I love books and reading, as does Big Papa, so we are thrilled that Baby Bird’s favorite “toys” are her many books. Recently she’s started “reading” to herself (Oh Joy!). She’ll take her books off the shelf, amass a dozen or so favorites, splay them out in a circle and then plop herself down in the middle and flip through the pages, sometimes saying a few memorized words or just babbling away.
Want to find more delight in words and photos? Check out Delicious Baby Photo Friday!
“Would you like something to drink?” the hostess at Swoop Salon asked.
“Do you have any whiskey?”
Standing in the salon, trying to maintain a hand-hold on squirmy Baby Bird, we waited for her first haircut. My daughter has a beautiful head of hair: a lovely shade of light brown with auburn highlights, thick and full with curls in the back. Her hair is one of the things people comment on when they first see her. Since she’s been home with us, I’ve let it grow (save one awful, quickly aborted, attempt to trim the ends). But lately, her “do” had begun to look like a mullet, so I decided it was time.
We have several options for “kid’s cuts” in Seattle, and I carefully considered them, but ultimately chose to go where and with someone I already knew, someone I could face again if my child had a complete meltdown. That said, it was not without significant trepidation that I called to make an appointment with my stylist, who is herself a mom to two young children.
“What if she starts screaming and disturbs your regular clientele?” I said tentatively to the woman who took my phone call.
“Don’t worry, K. is great with kids. You know, she’s a mom.”
Yes, yes, I thought to myself. But my kid is a very active child, a child who does not like to be physically constrained in any way, a child who—if left to her own devices—never sits still.
We arrived at the salon armed with snacks and Mr. Lion (thank you Shelley!), one of her favorite toys. K. and Baby Bird were introduced and K. took her over to get a booster chair, and then showed her all the tools of her trade: salon chair, spray bottle, scissors, hair on the floor from a previous client. The booster was placed in the chair and Baby Bird was propped on top.
So…how did it play out? Baby Bird was true to form, in a constant state of motion: sitting, standing, squirming, sitting sideways, on the booster, off the booster, on the chair, off the chair. K. was patient and gracious. She pulled out several “tricks” from her stylist hat: handing Baby Bird a comb, uploading animal videos to her smart phone, all for naught.
At one point I asked her, “You’ve cut children’s hair before, would you say Baby Bird is more active than most?”
“Absolutely.”
There you have it. For posterity, I have a lock of hair from her first haircut, and a series of pictures that capture a few of the moments, albeit none of the moments when I was holding her head and she was screaming.
We decided to abandon any efforts to “style” her hair and settled on a light trim with more evenly cut locks, minus the mullet-like, unruly strands. I thanked my stylist profusely and we headed home.
Want to see more snippets of fun? Check out Delicious Baby Photo Friday.
Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns.
Chickadee reflection
Duck at the Washington Park Arboretum
Crow flying at Washington Park Arboretum
Flicker on the fencepost
Heron on the pond
Squabble at the birdbath
Flicker taking flight
Want to see more flights of fancy? Check out Delicious Baby Photo Friday!
We love kittens. And cats.
Of course we hoped our daughter would also love kittens and cats….and one cat in particular: ours.
So when we were in Armenia, we started Kittenwatch 2012. Every day, everywhere we went, we looked for kittens. And cats.
We saw a lot of kittens and cats. We pointed them out. We ooh’d and ah’d. We watched them closely.
And then we came home. And watched our own.
Gyumri cat in blue window
Yerevan backyard cat
Cascade cat sculpture, Yerevan
Yerevan calico
Baby Bird and Miss Maggie
Maggie takes her role as bathing assistant seriously
While in the “pack” the cat will play
Petting Maggie
Want to purr about more great photos? Check out Delicious Baby Photo Friday!
On April 13 2009, I published my first Pampers and Pakhlava post. When I started this blog I was filled with hope and excitement. Having spent the previous year preparing paperwork and compiling our dossier, we were waiting for a referral. The journey of a lifetime stretched out in front of me — the journey to motherhood. Here I am: two years, 166 posts and three trips to Armenia later, still blogging, but no baby.
What souvenirs have I collected from my travels, aside from a hefty stack of official paperwork and quite a few more gray hairs? Well for one, I’ve discovered that Big Papa and I are a resilient duo. Missed flights, crazy locals and Montezuma’s revenge don’t hold a candle to lost referrals, two trips half-way around the world just to register a child we hoped to adopt and then a canceled court date. If ever there were a reason not to sweat the small stuff, it’s two years sweating the big stuff.
Testing a marriage, in the way our marriage has been tested by this experience is not a path I would have willingly chosen. But having walked down it, I find myself feeling closer and more in love with Big Papa than ever. And I am proud as proud can be about our commitment to each other and to seeing through our dream of parenthood.
Over the past two years, I’ve also had the opportunity to explore continents of emotion heretofore uncharted in my life. My heart has scaled Everest-sized peaks of happiness and fallen into Grand Canyon depths of sadness. It is true that a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, and I can now say that each and every step taken has unearthed opportunity to learn: about myself, relationships with family and friends, and the very essence of my deepest desires and my darkest fears.
It is with absolute gratitude that I say: despite the hardships and loss we’ve experienced, some of the most beautiful mementos from our travels–which I cherish and reflect upon during difficult days–are the heartfelt comments and encouragement I’ve received from writing this blog. Stories from those who have walked in our moccasins, bear hugs across the miles and an outpouring of kindness from readers, many of you whom I’ve never met. No matter the obstacles in our journey, the frustration and heartbreak, I don’t regret heading down this road if only for the fellow travelers I’ve met along the way.
Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.
~Mark Twain
Today, during my cycling class, our instructor reminded us that time is a gift. He encouraged us to think about how we use our time and to use it wisely, with purpose and intent. No matter how you look at time, from minute to minute or over the course of a life, time – particularly free time – is a precious gift.
What ironic timing this message about time held for me. Big Papa and I had a tiff, barely twelve hours ago, on this exact subject.
I am blessed with the gift of time, at least in terms of “free” time. Right now, I have very few restrictions placed on my days. For the most part, I can come and go as I please. I have the ability to make daily treks to the gym. I am able to spend hours crafting a post for one of my blogs or puttering in the garden.
Not that I’m without responsibilities, but for the most part I have the enviable luxury of deciding how to spend my days. It is a privilege I do not take for granted.
On the flip side, Big Papa has precious little free time. He’s in the office five days a week. On weekends, there always seems to be a long list of things to take care with the Urban Cabin, our yard and occasional visits to help me out with my father when something more than the usual list of sundry items is needed. During our recent remodel and yard renovation the ‘to do’ list seems to multiply like rabbits overnight.
Aside from the “structural” differences in our days, Big Papa and I need different things from our free time as well. Although I am something of an introvert, I recharge by ‘doing’ things. I garden, write, photograph, cook, and work out at the gym. I feel the most at peace when my arms are elbow deep in soil, my legs are spinning fast and furiously on a bike, or I’m cooking up a storm in the kitchen.
Big Papa needs more time to just be. For him to recharge his batteries, unencumbered time is what he craves. He needs time, as one of our close friends puts it, to “sit and watch the wheat grow.”
I want to be respectful of Big Papa and give him what he needs, but too often I fall short. I interrupt. I chatter away at length. I ask for help. I structure his day.
Being able to step away from the daily grind and clear one’s head is so crucial to maintaining sanity. Sometimes the very thing that needs doing is nothing at all. I get that. Being able to give that is where I am most challenged. The gift of a truly free day or afternoon is what I know Big Papa wishes for and I feel more committed than ever to make it so.
Instead of giving the day over to checking off items on our to do list or making headway on this project or the next, I’d like to work on being better at helping Big Papa protect his free time.
How glorious the gift of free time can be. Just like those endless days of summer where, as kids, hours floated by as we lay on our backs blissfully watching the clouds roll by. In a world where our cares eat up precious minutes, having free time to enjoy is truly freeing. And, in a world where everything seems to cost more money, free time costs nothing yet its value is priceless.
By Seattle standards the house Big Papa and I live in, aka Urban Cabin, is really old. It was built in 1898. Not many houses or buildings in Seattle are that much older. I grew up in a house built in the 1950s, however in the Syracuse area there were homes that hark back to the Civil War era, and probably a smattering of houses or establishments dating even earlier.
Visiting Armenia was a lesson in contrasts. Yerevan is a young city in many ways. Much of the city was built between the two world wars and is classic “Stalinist” architecture built according to Alexander Tumanyan’s 1924 master plan to turn Yerevan. Most of the buildings and apartments we saw were examples of Soviet-style architecture.
Yet Yerevan is an ancient site. Barely a block from the apartment where we stayed rests a church, Katoghike, parts of which were built in the 1200’s. During the five days we spent in Armenia we also visited churches dating back to the 7th century and Hripsime which was built in 618 AD and stands at the eastern edge of the city of Echmiadzin.
It’s astounding to imagine what those buildings have seen in their lifetimes, the changes in surroundings and people and government. Because there is very little to show the progression from old to new, the stark differences between the Soviet-era and ancient Armenia are striking.
In 1924 Yerevan was a small, provincial town. From what I’ve read the leaning houses, small shops, restaurants, eating houses and baths were all demolished and replaced by new buildings. That is what makes the story of Katoghike church so mesmerizing.
It is the oldest surviving church in Yerevan, surrounded by a large empty courtyard lot and many blasé building and businesses. Slated for destruction in the name of urban renewal in 1936, some archeologists bartered with Stalin to oversee the dismantling of an old cathedral on the site so they might record any inscriptions and rescue architectural fragments they found in the rubble.
As the walls came down, a tiny sanctuary appeared. Like a pearl in an oyster, a church within a church emerged. Public outcry was so enormous that this ancient relic might be destroyed, and Katoghike won a reprieve.
Each day when we got up to start our day, we passed that little church. People were always coming and going, paying their respects and taking a moment to reflect and pray inside the small sanctuary. When the sky was clear and blue, the stone walls resonated with a lovely salmon pink glow. On days we awoke to clouds, Katoghike was deep slate gray.
Katoghike has bravely, and somewhat miraculously, stood the test of time. Like the old blue train in ‘The Little Engine that Could,’ saying “I think I can. I think I can. I think I can,” as it chugged up the mountainside.