toy piano

William plays his new toy piano

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one candle atop the cake

Will and I in the backyard at his first birthday party
Image by Jenny of Birch Studio

We celebrated Williams first birthday, this weekend, with a cookout. Family and friends came from all over, to sit out in the backyard with us, among the lazy day lilies that haven’t even bothered to open up yet.

Billy’s band even played a short set on the flagstone patio, bringing in a thunderstorm.

The house, the yard, buzzed with activity, with kids were running around every where; five years ago, I don’t think any of my friends even had children. I thought for sure, by the end of the day, William would be crying. Aren’t birthday parties all about anticipation, disappointment?

But William did not cry. He laughed maniacally as the other kids showed him how to really use his toys; pointing out, for example, that his new toy piano still functions on its’ side.

William hearkened at the band playing, with his da-da on keytar, and all the music pouring out. He marveled when everyone clapped between songs–as if to say, Hey, I know clapping. And he smiled sweetly at the single candle sparkling atop his birthday cake.

He didn’t cry. Go figure. My baby boy, William, thought it was all good. My boy. His own self. One year.

Quite possibly, I was the only one with tears in my eyes.

Happy Birthday to Will

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the man

my son, William, one week from one years old

Photo by Billy

mixed tape

Photos by Billy

Would you still love me if I told you I barely listen to music anymore?

Cleaning up I found an old box of mixed tapes, marked with handwriting of friends. I turned over those broken plastic cases containing melodies so carefully sewn together. They got me thinking about the absence of music in my life.

It’s a shame, too, because music that has served me so well growing up. Those sweet pop and soul songs playing at the roller rink and no one to slow-skate with. Or driving cross country with my old best girlfriend, with Daniel Johnston playing, before we camped beside the road. Or that melancholy semester in college, when billy didn’t love me yet, and I survived on cigarettes and Billie holiday.

Or even a few years back, when I saw Atsushi and the Dirty Round Eyes, a local act play, play at the old Tokyo Rose, and nearly swooned with the pleasure of it.

Nowadays I sing to my baby. Or sometimes to myself at the end of the day as I fill the dishwasher and wipe down the counters. I own a sleek, pretty Ipod but I rarely use it. Occasionally I buy CD’s but they seem to slid out of my life. Or maybe it’s just me, lost in my thirties.

They say the first step is admitting you have a problem. And just as I realized my deficit, Billy made me a mixed tape for my first mother’s day. Okay, it was a mixed CD, but his jagged script was scrawled across the front in sharpie. He strung together one song after the next like Christmas tree lights. He included the Brazilian Girls, and El Perro Del Mar, and an old Duran, Duran tune. Listening to it, I got that old feeling stirring up in me, like the the world is full of wonder.
And me,
a girl in it,
eagerly awaiting its promise.

What are you listening to these days?

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a fine balance

William working on standing for his grandma
Photo by Billy

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Indictment

William, 11 months old, and me
Photos by Billy

I was strolling downtown today when an older man’s eyes raked over me like a fierce indictment. He doubled back, stood in front of the stroller where my sand colored baby boy sat.

“Is that your baby? That one.” He snarled as he pointed. The man’s skin was dark as mine, his hair peppered in gray.

“Yours?” he repeated, incredulous. He shook his head as if I had slighted him. My heart speed up, salt lined my throat. “C’mon,” he said, his mouth agape.

The sun was shining and shoppers breezed past. I arranged my face in a shield of a smile.

“Yes, he’s mine,” I said, pride swelling in my chest. “Thank you,” I said. Then I pushed ahead.

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‘dah-dee’

My son, William, with his dear old dad
Photo by Billy

the dog whisperer

My son, William, pulling on the forbidden curtain cord
Photos by Billy

Watching an episode of The Dog Whisperer, with William tugging at my pant-leg, I couldn’t help but notice the connection to parenting. On the show, dog expert Cesar Milan helps harried pet owners with their recalcitrant and poorly trained pups. He quiets baying hounds, calms obsessive terriers, and tames plain mean poodles. He is as intuitive, decisive, and effective as any parent could hope to be.

On each episode, Cesar encourages pet owners to be calm assertive as they enforce “rules, boundaries, and limitations.” Sounds simple, right? But all too often, when my baby boy is acting the fool (reaching with something I don’t want him to have, or pawing at my face like a pup digging in the yard) my first instinct is to throw in the towel.

Okay,, I think. Just a second. Here.

Or sometimes, when William’s ratcheting up to his still tiny versions of a tantrum, it’s kinda funny. I might giggle a wee bit. I understand his frustration because I want what I want, too. In America, even babies want more, quicker, now.

On the show, the pet owners are always reluctant to change and unaware of their complicity. I’ve tried everything with Spot they assert, or What if Spot’s feelings get hurt? Meanwhile Spot bares his teeth, guards the Spot-size hole he’s eaten in the new couch. Undaunted, Cesar moves in, claims the couch, and takes Spot’s favorite bone. Under Cesar’s tutelage, Spot relaxes, Spot smiles, Spot’s owners smile.

I’m hoping to take a bit of inspiration from the dog whisperer, to figure out how to stay calm and assertive when my boy melts down; to set boundaries and hold the line. And maybe I’ll even to take our two pups for a walk every once in while.

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microcosm

Our son, William, 11 months old
Photos by Billy

Last week, I took Will to play area inside the mall, like a good mother.

The place was bustling with babies, their mother’s scrambling after them or else watching from their seats. Kids flung off shoes, then charged the the soft structures: foam slides, foam bridges, and fake foamy rocks to climb over. I was riveted by everyone, and so was William.

William sat beside me, still as a turtle, staring unabashedly. But then something shifted, and he crawled out into the center of the din. He pulled himself up on the fake foam rocks, then pushed off to standing. He balanced for a few fat seconds, giddy as a surfer on a wave, before plopping down on his butt again.

Children romped happily around him. Six year olds, seeming impossibly agile, tried to eke the last bit of fun from the tiny slide; toddlers crossed bridges, sinking small feet into the foam for purchase. There were easy kids and angry kids and polite kids that whispered ‘excuse me’ breathlessly as they wiggled past.

There was a girl who cried incessantly. She sat on the sideline, her bare feet dangling. A little boy came up close enough to touch her bare arm. It was unclear whether he meant comfort or malice. Either way she jutted her lip out, and burst into a fresh crop of tears.

There was another girl, Will’s size, but twice his age, in a brown jumper and brown ponytails. She orbited William. When she slowed, he leaned into her small face and closed his eyes. It was as if he was going to kiss her, or else fall asleep nestled against her crumb covered cheeks. Later she lured him under the bridge, her walking, him crawling behind.

William breathed in everything. It was like he was growing by seconds instead of minutes; hours instead of days. His is almost one. Where has the time gone? He is leaping forward into this microcosm of life, this garden of children, each growing in their own direction.

I am growing too.

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