I, Robot Baby

When J-squirt was a tiny newborn nugget I went to visit my family in Utah. He was about two months old and I remember my mom taking him and treating him like... a person.  And I was like, mom, what are you doing? He's just a robot baby.  Actually the term I often used, repeatedly, was "zombie baby."  That newborn babies are zombies.  Isn't that nice? C'mon, they kind of are. A little out of it, unable to focus. Sloppy control over their bodies. Except I don't think they want to eat my brains. 

Anyway, she took him and talked to him and reacted to things he did as if he did them somewhat deliberately, as if he was aware of anything going on around him, as if he didn't actually have a zombie brain.   It wasn't until these days looking back that I realize that he was, actually, a person all along.  And I see things in him now that I saw then, I just didn't know they were really a part of him. I thought they were all arbitrary weird baby things and it would take lots and lots of time before he finally turned into a person.  Which is why I l-o-v-e the book Amelia Bedelia and the Baby.  First of all, AB is hilarious. Secondly, she speaks my language. I kind of consider us soul sisters. In this story, Amelia Bedelia is asked to babysit and as usual, Mrs. Rogers whores her out for whatever her friends need. "Need a teacher? Sure, AB can do it. Need a babysitter? Sure, AB can do it."    I apologize for the vulgarity but I can't find a better term and it's also pretty funny AND true.

The very first lines of the book:

"But Mrs. Rogers," said Amelia Bedelia. "I don't know a thing about babies. How can i babysit?" 
"Why, Amelia Bedelia!" said Mrs. Rogers.  "You are very good with children."
"Yes," said Amelia Bedelia. "I get along fine with children."
"Babies are children, too," said Mrs. Rogers.
"If you say so," said Amelia Bedelia."  

She then spends the day taking care of a toddler and confusing and misunderstanding instructions this way and that (while making delicious strawberry tarts along the way).  And, like I said, it's hilarious. Here's a page that busts me up every time:

 

She makes the baby "baby food"--teeny tiny hamburgers, tiny potatoes, baby tomatoes.  She reads "put on a bib" and she puts it on herself and admires how cute it looks. She puts a sweater on the baby, puts her in the stroller, and then takes her out for a while-- as in, takes her back out of the stroller while getting annoyed at the baby's mother for giving such lame instructions.  In the end, her own quirks and ways of doing things endear the baby to her and when the mom returns and is about to get mad at Amelia Bedelia for doing something she thought she was doing wrong she a) eats a strawberry tart (her favorite) and all is forgiven, and b) goes to comfort a fussy baby who wants Amelia Bedelia instead.  AB ends up having a great though exhausting day, having learned a lot of new things, and the last lines read:

Amelia Bedelia walked home.  "I declare," she said.  "That was plumb fun. Babies are real people. And I get along just fine with them."  

It is so amazing to me, and particularly sums up so much of the first steps in taking care of a first new baby that i give it away as gifts.  A few days ago a friend with a new baby was sharing struggles she's having with trying to get her daughter to nurse and all was well until a few weeks ago and she can't figure out why and the doctors can't see anything wrong, etc etc.   Visibly frustrated she turned to others for help and advice. Some advice was offered. Mine was throwing my arms up and declaring, "babies!"    But I looked at her insanely gorgeous little babe and it made me think about all of this and of babies, even so tiny, as real people with real personalities, going through real things.  And should I have more, I would view them that way, and treat them as such, and be more patient with them and myself.  And probably still call them little zombies--tiny adorable ones that I would like to get to know.

Mother Nature's going through The Change

We're in the middle of a heat wave, like the rest of the country, apparently.  It's quite a doozy, I must say, but it just gives me more of a chance to talk about the weather, so I'm pleased.   Some ladyfriends and I were commiserating via text and one said if this was what menopause was like, she was doomed.  And this beyond delighted me-- the idea that Mother Nature is going through The Change and this heat wave is one big hot flash.  Isn't it so perfect?? I'm sure it's not an original thought but I'm going to pretend it is and sit here and chuckle at my cleverness for a minute. 

Ok, anyway-- and it's true, it's pretty unbearable. I think we're in the middle of some kind of heat advisory and when you live in "gotta go outside to stay sane"-ville, it poses a problem. But that's nothing new.

And guess what.  We're approaching the middle of summer, and unlike the same point in the winter, I'm still loving it. I love summer, even in a heat wave.  Walking outside in a kind of heat at such a temperature and moisture level that it feels like a second skin.  It's weird, it's strange, it's not normal. And i kind of love it in a kind of sick, self-torture kind of way. It's not like the chilly season, where you have to wear extra clothing to be comfortable. That sounds how it should be.  I'm going outside in the elements, I should protect myself.  But being out and not having to wear any jacket or anything??  it always baffled me, and does now.   It's not the most comfortable-- i mean i really do feel like I'm wearing myself inside out-- but there's a strangeness about it that I enjoy. It's a strange laziness that kind of takes everyone's guard down. The dog days, i guess, though of course I would change that to dog daze, the runner-up title for this blog post. The more skin that's revealed, the more vulnerable you are, I suppose.  The more exposed, and the more comraderie felt.  As the temperature increases, self consciousness diminishes. Everyone is saying, this is who I am. I don't care anymore what you see or what you think, because I'm so friggin' hot, I'm just trying not to sweat to death, and I just don't give a crap. 

And there's something nice in that. I guess it goes along with the "we're all in this together" feeling.  Kind of a "we're all dying in this together, and there's no escape, so let's eat 20 Italian ices today just to survive another day. cheers!"  feeling.   Yesterday I was out when it was too hot to be and had to go refill the parking meter.  I was walking toward the munimeter and passed by the metermaid...uhh.. is there a more PC term for that? Also, what's the male equivalent??  Anyway, normally someone I look upon with antipathy, both of our faces literally gushing with sweat, we smiled at each other, because, can you believe this weather??   He lazily peered at my car which had expired, and I lazily exclaimed, "oh.. that's my car.. I'm..."   and I just trailed off, lazily motioning to the meter, and he waved and lazily went on his way.

Sean came home and told me he had stopped at the store and about 5 people were singing randomly. Not in a super joyful way, like, I'm so happy to be alive! But in a lazy, oh i just don't care anymore. Were you listening? kind of way. There's no longer a difference between public and private.  Lazy.  Dazy.  Dog daze.

Fruitarian

I can't stop talking about fruit.  Talking, thinking about it. It's a constant part of my life. Always on my mind, in my heart, down my gullet.

And this time, let's talk about the pear.

The pear... is amazing.  On the best day, the pear will knock your socks clear off.  On a mediocre day, the pear is a great-tasting fruit.  You want to know what I love about the pear?  You buy a bag of pears, throw them in the drawer, and if they're not Bruises-if-you-breathe-on-them Bartletts, they last and last.  Man, do they last! I would venture to say that a common pear mistake people make is enjoying a pear prematurely, before the pear has reached its full state of glory.  But, like I said, a mediocre pear is still good.

Here's the thing about pears. And maybe this says more about the picking and selling and distributing of fruit.  But here's the thing, a word of wisdom about pears. An ode, if you will, in the shape of a pear:  

The pear

The pear, it lieth there

It lies and lies and waits there

And after you've long forgotten it

And the moment you've rediscovered it

Is the moment it's finally reached 

its peak of perfect ripedness. 

You never knew

What your pear could be.

Until you let it be.

Just let it be.
Pear.

*****

Notes:

1. Ok, I swear to you I wrote the ode and then centered it and saw that it was pear-shaped! Isn't that amazing? It was meant to be. The only thing I added was the very last line which is a nice touch, I thought. 

2. And guess what? ripedness isn't a word!! I know, isn't that ridiculous? Ridiculous that i thought there was a d in there.  But there's something in my body that repels the correct spelling. R-i-p-e-n-e-s-s.  It just feels wrong. I love that d, I want that d.    Riped definitely isn't a word, you sound like an idiot if you say it. Yet I still can't turn my back on my insides that tell me I want that d.   So I'm claiming it.  In my ode.  My ode to the pear.  So there.

Miracle Berries

And when I opened up the refrigerator and retrieved the container, lo, I beheld what I believed to be a miracle! For there before me was a carton of strawberries, purchased days and days ago, and as I sliced, each berry had seemed to have rolled through a fountain of youth (too bad not a chocolate fountain of youth), its color and freshness astoundingly maintained.   What is this madness!!  I shouted at the berries, half-joyful, half-afraid of them.

Then as I sliced, the consistency of the berry's insides, the slight pull on the knife revealed the answer,  the secret to my accidental success: The real miracle was not the berries, but the appliance, the amazing super-fridge that doubles as a halfhearted freezer.



fin

10 July

Today I emerged from a hot steamy subway hearing someone play O Come, O Come, Emmanuel on a violin.  I climbed the stairs up and out to be greeted by Times Square, and as I sang aloud, "Rejoice! Rejoice!"  my gaze at the blitz and glitz prompted me to turn skyward just in time to see an airplane with a bright red belly and bold blue wings scuff through the clouds over the city. And thus the tone was set.

Because storm troopers worry about sun damage too

I put this on Facebook too and feel like I'm two-timing my blog. 

The fruit in my house

Right now, and in alphabetical order:

• apples, 3 different kinds (fuji, golden delicious, and granny smith)
• 1/2 of an avocado
• bananas
• blueberries
• a cantaloupe
• grapes
• one lemon
• peaches
• pears
• plums
• strawberries
• two kinds of tomatoes, if you count tomatoes, and i do.

Other fruity thoughts:

I've realized some things about fruit.  One was the other day when we traveled to NJ to go to a fun grocery store (it always sounds so ridiculous, that we travel so far (1hr) to go to a grocery store. But in my defense we did also go to a nearby fair. Also in my defense, i really love fruit.)  We bought some black raspberries because they were cheaper than regular and because Sean said he always preferred them growing up, as opposed to the original red.  He thought the black raspberries were the real thing.  SO SAD.  First of all, is there anything better than a giant fresh raspberry? NO.  Which is why they cost $99/berry.  Secondly, the black raspberries were, how shall I put it... gross.  Ok, not disgusting, but not great. Super tart, kind of sour.  And then i realized we just weren't eating it in its destined form. These kinds of fruits aren't meant to be eaten as they are.  They're meant to be made into something! My favorite jam of all time is black raspberry from Beth's Farms.  Another fruit that's inedible by itself but awesome when made into something:  rhubarb.  I think of sweet fruits made into sweet things and it's just boring. But those things give it some kick.  I feel good about myself when I can help inanimate objects become all they can be.  

Lastly, here's something you can make with blueberries:



Recipe here. 

Julian makes my brain hurt

Julian is in the inquisitive stage of his little squirthood (that sounds weird).  It's fun and I knew kids ask a lot of questions but I swear to you, i've never been more stumped in my life.  He's asking me the strangest, most existential questions, it's starting to hurt my brain.  It's really making me look at life and the universe differently and frankly, I now question everything because of it.   Here are a few examples of things he says that make me do this:

            

 
_______

Julian: is the internet working?

Jen: Yep

Julian:  I think it's taking a rest. It's taking a rest inside of gravity.

_______

Julian: Hey Mom, remember the white train?

Jen: White train?

Julian: What white train?

...as if he had no memory of his first question, or of trains, or of anything.

_______

"Mom, do grapes melt?"

_______

"Mom, have you seen grumpy teeth?"

_______

Julian has a lot of obsessions lately. It's fun but weird at the same time. For example, on Memorial Day we went to the beach with some friends.  It was then that Julian first learned about the horizon and he hasn't forgotten it since.  He asked us what it was and we all were stumped. "The horizon? Well it's the... err... line where the sky touches the sea.."  

What IS the horizon??  It made all of our brains hurt.  I was satisfied in defining it in more mystical terms, but it has spurred a debate amongst us that resurfaces often.  A friend said it's the line of the sky touching anything, anywhere.  Like, the horizon could be along the treetops right in front of you. What?? Sean rebutted, taking a more subjective approach,  "well maybe that's your horizon."  What??  Then this friend became adamant and asked, "ok, so what are your 'rules' for what the horizon is?"   Another friend and I thought about it and said it had to be a somewhat flat surface. Maybe? But most definitely in the distance; it can't be up close.   ???  A debate certain to come up again, i have made no progress as to defining it.  And what's more, not only is Julian still inquisitive about it, he's also scared of it. We've been to the beach several times since and he always cautions me, "don't go into the horizon, mom!"   Which, again, makes me go


when I try to imagine what that even means.
_______

"Why did you shut the door hardly?"

took me a second but i realized that in this case, "hardly" is an adverb, which is adorable

_______

"Mom, are you sure I'm scared?"

??

_______


Lastly, another Julian obsession has been the Titanic. The ship. The tragedy.  We've read some books and we look at pictures.  We watched a slideshow of before and after pics and Julian couldn't take the Hymn to the Sea and broke down in the saddest sobs, which made me laugh, and then cry.     He'll bring it up in every conversation.  He asks me questions constantly. 

What hurts my brain about this one is when he's playing and suddenly declares, "I'm on the Titanic and I'm Captain Smith! Mom, who do YOU want to be?"  And I feel a weird discomfort at my options-- the souls who were horrifyingly lost in an ice-watery grave as the ship broke into pieces and sank to the ocean floor, or the ones who made it onto a lifeboat, witnessing it all.  Not the most fun make-believe I've ever participated in.  But a sobering one, I'll give it that.