Slack Tide and Placentears

I learned a new term the other day and then I made up another one. At this point in my life, that's a banner week in the Fishman household.

Slack tide is a term sailors use to describe the relatively still water at the turn of low tide. It is a brief respite from the push and pull of nature's most powerful force, from the ocean's cyclical breath that makes us feel as though we're constantly moving, even when we're just standing still. There may not be a similar term in the parenting world, but there's certainly a similar feeling. I'm not talking about the sanity that comes during epic three-hour naps or independent play, but rather those times where the world may as well be standing still because nothing outside of this moment with my child matters in the least.

The moments sneak up on me - like a song on the radio that leaves me in tears yet I can't remember what you'd been thinking about. I'm talking about the days when our house is spotless or in complete shambles, when my "To Do" list is empty or impossibly long, and when my nerves are frayed or fine tuned by a recent night's sleep(lessness). I'm talking about those unpredictable, heart-wrenchingly blissful little episodes that can't be reproduced with words, pictures, movies, or even drugs. In those moments, I feel calm, at peace, and sometimes I even feel impervious to the next tide that's about to pull me away.

The funny thing about the slack tide, is that often times I don't even notice it until it's slipping away. Thursday morning, when the tide began to rise again, I realized just how good things were - which brings me to my made up term...

Asian Placentears

The winter storms have made their way south or north or wherever they were headed when they passed through, and we've been blessed with dry weather and semi-sunshine for the past week and a half. We live on three acres with fruit trees, berries, several raised beds, and lots of animals. Translation: there's always something that needs  to be done. The cool thing now that Amari can walk, is she can trapse around with Granny C and me as we prune trees, weed, mow the property, and most recently, plant trees. Even cooler than that is her willingness to follow directions and help out - mostly by putting weeds into a bucket, dumping them out, and starting over. She will also pick up sticks and rocks and perform taste tests in case we need to identify anything toxic in the yard.

When Amari was born and our midwife, Carla, asked us if we wanted to keep the placenta, Carrie and I weren't really sold on that idea. We didn't know what the hell we'd do with it and were both kind of grossed out by the notion of a placenta in our freezer, so we stalled with a simultaneous and lengthy, "Ummmmm..."
I guess Carla was concerned we might have seller's remorse be she interrupted our "...mmmmmmmm," by offering the suggestion/directive, "Most people like to keep it."
"Okay. Yeah," we consented with mock-enthusiasm, as her assistant finished double-bagging it. Since that moment, a thick freezer bag has sat on the door-shelf of our freezer, a deep-red, amorphous blob of blood, nutrients, and feces. We still didn't know what the hell we were going to do with it and we were still pretty grossed out, but much like the other half of the corn tortillas we bought last February, we eventually forgot it was there.

Early on we'd discussed planting the placenta with a fruit tree, but last spring passed in a blur of do-do and diapers, dog paddling in an attempt not to drown. This Tuesday, however, the placenta emerged from its cold, coffin-shelf in all of it's double-bagged, frost-bitten, blood-sicled glory. Granny C had purchased us an Asian Pear tree in exchange for me digging two extra holes for her apricot and plum trees. Not a good trade, if you're wondering, but a really good workout. Two hours later, Carrie, Granny C, and I stood around the hole as I scissored the bags open, dumped the placenta into the hole, and buried it beneath the roots of our new fruit tree. According the directions, it may even bear fruit this season. Who doens't love a delicious, cruncy, Asian placentear?

On a side-note, when I asked Carrie to come out for the ceremonial burial, she said, "Why? Do you want me to re-create the moment?"

Slack Tide

G'night

Mercury Retrograde?

Thank God for the arbitrary and culturally defined division of time. Be it days, weeks, months, lunar cycles, or equinoctal axis rotations (it's a thing), we always get a chance to start anew. Today it's a Sunday - and pretty darn close to the end of January - which marks the end of an extremely challenging week. It wasn't anything in particular, just one of those periods of time that I felt a little "off," a little reactive, a chronic sense of being beneath or behind and incapable of getting back on track. 

I tried all my old tricks - making lists, prioritizing, taking action, and even acknowledging that Murphy's laws were in effect and embracing the excitement of what mini-disaster lay just around the corner - but nothing seemed to work. If my mom were alive today, she would probably pull out her handy, dandy ephemeris and tell me Mercury is retrograde, which of course would explain everything. Just looked it up to make sure, and unfortunately I can't even blame Mercury this time. Retrograde was in December and post-retrograde ended like ten days ago. 

One of the drawbacks to getting older and cultivating a sense of responsibility and accountability for my feelings is that I no longer get to blame my moodiness on others. Oh man, how I used to love to find easy targets to blame for anything and everything I was feeling. Instead, I have to run with the my old mantra, "Everybody sucks, it must be me." If everyone's pissing me off a little, then chances are, I'm the problem. 

I think the primary source of my frustration is a complete and utter lack of time. I love being a dad, and I've created a schedule which allows me to spend as much time with her as possible, but there are other things I'd like to do, that I have to do.  Carrie works all day, I work nights, and both of our schedules wear us down from time to time. The moodiness, especially on Sundays, can be contagious. If parenting were a paid gig, we'd be the happiest people on the planet. 

Three more weeks until February break...

The cool thing is, we have an awesome, little girl who, with a smile, a giggle, a kiss, or a new word, makes every single sacrifice totally worth it. Teeth are popping in all over the place (including a couple of molars), and although Amari cries unexpectedly and sleeps inconsistently, I still think she's a trooper. Her vocabulary is slowly increasing, and I'm pretty sure she understands just about everything. Sometimes when we're hanging out in the morning I like to play a game I call, "Fetch the random item across the room." It tests her knowledge and allows me to watch a few uninterrupted sports highlights.

Last week, Amari also got her first taste of gardening - and dirt. She absolutely loved both. For nearly an hour, Granny C weeded the daffodil bed in front of the house while Amari placed bits of grass and dandelions into and out of a bucket, occasionally pausing to taste a rock or a clump of dirt. The next morning, when we were walking to the car, Amari took a detour to where she'd been working the day before, pointed, and said, "More, more." 

I also introduced Amari to bubbles this week. What a joy to re-experience the simpler pleasures in life. Although she hasn't mastered the art of blowing the bubbles herself, opting instead to suck the soapy liquid off the wand, when I blow the bubbles she squeals with delight, occasionally saying, "Hello bubs," while waving frantically. 

I'm sure there's a ton I'm forgetting, but once again time is my foe. If I intend to start anew tomorrow, I'd better try to get some sleep. 

 Gardening with Granny C

Gettin' Messy

 My new shirt from Aunt Jessica

 Just fitting in with the Locals

Soil Sample

Blue's Clues - Where Did Steve Go?

Martha Allen, senior year Humanities, was by far the best teacher I ever had. She was kind, passionate, encouraging, and devoted. I imagine she made every single student in her classes feel as though she cared about them. During my final semester we read excerpts from various authors and I started a journal of ideas and quotes that affected me or changed the way I saw the world. I have no idea where that journal is today, but I've recently rediscovered its contents through my parenting experiences.

For example, Rita Mae Brown once wrote that "people are like teabags - you can never tell how strong they are until they're in hot water." Over the past couple of months, Carrie and I have learned that we have different, albeit complimentary, perceptions of hot water. When Amari was learned to walk, pulled a kitchen drawer out, flopped on her butt, clipped her gum on the drawer handle, and started bleeding profusely - I panicked, racing her upstairs saying, "Shit, shit, shit. Carrie, Carrie, Carrie." She calmly asked what happened, told me to blend up some ice and fruit, and wrap it in a sock to ice her gum. Problem solved, bleeding stopped, dad feeling pretty lame.

Last week, dad got some redemption. Arriving home after Carrie's bedtime, I was surprised to see the living room lights on, troubled to find her pacing and crying with a screaming Amari in her arms.
"What's going on?" I asked.
"She's been crying for almost an hour, she won't stop..."
"She has an earache. She needs to go to the ER," blurts Granny C from the rocking chair.
Annoyed, I snapped, "Did you go to medical school while I was out? Don't diagnose my daughter."

Granny C proceeded to share the "battery" of tests they'd conducted which included taking her temperature and yanking on her ears. Conclusion - earache. Prognosis - apparently not good.
"Let me take her," I said calmly and she continued to cry in my arms for a few seconds until I said, "Do you want to watch an episode of Blue's Clues?" Silence.
"Yeah," Amari uttered her latest and most awesome word. It's muffled and shortened, but it's definitely a 'yeah.' Alleged earache gone, ER and other catastrophes averted. Carrie went to sleep and Amari sat silently on the couch with me, tooth pain numbed by her love of Steve, Blue, Salt & Pepper, and maybe even the warm arm of her dad. She stayed up much too late that night, but eventually she leaned over on my side, closed her eyes, and slipped into a peaceful, vertical sleep.

Last weekend, I got another opportunity to demonstrate the strength of my teabag (don't worry this isn't a prison story). On Sunday, Carrie and I enjoyed a delicious brunch which included poached duck eggs, sweet potato hash, and pork sausages. Amari ate everything. Tons of it. Then she wanted to play in infant swing hanging from the ceiling. She was smiling and laughing and swinging and eventually spinning herself around in circles. She did this until we left twenty minutes later, and neither one of us gave it a second thought when we strapped her into her car seat. Less than a mile down the road we heard a cough followed by a little cry and when Carrie reached back to offer Amari a pacifier, she came back with wet fingers and the wonderful hypothesis, "Oh crap, I think she threw up."

Sure enough, upon pulling over, we discovered poor little Amari looking quite pale and exhausted by the volcanic ooze of eggs, sausage, and orange slime dripping down her chest and seemingly into every crevasse in the car seat. Carrie kind of freaked out a little - mostly grossed out, but also a little bit of what-the-hell-are-we-going-to-do-with-no-change-of-clothes-and-a-car-seat-full-of vomit panic. Without so much as a word - probably because I was holding my breath - pulled Amari from her brunch soup, stripped her down on the side of the road, put her jacked on her naked upper body and wrapped the rest of her in a blanket. "You sit in the back with Amari and we'll drive illegally." Any cop that had kids would either understand completely or throw the book at us. It was a risk I was willing to take.

Back to the work 'yeah' for a minute. Last week, Jim was lamenting the fact that both of our kids had mastered the universal head shake "No," but neither was able to say yes, except by process of elimination. Do you want this? Head shake. This? Head shake. This? Head shake - sometimes coupled with a disgusted look like, "Are you fucking kidding? I only like cottage cheese five minutes ago and five minutes from now." Amari is, moment to moment, extremely fickle. And yet she likes a lot of things provided you have a lot of patience.

Anyway, while the Calverts were away last weekend, Amari fulfilled Jim's wishes that one of the kids learn to say yes. I don't know how or when exactly it happened, but she suddenly started answering a very quick, abbreviated, "yeh," when we ask her questions. Are you hungry? Yeh. Do you want to go upstairs, outside, inside, etc.? Yeh. It's awesome. It opens up a whole new line of questioning possibilities. I've already caught myself saying things like, "Do you love dada?" Yeh. "Is dada the coolest guy ever?" Yeh. "Does dada deserve an award from a prestigious parenting society..." and so on. There is definitely a certain momentum to her use of the word.

On the flip side, however, the word 'yeh' also allowed Amari to inadvertently tell her first lie. I'm not sure that it was a lie as much as she was telling me how she felt, but two days ago when I smelled a distinctively full diaper, I asked Amari, "Did you make a poo poo?" In the past, she could just shake her head "No" and I would have just thought, "Well, that's all she knows how to do." But now that I know she can 'yeh' with the best, her head shake felt like a little stab in our unblemished bond.

On the fun and goofy side of parenting, I took a field trip last weekend and met my buddy Matt at my brother's house in Cloverdale. I think I mentioned last week that Amari has become a fan of the show Blue's Clues, which has been a blessing first thing in the morning when we're trying to make coffee, unload the dishwasher, start a fire, and just plain wake our asses up. Feeling a little guilty about putting her in front of the TV, I decided it would be cool to create interactive parent-child videos that I could put on instead. Me saying and doing things that she and I do together - reading books, singing Little Bunny Foo Foo, high-fiving, and so on. I started to script an episode of Blue's Clues which incorporates some of my favorite songs from childhood.

I also hoped that by including Matt and Jacob, Amari would feel close to them even though she doesn't see them very often. The result of the fun, goofy, creative afternoon was a two-part, almost thirty minute episode of Blue's Clues (including outtakes). If you have kids, screen it first, but I'm pretty sure it's G rated.

I really do love this job...

G'night all.

Part One: http://www.vimeo.com/18904148

Part Two: http://www.vimeo.com/18930029

Enjoy

Uh Oh...

spaghetti-o???

With increasing frequency, Amari is determined to do things on her own. Although her independent eating challenges the last stronghold on any sense of order I had prior to parenting, watching the delight with which she pinches things between her fingers, clasps them in her palms, and eventually navigates them into her mouth is worth all the sticky surfaces, the hours of vacuuming, and the surprise treats left between cushions and beneath tables.

One of Amari's favorite toy is, I've learned, called a Shape O Ball - that many-sided ball with pieces that fit into a variety of shapes. She's liked it for ages now, and although we've transitioned it upstairs for a while, she manages to find Hunter's every time we visit the Calverts. She has excellent fine motor skills and a pretty good eye for circles. After that, it's a team effort - with me rotating the ball as quickly as she snatches up the next piece. I marvel at Amari's persistence and determination as she tries to put a triangle into a circle, then a square, a star, and finally its rightful place - across the living room with deserved frustration. Anger expressed, she presses on, and when all the pieces are in the ball or appropriately tossed aside (i.e. pentagon, cross, trapezoid), she quickly says, "Mo, mo." 

Similarly, now that she's walking, and now that she sees Hunter and Reya navigate their worlds with reckless abandon, she is challenging herself to do new things every day. At the bottom of the ramp that leads to Granny C's, there's a three inch drop off that is tricky for her tiny legs and feet. The first few dismounts, she fell forward onto her hands and knees with a loud grunt. Each time, she picked herself up, turned around, climbed up the ramp, turned around, and tried again. Face plant, face plant, face plant, and finally a success - after which she walked away and headed back home. 

Even language has become an endlessly adorable practice. Tonight, as we were putting Amari to bed she curled up between us, and began saying, "Dada, mapa, dada, mapa, dada, mapa," Every now and again she would look back at me as though to make sure I knew she was talking about me. One of our recent concessions (translation: necessities for mental health) has been introducing Amari to a show called "Blue's Clues." The main character is Steve, and a couple of days ago when he came on the TV, Amari ran up to the screen, waving her hand excitedly, and saying, "Hi St...Hi St..." not quite able to get the "-eve" out. Now that the charms of Jason Mraz have worn off, it's good to have Steve around. When Amari had a toothing meltdown earlier this week, he was the only one would could really calm her down. 

Matt and I are actually planning to make our own episode of Blue's Clues this weekend in hopes of giving Amari something to watch while maintaining that interpersonal connection when  dad needs to do get shit done. I'm curious to see how it works, because so far it's really just the videos of her that have her transfixed. 

We'll know soon.

Isaac Fishman

Insert Clever Title Here

My dad spent Christmas here again this year, and every time he visits I get more excited about the possibility of him moving to the coast. This time we even looked at a few houses and found both the prices and availability promising. It's sad how many people are selling their homes - unless of course you're buying, in which case - awesome. Do it soon.

One night during the visit I told my dad I was going to stay up to do some writing, and he asked, very sincerely, "How do you do that? How do you start?" It was a good question, but there was no single answer. Sometimes it's obvious - a milestone, a birthday, a challenging experience- while other times it's more subtle - a feeling, a reflection, a compulsion to capture something that might otherwise slip away forever.

Today it's this...

How quickly becoming a parent has changed me. Twenty years ago, just six months out of high school, I left California holding the possibility that I may never return. My dad's alcoholism was culminating in failed relationships, legal problems, and a seemingly inevitable inertia towards something awful, while my mother was married to a drug addict/manufacturer/dealer and was cultivating a lethal relationship with cocaine. My brother was in his room with his bong almost as much as I was out of the house, and my sister was living in the San Francisco drinking away the pain of her first love's incarceration in England for trafficking drugs.

Good times. Good times. Life was pretty sweet back then.

The moral of the paragraph is that I wanted out. Badly. I worked twelve hour days, six days a week for almost seven months and saved enough money to get out of dodge for a year. I headed to Thailand then India and consequentially Europe. At first I felt guilty about leaving my dad, but the first taste of the liberation from family roles and obligations dissolved those feelings like and ice cubes in hot water. In the words of MLK, I was free at last.

When I landed in Amsterdam eleven months later, heart-broken from my first love affair, I found two jobs, an apartment, and started to imagine a permanent life abroad. My dad wanted/expected me to go to college and leaving to travel was the only form of rebellion I knew. He had gone to Spain for a summer after his first year of law school and returned seven years later with a wife, three kids, and a proclivity towards all things opiate. I think he feared I might do the same. In some ways I did.

My mother didn't pile the same expectations on me. Her hopes and guidance were more ambiguous and and even less helpful. According to her I was going to be a "very special person." According to her astrological charts I was going to pursue knowledge over wealth while my brother was going to be a millionaire. According to me, that kind of sucked, so I remained skeptical and took knowledge like I took everything else back then - with grain of salt and a shot of something strong. Instead of expecting me to return to college, my mom and her boyfriend decided to move to Amsterdam, too, throwing a wrench in my "as far away as possible" plan and prompting me to start researching other continents.

Ultimately, I returned to the States, to college, and in many ways to my family roles and obligations. My dad got better, got sober, got himself relocated and started a new life. Seven years later, when my life was falling apart, I ended up moving back in with him. I'm pretty sure it wasn't what he wanted in his life at the time, but he did it without hesitation, with love, and of course with a towel on the floor whenever I dared eat in the living room. I still wanted to be on the other side of the world somewhere, but I drank and used instead and struggled to find any direction in my life. Being close to my dad was probably what kept me alive.

A decade later and we're in different parts of the world again. I finally found what I was looking for and I no longer need to escape. I started a family and so did my dad. Now, although I can still relate to that anxious, itchy-footed teenager, I've become a very serene and sedentary adult. And now, I can't think of anything better than my dad spending the rest of his life here on the coast, here in our town, and even here on our street.

So, Dad. There you have it. That's how I write.

A couple of weeks ago I was at the Calverts and we were discussing abstract art - specifically a piece in their bedroom that I think looks like it was drawn by their sixteen month-old son, Hunter. The question I asked, which Noah applauded was, "How does this guy know when he's done?" Melissa answered, "It's probably like you with your writing. He just knows."

I don't think that makes any sense at

How's that?

PS: I have the holiday video ready. It's set to a synth-pop version of Paul McCartney's "Wonderful Christmastime." I hope you all enjoy it. More videos coming soon.

http://www.vimeo.com/18338839

PSS: I found an old photo of me with my dad where I could finally see that Amari looks a little like me. Or at least like I used to.

And the Winner is...

In college I received an extremely eclectic education, which is a fancy way of saying I was both lazy and indecisive. What ultimately grabbed and held my attention was the field of psychology and my insatiable curiosity about human behavior - specifically my own. During my time at UC Davis, the Center for Neuroscience was completed and opened for business (research), so I applied for and earned an internship under a professor who was studying blood flow in the brain during short-term memory. The specific study I was involved in had me reading a list of words to subjects that included a sub-theme, a few words such as sleep, pillow, and sheets mixed into a larger list. When asked to recall whether they'd heard certain words on the list, subjects often claimed they'd heard a related word such as bed or dream even though they were not on the original list.

Outside the lab, I started to wonder about my own memories. How had time, association, or my own personal world view shaped my memories. How were they shaping my current experiences. There had been countless times I'd said to myself, "I'm never going to forget this," but only a handful of times that I actually remembered. What made some memories fade while others endured? Some research I read at the time suggested trauma preserved memory, but who the hell wanted those ones. Other studies indicated that glucose levels in the brain influenced the longevity of memories, but did that mean I should eat a candy bar every time I say, "I'm never going to forget this?" Chances are I'd just develop a powerful sense of nostalgia every time I smelled a Baby Ruth.

Did I ever find a satisfactory answer to my questions? If I did, I must not have been on a sugar high at the time because I can't remember jack.

The reason I mention this is two-fold. First of all, I feel as though I've been having random memories pop into my head lately - memories that I can't trace to their origins through the thoughts or feelings I'd been having prior to their emergence. Secondly, I've been wondering if the novelty of my early experiences as a parent gives them an edge in becoming long-term memories? Not to mention all the writing, pictures, and videos. I know childhood amnesia will wipe away many of Amari's memories, but I have no doubt that the sense of love and safety in the world she is developing will influence her future experiences.

In the past couple of weeks there have been many highlights, but in the interest of time and my aging brain's limited memory capacity I will include the top three.

Story Time

Amari loves her books. She loves to turn the pages, look at the pages, kiss the occasional character, and most recently actually listen to and interact with the story. When we read a sequel to "Harold and the Purple Crayon," Amari says a loud, "Mmmmmm" when they eat pie in the park, then imitates a monkey when they go to the zoo, and finally makes a bouncing bunny with two fingers when they run into Little Bunny Foo Foo. At bedtime the other night, I decided to tell her the story without the book and she made the same sound effects at exactly the right time. It was very sweet and it never gets old. In fact, that is now one of my favorite books.

Theatrical Debut

On the last day of school before the winter break, the high schoolers put on a Winter Workshop for the local elementary school. Carrie and I were recruited to sing Christmas carols and put on a small production of "The Shoemaker and the Elves." During one of the six performances Friday morning I decided to film the short play, and was rewarded with what I will now dub a Baby Ruth moment. If Amari ever goes into acting, this video will definitely be a part of her resume.

http://www.vimeo.com/17984583

I also made another video which awards Amari B the Best Actress of 2010 for various Hollywood roles

http://www.vimeo.com/17763369

Toddler Therapy

Just prior to the Winter Workshop, I took Amari over to the elementary school to wonder up and down their halls. Amari loves people - especially other kids. She waddled her way through the increasingly busy corridors, smiling and blathering "Hella's" and other incomprehensible noises. I was filming her up until she stopped and stared at a little girl sitting by the wall and crying. I turned off the camera and watched as Amari peered in at the girl, tilted her head to the side, peered in again, then toddled over and gave her a giant, heart-melting hug. The girl couldn't help but smile and hug her back.

"What a beautiful thing to be uninhibited by the world of social construct," I thought, "I'm never ever going to forget this." ;) 

From the Mouths of Babes...

Dear Amari,

I've started this blog about a half a dozen times in the past two weeks, but can't seem to get past the first paragraph. Some days I've complained about the weather, the cabin fever that comes with combination of winter and stay-at-home parenting. Other times I try to capture your latest development or accomplishment or just the way you bite into a piece of cheese and let out an exaggerated, heart-melting, "Mmmmmm." Trust me, Amari, it's not for lack of inspiration - just a serious lack of time.

Your growth as a little human being is accelerating now. Every day you do something new that makes me think, "Wow, she's really starting to get things." Everywhere we go people marvel at how much you've grown, how much you look like your mother, and how doll-like and adorable you are. Tonight, as we walked through the Botanical Gardens, lit up like Disneyland for the holidays, an chorus of "Awww, she's so cute," echoed in your wake. It's true - you are awwww-fully cute, but more importantly your kind, loving personality is beginning to shine through. Are you a little bit clingy and whiny sometimes? Absolutely. But you more than make up for it with smiles, and laughs, and hugs, and kisses. 

As we shared lunch the other day, I was silently cursing myself for not writing more. I feel like you've turned a corner in the last month - jumped from infant to toddler, baby to little girl, and student to teacher. Pasta was on the menu, and you took each noodle with your hand and felt it carefully with your fingers before you slowly raised it to your mouth. For the rest of the day, I made mental notes of the things you remind me to do in my life. In no particular order, here are a few of your teachings.

Love,
Dad

Seven Lessons From Amari

1. Eat slowly and with your hands. Amari a grazer. She does better with an assorted plate of snacks on the living room table than with solid meal time in her high chair. She'll grab a cracker or a grape, traipse off on some errand, then return later for some apple or a yogurt melt. Growing up in India we at with our hands all the time, and I think it slowed me down a little because I wasn't very good at it. It's also pretty fun. 

2. Hug and kiss people with reckless abandon. Now that Amari seems to appreciate the hug and kiss, she surprises me with sneak attacks when we're walking to the car or lying on the floor reading a book. I'll be talking to the lady at the bank or the coffee shop, and I'll hear a warning smack of the lips before I turn into an unabashed and spontaneous kiss. More recently, she has mastered the first part of blowing a kiss. Raising her hand to her mouth and kissing it is her latest form of good-bye. 

3. To set appropriate boundaries. When Hunter hit Amari, it was called abuse. Now that she's retaliating, I call it boundary-setting. Granted, she will sometimes do a preemptive violent waving of her hands as he approaches, she generally reserves her aggression for when Hunter takes things, hugs too hard, or tries to sit on her lap - which is interestingly one of his favorite moves. Jim was telling me about a kid who was hitting Hunter at the park when the mom came over and asked Jim if little Billy was being too "assertive." Semantics are a wonderful thing when your a parent. 

4. To always go after what you want. Although Amari's vocabulary hasn't evolved past the words "Hell-a," "More," and "Dis," the latter is used with her pointer finger to obtain almost anything she wants. It's often an exercise in frustration for Carrie and me, but Amari will continue to exploit her very useful demonstrative adjective until we figure out what she's after.

5. To greet every day, everyone, and everything every chance you get. More often than not, when Amari wakes me up in the morning it's with a "Hell-a." I'm not always as joyous as she is to greet the day, but as the morning goes on and the caffeine goes down, her enthusiasm becomes contagious. Once we're down in the living room, she begins saying hello to the cats, then to Granny C across the way, then Moonshadow and Peanut, the dogs, and so on.

6. To re-read books you like. This can either be right away, daily, weekly, and anywhere between twice and about six zillion times. This has prompted me to come up with the idea I call the "I Fucking Hate This Book" exchange program for parents. We've already swapped one set with the Calverts and I look forward to finding another family to unload/share those gems with. When I was eleven I read the book "Tex" by S.E. Hinton. Jamie, the female lead, was my first literary crush. When I finished the book, I was so smitten by her character, that I turned back to the beginning and read through the night so I could stay close to her. Perhaps she has a little crush on Harold...or the Purple Crayon.

7. To laugh and cry a little each day. Sometimes Amari will do both of these things within moments of each other. Her laugh is infectious and her tears come fast and full. When she's tired, they come even faster. When she's well rested, she's absolutely delightful.

Once again, it's getting late and I'm getting tired. Tonight at the Botanical Gardens, Amari discovered the joys of walking down hill, letting her weight and momentum carry one foot in front of the other. Sometimes it takes her a little while to warm up to new situations, but once she does she's off to the races.

This is so much fun...

Dad Gets Artsy with the lights at The Botanical Gardens

Amari walking up a storm at The Gardens

Box cars at the Calverts

Awwww, she really is sooooo cute.