Sick

Lucy has a virus. It's been two days of puking, diarrhea, fever, and misery at our house. After little more than drops of Pedialite and water in 48 hours, her pot belly has flattened out, her round cheeks hollowed. She is limp and heartwrenching.

Just hours before she began projectile vomiting at Claudia and Hauke's dinner table, she took her first steps. A barely controlled stumble, but three distinct steps toward me. I was so excited — and almost immediately, selfishly, a little sad. Those were really her first steps away from me. I got nostalgic for her tiny babyhood.

Well, her illness has brought us back to those early days. As Jason paces the floor, holding her while she cries inconsolably, I have a familiar thud of anxiety with every wail. The only difference is that in the early months, we had no idea how to soothe her. I often begged her, "What do you want, Lucy?" Yet now, thanks to Jason's recent efforts at teaching her sign language, we know exactly what she wants. Because she distinctly makes the sign for "water." Yet we can only give her cruel little sips so she doesn't overwhelm her fragile stomach.

Jason's heart is breaking over it. This is his first fatherly lesson in the difficulty of saying no to his little girl — even harder when she's speaking their special language.

The one blessing of her sickness has been her desire to be held. She crawls onto our chests like she did when she was tiny, her body hot and weak. She sucks her thumb fervently as though milk might manifest. Every once in a while she will give a little moan and look up, plaintively. It hurts that we can't make her better. But I know that soon enough she will be fat and busy again, walking away from me, too adventurous to be held.

Sign of the times

So over the weekend I decided that I should teach Lucy sign language. Up until now, I knew two signs. Hook 'em, which apparently is the sign of the devil in Norway or something like that. The other is, well, I think you can imagine what the other one is.

Who knew that sign language would be so fun? The sign for milk is like tugging on a giant imaginary...udder. Bath? Try rubbing your fists against your nipples. Oh and the hits keep coming. You can practice your own signs here. Amaze your friends. Talk to our baby. Learn a trade!

So the next time you see me and Lucy. It's not the sign for "loser" I'm trying to teach. Strangely, it's the sign for "daddy."

Danger!

Lucy is not walking...yet. But every day, she gets more daring and coordinated. I think it could happen soon. For now, she is content to crawl — fast — to her intended destination, and there is always an intended destination. She isn't out for a leisurely crawl; she's got bookshelves to empty, lint to eat. "Very busy girl" is what they call her at school.

At school, all this investigation and activity is fabulously safe. Everything is soft-cornered, carpeted, and closely supervised.
But our house is a minefield. Electrical wires, chokeable objects, sharp edges, tile floors, to name a few. The other day, I had the iron (not hot) on a dresser, the cord dangling off the edge within her reach. One yank and it would have been a Wile E. Coyote situation, only not funny. At all. The real hazards are those moments of inattention. A pamphlet from the pediatrician's office cautioned that the phone is the most dangerous object in the house. Lately, I know I am far too cavalier about leaving her unwatched in seemingly safe places.

When she was first born, I became morbid, obsessed with danger and death. This was a huge shift for someone who regularly leaves the house unlocked, goes running at night, talks to strangers, and crosses against the light. I am famously, stupidly careless with my person and my possessions. But the world suddenly got more dangerous once Lu was in it. My own sense of personal safety sharpened: I feared leaving her motherless. And what I feared might happen to her? I literally shudder to think.

Yet my sense of safety has dulled after 11 injury-free months. Yesterday on the town lake trail, we stopped with the jogging stroller to let Lu get a good look at a goose, and as the goose hissed and honked agressively, Maggie got nervous. She is the safety-conscious type. Her almost baby (Small Person Stephens) won't have to worry about being attacked by a goose or pulling an iron onto its head.

I must recommit to fear! Conjure up those morbid visions of Lu's newborn days! I have something more important than car keys to lose, after all.

The Scarf

It's been a while since I have written in this blog. Days of accomplishments and clever tidbits unrecorded, all because of my new obsession, knitting. As I type this I am wearing my new scarf, knitted for myself, by myself. I am almost as proud of this scarf as I am of Lucy. Unreasonably proud. It is lumpy and bright like a potholder from 1967. I have gotten several compliments on it, maybe because a) it is so noticeable that is demands attention -- to say nothing is to insult the scarf or b) I have been petting it a lot and smiling. Me (beaming): "Thanks, I knitted it myself." Yeah, you heard me, MYSELF.

I learned to knit on Saturday at a little lesson Mary Ellen arranged. Was funny to see eight youngish, smart, accomplished women hunched over needles and yarn, faces screwed into various expressions of concentration and consternation. Mackenzie actually referred to knitting as a sport.

Once I had a convincing rectangle, I found I couldn't stop. I knitted and the rectangle got longer. And longer still. With the exception of Lucy, so little that I do in my life has such a measurable and satisfying output (and unless you're counting diapers, ounces of breastmilk or loads of laundry, even Lucy isn't all that measurable). I wanted to say "Look! Look!" after every row. I whiled away two good hours of my life watching "The West Wing" marathon, finishing the scarf. There was laundry to be folded, a book to be read, home improvement projects to be done, and Portuguese to be learned (I like to ruin frivolous moments thinking of the edifying thing I should be doing instead of the thing I actually want to do). Still, I knitted.

I am not sure how far I will go with this whole knitting thing. Maybe I will stick with rectangles and fat, forgiving yarns and needles. I will be an unsophisticated but prolific knitter! Or maybe winter will wane and I won't want anything wooly anymore. But I have this one furry, yellow, orange, blue and green creation, proof of my new skill. If you see me and my scarf, please compliment me, even if you're lying.