Milestones

As I approach the end of the first six months of my new baby's life, I am a bundle of mixed emotions. Each little milestone has been a moment of pure joy, but there is always the tiny voice in the background whispering, "Slow down!" While I long for him to experience new things, to see him grow and develop, I want to cling to the newborn that has already long since vanished. Each new skill acquired and each adorable article of clothing outgrown is a heart-squeezing reminder that another little chapter has ended. Knowing that this will be my last child brings an added dose of melancholy to it all.

Oliver is mostly sitting up unsupported now. The thrill it gives him and the look of radiant pride on his sweet little face remind me that there is still more joy in the journey than there is sadness at the loss of what is past. I have so enjoyed watching my older children grow and evolve as they become more fully the people they are. So I look forward more than back, eager to see who my smallest son will become.

In the midst of all this sleep-deprived emotion, I am approaching my own personal milestone. This is the year I will turn 40. While I believe I have been dreading this ever since I turned 30, I am pleased to say that the dread has lifted. I am no more thrilled than I was before at the sound of the number, but I am much more ready to wear it with pride at what those 40 years mean in my life. I am mostly pleased with how I have spent that time and with where I am as I cross this particular marker. I am pleasantly surprised to report that I still feel very much a young woman and not past my prime or over the hill in any sense. I imagine a good deal of that must be due to this unexpected opportunity to be a new mommy all over again, but the rest I will just credit to good old-fashioned happiness.

The Stolen Child

Thanks to Amy for recommending this book. I have never read a book on the changeling myth and I really liked the way it was developed here. As the mother of a child with autism, the idea of having your child stolen away and replaced by an imposter had particular poignancy for me. Having a child who seems healthy and "normal" transformed almost overnight into one who is disconnected and beseiged by bizarre behaviors can make a distraught parent entertain the possibility of the body-snatcher scenario. There is some evidence that indicates a link between the changeling myth and special needs children back in the days before such disorders had been scientifically identified and explained. Apparently, such children who came to be labeled as changelings were often abused, abandoned, or killed.

In "The Stolen Child", however, the parents accept and raise the changeling child despite their suspicions that he is not their true son. The story follows the stolen child and his changeling replacement through the years leading to the attainment of adulthood. One faces the ramifications of living a life he stole from another, while the other deals with the pain of learning to let go of what he has irrevocably lost and to embrace his new reality. Underneath the supernatural trappings lies the fundamental struggle of the misfit. It is a story that is often painful, sometimes disturbing, but ultimately optimistic as the characters succeed, not in eliminating their problems, but in finding ways to take control of their circumstances and move forward with purpose.

Keith Donohue is a great storyteller whose writing is believable and full of subtle insights. I will be interested in reading him again and wholeheartedly recommend this thought-provoking book.

Sad But True

The Sleep Quest Revisited

So last fall I was distressed over my baby's lack of napping prowess. Little did I know that things could (and would) get worse. On the positive side of things, I am happy to report that Oliver has nearly mastered the fine art of napping and now takes 2 or 3 naps of a respectable length each day. However, my happiness is greatly tempered by the fact that he (at the ripe old age of 5 months) is still not sleeping through the night. In fact, while he only woke once or twice a night as a newborn, he is now regularly up 3 or 4 times every night. A typical night involves him going to bed around 10 p.m., waking around 12:30 or 1, waking around 3, and then waking around 5. He'll then be up by 7 a.m. Some nights he'll add an extra waking around 4. It's downright painful.

We started him on solids today for the first time. He has been showing a lot of interest in food, so we feel he's ready. I don't expect to see any benefit right away, but I'm hopeful that this may fill his little middle enough to keep him sleeping longer at night. We'll see.

Meanwhile, I'm open to suggestions.

Koobideh

Once upon a time, I went to a Persian restaurant with my friend Kimberly. I had not been before, nor have I gone since (I don't even remember exactly where this particular place was), but it was some of the best food I have ever tasted. One of the dishes we had was these ground meat kebabs served with roasted tomatoes over basmati rice. Thinking about that meal recently, I decided to search out a recipe and try to duplicate it at home.

These were made with 1 pound of ground beef, 1 egg, 2 medium onions (the recipe called for them to be grated, but I minced mine very fine in my food processor), 2 minced cloves of garlic, 1 teaspoon turmeric, 1 teaspoon salt, and 1/4 teaspoon pepper. I mixed it all together and let it sit in the refrigerator all day. Then I pressed the mixture around the skewers and broiled it until it was good and browned, about 20 minutes. The tomatoes should have gone under the broiler, too, but I sauteed them in some olive oil, garlic, salt, and pepper. 

I think it turned out looking pretty nice, but the taste did not come close. They tasted good, but not nearly like what they made in the restaurant. My teenager gave them 5 stars, but that's just because it was meat and he's a raging carnivore. My hubby and I went for 4 stars, and the 10-year-old gave them 3 (3.5 when he added some more salt). If I make these again, it will be with a different recipe. I'll keep hunting.

So, Kimberly, when you are ready to renounce your vegetarian ways and come back to the dark side, perhaps we can hunt down that restaurant again. Call me.

Indoctrination

Yet another reason why I homeschool my kids. The following is from an email I received from my senator, Tom Carper.

TEACHING KIDS ABOUT THE CENSUS

The 2010 Census is less than three months away. So earlier this month, I hosted a kickoff event for the "Census In Schools" program in Delaware. This program aims to provide educators with the resources they need to teach students about the importance of the census, so they in turn can help deliver this message to their families and improve the response rate.

 
I fail to see the educational value in a program with the stated purpose of training students to be vehicles of social propaganda. I have nothing against the census and nothing against the notion of educating students about it, but why are our children being used to serve a government agenda? It's little, seemingly insignificant programs like this that have been eroding our freedoms bit by bit for years without alarming anyone enough to speak against it.

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

What a lovely, lovely book! Everything I found wanting in the characters of The Lost Symbol, was present in spades in this novel. Every character was purposefully developed and wonderfully unique. The plot was well paced and multi-dimensional. There was a nice balance between the conservation of words and the grace and artistry of the prose.

The novel is set in England at the end of World War II and has the dual focus of a look back at the German occupation of the English Channel island of Guernsey and the personal journey of self-discovery of the central character, Juliet Ashton. Juliet is a young author in London who gets caught up in a correspondence with the members of the title society.

The entire book is told in letters, telegrams, and notes. Shaffer and Barrows execute this style brilliantly, letting each character's narrative style distinguish itself from the others, while still only revealing them bit-by-bit at the same pace at which our heroine gets to know them. Some letters are missing, leaving the reader to guess at their contents from the letters written in reply. The subject matter hops from one topic to another depending on who is writing to whom, simultaneously revealing the story of the past and moving forward the action in the present. The overall effect is that of finding a box of keepsakes in your grandmother's attic and exploring it at your leisure.

It is charming and poignant, touching on difficult topics with the perfect blend of somberness and the lightness of hope. I have read many books on the subject of World War II, but I have never read one that made me smile as much as this one.

(Much thanks to Heidi for the recommendation!)

Living Without Dairy

When I was a kid I loved milk. I didn't drink much else. When I was 11-years-old, I developed a scalp condition similar to an infant's cradle cap. My hair was coming out in clumps. The diagnosis? Cow's milk allergy. Our solution? Dairy goats. We raised dairy goats from then until I left for college 7 years later. At that point I gave up drinking milk altogether. I would have regular old cow's milk on a bowl of`cereal, but that was all. I never realized how dairy-dependent my diet was until the past 4 months.

When my little Oliver was born at the end of August, I was determined to breastfeed him as I had done my second son, Carter. My sweet husband hates to see me put any of the responsibility for my oldest's autism on to myself, but I can't help but wonder how things might have been different if I had nursed him as well. I'm not burdened down with guilt over it--I made the best decision for myself at the time--but the fact remains that I had a bottle-fed child with a developmental disability and a breastfed child without one. I had no plans to test out the odds with my third.

Getting started brought the same blood, sweat, and tears as it had the last time, but I was too stubborn to throw in the towel. However, we soon faced an unexpected element to the whole mix. The peeling skin typical of post-term babies seemed unusually persistent and began to intensify around Oliver's face in a way that made us believe it was not typical after all. In addition, he was excessively fussy and gassy and his stool was bright green. Based on my history, Austin's subsequent dairy troubles, and what we turned up with a little research, it seemed we were dealing with an allergy to the cow's milk protein that was passing on to him from what I was consuming.

Removing milk and cheese from my diet brought swift improvement, but there were still some lingering symptoms. It took some serious digging to discover all the many sources of dairy there were in my diet. Did you know that there's only one type of margarine in my grocery store that is totally diary-free? Did you know that English muffins have milk in them? How about breadcrumbs? (I found this out after making a meatloaf and spending a sleepless night with a cranky, miserable baby afterward.) Tastykakes, salad dressing, croutons, fish sticks, crackers, chips, cookies, the list is extensive. Not only that, but I was surprised to discover how many of my favorite meals are made with milk or cheese. As for restaurants? Forget it. Pretty much any roll, biscuit, or breaded item is off limits. It has been truly miserable, though I would have to credit this situation with forcing me to rely less on prepared foods and go the homemade route more.

Formula is out of the question. Our one attempt to supplement with soy resulted in a violently ill baby who kept nothing down for 5 hours. So I continue to breastfeed, dreaming of having a bowl of cereal, and trying very hard to not imagine the summer with no pizza or ice cream ahead of me.

Crockpotting

I love cooking in the crock pot. I think I mainly enjoy the fact that the work of the meal is so far removed in time from the eating of it, that it feels like a shortcut. I have always been fond of tossing a roast in the pot on Saturday night, turning it on Sunday morning, and coming home from church to a cooked meal waiting for me. And it always turns out fairly well. But, in keeping with my new recipe vow, I was determined to find a new way to slowcook my roast. So, courtesy of my Better Homes and Gardens cookbook, I took on a Pot Roast in Cider.

The recipe calls for a 1.5-2 pound boneless pork shoulder roast, but I substituted a 6 pound blade roast instead, which is pretty much the largest thing I could fit in my crock pot. The first step is one I've seen in other recipes but have always skipped in the past: brown the roast on all sides in 2 tablespoons of oil. Let me tell you, it was not easy to wrangle that piece of meat around with hot oil spitting at me. But I did it and it looked quite nice afterward. I sliced up a medium onion into the bottom of the pot, put the browned roast on top, and poured 1 1/4 cup of apple cider, mixed with 2 teaspoons of beef bouillon, 1/4 teaspoon of dry mustard, and 1/4 teaspoon pepper, over the whole thing. I cooked it on high for about 6 hours and it was seriously the best pork roast I've ever eaten in my life. It even got the stamp of approval from the picky 10-year-old, which is really saying something.

The Lost Symbol

I received this book for Christmas and was very excited to read it. I very much enjoyed both The Da Vinci Code and Angels and Demons, so I had high expectations. Unfortunately, I was mainly disappointed. There were certainly elements I liked. Learning a little bit about the Masons (which I know I must take with a grain or two of salt) was very interesting and there was a truly gratifying plot twist at the book's climax that literally made my jaw drop. In hindsight, though, I think I might have seen it coming had my brain been more fully engaged in the characters than it was.

The characters are where the bulk of my complaints lie. They seemed to be secondary, as did the plot, to an overall agenda on the part of the author to expound upon a pet philosophy. Nearly everything in the book took a backseat to the apparent need to elaborate on the various fine points of Brown's personal belief system. The characters were largely wooden mouthpieces, placed into various contrived situations for the sole purpose of pontificating on the matter.

All this was capped off with a series of unlikely strokes of luck that took even more teeth out of the plot. A character dies, but doesn't really die; another's life's work is destroyed, but there's a surprise secret backup copy of everything; a third has his hand chopped off but is well enough that he doesn't even need a trip to the hospital before being deemed fit to saunter across town and descend every step in the Washington Monument.

And the great mystery of the lost symbol? There really isn't one, unless you count the buried Bible referred to in the post-climactic ending. I won't say it was a bad read, just not a very good one. It either fails to measure up to its predecessors, or Dan Brown's storytelling has become too formulaic to remain fresh.

Doctor, Doctor

So Oliver went in for his 4 month well-baby visit today. My adorable little cherub weighed in at 15 pounds and is now 25 inches long. He dutifully messed his diaper moments before the doctor came in. He then smiled and babbled and kicked his way through the exam, not getting crabby until vaccine time. We are using a modified vaccine schedule to minimize the stress on his little immune system. I have mixed feelings about the autism-vaccine connection, but I definitely feel better erring on the side of caution. So today was Oliver's very first vaccine. We did two, actually: Hib and polio. He has been cranky and feverish all afternoon, but seems to be feeling a bit better now.

Note to my little son: your doctor tells me that you do not need to eat at night, so I would appreciate it ever so much if you would stop waking me up every 2-3 hours.

What's Cooking?

Or, as my 10-year-old son puts it, "What's this garbage?" I dig New Year's resolutions, and one of mine this year is to improve my cooking skills. Whether I am succeeding so far depends on who you ask, apparently.

So, I'm attempting to expand my culinary horizons ("Huh?", says the 10-year-old) by trying a new recipe every week. Today was a chicken recipe called coq au vin. This appears to be French for chicken with wine. Since I don't cook with wine, I'm not sure why I picked this, except that the rest of the ingredients sounded good to me. Adapting it to be made without the alcohol makes me wonder what I should really call it. Coq?

I started by hacking a chicken into pieces, which was an adventure in and of itself. I had to do a search online to find instructions on how to do it properly, which I believe I mostly did. I cut up five slices of bacon and sauteed them with 2/3 cup chopped green onions. Once the bacon was crisp, I removed it from the pan and browned the chicken pieces. I sliced 5 small onions and put them in the bottom of the crock pot. Then the chicken went on top, sprinkled with 1 teaspoon salt, 1/4 teaspoon pepper, and 1/2 teaspoon basil. Then the bacon and green onions went on top of that, followed by a half cup of chicken broth with one minced garlic clove mixed in. Then it cooked for 8 hours and smelled divine. I thought it was quite tasty, my 15-year-old son downed it without hesitation, my husband declared it "pretty good" though he found the white meat a little dry (not sure how meat cooked in broth all day can become dry), and my 10-year-old, well, I finally had to set a timer and force him to eat it under threat of dire penalties. I believe he said it was "blah". Given the labor involved and the lukewarm response, I'm not sure I'll make this again, though I can see recycling the bacon-on-chicken theme in the future. Perhaps as a casserole--coq au cracker crumbs? Hmm.

The Sleep Quest -- Day Two

I won't dole out every detail of my day in the trenches today, but it's worth noting that today saw some notable improvement. Oliver slept according to his usual pattern last night, even though he went to sleep 3 hours earlier than normal. Tonight looks like a repeat of that, which is very nice. Today he took three naps, without waking up after 10 minutes. His first was from 8:30 to 9:30 this morning, the second was from 11:10 to 12:00, and the third was from 4:30 to 5:15. The second two naps were mostly in his crib, so he didn't even require motion or being held. I don't know if this is a one time fluke, or if getting more night time sleep improved his ability to settle down for his naps. It's also possible that I was aiming too much for two longer naps and his rhythm is geared toward three shorter ones. All I really do know at this point is that once I feel like I have this figured out, it will all change again.

The Quest For Sleep

As Oliver's birth approached, I thought my biggest sleep concern would be getting enough at night. But our children always like to surprise us with the unexpected. As it turns out, naptime is the biggest struggle. Oliver must fall asleep a dozen times a day, but he never stays there. So I am beginning a concerted effort to teach this wee one to nap. For my own bleary eyed use and your amusement, I thought I would document our progress here.

Day One

7:00 AM - Wake up (this is generous, since we were mostly awake from 5:00 AM on) and eat (him, not me)
8:00 AM - Finished feeding
9:15 AM - Eating again
10:00 AM - Full and happy
10:36 AM - Walked to sleep and put down
10:45 AM - Startled self awake
10:55 AM - Startling finally over--back to sleep
11:05 AM - Awake and crying
11:10 AM - Walked back to sleep and held
11:20 AM - Awake and not going back to sleep for anything
11:30 AM - Eating again
12:15 PM - Full and happy--Mommy gets to eat
1:30 PM - Eating again
2:00 PM - Full and cranky--looking sleepy
2:22 PM - Into the car seat for a nap-inducing drive
2:43 PM - Home and asleep--Mommy gets to give doggie a bath
3:00 PM - Awake and seriously cranky
3:15 PM - Eating again
3:45 PM - Dozing off while eating, so into the swing we go
3:50 PM - Sleeping in swing
4:00 PM - Awake in swing
4:10 PM - Still awake in swing
4:20 PM - Asleep in swing--Yay!--Mommy gets to bring the neglected swimming pool supplies indoors at last
4:50 PM - Awake again
5:15 PM - Eating again
6:00 PM - Full and babbling--Mommy gets to binge on Chinese food
7:15 PM - Crying, possibly hungry
7:30 PM - Sleeping in Daddy's arms--lucky baby
8:30 PM - Eating again
9:00 PM - Back to sleep
9:30 PM - Still sleeping--he looks to be out for the night, starting so early is a first for him--I wonder how this will pan out

Total Daytime Sleep: 1 hour, 40 minutes

Total Nighttime Sleep: to be determined, fingers crossed

Fear

I'm sure that every parent frets a little over a new baby. Such a helpless, vulnerable little creature naturally inspires extra watchfulness and protectiveness. After having two children already, I would have thought I would feel more confident in the care of my third. Maybe I do on some levels, but I still find myself checking to see if he's breathing and worrying over every sniffle and bout of fussiness. Those who know me well, know that I worried my way through this pregnancy; afraid my "advanced maternal age" might bring with it some devastating genetic disorder. For the first couple of weeks after Oliver was born, I still found myself dreaming that he'd been born without arms and legs or other frightening deformities even though I knew he was healthy and whole.

Now, as I tiptoe past that stage of worrying, I am confronting the darkest fear of all those in my arsenal. The latest statistics are out regarding the prevalence of autism and the news is bad. Autism disorders now affect 1 in 100 children, with the rate among boys being a scary 1 in 58. Having a sibling with the disorder increases the risk to some figure I don't even want to contemplate. When my oldest son was diagnosed, it was the darkest time of my life. Fourteen years into his life, my heart still aches for him everyday. Those are not steps I want to retrace. Nor do I want to see my second son sandwiched in between two special needs brothers.

So I find myself analyzing every nuance of Oliver's development. I worry over whether he's interactive enough. I worry over every bout of gassiness; every sign of allergy. I worry over the vaccine schedule, trying to strike the right balance between overwhelming his system and protecting him from dangerous illness. I keep him constantly by my side--afraid he will slip away if he doesn't receive enough social stimulation and determined to be alert to the earliest possible sign of a problem. Part of me believes I can stop the inevitable if I'm vigilant enough. The other part just wants to savor every time he looks into my eyes, every time I hear his voice, and every time he lets me cuddle him--just in case.

Oliver

It has been four weeks since the arrival of our new little family member. I still can't quite believe that there's a baby in my world. You would think the constant diaper changing, middle-of-the-night feedings, and crying would help it all sink in. In reality it's all the quiet moments when I find myself looking down at this angelic little being and feel myself full of awe and wonder at the fact that he's mine to keep. There's nothing like snuggling a newborn to make all the normal daily worries about housecleaning and to-do lists evaporate into total insignificance.

Cows and Politics

I've been doing a lot of decluttering in my house lately. This process mostly involves slogging through a good deal of junk, but there is the occasional glad discovery. I found the following tucked in with some old college papers of mine. It is not my creation and I have no idea to whom the credit belongs, but I thought it worth sharing.

The Intelligent Human's Guide to Cows and Politics

Socialism - You have two cows. Give one to your neighbor.

Communism - You have two cows. Give them both to the government. Government gives you milk.

Fascism - You have two cows. Give milk to government. Government sells it.

Nazism - Government shoots you and takes cows.

New Dealism - Government shoots one cow, milks the other, and pours milk down the sink.

Capitalism - Slaughter cows. Compete with McDonald's.

Anarchism - Keep cows. Shoot government. Steal another cow.

Conservatism - Freeze milk. Nuke cows.

Liberalism - Give milk back to cows. Let them escape.

Vacation!

My wonderful-in-every-other-way husband loves the beach. Me--not so much. I can't really blame him, though, as he grew up in Ocean City, New Jersey, just a block from the ocean. So every year, we spend a week there, soaking up the salt air and enjoying Mack and Manco's pizza, Curly's fries, and fresh seafood. I must say I've come to love the Jersey shore in my own anti-sand way. There is also a certain charm in the ritual of vacationing in the same spot every summer. However, our youngest declared last year that he would like to see someplace new. Not being willing to completely abandon our traditions, we decided to split our week between the old and the new. We spent half our time in Ocean City and half in Kutztown, Pennsylvania. It worked out great and we had a lot of fun (even our teenager, who was grumpy over having forgotten to pack his laptop).

First stop: our traditional ride across the Cape May-Lewes Ferry. This is what parked next to us:


I have to admit, even I was impressed, though prudishly less so with the pierced-lipped, pants-below-his-butt teenaged driver. (Insert eyeroll here.)

Ocean City was great. Though it rained every day, it never shed a drop on us while we were outside. It would always clear up just as we were arriving somewhere, then begin again as we were leaving. It was as perfect as beach weather can get--warm enough to be comfortable, but cloudy enough to not cook us. However, the new Pennsylvania sights we got to enjoy stole the show this year. First, we went to Crystal Cave.


It was the hottest day of our trip and we welcomed the natural air-conditioning. This view below is the point at which they turned out the lights. I'm proud to say we all coped very well, even after the tour guide had shown us the fault line that will someday cause the entire cave to collapse.


This is known as the prairie dog formation.


This was the best picture I could get of the crystals that line the walls of the cave.


Our next adventure was a hike up Hawk Mountain. I had some trepidation about the hike, since hauling a pregnant body with swollen feet up a mountain didn't necessarily seem like a great plan. But I'm not always the most sensible person around and I've been known to be a bit stubborn, so I decided to try it anyway.

We made it just at the end of the blooming season for mountain laurel. I took these flowers to be a good omen. They lined the entire first 100 yards of the trail which was a little steep, but pretty easy going.

This was our first view of the valley below at the Southern Lookout. Only one mile from here to our ultimate destination--the Northern Lookout. No problem.


From that point on, this was the "path". They had to periodically mark the trees and rocks, because you really couldn't tell where the path was.




This was the stone "staircase". I have to say, just because you put a railing next to something, does not make it stairs.


This is the view down from the top of the staircase.


At the peak at last. There was just one thing missing from this awesome view: hawks! We climbed Hawk Mountain and saw a turkey vulture and a cedar waxwing. Since the waxwing was one for my lifelist, I decided to call it a success.



The hike down was probably more difficult than up. I'm pretty sure my roundness had something to do with that. One stunningly humorous trail volunteer there pointed out that, if I fell, I would probably bounce right back up. You know, you usually have to pay top dollar for that amount of laughter. Anyway, we saw many chipmunks and a garter snake, but still no hawks. I was disappointed to discover that the gift shop did not have a t-shirt saying, "I hiked Hawk Mountain at 32 weeks." I guess it would appeal to a somewhat limited market.

So, home again and glad to be at sea level.

Adventures in Nature

I love this time of year. Being able to go outside without having to gear up against the cold is pure bliss to me. It makes me feel like I gain the whole outdoors as an extra room to my house. At my oldest son's request, we took off to do a little sunset birdwatching at Bombay Hook a couple of weeks ago. We saw a few interesting birds, but the outing was definitely all about the foxes. We first came across a pair of kits on their own. They were right at the side of the road--maybe 10 feet from us--pouncing on each other and wrestling around.

A short time later we saw an adult running through a field with a rabbit in its mouth. Then, as we headed back toward where we had seen the babies, there was another adult in the road. When we approached, it lay down in the road and made itself as flat as possible.

We also saw this nasty looking snapping turtle.


That one can't compare, though, to this massive one we caught about to slip into our own pond.


I don't have much love for these creepy looking, duck killing dinosaurs, I must say, but they are fascinating in their own way.

So, back in our own yard once again, Carter has been working on his snake wrangling skills. This week he has progressed from this cute little ring necked snake:



to this considerably more formidable black snake:



On the cute and cuddly front, we discovered a baby tufted titmouse in our yard this morning. It apparently fell from its nest before it was quite ready to fly. It spent most of the day under a tree in our yard while its parents took turns bringing it food. As was inevitable, our cat discovered it. We were at a loss as to what to do to keep the little creature safe. Well, we took the top off our hanging birdfeeder and made it a little makeshift nest. It seems quite happy there and the parents have been continuing to feed it.


Good luck, little bird!

Aural Fixations

This post is dedicated to Kimberly, not only for her request of the subject, but also to show her that I do not intend to reserve this blog for strictly serious topics.



This, for those of you who do not watch American Idol out of principle, lack of time, or complete disinterest, is Adam Lambert--one of two remaining contestants on the show. I must confess--to my certain embarrassment--that he is the reason I have found little coherent to say on my blog for more than a month. The majority of my internet time has been devoted to scouring YouTube for examples of his flamboyant brilliance or reading articles analyzing his voice, his lifestyle, and his fashion sense. I am, in a word, addicted.

In my own feeble defense, I must say that Adam has one of the finest voices I have ever heard. His range is mind-boggling and his tone is exquisite. He has such control that he can move from chest voice to head voice to falsetto or from soft to loud with no hint of a transition. The timbre of his voice is versatile enough to adapt seamlessly to any vocal style (okay, maybe not country) without losing its distinctive qualities.



Of course, Mr. Lambert has plenty to appeal to the fangirl in me, too. His pretty mouth, piercing eyes (guyliner and all), the wild hair, and the expressive hands (with or without fingerless gloves and nail polish) make him the picture of lovely decadence. And the way he moves and presents himself onstage exude a sensual charisma that is as much a part of his singing as his voice itself.

It is, perhaps, this sensuality that has been the most polarizing thing about him as an American Idol contestant. Those who hate him have called him over-the-top and theatrical, accusing him of acting a role rather than delivering a sincere performance. I understand that it's probably a simple matter of personal taste, but to me there is nothing more goosebump-inducing than a singer who can embrace the character of a song without inhibition or reserve. Give me the passion and angst of a committed performer willing to hold nothing back with the skills to deliver it like it's the most important emotion of his life.

Tomorrow night is the Idol finale and I will be devotedly voting my little fingers to the bone, because that's the kind of girl I am and because it feels great to be so obsessed, I mean, inspired. :-)