...we can shop at Trader Joes again. Problem is, we take up half the store...
5.10.2006
Now that they have new shopping carts...
...we can shop at Trader Joes again. Problem is, we take up half the store...
5.09.2006
5.08.2006
5.06.2006
5.04.2006
I think he loves me.
Mind if I brag a bit?
I have the best husband in the world.
No, really. Now, I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong. Yours can be the second best, but mine really is the best husband in the world.
Seriously.
Yesterday I was sick. Really sick. Sick enough I needed to head out to the urgent care center as soon as Andy got home from work, and too sick to drive myself there.
My wonderful, wonderful husband transferred all the carseats and baby gear from my gas guzzling van to his efficient little Tercel so we’d save on gas. He got everybody into socks and shoes while I sat in a hot bath and prayed for the pain to go away.
He drove us to Little Caesars. Redundant, I know, but where else can you feed a family of five for $7.50?
He watched all three kids while I waited to see the doctor. Without anything with which to feed the Tembo.
When I finally came out, I didn’t even have to call him, because he was right there in the parking light, with his hazard lights on. I’m not sure if the hazards were Andy’s idea or the boys’, but in any case, it sure made it easy to find them.
I wondered if they’d stayed there the whole time, but apparently not. They’d been to the pet store, which was very exciting. Especially the crabs. And the frogs with the red bellies. Oh yes.
They’d also been to Target.
To buy me a pretty white sundress.
We stopped at a 24-hour Walgreens to pick up my antibiotics. You’d think that when you’re the only customer in the store, and there are three people there behind the desk, they could fill your prescription in less than a half hour. I guess not.
Those of you who live in La Mirada have no idea how lucky you are to live near the Rex-All at Rosecrans and Valley View.
It was 11:00 by the time we finally got home, and Andy had to leave for work at 4:30 in the morning. It was quite a mad scramble for bed.
When I got up this morning, I realized with dismay that I’d forgotten to transfer the carseats back into the van. No park trip today.
Except there they were. All buckled in and everything. The diaper bag was there too.
I have the best husband in the world.
I have the best husband in the world.
No, really. Now, I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong. Yours can be the second best, but mine really is the best husband in the world.
Seriously.
Yesterday I was sick. Really sick. Sick enough I needed to head out to the urgent care center as soon as Andy got home from work, and too sick to drive myself there.
My wonderful, wonderful husband transferred all the carseats and baby gear from my gas guzzling van to his efficient little Tercel so we’d save on gas. He got everybody into socks and shoes while I sat in a hot bath and prayed for the pain to go away.
He drove us to Little Caesars. Redundant, I know, but where else can you feed a family of five for $7.50?
He watched all three kids while I waited to see the doctor. Without anything with which to feed the Tembo.
When I finally came out, I didn’t even have to call him, because he was right there in the parking light, with his hazard lights on. I’m not sure if the hazards were Andy’s idea or the boys’, but in any case, it sure made it easy to find them.
I wondered if they’d stayed there the whole time, but apparently not. They’d been to the pet store, which was very exciting. Especially the crabs. And the frogs with the red bellies. Oh yes.
They’d also been to Target.
To buy me a pretty white sundress.
We stopped at a 24-hour Walgreens to pick up my antibiotics. You’d think that when you’re the only customer in the store, and there are three people there behind the desk, they could fill your prescription in less than a half hour. I guess not.
Those of you who live in La Mirada have no idea how lucky you are to live near the Rex-All at Rosecrans and Valley View.
It was 11:00 by the time we finally got home, and Andy had to leave for work at 4:30 in the morning. It was quite a mad scramble for bed.
When I got up this morning, I realized with dismay that I’d forgotten to transfer the carseats back into the van. No park trip today.
Except there they were. All buckled in and everything. The diaper bag was there too.
I have the best husband in the world.
5.02.2006
That's My Duck!
Isaiah's favorite books are the ones with lots and lots of illustrations. The ones with a single big picture on each page are all well and good, but it's books like the original Curious George series that really capture his imagination. The sort of books that have lots and and lots and lots of pictures of all sorts of different things on every page.
Drawing is his newest obsession, and wouldn't you know, the pictures he makes are of the same sort as the ones he loves. Whearas Nathan covers each page with a single, unified, scribble, Isaiah puts dozens of tiny, distinct images.
And although I certainly wouldn't be able to tell by looking at them, each one is a picture of a car, or a truck, or a van, or a bus, or a doggie, or a cow.
Or a duck.
Usually a duck.
Quack, quack!
Drawing is his newest obsession, and wouldn't you know, the pictures he makes are of the same sort as the ones he loves. Whearas Nathan covers each page with a single, unified, scribble, Isaiah puts dozens of tiny, distinct images.
And although I certainly wouldn't be able to tell by looking at them, each one is a picture of a car, or a truck, or a van, or a bus, or a doggie, or a cow.
Or a duck.
Usually a duck.
Quack, quack!
4.30.2006
You'd think I'd learn...
Every time I put in a load of laundry--which is to say, often--I get out the Zout and spray all the stains on Andy's pants. There are lots and lots of them. To look at his pants you'd think he was a mechanic, or at the very least, a construction worker. Math teachers have absolutely no excuse for getting their Dickies THAT dirty.
But the fact is, Andy is not just a math teacher, he's also a daddy. And the minute he walks in the door, four grubby little boy-hands are all over him. Apparently an evening spent wrangling two rambunctious little boys is approximately as hard on the pants as eight hours in the shop working on greasy cars.
Every time I put in a load of laundry--which is to say, often--I am utterly astonished at the number of stains on each pair of pants. I'm astonished when I first cast my eye over them as I pull them out of the laundry pile in the first place, and begin to spray. But I become more and more astonished as I go on.
It doesn't ever end.
The stains just go on and on.
Everytime I think I'm finally done, I see five more stains that I hadn't noticed before. And when I'm done treating those ones... there's five more.
It doesn't stop.
It just goes on and on and on....
....until finally, I realize that I'm spraying down all the spots that are damp with stain remover.
This happens every time I do laundry.
Which is to say, often.
You'd think I'd learn by now.
But the fact is, Andy is not just a math teacher, he's also a daddy. And the minute he walks in the door, four grubby little boy-hands are all over him. Apparently an evening spent wrangling two rambunctious little boys is approximately as hard on the pants as eight hours in the shop working on greasy cars.
Every time I put in a load of laundry--which is to say, often--I am utterly astonished at the number of stains on each pair of pants. I'm astonished when I first cast my eye over them as I pull them out of the laundry pile in the first place, and begin to spray. But I become more and more astonished as I go on.
It doesn't ever end.
The stains just go on and on.
Everytime I think I'm finally done, I see five more stains that I hadn't noticed before. And when I'm done treating those ones... there's five more.
It doesn't stop.
It just goes on and on and on....
....until finally, I realize that I'm spraying down all the spots that are damp with stain remover.
This happens every time I do laundry.
Which is to say, often.
You'd think I'd learn by now.
4.27.2006
Case Closed
Yesterday, I took the boys to their very last high-risk follow up at the NICU.
They're going to send me a list of phone numbers for the school district, in case we run into developmental problems down the road, but they didn't see any reason to suspect we'd need them.
I am officially the mother to two normal little boys.
And oh, it's a good feeling.
They're going to send me a list of phone numbers for the school district, in case we run into developmental problems down the road, but they didn't see any reason to suspect we'd need them.
I am officially the mother to two normal little boys.
And oh, it's a good feeling.
4.26.2006
Loving Isaiah
Loving Nathan is easy. His soul is wide open, wide as his eyes. Whatever it is that he needs, he makes sure that I get the message, loud and clear. Emphasis on the loud part.
And more often than not, what he needs is “huggies!” Huggies are easy to give, especially when your little son throws his arms rapturously about your neck, a carefree and mildly maniacal grin pulling the corners of his mouth, wide as they’ll go, wide as his soul, wide as his eyes.
Sometimes I can’t give him huggies just then, but I know the need will still be there waiting when I’m done with baby’s diaper, and I can count on him not to let me forget.
Loving Isaiah is different. Not that he’s a bit less loveable and endearing. It’s just that his needs are quieter. Loving Isaiah means stopping to listen to him, and stooping down to see what he’s pointing out. Loving Isaiah means slowly flipping through the Yellow Pages backwards and growling in imitation of the fearsome termites pictured in the exterminator’s ad. Above all, loving Isaiah means lots of Curious George, and always letting him pick out his own clothes.
Loving Isaiah happens on his own time.
Andy and I have been mulling over Gary Chapman’s The Five Love Languages
. It’s an excellent book, and his insights have been tremendously helpful in learning to understand one another.
Nevertheless, it struck me as a bit simplistic to say that everyone would have one love language, and that would be the key to everything... It’s awfully hard for me to imagine a healthy relationship without all five elements.
Last week, Andy and I had a little spat, and wanting to make up, I reached out to touch him. As usual. And as usual, it was entirely the wrong thing to do. But this time around, Andy was able to explain what was going on. Touch is my primary love language, and when we are distant or at odds I want us to cuddle our way back to intimacy. Not so for Andy. Physical affection is important to him, too, but it’s a sign that all is well between us, not a way to get there. If all is not well, my hand on his shoulder is simply an invasion of his personal space. For Andy, “kiss and make up” is entirely the wrong order. He’d much rather make up and then kiss.
As I thought about it, the same is true for me and acts of service. Andy’s primary love language is acts of service, and he really does express so much love for me in this way. He’s really wonderful, and he helps around the house a LOT. And when all is well between us, I know that it’s love, and I receive it as such. But if I feel insufficiently cuddled, I don’t perceive his service as love, but rather as a vote of no confidence.
It seems that our particular love languages aren’t the only ways we can receive love well, but they are the keys that open up our hearts to receive love in all the different ways.
Anyway, the other day we were noticing that Isaiah was much less cuddly than his brother. While Nathan would perpetually run up to us and throw his arms around us, Isaiah would not even let us hug him lately, except as we tucked him into bed. And then only briefly.
We were concerned, but we weren’t entirely sure how concerned we should be. Was Isaiah feeling insecure and withdrawing from us, or was he simply a less huggy creature by nature? Maybe it was just that while Nathan’s love language is obviously physical touch, Isaiah’s is... something else.
Whatever the case, the only thing to do was to pay careful attention to Isaiah, and learn how best to love him.
It was easier than we thought. The very question turned out to be the answer. Isaiah’s love language seems to be quality time, and as we simply started paying close attention to him, you could see him begin to glow.
And strangely enough, now that his “love tank” is full of quality time, he lets me cuddle him. Not only that, but often throughout the day, I’ll feel two little arms wrap around me, and turn around to kiss Isaiah’s beaming face.
“Huggies!”
And more often than not, what he needs is “huggies!” Huggies are easy to give, especially when your little son throws his arms rapturously about your neck, a carefree and mildly maniacal grin pulling the corners of his mouth, wide as they’ll go, wide as his soul, wide as his eyes.
Sometimes I can’t give him huggies just then, but I know the need will still be there waiting when I’m done with baby’s diaper, and I can count on him not to let me forget.
Loving Isaiah is different. Not that he’s a bit less loveable and endearing. It’s just that his needs are quieter. Loving Isaiah means stopping to listen to him, and stooping down to see what he’s pointing out. Loving Isaiah means slowly flipping through the Yellow Pages backwards and growling in imitation of the fearsome termites pictured in the exterminator’s ad. Above all, loving Isaiah means lots of Curious George, and always letting him pick out his own clothes.
Loving Isaiah happens on his own time.
Andy and I have been mulling over Gary Chapman’s The Five Love Languages
. It’s an excellent book, and his insights have been tremendously helpful in learning to understand one another.Nevertheless, it struck me as a bit simplistic to say that everyone would have one love language, and that would be the key to everything... It’s awfully hard for me to imagine a healthy relationship without all five elements.
Last week, Andy and I had a little spat, and wanting to make up, I reached out to touch him. As usual. And as usual, it was entirely the wrong thing to do. But this time around, Andy was able to explain what was going on. Touch is my primary love language, and when we are distant or at odds I want us to cuddle our way back to intimacy. Not so for Andy. Physical affection is important to him, too, but it’s a sign that all is well between us, not a way to get there. If all is not well, my hand on his shoulder is simply an invasion of his personal space. For Andy, “kiss and make up” is entirely the wrong order. He’d much rather make up and then kiss.
As I thought about it, the same is true for me and acts of service. Andy’s primary love language is acts of service, and he really does express so much love for me in this way. He’s really wonderful, and he helps around the house a LOT. And when all is well between us, I know that it’s love, and I receive it as such. But if I feel insufficiently cuddled, I don’t perceive his service as love, but rather as a vote of no confidence.
It seems that our particular love languages aren’t the only ways we can receive love well, but they are the keys that open up our hearts to receive love in all the different ways.
Anyway, the other day we were noticing that Isaiah was much less cuddly than his brother. While Nathan would perpetually run up to us and throw his arms around us, Isaiah would not even let us hug him lately, except as we tucked him into bed. And then only briefly.
We were concerned, but we weren’t entirely sure how concerned we should be. Was Isaiah feeling insecure and withdrawing from us, or was he simply a less huggy creature by nature? Maybe it was just that while Nathan’s love language is obviously physical touch, Isaiah’s is... something else.
Whatever the case, the only thing to do was to pay careful attention to Isaiah, and learn how best to love him.
It was easier than we thought. The very question turned out to be the answer. Isaiah’s love language seems to be quality time, and as we simply started paying close attention to him, you could see him begin to glow.
And strangely enough, now that his “love tank” is full of quality time, he lets me cuddle him. Not only that, but often throughout the day, I’ll feel two little arms wrap around me, and turn around to kiss Isaiah’s beaming face.
“Huggies!”
4.23.2006
Who needs therapy?
"I put my soul back together this morning with super-glue."
It took me a bit to notice the beat-up sneakers in his hand.
It took me a bit to notice the beat-up sneakers in his hand.
4.22.2006
Give us this day our daily pizza
Yesterday we went to the petting zoo in San Juan Capistrano, where Isaiah stared rapturously at all the ducks and geese, honking wildly, and where Nathan gleefully chased bunnies about and gave them lots of huggies. The bunnies would quickly squirm away, and Nathan would hold out his arms pleadingly. "Huggies? Huggies?" I felt a little sorry for the poor bunnies. That is not an easy career, by any stretch of the imagination. But then Andy reminded me that in the wild, their predators are more ferocious even than affectionate toddlers. And the pay is good, a lifetime supply of carrots and bunny feed. I guess it's not too bad a life, all things considered.
They had a tiny train there, which you could ride for two dollars. This was the most exciting part of the whole place, as far as the wuggies were concerned. We were sorely tempted to let them ride, but the truth was, we didn't have much time, and thought it was more important to see the ostriches. The boys weren't particularly interested in ostriches, but ostriches are real, and the train wasn't. In the interest of exposing our children to as many real experiences as possible, we dragged them unwillingly over to the ostriches, and promised to go see a real train just as soon as the petting zoo closed.
Which was very soon. The trip was a bit spur-of-the-moment. I pretty much spent the whole morning on the internet, looking for somewhere fun to take the kids, and by the time I found it, there wasn't even going to be time to pack a lunch if we were going to have much time before it closed. So we stopped at Trader Joes on the way and picked up a grand assortment of food for lunch and dinner. Three loaves of bread, two blocks of cheese, carrots and tangerines and grape tomatoes and spinach. All yummy nutritious things easily eaten on the go, and thus a wonderful plan for saving time.
Except that Trader Joes was the wrong direction on the 57, but we didn't take the 57, and got caught behind a long train. And anyway, Andy packed us ham sandwiches after all. So when we finally got to the petting zoo, we had precisely 40 minutes before they closed. Which turned out to be the perfect amount of time to see everything, so it was all good. And really, getting stuck behind the train was probably the best part of the day for the wuggies, since trains are surpassingly wonderful, and that train was actually real, unlike the one at the petting zoo, but it didn't whistle in our faces like the one at the Amtrak station, and leave Nathan quivering for a good ten minutes.
Anyway, all this to say that our eating habits have had a strange effect on the wuggies vocabulary. When most people want to refer to the nourishing stuff we eat, they usually say "food." Or maybe "dinner."
Not the wuggies. That would be too dull.
When we gathered into the car after our stop at Trader Joes, and I broke out the grape tomatoes, our hungry wuggies became very excited.
"Pizza! Pizza!"
They had a tiny train there, which you could ride for two dollars. This was the most exciting part of the whole place, as far as the wuggies were concerned. We were sorely tempted to let them ride, but the truth was, we didn't have much time, and thought it was more important to see the ostriches. The boys weren't particularly interested in ostriches, but ostriches are real, and the train wasn't. In the interest of exposing our children to as many real experiences as possible, we dragged them unwillingly over to the ostriches, and promised to go see a real train just as soon as the petting zoo closed.
Which was very soon. The trip was a bit spur-of-the-moment. I pretty much spent the whole morning on the internet, looking for somewhere fun to take the kids, and by the time I found it, there wasn't even going to be time to pack a lunch if we were going to have much time before it closed. So we stopped at Trader Joes on the way and picked up a grand assortment of food for lunch and dinner. Three loaves of bread, two blocks of cheese, carrots and tangerines and grape tomatoes and spinach. All yummy nutritious things easily eaten on the go, and thus a wonderful plan for saving time.
Except that Trader Joes was the wrong direction on the 57, but we didn't take the 57, and got caught behind a long train. And anyway, Andy packed us ham sandwiches after all. So when we finally got to the petting zoo, we had precisely 40 minutes before they closed. Which turned out to be the perfect amount of time to see everything, so it was all good. And really, getting stuck behind the train was probably the best part of the day for the wuggies, since trains are surpassingly wonderful, and that train was actually real, unlike the one at the petting zoo, but it didn't whistle in our faces like the one at the Amtrak station, and leave Nathan quivering for a good ten minutes.
Anyway, all this to say that our eating habits have had a strange effect on the wuggies vocabulary. When most people want to refer to the nourishing stuff we eat, they usually say "food." Or maybe "dinner."
Not the wuggies. That would be too dull.
When we gathered into the car after our stop at Trader Joes, and I broke out the grape tomatoes, our hungry wuggies became very excited.
"Pizza! Pizza!"
4.19.2006
Return of the Comment Spam
It was only a matter of time. The creeps have finally developed software that can get around word verification.
I'm tempted to disable anonymous posting, except that lots of spam-bots have blogger accounts, and lots of real live nice people don't.
Maybe it's time to move?
I've been tossing around the idea of getting my own domain name and setting up a wordpress blog there. I haven't done so, because... well... I'm a busy lady, and that would be work.
But if that would keep the robots at bay...
So, dear blogsavvy readers, would that solve things? Or would the spam-bots just keep following me?
Any and all hosting recommendations/anti-recommendations would be most welcome!
I'm tempted to disable anonymous posting, except that lots of spam-bots have blogger accounts, and lots of real live nice people don't.
Maybe it's time to move?
I've been tossing around the idea of getting my own domain name and setting up a wordpress blog there. I haven't done so, because... well... I'm a busy lady, and that would be work.
But if that would keep the robots at bay...
So, dear blogsavvy readers, would that solve things? Or would the spam-bots just keep following me?
Any and all hosting recommendations/anti-recommendations would be most welcome!
4.17.2006
Fluid Dynamics
Yes, our young physicists are obsessed with pouring.
And no, bathtime is generally not the preferred venue.
Ironically enough, that very fact makes for lots of bathing...
And no, bathtime is generally not the preferred venue.
Ironically enough, that very fact makes for lots of bathing...
The Tow Truck
Yesterday we saw the Tow Truck. Shiny and sleek and powerful, it is truly a thing of beauty. There was a time when this tow truck struck fear into our hearts, but now we merely admire it with reverent awe.
We have parking stickers now.
You see, there a number of guest parking spaces here. Which is a good thing. It’s nice to have friends over, and it’s nice to have a place for them to put their car. This was a huge problem at our first apartment, so I don’t think I’ll ever take it for granted.
But of course, guest parking spaces don’t do much good at all if residents park there. If you have more cars than fit in your driveway, you’ll just have to shell out and buy another parking space. If they catch you mooching off the guest spaces, they’ll tow you off straight away.
Fair enough. And it is for this reason that they require all residents to place bright red stickers in prominent view on all their vehicles. So that they know which cars to tow away, if ever they catch them in the guest lot.
With all the important things in my life, I must say that getting parking stickers was rather low priority for me. I just didn’t feel terribly motivated to get a sticker for the sole purpose of enabling them to tow me away should I violate rules that I have no intention of violating.
But then we got a notice that we needed to get parking stickers for our cars. And then we got a second notice. And then we got the monthly general newsletter from the management, announcing their new policy on unmarked vehicles. If you’re in a driveway without a permit, you will receive a 24 hour warning, and then be towed away.
I dragged all the wuggies over to the office, let them photocopy the registration papers, and put the big red sticker on the Doopah-Mobile.
Problem is, I couldn’t put a big red sticker Andy’s car. I couldn’t even get a sticker to put on Andy’s car. See, Andy’s car was in Rancho Cucamunga. Or Redlands. Or Whittier. Or Santa Clarita. I never can quite keep track. Point is, Andy’s car hardly ever stays in the same place for very long, but it’s always in the same place as the registration papers for Andy’s car. And that place where Andy’s car and the registration papers to Andy’s car are? Well, during normal business hours, it’s certainly not here.
That’s when we really started noticing the gorgeous red tow truck. It drove right by us many times each day, at all hours of the day and night. We trembled each time he passed, but amazingly, we never got that 24 hour warning.
Finally, it happened. That amazing confluence where Andy, Andy’s car, the registration papers to Andy’s car, and the manager were all in the same place at the same time. Andy then decorated the Green Turtle with a grotesquely large parking sticker, and we breathed a sigh of relief.
With nothing to fear, we were now free to fully appreciate the magnificent beauty of the Tow Truck. It became a source of joy in our lives, like sunsets and roses and freeway overpasses.
And then, a few weeks later, we took a pleasant evening stroll around the neighborhood, and once again saw the Tow Truck.
Parked in front of a neighbor’s driveway.
Yesterday afternoon, as we were sitting outside enjoying the pleasant sunshine, that tow truck, the neighbor’s tow truck, drove by us once again. As usual, we paused to admire. Nathan sort of half-cocked one eye-brow and gave a low, slow drawl, full to the brim with casual admiration.
“Wooow. Truuuuck.”
We have parking stickers now.
You see, there a number of guest parking spaces here. Which is a good thing. It’s nice to have friends over, and it’s nice to have a place for them to put their car. This was a huge problem at our first apartment, so I don’t think I’ll ever take it for granted.
But of course, guest parking spaces don’t do much good at all if residents park there. If you have more cars than fit in your driveway, you’ll just have to shell out and buy another parking space. If they catch you mooching off the guest spaces, they’ll tow you off straight away.
Fair enough. And it is for this reason that they require all residents to place bright red stickers in prominent view on all their vehicles. So that they know which cars to tow away, if ever they catch them in the guest lot.
With all the important things in my life, I must say that getting parking stickers was rather low priority for me. I just didn’t feel terribly motivated to get a sticker for the sole purpose of enabling them to tow me away should I violate rules that I have no intention of violating.
But then we got a notice that we needed to get parking stickers for our cars. And then we got a second notice. And then we got the monthly general newsletter from the management, announcing their new policy on unmarked vehicles. If you’re in a driveway without a permit, you will receive a 24 hour warning, and then be towed away.
I dragged all the wuggies over to the office, let them photocopy the registration papers, and put the big red sticker on the Doopah-Mobile.
Problem is, I couldn’t put a big red sticker Andy’s car. I couldn’t even get a sticker to put on Andy’s car. See, Andy’s car was in Rancho Cucamunga. Or Redlands. Or Whittier. Or Santa Clarita. I never can quite keep track. Point is, Andy’s car hardly ever stays in the same place for very long, but it’s always in the same place as the registration papers for Andy’s car. And that place where Andy’s car and the registration papers to Andy’s car are? Well, during normal business hours, it’s certainly not here.
That’s when we really started noticing the gorgeous red tow truck. It drove right by us many times each day, at all hours of the day and night. We trembled each time he passed, but amazingly, we never got that 24 hour warning.
Finally, it happened. That amazing confluence where Andy, Andy’s car, the registration papers to Andy’s car, and the manager were all in the same place at the same time. Andy then decorated the Green Turtle with a grotesquely large parking sticker, and we breathed a sigh of relief.
With nothing to fear, we were now free to fully appreciate the magnificent beauty of the Tow Truck. It became a source of joy in our lives, like sunsets and roses and freeway overpasses.
And then, a few weeks later, we took a pleasant evening stroll around the neighborhood, and once again saw the Tow Truck.
Parked in front of a neighbor’s driveway.
Yesterday afternoon, as we were sitting outside enjoying the pleasant sunshine, that tow truck, the neighbor’s tow truck, drove by us once again. As usual, we paused to admire. Nathan sort of half-cocked one eye-brow and gave a low, slow drawl, full to the brim with casual admiration.
“Wooow. Truuuuck.”
My Secret Weapon
Dishsoap.
I knew I was running low. But I was smack dab in the middle of scrubbing the kitchen floor when I completely and utterly ran out of all-purpose cleaner.
So I had to make do with what I had, and what I had was dishsoap. I just filled the now-empty spray bottle with water, and added a blop of dishsoap.
It worked so much better. Everything came right up. And when I went to clean the stove-top... oh, it was a breeze!
Dirt cheap. Safe to spray when babies are in the room. Keep out of reach of toddlers... but only because you don't want them to think it's okay to play with bottles of cleaning chemicals.
And it works just beautifully!
I knew I was running low. But I was smack dab in the middle of scrubbing the kitchen floor when I completely and utterly ran out of all-purpose cleaner.
So I had to make do with what I had, and what I had was dishsoap. I just filled the now-empty spray bottle with water, and added a blop of dishsoap.
It worked so much better. Everything came right up. And when I went to clean the stove-top... oh, it was a breeze!
Dirt cheap. Safe to spray when babies are in the room. Keep out of reach of toddlers... but only because you don't want them to think it's okay to play with bottles of cleaning chemicals.
And it works just beautifully!
4.16.2006
4.14.2006
Holy Week
I had all sorts of plans for this weekend. Going to the beach with the kids, dying Easter eggs... the one by church is out of stock, but I want to see if any of the other Christian stores have “Resurrection Eggs” left.
Except I can’t. Not now. Not after the Maundy Thursday service last night.
It isn’t Easter.
I love how the liturgy marks time. I am home, going about my business. The diaper changes never stop, and neither do the meals. Toddlers and nursing mothers really shouldn’t fast.
The feeding of the five-thousand, and the four-thousand, and the three-thousand... it all makes a little more sense now with a big family. They set aside the constant, urgent needs of daily life to listen to his teachings. And he, the bread from heaven, gave them physical food to feed their physical bodies.
But it is on this day that the bread from heaven is broken, and I keenly feel the incongruity as I go about my business, while Christ prays at Gesthemane, and others kneel in the darkened church, to watch with him one hour.
Somehow, terribly, life went on there in Jerusalem, as he wept and prayed. Babies cried and nursed and burped, toddlers squirmed and ran and laughed and fought as he was scourged and mocked and tried.
Life goes on here as well, and that is the common thread that draws me there. I am in Anaheim, 2006, I am in Jerusalem, 30 AD. I am everywhere that believers gather and remember this tremblesome week.
Sunday afternoon, I will pull out the brightly colored board books, and perhaps we will decorate eggs. But now is not a child-friendly time, and now we are all children squirming beneath the weight of it all. And so we go about our business, and do what we must do, be it running and giggling, or running errands, shushing ourselves all the while lest we break the holy stillness.
Except I can’t. Not now. Not after the Maundy Thursday service last night.
It isn’t Easter.
I love how the liturgy marks time. I am home, going about my business. The diaper changes never stop, and neither do the meals. Toddlers and nursing mothers really shouldn’t fast.
The feeding of the five-thousand, and the four-thousand, and the three-thousand... it all makes a little more sense now with a big family. They set aside the constant, urgent needs of daily life to listen to his teachings. And he, the bread from heaven, gave them physical food to feed their physical bodies.
But it is on this day that the bread from heaven is broken, and I keenly feel the incongruity as I go about my business, while Christ prays at Gesthemane, and others kneel in the darkened church, to watch with him one hour.
Somehow, terribly, life went on there in Jerusalem, as he wept and prayed. Babies cried and nursed and burped, toddlers squirmed and ran and laughed and fought as he was scourged and mocked and tried.
Life goes on here as well, and that is the common thread that draws me there. I am in Anaheim, 2006, I am in Jerusalem, 30 AD. I am everywhere that believers gather and remember this tremblesome week.
Sunday afternoon, I will pull out the brightly colored board books, and perhaps we will decorate eggs. But now is not a child-friendly time, and now we are all children squirming beneath the weight of it all. And so we go about our business, and do what we must do, be it running and giggling, or running errands, shushing ourselves all the while lest we break the holy stillness.
4.13.2006
The Fabrication of Our Lives; or, Happy Cows Give Chocolate Milk
For better or for worse, we read a lot of comics while we were in the hospital with the twins. Susan Sanders was an angel during that ordeal, organizing meal delivery, visiting in the hospital, and doing a boatload of laundry once the twins were safely home and spitting up all over everything. Best of all, she brought reading matter for the long, dreary hours.
The magnesium sulfate relaxed every muscle of my body. The ones in my tummy were pretty stubborn, contracting regularly the whole time, but the ones in my arms and legs and eyes pretty much turned to jelly. I'd had grand hopes of doing all sorts of needlework, of reading Plato and Aristotle and Austen and Dickens... In reality, I ended up watching How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days and What a Girl Wants. Repeatedly. In Spanish.
It was the scariest time of my life. My children’s lives depended on my staying calm, and there sure wasn’t much to distract me from the potential tragedy that loomed over us, just a few hard contractions away. My eyes couldn’t focus on small print, and I was so drugged up I couldn’t sustain a serious train of thought for more than a few minutes. I could read comics, though, and thank God, the Sanders family had about 20 years worth of For Better or For Worse.
I’d never really gotten into the strip before that. When you flip through the Sunday comics every once in a while, Dilbert and Foxtrot are always funny. Doonesbury is usually funny if you’ve been following the news faithfully. But FBorFW is hardly ever funny... at least, not if you take any one strip on its own. Put it all together, though, and the plot arc is winsome and delightful and real. And so as the clock across from my bed ticked away the seconds, and Andy’s red scratchings on the whiteboard marked the days and the weeks, we followed the Patterson family as they grew, and dreamed of the family we were forming.
Is it any wonder, then, that even before they were born, we’ve always envisioned our little wuggies with thought bubbles over their heads?
Perhaps it’s because children tend to become precisely whoever it is you expect them to be, or perhaps it’s because we really had forged a deep metaphysical bond with their tiny, unformed souls. Those weeks and months, those hours and minutes, keenly attuned to their every squirm, their galloping heartbeats amplified over the monitors... I was their entire world, and they filled up mine. But whether we dreamed with knowledge, or whether we shaped our children into the image of our dreams, it is with astounding accuracy that the wuggies have grown into the little characters that we wove together there in the hospital, that danced through all our dreams and all our conversations.
And I must say, they certainly are just the sort of characters that you’d expect to see walking around with thought bubbles floating over their heads. Meepo looks like something of a caracature of himself, with big head and bigger eyes, and a crazy shock of unruly blond hair to top it off. Wildly gleeful in his joy, melodramatic in his little sorrows... he is a boy of strong passions. With Nate-bug, everything is larger than life, yet always there is a glint of laughter somewhere in his eyes, no matter how terribly, horribly, dreadfully, magnificently devastated he may be.
And then there’s Mr. Wuggidy, measured and balanced and sober, a perfectly proportioned little man. A very different sort of person from his brother, his seriousness is the ideal foil for Nathan’s goofiness. But Isaiah is so very, very, serious, that at times the overall effect is quite as exaggeratedly comical. He is most particular about his clothing, for instance. Nathan is happy to wear any old thing that mom picks out for him, but Isaiah is downright finicky. Everything has to be just so. He loves bright colors, and pairs his stripes and his paisleys with exquisite taste. At times he likes to go for the layered look, with one shirt worn normally, and up to six more looped over head and one shoulder toga-style.
Like I said, it’s only natural that characters of that sort should have thought bubbles floating over their heads. And when children have thought bubbles floating over their heads, it’s only natural that the parents should read them aloud.
But the boys have taken to narrating their own lives by now, and it’s a good thing, too, because with big brothers like that, the Bean of Cuteness has to share in the fun. In fact, she’s by far the most chatty of the three. Her thought bubbles seem to perpetually float up and interrupt every conversation. She is very small, so her world is small, and she’s usually not quite sure what we’re talking about. That never keeps her from chiming in, though. “Well, I’m pretty super,” is a great all-purpose response that fits in neatly with any conversation. Or, “Well, at any rate, I have a nose.” Or, “Did you know that I have fingers? They’re for grabbing stuff. It’s pretty super.” Hey, you gotta stick to what you know.
One evening last week, we were all enjoying a refreshing snack of chocolate milk. At least, most of us were. All of us who are old enough to drink cow’s milk. The conversation turned to how much Tembo wished that she could have some too. It’s really not fair. Everybody else likes it so much... why can’t she have chocolate milk? I told her it’s because Mama doesn’t eat enough twix bars, and I promised to try to incorporate more chocolate into my diet.
It was at that moment that we looked over and saw that Tembo had just found a more immediate solution to her problem. Isaiah had knocked his cup over, and there was Baby, eagerly lapping it up off the floor.
Um... kiddo? Let’s just stick to the twix plan, shall we?
The magnesium sulfate relaxed every muscle of my body. The ones in my tummy were pretty stubborn, contracting regularly the whole time, but the ones in my arms and legs and eyes pretty much turned to jelly. I'd had grand hopes of doing all sorts of needlework, of reading Plato and Aristotle and Austen and Dickens... In reality, I ended up watching How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days and What a Girl Wants. Repeatedly. In Spanish.
It was the scariest time of my life. My children’s lives depended on my staying calm, and there sure wasn’t much to distract me from the potential tragedy that loomed over us, just a few hard contractions away. My eyes couldn’t focus on small print, and I was so drugged up I couldn’t sustain a serious train of thought for more than a few minutes. I could read comics, though, and thank God, the Sanders family had about 20 years worth of For Better or For Worse.
I’d never really gotten into the strip before that. When you flip through the Sunday comics every once in a while, Dilbert and Foxtrot are always funny. Doonesbury is usually funny if you’ve been following the news faithfully. But FBorFW is hardly ever funny... at least, not if you take any one strip on its own. Put it all together, though, and the plot arc is winsome and delightful and real. And so as the clock across from my bed ticked away the seconds, and Andy’s red scratchings on the whiteboard marked the days and the weeks, we followed the Patterson family as they grew, and dreamed of the family we were forming.
Is it any wonder, then, that even before they were born, we’ve always envisioned our little wuggies with thought bubbles over their heads?
Perhaps it’s because children tend to become precisely whoever it is you expect them to be, or perhaps it’s because we really had forged a deep metaphysical bond with their tiny, unformed souls. Those weeks and months, those hours and minutes, keenly attuned to their every squirm, their galloping heartbeats amplified over the monitors... I was their entire world, and they filled up mine. But whether we dreamed with knowledge, or whether we shaped our children into the image of our dreams, it is with astounding accuracy that the wuggies have grown into the little characters that we wove together there in the hospital, that danced through all our dreams and all our conversations.
And I must say, they certainly are just the sort of characters that you’d expect to see walking around with thought bubbles floating over their heads. Meepo looks like something of a caracature of himself, with big head and bigger eyes, and a crazy shock of unruly blond hair to top it off. Wildly gleeful in his joy, melodramatic in his little sorrows... he is a boy of strong passions. With Nate-bug, everything is larger than life, yet always there is a glint of laughter somewhere in his eyes, no matter how terribly, horribly, dreadfully, magnificently devastated he may be.
And then there’s Mr. Wuggidy, measured and balanced and sober, a perfectly proportioned little man. A very different sort of person from his brother, his seriousness is the ideal foil for Nathan’s goofiness. But Isaiah is so very, very, serious, that at times the overall effect is quite as exaggeratedly comical. He is most particular about his clothing, for instance. Nathan is happy to wear any old thing that mom picks out for him, but Isaiah is downright finicky. Everything has to be just so. He loves bright colors, and pairs his stripes and his paisleys with exquisite taste. At times he likes to go for the layered look, with one shirt worn normally, and up to six more looped over head and one shoulder toga-style.
Like I said, it’s only natural that characters of that sort should have thought bubbles floating over their heads. And when children have thought bubbles floating over their heads, it’s only natural that the parents should read them aloud.
But the boys have taken to narrating their own lives by now, and it’s a good thing, too, because with big brothers like that, the Bean of Cuteness has to share in the fun. In fact, she’s by far the most chatty of the three. Her thought bubbles seem to perpetually float up and interrupt every conversation. She is very small, so her world is small, and she’s usually not quite sure what we’re talking about. That never keeps her from chiming in, though. “Well, I’m pretty super,” is a great all-purpose response that fits in neatly with any conversation. Or, “Well, at any rate, I have a nose.” Or, “Did you know that I have fingers? They’re for grabbing stuff. It’s pretty super.” Hey, you gotta stick to what you know.
One evening last week, we were all enjoying a refreshing snack of chocolate milk. At least, most of us were. All of us who are old enough to drink cow’s milk. The conversation turned to how much Tembo wished that she could have some too. It’s really not fair. Everybody else likes it so much... why can’t she have chocolate milk? I told her it’s because Mama doesn’t eat enough twix bars, and I promised to try to incorporate more chocolate into my diet.
It was at that moment that we looked over and saw that Tembo had just found a more immediate solution to her problem. Isaiah had knocked his cup over, and there was Baby, eagerly lapping it up off the floor.
Um... kiddo? Let’s just stick to the twix plan, shall we?
4.11.2006
Teething.
The world is shrouded in fog, and blackness presses in on me from every direction. I can hardly motivate myself to do anything, and every move I make takes more energy than I have. I wonder if I'm going crazy.
And then it all comes rushing back.
Oh yeah. That's why.
Well, at any rate, thank God for Tylenol Meltaways, quite possibly the only substance that you can successfully forcefeed to a screaming toddler. It may take two adults, but you can do it, and they work pretty much instantly.
It's thanks to those little wonder-tablets that I actually got that one hour of sleep last night, and that I still have about a quarter inch left on my rope.
And then it all comes rushing back.
Oh yeah. That's why.
Well, at any rate, thank God for Tylenol Meltaways, quite possibly the only substance that you can successfully forcefeed to a screaming toddler. It may take two adults, but you can do it, and they work pretty much instantly.
It's thanks to those little wonder-tablets that I actually got that one hour of sleep last night, and that I still have about a quarter inch left on my rope.
4.10.2006
Pavlov's Mom
I slept right through the alarm this morning. Which was okay, since the main point of the alarm was so that Andy would be able to wake up and go to work. I wanted to wake up too, so we could have some time together in the wee-sma's, but I got a really bad night's sleep last night, so I think sleeping in was more important.
I was so tired I slept straight through the alarm. Didn't even blink. But I snapped wide awake, alert as a hawk the instant I heard the refrigerator door open.
Then I realized that it was just Andy getting some breakfast, and that all family members who do not know the difference between eggs and ping-pong balls were still safely tucked in bed. So I rolled over and went back to sleep.
I was so tired I slept straight through the alarm. Didn't even blink. But I snapped wide awake, alert as a hawk the instant I heard the refrigerator door open.
Then I realized that it was just Andy getting some breakfast, and that all family members who do not know the difference between eggs and ping-pong balls were still safely tucked in bed. So I rolled over and went back to sleep.
4.09.2006
Boundaries
On that fateful trip to IKEA, wherein we availed ourselves of those marvelous swizzle sticks (which really do, incidentally, serve as quite satisfactory baby spoons...), Nathan pushed the cart. It was one of those weirdly minimalistic IKEA carts. Everything's pretty minimalistic at IKEA. Except for soda preparation.
Anyway, all that to say that Nathan was pushing one of those contraptions that looks like a shopping cart, is constructed like a shopping cart, but merely serves the purpose of a stroller, because the actual shopping cart part has been cut off to save space. Which is a much better idea than it sounds, because Nathan was pushing this particular minimalistic cart. And because there was no actual ... er ... cart to this shopping cart, he managed to avoid bumping into anything.
It was great. Nathan felt very pround and important, and Isaiah had quite a thrilling ride.
Actually, Nathan was being a very responsible driver, but Dadders kept his hand on the cart, just in case.
Suddenly Nathan stopped the cart, looked sternly and solemnly up into his father's eyes, and said "Uh-oh."
The Meep-bug then took Dadders hand off the cart and placed it firmly at his side.
And then, with boundaries clearly laid out, they all resumed the doopa-doopah.
Anyway, all that to say that Nathan was pushing one of those contraptions that looks like a shopping cart, is constructed like a shopping cart, but merely serves the purpose of a stroller, because the actual shopping cart part has been cut off to save space. Which is a much better idea than it sounds, because Nathan was pushing this particular minimalistic cart. And because there was no actual ... er ... cart to this shopping cart, he managed to avoid bumping into anything.
It was great. Nathan felt very pround and important, and Isaiah had quite a thrilling ride.
Actually, Nathan was being a very responsible driver, but Dadders kept his hand on the cart, just in case.
Suddenly Nathan stopped the cart, looked sternly and solemnly up into his father's eyes, and said "Uh-oh."
The Meep-bug then took Dadders hand off the cart and placed it firmly at his side.
And then, with boundaries clearly laid out, they all resumed the doopa-doopah.
4.07.2006
Compulsive Spending
We are now the proud (?) owners of a "SODA" drink set from IKEA.
In case that is not entirely self explanatory, in addition to several dozen brightly colored translucent acrylic straws, we have approximately 436 billion 32 thousand 5 hundred and 48 brightly colored translucent acrylic paddles and oars of various sizes ranging from miniscule to very small.
There were supposed to be 437 billion, but we missed a few.
I have no idea what they are for, but I do know that they cost us five 5 dollars and 63 cents. And that they took 6 minutes and 12 seconds to gather up off the floor, and that they elevated my blood pressure by 14%.
We would also have been the proud owners of a perfectly heinous powder blue foam placemat embossed with 32 concentric circles, and embellished with one black smudge, but somebody threw it out of the cart upstairs, and we didn't realize it until we were downstairs in the checkout line. We may have been willing to pay 2 dollars and 49 cents to assuage our guilty consciences, but wind our way back up through the third floor and back again? I think not.
And now you know why IKEA has a playroom.
In case that is not entirely self explanatory, in addition to several dozen brightly colored translucent acrylic straws, we have approximately 436 billion 32 thousand 5 hundred and 48 brightly colored translucent acrylic paddles and oars of various sizes ranging from miniscule to very small.
There were supposed to be 437 billion, but we missed a few.
I have no idea what they are for, but I do know that they cost us five 5 dollars and 63 cents. And that they took 6 minutes and 12 seconds to gather up off the floor, and that they elevated my blood pressure by 14%.
We would also have been the proud owners of a perfectly heinous powder blue foam placemat embossed with 32 concentric circles, and embellished with one black smudge, but somebody threw it out of the cart upstairs, and we didn't realize it until we were downstairs in the checkout line. We may have been willing to pay 2 dollars and 49 cents to assuage our guilty consciences, but wind our way back up through the third floor and back again? I think not.
And now you know why IKEA has a playroom.
4.06.2006
Brown Sugar
I can't believe I forgot to mention that I put a few tablespoons of brown sugar in the glaze for the chicken.
Oops.
Oops.
4.04.2006
Tangerine Chicken
When it comes to cooking, I'm something of a girl with a curl. When I'm good, I'm good. When I'm not... well, Andy has quite a resevoir of tales, but we aren't going to talk about that right now, because last night's supper was good. Very, very good.
First of all, I preheated the oven as hot as it would get. And I do mean as hot as it would get. For our oven, that was 550 degrees. Then I grated up the peels to around 3 tangerines, and combined them with the juice of about 1/2 a tangerine, 2 tablespoons brown sugar, 2 tablespoons melted butter, and 1 tablespoon olive oil. And sea salt and cracked pepper.
Then I asked my husband to rinse the chicken, and empty its body cavity. It was a win-win situation. He felt very manly, reaching in and yanking out all the internal organs. And I was very glad not to have to deal with that icky yucky task, even if it meant getting laughed at mercilessly when Andy realized that the internal organs had merely been packed in there by the butcher, and didn't really require much yanking at all.
Anyway, once the chicken was ready, I brushed the tangerine mixture over its skin, and placed it wrong-side up in a baking dish. There are excellent reasons for roasting a chicken upside-down. It allows the juices to flow down into the dry breast meat, and cooks the legs faster, allowing for more even cooking. The reason I did this particular chicken upside-down, however, was because I got confused. When I served it up, I was rather dismayed at how little breast meat there was on the back... but I digress.
As soon as I put the ckicken in the oven I turned the heat down to a sensible 375.And really, that's the important part of the whole thing. To preheat the oven really high, and then let it slowly cool down to a sensible temperature as the meat cooks. It quickly and evenly browns the outside, sealing in juices and deepening the flavor, and then lets the inside cook more slowly, keeping things nice and tender. I originally got the idea from an amazingly delicious mandarin pork roast, but it works beautifully on beef, turkey, and chicken as well. It's just like browning it beforehand, except that it's much less work, and the result is much more even.
Anyway, the whole bird was done in about an hour, which makes it great for when you're short on time.
It also means that it was done long before the potatoes.
First of all, I preheated the oven as hot as it would get. And I do mean as hot as it would get. For our oven, that was 550 degrees. Then I grated up the peels to around 3 tangerines, and combined them with the juice of about 1/2 a tangerine, 2 tablespoons brown sugar, 2 tablespoons melted butter, and 1 tablespoon olive oil. And sea salt and cracked pepper.
Then I asked my husband to rinse the chicken, and empty its body cavity. It was a win-win situation. He felt very manly, reaching in and yanking out all the internal organs. And I was very glad not to have to deal with that icky yucky task, even if it meant getting laughed at mercilessly when Andy realized that the internal organs had merely been packed in there by the butcher, and didn't really require much yanking at all.
Anyway, once the chicken was ready, I brushed the tangerine mixture over its skin, and placed it wrong-side up in a baking dish. There are excellent reasons for roasting a chicken upside-down. It allows the juices to flow down into the dry breast meat, and cooks the legs faster, allowing for more even cooking. The reason I did this particular chicken upside-down, however, was because I got confused. When I served it up, I was rather dismayed at how little breast meat there was on the back... but I digress.
As soon as I put the ckicken in the oven I turned the heat down to a sensible 375.And really, that's the important part of the whole thing. To preheat the oven really high, and then let it slowly cool down to a sensible temperature as the meat cooks. It quickly and evenly browns the outside, sealing in juices and deepening the flavor, and then lets the inside cook more slowly, keeping things nice and tender. I originally got the idea from an amazingly delicious mandarin pork roast, but it works beautifully on beef, turkey, and chicken as well. It's just like browning it beforehand, except that it's much less work, and the result is much more even.
Anyway, the whole bird was done in about an hour, which makes it great for when you're short on time.
It also means that it was done long before the potatoes.
4.02.2006
Living in the O.C.
I was highly disappointed last week when opened our mailbox and found a notice that my Healthy Families application for the wuggies had been forwarded to Medi-Cal. It was quite a blow to discover that we didn't make enough money to go to our favorite pediatrician. Not because he's more expensive, but because the State of California had deemed that we fell below their income guidelines for their low-cost health insurance program. We would have to get the no-cost program, and find a different doctor. Oh brother.
The other thing was, I'd been hoping never to speak with a Medi-Cal worker again in my life.
Friday morning I gritted my teeth, picked up the phone, and called my new worker. To my astonishment, somebody answered the phone. In a pleasant, well-modulated voice, she told me that she was just about to look at my file. When I expressed my confusion over being sent to Medi-Cal, and told her that I would really rather enroll them in Healthy Families, she courteously explained the process to me, and assured me that she'd double check everything. They're allowed 45 days to review a case, but to speed up the process, she'd call me back so I could fax them any necessary paperwork rather than dealing with snail-mail.
And then... and hour later... she actually DID call me back. No, she didn't need any extra paperwork. September qualifies for no-cost Medi-Cal, the boys for Healthy Families. Did I want to get Medi-Cal with a share of cost for the boys as well?
Oh, the clarity! Oh, the courtesy! Oh, the prompt diligence!
What a difference a county makes.
I love living in Orange County.
The other thing was, I'd been hoping never to speak with a Medi-Cal worker again in my life.
Friday morning I gritted my teeth, picked up the phone, and called my new worker. To my astonishment, somebody answered the phone. In a pleasant, well-modulated voice, she told me that she was just about to look at my file. When I expressed my confusion over being sent to Medi-Cal, and told her that I would really rather enroll them in Healthy Families, she courteously explained the process to me, and assured me that she'd double check everything. They're allowed 45 days to review a case, but to speed up the process, she'd call me back so I could fax them any necessary paperwork rather than dealing with snail-mail.
And then... and hour later... she actually DID call me back. No, she didn't need any extra paperwork. September qualifies for no-cost Medi-Cal, the boys for Healthy Families. Did I want to get Medi-Cal with a share of cost for the boys as well?
Oh, the clarity! Oh, the courtesy! Oh, the prompt diligence!
What a difference a county makes.
I love living in Orange County.
3.31.2006
Practice
I'm getting very good at putting my contacts in and taking them out again.
I got lots of practice this morning.
Unfortunately, I'm not so good at telling when they're right-side-out.
I got lots of practice this morning.
Unfortunately, I'm not so good at telling when they're right-side-out.
3.30.2006
Mine!
Yes, my wuggy-boys are known to shout "Mine! Mine! Mine!" in a really remarkable imitation of the seagulls from Finding Nemo. It's not always that they're being bratty and demanding, sometimes it's just a part of their constant commentary on the world. Inscrutible... but then again, it all is. "Baby nigh nigh, truck vroom vroom, duck quack, three one two! Mine! Mine! Mine! Green whatchasay dog-EE?"
So I wouldn't have been too concerned yesterday afternoon when Nathan was goodnaturedly yelling "Mine! Mine! Mine!"
Except that he was shaking a glass display case.
Containing a pack of cigarettes.
For a "quit smoking" display.
At the library.
So I wouldn't have been too concerned yesterday afternoon when Nathan was goodnaturedly yelling "Mine! Mine! Mine!"
Except that he was shaking a glass display case.
Containing a pack of cigarettes.
For a "quit smoking" display.
At the library.
3.28.2006
Splash!
Some people would say the tub is half full.
Some people would say the tub is half empty.
I say the bathroom floor is covered in a half inch of standing water.
Some people would say the tub is half empty.
I say the bathroom floor is covered in a half inch of standing water.
3.27.2006
Eye of the Beholder
Where my husband sees a wad of toilet paper, I see a beautiful white rose.
Problem is, he's always right.
Problem is, he's always right.
3.26.2006
Uh-oh!
While my folks were here, they noticed all sorts of things about the wuggies that I never really notice, because... well... I see them every day. It was fun to see my kiddos from new perspectives, oh-so-loving, but not nearly as familiar as we’d all like.
One funny thing they noticed was that the boys are always saying “uh-oh.” Something spills... “uh-oh!” Play-table cannot be squeezed through the hallway at that angle... “uh-oh!” Illustrator of picture book failed to draw enough petals on that flower... “uh-oh!”
I hadn’t really noticed just how prominent a place that phrase has in their vocabulary, but they really do say it a lot. And come to think of it, I love it. It’s really adorable.
The other thing that they noticed was that the boys do NOT go about saying “no!” all the time. Oh, they understand the word, and say it from time to time. Perhaps more often than yes, but certainly far less often than “car,” “truck,” “whee,” or “Curie Geor.”
Which makes perfect sense, as I think about it. “Uh-oh” is by far the most exciting word around here. “No” is pretty uneventful. Just clarification. No, that’s not a doggie, that’s a cow. No, we’re not going to have any more cookies right now. But once those cookies are grabbed, once that hair is yanked, it’s “uh-oh, spagghetti-o!” And THAT is when the action happens.
The purpose behind our choice of words was to help us keep our cool. It really is rather difficult to become terribly agitated while singing “uh-oh.” (Credit must go to Jim Fay for that insight.) The “uh-oh song” has worked very well for us, and I’m thrilled at this unexpected benefit. Just as you’d expect, the boys take their cues from us as they figure out how to talk about it when things go wrong. We say “uh-oh” when they don’t cooperate with us, so they say “uh-oh” when the world doesn’t cooperate with them.
And I think that is just fabulous.
For one thing, it’s much easier on the ears. A frustrated toddler yelling “uh-oh” is just a whole lot cuter than a frustrated toddler yelling “no!”
But it goes deeper than that. “Uh-oh” is a much more productive response than “no.” In the context of a stuck play-table or a popped balloon, or some other source of toddler frustration, “no” means “Something has happened that shouldn’t have happened, it shouldn’t have happened, it shouldn’t have happened, I COMMAND IT NOT TO HAVE HAPPENED!”
“Uh-oh” means “Something has happened that shouldn’t have happened, and I will now take steps to remedy the situation, or at least prevent it from happening again...
...or on second thought, maybe I’ll just sit back and enjoy the show, because cause and effect is mighty fascinating, and there’s bound to be exciting consequences!”
One funny thing they noticed was that the boys are always saying “uh-oh.” Something spills... “uh-oh!” Play-table cannot be squeezed through the hallway at that angle... “uh-oh!” Illustrator of picture book failed to draw enough petals on that flower... “uh-oh!”
I hadn’t really noticed just how prominent a place that phrase has in their vocabulary, but they really do say it a lot. And come to think of it, I love it. It’s really adorable.
The other thing that they noticed was that the boys do NOT go about saying “no!” all the time. Oh, they understand the word, and say it from time to time. Perhaps more often than yes, but certainly far less often than “car,” “truck,” “whee,” or “Curie Geor.”
Which makes perfect sense, as I think about it. “Uh-oh” is by far the most exciting word around here. “No” is pretty uneventful. Just clarification. No, that’s not a doggie, that’s a cow. No, we’re not going to have any more cookies right now. But once those cookies are grabbed, once that hair is yanked, it’s “uh-oh, spagghetti-o!” And THAT is when the action happens.
The purpose behind our choice of words was to help us keep our cool. It really is rather difficult to become terribly agitated while singing “uh-oh.” (Credit must go to Jim Fay
for that insight.) The “uh-oh song” has worked very well for us, and I’m thrilled at this unexpected benefit. Just as you’d expect, the boys take their cues from us as they figure out how to talk about it when things go wrong. We say “uh-oh” when they don’t cooperate with us, so they say “uh-oh” when the world doesn’t cooperate with them.And I think that is just fabulous.
For one thing, it’s much easier on the ears. A frustrated toddler yelling “uh-oh” is just a whole lot cuter than a frustrated toddler yelling “no!”
But it goes deeper than that. “Uh-oh” is a much more productive response than “no.” In the context of a stuck play-table or a popped balloon, or some other source of toddler frustration, “no” means “Something has happened that shouldn’t have happened, it shouldn’t have happened, it shouldn’t have happened, I COMMAND IT NOT TO HAVE HAPPENED!”
“Uh-oh” means “Something has happened that shouldn’t have happened, and I will now take steps to remedy the situation, or at least prevent it from happening again...
...or on second thought, maybe I’ll just sit back and enjoy the show, because cause and effect is mighty fascinating, and there’s bound to be exciting consequences!”
3.25.2006
Dog-EE?
Last Thursday, I got a call from my mom asking if we were doing anything over the weekend.
This wouldn't have been terribly strange, except that my family lives about 10 hours away. But come Saturday morning, there they were on our doorstep. Mom, Dad, Sarah... and seventy-five pounds of wriggling black and white fur.
I'd tried my best to prepare the wuggies for Paddington's arrival, and Thursday and Friday were filled with coversations about the dog-EE that was coming. The idea of a dog-EE was very exciting indeed, but when it came down to it, they weren't at all sure what to do with a real live border collie in flesh and fur. And with such an enormous tongue, too!
All day Saturday, Paddington was relegated to the far corner of the kitchen, while the boys kept at a safe distance. Tembo was quite comfortable crawling up to him, tugging at his fur and submitting to his kisses, although Dadders wasn't quite so sure about this at first. But the masculine segment of the Wuggyville population did eventually warm up to this creature. Sunday, the boys were okay with being in the same room with him, and on Monday, they would cautiously approach, and stroke his fur a few times before retreating back to safety. By the time Tuesday rolled around, they were actually sorry to see him go.
But they never did quite figure out how to categorize him. He certainly didn't look like any dog-EE they'd ever seen. And nothing like the pictures in their books. But there we were, insisting on calling him a doggy, so doggy he must be... ? So Dog-EE? he was. Emphasis on the last syllable (as usual), and always a question mark at the end.
Yet he really did look familiar, rather like something they'd seen before... And so whenever Nate-bug pointed Padders out to us--because, of course, everything must be pointed out, and often--he would announce "Dog-EE? Moo!"
I think Isaiah has the idea by now, though. That sort of thing is most definitely a dog.
How do I know this? Because as we were sitting together on the couch this morning, reading Black and White, he was quick to point out all the holsteins. "Dog-EE!"
This wouldn't have been terribly strange, except that my family lives about 10 hours away. But come Saturday morning, there they were on our doorstep. Mom, Dad, Sarah... and seventy-five pounds of wriggling black and white fur.
I'd tried my best to prepare the wuggies for Paddington's arrival, and Thursday and Friday were filled with coversations about the dog-EE that was coming. The idea of a dog-EE was very exciting indeed, but when it came down to it, they weren't at all sure what to do with a real live border collie in flesh and fur. And with such an enormous tongue, too!
All day Saturday, Paddington was relegated to the far corner of the kitchen, while the boys kept at a safe distance. Tembo was quite comfortable crawling up to him, tugging at his fur and submitting to his kisses, although Dadders wasn't quite so sure about this at first. But the masculine segment of the Wuggyville population did eventually warm up to this creature. Sunday, the boys were okay with being in the same room with him, and on Monday, they would cautiously approach, and stroke his fur a few times before retreating back to safety. By the time Tuesday rolled around, they were actually sorry to see him go.
But they never did quite figure out how to categorize him. He certainly didn't look like any dog-EE they'd ever seen. And nothing like the pictures in their books. But there we were, insisting on calling him a doggy, so doggy he must be... ? So Dog-EE? he was. Emphasis on the last syllable (as usual), and always a question mark at the end.
Yet he really did look familiar, rather like something they'd seen before... And so whenever Nate-bug pointed Padders out to us--because, of course, everything must be pointed out, and often--he would announce "Dog-EE? Moo!"
I think Isaiah has the idea by now, though. That sort of thing is most definitely a dog.
How do I know this? Because as we were sitting together on the couch this morning, reading Black and White
, he was quick to point out all the holsteins. "Dog-EE!"
3.23.2006
Refrigerator LOCK!
The wuggies did not destroy our refrigerator. They merely ripped the "childproof" lock off of the door.
Strange how the omission of one little word can transform the meaning of a paragraph...
Strange how the omission of one little word can transform the meaning of a paragraph...
3.22.2006
They shall sow their seed with tears...
Last night I stopped by Costco to pick up a couple gallons of milk and some string cheese. (It's awfully nice to be close enough to just pop through for just a few items. Especially since our family is now big enough that buying in bulk is the only thing that makes sense!) Having disobeyed that cardinal rule of shopping--never step into a grocery store when you are hungry--I also bought a big tub of chocolate chip cookie dough.
Having destroyed the refrigerator lock earlier in the day, Nathan peeked in after I got home and saw the tub of dough on the second shelf, adorned with the luscious pictures that had lured me into buying it in the first place. He was very excited. "Cakoo! Cakoo!"
"Well, actually, those aren't crackers, those are cookies. And we'll have some tomorrow."
"Coo-KEE! Coo-KEE!"
Well, true to my word, I baked up a batch today. The wuggies were a bit dismayed to discover that there was only dough in the tub, but they happily nibbled while I arranged the little blobs on a cookie sheet.
But then...
Mama put the coo-KEEs in the oven. The hot, scary, nasty oven.
I'm not sure that I've ever seen Nathan more devestated.
Having destroyed the refrigerator lock earlier in the day, Nathan peeked in after I got home and saw the tub of dough on the second shelf, adorned with the luscious pictures that had lured me into buying it in the first place. He was very excited. "Cakoo! Cakoo!"
"Well, actually, those aren't crackers, those are cookies. And we'll have some tomorrow."
"Coo-KEE! Coo-KEE!"
Well, true to my word, I baked up a batch today. The wuggies were a bit dismayed to discover that there was only dough in the tub, but they happily nibbled while I arranged the little blobs on a cookie sheet.
But then...
Mama put the coo-KEEs in the oven. The hot, scary, nasty oven.
I'm not sure that I've ever seen Nathan more devestated.
3.21.2006
A Tip
We didn't eat corned beef and cabbage for Saint Paddy's Day. We had... surprise, surprise! ...pizza! (Probably my best yet, for what it's worth. Things are looking up.)
On the 19th however, Andy stopped by Stater Bros. and picked up some corned beef. Around twenty-four pounds of it.
$0.67/lb.
I kid you not. And since it's cured meat, it lasts for months.
Such an easy meal, and so delicious. Just put it in a pot and let it boil. The package directions say an hour and a half per pound, but the longer you let it go, the more tender it will be. (Uh, that refers to the corned beef. The cabbage should definitely be a last minute thing.)
Mmm-mmm! We've been waiting for this all year. =)
On the 19th however, Andy stopped by Stater Bros. and picked up some corned beef. Around twenty-four pounds of it.
$0.67/lb.
I kid you not. And since it's cured meat, it lasts for months.
Such an easy meal, and so delicious. Just put it in a pot and let it boil. The package directions say an hour and a half per pound, but the longer you let it go, the more tender it will be. (Uh, that refers to the corned beef. The cabbage should definitely be a last minute thing.)
Mmm-mmm! We've been waiting for this all year. =)
3.19.2006
Closet Coke Addicts
I would really like some soda right now. But then I would have to share with the Wuggidy, and then nobody would get any sleep tonight.
If I was virtuous, I would set a good example and have orange juice instead.
I'm not virtuous.
I think I'm gonna have Aunt Sarah distract him.
If I was virtuous, I would set a good example and have orange juice instead.
I'm not virtuous.
I think I'm gonna have Aunt Sarah distract him.
3.18.2006
Amid the Air: A Grounding
I love the rain. It is so organic and earthy, a reminder that we do not merely stand upon this world, it envelopes us, encases us, surrounds us.
Remember, o man, that you are but dust.
Comforting and alarming and invigorating, it puts me firmly in my place, and fills me with unutterable longing.
In Arizona, I did not need the rain so much. Already I was deep inside the earth, enclosed in its rocky depths. Everywhere I looked, earth surrounded me. I could never forget the earth, and so I took it for granted. The rain did not surprise me.
Here in Anaheim, I need the rain.
Remember, o man, that you are but dust.
Comforting and alarming and invigorating, it puts me firmly in my place, and fills me with unutterable longing.
In Arizona, I did not need the rain so much. Already I was deep inside the earth, enclosed in its rocky depths. Everywhere I looked, earth surrounded me. I could never forget the earth, and so I took it for granted. The rain did not surprise me.
Here in Anaheim, I need the rain.
3.16.2006
Nigh-Nigh!
"Night-night" is the latest obsession 'o the wuggy-boys. In general, this is a good thing. Sleep is one of those hobbies that parenthood has squeezed out of my life, and so I'm thrilled that they're starting to show an interest.
When I want to show my love for someone by taking on one of their interests, it's usually so we can enjoy the activity together. I've become interested in blocks, so that we can build towers together. I've become interested in Curious George so that we can read together. I've become interested in whole-wheat flour so that... well, I guess we're interested in flour for entirely different purposes, but you get the idea. Anyway, I was hoping that the boys would become interested in "nigh-nigh" so we could all enjoy napping together.
No such luck. The boys, you see, are learning to talk. And everyone knows that you learn to talk by talking. A lot. Excitement over anything translates into excitement over talking about that thing. Excitedly.
"BABY NIGH-NIGH! BABY NIGH-NIGH!"
When I want to show my love for someone by taking on one of their interests, it's usually so we can enjoy the activity together. I've become interested in blocks, so that we can build towers together. I've become interested in Curious George so that we can read together. I've become interested in whole-wheat flour so that... well, I guess we're interested in flour for entirely different purposes, but you get the idea. Anyway, I was hoping that the boys would become interested in "nigh-nigh" so we could all enjoy napping together.
No such luck. The boys, you see, are learning to talk. And everyone knows that you learn to talk by talking. A lot. Excitement over anything translates into excitement over talking about that thing. Excitedly.
"BABY NIGH-NIGH! BABY NIGH-NIGH!"
3.14.2006
A Poll
Yesterday, there were a few things we wanted to get at Borders, but they didn't exactly fit in the budget. So what did we do? We went out and got another card. Alright... so it was actually two cards. And both maxed out by the end of the day.
Library cards, of course.
One night last week, Andy came out after putting the wuggy-boys down, and excitedly informed me that Wuggidy had sat still, entranced, as he read Saint George and the Dragon all the way through. Reading to the boys becomes progressively more enjoyable as their aesthetic sense deepens. Andy wished aloud that there were more picture books with such gloriously rich illustrations.
Well, that's setting the bar awfully high, but the Caldecott section of the local public library is certainly the place to look!
The Placentia Library is small, but lovely. Their collection is by no means extensive, but it was more than enough to make us choose very carefully how we were going to use up the five book maximum they impose on new patrons.
On the way home, I babbled on excitedly about the lovely treasures I'd found, and all the things I wanted to look for when we returned... tomorrow maybe?!
And it was in this conversation that I made a most disorienting discovery. Babar was a cherished part of both of our childhoods. Er, at least, I know and love BaBAR, and Andy has fond memories of BABar.
Thus it is that I'm calling on you, dear readers, to settle this dispute. Which one of us is shamelessly mangling the name of that marvelous elephant?
In other news concerning the pronunciation wars, the boys say chruck.
Library cards, of course.
One night last week, Andy came out after putting the wuggy-boys down, and excitedly informed me that Wuggidy had sat still, entranced, as he read Saint George and the Dragon
all the way through. Reading to the boys becomes progressively more enjoyable as their aesthetic sense deepens. Andy wished aloud that there were more picture books with such gloriously rich illustrations.Well, that's setting the bar awfully high, but the Caldecott section of the local public library is certainly the place to look!
The Placentia Library is small, but lovely. Their collection is by no means extensive, but it was more than enough to make us choose very carefully how we were going to use up the five book maximum they impose on new patrons.
On the way home, I babbled on excitedly about the lovely treasures I'd found, and all the things I wanted to look for when we returned... tomorrow maybe?!
And it was in this conversation that I made a most disorienting discovery. Babar
was a cherished part of both of our childhoods. Er, at least, I know and love BaBAR, and Andy has fond memories of BABar. Thus it is that I'm calling on you, dear readers, to settle this dispute. Which one of us is shamelessly mangling the name of that marvelous elephant?
In other news concerning the pronunciation wars, the boys say chruck.
Let the Doopah-Doopah begin!
She's crawling!
But only if you put something intriguing just beyond her reach.
It feels a bit like leading a donkey onward with a carrot, but coaxing her forward with a brightly colored ball is the definitely the new form of entertainment around here. For all of us.
But only if you put something intriguing just beyond her reach.
It feels a bit like leading a donkey onward with a carrot, but coaxing her forward with a brightly colored ball is the definitely the new form of entertainment around here. For all of us.
3.13.2006
3.11.2006
More than a feeling
We weren't caught up on the laundry when we moved... and sad to say, we still aren't. Every single box in the house has been unpacked, except for my art supplies in our bedroom closet(which are better left safely packed up, anyway) and that huge tower of dirty laundry in the hall. I've worked fairly hard on it, doing a load a day on average--just enough to take care of all the laundry we're continually producing, and slowly chip away at the tower. When I finally uncovered that gorgeous turquoise sweater (alas, some weeks after that holiday party...) I found motivation to step up the pace to two loads a day. Who knew what other treasures I might excavate? My wardrobe is getting a bit sparse, so it was a relief to realize that maybe I didn't need a trip to Old Navy, maybe a trip to the laundromat was what was really in order.
A trip to the laundromat didn't fit into the schedule any better than a trip to Old Navy fit into the budget, though. I just kept chipping away at it, one load at a time. Slow, very slow, but I was making progress. Last week, I could finally see a huge difference. Two boxes down, three to go!
And then in rained. Which wouldn't have been a problem, except for those three boxes of too-small boy clothes and maternity-wear sitting out behind the house. I was back where I started, only worse. Much worse.
If finding a beautiful sweater is a powerful motivator, inability to get to the washing machine without stepping over a mountain of laundry is a powerful demotivator. I didn't get very far this week.
This afternoon, after dragging myself over to the laundry area to put in yet another load, I threw my hands up in despair. "I have a feeling that I'm never going to get to the bottom of this."
My true love looked deep into my eyes and softly whispered, "It's more than a feeling, baby."
A trip to the laundromat didn't fit into the schedule any better than a trip to Old Navy fit into the budget, though. I just kept chipping away at it, one load at a time. Slow, very slow, but I was making progress. Last week, I could finally see a huge difference. Two boxes down, three to go!
And then in rained. Which wouldn't have been a problem, except for those three boxes of too-small boy clothes and maternity-wear sitting out behind the house. I was back where I started, only worse. Much worse.
If finding a beautiful sweater is a powerful motivator, inability to get to the washing machine without stepping over a mountain of laundry is a powerful demotivator. I didn't get very far this week.
This afternoon, after dragging myself over to the laundry area to put in yet another load, I threw my hands up in despair. "I have a feeling that I'm never going to get to the bottom of this."
My true love looked deep into my eyes and softly whispered, "It's more than a feeling, baby."
3.10.2006
Contact Me
I’ve worn glasses for an awfully long time. Ever since that day in third grade, when I discovered that the fuzzy green mush of grass was actually made up of tiny, individual blades, I have been utterly dependent upon this extension of my face. The wuggies call them “eyes,” and they’re pretty much right. That time when they got up before I did, and hid my glasses... shudder.
When I was small, I dreamed of the day when I would wear glasses, and be just like all the grownups in my life. It was a glorious rite of passage, almost as exciting as finally getting my teeth decked out in beautifully sparkly braces—with colored rubber bands!—just like all the big kids.
Glasses were even more wonderful than I ever dreamed—I was able to see! Quite an unexpected benefit, really. But although I never got tired of my newfound sense of sight, the initial novelty didn’t last too long.
Jessie and Laurie Barber had contacts.
Some things never change. Neither of them are Barbers any more, having shed that maiden name for Snell and Yoshimoto respectively. I hate to think what they’d do to me if I called them Jessie and Laurie. But Jessica and Laurel still wear contacts, and I still wear glasses, and I’m still faintly jealous that they can wear contacts and I can’t.
Growing up in Supai, contacts were pretty much out of the question. The canyon is filled with gritty sand, wonderful for makers of mud pies and sand angels, terrible for contact lens wearers. The wind ricochets of the walls every which way, so the sand seldom stays put. And when the helicopter comes... Well, it was simply out of the question.
Having moved out to smoggy Southern California, I got contacts right before my wedding. It was an unmitigated disaster. Almost unmitigated, anyway. I did get to be beautiful and frame-less for my wedding, so I guess it was worth it. But that was pretty much the only time I wore them.
I loved having them in. They were very comfortable, and my peripheral vision was amazing. There was only one problem.
I could not get them out.
It was an absolute fiasco. In the end my cousin Will managed to get them out for me, but oh it was such a disaster. I tried the contacts again when we got home to La Mirada, but this time I had to go to the optometrist to have them taken out. And that was the end of that.
Three and a half years have gone by, and I’ve given birth to three children. Taking out contacts can’t be that much more difficult than childbirth. For some time I’ve been thinking about giving them another shot. But it took the checkout guy at Trader Joe’s to get me to actually set up an appointment.
It’s amazing the things people feel okay about saying to parents. Everybody loves to look for family resemblance, and that’s great. It really is pretty exciting. If baby is a chip off the old block, that’s definitely worthy of exclamation, and if not, that’s even more remarkable. I never get tired of thinking about it, and it is gladdening to know that so many strangers share this interest of mine. But somehow in the excitement of it all, it doesn’t always occur to people that there would be anything wrong with saying “Oh what beautiful children. I wonder where that came from? They don’t look a thing like you!”
Usually it’s fairly easy to brush off, but the check-out guy at Trader Joe’s was very insistent. Tembo and Meeps have such amazing eyes, so big and so blue. Which one of us did they get that from? When Andy pointed toward me, he peered intently at my face. No. Well, they were a little bluish, but barely. And so tiny. Andy and I both have such tiny eyes. No. It was quite definitive. He saw right through us. We couldn’t possibly be their biological parents, because I don’t have big, beautiful, blue eyes.
That did it. And so yesterday I met Andy at work, gave him the keys to my van full of car seats and babies, and drove his car over to the optometrist down the street.
They did quite a comprehensive exam, with all sorts of tests I’d never even heard of before. And the usual stuff, like the gloucoma test, was all wonderfully non-invasive. Maybe it was just the advance in technology since my last checkup, but I was really impressed. And Dr. Galvan was wonderful. So knowledgeable and so approachable. I learned a lot in my brief visit with him. (Did you know that the eyeball is really brain tissue? Yet another reason, I suppose, that the eyes are the windows of the soul...) I’d picked Dr. Galvan simply on the basis of location, but it turns out that he is the chairman of the premier school of optometry in the nation. Andy works on the right street, I guess.
He recommended gas permeable extended wear soft lenses for me. The kind that you can sleep in and shower in and never remove for a whole week. Oh the bliss! He said he really doesn’t do much laser surgery anymore, because these are so wonderful, there’s hardly any point. To wake up and be able to see, the very moment I open my eyes... Sign me up!
And then they showed me the bill.
See, it hadn’t occurred to me to ask beforehand. I knew how much the insurance would cover, and I knew approximately how much contacts cost, and I knew that the difference was something we could squeeze into our budget.
But this is one of the top optometrists in the nation. And he charges accordingly. No, getting regular disposables wouldn't mitigate the cost much. It was the exam that was expensive. And he'd already done the exam.
Andy works on the wrong street, I guess.
When I was small, I dreamed of the day when I would wear glasses, and be just like all the grownups in my life. It was a glorious rite of passage, almost as exciting as finally getting my teeth decked out in beautifully sparkly braces—with colored rubber bands!—just like all the big kids.
Glasses were even more wonderful than I ever dreamed—I was able to see! Quite an unexpected benefit, really. But although I never got tired of my newfound sense of sight, the initial novelty didn’t last too long.
Jessie and Laurie Barber had contacts.
Some things never change. Neither of them are Barbers any more, having shed that maiden name for Snell and Yoshimoto respectively. I hate to think what they’d do to me if I called them Jessie and Laurie. But Jessica and Laurel still wear contacts, and I still wear glasses, and I’m still faintly jealous that they can wear contacts and I can’t.
Growing up in Supai, contacts were pretty much out of the question. The canyon is filled with gritty sand, wonderful for makers of mud pies and sand angels, terrible for contact lens wearers. The wind ricochets of the walls every which way, so the sand seldom stays put. And when the helicopter comes... Well, it was simply out of the question.
Having moved out to smoggy Southern California, I got contacts right before my wedding. It was an unmitigated disaster. Almost unmitigated, anyway. I did get to be beautiful and frame-less for my wedding, so I guess it was worth it. But that was pretty much the only time I wore them.
I loved having them in. They were very comfortable, and my peripheral vision was amazing. There was only one problem.
I could not get them out.
It was an absolute fiasco. In the end my cousin Will managed to get them out for me, but oh it was such a disaster. I tried the contacts again when we got home to La Mirada, but this time I had to go to the optometrist to have them taken out. And that was the end of that.
Three and a half years have gone by, and I’ve given birth to three children. Taking out contacts can’t be that much more difficult than childbirth. For some time I’ve been thinking about giving them another shot. But it took the checkout guy at Trader Joe’s to get me to actually set up an appointment.
It’s amazing the things people feel okay about saying to parents. Everybody loves to look for family resemblance, and that’s great. It really is pretty exciting. If baby is a chip off the old block, that’s definitely worthy of exclamation, and if not, that’s even more remarkable. I never get tired of thinking about it, and it is gladdening to know that so many strangers share this interest of mine. But somehow in the excitement of it all, it doesn’t always occur to people that there would be anything wrong with saying “Oh what beautiful children. I wonder where that came from? They don’t look a thing like you!”
Usually it’s fairly easy to brush off, but the check-out guy at Trader Joe’s was very insistent. Tembo and Meeps have such amazing eyes, so big and so blue. Which one of us did they get that from? When Andy pointed toward me, he peered intently at my face. No. Well, they were a little bluish, but barely. And so tiny. Andy and I both have such tiny eyes. No. It was quite definitive. He saw right through us. We couldn’t possibly be their biological parents, because I don’t have big, beautiful, blue eyes.
That did it. And so yesterday I met Andy at work, gave him the keys to my van full of car seats and babies, and drove his car over to the optometrist down the street.
They did quite a comprehensive exam, with all sorts of tests I’d never even heard of before. And the usual stuff, like the gloucoma test, was all wonderfully non-invasive. Maybe it was just the advance in technology since my last checkup, but I was really impressed. And Dr. Galvan was wonderful. So knowledgeable and so approachable. I learned a lot in my brief visit with him. (Did you know that the eyeball is really brain tissue? Yet another reason, I suppose, that the eyes are the windows of the soul...) I’d picked Dr. Galvan simply on the basis of location, but it turns out that he is the chairman of the premier school of optometry in the nation. Andy works on the right street, I guess.
He recommended gas permeable extended wear soft lenses for me. The kind that you can sleep in and shower in and never remove for a whole week. Oh the bliss! He said he really doesn’t do much laser surgery anymore, because these are so wonderful, there’s hardly any point. To wake up and be able to see, the very moment I open my eyes... Sign me up!
And then they showed me the bill.
See, it hadn’t occurred to me to ask beforehand. I knew how much the insurance would cover, and I knew approximately how much contacts cost, and I knew that the difference was something we could squeeze into our budget.
But this is one of the top optometrists in the nation. And he charges accordingly. No, getting regular disposables wouldn't mitigate the cost much. It was the exam that was expensive. And he'd already done the exam.
Andy works on the wrong street, I guess.
Things that go bump in the night
Beware.
When the gyrations of the washing machine produce an ominous crash, don't ever give a sigh of relief and say "Whew. It was just the ironing board."
Even if it really was just the ironing board.
When you stumble out in the dark to adjust the thermostat, the gash will be deep and painful.
And every kick of a tantruming two-year old will be agony.
When the gyrations of the washing machine produce an ominous crash, don't ever give a sigh of relief and say "Whew. It was just the ironing board."
Even if it really was just the ironing board.
When you stumble out in the dark to adjust the thermostat, the gash will be deep and painful.
And every kick of a tantruming two-year old will be agony.
3.09.2006
Midnight Oil
The kitchen is a bit messy. Which is a huge improvement over the filthy disaster it was when I went to bed. Insomnia has its benefits. Amazing how quickly things go without any little helpers.
The question now: do I go back to bed, or take this as a rare opportunity for a shower?
The question now: do I go back to bed, or take this as a rare opportunity for a shower?
3.08.2006
Efficiency
I'm starting to discover just how much faster the housework goes when I make use of our entire labor force. This morning, Nathan helped me unload the dryer. He would fling himself headlong into the dryer, then emerge triumphantly waving a sock. He would hand me the sock, and I would place it in the laundry basket while he dove in for a shirt or a washcloth.
And yes, this process really is much more efficient than gathering up all the clothes in a single armful, while Nathan scatters them throughout the house.
And yes, this process really is much more efficient than gathering up all the clothes in a single armful, while Nathan scatters them throughout the house.
IV-V7-I
Always the endings are so abrupt and ad hoc.
And always I wonder where it would lead if stayed at the piano, and let the thoughts unravel. Tremblingly, I press on into the unknown, further... just a little further... but always the terror overtakes me. Frantically, I grasp for closure, like a child's first story that must conclude
THE END.
And always I wonder where it would lead if stayed at the piano, and let the thoughts unravel. Tremblingly, I press on into the unknown, further... just a little further... but always the terror overtakes me. Frantically, I grasp for closure, like a child's first story that must conclude
THE END.
3.07.2006
Interview Update
The interview went very well. It just became more and more clear that this school is precisely the sort of place Andy want's to work, and that Andy is precisely the sort of person they need. The question of the day for them is "how can we best integrate mathematics into a classical and Christian education?" And of course that's Andy's passion.
It would be a hard job, teaching Latin, great books, and logic in addition to math. Very time-intensive. But right now, he desperately wishes that his job was less demanding so that he could... brush up on his Latin. And they won't make him get a teaching credential, which is what's really throwing him over the edge right now. This school is very big on teacher education---so much so that they hire their teachers year round so that they can send them home with a reading list over the summer. Lots of workshops and seminars and mentoring, just not the miles and miles of hoop-jumping. The match is so perfect it's not even funny.
The only problem is money. They don't have any. And supporting a family of five takes a lot of it... particularly in Orange County.
So they're going to attempt to raise the money necessary to enable Andy to work for them, and get back to him in a month.
The odds are low. Very low. Classical schools are typically only able pay their teachers less than 2/3 of what it takes to support a family around here.
It's so nerve-wracking. The contrast between an exciting endeavor such as this, and another year of grueling drudgery.... But the bottom line is that Andy longs to further the God's Kingdom by sharpening powerful minds for His service. If this is what God wants, then he will provide the means to make it happen. And if not, we will thank him for providing the miserable drudge-work by which Andy can feed our children. If that is the path that God has chosen for us, He will provide the stamina.
It would be a hard job, teaching Latin, great books, and logic in addition to math. Very time-intensive. But right now, he desperately wishes that his job was less demanding so that he could... brush up on his Latin. And they won't make him get a teaching credential, which is what's really throwing him over the edge right now. This school is very big on teacher education---so much so that they hire their teachers year round so that they can send them home with a reading list over the summer. Lots of workshops and seminars and mentoring, just not the miles and miles of hoop-jumping. The match is so perfect it's not even funny.
The only problem is money. They don't have any. And supporting a family of five takes a lot of it... particularly in Orange County.
So they're going to attempt to raise the money necessary to enable Andy to work for them, and get back to him in a month.
The odds are low. Very low. Classical schools are typically only able pay their teachers less than 2/3 of what it takes to support a family around here.
It's so nerve-wracking. The contrast between an exciting endeavor such as this, and another year of grueling drudgery.... But the bottom line is that Andy longs to further the God's Kingdom by sharpening powerful minds for His service. If this is what God wants, then he will provide the means to make it happen. And if not, we will thank him for providing the miserable drudge-work by which Andy can feed our children. If that is the path that God has chosen for us, He will provide the stamina.
3.06.2006
Two pages. Double-spaced. A.S.A.P.
Editing is all about boiling things down into concise clarity.
Unless you're running short on time and word-count.
On the edge of my seat
I'm blogging right now, because if I'm blogging, then my computer is on the internet. And if my computer is on the internet, then that means the phone line is in use. And if the phone line is in use, then I cannot possibly call Andy's cell phone and pester him with questions about how the interview went.
Because the interview is probably still going on, and calling and pestering right now would probably NOT increase the likelihood of a desirable outcome.
Besides, I'm sure that as soon as he's done with the interview, he'll call and tell me all about it. So he hasn't called yet, and that means he's still in the interview.
Except maybe he DID call, only the phone line was busy because I'm online.
I'd better get off right now and call him, just to make sure.
Er...
Maybe I should just go eat some rocky road ice cream.
Everybody knows you can't talk on the phone while you're eating rocky road ice cream.
Because the interview is probably still going on, and calling and pestering right now would probably NOT increase the likelihood of a desirable outcome.
Besides, I'm sure that as soon as he's done with the interview, he'll call and tell me all about it. So he hasn't called yet, and that means he's still in the interview.
Except maybe he DID call, only the phone line was busy because I'm online.
I'd better get off right now and call him, just to make sure.
Er...
Maybe I should just go eat some rocky road ice cream.
Everybody knows you can't talk on the phone while you're eating rocky road ice cream.
"Can't find another vein? Try Galois Theory!"
This is what happens when they make a philosophically inclined geometer take Foundations of Education.
3.05.2006
Meepo's Perfect Pizza Dough
Combine in bread machine:
3/4 cup milk
2 tablespoons olive oil
sprinkle over:
generous 2 cups bread flour
2 tablespoons sugar
1 teaspoon salt
add:
2 cups
1 tablespoon
1 roll duct tape
Set bread machine to dough setting. Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Allow completed pizza to cook a bit longer than usual.
3/4 cup milk
2 tablespoons olive oil
sprinkle over:
generous 2 cups bread flour
2 tablespoons sugar
1 teaspoon salt
add:
2 cups
1 tablespoon
1 roll duct tape
Set bread machine to dough setting. Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Allow completed pizza to cook a bit longer than usual.
3.03.2006
The calm after the storm
There are few things more blissful than a quiet hour snuggled up with a cup of cocoa and a good book, surrounded by peacefully napping children. The air is filled with the freshness and purity that only comes after a good rain, and I am filled with the tranquility that only comes after a good adrenaline rush.
Meeps, you should get yourself wedged between the springs of the glider more often!
Meeps, you should get yourself wedged between the springs of the glider more often!
3.02.2006
Empathy
The other day, Nathan whapped his brother soundly on the head with a spoon.
When he saw Isaiah crying, and realized what he'd done, he became very concerned. "Towwy! Towwy! Ah dubboo!"
Although Isaiah (not quite up to forgiveness, I'm afraid) vehemently rebuffed the comforting gestures, I was thrilled to see that things were connecting in Nathan's little head, that he comprehended another's pain. Now, this afternoon, I find that Isaiah, too, is learning about empathy.
Having torn a page out of a favorite book, he sadly brought it to show Justy.
"Owie."
When he saw Isaiah crying, and realized what he'd done, he became very concerned. "Towwy! Towwy! Ah dubboo!"
Although Isaiah (not quite up to forgiveness, I'm afraid) vehemently rebuffed the comforting gestures, I was thrilled to see that things were connecting in Nathan's little head, that he comprehended another's pain. Now, this afternoon, I find that Isaiah, too, is learning about empathy.
Having torn a page out of a favorite book, he sadly brought it to show Justy.
"Owie."
Outnumbered
The wuggy-boys have reached a momentous milestone. They don't mention it in the baby books, but it appears to occur at around 26 months, in boys at least.
They've figured out the child-proof locks.
To look at me, you might think I've been doing a lot of baking. Actually, it's just that they're dumping out the flour faster than I can clean up the cocoa.
They've figured out the child-proof locks.
To look at me, you might think I've been doing a lot of baking. Actually, it's just that they're dumping out the flour faster than I can clean up the cocoa.
3.01.2006
Magical Kisses
I was always under the vague impression that parents train their children to believe that kisses make owies all better. Turns out it’s quite the opposite. Whenever the wuggy-boys came up to us with pinched finger or a bonked noggin, we would squeeze them tight and kiss the owie. But we never told them that would solve anything, and I, at least, never expected it to.
But strangely enough, mommy’s kisses really do make everything better. They will come up to me, wailing melodramatically, “ow-EE! ow-EE! ow-EE!” The moment my lips touch their wounds, though, they are off gleefully chasing balls once again. It’s really amazing. I can’t quite get over my newfound superpowers.
Yesterday afternoon Nathan cut his foot on one of the grates. (I wonder how THAT might have happened...) He stood before me on one leg, and tried to lift his hurt foot up to receive my magical kisses. As soon as he realized that wasn’t going to work, he gave up and just offered me his finger. “Ow-EE?” So I kissed his finger instead.
And that made everything all better.
But strangely enough, mommy’s kisses really do make everything better. They will come up to me, wailing melodramatically, “ow-EE! ow-EE! ow-EE!” The moment my lips touch their wounds, though, they are off gleefully chasing balls once again. It’s really amazing. I can’t quite get over my newfound superpowers.
Yesterday afternoon Nathan cut his foot on one of the grates. (I wonder how THAT might have happened...) He stood before me on one leg, and tried to lift his hurt foot up to receive my magical kisses. As soon as he realized that wasn’t going to work, he gave up and just offered me his finger. “Ow-EE?” So I kissed his finger instead.
And that made everything all better.
2.28.2006
Grate. Just Grate.
Pardon me while I, er, "vent" for a moment.
While Nathan was disassembling one of the bookshelves, and carefully gauging the pressure of the peg holes with a tire gauge, Isaiah went through the house and removed the grates from all the vents. The better to fill them with rubber band balls and dish towels, you know.
Without realizing just why Isaiah had moved the kitchen island from its usual spot, I nudged it back into place so I could get to the sink. One wheel promptly fell into the gaping vent hole, tipping the entire unit to a precarious 45 degree angle. The doors swung open, spewing forth pots and pans. The drawer slipped out, littering the floor with cooking utensils. And everything sitting out on the surface tipped over. Like the open jar of olives.
And the dishsoap.
As I knelt there, struggling to right the capsizing island, the green gloop flowed straight through my hair into a puddle on the floor.
And there ought to be a punch line, but well... that’s just the kind of day it’s been.
While Nathan was disassembling one of the bookshelves, and carefully gauging the pressure of the peg holes with a tire gauge, Isaiah went through the house and removed the grates from all the vents. The better to fill them with rubber band balls and dish towels, you know.
Without realizing just why Isaiah had moved the kitchen island from its usual spot, I nudged it back into place so I could get to the sink. One wheel promptly fell into the gaping vent hole, tipping the entire unit to a precarious 45 degree angle. The doors swung open, spewing forth pots and pans. The drawer slipped out, littering the floor with cooking utensils. And everything sitting out on the surface tipped over. Like the open jar of olives.
And the dishsoap.
As I knelt there, struggling to right the capsizing island, the green gloop flowed straight through my hair into a puddle on the floor.
And there ought to be a punch line, but well... that’s just the kind of day it’s been.
Dis-Dressed
One thing you need to know about two-year-olds is that they are very particular about their wardrobe. A two-year-old knows exactly what shirt he wants to wear, and he will die if he cannot wear it. A long, painful, horrible death. Either that or he'll flail his arms and flop about like a fish.
The shirt that he wants to wear may or may not match his pants, may or may not be clean, and may or may not belong to him. In fact, like as not, it's his bubba's shirt from yesterday.
But oh, it makes him happy. And oh, he tromps around so proudly.
The shirt that he wants to wear may or may not match his pants, may or may not be clean, and may or may not belong to him. In fact, like as not, it's his bubba's shirt from yesterday.
But oh, it makes him happy. And oh, he tromps around so proudly.
2.27.2006
Jack fell down...
When the boys overturned the trash can to use it as a trampoline, I rushed over as quickly as I could. Too late. My arm was mere inches away from grabbing Nathan when he fell down with a crash, thwapping his head loudly against the linoleum.
He didn't cry, but rather paused to assess the situation and contemplate the lessons learned. Cautiously, he put his hand up to his head and turned to me with a bewildered expression.
"Bow-keen."
He didn't cry, but rather paused to assess the situation and contemplate the lessons learned. Cautiously, he put his hand up to his head and turned to me with a bewildered expression.
"Bow-keen."
2.25.2006
Sweet Victory
It should have been a savory victory, but the sauce needs a little work.
No matter. I have discovered the secret to a scrumptious pizza crust.
http://wiki.ehow.com/Toss-Pizza-Dough
Mmmm-mmm.
No matter. I have discovered the secret to a scrumptious pizza crust.
http://wiki.ehow.com/Toss-Pizza-Dough
Mmmm-mmm.
2.24.2006
2.23.2006
We’ll be eating Italian for the next few weeks. Not Italian-Italian—more like New York-Italian... Wuggyville-style. Spaghetti and pizza. Lots of spaghetti because spaghetti is easy, and life is not. Andy’s plate was full to begin with, so to speak—add in classroom observation, and we’re eating a lot of spaghetti.
The pizza is because I make terrible pizza.
One night last week we got carry-out from Pizza Hut. It was a sublime supreme pizza, covered in sausages and peppers and mushrooms and pepperoni. All atop a perfectly brilliant crust. This was the first really good pizza we’d had in a long time. Since losing Anna Mia’s, we’d been frequenting Little Caesars. Quick and cheap and relatively nutritious, those pizzas are well worth $5. They’re everything you could possibly ask for in a $5 pizza. But nothing to write home about, and certainly nothing to make me feel insecure about my cooking.
I’m entirely okay with the fact that an experienced Italian grandmother can prepare a fabulous meal that’s far beyond my skills. She’s got thirty-some years on me. She’s made a career out of, for crying out loud! But when the teenaged boys working at Pizza Hut can do something I can’t...
We’ll be having pizza three nights a week until I get this crust thing down.
The pizza is because I make terrible pizza.
One night last week we got carry-out from Pizza Hut. It was a sublime supreme pizza, covered in sausages and peppers and mushrooms and pepperoni. All atop a perfectly brilliant crust. This was the first really good pizza we’d had in a long time. Since losing Anna Mia’s, we’d been frequenting Little Caesars. Quick and cheap and relatively nutritious, those pizzas are well worth $5. They’re everything you could possibly ask for in a $5 pizza. But nothing to write home about, and certainly nothing to make me feel insecure about my cooking.
I’m entirely okay with the fact that an experienced Italian grandmother can prepare a fabulous meal that’s far beyond my skills. She’s got thirty-some years on me. She’s made a career out of, for crying out loud! But when the teenaged boys working at Pizza Hut can do something I can’t...
We’ll be having pizza three nights a week until I get this crust thing down.
2.22.2006
He told me I ought to mapquest it. I didn’t listen to him. 57 to the 210, East all the way to Allen, take Allen right to the very end, where it dead-ends into the Huntington.
Which way on Allen?
South. South.
Or maybe you should take the 91 to the 5 to the 605 to the 210... You really ought to mapquest it.
Whatever. I just need to get out of here.
To see something real, to smell something alive and magnificent. What I really yearned for was a wild unkempt desert, but a gloriously cultivated garden would have to do. The need for something solid and tangible amid the manufactured hum of suburbia was too pressing to bother about maps.
So I bundled the children into their carseats, and hopped onto the freeway. Strange how natural this bubble of glass and steel becomes. An extension of my body, moving with my will. I drove and I drove and I drove, as far as I could see. I drove to the place where sky dips down to touch the dust, and when I got there, I drove again as far as I could see. I drove until the progressively shabbier, progressively sparser strip malls blossomed suddenly into lush golf courses and gracious mansions, orange trees and jacarandas and purply undulating hills. And then I drove beyond all that, beyond all the civilization and cultivation to the earth beneath it all, and saw the mines, raw and bleeding and hopeless and desolate.
Freeway ends in 4 miles.
He’d said something about a dead-end, so I kept driving, straight on to the end.
Finally, when the 210 melted into Alameda, (Allen? Alameda? Allen.) I gave up and turned around.
210 West.
Pasadena 37 miles.
Which way on Allen?
South. South.
Or maybe you should take the 91 to the 5 to the 605 to the 210... You really ought to mapquest it.
Whatever. I just need to get out of here.
To see something real, to smell something alive and magnificent. What I really yearned for was a wild unkempt desert, but a gloriously cultivated garden would have to do. The need for something solid and tangible amid the manufactured hum of suburbia was too pressing to bother about maps.
So I bundled the children into their carseats, and hopped onto the freeway. Strange how natural this bubble of glass and steel becomes. An extension of my body, moving with my will. I drove and I drove and I drove, as far as I could see. I drove to the place where sky dips down to touch the dust, and when I got there, I drove again as far as I could see. I drove until the progressively shabbier, progressively sparser strip malls blossomed suddenly into lush golf courses and gracious mansions, orange trees and jacarandas and purply undulating hills. And then I drove beyond all that, beyond all the civilization and cultivation to the earth beneath it all, and saw the mines, raw and bleeding and hopeless and desolate.
Freeway ends in 4 miles.
He’d said something about a dead-end, so I kept driving, straight on to the end.
Finally, when the 210 melted into Alameda, (Allen? Alameda? Allen.) I gave up and turned around.
210 West.
Pasadena 37 miles.
Woo-Hoo! vvvvcccccccccccccccccceacc
The second half of the title is September's first contribution to this blog. In honor of this momentous occasion, I've decided to leave it be. A literary genius in the making, I tell you.
At any rate, many thanks to all who voted, I WON!!!
Maybe we can pay off our fines at Blockbuster now.
=)
At any rate, many thanks to all who voted, I WON!!!
Maybe we can pay off our fines at Blockbuster now.
=)
2.21.2006
If you like to hang out over here in Wuggyville...
...comment from time to time...maybe link here on your blog...
then I'd like to add you to my blogroll.
Just drop me a comment with your url. I want to be sure to get to know you all a bit better. =)
then I'd like to add you to my blogroll.
Just drop me a comment with your url. I want to be sure to get to know you all a bit better. =)
2.20.2006
We take turns coping around here...
And it's his turn tonight, thank God.
I'm going to go curl up with a good book and a hot bath.
Good man, I've got. Good man.
I'm going to go curl up with a good book and a hot bath.
Good man, I've got. Good man.
2.19.2006
MommyGlam
Sitting in the doctor's waiting room, I flipped through a fashion magazine. The story of the day was that Lindsay Lohan is growing up into quite a sophisticated young lady with impeccable taste. She is so exceedingly stylish, in fact, that she has been known to go through as many as six outfits in a single day.
Yeah, I can totally relate.
Suddenly motherhood feels like quite a glamorous career.
Yeah, I can totally relate.
Suddenly motherhood feels like quite a glamorous career.
2.18.2006
Non-Appeasement Policy
"I have no idea what he's so upset about."
"I think maybe he wanted a whole sandwich, instead of a half."
"Well, if so, there are lots of ways to communicate that. Tantruming is not a recognized language around here."
"The government of this household does not negotiate with terrorists."
"I think maybe he wanted a whole sandwich, instead of a half."
"Well, if so, there are lots of ways to communicate that. Tantruming is not a recognized language around here."
"The government of this household does not negotiate with terrorists."
Yours and Mine
We were all enjoying a nice snack of peaches. Most of us, anyway. Tembo wasn't quite sure whether this bizarre new taste sensation was enjoyable or not. It certainly wasn't milk, that's for sure... And Meepo was temporarily confined to his "ba-doom," having been caught hurling cans of tuna across the kitchen.
When I brought Meepo back out of exile, his brother immediately got up from the little table, and greeted his brother with a smile, holding out a peach slice for him. When Nathan ignored this overture, Isaiah put the peach down on the table, and went back to his plate... which he promptly covered up with both hands.
Here you go, brother. I love you and will share a peach with you... but you keep your hands off my plate!
When I brought Meepo back out of exile, his brother immediately got up from the little table, and greeted his brother with a smile, holding out a peach slice for him. When Nathan ignored this overture, Isaiah put the peach down on the table, and went back to his plate... which he promptly covered up with both hands.
Here you go, brother. I love you and will share a peach with you... but you keep your hands off my plate!
2.17.2006
Adagios, Adagios, Adagios!
It's pledge drive time over at classical KUSC, that time of year when the woman with the syrupy voice talks about how very important classical music is to our lives, and how important exposure is to classical music, and how classical radio is all about exposure, exposure, exposure.
"Have you ever used the phrase 'let the music wash over you'? I know I have. And when I do, what I mean by it is to let the music relax and soothe you. Like a good backrub. Well, for this hour of our pledge drive, we will be playing nothing but adagios. Adagios, adagios, adagios. All music taken from two wonderful collections, aptly titled Adagios I and Adagios II."
It's an indecent sort of exposure, to hear adagio after adagio, unclothed by their allegros. An adagio is an intimate reflection on the the themes introduced (and eventually resolved) in the fast movements. Decontextualized, and lumped together like that, all form and meaning is lost and only the texture remains. Wonderfully sumptuous texture, to be sure. But this is not education, this is gluttony.
I let one amazing Brahms adagio wash over me, but that was quite enough. My tastes are a bit too snobbish and highbrow, I suppose.
So I quickly turned the dial over to the country station.
"Have you ever used the phrase 'let the music wash over you'? I know I have. And when I do, what I mean by it is to let the music relax and soothe you. Like a good backrub. Well, for this hour of our pledge drive, we will be playing nothing but adagios. Adagios, adagios, adagios. All music taken from two wonderful collections, aptly titled Adagios I and Adagios II."
It's an indecent sort of exposure, to hear adagio after adagio, unclothed by their allegros. An adagio is an intimate reflection on the the themes introduced (and eventually resolved) in the fast movements. Decontextualized, and lumped together like that, all form and meaning is lost and only the texture remains. Wonderfully sumptuous texture, to be sure. But this is not education, this is gluttony.
I let one amazing Brahms adagio wash over me, but that was quite enough. My tastes are a bit too snobbish and highbrow, I suppose.
So I quickly turned the dial over to the country station.
2.16.2006
Close Neighbors
Yesterday morning, when I poked my head outside and saw two extremely full garbage canisters out by the curb, I thought to myself, what a good man. After working two consecutive 16 hour days, he still thought to put out the trash before stumbling off to work again at 6am.
When Andy came home from work, he was quite pleased to see that his normally scatterbrained wife had remembered the trash, as evidenced by the two empty garbage canisters out by the curb.
We were both rather dismayed to find two extraordinarily full garbage canisters behind the house.
When Andy came home from work, he was quite pleased to see that his normally scatterbrained wife had remembered the trash, as evidenced by the two empty garbage canisters out by the curb.
We were both rather dismayed to find two extraordinarily full garbage canisters behind the house.
2.15.2006
Support Your Favorite Wuggies!
The good news is that my post Five Days has won an award over at Everyday Hogwash.
To the tune of two hundred dollars.
The even better news is that this puts me in line for a possible thousand dollar prize.
And the best news of all is that YOU, dear reader, have a chance to participate! All you have to do is click here. Scroll down just a smidge, and you'll see a little poll box on the right. There are three entries for this week, and mine is the middle one, Five Days.
Do hurry... voting ends on midnight of the 17th.
I'm so excited!
To the tune of two hundred dollars.
The even better news is that this puts me in line for a possible thousand dollar prize.
And the best news of all is that YOU, dear reader, have a chance to participate! All you have to do is click here. Scroll down just a smidge, and you'll see a little poll box on the right. There are three entries for this week, and mine is the middle one, Five Days.
Do hurry... voting ends on midnight of the 17th.
I'm so excited!
2.14.2006
For Valentines Day, Mr. Wuggidy got down on one knee and presented the girl he loves dearest with something very special. Something bright and sparkly, one of the most beautiful and intriguing things he's ever seen. A headlight, of course. I was so glad I had the camera on hand to capture the moment.
The Promised Land is a Mighty Sticky Place
You can't imagine how thankful I am that no honey was involved.
2.13.2006
Toothsome Dainty
Beyond the usual and ever-constant changediaper-here'sacupofwater-timeforafeeding-makepeanutbuttersandwiches-takethatbacktothekitchenyoungman-diaperchange-leaveyoursisteralone-backtothekitchenNOW... there are only three things I want to accomplish today.
Like cutting September's teeth.
Yes, you heard me right. I am cutting my daughter's teeth. Tembo's philosophy is that teething is hard work, and it goes a lot better when mom does it for you. So here I sit, massaging her gums, trying to coax that recalcitrant tooth out, while my little one gazes up at me beatifically.
And what am I to get out of all this hard work? A tooth. In my nursling daughter's mouth.
Ouch.
Thus I spent a good deal of time wondering how in the world I was going to escape the ineveitable body art. The custom-texturized tummy-skin is quite enough of a statement. I don't need my nipple pierced.
I find it rather ironic that the child who actually went ahead and bit me there is neither teething nor nursing.
He had absolutely no shadow of an excuse.
I, on the other hand, had quite an excellent excuse to exile him to his room for a very long time-out.
Allowing me to give my full attention to Tembo's tooth.
- There's a huge pile of clean laundry, and an even bigger pile of dirty laundry. Eliminating one or both is tremendously urgent, because it's only a matter of time before the two become one and start to reproduce.
- I am bound and determined to have dinner on the table, kids hands washed and everything, all ready to sit down the moment Andy walks in the door.
My biggest project of the day, however is:
3. Cutting teeth.
I'm actually only facilitating the cutting of Isaiah's teeth. Teething is hard work, and it goes a lot better with your arms around mom's neck. Which thrills my soul... and also makes it very difficult to accomplish any of my other tasks.Like cutting September's teeth.
Yes, you heard me right. I am cutting my daughter's teeth. Tembo's philosophy is that teething is hard work, and it goes a lot better when mom does it for you. So here I sit, massaging her gums, trying to coax that recalcitrant tooth out, while my little one gazes up at me beatifically.
And what am I to get out of all this hard work? A tooth. In my nursling daughter's mouth.
Ouch.
Thus I spent a good deal of time wondering how in the world I was going to escape the ineveitable body art. The custom-texturized tummy-skin is quite enough of a statement. I don't need my nipple pierced.
I find it rather ironic that the child who actually went ahead and bit me there is neither teething nor nursing.
He had absolutely no shadow of an excuse.
I, on the other hand, had quite an excellent excuse to exile him to his room for a very long time-out.
Allowing me to give my full attention to Tembo's tooth.
2.12.2006
Oh day of rest and gladness
Really. No day of rush and madness this time.
This has been probably the first truly restful Sunday morning I have ever experienced. Well, maybe not ever, but certainly since having kids. There's always quite a scramble. But today the boys have a minor sniffle. Not enough to slow them down any, but enough to make us think twice about spreading their germs around the church nursery.
So despite staying up very late last night, chatting and catching up---a blissfully restful start to our Sabbath---Andy got up early, and was all ready to dash out the door in time for the 8am service. The idea was that I could then go to the 9:45 service while he stayed home with the kids. But just as he was walking out the door, it occured to me that it would be very hectic to try to arrange a baby-swap in the short time between the services. "Wouldn't you rather just stay for a nice, relaxed pancake breakfast? Then I'll just stay home with the kids while you go to the 9:45."
And so we did just that. The house was sparkling clean, since Justy came over yesterday and took the kids while Andy and I got stuff done. And oh, it felt good. Andy read Scripture aloud while I whipped together some wholesomely yummy multi-grain pancakes, and cut up a platterful of fruit. "I AM the Resurrection and the Life. He who believes in Me, though he die, yet shall he live."
And then, after a short interlude to clean up the nail polish Isaiah dumped everywhere, and another short interlude to clean up the carpet after Tembo's blowout, we sat down to a leisurely breakfast. Sunlight streamed through the window, setting the freshly mopped floor aglow, highlighting the inviting curls of steam rising from our coffee cups. Nathan insisted on some coffee in his milk, an indulgence that perhaps I will regret. Isaiah was quite delighted with the hearty, corn-filled pancakes, and maple syrup. September just beamed from her high chair.
I didn't make quite enough pancakes, which turned out to be all for the best, since it turned our attention to the strawberries and oranges. Had there been more, we would have simply eaten our fill of pancakes, but as it was, we had quite a nice balance of pancakes and fruit.
There was plenty of time for the meal, and just as it felt like it was time to get up from the table, the clock announced that indeed, it was time for Andy to leave for church. He had, of course, been ready to step out the door since quarter to eight. So he quickly changed into a shirt that was not covered in spit-up, and left for church, where I presume he is tranquilly enjoying a service without interruption.
And I am home with the children, reading The Idiot. Perhaps reading a novel is a profane occupation of a Sunday morning, but not Dostoyevsky. It was remembering The Brothers Karamazov, I think, that brought that particular passage to Andy's mind this morning. "Lazarus come forth!" I hear the words of Christ resounding much more richly for having heard them in the voice of Alyosha. And now this morning, between the diaper changes and sopping up the spilled coffee, I am bathing in Prince Myshkin's holiness and mercy.
And oh, it is good.
This has been probably the first truly restful Sunday morning I have ever experienced. Well, maybe not ever, but certainly since having kids. There's always quite a scramble. But today the boys have a minor sniffle. Not enough to slow them down any, but enough to make us think twice about spreading their germs around the church nursery.
So despite staying up very late last night, chatting and catching up---a blissfully restful start to our Sabbath---Andy got up early, and was all ready to dash out the door in time for the 8am service. The idea was that I could then go to the 9:45 service while he stayed home with the kids. But just as he was walking out the door, it occured to me that it would be very hectic to try to arrange a baby-swap in the short time between the services. "Wouldn't you rather just stay for a nice, relaxed pancake breakfast? Then I'll just stay home with the kids while you go to the 9:45."
And so we did just that. The house was sparkling clean, since Justy came over yesterday and took the kids while Andy and I got stuff done. And oh, it felt good. Andy read Scripture aloud while I whipped together some wholesomely yummy multi-grain pancakes, and cut up a platterful of fruit. "I AM the Resurrection and the Life. He who believes in Me, though he die, yet shall he live."
And then, after a short interlude to clean up the nail polish Isaiah dumped everywhere, and another short interlude to clean up the carpet after Tembo's blowout, we sat down to a leisurely breakfast. Sunlight streamed through the window, setting the freshly mopped floor aglow, highlighting the inviting curls of steam rising from our coffee cups. Nathan insisted on some coffee in his milk, an indulgence that perhaps I will regret. Isaiah was quite delighted with the hearty, corn-filled pancakes, and maple syrup. September just beamed from her high chair.
I didn't make quite enough pancakes, which turned out to be all for the best, since it turned our attention to the strawberries and oranges. Had there been more, we would have simply eaten our fill of pancakes, but as it was, we had quite a nice balance of pancakes and fruit.
There was plenty of time for the meal, and just as it felt like it was time to get up from the table, the clock announced that indeed, it was time for Andy to leave for church. He had, of course, been ready to step out the door since quarter to eight. So he quickly changed into a shirt that was not covered in spit-up, and left for church, where I presume he is tranquilly enjoying a service without interruption.
And I am home with the children, reading The Idiot
. Perhaps reading a novel is a profane occupation of a Sunday morning, but not Dostoyevsky. It was remembering The Brothers Karamazov, I think, that brought that particular passage to Andy's mind this morning. "Lazarus come forth!" I hear the words of Christ resounding much more richly for having heard them in the voice of Alyosha. And now this morning, between the diaper changes and sopping up the spilled coffee, I am bathing in Prince Myshkin's holiness and mercy.And oh, it is good.
2.11.2006
On Holiday Shopping
Last night as I was looking over this week's grocery sale mailers, thoroughly bedecked with gushing hearts and flowers, it occurred to me that there are two sorts of minor holidays. There are some holidays that people may or may not splurge for, such as Labor Day, and Superbowl Sunday. In honor of those occasions, the grocery stores coax their customers into celebratory moods with specially low prices.
Other holidays, on the other hand, automatically induce splurging, all of their own accord. And so it is that the stores celebrate Valentines Day by gouging us all.
Can't you just feel the love?
Other holidays, on the other hand, automatically induce splurging, all of their own accord. And so it is that the stores celebrate Valentines Day by gouging us all.
Can't you just feel the love?
2.10.2006
Every time I look at my small Persephone-child, I am once again struck by how very much alive she is. More so in her stillness than in her squirmings, she gazes up at me with confident expectation, and the air vibrates with her vivacity.
Soft and snuggly and sweet and compliant, she is nevertheless very much her own person, and utterly self-contained.
And always I remember that first moment, when the doctor placed that naked little bundle of plumpitude across my new-deflated belly. With startling matter-of-fact-ness, I could almost hear her saying "Hey, everybody, here I am! Where's the party?"
Soft and snuggly and sweet and compliant, she is nevertheless very much her own person, and utterly self-contained.
And always I remember that first moment, when the doctor placed that naked little bundle of plumpitude across my new-deflated belly. With startling matter-of-fact-ness, I could almost hear her saying "Hey, everybody, here I am! Where's the party?"
2.09.2006
2.08.2006
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.
I gave first priority to discipline, and isolated him in his room for a few moments.
That was a big mistake.
2.07.2006
2.06.2006
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.
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.
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.
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.
2.03.2006
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.
Jessica has been posting frequent updates.
Thanks all.
Perspective
Classic Adventures: Finding Our Groove
Emily found this one, and it's really worth a read.
What a great perspective on motherhood!
Emily found this one, and it's really worth a read.
What a great perspective on motherhood!
2.01.2006
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.
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.
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