collecting tokens

I’ve been having a hard time wrapping my head around something. I’m going to be having a son.

I joked a while back about the reassurance that an ultrasound would provide that I was not incubating “some sort of tentacled alien spawn.” But, aside from reassuring me that creature had the correct number and arrangement of limbs to be classified as human, it also revealed to us an appendage that I had not anticipated. It seems that I have been, in fact, incubating some sort of testacled alien spawn.

It’s come as quite a surprise to me just how much of a surprise this is to me. I mean, I have known all along that it was a possibility.

And yet somehow, I didn’t really think it would happen.

I left that ultrasound appointment feeling someone stunned. Surprised. In mild shock. And I will admit here, and please don’t attack me for this, even somewhat disappointed.

That seems so harsh. Disappointed? The poor little guy hasn’t even been born yet, and already I’m disappointed in him? That hardly seems fair.

“I guess we won’t be reusing Phoebe’s dresses,” I’ve said. But of course, even though I’d love to hold on to some of those cute girl clothes a bit longer, my feelings aren’t really based on wardrobe.

So I’ve been thinking a lot about what’s going on here. And I’ve realized that there are a lot of things going on.

Ever since I was little, I imagined that someday I’d be a mother. The specific circumstances of this motherhood status were typically murky, especially with respect to the role of a father in these imaginings. But always, I imagined that I would have 2 girls. Just like in my family.

Growing up, and moving around so much as I did, my closest friend was always my sister. We were, and still are, very close. It always seemed the natural order of things.

Somehow, I always imagined I’d reproduce this pattern, when I got around to reproducing.

I realize that even if I were to have a second girl, the individuals wouldn’t necessarily have had the relationship that my sister and I had. I know, of course, that Phoebe is not a new version of my sister, and that a second daughter wouldn’t be a new version of me. And yet I feel like I’m saying goodbye to that person that never existed outside my head.

And then there’s the fact that boys were largely unknown to me growing up. My immediate family consisted of me, my mother, and my sister. The next most involved family member was my grandmother. Obviously, there had been males around at various points. But by and large, we were a family of females. Even the cousins I saw most often were girls.

My father was around for my first 6 years, and then died. Both grandfathers had already died at that point. There were uncles I’d see for a few days every few years. There were boy cousins that I’d met here and there. There were stepfathers and boyfriends of my mother’s. But mostly, these males never felt part of my own life. They were visitors, or passers-by. I knew boys at my various schools, but was never even friends with any till high school. It wasn’t till college that I had any close relationships with men.

I realized, in my various ponderings, that John is the first male to have been in my life in any significant way for more than the 6 years that my life overlapped with my father’s. And John has even passed that number by another 10 years, clocking in now at 16 years.

And I sure am glad that John is here to share this experience with me. Because, among other things, John has some experience with growing up around boys. In fact, he even grew up as a boy.

I find myself continuing to be surprised that we’ll be having a boy, still avoiding using the gendered pronoun even now that it’s weeks since the revelation. And I question whether this leads me to feel a bit more detached from the pregnancy than I was the first time around. Or maybe it’s just that I’m so busy right now, and that I’ve been feeling pretty bad physically.

I am certain that I’ll come to love him fiercely as I love Phoebe. And I expect that there will come a time when I won’t be able to imagine things any other way, and when I can’t imagine my life without him.

Phoebe has finally understood the menacing force that threatens her.

And what might this monstrous being be? Let me give you a description. Brace yourself: this is not for the weak of heart.

Height: about 29 inches of terror
Weight: a crushing 20 pounds
Mobility: 4 limbs, used for slithering and/or crawling
Distinguing traits: Smiles a lot. Some propensity for drooling.

Evil, thy name is K!

K, you see, is an eleven-month-old little boy at daycare. Who has been going there since he was only a few months old. He is one of two baby boys that started around the same time. He’s not a terribly demanding baby. He smiles a lot. And he is apparently threatening to destroy Phoebe’s happiness. (Oddly, the slightly older other baby boy, J, is the one that cries a lot and demand more attention. But he is not a threat.)

Here are K’s terrifying modes of attack:
1) Touching toys that Phoebe is playing with: “K touch cookies! Waaah!”
2) Touching toys that Phoebe might want to play with: “K touch beads! Waaaaaah!”
3) Touching other things. Let me give you the blow by blow the worst transgression. You see, I usually sit down and play with Phoebe for a couple of minutes when I pick her up at daycare, to help ease the transition. So one afternoon, I sat on the floor next to Phoebe to see what she was doing. And then it happened. Horror of horrors, K crawled over and touched…my jacket. That I was wearing. And he smiled at me. The reaction, as befits such horrific trauma, was immediate and vocal. “K touch Mommy. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! K TOUCH MOMMY!!!! WAAAAAH!”

I’ve mentioned before that Phoebe has been crying more, which has been a bit trying. If we wanted to do so, we could get her to cry with the merest suggestion that she play with K. She sometimes talks about the traumatic experiences she has had, late at night, or while playing at home. “K touch the cookies! I cry! K touch Mommy. [Dramatic sob.]”

This battle of wills has evolved to the point where Phoebe will burst into tears as soon as K arrives at daycare, smiling that horrible smile.

And who knows what dastardly plans that little tot will devise next?

I ate a bunch of peeps this morning. It was not my intention. But the onslaught of references to peeps I have seen in the past few days has pushed me over the edge. I bought a single package of the things last week, intending to put them in Phoebe’s Easter basket, as her one candy item. (She gets really wired from chocolate, so we tend to avoid it.) But then I didn’t actually manage to get a basket together, barely managed to even dye some eggs, and so I still had this package of peeps sitting around. I don’t often eat marshmallows, due to the gelatin. But I do love their squishiness. But after the 10 seconds that it took me to shovel half a package of them into my mouth, I am left with an extended feeling of ickiness.

Aside from that, I’m feeling a bit queasy from the many other things going on in my life. John has been uber-busy with his work. And I’m feeling the pressure of work, too. I mentioned that various subsets of my research group have been accepted for 3 conference presentations. Well, two of these will be at the same conference, which is now just over 2 weeks away.

The third presentation will be in early May at a conference in Brazil. Currently I’m in the process of getting my visa application together. (Because they don’t take American Express.) The process makes me a bit nervous, as I fear that if I don’t get the application right, things will be delayed excessivley, and I won’t get to go. I’m also both very excited and somewhat nervous about the trip.

Phoebe has also been serving up some challenges lately. She has been crying and whining a lot more than is her custom. She has now started crying when I drop her off at daycare. Last week, things were apparently not the greatest at daycare. I thought it was because she was a bit sick. But she’s back in good health now, from all other indications. Even at home, she will sometimes cry, for example, when I say I have to go to the bathroom. As you might imagine, this is a fairly frequent occurrence. And it doesn’t even matter if I say she can come with me. I think this may be contributing to my overall level of tiredness, which leads to me sometimes falling asleep while telling Phoebe her usual post-bath, post-book, in-crib bedtime “stories.” I say “stories” because often she just wants me to tell her about dogs, her playgroup, Grammy’s house, or (and thankfully this is losing favor) the radiator at daycare.

Another thing on my mind is the appointment I have tomorrow for my big 18-week ultrasound. While I am, of course, concerned with the health and well-being of the creature within, and will be glad to have reassurance that it is not some sort of tentacled alien spawn, I am also terribly curious about the other information that they will be able to determine. In a recent comment, Mme. M asked whether I would “…be finding out if the little peanut has a cheeseburger or a hot dog?” That is certainly my general intention. But rather than go for the meat (bi-)product metaphors, I’ll go for some fruit imagery instead.

So, which will it be?

Sorry if you are looking for a list, or even any sort of entertainment. It’s Thursday, and therefore I’m due for a ThThTh list. It’s in progress, but damn those things take a lot longer to put together than you might expect. A list will be up much later today. What follows can be happily ignored by anyone who doesn’t enjoy reading about the crankiness of dealing with a toddler.

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I’m feeling less-than-fully functional today. Phoebe and I had a bad night. I didn’t mention in last night’s post that John had to run off to get a meeting this morning. In California. So he was gone last night, and will be gone tonight. I also think that Phoebe’s been teething. The biting is one clue. She’s also been drooling and sticking her hands and other things in her mouth a lot, which she’s not generally prone to anymore. For whatever reason, she woke up twice last night. Once about half an hour after she went to bed, and then a little after midnight. (As in just when I was going to get to bed.) I just could not get her to settle down.

We talked. I dosed her with Motrin. I held her. I rocked her. I sang to her. But every time I went to put her in her crib, she’d cry again. I tried leaving her, and she screamed and screamed. I went back after a few minutes, and am not pleased with myself that I snapped at her that it was time to stop crying. (I was tired. Sorry. I have a temper.) So then I started right in with the soothing and snuggling and talking, and she seemed to settle. But still objected to going back in her crib.

I asked if she was sad that Daddy wasn’t here, and she said “yeah.” So we called John. (It was only 10:30 or so California time, and John’s ususally up half the night anyhow.) He talked. He soothed.

I put Phoebe in her crib. I sang. I talked about things she likes me to talk about. Then I said it was time to go, just like I do every single night. She usually lets out a sob as I walk out the door, just to pull at my heart strings, but then goes to sleep quietly. But last night, at 2:00, she started screaming. And screaming more. I haven’t left her crying for ages. I don’t even know how long it’s been. (Yes, we did a version of the dreaded Ferberization way back when. Dr. Sears can bite me.) But I thought maybe she’d settle down without me. I went back in after 10 minutes, and got her quiet again. But the screams started in once more. I went back in and she was saying “Mommy room. Mommy room.” “You want to go to Mommy’s room?” I asked. (I swore I’d never talk about myself in the third person, but deictic pronouns are tricky beasts.) She said, “yeah.”

I caved. I brought her to bed with me. I was desperate for sleep. I couldn’t keep my eyes open. She eventually stopped squirming enough to fall asleep. At least, she appeared to be just waking up when she woke me up crying at 6:45.

Now I wonder if this will come back to bite me. She really does sleep best on her own. And she’s generally a good sleeper.

Happily, she went to daycare this morning, and I was able to get a bit more sleep. I am “working” from home today, but haven’t been able to defog my brain sufficiently. I do have a conference call at 3:30, so will need to kick into high gear.

I hope that tonight goes better, because I have to drive the two of us down to New York tomorrow. John’s dad is going back home, after over a year in various hospitals and rehab hospitals. John will be going right to New York from his trip, following his red-eye flight to Newark, rather than going home first, so that he can be there to help. Phoebe and I will go down later in the day. Our eyes may well be red, too.

I really should get to bed. But I’ve been remiss in posting updates on stuff that’s going on. I’m not sure exactly who’s interested, but one of my goals of this here blog has been to record some sort of chronicle of my life. So I give you a bit more info on the ever-expanding bagel of my life, and some details about where all my cream cheese is going.

Things have continued to be pretty busy of late. John has been very busy with various things for work. I’ve been busy with things for work. Did I mention that all 3 abstracts that my research group submitted in the past few months have been accepted to conferences? This is thrilling, but also somewhat daunting. And while I have been heavily involved in the research for each of those three projects, none of them actually touch directly on the research that I need to be doing to work towards my degree. Which means that I’m also needing to keep busy with a fourth major project. And there are other less pressing ongoing projects going on, too. It all keeps me quite busy with the juggling. (And I’m quite clumsy with juggling. I blame gravity.)

And then there is always the ongoing project Phoebe. She is a lot of fun most of the time, but we have also been going through some rather trying times. She is a toddler, you see. And she is testing her limits. Just about every transition in activities, she raises an objection. She doesn’t want to get out of her crib, get into her crib, have her diaper changed, get dressed, get her coat on, go to daycare, leave daycare, get into the bath, get out of the bath. And unfortunately, she has expressed her frustration with such events by means of her teeth on more than one occasion. By that I mean that she has bitten. Sometimes she will bite a toy, but a couple of other times, she has bitten (or started to bite) me. And that really bites. Do you have any idea how sharp those little teeth are? It’s only been a few times, mostly limited to one day. (There was a previous time when she bit my arm while I was out shopping with a friend. Even through my layered winter sleeves, the bite broke the skin and left a bruise.)

On the positive side, Phoebe has been talking up a storm lately, and it is wonderful to finally learn what is going on in that little mind. I’ve been meaning to write a bit about what happened during and since our assessment for early intervention, but I haven’t been finding a lot of time and energy to write. The short version is that she qualified for services based on a 5-month delay in her expressive ablilities. (Her receptive language, on the other hand, was measured at being at least 6 months ahead of her age.) We started having meetings with a speech therapist in January, and also attending a “play group.” But by the time we had our first one-on-one meeting, Phoebe had already started to leap forward in her expressive language. And since then, it’s been pretty amazing to watch. She’s been talking a lot, and producing quite complex multi-word utterances. We’ve had so few meetings that it’s hard to attribute much of the progress to early intervention, but who knows. Perhaps it was just the push she needed. I hope to write more about Phoebe’s language development soon, because it’s so damn cool.

Phoebe’s last doctor’s appointment was a while ago now. Her 18 month appointment. (She’s now 21 months old.)

For those of you who haven’t taken a baby on a well visit to the doctor, they tend to follow a predictable pattern, at least in our experience. You go into a room strip the baby down. A nurse weighs the baby, and measures the baby’s length and head circumference. Then you wait a bit and the pediatrician comes in. She looks over the measurements, and pokes and prods the baby. Looks in ears and mouth, listens to lungs and heart. Asks questions about development. How much milk does she drink? Does she still drink from a bottle? Eating solid foods? Using a spoon? Is she babbling? Yodling? Falling asleep on her own? Crawling? Walking? Dancing?

We answer the questions, and it being us, we joke around a bit with the doctor. Happily, she has a sense of humor and understands when we are joking. The visit goes pretty uneventfully, typically. We learn that Phoebe is big and tall for her age. We rattle off some of her accomplishments. Things are all smooth sailing till the doctor leaves and the nurse comes in to give the shots. And then it’s over till next time.

But this last time there were a couple of things that caught me by surprise. One was that the doctor heard a heart murmur. And the other was that she thought that Phoebe’s speech was lagging.

After the visit, we got the referral for the cardiologist to check on the murmur. We weren’t too worried, as the doctor didn’t think it was likely to be a troublesome murmur. But of course we followed through. We wouldn’t take risks with Phoebe’s heart. We sought the expert opinion. And the cardiologist confirmed that the murmur is completely benign.

The speech part of the story is ongoing.

Phoebe is a quiet child, for the most part. She takes after her parents. She started saying a few words at around 12 months old, and over the following months added quite a lot of words. But the thing is, she would use a word for a day or two, and then move on to the next word. We wouldn’t hear the word again in most cases. Turtle was a favorite word for quite a while, and then yellow, and then uh-oh. And there would be all sorts of other words she’d use only once or twice, often carefully articulating. Shoe. Puzzle. Rubberband. She spent a whole day working on getting the production of hat just right, getting the /h/, and the vowel and fully released /t/ out there in a careful sequence.

So when the doctor asked for a list of words that Phoebe used regularly and consistently, we didn’t really have much of a list to offer. That wasn’t what Phoebe was doing. We could remember maybe 2 or 3 words. Ball. Uh-oh. No. There were a couple of signs and gestures, too.

What’s funny is that I have studied language development in classes, and have read a textbook or two, and attended lots of conference talks on the subject. But up to that visit, I hadn’t really given much thought to whether Phoebe’s development was on schedule. I had noticed that Phoebe was not doing the things the textbooks had described, but I figured that intro textbooks tend to overgeneralize, and that individual babies have different patterns. Actually, I still think this is the case. Phoebe was using language productively, and showing remarkable comprehension of even quite complex sentences and structures. It hadn’t occurred to me to worry. So when the doctor mentioned that she thought Phoebe was behind in her speech, and that she recommended that we get an evaluation for early intervention, I was quite startled. My first first reaction was that this wasn’t necessary. But I agreed that we would take the information and consider it before the next well visit, which wouldn’t be till Phoebe turns two.

The doctor said that at 18 months, a child should be using at least 5 or 6 words consistently. I thought our list wasn’t that far off, especially as we drove home from that visit. I remembered a few more words here and there. I realized that had I been more fully prepared, I could have presented a list of 6 or so words. And perhaps the doctor would have just taken the list as adequate to meet the criteria of her checklist.

John was a late talker. His mother doesn’t remember the details of when he started talking, but remembers that she had a sign up over his bed saying that Einstein didn’t talk till he was 4 years old, or some such. John’s family says that once he started talking, he was using complete sentences. So it doesn’t seem too surprising that Phoebe is taking after her father. She has been a cautious child, much like John was, I’m told.

But the truth is, I’ve had murmurs of doubt. I know that children do vary a lot in their paths through language development. I’ve seen that other kids were much more verbal at Phoebe’s age, and even younger. A baby who lives next door to John’s parents was producing about 60 words consistently by the time she was 14 months. A friend’s daughter was saying all kinds of words when I’d seen her when she was 16 months, making requests, chattering away. I don’t necessarily think Phoebe needs to be as verbal as those other kids, but I sometimes wonder.

She does a lot of pointing. We do a lot of 20 questions, trying to figure out what she wants. We communicate quite a lot, and things go quite smoothly most of the time. She makes observations. She names objects. She responds to questions. She’s produced a few two-word combinations. There are times when she says fairly long things which we can mostly decipher, though other times when we have no idea. She has lately even gotten better at producing words on request, as in answering “what’s that?” or “what does a dog say?” And she’ll say “please,” now, on request. Which is so freakin’ cute I can’t even tell you.

She’ll say “more” if she wants something, and point, but beyond that it’s as if she hasn’t fully figured out that she can use words to make requests. She’s been getting better at this, though. But still, every once in a while, she gets frustrated. I can’t tell what she’s pointing at. Or guess what she wants to do.

I sometimes read about the verbal progress of kids Phoebe’s age, or younger, and I feel little pangs. I know she’ll be talking soon enough. But I do sometimes get impatient to reach that next stage. And I would really love it if she called me something. She knows I’m Mommy, but she never calls me that. She doesn’t call for me. For a while she called me Ada, which I realized came from “other.” (Maybe I’ll share the story some time.) She has said Daddy for a while, but there was a stretch when she’d use it to mean “good-bye.” She’s now started to say “bye,” but may have stopped saying Daddy.

Anyhow, the upshot is that we are having the early intervention evaluation. I realized that even though I know quite a bit about language development, I am not an expert, and I certainly don’t have a clinical background. I didn’t feel like the suggestion that we see a cardiologist was somehow a criticism of us or our parenting abilities, so it shouldn’t be any different for this. I still have this nagging feeling that they’ll tell us we’re doing something wrong, or that they’ll tell us we’re overreacting. And while I have decided that I am 85% sure that they will think that Phoebe is on track, I have realized that I don’t want to withhold from Phoebe anything that might be beneficial to her, such as early intervention services. Certainly not out of some sense of pride.

So some people are coming over to our house bright and early tomorrow morning. (Or this morning, if you want to get technical, since it’s after midnight.) Which means I should be cleaning, and not writing this. Because I can’t quite get over the feeling that they will be evaluating us, and not just Phoebe’s language.

Phoebe loves music. She loves to listen to music, and sing and dance. Her tastes are quite varied, ranging from the playful to the serious. For example, she enjoys the electronic beep-bop music that comes out of a plastic ball that flashes lights, as well as classical music played at an outdoor concert. She is also partial to the music of various contemporary musicians, including Tom Waits, Innocence Mission, and Kristin Hersh.

When she was a little baby, only a few months old, her absolute favorite song was “Thief,” by Belly. It was a song that John and I both listened to a lot, and sang along with, from the time Phoebe was in utero. We’d sing it to her as a lullaby, and sing it to her to soothe her at various times when she was fussy. When she was really riled, only “Thief” would do to calm her. I’d sing it, sometimes over and over again, and she’d sit quietly and listen. The moment I’d stop, or try another song, she’d cry.

She later became a bit more flexible in her taste in lullabies. John would usually sing “The Ants Go Marching.” I settled in to singing “Baby’s boat’s a silver moon,” a song my mother used to sing to me, and that her father used to sing to her. Later, we switched to Sandra Boynton’s “Silly Lullaby” (from Philadelphia Chickens). Then one night, not so long ago, Phoebe stopped wanting me to sing to her at night. I’d try various songs, and Phoebe would shake her head and say “no.” Which made me pretty sad.

Lately, Phoebe’s been hooked on The Flaming Lips. We have a DVD of their music videos, and Phoebe loves it. The songs include “Phoebe Battles the Pink Robots,” which is Phoebe’s official theme song. She likes that song, but her favorite song now seems to be “Do You Realize.” In fact, she likes it so much, she has even let me sing it to her as a lullaby.

And now, to borrow a page from Tabba, who shares a song each week, I will share with you Phoebe’s latest favorite song:

“Do You Realize,” by The Flaming Lips

Tonight, my brain is tired. Very tired. Sleep deprived. Stressed.

We’ve come down to New York to visit John’s parents, since we haven’t been down here since before our big trip to Europe. It’s been about 2 months. We drove down last night. Left later than we meant. Hit more traffic than we anticipated. Arrived after midnight.

Phoebe slept in the car on the way down. And I largely did, too. (You’ll be happy to know that I wasn’t the one driving.) So the car sleep was dandy. But then, we were up. And visiting with Phoebe’s Grammy. And there were new toys. (Actually, some old toys that were John’s when he was little. But exciting and new to Phoebe.) There were delays of getting our stuff together, and putting together the travel crib.

Before we knew it, it was 2:00 a.m. While this may still be before last call at some bars, it’s a time of day that some might consider to be late for a toddler to be up. So we worked on winding back down. Pajamas. Reading books. A sippy cup of milk.

But Phoebe would not wind down. NOT. Nope. Nuh-uh. She was Awake. Wired. And when she realized that we were conspiring towards getting her into bed, she was also Not Happy. We had screaming and sobs the likes of which we had not seen or heard in many a month. The long and short of it was that it was 4:00 before she (and we) got to sleep.

She did sleep as late as 8:00 this morning, but all in all, it wasn’t enough sleep for her. So it was a bit of a rough day. And then tonight, we got home late too. (From visiting John’s dad and then picking up dinner from my favorite restaurant in the universe.) Not as late, but Phoebe had fallen asleep in the car and was Unhappy to be Awake, but Unwilling to be Asleep.

So the upshot is that now I am tired. And feel that I barely have half a brain left with which to function. But I did come across this test at Azahar’s place that lets me know a bit more about the halves of my brain. (Apparently, I’m supposed to have two halves.) It looks like I’m more right-brained. I thought I was more half-and-half brained. Or perhaps sometimes just half-brained.

You Are 30% Left Brained, 70% Right Brained

The left side of your brain controls verbal ability, attention to detail, and reasoning. Left brained people are good at communication and persuading others. If you’re left brained, you are likely good at math and logic. Your left brain prefers dogs, reading, and quiet. The right side of your brain is all about creativity and flexibility. Daring and intuitive, right brained people see the world in their unique way. If you’re right brained, you likely have a talent for creative writing and art. Your right brain prefers day dreaming, philosophy, and sports.

Phoebe and I went to the playground at our town park this morning before lunch. She’d been at daycare the past 3 days, and we didn’t get to spend much time together Monday, either. So I was determined we’d go do something fun together today.

The playground was more crowded than I’d ever seen it. Actually, there have been a number of times when we’ve been the only ones there, and other times when we’ve seen only a couple other kids. Today, though, there were a half dozen or so mothers there, and maybe 10 or so kids. I had the sense that a number of the mothers knew one another, so perhaps it was some sort of play group. A few of the mothers seemed moderately friendly, and I had at least one in-depth conversation about the the unexpected warmth of the day, and the duration of the recent rain shower.

There were several kids close to Phoebe’s size. Phoebe was interested in watching them, but didn’t interact much with them. There was a bit of smiling with one other toddler, and another kid who tried to get Phoebe to chase him, and then another kid (or maybe the same one) who tried to play with Phoebe. At some point, a couple of kids were walking away from the play equipment down a nearby path. Phoebe started to follow, from a bit of distance. One little boy, perhaps 2 years old, turned around and walked right up to Phoebe. I thought perhaps to meet her. He reached his hand out toward her, and I thought “how cute.”

Then he pushed her over. Gave her a good solid shove, and knocked Phoebe right over. Then he said something like, “you go back there.” Phoebe sat on the ground, and didn’t make a peep. She just looked. I was behind her, so I couldn’t see her face for the whole interaction. But she seemed, more than anything, surprised. Perhaps wondering if this was a usual form of interaction.

Anyhow, the mother asked her boy to apologize, and we wandered our separate ways without further incident. We climbed some more, and went down slides, I pushed Phoebe on the swing. Then we went home.

When we got home, I told John about our park visit. What was the first thing I told him about, do you think? I’m sure you guessed it. The shove. Even though there were more pleasant interactions, and lots of fun was had, the one brief mean act stuck with me. It was the first time that I knew of where Phoebe had been subjected to a random act of meanness. And as I mentioned the incident, Phoebe watched me very intently, her eyes huge. I realized that I was reinforcing her memory of the unpleasant incident. So I talked about all the goood things we did, and the nice kids.

This sort of thing happens so often. The one bad incident overshadowing the good ones. The one rude person making more of an impression than all the largely polite ones. I remember this a lot from working in retail. In a day when I’d help 100 moderately pleasant people, a single interaction with an asshole of a customer would tarnish my whole day. (Is it just me?)

Anyhow, it was a fun visit to the park, dammit.