You may recall that when we brought the Burt Squirt home from the hospital, Miss Dorian Gray was none too pleased. Mr. Burt was hissed at any time he crossed her path, while I was ignored. As was Liam.

If the contents of my purse the other day are any indication, I am forgiven.

I am referring, of course, to the stuffed giraffe lying on top of my coupon organizer. I went to grab my cell phone to charge, and found him, too. He’s not a baby toy, he’s one of Dorrie’s toys–her oldest and favorite, in fact. Many a morning Mr. Burt and I’ve emerged from our bedroom to find it outside the door. Friends with cats inform me this is the equivalent of an outdoor cat presenting her master with her kill. Really, I’m very touched. And I wonder if this is Dorrie’s way of asking me to go out less often and pay more attention to her instead of the Chubby Loud One.

What Ms. Gray needs to realize is that the Chubby Loud One would love nothing better than to lavish her with all the attention and affection she desires. As is proven in the little buddy comedy that unfolded here yesterday. I shall not narrate, since sometimes a picture really is worth a thousand words–and is quicker for a busy mom to post, too!

"I'm gonna get you, Dorrie! Or I would, if I could crawl!"

"Finally, she's not feeding the Chubby Loud One. The comfy chair is mine again! Mwahaha!"

Burt Squirt: "Together at last!"

Dorrie: "Not on my watch, kid!"

"Usurper!"

"Got any more bright ideas, Mom?"

I think it’s going well, don’t you?

Recently an expectant friend asked me what items I absolutely could not care for the Burt Squirt without. At the moment the question caught me off guard, but after mulling over it, I’ve come up with my top five must-haves.

Remember, these are my favorite things that work for my baby. Your baby might have entirely different tastes. And if there’s anything I’ve learned in my first six months of motherhood, it’s that babies are like Lolcats: they don’t hesitate to say, “DO NOT WANT!” and it’s impossible to force anything a baby DOES NOT WANT on him.

Which is why Babies R Us sells thousands of items, most of which parents will buy in the hope that at least one of them will make childcare a little easier.

Bag Balm

Developed by farmers to treat chapped cow udders, Bag Balm is not only more effective than Desitin at treating the mother of all diaper rashes, it’s also far more affordable than the more potent creams, such as Bourdeaux’s Butt Paste. I paid $12.99 for Bag Balm at a local pharmacy (though Google tells me you can get it for less) when the Burt Squirt was about three weeks old; five months later we still haven’t used it all–and that’s with a liberal smear up the butt crack every diaper change. (In our house, that’s 6-8 diaper changes a day, 31 days a month, for 5 months…I’ll let you do the math.)

I’ve been told that Bag Balm also works for mommies experiencing discomfort from breastfeeding. Though I don’t think I’d recommend treating lady parts from the same jar used on baby bottoms (however cute they may be)!

Also, if you do put it to your own use, you might want to forget it was developed by farmers to treat chapped cow udders…

bébéPOD

The Burt Squirt has nearly outgrown his bébéPOD–a source of much sorrow in our household, as the bébéPOD allows Mr. Burt and me to eat dinner without having to hold a baby who wants to be sitting up and a part of the action like a big boy. It may seem like one of those superfluous purchases–why not just pop him in a high chair, swing, or bouncy seat?–but the Burt Squirt won’t sit in any of those for the duration of a meal. I think it’s because they require him to be strapped in, while the bébéPOD allows him to sit up free of restraint.

There’s a similar product on the market called the Bumbo, and honestly I’m not sure one is superior to the other. We chose the bébéPOD over the Bumbo because the wider leg holes and all-around less restrictive design accommodate our chunky child; he would have outgrown a Bumbo before he was two months old.

A tip: Search children’s consignment shops or craigslist instead of buying new. The “plus” version with the tray retails for around $50, but we picked ours up sans tray for $15. Later we decided we wanted the tray and purchased one at Babies R Us for around $12. (Alas and alack, it didn’t come with one of the adorable kiwi placemats.) But you can find the ones with trays used, too.

Boppy

Of course you can breastfeed without a nursing pillow, or you can use any old pillow to give your baby the boost he or she needs to get to the goods. I never nurse without a pillow because, at not quite six months, the Burt Squirt weighs over 18 pounds and just about breaks my arms during nursing sessions that can last up to half an hour. And I don’t use any old pillow because I find it awkward.

A Boppy fits around my waist to provide a comfortable and stable prop for nursing. And did I mention it frees up your hands? You wouldn’t know it from the pictures of nursing mothers cuddling their babies (making me wonder why they’re bothering with a Boppy at all), but you really can do it hands-free! The Burt Squirt actually prefers I nurse him hands-free; he has a conniption if I touch his head while he’s eating, which eliminates a couple of nursing holds.

Breastfeeding eats up (heh) a ton of time, especially in the beginning when your baby is learning how to nurse. Why not reclaim some of that time for yourself? Thanks to my Boppy, I’ve been able to eat dinner while nursing (even at a table, with friends and family), read books, play board games, and use my computer. If I weren’t able to do these things, I’d have completely lost my mind somewhere around day one of motherhood. It’s nice to be able to stay sane–and retain a semblance of the woman I was BBS (Before Burt Squirt)–while still doing the best thing for my baby.

Exersaucer

God bless the person who invented the Exersaucer, without which we would never eat a home-cooked meal or have clean toilets. The Burt Squirt is too big for his britches and could stand up for hours, but he’s not yet able to do that without Mommy or Daddy holding on to him. We do, of course, but sometimes you’ve just got to let go of your kid for a few minutes so you can fix yourself a sandwich or get dressed.

There are lots of different Exersaucers that feature a variety of activities. When choosing, consider ones with fewer electronic components and more activities–things to grab, spin, chew on, pull, pick up, turn, flip, shake, rattle. Also, get an Exersaucer that fits your baby. We tried one Exersaucer when the Burt Squirt was around three months old, and his arms were too short to reach out for any of the toys on the tray portion–which was a bit of a problem because it was only a tray portion! We went with this model because of there were plenty of toys within arm’s reach (also, because expectant friends offered to let us borrow it till their twins are old enough to use it), and the rest he grew into over time.  The Exersaucer has actually been a fun way to track the Burt Squirt’s growth, and nothing makes you feel prouder as a parent than seeing how proud he is whenever he can finally reach that toy he’s been trying to get for a few weeks.

Except maybe when you manage to clean a kitchen and bathroom and dust your living room while your baby “Exersauces” for a solid 40 minutes.

Vtech Move and Crawl Ball

When we received this as a baby shower gift I was a little skeptical, but the Move and Crawl ball has turned out to be one of our favorite baby toys. In fact it was the first toy that really engaged the Burt Squirt, as, I’ll remind you, he thinks he’s a bigger boy than he is.  He was never a fan of lying on his back reaching for dangling toys in his baby gym, and, when he began to sit unassisted at a little before four months, the ball provided something easy to play with in an upright position. I think it actually helped develop his sense of balance and gave him some core strength.

The other thing I love about the Move and Crawl Ball is that, unlike a lot of other baby toys, the buttons respond readily to those uncoordinated, light baby finger touches. If a baby can’t make something work, he’ll quickly lose interest, but the Burt Squirt’s ability to interact with his ball keeps him entertained pretty much until the cat runs into his field of vision and distracts him. But even Mommy can’t compete with the cat…

Mommy (and Daddy) readers: what are your favorite baby things?

Two books a month is a fine average even if I weren’t a mom, but I’d never have managed to read one book in five months if Mr. Burt hadn’t given me a Sony Pocket Reader for our sixth wedding anniversary.  The only time I get to read is when I’m nursing, and it’s not easy to hold a book and turn pages while wrangling a squirming baby. An ebook reader, however, requires only one free hand.   I’ve grown so accustomed to reading this way that I don’t see myself ever going back to print books, with the exception of when I want to take a long soak in the bathtub with a book. But where my friend didn’t have a chance to read till her son was two, I don’t foresee myself getting a chance to take a bath till then.

Also, when I use my reader, I feel like I’m in Star Trek.

One intent for my revamped blog has been to post reviews for every book I read, but I’m beginning to get the feeling I won’t get that kind of time for a few years, either. Until then, a blurb and a five star rating system will have to do.

#1: Emma, by Jane Austen

The BBC’s latest adaptation stars Romola Garai, who, along with the rest of the cast, seemed all wrong to me. So I re-read the book and was reassured that yes, the cast of the Kate Beckinsale version feels more like the characters in the book. Which is what I’m supposed to be reviewing.

With its hilariously entangled romances and witty social commentary, Emma reads like a Shakespearean comedy. Its strength, of course, is the heroine Austen set out to write as one “whom no-one but myself will much like,” but it’s the supporting characters you love to hate and hate to love who really make the novel for me.

Rating: 5/5 stars

#2: Mr. Knightley’s Diary, by Amanda Grange

Normally I avoid published Austen fanfiction like the cliché I’m avoiding at the moment, but last Christmas I picked up Colonel Brandon’s Diary on a whim because, well, Colonel Brandon…and I loved it. I don’t feel as strongly about Mr. Knightley’s Diary, through no fault of Ms. Grange; Knightley’s (if I may sound like Mrs. Elton) backstory of managing his estate and dining with friends doesn’t make for the page-turner Brandon’s torrid past love affair, military stint, and duel to the death. It is, however, entertaining to get inside Knightley’s head as he stews over Emma’s fascination with Frank Churchill, and the moment he realizes he’s in love with her is sweetly romantic, if not earth-shattering. A light-hearted, well-written, satisfying love story, and if you like the citizens of Highbury, a nice opportunity to visit them again. (An unexpected but welcome touch is a happy ending for poor Miss Bates.) 

Rating: 4/5 stars

#3: Mr. Darcy’s Diary, by Amanda Grange

If I hadn’t read other Amanda Grange novels, I’d never have picked up published Pride and Prejudice fanfiction, which typically amounts to little more than soft core Darcy porn. Like Ms. Grange’s other books, Mr. Darcy’s Diary keeps true to the spirit of Austen’s work and, in this case, enriches a character who doesn’t do much for me in the original. That’s right ladies: I’ve never been a Darcy fangirl. (Have I mentioned it’s Colonel Brandon who holds my heart?) But Pride and Prejudice from Darcy’s point of view at times left me almost breathless. It also cemented my rather unorthodox opinion that Matthew Macfadyen makes a better Darcy than Colin Firth. *ducks from hurled objects*

Rating: 5/5 stars

#4: A Proper Pursuit, by Lynne Austin

I picked this one up because I was in the mood for something lighthearted and romantic; a young woman choosing between a number of suitors and on the hunt for a runaway mother amid the backdrop of the 1893 World’s Fair seemed to fit the bill: a bit like American Girl all grown up. It started off promisingly enough, with a heroine whose stream-of-conscious internal monologue made me chuckle a la Anne of Green Gables. However, the narrative voice quickly got old as the story failed to move forward—not a bit like Anne of Green Gables. The characters were painted with the broadest of brush strokes, the romantic plot was predictable while the mystery was clumsily constructed and revealed through hasty exposition, and the parts that were meant to be heart-wrenching were cloying and preachy; more than once I felt like the author was attempting, unsuccessfully, to reproduce Christy. (Are you starting to detect a theme of this book trying to be like other, best-selling books?) Still, I did read the whole thing, if only because I wanted to see if all my guesses about the plot were right in the end (which they were). That’s something, I guess?

Rating: 2/5 stars

#5: Persuasion, by Jane Austen

A second chance at love for an older couple who just couldn’t make it work the first time around may be Austen’s best storyline.  Unfortunately, it’s not a very good book. Much of the crucial action happens off-stage, reduced to summarizing narrative. While this stylistic choice highlights the reserve and compliance of the heroine, not actually seeing Anne’s first encounter with Captain Wentworth undercuts the emotional impact that should be present when a woman meets her former fiance, with whom she is still in love, eight years after breaking off their engagement.  It’s the equivalent of Austen recounting the Netherfield ball instead of showing Elizabeth and Darcy’s dance and their glorious UST.  I root for the idea of Anne and Wentworth, but my imagination isn’t captured by characters I feel I know. The character I feel I know best is Anne’s hypochondriac sister, Mary Musgrove, who seems to have more dialogue than all the other characters put together.  (Though I do tend to have a soft spot for Austen’s obnoxious characters.)

The novel does contain my favorite line out of all Austen’s novels, Captain Wentworth’s achingly romantic “you pierce my soul.”  Guh.

Rating: 3/5 stars

#6: Sarah’s Key, by Tatiana De Rosnay

It doesn’t sound quite right to say you enjoy Holocaust novels or are a fan of them, so I’ll instead say I read a lot of them. Sarah’s Key introduced me to the tragedy of the French expulsion of Jews, which was carried out not by the occupying Nazi soldiers, but by the French police force. The narrative alternates between Sarah and her parents’ horrifying arrest and deportation while a little brother is left behind, and Julia, a journalist who discovers Sarah’s story while researching an assignment on the 60th anniversary of the French Holocaust. Frankly, I could have lived without the Julia storyline, which detracts from Sarah’s story with that of a rather unsympathetic, navel-gazing character dealing with a crumbling marriage and surprise middle-age pregnancy. I did appreciate how the Holocaust played as a background for an anti-abortion tale, but the two stories simply lack the cohesion and thematic focus to bring them together in a satisfying conclusion.

Rating: 3/5 stars.

7: Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet, by Jamie Ford

This is the epic teen romance that should be sweeping the globe: a Chinese boy constantly bullied at his all-white school befriends a Japanese girl just as the US passes legislation to relocate citizens of Japanese descent to internment camps. Who needs sparkly vampires and werewolves to thwart love?

The writing does this beautiful story justice; vivid but not overly wordy description takes you back in time to Seattle, 1942, to the cluttered streets of Chinatown, Japantown, and the desolate internment camps. The characters are people—noble people, flawed people, strong people, weak people, people with motivations, people who act senselessly…Both place and character reminded me of the work of one of my favorite authors, Jhumpa Lahiri, whose stories focus on the differences between first and second generation Indian-Americans. I suppose I’m drawn to themes of cultural and racial identity and generational conflict, all of which charge Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet.

I learned a lot from this book, too, which is always a plus for a history lover. It goes to show how one-track our history studies in the US are that it had never occurred to me that there would be conflict between the Chinese and Japanese in America, particularly bitter hatred on the part of Chinese immigrants, many of whom left China precisely because of Japan’s relentless assault on China for decades prior to the US entering World War II. Not that racism and cultural discrimination are ever acceptable; but I think of a line from Harry Potter: “the world isn’t made up of good people and Death Eaters.” Life isn’t black and white, and insult, injury, and injustice have a way of leading otherwise good people to participate in evil. Another historical aspect that struck me as particularly poignant was the dignity of the Japanese characters even as their every right as American citizens was violated. I hadn’t realized how the Japanese volunteered to build their own prisons and serve in the US military to prove their loyalty. That same inner doggedness that turned out Kamakaze pilots fueled truly honorable US citizenship. I think all these things struck me because the same issues of race and politics of America in 1942 continue to be eerily relevant in 2010. (Why can’t we ever learn?)

Interestingly, like Sarah’s Key, this novel is also told in an alternating timeline. Only in this time, it works, as we follow the same character in two different decades as the events of the war years continue to haunt him forty years later.

The best book I’ve read in a long time, and one I’m sure to read again and again.

Rating: 5/5 stars

8: Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass, by Lewis Carroll

I think I’m supposed to say something about Alice being a timeless children’s classic, only I’m not sure what kids today think of it. There’s no plot, and a lot of the references to the English court system and poems Victorian schoolchildren would have learned go right over my head, and I have a degree in English lit. Or maybe there’s so much nonsense in it that kids love it, anyway. I guess I’ll just have to read it with the Burt Squirt and report back then.

I do have a soft spot for Alice because I watched the 1985 miniseries hundreds of times as a child. And I can still sing “Jam Tomorrow.”

This time, the Kate Beckinsale version is not the one to watch.

Rating: 5/5 stars

9: Speaker for the Dead, by Orson Scott Card

The Ender series is the first sci-fi I’ve ever read, and I’d definitely read more, if that’s any indication of how I like the Ender books. It takes a bit of adjusting to get into Speaker for the Dead, which picks up 3000 years after Ender’s Game and doesn’t answer a lot of questions about what happened after the first book. However, you’re immediately drawn into an intriguing mystery about some creepy aliens on the planet Lusitania, and the plot never loses momentum even when it comes careening to the end.

I do have several fairly major criticisms. The book suffers from a dearth of sympathetic characters. Understandable, when you’re dealing with a dysfunctional family, which is crucial to the plot and, indeed, part of the whole concept of Ender being “Speaker for the Dead”—one who speaks, the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth about people. Still, it’s a bit of a struggle for me to fully connect with so many characters who either continually make stupid choices (which, granted, facilitate the plot) or are downright unlikeable. Though supercomputer Jane is pretty awesome; not far into the book I decided that her fate, alone, would make or break the book for me. Another problem with the characterization, though, is that Card is guilty of the telling vs. showing crime. Maybe the genre necessitates a bit of foregoing character-driven scenes in favor of plot? Because I so thoroughly enjoy these books, I’m beginning to re-think that hard and fast stance somewhat. Also, when writing a series, a certain amount of summary of events in previous books is inevitable to keep readers up to speed, but Card isn’t an author who does this particularly well. At times the clunky writing pulls me out of the story.

Even with those flaws, I was unable to put down Speaker for the Dead for the two weeks I was reading it. And as soon as I finished, I immediately went on to the next one.

Rating: 4/5 stars

10. Xenocide, by Orson Scott Card

It’s actually a little difficult to review this one, because the fourth book in the Ender quartet, Children of the Mind, is less its own book than a continuation of Xenocide. Still have problems with the unlikeable characters in this one, though a new, fascinating, and sympathetic set is introduced so I have to conclude that Card intentionally wrote the Ribeira family that way and isn’t simply bad at characterization. This one gets awfully expositional as the sci-fi plot unfolds, but again, I think a certain amount of that has to be overlooked in sci-fi. At least it helped me understand what was going on even as my mind was being blown, and made me want to keep reading. And by the end I’d decided that Xenocide was my favorite of the series so far.

Rating: 4/5 stars

Did I mention that all these books-and more-fit on my Sony Pocket Reader?

What have you been reading?

My strengths as a writer do not include a particular talent for naming characters, let’s just establish that from the start. While I despair ever having the knack for it that—oh, anybody else—does, I do try to at least name my characters with significance.

For example, one of my characters in Songs for Piano and Voice is a nosy, tea-and-sympathy-doling, everybody’s mother figure, a la Molly Weasley from the Harry Potter series (who would also be likely to say, “NOT MY DAUGHTER, YOU $%&@*!”) so I made her a red-head and named her Ginger.  Perhaps not the best example of creativity or originality, though I like to think of her as an homage.

I’m rather proud of how I named my leading lady, Laura Lovelace—though someone-who-shall-not-be-named tells me this name makes him think of Luna Lovegood and thus “Loony Laura Lovegood.” Any of you other Potterfans who’ve also read Songs think of that? (Also, I’m suddenly alarmingly aware of the number of Potter references I make…)

Back to the point…When I was conceptualizing this character, an Italian aria I sang during my brief stint as a voice major kept coming to mind. It contains the phrase “l’aura che tu respiri, alfin respiro,” which roughly translates to “the air you breathe, at last I breathe.” The name Laura was right there in the text, and it was pretty, feminine, and fit the mental image I had for the character.

There’s a story behind Laura’s last name, too.  Lovelace is a play on words: Laura is the romantic interest for a loveless man. Yeah, kinda lame, I know—but as I said, I don’t claim to be particularly good at this aspect of storytelling.

Which brings us to my male lead, John Marks, and an embarrassing confession: John is my placeholder name whenever I can’t think of a male name and want to move on with a project. In this case, I moved on with a whole novel, and by then had spent so much time with the character that I could never think of him as anything but John. He was supposed to be an ordinary thirtysomething pianist, so why not give him the most common male name in the English language?

John’s last name, Marks, was the product of a little free-writing to get the feel for how he and Laura interact. I wanted them to hit it off right from the start, when they meet at church, with a bit of banter/flirtation. Now I can’t remember the exactly thought process, but I wound up with a page of dialogue in which Laura teases John about sharing his name with John Mark, a nudist in the Bible. I kept the name, as well as the scene, because emotional nakedness had become a theme in the book.

So you see, while my characters may not be the best named in fiction, they are named with significance.

It turns out that John Marks is a more significant name than I imagined.

One night, while playing a game of Beyond Balderdash with friends, I learned that Johnny Marks was the composer behind all the songs in the old 1960s stop-motion Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer, among other popular Christmas tunes.

I did not know this when I named my John, and though part of me is tempted to work this into the story somewhere; it would so be John to bemoan the fact that of all the composers, he would share a name of the one responsible for all his (and the author’s) least favorite Christmas songs. But doing that might undermine the wonderful, amusing coincidence of it all, which is one of the things I love most about being a writer.

In this profession, magic happens.  (And that’s not a Harry Potter reference.)

We sat together on the sofa, and Mr. Burt gave me a back massage because I was hurting from hefting the 17.2 pound Burt Squirt (and, occasionally, his carseat carrier) all day.  As if that wasn’t relaxing enough, our cat, Dorian Gray, who hasn’t been extremely affectionate toward us since we surprised her by returning from four days’ absence with a loud, stinky new pet who gets all our attention, curled up next to me and began to purr.

Always keen to encourage sociable behavior in our kitty (who is, perhaps, too aptly named), Mr. Burt praised her:  “Oh, you’re coming to sit with Lisa! That’s so nice, Dorrie!”

My fingers, which had been stroking Dorrie’s silky black coat, stopped.

“You called me Lisa,” I said at the exact moment as Mr. Burt said, “I called you Lisa.”

For the past five months, when Mr. Burt has spoken about me, it’s mostly been to the Burt Squirt, so he refers to me as Mommy. I couldn’t even tell you the last time I heard him talk about me as Lisa. It was nice to hear (after I realized he was talking about me).  There’s probably something deep and psychological in there about motherhood and identity, but I haven’t had enough sleep for that and mostly I just think it’s funny that Mr. Burt and I realized at the same moment how little opportunity we have to refer to each other by our names instead of by our new roles.

For the record, Mr. Burt has never addressed me as Mommy, nor have I ever addressed him as Daddy.

But perhaps, in light of this incident, we’d better start addressing each other as Lisa and Jeff instead of Tater and Jeffer, or Baby and Honey, lest we forget our names altogether.

On the other hand, this way we’re not in any danger of wearing out our names.

I’m not at all surprised to like The West Wing, as I was a big fan of Aaron Sorkin’s more recent and more short-lived Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. Though it’s a political drama and therefore deals with heavy, issue-driven storylines, it’s full of the same brand of fast-paced, witty, and often humorous dialogue that drew me to Studio 60.

And likeable characters.  Even if you don’t agree with the politics of the show, you can’t help but care about President Bartlet and his staff.  Why?  Because they’re people. Real, fleshed-out people.

Take, for example, this exchange between C.J. Cregg, White House Press Secretary, and Deputy Communications Director Sam Seaborn,  which occurs during a walk-and-talk about a press briefing in Celestial Navigation:

C.J.
I have a dentist appointment at noon.

SAM
What's wrong?

C.J.
Nothing's wrong.

SAM
C.J.?

C.J.
I'm experiencing some pain.

SAM
For how long?

C.J.
About a month now, but it'll go away by itself.

SAM
When?

C.J.
When I die, Sam. Carol, cancel the appointment.

SAM
Carol, set the briefing for two o'clock. Keep the appointment.

C.J.
Sam!

SAM
Your teeth are the best friends you got, C.J.

C.J.
They are?

SAM
You take care of them, they'll take care of you.

C.J.
When'd you start talking like this?

SAM
I'm nuts for dental hygiene.

Probably not as funny to read as it was to watch, but Mr. Burt and I howled at that last line of Sam’s, Mr. Burt commenting, “That’s so Sam.”  I agreed.  And even though it’s just a throwaway line with no bearing whatsoever on the story of that particular episode, it so cemented the character of Sam Seaborn for me that I haven’t stopped thinking about what a great example “I’m nuts for dental hygiene” is of an apparently insignificant but carefully-chosen detail bridging the gap between fictional character and fictional person.

It makes me think about my own characters and wonder whether I’ve drawn them out in such a way as to make my readers laugh out loud and say, “That is so John!”  What is John nuts for?

And I realize, as I reflect, that I need to do some more work in the quirks and foibles department.  I flirted with the idea of John being a bit of a technophobe – and yet, as my brother pointed out to me, John engages in a bit of cyber repartee that hinges on knowledge of netspeak a technophobe certainly wouldn’t have. An astute reader might laugh at the banter, but ultimately would say, “That’s not John.”

So, another item to add to the revision list – that is, whenever the Burt Squirt gives me a chance to do anything with the ideas I’ve got bouncing around in my head.  Until then, I’ll keep watching good shows like The West Wing and reading good books like the several I’ve been meaning to review, in the hope that Sam and others will continue to inspire me to be a better writer.

This week, I was leaving Walmart when a voice called, “Ma’am!  Excuse me, Ma’am!”  I turned around to see my cashier chasing me down, waving what appeared to be a packet of seasoning.  “This is yours, Ma’am, you forgot it!”  I thanked her, thinking it was my fajita seasoning, and glad I wasn’t going to have a repeat of last week’s two Walmart trips.

Except that it wasn’t fajita seasoning.  It was buffalo wing seasoning.  Which the cashier insisted I keep, even though I insisted it wasn’t mine.  Maybe I paid for it; I didn’t care enough to check my receipt.

The point of the story:  last week I didn’t get all my groceries, and this week I got extra groceries.  It all evened out.

This wasn’t my only experience this week of situations evening each other out.

Also last Monday at Walmart, I was the victim of parking lot theft.  As in, someone whipped through a row, going the wrong direction, and stole the parking space into which I was just about to turn.  I was incensed!  How could someone be so rude — and to a lady with a baby in the car?!

Later that same shopping trip, I was having some difficulty unpacking my cart to pay for my groceries while holding a Burt Squirt who did not want to be in his carrier.  The man ahead of me in line noticed my struggle and then proceeded to unload my entire cart for me.  (Possibly this explains the lunch meat going AWOL.)

But see what happened?  Someone was rude to me, then someone was extremely kind to me.  It all evened out.

This of course reminds me of the Seinfeld episode “The Opposite” (quite possibly my favorite episode), in which George was down but goes up (by doing the opposite of his instincts), Elaine was up but goes down (thanks to Jujyfruits), and Kramer dubs Jerry “Even Steven” (because he loses a gig and then gets a gig).

That’s me!

(If only blogging about Walmart would reveal my comedic genius and lead to my becoming fabulously wealthy like Mr. Seinfeld.)

Never having read any Stephen King (with the exception of On Writing, years ago), I have no idea whether my style remotely resembles his.  (My previous blog post came up Margaret Atwood – yay! – but the first page of my novel, which I re-wrote yesterday, came up Dan Brown – bleurgh.) Maybe those of you who read King can read this short story of mine and compare.  But do not expect any telekinetic prom queens, freaky clowns, or possessed automobiles.

Dust to Dust

I hear the doorbell ring and suddenly the panic takes me
The sound so ominously tearing through the silence
I cannot move, I’m standing
Numb and frozen
Among the things I love so dearly
The books, the paintings, and the furniture
Help me …
- Abba, “The Visitors”

Two black bags stood packed in the middle of the living room. It was the first time they’d ever been used, purchased not quite three months ago at the J.C. Penney thirty miles away. Their newness was obvious, even jarring, in the midst of all the antique furniture that fitted out the room. A lot of it was Victorian, or Victorian reproduction, and all of it feminine. None of it suited the dark paneled walls and rustic beams in the ceiling, and it certainly wasn’t the kind of furniture to suit the leathery skinned, denim clad cowboy leaning against the kitchen doorjamb staring at the bags (who, if he’d heard himself called a cowboy, would’ve made a gruff sound in his throat; he was far too old to be called any kind of boy). It was the detritus of the grandmother Judith had never known, which always seemed coated in layers of dust no matter how often she took the furniture polish to it, as if the dust were Nana’s presence in the house.

The old cowboy — Papa, he was to Judith — never talked much about Nana, yet to Judith, it somehow felt like he never spoke of anything else. He held her forever in his deep-set, startlingly blue eyes; her name was marked indelibly on his forearm, below the rolled-up shirtsleeve. Once Judith had asked about the tattoo, and Papa grunted and told her that all the guys got them during the war — anchors and eagles and such war imagery, or hearts draped in banners with their sweethearts’ names. It was very romantic, Judith thought, and very tragic. She told her boyfriend Johnny, and for Christmas he got her name tattooed on his bicep for her, which made Judith write in her diary that it would be Johnny her own granddaughter would see forever held in her eyes. Which were green, and not as naturally conducive to tragic romance as startling blue; but she had to work with what she got.

What Papa didn’t tell Judith was that Betty Jean hadn’t been impressed by the romantic gesture. Said she thought love meant remembering a girl’s name without having it written on your arm like a cheat sheet. She’d been that breed of practical Baptist farm girl indigenous to East Texas — the breed of girl Judith had never quite managed to be, even though she wore western cut jeans and shirts and boots.

But then, Judith had been born in San Francisco.

Today she was going off to college, which neither Nana nor Papa had done, and which Papa couldn’t see the purpose of, as her own mama, he’d told her more times than she could keep track of during the college application process, had only gotten an illegitimate child (her) and a drug addiction (and eventual OD) for the cost of tuition. Judith had argued more times than she could keep track of that her mama had gone to Berkeley in the 70s for art, while she was staying local to earn her teacher’s certificate. She couldn’t change that much.

When you lived in the part of East Texas Judith and her grandfather did, “local” didn’t mean there was a college near enough that Judith could live at home with Papa as she had since she was five. Judith didn’t have her own car (this past summer Papa had driven her to and from her job at the J.C. Penney in his battered old farm truck). Johnny, headed to a technical college in the same town as Judith, had gotten a new Ford F-150 for high school graduation, and would drive Judith to the start of the semester and bring her home for Thanksgiving.

So, all her clothes that would get her though the sweltering Texas August and September and the warm October and November (jeans, boots, a variety of short and long-sleeved plaid, striped, solid, and the odd floral shirts, and her letter jacket, in case of the random cold snaps Texas usually got for a day or two before Thanksgiving, before Indian summer set in) were packed in the black suitcase; the matching duffel bag held one of Nana’s handmade quilts and a set of sheets she’d embroidered — and a couple of bath towels, which were new, and had caused a mainly silent quarrel with Papa when she’d come off a shift at J.C. Penney with a shopping bag in hand (as in, he’d looked from beneath his heavy brow, and frowned, while she argued her case). Judith hated old towels, and had gotten these in a buy one, get one for one cent sale, on top of her employee discount. Practically free. In fact Papa ought to save a few bucks returning the suitcase and duffel, which were her graduation presents, and let her re-buy them with her discount. He’d looked insulted by the suggestion, so Judith let it drop. Was he feeling insulted all over again, she wondered, as he stared at her suitcases?

In actuality, Judith mistook insult for chagrin, but Papa’s tan, lined face was a difficult one to read. Had he been too thrifty over the years? Was that why Barbara turned out like she did?

“Thought you was s’posed to meet Johnny out front,” he said.

Judith had been walking slowly all around the living room, running her hands over each piece of furniture and every knickknack, picking up the framed photographs as if to hug her nana, her mama. Most of the pictures in the room were faded to shades of yellow, or black and white, as Papa hadn’t used the camera since Nana passed away. There were a few of Judith — her yearbook pictures, including her most recent in a bright red cap and gown — but none of them were framed, as Papa claimed he “didn’t know nothin’ ’bout that kinda thing”. Scribbled in one of her spiral notebooks she’d bought for her courses and packed in the duffel bag along with her linens was a list of all the pictures of herself and their dimensions; for Christmas she thought she’d frame her pictures for Papa, and maybe buy one of those wooden picture display shelves she’d seen when she was working at Penney’s.

She looked over her shoulder at Papa and lifted an eyebrow. “Thought you hated it when Johnny honks for me instead of coming to the door.”

“Don’t stop you from goin’ out with him.”

Shaking her head, Judith turned away again. “I called him back last night and said he had to come in and get my bags like a Southern gentleman and stand here and say Yessir while you give him hell about not speeding and not being alone in his apartment with me and not going to any parties and getting busted for drinking.”

Papa’s only response was an unintelligible gruff monosyllable. Judith chose to interpret it as a laugh, though if she were honest, she wasn’t sure she’d ever actually heard Papa laugh.

For some minutes they stood silent in the living room, as they’d passed so much of their lives. Gradually Judith became aware of that third-wheel sensation she’d come to recognize in her teen years as Papa having a conversation with Nana. She sat at the far end of the sofa, closest to the TV, and flicked it on with the remote so they could have their privacy. Anyway she always had to sit down when the air became heavy like it was now, as all the unsaid words filled up the space that was already stifling from the mid-August sunlight glaring through the window sheers and the musty, mildewy smell they never had been able to find the source of, which was so much worse this time of year.

The roar of an approaching truck engine told Judith that Johnny was coming up the dirt driveway. She pictured the cloud of dust his tires kicked up since it had been another summer of drought. He’d gripe the whole way to Waco about getting his shiny new black pickup dirty. Shutting off the TV, she stood and thought about what she’d say to shut him up. Probably that she’d take his truck to the damn car wash when they got there. She had lots of quarters in her purse for the dorm laundry rooms.

The putter of the idling engine indicated Johnny was parked in front of the house now. Then the engine kicked off. A heavy door creaked open, then banged shut. There was a jangle of keys, pocket change, and Johnny’s big belt buckle as cowboy boots clopped to the door.

The bell rang.

“You gonna get that?” Papa asked.

Judith nodded, but found she couldn’t make her legs move toward the door. She couldn’t even really think about it. Out the corner of her eye, she saw Papa push off from the wall, his long jean encased legs that ended in pointy-toed boots the color of dust bringing him two steps closer to her.

“You change your mind? You know I won’t object to you staying home and working at the J.C. Panty’s.”

If Judith had been looking at him, she would’ve seen that Papa’s eyes, sunk back under his heavy brow, were twinkling, and that it was her own image wrapped in the startling blue. But Judith was lost in her own mind, and her earliest memory of living in Texas replaying with all the clarity of its having occurred a moment ago.

Papa had taken her to church for the first time in her life, and she’d been awed by the pristine white steeple and the stained glass windows. It was the prettiest building in town (which wasn’t saying a lot). She’d also run, crying, from the five year-olds’ Sunday school classroom when a china doll of a girl with wavy black hair pulled back in a pink hair bow, wearing a pink sundress with a poufy skirt and white patent leather sandals asked her why she was wearing jeans and a Rainbow Brite t-shirt to church.

Mrs. Newsome, the preacher’s wife, had noticed Judith in Papa’s wiry arms, her face buried in his collar, wetting it with tears, and offered to take her shopping after the service. “Panty’s is havin’ a clearance sale,” she said, which only distressed Judith more; it wasn’t her panties Amy had made fun of, although they were probably wrong, too. So she’d let Mrs. Newsome take her to the mall.

Being from San Francisco, Judith knew even at the tender age of five that two department stores that didn’t even have escalators because they were only one storey, and a couple of shoe stores, jewelry shops, and a Wal Mart, wasn’t a good mall. But they got corny dogs for lunch, and when Mrs. Newsome delivered her home to Papa, Judith jumped out of the station wagon and skipped up to Papa with a shopping bag in hand. “Corn Dog 7′s my favorite restaurant and guess what, Papa! Panty’s doesn’t just sell underwear!”

Papa and Mrs. Newsome spent an hour trying to teach her that the store was called J.C. Penney, just like the money, but got no further than Judith saying, “That’s what I said! J.C. Panty!” They thought she was just being a kid, until a week later, when Judith came home from Sunday school laughing about the little boy who’d crossed his legs and squirmed around in his chair and shouted out in the middle of the Bible story, “Tay-cher! I nayed ta go tay-tay!” that they realized Judith’s panty/Penney confusion stemmed from the unfamiliar drawn-out vowel sounds of a Texas twang to her Californian ears. Mrs. Newsome had laughed and laughed in front of Judith, a cackle most unbecoming for a preacher’s wife, which peeled through the tiny farmhouse and hurt Judith’s ears as well as her feelings, and said, “Judy, (Judith hated to be called Judy, though she’d never told anyone) you’re half-Texan. You’ll talk like a native yet.” Papa had laughed, too, though Judith never knew; he’d saved it for the privacy of his bedroom, as he had done when her mama tickled him.

Since then Judith’s speech had, as Mrs. Newsome predicted, relaxed into a drawl. And, ironically, she’d been assigned to the lingerie department of J.C. Penney. Papa had laughed in his room about that, too.

The doorbell rang again. It seemed to have been more forcefully punched this time, and, imagining Johnny sighing and crossing his arms and leaning against the siding, and shaking his head at her when she let him in, asking, “The heck took you so long, Judy?” and “You deaf, woman?” Judith snapped into action.

But her legs did not take her to the door, her hands did not turn the knob to yank it open. She bolted across the living room and threw her arms around Papa’s lean frame. The worn denim of his shirt pressed to her cheek, the wiry softness of his beard tickled her forehead. His strong arms, especially the one tattooed with Nana’s name, held her tightly to him. She almost had an inkling that he loved her and wished to God she wouldn’t go, because she would come back changed; but then it occurred to her it wasn’t her he was sending off to college, but that he was back in the summer of ’76, sending her mama off to Berkeley.

She pulled away. “You bought me suitcases so I could go somewhere.”

And, whether he knew it or not (which he did), so she could be someone. Problem was, neither of them knew who that was, and both were afraid of who it might be.

Judith opened the door, but when Johnny came in saying exactly what Judith had predicted he would, Papa already had her bags in his hands, and he carried them out to the dusty black pickup truck for her.

It was Papa who opened the passenger side door for her as Johnny turned the ignition, Papa who shut it. He said goodbye with a single nod. But as Johnny began to silently back his truck down the long drive, Judith saw through the swirl of dust Nana standing beside Papa. He had his arm around her, and she was waving. Only it wasn’t goodbye; Nana’s hand was somehow connected to Judith’s heart, and there was a twinge, a pull…

Judith turned her head and looked at Johnny. “Just turn the truck around in the yard. Let’s get heck out of Dodge.”

“Yes ma’am.” Johnny threw the shift into drive, jammed his foot on the gas. Papa and the house vanished behind them in a cloud of dust that coated Judith’s new suitcases in the back of the truck.

That wasn’t exactly the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

In fact, simply having a baby, of any size, shape, or color, attracts lots of comments from strangers. Though I still mean people who are strange, and mostly in Walmart.

Take, for example, the woman who meandered over to me one afternoon as I attempted to simultaneously calm a screaming Burt Squirt and find a particular variety of Italian sausage I buy for lasagna (which, of course, Walmart had stopped selling, in typical Walmart fashion).

“Is it a widdle teensy baby?” she asked as she approached the cart.

“Not too teensy,” I answered, slightly embarrassed that my three month-old apparently sounded like he was having a newborn meltdown in the grocery store, and bracing myself to be judged for it.  “He’s about–”

Before I could tell her the Burt Squirt’s age, the woman, peering down into the cart, interrupted, “Oh, yes he’s a widdle teensy boy.”

I heaved a sigh of relief.  No judgment!

Then the woman’s eyes flicked up to me, the haze of baby admiration dissipating abruptly like a summer thunderstorm in Texas.  “He wants you to hold him, Mama.”

My defenses flew up as my mouth fell open.  First of all, how was I supposed to hold my fourteen-pound baby and push a shopping cart full of groceries at the same time?  Second, I was not that woman’s mama!

Alas, neither indignant response emitted from my lips. Quite the opposite, I shrugged, indicating my helplessness in the situation, muttered something about Walmart having stopped carrying the sausage I needed, and pushed cart and screaming child onward.

Though my shoulders hunched under the burden of my inadequacy, my feelings, apparently, weren’t evident enough for the woman.

She called after me, “Where is his paci?”

Pride goeth before the fall — or before the stumble over the grocery cart, in this case.  For, you see, up until then, I’d ridiculously worn it as a badge of pride that my baby didn’t like pacifiers.  He didn’t need them. He could soothe himself without that crutch, and I would never have to go to the trouble of breaking the paci habit. And, best of all, no photos of his cute mouth hidden by a paci.

In that moment, I realized that was a load of utter crap and wished to God my baby was a constant pacifier sucker. That I could whip one out, pop it in, quiet the baby and, most importantly, shut. that. woman. up.

Or, better yet, he’d have had a paci to start with and I never would have had my mothering abilities called into question in the first place.

Things being what they were, I was close to tears as I turned and said, “He won’t take a paci at all.  He hates them.”

Even as I said the words, my brain told me I didn’t owe that busybody an explanation, least of all an apology, for my child’s preferences.  In my head, I knew that. But there’s nothing like unsolicited advice from a strange person in Walmart to break a new mommy’s heart.

Eventually I did resort to taking the Burt Squirt out of his carseat.  In Mama’s arms, his crying instantly stopped. It should have been sweet relief, but instead it was only so much salt in my wounds. Rubbed in deeper when, rounding the corner of the frozen foods aisle, a met the woman again, as she meandered through the bakery, munching on a sticky bun.

“See?” she said around a bite, “I told you he just needed you, Mama.”

As I gritted my teeth, she proceeded to explain to me how I could spare myself future hissy fits by foregoing the carseat and propping him up in the main baby seat with pillows.

Rather than walk away, or at the very least, point out how ridiculous it would be for me to drag a bunch of pillows grocery shopping, on top of the kid and all his personal effects, I listened politely, and even said, with such a show of cheerfulness that I deserve an Academy Award, “He’s eying your pastry.”

Any normal person would know I wasn’t dropping a subtle hint with that comment. But we’re not talking about normal people, we’re talking about strange people at Walmart.

“Would he eat some?” she asked, and broke off a bite-sized portion of her sticky bun.

I gawped at her, and at her sticky bun.

“Thank you,” I managed to sputter after a moment. “But he’s exclusively breastfed. Also, he doesn’t have any teeth.”

I adjusted the Burt Squirt on my hip, wheeled the cart around with my free hand, and proceeded to the checkout, my confidence in my mothering abilities restored.

]]> http://www.lrburt.com/mom-blog/just-trying-to-help/feed/ 2 http://www.lrburt.com/mom-blog/contest/ http://www.lrburt.com/mom-blog/contest/#comments Wed, 07 Jul 2010 15:19:30 +0000 L.R. http://www.lrburt.com/?p=1375 It’s a prerogative of parenthood to have your child professionally photographed at least once a year — or every few months, if you have a new baby. This can be pricey, but JCPenney meets our needs by offering frequent coupons for affordable portrait packages with no sitting fees. At the Burt Squirt’s last session, the JCPenney portrait staff went above and beyond and let Mr. Burt and me jump in for a couple of family shots without charging us an additional sitting fee.

Of course, that got us to buy more pictures we otherwise wouldn’t have purchased, because we are new parents and therefore suckers. So it was really just a slick business move on the part of JCPenney, but I won’t hold it against them, since I got cute pictures out of the deal.

Or funny pictures, in this case:

When I posted it on Facebook, my mother-in-law commented that it needed a funny caption above the Burt Squirt’s head to reflect his thoughts about his situation.  She’s right.

However, seeing as I haven’t come up with anything cleverer than “Yuck!” or “Bleurgh!” I invite you all to submit your best caption to the very first LRBurt.com contest.  The winner will get a prize, though I can’t promise anything more than a post featuring my favorite submission.  Though that would be pretty cool, wouldn’t it?

Feel free to enter as many times as you want.  You can simply post your caption(s) in a comment (if you followed this link from Facebook, please comment in this post rather than to the Facebook thread).  Or, if you’re Photoshop-savvy, snag the pic and edit away.

The contest will run through next Wednesday.

Tell a friend!