more snuggles 

Aiden and September 

Bath Time

Bug-bug was quite a stinker yesterday morning, being simultaneously in need of some discipline and a diaper change.

I gave first priority to discipline, and isolated him in his room for a few moments.

That was a big mistake.

 

Five Days

Five is a nice round number, and five days makes for a pleasing interval of time. It's the length of a workweek. A week, but with generous margins, a bit of wiggle room on either side.

That is not what "five days" means when it comes to video rentals. However much five days may feel like a week, five days is most certainly NOT a week. Five days is a trunkated, squozened, crammed short week with two days lopped off.

We like to stop by the video store on the way home from church on Sunday afternoons. Once we have finished enjoying our selections, we place them carefully in the basket by the door, serene in the knowledge that we can safely forget about them until next weekend.

But if we rent them on Sunday, they will be due back on Friday. And we don't drive by the video store on Friday. But if we're making a special trip, of course we'll end up renting a few more while we're at it. And whatever we rent on Friday will be due next Wednesday. And Wednesday's films are due back on Monday, and Monday's on Saturday, and Saturday's on... at this rate it will be five weeks before we once again have videos conveniently due on a Sunday afternoon.

The only way to consistently return things on time is to integrate your trips into your weekly schedule. And when your life runs on a seven day cycle, and the video store runs on a five day cycle, the only way to do that is to schedule a video stop every single day of the week. Either that or resign yourself to paying a small fortune in late fees. Whichever you choose, they win.

Week after week, they get me.

Because "five days" just feels so much like a week.

Hunter is home!

Thanks be to God!

My husband is reading a modern book

blinkblinkblink.

Don't Lets Go to the Dogs Tonight

Not only is he reading it, but enjoying it immensely.

Which just goes to show you that it's a very special book indeed.

The cover caught my eye at Borders--several years ago, actually. Every time I walked through Borders thereafter, I would flip through it, and be sorely tempted. It just looked so much like my kind of book.

A few weeks ago, Andy and I spent our date night at Borders--just for coffee and browsing, you know!--and I finally gave in and bought the book. Andy couldn't really object, because of that Greek book that he wasn't going to buy... just browse a bit... well...... and there it sits on our shelf. So while Andy couldn't object, and while his conscience forced him to actually encourage me to buy it, he most certainly could sneer. With all the great books there are to be read, why would you waste your precious time on one that is less than ten years old? He prefers to wait for the fltering effect of time. Our conversations thereafter were laced with subtle condescending references to "my sort of book."

It most definitely is my sort of book. I was initially attracted to it because the vague black and white photo on the cover seemed to suggest something akin to the sheer rock walls and tallis slopes that formed the backdrop to my own childhood. It's not. Look closely and you'll see that it's actually a house and a lawn... a very different sort of landscape, as far as all particulars are concerned. But still something of the spirit is the same there.

And that is the way of our respective stories. Diametrically opposed in all particulars, but astonishinly similar in flavor. Her African childhood and my canyon childhood were filled with the same themes and incongruities, and though we experienced them from entirely different perspectives, we experienced them in precisely the same way.

And thus it was that my astonishment at finding Andy reading my book was rather surpassed by my relief at hearing him pronounce it to be really remarkable.

I think maybe I'll try to get through a few pages of his book this afternoon. Even if it is all Greek to me.

Pray for Hunter

Please pray for little Hunter Nick, 3 week old son of our good friends Brian and Ashley. He hasn't kept anything down for the past 48 hours, and had surgery this morning. Please pray for the little guy's recovery, and for his exhausted parents, and for his almost-two-year-old big sister.

Jessica has been posting frequent updates.

Thanks all.

Pants. 

Perspective

Classic Adventures: Finding Our Groove

Emily found this one, and it's really worth a read.

What a great perspective on motherhood!

Bought by a shopping cart

When we lived in La Mirada, I would go out of my way to shop at Stater Bros. whenever I could. This was partly because they tended to have better produce, better meat, and better prices than Vons, partly because they have delightfully friendly employees, and partly because they don’t have any club cards. Call me paranoid, but my good dispensationalist upbringing has taught me to be quite wary of folks who insist upon collecting all sorts of personal information before they will sell you vegetables at a fair price.

But mostly I liked Stater Bros. because of their toddler-friendly shopping carts. Those little cars in front—with two steering wheels!—turn shopping with two toddlers and an infant from an utter nightmare to a mere unpleasant experience.

So when we moved to Anaheim, I was elated to see a Stater Bros. right on State College.

Alas, it was not the La Mirada Stater Bros. I knew that it wouldn’t be Juan stocking the vegetables, but I thought for sure that they would have the same quality of groceries, the same excellent selection, and the same low prices. Nope, nope, and nope. Worst of all, they didn’t sell cherry turnovers or poppy-seed bagels, and they didn’t have the spiffy carts.

In fact, their carts were utterly absurd, little more than trays on wheels.

The nearest Vons, on the other hand, is gorgeous, with lovely decor, a full-service meat department, spectacular bakery, in-store florist, and even a Starbucks. The produce is fresh, the variety dazzling.

And the carts! Oh the carts! Not only do they have a little two passenger car in front, but there is also room to strap in two—two!—misbehaving children up facing mom.

So now the tables are turned. I pass right by the Stater Bros. around the corner, and drive all the way out to Vons.

And hope that they don’t make me tattoo any barcodes to my forehead.

Domesticity

I've been trying a new system for structuring my day. Everybody needs a kazillion different things from me and it gets pretty confusing. It's not so much that there's too much to do, as that all the demands on my time come in such a haphazard fashion, and it's tough to stay focused.

Anyway, everybody takes turns now. Well, they don't take turns asking for stuff, but I take turns listening to them.

I set the kitchen timer for 15 min., and for those fifteen minutes, I'm entirely focused on the kids. Diapers and sippy cups and stories and block towers. They always need laundry, too, and if they're happily occupying themselves, I'll throw in a load... but for those fifteen minutes, they can't possibly get in the way, because they're the highest priority.

Then the buzzer goes off, and it's Andy's turn for fifteen minutes. Dishes and mopping and bills and menu-planning. Of course I'll deal with any urgent crisis with the kids--after all, Andy want's his kids taken care of--but if it can wait, it will wait. Because once the buzzer goes oof, the next 15 minutes are theirs again.

And then it's MY fifteen minutes. And I'd tell you what I do with my fifteen minutes... except that the buzzer just went off.

Trial and Error and Unacceptable HTML

Blogger and I are having communications issues.

I'm beginning to think that immersion might not be the best language-learning technique for HTML.

Meanwhile, can anybody tell me why my template is so kerbonchlified?

One of those days

It's been one of those days. You know, the sort of day where you realize that the chicken you were planning on having for dinner has been in the fridge just a little too long. You're tempted to use it anyway, but after googling salmonela, you decide that throwing it away is the safer option.

The sort of day where you realize that throwing it away wasn't a safe option at all, 'cause there's son number one, busily excavating too-old raw chicken from the trash and spreading it around on one of the chairs. Suddenly reupholstering the chairs jumps to the top of the priority list. Especially since that's not the same chair as the one that he gleefully poured his milk on an hour ago.

It's been the sort of day where as you're trying to scrub the butter off the outside of the refrigerator door, son number two squeezes the trigger of the bottle in your hand and gives himself a faceful of Orange Blast.

Yeah... It's just pretty much been one of those days.

Four

And no, this is not an announcement. =)

I contemplated waiting for four tags, but I think I'll be nice and settle for the square root of four. =) So, Rachel and Lauren, here they are...

Four Jobs I've Had

1. Flute teacher
2. English tutor
3. Coordinator for Andy's summer math academy

and of course, last, but not least,

4. My current position as Shaper of Souls, Changer of Diapers.


Four Places I've Lived

1. Supai, Arizona. One of the most beautiful spots on earth, a little village tucked away inside the Grand Canyon. A lush oasis in an austere desert, waterfalls of a delicate magnificence, towering walls glowing in the sun, hemming in the bluest of skies...
2. Cottonwood, Arizona. Because what Supai has in beauty, it lacks in things like, well, grocery stores. My childhood was split between these two places, two weeks here, a month there.
3. La Mirada, CA, where I attended Biola University and the Torrey Honors Institute.
4. And here we are in Anaheim, right where the 91 meets the 57. Freeway interchanges are one of the few truly beautiful things in Los Angeles. As long as their moving, that is.

Four Vacations I've Taken

1. I have vague (but fond) recollections of camping on a rocky beach in Oregon, where the air was filled with salt and sea gulls, and they had a wonderful childrens program, featuring Scott O'Dell readings. I'm not exactly sure if there was a geographical relationship between that particular location and Island of the Blue Dolphins, but I do know that I earned a very spiffy badge for filling a certain number of trash bags on my de-littering expeditions. I also seem to remember watching Haley's Comet from under a crowded canopy... but I suspect my memory might be combining several camping trips into one. The dates don't quite line up, and besides, who would watch a comet from under a canopy? (Unless it was raining.... hardly ever rains in Oregon...)

2. I remember going up to Grandma and Grandpa's little cottage by The Lake, and floating peacefully in an inner tube with my mother.

3. There was a dear sweet lady, a friend of Wycliffe, who owned two amazing beach-front condominiums in beautiful San Clemente. She lived in one, and rented the other out to weary missionary families for the price of $100/wk. This is what comes to mind when I think of utter tranquility.

4. For our first anniversary, Andy and I spent a weekend at an adorable little historic port town in Oregon. Unfortuantely I don't remember either the name of the town, or its historic significance apart from being the home of an exceedingly eccentric merchant with a magnificent house, but we had a wonderful time.

Four Vehicles I've Owned

1. '91 Toyota Tercel, given us by Andy's parents. An amazing little vehicle. I'm pretty sure we have the oldest vehicle among our circle of friends, and the most reliable.
2. The doopah-mobile is a blessing straight from the hand of God. I think its new name is Chewbacca, though, since that's who it sounds like when it asks for more power-steering fluid. Which is often. I tell you, this vehicle is thirstier than a nursing mom.
3. twin stroller. And yes, it actually does fit through most doorways. Usually. At any rate, it navigates corners and curbs, which is more than you can say for most tandems. Do be cautious on the curbs though, especially when moving the seats to the upright position. The center of gravity changes considerably. Not that I'd have any way of knowing this...
4. Ummm.... my sons have a number of trucks. Does that count?

Four Bloggers I'd like to Tag

1. Becka
2. Emily
3. Lauren M.
4. Sarah

(Not that I don't know most of these things about you, sis... but you really do need to update your blog more often. Love you!)

Four

And no, this is not an announcement. =)

I contemplated waiting for four tags, but I think I'll be nice and settle for the square root of four. =) So, Rachel and Lauren, here they are...

Four Jobs I've Had

1. Flute teacher
2. English tutor
3. Coordinator for Andy's summer math academy

and of course, last, but not least,

4. My current position as Shaper of Souls, Changer of Diapers.


Four Places I've Lived

1. Supai, Arizona. One of the most beautiful spots on earth, a little village tucked away inside the Grand Canyon. A lush oasis in an austere desert, waterfalls of a delicate magnificence, towering walls glowing in the sun, hemming in the bluest of skies...
2. Cottonwood, Arizona. Because what Supai has in beauty, it lacks in things like, well, grocery stores. My childhood was split between these two places, two weeks here, a month there.
3. La Mirada, CA, where I attended Biola University and the Torrey Honors Institute.
4. And here we are in Anaheim, right where the 91 meets the 57. Freeway interchanges are one of the few truly beautiful things in Los Angeles. As long as their moving, that is.

Four Vacations I've Taken

1. I have vague (but fond) recollections of camping on a rocky beach in Oregon, where the air was filled with salt and sea gulls, and they had a wonderful childrens program, featuring Scott O'Dell readings. I'm not exactly sure if there was a geographical relationship between that particular location and http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0440439884/sr=1-1/qid=1138296734/ref=pd_bbs_1/102-5014156-4500102?%5Fencoding=UTF8, but I do know that I earned a very spiffy badge for filling a certain number of trash bags on my de-littering expeditions. I also seem to remember watching Haley's Comet from under a crowded canopy... but I suspect my memory might be combining several camping trips into one. The dates don't quite line up, and besides, who would watch a comet from under a canopy? (Unless it was raining.... hardly ever rains in Oregon...)

2. I remember going up to Grandma and Grandpa's little cottage by The Lake, and floating peacefully in an inner tube with my mother.

3. There was a dear sweet lady, a friend of Wycliffe, who owned two amazing beach-front condominiums in beautiful San Clemente. She lived in one, and rented the other out to weary missionary families for the price of $100/wk. This is what comes to mind when I think of utter tranquility.

4. For our first anniversary, Andy and I spent a weekend at an adorable little historic port town in Oregon. Unfortuantely I don't remember either the name of the town, or its historic significance apart from being the home of an exceedingly eccentric merchant with a magnificent house, but we had a wonderful time.

Four Vehicles I've Owned

1. '91 Toyota Tercel, given us by Andy's parents. An amazing little vehicle. I'm pretty sure we have the oldest vehicle among our circle of friends, and the most reliable.
2. The doopah-mobile is a blessing straight from the hand of God. I think its new name is Chewbacca, though, since that's who it sounds like when it asks for more power-steering fluid. Which is often. I tell you, this vehicle is thirstier than a nursing mom.
3. twin stroller. And yes, it actually does fit through most doorways. Usually. At any rate, it navigates corners and curbs, which is more than you can say for most tandems. Do be cautious on the curbs though, especially when moving the seats to the upright position. The center of gravity changes considerably. Not that I'd have any way of knowing this...
4. Ummm.... my sons have a number of trucks. Does that count?

Four Bloggers I'd like to Tag

1. Becka
2. Emily
3. Lauren M.
4. Sarah

(Not that I don't know most of these things about you, sis... but you really do need to update your blog more often. Love you!)

It's a Shame

I was sitting on the couch with September when Nathan came up to me, holding out a mangled shard of plastic that was once part of a cassette case.

"Bow-keen. Bow-keen."

It took me a while to catch on to what he was saying. "That's right, Meepo. Uh-oh. It's broken."

Then he pointed up at the blinds on the window directly over my head. "Bow-keen."

"Yep. That's right. You boys have pretty much destroyed the blinds."

He shook his head ruefully, clucking softly. "Tsa shame."

Hair-raising

Andy and I are working hard on training the wuggies not to pull one another's hair... but, well, we try hard, and they pull hard. It's getting better, slowly but surely, but it's still a big problem around here.

Anyway, Isaiah was sitting on my lap, and we were working on his facial features. He poked his finger in my eye, and said "eye!" I then pointed to my nose. "Nose!"
He pointed to his own nose. "Nos!"

"Ear!"
"Ire!"

"Cheek"
"Teek"

"Hair!"
"Owie!"

Grace for the Journey

One afternoon last week, as I was sitting in the Target parking lot, contemplating how I was going to trek all three kids through the store, I breathed a silent prayer.

Please God, no more sympathy.

I’d been listening to the Alito confirmation hearings on the way over, and senators were trying to nail down his opinion of Roe v. Wade. Alito managed to evade most of their questions, although without the tremendous authority and finesse Roberts showed when it was his turn. I was quite sure Alito would make a fine justice if confirmed... but listening as he ran the gauntlet mostly just reminded me that Chief Justice Roberts is the man. Utterly grueling, and Alito did a fine job. But Roberts made it look easy, towering over the great men and women of congress like a god.

Anyway. As they grew more and more frustrated, senators gave eloquent and impassioned expressions of why the issue is so important. It’s not just a question of the rights of women vs. the rights of fetuses, it is a question of the value and status of women. A woman’s right to choose is utterly fundamental to her personhood, to her very value as a human being. Failure to fund a woman’s abortion is failure to grant her full status as an adult human person.

All this hurt me on a very deep and personal level. Because, of course, what this means is that woman qua woman isn’t really quite human. A woman is not fully a person until she has the option of walking away from parenthood. The implication, subtle but searing, was that femininity is inherently problematic, that we need to do something about my womanhood in order to make me as much a fully adult human as a deadbeat dad.

I’d already spent the morning, not exactly regretting my life path, but feeling rather ashamed of it. What am I doing, sitting here at home with a baby at my breast, chasing toddlers around, instead of pursuing a degree or doing something significant? And what is wrong with me that I’m loving it?

Hearing eloquent senators pontificate about the need to rescue women from the degradation of motherhood just drove the shame in deeper.

And now I had to trundle everybody around Target, and face the stares. You can’t go anywhere with twins without attracting lots of attention. It just doesn’t happen. When it was just the twins, it was all admiration. My, my, wasn’t I lucky to have my two kids all at once so I wouldn’t ever have to get pregnant again. But of course, I did get pregnant again, and, moreover, I had another baby. And now people just gawk, and a few of them even have the audacity to express their sympathy. What a poor, unfortunate woman I am, so young with so many children. Oh how sorry they are that God has blessed us so richly.

The more tired and worn out you are, the more sympathy you attract—and I was too tired and worn out to deal with it.

Please, God. No more sympathy. Not today. I just can’t handle it.

He must have heard me.

The smiling lady at the snack bar admired my small Persephone child, and another young mom pointed out the twins to her little girls. I had a nice chat with the immensely pregnant woman buying pull-ups for her twin toddlers at home. But no derisive stares, no pitying glances.

And then, as I was browsing through the shoe section, a man approached me. Probably in his mid-twenties, gaunt, disheveled, and moderately toothless. When he saw the twins, his face broke open into wonder and delight. He stood there for a good five minutes, maybe ten, reveling in their beauty. I stroked September’s head as I talked with him, and he asked permission to do the same. As he rubbed her bald little noggin, I was afraid he might explode with the joy of it. I really love these kids, don’t I? He could tell. What a lucky man my husband is... lots of women now don’t really want the bother of having kids...

Suddenly he remembered himself. He apologized, embarrassed, for taking up so much of my time, and we each went back to our respective browsing.

A few minutes later, he was back again, this time trying on a handsome pair of black loafers. He shyly asked if I would tell him what I thought of the shoes. Were they the right sort of shoes to wear to church?

See he’s been going to church lately, New Life Fellowship down the street. Trying to put his life back together, you know? He’s a little out of place in sneakers and T-shirts, but you’re supposed to come the way you are, right? But, well... His voice trailed off, and he gave a little shrug.

And it was my turn to delight, to be blown away by a little glimpse into the beauty of grace and redemption. Come as you are, come and be restored. God showed his love for us in this, that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us... And it is that utter love and acceptance that draws us out of our brokenness and filth to become who we were meant to be all along.

I assured him that the shoes were very nice, and concurred with his hopes that if he saves them just for Sundays, they should last him a long time. We wished one another God’s blessings on our respective journeys, and then I finished up my shopping---still exhausted, but much refreshed. And immensely glad for having lugged my wuggies through Target that day.

Two by two by two...

They're two!

The fruit of the... orange tree.

The other night, Andy and I had a bit of red wine with our steaks. The wuggies had orange juice. When Isaiah had drained his cup, he slid his empty glass over to Dadders, saying "Mo!"

But instead of getting the pitcher out of the fridge, Andy poured him a few drops out of his own glass. Isaiah held it up, and carefully examined the deep garnet liquid. After sniffing it, he carefully put the cup up to his mouth.

No sooner had the first drop touched his lips, than he slowly, deliberately set the glass down again, and pushed it back toward Dadders.

With tremendous dignity and firmness, he clarified his request. "Onge. Jus."

Transplant

Our church has a superbly gifted organist, but alas our decrepid organ is quite unworthy of her talents. Thus it was with great jubilation that she announced this morning that the parish's $3650 bid on ebay had won us a gorgeous antique pipe organ somewhere in Ohio, and we will be undergoing an organ transplant.

Speaking of music, we played musical babies after church. Who doesn't? Anyway, while Katie was getting her baby fix with September, I stepped outside to meet eight-day-old Hunter Nick. Of course I was quite eager to hold the little fellow, and his tired mama took advantage of the opportunity to duck into the fellowship hall to get big sister Autumn something to munch.

So I was standing out in front of the church holding a tiny blue bundle when Andy found me. "Oh there you are. Hey wait a second... you changed September's outfit!"

Love and Logic

Earlier this week, my in-laws sent us some fabulous childrearing resources:

Helicopters, Drill Sergeants, and Consultants: Parenting Styles and the Messages They Send

Love and Logic Magic for Early Childhood: Practical Parenting from Birth to Six Years

Excellent, excellent, excellent.

His principles really boil down to personal responsibility. Right from the start, we must teach our children to own their decisions and think wisely. This means that whatever wrong things they do must make trouble for themselves--not for anyone else. Since anger makes for a really bad learning environment, everything needs to be very calm, loving and empathetic. But whatever they do, they're going to have to live with the consequences.

So when Isaiah starts scaling the kitchen cupboards, uh-oh, it's such a bummer. Can't have that, so it looks like he'll just have to go hang out by himself in his room for a while.

A whiny older child sure drains mom's energy, so he'll have to make up for it by vaccuming.

Anyone who won't behave at the grocery store will obviously have to stay home next time... and will be responsible for paying for the babysitting, either through chores or giving up some of their toys.

And that poor, poor kid who flipped the bird for the class photo. He had to completely arrange the retake, setting up the risers, unloading the photographer's equipment, and paying for the replacement prints for all the parents.

With these principles, you are in complete control of your parenting as you teach your children to be in control of their behavior. Works a whole lot better than utterly losing control of the situation as you struggle to control your children's behavior.

Things have been much calmer around here for the past few days.

So considerate

Well, if he had to take off his diaper and pee all over the floor, at least he knew to do it in the kitchen.

Small mercies, small mercies.

Spilled Milk

I thought maybe I could save the carpet by mandating that the boys are only to drink their milk in the kitchen.

I see now that I must also mandate that September is only to spit up in the kitchen.

All the King's Horses

Nothing brings a mother running faster than the words "ball" and "uh-oh" in close proximation.

Especially if they've figured out how to get into the refrigerator.

Contrary to popular opinion

I do NOT have two left feet.

Neither do I have one right shoe.

Advertising Unpacked

(yeah, we're unpacking all sorts of stuff around here...)

Last night Andy took the boys for doopahs around the mall while Tembo and I picked out some new curtains for our new house. While the current curtains are in far better condition (and far better taste, for that manner) than I ever would have expected for something so very, very paisley... well, they just aren’t quite my style.

After we got home (sadly, without curtains), Andy commented on the absurdity of the images surrounding Abercrombie and Fitch. How can models serve to advertise clothing when they aren’t actually wearing any?

I speculated that it was probably along the same lines as the ubiquitous beer ads featuring absurdly curvaceous bikini-clad women. “Wear our clothing and gorgeously buff nearly-naked men will immediately flock around you.”

But after a moment’s thought, the analogy broke down. No, that’s how car ads work. “Drive this vehicle, and you will be surrounded by women who look like this.”

Beer ads are different, though. With beer ads, it’s actually “Drink our beer and every woman you see will look like this.”

Last night, we were friends.

This is not to say that we aren't usually friends--we are. Very much so.

But last night, after a rough day at work for him, a rough day at home for me, and nothing in the house for dinner, we drove to In-N-Out, and talked and talked and talked, far too late into the night.

We talked about frustration and exhaustion, and about how we don't want to move again for a very long time. Try as we might to avoid the subject, we even talked about money. But we didn't talk because we needed to know, because everything we do and everything we spend is twined together and interconnected. We talked because we needed the comeraderie.

We talked about long-range hopes and dreams, and tell me again why I became a teacher? But mostly we talked about Scotland, about the peat and the standing stones, the rocks and the waves and the solitude. Someday when we're old and grey and life is calmer...

And in that strange way that disparate moments have of folding back upon one another, we were suddenly back in the writing center conference room, perched on the table, covering the whiteboards with furious scribbles, pausing only to briefly realize that this is the one person with whom I want to spend my life...

...at school and in the Hebrides, and all the In-N-Out parking lots in between.

Monday morning the wuggies had lots of fun in the tub. We all started the day out squeaky clean.

Then, while I was still in the bathroom, brushing my hair, my dear sons got a head start on my work for the day.




See---I told you they were great at unpacking boxes!

scrubadubdub 

Noisy Toys

There is an entire genre of toys which, when sufficiently poked, prodded, pinched, or squeezed, will immediately commence making quite an entertaining racket.

It is highly unfortunate that Mr. Meepo has discovered his sister to be in that category.

Shiftless

Er, at least I was.

It seems to be working again today.

I find it quite ironic that the shift keys on my computer start working again the moment start typing outhng a clever post about the lack of them.

I suppose the moral of the story is that if you leave your computer keyboard out in the rain, all may not, in fact, be entirely lost.

And don't judge people too harshly for posting with improper capitalization. It may not be laziness. It could be that they just never got around to bringing their keyboard in from the rain.

Er...

yeah.

rainy day

THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains,and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains,and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart, and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.

---Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The last great laundry change hunt

wednesday was moving day. while andy and doug loaded up the truck, kathy and i ran around town doing sundry errands. the appliance dealer wanted cash, so while i was at the bank picking up money orders for the rent and security deposit, i also withdrew the exact amount we owed for the washing machine and drier. then we went over to little caeser's to pick up a pizza.

now, little caesar's is also a cash only sort of establishment, and i had in my wallet the exact amount we owed the appliance guy.

no problem. surely andy has 6.30 in his wallet. so i dipped into the laundry money to buy a pizza.

unfortunately, andy did not have 6.30 in his wallet.

and we had barely enough time to get to the appliance shop before they closed until the new year. certainly no time to backtrack to the bank.

and so it was that i found myself once again scrounging around the car looking for quarters for the washing mashine.

i thought there was a delightful sort of closure to that experience. but i was nevertheless glad to see a washington mutual a few blocks before we reached the shop.

especially since we were still 37 cents short.

A Very Merry Christmas

All in all, I do believe that the move rather enhanced our Christmas festivities. The massive pile of boxes became the Bethlehem hillsides once draped in blankets, and Christmas dinner was a smashing success, being prepared solely with disposable cookware. And that one dish that didn't make it into the box. Okay, okay, I confess. So I unpacked a single, measly saute pan. But still.

A traditional turkey dinner with all the fixings was quite out of the question. Moreover, leftovers are only a good thing if you are planning on leaving your refrigerator plugged in for the next week. So I went small and simple, but very special, and roasted us a filet mignon, with a rosemary and red wine marinade, and sauted shitake mushrooms.

And thus it is that I finally found I way that the wuggies will actually eat beef. Their eyes grew wide as they mawed on it enthusiastically and with great delight. I also discovered that they absolutely adore steamed green beans. And of course they loved the brown-and-serve rolls.
Put some candles on the table, and Meepo's in ecstasy. "Laight! Laight!"

Actually, though, what with the busyness of moving and all, the boys have been getting a special treat for dinner almost every night. Kraft mac 'n cheese, peanut butter sandwiches, chicken mcnuggets... filet mignon.

Decking the Halls

No boughs of holly, though. Or mistletoe or pointsettas. Or even a Christmas tree for that matter. We are having a completely non-toxic, toddler-friendly Christmas.

On a tight budget, too, since in the midst of moving, there is little surplus money, and considerably less surplus time. I've had lights up for a while, but other than that, my Christmas decorating pretty much started yesterday, when it finally dawned on me that it was time to give up trying to go home for Christmas, and start bringing Christmas home to us.

Which means that I've had no choice but to make everything very simple and streamlined. Unable to carry out all the traditional particulars, I've been distilling them down to their essences. The results, in my opinion, are surprisingly elegant and festive.

A tree is the single most important element of Christmas decorating. When you have toddlers, it is also a recipe for lots and lots of stress. The tree fills two main functions. It provides a center around which the festivities can gather, and it fills the room with its pungent fragrance.

So I bought a kid-friendly stuffed manger scene, and set it up the pile of boxes. I draped the boxes with blankets. White on the lower level looks a bit like snow, and midnight blue on the upper level makes a glorious sky, especially when speckled with the starlight provided by a little battery operated mini-light set.

Of course the wuggies dismantle everything, but that's okay. We sit down and join them in playing with it, and then put it away. It's easy enough to set up, and take down, and set up again.

As far as the smell goes, I went down to the tree lot on the corner, and brought home a bunch of discarded branches. I've been fashioning them into really beautiful little arrangements with pinecones and ribbons. It smells really wonderful in here. There certainly isn't a whole tree's worth of greenery in here, but there really does seem to be a whole tree's worth of smell, since all the branches have been broken off, and are releasing their wonderfully fragrant sap.

And some wassail simmering in the crock-pot makes up for the fact that I'm not doing any holiday baking.

We'll go to the midnight mass tonight, and, depending on our level of exhaustion, gather around the manger scene when we get home, and open presents. I'm hoping that the disruption to our usual schedules will make it all very exciting and festive. Either that or grumpy. We'll see.

In any case, I'm very excited about instituting our own family's brand new Christmas traditions. And I think that the very spur-of-the-momentness of it is sparking a lot of creativity.

I still very much wish that I could be with my family right now, but this is good. Very good.

I'll be home for Christmas...

...but only in my dreams...

It just didn't happen. The packing isn't done, and we can't go to Arizona.

It will be quite the makeshift Christmas, with everything packed up... er... almost everything, almost packed up.

And yet somehow there is something very Christmassy about joyously making do, forming a landscape out of the piles of boxes to create a setting for the Christ child's manger.

Trekkies

We're not big TV people, but in times of great stress, Star Trek is our drug of choice. It requires almost no intellectual or emotional effort, and a quite minimal time investment, but still manages to be fun and intersting, and sparks fun conversations about archetypal roles and the nature of sentience. Pretty good for mindless entertainment.

Anyway, like I said, we're not big TV people in general, but over the last week or so, we've been watching a LOT. The folks at the video rental don't bother to ask for my phone number anymore, they just pull up our account when they see me and my pile of dusty VHS tapes. "Wow. You sure like Star Trek."

I found this rather disturbing. That's just not the sort of mother I want to be, known by name at the video store because she's constantly exposing her toddlers to lots of dreadfully non-interactive television.

My guilt heightened when I paused the tape to fix myself a cup of nice, hot, pear-flavored white tea. Nathan ran up to the blue screen and pointed up at it pleadingly.

"Mo! More book!"

I guess they'll be okay.

=)

Boys will be boys

When I was a little girl, I slept with Big Bear and my Cabbage Patch Tina Rosette.

Isaiah sleeps with his basketball.

We're on our way out the door to go put a deposit on a

WASHER AND DRIER!!!

You have no idea how excited I am.

The wuggies are most exceedingly good at unpacking.

And thus it is that I greatly fear we will never actually reach that stage of the operation.

Feeling Blue

You may (or may not!) be surprised to learn that as a teenager, I contemplated dying my hair blue. Not out of any sort of adolescent rebellion, but because, hey, I look really good in blue.

But then an acquaintance (also naturally blond) dyed her hair blue. Sure enough, she was fabulously gorgeous... for the first week. Then it began to fade a bit, and looked pretty much horrendous for months thereafter. So I took this as an excellent opportunity to learn from someone else's mistakes, and aside from the occasional streaks of cerulean mascara, never actually acted upon this whim of mine.

Until this morning.

See, my hair was looking great, so I wasn't going to wash it. I just swept it up out of the way with a pen as I drew the bathwater.

That's right. A blue pen.

And I did wash my hair after all.

Isaiah and the Amazing Flying Cow

Looking on the bright side

Well, the good news is that we won't need to worry about packing up the microwave.

Pictures

Nate-bug always likes pointing out pictures of babies, but when he saw the picture of Rachel and HIS bay-bee, (Sharon, it should be waiting on your hotmail account when you next get out to the city) he was wildly ecstatic. "Bay-bee! Bay-bee Sept!" He would not allow me to close up the computer hutch until I'd printed him out a copy of his very own. He then held the picture up to Tembo herself, and kept pointing back and forth between them.

I tried to get a picture, but then he became interested in the camera, and all I ended up capturing was the fact that I really needed to vaccum. =)

Rachel and September. And the Mottling. You can't see him, but he made a great little seat for September. Tembo says that she's most definitely got the mommy touch.

Brotherly Love

As I was changing Isaiah's diaper, Nathan climbed up into September's chair and started kissing her vigorously. I rushed up as quickly as I could to rescue my poor baby.

When I pried Nathan away, I was not a bit surprised that he complained vociferously about being yanked away from his beloved Bay-bee.

I was a bit surprised, though, when Bay-bee burst into tears at being separated from her beloved brudder-wuggy.

Oh yes.

An Adventure

The Tercel's gas meter hits the red empty line when the tank goes down to about half-full.

The one on the Doopah-mobile hits the red line shortly after sputtering to a halt.

Looking on the bright side, we now know for certain that we can go exactly 348.3 miles on a tank of gas.

Whoever said not to cry over spilled milk...

...must not have had carpeting.

Lost

I'm in the middle of David Copperfield right now. It is amazing. For the most part, I've been listening to an outstanding recording performed by Patrick Tull. The man is an incredible actor, with a deep, rich voice that takes on a distinct quality for each character.

The only problem is that I seem to have accidentally skipped a tape. Or maybe just one side of a tape. In any case, it is now clear that an exceedingly important even has occured in the story... but I never actually heard about the event itself.

Rather than try to figure out which tape I missed, I started flipping through our paper copy, trying to find the scene.

There was only one problem. I couldn't find the spot I was looking for, because on every page I turned to, I found a scene that I simply could not pass without rereading.

It's just that good.

What do you do?

When your son throws a tantrum in church...

...because he wants to go outside?

Home, Sweet Home

Well, I think we found it. A tiny two-bedroom single-wide mobile home, 10 minutes from church. Nothing fancy... but exceedingly cute. The bedrooms are tiny. It'll be quite a squeeze, but I think we can do it. What really matters is the kitchen... and the kitchen is absolutely perfect. Spacious and well-planned, with room for a table and chairs. The manager was a bit apologetic that it didn't have a separate dining room, but we see that as a good thing. When you have toddlers, eating over carpeting is just a really bad idea. I am really looking forward to cooking in a kitchen that makes sense. You know, one with counters. And cupboards that you can access without excessive contortion. Speaking of cupboards, as an added bonus, the adorable oak cupboards make it feel so home-ey.

The park is cute... clean and pleasant and full of families.

We have a little patch of grass on which to put a climbing aparatus for the wuggies, and a little patch of gravel that we could turn into a garden.

And...

... laundry hookups!!!

I am so excited about this place. All of these things are going to make such a big difference in our lives. Kitchen. Laundry. Flowers. And best of all, we'll live close enough to really get involved in our wonderful church family.

Thank you, Jesus.

Shhh!

I just found myself taking away an orange, explaining that it wasn't a ball. I then replaced it with a foam block, explaining that the little cube actually was a ball.

They'll never learn their shapes at this rate.

Please don't tell their geometer of a father.

Shopping

The good news:

We found the townhouse apartment of our dreams, and I am quite cured of all desire for a single-family dwelling.

The bad news:

The rent is $500 beyond our budget.

Wasting Thyme

The other day, our apartment smelled like cinnamon once more, but this time it wasn't Mr. Wuggidy's doing, but mine, thanks to a big bag of beautifully fragranced pine cones. I haven't gotten around to actually doing any decorating with them, but they still smell lovely, even in the bag.

Last night however, let's just say I found the wuggies with too much thyme on their hands.

Now it smells like... um... mixed spices.

Interior Design

I love candles... but of course, you can't light candles anywhere a toddler might get at them. Which leaves sconces as our only option. I've been on the lookout ever since the wuggies became mobile, but alas, I could only find things that were either hideous or way out of our budget. Usually both. But the other day, I was delighted to find some quite tasteful wall sconces at Big Lots... $2.99 for a box of 2!

So we've been spending our evenings in the light of candles and christmas lights. The wuggies are even more delighted than I am, which, quite frankly, I would have thought impossible. They are forever pointing, and squealing, "Laigh! Laigh!"

I've put up three candle holders so far, but haven't found the right spot for the fourth.

This morning, however, I found the wuggies with the remaining sconce, carefully holding it up against the wall, examining it and conferring about the best place to hang it.

They really do seem to have a good eye for placement. That would have been a lovely spot.

Except that hanging it where the wuggies could get at it would have rather defeated the purpose.

Advent!

The other day, Andy gave me an early Christmas present.

Glad: An Acapella Christmas

It's out of print (er... out of dub? Out of burn?) but he found me a used copy on Amazon.

Suddenly it very much feels like Advent around here.

I can remember the year that Uncle Jim and Aunt Cindy gave us this album, sometime around junior high, or early high school. So I know it wasn't actually a part of all my childhood Christmasses... but it nevertheless forms the soundtrack for all my Christmas memories. The music captures like no other the essence of what Christmas means to me.

The life of the Church tends to center around Easter, but it was Christmas that was at the heart of our spiritual life as a family. The incarnation, cruxifiction, and resurrection of the God-Man is one inextricably united mystery. You cannot remember one part without pondering the whole... and the whole was most clearly before us at Christmastime, as we tried to wrap our minds around the helpless infant who was God Almighty, the unwed teen mother who was the chosen vessel for the Salvation of the world, and the birth that was heralded by angelic choirs... but no room in the inn.

Glad's soaring vocal harmonies are filled with a rich and free reverence, unconstrainedly flowing from a deep awe at deeper mysteries. Filled with parallel fifths and deceptive cadences, their unexpected harmonic interperetations of familiar melodies sound almost medieval, but the intricate rhythms are thoroughly modern. Their music is a glorious fusion of the old and the new, high art and low---uniquely fitting for remembrance of the God who came down and clothed himself in human flesh.

Who among you, when your son asks for bread, would give him a stone?

No. Most certainly not.

I would, however, have given them a nice soft foam ball.

They didn't bother to ask, though, so now the entire loaf of stone-ground whole wheat bread is strewn across the floor.

Between Tembo's undeveloped digestive system, and her big brothers' well-developed throwing arms... well, either way, when food becomes projectiles, it's not a pretty sight.

I tell you... we're having a ball.

Let's hear it for "The Wiggy Chronicles!"

I guess one of the hazards of making up your own words is that people are unlikely to spell them properly. Ah, well. At least I'm doing my part to keep the English language alive and well.

In any case, misspellings aside, I'm quite honored to be listed among the finalists for Best Parenting Blog over at the Weblog Awards.

So show your support for your favorite wiggy wuggies, and cast a vote for "The Wiggy Chronicles."

Whenever they manage to get the polls working, that is.

Onions

Not many kids get excited over onions, but our little wuggies were ecstatic when they saw the lovely white orbs as I unloaded the groceries.

"Balls!"

Advent!

The other day, Andy gave me an early Christmas present.

Glad: An Acapella Christmas

It's out of print (er... out of dub? Out of burn?) but he found me a used copy on Amazon.

Suddenly it very much feels like Advent around here.

I can remember the year that Uncle Jim and Aunt Cindy gave us this album, sometime around junior high, or early high school. So I know it wasn't actually a part of all my childhood Christmasses... but it nevertheless forms the soundtrack for all my Christmas memories. The music captures like no other the essence of what Christmas means to me.

The life of the Church tends to center around Easter, but it was Christmas that was really at the heart of our spiritual life as a family. The incarnation, cruxifiction, and resurrection of the God-Man is one inextricably united mystery. You cannot remember one part without pondering the whole... and the whole was most clearly before us at Christmastime, as we tried to wrap our minds around the helpless infant who was God Almighty, the unwed teen mother who was the chosen vessel for the Salvation of the world, the birth that was heralded by angelic choirs... but no room in the inn.

Glad's soaring vocal harmonies are filled with a rich and free reverence, unconstrainedly flowing from a deep awe at deeper mysteries. Filled with parallel fifths and deceptive cadences, their unexpected harmonic interperetations of familiar melodies sound almost medieval, but the intricate rhythms are thoroughly modern. Their music is a glorious fusion of high art and low---uniquely fitting for remembrance of the God who came down and clothed himself in human flesh.

Muncha! Muncha! Muncha!

Yes, it's true. I buy my children breakfast cereal based on the toys that come in the box.

Er... well... at least when Cheerios stuffs their boxes with cheaply bound editions of fantastic children's picture books.

Contrary to my first impression, Muncha! Muncha! Muncha! is not a vehicle for Cheerios ads, but rather is a gem of a book, with a new twist on the familiar theme of the gardener vs. the bunnies.

The wuggies love it, but I think I get even more excited over it than they do. The musician in me delights in its form and structure. Lots of repetition, growing in complexity with each iteration, and vast variety in the creative references to those flop-eared puff-tails. An exquisite balance of simplicity and complexity, unity and diversity. Not to mention the delightful onomonopoea, always a wonderful thing, and especially at this age.

All in all, a fantastic book... one which I will most definitely replace when the boys inevitably destroy this copy.

Tippy, tippy, tippy, pat....

Muncha! Muncha! Muncha!

Zzzzzzip!

Mama has a new sweater.

It is very spiffy. It has a zipper. Zippers are lots of fun.

Next time, Mama's going to wear a tank top under her sweater.

Oh yes.

The search is on!

We've given our 30 days notice.

Now all we have to do is find a new place...

Freudian slip?

I just went to napquest.com.

There I found hotel ads galore, lying in wait for weary travelers such as I.

Locked Out

We interrupt your regularly scheduled broadcast to announce that the Bug has locked himself in the hallway.

Off to climb through the bathroom window...

Another Big Helper-Boy

While Nate-Bug helps me take care of Bay-bee, Isaiah helps me keep the apartment nice and tidy. Whenever I change a diaper, Isaiah takes great pride in being entrusted with the job of throwing it away.

This truly is a big help--at least, when it's diapers he's throwing away.

Nevertheless, as I look at the dwindling contents of my silverware drawer, I have to wonder if it might not have been better to keep the trash strictly off limits.

Why you should always cut grape tomatoes in half before feeding them to your toddlers

I always thought it was to prevent choking.

No.

It's to make them look less like balls.

Baby Bjorn

Time is money, and when you're short on both, sometimes there are a few big ticket items that you can't afford not to invest in. For us, a Baby Bjorn was one of those things. It is simply the best baby carrier out there. Other carriers are useful--a good compromise for when you want to be cuddling your baby but need to be vacuuming. But there's no compromise necessary with the Baby Bjorn, it cuddles baby up to your chest just the way your arms would, at the perfect height for eye contact and interaction. Unlike other models with their plethora of confusing straps and buckles, it is quite simple to take on and off. And as an extra bonus, I can wander about a crowded grocery store without anyone noticing that I'm nursing.

The difference is in the details--but for something that you're going to use this much, the details matter. It is a delight to use, which means it actually gets used... and much more of the vacuuming gets done.

And the beautifully balanced design is inspiring, a sort of tactile image of the way a well-run household ought to work.

It's a bit pricey... but it's more than paid for itself in meals that we didn't have to get at McDonalds, because Mama's got things under control.

First Thanksgiving

This year was Tembo-Teff's first Thanksgiving ever, and Isaiah's first Thanksgiving dinner that he stayed awake for. (Not that he would try anything but rolls and cranberry sauce....)

And it was my first Thanksgiving as a woman. Or at least as the woman.

Three years ago, Andy and I drove out to Arizona to spend our first Thanksgiving together with my family. We managed to roll in just as they were clearing the table. So I didn't have a whole lot to do with that Thanksgiving dinner.

Our second Thanksgiving, I was exceedingly great with child--er, make that children--and although the doctor gave me permission to sit up for a (short) Thanksgiving dinner, I wasn't allowed to so much as wash a single dish. My family came out, and I lay on the couch busily gestating while Mom did everything.

Last year, my parents and sister and grandparents all came out, and we had a splendid four-generation celebration. That one was a collaborative effort.

But this year, it was just me.

Tim and Rachel came over, bearing yams and pie, and I brined and roasted a turkey, mashed potatoes with cream cheese, made cranberry sauce and fruit salad, baked rolls and made fresh butter in my new bread machine. And defrosted a bag of green beans. (Hey, you can only do so much!)

At the beginning of the week I had all sorts of good intentions about how organized I was going to be. I would do my shopping on Monday, mash the potatoes on Tuesday, make cranberry sauce on Wednesday, and on Thanksgiving Day I would only have to do the turkey and fruit salad. And defrost the beans, of course.

I forgot to reckon on the difficulty of getting anything done with three wuggies underfoot.

Thanks to much help from Mary-Kate Reynolds, I did indeed get the shopping done on Monday. And on Tuesday, I cut up the potatoes. On Wednesday, I started to boil the potatoes, and on Thursday, I threw them out and started all over again.

So yesterday was pretty crazy. I had no idea what I was doing, and I was highly intimidated. I felt utterly incompetent... and yet when all was said and done, I had a tender, moist turkey with a deep, rich gravy, and beautiful dinner rolls with freshly churned butter. The cranberries and fruit salad were respectable, if unremarkable. And let me tell you, I can defrost a mean bag of green beans.

All in all it was quite a confidence-builder. It's funny--most holidays are about rest. We take the day off, we pause our work to remember. But for a woman and a homemaker, Thanksgiving is a day of particularly hard work. While this often winds up being true of most holidays, it's a good and wonderful and essential part of Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving is a celebration of her work itself, not just the end result, but the raw materials and the process.

It was a joyous day in the kitchen, yesterday, engaged in the good labor of feeding the family with which God has abundantly blessed us, with the food he has so richly provided.

It is good.

Marshmallows

Marshmallows are super-duper. Not only are they scrum-tiddly-uptious, but they're also good for throwing. The wuggies had a splendid marshmallow fight. It was lots of fun.

Oh yes.

But then... uh-oh! Marshmallows are sticky. When the wuggies went on their next TP-ing expedition, the tissue stuck to their fingers in funny long, white, trails.

Isaiah quickly became very absorbed in the fascinating problem of disentangling himself from the marshmallows and toilet paper. Nathan, on the other hand, was very upset, and threw himself across my lap, crying piteously.

I must confess, I had very little sympathy. Wuggy-o-mine, you just covered the entire living room with our second-to-last roll of toilet paper, and ground marshmallows into into the carpet....

....and now you're upset because your fingers are a little sticky???

Boys will be boys

We've been TP'd again.

More blessings, still more cleverly disguised...

As I was reaching for a little spouty measuring cup in which to mix up some homemade salad dressing, it occurred to me for the very first time that a salad dressing bottle would be awfully nice. That way I could save some for next time, instead of trying to guess exactly how much we would use in one meal. Besides, dressings really ought to be shaken, not stirred---and a pyrex measuring cup looks pretty silly on the table.

A faint splashing sound snapped me out of my reverie.

Well, it was a different flavour than I was initially intending, but my balsamic vinaigrette was quite lovely in the beautiful red wine vinegar bottle.

So much for my cinnamon-scented kitchen.

Echoes

September is a baby, and wherever there is a baby, there are a few favorite pastimes that everyone around likes to engage in. One of the most prominent of these is searching for family resemblance.

Almost always, they spend a few moments unsuccessfully attempting to find Andy or me in her features. When they move on to her big brothers, they are faced with a different sort of dilemma. Nobody can quite decide which one of her brothers she looks like.

But one thing is certain. She bears a decided resemblance to both of her brothers, and not particularly to either of her parents. Which is very strange indeed, since Nathan and Isaiah look very much like us, and very little like one another.

But most people are agreed on this, so there you have it. The transitive property is very much applicable to equations, inequalities, and cranberry juice... but apparently not to facial features.

Even though her face doesn’t particularly look like either of ours yet, though, her soul does. As I look into my little daughter’s eyes, I see my own soul looking back at me. In an intangible but very real way, I sense that she perceives the world in precisely the way that I do.

She is a reverberation of my soul, and wonder of wonders, the echo is every bit as real as I am.

Rude Awakening

Waking up to a glass of cold water in the face is one thing.

Waking up to a glass of cold cranberry juice in the face is another.

Happiness is...

...rushing home after realizing that my fabulous Saturday morning with girlfriends had stretched muuucchh looonger than it was supposed to, and finding peacefully napping children, a sparkling clean apartment, and 18 gloriously red roses on the table.

And a wonderful husband.

The Transitive Property of Cranberry Juice

Nate-bug likes to pour his juice all over himself.

Nate-bug likes to give everybody lots of cuddles.

Now everybody's covered in cranberry juice!

Oh yes.

Blessings in disguise

A while back, we were at the mall of a Sunday afternoon, and stopped at Cinnabon to remedy one of those sudden late-pregnancy blood-sugar drops. And I marvelled at how absolutely scrumptiously cinnamony their rolls were. Ever so much better than mine. There's just a whole new dimension to the flavor that's utterly missing from my baking. I wondered if maybe they used cinnamon oil in addition to powdered cinnamon?

Well, it turns out that I must not have been the only one wishing to incorporate their marvelous cinnamoneyness into my own kitchen, since the next time I was at Cinnabon, the counter was lined with little jars of high-quality cinnamon for sale.

But I had lots and lots of cinnamon at home. I was still only about half-way through that humongous jar of cinnamon that I got as a wedding present three years ago. Of course, by now it tasted more like wood than like cinnamon, but it was cinnamon nevertheless, and there was no way I could justify buying more cinnamon until I used it up... in another six or seven years. (My cinnamon use was rapidly declining, as my cinnamon grew staler and staler.)

Last week, however, Mr. Wuggidy solved my dilemma. If the cinnamon loses its flavor, it is fit only to be flung about the floor and trampled on, so my sons did precisely that. It made quite a mess, but it vaccumed up easily, and the kitchen smelled wonderful.

And everytime I used the vaccum, the scent of cinnamon filled the air.

Er... make that the scent of cinnamon-ish wood.

Unfoldings

Last night September smiled. She's smiled before, but this time it was her own smile, not ours reflected back. Dadders made silly faces at her, and played ski-jump with her upturned little nose, and tickled the little snuggle-spot between her chins, and she smiled. She smiled and smiled and smiled, a beautiful, flickering, everchanging expression of her very own delightful delight.

A new dimension of her personality is unfolding for us, shedding light on everything we knew about her before. So utterly continuous with everything we've known of her so far, and yet so surprising and unexpected. The unexpectedness of it all is not so much who she turns out to be, but the fact that it is who she was all along. Indeed, given everything we've known of her over the past months, she couldn't possibly be any other way. And yet we didn't know her, know this part of her, until last night.

It's like staring at a half-finished jigsaw puzzle in bewilderment. Suddenly, you look at the box and everything makes sense, and you no longer can comprehend how you didn't see it all along.

Birth was the same way. When I was pregnant with the twins, I was very conscious of lots of in utero bonding going on. My whole life revolved around them, so of course I felt a powerful bond. But when I was pregnant with the Persephone-child, my life still pretty much revolved around the twins, and I was dreadfully disappointed to find that I didn't really feel much of anything about the unseen little person squirming in my belly.

She was simply a part of me.

It wasn't until she was born that I realized just how well I knew her, had always known her. From time to time a look or a gesture takes my breath away with its utter familiarity. Now I see what I felt in my womb so many times, felt and hardly noticed, but oh, the memory is so clear and precious now!

Like the memory of the first time I kissed my little Isaiah, too weak and feeble and numb and scared to savor the moment...

Or maybe it was just that the moment was too big and too precious to be savoured all at once.

Redemption

There are two big amorphous messes in our home, that continuously grow, sucking everything in the vicinity into their disorder. Actually, there are lots of messes around here, and all messes seem to behave that way... but for the most part, we conquor them on the weekends, and they rise up again, and we conquor them again... Two messes, however, have managed to evade our efforts, week after week, month after month.

In the closet, there is a huge basket filled with yarn left over from sundry projects, many of which I abandoned because the yarn became entirely too tangled to do anything with it except leave it in a heap to collect sundry small items in its elaborately confused web.

The other mess is the toybox.

'Nuff said.

And so it is that I am knitting the leftover yarn into drawstring baggies with which to organize the wuggies toys. The duplos will be in one bag, the little people in another, and never the twain shall meet. The children will happily play with one neatly homogenous set of toys, until they decide to put it away and pull out a different one. Blissful order. And the closet will be free of the overflowing basket of yarn.

My mother is quite skeptical about my ability to solve the age-old problem of the disorganized toy box.

My husband is quite skeptical about my ability to see such a large-scale knitting project to completion.

They're probably both right.

But I have to try.

Of pots and kettles, beams and splinters

The snottiest-nosed of my children is going about the apartment rousing his sleeping siblings by wiping their relatively (albeit incompletely) clean noses witha cold baby wipe.

He protests greatly, however, when I attempt to wipe his nose.

The stubble rule--do unto others what you really ought to have done unto you, but would greatly rather not.

Investment Strategies

Nathan decided to invest in the Doopah-Mobile's stereo system.

Our van is now worth $.25 more than it was yesterday.

Honey, you turn me on

Being an itinerant math teacher, Andy spends a considerable amount of time each week roaming the freeways of SoCal in our zippy little turtle. (14 years old and 38 MPG. What a great car!) The time is well spent, though. Thanks to Blackstone Audio and the Cerritos Library audio-book collection, he gets to carpool with Ernest Hemingway, John Steinbeck, and Charles Dickens. Because of the fabulously long commutes, he actually has time to "read."

Yesterday afternoon, though, it was just him and me in the car. Well, mostly. We left the boys with a sitter while we went to the Huntington Library with only September for a chaperone. We spent more time on the freeway going to and fro than we actually did at the Library itself, but that was just fine. Driving is almost as nice as walking as a context for uninterrupted conversation.

As we got onto the 5, the wind whooshed noisily through the windows. Andy couldn't quite catch what I was saying about grad school.

So he reached down to the stereo volume control to turn me up.

I wish they made child-proof locks...

...for onesies.

Uh-oh.

We are completely out of Desitin.

We are completely out of clean laundry.

And yes, there is a connection.

Specificity

Nathan just learned to apply the moniker "Jeep" to one of his trucks.

And there was great rejoicing.

Receptive Vocabulary

Everybody says that kids can understand a whole lot long before they start talking.

I kept wondering when that would happen.

It turns out that it happens the moment you start talking to them as though you expect them to understand.

Sunday afternoon at Claim Jumper Andy and I were marvelling at how much Autumn understands. Far, far, more than our boys do. Brian gently pointed out that we might start seeing better results if we talked to the boys with the assumption that they could understand us.

He was right. And I'm amazed.

The funny thing is, this is something I've always been very passionate about. Children are remarkably pliable creatures, and will live up to your expectations of intelligence or stupidity. I've always been convinced that it is very important to interact with your children with the assumption that they are capable of understanding a great deal.

I just had no idea it would start being an issue so soon.

You see, I have a very hard time behaving as though they are capable of understanding, when I'm not capable of understanding how they could possibly figure it out. I suppose it's time to come to grips with the fact that my children are considerably more intelligent than I am. Far less wise-- astoundingly foolish, in fact. But like most little ones, their raw capacity for learning vastly exceeds that of my fossilized 23-year-old brain.

I'm a little bit jealous, a lot amazed...

...and thrilled at the privilege.

Dressing with Pickle Relish

The wuggies now cooperate with dressing.

Not after diaper changes, not before bed, and most certainly not while we're getting ready for church. But at random intervals throughout the day, they will bring me assorted items of clothing to try on.

Meanwhile, they are becoming quite adept at the art of undressing themselves. Completely. Without any help.

This could be a rather useful skill...

...if they were potty trained.

The trouble with being in possession of a girl-child of astonishing beauty...

...is that people think you're absolutely nuts.

I suppose I should preface this tale by explaining that although most people carry their children in some contraption or other, on those rare occasions when I only have one of mine with me, I prefer to simply carry her in my arms. It's just cozier and more personal that way, and since one-on-one time is hard to come by, that's an important consideration for me.

At any rate, September and I stopped at the farmers market in Brea yesterday, much to the delight of the extraordinarily baby-hungry herb merchants. I fantasized about having an herb garden, and the herb lady fantasized about having more babies, we both determined that now would be entirely the wrong time for such a project, and September and I trotted off to smell the orchids a few stands over.

As I lifted my little girl up to sniff the pretty flowers, almost as pretty as herself, the grandmotherly orchid-grower examined us closely with a very perplexed look on her face.

Suddenly she burst into delight.

"Oh! Your baby... she's real!"

Mama's Big Helper

Tembo-Teff is a very sweet-tempered little girl, and extraordinarily easy to keep happy. As long as you're holding her, that is.

But sometimes Mama's busy making meatloaf when the small Persephone-child wants to be cuddled.

Meepo is very helpful. Oh yes. He loves his little sister, and does everything he can think of to comfort her. First he tries jouncing her chair congenially. And vigorously. This does not make September happy. It does not make Mama happy, either.

So he tries another tactic. This time, he goes to his shirt drawer, pulls out an orange long-sleeved T-shirt, and stuffs it in Bay-bee's face. Bay-bee is quiet. Mama is not quiet, though, so he takes the shirt away and tries giving her his finger to suck on.

Uh-oh. Mama doesn't know where Meepo's fingers have been. She does, however, know that her own fingers are covered in raw beef, so Tembo merrily sucks on big brother's finger while Mama cleans up.

But Meepo's fingers aren't what September really wants, so they can only satisfy her for so long. So Meepo starts pushing his fingers further back in her mouth. She doesn't like that very much. Good thing Mama's hands are finally clean again!

Oh yes.

Twin Day at Stater Bros.

Yesterday's shopping trip was a fiasco. Instead of merrily driving along, spinning their respective steering wheels, they each fought for control of the other steering wheel. Much screaming and hair-pulling ensued. Which made me want to do some screaming of my own, and pull my own hair out. Instead, I let Nathan get out and walk, and spent the shopping trip preventing him from smashing the cart into a display of olives while I filled my baggie with baby carrots. And picking up jars of olives, because I was just a few seconds too late to stop him. Oh yes, and having my parenting criticized by total strangers. That's always fun. All in all, an unmitigated disaster.

Well, not quite unmitigated. I did get the weeks groceries.... although by the time I got all three screaming kids into the apartment and settled down, the frozen goods had melted...

And I met some fun people. In the meat department, a woman and her 9 year-old daughter stopped to admire my wuggies. Turns out, she has 15-year old twin boys at home, and she glowingly told me how fabulous it is to have twin boys and a little sister for them. "But when they get to this age..."

She glanced over at her daughter, and I cringed. Why, oh why, do people feel like it's okay to tell the world awful their children are, when they're standing right there?

"...they're so much fun!"

The little girl beamed with pride, and danced around giggling, "I'm so much fun!" while her mother and I congratulated one another on having such delightful families.

You'd think that'd be twins enough for one shopping trip, but in the check-out line, there were more. The woman ahead of me let me go first, since her husband had run to grab some formula. She asked how old my baby was, and said that hers was about the same age--but much smaller. Her husband returned while I was checking out, looked at the twins, and said, "Nathan and Nicholas!"

Considerably wierded out, I corrected him. "No, Nathan and Isaiah, actually."

Well, it turns out that I have a two month old. They also have two month olds--- twins named Nathan and Nicholas. And of course I have twins as well--Nathan and Isaiah.

At this point the elderly gentleman in the next lane over chimed in to tell us about his twins, Nicholas and Natalie.

Hmmm... I wonder if the Stater Brothers were twins, too?

Gideon's Men

Wuggies-o-mine, if you want more orange juice, just bring me your cup for a refill.

Honest.

There is no need to dump out the pitcher and lap it off the table.

the meepo-bug. 

Hey there! 

Tinky!

Once upon a time, our neighbor tried to warn them away from some prickly shrubbery by telling them it was "hot."

It didn't work. The word around our place is "blggch."

I guess it's not so much a word as a facial expression with sound effects. It's the face the wuggies make whenever they eat something they think is gross, and we would imitate their "blggch face" back at them whenever they started to eat something we thought was gross. Or when they got into the trash. Or went to touch the stove, for that matter.

When they were small, I couldn't figure out how to teach them the concept of "hot" without actually endangering them. But the concept of disgusting flavors was quite simple. All I had to do was offer them green beans a few times, and they got the idea. So "blggch" it was.

Recently, the boys have learned the word "tinky," and that word is starting to replace the other, less pronouncable one. Dirty diapers are tinky, the trash is tinky, and, alas, brother is declared to be tinky in those unfortunate instances of sibling mockery.

A dead bug fell into the bath water this morning, and I thought it was pretty gross. The wuggies heartily agreed. "Tinky! Tinky! Tinky!" There was much celebration as they gleefully pointed at the bug. "Tinky! Tinky! Tinky!"

*sigh* They're most definitely boys.

Maybe we should start working on the word "hot."

Yesterday afternoon Isaiah fell asleep while digging through the toy box. I moved him onto our bed... but ten minutes later, there he was again. 

our newest nose. 

A skein by any other name...

...is still not for throwing.

Under no circumstances are spherical bundles of yarn to be reffered to as balls.

Planning to be Spontaneous

When I was rather small, Grandma P. tried to teach me how to knit. She cast twenty stitches onto the needle, and asked me to count them.

I counted them.

"I think there's twenty..."

"You think?"

And that was that. I knew that there were twenty stitches there... but if all I could say was "I think," then Grandma would have nothing more to do with my attempts at knitting. We spent the afternoon sewing little pillows together instead.

Eventually she did teach me how to knit, but I really didn't see a whole lot of point to it. There was just way too much structure for my liking. If you cast on twenty stitches, you'd better knit twenty stitches, and any changes have to be set up in advance. Everything's planned ahead, foreordained by the pattern.

Crocheting was ever so much more interesting. The horizons were limitless. You could do whatever you wanted, make it whatever shape you pleased. Each stitch was a new decision, you could put it wherever you liked. The freedom was intoxicating...

Until I realized that there are actually only so many places to put that next stitch. Lots of freedom in the next step, but there are only so many final outcomes. Bored with simple patterns, I wanted to crochet lovely images into things. After much searching, and much experimentation, I came to the conclusion that my options were pretty much limited to filet. And filet is all well and good... but a bit forced and unnatural. More of a novelty than anything else. For all its initial freedom, crocheting really wants to stay predictable.

Then a little knitting shop showed up down the street from Andy's work, and he brought home a few knitting magazines that they were discarding. Image after image of breathtaking works of art. Elegant, classy, funky, and even downright strange. Somehow with that dreadfully predictable method you can go places that the delightfully spontaneous meandering stitches of crochet can't take you.

So I've taken up knitting. I hate that you have to begin with the end in mind, that you can't just make it up as you go... but oh the places you can go. As the stitches roll off my needles in neat, orderly rows, so contrary to the habits of my soul, I feel myself ripening into the sort of person Grandma was. The sort of person who could --and did!--rearrange the furniture every few days, because everything was so tidy and organized.

Maybe while I'm at it I'll buy myself a daily planner.