Separation Nightmare

I was in a deep sleep last night when I heard Auden cry out. The house was dark. Aida and Auden had gone to sleep hours before and I'd probably been in a slumber for about an hour.

I padded down the hallway to Auden's room, his inconsolable cries drawing me toward him. I picked him up, rocked him in the rocking chair, sang to him until he was calm. I rose from the rocker, his head on my shoulder, and lowered him into his crib again.

As soon as my hands no longer held him, he resumed his cry.

Bed. I needed bed.

"Mommy sleep," he said, his plea to me to stay in the room and lie down so that he can fall asleep while I am still in the room.

Exhausted and not up for a fight to try to keep him in the crib, I did as he requested. I crawled into the daybed near his bed. He quieted. I fell asleep.

This dream: I woke, walked into the hallway, gathered my cell phone and charger from the floor and then walked down the dark hall to Aida's room to discover horror. Her bedroom had been ransacked, her bed overturned, her windows flung open.

I tried to scream, to call out for her. But it was a dream, so my voice didn't sound.

I tried again. This is your daughter, I remember thinking, you have to scream. Try harder.

"AIDAAAA!" I finally shouted. The alarm of my daughter's name blasting from my own throat jolted me awake.

The room was quiet for a moment while I quickly processed that this had not actually happened.

Auden, 2, spoke up through the dark.

"Aida asleep in her room," he said. "Aida asleep in her own bed."

My guy

I first met Steve 20 years ago this fall. He was a Jeep-driving, motorcycle-riding, environmental reporter who sat on the other side of my newsroom cubicle wall and made me laugh like crazy. About a year later, we started dating. And a week after that, he moved away to cover the presidential primaries as a low-rent blogger before “blogger” was even a word. I liked him so much that I lent him my laptop. There was a lot of uncertainty then. And I’m not just talking about the “what the hell are you doing driving around the country following the presidential primaries” part. We were young, poor, interested in everything under the sun. We didn’t know what we wanted but we knew we liked each other. Since that time, we have seen three new presidents sworn into office. We’ve witnessed the start of two American wars and the “end” of one. We broke up and got back together, hopscotched across four states, got married, had two babies, bought a house and cycled through about seven (?) cars between us. We’ve navigated job changes and professional challenges, highs and lows. We’ve taken vacations and worked too much to take vacations. We’ve landed in this spot where our lives now are a blur of work and kids and too little sleep and the ongoing agony/delight that goes with living in my hometown. But here’s the thing: In those nearly two decades, Steve has never stopped being my favorite person to spend time with. He’s still my guy. I didn’t know back then that he would be a foot-rubbing birthing partner, a committed nightly dishwasher, a rigorous editor, a sweet father. I just knew I liked time spent with him. Happy birthday to my fella. Thanks for making me laugh for 20 years and thanks for making me proud out there in this nutso world.

Even Children Get Older

Tonight, Steve removed one of the crib's walls to convert it into a toddler bed.

At first, Auden, now 2 years and 1 month old, wasn't sure about this.

Steve was mid-bed-conversion when Auden and I entered Auden's room after bath time.

"Wat doin, Daddy? Wat doin?"

Steve and I explained to him that Daddy was making him a "Big Boy Bed."

Auden seemed optimistic. He repeated the words over and over.

"See Bih Boy Bed," he said, craning his neck over my shoulder as I attempted to slather him with lotion and wrestle a diaper on him. "Auh-deh Bih Boy Bed."

It was all so exciting that I ended up having to release him to the floor so that he could inspect Steve's work while I diapered and dressed him as he stood.

But something shifted.

When Steve finished his work and invited Auden to give his new Big Boy Bed a try, Auden plopped himself on the floor beside it and looked down at the rug sadly.

"Don't like it," he said.

"You want Daddy to lie down with you?" Steve asked.

"No."

"You want Mommy to lie down with you?"

"No," he said again, shaking his head.

"Maybe this is a job for a big sister," I said.

Aida was in the next room, taking her sweet time getting around to brushing her teeth because she's engrossed in a graphic memoir that her second-grade carpool friend introduced her to, a book called Smile. It's about a sixth-grader who trips while running and smashes her teeth out, which leads her through a long emotional journey to get her teeth repaired. (While it's a lovely book, the fact that my first-grader is reading about the trials of a sixth-grader is already making me think about how not ready I am for her to grow up.)

Still, Aida is always up for a chance to play in Auden's crib.

So, she put down her book, grabbed her blankie, cheerfully entered Auden's room and promptly laid her long body across his bed (which used to be her bed, which used to be her crib).

"Do you want me to read?" she asked.

"Aya read," he said, which means, of course, "Aida read."

He climbed in beside her and she tried to start reading. But they instead played around, adding a pillow, moving blankets, snuggling and kissing, before he decided he actually wanted mommy to read.

So while Aida lay across his bed, Auden and I sat in his rocker and read Puppies, Puppies, Puppies, a book that was given to us when Aida was a baby. Aida popped up at various moments to see the pictures and comment on them.

When the book ended, I thanked Aida. But I worried that things were getting a bit too exciting for Auden. It was already past his bedtime. "I think it's time for you to say goodnight to Auden now," I told the Big Sister.

Aida played around a bit. She protested a bit. Finally she was out.

With the door closed, Auden and I sat in his rocking chair and read two more books together. I placed the books back on the shelf and turned out the light. He turned his body to rest his head on my shoulder and we rocked and sang our lullabies, the ones we sing every night.

When we were done, he picked his head up, looked behind him toward his bed and pointed.

"Go bed," he said.

I gathered him up and laid him down on his new Big Boy Bed, his curly head resting uncomfortably on the pillow we'd added to his bed minutes earlier.

"Do you want a pillow or no pillow?" I asked, as he looked up at me uncertainly.

"No pi-yoh," he said.

I removed the pillow. Then I covered him with his blankets. I put his stuffed bunny beside him on one side and his stuffed puppy on the other. Just like every night.

"I love you," I said.

He stared up at me in silence, his brown eyes wide.

I walked out and shut the door behind me.

A few steps down the hall, I found Aida on her bed (which used to be my bed), reading her book, the one about a sixth-grader.

I picked up a few things off her floor as I readied myself to lie down next to her and read like we do every night. But as I did this, she said something I wasn't ready for.

"Mommy, I think I need to read to myself tonight," she said. "I think I need to read a whole big chapter book by myself before I go to the second grade and I think this is a good way to start."

"Oh. Ok," I said. Because I was not ready for this and I know I should be ok with this but my heart is breaking because reading with her is my favorite time of the day every day.

"Yeah," she said nodding, as if reassuring herself. "I think that would be a good idea."

"Ok," I said again looking at her there on her big girl bed with her big girl book and her stack of books beside her and her dolls in a cradle and her shelves lined with fairy figurines and snow globes and fairy wands and puppets and books and books and books.

"I will be back in 15 minutes, then, to turn out the light and pray with you," I said.

"Ok, Mommy."

And then I came here and I cried.

"Wha doin, Daddy?"

"Don't like it."

Used to be her bed.

Little Light of Mine

Friday, Dec. 8, 2017

I'm looking back at our family's picture files from the past year, trying to remind myself what has happened over these 12 months. They have have been a blur for so many reasons.

Tree decorating, Christmas 2017, 22 mo.

This video was taken Jan. 5, when our Christmas tree was still up and I was in the fresh stages of grief over my grandmother's unexpected death. Auden had started walking nine days before this, when we were on a beach in Belize, the day before Grandma died. He was a week shy of 11 months.

I know this is not a revelation, but it feels like one to me: The boy has grown and changed like crazy. We put our Christmas tree up again on Saturday. No longer the drunken walker, Auden helped pull ornaments from boxes and tried to hang them on the tree. His efforts mostly amounted to him to tossing them in between the branches, but I appreciated his attention nonetheless. He followed his sister's lead and took the decorating gig very seriously (though he refused to wear the Santa hat she kept putting on his now curly-haired head).

There have been points this year when the news just felt too dark to handle. But the light from this child and his sister -- it's just so bright. He's a snuggler, a joker, a runner, a climber. He carries his "bebe" doll around, feeds her, covers her in a blanket and kisses her goodnight. He loves to dance and climb, to swing from bars, to greet his sister in the mornings and to say goodbye to anyone (or anything) that is leaving. He is always talking about choo-choos and "AYE-uh!" He repeats all the conversations around him and is forever imitating us (the good and the bad) to the point of both hilarity and (our) shame.

So, yeah, it's been a crazy year. But, thanks be to God for the gift of this beautiful child, who has made me laugh and smile and experience crushing feelings of love a hundred times more often than I have felt panicked by the times.

My beautiful boy

The following was written at different times over the course of Auden's first year of life and was revised in the week of his first birthday. I have neglected writing about my life since moving back to New Orleans five years ago and I feel immense guilt for not writing - or completing my writings - about this amazing little boy who was born 22 months ago, changing our family in ways that I have yet to fully process (mostly because I am busy and tired). I adore this beautiful child completely. If I die before he can read the many words I plan to write about him, please tell him. 

February 2017

He entered the world with a head full of red hair.

I remember him crying a big cry as the midwife lifted his tiny, slippery body into my hands. His birth was explosive and quick. He arrived at 9:27 p.m., two hours after we'd left home for the hospital. No sooner had they rolled me into a delivery room in a wheelchair than I stood up, pushed one painful push and there he came, falling into the quick hands of my midwife and my husband.

Auden Flynn Myers, 6 lbs. 9 oz., 18.75 inches, was an adorable little guy with skinny legs, soft melon-colored sideburns reaching toward his cheeks and a cluster of white pimples just under the left side of his mouth. His hair was just light enough that we weren't at first willing to proclaim it as red, even as my best friend, Kathleen, insisted in the delivery room that, "That boy has red hair, people!" (She probably didn't say it that way at the time, but it's how we summarize her thoughts when we talk about it today.) The red so far has stayed, much to the delight of my Irish mother and her three sisters, all of whom have red hair and come from a long line of redheads. Each time I hold Auden, I find myself pressing my cheek against his soft, warm head, kissing his baby hair and stroking it with my face, my kiss, my chin, my hands. It's been a year this week, and still I have this urgency to feel his head against my cheek so that I don't forget how this feels.

His five- (now-six-) year-old sister, has been dancing in and out of his room, his face, his view since we first brought him home. Her constant motion, her volume and flare has served as a reminder how quickly he, too, would be speaking, singing, dancing, objecting.

Baby Auden wore a furrowed brow for much of the first two months of his life, at which point he started smiling and cooing when spoken to, melting my heart with each open-mouthed grin. He knew immediately where to find the milk and nursed with such skill for the first few months that he managed to climb up the charts from being in the 30th percentile for weight at birth to being in the 90th percentile, according to his two-month check-up: 14.1 lbs., 22.5 inches.

He spent his first two months sleeping on and with me, his arms sprawled across my chest, his legs tucked under him or splayed to either side of my belly. I loved being right there when he woke at night, feeding him and then falling straight back to sleep with him. Our naps together sometimes ended with a few strands of my hair wrapped around his sticky palms and fingers, the side of his face red and hot from where it was pressed against my chest and his hair moist from my body heat. By Easter, he learned to enjoy being swaddled and started learning to sleep on his own in his crib — a full room away from momma.

His eyes got larger and more expressive over time. Those first few weeks, he stared with wonderment and sometimes skepticism as his sister hung over his bouncy chair or grabbed his hand, speaking to him in a high-pitched voice, reminding him who she is. "I'm Aida! I'm your big sister," she would say, always laughing at whatever he does in response.

If he was skeptical, I didn't blame him. Our first three months together felt like they were haphazardly patched together with whatever last bits of scotch tape were on the roll. Steve was teaching on contract at Texas Christian University, so he felt the need to return to his duties there after being home for only the first 10 days of Auden's life. His weekly commute to Fort Worth meant Auden, Aida and I were on our own for three to four nights a week. Had it not been for my mother coming each night at bath and bedtime, I cannot envision how it would have played out. Aida needed my attention. Auden needed my attention. It felt like neither were getting everything they needed and I felt exhausted and inadequate with the gnawing sense of guilt that both children were suffering because of it.

Before I became a mother, I always thought I wanted several children. But after having Aida, the reality of parenthood left me wondering how exactly I could pull off mothering even one more. With Aida, I was all in, pouring nearly all of my attention into her and her development. I would regularly interview new mothers of two -- often strangers, even -- about about the experience of going from one to two kids. Sometimes, I got the big shoulder shrug: "You just do it." It still sounded hard. It was hard to see how I could squeeze in a second being who would require the same amount of devotion, attention and love. Yet, my irrational desire for a second baby grew over time from a low "what if" flame to a raging "gotta get pregnant" fire. I'm not sure Steve understood how badly was I longing for a baby. And I don't think he fully understood my grief over the prospect that it might not come to pass. I wasn't sure I would be able to conceive. I'm over 40. Steve was traveling. Life was already exhausting. Every monthly period felt like a reason to mourn.

But then it happened.

Auden. My sweet, sweet boy.

A Eulogy for Gloria Richardson, My Grandma (Oct. 7, 1926 to Dec. 24, 2016)

Delivered Dec. 31, 2016, at a memorial service for Gloria Richardson at Jacob Schoen & Son Funeral Home in New Orleans, La.

I’m Rebecca Catalanello. I’m one of the 18 people on this planet lucky enough to call Gloria Richardson my grandmother. On behalf of our large (and sometimes loud) family, I want to thank you for coming today to help us honor the life of a remarkable woman, mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, aunt, and, of course, Vernon’s beloved wife.

Over her 90 years, my grandma accumulated many names and nicknames. I counted up at least 10 that I know of and there are probably more. She had the most perfect name: Gloria. But she was also Sugar, Sugie, Mama, Mom, MawMaw and, what I and the eldest grandkids called her, Grandma. She grew up Gloria Seemann, the daughter of dairy farmers. She married Joseph Catalanello, a local radio personality, and not only took his name but sometimes adopted his show-biz last name, Wilson. Years after Joseph – aka Larry Wilson – died and she decided to take the love plunge again with an old flame named Vernon, she became Gloria Richardson, a name that stuck for 44 years as the two of them shared a love and companionship that emboldened them to merge families, propelled them across countless dance floors, inspired them to journey all around the world, sustained them during unfathomable heartbreak and served as a model to their children and grandchildren of what a lasting, strong, loving marriage looks like. Richer and poorer, sickness and health, good times and bad.

The names we all use when speaking to and about my grandma illustrate, I think, the kind of affection she inspired. Everyone who drew near to her came to love her with a fierce loyalty. Because knowing and loving Gloria Seemann Catalanello Richardson was to be known and loved by her.

She was sweet and funny, kind and thoughtful, joyful and full of grace. She loved to sing and had a remarkable ability to listen and to make you feel as if everything you had to say or share was the most important news she’d heard that day, that week. She was immensely proud of her five children and, in conversation with me since becoming a mother myself, often referred to her kids – some of whom are now grandparents themselves – as “my babies” in a tone of utter love and delight. She loved her grandchildren and great-grandchildren mightily with open arms and listening ears, always making us feel special, safe, amazing.

But when I think about her life, it is impossible not to see the many tragedies she endured – horrendous saddnesses, any one of which might have been enough to break her spirit, leave her angry, embittered or joyless. She was 35 in 1962 when she was suddenly widowed with five children, the youngest just four. She was strapped, depending on her mother to help her raise, feed, cloth and educate Bill, Michael, Larry, Donna and Nancy, while she sought employment. Between 1982 and 2001, she went on to bury an infant grandson, Joseph, her youngest son, Larry, and her sweet, beautiful granddaughter, Lisa, each of whom she loved without condition and each of whom were taken from this earth before any of us were ready to say goodbye. In 2005, flooding from Hurricane Katrina destroyed the home my Grandpa Vernon built and shared with my grandma – and thus, our entire family. It changed their neighborhood and forced their community to disperse.

But my grandma, she didn’t break. She didn’t become angry. She wasn’t embittered or joyless. My grandma, it was like her heart grew bigger, her faith in God carried her through to compassion – always this boundless compassion and interest in others and their wellbeing. From her position of unfathomable loss, she extended her love toward others who’d lost loved ones, too. When her son died, she held her daughter-in-law, Ellyn, and she cried with her and for her, but she also stood as an example of strength and encouragement that a mother’s love can carry her children through. “Keep up the good work,” Grandma would tell Ellyn, as she watched Laura, Anna, Daniel and Meagan grow beautifully under their mother’s care.

My grandma would go out of her way to visit with friends and relatives when they were elderly, alone, sick or when they lost a loved one. Even when she herself grew frail, she would find ways to comfort and encourage others in need of comfort and encouragement. When family friend, Joycelyn, said goodbye to her brother, my grandma, unable to leave the house very often in her final days, months and years, made a point to go and sit with Joycelyn’s mother and share in her grief.

More than anything, I think the loss she experienced underscored her appreciation for what she had in the here and now. “I’ve never been one to worry,” she would say. “I put it in God’s hands.”

Gloria’s example of love and gratitude impacted us all, leaving each of us with countless memories from which we’ve found ourselves drawing our own comfort since she left our world on Christmas Eve.

My memories include these:

Riding bikes around Lakeview with her at summer’s end. Swinging with her on the neighbor’s backyard swing, talking about Gram, her mother, and death and people she knew and cousins and my worries. Holding her hand during beach walks on family vacations in Destin. Getting a "grandma talk" from her in the third grade after a boy named Kelly Aderholt gave me a necklace. Pulling homemade Easter dresses from the packages she would send to me and my sister when we lived far away. Sitting next to her and Grandpa at St. Dominic’s Church, the scent of Grandma’s perfume mixing with the aroma of incense rising in the sanctuary. Countless Christmas Eve parties she and Grandpa hosted, giving us all joyous opportunities to dress up and laugh and eat and drink and build memories together. Braving the cold afterward, bound for Midnight Mass, where St. Dominic’s white marble altar was always bedecked with poinsettias. Some years Grandma sat with the choir and raised what, to me, were the most beautiful “Glorias!” I’d ever heard.

The morning Grandma died, I woke before sunrise in Belize with a baby who wakes up too early. We were vacationing at the beach there. I was rocking him and looking out at the water and saw what looked like a light dancing on the water. At first, I thought it must be the reflection of the moon still hovering. But the moon was slight and it soon became concealed by clouds. Still, the light shone -- only fading from view as sunlight flooded in. A few hours later, my dad called with the heartbreaking news that Grandma had died. The next morning, I woke before sunrise again. It was Christmas. The beach sky was blanketed with clouds. No moon was visible. But there was the light again, shining inexplicably over the water until daybreak again erased it. By the third morning, the 26^th, the light was gone.

After getting news of grandma’s passing, my godmother, Helen, a very faithful god-fearing woman, sent me a message of condolence for our family. “We are sad for the loss of your grandmother,” she wrote, “but what a perfect time to go to heaven. Such a lovely lady.”

No, I thought at first, it was not a perfect time. I needed more time. I wasn’t ready. I needed to hold her hand some more, to talk with her more, to hug her again. This was not a perfect time at all. I didn’t get to tell her everything. I was not a good enough granddaughter.

But then I thought about all those Christmas Eves she gave us. All the times our wonderful, large, blended, imperfect family that she loved and loved so well, gathered together to laugh and how, afterward, she would go to church and sing the most beautiful Glorias.

Angels we have heard on high
Sweetly singing o'er the plains
And the mountains in reply
Echoing their joyous strains

Angels we have heard on high
Sweetly, sweetly through the night
And the mountains in reply
Echoing their brief delight

Gloria, in excelsis Deo
Gloria, in excelsis Deo

Surely when she entered Heaven, she heard the voices, the Glorias rising. The angels and archangels singing together. And she saw the faces of those she loved so well and whose lives and deaths she paid tribute to through daily acts of gratitude.

May we all do the same as we walk forward remembering her and honoring her and giving thanks for all she gave us.

Amen.

To Aida on her fifth birthday

Dear Aida,

At this time five years ago, I was laboring in a cold hospital room, eight hours away from staring into your startling blue eyes for the first time and feeling your soft, soft skin against my chest.

Now you stand before me -- but not for long -- your knees bruised, your light brown hair falling into those beautiful eyes of yours. Smiling, laughing, dancing, crying, thinking, watching.

At five, you are a kitty, a butterfly, a loud laugher, a princess, a ballerina, a mermaid, a fish. You are running down the street, playing Mother May I, waving to every child who passes, offering a cheery "Hi!"

You are asking me to tell you a story, another story, another story, another story. No, not that story, another story.

You are snuggled against me for bedtime reading. You are closing your door to squeeze your feet into the now-too-small ballet shoes. Asking me to draw a kitty on your face before bed. Teaching me a song then telling me not to sing it.

One moment, you are a shadow of your toddler self. You press that tattered blankie against your nose then pull it away to yank a thread loose and toss it on the ground. The next, you are five. You put your dishes on the counter, dress yourself, ask me questions I cannot answer.

"Momma," you asked tonight from the back seat, "does the world end?"

Where did you come from?

You have asked and asked and asked for a baby over the past few years. When we finally told you you would be a big sister, you responded with a big smile and bigger eyes.

"Is it true?" you said.

Now, it seems that every day I pick you up from school, you have created a new piece of artwork for the little guy who has given me my Buddha shape.

"For baby brother," you say.

My belly has become your megaphone. "Goodnight, Chubby Cheeks!" you yell, smooshing your nose against my gut.

Beautiful girl. How I love your mind, your resilience, your memory, your curiosity, your laughter. How I love your delight in small things, your attention to detail, your focus on finishing your artwork project before moving on to something else -- even if it means not getting out of the car when we arrive at school because, "I'm not done."

I am so pleased to be your mother and so proud of the friend-making, kindhearted child you have become. It's hard for me to close the chapter on early childhood. I get nervous about this world and its potential for damage.

But when I see at you at five skipping down that street, picking up sticks for walking canes, singing songs that only you know, I feel like everything is as it should be and you, my sweet daughter, have exactly what it takes to walk, skip, run, fly in this world.

Because you do.

Happy birthday, Aida Orleans. I love you so.

Mommy

P.S. Meow.

Eyes wide open. Nov. 12, 2010, 6 lbs 15 oz, 19 5/8 inches.

Welcome to New Orleans. You sure you wanna live here?

Most of our framed photos are out of the bubble wrap now and propped against a wall in the study. A few half-opened boxes still litter the two-bedroom, two-bath shotgun double we now call home.

When we arrived at this new house in New Orleans, some of the city was still without power following Hurricane Isaac. Traffic lights were out. Trash and trees and leaves were everywhere. Parts of the town stank of accumulating garbage. When I hugged my sweet Grandma shortly after our arrival in the city, her skin felt damp, sticky and hot from three days with no air conditioning.

It was like the city said, "Welcome to New Orleans. You sure you want to live here?"

I can't say that hasn't given me pause. Though my family -- My Amazing Family -- has been warm and supportive since we brought one of the newest and most popular members of our clan into their permanent daily lives, New Orleans' post-hurricane landscape reinforced many of my original misgivings about returning to my beloved hometown.

We traded in our pristine life by the water for a largely industrial landscape peppered with litter, construction zones, potholes and things that don't work. We knew we were doing this when we pulled the trigger. We believe in the reasons we did it. But the reality is sometimes jarring.

Over the last three weeks, as -- one box at a time -- we've transitioned from a state of chaos to near-normalcy, the city around us seems to have done the same.

Garbage trucks arrived. Bucket trucks left. Cleaning crews combed major streets and parks to pick up branches and other debris. Private citizens picked up some of the slack in areas the City of New Orleans likes to forget.

As soon as I was able to clear a path from Aida's room to the front door, I started taking her on regular treks to all the hopping spots for two-year-olds.

Plum Street Snoballs. Audubon Park. City Park. Nix Library. Levee walks along the Mississippi -- downriver to the Fly and upriver to the Jefferson Parish line. Streetcar rides to Danneel Park and strolls to Palmer Park.

We've practiced her coffee house skills at Rue de la Course and CC's, split a turkey sandwich at Maple Street Patisserie and watched a couple dance arm-in-arm over lunch at Oak Street Cafe. We visited the children's section at Maple Street Book Shop and, per her request, rocked on the front porch rockers after making our purchase.

Aida now counts the streetcars every time we pass Carrollton Station and exclaims "Streetcar!" when one rattles down the neutral ground before us. She got out of the car at my girlfriend's Lakeside Metairie house the other day, pointed to the green hill before us and yelled, "Levee!"

As we walk, I tend to point out all the places important to our family's personal history. "That's where Mommy went to school," I said one day as we passed my old high school campus while riding on the streetcar. The next day, as we walked on the same street in the opposite direction, she pointed from her stroller: "Mommy's school." Which of course warranted a Mommy tear, a Mommy cheer and a big sloppy Mommy kiss.

These moments have been incredibly satisfying. She now tells me, "I love Grandma" (who is her great-grandma) and "I love Papa Cat" (who is her grandfather) and "I love Uncle Joseph." Until moving to New Orleans, the only family members she mentioned voluntarily on a regular basis were Mommy, Daddy, Mamere and Sarah (who is not a family member at all, but a babysitter).

But, like a dysfunctional love affair, with the loveliness of New Orleans comes the ugliness.

On a tricycle ride up and down the block one day, Aida pointed to the ground in front of a recently renovated rental house on the corner. "What dat? What dat?"

"That's trash," I said.

"Trash," she said happily. "Trash!" After days went by and it remained and Aida kept naming it, Steve fetched a trash bag and we taught our daughter how to pick up trash. "Pick up trash," she says now.

As far as Aida knows, the concrete chasms and dramatic cliffs of sidewalk pushed from the earth atop sprawling tree roots are a part of a massive game of human strategy and skill. "Sidewalk challenge!" she shouts as we near hills of broken pavement. (She got that from me.)

Our second week here, Steve walked out to find the back of his car had been hit, most likely by someone speeding down the street and swerving to avoid a massive pothole.

On Monday, exactly three weeks after we moved in, I came home from running errands with Aida to find police cars and onlookers scattered down the street. A half-hour earlier, two blocks away, two 27-year-old men were shot, one fatally, in the light of day, after an argument inside a house spilled onto the street.

When Steve got home, he took Aida duty while I walked down the street to learn what I could learn. A young black man was crying. Sheets draped the scene. Neighbors clustered on their porches and spoke in low voices. Few people volunteered any credible details when I introduced myself and asked what they'd heard (and I didn't even have press credentials hanging around my neck!).

I picked out the Times-Picayune reporter at the scene by his pleated khakis, legal notebook and flip cell phone, and maneuvered close enough to him to try to eavesdrop on his conversation with the office. (He's not the one whose byline tops the online story, btw.) Apparently, I lack discretion because he called after me later when I'd decided to walk back home. He asked me about my experience in the neighborhood. I told him that in three weeks, I'd come to feel great about our particular block, but a shooting two blocks from where we are raising a toddler is obviously disconcerting.

"I mean, I don't know what your neighborhood's like," I said.

My uneasiness over the event has grown in the days since. As a once-upon-a-time crime reporter, I frequently showed up in other people's neighborhoods and reported on death and mayhem, then returned to my seemingly safe house in another part of town. It feels altogether different not being able to leave. It was like this when I was a teenager here in the late 80s. But, I was a teenager. Oblivious.

We checked the available crime stats on this address before we signed a lease. There were incidents in surrounding area, but this was a good block. And it's all about the block around here. Unlike in Florida, our neighbors all introduced themselves to us from day one. Each of the three houses on one side of us are occupied by families with babies or toddlers. On on the other, we have a sweet hairdresser named Mary and a kind butterfly wrangler named Linda. Our landlord bent over backward to make our house great for us to move in. But. Really? This?

"Nowhere is safe," my aunt messaged me from her Gentilly home.

We knew that. We knew that. We knew that. We came anyway.

Today I let Aida watch a little Sesame Street on the Roku. It was H day. So they showed a montage of  kids playing on the beaches of Hawaii. The images of sand and seashore made me unexpectedly teary for our former life.

"I'm so happy Aida's going to be raised in New Orleans," my sister Ramona told me on the phone last week.

The moment she said it, my mind catalogued all the ways being a kid in New Orleans is tough: terrible schools, adult-centric values, crime, poverty, lack of future jobs.

"Really?!" I said before starting into my mental list.

Ramona interrupted me. "Character-building," she said. "Character-building."

I guess I'm hoping for something more.

I refuse to believe the richness of this city depends on things not working. There seem to be legions of organizations and individuals who agree, who are working to try to make things better.

We want to be in that number. I keep reminding myself that's why we came.

Aida's first Plum Street Snoball, Sept. 2012

Our little park

So, we're moving to New Orleans in 12 days.

More on that later.

The reason I mention it is because, since we made the decision to leave Florida, every day presents an opportunity for me to get a little choked up about something I'll miss.

Today, it rained. A lot. Aida and I got caught in the storm at our favorite neighborhood waterfront playground. She didn't mind. She loved it.

"Raining!" she said as she darted from the picnic shelter into the downpour, mimicking the joggers passing through. I ran after her and then realized there's no harm in my baby being wet. I let her run.

It's a good thing photos exist. I've taken a lot of them at this park. But I wish I could sear into permanent recall all the memories we have built at this little playground over the last two and a half years.

Variations on a theme

Various photos of Aida in ill-advised footwear:

Empathy

Writing about Aida's shoe obsession last night reminded me of this video.

I filmed it on June 4, right after we discovered a sweet book called "Gossie" at the library. As you will see, Gossie is a gosling who likes to wear red boots.

Yes, boots.

Something Aida can relate to.

Soon after we started reading this book to Aida, we noticed she had the same reaction every time we got to the climax -- the part where Gossie tragically loses her boots.

Of nudists, heel-a-holics and CEOs

(Mostly ignoring how long it's been since I've written...)

A few things to note:

One, I have become a comfortable shoes girl. The heels hanging on the back of our bedroom door these days serve solely as Aida's play toys. It seems her high-heel obsession has grown in inverse proportion to my high-heel disenchantment. I mean, the rockin' red pointy-toed shoes I bought for my Marge Simpson Halloween costume are awesome. And those gold and bronze braided Via Spiga peep-toes I wore to three out-of-town weddings still make me happy to look at. But, these days, I can't even muster courage to slip my feet into those comfy black work pumps. I keep going back to the safe, black Anne Klein Sport flats I bought just before returning to work apres bebe. I never even used to wear flats at all. Ever. Meanwhile, Aida is evolving into a bona fide, get-her-to-the-clinic-now shoe-a-holic. As soon as I come in the door, she points at my feet and demands "Off!" so that she can put my shoes on her own feet. In the mornings as I dress, she digs through my closet to pull out the pink and black Converse high-tops I bought at Marshall's on a whim before Mardi Gras a few years ago. She talks about flip-flops, then starts pulling the pairs of heels out of the cloth shoe holder on the back of the bedroom door. She wobbles as she tries them on her feet. She shuffles out the door as far as she can until one of the shoes tips over. "Dada, see? See, Dada?" she says as she starts out on what is usually an aborted trip to show her shoe-wearing skills to her father because they tip over or her foot comes out and she has to try again. Then, she comes back and impatiently points at another pair. No, not those. No, not those. "Udder one. No, udder one."

Uh-oh what?

This morning I awoke to the sound of Aida partying in her crib. That's not unusual.

But I've begun sticking one stuffed animal in there after she goes to sleep at night so that she wakes up all surprised. "Frog? Frog?! HOW DID YOU GET IN HERE? Nevermind the details. Let's PARTAY!"

Aida's words update

All the words we can think of that Aida's saying now... I'm sure there are more I'm missing that will come to me in 10 minutes ...

1) Up
2) down
3) outside
4) Mama
5) Dada

Aida's morning workout

This happened this morning.

Going topless

I opened the door to Aida's room this morning and found her standing topless in her crib. Her long-sleeved pajama top was pushed down around her waist and her sleeves were flapping from her hips. I called Steve in to witness. I guess we all have to learn how to take off our clothes some time. And apparently her time started today.

Of snot, sadness, words and Dada

Aida spent her 16 month birthday with a 100.3 degree fever, a cough, a super snotty nose, an ear infection and a visit to her doctor. And because she was sick, it also means she spent it with me.

I'd like to think that if Aida could speak full sentences, she would agree with me that this is the upside of her suffering, this unanticipated mommy-and-aida time.

She napped for about an hour all day, and not without significant protest accompanied by great wailing and gnashing of teeth. The downside.

I tried to soothe her. I held her and rocked her til her sobs turned to humming and eventually sleep.

The upside: She patted me on the back when I patted her on her back. She sang into the silence when I stopped singing for her.

Even sick, she's pretty cool.

Because we were feeling so raw and sad and sick and bluesy, we decided to listen to Billy Holiday a lot of the day.

Our CD player gets stuck on "The Very Thought of You." Which is, I guess, the downside.

Aida rocks from side to side when she hears the beat of the relentless skip. The upside.

The girl is blowing my mind lately.

She's started standing and spinning her body in circles for amusement. Spinning is kind of an exaggeration, since it's deliberate and kinda clumsy looking. But so, so cute. She thinks it's a riot. She's been trying her hardest to jump. "Jump!" we say, and she bends her knees then pushes up with enthusiasm, her stubborn feet never lifting off the floor. So funny.

Her vocabulary alone is keeping us on our toes. She hears a bus pass outside and she says, "bus." The birds chirping elicits a "behd," for bird. She's been saying "hot" for a long, long time now, but yesterday, she applied to the steam she saw rising from the humidifier in her room. A couple weeks ago, she wrapped a strand of Mardi Gras beads around her wrist, looked up at me and said, "bracelet."

Now it sounds like she's asking questions, "Whatdis?" and making demands, "Read-dis."

Yesterday, while she was sick with snot pouring down her nose and into her mouth like a friggin water facet, I sat on the couch and gave her orders.

"Aida, bring me your dog." She would look at me, turn, toddle into her bedroom and then come back with the stuffed Dr. Seuss dog.

"Aida, bring me your duck," I ordered again. She turned, walked into her room, and came back out with the duck.

By the end of our game, I was sitting on the couch with a dog, a stuffed broccoli, a Winnie the Pooh, a duck, a snake, a frog and a teddy bear (though I didn't order the teddy bear...she just volunteered that one).

I was so impressed. Sweet little snot-head.

One other thing. Steve's been out of town since Thursday and Aida's been saying his name at times when she would normally see him.

Like the first thing when she gets out of bed in the morning. For the first two mornings he was gone, after I took her from her crib, she ran toward our open bedroom door, "Dada! Dada!" she said again and again.

When I told her Dada was at work, she grabbed my iPhone from the end table and suggested he was there. "Dada?" she asked.

No honey. I'm sorry. He's normally on the phone when he's not home, but no. Not this morning. He's in Austin working.

"Dada!" she exclaimed again when we were returning from a stroll. Usually, he's sitting at his desk in the back of the house and is there to greet Aida when we come inside. "Dada!" she says when she spies him through the glass door.

"Dada's at work, honey."

We used FaceTime to talk with him every day but today, and she was overjoyed to see him. It's the first time I've really seen her register clear recognition and show the ability to communicate with someone we were video chatting with. She waved hello and bye-bye. She laughed when he stuck his hair in the camera. When he made a "pfffft"sound with his lips, she did the same. It was so funny.

"Dada!" she said this morning when she heard my mom come in the back door.

Dada will be here tomorrow, honey. Thank goodness.

Sixteen months old. Sick and sad. With stickers.