Miscellaneous

We went to the doctor for the first time this week. (I know, I know. Should have been two months ago. But I always procrastinate.) It is nice to hear the heartbeat and be reassured that it is, in fact, a baby, and not a two-month case of food poisoning.

As for how things are going, I suppose they are going better. It's all in what you compare it to. Last week I couldn't move or keep anything down, and this week I can keep most food down if I don't move and breathe deeply and think Beautiful Thoughts and no one asks me about the grocery list. It's good practice for labor. Wondergirl is doing everything, for which we are so deeply indebted we shall never be able to pay her back.

We had a very nice Christmas. D2 got a lot of cars, so he was happy. D1 got to wear her black and red dress and open lots of packages, so she was happy. DOB finished the presents he was writing (a complete history of Burgundy), so he was happy. Wondergirl got everything done as planned and took many pictures of small children, so she was happy. I didn't throw up anywhere embarrassing, so I was happy.

Weird pregnancy dreams continue. Last night's involved porcupines that turned into stray children and a trip to play golf in Florida with the president and my late grandmother.

Merry Christmas!

"Any agnostic or atheist whose childhood has known a real Christmas has ever afterwards, whether he likes it or not, an association in his mind between two ideas that most of mankind must regard as remote from each other; the idea of a baby and the idea of unknown strength that sustains the stars. His instincts and imagination can still connect them, when his reason can no longer see the need of the connection; for him there will always be some savor of religion about the mere picture of a mother and a baby; some hint of mercy and softening about the mere mention of the dreadful name of God."
~G. K. Chesterton, The Everlasting Man

Deficiencies in the Christmas Story

We have been enjoying reading The Christmas Story with illustrations from the Metropolitan Museum of Art for our family devotions. Alas, it does not seem to be readily available. Too bad it is not one of the library books we have lost.

Anyway, D2 was quite entranced with the picture on last night's page, studying it in great detail, especially the hillside behind Bethlehem.

"Where is the car?" he kept asking, "I have to find the car."

"There aren't any cars," DOB kept explaining.

"Why don't they have any cars?"

Clearly the Christmas story could do with a few more motorized vehicles.

Duckling Quotes

D1 (while coloring): Are you watching us?
QOC: Yes, it's my job to make sure you grow up into decent and responsible human beings.
D1: I'm not a bean, I'm a person.

***********
D2 (swathed in blankets): D1 is Mary and I am Joseph.
QOC: And where is the baby?
D2 (triumphantly): In your tummy!

Some Important Information

• The twelve days of Christmas did not start yesterday. They start on Christmas. We're still in Advent, folks. Don't jump the gun, or the party will be over too soon.
• There is no "e" in Santa Claus. A clause is a sentence fragment, and will not bring you presents no matter how good you have been. (However, if you treat your sentence fragments properly, the Grammar Commando, in the spirit of holiday cheer, will refrain from slaying you with a red marker.)

Poetry

"It is things going right," [Syme] cried, "that is poetical! Our digestions, for instance, going sacredly and silently right, that is the foundation of all poetry. Yes, the most poetical thing, more poetical than the flowers, more poetical than the stars--the most poetical thing in the world is not being sick." --G. K. Chesterton, The Man Who Was Thursday

I must agree with Syme here, and therefore admit that there is not much poetical--or bloggable--around here right now. I am too brain-dead even to read books worthy of comment. (I started The Canterbury Tales, and found it much easier going than I expected, but it got lost somewhere on the Table of Doom, or perhaps below on the Floor of No Return.) I am counting down the days, with the dreary knowledge that there is no guarantee of feeling better at twelve weeks, or thirteen weeks, or fourteen weeks.

The good thing is, this always makes the newborn phase seem like a piece of cake by contrast. I'd rather be up with someone else's empty tummy than my own.

Drastic Simplification

Christmas is going to have to be very simple this year. This will not be the year of clever handmade gifts, or complex cookie trays, or elaborate parties. In fact, we won't even be attending any parties. The only company we will be having for awhile is the kind that will clean the house when they arrive, fix and serve the food, and then clean it all up. (We do know some amazing people like that.)

What we do have, though, is quite enough:

The Tree: I have to have a tree. A real tree. Having grown up in the rural Northwest, I find it as much a piece of home as a piece of Christmas.

Even our first Christmas, when I was sicker than this and we lived an apartment so overcrowded with furniture for a house that you need never touch the floor, we chopped the bottom three feet off the tree and put it on the coffee table. (This turned out to be cheaper than buying one sized for the task.)

This year the tree is standing (thanks to that helpful company) full-sized on the floor. It smells wonderful and not at all like food. We left off a lot of the ornaments, but it still looks lovely.

Music: Even I can handle popping a CD in and pushing play once or twice a day. We can also sing Christmas songs.

Advent calendar: We have the felt one from my childhood, with an animal or person from the nativity to turn over each day. The ducklings also have a set of nativity blocks made by my siblings. They like to rock the sheep and Baby Jesus. So far no one has turned up the nativity set proper, but maybe someone will before the month is out.

Presents: This is not a great year for presents on the time or money angle, but there are enough things picked up here and there that I'm sure the ducklings will have a great time on Christmas morning. (Although wrapping is still in doubt.) Everybody else will have to content themselves with pictures.

Christmas Cards: I'm still hoping to get these out before the new year. I just lack the address labels now.

Some things we won't have that I will really miss:

Christmas play: We've had to give it up. I would be lucky to even attend it, much less rehearse or perform. And DOB is simply having to spend too much time on his feet. Maybe next year; and then D3 can star as baby John the Baptist.

Advent devotional box: This is entirely my fault. If I had just put it all back together properly when I put it away last winter, it would be ready to use. But it's not, and it's not going to be. I'm going to try to do something simpler and shorter with a lovely book we got from the library that has the Christmas text mingled with gorgeous Renaissance art prints.

Gifts from the kids: I really love having the kids make Christmas gifts for people. Alas, there are very few crafts that can be done successfully by a 2- and 3-year-old without any preparation, supervision, or clean-up.

If I felt well enough to miss Christmas cookies, I would feel well enough to make them. If I felt well enough to miss parties, I would feel well enough to attend them.

Another Odd Symptom

Now this one I've never heard anyone talk about, but it has applied consistently to me. When I'm pregnant I frequently have violent dreams. I'm always beating someone up, usually one of my brothers. (I have four of them, and they are all much bigger and stronger than me and and definitely not people I would even THINK of fighting.)

Last night it was my oldest brother, sporting a full head of hair (which he hasn't had in twenty years, I'm sure). I was trying to roll out cookie dough on the floor of the front porch (despite it being covered in dog hair--eww), and he kept stepping on it. So I beat him up.

What does it all mean? Maternal protective instincts coming out? Or is it just that I'm getting restless at a life limited to eating and sleeping? I have no idea.

You know you're pregnant when . . .

. . . you find yourself tearing up over an article on urban planning and demographic shifts.

Readability

When this test was first going around, I suppressed my results in embarrassment. Then I read one person who had tested a blog of C. S. Lewis' writings and found that it was at the elementary level, and one of Chesterton's was at the high school level. (Chesterton himself said that if you could not say what you meant in words of one syllable, you didn't really know what you meant. Though he did not so restrict himself in his own writings.)

So why be ashamed of being readable? Why hang my head when I have merely realized the goal of endless re-readings of The Elements of Style?

I admit with some embarrassment that the deciding factor for me to post my score was coming across a poorly-written blog proudly sporting a badge that said it was a "genius" reading level. (Indeed, there are a lot of blogs out there that would require more than a genius to decipher. This does not mean that they took a genius to write.)

So, the Duchy. Clear, direct and readable since 2003.

That or maybe my first thought was correct, and I devote too much of my content to quoting the ducklings.

Prepared

This time, I knew what to do. This time, I was going to be prepared. D2's first trimester had gone better than D1's and this time I wouldn't even be nursing. I had meat and bread and cookies prepared in the freezer. For months in advance I took all the wonder vitamins and herbs that were supposed to forestall nausea. I did all my exercises.

In a worldwide deluge, I suppose having an inflatable life raft and a couple of boxes of crackers would seem helpful for awhile. But we are beginning to feel very much adrift. Apparently the illness experienced during D1's pregnancy was not a fluke caused by unpleasant living circumstances. If anything, I'm rather worse this time; only this time, instead of just having me to drag through the day, I also must supervise two very busy ducklings.

I have tried to remind myself that other women undoubtedly have it worse; that some women throw up for all nine months, or throw up so much that they must go in the hospital and get fluids through IVs. Somehow other people's misery does not diminish mine.

Besides, in the hospital, one would not have to cook food. Or smell food cooking. Or think about food. It's astonishing how much time, on average, I spend thinking about food. One meal is not done before I must think of what must be done for the next one, or two . And I have discovered that the only way for me to keep a meal down is to lie down for several hours afterwards and, with all my might, NOT think about food. (How am I writing this post, you ask? It's before a meal right now, and I find it helps to do what must be done before the meal. I don't feel any better afterward, but the muscles are often tired enough to give me a break.)

Other people are very kind and helpful and come in and do the dishes now and again or watch the ducklings for awhile, but nothing, alas, relieves me of the duty of thinking. DOB has a thorough training in most of the household arts, but he needs orders (and can only stand on his feet for so long). Even ordering out (which I am loath to do--why pay so much for something unlikely to be digested?) requires a decision.

The ducklings are doing their best to manage the house on their own. Yesterday D1 had complete Sunday outfits for both of them laid out before I arose; D2 was trying to put his Sunday pants on, upside down over his pajamas. The house has reached a sort of level of chaos where everything that can be dragged out has been dragged out, so at least it's not getting much worse.

Fortunately the ducklings seldom lack for ideas to amuse themselves; most of these involve piling all bedding, toys and clothes available onto the couch, though the name of the game may be "airplane," "hospital," or "fire engine." Then they jump on top, sometimes singing D1's Toddler Power Song: "We are toddlers, and we can jump on the couch!"

All that happy little advice for morning sickness--"crackers!" "frequent snacking!" "lemon water!" is starting to read like common cold treatments when you have double pneumonia. I try to read to keep my mind off food, but it's astonishing how often the people in books eat. And seem to enjoy it, too. Jerks.

In the interests of counting my blessings, a few notes:

• I'm in no danger of dehydration or malnutrition. In fact, I'm gaining weight at an alarming rate.
• We can keep the heat on here. (We couldn't at our apartment when I was pregnant with D1; it poured second-hand smoke.)
• I never *have* been sick all nine months, and while there may be a first time for everything, I think I can still be reasonably optimistic that by New Year's I may be able to contemplate a meal before I eat it.
• Wondergirl is coming in three weeks and two days. I hope she can get the door open when she comes.
  

And Baby Makes Three

And then think how long it will take to get a decent family picture . . .

Outside

Even though we still have some luxuriously warm days, and the fall colors have lingered late this year, making up for having summer stretch into October, the shorter days have compelled us to give up our most delightful outside activity. We had thought of many ways and times to go out with the kids; we had made many resolutions. But some things must wait until they just happen.

And what happened, and happened, and happened again was that we could pack up a supper on our chiropractor night and stop by a park on the way home. Somehow if we were already out (and the chiropractor is a sacred appointment with us), stopping somewhere else was not such a burden as the thought of packing everything up when we were already comfortably at home. We tried city parks and county parks, parks with bridges, parks with forest trails and parks with teeter-totters big enough for the whole family.

When it was too hot to eat out (I tried it once at ninety-five and was ill the rest of the week) we went to United Dairy Farmers (which D1 persists in calling Nine-Ten Dairy Farmers), ate our packed supper at their tables and then split a double-scoop ice cream cone to thank them for their trouble. When it was too hot or too dark, we went to the library and played at the train table. By fall, D2's legs had grown long enough that he could handle most of a mile hike, though he persists in the fear-of-slides stage.

I was full of good resolutions this spring to keep the ducklings outside for at least three hours every day. I have fallen far short of that except on the rare occasions when a very beautiful day has coincided with me feeling unusually good. But we have had a lot of fun outside this year. Our own backyard is getting more entertaining--it has some lovely dirt piles now, and a little hole that holds a pond after rain, and increasing areas of it are being converted into vegetable garden. Although I am not fond of the concrete pad left from a torn-down garage, it does make a handy place for riding bikes and cooking imaginary meals.

I never have figured out what to do about the mosquitoes, though. They continued unabated until frost, even though there was a drought and no standing water anywhere where they could be breeding.

D1 ponders the animal world

Last week I was recounting to D1 her prenatal adventures, and I explained to her that she lived inside me in water.

"Yes!" she said, "And I played with the ducks and the geese!"

I don't remember those. Maybe that explains the nausea.

Over the weekend we visited a history museum depicting life in early West Virginia settlements. D1 duly inspected the sheep's wool piled up for spinning and weaving. In the next building someone had left out a pile of bright pink installation.

"Look!" she cried, "It's pig's wool!"

Civics Quiz

You really should try out this civics quiz by ISI; we were quite impressed with the caliber of the questions. They ask things that are actually worth knowing. I got an embarrassingly high score, but then, it's my subject. Then if you like stressing over the degeneracy of society, you can read about how college students fare on the test. I hope my former class would have done better than average, but I am always plagued with doubt. I certainly tried.

Eight Random Things

I don't think I've actually done this one, even though *everybody* has. But now Amy has tagged me. So. Eight random things about me, plus eight people to tag (if I can come up with that many who have not just been tagged.)

1. One of my lifelong dreams is to live in a remote, quiet seaside cottage on a northern coast, taking long walks, wearing tweedy woolen sweaters, and writing Profound Things. Since I now live in a noisy house in a midwestern city, only wear cotton sweaters (and those seldom), and my writing perpetually declines in profundity, this dream seems rather hopeless right now. (I still take long walks whenever I get the chance.) But I refuse to give up hope.

2. I hate shopping. I hate spending money; I hate making decisions; I hate finding things in a big crowd of Other Things; I hate finding new places to put things. I really, really hate shopping. Even online. Every once in awhile I find a fabulous deal on something I desperately need (I usually have desperately needed things for a long time before I even go looking), and then I feel moderately tolerant of it, but I can still think of a thousand ways I'd rather spend the day. The only thing fun about shopping is mocking the things available for sale, and other people seem to frown on doing this publicly.

3. So far I've shown no sign of having wisdom teeth.

4. DOB and I are trying to further our cultural literacy by watching Star Wars for the first time, but we're finding it painful. The plot is so predictable! The dialogue sounds like it was written as a group activity by the freshman composition class! The acting is terrible! The science so irrational! The philosophy so absurd! Harrison Ford is the only thing that makes it remotely bearable. That and . . . it's fun to mock.

5. I've had two multi-year bouts of chronic fatigue/fibromyalgia type illness, but nothing in recent years. Just normal having babies and toddlers and never getting enough sleep fatigue, which doesn't count.

6. I attended "regular" school for one day in fourth grade and, though I had no particular interest in attending school before then, that certainly was enough to commit me to homeschooling for life. Sitting around waiting for some arbitrary declaration that it was time to move on, long after I had finished filling in all the right blanks, did not impress me as a good way to spend my life.

7. I love cooking if I don't have to stick to the recipe, teaching if I don't have to stick to the curriculum, and writing if I won't be graded on it.

8. I've only worn nail polish once in my life, and it was silver glitter.


And now I tag Carrie, Rose, Wendy, Melissa, Devona, Birdy, and um . . . I'm running out of untagged names here, but if you haven't done it (or you have eight MORE random things), feel free to join in.

D1 does the math

QOC (to D2): How many mommies do you have?
D1: I have five mommies!
QOC: Oh good, then one can fix lunch and one can go get you guys changed, and this mommy can go take a nap. . . .
D1: That's only three.

Don't worry, D1, I'm sure I can come up with enough work for any number of mommies to do.

Because the Memory Card was Full

The ducklings and their two best friends. I don't know what they are playing. But it was fun.












One bad hombre and his sidekicks.

Bright Moments in Capitalism

It is time for the toy catalogs to appear, which means it is time for me to mock the ideas toy manufacturers come up with in an effort to keep people coming back for more.

Actually we get a few toy catalogs which contain a fair number of toys that even I could see some sense in, given an unlimited budget and space. (Feeling at my capacity for Seeing Toys Get Picked Up, though, I'm not that wistful over them.) There is still always something to mock.

In one catalog, for $9.99, you could purchase for some eager young crafter, ages 3 and up, a paper chain kit. That's right, in case you couldn't guess, it contains paper strips and a glue stick. You don't even get to cut out the paper chains yourself, so no scissors are included. That would probably make it too dangerous. Although there is still the peril of paper cuts--perhaps the edges of the paper are sanded?

It does remind me that D1 is starting to be interested in scissors, and would probably enjoy making a paper chain some rainy day. I already picked up some glue sticks, for fifty cents or so at the back-to-school sales. Now all we need is some colorful paper. I think I have just the thing.

Swing Low, Sweet Chariot

Lately D1 has been quite intrigued by the intersection of physics and eschatology, or more precisely, by the idea that everything on earth will fall apart but we will go to heaven where everything will last forever. I forget why I brought it up, but I told her that our house would fall apart someday but Jesus was getting one ready for us in heaven.

D1: "What about our car?"
QOC: "It will fall apart, too."
D1: "But we need our car to get to heaven!"
QOC: "Jesus will come and get us."
D1: "Oh, does Jesus have his own car?"

Sometime later that day I heard her trying to convey this idea to D2, who was not interested. She finally called out to me in frustration, "Mama! D2 doesn't want to fall apart or go to heaven." Perhaps, like the child in the old joke, he was concerned that she was getting up a load for tonight.

Today while getting changed she commented, "Pretty soon we will have no house and no clothes."
QOC: "Why not?"
D1: "Because when our house falls apart it will smash our clothes."

I tried to assure her that nothing was going to fall apart any time soon, not that she seemed at all distressed at the prospect. Meanwhile D2 would rather put a blanket over his head and be a monster, until he runs into the furniture. Perhaps the thought of being eternally secure against a bonked head would render him more interested in his future state.