A vocal fringe does not a mandate make

A co-worker summed up my feelings about the results of yesterday's election: "There's a reason I'm wearing all black today. I'm in mourning." Yes. What she said.

Not simply because I live in a very progressive metropolitan area and most of the national results do not reflect our local world view. I'm in mourning for the dearth of civility and logic, and excess of rancor exposed by the scrabbling on all sides during this last election. When did moderation, compromise and thoughtful consideration of differing viewpoints became epithets hurled at anyone unwilling to pick up a stone, real or verbal, and hurl it at the nearest person not walking in lockstep with those in closest proximity?

I was one of those at home cheering Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert and their 200,000+ brethren at the Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear last weekend. I danced with my kids to the bands in hopes that they would glean some of what was being presented: that it's okay to agree to disagree and not have a kneejerk, angry reaction to anyone with a different perspective.

I know, the pendulum of politics and history will swing again (for perspective, read Robert Reich's piece "Why Obama Should Learn the Lesson of 1936, not 1996"), but for now, I may wear black for another day or two.

10 months: no teeth, no problem

About a day after bringing baby Dylan home from the hospital, there was a moment where both he and big sister Ava were crying simultaneously, creating misery in stereo in our bathroom.

J. and I had spent the two previous not at all restful days in a bustling hospital room on a bed and fold out chair clearly intended to ensure that you left as soon as physically able. We looked at each other over the kids' heads with the same thought going through our minds: what have we gotten ourselves into?

Things have gotten much better since that day, but that was our first hint that our occasionally hectic but relatively calm life as a family of three was a distant memory. Gone too, at times, was our tenuous grasp of what it took to manage an infant. Now, we had to tag-team to manage the older kid, who, while quite verbal, was still just two, along with the new kid who was clearly very unlike the one who came before.

She was and still is all things tiny, pink, fluffy and girly. We didn't baby proof anything. A stern look or raised voice was all it took to keep her away from household hazards.

Dylan, aka Big Boy, is all things big, rugged and noisy. He is happiest sitting intently in front of a cabinet alternately banging the door on its hinges, slapping the pot and pan lids up and down and if left to his own devices, pulling them out onto the floor with a tremendous clatter and bang, followed by a smile. Every chance he gets, he beelines for the TV and DVD player, knowing that he's not allowed to touch them. The stern look and raised voice that froze his sister are met with a sidelong smile, hand poised in mid-air near the screen - his 10 month old's version of "I'm not touching it... Stiiiiill not touching it."

Over the last three weeks, he went from no teeth to two and a half: one upper, which he promptly chipped somewhere (sigh), and one and half lowers.

"Shouldn't he have more teeth by now?" my dad asked. "It's not like it's stopping him," I replied, listing out all of the foods he's been eating for the past six months: yams, bananas, grapes, apples, strawberries, watermelon, nectaries, cherries, rice, couscous, waffles, cornbread, gumbo, jambalaya, chicken, steak, tacos, shrimp, crab, corn, sausage, sugar snap peas, pizza (with salmon and capers!), lasagna, salmon, banana pudding, turkey... you know what? My hands are tired. You get the picture. Basically, he has not spit out ANYTHING that we've put in his gaping maw. Anything! And most of that list was before he had teeth!

Dylan, 10 months, with his performance art installation made of stir fried noodles with sugar snap peas and chicken.

All of that is in addition to nursing! Rather than a glutton, he appears to be a pint sized gourmand, diligently feeding himself and eating his fill, before topping off the meal with a nursing session.

Given those culinary proclivities and his weight at birth (nearly 10 pounds), it's probably not surprising that he now weighs 25 pounds at 10 months. Ava just turned three years old: she weighs 27.5 pounds. We are predicting that he may catch her in weight by Thanksgiving or Christmas.

Yet I have no fears that he's on the path to the debacle that is One Big Happy Family-style obesity. He's just solid through and through like his dad, and a one big happy baby.

And at 10 months, he really is still just a baby, which is easy to forget as he cruises the furniture and raises his arms to be picked up. Groaning, J. and I realize our aching backs never felt this strain with Ava becauase by the time she hit his size, she was well over two years old, walking, talking and rendering wardrobe opinions.

As in, "Nana, those pants are okay, but that shirt has to go." Thank you for channeling Michael Kors. Now go paint or something while I pry your brother off my leg so that I can get the feeling back in it.