crooked house

Elsa Mora's Gorgeous "Frida Kahlo" Papercut Necklace

Check out this gorgeous "Frida Kahlo" papercut necklace made by Elsa Mora. She's also featuring a papercut tutorial on her papercutting blog -- and showing off her extremely good taste in clothes on her fashion one.

How I Became a Famous Novelist

I need to get my hands on a copy of How I Became a Famous Novelist, which is reviewed here and excerpted here. He had me at the ad line "Blood is the new pink" and only reinforced the deal with "I wear jeans daily because jeans can double as a napkin." Never mind the following premise for a thriller: "A New York City cop discovers that some Hasidic Jews have found a long-lost 11th commandment that changes everything."

The book has its own Facebook page, where you can find a bunch of extra content, including a page where you can add your own titles to the fake New York Times bestseller lists.

Sleeping Like An Obese Trucker Who's Just Ingested a Week-Old Pot of Five-Alarm Chili

Whoever coined the expression "sleeping like a baby" not only never had one, he or she was a complete idiot. When Sylvie "sleeps" (and I use that term loosely), she not only twists and writhes around like a half-squashed caterpillar, she also grunts and groans like an obese truck driver who's just eaten a week-old pot of five-alarm chili at a greasy spoon that recently failed its health inspection.

Although we had a few -- a very few -- precious moments like this one yesterday:

We've had to break out the "Keep Calm and Carry On" onesie today:

Exactly How Big Is a Foot?

It depends entirely on your perspective. What only yesterday seemed still quite tiny can today seem very large.

You Know What?!

Luke (hopping up and down on one foot in great excitement): Daddy! You know what?! You-know-what?! You-know-what?! You-know-what?!
David, leaning over the crying baby, is too distracted to respond.
Luke (even more eagerly): Daddy! You know what? You-know-what?! You-know-what?! You-know-what?!
David: What, Luke?
Luke (pausing, putting finger to cheek thoughtfully): Um... I forget.

This got such a big laugh the child has worked it into his act -- he now performs it on command.

Luke and His Baby.

Luke has had only two tearful meltdowns related to the birth of his little sister, and both of them had more to do with leaving me at the hospital after visits than with her. Of course, we've been lucky enough to have help -- Grampa came to stay with him while I was in the hospital, our babysitter Renee has been coming every week day, and initially David took two weeks off work, ostensibly to look after the new baby. As it turned out, though, Luke scheduled his father to within an inch of his life. "Daddy! It's time to get up! First? First we will play this game and then? Then we will play that game. Okay? Okay, Daddy? And after that..." We normally wouldn't tolerate the child completely monopolizing his father's time but figured it couldn't hurt too much during this potentially difficult transition.

As a result, Luke is very positive about his new little sister. He likes to give her lip-smackingly loud kisses and life-threateningly squishy hugs, particularly when she is fast asleep and I would prefer that no one even breathe in her direction. He refers to her as "my baby" or "my girl" and has taken charge of opening all the presents that come into the house for her. He's indignant about her presents actually, because they are mostly clothes (who knew there were so many shades of pink?). "I want her to have a toy," he has announced several times. "She should have a rattle. Someone should give her a rattle!"

Only once has he said wistfully, "I wish I could go back inside Mama's tummy." I was quick to assure him that I prefer him just the way he is. (In fact, as a person who likes to sleep and who finds new babies both a bit scary and also a bit boring, I'm having a hard time not wishing away Sylvie's first couple of years. I'd like to fastforward her to age four, especially after nights like last night, when she was awake much more than she was asleep.)

So far we've had one especially touching family moment, when all four of us were cuddled in our big bed early one morning. (Impossibly early one morning.) Luke was holding Sylvie's tiny hand in  his own and cooing at her. Suddenly, in one of those completely uncontrolled, spastic new baby moves, her hand ripped free from his grip and flew up -- she smacked herself, hard, in the forehead and her soother popped out of her mouth. Luke thought this was the most hilarious thing he'd ever seen and promptly imitated the move so many times I half-expected to see a giant bruise blooming in the middle of his forehead.

Then there was the time when Luke began fake wailing, trying to manipulate his exhausted father into playing yet another game with him. Just after Luke started, Sylvie started up, too, in earnest. Luke stopped short, looked at her, and then at me, with very wide eyes.

"Boy, we have A LOT OF children, don't we?" he said.

Even though "two" does not normally qualify as "a lot," at that moment I couldn't help but agree.

My giant brood.

The Prophetess Sleeps. But Her Mother Sure Doesn't.

The Prophetess sleeps.

Wow. Where did that week go? I've been in a haze, feeding Sylvie pretty much every two hours round the clock -- except for when David or Renee, our babysitter, spell me. And since a feeding generally takes half an hour to forty-five minutes and then we hold Sylvie in an upright position for fifteen minutes or so (a lesson learned from the experience of feeding Luke as a newborn with gastroesophageal reflux disease), that means by the time the feeding is over there's about an hour in which to sleep. And it generally takes me half of that to get back to sleep, no matter how tired I am. In fact, the more tired I am, the longer it seems to take. The severity of this situation is something that most childless people don't quite comprehend -- I know I certainly didn't. It's a form of torture, the sleep deprivation, and I personally believe it's evolution's way of ensuring the new mother's undying devotion to her little cult leader. "Maternal love"? Just another way of saying "completely brainwashed".

Last night, though, hurrah! Last night she went three hours and then four hours between feedings. This meant she fed at 10:30pm, again at 1:30am, and then not again until 5:30am -- and that meant I slept for perhaps two hours in a row before I had to be awake for an hour, followed by almost three consecutive hours of sleep. It was a miracle! I love sleep with a passion. If there were a way to marry sleep or vote it president, I'd do it in a heartbeat. That is, of course, if Her Holiness The Supreme Leader and Ultimate Prophetess, Sylvie, said it was so ordained.

(Worth noting: I just used Merriam Webster's thesaurus to try and find suitable titles for the leader of a cult and when I did a search on the word "pope" no matches came up. But a list of "similar words" did. It is topped by "babe" and "baby." Out of the mouths of thesauruses. Thesauri? Whatever. I'll be back when I get some more sleep.)