Miscellaneous

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

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

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

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

Write Now

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

D1's Program for World Conquest

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

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

The Duchy Dictionary

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

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

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

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

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

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

Identity Crisis

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

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

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

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

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

Anybody?

Some Things We Like to Do

D2:

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

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

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

D1:

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

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

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

And yes, she usually talks in exclamation points.

QOC:

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

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

Easter Duds

Catching my breath

I was reminiscing about some old posts this week. (Yes, it's old posts I reminisce about. The reason I write so much is because to me nothing is real until it's been turned into words.) Especially this one, written shortly after D2 was born, and this one, written shortly after we moved.

And you know what? Things are better, even after just a few months.

Not a great deal better, I grant you. I'm sure if you dropped QOC from 2001 into this life, she would, after asking, "I'm married to WHO?" find it completely exhausting and overwhelming. But I've adapted somewhat. My brain has grown. Or perhaps I've lost it altogether. Either way, things don't seem to move so fast anymore.

There's a little bit of rhythm to the day. Eat, chores, park, eat, nap, chores, eat. The stuff we actually use is unpacked and put away. The children can't eat off the floor, because the food gets swept up reasonably soon.

The kids have grown--just a little bit, but they've grown. D1 doesn't trip and fall down so often. With a little boost, she can get into the car and car seat on her own, so I don't have to leave one of them outside while I put the other one in the car. D2 can sit up in the shopping cart for most of the trip. He still eats frequently, but occasionally comes up for air these days.

We still have our moments when everyone is wailing at once. (I think D1 has settled on "whining" as her Interesting Toddler Behavior.) But not so many of them. D1 and D2 can even play together happily in her room for fifteen minutes while I vaccuum. It's a beautiful thing.

Not, of course, that we're immune from everything going haywire again. I may as well enjoy this while it lasts.

In which I become the model of a Submissive Wife

Yesterday I read the first half of Beau Geste. While DOB ate his late supper, after an evening meeting, I regaled him with the tale of what had happened thus far.

So today, my primary task, after, I presume, ensuring the continued well-being of our children, is to FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS!!!!

I hear and I obey.

(Thanks, Rose, for insisting I should read it. You were quite right.)

Singing them awake

I started out motherhood with romantic notions of a quiet bedtime ritual--singing a beloved lullaby to my drowsy infants, and continuing on night after night until they were, oh, quite old.

So I borrowed some lullaby books from the library and memorized my favorites. As soon as D1 was old enough that bedtime could be distinguished from naptime, I began singing them to her, at the end of which time DOB would come in and pray and tuck her into bed. I obtained a rocking chair especially to complement this activity.

D1 wasn't many months old, though, before I noticed she began to be restless and downright antsy during this ritual. I'm not sure why. She likes sitting in my lap any other time. She likes singing with me any other time. Maybe it was the anticipation of DOB's imminent arrival, comparable in soothing effect to the circus coming to town. Anyway, we persevered for quite some time.

When we moved in here, the furniture situation was in flux for awhile, and the rocking chair wasn't always available. Plus as D2 grew old enough to have a bedtime, he was often included. So I stopped holding D1. At first, she would sit and hold her baby, or otherwise show some interest in the proceedings. Later, she got more interested in one last rummage through the toy chest.

Last week, I realized we had reached the end. On two successive evenings, she dug through the toy chest and pulled out the maracas, shaking them vigorously through the whole song.

I suppose instead of abandoning the singing, we could switch the song to, say, "When the Saints Go Marching In" and have an evening marching band. But it doesn't have quite the same ambience.

An opportunity

Vision Forum is having an essay contest, with the topic "Why is Elsie Dinsmore relevant to today's Christian girl?"

Doesn't someone out there want to enter with the thesis statement: "As a self-righteous, rebellious prig, Elsie Dinsmore is relevant to today's Christian girl as a bad example?"

Unfortunately it's only open to girls under 18.

Babies and bees

"Oh look! Two babies!"

An innocuous comment, and one I hear pretty much every time I go out in public. And one that irritates me; quite irrationally, I suppose.

They're not babies.

As DOB could confirm, with rolling eyes, I start mourning the end of babyhood when I pack up the 0-3 month clothes (with the ducklings, at about 2 months.) By six months--when they have some mobility, an attention span, and the ability to grab things--I subconsciously consider them to be well into childhood, and as far as I'm concerned, D1 is practically an equal--not in authority, but in status.

Maybe it's because I still remember the sting of always being too young. Maybe it's because I'm so incompetent they catch up with me pretty quickly. (I'm amazed by people who continue feeding their kids for a couple of years because it's neater that way. When I feed them, it's not. At all.) Maybe it's because I'm so far off in la-la land I don't care about their very different approaches to the world; indeed, I think them quite fascinating.

Typical scene in the duchy: DOB comes home.

DOB: Why is D1 wearing D2's jacket and standing at the kitchen sink, splashing water all over herself?

QOC: Ummm . . . she wanted to. And, ummmm, it's warm, so I don't think she'll get pneumonia. And I've figured out that the amount of water she wastes running down the sink is less than the amount of water she would use if I bathed her more often.

DOB: So two wrongs make a right? (teasingly, folks, teasingly)

QOC: Well, they cancel each other out in water usage!

On a possibly related note, there was a mom and grandma at the park yesterday with what looked like twin five-year-old boys. One of the boys went over to the grassy area and started pulling up dandelion puffballs and blowing on them.

"Get off the grass and go play on the playground!" his mother yelled.

My puzzlement was somewhat enlightened when his brother tried to run off the opposite direction, toward the trees.

"Don't go back there, you'll run into a bee!" she yelled.

Ah, so a paranoia of bees was the problem. It did make a little more sense, although not much, because D1 and I had been watching a bee over by the swings. Plus, it didn't explain why it was an offense against humanity to climb up the slides or to rest one's feet on them when one was sliding down.

Perhaps I am evil, but I silently cheered the boy when, while his mother was distracted with talking, he went back to the dandelions.

What's the fun of going to a playground if you don't get to play? Why go to all the trouble of having kids if you don't like playing with them?

So, to sum up: Don't call the ducklings babies. Have some fun when you go to the playground. But watch out for bees.

Fractals in the Frying Pan

I've been reading a few mathematical books lately: The Magical Maze and Mathematickles! (The latter might appeal even to the non-math-interested.) It has had me pondering ways in which a little mathematical analysis might be applied to motherhood.

For instance, there's the age old problem of Toddler, T, who takes one long nap (N1) and Baby, B, who takes four short naps (N2, N3, N4, N5). What are the odds of N1 coinciding with N2 . . . N5 such that Mother, M, can take N6?

The right formula might enable one to pin down precisely the least stressful phase of parenthood; probably that age at which "Chance of Toilet Accident" and "Interest in the Opposite Sex" are both closest to zero.

Then there are fractals--shapes in which the small parts look just like the big parts, if you zoom in closer. Like broccoli heads. Or frying hamburger. Only it's best not to zoom in too close to frying hamburger.

Meanwhile DOB is probably wondering why, if I like math so much, I can never remember to write checks down so he can keep the account balanced.

A Few Minor Occurrences

Yesterday I was heading through the grocery store and spotted a box of Crayola crayons.

"Ah-ha!" I thought, "The perfect thing for the Easter Bunny to put in the carrots he hides." (Of course the Easter Bunny hides carrots. What would you expect him to hide?)

But, of course, I did not want D1 to see the crayons, as she has passed the age where you can just buy her gifts right in front of her. She would have known what they were and wanted them right away. So I slipped them into my pocket, vowing to remember to sneak them out and pay for them while her attention was distracted.

You can guess the denouement. I arrived home, unloaded the groceries, and encountered a forgotten lump in my pocket. I had shoplifted.

I will pay for them next time I go, I promise.

Anyway, I was still processing this discovery and putting away the groceries and getting out our lunch when I came across the dish in which I had carefully packed DOB's lunch the evening before. I sent him a text message to find out what dish, exactly, I had sent in his lunch.

It was the two-pound block of cheese.

No one has ever made the notorious comment to me that housekeeping is lacking in mental challenges. But if they ever do, I can respond with certainty that it has mental challenges far beyond my ability to cope.

My Inner Grammar Commando is happy today

After browing this series of links. The Gallery of "Misused" Quotation Marks is particularly priceless.

Edited to add: Particularly priceless? I'm going to be in the running for a bad example myself. Perhaps what I meant was "particularly difficult to value."

Beautician, Comb Thyself

A Few Small Tweaks to the Cosmos

I'm sure it wouldn't mess anything up if I just changed a few things:

• The time at which babies need pureed food and are fascinated with trying to eat things off the floor would not coincide with the age at which they are terrified by loud noises such as blenders and vaccuum cleaners.
• People who design toddler clothes would, at some point in their life, have beheld an actual toddler, and realized that (a) they lack waists and shoulders, and thus garments heavily dependent on such bodily features will not work; and (b) they fall down frequently, with deleterious consequences to the knees of their trousers. I can't figure out why it's so difficult to find elastic-waist jeans, when it seems like those are the only logical garment.
• The Law of Toddler Feeding would be repealed. This law states that if you serve a toddler a tiny portion of food, she will keep asking for more servings for the next forty-five minutes. However, if at any point you serve her a large portion, she will immediately decide that she is done. If you are lucky, she will inform you of this before she converts the remaining food into an art medium.

Feeding baby

Whatever I do with D2, D1 wants to do with her "baby." She changes its diaper; she sings it songs and puts it to bed on the back of the rocking horse (don't ask me, it was Papa's idea); she has been known to pull up her shirt and give it a snack. Today she gave it a bath in the kitchen sink.

This evening, when I was giving D2 his sweet potatoes and applesauce, she climbed up on a chair and wanted to help. Already having enough to deal with, what with D2 wanting to put the spoon in for himself and hitting his nose as often as not, I suggested that instead she take another spoon and go feed her baby.

She happily climbed down and sat on the floor with her baby and the spoon. Then she pulled up her jumper and shirt and proceeded to spoon-feed it from under there.

I'm not sure what La Leche League would think of that method.

Taken to the Cleaners

One of the lowest spots of the move from our old house was pulling my wedding dress out of the closet and discovering that it was covered with mold spots. (Don't store your wedding dress close to an outside wall, girls.) We should have taken it to the cleaners right away, of course, but the present is more important than the past and what with one thing and another it was still sitting in the closet last week when we got a coupon in the mail.

The cleaners had several locations, so I looked them up on Mapquest, and found one located in a familiar area, although it was a 10 minute drive away or so. I told DOB what I was going to do, and he looked at the list of locations.

"What about this one that's down the road?" he asked.

Sure enough, they had an address that was obviously within a couple blocks of us. Very well, I would go to that one. He thought it was in the shopping center right next to the apartment complex.

So on my way out Wednesday morning, I set out in search. I didn't see it in the first shopping center, but thought I should circle around and go back through. Left, left, right, left again. No cleaners, and I was back on the main road. I looked carefully all along the left side of the road (the number was even, like ours), and finally made it to a spot where I could see that the numbers were getting too small. I turned around in the shopping center next to Walmart. Left, left, right again. No cleaners.

I drove back to the only area between them, hoping that somehow the insurance agency there might be concealing a dry cleaners somewhere on the premises. It was not. Finally in desparation I got out my phone and dialed the number.

I must have dialed something wrong, because I was getting an error signal when I lifted up my eyes and behold, a sign was given to me. Specifically, the sign of "Concord Custom Cleaners," directly across the road.

They didn't have an entrance opposite where I was, but I recklessly crossed diagonally through five lanes of traffic.

The lady who looked at the dress was sympathetic but not very optimistic. Still, she said she'd do what she could. I should be able to pick it up tomorrow.

It's Friendlier with Two (or More)

Stepping into a new place alone has always given me a moment or two of dread. Worse yet is the loose-endish feeling of being in a large gathering but not knowing anyone particularly well and not having anyone in particular to hang out with. I have always had to suppress the urge to latch on to some kind-hearted looking soul and claim them for my own for the rest of the event.

Give me one other person I know I can fall back on, though, one person who will be quite happy to include me in whatever they are doing, and I am perfectly at ease. One person skulking in a corner looks like a loser. Two people are no doubt having an engrossing tete-a-tete. Standing at the edge of a circle of conversing strangers looks impertinent; stand at the edge of a circle where you are accompanying one of the conversants and you can be attractively attentive.

Getting married, of course, supplied me with a perpetual friendly person for most events. (Even ladies' events, since I got a mother-in-law with the deal.) But it still left me rather bereft for the ordinary day things: trying out a new store or visiting the library or park.

But now, I have children! Friends who are not only willing, but positively required to stick close by my side as I go in and out and do this and that. Someone to look at things with me; someone to discuss things afterwards. Someone to make me always look like I'm profitably occupied even in a crowd of strangers. (It's amazing how much easier a family reunion of the other side of the family is when you have children.)

Admittedly, their language skills are yet quite limited, and their lack of finesse at using their legs and the toilet makes them more of a burden than a help at this stage. They will improve with time, though, and before too long they will be able to carry things instead of always needing to be carried, and let me know when I'm about to take the wrong exit, and converse in complete sentences. But even now they are Somebodies, and Somebodies are better than Nobody.

Art in Balance

Last night was sweet potato and sausage casserole night. I decided to make an herb and cheese biscuit to go along with it, and I had some lemon and parmesan to go on some mixed greens. It turned out just right--the savory biscuit against the sweet main dish and the tartness and crunchiness of the salad. Not five-star fare, but really good.

The real triumph, though, was not getting a good supper on the table. It was getting a good supper on the table while catching up on the laundry, keeping the kids happy and busy and not being an exhausted wreck at the end of the day.

Every other art form reaches its highest expression in those who can clear away all distractions and work only on their art form, whether it be food or paint or words. But homemaking is the art of keeping all the other arts in balance and not letting anything slide too much. It's the art of working within limits; it's the art of embracing your distractions.

This is why Martha Stewart, love her or hate her, is not really a representative of the art of homemaking. She doesn't have the limits. Sure she can make a fabulous fancy cake and a hand-stenciled border, but can she do it without a staff and with a teething six-month-old on hand? I think not. She might be good at some of the subsidiary arts of homemaking, but she's not pulling off the real thing.

And of course, like any artist, I'm not at the top of my game every day. Also, I hear one of my (very adorable) distractions waking up.

Clothes Horse

Yesterday I went through the next size up of clothes to see what ones fit D1 now. As I tossed the suitable ones onto the floor (I seem to subscribe to the throw-it-on-the-floor school of organization too much), D1 picked them up and endeavored to put them on. She looks rather like an elf, but although she insisted that was a hat, it was in fact a pair of shorts.

Later with my assistance she got on three dresses or jumpers, and a shirt over the top of all.

Parental Posting

There's been a discussion over here on whether one is a "Yes" parent or a "No" parent. I'm afraid I'm a "stare off into space contemplating the long-term ramifications of that while you continue asking until you're blue in the face because you can't even tell I've heard you" parent. But I am trying to do better, and at least give notice that they're on hold.

You know how the Sandman comes in the evenings and sprinkles sand in the eyes of the children? In the morning his brother the Glueman comes and sticks glue on the eyelids of the grownups.

D1 has learned to say "Jesus" in the past couple of weeks. She pulls out her Bible and asks for "Bible koree Dee-sus?" She claps her hands and asks to sing, "Dee-SUS?" (loves the little children). This is all almost too precious to bear.

On the topic of "Jesus Loves the Little Children," I am not much of a fan of Sunday School songs. When I taught 4 &5s and 1&2nd graders, I tried various experiments with metrical psalms and other weightier matters. But there's no mistaking the way her eyes light up when we sing something simple and clappable. So we do it when we're having a special Bible story time for her, and I sing the other songs at other times. I try to do Scripture songs when I can, and at least make sure the song, however simple, is doctrinally correct. ("Jesus Loves the Little Children" seems OK unless you believe in limited atonement--which I don't think I do.)

Performance Review

Mama and Papa,

You've been working as my parents for six months now, and I think it's time we sat down and looked at how things are going. On the whole, I think you're doing a good job, and I'll be pleased to keep you on in the current position for the indefinite future.

Some areas in which you are doing well:

The food. I really appreciate this new "food in a bowl" concept. The milk is great, but creativity is much appreciated. Keep it coming.

The entertainment. Giving me an older sister was a stroke of genius. She's always doing something worth watching, and bringing me fun things to play with. I love these headbands she keeps leaving on the floor! Great for chewing. Plus, you guys can be pretty hilarious, too.

Here are some areas I'd like to see some improvement:

Response time. I know you're busy, but when I'm having problems, I need help now! You need to remember what your top priority is.

Diaper changes. We really need to see some more consistency and frequency here.

Naps. You need to remember that just because you need a nap, doesn't mean I need a nap.

Once again, I really appreciate all you're doing here. Keep up the good work!

Love,
D2

Many, many questions

I stole this from The Common Room. As for tagging, go ahead and do it. You know you want to.

1. How many hours a day do you spend reading?
Books, as opposed to internet--probably not more than half an hour, if I'm lucky. And that's in very small snatches. (The internet requires much less concentration and stays open while I try to persuade D2 that he really does want to finish eating. So I'm afraid it gets too much of an edge these days.)
2. How fast do you read?
Very fast, but more slowly than my younger sister. Right now I spend most of my time finding my place, since I can never seem to keep track of a bookmark.
3. What is your favorite book?
Ha, ha, what a silly question.
4. Who is your favorite author?
G. K. Chesterton
5. What is your favorite action/adventure novel?
The Scarlet Pimpernel slightly edges out The Prisoner of Zenda because I adore it when a married couple gets more happily married, and abhor the chaste-adulterous-love sort of plot. But for action and adventure, they are about equal.
6. What is your favorite mystery novel?
For a novel length mystery, I'm sure it's one of the Lord Peters, but I have no idea which one. For short stories, of course it would be Father Brown.
7. What is your favorite romance novel?
Pride and Prejudice
8. What is your favorite character novel?
I think this means a novel centered on character development rather than plot. But I'm still not sure which qualify, as I generally avoid books without character development, and have certianly never read one without a plot.
9. What is your favorite fantasy/sci-fi novel?
The Lord of the Rings by J. R. R. Tolkien.
10. What is your favorite history book?
The Everlasting Man, by Chesterton, to the extent anything Chesterton writes can count as history. He's not much on dates and things.
11. What is your favorite biography?
Witness by Whittaker Chambers.
12. What is your favorite other non-fiction book?
Another silly question.
13. What is your favorite play?
In the Shakespeare category, Much Ado About Nothing. In the Non-Shakespeare category, Cyrano de Bergerac by Edmond Rostand.
14. What is your favorite of the genres mentioned in questions 5-12?
I like a book that has some of everything, with lots of philosophizing mixed in.
15. What is your favorite type of character?
Witty, cool-headed, principled.
16. If you could host a party with 7 literary characters, who would they be and why?
Father Brown and George MacDonald's Wise Woman to say profound things. Lord Peter Wimsey and Elizabeth Bennet to say witty things. Mr. Pickwick and Laura Ingalls' Grandmother to be jolly and lively and admire the brilliance of everyone else. I presume this is envisioning an eight-person dinner party, but since I would never give the party without DOB, my seventh person would be Jeeves, to serve the dinner and salvage my kitchen catastrophes.
17. Do you like film adaptations of books? If so, which is your favorite? Which is your least?
They're an irresistible source of pain. My favorite is the A&E Pride and Prejudice. As for least--perhaps those old Shirley Temple vehicles? Except I'm not sure they count as adaptations since they don't borrow anything but the book name.
18. Who is your literary role model?
Sam Gamgee. I admire loyalty and cheerfulness under difficult circumstances.
19. Which literary house would you like most to live in?
Pemberley, of course. If it came with the servants to clean it.
20. Which literary couple would you like most for parents?
Actually my real, live parents strongly resembled the Bennets in personality, though not in principles or intellect.
21. Pick 3 literary characters you would like to have as siblings.
Tom Sawyer to play with; Judah Ben-Hur to do in anyone who withstood us; and Anne Elliott from Persuasion to nobly labor away, carrying out all our grand plans.
22. Who is your favorite literary villain?
Madame Defarge. Click, click, click.
23. Name a character that most people dislike, but that you do not. Why do you like them?
I rather fancy Aunt March, probably because I got cast as her once.
24. Which minor character deserves a book all to themselves, in your opinion?
I wish Tolkien had turned Beren and Luthien into a novel, though perhaps that is not an appropriate answer for this question.
25. Which character do you identify most with in literature?
Anne Shirley and I seem to have grown up together.
26. If you could go into a novel, which one would it be and why?
I should like to go past The Phantom Tollbooth into the Lands Beyond.
27. Do you prefer hardback or paperback?
I don't really care.
28. Do you like dustcovers?
Bother, no. They always get messed up. Especially if a Certain Child has not been sufficiently informed that pouring water on the coffee table is an unacceptable form of experimentation.
29. Do you like introductions, forwards, afterwards, and appendices?
Not really. I tend to dodge them.
30. Do you like reading literary criticism?
Not really. I want to savor a book, not dissect it. Though I certainly try to spit out the bones.
31. Do you like new or used books? What about ex-library?
All of the above.
32. Are you likely to buy new books without having read them, or would you buy a used copy (or check it out from the library) to see if it is good or not?
Unprompted, I never buy a book new. Unprompted, I hardly ever buy anything new but groceries, and even that pains me. Not that used groceries are an option.
33. Name 3 - 7 books that you rarely see on people's favorite book lists, that are high on your own.
The Napoleon of Notting Hill, by G. K. Chesterton
The Phantom Tollbooth, by Norton Juster
The Taming of the Shrew, by William Shakespeare
The Lost Princess, by George MacDonald
34. Which is your least favorite book of those that are considered "classics"?
Moby Dick, although I keep thinking I should give it another try.
35. Do you like books read aloud, or do you prefer silent reading?
Both.
36. When you read, do you see things in your mind like a movie, or just in vague pictures?
Like a movie, to the extent that I had lengthy arguments with DOB between his seeing The Two Towers and The Return of the King because the division is different in the books and I was sure we had watched certain scenes.
37. Do you like to read in silence, or with backround noise/music?
It really doesn't matter. I don't hear it. If it's an interesting book, not even if it's "Maamaa!" which is why I don't read much these days.
38. Can you read in the car without getting carsick?
Hardly ever. As I have to relearn every six months or so.
39. Do you go to booksales?
How could I stay away?
40. Name one literary quirk of yours.
I cannot, cannot, cannot write in books. Unless I really hate the book, and own it, which is an odd combination limited to textbooks. I don't care if Mortimer Adler says you must, I can't!

Sweet Potatoes, Round 2

The day has come. When I can't go two hours without eating, it is time to acknowledge that baby cannot live by milk alone.

So today I cooked up a big pot of sweet potatoes. (And did NOT burn it, so my skills have improved somewhat in the past fifteen months. Or maybe I just got lucky.)

I fed D2. I gave myself and D1 a snack. I set D2 up in the high chair, dudded him up with a bib, and commenced.

Immediately D1, ignoring the crumbs of biscuit and jam on her table, requested some for herself, "Pay-toh, Pay-toh?" I had not foreseen this, although I should have. So I dished her up a bowl.

Meanwhile I was poking one tiny morsel at a time in the direction of D2's mouth. He choked and gagged, but with an air of intense interest. So I soldiered on, even though occasionally he threw up even his earlier meal.

In the middle of all this, D1 decided she needed to go potty. This means taking the bib off, helping her down with her pants, and if her pants are dry we customarily celebrate by reading a book. Then of course the process must be reversed, hands washed, etc., when she is done. In the interests of not allowing D2 to choke and vomit unsupervised, I told her we would be skipping the book for the time being and dashed back and forth between dining room and bathroom.

Notwithstanding, she decided, after she was all done and back at the table, that she needed to go again. And again. And again.

Meanwhile D2 stuck out his tongue and gagged and spit up sweet potato.

Two of these runs were successful, one so highly successful that it warranted a cookie. Somewhere in this she had abandoned the bowl of sweet potato and carried off the stool she sits on to eat. So I instructed her to bring it back so she could sit down and eat the cookie.

She set the stool down in her bowl of sweet potatoes.

Then she needed to go again. And again. And again.

I finally decided D2 had had enough of trying sweet potato, so I got him down.

By that time we were all hungrier than we were when we started. I thought this was hard last time.

Someday, we will all sit down to dinner and everyone will serve themselves portions that they actually eat. None of it will wind up on the floor. The children will wield their utensils expertly, converse on enlightening topics, and deal with extraneous bodily needs discretely. At the end, they will utter those words a mother so longs to hear, "Oh, don't worry about the dishes; we'll take care of them."

That will be in 2025. Until then, I've got some sweet potato to scrape off the stove.

Grocery gripe

I'm not a total health food snob. We do eat lots of whole grains and fresh vegetables, but I do not blanch at the thought of sugar in my ice cream. I can handle the news that chocolate candy generally contains sugar.

But why on earth does anyone put sugar in tomato sauce? Or stranger still, refried beans? What sort of thought process is going on here? It's like deciding to jazz up ice cream with a little cayenne pepper. (And tastes about as good.)

I try to read labels but conditions for it are rarely ideal. And I still haven't found good substitutes for my pre-moving favorite brands.

The state of things today

One thing I really didn't realize about babies and toddlers is how constant the state of change is. If they're not teething, trying out a new skill, or discovering a new activity that you hadn't yet thought of forbidding, then . . . they're asleep. For a few minutes.

D1 is speaking in nearly-complete sentences now, and she loves to rehearse them over and over. "Mama under cave . . . baby under cave . . . bear under cave . . . D1 under cave . . . D2 under cave." She tries to recite things, like "Pattycake," and to change her baby's diaper. (I'm slowly overcoming my dislike of dolls.) She has a firmer grasp on household routines than I do.

No sooner had D2 figured out rolling in both directions than he started being frustrated by his inability to crawl. I try to reassure him that he will get it eventually and that some things he has to work out for himself, but it still bothers him. He's starting to make little speeches of his own, "Awwattapootta," in addition to the ever-popular raspberries.

I'm just trying to get the piles of boxes cleaned out of the way before he gets to them.

Words of Wisdom

One reason a future career as an expert on child-rearing is extremely unlikely for me is that any advice I can come up with is such that even I would not need in a moment of sanity:

Never give a toddler your car keys to put away.

I was tired and distracted when we got home on Wednesday, and in a weak moment, I handed the keys to D1 and said, "Put them away."

Now, she does know where keys go. She is often permitted to put them in and take them out of the appropriate drawer, and it is the highlight of her day to get out the mail keys and go get the mail with Papa. (DOB is not greeted with cries of "Papa!" but cries of "Mail!")

Anyway, I was sitting on the couch and could not see the path she would take to put the keys away. I promptly forgot about it until the next morning, when we all had our jackets on and I was filled with plans for a trip that would involve not just the grocery store but a long-awaited excursion to the children's resale shop to get rid of things that had been knocking about in the back of the wagon for two months.

When I first realized their absence, I couldn't for the life of me remember what I had done. Then, with a sinking feeling, I did. We (DOB's two youngest brothers are spending a few days with us) scoured the vicinity, searching in all the other desk drawers. No keys.

We asked D1, "Where are Mama's keys?"

To which she gave the unenlightening, if impressively verbal, response, "Mama's keys all gone!"

The wastebasket sits in a dangerously close proximity to the desk, and D1 is fond of taking things in and out. Unfortunately, we had just emptied the garbages and taken the bag out to the car to drop off at the dumpster on our way out. One of the boys brought the bag back in and I searched through it. No keys.

I called DOB. He had no other ideas as to favorite hiding places. I pointed out that someone would have to stay behind if we didn't find the keys, in order to let us back into the building. Whether it was this or merely the thrill of the chase, the boys redoubled their efforts and at last turned up the missing keys: in the bookcase drawer with the movies.

Well, it was a drawer.

Now I just hope I can remember this hard-won lesson.

A Grand Day Out

Today I tried taking D1 to a story time for one year olds at the library. This was more for my social benefit than for hers. She naturally was more interested in the giant balls than in the other kids, except when she or the ball collided with one. This is the age for Parallel Play, or so the books say.

It's easy to differentiate the only children from the children with older siblings, even before the mothers mention the one they have to pick up at preschool. The only children are the ones in adorable, perfectly-coordinated ensembles. The younger children are wearing slightly rumpled knit play clothes. (D1 was not quite coordinated, because she keeps outgrowing all her shoes.)

I'm not sure I'm cut out for this Toddler business. I can manage "This Little Piggy" and even "The Wheels on the Bus" in the privacy of my own home, but I feel like a fool marching around and singing in mixed company. On the plus side, I learned some family-friendly lyrics to "What Shall We Do With a Drunken Sailor?"

On the whole, it was a fun outing. We shall have to try it again. And maybe I will get so far as exchanging names, and not just ages of children, with some of the other moms.

Signed, Sealed & Delivered

D2 is napping. D1 went with DOB to the credit union. Even the Guys Upstairs apparently have no housekeeping to do and no games to watch. (Well, of course not, they are napping after staying up all night, practicing the guitar.) The house is silent.

I don't know what to do with myself. So I shall blog.

DOB is going to the credit union to deposit a check received yesterday after signing several hundred pieces of paper. ("And this one is the certification that you've read and understood the Foreclosure Disclosure Enclosure, which is this 35-page stack of paper I have under the desk here.")

We were running late yesterday, as usual, and when we stopped by the house to check things one last time we discovered that the refrigerator had not been cleaned. The refrigerator is my housekeeping Nemesis. Goopy things go in there. Lids come loose mysteriously. Vegetables bought with noble plans get lost behind the peanut butter jar. One has to bend over, fight off D1, and waste large quantities of energy to clean it. Right after D2's birth, cleaning it wasn't even on my least favorite things to do list.

So we took out 15 minutes and the roll of paper towels thoughtfully left for us and tried to scrape off the unidentified goo. We didn't actually get it clean, but we got it to the point where it looked like we had just forgotten to clean it.

And now the buyer (our realtor's ex, which strikes us as unspeakably odd) has signed the papers and she's stuck with it. If the furnace breaks again, it's her worry. If the tub starts backing up, not our problem. All the headaches are hers now.

I miss our house.

This must be my lucky day!

This morning D2 was being suspiciously quiet. I checked on him. He was rolled on his side, contentedly examining chair legs, with a large, spreading stain on his backside.

I whisked him up to take him to the changing pad and discovered a very good reason for the blowout--his diaper was not attached. I don't know how that happened.

So I took the stained pajamas into the laundry and added them to the next load. I grabbed my trusty bottle of stain remover and started spraying them. It didn't seem to be doing much good, and it smelled kind of funny, but I figured I'd give them time to work and started switching the loads around.

My eye happened to fall on the bottle I'd placed on the freezer. It was a bottle of windshield rain repellent. Risking death from chemical mixtures, I promptly sprayed them with the right bottle. (They came through fairly clean and not particularly waterproof.)

DOB called a little earlier to say the reason his lunch bag was so light this morning was that I had forgotten to put lunch in it.

I'm glad I don't have to drive anywhere today.

Just another pretty face

I have often noted that one can easily identify the decade in which a fantasy or historical movie was made simply by looking at the heroine. Fashions in beauty change over time; while none of the heroines look downright ugly, the girls from an 80s or 60s movie would definitely not be cast as the most beautiful woman in the world today. (The 20s are perhaps the worst of all; whereas the stars from the 40s movies still look incredible.)

Sometimes it seems to be a bit more consciously done: I have always thought that in the Pride & Prejudice miniseries, while Elizabeth is far more appealing to modern eyes, one can see that Jane might well better fit the image of beauty of the neoclassical era.

Anyway, I have always reflected with some comfort that the only thing that keeps me (or any other reasonably decent-looking young woman) from being dazzlingly beautiful is being born in the wrong era. And perhaps a good makeup artist.

Not according to Hoyle

We've invented a new card game, for those who love mental math. Or who have calculators handy.

We call it Pemberley, because it's our card game and we can call it what we want to. It's for two or more players--we're not sure how many more, because we haven't tried it with more than three.

The objective is to win.

One wins by scoring the most points.

One scores points by getting the cumulative total of cards played so far to land on certain selected numbers.

If you're still reading, here are the rules:

Dealer deals seven cards to each player. Player to right of dealer cuts the deck, and dealer turns over the exposed card. This card is the starter.

Cards are treated as numbers 1-13, Kings being 13, naturally. Each suit is assigned an operation, as follows:

♥=Add
♠=Subtract
♦=Multiply
♣=Divide

The players set down cards alternately (keeping their piles separate), calculating the new total based on applying the operation and number indicated by the card last played. That sounds confusing, but it's quite simple, as you'll see when I get to a sample round.

All totals must be whole numbers, and they cannot be greater than 500 or less than -500.

Points are granted as follows:

• Landing on 1 is worth 1 point the first time, then 1 more point every time it is reached in the game.
• Landing on 12 or a multiple of 12 is worth 1 point.
• Landing on a prime number is worth 1 point. (List of primes.)
• Landing on 0 is worth 2 points
• Landing on 7 or a multiple of 7 is worth 2 points.
• Landing on 13 or a multiple of 13 is worth 3 points.

Because points are acquired as play proceeds, it's easiest to use a cribbage board to keep score. If you don't have one, perhaps hash marks would work.

Any cards that cannot be played will deduct one point from the player's final score.

Once all cards have been played, the players gather up their own cards and arrange them in sets which, again working off the starter card, make numbers that score points. Any card that cannot be used in one of these sets is another card to deduct from the final score. These points are to be added to the ones scored in the first part of the game, extra cards are then subtracted, and the winner is the one with the most points.

OK, here's a sample game to make it clearer: ♥=Add ♠=Subtract ♦=Multiply ♣=Divide

Starter card is 3♣ (Disregard the suit on the starter card), so starting value is 3.

P1: Q♦, 3*12 is 36. Divisible by 12, 1 point.
P2: Q♥ 36+12 is 48. Divisible by 12, 1 point.
P1: 8♣ 48 / 8 is 6.
P2: 2♣ 6/ 2 is 3. Prime, 1 point.
P1: 8♠ 3-8 is -5. Prime, 1 point.
P2: 5♣ -5 / 5 is -1.
P1: 8♥ -1 +8 is 7. Divisible by 7, 2 points.
P2: 4♦ 7*4 is 28. Divisible by 7, 2 points.
P1: 7♣ 28 / 7 is 4.
P2: 3♠ 4-3 is 1. First hit of 1, 1 point.
P1: K♦ 1*13 is 13. Divisible by 13, 3 points.
P2: A♥ 13+1 is 14. Divisible by 7, 2 points.
P1: 7♠ 14-7 is 7. Divisible by 7, 2 points.
P2: Has a 10♣ unused, which is set aside.

At this point, P1 has 9 points and P2 has 7 points. Now they take up their hands and lay them out to make the maximum points they can find:

P1: (8♥, 7♠, Q♦, 8♣, 8♠), i.e. ((3 (starter) +8-7)*12)/8)-8=-2, prime, for 1 point.
(K♦) 3*13=69, divisible by 13, for 3 points.

P1's score is now 13, but he was unable to use his 7♣ this time, so one point is deducted, and his final score is 12.

P2: (Q♥, 5♣) i.e., (3+12)/5=3, prime, for 1 point.
(3♠) 3-3 =0, for 2 points.
(4♦, 2♣, A♥) 3*4/2+1=7, for 2 points.

P2's score is now 12, but the 10♣ must now be deducted, so his final score is 11, and P1 wins. If you want to do multiple rounds, you can set a winning point value and keep a running tally.

We welcome thoughts and suggestions (except for "You guys are hopeless nerds.")

Something Old, Something New

This refers to activities, not people, so it has nothing to do with your birthday, Juliana. ;-)

In the old activities, my former roommate, with whom I have lived for a significantly larger portion of my life than I have with DOB, was out in the vicinity for business and was able to stop in for the weekend. She is fortunately used to my cooking and therefore remained undaunted when D1 dropped the ant trap in the potatoes and when the chicken refused to cook even though it had been in the oven much longer than the recipe said. (I should just not try to follow recipes, as it only confuses me.)

She is also good with a hammer, and thus with her help we were able to put up pictures in much of the house, which makes it look like we are living here, not just camping.

In the new activities, D1 finally found something at the park sufficiently dangerous to give her serious injury: sitting on the bench. She fell off face-first onto the concrete and had a swollen lip for the duration of the weekend. We carried her screaming home, washed her up, and as soon as she was released, she ran to the door saying, "More park?"

D1 has also been promoted to attending children's church, which is taught by Grandma and one of her uncles, so she seems fairly tolerant of the idea.

D2, meanwhile, has been promoted to sitting in a booster seat at the table while we eat. I am still trying to hold off on him actually eating food, however eagerly he may try to grab our plates, but he found it interesting to sit up, look around and gnaw on a spoon. After awhile he got tired of tipping over, though, and was happy to return to his customary place on the floor.

And I seem to be suffering from a case of baby carrier elbow, which has decided me that D2 shall no longer be carried in and out in the car seat.

Somewhat disturbing

I decided to try the favorite Google search game with my alter ego and typed in "Queen of Carrots is."

One reference was to me. The rest were to . . . tarot cards. Apparently the Queen of Carrots is a very auspicious card. Much better than say, a beet. Or potato.

Well, I would hope so.

Anyway, on a brighter note, I tried "Duke of Burgundy is" and discovered that the Duke of Burgundy is a quite lovely European butterfly.

And here are some apt quotes on ducklings:

All Ducklings are Beautiful
Those ducklings are way too cute!!
The ducklings are master mess-makers.
Ducklings are also extremely fragile, easily chilled and can be injured .
Ducklings are amazing. I could sit and watch them putter and dabble for hours.
When my ducklings are 3 days old, they can find their own food. (Well, sort of.)

DOB Opines

QOC: You know that song that goes "Duh, duh, da-duh, da-duh-duh?" I found it online yesterday. It's called "Scotland the Brave."

DOB: That's a stupid name. Scotland isn't brave.

QOC: It's not?

DOB: No, Scotland is just a piece of dirt. Its only use is keeping Scotsmen out of the ocean.

QOC: I think it's poetic use of the language to indicate that Scotsmen are brave.

DOB: Then they should call it "Scotsmen the Brave." Now with "America the Beautiful," it's accurate, because America really is beautiful.

QOC: Even though many Americans are in fact homely?

Side note: Do you see our burgundy carrots? Do they look burgundy enough? I'm afraid I may need a different backdrop.

Medical emergency disrupts service

According to the usual rules of church seating distribution, all the older folk in our church, after a leisurely breakfast at Bob Evans and a drive ten mph below the speed limit, mosey in fifteen minutes before the service starts and secure the seats in the back. Then the younger families, who have spent the entire morning in a whirlwind of diaper changes, smeared egg yolk, and missing socks, and after following the old folk from other churches who start even later, sneak in during the third hymn and take seats front and center, where everyone can observe their disciplinary techniques and number of trips to the restroom. In our church it makes more sense than in most, because the nursery can only be reached by crossing the podium behind the pastor, so at least one is centrally located to deal with whatever age of child happens to be having the issue.

This Sunday it was D1 who was having the issue. Usually D1 is one of those model children who makes us look far better than we deserve in church--well, except for an unprecedented interest in the ladies' room which is not reflected during times when using it would be less disruptive. Yesterday, she was not. She wiggled. She writhed. She made pathetic little moans. No position was comfortable, not even for a split second. At last the expression of distress on her face grew so great that I took her downstairs to try to diagnose the problem.

We tried a trip to the ladies' room. No help. Next on the suspect list was hunger. I found some stale potato chips and offered them to her, suspecting that her unaccountable lack of interest in pot roast the night before might have something to do with it. She ate them cheerfully enough, but not with the attitude of one famished. Her distress remained evident.

By this time D2 was getting noisy enough that DOB came downstairs with him. We traded children and DOB took over the diagnostic work. We asked her if it hurt, and if so where.

"Beybutton," she said. (A favorite word.)

With an expression of deep concern, DOB laid her down and begin prodding her central regions, checking for symptoms of appendicitis and the like. None of it seemed to bother her.

Not being able to diagnose the pain, DOB decided to try distraction. He started playing with her feet. She burst into tears. A light began to dawn on DOB's face. He took her shoes off. She relaxed. He took her stockings off.

Sure enough, she had managed to outgrow her shoes midway through the service.

Not your most cautious mother

Yesterday the ducklings and I were at the park, as is usual anytime we can avoid sub-zero temperatures and torrential downpours. D1 lately has mostly preferred climbing part of the way up the jungle gym and sitting there, watching the cars go by. But she finally decided to sit down backwards on the top of the short tube slide, perhaps preparatory to turning around and sliding down.

Next thing I or she knew, she had started to slide down as she was. Encumbered with D2, I could not grab her, nor travel very quickly around to the other end. By the time I got down the jungle gym, I was only in time to see her emerge head-first from the slide, do a neat back flip, and land on the ground.

She didn't seem too upset by the experience, nor did she even notice that her face and head were covered with beauty bark. But she was content to climb halfway up the jungle gym and sit and watch the cars go by some more.

I've been reading all about brain development lately. I'm sure there's some essential synapses formed by doing back flips off the end of the slide.

DOB reading to the ducklings

On Cooking

From the Headmistress, at the Common Room

1. How many meals does most of your family eat at home each week? How many are in your family?
19-20 meals. The others are eaten at DOB's parents' house, but I make one of them (Sunday evening dinner, if we're going to evening church). DOB eats lunch and breakfast on the road, but he takes them in his snazzy insulated bags advertising some investment product or other, which he picked up at the last big company shindig. There are four of us, but D2 has not yet started solid food, although the day is lurching uncomfortably close.

2. How many cookbooks do you own?
About half a dozen general cookbooks, half a dozen one-topic cookbooks, and a cereal box or so full of old Taste of Home magazines. Anything that wouldn't fit on my top shelf in the cupboard is destined for Goodwill.

3. How often do you refer to a cookbook each week?
Two or three times. I rarely read a recipe unless I'm baking. Everything else is quite forgiving, and more adventuresome if you don't look.

4. Do you collect recipes from other sources? If so, what are some of your favorite sources (relaties, friends, magazines, advertisements, packages, the internet, etc)
If I want a specific recipe for something and it's not in my cookbooks, I look it up online. I also enjoy very much being part of the Martha blog.

5. How do you store those recipes?
Umm . . . if I get so far as to print them out, they get wadded up and stuffed in the converted cereal boxes with the magazines. I have an empty cookbook ready to receive recipe cards, but never get around to copying them to a suitable size and putting them in. Perhaps D1 can do it when she is old enough . . .

6. When you cook, do you follow the recipe pretty closely, or do you use recipes primarily to give you ideas?
A recipe is merely a theme to invite improvisation.

7. Is there a particular ethnic style or flavor that predominates in your cooking? If so, what is it?
Generally American, a lot of Americanized Italian and Mexican. Alas, I almost never get to fix Asian food, which I love, because DOB is allergic to soy.

8. What's your favorite kitchen task related to meal planning and preparation? (eating the finished product does not count)
Seasoning. Such an adventure, especially if you don't use a recipe or measuring spoons. Mixing up the herbs with shaker tops and the herbs without shaker tops can lead to too much of an adventure, though.

9. What's your least favorite part?
Cleaning up the dishes I didn't get done after the last meal so I have room to work.

10. Do you plan menus before you shop?
I never thought I would, but I have caved in. I just don't have the free brain power to keep improvising. I've made up a four-week rotation and am about halfway through. So far I'm loving it, but we shall see.

11. What are your three favorite kitchen tools or appliances?
Kitchenaid, crockpot, blender. (When D2 starts on solid foods, blender will move to the top.)

12. If you could buy one new thing for your kitchen, money was no object, and space not an issue, what would you most like to have?
A complete, matching set of sturdy, stainless steel pots and pans

13. Since money and space probably are objects, what are you most likely to buy next?
A four-quart pan. (If that's the middlish sized one.) With a lid that fits. So I can fit all our breakfast cereal in one pot without getting out the soup pot.

14. Do you have a separate freezer for storage?
We have an extra freezer, a spare one from DOB's parents, without which my life would be difficult indeed.

15. Grocery shop alone or with others?
If you have to ask, you haven't been around here long.

16. How many meatless main dish meals do you fix in a week??
Two or three dinners, depending on whether the bean dish gets meat added. But since lunches are always leftovers or beans, that number should be a little more than doubled.

17. If you have a decorating theme in your kitchen, what is it? Favorite kitchen colors?
Carrots, naturally. I hope this time I can get things up more than two months before we move out. For colors I use orange and green--though in moderation.

18. What's the first thing you ever learned to cook, and how old were you?
The first thing I remember knowing how to cook was chocolate cake, at about eight.

19. How did you learn to cook?
I think everybody showed me a little something--my mom, my sister, my aunt and great-aunts and grandmas and dad, and even my older brother, who makes the best steak in the Western Hemisphere. A lot of trial and error. I also picked up a fair bit from my former boss. Special mention goes to my former roommate, who put up with a lot from my cooking.

20. Tag two other people to play.
I'm going to cheat:
1. My Weird Aunt
2. All the Marthas. If you want to.

That Old House

Here are some shots of where we used to live. No particular reason, except I only now got the camera and cord together and took the pictures off it.



The living room. If you look closely, you can see that I forgot to move someone's breakfast bowl before I took the picture. I was rather in a hurry to get on with packing.












The nursery. The sunflower curtains and bedskirt were made by my sister, with fabric that I traded in a Baby Looney Tunes crib set for (shudder). Don't get me wrong, I love Looney Tunes, in their place. Which is not in home decor.










The master bedroom. It was neither fish nor fowl, being a blend of carrot things and sunflower things. But at least it was colorful.

Honesty is the Messiest Policy

So I was making a quick stop at the grocery store to pick up milk, because we were all out and I didn't want to wait for the grocery day tomorrow.

And they had a sale on butter, and I wanted to show D1 the fish, and we wound up in the electrical aisle, trying to find a three-way light bulb that would fit in our bedside touch lamp so I don't have to get up and switch it off every night.

One of the rows of bulbs was a little too close to the edge; I brushed it and down it smashed. The best thing to do seemed to be inform the lady we had just seen cleaning the fish tanks and have her come sweep it up. So I did.

Then, of course, the proper thing to do was to take the light bulb up and pay for it, though it pains me much to spend money on things that no longer exist. I picked up the box, which still had shards of lightbulb hanging out of it, and decided such a thing should not be in the cart where the ducklings might reach it. Instead, I put it on the bottom rack of the cart.

We meandered on, as I wanted to check out the clearance sales on clothes, and somewhere in between men's athletic wear and junior's seduction wear the box fell off the cart and shattered more shards of lightbulb everywhere. No salespeople were in sight this time, but I did spot a red phone for assistance, which I used to summon help from Sherry in Jewelry.

A lady appeared from somewhere, produced a broom and began sweeping up the mess. The box still contained shards of lightbulb (who knew one little lightbulb could contain so much glass?), so I explained my predicament and the history I and the lightbulb had together. She left the box in the pile of fragments and said to forget it, with a manner that indicated she could do her job better without interference from lunatics who try to transport lightbulb fragments in the bottom of their shopping carts.

So I gave it up and came home.

General update

I had some profound thoughts on unrequited love to write, but no profound moments in which to write them.

We have a contract on the house. Rumor also has it that the bathroom has been painted, although no word yet on whether the bathtub drain is working. Now we must get back up and pack up our remaining belongings, which we have been living quite happily without and now must find a place for.

D1 has been having some digestive troubles of some sort or another. We have read a certain few books many, many times. I have done many loads of laundry. I hope I can figure out what it is soon.

Stacks of boxes and a toddler who has just figured out how to climb are a dangerous combination.

By diligent effort, it is possible to get a cheerio inside a pop bead. It is not possible to get it out again. *

D2 has started rolling over again, although it still is quite difficult and sometimes frustrating for him.

*Update to the update: DOB can get cheerios out of pop beads! Fathers are amazing creatures.

In honor of Valentine's day, an unromantic honeymoon story

Per DJ's request.

For reasons I would rather not elaborate, we were running a little late heading home from our honeymoon. Ordinarily DOB's . . . ummm . . . assertive driving skills would have resolved the problem, but even he cannot drive on water. We missed the ferry boat by three cars. Still, we thought there was hope that we might have time to just make our flight even after the next crossing.

In hopes of expediting our arrival, we swallowed our pride and called His Majesty, who at the time worked at the airport, asking him to meet us at the curb. We got the ribbing we expected, but it was worth it to have some help unloading the four boxes and four bags into which I had crammed the last of the worldly goods with which I had endowed DOB.

But we arrived at the airport only a couple of minutes before the check-in deadline. Thinking all was hopeless, I did not utter the flight number as I alighted upon the curb--it turned out later that had I done so, they could have expedited us to the departing flight. Instead, they hastily rebooked us, checked the four boxes, and provided us with only a half-hour to get ourselves through Monday-morning lines and out to the gate to catch the next flight.

Ordinarily when DOB has to transverse such long distances, he requests a wheelchair. Waiting for a wheelchair in an airport is a very iffy business, and what with it being Monday morning it was more iffy than usual. After fifteen or twenty minutes in which no wheelchair had appeared, we gave up and decided to transport ourselves and four remaining bags on foot. We reached the security lines, which were long and slow.

DOB requested of the gatekeeper that we be permitted to go through the handicapped line, what with him not only having trouble standing, but us being about to miss our flight because we had waited so long for a wheelchair. The gatekeeper was adamant that people without wheelchairs could not go through the handicapped line, no matter how much in need of a wheelchair they might be. DOB was summoning his long-honed debate skills to tell the fellow exactly what he thought of such a policy, and I was in surrender making my way through the long, slow, ordinary line, when a nearly-miraculous intervention appeared.

A lady in our airline's uniform, not clearing five feet even in heels, was marching through the airport calling our flight number. In her wake came a collection of worried travelers, and before her the crowds parted and even recalcitrant gatekeepers bowed in reverence. We immediately joined her entourage and found ourselves whisked through security, through the tram (which under our guide's supervision traveled faster than usual), and to our gate just as they were calling our names one last time before they shut the doors.

We crammed ourselves and our bags in and the flight took off. Thanks to our last minute booking, our seats were separated, but someone was kind enough to switch with us so that we could sit together. Another little change was that our flight went through Detroit instead of Minneapolis. The airline did manage to provide a wheelchair in Detroit, along with a gregarious wheelchair pusher, which was good because as usual our incoming flight was several miles from the departing one, and it left out of air travel purgatory--the unfinished wing of the Detroit airport which contains no seats, bathrooms, or cheery little food places. Fortunately airlines still served food in those days, because we certainly had no time to buy any.

When all was said and done, we made it to Dayton at about the time we had been originally scheduled to arrive.

But we haven't caught our breath since.

The Honeymoon is Over

Not the one with DOB--that ended at 11:01 a.m. September 8, 2003, when we arrived at the airport one minute after our flight home departed.

It's the one with the garbage disposal here. I had had so much trouble with my previous relationships, but I thought I knew how to make it work this time. I gave it plenty of water. I made sure its food was always in small pieces. I tried hard not to overfeed it. I apologized profusely the time I dropped D1's fork inside on accident.

Things went along well for awhile. Then I grew bold and careless. I started to take it for granted.

Finally, on a sinkful of sweet potato peels, it had had enough. It chewed and spit and groaned and gave up. The water wouldn't go down. The peels wouldn't go down. When the dishwasher ran last night, it filled the sink to the brim.

Today the maintenance man came out and, with a bucket and siphon and some fiddling unclear to me, restored it to functionality. We're back together again, happy but a little bit wary.

I hope I can do better this time.

Game Over

So another Super Bowl has come and gone, leaving me pondering once again why I dislike professional sports. Not just am indifferent. I really don't want to know. I don't like hearing or watching the game, or even being around it unless I have something else sufficiently absorbing to do. On the other hand, I don't mind listening to people analyzing it once it's all over and I know the outcome.

I have come to the conclusion that it's because I hate the emotional drain involve. It's all skillfully choreographed and dramatized to get you to care; to keep you on the edge of your seat, wondering who is going to win, agonizing with every setback of your team, rejoicing with every turn in their favor. It seems a terrible waste of emotional energy.

But then, I don't mind at all when a book or movie keeps me in suspense, gets me to identify with one side over the other, and makes me care what happens to them. We watched To Kill a Mockingbird the night before, and I didn't feel like it was a waste of emotional energy to cheer on Atticus Finch or to mourn the death of Tom Robinson. Perhaps it is because in a book or movie, there's a reason for caring. Atticus Finch might be fictional, but he's a fictional representation of good. Bob Ewell might be fictional, but he's a fictional representation of evil. Even when the bad guys win, one has the comfort of philosophizing about the difficulties of a fallen world.

In sports, neither side is evil or good; one cheers for one side over the other by accidents of birth or education. There is nothing to really rejoice in victory (they'll probably lose next year), and nothing to learn from defeat, since as a fan one cannot affect the outcome.

DOB does enjoy sports to some degree--he even pondered borrowing a TV to watch the Super Bowl, though he never did. I think it's because he knows enough about the games to enjoy analyzing differences in skill and strategy, which gives it, if not quite a moral component, at least an intellectual one. But I don't know enough, and don't want to bother to learn enough.

Or maybe I'm just annoyed that the Seahawks lost.

A Collection of Books

Before they go back to the library:

Suburban Safari: A Year on the Lawn, by Hannah Holmes. I've been trying to get inspired about nature study even here in the concrete jungle (with a few strips of well-tended turf.) This was the book to do it, although the author's overgrown suburban backyard still sounds a lot more wild than mine. Adventures of squirrels and crows, ideas for tracking what's going on out there, incredible facts about plants and animals you thought you knew about, and quite a few laughs. She's an environmentalist, but a reasonable one who understands tradeoffs and human needs. I am inspired. Someday I, too, shall have a Freedom Lawn. (Actually, since it consists of never using chemicals or watering, mowing infrequently, and only weeding out invasive non-native plants, that's exactly what we had before, although it wasn't necessarily an environmental effort.)

The Wild Out Your Window, by Sy Montgomery. Same reason. In some spots more literary in style, but not as much fun. Full of fascinating facts. Did you know that turkey vultures mate for life, as much as sixty years? Perhaps they realize they'll never get another date.

Better than School, by Nancy Wallace. A personal account from the early days of homeschooling. I had forgotten how much we owe to those pioneers who had to explain and defend every thing they did to uncomprehending officials. Also, now I want my children to be older, so they can do cool stuff, too. Only I also want them to stay little.

The Heroes, by Charles Kingsley. Fabulous retellings of the ancient Greek myths. (Carrie, if you ever want to revisit the Ancient Greeks, this is much more cheery than the Iliad.) A bit moralizing in spots; one could hardly expect otherwise in a 19th-century father writing for his children. But oh, such fun. "It is better to die like a hero than live like an ox in a stall." Even the Bowdlerizing is scintillating: "And Daedalus fled to Crete, to Minos, and worked for him many a year, till he did a shameful deed, at which the sun hid his face on high." I can't wait until the ducklings are old enough to listen to it.

Except I want them to stay little and cute.

And a bonus one that's not from the library:

The Lost Princess, by George MacDonald. My favorite book on child discipline: though the methods are not precisely applicable (I don't have a magic room that won't produce dinner until the floor is swept), the heart of the book is. I was reminded again what an awesome job it is to have an immortal soul to guide. And I spotted a few lessons for myself, too. For the Wise Woman still has rooms to lead all of us through.

D1 and D2 get tagged

By Rose

Four Jobs (We) Have Had in (Our) Life:
1) Floor Cleaner (D1, but D2 is learning)
2) Table Setter (D1)
3) Dishwasher Unloader (D1)
4) Spare Object Holder (D2)

Movies We Could Watch Over and Over Again:
We don't know yet, Mama and Papa always watch them after we go to bed.

Four Places We Have Lived:
1) Wilmington, OH--apartment. (D1, technically. But she didn't get to see any of it.)
2) Wilmington, OH--house.
3) Loveland, OH--apartment.
4) And that's all. We haven't been alive very long, and Mama says that's quite enough for now.

Four TV Shows We Love to Watch:
We don't have a TV. Mama and Papa explain that we'd have to get rid of books to have room for one, and that would be terrible.

Four Places We Have Been on Vacation:
1) Olalla, WA
2) Olympia, WA
3) Corvallis, OR
4) Mama says that was enough places for one trip, too.

Four Websites We Visit Daily (or at least weekly):
1) The Duchy of Burgundy Carrots, to see what Mama's been writing about us.
2) Introducing the World, to see what else Mama has been writing about us.
3) Ben's Blog He's two. Being two must be so cool.
4) The Jones's Blog Stuart and Addie are even older, so they get to have even more fun.

Four of Our Favourite Foods:
1) Milk--but D1 likes it from cows, and D2 likes it from Mama.
2) Bananas
3) Beeeeeaaans
4) Cookies, but it's really tricky getting Mama to let you see where she hides them.

Four Singers We Can't Live Without:
1) Mama
2) Papa
3) Umm . . . Mama is feeling bad because she never plays vocal music for us. She means to do better someday. But the cd player is on top of the china hutch, and it's hard to reach.

Four Places We'd Rather Be:
1) The park
2) Grandma and Grandpa's House
3) The library
4) The grocery store

Too cool

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Miscellanea

With DOB's help, D1 discovered the slides at the park. After a very little coaching in climbing, and a few rides down in someone's lap, she scorned the short slide put in as a concession to small children and made a beeline for the top of the tall, twisty slide, scooting down on her belly, and hitting the ground running and squealing, "More!"

We went to evening service for the first time in a very long time, and she learned the first step in becoming a good Baptist: A hearty "AMEN!" (or two or three) at the end of everything.

D2, meanwhile, is exercising his fascination with speech to a greater degree everyday. He'll talk to anything now . . . a spare pair of pants, a table leg, a loose pillow. But he did not like B5's clarinet solo, not even with the brand-new professional grade clarinet.

We are still reorganizing the books. It goes very slowly. It wouldn't bother me--what is more fun than going slowly through one's books--except that all the neighbors can see of our house is the big pile of book boxes by the patio door. I want to put up a sign that says, "We're not slobs! Really!"

How it's done

I used to see mothers with two small children in the supermarket and wonder, "How do they do that?" People now look at me with that same question on their faces, and sometimes on their lips. In case it is on yours, I will explain.

First, we have to leave. This entails making sure everyone has been fed, changed and/or pottied, and dressed in shoes, jacket, and hat. (Actually D2 hardly ever wears shoes, even to church. I'll pretend it's my concern for his proper muscular development and not just laziness.) This must be done in the proper sequence, or a step will have to be repeated again before we go. Half of the steps must be left until the absolute last minute, when they must all be done simultaneously.

Then we must get in the car. I no longer measure the difficulty of a trip by how long we spend driving, but by how many times we get in and out of the car. D2 rides out to the car in his carrier, which he is just barely small enough to still fit in, and just barely light enough for me to still lift. The diaper bag is, hopefully, on my back, and D1 walks on her own volition, holding my hand whenever I can manage a free one. Sometimes she trips and falls, especially while going over the curb.

We arrive at the car, where I try to determine whether it would be better to set D2 out in the elements while I put D1 in the car, or trust to D1's training in standing still with one hand on the car while I put D2 in the car--the answer depending on the inclemency of the weather, the busyness of the parking lot, and which side of the car I happened to go to first.

We drive to the store. There, I must repeat the getting-in-the-car process in reverse, with the added twist that now D2 has to go in the pouch I am wearing, and thus if I get him out first, I have to lift D1 out while D2 gets smashed between us. He doesn't like this. He doesn't like it again when I try to lift D1 into the shopping cart. (I always circle until I can find a parking spot next to an occupied cart return.) Bonus fun if the shopping cart has one of those automatically sticking up plastic flaps, which require you to have three hands: one to hold the plastic flap down, two to maneuver the child. I quickly grow a third hand.

After this, we are home free for awhile. D2 is happy in the pouch, watching the proceedings. D1 is happy riding around the store, commenting on the produce and greeting all and sundry. By the time we are halfway through the store, however, the cart begins to get very heavy and veers dangerously from side to side. (Remember I'm propelling 40 pounds of children and diaper bag on top of a week's groceries for three hearty eaters.) We do our best not to flatten anyone's grandma, while politely answering her exclamations.

We make our way through the checkout line, get everyone out of the cart and into the car, and unload the groceries into the back. We drive home. Here the getting-out-of-the-car procedure is reversed, and I face another conundrum. I dare not leave the children alone in the car--I should not leave them alone together in the house--the food, if left in the car, will spoil--and everyone needs to be fed and changed and/or pottied again, plus outdoor clothing removed. I work out a compromise based on the most urgent needs (usually like this: D1, potty; ultra-perishable food; D2, lunch; somewhat perishable food; D1 and I, lunch; put D1 down for nap; remaining food).

As soon as the last bag of food has made it into the house, I consider myself done for the week. D1 can help me put things away later. I go take a nap.

A shopping trip gone awry

One other thing to dislike about moving is the difficulty of getting used to shopping at new stores. I always wander around new stores like a squirrel navigating a traffic jam, colliding with the displays and forgetting what I was after.

There is a grocery store across the street. There is another down the road one way, a Wal-mart down the road the other way, and a fourth somewhere on the other side of the freeway. I decided the best plan would be to visit one store each week, stocking up on whatever thing that store had the best deals on.

Last week I shopped at the grocery store across the street, in the evening so that DOB could watch the ducklings. This week I decided to visit Wal-mart.

As I was pulling into Wal-mart, the thought occurred to me, "What if this isn't a Wal-mart with food?" But I was already there, so I went on in. Sure enough, it had no food, although it did have the non-food items on the list.

Now, the most sensible plan would have been to head back to the grocery store across the street and finish my shopping. The second most sensible plan would have been to call DOB and ask for directions to the grocery store on the other side of the freeway. (This is one of those places where several main roads and a freeway all collide in a profusion of big box stores, and even a good navigator has trouble keeping his head. I am not a good navigator.)

Naturally, I pursued neither of those courses. Instead, I ventured off into the darkness lit with signs in hopes of finding the store on my own. After awhile, I determined that I must have gone too far and tried to turn back. Unfortunately, I didn't have room to turn, and before I knew what had happened, I was heading south on the interstate.

It's been a few years since I drove on the interstate after dark, and I never liked it when I did it frequently. I have a hard enough time telling whether someone is beside me in the daylight; in the dark, all the lights look the same distance. So I just turn my blinker on for awhile and then change lanes, hoping for the best and ready to stop if I hear any crunchy noises.

I looked anxiously for the next exit where I could turn around, but alas, it intersected with another interstate, and I knew it would only take me farther afield. A few miles further south, I finally found an honest exit where a befuddled traveler could turn around and drive home.

Why had I not called DOB for help all this time? The answer soon appeared to me, when my phone started ringing: I had left my cell phone in my skirt pocket, which was under my coat, which was under my seatbelt. The contortions required to get it out would have stumped Houdini.

So the phone rang, and rang, and I got off at my exit. Unfortunately I had never gotten off coming from that direction before, and before I knew it I was wandering some dim world of office parks I had never seen before. I did manage to extract my phone at a stop light and call DOB. As I had expected, D2 was raising hue and cry at the delay of his supper. DOB gave me directions home and I returned, without food and a gallon or so of gas lighter, but very thankful to find my way home again.

I think we'll just shop at the grocery store across the street.

The New Place: Lofty and Low

Lofty:
1. Functioning dishwasher
2. Open floor plan for easy spotting of exploring toddlers
3. Maintenance included
4. Park across the street
5. Big closets
6. West-facing windows
7. Surprisingly good sound-proofing
8. Nine-foot ceilings mean DOB can lift ducklings in proper paternal fashion without banging their heads
9. Two full bathrooms
10. Textured neutral-colored kitchen floor hides dirt beautifully

Low:
1. No garage
2. No attic
3. Who wants to be able to walk to Sam's Club?
4. Slow maintenance
5. "Secured" building with a broken lock (see 4)
6. Neighbors on the top of them, neighbors to the left . . .
7. Boxes, boxes everywhere
8. Too much concrete
9. QOC has to do all her own housework now
10. D1 can reach the bathroom door lock (oh wait, that would have happened anyway)

A Suppressed Rant and Two Stories

What I would like to do is wax eloquent about how much I hate moving. But whining makes poor copy. Instead, I will give thanks that DOB is not in the military and move on to tales from the move itself . . .

The Key Incident
It was a day last week when evening fell and I had had all the moving-out mess that I could take. So while DOB and his brothers finished putting together a load, I took the children and a very full station wagon and drove to the new apartment to see how I could fare in moving-in mess.

I arrived, carried in D2, with D1 (rather soggily attired) clinging to my hand. I tried the key. No luck. It would go in, but it wouldn't turn. I tried a few other likely-looking keys, but they wouldn't do anything either. I called DOB, who called maintenance, who agreed to come out in a few minutes.

In the meantime, I had two hungry children to keep occupied on the doorstep. Fortunately a bag of chips happened to be among the stuff in the wagon, and D2's snack is always at hand. So we sat in the hallway and ate and told stories. It was actually quite a bit more fun than moving.

If this were a story, a lady would have passed us in the hallway and stopped to chat about our predicament, and she would prove to be a kindred spirit and become a lifelong friend. But nobody came by, and the voices I could hear did not sound like kindred spirits--at least not to each other.

We had finished The Three Little Pigs and Goldilocks when the maintenance man arrived. If this were a story, he would have identified that we had been given the wrong keys and apologized. Instead, he pointed out that I was trying with the wrong key. (I could have sworn I tried with the right key, too, and that it wouldn't go in at all, but I have since discovered that it is a little tricky to get in the hole.)

Anyway, we were home. Despite the lateness of the hour and her general lack of a nap, D1 immediately set to work unpacking the Tupperware into a suitable kitchen cupboard. I can't wait until she's 12.

How to Obtain a Library Card
The Saturday after moving we had to run around to various stores to get those various essential things that somehow you don't have and are absolutely essential to get the house running.

Being us, we wound up at the library. Alas, it is not an elegant Carnegie library like the one in our old town, but a bland slot in a dreary stripmall. But, it is part of the Cincinnati system and should have great selection potential.

Anyway, we had not even arrived before it occurred to us that we would be unable to check anything out, because we had no card and no proof of residence with which to obtain one. Not easily daunted, DOB determined to go see what he could do about it.

Fortunately he happened upon a sympathetic librarian.

"Do you have any children with you?" she asked. (The ducklings and I were already hanging out in another part of the library.)

"Well, yes, but they're really little," DOB replied.

"That's OK, just make it look like they signed their names," the librarian said. "We don't require proof of residence for people under 18."

So D1 carefully assisted DOB in printing her name, as legal guardians we signed her as authorized to check out anything she wanted from the library, and we were set. When we had accumulated a sizable stack of books and a couple of DVDs, she sat proudly on the library counter and handed over the card to check them out.

I did get her a couple of books, too. Most notably Make Way for Ducklings, which she has wanted to hear over and over. The first full-length story book! Now we are in for some fun.

We Return Again (Because apparently I've used that title before)

We are moved. We have internet service as of today. We also have the sound system hooked up and the dishes put away. Besides that, it's boxes.

Our address is different, our phone number is different, and now our email seems to have gotten lost, too.

Don't be too hasty with congratulations, as the house has not sold yet. We mean to get back to that one of these days. Right now DOB is busy getting going with his new job and I am busy trying to reconstruct my old one. He's having fun. I'm not . . . yet.

More later . . .

How To Move With Small Children

The ideal way to move with small children is to wait until they turn 10.

Next best would be to have them stay in a cozy, safe, distant place until the entire move is over.

Third would perhaps be to have good weather and health, and somebody free to watch them for you on site.

Move about ten more notches down the list and you will find us: in the middle of January, tired and cranky from all our pre-moving activities, and pausing in our work to discover that somebody has just unpacked a box we just packed or exploded through a diaper because we forgot to change him in the last five hours.

We know it will end sometime, and we are very grateful for the help we receive. But right now we just want to go home.

Useful Information

At least in the unlikely event that you made a New Year's Resolution to learn useless but intriguing math trivia:

There are, of course, prime numbers. There are also perfect numbers, and even semiperfect numbers. Some numbers are happy; the rest, of course, are unhappy. Some are lucky, but most are not. Some are happy-go-lucky numbers. A few are even weird.

The age I turn next is happy and perfect, the only such combination in the standard human lifetime. It's not weird though, not by a long shot. Nor is it lucky.

DOB and I were married in a happy year, but we were both born in unhappy years.