Who's Crying It Out Now?

I'm looking at the screen on Marta's monitor, and with her in the crib are: 

• Two blankies
  
• One sippy cup of water 
  
• Two books
  
• One Glowworm
  

The books have come in handy lately, as I can leave her sooner in our nighttime/naptime ritual and not feel badly about rushing out to be with Berit (or, as is the case tonight, to watch Twilight with Trevor, who is currently bathing B and may just miss the movie altogether if he doesn't step his pace up a bit). The cup is there in the very, very slim chance she realizes she's simply thirsty when she wakes up and doesn't actually need holding, rocking, singing, nursing, etc. to get back to sleep. Because most babies (toddlers, whatever) wean themselves when they realize they're just not being practical. 

The blankies are both there because she must at all times have one nearby, and if she spots another one in a five-yard radius she must also have it, and there was a dirty one in her room so it was necessary for her to also sleep with the boogers, drool and dust that's surely settled on it in the past week of being in her bed.

And now I'm realizing that so many things in her bed, meant to pacify her to peaceful dreamland, are keeping her from sleep. Mostly because she's having a hard time fitting in her crib, and somewhat because she's distracted. 

My point is: Duh. 

Cold, Again

We woke this morning to new snow. Even with the humidifier, the house is dry and the girls are having a really hard time sleeping with their itchy throats and noses. We just spent a long weekend in Grand Rapids and there was no snow; we didn't even wear coats, just sweaters. Now, back in the cold, we're disenchanted with our surroundings. I know so many people who make lemonade slush from these lemon snowballs out the window, snowshoeing and snowboarding and skiing, but I just can't get into it. 'When the girls are older,' I keep telling myself, 'I'll get into the snow and they'll love it as they grow up in this cold climate.' But they are big enough to know; big enough to love the snow already and Berit isn't buying it. Marta does; Marta is game for any adventure that doesn't interfere with her nap schedule. Berit is content to play indoors all day long, changing clothes constantly and begging us to play make-believe with her. 

We were so reluctant to head north again when we were downstate. We had taken the girls to the dinosaur exhibit at the museum, then out to eat, and then to Target for easy and fun shopping (twice I've written Target, asking them to build in Petoskey; twice I've been rejected). The whole drive back we were quiet, thinking about where we live and why we live here. We do love our friends, family and faith community; we love the summer months; we love the small-town feel and the way there are no cliques, no yummy-mummy types, no competition at the toddler level. We are blessed with Trevor's career on the lake and we know we couldn't replicate that anywhere else. 

But still. There is this pull to a more diverse area, a place where we could go to museums in 10 minutes instead of planning whole weekends around a visit. A mall to wander around, a public garden, a dog park. Restaurants; enough of them so that we haven't tried them all and are tired of them already. Gymboree and tap dance and violin lessons that are for young children and don't cost a college tuition. 

I am not a city girl; Trevor has many times asked me to consider moving to Chicago and I flatly refuse. But I wouldn't mind having a city nearby, maybe even living in a wooded area with small-town charm within a city. 

We talk about this every winter, and with every one that passes we know we're getting further from doing something about it. Once the children are in school it'll be even more difficult to tear ourselves away, if we decided to (though the schooling options are so much more appealing elsewhere, too). 

We know that Trevor's job is one-of-a-kind and that a move would threaten our comfort, our security. But is it best for our children to have options? If I were a fan of Northern Michigan reading this  right now, I'd ramble off a list of all the options they have here in what so many refer to as "God's Country." The nature, and beauty, growing up knowing most of the people in town (though this is getting less and less valid). The spring, summer and fall months are wonderful for exploration and discovery in the greenery out our front door. But truthfully, those seasons are only half of the year here -- the other half is cold, icy and snowy. 

The other pull, the immense gravitational force that is turning my head southwest constantly, is my family. My sister and brother-in-law are moving to Holland, a young couple with children in their near future, a new home, a new dog. My brother is headed to Hope College this fall, under a mile from my sister's house. We didn't all live together long growing up; I was in college by the time my brother was five. I can't imagine wanting to be by two people more in adulthood, raising families and growing lives. Trevor's brother and his family are also in the area, and the cousins are the best of friends. I didn't grow up near my cousins and I wish I had. I wonder if Trevor finding a lesser job is worth being near everyone. It sounds simple; of course it seems like that should be true, but when it's you, when you pay your bills and you know you'll have more children soon and that you'll need a bigger car, Catholic school tuition, instruments and all the other things you want to offer your children, it's difficult to walk away from the lake that provides for us.

Today we'll stay indoors. We're having friends over tonight; we'd planned to grill kebobs and now we'll do it as the snow falls around us and we leave heavy boots by the slider door as we go in and out, checking on the food. We might venture out to clear the snow from the bird feeders and get the mail. If we were downstate, what would we do? Go to a park? Meijer Gardens?

I know I sound depressing. If my mom read my blog she'd think, "Quit moping and go ice skating. Enjoy it; you're healthy and have two beautiful children. Find the good parts about living Up North and help your children experience them." She'd be right, too, but in truth we've been doing that for months and we are over it. 

In two months I'm going to be writing about the bounties of Northern Michigan; about the sun and the air and the water, and about the music in the park, the ice cream, the trails and the natural springs we find along our way. We'll be planning trips to the island, which is only a half-hour away, and in even less time we'll be hunting for morels in the damp woods, heavy with spring. 

But right now, as I look out the windows in my living room and see the snow clinging to the trees, see the yard knee-high with icy precipitation that makes even snow angels impossible, see the gray, ever-gray sky, I wonder if the grass really is greener on the other side. 

Ballet

Yesterday Berit had her first ballet class, and it's still fresh in my mind because it might be the happiest she's ever been. Trevor's mom had wanted to get her ballet lessons for Christmas, and Trevor and I had favored gymnastics instead, thinking that she'd learn more skills that way. Gymnastics did not go well. She was the youngest girl there, needing one teacher's attention constantly to help her climb things the bigger girls were jumping over and hold onto bars that the others' bigger hands could reach around. She didn't like it. 

So for her birthday, we gave Trevor's mom the go-ahead for ballet. Of course, Berit does run around the house every single day in some sort of ballet-esque getup (around the house? She wears it everywhere.), so we were pretty sure she'd like the whole tutu business. But when we arrived, it was like she was taking us to her own beloved home -- strutting down the hallway, announcing that she, Cinderella, was present, taking off her jeans and sweatshirt and plie-ing around the room until the instructor was ready to begin. There were two other girls in her class and she took their hands and inspected their costumes, touched their hair, invited them to dance with her. 

She was in complete awe of the teacher, the music, the mirror, the lesson itself. She called across the room to me, "Look Mama, I'm doing it!" 

When they were taking turns pretending to be animals, the assistant teacher went first. Being a little less on the kid-knowledgeable side than the main teacher, the assistant acted out slowly climbing a tree, then laid across the wooden bar as if she were asleep. The teacher was confused and a little irritated that she didn't do, probably, a cat or a dog, but played along. "Hm, what in the world could that be?" Berit said, "Well she's a silly sloth." And the teacher said, "Oh! Are you a silly sloth?" And the assistant said, "Yes, I am." The main teacher looked at Berit and said, "Now how did you know that?" And Berit said, "I just did. She's a sloth." The teacher then had the nerve to say, "You must watch Madagascar." (I wanted to jump up and shout across the room "No! It's from her National Geographic Kids magazine!!! Though it's more likely from Dora, but whatever.)

Anyway, Berit was brilliant. Her grandpa (part of the four-piece audience Berit had in him, Daddy, Marta and me) said loudly during the class, in full range of the other parents, "Well, she's clearly the smartest one." And, "Yup, she's the best." (Which is not to imply here that she was, but is an example of the awe we were all in while watching her in her ballet glory.)

Marta spent the majority of the class trying to run out to dance with the girls, shrieking in the hallway at the drinking fountain and pressing her tongue and nose up against the glass of the French doors while peering in at the girls after we'd removed her.

Peas and Quiet

The house has been halfway quiet for two-plus days now. Berit's been downstate with my parents whooping it up at the Disney Store, and I'm remembering how slowly time ticks by when it's just you and a baby in the house. Marta misses her big sister, though I can't be sure the same could be said for the other way around. Berit needed some one-on-one time -- but I miss my big girl! We'll be meeting up with her tomorrow. We'll see what sort of Black Monday (Saturday) ensues when she has her parents on her well-padded turf in GrandparentLand. To top it off, my sister "Aunt Andrea" (a.k.a. The Best Person In The Whole Wide World) will be arriving to spend the weekend with Berit tonight -- right at bedtime, so I'm sure that will go over smoothly. 

Marta and I painted the town red today for two full hours. We ran errands and she did really great hanging in the car with me, considering she's in the middle of a yucky cold and can't feel well. She's so happy even when she's sick! What a joy she is. Today she emptied a bag full of Puffs and dried peas onto the carpet, stomped on them while wearing her boots, then ran them over with her stroller. I watched, marveling at how different she is from her orderly big sister. Then, I vacuumed. 

I'm sitting in the chair curled up under a blanket, ready to do... nothing. However, bags must be packed, bathrooms must be cleaned, floors must be washed. I know this could all take 45 minutes if I hurry, yet I procrastinate. Oh, the dog threw up on his bed today, holding up the mounting laundry from the last few days of washer drama while his royal howler's bedding was cleaned. Looks like there's a little laundry to do, too. 

What's that you asked? Trevor? Oh, he's bowling. No no no, it's fine, I love to do it all myself.

The Bright Side

The new washer doesn't work.

The weather is so threatening for tomorrow that Berit will probably not be headed downstate for a long weekend.

It's 9:30 p.m. and the house still needs to be cleaned, I've still not eaten dinner.

We have a pile of snow in front of our house from plowing it all winter that's TALLER THAN I AM. (No joke!)

But look! Isn't she adorable? I can't even stand it.

Emerging From The Twilight Haze... Are We Better For It?

I just spent the past five days reading the four not-small books from the Twilight series. (For the record: Loved 1, didn't like 2 or 3, was OK with 4 and liked how they wrapped it up.) And even though I reveled in living in Book World -- thinking about the storylines all day long, reading into the wee hours of the morning, making up excuses to turn on movies for the kids so I could read, not cooking so I wouldn't have to clean the mess and could instead read the instant the kids were asleep -- I think I'm OK living back in reality for awhile. Though our reality is currently 14 inches deep in fresh snow (on top of the old snow). I think the whole family likes me better this way, even if I'm still sort of wishing I could start a love affair with a vampire. 

I made a ridiculously huge purchase today from Rosetta Stone, in a French 1, 2 &3-level language learning set. I took nine years of French and it was one of my cognates in college, so I should remember a thing or two. I would feel as if I've wasted all of that if I didn't try to teach my kids, and, taking inspiration from our friends whose children are bilingual because their father (who also had a few years of Spanish under his belt but nothing beyond the basics) has spoken only Spanish to them since they were born, I've decided to become a French-speaking mommy. Maybe not all the time, but once I'm back on my feet with the language, I'm hoping to speak French at least half of the time we're together. I need to do more research on this yet, but it's sounding like an OK plan.

To tell the truth, though, I'm a little worried I'll miss hearing my kids' triumphs in English. Marta is too, too adorable, with her plurals and "pinecone," "oatmeal," "elbow" and "ah-choo!" I wonder if it'll be as sweet and meaningful in another language.

Poor Marta is breaking two more teeth. One came through today, and the other looked menacing as I put her to bed tonight. I suppose I should be thrilled to see her teeth finally poking through -- she's only got four, not counting these recent additions, yet somehow she eats everything her big sister does. Berit likes to make a big deal out of telling her that "I have 20 (or 12 or whatever number sounds especially big that day) teeth and you just have four little bitty baby teeth."

I had the pleasure of holding Berit's bedroom door handle while she struggled on the other side to break free today, following a whinefest that began when my sister-in-law called. Lucky Steph got to hear Berit whine, my threats, my carrying Berit up to her room as I explained in a not-nice voice why she was headed there (phone wedged between my cheek and shoulder so it surely sounded as if I was yelling directly at Stephanie), the battle of the door handle, Marta yelling downstairs because she couldn't make the dollhouse TV turn and play music but she did not want my help but she did want my attention to the situation, and my feeble conversation skills, all within the space of about four minutes. Thank goodness Steph was full of reassurances. I need those every now and then.

I also sent a friendly e-mail to my parents and my in-laws about gun control and other hazardous-yet-interesting-looking items they might have stashed in their closets, as Berit is all about discovery these days yet isn't so much into asking about them first. I hate doing that sort of thing; I so often feel like those ideas should come from the daddy. But it's we moms who stay up at night drumming them into our subconscious, "Don't forget to write an e-mail about guns, don't forget to write an e-mail about guns," until we're sure the next time the children are with their grandparents there will be a nuclear explosion in the laundry room. So it was I who sent the e-mail, and when I told Trevor about it he just huffed a little laugh and went to work. I take this to mean that his parents had guns around when he was growing up and he turned out just fine, but I just can't rest with that logic. 

Did I mention he's buying us a new washing machine tomorrow? It isn't related to the gun discussion, but why not make myself feel a teensy bit better about being the only one on this side of the gun-control-in-the-house argument and pretend it's his gift to me for being such a great mom? Our washer has been on the skitz for a few weeks now, and our procrastination on buying a new one has earned us a ticket to Our Laundry Room for the grand event of Ripping Out The Wet, Moldy Carpet. We've decided not to splurge on a fancy one and are just buying something that works -- you know, economic stimulus package not quite reaching us and all. At least once the new one is hooked up I won't have to remove the soggy socks I've acquired while loading it to wash them, too.

Off to bed. Looking forward to a nice week ahead -- new glasses should be in to release me from these random headaches, friends to play, Berit leaves on Wednesday for my parents' house (yes, yes, YES) (guilt, guilt, guilt) and we head down ourselves on Friday to hang out with my parents, my sister and brother-in-law who are bringing their new dog Ruby, my brother and, interestingly, my in-laws and brother- and sister-in-law. Which will be a really fun weekend, I think. Berit has her first dental check-up on Monday in Grand Rapids with Trevor's brother Jason, and I'm feeling like she's going to do great. Unless they have any guns laying around, washing machines leaking water, dollhouse TVs that turn and play music if your baby is as strong as Lou Ferrigno or a compelling young adult literature series, in which case I'm just going to need a hit or two of that laughing gas before piling in the car for a three-hour ride home.

Rock On

Last night Trevor and two of his friends -- let's call them Chad and George -- drove to the Soo to see Firehouse and Skid Row in concert. Now, those of you who know Trevor are probably not at all surprised that he would book a hotel room in the SOO to see these two bands of our youth. He does this quite often, as 80s hairbands now on casino tours tend to come our way a few times a year. But things are changing. The audience is changing. My husband and his friends, as they sit in their fold-out chairs lined up in a large conference room in front of a pull-out stage watching a rock band that starts its concert at 7 p.m., are changing. Here are a few highlights of their trip:

1. They used to roll up to the Soo in one of their tricked-out trucks or Chad's corvette. Now they either drive work trucks or family cars. They rode in Chad's "new" granny mobile, which was great because it got good gas mileage and it was comfortable.

2. In the video George made of the concert on his phone, you can hear Firehouse "wailing" (rocking? slaying?) and the fans screaming in appreciation. You can also pick out the three friends, woo-hooing it, and George plainly saying, "Yeahhhhh! I'm f***ing hungry!"

3. After Firehouse, George had to go take -- a -- nap.

4. When George woke up he texted the guys, telling them he was going to get something to eat. In-between head-banging, Chad texted George, "Dude, order me a cheeseburger."

5. When Skid Row was done playing, Trevor and Chad left the auditorium and found George in the hotel restaurant, eating a huge dinner, by himself.

6. Chad ate, then went to their room to go to bed. For the night. 

7. Trevor and George stayed up to gamble a little. Someone (I won't say who, but his name starts with a T), who apparently is not used to holding the amount of alcohol one consumes when one is at an 80s hairband concert in the Soo and then eating the type of dinner one consumes in a casino in the Soo, (dare I write it? I'm so very sorry to have to write it) sharted.

8. George woke up at 7 a.m., followed by Trevor. When they tried to wake Chad he swatted at them, saying "Let me sleep! I'm so tired!"

Ah, the rock warriors came home this afternoon, walked in the front door and instantly started playing with the dog and the baby. They're tired. They're dirty. They are spent. Yet they remain hard core.