No, he's not breech.
But at my last appointment, the midwife pointed out that he's facing frontward. She said I should keep my spine as straight as possible to encourage him to turn around.
Well, working on my posture is always a good idea, but I couldn't see how being front-facing could be bad thing. After all, it's fun to feel lots of arm and leg movements--not to mention reassuring. Surely it can't make that big a difference which direction he's facing... right?
But now I completely understand.
I'm not even in labor yet, but last night had me ready to beg for an epidural.
I'm pretty confident about the contractions. I know it's going to be hard, but I feel ready to face it.
The back of baby's skull grinding against my spine? Not so much.
Please pray for mercy, and a rear-facing baby.
Turn, baby, turn!
7.15.2008
7.13.2008
The Stories that Weren't
"Mama, I'd like to tell you a story tomorrow morning."
My firstborn flung his arms around my neck and grinned at me.
"You could tell it to me now, if you wanted to. I'd love to hear it."
"Well... okay."
"So what's your story about?"
"It's about the Veggie Tales and the train."
"Oh, that sounds like a good story. So what happened."
"Well... nothing happened! Because the train didn't fall into the water, and the bridge didn't fall into the water!"
How frequently do I forget to marvel in gratefulness, for all the horrendously eventful happenings that don't.
My firstborn flung his arms around my neck and grinned at me.
"You could tell it to me now, if you wanted to. I'd love to hear it."
"Well... okay."
"So what's your story about?"
"It's about the Veggie Tales and the train."
"Oh, that sounds like a good story. So what happened."
"Well... nothing happened! Because the train didn't fall into the water, and the bridge didn't fall into the water!"
How frequently do I forget to marvel in gratefulness, for all the horrendously eventful happenings that don't.
7.12.2008
Life on the Inside
They asked if Baby Jack had a home inside my belly. (Baby Jack may well turn out to be Baby Jill, but you have to call the child something...)
I told them that yes, Baby Jack has a nice, cozy home inside me.
And so ever since, they've been speculating about the sort of facilities he might have.
Does he have a bed? What about a potty? You know, surely Baby Jack must be busy building a log cabin, and a suspension bridge. Every baby needs a suspension bridge.
Perhaps this is why my skin isn't fitting very well.
Last night we finally made use of our community pool, having discovered the reason why it never seemed to be open when it ought to be. The spot where the lifeguard naps when nobody's at the pool happens not to be visible from the gate, that's all. I can certainly understand why he would rest in the shade when there is nobody about, but the situation seems to be rather self-perpetuating. Perhaps this might also explain the heated arguments at the HOA meeting over whether or not the pool was ever open last summer. But in any case, once you figure out that he's there, he does come let you in when you holler, so having solved this mystery, we put on our suits and went swimming.
As she skipped happily toward the door, September paused to pat my belly.
"Baby Jack's going swimming, too!"
I nodded in affirmation. We've talked before about how he's swimming around in amniotic fluid; also, Baby Jack would definitely be coming along on this excursion. I wasn't sure exactly what she meant by the phrase, but one way or another, Baby Jack was definitely going swimming.
Her next question had me flumoxed, though.
I have no idea what color his bathing suit is.
I told them that yes, Baby Jack has a nice, cozy home inside me.
And so ever since, they've been speculating about the sort of facilities he might have.
Does he have a bed? What about a potty? You know, surely Baby Jack must be busy building a log cabin, and a suspension bridge. Every baby needs a suspension bridge.
Perhaps this is why my skin isn't fitting very well.
Last night we finally made use of our community pool, having discovered the reason why it never seemed to be open when it ought to be. The spot where the lifeguard naps when nobody's at the pool happens not to be visible from the gate, that's all. I can certainly understand why he would rest in the shade when there is nobody about, but the situation seems to be rather self-perpetuating. Perhaps this might also explain the heated arguments at the HOA meeting over whether or not the pool was ever open last summer. But in any case, once you figure out that he's there, he does come let you in when you holler, so having solved this mystery, we put on our suits and went swimming.
As she skipped happily toward the door, September paused to pat my belly.
"Baby Jack's going swimming, too!"
I nodded in affirmation. We've talked before about how he's swimming around in amniotic fluid; also, Baby Jack would definitely be coming along on this excursion. I wasn't sure exactly what she meant by the phrase, but one way or another, Baby Jack was definitely going swimming.
Her next question had me flumoxed, though.
I have no idea what color his bathing suit is.
7.11.2008
7.07.2008
Poetry in reverse
I've been thinking a lot about childbirth lately.
Might have something to do with the little feet that keep pressing insistently against my ribs, warming up, as it were, to help catapult new life into the world.
As I think about birth, my mind can't help but turn to other concepts, more abstract and more familiar. And like so many other times, my "new" thoughts are expressible only by the old words and phrases I've heard a thousand times before.
I think perhaps that being born must be something akin to being born again.
And certainly my midwife's role is highly Socratic, being someone who has walked this road herself a number of times, and now guides other women through the births of their children. You could almost say that being a midwife is like being a "midwife of ideas."
The poetry of birth is all around us, inescapably so. So many deeply important things are impossible to discuss without talking in terms of birth. Can we really understand them without understanding birth?
And so it is that I'm quivering with impatient excitement, eager to dance that poem with this, my littlest child.
Might have something to do with the little feet that keep pressing insistently against my ribs, warming up, as it were, to help catapult new life into the world.
As I think about birth, my mind can't help but turn to other concepts, more abstract and more familiar. And like so many other times, my "new" thoughts are expressible only by the old words and phrases I've heard a thousand times before.
I think perhaps that being born must be something akin to being born again.
And certainly my midwife's role is highly Socratic, being someone who has walked this road herself a number of times, and now guides other women through the births of their children. You could almost say that being a midwife is like being a "midwife of ideas."
The poetry of birth is all around us, inescapably so. So many deeply important things are impossible to discuss without talking in terms of birth. Can we really understand them without understanding birth?
And so it is that I'm quivering with impatient excitement, eager to dance that poem with this, my littlest child.
7.03.2008
Gratitude
Our food has been thoroughly blessed of late. Every night the kids argue about who will pray, and so most nights, they all do.
Tonight, after Nathan said grace, Isaiah offered up the following prayer, reproduced to the best of my memory:
"Dear Jesus, thank you for this food. Please bless it to our bodies."
Nathan gave a hearty "Amen" to this, but his brother wasn't finished.
"Thank you for the orange juice. The orange juice. Thank you for all the orange juice. Thank you for the pot lid, and the pot. Thank you for the silverware and the plates. Thank you for the plates and all the food on the plates. Thank you for the orange juice. Thank you for the table and the chairs, and thank you for the light bulbs."
At this point, we lost it. We'd been trying so hard not to chuckle, but we just couldn't hold it in any longer.
Isaiah didn't mind, though, and joined in the laughter, a natural outflowing of his unselfconscious gratitude.
It was a fitting prayer for such a meal. There are some crock-pot experiments that just shouldn't be made.
Thank you, Jesus, for the silverware and the plates and the orange juice and the light bulbs. And for Kraft Mac 'n Cheese.
Tonight, after Nathan said grace, Isaiah offered up the following prayer, reproduced to the best of my memory:
"Dear Jesus, thank you for this food. Please bless it to our bodies."
Nathan gave a hearty "Amen" to this, but his brother wasn't finished.
"Thank you for the orange juice. The orange juice. Thank you for all the orange juice. Thank you for the pot lid, and the pot. Thank you for the silverware and the plates. Thank you for the plates and all the food on the plates. Thank you for the orange juice. Thank you for the table and the chairs, and thank you for the light bulbs."
At this point, we lost it. We'd been trying so hard not to chuckle, but we just couldn't hold it in any longer.
Isaiah didn't mind, though, and joined in the laughter, a natural outflowing of his unselfconscious gratitude.
It was a fitting prayer for such a meal. There are some crock-pot experiments that just shouldn't be made.
Thank you, Jesus, for the silverware and the plates and the orange juice and the light bulbs. And for Kraft Mac 'n Cheese.
6.24.2008
We're back...
...after a wonderful and refreshing summer jaunt.
I really, really like Texas in the springtime, but summer... well, let's just say that summer is a great time for travel.
I got to take a 3 week summer class on Ephesians, while Andy took the wuggies to see Gramma and Grampa.
It was blissful, and the very best part of the whole trip was seeing my dear family again after being away for so long.
It is good to be home again.
Standards
"May I be excused?"
"Yes, but first you need to put your dishes in the sink."
"But not the knife."
"Yes, the knife, too."
"But it's still clean."
"Um, actually it's covered in egg."
"But this side is clean..."
"Yes, but first you need to put your dishes in the sink."
"But not the knife."
"Yes, the knife, too."
"But it's still clean."
"Um, actually it's covered in egg."
"But this side is clean..."
5.17.2008
What I wish we'd known before buying a home
Everybody says you need to have your home inspected by an independent inspector.
And we did. Oh yes, we were very conscientious, looked into everything a responsible home-buyer is supposed to look into. We researched the neighborhood, the crime rates, talked with the constable, thoroughly analyzed the flood risks, and hired a reputable, unbiased professional to go over the home with a fine-tooth comb.
And he was very thorough. He checked everything, and gave the house a clean bill of health, with the exception of a few minor-but-urgent repairs to the exterior.
He checked the plumbing, said everything was in working order. The hot water heater had been recently replaced... at least that's what he said.
I have no doubt that the guy was very professional, and did quite as good a job as any other home inspector would have.
But he wasn't a plumber, and as we are learning the hard way, when it comes to plumbing, the opinion of a non-plumber just isn't worth a whole lot.
We've just replaced one toilet, and the other two are on their way out. The seals were shot on all three of them... fortunately only one of them leaked through the living room ceiling.
And that hot water heater? Rusted on the interior, and on the verge of disintegration.
Thank God for the leaky toilet that got us to call a plumber before we were surprised by a river of hot water pouring down from the attic. I suspect that might have been a rather more disastrous repair.
As these things go, it could have been much, much worse. We still like the house, we're still glad we bought it. But it would have been nice to know about these things before while we could have negotiated with the seller to help out with some of the repairs.
We'd never heard anyone recommend a specific plumbing inspection, but if and when we ever find ourselves buying another older home, we're definitely getting Mr. Rooter to check things out before we sign on the dotted line.
Meanwhile, if you could spare us a bit of prayer, we could use it. This comes just as I'm recovering from heat exhaustion, which sent me into preterm labor. I'm okay now, and more importantly so is "Baby Jack," still snuggled safe inside for another 10 weeks at least, God willing. But I'm still trying to take it easy until I'm fully recovered.
And there's a mild fever running through the family.
When it rains, it pours.
Straight down through the living room ceiling, to be precise.
And we did. Oh yes, we were very conscientious, looked into everything a responsible home-buyer is supposed to look into. We researched the neighborhood, the crime rates, talked with the constable, thoroughly analyzed the flood risks, and hired a reputable, unbiased professional to go over the home with a fine-tooth comb.
And he was very thorough. He checked everything, and gave the house a clean bill of health, with the exception of a few minor-but-urgent repairs to the exterior.
He checked the plumbing, said everything was in working order. The hot water heater had been recently replaced... at least that's what he said.
I have no doubt that the guy was very professional, and did quite as good a job as any other home inspector would have.
But he wasn't a plumber, and as we are learning the hard way, when it comes to plumbing, the opinion of a non-plumber just isn't worth a whole lot.
We've just replaced one toilet, and the other two are on their way out. The seals were shot on all three of them... fortunately only one of them leaked through the living room ceiling.
And that hot water heater? Rusted on the interior, and on the verge of disintegration.
Thank God for the leaky toilet that got us to call a plumber before we were surprised by a river of hot water pouring down from the attic. I suspect that might have been a rather more disastrous repair.
As these things go, it could have been much, much worse. We still like the house, we're still glad we bought it. But it would have been nice to know about these things before while we could have negotiated with the seller to help out with some of the repairs.
We'd never heard anyone recommend a specific plumbing inspection, but if and when we ever find ourselves buying another older home, we're definitely getting Mr. Rooter to check things out before we sign on the dotted line.
Meanwhile, if you could spare us a bit of prayer, we could use it. This comes just as I'm recovering from heat exhaustion, which sent me into preterm labor. I'm okay now, and more importantly so is "Baby Jack," still snuggled safe inside for another 10 weeks at least, God willing. But I'm still trying to take it easy until I'm fully recovered.
And there's a mild fever running through the family.
When it rains, it pours.
Straight down through the living room ceiling, to be precise.
5.04.2008
Tantrum
His sobs come crashing in on one other, wave upon wave, each subsiding only to collide with the next in a foaming froth of spray.
Beyond his briny tears, I can almost taste the sweet, sweet sleep to come, when all strivings have been spent.
There is no lullaby like the rhythm of the surf.
Beyond his briny tears, I can almost taste the sweet, sweet sleep to come, when all strivings have been spent.
There is no lullaby like the rhythm of the surf.
4.25.2008
Don't poison the primates!
We had a fun trip to the zoo the other day, with a family from church.
It took some careful arrangement, but we were able to fit everyone AND the quad stroller into the doopah-mobile. I felt quite bad for my poor friend who was stuck sitting in the 2/3 of a seat that was left over next to the carseats, but I was very glad indeed that we carpooled. For one thing, I learned how to navigate the HOV lane, and avoid rush hour traffic--it's more complicated than you'd expect. You know how in California they have carpool lanes? Well, in Texas, they say HOV (short for high-occupancy vehicle) and there's only one per highway, and it changes directions with traffic flow. So in the morning it goes south, and in the afternoon it goes north. But don't worry, it's closed during mid-day, so I presume everybody's had time to clear out before the cars start going the other way. I hope. Anyway, it can save an awful lot of time, but it's also something of a gamble, because if anybody breaks down, the whole line of cars is stuck--I would have assumed that in such an urban setting, one would be immune to the hazards of one-lane roads, but apparently not. However, nobody broke down in front of us this time, and we happily zipped past the bumper to bumper traffic.
Once we got to the zoo, however, we had to circle for nearly an hour before finding a parking spot--another reason I was glad we were carpooling. Such ordeals are much more bearable with good conversation--and who knows how long it would have taken to find TWO parking spots.
But the zoo itself was a good deal of fun, particularly the reptiles and primates. The giant pythons were truly spectacular, and the baby chimpanzee was heart-meltingly adorable.
And somewhere in the primate section (I think it was in front of the howler monkeys, but I'm not quite sure) I found some food for thought.
There was a big educational display describing the dietary habits of some species or other--again, I think it was howler monkeys, but it doesn't really matter, because it was mostly about what it means to be an omnivore. So the monkey (or whatever it was) has his preferred foods, but if they aren't available he'll eat just about anything. There was a display of the foods they eat in the wild--they can't digest the cellulose of mature leaves, but they love tender young greens, as well as sundry fruits--and next to it, a display of their zoo diet. At the zoo, they feed them corn, and carrots, and lettuce, and fruit, and eggs... a nice assortment in fact, of optimal human foods. But then there was a third display, full of danger foods--soda pop, corn dogs, candy bars, etc. All things that this omnivorous creatures would greatly enjoy, but would make them sick. And all sold at the zoos numerous concession stands, for human consumption.
The irony was striking, and I remarked that perhaps the advice was generally applicable to ALL primates.
My friend was a bit shocked that I would refer to humans as primates, but really, I wouldn't dream of suggesting that there is not a very great distinction between man and the rest of God's creation.
I merely suspect that perhaps the image of God deserves at least as much respect as the howler monkey.
Or whatever omnivorous primate it was.
It took some careful arrangement, but we were able to fit everyone AND the quad stroller into the doopah-mobile. I felt quite bad for my poor friend who was stuck sitting in the 2/3 of a seat that was left over next to the carseats, but I was very glad indeed that we carpooled. For one thing, I learned how to navigate the HOV lane, and avoid rush hour traffic--it's more complicated than you'd expect. You know how in California they have carpool lanes? Well, in Texas, they say HOV (short for high-occupancy vehicle) and there's only one per highway, and it changes directions with traffic flow. So in the morning it goes south, and in the afternoon it goes north. But don't worry, it's closed during mid-day, so I presume everybody's had time to clear out before the cars start going the other way. I hope. Anyway, it can save an awful lot of time, but it's also something of a gamble, because if anybody breaks down, the whole line of cars is stuck--I would have assumed that in such an urban setting, one would be immune to the hazards of one-lane roads, but apparently not. However, nobody broke down in front of us this time, and we happily zipped past the bumper to bumper traffic.
Once we got to the zoo, however, we had to circle for nearly an hour before finding a parking spot--another reason I was glad we were carpooling. Such ordeals are much more bearable with good conversation--and who knows how long it would have taken to find TWO parking spots.
But the zoo itself was a good deal of fun, particularly the reptiles and primates. The giant pythons were truly spectacular, and the baby chimpanzee was heart-meltingly adorable.
And somewhere in the primate section (I think it was in front of the howler monkeys, but I'm not quite sure) I found some food for thought.
There was a big educational display describing the dietary habits of some species or other--again, I think it was howler monkeys, but it doesn't really matter, because it was mostly about what it means to be an omnivore. So the monkey (or whatever it was) has his preferred foods, but if they aren't available he'll eat just about anything. There was a display of the foods they eat in the wild--they can't digest the cellulose of mature leaves, but they love tender young greens, as well as sundry fruits--and next to it, a display of their zoo diet. At the zoo, they feed them corn, and carrots, and lettuce, and fruit, and eggs... a nice assortment in fact, of optimal human foods. But then there was a third display, full of danger foods--soda pop, corn dogs, candy bars, etc. All things that this omnivorous creatures would greatly enjoy, but would make them sick. And all sold at the zoos numerous concession stands, for human consumption.
The irony was striking, and I remarked that perhaps the advice was generally applicable to ALL primates.
My friend was a bit shocked that I would refer to humans as primates, but really, I wouldn't dream of suggesting that there is not a very great distinction between man and the rest of God's creation.
I merely suspect that perhaps the image of God deserves at least as much respect as the howler monkey.
Or whatever omnivorous primate it was.
4.10.2008
Looking for Piggie
I wouldn't have gone back in the house--not when she was asking so rudely--but I really had said I'd look, and I really had forgotten. And I knew that if I didn't give in, another meltdown was immanent. I absolutely had to get the reference form to Pastor--along with an overnight envelope--and Pastor was going to meet me at the church on his way to lunch, at 12:15 exactly. There was very little margin for error, especially since I had to allow time for a potentially lengthy stop at the Post Office.
No, I definitely couldn't afford a tantrum. So I went in to (quickly) look for Piggie.
I didn't find him.
I did, however, find the reference form sitting atop my dresser--not in the car, as it should have been. I was very glad indeed that I'd gone back in.
I tucked the wayward form in with the rest of the paperwork I was carting around, and offered Zebra to Tembo, knowing full well that no substitute would be satisfactory.
"Where's Piggie??!!"
I could see it coming. This car ride was shaping up to be yet another battle of the wills, pulling over every few yards to put my tantruming little escape artist firmly back into her seat.
Today, there just wasn't time to invest in all the firm, loving discipline that the situation called for. Today, those errands had to happen, and quickly.
Suddenly, in that split second of sheer panic, it came to me.
"Maybe Piggie went to check his mail. Shall we go to the Post Office to look for him?"
And so we did.
We went to the post office, and after obtaining an Express Mail envelope, a book of stamps, and sufficient quarters to feed the toll meters, a quick but thorough search of the building showed us that Piggie wasn't at the Post Office.
"Maybe he went to church to swing on the swings."
Piggie wasn't there either, but as it turned out, a sweet little playmate from our small group was, and after our picnic lunch, they had a wonderful time frolicking in the light rain together. Piggie was forgotten for the afternoon.
It's a good thing, too, because Kinkos was the next stop after that, and I'm not sure how much longer I could have kept the game up.
Everybody knows that piggies don't use fax machines.
No, I definitely couldn't afford a tantrum. So I went in to (quickly) look for Piggie.
I didn't find him.
I did, however, find the reference form sitting atop my dresser--not in the car, as it should have been. I was very glad indeed that I'd gone back in.
I tucked the wayward form in with the rest of the paperwork I was carting around, and offered Zebra to Tembo, knowing full well that no substitute would be satisfactory.
"Where's Piggie??!!"
I could see it coming. This car ride was shaping up to be yet another battle of the wills, pulling over every few yards to put my tantruming little escape artist firmly back into her seat.
Today, there just wasn't time to invest in all the firm, loving discipline that the situation called for. Today, those errands had to happen, and quickly.
Suddenly, in that split second of sheer panic, it came to me.
"Maybe Piggie went to check his mail. Shall we go to the Post Office to look for him?"
And so we did.
We went to the post office, and after obtaining an Express Mail envelope, a book of stamps, and sufficient quarters to feed the toll meters, a quick but thorough search of the building showed us that Piggie wasn't at the Post Office.
"Maybe he went to church to swing on the swings."
Piggie wasn't there either, but as it turned out, a sweet little playmate from our small group was, and after our picnic lunch, they had a wonderful time frolicking in the light rain together. Piggie was forgotten for the afternoon.
It's a good thing, too, because Kinkos was the next stop after that, and I'm not sure how much longer I could have kept the game up.
Everybody knows that piggies don't use fax machines.
4.09.2008
The Gospel According to September
They wanted yet another Bible story. Under normal circumstances, I'd happily comply, but company would be arriving shortly, and I needed to tidy the living room.
They all leaned in together, as Isaiah flipped through the book. When they'd reached a consensus, he handed the book back to me.
"Mary and Joseph. Read us the story of Mary and Joseph."
I handed the book back to him.
"Why don't you read it to us?"
"Nope. I can't."
But September cheerfully volunteered for the task.
And so, without further ado, I present a two-year-old's version of the Christmas story--short and sweet and to the point.
"They carried a donkey and stuff, and they had a baby and stuff. Mary and Joseph loved God. And He loves Meepo."
They all leaned in together, as Isaiah flipped through the book. When they'd reached a consensus, he handed the book back to me.
"Mary and Joseph. Read us the story of Mary and Joseph."
I handed the book back to him.
"Why don't you read it to us?"
"Nope. I can't."
But September cheerfully volunteered for the task.
And so, without further ado, I present a two-year-old's version of the Christmas story--short and sweet and to the point.
"They carried a donkey and stuff, and they had a baby and stuff. Mary and Joseph loved God. And He loves Meepo."
4.01.2008
Spring
It is spring, now, and the very air is alive with vibrance and unpredictability. All the greenery I'd forgotten to miss is suddenly back again, and I am living within a great shimmering emerald. A great shimmering, living emerald, speckled with wildflowers.
A faint mist caresses my skin, and the air is deliciously warm and cool all at once.
Spring is here, and oh, it is good.
A faint mist caresses my skin, and the air is deliciously warm and cool all at once.
Spring is here, and oh, it is good.
3.29.2008
Boundaries of home
I'm at the library again... this time alone, without any kids in tow.
Well, just one. But this one doesn't get into too much trouble yet. =)
But with or without the wuggy-crowd, I like going to the library for my internet stuff.
The internet is an amazing thing. All you have to do is wonder about something, and google is just a click away, and wikipedia, and link after link after link.
But having the internet only at specific times, I find myself keeping a running list of stuff I need off the internet.
And then, once I'm at the library, it's just as easy to find all that wonderful information... except I'm more focused. I come to the internet knowing exactly what I want out of it, and knowing exactly how precious my time is. I'm more focused, less likely to follow trails of links into abscure topics I don't really need to know about.
And, since I don't have the information flood on tap in the house, I actually have to trek to the library. And going to the library frequently is a very good thing for all of us. Truth of the matter is, I love reading lots of unfamiliar childrens books to the kids. I don't love reading Gertie the Green Cab for the 47th time. Course what the kids really want is another iteration of Gertie, but they're generally satisfied with something completely new to us. The more often we go to the library, the better a mommy I am.
Going to the library is a good thing, and since I can just check out a laptop and sit right there in the children's section while supervising the wuggies, it's the perfect time to do internet stuff.
Living without a pipeline to the internet in our home is a good thing so far, and I think we're going to keep it that way.
Strangely enough, living without a landline telephone has been a good thing too. Up until the move, we've relied mostly on our landline, using our prepaid cell phones very sparingly. But through the move, we've been relying on our cell phones, and you know what? That's been a very good thing.
Lots of times I'll be on the phone, and chaos breaks out. "Should I call back at a better time?" But usually, sadly, the answer is no, there really won't ever be a better time. Either there's chaos, or it's a lovely moment of tranquility in which to catch my breath and play the flute for a few minutes. Talking is good, but there's no good time to do it.
On a landline, that is.
But while the kids are playing on the playground? That's a great time to talk.
So I think we're going to ditch the landline, ditch the internet, and just get a good cell phone plan.
And I find the idea strangely beautiful. Home is home, and outside is outside. Of course the membranes are quite permeable--it is a lovely thing to invite books and friends inside. But there need be no pipes flooding the outside into our home, when we can simply open our door, breathe in the scent of the wildflowers, and go explore the wide world.
Well, just one. But this one doesn't get into too much trouble yet. =)
But with or without the wuggy-crowd, I like going to the library for my internet stuff.
The internet is an amazing thing. All you have to do is wonder about something, and google is just a click away, and wikipedia, and link after link after link.
But having the internet only at specific times, I find myself keeping a running list of stuff I need off the internet.
And then, once I'm at the library, it's just as easy to find all that wonderful information... except I'm more focused. I come to the internet knowing exactly what I want out of it, and knowing exactly how precious my time is. I'm more focused, less likely to follow trails of links into abscure topics I don't really need to know about.
And, since I don't have the information flood on tap in the house, I actually have to trek to the library. And going to the library frequently is a very good thing for all of us. Truth of the matter is, I love reading lots of unfamiliar childrens books to the kids. I don't love reading Gertie the Green Cab for the 47th time. Course what the kids really want is another iteration of Gertie, but they're generally satisfied with something completely new to us. The more often we go to the library, the better a mommy I am.
Going to the library is a good thing, and since I can just check out a laptop and sit right there in the children's section while supervising the wuggies, it's the perfect time to do internet stuff.
Living without a pipeline to the internet in our home is a good thing so far, and I think we're going to keep it that way.
Strangely enough, living without a landline telephone has been a good thing too. Up until the move, we've relied mostly on our landline, using our prepaid cell phones very sparingly. But through the move, we've been relying on our cell phones, and you know what? That's been a very good thing.
Lots of times I'll be on the phone, and chaos breaks out. "Should I call back at a better time?" But usually, sadly, the answer is no, there really won't ever be a better time. Either there's chaos, or it's a lovely moment of tranquility in which to catch my breath and play the flute for a few minutes. Talking is good, but there's no good time to do it.
On a landline, that is.
But while the kids are playing on the playground? That's a great time to talk.
So I think we're going to ditch the landline, ditch the internet, and just get a good cell phone plan.
And I find the idea strangely beautiful. Home is home, and outside is outside. Of course the membranes are quite permeable--it is a lovely thing to invite books and friends inside. But there need be no pipes flooding the outside into our home, when we can simply open our door, breathe in the scent of the wildflowers, and go explore the wide world.
3.25.2008
Greetings from the library
Apologies for the sporadic posting. Be warned, it's likely to continue, while we slowly decide what we want to do about phone and internet services. Through the moving process, we've been relying on our cell phones... and that's just a very nice thing. So we're thinking about getting a better cell plan and ditching the land line. But of course we can't pick an internet plan until we decide for sure.
So I might be restricted to library internet use for a while longer.
Meanwhile, we're settling in to our new place, and liking it very much.
The Bayou is so very beautiful. Before we moved in, I thought of it as just a big muddy ditch that might flood our beautiful house someday. But I get so much pleasure every day out of passing over the lazy river glistening in the sun, watching the leaves float by... and oh, the wildflowers on the banks!
I dyed Easter eggs for the wuggies, but I think I did the wrong carton. Or maybe I turned the burner off too soon. I have no idea how it happened, because I was meticulously careful... but they definitely weren't hard boiled.
Fortunately we discovered this without too much trauma to the carpet.
September was enthralled with the discovery that her beautiful purple egg was actually such a volatile object.
She grinned impishly at me. "I like to throw it."
"But I won't."
"Because I want to give you kisses."
So I might be restricted to library internet use for a while longer.
Meanwhile, we're settling in to our new place, and liking it very much.
The Bayou is so very beautiful. Before we moved in, I thought of it as just a big muddy ditch that might flood our beautiful house someday. But I get so much pleasure every day out of passing over the lazy river glistening in the sun, watching the leaves float by... and oh, the wildflowers on the banks!
I dyed Easter eggs for the wuggies, but I think I did the wrong carton. Or maybe I turned the burner off too soon. I have no idea how it happened, because I was meticulously careful... but they definitely weren't hard boiled.
Fortunately we discovered this without too much trauma to the carpet.
September was enthralled with the discovery that her beautiful purple egg was actually such a volatile object.
She grinned impishly at me. "I like to throw it."
"But I won't."
"Because I want to give you kisses."
3.14.2008
Well, we did it.
We bought the townhouse, airplanes and flood planes and all.
Fooling around with the parameters of the policy, we were able to get flood protection for a much more reasonable premium. And with the lower premium, the flood insurance costs less than the extra property taxes alone on the more expensive, but less wonderful, houses that we might have considered instead. Not to mention that we're paying less for the house itself, and actually getting what we really want. =)
It feels good to have finally come to a decision. No more second-guessing, no more frantic information gathering, just the blissful knowledge that we have our very own home.
It feels good to have made a decision, and I feel good about the decision that we made. When you buy a house, it's about so much more than just a house, it's about the sort of life you want to live as a family. We've done a lot of thinking over the past six months about how to structure our life, I really think that this is the right house to help us live well.
Of course, we could live well in a smaller house, but we would have to work harder at it.
And we could live well in a bigger house... but we'd have to work harder at that, too.
This house is just right. Not just "good enough for now," but really-o, truly-o just right.
At least, for now it is. God willing, it looks as though we'll be running out of bedroom space in a few years. =) But it has a high-pitched roof, and good solid attic ready to be finished into a few more bedrooms. When we outgrow the house, the house can just grow right along with us--but we don't have to worry about that until the time comes.
It's a good feeling.
And in the mean time, baby is turning somersaults, and that's a good feeling, too. =)
Fooling around with the parameters of the policy, we were able to get flood protection for a much more reasonable premium. And with the lower premium, the flood insurance costs less than the extra property taxes alone on the more expensive, but less wonderful, houses that we might have considered instead. Not to mention that we're paying less for the house itself, and actually getting what we really want. =)
It feels good to have finally come to a decision. No more second-guessing, no more frantic information gathering, just the blissful knowledge that we have our very own home.
It feels good to have made a decision, and I feel good about the decision that we made. When you buy a house, it's about so much more than just a house, it's about the sort of life you want to live as a family. We've done a lot of thinking over the past six months about how to structure our life, I really think that this is the right house to help us live well.
Of course, we could live well in a smaller house, but we would have to work harder at it.
And we could live well in a bigger house... but we'd have to work harder at that, too.
This house is just right. Not just "good enough for now," but really-o, truly-o just right.
At least, for now it is. God willing, it looks as though we'll be running out of bedroom space in a few years. =) But it has a high-pitched roof, and good solid attic ready to be finished into a few more bedrooms. When we outgrow the house, the house can just grow right along with us--but we don't have to worry about that until the time comes.
It's a good feeling.
And in the mean time, baby is turning somersaults, and that's a good feeling, too. =)
3.11.2008
I really didn't think this would be so hard.
Emily has tagged me with a most delightfully intriguing meme.
THE RULES:
Look up from the computer, look around the room where you're sitting and pick up the closest book. Open the book, turn to page 123, count down to the fifth sentence on that page, and then post the next three sentences.
And Emily made it quite clear that there was to be no cheating whatsoever-- it had to be the very nearest book.
Well, the nearest book is Richard Scarry's Chipmunk's ABC. It doesn't even have page numbers, but being an alphabet book devoting one page per letter, the page count can't be much above 26. The next closest book is Beethoven's Klavierstucke, but while the fifth measure on page 123 is quite lovely, I'm afraid I'm not entirely sure how to blog it.
The next book my eyes fell upon was the Rand McNally Houston Street Guide. Since the first page is map number 2236, I didn't think I'd find a page 123, but it turns out that there is really a page 123 in the index.
So here we go:
My. Now wasn't that enlightening.
Now, usually with something like this, I'm extremely contrary, and I try to find a way to twist and mangle the rules completely beyond their intention. But in this case, the rules and their original intent are so intriguing that I really want to play along. I need to find a book with an actual sentence on page 123.
Ah. The Estelle Liebling Vocal Course.
60 pgs.
I fear that I'm going to have to admit defeat and just walk over to the book shelf. But then, finally, I spot the Book of Common Prayer laying on the couch.
Ah. Much better. Real, live, sentences... and good ones, too. Even if it really is only 8:44 in the morning.
And now I'm tagging Sarah, and Ashley, and Christa, and Gwen, and Sharon.
I'm sure you'll all have much better luck.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go mope in desolation at the thought that all my books with more than 122 pages are tucked away on the shelf gathering dust.
THE RULES:
Look up from the computer, look around the room where you're sitting and pick up the closest book. Open the book, turn to page 123, count down to the fifth sentence on that page, and then post the next three sentences.
And Emily made it quite clear that there was to be no cheating whatsoever-- it had to be the very nearest book.
Well, the nearest book is Richard Scarry's Chipmunk's ABC. It doesn't even have page numbers, but being an alphabet book devoting one page per letter, the page count can't be much above 26. The next closest book is Beethoven's Klavierstucke, but while the fifth measure on page 123 is quite lovely, I'm afraid I'm not entirely sure how to blog it.
The next book my eyes fell upon was the Rand McNally Houston Street Guide. Since the first page is map number 2236, I didn't think I'd find a page 123, but it turns out that there is really a page 123 in the index.
So here we go:
Snail Hollow Dr.
8300 HarC 7064 3542 AS
Snake Cr.
6000 FBnC 77479 4495 E7
6000 FBnC 77479 4496 A7
Snake Canyon Dr.
2900 HarC 77449 3815 E7
My. Now wasn't that enlightening.
Now, usually with something like this, I'm extremely contrary, and I try to find a way to twist and mangle the rules completely beyond their intention. But in this case, the rules and their original intent are so intriguing that I really want to play along. I need to find a book with an actual sentence on page 123.
Ah. The Estelle Liebling Vocal Course.
60 pgs.
I fear that I'm going to have to admit defeat and just walk over to the book shelf. But then, finally, I spot the Book of Common Prayer laying on the couch.
Be our light in the darkness, O Lord, and in your great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night; for the love of your only Son, our Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.
O God, the life of all who live, the light of the faithful, the strength of those who labor, and the repose of the dead: We thank you for the blessings of the day that is past, and humbly ask for your protection through the coming night. Bring us in safety to the morning hours; through him who died and rose again for us, your Son our Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.
Ah. Much better. Real, live, sentences... and good ones, too. Even if it really is only 8:44 in the morning.
And now I'm tagging Sarah, and Ashley, and Christa, and Gwen, and Sharon.
I'm sure you'll all have much better luck.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go mope in desolation at the thought that all my books with more than 122 pages are tucked away on the shelf gathering dust.
3.09.2008
Crash Landing
When we first fell in love with the neighborhood, with its gracefully arching trees and smiling children, we wondered if the planes might cause some problems. Its close proximity to the airport would be wonderfully convenient for travel, and the wuggies love seeing planes, but would it be too noisy inside?
But that turned out to be more a perk than a problem, since the airport had recently soundproofed all the houses in the immediate vicinity of their newest runway. The high quality windows and doors leave the townhouses undisturbed by noise of planes, traffic, or neighbors, and energy-efficient too. A block or two further away, and the noise of the planes might have driven us mad, but here it was no problem.
Everything was just perfect. The neighborhood was simultaneously tranquil and full of life, and it was in just the right spot, halfway between Andy's job and the cultural and educational opportunities of downtown Houston.
And the unit itself was spacious, and full of wonderful nooks and crannies. It was just the right size for us right now, and with a large, well-supported attic, it offered the potential to expand with our growing family.
Everything was looking wonderful.
But then the insurance agent called us back with those numbers.
To hear Isaiah explain it, a broken-down plane crashed on top of the townhouse, which is very dangerous, not least because it brings up the possibility that other planes might land on our car as we drive down the freeway.
Actually, it was a flood plane, not an airplane, and the house is on the plane, not the other way around. But I guess you really could say that the flood plane made a crash landing onto that house.
Up until this summer, there was no problem getting flood insurance in the neighborhood. But ever since Katrina demonstrated the inadequacies of our flood risk assessments, FEMA has been slowly making its way through the nation, updating the flood maps.
And according to the new maps, our dream house is now located in a flood plane, and the insurance is astronomically expensive.
Insurance, taxes, HOA fees, and basic maintanance--the carrying costs that you never, ever stop carrying--would come up just $100 shy of typical rent in the area.
We love the place so much... but the numbers just don't add up to good stewardship.
It might still work if we can protect ourselves financially while insuring it for its appraised value only, rather than for the full cost of rebuilding. (Rebuilding a destroyed townhouse is much, much more expensive than walking away and buying a new home.) We're meeting with a real estate attorney tomorrow to discuss the extend our HOA obligations in the event of a catastrophic flood--but mostly because we want to understand the dynamics of townhouse ownership better as we look for other properties, not because we have any real hope that this particular home will turn out to be a sensible investment.
Meanwhile, on Saturday, we looked at a pretty much identical townhouse in a different area for comparison purposes, to see how much the flood zones impacted how far your money would go. Same floor plan, same general price range, good condition, comparable community amenities, and in a quite respectable part of town.
But we both came away with the impression that we would absolutely hate living in that neighborhood. Oh, there was nothing objectionable about it. Everything was clean and well-maintained... and utterly soul-less. It's hard to put your finger on it, but there it is, and it matters. Every time we drove into that wonderful little neighborhood in the flood zone, I couldn't help but smile. It's a happy place.
This other neighborhood isn't. Not in particular, anyway. It's not that it's a sad place, or an angry place, or even an apathetic place, more that it isn't any place at all.
So we'll keep looking.
But that turned out to be more a perk than a problem, since the airport had recently soundproofed all the houses in the immediate vicinity of their newest runway. The high quality windows and doors leave the townhouses undisturbed by noise of planes, traffic, or neighbors, and energy-efficient too. A block or two further away, and the noise of the planes might have driven us mad, but here it was no problem.
Everything was just perfect. The neighborhood was simultaneously tranquil and full of life, and it was in just the right spot, halfway between Andy's job and the cultural and educational opportunities of downtown Houston.
And the unit itself was spacious, and full of wonderful nooks and crannies. It was just the right size for us right now, and with a large, well-supported attic, it offered the potential to expand with our growing family.
Everything was looking wonderful.
But then the insurance agent called us back with those numbers.
To hear Isaiah explain it, a broken-down plane crashed on top of the townhouse, which is very dangerous, not least because it brings up the possibility that other planes might land on our car as we drive down the freeway.
Actually, it was a flood plane, not an airplane, and the house is on the plane, not the other way around. But I guess you really could say that the flood plane made a crash landing onto that house.
Up until this summer, there was no problem getting flood insurance in the neighborhood. But ever since Katrina demonstrated the inadequacies of our flood risk assessments, FEMA has been slowly making its way through the nation, updating the flood maps.
And according to the new maps, our dream house is now located in a flood plane, and the insurance is astronomically expensive.
Insurance, taxes, HOA fees, and basic maintanance--the carrying costs that you never, ever stop carrying--would come up just $100 shy of typical rent in the area.
We love the place so much... but the numbers just don't add up to good stewardship.
It might still work if we can protect ourselves financially while insuring it for its appraised value only, rather than for the full cost of rebuilding. (Rebuilding a destroyed townhouse is much, much more expensive than walking away and buying a new home.) We're meeting with a real estate attorney tomorrow to discuss the extend our HOA obligations in the event of a catastrophic flood--but mostly because we want to understand the dynamics of townhouse ownership better as we look for other properties, not because we have any real hope that this particular home will turn out to be a sensible investment.
Meanwhile, on Saturday, we looked at a pretty much identical townhouse in a different area for comparison purposes, to see how much the flood zones impacted how far your money would go. Same floor plan, same general price range, good condition, comparable community amenities, and in a quite respectable part of town.
But we both came away with the impression that we would absolutely hate living in that neighborhood. Oh, there was nothing objectionable about it. Everything was clean and well-maintained... and utterly soul-less. It's hard to put your finger on it, but there it is, and it matters. Every time we drove into that wonderful little neighborhood in the flood zone, I couldn't help but smile. It's a happy place.
This other neighborhood isn't. Not in particular, anyway. It's not that it's a sad place, or an angry place, or even an apathetic place, more that it isn't any place at all.
So we'll keep looking.
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