18 months of babyhood--gone!

Miss Emily is 18 months old today, and neither of us is very happy about it;  I, because her babyhood and all its fleeting treasures are disappearing right before my eyes, and she, because I felt the need to commemorate the occasion by dressing her up in a pink tutu and faux pearls for a photo shoot.

It is hard for all of us here to remember how the Hulse household functioned up to 18 months ago before this two-and-a-half-foot tall, 25-pound siren was around to run the place, and I do mean both figuratively and literally!  The thunder of little foot steps, a drunken little sailor on wobbly sea legs, loose limbs flying in all directions, emitting peals of giggles while she runs, and we are all laughing with her.  One flash from those fire-blue eyes, and even Timmy, or "Nimmy" as she calls him, will meekly hand over the most sought-after toy with nary a word.  And not because he is afraid of her, either (OK--maybe a little bit).  It is just that rewarding to see her smile. 

For Timmy, I think she is a real, live baby-doll.  He likes to put strands of colorful beads around her neck.  He washes her gently in the bath, telling her all the things we tell him: "look up, then close your eyes so the water won't get in them when I wash your hair, Baby."  He interprets her needs to us: "Baby wants some juice.  Baby needs more cereal."  When Dave got up this morning, he heard giggling coming from Emily's room and discovered Timmy lying on the floor beside her crib.  He was handing up stuffed animals to her one at a time while she hurled them back down on him saying, "Here's your bunny, Baby.  Take it.  Now throw it to me, Baby."  We wonder if she will be like the character in Dirty Dancing who is still called "Baby" long after she has grown into a beautiful young woman.  Forever "Baby."

But the signs are already there.  She reaches up to hold my hand rather than to climb into my arms.  She picks out her own clothes and throws a fit if someone objects to her selection.  She puts words together into phrases to express complex concepts.  If she wants up, she says "up."  If she wants bunny, she says, "bunny."  The other day, it occurred to her to ask for "bunny up" rather than get down to get it.  Clever girl. Timmy, when asked if he wants something, will often say "I do."  Baby picked up on this and asks for what she wants now with an emphatic and always repeated, "I do, I do, I do!"  Remembering her manners, however, she finishes it with "please."  "I do, I do, I do....please?"  She says "thank you" (well, actually more like "tank u")  unprompted and at appropriate times.  She is every bit the young lady in the making. 

How quickly it goes!  She is posing here with her Nana's childhood rocking chair, recently brought out of safe keeping.  It had been stored away, waiting, all these years.  The baby girl came, but the chair waited, still too big.  Now, suddenly, it is almost too late.  How does it happen that today, she stands on tippy toes to have her tutu tied on for pictures.  Soon, it will be for a dance recital.  Then, it will be a prom dress.  Next, a wedding gown.  And there is the last little girl who rocked in this chair, standing there, doing the tying.

It seems just yesterday when her whole world was "Mommy."  "Mommy, Mommy!" she would call from across the room and coming running.  Mommy was her comfort.  Mommy was her safe haven.  Mommy was all the nourishment she needed.  Of course, her world was destined to get bigger.  Other joys have more allure.  New experiences beckon.  The pleasure, for example, of climbing up onto the middle of the dinning room table, just because you can.  Sitting there for a moment before being discovered, exploring the forbidden fruit of the salt and pepper shakers.  And who could resist the temptation to redistribute all of those lovely tissue papers, shoved senselessly together in one tight little box, when they are clearly so much fluffier and prettier strewn across the living room floor.  Other arms bring comfort, and this is a good.  Other havens are safe, and I'm happy to share.

But may you never outgrow your Mommy, little girl!  How treacherous are the perils of parenting, watching helplessly as your own body, once her earthly home, goes from being her only source of sustenance to one that is supplemental, then optional, and finally obsolete.  How long can you give me before I have to drop you off at the mall and park around the corner so your friends won't see me?  Slow down, little girl, my baby, forever Baby.  I'm not sure I will survive when it is time to pack away the chair.  It already looks awfully empty, sitting there...

Happy Birthday, Dave!

June to July is an exciting line-up of holidays in the Hulse household.    Every weekend brings its own festivities and boasts its own cause to celebrate.  We roll straight from Father's Day to our anniversary, then Dave's birthday, followed by the 4th of July. Yesterday, the clan gathered and grilled in celebration of Dave, both his birthday and a recent promotion at Alcoa putting him in the hot seat as The Boss (otherwise known as Environmental Manager).  We are all very proud of him!  Timmy, who has recently graduated from size 3T clothing to 4T clothing just before his upcoming 4th birthday, got the party started when he asked, in all earnestness, if Daddy would now be wearing size 43T.  Daddy is a little concerned that this may actually soon be the case, but didn't let this ominous prediction get in the way of enjoying a good 'ole flank steak for his birthday.  May you have AT LEAST 43 more, Sweetheart.  Much love on your birthday and always!

Big Boy Bike (with training wheels, a cat, and a leash...?!?)

 Timmy had his first outing on his new Big Boy Bike, freshly outfitted with training wheels to assist him in the transition from the tric(ycle) to the bike.  Daddy decided that it would be an additional, well-advised precaution to keep the young lad on a short leash for his first ride, literally!

Freedom, on a short leash, that is!

"Check me out, everybody!  I've totally GOT this!"

Sam, our kitty, decided to chaperone the boys all the way down the street.  Very sweet!

A little help from Daddy on the pedals.

This was a fairly hilarious stand-off during which the conversation went something like this.  "I want you to pull me."  "I want you to PEDAL!"  "But I want you to PULL ME!"  Emily and I trailed behind at a safe distance, placing bets on the winner.

And the winner is........;o)  I totally guessed it, by the way!

Bringing up the rear, one of us amused ourselves taking pictures, the other by consuming fists full of yogurt covered raisins.

 

 

Rocket Man!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After Daddy's exhausting tow around the neighborhood, Timmy melted our hearts when he said very earnestly, "I'm doing my best."  Can't ask for more than that! He then went on to tell us we don't have to pull him in the bike trailer any more because he would like to have the trailer hitched up to his own bike next time so that he can pull Emily all by himself.  Melt, and melt again!   Got to work on that pedaling a little more first, buddy...

 

 

High five!

Proud boys!

Kitty five down low!

Should I get some training wheels for Daddy?

Meanwhile, back in the hood, Emily decides to help herself to Timmy's Gap cap, his race car sweatshirt, and to his matchbox Lightening McQueen.  Kachow from an admiring little sis who wants to be just like her amazing big brother!

Rockin' her first 15 months, Miss Emily

     It is absolutely beyond my comprehension that this little girl has only been a part of our lives for15 months!  By the same token, I can't believe how quickly it has gone by and there she is--independently motoring around our backyard as if she owns the place!  Which, in fact, she does.  She seems to own all of us.

     There is something so utterly irresistible about this 23-pound package of glee.  Once she turns those blue eyes on you, you're toast.  You WILL do her will.  If you do, your reward will be peals of giggles, and chubby little arms thrown around your neck in a baby bear hug.  She may even sweetly repeat your name as if she is saying it for the first time, "Mama.  Mama."  When she says it, it sounds like cotton candy, all soft and fluffy like spun sugar, with a long drawn out "ah" that only southern belles and babies can pull off.  If, for some unthinkable reason, you do NOT do her will, she unleashes a glass-shattering shriek so shrill and girlie that you can pierce your eyebrows with it.  No amount of "no, no, Baby" can silence The Screamer once she starts off on a rampage.  Timmy has developed the habit of stopping in his tracks at the first sound of her siren revving up, throwing his arms and hands up as if pulling them back from a flame, trying with all his might to demonstrate his innocence in whatever incident she is reporting.  Usually the offense is a toy taken away, or denied in the first place, but it may also be any number of more innocuous infractions still worthy, in her mind, of a great hullabaloo. 

     My best friend, Kate, once told me that I have a helluva big personality for such a small person.  Emily...? Well, Emily doubles or triples those digits in each direction on both counts.  She is outrageously expressive in everything she does, every expression, every vocalization, every action.  She is also utterly determined to accomplish whatever she sets out to do, no matter how unlikely the outcome.  Her current favorite trick is to bolt from her caregiver's arms to bee-line for the stairs.  She likes climbing up and down them equally well, and is most satisfied if she isn't supposed to be doing either thing but manages to do so anyway!  She will often make a break for it in plain view and with no effort at subterfuge what-so-ever, managing to get at least half-way up or down a flight of stairs before she can be subjugated.  Once caught, she just giggles.

Oh Emi, it must be delicious being you!

     Recently Timmy has taken it upon himself to help her augment her vocabulary, which currently consists of the following words:  Minnie (as in Mouse), Elmo (also a favorite with her big brother), Mama, Dada, Nana, Gaga, Baba (big brother), baby, ball, Yes, No, and Uh-oh.  Timmy will amuse himself, and her, for hours saying "Baby, can you say 'ball?'"  When she successfully says, "bawl (again, with that drawn-out southern baby drawl)," he applauds and turns it into a grand celebration.  They both explode in laughter, then he pitches her a new one, such as, "Can you say 'Minnie,' Baby?"  The other day I encountered him spicing up this game, as he coached her to say, "'Pee-pee.' Baby, can you say 'pee-pee?'"  When she did, indeed, say "peeeeeee-peeeeee," he let out such a victorious squeal of delight that it provoked me to come investigate.  By the time I broke up the game, he had progressed to a second-tier of "dirty words", such as "poopy" and "booby."  But what are big brothers for, right?  Lest you think it is all dirty play between these two siblings, later that night, Timmy chose to include Emily in his bedtime prayers, offering thanks for "Baby who giggles with me."

     Of course, the irony didn't escape me that yesterday I was reminiscing over my father's would-be-seventy-fifth birthday, and today I am celebrating my daughter's 15-month benchmark.  The two of them will always be inexplicably intertwined in my heart and in my mind.  I can remember the quality of his voice when I announced to him that I was pregnant again.  He said, "this time it is going to be a little girl, and you are going to be a wonderful Mommy to her."  He said that she gave him a new reason to try to live a little longer.  He adored Timmy and wouldn't have traded him for the world, but he had always had a soft spot for little girls.  Knowing that she would enter our lives and bring us great joy made it easier for him to exit with grace.  Emily was my constant comfort during the dark days of his impending loss.  Even as he began actively dying, she churned and turned inside my tummy, reminding me of this incredible life force longing to burst forth.  Death isn't just a moment:  it is a process.  As his breathing labored, I realized that death is in every sense of the word LABOR, and that the moment of passage is a delivery.  Delivered from this world, delivered out of pain, liberated...  She was there for all of this, preparing for her own labor and delivery, delivering me in the process from my grief.  REJOICE, REJOICE, AND AGAIN I SAY REJOICE!

     My only regret is that he didn't get to meet her.  But he already knew he loved her.  When we went through his belongings, we came across a book that he had set aside for her.  It is by Billy Crystal, and it is a little love story from a grandpa anticipating the birth of his granddaughter.  It opens with, "I'm going to be your grandpa, I have the biggest smile.  I've been waiting to meet you for such a long, long while.  I have so much to tell you before you slide into home plate.  I already know I love you as I sit right here and wait."  I stamped the book with  "from the Memorial Library of Jerry M. Lane" and put it on the bookshelf in her nursery.  I intended the book to be a sentimental keepsake, perhaps more for me than for her.  We read it to her as a bedtime story.  She loves it.  She cherishes it.  It ranks alongside binky bunny and breast-feeding as her greatest source of comfort, nourishment, and connection.  Any effort to take the book out of her hands results in one of the aforementioned scream fests.  He isn't here to read it to her, and yet, he is.

So, here's to the first fifteen months of Emily.  You've rocked 'em, kiddo!  Can't wait to see what tomorrow brings...

Old Dog, New Dog Birthday Remembrances

     My mother gave this stuffed dog to my dad for some special occasion or another, and he fell immediately in love with it.  With out hesitation, he named the dog "Rufus" and demanded to have his photograph taken with him.  They looked good together, like two outlaws ready to rob a train and split the spoils.  Or at least like two retired outlaws ready to curl up on a comfortable couch somewhere. They had the easy camaraderie of partners. Somehow, there was almost a sort of family resemblance.  Rufus made Dad laugh, which was harder and harder to do back then as he struggled to accept his cancer diagnosis.

   
     Dad got such a kick out of his photo shoot with Rufus, he decided to reenact it with Isabel, our yellow lab puppy.  He showed up one day at the house giggling and obviously very pleased with himself, and took out a costume cowboy hat and bandana that he had purchased for this purpose.  She obliged, and we got a photo that he referred to affectionately as the "Old Dog, New Dog" pic.

     It also happened that Isabel and my father shared a birthday.  They were a few days apart, but close enough to be birthday buddies, and I got the idea to throw them an Old Dog, New Dog birthday party. Isabel was turning one, and Dad was turning seventy-one. It seemed meant to be.

     By the time my father's seventy-third birthday rolled around, the cancer had advanced considerably and he was in a lot of pain.  He didn't want any fuss made over his birthday, and liked to joke with a wry humor that, "this birthday business is for the birds.  In fact, after this one, I'm not going to have any more of them."  Never-the-less, I cajoled him down to Yappy Hour, an off-leash puppy playtime at a local winery, and we had some chocolate cake while Isabel devoured a can of Alpo, turned upside down like a cake with a candle in it, candle and all.

    Last year was the first time that his birthday came around, and he was no longer here to celebrate it, just as he'd predicted.  Dave took the day off from work, and we drove upriver to the special site where we'd scattered some of his ashes.  We took Isabel with us, and the kids.  Timmy threw the chuck-it for Isabel, who ran and played happily.  We gave her a can of Alpo, dutifully, with four candles in it.  This time we managed to prevent her from consuming the candles along with the cake.  It was, I believe, as he would have wanted it.  The old dog may be gone, but the new dog still remembers.

    He would have been seventy-five today.  I decided, after some deliberation, not to reenact the ritual.  This year, I didn't want his birthday to be a commemoration of his death.  I wanted it to be a day of celebrating life--his life, my life, the gift of life itself.  The old dog will never be gone.  He is in everything we do--Emily's passion for books, Timmy's new found obsession with the Sound of Music, my efforts to play songs for the kids on the guitar he gave me, my mother-in-law's thoughts as she watches another season of his favorite t.v. program, Dancing with the Stars, Dave's consideration as he treats me with extra tenderness today...

     Happy Birthday, Dad.