This morning Nathan was reminiscing about September's birthday party on Sunday. Nathan loves to reminisce, in a way that none of our other children do, and actually, in a way that I've never seen anyone do. Memory is such a rich and vital part of his experience of life. I suppose it's that way for everyone, but Nathan is openly aware of memory in a startlingly multi-dimensional way. He remembers events and their significance as one, and he slowly learns from the key moments of his young life as he ponders them again and again. "Remember when I went to the hospital, remember?" Slowly the memories of terror and pain and the strange men in white coats who tied him up and tried to feed him to a bizarre machine with the gaping, perfectly round mouth that growled with a sharp whir... slowly all that has given way to memories about the nice doctors who took care of him when he got hurt, who know how to help people get better, and who tried to take pictures of the inside of his head with an amazingly cool machine. And above all, memories of sitting on Mama's lap and watching Shrek while Mama stroked his head and whispered to him about how much she loved him. Nathan holds memories before him in all the fullness of experience, and goes back to them time and again, exploring them and redeeming them. I guess you could say that he dreams out loud.
At any rate, this morning, Nathan was reminiscing about the birthday party, and how we had a cake, with "sparkles in the number two." Remember? Remember?
Together we opened up a can of orange juice concentrate, and Nathan poured the three cans of water into the pitcher. And Nathan wanted a special number two cup.
A special number two cup?
Did he mean the disposable cups we'd used at the party?
Well, sort of. When I pulled out a cup, that was all fine and good... but we had to put a number two on it.
So I pulled out a sharpie, and drew a big "2" on the front of the cup. Nathan nodded approvingly, and instructed me that I was to now put an O on it. So I did.
Nathan took a long, slow sip of his orange juice, and grinned up at me beatifically.
"Makin' a remember!"
9.04.2007
8.27.2007
Just get me to the church on time...
On the way to church yesterday morning, we marveled over the fact that, amazingly enough, we were actually going to make it to church on time. We never used to make it anywhere on time, but even though Sunday School was to start at 9:00, and we only actually woke the kids at 7:45, and there was shoe-shining and laundry to do... somehow, there we were, headed to church right when we were supposed to be. We were going to be on time to church for the third week in a row. We're not quite sure how it all works, but ever since we've moved into the bigger house, getting out the door has simply not been a problem.
From the website, we'd gotten the impression that this was something of a mega-church, and the large campus certainly supported that conclusion. Strangely enough, there were only fifty or so cars in the parking lot. Even stranger, they seemed just to be parked there... nobody was getting out. What time was it anyway? In our rush to get out the door, we'd left behind anything capable of telling us the time... but we were pretty sure it was around 5 til 9.
There were people milling around the church, but everybody seemed to be busy doing his own thing. People gave us friendly smiles in passing, but nobody stopped to talk to us, and nobody seemed available to give us directions.
Finally, we found our way to the nursery. It was a very professional setup, with the nursery workers in scrubs, a pager system, and an allergy/special instructions form that was actually a sticker to label the child's back. But there were only one or two kids in there.
We deposited Tembo with the "early walkers to 24 months" class, and then went to go find the three year old class for Nathan and Isaiah.
The room was locked, and nobody responded to my knocking.
I went back and asked the nice grandmotherly woman holding September about the three year old's room. It was empty... was it different this week. She assured me that the teacher probably just hadn't arrived yet.
That's when it all started to make sense.
We looked at the bulletin board on the wall, with all it's information about various church activities.
Services at 9:30 and 11.
NOT 9 and 10:30.
Oops.
Feeling foolish, we waited around with the twins until the teacher arrived, and then went to go find the adult Sunday School class on Galatians.
There was only one other couple, and the teacher, but we were assured that the others would be arriving soon.
That class always starts 15 minutes late.
From the website, we'd gotten the impression that this was something of a mega-church, and the large campus certainly supported that conclusion. Strangely enough, there were only fifty or so cars in the parking lot. Even stranger, they seemed just to be parked there... nobody was getting out. What time was it anyway? In our rush to get out the door, we'd left behind anything capable of telling us the time... but we were pretty sure it was around 5 til 9.
There were people milling around the church, but everybody seemed to be busy doing his own thing. People gave us friendly smiles in passing, but nobody stopped to talk to us, and nobody seemed available to give us directions.
Finally, we found our way to the nursery. It was a very professional setup, with the nursery workers in scrubs, a pager system, and an allergy/special instructions form that was actually a sticker to label the child's back. But there were only one or two kids in there.
We deposited Tembo with the "early walkers to 24 months" class, and then went to go find the three year old class for Nathan and Isaiah.
The room was locked, and nobody responded to my knocking.
I went back and asked the nice grandmotherly woman holding September about the three year old's room. It was empty... was it different this week. She assured me that the teacher probably just hadn't arrived yet.
That's when it all started to make sense.
We looked at the bulletin board on the wall, with all it's information about various church activities.
Services at 9:30 and 11.
NOT 9 and 10:30.
Oops.
Feeling foolish, we waited around with the twins until the teacher arrived, and then went to go find the adult Sunday School class on Galatians.
There was only one other couple, and the teacher, but we were assured that the others would be arriving soon.
That class always starts 15 minutes late.
8.26.2007
8.25.2007
Homesick
Nathan has finally determined that he doesn't miss the farmer's market anymore. I do. H.EB. (Howard E. Butt wisely decided to use his initials as the name of his grocery chain) is a wonderful store, with high quality private label brands that rival Trader Joes, terrific gourmet cooking demonstrations, and best of all, a vast variety of delightful toddler carts. But it pains me to give up my policy of never paying more than $1/lb. for produce, special splurges excluded. Produce prices are approximately the same out here as in California... but we were spoiled having a farmer's market just down the street.
Nathan was missing "the old house," though. The new one is a whole lot nicer--"Like Christmas and Santa and presents and Easter" was the way my little poet of a son put it a few days after we moved in--but now the bittersweet flavor of leaving is starting to sink in, as he tries to get his mind around where we are, and where we've come from.
"The old Texas is in California."
Most of all, he though, he misses "the old church." And we can all agree about that.
Dear Blessed Sacrament, we love you and miss you very much.
In the morning we will visit yet another church.
In the mean time, Nathan is working on another plan.
He's going to build a car out of books and learn how to drive, so he can drive us back to California.
Nathan was missing "the old house," though. The new one is a whole lot nicer--"Like Christmas and Santa and presents and Easter" was the way my little poet of a son put it a few days after we moved in--but now the bittersweet flavor of leaving is starting to sink in, as he tries to get his mind around where we are, and where we've come from.
"The old Texas is in California."
Most of all, he though, he misses "the old church." And we can all agree about that.
Dear Blessed Sacrament, we love you and miss you very much.
In the morning we will visit yet another church.
In the mean time, Nathan is working on another plan.
He's going to build a car out of books and learn how to drive, so he can drive us back to California.
8.24.2007
On Chiropractic
One of the interesting things about a move is that it gives you a chance to switch doctors... even the ones you liked just fine. At first I thought this was just a big downside of the whole thing, but it's turning out to be a great learning experience.
Back in California, I liked my chiropractor very much. With her spiffy little ultrasound machine, she completely removed all the knots in my back (there were lots!), popped all my vertebrae back where they belong, and applied electrotherapy to stimulate the muscles so they could get some practice getting used to the new alignment of my spine. She warned me that I might experience some soreness afterward, but she did such a great job of preparing my muscles that I didn't feel anything but relief. Blessed, blissful relief. I had no idea life could be this good. Did you know that standing up straight doesn't have to require gargantuan effort, and lots of pain? It was an amazing revelation. Dr. Shaygan wasn't a bit weird or fanatical, she just knew lots about the back, talked about why it's a generally good idea to have a healthy back, and gave me good advice on how to change the way I do things so as to make it easier on my back. It was great.
But then we moved across the country, and by the time we arrived, my back was in pretty bad shape again. So I made an appointment with a local chiropractor.
And this particular chiropractor here in Houston is all about applied kinesiology. Apparently, if a vertebra is pinching a nerve, your arms and legs supposedly to lose their ability to resist pressure when that vertebra is touched. Or something like that. And sure enough, when this chiropractor ran her hand down my spine while pushing down on my leg, my leg bounced down at every stop along the way. Very impressive, indeed.
The only problem was, I had no idea what was really going on. Was she pushing harder? Was I just relaxing a bit, and then exerting more force when I realized my leg went down? Hard to say. I don't doubt that things like that really do happen-- martial artists can make excellent use of such pressure points on the most uncooperative of subjects. But it's a little bit like a ouija board. I don't doubt that it's possible that people have contacted demons through ouija boards, but either the will or the unconscious expectations of either participant is entirely sufficient to explain any and all phenomena. It's just not very reliable.
And in fact, applied kinesiologist believe that chemicals have the same sort of results, and that they can be seen immediately and dramatically just by testing muscle resistance after placing a drop of various chemicals under the tongue. And oh, the results are dramatic... except when the test is double-blind. And then everything becomes very ambiguous and ho-hum. Thus it's pretty clear that the expectations of either the patient or the examiner produce pretty dramatic results in that sort of test, and whatever else may or may not be going on, that's a sufficient explanation for just about any result.
So while I do think there's probably something to the whole pressure point thing, I really don't feel safe basing my treatment on those tests.
But I was assured that I would not at all be safe going to any other chiropractor in the area, because the other ones just went by what the back felt like. But the chiropractors in this office test for pressure points, and if something feels crooked, but my foot doesn't bounce, they'll leave it be. And if something feels straight and my foot does bounce, by gum, they're going to make that thing move.
Believe you me, if she'd told me this before adjusting me, there's no way I would have allowed her to touch me.
The other distinctive of this practice is their emphasis on patient education. Now my old chiropractor emphasized patient education, too. I had to watch an informative video out in the waiting room when I came for my first visit, the Dr. Shaygan showed me lots of models of the spine, gave cogent explanations for everything she did, and took the time to answer all my questions.
Patient education at this practice in Houston is very, very different. In fact, my first visit took around 2 hours, and there wasn't even time for an actual adjustment. Just lectures upon lectures, an absurdly thorough health history (did I ever fall off my bike as a small child?), more lectures, an applied-kinesiological exam, more lectures, an evaluation with the acupuncturist, and then it was time to schedule me for an actual adjustment the next day.
The whole deal with the acupuncturist was rather surreal. She used a sophisticated computerized apparatus to measure my chi, and determine the balance of yin and yang, and handed me a printout charting all my meridians.
When I asked her what exactly the machine was measuring, she just looked at me incredulously. Hadn't I ever heard of "chi?" Well, yes, but I wasn't very clear on the concept, or how on earth a computer program was measuring it.
And apparently she wasn't, either, because I never did get any more explanation than that.
The next day, I hoped that I could just get an adjustment, and go home--my time is precious to me, and as fascinating as all this is, frankly, I'd rather be reading Luther. He's much more level-headed, even-keeled, and whatnot. No such luck. O ut in the waiting room, I was given a laminated informational sheet to study, and when I announced that I was done skimming it over, I was taken into a private room where my case manager administered an oral examination. It was very clear that I was not going to see the chiropractor until I had successfully defined such concepts as health, function, and subluxation to her satisfaction. But once I had successfully rattled off their definitions, then it was time for the interactive lecture. She pulled out a small white-board, and proceeded to draw a simplistic diagram. She drew three circles, each connected to the other. The middle circle she labeled "body," the lower circle represented "function," and I was to tell her what I thought the top circle stood for.
After all the stuff about computerized yin and yang, I had absolutely no idea what philosophical framework she was using, and I really, really, wanted to get through this quickly, so I figured I'd better cover all my bases in one breath.
"Well, you're either referring to the brain or to the soul, one or the other."
"Soul!?" She started, then composed herself and chuckled condescendingly. "Oh, so you're spiritual, are you? Well, I'm spiritual, too, so we'd better leave all that out of this. We probably disagree about most things. But I do believe in a higher power."
And so on and so forth. Finally, she was satisfied that I understood that it is important for the brain to communicate with the body, and that pinched nerves make that much harder, etc. etc. etc. And then it was time to talk about my actual treatment plan, and how it was important for me to come in every day for the first few weeks, and several times a week thereafter for the next five months.
How... nice.
I tried to keep my smile pasted on, but the case manager caught me anyway. It was clear that if I was going to have the audacity to think, I'd better explain myself so she could clear things up. We weren't going anywhere until I was sufficiently brainwashed. I tried every polite means of evasion, but we were at an impasse. This persistent prying into my very soul and thoughts was somehow terrifying. Here was a person who had absolutely no respect for my right to have thoughts which I might freely choose to share or to keep to myself. On the surface level, everything was quite civil, yet she was clearly not going to release me until she had succeeding in molding my very thoughts to her satisfaction. It was all so very, very harmless, and yet so very unscrupulous. This woman who couldn't refer to an individual soul that was not identical with some higher power, also denied in practice any distinction between her soul and mine. Her complete disregard of my desire to keep my thoughts to myself went beyond mere pushiness--it was dehumanizing. I thought about telling her to her face that I felt threatened and manipulated, that my intelligence was being insulted and my time wasted, and I would not stand for it. That if someone would like to show me to the actual chiropractor, I would be out in the waiting room, otherwise I would be leaving, but in any case our little interview was over. I had come to have my back adjusted, not my brain, and certainly not my soul.
But I didn't. Instead, I caved.
"Oh, I'm just trying to piece together what you're saying with what my other chiropractor said, that's all."
And what did my old chiropractor say?
"Well, she had me come in several times a week at first, but then as the adjustments started holding better, we quickly moved to once a week, and by the time I moved, I was doing quite well seeing her every two weeks."
Well, other offices might do things that way, pacify patients by letting them use chiropractic however they like, but this office prides itself on results. I shouldn't give up hope, though, because she's living proof of the healing at the end of the road. She then went on to explain how I would be required to set up a bunch of appointments in advance, and sign a contract stating that I would either keep all appointments or make them up within one week. And that I should pay one month in advance if at all possible. Not because they wanted to be sure of their payment, of course, but because they didn't want me to have finances on my mind.
Of course.
Smile and nod, smile and nod. Must, must, must conceal any semblance of skepticism so I can see the doctor and get out of that place.
I must have been in there 45 minutes before she was satisfied with my brainwashing, but finally it was over, and I went into the room with the actual chiropractor. It was a different woman from the one who had examined me the day before, but she was very nice and respectful.
She felt along my spine for subluxations, testing my muscle resistance, and applying pressure as needed. Snap, crackle, pop, okay, you're all done.
No therapy, no nothing. All she did was yank around my utterly unprepared, tense back.
Well no wonder they insist that it I'd better come back tomorrow, because it won't hold longer than a day. And no wonder they say that I will be very sore afterwards if it does me any good at all.
And sore I am.
But I do hurt a little less than I did before, and at least I can stand up straight again.
And I have a much better idea of what to look for in a chiropractor.
Back in California, I liked my chiropractor very much. With her spiffy little ultrasound machine, she completely removed all the knots in my back (there were lots!), popped all my vertebrae back where they belong, and applied electrotherapy to stimulate the muscles so they could get some practice getting used to the new alignment of my spine. She warned me that I might experience some soreness afterward, but she did such a great job of preparing my muscles that I didn't feel anything but relief. Blessed, blissful relief. I had no idea life could be this good. Did you know that standing up straight doesn't have to require gargantuan effort, and lots of pain? It was an amazing revelation. Dr. Shaygan wasn't a bit weird or fanatical, she just knew lots about the back, talked about why it's a generally good idea to have a healthy back, and gave me good advice on how to change the way I do things so as to make it easier on my back. It was great.
But then we moved across the country, and by the time we arrived, my back was in pretty bad shape again. So I made an appointment with a local chiropractor.
And this particular chiropractor here in Houston is all about applied kinesiology. Apparently, if a vertebra is pinching a nerve, your arms and legs supposedly to lose their ability to resist pressure when that vertebra is touched. Or something like that. And sure enough, when this chiropractor ran her hand down my spine while pushing down on my leg, my leg bounced down at every stop along the way. Very impressive, indeed.
The only problem was, I had no idea what was really going on. Was she pushing harder? Was I just relaxing a bit, and then exerting more force when I realized my leg went down? Hard to say. I don't doubt that things like that really do happen-- martial artists can make excellent use of such pressure points on the most uncooperative of subjects. But it's a little bit like a ouija board. I don't doubt that it's possible that people have contacted demons through ouija boards, but either the will or the unconscious expectations of either participant is entirely sufficient to explain any and all phenomena. It's just not very reliable.
And in fact, applied kinesiologist believe that chemicals have the same sort of results, and that they can be seen immediately and dramatically just by testing muscle resistance after placing a drop of various chemicals under the tongue. And oh, the results are dramatic... except when the test is double-blind. And then everything becomes very ambiguous and ho-hum. Thus it's pretty clear that the expectations of either the patient or the examiner produce pretty dramatic results in that sort of test, and whatever else may or may not be going on, that's a sufficient explanation for just about any result.
So while I do think there's probably something to the whole pressure point thing, I really don't feel safe basing my treatment on those tests.
But I was assured that I would not at all be safe going to any other chiropractor in the area, because the other ones just went by what the back felt like. But the chiropractors in this office test for pressure points, and if something feels crooked, but my foot doesn't bounce, they'll leave it be. And if something feels straight and my foot does bounce, by gum, they're going to make that thing move.
Believe you me, if she'd told me this before adjusting me, there's no way I would have allowed her to touch me.
The other distinctive of this practice is their emphasis on patient education. Now my old chiropractor emphasized patient education, too. I had to watch an informative video out in the waiting room when I came for my first visit, the Dr. Shaygan showed me lots of models of the spine, gave cogent explanations for everything she did, and took the time to answer all my questions.
Patient education at this practice in Houston is very, very different. In fact, my first visit took around 2 hours, and there wasn't even time for an actual adjustment. Just lectures upon lectures, an absurdly thorough health history (did I ever fall off my bike as a small child?), more lectures, an applied-kinesiological exam, more lectures, an evaluation with the acupuncturist, and then it was time to schedule me for an actual adjustment the next day.
The whole deal with the acupuncturist was rather surreal. She used a sophisticated computerized apparatus to measure my chi, and determine the balance of yin and yang, and handed me a printout charting all my meridians.
When I asked her what exactly the machine was measuring, she just looked at me incredulously. Hadn't I ever heard of "chi?" Well, yes, but I wasn't very clear on the concept, or how on earth a computer program was measuring it.
And apparently she wasn't, either, because I never did get any more explanation than that.
The next day, I hoped that I could just get an adjustment, and go home--my time is precious to me, and as fascinating as all this is, frankly, I'd rather be reading Luther. He's much more level-headed, even-keeled, and whatnot. No such luck. O ut in the waiting room, I was given a laminated informational sheet to study, and when I announced that I was done skimming it over, I was taken into a private room where my case manager administered an oral examination. It was very clear that I was not going to see the chiropractor until I had successfully defined such concepts as health, function, and subluxation to her satisfaction. But once I had successfully rattled off their definitions, then it was time for the interactive lecture. She pulled out a small white-board, and proceeded to draw a simplistic diagram. She drew three circles, each connected to the other. The middle circle she labeled "body," the lower circle represented "function," and I was to tell her what I thought the top circle stood for.
After all the stuff about computerized yin and yang, I had absolutely no idea what philosophical framework she was using, and I really, really, wanted to get through this quickly, so I figured I'd better cover all my bases in one breath.
"Well, you're either referring to the brain or to the soul, one or the other."
"Soul!?" She started, then composed herself and chuckled condescendingly. "Oh, so you're spiritual, are you? Well, I'm spiritual, too, so we'd better leave all that out of this. We probably disagree about most things. But I do believe in a higher power."
And so on and so forth. Finally, she was satisfied that I understood that it is important for the brain to communicate with the body, and that pinched nerves make that much harder, etc. etc. etc. And then it was time to talk about my actual treatment plan, and how it was important for me to come in every day for the first few weeks, and several times a week thereafter for the next five months.
How... nice.
I tried to keep my smile pasted on, but the case manager caught me anyway. It was clear that if I was going to have the audacity to think, I'd better explain myself so she could clear things up. We weren't going anywhere until I was sufficiently brainwashed. I tried every polite means of evasion, but we were at an impasse. This persistent prying into my very soul and thoughts was somehow terrifying. Here was a person who had absolutely no respect for my right to have thoughts which I might freely choose to share or to keep to myself. On the surface level, everything was quite civil, yet she was clearly not going to release me until she had succeeding in molding my very thoughts to her satisfaction. It was all so very, very harmless, and yet so very unscrupulous. This woman who couldn't refer to an individual soul that was not identical with some higher power, also denied in practice any distinction between her soul and mine. Her complete disregard of my desire to keep my thoughts to myself went beyond mere pushiness--it was dehumanizing. I thought about telling her to her face that I felt threatened and manipulated, that my intelligence was being insulted and my time wasted, and I would not stand for it. That if someone would like to show me to the actual chiropractor, I would be out in the waiting room, otherwise I would be leaving, but in any case our little interview was over. I had come to have my back adjusted, not my brain, and certainly not my soul.
But I didn't. Instead, I caved.
"Oh, I'm just trying to piece together what you're saying with what my other chiropractor said, that's all."
And what did my old chiropractor say?
"Well, she had me come in several times a week at first, but then as the adjustments started holding better, we quickly moved to once a week, and by the time I moved, I was doing quite well seeing her every two weeks."
Well, other offices might do things that way, pacify patients by letting them use chiropractic however they like, but this office prides itself on results. I shouldn't give up hope, though, because she's living proof of the healing at the end of the road. She then went on to explain how I would be required to set up a bunch of appointments in advance, and sign a contract stating that I would either keep all appointments or make them up within one week. And that I should pay one month in advance if at all possible. Not because they wanted to be sure of their payment, of course, but because they didn't want me to have finances on my mind.
Of course.
Smile and nod, smile and nod. Must, must, must conceal any semblance of skepticism so I can see the doctor and get out of that place.
I must have been in there 45 minutes before she was satisfied with my brainwashing, but finally it was over, and I went into the room with the actual chiropractor. It was a different woman from the one who had examined me the day before, but she was very nice and respectful.
She felt along my spine for subluxations, testing my muscle resistance, and applying pressure as needed. Snap, crackle, pop, okay, you're all done.
No therapy, no nothing. All she did was yank around my utterly unprepared, tense back.
Well no wonder they insist that it I'd better come back tomorrow, because it won't hold longer than a day. And no wonder they say that I will be very sore afterwards if it does me any good at all.
And sore I am.
But I do hurt a little less than I did before, and at least I can stand up straight again.
And I have a much better idea of what to look for in a chiropractor.
8.23.2007
Sounding It Out
"That's right, Nathan, it's a car. And can you tell me what the first sound in 'car' is?"
"Beep-beep."
"Beep-beep."
8.20.2007
Seeing Blinds
I must confess that I don't really care for vertical blinds. Or any sort of blinds, really. Except for the wooden ones, and that's probably only because I've never actually had wooden blinds, so I'm blissfully ignorant of the troubles involved in their upkeep. But I'm well aware of the troubles with aluminum blinds that collect dust and are impossibly difficult to clean, and that are so very easily destroyed with a single encounter with a single toddler---never mind constant interaction with three very rambunctious wuggies. I'm also altogether too aware of the troubles with verticals, how they collapse to the floor with the slightest bump, and get quite tangled if you try to open or close them without remembering the proper order of operations.
As I said, I don't particularly care for vertical blinds, but I'm beginning to see them with new eyes.
The place we're living in right now is a really great house. The location is perfect. It's a great subdivision, and right by Andy's school. At first I was a little disappointed about how deeply we were buried in the neighborhood, but that was before I realized that the subdivision has outlets on two major roads and we're just about halfway between them. So if we want to go to Andy's school, we turn right, if we want to go to Wal-Mart we turn left, and in either case, it's not too far. As for the house itself, I love the floor plan, and it has a terrific back yard. Or at least, the back yard would be wonderful if the fence didn't extend around the utility easement and maybe didn't have quite so many rotting slats. And maybe if their wasn't an attempt to grow a lawn without any sunlight. Maybe the trees need some thinning, or maybe there's some wonderful alternative shade-loving ground cover, but the scraggly bits of grass are a bit silly. All things considered, we absolutely love it... bit there's a sense in which it's something of an eyesore.
And that's the way the whole house is. A wonderful, absolutely perfect... eyesore.
We knew what we were getting into when we the realtor/property manager told us that no, they had no intentions of fixing the peeling vinyl in the kitchen. It's a bit nerve-racking to rent from somebody who considers intact flooring optional, but as you get deeper into your second week of the toddler invasion of your relations' lovely home, you take what you can get.
Even so, when he pointed to the package of brand-new doorknobs on the counter, and said the handyman would be by to change the locks, I had no idea that he meant that we'd have a mismatched lock component installed within the same old grossly misshapen and deeply dented doorknobs.
Filling out the inventory and condition form was a feat of tiny writing, and despite my best efforts, we needed an extra page. Whoever thought that one line would be sufficient to describe the condition of the garage ceiling obviously didn't have this particular house in mind. To be perfectly honest, I was vaguely nervous about turning in the form, because it just felt so rude to be putting all this down in writing. It was embarrassing.
Apparently the management thought so, too. Incredulous, they sent someone over to see if it was true, or if we were stretching the truth.
Yup, it was all true, and absolutely unacceptable. He would let the owners know that some things were going to have to change.
I don't know if they're really going to fix the vinyl. He says they are, but I'm not holding my breath. And is the handyman really going to come back after the rains dry out and fix the fence? Probably, but who knows.
But in the mean time, all the kitchen drawers work now, the crooked window has been replaced with one that doesn't leave a whistling gap, and we have new vertical blinds in the living room. Beautifully crisp, clean, brand new blinds that open AND close, made of smooth, easily wipe-able vinyl, without a single trace of mildew. The room is filled with sparklingly fresh light, and every time I walk in, I take a deep breath and savor the feeling. I love, love, love them.
Life is oh-so-good. I have new blinds.
As I said, I don't particularly care for vertical blinds, but I'm beginning to see them with new eyes.
The place we're living in right now is a really great house. The location is perfect. It's a great subdivision, and right by Andy's school. At first I was a little disappointed about how deeply we were buried in the neighborhood, but that was before I realized that the subdivision has outlets on two major roads and we're just about halfway between them. So if we want to go to Andy's school, we turn right, if we want to go to Wal-Mart we turn left, and in either case, it's not too far. As for the house itself, I love the floor plan, and it has a terrific back yard. Or at least, the back yard would be wonderful if the fence didn't extend around the utility easement and maybe didn't have quite so many rotting slats. And maybe if their wasn't an attempt to grow a lawn without any sunlight. Maybe the trees need some thinning, or maybe there's some wonderful alternative shade-loving ground cover, but the scraggly bits of grass are a bit silly. All things considered, we absolutely love it... bit there's a sense in which it's something of an eyesore.
And that's the way the whole house is. A wonderful, absolutely perfect... eyesore.
We knew what we were getting into when we the realtor/property manager told us that no, they had no intentions of fixing the peeling vinyl in the kitchen. It's a bit nerve-racking to rent from somebody who considers intact flooring optional, but as you get deeper into your second week of the toddler invasion of your relations' lovely home, you take what you can get.
Even so, when he pointed to the package of brand-new doorknobs on the counter, and said the handyman would be by to change the locks, I had no idea that he meant that we'd have a mismatched lock component installed within the same old grossly misshapen and deeply dented doorknobs.
Filling out the inventory and condition form was a feat of tiny writing, and despite my best efforts, we needed an extra page. Whoever thought that one line would be sufficient to describe the condition of the garage ceiling obviously didn't have this particular house in mind. To be perfectly honest, I was vaguely nervous about turning in the form, because it just felt so rude to be putting all this down in writing. It was embarrassing.
Apparently the management thought so, too. Incredulous, they sent someone over to see if it was true, or if we were stretching the truth.
Yup, it was all true, and absolutely unacceptable. He would let the owners know that some things were going to have to change.
I don't know if they're really going to fix the vinyl. He says they are, but I'm not holding my breath. And is the handyman really going to come back after the rains dry out and fix the fence? Probably, but who knows.
But in the mean time, all the kitchen drawers work now, the crooked window has been replaced with one that doesn't leave a whistling gap, and we have new vertical blinds in the living room. Beautifully crisp, clean, brand new blinds that open AND close, made of smooth, easily wipe-able vinyl, without a single trace of mildew. The room is filled with sparklingly fresh light, and every time I walk in, I take a deep breath and savor the feeling. I love, love, love them.
Life is oh-so-good. I have new blinds.
8.17.2007
Jane no like jungle so much. Must stay inside grass hut with air conditioning.
During our house hunt, we looked at an apartment complex in Tomball. It seems that the laws about no more than two to a bedroom don't apply if the youngest resident is under 24 months. As our youngest resident is currently only 23 1/2 months old... well, it's all open to interpretation.
Anyway, this particular apartment had everything. Okay, so it was 6 miles away from Andy's job, and they didn't have anything opening up for another three weeks, but oh man, this place had everything. Playground, private balconies, sizable patios... it even had its own private graveyard. No, I'm not joking.
Anyway, we didn't end up getting this apartment, because it was, after all, 6 miles away from Andy's job, and they didn't have an opening for three weeks, but among the amenities of this particular apartment complex was a 24-hour excercise room, complete with a dry sauna.
Dry sauna? What in the world is a dry sauna, and what in the world would anyone want with one? Doesn't that defeat the whole purpose?
Then I stepped back outside, and it all made sense. Whatever the merits of dry saunas may be, one thing is certain. A normal sauna would definitely not be much of a selling point around here. The whole Houston area is just one big, steamy sauna.
I like saunas. Really, I do. But everyone knows that the best part about a sauna is the part where you get out and go jump in the pool.
And so it is that my very favorite thing about Texas is air conditioning.
Anyway, this particular apartment had everything. Okay, so it was 6 miles away from Andy's job, and they didn't have anything opening up for another three weeks, but oh man, this place had everything. Playground, private balconies, sizable patios... it even had its own private graveyard. No, I'm not joking.
Anyway, we didn't end up getting this apartment, because it was, after all, 6 miles away from Andy's job, and they didn't have an opening for three weeks, but among the amenities of this particular apartment complex was a 24-hour excercise room, complete with a dry sauna.
Dry sauna? What in the world is a dry sauna, and what in the world would anyone want with one? Doesn't that defeat the whole purpose?
Then I stepped back outside, and it all made sense. Whatever the merits of dry saunas may be, one thing is certain. A normal sauna would definitely not be much of a selling point around here. The whole Houston area is just one big, steamy sauna.
I like saunas. Really, I do. But everyone knows that the best part about a sauna is the part where you get out and go jump in the pool.
And so it is that my very favorite thing about Texas is air conditioning.
8.15.2007
Home Sweet Home
Well, I hope he and his wife enjoy the play set.
Meanwhile, we're one street over. Dream house, it is not. Same floor plan, but a rather different philosophy of property management. Let's just say that it won't to move when the time comes to buy a place of our own.
However, for the time being, I'm just soaking in the joy of having enough space for all of us.
Andy's parents are arriving for a short visit tonight... and we actually have room for them!
The kids have room to thoroughly wear themselves out.
And that long-running dispute about how to cram all our dishes into the smallest space possible? Utterly irrelevant. Finally, I know what it feels like to have sufficient cupboard space, and you know what? It feels really, really good.
Meanwhile, we're one street over. Dream house, it is not. Same floor plan, but a rather different philosophy of property management. Let's just say that it won't to move when the time comes to buy a place of our own.
However, for the time being, I'm just soaking in the joy of having enough space for all of us.
Andy's parents are arriving for a short visit tonight... and we actually have room for them!
The kids have room to thoroughly wear themselves out.
And that long-running dispute about how to cram all our dishes into the smallest space possible? Utterly irrelevant. Finally, I know what it feels like to have sufficient cupboard space, and you know what? It feels really, really good.
7.30.2007
Cue the Jeopardy Music, Please
We have each submitted our applications to the real estate office. Neither application has priority over the other. Both will be processed, and given to the owner, who will then make the final decision.
The realtor is optimistic about the possibility of getting an answer this morning.
The rational side of me is quite sceptical. We won't know until tomorrow afternoon. That's just the way things work.
But all the rest of me is waiting by the phone, burning up with impatience.
It's 10:39 already... why hasn't he called?
Nevermind the fact that they have to get through to our former landlords, and due to the time difference, they won't even be open for another half hour.
I'm scouring the multiple listings site, trying to convince myself that there are other houses out there. And there really are other houses out there. It's just that they have carpet in the dining rooms, smell like smoke, and have tiny, unattractive backyards.
It's going to be okay. Really.
But it's so hard to take all this as lightly as I want to.
The realtor is optimistic about the possibility of getting an answer this morning.
The rational side of me is quite sceptical. We won't know until tomorrow afternoon. That's just the way things work.
But all the rest of me is waiting by the phone, burning up with impatience.
It's 10:39 already... why hasn't he called?
Nevermind the fact that they have to get through to our former landlords, and due to the time difference, they won't even be open for another half hour.
I'm scouring the multiple listings site, trying to convince myself that there are other houses out there. And there really are other houses out there. It's just that they have carpet in the dining rooms, smell like smoke, and have tiny, unattractive backyards.
It's going to be okay. Really.
But it's so hard to take all this as lightly as I want to.
7.29.2007
Love, War, and Real Estate
The real estate office is closed over the weekend, which makes this whole thing a bit nerve racking. If we have our application tucked through their mail slot by the time they get in there Monday morning, we should be fine... as long as nobody else has an application waiting for them, too.
Andy just got back from his faculty retreat yesterday afternoon, and we went out together to drop off the application. First, though, I wanted to drive him by the house so he could take a look at the neighborhood. Just for the fun of it... it wasn't like there was any sort of decision left to make. Kid proof floors--check. Trees--check. Biking distance from school--check. Gorgeous miniature playground--where did that unfathomable blessing come from? We'll take it!
So we drove by, and saw the neighborhood... and the unique wraparound entryway... and the front yard... and the young couple standing in the front yard talking to a realtor. The man grinned and waved at us.
"It's Tony! Pull over and park!"
And so it was that I got to meet one of the other new teachers at Providence. Andy had been having lots of great dialogue with him all weekend.
We chatted a bit about what a great house it is, great neighborhood, great location, and wow, isn't it funny, this is exactly the house we're putting in an application for! Were we looking at any other houses? Well, not if we get this one!
We left them to their tour, and drove off to find Star Realty.
We looked and we looked, but we can't find them. Learned a whole lot about the Houston area freeway feeder-roads system, but we never did find 19627 I-45 North.
We're getting a little bit desperate here. If the application isn't in before they open on Monday, then we can't quite legitimately pester them all morning about it.
And everybody knows that all's fair in love, war, and real estate.
Andy just got back from his faculty retreat yesterday afternoon, and we went out together to drop off the application. First, though, I wanted to drive him by the house so he could take a look at the neighborhood. Just for the fun of it... it wasn't like there was any sort of decision left to make. Kid proof floors--check. Trees--check. Biking distance from school--check. Gorgeous miniature playground--where did that unfathomable blessing come from? We'll take it!
So we drove by, and saw the neighborhood... and the unique wraparound entryway... and the front yard... and the young couple standing in the front yard talking to a realtor. The man grinned and waved at us.
"It's Tony! Pull over and park!"
And so it was that I got to meet one of the other new teachers at Providence. Andy had been having lots of great dialogue with him all weekend.
We chatted a bit about what a great house it is, great neighborhood, great location, and wow, isn't it funny, this is exactly the house we're putting in an application for! Were we looking at any other houses? Well, not if we get this one!
We left them to their tour, and drove off to find Star Realty.
We looked and we looked, but we can't find them. Learned a whole lot about the Houston area freeway feeder-roads system, but we never did find 19627 I-45 North.
We're getting a little bit desperate here. If the application isn't in before they open on Monday, then we can't quite legitimately pester them all morning about it.
And everybody knows that all's fair in love, war, and real estate.
7.27.2007
Homecoming
It's a strange thing, slowly to come home to a place you've never been.
After far too long on the road, too many motels and truck stops, Nathan told me that he wanted to go home.
Heart breaking for him, I asked where exactly he meant by that.
"I want to go to the new house."
It's a strange, and peculiarly desperate sort of homesickness, not to long so much for a particular place that is home, but simply to long to be home, wherever it is that we are.
Today, out of the blue, my little bug-boy announced to me, "We're almost there."
Indeed we are. We're almost home--and oh, what a home!
We've picked out a place to rent and gathered all the application paperwork. All I need to do is pick up a money order in the morning for the application fee, drop everything off, and wait for approval.
It's gorgeous, and with carpeting in the bedrooms only, it won't be terribly hard to keep it that way. Beautiful, beautiful laminate floors! I could kiss them!
And the back yard! A good sized back yard with four or so mature pines, providing both house and yard a canopy of shade. And a beautiful play set, just the right size for our kidlings, and very attractive.
Things I never would have bothered to wish for, too, like walk-in closets in every bedroom.
Even the things I wouldn't have chosen, like the forcefully floral wallpaper in the kitchen, the walls separating the kitchen from dining room and living room, and the unique overall shape of the house... all these things have distinct advantages, and may very well end up being better than "just what I wanted." After all, the wallpaper actually is very pretty, and since we really do want to get into a place of our own in the near future, it's really better to have a kitchen that is cozy and homelike as is, than one with the potential for all sorts of decorating that probably wouldn't even happen until right before it was time to move. And, well, if you can't see the rest of the house from the kitchen, that does mean that you can't see the kitchen from the rest of the house!
I'm just a little bit excited, in case you couldn't tell.
And in the mean time, we're experiencing the warm southern hospitality of my dad's cousin Lorre, and her husband Paul. They've welcomed us into their home with open arms, and while we haven't met the rest of the family yet, I've been hearing enough to get the idea that there's a lot of family, and that family means a lot. It wasn't even on my radar when we made the decision to move here, but do we have family in the area? Indeed we do.
Family, moreover, that really likes kids, and let me tell you, that is a very big deal.
Speaking of which, I can't count how many times I've been asked if twins run in the family, and it turns out I've answered them wrong every time.
Years ago, Paul and Lorre had pretty much the same sort of family as we do now, twin boys and their little sister.
And I have no idea how I'd forgotten, but off in Ohio, I have a set of second cousins who are fraternal twins. And yes, it's their mother that's my dad's cousin, not their father.... apparently twins do indeed run in the family, and not just all over the house and yard!
It's surprising what a warm and belonging feeling a discovery like that can bring. I didn't think it really mattered, but it does. Always before I thought that I was just special, the odd one out, who just has twins out of the blue. It turns out that I'm actually participating in a peculiar quality of Palmer women. We are the sort of women who bear twins, and somehow that "we" means more to me than I would have guessed.
It means something like home.
After far too long on the road, too many motels and truck stops, Nathan told me that he wanted to go home.
Heart breaking for him, I asked where exactly he meant by that.
"I want to go to the new house."
It's a strange, and peculiarly desperate sort of homesickness, not to long so much for a particular place that is home, but simply to long to be home, wherever it is that we are.
Today, out of the blue, my little bug-boy announced to me, "We're almost there."
Indeed we are. We're almost home--and oh, what a home!
We've picked out a place to rent and gathered all the application paperwork. All I need to do is pick up a money order in the morning for the application fee, drop everything off, and wait for approval.
It's gorgeous, and with carpeting in the bedrooms only, it won't be terribly hard to keep it that way. Beautiful, beautiful laminate floors! I could kiss them!
And the back yard! A good sized back yard with four or so mature pines, providing both house and yard a canopy of shade. And a beautiful play set, just the right size for our kidlings, and very attractive.
Things I never would have bothered to wish for, too, like walk-in closets in every bedroom.
Even the things I wouldn't have chosen, like the forcefully floral wallpaper in the kitchen, the walls separating the kitchen from dining room and living room, and the unique overall shape of the house... all these things have distinct advantages, and may very well end up being better than "just what I wanted." After all, the wallpaper actually is very pretty, and since we really do want to get into a place of our own in the near future, it's really better to have a kitchen that is cozy and homelike as is, than one with the potential for all sorts of decorating that probably wouldn't even happen until right before it was time to move. And, well, if you can't see the rest of the house from the kitchen, that does mean that you can't see the kitchen from the rest of the house!
I'm just a little bit excited, in case you couldn't tell.
And in the mean time, we're experiencing the warm southern hospitality of my dad's cousin Lorre, and her husband Paul. They've welcomed us into their home with open arms, and while we haven't met the rest of the family yet, I've been hearing enough to get the idea that there's a lot of family, and that family means a lot. It wasn't even on my radar when we made the decision to move here, but do we have family in the area? Indeed we do.
Family, moreover, that really likes kids, and let me tell you, that is a very big deal.
Speaking of which, I can't count how many times I've been asked if twins run in the family, and it turns out I've answered them wrong every time.
Years ago, Paul and Lorre had pretty much the same sort of family as we do now, twin boys and their little sister.
And I have no idea how I'd forgotten, but off in Ohio, I have a set of second cousins who are fraternal twins. And yes, it's their mother that's my dad's cousin, not their father.... apparently twins do indeed run in the family, and not just all over the house and yard!
It's surprising what a warm and belonging feeling a discovery like that can bring. I didn't think it really mattered, but it does. Always before I thought that I was just special, the odd one out, who just has twins out of the blue. It turns out that I'm actually participating in a peculiar quality of Palmer women. We are the sort of women who bear twins, and somehow that "we" means more to me than I would have guessed.
It means something like home.
7.25.2007
7.16.2007
Unquenchable
It's hot around here. Not nearly as hot as when the van broke down in the middle of the Palm Desert on our way over from California, but certainly hot enough to make a stove quite superfluous to egg-frying.
Hot enough that I was exceedingly glad that I'd let the Tercel's fuel levels get down to "E" before filling up, because the explosive burst when I opened the tank wouldn't have been much fun had there been more than a drop or two of gasoline inside.
Hot enough that the world looks a bit like a Renoir through the unulating haze.
And hot enough, that as I passed by the fire department, sweltering under the blazing sun, for a moment there I actually considered running in there and asking them to put out the fire.
Hot enough that I was exceedingly glad that I'd let the Tercel's fuel levels get down to "E" before filling up, because the explosive burst when I opened the tank wouldn't have been much fun had there been more than a drop or two of gasoline inside.
Hot enough that the world looks a bit like a Renoir through the unulating haze.
And hot enough, that as I passed by the fire department, sweltering under the blazing sun, for a moment there I actually considered running in there and asking them to put out the fire.
7.04.2007
Mealtime conversations
Over the past week or so, we've started having real, live, honest-to-goodness family mealtime chatter. Not just Mom and Dad trying to talk to each other between incessant interruptions, but whole-family discussions.
And it's so much fun.
This morning, over breakfast, the twins announced that they want a birthday party. With party hats. Yellow party hats. And cake. Isaiah wants a chocolate cake. A black chocolate cake. Nathan does not want the cake to be chocolate, but he does want syrup on it. A white cake with lemon sauce? Yup.
And at this two-cake party, they want to paint a train. With a caboose. And an engine.
And actually, this is sounding like a much better idea for a four-year-old birthday party than I could have come up with. I'm glad there's a little time left before January, though.
They're such fun little people, my boys.
=)
And it's so much fun.
This morning, over breakfast, the twins announced that they want a birthday party. With party hats. Yellow party hats. And cake. Isaiah wants a chocolate cake. A black chocolate cake. Nathan does not want the cake to be chocolate, but he does want syrup on it. A white cake with lemon sauce? Yup.
And at this two-cake party, they want to paint a train. With a caboose. And an engine.
And actually, this is sounding like a much better idea for a four-year-old birthday party than I could have come up with. I'm glad there's a little time left before January, though.
They're such fun little people, my boys.
=)
7.01.2007
Security Measures
You know how sometimes people will install fake security cameras, just so folks will think twice before doing anything they wouldn't want recorded?
Well, the United States Postal Service is far too honest for such things.
Far too honest.
So honest, in fact, that there are a number of signs all over the Cottonwood Post Office, making certain that everyone understands that the security cameras are NOT monitored, only recorded.
Well, the United States Postal Service is far too honest for such things.
Far too honest.
So honest, in fact, that there are a number of signs all over the Cottonwood Post Office, making certain that everyone understands that the security cameras are NOT monitored, only recorded.
6.29.2007
On Emergent Molars: A Conversation with Meepo
"It's cutting me, mommy. It feels like snakes."
"I'm sorry that it hurts, but I'm glad that you can describe it like that. You're very articulate."
"NO! Don't tickle it!"
"I'm sorry that it hurts, but I'm glad that you can describe it like that. You're very articulate."
"NO! Don't tickle it!"
6.26.2007
6.23.2007
Story Problem
If the bathroom sink flows at a rate of 1/2 cup per second, and is left running for 1 hr. 20 min., how much water will be on the floor?
6.21.2007
Neither Here nor There
We're officially gone from California, but we have yet to set foot on Texas soil. In the mean time we're hanging out in my parent's home in Arizona. (Thanks, Mom and Dad!) The limbo is a little strange in some ways (no library cards for residents of nowhere), but for the most part we're having a blast. Mom and Dad aren't here right now, but my sister is, and we're having fun together.
And, oh my goodness, the HOUSE! I'd sort of forgotten what it's like to live in a HOUSE. With a YARD. Suddenly, my life is not consummed with preventing my children from doing developmentally appropriate and important things that just so happen to be very much destructive in the small space. Now if they're being destructive or just plain in the way, it's a simple matter to direct them toward another equally attractive activity--preferably outside in that lovely back yard.
Speaking of the back yard, it's been a matter of contention in the Palmer family for a very long time. You see, my mom, sister and I really really wanted a nice lawn and pretty garden. My dad wanted to cover the whole thing over with gravel. We prevailed, and preserved our precious lawn. Or, at least, the closest thing possible when you live in Arizona, and are gone for well over half the year. Year after year, the ratios of grass to weeds fluctuated, but at least we had something green, and we always prevented Daddy from covering it in gravel.
Until this past year. I'm not quite sure what happened, but somehow an agreement was struck, and Daddy had his way. The back yard is now covered in gravel.
And it's gorgeous. I should have known that Daddy's plan wasn't for a hideous, unbroken expanse of gravel. Daddy may not have lots of time for lawn maintainance, but he does have a superb eye for proportion and good composition, a strong aesthetic sense, and good taste. They now have an attractively ordered desert landscape, with pampas grass and yucca and mesquite and honeysuckle and mint. Most of these are local plants that volunteered--and since they are in their proper environment, they thrive quite nicely with minimal care. It's a lovely, restful place, alive with birdsong, joyous and vibrant and peaceful.
I can't believe we fought him for so long.
And I think that surely there must be a lesson somewhere in there.
And, oh my goodness, the HOUSE! I'd sort of forgotten what it's like to live in a HOUSE. With a YARD. Suddenly, my life is not consummed with preventing my children from doing developmentally appropriate and important things that just so happen to be very much destructive in the small space. Now if they're being destructive or just plain in the way, it's a simple matter to direct them toward another equally attractive activity--preferably outside in that lovely back yard.
Speaking of the back yard, it's been a matter of contention in the Palmer family for a very long time. You see, my mom, sister and I really really wanted a nice lawn and pretty garden. My dad wanted to cover the whole thing over with gravel. We prevailed, and preserved our precious lawn. Or, at least, the closest thing possible when you live in Arizona, and are gone for well over half the year. Year after year, the ratios of grass to weeds fluctuated, but at least we had something green, and we always prevented Daddy from covering it in gravel.
Until this past year. I'm not quite sure what happened, but somehow an agreement was struck, and Daddy had his way. The back yard is now covered in gravel.
And it's gorgeous. I should have known that Daddy's plan wasn't for a hideous, unbroken expanse of gravel. Daddy may not have lots of time for lawn maintainance, but he does have a superb eye for proportion and good composition, a strong aesthetic sense, and good taste. They now have an attractively ordered desert landscape, with pampas grass and yucca and mesquite and honeysuckle and mint. Most of these are local plants that volunteered--and since they are in their proper environment, they thrive quite nicely with minimal care. It's a lovely, restful place, alive with birdsong, joyous and vibrant and peaceful.
I can't believe we fought him for so long.
And I think that surely there must be a lesson somewhere in there.
6.18.2007
We are alive.
I've always thought of myself as a girl of the desert.
Now I realize that it is not the desert I love, it is the oasis. The clear blue stream overflowing with life, the droplets splashing on the hot, windcarved sand.
From the shade of a cottonwood tree, I love to gaze upon the cactus and the redrocks.
But the true desert... the endless expanse is cruel and wicked. Its desire is to bleach my bones and the bones of my children, like the bones of so many coyotes before, creatures made of much sterner stuff than we.
But we are alive.
The desert has not bleached our bones, and we are safe in this familiar and lovely oasis... I'd forgotten just how beautiful the Verde Valley is. It is good to be home.
Now I realize that it is not the desert I love, it is the oasis. The clear blue stream overflowing with life, the droplets splashing on the hot, windcarved sand.
From the shade of a cottonwood tree, I love to gaze upon the cactus and the redrocks.
But the true desert... the endless expanse is cruel and wicked. Its desire is to bleach my bones and the bones of my children, like the bones of so many coyotes before, creatures made of much sterner stuff than we.
But we are alive.
The desert has not bleached our bones, and we are safe in this familiar and lovely oasis... I'd forgotten just how beautiful the Verde Valley is. It is good to be home.
6.11.2007
To whom it may concern:
I have a strong distaste for moving.
But I do like nice people who take my children to the park.
That is all.
But I do like nice people who take my children to the park.
That is all.
6.09.2007
Great opportunity for nursing moms
The International Breast Milk Donation Project is an incredibly good thing on so many different levels.
First off, I'm sure that you know that between AIDS and famine, there are a lot of orphaned babies in Africa. But did you know that those babies are six times more likely to survive if they receive donor breast milk, as opposed to formula? Six times.
So a few years ago, some women started expressing their extra milk, and shipping it to Africa on dry ice. I've actually known about this part of the story for some time, and to be perfectly honest, I wasn't all that interested. I mean, that's really wonderful, but how is it even remotely sustainable?
Well, now it's actually sustainable through a unique partnership with a for-profit corporation called Prolacta Bioscience. Prolacta uses donated breast milk to develop medical products that save the lives of preemies here in the US. Their biggest thing is human milk fortifier--that's what they added to my expressed milk before they put it in Nathan and Isaiah's feeding tubes, to add calories and protein so that they could catch up on all that growing that should have happened in utero. The stuff my twins received was based on cow's milk, but now Prolacta has developed a human milk fortifier that is actually made from human milk. Which is much better for these fragile babies. It's also pretty big business. Even the cow based stuff runs $100 per day per infant.
Of course, the one difficulty with all this is that they are completely dependent upon breast milk, and the law does not allow them to pay their donors. And not many women get too excited about pumping so that somebody else can make a fortune off their milk. On its own, this project is about as sustainable as the idea of shipping breast milk to Africa.
Together, though, these two crazy idealistic projects actually work.
Prolacta provides all the equipment, from hospital-grade electric pumps to dry ice, and pays for overnight shipping to their laboratories. 25% of each woman's milk goes to Africa. Prolacta tests and pasteurizes the milk for free, and pays for all shipping costs.
Then Prolacta uses the rest of the donated milk in the highly profitable business of saving babies in the US. Prolacta then pays the Breast Milk Project $1 for every ounce of breast milk that stays in the States. This money goes toward the establishment of local milk banks, mobilizing local women to meet this huge need for breast milk.
So go talk to your doctor about it, and see if this would be the right thing for you!
I sure am, just as soon as I get to Texas!
First off, I'm sure that you know that between AIDS and famine, there are a lot of orphaned babies in Africa. But did you know that those babies are six times more likely to survive if they receive donor breast milk, as opposed to formula? Six times.
So a few years ago, some women started expressing their extra milk, and shipping it to Africa on dry ice. I've actually known about this part of the story for some time, and to be perfectly honest, I wasn't all that interested. I mean, that's really wonderful, but how is it even remotely sustainable?
Well, now it's actually sustainable through a unique partnership with a for-profit corporation called Prolacta Bioscience. Prolacta uses donated breast milk to develop medical products that save the lives of preemies here in the US. Their biggest thing is human milk fortifier--that's what they added to my expressed milk before they put it in Nathan and Isaiah's feeding tubes, to add calories and protein so that they could catch up on all that growing that should have happened in utero. The stuff my twins received was based on cow's milk, but now Prolacta has developed a human milk fortifier that is actually made from human milk. Which is much better for these fragile babies. It's also pretty big business. Even the cow based stuff runs $100 per day per infant.
Of course, the one difficulty with all this is that they are completely dependent upon breast milk, and the law does not allow them to pay their donors. And not many women get too excited about pumping so that somebody else can make a fortune off their milk. On its own, this project is about as sustainable as the idea of shipping breast milk to Africa.
Together, though, these two crazy idealistic projects actually work.
Prolacta provides all the equipment, from hospital-grade electric pumps to dry ice, and pays for overnight shipping to their laboratories. 25% of each woman's milk goes to Africa. Prolacta tests and pasteurizes the milk for free, and pays for all shipping costs.
Then Prolacta uses the rest of the donated milk in the highly profitable business of saving babies in the US. Prolacta then pays the Breast Milk Project $1 for every ounce of breast milk that stays in the States. This money goes toward the establishment of local milk banks, mobilizing local women to meet this huge need for breast milk.
So go talk to your doctor about it, and see if this would be the right thing for you!
I sure am, just as soon as I get to Texas!
6.05.2007
Ensnared
The other thing I've been doing lately is playing with the espresso machine I got for my birthday.
I'm highly caffeinated.
Oh, the wonderful things you can do with coffee beans and milk!
Anyway, I had this wonderful post all worked up about how if you just pour the coffee over the frothy steamed milk instead of pouring the milk over the coffee, you get a consistently wonderful gorgeously layered result with minimal effort. But how it's psychologically easier to try to control everything, even when you know you'll get a better result by letting go a little and just allowing the nature of things work to your advantage. And how all this affects childbirth and parenthood, and, well, just about everything.
Oh, it was a great post.
But then I wanted to make sure that I was using all the proper coffee-snob terminology, and I just kept running across stuff like this.
I'm helpless against the temptation.
I'm on a quest for the perfect microfoam, perfectly poured.
I'm drinking way to many lattes for my own good, and all that nutritious vitamin D enriched whole milk my children drink? Steamed, every bit of it. Well, mostly, anyway. At first they were extremely excited about the "special milk." Now they're requesting "special milk" once again, but this time, they mean straight from the fridge.
I think I may be going a little overboard.
And the thing is, it never actually ends up looking or tasting nearly so good as when I just pour the espresso over the milk, and leave it at that.
I just can't stop.
I'm highly caffeinated.
Oh, the wonderful things you can do with coffee beans and milk!
Anyway, I had this wonderful post all worked up about how if you just pour the coffee over the frothy steamed milk instead of pouring the milk over the coffee, you get a consistently wonderful gorgeously layered result with minimal effort. But how it's psychologically easier to try to control everything, even when you know you'll get a better result by letting go a little and just allowing the nature of things work to your advantage. And how all this affects childbirth and parenthood, and, well, just about everything.
Oh, it was a great post.
But then I wanted to make sure that I was using all the proper coffee-snob terminology, and I just kept running across stuff like this.
I'm helpless against the temptation.
I'm on a quest for the perfect microfoam, perfectly poured.
I'm drinking way to many lattes for my own good, and all that nutritious vitamin D enriched whole milk my children drink? Steamed, every bit of it. Well, mostly, anyway. At first they were extremely excited about the "special milk." Now they're requesting "special milk" once again, but this time, they mean straight from the fridge.
I think I may be going a little overboard.
And the thing is, it never actually ends up looking or tasting nearly so good as when I just pour the espresso over the milk, and leave it at that.
I just can't stop.
6.02.2007
I still blog. Really.
It's just that I'm also moving.
And trying to find a place to move to.
And reading the foundational epics of just about every major world religion and sundry works on the philosophy of education, and basking in the fact that suddenly being a good wife doesn't just involve learning how to do all the stuff I'm not particularly good at, but also involves stuff I am particularly good at. Like reading and synthesizing and and discussing, and well, all the stuff we loved doing together, the whole reason we got married in the first place.
And hanging out in downtown LA, because you just can't live in the area for 7 years and then move away without ever having spent at least one day becoming acquainted with the city itself.
Which, by the way, felt surprisingly reassuring and homelike. These years in California, I've keenly felt the lack of sky and rocks, but I never really articulated my need to look up at towering canyon walls. Had I known how downtown could feed this inarticulate need of mine, I would have spent a whole lot more time hanging out down there. Because, amazingly enough, standing in the middle of one of the biggest cities in the world is approximately the same experience as standing inside a sparsely populated chasm in the middle of the desert.
Beyond the comforting sense of enclosure, that strangely freeing sense of vertigo that comes from gazing at a very high cliff, either up or down... beyond all that, each spot had specific character and location, a particular place with a particular relationship to all the other particular places. Like the canyon, the city cries out to be known in all its particulars, known in it's colors and textures and sounds, not merely known by the numbers and signs on which we must depend to find our way home in suburbia. I found myself wondering what it must be like to know the city as I know the canyon. There is a strangely deep kinship that comes from knowing a place in common. What must it be like to share that knowledge, not with a few hundred, or even a few thousand, but with hundreds of thousands? And what must it be like to be that pinata vendor, a quite ordinary person so vividly shaping the experience of everyone passing through that corner of the city?
As striking as the sense of massive intimacy was the sense of autonomy, the sense that the city did not exist for us. It simply was what it was, which strangely enough, gave us the freedom to simply be who we are. I wanted to stock up on wholesale fabric, so we wandered through the fashion district quite a bit. We never did find any fabric vendors who appeared to be open for business, but we had a lot of fun wandering through shop after shop full of imported clothing, as the owners hovered over us explaining in broken English how much of each item they had in stock, eager to haggle out a deal. It looked very much like a mildly dingy outdoor mall--except that the whole purpose of each store's inventory was entirely different. Each store did not contain a careful selection of items designed to appeal to a particular demographic, but rather a set of items from a particular place. Their goal was not to sell things that a particular group of people would most likely want to buy, but rather to sell the particular things that they had. The difference was subtle, but striking.
It was a lot of fun, wandering through the wholesale shops, and we thought what fun it would be to be a buyer for a shop, to put together an inventory. It's rather amazing, really. It had never occurred to me just how much of my shopping is actually done for me by complete strangers.
We drove through the flower district with our windows down. The gaudy and the exquisite blended strangely, but the fragrance was glorious.
In need of a snack, we found a parking spot in the food district, and browsed through the mexican markets. I looked around for potatoes--perhaps I could spare myself the grocery stop on the way home. But none of them had potatoes, which surprised us. Potatoes are just such ordinary, basic things... doesn't everybody carry potatoes? But of course these places were not there to provide us with the things we wanted to buy, they existed to distribute the things that the vendors had to sell. And as ubiquitously salable as potatoes may be, they aren't generally imported from Mexico, so that's not what they were selling. So we bought ourselves a case of gorgeous strawberries and moved on.
The taco stand didn't look particularly interesting, or necessarily safe, so we reluctantly went across the street to McDonalds. It was a strange experience to walk through those doors and be suddenly transported back into suburbia, into that carefully crafted experience, where suddenly everything is all about you, and telling you what to want and bringing it to you. Where I ordered a large drink, not because I really wanted anything but french fries and water, but because it was there and they were selling it to me, and where they sold me a large drink, not because they had drinks to sell, but where they sold drinks because they knew I could be easily persuaded to buy one.
We drove by 6th and Hope. The Church of the Open Door is gone, and the Jesus Saves sign, but it is still in the middle of everything, right there between the enormous homeless population huddled beside crumbling buildings, filling run-down parks, and the sophisticated, powerful businessmen striding quickly and confidently down the sparklingly clean sidewalks in the shadow of glisteningly glorious monuments of glass and steel . It's a touch ironic, really. Our own church, Blessed Sacrament, got its start right in the heart of Placentia, right there on the main intersection, in the middle of it all. But as the city grew, that main intersection became an obscure little cul-de-sac, and even the city itself was swallowed up into obscurity within the urban sprawl. The church stands there still, and flourishes, right where it was planted in the first place, but that place where it was planted is very different now, a sheltered place and tucked away.
Meanwhile, the place where Biola began is still at the heart of everything, but Biola has moved to the suburbs. Sometimes I think this is sad, but sometimes I think it makes sense. It really does free up a lot of energy, to be in a place less all-consuming, a place that matters less, perhaps. It's terribly sad, but I start to understand, as I watch our family make the same decisions. We aren't moving to Houston, we're moving to Spring. To the suburbs, where everything is artificially structured around making life easy for us, because right now, we care more about fully participating in a vibrant community of thought, than in a vibrant community of location and commerce. And I think that's the right thing.
But it's still a little sad.
And trying to find a place to move to.
And reading the foundational epics of just about every major world religion and sundry works on the philosophy of education, and basking in the fact that suddenly being a good wife doesn't just involve learning how to do all the stuff I'm not particularly good at, but also involves stuff I am particularly good at. Like reading and synthesizing and and discussing, and well, all the stuff we loved doing together, the whole reason we got married in the first place.
And hanging out in downtown LA, because you just can't live in the area for 7 years and then move away without ever having spent at least one day becoming acquainted with the city itself.
Which, by the way, felt surprisingly reassuring and homelike. These years in California, I've keenly felt the lack of sky and rocks, but I never really articulated my need to look up at towering canyon walls. Had I known how downtown could feed this inarticulate need of mine, I would have spent a whole lot more time hanging out down there. Because, amazingly enough, standing in the middle of one of the biggest cities in the world is approximately the same experience as standing inside a sparsely populated chasm in the middle of the desert.
Beyond the comforting sense of enclosure, that strangely freeing sense of vertigo that comes from gazing at a very high cliff, either up or down... beyond all that, each spot had specific character and location, a particular place with a particular relationship to all the other particular places. Like the canyon, the city cries out to be known in all its particulars, known in it's colors and textures and sounds, not merely known by the numbers and signs on which we must depend to find our way home in suburbia. I found myself wondering what it must be like to know the city as I know the canyon. There is a strangely deep kinship that comes from knowing a place in common. What must it be like to share that knowledge, not with a few hundred, or even a few thousand, but with hundreds of thousands? And what must it be like to be that pinata vendor, a quite ordinary person so vividly shaping the experience of everyone passing through that corner of the city?
As striking as the sense of massive intimacy was the sense of autonomy, the sense that the city did not exist for us. It simply was what it was, which strangely enough, gave us the freedom to simply be who we are. I wanted to stock up on wholesale fabric, so we wandered through the fashion district quite a bit. We never did find any fabric vendors who appeared to be open for business, but we had a lot of fun wandering through shop after shop full of imported clothing, as the owners hovered over us explaining in broken English how much of each item they had in stock, eager to haggle out a deal. It looked very much like a mildly dingy outdoor mall--except that the whole purpose of each store's inventory was entirely different. Each store did not contain a careful selection of items designed to appeal to a particular demographic, but rather a set of items from a particular place. Their goal was not to sell things that a particular group of people would most likely want to buy, but rather to sell the particular things that they had. The difference was subtle, but striking.
It was a lot of fun, wandering through the wholesale shops, and we thought what fun it would be to be a buyer for a shop, to put together an inventory. It's rather amazing, really. It had never occurred to me just how much of my shopping is actually done for me by complete strangers.
We drove through the flower district with our windows down. The gaudy and the exquisite blended strangely, but the fragrance was glorious.
In need of a snack, we found a parking spot in the food district, and browsed through the mexican markets. I looked around for potatoes--perhaps I could spare myself the grocery stop on the way home. But none of them had potatoes, which surprised us. Potatoes are just such ordinary, basic things... doesn't everybody carry potatoes? But of course these places were not there to provide us with the things we wanted to buy, they existed to distribute the things that the vendors had to sell. And as ubiquitously salable as potatoes may be, they aren't generally imported from Mexico, so that's not what they were selling. So we bought ourselves a case of gorgeous strawberries and moved on.
The taco stand didn't look particularly interesting, or necessarily safe, so we reluctantly went across the street to McDonalds. It was a strange experience to walk through those doors and be suddenly transported back into suburbia, into that carefully crafted experience, where suddenly everything is all about you, and telling you what to want and bringing it to you. Where I ordered a large drink, not because I really wanted anything but french fries and water, but because it was there and they were selling it to me, and where they sold me a large drink, not because they had drinks to sell, but where they sold drinks because they knew I could be easily persuaded to buy one.
We drove by 6th and Hope. The Church of the Open Door is gone, and the Jesus Saves sign, but it is still in the middle of everything, right there between the enormous homeless population huddled beside crumbling buildings, filling run-down parks, and the sophisticated, powerful businessmen striding quickly and confidently down the sparklingly clean sidewalks in the shadow of glisteningly glorious monuments of glass and steel . It's a touch ironic, really. Our own church, Blessed Sacrament, got its start right in the heart of Placentia, right there on the main intersection, in the middle of it all. But as the city grew, that main intersection became an obscure little cul-de-sac, and even the city itself was swallowed up into obscurity within the urban sprawl. The church stands there still, and flourishes, right where it was planted in the first place, but that place where it was planted is very different now, a sheltered place and tucked away.
Meanwhile, the place where Biola began is still at the heart of everything, but Biola has moved to the suburbs. Sometimes I think this is sad, but sometimes I think it makes sense. It really does free up a lot of energy, to be in a place less all-consuming, a place that matters less, perhaps. It's terribly sad, but I start to understand, as I watch our family make the same decisions. We aren't moving to Houston, we're moving to Spring. To the suburbs, where everything is artificially structured around making life easy for us, because right now, we care more about fully participating in a vibrant community of thought, than in a vibrant community of location and commerce. And I think that's the right thing.
But it's still a little sad.
5.23.2007
Quack!
"Do you guys want to go live in Texas?"
"Texas!"
"You guys will be little rangers. And Tembo will be a little Texas cowgirl."
"No, Timmo's a duck!"
"A girl duck!"
"Texas!"
"You guys will be little rangers. And Tembo will be a little Texas cowgirl."
"No, Timmo's a duck!"
"A girl duck!"
5.21.2007
Fire Code Shmire Code
We found the perfect apartment. The housing market in Texas is so low that renting doesn't make a whole lot of sense, but we need more time to scope things out before making a commitment like that. But in the mean time, we found the perfect place for now. So perfect it just seemed like God was bringing everything together for that, just like He was bringing everything else together.
Three miles from the school where Andy will be teaching. The perfect distance. Just far enough to build a workout into his day.
1000 square feet. That's bigger than my parents house. Not the tiny cabin in the bottom of the Grand Canyon, the normal three-bedroom ranch-style suburban home.
With a playground in the complex.
And unit 811, which will be ready exactly when we need it, opens directly onto the playground.
Family friendly place, and there were lots of online reviews raving about how competent and friendly and nice the management is. In fact, the only negative comments were about how many little kids there were. That and how small the pool is, but to be perfectly honest, with three toddlers underfoot, the only thing that matters to me about the pool is that it be securely gated and far away from our apartment.
She knew we had three toddlers, and that was fine... until I mentioned my husband.
Oh.
Fire codes. You can't have five people in a two bedroom apartment.
Period.
And now renting is suddenly totally out of reach, because only the very poshest of complexes have three bedroom apartments, the only houses for rent are far from the school, and I have no idea what we're going to do.
This is the point where I'd probably fall into despair, except that this is what God's been doing with us all along. Corrie ten Boom said that when God closes a door, he opens a window. Well, God's been opening windows for us, just far enough to light our path to the open door.
And so I'm just hanging on for ride, immensely curious as to what in the world God is up to. That and scouring the internet.
Three miles from the school where Andy will be teaching. The perfect distance. Just far enough to build a workout into his day.
1000 square feet. That's bigger than my parents house. Not the tiny cabin in the bottom of the Grand Canyon, the normal three-bedroom ranch-style suburban home.
With a playground in the complex.
And unit 811, which will be ready exactly when we need it, opens directly onto the playground.
Family friendly place, and there were lots of online reviews raving about how competent and friendly and nice the management is. In fact, the only negative comments were about how many little kids there were. That and how small the pool is, but to be perfectly honest, with three toddlers underfoot, the only thing that matters to me about the pool is that it be securely gated and far away from our apartment.
She knew we had three toddlers, and that was fine... until I mentioned my husband.
Oh.
Fire codes. You can't have five people in a two bedroom apartment.
Period.
And now renting is suddenly totally out of reach, because only the very poshest of complexes have three bedroom apartments, the only houses for rent are far from the school, and I have no idea what we're going to do.
This is the point where I'd probably fall into despair, except that this is what God's been doing with us all along. Corrie ten Boom said that when God closes a door, he opens a window. Well, God's been opening windows for us, just far enough to light our path to the open door.
And so I'm just hanging on for ride, immensely curious as to what in the world God is up to. That and scouring the internet.
5.19.2007
Toward Balance
A little while back, my back started hurting. Bad. I was having a grand old time playing my flute, while Nathan banged away at the piano.... and then, suddenly, I heard a little click in my shoulder, and it hurt even to breathe.
So I went to a chiropractor, who scanned my back with all sorts of fancy sensors, and announced that the whole problem is that I'm right-handed. Really, really right-handed. And right-footed, and right-armed, and right-everything-ed.
Which is kinda funny, because I've always thought of myself as the sort of person you'd expect to be a lefty. You know, artsy and intuitive and creative and musical. A big thing for me lately has been learning to trust the more logical, practical side of myself. I feel a bit like some of Andy's students who are quite convinced that they can't possibly do math, since they're "literature people," not "math people," and who, when informed that the number 1 indicator of mathematical success is reading ability, instantly rise to the top of the class. We all build our identities around a certain set of skills and interests, and it can be strangely intimidating to move beyond them. If I have other strengths, too... well then, who am I, anyway? So it was a bit surreal to discover just how (absurdly, painfully) right-side-dominant I am.
But back to my back. The right side of my body is much stronger than the left, and so I use it more. Thus the right side gets stronger and stronger, while the left side atrophies, and so on and so forth, until finally my back was so lopsided and out of whack that I couldn't even breathe.
Anyway, I'm supposed to try to do everything with my left hand. Which is easier said than done. Most of my daily tasks are actually two-handed, and the way I coordinate my hands is completely subconscious. It sounds silly, but it's taken me more than a month just to figure out how to go about trying to do things left-handedly.
Every time I get an adjustment, I come away feeling lopsided. My spine feels relaxed and flexible and wonderfully painless... and in a decidedly odd location. This last time, though, I experienced my muscles as lopsided. After she straightened me out, I could feel that my spine was straight and symmetrical, but that I had moderately competent muscles on the right side of my body, and nothing on the left. It's very strange. I'd never noticed it before, but for the past week I've been constantly aware of the lopsidedness of my body. Everything I do, I'm aware of the need to strengthen my left side. And oh my, now that I'm using my left hand, life is one great big workout. Stirring a pot of soup, I feel the burn... and not because I splashed, either. Just opening a door is quite a feat. Add in a childproof knob, and I'm about ready to collapse. But oh, it feels good. Because I'm finally beginning to experience just how much better it is to be balanced and strong, than to be able to easily understand and pigeonhole myself.
So I went to a chiropractor, who scanned my back with all sorts of fancy sensors, and announced that the whole problem is that I'm right-handed. Really, really right-handed. And right-footed, and right-armed, and right-everything-ed.
Which is kinda funny, because I've always thought of myself as the sort of person you'd expect to be a lefty. You know, artsy and intuitive and creative and musical. A big thing for me lately has been learning to trust the more logical, practical side of myself. I feel a bit like some of Andy's students who are quite convinced that they can't possibly do math, since they're "literature people," not "math people," and who, when informed that the number 1 indicator of mathematical success is reading ability, instantly rise to the top of the class. We all build our identities around a certain set of skills and interests, and it can be strangely intimidating to move beyond them. If I have other strengths, too... well then, who am I, anyway? So it was a bit surreal to discover just how (absurdly, painfully) right-side-dominant I am.
But back to my back. The right side of my body is much stronger than the left, and so I use it more. Thus the right side gets stronger and stronger, while the left side atrophies, and so on and so forth, until finally my back was so lopsided and out of whack that I couldn't even breathe.
Anyway, I'm supposed to try to do everything with my left hand. Which is easier said than done. Most of my daily tasks are actually two-handed, and the way I coordinate my hands is completely subconscious. It sounds silly, but it's taken me more than a month just to figure out how to go about trying to do things left-handedly.
Every time I get an adjustment, I come away feeling lopsided. My spine feels relaxed and flexible and wonderfully painless... and in a decidedly odd location. This last time, though, I experienced my muscles as lopsided. After she straightened me out, I could feel that my spine was straight and symmetrical, but that I had moderately competent muscles on the right side of my body, and nothing on the left. It's very strange. I'd never noticed it before, but for the past week I've been constantly aware of the lopsidedness of my body. Everything I do, I'm aware of the need to strengthen my left side. And oh my, now that I'm using my left hand, life is one great big workout. Stirring a pot of soup, I feel the burn... and not because I splashed, either. Just opening a door is quite a feat. Add in a childproof knob, and I'm about ready to collapse. But oh, it feels good. Because I'm finally beginning to experience just how much better it is to be balanced and strong, than to be able to easily understand and pigeonhole myself.
5.18.2007
5.16.2007
Works for Me Wednesday: Mess-free Cake
I grew up on wacky cake. It's a breeze to make, and it only requires the most basic of ingredients--which is an especially big deal if you happen to live in a tiny village at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. And if a flood comes through and destroys your oven... well, with this recipe you can make a very yummy birthday cake in a toaster oven, or crock pot, or microwave. My mother is the queen of flexibility in the kitchen. Until I had a family of my own to feed, I never fully appreciated the tremendous feats of creativity and organization involved in getting yummy nutritious meals on the table every day when you only have access to a supermarket every few months or so, and your fridge is about the size of a medium-sized microwave, with an inset freezer hardly big enough for an ice cream tray. All this is hard enough when you're surrounded by all the resources of a major city, but somehow my mother managed, and managed well.
Anyway, the weird thing about wacky cake is that not only is it really, really simple, but I actually think it comes out tasting better than the sort of cake that involves creaming the butter and the sugar, and beating the eggs over one double boiler while you melt the chocolate over another. Okay, so wedding cakes are better, but ours at least was made from a heavily guarded secret recipe, and it supposedly took three weeks to make anyway. So really, for all intents and purposes, the yummiest, moistest cake I can possibly make also happens to be the easiest cake recipe around. Something of a no-brainer.
Anyway, I wanted something sweet last night, and so I whipped together a wacky cake. And instead of flipping through my recipe cards, I looked it up on recipezaar. And lo and behold, there's another twist to the absurd easiness of this recipe. You don't even have to grease the pan... so there's no reason to dirty a separate bowl. You can just mix the dry ingredients together right in the pan, make little wells for the vanilla, vinegar, and oil (I actually use melted butter.) Then you pour the cold water on top of it all, mix it together, and pop it in the oven.
!!!
Works for me!
Anyway, the weird thing about wacky cake is that not only is it really, really simple, but I actually think it comes out tasting better than the sort of cake that involves creaming the butter and the sugar, and beating the eggs over one double boiler while you melt the chocolate over another. Okay, so wedding cakes are better, but ours at least was made from a heavily guarded secret recipe, and it supposedly took three weeks to make anyway. So really, for all intents and purposes, the yummiest, moistest cake I can possibly make also happens to be the easiest cake recipe around. Something of a no-brainer.
Anyway, I wanted something sweet last night, and so I whipped together a wacky cake. And instead of flipping through my recipe cards, I looked it up on recipezaar. And lo and behold, there's another twist to the absurd easiness of this recipe. You don't even have to grease the pan... so there's no reason to dirty a separate bowl. You can just mix the dry ingredients together right in the pan, make little wells for the vanilla, vinegar, and oil (I actually use melted butter.) Then you pour the cold water on top of it all, mix it together, and pop it in the oven.
!!!
Works for me!
Sorry for the unannounced hiatus---I'm glad you're still reading!
There are some big changes ahead for our family, and it's all so very exciting, and it's happening so very fast, I can hardly think about anything else... but of course, I can't blog about it until it's sunk in a little bit. Or at least been finalized.
And then Nathan dove out of the stroller, giving himself a concussion. It was a very exciting Mother's Day indeed, but even if I'd had a spare moment to blog about it between checking his pupils, I really couldn't properly tell the story without mentioning that all this happened the weekend that Andy was in Houston. And when your husband goes out of town, it's probably wise not to blog about it until after the fact.
Thank God, our Bug-Boy is okay, and despite driving to and from the ER all night before his flight, Andy had a wonderful time in Texas. When someone as introverted as Andy comes back glowing about how great it was to hang out with a large group of strangers about to make a decision that could quite possibly change the course of his life... well, you know the hand of God must be at work.
God's hand is so clear in all this, not only now, but in all the ways he's lead us to this place. It's one of those foot-prints-in-the-sand moments, where we finally see that God was with us all along.
It's downright euphoric.
There are some big changes ahead for our family, and it's all so very exciting, and it's happening so very fast, I can hardly think about anything else... but of course, I can't blog about it until it's sunk in a little bit. Or at least been finalized.
And then Nathan dove out of the stroller, giving himself a concussion. It was a very exciting Mother's Day indeed, but even if I'd had a spare moment to blog about it between checking his pupils, I really couldn't properly tell the story without mentioning that all this happened the weekend that Andy was in Houston. And when your husband goes out of town, it's probably wise not to blog about it until after the fact.
Thank God, our Bug-Boy is okay, and despite driving to and from the ER all night before his flight, Andy had a wonderful time in Texas. When someone as introverted as Andy comes back glowing about how great it was to hang out with a large group of strangers about to make a decision that could quite possibly change the course of his life... well, you know the hand of God must be at work.
God's hand is so clear in all this, not only now, but in all the ways he's lead us to this place. It's one of those foot-prints-in-the-sand moments, where we finally see that God was with us all along.
It's downright euphoric.
5.11.2007
I held the book out, sighed, and motioned for September to come sit on my lap. She was busy playing, and took no notice of me. Nathan gleefully leaped into my lap.
"My turn! My turn!"
I frowned a little, rubbing my neck. I wanted to read yet another book to Nathan, but his sister really did need a turn, and I wasn't really up to much more. I was in a lot of pain.
Nathan hopped up and announced "Mama's back hurts."
Dadders and I nodded.
Then, Nathan came back and stood beside me, placing his hand gently on my shoulder. He looked earnestly into my eyes, and tenderly said, "You need to go to the doctor."
And then he let out a long sigh, filled with all the empathy and support in the world.
That's my boy. That's my boy.
"My turn! My turn!"
I frowned a little, rubbing my neck. I wanted to read yet another book to Nathan, but his sister really did need a turn, and I wasn't really up to much more. I was in a lot of pain.
Nathan hopped up and announced "Mama's back hurts."
Dadders and I nodded.
Then, Nathan came back and stood beside me, placing his hand gently on my shoulder. He looked earnestly into my eyes, and tenderly said, "You need to go to the doctor."
And then he let out a long sigh, filled with all the empathy and support in the world.
That's my boy. That's my boy.
5.09.2007
Works for Me Wednesday: Better biscuits and pastries
I love biscuits.
I don't love trans fats. Trans fats aren't food. They don't serve any nutritional purpose, except to clog up arteries, and prevent our bodies from properly absorbing the nutrients that we need. Particularly the fats that toddlers need for things like... brain development, for instance. With everything we now know about trans-fats, I just don't keep shortening in the house.
But I love biscuits. And unless you love the flavor of lard, shortening is the only way to give your biscuits the right texture. For the past few years, I've made my biscuits and pie crusts with butter, but it just isn't the same. They have a sublime flavor, but they're harder to make, and they turn out kinda heavy.
Until one day a few weeks ago, when I wanted to make a pie, but all my butter was in the freezer. And so instead of cutting the butter into the dry ingredients as usual, I simply grated the frozen block. With a cheese grater. It wasn't much hassle, and the crust turned out beautifully. Since the butter is still frozen, it stays solid long enough to let the dough bake around it a little, leaving those little puffs that give biscuits and pastry their scrumptious lightness. It's the best of both worlds. Now my biscuits and pie crusts turn out just as flaky and light as if I'd used shortening, only buttery and flavorful. And a whole lot better for my kiddos growing noggins, and for all of our arteries.
Works for me!
I don't love trans fats. Trans fats aren't food. They don't serve any nutritional purpose, except to clog up arteries, and prevent our bodies from properly absorbing the nutrients that we need. Particularly the fats that toddlers need for things like... brain development, for instance. With everything we now know about trans-fats, I just don't keep shortening in the house.
But I love biscuits. And unless you love the flavor of lard, shortening is the only way to give your biscuits the right texture. For the past few years, I've made my biscuits and pie crusts with butter, but it just isn't the same. They have a sublime flavor, but they're harder to make, and they turn out kinda heavy.
Until one day a few weeks ago, when I wanted to make a pie, but all my butter was in the freezer. And so instead of cutting the butter into the dry ingredients as usual, I simply grated the frozen block. With a cheese grater. It wasn't much hassle, and the crust turned out beautifully. Since the butter is still frozen, it stays solid long enough to let the dough bake around it a little, leaving those little puffs that give biscuits and pastry their scrumptious lightness. It's the best of both worlds. Now my biscuits and pie crusts turn out just as flaky and light as if I'd used shortening, only buttery and flavorful. And a whole lot better for my kiddos growing noggins, and for all of our arteries.
Works for me!
5.07.2007
A Certain Unpredictability
As I loaded the kids into the van in the library parking lot, a gold sedan sedan pulled in next to us. A gracefully middle-aged woman stepped out, holding a vase full of roses in undulating shades of orange.
"Hot enough for you?"
It certainly was. I wondered why her flowers didn't droop instantly upon feeling the first blast of hot air--I certainly felt rather wilted.
"And to think it was practically winter yesterday!"
I felt a little silly, talking so much about the capricious fluctuations of the weather. This is Southern California, after all, and all our weather can pretty much be summed up as variations on a theme of nice. But there it was--last night, I got up in the middle of the night for another blanket, and by 9am I had entirely forgotten what it was like not to feel as though I was roasting alive.
With all the tornadoes and floods and droughts in other parts of the world, the little fluctuations of our relatively temperate temperatures are hardly worth mentioning at all, but mention them we must.
Somehow it's comforting to know that some things never change, and some things always change.
The weather will always surprise us.
"Hot enough for you?"
It certainly was. I wondered why her flowers didn't droop instantly upon feeling the first blast of hot air--I certainly felt rather wilted.
"And to think it was practically winter yesterday!"
I felt a little silly, talking so much about the capricious fluctuations of the weather. This is Southern California, after all, and all our weather can pretty much be summed up as variations on a theme of nice. But there it was--last night, I got up in the middle of the night for another blanket, and by 9am I had entirely forgotten what it was like not to feel as though I was roasting alive.
With all the tornadoes and floods and droughts in other parts of the world, the little fluctuations of our relatively temperate temperatures are hardly worth mentioning at all, but mention them we must.
Somehow it's comforting to know that some things never change, and some things always change.
The weather will always surprise us.
5.03.2007
5.02.2007
4.30.2007
Advice
Storing leftovers in yogurt containers is a good idea.
Checking to see whether a particular yogurt container holds yogurt or leftovers before reheating is an even better idea.
Checking to see whether a particular yogurt container holds yogurt or leftovers before reheating is an even better idea.
4.27.2007
4.26.2007
Valet Parking Only
And a gratuitous picture of Timmo, just because she's cute.
And also, because I uploaded the wrong picture at first.
4.19.2007
Guest Blogger: An eventful supper, as narrated by Meepo, transcribed by Dadders
Wuggers is choking.
Wuggers is choking on s'ghetti.
Wuggers is covered in choking!
Wuggers is sad.
Wuggers is sick.
Wuggers is gonna go to the doctor.
Gonna fix the Wugger.
I need a hammer.
I'm gonna fix the Wugger.
Wuggers' alive!
Momma's a doctor.
Wuggers is choking on s'ghetti.
Wuggers is covered in choking!
Wuggers is sad.
Wuggers is sick.
Wuggers is gonna go to the doctor.
Gonna fix the Wugger.
I need a hammer.
I'm gonna fix the Wugger.
Wuggers' alive!
Momma's a doctor.
Home
*Yawn*
It was an exhausting trip, but good, and I'm glad I went.
Painful as this time is, somehow I've come back more invigorated than drained. It has been such a blessing to see the way their church has gathered around them, and is holding them up through this ordeal. I've never seen a church that size with such a close-knit community. The size of the congregation didn't prevent them from having an intimate circle around them, but rather provided ever widening circles underneath, all supporting one another. There was very little for us to do, besides be with Uncle Jim and the kids, sharing memories, crying and laughing together. Every few hours more food would quietly appear on the table, and the fridge would fill with more drinks. The bathrooms were cleaned, the carpet vacuumed, the lawn mowed... it was a beautiful thing to see the Body of Christ in action, and it was a great privilege to be a part of it.
Aunt Cindy lived her life in such a way as to make mourning her a thing of beauty. All the memories and sharing... by the end, I felt like surely I must have just attended a really superb seminar on godly womanhood. Only better. Thinking about her life was a good thing.
The memorial service was deeply painful. This is not how it's supposed to be. Death itself is not how it's supposed to be, but even in a world of death, this isn't when it's supposed to happen. Gone, right in the middle of everything, and her absence forms a stark and sharply defined silhouette.
In the midst of it all, though, the hope of the resurrection was never far behind. Aunt Cindy had selected the music before she died, and we sang and we sang and we sang. We stared tragedy straight in the face and sang in triumph
It was an exhausting trip, but good, and I'm glad I went.
Painful as this time is, somehow I've come back more invigorated than drained. It has been such a blessing to see the way their church has gathered around them, and is holding them up through this ordeal. I've never seen a church that size with such a close-knit community. The size of the congregation didn't prevent them from having an intimate circle around them, but rather provided ever widening circles underneath, all supporting one another. There was very little for us to do, besides be with Uncle Jim and the kids, sharing memories, crying and laughing together. Every few hours more food would quietly appear on the table, and the fridge would fill with more drinks. The bathrooms were cleaned, the carpet vacuumed, the lawn mowed... it was a beautiful thing to see the Body of Christ in action, and it was a great privilege to be a part of it.
Aunt Cindy lived her life in such a way as to make mourning her a thing of beauty. All the memories and sharing... by the end, I felt like surely I must have just attended a really superb seminar on godly womanhood. Only better. Thinking about her life was a good thing.
The memorial service was deeply painful. This is not how it's supposed to be. Death itself is not how it's supposed to be, but even in a world of death, this isn't when it's supposed to happen. Gone, right in the middle of everything, and her absence forms a stark and sharply defined silhouette.
In the midst of it all, though, the hope of the resurrection was never far behind. Aunt Cindy had selected the music before she died, and we sang and we sang and we sang. We stared tragedy straight in the face and sang in triumph
In Christ alone my hope is found
He is my light, my strength, my song
This Cornerstone, this solid ground
Firm through the fiercest drought and storm
What heights of love, what depths of peace
When fears are stilled, when strivings cease
My Comforter, my All in All
Here in the love of Christ I stand
In Christ alone, who took on flesh
Fullness of God in helpless babe
This gift of love and righteousness
Scorned by the ones He came to save
‘Til on that cross as Jesus died
The wrath of God was satisfied
For every sin on Him was laid
Here in the death of Christ I live
There in the ground His body lay
Light of the world by darkness slain
Then bursting forth in glorious Day
Up from the grave He rose again
And as He stands in victory
Sin’s curse has lost its grip on me
For I am His and He is mine
Bought with the precious blood of Christ
No guilt of life, no fear in death
This is the power of Christ in me
From life’s first cry to final breath
Jesus commands my destiny
No power of hell, no scheme of man
Can ever pluck me from His hand
‘til He returns or calls me home
Here in the power of Christ I’ll stand
4.14.2007
Question of the Day
Er... night, that is.
Does the lap baby count as my one "personal item"?
Bonus question:
Why did I think that getting the 7am flight as opposed to the 6pm would let me sleep tonight?
No, this just gives me time to pack stuff like... oh... say, clothes. And other things I might want.
Does the lap baby count as my one "personal item"?
Bonus question:
Why did I think that getting the 7am flight as opposed to the 6pm would let me sleep tonight?
No, this just gives me time to pack stuff like... oh... say, clothes. And other things I might want.
4.13.2007
Hiatus
Tomorrow morning, Tembo and I are flying out for Aunt Cindy's memorial service.
You never can tell, but I'm not planning on any blogging between now and our return on Wednesday.
So please don't think I've fallen off the blogosphere, and do check back after Wednesday.
And if you have room in your prayers, I'm sure my Uncle Jim could use them, as could my cousins Andrew, Timothy, Christopher, Gwendolyn, and Ellen.
Cindy leaves quite a gaping hole.
On a much lighter note, I could use prayer too... that's a couple of really long flights with a toddler...
You never can tell, but I'm not planning on any blogging between now and our return on Wednesday.
So please don't think I've fallen off the blogosphere, and do check back after Wednesday.
And if you have room in your prayers, I'm sure my Uncle Jim could use them, as could my cousins Andrew, Timothy, Christopher, Gwendolyn, and Ellen.
Cindy leaves quite a gaping hole.
On a much lighter note, I could use prayer too... that's a couple of really long flights with a toddler...
4.12.2007
Grief
She asked if I was okay.
It's one of those questions that just has no answer, because if I was, it wouldn't be okay.
And yet my grief is so tiny in comparison. I don't have to face the day-to-day chasm of her absence... not like that. It puts everything into perspective, and the very pain I feel forces me to confess that I am very okay indeed, and I have no answers for the not-okay-ness of it all.
She was so beautiful... is so beautiful. In all our flip-floppy musings about where to settle down, Andy was drawn to Pennsylvania because Pennsylvania is vibrant and centered and full of life and beautiful. I was drawn to Pennsylvania because of her. Because that is how she is. Andy wanted to come to Pennsylvania because he wants to live somewhere beautiful, I wanted to come to Pennsylvania because I wanted to learn to become beautiful like her.
Somewhere inside I knew it was futile, but I kept on hoping, because I didn't know what else to do.
And now it is beyond hoping. I will meet her again, somewhere more beautiful than Pennsylvania, more beautiful even than she is.
It's one of those questions that just has no answer, because if I was, it wouldn't be okay.
And yet my grief is so tiny in comparison. I don't have to face the day-to-day chasm of her absence... not like that. It puts everything into perspective, and the very pain I feel forces me to confess that I am very okay indeed, and I have no answers for the not-okay-ness of it all.
She was so beautiful... is so beautiful. In all our flip-floppy musings about where to settle down, Andy was drawn to Pennsylvania because Pennsylvania is vibrant and centered and full of life and beautiful. I was drawn to Pennsylvania because of her. Because that is how she is. Andy wanted to come to Pennsylvania because he wants to live somewhere beautiful, I wanted to come to Pennsylvania because I wanted to learn to become beautiful like her.
Somewhere inside I knew it was futile, but I kept on hoping, because I didn't know what else to do.
And now it is beyond hoping. I will meet her again, somewhere more beautiful than Pennsylvania, more beautiful even than she is.
4.11.2007
Out of whack
Yesterday, everything was so good. So free and easy.
We went to Home Depot, and then to the train station to watch the trains go by. We didn't get back until 6:30, but the housework was all very much under control, so even though we had a late supper, everything was peaceful and orderly and not a bit rushed.
I pulled out my flute and improvised while Andy got the kids into jammies, and then we pulled out the keyboard and let the wuggies play along.
Such good family time, time being just exactly the family we want to be.
And then... something snapped.
I heard a little click, and my shoulder erupted in pain. It felt like I should be able to twist a little bit, my back would pop, and I'd be okay... but no. Still there. By now my whole right side is feeling limp and achy, everything hurts.
I have an appointment with a chiropractor this afternoon, and I'm praying he can take care of it.
Bluch.
We went to Home Depot, and then to the train station to watch the trains go by. We didn't get back until 6:30, but the housework was all very much under control, so even though we had a late supper, everything was peaceful and orderly and not a bit rushed.
I pulled out my flute and improvised while Andy got the kids into jammies, and then we pulled out the keyboard and let the wuggies play along.
Such good family time, time being just exactly the family we want to be.
And then... something snapped.
I heard a little click, and my shoulder erupted in pain. It felt like I should be able to twist a little bit, my back would pop, and I'd be okay... but no. Still there. By now my whole right side is feeling limp and achy, everything hurts.
I have an appointment with a chiropractor this afternoon, and I'm praying he can take care of it.
Bluch.
4.10.2007
Works for Me Wednesday: Sorting out my laundry system
Last week, we had an out-of-control laundry situation.
One week of spring cleaning later, and we have a big, but controlled laundry situation. Which, really, is the best you can hope for when you have three in diapers, I think.
Part of the reason things are so much better now is because I washed, dried, folded, and put away approximately three-hundred-mazillion-forty-eight loads.
But that's only part of it.
The main reason things are under control now, and the only reason I was able to that much laundry, is our new laundry hamper.
I'm not sure how wholeheartedly I can recommend the particular product. It's kinda flimsy. Serviceable, but not terribly stable. And the mesh separating out the compartments won't hold out if you happen to overfill one of them. But the concept is absolutely wonderful, and turns laundry into something that makes sense.
The whole idea of a tripartate laundry hamper is, of course, to divide the laundry according to color, but I've got my own system right now. We don't happen to have any new red items at the moment, so I haven't been worried about colors. Instead, I'm dividing up my laundry according to "needs extra attention" and "just throw it in." It's amazingly easy to do a load of wash that you don't have to even think about, and it's very energizing. And a load consisting solely of stained items actually isn't that bad, either. Instead of feeling despair at how many items need pre-treating, I feel a great sense of accomplishment as I push through all the "hard laundry."
My third category won't be necessary once things are more under control, but right now, I really do need a "don't bother washing it until you're through with the stuff we actually wear" category. The too-small clothes to give away really do need to get washed... someday. But it's much lower on the priority list. Besides, it's just a bad situation when those clothes that you only wear because there's nothing else clean wind up on the top of the laundry pile, and end up being the only thing clean once again.
The other wonderful thing about our new hamper is the lid and the overhead bar. This means that I can fold everything right there at the dryer, pile it up on the lid, hang stuff from the bar, and wheel the whole thing right into the various bedrooms. It's all right there, and I'm not tempted to procrastinate on the whole putting-it-away bit.
So that's how I'm getting the laundry done.
It works for me!
One week of spring cleaning later, and we have a big, but controlled laundry situation. Which, really, is the best you can hope for when you have three in diapers, I think.
Part of the reason things are so much better now is because I washed, dried, folded, and put away approximately three-hundred-mazillion-forty-eight loads.
But that's only part of it.
The main reason things are under control now, and the only reason I was able to that much laundry, is our new laundry hamper.
I'm not sure how wholeheartedly I can recommend the particular product. It's kinda flimsy. Serviceable, but not terribly stable. And the mesh separating out the compartments won't hold out if you happen to overfill one of them. But the concept is absolutely wonderful, and turns laundry into something that makes sense.
The whole idea of a tripartate laundry hamper is, of course, to divide the laundry according to color, but I've got my own system right now. We don't happen to have any new red items at the moment, so I haven't been worried about colors. Instead, I'm dividing up my laundry according to "needs extra attention" and "just throw it in." It's amazingly easy to do a load of wash that you don't have to even think about, and it's very energizing. And a load consisting solely of stained items actually isn't that bad, either. Instead of feeling despair at how many items need pre-treating, I feel a great sense of accomplishment as I push through all the "hard laundry."
My third category won't be necessary once things are more under control, but right now, I really do need a "don't bother washing it until you're through with the stuff we actually wear" category. The too-small clothes to give away really do need to get washed... someday. But it's much lower on the priority list. Besides, it's just a bad situation when those clothes that you only wear because there's nothing else clean wind up on the top of the laundry pile, and end up being the only thing clean once again.
The other wonderful thing about our new hamper is the lid and the overhead bar. This means that I can fold everything right there at the dryer, pile it up on the lid, hang stuff from the bar, and wheel the whole thing right into the various bedrooms. It's all right there, and I'm not tempted to procrastinate on the whole putting-it-away bit.
So that's how I'm getting the laundry done.
It works for me!
Meaningful Choices
Sometimes I forget just how much easier choices can make things for everybody.
Tembo loves brushing her teeth, for instance. Which is wonderful, but there does come a time when the toothbrush needs to go back into the cabinet. Taking the toothbrush away results in a terrible tantrum. Holding out a hand, or even better, a hat, and asking her to put the toothbrush in it... well that is just an utterly delightful game, and the command is met with sweet compliance and joy.
Of course, she really does have to learn to obey us, just because we said so... but there are enough opportunities for that sort of thing as it is. I'm far more interested in Aristotelian virtue than Abelardian virtue. I want to make it as easy as possible for her to get in the habit of joyous obedience. Much practice in a struggle toward painful obedience doesn't seem terribly helpful, and anyway, we aren't in danger of running of those excercises. There's no way to make it fun to stay inside the yard, but she has to learn to do it anyway. She doesn't know why it's important, but we do, and she has to learn to trust our judgment. Trust and and obey.
Part of learning to trust us, though, is being actively involved in the logic of our commands whenever possible, actively experiencing our judgments as directed toward her benefit and empowerment. When we make it easy for her to obey, she obeys us better... not just in the instances where we make it easy, but also in the instances where it's unavoidably hard.
The other day at lunch, Isaiah started in on a doozy of a tantrum as I pulled down a loaf of bread and began making sandwiches.
"Cer-yal! Cer-yal! No sammich! I wan CER-YAL!"
But then I asked him if he wanted a peanut butter sandwich or a cheese sandwich.
He quieted instantly. "Cheese sanwich."
I pulled out the block of cheddar.
"No, cream cheese!"
Well, okay. Why not.
"Do you want jelly on your sandwich?"
"No jelly. Just cream cheese."
"Would you like me to cut it, or not cut it?"
"Cut it!"
"Should I cut it into squares or triangles?"
"Triangles!"
"Should I cut it into two pieces or four pieces?"
"Four! Four triangles!"
By this point he was beaming as only Isaiah can beam, and the whole room was filled with the piercing brilliance of young joy.
They just desperately want to be a part of things, that's all.
The other day, Andy was mourning the loss of his teen years. If only he could go back and be ten years old again... the things he could have done to prepare himself for greatness, if he had caught a vision of purpose and virtue then, before it was too late, before the opportunities were gone.
Is there any hope for our children and the children that we teach? Or is that sort of vision impossible apart from age? Are teenagers just inherently lazy?
The answer lies, I think it what ten-year-old Andy actually did with his time. Rather than pouring himself into diligent study and relationships with wise mentors, young Andy spent all his time playing Hero's Quest, building up a virtual character well prepared to achieve greatness.
Could he have learned to see himself as the young hero, and poured that energy into real-life growth? Or was that time not as wasted as it seems? Did the silly video games actually provide him with the narrative structure to see meaning and purpose in his own life now?
I don't know.
But in the mean time, we will involve our children in the small but truly significant bits of life, like setting the table and folding the clean rags and throwing away their diapers and putting away the train tracks and pushing the start button on the dishwasher, and we'll teach them to delight in their important contributions to our family life. We're looking forward to the day when balancing the checkbook and paying the taxes and making the most of our grocery budget will be exciting math projects for the kids.
And we'll tell Tembo to place the toothbrush in our open hands, and delight with her in her free will and volition, as she chooses to obey.
Tembo loves brushing her teeth, for instance. Which is wonderful, but there does come a time when the toothbrush needs to go back into the cabinet. Taking the toothbrush away results in a terrible tantrum. Holding out a hand, or even better, a hat, and asking her to put the toothbrush in it... well that is just an utterly delightful game, and the command is met with sweet compliance and joy.
Of course, she really does have to learn to obey us, just because we said so... but there are enough opportunities for that sort of thing as it is. I'm far more interested in Aristotelian virtue than Abelardian virtue. I want to make it as easy as possible for her to get in the habit of joyous obedience. Much practice in a struggle toward painful obedience doesn't seem terribly helpful, and anyway, we aren't in danger of running of those excercises. There's no way to make it fun to stay inside the yard, but she has to learn to do it anyway. She doesn't know why it's important, but we do, and she has to learn to trust our judgment. Trust and and obey.
Part of learning to trust us, though, is being actively involved in the logic of our commands whenever possible, actively experiencing our judgments as directed toward her benefit and empowerment. When we make it easy for her to obey, she obeys us better... not just in the instances where we make it easy, but also in the instances where it's unavoidably hard.
The other day at lunch, Isaiah started in on a doozy of a tantrum as I pulled down a loaf of bread and began making sandwiches.
"Cer-yal! Cer-yal! No sammich! I wan CER-YAL!"
But then I asked him if he wanted a peanut butter sandwich or a cheese sandwich.
He quieted instantly. "Cheese sanwich."
I pulled out the block of cheddar.
"No, cream cheese!"
Well, okay. Why not.
"Do you want jelly on your sandwich?"
"No jelly. Just cream cheese."
"Would you like me to cut it, or not cut it?"
"Cut it!"
"Should I cut it into squares or triangles?"
"Triangles!"
"Should I cut it into two pieces or four pieces?"
"Four! Four triangles!"
By this point he was beaming as only Isaiah can beam, and the whole room was filled with the piercing brilliance of young joy.
They just desperately want to be a part of things, that's all.
The other day, Andy was mourning the loss of his teen years. If only he could go back and be ten years old again... the things he could have done to prepare himself for greatness, if he had caught a vision of purpose and virtue then, before it was too late, before the opportunities were gone.
Is there any hope for our children and the children that we teach? Or is that sort of vision impossible apart from age? Are teenagers just inherently lazy?
The answer lies, I think it what ten-year-old Andy actually did with his time. Rather than pouring himself into diligent study and relationships with wise mentors, young Andy spent all his time playing Hero's Quest, building up a virtual character well prepared to achieve greatness.
Could he have learned to see himself as the young hero, and poured that energy into real-life growth? Or was that time not as wasted as it seems? Did the silly video games actually provide him with the narrative structure to see meaning and purpose in his own life now?
I don't know.
But in the mean time, we will involve our children in the small but truly significant bits of life, like setting the table and folding the clean rags and throwing away their diapers and putting away the train tracks and pushing the start button on the dishwasher, and we'll teach them to delight in their important contributions to our family life. We're looking forward to the day when balancing the checkbook and paying the taxes and making the most of our grocery budget will be exciting math projects for the kids.
And we'll tell Tembo to place the toothbrush in our open hands, and delight with her in her free will and volition, as she chooses to obey.
4.08.2007
4.07.2007
Spring Cleaning
Jessica talks about spring cleaning during Holy Week here, how it makes a fitting culmination to lent and a good preparation for Easter.
Good thoughts, as always--if you don't read her blog, you should--and they ran parallel to my own thoughts on the topic. As we drove The Container Store on Thursday, I mused about how I wished we had time to do a Seder. Andy rightly pointed out that getting organized actually has deep spiritual implications, and will do us a lot more good, just by way of clearing out the space and time to focus on important things throughout the year to come.
Maybe next year.
And so my mind flitted through delightful images of teaching the wuggies about God's faithfulness through Israel's long journeys, culminating in Christ. Grimacing at the horseradish, hiding the afikomen, and, of course, the preparatory scurry about the house, clearing out the leaven.
Suddenly, I realized that was exactly what we were doing--getting rid of the leaven. The Festival of Unleavened Bread began with a call to simplicity. Don't even wait for the bread to rise!
And so it is that we are going through our home, clearing out everything that might slow us down in our journey to the Promised Land.
An important element of our spring cleaning is also going to be putting up pictures of Jesus. I'm finding that I desperately need visual reminders of who he is. I can make words so complicated, parsing and analyzing and dissecting. There's a place for that--a very important place, indeed!--but sometimes I can get a little out of focus.
I've been spending a lot of time in the Sermon on the Mount lately, and the familiar words take on new meaning as I picture his face. Spoken from a faceless authority, they are harsh and impossible demands. Spoken from the lips of my redeemer, they become a call to freedom and gracefulness. An easy yoke and a light burden, not the unattainable goal, but the way.
I've always wondered why he warned us against the leaven of the Pharisees, but it makes sense now. It's so easy to take good things, and make them so complicated that they utterly obscure the point, and hold us back from following Jesus freely.
Pictures force me to meditate on Jesus as a whole, his deeds in light of his words, and his words in light of his deeds.
That wholeness cuts right through everything, and clears a path to holiness.
4.06.2007
Good Friday
I want to mourn, but I cannot. My soul is too overcome with the gladness of who you are. Your face dispels all bitterness.
4.05.2007
Maundy Thursday
It wasn't cold.
Did Holy Week come earlier last year, when spring was still winter?
The foot washing was symbolic and moving. Moving because, as Father David pointed out, it wasn't symbolic. Not at the beginning. Just necessary and a little bit gross and ever so practical.
Like diaper changing.
"Wash my hands and my head as well!"
Like Peter, I swing from extreme to extreme with fervor and intensity. Hold me, Jesus, to the right. Center me.
"My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?"
I cannot stop thinking perfect the harmonies are, how well suited to the text and how exquisitely realized. Designed to draw me to the text, yet my soul balks at the hard words.
"...Thou didst answer. But I am a worm and not a man..."
Inwardly, I praise the discretion of the pageantry. The choir at the back, the dimming of the lights, the stripping of the altar.... still and quiet and self-forgetful. And yet I cannot stop analyzing--that would be to listen.
"My betrayer approaches."
I find myself clutching at my sweater, shivering after all.
It is very cold.
Did Holy Week come earlier last year, when spring was still winter?
The foot washing was symbolic and moving. Moving because, as Father David pointed out, it wasn't symbolic. Not at the beginning. Just necessary and a little bit gross and ever so practical.
Like diaper changing.
"Wash my hands and my head as well!"
Like Peter, I swing from extreme to extreme with fervor and intensity. Hold me, Jesus, to the right. Center me.
"My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?"
I cannot stop thinking perfect the harmonies are, how well suited to the text and how exquisitely realized. Designed to draw me to the text, yet my soul balks at the hard words.
"...Thou didst answer. But I am a worm and not a man..."
Inwardly, I praise the discretion of the pageantry. The choir at the back, the dimming of the lights, the stripping of the altar.... still and quiet and self-forgetful. And yet I cannot stop analyzing--that would be to listen.
"My betrayer approaches."
I find myself clutching at my sweater, shivering after all.
It is very cold.
4.04.2007
WFMW Car Edition: Saving on Gas
Do you ever have those weird moments where you're carrying on two entirely separate trains of thought in the back of your head, and then suddenly you realize that they're exactly the same?
Like how I've been frustrated that I had absolutely nothing to contribute to the Car Edition of Works For Me Wednesday, even as I was brewing a post on gas-saving tips. Yeah.
Anyway, did you all know that those big numbers on the gas station signs... those big numbers that keep getting bigger and bigger... well, it turns out that they aren't gas prices after all. Nope. That's the price of gas PLUS tax PLUS credit card fees. The tax part is inevitable, of course, but some places will actually knock off 8-10 cents a gallon off their posted price if you pay in cash. I know that Arco and Valero do this--I'm not sure about any other stations.
The other way we save on gas is by buying premium, ironically enough. We get so much better gas mileage with the expensive stuff, that we actually end up paying slightly less per mile. We don't save much on gas, and but we don't lose anything either, and our engine is much, much happier. Which translates into less time and money spent at the mechanics.
It may or may not turn out to be worthwhile for your particular car, but it works for us!
Like how I've been frustrated that I had absolutely nothing to contribute to the Car Edition of Works For Me Wednesday, even as I was brewing a post on gas-saving tips. Yeah.
Anyway, did you all know that those big numbers on the gas station signs... those big numbers that keep getting bigger and bigger... well, it turns out that they aren't gas prices after all. Nope. That's the price of gas PLUS tax PLUS credit card fees. The tax part is inevitable, of course, but some places will actually knock off 8-10 cents a gallon off their posted price if you pay in cash. I know that Arco and Valero do this--I'm not sure about any other stations.
The other way we save on gas is by buying premium, ironically enough. We get so much better gas mileage with the expensive stuff, that we actually end up paying slightly less per mile. We don't save much on gas, and but we don't lose anything either, and our engine is much, much happier. Which translates into less time and money spent at the mechanics.
It may or may not turn out to be worthwhile for your particular car, but it works for us!
4.03.2007
Joke's on us
Yesterday afternoon, as I was paying for my groceries at the farmer's market, I paused, trying to remember what date to put on my check. I'm always having to ask the cashier, but ever since they put that 2 doz. per family limit on the eggs, I've been coming 'round an awful lot, so I figured that the question was probably getting pretty old. After a few facial contortions, I remembered that March had just ended... "Oh! It's..."
"No," she smiled, "that was yesterday. Today's the second."
Bummer. I'd missed it again.
On the way home, however, I realized that we'd been the recipient of a fantastically delightful (not to mention disorienting!) joke.
Saturday night, Justy watched the kids, and Andy and I went out for a night of superb amateur theatre. We had a great time, but Shakespeare didn't write short plays, and when you factor in driving the babysitter home and then discussing the interpretation of Malvolio over a bowl of ice cream.... we didn't exactly get to bed early.
Which was problematic, because we really, really needed to get to church on time.
Of course, it's always a good idea to get to church on time, and it's always just a little bit out of reach--though we've been doing much better, lately.
But this was Palm Sunday. And Palm Sunday only comes around once a year, and the extra-special part is at the very beginning. And Palm Sunday when you're three? That only comes around once, period. We had to get those wuggies to church on time.
Moreover, I had to rehearse for the Easter service. I had to be at church an hour early. An hour and a half, if I didn't want to be sight-reading.
We crashed into bed Saturday night without even setting our alarms, and in the morning I woke in a panic, desperate to know what time it was. I glanced up at the clock, but the clock was gone. That's right, the boys knocked it over. Shoot.
I booted up the computer.
7:13
Upon seeing that I had an hour in which to get everyone ready for church, I promptly fell back asleep for "just a few minutes more."
But amazingly enough, this time it really was just a few minutes more, and after that, I really was ready to face the day.
Clothes. Must find clothes for everybody. I tiptoed into the boys' room, and glanced into their drawers.
Empty.
I had done a load of laundry every single day, some days two, and yet the laundry pile stands as massive ever, and the twins had nothing to wear to church. Nothing. I seriously do not get it.
I quickly picked a few key items out of Mount Shirt-and-vest, told the washing machine to forget about the second rinse, and started a load.
8:00
I threw on a dress, ran a comb through my hair, started the coffee pot, and began frying eggs as quickly as I could. (I didn't break a single one, either. Am I good, or am I good?)
8:35
I dressed Tembo, fixed her hair, hoped that she wouldn't smear herself with egg yolk, and dashed out the door, leaving Andy to do the rest.
When I got to church I had to try several doors before I found one that was unlocked. The choir room was utterly deserted. Were they in the sanctuary?
No, the early mass had already started.
I looked for a clock.
It said 7:55--I guess every building has to have at least one forgotten clock leftover from the time change. That meant that it must be 8:55, and I was 10 minutes late. JAC had said it would just be a quick run-through... but how was it that they were completely gone so soon?
One of the ladies setting up in the kitchen asked what I was looking for, and I told her I was trying to find JAC and the musicians.
"Oh, they usually come around 8:30."
It took me a few minutes to figure out if she was speaking of 8:30 as in the past,
or yet to come, but it slowly dawned on me that the clock was right after all.
Daylight savings came two weeks earlier that our computer expected, and we'd reset it manually. Now the computer had automatically "sprung forward" all over again... and I had time! Wonderful, gloriously unexpected time!
Time to find my part, and run through it. Time to warm up, and remember how to coax a beautiful sound out of my flute. Time to improvise freely and playfully and meditatively and worshipfully. Time, flute in hand, to prepare my soul for the eucharist.
Wonderful, wonderful gift!
Sometime later, Andy pulled up with the van full of wuggies, discouraged that the laundry had caused them to be 45 minutes late.
Or 15 minutes early, as the case may be.
Quite the April fools. Quite the April fools.
"No," she smiled, "that was yesterday. Today's the second."
Bummer. I'd missed it again.
On the way home, however, I realized that we'd been the recipient of a fantastically delightful (not to mention disorienting!) joke.
Saturday night, Justy watched the kids, and Andy and I went out for a night of superb amateur theatre. We had a great time, but Shakespeare didn't write short plays, and when you factor in driving the babysitter home and then discussing the interpretation of Malvolio over a bowl of ice cream.... we didn't exactly get to bed early.
Which was problematic, because we really, really needed to get to church on time.
Of course, it's always a good idea to get to church on time, and it's always just a little bit out of reach--though we've been doing much better, lately.
But this was Palm Sunday. And Palm Sunday only comes around once a year, and the extra-special part is at the very beginning. And Palm Sunday when you're three? That only comes around once, period. We had to get those wuggies to church on time.
Moreover, I had to rehearse for the Easter service. I had to be at church an hour early. An hour and a half, if I didn't want to be sight-reading.
We crashed into bed Saturday night without even setting our alarms, and in the morning I woke in a panic, desperate to know what time it was. I glanced up at the clock, but the clock was gone. That's right, the boys knocked it over. Shoot.
I booted up the computer.
7:13
Upon seeing that I had an hour in which to get everyone ready for church, I promptly fell back asleep for "just a few minutes more."
But amazingly enough, this time it really was just a few minutes more, and after that, I really was ready to face the day.
Clothes. Must find clothes for everybody. I tiptoed into the boys' room, and glanced into their drawers.
Empty.
I had done a load of laundry every single day, some days two, and yet the laundry pile stands as massive ever, and the twins had nothing to wear to church. Nothing. I seriously do not get it.
I quickly picked a few key items out of Mount Shirt-and-vest, told the washing machine to forget about the second rinse, and started a load.
8:00
I threw on a dress, ran a comb through my hair, started the coffee pot, and began frying eggs as quickly as I could. (I didn't break a single one, either. Am I good, or am I good?)
8:35
I dressed Tembo, fixed her hair, hoped that she wouldn't smear herself with egg yolk, and dashed out the door, leaving Andy to do the rest.
When I got to church I had to try several doors before I found one that was unlocked. The choir room was utterly deserted. Were they in the sanctuary?
No, the early mass had already started.
I looked for a clock.
It said 7:55--I guess every building has to have at least one forgotten clock leftover from the time change. That meant that it must be 8:55, and I was 10 minutes late. JAC had said it would just be a quick run-through... but how was it that they were completely gone so soon?
One of the ladies setting up in the kitchen asked what I was looking for, and I told her I was trying to find JAC and the musicians.
"Oh, they usually come around 8:30."
It took me a few minutes to figure out if she was speaking of 8:30 as in the past,
or yet to come, but it slowly dawned on me that the clock was right after all.
Daylight savings came two weeks earlier that our computer expected, and we'd reset it manually. Now the computer had automatically "sprung forward" all over again... and I had time! Wonderful, gloriously unexpected time!
Time to find my part, and run through it. Time to warm up, and remember how to coax a beautiful sound out of my flute. Time to improvise freely and playfully and meditatively and worshipfully. Time, flute in hand, to prepare my soul for the eucharist.
Wonderful, wonderful gift!
Sometime later, Andy pulled up with the van full of wuggies, discouraged that the laundry had caused them to be 45 minutes late.
Or 15 minutes early, as the case may be.
Quite the April fools. Quite the April fools.
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