Yosemite

At 4 am last Saturday, Lincoln moblized a weary lot of would-be hikers into a rented minivan. Lincoln, Munch, Ashley, Ashley's friend Rich, Lincoln's friend Rusty, and I quietly picked at bagels and dried fruit as we headed southwest on the 99, with the goal of beating the Memorial Day crowds into Yosemite National Park.

With the exception of one Chernobyl-style melt down when I had to break the news that, sadly, Tia Ashely had eaten the rest of her goldfish, Munch did very well on the long drive.

We arrived on the valley floor in good time and stopped by Bridal Veil Fall before starting our planned hike of the day.  Deciding to forgo hiking boots and rain gear for just a few minutes longer, we lumber out of the van in flip-flops and cotton sub-layers and headed for the base of the fall.

Rain started falling, heavier and heavier, as we approached the base. I looked up into a cloudless blue sky and then down at my wet child and pondered the stupidity of the decision to venture out unprepared. It was not rain that was making our clothes heavy, it was water ricocheting off the nearby rocks. We were soaked through before having even started our hike.  Perhaps this was a penance for some disdainful comments I had made about the busloads of tourists and their matching yellow ponchos.

Better equipped, we made our way up Vernal Fall along the Mist Trial. The spring snowmelt hurtled off the fall's 317ft precipice and onto the rocks below, aerosolizing the water into a thick mist that hung on either side of the falls. Water runs continually down the uneven staircase that is carved into the side of the cliff, and I worried about Lincoln's footing with Munch strapped to his back.

We were rewarded at the top with a rainbow view and unobstructed sunshine to dehydrate our water logged clothing.

We had reason to be concerned that Munch would not tolerate the six-hour hike well. A few weeks ago we went for a much shorter hike around Lake Berryessa. Twelve inches from his ear, Munch treated her daddy to uninterrupted soliloquy that consisted of "I AM TIRED NO MORE HIKING I AM HOT WHERE'S THE CAR MY LEGS ARE BURNING MOMMY IS BURNING I HUNGRY NOT HUNGRY FOR CHERRIES I AM COLD NO MORE HIKING LET'S GO HOME". 


As there would be no safe place to put her down and let her run out her energy, I devised a hierarchy of snacks that started with raisins, progressed through sandwiches, crackers, dried cherries, and finally  culminated in the splendiferous fruit smoothie.

White men can't jump. Especially in sync or for the purposes of appearing to have just leaped off the falls.

Wait. Was it on "three"? Or just after? You go first.

 I thought you were going

But she didn't say "three" yet!

 More strategizing.

Congrats guys. That's the one.

OUTSTANDING

I was putting on make-up in the bathroom while Munch was watching. She said "Ooo. Mama pretty". Very flattered, I leaned over to give her a kiss.

"Cookie?" she whispered hopefully.

What a little turkey. Although, sadly, I am susceptible to the misinterpretation of praise. When I was a resident I received a page from medical records- "Dr. B, your discharge summary on patient John Doe is OUTSTANDING". Wow, I thought, positive reinforcement being of short supply around here, I will take it, even if it does come from the folks who dictate medical records.

One week later I was locked out of the electronic medical record because, as it turns out, "OUTSTANDING", does not mean "superior". It means "delinquent".

Sigh.

Happy Birthday Daddy

Munch has been very excited about LD's upcoming birthday, although it would be a deceit to suggest her excitement is at all related to the celebration of the person from whom, with one bat of her big blue eyes, she can extract pretty much anything.

No. After learning the association between birthdays and cake, Munch has been an enthusiastic participant in any birthday party, including but not limited to strangers' small get-togethers in the public parks or children's museums. Upon spotting the distinctive cone-shaped hat from afar, she will sprint with zeal towards the unsuspecting group, her maniacal giggle heralding that if I did not intercede quickly, a small child would be devastated by the unforeseen usurpation of his or her birthday confection.

Failing to understand hers was not the upcoming birthday, she had repeatedly requested a "pink chocolate cake" whenever the subject of LD's big day came up.

So, per the request of the person whose birthday it wasn't, I obliged, baking a chocolate cake and blending strawberries into vanilla butter cream frosting to make it pink. We could locate only two candles, further corroborating the conclusion that all cakes are actually intended for her.

Happy birthday Daddy.

Further Deliberations

The day after I posted about Munch's vegetarian partiality, I watched her gobble down a large portion of smoked salmon that I had intended to serve as an appetizer that evening for dinner guests. Later that night the spectacle was repeated with the disappearance of substantial ration of Italian sausage from the table.

And then there was this conversation-

Munch sitting on Lincoln's lap, Lincoln reading aloud from a book about baby animals

Lincoln: (pointing to a picture of chicks) What are those?

Munch:  Mmmmm. Yummy.

Lincoln: Yummy? You want to eat the little baby chicks?
Munch: Yum.
Lincoln: (sounding disappointed and hurt) Ah, won't their mommy be sad?

Munch: (no response)

I would conclude this post with an irritatingly affected wordplay on jury deliberations or mistrials, but in truth I have exhausted my limited lexicon of legal nomenclature.  So, in short, Munch is looking like a carnivore, Lincoln is horrified, and I will choose not to interpret my daughter's dirt consumption as pica, a symptom of severe iron deficiency anemia. 

Affirmative

Our Little Pea

Munch and I were shelling sweet peas and discussing "The Little Pea" book. We talked about Little Pea's family and favorite activities and I asked her if she remembered what Little Pea ate for dessert. She either intentionally misunderstood the question, choosing to believe she has just been offered dessert, or else the word itself was sufficiently intoxicating to induce the ensuing dissociative break.

At once, two things happened. Her face lost expression, as if suddenly overwhelmed by the almighty shrieking of a thousand different possibilities. Her jaw hung open and I watched in horror as a perfectly larynx-sized piece of string cheese migrated towards the back of her throat.

Just as I was preparing for a manual extraction, the cataleptic state passed, and upon me was released a torrent of  "CAKE COOKIE PIZZA CAKE CAKE CRACKER COOKIE CHEETOS (oh no you didn't) HOT CHOCOLATE MAMA YES!"

I quietly reminded her that Little Pea eats spinach for dessert. With a look of nauseated revulsion, she slid out of her seat and ambled off to see what her daddy was up to.

The verdict is in

There is only one thing worse than spotting a black spider crawling towards you across the windshield- it's losing sight of that spider as you glance back at the road.

As I blindly swatted in the area of the monster's last known whereabouts, I thought irritability how LD had lately requested that I not "kill the cute furry spiders with big eyes". In this black widow-infested corner of the world, I had no intention of getting close enough to judge the distinction of its eyes.

I held LD's lax attitude towards human-arachnid cohabitation responsible for 1. the red welts that would soon appear on exposed parts of my body 2. the fact I was about the crash the car 3. that he was not here to defend me, his feeble-minded wife, during a moment of extreme physical vulnerability.

LD and I have been together for over nine years, a time period over which I have significantly reduced my meat consumption, kill fewer insects, and have stopped using bleach as my primary means of kitchen and bathroom sanitation. And although I find the majority of these behavioral changes to be positive, I never intended to become a full vegetarian. Or, even worse, spawn one of those militant vegetarian types who wears shirts with phrases like "meat is murder", "beats, not meats", "the only animals I eat are crackers", "I don't eat things with a face", or "see Genesis 1:29" etc. etc.

And so, it was always with a mischievous curiosity that our close friends and family would ask what our plans were in regards to raising children vegetarian. Mischievous because they knew it would invariably spark a heated debate. This was an issue of serious concern for my mother, who raised in Latin America does not, and never will, understand how to feed her beloved vegetarian son-in-law. The thought of vegetarian grandchildren was enough to give her an ulcer.

We eventually settled into the decision that our children would not be strict vegetarians, but would eat meat only on rare occasion. We agreed to let them decide for themselves when they were old enough to do so.

You have likely anticipated the punchline; at two years, Munch has made her decision. It is a decision that makes her daddy practically woozy with delight.

She wants nothing to do with meat.


**Blogger went down yesterday and this post was erased. I re-posted it today. My apologies if you received two emails of the same post.

Potty Time

In our BC days, I would cringe when parents would talk about toilet training in the course of an otherwise adult conversation. I recognized it was a monumental milestone of early childhood, but that didn't mean I wanted to hear about "poo-poo" and "pee-pee" while drinking my wine.

Now, as we plan our weekend mornings around Munch's big girl underwear (and that those hours should be spent outside if possible) and discuss bodily functions with little regard for social decorum,  I understand. Regrettably, I admit that "pee-pee" and "poo-poo" have indiscriminately made their way into any and all conversations, and I am reminded of when a good friend of mine implored his girlfriend, a gynecologist, to stop using the word vagina so frequently while they were eating at an upscale Manhattan restaurant.

And so, if you are without your own little poo-poo and pee-pee factory, I would advise you to read no further.

Toilet training is not going well. When "potty time" is suggested, Munch flies into a fit, yelling "NO POTTY. DIAPER!! I WANT A DIAPER. NO POTTY."  We have tried explaining that big girls wear underwear and little babies wear diapers, to which she thumps her chest and yells "BABY!!". We can get her to sit on the potty only by reading books, and inadvertently have changed her perception of the potty function from its intended purpose to that of a perch for half-naked story hour.

Lincoln has tried to enliven her interest with helpful rhyming phrases such as
"Don't be creepy, make a pee-pee"
"Don't be loopy, make a poopie"
"Don't be snotty, use the potty"

Munch giggles at almost everything her daddy says, and this was no exception. It did not, however, mean she followed the described recommendations.

With the excessive pee-pee and poo-poo talk around this house, it is no surprise that Munch is getting confused. "Poopie?" she asked quietly, pointing at the chocolate pudding I just made. She appears perplexed as to why Christopher Robin and Tiger's friend appears so different from her previous conception of pooh.

It is perhaps time to take a break.

The impish grin of Munch's archenemy

The Perfect Storm

Thursday afternoon LD left a message on my phone. Something was up. We usually communicate via text or email during the day, calls reserved for subjects of urgency and voice messages signaling imminent catastrophe.

"Uh. Babe. I just realized that Saturday is our anniversary and Sunday is Mother's Day. (tormented pause) It's like the perfect storm of husband responsibility. Call me."

Although his mild distress did cause me to smile, I didn't see how he could have "realized" something I told him last week. Oh well.

I diffused his anxiety by saying I was fine with making both celebrations low key. We decided that we would each cook a meal comprised of dishes we had never made, he on Saturday and me on Sunday.

So last night LD make carrot pancakes with hummus, followed by hand-made walnut pasta rags with brussel sprouts and wild mushrooms. Both recipes came from our favorite veggie cookbook- Maria Elia's The Modern Vegetarian. Our well-loved and dog-eared copy is flourished with additional adornments.

The appetizer 

 Raw pastas- the preparatory phase

After Munch was tucked in bed, we opened the second-to-last bottle of the 2002 Terra Valentine's Marriage that we received for our wedding.  Cheers, my love. Here's to the rest of our lives being as wonderful as the last five. 

This morning I was woken by a certain someone who has lately started climbing into bed with us in the very early predawn hours. She snuggles into my side and pulls my arm across her body, effectively demanding to be spooned. Despite the fact that, due to incessant wiggling, I will not sleep from this point on, I cannot bring myself to discourage these morning visits.

I have been treated to repeated and emphatic HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY MOMMY!!! this morning. It was all very cute, until she turned to LD and yelled just as giddily HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY DADDY!!"

Tonight I will try my hand at Trinidadian Doubles with mango chutney. In general, I worry about any recipe that requires dough as my wee attention span makes me a poor baker. Lucky for me, this dough will be fried.

Happy Mother's Day. 

I don't need to see the body

Osama bin Laden was an odious, evil man and if I believed in hell, I'd say he is there rotting right now. But, as the US government debates whether to release pictures of his corpse, I would like to say, as someone speaking for no one else, I do not need to see the primary evidence myself.

It is argued that in the absence of photographic proof, there would always be a cohort of people who would believe he wasn't really dead - that the Obama administration staged the attack in order to rally the base during trying political times, divert attention away from the domestic hardships, undermine al Qaeda, etc.

But if the recent "controversy" over Obama's country of birth is any indication, there will always be a group of people who prefer conspiracy theory over truth. Any willingness to cater to these people could commit us to an endless game of "If you give a mouse a cookie....", as most clearly evident in the Birthers that still, despite Obama's acquiescence to the demands of Donald Trump, still do not believe he was born in the US.

The second indication is more serious and harder for me, as someone didn't know anyone who died on 9/11 or during the subsequent wars, to argue against. It is the argument that the families of the dead, both civilian and military, American and foreign, have the right to see for themselves that the man responsible for their grief is dead. And perhaps they do.

But for those of us for whom bin Laden's death does not provide personal closure, I fail to see how publishing those pictures serves any purpose than to add additional imagery to our already extensive anthology of human brutality.

La Ladrona

Munch was holding some little plastic figurine thingy that I had promised to buy her for being "good" in the grocery store. She was super excited about her new toy, smiling and kissing it while we stood in the check out line.


When I asked her to hand it to the clerk so we could pay for it, she looked up at me, glanced at the clerk, and put the small figurine underneath her shirt. With both hands still tucked under the front of her shirt, she then looked back at me and again at the clerk, obviously of the impression her prestidigitation had gone unnoticed.


I was shocked and a little embarrassed. And, for not the first time in my short years of motherhood, unsure of how to proceed from here. She she is too young to understand the social or moral implications of stealing, so I didn't feel the need to scold her too vehemently. But I also didn't want to condone this potential thievery, or appear as though my daughter routinely tucks contraband into the front of her shirt in hopes of smuggling out a toy or two.  I widened my stance, put my hands on my hips, and asked loudly what was under her shirt. My request was met with a look that implied "Mom, you are ruining it." 


Sadly, hers was not the only deception perpetrated by those of this household. As I write this, Munch is eating carrots (carrots!), while I am surreptitiously nibbling on a double dark chocolate brownie with butter cream frosting. And for those who are curious, "butter cream" is not a misnomer.


My treat is half concealed under and behind a loose stack of papers on my desk. Between bites I am sure to wipe my mouth and sip my tea. I take this deceit seriously, because once Munch caught me eating a similar treat, stuck her fingers into my mouth and yelled "YUMMY THIS YUMMY THIS YUMMY THIS MINE".


Although my sin is one of omission rather than transgression and executed in what I hope to be a more sophisticated manner, I would not be above hiding the brownie in the front of my shirt should circumstance require it.