rainbow bright meets flashdance

Sorry for the lack of postings/pictures as of late; our camera is out of batteries and the charger is in a very safe and logical place that I have not yet located.

But! We have a camera on the computer, so here is an impromptu photo shoot, starring Zoë and yours truly.

The End.

shameless, unadulterated bragging

I finally caved and took Zoë to have "portraits" taken yesterday. I was pleasantly surprised at the photographer's efficiency and ability to get Z to smile. I was even more surprised that I managed to escape without purchasing $300 worth of portraiture, despite that same photographer's concerted efforts. I was shocked that no one offered me thousands of dollars and a modeling contract.

Because HOLY SMOKES this kid is cute. Objectively speaking, of course.


I mean, seriously.


Where did she COME from?


Don't answer that. Rhetorical question.

today's post brought to you by the letter ë.

Z - O - E (dot dot) is sixteen weeks old!  Here's a little post to nibble on in her honor, along with (finally) some new pictures.

Tim and I tried to keep our potential baby names a secret during my pregnancy -- with limited success. It didn't help that we were pretty sold on Zoë from the get-go. As it turns out, nine months is a long time to keep a secret. Especially if your initials happen to be TWH.

What we couldn't agree on (besides whether or not to KEEP OUR MOUTHS SHUT) was the spelling.  A serious Salinger fan, Tim was partial to Zooey; I was convinced - rightly so, I still maintain - that this would result in the unfortunate mispronunciation ZOO-ee for the rest of her life. But neither Zoey nor Zoe struck our fancies. We loved the sound, hated the look.  

Don't be a hater, Mom.

Except. There was Zoë. I didn't know or care what the dots meant. I just liked 'em. To me, they added a little pizazz, a little flare. Not ONLY does the name have a Z, it also has curious dots. Whee! What more could a girl want?

Turns out the dots are actually legit.  Here is a mini-lesson from an admitted grammar freak on two dot punctuation, or the diacritic.

There are two types of diacritics: umlauts and tremas. Contrary to popular opinion, the dots in Zoë's name are not an umlaut. (Though it would be pretty sweet if her name DID have an umlaut.) An umlaut signifies a different pronunciation of a certain vowel.  

The trema signifies that the second of two vowels should be pronounced separately.  You may have seen it in words like naïve, or perhaps coöperation (if you read the New Yorker).  So Z's two dots mean that her name does not rhyme with "toe."

For the practical application of said dots, all you need is a simple keycode.  On a Mac, you press option/u, then the e.  Easy, right?  On a PC, it's a little trickier.  You hold down the left "ALT" key, then enter 0235 using your numeric keypad.  I think.  

Somëtimës I likë to put thë dots on all my "ë's", just for kicks.

So there you have it.  The funny thing is, legal names are no longer allowed punctuation (due to an ever-increasing number of punctuated names over the past few years), so Zoë's real name is Zoe.  But we'll keep rocking the dots anyway.  

Everyone needs a little flare, right?

R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

I. LOVE. PHOTOSHOP.

Clueless.

I like to consider myself a person who is good at figuring thing out.  Good at navigating, good at puzzles, good at fixing broken crib mobiles.  My brain likes the challenge of trying to solve problems, and so far, it has a decent track record, which leaves me fairly confident when it comes to new challenges.  Maybe overly confident.  Fortunately, this bravado has only endangered our lives once, when we found ourselves driving in circles around Florence, Italy, right about the time our departing plane was set to board, and I was pretty sure Papa J was going to kill me, or at least call me a moron, which at that point in my relationship with his son might have been even worse.

But we made the flight and Papa has only called me a moron a handful of times, so I've continued to swagger through life without asking for directions.

Until now.

On Monday, we got a new computer (eep!) and a printer (yee!) and Creative Suite 4:  Design Premium, which is the mac-daddy of design software (great googly-moogly!).  On Wednesday, I happily uploaded the software and readied my mouse for an afternoon of "messing around" with Photoshop and InDesign and Illustrator, and realized that I have NO IDEA what I'm doing. Not only that, but I also have no idea how to even BEGIN to figure it out.  This is a very strange feeling, this helpless feeling, and I am not quite sure how to handle it.

For the time being, I'm going to choose to ignore these snazzy programs with their fancy elemental icons and sophisticated terminology and wait until a Mac Genius appears to me in a vision.

All is not lost, though.  I have downloaded a set of Photoshop "actions" (read:  CHEAT SHEET) from thepioneerwoman.com and managed to alter a few photos this morning.  Do not be fooled.  I promise you, I am a Photoshop moron.

Dad and Zoë, before

Dad and Zoë, after.  Okay, yes, I am a little proud of the orange logo.  That took some figuring out.

Profiles, before

Profiles, after

Now you see the fan accessory on Z's head...

Now you don't!

snow day!

We're all home today; school has been cancelled due to "inclement weather."

I love the South.

three is the magic number

Little Zoë,

You are three months old today. According to veteran moms and baby books, this is a major milestone - the moment you transition from blobby infant into bubbly baby. There's some legitimacy to this. Just this week, you rolled over and giggled! Way to tackle your to-do list, baby.


I'm not so sure about the whole milestone concept, though. At three months, you have transitioned from a blobby infant into a bubbly baby. But it didn't happen today. It happened every moment of every day since you first came to be. You are changing constantly, and what I'm now realizing is that you will always be changing, unfolding slowly, one day at a time, for the rest of your life.


For now, you've grown increasingly aware of your surroundings and the curious beings which inhabit them (your dad and I included). Now, you follow us with your eyes and are quick to offer a dimpled grin when we talk to you. Yesterday saw our first ever game of peek-a-boo. Hard to know who enjoyed it more.


You have discovered your hands and use them to swat and grab the dangling elephants on your bouncy seat. You also pull your fists towards your mouth and slurp, slurp slurp until a) a digit finds its way in or b) you get frustrated and let out an exasperated cry. You're pretty obsessed with this, much to your dad's chagrin. He thinks it's unbecoming of you. Of course, he also refers to you affectionately as either "Stinky" or "Toaster," so what kind of refined lady could he possibly expect you to be?


When we put you down under your mobile or the crazy disco sunshine, your face lights up. You really get going, legs churning, arms punching, cooing and smiling. Then you give yourself the hiccups and we have to remove the source of overstimulation, pronto.

You're an easy baby. You eat well and sleep well. You love to be changed, to be upright, to fall asleep with your pacifier. You also love to watch television. We are trying to limit this, but it's tough these days, what with college hoops and NFL playoffs and your mom's recent discovery of The Food Network. Right at this very moment, you are sitting on your dad's lap, watching the Wildcats destroy Georgia Southern and chomping on your fists. Your dad is shaking his head, but I'm not sure if it's because of your fist-eating or because Steph is 1-11 from behind the arc.

I write all this because it's what I know about you. And in truth, it's not much.

Because while we know what you do, we don't really know who you are. Not yet, at least. This is one of the many beautiful things about parenthood, I think: Every day, as you discover your world, we discover you.


The other night, the three of us were in the kitchen just before dinner. I was holding you, and your dad was laughing. Suddenly, you laughed back, which made us laugh, which made you laugh again. We went back and forth, laughing at each other. It didn't last long, this little exchange, and ended with us in tears and you with the hiccups. But it was, for us, a magical moment. Just the three of us, laughing ourselves silly.


I have so many questions about who you are and who you'll become. A small part of me wants you to hurry and grow up, already, so I can know your favorite color and what words you'll mispronounce and how fast you can run. But the rest of me knows to sit, patiently, and watch you unfold, one day at a time, for the rest of my life.


I think I can handle that.

Love,
Mom