Six Months and Counting!

A candid photo of me and baby blue eyes. That's a filthy lie.
My arms were breaking and it was all we could do to get a smile
 in a pic that wasn't blurry. You're welcome.

Well, that went quickly. Our babe is six months old. To be more specific, according to this handy calculator, she's precisely 184 days, 6 hours, 45 minutes and 57 seconds old. Fifty eight. Fifty nine. It is terrifying and beautiful how time goes flying by. 

Mine never came out like this, but feel
free to try it yourself.http://www.vat19.com/dvds/magic-christmas-tree.cfm 

It's strange to watch a baby go older, because they change so quickly you can almost watch them grow. 

Did you ever have those crystal gardens, the ones where you stick a chemical-soaked piece of paper in a solution and it gets shaggy with technicolor crystals within hours? Babies are like that, except the opposite, because those things are dusty and inevitably disappointing whereas babies are infinitely and infinitesimally wondrous. Equally messy, though. But I digress.

Six months old...

It's strange to watch babies get older, because they change so quickly but you hardly notice the cumulative effect of all that growing until you wake up one morning and realise six months have passed and the floppy, sleepy little thing that you first met is suddenly so much more solid, so much more a real person, awake and working hard to become herself. 

...and cute as a button. In my totally
unbiased opinion. 

She can sit. She can roll over. She can laugh out loud. She eats carrots, sweet potatoes, apples, pears, broccoli, zucchini, oats, rice, avocado and bananas. She loves the water. She hates her snowsuit. She can say "gah," "bah," and "amah," not to mention "bzrp" and "boob." She can hold her toes and fall asleep on her own and put things from one hand into her other hand and into her mouth. 

Indeed she now can do a thousand small things that we take utterly for granted when we do them ourselves, but that she worked on for hours and days to get just right. 

And she's just getting started. What an exhausting thought. What a privilege to help her along with all the rest. 

We love this kid and always will. 

Strolling on Sunday

The Russian Breakfast. Photo by Louise, because I am
stupid and forgot to take pictures. 

I don't know how other people spent their Sunday morning, but I was drinking vodka while caring for my daughter. Okay. It was just one shot, and in my defence it came with breakfast at Cafe Ansari. 

On the other hand, my fabulous companions Louise and Nayana and I may or may not have ordered that particular meal (the "Russian Breakfast") because it included the vodka. It doesn't sound like something we'd do, but one never knows. In any case, it was delicious - the food and the vodka - so everyone in Vienna should just get over there immediately. It helps to bring Louise and Nayana if you can. (Thanks for the tip, Nora-San!)

Nava was with us but did not order the vodka-laced brunch combo. After being a dear and allowing us grownups to have a proper conversation about whatever it is grownups talk about, Nava ate a pumpkin-based slurry from a convenience store that was romantically and optimistically named something like "spaghetti in a mild vegetable sauce". 

My pumpkin eats pumpkin (on a different occasion).
Only one of us is *really* enjoying herself.

Like everything else she eats, it was in fact a flavourless homogenous paste, but of course when your main goal is seeing how much of it you can fling across the shiny new world that hardly matters. She smeared it across her face, got some under her chinny-chin-chin and dribbled gobs across her tights, dress and onto the floor, so overall I'd say that was a great success. Heck, she even ate some. 

Nava and I then went to meet Alex's family for a stroll through the Prater, which is an enormous park and fairground in Vienna. The Jesuitenwiese and its accompanying playgrounds are a municipal treasure and I hope they live forever. 

Anywhere along the Hauptallee. I swear, every other part of the park is really quite charming.

Of course, I am a dodo and didn't take a picture of the pretty part, which looks a lot like the place where the Teletubbies live. I forgot to break out the camera until we were on the Hauptallee (main avenue). This is an endless paved road lined with chesnut trees that cuts through the park and that is shared by every unimaginative runner, walker, stroller, in-line skater and biker in Vienna. It's kind of amazing how long and boring it is, but on either side are any number of playgrounds and tree-lined groves and meadows to hang in, so we'll forgive it. 

Taking a break from walking with my handsome
husband and father-in-law.

After walking pretty much all the way down this baby we sat slowly freezing to death and drinking coffee and eating cake in the falling darkness. We came home pooped and the little one slept like a lump of pumpkin all night long. 

Baby Swimming!

Is there anything more adorable in the entire world than heaps of little babies doing things? Of course not!

It's good to have baby friends. This picture taken two
months ago. Clockwise from the top: Nava, Noah and Enzo.
Nava was a *little* unhappy and Enzo looks surprised,
but hey - at least Noah (another best baby buddy)
is in control of the situation. 

So it was with great glee that my friend Antonia and I signed our little whippersnappers up for baby swim classes, which started this week. 

Nava's friend Enzo is two weeks older than her, but in fact their due dates were only three days apart. Which is to say, they're about as close in age as two people can get. This is great for Antonia and I, since during our pregnancies we could call each other and ask intensely personal questions about growths and appetites, and now we can compare shades of poop and our babies' bizarre reluctance to roll from front to back (yet!). It's all very reassuring.  

I wasn't really sure what to expect at a swim class for infants. Certainly not a lot of swimming, obviously. 

At the pool with Nava, who just figured out where
she got her double chin. All pictures thanks to
Antonia, who couldn't swim because she's
recovering from shingles. 

It turned out to be pretty cute. First we sang a song introducing all the babies by name, and then we held the kids in different positions while we pulled them in circles through the pool so that they could get a feel for the water on their skin. At the end, the babies were paraded under a bent swimming noodle while the instructor used a tiny watering can to baptise each head. And boom, 25 minutes and 25 euro were gone for good. 

Nava was doing great until the part where I was supposed to drag her on her back, supporting her head in one hand with my other hand on her chest. I think this is because, being the hero that I am, I managed to get a bunch of water in her ears and nose. 

The instructor kept talking about letting the babies relax completely, but mine was sort of kicking and struggling and attempting not to drown, so I might have done something wrong there. Anyway, I'm sure Nava will grow up to be a little water rat. Her dad and I both are, so it stands to reason. A little water down the wrong tubes is just part of the process. Right? Right. 

Naomi, Nava, Enzo, and his aunt, Domenica.
I cannot tell you how badly Nava wanted Enzo's ears. Very badly indeed. 

We hear that one day baby heads are going to actually go UNDER WATER, and we were given arm floaties, so I assume we can also look forward to independent baby bobbing. Can't hardly wait for next week. 

Jingle Bells Backpost: A Christmas Cookie How-To for Average People

In the Hunt family, the tradition of Christmas cookie baking follows an established pattern. We do nothing until the 23rd of December. Then we dither over which recipes to make, and choose at least six, of which three are stupidly complicated and involve caramelising pecans or using a pastry bag or baking separate layers or some such nonsense. Then we head off the shops, which were emptied of all their premium baking supplies days ago - we just take whatever's left.

A contemporary family of gingerbears; also an example
of inefficient and self-indulgent cookie making

The problem is that we repeatedly forget how much we suck at this. I tend to get carried away by the spirit of season and delude myself that it will be easy. That it will be FUN. We always have to do those classic Christmas sugar cookies, and of course we'll mix our own icing - we all went to college, for God's sake, surely we can make a little icing.

The other problem is that we have terrible taste in cookie decoration. What do you mean, do we need sprinkles? Of course we need sprinkles. Coloured sugar? Yes, please. Edible confetti shaped like Christmas trees? So cute!  

And since we've got all this stuff, we reason, we should just go ahead and double this recipe. And that one. Oh, and that one too. Who doesn't need four hundred thousand Christmas cookies? If we have too many left over after the party, we'll just give them away! Who doesn't want to be gifted with cookies that look like they were sneezed on by one of Santa's little glitter-snorting elves. 

Our best cookies ever.

But this year, despite our innate tendency to be pretty bad at this, we actually produced a reasonable number and variety of mostly appetizing cookies. As usual we had about 300 left over, but that's what makes it Christmas in 'Merica. 

Look to Pinterest for links to Type-A foodie websites that'll have you beating meringue and your head against your cloth-and-flour-wrapped chopping board. But if you have just average skills and average interest, look no further, for I bring you: 

The Definitive How-To Guide to Producing Okay Christmas Cookies 

Rule 1: Ambition is your enemy
The laziest and most conservative member of the recipe selection committee must always be allowed to win. For instance:
A: "Oooh, this recipe looks fun." 
B: "I'm not sure, Pippin, it says you need to make the banana-ginger ale chutney and the toasted coconut-lime glaze 72 hours in advance." 
A: "You're right, Bill, what the f*** was I thinking. Let's just have peanut butter like we always do."

Disaster averted! Pick your battles and do not overreach. 

Rule 2: Simplify! Suppress any inclination you have to do something special or "round out" your cookie menu. 
A: "Don't you think it's weird to not have shortbread?"
B: "NO." 

Rule 3: Buy pre-made icing. 

Pre-mixed icing in handy bags. Worth every red cent.

Get the kind where you just snip off the tip and are good to go. No more runny, undisciplined, hallucinogenic hues! Smart cookies use available technology and know when to outsource. It's the American way.  

Rule 4: Just say no to sprinkles of every kind. 
A: "But-"
B: "NO." 

Rule 5: Vet your assistants before they start "helping."
C: "Oh, fun! Are we making cookies?"
B: "NO."
A: "Oh hi, C! Thank Gof you're here. Can you run to the store and go buy us some more pre-packaged icing? Thanks a million." 

Promote imbeciles out of harm's way. 

Rule 6: Less is more. 
Individualistic whimsical flourishes are selfish, undisciplined and make the whole battalion look weak. Stick to outlines; straight ones if possible. Any fool can do a squiggle; it takes an expert to make hundreds of icing dots that don't look like little comets. 

Rule 7: Stick to the plan
A: "I just had another idea for these snowman-shaped cookies."
B: "Too late, we're doing them all in white outlines with blue eyes and yellow buttons."
A: "But wouldn't it be cute if they had little pink scarves?"
B: "Okay, who am I? Nyeh nyeh nyeh nyeh nyeh nyeh wittle pink scawves... NO." 

And don't forget to have fun and a very Merry Christmas! 

It's good you're getting these tips in January, so you can have them good and memorized by the time it's Christmas cookie season again, am I right? 

Happy New Year! Part 2

In the years since 1999, that long-anticipated apex of balls-to-the-wall party ecstasy, my own New Year's tendencies have - on the whole - shifted away from glitter and alcoholic excess. My problem is that I can no longer be both drunk and awake for longer than three hours, and a proper big night out on New Year's is all about endurance. 

One year ago at the Grand Canyon, where it was cold.

I tend to start out with a lot of vim and then fizzle out. Last year is not a bad example. Alex and I were at the Grand Canyon. I was pregnant and therefore not drinking, which was too bad, since we went to a so-called New Year's "party" that just begged for six or seven colourful and umbrella'd beverages in quick succession. We'd been lured in by a pretty girl in red lipstick and six-inch glitter heels who promised live music and steak, and by the fact that there was literally nothing else to do of this 0°F evening up at old Grand Canyon Village. 

I was lucky enough to visit Israel and Palestine
at work. I travelled with some amazing people, and I met
some amazing people while we were there.
A highlight of my year. This photo taken in Gaza city, Feb. 2013.

Inside the restaurant was a motley crew of couples and families stranded in the snow for the new year, along with one big table of super-drunk French people whom everyone secretly envied because they were actually having fun. A middle-aged woman at the table beside us got so hammered that her utterly disgusted husband had to take her home by about 10pm. I did, in fact, nurse one blue cocktail all night long in an unsuccessful effort to feel festive. It was served in a small glass boot for some punny reason I can't remember. The friendly couple we shared a table with seemed to be having fun, but of course excessive vodka consumption will do that to you. 

Our  room at the Grand Canyon featured - true story - this complimentary
paper towel and a "fresh remote." I'm just putting this photo up to make you jealous. 

Alex and I ended up laughing all night, but mostly at the epic mediocrity, from the obscene cost to the skimpy and poorly-timed meal (bland, but at least there wasn't much of it), to the scrappy but charming band that failed to rouse anyone to dance. The best part was the sweetly crappy cardboard diversions heaped glittering on each table: squawkers and confetti and silly hats. 

Got to marry this guy at the most spectacular
unwedding ever, which ain't bad at all.

Anyway, we managed to sit through this interminable party until midnight, at which point we kissed, toasted our soon-to-be firstborn, announced our undying affection for each other, and left. Back at our only slightly shabby hotel, we watched Storage Wars for a little bit before turning in. 

In principle, though, I fully support the near-universal and deeply religious ritual of boozing in the New Year, and so THIS year I was a little bit sad that I wouldn't even be able to pretend to participate in it. There was so much to celebrate: getting hitched, moving apartments, Alex's new business, and most importantly, the arrival of our utterly perfect daughter and, with her, that richly apple-fresh feeling of being part of the life all around us and even adding to it. 

Puffy McNoodle, one day old. 

So I'd told my friend Nora, who was having a New Year's party and who was heading back to New York the next day, that I'd try to come by and say hello and see everyone I never get a chance to see but would leave to go home before midnight so that I could actually ring in the new year with my man and (hopefully) slumbering baby.  

Got to spend 5 weeks hanging with my
brilliant dad...

...and my wonderful mom.

Let me tell you how I felt about that plan at about 7pm, when we'd finally dragged our sluggish selves home from the airport and put (tossed?) our totally over-exhausted babe in bed. Yes. That is correct. I was not enthusiastic. 

Thus I was literally overjoyed - my heart burst into confetti, I promise - when, just five minutes after we got home, I peered out of our window and saw on the street below glorious Nora, effervescent Monica and marvellous Thomas, loud and happy and apparently drinking a bottle of champagne. They'd brought the party to US! 

"We thought you might be mad," said Nora, "because of the baby." What hooey. It was effing awesome.  

The only picture I could find that includes all three
New Year's heroes: Monica (far left), Nora (middle) and
Thomas (far right). I LOVE YOU. 

With merry hearts we emptied that bottle of champagne, gold flakes and all, had a whispered (because baby) but nonetheless vigorous catch-up, and finally sent the three merry-makers on their merry way so Nora could make it to her own party. Guys, I love you and you make my life better.  

Some time after they'd gone I heard the baby snuffle in our bedroom where she was sleeping, so I went in with a bottle and slowly drifted off myself. Alex joined us in bed. The last thing I saw before I closed my eyes was the clock: 11:45pm. 

Deep in the night Alex poked me awake. "Happy New Year," he said, and gave me and the baby snoring between us a kiss. 

Young McNoodle, five months later. 

"Happy New Year," I said. 

And I swear, guys, it was the best one yet. 

Happy New Year! The Flight Home

I have some serious amounts of back-posting to do, but it's January 3rd so let's start with a beginning: 

Happy New Year! 

Nava and I spent the 31st flying from Dallas to Vienna via London, while Alex flew on a separate itinerary via Frankfurt. Our airplane was packed nearly as tightly as our suitcases full of Christmas largesse. I had a little cold but Nava, with her babyish immune system, was sick as a dog: ripe cough, runny red eyes, perpetually dribbling nose. So it's to her endless credit that Miss Nava did not cry at all the entire flight to London.

Anyway there were about five other babies who were hogging the mic, so to speak. For my part, I stopped feeling sorry for myself at boarding when I saw a lone lady flying with very tiny twin babies, who (like us) had neither a bassinet nor an extra seat. She sat a few rows ahead - in the middle of the middle row in coach - with a suckling babe in each arm. They would take turns crying all night. 

Row 32 Seat F

We passed her - let us call her Mary - on a trip to the bathroom. There she sat with her babes finally both sleeping, her eyes open and staring straight ahead, face expressionless, the three of them illuminated like a memorial to maternal discomfort under their neighbour's yellow reading light. 

Now there, I thought, is a woman who is reaching very deeply into her happy place. Perhaps she was thinking about how as a child she would hang from the monkey bars for as long as possible, trying to squeeze all the blood out of her fingers. Foolish, foolish. Or perhaps she was revisiting those many times, now merged into a single, shimmering memory, when she had sat in her living room, a book open in her left hand, a turkey sandwich in the right. How breezily she had scratched her elbow, turned a page, pulled a strand of hair from her eyes, perhaps even twiddled a pen between her feckless fingers. Gone, all gone. I wished her well and hoped that one day in her dotage her boys would install her on a richly outfitted Mediterranean yacht. Women are so awesome. 

As for young Nava, she kept it together beautifully until midway through the second leg of our journey, just two hours from Vienna. Enough was enough. She threw down the fabric book she had patiently slobbered on for the past twelve hours, furrowed her brow, looked me in the eyes and did not cry. 

"Meeeh!," she said. "Meh, meh, meh. Baaooo! Eek!" 

And I was like, Holy smokes, my baby is bitching at me. I said, "I hear you, kid."

"Baah. Meh. MEEEEH!" said Nava, repeatedly slapping the very nice man sitting to our right. "Meh meh meh meh meh meh MEH."

Sadly, I forgot to take a picture of our misery, but let's just say that when we deplaned we looked a little like this: 

We got to Vienna at 5.30pm on the 31st of December 2013. And that was just the beginning.