Tricycle Riders UNITE!!!

Tricycle riders everywhere have a new spokesman:



I'm so excited to have something in common with Skip Gates! Although his tricycle makes mine look pretty bad-ass in comparison. Here I am, struggling to go up Ann Arbor's hills with one speed while he motors around Martha's Vineyard on this 24-speed custom-made trike from Germany. Oh to be rich.



Thank you to my mom, who directed me to Larry Wilmore, who directed me to my fellow triker.

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Ann Arbor Goes Hollywood

In the Tom Hanks' movie "Big," there's a scene where he returns to find the fortune teller machine, only to discover that the carnival has moved on. What was once a glittering spectacle is now a desolate field with bits of rubbish drifting about. The sky is gray and full of dreary storm clouds to match the mood.

That is how my neighborhood park feels now that the carnival called "Castle Rock Pictures" has packed up their set and moved on.

Ever since Michigan passed a tax break to lure in film crews, Hollywood has been knocking at our door. In one case, literally when our neighbor brought over a location scout to see if our house might be a good fit for the new Hilary Swank movie. It wasn't, but we had fun describing several houses that might work since we had just finished house-hunting. They were looking for "Victorian charm" meets "crack house," and since Ann Arbor is a hippy town, we've got lots of places that fit that description.

Last summer, we enjoyed watching them construct a fake cafe downtown and then crash a trailer into it. We missed the day of the actual explosion, but the next day we saw the trailer (with the phrase "God's A**hole" spray-painted on the side) and the charred remains of the cafe. As we walked past the scene, I looked over and noticed that one of the storefronts across the street was filled with groceries and a beautiful display of flowers and produce.

"Look! We finally got a market downtown!" I said, pointing excitedly.

Robbie laughed.

"It's a facade for the movie."

"Oh.Damn."


Recently, they decided to film part of Rob Reiner's new film, "Flipped", at the park I take the boys to nearly every day. The film involves several scenes where a girl refuses to get out of her beloved sycamore tree, so they chose to use one of two large sycamores in the park. The Observer laid out the plan in detail - they would trim back one of the trees so that it could be digitally removed later on and they promised to use a professional arborist. They also agreed to resurface the basketball court and other minor cosmetic things to make up for the disturbance.

Despite all their careful planning, a protester showed up to stop the cherry picker from getting close to the sycamore tree and they had to stop work for a day. The sheer insanity that someone would protest the trimming of a tree is just part of why I love this town!

Anyway, in the weeks leading up to filming, the park regulars enjoyed watching the strange scaffolding and structures go up. Groups of people who would never talk to each other otherwise huddled to debate what they could be making. Slowly, the number of "regulars" increased until, by the third day of actual shooting, the park was filled with people at any given hour.

One day, a construction worker stopped his truck and leaned out the window.

"Hey - what's going on here?"

I explained as much as I knew, which was only a few basic facts. But even with this little bit of information, a huge smile spread across his face.

"Wow! I wonder what big actors are going to be in town? I guess we're all going to get our 15 minutes of fame, eh?"

I laughed and nodded. "Yeah, sure."

I found it funny that he would think merely being close to a film crew could make him famous - like they were going to stop shooting and say, "Hey - you over there gawking at us. YOU should be in movies!!"

The idea was ridiculous, but I admit there was a certain magic in the air with all that hoopla. Maybe nobody was going to get discovered, but it was fun to watch the lights hoisted up on cherry pickers, actors in 1950's costumes flipping open their cell phones to text someone the moment they got off set, or people carrying around fake trees - trying to find just the right spot.



More than anything, it was fun to have people from all over town gathered together - some with binoculars and camping chairs, others pretending to "casually" walk their dog by for the 100th time. Joggers stopped to jokingly complain about their restricted running area; parents pushed their kids on the swings while discussing the finer points of cinematography; and everyone of every age knew the name "Rob Reiner."

One day before heading over to the park, I overheard a group of 8-12 year old neighborhood boys discussing whether $75 an hour was a decent wage for an extra. I silently wondered if they paid them for the time they spent sitting and waiting in the catering tent. Which was most of the time.

I don't think famous actors ever have the right to complain about how hard their lives are, but I admit that movie-making is mostly a bunch of actors sitting around....waiting....and waiting....then working for 10 minutes...then back to waiting.

I tried to snap a few shots of the whole spectacle, but unfortunately that day my son never let me get close enough to show the full effect. Apparently he thought swinging and going down the slide were FAR more important than the movies.




This past week the filming has "wrapped up," as they say, and the trailers and antique cars and catering tent and police officers are all gone. It's just a field again. Everyone except the regulars have gone back to wherever they came from. And I am forced to push kids in swings for hours without anything interesting to distract me. Sigh. Movie-making is such a cruel, cruel mistress. Here one day and gone the next.

A Boy and His Bike - A Girl and Her Trike

If you are my mother, just save yourself the heartache and stop reading now!

So, thanks to this post from Sweet Juniper, my husband finally got his way and made us into a biking family. I've been holding out on his pleas to get us all biking, but once he saw Dutch's "popscycle," I could tell by the glint in his eye that I had lost the battle for good.

My objections to biking were twofold: first, I don't like the idea of carting our children around with nothing but a foam and plastic helmet between them and the rest of the world speeding by. Second, I completely lack the balance and coordination to ride a bike.

I grew up riding bikes all the time - it was the ticket to freedom for every suburban child. In fact, one of my favorite pictures shows me riding my infamous "Dusty Rose" pink bike while wearing a ruffled pink dress. The image is nothing but a pink blur with a horizontal brown smudge that represents my long hair streaming behind me.

However, occasionally my coordination handicap got the best of me. One time I was riding down the sidewalk and I just...fell. I didn't hit anything, wasn't startled. I just fell. Now add on top of that being out of practice riding a bike for 15 or so years, and you have a disastrous combination.

Despite my well-reasoned concerns, Robbie was on the internet searching for a bike for me within seconds. (He is on his third bike from Craigslist and the first two never saw the light of day.)

As I watched helplessly, I saw a picture that intrigued me. "That's what I want - a bike with three wheels!" I blurted out. "That seems much more stable and safe."

Robbie laughed. "First of all, if it has three wheels, it's a tricycle, not a bicycle. And second of all, those are for old people."

"No it's not! I've seen people riding them around town," I retorted.

This really got him laughing. "Yes, because we live right next door to a retirement center!"

I rolled my eyes and left the room, not wanting to waste my energy. When I came back, he had Craigslist open and was searching for tricycles. To both our surprise, a brand new post advertising a "bike with a third wheel - $50" immediately popped up. Now Robbie was really on fire.

"I'm going to call him first thing tomorrow and set up an appointment to see it."

I hoped he would forget about it overnight. He did not.

When he came home from work the next day, he announced we were taking a family trip to middle-of-nowhere Michigan to see this contraption.

"What did the man say when you called about it?" I asked.

"He said: 'It's in good condition. It's...you know...for old people.'" Robbie couldn't even finish the sentence without laughing.

Apparently he told his co-workers that we were going to look at a tricycle and one man said, "Don't make her buy a tricycle. That's just mean." Robbie tried to explain to him that I WANTED a tricycle, but the man didn't believe him.

Suffice it to say, by the time we pulled off a rural highway and into the seller's yard, I was mortified.

The seller was a middle-aged guy typical of rural Michigan (he was no Farmer Mike, though). We'll call him John.

Apparently it was his sister's bike, but she had become too old and frail to ride it. So I guess tricycles are only for sort of old people. Or really old people in really good shape. Anyway, John motioned to the wooden garage and there stood the three-wheeled, maize and blue beauty.

"Take it for a ride if you want," he offered.

"It's actually for my wife, so I'll let her try it out," Robbie said, clearly stifling laughter. When John looked confused, Robbie continued. "She's afraid of regular bikes."

It's hard to regain one's dignity in a situation like this, so I did a mini circle with the trike and called it good. John, however, wasn't satisfied.

"No, no. Take it outside and ride it as far as you want."

I begrudgingly peddled into his tiny driveway and then veered dangerously toward the garden. Within a couple of seconds, I was stuck on some rocks and had to get off to push it out. I could hear Robbie and John talking behind me all the while.

"She can drive it on the highway if she wants. It might be easier," John offered.

Robbie was downright gleeful by now. "She's too scared to ride a regular bike, so there's no way she's going to ride on a busy highway!"

I made my way back to them and tried to close the deal as quickly as possible. I thought Robbie could just throw it into the back and we'd be off again, but apparently a tricycle takes up a lot more room than you might imagine. Robbie had come prepared with straps and had a plan to tie it to our roof.

I was more than doubtful about this, but we were stuck now. John looked equal parts doubtful and amused, but he said nothing. Several minutes later, this giant hunk of metal was perched on our car and strapped down. As we waved goodbye, I called out to John, "If you hear about a horrible accident involving a tricycle, it's probably us."

He snorted and shook his head in amazement as we pulled away.

The slow, painful drive home was made worse by the deafening hum of straps in the wind and the constant fear that a tricycle was going to bounce off our car and into someone's windshield. As we made our way, I also noticed what a strange shadow we made, bouncing up and down the fields on either side of us.

We did eventually make it home without incident, thanks to Robbie's ingenuity. I immediately tried to take it on a ride around the block, but only made it to the end of the street before feeling so humiliated that I turned back. I let Robbie ride it for a while and the sight of him only confirmed that you cannot have any dignity while riding an overgrown tricycle.



The second trip out, I rode while Robbie pulled the boys in their wagon. I was just discussing which hand signals to use for turn signals when a man in a vespa pulled up behind me. We immediately came to a stop sign, so I did the left hand turn signal I just learned and made a drunken swerve to the left. I could hear the man on the vespa chuckle and say sweetly, "It's ok, that's the way to do it."

If I hadn't already felt like a 3-year-old, that certainly would have done it.

When Robbie returned to work that Monday, several co-workers asked him "Did you do some triking this weekend?" And then burst out laughing. Robbie found it just as amusing, but he was also a little jealous of my new wheels. So at least in that sense I was vindicated.

Meanwhile, he began collecting bike seats and helmets for the kids to make this a truly family affair. We realized too late that a tricycle is not made for the kind of seats that hook on, so both of them ended up on Robbie's bike. I decided my job was to ride behind them and absorb the blow of cars and/or carry cargo in my giant basket.

Finally, last night we took our first official outing as an entire family:


(Do you hear that? It's the sound of my mother hitting the floor after fainting from fright. I knew she would ignore my warning and keep reading.)

The good news is that the boys loved it. Emerson had to be dragged out of his seat at the end. And I was finally proud of my unique ride. Mainly because a neighbor stopped to admire it for several minutes and never once called it geriatric.

The bad news is that I quickly realized a single-speed bike is not ideal for a city with lots of hills. That became unpleasantly clear when I had to stop and push my bike up 7th street while a grossly overweight man snorted and huffed past me on his bike.

This leaves me with three options:

1) Sink another $75 into a kit that will turn it into a 7-speed tricycle.
2) Take it to the campus bike shop and exchange it for a real bike of equal value.
3) Give myself enormously muscular legs.

Any votes?

Why is nothing ever easy in this house....

After the Apocalypse or An Ode to D-Town

When President Obama made his speech about the fate of the American automotive companies, I listened with great interest since I live in Michigan and nearly everyone here is affected by them one way or another. A few minutes into the speech, however, some household duty distracted me and I went into the other room.

Almost immediately, I felt the insistent tug of tiny hands pulling my pant leg. I sighed and followed Emerson back into the living room, assuming he wanted help with some dysfunctional toy or something to eat that he shouldn't be eating. Instead, he dragged me over to the television and then resumed watching the rest of Obama's speech with intense 2-year-old interest. I guess he didn't appreciate my lapse in judgment.

The first time I came to Michigan, it was on a cross-country trip from Salt Lake City where Robbie and I met, to his school in Flint, Michigan. After hours of driving through the steamy, languid southern states (we had gone through Texas and Memphis so I could meet his friends and family) I woke up in Michigan, uncomfortably aware of the temperature drop. Despite the fact that spring was in full effect at the beginning of April in most parts of the country we had been in, winter still had its icy fingers wrapped tightly around Michigan.

After a bleary-eyed conversation with his grandma (who's house we were staying in - he would never let me sleep in Flint), we were off to see one of the great wonders of the state: a coney island. For those not in the know, this is a hybrid of greasy diner and greek restaurant that pop up in various forms throughout the state. In the morning, it means a dingy storefront filled with the smell of pancakes and cheap coffee. At night, they are a haven for 20-somethings to gather and eat off their night of drinking with chili cheese fries and gyros (it's counter-intuitive, but it works). As a fan of breakfast foods - especially cheap breakfast foods - I consider these restaurants to be one of the best features of this fair state.

Anyway, sitting in a coney island for the first time, I looked around at the well-worn faces of the regulars and thought: "This is a state of real, hard-working, down-to-earth people. This is the state for me."

When I recounted this story to a co-worker a couple of years later, she laughed and said, "Yeah, everyone starts out thinking Michigan is full of salt-of-the-earth people. Then you quickly realize they are just dumb-asses."

I admit, I laughed at this comment because by then, Michigan had long ago lost its luster. We lived in a string of metro-Detroit suburbs and realized that we were most definitely not suburban people. The endless, run-down strip malls combined with Michigan's interminably gray weather had me in a deep funk. Not to mention that the reality of Michigan's economy settled in when I went from being a PR person for Utah's biggest non-profit to a secretary for the University of Michigan. And it took me two months to find that job.

Like Tom Jones, I wanted to go home:


(Incidentally, this must be what a music video looks like for a professional karaoke singer.)

Despite my growing disgust, I was determined to defend Detroit and Michigan as a whole against outside detractors. When my best friend came up from Illinois to visit, she was terrified of even driving in the state by herself because she imagined it must all be like the movie "8 Mile." Not only did I have to talk her out of this, I decided I had to take her on a tour of Detroit to show her that it did have many good points.

I told her about my plans on the phone before she came, and she was very alarmed to say the least. "You know, my friend heard that there was a hammer killer going around Detroit beating people to death with a hammer when they got out of their cars to get gas," she told me.

I laughed hysterically. "That is ridiculous! I promise you, I have never heard of a hammer killer in Detroit," I assured her.

I knew our trip to Detroit was doomed when we pulled into a coffee shop on the way there and my friend immediately pointed out a newspaper for sale that had the headline "HAMMER KILLER CAUGHT."

"Well," I stammered, "He was caught wasn't he? So there's nothing to worry about."

The trip only got worse when I let my husband drive. He can navigate himself out of any situation - unless it involves driving in Detroit. Instead of showing her all the artistic and historical high points of the city, we ended up driving in circles through the most desolated neighborhoods imaginable.

Finally, we gave up and took them to swanky Birmingham a 15-minute drive away. My friend's husband, who had fallen asleep during the drive (apparently unaware that his wife was fearing for her life) woke up as we pulled into Birmingham's glittering downtown. He blinked several times and looked around in confusion. "Did we drive to another state?" he asked.

Since this escapade, I have traveled through more of Michigan's wild beauty up North and along the coasts. I have started attending an ecumenical seminary in downtown Detroit, which has introduced me to the strength and diversity of the people who live and minister in the city. And we have moved from the suburbs to Ann Arbor to be closer to our jobs. In Ann Arbor, we finally found our yuppie, hippie-lovin' utopia. I can write several more posts about this city alone, but for now let's just say that if I could move in an ocean, Ann Arbor would be heaven on earth.

All these events combined have led me to a renewed love of Michigan.

Watching the local news coverage after Obama's speech, I could hear the anguish and frustration of people who have been dealing with an economic apocalypse long before it made national headlines. When you walk through downtown Detroit, the crumbling buildings and deserted streets echo the apocalypse feeling.



Yet despite all this, I can't help feeling optimistic and even excited about the state's future and Detroit specifically. I know that coming from an upper middle-class Ann Arborite, that means absolutely nothing, but it's how I feel. Sometimes it takes hitting rock bottom to mobilize the creativity and passion needed to make major changes. And since Detroit hit bottom first, the eyes of the country are turning back to Detroit to see what efforts are in place to rebuild. And there are many efforts - from artists moving in and creating art out of destruction, to locals creating community gardens on vacant lots that not only provide fresh, local food for the surrounding poor neighborhoods, but also help green the city and bring up house prices.

If you are local, check out these two great organizations and get involved:
Georgia Street Community Collective
Michigan Land Bank

If you aren't local and want to see some amazing pictures and read equally incredible stories about Detroit - from packs of wild dogs to artist communities to deserted schools full of supplies left to rot - check out Sweet Juniper.

I don't "wanna go home" anymore - I do feel at home in Michigan now. And even more exciting (this is where I really cheese it up), if I make time to get involved, I can be part of something big. A new way forward. A new definition of growth.

Scenes from Daily Life II

Robbie: Is that a rutabaga in our backyard?

Cassi:(sheepishly) uh.....yes.

Robbie:How did it get there?

Cassi: uh.....I sort of rolled it out the dog door a few weeks ago.


Robbie pauses for a moment to take this in.


Robbie: Why?

Cassi: Well, that extra one you bought a while back ended up going bad and I felt guilty for wasting it. Since we don't have a compost pile yet, I thought I would roll it out into the snow and it would eventually decompose.

Robbie: Do you know how long it will take a rutabaga that big to decompose, especially in the snow?

Cassi: No.

Robbie: A long time.

Cassi: Well, Janet said she throws her food waste straight into her yard during the winter.

Robbie: But at least Janet has a private backyard - not a backyard with a chainlink fence and only a few feet away from the neighbor's door!


Cassi: Point taken.


This conversation occurred a few weeks ago and every time I think about it now, it makes me giggle. Mainly because it contains the word rutabaga, which is inherently funny. I did eventually remove the offending rutabaga from the yard when the snow melted (along with a huge amount of dog poop of various bright colors and textures, depending on what object Kenya had eaten that day. Our poor, poor neighbors.)

Sure rolling a large vegetable out a dog door seems silly, but in my defense 1) Pregnancy and breastfeeding remove brain cells 2) I'm sleep deprived and 3) Just yesterday I read an article in Sierra Club magazine about a guy who made a compost bin, but it got infested by rats - so he tried vermicomposting (worms) and it got infested with fruit flies. As a last resort, he started packaging food waste in newspapers and putting them in the freezer without telling his wife.

So Robbie...it could be worse.

The Dulce de Leche League

As I've mentioned in previous posts, Ann Arbor is bursting with babies these days (perhaps it's the liberal response to the Duggars?). I had the extreme pleasure of sharing my last pregnancy with two of my close friends and neighbors. Per was born in September, six weeks later Fionn was born, then 5 weeks later Jane was born. Together we - along with another neighbor who have a daughter Emerson's age - formed what we called the "Dulce de Leche League" because we spent this past year eating a lot of caramel ice cream and talking about babies and breastfeeding. If I had more energy and creativity I would come up with a drawing of us as superhero moms - breastfeeding with one hand and eating ice cream with another, but pictures will have to do.













Oh, Matt....that baby is going to hurt when it comes out. I should know.

Don't Drink the Water...

Our neighborhood is experiencing a population explosion, and this is only a sampling:


Of course as parents we have to torture them with staged photos (we used a ceiling fan as bait to keep them still). I know it's hard to tell which ones are ours, but I'll give you a hint....they're both wearing button down shirts.

I am so hilarious.


Also pictured, clockwise from the top are Jane, Per, and Keagan.

A Little Bit of Everything

The past few weeks have been a blur of events and emotions, so I will try to sum them up in some coherent way.

A major chunk of our time has been spent house hunting and we quickly discovered that despite the news stories about desperate sellers giving away cars and properties sitting for months on the market, Ann Arbor is a whole different ballgame. This is the first time in decades that prices in Ann Arbor have come down into the sane range, so we figured now was the time to jump in.

Unfortunately, everyone else had the same idea - houses are selling two days after they are listed and usually at or above list price! We finally found our "dream home" right around the corner from where we currently live (I use quotes because it needs some...ahem...cosmetic work). We tracked it for a month through the foreclosure process and made an offer the day it was listed. Despite the countless showings and interested people, we managed to get our offer accepted before anyone else could move. That sweet victory, however, was followed by defeat when the inspection revealed that the entire foundation needed repair. We've been negotiating with the bank to get them to fix it for us before closing because, oddly, we don't have $40,000 sitting around for basement repair. After a month of this, we are still in limbo.

Just a few short weeks ago I HATED the idea of owning a house, but I started down this road for Robbie's sake. Now I am the obsessed one - watching hours of HGTV and losing sleep because I'm trying to calculate how best to arrange furniture or redesign a kitchen. It's a sickness...truly. I always wondered what possessed my parents to spend half their weekend watching "This Old House" and the other half slaving away on whatever the current house project was. I vowed never to let a wooden box with a roof and front door take over my life in such a way. And yet here I am.

Maybe it's just the ultimate nesting instinct during pregnancy or maybe it's some genetic obsessive compulsive tendencies (I won't say which family member). Maybe it's the fact that we're having a home birth this time around and I was really excited about being in "my place" by the time it happened. Even if we get this current house, we wouldn't close until after the birth at this point, so I am a little disappointed. I can't help but think how amazing it would've been to say to my son someday, "you were born right here in this room." Instead, I will have to drive by a dilapidated rental and say, "you were born in that house in a room where the floor was so slanted that you popped out of the birth canal and then rolled away." Sigh.

Speaking of that son, it's hard to believe the big date is only 5 weeks away! I suppose it could be 7 weeks away, but this baby seems more impatient to get out than Emerson did. In fact, he seems determined to claw and kick his way out at any given moment. As fate would have it, there is a midwives' conference two weeks before my due date and most of the midwives in the state will be hours away. I do have a back up (including a five minute drive to the hospital as a last resort) and I doubt I will go that early, but the situation does feel a little like the set-up for an episode of a sitcom. The kind where the woman goes into labor early and instantly it's an emergency that involves a lot of screaming and a birth in a car or elevator (after a 36-hour labor with Emerson, I realize just how unrealistic those birth scenes are!)

Since this baby is number two as well as another boy, there's really nothing to do to prepare. Nevertheless, my nesting instincts are already kicking in, so I spent all last night gathering birthkit supplies, folding baby clothes and repacking the nursery with tiny diapers. In some ways it's very sentimental, but in other ways I can't help but wonder, "didn't I just pack these clothes away?!" I know two years apart is a common spread, but sometimes I question what the heck we were thinking! (Usually this occurs as I'm bending over my giant belly to pick up my giant toddler for the 100th time that day. Then again when I get up to go to the bathroom for the 100th time that night and I can't move because my back is spasming again!)

Our neighbors just had their first baby a couple weeks ago and hearing about the labor and seeing their adorable bundle brought up a swell of emotions I wasn't ready for. They seem to be adjusting much, much better than we did those first few weeks, but seeing them still reminds me of how hard those times were. Rewarding and amazing, yes, but also hard. I suppose even if the next baby does have albinism, we will be much better prepared for it this time around. But Emerson is also finally at a stage I really love, which only reminds me of the challenges we've had to face to get here...challenges we may have to face all over again.

On the other hand, if this baby does have albinism, I will be happy that Emerson will have someone who knows exactly what he's going through. Assuming they don't kill each other during childhood, I really want them to be lifelong friends. Oh yeah...THAT'S why I'm torturing my body by going through this again so soon after the first one! I knew there was a good reason.

Back to Emerson - he is basically in the terrible twos, but I am having so much fun. He's fully walking now - and running, and spinning in circles, and even doing a fancy backward moonwalk every once in a while. I never get tired of seeing him toddle into a room or explore his surroundings with this new upright perspective. He's still as stubborn and dramatic as ever and his sleeping and eating habits have regressed in some ways (maybe due to the developmental spurts or the baby coming?). But he's also a total ham and constantly making us laugh.

He refuses to say words, yet every time he hands us something or we hand him something, he says "oh thank you" in a sing song voice. None of the actual words are there, but the intonation is unmistakable. He's also taken to crawling into the dog's kennel, hiding toys in strange places, spinning in circles until he falls down, and making "scary" faces when he's wrestling (his eyes get really big, he purses his lips, and he shakes his head with intensity...until he can't hold it anymore and dissolves into laughter).

The other day we were eating at a restaurant with some friends and Emerson was getting ancy toward the end of the meal. Robbie released him from the highchair and one of our friends decided to distract him by dressing him in his wife's puffy black vest with a hood. The vest came all the way to the floor like a cape since Emerson was so small - he ended up looking exactly like Rick Moranis in "Spaceballs." I tried to take a picture, but only got one blurry one since I was laughing so hard that tears were streaming down my face. The outfit itself was funny, but what really got us laughing was the fact that Emerson quickly became aware of the attention he was getting from other people in the restaurant. He decided to play it up by walking very stoically past every table until he was sure everyone had a chance to see his performance. I'm not sure if the waitstaff appreciated the uproar we created, but we left a good tip.

****

On a much less happy note, my poor family in Utah is dealing with some tough times. My uncle had an aneurysm burst in his brain and he's now in a coma with very poor odds of recovery. It's hard to imagine what my dad must be going through as he watches his younger brother go through this and struggles to help the other siblings. If you've got any spare positive thoughts to spare, please send them westward...

****

So here we are, plugging along, waiting for news on several fronts and trying to make the most of the time. Thank goodness we have this funny little person to distract us and remind us of what's most important in life....

Emerson Goes to Hollywood

The other night, we were walking Emerson around Ann Arbor when we passed two men asking passersby for spare change. One of them stopped us and asked why Emerson had “those color eyes?” (This is one interesting part of having a baby with albinism– panhandlers are too busy watching him to ask us for money. We had a similar incident in Boston when a woman who was missing several teeth and asking for change on the street corner stopped us to ask about him. We ended up having a long conversation about baby's teething with her.)

We answered this man’s questions and were surprised that his friend jumped in with several of the answers as well. And he was mostly accurate (he claimed it affected one in 30,000 people, but hey, close enough). As the conversation winded down, the first man shook his head in disbelief and crooned, “That is the most beautiful baby I have EVER seen! You should take him to Hollywood.”

He then proceeded to “coootchy-coo” the baby’s cheek with his finger, which caused what’s becoming a familiar scene lately – Emerson having a slow panic attack. His eyes get big, he starts breathing quickly, whimpers a little, and then squeezes out two fat tears that roll down his cheeks. I can almost hear him saying to himself, “Come on, hold it together…be brave.” And then he totally loses it and throws himself into my arms for a comfort nursing session. It’s pretty embarrassing when your child goes through this “stranger anxiety” phase, but at the same time, we can’t help but think his little meltdowns are adorable.

In other Emerson news, he FINALLY started saying “baba” a couple days ago. Most babies start babbling consonants at 6-7 months, so we have spent the past three months endlessly encouraging him to say “mama” “dada” “baba” – anything besides AHHHHHHH. We meet with the Early Intervention coordinator this week to finally get a full evaluation, so he may still get some speech therapy, but hearing him say baba is the highlight of my life right now.

He is also pulling up on things on his own now (although I have to get him positioned since he can’t crawl) and he’s slowly attempting to creep around more. Please send us lots of crawling vibes….I don’t care what people say about how much harder a crawling baby is. Nothing could be harder than a whiny, frustrated, clingy baby who desperately wants to move out into the world, however tentatively.

And with that overly detailed update, I’m off to get Emerson’s resume and headshot ready for Hollywood.

Baby Slings: The True Story

I'm a self-admitting stroller hater. Not sure what triggered the hatred within me, or even when it happened, but you will find no stroller love in my heart. This leaves me with limited options when it comes time to stroll around town w/ the kid. Huh... by just using the word 'stroll' in that sentence I think I realize the significance of the word stroller. I'm absolutely brilliant. But anyway...

So what's a parent to do if you he/she has no love for strollers? I can think of two options: Carry the kid around in your arms while dreaming of one day having biceps as large as mine, or of course, using a sling. As I already have trouble trying to board planes w/ my boys Pancho and Hopper (right and left biceps, respectively), I use a sling.

Upon first inspection, the average person uneducated in the ways of baby slinging may think that slings are pretty straight forward. Some fabric wrapped around the carrier body with the carried body buried somewhere in it with nothing but a random foot springing up here or little hand reaching out there. Little would they suspect, however, the complexity of snaps, knots, and straps involved in attaching this kid to you. And along with that complexity, of course, comes a hefty price tag. The simplest of the slings we own is one long piece of fabric that is wrapped around your body, tied in a knot, with the kid threaded through and held in place. $40. Seriously... nothing but fabric with stitching around its perimeter to clean up the edges. The infamous ring sling: nearly $100. The Kangaroo Korner 'pouch' sling: $68. Does the wife not realize I have a Bus to rebuild, and that I have half a set of new tires wrapped up (no pun intended) in baby slings??? But I digress.

So yes... my solution to my lack of love for the strollers is the use of a sling. Which, costs aside, aren't that bad of a thing. When others have to seek out elevators, I simply take the stairs. When others have to seek out a parking spot outside an exhibit at the zoo, I simply walk right in. When others are in danger, I am there...

There's another side of the sling, however, that I must deal with. It just so happens that I am the lucky father of the cutest kid this side of the Mississippi. Off on his own, playing in a gutter, people would slam on their brakes shrieking "Oh my! Did you see that baby!?!? What a cutie!!" I know every parent thinks the same of their child, but come on, why kid yourself. So here I am, sling user/abuser, with the cutest kid this side... strapped onto me facing forward most likely wearing his shades and serenading the town with his little voice. Needless to say, we attract some attention. Everyone sitting at the sidewalk patio tables look up "Awww!", others point, some rightfully shake their heads smiling. But what you must realize is that I don't want any of it. Just let me be people. Yeah, he's cute, yeah, its adorable, but I don't put him in here and walk around town to amuse you. I'm just a stroller hater, and until someone comes up with something better (or airport security relaxes a bit) this is it. I find myself walking down the street refusing to make eye contact with passerbyers or acknowledge the gawkers. I'm sure people are torn about me. I must love my kid, as I strap him to me and lug him around town for miles at a time, yet I must not be a very affectionate father, so stone-faced and grumpy and oh my, can you imagine how I must treat the baby momma? She must cry herself to sleep at night doubting her decisions in life while at the same time trying to think of what to cook for dinner tomorrow.

To make things worse, the wife wanted a picture yesterday of the kid lying in the cradle position in the sling while singing himself to sleep. No big deal, except we were on the streets of downtown AA, and the last thing I wanted anyone to think is that this was a novelty to me, that I thought it was oh-so-cute and oh, aren't I just the cutest gosh darn father you ever saw the likes of?

But on the other hand, it could be worse: I could have an ugly kid.