Some Color

Here is a little bit of color to start the day.  We've had some gray days--but the increasing temperatures outside have our spirits up.  This week, we've been spending time at the playground after Maria's pickup from school.  It's muddy, and has lead to some sleep disruption by delaying L's afternoon nap, but we are grateful for the vitamin D. 

Pippa's blue eyes still surprise me.  That baby knows how to mesmerize her Mama!  She makes the most delightful coos and gurgles lately.  She seems so intent to communicate---I keep expecting her to come out with a word.   She's also doing a lot of hand-sucking these days, and with the drool comes the need for frequent costume changes.  This puts new strain on our already faltering laundry routine, but leads to some more colorful ensembles like the one above.

Loulou has been become opinionated about her clothing  and is becoming ever bolder about "borrowing" her sister's clothing.  Here she wears Maria's down vest, which goes down to her calves.  She is also going through stocking phase---"I wanna see my legs."  Do I see wardrobe wars in the future?    I have given up trying to alter her choices, since they are often more attractive and interesting that what I would have chosen.  I also realize that everyone loves to see a little person acting with such freedom.

Give Us a (Paint-Covered) Hand

Auntie Colleen needed pictures of kids with paint-covered hands for her website. I did  a couple paint and photo sessions with the kids, and they were bemused to find their mother painting their hands instead of wiping them.  These are the best.   The ones with Maria didn't come out.   It's surprisingly tricky to get a kid to look cheerful, sit in good light, and point her palm at the camera!  The smile comes from looking at the paint on the palm, I suppose.  In the first picture of Loulou, she's doing the "Here is the church, here is the steeple" hand game.  I'm glad to have caught it on camera.

Life at Nine Weeks

Truth to tell, these pictures are already a little old, Pippa is quite a bit bigger and chubbier!

When I talk to people who are about to have their first baby, there is something I always like to tell them. It's not uncommon knowledge--but it's a phenomenon I was woefully unaware of during the first weeks with Maria.  I'll write it here for good measure:

Dear First Time Parent,

It is normal to feel like you've fallen down a rabbit hole during the first months with a new baby.  You may discover, as I did, that your offspring finds life to be a "stern, solemn" thing.  She cries a lot!  Is it gas? Is it colic?  Is it deep disappointment at not being been born into a hunter gatherer Eden?  Whatever it is, the baby wants to be nursed and carried day and night, and nothing in your education will have quite prepared you for the physical and mental challenge of it.   Take comfort, first-time parent!  Know that you just have to muddle through for a while.  Around three months, things will  somehow--almost inexplicably--become easier.

Recent weeks have found me clinging to my own words, looking for signs that the muddling stage will give way to a new order.  We may be less bewildered than were were during Maria's early infancy--we've learned a few valuable tricks, and  I've been toughened by four years of nursing--but the chaos has scaled to fill a four bedroom house and the lives of two additional little people. Our home is a whirl of laundry, play food, and  pieces of wood debris (we rely on daily wood fires keep the house comfortable).  Many's the time that Donnie or I have raised our hands to the heavens and exclaimed "Squalor!   Squalor!" in lament of the piteous state of housekeeping. 

That I'm writing this now is a sign that a new order may be emerging.  Pippa is asleep downstairs, having been put to bed awake. Yes, she seems to be learning the trick of falling asleep on her own.  What a mercy that is, after two babies who only learned the trick after many nights of ninety minute scream sessions!  And now, in this blessed, scream-free calm, I'll write of the incredible sweetness of having  a little baby in the house again.

It is lovely how older girls have taken to their new sister.  From the start, Maria has cast herself in the roll of teacher, seeking an intellectual connection with her youngest sibling:

"Pippa, I'm Maria.  You're Pippa.  That's Mommy. This Place you're in is called a house.  Everything outside the house is called the World.  The World is on a Planet called Earth.  One, day, you'll come to my school and  I will show it to you---but it won't be the real thing, it will be a Globe."  

She ties string to popsicle sticks to make "magic wands" for the baby to grasp and decorates the baby in felt jewelry.  When Pippa is upset, she says, "Pippa, Mommy is here!  Sister is here!"  And when that fails, she waltzes away and occupies herself elsewhere, seemingly unconcerned by the crying.

Loulou, true to style and age, takes a more physical approach.   When we introduced Pippa to a pacifier, Louisa, decided that it was her job to put the binkie back into the Baby's mouth when the baby let go of it.  Loulou became the guardian of the binkie,  , running across the room to replace the pacifier and shrieking in protest when anyone else performed the function.  (Over the last weeks, we've managed to misplace the pacifiers, and haven't gotten around replacing them, so this isn't so much of a thing now).  Loulou is more apt to join in  the chorus when the baby cries.  Her overtures to Pippa take the form of nearly crushing hugs, which the baby seems to mind only a little.   Pippa isn't in the room, Loulou will ask where she is.

There are outbreaks of jealousy and lap wars.  There are plenty of screamy moments and sighs of  relief when all littles are in bed, but they don't overshadow the convivial side of  life with three little girls.

Of course there is the sweetness of the baby herself: those plummy, soft cheeks and the perfect curve of eyelashes closed in sleep; the way she seems to be longer and plumper after each nap; the kaleidoscopic expressions of concentration and those elusive, incandescent smiles.   Pippa an excellent nurser (gained three pounds last month).  Temperment-wise, she seems to resemble Maria more than Louisa (though I have a hard time articulating why--and life may well prove me wrong).   She is the first of the girls to have blue eyes (M and L both had slate gray eyes that looked from the get go like they were heading for brown).  We have genes for blue, hazel, and brown eyes  floating in the family gene pool, and it will be exciting to see which color emerges.  But those light eyes seem to project a question mark. What will this baby become?  A newborn's potential is a terrible in the old sense of the word, as is her dependency.  When I think on this, I grow a little wobbly in the knees.  But mostly, we just enjoy this funny, cuddly, and sometime difficult nine-week old.  She already has a collection of nicknames--Pipsqueak, Cutie-kins, Snort-buckets--but my favorite is a souvenir from a wedding we went to in St. Louis--it's Billikin. 

When God Closes a Door....

Three months ago, we asked Maria what she wanted to be for Halloween.  She answered immediately, "I will be a door, and Louisa will be a window."

I'm not sure what inspired these choices.  We had just acquired Carl's Masquerade---a book featuring many splendid inanimate object costumes---a volcano, a pile of burning coals, and a watermelon being a few of the more memorable.  But it might also just be written in Maria's genetics--- her daddy was known to costume himself as things like bendy straws and spatulas.  Whatever the inspiration, Maria stuck with her choice.  (Clearly, she hasn't inherited her mother's tendency to indecision.)

Though happy to postpone the inevitable princess years, I became less enthusiastic about the door and window costumes as the holiday approached.   Time was short.  The sewing machine was still packed.    The costumes on the racks at TJ Max were both beautiful and surprisingly cheap--cheaper than a supply run to JoAnn Fabrics.  Finally, I decided to forgo my plans involving felt, foam rubber, and a window box full full of silk flowers, and make something simple out of a material we had on hand---cardboard.  Best to not even set foot in a craft store.

What resulted were perhaps my most successful costumes yet:

We judged that our neighborhood would be too dark for trick-or-treating with small children, so we took our little door and window to the St. Mary's Halleluja party.  It was a Halloween, All Saints Day, and All Soul's Day party in one, and it was just our speed.  There were many sweet people dressed as saints giving out candy and prayer cards.  There were crafts: making St. Bridget's crosses from pipe cleaners (which turns out to be a bit of a challenge even for adults), coloring bookmarks, and decorating votive bags to decorate the alter for the vigil Mass.  There were bean bag and ring toss stations, as well as a doughnut gauntlet.   Maria did crafts and took a hay ride in the parking lot.  She let other kids borrow the door costume--so the fact that her costume wasn't attached turned out to be one of its best features.  Loulou ran around with a stolen bean bag and cavorted with a little girl dressed as a My Little Pony.

Maria, after a bout with a powdered donut.

 We all enjoyed soul cakes (aka. donuts) that were fried on the spot.   After recognizing the glazed, sugar-adled look in the girls' eyes, we retreated home, lit our two Jack-o-lanterns, and made a late dinner of scrambled eggs and grapes.

Donnie and I agreed that it was our best Halloween ever.

Book of Nostaligia Item #2 - Magpies

Our neighborhood in Pittsburgh was a dressed-down place  (I mean that in the most affectionate way.) Appropriately, the creatures that scampered  around the neighborhood were dressed-down creatures.  The squirrels were gray.  The sparrows were brown.  Even the turkeys, who seemed full of the proud ferocity of their dinosaur ancestors, kept their dress to a subdued palette of earth tones.
When we moved to the Paris suburb, I expected to see a difference in dress.  I didn't expect that even the local fauna would live up to the elevated fashion standards.

Meet the magpie, one of the most visible and ubiquitous birds in our area.  A trim, intelligent corvid, magpies dress in ever-elegant black and white, with splashes of iridescent blue to keep it jaunty.  They're social birds, so you often see them in groups of two or three.  I love sighting these dapper little fellows, and hearing them chatter from the trees in the garden.

I was informed by my English friend that there's a superstition about Magpies.  The number of birds you see at a time tells you your fate:

One for sorrow,
Two for joy,
Three for a girl,
Four for a boy,
Five for silver,
Six for gold,
Seven for a secret never to be told.

I've been looking around for groups of magpies, and so far, I've been seeing be groups of three at most---so maybe we're due for another girl!

I haven't caught any good pictures of them, so I'll  leave you with a second magpie (because we want joy) from the world of art.

My favorite Monet

Expecting a Ferr-acle

We were in our hotel room in Vienna.  The girls were finally down for the night, after a tiring dinner at the hotel restaurant. During dinner, it had taken all of Don and my resources to keep the girls from putting ketchup and schnitzel grease fingerprints on every knick-knack in the restaurant.  (There were many knick-knacks).

Me: Can you believe that this time next year, we'll have another Verkel around?

Donnie: Verkel?

Me: "Verkel." It's German for "piglet." 

Donnie: Oh!  I thought you were saying 'ferr-acle,' the combination of 'ferret' and 'miracle.'  I can't think of a better way to describe our children!  I thought you were just that great of a poet.

Well, I'm not that great of a poet, but I am pregnant.  Our ferret-miracle is due January 1st.  We are very happy.

A (Very Rough) Portrait of the Artist at Four Years Old

Dear Maria,

Some weeks ago, we celebrated your fourth birthday.  The girls from downstairs came up.  You wore a chef's toque made from wrapping paper and we decorated cupcakes.   You and your little friends ate sprinkles  from the jar.  When it came time to sing, you suggested that we sing happy birthday to "Louie,"   This suggestion was so characteristically you---that in your enthusiasm for the idea of the party, you forgot that all the hubbub was happening in your honor.

I've been struggling over how to write a birthday tribute, and this post has turned into a bit of a juggernaut.  At first, I was tempted to write something pithy and enigmatic:  Four years ago, a mystery was born, and she still lives with us today.

But I'd like to leave some record of four year old Maria.   Someday, in your quest for self-knowledge, you may stumble upon this post. There should be a few white pebbles in it to help you find your way.

We adore you, darling Girl, but we often struggle to understand you.  And I'm unable to describe you without recording some of the struggle.  During pregnancy, I imagined that I'd have an instant, instinctual understanding of my baby. Your appearance at the end of those nine hidden months would answer all questions, and an intuition of your needs and personality would be  delivered to me--perhaps via the magic of post-partum hormones.

Instead, I discovered that the mystery was just as great after birth as before---it just now had a shape around it; a beautiful Maria-shape, with long legs, a full head of hair, and big, slate gray eyes.  You were a joy, but also a puzzle and challenge.  It was difficult to understand your baby ways and to trust the great hidden leaps of your unfurling intelligence. We fretted over you--over your sleep, your picky eating, and your language acquisition.   We still fret--will you ever learn to use a fork or blow your nose properly?  Will you ever learn to give a straightforward answer, without the haze of fantastic, French-accented gibberish?   I'm sorry for all the fretting, Dear.  You are, after all, our little test pancake.

This past year, the shape around your mystery has grown more distinct.  What instinct did not provide, we are slowly learning through study.  We find you sensitive and creative.  You have complicated ideas that build in the depths of your mind and burst forth in an often-difficult-to-understand froth.  You have an incredible, goofy sweetness.  Your joy is nutritive.  I've never seen a better image of paradise, than the sun shining on your smiling face.

Here are a few anecdotes from recent life.  I submit them to you.  They're far from complete--I had hoped to include two or three others---but in the interest of preventing "better" be the enemy of the "good," here are just three.  They are a very rough sketch: Maria, at four years old.

I

We recently had a sort of parent-teacher conference with your maitresses at the French pre-school.  They talked with knit brows and grave faces.*  At one point, I laughed out loud, because what they were saying sounded so much like a line from the movie, Amelie:

"She doesn't play with the other children.  She's in her own world."

What your teachers didn't understand, was that for you, a little goes a long way.  You love your friends, with an open, disinterested affection.  You come home with stories of their doings, and you laugh about their jokes days after they make them.  They seem to enjoy a second life as your imaginary playmates.  You plan what you're going to tell these friends and hash over what you've already told them.

But when you are with them, you have a hard time keeping up.  Part of it is the language, but it's also that you, like your parents, tend to be a little caught in your head  Your friends don't follow what you try to explain your thoughts.  But you're happy to caper after them, to take in a small exchange and digest it completely on your own.

And being this way, you don't seem to need a great number of friends, or a great deal of stimulation.  You spend much of your time with the other children, engrossed in your own narrative.  But there is no doubting your open-hearted love and sociability.

II

You've proven to be a devoted and protective sister.  This protective part has come as a surprise.  For so long, whenever we discovered Louisa doing something dangerous or destructive, we more likely than not, found you along side her, laughing in delight.  But protective you have become---especially when we're outside the house.  It distresses you when Louisa tries to walk about in the the train by herself---you worry she will fall.   And it worries you when she goes up to strangers.  You grab her hand and pull her back---a move that we used to discourage---but now you have learned it to  do it with just enough gentleness. Yesterday, I was able to buy myself a pair of shoes thanks to your vigilance.  Louisa tore through the aisles of footware with you as a monitor.  When you felt exasperated from your charge, you told me frankly:  "it's time for Loulou to go in the stroller."  That was that, and we buckled her in despite her protests.  And so you had peace of mind.

An old picture, taken shortly after Christmas.

III

I've been tired lately, and often collapse in my bed after putting Loulou down for her nap.  When I wake an hour later, I find that you've glued bits of paper with drawings  of letters and people onto the inside of a styrofoam tray and filled it with beads and buttons.

"Un cadeau, Maman."  "A gift, Mama. "

Yes, my Sweet---the gift of a decorated tray and the gift of a nap.  I can delight in both your creation and your being happy left alone to create.

It has been interesting to watch your artistic trajectory.   Back in October, you made your first "face"--  a circle, with two dots and a line for the mouth.  You said it was a Carebear.   I sat back and waited for more faces to follow.  Months went by and none emerged.  Instead, you plunged back into the abstract.   Sometimes, I asked you what you were drawing.  Most often, you answered succinctly, "Lines and dots."  On some occasions,  you made an arabesque with your hand and said in a grave voice "the whole world."  I'd look at your big loopy circles and lines and think, "yes, she's got it right."

You graduated to delicate branching  drawings, with lines meeting at big, dark dots.   They reminded me of Miros.  I guessed you were learning from the drawings in Daddy's research notebooks.  You drew these branching graphs on napkins during our travels in Barcelona and Amsterdam, and I promised myself that I'd give you some proper paper when we got home, and that I'd frame the drawing.

One of my favorites: "Broken Bidets"

But, abruptly, the graphs gave way and, at last, people emerged: great, bodiless heads, with flagellum-like limbs, and googly eyes of discrepant sizes.   You labeled your figures with zigzags standing in for text.  In recent weeks, bodies have made an appearance; hair too---both curly and straight---as well as fingers, eyelashes, and dots for cheeks.    In and around these figures are letters.   Real, undeniable letters.  I have to give credit to the French school--for certainly some of their lessons have hit home, and they blossom forth in your art.

Little four-year-old Maria, How blessed we are to have you in our family.  How blessed we are to watch you grow and be your parents.  Here's to another year of living with the Mystery!

*Maria's teachers were concerned because they were unaware that we would be moving this summer.  They were reviewing Maria's work and weren't sure that Maria had learned enough of the material to graduate to the next level.  Maria only for attended for half days and she was frequently absent because our many trips.  Clearly, we, as a family, didn't get fully on board the French kindergarten thing.  While that was not a good think for Maria's language acquisition, it meant that we got to see more of Europe and Louisa and I got to see more of Maria.  You take the good with the bad.