Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Emma Goulding (1996-2013)
Dear Scarlett,
Tonight we said goodbye to our dear cat Emma. That's the same line I wrote to you when Smokey left us last May, and it seemed fitting to use it again. Emma and Smokey were quite a pair. She was never the same after he was gone.
But her sweet, demanding "Emma" personality still came through. She loved to stalk around the couch in the evenings, yowling at me and Dad to pet her, finally jumping up to sit with us and make it a little easier. She seemed to find her second wind at night, after we'd all gone to sleep, and would meow as loudly as possible. Sometimes from your room, we would hear a little "Hussss!" We all had to hush Emma on a regular basis.
I remember one day a year or so ago when our neighbor Jackson told me that he could hear Emma so clearly that he thought she was in his bedroom. He went tearing down the hallway to his mom and dad's room to tell them there was a cat under his bed. That is how loud Emma could be. When Dad and I lived in New York, our next door neighbor once asked us how the baby was doing. "The baby?" we looked at each other. We didn't have a baby. We think she was talking about Emma, singing her cat songs through the walls. Smokey, though he had it in him to be rowdy, really only yelled when someone was sleeping.
Emma was a lover of music, and Dad says she always had a specific fondness for female vocalists. She was a little timid around strangers, but gained some confidence during her later years and became more of a visible presence when guests were here, at which point she usually required them to shove over and make room for her on the couch.
You liked to spin her around in my old office chair, something that I am guessing was not on her list of top ten ways to spend the day. Chasing Emma became something of a past time, too, and I came into the living room more than once to find you battling a speaker twice your size in order to get to Emma, who cowered behind the TV.
There were a few nights when Emma somehow got stuck in your room behind the futon (I'm guessing you cornered her there), and we didn't find out until the middle of the night, when she started meowing and you started screaming "I DO NOT LIKE EMMA!" at the top of your lungs.
But you did like her. In fact, you have been fascinated with her, saying hello to her throughout the day and marveling over her eating habits. "Look!" you'd exclaim during a meal. "Me is eating breakfast with Emma!"
Some of my favorite memories of Emma come from this thing she used to do in New York, something she never really did in San Francisco. She would sit on things--anything that we put on the floor. You can see what I'm talking about here and here and here. She was quite a character.
I am really going to miss her.
Love,
Mom
Tonight we said goodbye to our dear cat Emma. That's the same line I wrote to you when Smokey left us last May, and it seemed fitting to use it again. Emma and Smokey were quite a pair. She was never the same after he was gone.
But her sweet, demanding "Emma" personality still came through. She loved to stalk around the couch in the evenings, yowling at me and Dad to pet her, finally jumping up to sit with us and make it a little easier. She seemed to find her second wind at night, after we'd all gone to sleep, and would meow as loudly as possible. Sometimes from your room, we would hear a little "Hussss!" We all had to hush Emma on a regular basis.
I remember one day a year or so ago when our neighbor Jackson told me that he could hear Emma so clearly that he thought she was in his bedroom. He went tearing down the hallway to his mom and dad's room to tell them there was a cat under his bed. That is how loud Emma could be. When Dad and I lived in New York, our next door neighbor once asked us how the baby was doing. "The baby?" we looked at each other. We didn't have a baby. We think she was talking about Emma, singing her cat songs through the walls. Smokey, though he had it in him to be rowdy, really only yelled when someone was sleeping.
Emma was a lover of music, and Dad says she always had a specific fondness for female vocalists. She was a little timid around strangers, but gained some confidence during her later years and became more of a visible presence when guests were here, at which point she usually required them to shove over and make room for her on the couch.
You liked to spin her around in my old office chair, something that I am guessing was not on her list of top ten ways to spend the day. Chasing Emma became something of a past time, too, and I came into the living room more than once to find you battling a speaker twice your size in order to get to Emma, who cowered behind the TV.
There were a few nights when Emma somehow got stuck in your room behind the futon (I'm guessing you cornered her there), and we didn't find out until the middle of the night, when she started meowing and you started screaming "I DO NOT LIKE EMMA!" at the top of your lungs.
But you did like her. In fact, you have been fascinated with her, saying hello to her throughout the day and marveling over her eating habits. "Look!" you'd exclaim during a meal. "Me is eating breakfast with Emma!"
Some of my favorite memories of Emma come from this thing she used to do in New York, something she never really did in San Francisco. She would sit on things--anything that we put on the floor. You can see what I'm talking about here and here and here. She was quite a character.
I am really going to miss her.
Love,
Mom
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Christmas trip
Dear Scarlett,
What a Christmas we had. We were in Chicago with Nonnie and Pops and basically my entire side of the family. Santa had to bring you a suitcase this year, so you could haul all your loot back to San Francisco. You got books, clothes, stuffed animals, a sit and spin, art supplies, temporary tattoos, puzzles, and cowboy boots. I got The Heart is a Lonely Hunter from my Secret Santa (Shishie) and a day at the spa from Nonnie. It was a fantastic holiday, despite the fact that you were still recovering from an ear infection. On the last day of your antibiotic, you suddenly sprouted hives all over your body. On Day 2 they traveled to your face and you looked like a (very cute) little puffball. We took you to the doctor three times in one week, and you seem to be in better shape now.
But those ears! They just keep getting infected, and we are now following Dr. Becker's suggestion to eliminate gluten and dairy from your diet. This is apparently the new thinking in pediatrics, and was seconded by the doctor we saw last week. I've been off of gluten for more than 7 months after testing positive for an allergy, so I am actually convinced that this will mostly be easy, even though you are a dairy queen of the highest order. The real issue will come when we go out for a meal and try to order something that is not grilled cheese or macaroni and cheese. Or a spoon and cheese.
Also, we are not allowed to call it a diet and are not supposed to mention to you that you are eating different food. Tonight you had [gluten-free] chicken tenders and broccoli for dinner, and [almond milk] ice cream for dessert. You were quite pleased, finishing everything on your plate. We'll try this diet for a couple of weeks and see what happens. Dad is skeptical, since we're not actually sure what should happen, and therefore what success might look like. But we're willing to try, because I think the next conversation is going to be about putting tubes in your ears.
But back to Christmas. I have to admit that I barely saw you. When Nonnie and Pops are around, you don't really let me or Dad put you to bed, get up with you in the morning, dress you, or look directly at you. You are Nonnie's girl. On our last morning, I came into your room to find the two of you fast asleep in each other's arms. And I am not complaining about sleeping those extra hours every day. That really made it feel like a vacation. We got to see most of our Oak Park friends, and you especially enjoyed a dinner out with Sigrid, and a play date at Amanda and Dan's house.
Today you told me, "Amanda's friend did not hug you."
"Who didn't hug you?" I asked.
"NO," you said. "YOU. Amanda's friend did not hug YOU."
"Who is Amanda's friend who didn't hug me?"
"Noah."
Ah yes, Amanda's good friend Noah, also known as her two-year-old son. We exchanged a high five at the end of the morning. The things you notice are fascinating to me. I actually feel like I got lots of hugs and love on our trip. We had a delicious Christmas Eve dinner at Aunt Carolyn's house, with something like 40 people. You were a big hit in your sparkly blue dress, and when you left early with Pops, you blew everyone kisses and began belting out a song on your way out. Later you told me that you had a tantrum in the car and cried and cried. You are always telling on yourself.
So we're back home in San Francisco, and the exciting news is that Nonnie and Pops will be moving here for two months to take care of Baby Jack while Shishie goes back to work. They have their own apartment in a great neighborhood and we will get to see them all the time. I just hope I get to see you, too.
Love,
Mom
What a Christmas we had. We were in Chicago with Nonnie and Pops and basically my entire side of the family. Santa had to bring you a suitcase this year, so you could haul all your loot back to San Francisco. You got books, clothes, stuffed animals, a sit and spin, art supplies, temporary tattoos, puzzles, and cowboy boots. I got The Heart is a Lonely Hunter from my Secret Santa (Shishie) and a day at the spa from Nonnie. It was a fantastic holiday, despite the fact that you were still recovering from an ear infection. On the last day of your antibiotic, you suddenly sprouted hives all over your body. On Day 2 they traveled to your face and you looked like a (very cute) little puffball. We took you to the doctor three times in one week, and you seem to be in better shape now.
But those ears! They just keep getting infected, and we are now following Dr. Becker's suggestion to eliminate gluten and dairy from your diet. This is apparently the new thinking in pediatrics, and was seconded by the doctor we saw last week. I've been off of gluten for more than 7 months after testing positive for an allergy, so I am actually convinced that this will mostly be easy, even though you are a dairy queen of the highest order. The real issue will come when we go out for a meal and try to order something that is not grilled cheese or macaroni and cheese. Or a spoon and cheese.
Also, we are not allowed to call it a diet and are not supposed to mention to you that you are eating different food. Tonight you had [gluten-free] chicken tenders and broccoli for dinner, and [almond milk] ice cream for dessert. You were quite pleased, finishing everything on your plate. We'll try this diet for a couple of weeks and see what happens. Dad is skeptical, since we're not actually sure what should happen, and therefore what success might look like. But we're willing to try, because I think the next conversation is going to be about putting tubes in your ears.
But back to Christmas. I have to admit that I barely saw you. When Nonnie and Pops are around, you don't really let me or Dad put you to bed, get up with you in the morning, dress you, or look directly at you. You are Nonnie's girl. On our last morning, I came into your room to find the two of you fast asleep in each other's arms. And I am not complaining about sleeping those extra hours every day. That really made it feel like a vacation. We got to see most of our Oak Park friends, and you especially enjoyed a dinner out with Sigrid, and a play date at Amanda and Dan's house.
Today you told me, "Amanda's friend did not hug you."
"Who didn't hug you?" I asked.
"NO," you said. "YOU. Amanda's friend did not hug YOU."
"Who is Amanda's friend who didn't hug me?"
"Noah."
Ah yes, Amanda's good friend Noah, also known as her two-year-old son. We exchanged a high five at the end of the morning. The things you notice are fascinating to me. I actually feel like I got lots of hugs and love on our trip. We had a delicious Christmas Eve dinner at Aunt Carolyn's house, with something like 40 people. You were a big hit in your sparkly blue dress, and when you left early with Pops, you blew everyone kisses and began belting out a song on your way out. Later you told me that you had a tantrum in the car and cried and cried. You are always telling on yourself.
So we're back home in San Francisco, and the exciting news is that Nonnie and Pops will be moving here for two months to take care of Baby Jack while Shishie goes back to work. They have their own apartment in a great neighborhood and we will get to see them all the time. I just hope I get to see you, too.
Love,
Mom
Monday, November 19, 2012
Walk with Me, Suzy Lee
Dear Scarlett,
In August, Dad and I went to the Outsidelands festival in Golden Gate Park. It was a three-day concert, with tons of different bands, and it was, in true summer San Francisco fashion, cold. But we went every single day, leaving you with Nonnie, Pops, Shishie, Uncle Rob, Uncle Mike, and the very new Baby Jack. My legs were starting to get weaker (and they're never very good when it's cold), so Dad helped me walk from stage to stage. Some of them felt like they were miles apart, but we saw every act we had planned to see. Amadou and Mariam were one of my favorites, along with Sigur Ros, Of Monsters and Men, and Beck. On the main stage on Sunday, we saw Jack White sing We're Going To Be Friends, and right there, in the middle of that freezing park stuffed with all of those other people, I started to cry. The song just made me think of you, starting school that month and growing up.
I'm not one of those people who wishes that babies didn't grow. Nonnie says that sometimes to you and Baby Jack, that you should please slow down and stop growing so fast. And I know she only means it in the best of ways, she just loves you so much the way you are now. But I love to see you grow, love to see the new things you can suddenly do, and the changing patterns of your words and skills. I am terribly excited to have a real conversation with Jack that doesn't involve me reading to him from the nearest magazine while he tries to nurse on my shoulder (although I love that, too.)
I think what made me cry was the feeling that you are going to start having experiences that I can't fully control, that I'm not even present for. That you will make new friends and that this will be wonderful, but will also leave you vulnerable in a way that makes me kind of uncomfortable. I never want to see you hurt or sad, even though I know it's ridiculous to imagine that you won't be, or that you can't handle it. I once read that parenting is not for the faint of heart, that if you don't want to see your children upset, you are in the wrong business. And of course, meeting new people and becoming your own person is a good thing.
In the weeks leading up to you starting preschool, I was mostly just excited. And now that I see how much you love it, it's just another thing in our life that makes me happy. You are fine being away from me and Dad, completely confident and secure in the fact that I will always be there to come get you at the end of the day. In fact, that's exactly what you say: "Mommy always comes back." That's what I said to you the very first time I left you at Recess with a babysitter.
And to be honest, I think this was another reason that I cried. Because time is passing, and with it, certain things are becoming less certain. My illness is a part of our everyday lives, but I don't think you're hyper aware of it yet. I guess part of me does want to hold on tight to what we have now. But another, bigger part knows that we have so much more to look forward to. You're going to continue to amaze me with your feistiness and your new abilities. And I promise you that I will do everything I can to show you what it means to be strong.
Last week, we were in the kitchen making breakfast. You were cracking eggs, I was trying to figure out what to do with a pan full of bacon grease, and I heard you start to sing. "Books and pens...Suzy Lee...by the tree. I can tell that we are gonna be friends." I asked how you knew that song, and you said Daddy taught it to you. I looked over at you, and to my surprise, I just started laughing.
Love,
Mom
In August, Dad and I went to the Outsidelands festival in Golden Gate Park. It was a three-day concert, with tons of different bands, and it was, in true summer San Francisco fashion, cold. But we went every single day, leaving you with Nonnie, Pops, Shishie, Uncle Rob, Uncle Mike, and the very new Baby Jack. My legs were starting to get weaker (and they're never very good when it's cold), so Dad helped me walk from stage to stage. Some of them felt like they were miles apart, but we saw every act we had planned to see. Amadou and Mariam were one of my favorites, along with Sigur Ros, Of Monsters and Men, and Beck. On the main stage on Sunday, we saw Jack White sing We're Going To Be Friends, and right there, in the middle of that freezing park stuffed with all of those other people, I started to cry. The song just made me think of you, starting school that month and growing up.
I'm not one of those people who wishes that babies didn't grow. Nonnie says that sometimes to you and Baby Jack, that you should please slow down and stop growing so fast. And I know she only means it in the best of ways, she just loves you so much the way you are now. But I love to see you grow, love to see the new things you can suddenly do, and the changing patterns of your words and skills. I am terribly excited to have a real conversation with Jack that doesn't involve me reading to him from the nearest magazine while he tries to nurse on my shoulder (although I love that, too.)
I think what made me cry was the feeling that you are going to start having experiences that I can't fully control, that I'm not even present for. That you will make new friends and that this will be wonderful, but will also leave you vulnerable in a way that makes me kind of uncomfortable. I never want to see you hurt or sad, even though I know it's ridiculous to imagine that you won't be, or that you can't handle it. I once read that parenting is not for the faint of heart, that if you don't want to see your children upset, you are in the wrong business. And of course, meeting new people and becoming your own person is a good thing.
In the weeks leading up to you starting preschool, I was mostly just excited. And now that I see how much you love it, it's just another thing in our life that makes me happy. You are fine being away from me and Dad, completely confident and secure in the fact that I will always be there to come get you at the end of the day. In fact, that's exactly what you say: "Mommy always comes back." That's what I said to you the very first time I left you at Recess with a babysitter.
And to be honest, I think this was another reason that I cried. Because time is passing, and with it, certain things are becoming less certain. My illness is a part of our everyday lives, but I don't think you're hyper aware of it yet. I guess part of me does want to hold on tight to what we have now. But another, bigger part knows that we have so much more to look forward to. You're going to continue to amaze me with your feistiness and your new abilities. And I promise you that I will do everything I can to show you what it means to be strong.
Last week, we were in the kitchen making breakfast. You were cracking eggs, I was trying to figure out what to do with a pan full of bacon grease, and I heard you start to sing. "Books and pens...Suzy Lee...by the tree. I can tell that we are gonna be friends." I asked how you knew that song, and you said Daddy taught it to you. I looked over at you, and to my surprise, I just started laughing.
Love,
Mom
Sunday, November 18, 2012
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