Yelena and the giant ape

Today Eli played hooky and went to see King Kong at Reel Moms with us! (Actually he had a day he had to use or lose but hooky sounds more mischievous.) Two out of three of us cried at the end. Yelena fell asleep right before the climax so I hope the ape lives eternal in her imagination.

When we got to the theatre there were a few dozen moms. Eli was worried that we wouldn't get a good seat, even though I told him that these North Shore moms were probably more interested in The Family Stone, which was also showing. In turns out except for us and Liz and Sella, there was only one other couple with a baby in the entire enormous theater. How anyone could pick a tepidly reviewed movie over the action rave of the year is beyond me, but then again, Skokie.

I do love that Peter Jackson. Naomi Watts is the rare beautiful actress whose intelligence shines through. And let me reiterate my love for Adrien Brody who may have upset Lior Ashkenazi to return to the top of my celebrity crush list. It was an incredibly well done remake that balanced action with sentiment, spiced with Joseph Conrad and cineophile references.

Book me

In between nursing, nappies, narrating, New Yorkers and needless alliteration, I managed to read a few books this past month! Yup, that is exclamation point worthy. Mila is back.

After a hiatus of ridiculous proportion, I returned to Rushdie’s Shalimar the Clown. It had been so long since I had read the first 50 pages that I actually had to go back and start over. The parts set in Kashmir were wonderful, but the framing stories of Max Ophuls and his daughter India/Kashmira irritated me. Midnight’s Children is one of my favorite books but, after The Ground Beneath Her Feet met with disappointment, I didn’t bother with his penultimate novel and I’m not sure if I should have with this one. I find reading Rushdie now so frustrating, since parts are sheer brilliance whereas other bits are literary masturbation almost on par with the onanism of Martin Amis. Well, perhaps not, since that would require a Costco membership to stock up on tissue.

Next, I read last year’s Pulitzer Prize winner, The Known World. It was the antidote to Rushdie my literary doctor ordered. Jones painted a wide canvas in detailed muted colors, that was very effective and affective. A lovely novel which I highly recommend.

I love a bit of belle lettre trash, and the epistolary novel A Factory of Cunning by Philippa Stockley fit the bill nicely. Although she is never explicitly named, it follows the London adventures of The Marquise de Merteuil (Les Liaisons Dangereuses) after her French disgrace. As a bonus, the author studied costume design and her knowledge is evident.

I started reading Handling Sin by the divine Michael Malone but two other books invaded our house only pages into it, temporarily putting the Malone on the back burner while I devour these irresistible tomes: Becoming the Parent You Want to Be and The Dirt by Motley Crue. You read that correctly, a book by Motley Crue. And I can barely put it down. Well, at least when Yelena is awake. I find it too disconcerting to read a tale of rock and roll debauchery while breast feeding, which is where the parenting book comes in. Talk about juxtaposition.

Now, to say that I’ve never been a Motley Crue fan would be an understatement. I never went through a metal phase and, if I did, I probably would not have extended past Metallica and Iron Maiden into the bottom of a trashy barrel. Basically, all I know of Motley Crue are a few MTV videos, the scary girls in high school who liked them and the Tommy Lee home sex video, whose riveting dialogue Dennis and I used to quote for giggles. When we were in Long Beach Dennis told us we had to read it. “You are kidding?!” “No, you really have to read it! I promise, you won’t regret it.” He has impeccable musical taste, and is thus not a Crue fan, but he overheard someone reading it in a record store and was laughing so hard he had to get it. His guarantee held true. Not that I’d recommend it to my mother, but it is a great book.

Yeah, I'm posting on Shabbas. Blogger has removed the editable time so I can't fake that I put this up before sundown. There goes any pretense.

The Book, the Magazine and the Movie

If Yelena becomes a Born-Again Christian, it's all my fault for taking her to see The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe for her first cinematic foray with Reel Moms. Then again, I read the Narnia books dozens of times as a kid and it didn't brainwash me into accepting Jesus as my savior. The whole allegory thing was lost on me, quite possibly because I didn't know from resurrection. I hated The Last Battle, though, and it was the only book I didn't re-read over and over. I was very disturbed that Susan did not get to walk the ascending path just because she was into lipsticks and nylons. Sure the path to paradiso may not be paved with nylons and lipstick but, to my tender young mind, interest therein was not justification for an eternity of hellfire and damnation.

Did you read that New Yorker article about C.S. Lewis a few weeks back? It's difficult to take religious guidance from a paragon of public school sadomasochism. Then again, who knows what Rashi was up to on that vineyard of his?

I had forgotten that J.R.R. Tolkein was the catalyst behind Lewis' whole-hearted embrace of Christianity, although Tolkein was a devout Catholic and Lewis was hard-line C of E. (Henry VIII being the 13th apostle.) A few years ago, I gave my brother Pullman's brilliant His Dark Materials to read. Aaron said he preferred Tolkein to the Pullman, citing that the Pullman dealt too much with religion for his taste. Funny, that, considering Tolkein's Catholicism and Pullman's self-professed atheism.

Anyway, it's amazing how far talking animals have come. Aslan looked like a real lion but sounded suspiciously like Liam Neeson. Now that I no longer have an office job, I am thinking of adopting Tilda Swinton's witchy 'do.

The whole world in her hands

For the past month or so Yelena has been staring at her hands like a stoner. Next she discovered that they were tasty. In the past week she has really started isolating her digits, realizing that the thumb is the most scrumptious morsel, because of its size or opposableness one can only guess. Her hands have also discovered each other and that they can work in tandem, although not quite consistently. She can now clasp The Caterpillar Formerly Known as Mr. Wormy (Eli pointed out to me that worms don't have antennae, but I could not bring myself to eradicate Mr. Wormy's erstwhile identity altogether) and clumsily bring him to her mouth. Mmm, drool sauced caterpillar.

Which reminds me that a few nights ago that The Caterpillar Formerly Known as Mr. Wormy played a part in my dream. He was made of colored marshmallows and I ate his yellow head and his purple section and then realized I would have to go buy Yelena a new toy.

Doctor, doctor give me the news

Yelena had her four month doctor's appointment today. All's well, if you exclude her loathing of having four sharp needles full of irritability inducing substances jabbed in her cute chubby thighs. The poor dumpling is asleep now.

She is healthy, she is developing normally, et cetera. She did her tummy push-up, grunting the whole time, to prove that just because she hates tummy time doesn't mean she isn't progressing well. The doctor did not have an answer as to why she rolled over numerous times in Long Beach but hasn't once since returning to Chicago. I guess she was showing off or liked Gramma and Sabba's living room rug. The doctor also approved of our intention to start her on swimming lessons at 6 months, despite some crappy advice in one of the books I should not be reading warning parents of the dangers of starting your child swimming too soon.

We over-estimated her weight! She is now a robust 14 lbs. 11 oz., 23.5" and head circumference of 41.75 mm. We thought she'd weigh in heftier since when the vet was at our house the vet tech got on the scale with her and said 14+ lbs. and that was about a month ago. But it was a house scale and an imprecise methodology. (Maybe Cherubino is under 19 lbs.?!) Her weight and head are in the 75th percentile, with her height in something like the 30th percentile. We are not a tall people. But we have big brains.

So the mystery is why, if she is still under 15 lbs., is she outgrowing many of her 3-6 months clothes? She is not long and is still within the weight parameters. And I thought women's clothing sizes were crazy.

And on the subject of women's clothing sizes, when I was ordering new short boots I discovered that L.L. Bean now has fleece lined jeans. Toasty! I have a pair of their flannel lined ones but the zipper broke last year, probably in the process of trying to cram my first trimester-but-burgeoning body into them. Yes, I could replace the zipper but, even though they are the relaxed fit, I am not even going to attempt the humiliation involved in squeezing my current post-baby body in to size 4 anything as of yet. (I am short, which is how I ever got away with the size 4 in the first place.) Even with the shoe horn and vaseline. And it is truly amazing how dreadful bigger breasts look in some sweaters. Specifically, my bigger breasts in knits. A girl often wonders about having a larger chest. Let me tell you, now that I am on the other side, B was for Best.

Now is the Winter of our Content

I've been too busy to blog, but if you asked me how I've filled my days since the last post I don't think I could tell you. Time is a vortex. But a pleasant vortex.

Yelena turned four months last Sunday, although her four month check-up isn't until tomorrow. I am looking forward to finding out her exact stats and am stealing myself for the next round of immunizations. Better a few shots in the legs than some fatal disease, no? We didn't take a four month portrait of her on Sunday, but Tony and Eric were over and we got a bunch of cute pictures of Yelena and Tony dancing to Franz Ferdinand and Frank Zappa, who dwell harmoniously next to each other in our mp3 player.

Our basement floor saga continues. I'd blog the sordid details, but I fear that one day when we try to sell the house that a potential buyer might google the seller, read this blog and kill the sale. Suffice it to say, the composite tile installation was supposed to be finished yesterday, but we had some set backs and are now waiting for carpet on order. We are glad we went with a reputable company (Olson Rug and Flooring) instead of a fly-by-night contractor, since they have been honest and helpful every step of the way.

It is frigid here. We're talking 1 degree F. (I am so not going to try to spell the temperature system that is not Celsius.) When I drove to class Monday the bank near the studio proclaimed 11 F and -11 C. Cute. Tuesday I was cooking a meal for friends who just had a baby (welcome Sella Ruth!) and I ran out of garlic. I bundled up Yelena and took a spin in the Valco, which went through ice and snow like a three wheeled husky. Lest you think me barbaric for exposing my daughter to such arctic temperatures, here is evidence of her bundled-upedness, before the foot muff was zipped and the weather cover draped over. She was nice and toasty when we got back, though I can't say the same for myself.

For my winter trauma my beloved Canadian boots that have snuggled my feet and kept their treads for 5 or 6 winters no longer fit. Yup, as I discovered when I was just measured for new running shoes, my right foot grew during pregnancy. My shoes range from sizes 6-7 depending on brand and sockage and these boots are size 6. Now an official barefoot 6.5 on the right, both my toe and heel rub against the shoe, so it's hopeless. If, God willing, I have another baby, will my feet grow more? Or does this foot growth thing only happen the first time?

Finally, at my brother's request, another silly hat pic.

We got the beat

I would like to take a break from writing about my daughter to rhapsodize about my metronome. Yes, you read that correctly, my metronome.

Technically, my faithful rhythmic companion started its life as my brother’s metronome. A. E. Cohen and our childhood phone number, sans area code as 213 was the only area code worth considering back then, are clumsily but legibly etched on the verso. Over twenty-five years ago our parents bought each of us one of our own, but sometime in adolescence my pink and blue beauty disappeared and my affair with the reddish-orange one began. It’s been in my possession since I left for college fifteen years ago so, regardless of any claims my brother may make on this wondrous machine, it has lived with me over half its life.

It’s nothing fancy. A Seiko, quite portable but not petite. Beats per minute are arranged on a dial, it has a light only option and its only other feature is an A440. I have dropped it easily a hundred times. I think I have even thrown it across the room in a few passionate, arrhythmic moments. At our last apartment, the back fell off and stayed behind a bookcase in the second bedroom until we moved. Despite all this abuse and dust, it keeps on ticking. Since it entered our family I have probably gone through, collectively, a hundred walkmen, portable CD players, boom boxes, stereo components, telephones, answering machines, cell phones, alarm clocks, digital tuners, computers and so forth, yet my Seiko keeps on going.

Fight the Power

Here is a little treat to make up for the poor formatting of the post below. After wrestling with Blogger for fifteen minutes, I quit.