Rub-a-dub-dub

This is one of their favorite things to do. I don't know why. The toys are, as you can see, a random assortment of old vitamin bottles, film canisters, and useless CDs. You would be surprised how much fun they can be. They serve equally well as dishes for a tea party and soldiers in a war.

I was just enjoying a few quiet moments in which to cook supper while I heard peals of happy laughter from what I thought was their bedroom. After this continued for awhile, I decided I really should see what they were up to. Cautiously creeping to the back of the house, I soon realized they were not in their bedroom. They were in the bath tub, dancing about with the shampoo and soaking their socks.

Grownups live here, too

This is from a night out early this month. In my estimation, it was our first real date, as we'd only gone out to eat dinner alone twice since we met, and both of those were at truck stops, which hardly counts. We had a wonderful evening. Who knows? Maybe we'll start going steady.

On the Street Where You Used to Live

Last Saturday we traveled back to our old town to help B2 out with his "new" house, which of course is in fact very old and smelly with loathsome carpet, having been formerly occupied by college students, and is going to need oodles and oodles of work. But he's a bachelor and he likes sheetrocking, so more power to him. I cannot fathom how my parents managed an equivalent task with two toddlers. I would not even begin to think of trying.

There really was not anywhere to let the children play, except on the couch, which could only keep them busy for so long. It was the sort of day on which a Hallmark movie script would dictate a visit to the Old Hometown: blue skies, golden leaves, brisk but not chilly breeze. So the ducklings and I left DOB helping with the gutters and went out to our old park, with the duck pond and the castle. A goose tried to attack me while I was putting the children in the car, but I gave it a stout kick across the parking lot and subdued it.

After we tired of the park, we went to our old library, which is a huge and elegant Carnegie building. Since we moved they had added some toys and a rug to play on, and that kept the ducklings quite occupied with something besides pulling books off the shelves. I found all kinds of books I wanted to check out, but couldn't because who knows when I would get around to returning them? So we just went back and had lunch, which involved persuading the guys to actually set up a table, and then hauling everything outside where the ambience was considerably better than in the living room.

As we were driving in to town, DOB said, "Wouldn't it be funny if our old house was for sale again?" We drove by, and sure enough, "For Sale By Owner." Our buyer had also apparently decided to compensate for my perhaps-rash removal of the bushes from the front flower bed by putting in a monstrous urn, which I did not think helped much. But the sweet gum tree was as lovely as it always is in October. I miss that tree and all those prickle-balls it dropped.

After lunch I drove the children down to Grandma's house for naps, past the lake framed with maples and the little farm stands overflowing with pumpkins. I miss those, too. I even miss the everlasting corn fields.

Suffering Little Children

No, the ducklings aren't particularly suffering, except for another round of colds, which, while somewhat nasty in the nose department, seems to be affecting their spirits not a whit.

One would think that having done five children for a day last week, I would find caring for two a walk in the park. One would be wrong. Actually it left me feeling rather tired of the presence of small children for several days.

Sometimes I wonder if something is wrong with me. After all, I used to like being around small children. I even sought out opportunities to be with them. Now, I find myself rather unenchanted by small children in general (excepting the ducklings) and certainly not eager to multiply my opportunities to interact with them.

Well, really, it's just a matter of saturation. When my days consisted of staring at a computer or a book and trying to have Profound Thoughts, naturally a round of "Duck, Duck, Goose" was a nice relief. On the other hand, when my day consists of endless rounds of diapers and Very Hungry Caterpillars, it's the Thinking Profound Thoughts that is a welcome relief. It's not as if I would choose being a preschool teacher out of other career choices; I spend time with my children because they are mine, not because they are children.

Of course, when all the children in the world were equally unrelated, they were roughly equally charming. Now my own so vastly surpass all the rest in my esteem that my feelings toward the rest seem rather indifferent.

That said, why is it that churches so easily fall into assigning the mothers of small children to work in the nursery and preschool Sunday School classes? Yes, they're handy and well-qualified; yes, they're bringing half the class. And yes, they probably volunteered. (I just did. Stupid of me. It should be short-term, though, while the existing teacher is out having a baby.) But wouldn't they perhaps enjoy doing something different for a change? And perhaps some teenagers or empty-nesting mothers would really enjoy spending two hours with babies.

I think I'll ask about working in the library.

Shoe Sales

Before I begin, I should note that we are really quite grateful for the shoe company in question, which does sell excellent shoes. Thanks to them DOB has been able to find dress shoes he can wear without agony, which means his footgear options are not limited to a choice between black and gray tennis shoes.

Still, having to come up with enticing descriptions for dozens of only very slightly different shoes must be a taxing job. Hence, let the mocking commence.

Perfect for moving from bustling downtown venues to side streets and out-of-the-way bistros. However, if you want to move from "elegant seaside villas to countryside hamlets," you'll need the shoes on the opposite page.

As you observe this handsewn calfskin slip-on, you're quick to realize that Spain's reputation for brilliance, theatrics and intensity of life seems well deserved. Once you put them on, though, you will be disillusioned.

It's not unusual to come across a Spanish fiesta and get swept up in the exuberant celebration. Well then, why has it never happened to me?

Italian craftsmen have created a handsewn dress loafer that is truly inspired. So if you catch your shoes writing sonnets, you'll know why.

Wear the premium leather casual that begs you to test the elements, rain or shine. Like dogs, only they don't bark or mess up the carpet.

Europeans would say this woven calfskin slip-on bespeaks an elevated level of sophisticated nonchalance. We would refer to it as "confidence." Because, um, we don't know what all those long words mean?

There's a quiet magnificence in our soft, supple deerskin slip-on that you'd be hard-pressed to find in a shoe of lesser caliber. Our shoes are better than shoes that are worse! Who would have thought?

There's something of the traditional country gentleman in this soft leather scuff slipper. Poor fellow.

Nobody in the Duchy seems to have much of a gift for marketing. I fear we will never strike it rich in business.

Survival

Yes. We survived. Three potty accidents resulting in two extra loads of laundry (after I had carefully arranged it so I would NOT have to do laundry). Four dirty diapers. One falling off a chair. Assorted emotional trauma. Unwittingly swapped sippy cups. Parents two hours later than initially forecast. But no one got sick or suffered any permanent emotional or physical scars, so it was a success. And none of the accidents were on the couch.

Most of the activities on the list below were well-received. The craft was fun; not only are open-ended art projects more nurturing of creativity, they're a whole lot less work than the kind that have an actual goal. The Bible story was heard by at least some, and everyone loved making their slings go 'round and 'round. (Indeed, one little girl wanted to do nothing but listen to me sing for most of the time. I got rather hoarse.) Jumping on the carpet squares was also very popular, even though only one of the children could technically jump.

The most popular activity, of course, was one of which I never would have thought and probably would have rendered impossible had I had the foresight to predict it. It was climbing in and out of D2's play yard (dubbed the "OK Corrall"), and driving it all around the living room. So much for the instructions that say it is suitable for children from 6 to 42 months. (Or perhaps they just leave open the question, "Suitable for what?" It certainly kept them entertained, even if not contained.

In conclusion, I would like to remark that I have now put "opening a home daycare" somewhere on my list of desired professions below "providing janitorial service for junior high bathrooms." And I fully intend to take advantage of the two evenings' worth of free babysitting I've been promised in return.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow morning, I am taking care of five children for at least four hours. The oldest is three. There was going to be someone to help me out, but I think I'm on my own now. Two of them, of course, are the ducklings. Two others are the pastor's children, with whom we play quite often. The fifth is the child of visiting missionaries, who when I saw her in the nursery on Sunday looked like she had had about enough of strange places and people. Rain is in the forecast. We do not own a video player. Three girls in the 2-3 range and two boys in the 10-13 month range, neither of whom is walking so even going to the basement or attic would be unreasonably difficult.

Now, I'm generally all for children learning to find their own activities. But experience has taught that having a plan--a long, long plan--is essential when dealing with a crowd. So here is my list of Things To Do:

Blocks
Bible Story (David and Goliath is where we are, that should work)
Singing
Collage for the girls (old wrapping paper and glue to do with as they wish); ripping paper for the boys or putting things in and out of containers, which children of that age find incredibly absorbing
Snack: apples and cheese
Playing swamp with carpet squares (as much running and jumping around as possible)
Reading books
Stringing beads for the girls; matchbox cars for the boys
Lunch (should be sent with them)
And then . . . . I hope their parents will return. And we can all take naps.

Fortunately tonight's menu is pizza. If all goes well, I'll make it myself. If not . . . we have some welcome-to-the-neighborhood coupons to use up.

I suppose this would all be old hat for someone who did daycare or something, but it seems mind-boggling to me. Wish me well.

This and That

Posting was rather light last week because I was working very hard to get the house cleaned and organized (well, more or less) before the long-anticipated arrival of friends to spend the night with us. Much got done. It's been three months now since we moved in and things really feel like home. I don't think I'll fully relax until we pass the six-month mark without any impetus to move.

The weather is bouncing around from warm to cold to warm again, so we seize whatever chances we can to enjoy the last fragments of Indian summer. I don't regret all the days we ignored the dishes to go spend time at the park; we've had many good days together, the ducklings have grown amazingly in coordination and observation, and the dishes did get done eventually. (Well, except for the skillet full of eggs I burned this morning.)

I'm not too inspired to do more household organizing for awhile now, though. What I want to do is work on Library Thing. The books already listed are ones I could see from the computer. Someday I shall get around to the ones that involve actual work to enter. Besides being enormously fun, it has two practical applications that I immediately see: (1) Making it easier for my book-buying sisters to determine whether we already have something; (2) Doing a topic search of our own shelves when we want to study something in particular. Sometimes it's too easy to go get books from the library when actually we have perfectly good books here; it's just that the library is more searchable.

On the move

After a few tentative steps last month, D2 seems to have given up on the idea of walking. Walking, in his view, is an activity of limited usefulness. As far as you go, and as steady as you walk, you still remain on the same level. If we could teach him flying, he would be all for it.

In the absence of flight lessons, he'll settle for learning to climb. In this he needs no encouragement. One carelessly abandoned toolbox and he is on his way up. Monday he was climbing on and off the piano bench, although he tended to get stuck and howl in protest on his way down. Yesterday he figured out the dining room chairs, without even needing a prop to get started. He's not awake yet today, but I shudder to see what it is today. The table top remains unconquered, but not, we are sure, for long.

Twenty-five Ways I Save Money

This idea is borrowed from Meredith. However, I have to come up with all the ideas myself. I'm not sure I can make it to twenty-five, but I'll try.

1. Mothers of Twins Sales. It's like hitting twenty kid stuff garage sales on the same day. The prices might be a weensy bit higher than you'd get on the street, but still better than a thrift store or resale shop. And the time saved hunting around is definitely worth it for me. I can go to the spring sale and the fall sale and get everything I need for the kids at once. Today's find was a large play yard for $15.

2. Procrastination. If one puts off until tomorrow what one could have bought today, one may discover that one can keep muddling along without it a bit longer. Or perhaps even ever.

3. Library movies. The selection in our library system is awesome. DOB just checks at work as to which of the branches on his route home might have something we want to see, and we can watch anything for free. Just have to watch those late fees.

4. Cooking everything from scratch. I would do this anyway, for health and allergy reasons, but I presume it saves money. I don't know for sure because I've never tried doing anything else and I'm too lazy to calculate the difference just for the sake of knowing.

5. Cloth diapers (and training pants) at home. I'm still using the same diapers and covers on D2 that I bought for D1; I only have to buy a package of the store-brand diapers for outings every few months.

6. Hanging laundry up to dry. Actually I hadn't done this much until last week, because I needed the full allotment of training pants to get through the next day. But some long-awaited progress by D1 at a certain necessary life skill has made it possible for me to hang up the diapers and let them dry twenty-four hours.

7. Making baby food. I'm too paranoid about allergies to serve table food to babies under one. So my blender and I are very good friends; I usually puree a big batch and freeze it in ice cube trays. And that celebratory whoop you heard last week was D2 progressing to table food.

8. Aldi's. It was a great day when DOB discovered there was one near his work and offered to go there every other week. We're still working out the bugs in our system, but each of us now only has to go shopping every other week; I get the stuff not available at Aldi's on the opposite weeks.

9. Reserve meals. Canned beans, cheese, salsa and tortilla chips is not the healthiest or cheapest meal. But it's a lot cheaper and healthier than ordering pizza on a day of desperation. So I try to keep it in stock.

10. Laziness. I hate shopping. I don't do it unless I absolutely have to.

11. Being nice to DOB's family. We save incalculable amounts in handyman work and babysitting thanks to their help.

12. Being low maintenance. I still haven't needed to replenish my makeup supply since we got married.

13. Trash for toys. You know how people complain their children ignore the expensive toys and play with the boxes? We just give our kids the boxes. You wouldn't believe how much fun a Kleenex box (or rather the Aldi's brand of tissues) can provide.

14. Moving closer to work. This saves an amazing amount on gas, insurance, and DOB's psychiatric bills.

15. Sunrocket. This is DOB's department, but he researched it incessantly so it must save us money over the other phone/internet options.

16. Waiting to call the doctor. Unless a child is behaving seriously ill (which hasn't happened so far), I wait at least three days to call the doctor. By that time, they're well.

17. Family discount at the chiropractor. We go every week; we pay a flat fee for the month. We think this is why the kids are always better in three days.

18. Beans. They're cheap. They're healthy. They're a lot more filling if you combine them with a little meat.

19. No tv or cable. We do have cable internet service, though.

20. Drinking water. It's cheap; it's healthy. It tastes good. If you never give your children juice, they'll never ask for it.

21. Library book sales. These don't really save money. But they're certainly cheaper than buying the books new.

22. Buy packs of blank cards and make up my own appropriate for the occasion. This is fun and more special than something off the rack. D1 likes to help.

23. Packing meals. DOB carries his lunch and breakfast every day. When we go out to some (free) event, I fix a meal we can take along. On vacation in a hotel for two days, I cooked in a crockpot.

24. Pain Free. DOB is skeptical that this saves us money. But it saves us a lot in pain and suffering, and I think that makes us more efficient. If we would take pain killers, it would save us on pain killers, but we prefer suffering.

25. Have cheap friends. That way you can do cheap things together.

Do not bother to ask,
“Is it naptime?”
“Did I wake you up?”
Because if it was (and it was),
And you did (and you did),
Then it is too late.
I am awake;
They are awake;
You might as well get it over with.
What did you want to say?

Do not ring the bell.
Leave the box on the porch.
I will see it, someday.
If I am not too tired to walk so far.
But whatever you do,
Do not ring the bell.

There is no rest, they say,
to the wicked.
The Beloved of God receive sleep.
I am, no doubt, of a deceitful
And wicked heart.
But is it really that bad?
Couldn’t I merit a thirty-minute nap, at least?

Are there not sixteen hours in the day
In which you could get drinks of water
And fill your diaper
And claim parental reassurance?
Must you need it now?
At three in the morning?

Do not drive your car by my house
With its subwoofers and bass boost
I am sure it is impressive
I wish you all the best.
May you impress that girl.
May you have a large and noisy family,
Who keep you up all night.

Excess of sleep, the wise man says,
Leads to poverty.
If that is true, I ought to be rich.
Very rich.
Rich enough to afford voice mail
And a butler
And a nanny
And a sound-proof room.

Rich enough to sleep.

My life clearly has been dull

Or maybe I just have a different definition of adventures. Stolen from C.
Bold is what I've done.

01. Bought everyone in the bar a drink
02. Swam with wild dolphins
03. Climbed a mountain
04. Taken a Ferrari for a test drive
05. Been inside the Great Pyramid
06. Held a tarantula
07. Taken a candlelit bath
08. Said “I love you’ and meant it
09. Hugged a tree
10. Bungee jumped
11. Visited Paris
12. Watched a lightning storm at sea
13. Stayed up all night long and saw the sun rise
14. Seen the Northern Lights
15. Gone to a huge sports game (and survived the crush afterwards)
16. Walked the stairs to the top of the leaning Tower of Pisa
17. Grown and eaten your own vegetables
18. Touched an iceberg
19. Slept under the stars
20. Changed a baby’s diaper (Yeah. Duh.)
21. Taken a trip in a hot air balloon
22. Watched a meteor shower
23. Gotten tipsy on champagne
24. Given more than you can afford to charity
25. Looked up at the night sky through a telescope
26. Had an uncontrollable giggling fit at the worst possible moment (I don't remember exactly when, but I'm sure it's happened.)
27. Had a food fight
28. Bet on a winning horse
29. Asked out a stranger
30. Had a snowball fight
31. Screamed as loudly as you possibly can
32. Held a lamb
33. Seen a total eclipse
34. Ridden a roller coaster
35. Hit a home run (Probably doesn't count if it was a two-person Calvin game.)
36. Danced like a fool and not cared who was looking
37. Adopted an accent for an entire day
38. Actually felt happy about your life, even for just a moment
39. Had two hard drives for your computer
40. Visited all 50 states
41. Taken care of someone who was drunk
42. Had amazing friends
43. Danced with a stranger in a foreign country
44. Watched wild whales
45. Stolen a sign (I did have one of questionable origins in my closet for awhile, but it wasn't mine.)
46. Backpacked in Europe
47. Taken a road-trip
48. Gone rock climbing
49. Midnight walk on the beach
50. Gone sky diving
51. Visited Ireland
52. Been heartbroken longer than you were actually in love
53. In a restaurant, sat at a stranger’s table and had a meal with them
54. Visited Japan
55. Milked a cow
56. Alphabetized your CDs (I cannot even IMAGINE.)
57. Pretended to be a superhero
58. Sung karaoke
59. Lounged around in bed all day (not voluntarily, to be sure)
60. *edited* (Sure, I edit things all the time. Oh wait, that's not what was originally there?)
61. Gone scuba diving
62. Kissed in the rain
63. Played in the mud
64. Played in the rain
65. Gone to a drive-in theater
66. Visited the Great Wall of China
67. Started a business
68. Fallen in love and not had your heart broken
69. Toured ancient sites (If Roman ruins in London count.)
70. Taken a martial arts class
71. Played D&D for more than 6 hours straight
72. Gotten married
73. Been in a movie
74. Crashed a party
75. Gotten divorced
76. Gone without food for 5 days
77. Made cookies from scratch
78. Won first prize in a costume contest
79. Ridden a gondola in Venice
80. Gotten a tattoo
81. Rafted the Snake River
82. Been on television news programs as an “expert” (I have been on radio, though.)
83. Got flowers for no reason (You mean from someone else? Or bought them for myself? Or bought them for someone else? Too many possibilities.)
84. Performed on stage
85. Been to Las Vegas
86. Recorded music
87. Eaten shark
88. *edited*
89. Gone to Thailand
90. Bought a house
91. Been in a combat zone
92. Buried one/both of your parents
93. Been on a cruise ship
94. Spoken more than one language fluently
95. Performed in Rocky Horror
96. Raised children (Just not very far. See above on diapers.)
97. Followed your favorite band/singer on tour
99. Taken an exotic bicycle tour in a foreign country
100. Picked up and moved to another city to just start over
101. Walked the Golden Gate Bridge
102. Sang loudly in the car, and didn’t stop when you knew someone was looking
103. Had plastic surgery
104. Survived an accident that you shouldn’t have survived
105. Wrote articles for a large publication (if a newspaper in a good-sized city counts)
106. Lost over 100 pounds
107. Held someone while they were having a flashback
108. Piloted an airplane
109. Petted a stingray
110. Broken someone’s heart (Not that I know of, but I left a few bloody noses behind me.)
111. Helped an animal give birth (after the fact, anyway.)
112. Won money on a T.V. game show
113. Broken a bone
114. Gone on an African photo safari
115. Had a body part of yours below the neck pierced (not for cosmetic reasons, anyway)
116. Fired a rifle, shotgun, or pistol
117. Eaten mushrooms that were gathered in the wild
118. Ridden a horse
119. Had major surgery
120. Had a snake as a pet
121. Hiked to the bottom of the Grand Canyon
122. Slept for more than 30 hours over the course of 48 hours
123. Visited more foreign countries than U.S. states
124. Visited all 7 continents
125. Taken a canoe trip that lasted more than 2 days
26. Eaten kangaroo meat
127. Eaten sushi
128. Had your picture in the newspaper
129. Changed someone’s mind about something you care deeply about
130. Gone back to school
131. Parasailed
132. Petted a cockroach
133. Eaten fried green tomatoes
134. Read The Iliad (I'm only halfway through.)
135. Selected one “important” author who you missed in school, and read
136. Killed and prepared an animal for eating (if a fish counts)
137. Skipped all your school reunions
138. Communicated with someone without sharing a common spoken language
139. Been elected to public office (unless you count being a delegate at a county or state convention.)
140. Written your own computer language
141. Thought to yourself that you’re living your dream
142. Had to put someone you love into hospice care
143. Built your own PC from parts
144. Sold your own artwork to someone who didn’t know you
145. Had a booth at a street fair
146. Dyed your hair
147. Been a DJ
148. Shaved your head
149. Caused a car accident (Fortunately it doesn't ask how many you've almost caused.)
150. Saved someone’s life (Well, as a mother of toddlers, that's sort of my everyday job. But I don't know if that counts either.)

Sick in style

While you're busy discovering your children's love language, and learning style, and personality type, don't forget to categorize your child's sickness style.

DOB is a Sleeper. Give him a good strong sampling of virus (he doesn't get sick over little things), and he will go to bed for twenty-four hours. Ask him how he is and he will moan faintly. This scared me for the first few times it happened after we were married, but now I know to just keep his water bottle filled and the children at bay and he will be perfectly fine tomorrow.

I'm a Martyr. I can pick up little bugs, too, but no matter how small or large the illness I insist on dragging myself through the daily routine, sniveling all the way. I am never completely out of commission, but the sickness drags on and on.

After observing the rounds of sickness since we moved in (moving always seems to mess up our immune systems), I have concluded that D1 is another Sleeper. When she had roseola, she barely dragged herself out of bed for a drink of water and a couple of bites of vitamins. Two days of that, and she was fine again.

D2, alas, is a Martyr. His fevers come and go, and he wants to do everything just like normal, except with considerable beefing up of the Attention and Nursing portions of the day. Also like me, he doesn't sleep well when he's sick.

The really unfair part is that in general illnesses we Martyrs will always be stuck taking care of things while the Sleepers sleep. No wonder we're so cranky.

Some Vignettes

QOC (watching in anguish as DOB's queen collides with her rook): I never see the most obvious things!

(DOB snatches the last tender fragment of peanut butter-oatmeal-chocolate chip cookie out of her hand.)

QOC: Hey, that's my cookie!

DOB: See, you don't always miss the most obvious things!

If only I cared about my chess game the way I care about my cookies.

~*~
Yesterday morning I was bristling with efficiency. I started rice for supper and cookie dough. I had breakfast all fixed. I actually went and woke the ducklings up, instead of waiting until they wailed in protest. This, I thought smugly, is the result of finally being caught up and having things ready the night before.

And then DOB, rushing to get out the door, asked, "Aren't you going to iron my clothes this morning?"

I should know by now: For me, being ahead is always the result of completely forgetting something essential.

Birthday Boy

I'd like to say something profound about D2's birthday, but I'll stop with saying that I'm very thankful for the year we might not have had. He enjoyed himself thoroughly on his birthday, showed due appreciation for each of his gifts, and considerable relish for the apple crisp we offered in lieu of birthday cake, as I'm cruelly strict about sweets for children not yet potty training.

In preparation for the great event, we actually put most of our pictures up on the wall. Here is D1, enjoying their wrappings.

Even more miscellaneous than usual

~*~
We finally got the books on the shelves! They're not on the right shelves, and this is somewhat distressing, but they are there. They are, moreover, no longer in the middle of the living room, for D2 to climb up and fall off of and bonk his head. He has a lovely shiner left from the last stack, though.

~*~
After watching Seven Brides for Seven Brothers this past week, I would like to express my fervent gratitude for my in-laws, and my hopes for their long and healthy lives. I am grateful that I don't have to superintend marrying off all of DOB's brothers in order to get out of doing their laundry. (Actually, they're pretty good at doing laundry themselves. They even fold mine sometimes.)

~*~
After watching various other movies, most recently Batman Begins (which was really quite fascinating, much to my surprise), I'm musing over how the ideal of the knight, the Western gunslinger, and the superhero are all at heart essentially the same: a man (usually) who carries the law within him in a world where the structure of law is absent or inadequate. Apparently it's an image with staying power. What I wonder is, is it an essentially Western ideal? Or are there parallels in other countries?

~*~
One thing I don't get about Cincinnati is the weird stuff in the chili--cinnamon? Noodles? Another thing I don't get is corn hole. Corn hole is a game without which no church potluck, family reunion, county fair, or beer garden is complete. For those of you outside of Cincinnati, it involves throwing small stuffed bags at a hole in a wooden target some distance away. That's right, it's a game of beanbag toss. Now, I have no objections to beanbag toss as a game, and the ducklings adore playing with the equipment (although they don't stand at the proper regulation distance from the hole). But I don't understand the obsession. It's a kid's game, people!

Food for thought

A visiting friend from Taiwan was, I heard, astonished to watch D1 coolly feeding herself with a decent mastery of table utensils. Apparently, chopsticks being a complex skill at the developmental level of good handwriting, Asian mothers customarily administer each bite for their children until they are nearly school age. No wonder they have such small families.

Not that D1 uses table utensils all that much anymore. You see, long ago, when she was one and D2 was as yet not in need of table food, she was eager to learn to wield a spoon just like the big people. Now D2 is eager to feed himself, too. But he does not look at a bowl and a spoon and think, "Aha! A way to be like grownups!" No, he looks at them and thinks, "Food! And then, things to throw on the floor!"

So now with D2 happily eating with his fingers, she has another option of someone to imitate. And she finds his method quite efficient, except for, say, tomato soup (this week we caught her spooning that onto her sandwich, announcing that she was making pizza).

Well, anyway they do it, it's going to be messy. But I cannot bring myself to sit still long enough to fill one bottomless pit, let alone two. They have the interest and motivation to feed themselves; I say, let them do it. It's still faster to wipe up later.

So many things

There was once an old sailor my grandfather knew
Who had so many things which he wanted to do
That, whenever he thought it was time to begin,
He couldn't because of the state he was in.

~A. A. Milne

I have all kinds of blog posts I want to write. I have a pile of half-read, fascinating library books and I find more books I want to read every time I open another box. I really want to finish putting things away and get the house decorated for fall (if we can ever get around to getting our fall decorations out of DOB's parents' attic) and ready for company. I have all kinds of new ideas for Cool Things to do with the Ducklings (on top of our mandatory two hours at the park). I have a cold and should probably take a nap.

What I will probably do with the rest of the day is go grocery shopping, cook supper, and do dishes. I will end late at night without having the dishes entirely done. I will neglect something normally essential to do something else I'm just dying to do, but will not get very far on that, either.

Those people who say you have time to do the things that are really important to you? They must not have much imagination.

So he thought of his hut ... and he thought of his boat,
And his hat and his breeks, and his chickens and goat,
And the hooks (for his food) and the spring (for his thirst) ...
But he never could think which he ought to do first.

And so in the end he did nothing at all,
But basked on the shingle wrapped up in a shawl.
And I think it was dreadful the way he behaved -
He did nothing but bask until he was saved!

The rest here.

Books in Boxes

Just thought I should post to note that we all seem to be alive, despite recent spinach consumption. I'm in some doubt on the matter for myself, as I have such a head cold that I cannot sleep, but objective evidence is still strong.

We decided this weekend that we really must start putting the books away. What with all the other things we had to do this weekend, what we succeeded in accomplishing was getting the shelves in place, putting an enormous pile of boxes back in the living room, and settling on a general organizational scheme. There are a few on the shelves. It's good to see them there again, like welcoming old and long-absent friends.

The ducklings, of course, think we've created a special indoor playground for them. They both seem to have entered the climbing stage at once--D1, in one fell swoop, has mastered the arched bars, the slide ladders, and the riding toys at the park. Prayers for their safety and my sanity would be appreciated.

Too cheap?

So we're minutes away for leaving for a night out (free night at the Children's Museum!), and I have a lovely supper for the road packed up: tortilla wraps with a chicken/bean spread, swiss cheese, and . . . spinach.

And then DOB calls me to say he just remembered to tell me to throw out that bag of spinach in the fridge because there's been an E. Coli outbreak.

I have no other supper-suitable ingredients. I used a lot of very nice, expensive (from my perspective) ingredients to make those. We ate the spinach last night, so we've already been exposed.

We're eating them.

I did find something else for D1's supper, though. She hasn't had any, so she has a chance of escape. I figure we're doomed anyway.

If I die, it was in the interests of frugality. But I'm not feeling very hungry all of a sudden. My stomach is getting queasy.

Nothing's Wrong With Me, Thanks

Meandering around the internet, I stumbled across this drug company website with a helpful quiz to figure out if you might be suffering from Adult ADD and thus a prospective customer.

Some of the symptoms that they state indicate Adult ADD:

• Do you have difficulty concentrating or focusing your attention on one thing?
• Do you often start multiple projects at the same time, but rarely finish them?
• Do you have trouble with organization?
• Do you procrastinate on projects that take a lot of attention to detail?
• Do you have problems remembering appointments or obligations?
• Do you have trouble staying seated during meetings or other activities?
• Are you restless or fidgety?
• Do you often lose or misplace things?

Hmm . . . and I thought all those things were perfectly normal. Not in the sense of everyone being like that, but within the range of normal behavior, mostly as a natural side-effect of being creative and intelligent. * Being fidgety is even good for your health--burns more calories, and maintains function in your joints better than * being still.

I don't begrudge drug companies their profits--profit is capital, and capital is new developments. But I do begrudge them running around amplifying problems to drum up business. Maybe there is such a thing as Adult ADD that genuinely needs drugging, * and of course you're supposed to talk to your doctor and find out if it's "right for you." But if those traits are all it takes to qualify, a third of the population are good candidates for their drug. Which I'm sure they wouldn't mind.*

Personally, I think it's those other people who have the problem. * I'd like to diagnose them with Excessive Attention to Detail Disorder (EADD--on the obsessive/compulsive disorder spectrum) and give them a pill so they would stop stressing out over minor things and learn to think outside the box. I mean really, in the grand scheme of things, does it matter that I sent the container of straight spaghetti sauce to lunch with DOB and left the dish of sauce mixed with noodles in the fridge? (Actually, DOB is very gracious about such things. He has to be, or he would go crazy. It's better than the time I mistakenly sent him a pound of cheese in his lunch. Or sending him empty bags, which happens all too often.)*

*Just out of curiosity, I stuck in an asterisk every time I surfed away, got up and moved around, or otherwise got distracted. Fidgeting that didn't move my hands off the desk didn't count. I think it's just the power of suggestion. **

Some obligatory pictures

Every parent has to have these:
The Boy With Baseball






The Girl With Makeup

Just about one

I have not encountered very many different ages and temperaments of children yet. At least, not in children of my own. But I have to say, the age right around one (say ten to fifteen months) seems like the most difficult so far.

There's no denying that it's also the most adorable. All the chubby baby cuteness is still intact, combined with all the curiosity of a toddler and the occasional attempt at communication in some entirely unique dialect. D2 will copy D1's inflection perfectly, sitting around muttering undecipherable questions to himself ending in "esss" or "oooo."

But at the same time, they stop taking all those lovely extra naps they used to need, but they're still too small for those handy activity ideas to keep your toddler busy. You can't leave them alone for a second with anything smaller than their head, because they will eat it, or larger than their head, because they will use it to climb onto the piano.

Besides, the only activity that really interests them is learning to move, and for that they want your constant assistance: if your fingers aren't available, they'll wrap around your legs. Forget taking a shower being a luxury; ANY trip to the bathroom is a luxury.

Then of course there's that little problem of Original Sin, which is beginning to poke its head out, so cleverly mixed with innocent babyishness that you never know quite what to do. Just the time you're sure it's a temper tantrum, it turns out to be a howl of anguish--just the time you're sure it's a real problem you see that little, "I got you!" look in their eyes. Whatever you do, you're bound to get it wrong.

But it doesn't matter, because they're stuck with you. And they don't care how evil of a Mommy you are. They still want you.

Of hair and sheep

I cut D1's hair for the first time this week. It wasn't particularly momentous; I don't even think she noticed what I was doing. There are no before and after pictures, because you really can't tell the difference. But now she has official bangs, and it's one of those things you're supposed to write in the baby book, which I don't keep, so there it is. Haircut.

I rather like that my children are slow in the hair department, requiring two years to come up with a respectable quantity of blond fluff. Babies with full heads of hair always look so much older. I don't really want my children to act like babies a second longer than is necessary, but I'll take looking like it.

D1 feeds D2 pretty regularly now. She doesn't have the patience to do a whole bowl of food, but once I'm finished eating she'll often shovel it in for awhile, which gives me a moment to get started on the dishes or run downstairs and switch the laundry. D2 likes it because she drops even more food than I do, and then he can pick it up with his fingers.

"Baa, Baa, Black Sheep" continues its prominent place in our lives. It happened the other morning that D1 was beginning to get a bit drizzly, and I requested that she produce some more cheerful sounds. She began singing, "Baa, baa, black sheep . . . "

"Yes," I said, "That's a happy song."

Well, somewhere in the inner workings of her mind, she's taken from this the idea that singing it is the proper response anytime she is miserable. Whether she thinks that singing it has the power to make her happy, or whether she thinks I will accept it as ipso facto proof that she is happy now and not send her off to her room to compose herself, I cannot tell. But so it goes:

"Baa (sob), baa (sob), black sheep (sniifffff), have you (sob) any wahhhahhahhoolll?"

Three years ago today

4 moves . . .
3 jobs . . .
2 kids . . .
1 big adventure.

Those are, of course, carrots on the cake.

Nursery Rhyme Improv

Heard from the back seat:

D1: Baa, baa, black sheep, Have you any wool?
Have you any . . . cats?
Have you any . . . cars?
Baa, baa black sheep,
Have you any . . . Uncle Dan's house?

At the lunch table:

QOC: What are little boys made of, made of? What are little boys made of?

D1: BEEEeeaaaans!

Farewell to Eden

I am no fan of hot weather. But my joy at seeing the temperatures coast back into the low 70's is tempered somewhat this year, as I realize it will require radically readjusting everyone's wardrobe.

In dressing children, my philosophy is simple: The less time and money spent on it, the happier everyone will be. So since April, they've worn little besides hand-me-down t-shirts and whatever protection for the lower regions seems suitable to the current state of potty training, laundry, and my interest in cleaning up messes. D1 gets on sandals and shorts to go out, or a jumper if she is feeling particularly girly. D2 is still innocent of the concept of shoes and was quite alarmed one evening when we put a long-sleeved shirt on him--he couldn't figure out what had happened to the rest of his arms.

But now we must find complete outfits. Here the second-hand clothes become a bit dicey. Not everyone seems to believe in completely interchangeable clothing (don't their children ever eat tomatoes?) and often the tops and bottoms did not survive together. Worse and worse, we have to find shoes. And socks! And all those have to match, too, or at least not look noticeably hideous together.

Plus, there are now twice as many garments to get wet or stained. Twice the laundry.

The good news is, D1 loves her new tennis shoes, which, being white with pink, go with pretty much everything she has. I still haven't gotten my nerve up to put shoes on D2; size 3 is far too small and size 4 is hopelessly big. But sooner or later I'll have had enough of his cold little toes.

You pick

Version A:

D2 has shown great strides in fine-motor skills and self-feeding lately. He can really get around, too, and he's eager to take those first steps. D1's love of reading becomes more apparent every day, and she's also taking an interest in housework and organization. They're both quite affectionate towards me. We've been enjoying the cooler weather and have been eating well lately. I find myself constantly challenged by my work, drawing upon previously-unknown reserves of creativity and strength.

Version B:

D2 spends most of his time shredding Kleenexes and eating off the floor, when he's not climbing on those moving boxes that seem to have become a permanent part of our living room decor. He expects my fingers to be available every moment so that he can walk where he wants to go. D1 thinks I have all day to read her stories, unless, of course, she's dumping the wrong ingredients together while my back is turned or rearranging the pantry. They both want my lap exclusively if I dare to sit down or even make eye contact. It's raining too hard to go to the park. The dishes have backed up to an alarming degree. I'm at my wits'* end of things to do with them and I need a nap at 10:30 and bedtime at 6. I'd have a nervous breakdown, but I haven't got the time.

*Edited when, after due consideration, I decided I have more than one wit. The Grammar Commando is never wrong about apostrophes, but sometimes has trouble determining the intended meaning.

The Grammar Commando Lives

I got 100%.

Trash-picking

Last night we went to church, the first Wednesday Night service of our marriage. DOB was excited because the pastor was doing an open-question night, which apparently he does once a quarter, but then disappointed to find out that you have to get the questions in a day in advance so he has time to study on them. And no one else had sent any questions in. DOB intends to see that there is never a shortage of questions again.

Anyway, we were pulling into our driveway and I saw three children's bicycles in the trash pile across the street. I promptly jumped out and ran across the street, rang the doorbell and asked if those were really trash or if the children had just parked them in the wrong spot. Sure enough, they were throwing them out. The grandkids had outgrown them.

"They need new tires," he said, "Or, maybe they just need air."

Well, maybe indeed. Anyway, there we are, all set with bicycles until the children are seven. They're girl bikes, though. I hope D2 doesn't mind. Or maybe a neighbor with grandsons will throw something out.

DOB muttered something about people not knowing about Goodwill and putting perfectly good stuff in a landfill. Which is true, but then, if they'd taken them to Goodwill, we'd have had to pay for them instead of getting them for free.

And maybe now that they know I'm not above rummaging through the garbage, they'll think of me when they have other things to throw away.

Not Even My Dryer has a Normal Setting

I once read someone remark that it takes about a year to get back to normal after the birth of a new baby. I don't know what the figure is for a move, but I would estimate it's about the same. So, in the unlikely event that we have no more babies between now and then, we should be due for a refreshing burst of normalcy sometime in 2009. But then, normalcy is probably boring.

D1 had her first exposure to clothes shopping last week. It was actually a shopping expedition for me, thanks to DOB being given an award at work that consisted of a gift certificate to the mall in the same development. But while I was trying things on, she went through the toddler section, examining various skirts and handing a few to Aunt Kristen for taking home. I had to dissuade her from the skirts, since they happened to all be for infants half her size, but I made her blissfully happy by locating a suitable shirt for her to purchase, and then the clerk made it even better by giving her her Very Own Shopping Bag to take it home in.

Perhaps she felt the need to reassert her girliness after wanting to spend the week riding around the neighborhood to watch large machinery in action.

I've decided to concentrate on getting a good night's sleep. I'm not really sure how little sleep I was getting, but I know that I'm feeling amazingly better with six and a half hours of sleep, so I think things were pretty bad.

The first few weeks in the house were difficult because the kids didn't sleep well in a new place, and after that I just gave up on the idea of sleeping, I guess. But we seem to have resolved D2's various issues and he is sleeping much better (though I could handle him going an hour or two longer). I am no longer going to be a martyr about the air conditioning, and we are leaving it down at 77 during the night. I am catching up on little details like regularly washing the sheets so everything is nice and comfy.

It didn't help last night, though, that DOB had had lunch at a Thai place. He claims he had basil chicken, but it seemed to me he must have partaken of some mystic dish known from ancient times for its power to repel vampires, bacteria, and women. Next time he goes out for Thai food, he needs to take me along so I won't notice.

Second-Chance Movies

Or rather, movies I'm glad I gave a second chance.

One was Chariots of Fire. My first memory of it predates my tenth birthday, and recalled it as endless footage of indistinguishable characters running along the beach. Borrrrring. (A cursory survey of others raised similarly suggests this is a common memory. Just because a movie is virtuous and lacking in objectionable material does not mean it will be of interest to young children.)

When I watched it again in my late teens, I was astounded. It had characters! Plot! It had Gilbert and Sullivan! Quite enjoyable.

Sometime in those years, though, I watched The Philadelphia Story and was not at all impressed. It was far too full of "innundo" (as Dinah would say) for my tender ears. I couldn't make out what the point was at all, at all. It wasn't even that funny and it seemed to be justifying quite inappropriate behavior.

Recently, however, DOB saw a clip of it and was dying to find out what was going on. So I agreed to give it a second chance. And behold it was funny, after all. And there was a point, and an excellent one, not about justifying inappropriate behavior, but about extending grace and unconditional love to each other. So, I'm glad I gave it a second chance, too.

Church hunting

Moving this past time has put us far enough away from our old church to require church hunting again. We dreaded it. Our last church hunting experience was grueling--it was several weeks before we even found churches we could possibly tolerate, we were strangers in a strange town and felt, on the whole, like severed limbs in search of a body. (The fact that I was newly pregnant and wanted to puke if I disagreed with anything in the service didn't help.)

One day we were on a country drive and saw an adorable little white church in the woods with a red door.

"What a cute church!" we said, "We should go there. Except that's a stupid reason to choose a church."

A few weeks later we decided we needed to buy a house and called a mortgage broker who happened to have been at one of the churches we had checked out recently.

"If you're looking for a church," he said, "You should try my dad's church." Well, it was the cute little church with the red door, and it was just right. Indeed, it wasn't long before DOB's entire family had joined, as it was much closer to home than their former church.

Anyway, joining there was as great or greater a relief as finally getting into a home of our own with clean air. (I did throw up there once, but it wasn't the doctrine or practice that disagreed with me, just the potluck food.)

But we were dreading another months-long ordeal this time. We drew up a lengthy list of all the churches we knew of or had heard of that were likely prospects or even just mildly curious.

One of the ones on the list was one that an old friend of DOB's attended. Since this old friend was now in our new neighborhood, and since the church also was pretty close by, it was a good candidate for a first try.

The first try was nice, but the pastor was out of town, and really, you can't make a decision on one visit. We were still attending our old church most of the time. But we stopped in again to hear the pastor.

Then we moved. A crew of total strangers from the church showed up at nine at night--after VBS got out--to move in most of our furniture.

So it seemed only natural to go again that Sunday. We kept meaning to go attend other churches, but we kept not getting around to it. Churches we were thinking about visiting kept dropping off the list.

This week we really, really were meaning to attend another church; it was close by, after all, and maybe we should give it a chance. We looked it up on the internet: not only did it have a "fully graded" Sunday School, but an entire separate Sunday morning youth worship service. (DOB: "Oh, you're seventeen-and-a-half now? Then you can attend the special 'Why Seventeen-and-a-Half-Year-Olds Are Better!' class.")

So we gave it up. There were little kids and teenagers and the lame and the blind in the service at the other church. In the pew next of us one of the regular members of the church was sitting with a lady who apparently had some serious mental or emotional troubles and couldn't make it through the service, so the other lady patiently stepped out and back in with her. Nobody looked askance (well, except DOB) when D2 uttered exclamations.

We like it there. Maybe we'll get around to visiting somewhere else. Or maybe not.

A Promising Beginning

"My criterion for selection of material has been very simple; I have included anything I found interesting."

From Temples, Tombs and Hieroglyphs: A Popular History of Ancient Egypt, by Barbara Mertz.

Clutter Explained

Yesterday I bought some plastic dishes. They were marked as being reusable AND disposable.

So, when you're done using them, you may throw them away! As opposed to all those other plastic dishes, which you must store forever in your attic.

Pictures are back!

A little earlier this morning I was remarking that surely by the time D1 was four she would be capable of feeding a baby. Apparently she decided not to wait that long.

Speech, speech!

We decided that D2's official first word will be "Uh-oh." It's a little hard to determine among the many purposeful babblings which sounds are truly words, but we're all pretty sure on that one, and he says it quite often. Also, it suits his personality just fine.

The first time he said it distinctly, we were all sitting at the table coloring. D1 dropped one of her crayons on the floor, and said, "Uh-oh." D2 promptly tossed one of his crayons on the floor, too, and said, "Uh-uh."

Almost equal in use, however, is the phrase "up-down" (or "Uh-dah" but the inflection mimics mine). Since he uses the two together, I think they may only be one word in his mind, perhaps meaning vertical movement. He uses it for doors on the puzzle board, for clothes he's tossing out of a basket, and even as he stands and squats in turn, for all the world like a miniature aerobics instructor.

Five Things

From Cappucinno's Mom

5 things in my freezer
Way too many plastic bags
Split pea soup that I can never get my nerve up to serve
Two months' supply of pita pockets
Breyer's Ice Cream
Little cubes of pureed vegetables

5 things in my closet
First-aid kit
Shoes
Sewing basket
Wastepaper basket, out of D2's reach but unfortunately also out of mine
Straw hat
D2 (I feel like one of those evil schoolmasters, but he sleeps so much better in the dark.)

5 things in our car
DOB's new home gym that he got for half off
The plastic floor cover that was necessary at our last place and we can't even find a place to store here
Spare water
A box of clothes that's waiting for me to find a thrift store nearby
Two car seats

5 things in the diaper bag
Extra plastic bags
Nursing drape
Chocolate that went to powder a long time ago and is too gross to clean out, but it's in a pocket I never use anyway
Diapers, I hope


5 things in wallet
library card
driver's license
SS card which I really should take out and put back in the file. (Nobody reading this blog swipe my identity, ok?)
Coupon for Pampers pull-ups, in case I ever decide to get them again.
Kroger's card

5 people I tag
Rats, this one has been around for awhile and I can't remember who's done it. Well, if you haven't done it yet, consider yourself tagged.

Choosing Books

I have seen it recommended (don't remember where exactly) that parents require children at the library to select at least one book from three different categories: fiction, a science/math, and a history/biography.

It seems like a sensible plan. So sensible, that I'm thinking about applying it myself. I used to be almost exclusively a fiction reader, then I went on a binge of political philosophy for years, then more recently I've been more into books on education and brain development. Keeping a balance on hand will be much better.

Plus, my brain feels like it's about to rot because we still don't have the bookcases shimmed and thus are books are still all in inaccessible boxes. One can only read What Will You Wear, Jesse Bear? so many times before one begins to long for something more substantial. (Unless, of course, one is two.)

I think I'll add a maternal category, though, of a book on education or home management. And of course there's no rule that you have to stop at one.

So, my new hold list will have:

Fiction:
Piccadilly Jim, by P. G. Wodehouse (I'm guest suggesting for September over at Bookfest 2006.)

History/Biography:
The Creators, by Daniel Boorstin
Temples, Tombs, and Hieroglyphics, by Barbara Metz.

Science/Math:
The Number Devil, by Hans Magnus Enzensberger (I keep seeing people refer to this one.)

Maternal Stuff:
Feeding the Whole Family, Cynthia Lair
First Art: Art Experiences for Toddlers and Twos, Mary Ann Kohl

Oh, yes, and we have some more Jesse Bear books on hold, too.

Miscellaneous

D1 was quite sick yesterday, wanting only to take a few bites of vitamin-enhanced applesauce and go straight back to bed. Heartrendingly pathetic. Today her temperature was down somewhat, and I was trying to get more fluids down her. So I gave her a small glass of water and told her when she finished that one she could have an equivalent glass of juice. I knew she was on the mend when I saw she'd poured it into her bowl while my back was turned.

There are, of course, some adorable things she says right now that we must preserve because they are vanishing by the day:

Alligator: elevator. She actually outgrew this one within a day or two of staying in a hotel, but it was cute while it lasted.

Bici-bikle. Bicycle. It does make more sense as a word from which "bike" would be abbreviated.

American Idol. OK, this is what I thought she was saying. Turns out it was "a motorcycle." I'm much relieved. (And yes, she's totally into Things That Go. Trains are the best, though.)

Yucky-yuk. Although this has no unusual meaning for her, it particularly applies to Things One Hands Mama when One Forgot To Get a Kleenex, and also to the Ten Plagues of Egypt, about which we are reading now.

D2 is making rapid progress towards walking. He's at the point now where he probably could, but hasn't quite realized it yet. Instead he works out elaborate schemes for finding something to hold on to while he walks around the house. He's also very fond of climbing, for which cause we have had to banish D1's stool.

Book Meme: The All-Chesterton Edition

Because the answers to this would be too hard to narrow down if I did all the books I've ever read.

1. One book that changed your life?
The Napoelon of Notting Hill. I doubt it would have that effect on anyone else, but it settled a troubling question in my mind and convinced me I could be a part of life and still write about it.

2. One book you have read more than once?
The Man Who Was Thursday. Also I have seen it performed.

3. One book you would want on a desert island?
The Father Brown Omnibus. Enough philosophy and good stories to keep one occupied for a good long while.

4. One book that made you laugh?
Tales of the Long Bow. Pigs really do fly.

5. One book that made you cry?
Cry might be a little strong, but I find "The Ballad of the White Horse" to be particularly moving.

"But you and all the kind of Christ
Are ignorant and brave,
And you have wars you hardly win
And souls you hardly save.

"I tell you naught for your comfort,
Yea, naught for your desire,
Save that the sky grows darker yet
And the sea rises higher.

"Night shall be thrice night over you,
And heaven an iron cope.
Do you have joy without a cause,
Yea, faith without a hope?"

6. One book you wish had been written?
The one he never wrote about the man who sailed far away and discovered his own home.

7. One book you wish had never been written?
How could I wish that? There is an occasional remark that is slightly bigoted that I could wish were gone.

8. One book you are currently reading?
None, alas. My books are all packed far away. But I think if I had access to them, I would dip into What's Wrong with the World from time to time.

9. One book you have been meaning to read?
Four Faultless Felons

Halfway Up

I'm a firm believer in the virtues of children being Outside. Good for their health, good for their brains, good for my sanity.

There's no denying that they love it. However, the part about it they love is not quite what I would envision. I have vague ideas of time spent watching beetles crawl by, weaving daisy chains, or even running around and yelling. They're not interested in any of the above.

What they want to do, especially D1 last year and D2 this year, is climb the stairs. Up the stairs, and down again, and teetering backwards in the middle. Now, unlike my ideal outdoor activities, climbing the stairs doesn't remotely resemble that Holy Grail of toddler activities, the one that will keep them happily occupied for half an hour without noise, mess, or danger so that I can weed the flowerbed. Stairclimbing for the young is an advanced gymnastic activity requiring a constant spotter, nerves ever on edge.

D2 mastered climbing up the stairs the instant he tried it. Down is a little trickier. He's experimenting with several different techniques: crawling, head first; crawling, feet first; standing up; diving headlong and grabbing my hair midway down. His preference is to do it standing up clinging to the railing, no mean feat when you consider that the stair rise is approximately equal to his inseam. (Or what his inseam would be if he ever wore pants.)

So there I sit, watching and waiting. D1 still seems pretty happy to climb up and down the stairs with him, or walk partway down the sidewalk and come back.

Maybe next year we'll be into that running around and yelling thing.

(BTW, I was going to do something about the absence of pictures of late, but I still can't figure out where the battery charger is.)

The Song of Sniffles

"Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,
A medley of extemporanea;
And love is a thing that can never go wrong;
And I am Marie of Roumania."
Dorothy Parker

Sometimes, though, love does go gloriously right. In which case, one's cycle of song is occasionally interrupted to wonder if one's clothing will ever recover from being used as a body-sized handkerchief.

We are in the middle of a round of colds. D2 started it, but we have all joined in on the chorus. I thought perhaps we might escape the cold we seemed doomed to have with every move, but apparently we just managed to push it off a few extra weeks.

It is probably made worse by the fact that I have read just enough on medicine and health to be skeptical of any product that claims to be of assistance. OTC drugs suppress symptoms and are worse than useless! Herbs are untested, unproven and if taken in quantites sufficient to help, also potentially dangerous! And they all cost money. The end result is, if I'm feeling very daring I give everyone a little extra vitamin C and in general ask that they suffer in silence. Or loudness, if that's the best they can manage.

It was the best the ducklings could manage the first night they were both sick, and they took turns waking up and wailing every hour, bringing me staggering down the hallway to try to squelch whichever one it was before that one woke the other one up. Sometimes they didn't take turns. (For the record, DOB did help at first, but once the situation gave evidence of being an all-nighter we decided it would be better for our continued existence if he was able to go to work in the morning.)

They are sleeping better now, but we still have a ways to go. In the meantime, D2 pointed at his water cup and said, "A-teh" this morning, which is most exciting. He even managed to swallow some of what was inside.

The D2 File

To continue on the themes of Keeping Children Busy During Supper Preparation, and Not Quite Martha ways to do things, we present the D2 file.

This is a small woven wastepaper basket that sits by the kitchen door, close to the desk where we process junk mail and such. Into it goes only such items as are safe for D2's consumption: junk mail, primarily, plus a few clean styrofoam vegetable trays. No plastic wrap, no used kleenexes. It gets emptied with the rest of the trash and refilled as new things come to hand, so the contents are always varied.

D2 is then permitted to dig through this at will, ripping things up, chewing them, and generally having a fabulous time. It might keep him busy and out of the kitchen for all of three minutes.

Good Things

Small children love opening and shutting closet doors. This, of course, can lead to pinched fingers, especially if you have two of them trying to do it simultaneously.

If you are Martha Stewart, you address this problem by sewing cute little pillows that coordinate with your decor and slipping them over the doorknob to keep the door from shutting fully.

If you're me, you leave some wadded-up clothes hanging halfway out of the closet. It accomplishes the same thing.

Food on the table (and the floor, and the cabinet)

The ducklings and I have a slight difference of opinion as to the best way to handle the situation when they are hungry and I don't have the meal ready yet. I think the logical response would to be to say, "Mom, I'm hungry," (or whatever version of that they can linguistically manage), followed by leaving the room to go play with blocks for the next half hour.

They think the best thing to do is reiterate the importance of the situation by clinging to my knees and wailing, a position in which I find it difficult to wield a hot skillet. D1 varies this response somewhat by eating the ingredients.

Sometimes I do just put them in their room, drag out the blocks, and put the gate up. They don't usually mind. But most of the time I miss them when I do that, plus I like to indoctrinate them in the virtues of helping with supper as soon as possible.

Of course this could all be resolved if meals were always ready half an hour sooner than whenever it was I had planned to have them. Soon we'd be eating supper at ten in the morning.

Can't Think of a Name

I finally got access to a library that had The Baby Name Wizard, and so I've been browsing through it with great enjoyment this week. (This is purely a relocation result. No announcement or prospective announcement is hinted at, implied, or otherwise insinuated.)

Naming is an amazing thing. Here you have a defenseless, undefined soul that you will brand with a name that will follow it all of its life. You pick a name because you like it, motivated by all those unseen factors that wind up with you picking the same name that all the other parents of your age and socioeconomic status are, quite independently, picking. (Yep, we're into "Antique Charm," "Timeless," "Ladies and Gentleman," just like the vast majority of our friends, although some go for the more Exotic Traditionals.)

You had a whole list of other options, but you settle on one, cross your fingers, and write it on the birth certificate. And somehow the name and the child grow together until you can't imagine them being anything else.

Naturally this led to our sprucing up our hypothetical naming list. We love selecting names--if only the rest of parenting were so easy! We'd probably have twenty kids, though, and that might be a bit much Duchy for the world to bear.

But we keep coming up against a snag. There are several combinations that I just love, both for boys and girls, that have the initials E. R. I don't think the emergency room connotation is that bad (Ha! We should have named D2 one of those!), but I'm worried that the initials E. R. R. are just too much to impose upon a child, especially a boy who has no hope of changing it. Reversing the names just doesn't have the right sound. Would it be awful to have your initials spell ERR? Would everyone think your parents didn't want you?

Progress report

When I consider how much work there still is to do on places that don't need any work, I'm very, very grateful we've never tried to buy a fixer-uppper.

Yesterday the plumber came and replaced the leaking garbage disposal with an honest and simple pipe. We thought he messed up the dishwasher in the process, but after much examing, testing, and a few calls to the home warranty people, DOB noticed that the GFI needed to be reset. He pushed a button and our dishes went merrily washing along.

DOB's dad then put in the water purifier, to our great delight. Hauling enough water home from the store is a daunting task. D2 has shown some signs of being a little dehydrated lately, so we are stepping up efforts to persuade him to drink from a cup. Meanwhile D1 is using her mattress as a flotation device, but it would violate our principles to encourage drinking less water.

Someone is supposed to come tomorrow to take out the old dryer. However, as long as the weather is so hot, I might limit using the dryer to keep saving on electricity. It will be nice, though, not to have to wait a full day to have dry training pants. And towels that have dried on the line just are not nice to use.

We're still showering downstairs until we get the shower rod upstairs. Since the basement floor still needs to be sealed, this means putting on shoes, which feels rather like camping. Nice, wimpy, air-conditioned, limited-bug camping. Suits me just fine.

In the interest of Conserving Energy (and saving ourselves money) we're gradually bumping up the air conditioning as I increase my tolerance level. I've made it from 74 to 77 over the course of the summer, and I can even do 79 at night. For me, that's impressive.

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.