Eating in and out

D1 is not, as toddlers go, a picky eater. Not only will she eat nearly anything that's put before her to eat, she persists in trying to swipe raw onions off the cutting board, even though every time she makes a face and spits them out. Hope springs eternal.

Nonetheless, there is definitely a hierarchy of preference in her eating. Peaches come above waffles, for instance. And thus, when peaches came on the waffles, she decided to make use of her carefully-honed food-hiding skills, casually dropping them into her bib as she went along. She asked for waffle after waffle, and I absent-mindedly handed them to her and went back to cooking the rest of the waffles, eating my own food, feeding D2, and playing cribbage. It seemed odd that she was eating two entire waffles, but sometimes she's hungry.

Unfortunately, food hiding, like murder, creates the problem of disposal of the evidence. She pulled the waffles out of her bib, plopped them back on her plate, and, as if nothing had happened, asked to be excused. We informed her we would be happy to agree, as soon as she had eaten the waffle skeletons that remained.

As it turned out, it was a good thing she ate such a big breakfast, since we went to Home Depot that morning and lunch was delayed more than two hours while we matched screws, compared shower rods, and waited in line for our screen door behind a lady who needed ten of them.

Thanks to a kind friend, we had a house-warming gift of dinner out to use up that night. Now, when I eat out, I want to eat something I would not cook at home. I see no point in paying $10 to eat mediocre mashed potatoes. DOB is adventuresome as far as cuisine goes, but he was a bit skeptical about the neighborhood of the East African Restaurant I had read about, and also not impressed with the dour demeanor of the proprietor, who seemed upset that we were monopolizing a table for four when there were only two adults in our party.

However, when a giant platter arrived, covered with a piece of flat sourdough bread and piled with various stews, DOB's concerns vanished. The core grain of Ethiopian cuisine is teff, something I once tried to cook with when I was allergic to everything. I didn't know what to do with it, though, and it never tasted good. The cook, who was as jolly as her husband was solemn, clearly did know what to do with it, as well as what to do with collard greens, red lentils, cooked cabbage, and other foods that I never have had much luck with. D1 gobbled up the spicy meat, the boiled egg, and the greens and lentils, but she seemed a little skeptical about the bread. Maybe she'd already had enough for the day.

Technological Lags

As you might have guessed from renewed ranting, we are back online. Moving means all your appliances break down simultaneously and all your possessions get lost at the same time (throw in cranky kids off their usual schedule and surroundings for good measure). One by one, things are coming back into function, although it seems like we're losing or breaking them just as fast.

Anyway, we're back in the twenty-first century when it comes to internet access. Our laundry facilities, however, are hovering circa 1950, as the washing machine is hooked up, but we can't figure out how to get rid of the gas dryer that came with the house so we can hook up our own. (DOB is supposed to call about it, but keeps forgetting because we've also lost his Palm Pilot. Maybe this will help.)

So I've been hanging laundry out on my small rack, on the patio railing, and on a kind neighbor's fence. All those rhapsodies about the smell of sheets fresh off the line are very well, but they didn't mention how many ants and spiders you have to kill in the process. (It might help if one had an actual line and clothespins, and thus it didn't blow in the grass so much.)

The ducklings love the new park, which is much larger and older and more squirrel-infested than the former park. We haven't made much use of the back yard yet, as I suspect poison ivy. Plus all D2 wants to do is climb the stairs, which gives him splinters.

Meanwhile they are growing up whether or not I have time to notice. D2 has learned how to stand on his own, much to his delight. He also is fascinated with raising both hands above his head, perhaps indicating a current career goal of either being a grizzly bear or a Pentacostal preacher. I say "Roar" when he does it and DOB says "Hallelujah!" So far D2's utterances sound closer to the growl.

D1 is, at last, starting to discover the word, "No." She still uses it primarily in an informational context, wandering around muttering to herself: "Is D2 eating pizza? Noooo. Is D1 eating pizza? Essss." She has also started making up random rhyming words ("Pizza-dizza"), something she picked up from Papa. I greet this with mixed emotions, knowing it's an important stage in linguistic understanding and vital for ultimately developing reading skills . . . and also knowing that inevitably, she will quite innocently come up with an obscenity, probably at the top of her lungs in the supermarket.

Boring Parents

The number of catty things to say about this woman who is bored by her children are mind-boggling, so I will limit myself to one. Given that the only things that seem to interest her are her hair, shopping, and work, if she wants to find the source of boringness in her household, the mirror is a good place to start.

What truly mystifies me is why it is presented--by both sides--that the only parenting approaches are either devoting one's every moment to waiting upon their every need, or dodging them at every opportunity. Are the only places to put one's child in the priority list somewhere well above God or somewhere well below the hairdresser? Must one either talk as if one delights in wiping up every drop of drool, or spend one's days complaining to the girlfriends about the fiends you bore?

I certainly hope not, because neither approach sounds human to me, or beneficial for children or parents. What one does with children is raise them. This implies that they start out rather lower-downish and end up rather higher-uppish. It also implies that the parent is higher-up and remains there until the child catches up.

So, no, good parenting does not require one to remove from one's mind every thought or interest that has not entered the mind of a two-year-old. Quite the opposite. My chief duty as a mother is to be a worthy person of emulation: spiritual, intelligent, curious, interesting. My second duty is to actually spend time with them--and yes, enjoy it-- so they have the chance to know and emulate me.

Fortunately most pursuits worthy of human endeavor are every bit as interesting to children as to adults, especially if the adults give them half a chance to understand what's going on. I feel no obligation to surround my children with things I don't care for, no matter how proper they are considered to be for children. I don't like children's television, beeping electronic toys, elaborate crafts. We don't have them. I do like reading, cooking, music, running around outside. We do those--together.

There still are, especially at this stage, a fair proportion of things that they enjoy that do not particularly enthrall me. I do not get a huge thrill from climbing up a flight of stairs over and over. I don't like drool. That's ok. Love means caring enough about a person to put up with an occasional divergence of interest or moment of ookiness. I also have no interest in football, but I do not run screaming from the house every time DOB wants to check the stats, nor do I proclaim to the world that my husband is a boring lout. (Because, as it happens, he is not.)

The author winds up by proclaiming that all children need is food, clothes and being told that you love them. Perhaps. But if you tell them that you love them while avoiding any contact with them, what exactly do you mean by "love"?

Edited to add: A belated HT to Barbara Curtis of Mommylife for passing on the article. Although I shouldn't need such kind remarks to remind me of my netiquette, I do very much appreciate them.

If I had a hammer

We spent the past weekend in northern Indiana at a family reunion. Yes, it's insane to try to do a three-day vacation the week after you move. (Especially if you're trying to fix all your food in a hotel room housing six people.) But we had a great time, nonetheless. We went biking and boating. D1 wowed everyone with her knowledge of colors. D2 played in the dirt.

On the last evening, everyone was gathered around playing games and such. One of DOB's second cousins had brought a large array of scrapbooking materials to show another relative how to make a miniature scrapbook out of paper lunch bags. Scrapbooking isn't really my thing, but DOB and brothers were not yet up to speed on playing Dutch Blitz, so I thought I'd try it out for a little while until they had practiced some more.

After I selected the bags and folded them in half per Cousin's instructions, she set her cutting mat on the floor and gave me an awl-like tool and a small hammer, to punch holes along the edge.

"Now, you have to put some oomph into it," she said.

It's been a while since I built a tree fort, but swinging a hammer is something one never forgets. If oomph was needed, oomph I could supply. I took the awl in hand and swung five or six times.

When I started to take the awl up, it seemed a bit stuck.

"Oh, sometimes it sticks in the mat," Cousin said.

I pulled harder. It came free, leaving a neat circular hole not just through the booklet, but all the way through the cutting mat. I decided not to investigate to see if I had cracked the brick floor.

Fortunately she was good-humored about the destruction of her cutting mat, but she was more careful in her instructions thereafter, and I tapped the remaining holes more gently.

Perhaps I should take up carpentry instead. Or maybe roofing.

Moving interlude

I'm blogging from the library because, you're right, Uncle Steve, I'm addicted. We're supposed to have internet next Monday, but who knows when we'll actually get the computer set up.

The moving advice I read to pack the can opener in your purse was less useful than it might seem, since we didn't eat anything canned for several days, unpacked the other can opener in the first box, and left my purse behind. However, it was handy when we needed to open a package of cheese in a hurry.

What would have been good moving advice would be to make sure the Martha Stewart Baby magazines are thrown away before you move, instead of lying around as the only available reading material. It's not good, when one is struggling to find the diapers and supper, to start feeling guilty because one has never hand-appliqued gingham animals.

Yesterday I locked us out, on the hottest day of the year, without hats, shoes, or water. A good way to meet the neighbors.

So long, farewell

Until whenever it is that we get the internet hooked up at the new house. It might be awhile, since the last time we looked it over, we couldn't even find a phone jack. (That kind of settled the question of whether we should try to get by with dial-up.)

And while you're missing us, you can play with this. HT to Text Savvy.

I've heard the screams of the vegetables

No, this has nothing to do with what I found when I cleaned out the refrigerator, although there was a strained encounter with some three-week-old tuna salad.

It's the Duchial Anthem. Or at least its Theme Song. If I've posted it here, it hasn't been for a long, long time. It's Carrot Juice Constitutes Murder, and if you don't have it memorized, you need to listen to it. You really do.

Moving angst

The thought occurred to me today that perhaps it was only the labor associated with moving that I hated, and perhaps if I had someone else doing all the work and hunting up all the boxes the thrill of a new adventure would override the turmoil.

No such luck, I'm afraid. I do like adventures. But at the end, I like to go home. And moving doesn't just mean changing homes; it means ripping apart one home and having to wait for another to be built.

Oh, I know, home is supposed to be about the people inside and not the place. Maybe it's because I lived in the same house for the first twenty-four years of my life, but for me, home must be the place, too. Not just the pictures, but that picture in that spot on that wall. Not just the people, but the ghosts of those people in years past.

Home changes over time, of course. It changes slowly and sporadically, like the people and relationships in it. Moving out is like ending one of those relationships. Suddenly all the forgotten promises and all the misguided actions come back to haunt me: the spot where I was going to put up a shelf, but never got around to it; the scrape on the wall where the chair bumped it; the wall I thought about painting, but didn't. There it all is, and instead of working things out with the house, I'm just walking out cold. Memories of failures in my earlier relationships come back to haunt me, too. I never did get the closets sorted in the other places, either.

There's the new house, all glamorous and waiting, of course. It is a nice thought. But I'm getting jaded. It has its flaws too--I can see them more quickly now. I know the work that will go into getting settled in. I know it will be months before it feels like home; before we finally get that bathroom wall painted and the towel rods up; before I find the right spot to keep things. I suspect I'll never get the closets sorted.

Add to this that my brain quickly overloads on decision-making and sorting; add the challenge of putting things in boxes faster than the ducklings can take them out; add fatigue and the need to keep everyone fed and clothed and napped while moving all the materials. Sorry, I tried. I still hate moving.

The good news is twofold: first, it will end someday; both this move and all moves. Someday, I will be Home. Second, I have angst to spare on my houses because I don't have any in my love life.

You know you really need a break . . .

. . . when you find yourself looking forward to a visit to the dentist's office because you'll get to lie quietly for twenty minutes.

And you know the situation has become critical when the visit exceeds your expectations. The chair was exquisitely soft, the river raging past the window relaxing, and the gentle scratch of metal upon enamel a soothing lullaby.

It was fabulous.

The hygienist said that if I really wanted, I could make another appointment for next week.

We're packing up everything

Wake up and smell the chocolate

Among the many reasons I have had for not developing a taste for coffee, its inherent wimpiness has always been a strong one. It always seemed to me like it would be embarrassing to confess (as many people proudly do) that one cannot get out the door in the morning without the aid of artificial stimulants.

This week, I need artificial stimulants. I am rediscovering the truth that a sleep deficit works like a monetary deficit--if you run up a large debt, and then return to your barely-getting-by state of existence, you will never get caught up. This is also my first move where I have no born organizer standing at my shoulder telling me how to do it. No, this time I must think. And my head hurts, probably because I whacked it on the towel bar at 4 a.m.

Last night, as I was rejoicing in the strength and comfort to be found in a bowl of vanilla fudge swirl, DOB pointed out that I need to give myself permission, when necessary, to administer chocolate medicinally when alone. I don't eat for fun while I'm alone. When I'm alone, I eat cold leftovers and raw fruits and vegetables spread with peanut butter, and just enough to keep from keeling over. Chocolate should be savored with a very good friend.

Today, I needed help. I could barely keep my head upright and the piano movers were coming at 10:30. (We helpfully cleared a path to the patio door, only to have them decide the ground was too wet and they had to go out the front, so they moved all the boxes out of the way again to go out the front door.) So I ransacked the cupboards and boldly consumed the stimulants I could find: a cup of black tea and two squares of organic dark chocolate.

Yeah, I'm an amateur. But it got me off the couch.

Parental ramblings

Things I vowed I wouldn't do but now do:

Snap my fingers. My mom always did this to get our attention when she was on the phone or we were out in public. It drove me crazy. Now I do it. It's handy, not too loud or obnoxious to those not targeted, and gives me a brief moment in which to gather my thoughts enough to figure out what words to use.

Say, "We don't do X." I always thought this was quite false, although my actual memories of it date from it being applied to younger siblings. Maybe Mom didn't do X, but clearly the child did or why would it be an issue? Now I realize that it's more a way of communicating that the prohibition of X is a law of general moral or practical applicability (We don't bite, whine, play in the toilet water) rather than regulations limited to a specific time, place, or age (You may have only one cookie). Of course, my own childhood experience ought to demonstrate that it doesn't really communicate that, so perhaps I need a different phrase. Maybe "We shouldn't do X."

Things I still vow I won't do:

Say, "You're being a bad example." Now, I concede that occasionally, pulling an older child with a strong personality aside and briefly pointing out their potent influence on the younger and more impressionable children in a group can be productive. I'm not talking about that, but rather about the promiscuous use of this phrase in front of other people of every age and condition. I've heard it used in the grocery store. I've heard it used on children not yet two. I've even heard it used when I, as an adult, was the only other person present. Clearly in these cases the parent was not trying to develop latent leadership abilities. I was completely puzzled as to what they were trying to do, when I finally realized the unspoken end of the sentence: "You're being a bad example . . . of my parenting skills." Too bad. Children don't exist to exhibit your parenting abilities, and they're not going to be moved by your embarrassment. Nor should they be.

Take my children out in their pajamas. (Except possibly to very early morning church services.) On the other hand, I have not the slightest qualms about putting them to bed in their clothes; in fact, I nearly always do, since cotton play clothes are cheap and readily available, while cotton pajamas, past 12 m size, are rare and expensive.

Things I refuse to feel guilty about not doing:
Daily baths. D1 at least got them every other day when she was a baby, and she had terrible diaper rashes. D2 gets baths about once a week, but yesterday he got two hot ones in a row in an effort to soak an infected scratch on his leg. This morning, for no other apparent reason, he had his first-ever nasty diaper rash. I'm going to subscribe to the theory that frequent bathing washes away natural protective oils. Fortunately his scratch is about healed.

Baby signing. This is the thing to do these days if you're an involved and concerned parent. We tried a few with D1, and she picked them up, but she usually learned to say the word about the same time. I'm trying to convince D2 to learn "more," but he prefers his own invented sign, which is banging both hands on the tray and hollering at the top of his lungs. He would seldom have cause to use "all done." And I don't know enough other signs to really teach him much. Sure, baby signs are supposed to help stimulate verbal development and improve communication skills. But I bet Demosthenes, Cicero, and Patrick Henry never had such advantages. So I don't think I'll permanently stunt my children if I never get around to teaching them.

Random Conversation:
DOB: I love the smell of Crayola crayons. Basically for the same reason you like the smell of your grandpa's cigarettes.
QOC: Your grandpa smoked crayons?

Random Observation:
If you have a baby who is learning to pull himself up, you should either always wear long, sturdy pants in his presence or shave your legs.

The Sorely Trying Day

DOB wanted me to chronicle last Friday in the hopes that we would reread it next year and remember to watch a fireworks display close to home. It's so difficult to recapture the overwhelming nature of everyday difficulties, but I will try.

So we were all tired and cranky after not only staying out past eleven on Tuesday night, but leaving for the airport a six on Thursday morning to welcome home DOB's sister and a friend from Taiwan. We survived Thursday surprisingly well, but when Friday came we were all quite tired.

D1 and I spent the morning at loggerheads over the issue--I'm sure I could have settled this in five minutes on a normal day--of whether her baby and bear could drink real water or would have to settle for imaginary water. I finally distracted her with playdough. (Anyone who thinks small children have a short attention span has never encountered them in their natural habitat.) D2 climbed around on things and clonked his head intermittently, as is his custom, with a bit more crankiness than usual.

We went to the chiropractor, which was a good diversion, and when we got home it was nearly eleven. All the better, I thought, we'll have an early lunch and then I'll put them to bed. I was more than ready for both, myself. I soon realized I had forgotten to feed D2 since early that morning, and as far as he was concerned, lunch should have started half an hour ago. So I begged him to give me a couple of minutes to attend to some personal business, and then I settled down to nurse him. D1, meanwhile, was beginning to protest that she wanted some lunch, too. My tolerance level for other people's misery was skating close to zero. Still, I thought, if I can just make it to naptime.

Then I heard running water. It was not any appliance obligingly doing its work without my input. It was the toilet, and by the time I realized what it was and got in there, two crying children following me, the bathroom was an inch deep in water. Despite an overwhelming wave of panic, I managed to stop the water by unorthodox means, threw any towels within sight on the floor, shut the door and went back to feeding D2.

We were mostly through with his feeding when D1 asked to go potty. This could not be done in the customary spot, but we went to the other bathroom. Unfortunately, it was too late. Doubly unfortunately, it was her first accident of the day, which meant she was still in regular underwear and there was a puddle at some unknown location amidst all the boxes and piles of things to be put in boxes. D2 cried some more.

I went back into the other bathroom to get dry pants and realized water was seeping under the door into the carpet. I grabbed all the remaining towels in the house and threw them on the floor. This helped, but now I needed a place to put them, which required taking the drying rack covered with clean diapers and pants out of the tub. Since I never did figure out where my bag of clothespins went after the Christmas pageant, none of them were attached and several items fell off into the lake.

D2 was still crying. I set him in his chair and tried to finish his breakfast leftovers, but he was too tired to really eat. D1 had found the experience of using Papa's potty so thrilling that she wanted to repeat it, even though she didn't need to go. I had her sit down and eat lunch, but she whined through most of it and finally declared herself all done and ready for a nap. I declared D2 the same and put them both down as quickly as I could. It was not quite noon. I sat down and ate a little myself, as I cannot sleep on an empty stomach, and lay down to take a nap.

Usually, on a day like that, everyone sleeps a long, long time and awakes in a much better disposition. I think they were too hungry to sleep long. Anyway, D1 woke up at one o'clock, just as I had had enough nap to get thoroughly groggy. I figured he was still hungry and fed him some more. He ate obligingly but showed no interest in going back to sleep. I decided I didn't care and at least he would be safe in his playpen. So I put him back down and ignored his occasional protests. By this time D1 was beginning to protest, too, but my legs were unwilling to move.

At about two I finally gathered enough strength to get up and go get D1, who was protesting with good cause, having had another accident. The bathroom still wasn't clean. D2 wanted to follow the action wherever it went. The house looked like Thing 1 and Thing 2 had just visited. I was still too tired to move.

DOB, meanwhile, had been apprised of the situation and did what he could: he called his sister and entourage to come over and help. The thought of people actually seeing the state things were in moved me, and after sitting down and reading a few stories the ducklings were in a better mood for playing alone, so I frantically cleaned up the bathroom, put the surviving hanging laundry away, cleared the dining room table and consolidated the dishes into the sink. There was plenty left to ask for help, which they graciously supplied.

I'm still tired, although today it's been complicated by trying to play softball yesterday and being too stiff to move. What I want is a workout, a leg massage, three hours alone to clean up the house, and someone else to fix dinner. What I might get, if I work hard, is a workout and half an hour of intermittent opportunities to get dinner and the dishes moved along.

But at least the toilet hasn't overflowed so far!

And the winner is . . .

DJ! At least, he got the answer that agreed with mine, perhaps because he was the only one who interpreted the song the same way I did. (Technically, yes, the little one isn't "left out" when the ants go marching one by one, but he always stops so he always gets left behind and has to hurry to catch up.)

The easiest way I can think of to set up the problem is to mentally line up all the numbers involved (10)(9)(8)(7)(6)(5)(4)(3)(2). You must include 7, because no other number under 10 is divisible by 7. If you keep 9 and 8, you don't need 6, because any number divisible by 9 and 8 will be divisible by 6. You can eliminate 4, 3, and 2 for the same reason. You already have a 2 in 8, so you don't need it in 10--just keep the 5.

That leaves 9x8x7x5=2520, plus the little one.

Shopping Aldi's

After we moved, we discovered that our grocery bill had jumped $15-20 a week, an amount that adds up very quickly since we, like many people, eat every week.

Despite two growing appetites, we were pretty sure we weren't eating that much more, and I watched carefully to see that no frozen dinners were leaping into the cart. After a few months of calculations, we finally realized the cause: I didn't have an Aldi's close enough to shop at any more.

With that kind of money out of pocket, DOB was even willing to take on part of the shopping excursion himself. So he found an Aldi's close to work and now plans to go there at least every other week.

To prepare himself mentally for this exercise, he read up on the Evil Empire. Apparently they're even worse than Wal-mart. They actually pay employees high wages in an attempt to bribe them out of joining unions! Can you imagine? They strong-arm the oppressed, like Kellogg's! And they make obscene profits of 3%, twice the standard in the industry!

Furthermore, since they're privately owned, they don't tell anyone what they're doing with all that money!

I know I, for one, would rather spend more on my groceries in order to support greater inefficiency in the grocery industry and public inquiry into the private spending habits of reclusive German tycoons. But DOB is not convinced.

Packing up

I actually am packing now. (Well, not now, although I should be.)

I have learned something from the last few moves, but not enough.

One thing I am doing differently this time is making sure my good dishes are packed with the company placemats and napkins, and the everyday dishes with the everyday dishtowels. Somehow they got swapped last time, which was most inefficient in unpacking.

Also, I am NOT going to wash everything once it gets there. I'm putting clean dishes and towels in clean boxes, and they will go in a closed truck or car. They're not going to get any dirtier than if I was taking them to a potluck. So if you come to visit us in the next couple of months, consider yourself warned.

I am not following the excellent advice I read to pack stuff in the same boxes as last time so as not to create doubts on the labeling. Every time we have moved we operate on the grab-a-box-and-get-moving principle. A few more moves on this system, and every box will have had the chance to hold every household item. We must waste a terrific amount of Sharpie ink.

I have learned that cheap packing tape does not save money.

I still haven't learned how to keep track of the scissors, tape, and pen. Do not offer helpful advice like "Put them down in the same place each time," or even, "Wear big pockets and put them in the pockets." If you think that is helpful, you do not have a random mind and cannot possibly understand.

D1 likes to help, of course. She wants to dictate the labels on the boxes, which would be unclear as she only knows four letters. Fortunately we're doing "CHINA" today, and as that begins and ends with her two favorite letters, she is satisfied.

D2, who could be parked in a carseat six months ago, is now ready to try climbing the piles of boxes. I had better go find him.

Fourth of July

We had a good Fourth of July, which, as I grow more maternal, means no burns, bites, or temper tantrums. I accessorized a new skirt, courtesy of Their Majesties, with a string of beads swiped from D1's bead-stringing pouch. I figure at this stage of life I can get away with it. D2 loved playing with it.

D1 got blindsided by a volleyball being used as a kickball, but recovered quickly. She and DOB had a fabulous time on the hayride. D2 was amazingly still and willing to watch all the excitement from the confines of my lap. They both remained fairly cheerful right up through the fireworks show, which was spectacular but eventually put D2 to sleep.

During the day I had a chance to speak with a friend we only see occasionally. Her little girl is within a few weeks of D1 in age. We chatted about the joys of potty training and the lives of toddlers. Then she mentioned her news. This past early spring, while I was struggling to adjust to another baby in the house, she and her husband were burying a tiny baby with the same name.

We talked through the causes and consequences, and then she asked about my family. She hadn't heard about my father's remarriage and we talked about the adjustments people were making.

Later on, I wondered. Would I trade the little boy wiggling on my lap to be able to confide in my mother? Would she trade the intactness of the family she walked away with to be able to play with her son?

I don't know. I can't know. I'm glad I don't have to know. It is a mercy that the things which are so far beyond our wisdom are also so far beyond our control.

I Need to Keep This Link Around

This is something to read on "I am an Evil Mommy" days. Even right before a thunderstorm, I can outdo daycare.

It would seem logical to post . . .

. . . that we did, in fact, close on our house this Thursday, though it was a matter of nail-biting suspense until the last minute, with mortgage-company calls, late attorney, departing seller and all sorts of fun and games.

Yesterday we started working on getting the floors washed, waxed/sealed and ready to move in. There's little else to be done. Here's two pictures to show some of the work we didn't have to do:
Our sellers live right down the road; they have done this for several houses around the neighborhood. Apparently the husband gave up more lucrative work in the building industry just because this is what he likes to do. I like that. I also like people devoting their time to conserving things, refurbishing things, and making their own neighborhood a better place to live rather than just moving on to something new. Plus, it's nice to think that if the wall falls down, we know where they live.

Today, we got a beautiful, Danish-make table with pull-out leaves and three matching chairs at a yard sale for $50. It should round out perfectly what we need in the kitchen. The seller even drove DOB over to drop it off at our house. DOB found it unusual to ride in a truck sporting a skeleton-in-a-suit bobble-head on the dashboard, but apparently his taste in home decor was better than his taste in truck decor.

While we suffered from a shortage in tables, we still have too many bookcases and china hutches. (Unfortunately, they are not easily converted.) But we think we can squeeze most of the bookcases into our bedroom. What better place for them?

More Card Games for Nerds

Actually, what we've come up with is an ubercard game, named Calvincard. The rules are simple: you take a deck of cards, and after that you make up rules as you go along. A new rule can elaborate on an old one, but not contradict it flat-out, like the blessings of fairy godmothers.

You can start out taking turns making new rules, but even that will probably change as the game progresses. You keep going until you are either satisfied with the game, or it has broken out into fisticuffs.

The resulting game this week was rather fun, but I cannot yet report on it because DOB's last rule about scoring grew so complex my brain went on overload and I had to go take a nap. As fun or more fun than playing the game, however, was calculating out the probability of all the different hands to determine how they should be ranked.

OK, maybe we are hopeless nerds.

And on that note, here's a fun little puzzle:

The ants go marching one by one, two by two, all the way up to ten by ten. But the little one is always left out by himself. What's the smallest number of ants that could do this? Bonus points for a particularly simple process to find out.

Alphabet Game

Which I originally saw at the Equuschick at the Common Room, but then actually copied from Mama Squirrel.

A - Accent: People from Seattle don't have accents. It's everyone else who does.
B - Breakfast Item: Two eggs, minimum. Three on Sundays.
C - Chore you hate: Grocery shopping
D- Dad's Name: His Majesty
E - Essential everyday item: Something to get my hair out of my face.
F - Flavor ice cream: Mint chocolate chip
G - Gold or Silver?: Gold
H - Happy Place: Under a shady tree
I - Insomnia: Oh my yes. Very bad combination with newborns.
J - Job - Love or want to leave: Love, except potty training.
K - Kids: Two.
L - Living arrangements: 2 bedroom apartment in mega-complex, but counting the days.
M - Mom's birthplace: West Texas, I think. Unless it was East Texas. Definitely Texas.
N - Number of houses you've lived in: Six.
O - Overnight hospital stays: Three related to my children's births. I doubt I stayed overnight when I was born, so that's probably it.
P - Phobia: Grates in the pavement.
Q - Question: Wherefore?
R - Religious Affiliation: Christian, but after that not so sure.
S - Siblings: to borrow from my aunt, Wondergirl, Techboy, (Me), Toolboy, (Book)Worm, Rocketboy, and the brother who lives so far away he needs no online nickname.
T - Time you wake up: Far too soon.
U - Unnatural hair colors you've had: None, alas. Definitely want to try green.
V - Vegetable you refuse to eat: Cooked cabbage. I hid the cabbage soup recipe so my mother would stop making it.
W - Worst habit: Not paying attention to people who are talking to me.
X - X-rays you've had: Dental and chiropractor. Never for anything interesting.
Y - Yummy: Chocolate-peanut butter cookies. Garlic bread. Fried eggs, not quite set.
Z - Zodiac sign: Sagitarrius, which I know because I like to read calendars.

Does NOT work for me

Flipping through a women's magazine at the chiropractor's office (an activity whose usefulness corresponds with the amount of time I have to devote to it while keeping the ducklings from playing with the adjusting table), I spotted a brief piece on speed cleaning tips for a clean kitchen in five minutes.

Essentially, if you had nothing on your counters, you could wipe them all down in two minutes. Then a quick wipe on the appliances and a dab at the floor with a mop, and voila! A clean kitchen.

Not mentioned was the part about scraping globs of tomato soup out from under the toddler's table, washing the three pots from supper and a frying pan that never got cleaned after breakfast, or even the stack of plates and bowls. Much less were there any helpful suggestions on where on earth I could store my blender, crock pot, tea kettle, Kitchenaid, and grain grinder, all of which I use weekly if not daily and the last two of which I can hardly even lift, anywhere besides the counter.

So, if you only use your kitchen to order pizza, or if you just spent forty-five minutes cleaning it, you can clean it in five minutes. I feel so much better now.

I do not think that word means what you think it means

We now return to our regularly scheduled programming with a report on the curious language spoken by D1.

She refers to bandaids as "rubber bands."

Her ride-on Radio Flyer, which she received for her birthday, is known as a "mike." So is the piece of equipment Papa rides on for exercise. We don't know why she doesn't call it a bike, as she can certainly say /b/. D2 tries to keep up, although he hasn't figured out how to get on yet.

When one of we parental folk suspects that a visit to the ladies' room might be in order for her, we ask, "Do you think she needs a T-R-Y?"

So last night when she said, "D1 have T-R-I!" we dutifully took her to the ladies' room, whereupon by her protests she indicated that that was not what she meant. And she came back out asking, "D1 have T-R-I?" So we're still not sure what she thinks that means, but we're pretty sure she can't actually spell. Yet.

Mozart has nothing on D2.

We need a larger pool.

Dropouts, Pt. 2

Some more thoughts on it: Mental MultiVitamin responds with some kind words and profound thoughts. Amy, a fellow lawyer-turned-mommy, on using stupid people to raise the next generation. Plenty of discussion ongoing over at the Choosing Home blog.

And some more of my own, typed with a finger on each hand that has been smashed in separate wrangles with the washing machine. Life at home is not without its perils.

There is one thing on which I firmly agree with Ms. Hirshman: Work matters. Work should be significant, meaningful, real. It should contribute to a flourishing life, not be a means to make enough money to go spend time somewhere else. I was blessed to have such paid work, and I hope to do something similar again someday. My husband is blessed to have such work.

Ironically, that is one of the reasons I am at home. I want my children to believe that, to be equipped to find work that matters to them, and the current public education system and its private knock-offs seem designed to instruct children in how to trade boredom for petty rewards.

If Ms. Hirshman is indeed concerned about how many people are disaffected with the world of work, perhaps she should stop and consider whether there isn't something wrong with our society and economy, instead of simply berating them to all get back into it.

I have an idealistic notion that any necessary work can be meaningful to the right person, and that in the perfect society, no one would hate their job. But whether we can reach such a state or not, I don't think we will ever get to the state Ms. Hirshman seems to desire, where people think their jobs are more important than their families.

She points out that Mozart would not, on his deathbed, have regretted the time he devoted to his work. Probably not. But Mozart's work was his ticket to earthly immortality--something that, regardless of their belief in the immortality of the soul, most human beings desparately want.

Most of us, even the "elite," are not Mozart, or Shakespeare, or Julius Caesar. We cannot commission marble statues. We know that no matter how high we rise, and how prestigious our position, two years after retirement, when we return to the scene of our triumphs to visit a former colleague, the receptionist will smile at us blandly and say, "Who shall I say is here?"

The vast majority of human beings can, however, reproduce, and by so doing leave a permanent mark on the world. Yes, it's the stuff of tacky wall hangings: "The world will be a different place because I made a difference in the life of a child." But it's the same drive that raised the pyramids, and it's not going away. People will find their families more important than their work because their families will remember them; can hardly forget them even if they try.

Ms. Hirshman also deplores women wasting their intellect and training on such a small group of people as their immediate family. By this bias, the star of a local theater is wasting talent that could get her a bit part on television; the teacher of a class of twenty is wasting time that could be used to teach sixty; a boutique shop is wasting space that could be used by a Super Walmart.

The size of our immediate audience does not determine the size of our contribution to society. Some things can only be done in person, for a small number. That does not make them small deeds, nor does it limit their impact.

Ms. Hirshman complains that some woman is languishing at home who might have founded the next Starbucks. I have nothing against Starbucks in particular, but I don't think our country is lacking in chain restaurants. What it lacks is people who can cook a decent meal and stop long enough over it to think and talk.

When someone grows an organic tomato in their backyard; when someone stops to really listen to a child's question; when someone reads a book that challenges their thinking; when someone gets out the good china even though it will mean washing the dishes by hand; the world is a better place, even for those who are not there.

This is work that impacts society at large. Indeed, if it were not, Ms. Hirshman would hardly have cause for concern.

The Cake Fairy did visit

Behold the duck
It does not cluck.
A cluck it lacks.
It quacks.

~Ogden Nash

Dropouts

The wave of dicussion sloshes around the blogosphere again, and this time, I'm inspired not just to taste the spray, but to wade in. Specifically, I'm inspired by this question, which refers to the notorious book by Linda Hirshman, an excerpt of which is here. (Dated, curiously enough, before the Norman Conquest.)

The question, which I think deserves a fair answer, is this:
What are the implications, personal and political, of the choice many highly educated women make to bend their (advanced) education to the primarily quotidian pursuits of child care and housekeeping?

To clarify further, Hirshman believes that that great goal of humans throughout the history of Western civilization, the flourishing life, can only be reached by choosing a lucrative and prominent career path and storming full-steam down it to the end of one's days. She advises women not to study art, nor the contents of their refrigerator, nor to take time off from their jobs, for this will limit them from pursuing the other Grand Thing they might be doing.

I cannot deny that achieving One Great Thing with one's life can be a satisfying and flourishing way to live. But I do question whether that is the only manifestation of the flourishing life. If everyone is off pursuing a single end in a single-minded fashion, there is no one left to tie the loose ends together.

Division of labor is a wonderful idea. But it can be carried too far. Imagine a world where our laundry is all done by professional laundries, our food all cooked by professional kitchens, our entertainment all supplied by professional entertainers, and our confidences all received by professional counselors. Oh wait; you don't have to imagine such a world. It is the one we live in. But though each one of these things can no doubt be done very well professionally, and from time to time any one might make use of the professionals, when they are all done by different people something vital to human life is lost.

The lost thing is, I believe, a sense of wholeness. A sense of connection; a sense of who we are and how we fit in the world. If everyone is off pursuing one thing, no one has time to stop and look at all the things.

That is what I do. I am the hub of the wheel. I am the wall on which the paintings hang. I am the station where the trains come in. I say this with all modesty, not to brag about how well I do this job, but simply to point out that it is my job, as it is the job of everyone who keeps the home.

I say this with due consideration, as one who has worked at the job I always wanted, a job that meant going around and influencing people on ideas in which I truly believe. (Never mind what Ms. Hirshman would think of the ideas themselves; it's my passion for the work that matters here.) And a large part of the reason I quit and chose . . . CHOSE . . . to marry a patriarchal monster who would expect me to take care of any children we might have, was because I was dissatisfied, not with failure, but with success.

I could go around and speak to different groups; I could write articles and books; I could teach a class of students for a year. Ten years later, would anyone remember or care? Would anyone's life be different? Very little, at best. My influence might be relatively wide, but it was so very shallow.

I wanted something different. I wanted depth. I wanted to influence people, not just by talking to them, but by living with them. Day in and out for decades. I wanted to build and maintain not just a home, but a community. I wanted to stand up for the value of the life as a whole, not just life as a fragmented part.

To answer the question at the beginning, the personal and political implications of educated women opting to stay home is the recognition that life needs its generalists as well as its specialists; that depth of influence is as worthy an end as breadth of influence; that there is much, much more to life than making money and making partner.

As to why women do this more than men, beyond such obvious details as the inability of men's bodies to make baby food, I think it is simply because women are better at it than men. Women, on the whole, are more likely to see how much these things--life, home, beauty, manners--matter. They find it easier to look after it themselves than to persuade the men.

Ms. Hirshman does not see that these things matter. I am sorry for her that she does not, but a blind person is hardly a qualified critic of the path chosen by one who can see.

Now we are two

I think D1 had a good birthday. I didn't do anything spectacular. She poured water, she sorted buttons, and she helped me make a cake and salad. We made her a new crown for the occasion. We're having the official party on Sunday at Grandma's house.

Since I don't have any normal cake pans, I used a largish cheesecake pan and a smallish casserole pan to make two different-sized circles. I'm hoping the Cake Decorating Fairy will visit me tomorrow and show me how to turn them into a fluffy white duck. She used to visit me often, but I'm not sure she has my new address. If not, perhaps we'll have a fluffy white snowman birthday, which is what the cakes look like now. We could use the cold; it nearly reached 100 today, or so I've heard. I certainly didn't go outside to verify it.

The only fairy visiting me today was the Good Fairy, reminding me not to bop any fieldmice on the head, nor any other small, adorable people who might be getting on my nerves. D2 was cranky from his immunization, and the only thing that would make him happy was bouncing up and down on my scar, slobbering on my nose. I did dishes every chance all day and still couldn't catch up, and that was without trying to reclaim the ones that had been carried all through the house. I was doing potty-training wrong. I was teaching letter sounds wrong. I was crabby and could barely keep my voice within normal decibel ranges.

My black mood broke with the thunderstorm that started as DOB came in the door. My sanctification must not have progressed very far to be so easily affected by air pressure, but there it was. Supper was good. The children were happy (well, D2 still was in a fragile mood). D1 asked to go and made it on time. We had a party of cake crumbs and milk and birthday cards. I finished all the dishes.

DOB hid the ball for D1 behind the hamper. "There's a birthday present for D1 behind the hamper," he said.

She ran to look, and pulled it out, exclaiming, "Ball! Ball!" with delight.

Then she paused, and with indignation and concern in her voice, asked "Where D1's present?"

We explained that the ball was the present, and all was well.

Just before

Two years ago today, I was convinced D1 would never be born. A year ago, it seemed like she would never learn to walk. This year, it's potty training.

Somehow targets seem to recede in possibility the closer I draw to them. I could picture D1 driving away from home some day in the misty future, but it just seemed too hard for a baby who clung to the table for dear life to ever let go and walk. Before I had children, it was easy to imagine having them; having contractions ten minutes apart for three days was enough to convince me that giving birth was quite impossible. And on the 1537th run to the potty that comes thirty seconds too late, I become convinced that this new skill is likewise forever out of reach.

Growth and change are miracles that never grow old; waiting for them to happen sometimes does.

Anyway, in honor of D1's 2 year birthday eve, some favorite phrases:

Amazing--We are all amazing. So is she. And she'll be happy to tell you so.

No kiss, no squeeze--She has a strong sense of personal space, and sometimes she just doesn't feel like it when it's time to say goodbye to Papa. For thirty seconds, at least. (Interestingly, this is the only context in which she uses "no" so far. May it continue so as long as possible.)

Come another day--I don't know why she likes to chant that, but she does.

Today, tomorrow, yesterday and (cutest) tomorning--She's intrigued by the passage of time. She likes to talk about what things will come after other things, or what we will do first, or what we will do today or tomorrow or yesterday or on Sunday or Thursday. Maybe it's because I'm always talking out loud to try to remember what I'm doing. I look forward to the day when she can serve as my daily planner.

Booing--this is the game she and Papa play whereby one hides in the closet and jumps out at the other. When she is finished, it's "All done booing."

More Ambitions

Not only will moving to the new house make me suddenly more organized, it's going to turn me into an organic gardening diva.

Instead of the wan and weedy stalklings of tomatoes poking out of the rock-hard soil at the old house, I'm going to have a fluffy, rich no-till bed with an imbedded deep watering system (all made from scrounged materials).

I still will grow tomatoes, though. I know it's conventional, but it's conventional because homegrown tomatoes taste good and grow well in small spaces. Our backyard is a little small for sweet corn, and I doubt that anyone would eat arugula.

It really should be better than last time. It seemed like I could never make it outside back at the old house, and our only growing spot was on the side of the house, with a bland strip of lawn the only place for D1 to play

Now there are two of them, and they always want to go outside. D2, in particular, is so desparate for dirt that he will crawl over to the pile of beauty bark around the tree in front, just to get his hands grubby. With a backyard complete with bare muddy spot under the trees, I foresee hours of children happily occupied in the dirt, while I have a few moments here and there to build up my garden.

Plus, it's too late to plant anything this year, but early enough to work on improving the soil. So I should have a head start next year.

Amusing Ourselves to Death

Thanks to Devona's recommendation, I read The Disappearance of Childhood, by Neil Postman, and thought it would also be a good time to go on and read Amusing Ourselves to Death, which was one of those books I had always thought I should read but never gotten around to reading. Both were essentially on different facets of the same theme: That the printing press, when it was the main way people talked about important things, encouraged logical, abstract thinking; a division between children and adults; a respect for the past and permanence; and reason and facts as the basis for public discourse. That, on the other side, now that television has taken over as the primary medium, those things are being replaced by everything--religion, politics, science, education--being presented as entertainment, because television is only good at putting on a show.

Some resulting thoughts:

* We aren't getting a television. Not that we were before. Of course, that only helps so much, because the rest of the world is still watching and it still drives the culture.

* The television approach to the world is seen in books, now, too. Many books are now television on the page: all images and tiny snippets of information, with no effort at continuity or logic. This is true of books for adults and even more so of educational books for children. I don't know that it's possible or necessary to avoid this entirely, but it's definitely making me more circumspect about what books I choose. Certainly some books benefit from a lot of images--it's hard to learn to identify birds from a paragraph about the lateral tail feathers. But many times the pictures are taking the place of giving the child the opportunity to think.

* What about the internet? This book predates it. The internet is a hybrid; it's definitely more print-driven than television, but I think it's still for the most part controlled by the television model. Pictures outweigh words. Immediacy outweighs permanence. We scan rather than ponder. The very ease of using it makes us careless about what we say. Still, it's not as naturally hostile to thought and words as television; it is readily used for such purposes as reproducing out-of-print books, publishing magazines and articles, and even occasionally actually responding to what someone else said instead of dueling in soundbites. So I'm still willing to use the internet, albeit more circumspectly. As Postman points out, just asking the question, "What does this medium do to the message?" defuses much of the danger.

Adventures Day and Night

Last night DOB's cell phone received two wrong number calls in a row at 10 p.m. as we were about to go to bed. About 11:30, just as I was getting really soundly asleep, we got another--apparently the mistaken number calling back. DOB then turned the ringer off, which was good because another one came through a bit later. All this action awoke D2, who after some time convinced me that he was not going to go back to sleep without a full tummy.

You would think after that he would have had the good graces to sleep through until the alarm went off, but no, he awoke again at 4:30 and communicated the same information. (I keep thinking he's about to start sleeping through the night, but every time I'm sure it's about to occur he hits another growth spurt or cuts some more teeth.) I don't sleep well when I know an alarm is going to go off in the next hour, so that was the end of that.

So today I have been in a sleep-deprived state of grogginess and crabbiness, although I try to maintain calm for D1's benefit at least. When she is crabby for no reason, she has to go to her room until she can be happy, a process that usually takes 37 seconds. Yesterday I took away something she had gotten into, and as I put it away she stood next to me making curious "eh-hehh, eh-hehh" noises. Finally she decided to make it more explicit.

"D1 go to room?" she asked.

"Oh," I said, finally realizing that the noises were meant to be faked sobs. "Do you need to go to your room?"

"D1 happy now!" she said.

D2 also does his part to keep me from feeling dull. Many times people will counsel a mother with two close together that there need be no rush potty-training before the baby is born. "It's not that hard to have two in diapers," they say.

That is quite true. What they don't mention is how well-nigh impossible it is to have one potty-training while the other one is out where he can interfere. D2 is now indicating that he would like to go in the potty, too. Head-first. Fortunately his crow of triumph echoes a bit strangely in the bathroom, so I can tell where he is and rush to intercept.

I haven't come up with a good strategy for keeping him out of the bathroom while keeping it accessible to D1. I didn't have this problem with her; she just wasn't that interested in the bathroom, probably because at that time it wasn't a center of family activity.

Midway through the day I realized my fatigue was not being improved by a most uncharitable attitude toward the wrong-number caller of the previous night. "I should pray for him instead," I thought.

"Lord," I prayed, "please bless the guy who called us last night." And then a happy thought occurred to me.

"To be specific, please bless him with many small children. Maybe triplets. Amen."

Links at last

I've been most derelict at posting links to blogs for the simple and unjustifiable reason that it seemed unbearably tedious. And if I ever switched templates or somebody moved, I'd have to do it all over again.

But now I have discovered Bloglines! One simple cut-and-paste, and a lot of tweaking, and an updated list of blogs is ready to go! It can change and add as I do.

The color over on Introducing the World is still bizarre, but it's a lot better than nothing.

That and I'm always paranoid that I'll offend someone by not linking. Which is silly. Are people really that dependent on my good graces? I think not.

I better link DOB, though; he's someone who just might care. But if you're not included, rest assured that I tried, I really did, and the feed didn't work right for some reason.

Rest assured, also, that your position in the blogroll is based on Bloglines organizing everything alphabetically and has nothing to do with my true priorities. Those will remain a dark mystery. (Actually, I usually do things alphabetically because otherwise I lose my place.)

Moving musings

Current plans have us moving on July 15, scarcely more than a month away.

I should probably be packing up boxes of books and spare dishes now, according to schedules for moving. These moving plans are probably created by the same people who want you to start making up a guest list and shopping for a wedding dress a year in advance of the wedding. I just don't like being that prepared. I had scarcely met DOB a year before the wedding.

Besides, it was quite awful during the last move when we realized that all our books were still packed. We had to go out and get a library card first thing just to survive. We wouldn't want to prolong that experience.

What I do have noble plans of doing in the next week or two is getting all the boxes that never got fully unpacked consolidated back into their original boxes again, as their contents have gotten somewhat muddled while they sat in D1's room or in the closet.

Once again, I have great hope that moving into a new place will make me more organized. I know circumstances cannot change character. On the other hand, I have discovered that I really do like things at least somewhat neat and can get them and keep them that way provided I have a slight surplus of energy after everyone is fed, and I can organize things in my own way, which requires spreading everything out and stirring it around into different piles and boxes until I hit upon a satisfactory scheme.

At all of our previous houses, I have had nowhere to do this except in the main living areas. Such a mess in the main living area depresses me, so I never get it out. Further, although the ducklings no doubt mean to be helpful, their assistance in transporting things from one pile to another somehow never quite meshes with my own organizational schemes. So the sad reality has been that D1 has had one stack or another of boxes in her room since birth. And since the only time I could organize would be while she naps, and she naps in her room, it doesn't happen.

But this time, it is going to be different. I have an attic! And a basement! I can work on the projects while they are asleep. I can find a home for things! Make decisions and throw things away! Keep the boxes that go together, together! Maybe even put labels on all the boxes!

At least, I hope so.

Eating my words

I am, I confess, given to hyperbole. Dramatic understatements and, perhaps more often, overstatements, sometimes pass from a spice to a staple in my conversation.

Unfortunately, I now have a toddler who can repeat what I say.

So this afternoon, as I put a cranky D2 in his high chair for lunch, D1 knew what the problem was.

"D1 starving to death!"

In fact, it was a general problem. She stood and watched me spooning food into D2's mouth, cheerfully chanting, "D2 starving to death. Mama starving to death. Papa starving to death. D1 starving to death. Starving to death. Starving to death. Starving to death."

I finally got her distracted by singing "Five Green and Speckled Frogs," which turned her towards chanting "Nice and cool, nice and cool."

Meanwhile, our lunch was waiting on DOB finishing balancing the checkbook and riding his exercise bike. He did the first and went into the bedroom to ride the bike. Only first, he lay down on the bed to contemplate the meaning of existence.

D1 followed him, propped her elbows on the bed, and observed with approval, "Papa takes forever!"

Now where did she get that phrase? A little while later I had lunch dished up and went in to ask if he was almost ready.

"Just a few more minutes," he said.

"Well," I said, "uh . . . Don't take forever."

"And why not?"

"Because I'm, uh, starving to death."

Smoothing things over

I've noticed over the past few years that DOB prefers to smooth over potentially troublesome issues in certain contexts. Say a total stranger comments on the existence of our two children and inquires as to our future plans. (Why this is a matter for public inquiry, I've never understood.)

"Oh, we'd like to have a third someday," DOB will say, casually.

Or the lady giving away a toddler bed makes a disparaging remark about the area schools.

"Oh, well," he says, "We're probably going to do private or home school or something."

Is this accurate, I wonder? Technically, both statements are quite correct, rather like the fellow who said, "Not in English," when asked if he had read Dante's Inferno. Of course, we'd like to have quite a few more than three, and we hadn't even considered private schools, much less "something." But is this the business of total strangers? Would it accomplish anything to make issues out of our lifestyle choices unnecessarily?

DOB, being a politician and a salesman by training, prefers not to make any more enemies than necessary.

My mother, who was neither, approached these things quite differently. One time we had a flat tire on a country road. While we were considering what to do, she spotted a mother and daughter standing out by the road, waiting for the school bus. She sent me off to walk the half-mile to the nearest home of an acquaintace, while she approached the lady, discovered she had briefly tried homeschooling and given it up, and devoted the rest of the time until my brother appeared with the spare tire to exhorting her to reconsider. My mother also had a personality that could generally get away with saying astonishing things without making a great many enemies.

I suppose there's a place for both kinds of people in the world. I think there's some value in waiting until people know you and realize you're not a total wacko before they find out about your stranger behaviors. If it's a real matter of right or wrong or direct attack, I don't mind saying something. But not everyone needs to be a polarizing force.

Eventually we'll probably have enough oddities that our mere existence will excite astonishment. Already I have trouble when people try to make conversation with D1 on standard issues of toddler interest. I don't want them to think she's stupid just to be staring at them blankly, but I also don't want to make a big deal out of the fact that she's never tasted fast food and never seen a children's TV program.

Yesterday at the park another mom came with two little boys and we chatted a bit while the children played. I mentioned that I was from Seattle.

"Oh, I love Seattle!" she said, "I've lived sixteen different places, and this is the most conservative place I've ever lived. It's crazy conservative!"

"Sixteen different places," I said, "Wow, that's a lot of moving."

WFMW: Ziplocs in the Diaper Bag

Although this idea is most immediately relevant to people who have children in multiple sizes of diapers, the general concept is helpful for anyone who ever packs anything:

Use Ziplocs.

When D2 was born I started keeping one Ziploc of diapers and any other necessary changing apparatus for him, and a different Ziploc for D1. Thus I could see at a glance how many diapers of each were there. Two more bags held the spare outfits for each. Yet another bag for a snack, if needed, or for blankies and nursing drape, and not only could I actually find things in the diaper bag, clean things stayed clean. Also, if they were going to different destinations I could easily split up their supplies.

Bedtime for Bonzo

He did this all on his own. Once again a baby doll has turned itself into a young monkey. Try to dandle him on your knee and you'll find yourself a climbing post. Try to toss him in the air and you'll find his toenails digging into your collarbone. Set him down and he makes a beeline for the most dangerous item in the room.

He can wave bye-bye, at least sometimes. He is developing a sense of fear, although for reasons not clear to us diving off large pieces of furniture is perfectly safe, in his estimation, while the descent of the Good Fairy onto Little Bunny Foo-Foo is fraught with terror.

I put him on the rocking horse last week. D1 rocked him and they looked at each other and laughed and laughed and laughed.

D1 and I have a Theological Conversation (I Think)

D1 is at the stage of talking where she really can say quite a lot, and is obviously thinking about quite a lot more, and if you spend all day listening to her you can guess at a fair amount of what she's saying, but you're never quite sure. So this is my best guess at what went on yesterday, leaving out all the ramblings I couldn't quite follow:

D1 (flipping through her Bible and singing): Singing God.
QOC: Oh, are you singing about God? That's good.
D1 (after some more humming and mumbling): Another God.
QOC: No, there's not another God. There's only one God. You could sing another song to God, though.
D1 (after another interval): Two gods?
QOC: No, only one God.
D1 (holding up her index finger): One God. One God.

Crazy Week

So last week we had: two cars that wouldn't start. A family picnic. A trip to the new house to discuss cabinets, followed by a trip to the hardware store to make an appointment to buy cabinets and dinner out*. An impromptu all-day field trip to the art museum and conservatory to kill time until going to the hardware store to buy the cabinets. (The hardware store was by far the best field trip.) Company. (This actually helped, as DOB lent a hand with the cleanup.) A visit to a new church.

Which may not sound too bad, but you must remember all this was done with two small children in tow, one of whom is at a critical and labor-intensive stage of potty-training; and it was all done without ever breaking down and buying premade food.

Today I folded a lot of laundry.

*The cheapskate version of dinner out: a big bowl of clean-out-the-fridge pasta salad eaten at the mall food court if it's too hot or cold to eat at the park.

Ten things about U

Which are actually ten things about me and what I think of the letter U. The game is, you get a letter and have to select ten words beginning with that letter. Then you must explain why you chose those words. And so, of course, when everyone else gets letters like "C" and "S" that allow them to say nice things, I get U. Hmmmm.

Ukelele--It's such a fun word to say. I'm pretty sure my mysterious antique four-string banjo is not a ukelele, though. It's just a weird four-string banjo.

Unreasonable--Being awake at 4:30 a.m. when I only got to bed at 11:30 last night and have to get up at 5:30. I think I'm being paranoid that I got food poisoning when in reality I just feel queasy because I haven't had enough sleep. But because I'm just a tad paranoid, I can't sleep. Vicious cycle.

Underwear--What should end up in the hamper, but too often doesn't.

Umbrella--I don't own an umbrella. I haven't used one since I moved from Seattle. Out here, you can usually just wait for the storm to pass. I don't really mind getting wet, either. And I don't have a free hand to carry one.

Ulaan Bataar--The capital of Mongolia. Mongolia is one of the areas I find particularly fascinating, along with Patagonia, Hungary, Basque country in Spain, Iceland, and Wales. Basically anywhere relatively exotic-sounding that isn't hot all the time.

Ucomics--We don't have a subscription to Ucomics.com, so we have to check our favorites every two weeks or we can't read them. We missed two days this past time. However, we have a subscription to Daily Ink, because they don't have hardly any available for free. Our favorites are Calvin and Hobbes, FoxTrot, and Baby Blues.

Universe--It's such a fascinating place. I'm glad I live in it. I'm glad God made it.

Ulnar Nerve--This is the technical name for the funnybone, which I bang quite frequently.

Ultrasound--What I decided would be a preferrable medical intervention to a C-section about 20 minutes before I had a C-section with D2. I avoided the ultrasound, though!

Unity--I have mixed feelings about unity. On the one hand, it's nice for everyone to get along. On the other hand, it's quite boring. What I would like is for everyone to disagree, but politely.

Do you want to play? Of course you do! Leave a comment and I'll assign you a letter. Unfortunately (there's another U, but I've already done my ten), we don't yet have any magnetic letters, so you will simply place yourself open to my potentially-malignant whims.

Works for Me Wednesdays: Menu Planning for the Consistency Impaired

I always vowed I would not use menu plans, because a) how boring it would be to have it all set down what you would eat three Thursdays from now, and b) it's not as frugal (supposedly) as just shopping from the sales and cooking with what you have.

Sometime after D2 was born, however, my entire food-planning brain fried. I bought things that rotted in the fridge, and then didn't have the right ingredients to make anything I could think of to make. I started cooking too late in the day. I knew I needed to have something written down in advance or supper simply wasn't going to happen.

I finally realized something. Pretty much everything I buy falls into one of three categories: a) It never comes on sale, or doesn't come on as often as I need it (milk, eggs, certain health-food stuff); b) It can be bought in large quantities and stored or frozen when it's on sale (meat, cheese, bread, canned goods--the big-ticket stuff); or c) Something in the same general category comes on sale every week (produce). So menu-planning doesn't have to keep me from shopping the sales.

I sat down and wrote out a four-week plan of our favorite meals. I try to have most of them fit into what I call the "pot-and-a-bowl" category: a pot of main dish and a bowl of salad make a balanced meal. At most, I have to fix biscuits or rice on the side. This cuts down on dishes. Only the "pot" category is written down. I can then adapt the "bowl" in accordance with which produce was on sale this week.

I also wrote two overlapping menu plans, one for hot weather and one for cold weather, using the same basic ingredients. Thus on the day we would have white chicken chili if it was cold, I make a white bean and chicken salad if it's hot. This allows me to adapt to unexpected changes in the weather. And if I just can't stand the thought of what's on the menu, I have enough slack from stuff already stored to fix something else.

Now I only shop the sales for things I will actually use, and I hardly ever forget to take something out of the freezer in time to thaw. There's enough flexibility that I don't get bored. And supper actually gets to the table on time.

House Repainting Proposal

Thanks to SK for the picture.

Miscellaneous

We returned from our biannual pilgrimage to DOB's grandfather's home yesterday and so far no one has broken out in poison ivy, ticks, sunburn, or chiggers, so I think we survived unscathed.

D2 spent much of his time trying to pull hair out of the cat. Fortunately the cat was a tolerant one. I don't think I would have the nerve to have an animal with small children.

DOB's aunt offered to bring out some of her granddaughter's toys for the ducklings to play with. I thought, "They have only a few hours to play in real, live woods--don't bring out anything plastic to distract them!" We instead took our regular pilgrimage down to throw rocks in the creek.

D2 would also like us to note that he cut his first tooth and sat himself up for the first time on Sunday. He cut his second one at some disputed time between then and this evening. Sometime in the past week, he also figured out how to make rude noises by blowing into skin. Since his own arm is rather small, he usually uses my arm or leg or foot. Being a little boy, he thinks this quite hilarious.

The Star-Nosed Sneetches

Were, of course, the best Sneetches on the Beaches, owing to their superiority at certain potty-related skills. I initially put up a paper on the wall for her to put the stars on, but she quickly learned to see that as only a temporary storage spot, and would take them off to make cards, or simply to wear. For a while last week, she decided the best place to wear them was on her nose. I think she got that idea from Papa.

Although we are far from done, things are definitely beginning to click. In consequence, our house is a veritable constellation. I had one on my sock, but it must have fallen off.

Another Change of Territory

A month ago or thereabouts, we were planning to stay in this apartment at least two years. Maybe longer. Then we would probably move to a house somewhere similarly on the outskirts of the city area.

Last week we thought we would look around to see what was in our price range and what neighborhood we liked so we would be ready to move in January.

Yesterday we bought a house in the city. It was one of those love-at-first-sight things. Hopefully not a love-is-blind thing.

It's a house like Grandma's house. Like The Little House. It's a friendly house and it likes us. We like it.

It has a big attic to play in on rainy days while the rain patters on the roof. It has a big basement with a workbench and a storeroom and a big open area to play in on hot days and maybe turn into a school room someday. It has a small but quite useable backyard to play in on all the other days and grow tomatoes along the fence. It has a deck and a front porch with room for two rockers for the parents to sit on and sip lemonade while the kids run around the front yard, chasing fireflies. It's in a neighborhood of other little houses where kids ride their bikes and people stroll down the sidewalks.

On a more practical standpoint, it has just been completely remodeled with new furnace, air conditioning, floors, paint, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. It is, we know, more frugal and proper to get one of these houses before it is fixed up and do the work ourselves. We also know, from experience, that we have not the time, energy, skill, or patience to do such a thing, and the extra amount charged for the work done sounded quite reasonable.

We are not entirely blind to its faults. The closets date from the era when one had an everyday dress and a Sunday-go-to-meeting dress. There is no garage. The attic stairs would daunt an Anasazi Indian. Perhaps worst of all, it is green. Mint green.

But we love it.

Now we just have to find a way to get out of our lease, in which we agreed to give our right arms and our first-born child if we left before January. D1 objects to this arrangement, as she wants to go climb the stairs.

Some positive developments

Two mornings in a row this week D1 needed CPR (that would be a Critical Potty Run) right while I was feeding D2 his breakfast. Two mornings in a row I set the bowl of food down on his tray without realizing it, and returned several minutes later to find the food still on the tray. And on his shirt. And down inside the chair. And on the floor.

This morning, however, was different. Instead of being up at the crack of dawn asking for breakfast, she still hadn't uttered a peep until after D2 was finished with his meal. I went in to check on her and discovered that I had left a book within reach of her crib and she had pulled it in and was quietly reading. I don't think she got switched at the hospital.

Maybe I'll set a nice selection on her dresser and see if my mornings aren't a little calmer.

D2 has mastered the army crawl and now has perpetual rug burns on his arms and legs from doing it too fast. He seems determined to skin his nose on the patio before he even learns to walk. D1, who a few months ago wanted to have her hand held and preferrably be carried at every opportunity, now pulls her hand down to her side and says, "D1 walk by 'elf." It's a little sad, but not very.

Mothering Types

Your type is: entp —The “Independence” Mother
“When I held my babies, I always faced them outward so they could take in the world.”
Full of energy and confident in her own self-sufficiency and competence, the ENTP mother encourages her children—as a role model and as a teacher—to be independent and confident on their own in the world.
A “big picture” person, she points out options and possibilities along the way. Objective and logical as well, the ENTP wants her children to evaluate their choices and learn from the consequences of their own decisions.
The ENTP mother is resourceful and action-oriented. She likes going places and doing things with her children, exploring all that life has to offer. She is less concerned with rules, routines, and schedules. Introducing her children to new concepts and activities, challenging them, and stimulating their intellectual development are top priorities.

Quiz is here.

I found this moderately interesting; it's just the standard Meyers-Briggs typing applied to parenting styles. Of course it makes everyone sound good, so we can all be happy Being Ourselves. But then, there's plenty of Mommy Guilt going around, anyway, so that's probably just as well. It also annoys me when people use "I'm not a mother-type" as an excuse either not to have children or not to raise them personally. (Note: I am NOT encouraging psychopaths to have children.)

I am definitely not a stereotypical good mother. I do not drop everything to kiss their boo-boos, unless I see actual blood, and then I'm certainly not going to kiss it. Eww. I do not bathe them daily. I clean the house sporadically and usually am missing several necessary items. I just finished sewing a skirt, no doubt at severe damage to D2's psyche, who kept waking up from his nap just as I had the machine threaded, the fabric pinned, and everything lined up.

But I am good at a few things. I take them outside all the time. I find them new "toys" constantly (mostly in my kitchen cupboards and the mailbox). I talk about things with them, show them new things, read them lots of books. I step back and wait for them to figure things out for themselves. And I think I'm taking enough care of them that they will survive to adulthood with their bodies and souls relatively intact. So it's OK; I don't need to hand them off to someone else who's nicer or more organized. God meant for them to be my kids and me to be their mother.

There's no quiz for fathers, who do not angst about such things, but I think you can just change the pronouns. DOB definitely sounds like the "Individual Integrity" father. (INTJ)

Thoughts on Societal Evolution

~*~
On Saturday we viewed a house that had evidently been cleaned up and remodeled after an estate sale. Along the freshly-painted walls someone had taped "before" pictures of room after room papered with tacky paper and crammed to the gills with junk of all descriptions.

People often blame such messes on people growing up during the Depression. (Which, of course, is not necessarily applicable. My grandparents' house is always in a state of spic-and-spanness that I will never achieve. And although they still have a chest of treasured toys from my mother's childhood, there is a distinct lack of used coffee filters being saved.)

It seems to me, though, that growing up any time before the recent explosion of consumer goods would make "saving stuff" a more appropriate survival strategy than "throwing stuff away." When goods are scarce, it makes sense to hang on to them. Here and now, you can have way more goods than you could ever use without even trying to buy stuff.

This, of course, makes things more difficult for people with packrattish tendencies. But for those who have grown up in a world where people throw things away, at least it's not quite so difficult. Natural packrats who grew up in a "save everything" world and find themselves in a disposable world have the worst time of it.

Therefore, I predict that over the next few decades such messes will become rarer. And I will believe DOB when he reassures me that, even though I am not very tidy and he likes to save his favorite childhood box, we will never turn out like that.

(The cleaned-up house, btw, is the house of our intermediate dreams, and we would be dancing in the streets if all the pieces fell into place for us to get it. But we shall see.)

~*~
Among many other thoughts on Beau Geste and its sequels, which I may post some time, was the noticing of a phenomenon I have often seen in books predating the mid-twentieth century. (L. M. Montgomery; Booth Tarkington; Louisa May Alcott) Teenagers play. They play various versions of Cops and Robbers (Cowboys and Indians; Spahis and Arabs) with great elaboration. They re-enact famous historical events or literary scenes. They make up newspapers. The girls may still care for their dolls.

They're doing all these things and then, bam, the boys are off to Harvard and the girls are packing up their hope chests. Or they're out getting jobs to support the family.

Do teenagers do this anymore? I don't remember playing much as a teenager, but then, I was sick for the early years and then got caught up in a more grown-up world. My brothers did, I know. DOB says he and his brothers did. (For that matter, they still do.) Playing army seems to be acceptable a lot longer than most other games. But in the World at Large, do modern teenagers play anything but the Nintendo?

Somehow childhood used to last a lot longer than it does now, and yet full adulthood started a lot sooner. Adolescence seems to be a much less useful tool for transitioning into adulthood than it's made out to be.

A New Slogan

I'm not a sloppy housekeeper.

I'm providing cognitive stimulation by varying the learning environment.

Now excuse me while I go prevent D2 from cognitively stimulating himself with the potato bag that got left in the living room.

Possibly a Useful Thought

(Prefatory note: I've been reading What's Going on in There?: How the Brain and Mind Develop in the First Five Years of Life by Lise Elliot, PH. D.)

We perceive our own emotions in the frontal lobes of the brain, and those areas start operating about six months. Younger babies may feel happy or sad, but, theoretically, they don't know they're happy or sad.

The right side is where we feel bad, and the left side is where we feel good. These areas continue to go through growth spurts throughout childhood, alternating rather than growing simultaneously.

So when your toddler is going through an inexplicably cranky week, you can think to yourself, "Ah, a growth spurt in the right frontal lobe."

Then again, maybe that wouldn't help much.

Speaking of Tenets

D1 is not yet up to reciting the key tenets of the faith, but she is acquiring an impressive knowledge of Bible stories. She loves paging through her picture Bible, reciting her own two-to-four word summaries of the Bible stories.

"Jesus make biscuits fish." (All Biblical bread products are biscuits in her terminology. I'm afraid this is my fault, but it's so cute.)

"Jesus sad." (Garden of Gethsemane.)

"Soldiers Jesus away."

"Jesus alive!"

Not only has she grasped that Jesus is the key character of the Bible, she seems convinced that he is the only character of the Bible. Thus, an earlier picture of the restoration of the temple remains, no many how many times I try to tell her otherwise, "Jesus makes table!"

A Missive from the Grammar Commando

I may have posted about this before. But clearly the World At Large hasn't fully absorbed it, so I shall try again.

A "tenant" is someone who lives in housing owned by another person.

A "tenet" is an article of belief.

A "tenant of the faith" would be, I suppose, a person who lives in housing owned by a religious organization. This does not appear to be the meaning usually intended.

If you have trouble remembering, perhaps you could try noting that, if one is a tenant, one must worry about ants. (We certainly are.) Tenets, living in the ethereal realm of ideas, need not be concerned about such trifles.

Now, please, everyone, try to get it right this time.

Miscellaneous

Thanks to everyone who contributed your opinions on Puppy; Puppy is now feeling secure in his identity and seriously considering a further career in acting and impersonations.

~*~
I tried to pare down our possessions when we moved. As usual, I chose some of the wrong things to pare down, one of the least logical of which was our high chair. It did take up a lot of space, and I did manage to resell it for exactly what I paid for it ($5) , but simply using D1's old booster seat (also purchased for $5 at a different yard sale) for D2 has not worked quite as well as I hoped.

For one thing, a booster seat doesn't offer quite the support of a high chair, and he tends to slide down. This usually prompts me to sing the second verse of "Wondrous Love," so that now D1 will start to chant "Sinking down, sinking down" whenever it occurs. The more serious problem is that several months of D1's usage caused the catches on the tray to weaken, and some aggresive infantile pushing (D2 uses his toes) will send it flying to the ground. D2 thinks this is funny. Needless to say, we don't put his food on his tray.

~*~
In other odd things D1 likes to say, the most worrisome is probably "Credit Card" (we give her those fake ones that come in the mail to put in her purse). "Guacamole" is her longest word. "Stinky stinky diaper" is another one applied to D2. She's fascinated with school buses, too. I hope this isn't a bad sign.

Write Now

Posts around here have been infrequent of late, because D1 has been waking up just as DOB is leaving, destroying my one lull time of the day when I can sit down and collect my thoughts enough to type. There is naptime, but I still need a nap. Especially after D2 woke up at 4 a.m. one day last week with a terrible cold which magically disappeared by breakfast. (As you may guess from the length of this post, they're both sleeping in this morning. Amazing.)

Sometimes I read the blog of Melissa Wiley, who is not only the homeschooling mom of five young children, one just born, but writes books on the side. In a recent post, she explained how she does it.

Aha! I thought. I do not have anyone who does my laundry, or my grocery shopping. No one brings me meals (well, we got one a week after D2 was born). No doubt if I had less to do, I too could spend time with my kids and still have time to sit down and Write Brilliant Things. Or at least, I'd like to think so.

But I don't have that time. And that's OK. I didn't marry DOB for his useful housekeeping skills. (He can help out in a pinch, but it had better be a pretty tight one.) Indeed, he's probably a bit more time consuming than the average husband, being as he needs help with physical therapy and tasks that require steady hands and strong ankles. My children are too little even to send outside to play for a few minutes while I fix dinner. Until you've tried to fix guacamole with the "help" of an avocado-loving toddler while spoon-feeding a ravenous baby, you don't know what complicated is.

About this time three years ago, I was preparing to leave the life I loved behind and move out here to marry DOB. I was quite eager about it, and yet every once in awhile it scared me.

Then I got a writing assignment that really mattered to me--an interview with the man who carried the flag up Iwo Jima. And I was stuck. It wouldn't come out right. None of my co-workers' suggestions were helping. Finally I sent my mangled draft to DOB and we chatted over it for a few minutes, and I went back to work. It came together; it turned into one of the best things I've ever written. I realized then that whatever it was I hoped to do in life, I wasn't meant to try it alone anymore. I needed DOB. He has the other half of my brain.

Right now, I don't have much time to use that brain on the things I'd most like to do. But at least it's there. I still have time to read and think, and every once in awhile to write. I have hope that someday, somehow, I'll have time to write again--and that when I do, I'll have something worth saying because of now.

Right now, I'm here. And this is where I'm supposed to be.

D1's Program for World Conquest

Do you find your diminutive stature and slight build weakening your impact? Would you like to cut a more imposing figure and bend the world to your will? Try D1's Image Enhancement Program for increasing bulk. Just add eight layers of clothes to your standard attire and grab a hammer! The world is yours!

(I think that's actually a turtle puzzle she's treading under foot, but everyone knows the world rests on the back of a giant turtle.)

The Duchy Dictionary

Disappointment: Watching a full bowl of homemade guacamole slip from your fingers and smash on the table, ruining the entire batch.

Decadence: Running to the store to buy more avocados just to make another batch of guacamole for dinner. (Well, they were on sale. The store is only across the street. And I had forgotten to buy yogurt anyway.)

Despair: Hearing a moderator say to the ten local candidates, after three hours of speeches, "Well, we need to be wrapping up now, so I'll give each of you three minutes to close."

Sorrow: Discovering, at the age of seven months, that the people in the world do not exist solely for your personal amusement.

Guilt: Discovering, after five false alarms, that this time it really was a need for a diaper change.

Hilarious: Watching a toddler combine practice in speech and gross motor skills by stepping back and forth between the patio and lawn, announcing, "D1 stand on grass! D1 stand on potato!"

Identity Crisis

Last weekend DOB and I took advantage of a few hours with half of our children gone to do adult activities, i.e., unpacking boxes with lots of papers. A few other boxes were in the mix, in one of which DOB found his old friend, Puppy.

"I hope you'll forgive us," I said, "A few weeks ago D1 and I had him act as a sheep."

DOB stared at the animal with a growing expression of confusion and distress. "He does look like a sheep. But he's always been a puppy!"

Off and on, for several days now, DOB and Puppy have been troubled by this question. Is he a puppy? Or a sheep? He says it's like D2 finding out that he might be a horse instead of a little boy.

I don't really know. I say we could just say he's a sheep dog and be done with it, but DOB and Puppy say they need a more definitive answer. Should he bark or bleat? Eat bones or grass? Difficult, indeed.

Anybody?

Some Things We Like to Do

D2:

Move. He's not quite crawling yet, but with a combination of rolls, lunges, wiggles and slides he can really cover the ground.

Knock. It's noise. Whenever his squirming takes him near some large, resonant object, like a box or a chair leg, he takes his little fist and knocks on it. I think he's going to want a drum set.

Eat. I didn't think it would be possible for any baby to eat more than D1 did, but he's obviously going to do his best. I give him spoons and encourage him to learn to get it in himself. I do have things to get done besides poking food into his mouth for two hours a day.

D1:

Talk. The connector words are still mostly missing, but she can get the idea across. "D1 go gramma grampa house day!"

Write. With crayons, with pens. In D2's chair, in her own chair, standing at the table or the counter. On any piece of paper she finds around, including the checkbook.

Give orders. The trouble is, she knows the procedures so well, we can't really disobey her. "Papa get up! Papa shirt on! D2 change! Papa oooze (shoes) on! Papa stand up! Papa go church! Mama go church! D1 go church! D2 go church!"

And yes, she usually talks in exclamation points.

QOC:

Sleep. D2 has made it 5.5 hours solid for the last two nights. Ahhhhh.

Write. Too well, as here I am doing it when I should be doing the dishes and laundry.