Pre-kiddos, I had a scooter, and although I had a love/hate relationship with trying to hold on to a scooter in Baltimore, I loved my scooter, and subsequently anything to do with scooters.

When A was less than a year old, I found a Barbie with a Vespa. She was on sale, and I figured I could give it to A on a later birthday. This week A found it in the closet, so I relented and gave it to her. She is in love. Today Barbie rode with us to the farmers’ market, and was shown proudly to everyone we encountered. Turns out I was a bit horrified to be the parent of a Barbie wielding little girl. I felt as if my feminism, supposedly already tarnished by my choice to stay home, was being challenged. I know this is ridiculous. A toy shouldn’t provide validation of my parenting, but Barbie has a long history, and giving one to my daughter wasn’t an easy choice.

I only remember having one Barbie of my own. She was a ballerina and I got her after my first ballet recital. She was beautiful, and I was in awe. Unfortunately, the Barbies of the 70s had terrific rubber feet. They were soft with a bit of stiffness to them. They were the best things in the whole world to chew, and chew them I did. Wisely, my mother gave me no more Barbies. Once I was older, I played with my sister’s barbies. I never saw her as a figure of beauty to emulate, I saw her as an outlet to my imagination. Barbie had wild adventures. I remember how much fun I had with Barbie, and in today’s market of crazy sexualized toys, Barbie seems quaint, a nostalgic throwback. I have to wonder though, is this little plastic doll benign or is she somehow going to contribute to my daughter’s sense of self worth.

For now Barbie will stay, and have adventures in my house. Today she rode a bike, maybe tomorrow she will go to the moon.

The day M was born

May and June slipped by before I had a chance to write about M’s birthday. I can not believe my beautiful funny little guy is one. There is something wonderful about this toddler, who I brought into the world with my own hands. He is determined, yet full of joy and pure happiness. He was quick to mobility and loves to climb. He adores his sister more than anyone else. He is content to play by himself, but hates to be in a room by himself. He is beginning to talk and has about 10 words (Dog, cat, gentle, Mama, Dada, Ada, go, ball, cheese, stomp). He gives hugs and kisses.

We had a birthday party brunch on his birthday. His paternal grandparents, and maternal grandmother came to celebrate with him. Three days before his birthday his baby cousin was born. It was supposed to rain, but held off so we had much of the party outside. He loved the cupcake and ate the whole thing.

Nona and Poppy enjoying the celebration

Playing with DeeDee

We biked to Sherwood gardens yesterday to hang out with A’s friends from playgroup. When they all entered school this year playgroup fizzled a bit. A has been missing them and asking about them lately, so I decided we would join them.

Jump for Joy

5 1/2 miles away, Sherwood garden is outside of my goal area. We could have taken the car, and technically not felt guilty about it, but I decided to see if I could ride it. The biggest issue with riding in Baltimore is that going north means spending much of the ride going up hill. The nice part about this trip is that it could be done on the Jones Falls Trail and the Guilford bike boulevard.

Good Balance Boy Child

It was a beautiful morning for a ride. The kids were both happy and I was excited to push my limits a bit. We got around the harbor and up the path in record time, for us. Then we used the Guilford bike boulevard for the first time. I was amazed at how simple modifications could make a road so much more pleasant to ride. The crosswalk at North Ave. has a space for bicycles to wait, as does the road. The speed bumps have a cut out in them for bikes, and there are circles at some of the intersections. The result is that traffic moves slower, and bikers have a more enjoyable experience.

Once at Sherwood gardens we looked at tulips and met up with our friends. The kids had a great time. It was a perfect spring day.

Heading home after a long day. M was asleep before I even buckled him in.

The one word that M-man uses with consistency is go.
He says it as he climbs the stairs, walks across the room, and when I put him on the bike. It is really cute and could be taken as his current motto.
“Go! Go! GO!”

Riding a bike is a fairly public act. In a car you can hide from the world, but on a bike your every action is visible. Sleeping children, as noted before, bring the most attention, waving children make people smile. That said, I was completely unprepared for yesterday’s conversation.

It started innocently enough, I Was loading the children onto the bike, after picking A up from school, and noticed that a family was using the nearby parking meter. The grandma of the group was watching us intently so I said hello. She said something back to me but the only word I heard was school. I must have looked confused, because she responded in a firm slightly annoyed voice, “What is your plan?”

Still confused, I replied, “Today? We are heading home from school?”

Shaking her head, “No, what is your plan for when they are older? Where will you send them to school?”

Ah, I suddenly realize both what she is asking and why she is asking, “Probably Federal Hill, but I have plenty of good options.”

“Where’s that? Is it private?”

“Right over there. No it is public. There are some really good options in the city. We are nervous about middle school, but even those are improving. We have some great options for High School.”

“Like Poly?”, her tone is clipped now, polite but skeptical.

“There are more options than that,” I go on to list them. “Plus, I have been a city teacher for over 11 years. I believe in City Schools”.

“Oh, so you won’t send them someplace like Gilman or Friends?” She mentions some private schools shaking her head in disbelief.

“Nope, have a beautiful day.” I give her a little wave and we bike off.

Even without children, I am terrified about being doored biking through the city. I decided at some point that yelling at parked cars was my best bet for not being hit. If I am passing a car and think there might be someone in it I yell “On your left”, as loudly as I can.
A has taken to yelling this as well. The other day as we were riding down the street a yelled, “On your right”.
I was puzzled and then I realized she was yelling at the guy across the street, and technically we were on his right.
I find it amazing that she is beginning to know her left from her right. This is a skill I have always struggled with, so I never imagined it would come so easily for one of my children.
I don’t know if this is something they work on at school or not, but I do know we have not thoroughly covered it at home. I give all the credit to Youyou and Bouwna. Who? Youyou and Bouwna, you know, A’s hands. Apparently, they are girl baby birds. Youyou is the right one and Bouwna is the left, and she knows this. She also thinks it is really funny to pretend that her hands are birds. These two have great adventures, frequent birthdays, and get hurt and need mama kisses at least once a day. I love how creative she is, but I would be lying if I didn’t admit that it worries me a bit.

16 Septembers ago, my boyfriend at the time and I went to the Lincoln County Animal Shelter in Edgecomb, ME, to get a kitten. I wanted a puppy, but was talked into a kitten. Begrudgingly, I agreed, but I set parameters; only a grey or orange kitten would do. No run of the mill stripy cats for me, thank you very much. There were no grey or orange kittens. We spent a long time standing in the kitten room discussing our options. One persistent little tabby started by rubbing himself against my ankles, then he jumped into my folded arms, and finally jumped from the windowsill to my shoulders and draped himself across me like a shawl. Despite the fact that he wasn’t anything I had imagined, we took him home.

Clifford loved pumpkin from the first day we took him home. I have no kitten pictures online, but here is a cat-pumpkin picture.

We had just returned from a Phish festival called the Clifford Ball. After much deliberation, we decided that was his name. Clifford was the funniest kitten. His favorite perches included the top of the bookcase, the refrigerator, and my shoulders. He had the loudest purr ever. Always a bit doglike, he was the best cat for me.

He has been with me all these years. He traveled to Maryland with me when I left Maine. On warm spring nights you could find him curled up on the windowsill, of my first Baltimore apartment, talking to everyone as they walked by. He was here through the addition of first another cat, then a dog, a husband, and two children. Through it all he remained his funny quirky dog-like self.

I thought I was going to lose him almost two years ago, when he rapidly went from 21 lbs down to almost 8 lbs. The vet told me that he either was in acute kidney failure and would probably die, or he was diabetic and could be fixed right up. It turned out to be diabetes and he lived almost two more happy years.

Sunday, March 17th. I woke up to Clifford screaming. I found him shaking in a pool of urine. I cleaned him up and we went off to the emergency vet with my mother. He had several seizures on the way there. The vet thought it might be related to his diabetes, so I went home while they ran some tests and observed him. Later they called me to tell me that he wasn’t responding to the anti-seizure medication. I then made the decision to put him down.

My friend came and got me and we went to the vet. Poor Clifford continued to have seizures until the very end. He purred when he heard me talk to him. As much as it hurt to put him down, it was a relief to see him at peace from the seizures. The vet was amazing and helped me feel good about my decision.

When I came home, I had to tell Ada that Clifford had died. Gently, I explained that Clifford had been very sick, and the doctors tried to fix him but could, and that he had died which meant he was no longer alive and wouldn’t ever come home. I also told her that Tilly, our other cat, and myself were both really sad, and that it was okay to be sad. I asked her to be kind to Tilly. She said, “Okay, Mom, I’m hungry. I wasn’t sure how much she understood. This morning she woke up to find Tilly at the end of the bed. From the other room I heard “Morning Tilly, you sad. It’s okay to be sad. Clifford was very sick, sorry you so sad”. My heart melted.

My 22 year old self thought she would live in the mountains. Then she fell in love, moved into a tiny apartment, got a better job, moved by the sea, and fell out of love. By then I was 25 and a bit jaded, and looking for a real teaching job. In a move that surprised everyone, including myself, I headed to Baltimore. I knew nothing about Baltimore, save what I learned on a few episodes of Homicide.
The first few years were hard. I had to make new friends, and learn to lock doors. I took adventures but they were mostly outside of the city. The years passed and I bought a house, made a network of friends and settled in. I discovered the Sunday market, learned to drink beer, and adopted a dog. I got to know the teenagers of this city who had a much different outlook on this city than I did. They began to frame the way I see violence and poverty. I taught them what I could. Got my heart broken several times, by children I cared for, who were lured by the call of violence, money, and gangs. Another was taken by the river. My heart sung when several grew up to become productive members of society and hung their heads outside their trucks to yell my name, or cut me off in traffic so they could tell me they got into college.
I met my neighbor, who later became my husband, and had a daughter. WIth her I saw I side of the city that I hadn’t known before. We joined a strong network of families, who choose to live here. We began to attend museums, festivals, and story time. Then my son was born, and we settle even more into the community. Soon we will face hard decisions about schools and I will return to work, with the kids I love and miss. Through all of it one thing has remained true. I love Baltimore, more than I ever imagined, warts and all.

Shannon has been reading A-cat Moby Dick, after reading her two picture books, but before singing, at bedtime. I am not sure why, but she seems to like it. Shannon told me about a conversation they had that went like this:

A- Who is Queequeg?

S- He’s Ishmael’s friend, a harpooneer.

A- What’s a harpooneer.

S- It’s a person who carries a harpoon, which is like a spear, and hunts whales

A- To kiss them?

S- Something like that.

Then tonight she told her brother that he was Queequeg, and that they were going to hunt whales. We asked her who she was and she responded, “Mishmael,” and then ran off to her boat.

Mishmael on her boat

Update: We decided that she was understanding too much, so Shannon abandoned this book for another one.