Aileen Jeffries

This isn’t what I want to see in a public bathroom. A mysterious door the perfect size for a diminutive Irish faerie.

I’d like to think this door is a magic portal to a Amber Spyglass-style alternate universe. But I’m an adult and I know better than to be such an optimist. This is almost certainly a gateway to the dark underworld of the leprechaun, from which they will come surging forth by the thousands when they come to take our children.

My point is, tiny doors in your restaurant’s bathroom stalls will cause doubt and unease to settle in the minds of your customers.

It rarely gets unbearably hot in Portland, but this past weekend was the exception. After several 90 and 100 degree days, our house was sweltering Saturday night. So, I camped out with Kea on the back deck, cool breezes coming in around midnight and lulling us to sleep. It was a strange night; sky full of lightening but no rain.

Around 2:00 am I heard some disturbing noises from under the chestnut tree. Primal snorts and huffs and the pathetic chirps of a bird or small rodent meeting its untimely end. I peered over the edge of the deck to catch a glimpse of the interloper - a coyote. I only saw one but I think there were at least two by the sound of it.

We don’t exactly live in the country, so the appearance of wild animal took me by surprise, as did its boldness. Bewildered by what felt like a bad dream, I reached for Kea, prepared to defend her tooth and nail, or more realistically, with an outburst of nonsensical expletives of increasing volume.

So, that is how I came to be standing on my deck in my pajamas in the middle of the night in a lightening storm, yelling out into the darkness. Next time I see a crazy person walking down the street talking to himself, I’ll try to be sympathetic. He’d probably have a perfectly reasonable explanation for his behavior, too.

At least it was an interesting failure. Here’s a photo I took of Kes with my iPhone, no post-processing or alteration at all.

Going by skin tone alone, the answer is easy. In the winter I approach translucence, in the summer I may appear tan from a distance but closer inspection reveals that is just an illusion created by excessive freckling. It doesn’t help that Kes can achieve a golden brown glow by so little as walking past a window, so by comparison I look positively spectral.

But, there’s naught to be done about my complexion so I might as well revel in the advantages. For example, I am highly efficient at synthesizing vitamin D. No rickets for me!

I’m actually more concerned about my cultural whiteness. Like most people, I’d like to think that my preferences, interests and hobbies are what make me a special little snowflake, unique and extraordinary. It would be disheartening to know that my status as a liberal, educated white person predetermines what I like and what I do for fun.

Happily, there’s a blog devoted to stuff white people like that can tell me just how white I am. Scanning the list, I see that I like 64 of 105 things that I should like based on my yuppiedom. It’s true that I simply can’t wait to vote for Barack Obama come November. I love sushi, wine and coffee. I enjoy browsing through the Design Within Reach catalog, drooling over the various pieces of modernist furniture that are mass-produced out of inexpensive materials but are still somehow so expensive they are No Where Near Within My Reach.

Other stuff on the list is less appealing to me. I don’t like most dogs - something about their neediness and oblivious adoration. That, and their saliva, of which there is always too much, makes me itch. Nor do I like girls with bangs. I tried bangs last summer only to discover there’s about a two-minute window when bangs are the perfect length. So, girls with bangs just irk me because they’re succeeding where I failed.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, it is time to go shopping for some organic food at my neighborhood farmer’s market. I’m planning a dinner party around what’s seasonally available.

Kea celebrated her 2-month birthday yesterday (with a round of vaccine shots, poor girl). Many aspects of my life have returned to normal. I’m back at work, my body no longer resembles an egg with legs and I can enjoy the occasional glass of wine or stinky raw cheese without worrying how my dietary indulgences will effect Kea’s future algebra aptitude.

Some things, though, will never be the same. I learned this a few weeks ago at my 30th birthday party. My actual birthday was one day after the birth of our daughter, making it both the least significant and most memorable birthday I’ve ever had. So, Kes threw me a party six weeks later on the 5th of July. The other reason to celebrate was the completion* of our house remodel. The party was great - a house full of music, good friends and plenty of alcohol. Yet even with Kea safely in the arms of my friend Michelle (mother extraordinaire) and a fridge stockpiled with milk, I found I couldn’t truly let go and get nice and drunk, freshman-year-in-college style. Part of me knew I needed to maintain a firm enough grasp on my faculties to properly care for my baby. In retrospect, this is probably for the best - wasted thirty-year-olds are considerably less appealing than drunken co-eds. Still, I felt wistful, knowing a stage of my life had definitively come to an end.

I mentioned this to Michelle the next morning and she retorted, “Oh, I didn’t tell you? Things will never be the same again!” So, like my new foot size, I’m going to have to adapt to a portion of my brain forever devoted to my child. I love being back in the office, but as I work, my thoughts tend to drift a little, wondering what Kea is up to. This morning, Kes reported that our baby has finally developed the motor skills necessary to stick just her thumb in her mouth but was furious to discover that sucking it did not produce milk. Little anecdotes like this are enough to make my throat tighten with love and longing and many other emotions the hormones have no doubt programmed me to feel.

The addition of an offspring has enriched my life more than I expected. But it is no longer just my life.

Two years ago on a visit to Rejuvenation Hardware, I spied an usual piece of stained glass depicting branches with pink cherry blossoms. Most stained glass is a little over the top for me, but this one really stood out for its simplicity. I had just the spot for it too, mounted in the frame of a small window at the foot of the stairs that lead up to our bedroom.

So, for my birthday, my mom and I split the cost and I became the happy owner of a David Schlicker piece of stained glass.

The next year, Kes and I embarked on our Endless Remodel. Daily, I would pass the window and think to myself, “I should really take that window out so nothing bad will happen to it.” Except I didn’t, and it did, in the form of a 2×4 that came sailing through one day, breaking both the window and the stained glass mounted in the frame.

Our contractor agreed to replace the window (it would be the one window in the entire house we weren’t planning on replacing anyway) and I took the fractured stained glass back to David Schlicker to see if it could be repaired. He explained it would less costly to make a new one. So, 6 weeks later, my new stained glass was ready. The window itself wasn’t so the stained glass piece floated about the house from room to room, avoiding the thick of the construction insanity.

Then, one night in May as I sat on the couch trying to breathe through some increasingly insistent contractions, Kes pointed out to me that the new piece had somehow acquired cracks. This wasn’t something I wanted to even think about my heavily pregnant state. In fact, it took me six weeks to come around to it. People would come by our house, notice the damaged cherry blossom piece, then look at the expression on my face and realize it would be better to change the subject. I wanted someone, anyone, to deal with it.

Of course, no one did and this week I’ve finally come to terms with the problem. I got a quote for repair and the new window arrived and was installed yesterday. Then, out of something like morbid curiosity, I checked to make sure the new stained glass would fit in the new window frame.

It doesn’t! Not even close! Hence, great angst.

A man in North Carolina is my new hero for recognizing that the act of dying doesn’t automatically make one a better person. Mr Eason worked for the state for 29 years and was deeply invested in his job but chose to retire early instead of obeying a state-wide proclamation to lower the flag in honor of the passing of the racist bigot Jesse Helms.

Fittingly, he worked as the head of the state’s Standards Laboratory.

He quit rather than lower flag for Helms [News Observer]

I worry sometimes what motherhood will reduce me to. Will I shut out the world and think only of feeding schedules and matching onesies to tiny little socks? Will night after night of 4 or 5 hours of sleep cause me to abandon all intellectual pursuits?

Then Kes sends me this and I find that I really don’t care if my brain is reduced to oxytocin-sodden mush. Nom, nom, nom. Toes.

That’s 39 pounds in 39 days. Eleven more to go, although I highly doubt I’ll be able to shed them in 11 days. Apparently, it isn’t normal or healthy to lose a pound a day.

Back in the office! I’m happy to be back amongst my fellow cloudies. The mysterious pile of tiny dead flies on my desk has thrived in my absence. Jason accused me of being a little piggy but I blame the HVAC system directly overhead. It is ineffectual and conversation-haltingly loud so being the source of a tiny dead fly scourge seems well within character.