a first

Making "soup" in his "soup-making machine."

We ran Elan around a lot in San Diego. Even with a few days of rain and some chilly wind, he spent a lot of time outdoors - at the pool, the beach, the zoo, riding bikes and playing with friends. And the result was: no bedtime battles. With all the sleep-related struggles we've had with Elan, and there have been many, going to sleep at night hadn't generally been one of them until recently. Sometimes when it's taking an hour for him to fall asleep at night and I'm coming back for the fifth time to check on him, in order to try to keep him in his bed, I think: Really? We need another sleep issue? Come on. So Mikhail and I were really loving having him fall promptly and soundly asleep after the end of another full day.

Perhaps he was even a little too tired by the end of the week. On our last night in San Diego, we were having dinner with some friends and Elan was playing with their daughter when suddenly he looked up at me and said words that I have never heard before and can't imagine hearing again anytime soon: "Mama, can I go to bed now?"

Let's hear it for sheer exhaustion.

before breakfast

Before breakfast:

I nursed Emry at 3 a.m., 4:30 a.m., and 6 a.m. By 6:20 a.m., his cheeks were the size of small cantaloupes.

Also at 6:20, Emry started working on perfecting his teradacytle shriek. The happy kind.

I waited for my mom to wake up so that I could hand off the adorable, shrieking-with-delight baby to her and go back to sleep.

I cursed the light streaming into the bedroom, cueing the baby's brain that he should start waking up at 6:00. What happened to 7 a.m., my dear babykins? On that note, what happened to sleeping in more than 1.25 hour stretches?

I waited for Elan, who was sleeping in my mom's room on a mattress on the floor, to wake up, so that he would wake up my mom and I could pass off the adorable baby and go back to sleep.

Elan woke up. My mom woke up.

Elan went into my room and pulled a blanket over the baby's face. I saw his guilty look and immediately went in, pulled the blanket back, smiled at the adorable baby (who was not at all fazed by having had the blanket over his face for 20 seconds) and tried to rein in the immediate fury I felt. Elan loves to push my "fury" button, so it's kind of like giving him a big fat chocolate sundae with a cherry on top if I get really angry. Except it also kind of scares him, so it works a little in that way. I'm trying to reserve fury for only a few very select moments. I decided this wasn't one of those moments. And Elan doesn't like cherries. I probably couldn't even get him to try a marashino.

I sang the "Uh-oh" song (more on that another time) and put Elan in his room for some "private time."

I vented to my mom. This is what happens when I don't show fury to Elan. I have to show it to someone else. Not the best side effect.

I played with the adorable baby. Still not traumatized. I'm starting to see how different life is for first versus second kids.

I went back to sleep.

With eye shades on.

And ear plugs in.

Ah, blessed eye shades. Ah, blessed ear plugs. Ah, blessed unconsciousness, when you're not on duty... finally.

I woke up. What was that - 20 minutes? 2 hours? Wow. I could sleep all day, for several days in a row. Fantasizing about sleep is new mom porn.

I put the baby down for his nap.

I dealt with Elan spilling my full water bottle on the carpet.

My mom left for her haircut.

I fixed the broken sippy cup.

I made pancakes with the batter my mom left. I poured coffee.

I went sprinting upstairs at the sound of Elan crying, before he could wake the baby, after having bumped his head.

I comforted Elan. I helped him find what he was looking for. I moved the hide-a-bed frame he pumped his head on.

I told Elan: If Mama doesn't eat very soon, she is going to get very cranky.

I went back downstairs, trailing Elan in his new dinosaur pjs. ("There's dinosaurs even on the pants!")

I reheated my coffee. Note to self: Just use the travel mug. Even when you think you're about to sit down. You're most likely not.

I poured the syrup and ignored my dinosaur-pj-clad son for a full five minutes.

Open mouth, insert bite.

Uh, huh. That's what I'm talking about.

who, me?

Should I try to explain my 2-week absence?

I fell off the blogging horse. I got overwhelmed. I tried to figure out a new way to post pictures, and couldn't do it in the 4-minute increments I had, so I gave up.

There. Now you know the exciting stuff.

Don't listen to what she's about to tell you.

Emry has a cold, just in time for his first flight on Saturday, just in time for me to fly alone with both the boys. And he was up most of the night last night - crying, fussing, nursing, restless. It was his worst night yet. It was quite unfortunate.

Who, me?

At 6 a.m., when he was crying unconsolably and refusing to nurse and just plain unhappy, I started to feel just a touch violent. I set the baby down on the bed and went to the guest room, where Mikhail often sleeps these days, and woke him up. This is why children have two parents, I said. You're on.

I am deeply suspicious of my mama's version of events.

I only needed about 15 minutes away for the anger to fade into plain old exhaustion. Luckily for me, since Elan was up and in the guest room bed with me within 10 minutes.

These are the moments when I wonder how single parents do it.

my little nugget

If Emry was on Twitter, this is what he'd tweet: "You know you're fat when your dada can froozle your shins."

In our family, froozle means to blow a raspberry, you know that thing you do when you can't resist squishy baby tummies, and, in our case, shins. A piece of terminology a la Mikhail's family.

Do you see that chin? Elan has it too. That's an Alper chin, a la Popa Al Alper, my mother's father, who is 101 years old. The ears, however, appear to be from my dad's side of the family, specifically my Grandpa Matty, who's in his 90s.

And for comparison, here's Elan at around the same age:

That's some strong genes.

just another day at the office

I have many posts sketched out in my mind but am drowning in work right now. Mikhail brought Emry by the cafe where I am holed up with my computer so that I could nurse him. Emry thinks Mama's office is pretty cool, especially when he gets to stare at my computer screen while I work.

transformation

After Mikhail lost his job over a year ago and started working from home, he took over our home office and a corner of our bedroom became my office. It was a plain little space, my beautiful vintage table that I used as a desk perpetually piled with projects in progress.

Truthfully it was not a very inspiring place to work, but I don't usually do my creative writing at a desk anyway. I use a desk for paying bills and doing household and organization work. The work that needs more intense focus I usually do at cafes, away from the chatter of little voices. Or when the house is quiet, I often migrate onto the couch, laptop on - well - lap.

When I was pregnant and couldn't sleep, I often found myself rearranging furniture in my head. I think it was part of my obsessive need to make the baby a real entity, a tiny person who would need a changing table, storage for diapers and ridiculously small clothes. It was like if I could just figure out how to arrange the furniture to make it all work in our small house, I could guarantee that the baby I so longed for would become a reality.

But when it came to implementation, I hesitated. When was the right time to take the plunge - to buy a changing table, to wash the baby clothes, to buy the diapers, to move the contents of my desk into cabinets in the living room? And I struggled with what it meant to no longer have a desk, that symbol of working life. Would it mean that I was no longer a writer? Would it mean that motherhood would have overtaken my life completely, leaving me no opportunity for my creative life? Would it mean that I had no chance for paid work?

The funny thing is that it totally works for me to have my office downstairs. Most of my papers are contained behind cabinet doors, there when I need them but not where I have to look at them. My laptop is perpetually within reach and regularly carted up and down the stairs. I've pulled out a pewter bowl that was a wedding gift to hold my stack of unopened mail, which before would just stack up on the counter. Ironically, I'm generally better organized than when I had my own desk, and I've done more paid work since Emry was born than I had in the previous four years. Of course someday, I'd like to have a desk again. Mostly because that would mean that my gorgeous & super-smart husband had a full-time job again.

In the meantime, I love how the nook in my bedroom has been transformed. It's cozy and bright and warm. Perfect for cuddling up in the rocking chair and having a nice snack of milk. It's the baby's space, and it's magical to me.

Art by Kelly Rae Roberts,

mobile with removable cloth insects/finger puppets by Furnis Spielwelt

in the country

In the country, there are dirt roads and muddy puddles perfect for stomping.

A wooden swing at Grandma's house.

A barn full of baby goats.

Who turn riotous when we enter.

They're looking for milk.

Elan tries feeding them hay, but they prefer the real thing.

This makes me glad I have only one baby.

And look, here he is (with his handsome Dada).

There are other adventures to be found in the country, too -- like rock-hopping in the creek.

He was fearless about climbing over the rocks and wading through the water. It was just the right size creek for him. I watched him, marveling over how big and grown-up he seems, and remembering how, as a kid, I was also fascinated with creeks (they were such a novelty to this desert-grown girl).

Eventually, he did fall in and get sopping wet. But I don't have a picture of that. Mikhail and I had snuck off for a quick visit with the redwoods, just the two of us, a date in the country.