Sophia and the Cake

My dearest of the dear, the words I live by and laugh with, The Great Kurt Vonnegut has passed, not since Johnny Cash have I felt such pain for a stranger. Love.

Only you

can make of this world believe...

I have the pleasure of knowing a sweet life. Loved ones, best friends, and guest appearances that sway and intersect in a speechless sort of way. I am blessed.

Sophia Jane is almost ten months old tomorrow. She is smart and free. I am luck-filled.
Cherry flavored regrets folks, cherry flavored regrets.

Sophia Sat Morn Marathon

Certain things

They say there are certain signs. Signals to avoid. Times when one should drop, turn, and run. Today was full of said signs. Blarring red and hot to the touch. I've been ill. I've been disabled and have not left the house in a number of days you see. Just Sophia and I rocking out, taking in the fluids, and watching the GG. Not to exciting, not to eventful and signal-free. Till today. Today my father re-met my mother for the first time in 13 years. He just showed up. She made me soup and we were basking in how I would never really get better, and how she would just need to move in with her soup, and how those turtle commercials just crack us up moreso than the cavemen, and blah blah blah. And then, knock knock, there he was. In all of his huge abandon my children-re-enter-their-lives Glory. I think my mom almost passed out while I searched my pockets for something to drop. I'm sure when the shock runs thin this will be the start of something great. A new road. Till then I'm laughing it off and looking forward to that run.

almost a 9 month old Bird

To you my dear not-quite 9 month old Bird -

Waving, dancing (to Carol King and baby Bach?), saying Hi, Daadda, and the occasional Mahhh, standing for a minute at a time, and still chasing the cat. You have all of the elements of a baby bird and I cringe at your excitement to escape.

Food, our greatest challenge provides proof that you are in fact, a bull. Thus far only peas and cheerios will suffice but we keep trying just the same.

You've had your first big adventure to the East, your first plane ride, and your first snow.

Soon you will be running seeing as how walking will not get you there fast enough.

Love to you my Bird,
Mom

And that about sums it up

Month 6 The Bird (in short)

On Friday, October thirteen you started crawling in attempts to wrangle Olive the cat. Your mission was and remains the same; catch, tackle, and destroy. My days now are spent chasing you around the living room as you seek out every nook and cranny in search for that darn cat. On your mighty quest across the floor you pick up tidbits and various toys, none of which satisfy you more than the cords you are not allowed to touch in the far corner of the room.
With the crawling came the distinct need for freedom. Freedom from Mom, Dad, the playpen, the carseat, and of course; your bed. God forbid you be trapped or in momspeak "safe". The dramatics of going to bed have taken on a life of their own. We can't trick you, not anymore. You have wised up to our little scheme, come 7:30 pm every night the bull in you takes shape and you fight for said freedom by refusing sleep with your life. Eventually I give into your faux wains for affection and over my shoulder, through your tears, there is an awful grimace, I just know it. " Ha Ha Mom Lady. I get you."
Again and again I am in awe of you. You are so busy and curious. Yesterday you learned how to take off your diaper. In doing so you promptly threw it to the floor and declared victory by peeing all over your seat. It was great, triumphant, and terrifying. As you stood there, soaked in pride and pee grinning wildly I felt my heart sink. This is it.
So here we go into your 6th month. With fingers crossed and eyes open, we watch, wait, thank, and love you. - MOM


PS: Sophia, I love you to death and you can't fool me. Remember those two things and you'll be fine. Also in recent news, democracy took a turn for the better this week as the Democrats took both houses of Congress. So hopefully they won't screw up your future as badly as the Republicans would have. -DAD

Tonight we took the house. Fingers crossed we keeps it.

I've lost my hearing. My left side is numb and yet I can still hear the ringing of Sophia Jane fighting sleep. It hurts.
So a hot tottie for me and one large step for american kind.
Cheers

I need a haircut

and an extra set of hands, an assistant, a spell checker, a car, one million dollars or five, HBO, a dishwasher, a chef, a spa, and a drink.
I have been seeking balance as of late and trying to find time to breathe. The bubble bath aint cuttin it. Ideas?

month 4

You, my love are now 4 months old and counting. Today you realized that Olive is a live cat not just a stuffy. You tugged on her tail and laughed loudly when she ran away in complete terror. Now she keeps her distance and leaves rooms upon your entry. Maybe we need a dog to save the tortured cat.
Most nights you fight sleep with the whole of you. It is a game we keep playing and you keep loosing, eventually. You have your first cold and you swim right through it, nothing can stop you. Your scooting across the floor is quickly becoming a crawl but you want to stand, you have to stand, you need to stand. Yaya bought you an excersaucer which we kindly refer to as your desk. You, our boss, now have a desk in which you can spin, sit, stand, and dictate. I never thought I would want or need an excersaucer so badly.
We listen to the Rushmore soundtrack and Billy Bragg, you laugh and raise your arms in complete excitement. It’s your favorite time of the day. Yesterday we went shopping and you smiled outrageously at each and every stranger we came by. Truthfully it kind of scared me. I hate strangers, I don’t make random conversation with others, I never really thought I could, but now I have to. You have so much to say.
I have started working from home. All hours we sit, you on my lap, typing one-handed, me hoping for naptime to meet the deadline. You reach for the keys and add your input, “;khjpmpe0g0”. It is adorable and hard to erase because you typed it.
The rain has started so our walks are hesitant. You refuse sleep in the daytime without such so around the apartment we walk, you in the snugli, I with my coffee. It’s kind of the same.
Constantly in motion, curious and busy we are. And so it goes my love, so it goes.

Bart says my infinity for the elderly is cause for concern. He rented some old Hitchcock flick and when I protested, he said “But it’s old Noelle. You love old. You even love old people and no one loves old people, not even other old people”. And you know what? He’s right.

The Fussbudget Month 2

I’ve found my new writing hour to you my sweet. Early when the birds rise and no one is yet alive. In silence I sit. Coffee black and warm. In front of our window I sit and watch the words bounce off of me and spill into your legacy. The telling of you. Welcome to your second month, almost third.

We’ve terrorized you. You screamed. She put four tiny holes in you and you yelped, I cried. How could we justify the hurt? We walked it off in the NW of your Portland and took you home. 10 pounds 4 ounces and by noon you were happy as hell despite my shaken heart. You forgot the ache but I squirm at the mention of the next 4.

I find the Professor in you is alive and well. You voice your concern on the tip of every NPR topic. You look, serious and under whelmed and then you laugh hysterically. I struggle to keep up and I sense that your relationship with Henry the elephant far outweighs ours intellectually for which I am envious (Jealous of a stuffed elephant much? Yes!). You’ve discovered your throat and you scream. I come running and you want nothing more than my laugh. Your smile is wide and is never fails to take breath. Vaccine Shmackcine, and we revolve.

You throw up your arms and coo. The revolution is here and you are ready to fight. We dance every day. You pull yourself up and rollover and still you decline the Baby Bach. The Mozart suits you and the White Stripes excite you, but Chris Isaac has your heart. If it’s possible, I think you might have your first crush.

You take bath time very seriously. In the water you explode with bits of laughter and I know that one day, some day I will have to forcibly remove you from it.

I resigned from my job in order to stay home with you, for you. On the couch we sat, your Dad asked you if I should go to work on Monday and you frowned. I asked you if you’d like to play Foot phone ABC and you squeled with delight. Did, dead, done, I resigned.

You met Liam. You looked over him in question. I can’t wait to see you realize him.

Each day, every day, in awe we sit. Revoloution.
Love, Mom

The backyard of my youth was in the heart of North Portland. Green and large with life, boxed in, hidden. It housed my father’s woodshop, a boat, a wild cocker, and the garden. The garden that my father fenced in post by post and seeded. Each section divided in order that the proper amount of light and moist would touch down.
It was a masterpiece.
He built a corner entirely devoted to the sun complete with two benches engraved each with his daughter’s names,
mine misspelled.
He and my mother would spend entire weekends in the yard, deep in dirt, talking and laughing along to the radio
blaring classic rock.
I remember that yard so clearly.
I remember its beginning without an end.
I remember the shorts my dad wore, and my mother’s torn Oregon Zoo tank top. My dad’s huge flip flops and my sister running around bare… and me
in the sun trying to construct a time machine out of a cardboard box, desperately trying to find my way out.
Mostly though, I remember my name carved, Noel.

Sophia
You are one month plus some old. You are Fussbudget, and Soapie to some. You are your father’s Frog, and your mommy’s Bird. You are the purpose and meaning of our being, our Professor.
Every day I fear that your head might pop off. I fear that in sleep you will drift and drop off your dream’s edge. And already my dear, I fear, you are growing too fast.
You have begun the mold of your smile. You grin. You wink in glee and your lips puck at the seams. Occasionally you look like our own miniature version of Walter Matthau, the grumpy old man version.
You have so much to say and I wait in tense anticipation for your first words knowing full well that they, like you, will be brilliant and breathtaking. You move your lips with mine and stick out your tongue to push the words along. Surely your first word will be a sentence and somewhere in that sentence the word boob will fall.
You sleep often, and you dream. You wave your fists and mumble. You smile sweetly and laugh. I try to wake you but it only serves to disturb your splendor, so despite the books read, and advice spewed I sit quietly and watch you.
We dance every day, you and I. You prefer Chris Isaac over Baby Bach and Ella over Billie. You are of Bart and I though, so tastes will surely change, but talk radio will remain.
You are every reason I will ever have to breathe. You are my greatest success, my heart, and my world.
I love you.
Mom

Sophia Jane

aka FussBucket, Soapie, Professor, Frog, BIRD.