keep having flashbacks.  


And that, my friends, is the story of Lucy's first bloody injury, more traumatic for me than for her.  In fact, she talks more about the time I fell down the stairs than the time she bit her tongue.  Please enjoy the pictures of her popsicle dinner afterwards.

Lucy's second experience with a popsicle.  Yogurt pops are yummy!

And so cold!

You can see the slit in her tongue here but when she really stuck her tongue out you could see the inner flesh of her tongue hanging out of the hole.  Gross!

This is what it was like at the park.

First Haircut

While our sweet one has seen Daddy's hair buzzed off, she had yet to undergo the scissors until about 10 days ago.  It was getting a little wild up in here:

One afternoon I saw the Precious pushing her hair out of her eyes.  She caught sight of me staring and gave me this "Can you please do something about this?!" look.  I took this as the go-ahead to chop her bangs.

I'd been putting it off for weeks--after Blake gave his permission (!), I'd faltered in my resolve, not because I'm sentimental about hair, but because I didn't want to pay $20 for a kid-cut at Bird's, nor did I want to poke the Precious' eye out.  But the time had come, as the Walrus said, so I bravely gripped those scissors and went for it.

I realize the angle of this shot makes it look like I was about to stab her, but it really wasn't anything like that.

You know that feeling--the one where they've just finished cutting your bangs--there's hair up your nose and possibly in your mouth and you desperately need to sneeze or swallow or both.

So it's done and we're very glad!  I didn't end up cutting much at all, and yes, I did save the hair in a baggy, though I'm not exactly sure why.  Someday Lucy E. will be looking through her baby books and this bag will fall in her lap and she'll wonder what the heck it is and why I kept it.  Ah, well.  

And here's the glamour girl herself:

*Last photo credit goes to Lucy's Great Aunt Bonnie

Confession Time

...it's hard to dance with a devil on your back
so shake him off...
--Florence & the Machine



Long, long ago, I wrote a numbered list of confessions as a post.  It's a bit of a cop out and doesn't take much thought in the moment, but I've been thinking about doing another one for awhile, just to keep my internet soul (?) in line.

So here you go:

1.  Yesterday, the above-quoted song made me cry.  Go listen to it--it's not exactly a ballad.
2.  Recently, I've been sneaking episodes of Say Yes to the Dress.  Ugh.
3.  Last week, to deal with the stress of a toddler injury, I ate a whole pint of Ben & Jerry's.
4.  Two out of the three midwives I've seen think I'm fat.  Go figure.
5.  I continue to be secretly shocked that my child is starting to act like a true toddler, i.e. throwing mini-tantrums, etc.  I really thought she was above all that.
6.  We're going to throw away our recycling pile, as the squirrels have gotten to it.  Oops.
7.  I don't see what everyone (including my husband) sees in Lady Gaga, though for some reason--despite her hokey lyrics, I really like Adelle.
8.  Sometimes, I forget to brush my teeth, not to mention put on deodorant.
9.  I am really, really tired of making the bed, despite the fact that I like to have it made before I get into it.
10. I'm still squeezing myself into the GAP size 6 pregnancy jeans I wore last time around even though my new size is a 10.  Can I get a "Love Handles!!!"?

I think I'll stop there, as my brain is hitching a bit tonight.  Enjoy!

...

Said it's a mean old world, heavy in need.
That big machine is just picking up speed
They were supping on tears, they were supping on wine
We all get to heaven in our own sweet time
So come all you Asheville boys 
and turn up your old-time noise
And kick 'til the dust comes up 
from the cracks in the floor

Singin', hard times ain't gonna rule my mind, brother
Hard times ain't gonna rule my mind
Hard times ain't gonna rule my mind no more


--Gillian Welch and David Rawlings, "Hard Times" from The Harrow and the Harvest

Homemade American Chun Jie

As you've gathered from this post, our Spring Festival (Chinese New Year) celebration last night included fried dumplings, made from scratch for the very first time by Blake, Andrew and me.  Blake and Andrew did most of the rolling and filling, but I made the dough and started the process.  I was afraid that we'd all be sorely disappointed--or that at least I would, having grown up in China, but the dumplings were spot-on, especially the pork.  I was surprised at how well the dough held up, and was glad that we hadn't decided to buy pre-made wrappers at MT Supermarket.

Our preparations began on Saturday with a trek to the largest Asian grocery in town--MT Supermarket.  There we picked up oils and sauces and vinegars to our hearts' delight.  I even found the black vinegar that used to turn Alicia's lips white when she'd dunked too many dumplings.  We bought a few tacky dragon decorations--horribly overpriced compared to what we'd get them for in my Chinese hometown, but worth it.  (Lucy was "Dragon this" and "Dragon that" all the way home.)  She gawked at the catfish stuffed in tanks, as well as the foul-smelling lobster and oysters in the back of the store.  We caved and bought Lucy some Pocky, a Japanese snack I was fond of in China, and some weird little biscuits that looked exactly like teeny-tiny hamburgers, down to the sesame seed buns. 

Sunday after church we added a leaf to the table, scoured the kitchen and prepped for the arrival of the godparents.  I was about to vacuum when they arrived, so they took over and let me fiddle with the dough.*  The rolling and filling you've already heard about, but we've yet to introduce the star of the show--our Dutch oven.  At last we had something to fry in its shiny depths.  And fry we did--close to 40 dumplings.

And then we ate, our sides being American fried rice and soggy egg rolls from an unnamed chain restaurant I dare not mention.  Our guests and Blake drank two types of Chinese beer and decided both kinds tasted the same.  My brother-in-law would've scolded us for not drinking Tsingtao beer, but we thought we'd try something new.  Dessert was more Pocky and teeny-tiny hamburgers.  Mmm, mmm good.

Because we had no extravaganza on TV to watch and no firecrackers to light, we chatted, cleaned, put the Precious to bed and chatted some more before retiring early.  It was a far cry from the war-like din of Tianjin firecrackers at midnight on New Year's Eve, but for a couple of tired parents from the States, far from the Middle Kingdom, we felt we'd done our best to celebrate the remnants of a foreign holiday tied so tightly to my childhood. 

*Many thanks to Andrew and Renee who cleaned, cooked and played with the Precious--they truly are family.