A New Kind of Productivity

Kekoa and I have developed a bit of a routine in the mornings.  My alarm goes off.  He's usually already awake, so I sleepily change his diaper and then crawl back into bed to feed him.  While he eats, I doze, read, or do absolutely nothing. 

When he finishes, I pretend to be asleep.  Sometimes I'll roll over so he can only see my back.

And thus begins the great joy of the mornings.  Little hands poke at me, saying, "Mommy, wake up!"  His little head burrows into me.  He jabbers and sqawks and prods, and his legs kick wildly in the air.  Then...I sit up, open my eyes wide, and say: "Boo!"

Let the giggle-fest begin.

We tickle and tell stories (his storytelling ability is rather like Faulkner's: wildly incoherent but somehow captivating) and play peek-a-boo.  We kiss and snuggle and then he flies on the wings of Airplane Mommy.  "It's a bird!  It's a plane!  It's SuperBaby!"

We are early wakers. But we can hardly be called early risers. It may be quite some time before we're "up" in the ordinary sense of the word: dressed, breakfasted, doing housework. 

I love those mornings.  He loves those mornings.  And I know they are teaching him a world of lessons: Love.  Trust.  Language.  Laughter.  Muscle Development. 

But some days, it can be a blow to my pride.  Josh comes home and asks, "So what did you do today?"

Um.  I, uh ... showered (maybe).  I fed the baby...often.   I made dinner.  I emailed a friend, took a walk, read a book.

I'm used to "quantifying" my productivity.  I prefer, when asked about my progress, to be able to say: "I outlined my paper due next month."  "I organized a year's worth of our company's financial records."  Or at the very least, be able to explain my apparent unproductivity: "I sat in a meeting.  For three hours."

You can't quantify a child's snuggles.  You can't measure contributions to his "confidence meter."

Sometimes I find myself giving embarrassingly specific answers to Josh's question, trying to make it sound "productive." In doing so, sometimes those little details become less a byproduct of love and more of a game of oneupmanship - not as a competition with Josh, but to myself.  A laundry list I can check off, incontrovertible proof that I have done something with my day.  Did the baseboards need to be wiped down again?  Probably not, but I did it anyway.

I know in my heart investing in Kekoa is the most valuable thing I can do.  But I still want that concrete evidence for myself: I'm not wasting my time.  I'm not mooching off Josh's paycheck while I sit at home and help myself to whatever catches my eye in the pantry.

I love our mornings together, just Kekoa and me.  I cherish them enough that I don't mind so terribly the sense of laziness for still being in my pjs long after start of business hours.  It's a new lesson for me:   productivity isn't always measured in word counts and employee evaluations. 

In fact, when it comes to the business of raising little people, it almost never is.  So I'm trying to just enjoy it, because right now, for perhaps the only time in my life:

My work is, quite literally, play.

Hello, Grandparents!

As you probably know, it's my five-month birthday (how could you ever forget???).  It's been quite an eventful month for me.  I think you'll find in my letter that I'm practically grown-up by now, because I'm doing awfully grown-up things.  I think I must have hit a growth spurt as well, because Mommy and Daddy are constantly saying things like, "Oh my goodness, remember how TINY he was?"

 

And in my five month picture, the bib fit me better than it fit Kekoa teddy, who has very narrow shoulders.  I thought that was very nice, especially since it has lovely fringe around the bottom that I love to eat.

 



 

 

My musical education has started early, and I spend some time each day faithfully practicing my piano.  I did petition Mommy for a REAL piano that doesn't require quite so much tummy time, but she reminded me of three things: (1) Beethoven sawed the legs off HIS piano, so I'm right up there with the greats; (2)  I couldn't reach the pedals anyway; and (3) most people with real pianos have only lame black-and-white keys instead of my incredibly awesome multi-colored ones. 

 

That made me sad. Those poor dears with black-and-white keys.  I don't know how they stand such poor technology.

 

 

 

 

Another big boy thing I've done this month is eat real food.  I don't like avocado, I'm okay with pears, and all in all I much prefer the spoon (or my fingers!) to any actual food.  Also, I discovered that my high chair is best used for my piano while Mommy and Daddy are eating.  Voila, perfect solution to the excessive tummy time problem!

 

 

Mommy says we're taking a break from real food until December.  But I take that to mean baby food; grown-up food is still fair game.  The other day I managed to get my hands (and mouth) on a piece of chocolate Mommy was eating.  It tasted much better than the avocado. 

 



I've gotten pretty good at sitting up when I want to (if I don't want to, then I just flop right on over), so now I'm into jumping.  I LOVE jumping, spinning, twirling...and monkeys.  I really love monkeys.

 



 

Like Daddy, I'm an avid gamer.  Like Mommy, I really prefer cooperative games to competitive games.  And my uncanny ability to invent games is quite remarkable.

My current favorite is quite simple, really: I hold my hand up to Mommy's mouth, she kisses it, and then we both laugh.  I'm telling you guys, it's a RIOT.  I'm thinking of marketing my creative skills to Hasbro. 

Well, that's all for now!  Tomorrow is Thanksgiving and I'm already plotting how to get my hands on some of that sugared-up sweet potato casserole, or maybe some pumpkin pie.  With so many cousins to distract the adults, I'm thinking we can pull off quite the raid. 

Happy Thanksgiving!

just don't swallow

You know that scene in Ratatouille where Anton Ego breaks in on a press conference?  Linguini is happily -- arrogantly -- fielding questions when Ego's initimidating string bean of a body pushes through the crowd.  Threats are made.  Taunts are exchanged.  And Linguini makes what he believes to be the parting shot:

"You're awfully thin for someone who likes food!"

The crowd gasps.  Anton stops, turns, and spits out, "I don't *like* food.  I love it.  If I don't love it, I. Don't. Swallow."

I've been reading a lot lately.  In fact, I've been procrastinating on a full introduction to solid foods because then Kekoa won't need to nurse as often, which means I won't get to read as often.  Sad.  :(

But the inevitable happens, as it always has in the past.  I pick up a fabulous book.  I remember how wonderful reading is.  I go on a "reading binge," where I frequent the local library and read as if my life depended on it. 

And then, that book happens.

You know, the book that has been highly touted and critically acclaimed.  The book that is on every single "100 books you must read" list.  The one about which you must be able to converse intelligently if you want intellectuals to give you the time of the day.

The book that bores you to tears.

You fight, you struggle, you claw your way to the end.  Or maybe you don't - it doesn't really matter.  Because when you finish, you are defeated.  You are an un-intellectual (or worse, an anti-intellectual).  You obviously do not appreciate great art when you read.  Your soul must not be developed highly enough to understand, to commune with the truth you encountered.

The binge is over.  You can go back to real life now.  And when someone says, "Have you read _____?"  You may or may not be able to say yes.  But whether you finished it or not, you will be forced to hang your head in shame and mumble assent as they gush about how that book formed their soul. 

And of course, to say that their soul was formed by an utterly dry, completely pointless, overly wordy piece of junk that somehow wormed its way into the classics wouldn't be at all nice.

This time around, the book for me is Catch-22.  It's not that Heller isn't clever.  It's that he thinks he is clever, and therefore feels the need to repeat his clever joke again. and again.  You thought it was funny when one bureaucrat signs his name as "Washington Irving" to official documents?  Well then, it must be twice as funny if TWO officials sign their names as Washington Irving. And maybe throw in a John Milton for good measure.

It's not that the book shouldn't have been written....it's just that the 450 pages could have been written in 100, and probably shouldn't have exceeded 200.

So anyway.  I didn't finish it. 

But!  I am happy to report that I am still reading.  Because at last, I have come to the place where I  don't have to cram that dry lump of a book down my throat. 

Because if I don't love it, then I don't have to swallow it.

"Snakes and snails and puppy dog tails...

...that's what little boys are made out of."


Kekoa has a cold.

The main result of this is that my clothes, arms, blankets, sofas, and carpet look like we were invaded by a hostile force of angry slugs leaving glistening trails of slime behind them. 

I'm feeling a certain enmity toward slugs right now.

Someday (!) all my kids will be old enough to understand the concept of a tissue.  If I'm lucky, they may even be able to use one all by themselves. 

Until then, laundry calls.