Snowbound

With Baltimore more or less turned into Omsk (we had 26 inches of snow last weekend, and are currently in blizzard conditions that will dump up to 20 more on us today), L. and I have been pulling out all of the stops in trying to keep Cleo entertained.

Improvised fortress, made of a Malagasi lamba stretched over some stacked plastic toys? Done. A game of Texas Hold 'Em, with me as dealer and Cleo as outlaw, chewing sagely on her cards? Check. Strapping her into the Baby Bjorn and swaying about the dining room to old Madonna ballads? That was L.'s good idea (Cleo seems partial to the slow songs, and we can thus already see her, cell phone held high and illuminated, at a concert of whatever the 2022 equivalent of the Jonas Brothers or Lady Gaga might be). We still haven't plunked her down in front of CSI: Miami, but let another 20 inches fall in the coming days, and she might have to become a fan of the show.

L.'s definitely more creative than me when it comes to such activities, but I've been the star of at least one modest success. The old guitar that's sat, sadly ignored, in the corner of our room for the past few years, has suddenly acquired a new relevance. Indeed: strap it on, tune it up, and play a few familiar chords, and you've got a rapt 8-month-old. Her initial expressions, on first hearing the singing strings, were really wonderful: a mixture of pure curiosity, slight apprehension, and, perhaps, real concern at my seeming inability to strum three chords cleanly, without major mistakes.

While listening, Cleo likes to reach out and touch the bright tuning pegs, and the ends of the strings. But those of you who have visited might remember that we have an ancient, hulking piano, as well (free from Craig's list; it seems to have been made c. 1920, although given its weight and the stunning degree to which it is out of tune it might as well have been fashioned by Icelandic smiths in around 700). Anyway: a piano, it turns out, can interest even the tiniest hands. So we've also been sitting, Cleo in our lap, at the keyboard every now and then for three or four minutes at a spell, letting her bang away, and become attuned to the ancient relation between cause and effect.

In the meantime, L. and I learn other ancient patterns. Shovel, drink hot chocolate. Feel sore. Bake; share with the neighbors. And so on. It's odd, perhaps, that such a daunting and even dangerous storm - a storm that's left a number of motorists stranded, and has closed schools for six days now - should bring us together, both as a neighborhood and as a family, but that's, perhaps, its happiest aspect. So let it snow, let it snow: so far, so good.