me

I met my friend Dan about a year ago on a week-long work trip to Uganda. Being away from my son who was just over a year old was jarring to say the least, but Dan was one of the people who was so kind and welcoming that my week away passed quickly. I had a fantastic time, so much so that I felt guilty that my poor husband was left to tend the toddler and the house alone while I gallivanted across the Pearl of Africa, meeting new friends under shady mango trees and eating delicious fish pulled fresh from the Nile.

While I was there Dan and I exchanged lots of baby stories. He has a son, Amazing Grace, about six months younger than Amos. So when Dan was in town last week for meetings, I was excited to have him over to meet my family. I was also eager to make him feel as welcome as I’d felt, to give him a good meal and a glimpse at middleclass America, just in case he was curious.

Amos leapt right into Dan’s arms as soon as he walked in the door and pestered him for the rest of the evening. Dan was a sport about it, laughing at how much Amos and Amazing are alike. This was a relief, since I worried Amos would fare poorly when compared to the Ugandan children I saw who were always quiet, clean and so well-behaved. Dan didn’t seem ruffled when Amos dumped rice on the floor or spilled so much blueberry juice down his chin that he looked like a vampire.

At Amos’ bedtime, we shared tales of woe about getting our babies to sleep. Cribs aren’t even really a thing in Uganda, so Amazing has been popping out of his bed to pester his parents for months and months. Amos was securely confined in a crib until recently, so this is a new challenge for us. The trick to keeping Amazing down for the night is to give him a bottle, Dan reports. Maybe we chucked the bottle habit too soon?

The meal we fixed didn’t go over as well as I’d hoped. I tried to conjure something similar to what I ate in Uganda, plates of rice and sweet potatoes, with greens and beef. I could tell my liberal use of butter and all the honey I’d added to the potatoes weren’t quite right, but at least the steak went over well.

As I cleared the plates, Dan said, “Do you do as we do? After we eat, we go here.” He gestured to the couch in front of the TV. Yes! Of course that’s what we do. It’s fun to see how people everywhere are pretty much the same, no matter what the setting.

Yesterday Amos and I got impossibly stuck in a deadly and disgusting mud pit at Macarthur Park and had to be rescued by a terrified Asian man who spoke hardly any English. Well, he didn’t seem to when he met us, but he walked away knowing the words “help us please,” “big stick” and “PULL!”

The terrible scene unfolded before an apathetic audience of incapacitated crackheads, a criminally negligent dog-walker, and about a hundred of those disgusting geese with warty Chernobyl faces. But it’s not their fault. It all transpired after I made a series of terrible decisions. I made bad choices, okay?

Let’s blame it on springtime and sunshine. Amos and I drive by Macarthur Park pretty much every day on our way home, and yesterday a gnarly rooster-faced goose (a gooster?) waddled out in front of us on the road, refusing to let us pass. I took that, along with the beckoning daffodils, as signs that we should get out and see some sights.

Amos and I scraped and scooped all the crushed goldfish crackers up from the car seat and floorboards and threw handfuls to our adoring, honking crowd. We pretended everything was dandy despite a pack of elementary-aged kids a few feet away that was chasing the ducks and hissing at them in a threatening and terrifying way. Sadly, I couldn’t come to the ducks’ defense because the kids’ mother was there, egging them on. Seriously. Between our salvaged snack offerings and the Jeffrey Dahmer training camp going on next to us, it was already the most ghetto trip to the park ever.

The ducks eventually scooted away when the snack supply dried up, so Amos zipped over to a gigantic hole that must have once been a pond but is now nothing but a death trap. Before I could grab him back he was trucking across the slick but seemingly solid mud slab. “Oh no…Oh, Amos, be careful…Oh, oh…” My strategy at this point was to cajole him back to solid ground, and it was working fine. Until his shoe fell off and he started crying. Then he fell and his hand got dirty. Then he refused to move. Folks, I had to go in.

Amos was not sinking in any way, so perhaps I was overconfident. The problem, of course, is that there’s an enormous difference between Amos’ spritely little 28-pound body and my own. As soon as I had Amos snatched up safely in my arms, the mud pit chomped down on my feet, sucking me in up to my knees. And I couldn’t move. Moment of terror, cue foreboding music here.

My first priority was to keep cool so Amos didn’t sense that I was freaking out. There was no choice but to pull out the weird mommy maneuver of plastering a psycho wide-eyed grin on my face and singing, “We’re okaaaaay, we’re okaaaay. Ha ha ha! We’re stuck in the mud! Wheee!”

Then I started screaming for help.

A man in a windsuit walking by with his miniature Doberman showed no interest in being a superhero. He initially refused to even come close, but the young girl he was walking with put in a good word for us. “Why’d you get in there for?” he yelled at me. “It’s not my fault you let your kid get in the mud.” He came a bit closer and looked like he was considering lending a hand, but it was clear he was going to wuss when his feet got wet. Thank you, sir. I hope you drown in a septic tank.

At least now I had a legitimate reason to call 911. Guaranteed embarrassment, but also the promise of handsome firemen coming to my rescue. I’d pressed the 9 when I spotted that poor, poor man strolling by, only about 15 feet away.

“Can you help me!?!? Please?” By now I am a swamp creature, a shrieking monster with two heads, four arms and only two legs, all of it covered in mud.

“Okay.” He said okay! He looks unsure, possibly terrified, but he doesn’t scold me or scamper away. I am saved.

Luckily there was a long tree branch within my reach, and Mr. Fantastic Rescue Man grabbed one end while I clutched Amos with one arm and pulled with the other. My right elbow dug into the mud as I held Amos on my left hip and tried with all my might to escape. There were two giant sluuuuuurrps and we were free! Free! Free! As I thanked my mysterious and silent guardian angel, I noticed his docksiders were still clean and dry. Was he even real? He walked away without a word.

Amos and I beelined back to the car, shedding shoes and socks along the way. I swabbed Amos head to toe with all the baby wipes I could find, while he provided running commentary. “Dirty! Dirty! Stuck in the mud!”

We are alive, I thought. Thank God I didn’t have to throw Amos to safety and bid farewell to this planet in such a horrendous and humiliating way.

Survival firmly in hand, I looked to the future. The very near future when I could dump these ruined clothes in the garbage. A future of making better choices. A future free of goosters and sticky mud pits, because we will never, ever set foot in that park again.

Then I called my husband.

“Um, could you run us a bath?”

That lovely new niece of mine is named Phebe Rosalee. That’s definitely misspelled, sorry, I got the news over the phone. Will correct in a future post. So now I’ve got Phebe, Willoree and Ella Hayes, plus a Waylan nephew. They’re all as adorable as they sound.

An adorable group of kids at Booker Arts Magnet (where my husband happens to work) are doing a project with Heifer International (where I happen to work), and my friend Sarah and I wanted to help. The kids are going to visit the Heifer Ranch and then write an ABC book about what they learn there. Paying for all the kids to get a copy of the book they write and illustrate is looking to be pretty expensive, so Sarah and I jumped into action with operation bake sale.

Awesomely, Sarah’s mom who lives in Jonesboro and was totally not on the hook for this in any way, took the lead. She’s just amazingly nice like that. So a few weekends ago she and Sarah stormed the Jonesboro Sams Club, making off with a cart full of rice crispy treat ingredients and enough saran wrap for a Christo installation. They spent their Saturday preparing 60 giant crispy treats for sale. On Sunday Sarah brought the goodies back to LR, all packed to go to the office the next day where we would nestle them into cute little baskets and set them out in the break areas with donation jars.

Then it snowed. Remember that? For three days Sarah and I fretted about the rice crispy treats that languished in their plastic shrouds, growing stale and gummy. Sarah conducted a.m. and p.m. freshness checks, sacrificing her own figure and oral health to make sure our wares were still worth the $2 each we planned to ask. The office opened up again Thursday, we adopted a don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy about just how fresh-baked our baked goods were, and the first round of operation bake sale was a success.

The next weekend I pulled out my mom’s Junior League cookbook, a 1976 version from Asheville, N.C., that included a recipe for “The World’s Richest Brownies.”

elegance, y'all

The recipe was contributed by Beverly Maury Bagley. Never heard of her? Maybe Mrs. C.S. Bagley rings a bell. That’s how real ladies used to roll back in the day.

is this copyright infringement?

Mrs. R.S. Bailey was all about some brownies that come with a warning to cut squares small, a warning that I fully intended to ignore. But then I started in on my double batch. First, the butter:

Are you drunk? No, you are not. Four sticks of butter. Really, four.

Then eight squares of chocolate, then a mountain of sugar. Five cups.

Too much?

The finished product:

doesn't look too bad

Honestly, the brownies weren’t that great Sunday. And Monday they weren’t amazing. But by Tuesday they were freaking fabulous and those baskets in the break rooms emptied out. I can’t explain the magic. All I know is that operation bake sale was a mad success.

I’d packed up the gift for Mary’s new baby then realized I hadn’t taken any pictures yet. So I unpacked it so I could brag here. It’s an Elizabeth Zimmerman pattern (the high priestess of knitting, eulogized in the NYT and adored by generations), but with some modifications. I ran out of the blue yarn before I got to the sleeves, and when I started casting about for a couple more skeins, it came to light that this particular yarn was discontinued. Which of course explained why it had been on such a stellar sale when I bought it. So anyway, EZ’s motto is “Be the Boss of Your Knitting,” so I took charge and modified the pattern from jacket to vest. It was a smidge trickier than it sounds, but it turned out well I think. The only other snag was that I was shooting for a size to fit a 1-year-old. For us, that was about the time the baby gifts and hand-me-downs stopped flowing in and we were facing the prospect of having to buy or own clothes for the babe. But I came out with something for about 18 months. Engineering is not my thing. Still, cute. Here’s Amos modeling it, back before I sewed the buttons on. A bit snug on him, but you get the idea.

Is the pointed hood not too cute? I don't wear dentures, by the way. I just have buck teeth.

rear view

And here’s a shot after the ends are all sewn in and the buttons are attached. Also, some bibs I whipped up. These squishy cotton bibs are great for those juicy babies who drool constantly. I plan to ship everything out tomorrow. Pretty sure Mary and co. are way too busy with the new baby to be reading my punk blog, so I feel confident it will all be a surprise.

ta-da!

super absorbent

My husband slept in Monday, which means he was still snoozing when the Little Rock School District automated phone alert thing called us at 6 a.m. (He is strange and loves to get up at 5 usually. I wish I were that industrious, but it never happens.) “It’s saying school is out. Must be a mistake,” he said, but he got up to check the news just in case. I opened the blinds and was floored. It’s three days later and I’m still confused about how no one noticed Little Rock was about to get it’s first real snowfall in years.

Monday was okay, we did lots of coloring and playing follow the leader. Tuesday got a little hairy with some cabin fever setting in, and I had to load Amos into the backpack carrier and head up the hill to Walgreens for supplies. Really we didn’t need anything except fresh air. We counted six snowmen along the way, and saw one snowplow in action, plus three of those little bobcat snow movers. Richard Scarry come to life! Amos is terrible at sitting still in his stroller, but he’s a great sport about being toted papoose-style on my back in the snow and ice. Snow=magic?

Wednesday was great, the best kind of snow day because the roads were clear. We headed to the Jump Zone in NLR to get out some energy. Amos loves it there. I love it more. I like that Amos is small enough that he needs a hand and therefore I have an excuse to climb in and go for it. Rodney gives it his best too, although the ladder up to the boat slide was a bit tight and he had to retreat.

So we’re coming off our 3-day snow break on a high and waiting to see what tonight brings. If anybody has any fabulous ideas for ways to pass the time should snowpocalypse return, please send them along.

Yes, I’m fully aware that I have a tendency to overreact and hover a bit when it comes to Amos. But (writing in a whining voice) I really was worried that he might bump his little sweet head falling out of the crib. I’ve worked through it thanks to kind words and how-tos from fellow mommy bloggers, and I suppose I can admit that perhaps I was being a bit overprotective.

Unlike Leigh, Cathy and Cindy, those supportive ladies who felt my pain and metaphorically held my hand through the ordeal, my buddy Walt took a different tack.

Walt: “I saw that picture. The bed is, like, 4 inches off the ground. He’d have a better chance of hurting himself if he just stood up and then fell down.” Guffaws. Hilarity. Ha ha ha.

But he’s right. I’m over it. Amos will be fine. Thanks everybody!

Arianna Huffington and the editor of Glamour magazine are kicking off 2010 with a resolution to get more sleep. They’re both shooting for 7.5 hours a night, and they’re blogging about their mixed results so far. Huffington says the secret is in the silky pink PJs, and Leive swears by counting backwards from 300 by 3s. These are busy ladies, what with their media empires to oversee. I can see how Huffington’s blackberries and breaking news might distract her from a cozy bed. And I’m sure Leive has a lot going on, too. Those hot, amazing sex secrets that are promised on the cover of every Glamor magazine probably take some time to think up and try out.

I like reading about these superwomen struggling to get their pillow time, but it’s hard to relate anymore. I’ve certainly done my time; Amos made sure I know exactly what it’s like to go without a solid eight hours. In fact, he kept me from a good night’s sleep for the first 18 months of his life. But ever since he fell into a solid pattern of 8 p.m. to 6-ish a.m. sleeping, I’ve been right behind him. Sleep deprivation is not for me, and there’s rarely a day that goes by that I don’t thank the universe that Amos finally came around to see it my way. Is there anything more delicious than jumping into bed with a good book at 9 p.m.?

Part of me (often a big part) wishes I was the type who couldn’t tear herself away from the computer at midnight because I was trying to get ahead at work, or was halfway through writing a brilliant novel or composing my dissertation or doing some other lofty and important task. But then I try to remember that eight hours on the job plus evenings chasing a toddler really are enough for now. It’s okay to jammy up and call it a day.

It turns out snow days just aren’t all that exciting when they come at the tail-end of Christmas vacation. I think everyone in my household was pretty much chomping at the bit to get back into our old groove, so the miniature snowfall yesterday morning wasn’t at all welcome. Rodney starts to get glum and stinky when he’s been off his schedule too long, and Amos clearly had more energy than we could burn inside the walls of our little house. The poor thing fell and hit his head on the rocking chair rail yesterday morning, which left a terrible purple mark, like we mushed a blueberry on the middle of his forehead. As for me, I was ready to get out, too. It’s been too cold to go outside for more than about half an hour at a time, so we’ve been hitting the movies pretty hard. How many times can you watch Mary Poppins without completely losing sanity? Amos is a fiend for it. He’ll keep repeating “More Poppins? More Poppins?” until we give in. Thank goodness his school has a big gym filled with basketballs and other children so that Amos can wear his little self out today.

Last week I thought about all the stuff I wanted to do differently in 2010 and it was a hefty list. Among the top three was to be prepared, that old Girl Scout adage that really would have served me well all these years had I followed it. Wouldn’t life be so much calmer and happier if I kept a detailed calendar and a running to-do list? I envisioned a new Austin, one who packed her son’s lunch at night so she had time to brush her hair in the morning. This Austin would vacuum the house every Saturday and Wednesday, dust on Fridays and Tuesdays and perhaps water the plants before their leaves all dropped off. I’d be one of those mommies at the playground who has makeup on and is never seen in sweatpants. My coworkers would be shamed by my efficiency and accomplishments. Should I buy a palm pilot? Whatever happened to those?

It doesn’t matter anyway, because it’s already botched. When I looked on the Little Rock Mamas site today for the first time this year and saw all the fun New Year’s blogs, I smacked myself upside the head. Shoot! I forgot to do the New Year’s post I’d planned that would trumpet my  grand resolutions for all to admire. And I hate that. If you screw up right out of the gate then the deal is off, forget it. I’ll just have to wait until next year to be organized and prepared and to stop forgetting to do things. Which of course means that I’ll be sending out my Christmas cards on Dec. 26 again, and that the only birthday cards I’ll buy are those belated ones. My sweatpants won’t be banished to Goodwill. I’ll send those “dry clean only” things instead because they’ve been piled up in a laundry hamper for months anyway.

I’m doing alright on my other top goals for 2010, which are to be nicer and healthier. Honestly, getting more exercise and ditching cookies is probably going  to be easier for me than biting my tongue when I want to snarl at someone. I’m pretty sure a dragon-like parasite inhabits my body, and any fluctuation in hormone levels causes her to breathe fire. Lack of sleep, a sick baby or stress of any kind turns me into the incredible hulk. My husband could give you to gory details here, but I’m pretty sure most of you gals know what I’m talking about.

Running definitely helps a ton, so that’s going back on the schedule at least three times a week. I often wuss out after Amos goes to bed because “it’s too coooold” or “I’m tiiiiiiiired,” but three times a week sounds pretty attainable, surely I can make that happen. If not, I will take it out on my husband and try again in 2011.