Leaving on a Jet Plane

While we were in Scotland during the third week of June, seeing things like this:
this:
and this:
and doing things like this:
this:
and this:
PapaRuss (Henry), Pooh (Lynn), and Boo (Mom) were here in Charleston, suited up and ready with their A-game to provide nourishment, entertainment, supervision, and boatloads of affection to our two most precious creatures.

This one:
and this one:(The two creature photos were taken by PapaRuss.)

Pooh and PapaRuss came from Kansas and stayed at our house for over a week. Boo subbed in regularly to give them time off.

We were across the Atlantic Ocean having the time of our lives, traveling old-school style: walking for miles, staying up until 3 in the morning, taking spontaneous hikes, and eating whatever and whenever we wanted. The days seemed to have a dozen more hours. But by night #5, I missed Owen so much, I felt physically ill. I lay there in bed one night (Bill had fallen asleep already) calming plotting to wake up the next morning, call the airlines, and change our flight to the next available departure.

The next day, we drove down to the Scottish Borders to meet up with a dozen other friends at the magnificent Linthill manor house, which provided much-needed 24-hour distraction and fun. We continued our glorious week, although a big part of my heart was back in Charleston. (No one tells you that having babies somewhat compromises your vacations.)

On all of our past trips, we've spent at least some portion of our time fantasizing about living wherever we were forever and staying on permanent vacation. But this time, for the first time ever, by the end of our trip I was ready to go home.

Having survived 30+ hours of travel (driving from Melrose to Edinburgh, flying to London, Flying to RDU, driving to Charleston), we walked in the door a few hours after Owen had gone to bed. After putting our things down and greeting Henry and Lynn, I made my way into Owen's room and softly touched his back. He woke up immediately, looked at me, and whispered, "MAMA." Then he sat up in his crib and looked at me and I looked at him and he smiled and I smiled and then he started laughing and I started laughing. And we sat there quietly giggling, me leaning over his crib, rubbing his cheeks and arms and legs, and trying to remain calm and quiet and resist the urge to shriek and pick him up and squeeze him and jump up and down and go up on top of the roof and announce so everyone could hear, "MY BABY!!! I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!!!!! AND I'LL NEVER LEAVE YOU AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

But I know I will and we will, and I know it will be good for him, just like it was this time. And it will be good for us, too, just like it was this time.

Thank you, Pooh and Papa Russ. And thank you, Boo. That was a gift we will never forget.

Love,

Us

Lazy Sunday

For my birthday this year, Bill gave me a new lens for my camera (the camera was my Christmas gift!). Here are the first pictures I took with it on a lazy Sunday following my birthday:

Music Class

This Spring, Owen and I attended Kindermusik on Friday mornings. The class and location that best suited our schedule was at this neat community center downtown on the Battery. There is a great playground in back, and after class we would walk outside and be here:
Owen enjoyed the 12-week class for the most part. He liked using the various instruments and singing and clapping and stomping and pretending to be a train. The teacher would place a big basket of bells / scarves / rhythm sticks / clackers in the middle of the class, each child would go pick out one or two, we would do a song or activity, and then the teacher would come around to collect the item (Owen was better at taking things than at giving them back, but he made progress in this area). But sometimes he'd had enough, which he would indicate by going to the door and trying to leave. When that didn't work, he would try to take the fire extinguisher off the wall (bizarrely placed at toddler-height right by the door).

Because of its location, I suppose, this particular Kindermusik class was a rather fancy scene. ALL of the children wore handmade, embroidered clothing. Dresses for the girls:
And jon jons for the boys (some of you may not have known what a jon jon is - now you do):

I thought, well, maybe everyone just got their kid dressed up on the first day. But no. It was like that every class. And some of the moms were really nice, but some others would only talk to the few that they knew and would cast us nervous sidelong glances that seemed to say, "Who let the riff-raff in?"

Owen's typical outfit was what he might be wearing on any other summer day: a short-sleeve button down or collared shirt and a pair of shorts. (Even though he was the youngest kid in the class, he always looked like the oldest.) But on the last day of our class, I couldn't help myself. Owen went dressed in this:
(That's one of his favorite t-shirts, mind you. A gift brought back by his Uncle Alex from London.)

It was a statement, I guess. It said, "We will NOT be fancy if we don't want to be, ESPECIALLY at 10 o'clock in the morning when we're sitting on the floor talking about choo-choo trains." It was also factual, pointing out how Owen is the primary breadwinner in our family.

And it was a test. A final exam, if you will. If you gave us a dirty look or appeared frightened (Owen IS pretty scary looking), you failed. If you laughed, said something funny, or seemed not to notice, you passed. (It's good to know who your friends are.)

Owen's sweet teacher (pictured below) passed, for sure:
Owen, I will never dress you in a jon jon, baby. I promise.

Vacation

In May, Bill finished up his first year of teaching at the College of Charleston, and we decided that it was high time for our first family vacation, just the three of us. But, it was a last-minute decision and most everything we were interested in was either unavailable or out of our price range. Enter John Russell, a.k.a. Uncle Bug, a.k.a. maker of dreams. John, beloved employee of the Grande Ocean in Hilton Head, set us up with an incredible 2BR suite looking out onto various pools and lagoons complete with a crib and high chair. A glorious and luxurious five-night holiday ensued.

First: vacation=no rules. Sitting on the counter eating crackers with no pants on is perfectly acceptable:
Next: golf. Owen picked up his first club and made the Russell men proud. (In fact, he preferred to hold multiple clubs. He's developing his own style.)The beach (of course). Owen embarked upon the noble project of getting all of the ocean water up on the sand using his trusty measuring cup. Here he's saying, "This ocean's not going to move itself, people. Can I get a hand here?" (We're going to wait a few more months until we tell him about continental drift theory and plate tectonics.)Each morning we enjoyed breakfast and the paper out on our balcony. When anyone was in need of a refreshment, they just reached out and helped themselves:
Sometimes, Owen liked to enjoy his morning paper sans clothes. Here he is reading about financial reform (not even kidding - zoom in to see for yourself):
Paparazzi: busted. (The below picture is now known as the Winston Churchill.)
It's hard to say which is my favorite between the Winston Churchill and this one - the Playgirl slash Prince Album Cover. (I SWEAR, I did not pose this picture.)
Each evening, Bill would whip up some of his delicious daiquiris (Owen enjoyed an ice-cold milk), and we would take a family bath in our gigantic jacuzzi. And best of all, we got to visit with our favorite Hilton Head locals. Pictured here with Uncle Bug and Mimi:
Aunt Leigh:
Aunt Jean:
Owen was quite taken with Uncle Bug's fish mouth.
So taken, in fact, that he just decided to give him a big smack on the lips.
Overcome with love and affection, he went ahead and spread the kisses around:
Hugs, too:
Here we are at Shelter Cove, standing under the King Neptune statue. Bill and I both have pictures of ourselves as kids standing under the same statue:
Checking Neptune's reflexes (not good):
We had a downright splendid time - one of our favorite weeks ever.
Many many thanks and big hugs, Uncle Bug.

Thespian in Training

Owen & Boo

Somehow, we convinced my mom to move to Charleston about six months after we moved here. I say somehow, but really I know how: his name starts with an 'O' and rhymes with "goin'," as in "Wherever that baby boy goes, I'm goin'." Our plan was to lure her with us wherever we went, but Mom is a cool-weather-loving mountain creature and Charleston is...well...kind of hot sometimes (like, for instance, now). We were worried there for a minute, but Owen worked his magic and fast.

Mom had a hard time picking what Owen would call her. She did not want to be Grama, since that's what I called my Grama Ann, and we tossed around dozens of other names, none of which seemed to be just right. So she decided to let Owen pick what he would call her when he was ready. About a year and a half later, he finally did.

One of Owen's favorite things to do is to hide. (He really tests the boundaries of what counts as hiding: sometimes, he will just plug his ears and then expect you to go looking for him.) When he and mom would do this, at some point, mom would find him or be found and exclaim, "Boo!" When Owen would see her, he would think of their game and say, "Boo!" And her name was born.

Whenever I ask Owen any question in an upbeat voice (Guess who we're going to see today? Do you know who's coming over? Who's outside?), his first guess is always Boo. He thinks she's the bee's knees, and she thinks he's the cat's meow. Exhibits A, B, and C below (taken on Mother's Day):

The Dressing Room

The Subaru provides an ideal dressing room following a morning at the beach. Here, Owen -- buck naked and holding a bag of crackers (food comes before clean clothes always...priorities, people) -- gives an enthusiastic wave:

The New Boss of Bruno

I guess this is a fitting follow up to the last post. Any true BFFs must have some boundaries, I suppose.

Eating is a point of mutual enjoyment, despair, and conspiracy for Owen and Bruno. The enjoyment comes when Owen delights in feeding Bruno and Bruno delights in being fed (this is not "allowed," but so far, that's not stopping anyone).

The despair comes when Owen has food he was intending on eating ripped from his hands and Bruno is then imprisoned in the bedroom until the meal or snack is finished.

The conspiracy comes when Owen feeds Bruno food that he does not care to eat OR when he feeds Bruno and then pretends that Bruno stole from him. Alternatively, Bruno will make an unabashedly bold steal from Owen's hand and then look at me like "What?? He gave it to me..." Point being, neither of them are to be trusted.

On Memorial Day, Owen was very eager for his snack, which Bruno then proceeded to claim like a professional diamond thief. In an Oscar-worthy Victim-No-More performance, Owen stands up for himself in the face of injustice:


After watching this, you''ll either be laughing your head off or you'll be convinced that we have unleashed a tyrant. Either way, when he's not lying or bossing, I promise you he's downright charming.