Little Goat, Happy Cow, and Co-Worker Kitty

Our daughter is a great consumer of literature. I say that literally, because she tries to physically INGEST the books we are reading to her.  One time, I was reading "Goodnight Moon" to Millie, and she insisted on licking each page before we could move on to the next one.  I figured, what the hell, at least she's participating. 

Millie's favorite book by far is  called "Hide and Seek on the Farm," but we just call it "Little Goat." It's the kind of book you expect to find in the bargain bin of the Big Lots in Johnson City, TN.*  Even though it is a story about the adventures of a little GOAT, the cover of the book is just a giant drawing of a COW. That's because babies prefer cows to all other two dimensional farm animals, (it's the contrast!) a fact which the publishers of "Little Goat" knew quite well. The character of Happy Cow appears on every page, and delivers what Millie considers a show stealing performance.

Happy Cow, oh how I loathe you.

*Our friend Emily works near the Johnson City Big Lots, and likes to impulse shop on her lunch break.

I am not exaggerating when I say that we read this book to Millie at least 20 times a day.  She is a mess without it, which is why, on a recent family road trip, I made sure to pack little goat and happy cow along in our bag.

After the first leg of our journey, we arrived at my sister's house in West Virginia at 1:00 am.  Surprising no one, Millie  awoke feeling refreshed and ready to play at 6:30 the following morning.  In order to prevent her from rousing the rest of the household, I took her downstairs and placated her by reading Little Goat continuously for several hours. Millie sat in my lap, pointing at/joyfully drooling on the pictures of Happy Cow.  It was on our 5th or 6th reading of the horrible book when Millie became distracted by something.  Nay, DELIGHTED by something.  I lowered the book, and saw what had gotten her attention.  We were face to face with my sister's curious, soft, and BLACK AND WHITE kitty.  Millie looked at me with pure ecstasy on her face as if to say "Mom, HAPPY COW IS REAL!"

Co-Worker Kitty, AKA "Baby Monster," helpfully sleeping on some documents.

Now, one thing you should know about this situation is that my sister works from home. Her cat considers herself Kelly's coworker, and diligently sleeps on, bites, or snuggles with any book, paper, or excel spreadsheet Kelly may be working on at the time. When she saw us reading a book, she knew it was her duty to get closer and see if she could nap on it.

The result was a perfect storm of cuteness.  Millie reached out and stroked the kitty's head.  The kitty accepted this snuggling serenely, knowing that anyone who was petting her would be wholly unable to file her expense reports. "Gah!" Millie said to the kitty. "Bow before me, pitiful human!", the kitty replied.  This adorable interaction continued for several minutes, until my coffee kicked in, and enough of my brain awoke to try and videotape it.  This of course put an abrupt end to their playfulness. Millie went back to reading eating her book, and Baby Monster went back to washing the spot where her testicles would have been, if she had testicles.

Fleeting though it was, this experience has taught me several valuable lessons about parenting:
1. God Help us when Millie discovers PANDA BEARS.
2. Get the video camera out before you start the pot of coffee.
3. "Coworker kitty" would make for a very interesting children's book.
4. "Coworker Kitty" would make for an even better internet meme.

RIP- Stroller Spider

A few days ago, Millie and I saw a spider as we were headed out on our walk.  A huge, hairy spider. Guess where he was sitting?  On my baby's stroller. That's right. He was sitting on her stroller, about six inches from her hand.  He was just hanging out there, blinking in the sunlight. Millie looked at him appraisingly, wondering if she should try to shove him in her mouth.

I'm no expert in spider physiology, but this spider appeared to be in a great mood.  He was probably having a really good morning, having recently found such a dry, comfortable place to live.

We noticed each other.

I snatched Millie from the stroller as quickly as possible, before anyone could shove anyone else in their mouth.  The spider bolted---running down into the cracks of the stroller from whence the seat belts came.

"I live here now." He called to me, from his cavernous seatbelt stronghold "this seems like a really nice place for a spider to live."

"You don't live here" I said back to him, "And if you don't get out of there I'm going to have to beat you to death with a paper towel."

The spider must have assumed I was bluffing.  Perhaps he could tell that I'm not the sort of person who usually beats spiders to death with paper towels.  Maybe he could sense that I'm the sort of person who catches spiders in overturned cups and releases them outside.

This is true.  In fact, several years ago Sean and I had a spider living in our bathroom who I named Mercucio and frequently saved from drowning in the shower.  Mercucio thrived, and produced hundreds of other spiders, who were also named Mercucio.  I refused to let Sean kill them, and every few days we would have to hold a "Mercucio Roundup" to catch all the Mercucios and place them safely outside. THAT'S how benevolent I am to spiders.  But, those spiders weren't inches from my baby, and unfortunately for this spider, I wasn't bluffing.  I was a mom backed into a corner. "Go ahead you spider son of a bitch," I said,  "make my day."

The Spider hunkered down, refusing to move.  I had no choice. I beat him to death with the paper towel.

I tried to make it a quick, efficient assassination, to minimize his spider suffering.  I made sure to compost the paper towel afterwards-- I think he would have wanted it that way.

When Millie grows up, I hope she's the kind of person who brakes for butterflies and releases spiders.  I  plan to teach her NEVER to kill things for no reason (with the obvious exception of fire ants,)  and to respect the sanctity of life, (unless that life is attached to a fire ant.) But, when it comes to protecting her kids, I hope Millie will fight like a tiger in a corner, and never let a pair of big, dopey spider eyes stop her from protecting her baby.

Millie goes to Amish Country

Yesterday we took Millie on a tour of Amish Country.  Actually, we were just driving through Amish country, but we had to stop several times to accommodate her scream/sleep cycle, so we chose to think of it as a country tour.  

I grew up in North Carolina, and was therefore never exposed to Amish people until we moved to Ohio.  I am fascinated by their communities, culture, and agricultural practices, but mostly by their pretty, pretty horses. Like all women, I love horses.  Don't ask me why-- I think it has something to do with X-chromosomes and Barr bodies---but I look at a green, rolling pasture filled with horses with an aesthetic appreciation that is only found in men who are currently watching movies of Megan Fox.   

The first pasture we passed was filled with horses.  One of them was running.  SO PRETTY.  No view could be more pastoral.  Except the next pasture, which was filled with BABY HORSES, who were learning to run. I almost snorted coke zero out of my nose it was so awesome.  Sean was laughing pretty hard at me.  But, when the next pasture came into view, even Sean had to catch his breath-- because-- although it didn't contain Megan Fox-- it did contain BABY MINIATURE HORSES, which are the only thing cuter than baby normal-sized-horses when they learn to run.  The crushing burden of this cuteness was felt throughout the car. Sean just gaped at it open mouthed.  I reacted defensively, shouting "That's it! We are moving to Amish Country." From the backseat, Millie seemed unfazed, possibly because, as a being of brain-melting cuteness herself, she has developed some biological protections from such an onslaught. 

As we continued our drive, I made some more observations, mostly regarding Amish people. 

1. Amish people love sunglasses.

2. Amish people have cool beards.

3. Amish people wear suspenders.

Once you factor in the ZZ-Top style beards, sunglasses, and suspenders there is very little difference between the appearance of these Amish farmers and many hipster musicians I have met, which is why I think somebody should make a website called "Amish Farmer, or Band Member." Visitors to this site will have to guess if they're looking at a photo of an Amish-born apple farmer, or the banjo player for a touring Americana band. It will be awesome.

Naturally, the sight of such beautiful farm country, friendly people, and majestic facial hair got me thinking about whether we ourselves should become Amish. I had reason to believe we would be welcomed, because every buggy-driving Amish family I waved to while driving, waved back at me.  On one hand, their world seemed irresistibly idyllic-- especially from the comfort of our air-conditioned car. But, on the other hand, I doubt they would let us have a cd player to play Millie's xylophone music, and I still haven't gotten to watch Downton Abbey.  It was a tough choice. 

Here's how I broke down the Advantages and Disadvantages:

In the end, we decided not to become Amish, but to show our support for their lifestyle by purchasing artisan cheeses.  I have the feeling that many more trips of Horse-oogling lay in our future. But in the meantime, I'm trying to convince Sean to let me get a baby miniature horse for the backyard.  As a compromise to our combined aesthetic sensibilities, I've promised to let him name it Megan Fox. 

Travel with an Infant, Episode 1: Millie's First French Kiss

When I was eight and a half months pregnant, we received a visit from our best friends, Rhett and Stacy, who are both pharmacists.  This visit gave us a somewhat skewed perception of what parenthood would be like.  Rhett and Stacy were accompanied by their 5 week old son, Wyatt, who had slept like an angel the entire 9 hour car ride.  The morning after their arrival, we took the baby out to a nice brunch, and then later that evening, to a fancy restaurant for dinner.  Both times, he dozed happily in his baby carrier, while the adults enjoyed cocktails and grown-up conversations about music, politics, and other non-baby-poop related topics. Since Millie’s birth I’ve been thinking more and more about this visit, and I’ve concluded that--- even though they are the best sort of people imaginable –there certainly appears to be a suspicious link between their son’s behavior and their access to prescription grade Ambien.

Emboldened by their success, and by the assurances of  EVERY SINGLE person we have ever met that car trips are soothing to babies, we have taken Millie on two road trips in her first three months of life. She travels pretty well, as long as you completely redefine the meaning of the word “well.” Of course, traveling with an infant is never for the faint of heart, and we wouldn’t have taken her at all if we didn’t have a REALLY good reason for going.  In our case, that reason is that we no longer have any brains whatsoever, and that portion of our heads which used to contain our brains now contains frozen lasagna, on which we have subsisted on almost exclusively since Millie’s birth.

Since I’m not sure about how my new, lasagna-based brain will perform in terms of long term memory retention, I’ve decided to jot down a few reminisces of our first road trips so we can share them with our daughter someday.

To Millie—this is important--- when I am very very old, and you are deciding what type of nursing home to place me in—I want you to go back and re-read these stories and ask yourself, “does my mother really deserve to be placed in this cheap, low budget nursing home? Or, doesn’t she deserve to be in a more spa-like atmosphere, you know, like one where the cafeteria pudding is made with organic coco and agave nectar, and instead of bingo they have mandatory holistic massage and acupuncture??” Think about it.

Today’s story is:

Episode 1: Millie’s first French Kiss. 

Sean was a new dad. As a new father, he ranked child: car safety as the highest priority, and very soon after Millie’s conception began to read consumer reports with an intensity heretofore reserved for planning camping trips and discussing German automobiles. In the course of his research, he learned that the ABSOLUTE SAFEST PLACE for the baby’s carseat to ride, was in the very middle of the backseat, facing backwards of course. 

Now, up until the baby arrived, the back seat was the excusive domain of our 70 lb Labrador, Cricket, and she considered every inch of this space necessary for the stretching, moping, sleeping, and drooling required of her on these occasions. On Millie’s first road trip, we did not leave the dog at home. We packed the baby into the car, and called for the dog to “kennel up.”  When she did so, she was faced with an upsetting new reality.  The carseat was in the middle of the back seat. HER backseat. A back seat that, while admittedly a little on the small side, was just large enough for a Labrador to ride in tolerable comfort to South Carolina and back. Now, to her horror, her riding space had been reduced by two thirds.         

We started the car, and Cricket’s concern was heightened when the quiet and solicitude she had come to depend on during these car rides was interrupted by an insufferable wailing.  She had heard this noise before. The sounds of the baby crying.  At the time, I was riding,  (in my arrogance,) in the “Shotgun” position next to Sean.  We weren’t surprised when Millie started crying, but we both looked forward to watching our colicky baby succumb to the narcoleptic properties of  long car rides that had been prophesied to us by our friends.

Sure enough, within a few minutes of our drive, the crying abruptly stopped.  We breathed a sigh of relief.  That was AMAZING we told each other--- it’s like someone flipped a switch and turned the crying off!  We rode for a few seconds in the golden silence until, to our horror, the unmistakable sounds of a slurping Labrador tongue issued from the backseat, followed by a muffled baby cry. "GOOD HEAVENS!"  We cried, in our most polite voices, not saying any cuss words at all! "STOP THAT CRICKET!"

For months now, Cricket had been telling us, "Guys, I know how to make that baby stop crying--- just let me lick her in the face."  When she finally got the opportunity to test her hypothesis with both of her meddling parents in the front seat and out of arm's reach-- she seized this opportunity with both paws, and-- as fate would have it-- a tongue.  I'll have to give her this, Millie definitely stopped crying.  I'm not going to pretend that I didn't panic for a few hours after I extracted the dog from the baby-- after all-- I know exactly where that tongue has been.  But, Millie didn't show any immediate signs of any dog-borne diseases, and after a few hours I began to relax. In fact, what with the severe thunderstorm, and the car breaking on the side of the road later on that very evening, there were a few times I was tempted to say "Hey Cricket.  I think the baby needs another kiss..."  But those stories can wait for a different day, because right now the oven is beeping, and I need to start my frozen lasagna.