Drink a car?

When Nathan was small, we were sure he was born to be a painter. His greatest joy in life (aside from milk and kisses) was to stare at the light. So much so, in fact, that we took to referring to lights simply as "Meepo spots." Church was his favorite place in the world, and he would happily stare at the candles throughout the service. And we thought, surely this child is destined for the visual arts.

But as it turns out, it's Isaiah who loves to draw meticulous designs on his magna-doodle, concentric circles and spirals, and mommy, please won't you show me how to draw a duck? He was even very careful to color in the lines when he got a hold of a ball-point-pen and a library book...

But Nathan is mostly into music. Sometimes he and I will sit together at the piano, and I find that it's a great excercise to try to improvise around the notes he plays. And I can actually do that, because it's not random. There's little skill in what he does, but much intention.

Last night we downloaded the Jerry Garcia Acoustic Bandversion of Swing Low, Sweet Chariot. The song is amazing. I've always heard it slow and poignant. And I love it that way. But the joyous abandon of this rendition, the utter jubilation, untainted by the slightest hint of wistfulness or regret... It's the sort of thing that suddenly shifts life back into focus, reminds you what matters.

Meepo liked it too, and he curled up on the couch, head leaning on the armrest, and stared rapturously at the computer. Just soaking up the music. When the song ended, he did his best to keep the music going himself. "Lo-ow! Chay-yuh!"

This morning he was wandering about singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. He does that a lot, and with remarkably good pitch. But this was the first time the words were actually clear enough that I knew for certain that he was singing Twinkle Twinkle, not the alphabet song or Baa Baa Black Sheep. Actually, I always know he's not singing Baa Baa Black Sheep, since I don't actually sing that disturbing ditty to them, but the other two rhymes are quite muddled together. You see, I'm pretty sure that he initially learned the tune from a little electronic school bus that sings the alphabet. But whenever Andy or I joined him in his singing, we would unthinkingly wind up singing Twinkle Twinkle. I'd been a little curious as to which set of words he'd eventually pick up. This morning, when I heard him singing MY set of words, so clearly and distinctly, my soul swelled with triumph. What a superb role model am I, my son chooses to imitate ME, even over his favorite toy. Then I remembered that the singing school bus had fallen victim to a pouring experiment some weeks ago, so maybe that wasn't so significant after all.

At any rate, as he was singing, he approached me, clutching his empty cup, now drained of chocolate milk. He stopped, held the cup out, and looked up at me quizzically. He resumed his singing, slowly, emphatically, and questioningly, maintaining eye contact all the while, and punctuating each beat with a little bounce of his side-turned head.

"Drink a drink a... Drink a car?"

I thought maybe he was hoping I could explain the meaning of these bizarrely nonsensical lyrics, but Andy was pretty sure he meant to say "Drink a cup," except that the force of the rhyme required him to end in "ar." And indeed, why shouldn't he request a refill in this manner? After all, that's the sort of thing Andy and I do all the time, tweaking the words to silly songs, or making up our own, to say whatever it is we mean to say.

In any case, I went over to the fridge and fixed Nathan a second glass of chocolate milk. But by the time it was ready for him, he was busy at the computer.

Looking for Jerry Garcia, I expect.

Headbangers Ball, Vol. 2

I've always been under the impression that WalMart was a family-oriented sort of establishment. So when I searched walmart.com for a backyard wading pool, I was a bit surprised that only one result came up.

I was even more surprised at what it was.

Then I saw that the search engine had interpreted "kiddie pool" as "kid die pool," and I was surprised that anything had come up at all.

You know what?

I don't even want to know.

Happy Donut Day!

Don't forget to stop by Krispy Kreme for your free donut... no strings attached!

I'm sure there's a reason...

...why they always put all the elevator buttons well out of reach of toddlers.

Except the emergency alarm.

I'm sure there's a reason.

I just have no idea what it is.

Rush Hour on the Information Superhighway

You know how the freeway is always much faster than the surface streets?

Except at rush hour.

At which point it becomes w a a a a y y y y slower.

Well that's how it is with dsl and dialup.

Why is it...

...that when you're running late you hit all the red lights...

...and when you desperately need to blow your nose, you hit all the green ones?

The Fog

As a birthday gift, Andy took the kids to the zoo so I could compose. And here I am trying to find excuses to distract myself.

It's the same experience that Andy talks about with Geometry, I think. Staring into the utter chaos of the unknown and willing your mind to move forward.

Step

by step.

note

by note.

chord

by recalcitrant chord.

It's hard. It hurts. It's exhausting.

Above all, it's terrifying.

Because if I push through the fog and darkness, there will be music.

And I'm so afraid that my soul will burst with the exhiliration.

A warm welcome

After two long years in Cameroon, Sharon is finally back in California. I desperately wanted to meet her at LAX... but I got mixed up about the day, and missed my chance.

It was around 3:00 Wednesday afternoon when I realized that Sharon was not actually coming in on Thursday, but HAD arrived at 10:30 Wednesday morning. Desperately anxious to see her, I tried to track her down that evening. To no avail. She was off someplace with Jim. Surprise, surprise. It's probably just as well that I couldn't find his cell phone number, because then I would have had a terrible, guilt-wracked battle with myself over whether or not I was going to interrupt their first afternoon together since he flew down to Africa to propose six months ago.

As it was, all I could do was debate with myself how late I dared try calling her hosts again. In the end,I decided I really didn't dare call back at all, just leave a message and wait by the phone.

I wanted to call her first thing in the morning. I rationalized it to myself, saying that Sharon has always been an early riser, and jet-lag is on my side here...

But in the end, I waited, glancing at the clock incessantly, until the sensible hour of 8:30.

At which point I promptly discovered that she'd been doing the same for the past hour and a half.

At any rate, she and Jim were going to jaunt about hither and thither and yon, meeting various long-missed friends. They were meeting some of Jim's Fullerton pals at 1, and then they would just bop down the street to our house.

In my head, I knew full well that I shouldn't expect them until rather later in the afternoon, but from around 1:30 on, I jumped up and looked out the window every time I heard an approaching vehicle.

I talked to Andy on his cell phone at 3:30. He told me that a nurse from the insurance company was coming at 4:30. After the third kid arrives, it's time to beef up the life insurance, and of course the underwriters wanted to verify that he was't likely to make use of such a policy.

Shoot. I thought that was next week. Well, maybe Sharon and Jim and I can take the kids to the park or something.

Car after car passed right by our driveway, but finally, shortly after 4, one of them actually pulled. A willowy red-head stepped out and started walking toward our door. She'd changed a lot. Two years in Africa must have aged her twenty. I hardly recognized her.

I rushed to the door with my arms wide open, excitedly calling out my welcome. "Sharon!"

Inches away from a hearty embrace, I screeched to a halt, reeling with disorientation, and struggling to keep my balance while fighting the momentum propelling me into a stranger's arms.

She had a stethescope around her neck.

Sharon and Jim eventually did arrive, and the nurse was gone by then, and we had a wonderful evening together.

But when Sharon came to the door, I couldn't greet her with a hug. In fact, I had to send Andy to answer the door.

My hands were covered in pizza dough.

Heading straight over to the "do-not-call" registry

Dear "Tricia from the financial dept.", "Tim with the mortgage company", et. al.;

Actually, you can't give us a better rate on our mortgage. We rent. And Kelly, I think you have the wrong number, because your answering machine can't possibly be returning a call we never made. Especially not a call about mortgage rates, because like I said, we rent.

And Karen from AOL, why no, we are not current subscribers. For a very long list of very good reasons... but I'm sure you don't want to hear them, so please stop calling me before I feel compelled to list them off.

Most importantly, Officer Young, you know how they say that you should put potential customers at ease by calling them by their full name instead of just asking for the lady of the house? Well, it really doesn't work if you start off saying you're from the Police.

But I do hope your fundraiser goes well.

Really.

Sincerely,
Elena Johnston

Well, as a matter of fact...

Nathan looked over my shoulder as I was browsing the internet.

The article I was skimming happened to feature an image of a certain Hollywood plastic surgeon.

The sweet bug-o-mine pointed excitedly.

"Quack! Quack!"

Foaming at the mouth

I'm not entirely sure how soap ended up on my toothbrush.

I am quite sure how I feel about it.

Oh, the words that could have come out of my mouth...

Except that there was no way I wanted to wash it out again.

Brain Transplant

Andy insists it's more like a soul transplant. I don't know about that... but it was still pretty creepy.

It was amazingly simple. We left all the complicated details untouched. The keyboard, the monior the mouse... all the same. Just disconnect a few wires, find a place for the new box, plug it all in again, and you're good to go.

Even the dsl modem that we didn't pay $200 to have the technician install... so easy.

The hardest part of the whole process was figuring out how to turn the thing on. (Nothing's happening. Is the power supply connected? Oh... wait... that's the eject button for the 3.5...)

But when all was in place, and we finally found the right button...

The screen lit up emblazoned with the Compaq logo.

Not Toshiba.

And it's waking-up routine was all wrong.

Where was the endless series of warnings? It was supposed to inform us that the computer was positively on the verge of exploding... really shouldn't boot up... oh, if you insist... just this once...

No warnings, not error notices, no nothing.

It just... well... booted up.

Normally.

Which is abnormal enough, but on top of that, the order was all wrong, the fonts were all wrong. Everything. It was all wrong.

We stared incredulously.

And when it booted up, it was an entirely different computer. But with the same monitor, complete with the streaks from when Nathan "washed" it for me yesterday, and the same keyboard and the same mouse. The same body, really.

Nothing had changed except everything, and it spooked me out.

And when I looked over and saw that it spooked him out in exactly the same way, with the same proportions of glee and discomfort metaphysical musings, I remembered again why we were meant to be together.

Brain transplants are just so much more fun that way.

Soul Food

I figured it’d be a good idea to find out what all the hubbub was about, so I finally read The Da Vinci Code.It was a blast. Nothing spectacular, just a fast-paced thriller dealing with important spiritual themes. Rather along the lines of the Left Behindseries (as far as genre goes, not content), although perhaps not as well written. Dan Brown may not have much of a way with words—even the (overabundant) anagrams were spectacularly dull—but the plot was fabulous. That bit in the second chapter with the bar of soap and the GPS? So. Much. Fun.

And the way he jumbled together various elements of history was absolutely hilarious. A gnostic sect preserving knowledge of Christ’s... humanity? The ironic twists are riotously funny on so many levels. That he’s using this novel to blind the historically ignorant masses to the true nature of gnosticism just makes the inside jokes that much funnier. I suppose it would be funnier still if I was the sort of person (ie. a gnostic heretic) who generally liked the idea of keeping truth away from the general population.

At any rate, the big thing I learned from the DVC is that life is ever so much sweeter when I’m in the middle of a just-for-fun book. And Kripkedoesn’t count, even if he is amazingly light and fast-paced for a philosopher, and truly quite a fun read.

I need some mystery and adventure.

So I picked up a collection of Chesterton short stories, The Innocence of Father Brown.Fun, fun, fun.

And of course, I expected it to be fun. That is, after all, why I checked it out of the library. What I didn’t expect was for it to be brilliant and important.

But every bit as surprising as the doddering old priest who solves the mystery, is the light-hearted mystery story that turns all our ideas about faith and reason inside out.

If that wasn’t enough, as I began re-reading some of the stories aloud to my husband, I kept seeing crazy patterns to the structure of the book as a whole. Like theological banter, pretty much irrelevant to the plot at hand... but those ideas are the underlying theme to the next short story. Which has irrelevant theological banter of its own, which... well, you get the idea.

But the most amazing thing of all is that Chesterton’s ideas would so naturally express themselves in this way. It is a winsome Christianity indeed, that flows out in such sweetness and wit.

G. K. Chesterton is a newfound hero of mine.

 

The Dread Pirate Tembo 

Whee! 

 

 

Doopahs with the Dadders. 

I think I see some monkeys... 

Graduation

Last night I was amazed, and a little bit wistful at how hugemongomous my (once) tiny baby had become.

This morning, when I looked at her delicate features perfect form, rising and falling with each sleepy breath, I realized that she was the tiniest little doopah-girl imaginable.

She's growing up.

Experimenting with Forms

Since I'm not studying Plato, I'm studying philosophy of play-dough, instead.

I love recipe*zaar.

Thousands and thousands of recipes. Some of them are good, some of them are lousy... but most of them have reader comments explaining why they are good or lousy, and how they experimented with the recipe, and how their experimentation made the recipe better or lousier.

And best of all, you can sort the recipes according to rating.

So lately, whenever I'm looking for a recipe, I'll just examine the top three or four recipes that dozens of people have given 5 stars. I'll also read a bunch of the comments, and get a feel for what made each of the five star recipes so great. Then I'll try to combine the best elements of each recipe, and come up with my own.

So here's the play dough I made yesterday. And I must say, I liked it very much.

Combine in medium saucepan:
1/3 cup flour
1/3 cup cornstarch
1/3 cup salt

Add:
1/3 cup vegetable oil

Knead together with a big spoon over low heat.

A few drops at a time, slowly add 3/4 cup water, fully incorporating the water before adding more.

Keep kneading it over the stove until it feels like... well... play-dough.

Color as desired.

I divided it into two lumps, and used six drops of blue in the one, six drops of green in the other. My aesthetic sensibilities would not allow me to give them a variety of colors that would inevitably mix together into a revolting sludge.

It's a little bit oily, so do be careful not to get it on things. But then again, you knew to be careful already, since it has food coloring in it. And the oil is what keeps the salt from drying your hands out.

I'm going to keep experimenting, and tweaking things, but I do think it turned out well.

Pruning

I won't be taking the Republic Meta-Torrey next fall. It's a strange feeling. I've wanted so desperately to take that class for the last five years or so, and for the first time, it finally fits beautifully into my schedule. It's on one of Andy's days off and everything... it's just perfect.

But I've decided to sign up for the regular Junior Fall class instead. They haven't posted the readings yet, so I'm not even sure what I'll be studying. I'm pretty sure it's the Russians, but they've been shuffling things up so much, I don't really know exactly. Anyway, it's not some consuming passion, some particular topic that I desire even more than Plato, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Just Junior Fall, the ordinary, year after year upper-division course that happens to mesh with my schedule. It meshes with my schedule almost as well as the Republic class.

When I was a Freshman, the Republic turned my world inside-out and upside-down. The universe opened up as something more real and more beautiful than I'd ever imagined.

When I was a Sophomore, a group of twelve blessed, blessed upperclassmen studied Plato all semester long. I burned with desire to join them, but I was a lowly Sophomore.

When I was a Junior, all the groups were splitting up, going in different directions, and we, the people of Rossetti, wanted to stick together. So we proposed a class on Augustine's Confessions, and in that way we stayed together one semester more. I wanted to take the Republic, but I wanted to stay with Rossetti more.

That Spring it became futile to try to stay together anymore, so I could have taken the Republic... except that Dr. Reynolds was teaching a class on the philosophy of science. And that was an opportunity I couldn't pass up. The topic had nothing to do with my particular interests, except in so far as clarity on that issue is essential to anyone who wishes to be a thinking person in a science-driven world. Whether or not I was particularly passionate about the topic, I needed to understand these things, and Dr. Reynolds is right up there at the forefront of this area.

And then I had babies, and the next chance I had to take a class, they were offering philosophy of music, which is exactly my thing...

But now, finally, I could take the Republic... and I'm not going to.

Not that I wouldn't love to. But it's not really what I need right now. I guess I've already done the Plato thing, and it's time to move on.

Not that I know all there is to know about Plato, just that I probably know all the Plato I need to know right now. My academic place in the Kingdom is not as a Plato scholar. I am to be a composer and a philosopher of music. And Plato really does have a place in all that. It was the Republic, after all, that convinced me that philosophy of music is of earth-shattering importance, closely intertwined with the rise and fall of nations and souls.

I know I'll be coming back to the Republic, but right now, what I need is a solid broad foundation, and some good hard-core analytic philosophy.

The Republic would be good, so good, and it hurts not to take it. But there's only so much I can do, and I know I need to sacrifice the good for the better.

And I'm reminded of a quotation Jessica brought up in a recent online discussion.

"To live is to choose, and to choose is to deny oneself. The person who wants to
do too many things in life, or cultivates innumerable interests and hobbies, is
dispersed, and will not be outstanding in anything.
"One must have the
courage to make choices, to put some secondary interests to one side to
concentrate on the primary. To prune!"

— Fr. Raniero Cantalamessa

Futility

We were all hungry when Andy got home, so I whipped up some french toast, and we ate right away. Thus it was that we were done with supper at 4:30, leaving the evening wide open.

Nathan pounced on Andy, book in hand, and demanded a story. As they snuggled up together in the glider, Andy proposed that after the story, he would slip off to Starbucks for a bit of solitude. Then he’d come back and give me a chance to get out of the house.
I thought that sounded like a good idea. Maybe he could read TWO stories, though? That way I’d be able to get in a quick shower.

I’d actually bathed earlier in the day. Sort of. Mostly. Except Tembo started screaming, and I hopped out to console her, dripping wet and wrapped in a towel. As I nursed her back into her nap, the boys pulled down the full length mirror and started jumping on it. The four-foot strip of glass rippled ominously beneath their weight. I quickly set the baby down (completely waking her up again) and whisked the mirror back into our bedroom.

I was amazed and relieved that the mirror had not broken. Broken mirrors are an ill omen indeed with toddlers about. Nothing is ever quite so fascinating (or yummy, for that matter) as broken glass. I was ever so glad that we were going to make it through this fiasco without injury.

The wuggy-boys, on the other hand, were horrified and indignant that I was taking away their wonderful toy. And you have to admit, it must be a pretty amazing experience to jump on a mirror, with no floor that you can see, and an image of yourself jumping upside-down beneath you.... But take it away, I did, and Nathan ran behind me, screaming his protest.

I tucked the mirror just inside the bedroom, and quickly shut the door. Nathan just stood there and wailed.

His finger was stuck in the hinge side of the door.

A little neosporin and a lot of kisses... tickles for distraction... a bandaid and a thousand hugs and two Tylenol Meltaways... Several rouns of altoids, because it’s not fair that Isaiah can’t have the yummy Tylenol... and several more rounds of Altoids, as I quickly gathered up the spilled tin...

Nathan was okay.

Eventually.

But my hair was still very much in need of a wash. I was glad of the chance to hop back in the shower while Andy read to the boys.

By the time I emerged from the bathroom, clean and fresh, they were done reading and had moved on to another fun activity.

We quickly passed off the reins, so to speak. Andy kissed me, then gleefully hopped into the car, eager for his hour of Euclid, and I settled into the chair on the porch steps to supervise the mud-pie project.

As the little green Tercel turned around the corner, out of sight, the irony began to dawn on me.

Cleanliness may well be next to godliness, but I’m afraid it’s far away from motherhood.

Problem is, I'll never be able to drink Starbucks again.

I just got back from a coffee tasting. Well, not exactly. I got back shortly after midnight, and there was some sleeping done between then and now, but the caffein is still coursing through me, so I snapped wide awake when Andy left for work four hours later. Maybe I'll be able to get some composing in before the kids wake up.

Anyway, it was a blast. Greg and Christina Peters hosted, but Sara Prehn presided over all coffee preparation. I had heard that she was a coffee snob, but I had no idea to what extent. To be perfectly honest, I had no idea how far it was possible for coffee-snobbery to extend. Anyway, over the course of the evening, I learned much about the home-roasting process, and how the various stages bring out the different flavors, and how each region infuses its coffee with its own particular flavor.

Frankly, that last bit was mildly disturbing, given that the coffee of the night was Kopi Luwak. I'd explain, except that this is a family blog. Just google it. There's even a search box for you in the sidebar. Be enlightened.

At any rate, despite its sordid past, the coffee was sublime and multi-layered. Ethereal and earthy, the sort of thing you'd expect dryads to drink.

If dryads drank coffee.

The Great Similac Conspiracy

From time to time we get a newsletter from the Love and Logic people. It makes for enjoyable reading—the articles offer generally sensible perspectives on various aspects of parenting, and they always use entertaining stories to get the point across. Nothing earth-shattering, since it’s all pretty much the same stuff as in the books. The latest one, however, sparked an epiphany, and I’ve been mulling over it for the past few weeks. In case you’re wondering why I’ve slacked off on the posting, this is why. My noggin has been way too busy. Mulling, mulling, mulling. Anyway, this article attempted to explain and remedy dental fear, and suddenly, all sorts of things started clicking into place. The woman at the learning store... the diaper bag full of glossy pamphlets... it all made sense now.

You see, pain and discomfort used to be inherent to any dental work, but the drugs and procedures have come a long way, and it simply is not as big a deal as it used to be. Still, many kids are terrified of the dentist. Jim Fay surmises that this has little to do with the child’s actual experience in the dentist’s chair, and, ironically enough, everything to do with the parent’s fervent attempts to reassure them.

Our unspoken assumptions impact our children far more powerfully than the actual words we say. They know perfectly well that we wouldn’t waste our time on reassuring them unless we thought it was scary in the first place. Fay recalls watching a little boy and his mother in the waiting room. The boy marched merrily behind the dentist, following him into the back... until his mother called out, “Don’t worry, sweetheart! It’s not going to hurt a bit.”

At which point the little boy wheeled around, ran back, and buried his face in his mother’s skirts.

Sometimes when we reassure our children, we introduce them to fears that they never would have come up with on their own.

I’m wondering if that concept might explain why formula companies find it in their best interest to send reams of breastfeeding advice to every new mom. It might also explain why the poised, confident, health-conscious, well-educated stay-at-home mom I met at the Learning Store was so utterly convinced that breastfeeding would be too difficult and complicated to fit into their lifestyle. They do a lot of traveling as a family, you see, and she just couldn’t imagine trying to nurse on the road.

I was a bit non-plussed. Truth is, breastfeeding is supremely portable, and way more convenient than formula, in my experience. No bottles to sterilize, no formula to mix... and nothing to pack except the baby. It’s totally do-able. Really.

But come to think of it, you certainly wouldn’t know it to read those pamphlets. Don’t get me wrong—the advice is all very sound and pro-breastfeeding. Exactly the sort of thing that you’d hear from a good lactation consultant if you were having a tough time of it.

If you were having a tough time of it.

A tranquil room with soft mood lighting, husband always available to rearrange your pillow formation, refill your ice water and maybe give you a foot massage... all that sounds good. Really good.

But when it comes right down to it, and you’re barreling down the freeway at 60 miles an hour, sitting in the back seat leaning over baby’s carseat... well, that’ll do, too.

There are lots of women out there who have a hard time breastfeeding, for whom it’s a constant up-hill battle, and I don’t mean to denigrate any of them. We live in a fallen world, and our bodies don’t always do exactly what they’re supposed to. Fortunately, a little mood lighting, a few comfy pillows and some TLC can fix a lot. Stress can be at the root of all sorts of trouble.

Come to think of it, all that sounds like a great way to start out, too. Pillows and soft light and lots of help can make it a whole lot easier to get comfy with this new experience. Besides, breastfeeding is the perfect excuse to get all the rest you desperately need postpartum, so you may as well milk it for all it’s worth.

But if the pillow constellations and arm-positioning diagrams start to look daunting, just relax. The bottom line is, you should make sure baby’s mouth can reach your breast.

If you can manage to keep two hands free for blogging, so much the better.

A Long Sentence; Five Terms

In cleaning out the van, Andy came across the sunshade to Aiden's car seat. Nathan immediately recognized the item, but upon glancing around, noted that its owner was nowhere to be seen.

"Ai'n not play here. Bye-bye."

I was pretty impressed. I do believe that's his most complex usage of the English language to date.

Not that it's the longest sentence he's made, or most complex idea he's communicated... but most of it just goes right over my head. My twinspeak is rudimentary.

Very rudimentary. In fact I only know one word.

Ah'-ee, which refers to bicycles, tricycles, and motorcycles, and has no known roots in English. Ah'-ee.

It's just one word, but from what I've heard about other parents' experiences with twin languages, I'm proud of knowing even a single word.

Ah'-ee.

Onomatopoeia

Sound-effects are an important part of every toddler's world.

Doggies go "woof-woof."

Cows go "moo."

Cars go "vroom vroom."

Ducks go... well, they don't exactly quack, but they make a convincingly duck-like noise.

And trains go "train-train-train-train-train."

Now that they have new shopping carts...

...we can shop at Trader Joes again. Problem is, we take up half the store...

His tantrum had quieted down, so I went to let him out of his room. But I could couldn't get the door open. I guess he needed a nap... 

 

 

 

 

Family pictures are an... adventure. Everybody simultaneously smiling at the camera? I think not. But the twins are at the same angle. That should count for something... right? 

On Motherhood and the Sacraments

Jennifer Snell is a breathtakingly beautiful soul.

Be blessed and inspired.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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!”

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.

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!"

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!

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...

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.”

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!

He is Risen!

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.

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?

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 the disturbing childrens book award goes to...

...this..

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Who says motherhood is a thankless task?

Clearing the lint filter on the dryer earns me thundrous applause from my adoring fans.

=)

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.

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.

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.

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!”

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!"

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...

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.

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. =)

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.

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.

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!"

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.

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.

$1.29

Who says money can't buy happiness?

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."

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.

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.

Blah, blah, blah!

She don't got much to say, but she certainly can say it.

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?

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.

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.

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.

"Andy, come here! Look at the adorable outfit your mom sent for September!"
"How cute."
"You didn't even look!"
"I did look!"

...5 min....

"Oh what beautiful pants! She's like a little barbie doll. Is this the outfit my mom sent?"