How She Came To Be Called "Hootie"

So everyone always asks, at one point or another. "Hootie? That's cute. How'd she get that nickname?"
I usually want to say, "She just did. It's cute. It fits her. Leave it at that. You don't want to know." Because every time I tell the story, when I'm done, people give me a look which seems to indicate that the time it takes to listen to the story isn't worth it for the end result. It's one of those stories where it contains a lot of detail and no punchline. But if I actually say, "you don't want to know," somehow people are compelled to ask anyway. Or think it's something "dirty."
Even if I say, "It's a long story...," people still ask, "so? That's okay," and encourage me to continue.
So here it is.
When I was pregnant, I called the little critter in my belly "the Skeezix". Because she was quite active, and jumpy, and moved around quite a bit, like this character in the movie "Dark Crystal" which was called a Skeezix. I also called her many other things. Like predominantly "Fluff". Or "Fluffer". Until I found out what a Fluffer is. Um, NOT.
When she was born, I started calling her Skeezer, or Skeezeroo. At some point, that would morph into Skeezerooney, or just Rooney or Rufus. The husband would walk into her bedroom and say, "Hoo-fus? Roo-fus!" and started calling her, "The Hoo". Very early on, she was known as "The Hoo" or "Hoof." And instead of singing the song, "Who let the dawgs out?" (of course, by Snoop Dogg) we'd sing, "Who let the Hoof out? Who? Who? Who? Who?"
Then at some point Hoof and Hoo morphed into "Hootie". And that stuck. She started turning her head when we said it. She would tell people Hootie was her name. For the longest time, she didn't even KNOW what her real name was. She always answered "Hootie." Her first birthday cake had Hootie on the top, every single birthday party she's had since she commemorated her first year has been known as "Hootiepalooza". Which is how this site got its name.
Now she knows her real name, but tells people Hootie is her nickname. Though she also still goes by many, many other nicknames. Skeezer. Hoofus. The Hoo, Ninga (first set of consistent syllables she strung together, while playing with her feet in her crib). Skeez Malteez. Malteaser. Hootiefish. Hootie Patootie. Hoolie (my nephew calls her that, because he couldn't say "Hootie" for a long time). Hootsin (her Moosie calls her that). And variations of her actual name, such as Lex and Lexi.

First Bicycle, Learning to Ride

Some might say that perhaps 3 is too young for a first bicycle, that Hootie ought to be riding a tricycle at this point. Well, PAH, on that. Although the little red flyer tricycle is cute, it is "vintage", is is nostalgic... it isn't Hootie's forte. The diameter of the pedaling circle is so bloody small, it takes MUCH more force to even make the pedals GO, let alone keep pedaling. And it's high up, easily tipping over. She does MUCH better on a bicycle, IMHO. I'm sure the training wheels will be on it for some time, but that's okay. I am dreaming in my head of the day when we can actually all head out on our own bicycles for a family ride. I so remember the beautiful days when the husband and I would hop on the bikes, head downtown, weave through the lovely old buildings and shops and coffeehouses, down to Town Lake, where we would head east toward the little-used section of the lake, past the Holly Street Power Plant, over the bridge at Pleasant Valley, through the parks and back around to the populated section where the joggers and walkers and bikers and dogs and kids all were, creating our obstacle course through to Zilker Park and back around to the downtown area. We'd stop at the Cedar Door for a Mexican Martini and some pubgrub, and head back up toward the house, a little bit wobbly from a long ride and a nice, relaxing margarita. Haven't done that in about 4 1/2 years, sadly. And the child hasn't come along in a baby carrier because a) the husband doesn't like the safety of the bike-mounted carriers, and b) the husband also doesn't like the idea of dragging a child trailer behind the bicycle through downtown. So when the day comes that Hootie's old enough to go do that with us, HALLELUJAH! I will be THRILLED. Usually the initial riding of a bicycle brings on feelings in a mother akin to, "Oh, my little BABY is growing up, she's not a baby anymore!" and all that. I have PLENTY of other things that trigger THAT response, thanks. Bicycling? That will be a delight!

It's A Phase. I FRIGGING HOPE IT IS!

My child is 100% unable to SMILE LIKE A NORMAL HUMAN BEING. I know that having a snap-happy, camera-laden parent isn't really appealing for a child. I know that I feel like a "stage mom" every time I try to get the child to smile normally. And I can certainly blame my CRAPPY EQUIPMENT because we have an OLD digital camera, one with about a 10 second delay between pictures while it decides if it's "ready" to take another one, one with 3.2 megapixel hoo-ha. It's old, I know it. We need a new one. I can't get a lot of candids, because the MOMENT IS GONE before my camera can actually rev up to take the shot. But HONESTLY, the child cannot just smile normal. Here were my attempts at a Christmas picture today at her preschool party. FAILED MISERABLY.

One or More?

This is Thanksgiving week, and my Mama is here in town. Thus, the posts are a lot fewer and further between. In fact, I think the last post was the day before she arrived.
I just read a post from RubySoho which sparked further interest in me, because I'm amongst the few who choose to have just one child. Aaryn commented about how she doesn't miss the baby phase, as much as she enjoyed Ruby's baby phase. I am 100% in agreement with this point. Points like this always beg the question for me, "why, if you enjoy something in life, is there an eternal quest to relive it? Can it not just be, in its goodness, and not happen over and over again?" I loved going through all of Hootie's little phases and yet, I am perfectly happy to remember them fondly, not try to get them back with another child. I'm not saying that people who have more than one child are doing this, but rather I am saying that enjoying the first child's baby stage does not necessitate wanting to "repeat" the experience. Not to mention the fact that the experience itself will be nothing like the first one when repeated. And that's not entirely because the children are different children, though that is part of it. But the experience of having a second is a lot more hectic and hurried and a lot less surprising and full of wonderment and awe. By the time the second one comes along, you have the first one in the house needing and wanting attention. You no longer have the luxury of sitting for hours rocking a little tiny baby in your arms, watching her sleep, nuzzling the baby fuzz on her head and smelling her perfect little baby smell. You don't have time to slowly trace the little veins on her eyelids, or smooth the little baby hairs back while they sleep, and lie on the floor with a stuffed thing, wagging it back and forth in her peripheral vision, just to see if she can follow it. That one is now running like wildfire through the house, singing made-up songs at top volume, while you hurry through changing diapers and nursing and/or bottle feeding, hoping the older one doesn't get into trouble while you're quickly tending to the other one. No, for people having second and third (or more) children, they do so because they love and want to have a whole bunch of them around, not because they want to relive the first child's baby phase.
For us, I think it comes down to being satisfied with our life with just one. She is fascinating, she is brilliant, she says the strangest things sometimes, and makes us burst with pride (just like every other parent out there). I do experience moments where I know that she will no longer sit on my lap, all leggy and cozy, wanting me to "hold her like a baby." It makes me sad that the day will come where she doesn't want 500 hugs and kisses a day, where probably weeks or longer will go by during which I won't likely hear "I love you SO MUCH, Mommy." I wish I could slow time down and soak her up for longer and longer, but no matter how fast or slow time races or drags, there will be an end to it, and it is the end I dread, no matter how long it takes to get there. At the same time, I am also loving watching her little mind work and learn. I hope, at least, that I am creating an environment for her where she can become whatever her heart desires, and can always ask me anything she wants to know. I hope that I will provide her a springboard from which to jump curiously into the world and embrace all of the wonderment it holds, rather than fearing it because of the scary things within it. I don't usually have the slightest idea how to impart characteristics I think are important and admirable in a person, or if it is even possible to "impart" them. I think that part is a crapshoot, honestly. But I spend a good deal of time thinking about it, how to teach and guide and inspire and motivate her. Truly, I have my hands full with just her. My Mama still thinks in her heart of hearts that we should have another. I don't know if it is just her desire for a steady stream of little tiny babies in her life (oh how she loves little babes!) or if she really thinks my life is missing out on something by not having another. We thought about it for a while, thinking she maybe "deserved" to be given a life-long companion or playmate, though that isn't a guarantee either. Many siblings don't ever become close, let alone stay close. And creating another person just for the express purpose of having a playmate for the first one seems like a rather flimsy reason to have a child.
In the end, we decided, at least for the time being (unless one of us has a change of heart), that we are perfectly satisfied with our one amazing little individual. One we can take to Europe and other parts of the world soon, one that we can likely send to college almost anywhere she wants to go. One we can fit neatly into our tiny little home, and still live in the city. Because that one little being fills our hearts up to the brim and overflows all on her own.

Jesus is a Music Teacher?

It has recently come to my attention that Jesus is alive and well, and teaches music at Hyde Park Baptist Church. And, get this! Jesus is a WOMAN! How so, you ask? Last you heard, Jesus died and was buried about 1,973 years ago, was raised from the dead, and ascended into Heaven to be seated at the right hand of the Father*, right? That's what I thought too. Not so. According to Hootie, her music teacher IS Jesus. Every time she walks past her on the way out of the building after I retrieve her from preschool, she waves and says, "Goodbye, Jesus!" or "Have a good weekend, Jesus!" or "Thanks for the songs, Jesus!" I'm not kidding.
I'm not sure whether or not to be embarrassed or amused by this. In theory, if I were teaching her correctly, she'd know this couldn't possibly be true. But if truth be told, the child's religious background consists of a) being baptized Catholic, due to her paternal family being Catholic, b) saying prayers at night before bed, "God blessing" everyone in creation that we know, c) reciting grace before dinner (adorably, I might add!), d) attending Baptist preschool, e) attending Catholic church once in a while, usually resulting in her and one parent tearing ass through the cry room at break-neck speed, while the other parent sits in the pew not listening to the sermon, but rather wondering what the one parent and child are doing to keep themselves out of trouble, and f) owning about 4 different religiously oriented books, most of which are on the subject of Christmas, Easter, or how and why Noah got all them damn animals into his big ol' ship. It isn't that I do not want to share my religious viewpoints with my child, because I do and will, one day. But the way I see and view and experience religion is... complicated. At least too complicated for a child of 3, even a future Mensa member. And I sorta figure the Baptist church would be giving her the same rudimentary basics that the Catholic church would. But somehow, every last one of us who have been involved in her religious education have failed her if she thinks the music teacher is Jesus. I really don't have the foggiest idea how she came up with this notion, and/or why nobody prior to me last week has even caught it. Maybe because the stories about Jesus are often sung TO Jesus, and she's in the front of the room, being sung to?
Well now you know. If you're looking for Jesus or have a special request, go to the music room at HPBC. I'm sure she'll be happy to help you out.


* I didn't even have to look that up. Regurgitation of Catholic mass materials courtesy of my photographic memory, which apparently works both in audio as well as video.

Big and Deep

The child has the biggest, bluest eyes. Just like her father.

She was a fairy for Halloween. Again. Despite the pleading for and subsequent purchasing of two OTHER costumes in the weeks leading up to Halloween - a firefighter, and a pirate. Pretty pink winged things win out again.