I don't know about you, but whenever a recipe calls for "bread crumbs," I always think of canned bread crumbs, and if I don't have any on hand, I improvise something roughly equivalent, smashing up croutons, or toasting and crumbling stale bread or some such thing.
Last time I made macaroni and cheese, though, I did it a little different. Instead of using dried bread crumbs for the topping, I minced up a few slices of sandwich bread, and tossed them with melted butter before sprinkling them on top of the casserole.
It was absolutely amazing. When it came out of the oven, the crumbs were crispy and light and oh-so-delicious. This is something we'll be having much more often around here, now that I've figured this out.
The whole family loved the results, but I must say that Isaiah was rather disturbed by the process. When he saw me chopping the bread, he scolded me soundly.
"That's not garlic! Bread's not for cutting, Elena-man."
That's Mama to you, buster!
For lots of great tips, be sure to stop by Rocks in My Dryer.
9.24.2007
the pause that refreshes
I flopped down, exhausted. Maybe, just maybe, I would have a few minutes before it all started again. Potty training three at a time wasn't part of the plan, it just happened that way. When the time came to start potty training, life was upside-down with the move. And by the time things had settled down enough to start training one kid, suddenly all three of them were ready. Ready... and unwilling to wear diapers.
All three of them caught on quickly. It was a breeze. They knew when they needed to go, just went straight into the bathroom, used the regular toilet, washed their own hands, flushed the toilet five times, unrolled the entire roll of toilet paper... basically everything you could ask. All that was left for me to do was hand out the "potty treats."
Problem was, even though they were doing everything else, handing out those potty treats was becoming a full time job. Suddenly my children, whose bladder and bowel habits had heretofore seemed fairly normal, all developed a strange disorder requiring them to use the bathroom at least every five minutes. It was a fiasco.
So I put away the potty treats... but if there was no candy involved, they couldn't be bothered.
I was okay with this. I put them back in pull-ups, and we were just half-way there for a while. Sometimes they would use the potty, sometimes they wouldn't. I thought I could live with this. They'll learn eventually, we can just take our time.
There is just one problem with "half-way potty trained," however. You see, there are two important parts to the process. 1. Taking down your pants, and 2., sitting on the toilet. For my kids "half-way there" means that they have 1 down perfectly, just not 2. And that's pretty much a nightmare.
No, as a matter of fact, half-way there is most definitely not something I can live with. I've got to make this thing happen. So I have the timer running, and when that timer goes off, they are sitting on the potty whether they like it or not.
By the time I've prodded the third toddler through the bathroom routine, it's almost time to start all over again.
Almost. But there were a few precious moments left before the buzzer went off again. And oh, I needed them bad.
"Mama, I want sit on you lap."
No. Not right now. Absolutely not. Mama needs a break.
But then she gave me that nose-squinchy smile of hers, and I melted.
Yes, baby-girl, climb right up on my lap. A few minutes cuddling you is exactly the break I need.
All three of them caught on quickly. It was a breeze. They knew when they needed to go, just went straight into the bathroom, used the regular toilet, washed their own hands, flushed the toilet five times, unrolled the entire roll of toilet paper... basically everything you could ask. All that was left for me to do was hand out the "potty treats."
Problem was, even though they were doing everything else, handing out those potty treats was becoming a full time job. Suddenly my children, whose bladder and bowel habits had heretofore seemed fairly normal, all developed a strange disorder requiring them to use the bathroom at least every five minutes. It was a fiasco.
So I put away the potty treats... but if there was no candy involved, they couldn't be bothered.
I was okay with this. I put them back in pull-ups, and we were just half-way there for a while. Sometimes they would use the potty, sometimes they wouldn't. I thought I could live with this. They'll learn eventually, we can just take our time.
There is just one problem with "half-way potty trained," however. You see, there are two important parts to the process. 1. Taking down your pants, and 2., sitting on the toilet. For my kids "half-way there" means that they have 1 down perfectly, just not 2. And that's pretty much a nightmare.
No, as a matter of fact, half-way there is most definitely not something I can live with. I've got to make this thing happen. So I have the timer running, and when that timer goes off, they are sitting on the potty whether they like it or not.
By the time I've prodded the third toddler through the bathroom routine, it's almost time to start all over again.
Almost. But there were a few precious moments left before the buzzer went off again. And oh, I needed them bad.
"Mama, I want sit on you lap."
No. Not right now. Absolutely not. Mama needs a break.
But then she gave me that nose-squinchy smile of hers, and I melted.
Yes, baby-girl, climb right up on my lap. A few minutes cuddling you is exactly the break I need.
9.20.2007
The limitations of crochet
"Whatcha makin', Mommy?"
"Well, I don't know if it's going to turn out yet, but I'm trying to make a sash."
Nathan thought about it for a few seconds.
"Can't crochet a zoo, huh? And you can't crochet walls."
And indeed, I do believe he's right.
I think the sash will work out just fine, though. =)
"Well, I don't know if it's going to turn out yet, but I'm trying to make a sash."
Nathan thought about it for a few seconds.
"Can't crochet a zoo, huh? And you can't crochet walls."
And indeed, I do believe he's right.
I think the sash will work out just fine, though. =)
9.18.2007
Pardon me if I type a little slower than usual...
Saturday we hosted a "Homerathon" for Andrew's 9th grade humanities students, in which we read (most of) the Iliad from noon until 8pm. Nothing like the 20 hour sessions Reynolds has every fall, but 8 hours was quite daunting enough for a bunch of high school freshmen. It was hard for a lot of them, but they did great. All in all, it was a smashing success.
A little too literally.
15 high schoolers in your living room can produce a rather enormous amount of trash. I should have just piled the bags up in the garage. I should have. Oh, how I should have.
But instead, I went out through the garage, to the trash cans in the side yard. And this meant opening the garage door.
I never open the garage door. I mean, I open the door from the kitchen to the garage all the time, but the big huge rolling crashing monstrous metal thing between the garage and the driveway scares the daylights out of me. As far as I'm concerned, the only way in or out of the garage is through the kitchen.
But I needed (or thought I needed) to get to the side yard, and both the front and back doors were off limits, unless I wanted to carry the trash over the kids' heads. So I cautiously lifted up the clanging aluminum mass, and slipped underneath.
Perhaps my caution was my undoing. The door didn't catch, and before I'd had a chance to pull the trash bag out behind me, the thing began clattering back down again, as I frantically fumbled about for the handle.
I was reaching up for the handle, when suddenly I found myself crouched down on the driveway, with the middle three fingers of my left hand firmly wedged inside the door. It's a bit hard to describe, but you know how garage doors are made up of a bunch of horizontal slats, all hinged together? This allows the garage door to bend when it goes up. When the garage door is up, there is space between the slats where it is bending around the corner, but when the garage door falls back down, there is no space at all. That non-space was precisely where my fingers were. And since my fingers normally do take up space, that was something of a problem. A very, very painful problem.
After an endless three seconds or so of fumbling, I eventually found the handle, and hoisted the beastly thing up with my right arm.
I got my fingers out, and they don't appear to be broken. At least, I can move them without too much difficulty, and there's no noticeable swelling. Just pain. Quite a bit of pain, in fact. But I'm okay.
And I'm never opening a garage door again in my life.
A little too literally.
15 high schoolers in your living room can produce a rather enormous amount of trash. I should have just piled the bags up in the garage. I should have. Oh, how I should have.
But instead, I went out through the garage, to the trash cans in the side yard. And this meant opening the garage door.
I never open the garage door. I mean, I open the door from the kitchen to the garage all the time, but the big huge rolling crashing monstrous metal thing between the garage and the driveway scares the daylights out of me. As far as I'm concerned, the only way in or out of the garage is through the kitchen.
But I needed (or thought I needed) to get to the side yard, and both the front and back doors were off limits, unless I wanted to carry the trash over the kids' heads. So I cautiously lifted up the clanging aluminum mass, and slipped underneath.
Perhaps my caution was my undoing. The door didn't catch, and before I'd had a chance to pull the trash bag out behind me, the thing began clattering back down again, as I frantically fumbled about for the handle.
I was reaching up for the handle, when suddenly I found myself crouched down on the driveway, with the middle three fingers of my left hand firmly wedged inside the door. It's a bit hard to describe, but you know how garage doors are made up of a bunch of horizontal slats, all hinged together? This allows the garage door to bend when it goes up. When the garage door is up, there is space between the slats where it is bending around the corner, but when the garage door falls back down, there is no space at all. That non-space was precisely where my fingers were. And since my fingers normally do take up space, that was something of a problem. A very, very painful problem.
After an endless three seconds or so of fumbling, I eventually found the handle, and hoisted the beastly thing up with my right arm.
I got my fingers out, and they don't appear to be broken. At least, I can move them without too much difficulty, and there's no noticeable swelling. Just pain. Quite a bit of pain, in fact. But I'm okay.
And I'm never opening a garage door again in my life.
9.12.2007
WFMW: Brown Jasmine Rice
We're addicted around here.
Sure it costs a bit more than regular rice, or even regular brown rice. Okay, several times more.
But oh, the flavor! Oh, the texture! It's worth every penny.
And you know what? I think it actually saves us money. Because rice--even super-yummy specialty rice--is still one of the cheapest ways to eat. And we eat a lot more rice now.
When you can't think of anything you'd rather munch on than a bowl of leftover brown rice... well, you know you're onto something good!
Works for me!
Sure it costs a bit more than regular rice, or even regular brown rice. Okay, several times more.
But oh, the flavor! Oh, the texture! It's worth every penny.
And you know what? I think it actually saves us money. Because rice--even super-yummy specialty rice--is still one of the cheapest ways to eat. And we eat a lot more rice now.
When you can't think of anything you'd rather munch on than a bowl of leftover brown rice... well, you know you're onto something good!
Works for me!
9.04.2007
Making a Remember
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!"
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!"
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
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