A Major Christmas

Christmas is just more fun with little kids around. Even though Lucy hasn't a clue who Santa is, and was just as entertained by cookie tins and carpet lint as she was by her presents, having her at Majorworld made it feel more like Christmas to me. And I think everybody else liked having her there too. Her loot: lots of noisy bright toys, including a toy laptop computer, various darling outfits (even a camoflauge dress), and many books. Not a bad haul for someone who couldn't even write out her own list yet.

Lucy or no, Christmas at the Majors' is always fun. We eat and drink and laugh a lot. We play games, watch movies, and get in the hot tub or the lake or the occasional good-natured argument. Bill and Patsy's house was built to entertain large groups of people, and sleep almost as many (depending on how you feel about spending the night on an air mattress), and they are about the best hosts you could ask for.

This year, we played Liar's Dice and Pictionary (as opposed to the usual Chicken Foot and Spades). Taylor was the big winner at Liar's Dice, which was funny given that it is essentially a drinking/gambling game and she is only 13 (not that she was misbehaving in any way, just kicking our butts). Pictionary was fun until the part where Jason got the word "vibrate," and naturally, he chose to illustrate something far too...obvious, which I proceeded to guess correctly. In front of my extended family. That embarrasing moment was topped Christmas day by my spilling a full glass of red wine on Patsy's lovely pale carpet. She said, as we all furiously scrubbed the dark splash with hydrogen peroxide, "I usually don't serve red wine, except to family." And we all agreed that we were the exact people who shouldn't be allowed to drink red, and I in particular was made to drink white for the remainder. But I still think they will invite us back.

Lucy enjoyed playing with wrapping paper, crawling around on the floor and banging on the coffee tables. And she had no shortage of relatives to hold her and feed her sugar cookies. She even ate her own Christmas dinner made up largely of casseroles, which, as it turns out, make perfect baby food. She had a big time, even if she'll never remember it. Luckily, this will likely be the best-documented Christmas of her life.

Peek-a-boo and tricks that stop working

One thing I have definitely noticed is that the same old tricks stop working eventually. And trust me, I am the expert on one-trick ponies. You're talking to the guy that has told the same jokes over and over again since he was 12. With Lucy there are some instances where the object of the game seems to be "distract me before I ruin your _________ (insert day, outfit, shoes, furniture, reputation, etc)."

Take diaper changing for instance. This involves keeping her face-up while you rapidly try to wipe and change. And as our little Mary Lou learns to twist and tumble, she seems to think that the counter-top is the pommel horse. In the past a simple rubber ducky would hold her attention long enough to make the change. Ah, those were the salad days, huh? We now resort to a quick Greco-Roman wrestling match and hope no one comes away with a prize. The incredible thing is that she already moves so much faster than we do. What worked yesterday probably won't tomorrow. I’m afraid I’m not original enough to keep up. But I’m not worried. That’s what TV is for. And besides, I've got the whole "got yer nose!" bit ready, just in case.

Embarrassingly Happy

This morning, Jason and Lucy danced around the house to Christmas music, still in their pajamas. I had been awake for a couple of hours with Lu — reading, banging cups together and pointing at the Christmas tree while she smiled and laughed. So by the time Jason got up, I was feeling pretty proud of us. And then their dancing started, and I sat at the counter like a fool, crying about how much I loved them. Not that it takes so much to make me cry anymore, but happiness is rarely the cause.

It's so embarrassing to admit — and maybe sad that I should be embarrassed by it. Yet watching Jason and Lucy dance around, I had the chance to alight on my life and witness something perfect: a taut bubble of sweetness that I wanted to grab and hold. Maybe it was just the fact that the house was clean. Could joy have just been buried under a few piles of laundry? Have I just been too busy to notice how good things are? But in that moment, against a tidy backdrop, the pedestrian worries and mundane shoulds fell away, and I was still. Feeling the perfection of my life. THIS, I thought, this is the exact corny feeling that people write songs about at Christmas.

Making the Baby Stupid

In my mind, the world is divided among:
--People who have their televisions in the living room (Inferior People)
--People who have their TVs tucked discreetly away in a sometimes/special-occasion place (Superior People)
--People who (gasp) don't own televisions (Exceptional People...with Whom I Would Have Almost Nothing to Discuss).

I like to blame Jason for the fact that we are Inferior People, but it is doutbful that I would be sitting around reading Baudelaire in the original French even if he didn't want to watch the Simpsons. While I have accepted this about us, I want more for Lucy. I want her to be an Exceptional Person, a charming, modest genius who blithely says, between sips of her non-alcoholic beverage, "Oh, it's a television show? I don't have a TV." But not in the annoying way people often say that.

And yet, Lu lives at our house, the home of Inferior People (at least one of whom feels really bad about it). She already has a favorite show, one aimed expressly at her: "Teletubbies." It's a sweet but bizarre British public TV program about childlike alien creatures. They hug and squeak and run around a lot, and they're ruled by this eery sun-god with a baby's face. Lucy is mesmerized by this show -- she claps and squeals like she's hearing her own lost language.

It both delights and horrifies me how much she enjoys the Teletubbies. I think, it's on PBS, how can it be evil? Does it really matter if we say goodbye to Baudelaire in French before she can even speak English?

Mushy Foods

Lucy is the baby goat I always wanted. We have been playing this game called "Will She Eat That?" Mostly, she will. Today: unfrosted Christmas cookies at Aunt Pie's house and sweet potatoes cooked for her by me, her mother. Cooking food for Lu makes me feel earthy and frugal. Tonight I cooked carrots and mushed them up with the hand blender. They are delicious and plain. I hope I did not ruin her taste for them by feeding her cookies.

She is nine months and one day old. This is my first post, so I won't list all nine months of accomplishments, but the highlights include smiling, laughing, rolling over, sucking her thumb (really, her most important accomplishment, as thumbsucking is central to her good attitude), sleeping through the night, crawling, pulling up, pulling the baby monitor off the wall, cutting two absurd little fangs as her first teeth, clapping, waving, pointing, bouncing up and down, sort of singing, babbling, razzing, starting "school," making three trips to El Paso, and generally being fabulous.

So, are you bored with this blog yet?

9 Months. Whoo hoo!

Let the blogging begin. Now that Lucy is nine months old I guess it's time to start putting pen ... er words to screen and talk all about her (because we NEVER talk about her in general conversation). Like Groucho Marx used to say... "Outside of a dog a blog is a man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too hard to type."