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. 

Eggstasy

Have you ever wondered what four dozen eggs look like if you pile them all up? 

Look at the size of these packages of eggs.

My mom called me today and was like, Hey, I'm running late, so can you help me out with our contribution to the homeless shelter? I need you to pick up four dozen eggs and hard boil them for me. And my first thought was, "Goddamn, that's a lot of eggs." 

Maybe this is because I live in a European city, where most of us live in apartments and do small rounds of shopping every couple of days, but 48 eggs seems like a s***load of eggs. An absurd number to cook at once in the comfort of your home.  

But off we went to the store where, lo and behold, you can buy packages of 30 eggs! All in one box! Seriously though. Who needs 30 eggs at the same time?  It seems like a lot, especially because in the United States all eggs are washed before they're sold, which means they need to be kept very well refrigerated and are thus even more inconvenient to store. 

48! In one pot! Would you look at that.

Of course, all food seems to come in comparatively enormous containers over here. Or at least, that's my impression whenever I first arrive. Over time my perception shifts. It begins to seem normal that groceries are sold in a space that could accommodate a couple of long-haul airplanes, and normal that you can buy detergent in a box so big, you require assistance to get it into the back of your car.  

By the time I get back to Vienna I have grocery dysmorphia in the other direction. Our local grocery store, which is the size of a Texas gas station, seems positively adorable. I go around for a week thinking, "My, what cute little cans of tomatoes! I'll put them in my tiny basket next to my tiny tins of tuna, itty bitty wedges of cheese and my weeny little packages of unbelievably boring cereal. Aww, look at these wittle bitty loaves of bread!" After paying, quite often in cash, I skip back to my flat to play dry-goods tetris in the only cupboard we use for food. 

This is how much my daughter cares about the stupendous number of eggs I'm boiling. 

Anyway. Now I'm off to help bake dozens of Christmas cookies that will sit around looking forlorn until some fool, and its always the same fool, makes the poor decision to eat them all. *Sigh*. 

P.S. Look at me all updating this blog more than once every two weeks. 

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. 

Parenting Fail: Part 1/529224315

On Monday I took young Nava to the doctor because she had been coughing a little on the weekend and her eyes had been red and runny. This was the first time she's ever been even a little sick and I wanted someone else to tell me that she's fine. As is always the way, her symptoms evaporated completely by the time we were in the doctor's waiting room. But I'm stubborn and anyway I had nothing else scheduled, so having gotten this far I decided there was no way we were leaving without seeing the doctor about something.

Not-sick Nava. Because she can't say no,
she has to wear elephant ears and bunny boots.
This is how we incentivize learning to talk. 

Happily (I guess), there was something! The infant had developed a pretty grody rash behind her ears. It was flaky and nasty. Now, my ignorance is a silky and voluptuous creature whom I hate to discourage, so I hadn't done any research or even much thinking about this rash and had simply put it down to "some kind of cradle cap or something". Despite knowing better, I also had a slight nagging worry that it was a symptom of psoriasis, my own familiar skin condition, which I obviously hope my daughter hasn't inherited. 

And so we waited at the doctor's office. One patient was a teeny weeny baby that must have been less than a week old. His (her?) parents looked exhausted and held their little bundle in that awkward super-newborn way where you're just trying to prevent the kid's head from dribbling down your front like a wet squid. It made me realize how much old Nava has solidified in the last three-and-a-half months. 

There was also a cute toddler girl who was tinkering with toys while her mother and grandmother were intently focused on some kind of cell phone game. At one point the girl dragged this mini rocking horse out from under a table to play with, but she only pulled it out halfway, so that once she got on she inevitably smacked the back of her head against the countertop. 

The girl's mom leapt up and over me in time to prevent her child from bumping her head a second time. Then she shot me the same look that you give a turd that has failed to flush. I was sitting closer to the rocking horse than the kid's mom, and, you know, I wasn't playing with my phone, so I guess it was my job to intervene and save her toddler's skull, but I was holding a baby and also I didn't realize what was happening until it was too late. The kid didn't even notice she had banged her head. Whatever. So this other mom gave me the squint and I tried to act like a dignified turd who has better shit to worry about, so to speak. 

After that tiresome interlude in the waiting room, which I feel like doctors (and perhaps bloggers) insist on just to make a little more mountain out of what would otherwise be a negligible tad of molehill, we finally got in to the doctor. 

He instantly dismissed the suggestion that Nava was sick, so as planned I brought up the rash behind her ears. 

"Uh-oh, a rash?," said the doctor, who looks nothing like Santa but sort of talks like him sometimes. "Well, we had better take a look!" He carefully turned the baby's head from side to side to inspect behind each thumb-sized ear. 

He looked at me. "That is just dirt." 

"Oh," I said, deflated. "Just dirt?" 

Oh. 

"Yes, dirt," he said, slowly, as if explaining to a turd that it is not supposed to stick around but rather should swim away with its brothers. "One does actually have to clean the babies. I would suggest treating the ears with a washcloth and soap, and later applying almond oil. That should do it."  

Flushed, I left.