The first Thanksgiving.

Many years ago I worked at an environmental "camp" south of Boston. It was on former Wampanoag land, the home of Squanto and Samoset, not far from Plymouth. We led suburban kids on hikes around there. Really pretty New England woods, a little bit swampy, lots of glacial erratics to climb, nice little streams and meadows to explore. It's hard to get behind the whole Thanksgiving story knowing how it all played out up there, but still here we are trying to celebrate a politically acceptable version of it hundreds of years later and thousands of miles away.

I was starting on our Thanksgiving pies last night after T. went to sleep, and C. and I got to talking. We realized that even though we've been together five years, this is really our first Thanksgiving, our first one with the little girl and our first one as hosts. My mom arrives tomorrow and more family on Wednesday. We former vegetarians even have a turkey on order. It's going to be grand. It's like we've finally arrived. We're a family and we can start our own traditions. A grace? A toast? Hand holding?

There's a cafe in our neighborhood that serves up raw food often along with a heavy dose of ideology (all about being grateful and acknowledging your inner hippy). The last time I was there I was maybe 8 months pregnant. I'm still a little too much of a cynical New Yorker to swallow the ideology, but I like the food and I was really craving it. After we ordered, instead of asking something normal like "would you like a beverage with that?", the low-talking waiter asked "and who are you in service to?" When I realized what he had asked, I contemplated answering with "the man," but instead pointed to the belly, and he seemed to think that was a really deep answer.

That's one question we won't be asking our guests on Thursday, but T., as it turns out, we are completely in service to you, and we're thankful for it.

T., your first Thanksgiving is also our first without your Grandpa. He would have been so pleased to hold you for your first feast as he did for me.

It's orange.

Perhaps I will show this to the new coworker who got to know me just a little too well too soon when she walked in on my pumping session today. Her face registered so many levels of shock as if to say "Shit!" and "I'm sorry" and "What the hell are you doing?" all at once. I'd be embarrassed if it wasn't just so damn funny. I guess no one told her the "when the staff room has a sign on the door please come back later" piece during her orientation. If she saw the ratio of food smeared on T.'s face, hands and clothes to that ingested, she might understand why the milk is still key.

Dressed to absorb.

I was supposed to have a meeting with one of my hierarchical bosses today, so I broke my normal rule of wearing a "pret a spit up" outfit on a commute-with-baby day. My sleeve absorbed a little fluid on the train, but no big deal. Then I arrived to find out that the meeting was cancelled. Woo hoo! I immediately broke my yet to be inscribed rule (made official at about 9:23 this morning) of reading all email before answering any message and replied something along the lines of "Que lastima! Reschedule?" only to find that further down in the inbox was the reschedule-related message. Now the meeting is tomorrow, and I must risk a second day of professional dress. I can see how one starts to dress like a mom despite all intentions otherwise.

I was reading this mothersgroup newsletter yesterday. It's full of new mom directed marketing and there was this one article about outsourcing family life, you know, personal chefs, cleaning services, and then because there's so much leftover cash after the daycare bill, the real kicker, wardrobe consultant. You see, despite attempts to the contrary, I don't live in a completely non-televised bubble. I've watched endless hours of "What Not to Wear" on Jetblue. I've gasped along with Stacy and Clinton, but really do regular folks go ahead and hire consultants on their own dimes? For $400 (an extra hundred to have a friend there), we BayAreans can hire this woman to tear apart our closet and then have her amass a new wardrobe (cost of new wardrobe not included). She advises that washable shirts (read: momswear) last about 12-18 months. Really? Perhaps she could take me on pro-bono, or maybe I could just pay one of you $50 and you can have the pleasure of tearing apart my urban field geographer meets thrift store librarian wardrobe. How come T's wardrobe is so much hipper than her mother's?

Wet.

I always say I like the rain until it's here. Then I remember how our apartment has no insulation, how stir crazy the cat gets when she's forced to stay inside, and how I have no idea how to deal with a baby when there's weather.

We're laying low. I'm doing this; the girl is crawling (?).

Wait.

I just looked over at her on the blanket on the floor and she is scooting all around the damn thing. It's like she doesn't realize she can leave the blanket, but she's coordinated (that might be a strong word) her arms and legs and is checking it out the perimeter. She clearly doesn't understand the progress she just made. The cat knows enough to keep a good six feet away. I should stop doing this and monitor the quadruped.

The eager little citizen.

The 'brarians have another blog, intended for T's grandparents and other interested parties. We keep it sanitary, mostly pictures and stuff--not that this one has such grander aspirations, just a little more anonymity and a slightly different readership. And so in the interests of keeping the family venue apolitical, I turn here to report on last evening's activities.

T. was in quite a state when I picked her up at daycare yesterday, probably because the harsh teacher was changing her diaper (I'm not even going to get into the details), but perhaps she was also a little worried that we wouldn't make it home in time to vote. Despite the terrible scene, we made it to the station just as the train pulled up. We got home and walked over to our polling location, a community center in the middle of a typically dealer-infested park (maybe not. it always seemed really sketchy, but I see that they have nice swings so i should reevaluate), and T. got her first taste of democracy as we crammed into the little room with other folks from our street. She was smiling so widely as I made my somewhat carefully researched selections. Was her good humor code for "Mom, thanks for doing your part to protect my future?" Sure it was, or perhaps it was more like "my bright eyes reflect my optimism that the country will move in a pleasingly progressive direction as I grow older" and "I promise not to rebel against you and Dad by absorbing other nameless relatives righterwing agendas" and "Mom, I totally get your obsession with the 1930s when there were cool government funded art projects" and "I'm sorry I didn't make it in time for May Day but even at this young age, I'm very interested in labor issues so thanks for asking about the wages of the cleaning service employees you just hired to clean our house with eco-friendly products."

I can only hope that her grandmother in Florida did her part to dump that sketchball Foley.

Auntie E., what's the vibe in DC?

what next?

As I try to navigate the work/life/baby scheme, I've spent a lot of time reconsidering, reflecting, and regurgitating other long-abandoned scenarios. I used to be a lot more like my friend critika, excited about school and research, or at least in my case, the far-off possibilities of the research that I might someday sit down and really sink my teeth into, and excited about the life that comes along with semi-permanent graduate student status--a flexible schedule, good conversation, and the light on your toes feeling that comes from avoiding "the man" for a little while longer. After my last attempt at higher education, I was excited to give it all up, to accept my biweekly deposit from the man, to get my teeth cleaned and to show up (and honestly, just about all I've done today is show up). The novelty of it all began to wear off around the period of the little teaspoon's gestation, and as you've all probably noticed, the scene is even less appealing post-leave.

And so lately I've begun to wonder what else I might do with my time. I'm not prepared to stay home full-time, perhaps temporarily or transitionally, but there has to be a deadline looming. Am I misremembering graduate school? Wasn't it all coffee breaks and office hours, beer with your fellow underlings? Although maybe it's a lot more harrowing to be down an income with child and maybe bedtime rituals interfere with weekly pub nights? Yet, C.'s closing in on the end of his time and shouldn't one family member retain that coveted student status? I dare not list my potential areas of study at this premature date. At the very least I hope to avoid the pitfalls of my first 3 attempts. Maybe there's a fellowship in a pleasing two-body-problem-amenable location with my name on it? a non-degree related certificate program?

Will return to the proposition after I handle my recent spate of cavities.