And now, the rest of the story

Contrary to DOB's confusion of the medical lingo, the placenta was not abducted, which sounds like some urban legend email forward ("And then she woke up in a tub of ice, and her placenta had been abducted!"), but abrupted, which means it decides it's ready to leave whether baby is or not.

Anyway, my plans for Thursday included driving D1 to the chiro and then Grandma's house, driving back to our town for my doctor's appointment, taking a nap, meeting DOB in town to run several errands and get a caramel apple cider, going back down to get D1, and coming home and catching up on the dishes and laundry I left lying around in my rush to get out the door.

Up until 10:30 everything proceeded according to plan. My only regret was that I had not put "pack snacks in my purse" on that list and was ravenously hungry. The doctor had just finished checking things and announced that although there was no sign D2 intended to come really soon, he was in the wrong position and we would need to get him scooted around. She went out to call the doctor who does the scooting around, and I started to get up.

I promptly realized that something was very, very wrong and sat down again before the carpet got messed up worse. Unlike hospitals, doctor's offices are not equipped with handy buttons to call. And, as is probably necessary in a family practice, the walls and doors are very thick. So it took awhile before someone realized I was yelling for help, in a calm and dignified manner, at the top of my lungs. Once they came in, though, they promptly called the ambulance. My doctor said later it was fortunate the ambulance was handy, as otherwise she would have had to drive me herself and she had just had the inside of her car detailed.

Meanwhile I called DOB and his mother. I was apparently a little too calm at that point, because it took them awhile to realize the seriousness of the situation. I let them work it out between them, because by this point the parameds were starting to pelt me with questions. One guy asked me my name twice in thirty seconds.

"Not doing too well today, are you?" said one.

"I'm testing the patient's coherence!" he retorted, and rammed the gurney into the doctor's scales.

It's not as exciting to ride in an ambulance as it should be. The ride is very smooth, so you can't tell if you're going fast, and you can't see that you're running red lights. It only took about five minutes to get to the hospital, and hardly any more to thread the hospital hallways to a room where about fifty people commenced to introduce themselves, brandish papers that needed signed, and prepare me for surgery. I signed and hoped I was doing the right thing. (I was.)

I commented to the doctor, "Well, I guess we won't have time to go over the birth plan today." "Oh, that's what did it," everyone said, "Birth plans always jinx you."

The anesthesiologist's name was also Karen, which was most confusing. People would keep yelling at her to do something or other medical, and I would wonder how on earth I was supposed to do that. Fortunately they decided they had time to give me a spinal instead of knocking me out completely, which was good except that I was still acutely aware of being hungry and they wouldn't give me anything to eat.

At 11:29, within less than an hour of when things started, I could at least hear them announce D2's entrance into the world. Unfortunately they brought his head out first and started commenting on what a pretty baby he was, so for a few minutes I thought he was a girl. But that was quickly clarified.

Meanwhile, DOB was proceding at a safe but somewhat superlegal rate of speed in an effort to arrive before it was all over. Unfortunately, he encountered Inspector Javert, who is now patrolling rural Ohio highways, and does not think such trifles as emergency c-sections justify exceeding the precise legal rate of speed. Fortunately DOB decided to take it up later with the judge rather than forcibly debate the distinctions between the letter and the spirit of the law on the spot. But the delay was enough that he reached the hospital only in time to learn that he had a son.

Anyway, D2, though a little small and early, came through quite strong and healthy, rating a 9/10 Apgar score (for those of you who know about such things) and eating like a small version of his Papa from the beginning. I seem to be recovering pretty well, the doctor being amazed at the discrepancy between the mess in her office and my blood count when I left the hospital. Either of us could have easily had much more serious problems, if I had been anywhere else when it happened or if anything had been delayed longer.

And now, we are all very, very happy to be home. Especially D1, who has discovered that even Grandpa and Grandma's house palls after four days.

Here's D2. (We tried ones with us, but we don't like them. We'll try again tomorrow.)

And So We Were All Wrong . . .

It's a boy!

Ronald Carlton (we'll call him Carl)
Born September 29th at 11:29 a.m.
Weight: 6 lbs., 11 oz.
Length: 19.5 inches.

His early arrival was due to a placental abduction (or something like that) and an emergency c-section. But QOC and D2 are doing quite well, and we're just thankful.

QOC will fill in all the details on the exciting time, and God's miraculous working later. All went well except for an encounter between yours truly and a rather unsympathetic sheriff on the way to the hospital.

Enter now for your chance to win!

That's right, folks. For a limited time only, you too can compete with a chance to win a prestigious title from the one and only Duchy of Burgundy Carrots.

Here's the deal: Guess the gender, birth date, weight, and length of D2. The person whose collective guess is the closest (based on a complicated but fair mathematical formula I fully intend to figure out one of these days) will be awarded the title of Earl of Estimation, or, in the event of the correct guesser being female, the Countess of Calculation.

Data for reference: D2 is, according to doctor's measurements, due October 15; according to QOC's I-know-when-I-started-feeling-sick calculations, closer to the end of the month. D1 was born three days before her official due date, weighed 7 lbs. 11 oz., and was 20 inches long. (And I am a bad mother. I had to look that up.)

No allegations of gender bias, by the way. Estimation and Calculation are both equally large and prosperous regions of the Duchy. It's not my fault that the titles for that rank of nobility are not alliterative.

Some recent reading

Soldiers and Ghosts, by J.E. Lendon--The ethics and ideals of ancient Greek and Roman warfare, as exemplified in the epics and in the real-life battles. This is DOB's pick, but I'm finding it quite fascinating. Did you know those famous Spartans generally refused to fight on holidays? And they had lots of holidays. Plus, now I finally have the Persian, Peloponnesian, and Punic wars straight in my head. (Why do all these ancient wars have to start with "P"?)

The Disciplined Mind: What Every Student Should Know, by Howard Gardner. He's the guy best known for the "multiple intelligences" theory (no doubt you've taken the online quiz). This book looks at education more generally, however, arguing for a deep focus on a single topic in order to learn the tools for a specific discipline (history, science, the arts) rather than trying to cover a little bit of facts from everywhere. The goal should not be so much to cover all the dates and facts of history, or all the vocabulary and lists of the sciences, but to learn how historians or scientists approach problems.

The Creators, Daniel J. Boorstin. This is a history of human arts, with an emphasis on how people's beliefs are reflected in what they create. The Christian belief in a single creation, by an all-powerful transcendent God, for instance, encouraged a much greater emphasis on man's power to create, and human beings as supreme over creation, than did the emphasis of eastern religions on endless cycles and escaping material reality. So for instance permanent works of architecture are much more common in Europe, whereas in Asia landscape painting dates back much further (because humans are more or less just part of the landscape).

The Secret of Father Brown, by G. K. Chesterton. Some of my favorites of all the Father Brown mysteries. We're discussing it over at the Parliament of Fools.

The Very Hungry Caterpillar, by Eric Carle. Will the caterpillar recover from his stomachache? What will happen when he emerges from his cocoon? A classic of suspense.

I Am a Bunny, by Richard Scarry. The timeless story of the change of the seasons, viewed through the eyes of an overall-clad bunny.

Out to the Ball Game

DOB got four free tickets to a Reds game, which we redeemed on Saturday, taking along the two of his brothers who are most devoted Reds fans.

It was just as well the tickets were free, as it took all of our capital to get a parking spot and a small bottle of water.

I am not a devoted Reds fan, or a devoted baseball fan in general, but I am a devoted DOB fan, and I like going to ball games. There is so much other stuff going on that actually watching the game is completely superfluous. And baseball moves slowly enough that I generally can follow it.

Our tickets, being free, were for seats somewhere in the upper reaches of the Himalayas. By the time we reached them, I was ready to lie down and take a nap. After a few innings, DOB scouted out an empty section lower down and sneaked us in while The Enforcer of the section was distracted. She later came by and asked us about our tickets, but allowed us to remain as long as no one came to claim the seats. She was far too busy harrassing a group of six teenage boys, ticket status dubious, whose goal in life was apparently to get on the camera wearing a series of t-shirts they had painted to spell "GO REDS" (or, when the "S" guy didn't feel like going along with it, "GORED.") They were in the wrong part of the stadium, however, and eventually gave up and left for a party.

I couldn't help but be reminded of the time I had to write a sports story for a journalism course and wound up writing the article about a group of little-leaguers watching the game. When I sent it to DOB for his comments, his response was something to the effect that I wrote sports stories like a girl.

D1 meanwhile got to try spending the night at Grandma and Grandpa's for the first time. She was completely unfazed by the experience and was far from excessively thrilled to see us. On the whole a good thing, I suppose, but a little enthusiasm for parental return is in order, I think. (Grandma thought she was just disappointed to find out that she had been standing by the door to wait for us rather than standing by the door to go outside.)

I want a refund

I'm sending this day back in to the weather bureau. Ninety degree weather on the first day of fall is just wrong.

They'll probably get to it after they refund me that week in April when it snowed.

Yard sale retrospective

Judging from the paucity of ads, the yard sale season has about come to a close.

I now know a whole lot about how to run a yard sale, should I ever get energetic enough to host one. Such as:

• Advertise in the paper, on the main road, and in front of your house. You don't want people passing you by because they're not sure if you're having a sale or just a messy garage.
• And make your signs big enough to read.
• Advertise specific items. Ninety percent of yard sale ads center on the phrase, "lots of misc.," which any seasoned yard sale shopper knows means tacky Christmas decorations and old shoes.
• Put prices on things. Nobody wants to stand in line in the sun waiting for you to remember what you wanted to charge for that thingymabob.

I try to keep my yard sale shopping in check by mostly limiting myself to sales within walking distance of our house, which I can hit while out walking with D1 on Friday mornings. Only two times this season did I decide to drive to exceptionally juicy-sounding yard sales. Both were worth it.

Best finds of the year:

• Four-foot high clear plastic drawers. ($5) I thought this would be a great place to keep D1's toys. It was, for awhile. Now it is itself her favorite toy. She loves pushing the drawers out and back in, taking things out of one drawer and putting them into another, and hiding behind it.
• Nursery-school chair. ($.50) D1 loves sitting (and standing) on this. It's the only chair I've ever seen that is really short enough for a one-year-old. It fits perfectly in a little cubbyhole between the office bookshelf and filing cabinets.
• Plastic picnic table. ($15) Yes, I broke down and now have Little Tykes plastic in my house. It was cheap. And now D1 has her own table in her room, of suitable height to climb on without catastrophic injury should she fall off. I'm still looking for something more charming someday, but in the meantime D1 isn't getting any younger.
• Silver nativity set. ($10) I have really wanted a nativity set for some time, but had found none that I cared for at all. I thought about this one at $20, and decided against it. Then I told DOB about it and he decided to go see if it was still there the next morning. Not only was it, it was marked way down.

Pardon the dust

Owing to blogback shutting down next month, I'm trying to fix up a few things on the blog. I exported the old blogback comments but have NO CLUE how to import them, so for now they'll just be in hiding.

Those of you who don't have blogger should still be able to sign in as "other" and just type any name and (if you want) webpage. Please don't be anonymous!

The font size problem seems to have fixed itself, which means the small font is now really, really small. Oh well.

Old links are gone. There's only about fifty gazillion links I should have added there, anyway. Maybe someday I'll get to it.

Today, someone is not happy. I must go.

Talking it over (by D1)

I'm having to say different words a lot more these days. Mama (I usually call her "Baba" cause "b" is a really fun sound to say--also she likes to pat her tummy and say that so maybe it's another name for her) usually knows what I'm trying to say. Other people need clarification, though. Like Mama knows that when I hold my glass or my plate up I want more food. But Papa doesn't get it. He wants me to say "More" and put my hands together. Well, fine, I can do that, although I think waving dishes around makes the point more clearly.

Then Mama knows if I make any sound and point I want to go somewhere. But Grandma doesn't understand until I say, "Go." That's ok, because "g" is another interesting sound.

I really do like words with "b"--bib, block, blow, banana, baby, ball, book, Bible, and most important, blankie. Some of the other sounds in the words are hard to tell apart, so if I point at the same time, it helps.

My favorite thing to say is still "Quack, quack." Sometimes I say that and then everyone else says "Baaaa." Then I say "Baaaa" and everyone else says "Quack, quack." I can keep them going for several minutes like this; it's hilarious. Sometimes I do it by myself with Duck and Sheep, or with my magnets on the refrigerator.

I like to read books the best. I think the most interesting ones must be the ones on the shelves in the living room and the pile by the couch, but I get in trouble if I read those by myself. So I usually go read the ones in my room. My favorite is the one about the hungry caterpillar. It has these nifty little pages with holes in them.
In fact, I like to read so much that lots of times I just go off and read when Mama is distracted with someone else. Then she comes wondering what happened to me. Of course, sometimes I like to go and check out the soap dish, too. It tasted really bad the one time I tried, but maybe they have a new flavor out.

Walking without holding on to someone is still pretty tricky, but I discovered this morning that when I do, I can carry something around with me. Very handy. I think I may have to work harder on this.

One Month to Go

So we are now just a month away from D2's official due date, though I still consider it possible that that date is about two weeks early.

The doctor seemed a little apologetic yesterday that there were no signs of moving towards labor. I was relieved. Let's not rush things. This week I only got as far as making the list of things I need to do before D2's arrival.

I think part of the reason the last month of pregnancy is so uncomfortable is to make you willing to do ANYTHING to get that baby out. I haven't gotten that uncomfortable yet. Maybe my exercise regimen is working too well. But I still really don't feel like giving birth yet. It isn't the pain that bothers me. It's just so much work. And I've got so much other stuff to do.

An Object Lesson

So with FEMA and the state of Louisiana and the city of New Orleans all competing for "Most Incompetent Response" award, guess who was ready with a stellar example of an emergency plan, getting essential goods back into town days before the government could?

None other than that bastion of corporate evil, Wal-Mart.*

No doubt they were motivated by a sinister desire to profit off the unfortunate. But in that circumstance, I'd certainly rather get food and water from a greedy corporate profiteer who was there, than from a generous government that wasn't.

For all the allegations that profit is theft, profit makes things happen. People who have a profit to make will be there sooner, more efficiently, and with more appropriate items than people who don't.

Further, what are the two great reaons Wal-Mart is considered evil? One is pushing neighborhood stores out of business. Now I like neighborhood stores better, too. Big ugly warehouses offend my aesthetic sensibilities, and I like knowing the people I do business with. But I'm betting not many neighborhood corner groceries had the resources to re-open as quickly as Wal-Mart could.

The other, deeper, reason people hate Wal-Mart is that it is not unionized. Even if unionization would allow Wal-Mart to consider existing (which is doubtful)--does anyone really think that the extra costs and regulations associated with union work would help it respond more quickly to a disaster?

Unfortunately most likely the focus will remain entirely on how to get government agencies better equipped to do something they simply cannot do well, instead of on how to get government further out of the way of the private sector doing something it does better than anyone else.

* Wall Street Journal, Sept. 12, B1, Col. 5.

Fantasy Jobs

A dream job is the job you might hope to have someday. A fantasy job is a job you have no expectation of achieving, and indeed might not actually posess any talent for, or even want--given the tradeoffs--to have it. But in the abstract, it sounds like fun. Some of my fantasy jobs:

• Waiter or, better yet, maitre'd at a five-star restaurant. (Elegant surroundings, great food, and you get paid for it! Plus, you can get away with acting snooty.)
• Bit part movie actor or chorus member in light opera/musicals. (Being a star would be too much trouble. But acting is fun.)
• Display designer at an upscale department store. (I love changing decor.)
• Designer of ad campaigns. (Really weird ones. Actually, this may not count because at my old job I occasionally helped design ads, including one starring DOB as a nerd.)
• Bed and breakfast owner. (In real life I would hate all the work. But the abstract concept is charming.)
• Teacher at an avant-garde school with complete freedom to choose my curriculum and methods. (Oh wait, that doesn't go on this list.)

So, what are your fantasy jobs?

Entrepreneurs and Bureaucrats

One of our major goals in raising children is to raise entrepreneurs, not bureaucrats. We do not attempt to dictate their future careers--we will not disown them just because they work for the government. It's the attitude that matters. People can have an entrepreneurial mindset even though they work for someone else; if they do, they will either be very successful employees of a very happy employer, or they will drive everyone crazy, including themselves, and go find something better. People with bureaucratic mindsets can also own their own businesses, they just won't do very well.

This is bigger than just instilling a good work ethic, and irrelevant to how much income they make. A stay-at-home-mom can choose to be an entrepreneur or a bureaucrat. It's about how they look at work.

The bureaucrat looks at his job as a series of tasks to be fulfilled; when they're done, his job is done, regardless of the outcome. The bureaucrat works to make enough money to fund his leisure. When obstacles arise, the bureaucrat waits for someone else to solve them. The bureaucrat may work diligently enough, but he doesn't own his work.

The entrepreneur looks at his work as a goal to be reached. When he finds an obstacle, he does whatever it takes to get around it. He sees his work as valuable in and of itself; he thinks he's doing something to benefit the world. He can enjoy the money he makes, but he also looks at it as a tool to use for further influence.

Now, chores are the classic way to teach children to work, and I don't dispute their significance. But, I've seen a lot of kids doing a lot of chores, and they were almost all bureaucrats. Some of that is no doubt the natural problem that the chores were working on eliminating. But I'm not so sure it's an inevitable trait. Whoever heard of a lazy toddler?

Part of it starts with not discouraging them from work at the age when they are most eager for it--which is why I spend five minutes letting D1 push the laundry basket down the hallway instead of carrying it myself. Part of it has to do with how the chores are structured, whether they are allowed to own a task and deal with the consequences, or micro-managed in procedures and time. Part of it has to do with giving them the exhilerating feeling of being in charge, of knowing that their work is essential. I'm sure that's not all the pieces, but we'll start there.

I'd just like to announce

That I beat DOB in mini-golf this weekend!

DOB would probably like to add that he beat me by much more on the first round. Maybe it was the salmon I had for lunch between the two rounds.

We would also jointly like to brag that we both played two courses for only $4.75, thanks to a two-for-one coupon and the after-Labor-Day special.

However, a two-for-one discount on ice cream is not such a good deal if you have to drive over three counties looking for a UDF. (There is one several blocks from our house, but we can't get ice cream with D1 watching.)

Grand entrances

Last night our chiropractor was kind enough to stop by to give DOB an adjustment, since he has been working too late to go to the office. He brought his family with him, which was all to the good since we had been wanting to make their acquaintance.

Our house is set up so that the front door is visible through a window from the kitchen sink. It being a fine evening, the front door was open but the storm door was latched to prevent a sudden escape by D1. ("Hat? Out?!") So when they rang the bell I could see them (and vice versa) from where I was washing dishes, and came around through the dining room to unlock the door.

As I passed by the table, three of my toes caught on a chair leg. Suddenly I found myself airborne, landing sprawled full-length in the living room, putting a rug-burn on my face and jamming my right hand. All this was, of course, fully visible through the storm door.

At least it was easy to get my hand adjusted.

Insights from magazines

In one new baby magazine, one poor soul confessed that she and her husband thought that right after the baby was born, while she was on maternity leave, would be the perfect time to go to Europe. After all, the baby wouldn't be on a regular schedule yet anyway, so it wouldn't be bothered by the time difference! They didn't actually go. But I can't believe anybody was that naive. Have they never encountered a newborn? Did they never read their own magazines? On the other hand, there were a few times immediately after D1's birth when I pondered whether a quick move to China would be the easiest way to solve the day/night issue.

Also saw an ad for a new TV program that, in response to research showing that people who face their problems with humor and a positive attitude do better in life, is going to try to teach preschoolers this skill. It reminds me of how people, hearing that babies had the ability to distinguish all speech sounds in all languages, would start playing them tapes of foreign languages to give them an edge. Then it turned out babies only paid attention to talking when it was a real person talking to them.

So before you all bother with the research, let me tell you right now: Preschoolers will not learn good attitudes from TV programs. They will learn them, or not learn them, from other people.

Letting Go

For weeks now, we've been trying to communicate to D1 that she doesn't need her props anymore. The one finger she clings to is not providing her with balance or stability. It's just there for reassurance. She could let go.

Yesterday, she finally did. I was sitting on the floor of her room, reading, and she was standing at her table when she suddenly walked three steady steps across to me. None of that coaxing business that is supposed to accompany it. She just realized she could walk, so she did.

Unlike her past milestones, she didn't do it once and then refuse to repeat it for a week. She took several more steps under various circumstances during the course of the day. On the whole, she seems quite pleased with herself.

So are we.

After all that rock-throwing, one works up quite an appetite.

Rocks

Some things are so primordial, so instinctive, so deeply-rooted, that they compel everyone, from the youngest baby to the oldest geezer. Food is one, of course, and sleep. Music. Then there are rocks. Most specifically, rocks thrown in water.

While visiting her great-grandpa's farm, DOB and brothers introduced D1 to the essential activity of Throwing Rocks in the Creek. One splash, and she was hooked. She spent the next half-hour crawling back and forth, hauling rocks to the water's edge and tossing--or, if they proved too large, shoving--them in. She learned a new word: "Rock!" (Actually, it's said, "Ahhck," which sounds just like "sock," but they rarely arise in the same context.)

I am happy to report that I managed to throw a rock all the way over the bridge and land it clear in the sandbar on the other side. Also I found a very nice fossil shell half.

D1 was so dirty by the time we got home I had to give her two baths in a row.

The famous duck. Yes, the anatomy is dreadful. I think it must have been made on a teddy bear machine, they just sewed a bill on. But it can quack just fine.

An Anniversary Tale

From time to time, I have received requests to tell how the Duchy came about.

There isn't much to tell from the external perspective--our courtship would make an exceedingly boring movie. And I'm not given much to blabbing my emotional vagaries all over the internet (or anywhere else, for that matter). So what is left to tell?

Somehow DOB and I never managed to meet in person early on, even though we went to the same law school and can even document having been in the same room at the same conference at the same time. After our first debate, in the fall of 2000, we chatted occasionally, DOB still under the impression he had gained during his "opposition research" that I was a middle-aged married woman. Mostly we talked about politics and public policy. Sometime in late 2001 my real age happened to come up, much to DOB's astonishment and my amusement, since I had no idea he had been so misinformed.

I had meanwhile decided that there were no guys out there who would meet my specifications (I only had a few, but they were mutually incompatible). Also I had never been overtroubled with suitors--or even troubled at all. Not being short on self-esteem, I attributed this to my excess of intelligence, or perhaps an unconscious skill at sending off stay-away vibes, rather than to any personal deficiencies. But the result was the same. As I had my dream job and a comfy living situation, it didn't trouble me for too long.

Then DOB challenged me to coach a debate opposite him again. DOB's side won again. But this time I could blame our failure on the debater, who didn't listen to me much anyway. I spent a lot more time chatting with DOB. Somehow, by around the end of the debate or shortly thereafter, I had come to realize that (a) he actually met my incompatible requirements and (b) I wanted to devote the rest of my life to making him successful. Executive assistant or perhaps Vice President would do if nothing else offered itself, but as his wife I could also see that he was properly fed and went to bed on time. However, he gave no signs that he had considered the latter possibility.

So I spent the next several months offering such help as was suitable for an upperclassman to offer, such as proofing his senior paper and offering bar preparation advice. He was absorbed in a political campaign and the final months of law school, but we still had time to become very good friends in a political and philosophical kind of a way. Such good friends that my parents, who were getting a pretty good idea of the extent of my interest, at least, thought it was high time things either progressed or we stopped wasting time.

In May of 2002, His Majesty introduced himself to DOB by sending out an email with an ultimatum: come meet in person, or stop talking to her. I was not pleased, not being at all sure how DOB would receive this. Fortunately he decided our friendship was worth the cost of a plane ticket. At least of a cheap one. Also, to his surprise, his parents thought he should come meet me. At this point we had never given any indication of personal interest, had only spoken once on the phone, and had only seen very grainy snapshots of each other. (The one DOB had seen of me, I was wearing my 250-lb brother's full winter gear. Not a flattering pose.)

So after he finished the bar exam that summer, DOB flew up to visit my family for the weekend. (Internet Safety Tip for Young Ladies: When first meeting in person a guy you've met online, take along your father and a few brothers who spend the summers bucking hay and the winters chopping wood.) It was a short weekend and there was always a younger sibling or two around. It was enough. DOB apparently didn't pick up any of those stay-away vibes, and he had never found me too smart. Just smart enough.

But we still didn't say anything to each other. DOB flew home and discovered things were in order for him to pursue matrimony much sooner than he had thought. He gave His Majesty the chance to check him out for a few months. His Majesty finally ran out of ideas and suggested we start actually talking to each other. We did so. His Majesty later had cause to regret this suggestion, as the phone line was unavailable for the next several months.

There wasn't much suspense after this point, which is what makes for romantic tales. We both knew we would marry each other, and it was simply a matter of working out the logistical details, specifically finding a job and a place to live. Also it was nice to see each other a few more times. All that kept us busy up until a surpassingly beautiful summer morning two years ago today, when we got married in a wedding that was far more romantic than one would expect.

Saving the planet

Our city has finally started a curbside recycling program. I found a packet announcing it on my doorstep this week, complete with my first specially-marked recycling bag. I can mix all my recyclables, but they all have to be in these special blue bags.

The brochure enclosed lists three places I can buy these bags for future pickups, for $1.50 apiece.

So, let's see. I can think of two reasons why I might recycle. One is thriftiness. Apparently in addition to my regular garbage fee, I could pay $1.50 for a single, special plastic bag--when I can spend little more for a whole box of bags that size. And all this while my life is clogged with more free plastic bags than I have room to handle. No, don't think so.

Or I could do it out of concern for the planet. Except I'm not sure the damage to the planet inflicted by me making a special trip to buy plastic bags, plus the waste created in making all these plastic bags, would really be outweighed by the things I might have to recycle. (Recycling stuff costs energy too, remember.)

I understand that they need to be readily able to identify the recyclables. I wouldn't mind spending $5 or $10 on some reusable, specially-marked bin to identify them for the garbage men. (The very weak garbage men who couldn't lift my can this week, so I have two weeks' worth of garbage piling up and stinking, about which I'm still rather annoyed, in case you can't tell.)

But until the recycling program actually starts with conserving things, I don't think I'll participate.

Choosing Hell?

Yesterday I passed a church sign that said, "No one in their right mind would choose hell over heaven." Passing over the grammatical problems for the sake of pondering the theological ones, I asked myself whether this was true.

I think all of us know people who are, day by day, choosing a living hell over a better life that is within their grasp. People who cling to self-destructive habits, to deep bitterness, to their personal idols, even though it is obvious to everyone else that these things are destroying them and ruining the lives of those they love. Even a tiny toddler, screaming in defiance instead of relaxing into the sleep she desparately needs, shows this desire to choose misery over happiness.

Indeed, when I've had painful moments of self-revelation, I have seen that deep down inside, I would rather have hell than heaven. I would rather live in torment at the center of my own universe than live in joy and peace in a universe where all glory went to God. I don't doubt that this desire would hold true even in the face of ultimate realities.

Apart from the grace of God, none of us would even want to go to heaven. Not if we really understood what it entailed--not just a place of pleasantness or endless life, but a place where God is everything and there is no more room for our self-will and self-centeredness. I think we would, quite rationally and calmly, prefer to go to hell. There will be many very small universes in hell.

I suppose, stated like this, the position does seem insane. You could say the whole human race is not in its right mind. Perhaps that's what the board was supposed to mean.

But I hope not. Because deep in my heart of hearts, I enjoy looking down on people who post bad theology on church signs.

A Proposal

After pondering Ben's mom's comment below, and my own annoyance, I have come up with a simple solution. Here it is, all you people who ever have occasion to make small talk with the parents of a baby or toddler. Instead of asking whether they have passed this or that developmental milestone, potentially annoying parents of a child who is taking his own time in some area, why not ask: "What does Baby like to do the best?"

Every baby, no matter how small, has preferences. The parents will be thrilled to talk about them. You might get a cute story out of the deal. You might have to listen to more than you want to, I suppose, but that's part of the perils of civilized conversation. Especially with new parents.

Animal Magnetism

The obsession with ducks and quacking has progressed to an interest in other animals and other sounds. D1 has a set of animal magnets which she plays with on the fridge. At first they were all "quack, quack," but now the sheep is starting to baa and the lion is starting to roar. I don't know what noise to give her for the turtle.

Even more fun are her stuffed duck and lamb, which she generally plays with on our bed. They will often take turns in lengthy conversations. "Quack, quack." "Baaaaaa." "Quack, quack." "Baaaa." Sometimes the sheep says quack or the duck says baaaa, but I guess they're bilingual.

Last night we initiated a new drama with the following plotline. Sheep, duck, or both, discover themselves fallen into the deep valley. The sheep baas pitifully, while the duck takes a more pragmatic approach. After some commiserating, they climb back up to the top of the mountain where they quack and baa triumphantly. This was repeated several times, to enthusiastic encores.

Why do people making conversation about babies always ask the same questions? From birth to about 8 months, it's "Are they sleeping through the night yet?" After that, it's "Are they walking yet?" Why doesn't anyone ever ask me if D1 can identify animals by their sounds or if she has an appreciation for drama?

Fighting parents

I have on occasion heard of someone commenting that it is good for parents to fight in front of their children, so that the children will be prepared to fight properly in their own marriages without freaking out that something is wrong with them if they fight. On the other hand, I have more often heard that parents should never fight in front of their children, in order to present a united front.

Then there is the Miss Manners view, which is that you should fight in front of them, but in a foreign language, to increase the educational value.

I'm a bit skeptical of the former view, but can't quite put my finger on what is wrong with it. I would think it would be pretty hard for a husband and wife to fight publicly in a way that showed proper reverence and love, but I suppose it's not theoretically impossible.

We do expect to frequently disagree in front of our children, on such matters as public policy or literary interpretation, and indeed to encourage them to stake out their own positions as well. However, I suspect this is not what is meant.

Naturally we don't want to omit an important part of our children's education. But it would be difficult. First, we'd have to find something to fight about. Then we would have to want to fight. (I'm a middle child. I don't fight, I manipulate.) And if we had to do a foreign language, too--I suppose pig latin doesn't count. Perhaps our children will just have to miss out.

End of summer

Yesterday school started. Kindergarteners with brand-new backpacks marched down the sidewalks with both parents in tow. Moms were lining their kids up against the fence for the first-day-of-school-picture.

And yellow buses everywhere. I need to change my morning routes.

School supply sales are hard to resist. I limited myself to crayons for D1's Christmas and a few essentials I needed in the office.

The first shock of leaves on the sweet gum tree has changed color.

It's been below ninety for several days now. Sunny and dry. I can live with this.

Is it possible to eat too much of fresh tomatoes and sweet corn? I consider, then refill the salt shaker and decide against it.

I'm really starting to crave apples. Of course, it's hard to complain when peaches are still 77 cents a pound.

What to do with dry beans

Adult version:
Soak in water overnight.
Cook on low for several hours.
Season and serve.

Toddler version:
Pick them up.
Put them in the film canister.
Dump them out of the film canister.
Put them on the chair.
Put them in your mouth.
Find out Mama doesn't like them in your mouth. Protest.
Put them in the egg carton.
Throw them on the floor.
Ooops, Mama doesn't like that either. Drop them on the floor.
Drop them in the cardboard tube.
Drop them down the little holes in the box.
Pour them all over the floor.
Wallow in them.
Stick them between your toes.
Pick them up? Why?

By the book . . . whichever one that is

Every once in a while I will stumble across another this-baby-management-book vs. that-baby-management-book argument. And they all can cite statistics and studies and personal examples about how this book works and that book doesn't. But hardly ever do they seem to get the point.

Every baby is different. Every mom is different. Some moms freak out every time their child cries and need to be reassured that they aren't going to be warped for life because they had to wait a couple of minutes. Some moms think life can be scheduled to the minute for the next five years and need to learn to relax and go with the flow a little more. Some moms (like me) have their heads so lost in the clouds they need a lot of routine or they draw a blank as to what, exactly, might be a good idea to try next. (Diaper change? She needs a diaper change? Oh, yeah, it has been five hours, hasn't it?)

Some babies need to eat every two hours around the clock for months. On the other hand, I met one mother who had one baby (out of eight) sleep for 10 hours a night starting at birth. I'm sure no one would advocate that as a standard for any other baby, but he survived just fine. Some moms have to nurse frequently or they lose their milk supply. Some moms have milk for years after weaning. Some moms really need uninterrupted sleep at night. Some are going to have it more interrupted by not nursing than by nursing.

Not that books can't have good ideas, and some have more good ideas than others. I like my mother-in-law's standard advice: "Look at all the books. Then look at your baby." If you're putting books above your baby's health or long-term happiness, then you have a problem. Otherwise, why worry?

If someone reports that they and their baby are happy under Plan Y, why do some people feel a need to go around telling them Plan Y is evil and dangerous?

Taking steps

So here it is, D1's 14-month birthday, and she's still not walking. Not even taking tentative steps. And I've had enough.

It's not that I'm concerned about her suffering from some sort of delay, or not keeping up with Little Johnny. I don't fear it reflects on her intelligence or future life or my ability as a mother.

No, my motive, if equally selfish, is at least less sinister. My back hurts. I can't carry two babies all the time. Since I have no choice on the one, the other one is going to have to learn the fine art of self-transportation.

It's not as if she's far off from walking. She can stand quite steadily and let herself down when she's done. She can walk with only one hand on the wall. She only crawls as a means to get to the other wall or piece of furniture. She can virtually run if she has some fingers to hold on to. She just doesn't want to let go yet.

That's fine. (The stories tell that DOB could only walk at first when he was carrying a chair around with him.) But I'm not going to enable her anymore. When we go down the hallway, she can push her walker or hold onto the wall or my finger or crawl. I'm not carrying her.

Barring the usual possible interruptions, we have plans this week to go visit her friend Chase, who is a very mobile little fellow. It was only a few days after visiting him last time that she decided to sit up for the first time and get serious about crawling. So maybe seeing him run around will give her the idea that this, too, is a possibility for people her size.

Technology has gone too far

Today I answered the phone.

"Hello?"

First there was an electronically charged silence, then a recorded woman's voice came on and said, "I'm sorry!" Then silence again.

The only thing I can conclude is that it was an automated wrong number dialer.

Police Blotter

I had forgotten how much fun the local police blotter can be to read. Here's a sampling from yesterday. I thought it would be improved by a few subheads.

Trying for a free bath?
An officer was flagged down and told a naked man was near the dog kennels by the Mason Car Wash. Officers checked the area, but no naked men were seen.

And I can talk with the animals!
A Tuesday evening report of a suspicious person sent officers out to the Lowe's Drive area. A man was found who told police he was just playing with raccoons.

Those out-of-towners hit too hard
An East Ruby Avenue woman reported 1:05 pm she was assaulted on A Street by a non-local woman.

The importance of unimportant things

At this stage in the pregnancy, the two most important activities are eating and going to the bathroom. Both are remarkably difficult with a 14-month-old clinging to one's legs. I'm starting to pray that D1 will learn to walk soon.

The eating had really been a problem on Tuesday, and by evening I was really, really craving lemon poke cake (that's where you poke holes in a yellow cake and pour lemonade over the top). But it was late, I was exhausted, we were out of ingredients, my kitchen appliances have all migrated back into the dining room, and making one was out of the question. Besides, we didn't need lemon poke cake. So I tried, not too successfully, to dismiss the thought from my mind.

But yesterday, even though it was shopping day and everything went nearly wrong, and D1 took an extra short nap, I decided I had had it. We didn't need a lemon poke cake, but I was going to make one anyway!

At the end of the day, it was late, I was exhausted, my back hurt, and my kitchen appliances were still scattered all over the dining room. But we had lemon poke cake. And I felt much better about life.

Maybe today I'll cut out that jumper I've been wanting to make for D1.

The waters come over my soul

Sunday night as DOB was putting D1 down to bed, he commented, "Her shirt is kind of wet."

I didn't worry about it. Her shirt is always kind of wet, between drool and learning to use a cup. And it's August, so it seems more likely that it will contribute to coolness than to pneumonia.

But a few hours later she started bawling in her sleep. I went in to check on her and discovered that her shirt was soaked--front and back. I changed her and she settled right back down. I still can't figure out how she got the back of her shirt wet.

The next morning I was trying to rouse DOB. He's pretty incoherent until he's had a glass of water, so I sat him up and was holding his glass up to his mouth, trying to get him to drink it. Unfortunately, I overestimated the angle needed and misunderstood his hyperventilation. The next thing I knew the water had dumped over his t-shirt. Within a fraction of a second, he had ripped the shirt off and thrown it at my fleeing figure with deadly aim. You would hardly believe he had been sound asleep a few moments before.

The moral of the story, I suppose, is that wet shirts are good for waking people up, but bad for the person responsible.

Up?

How could you resist this plea? Even if it has just been repeated for the fifteenth time, interspersed with "Up?" (which, if already up, means "Down?") She worked out this sign on her own, at the same time as she learned to say the word, which is her usual habit. The sign is so cute that DOB will often try to coax it out of her even if she's said the word in plain English half a dozen times.

Before the horse gets stolen

One night during dinner last week, I started chattering away to DOB about the new household organizing notebook I wanted to make. It would have pockets for each month, to store invitations and appointment cards and far-in-advance-bills and things like that, and ones for more urgent stuff, and one for the library receipts so that we wouldn't lose track of when they had to be returned.
"So," he asked apprehensively, "What prompted this?"
"I was reading on somebody's blog about one."
"Oh. Good. I was afraid this was a prelude to telling me we had a big library fine."
But no, all the books got returned on time and now we have a place to keep track of them. Plus I finally have a personal phone book besides in DOB's head.

It never fails

I thought we'd settled down to a routine where D1 was sleeping well until about 8, then ready to be up until 11 or noon, have an early lunch, and take one afternoon nap. And I needed that this morning, because I have a doctor's appointment at 11.

It's 7:15, and she's been chattering in there for half an hour. By the time we leave for the doctor's, no doubt she'll be exhausted. And the last time she went to the doctor's office, they gave her a shot and a blood test, so I'm not sure she'll be too thrilled to see them anyway.

Some (slightly) radical thoughts on math

I wouldn't be surprised if most or all of my kids hate reading. After all, I always hated reading in school. I'm still lousy at it, and I don't do it unless I have to. But I guess everybody has to learn to read, so they'll have to do an hour or so of reading worksheets every day while they're in school. They'll hate it, and probably forget most of it, but what else can we do?

You don't believe that paragraph, of course. Indeed, you wouldn't believe anyone even moderately well-educated would say such things. But substitute "math" for "reading" and it doesn't sound nearly so odd, does it? We seem to expect that except for the favored few math whizzes, destined to be scientists, engineers, or actuaries, everyone else will merely suffer through math, finding it dull, confusing, and forgettable.

I don't think it should be that way--or that it has to be that way. Nobody thinks that only future authors and literary critics can learn to enjoy reading, or learn to write well enough to compose their own love letters and shopping lists. Math is the language that the universe speaks, a tool necessary for survival, and a source of beauty and pleasure. It ought to be available to everyone.

If the trouble isn't in the subject, then it must be in the teaching. Nobody expects to raise good readers by years of rehearsing phonetic charts alone. There is a time and a place for phonics instruction--at least for many children--but you learn what reading is by time with books, real books that tell you things you want to know. Unfortunately, most children's contact with math has no connection to reality; to the extent it does, it is tacked on arbitrarily at the end, through those dreaded story problems about things they care nothing about.

All the math usually taught in the first eight years of school is easily contained in a book that one could work through in the course of a year. They just repeat the same thing, a little more complexly, every year. And review, review, review.

Nobody needs to review their phonics charts once they can read fluently. Similarly, endless review of math facts once learned is only needed if you're not actually using math. If they aren't going to use the math, why teach it to them? And if they are using it, why waste their time?

Most elementary math books concentrate on drilling in computation skills. But that's not the primary need in math. The most important thing is to be able to think about a problem and figure out how to solve it. If you can do that, you can always work out the computational details on your own. If you can't, the fastest time on your multiplication worksheets won't help you.

What if instead of trudging through all those years of math books, children spent most of those seven years dealing with math first in reality, using it to find out things they wanted to know, exploring math games and puzzles, watching how adults used math in real life, and spending a comparatively small amount of time learning how to express those ideas--once they fully owned them--in symbols?

I suspect they'd come through much more thoroughly grounded in mathematics than those who had gone through the best traditional course in mathematics. If they had missed something (and I think with some preparation and challenges that would be unlikely), they would still have a year to sit down with a good comprehensive overview of arithmetic and pick up what they'd missed before starting into higher math on the normal schedule. In the meantime, they would have learned the why of math, and they would not have learned to hate it.

Baby's First Field Trip

Yesterday we visited the National Museum of the United States Air Force with His & Her Majesty. It is the ideal museum: it's within an hour of home (for us), it's really cool, and it's free. (Except for the IMAX, but I never heard of anywhere that let you see the IMAX for free.) Under such circumstances, we didn't feel too bad that we only wound up with a couple of hours to go through it, especially after waiting for them to have a motorized cart available, so we had to take it in at warp speed.

This was the first time we tried anything of the sort with D1--and she even preceded it by consuming her first real restaurant meal under her own steam, though she did let me order for her. They didn't have toddler-sized silverware either. We were glad someone else was going to clean up the floor after she was done.

She seemed to enjoy it surprisingly well, even the IMAX movie. For whatever reason she doesn't startle at sudden noises, and she got very excited and would start flapping her arms whenever she saw birds on the screen. She wasn't as impressed with the airplanes, though. She napped most of the way through the exhibit hall.

I must be transforming into "mother" role pretty seriously. I go to a cool museum and all I can remember to talk about is how the kids handled it. Having gotten over the hump of trying it once, though, I'm more optimistic about actually learning something next time.

Also, next time we're taking a picnic and making a day of it.

Oh, and although I remembered the camera, I forgot to check if the batteries were charged. So no pictures. I'm going to have to get better than this before we need school records.

A non-mushy post

It seems to be the time of year for mushy posts, for anniversaries and first meetings.

I could post something mushy, I suppose. After all, this week it's been three years since DOB and I first met in person. Roughly five years since we met online and started making plans for our first debate. And ten years (gak! Am I that old?) since I started law school, without which I would never have met him.

But I have had enough mush. My tolerance level for public mushiness has not increased any over the last ten years. My tolerance level for private mushiness is none of your business.

And so in public, I will just send a simple, heartfelt message to DOB:

I still say you cheated on that debate.

There.

Science Experiments Gone Awry

This is not a post about recent cooking mishaps. Rather, it is a post about an experience which is probably now at least two decades old. It dates back to a summer day when I decided, in capital letters, that I was going to Conduct a Science Experiment.

The subject of my experiment needed to be something readily at hand. Dandelions were available in plenty. What would happen to dandelions, I wondered, if they were placed in different substances? Next, a substance to test. Again something was available: mud. So I plucked a handful of dandelions, put them in a bowlful of mud, and went to bed anxiously awaiting the morning and the results of my Experiment.

The next morning I arose betimes and went out in the early dew to see how my subjects had fared. Behold, they were all closed up! Clearly, mud caused dandelions to close their blossoms. Trembling with my new discovery, I immediately went off to exhibit my results to some older and wiser person.

This older and wiser person (I can't remember now who it was) promptly pointed out that all the dandelions visible in the fields in all directions had their blossoms closed at that hour of the morning. Oh. It suddenly also occurred to me that mud was, in fact, exactly what dandelions grew in. My Experiment was a complete, and somewhat embarrassing, failure. I had learned nothing from it.

Now that I think about it though, I probably learned more from that one very silly experiment than I could have from the most cleverly designed science course. I learned, in fact even if the terms came later, the necessity of careful design, of observation, of control groups, of peer review. I learned not to jump to conclusions or confuse correllation with causation. We did many fun and worthy experiments in later years, but I have forgotten nearly all of them. But the dandelions are still there every time I read about a new discovery or claim, helping me to ask the right questions.

And I still do wonder why some flowers close up at night. One of these days, I'm going to get around to finding out. Maybe it's the dark . . . ;-)

Why we don't order pizza

The kitchen had been torn up for three weeks. I had exhausted my supply of easy meals to cook. We were feeling sick. The cupboard was essentially bare of groceries because the next day was shopping day.

Still, we scarcely had the nerve to consider the option. To understand how difficult this was for us, you would either have to be raised in a family where all food had to be organic and prepared from scratch, or in a family where all food had to be purchased at least fifty percent off. We had ordered pizza for meetings, yes, but just for us?

Anyway, it was dinner time and I was hungry. I tried to rouse DOB enough to ask him how I should proceed. Any pizza coupons we had ever had around were long since vanished. He suggested I look online. So I pulled up the websites of all the different chains and compared available coupons and menu options. Very bewildering, and hard to get DOB's feedback on what he wanted as he was still asleep.

I finally had a rough idea of what was available. The likely cheapest option was the kind of pizza we didn't like. Several had no prices on their website. DOB didn't think one could get the best deal that way anyway. So he arose, got out the phonebook and called all the pizza delivery places in town, asking them about potential prices (after pleading our desparate case), delivery times ("the kids are hungry"--never mind that neither of them can eat pizza), and crust options. He tracked all of these on a notepad. We also managed to negotiate a topping compromise.

By this time we were really, really hungry. Also we were out of water (our distiller quit some time ago). So DOB decided he would cut half an hour off the delivery time by going and picking up the pizza himself, while getting water. Only he got stuck in traffic coming home, so it may not have saved any time. And he forgot to ask for thin crust. Still, it was good and we were fed.

On the whole, though, I think it's easier just to cook. I suppose it would be much easier if we were in the habit of ordering out, but $14 just for dinner? Yeeouch.

Naming Ideas Rejected

We revived the question of baby names recently, and came up with some new options:

The favorite authors sequence: We could name our first son John Ronald, which would be both for DOB and for Tolkien. Then we could have Gilbert Keith for Chesterton and Clives Staples . . . never mind.

The all-sons-named-for-dad-sequence: In alphabetical order, too! AaRON, ByRON, CameRON, DaRON (so I've never seen it spelled that way, but it looks cool). I got stuck at E, though, so we would max out at four sons. Unless we went with ElRONd.

The rhyming-alphabetical sequence: DOB countered with the suggestion that we name them Addison (Ad), Brad, Chad, and then he, of course, would be Dad. It sounds like the makings of a bluegrass band. Plus, that only gets us up to three.

Gaming Question

Last night I was pondering why I am usually significantly less enthusiastic about playing games than DOB is. Then I started listing off the games we usually play:

Games which are a toss-up
Cribbage
Scrabble (I know more words, but DOB will spend more time hunting for the top score)
Lawn Horseshoes

Games which DOB almost always wins
Rummy
Tetris

Games which DOB ALWAYS wins
Computer golf
Chess (except for an occasional stalemate, which is always pure accident on my part)
Monopoly (And I can't figure out why, because as far as I can tell our strategies are the same)

Games which QOC usually or always wins
None

This is a discouraging picture. What we need are some games that favor someone who is good with words but impatient with strategy, and of course that are fun for two players.

Milestones the Baby Books Miss: First Self-inflicted Bleeding

Before I get to that story, though, a little context might be good.

After living here for a year and a half, we are trying to get the bathroom and kitchen walls finished so we can actually put outlet covers and towel racks up. So B2 and B5 have been here nearly every morning (B2 works graveyard and comes by after work) mudding and sanding and keeping D1 fascinated with their pocket flashlights. Meanwhile, the kitchen and full bathroom are just barely usable, their contents are scattered throughout the house, and everything, including D1, is covered with a thick layer of drywall dust. But, it will be done soon! Or so I keep reminding myself.

Since we were hoping to start painting this week, B2 spent the day and well into the night on Saturday working on the kitchen. We went to bed and left him still working. At two in the morning, I heard a soft knock on the bedroom door, and the quiet announcement that B2 had come down sick. Very, very sick.

While I was still trying to figure out what to do about this, DOB, who can sleep through an hour of multiple alarm clocks and spousal abuse, had leaped out of bed, dressed, and gone out to deal with the problem. He took care of it all and drove B2 home. We got back to bed about 4:30, and DOB told me I was on my own with D1 in the morning, as he was sleeping in as long as possible.

In the morning D1 mercifully slept a little late, then I got her up and gave her breakfast. She played around in the dust and I cleaned up what mess was left from the night before, then started exercising. DOB was still sound asleep. D1 started pushing her walker down the hallway, when suddenly she slipped underneath it. I picked her up, reassured her, and set her back down, but she continued to wail. Then I looked down and saw blood spattered on her pajama top.

I quietly called for help. Instantly, DOB was on his feet, staggering down the hallway. When he realized what was wrong, he quickly woke up the rest of the way, assessed the situation (cut lip from her bottom tooth), instructed me on the creation of an ice pack, and called his mom for further advice. D1 didn't really go for an ice pack, nor for chunks of ice. We finally decided to try frozen nectarines, which she took very happily. But by that time the bleeding had stopped anyway, and she had been pretty calm as soon as she was sure we knew the seriousness of the situation.

Not surprisingly, we were a bit late for church. And we were looking forward to a relaxing afternoon at DOB's family's house. After lunch, I tried to put D1 down for her nap, when she suddenly started assuming weird positions and screaming. This not being her usual reaction, even when she doesn't want to take a nap, we began a check for something being wrong. Finally we decided it had to be stomach pain and we started to wonder how contagious B2 had been. She couldn't lie down comfortably, so I rocked her until she fell asleep and then held her there until she had such nap as she could.

She woke up still uncomfortable, but after another half-hour or so it seemed to subside, and she took water and snack and supper cheerfully enough. By the time we had gotten home and done with supper, DOB and I were both thoroughly exhausted, but she was as chipper as ever. We laid down to rest, trying to keep an eye on her, but in an unguarded moment she pulled the nightstand over on top of her.

Fortunately there was no damage. And fortunately by that time it was bedtime. This morning, DOB slept through the alarm for an hour. But then, so did I.

My Homeschooling Fantasy

This is, first of all, mine. Not how I think everyone should homeschool, but how I think we will enjoy homeschooling. (DOB thinks it sounds good, too, if I can pull it off.) Secondly, I realize it's a fantasy and thus subject to revision when it rubs up against reality. But this is how various homeschooling ideas are coalescing in my mind.

Our general structure will be a four-year survey of world history. DOB and I like studying and debating history ourselves. It has its own internal order. It's effortless to integrate it with language arts, geography, art and music, and not too hard to integrate it with science. And I found a really cool binder for our timeline at a yard sale last week.

Every four to six weeks we'll start on a new segment of history. Between now and then we'll find a well-written narrative world history to read aloud from and start a new segment, and for every segment I'll pick out a literary or biographical work that we'll enjoy reading out loud from together. Once we've read the history book to introduce the segment, I'll put up a big sheet of paper and we'll start writing down questions we have. They don't have to be about the time period we're studying, they can be about anything. And anybody in the family can come up with them. We might spend a couple of days on this.

Once we have a good sheet full of things we want to find out about, we'll start finding out what resources we have to answer those questions, and make a trip to the library and anywhere else that comes up to research them further. As much as possible, the children will be responsible for finding their own resources for the things they want to know.

Except for our introductory time first thing in the morning, when we recite some memory work together and read aloud, the children are free until lunch time to choose their own work. There will be, of course, a few expectations: they should be working on academic stuff in the morning (afternoons are free); they should keep track of what they do and for how long for records; and of course when they learn something new and exciting, they'll want to record it or share it in some way because that's the natural thing to do. We'll keep lots of different kinds of notebooks for recording the different things we learn.

Meanwhile I'll do my best not to hover or force my ideas on them, but be available to answer questions and talk things through, in between doing my own research or work that helps them see what use these skills have later. With the younger ones, I'll usually also spend a short time each day introducing them to a new are in a specific skill--as much as possible tied into what they are learning right now.

After about a week into a segment, when we've gotten a "feel" for what's out there, the children (with help, if needed and requested) will start selecting a few larger projects that they will want to present at our end-of-segment party. Maybe I will, too. This could be anything--from a poem to recite to a 3D demonstration of building a pyramid, and it could be individual or collective. Whatever captures their interest and gives them a chance to develop their perseverance and presentation skills is fair game. We'll continue working on these until the end of the segment, along with whatever short-term interests come up along the way.

At the end, we'll have a celebration, show off what we've learned, and look forward to starting something new.

At least we're compatible

DOB got this result, too . . . it still seems a little too New Agey, make-it-up-as-you-goish to me. But then, the statements for agreement or disagreement were unconstitutionally vague, in my opinion. You scored as Cultural Creative. Cultural Creatives are probably the newest group to enter this realm. You are a modern thinker who tends to shy away from organized religion but still feels as if there is something greater than ourselves. You are very spiritual, even if you are not religious. Life has a meaning outside of the rational. Cultural Creative 75% Fundamentalist 69% Idealist 50% Existentialist 44% Postmodernist 44% Romanticist 38% Modernist 13% Materialist 13% What is Your World View? (updated) created with QuizFarm.com

Keeping up on her investments.

DOB finally got her to sit still with the "1" block long enough to get the picture. Whenever I held the camera she would just drop everything else and go for the camera.

We couldn't get D1 to take a picture with the "1" block on her birthday, so DOB decided to demonstrate. These blocks came with the standard warning, "Choking Hazard, not for children under 3," but if DOB can't get them in his mouth I don't know who could.

Adjusting Expectations

I find a lot of complaints in the how-to-be-a-good-Christian-homemaker writings about how our mothers failed to teach us this stuff, and hence we have great handicaps to overcome. Well, my mother didn't fail to teach me. I knew all the elements of homemaking pretty well by the time I was twelve, and for the most part I liked them, too. Even when I had a full-time job and lived away from home, I got a big charge out of coming home, fixing dinner for my roommates, and tidying up the place.

So naturally when I got married I expected the housekeeping part of it to all go smoothly. Early struggles were for those poor folks who didn't know how to cook or clean or mend clothes.

Then I encountered morning sickness, overdue bills, undersized apartments, and unpacked boxes. And I discovered that I knew about the wrong end of homemaking. I don't wonder about how mothers of nine do it. They have children who can clean the house and cook dinner while they produce number ten and organize the workload. It's how mothers of two and three little ones do it that mystifies me.

I know how to clean a house in no time flat--with one person to take out the garbages, one to sweep the floors, one to hide the junk, and one to clean the bathrooms. Piece of cake. I know how to cook a generous breakfast for ten people in half an hour--if I can impress someone into flipping the pancakes while I whip up the eggs. Attempting either of these tasks singlehandedly, while trying to supervise and train a toddler or two, is an entirely different matter.

Even without the workers factored in, it just takes time--and money--to get a house operating smoothly. I still don't have a complete set of pots and pans, which means I have to do circuitous things like cook the oatmeal in two pots. Many things already go a lot smoother than they did a year ago; but it took time to figure out where things should be and how they should be done.

I used to ask my mother, perhaps not in the best of spirits, how she did all this stuff before she had us to do it for her. Now I know. She didn't. And now I have to realize that I cannot possibly attempt single-handedly what it took four or more half or fully grown children plus two parents to accomplish. (Or at least attempt--as I recall, we were usually running behind despite our best endeavors.)

So it's OK if I don't have a two-acre garden, eight different dishes on the table for supper every night, company over twice a week, and several ministries going through home and church. For the next few years, if everyone is fed and reasonably happy at the end of the day, it's been a good day. If on top of that we've managed to wash enough dishes and laundry to be ready to face the next day, it's been a great day. If somebody has also learned something or accomplished something that won't have to be redone tomorrow, it's been an outstandingly wonderful day.

Someday we will get past this stage and be able to set our sights a little higher. But there's nothing wrong with the day of small things. And people.

Assortment of thoughts related to doctors

* Our family doctor is leaving family practice. This is the doctor we were so excited to find because she worked five minutes away, didn't push for testing and drugs, was OK with a careful approach to vaccinations, did obstetrics too, and even had in-laws with DOB's genetic condition. But her insurance premiums have gotten too high, so she is going to go treat hemmorrhoids. A noble calling I'm sure, but not one we have much use for. I am limited in who I can blame for this situation, having loyalties in both the legal and insurance fields, but I'd put the blame on the lawyers. Doctors and insurance companies at least still face some free market constraints, though not enough, whereas lawsuits do not.

The one potentially hopeful news is that she might be joining her husband in family practice in a couple of years, where starting over will get her back to the beginning on insurance ratings. But he has a different name (which I can't remember) and practices in a town thirty minutes away, so I don't know how I'll find out when and if she does.

* Naptimes and doctor's appointments do not mix well. D1 is very good and very regular about taking her naps. But what the books cannot show you is that while in the book you can turn the page from the 9-month nap schedule to the 12-month schedule to the 18-month schedule, in real life the change is made incrementally. D1 is gradually moving from morning and afternoon nap to early afternoon nap. Which means that sometime in the next couple of months, 1:00 will become a very bad time for doctor's appointments, even though now it is the ideal time. Unfortunately doctors don't like to wait until that morning to find out how the naptime schedule is progressing and when you can most easily come in.

* I accidentally scheduled my next doctor's appointment on the day His Majesty is out visiting. Now I have to reschedule. Bother. Yes, of course I should have consulted my calendar first. The trouble is, I have yet to see an organizational scheme that would work for someone who can't follow a grocery list.

Besides, all these prenatal appointments annoy me. I go in and spend half an hour laughing at the advice in parenting magazines. Doctor comes in. "Are you having problems X, Y, and Z?" "Nope." "Everything looks fine." "Thanks." Baby's heart is still beating (as I was sure it was, being as it's hard to kick without a heartbeat), I am getting bigger (as I had noticed). All is well. I already knew that. And now I have to go do this every two weeks.

Culture and Counterculture

I've just finished a book called Kingdom of Children, by Mitchell L. Stevens. It's the work of a sociologist who spent a decade getting acquainted with the homeschool movement, looking at it not from the perspective of what happens to the children, but what happens to the parents. Why do they do this? How do they form social networks to support what they do? And how do their ideas fit in with society at large?

Interestingly, although most people (inside and outside) think of homeschooling as a radically countercultural thing to do, he concludes that homeschoolers primarily operate from an especially deep commitment to an idea that is omnipresent in our culture--the sanctity of the individual, not just the individual's rights, but his core identity and uniqueness. The centrality of guarding and developing your child's individuality pops up constantly not just in the group he terms the "inclusives," who tend to come out of liberal social causes, alternative schools, and to emphasize unschooling, but for "believers" as well--the conservative Protestants who make up the largest and most visible segment of homeschoolers.

Despite this common commitment, "believers" vs. "inclusives" are usually rigorously divided, and getting more so. He concludes, after watching the rift develop through the nineties, that this is primarily the result of comfort with different organizational structures. Inclusives stay true to the commitment to democracy and consensus they brought from the social movements of the 60's and 70's, which results in a very loosely-structured group; believers prefer a more hierarchical structure with definite leaders and roles, like they find in their churches and evangelical ministries. The latter being more efficient, the believers have been out building multi-million dollar enterprises while the inclusives are still trying to figure out a board meeting date that won't conflict with anyone's holidays.

The believers also have the advantage that mothers staying home is commonly encouraged in conservative Protestant circles, with the bonus that homeschooling gives them something intellectually challenging and significant to do while they're at home. Inclusives tend to have feminist backgrounds, which gives them much less of a natural base for justifying staying home with their kids.

Definitely an interesting read if one is curious about what the homeschooling movement looks like as a whole, from the outside, or just in how people's beliefs influence the structures and lives they create.

On Becoming a Lady of Leisure

It took DOB quite a while to convince me. It was too expensive, I argued. I shouldn't need it. I should be able to do everything myself now.

But he finally won. The downside of marrying a guy because he's smart enough to beat you at a debate is that he continues to do so.

Maybe it's because I argue against myself. I wouldn't feel like a failed housewife if my husband had the time and strength to help with the housework. Nor would I feel guilty for impressing my children into service. What made me feel guilty that, lacking those, I couldn't keep up with everything? And, like it or not, I was still struggling to catch up on things that had gotten behind during the first trimester and was making no headway whatsoever on preparing for the new baby--much less on tackling the moving-in projects that never got finished before D1 arrived. I had managed to suppress my guilt enough to accept DOB's sister's (free) help through the first trimester, but she had gone to Taiwan.

So we have now hired a young girl to come in twice a week and help me with the housework. It does cost a bit, but I could easily spend as much on disposable diapers and wipes plus a few convenience foods, which most people in my situation would use to lessen their workload. We could easily spend more if we instead hired her to babysit while we went out for an evening, which is commonly suggested as a beneficial if not essential activity for young mothers.

But right now, it means a lot more to both of us for me to be in good spirits and not too tired at the end of the day, with a new area of the house a little more organized than it was before, and the floors and bathrooms finally cleaned.

Never mind about that lady of leisure bit, either. Actually I work twice as hard with someone else around. I like working with people. That's why I've had little trouble keeping up with dishes and laundry since D1 got big enough to "help" with those. Her help with the floors and bathrooms is not such a good idea, however, and her help with organizing projects is definitely counter-productive.

I have to think of three solid hours of tasks to do. With two people handy, those tasks can include ones that may create large messes, because there's an extra person to keep D1 distracted. And I'm not as scared to tackle something big for fear of running out of energy when there's someone else around as backup.

So, there it is. I have help. I refuse to feel guilty about it. In fact, I really, really like it.

Sizing up women

Those of you who have had occasion to compare women's clothing over multiple decades (which, owing to a very extensive hand-me-down network, includes me) may have noticed that women's size numbers undergo a periodic shrinkage. What was a twelve or fourteen in the sixties is now an eight, rapidly moving to a six.

A svelte young Elizabeth Taylor in The Last Time I Saw Paris sighs in despair, "I'll never be a size 10 again." Had she known this propensity of fashion designers, she need not have worried so much. Perhaps that's why it's done--to allow us to remain the same size while gradually expanding our figures. (She may have outpaced them by now, though.)

I notice, however, that the descriptors "small," "medium," and "large" still describe roughly the same bodies they always did, no doubt due to the lack of an infinite sequence of words to keep moving down. One can only put so many x's in front of "small" before one runs out of room on the tag.

All this would be of small concern were it not that we're getting uncomfortably close to the bottom of positive numbers. Within the next three decades, this trend is either going to have to stop, or a significant portion of the populace is going to be buying clothes sized with negative numbers.

Meanwhile men can buy clothes with their actual measurements emblazoned on the tag. What a concept.

DOB has at last persuaded Blogger to publish one of his posts, instead of eating it, and has put up some insightful commentary on the Supreme Court. D1 would like to comment on the Supreme Court too, judging from her preferred choice of reading material (she's always pulling A Matter of Interpretation by Scalia off the shelf), but we won't let her touch the keyboard.

When I've a smattering of elemental strategy

Last weekend DOB finally got to watch his first Gilbert and Sullivan operetta, The Pirates of Penzance, and is now officially hooked, too. We can't wait until we can go to a live performance.

He decided to return the favor by introducing me to playing chess. Not that I didn't know how to play chess in the which-piece-can-move-where sense, but since I had not the faintest notion of strategy I just saw it as a game of little plastic blobs wandering around, randomly bumping each other off, and it wasn't much fun. Now I have learned enough that I know his pieces, at least, are not wandering around randomly. Mine still wander a bit, but I'm learning. Unfortunately I've learned enough that he won't help me anymore, but not enough to win.

My other difficulty is that, especially as the board gets thinner, I start personifying my pieces too much. The king, tattered and beleaguered, his army scattered, his defenses gone, yet strives heroically to evade the encroaching enemy. Finding himself cornered, he turns on his attackers and takes one of them down with him. Though he dies in battle gory, he shall live in song and story. Somehow it seems to arouse more emotion than belongs in a game of chess.

Then again, DOB says I play much more cunningly at the end of the game than I do at the beginning. So maybe I should ascribe more personality to all my pieces.

On First Eating Spaghetti

(A speech by D1, translated from the original Toddler by QOC.)

Hey, it's time to eat! Yay! Oh, hey, green beans! Yum! I like them better this way than all mushed up. Look, I can mush them with my new teeth. Now, where's the real food? Ah, there's my bowl. Oooooh, do I get to eat what you guys are eating? I told you I wasn't a baby anymore. What is this, anyway? Oh, WOW! Incredible! Delicious! Why did you hold out on me so long? Could I have some more green beans, please? These noodle things are kind of tricky. But so good. Where are those green beans? I asked politely, didn't you hear me? Check this out, I can get them on my spoon, even off the tray. Pretty tricky, huh? Time for some more spaghetti. Wow, this is the greatest stuff I've ever tasted. Except raspberries. Don't think you can hide your salad behind the water, I can see it. I would like a raspberry, please.

Original:
Num-num-num-num, Num! Num num num num num. Num num? Num num num num. Num Num. NUM NUM NUM NUM NUM!!!!!! Arroooh? Num num num. ENNHHH! Num, num, num. Num num. Ai-duh. Num Num Num. NUM NUM. Arrooh? ENNNHHH!

How NOT to make learning fun

I came across a product the other day that illustrates a point I was trying to make a couple of months ago on the problem I have with claims to "make learning fun."

The purpose of the product was teaching math facts, each of which were illustrated with a cartoon and some brief story and memory aid--like remembering 4x4=16 by thinking of a teenager at last getting his license and being able to drive a 4x4.

Now, I'm not at all in favor of math being boring. Quite the opposite. But this approach reinforces the reason most people find math boring--because it is sucked dry of any real meaning to them. The fact itself is meaningless, so we must make up an irrelevant story to remember it. And then we have to remember the story and the fact, instead of just knowing the fact. The extra effort involved makes my brain hurt.

If you really want to make learning math facts "fun"--or, more importantly, significant and meaningful, you can figure out how many cookies will fit on a sheet if there are four rows of four. You can calculate that if you could run across the yard four times in one minute, you could do it sixteen times in four minutes. You can consider how much you should charge if someone at the yard sale wants to buy four of your old toys for 40 cents apiece. You can illustrate it with math manipulatives and color it in on graph paper and mark it down on your own multiplication chart. Once 4x4=16 means something to you, it's not all that hard to remember. And if you need to be able to come up with it faster, there are lots of games to play to review it that won't require you to remember twice the information. (And that won't cost $70.)

Of all the things I've lost

Yesterday afternoon I wanted to make popsicles for dessert out of some nectarines. This activity required the blender, so I started to assemble it. Everything was right there except the gasket to seal it. I checked the dishwasher and the sink and the drainer. No gasket. The strange thing was, I had this odd feeling as if I had just unloaded it and put it somewhere a little different but not too out of place. I searched the likely drawers and cupboards. Still no luck. At last I gave up on popsicles and revised my dessert plans.

Later in the afternoon--much later, as D1 and I overslept our afternoon nap by quite a bit--I started tackling the rest of supper. DOB was on his way home, and his sister was coming over for a birthday and farewell supper (she leaves for Taiwan tomorrow). I realized that I needed the blender to make the sauce for the enchiladas, that I didn't have the right ingredients to switch to anything else at that late date, and that I still couldn't find the gasket.

I ransacked everywhere likely and unlikely in the kitchen a second time. I even went out to the compost barrel and poked around in it with a stick. (I had lost things there before.) No luck. Finally I went in and called DOB, more out of need to confide in someone than out of hope that he could help. He thought perhaps he could find it when he got home, which turned out to be in the next couple of minutes.

I went out to the garage to greet him, took in his lunch bag, looked across the kitchen, and there was the gasket. On top of the blender.

Mixed results

Friday before last (some seriously delayed blog postings are roaming around my brain) I spent the day in town with DOB, the morning attending a continuing education class for my insurance license, the afternoon shopping.

I had two things I wanted to find at Value Village: (1) Shot glasses for D1; (2) A cheap purse I could stuff my wallet, keys and cell phone in on those rare occasions when they were not in the diaper bag. Sure enough, I found four perfect glasses--straight sides, no liquor ads, heavy bottoms so they would be hard to accidentally knock over. Only $.40 apiece. I also found a decent, generic-looking brown purse. Not being concerned about brand names, especially not on something whose destination was 6 a.m. trips to Walmart, I didn't even look at the insignia on the side.

I paid for my goods and departed. In the parking lot, I looked down at my purse. And then I saw the brand name, engraved on the side ornament. "Carryland." Carryland? Who in all creation could come up with such a stupid brand name for a purse? I am almost embarrassed even to take it to Walmart.

I should have gone back in and returned it on the spot, but being rather indecisive, I did not. It would have been a good thing, too, because I discovered the next day that I had left the shot glasses on the counter. So D1 is still knocking over her one sippy cup that is small enough for her to pick up.

On the plus side, though, I found a Scrabble game for $2 that was only missing two pieces, and we have been playing it addictively ever since. DOB has discovered he was mistaken about me not being competitive. I'm just not competitive at games I don't expect to win.

Some Scrabble variations for the truly obsessed:
1. For a two-player game, use the extra trays and keep 14 tiles at a time. It allows you to make much more interesting words.

2. Compose a poem using only words on the board. (Free verse, or perhaps haiku, is definitely the most feasible genre.) I would inflict mine on you, but I think it got thrown out with the junk mail.

Emerging from the Dark Ages

After a week of intermittent service and a week of non-existent service, we are back online, thanks to many phone calls on DOB's part.

And I'm embarrassed to admit how much I miss it. How did we all live a decade ago?