Scouring for the details

Last night as I was heading up to put Ethan in bed, I had a moment of realization.  It's that moment that older, wiser parents will tell you about all the time.  It's the reason that perfect strangers will dote on your children, as if they were their grandparents.  He suddenly seemed so big and grown up to me.  It was startling.  "Enjoy it," they all say, "It goes by quick", they add.  Or, "Before you know it..." fill in the blank;  "He'll be off to college", "He'll be getting married", "He'll be tucking his own kids in bed". 

My heart skipped a beat.  As he climbed in bed, I made him stand up on his knees, and give me an extra good hug before tucking him snugly in bed with his beloved rainbow-striped blankie, Spiderman jammies, and his Superman sheets.  Thankfully, he's not quite ready for college yet. 

This moment of notice at how quickly life flits by lingered.  As I too got in bed three hours later, my mind turned to my grandmother.  I'm not sure what the connection is exactly, but I found myself scouring my memory for details of her and her house, and the brief 16 years I got to share with her.  At 32 years old now, it occurs to me that half of my lifetime has gone by since she left.  How could that be?  Ma, as my brother and I called her, died in 1995, after a devastating battle with Alzeheimer's disease.  It robbed her not only of her day to day functioning and memory, but also left her in a spiral of grief over my grandfather's death earlier that year.  She died three months to the day after he passed, and I believe it was the broken heart that killed her.  They were married nearly sixty years, and she spent those last three months rediscovering  innumerable times each day, that he was gone.  For me, watching her suffer in this way was greater than the pain I felt a year earlier when, while hospitalized, she stared through me, her crystal blue eyes now cloudy and distant, and asked my name. 

My only saving grace in this last year or so of my cherished grandparent's lives was that I was a self-centered, boy-crazy, teenager.  I was nerve wracked as I took my boyfriend at the time to meet my grandmother.  I knew that his tough look (think dyed black hair down to his waist, facial hair, and full grunge attire....just my type), would not be well received.  But, I was in love, and I wanted to share my beau with Ma, who's approval, for better or worse, was tantamount to my happiness.  And so, I paraded my boyfriend into their crisp, unchanging living room, and sat nervously on the piano bench awaiting the disapproving sideways glances, which I was fully prepared to defend with a rebellious, "But I LOVE him!".  But it never came.  They barely seemed to notice this stranger in their midst, and as we left their house that afternoon, I knew that everything had changed, and they were slipping away, and nothing would ever be the same again. 

And so last night, I found myself pushing my mind to remember every detail of their house.  I did a mental walk through from the front entry way, taking note of the slick paint, the furniture placement, the number of window panes, the details of the wallpaper, the smells of the kitchen, the hum of the appliances, the number of brass latches on each window sill, the yellow rotary dial phone, the flecks in the counter, a step out in to the garage, the feel of the screen door, the gate that always gave me trouble, the velvet covered brick that held the Dutch door open, the gray shag carpet, the red love-seat, the  metal blinds, the family portraits, the encyclopedias, the bathroom mirrors placed across from each other that created a sort of infinite wormhole of self-portraits, the hand stitched bedspreads, the items in each drawer and closet, the toys under the bed, the texture of the bedposts, the Jergens lotion by her bedside, the pitcher of water in their bathroom, the stack of blankets in the backroom, the sewing machine, the view into the backyard, the yard itself, and the farm, the sheds that my grandfather kept piled with goodies from his gift shop and the "flood" items from my uncle's store, the apple orchard, the grapes on the vine that melted in your mouth like the richest grape juice, the pear tree....on and on.

Ma and Nan Nan on their front porch

There were a couple of details that I couldn't remember, and it upset me.  I found myself, tears streaming down my face, because I couldn't remember what the floor looked like in either bathroom.  I tried to steer away from this thought, and remembered their Christmas decorations, and the odysseys through my grandfather's shed.  He had the strangest variety of knickknacks, tools, costume jewelry, salves, toys, and junk you could ever imagine.  I jumped at nearly any opportunity to go out in the dusty shed with Nan Nan, because it usually yielded me some trinket or oddity that would occupy my attention for the rest of the long afternoon.  I'd carry my treasure around till he asked me if I wanted to have it for my very own, to which I'd sheepishly, but enthusiastically nod "Yes", then scamper back to the porch to play. 

A few of the Christmas decorations are visible here

I spent much of my early childhood under my grandparent's care.  In Kindergarten, my mom and grandmother would alternate days picking me up from school.  My grandmother had this beautiful, blue bowl stocked with fruit for me, and would tell me that she bought those grapes just for me and Nan Nan, and I'd better eat them before he got to them!  Apparently we were the primary consumers of the fruit in their house.  Anyone who's been to my house knows that there's lovely painted bowl, full of fruit, always on my counter.  I spent many weekends coloring at their coffee table, drinking orange juice, and eating peanut butter crackers and cheese.  Still a favorite lunch of mine.  Ma would doze in the recliner watching "Days of Our Lives" while I worked on my art. 

I can remember stories that she told me about her childhood.  And things that she made me believe about my own.  She used to tell me how good it was to get out in the sunlight, and maybe even take a nap on the porch, to breathe in the fresh air while you slept.  And how if I ran through the house, I might suffer the fate of one little boy who hit his head on the corner of a similar coffee table, and die.  (Yikes, right?)  I always knew about her longing to have her own little girl, and as the baby of the family, I remember that she always made me feel special because she could indulge her desire to put me in frilly dresses, and rollers in my hair at night.  I can remember the smell of those rubber hair rollers, and the pull on my hair as a tried to sleep.  I can hear her voice talking, and best of all, I can remember her singing, hymns mostly, "Amazing Grace", "Doxology", "Battle Hymn of the Republic", and "One Day at a Time Sweet Jesus".  Most of these songs I pieced together by ear on her piano.  As I got older and could read music, I would pull out the hymnal in the piano bench, and correct my mistakes in the melodies.  I think sometimes her singing was to drown out my endless hours at the keys of that piano.  Still, she would encourage me, and sing along to help me find the next note. 

I tucked my boy into bed, and was happy to find that his blankets were still covering him when I woke him for school this morning.  I tried hard to memorize the smell of his head, the softness of his blankets, the stickiness of his feet.  Will I remember this in 16 years?  Will it be as clear the chairs in my grandmother's kitchen?  Is there room for both?  Is there room for more? I sure hope so, because every minute detail seems too precious to lose.

I mourned the loss of my grandmother more than anyone I've lost before or since then.  And though, as I'm aging, I fear I am losing some of the details about her, and her house, and I know that my own children will never have the privilege of fully knowing her, what I remember most clearly is the feeling of love and comfort that I always had in her presence.  Things rarely changed at their house.  Everything had its place and could be found right were it was last time you went searching for it.  I know that familiar feeling of warmth and unconditional love she gave me will always be there, even if I can't remember what the bathroom floor looked like. 

Jason, Nan Nan, Me, Ma, and Moe the dog at our house

Pen Pals, Journals, and Blogs Oh My

"The minute I let myself write, everything else falls into balance.  If I get a dose of writing in my day, then I can actually socialize with a clear conscience." 

  -Julia Cameron, from The Artist's Way Every Day: A Year of Creative Living

I've fancied myself as a writer since I could piece together words and doodle around the edges of my "poetry" as a young child.  While I've never pursued any professional writing career, the ability to connect my critical thinking to writing has always been an asset whether as a student, an employee, or for my own personal reflection.

When we moved last summer, I found myself on an odyssey of purging useless junk from my life that I'd toted around for years.  Among the boxes that took the longest to sort through, where piles and piles of letters and journals.  Mostly dating from late elementary school, through high school, I have thousands of pages, now somewhat more organized than before.  While I don't know if I'll ever revisit those parts of my life by rereading those notes, I cherish them.  At least in as far as it's possible to cherish something you keep in a box in the attic. 

My earliest letter writing started when my friend Kelly moved to Texas with her family.  The loss of a friendship in this way was unlike anything I'd ever experienced, with the possible exception of my parent's divorce.  It was difficult for me to process the idea that I might never see my friend again, or at least not for a very long time.  And so, we wrote letters.  This went on for several years, decreasing in frequency as life moved on.  I've been lucky enough to reconnect with Kelly through Facebook, and once again, am happy to feel that sense of friendship, if even from far away, and in tiny glimpses. 

Later, in elementary school, maybe fourth or fifth grade language arts, we were matched up with pin pals in other parts of the country.  I suspect the initial point of this activity was to teach us about the proper way to form a friendly letter, address an envelope, etc.  What happened instead is a years long friendship with a girl named Krista from Minnesota.  Our lives were fairly different, but our struggles mirrored each other as time went by.  We lost touch as we got busy with high school, and boys, oh the boys, and our lives went down different roads.  I also recently found her on Facebook, and though our connection was not the same as that early friendship with Kelly, I feel a certain comfort in knowing that she's still out there. 

In high school French, I was given the opportunity to participate in a pin pal program.  For a few dollars, you were provided with the name and address of a student living in a foreign country.  I remembered a few of these as I poured through my boxes of letters.  One was a girl in France.  Her handwriting was so strange and pretty.  I was lucky that her English was far better than my French.  Another was a boy in Australia.  He was a wild one.  In some ways he fit what I think of as the stereotypical bad-boy Aussie.  He liked to party, and brag about it.  He liked punk and hardcore music.  He drank and got into fights.  You know, typical teenage stuff...HAR!  A third was a young man from Egypt, who, for obvious reasons, has been on my mind lately.  I'm also lucky that his English was passable, as I"m not sure where I could have found an Egyptian translator in Frankfort, Kentucky.  I remember this weird feeling like he was looking for a wife.  This made me uneasy, and we didn't correspond long.  Given his age though, I've wondered if he was among the throngs of anti-Mubarak protesters.

There were others too.  One in Canada, another in France.  Seriously, do kids still do this?  Write letters to foreign pen pals?  With social media, the idea itself seems foreign.  Why write letters in broken French, when you could skype and practice conversation?  Do kids still pass notes at school?  I also have a box full of notes from my friends dating back to as early as fifth grade, when we all were obsessed with folding our notes to each other in an assortment of shapes, and apparently, ignoring whatever was going on in class. 

In recent years, I've engaged in an on-again, off-again letter writing with my friend Kristen.  I think we both find the process quaint, but also like we're upholding an important tradition.  It's also a form of therapy for both of us.  I bare my soul to her, as I would any close friend face to face.  But sometimes I'm able to think through things and risk things I might not in person.  Other times, I allow myself to be shallow and silly in ways I might not find time for in conversation.  In turn, she graces me with her clarity, and lets me take a glimpse into her very essence. 

Journal writing serves a similar purpose to me, and to many writers.  I used to be quite diligent about the practice.  Dumping my feelings and accounts of my days onto spiral notebooks, or decorative, lined books.  I've tried to get back into the practice this year, and find myself struggling with it.  The problem is some combination of not wanting to open myself up and the constant interruptions that are Motherhood, in all it's glory.

Journal writing was critical to my early experiences as someone who identified as a "writer".  My eighth grade language arts teacher, Mrs. Hoehner (whom I've written about previously on this blog sometime last year), made it a requirement in her class.  She opened me to the possibilities of writing styles, and pushed my creative boundaries.  I think she also kept me in check as I confided in my daily journal in her class. I remember this one requirement that she had for open writing times in her class; You had to keep your pen moving.  No matter what.  So, even if you were scribbling a hole through the paper, you were forcing yourself to push through.  To create.  Something.  Anything.  This is one of the crucial principles of the "Artist's Way" book I quoted at the beginning. 

Over time I've moved away from writing a journal because of a general paranoia about my thoughts being seen by others, or because, perhaps much worse, revisiting my own thoughts and the feelings that come with seeing one's own vulnerability in hindsight.

And so on to blogging.  I've been enjoying this lately.  If I get a little creative inspiration, hurry to my computer, and ignore the world around me for an hour or so, I can blast out something for all the world to see.  And as an added bonus, I get a reprieve from a few of the thoughts spinning in my head.  At least till the next thing comes along.

Two kids and one thousand nine hundred eighty six days

I've been waiting to write this post for a while now.  Let me start off by saying that if you're freaked out or offended by the idea of breastfeeding beyond infancy, then you should leave.  Please don't read this.  Please don't comment.  Please don't even discuss it with me, because I'll bury you in facts, anecdotes, experiences, and a wave of other women, children, and men who agree with me. 

I've been waiting to write this post, because I've been trying to get Raina to stop nursing that one time a day, right at bedtime, for all of 2-10 seconds per side, for a couple of months now.  I've been ready to wean this child since she was about two and a half, if not before. 

Ethan weaned, fairly easily at about 2.5 years.  It was simple really.  I applied my knowledge of behavioral change, and he went along with it.  For the weeks leading up to the last time, I took to only nursing him in one spot, on our old couch.  I knew that we'd be getting a "new" couch handed down to us soon, and I started telling him that when our "nursing couch" left, we weren't going to nurse anymore.  I reminded him each time we cuddled up, and worked towards distracting him with chocolate milk to decrease how often or how long we'd nurse.  Ethan has always been a little snuggler.  His daycare teachers used to tell me, even as an infant, how he'd just wrap himself around anybody that was holding him, and everybody loved to hold Ethan because of this.  He asked off and on to nurse after we stopped, but never really made a big deal out of it.  By the time his sister was born 10 months later (yeah, no rest for the weary momma body here!) he still seemed to remember nursing, but wasn't bold enough to try any funny business with me.

Raina is an entirely different creature than Ethan.  She latched on within minutes of birth, and nursed voraciously day and night.  With Ethan I struggled with latching for the first few days, pain, cracked nipples, positioning that didn't break my arm, neck and back, and the dreaded mastitis.  I even ended up flat on my back for two weeks when he was five months old because of debilitating neck pain caused by supporting him, and sleeping in weird positions to accommodate him next to me in bed.  With Raina, I hardly saw a nurse at the hospital.  They were so impressed with my breastfeeding skills, they left me alone, even encouraged me to side-lie with the baby in the bed so I could get some rest while she nursed.  This was in stark contrast to my first night with Ethan (at the same hospital) where I was scolded for falling asleep sitting up with MY child in MY arms. 

Being more relaxed with my second baby has nurtured a staunchly independent personalty in my little girl.  She never had any problem hanging out in her bouncy seat, watching people go by.  She sang to herself when she was sleepy, and would often fall asleep on her own, no pacifiers or boobies required.  This is why I was surprised when, at two years old, she was still nursing around the clock. And, at two and a half, the time my clingy, lovey-dovey little boy had finally kicked the habit. 

Raina will be three next month.  I've been determined to get her stop nursing for months now.  It started several months ago, maybe before Christmas, when I cut off the night nursing.  This led to about two to three weeks of angry, pissed off, screaming till she passed out again, Raina...in the middle of the night....several times a night.  We were all pretty grumpy for a while.  If losing sleep wasn't bad enough, she also throws some punching and kicking into the mix for added fun. 

Honestly, the time line is a little fuzzy.  Years of sleep deprivation will do that to you.

For about two months now, maybe longer, we've been down to nursing once a day.  I almost immediately tell her that this is painful to me.  It is, her latch has gotten lazy, and I get hurt.  She stops, switches sides, tells me how yummy it is, then nurses for about 2 seconds on the other side, often stopping on her own before I even have to preempt her.  For the last three nights, we've had conversations about how she's a big girl, and not a baby, and doesn't need to nurse anymore.  So, after she's through insisting that she IS a baby, pouts a little, kicks a couple of times, she goes off in search of an apple, or some carrots, and falls asleep gripping her snack.  Oh yeah, she eats when she's sleepy.  Go figure.

So, one thousand nine hundred eighty six days.  Give or take a few.  That's how long I've nursed my two babies.  My two loving, sweet little children.  I wouldn't give up a single day of it, but am also happy to have my body back to myself. 

Transference Part II: Stuff I forgot

Almost as soon as I hit publish on my last post, I realized that I'd not actually talked about a lot the memories that went along with wearing glasses most of my life.  Glasses, and contacts too, are a major pain in the ass for many reasons.  When I get my glasses replaced every couple of years, I've come to buy the most ridiculously expensive lenses available just to get the thinnest possible piece of plastic between me and the world.  It helps with the magnification that those of us with hefty prescriptions experience.  It makes it possible for me to look the grocery store clerk in the eye when I head out in my specs for bread and bananas. 

That particular day that I ran home sobbing, I think that my glasses had been taken from me.  Or more precisely, someone had asked, as often happened, to see my glasses, so they could look through them.  Having zero skill at saying "No" to anyone as the shy little girl that I was, I'm sure I conceded to their demands.  I think it was one of those times when those big mean boys just wouldn't give them back.  They got passed around, and my stop was approaching.  I knew I was going to have to get off the bus, but just didn't have the voice to speak up and get my glasses back.  I'm not even sure I would have had the guts to tell the bus driver.  When you wear glasses as a kid, you live in constant terror of your glasses getting broken, or scratched.  Worse yet, you live with the fear that if you were to lose them, you'd be completely unable to see anything.  So that day, I sat helpless on that plastic seat, afraid that I'd never see my glasses, or the walls, or anything else, ever again. 

I mentioned that I skated through must of teen years without using any correction.  There was one exception to this, driving.  I cannot legally (or physically) drive without correction.  So, I'd keep my glasses tucked away till I had to rev up my green 1970 Ford Maverick, or Gumby, as it was known, then I'd slip them on, and avoid eye contact with my passengers.  Luckily, I was most often transporting close friends, who could give a wank if I was looking like a googly eyed bug or not.  But once in a while, a less known acquaintance would be riding in the back seat, and I'd have to reveal my secret.  That or drive off into a ditch. 

When I went to get my license, at 16 years old, they made me take an eye exam.  Now, I see great with correct.  Out of my left eye.  It's not that I don't see out of my right eye, but it's become so weak, that my left eye basically does all the work, with the right working to help with peripheral vision.  It's a common enough problem that it doesn't phase most eye docs, but to a lay examiner at the Frankfort County Clerk's office, it was apparently an anomaly.  In a shocked tone, she told me that she could not issue my license until I got my family eye doctor to sign off saying that I was NOT legally blind.  This was both embarrassing and scary.  What if I couldn't drive because of my stupid eyes?  That would be social suicide as a teenager. 

The litany of complaints I have against my vision is long.  As a little kid, going to the pool is another pain in the butt.  You can't see when you take your glasses off, but you can't really swim with them on, because they just get wet, and you can't see through that either.  You also have the added burden of trying to find a safe place to store them so that your friends don't sit or step on them.  Seriously, what 10 year old carries a hard shelled eye glass case to the pool?  Not me, that's for sure.  This issue with water extends to running through the sprinklers in the neighbor's yards, being out in the rain, getting a snow ball to the face, spending the day at a water park, etc. 

I remember very clearly playing outside one summer, as a little kid.  My glasses got wet thanks to some neighborhood antics, and I wanted to dry them off.  I don't know how old I was, but am certain that, given my actions, I couldn't have been more than 4.  I found the driest surface I could, and proceeded to wipe my lenses on them.  That surface?  Our front porch concrete steps.  I was baffled when, after drying them, my ability to see through them had actually gotten worse!  Imagine!  I suspect my mom also remembers that clearly. 

Contact lenses also pose their own logistical problems, along with being expensive and bad for your eyes.  Ever try camping with contacts?  Yeah, have fun removing your lenses in the dark with dirty hands.  I also have considerable difficulty with glare while driving in my contacts.  It's less of a problem in the day light, when my superior distance vision keeps me well aware of the road for miles around me.  But at night, I might as well be blindfolded. 

Here I am, reminding myself again, that these are my experiences, and not Raina's.  Exhale.  Again.  

Transference

Transference is something I struggle with as a parent.  Wikipedia is nice enough to define it here.  But basically, it's the idea that you take your issue, and imagine that others around you, especially one's own children, are having the same emotional experience.  Because, why would anyone perceive the world differently than I do?  That's just madness!

I have my insecurities, like any normal person.  Most of the time I can reason my way around these hang-ups.  I know that my concerns about my posture, my fingernails, my height, etc are not probably the first things people notice about me.  Nor, for the most part can others tell that I'm insecure about this or that characteristic until they get to know me well enough that I confess my deepest fears about myself. 

I suspect the reason people are prone to transferring their insecurities to their children is because it's difficult to imagine that someone who looks and acts so much like you could possibly think any differently than you.  Even though it's fairly likely, as with my own kids, that their socialization is not the same as mine.  Nor is the time or culture that they live in exactly the same.  So, it's silly of me to assume that they'll have the same problems I had as a child.  My impulse, nonetheless, is to protect them from my scars, my fears, my wounds.  To shelter them. 

When I learned a few days ago that my daughter needed glasses a flood of memories and emotions slammed into me.  Not only is she about the same age as I was when I got glasses, but her prescription is almost the same as mine, in the same eyes.  There's not even a hint that her genetics vary from mine. 

My brother and I, in a rare moment of cooperation, rocking our 1980's glasses.  At my grandmother's house, about 1984.

I've known that this was coming since she was a baby.  She was born with a blocked tear duct, and her right eye, even after this cleared up, has never behaved quite like it should.  I could see in photographs that her eye would be slightly turned out.  And when she'd get sleepy, this became more apparent.  It wasn't bad enough that the doctors could call it a lazy eye, but I could see it.  Lately when I looked at her, it was like looking at a photograph of myself without contact lenses in.  I don't know how to describe it exactly, but I tell when I don't have any vision correction.  My eyes just aren't opened as wide.  It's like I squint a bit to focus better. 

We're both very far-sighted.  As it turns out, far-sighted people can compensate for their short eyeballs without correction, for a while at least, it just takes a lot of muscle power, and will eventually cause one's vision to get worse.  It's a good thing too, because I recall spending most of high school, during the school day, without glasses or contacts.  It's stupid, I know.  But that's how self conscious I was.  Can't afford contacts for a couple of years?  Well, I'll just go without ANYTHING!  Yes, I'm stubborn like that. 

Me, at about 16, holding my glasses while the photo was being snapped.  I'm trying hard here to make sure both eyes are straight, and hiding slightly behind my hair in case my right eye betrays me.

Four eyes.  Coke bottles.  Nerd.  X-ray vision.  "Hey, can I try on your glasses?  OMG, how do you see through those things!?"  Dork.  Ugly.  Smart.  Librarian.  Book worm.  "You wouldn't hit a guy with glasses would you?"  Big eyes.  "Why are your eyes so big?"

One of the deepest traumas came in elementary school, maybe second or third grade.  Because I'm from a small town, the bus routes included a mix of kids from the elementary, middle, and high schools for many years.  Little kids, in with big kids.  Kids from a wide variety of backgrounds rode my bus, and I can remember this one boy who was just bent on picking at me.  I don't know who he was was.  I don't think I even knew his name then.  He was older, probably a middle schooler.  He was big and boisterous and I was small and skinny.  I can't even remember what he said to me, but it was relentless.  He laughed at me, and said terrible things to me because of my glasses.  Things I couldn't control.  It went on and on, day after day.   And I remember one day finally just breaking down into sobs the second I stepped off the bus.  I ran down my street, and cried so long and so hard that I think I must have scared my mom.  I couldn't tell her what had happened for a long time.  It was that the kind of cry that shakes your whole body and takes your breath from you.  You try to talk, and more wails just come out.  The kind of cry that you fall asleep after because it's taken everything you have.  The kind of cry that leaves you silent at dinner even after the tears have stopped.

The result of this wound is years of wearing my contact lenses for far too many hours, to the point that I'm nearing the end of my ability to use contact lenses at all.  Going to extreme lengths to keep only the nearest and dearest from seeing me in my glasses.  It took me until adulthood to realize that my eyes are actually large.  Larger than average.  And that this is actually a desirable feature.  And my gorgeous children have them too.

I shot this photo specifically because I was marveling at how large her eyes are.

Long lashes to go with his huge hazel eyes.

 

 

So, I'm starting to get over it.  I'm gradually coming to convince myself that it doesn't matter.  Glasses or contacts.  It doesn't matter.  I've been trying to get Raina excited about the glasses she'll be getting in the next few weeks.  I've let her spray my glasses with lens cleaner.  I've been talking to her about using a case to store them in.  I've been having her wear her sunglasses outside.  I've found a cute doll that I'm hoping to get her for her birthday.  I'm trying to get over my issue, so I don't tranfer my self-consciousness on to her.  As a kid, I think I believed it was possible for a kid wearing glasses to be cute, or pretty.  I remember dreaming of the day that I wouldn't need to wear them.  Longing for contact lenses to free me from my magnified eyes under thick lenses.  I want her know that she's pretty, and that people aren't "just saying that", from the time she's a little girl, and not have to wait till she's older to figure out how lovely and striking she is.  I'm hopeful that perceptions about kids wearing glasses really have evolved, thanks to Harry Potter, but I'm guarded, to say the least. 

Thing is, I'm actually excited for her to get glasses.  The frames she's tried on are super cute.  I'm looking forward to matching her dress for her birthday pictures to her little pink frames, complete with pigtails of course.  And I know that she'll gradually come to appreciate being able to see better.  And maybe, just maybe, it'll make her stand out even more as the bubbly, unique, little squirrel that she is. 

A rare photo of my in my glasses as an adult.  I'm never self-conscious with my bro!  (Despite our seething dorkiness.)

Our favorite toys

I was shopping around online looking for ideas for birthday gifts for Raina's upcoming 3rd birthday.  In her age category on Amazon, I ran across what I consider the greatest toy I've ever purchased.  I promptly added a review to the hundreds of other positives and got to thinking about what the best toys are that we already have.  The timeless ones that nearly every kids that comes through our house seem drawn to, or that ones that my kids have gotten years of use out of.

So, in no particular order, some of the best ones we've had pass through our house, most of which are still in the circulation.

1. Step 2 Water table
This is it, the greatest investment I've ever made in a toy.  We got it the spring that Ethan was about 16 months old.  It's still in great shape, and still gets heavy use, now going into it's sixth summer.  Both kids have gone through the patient fascination of gently touching the water, pouring from one container to another, then onto just dumping the water, mixing in dirt, or splashing themselves or others for loud, hilarious, fun.  It's better than a wading pool.  You can use it when it's not warm enough for swimming.  There's not any major drowning hazard with is.  And I think only once has one of my kids attempted to climb into it.  It's low enough down that even babies who are pulling up to stand can use it.  If you need a gift for a toddler, or soon to be toddler, this is THE way to go.

2. Simple stacking cups
This is the best $1 I ever spent on a kids toy.  Though no longer in circulation, I had a similar set of stacking cups as the ones I've linked to.  Ethan never tired of them as a baby/toddler.  I carried them in the diaper bag and he'd bang them around and stack them while we ate dinner our, or visited La Leche League.  Raina used the same set, which I somehow managed to keep in tact all that time.  She eventually outgrew them, and managed to lose one in Toys R Us.  She'd gotten in the habit of toting one or two of them around, along with her pacifier.  And much like her pacifier, she was very prone to just setting them down when she got distracted by something else.  Drove me nuts.  I have, on more than one occasion, walked all the way back through a store looking for the one and only pacifier we had on us to survive the journey home.  Ethan, is much more like me.  Particular, and orderly, and never would have considered separating the set of cups.

3. Imaginext Pirate Ship
Ethan first saw this at a friend's house when he was about two and half  or three years old.  We got it for him the following Christmas, and it was, as we say in our house, the winner that year.  He's outgrown it a bit in the last year, but it is still great fun.  One of his friends, who is the same age, plays with it, almost exclusively, every time he comes over.  Raina has also enjoyed it.  The one I've linked is the older model that we have.  The have a newer version, much more reasonably priced.

4. Fisher Price My first dollhouse
Raina got this for Christmas 2009 (at 1 year, 8 months old) and I kid you not, she has played with nearly everyday since then.  She got this as a gift from her Gran along with all the available accessories.  Her favorite part is the baby.  She is very insistent that the baby does not sleep in the crib, but instead, that the bigger sister's bed goes next to the parent's bed (in the parent's room) and the baby sleeps there.  Interestingly, lately she's been identifying more with the big sister doll.  It's super cute, and very durable.  Highly recommended.

5.  Kitty Keyboard and Leap's Phonics Pond
Let me start by saying that I am not a fan of electronic toys in general.  I'm grouping these together because they've both been favorites of Raina's for the same reason: MUSIC!!!  They've been surprising favorites.  The Leap Frog toy was originally given to us as a hand-me-down.  I held onto it because it had lots of phonics and letter identification games on it that I figured the kids would eventually grow into.  Raina however, loves it because it plays 26 different songs.  One for each letter of the alphabet.  She knows where her favorite dance tunes are and plays them, while grooving in her tutu of choice for the day.  Tragedy struck one day when she decided that she loved this toy so much, that she decided to share her juice with it.  It was done out of love, but caused the whole thing to short circuit.  At the time, she was toting that thing around every minute of the day.  Knowing that it was a fairly old toy, I dashed to Once Upon a Child in Lexington, and was able to replace it for $5 the very same day.  Whew!  That was close!  She got the keyboard for Christmas in 2009, and it was a surprising hit as well.  Though it has several functions on the keyboard, like recording, various rhythms and instruments, what she loves is the (again) the music.  It plays several songs, maybe 12 or so, and has a mic that she likes to pretend she's singing along with.  It also meows when you leave it alone too long, which is just too stinking cute for words.  She still plays with it almost daily.  I've gladly changed the batteries in it only twice in that time, and the second time came just this week.

6.  Fun Years Preschool Tool Truck

This one, I can't find anywhere on the internet, which means it will probably never leave my house.  Seriously, I will keep this one for my grand kids.  Ethan got this Tool Truck from our friend Daren, for his second birthday.  It's been played with my every kid that's ever come into my house, regardless of their age.  It has a drill with bits for bolts, and screws.  It comes with these chunky screws, nails, and bolts that are great for little hands.  The wheels come off.  The engine comes out.  There's a little driver, and a vice with easy to turn crank on the back, and several other hand tools and places to put the screws, etc into.  I don't know if Daren picked his up in Canada (along with some of the cutest clothes my kids have ever owned from the Roots brand out of that great white Northern neighbor of ours) or if it's been banned/recalled or what, but I cannot find anything comparable that's aimed at toddlers and quite this awesome.

7.  Melissa and Doug Ice Cream set
We have a lot of Melissa and Doug goodies at our house. Raina got this from her Granddad for Christmas a couple of years ago, and it's been a surprising hit.  It taps into that toddler need to stack things, but is also fun for pretending play that slightly older kids like to engage in.

8.  Leap Frog Music Table
This is another one that we don't have anymore, in part because it was on loan to us from our friends Keith and Dawn.  Their daughter loved it so much that they took it with them when the flew to California to visit family.  Ethan also loved it, as did Raina.  When I was ready for it to go, it went right back to their house, for their newest addition.  Nice of them to wait long enough on their second baby for our kids to outgrow a favorite toy.

9. Fisher Price Symphony
This toy is no longer in circulation at my house, but is safely tucked away in the attic for posterity.  The link is the newer version of a well loved toy.  It's been through my niece (who'll be 14 this year), my nephew, and both of my kiddos.  It is both another musical toy, as well as another electronic toy.  Raina turned to hear it playing when she was mere days old.  Plays little bits of classical tunes and can be modified to sound like various instruments, voices, and can be broken down into individual tonal ranges depending upon which pieces are in place.

and finally...a great book that we couldn't live without...

10. Your favorite Seuss

A baker's dozen of Dr. Seuss stories.  Many a night reading/memorizing some of the stories in this book.  It also introduced me to one of my favorite Seuss stories that never fails to knock my kids out, The Sleep Book.

Tae Kwon Monkey

That's him on the far right, row nearest to the camera.  Looking very serious.

Ethan's been taking Taekwondo for several months now.  He's still in the "preschool" level class, which means a shorter class, with younger kids, that meets only one day a week.  In the summer we're thinking of moving him to the older kids class, which meets twice a week for an hour at a time.

Breaking the board.  By far the most exciting part of every belt test.  The kids are always shocked that they can do it.

Last night he tested for his green belt, which in the little kid's class, is actually a white belt with a color stripe on it.  I'm very proud of him.  He seems to have a natural knack for the techniques, listens well despite his endless wiggles, and never complains about going.  In fact, his only complaint so far?  Not getting to play any video games on the nights that he has class.  That's a complaint I can live with!  He says that he wants to go all the way to black belt, and actually seems to understand that doing so is a long term commitment.  He's always happy to show us his new moves.  Lately he even seems to be absorbing it more than the first couple of sessions he took the class.  He'll actually practice, call things by name, and then proceed to make up his own "fighting" moves. 

Green belt boy