Somewhere Over the Rainbow

My Grandma S died last night. She was 98 years old, and ornery all the way up til the end. At least, that's how I imagine it. Actually, she died quietly in her sleep after a short illness. I wasn't there (and don't know how I could have been) and I regret it a little.

We did get to see her on our East Coast Odyssey last August-September. She got to meet Nola, and afterward apparently talked her up to whomever would listen. She kept several pictures of Nola on her nightstand. When we were there, Oprah was blaring on the TV and Grandma was criticizing Tina Turner and Cher. We took a few pictures that Grandma was NOT happy with, then, having nothing left to say, we left.

It was a short visit, but it meant a lot to me, and I think to Grandma, for Nola to meet her. They both have a feisty spirit. They look the same; I look like my Grandma, and Nola looks like me. And there is something private and contrary in each of us. Nola is blessed with her father's love of laughter and silliness, which leavens our dour Scandinavian-ness a bit. So I hope her life will be a little more Harold Ramis and a little less Ingmar Bergman.

My Grandma isn't getting a funeral; she wanted to be cremated and that's it. So I decided to put on some Iz and say goodbye in my own way, just thinking of her. While I was thinking, Nola was squiggling on the floor, smiling and giggling, and I thought about how Grandma lives on in her, and how wonderful my baby girl is, and how wonderful life is, and this is what Grandma made. I picked Nola up and hugged her tight, and while I was feeling all warm and fuzzy, Nola knocked over the glass of milk sitting beside me.

Milk ran all over the couch, onto my fancy pillow, and spread across the seat of my pants and into my underwear. Everything had to be changed and washed, and I thought maybe Grandma was playing a joke on me, for being so foolish and sentimental.

Sorry, Grandma, but I'll never forget you, I will always love you, and you'll just have to deal with my warm, fuzzy vibes for a little while yet. XOXOXO Grandma S, 7/4/1910-1/15/2008.

Spring training is just one month away...

And Nola is ready! She'd like to congratulate Jim Rice, Red Sox great, for his election to the Hall of Fame.

I'm so happy! Yes! I'm so happy!

That's a refrain from a church song my first boss, an African-American woman, taught me. I've been singing it since last night.

All yesterday felt like Christmas morning, the part before dawn when I'd wait at the top of the second floor steps. At breakfast, my parents would wake up and tell me it was OK to go downstairs, but until then I'd wait impatiently and think of the joy to come, but not really be able to see it yet.

Yesterday at 10 p.m., I felt that joy again, and it was just like Christmas. The Svendlor household shed a tear or two. Yes, we are very, very happy today.

Solid!

Onesie explosion

Me: Holy over-consumption, Nola! You sure do have a lot of onesies!

BabyLady: Um, mom? Would that be because you just bought fifteen of them?

Me: Yeah, but, Nola! You can't pass up a pack of five onesies for $8!

BabyLady: I'll go along with that. But three packs?

Me: Er, well, one pack was the same 0-3 month onesies I just packed away. It's so hard to say goodbye to those cute little outfits. So I guess I was kind of trying to revisit your newborn days with that purchase.

BabyLady: And the other two packs?

Me: Jeez, what is this, the Inquisition? All right, Nola, it's totally true that I didn't need to get those. Or all the Zutano. Or all the Tea Collection stuff. But I'd been slobbering over those designer clothes for months and yet I could never justify spending so much money on a piece of baby clothing that you'd only wear for three months. But if said baby clothing is 70% off...

BabyLady: Yeah, I'm on to you, mommy. It's hard to resist. But weren't you just talking to daddy about how cheap clothing is probably being made by child slaves in China? At $1.60 a piece, I doubt this onesie I'm wearing is feeding a family of four.

Me: Wait. You're a baby -- you can't remember previous conversations!

BabyLady: On the Interwebs I can. And stop evading the question.

Me: Whatever. I might have said that. But you just look so cute in that orange-stripe onesie and the pear-print overalls! For myself, I just don't care too much about clothing these days...

BabyLady: Obviously.

Me: Jeez, already with the smart mouth. Anyway, I guess I do idealize you a bit, with your super-sweet smile and all. I still think happy clothing will actually make you happy.

BabyLady: Mommy, I'm so disappointed. I'm pretty sure one day you're going to tell me repeatedly that happiness comes from actions, not consumerist fantasies.

Me: When you're older and your clothes start getting more expensive, you bet I will!

BabyLady: On the bright side, along with my other outfits you only need to do laundry once every month. That's not so bad.

Me: Sigh... unfortunately, your dad and I would run out of underwear in about one week.

Pauvre Nous*

* This is where I teach Nola French AND how to whine.

Long ago, pre-BabyLady, we had a choice between two apartments. One was kinda small, and kinda dark, and kinda far from the train, but had an awesome gourmet kitchen and central air. The other, the one we chose, was large, very sunny, and right near the L. We loved all the southern exposure windows, even if it got a little hot in the summer. And I really hated central air anyway, having grown up in Maine and gotten used to feeling a part of nature in the summer.

Well. Now we *do* have BabyLady, and boy my outlook has changed. I spend all day now in this hot, hot apartment. Because the rest of the apartment has an open floor plan, the only rooms we can air condition using window units are the two bedrooms. And we're afraid to install AC #2 in the second bedroom because we're not eager to go through all that trouble when, used in conjunction with AC #1, it might blow a fuse. So poor Nola hasn't seen much this past week besides the inside of our 12X14 bedroom.

I suppose I shouldn't complain; some apartments in New York are not much larger than our one little bedroom. And surely many people in Burma/Myanmar would just love to have our problems. But it's humid and I'm cranky, so here goes with a few more complaints:

-- The wonderful southern exposure is made possible by the fact that our entire apartment faces the street. It never really seemed that loud before, but when you've got a 4 month old napping, every rumbling diesel truck, booming car stereo and barking dog could mean the premature end of said nap, and a cranky baby.

-- The quaintly 80's-themed kitchen (mmm... wood laminate... tan tile...) never bothered me until I had to spread out bottles, lunchbox and dinner fixins all on its 6 linear feet of counter space. The floor is permanently filthy; I've tried scrubbing and scrubbing at its darker patches to no avail. Water somehow runs from the dishrack and pools in front of the sink, but I always forget this, leading to a nice, urine-sized stain on the crotch.

-- Filth in general, now that we have a baby, tends to bother me more. Little pieces of Bella litter now seem like enticing choking hazards. Our messy office area, once tucked away in the second bedroom, is now out in the open, in the sunroom, for me to see and sigh over every day. And let's not even speak of the bathroom.

One thing that's almost universally true in America is nobody's ever happy with what they've got. I don't really blame anyone but myself for my less than glamorous apartment hovel. I made a whole bunch of choices that valued being the moment instead of preparing for the future and saving gobs of money. I still stand by those choices: I've had an amazing life and paid attention to every minute of it. I know Charlie feels the same. We would rather be slightly under-privileged in stuff and yet privileged with lots of time for our little girl. It's a hard current to swim against in this country, but we're trying.

311 Is a Joke

While Nola sleeps off her latest vaccine bender, I thought I'd hang out in our sun room, listening to the lovely babbling brook below. What? you say. I thought Svendlor lived in Chicago, and not near the river -- what is this brook you speak of?

Well, we had a big rainstorm last weekend. Drains were overflowing, water was pouring down the streets. Fine, but this kept going on our street well into Monday, and then Tuesday, etc. Charlie investigated, and found something cracked near a fire hydrant up the street. He said it actually looks like a natural spring, just a couple of holes in the street with water streaming up and out of them. A dutiful citizen, he called 311 and was told, oh, we already know about this; we're on it.

So here we are, on Friday, and gallons of water per second are still rushing down our street, pooling for a moment at the corner where we live, then running down a storm drain. It really is an authentically brook-ish sounding babble. But an ecological nightmare. OK, maybe nightmare is too strong a word. An ecological misfortune? Disappointment?

Which makes me wonder: why do we live in the city? Certainly not for the great night life, which, while it exists, is not particularly baby-friendly, and our whole lives revolve around a certain little girl at the moment. I guess I just don't picture myself as a suburban person. I've never lived in a suburb (unless you count Berkeley, California, as a suburb; I don't). They just seem a bad combination of blandness and neuroticism about the blandness. Yes, I'm sure you can live a decent, happy life in the suburbs, just so far, it hasn't been our style.

We'd like our kid to see different kinds of people and different ways of living. For instance, today on the bus, Nola got to see a huge cross-section of Chicago humanity. She sat in her stroller in a corner, scoping out the passengers, looking entranced the whole time. We met a nice old lady named Angie who was a gerontologist/sex therapist and knew allll about babies. It was fun. I don't think we'd have had the same experience sealed up in a car, puttering down some exurban boulevard to one of those box-like office complexes.

So, we put up with the babbling brook for now. And, if the city stays true to form, they'll find the loudest way possible to fix that water leak bright and early at 7:30 a.m. (See: November 2004, gas goes out just as we're cooking Thanksgiving dinner).