Curious

"What's this, Mama?" This question comes up all the time, because, you know, she is two and doesn't know what most things are. And when your answer doesn't make sense to her, she repeats and repeats and repeats the question. Sometimes I lie or grossly oversimplify just to make her stop asking. A backhoe is "a big truck that digs." The little cartoon jockeys printed on my blouse are "some guys with hats."

"Who's this, Mama?" She wants to know everyone. People in pictures, on TV, in the grocery store. For now, she seems satisfied with general labels like "a lady," "a man," "the cashier," "a family." I have not yet resorted to making up actual names for all these strangers.

"Where are we, Mama?" She asks this at odd moments. Like when we are at home. "What do you mean, where? Austin? Earth?" It strikes me as a strangely existential question.

For now, thankfully, she has not asked "why?" That's when the real lies start.

I Bow at the Altar of Anne Lamott

When I got pregnant with Lucy, I had doubts about my fitness as a mother. After what seemed like a long time to get pregnant, fickle creature that I am, I...wondered. Was this a good idea? Mothers are saints. Mothers are Good with capital G. Mothers don't lose their car keys at least once a day. I felt like I did when I got married, when I bought a house: "Don't they know I am incompetent?" I was afraid that all the weak, gross parts of my soul would be revealed.

And then I read this magic book: Operating Instructions, by Anne Lamott. It is an honest account of this fabulous, crazy woman's first year as a mother. She describes in hilarious detail all of her feelings. She is no saint. She is a little scared and incompetent. And she is good with a little g. The kind of good that is the best we can hope to be as mothers.

I worship this woman, who both lowered and raised my expectations about motherhood. And tonight, Magpie and I went to hear her read from her latest book, Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith. This one is about, well, faith. The only subject in which I am even less skilled than motherhood, besides maybe calculus. I am hoping Anne Lamott will sort this faith thing out for me too. After all, I have a husband, a house, and a baby. And I still spent 45 damn minutes looking for my car keys this morning. But maybe I am alright, even good.

Satan Has Ears

He's seven and a half feet tall. He wears a menacing, frozen grin with honed buck teeth. And the ears! Oh, the tall, pointy ears with their radar-keen ability to find children, hunt them down, and...give them candy.

Despite the fact that Lu missed the basic point about the candy (which she really knew nothing about until this weekend, thanks to all you well-meaning Easter present-givers), she recognized the basic evil of the Easter Bunny. WAY scarier than Santa. "He's too scared-y for me, Mama," she told me between heaving sobs, as she and Jason hid in a corner of the El Paso Country Club during the festive post-egg-hunt brunch. She has confused the words "scared" and "scary" in such a smart, efficient way that if you hear me talk about how scaredy something is, just deal with it — I am evolving the language along with Lu.

The whole morning was not scaredy. Just the pre-hunt part, where all the kids, divided by age, milled around waiting for things to get started, many of them looking like they wanted to puke. Lu was anxious. She was trying to find her A game. It was not unlike the start of a triathlon (if you think of Gu as candy).

Once the hunt/race was underway, Lu had a great time. She wasn't quite as fast as I'd hoped, but I could see her competitive spirit showing when she began to take eggs out of other kids' baskets. With the help of her cousin Alyssa, who has a multi-year track record as the winner of the Golden Egg (which yields some fantastic, cellophane-wrapped basket that I am glad not to have to take home), she made quite a haul.

During the post-hunt brunch, Evil Bunny loomed large. A big PR campaign of juggling, schmoozing, kissing babies. Lu could see right through him. She didn't even get to enjoy the kid buffet of chicken strips, macaroni, hot dogs and various other yellow-beige-brown foods. And sadly, neither did Jason, who would have enjoyed it more than most kids. They slunk in the shadows, while the rabbit ran the room.

Lu is not done with Evil Bunny. He may have won this round, but she is training, waiting for next year. And in the meantime, she has a chocolate voodoo rabbit she intends to punish. One ear at a time.

The Unfortunate Haircut

I have been contemplating cutting Lucy's hair for weeks now. It has begun to have the indecisive, fluffy quality of someone who is growing out a hairstyle. No blunt edges, tufts in sticking out in odd places. A little like when I had that bad Jennifer Aniston shag in 1995.

We are in El Paso for a long Easter weekend, and I decide that the only way I can cut her hair is with the magical help of Baga. As Baga distracts her with a doll, I wet a comb and cut. And cut. And cut.

Now, instead of having a vague non-hairstyle, she has the kind of haircut that makes you say, "Aw, does your mom cut your hair?" The kind of haircut I had until I was about nine (and partially blame for my lack of social life in elementary school). You know, bangs a little too short and too close to the ears?

She's a cute kid, so this haircut is not going to ruin her life. But if she had a beard she would look like an Amish farmer.

Lucy Lies

Lucy is sitting in her high chair in the kitchen, eating some salami. I am in the bedroom doing some important motherly task like folding laundry or applying self tanner. I hear her giggling. When I go back in the kitchen, her hand is outstretched to Ramona, who is licking her chops. The salami is gone, and Lucy looks guilty. She says, nodding her head, "I ate the salami. I put it in my mouth. Yep."

Yep.