The Alexanders thoroughly enjoyed their first holiday season as a family. The few days leading up to it were emotionally tumultuous for me. We bought Lilah her little swing set (eBay for 50.00!), a baby doll, a handmade teddy bear, a small bead maze, and a toy hammer and owl for her stocking. When some people at work would ask me what we got her, I excitedly told them, having spent many hours hunting and bargain shopping for age-and-developmentally appropriate toys. We bought her things we could afford that she wouldn't just grow out of in a month. More than one gave me a raised eyebrow and started reciting the literally thousands of dollars they had spent on their children. One co-worker of mine actually bought her 10 month old a tiny four wheeler. She can't even walk! Another "just" gave her 10 year old son 500.00 to spend, since he put off making a list until the last minute. Yet another "had to spend almost a thousand dollars on Alexis (her 11 month old granddaughter) so we would be the favorite grandparents. Gotta out-do Katie's parents, ya know!" I came home in tears more than once, feeling completely inadequate as a mother and sure Lilah was going to look at me in disappointment on Christmas morning, Santa having betrayed her. After many pep-talks about the real meaning and spirit of Christmas and being a good parent from Dano, Kim, and Ann, I was just barely feeling like a decent parent.
Needless to say, Christmas morning came and went without said disappointment. Lilah was presented with her stocking treats, and we had to take a break for almost an hour. She was that enamored with them, especially her toy hammer. Larry has nickname her "Thor", since she can rarely be spotted without hammer in hand. Lilah chased the cat around with the hammer for awhile, then we sat down to the rest of her presents. She finished opening the bead maze, and it was over. Dano opened her other two presents for her, because she was so overwhelmed with a maze, a hammer, and an owl. Even now she hasn't fully experienced all her toys. Her attention span just isn't long enough. I felt sorry for those other poor babies who got thousands of dollars worth of presents on Christmas morning. They must have ended up overstimulated and overwhelmed.
Today was her 9 month appointment, and her last appointment with Dr. Hatfield, who is leaving the practice to stay home with her kids and spend more time with her family. She told us via letter about a month ago, and I promptly burst into tears upon reading it. She is such an amazing physician and patient advocate. If she told me, "I think Lilah would benefit from eating nothing but candy for 24 hours," I would trust her. Obviously that's an extreme, but never have I met a doctor who is so in tune with her patients' physical, emotional, and spiritual needs. She spent over an hour at one of Lilah's appointments talking with me about my parents and how my issues with them could be affecting my ability to feel like a good mother and enjoy Lilah. She was present for 4 straight hours of Lilah's delivery, and was on the L&D floor for 100% of it. Any OB/GYN I've ever seen has run into the L&D room to "catch" the baby at the tail end of the proceedings. Many times, the RN ends up delivering most of the infant. "Stuck in traffic!" one doc called out jovially during my clinicals, still chewing food in his mouth. Dr. Hatfield drove to MGH as soon as my RN told her my water had indeed broken and stayed there all night until Lilah was born. She coached me through labor like a mother would, and has applauded my choice of a husband/father every time I've seen her. "It's very rare to see a father who is so interactive and genuinely excited about his relationship with his new baby from the very first second. You're so lucky to have him."
The day after Lilah was born, she came up to the hospital and spent 30 minutes in our room just holding Lilah and talking to her. She even discharged us earlier than is recommended (22 hours after giving birth!) because I told her I couldn't eat the hospital food and the dayshift staff wouldn't allow me to co-sleep with Lilah or nurse her for comfort. She's been supportive when she's needed to be, and stern and inflexible when necessary. She wasn't afraid to say, "I really don't know" about Lilah's corneal adhesion and send us to a specialist, and she listened when I insisted there was something irregular in her pupil. Last night, I dreamt we went to her appointment today and she had already left the practice and we couldn't find any flowers to give her as a thank you, and her replacement doctor was mean and didn't even read that Lilah was a girl in her chart! Apparently, I was more anxious about losing her than I had realized.
We drove through a blizzard to the appointment, stopping only to buy a live white lily for her. Lilah was still mid-16lbs and is now 28 in. That's 50th percentile for height and 30th for weight. If you're plotting her on a breastfeeding chart she's in the 60th for weight, so I'm not concerned. Lilah got two immunizations, but didn't even flinch! She just scowled blackly at the nurse who did it and complained at her. She never ceases to amaze me. As soon as Dr. Hatfield opened the door to the exam room, Lilah acted very strangely. She took one look at her, gave this loud and excited squawk, and held out her arms for her insistently. Normally Lilah is friendly with people, but not like this. Dr. Hatfield took her from me, and Lilah nestled into her arms and spent the remainder of the appointment perched contentedly on her lap, periodically laying her head on her chest. I was really amazed at her odd behavior, but it was darling. It was almost as if she could sense she would never again see the woman who brought her into the world. The rest of the appointment went as they usually do. She said not to worry a bit about Lilah's plentiful bruises or what I call her growing habit of getting "ballsy" and overestimating her abilities. She also told me it was absolutely fine that she consumes such large amounts of food and water as often as she does, and that she was nursing an adequate amount for her health and weight. She asked if my parents had met Lilah yet, and I told them they still aren't interested, but my brother Nick and I were talking now and he had seen her. She shrugged it off and said it was their loss, and that Lilah has all the grandparents she needs in Dano's parents, having met and been pleased with them at the hospital. She thanked us for the beautiful lily and said her kids would really enjoy seeing it. She told us to take care and left, quietly closing the exam room door behind her, although the sound seemed to echo inside my head.
I wanted to run after her like a child. I wanted to hug her and thank her and tell her I really don't think I could have gotten through so many things without her. I wanted to cry and let her know what a beautiful person she is, and a blessing to all her patients, clearly called to life as a healer. I wanted her to feel responsible for my empowering and magical pregnancy, labor, and delivery of my only child, and let her know how that experience has made me so much more confident as a person and parent to fiercely take on the rest of the world. How that experience has completely transformed me from a scared little girl - one who still relapsed now and then into needing her mother - into a woman - complete and whole - and a mother to a little girl who will never know what it's like to go without one.
I wanted to tell her all that, but I sat frozen and still under the florescent lights. Instead, I gave her a single white lily in hopes that it would say enough.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Has anyone seen my baby?
I haven't seen her lately. I have, however, seen a small creature (usually dressed in footy pajamas) cruising about my house like she owns the place. She is mostly crazy. Lilah Rose has become this strange babbling thing who mocks me for fun. When I had a cold, she would grin at me and fake cough every time I had a fit of coughing. Dano found this wildly hilarious. If she attacks me to chew on my face and I yell for help, she sits back and give a mock shout to rival mine. After months and months of her parents trying to entice her to accept a pacifier with no luck in her early weeks, we gave up and settled for one of our fingers in her mouth to soothe her if she wasn't nursing. In the past few weeks, she discovered a pacifier laying about somewhere and has decided she loves it. To chew on, to throw around, and to suck on (normally upside down). Not at all a pun on my maiden name, but my baby is feral.
Not to say this time in her life isn't enjoyable. Fun would be an understatement. Dano and I often find ourselves breathless with laughter at her shenanigans and antics. I could watch her explore for hours. It's so amazing how the little wheels turn in her head, and how obviously those synapses firing are displayed on her quizzical face. Last night, I came home from work and Dano got her out of her crib so I could nurse her (as much for the benefit of my over-full breasts as for Lilah). After she finished, she spent a good 30 minutes "talking" to us and making strange noises and faces. She's fully convinced she's conversing with us and she's turned into such a mimic. She tries so hard to recreate any word we say to her. If we say "mama", she starts prattling away - "Mama. Ma. Mamama. Maaaaaama." The same goes for any other word blend we say. If she can't make the sound, she either starts into a new topic of conversation or just looks at us and shouts, "Aaaaah!" in a high-pitched, squealy tone.
I have forced her to sit through several hours of holiday favorites. She enjoyed Charlie Brown's Christmas, was indifferent to How the Grinch Stole Christmas other than the Whos breaking into unintelligible song, and barely paused her playtime during Eloise at Christmastime. Her playtime consists of much crawling about into corners previously unexplored by her immobile state. I bought her a lovely little toy called a Busy Ball Popper. While playing a happy tune, a fan uses bursts of air to pop colorful balls into the air, allowing them to momentarily hover before shooting them onto the carpet, theoretically causing the child to give chase to retrieve them. On the box, it proclaimed in large red letters, "Encourages crawling!" I fell prey to clever advertisement, paid my 17 dollars, and set it up on the living room rug. Lilah loved it and had the on-button figured out in less than a day. The only downside to the toy I could see was having a short daughter. She had to sit on her knees to reach the button. "She'll grow," I thought to myself. 24 hours later, Lilah had gone one step further. She had discovered that if she simply placed her hand over the chute where the balls popped out, she could prevent them from being dispersed throughout the room, therefore cutting down on the amount of time needed to go fetch them, put them back in the chute, and do it all over again. I was floored. How did my 9 month old outsmart the Busy Ball Popper in less than 72 hours?
Oh, and not only did she outsmart it, but as I was contemplating writing PlaySkool a letter requesting they take the cleverness level of their toys up a notch, I witness a new revelation dawn on Lilah's face. Rather than sit on her knees to activate the Popper, she could simply turn it on its side and push the button. This turned the toy from a Ball Popper into a Ball Cannon than launched balls at top speeds across the carpet at the cat, whoever happened to be in the way, or simply the wall, causing them to bounce back to her. With a squeal of delight at her discovery, I watch the makings of an Evil Genius. Look out, world.
Not to say this time in her life isn't enjoyable. Fun would be an understatement. Dano and I often find ourselves breathless with laughter at her shenanigans and antics. I could watch her explore for hours. It's so amazing how the little wheels turn in her head, and how obviously those synapses firing are displayed on her quizzical face. Last night, I came home from work and Dano got her out of her crib so I could nurse her (as much for the benefit of my over-full breasts as for Lilah). After she finished, she spent a good 30 minutes "talking" to us and making strange noises and faces. She's fully convinced she's conversing with us and she's turned into such a mimic. She tries so hard to recreate any word we say to her. If we say "mama", she starts prattling away - "Mama. Ma. Mamama. Maaaaaama." The same goes for any other word blend we say. If she can't make the sound, she either starts into a new topic of conversation or just looks at us and shouts, "Aaaaah!" in a high-pitched, squealy tone.
I have forced her to sit through several hours of holiday favorites. She enjoyed Charlie Brown's Christmas, was indifferent to How the Grinch Stole Christmas other than the Whos breaking into unintelligible song, and barely paused her playtime during Eloise at Christmastime. Her playtime consists of much crawling about into corners previously unexplored by her immobile state. I bought her a lovely little toy called a Busy Ball Popper. While playing a happy tune, a fan uses bursts of air to pop colorful balls into the air, allowing them to momentarily hover before shooting them onto the carpet, theoretically causing the child to give chase to retrieve them. On the box, it proclaimed in large red letters, "Encourages crawling!" I fell prey to clever advertisement, paid my 17 dollars, and set it up on the living room rug. Lilah loved it and had the on-button figured out in less than a day. The only downside to the toy I could see was having a short daughter. She had to sit on her knees to reach the button. "She'll grow," I thought to myself. 24 hours later, Lilah had gone one step further. She had discovered that if she simply placed her hand over the chute where the balls popped out, she could prevent them from being dispersed throughout the room, therefore cutting down on the amount of time needed to go fetch them, put them back in the chute, and do it all over again. I was floored. How did my 9 month old outsmart the Busy Ball Popper in less than 72 hours?
Oh, and not only did she outsmart it, but as I was contemplating writing PlaySkool a letter requesting they take the cleverness level of their toys up a notch, I witness a new revelation dawn on Lilah's face. Rather than sit on her knees to activate the Popper, she could simply turn it on its side and push the button. This turned the toy from a Ball Popper into a Ball Cannon than launched balls at top speeds across the carpet at the cat, whoever happened to be in the way, or simply the wall, causing them to bounce back to her. With a squeal of delight at her discovery, I watch the makings of an Evil Genius. Look out, world.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
The Library
Yesterday was the second time I have taken Lilah to the Children's Area of the Peter White Public Library in downtown Marquette. They have an enormous book selection, but we can't take any home without paying a membership fee since we live outside city limits. They also have an arts-and-crafts area (Lilah is a little too small to participate or care). The main appeal for me is the giant, softly-carpeted play area. There are puppets and a puppet-theater, a kitchen with pretend dishes, pots, and pans, a large train play-table, wooden blocks, puzzles, and Lilah's personal favorite - several colorful bead mazes. I like to sit her on the carpet and give her a maze to play with. She alternates between zooming the beads around their metal tracks, attempting to eat the beads and getting told no, and watching the other running, screaming, laughing children play. She never moves or crawls for more toys. She's so engrossed in watching the scene around her, since her usual playmates are her daddy and I and the occasional cousin every couple of months.
To be honest, I'm engrossed in watching as well. The first time we were there, a mother sat down near us with her little girl who was about 12 months old. It only took me about 60 seconds to figure out the mother was actually a man dressed in women's clothes. I'm not sure what's PC and what's not, but I'll say "she", because she really was the girl's mother, even if not biologically. She had an obviously and awkwardly padded bra that kept going crooked and needing adjusted, flowery embroidered jeans, bracelets, earrings, necklaces, women's blouse, and heavily made-up face. She had the build of a man - narrow hips, broad shoulders, angular face with a wide jawline - but what really gave the game up was the stubble from at least a day of not shaving. Dano was pretty taken aback, and I just talked back politely when she struck up a conversation. I actually felt kind of sorry for her. She was obviously trying so desperately to be a woman, and referred to the little girl's father in conversation. The little girl loved her and called her Mommy. Who was I to judge what made them a family? To each his - or her - own.
The second time, it was just me and Lilah. I'll be honest, I've put a little effort into my appearance lately. I really hope this doesn't offend anyone who read this, but I found myself slipping into the "mom" role very easily. Hair thrown back into a pony-tail, lounge-clothes I don't mind getting a little spit up or drool on, and if I'm going out somewhere, a little bit of concealer or eyeliner so I don't look dead. I know full-well that regardless of where we go, all eyes will be on the cute baby who charms all she meets. When people actually address me, they never break eye-contact with Lilah who (though she comes from two unassuming parents) has somehow learned that if she smiles winningly, tips her head "shyly" to one side, and bats her long lashes, people eat it up and fawn all over her. She coos and squeals to reward them, and they think she is "just a doll". All the while, I'm trying not to groan watching how she plays them and thinking, "This doesn't bode well for us." So upon realizing that I'm not that happy with looking like a "soccer mom" as Dano puts it (no offense to any soccer moms), I got my hair cut and styled, got put on some actual makeup, dressed in jeans and a sweater (I'm not a fashionista, by any means), pretty new earrings, and cute brown wedge heels (a poor choice on the slushy sidewalks). Feeling rarely self-confident, I sat down on the carpet next to Lilah and took in the scene around me.
There was a tired-looking woman pacing the bookcases on her cell phone, brushing her son away whenever he bothered her. There was a younger mother with an NMU laptop who answered her son's questions without her eyes ever leaving the screen. There was a grinning, unblinking brunette wearing an over-sized sweatshirt and (yes, really) Carhartt overalls. She was eerily cheerful and took it upon herself to make friends with every other mother. Most perched on the couches like eagles in their eyries, one eye on Oprah's latest book-club novel and one eye on their offspring, clearly poised to fly in at a moment's notice and intervene if necessary. Grinning Mom fluttered from Book Mom to Book Mom exchanging childhood developmental factoids ("So I suggested to him, 'Nathan, that little boy likes trains too. Maybe you should play with him,' and it was like a lightbulb going off! I'm pretty sure I read this is about the age they learn to share. Isn't that just fascinating?") or crock pot recipes ("And the chicken is really moist and tender. It's amazing for little teeth that can't eat big chunks, and even my pickiest one loves it.") or making connections ("Our girls look so adorable playing together! Write down your number and we'll have to get together for a snow day!"). Lilah and I sat in the middle of the carpet, both with one hand on the bead maze, both with two eyes on the room around us, and at least one of us feeling like a complete island. No one said hello, most of them made eye contact, and every one of the ones who did notice me made me feel (possibly completely irrationally) like they were sizing me up. I didn't fit in with the College Moms who were there to keep their kids busy and safe so they could get homework done. I certainly didn't fit in with the Book Moms, not because I didn't enjoy cooking or making new friends, or childhood development, but because it just felt so fake. I'm young and still working on my degree as a mother, but I'm not a single parent just trying to get through school. I'm a mother who loves to do crafts, bake, and keep a clean house, but I'm also a career-minded individual who loves her job. I absolutely love to read, but Oprah's stamp of approval reads "Never touch this book" to me (perhaps out of sheer stubborn will). Honestly, I've had most in common with Cross-Dressing Mom. I feel like I'm in between roles and not sure which one I'm most comfortable assuming. I don't know where I fit in, but somehow, despite all the wonderful toys and kids at Peter White Library, I don't think I'm a Playgroup Mom.
To be honest, I'm engrossed in watching as well. The first time we were there, a mother sat down near us with her little girl who was about 12 months old. It only took me about 60 seconds to figure out the mother was actually a man dressed in women's clothes. I'm not sure what's PC and what's not, but I'll say "she", because she really was the girl's mother, even if not biologically. She had an obviously and awkwardly padded bra that kept going crooked and needing adjusted, flowery embroidered jeans, bracelets, earrings, necklaces, women's blouse, and heavily made-up face. She had the build of a man - narrow hips, broad shoulders, angular face with a wide jawline - but what really gave the game up was the stubble from at least a day of not shaving. Dano was pretty taken aback, and I just talked back politely when she struck up a conversation. I actually felt kind of sorry for her. She was obviously trying so desperately to be a woman, and referred to the little girl's father in conversation. The little girl loved her and called her Mommy. Who was I to judge what made them a family? To each his - or her - own.
The second time, it was just me and Lilah. I'll be honest, I've put a little effort into my appearance lately. I really hope this doesn't offend anyone who read this, but I found myself slipping into the "mom" role very easily. Hair thrown back into a pony-tail, lounge-clothes I don't mind getting a little spit up or drool on, and if I'm going out somewhere, a little bit of concealer or eyeliner so I don't look dead. I know full-well that regardless of where we go, all eyes will be on the cute baby who charms all she meets. When people actually address me, they never break eye-contact with Lilah who (though she comes from two unassuming parents) has somehow learned that if she smiles winningly, tips her head "shyly" to one side, and bats her long lashes, people eat it up and fawn all over her. She coos and squeals to reward them, and they think she is "just a doll". All the while, I'm trying not to groan watching how she plays them and thinking, "This doesn't bode well for us." So upon realizing that I'm not that happy with looking like a "soccer mom" as Dano puts it (no offense to any soccer moms), I got my hair cut and styled, got put on some actual makeup, dressed in jeans and a sweater (I'm not a fashionista, by any means), pretty new earrings, and cute brown wedge heels (a poor choice on the slushy sidewalks). Feeling rarely self-confident, I sat down on the carpet next to Lilah and took in the scene around me.
There was a tired-looking woman pacing the bookcases on her cell phone, brushing her son away whenever he bothered her. There was a younger mother with an NMU laptop who answered her son's questions without her eyes ever leaving the screen. There was a grinning, unblinking brunette wearing an over-sized sweatshirt and (yes, really) Carhartt overalls. She was eerily cheerful and took it upon herself to make friends with every other mother. Most perched on the couches like eagles in their eyries, one eye on Oprah's latest book-club novel and one eye on their offspring, clearly poised to fly in at a moment's notice and intervene if necessary. Grinning Mom fluttered from Book Mom to Book Mom exchanging childhood developmental factoids ("So I suggested to him, 'Nathan, that little boy likes trains too. Maybe you should play with him,' and it was like a lightbulb going off! I'm pretty sure I read this is about the age they learn to share. Isn't that just fascinating?") or crock pot recipes ("And the chicken is really moist and tender. It's amazing for little teeth that can't eat big chunks, and even my pickiest one loves it.") or making connections ("Our girls look so adorable playing together! Write down your number and we'll have to get together for a snow day!"). Lilah and I sat in the middle of the carpet, both with one hand on the bead maze, both with two eyes on the room around us, and at least one of us feeling like a complete island. No one said hello, most of them made eye contact, and every one of the ones who did notice me made me feel (possibly completely irrationally) like they were sizing me up. I didn't fit in with the College Moms who were there to keep their kids busy and safe so they could get homework done. I certainly didn't fit in with the Book Moms, not because I didn't enjoy cooking or making new friends, or childhood development, but because it just felt so fake. I'm young and still working on my degree as a mother, but I'm not a single parent just trying to get through school. I'm a mother who loves to do crafts, bake, and keep a clean house, but I'm also a career-minded individual who loves her job. I absolutely love to read, but Oprah's stamp of approval reads "Never touch this book" to me (perhaps out of sheer stubborn will). Honestly, I've had most in common with Cross-Dressing Mom. I feel like I'm in between roles and not sure which one I'm most comfortable assuming. I don't know where I fit in, but somehow, despite all the wonderful toys and kids at Peter White Library, I don't think I'm a Playgroup Mom.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
And the Holidays are here!
Having just completed our first-ever Thanksgiving with Lilah, I need to pause a moment and catch up on all that has happened since then.
The drive to Detroit was memorable. The time passed quickly, and Lilah was an angel. In between naps, she cooed contentedly and had a running commentary going on everything she saw out the window. We had a wonderful Thanksgiving. All the ladies helped cook (me, Kim, Ann, and Kate), the men manned (no pun intended) the small ones, Max did the dishes, and Adam cooked the turkey. It was a splendid effort all around. I learned two things this Thanksgiving. Lesson #1 - don't drink two glasses of wine before cooking a pumpkin cheesecake and Lesson #2 - don't cook said cheesecake with the help of 2 and 5 year old nephews. The explanation...
After my two glasses of wine, Zedd, Ephraim, and I undertook the cheesecake task. My head was merrily buzzing, but I was cooking, not driving, right? What could possibly go wrong? I read and re-read the directions I had scrawled down on an already-stained sheet of notebook paper. I had gathered my ingredients and measured as carefully as my fuzzy concentration would allow, all the while trying to keep small fingers out of the batter and supplies. I noticed a funny smell and realized with horror that in my hand being sprinkled generously into the batter was cayene pepper and not cinnamon at all. I stopped and scooped out what I could find. Zedd asked what I was doing and I told him I had accidentally grabbed the wrong spice. "Great. So it's going to be ruined now?" he asked, his 5 year old blue eyes filled to the brim with judgement. "No, it shouldn't be." I don't think he believed me. We added the three (yes three) packages of cream cheese, one for each of us. Zedd and I unwrapped them without any issues and were trying to free them of their foil wrappers when I glanced over to check Ephraim's progress. He had taken a largish bite out of the brick of cream cheese and was munching happily on it. "EJ! We don't eat bites out of the cream cheese!" He flashed me a creamy grin. "I like it, Auntie Allison!" After it was all said and done, it turned out fine (although it was almost ruined when the bottom fell out of the pan, but I saved it with my amazing reflex skills). It was a little spicy, but I blamed it on the ginger and wasn't even teased very much.
Lilah learned to really-and-truly crawl while we were there. We had a nice visit with the Sherfield and Severn families in Coldwater, and Dano took Lilah to the Build-A-Bear Workshop where he assisted her in the creation of her very first teddy. I finished her Christmas shopping. The ride back was a little more trying (mostly because Lilah decided that sleeping in the car was for squares, and also that she had no intention of being in her carseat for more than 2 hours at a time without wailing), but we made it back to the UP nonetheless more or less intact.
We now eagerly await Christmas. I work afternoon shift Christmas Day, but we'll have a nice Christmas morning and I get double time and a half holiday pay, so I'll live. It's not like Lilah has any idea what's actually going on. As far as she's concerned, she's seen a lot of brightly colored packages of toys being ferried into the house and out of her reach, and she is not pleased.
The drive to Detroit was memorable. The time passed quickly, and Lilah was an angel. In between naps, she cooed contentedly and had a running commentary going on everything she saw out the window. We had a wonderful Thanksgiving. All the ladies helped cook (me, Kim, Ann, and Kate), the men manned (no pun intended) the small ones, Max did the dishes, and Adam cooked the turkey. It was a splendid effort all around. I learned two things this Thanksgiving. Lesson #1 - don't drink two glasses of wine before cooking a pumpkin cheesecake and Lesson #2 - don't cook said cheesecake with the help of 2 and 5 year old nephews. The explanation...
After my two glasses of wine, Zedd, Ephraim, and I undertook the cheesecake task. My head was merrily buzzing, but I was cooking, not driving, right? What could possibly go wrong? I read and re-read the directions I had scrawled down on an already-stained sheet of notebook paper. I had gathered my ingredients and measured as carefully as my fuzzy concentration would allow, all the while trying to keep small fingers out of the batter and supplies. I noticed a funny smell and realized with horror that in my hand being sprinkled generously into the batter was cayene pepper and not cinnamon at all. I stopped and scooped out what I could find. Zedd asked what I was doing and I told him I had accidentally grabbed the wrong spice. "Great. So it's going to be ruined now?" he asked, his 5 year old blue eyes filled to the brim with judgement. "No, it shouldn't be." I don't think he believed me. We added the three (yes three) packages of cream cheese, one for each of us. Zedd and I unwrapped them without any issues and were trying to free them of their foil wrappers when I glanced over to check Ephraim's progress. He had taken a largish bite out of the brick of cream cheese and was munching happily on it. "EJ! We don't eat bites out of the cream cheese!" He flashed me a creamy grin. "I like it, Auntie Allison!" After it was all said and done, it turned out fine (although it was almost ruined when the bottom fell out of the pan, but I saved it with my amazing reflex skills). It was a little spicy, but I blamed it on the ginger and wasn't even teased very much.
Lilah learned to really-and-truly crawl while we were there. We had a nice visit with the Sherfield and Severn families in Coldwater, and Dano took Lilah to the Build-A-Bear Workshop where he assisted her in the creation of her very first teddy. I finished her Christmas shopping. The ride back was a little more trying (mostly because Lilah decided that sleeping in the car was for squares, and also that she had no intention of being in her carseat for more than 2 hours at a time without wailing), but we made it back to the UP nonetheless more or less intact.
We now eagerly await Christmas. I work afternoon shift Christmas Day, but we'll have a nice Christmas morning and I get double time and a half holiday pay, so I'll live. It's not like Lilah has any idea what's actually going on. As far as she's concerned, she's seen a lot of brightly colored packages of toys being ferried into the house and out of her reach, and she is not pleased.
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