I was filling out an online survey on parenting ideas last week (if you're a mother of small children, you might like to participate), and encountered the question, "Can you describe feminism in a sentence or two?"
Blithely I typed in, "Sure," and continued with the survey. DOB, reading it over, suggested it might be better to respond in a more serious tone. After all, it wanted me to declare whether I was one or wasn't one.
Dear me.
I don't know.
But I "don't know" not in an "I am ignorant on the topic" sense, but in an "I know far too much to side with anybody" sense.
Do I support women being able to vote, own property, and practice law? Most certainly. But that's a definition of feminism almost too archaic to count.
The modern form of feminism is sort of a twisted form of patriarchy--they both think men are the Superior Example of Humanity, the partriarchs just think that women should bow to this superiority, while the feminists think that they should turn themselves into men. Do men work ridiculously long hours and neglect their children? Then women should, too. Do men engage in casual sex? Then women should, too.
Even complementarians seem to me to harp unduly on men and women as separate camps of people. Men and women are different, yes. But the only difference you can really count on holding true is that women have the equipment for bearing children and men for begetting them. This is not just a petty biological difference, of course--producing another human being is one of life's most profound acts, and the outworkings of this distinction colors life from infancy to death.
But it's not a simple distinction. Once you move past the biological facts and start generalizing about abilities and roles, the generalizations (like almost all generalizations) start being wrong. Women on average might be more nurturing than men, but not all of them. Men on average might be more interested in abstract reason and higher math, but there are plenty of women who love calculus and plenty of men who threw their algebra books across the room.
My mother complained about how my dad, with his masculine, one-track mind, would weed the garden in happy oblivion while the children committed clamorous crimes a few feet away, but now DOB complains about my happy oblivion while the children howl. Apparently one-track minds don't only travel on the Y chromosome.
So when someone actually gets so far as trying to define a particular role for a particular gender and say wives and husbands must relate to each other like thus, or we should raise our little boys and our little girls to do this, I never quite can see that far. Marriage is a complicated dance, and who leads or follows is much less significant than whether they're dancing to the same tune. And neither men who harp on submission nor women who harp on independence are listening to the music at all.
Children need to be raised to be people, first; boys and girls both need to learn to be brave, kind, generous, hard-working, appreciative of beauty and willing to get their hands dirty. Only girls wear dresses in our culture, but other than that, I'm quite happy to have my children play however they like, and I smile just as broadly when D2 picks up a baby doll and changes its diaper and when D1 asks to hear the book about trucks for the sixth time. Or vice versa. Forcing kids into or out of gender stereotypes is not what parenting should be about.
As for what women should do with their lives, they should do what they want to do, what they're good at doing, what's important to them. But like anyone, they should consider other people around them before they decide. Children might need their mother even if their mother doesn't need them all that much. A husband might need respect and a good dinner even though he's being a jerk. The Christian ideal is not about serving ourselves, after all, but about serving others--and that still applies to women as well as to men.
I don't like the word feminist because it splits the human race in half. Neither women nor men are more important or necessarily all that different. But we don't need to force them into being the same, either. Women in general and men in general and boys in general and girls in general are only the vaguest of abstractions; what matters is the particular man, woman, boy or girl we have to do with.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
W is for Wagon
I've been working on a picture alphabet book for D1, since she always wants to know what letters go with people's names. Pictures of "M" for Mama and "P" for Papa and so forth were easy enough. For letters where she didn't have any close friends with appropriate names (and I'm picky, it has to be the most common sound of the letter, too) we used family pictures of appropriate objects. Like this "W" for "wagon."
Some of these required special efforts--we don't customarily take a picture of housecleaning, but we needed to illustrate "V for vacuum." That was the third letter she learned, because she kept finding it among the scattered Scrabble tiles and thinking it was an "A." I had to explain it with the first thing that came to mind. A violin no doubt would make a prettier picture, but then, we don't have a violin.
Now I have everything except for a picture of an insect for I. (That letter had me stumped for quite awhile until I had the bright idea of googling for "Words that begin with I.") I am going to begin giving the book to her one page at a time. I'm pretty sure she'll like it, as a picture album if not as an alphabet book. And I figured I should do some alphabet things with her before she figured the whole thing out on her own, or I'd miss all the fun.
Jesus and the Fish Fry
This Sunday's sermon was on what is one of my all-time favorite Scripture passage, John 21. Passion Week is over; the Resurrection is over. Everything is over. And the disciples go fishing.
I've seen commentators make out from this that the disciples were somehow slacking off on the job and returning to their old way of life. Not sure what's up with Jesus, guys; let's go back to work. I disagree. No other group of humans has gone through such a tumultuous week as the disciples had, with death turned to life and eternity shaken and the world turned upside down. But if I ever did have such a week, I can tell you where you'd find me after it was all over: at the kitchen sink, washing the dishes.
Sometimes when the heart and spirit have had all they can bear and more, the body needs to take over for awhile. You need to work until it hurts. So, I think, the disciples needed to do something hard, something familiar, something that would give their minds time to sort through all that had happened. They went fishing.
Jesus, who knew them not just as a detached omniscient deity, but as a friend, knew they would be fishing. He is waiting for them, on shore. He greets them with the same little trick of a miracle he used when they first met, like an old joke between friends. Once again they have fished all night and caught nothing, once again Jesus fills the nets with fish as morning breaks.
Here is none of the flash and show of signs you would expect from a resurrected God; here are only the homely miracles of fish in the nets and a fire lit on the shore. Jesus, his deity confirmed forever, is standing by the barbecue, wearing an apron.
No doubt our spiritual needs are the greatest, and it is those Jesus came to fill. But he also knows that we cannot feel them so acutely as we can feel our tired feet and empty bellies. So he starts there, even with his oldest friends. First, we eat. Then we can talk. Here is our God; here is the one who puts every meal on the table and every fish in our nets; here is our friend.
I've seen commentators make out from this that the disciples were somehow slacking off on the job and returning to their old way of life. Not sure what's up with Jesus, guys; let's go back to work. I disagree. No other group of humans has gone through such a tumultuous week as the disciples had, with death turned to life and eternity shaken and the world turned upside down. But if I ever did have such a week, I can tell you where you'd find me after it was all over: at the kitchen sink, washing the dishes.
Sometimes when the heart and spirit have had all they can bear and more, the body needs to take over for awhile. You need to work until it hurts. So, I think, the disciples needed to do something hard, something familiar, something that would give their minds time to sort through all that had happened. They went fishing.
Jesus, who knew them not just as a detached omniscient deity, but as a friend, knew they would be fishing. He is waiting for them, on shore. He greets them with the same little trick of a miracle he used when they first met, like an old joke between friends. Once again they have fished all night and caught nothing, once again Jesus fills the nets with fish as morning breaks.
Here is none of the flash and show of signs you would expect from a resurrected God; here are only the homely miracles of fish in the nets and a fire lit on the shore. Jesus, his deity confirmed forever, is standing by the barbecue, wearing an apron.
No doubt our spiritual needs are the greatest, and it is those Jesus came to fill. But he also knows that we cannot feel them so acutely as we can feel our tired feet and empty bellies. So he starts there, even with his oldest friends. First, we eat. Then we can talk. Here is our God; here is the one who puts every meal on the table and every fish in our nets; here is our friend.
Monday, April 09, 2007
Easter Pictures
This looks like a picture from a nursery school with a ridiculously high dress code for teachers, but actually it's us enjoying the booty from our egg and carrot hunt. They had sidewalk chalk inside them this year, but as it was too cold to go outside, we tested them on black paper. Chalk is certainly a low-sugar surprise, but a messy one.Also, if you don't often check the other blog, you really should pop over and see what we did with the dyes from our Easter eggs. D1 and I had way too much fun.
Below is our resurrection scene, constructed on Friday afternoon during naptime from mud out of the backyard and fabric scraps tied on clothespins. A soldier stood guard over the closed tomb on Friday and Saturday; although D1 certainly did catch some of the excitement over Jesus being alive, she was also very concerned about where the soldier had gone on Easter morning.
Friday, April 06, 2007
Good Friday Thoughts on I Peter
The Christmas season seems more contiguous than Easter. You can spend the whole month building up to the big day. Whereas before Easter the joy of Easter coming is always tempered by the knowledge that Good Friday must come first.
If we were the ones having the baby we might see Christmas differently. I'm sure like any new mother, Mary's anticipation of holding her new son was tempered by her anxiety over the suffering she would endure first. Joy comes not in spite of suffering, but because of suffering.
In his first epistle, Peter applies this theme to us. The book has the feeling of a general's speech before battle. Gear up for action, men. Prepare to take some hits. But Peter takes it beyond the merely human response to trouble.
There are two human ways to respond when we are treated unjustly. One is to fight back, which at least does something about the injustice, but so often we overdo and trigger a reaction and injustice piles upon injustice beyond all human remedy. Or we can suffer in silence, but while this may be good for our souls it does little to set the world aright.
Here, indeed, we need Divine intervention. Only God could find a way to set us right both within and without. Through Christ's suffering, He restored all things. Christ did not just endure, he overcame.
Now, Peter says, we too can suffer like that. Not just a stoic endurance of what cannot be helped. Suffering that is itself a power. Meekness that wins the battle. Kindness that conquers.
Whatever small injustices we have to face let us participate in the one Great Injustice, when God took the sins of man. As we receive the grace to face curses with blessing, hardships with joy, we see from within the power of that last moment when God suffered death and defeated death forever.
If we were the ones having the baby we might see Christmas differently. I'm sure like any new mother, Mary's anticipation of holding her new son was tempered by her anxiety over the suffering she would endure first. Joy comes not in spite of suffering, but because of suffering.
In his first epistle, Peter applies this theme to us. The book has the feeling of a general's speech before battle. Gear up for action, men. Prepare to take some hits. But Peter takes it beyond the merely human response to trouble.
There are two human ways to respond when we are treated unjustly. One is to fight back, which at least does something about the injustice, but so often we overdo and trigger a reaction and injustice piles upon injustice beyond all human remedy. Or we can suffer in silence, but while this may be good for our souls it does little to set the world aright.
Here, indeed, we need Divine intervention. Only God could find a way to set us right both within and without. Through Christ's suffering, He restored all things. Christ did not just endure, he overcame.
Now, Peter says, we too can suffer like that. Not just a stoic endurance of what cannot be helped. Suffering that is itself a power. Meekness that wins the battle. Kindness that conquers.
Whatever small injustices we have to face let us participate in the one Great Injustice, when God took the sins of man. As we receive the grace to face curses with blessing, hardships with joy, we see from within the power of that last moment when God suffered death and defeated death forever.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
April Fools' Day
The weather seems to have pulled an April Fools' prank on us and reverted to early spring, after convincing us that summer had already arrived. I just hope my seedlings survive.
We had our monthly church potluck, er, fellowship dinner, on April Fools' day this year. Naturally this required special preparations. I made up two big pans of meatloaf in muffin papers and frosted them with garishly-colored mashed potatoes. This was heartily disappointing to the preschoolers, who had finished all their noodle casserole so they could have a cupcake, but highly amusing to everyone else. I think I really did initially fool everyone except the ladies who caught me microwaving them before the meal.
As for our own ducklings, D1 thought the "cupcakes" were the greatest thing ever. She will be disappointed if she ever has a real cupcake. D2 loved the meat but was skeptical of the food coloring in the potatoes.
DOB has this idea of a sort of reciprocal prank dinner, where the main dish would be meatloaf disguised as cupcakes and dessert would be cupcakes disguised as meatloaf.
The quality of an April Fools' day prank reflects several factors: amusement, of course, but also how uniquely suited it is to the recipient, lack of any serious harm, and as far as I am concerned, ease of setup. The best prank is one that takes only a few minutes to do and has everyone--or at least me--laughing all day.
With that in mind, two of my all-time favorites date from when I worked in an office. One was sneaking on to my boss's computer when he was out of the office and modifying the "Autoreplace" feature in Word so that when he typed certain frequently-used phrases they would be replaced with apropos substitutes. (His name, for instance, would be replaced with his office nickname, "The Machiavellian Mind," and our chief opponents would become "The Evil Empire.")
Another one came after our landlords had spent most of the month of March working on the plumbing in our bathroom. They had not warned us in advance of this project--we just came into work one morning and found the toilet in the kitchen. Since we had only that one toilet for twelve people, the situation was desperate and we all ate lunch out a lot that month. It had finally been repaired just a day or two before April first.
So I got in early and put an "Out of Order" sign on the door.
Read about more April Fools' jokes at Life in a Shoe.
We had our monthly church potluck, er, fellowship dinner, on April Fools' day this year. Naturally this required special preparations. I made up two big pans of meatloaf in muffin papers and frosted them with garishly-colored mashed potatoes. This was heartily disappointing to the preschoolers, who had finished all their noodle casserole so they could have a cupcake, but highly amusing to everyone else. I think I really did initially fool everyone except the ladies who caught me microwaving them before the meal.
As for our own ducklings, D1 thought the "cupcakes" were the greatest thing ever. She will be disappointed if she ever has a real cupcake. D2 loved the meat but was skeptical of the food coloring in the potatoes.
DOB has this idea of a sort of reciprocal prank dinner, where the main dish would be meatloaf disguised as cupcakes and dessert would be cupcakes disguised as meatloaf.
The quality of an April Fools' day prank reflects several factors: amusement, of course, but also how uniquely suited it is to the recipient, lack of any serious harm, and as far as I am concerned, ease of setup. The best prank is one that takes only a few minutes to do and has everyone--or at least me--laughing all day.
With that in mind, two of my all-time favorites date from when I worked in an office. One was sneaking on to my boss's computer when he was out of the office and modifying the "Autoreplace" feature in Word so that when he typed certain frequently-used phrases they would be replaced with apropos substitutes. (His name, for instance, would be replaced with his office nickname, "The Machiavellian Mind," and our chief opponents would become "The Evil Empire.")
Another one came after our landlords had spent most of the month of March working on the plumbing in our bathroom. They had not warned us in advance of this project--we just came into work one morning and found the toilet in the kitchen. Since we had only that one toilet for twelve people, the situation was desperate and we all ate lunch out a lot that month. It had finally been repaired just a day or two before April first.
So I got in early and put an "Out of Order" sign on the door.
Read about more April Fools' jokes at Life in a Shoe.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Travel photo
Monday, April 02, 2007
Spring in the Backyard
This is the first year I've felt we truly had a back yard. In our old neighborhood, one road swooped so close to the other that our house had two front yards. A front yard is a tolerable place to grow tulips and watch the world go by, but it lacks the cozy homishness of a back yard, as if you were still in the house. Not that our back yard is private by any means, but still we are freer to be our composting, mud-slinging, diaper-drying selves than out front. Out front the messiest thing I feel comfortable with is popsicles. (And even so, I'm never doing grape juice popsicles again.)
I hope the mosquito-larvae eating bacteria will continue to hold the bugs at bay so that we can continue to enjoy it, since last year, even after we moved in, I couldn't stay out back longer than two minutes. That's how long it took me to get two mosquito bites, and I refuse to voluntarily subject myself to more than two mosquito bites a day.
The ducklings have discovered mud. That icky, cold, scary stuff of a few weeks ago has turned out to be a lifetime supply of playdough, free for the taking. D1 will spend hours baking with it--not mud pies, generally, as pie is a dish I seldom make, but mud pizzas and bread. The dirt around here, despicable for growing things, is wonderful mud, firm and smooth and holding its shape when it dries. I foresee entire cities of mud bricks growing out of it in years to come.
As for me, I am hanging out diapers again--and after a long winter they desparately need some time in the sun. This morning D1 was so insistent that they could finish up the job of hanging out the cloths by themselves that she sent me back inside. I worked on the dishes for a few minutes and came back out to check on them, only to discover that they had decided to use the cloths to wipe down their picnic table with water from the iced tea pitcher I had just started.
The patio is a dangerous place. The whole big backyard, with its lack of a fence and presence of a pond, is too much for me to let them play in unsupervised just yet. But surely the patio, right outside the kitchen, is safe enough while I dash in and work on supper. Well, it is perfectly safe for ducklings. It is considerably less safe for my projects. The sheets out drying weren't meant to be used as a tablecloth for a mud feast, and mud in general is not to be confused with the potting soil in which I am starting seedlings.
Spring is here and dazzling me again. Long ago, when I lived in Olympia between the mountains and the sea, my boss learned of my interest in DOB and commented, "He lives in Ohio? It must be love." But when I first visited Ohio, it was in April and the redbud trees were blooming and the green, green grass was full of flowers. There are real, live violets in our lawn (and I never saw a violet before) and I just learned the black birds with the shimmering blue heads that love to bathe in our little puddle go by the mundane name of the Common Grackle.
Never mind about heaven. I have not been good enough to deserve one spring morning of tugging dandelions out of the flowerbeds. I'll enjoy it thoroughly all the same.
I hope the mosquito-larvae eating bacteria will continue to hold the bugs at bay so that we can continue to enjoy it, since last year, even after we moved in, I couldn't stay out back longer than two minutes. That's how long it took me to get two mosquito bites, and I refuse to voluntarily subject myself to more than two mosquito bites a day.
The ducklings have discovered mud. That icky, cold, scary stuff of a few weeks ago has turned out to be a lifetime supply of playdough, free for the taking. D1 will spend hours baking with it--not mud pies, generally, as pie is a dish I seldom make, but mud pizzas and bread. The dirt around here, despicable for growing things, is wonderful mud, firm and smooth and holding its shape when it dries. I foresee entire cities of mud bricks growing out of it in years to come.
As for me, I am hanging out diapers again--and after a long winter they desparately need some time in the sun. This morning D1 was so insistent that they could finish up the job of hanging out the cloths by themselves that she sent me back inside. I worked on the dishes for a few minutes and came back out to check on them, only to discover that they had decided to use the cloths to wipe down their picnic table with water from the iced tea pitcher I had just started.
The patio is a dangerous place. The whole big backyard, with its lack of a fence and presence of a pond, is too much for me to let them play in unsupervised just yet. But surely the patio, right outside the kitchen, is safe enough while I dash in and work on supper. Well, it is perfectly safe for ducklings. It is considerably less safe for my projects. The sheets out drying weren't meant to be used as a tablecloth for a mud feast, and mud in general is not to be confused with the potting soil in which I am starting seedlings.
Spring is here and dazzling me again. Long ago, when I lived in Olympia between the mountains and the sea, my boss learned of my interest in DOB and commented, "He lives in Ohio? It must be love." But when I first visited Ohio, it was in April and the redbud trees were blooming and the green, green grass was full of flowers. There are real, live violets in our lawn (and I never saw a violet before) and I just learned the black birds with the shimmering blue heads that love to bathe in our little puddle go by the mundane name of the Common Grackle.
Never mind about heaven. I have not been good enough to deserve one spring morning of tugging dandelions out of the flowerbeds. I'll enjoy it thoroughly all the same.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Confessions of a Book Glutton
The library is just too strong of a temptation. I can be strong in a book store, if I don't go in for more than five minutes. These things cost money! Spending money is evil! So the voices in my head go, and if I leave quickly enough they will not be drowned out.
Ah, but the library. At the library, everything is free. Free! That uber-libertarian voice in my head intoning that libraries are not a Proper Role of Government is not nearly so loud as the tightwad voices. Furthermore, the library has an online catalog, where no one is watching me indulge my passions. Just one more search, it whispers to me, one more book. I find another website with another booklist and it makes me want to check again.
Now I have not only myself to reserve for, but also the ducklings, and then there are books to preview for them to read in future years. It's always good to get plenty of extra because you never know which one will be just the right book.
As much fun as browsing online is, with the entire county's books at my disposal, it has never eclipsed browsing on the shelves. This is where the serendipities appear, the books that were looking for me. This is where I wind up with mammoth photo books of castles and obscure biographies of people I wasn't meaning to read about.
Unfortunately, I don't get to browse when the ducklings are with me. They want to browse, too, and somehow their browsings don't precisely correspond with mine. The train table, which might keep them predictably still for five minutes, is not within sight of many interesting books. As for the rest, I'm lucky to keep the ducklings in one place long enough to check out.
Checkout. Here is where the accountability comes. Here is where my gluttony is called to task and the pile of books I managed to browse combines with the pile of books I had reserved--always three times the size I thought it was--to make a unified pile of terrifying proportions. Keep in mind that on most days I must get out to the car while holding two hands of wayward toddlers, and then tell me how I am to transport the twenty-seven large books I just checked out. Big thick ones for me and big wide and long ones for them.
I purchased a large and classy-looking bag for transport purposes, but it's always strained at the seams. One of these days it will disintegrate on me. Those crates on wheels look practical, but too small. My mother used a laundry basket, but laundry baskets don't leave free hands.
What I really need to do is grow some older children who can carry piles of their own. Except they'll become book gluttons, too, and then how will we get out the door?
Ah, but the library. At the library, everything is free. Free! That uber-libertarian voice in my head intoning that libraries are not a Proper Role of Government is not nearly so loud as the tightwad voices. Furthermore, the library has an online catalog, where no one is watching me indulge my passions. Just one more search, it whispers to me, one more book. I find another website with another booklist and it makes me want to check again.
Now I have not only myself to reserve for, but also the ducklings, and then there are books to preview for them to read in future years. It's always good to get plenty of extra because you never know which one will be just the right book.
As much fun as browsing online is, with the entire county's books at my disposal, it has never eclipsed browsing on the shelves. This is where the serendipities appear, the books that were looking for me. This is where I wind up with mammoth photo books of castles and obscure biographies of people I wasn't meaning to read about.
Unfortunately, I don't get to browse when the ducklings are with me. They want to browse, too, and somehow their browsings don't precisely correspond with mine. The train table, which might keep them predictably still for five minutes, is not within sight of many interesting books. As for the rest, I'm lucky to keep the ducklings in one place long enough to check out.
Checkout. Here is where the accountability comes. Here is where my gluttony is called to task and the pile of books I managed to browse combines with the pile of books I had reserved--always three times the size I thought it was--to make a unified pile of terrifying proportions. Keep in mind that on most days I must get out to the car while holding two hands of wayward toddlers, and then tell me how I am to transport the twenty-seven large books I just checked out. Big thick ones for me and big wide and long ones for them.
I purchased a large and classy-looking bag for transport purposes, but it's always strained at the seams. One of these days it will disintegrate on me. Those crates on wheels look practical, but too small. My mother used a laundry basket, but laundry baskets don't leave free hands.
What I really need to do is grow some older children who can carry piles of their own. Except they'll become book gluttons, too, and then how will we get out the door?
Monday, March 26, 2007
A Bin for All Seasons
It is not true that I am hopelessly impulsive. I can mull about a piece of writing for days . . . months . . . years. (Someday I really do want to finish that blank-verse adaption of the book of Job.)
But when it comes to things that have any practical use, I admit, it generally happens right away or not at all. One idea floats around in my head for awhile, another one drops in, they collide into an explosion of activity, or they drift off into nothingness.
The idea that had been floating about for awhile was the need for a place to compost. I cannot be truly happy without a compost pile. Without compost, I am a rootless, parasitic lifeform. With compost, I am a valuable part of the cycle of life. This is no doubt one of the reasons I cannot be happy in an apartment, although I suppose I could try doing it with worms.
Saturday DOB and Uncle Steve went up to B2's house to rip out old carpet and cabinets and other nasty, nasty jobs which small children should be nowhere near. So I stayed home with the children and Aunt Bettie came over later to keep us company. We were playing in the backyard when she arrived--I was pulling a few weeds with no grander intentions than a trip to the park--and then, suddenly, I saw her and I saw the pile of scrap lumber that we drug out of the basement when we moved in--and the explosion happened.
"Do you want to help me make a compost bin?" I asked.
"Sure," she said.
So I ran inside and found tools of various sorts and even some large and sturdy nails (which may or may not have belonged to DOB's father) and we got to work. The basic structure used to be something resembling a very rickety table; when we discovered we couldn't get the top off, we turned it on its side, ripped apart the rickety parts and nailed them back together. From other, unidentifiable structures, we ripped off extra wood pieces and sawed them into reasonable lengths and nailed them on.
I supplied the vision and unskilled labor; Aunt Bettie supplied the information on how things should actually be done and pointed out useful concepts like the value of having a sturdy surface and good angle before swinging the hammer. The ducklings were consoled for postponing the visit to the park by being allowed unfettered access to the tools. D1 used them for making mud pies, and D2 tried out all the socket wrenches to see which one would best fit his fingers. They also handed us nails.
In the end we were all hot and muddy and hungry, and D1 was soaked from falling in the pond out back, but I sustained the only injury with a scraped knuckle. Now we have a compost bin, although it is still lacking chicken wire to hold the sides in and keep the two halves separate. I just hope I can pay enough attention to it to keep it from smelling too terribly bad.
But when it comes to things that have any practical use, I admit, it generally happens right away or not at all. One idea floats around in my head for awhile, another one drops in, they collide into an explosion of activity, or they drift off into nothingness.
The idea that had been floating about for awhile was the need for a place to compost. I cannot be truly happy without a compost pile. Without compost, I am a rootless, parasitic lifeform. With compost, I am a valuable part of the cycle of life. This is no doubt one of the reasons I cannot be happy in an apartment, although I suppose I could try doing it with worms.
Saturday DOB and Uncle Steve went up to B2's house to rip out old carpet and cabinets and other nasty, nasty jobs which small children should be nowhere near. So I stayed home with the children and Aunt Bettie came over later to keep us company. We were playing in the backyard when she arrived--I was pulling a few weeds with no grander intentions than a trip to the park--and then, suddenly, I saw her and I saw the pile of scrap lumber that we drug out of the basement when we moved in--and the explosion happened.
"Do you want to help me make a compost bin?" I asked.
"Sure," she said.
So I ran inside and found tools of various sorts and even some large and sturdy nails (which may or may not have belonged to DOB's father) and we got to work. The basic structure used to be something resembling a very rickety table; when we discovered we couldn't get the top off, we turned it on its side, ripped apart the rickety parts and nailed them back together. From other, unidentifiable structures, we ripped off extra wood pieces and sawed them into reasonable lengths and nailed them on.
I supplied the vision and unskilled labor; Aunt Bettie supplied the information on how things should actually be done and pointed out useful concepts like the value of having a sturdy surface and good angle before swinging the hammer. The ducklings were consoled for postponing the visit to the park by being allowed unfettered access to the tools. D1 used them for making mud pies, and D2 tried out all the socket wrenches to see which one would best fit his fingers. They also handed us nails.
In the end we were all hot and muddy and hungry, and D1 was soaked from falling in the pond out back, but I sustained the only injury with a scraped knuckle. Now we have a compost bin, although it is still lacking chicken wire to hold the sides in and keep the two halves separate. I just hope I can pay enough attention to it to keep it from smelling too terribly bad.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Quest for the Garden
In epic quests, the hero can never go straight to his destination, or get directions right there. He always has to go to the one end of the earth first to get directions clear round to the other side of the earth to get the magic sword, and at last he finds out what he wanted and can go next door and rescue the princess.
Last week DOB had to work on Saturday, so he took today off in exchange. We had grand plans to go to a special nature park for children, Glenwood Gardens, all morning. Thunderstorms were forecast for noon, but we thought if we arrived when it opened at ten we could get in a couple of good hours before storms arose and we sought shelter for lunch and headed home for naps.
Only we overslept a little, of course, and then it does take awhile to get everyone dressed and fed and DOB's exercises done and just as we were heading out the door D2 had the Dreaded Diaper of Doom and we had to stop and change him entirely. (That, at least, made the delay worthwhile.)
It was after ten when we finally left. The directions were so very simple we didn't need to take a map. Everything was going fine--we saw a sign pointing to Glenwood Gardens--we turned down the road on which the park was located. And then, nothing. No sign of a park, or anything that might remotely resemble the possibility of a park.
DOB does not insist on forty years of wilderness wandering; he will stop to ask for directions. So we stopped and I went in to a drug store and asked if anyone knew the way to Glenwood Gardens. The lady behind the counter did not. The lady in front of the counter did not. People who live near an attraction never know where it is; the people walking the streets of central London have never seen the Tower of London. They probably haven't seen London Bridge.
An elderly man nearby thought he did know where Glenwood Gardens were, although initially he was under the impression I was looking for a housing development. When he understood it was a park, he gave me some directions in which, for some reason, I had less than complete confidence.
Sure enough, we followed the directions and spotted a small and shabby playground tucked in the middle of a block. Not the intended destination. We meandered around until we found a touristy old square which looked like it might have people accustomed to answering questions. Unfortunately, things weren't open, so I asked the mailman parked and sorting his mail. He didn't know where Glenwood Gardens was, but he did know the way to Winton Woods, another park in the same system.
Hoping to get some directions or a park map there, we followed his directions, which did prove to be right. Unfortunately the rangers were all still vacationing in Tahiti. There were no maps. County parks are dull places on Fridays in March. I did, however, find a mom playing with her daughter on the playground, who was able to give me directions to a nearby petting farm that was also part of the park system.
It was better than nothing, I figured, and it was already nearly eleven. The sky continued to look threatening and it seemed advisable to do something, anything, to justify the hour spent driving around. So I persuaded DOB to drive there next. I then took the ducklings through to look at the animals while DOB, unwilling to abandon our original plans, set off in search of some human being who might know the way.
We looked at the various animals--we didn't try petting--and then we took a few spins on the slides. D2's interest in a park is directly proportional to the speed and danger of its slides. DOB caught up to us and announced that he had at last found the magical being who could give him directions to Glenwood Gardens. Despite the lateness of the hour, we decided to give it a whirl.
We followed the directions carefully, and in less than ten minutes found ourselves right back at the original intersection. We should have gone straight instead of turning; the gardens were right there. And they were lovely, even so early in the spring. The forecast thundershowers turned into peekaboo sunshine. We had our lunch; the lady at the gift shop gave us free entrance to the children's garden and we watched the train and the fish and climbed in the tree.
Now we know the way. The family pass is a quarter the cost of a pass to the zoo or the children's museum, and it looks like it will be even more fun when things begin to grow.
Last week DOB had to work on Saturday, so he took today off in exchange. We had grand plans to go to a special nature park for children, Glenwood Gardens, all morning. Thunderstorms were forecast for noon, but we thought if we arrived when it opened at ten we could get in a couple of good hours before storms arose and we sought shelter for lunch and headed home for naps.
Only we overslept a little, of course, and then it does take awhile to get everyone dressed and fed and DOB's exercises done and just as we were heading out the door D2 had the Dreaded Diaper of Doom and we had to stop and change him entirely. (That, at least, made the delay worthwhile.)
It was after ten when we finally left. The directions were so very simple we didn't need to take a map. Everything was going fine--we saw a sign pointing to Glenwood Gardens--we turned down the road on which the park was located. And then, nothing. No sign of a park, or anything that might remotely resemble the possibility of a park.
DOB does not insist on forty years of wilderness wandering; he will stop to ask for directions. So we stopped and I went in to a drug store and asked if anyone knew the way to Glenwood Gardens. The lady behind the counter did not. The lady in front of the counter did not. People who live near an attraction never know where it is; the people walking the streets of central London have never seen the Tower of London. They probably haven't seen London Bridge.
An elderly man nearby thought he did know where Glenwood Gardens were, although initially he was under the impression I was looking for a housing development. When he understood it was a park, he gave me some directions in which, for some reason, I had less than complete confidence.
Sure enough, we followed the directions and spotted a small and shabby playground tucked in the middle of a block. Not the intended destination. We meandered around until we found a touristy old square which looked like it might have people accustomed to answering questions. Unfortunately, things weren't open, so I asked the mailman parked and sorting his mail. He didn't know where Glenwood Gardens was, but he did know the way to Winton Woods, another park in the same system.
Hoping to get some directions or a park map there, we followed his directions, which did prove to be right. Unfortunately the rangers were all still vacationing in Tahiti. There were no maps. County parks are dull places on Fridays in March. I did, however, find a mom playing with her daughter on the playground, who was able to give me directions to a nearby petting farm that was also part of the park system.
It was better than nothing, I figured, and it was already nearly eleven. The sky continued to look threatening and it seemed advisable to do something, anything, to justify the hour spent driving around. So I persuaded DOB to drive there next. I then took the ducklings through to look at the animals while DOB, unwilling to abandon our original plans, set off in search of some human being who might know the way.
We looked at the various animals--we didn't try petting--and then we took a few spins on the slides. D2's interest in a park is directly proportional to the speed and danger of its slides. DOB caught up to us and announced that he had at last found the magical being who could give him directions to Glenwood Gardens. Despite the lateness of the hour, we decided to give it a whirl.
We followed the directions carefully, and in less than ten minutes found ourselves right back at the original intersection. We should have gone straight instead of turning; the gardens were right there. And they were lovely, even so early in the spring. The forecast thundershowers turned into peekaboo sunshine. We had our lunch; the lady at the gift shop gave us free entrance to the children's garden and we watched the train and the fish and climbed in the tree.
Now we know the way. The family pass is a quarter the cost of a pass to the zoo or the children's museum, and it looks like it will be even more fun when things begin to grow.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Really, it sounds too giddy for me.
|
Maturity, According to D1
I was in the bathroom on Sunday morning, putting on lipstick. D1 came in to observe.
D1: Can I have some?
QOC: No, not yet.
D1: I want some lipstick! When can I have some lipstick?
QOC (picking a random number, like all good parents): When you're sixteen.
D1: Yes. I will be as tall as Mama. And I will drive.
D1: Can I have some?
QOC: No, not yet.
D1: I want some lipstick! When can I have some lipstick?
QOC (picking a random number, like all good parents): When you're sixteen.
D1: Yes. I will be as tall as Mama. And I will drive.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Liking Books
Every once in a while I find myself liking a book unexpectedly, or disliking one, or otherwise pondering what it is that appeals to me or doesn't in literature.
The most important thing is that it be real. This has nothing to do with the setting. It can be set in my neighborhood or in a parallel dimension; the characters can be stuffed animals or mythical gods. But it must be real about the human condition. You should be able to read it and think, "Yes. This is true. This is what being a human being is really like."
It's currently fashionable in literature to confuse being real with being sordid. Details about bodily functions or sex or death are irrelevant to the question of whether the book is real. I already know about the physical details from personal experience--I want new perspectives on what physical experiences mean. Being ugly or shocking in a quest for meaning is one thing; being ugly or shocking to sell books is not going to sell me one.
Also, I want some form of moral resolution. Things must come out right-side up, which does not necessarily mean a tidy ending with all the good rewarded and the bad punished. But it must be clear what good and evil are, even if the entire book is written upside down (like Screwtape Letters). Even empathy with the evil characters is not a bad thing--indeed, it can be a very good thing--so long as we are still able to say, "His choice was understandable, but it was still wrong."
So a piece that surprised me in its appeal--that I literally stumbled upon--was Medea, by Euripides. It's an ugly story. (Medea was a princess and sorceress who ran off with the adventurer Jason when he came to steal the golden fleece, killing her own brother in the process. She then helped Jason kill his way into power. In this play, Jason is dumping her for a new wife--in revenge, she kills his bride, new father-in-law, and her own two children by him.)
Medea and Jason are alive. The words could be written in fire, the story could be headline news. Even though Medea is a witch, literally and figuratively, her rage is comprehensible, her grievances real. There could be no happy ending, yet it is obvious she chose, and chose knowingly, the worst possible one, one that destroys herself and everyone around her. It's an unpleasant but convicting look into the reality of our own wicked hearts.
Finally, there ought to be words to savor. Phrases that are sweet on the tongue, sentences that make you want to jump up and find someone to hear them. Something that makes you think, "Yes, yes, I knew that but couldn't say it so well."
So: True, Good, Beautiful. Not a very original criteria, I suppose, but originality is highly overrated.
The most important thing is that it be real. This has nothing to do with the setting. It can be set in my neighborhood or in a parallel dimension; the characters can be stuffed animals or mythical gods. But it must be real about the human condition. You should be able to read it and think, "Yes. This is true. This is what being a human being is really like."
It's currently fashionable in literature to confuse being real with being sordid. Details about bodily functions or sex or death are irrelevant to the question of whether the book is real. I already know about the physical details from personal experience--I want new perspectives on what physical experiences mean. Being ugly or shocking in a quest for meaning is one thing; being ugly or shocking to sell books is not going to sell me one.
Also, I want some form of moral resolution. Things must come out right-side up, which does not necessarily mean a tidy ending with all the good rewarded and the bad punished. But it must be clear what good and evil are, even if the entire book is written upside down (like Screwtape Letters). Even empathy with the evil characters is not a bad thing--indeed, it can be a very good thing--so long as we are still able to say, "His choice was understandable, but it was still wrong."
So a piece that surprised me in its appeal--that I literally stumbled upon--was Medea, by Euripides. It's an ugly story. (Medea was a princess and sorceress who ran off with the adventurer Jason when he came to steal the golden fleece, killing her own brother in the process. She then helped Jason kill his way into power. In this play, Jason is dumping her for a new wife--in revenge, she kills his bride, new father-in-law, and her own two children by him.)
Medea and Jason are alive. The words could be written in fire, the story could be headline news. Even though Medea is a witch, literally and figuratively, her rage is comprehensible, her grievances real. There could be no happy ending, yet it is obvious she chose, and chose knowingly, the worst possible one, one that destroys herself and everyone around her. It's an unpleasant but convicting look into the reality of our own wicked hearts.
Finally, there ought to be words to savor. Phrases that are sweet on the tongue, sentences that make you want to jump up and find someone to hear them. Something that makes you think, "Yes, yes, I knew that but couldn't say it so well."
So: True, Good, Beautiful. Not a very original criteria, I suppose, but originality is highly overrated.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Loose Ends
As of this morning, I've had one full week's worth of sleeping well all night long. I can't remember the last time that happened, but I'm pretty sure it was a long, long time ago. When I get no sleep, the world is a dark and dismal place, the house is a mess, the ducklings are cranky, and we're lucky to remain fed and clothed. When I get sleep, the world is bright and beautiful, the house is tidy, the ducklings and I have marvelous fun together, and putting food on the table is hardly an effort at all. It's a shame to be so dependent on such a mundane activity, but such is the trouble with having a body.
But having sleep leads me to a new problem: What does one do besides survive? I can't remember. I know there is more to housework than dishes and laundry, I know I had heaps of projects I want to work on if I ever had the chance, but I can't remember what--or if I do, the number of choices are too overwhelming to choose among.
It reminds me of when I came off of a very restrictive allergy diet and could eat anything I wanted all of a sudden. It was quite disturbing for the first week or so. I had gotten used to the challenge of turning the six available items to eat into something palatable, I could hardly deal with the challenge of choosing among all the food in the world. Maybe that's why people keep themselves overcommitted and run the tv in the background--it spares you the trouble of figuring out what to do in an idle moment.
Anyway, the consolation is, I probably won't have surplus energy for very long. No doubt someone will come up with a new nighttime disturbance soon enough.
But having sleep leads me to a new problem: What does one do besides survive? I can't remember. I know there is more to housework than dishes and laundry, I know I had heaps of projects I want to work on if I ever had the chance, but I can't remember what--or if I do, the number of choices are too overwhelming to choose among.
It reminds me of when I came off of a very restrictive allergy diet and could eat anything I wanted all of a sudden. It was quite disturbing for the first week or so. I had gotten used to the challenge of turning the six available items to eat into something palatable, I could hardly deal with the challenge of choosing among all the food in the world. Maybe that's why people keep themselves overcommitted and run the tv in the background--it spares you the trouble of figuring out what to do in an idle moment.
Anyway, the consolation is, I probably won't have surplus energy for very long. No doubt someone will come up with a new nighttime disturbance soon enough.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Painting
Seven reasons not to paint with toddlers:
Dancing and painting are two art forms that really don't mix.
Poster paint tastes terrible, and it will be your fault.
Green paint is very difficult to get out of blond hair.
You don't want to hear "I need to go potty" while you have the bathroom full of paint cleanup.
They think this, like all other activities, can be conducted in your lap.
They're so short they trip on Papa's t-shirts when they wear them for smocks.
The basement floor doesn't need yellow splotches.
Two reasons to paint with toddlers:
Dancing and painting are two art forms that really don't mix.
Poster paint tastes terrible, and it will be your fault.
Green paint is very difficult to get out of blond hair.
You don't want to hear "I need to go potty" while you have the bathroom full of paint cleanup.
They think this, like all other activities, can be conducted in your lap.
They're so short they trip on Papa's t-shirts when they wear them for smocks.
The basement floor doesn't need yellow splotches.
Two reasons to paint with toddlers:
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Grocery Shopping
If you're at all interested in eating on the cheap, you can't miss the Iron Chef Moms Challenge this week, with a faceoff between the Aldi Queen and Meredith, who will be shopping the loss leaders. I bet Meredith will win in the price department, but for us, the convenience of Aldi's far outweighs the slight savings we might get by hitting half a dozen different stores. Of course, Aldi's doesn't have much selection, but that's the beauty of it. If there's little selection, it's easier to tell your husband what to get without thirteen calls to clarify or (depending on the husband) having him come home with exactly the wrong thing.
We're also fairly picky about how healthy the food we eat is, so we do a mix of things: produce, basic canned and frozen goods at Aldi's, and lots of ground turkey, milk and eggs. For convenience health foods (unsweetened applesauce, whole wheat pasta and when I'm really tired, bread), loss-leaders (chicken goes on sale a lot), and miscellaneous other stuff, I hit Meijer every other week. We buy grains and beans in bulk from the co-op, and split spices from there with DOB's family whenever it's a spice they use. (Pity, DOB's mom can't stand marjoram.)
Even so, it seems to us like we spend way too much on food. Maybe it's our standard of comparison (which for DOB is none, before he got married, and for me is the amount I split with my two female roommates). Maybe it's just the amount we eat. I don't have a dainty appetite, even when, as now, I'm not feeding someone else while I'm at it. DOB always eats enough for two or three, and as for the ducklings, they missed the memo about toddlers being picky and sporadic eaters. (Which is not to say our mealtimes are entirely without conflict--the conflict is just over whether they are going to finish every thing else before they get more tomatoes.)
Maybe it's just that food is such a mundane thing to spend money on, when you could be buying books.
We're also fairly picky about how healthy the food we eat is, so we do a mix of things: produce, basic canned and frozen goods at Aldi's, and lots of ground turkey, milk and eggs. For convenience health foods (unsweetened applesauce, whole wheat pasta and when I'm really tired, bread), loss-leaders (chicken goes on sale a lot), and miscellaneous other stuff, I hit Meijer every other week. We buy grains and beans in bulk from the co-op, and split spices from there with DOB's family whenever it's a spice they use. (Pity, DOB's mom can't stand marjoram.)
Even so, it seems to us like we spend way too much on food. Maybe it's our standard of comparison (which for DOB is none, before he got married, and for me is the amount I split with my two female roommates). Maybe it's just the amount we eat. I don't have a dainty appetite, even when, as now, I'm not feeding someone else while I'm at it. DOB always eats enough for two or three, and as for the ducklings, they missed the memo about toddlers being picky and sporadic eaters. (Which is not to say our mealtimes are entirely without conflict--the conflict is just over whether they are going to finish every thing else before they get more tomatoes.)
Maybe it's just that food is such a mundane thing to spend money on, when you could be buying books.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Springing Forward
The coming of the spring time change is usually something to hate. Losing a whole hour--having to go to bed early and get up early--is hardly compensated by how easy it is to move the clocks forward. But this year, we felt quite differently about it. We moved the clocks ahead in the middle of the afternoon just to be one hour closer to bedtime.
The ducklings have made it to week eight of non-stop colds, and one or the other had been up coughing most nights the past week. I took them to the doctor on Friday, and he confirmed that it was, indeed, just a cold. So I took them home, counting on a few days of warm air and sunshine to help us finally knock it.
Spring finally has come. It still surprises me, out here, how suddenly it does come. Monday we are shivering in our heavy winter coats all through a ten-minute trip to the backyard. Friday we are swinging at the park in our shirt sleeves and leaving our windows open all afternoon.
But once again the light at the end of the tunnel proved to be an oncoming train. Just as I was hoping to get to sleep more often than every other night, D2 came down with the stomach flu at eleven o'clock at night, on the night when we had overnight guests. So that night none of us got any sleep, except for D1 who couldn't understand why everyone else was so listless on Saturday. I'm just hoping that when she threw up earlier in the week, it was the stomach flu and not just coughing spells, as I dismissed it at the time. And I hope this time--to balance things out--we've got the bug that only infects children and leaves the grownups alone.
At any other time I would welcome the news that the chicken pox is going around church, but just now, I'd really rather not deal with it.
Poor D2 is still so tired he fell asleep on the floor this morning. I wish I could join him. DOB, meanwhile, has declared himself a miscosmist (which is one who dislikes the universe at large). But I say a guy who will lie awake all night and let a toddler barf on his shirt is something else entirely.
The ducklings have made it to week eight of non-stop colds, and one or the other had been up coughing most nights the past week. I took them to the doctor on Friday, and he confirmed that it was, indeed, just a cold. So I took them home, counting on a few days of warm air and sunshine to help us finally knock it.
Spring finally has come. It still surprises me, out here, how suddenly it does come. Monday we are shivering in our heavy winter coats all through a ten-minute trip to the backyard. Friday we are swinging at the park in our shirt sleeves and leaving our windows open all afternoon.
But once again the light at the end of the tunnel proved to be an oncoming train. Just as I was hoping to get to sleep more often than every other night, D2 came down with the stomach flu at eleven o'clock at night, on the night when we had overnight guests. So that night none of us got any sleep, except for D1 who couldn't understand why everyone else was so listless on Saturday. I'm just hoping that when she threw up earlier in the week, it was the stomach flu and not just coughing spells, as I dismissed it at the time. And I hope this time--to balance things out--we've got the bug that only infects children and leaves the grownups alone.
At any other time I would welcome the news that the chicken pox is going around church, but just now, I'd really rather not deal with it.
Poor D2 is still so tired he fell asleep on the floor this morning. I wish I could join him. DOB, meanwhile, has declared himself a miscosmist (which is one who dislikes the universe at large). But I say a guy who will lie awake all night and let a toddler barf on his shirt is something else entirely.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Calling Morris the Moose
D1 and I were playing "Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear" game today, whereby I call out actions, preferably rhyming ones, and she runs and does it. I said, "Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear, run to the stairs. Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear, go to the chairs."
She went to the piano bench.
"No," I said, "That's a bench. A chair has a back."
Immediately she put her hand on her own back and announced, "I am a chair!"
~*~
We were outside for a little while yesterday afternoon and she was entranced by the neighbor's greyhound, who must have been cooped up like us all winter.
"We're watching the dog," she said, "And the horse."
She went to the piano bench.
"No," I said, "That's a bench. A chair has a back."
Immediately she put her hand on her own back and announced, "I am a chair!"
~*~
We were outside for a little while yesterday afternoon and she was entranced by the neighbor's greyhound, who must have been cooped up like us all winter.
"We're watching the dog," she said, "And the horse."
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Random Intriguing Questions
If you could get yourself transformed into a book, which book would it be?
If I knew I could get back out again reasonably soon, I'd really like to go to Wonderland or perhaps through the Looking Glass--odd and disorienting, but a very intriguing place to visit and learn the rules. But if I was doomed to stay the rest of my life, I'd probably want to go to somewhere quiet and livable like Avonlea. Entertaining as Middle-Earth or Narnia might be, I'm not really adventuresome enough to want to live there. (Yes, I am reading the Inkheart books.)
If you weren't a Christian, what would your religious/philosophical beliefs be?
I would almost certainly be a hard-nosed nihilistic materialist. Only what is scientifically provable exists in any meaningful sense. Truth and beauty are human constructs, pleasant enough but with no basis in reality. Neat, tidy, and eminently intellectually respectable these days. I wouldn't miss the hereafter, because I have trouble believing in next Thursday, let alone immortality. I would miss an objective basis for truth and goodness, and so would occasionally be tempted to become a high pagan or something like that, but I would never have the nerve.
How about you?
If I knew I could get back out again reasonably soon, I'd really like to go to Wonderland or perhaps through the Looking Glass--odd and disorienting, but a very intriguing place to visit and learn the rules. But if I was doomed to stay the rest of my life, I'd probably want to go to somewhere quiet and livable like Avonlea. Entertaining as Middle-Earth or Narnia might be, I'm not really adventuresome enough to want to live there. (Yes, I am reading the Inkheart books.)
If you weren't a Christian, what would your religious/philosophical beliefs be?
I would almost certainly be a hard-nosed nihilistic materialist. Only what is scientifically provable exists in any meaningful sense. Truth and beauty are human constructs, pleasant enough but with no basis in reality. Neat, tidy, and eminently intellectually respectable these days. I wouldn't miss the hereafter, because I have trouble believing in next Thursday, let alone immortality. I would miss an objective basis for truth and goodness, and so would occasionally be tempted to become a high pagan or something like that, but I would never have the nerve.
How about you?
Monday, March 05, 2007
The Name of Mud
With the possibility of spring returning comes the realization that we are completely unprepared for mud. At our old house, I was the only one capable of getting mud on my shoes. Last year, we lived in an overgroomed apartment complex in a neighborhood where mud violated the restrictive covenants. But this year we have mud: red, sticky, glue-when-wet, cement-when-dry mud. And D2 has a remarkable talent for falling face-first in it.
Playing out in the mud is fine. If it weren't for D2 falling down in it, we really wouldn't even get mud anywhere but our shoes, as they are mostly interested in poking the mud with sticks.
The problem arises when we try to go inside. We have the choice between the front door, which leads us straight into the living room and the piles of books we forgot to put away before we went outside, and the back door, which still doesn't even have a rug and which is wedged between the dishwasher and the kitchen table. The mudroom was a great invention, but this house predates that. It may, perhaps, be older than dirt.
So we trek through the entire house to reach the bathroom, shedding chunks of mud all the way. In the bathroom, I have three pairs of shoes to remove, while those who have their shoes removed will invariably wander right into a pile of shed mud. Then D2 usually needs to be mostly stripped, under severe protest, because what he wants to do is take his mud-caked shoes and put them away immediately.
When I try to scrape the mud off the shoes first he protests, and when I give up and set them aside to dry, turning my attention to the new garden plot on the floor, he sneaks them out behinds my back. Unfortunately he gets sidetracked on the way to the shoe bin and instead sits down on D1's bed, spreading mud all over the sheet.
So at this point, I have a bathroom coated with mud and filled with muddy clothes, towels and shoes, a bed covered with mud, D1 wandering around getting mud on her white socks because I haven't found her slippers yet, and D2 sitting on the muddy bed half-dressed and whimpering that he wants to go night-night. Everyone's nose is running and they think lunch should have been served half an hour ago.
D1 has a book called The Marvelous Mud Washing Machine. I wonder where they sell those. Or maybe we should just wait for a drought.
Playing out in the mud is fine. If it weren't for D2 falling down in it, we really wouldn't even get mud anywhere but our shoes, as they are mostly interested in poking the mud with sticks.
The problem arises when we try to go inside. We have the choice between the front door, which leads us straight into the living room and the piles of books we forgot to put away before we went outside, and the back door, which still doesn't even have a rug and which is wedged between the dishwasher and the kitchen table. The mudroom was a great invention, but this house predates that. It may, perhaps, be older than dirt.
So we trek through the entire house to reach the bathroom, shedding chunks of mud all the way. In the bathroom, I have three pairs of shoes to remove, while those who have their shoes removed will invariably wander right into a pile of shed mud. Then D2 usually needs to be mostly stripped, under severe protest, because what he wants to do is take his mud-caked shoes and put them away immediately.
When I try to scrape the mud off the shoes first he protests, and when I give up and set them aside to dry, turning my attention to the new garden plot on the floor, he sneaks them out behinds my back. Unfortunately he gets sidetracked on the way to the shoe bin and instead sits down on D1's bed, spreading mud all over the sheet.
So at this point, I have a bathroom coated with mud and filled with muddy clothes, towels and shoes, a bed covered with mud, D1 wandering around getting mud on her white socks because I haven't found her slippers yet, and D2 sitting on the muddy bed half-dressed and whimpering that he wants to go night-night. Everyone's nose is running and they think lunch should have been served half an hour ago.
D1 has a book called The Marvelous Mud Washing Machine. I wonder where they sell those. Or maybe we should just wait for a drought.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Resume
Today normal life is more or less resuming. (Although I still don't have to cook supper! Yay!) The kids are back, showing no signs of psychological trauma from being gone. They grew up about three months while they were gone. D2 is now talking in sentences, if you are willing to interpolate the fifteen words he left out. ("Mo-bahk" means "I would like some more soup when Mama gets back, please.")
It was a bit of a shock to have them back yesterday afternoon. I had never noticed just how much I get up during an average meal. (Fill everyone's bowls. Sit down. Refill D2's bowl. Sit. Take D1 potty. Sit. Refill D2's bowl. Sit. Take D1 potty. Sit. Refill mine and DOB's bowls. Sit. Refill D2's bowl. Take D1 potty--frequency of trips inversely correlates to her fondness for the food.) It's a good thing I don't like to sit still and know how to eat fast.
I spent a lot of the morning lying down and reading Goodnight, Gorilla over and over. D1 could "read" it just as well as I can, but it's always better when I do it. I also wiped a lot of runny noses. These never-ending colds are getting downright ridiculous.
Today I must wash laundry, and I am commencing on a new theory of Not Folding, except for my shirts and slacks. Everything else either hangs up or is just going to get wadded anyway.
It was a bit of a shock to have them back yesterday afternoon. I had never noticed just how much I get up during an average meal. (Fill everyone's bowls. Sit down. Refill D2's bowl. Sit. Take D1 potty. Sit. Refill D2's bowl. Sit. Take D1 potty. Sit. Refill mine and DOB's bowls. Sit. Refill D2's bowl. Take D1 potty--frequency of trips inversely correlates to her fondness for the food.) It's a good thing I don't like to sit still and know how to eat fast.
I spent a lot of the morning lying down and reading Goodnight, Gorilla over and over. D1 could "read" it just as well as I can, but it's always better when I do it. I also wiped a lot of runny noses. These never-ending colds are getting downright ridiculous.
Today I must wash laundry, and I am commencing on a new theory of Not Folding, except for my shirts and slacks. Everything else either hangs up or is just going to get wadded anyway.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
The Odyssey
After my long struggle with the Iliad, I almost spiked the Odyssey. I'm glad I didn't. Part of the reason I enjoyed it more may have been switching versions,* but I think it had more to do with the story itself. The themes of war and vengeance and bloodshed are never dull, but I found a lot more to identify with in the Odyssey: a tired wanderer trying to get home, a faithful wife waiting for his return, a son trying to grow up into the reputation of the father he cannot even remember.
Every modern adaptation of the story I had read put the emphasis on the wanderings of Ulysses and the novelty of his adventures.** But Homer opens the story just as Ulysses is about to return home. All of his really dangerous adventures are past, and are only told as tales around the fire. Suspense was not an important value in Greek literature, perhaps because everybody already knew the plot. Homer creates ample dramatic tension without it, as Ulysses returns home in disguise and grows more and more enraged at the insolence of the suitors.
The homecoming of Ulysses is frequently contrasted with that of Agamemnon: Agamemnon's wife has taken up with someone else in his absence and they conspire to slay him just as he returns home victorious from the Trojan War. Ulysses has been driven off course many times, but he's come close enough to home to hear this tale and knows to approach carefully. Not that he wouldn't have anyway. The man is a congenital liar--he simply can't imagine giving himself away by initially telling the truth to anyone. Yet for all that he's rather a charming fellow and I can't help liking him.
And although O Brother, Where Art Thou? of course completely mangles the story, "I Am a Man of Constant Sorrow" is the perfect soundtrack for the Odyssey.
*The only trouble was, the new version used the Latin names for the characters, whereas the other version used the Greek, so now instead of Pallas Athene guiding Odysseus, I was reading about Minerva guiding Ulysses. Rather confusing, and the Greek names are so much prettier. Pallas Athene sounds like something high and shining; Minerva sounds like a bony Yankee spinster.
**I have since found that Padraic Colum's retelling of the Odyssey better duplicates the emphasis of the original story, and in general his books of Greek legends seem to me to come closest to reflecting the way the Greeks approached their own stories.
Every modern adaptation of the story I had read put the emphasis on the wanderings of Ulysses and the novelty of his adventures.** But Homer opens the story just as Ulysses is about to return home. All of his really dangerous adventures are past, and are only told as tales around the fire. Suspense was not an important value in Greek literature, perhaps because everybody already knew the plot. Homer creates ample dramatic tension without it, as Ulysses returns home in disguise and grows more and more enraged at the insolence of the suitors.
The homecoming of Ulysses is frequently contrasted with that of Agamemnon: Agamemnon's wife has taken up with someone else in his absence and they conspire to slay him just as he returns home victorious from the Trojan War. Ulysses has been driven off course many times, but he's come close enough to home to hear this tale and knows to approach carefully. Not that he wouldn't have anyway. The man is a congenital liar--he simply can't imagine giving himself away by initially telling the truth to anyone. Yet for all that he's rather a charming fellow and I can't help liking him.
And although O Brother, Where Art Thou? of course completely mangles the story, "I Am a Man of Constant Sorrow" is the perfect soundtrack for the Odyssey.
*The only trouble was, the new version used the Latin names for the characters, whereas the other version used the Greek, so now instead of Pallas Athene guiding Odysseus, I was reading about Minerva guiding Ulysses. Rather confusing, and the Greek names are so much prettier. Pallas Athene sounds like something high and shining; Minerva sounds like a bony Yankee spinster.
**I have since found that Padraic Colum's retelling of the Odyssey better duplicates the emphasis of the original story, and in general his books of Greek legends seem to me to come closest to reflecting the way the Greeks approached their own stories.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Mosquito problems
We have a little house in a flat little neighborhood on a flat little lot of clay, and in the back yard there's a place where that clay is just a teensy bit lower than the neighbors' yards, and in that place the water catches. This, naturally, provides a honeymoon resort for all the mosquitoes on the block, who leave behind thousands upon thousands of baby mosquitoes happy in their little mosquito nursery, who grow up into hungry mama mosquitoes. (It's the mamas that bite you. Apparently pregnancy cravings for mosquitoes are even weirder than for humans.)
Being sentient beings, we don't appreciate being at the bottom of the local food chain. I have a two-bite limit before I go back inside. During the summer, that gives me about ten minutes in the front yard or one in the back. The ducklings, who don't notice the problem until afterwards, do not like these rapid retreats. Neither do I, for that matter. I'm fond of the out-of-doors, and I had been very much looking forward to having a real back yard. Instead, we spent all of last summer and fall at the park, where mosquito bites were rare. But I don't trust the sandboxes there.
So we have been pondering the best plan of attack. One idea is to fill it in with dirt, but that sounds difficult and expensive and we're not sure how well it would work. That water still has to go somewhere and this neighborhood is flat. We can't exactly dig a drainage canal all the way to the Ohio River, and we don't really want it in the basement. Another idea is to plant a tree to drink up all that water, but we're not sure the tree would remember we want it to pull water from the top of the soil. And large thirsty trees probably aren't cheap either.
Right now I'm leaning towards trying this. Forget the relandscaping--let's go for biological warfare. All naturally, of course. I just wonder how often it has to be repeated. And if it really works. But I need to settle on something before the last frost.
Being sentient beings, we don't appreciate being at the bottom of the local food chain. I have a two-bite limit before I go back inside. During the summer, that gives me about ten minutes in the front yard or one in the back. The ducklings, who don't notice the problem until afterwards, do not like these rapid retreats. Neither do I, for that matter. I'm fond of the out-of-doors, and I had been very much looking forward to having a real back yard. Instead, we spent all of last summer and fall at the park, where mosquito bites were rare. But I don't trust the sandboxes there.
So we have been pondering the best plan of attack. One idea is to fill it in with dirt, but that sounds difficult and expensive and we're not sure how well it would work. That water still has to go somewhere and this neighborhood is flat. We can't exactly dig a drainage canal all the way to the Ohio River, and we don't really want it in the basement. Another idea is to plant a tree to drink up all that water, but we're not sure the tree would remember we want it to pull water from the top of the soil. And large thirsty trees probably aren't cheap either.
Right now I'm leaning towards trying this. Forget the relandscaping--let's go for biological warfare. All naturally, of course. I just wonder how often it has to be repeated. And if it really works. But I need to settle on something before the last frost.
Monday, February 26, 2007
No Contest
A decade or so ago, when my next-younger brother was at the peak of adolescent energy, the father of one of his friends commented that his son and my brother considered everything in life to be a contest as to who could "run the longest, climb the highest, and spit the farthest."
I smirked at their testosterone overload. But now that adolescence is a rapidly-receding memory, I realize that I'm not so different after all. Instead of comparing myself to a real person, unfortunately, I tend to compare myself to that mythical composite mother who is homeschooling her eight children under ten in ancient languages while she operates a thriving business, feeds them all a whole-foods diet, and runs three miles every day. (I'm sure I came across her blog once.)
No doubt it's a good thing, then, that I get reminded every so often that not only am I not winning this imaginary competition, I'm not even entered. Not only can I not do it all, this week I can't do any of it. The ducklings are at Grandma's house, the church is bringing dinner, and I am under strict orders to ignore the dust gathering on the unwashed dishes and rest. No exciting symptoms to report, I'm just very, very tired after a long, cold, sick winter.
I hate resting. Laziness is seldom among my faults or virtues. I hate sitting around in my pajamas (for the record, I'm not). I like to read, but only for a limited time. I want to Do Things. Clean the house. Play games with the ducklings. Write profound books. Instead, I'm ready for another nap. And I feel like a wimp.
So no doubt I need this time as a reminder that life is not a contest to see who can cram the most in. That it's OK that I didn't go for three kids under three, or that I struggle to walk around the block while others run, or that I hardly ever can get the kitchen clean before I go to bed. There's no prizes for doing the most, just for doing what you have faithfully. Today, that's going to take another nap.
I smirked at their testosterone overload. But now that adolescence is a rapidly-receding memory, I realize that I'm not so different after all. Instead of comparing myself to a real person, unfortunately, I tend to compare myself to that mythical composite mother who is homeschooling her eight children under ten in ancient languages while she operates a thriving business, feeds them all a whole-foods diet, and runs three miles every day. (I'm sure I came across her blog once.)
No doubt it's a good thing, then, that I get reminded every so often that not only am I not winning this imaginary competition, I'm not even entered. Not only can I not do it all, this week I can't do any of it. The ducklings are at Grandma's house, the church is bringing dinner, and I am under strict orders to ignore the dust gathering on the unwashed dishes and rest. No exciting symptoms to report, I'm just very, very tired after a long, cold, sick winter.
I hate resting. Laziness is seldom among my faults or virtues. I hate sitting around in my pajamas (for the record, I'm not). I like to read, but only for a limited time. I want to Do Things. Clean the house. Play games with the ducklings. Write profound books. Instead, I'm ready for another nap. And I feel like a wimp.
So no doubt I need this time as a reminder that life is not a contest to see who can cram the most in. That it's OK that I didn't go for three kids under three, or that I struggle to walk around the block while others run, or that I hardly ever can get the kitchen clean before I go to bed. There's no prizes for doing the most, just for doing what you have faithfully. Today, that's going to take another nap.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Daniel and the Empires
Carrie is hosting a linky-thingy (surely there's a better word?) for reading one book of the Bible each month and commenting on it. I'm actually working on reading books of the Bible through twenty times in succession, which has rather an overachiever smack to it, but I'm taking longer than a month on most of them.
For the past month or so (and I've lost count but I think I'm only about halfway through the twenty times) I've been reading Daniel. It had a vague image in my mind of a book divided into the part suitable for tales for small children and the part suitable for wild-haired prophecy enthusiasts and not much left for anyone else.
But I've been studying ancient history this year, and I felt myself oppressed by the weight of history. All those people living and dying--all those forgotten cruelties and vanished empires--so much human sorrow and suffering. Was there really a design behind all of it? What did it all mean? And what was the use of studying it?
"Let the name of God be blessed forever and ever, for wisdom and power belong to Him. And it is He who changes the times and the epochs; He removes kings and establishes kings; He gives wisdom to wise men, and knowledge to men of understanding."
Daniel, more than any other book of the Bible, looks at the whole sweep of history, the big wars-and-empires history, and tells Who is behind it all, and why. God is setting the stage for His Kingdom. The Stone cut without hands is coming, and before Him all the powers of the earth are chaff in the wind.
Yet the empires are not meaningless, since it is God who gave them their powers and their places. Studying ancient history and legends for awhile has at the least helped me better understand the Bible and what it meant to the people who first read it. For instance, what would it have meant to hear of God's "only begotten son?" To a Jew, surely, it must have been quite a mind stretch to see God as having a son at all. But to the Greeks hearing it, it must have called to mind the legends of Perseus and Hercules and Zeus's interminable philandering that populated the heroic age with enough heroes to battle all the monsters. But there is only one God here, and only one Son. One hero for one monster who has been back of it all.
All these things were the prologue, and the play is more meaningful with the prologue. The answer makes more sense once you have read the question. Your mystery religions, with dark rites to resurrect the dead god? Your fairy-tales of ancient heroes and fearsome monsters? Your long-awaited Messiah to deliver you from all enemies? Your philosophies of truth and order? He is alive, He is here, He has come. The desire of all nations has come.
For the past month or so (and I've lost count but I think I'm only about halfway through the twenty times) I've been reading Daniel. It had a vague image in my mind of a book divided into the part suitable for tales for small children and the part suitable for wild-haired prophecy enthusiasts and not much left for anyone else.
But I've been studying ancient history this year, and I felt myself oppressed by the weight of history. All those people living and dying--all those forgotten cruelties and vanished empires--so much human sorrow and suffering. Was there really a design behind all of it? What did it all mean? And what was the use of studying it?
"Let the name of God be blessed forever and ever, for wisdom and power belong to Him. And it is He who changes the times and the epochs; He removes kings and establishes kings; He gives wisdom to wise men, and knowledge to men of understanding."
Daniel, more than any other book of the Bible, looks at the whole sweep of history, the big wars-and-empires history, and tells Who is behind it all, and why. God is setting the stage for His Kingdom. The Stone cut without hands is coming, and before Him all the powers of the earth are chaff in the wind.
Yet the empires are not meaningless, since it is God who gave them their powers and their places. Studying ancient history and legends for awhile has at the least helped me better understand the Bible and what it meant to the people who first read it. For instance, what would it have meant to hear of God's "only begotten son?" To a Jew, surely, it must have been quite a mind stretch to see God as having a son at all. But to the Greeks hearing it, it must have called to mind the legends of Perseus and Hercules and Zeus's interminable philandering that populated the heroic age with enough heroes to battle all the monsters. But there is only one God here, and only one Son. One hero for one monster who has been back of it all.
All these things were the prologue, and the play is more meaningful with the prologue. The answer makes more sense once you have read the question. Your mystery religions, with dark rites to resurrect the dead god? Your fairy-tales of ancient heroes and fearsome monsters? Your long-awaited Messiah to deliver you from all enemies? Your philosophies of truth and order? He is alive, He is here, He has come. The desire of all nations has come.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Playing Games
You know how desparate the cabin fever has become around here when we confess that this weekend we actually resorted to downloading and playing computer games.
Not that there's anything wrong with video games. I just don't usually have the patience for them. To start out with, my reflexes are slow, so any game that involves quick response times only annoys me. If I liked strategy games, I would earn wifely brownie points by playing more of them with DOB.
I do occasionally like a puzzle-type video game, but it only takes a few minutes before it starts feeling tedious. Once I know what I need to do, why should I drudge through the endless clicking necessary to accomplish it? And if I get something almost solved and mess something up and have to go back and start over . . . well, it doesn't take too long for it to start feeling like washing the dishes. At which point, I might as well go wash them. Or read a book, where missing a word on a page doesn't send me back to the beginning. (OK, so maybe my real problem is a lack of attention to detail.)
Anyway, we really are feeling much better. And it's supposed to get warm this week. The ice has already melted off the trees and soon the snowdrifts should be rehumidfying our basement. Yippee!
Not that there's anything wrong with video games. I just don't usually have the patience for them. To start out with, my reflexes are slow, so any game that involves quick response times only annoys me. If I liked strategy games, I would earn wifely brownie points by playing more of them with DOB.
I do occasionally like a puzzle-type video game, but it only takes a few minutes before it starts feeling tedious. Once I know what I need to do, why should I drudge through the endless clicking necessary to accomplish it? And if I get something almost solved and mess something up and have to go back and start over . . . well, it doesn't take too long for it to start feeling like washing the dishes. At which point, I might as well go wash them. Or read a book, where missing a word on a page doesn't send me back to the beginning. (OK, so maybe my real problem is a lack of attention to detail.)
Anyway, we really are feeling much better. And it's supposed to get warm this week. The ice has already melted off the trees and soon the snowdrifts should be rehumidfying our basement. Yippee!
Thursday, February 15, 2007
And So It Goes
DOB did have a headache yesterday, but then it resolved itself into the flu, and now his flu is almost gone so he has a headache again. I martyred my way through yesterday and spent today lying on the couch and whimpering. So the ducklings--who are still in good health and excellent spirits--have been running the house themselves, and doing a fine job of it, considering their lack of experience and height.
D1 trots about carrying Kleenexes and glasses of water and empty dishes to wherever they may be desired. D2 trots behind, only sometimes he trips and falls on all the strange things that have grown out of the floor in the last few days. They have both found plenty to amuse themselves, whether it be baptizing their blankies in the toilet (fortunately I caught that one just in time) or throwing tomato cans under the couch.
The only real trouble is with food. They tried raw potatoes out of the pantry, but I really didn't approve of that. However, neither DOB nor I can bear the sight or smell of most actual food. Many foods in theory sound good--I'm craving Bisquick pancakes with cheap syrup, myself--but in presence they seldom live up to their potential, and anyway, we can't stand up for that long.
So the ducklings have been living on hard-boiled eggs and bread with peanut butter, and other things that the cook doesn't have to smell long, and they've been eating unsupervised, which makes for a kitchen that doesn't bear description. The server sits shuddering in the other room, waiting for the dreaded, "Mo? MO!" or the equally fearsome, if more polite, "I would like some more, please."
D1 trots about carrying Kleenexes and glasses of water and empty dishes to wherever they may be desired. D2 trots behind, only sometimes he trips and falls on all the strange things that have grown out of the floor in the last few days. They have both found plenty to amuse themselves, whether it be baptizing their blankies in the toilet (fortunately I caught that one just in time) or throwing tomato cans under the couch.
The only real trouble is with food. They tried raw potatoes out of the pantry, but I really didn't approve of that. However, neither DOB nor I can bear the sight or smell of most actual food. Many foods in theory sound good--I'm craving Bisquick pancakes with cheap syrup, myself--but in presence they seldom live up to their potential, and anyway, we can't stand up for that long.
So the ducklings have been living on hard-boiled eggs and bread with peanut butter, and other things that the cook doesn't have to smell long, and they've been eating unsupervised, which makes for a kitchen that doesn't bear description. The server sits shuddering in the other room, waiting for the dreaded, "Mo? MO!" or the equally fearsome, if more polite, "I would like some more, please."
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Happy Valentine's Day
I have no thoughts for you on romantic getaways. We're iced in, although I'm sure DOB will try to brave the roads and get to work sooner or later. Right now he's in bed with a monstrous headache. At least our power hasn't gone out, unlike most of the city.
I further have no thoughts on making a romantic dinner at home, because tonight we will be lucky if I manage to fix any food at all. I was hoping for a 24-hour-bug, but it seems to want at least 48. About all I can get down is applesauce and yogurt. I'm just waiting with bated breath for the ducklings to come down sick.
I was going to at least make a card, but that would require going upstairs to where the card-making supplies are, and I'm not sure I'm up to the trip.
Love is when everything goes wrong and you still can't imagine anywhere else to be or anyone else to be with.
I further have no thoughts on making a romantic dinner at home, because tonight we will be lucky if I manage to fix any food at all. I was hoping for a 24-hour-bug, but it seems to want at least 48. About all I can get down is applesauce and yogurt. I'm just waiting with bated breath for the ducklings to come down sick.
I was going to at least make a card, but that would require going upstairs to where the card-making supplies are, and I'm not sure I'm up to the trip.
Love is when everything goes wrong and you still can't imagine anywhere else to be or anyone else to be with.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
This Bodes Not Well
Last week we had bad colds and a snowstorm.
This week, it's shaping up to be the stomach flu and an ice storm. Oh, and yesterday, two flat tires.
I'm not sure I want to know what next week will turn out like.
This week, it's shaping up to be the stomach flu and an ice storm. Oh, and yesterday, two flat tires.
I'm not sure I want to know what next week will turn out like.
Monday, February 12, 2007
In a galaxy far, far away . . .
On any personality test that measures how abstract one's thought processes are, mine are always at the far abstract end of the chart. I have heard there's a planet called Earth, I may have visited there once, but I really couldn't tell you how to get there.
So when I read a discussion awhile back about Mommy Time (which is too far lost in archives for me to bother digging up, as usual), one commenter's thoughts really resonated with me--it's not the children themselves an abstract person gets tired of, it's having to be Right Here, Right Now. Little children aren't much for abstract discussions. They're always having their heads bonked, their feelings hurt, and their pants wet, right here in the concrete.
And thus Mama, who only really knows how to live with her head in the clouds, is always being jerked back to earth. Every thirty seconds, all day long. Jerk, jerk, jerk. It hurts. It's tiring. What I need to recover is not necessarily to be away from the children--I do love hearing their happy little voices and watching their little wheels turn--it's being free from the constant barrage of decisions and interventions that small children require, and instead having some time to think. Or read. Or write.
Fortunately DOB is kind and understanding, and although he is abstract enough to listen to me, he's also concrete enough to change lanes safely. Or notice when the squabbles have reached a fever pitch. So yesterday, when he saw I was completely lost in a fairytale, he kindly dealt with as many problems as he could himself, and was remarkably patient with my distraction every time he had to contact me for information.
"Earlier, while you were in Russia . . . " he would explain and update me on what was happening in our little duchy.
I do hope this situation improves as they get a little older and better able to care for their more immediate needs themselves. I'm even hopeful that D1 will continue in her current role as The One Who Knows How It All Should Be Done and thus mediate between my dazedness and subsequent ducklings.
For D2, I'm not so hopeful. I see him pause in his play, a blank expression on his face, as he stares off into the distant galaxies. Before too long, perhaps, he'll talk well enough that we can compare notes.
So when I read a discussion awhile back about Mommy Time (which is too far lost in archives for me to bother digging up, as usual), one commenter's thoughts really resonated with me--it's not the children themselves an abstract person gets tired of, it's having to be Right Here, Right Now. Little children aren't much for abstract discussions. They're always having their heads bonked, their feelings hurt, and their pants wet, right here in the concrete.
And thus Mama, who only really knows how to live with her head in the clouds, is always being jerked back to earth. Every thirty seconds, all day long. Jerk, jerk, jerk. It hurts. It's tiring. What I need to recover is not necessarily to be away from the children--I do love hearing their happy little voices and watching their little wheels turn--it's being free from the constant barrage of decisions and interventions that small children require, and instead having some time to think. Or read. Or write.
Fortunately DOB is kind and understanding, and although he is abstract enough to listen to me, he's also concrete enough to change lanes safely. Or notice when the squabbles have reached a fever pitch. So yesterday, when he saw I was completely lost in a fairytale, he kindly dealt with as many problems as he could himself, and was remarkably patient with my distraction every time he had to contact me for information.
"Earlier, while you were in Russia . . . " he would explain and update me on what was happening in our little duchy.
I do hope this situation improves as they get a little older and better able to care for their more immediate needs themselves. I'm even hopeful that D1 will continue in her current role as The One Who Knows How It All Should Be Done and thus mediate between my dazedness and subsequent ducklings.
For D2, I'm not so hopeful. I see him pause in his play, a blank expression on his face, as he stares off into the distant galaxies. Before too long, perhaps, he'll talk well enough that we can compare notes.
Friday, February 09, 2007
Strange and possibly, though not creditably, Unique Thoughts
* That whole business about the little house not being able to be sold for gold or silver? That had to violate the Rule Against Perpetuities.
* This week I had a library book that was so absolutely and forlornly lost, even after six weeks of searching, that I simply had to up and pay for it. Fortunately, it was only four dollars. Unfortunately, it wasn't one I particularly would be thrilled to own, if it ever does turn up. But the occurence did put a thought in my head. Suppose I find a book at the library that I really, really want to own. Suppose further that this book is rare or out of print, and even further that it looks like something the library is going to ditch soon in favor of more shelf space. Of course, the chances of me happening across it at just the right library sale are very slim indeed. How evil would it be to, ah, "lose" the book and pay for it, and then "find" it again but decide not to bother about getting my money back? Evil, evil, evil. I blot the thought from my mind.
* This week I had a library book that was so absolutely and forlornly lost, even after six weeks of searching, that I simply had to up and pay for it. Fortunately, it was only four dollars. Unfortunately, it wasn't one I particularly would be thrilled to own, if it ever does turn up. But the occurence did put a thought in my head. Suppose I find a book at the library that I really, really want to own. Suppose further that this book is rare or out of print, and even further that it looks like something the library is going to ditch soon in favor of more shelf space. Of course, the chances of me happening across it at just the right library sale are very slim indeed. How evil would it be to, ah, "lose" the book and pay for it, and then "find" it again but decide not to bother about getting my money back? Evil, evil, evil. I blot the thought from my mind.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Siblings
D2's movement into D1's room meant more than just more sleep for me. It also focused them as siblings--them on the one hand, and us, the grownups, on the other. We hear them there chattering after they've been put to bed or before we go get them up in the morning. (This is completely fine with us as long as there's no yelling or getting out of bed.)
Maybe it's also that they've had so much time lately to interact primarily with each other, mostly, I'm afraid, because I'm suffering from such a bad case of cabin fever that I would rather not interact with anything closer than the sky. Anyway, they're busy with their own invented games and plays, into which I am only occasionally invited to enter.
Brothers and sisters of a close age, growing up together, spending all day with only as much supervision as a tired mother can spare, have their own world in a way I doubt any other people can have. No one else has so much time or so much curiosity. I set the boundaries of their world; I provide the raw material. But the world is their own.
I don't mind being a grownup to awfully much, but I am a little jealous.
Maybe it's also that they've had so much time lately to interact primarily with each other, mostly, I'm afraid, because I'm suffering from such a bad case of cabin fever that I would rather not interact with anything closer than the sky. Anyway, they're busy with their own invented games and plays, into which I am only occasionally invited to enter.
Brothers and sisters of a close age, growing up together, spending all day with only as much supervision as a tired mother can spare, have their own world in a way I doubt any other people can have. No one else has so much time or so much curiosity. I set the boundaries of their world; I provide the raw material. But the world is their own.
I don't mind being a grownup to awfully much, but I am a little jealous.
Monday, February 05, 2007
This Day Had to Come
D2 came into the world with a ride in an ambulance. He has "accident waiting to happen" in big black and blue marks across his forehead. So perhaps the only surprising thing about last night is that it took him sixteen months to take us to the ER with an injury.
The scenario was the same one that happens about once an hour: slip, fall, bang head. Only instead of the relatively forgiving wood floor or door frames he usually encounters, he hit the brick corner of the fireplace. We immediately dropped our so-far fruitless attempts to get the borrowed TV to show the Super Bowl and began working on keeping his head still enough to bandage it. He was not helpful in this endeavor. In fact, he screamed non-stop from the moment it happened until a nurse kindly brought him some applesauce, which allowed us to answer in the negative with complete confidence when asked if he had lost consciousness.
D1 was perfectly calm about the whole thing, once it was explained to her, and went about getting her shoes and coat on to go visit her friends while we were gone. She would be a much easier child to take to the ER, but that is why she is much less likely to go there.
D2 was reasonably happy from snack time through playing with some bowls of water until people actually started working on his head again, whereupon he resumed his former song. Because he was so young, the nurse had me apply the numbing solution to his head. We were struggling to hold him down and put it on, as the nurse had told us to "Hold it there as long as you can."
"How long exactly should we try for?" I asked.
"Fifteen minutes," she said. Fifteen minutes! I was feeling pleased that I had held it on for fifteen seconds. She finally put some tape on it, which allowed us to devote our attention to keeping his hands away.
While a later nurse was washing out his wound (with plain water, no fancy antiseptic stuff), she jerked the syringe too hard sucking in the next batch of water and managed to knock the bowl of water all over the floor and the doctor. He was, fortunately, an exceedingly nice fellow. We opted for glue instead of stitches, thinking it would involve less holding him down. They were going to swaddle him for the actual stitching, but they couldn't find the necessary contraption, so we had to once again resort to our finely-honed Toddler Restraint skills.
Meanwhile DOB's family, who were coming over to watch the Super Bowl, arrived, let themselves in, got the TV working, set out food, and fetched D1. DOB did get to watch most of the second half after we got back. Not that he was highly concerned about it at that point, but still, he was glad to see the Colts win.
D2 continued in unabated misery until we put him to bed, but he slept soundly last night and has been quite chipper this morning, except for a cough not helped by the running around in the cold last night. So far he hasn't re-bumped his head, which is amazing, considering how many times he's fallen down, once about five inches from his scene of triumph last night.
The nurses said they hoped not to see us again too soon, but they didn't sound too confident.
The scenario was the same one that happens about once an hour: slip, fall, bang head. Only instead of the relatively forgiving wood floor or door frames he usually encounters, he hit the brick corner of the fireplace. We immediately dropped our so-far fruitless attempts to get the borrowed TV to show the Super Bowl and began working on keeping his head still enough to bandage it. He was not helpful in this endeavor. In fact, he screamed non-stop from the moment it happened until a nurse kindly brought him some applesauce, which allowed us to answer in the negative with complete confidence when asked if he had lost consciousness.
D1 was perfectly calm about the whole thing, once it was explained to her, and went about getting her shoes and coat on to go visit her friends while we were gone. She would be a much easier child to take to the ER, but that is why she is much less likely to go there.
D2 was reasonably happy from snack time through playing with some bowls of water until people actually started working on his head again, whereupon he resumed his former song. Because he was so young, the nurse had me apply the numbing solution to his head. We were struggling to hold him down and put it on, as the nurse had told us to "Hold it there as long as you can."
"How long exactly should we try for?" I asked.
"Fifteen minutes," she said. Fifteen minutes! I was feeling pleased that I had held it on for fifteen seconds. She finally put some tape on it, which allowed us to devote our attention to keeping his hands away.
While a later nurse was washing out his wound (with plain water, no fancy antiseptic stuff), she jerked the syringe too hard sucking in the next batch of water and managed to knock the bowl of water all over the floor and the doctor. He was, fortunately, an exceedingly nice fellow. We opted for glue instead of stitches, thinking it would involve less holding him down. They were going to swaddle him for the actual stitching, but they couldn't find the necessary contraption, so we had to once again resort to our finely-honed Toddler Restraint skills.
Meanwhile DOB's family, who were coming over to watch the Super Bowl, arrived, let themselves in, got the TV working, set out food, and fetched D1. DOB did get to watch most of the second half after we got back. Not that he was highly concerned about it at that point, but still, he was glad to see the Colts win.
D2 continued in unabated misery until we put him to bed, but he slept soundly last night and has been quite chipper this morning, except for a cough not helped by the running around in the cold last night. So far he hasn't re-bumped his head, which is amazing, considering how many times he's fallen down, once about five inches from his scene of triumph last night.
The nurses said they hoped not to see us again too soon, but they didn't sound too confident.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Colds and Colder
That's why I say, "Duckie!
Don't grumble! Don't stew!
Some critters are much-much,
oh, ever so much-much,
so muchly much-much more unlucky than you!"
There are indeed much-much more unluckier creatures out there, such as those who must be Out in the Cold today, whereas we, who have sniffles and such, have holed up like bears for the winter this weekend, except for a brief trip out for me yesterday to stock us up on movies and butter for popcorn (popcorn is essential sore throat food) and a brief trip out for DOB today to get a car we left behind a few days ago.
Our haul at the library proved quite productive: we had a Rudyard Kipling adaptation to watch yesterday and a Dickens for today, plus a few extra comedies if we have enough time. Which is not too likely because DOB is awaiting a TV to arrive so that he can watch the Colts tonight.
The ducklings are alternately happy as larks and miserable sniffling wretches, according to how long it has been since they slept. We had chicken and dumplings yesterday and hamburger and vegetable soup today. It's so cold we have to put our coats on to go to the basement; it's so cold we gritted our teeth and turned the heat up to seventy (which has nothing to do with the temperature of the house anywhere within six feet of a window) so that the children wouldn't freeze if they pulled the covers off, which they always do.
It's cold. And we do not have a dog that needs walked, or groceries that need shopped for, or a furnace that keeps breaking. Yes, there are critters ever so muchly more unlucky.
Don't grumble! Don't stew!
Some critters are much-much,
oh, ever so much-much,
so muchly much-much more unlucky than you!"
There are indeed much-much more unluckier creatures out there, such as those who must be Out in the Cold today, whereas we, who have sniffles and such, have holed up like bears for the winter this weekend, except for a brief trip out for me yesterday to stock us up on movies and butter for popcorn (popcorn is essential sore throat food) and a brief trip out for DOB today to get a car we left behind a few days ago.
Our haul at the library proved quite productive: we had a Rudyard Kipling adaptation to watch yesterday and a Dickens for today, plus a few extra comedies if we have enough time. Which is not too likely because DOB is awaiting a TV to arrive so that he can watch the Colts tonight.
The ducklings are alternately happy as larks and miserable sniffling wretches, according to how long it has been since they slept. We had chicken and dumplings yesterday and hamburger and vegetable soup today. It's so cold we have to put our coats on to go to the basement; it's so cold we gritted our teeth and turned the heat up to seventy (which has nothing to do with the temperature of the house anywhere within six feet of a window) so that the children wouldn't freeze if they pulled the covers off, which they always do.
It's cold. And we do not have a dog that needs walked, or groceries that need shopped for, or a furnace that keeps breaking. Yes, there are critters ever so muchly more unlucky.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
The Forecast
Snow had fallen,
Snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter
Long ago.
I have just discovered Accuweather, and I wish I hadn't. Before I could blithely go from day to day, thinking the cold would surely lighten up in a day or two and we could go back outside. Not that DOB didn't warn me that it's a bad sign when birds go about their daily activities as if everything wasn't frozen solid. Maybe the birds were wrong.
Anyway, now I've looked at the official forecast, and it shows ice and cold continuing for weeks and deepening in the next few days. After the first glorious play-in-the-snow day a week and a half ago, I was satisfied. After a week of intermittent snow to no purpose and uninterrupted cold, I was done. Add some runny noses and another week, and I'm running close to desperate. (Oh, Accuweather forecasts health, too. High chance of colds, very high chance of flu. Lovely.)
Actually, it's not been too bad. But it does seem like this will be easier when the ducklings are a little older. If they were older, we could read The Long Winter and Snow Treasure and The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. We could construct a city out of old boxes or make ingenious little paper toys or decorate elaborate cookies or get ahead on schoolwork so that when the weather does warm up we would feel no guilt about spending all day at the park.
We do have books to read, we just have to read the same ones over and over. (Yesterday it was Kitchen Words. Cup. Spatula. Whisk.) Playdough remains popular, and so does coloring. I think I'll move the picnic table up from the basement--even there is too cold to play these days--to the living room, so they can color without imperilling their heads in falling off the dining room chairs. I have been making progress on the filing while they play in the attic.
The good news is, the washing machine has been fixed. It turned out to be a hose plugged with lint. That sounds like a problem even within the reach of stick-poking, so perhaps we will learn how to fix it ourselves in the future. Anyway, now we have clean laundry again, although I am even more convinced of the value of wearing clothes multiple times, when possible. It's difficult when one of them is potty training and the other's drool is a major tributary of the Ohio River, but every once in awhile there's a salvageable garment that can serve as one more day's insurance against a laundry catastrophe.
Snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter
Long ago.
I have just discovered Accuweather, and I wish I hadn't. Before I could blithely go from day to day, thinking the cold would surely lighten up in a day or two and we could go back outside. Not that DOB didn't warn me that it's a bad sign when birds go about their daily activities as if everything wasn't frozen solid. Maybe the birds were wrong.
Anyway, now I've looked at the official forecast, and it shows ice and cold continuing for weeks and deepening in the next few days. After the first glorious play-in-the-snow day a week and a half ago, I was satisfied. After a week of intermittent snow to no purpose and uninterrupted cold, I was done. Add some runny noses and another week, and I'm running close to desperate. (Oh, Accuweather forecasts health, too. High chance of colds, very high chance of flu. Lovely.)
Actually, it's not been too bad. But it does seem like this will be easier when the ducklings are a little older. If they were older, we could read The Long Winter and Snow Treasure and The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. We could construct a city out of old boxes or make ingenious little paper toys or decorate elaborate cookies or get ahead on schoolwork so that when the weather does warm up we would feel no guilt about spending all day at the park.
We do have books to read, we just have to read the same ones over and over. (Yesterday it was Kitchen Words. Cup. Spatula. Whisk.) Playdough remains popular, and so does coloring. I think I'll move the picnic table up from the basement--even there is too cold to play these days--to the living room, so they can color without imperilling their heads in falling off the dining room chairs. I have been making progress on the filing while they play in the attic.
The good news is, the washing machine has been fixed. It turned out to be a hose plugged with lint. That sounds like a problem even within the reach of stick-poking, so perhaps we will learn how to fix it ourselves in the future. Anyway, now we have clean laundry again, although I am even more convinced of the value of wearing clothes multiple times, when possible. It's difficult when one of them is potty training and the other's drool is a major tributary of the Ohio River, but every once in awhile there's a salvageable garment that can serve as one more day's insurance against a laundry catastrophe.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Washing Wear
I've had my suspicions about the washing machine for some time, since it left a rather damp spot on the floor after some loads, but it wasn't until the second load of laundry yesterday--which was admittedly an overlarge one, so perhaps the fault was partly mine--that it gave up entirely. I ran downstairs to switch loads in a lull in the playdough action and discovered rivers of water overflowing the machine and running across the basement floor, right through all the sorted piles of clothes, into the drain. (An unfinished basement is a great advantage.)
I managed to persuade it to stop filling and even to drain out the water that it had, but beyond that I didn't dare to try. DOB's father, who is ordinarily our person to look at uncooperative machinery, is required to stay off his feet for awhile. DOB and I have the practical mechanical prowess of a chimpanzee--we can poke sticks at things, but if the hole to poke isn't obvious, we generally step back and let someone else do it. (Well, perhaps that is a bit hard on DOB. His theoretical abilities are greater. But he hasn't much time or energy left for poking.)
Although there is certainly considerable annoyance at anything not working, there's also a sort of high adventure in it. Every appliance malfunction is a sort of shipwreck, and the more critical the appliance, the more glorious the smash-up, and the more precious every piece of flotsam and jetsam that can be rescued. I was giddy with delight this afternoon to discover that I had managed to get one of D2's shirts in the first load, as well as several socks for myself, and to realize that D1 still has one shirt left that will go with the one pair of her jeans that made it through.
Further, a sail is in sight. DOB has located a repairman who will come by tomorrow, and his mother kindly took the more desparate loads to wash at her house.
I managed to persuade it to stop filling and even to drain out the water that it had, but beyond that I didn't dare to try. DOB's father, who is ordinarily our person to look at uncooperative machinery, is required to stay off his feet for awhile. DOB and I have the practical mechanical prowess of a chimpanzee--we can poke sticks at things, but if the hole to poke isn't obvious, we generally step back and let someone else do it. (Well, perhaps that is a bit hard on DOB. His theoretical abilities are greater. But he hasn't much time or energy left for poking.)
Although there is certainly considerable annoyance at anything not working, there's also a sort of high adventure in it. Every appliance malfunction is a sort of shipwreck, and the more critical the appliance, the more glorious the smash-up, and the more precious every piece of flotsam and jetsam that can be rescued. I was giddy with delight this afternoon to discover that I had managed to get one of D2's shirts in the first load, as well as several socks for myself, and to realize that D1 still has one shirt left that will go with the one pair of her jeans that made it through.
Further, a sail is in sight. DOB has located a repairman who will come by tomorrow, and his mother kindly took the more desparate loads to wash at her house.
Things I Never Would Have Thought of Before Having Toddlers
* Drooling can be a competitive sport. (And if they continue to take after their father, pretty soon they'll have a complex of rules and measurement methods. Three bibs in a morning! Woo-hoo!)
* A trip to the potty is a community activity, requiring the active involvement of all present members of the family, plus a few dolls and/or stuffed animals.
* A piece of broccoli can be the starring figure in a riveting drama. ("The Adventures of Ulysses the Broccoli in the Perilous Sea of Tomato Sauce." I know it was Ulysses, because he always avoids being eaten.)
* A trip to the potty is a community activity, requiring the active involvement of all present members of the family, plus a few dolls and/or stuffed animals.
* A piece of broccoli can be the starring figure in a riveting drama. ("The Adventures of Ulysses the Broccoli in the Perilous Sea of Tomato Sauce." I know it was Ulysses, because he always avoids being eaten.)
Monday, January 29, 2007
Homemaking Meme
Picked up second-hand, like most of my furnishings.
Aprons – Y/N? If Y, what does your favorite look like?
I either wear an apron or wish I had. The old, grungy, all-over ones get worn day after day while the cute short ones languish in neglect.
Baking – Favorite thing to bake
Biscuits: quick, homey, and not too messy. And I now have a recipe that represents a reasonable compromise between fluffiness and nutrition.
Clothesline – Y/N?
No, but I do have a couple of clothes racks in the basement.
Donuts – Have you ever made them?
We used to always make them for New Year's when I was younger. I've never made them in my own house, though, as I don't have a deep-fryer. Someday I'm going to try a baked doughnut recipe.
Every day – One homemaking thing you do every day
Dishes. Every hour, really.
Freezer – Do you have a separate deep freeze?
Yes, and I would have a very hard time functioning without it. It's an old one from DOB's parents.
Garbage Disposal – Y/N?
No, No, a thousand times NO! We do not get along. We never have, and we never will. Plus, our current sink has but one hole. We had the garbage disposal taken out and an honest drain put in.
Handbook – What is your favorite homemaking resource?
Well, if it doesn't sound too arrogant, my own head. I like to think about things and figure them out for myself.
Ironing – Love it or hate it? Or hate it but love the results?
I don't hate it, but I wouldn't exactly say I love it. But I can't stand wrinkles, so I do it regardless.
Junk drawer – Y/N? Where is it?
Yes, in the kitchen.
Kitchen – Color and decorating scheme
Carrots, naturally. Right now it's white but I want to paint it celery green.
Love – What is your favorite part of homemaking?
Those aha! moments when I make something new work.
Mop – Y/N?
I plead the fifth.
Nylons – Wash by hand or in the washing machine?
In the washing machine.
Oven – Do you use the window or open the oven to check?
There's a window?
Pizza – What do you put on yours?
Turkey sausage, mushrooms, green peppers, olives.
Quiet – What do you do during the day when you get a quiet moment?
I'd rather read but I usually check the internet because it doesn't require such a commitment.
Recipe card box – Y/N? What does it look like?
No, but I have a random pile of recipes getting bent and spilled upon.
Style of house – What style is your house?
1930sish Cape Cod with mint green siding and white trim. The mint green is definitely not my choice, but I'd rather live with it than change it.
Tablecloths and napkins – Y/N?
Considering how often D2 bonks his head on the table and falls over, tablecloths are definitely not a good idea. Cloth napkins we use, or more often just cheap terry washcloths.
Under the kitchen sink – Organized or toxic wasteland?
I don't like what this question implies.
Vacuum – How many times per week?
1. We only have carpet in the bedrooms.
2. We don't allow food anywhere near them.
4. The ducklings periodically decide they are afraid of the vacuum cleaner.
5. None of us are especially fastidious.
6. You guess how often we vacuum.
Wash – How many loads of laundry do you do per week?
Ten to twelve, house on one day, clothes on another, diapers as needed.
X’s – Do you keep a daily list of things to do that you cross off?
No, but occasionally I make a weekly list and get it done by the end of the month.
Yard – Y/N? Who does what?
We have a yard, which we try to avoid because of the killer swarms of mosquitoes. DOB's brothers mow it when needed.
Zzz’s – What is your last homemaking task for the day before going to bed?
Make sure the bedside water bottles are filled. We're all about proper hydration here.
Happy Things
Looking back over last week's posts, they look dreadfully whiny. Ugh. Lack of sleep is an explanation, but not an excuse. However, the sleep situation has much improved. D2 adjusted happily to his new bed. He likes being in there. D1 likes him being there. I like having him in there. I can sleep now, instead of listening to him breathe.
With him out of the closet, in the literal sense, other Useful Things could go back into the closet, like DOB's ties and our coats, which were all in D1's closet, and soon a grand closet rearranging forthcame. D1 immediately caught onto the idea and gathered up a huge pile of blankets and books to dump on the floor of the closet. She was actually quite helpful when I could remember to give her something to do.
Indeed, D1 is so handy to have around the house, it's a little disturbing. Saturday evening I had just dumped all the vegetables in the stew, and, without uttering a word, was looking around the kitchen trying to figure out where I had set down the spoon. D1 started squealing, "Right there! Right there!" and pointing to the counter. "What's right there?" I asked. "The spoons are right there!" she said, pointing to the utensil crock.
On the topic of stew, although half or more of the family responds with displeasure to squash in any identifiable form, chopped up with carrots and potatoes in a stew or minestrone it passes without comment. This is helping me with my resolve to use more seasonal vegetables and stop trying to make peppers and tomatoes work in the dead of winter. Also, DOB adores steamed cabbage, although the ducklings are still rather skeptical.
D2 had his first haircut this weekend. I could have handled the fluffy blond curls a little longer had they been all over, but the little fringe in the back with nothing on top was looking odd. When DOB uttered the word "mullet," I knew it was time to get out the scissors. It's very uneven, owing to his complete non-comprehension of "hold your head still," and my lack of ideas on how to compensate, but since it's still fine baby-hair it doesn't really show. Next time I give the ducklings haircuts I think I'll make an exception to our usual policies and let them watch a movie. Maybe that will hold his head still for, oh, thirty seconds at a stretch.
It's a good world, even though it's going to be too cold to play outside all week, and the ducklings have too bad of colds to go anywhere where other people might be. If I have sleep, I can deal with it. And if I get exercise every day, I can sleep. And I've discovered that even walking around the outside of the house while the ducklings nap is enough to get the blood flowing, whatever it may lack in the appearance of sanity.
With him out of the closet, in the literal sense, other Useful Things could go back into the closet, like DOB's ties and our coats, which were all in D1's closet, and soon a grand closet rearranging forthcame. D1 immediately caught onto the idea and gathered up a huge pile of blankets and books to dump on the floor of the closet. She was actually quite helpful when I could remember to give her something to do.
Indeed, D1 is so handy to have around the house, it's a little disturbing. Saturday evening I had just dumped all the vegetables in the stew, and, without uttering a word, was looking around the kitchen trying to figure out where I had set down the spoon. D1 started squealing, "Right there! Right there!" and pointing to the counter. "What's right there?" I asked. "The spoons are right there!" she said, pointing to the utensil crock.
On the topic of stew, although half or more of the family responds with displeasure to squash in any identifiable form, chopped up with carrots and potatoes in a stew or minestrone it passes without comment. This is helping me with my resolve to use more seasonal vegetables and stop trying to make peppers and tomatoes work in the dead of winter. Also, DOB adores steamed cabbage, although the ducklings are still rather skeptical.
D2 had his first haircut this weekend. I could have handled the fluffy blond curls a little longer had they been all over, but the little fringe in the back with nothing on top was looking odd. When DOB uttered the word "mullet," I knew it was time to get out the scissors. It's very uneven, owing to his complete non-comprehension of "hold your head still," and my lack of ideas on how to compensate, but since it's still fine baby-hair it doesn't really show. Next time I give the ducklings haircuts I think I'll make an exception to our usual policies and let them watch a movie. Maybe that will hold his head still for, oh, thirty seconds at a stretch.
It's a good world, even though it's going to be too cold to play outside all week, and the ducklings have too bad of colds to go anywhere where other people might be. If I have sleep, I can deal with it. And if I get exercise every day, I can sleep. And I've discovered that even walking around the outside of the house while the ducklings nap is enough to get the blood flowing, whatever it may lack in the appearance of sanity.
Friday, January 26, 2007
The Book I Wish I Had
I wish I had a book. Unfortunately, none of the 1,358 (just a wild guess) books lying around the house seems quite the ticket. Last night was another less than stellar experience in the sleep department (as of RIGHT NOW, D2 is out of our room and sleeping in D1's room), and the brain is foggy. Yet sleep continues to elude me. (Maybe it's not just D2's fault that I don't sleep. More fresh air and exercise would no doubt be helpful, but it's been well below freezing all week, and spending half an hour tracking down lost boots and putting everything on to endure twenty minutes of stumbling around outside in said boots, with tears every ten steps from falling over, and then another half hour of taking everything off once inside--well, it dampens even my enthusiasm for the Great Outdoors.)
So anyway, I want a book. Of course I have three going right now, but none of them are quite the ticket: The Odyssey (MUCH more enjoyable than the Iliad; I'll write more when I finish it); excerpts from Plutarch's Lives; and a book called Science and Creation, a scholarly tome on why various civilizations never got very far in the realm of science, owing to their philosophical allegiance to faulty ideas. All very productive and worthwhile, but not exactly anything to just sit down and while away a nice, long naptime whizzing through.
The nice, long naptime IS an amazing thing. We made much of D2's transition from his former bed (which was technically a playpen wedged into our closet) to the crib in D1's room. After I cleaned out all the blankets and toys which had volunteered to fill the empty space after we gave up on persuading D2 to sleep in there when we first moved in, I let D1 climb in there first and play. This was, naturally, all it took for D2 to be eager to join her. So when naptime finally rolled around, he was not too terrified of getting in there, and only took one reminder to lie back down and half a chapter of Science and Creation before he dozed off. And they are still both sleeping angelically, nearly two hours later.
The bitter, bitter irony is that I have all sorts of books that would be just right awaiting me at the library. But they weren't in there on Monday, when we usually go to the library, and of course I can't go until the kids get up, and once they get up I won't have time to read, and so I might as well wait until the next library day, as on the weekends DOB is handy to while away naptimes with.
Of course, if I actually went in the other room and looked, I could probably find something worth reading . . . just in time for the kids to wake up.
Besides, whining is so much more fun!
So anyway, I want a book. Of course I have three going right now, but none of them are quite the ticket: The Odyssey (MUCH more enjoyable than the Iliad; I'll write more when I finish it); excerpts from Plutarch's Lives; and a book called Science and Creation, a scholarly tome on why various civilizations never got very far in the realm of science, owing to their philosophical allegiance to faulty ideas. All very productive and worthwhile, but not exactly anything to just sit down and while away a nice, long naptime whizzing through.
The nice, long naptime IS an amazing thing. We made much of D2's transition from his former bed (which was technically a playpen wedged into our closet) to the crib in D1's room. After I cleaned out all the blankets and toys which had volunteered to fill the empty space after we gave up on persuading D2 to sleep in there when we first moved in, I let D1 climb in there first and play. This was, naturally, all it took for D2 to be eager to join her. So when naptime finally rolled around, he was not too terrified of getting in there, and only took one reminder to lie back down and half a chapter of Science and Creation before he dozed off. And they are still both sleeping angelically, nearly two hours later.
The bitter, bitter irony is that I have all sorts of books that would be just right awaiting me at the library. But they weren't in there on Monday, when we usually go to the library, and of course I can't go until the kids get up, and once they get up I won't have time to read, and so I might as well wait until the next library day, as on the weekends DOB is handy to while away naptimes with.
Of course, if I actually went in the other room and looked, I could probably find something worth reading . . . just in time for the kids to wake up.
Besides, whining is so much more fun!
Thursday, January 25, 2007
The Scavenger Hunt
And here is my entry in the Jones' scavenger hunt. Now if only there was an evening of free babysitting to win along with a gift card!
* Shoe
"For Christmas this year my hero asked for these boots, to match mine that I’ve had for several years. How romantic!"
Those shoes look equal to any weather, and Rebecca solves the problem of what to wear with them at The Space Between my Peers.
* Tooth
The PrairieFrogs begin a new tooth tradition:
* An odd name
"Stuart has inherited my compulsion to name everything. Some of his more memorable christenings:
* Pinky-pom
* Cholken
* Cracker-Barrel (a cyclops)
* Organize (a mountain giant)"
From The Namer at Keeping Up.
(I think a mountain giant named Organize is exactly what I need around here.)
* Car (fancier the better)
Here's some pictures of a shack on wheels, a hamburger car and a "stilleto car," plus a few more. From Amazingly Bizarre.
* Frightful dilemma
Amy agonizes over the difficulties of grownup life (and more specifically, working from home, which I'm not sure I would have the guts to do):
"Today is the type of day I wish I could sit somewhere near a window, read a good book, and periodically look outside at the beautiful falling snow. Unfortunately there is no time for that luxury today. . . . Here’s something for my hall of shame. I still haven’t unpacked from our trip yet!! I’m just now starting laundry. Meredith has been sick and wants to be held constantly. Today is the first day she’s seemed more autonomous. Plus, I have a work deadline fast approaching and that tends to take first priority around here."
From Yearning.
* Discussion of childbirth
"Did you know that giraffes literally drop their babies from a great height at birth? It's too risky to lie down to do it. The babies survive. But imagine if someone at a zoo took a notion that "dropping" your young was too primitive and started a trend of strapping mama giraffes down, flat on their backs. . . ."
Birth, A Surprising History, at The Cappucino Life
* Theological discussion/debate
On the rare occasions when I actually feel like a theological debate, I know I can always find one at Adventures in Mercy:
" . . . considering how a complementarian rendering of 1 Timothy 2:12 should be worked out in the Real World is certainly food for thought. If a woman is literally not to be in authority over a man, how does that play out in our daily lives? In the church world, what Scriptural justification can be given for allowing a woman to lead worship music but not to preach a sermon? In the secular arena, does it negate submitting to a female leader in politics or on the job? Or does 1 Timothy 2:12 only apply when we walk into the doors of a church building (and if so, how have you come to that conclusion)?"
You can follow the link and read all of the 10 Questions for Complementarians, as well as various people's answers. And what do I think of all this? Don't I wish I knew.
* Funny line, joke, short post
"Me (from my chair in the living room): [Push] The button that says CD.
Emeline: But how is it spelled?
Me (laughing, but trying to enunciate): It’s spelled C D.
Emeline: What letters spell CD?."
Maybe we need more spelling lessons, at A Familiar Path.
* Train
We ourselves see trains at the park from time to time, though it's been awhile since I mentioned it:
* Hairbrush
At Dewey's Treehouse, a Christmas game involves a quotation that refers to a hairbrush, or the lack thereof:
“That was a wonderful day. It was a treasure, and no mistake! I never saw such heaps and heaps of presents, like things out of a fairy-tale—and even Eliza had a shawl. Perhaps she deserved it, for she did cook the rabbit and the pudding; and Oswald says it is not her fault if her nose turns up and she does not brush her hair. I do not think Eliza likes brushing things. It is the same with the carpets. But Oswald tries to make allowances even for people who do not wash their ears.”
If you want to find out what book that was from, you'll have to look up the answers.
* An appeal for money
Semicolon asked for donations for the Salvation Army during December:
The First Year Boy at the Common Room has a rather dangerous one, in the manner of small boys.
". . . He has of late enjoyed another pasttime as well, and in honor of the time he has spent in solitary confinement to consider his sins I offer the following:
I shot an arrow into the air
It fell to earth
above the stair
It flew swiftly
and out of sight,
Tis true,
But it landed almost 'zactly
Where I wanted it to. . . . "
From The Arrow, at The Common Room
* Green
Meredith at Like Merchant Ships uses green to make a frog-and-bug bedside table for her son:
"Even though I did much more of this project, Andrew still enjoyed participating. We talked about how to make the colors we needed (no black, so we substituted dark green and brown). He would look at the encyclopedia and describe the shapes and details for me. Why do tree frogs have circles at the end of their fingers? How many legs does a garden spider have? Then he filled in my rough outlines with paint."
You really must to follow the links and see the picture; it's the coolest piece of furniture. I want one! Maybe someday I'll paint the old dresser we have in the kids' room.
* Shoe
"For Christmas this year my hero asked for these boots, to match mine that I’ve had for several years. How romantic!"
Those shoes look equal to any weather, and Rebecca solves the problem of what to wear with them at The Space Between my Peers.
* Tooth
The PrairieFrogs begin a new tooth tradition:
"As the loose tooth season begins, (our eldest is 6) we begin a new PrairieFrog tradition!
Just after bedtime, Kaira's much wiggled tooth finally let go. We let her slip out of bed to put the treasured tooth in a tea cup for the night.
Tomorrow our gap-smiled girl will wake to find a love-note from Mommy and Daddy in her tea cup, along with a tea bag (apple-cinnamon), so she can enjoy the treat of tea with breakfast."
~Tooth in a Teacup* An odd name
"Stuart has inherited my compulsion to name everything. Some of his more memorable christenings:
* Pinky-pom
* Cholken
* Cracker-Barrel (a cyclops)
* Organize (a mountain giant)"
From The Namer at Keeping Up.
(I think a mountain giant named Organize is exactly what I need around here.)
* Car (fancier the better)
Here's some pictures of a shack on wheels, a hamburger car and a "stilleto car," plus a few more. From Amazingly Bizarre.
* Frightful dilemma
Amy agonizes over the difficulties of grownup life (and more specifically, working from home, which I'm not sure I would have the guts to do):
"Today is the type of day I wish I could sit somewhere near a window, read a good book, and periodically look outside at the beautiful falling snow. Unfortunately there is no time for that luxury today. . . . Here’s something for my hall of shame. I still haven’t unpacked from our trip yet!! I’m just now starting laundry. Meredith has been sick and wants to be held constantly. Today is the first day she’s seemed more autonomous. Plus, I have a work deadline fast approaching and that tends to take first priority around here."
From Yearning.
* Discussion of childbirth
"Did you know that giraffes literally drop their babies from a great height at birth? It's too risky to lie down to do it. The babies survive. But imagine if someone at a zoo took a notion that "dropping" your young was too primitive and started a trend of strapping mama giraffes down, flat on their backs. . . ."
Birth, A Surprising History, at The Cappucino Life
* Theological discussion/debate
On the rare occasions when I actually feel like a theological debate, I know I can always find one at Adventures in Mercy:
" . . . considering how a complementarian rendering of 1 Timothy 2:12 should be worked out in the Real World is certainly food for thought. If a woman is literally not to be in authority over a man, how does that play out in our daily lives? In the church world, what Scriptural justification can be given for allowing a woman to lead worship music but not to preach a sermon? In the secular arena, does it negate submitting to a female leader in politics or on the job? Or does 1 Timothy 2:12 only apply when we walk into the doors of a church building (and if so, how have you come to that conclusion)?"
You can follow the link and read all of the 10 Questions for Complementarians, as well as various people's answers. And what do I think of all this? Don't I wish I knew.
* Funny line, joke, short post
"Me (from my chair in the living room): [Push] The button that says CD.
Emeline: But how is it spelled?
Me (laughing, but trying to enunciate): It’s spelled C D.
Emeline: What letters spell CD?."
Maybe we need more spelling lessons, at A Familiar Path.
* Train
We ourselves see trains at the park from time to time, though it's been awhile since I mentioned it:
"Best of all, our lives have been full of heavy equipment lately. Workmen have been tearing up and replacing the sidewalk near the park, so we've watched Bobcats, cement trucks, Caterpillars and lots of men in hardhats. One memorable morning, a real live train actually went by on the tracks that run through the park. All quite thrilling."
* Hairbrush
At Dewey's Treehouse, a Christmas game involves a quotation that refers to a hairbrush, or the lack thereof:
“That was a wonderful day. It was a treasure, and no mistake! I never saw such heaps and heaps of presents, like things out of a fairy-tale—and even Eliza had a shawl. Perhaps she deserved it, for she did cook the rabbit and the pudding; and Oswald says it is not her fault if her nose turns up and she does not brush her hair. I do not think Eliza likes brushing things. It is the same with the carpets. But Oswald tries to make allowances even for people who do not wash their ears.”
If you want to find out what book that was from, you'll have to look up the answers.
* An appeal for money
Semicolon asked for donations for the Salvation Army during December:
"Last year during the month of December I set up a Salvation Army Red Kettle in my sidebar through which readers could make secure online donations to the Salvation Army. This year I’m doing the same –two days early.
If you’ve enjoyed reading the posts here at Semicolon this year, please consider a small donation (or a large one) to the Salvation Army. You can donate online by clicking on the red kettle in the sidebar."
Of course, it's a little late this year, but maybe you can do it next year.
The First Year Boy at the Common Room has a rather dangerous one, in the manner of small boys.
". . . He has of late enjoyed another pasttime as well, and in honor of the time he has spent in solitary confinement to consider his sins I offer the following:
I shot an arrow into the air
It fell to earth
above the stair
It flew swiftly
and out of sight,
Tis true,
But it landed almost 'zactly
Where I wanted it to. . . . "
From The Arrow, at The Common Room
* Green
Meredith at Like Merchant Ships uses green to make a frog-and-bug bedside table for her son:
"Even though I did much more of this project, Andrew still enjoyed participating. We talked about how to make the colors we needed (no black, so we substituted dark green and brown). He would look at the encyclopedia and describe the shapes and details for me. Why do tree frogs have circles at the end of their fingers? How many legs does a garden spider have? Then he filled in my rough outlines with paint."
You really must to follow the links and see the picture; it's the coolest piece of furniture. I want one! Maybe someday I'll paint the old dresser we have in the kids' room.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Paper Tigers
It's been calling my name for some time now, but today the call of the unfiled papers rose to a deafening roar and I succumbed. You know those tasks you put off for months, dreading the very thought of them, and when at last you buckle down and do them, they turn out not so bad?
This wasn't one of them. Half an hour I spent at it (which is an enormous chunk of time when you have two small children busily rearranging the attic while you try to work at it) and only succeeding in strewing vaguely-sorted piles of paper everywhere, pinching a few fingers in the drawers, and coming to the conclusion that, although we have every other receipt from Lands End for the last three years, we don't have the one receipt I need to find.
It will take me weeks to get the mess put away, and I don't know where next to look for the receipt. And I didn't get far enough to feel any noble glow of accomplishment. (Even when I finish, the glow will be miniscule, because even an overflowing pile of paper is only a very small amount of cubic space cleaned.)
I hate filing.
This wasn't one of them. Half an hour I spent at it (which is an enormous chunk of time when you have two small children busily rearranging the attic while you try to work at it) and only succeeding in strewing vaguely-sorted piles of paper everywhere, pinching a few fingers in the drawers, and coming to the conclusion that, although we have every other receipt from Lands End for the last three years, we don't have the one receipt I need to find.
It will take me weeks to get the mess put away, and I don't know where next to look for the receipt. And I didn't get far enough to feel any noble glow of accomplishment. (Even when I finish, the glow will be miniscule, because even an overflowing pile of paper is only a very small amount of cubic space cleaned.)
I hate filing.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Miscellaneous
Here's a hint Heloise never recorded: if you have small children, or if you are uncoordinated, and especially both, you will have frequent spills on the floor. Some will be of the wet type, and some will be of the sticky type. If, when you have a wet spill, you use the resulting wet rag to wipe up any recent sticky spills, you can put off mopping the floor for a surprisingly long time.
I have had to relax my lifelong No-Christmas-Carols-After-Advent rule to make an Adorable Toddler exception: When D2 rocks himself back and forth and says, " 'way? 'way?" we are allowed to sing "Away in a Manger."
D1, however, is not so much into Christmas carols anymore now that she has learned "London Bridge is Falling Down." She is obsessed with this song, even without knowing the accompanying game (which we are not quite numerous and coordinated enough to attempt). Naturally I fed this obsession by finding a copy of the Peter Spier book at the library. Meanwhile, I'm working on learning "Oranges and Lemons" before our book of Mother Goose tunes has to go back to the library. (BTW: Why are all the good picture books going out of print? And why are so many stupid ones being printed instead? I've given up on even finding good books by looking at the library; there's too much drivel to wade through. I have to know what I want and reserve it in advance.)
We had snow, real snow, at last yesterday. We weren't expecting it at all, and were most perplexed to be awakened by what we first thought were garbage trucks on a Sunday morning. In the afternoon we were able to go out and play with friends, which is essential for fun in the snow, especially when they have a hill in their yard and we do not. The ducklings did quite well for their first try at winter sports; D1 wasn't too impressed, but she managed a couple of sled rides and pats on the snowman. D2 was thrilled with sledding, and went down a dozen times or more, alone and on his belly, with the greatest of glee, even if he had to spit snow out of his face at the end. The dads, of course, had the most fun of anybody.
I have had to relax my lifelong No-Christmas-Carols-After-Advent rule to make an Adorable Toddler exception: When D2 rocks himself back and forth and says, " 'way? 'way?" we are allowed to sing "Away in a Manger."
D1, however, is not so much into Christmas carols anymore now that she has learned "London Bridge is Falling Down." She is obsessed with this song, even without knowing the accompanying game (which we are not quite numerous and coordinated enough to attempt). Naturally I fed this obsession by finding a copy of the Peter Spier book at the library. Meanwhile, I'm working on learning "Oranges and Lemons" before our book of Mother Goose tunes has to go back to the library. (BTW: Why are all the good picture books going out of print? And why are so many stupid ones being printed instead? I've given up on even finding good books by looking at the library; there's too much drivel to wade through. I have to know what I want and reserve it in advance.)
We had snow, real snow, at last yesterday. We weren't expecting it at all, and were most perplexed to be awakened by what we first thought were garbage trucks on a Sunday morning. In the afternoon we were able to go out and play with friends, which is essential for fun in the snow, especially when they have a hill in their yard and we do not. The ducklings did quite well for their first try at winter sports; D1 wasn't too impressed, but she managed a couple of sled rides and pats on the snowman. D2 was thrilled with sledding, and went down a dozen times or more, alone and on his belly, with the greatest of glee, even if he had to spit snow out of his face at the end. The dads, of course, had the most fun of anybody.
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