Alacrity

From Tennesee Williams' "My Little One":

My little one whose tongue is dumb,
whose fingers cannot hold to things,
who is so mercilessly young,
(s)he leaps upon the instant things,


In her case, yogurt.

Serial, Cereal

What if growth isn't just diet or proficiency or knowledge or fitness or skill, or replace all those ors with ands? And what if it is also the composite of the time you spend doing them, and getting really good at spending time doing them? Like sitting on your grandparents' lap.
Olivia is seen here growing into the laps of the Grandparents Vande Berg. Getting good at spending time doing it.

Job Satisfaction

Olivia has taken on a role for herself in the house. We hadn't previously realized how important it is to rotate your drink coasters, but we certainly appreciate the dedication that she demonstrates in the task.

I'm still a little unsure whether I should be concerned about this, but right now I'm deciding that she seems to enjoy it, is easily distracted from it, and it doesn't seem to bring anxiety for he while she's doing it or if she doesn't do it on any given evening....

So I guess I'm documenting it to hear your thoughts, and maybe to embarass her when she's a little older?

Here's a picture from the same day, in case you have a slower connection and can't download the movie.

And another photo of another interesting habit: leaning backwards on the couch.

What is Love?

What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty;
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty;
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

The road less traveled

This was last weekend: her first trip to Hickory Hill Park.
Little Girl in a Big Woods; Ambulatory.
She doesn't have the range of the dogs here, but then again we also don't have to give her a bath afterwards from jumping in the muddy creek.
Many more such trips to come, kid. Soft grass to fall down on.

In a clearing stands a boxer?

An update from yesterday: Pink Eye. The poor little girl started gobbing up yesterday morning and her mother wisely had me take her to the doctor in the afternoon. Got antibiotics started quickly and she was able to open her eyes this morning. She is actually in a great mood, but looks like Rocky Balboa in the first movie, when he wants Burgess Meredith to "cut his eyes" so the blood will release and he can see to keep fighting. This one just wants to see the bananas in front of her and books to be read. The hardest part of this is holding her down to clean the eyes and put in the clindomycin. The wails of a very independent little girl who hates having things in her life dictated to her, especially physically. It has been a bad last three weeks for illness: parainfluenza on her birthday, lingering at a low level for quite a while, now Strep.pneumo or Haemophilus influenza. She has been a good host. And during some of the nicest Autumn days yet. I am even more frustrated having sore throat myself. But it does cause me to appreciate vaccination: if I struggle with these small ailments, what would have been my reaction to her acquiring pertussis or malaria or measles? She and I live in fortunate times.
Adrian! I mean, Mommy!

The end of natality; beginning of integers

Olivia is One.

October 13, 2007

She's going in fighting.

Obviously we're proud of this kid. And feel incredibly fortunate to live in a time and place where this sort of survival rate is relatively commonplace. When we are worrying about what kind of food she gets to eat, the moisture content of the heat in her bedroom, the color of the clothes she gets to wear, she and we are indeed fortunate. Melissa and I thank those family and friends reading this for helping us get her to this point. We are sheepishly grateful for all we have in you and Olivia and each other.

She's had The Croup over her birthday. Nice gift. Lousy sleep, surly at times, rasping cough. And yet she was also frequently in a good mood. I hope that this happy demeanor is the warp of her cloth in life. It is a gift in itself, and I appreciate this opportunity to see it, even in adversity. Last night I needed to rock her at my shoulder to coax sleep back into her cough-wracked little body and rattled thoughts. When I hefted her to my shoulder, she whispered, "Daddy", then started sleep breathing. I don't know what I did to deserve it, and frequent late night rockings do not seem a full enough explanation for that little whisper. I can't believe that the few things I've done for her in her short life could rate her calling me by that honored title. I will continue to try to live up to that name. I feel sanded smooth by my daughter. She is polishing me; sometimes brushing against my grain; finding ways to shape she and me together into a sturdy, functioning, beautiful thing that will be passed on through our family.

Like Baseballs Flying Off Your Bat.

Analogies don't abound for the resounding thrum in a paternal chest for the simple pleasure of taking pictures like this in your own kitchen.
I didn't know enough to really savor that feeling of solid contact in peewee baseball, or the delicious feeling of creek water and sand beneath summerhot feet, or a cool breeze ahead of the thunderstorm when the last bales of hay are going on the elevator up into the mow.
But with age comes the wisdom of relishing these sensations.
So I take and look at pictures of these ladies often.

Rapidly

From September 9, 2007, her Baptism.
And I have been thinking that these images of her in my arms will soon capsize, spilling her down onto her own two feet. And she will no longer need my elevation, only want it, and only occasionally. She will flow out and back from us when this happens, like a tide. Taking things from us away with her, coming back to us with things that she has found, which she will carry and examine instead of shove along the floor in front of her crawling self. And it will be grand, and we will sigh and shake our heads at her goings and comings and flowing out and about into the world.
And then last night she did start to take those steps between her mother and I. Back and forth between us, back and forth. I can't remember being so entertained before.

Funny, she looks a little like a giggling Frankenstein when she's doing this.
Halloween's coming, kid.

A Few of My Favorite Things

Food-gunk on LaLa and photos at dinner,
Lean in the picture that's somehow a winner,
Bibs that have velcro and not tied with strings....

From August 21, 2007.

Wonder

Taken back in July, I just really enjoyed this picture of the two of us. Want it available to me wherever I am. Can hear her saying "Bah!" when I see it. Like that she's not looking at the camera, possibly thinking about milk.

Olivia is nearly a year old.
She can now say and do many more things than seemed possible for her even six months ago. Let this be a lesson to you, Jeff.
I think of her an inordinate amount, in relation to any other subject of thought I have ever known. And yet, it seems appropriate and well-deserved. I am unabashedly proud of her accomplishments and regularly kiss her on the top of her noggin as a reward, which she accepts with her usual aplomb and raspberry-sound.
Soon will come The Walk, with syncopated beat of tender foot skin under shaky stiff knees, then The Run, then even more of the Conkus of the Bonkus.
But until then, The Pulling Up, The Scooting Around, the more measured sound of crawling hands slapping floor and small knees knocking.
I'm enjoying W.B. Yeats' "A Prayer for My Daughter" , giving the line for the blog title, but moreso for the ideas that follow it:
The soul recovers radical innocence
And learns at last that it is self-delighting,
Self-appeasing, self-affrighting,
And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will;
She can, though every face should scowl
And every windy quarter howl
Or every bellows burst, be happy still.