Shell-shocked

I'm not quite sure who's more exhausted.

I simultaneously played the contradictory roles of matron of honor and composer.

...while Andy played both Daddy and Mommy.

In 110+ weather.

Without air conditioning.

When we got back, we wanted to take the kids straight to Baskin Robbins for being such amazingly well-behaved little angels through most of the weekend.

And then tear them limb from limb for having thrown tantrums all through the actual wedding and reception, allowing Andy to see none of it.

(We did neither, by the way.)

Actually, the fits didn't start until after the processional, so Andy did get to see that.

Such as it was.

After all the sweat, blood, and tears I poured into making the music line up with the structure of the event... the slow, dignified procession of the first six bridesmaids... a simple, repeating theme, firmly established... tension builds as Heather walks, builds into positive angst as I process, four bars of as much tension as you can possibly get away with in a wedding processional... breaking suddenly into sweetness and light as the flower girl sprinkles loveliness and innocence. All tension is released... but it's really something of a prolonged deceptive cadence, because we're in the wrong key now. We started out in F major, now we're in the sub-mediant, D major. A little stretching of the melody, and we seamlessly transition into the key of E major, just a half step below our original tonic. The music is still sweet and innocent and pretty, but structurally we're in an area of such intense anticipation that Mozart would never have dared do such a thing. Once the flower girl has reached the front, the music accellerates through a positively dizzying chord progression, and there's a sense of vertigo... until suddenly the bride is standing at the back of the church on her father's arm, everyone stands up, and bells begin to peal... suddenly we're right back where we started, but so much richer and fuller... as she reaches the front the music softly returns to its initial simplicity, and underneath the final chord is a little abbreviated summation of our journey.

That was what was supposed to happen.

What really happened was that the musicians forgot the repeat, and the bridesmaids weren't all out by the time the bride's music had started, and it was really quite amazing that Sharon made it to the front before the music stopped. And nobody knew to stand up until she was halfway down, but they really couldn't see her anyway because of the eight bridesmaids still in the aisle.

It hurts.

A lot.

I worked so hard on this work of art. I poured so much of myself into it, at great cost. This piece of music mattered a lot to me... still does.

But for the actualization of it, I had to depend on others. Others who hadn't just poured three months of their lives into it, who weren't nearly so invested in it.

I think it's so special and meaningful to have dear friends play for weddings, rather than the cold perfection of professional strangers. I am a huge fan of amatuer music.

But it does present some problems. Because when your job isn't on the line, when you're just doing this as a favor for a friend, there's always going to be something higher priority going on.

Emily had family responsibilities. Not messing up Jonathan's nap schedule was the top priority for her, and so she left late in the morning, with no margin for error. When traffic inevitably went sour, she missed the musicians rehearsal altogether. They squeaked in just in time for the actual wedding rehearsal... and it was a fiasco.

Jessica had a big deal master class the week before, with a renowned violinist. The music for the master class was much harder than the music for the wedding... and a master class is a whole lot more intimidating than a friend's wedding. So she was busy with the master class, and hadn't touched the wedding music for a week. Unfortunately, I'd finished her final draft a week ago, and added some difficult passages. They weren't very difficult, but much harder than the parts she'd already practiced.

And she sight-read them at the rehearsal.

The problem wasn't with the quality of the musicians. The problem was that this event was part of their personal lives, not their professional lives. And personal lives are inherently complicated and multi-faceted, and there's a lot of potential for things to go wrong.

And of course, this all applies to me, as well. This music was a big deal to me, on a professional level, because if it went well, I had high hopes of obtaining paying gigs writing wedding music. But when it came to the actual rehearsal, I wasn't just the composer, I was also matron of honor. And so when the pianist asked for a tempo, three other people were vying for my attention, and I was in quite a hurry. So I gave him the tempo real quick.

As in twice as quick as it should have been.

All in all, though, I think it went far better than it might have, and for that I am thankful. It was not the spectacular high point that I had envisioned, but it wasn't a disaster, either. It was very pretty, and certainly quite an improvement over Here Comes the Bride.

And it was special precisely because it was done by real people who love Sharon in the midst of their real lives.

And in the end, Sharon and Jim are married, and that's what matters.

And I have lots of thoughts about that...

...but I'm an amateur blogger, and real life calls.

Defiance Defeated

A certain passage had a measure flagrantly full of parallel fifths. Very much against the rules, and all that, but I liked the way it sounded. And so, as we examined the logistics of the score, Emily and I were remarked about the guilty pleasure we derive from flouting voice leading rules.

But of course, Emily doesn't have enough hands, and David doesn't have enough hands to cover for her. And Debra doesn't have enough hands to cover for them, either...

I breifly considered contacting the aquarium, to inquire about renting an octopus. Of course, we'd have to set up a round table for him, which might be a tad awkward, but "The Bells of the Round Table" has quite a ring to it, don't you think?

Then again, if I just take out the parallel fifths, the problem goes away.

And it sounds better, too.

But don't tell Dr. Browning I said so, okay?

A conversation between bride and handbell player, as relayed to composer

"Aaauugh!!! She added bells! And what's this? Another piano?!"

"Oh, no, that's just Emily's handbell part."

"Um... and just how many hands does Emily have?"

Not quite enough. Which is why I'm afraid you're going to have to take over a few of her bells for her, David.

I hope you don't mind.

No Pain Intended

"...your hourly traffic report is brought to you in part by 1-800-DENTIST. Ok, so here's the drill..."

Photo courtesy of Daniel Peckham.

Bedtime Bible Stories

"This boy is David. When he was just a few years older than you, he killed Goliath with a rock, chopped off his head, and picked it by the hair. It was pretty amazing."

"And please don't try this on your brother."

Let it be known

that I hate finale.

Grrrr....

Why, why, why, can't I copy the violin part of score A onto the violin part of score B? Why must it insist on copying the piano part onto the violin part? And why can I only extract the piano part?

And above all... why, when I copy and paste the whole bloomin' thing, does it copy yesterday's edition, and refuse to reflect any recent changes whatsoever?

To Whom It May Concern:

This letter refers to the amount requested to be paid to ______ as reflected on the payment stub contained in this envelope.

This amount cannot be exacted from anyone at this address for the following reasons:

1) The debt has been incurred by a Nathan A. Johnson. Please note that no such person resides at this address. There is a Nathan S. Johnston. Please note the differences in the spelling of the names.

2) Nathan S. Johnston is a minor. Specifically, he is 2 1/2 years old. He does not have a bank account, nor does he have access to any means of convincing creditors that he would be able to make good on any debt whatsoever.

A medical record from Nathan's place of birth has been enclosed. Further evidence of his identity, age, etc. can be provided in small claims court if necessary.

Sincerely,
Andrew Johnston

Funnier in context.

Funny enough on its own... but oh so much funnier when Mr. Wuggidy nods sagely in sympathetic agreement.

"Stinky. Stinky."

"So which part are you working on?"

"Oh, still the same spot as last night."

"You mean the part where the groomsmen tear off their secretly velcroed tuxes, revealing their metalic MC Hammer pants, and dance into place?"

"Exactly."

Adjusted Expectations

Everything takes nearly twice as long as you'd expect.

I know this all too well.

But this morning, I was pleasantly surprised to notice that nothing takes quite twice as long as you'd expect.

Or maybe it's just that things take a reasonable amount of time before the kids wake up.

Whatever the case, there's time for a shower after all.

Or would be... except that I blogged.

The Dress . . . es.

In case you didn't notice, I haven't been blogging much lately. This is partly due to the fact that I'm trying to figure out how to make an extended modulation into the submediant make sense. I'm not sure that you're really supposed to modulate into the submediant... but the music has to modulate into the submediant, there's no way around it. Which is exactly what I get for trying to use such avant-garde techniques on such a traditional-sounding piece. I have so many structures holding the music together, that it is quite in danger of falling apart. Too many cooks spoil the soup, and all that. I'll figure it out... I think... and if not, it's still very pretty, and will still hold together much better than a gorgeous classical masterpiece chopped up to fit the time constraints of the occasion. It will all be okay.

But I haven't been blogging much lately.

The other reason I haven't been blogging lately is that I've been busy showering. No, not that kind of showering... though, given the heat, that too! I've been throwing bridal showers... two of them, and just one week apart! Both were lots of fun, thanks to much help from Sheri and Becka and Ingrid and Heather and Mrs. Harrington, and no thanks at all to the heat.

My goodness, it's nice to breathe again.

But the real reason I haven't been blogging is The Dress . . . es.

Sharon was in Cameroon when she got engaged. Which was very lovely and romantic. A moonlight walk on the beach is always a lovely setting for a proposal, but equatorial moonlight is something far more special than anything you can find here in Southern California. Especially when the almanac declares it to be the brightest full moon in 18 years. Add in all the miles her true love flew, to see her and to see the place where she'd been all through their email-based courtship... well, it was simply perfect.

Except from a wedding-planning standpoint, of course.

Since Sharon was still on the mission field until the end of May, Heather selected fabric for the bridesmaids dresses. Sharon wanted us to each wear dresses that we liked, and could wear again, so she told us to each pick out our own pattern, and have it made in the same fabric. Heather found a lovely hunter green crepe-backed satin at Jo-Ann's. A standard fabric, they'd carried it continuously for the past 8 years, at least.

They discontinued it within the month.

Heather had her dress. Ingrid had $80 worth of hunter green crepe-backed satin, ready to be made into a dress. Angela Suzanne and Kate Harrington had bought pre-made dresses in the same color. And Stacia, Angela Hope, Becka, and I had no idea what to do.

Stacia ordered swatches from an online fabric company, and we waited with bated breath to see if they'd match. We still don't know if the fabrics match, but we do know that they take a very, very long time to process orders. I'm fairly certain it's been over a month, and we still haven't seen the swatch.

But all that's moot by now.

When we were up at the Harringtons' for the bachelorette party, we started talking about bridesmaid dresses. Kate ran upstairs and brought hers down to show us.

It was lovely. Simple princess lines, with tasteful beadwork around the neck, and an adorable "envelope back." It will be beautiful on her.

But it wasn't anything like what I expected. I hadn't actually seen a swatch of fabric, but this was a very different color from anything I would have called "hunter green."

"Wow. So is this the color we're doing? I haven't seen a swatch yet."

Neither had Kate, actually. But she figured, hunter green is hunter green, so it should be okay.

Perhaps.

Perhaps not.

But in any case, it definitely wasn't hunter green. I would have called it leaf green. Ingrid would have called it kelly green.

After much research and brainstorming, I finally learned that David's Bridal calls it "Emerald," and that it is part of their "color expressions" line. Which means that they have a wide range of styles in that color, one of which was much better suited for me, both in terms of figure and budget. (I'm petite... in both departments!) It's also chiffon, rather than satin, and so will tie in the texture of Angela Suzanne's dress. Which is in the original color, but a different fabric.

Sharon and Jim stopped by on their way to Fresno, and watched the wuggies while I picked up my dress. It actually comes with a scarf, which will be quite convenient for Becka as she tries to find a matching fabric for herself and Stacia to use.

Four of us will be in hunter, four in emerald. We'll be staggered, so it's every other, every other. When we held the swatch against my dress, we were amazed at what a gorgeous color combination it is. I think it will actually look more pulled-together than everybody in the same shade. Certainly it will look better on Becka and I than hunter green.

It's going to be lovely.

Really.

But oh, the trauma.

That mocha frappuccino last night was much needed. And it was good to have some time alone with Andy, without being the slightest bit tempted to talk his ear off about boring bridal shower details. Thankfully, he didn't mind so much hearing about how well it went, aside from the stifling heat, how good I feel about accomplishing this logistical feat, even though I still have no idea why it is so complicated, and how glad I am that it is over and done. Probably he didn't mind because little as he may care about flower arrangements and games, he can actually relate to that last sentiment. He's glad it's over, too.

As I sat there under the hunter green umbrella, I looked up at the bright green letters over my head.

Yup. The starbucks colors.

Exactly the same combination as the bridesmaid dresses.

I'll take that as aesthetic confirmation.

Opportunity for growth

If you've known me for long, you've probably already figured out that I'm not big on confrontation. Almost always, I would rather keep the peace than have things any particular way. Hence, I always hang back and wait for somebody else to take the lead.

Which turns out not to always be the best way to keep the peace. Balance is important, and there's a time to lead and a time to follow. Spinelessness doesn't work much better than bossiness for keeping the peace. The fact is, it isn't that important to Andy how the household is run... it's just important that it BE run. And not by him. Whatever thoughtful decisions I make, it'll probably be okay. As long as I actually make them, and manage to keep his involvement to a minimum.

I know all this in my head. And I know from experience just how badly my current m.o. works. But it's awfully hard to habituate yourself to new relational patterns that seem to go directly against deeply held values. The old habits don't really promote peace and harmony, and the new ones don't really contradict it... but it always feels that way in the moment.

At any rate, the role of matron of honor is stretching me. A lot. And the funny thing is, I really don't mean that as an euphamism for "nasty, unpleasant experience that I'm trying to make the best of."

I'm having a lot of fun. But I'm having to take leadership. Which is strange and uncomfortable for me--especially when I'm collaborating with people who naturally like to take charge. But there's a level of clarity that comes from the fact that none of this is about me, I am simply advocating the bride's interests. A whole level of second-guessing is eliminated, because I know I'm thinking clearly about all this. I'm not emotionally invested in any of the specifics, only in Sharon's happiness.

Of course, I'm still invested in smooth relationships for my own sake, and even more importantly, for Sharon's sake. But since I have a certain measure of emotional distance from the situation, I can think clearly about what decisions would best preserve relationships, make everyone as comfortable as possible, etc.

This is not easy... but it's good. I'm learning, and I'm growing, and it feels good.

The front stairs.

I was thinking surprise, not shock.

She assured me that it was nothing scandalous, just cutesie little hawaiian-themed boy-shorts.

That wasn't what I was worried about.

I didn't care if it was granny-briefs or bunny-tail thongs... a garland of underpants on the front steps was going a little too far.

I wanted to surprise the bride, not the neighbors.

I told her maybe putting the garland out by the pool would be a better idea. She was bewildered at my prudishness--after all, they were just cutesie little hawaiian-themed boy-shorts--but agreed to try hanging them along the back fence.

When the time rolled around for the party, we got onto the wrong freeway. Thanks to cell phones, we eventually found our way to Thousand Oaks... about 5 seconds after the guest of honor arrived.

Apparently she was surprised.

Very surprised.

But neither horrified nor humiliated... despite the fact that the underpants were hung according to original plan after all.

Along the bannister of the gracefully sweeping spiral staircase.

You know...

the front stairs.

Afterwards, I complimented Mrs. Harrington on the fun and creative decor. We had a good laugh when I explained my fears to her.

"Oh... I wish I'd thought of that!"

I'm glad she didn't.

How stupid can I get.

We just had a nasty argument over how best to structure our day.

We're doing things my way.

Which means I'm stuck doing all the nasty obnoxious errands.

Why oh why do I do this to myself?

ps.

That stuff about the oddly-shaped sanctuary? Fixed. I'm not entirely clear on how, not having actually seen the place, butsomehow they've arranged it so as to have everyone enter from the back.

Including Sharon. Especially Sharon.

So that means we can greet her with pealing bells and a violin cadenza after all.

I showed it to her last night, and her reaction was absolutely perfect. She loved it!

And that's the important thing.

Finished.

There's a lot of formatting left to do. And when you're just starting to figure out Finale, that's no small thing.

But all the material is all there, and worst case scenario, I could print out a very unprofessional-looking score right now and insert the necessary markings by hand.

And there's still a month before the wedding!

I'll still dink around with it. Andy's promised to give me a bunch of time to compose during the month of July, and there's no lack of ways to use it. There's one measure that I'd like to alter a little bit, to make it a tad less repetative. And of course I want to get some feedback from fellow musicians.

It would be very lovely to lengthen it out such that the bridesmaids would enter ever 16 beats, as opposed to every 8, so that each would enter at the start of a new semi-phrase. It would be even more special if I made each variation somehow reflective of the different bridesmaids, so that it would be a Stacia-ish permutation of the theme while Stacia processed, and a Heather-ish one while Heather processed, etc, etc, etc. But with eight of us, I'm not so sure how practical that is... Besides the fact that making all the phrases of uniform length could have quite a stagnating effect. We'll see.

But in any case, I can safely experiment around with all that, secure in the knowledge that I have something ready in any case.

It's a good feeling.

(I can't believe it. My music is actually going to be performed. At my best friend's wedding. As the processional, no less. In case you hadn't noticed, I am very, very excited.)

Our Cat

He weighs approximately half a ton. He takes up half our driveway.

And the resulting mess... is exactly what you'd expect from a beast that size.

We love our Doopah-Mobile. Really and truly. He's a blessing straight from heaven.

A heaven-sent blessing that leaked a LOT of power-steering fluid.

But, you don't look a gift horse in the mouth, and you don't look a gift van in the steering system. You just faithfully place a cardboard box under the leak.

Except when you forget.

The van mysteriously stopped leaking right around the time when we finally ran out of boxes from the move. It had been bad, very bad, and getting progressively worse every day. And then... it stopped leaking altogether. We found this a bit disturbing... but that's another one of those blessings that you just don't question. If you can't complain about the leaks in a free van, surely you can't complain when they fix themselves.

Anyway, the leak hasn't really been a problem for a while now... until last week. Last week, the management did an inspection of the property, and gave out notices to everyone with excessive oil stains. Clean it up by Monday morning, or be charged for the professional cleaning.

So after church on Sunday, Andy doused the driveway with dishsoap. It took about half a bottle of Dawn to cover all the stains.

Economy size.

That's a lot of dishsoap.

Andy scrubbed, and rinsed, and soaked everything up in five pounds of kitty litter. Then he put a long barrier of kitty litter around the perimeter of the stained area. And I scrubbed, and rinsed, and swooshed the water down into the kitty litter, while Andy went to Stater Bros. to buy more kitty litter.

It was looking really good. Much to our astonishment, the oil was actually coming up. The part underneath the kitty litter was a big swath of gookiness, but the rest of it looked amazingly good. Soapy, but good.

The super-odor-eating stuff was on sale, so that's what Andy got. And boy, was it pungent. So strong, I almost wanted a cat, so as to neutralize the odor.

One hundred pounds of extra-odour-control kitty litter later, we finally decided to give up on trying to soak it all up. We just hosed the driveway down and let the soapy water all run down into the street.

And back down into our driveway again.

And up into the neighbor's driveway.

Apparently, we have no drainage. Whatsoever.

After a good hour of spraying, our lawn is well watered. The neighbor's lawn is well watered. And if you believe in home remedies like that, you can be sure we won't be having any insect problems for a long time.

The driveway is still very soapy. I hope and pray that it was good enough to pass their inspection. It would be terribly ironic to work so hard to clean up the oil, and then have to pay them to remove the soap.

But on the other hand, the whole experience rather put things into perspective.

$150 for driveway cleaning?

Major bargain.

The other thing I learned was that I'm really not interested in cat-ownership.

Come on, now...

Isn't ANYBODY going to inquire about our cat?

A pile of kitty litter does not a sandbox make.

An eye-opening conversation

Nathan has been babbling in complex sentences for quite some time. His intonation is perfect, if a bit exaggerated, and I love listening to his well-modulated voice. He's quite the engagingly pedantic lecturer.

I never could catch a word of what he said, but he spoke with such authority, I wasn't entirely sure if that was because it was nonsense or because his obscure metaphysical distinctions and acute insights into quantum mechanics were just a touch beyond my understanding.

Whatever the case, either his diction or my understanding has been improving tremendously, and we're beginning to understand one another. It's a strange and marvelous thing to start to see a little deeper into that noggin of his.

It was quite a shock, the first time I actually understood one of these discourses. He was tugging at my pants asking for a "koo-kee." I told him no, but we'd be having dinner in a few minutes. Up to this point, the exchange was quite typical and ordinary, just what you'd expect.
But then, on pondering my verdict, he waxed eloquent.

He nodded sagely. Clear as a bell, and without the slightest trace of judgment one way or the other, he remarked "I'll be a glutton."

I kid you not.

Anyway, yesterday morning Nathan and I had a wonderful conversation about eyes. He has eyes, Mama has eyes, Bubba has eyes, Tembo has eyes... we tried counting eyes, but that didn't work out so well. He kept counting two noses on his own face.

After a long, contemplative pause, in which he struggled to remember, he finally pronounced that Dadders has eyes.

But not Grampa.

Nopers.

Perhaps I should call home to make sure he doesn't know something I don't...

Small chocolate shake and directions, please.

I know that there ae scarier things than being lost in the shabbier parts of Orange, late at night after all the shops have closed.

Having forgotten both cell phone and Thomas Guide.

Knowing every minute that you're gone, your already frazzled husband is struggling vainly to console a hungry baby.

Somewhere in my head, I know that there are scarier things. But I'm still shaking.

Thank God for In-N-Out.

Scattered

My mind is scattered in a million different directions, running full force in each of them.

It really has been a productive day so far. All sorts of matron-of-honor stuff. Much planning, much coordinating of schedules. Everything is tidily organized and falling into place.

Except for my own mind, and the day at hand.

I feel like a warehouse, not terribly overfull, but entirely lacking in shelving. I can't put two words together into a coherent sentence without tripping over all the clutter scattered through my mind.

I just put the boys down for a quiet time, and I'm nursing Tembo down for a nap.

Then I'm going to take a shower, read a few Psalms, and sit down to map out the rest of the afternoon.

But maybe I should put in the pizza dough first.

Because if I've learned anything from this morning, it's that you really musn't let details like that slip through the cracks.

For violin, piano, handbells... and boys choir

As I sit at the computer, listening to the software mechanically spit out exactly what I wrote, with brutal precision, the boys gather round me. We're all huddled together, their arms around me and one another, and they sing.

"Laaaa-lalaa-la-lalaa-la-laaa..."

I'm not quite clear on the articulations... but oh, it's a sweet sound.

Megalomaniac

I've always had a mild distaste for articulation symbols.

Probably this comes from playing much baroque music, where the balance of power between the composer and the performer is heavily tipped in the performer's favor. Which is awfully nice when you're a performer. Of course, I played from modern arrangements, filled to the brim with slurs and staccatos and trills and other such migromanagerial markings. But I bought several editions of the the Bach Sonatas, compared the respective interpretations, and came up with my own, treating the scratching on the page with an imperious disregard. Indeed, if I'd had the money, I would have played from the version with no extraneous markings whatsoever. But somehow when it comes to baroque music, the fewer the editorial comments, the higher the price tag.

But now that I'm the composer, putting in the articulation markings is my favorite part of the whole process. The music is there, and it is mine. I am simply trying to define and emphasize its shape, its life, its soul. To make it sing.

But of course, I cannot possibly define the thousand tiny nuances that I hear in my head. How do you define life? All I can do is suggest a few shapes, and hope that in that way I can help Jessica to see what I hear and make it her own.

So that maybe...

just maybe...

You'll hear it, too.

Back to the drawing board.

It was a mercy the way the conversation went. There are no doors at the back of the church, you see, so the whole bridal party will have to come in through a side door, process to the back of the aisle, turn and process to the front.

When she told me this, I envisioned everyone processing the wrong direction down the aisle, away from the altar, so that they could then do a 180 at the back of the church and go right back up to the front.

And I was horrified. Absolutely horrified.

When we finally got it straightened out (spatial descriptions are difficult over the phone!) I was hugely relieved to discover that the side door is, in fact, in the back. Just not in the center.

There's nothing absurd about it at all. Everybody will process straight from the door to the altar in quite a dignified manner, and it will be lovely. There's nothing the slightest bit unseemly about 90 degree turns. It will work beautifully.

Just not with the music I wrote.

The fourteen beats it necessatates between each bridesmaid will double the length of the piece. That's okay. I think. In theory I should be able to do that... in less than two months. If not, they'll just have to play it twice.

But the whole piece centered around one moment, where the music flutters restlessly to a rest, only to alight once more, skimming along, modulating from scale to scale, faster and faster and faster, until the doors open, and there is Sharon in her pure white gown, on her daddy's arm. Sunlight streams behind her, and the bells begin to peal as she approaches her beloved, in slow, stately, measured steps. The same slow, stately, measured steps as all her bridesmaids, except that now there is twice as much music between them.

That moment isn't going to happen.

It will still be a beautiful wedding. And the processional will still be lovely. The theme is good, I think, and it is a tribute to the deep friendship that we've shared and the journey of her soul. None of that is changed by the shape of the church, even if the unfolding is no longer exquisitely proportioned. Hopefully I will still be able to time it so that the flower girl processes at that little spot where the music gently opens up, sprinkling sweetness.

And people get married in churches shaped like that all the time. I'm sure that there's some way to make musical sense out of it.

I wish I knew what it was.

And I pray I find out in time.

And Sharon, I wasn't going to actually publish this post, but somehow as I bring my thoughts and dreams for this music into the light, the truth of what is infuses them, and I begin to see the possibility of change.

Like in 1 John.

And everything connects back into everything else.

Just like it always has, my dear.

Date Night

You know, come to think of it, I love it when the boys dip their brocolli in their apple juice, and flick it around the room...

Snippets

"...because, well, running in the circles that we do--"

"You get dizzy?"

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.