Baby Life Begins

Nearly three weeks have gone by in a sweet, molasses-like moment. Already my dear mother has left us again 8come baaaack!!) and we have settled into something resembling a routine. Or rather, we are better able to predict which bits of the day are going to be total chaos, and brace ourselves. 

I feel great though I look like I've been beaten over the head with a jumbo pack of diapers and probably will for the rest of my life. 

Alex is a rock star. I love him.

Most importantly, our beloved second born is thriving--by which I mean she is steadily gaining weight and has so far been (knock on wood) just a laid back, groovy baby. 


When she's awake her dark eyes are bright and alert. She keeps very still and looks steadily at one thing after another. This is the case for about 20 minutes a day. The rest of our sweet caterpillar's day is evenly divided between sleep and breastfeeding, with breaks for elaborate newborn poops, the noisy exuberance of which I had forgotten. 

Being a round-the-clock milk cow is a minor drag, but I must say that the entire newborn-having experience is much more pleasant the second time around. 

Turns out that when you are not sidetracked by existential angst or the terror of accidentally breaking your offspring, hanging out with a cream-and-crystal infant all day is pretty enjoyable. You just have to resign yourself to not accomplishing anything on a schedule. 

The best part, of course, is watching Noodle love her little sister. Even at moments that are obviously hard, like when I can't put the baby down for three hours straight in the evening because it's the witching hour and I am in full dairy mode, Noodle takes deep breaths and pats her sister's hand and tells her not to worry and gives her little kisses. 

Okay, sometimes she also goes into gremlin mode and screams until I think her head might actually explode into angry toddler confetti, but hey. We're working on it.  And I just spent several months in gremlin mode myself, so I can relate. 

And in any case, our family of four is still brand new. Things are falling into a new groove. Everyone is figuring out how they can spend enough time with everyone else, and by themselves. That last one is pretty important. Finally, as of a couple days ago there's enough time between feedings for me to put on clothes -- and update this blog. Hallelujah. 

Baby life, here we go! 

Happy Everything: Part 1

Happy new year and a belated Merry Christmas, one and all! It has been a beautiful holiday season over here in Gumpen Village Street. My parents are here and so we are drowning pleasantly in Christmas cheer, and the Noodle has been spoiled rotten with a constant stream of toys, cookies and company. I am just super fat and on day five of a slow-motion post-holiday sugar crash that has left me slightly cranky and tired. Not in a bad way. Just kind of a flabby way. 

The magic of Christmas *drool*

Noodle didn't really get what Christmas is about, but she has definitely been enjoying the side benefits: sugar, toys and the presence of her smitten grandparents, whom she calls Nana and Gdod, or rather ..., since the "Gr" in "Granddad" appears to present a challenge so insurmountable that she doesn't even try. 

Decorated by Alex. In his defense, he's Jewish.

But while she doesn't understand what we were celebrating, she definitely did understand that it was awesome. Here are some of the highlights. 

First off, the Christmas tree. This is the first time Alex and I have gotten a real live dead tree for Christmas, since usually we aren't in Vienna at this time of the year.  We set it up one night after Nava had gone to sleep, and decorated with our brand new string of lights and ornaments purchased in a large box set. We forgot to get a tree topper, so Alex McGyver'd a Kenyan mask onto the top and fed lights through the eyeholes. This is how we celebrate multiculturalism. 

Miss Noodle doesn't know the difference, and was much enthused. 

"Mommy!" she said. "Wow!" And she ran over to the tree and started touching the ornaments, muttering "cookie" and "shaka," which is her way of saying "chocolate". At first I thought she thought the ornaments were made of candy, but I've sinced realized that "cookie" is simply the highest form of compliment she knows how to give. As in, damn this tree is cookie. It is SO chocolate. (This morning, for example, she found a yellow highlighter and pulled the lid off, exposing its fluorescent felt tip. Her eyes widened. You could see her wee brain awash with inspired ideas about surfaces that would benefit from the application of this glorious lazer-and-lightning-bolts hue, starting with Mommy's face. What did she say? "Coooookie.") 

Noodle's special ornament.

Nana and Gdod arrived here on the 20th, and Christmas exploded. We hung candy canes and had wonderful people over for Glühwein. We baked and ate stupid numbers of cookies. We ate several individuals from the avian world, naturally accompanied by red cabbage and dumplings. 

Dinner with Alex's sister, her family and his brother and their family was both delicious and educational, as it was the first time I ever witnessed the Austrian Christmas tradition, a la the Nutcracker: the grownups dismiss all the kids, arrange presents, light real live flaming candles and sparklers and then ring a bell to signify that little baby Jesus has visited. Everyone comes in and gawks at the spectacular sight. And I guess all the grown ups are just hoping that nothing catches fire, because that tree would go up like a roman candle. The noodle was given even more glorious gifts, plus also her awesome teenage cousin let her eat a bunch of said cousin's candy cane and also cookies (obviously). The rest of us drank mulled wine and contemplated the quantities of bird in our bellies. 

While spending time with family and friends is great, we all know that Christmas is really about getting heaps of loot. Noodle got many beautiful, occasionally educational but mostly noisy and shiny gifts. She has been playing with all of them--so thank you!--and is so overwhelmed by the amount of new stuff in our home that she doesn't even know what to do. 

The gift that keeps on giving. In non-girly colours, which makes it okay, right?

But of all the gifts, the one that has occupied most of her waking hours has been the toy kitchen.  This girl loves to pretend to cook and serve tea. I realize that this is the most gendered gift imaginable, but in our defence she effing LOVES TOY KITCHENS. She is drawn to them like a paper clip to a refrigerator magnet, like a pig to poop. She wallows in this kitchen.  

Another cheery force feeding.

It's been several days since Christmas, so Noodle has had time to develop a whole process for the kitchen, which sits beside her also-brand-new tiny chairs and desk. 

A visit to her restaurant begins with a command to sit. She points at her tiny chairs and says, "Sit." Her face is deadly serious. If you walk away, she will grow louder. "Sit sit sit SIT SIT SIT. Sit sit." If you do not sit because you have other things to do, like go to the bathroom or check your emails, or converse with another adult, you will be dead to her for at least a quarter of an hour. But the chef is forgiving. You will eventually be welcomed back into the fold with an order to SIT. 

Once you DO sit, you are treated to a warm and welcoming smile. Maybe even a mouth kiss or a pat on the hand. Then you are handed a cup and are spoon-fed delicious air from a tiny pot. Then you get a piece of toy pie or toast. Perhaps a second course of egg or carrot. These must be consumed rapidly and with gusto, because you may soon be encouraged to relinquish your tiny chair and sit on the floor so that Winnie the Pooh and other stuffed friends can have a seat at the table Chez Noodle. 

After the food courses, you will participate in an elaborate and confusing ceremony that involves pouring "tea" from one vessel to another while making the sound "Ssssss". In between you take sips and/or tip some into the mouths of other guests at the table, especially the furry and inanimate. 

If you leave too soon you will be told to sit. Sit. SIT. You can try to do your own cooking and feed the Noodle your concoctions, but as in real life she only accepts toast and pie. The plastic carrot and plush mushroom stew you slaved over for two minutes can go f*** itself. "Nein," she says, shrilly. "This nein!" Overall, at Noodle's Place the portions are small but aggressively presented, and the service is rigorous. The owner is pushy but generous, and non-threatening because very small. 

My parents have been dining at the wee tyrant's palace of culinary delights all day, every day since Christmas, bless them. Alex and I, though, did the smart things and begged off to fly to Istanbul for four nights, which I'll tell you all about next time. 

For now, please enjoy this video of Sesame Street's beloved Cookie Monster, who has been the patron saint of our 2014 holiday season. 

Remember Those Tadpoles?

Remember how we saved a bunch of tadpoles and took them home? Well, weeks and weeks later, we finally have at least one teeny weeny frog. Yesterday we also had one, which I picked up and put down a couple of times, only to learn that wittle bitty fwoggies do not like that. It died minutes later. This morning, yet another wee polliwog became a frog--apparently ingesting his tail overnight. I feel terrible about the one I man-handled and have decided it's definitely time to release all of them--I don't have the skills or equipment to care for these incy wincy amphibians any longer. 

TA-DAAPOOOLE!

Of the original flock cloud, only around eight remain*. All the rest went in one of two major die-offs. I don't know what happened the first time, which was about two weeks after we'd first installed the tadpoles in our home. Suddenly the water was a murky mess and half the critters were floating around looking grey and hollow. The second massive die-off was entirely my fault: I had run out of boiled lettuce and cheated by dropping in just a tiny bit of, um, bread. Fail.

Almost frogs (or toads?)

For anyone who cares to know, here are my major tips and tricks for the successful raising of tadpoles. Assuming you consider eight almost-frogs out of 30 tadpoles a "success": 

1. Change their water every few days. The new water should be de-chlorinated. I put tap water in a big glass jar in the sunshine for a few days, which seemed to work. Sometimes I also added a little fresh tap water, but I guess in Vienna the chlorine levels are so low it didn't hurt anybody. I reckon in many other cities tap water would basically be an amphibian death sentence. 

Also, not changing the water is very bad--I'm pretty sure that's what was behind mass extinction one. The water should not get even a little bit cloudy - not at ALL. You'd think that was fine, since tadpoles live in filthy puddles, but it is not. I'm sorry, duders. I drowned you in your own goop. 

How do you go about changing tadpole water? What you do not do is try to individually spoon the tadpoles out, because you have better things to do, like change your actual human tadpole and make lunch or whatever. What you do is take out all your decorative rocks, pour the whole mess of water and tadpoles through a fine sieve (poop<"fine"<tadpoles), and dump the tadpoles into a bowl of clean, de-chlorinated water. Tap tap tap your sieve! Those suckers can be sticky. Put your rocks and your tadpoles back in their aquarium, i.e. their big glass tupperware with no lid, which is what we used. Add water as necessary. 

How the Noodle looks to a tadpole.

2. Direct sunshine murders frogspawn. We put our container on a table next to a big plant whose (non-toxic) leaves sort of gave it some shade, and anyway it was not in direct sunlight. Also, somewhere on the internet it says that mint and some other herbs and plants are toxic for fwoggy woggies, so beware. I'd be more specific but I can't really remember and also there is Google. 

3. Boiled lettuce. Feed them lettuce boiled down into nothingness, which you then chop. You can freeze little chunks in an ice-cube tray (a whole ice-cube would be, like, five times too much for one feeding of 20 tadpoles, though) and drop them in every two or three days. Do not feed them bread. I'm sorry, little guys. I didn't know. 

4. Don't touch them. They die. I'M SO SORRY, little frog from yesterday. 

Have fun growing froglets! 

----

*A flock? A pride? A murder? A group? According to the internet, the author of one book about clusters of animals says it's cloud, but scientists use school or shoal. Let's go with cloud. 

Our 50th Percentile Baby

Ten thirty a.m., we're at the doctor's office for a routine check-up and meningitis vaccine. 

The nurse and I put the Noodle on the scale. She's 9.1 kg (that's 20 lbs). The nurse measured her from top to toe (74 cm), and all around her head (47 cm). 

Our conversation, though we held it in German, went more or less like this: 

"Okay, that's it." the nurse said, after she'd entered the last measurement into the computer. "The doctor will be right in." She got up to leave. 

"So, she's normal?" I asked. 

"Hm? Oh yes. Everything's fine," the nurse said. 

"But is she normal but kind of big? Or normal but kind of small?" I asked. 

"She's perfectly healthy. Everything's fine," said the nurse. She took a step toward the door. 

Alles im grünen Bereich.
(Danke Mary fürs Foto :))

"Like, healthy but a little big, or okay but kind of small?" I asked. 

"Totally healthy," she said with a warm smile. 

"Oh, that's good," I said. "Thank you."

The nurse turned to go.

"So she's perfectly normal?" I can only wonder what my stupid face looked like. 

Without rolling her eyes even once, the nurse went back to the computer. "Okay," she said. She sat down. She did not sigh. She put on her glasses and peered into the screen. "Your daughter's weight is in the 40th percentile for her age," said the nurse."Her height is in the 50th percentile. So. Pretty average."

"Wow," said I. "It really doesn't get averager than that." 

The nurse stood up and smiled warmly. Again. "Well then, do you have any more questions?" She didn't even flinch when I started talking again. 

"Um. It's just that I'm kind of big, and my husband's really tall, so do you think that maybe she's too small considering? I mean, I know it's probably nothing, but I'm not feeding her wrong or anything, right? Did she grow enough since last time? She was born so big. Is it normal for her to be so average now?" I asked. 

"It really can be very different every time," she said. "Babies all grow at different paces. And don't worry about her diet. I'm sure if she was hungry she would let you know! The babies won't let you forget to feed them!" She laughed, to let me laugh. 

"Ha ha," I said. "Of course. Ha...So she's not too little. Or too big." 

"Not at all," said the nurse. "She's just right." And then she ran away. 

And if that wonderful nurse breathed a sigh of relief when she left the room, I didn't hear it. What a hero. May she get a raise every six months forever. 

P.S. The Noodle hasn't been to the doctor's since April but amazingly seems to remember that he pokes her with needles whenever she sees him and reacted accordingly, i.e. with deep suspicion and horror. You should have seen her little face wrinkle up when he came at her with a stethoscope. It was adorable. Who knew she has that kind of memory span already? 

P.P.S. Obviously, she's totally fine. And normal. Abnormally normal, I tell you. And of course, we are deeply grateful for our healthy baby and I am grateful for our extraordinarily patient nurse. 

P.P.P.S. Still no teeth - but we can see 'em. THISCLOSE. 

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. 

Journey to the Land of Queso and Endless Clean Towels

Hooray, we're in Dallas! In the spirit of what-else-is-maternity-leave-for, I have come to stay with my parents for an indulgent five weeks (!!) of free baby care and endless clean towels. Sadly, Nava and I had to leave daddy behind because he has to work. Sad face. He'll join us for Christmas though! 

At DFW airport. Nava adorable as ever,
Mama Noms looking like someone smacked her
with one of those supersize packages of wine gums.

The baby is too young to make real trouble, but I was still apprehensive about the flight. And by apprehensive I mean I was terrified. 

The main reason was that I was certain we would crash. I am always certain that my plane is going to crash and certain of my certainty because I am clairvoyant. I'm only clairvoyant right before I fly, of course. I discover this talent anew every time, and it never fails to bum me out that a soothsayer like me is about to be extinguished.This time I was extra bummed because Nava was going to come crashing down with me and it was going to be all my fault. 

As usual, I considered changing flights, but again, as usual, I didn't. I've seen Final Destination. I'm not stupid. 

Secondly, if we survived take-off, I was concerned that the baby would scream and carry on to the point that our fellow passengers might just open the hatch and throw us into the Gulf Stream. For that reason, I spent several hours (no, seriously) curating the selection of toys and books that I'd take with me.  I also got a bunch of these ingratiating little goody-bags ready for the passengers in our immediate vicinity. My friend Florence saw these on Facebook somewhere and told me about it, and I'm never one to miss an opportunity to suck up to strangers.

For our wretched seat mates. Except our flight companions this time just weren't wretched enough.

Except once we boarded the flight, I didn't use them. Here's why: My dad, who bought my ticket with miles, got us a business class seat on the way to Dallas. As a faithful member of the economy class, taking an overnight flight in a seat that reclines completely was a revelation. I imagine this is how swine herders in the late Middle Ages felt when they finally hobbled out of their plague-infested hamlets and into the big city and saw, for the first time, the Gothic cathedral whose stony spire pierced the heavens and which had been constructed off their breaking, dead-by-30 backs: A combination of divine inspiration and thorough revulsion. Revulsion not because cathedrals are revolting, but because the existence of cathedrals reminds you that there is no need for your hovel to be so unnecessarily shit. 

The seat next to us was empty and the row behind us was empty. So we were ten feet from the nearest passengers, all of whom were well-dressed and good looking and started drinking gratis gin & tonics before we even took off. They were all really nice. Why wouldn't they be? 

That's when I decided these people didn't need my candy. First of all, they had an ice cream sundae bar. Secondly, they could get their own free ear plugs. Lastly, they were fortified by their own inherent superiority. Not sense of superiority. Actual superiority. Most of all, I was too busy making Nava giggle by putting our magic seat into silly configurations. Nava behaved like an angel. Who wouldn't, if they lived in a cathedral? 

So yeah. I didn't hand out the candy. When we fly back to Vienna it will be in cattle class, where everyone drinks tomato juice just to feel like they're having a special time. I'm saving my little care packages for the poor fuckers who have to cosy up next to us then. 

People who need ear plugs and candy. 

Now I'm off to try and take a nap. You know what is no good? Babies with jet lag who are unhappy to be in a strange new house. Also I drank my weight in queso last night and am feeling about like you'd expect. Blurgh. 

Hope you're having a happy hump day! 

Try a Little Tenderness

You know that Otis Redding song "Try a Little Tenderness"? It's the one about being nice to a young girl who is "tired of wearing that same old shaggy dress". Well, like every other song that was ever written, if you just change one or two words around it applies perfectly to babies.

This is a (long) aside, but did anyone else have this phase in their early adolescence when they first became aware that the world is full of sex references? You start hearing about mysterious things like foreplay and fetishes and positions (for or against?), and realize that you can often take things two ways (*snigger*). And once you start to crack the code, you realise that popular culture is a 24/7 industrial-grade firehose of sex.  

My parents and teachers appeared totally oblivious but we who were in the know were privy to a non-stop barrage of sex on the radio, TV, movies, poetry, novels, comics, paintings... It turned out that sex was the basis of modern civilisation and all commercial enterprise. Once the veil was lifted, it seemed to me that Pop! Goes the Weasel was the only non-church song I knew that didn't have a sex reference, and even there if you snickered properly you could make it sound vaguely filthy.   

I think until I was 12 or 13 I just thought all those radio songs were about kissing. Which is astonishing considering that ubiquitous hits at the time included, for example, I'll Make Love to You (I mean, HELLO), Freak Me (opening lyric: "Let me lick you up and down")  and this song, which is basically like singing: "Hooray for your body/ let us have imaginative sex/ but no need to improvise/ I'll spell it out in the hook". 

I specifically remember hearing this song on the radio: "Mary Moooooon, she's a vegetarian/ *incomprehensible*/ She loves me so/ She hates to be alone/ She don't eat meat but she sure like the bone.".. and thinking, Ya. I know what THAT means, New Age Girl. And ohmygosh, the band is called Deadeye Dick. Subversive.

Anyway, I bring it up because since the baby came (not yet four months ago... but was there ever a time when she didn't exist?) every romantic song now seems like it was written about babies, for babies, with babies in mind. It's all so innocent now. All those kisses become sweet little baby smooches. Enchanting smiles are those priceless fleeting ones accompanied by drool and dimples.The dreams they are talking about are baby dreams, full of fluffy sheep and smiling stars. At Last. My Funny Valentine. I could go on. Having a baby is the great total de-sexualization of how I understand love songs. 

(Okay, that doesn't actually apply to "Freak Me" and "Stroke Me Up", but those only count as love songs in the grossest sense and even then it's a little iffy. Also, now that I am 30 and officially a mother I must point out that those songs are derogatory, vulgar and infinitely stupid. If songs about sex were cocktails, listening to them would be the equivalent of downing orange squash mixed with antifreeze when you could be getting down like scotch neat or something off the grapevine or perhaps a refreshing Hendricks and tonic. 

Anyway, to bring it back to the beginning of this post, "Try a Little Tenderness" is one of the songs I play for my baby to amuse myself, except our version is about young girls who grow weary of the same old diaper. It helps to remind me in my more aggravated moments that rather than joining the baby in a flood of frustration I should just try a little tenderness. 

Cute, right? But forget all that. I was wrong. What nonsense. The thing to try is a little BABY FORMULA. 

Until now I have been an exclusive breast feeder. But the other night I was going somewhere and was not able to pump, and so for the first time ever our sprout got fed a solid 200mL of formula. I felt so guilty, even though I am actually still breastfeeding. Whatever. The point is, she slurped that ish right up, slept for eight hours solid and was a warm dumpling of satiated joy all morning afterwards. The transformation was total, like a desert traveller who survived three months on bitter sips of mud before being given a whole goatskin of Evian. Redemption. Inner light. It was so awesome. Love and peace reigned for hours on end. So yes. Forget tenderness. Try a little formula instead. 

P.S. I just can't end this without noting that I am still breastfeeding so please do not yell at me. I'm not sure who I'm addressing this to other than my inner demons, who wear soft hair and natural fabrics and look surprisingly like members of the La Leche League. 

Salzburg: Ancient Home of Blond, Blue-Eyed Baby Jesus

Last weekend our little family headed out to Salzburg. Our mission was to show Nava to her great grandmother and a couple of Alex's wonderful cousins and their families, and to coo over another freshly baked baby girl named Floriana, who is an adorable porcelain princess with rosy cheeks and sweet blue eyes. 

Alex's Oma 

She is also blonde, because this is Salzburg. 

There are so many natural blonds in Salzburg that it is one of the last remaining homes of blond, blue-eyed Baby Jesus. Other places may have swapped His image for something a little less European, but Salzburg is old school like that. Blond Jesus (and his blond parents) have had their pictures carved, painted, frescoed, lacquered and cross-stitched all through the city. The traditions of Christendom are obvious in other ways - for example, I heard someone with no particularly religious leanings use "Christian" as a synonym for "civilized" (as in, "Why don't you call at a Christian time of night?"), which I've never heard in Vienna. 

Salzburg has just under 150,000 residents, and at least that many tourists wandering around day and night. The main reasons for the tourist boom are the architecture, the Mozart, and especially The Sound of Music, that great American classic, which no Austrian has ever seen but which everyone has heard of because tourists bring it up all the time. It was filmed in Salzburg. That scene where the Von Trapp family are hiding from the Nazis in a cemetery? Yeah, that's basically Alex's grandmother's backyard. 

St. Peter's Abbey. Don't let that 18th century dome fool you.
In the same century as this place was first used as a church,
Attila the Hun battled Rome, the Shaolin Monastery was founded
and Mayan civilization was enjoying its glory days. Sidenote:
The building on the right houses the oldest continuously running
restaurant in the world. "Genuine Salzburg hospitality for over 1200 years".

There is a part of Salzburg where young and dynamic people hang out, or so I'm told, but like most tourists I've never been there. I've only ever spent time in the the Altstadt, or old city, which radiates a stony coldness even on hot days. It also radiates conservatism and wealth, and many of the oldest (and most touristy) streets in town are filled with designer shops that have had a sort of Ye Olde Catholick Towne facelift. 

Alex's Oma lives in an area at the foot of an enormous rock called the Mönchsberg, atop which sits a properly medieval fortress. Around its base are chunky edifices and pathways that look like they were scraped into the mountain by monks who had nothing but wooden sporks to work with. Growing outward from the cliffside are cobblestone alleys lined with baroque-looking churches (and other buildings, but it feels like mostly churches) that hide truly antediluvian cellars in their bowels. 

Regular people in Salzburg

This city is old as they come. It was once a Celtic settlement, but in 15 B.C. the Romans took over. That city, Iuvavum, fell apart in the 5th century but was later reestablished as the bishopric of Salzburg in 696 A.D. by Saint Rupert, or so Wikipedia tells me. 

You want to know how old this place is? St. Peter's Abbey, in which Alex's grandmother resides, is the oldest known convent in the German-speaking realm and indeed it is SO OLD that when St. Rupert came through he had the place renovated. The core of the building and spire that exist today were built in the Middle Ages, but of course at that point the site had been used as a church for a good five hundred years already. Despite the sometimes kitschy renovations, there's a kind of Indiana Jones feel to Salzburg, like some crusader might have stashed the Holy Grail in what is now the basement of the local Prada. 

More regular people

And in such a place, I guess it shouldn't be THAT surprising that traditional Austrian dress is back. Alex and I were told that young, hip people across Salzburg can now be seen rocking their Dirndl and Lederhosen, like, all the time.  And to our utter amazement, it was true. In Vienna, if you wear such things others will assume you are either selling cheese at a farmer's market, attending a wedding, or have atrocious politics. (Which is too bad, really, because a good Dirndl gives every woman--flat, fat or otherwise--a lovely hourglass figure.) 


Anyway, in Salzburg wearing your Tracht (national dress) these days doesn't mean anything! It just means you're wearing clothes! I wish I had gotten a picture of the one guy who was wearing Lederhosen with a V-neck sweater and a slouchy beanie over his dreads, but you'll just have to take my word for it. However, I did manage to take photos of these other perfectly regular people wandering around in their Dirndl and Lederhosen without goose-stepping, getting married or carrying wheels of cheese. 

Sadly we had to leave Salt Castle after only one night. 

Spot the Austrian detailing at this crosswalk!
(I see one hat and at least two pairs of Lederhosen.)

And thus we abruptly find ourselves at home on the Gumpendorfer Strasse of the 21st century, where the Volk have assiduously hip tattoos, do hot yoga, drink gin, and dress like the Amish. It's good to be back around normal people. 

Pennsylvania Dutch Country or Gumpendorferstrasse? This photo shamelessly plundered
from this website: http://www.theinquiringmind.net/2008/10/peoples-of-america-amish.html

One Month!

Last Monday young Nava turned one month old. I wanted to write this then, but life. Also still no computer of my own. Anyway. She has not been eaten by the cats and the only injuries she has sustained were self-inflicted and nonlethal (various punches to the noggin near meal times, a couple scratches courtesy of the fastest growing mini fingernails in the world), and she continues to grow and gain weight. Hooray us! 

She is certainly doing better than our worthless, worthless cats, who now do lavish pees and poos anywhere they please at all times of the night or day. If Nava's first word is m******f***** it's not my fault. 

My mom can make me wear anything and I am totally defenseless. It makes me want to punch my own adorable little face!

Anyway, for the record, here are some of Nava's major achievements so far: 

1. Crusty umbilical cord replaced by 100% cute belly button.
2. Very smallest onesies officially outgrown, and the next size diaper is waiting in the wings
3. Can bring fist/fingers to mouth within three tries
4. Poops without weeping most of the time
5. Almost never crosses her eyes
6. Occasionally unclenches fists and uses those tweeny little starfish to grab things
7. To my dismay, sometimes she keeps her legs straightened even when sleeping. Less and less froggy. 

Her goals for next month include losing the black fuzz on her ears and learning not to eat while crying or cry while eating! 



 

At Last

"You smiled, you smiled

oh and then the spell was cast

and here we are in heaven

for you are mine at last" 

After 41 weeks of totally patient waiting (ahem), she arrived! Nava Sophie joined us in the madness and glory on July 29 at 11.08 am in the morning, weighing a proud 4125 g (9 lbs) and measuring 56 cm (22 inches). 

We are utterly besotted and have spent the week hypnotized by the way she moves her mouth, the way her chest lifts when she breathes, the way she sleeps with her feet curled up like a frog. 

It's taken us a few days to get permission to leave the (wonderful) hospital but we finally got out last night, just in time to spend the weekend with my parents and my brother in our own home. Hallelujah and at last! She was definitely worth the wait.