I vividly remember that awful morning. Sharon and I had just returned from a jog, and were sitting in the Horton lobby together, helping one another work on memorizing the book of Romans. (A noble task of which I only finished a chapter or two, but which I do believe my dear and virtuous friend accomplished in entirety...) There was quite a crowd watching television, absurd for 6:30 am., and rather annoying. Slowly I became aware that Sharon wasn't paying any attention to my recitation, eyes glued to the television screen. I turned around to see what was going on, and slowly I became aware that this wasn't a horror flick, wasn't a spoof, but a live news broadcast. The reporters at the site were as bewildered as I. All across the nation, we watched together as the burning tower crumbled, and as a second plane crashed into its twin.
And then the Pentagon.
And then...
An empty field in rural Pennsylvania, somewhere in Somerset County. The heroes of flight 93 were a light and an inspiration, a shining ray of hope on this dark, dark morning.
I remember the next morning, too, wondering if I would see smoke on the horizon, and wondering if it would be from Anaheim to the east or Los Angeles in the west.
But there was no smoke. Our safety has not been incidental, nor has it been cheap.
And today, the day after 9/11, I want to say thank you.
9.12.2006
9.10.2006
Both and.
Already not yet.
Death and resurrection don't follow a straightforward chronology.
At least not the sort I expect.
And always I am startled at this strange admixture of being and becoming,
confused, awed, amazed, and perplexed
at what it is to be
human.
Death and resurrection don't follow a straightforward chronology.
At least not the sort I expect.
And always I am startled at this strange admixture of being and becoming,
confused, awed, amazed, and perplexed
at what it is to be
human.
9.09.2006
Beware the leaven of the brioche dough.
I've emerged victorious from a long and rather gruesome battle with a small ball of brioche dough.
Word to the wise: never eat raw bread dough if you've been exposed to a virus.
I've always felt a touch of sorrowful affection for the thousands of tiny creatures who give their lives to make my bread light and fluffy.
No more.
Word to the wise: never eat raw bread dough if you've been exposed to a virus.
I've always felt a touch of sorrowful affection for the thousands of tiny creatures who give their lives to make my bread light and fluffy.
No more.
9.01.2006
It's all Greek for me!
One very busy afternoon last week, I stopped at Trader Joes to pick up some pizza dough for a quick dinner.
I ended up leaving with a whole shopping cart full of nutritious goodies... but no pizza dough.
You see, it turns out that they sell pita bread at Trader Joes. And not the nasty Sara Lee stuff, or even the quite nice pitas under the Sahara label. Oh no. These were scrumptiously fresh, covered in sesame seeds... mmm-mmm.
Last time ground beef was on sale for .99/lb, Andy cooked up a HUGE batch of seasoned patties for gyros. Inauthentic, I know, but SO yummy, even when you sub out the lamb with beef. The idea was that on busy nights we could just defrost a few patties, stir some cucumber and mint into yogurt, throw it all into pitas with some veggies, and have yummy nutritious meal pretty much effortlessly.
(Yes, I know he's wonderful, and no, you can't have him.)
But the grocery stores in our new neighborhood don't sell pita bread. So I was going to have to make my own pitas for the gyros. Which is certainly well worth the time... if you have the time. And the whole point was to have food for when there just wasn't enough time. It was all very depressing.
Somehow it never occurred to us to check at Trader Joes.
Anyway, all that is a very long and round-about way of saying that I suddenly found myself at Trader Joes, looking for yogurt for the sole purpose of making gyros. There were all sorts of other reasons why I needed yogurt, but since it was all spur-of-the moment and I didn't have my grocery list with me, I was only actually thinking about gyro-making. So that is why I passed right over the regular plain yogurt, and despite having no idea in the world what it was, bought "Greek-style" yogurt.
I have no idea what I expected, but this was definitely not it. I guess I must have been expecting something resembling regular yogurt.
And this does not.
Although I suppose you might say that regular yogurt does resemble Greek yogurt, in a shadowy sort of way, like lamps resemble suns and housecats resemble lions.
Rich and thick and creamy and flavorful... this is what yogurt is meant to be.
And if your parents just so happened to have brought you a jar of wildflower honey from a little bee farm in Arizona... who needs ice cream?
It just puts yogurt into a whole 'nother category.
I ended up leaving with a whole shopping cart full of nutritious goodies... but no pizza dough.
You see, it turns out that they sell pita bread at Trader Joes. And not the nasty Sara Lee stuff, or even the quite nice pitas under the Sahara label. Oh no. These were scrumptiously fresh, covered in sesame seeds... mmm-mmm.
Last time ground beef was on sale for .99/lb, Andy cooked up a HUGE batch of seasoned patties for gyros. Inauthentic, I know, but SO yummy, even when you sub out the lamb with beef. The idea was that on busy nights we could just defrost a few patties, stir some cucumber and mint into yogurt, throw it all into pitas with some veggies, and have yummy nutritious meal pretty much effortlessly.
(Yes, I know he's wonderful, and no, you can't have him.)
But the grocery stores in our new neighborhood don't sell pita bread. So I was going to have to make my own pitas for the gyros. Which is certainly well worth the time... if you have the time. And the whole point was to have food for when there just wasn't enough time. It was all very depressing.
Somehow it never occurred to us to check at Trader Joes.
Anyway, all that is a very long and round-about way of saying that I suddenly found myself at Trader Joes, looking for yogurt for the sole purpose of making gyros. There were all sorts of other reasons why I needed yogurt, but since it was all spur-of-the moment and I didn't have my grocery list with me, I was only actually thinking about gyro-making. So that is why I passed right over the regular plain yogurt, and despite having no idea in the world what it was, bought "Greek-style" yogurt.
I have no idea what I expected, but this was definitely not it. I guess I must have been expecting something resembling regular yogurt.
And this does not.
Although I suppose you might say that regular yogurt does resemble Greek yogurt, in a shadowy sort of way, like lamps resemble suns and housecats resemble lions.
Rich and thick and creamy and flavorful... this is what yogurt is meant to be.
And if your parents just so happened to have brought you a jar of wildflower honey from a little bee farm in Arizona... who needs ice cream?
It just puts yogurt into a whole 'nother category.
It's a good news, bad news, really bad news sort of day.
The good news is that since Nathan's tummy bug was quite shortlived, and last night Isaiah was done throwing up by morning, I have high hopes that Tembo will also get well within a few hours.
The bad news is that I've been so busy giving baths and changing clothes--not to mention making arrangments for holiday weekend dental emergencies!--that I haven't gotten around to steaming the carpet in the boys room. (I have washed everybody's sheets though.)
And the really bad news, of course, is that we exposed everybody on Thursday.
So if any of your kids catch it, I'm awfully sorry...
...and you can borrow our carpet steamer.
=/
The bad news is that I've been so busy giving baths and changing clothes--not to mention making arrangments for holiday weekend dental emergencies!--that I haven't gotten around to steaming the carpet in the boys room. (I have washed everybody's sheets though.)
And the really bad news, of course, is that we exposed everybody on Thursday.
So if any of your kids catch it, I'm awfully sorry...
...and you can borrow our carpet steamer.
=/
8.31.2006
There's an organized person somewhere deep inside me, and she's trying to get out.
I'm pretty smart. For the most part, I can figure out pretty much anything if I just set my mind to it. Problem is, I can be incredibly dense when it comes to knowing how in the world to go about setting my mind to certain things.
This is an amazing book. It's not a book of organizational techniques (although there's a lot of great stuff along those lines, too), but a book about how to start thinking well about organization.
The first chapter filled me with hope--the first time I'd ever had any sense of reasonable hope for this area of life. Certainly, there have been times when I was sure that through sheer willpower I could force myself to stop being myself and become somebody who is capable of being organized. About once a week, as a matter of fact. But reading this book sparked the idea that maybe--just maybe--the person I actually am can learn to organize her home and her life.
Ms. Morgenstern's story was uncannily familiar. Right-brained artistic-type, always losing everything, the epitome of disorganization. When she described wandering for four hours through the parking structures of Chicago O'Hare, trying to remember where she'd parked a friend's car, my mind flashed back to my own experiences wandering aimlessly through Biola's parking lots, and the sickening thought that maybe the really important thing I was sure I'd forgotten at home... was the car. Thankfully, I'd only walked a few yards of the trek home before it occured to me that I couldn't possibly have driven to school while leaving the car back home.
Anyway, she sounded a lot like me, only maybe a little worse. But then one day, tired of spending 3 hours packing up for a jaunt to the beach with her baby, she organized her diaper bag.
The system worked, she applied it everywhere... and the rest is history.
So the first chapter was very encouraging.
The next chapter... not so much.
You see, she says the first step is evaluation. Obviously, you need to know what you want to change, and why. But you also need to take stock of what actually does work for you. That way you won't waste energy on needless change, and more importantly, you'll get a better idea of what makes a system really workable for you. Besides, it's encouraging. If you can organize one thing, you can organize anything.
Great.
Only one slight problem.
I couldn't think of anything.
She said this step was indispensable. You can't go on successfully without it.
I contemplated long and hard, but I couldn't come up with any answers. So I decided to move on anyway, futile though it might be. I admitted to myself that I couldn't remember ever having successfully organized anything other than chord progressions, and kept on reading in the snippets in the snippets of time between diaper changes.
As I unloaded the dishwasher, I was mulling over the ideas about activity zones in rooms, and wondering how they might apply to my kitchen.
Cramming the spatulas into their too-shallow drawer, I realized what a constant source of frustration this was. Surely there's a better place for them. That drawer was positively useless for anything other than... oh... say... flatware, maybe.
Oh.
So I quickly moved the flatware from the deep, narrow drawer next to the stove, and arranged it in the wide shallow drawer in the island between table and sink. It fit beautifully. So much better than that too-narrow drawer in which it had been wudged. And just the ideal location, too. The spatula's fit neatly into the old silverware drawer, with room to spared. Right next to the stove, too!
Oh, the bliss of rightness! Like composing, there was a sudden rush of ecstasy as I realized that solving one aspect of a situation caused a dozen others to fall perfectly into place. It was like music.
Seriously.
It was just like music.
And I realized that if I can organize sound, I can organize space.
The process is identical.
So is the thrill.
So is the beauty and the peace.
It's really low on the list of priorities, but you know what I'm most excited about? Coming up with a system for keeping track of all the musical ideas currently scrawled on scraps of paper throughout the house, and finale files sprinkled through the hard drive. But that'll be awhile. There's a lot of laundry to do, and a lot of cabinets that explode when you open them.
In the meanwhile, though, the inside of the boys' wardrobe is a thing of beauty, I've freed up the wherewithall to organize our own wardrobe (not to mention finding homes for the collection of decorative baskets cluttering the linen closet!) and my soul is very happy.
This is an amazing book. It's not a book of organizational techniques (although there's a lot of great stuff along those lines, too), but a book about how to start thinking well about organization.
The first chapter filled me with hope--the first time I'd ever had any sense of reasonable hope for this area of life. Certainly, there have been times when I was sure that through sheer willpower I could force myself to stop being myself and become somebody who is capable of being organized. About once a week, as a matter of fact. But reading this book sparked the idea that maybe--just maybe--the person I actually am can learn to organize her home and her life.
Ms. Morgenstern's story was uncannily familiar. Right-brained artistic-type, always losing everything, the epitome of disorganization. When she described wandering for four hours through the parking structures of Chicago O'Hare, trying to remember where she'd parked a friend's car, my mind flashed back to my own experiences wandering aimlessly through Biola's parking lots, and the sickening thought that maybe the really important thing I was sure I'd forgotten at home... was the car. Thankfully, I'd only walked a few yards of the trek home before it occured to me that I couldn't possibly have driven to school while leaving the car back home.
Anyway, she sounded a lot like me, only maybe a little worse. But then one day, tired of spending 3 hours packing up for a jaunt to the beach with her baby, she organized her diaper bag.
The system worked, she applied it everywhere... and the rest is history.
So the first chapter was very encouraging.
The next chapter... not so much.
You see, she says the first step is evaluation. Obviously, you need to know what you want to change, and why. But you also need to take stock of what actually does work for you. That way you won't waste energy on needless change, and more importantly, you'll get a better idea of what makes a system really workable for you. Besides, it's encouraging. If you can organize one thing, you can organize anything.
Great.
Only one slight problem.
I couldn't think of anything.
She said this step was indispensable. You can't go on successfully without it.
I contemplated long and hard, but I couldn't come up with any answers. So I decided to move on anyway, futile though it might be. I admitted to myself that I couldn't remember ever having successfully organized anything other than chord progressions, and kept on reading in the snippets in the snippets of time between diaper changes.
As I unloaded the dishwasher, I was mulling over the ideas about activity zones in rooms, and wondering how they might apply to my kitchen.
Cramming the spatulas into their too-shallow drawer, I realized what a constant source of frustration this was. Surely there's a better place for them. That drawer was positively useless for anything other than... oh... say... flatware, maybe.
Oh.
So I quickly moved the flatware from the deep, narrow drawer next to the stove, and arranged it in the wide shallow drawer in the island between table and sink. It fit beautifully. So much better than that too-narrow drawer in which it had been wudged. And just the ideal location, too. The spatula's fit neatly into the old silverware drawer, with room to spared. Right next to the stove, too!
Oh, the bliss of rightness! Like composing, there was a sudden rush of ecstasy as I realized that solving one aspect of a situation caused a dozen others to fall perfectly into place. It was like music.
Seriously.
It was just like music.
And I realized that if I can organize sound, I can organize space.
The process is identical.
So is the thrill.
So is the beauty and the peace.
It's really low on the list of priorities, but you know what I'm most excited about? Coming up with a system for keeping track of all the musical ideas currently scrawled on scraps of paper throughout the house, and finale files sprinkled through the hard drive. But that'll be awhile. There's a lot of laundry to do, and a lot of cabinets that explode when you open them.
In the meanwhile, though, the inside of the boys' wardrobe is a thing of beauty, I've freed up the wherewithall to organize our own wardrobe (not to mention finding homes for the collection of decorative baskets cluttering the linen closet!) and my soul is very happy.
8.30.2006
It's been a good news, bad news sort of day
The good news is that I'm becoming very adept with the featherweight carpet steamer. Very, very adept.
Dadder some?
In honor of Andy's birthday, I decided to make his favorite mandarin pork roast. Thus it was that when he came home from work (surprisingly early--his trig class was cancelled) he was greeted by the savory aroma of smoke, and the sweet sound of the smoke alarm. And some rather obnoxious music, because apparently my tastes are rather too eclectic for Pandora to make any sense out of. And a really, really hot house. Nothing to do with the smoke, mind you, it's just that it's still warm outside, and I had the oven on, and this Arizona girl really doesn't notice heat below 100 degrees.
Anyway, there was quite a frenzy of door-flapping, in a desperate attempt to get the smoke out of the house so we could shut the windows and turn on the air conditioner. Finally, we remembered that there really is a reason why they always put a little fan over stoves, the little fan made everything all better, we turned on the AC, and Andy lay down for a much-needed nap.
As I assembled the glaze for the pork roast--which, by the way, is NOT burnt, and which I'm sure will be quite yummy despite the lack of rosemary and soy sauce and perhaps one or two other items that never made it onto the shopping list because surely every well-stocked kitchen always them on hand--Nathan discovered Andy's Gatorade on the counter. Gatorade is very important around here, since Andy is not from Arizona, and does not do well with heat. I have high hopes that many disastrous bouts of heat-sickness may be averted, now that we've realized that Powerade is not, in fact, the same thing only cheaper. At any rate, Nathan pulled his father's electrolyte-replenishing fluid down off the counter, unscrewed the cap, drank some, and offered the bottle to his brother. After taking a small sip, Isaiah thought we should offer some to Dadders.
"Dadder some? Dadder some?"
I assured him that Dadders had already had some, but that I was very proud of his thoughtfulness. I left Isaiah to finish off the Gatorade, and went back to my fruitless search for the soy sauce.
Just as I'd given up, and was deciding how much salt and sesame oil to use in its place, Andy came tearing out of the bedroom, covered in the Gatorade so lovingly foisted upon him by his dear son.
And I thought the whole thing was so funny, I simply had to blog about it that very minute.
I do hope the roast isn't burnt.
Anyway, there was quite a frenzy of door-flapping, in a desperate attempt to get the smoke out of the house so we could shut the windows and turn on the air conditioner. Finally, we remembered that there really is a reason why they always put a little fan over stoves, the little fan made everything all better, we turned on the AC, and Andy lay down for a much-needed nap.
As I assembled the glaze for the pork roast--which, by the way, is NOT burnt, and which I'm sure will be quite yummy despite the lack of rosemary and soy sauce and perhaps one or two other items that never made it onto the shopping list because surely every well-stocked kitchen always them on hand--Nathan discovered Andy's Gatorade on the counter. Gatorade is very important around here, since Andy is not from Arizona, and does not do well with heat. I have high hopes that many disastrous bouts of heat-sickness may be averted, now that we've realized that Powerade is not, in fact, the same thing only cheaper. At any rate, Nathan pulled his father's electrolyte-replenishing fluid down off the counter, unscrewed the cap, drank some, and offered the bottle to his brother. After taking a small sip, Isaiah thought we should offer some to Dadders.
"Dadder some? Dadder some?"
I assured him that Dadders had already had some, but that I was very proud of his thoughtfulness. I left Isaiah to finish off the Gatorade, and went back to my fruitless search for the soy sauce.
Just as I'd given up, and was deciding how much salt and sesame oil to use in its place, Andy came tearing out of the bedroom, covered in the Gatorade so lovingly foisted upon him by his dear son.
And I thought the whole thing was so funny, I simply had to blog about it that very minute.
I do hope the roast isn't burnt.
8.29.2006
one year and one day
...since I met one of my very favorite people in the world. And oh, I love her.
Happy birthday, Tembo!
Happy birthday, Tembo!
ACM Review: Cool Springs Records
Don Marsh Presents America’s Choice 30Publisher: Cool Springs Records Franklin, TN
We'd just been talking about how we really wanted to get some good worship music collections to listen to around the house and in the car, so I was excited at the opportunity to review these CD's for Active Christian Media.
As the name would suggest, this two-CD set features 30 of the worship songs most popular today in churches across the nation.
There are some really wonderful songs on here, and it's a great way to keep your mind focused on God throughout the day.
Musically, however, I was a little disappointed. Great songs, and well performed, but the arrangements were not ideal for the medium. The songs are performed by a large worship team, singing in unison.
This type of arrangement is probably the easiest way to facilitate congregational participation in a live worship service. When everyone in a large group is singing the same thing, it is easy to follow along and join in, even if you have no musical background. The unison serves to help draw everyone into a common experience.
In the context of a recording, however, I found the same format rather isolating. Listening to the CDs, I was aware of a rich communal experience... of which I was decidedly not a part. I could sing along, but even then, there was a sense of being the odd one out. Everyone was singing the same thing, at the same time, in the same place... and so for me to be singing along, much later and far away, felt like something of an anomaly.
Strangely enough, this isn't nearly so such a problem with recordings of soloists, or groups singing in harmony. If everyone is singing something different, and it all meshes together into a unified whole, there is a sense in which there's room for me to sing along, in a different time and place, and still be a part of the same whole. Even if I don't sing along, my aesthetic experience of the relationships between the vocal lines is a vital part of the song.
For instance, God of Wonders (You are Holy) is one of my favorite worship songs. Singing it in unison in the midst of a large congregation sends shivers down my spine, and even in a recording, the Newsboys' rendition never fails to draw me in. By comparison, the unison recording on this album rather fell flat.
There was one song, however, for which the format worked perfectly. Blessed Be the Name is an excellent song taken loosely from the book of Job, expressing the firm commitment to join with Job in blessing the Name of the Lord, regardless of experience. In this case, the music was perfectly suited to the powerful, emphatic words. And because the song was not about emotional experience, but about a commitment to stand firm in the face of fluctuating experience, I could truly participate as a listener. I may not be able to join them in that particular experience of singing together, but I most certainly can join them in praising the One who remains constant through all our varying experiences.
I was a bit startled, though, at the saxophone's gleeful entrance at the end of the song. It struck me as rather out of place with the tone of the song as a whole. I'm not quite sure whether this difference of opinion is musical or theological.
All in all, the collection is very uplifting, but musically speaking, perhaps not ideally designed for home listening. And indeed, I think their main purpose with this project was actually facilitating live worship services for congregations without access to live instrumentalists. This collection, as well as the America's Choice Kids set, also comes in a split-track format.
I'd give it three and a half stars out of five.
(In case you're new to this blog, my name is Elena Johnston, and I'm a mom of three positively adorable toddlers, and ever so blessed to have an amazingly supportive husband who helps me carve out snippets of time to compose, read up on the philosophy of music, and write about my kiddos' antics on this blog. I recieved a copy of this album in exchange for the review, through Stacy Harp, who does a fabulous job of hooking up bloggers with great new Christian media.)
8.26.2006
Fastidiousness
Doing laundry with someone else is always an interesting experience. Everybody does things differently, and by observing a person's laundry habits, you can learn such fascinating little tidbits about his or her soul. It was such a surprise, for instance, when I found out that an otherwise easygoing friend actually irons her underwear. It seemed so out of character... but of course I understood her character a lot better after finding that out about her.
Anyway, Nathan helped me do laundry today.
He spot treated all my cleaning rags.
Who'd'a thunk it?
Anyway, Nathan helped me do laundry today.
He spot treated all my cleaning rags.
Who'd'a thunk it?
8.25.2006
Just Google it.
Some information is really hard to find. Even on the Internet.
How to get from Brea to Whittier on public transportation would definitely fall into that category.
Back in high school, a camp roommate was incredulous when I told her what my parents did. Why would anyone spend 20+ years translating the Scriptures into an obscure language? Why didn't the just download it off the Internet?
Today, the MTA website was down, and I had to resort to google to find a bus schedule.
Unfortunately, the first, and only really relevant, site that came up was a message board. A snarky, and mildly indignant response to the poor, hapless schmo who'd posted a request for information on bus schedules.
"Just google it, stupid."
How to get from Brea to Whittier on public transportation would definitely fall into that category.
Back in high school, a camp roommate was incredulous when I told her what my parents did. Why would anyone spend 20+ years translating the Scriptures into an obscure language? Why didn't the just download it off the Internet?
Today, the MTA website was down, and I had to resort to google to find a bus schedule.
Unfortunately, the first, and only really relevant, site that came up was a message board. A snarky, and mildly indignant response to the poor, hapless schmo who'd posted a request for information on bus schedules.
"Just google it, stupid."
8.24.2006
There is a post.
Buried under the one about lists. About out new surveillance system.
And I can't figure out how to get it out from under the other, slightly older, post.
Of course, if you use a feedreader, you already saw that post.
And come to think of it, if you don't use a feedreader, and you read more than a handfull of blogs, you really should. It's great. Just one website to check, and you know which blogs have been updated since you last looked. You can even just read all the new posts right there. It's great. I use bloglines, and I love it.
But in any case, I'll do my best to keep my new posts popping up in an orderly, dignified fashion.
And really, it's a good discipline for a procrastinator like me.
Must finish all posts in the order in which I start them.
=)
And I can't figure out how to get it out from under the other, slightly older, post.
Of course, if you use a feedreader, you already saw that post.
And come to think of it, if you don't use a feedreader, and you read more than a handfull of blogs, you really should. It's great. Just one website to check, and you know which blogs have been updated since you last looked. You can even just read all the new posts right there. It's great. I use bloglines, and I love it.
But in any case, I'll do my best to keep my new posts popping up in an orderly, dignified fashion.
And really, it's a good discipline for a procrastinator like me.
Must finish all posts in the order in which I start them.
=)
8.21.2006
The List
I had a list.
It was an important list.
I know I put the list somewhere.
I'm sure of it.
I clearly remember putting the list somewhere, and thinking to myself what an absurd place that was to put a list.
I wish I knew where my list was.
It was an important list.
It was an important list.
I know I put the list somewhere.
I'm sure of it.
I clearly remember putting the list somewhere, and thinking to myself what an absurd place that was to put a list.
I wish I knew where my list was.
It was an important list.
Eyes in the back of my head
We bought a security camera.
Oh, the bliss.
It provided us and the kids with hours of entertainment, before we set it up. And as we set it up, surrounded by three cranky wuggies, vying for our attention, it provided Andy and I with a fabulous context to work through lots of communication and anger management issues.
But now that it's actually set up, it provides us with peace. Sweet, sweet peace.
You might well ask what exactly we have in our home that is so valuable that we just can't rest without a security camera.
Toddlers.
See, when bedtime rolls around, Isaiah never wants storytime to end. But he knows that he can lure us back into their bedroom by screaming at the top of his lungs, as though in mortal agony.
As soon as the door opens, there he is, grinning from ear to hear, holding out his favorite Curious George book for us to read.
This strategy might not have worked, except that it meshed so well with his brother's.
Nathan didn't like for the excitement of the day to end, either. And HE knew that he could always get us to come back in by pulling his Isaiah's hair. Or pinching him. Or biting him.
Whatever the case, Isaiah would scream... and we would have no idea what had happened, or who was at fault.
Last night, I finished up reading to the boys, and kissed them goodnight. No sooner had I shut the door, when Andy came tearing down the hallway from our bedroom. Nathan had been caught in the act, before Isaiah even had a chance to scream.
I watched from the TV set in our bedroom, as swift justice was administered... much to the bewilderment of our firstborn. Then Dadders pointed out the camera in the corner. Everybody waved to Mamma, and Mamma called out friendly greetings in response. It was all very fun and exciting.
Then Dadders kissed them goodnight, and joined me in watching our very own reality show.
The wuggies continued waving to us periodically, but Nathan was still a little slow on the uptake. Andy had to go back in twice more.
After the second time, Isaiah slowly and patiently explained everything to his brother. Most of it was in their own little twinspeak, but we did pick out the words "cam-ra" and "mamma," as well as much gesturing toward the little device in the corner.
And then we were priviledged to witness the dearest little reconciliation scene, where Nathan expressed his remorse over his brother's owies, and told him how sorry he was, and that he loved him. There were many hugs and kisses.
It is so much fun to watch them interact with one another when I'm not around. I knew they were close, but I guess I didn't know quite how much.
Fun times, fun times.
And I do believe the reign of terror is over.
Oh, the bliss.
It provided us and the kids with hours of entertainment, before we set it up. And as we set it up, surrounded by three cranky wuggies, vying for our attention, it provided Andy and I with a fabulous context to work through lots of communication and anger management issues.
But now that it's actually set up, it provides us with peace. Sweet, sweet peace.
You might well ask what exactly we have in our home that is so valuable that we just can't rest without a security camera.
Toddlers.
See, when bedtime rolls around, Isaiah never wants storytime to end. But he knows that he can lure us back into their bedroom by screaming at the top of his lungs, as though in mortal agony.
As soon as the door opens, there he is, grinning from ear to hear, holding out his favorite Curious George book for us to read.
This strategy might not have worked, except that it meshed so well with his brother's.
Nathan didn't like for the excitement of the day to end, either. And HE knew that he could always get us to come back in by pulling his Isaiah's hair. Or pinching him. Or biting him.
Whatever the case, Isaiah would scream... and we would have no idea what had happened, or who was at fault.
Last night, I finished up reading to the boys, and kissed them goodnight. No sooner had I shut the door, when Andy came tearing down the hallway from our bedroom. Nathan had been caught in the act, before Isaiah even had a chance to scream.
I watched from the TV set in our bedroom, as swift justice was administered... much to the bewilderment of our firstborn. Then Dadders pointed out the camera in the corner. Everybody waved to Mamma, and Mamma called out friendly greetings in response. It was all very fun and exciting.
Then Dadders kissed them goodnight, and joined me in watching our very own reality show.
The wuggies continued waving to us periodically, but Nathan was still a little slow on the uptake. Andy had to go back in twice more.
After the second time, Isaiah slowly and patiently explained everything to his brother. Most of it was in their own little twinspeak, but we did pick out the words "cam-ra" and "mamma," as well as much gesturing toward the little device in the corner.
And then we were priviledged to witness the dearest little reconciliation scene, where Nathan expressed his remorse over his brother's owies, and told him how sorry he was, and that he loved him. There were many hugs and kisses.
It is so much fun to watch them interact with one another when I'm not around. I knew they were close, but I guess I didn't know quite how much.
Fun times, fun times.
And I do believe the reign of terror is over.
8.19.2006
Share and Share Alike
Nathan (who fell off the bed and bit straight through his lower lip) is just fine. The doctor (who takes our insurance after all) said that it was sealing up quite nicely, and there was no need for stitches.
There was, however, need for examining and poking said lip. This wasn't fun for our poor little guy, but he was a good sport.
There comes a time when enough is enough, though, and when this time came, Nathan tearfully announced that he was ready to be done with all this.
"Brother's turn?"
There was, however, need for examining and poking said lip. This wasn't fun for our poor little guy, but he was a good sport.
There comes a time when enough is enough, though, and when this time came, Nathan tearfully announced that he was ready to be done with all this.
"Brother's turn?"
8.16.2006
Greetings from Cow-town
We're having a wonderful time here in Vacaville with Andy's extended family, following close on the heels of a great week in San Diego with Wheatstone, and a fabulous day with my family.
All in all, the time here has been wonderful, thanks in no small part to the little wooden train set we bought on the way. Best investment we've ever made. In lovely, tastefully decorated homes, where no toddlers normally reside... it is very important to make sure that there is something around that is even MORE exciting than the china display. And for that, nothing less than trains will do.
But alas, train privileges have been temporarily suspended, the dreadfully dire consequence of sister-bashing. This was the cause of much weeping on Isaiah's part, but really, I think it's hardest for me. Because I'm the one who has to keep him away from the china.
Nathan would be upset, too, I'm sure... but he and his Dadders are en route to the hospital to get his lip stitched up.
The excitement never stops.
Anyway, all this to say that we will resume our regular posting schedul...
...shortly.
All in all, the time here has been wonderful, thanks in no small part to the little wooden train set we bought on the way. Best investment we've ever made. In lovely, tastefully decorated homes, where no toddlers normally reside... it is very important to make sure that there is something around that is even MORE exciting than the china display. And for that, nothing less than trains will do.
But alas, train privileges have been temporarily suspended, the dreadfully dire consequence of sister-bashing. This was the cause of much weeping on Isaiah's part, but really, I think it's hardest for me. Because I'm the one who has to keep him away from the china.
Nathan would be upset, too, I'm sure... but he and his Dadders are en route to the hospital to get his lip stitched up.
The excitement never stops.
Anyway, all this to say that we will resume our regular posting schedul...
...shortly.
8.05.2006
Oh be careful, little eyes, what you see...
From a notice regarding community pool rules:
"In addition, any member of management that observes residents horse playing or mis-behaving while in the pool area, will be asked to leave immediately."
"In addition, any member of management that observes residents horse playing or mis-behaving while in the pool area, will be asked to leave immediately."
8.02.2006
Summertime
We nixed all our plans for a crazy, busy summer. Somehow cramming it all in just didn't seem like the best way to prepare for the inevitable chaos of the semester. We decided to take things at a slower pace, just focus on learning to live well. We decided to carve out lots of time for growth and development, for both of us as individuals, and also as a couple. A tranquil, idyllic summer, carefully orchestrated so as best to lay the foundations needed to weather the difficult times to come.
Which is why we've been running from conference to conference, constantly on the road. Umm... yeah.
Actually, it is. Really. Because Wheatstone Academy is just exactly the place to be if you're looking for soul growth. It's a summer program for high schoolers--but unlike any summer camp I've ever heard of. It's the sort of summer camp where you bang your head against Plato, with the help of real live Plato scholars, who, for some reason, want to spend their summer talking to high schoolers. Where you struggle valiantly to sit through hard lectures on epistemology and philosophy of science and historical mathematics.
But it's not just a geeky academic camp, it's also a place where you read the Bible, and think hard about it, surrounded by really smart people who love Jesus with every fiber of their being, and trust Him enough to let you grapple with your toughest doubts. And I really do mean surrounded... last week, the students were outnumbered by faculty and staff.
It's also a place where you go mountain climbing, and listen to excellent music, watch movies and live theater, and stay up til all hours talking and laughing...
In other words, it's a place where you get a taste of what it's like to really live to the fullest, pushing each part of yourself toward a richer manifestation of the image of God, deeply integrated into a powerful community of believers.
Of course, they're only actually paying Andy to come for one evening each week. Eat dinner with the students, give a talk on the nature of mathematics as a liberal discipline, answer a few questions, go home. And of course, we really couldn't afford to do anything more. There's money to be earned, bills to be payed, classes to take, GRE's to study for....
But more importantly, much more importantly, our souls need refreshing. What good does it do us to be on a fabulous trajectory with carreer and grad school and financial stability, if somewhere along the way, our souls fall apart?
So we've been just hanging out there as a family. The first week, Andy felt like he needed to be wholly present from the beginning until his talk, to catch the logos, so to speak. So the kids and I stayed home, and then went up for the day on Thursday. Last week, though, we all squished into a dorm room, ate in the cafeteria, and Andy and I traded off watching kids and listening in on lectures and discussions.
And so it is that our idyllic, restful summer involves an absurd amount of travel, hither, thither, and yon. Last week we were at Vanguard, and next week we'll be at the University of San Diego. And we'll have to take a look at our schedule, because I sure hope that we aren't driving up to Sacramento before the end of the conference. Alas, we planned our family vacation while we were still intending the summer to be far to busy for Wheatstone, and thus much more flexible. Ironic, don't you think?
This week I'm home with the kids, but Andy's at a conference for his normal, school-year, pay-the-bills job, and I'm coming to the conclusion that single parenthood is for the birds. It's well nigh impossible for one person to create a family all by herself. The wuggies, of course, cannot really contribute to our being a real family, all they can do is need it desperately. The relationship between Andy and I forms an almost palpable matrix in which the kids are embedded and upheld. It's easy to take for granted when it's there, but the absense leaves a gaping hole. Oh, how I would hate to do this long term.... I'm simply not enough. And never could be, not really. We'd survive, of course, but not thrive. Because however strong I could be, I could never have a deep, interpersonal relationship with myself. I could never be a family.
But for now, we're having fun. Last night, we all piled into bed together and watched opera snippets on PBS. And today we spent the afternoon and evening with the Koch family. And tomorrow Marcy is going to pick me up from the mechanics, so that the kids and I won't have to spend the whole day at McDonalds waiting for them to finish fixing the AC. Thank God for friends.
And even though I'm never entirely alone--how can I be, when Andy's not here to watch the kids?--still, a strange solitude infuses everything. And that can be a very good thing indeed.
For a few days.
Mostly because I'll be very glad indeed to see him again on Friday.
Which is why we've been running from conference to conference, constantly on the road. Umm... yeah.
Actually, it is. Really. Because Wheatstone Academy is just exactly the place to be if you're looking for soul growth. It's a summer program for high schoolers--but unlike any summer camp I've ever heard of. It's the sort of summer camp where you bang your head against Plato, with the help of real live Plato scholars, who, for some reason, want to spend their summer talking to high schoolers. Where you struggle valiantly to sit through hard lectures on epistemology and philosophy of science and historical mathematics.
But it's not just a geeky academic camp, it's also a place where you read the Bible, and think hard about it, surrounded by really smart people who love Jesus with every fiber of their being, and trust Him enough to let you grapple with your toughest doubts. And I really do mean surrounded... last week, the students were outnumbered by faculty and staff.
It's also a place where you go mountain climbing, and listen to excellent music, watch movies and live theater, and stay up til all hours talking and laughing...
In other words, it's a place where you get a taste of what it's like to really live to the fullest, pushing each part of yourself toward a richer manifestation of the image of God, deeply integrated into a powerful community of believers.
Of course, they're only actually paying Andy to come for one evening each week. Eat dinner with the students, give a talk on the nature of mathematics as a liberal discipline, answer a few questions, go home. And of course, we really couldn't afford to do anything more. There's money to be earned, bills to be payed, classes to take, GRE's to study for....
But more importantly, much more importantly, our souls need refreshing. What good does it do us to be on a fabulous trajectory with carreer and grad school and financial stability, if somewhere along the way, our souls fall apart?
So we've been just hanging out there as a family. The first week, Andy felt like he needed to be wholly present from the beginning until his talk, to catch the logos, so to speak. So the kids and I stayed home, and then went up for the day on Thursday. Last week, though, we all squished into a dorm room, ate in the cafeteria, and Andy and I traded off watching kids and listening in on lectures and discussions.
And so it is that our idyllic, restful summer involves an absurd amount of travel, hither, thither, and yon. Last week we were at Vanguard, and next week we'll be at the University of San Diego. And we'll have to take a look at our schedule, because I sure hope that we aren't driving up to Sacramento before the end of the conference. Alas, we planned our family vacation while we were still intending the summer to be far to busy for Wheatstone, and thus much more flexible. Ironic, don't you think?
This week I'm home with the kids, but Andy's at a conference for his normal, school-year, pay-the-bills job, and I'm coming to the conclusion that single parenthood is for the birds. It's well nigh impossible for one person to create a family all by herself. The wuggies, of course, cannot really contribute to our being a real family, all they can do is need it desperately. The relationship between Andy and I forms an almost palpable matrix in which the kids are embedded and upheld. It's easy to take for granted when it's there, but the absense leaves a gaping hole. Oh, how I would hate to do this long term.... I'm simply not enough. And never could be, not really. We'd survive, of course, but not thrive. Because however strong I could be, I could never have a deep, interpersonal relationship with myself. I could never be a family.
But for now, we're having fun. Last night, we all piled into bed together and watched opera snippets on PBS. And today we spent the afternoon and evening with the Koch family. And tomorrow Marcy is going to pick me up from the mechanics, so that the kids and I won't have to spend the whole day at McDonalds waiting for them to finish fixing the AC. Thank God for friends.
And even though I'm never entirely alone--how can I be, when Andy's not here to watch the kids?--still, a strange solitude infuses everything. And that can be a very good thing indeed.
For a few days.
Mostly because I'll be very glad indeed to see him again on Friday.
7.25.2006
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.
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.
7.20.2006
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?
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?
7.19.2006
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.
"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.
7.17.2006
No Pain Intended
"...your hourly traffic report is brought to you in part by 1-800-DENTIST. Ok, so here's the drill..."
7.15.2006
7.14.2006
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."
"And please don't try this on your brother."
7.13.2006
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?
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?
7.11.2006
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
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
7.10.2006
Funnier in context.
Funny enough on its own... but oh so much funnier when Mr. Wuggidy nods sagely in sympathetic agreement.
"Stinky. Stinky."
7.09.2006
7.07.2006
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.
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.
7.03.2006
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.
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.
6.28.2006
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.
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.
6.26.2006
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.
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.
6.24.2006
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?
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?
6.23.2006
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.
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.)
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.)
6.20.2006
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.
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.
6.19.2006
6.16.2006
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...
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...
6.13.2006
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.
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.
6.12.2006
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.
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.
"Laaaa-lalaa-la-lalaa-la-laaa..."
I'm not quite clear on the articulations... but oh, it's a sweet sound.
6.11.2006
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.
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.
6.09.2006
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.
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.
6.08.2006
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...
6.07.2006
6.05.2006
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 Band
version 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.
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 Band
version 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.
6.04.2006
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.
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.
6.02.2006
6.01.2006
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.
Except the emergency alarm.
I'm sure there's a reason.
I just have no idea what it is.
5.31.2006
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.
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.
5.30.2006
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?
...and when you desperately need to blow your nose, you hit all the green ones?
5.26.2006
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.
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.
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.
5.25.2006
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
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!"
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!"
5.23.2006
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.
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.
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.
5.22.2006
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.
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 Kripke
doesn’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.
5.21.2006
5.20.2006
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.
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.
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.
5.19.2006
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.
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— Fr. Raniero Cantalamessa
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!"
5.18.2006
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.
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.
5.16.2006
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.
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.
5.14.2006
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.
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.
5.13.2006
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.
"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.
5.11.2006
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."
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."
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