Vintage

Behold Puppy's favorite-est thing in the whole wide world (at least for the moment):



I showed it to him the day before yesterday while goofing around before bedtime. Tonight T carried Puppy down from the bath asking, "Can you figure out what he's saying?"

Mahna mahna doo doo doo doo doo...

So we watched it again--and again and again. I tried clicking on other Muppets clips, but Puppy chirped, "Bye bye!" with a little wave as soon as they started. So it was back to the fluffy pink twins.

Mahna mahna doo doo doo doo doo...

I dare you to watch it and not get it stuck in your head.

Day and Night

During the day, Puppy is a hurricane of energy and movement. Always exploring, always moving, always multi-tasking. I have grown accustomed to the fact that walking in a straight path with Puppy means him constantly sweeping out before me, stopping several times to check objects of interest, then finally running back to my side. It is like having a personal advance team for the ten feet in front of me.

I am a homebody, content to stay in a chair for hours doing nothing more strenuous than turning the pages of a book. My vision of parenting included lots of snuggling and lap time. But since the moment he discovered he could control his own limbs, Puppy has wanted none of that. He will sit in a lap to read, or sometimes to eat. But he prefers a quick kiss to an extended cuddle, wanting to return to unrestrained movement as quickly as he can. Daytime with Puppy is about encouraging him, containing him, and letting him take me along for the wild ride. He enlivens my days like no one ever has.

It is only at night that he is still. Many evenings I sneak into his room as he sleeps to drink in the sight of him on my own time. I become again the new mother, staring at a child and marveling that he is hers. Watching his chest rise and fall in the dim light, taking in the smallness of the arms and legs sprawled across the bed, swooning at the curve of the lashes resting on his cheeks. In the daylight I am excited by his new skills, his growth. At night I want time to slow down, to leave him my baby a little longer. I stop moving myself, hoping to seal the sight of him in my memory.

At night, thoughts bubble to the surface that I have no room for during the day. Puppy's genes carry potential illnesses that, to be honest, frighten me. His brief life history already includes elements that have left others struggling to form a coherent identity. As I do my best to keep up with him in the daylight, all that information rests far back in my mind. But as he sleeps in the dark, so tiny and perfect, those things push their way to the front. They loom, threatening to rob my boy of the joy for life that so defines him right now.

I think that is why, night after night, I find myself intoning the same prayer, one born not of theological reflection but of the desperation of my heart.

"Lord, make him whole. Make him whole. Make him whole."

Pho King Sunday

We don't go out to eat much now that Puppy is in our family. We try every now and then, but his age and personality just don't lend themselves to it right now. He plays along for 20-30 minutes before realizing the injustice of having to sit in a chair! With crayons! Eating tasty food! And then his head splits open to release his righteous anger. It's just not enough time to sit and enjoy a meal, so we've given up for now.

But, today! Today my mom offered to watch the Pupster for the afternoon, so we dropped him off at noon and made a beeline for our tiny downtown, thinking of all the little restaurants we've been wanting to try.

We pulled up to the first one, a Thai place. Closed on Sundays.

We walked over to the Indian restaurant. Closed.

Maybe the Mexican place we've been to before? Closed.

Damn Christians and their Sunday sabbath. (I kid! I'm one of you!)

Then I remembered the tiny Vietnamese restaurant that recently opened a few blocks down. They advertise beef noodle soup in their window, pho translated for our suburban town. Pho, glorious pho! I fell in love with pho several years ago while visiting Vietnam, where it is sold just about everywhere. Since then, I've kept my eye out for good sources--usually the more divey and hole in the wall the restaurant, the better the dish. I had an excellent bowl once at a chain called "Pho King." ("Pho" is pronounced something like "fuh")

Bolstered by the prospect of yummy goodness in a bowl, we searched out the tiny storefront. The neon "beef noodle soup" sign glowed in the window, but an ominous piece of paper was taped to the door. "Closed today and tomorrow. Sorry."

We gave up and went home. Boo hoo.

Thus ends my tiny pity party.