instead

I've been working on an entry called a "Primer on T-Bird." It is a summary of all the little bits I would've put in a number of blog entries but have chosen not to do so....for purely selfish reasons. There is a fourth coming rather soon and I've not wanted to share one little bit of T-Bird with anyone. I've been gathering the bits and stories and searching for just the right picture.

But today, today happened and I think it best to tell you this instead of navel-gazing my way thru the "Primer." Many of you know I do use a bit of sign with the kids until it is faster for them to talk than sign. Then the sign seems to naturally drift away. Little M was proficient. G-love only signed fluently for people other than myself. I am her mother after all and if I couldn't guess her needs, she would just leave the room and get on with it. T-Bird has used signs since he was about 7 months old. He is adding more as we need them and lately I've needed them a lot. He has entered this pre-verbal stage that includes a variety of whines that mean different things.  All hearing children with normally developing language hit this phase and it drives my parenting skills down the toilet. I hate whining and fussing, especially if they can sign. Thus, I teach and expect signs from my kids or for them to leave me alone.

T-Bird today was quite frustrated with his dinner. Of course he was. He is a surprising aesthete and prefers things like a risotto with organic sweet potatoes and Oregon-native foraged mushrooms over, say, rice and peas like most other babies. He was frustrated and whining. I requested that he sign "all done" instead of moan. He regressed to his "Dr. Destructo" alter ego and started throwing food and pitching his cup over the edge of his high chair. I calmly requested that he sign "all done" with me again. He rubbed food in his hair. I had the older ones model the request. He kicked his shoes off. I offered to sign with him, together, as sometimes doing stuff by yourself is just a drag. He rubbed snot all over his face and clothes. I finally scolded, "T-Bird, you know how to do this. You know. Sign all done for me." He shoved his hands down his diaper and blew raspberries at me.

We were "All done" indeed...

Lifeboats According to G

Our dear friend Lady T came to visit this past October. She has said, ever since she met G, that if they were on the Titanic, she would choose to be on G's lifeboat.

This April, G started her swim team. She is quite proud of her ability to swim laps and is incredibly cute navigating the pool in her flippers. I thought she would be competitive, but she isn't. She is just remarkably swimming to her own drummer and swimming quite well. When I asked her about the first time she completed a lap of the pool she said, "My body says to me: I can do this! I can do this!" I want to mark this story down because I know there will be a time that someone or some event will try to knock her off her lifeboat. I want evidence of her beautiful core to show her when this happens. I want her to know that I believe, as do others, that she can do whatever she is called to do because she is incredibly capable and interesting and not just because I am her mother and biased.

Because she is 4, almost 5, the concept of "matching" comes up often. This concept is a bit beyond her only because she is also a contemplative child too. Adults coo at her outfits that never match. "Grown-ups thinks the socks must match," she says. Then she goes on, "But a shirt is a shirt. It is not pants. It can't never match the pants. It is a shirt." Good point. So she comes down the other day in 2 different polka dot socks, a polka dot skirt, polka dot leggings, a polka dot shirt, her friend from Seattle's Raider's cap, and her older brother's camouflage t-shirt and a stripey headband. I say, "G you look ready to go!" She says proudly, "I match today." I say, "Oh? How does it match?" She says, "I like all of it."

I think of being on G's lifeboat. I might have to wear a dizzying array of polka dots head to toe. I may have to coach her back onto the boat now and then, "You can do this G!" But, I would be alive G-style and that would suit me just fine. I hope she lets me on board.

i love a good bath

Survival of the Best-Dressed

By all rights, I should tell you about Thunder Baby's first haircut. How he likes me to whisper the words, "whisper, whisper, whisper, cuddle, cuddle, cuddle" in his ear and then how he gives me a large, soft-mouthed baby-kiss on the cheek that is more "like a fart than a kiss" according to Little M. But what I need to tell you is that G is adorably nuts. I try to find a theme to sum up her dress sense. "Drag-Queen-Gone-Bad" was a thought when she requested a jewel-sparkled-rainbow-with-butterflies belt for her birthday that is 6 months from now.  But, that term didn't catch the near lunacy of her preferences nor the sometimes sheer genius and cuteness when items do remarkably flow together. Note: I never use the word "match" in reference to her clothing choices. I thought "crazy bag lady," after the woman who lurked outside my university study hall after hours. But, G does not mutter to the wind, has no independence privileges after sunset, and the bag lady, I have to honestly say, dressed much better than G does about 75% of the time. G is not wearing a coat in the above picture because lions don't ever wear coats. Haven't you ever watched National Geographic Safari? No coats on lions. However, according to her, lions do wear bandanas, hello-kitty skirts, rainbow leggings and mismatched neon socks. Lions also apparently survive suffocation. Today I walked into the kitchen to find Big M saying to G, "Take the plastic bag off your head." G replied, "Ok, but lions can do that you know." She then goes on to say, "I could put a hole in it..." in a hopeful manner, as if a hole-y plastic bag would trump our request for her to survive despite her fashion choices. I must have fallen asleep during that last installment of National Geographic Safari. You know, the one where the lions walk around with plastic bags covering their heads...

A year in the life of T-bird.

Happy Birthday T-Bird! 

We are thrilled you're here!

                                                                  Thunderbird born.

                                                         4 months old. Fingers preferred.

5 months old traveling to the U.S.

6 months old.

Technical difficulties downloading 7 month old pic.... :(

8 months old at the ocean.

9 months old hiking thru Forest Park!

10 months old!

                                             11 months and attacking his sister's hair...