I don't understand daylight savings. Growing up in Arizona, daylight savings was just that time when all the television and radio programs got shuffled around, when all the out of state live programming moved forward or back inexplicably, and all the local programming moved around to accomodate. It was also why you had to check an almanac before calling out of state relatives, to make sure you knew you weren't calling after bedtime. Daylight savings was also the reason why sometimes, on a day trip, the time would change back and forth, back and forth, without any state borders being involved. The Navajo Nation and the State of Arizona are separate, but overlapping entities, and the Navajo Nation does observe daylight savings... it can get pretty confusing.
But it never really affected me personally until I moved to California.
I don't understand it, and I don't like it one bit.
What daylight, exactly, did we save? Sure, the sun rose at 7am instead of 8, but it also set at 5.
So instead of showering in the dark, we eat our suppers in the dark.
Brilliant.
There is a great joy and delight in getting up before the sun, having some time to prepare for the dawn. There's a sense of milking everything out of the day. The darkness between getting-up-time and sunrise is a wonderfully rich time, quivering with the expectation of light.
The darkness between sunset and going-to-bed-time is not so wonderful. It is bleak and miserable and final. The day is over, and it was short. Now it is time to eat our supper in the fading light, and enjoy our little bit of family time in the dark of night. The state has taxed away the little bit of daylight that was ours to enjoy, to devote it to our preparations for work.
I am angry.
The lack of sunlight has been very hard on me this winter, and frankly, I can't fathom what possible good daylight savings could have done anybody.
And I'm so glad it's all over, but now our schedules are all turned upside-down...
Grump, grump, grump.
3.12.2007
3.08.2007
...and I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your stove out!
This evening I was preparing eggs for a lovely chef's salad, the water boiled over a bit, spreading the flames on the gas stove.
As I reached over and turned down the gas, Nathan was right beside me, eager to help with the crisis, blowing with all his might.
Good one to have around, that kid.
=)
As I reached over and turned down the gas, Nathan was right beside me, eager to help with the crisis, blowing with all his might.
Good one to have around, that kid.
=)
3.06.2007
Identity, or, I wish I could think of a better title for this
I suppose it all started as we drove Justy home from church one evening. With a little bit of help and prompting from Justy, the wuggies told us all about the movie they'd watched during our small group meeting--Curious George! With trains! Can life get any better than this?
And suddenly, I wondered if this might hold the key to the great mystery of our household.
For the past few weeks, Nathan had been wandering about the house singing "Time for Teletubbies! Time for Teletubbies!" and "Tinkywinky!"
This is quite normal behavior for a three year old... assuming he's been watching Teletubbies. But I certainly hadn't been showing them Teletubbies, and I didn't see how anyone else could have, either. It had been nearly six months since Nathan had sprayed down our television set, and we'd never replaced it.
Brilliant discipline opportunity, really. When you disregard Mama's warnings and squirt water on the television set anyway, you will lose all TV privileges... indefinitely. In the weeks that followed, every time he asked for Sesame Street, I could be genuinely sympathetic as I reminded him exactly why it was that the television was dead, and Elmo gone forever. No hard feelings whatsoever, just the dawning realization that maybe listening to Mama was in his best interests after all.
No, Nathan certainly hadn't been watching Teletubbies at our house, and I've been there for all his playdates---none of them involved Teletubbies. I wondered briefly if there was an unorthodox curriculum in the toddler nursury at church, but since I'm on the rotation, I know exactly what they do in there. Inside play time, song time, outside play time, hand washing time, snacks time, more song time, Bible story time, coloring time, indoor play time, and then it's time to go find mommy and daddy. Nope, no "time for Teletubbies" in there.
It was terribly disconcerting. I know everything about his life... right? And yet he'd obviously been exposed to Teletubbies--a LOT of Teletubbies--and I had no idea when or where or how.
So it was a tremendous relief to come up with such a plausible and innocuous solution. Perhaps Justy had been showing them videos at church during our small group.
She hadn't.
But as Andy and I explained our confusion to Justy, Nathan piped up.
"The neighbors. The neighbors watch teevee."
We all laughed. Of course! There little boy next door is the same age as the twins, and he watches a lot of television. With the volume turned way up. I just tune it out, but... well... I guess now I know why the boys spend so much time looking out the window. Maybe they aren't always watching for planes after all...
It was good to know the truth, but even more, it was such a delight to actually learn something from one of the wuggies. Of course they'd talked before, but up until then it was just simple requests, or declarations of the obvious. This was the first time that Nathan had actually provided me with interesting and moderately complex information.
I gasped in wonder. "He's a little person!"
It's the sort of thing I keep discovering over and over, on deeper and deeper levels.
I thought of the maybe-baby as a tiny person when I first saw the two blue lines, and I saw those two little jelly beans (two!) as tiny people... but when the ultrasound first showed recognizable shapes, and heartbeats, it was still a shock. They're little people! And when I watched little Isaiah kick during another ultrasound, and recognized in retrospect that faint sensation as real movement, it was another shock. They're little people.
You'd think with all the prenatal bonding I'd have figured it out, but it was still a shock to discover that they really were people when they were born.
And when they first smiled.
And when they first rolled over.
And when they first crawled.
And when they first climbed up on the piano, took off their diapers, and peed all over the keys.
It's an amazing thing to watch them unfold.
"He's a little person!"
Nathan latched onto the phrase, and repeated, "I'm a person! I'm a person!"
And so it was that we got into a discussion of just exactly what we all are.
Dadders asked them if they were people, or pickles. After much discussion the consensus was that Nathan and Isaiah are definitely people, although Tembo might be a lollipop.
That conversation has continued over the past month, as the wuggies earnestly attempt to define themselves verbally. There has been much talk about all the different sorts of people... men and ladies, boys and girls.
Isaiah is a man, and will not hear otherwise. When he neatly folds the towels for me, is he a helper? No, Wugger a man! As we march around the playground in a line, Wuggidy at the fore, is he the leader? NO! Wugger a MAN!"
Slowly but surely, however, he is starting to realize that manhood is consistent with other attributes. The other day he was soliloquizing about his identity... something he does quite frequently, actually.
"Wugger a man. Wugger a little man. No.... Wugger a BIG man. Tembo a girl. Tembo a girl like Mama. Wugger a man like Dadder."
He paused and thought for a minute.
"Dadder an OLD man."
And suddenly, I wondered if this might hold the key to the great mystery of our household.
For the past few weeks, Nathan had been wandering about the house singing "Time for Teletubbies! Time for Teletubbies!" and "Tinkywinky!"
This is quite normal behavior for a three year old... assuming he's been watching Teletubbies. But I certainly hadn't been showing them Teletubbies, and I didn't see how anyone else could have, either. It had been nearly six months since Nathan had sprayed down our television set, and we'd never replaced it.
Brilliant discipline opportunity, really. When you disregard Mama's warnings and squirt water on the television set anyway, you will lose all TV privileges... indefinitely. In the weeks that followed, every time he asked for Sesame Street, I could be genuinely sympathetic as I reminded him exactly why it was that the television was dead, and Elmo gone forever. No hard feelings whatsoever, just the dawning realization that maybe listening to Mama was in his best interests after all.
No, Nathan certainly hadn't been watching Teletubbies at our house, and I've been there for all his playdates---none of them involved Teletubbies. I wondered briefly if there was an unorthodox curriculum in the toddler nursury at church, but since I'm on the rotation, I know exactly what they do in there. Inside play time, song time, outside play time, hand washing time, snacks time, more song time, Bible story time, coloring time, indoor play time, and then it's time to go find mommy and daddy. Nope, no "time for Teletubbies" in there.
It was terribly disconcerting. I know everything about his life... right? And yet he'd obviously been exposed to Teletubbies--a LOT of Teletubbies--and I had no idea when or where or how.
So it was a tremendous relief to come up with such a plausible and innocuous solution. Perhaps Justy had been showing them videos at church during our small group.
She hadn't.
But as Andy and I explained our confusion to Justy, Nathan piped up.
"The neighbors. The neighbors watch teevee."
We all laughed. Of course! There little boy next door is the same age as the twins, and he watches a lot of television. With the volume turned way up. I just tune it out, but... well... I guess now I know why the boys spend so much time looking out the window. Maybe they aren't always watching for planes after all...
It was good to know the truth, but even more, it was such a delight to actually learn something from one of the wuggies. Of course they'd talked before, but up until then it was just simple requests, or declarations of the obvious. This was the first time that Nathan had actually provided me with interesting and moderately complex information.
I gasped in wonder. "He's a little person!"
It's the sort of thing I keep discovering over and over, on deeper and deeper levels.
I thought of the maybe-baby as a tiny person when I first saw the two blue lines, and I saw those two little jelly beans (two!) as tiny people... but when the ultrasound first showed recognizable shapes, and heartbeats, it was still a shock. They're little people! And when I watched little Isaiah kick during another ultrasound, and recognized in retrospect that faint sensation as real movement, it was another shock. They're little people.
You'd think with all the prenatal bonding I'd have figured it out, but it was still a shock to discover that they really were people when they were born.
And when they first smiled.
And when they first rolled over.
And when they first crawled.
And when they first climbed up on the piano, took off their diapers, and peed all over the keys.
It's an amazing thing to watch them unfold.
"He's a little person!"
Nathan latched onto the phrase, and repeated, "I'm a person! I'm a person!"
And so it was that we got into a discussion of just exactly what we all are.
Dadders asked them if they were people, or pickles. After much discussion the consensus was that Nathan and Isaiah are definitely people, although Tembo might be a lollipop.
That conversation has continued over the past month, as the wuggies earnestly attempt to define themselves verbally. There has been much talk about all the different sorts of people... men and ladies, boys and girls.
Isaiah is a man, and will not hear otherwise. When he neatly folds the towels for me, is he a helper? No, Wugger a man! As we march around the playground in a line, Wuggidy at the fore, is he the leader? NO! Wugger a MAN!"
Slowly but surely, however, he is starting to realize that manhood is consistent with other attributes. The other day he was soliloquizing about his identity... something he does quite frequently, actually.
"Wugger a man. Wugger a little man. No.... Wugger a BIG man. Tembo a girl. Tembo a girl like Mama. Wugger a man like Dadder."
He paused and thought for a minute.
"Dadder an OLD man."
3.03.2007
On the cultivation of shameful virtues.
I have a confession to make.
I like American Idol.
And it gets even worse. I'm not even ashamed of it.
I'm becoming quite convinced that AI is a powerful force of cultural renovation. It's like a great big music appreciation class. We see the good, the bad, the ugly, occasionally even the truly great... and all the while Simon Cowell helps us to think clearly about what makes the difference.
Yeah, yeah, he's cruel... he's also right, mostly.
And the fact is, in a culture where beauty is in the eye of the beholder, where music is a "matter of taste," and taste is a matter of nothing at all, objective criticism is always going to come off as cruel.
We're (wrongly) ashamed of objective tastes, but American Idol doesn't flinch, and doesn't sugar-coat it. Instead, with its hilarious harshness, American Idol brazenly appeals to parts of our souls that shame us. Vices like the desire to enjoy the humiliation of others, but virtues, too, like the desire to listen to music objectively and well.
American Idol is far from perfect, but quite honestly, within this cultural climate, I'm hard pressed to think of a better way to cultivate such shameful virtues.... or how a culture might survive without them.
So right now the burning question in my mind is whether to root for Melinda or Lakisha.
That, and why on earth American preferred Sanjaya over AJ. It wasn't perfect by a long shot, but shaky spots aside, I thought his interpretation was an improvement on the original. Suble and dramatic, and oh-so-musical... definitely not in the same league as some of those girls, but overall one of the strongest performances of the guys.
But the more evidence we get of America's bad taste, the clearer it becomes just how badly we need something like American Idol.
So we can learn to choose well.
Practice makes perfect, right?
I like American Idol.
And it gets even worse. I'm not even ashamed of it.
I'm becoming quite convinced that AI is a powerful force of cultural renovation. It's like a great big music appreciation class. We see the good, the bad, the ugly, occasionally even the truly great... and all the while Simon Cowell helps us to think clearly about what makes the difference.
Yeah, yeah, he's cruel... he's also right, mostly.
And the fact is, in a culture where beauty is in the eye of the beholder, where music is a "matter of taste," and taste is a matter of nothing at all, objective criticism is always going to come off as cruel.
We're (wrongly) ashamed of objective tastes, but American Idol doesn't flinch, and doesn't sugar-coat it. Instead, with its hilarious harshness, American Idol brazenly appeals to parts of our souls that shame us. Vices like the desire to enjoy the humiliation of others, but virtues, too, like the desire to listen to music objectively and well.
American Idol is far from perfect, but quite honestly, within this cultural climate, I'm hard pressed to think of a better way to cultivate such shameful virtues.... or how a culture might survive without them.
So right now the burning question in my mind is whether to root for Melinda or Lakisha.
That, and why on earth American preferred Sanjaya over AJ. It wasn't perfect by a long shot, but shaky spots aside, I thought his interpretation was an improvement on the original. Suble and dramatic, and oh-so-musical... definitely not in the same league as some of those girls, but overall one of the strongest performances of the guys.
But the more evidence we get of America's bad taste, the clearer it becomes just how badly we need something like American Idol.
So we can learn to choose well.
Practice makes perfect, right?
2.28.2007
Works for Me Wednesday: Baking Soda
I don't know about you, but in our house we go through a LOT of laundry stain remover.
When you have little boys, they get their clothes extremely dirty, and they get your clothes extremely dirty. And when they have a little sister, they get her clothes dirty, too... not to mention teaching her to get her own clothes dirty, and contribute to the dirtiness of their clothes, and your own clothes. Sometimes we would go through a bottle of Zout in as little as two weeks. It's insanely expensive.
But recently we've discovered that we can use baking soda instead. If you buy it in the huge bags, it's dirt cheap, and it works just as well as the expensive toxic substances. In fact, baking soda has removed set in stains that nothing else would touch.
Of course stains just need Zout. And some stains just need OxyClean. But baking soda is now my stain remover of first resort.
The best thing about it is that since baking soda is non-toxic, the wuggies can help with the laundry. And toddlers LOVE helping with chores. A sense of purpose is such a deep-seated sou-need of children... of everybody, really. Toddlers are such naturally industrious creatures, and nurturing that sense of industry is one of our most important tasks as mothers, I think. It's so easy to relegate them to the sidelines of our existence, to occupy them with arbitrary, meaningless activities while we quickly get through our chores so that we can spend quality time with them, doing "fun stuff." But over and over, I keep finding that the best "quality time" is time spent doing chores together. And right now, they think that working hard is the most fun possible. Laziness is a learned behavior... and come to think of it, not one that I really want to teach.
Turning chores into a family affair? Works for me!
When you have little boys, they get their clothes extremely dirty, and they get your clothes extremely dirty. And when they have a little sister, they get her clothes dirty, too... not to mention teaching her to get her own clothes dirty, and contribute to the dirtiness of their clothes, and your own clothes. Sometimes we would go through a bottle of Zout in as little as two weeks. It's insanely expensive.
But recently we've discovered that we can use baking soda instead. If you buy it in the huge bags, it's dirt cheap, and it works just as well as the expensive toxic substances. In fact, baking soda has removed set in stains that nothing else would touch.
Of course stains just need Zout. And some stains just need OxyClean. But baking soda is now my stain remover of first resort.
The best thing about it is that since baking soda is non-toxic, the wuggies can help with the laundry. And toddlers LOVE helping with chores. A sense of purpose is such a deep-seated sou-need of children... of everybody, really. Toddlers are such naturally industrious creatures, and nurturing that sense of industry is one of our most important tasks as mothers, I think. It's so easy to relegate them to the sidelines of our existence, to occupy them with arbitrary, meaningless activities while we quickly get through our chores so that we can spend quality time with them, doing "fun stuff." But over and over, I keep finding that the best "quality time" is time spent doing chores together. And right now, they think that working hard is the most fun possible. Laziness is a learned behavior... and come to think of it, not one that I really want to teach.
Turning chores into a family affair? Works for me!
2.26.2007
Hurry!
Rush on over to The Slow Lane just as fast as you can, and convince her not to invest in a bigger sock drawer.
No, my dear, your charming wit belongs right out here in the fresh air.
No, my dear, your charming wit belongs right out here in the fresh air.
2.23.2007
That's MRS. Mommy to you!
As I was changing Nathan's diaper, chattering affectionately at him, I called him "Mr. Meepo."
He liked that very much, and repeated several times, "I'm Mis-ter Meepo. I'm Mis-ter Meepo."
I then pointed to his brother. "That's Mr. Wuggidy."
"Mis-ter Wuggidy. Mis-ter Wuggidy."
He thought about it for a minute, then pointed to me.
"Mis-ter Mama! Mis-ter Mama!"
He liked that very much, and repeated several times, "I'm Mis-ter Meepo. I'm Mis-ter Meepo."
I then pointed to his brother. "That's Mr. Wuggidy."
"Mis-ter Wuggidy. Mis-ter Wuggidy."
He thought about it for a minute, then pointed to me.
"Mis-ter Mama! Mis-ter Mama!"
2.22.2007
Update
I'm okay.
My toe does not appear to be broken, just badly bruised. I can walk now, and without too much discomfort. It's back down nearly to its normal size, and the garish color scheme has settled down to a tasteful mauve, with subtle lilac accents.
The kitchen is not nearly as bad as I'd envisioned... turns out it was only one saucepan and one 9x5 casserole that had fallen out of the cupboard. Could have fooled me. It sure felt like an avalanche.
And the flour and sugar that the wuggies used to occupy themselves while I was writhing in agony? It took about 5 minutes to clean up out of the sink.
After the repairman came to check out the leak.
Actually, the repairman came while I was looking for the dirty diaper Tembo had taken off somewhere.
I finally found it in the middle of the kitchen floor.
After the repairman had left.
So anyway, we're okay.
Badly humiliated, but okay.
My toe does not appear to be broken, just badly bruised. I can walk now, and without too much discomfort. It's back down nearly to its normal size, and the garish color scheme has settled down to a tasteful mauve, with subtle lilac accents.
The kitchen is not nearly as bad as I'd envisioned... turns out it was only one saucepan and one 9x5 casserole that had fallen out of the cupboard. Could have fooled me. It sure felt like an avalanche.
And the flour and sugar that the wuggies used to occupy themselves while I was writhing in agony? It took about 5 minutes to clean up out of the sink.
After the repairman came to check out the leak.
Actually, the repairman came while I was looking for the dirty diaper Tembo had taken off somewhere.
I finally found it in the middle of the kitchen floor.
After the repairman had left.
So anyway, we're okay.
Badly humiliated, but okay.
2.21.2007
Feels Like Sunday
I called up my Mommy to commiserate about my day, and while we were on the phone, she relayed my story to Daddy. I could hear him chuckling in the background, saying that it reminded him of the time when the tire on the motorhome blew out, and blew a hole in one of the storage compartments, strewing flip-flops and sneakers all over the road. The tire shrapnel also blew a hole in the sewage tank, leaving a mess of other proportions entirely.
Come to think of it, it's sort of like how Sunday morning was, too, when we were out of milk, and I ran to the store real quick, but as I pulled out of the driveway, I saw that the gas tank read quarter past empty, and I wasn't sure if I even had enough gas to get to the station across the street, but then I missed my turn, and decided that I'd rather do an illegal left turn than stall out in the middle of the road.
And after the kind police officer was done explaining to me where I should and should not turn left, I realized that I'd left my debit card at home. And when I pulled into our driveway, with $5.04 of gas in the tank, I remembered that I'd actually just put my card in a different compartment of my purse.
And then, when I was finally at Stater Brothers, I tried to pull a blueberry yogurt off the shelf, and in the process knocked over two boysenberry yogurts and a cherry vanilla yogurt, and one of the boysenberry yogurts exploded all over my foot.
I thought it was kinda strange that the sprinklers came on just as I pulled into the driveway, but I didn't have time to think about it much, because the milk was leaking all over the back seat.
And THEN, as I was bustling around trying to find a pitcher to salvage the milk, telling Andy what an eventful trip it was, instead of sympathizing, he finished my story for me.
"AND you ran into the sprinkler system."
Oh.
Oops.
I'd just finished explaining to Andy that, no, the exploding yogurt thing was entirely separate from the milk thing, when I found the mangled container of cherry-chocolate-mousse yogurt under the place where the milk had been.
That was my Sunday, and that's kinda how today feels, too.
Laughter does a world of good, though, and I feel a whole lot better after a good giggle with my Mommy.
I'm just still not sure how I'm going to take care of everything with a broken toe.
Let alone get all the pots and pans back in order.
Or excavate 5 lbs. of flour from the sink.
Come to think of it, it's sort of like how Sunday morning was, too, when we were out of milk, and I ran to the store real quick, but as I pulled out of the driveway, I saw that the gas tank read quarter past empty, and I wasn't sure if I even had enough gas to get to the station across the street, but then I missed my turn, and decided that I'd rather do an illegal left turn than stall out in the middle of the road.
And after the kind police officer was done explaining to me where I should and should not turn left, I realized that I'd left my debit card at home. And when I pulled into our driveway, with $5.04 of gas in the tank, I remembered that I'd actually just put my card in a different compartment of my purse.
And then, when I was finally at Stater Brothers, I tried to pull a blueberry yogurt off the shelf, and in the process knocked over two boysenberry yogurts and a cherry vanilla yogurt, and one of the boysenberry yogurts exploded all over my foot.
I thought it was kinda strange that the sprinklers came on just as I pulled into the driveway, but I didn't have time to think about it much, because the milk was leaking all over the back seat.
And THEN, as I was bustling around trying to find a pitcher to salvage the milk, telling Andy what an eventful trip it was, instead of sympathizing, he finished my story for me.
"AND you ran into the sprinkler system."
Oh.
Oops.
I'd just finished explaining to Andy that, no, the exploding yogurt thing was entirely separate from the milk thing, when I found the mangled container of cherry-chocolate-mousse yogurt under the place where the milk had been.
That was my Sunday, and that's kinda how today feels, too.
Laughter does a world of good, though, and I feel a whole lot better after a good giggle with my Mommy.
I'm just still not sure how I'm going to take care of everything with a broken toe.
Let alone get all the pots and pans back in order.
Or excavate 5 lbs. of flour from the sink.
WFMW: Ditch the Windex!
Ever since his summer janitorial stint a few years back, Andy has mocked me for using Windex.
"The professionals just use rags and water."
Whatever.
Every self-respecting housewife is dependent upon Windex... right?
Well... maybe not. A wet rag gets everything up quickly (well... everything that Windex gets up, anyway) and a dry rag buffs the glass to a lovely streak-free shine. Better results, quicker, and with no nasty fumes.
Works for me!
"The professionals just use rags and water."
Whatever.
Every self-respecting housewife is dependent upon Windex... right?
Well... maybe not. A wet rag gets everything up quickly (well... everything that Windex gets up, anyway) and a dry rag buffs the glass to a lovely streak-free shine. Better results, quicker, and with no nasty fumes.
Works for me!
2.17.2007
Mystery can night just got a little more mysterious.
We're having chili tonight, and so I thought it might be a good opportunity to use up a couple of those label-less cans that every parent of toddlers has lying about.
I was pretty sure that this particular can contained either broth, black olives, stewed tomatoes, or green chiles, and that any one of those would make a splendid addition to my recipe.
I'm still pretty sure that it was one of those things.
And any one of those things would have been very nice.
Only problem is, having opened the can, I'm more confused than ever.
(And no, it did NOT go into the crock pot!)
I was pretty sure that this particular can contained either broth, black olives, stewed tomatoes, or green chiles, and that any one of those would make a splendid addition to my recipe.
I'm still pretty sure that it was one of those things.
And any one of those things would have been very nice.
Only problem is, having opened the can, I'm more confused than ever.
(And no, it did NOT go into the crock pot!)
Flute Impressions
Having just shared some impressively heinous flauteling (Can you believe I actually used to sound like that? Yikes!) I thought I should also point out what inspires and moves moves me, and gets me going in the morning.
This
is sunlight streaming through the window, a gentle breeze setting life and greenness all aflutter, a mountain spring right here in my living room.
With a big tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice to go with it all.
This is what the flute is all about.
Nina Assimakopoulos is probably my very favorite instrumentalist. Her technique is flawless, and I'm not sure how to describe her tone, except to say that it is alive. Now soft and tender, now rich and powerful, now soaring and brilliant, now playful and exotic... it constantly changes according to the spirit of the music she plays. I've never heard anyone else play Briccialdi's Carnival of Venice non-ironically, but Ms. Assimakopoulos enters fully into the playful spirit of the virtuoustic showpiece. As you listen all you can think about is the shimmering vitality, and it is only after the last note has died away that you realize just how impressive it all was. Whether it's Chopin or Debussy or Korsakov, or even something as simple as Amazing Grace, she draws out the full force of the music, so that the listener is sucked in and overpowered. But somehow, always, she holds her own.
This is how I want to live, and this is how her music inspires me to live, awake and alive, serene and tender and strong.
This
is sunlight streaming through the window, a gentle breeze setting life and greenness all aflutter, a mountain spring right here in my living room. With a big tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice to go with it all.
This is what the flute is all about.
Nina Assimakopoulos is probably my very favorite instrumentalist. Her technique is flawless, and I'm not sure how to describe her tone, except to say that it is alive. Now soft and tender, now rich and powerful, now soaring and brilliant, now playful and exotic... it constantly changes according to the spirit of the music she plays. I've never heard anyone else play Briccialdi's Carnival of Venice non-ironically, but Ms. Assimakopoulos enters fully into the playful spirit of the virtuoustic showpiece. As you listen all you can think about is the shimmering vitality, and it is only after the last note has died away that you realize just how impressive it all was. Whether it's Chopin or Debussy or Korsakov, or even something as simple as Amazing Grace, she draws out the full force of the music, so that the listener is sucked in and overpowered. But somehow, always, she holds her own.
This is how I want to live, and this is how her music inspires me to live, awake and alive, serene and tender and strong.
2.16.2007
Right now is not usually.
Usually, they're just so easy to love.
Usually, they bring me so much joy and delight.
Usually Nathan isn't nonchalantly pouring out a cup of water at my feet as I sop a gallon of cranberry juice off my freshly mopped floor.
Usually I'm not desperately needing to get my chores done in time to run over to the office to notify the management of an extremely urgent leak that absolutely must get fixed before they close for the weekend. In about two hours.
Usually being their mother is a whole lot of fun.
Right now is not usually.
Usually, they bring me so much joy and delight.
Usually Nathan isn't nonchalantly pouring out a cup of water at my feet as I sop a gallon of cranberry juice off my freshly mopped floor.
Usually I'm not desperately needing to get my chores done in time to run over to the office to notify the management of an extremely urgent leak that absolutely must get fixed before they close for the weekend. In about two hours.
Usually being their mother is a whole lot of fun.
Right now is not usually.
Reason #4 why Blogger could be improved upon
It's all well and good for Brian to be hating on blogger. But I can't very well bite that hand that lets me blog.
And, well... the fact is, thenickfamily.com sure looks nice now.... but it took several years to get it there, and meanwhile, I was actually blogging. So I'm very grateful to google for bringing blogging to the lazy, html-illiterate masses who just plain love to write.
But! This switch over to the new blogger is not very smooth. Well it is for blog authors, actually, (although I did lose a lot of template customizations, and had to reinstall any outside html. But even that was okay, because it prompted me to switch from statcounter to sitemeter, which is actually a lot better.)
Anyway, I follow a perfectly massive quantity of sparsely updated blogs, so I'm quite dependent upon bloglines. But one by one, my subscriptions stop working as everybody switches over to the new blogger. Just the other day I finally got around to updating all my subscriptions... but now Christa has moved, too. Oy, vey. They make everything else so easy... why did they have to change the rss feeds on us? I like blogger because I'm lazy, remember? That's the whole point.
But even if google hadn't chosen to put us through such misery, I guess it really wouldn't have solved my problem entirely. Some people just keep moving all over the place.
I tell you. No sense of commitment.
If only it weren't so easy to just up and start a new blog.
And, well... the fact is, thenickfamily.com sure looks nice now.... but it took several years to get it there, and meanwhile, I was actually blogging. So I'm very grateful to google for bringing blogging to the lazy, html-illiterate masses who just plain love to write.
But! This switch over to the new blogger is not very smooth. Well it is for blog authors, actually, (although I did lose a lot of template customizations, and had to reinstall any outside html. But even that was okay, because it prompted me to switch from statcounter to sitemeter, which is actually a lot better.)
Anyway, I follow a perfectly massive quantity of sparsely updated blogs, so I'm quite dependent upon bloglines. But one by one, my subscriptions stop working as everybody switches over to the new blogger. Just the other day I finally got around to updating all my subscriptions... but now Christa has moved, too. Oy, vey. They make everything else so easy... why did they have to change the rss feeds on us? I like blogger because I'm lazy, remember? That's the whole point.
But even if google hadn't chosen to put us through such misery, I guess it really wouldn't have solved my problem entirely. Some people just keep moving all over the place.
I tell you. No sense of commitment.
If only it weren't so easy to just up and start a new blog.
2.14.2007
WFMW: GT and the Halo Express
The wuggy-boys got a really wonderful birthday present from Aunt Sarah and Grandma and Grandpa Palmer.
A complete set of GT and the Halo Express.
Remember Psalty? Well, GT is pretty much like Psalty, only better. Instead of a singing hymnal that teaches the kids praise choruses, it's a "band of angels" that teaches Michael and Kristy scripture memory songs that help them deal with their grade-school problems. You know, a "band of angels" complete with drums and saxophones and guitars. And harps, because, well... you can't have angels without harps. The stories are full of little puns like that, which makes it fun for mom, too.
We've been listening to them pretty much non-stop. Well, okay, not quite non-stop... but a lot.
It's just a really good thing, on a lot of levels. The wuggies just love it. Even Tembo tugs at my sleeve, excitedly asking for "JeeTEE! JeeTEE!" And it really seems to be doing them good, developmentally. In our reading time, I've been very intentional about trying to wean them from images to stories, working toward more verbally driven picuture books, and illustrated storybooks.
The GT stories fit very nicely into this process. They're exciting and colorful... and totally non-visual. And sure enough, since we've started listening to GT, the wuggies have started to sit still and listen to stories, pictures or no pictures. Part of this is just the normal process of development, but I really do think that GT helped them to realize just how colorful and exciting stories could be.
And all the scripture flowing through the house! It's a really wonderful thing, and the music helps it to penetrate deep into the soul. It's good for the wuggies, and it's good for me, too.
As a musician, I'm really impressed with the songs. The music may not be genius, but it's solid, and exactly right. The melodies are perfectly suited to the texts, and are clearly the outgrowth of a deep understanding of the scriptures. Simple, singable, and meaningful... It's good stuff.
I have no idea why they aren't more popular, but they seem to be on the verge of out-of-print. They're only available here, and only in cassette tapes.
But they're totally worth scouring your local thrift shops for a cassette player, if need be. And maybe if enough of us do that, they'll start publishing them in less obsolete formats. =)
Scripture songs throughout the day? Works for me!
A complete set of GT and the Halo Express.
Remember Psalty? Well, GT is pretty much like Psalty, only better. Instead of a singing hymnal that teaches the kids praise choruses, it's a "band of angels" that teaches Michael and Kristy scripture memory songs that help them deal with their grade-school problems. You know, a "band of angels" complete with drums and saxophones and guitars. And harps, because, well... you can't have angels without harps. The stories are full of little puns like that, which makes it fun for mom, too.
We've been listening to them pretty much non-stop. Well, okay, not quite non-stop... but a lot.
It's just a really good thing, on a lot of levels. The wuggies just love it. Even Tembo tugs at my sleeve, excitedly asking for "JeeTEE! JeeTEE!" And it really seems to be doing them good, developmentally. In our reading time, I've been very intentional about trying to wean them from images to stories, working toward more verbally driven picuture books, and illustrated storybooks.
The GT stories fit very nicely into this process. They're exciting and colorful... and totally non-visual. And sure enough, since we've started listening to GT, the wuggies have started to sit still and listen to stories, pictures or no pictures. Part of this is just the normal process of development, but I really do think that GT helped them to realize just how colorful and exciting stories could be.
And all the scripture flowing through the house! It's a really wonderful thing, and the music helps it to penetrate deep into the soul. It's good for the wuggies, and it's good for me, too.
As a musician, I'm really impressed with the songs. The music may not be genius, but it's solid, and exactly right. The melodies are perfectly suited to the texts, and are clearly the outgrowth of a deep understanding of the scriptures. Simple, singable, and meaningful... It's good stuff.
I have no idea why they aren't more popular, but they seem to be on the verge of out-of-print. They're only available here, and only in cassette tapes.
But they're totally worth scouring your local thrift shops for a cassette player, if need be. And maybe if enough of us do that, they'll start publishing them in less obsolete formats. =)
Scripture songs throughout the day? Works for me!
2.13.2007
Meepo's Cubist Phase
Nathan absolutely loves to sit at the computer and scribble on MS Paint.
The other day, he drew Tembo.
Apparently he thinks that his sister is two-faced.
Then he decided to add Isaiah into the picture. And a squiggle.
The young artist then began chanting "Itch! Itch! Itch!" and started scratching his itching siblings out with the eraser function.
All this scratching had the unfortunate result of a "broken eye," but with a few more strokes, he was able to transform the image into "clowns!"
And now, for the completed masterpiece:
Come to think of it, in the end it's more abstract expressionist.
From straight representation, to cubism, to his very own symbolic system, to abstract expressionism...
I guess it makes sense. Short attention spans and all that.
The other day, he drew Tembo.
Apparently he thinks that his sister is two-faced.
Then he decided to add Isaiah into the picture. And a squiggle.
The young artist then began chanting "Itch! Itch! Itch!" and started scratching his itching siblings out with the eraser function.
All this scratching had the unfortunate result of a "broken eye," but with a few more strokes, he was able to transform the image into "clowns!"
And now, for the completed masterpiece:
Come to think of it, in the end it's more abstract expressionist.
From straight representation, to cubism, to his very own symbolic system, to abstract expressionism...
I guess it makes sense. Short attention spans and all that.
2.12.2007
2.11.2007
Well Rested
I got four hours of sleep last night.
Four blissful uninterrupted hours on a comfy mattress.
I feel incredibly good. So energized I feel like I could conquer the world. Or maybe even get everyone to church on time.
I keep wondering what bliss it will be to sleep 8 hours straight on the new mattress.
Four blissful uninterrupted hours on a comfy mattress.
I feel incredibly good. So energized I feel like I could conquer the world. Or maybe even get everyone to church on time.
I keep wondering what bliss it will be to sleep 8 hours straight on the new mattress.
2.10.2007
2.09.2007
Self-knowledge
Bosey was happily examining a fanciful colored pencil drawing of a beautiful creature, half girl, half zebra. The image resonated deeply with me, for that is how I always made sense out of my complicated bi-cultural identity. Stripes. And this zebra-child was so happy and free, reveling in her stripes... the image made me happy. So did hearing my little girl refer to an animal as something other than a doggy or a duck.
Tembo had a grand time, trying to figure out whether this was a "Bubba Deeda" or a "Mama Deeda." I guess when you have only brothers, you may or may not have a category that encompasses both "female" and "child," so you sort of have to decide which concept to retain. But whether this creature was a bubba or a mama, Nathan was quite convinced that in any case, it was more properly pronounced "Beza."
It was such a peaceful and happy moment, I was a bit surprised when Nathan announced "Tembo angry!"
"No, I don't think Tembo's angry. See how she's smiling? Tembo's happy. Are you angry, Meepo?"
"No... I not angry!"
"Are you happy?"
"I not happy!"
"Are you sad?"
"I not sad!"
"Are you jubilant?"
"I not jub-lant!"
Finally, though I hit it.
"Are you amused?"
His face lit up with blissful comprehension.
"I'm a-music-ed!"
It's a good feeling to know exactly how you feel.
Even if it's stripey and confusing and a little bit of everything.
Especially if it's stripey and confusing and a little bit of everything.
Tembo had a grand time, trying to figure out whether this was a "Bubba Deeda" or a "Mama Deeda." I guess when you have only brothers, you may or may not have a category that encompasses both "female" and "child," so you sort of have to decide which concept to retain. But whether this creature was a bubba or a mama, Nathan was quite convinced that in any case, it was more properly pronounced "Beza."
It was such a peaceful and happy moment, I was a bit surprised when Nathan announced "Tembo angry!"
"No, I don't think Tembo's angry. See how she's smiling? Tembo's happy. Are you angry, Meepo?"
"No... I not angry!"
"Are you happy?"
"I not happy!"
"Are you sad?"
"I not sad!"
"Are you jubilant?"
"I not jub-lant!"
Finally, though I hit it.
"Are you amused?"
His face lit up with blissful comprehension.
"I'm a-music-ed!"
It's a good feeling to know exactly how you feel.
Even if it's stripey and confusing and a little bit of everything.
Especially if it's stripey and confusing and a little bit of everything.
2.08.2007
Addendum
My husband informs me that the video is extraordinarily dull without some background information.
No, I didn't edit in the spiffy sound effects. Mr. Wuggidy fell asleep while listening to G. T. and the Halo Express. He tried so hard to keep awake, and his little noggin kept slowly sinking down, then snapping back up suddenly, only to start sinking again. I got the camera running just in time to catch the very last nod, in perfect time to the music's final cadence.
=)
Of course all this would be much better as a caption to the previous post... but blogger is being cranky today.
No, I didn't edit in the spiffy sound effects. Mr. Wuggidy fell asleep while listening to G. T. and the Halo Express. He tried so hard to keep awake, and his little noggin kept slowly sinking down, then snapping back up suddenly, only to start sinking again. I got the camera running just in time to catch the very last nod, in perfect time to the music's final cadence.
=)
Of course all this would be much better as a caption to the previous post... but blogger is being cranky today.
2.07.2007
The Economy of Home
Life is very much uncertain and up-in-the-air right now. I did my one last Costco trip before our membership expired, and since I'd decided against renewing, I wanted to thoroughly stock up on the few things that are actually a good buy there.
But Andy reminded me that I shouldn't get a lot of honey, because one package would probably last us until we move.
June is only four months away, and we're moving June 2.
Where is a little less certain, but the minute Andy dismisses his last class, we're packing up for someplace where we can see the stars.
I was talking to a little neighbor boy the other day, a darling little five-year-old by the name of Orion. I misheard at first, and called him "Ryan," but he quickly and distainfully set me straight.
But I was back in good graces once I said it correctly. "Oh, Orion! Like the stars!"
He looked at me in awe. "You must be the same age as my mother! She knows about the stars, too!"
I miss Orion. And Cassiopeia, and the big and little bears, and the fathomless blur of the Milky Way... but mostly Orion. I've seen him once or twice out here, so I know he does come around, but always the mighty warrior looks so wan and sickly.
I need starlight, and want it badly, but probably not enough to leave. Inertia is a powerful thing, and moving is scary. But come June 2, we're through paying Southern California rent.
So right now, as we're figuring out how we want to structure our life, I found this excellent article especially thought-provoking. (It pays off to hang out at Amy's Humble Musings. Not only does she have good things to say, but she links good places, too!)
For more on the same topic, Nancy Pearcey has some really excellent things to say.
But Andy reminded me that I shouldn't get a lot of honey, because one package would probably last us until we move.
June is only four months away, and we're moving June 2.
Where is a little less certain, but the minute Andy dismisses his last class, we're packing up for someplace where we can see the stars.
I was talking to a little neighbor boy the other day, a darling little five-year-old by the name of Orion. I misheard at first, and called him "Ryan," but he quickly and distainfully set me straight.
But I was back in good graces once I said it correctly. "Oh, Orion! Like the stars!"
He looked at me in awe. "You must be the same age as my mother! She knows about the stars, too!"
I miss Orion. And Cassiopeia, and the big and little bears, and the fathomless blur of the Milky Way... but mostly Orion. I've seen him once or twice out here, so I know he does come around, but always the mighty warrior looks so wan and sickly.
I need starlight, and want it badly, but probably not enough to leave. Inertia is a powerful thing, and moving is scary. But come June 2, we're through paying Southern California rent.
So right now, as we're figuring out how we want to structure our life, I found this excellent article especially thought-provoking. (It pays off to hang out at Amy's Humble Musings. Not only does she have good things to say, but she links good places, too!)
For more on the same topic, Nancy Pearcey
has some really excellent things to say.
2.06.2007
Prayer
The other night, I'm pretty sure Nathan said his first real prayer. Hard to say, I guess. He's blessed our meals a number of times, ("Thank you, Jesus. Amen"), but I'm not going to count that, because he's not so much interested in praying as in having the shortest prelude possible before diving into the grub. Our mealtime ritual is one of my favorite things about our family, but sometimes somebody is absolutely ravenous and would rather just say a quick prayer before getting to the food. And usually that somebody is Nathan.
-
But the other night, Nathan definitely actually prayed.
-
It was a night to teach us all to pray. Everybody was sick--draggy and lethargic and stuffy and coughing. Nathan and September napped most of the day, and Andy and I had such sweet, wonderful, precious time with Isaiah.
-
When we were ready to crash out for the night, though, Nathan woke up, bright-eyed and ready to face the day, rather oblivious to the fact that it was pitch black outside, and we were all ready to sleep. We let him cuddle up with us, admonished him sternly not to squirm to much, and hoped for the best.
-
Suddenly, September sat bolt upright, and began to bark, gasping frantically between the wrenching coughs.
-
Nathan giggled. "Funny sound!"
-
Andy gently told him that it wasn't funny, Tembo was very sick.
-
We turned on the shower, and sat with Tembo in the steam. She improved immediately, but the second we would try taking her out of the steamy bathroom, she would begin to bark and gasp again. So Andy moved the cabinet out of the bathroom, and squeezed the papazan in, and we all cuddled up and read together.
-
And we prayed. Oh, how we prayed.
-
"God. Lord Jesus, the Timmo. Amen."
-
Through the whole ordeal, Nathan was quietly alert, earnest, and compassionate. As we brainstormed about how we could get the air in the rest of the house moist enough to go back to bed and get some sleep, our little helper suggested a pot of water on the stove. Which is exactly what we did. I've always wondered why Anne-with-an-E told Diana to boil water when the baby had croup... now I know.
-
She was okay. Eventually we were able to go back to sleep, even.
-
She's okay. My baby's okay.
-
And somehow, terrifying as it was, that's one of those days I want to frame and treasure for the rest of my life.
2.02.2007
Less talk, more pictures
I do dot like theb, Sab I ab. I do dot like greed eggs add hab.
I thigk I'll stick to Where's Waldo for dow.
At least I cad prodoudce that.
I thigk I'll stick to Where's Waldo for dow.
At least I cad prodoudce that.
2.01.2007
Of Genies and Sewing Machines, and Wisdom Calling in the Streets
Over the past few weeks I've been meditating on the Book of Proverbs. And sewing machines.
The Proverbs part has been good, and convicting, and unexpectedly comforting.
The sewing machine part has been just plain exhilirating.
I was trembling with excitement when Andy brought the old Merritt 4530 home from the thrift store. Which isn't terribly surprising. I'm a generally excitable sort of person, and any new creative outlet is bound to send me into ecstasy.
It really was surprising, though, that the whole project just got better and better. It took me a week of hard research to figure out how to work the machine, without benefit of an instruction manual, and when (with some gracious help from Marcy Koch) I finally figured out how to make it work... it didn't.
And I just got more and more excited. Or rather, my initial excitement slowly began to morph into something deeper and gladder. Really knowing a sewing machine on a deep level--even a broken one!-- turned out to be even better than I'd hoped making stuff would be.
After a quick search on google local I called up the Singer Sewing Center of Orange County, and Steve told me that he'd be glad to take a look, see if it was worth fixing.
It wasn't.
The shop was an adorable little mom-and-pop establishment. Apparently she quilts, he machine-embroiders, and they love what they do. It's a tiny place, and modest, but the massive discount fabric warehouse across the parking lot brings a flow of customers their way, and exceptional customer service brings them back again.
On my second trip out there, I became aware of praise choruses playing softly in the background, but I was already pretty sure that Steve was somebody who loves Jesus, just from the way he treated everybody. He was every bit as courteous to me as to the big time customers as to the homeless guy, and put the same effort into helping me find the right machine for my needs and budget as he did into helping the other ladies understand the deep and marvelous mysteries of a very fine $3,000 embroidery machine.
I ended up buying a basic Elna, not too many bells and whistles, but well-made and durable.
I decided a pair of pajamas would be a good first project. I desperately needed some warmer pjs, especially since we'd stopped heating the house at night, and it would be okay if they were a little bit clumsily done.
The elegant little machine worked like a dream, doing everything precisely as I chose. Which didn't make the pants fit exactly right... I hadn't quite gotten the hang of properly choosing where I really wanted that seam to be. But somehow even the mistakes gave me an euphoric sense of power. With this little machine, I can take some cloth and some thread and with relatively little effort, do pretty much anything I want to. All I have to do is learn how to want the right things.
This sense of empowerment has been leaking through to other areas of my life, and this beautifully sensible little device has been teaching me all sorts of widely-applicable life lessons.
But it wasn't until this morning that I realized how intertwined it all was with Proverbs.
I was reading to the wuggies, a silly Disney book in which Mickey, Goofy, and Donald play out the age-old theme of the wasted wishes. Be careful what you wish for, because it just might be exactly what you get.
It's the same theme as I've been noticing in Proverbs lately. Over and over the wise teacher exhorts us to love wisdom. It is wise to love wisdom! It is wise to love wisdom!
I always found that a tad confusing and redundant. I mean, of course it's true... just not terribly helpful. I would come wanting to hear something important about wisdom, and would feel a bit cheated by the repeated announcements that wisdom is wise.
This time around, it made sense, though, and the words were deeply comforting. Wisdom is calling out in streets, it's there for the taking. Just wanting to become wise is the first step, and if you do want to become wise, then you will. Knock and the door shall be opened unto you. Seek and you shall find.
You just have to learn to want the right things, that's all.
The Proverbs part has been good, and convicting, and unexpectedly comforting.
The sewing machine part has been just plain exhilirating.
I was trembling with excitement when Andy brought the old Merritt 4530 home from the thrift store. Which isn't terribly surprising. I'm a generally excitable sort of person, and any new creative outlet is bound to send me into ecstasy.
It really was surprising, though, that the whole project just got better and better. It took me a week of hard research to figure out how to work the machine, without benefit of an instruction manual, and when (with some gracious help from Marcy Koch) I finally figured out how to make it work... it didn't.
And I just got more and more excited. Or rather, my initial excitement slowly began to morph into something deeper and gladder. Really knowing a sewing machine on a deep level--even a broken one!-- turned out to be even better than I'd hoped making stuff would be.
After a quick search on google local I called up the Singer Sewing Center of Orange County, and Steve told me that he'd be glad to take a look, see if it was worth fixing.
It wasn't.
The shop was an adorable little mom-and-pop establishment. Apparently she quilts, he machine-embroiders, and they love what they do. It's a tiny place, and modest, but the massive discount fabric warehouse across the parking lot brings a flow of customers their way, and exceptional customer service brings them back again.
On my second trip out there, I became aware of praise choruses playing softly in the background, but I was already pretty sure that Steve was somebody who loves Jesus, just from the way he treated everybody. He was every bit as courteous to me as to the big time customers as to the homeless guy, and put the same effort into helping me find the right machine for my needs and budget as he did into helping the other ladies understand the deep and marvelous mysteries of a very fine $3,000 embroidery machine.
I ended up buying a basic Elna, not too many bells and whistles, but well-made and durable.
I decided a pair of pajamas would be a good first project. I desperately needed some warmer pjs, especially since we'd stopped heating the house at night, and it would be okay if they were a little bit clumsily done.
The elegant little machine worked like a dream, doing everything precisely as I chose. Which didn't make the pants fit exactly right... I hadn't quite gotten the hang of properly choosing where I really wanted that seam to be. But somehow even the mistakes gave me an euphoric sense of power. With this little machine, I can take some cloth and some thread and with relatively little effort, do pretty much anything I want to. All I have to do is learn how to want the right things.
This sense of empowerment has been leaking through to other areas of my life, and this beautifully sensible little device has been teaching me all sorts of widely-applicable life lessons.
But it wasn't until this morning that I realized how intertwined it all was with Proverbs.
I was reading to the wuggies, a silly Disney book in which Mickey, Goofy, and Donald play out the age-old theme of the wasted wishes. Be careful what you wish for, because it just might be exactly what you get.
It's the same theme as I've been noticing in Proverbs lately. Over and over the wise teacher exhorts us to love wisdom. It is wise to love wisdom! It is wise to love wisdom!
I always found that a tad confusing and redundant. I mean, of course it's true... just not terribly helpful. I would come wanting to hear something important about wisdom, and would feel a bit cheated by the repeated announcements that wisdom is wise.
This time around, it made sense, though, and the words were deeply comforting. Wisdom is calling out in streets, it's there for the taking. Just wanting to become wise is the first step, and if you do want to become wise, then you will. Knock and the door shall be opened unto you. Seek and you shall find.
You just have to learn to want the right things, that's all.
1.30.2007
WFMW: grocery shopping with toddlers
My husband is amazing. He can single-handedly run a full grocery trip, managing three kids in as many carts. Okay, so he needs both hands, but the point is, he can do it. I can't. One gigantic stroller is about all my puny little muscles can handle, and I just don't have the stamina to keep the kids contained long enough for a full week's shopping.
The one thing the wunder-hubband cannot do is read a shopping list. Or maybe it's that I can't write one. We each have our own opinion on the matter, and frankly, the discussions just aren't that productive. But having him watch the wuggies while I do the shopping isn't terribly productive, either. Weekends are so much better spent together as a family, or letting one of us spend a few precious hours doing something other than wuggy-wrangling and housework.
Anyway, I've finally hit on a solution. Each week, I scour the various grocery mailers, and plan my menu around the week's loss leaders for each store. Then I do my shopping in bits an pieces, going to a different store each day. So maybe on Monday I'll go to Ralphs to buy meat, and on Tuesday I'll go to Farmer Boys for produce and eggs, and on Wednesday I'll go to Stater Brother's for general staples. Or whatever. I don't ever have to buy anything for more than the lowest advertised price, and better still, I don't ever have to buy more than will fit in my stroller. I never have to stay beyond the point where the wuggies get squirrely, and I have a great motivation to get out of the house more often. Which is important for everyone's sanity, but it's hard to do!
An unexpected benefit of this system has been less food waste. Food doesn't spend as long sitting in the fridge, and so I'm less likely to make silly mistakes like planning on the chicken breasts for supper 3 days after they expire. I can also adjust things as I go, according to how far the food stretches. Which can vary a lot, when you're feeding three toddlers, who eat like horses one day, robins the next.
Works for me!
The one thing the wunder-hubband cannot do is read a shopping list. Or maybe it's that I can't write one. We each have our own opinion on the matter, and frankly, the discussions just aren't that productive. But having him watch the wuggies while I do the shopping isn't terribly productive, either. Weekends are so much better spent together as a family, or letting one of us spend a few precious hours doing something other than wuggy-wrangling and housework.
Anyway, I've finally hit on a solution. Each week, I scour the various grocery mailers, and plan my menu around the week's loss leaders for each store. Then I do my shopping in bits an pieces, going to a different store each day. So maybe on Monday I'll go to Ralphs to buy meat, and on Tuesday I'll go to Farmer Boys for produce and eggs, and on Wednesday I'll go to Stater Brother's for general staples. Or whatever. I don't ever have to buy anything for more than the lowest advertised price, and better still, I don't ever have to buy more than will fit in my stroller. I never have to stay beyond the point where the wuggies get squirrely, and I have a great motivation to get out of the house more often. Which is important for everyone's sanity, but it's hard to do!
An unexpected benefit of this system has been less food waste. Food doesn't spend as long sitting in the fridge, and so I'm less likely to make silly mistakes like planning on the chicken breasts for supper 3 days after they expire. I can also adjust things as I go, according to how far the food stretches. Which can vary a lot, when you're feeding three toddlers, who eat like horses one day, robins the next.
Works for me!
1.29.2007
1.27.2007
Walk softly and... oh, nevermind, just walk softly.
We are feeling highly motivated to teach Isaiah to differentiate between the sounds "st" and "d."
!!!
!!!
1.26.2007
Flying
"Do you guys know what today is? Today is the day we pick up Aunt Sarah from the airport!"
"See airplanes?"
"And pilots. Airplane pilots."
"That's right. We'll get to see some airplanes."
"Aunt Sarah a pilot."
"No, Aunt Sarah's not a pilot, she's a passenger. She's just riding on the airplane."
"Aunt Sarah pilot."
"Before we go to the airport, though we're going to stop at the 99c store."
"Buy airplanes!"
"Well, actually we're going to buy balloons, since it's Aunt Sarah's birthday."
"Buy helicopters!"
"Dadders buy airplane!"
"No, Dadders ride on helicopter!"
"Ride on helicopter! Ride on helicopter!"
"Wugger ride on helicopter!"
"Meepo ride on helicopter!"
"Dadder buy helicopter!"
"Ride helicopter!"
"See airplanes?"
"And pilots. Airplane pilots."
"That's right. We'll get to see some airplanes."
"Aunt Sarah a pilot."
"No, Aunt Sarah's not a pilot, she's a passenger. She's just riding on the airplane."
"Aunt Sarah pilot."
"Before we go to the airport, though we're going to stop at the 99c store."
"Buy airplanes!"
"Well, actually we're going to buy balloons, since it's Aunt Sarah's birthday."
"Buy helicopters!"
"Dadders buy airplane!"
"No, Dadders ride on helicopter!"
"Ride on helicopter! Ride on helicopter!"
"Wugger ride on helicopter!"
"Meepo ride on helicopter!"
"Dadder buy helicopter!"
"Ride helicopter!"
1.25.2007
Accidents will happen...
...but so will on-purpose-es, and that's what has me flumoxed. Everybody seems to be talking about potty training today, so I might as well join in and blog about my own woes.
We've had the potty chair out for quite some time, but we've been very low-key about it so far. But now, Nathan seems definitely ready to start training in earnest. Isaiah isn't really interested, which is probably a good thing... we'll take this one wuggy at a time.
We're planning on switching straight over from diapers to regular underwear on Saturday. We'll expect lots of accidents, and do a lot of laundry. We'll be very patient and loving, but Nathan will have lots of intrinsic motivation to stay clean and dry.
I can do this.
Anyway, over the past few days, I've been getting a head start by putting Nathan in big boy underwear for just a couple of hours. After he uses the bathroom, washes his hands, and gets a treat (Hurray for Nathan! A chocolate chip for everybody!) I offer him a big glass of water. I set the kitchen timer, and then we do the whole thing all over again in 20 minutes. It's been working well so far. We've only had one accident.
One accident, and one on-purpose.
Just a few moments before the timer went off, Nathan pulled down his pants, took aim, and carefully peed all over a favorite throw pillow.
I don't think I let my anger show. I just remarked how sad it was, and I guess he's just not quite ready for this, and put him in a diaper.
ButI'm pretty, um, shall we say... er...
No, we shan't say. I'll keep the blog clean--even if the blue pillow isn't.
We've had the potty chair out for quite some time, but we've been very low-key about it so far. But now, Nathan seems definitely ready to start training in earnest. Isaiah isn't really interested, which is probably a good thing... we'll take this one wuggy at a time.
We're planning on switching straight over from diapers to regular underwear on Saturday. We'll expect lots of accidents, and do a lot of laundry. We'll be very patient and loving, but Nathan will have lots of intrinsic motivation to stay clean and dry.
I can do this.
Anyway, over the past few days, I've been getting a head start by putting Nathan in big boy underwear for just a couple of hours. After he uses the bathroom, washes his hands, and gets a treat (Hurray for Nathan! A chocolate chip for everybody!) I offer him a big glass of water. I set the kitchen timer, and then we do the whole thing all over again in 20 minutes. It's been working well so far. We've only had one accident.
One accident, and one on-purpose.
Just a few moments before the timer went off, Nathan pulled down his pants, took aim, and carefully peed all over a favorite throw pillow.
I don't think I let my anger show. I just remarked how sad it was, and I guess he's just not quite ready for this, and put him in a diaper.
ButI'm pretty, um, shall we say... er...
No, we shan't say. I'll keep the blog clean--even if the blue pillow isn't.
1.24.2007
Works for Me Wednesday: Celebrations
To bribe or not to bribe, that is the question.
External rewards can be powerful motivators, but they can also turn into fuel for brattyness, when the wuggies start demading them as rights, necessary conditions for good behavior.
So we've stopped rewarding good behavior. Instead, we celebrate. When one of the kids does the right thing even though he (or she!) really doesn't want to, everybody gets a special treat. When Isaiah quietly gets into his carseat even though he REALLY doesn't want to leave the park, we have a litty party when we get home. We clap and cheer and dance and talk about how happy we are for Isaiah's moral victory, and everybody gets stickers, or maybe even a new car. (Won't be so feasible at 16, but at age 3, we can do this!)
Somehow this shifts the focus to a more free and grace-filled understanding of righteousness. We don't obey so that we can get treats, we obey because it is good, and the treats are a really useful reminder of that.
As for the treats themselves, we really love Speed Wheels. They're pretty much like Matchbox or Hot Wheels, only half as expensive, and of much higher quality. They actually have contracts with the various auto manufacturers, and the detail is really impressive. Especially for 50 cents. =)
Works for me!
External rewards can be powerful motivators, but they can also turn into fuel for brattyness, when the wuggies start demading them as rights, necessary conditions for good behavior.
So we've stopped rewarding good behavior. Instead, we celebrate. When one of the kids does the right thing even though he (or she!) really doesn't want to, everybody gets a special treat. When Isaiah quietly gets into his carseat even though he REALLY doesn't want to leave the park, we have a litty party when we get home. We clap and cheer and dance and talk about how happy we are for Isaiah's moral victory, and everybody gets stickers, or maybe even a new car. (Won't be so feasible at 16, but at age 3, we can do this!)
Somehow this shifts the focus to a more free and grace-filled understanding of righteousness. We don't obey so that we can get treats, we obey because it is good, and the treats are a really useful reminder of that.
As for the treats themselves, we really love Speed Wheels. They're pretty much like Matchbox or Hot Wheels, only half as expensive, and of much higher quality. They actually have contracts with the various auto manufacturers, and the detail is really impressive. Especially for 50 cents. =)
Works for me!
1.22.2007
Clean Humor
We were having sloppy joes for dinner, which I thought was a very kid-friendly meal indeed. Simple and yummy, if a bit of mess... slap big bibs on all the wuggies, and everyone's happy, right?
Well, everyone except Isaiah, who hates to try anything new.
He liked it in the end, once he'd actually taken that first bite. But for the first half of the meal, he chanted his protest continuously.
"No sloppy jokes! No sloppy jokes! No sloppy jokes!"
Well, everyone except Isaiah, who hates to try anything new.
He liked it in the end, once he'd actually taken that first bite. But for the first half of the meal, he chanted his protest continuously.
"No sloppy jokes! No sloppy jokes! No sloppy jokes!"
1.21.2007
Improvement
The other day, as we were tidying up the living room, Andy remarked that we seem to be running a home for battered children's books.
It's true. Babar
is in bad shape, and Thomas looks like a train wreck survivor.
We try. But the wuggies have a very intense relationship with books. Usually things are amicable, but whenever there's a tussle 'twixt tome and tyke, the wuggy wins.
All this is very frustrating, and deeply rankles our bibliophilic souls.
Today, as I was reading Isaiah his pre-nap book of choice, I was horrified to realize that the last two pages, two very crucial pages, had been ruthlessly torn out.
But on second thought, it really does seem to be an improvement.
Before I explain, I should probably warn you that there will be spoilers ahead. So if you would like to keep the ending a surprise, stop reading here. However, I do think that fretting too much about "spoilers" seems rather pointless in this particular genre. No matter how many children's books you may have, you will always end up reading one of them over and over and over, 20 times a day. All you can do is hope that it's something like this, and not something like this. All things considered, I'd say we got pretty lucky.
Anyway, in this wonderful gem of a book, George is a dog, and his mother wants to hear him bark. But instead of saying "arf," as all good dogs must, George meows. On the second try, he quacks, and then he oinks. When finally he actually starts mooing, his very distraught mommy takes him straight into the vet. Who, of course, dons his rubber gloves, reaches down George's throat, and pulls out an assortment of very dazed looking animals. Finally, once the cow is out of him, George barks beautifully, and there was much rejoicing.
I've often thought that it would be a delightful little book if it just ended right there. Now that our copy actually does, I can't say that I'm too terribly disappointed. Do we really need to know that on the way home, walking a long the crowded street, George said "hello"? I think not.
But don't tell the wuggies I said so.
Wouldn't want to give them the idea that sort of thing's condoned around here.
It's true. Babar
is in bad shape, and Thomas looks like a train wreck survivor.We try. But the wuggies have a very intense relationship with books. Usually things are amicable, but whenever there's a tussle 'twixt tome and tyke, the wuggy wins.
All this is very frustrating, and deeply rankles our bibliophilic souls.
Today, as I was reading Isaiah his pre-nap book of choice, I was horrified to realize that the last two pages, two very crucial pages, had been ruthlessly torn out.
But on second thought, it really does seem to be an improvement.
Before I explain, I should probably warn you that there will be spoilers ahead. So if you would like to keep the ending a surprise, stop reading here. However, I do think that fretting too much about "spoilers" seems rather pointless in this particular genre. No matter how many children's books you may have, you will always end up reading one of them over and over and over, 20 times a day. All you can do is hope that it's something like this,
and not something like this. All things considered, I'd say we got pretty lucky.Anyway, in this wonderful gem of a book,
George is a dog, and his mother wants to hear him bark. But instead of saying "arf," as all good dogs must, George meows. On the second try, he quacks, and then he oinks. When finally he actually starts mooing, his very distraught mommy takes him straight into the vet. Who, of course, dons his rubber gloves, reaches down George's throat, and pulls out an assortment of very dazed looking animals. Finally, once the cow is out of him, George barks beautifully, and there was much rejoicing.I've often thought that it would be a delightful little book if it just ended right there. Now that our copy actually does, I can't say that I'm too terribly disappointed. Do we really need to know that on the way home, walking a long the crowded street, George said "hello"? I think not.
But don't tell the wuggies I said so.
Wouldn't want to give them the idea that sort of thing's condoned around here.
1.20.2007
If there IS anything cuter...
...then it's definitely a strapping young man, aged 3, helping his father change the spark plugs, industriously applying the wrench to various portions of the engine.
Yup.
Yup.
Vroom!
There may very well be cuter things than a tiny little girl-child curled up in her daddy's lap, making motorcycle noises.
There may be cuter things, but I'm not sure what they are.
There may be cuter things, but I'm not sure what they are.
1.19.2007
Nothing new under the sun
Yesterday, while I was fixing dinner, I turned on the oldies station.
I don't usually listen to the oldies station. In the car, I'll turn on classical KMZT, or one of the many country stations, or maybe NPR. At home, I hardly ever listen to the radio at all. Somehow, songs that I'm not expecting, that I haven't chosen to hear, have no place in my home. When I'm out and about, I want to be exposed to new and unpredictable experiences. But in my own home, I don't want the entire atmosphere of our household to be at the whim of some unknown DJ. So I hardly ever listen to CDs in the car, and almost never listen to the radio at home.
Lately we've been listening to this in the evenings, over and over and over. I wasn't sick of it, by any stretch of the imagination, but I suppose I wanted to safeguard against thatpotential tragedy. Besides, our copy is a cassette, and I'd hate to wear it out all at once. Seriously, that album is a treasure, instantly creating the sort of atmosphere in which children are easy to love and well worth understanding. Not only do the wuggies love it, but it's the sort of music that makes me a better parent.
But last night, I thought we should listen to something different for a change, so I put on the oldies station.
Nathan became very excited.
"It's brand new music!!"
I don't usually listen to the oldies station. In the car, I'll turn on classical KMZT, or one of the many country stations, or maybe NPR. At home, I hardly ever listen to the radio at all. Somehow, songs that I'm not expecting, that I haven't chosen to hear, have no place in my home. When I'm out and about, I want to be exposed to new and unpredictable experiences. But in my own home, I don't want the entire atmosphere of our household to be at the whim of some unknown DJ. So I hardly ever listen to CDs in the car, and almost never listen to the radio at home.
Lately we've been listening to this in the evenings, over and over and over. I wasn't sick of it, by any stretch of the imagination, but I suppose I wanted to safeguard against that
potential tragedy. Besides, our copy is a cassette, and I'd hate to wear it out all at once. Seriously, that album is a treasure, instantly creating the sort of atmosphere in which children are easy to love and well worth understanding. Not only do the wuggies love it, but it's the sort of music that makes me a better parent. But last night, I thought we should listen to something different for a change, so I put on the oldies station.
Nathan became very excited.
"It's brand new music!!"
1.16.2007
Silence
There he is, sprawled across the couch, leaning into the corner, feet propped up across the cushions. So very old, and so very new... timeless. Utter tranquility blends with an intense vitality, and I have to look twice to see if he's awake or asleep. He is beautiful, so beautiful, and he is my son. And he is asleep. Asleep! I could kiss him.
I do kiss him, careful lest I wake him.
Down at my feet the little girl-child has nestled into the carpet. Her eyelids gently snap open, then slowly drift back down.
Do I move her?
I watched, motionless, waiting. The blinks became slower and slower, drowsier and drowsier. When they finally stopped, I tucked a blanket around her, and tiptoed away.
The dishwasher clatters a bit, and I glance around nervously. One arm begins to stir... then settles back down where it was before. The lovely counterpoint of their peaceful breathing continues as though nothing had happened, and finally I exhale.
I fill my favorite mug with water, and tiptoe across the kitchen, carefully going around the tricycle. I pause for a moment, wondering if I dare risk the beep of the microwave.
I decide that if I can't have a cup of tea to myself, this precious solitude isn't worth preserving. I take a deep breath, and punch the buttons.
While my tea water heats, I go down the hall to draw myself a bath. I hear the clatter of wooden train tracks. Nathan is in his bedroom, babbling away to himself. He, too, needs the solitude.
The microwave beeps without incident. I'm nearly giddy with the joy of it.
I breathe a prayer of gratitude as I slip my foot into the warm water.
This is bliss.
I do kiss him, careful lest I wake him.
Down at my feet the little girl-child has nestled into the carpet. Her eyelids gently snap open, then slowly drift back down.
Do I move her?
I watched, motionless, waiting. The blinks became slower and slower, drowsier and drowsier. When they finally stopped, I tucked a blanket around her, and tiptoed away.
The dishwasher clatters a bit, and I glance around nervously. One arm begins to stir... then settles back down where it was before. The lovely counterpoint of their peaceful breathing continues as though nothing had happened, and finally I exhale.
I fill my favorite mug with water, and tiptoe across the kitchen, carefully going around the tricycle. I pause for a moment, wondering if I dare risk the beep of the microwave.
I decide that if I can't have a cup of tea to myself, this precious solitude isn't worth preserving. I take a deep breath, and punch the buttons.
While my tea water heats, I go down the hall to draw myself a bath. I hear the clatter of wooden train tracks. Nathan is in his bedroom, babbling away to himself. He, too, needs the solitude.
The microwave beeps without incident. I'm nearly giddy with the joy of it.
I breathe a prayer of gratitude as I slip my foot into the warm water.
This is bliss.
The time has come
Our wuggy-boys love books. I remember feeling so guilty when they were smaller, because I didn't really read to them much at all. The experts all say that the only way to instill a love of books in your children is to start reading to them pretty much at birth.
And I did start reading to them at birth... Jane Austen and C. S. Lewis, and sundry texts on the philosophy and psychology and pop-neurology of music. The boys just ate it up. The sound of my voice, continuous and rhythmic in the ever changing variety of inflection... somehow, even without any vocabulary or context or anything, somehow it told a story that nourished their little souls.
That all changed, however, right about the time that I would have thought they could start really getting into picture books. Books were great for teething on, and tearing, and even for the exploration of hinge action. But reading? Oh, Mom, please give us a break.
So, guiltily and with much anxiety, I did pretty much give them a break. I did make an effort to read to them occasionally, but it was pretty much a miserable experience all around... it was very occasional indeed.
I don't remember exactly when the boys started liking books again, but I'm pretty sure that Curious George had something to do with it. At any rate, being read to is one of the great joys in their lives, and if nobody happens to be reading to them, they will gladly sit for hours quietly flipping through picture books. Or high school trigonometry texts, for that matter. (Seriously. Once, Andy watched Isaiah turn through every single page of a very large textbook, carefully examining every graph and diagram and illustration.) It's rather strange, because I thought that toddlers were supposed to have short attention spans. I think it must be hereditary--I can't think of anyone with a longer attention span than their father.
Anyway, over the past few days, I've been noticing that the boys have started actually reading their books. Not reading in the proper sense of forming words and sentences out of the letters on the page, but really describing and interpreting the pictures. Reading them. They aren't just enjoying the sensory stimulation of all the shapes and colors, aren't just enjoying the thrill of recognizing a ball and a monkey and a road and a lake and a bicycle. They're carefully observing that the monkey is wearing a hat and carrying a ball while he rides his bicycle on the road around the lake. And all that really seems to be the same sort of thing as reading. It's all symbol interpretation.
And then, yesterday, as we were getting ready to go to the market, I left a note for Andy. Isaiah was fascinated, and gleefully pointed to the beginning of the word "potatoes."
"P!"
I wasn't sure if he actually recognized the letter, or if he just knew that I was writing a bunch of letters, and so called out the name of a letter at random. But one way or another, I guess it's time to start working on the alphabet.
Which, to be perfectly honest, scares the daylights out of me.
They're supposed to still be my babies.
And I did start reading to them at birth... Jane Austen and C. S. Lewis, and sundry texts on the philosophy and psychology and pop-neurology of music. The boys just ate it up. The sound of my voice, continuous and rhythmic in the ever changing variety of inflection... somehow, even without any vocabulary or context or anything, somehow it told a story that nourished their little souls.
That all changed, however, right about the time that I would have thought they could start really getting into picture books. Books were great for teething on, and tearing, and even for the exploration of hinge action. But reading? Oh, Mom, please give us a break.
So, guiltily and with much anxiety, I did pretty much give them a break. I did make an effort to read to them occasionally, but it was pretty much a miserable experience all around... it was very occasional indeed.
I don't remember exactly when the boys started liking books again, but I'm pretty sure that Curious George had something to do with it. At any rate, being read to is one of the great joys in their lives, and if nobody happens to be reading to them, they will gladly sit for hours quietly flipping through picture books. Or high school trigonometry texts, for that matter. (Seriously. Once, Andy watched Isaiah turn through every single page of a very large textbook, carefully examining every graph and diagram and illustration.) It's rather strange, because I thought that toddlers were supposed to have short attention spans. I think it must be hereditary--I can't think of anyone with a longer attention span than their father.
Anyway, over the past few days, I've been noticing that the boys have started actually reading their books. Not reading in the proper sense of forming words and sentences out of the letters on the page, but really describing and interpreting the pictures. Reading them. They aren't just enjoying the sensory stimulation of all the shapes and colors, aren't just enjoying the thrill of recognizing a ball and a monkey and a road and a lake and a bicycle. They're carefully observing that the monkey is wearing a hat and carrying a ball while he rides his bicycle on the road around the lake. And all that really seems to be the same sort of thing as reading. It's all symbol interpretation.
And then, yesterday, as we were getting ready to go to the market, I left a note for Andy. Isaiah was fascinated, and gleefully pointed to the beginning of the word "potatoes."
"P!"
I wasn't sure if he actually recognized the letter, or if he just knew that I was writing a bunch of letters, and so called out the name of a letter at random. But one way or another, I guess it's time to start working on the alphabet.
Which, to be perfectly honest, scares the daylights out of me.
They're supposed to still be my babies.
1.12.2007
Three Years Ago...
And one hour and 25 minutes. And 22 minutes, respectively.
A blur of panic and fear and relief and regret. A surge of unaccustomed energy, partly from the adrenaline rush, partly from the strange hormonal cocktail of advanced labor... but mostly because they finally stopped the mag drip.
Freedom was on the horizon, and already, it felt so good.
I was racked with guilt over it. Did I somehow make it happen? I certainly hadn't tried to, but there was a part of me that wanted to, wanted to so badly. I was at the end of my rope. I'd felt like I could not go on a single day more... and there it was. I didn't. I certainly hadn't tried to make it happen, but in a sense I surely must have. Because it happened, and it was me. Could I have stopped it? I didn't know. But I did know that there was a level on which I'd stopped trying. I just didn't have anything left with which to try to prolong my ordeal.
It was a party in the OR. It happened over the morning shift change, so everybody was there. And I was glad they were there, too. These people had fought for these babies right alongside me. They belonged in that room. The whole medical team was so excited, so happy, so congratulatory, as I wondered if I'd just killed my babies, or maimed them for life. "You did it! You made it!"
32 1/2 weeks. I hadn't made it to 36, when they could have come home with me, or even 34, when they would have been growers-and-feeders. The lady with the triplets down the hall had made it to 34. I hadn't met her, but our nurses talked to us about each other, and about their dreams for each of the five fragile little babies, the galloping heartbeats that would grow up to be teachers and doctors and firemen. The triplet lady had made it to 34 weeks... why couldn't I? But I'd made it past 29 weeks, which meant they had a fighting chance of survival. What's more, I'd made it to 32 weeks. They were probably going to be normal. Maybe. If they could pull through the long battle ahead.
I didn't know whether to celebrate or mourn.
But I do know now.
Today is not just the anniversary of their birth, today is their birthday. With cake and ice cream, but not for breakfast, and no, you may not open your presents until this afternoon!
Thanks be to God!
A blur of panic and fear and relief and regret. A surge of unaccustomed energy, partly from the adrenaline rush, partly from the strange hormonal cocktail of advanced labor... but mostly because they finally stopped the mag drip.
Freedom was on the horizon, and already, it felt so good.
I was racked with guilt over it. Did I somehow make it happen? I certainly hadn't tried to, but there was a part of me that wanted to, wanted to so badly. I was at the end of my rope. I'd felt like I could not go on a single day more... and there it was. I didn't. I certainly hadn't tried to make it happen, but in a sense I surely must have. Because it happened, and it was me. Could I have stopped it? I didn't know. But I did know that there was a level on which I'd stopped trying. I just didn't have anything left with which to try to prolong my ordeal.
It was a party in the OR. It happened over the morning shift change, so everybody was there. And I was glad they were there, too. These people had fought for these babies right alongside me. They belonged in that room. The whole medical team was so excited, so happy, so congratulatory, as I wondered if I'd just killed my babies, or maimed them for life. "You did it! You made it!"
32 1/2 weeks. I hadn't made it to 36, when they could have come home with me, or even 34, when they would have been growers-and-feeders. The lady with the triplets down the hall had made it to 34. I hadn't met her, but our nurses talked to us about each other, and about their dreams for each of the five fragile little babies, the galloping heartbeats that would grow up to be teachers and doctors and firemen. The triplet lady had made it to 34 weeks... why couldn't I? But I'd made it past 29 weeks, which meant they had a fighting chance of survival. What's more, I'd made it to 32 weeks. They were probably going to be normal. Maybe. If they could pull through the long battle ahead.
I didn't know whether to celebrate or mourn.
But I do know now.
Today is not just the anniversary of their birth, today is their birthday. With cake and ice cream, but not for breakfast, and no, you may not open your presents until this afternoon!
Thanks be to God!
1.11.2007
Grammar
I've always had a love/hate relationship with grammar. It all came very naturally to me, made perfect sense. What didn't make any sense to me was why it mattered.
Or maybe it just seemed like a fairly safe place to get a little rebellion out of my system.
Whatever the case, for a long time, it was a great goal of mine to break as many rules as possible, and still sound good. Or, even better, to keep every rule to a T, and sound really, really, awkward. Just for demonstration purposes, of course.
Music theory transformed my view of rules.
There it was, right in front of me. Beauty, defined and explained, tucked inside--of all things!--a pile of seemingly arbitrary rules and conventions. They weren't comprehensive, of course. You can do lots of perfect exercises and pretty much avoid any semblance of beauty altogether. And lots and lots of truly beautiful music either breaks lots of the "rules," or is beyond the scope of them altogether. Nevertheless, each of these rules is something we know about beauty. Something solid to hang onto, evidence that beauty is real and it is knowable. Never exhaustible, but knowable.
A single note carrying over into the next chord, serving an entirely different function? That's beautiful. Really beautiful. It's complex in a way that ties everything together, simple in a way that creates interest and highlights complexity. It's beautiful, and knowing that it is beautiful provides a real and powerful insight into what beauty is.
Parallel fifths? Well, that is simplicity itself, and can actually be really beautiful if it sets the tone for the piece. But in the middle of something more complex, it can just sort of disolve the train of thought, leaving all sorts of threads hanging.
As for augmented seconds, it sounds just like a minor third, but it's actually a second, and by adding an accidental, it's actually a more harmonious interval, except that it's not... well, that's just complicated, plain and simple. And communication disasters aren't beautiful.
Now where was I? Oh, yes, grammar.
I probably should have known that grammar, too, is not a set of arbitrary restrictions, but rather the codification of something real and organic and lovely and meaningful. I'm just not sure that I gave it a whole lot of thought until now.
It's fun to watch their vocabulary grow. ("Honey, did you hear that? She said fish!") And it's so much fun to sort through the primordial ooze of homonyms from which it all develops. ("So when she calls the lion 'da-da,' does that mean she thinks it looks like you, or that she things it looks like a doggy?")
But as fun as all that is, it's nothing compared to the thrill of watching them develop grammar. Every day the boys come up with more complex sentence structures, and every day those sentences become a little more natural, a little more fluid, as they master fine distinctions.
And there it is, tangible evidence that they're learning how to think. That their thoughts are becoming more precise, and that they're developing the tools with which to communicate them clearly. What a magnificent edifice is language! I take it for granted, it is so utterly essential to all my experience, communal or solitary. It doesn't merely allow me to share my thoughts, and understand the thoughts of others, it is what allows me to organize my own thoughts within my head.
And there it is, all fresh and new. So exciting.
The other day Nathan needed a diaper change. Badly.
"Meeps, are you stinky?"
And I was so very, very proud of his answer.
"I'm not stinky!"
A week ago, he might have said "No stink! No stink!" Or maybe even "Meepo no stinky." But now? "I'm not stinky!"
Correct use of the first person singular! With a contraction, no less! And a negative modifier!
It was a baldfaced lie, of course... but we can overlook that for grammatical excellence, can't we?
Or maybe it just seemed like a fairly safe place to get a little rebellion out of my system.
Whatever the case, for a long time, it was a great goal of mine to break as many rules as possible, and still sound good. Or, even better, to keep every rule to a T, and sound really, really, awkward. Just for demonstration purposes, of course.
Music theory transformed my view of rules.
There it was, right in front of me. Beauty, defined and explained, tucked inside--of all things!--a pile of seemingly arbitrary rules and conventions. They weren't comprehensive, of course. You can do lots of perfect exercises and pretty much avoid any semblance of beauty altogether. And lots and lots of truly beautiful music either breaks lots of the "rules," or is beyond the scope of them altogether. Nevertheless, each of these rules is something we know about beauty. Something solid to hang onto, evidence that beauty is real and it is knowable. Never exhaustible, but knowable.
A single note carrying over into the next chord, serving an entirely different function? That's beautiful. Really beautiful. It's complex in a way that ties everything together, simple in a way that creates interest and highlights complexity. It's beautiful, and knowing that it is beautiful provides a real and powerful insight into what beauty is.
Parallel fifths? Well, that is simplicity itself, and can actually be really beautiful if it sets the tone for the piece. But in the middle of something more complex, it can just sort of disolve the train of thought, leaving all sorts of threads hanging.
As for augmented seconds, it sounds just like a minor third, but it's actually a second, and by adding an accidental, it's actually a more harmonious interval, except that it's not... well, that's just complicated, plain and simple. And communication disasters aren't beautiful.
Now where was I? Oh, yes, grammar.
I probably should have known that grammar, too, is not a set of arbitrary restrictions, but rather the codification of something real and organic and lovely and meaningful. I'm just not sure that I gave it a whole lot of thought until now.
It's fun to watch their vocabulary grow. ("Honey, did you hear that? She said fish!") And it's so much fun to sort through the primordial ooze of homonyms from which it all develops. ("So when she calls the lion 'da-da,' does that mean she thinks it looks like you, or that she things it looks like a doggy?")
But as fun as all that is, it's nothing compared to the thrill of watching them develop grammar. Every day the boys come up with more complex sentence structures, and every day those sentences become a little more natural, a little more fluid, as they master fine distinctions.
And there it is, tangible evidence that they're learning how to think. That their thoughts are becoming more precise, and that they're developing the tools with which to communicate them clearly. What a magnificent edifice is language! I take it for granted, it is so utterly essential to all my experience, communal or solitary. It doesn't merely allow me to share my thoughts, and understand the thoughts of others, it is what allows me to organize my own thoughts within my head.
And there it is, all fresh and new. So exciting.
The other day Nathan needed a diaper change. Badly.
"Meeps, are you stinky?"
And I was so very, very proud of his answer.
"I'm not stinky!"
A week ago, he might have said "No stink! No stink!" Or maybe even "Meepo no stinky." But now? "I'm not stinky!"
Correct use of the first person singular! With a contraction, no less! And a negative modifier!
It was a baldfaced lie, of course... but we can overlook that for grammatical excellence, can't we?
1.09.2007
Switching over to the new blogger
I've been hesitating for a long time, scared something will go wrong.
But blogger is making things very difficult for stick-in-the-muds like me, so as soon as they let me, I'm making the switch.
So if my posts stop showing up on your feed-readers, just resubscribe.
But blogger is making things very difficult for stick-in-the-muds like me, so as soon as they let me, I'm making the switch.
So if my posts stop showing up on your feed-readers, just resubscribe.
1.06.2007
10 times the fun
One of our favorite games around here is a sort of unstructured combination of "Simon Says" and "Follow the Leader." Dadders or I will line the wuggies up, and say... oh... "Touch your nose!"
And everybody fishes around trying to find their respective noses, giggling gleefully. Then, as they start really getting into the game, they'll start taking the lead, and coming up with things for everybody to do. Which will probably involve hopping about and making strange noises. Leadership just passes fluidly from one person to the next, and we all have an uproarously grand time.
As we were enjoying one such game of "Somebody Says," I called out "Touch your toes!" This was a big hit indeed, since none of us were quite flexible to do so without a bit of contortion.
Once we'd all managed to get ourselves into a good toe-touching position, Nathan shifted his fingers a mere centimeter over, and called out "Touch the other-one toes!"
And everybody fishes around trying to find their respective noses, giggling gleefully. Then, as they start really getting into the game, they'll start taking the lead, and coming up with things for everybody to do. Which will probably involve hopping about and making strange noises. Leadership just passes fluidly from one person to the next, and we all have an uproarously grand time.
As we were enjoying one such game of "Somebody Says," I called out "Touch your toes!" This was a big hit indeed, since none of us were quite flexible to do so without a bit of contortion.
Once we'd all managed to get ourselves into a good toe-touching position, Nathan shifted his fingers a mere centimeter over, and called out "Touch the other-one toes!"
1.03.2007
Catching up.
Okay, so it's been a while.
See, I've had a Christmas post brewing in my head for quite some time now, but I've been too busy with, well, Christmas. And the longer I waited, the longer the post grew... and the likelihood of it ever making it here shrunk substantially.
And by now, all I really want to post about is the absurd placement of drug store copy machines. Copy machines and automatic door sensors really should not go together. Especially if the automatic door in question has a very, very powerful fan. Frustrates customers to no end. Perhaps that is the whole point, given that the copy machine and door are both located right next to the ice cream counter... but the whole thing was a no-win situation, because as badly as I wanted some ice cream to make up for the copy experience, there was nobody behind the counter.
Anyway, today I decided that I was just going to have to bite the bullet, admit to myself that I never was going to write that Christmas post, and write something else.
Which really is quite a bummer, since it would have been such jolly fun to tell you all about Christmas shopping with toddlers, and about how very elegant our toddler-proof tree looked, adorned so simply with a single strand of pearly white lights and tiny silver balls tied on with red ribbon bows, and about how Nathan thought this was grand indeed, and attempted to do his part by tying his shoes onto branches... And I did so want to entitle a post "Yes, Virginia, there is a Martha Stewart, but thank God Christmas isn't about her."
Ah well, maybe next year I'll be able to have my Christmas and blog it too. In the meantime, I hope your Christmas was merry and bright. Ours certainly was.
And blessings throughout the year to come, to you and yours!
See, I've had a Christmas post brewing in my head for quite some time now, but I've been too busy with, well, Christmas. And the longer I waited, the longer the post grew... and the likelihood of it ever making it here shrunk substantially.
And by now, all I really want to post about is the absurd placement of drug store copy machines. Copy machines and automatic door sensors really should not go together. Especially if the automatic door in question has a very, very powerful fan. Frustrates customers to no end. Perhaps that is the whole point, given that the copy machine and door are both located right next to the ice cream counter... but the whole thing was a no-win situation, because as badly as I wanted some ice cream to make up for the copy experience, there was nobody behind the counter.
Anyway, today I decided that I was just going to have to bite the bullet, admit to myself that I never was going to write that Christmas post, and write something else.
Which really is quite a bummer, since it would have been such jolly fun to tell you all about Christmas shopping with toddlers, and about how very elegant our toddler-proof tree looked, adorned so simply with a single strand of pearly white lights and tiny silver balls tied on with red ribbon bows, and about how Nathan thought this was grand indeed, and attempted to do his part by tying his shoes onto branches... And I did so want to entitle a post "Yes, Virginia, there is a Martha Stewart, but thank God Christmas isn't about her."
Ah well, maybe next year I'll be able to have my Christmas and blog it too. In the meantime, I hope your Christmas was merry and bright. Ours certainly was.
And blessings throughout the year to come, to you and yours!
12.21.2006
Living in a fantasy
Today, I am a dragon.
There are lots of reasons why I might be a bit dragonish just now. Before Andy stumbled off to work at the unearthly hour of 4 am., he poked his head into the boys' room to kiss his sleeping sons. And found his firstborn sleeping peacefully in a puddle of vomit.
Delightful way to start off the day, it was not.
Factor in the unauthorized color-fest, and the diarrhea, and I can't believe I was at Walmart last night and didn't even pick up wipes... well, you can see why I might be a dragon today.
But that's not why I am a dragon today.
Somehow, in spite of it all, today has been one of those bright glowing days that filled my virginal dreams of motherhood. Those dreams that never really took account of the messes and the frustrations and the lost sleep--I vaguely knew that they were a part of motherhood, but in the dreams, they never mattered, covered as they were in a hazy mist of tenderness.
And that is how today has been.
Today, I am a dragon, because that is the game of choice. I am a great fire-breathing dragon, and my sons are valiant knights with shining swords. And when, grins ablazing, they are through slaying me, they are my own precious dragon babies, fresh hatched from great dragon eggs, and I cover them with kisses.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I'll just go shred some potatoes with my enormous claws, and cook them with my firey breath.
There are lots of reasons why I might be a bit dragonish just now. Before Andy stumbled off to work at the unearthly hour of 4 am., he poked his head into the boys' room to kiss his sleeping sons. And found his firstborn sleeping peacefully in a puddle of vomit.
Delightful way to start off the day, it was not.
Factor in the unauthorized color-fest, and the diarrhea, and I can't believe I was at Walmart last night and didn't even pick up wipes... well, you can see why I might be a dragon today.
But that's not why I am a dragon today.
Somehow, in spite of it all, today has been one of those bright glowing days that filled my virginal dreams of motherhood. Those dreams that never really took account of the messes and the frustrations and the lost sleep--I vaguely knew that they were a part of motherhood, but in the dreams, they never mattered, covered as they were in a hazy mist of tenderness.
And that is how today has been.
Today, I am a dragon, because that is the game of choice. I am a great fire-breathing dragon, and my sons are valiant knights with shining swords. And when, grins ablazing, they are through slaying me, they are my own precious dragon babies, fresh hatched from great dragon eggs, and I cover them with kisses.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I'll just go shred some potatoes with my enormous claws, and cook them with my firey breath.
12.14.2006
12.13.2006
Tembo and I were reading together this morning. Sometimes it's hard to carve out time to read together, just her and me... her bubbas always want in on the action. So it wasn't as quiet and tranquil as we might have liked, but we shared a few special moments, and she babbled happily about the pictures in her bok as I warded off Nathan's pounces, and as Isaiah crowded close, looking over our shoulders and repeatedly asking when it would be his turn.
Tembo was earnestly attempting to wrap her little mind around the concept of a dandelion, and even more earnestly trying to wrap her little tongue around the word.
"Dan-de-li-on."
"Dach-la-flug."
"Dan-de-li-on."
"Daff-la-shoog."
Like a little school-boy bouncing up and down with his hand raised as high as it could possibly reach, Nathan had the answer, and there came a point where he just couldn't hold it in any longer.
"Daniel-and-the-lions!"
Tembo was earnestly attempting to wrap her little mind around the concept of a dandelion, and even more earnestly trying to wrap her little tongue around the word.
"Dan-de-li-on."
"Dach-la-flug."
"Dan-de-li-on."
"Daff-la-shoog."
Like a little school-boy bouncing up and down with his hand raised as high as it could possibly reach, Nathan had the answer, and there came a point where he just couldn't hold it in any longer.
"Daniel-and-the-lions!"
Wherein I conclude that three in diapers might not be such a bad thing, after all
Don't get me wrong, I'm still very much looking forward to the completion of potty training. We're working on it... slowly... We got a little derailed by wisdom teeth and holidays, but we're still working on it, and I have high hopes for getting the boys out of diapers once and for all---sometime after Christmas, and my last remaining wisdom tooth, and their birthday.
In the mean time, though, I have a lot of diapers to change, and I've found a way to make it a moderately pleasant experience for everyone.
See, all of my wuggies have always liked sticking their hands inside their dirty diapers as I change them. (Or, for that matter, when I dress them in elastic-waisted pants without onesies, but that's another story for another day...) Anyway, when they were smaller, it wasn't such a big deal. I can easily overpower a 7 lb. infant. I can also overpower a big, strapping toddler, but with a little less ease, and a LOT more mess. And avoiding a mess was the whole point.
Anyway, now diaper changes in Wuggyville are a family affair. While I change each child's diaper, the other two wuggies stand on either side of the changee, and hold his or her hands. Everyone smiles tenderly at one another, it's all very sweet and touching... and by the time the changee realizes what's going on and reaches down to wreak havoc, whoops, the dirty diaper's all gone, and we're done.
Works like a dream.
=)
In the mean time, though, I have a lot of diapers to change, and I've found a way to make it a moderately pleasant experience for everyone.
See, all of my wuggies have always liked sticking their hands inside their dirty diapers as I change them. (Or, for that matter, when I dress them in elastic-waisted pants without onesies, but that's another story for another day...) Anyway, when they were smaller, it wasn't such a big deal. I can easily overpower a 7 lb. infant. I can also overpower a big, strapping toddler, but with a little less ease, and a LOT more mess. And avoiding a mess was the whole point.
Anyway, now diaper changes in Wuggyville are a family affair. While I change each child's diaper, the other two wuggies stand on either side of the changee, and hold his or her hands. Everyone smiles tenderly at one another, it's all very sweet and touching... and by the time the changee realizes what's going on and reaches down to wreak havoc, whoops, the dirty diaper's all gone, and we're done.
Works like a dream.
=)
12.07.2006
12.04.2006
Making Do
Cleaning is the wuggies' obsession of the month. More exciting even than trains and trash trucks, although not quite as exciting as talking about Jesus and the cross and his owies and how now he's alive again. If offered the choice between going to the zoo to visit the monkeys or cleaning the house, I quite honestly don't know which itinerary they would choose for the day.
This passion of theirs is a wonderful thing, and greatly to be encouraged. So very developmentally appropriate, and the foundation for a lifetime of good habits, and a sign of little hearts desirous of general helpfulness and all things amicable.
And they actually would be very helpful, and come very close to offsetting their next greatest passion--making messes--but for two things. A) we keep the cleaning supplies locked up out of reach, and B) our wuggies are very resourceful indeed.
Soooooo.....
Does anyone know how in the world to get honey off of windows?
This passion of theirs is a wonderful thing, and greatly to be encouraged. So very developmentally appropriate, and the foundation for a lifetime of good habits, and a sign of little hearts desirous of general helpfulness and all things amicable.
And they actually would be very helpful, and come very close to offsetting their next greatest passion--making messes--but for two things. A) we keep the cleaning supplies locked up out of reach, and B) our wuggies are very resourceful indeed.
Soooooo.....
Does anyone know how in the world to get honey off of windows?
12.01.2006
Unrecognizables
Planning out the weeks menu and shopping list, I surveyed the food remaining in my refrigerator, and contemplated I could incorporate it into upcoming meals before it spoiled. I wondered to myself what on earth had possessed me to buy such an enormous ginger root. I always do that... I get a little carried away with things like that.
There was no chance of using it up, but a ginger-honey glazed chicken would be a start.
I stirred the honey and white wine together, resigned myself to the fact that they would never really mix, and added a little salt. The recipe didn't call for salt, but surely a little salt is in order. This is chicken, after all.
Then I went to grate the ginger.
It wasn't ginger.
It was a sweet potato.
Which would have been a very nice addition to the Thanksgiving yams, had I remembered, but which won't really add much flavor to my chicken.
But you know what? I'm kind of glad, actually. I was only using the ginger out of guilt tonight.
There was no chance of using it up, but a ginger-honey glazed chicken would be a start.
I stirred the honey and white wine together, resigned myself to the fact that they would never really mix, and added a little salt. The recipe didn't call for salt, but surely a little salt is in order. This is chicken, after all.
Then I went to grate the ginger.
It wasn't ginger.
It was a sweet potato.
Which would have been a very nice addition to the Thanksgiving yams, had I remembered, but which won't really add much flavor to my chicken.
But you know what? I'm kind of glad, actually. I was only using the ginger out of guilt tonight.
11.30.2006
Disappointment
For the first time in my life, I slipped on a banana peel.
It wasn't nearly as funny as I might have hoped.
It wasn't nearly as funny as I might have hoped.
11.28.2006
Dilemma
I'm really excited about Advent and Christmas this year. The wuggies are old enough now for it to be meaningful, and I'm on the lookout for ways to involve them in the season.
I love the idea of an advent calendar, and have lots of great childhood memories of opening the little door and reading the days scripture... but when it comes down to actually looking for a calendar for us to use, it's very difficult indeed to find one that is simultaneously toddler-appropriate and within budget.
So I was most pleased to read about this idea. A little "tree" with an ornament symbolic of each day's scripture reading? Brilliant.
But why would it have to be a separate tree? Why not have that BE our main Christmas tree? Instead of having a one-day tree-decorating frenzy, and two weeks of keeping toddlers away from it... why not help the wuggies to decorate it themselves over the course of advent, just a little bit each day, while we talk about waiting for Baby Jesus?
Ah, the pesky logistics of it all... if we have a real tree, we certainly can't have it up all through Advent and the Twelve Days of Christmas. And if we have a fake tree... well, what's the point of a fake tree, anyway?
So I was thinking we'd get a living Christmas tree, which wouldn't dry out and become a fire hazard.
But then I read that it would, however, become ill unto death if left inside for longer than 10 days.
It would be such a shame to buy a living tree, only to kill it over the course of the holiday... but really no different than chopping it down all at once at the beginning, I guess.
What to do, what to do.
There's a reason I blog, though. When I write, things start to make sense. Our tree will start out on the porch. Or maybe it will even start out at the back of the yard and slowly make its way toward the house as Christmas approaches.
Now I just need to be sure to make my ornaments weather-proof.
I love the idea of an advent calendar, and have lots of great childhood memories of opening the little door and reading the days scripture... but when it comes down to actually looking for a calendar for us to use, it's very difficult indeed to find one that is simultaneously toddler-appropriate and within budget.
So I was most pleased to read about this idea. A little "tree" with an ornament symbolic of each day's scripture reading? Brilliant.
But why would it have to be a separate tree? Why not have that BE our main Christmas tree? Instead of having a one-day tree-decorating frenzy, and two weeks of keeping toddlers away from it... why not help the wuggies to decorate it themselves over the course of advent, just a little bit each day, while we talk about waiting for Baby Jesus?
Ah, the pesky logistics of it all... if we have a real tree, we certainly can't have it up all through Advent and the Twelve Days of Christmas. And if we have a fake tree... well, what's the point of a fake tree, anyway?
So I was thinking we'd get a living Christmas tree, which wouldn't dry out and become a fire hazard.
But then I read that it would, however, become ill unto death if left inside for longer than 10 days.
It would be such a shame to buy a living tree, only to kill it over the course of the holiday... but really no different than chopping it down all at once at the beginning, I guess.
What to do, what to do.
There's a reason I blog, though. When I write, things start to make sense. Our tree will start out on the porch. Or maybe it will even start out at the back of the yard and slowly make its way toward the house as Christmas approaches.
Now I just need to be sure to make my ornaments weather-proof.
11.27.2006
Tantrums
"Cheese! Cheese! Cheese! Cheeeeeeeese!!"
"You need to ask nicely. Cheese please?"
"No! No cheese please! Chee-eeeese!"
"You need to ask nicely. Cheese please?"
"No! No cheese please! Chee-eeeese!"
Page-turner
As my mother and I worked on Thanksgiving dinner, Tembo sat snuggled up with her grandpa, reading her little bible book. It was a cooperative effort--Grandpa did the reading, and Tembo turned the pages. Often, because of course the page turning is the very best part of all.
So it was that out of the corner of my ear, I heard a most fascinating tale.
"Noah built a boat for his family and all kinds of animals. The princess found the boat on the river. Inside was a little baby."
An interesting plot idea there... I'm sure of it...
So it was that out of the corner of my ear, I heard a most fascinating tale.
"Noah built a boat for his family and all kinds of animals. The princess found the boat on the river. Inside was a little baby."
An interesting plot idea there... I'm sure of it...
11.26.2006
11.22.2006
A roomate by any other name...
"Hi... Sarah?"
"Yes."
"Do you have class today?"
"No."
"Are you going to be bored out of your mind?"
"Quite possibly."
"Do you want us to come pick you up?"
"That depends... Who are you?"
"Oh, sorry. This is Elena."
"Who?"
"Your sister."
"Umm... I think you want to talk to Sarah Palmer."
"Yes."
"Do you have class today?"
"No."
"Are you going to be bored out of your mind?"
"Quite possibly."
"Do you want us to come pick you up?"
"That depends... Who are you?"
"Oh, sorry. This is Elena."
"Who?"
"Your sister."
"Umm... I think you want to talk to Sarah Palmer."
11.20.2006
Ouch.
This afternoon I went in to have three wisdom teeth removed.
It took approximately 3 times as long as anticipated, and even then, we're only halfway through.
Prayer would be appreciated, both that the half-tooth left behind would stay out of trouble, and that there would be no permanent nerve damage from the attempted extraction.
Funny thing is, what hurts the most right now is the spot where they gave me all the shots. They pumped me so full of novacain, my ear was numb.
But thank God, all the novacain in the world isn't enough to keep you from screaming when they wiggle a tooth whose roots have fused together right by nerve. And thank God for digital x-rays, so the doctor was able to figure out what was going on, before it was too late.
Ay-ay-ay. What an afternoon.
It took approximately 3 times as long as anticipated, and even then, we're only halfway through.
Prayer would be appreciated, both that the half-tooth left behind would stay out of trouble, and that there would be no permanent nerve damage from the attempted extraction.
Funny thing is, what hurts the most right now is the spot where they gave me all the shots. They pumped me so full of novacain, my ear was numb.
But thank God, all the novacain in the world isn't enough to keep you from screaming when they wiggle a tooth whose roots have fused together right by nerve. And thank God for digital x-rays, so the doctor was able to figure out what was going on, before it was too late.
Ay-ay-ay. What an afternoon.
11.19.2006
Economics Lesson
From the back room I overheard Nathan and Andy chattering. Judging from the jingling, apparently Andy was emptying out his pockets.
"Money."
"That's right, Nathan. It's money. What sorts of things can we buy with money?"
"Keys."
I chuckled to myself, wondering if Nathan was putting forth keys as one of those things that money can buy, or if he was merely changing the subject and observing that Andy had taken keys out of his pocket as well. I suspected that it was both, and that it was the proximity of keys that put them forth in his mind as the proper answer to the question and hand. And I wondered just how much of all our thinking is formed that way.
Andy and I had an extended dialogue about budgeting, and what I would and would not buy on my trip to Target, and then he went to go clean his car.
At least that's what I thought he was doing.
Nathan gazed earnestly up into my eyes and explained, "Dadder's going to Target. Buy keys for the car."
"Money."
"That's right, Nathan. It's money. What sorts of things can we buy with money?"
"Keys."
I chuckled to myself, wondering if Nathan was putting forth keys as one of those things that money can buy, or if he was merely changing the subject and observing that Andy had taken keys out of his pocket as well. I suspected that it was both, and that it was the proximity of keys that put them forth in his mind as the proper answer to the question and hand. And I wondered just how much of all our thinking is formed that way.
Andy and I had an extended dialogue about budgeting, and what I would and would not buy on my trip to Target, and then he went to go clean his car.
At least that's what I thought he was doing.
Nathan gazed earnestly up into my eyes and explained, "Dadder's going to Target. Buy keys for the car."
11.18.2006
Nener's Nutty Pan-Cookin's
I've finally figured out exactly how I like my pancakes. Fluffy, but not thick, a nice combination of hearty and light. Next time around, I think I'll try adding a chopped apple.
2 eggs, beaten until fluffy
2 c. milk
1.4 c. melted butter
1 Tpsp. vanilla
1 c. all purpose flour
1 c. whole wheat flour
2 Tbsp. baking powder
2 Tbsp. sugar
2 tsp. cinnamon
1/2 tsp. salt
1/3 c. chopped walnuts
combine wet ingredients and dry ingredients separately, fold 'em together gently, cook 'em on a hot griddle, and serve 'em with maple syrup. Preferably in a sunbeam. Pancakes are ever so much yummier when you can see the steam rising.
2 eggs, beaten until fluffy
2 c. milk
1.4 c. melted butter
1 Tpsp. vanilla
1 c. all purpose flour
1 c. whole wheat flour
2 Tbsp. baking powder
2 Tbsp. sugar
2 tsp. cinnamon
1/2 tsp. salt
1/3 c. chopped walnuts
combine wet ingredients and dry ingredients separately, fold 'em together gently, cook 'em on a hot griddle, and serve 'em with maple syrup. Preferably in a sunbeam. Pancakes are ever so much yummier when you can see the steam rising.
11.16.2006
Commentary
Other blogs get string upon string of comments.
Mine doesn't, and I must say, that's rather disappointing.
When I do get comments, though...
...sometimes they're better than the post itself.
Mine doesn't, and I must say, that's rather disappointing.
When I do get comments, though...
...sometimes they're better than the post itself.
11.15.2006
Malphonistically Speaking
Euphomisms make sense to me. When we talk about difficult and profound things in benign terms, they seem less intimidating.
And we're less likely to frighten any small children who may be in the room.
But why, why, why do we then turn around and talk about benign, commonplace events in the somberest of terms?
I tried to call Andy at work this evening, but his cell phone battery has been on the fritz, and it didn't even ring, just transfered me straight to his voice mail.
"Uh-oh," I said sadly, "We can't talk to Dadders after all. His phone's dead."
And now my sons are utterly convinced that they are fatherless.
And we're less likely to frighten any small children who may be in the room.
But why, why, why do we then turn around and talk about benign, commonplace events in the somberest of terms?
I tried to call Andy at work this evening, but his cell phone battery has been on the fritz, and it didn't even ring, just transfered me straight to his voice mail.
"Uh-oh," I said sadly, "We can't talk to Dadders after all. His phone's dead."
And now my sons are utterly convinced that they are fatherless.
The trouble with Girls
When the boys leave their cars, trucks, and minivans laying in a mangled heap on the floor, never does my heart stop in momentary fear that it is our real car upside-down underneath a semi.
The same cannot be said of Tembo's "babies."
As soon as my heart stops racing, I'm going to go dig a slightly less life-like doll out of the toy box.
The same cannot be said of Tembo's "babies."
As soon as my heart stops racing, I'm going to go dig a slightly less life-like doll out of the toy box.
11.12.2006
Meat Loaf
Almost as much veggies as meat, it tends to crumble when you try to slice it. But the flavor is well worth it. Besides I've never made a meatloaf that didn't crumble. =)
1 1/2 lbs. ground beef
2 eggs
2 slices of bread, torn into little bits
1 leek, chopped
1 tomato, diced
1/2 green bell pepper, chopped
Kernels from one ear of corn
A handful of fresh basil leaves, torn into small pieces
2 Tbsp. molasses
2 Tbsp. catsup.
Gently knead all ingredients together in a large bowl, press into loaf pan. Bake at 350 until done, about 1 1/2 hrs.
Word to the wise: If your ground beef has a high fat content, you'll need need to drain off the grease. And if the meatloaf pretty much fills up your pan, you're less likely to burn yourself if you drain it several times over the course of it's stay in the oven.
And please, please don't substitute frozen or canned corn. The very best part about this dish is the delightfully flavorful crunch of the corn kernels.
1 1/2 lbs. ground beef
2 eggs
2 slices of bread, torn into little bits
1 leek, chopped
1 tomato, diced
1/2 green bell pepper, chopped
Kernels from one ear of corn
A handful of fresh basil leaves, torn into small pieces
2 Tbsp. molasses
2 Tbsp. catsup.
Gently knead all ingredients together in a large bowl, press into loaf pan. Bake at 350 until done, about 1 1/2 hrs.
Word to the wise: If your ground beef has a high fat content, you'll need need to drain off the grease. And if the meatloaf pretty much fills up your pan, you're less likely to burn yourself if you drain it several times over the course of it's stay in the oven.
And please, please don't substitute frozen or canned corn. The very best part about this dish is the delightfully flavorful crunch of the corn kernels.
11.10.2006
Mama's Helper-girl
This morning while I showered, Tembo was so helpful. She got me a washcloth... several, actually. I guess she wanted to make up for the fact that mamas can't shower quite as often as they might wish.
She also got me some deodorant.
Old Spice.
And above all, she got me a towel.
And another towel.
And another.
And another.
She kept right on bringing me towels, until the bottom of the shower was about a foot high in soggy towels, and oh, whe was pleased with herself.
And now as I write, hair wrapped in the least soggy of the pile, Tembo nuzzles her nose against my shoulder.
There's a towel on her head, too.
Just like the Mama.
She also got me some deodorant.
Old Spice.
And above all, she got me a towel.
And another towel.
And another.
And another.
She kept right on bringing me towels, until the bottom of the shower was about a foot high in soggy towels, and oh, whe was pleased with herself.
And now as I write, hair wrapped in the least soggy of the pile, Tembo nuzzles her nose against my shoulder.
There's a towel on her head, too.
Just like the Mama.
11.08.2006
Back to the Pharmacist
Right down the street from us is a 24-hr. SavOn drugs. Or CVS Pharmacy. Or whatever it is. It's all rather disorienting. Apparently I should shop at Albertsons (which I don't) because inside every Albertsons is a SavOn Drugs, and SavOn Drugs is very, very wonderful. And why is SavOn Drugs so wonderful? Because inside every SavOn is a CVS Pharmacy. I'm just waiting for them to announce that they're putting an Albertsons inside every CVS Pharmacy, and then it'll all make sense.
But I really don't care what they call it, I just wish they would fill my prescriptions instead of losing them. Apparently "Johnston" is a very confusing last name. It's almost very normal, and that's the problem. Quite typical and mundane... except for that "T." They don't quite know what to do with the "T," but the name is so very normal-sounding, they don't realize just how confused they are. So they look in their computer, find five different Andrew Johnsons in their system, and not a one of them has a prescription waiting.
It's worse with the night staff, and it's worse with Tembo.
"Yes. September. Like the month."
"No, not her date of birth, it's her name."
"Yes, really."
"No, August 28."
"She came a few days early."
It all gets resolved in the end, but sometimes we have to resort to calling back after a shift change.
And every time this happens I swear to myself that I am never doing business there again. And every time we need a prescription, that's where exactly where I go, because it's right down the street, and open 24 hrs., and besides, this time can't possibly be as bad as last time. And every time, it is.
This last was worst of all. No record on their system whatsoever of Tembo's prescription. I spoke with members of 3 different shifts, and nobody could figure it out. But I had two messages on my answering machine verifying that the doctor had, indeed, called the prescription in.
So this morning I called the doctor again to ask her to send the prescription off to a different pharmacy. It turned out, however, that she already had sent it to a different pharmacy. The whole thing was my fault this time. I'd given the doctor the number of a SavOn/CVS/Whatever half an hour away. I had no reason to doubt the competence of this particular pharmacy (aside from the identity confusion, of course)... but it was half an hour away.
So it was that I found myself calling my neighborhood Multiple Personality Pharmacy once again, and asking them to transfer the prescription over from the other location.
I knew it was a mistake, even as I dialed. I was sure of it as the automated phone system informed me that "0" was not a valid option, and I would simply have to listen to a full listing of all possible methods of learning about flu clinic locations and hours in Southern California before they would let me talk to a human being.
I was ready to repent in sack-cloth and ashes by the time the girl on the end of the line was done with her lengthy apology and explanation for leaving me on the line for so long listening to the pandemonium behind the counter. Something about an exploding computer, I think. Anyway, I saw the error of my ways, and was fully prepared to give up and drive all the way to Beach Blvd.... but I'd been through so much, and was so close... I couldn't just give up and let that go to waste.
Oh, I should have. I should have.
When we got to the whole name conversation...
She had a hard time figuring out where to put the "W."
But I really don't care what they call it, I just wish they would fill my prescriptions instead of losing them. Apparently "Johnston" is a very confusing last name. It's almost very normal, and that's the problem. Quite typical and mundane... except for that "T." They don't quite know what to do with the "T," but the name is so very normal-sounding, they don't realize just how confused they are. So they look in their computer, find five different Andrew Johnsons in their system, and not a one of them has a prescription waiting.
It's worse with the night staff, and it's worse with Tembo.
"Yes. September. Like the month."
"No, not her date of birth, it's her name."
"Yes, really."
"No, August 28."
"She came a few days early."
It all gets resolved in the end, but sometimes we have to resort to calling back after a shift change.
And every time this happens I swear to myself that I am never doing business there again. And every time we need a prescription, that's where exactly where I go, because it's right down the street, and open 24 hrs., and besides, this time can't possibly be as bad as last time. And every time, it is.
This last was worst of all. No record on their system whatsoever of Tembo's prescription. I spoke with members of 3 different shifts, and nobody could figure it out. But I had two messages on my answering machine verifying that the doctor had, indeed, called the prescription in.
So this morning I called the doctor again to ask her to send the prescription off to a different pharmacy. It turned out, however, that she already had sent it to a different pharmacy. The whole thing was my fault this time. I'd given the doctor the number of a SavOn/CVS/Whatever half an hour away. I had no reason to doubt the competence of this particular pharmacy (aside from the identity confusion, of course)... but it was half an hour away.
So it was that I found myself calling my neighborhood Multiple Personality Pharmacy once again, and asking them to transfer the prescription over from the other location.
I knew it was a mistake, even as I dialed. I was sure of it as the automated phone system informed me that "0" was not a valid option, and I would simply have to listen to a full listing of all possible methods of learning about flu clinic locations and hours in Southern California before they would let me talk to a human being.
I was ready to repent in sack-cloth and ashes by the time the girl on the end of the line was done with her lengthy apology and explanation for leaving me on the line for so long listening to the pandemonium behind the counter. Something about an exploding computer, I think. Anyway, I saw the error of my ways, and was fully prepared to give up and drive all the way to Beach Blvd.... but I'd been through so much, and was so close... I couldn't just give up and let that go to waste.
Oh, I should have. I should have.
When we got to the whole name conversation...
She had a hard time figuring out where to put the "W."
11.02.2006
If you shop at Costco...
NOW is the time to buy your holiday baking supplies. I just bought a 16 oz. bottle of real vanilla extract for $7, and 7 oz. of saigon cinnamon (the good stuff) for $3.50.
I'm enjoying a scrumptious cinnamon roll right now. I had no idea just how big a difference the quality of cinnamon can make. It makes a big difference. And saigon cinnamon is good cinnamon, warm and bright and intense.
Mmmm-mmm.
I'm enjoying a scrumptious cinnamon roll right now. I had no idea just how big a difference the quality of cinnamon can make. It makes a big difference. And saigon cinnamon is good cinnamon, warm and bright and intense.
Mmmm-mmm.
11.01.2006
Slowly, imperceptibly, the sun has set. Gradually, incrementally, it dawns on me that all is dark. A lone lamp shines out bleakly, a forgotten reminder of early morning's cheerful dark.
My head throbs dully, nothing a cup of coffee and an ibuprofen won't fix.
I wish the soul-ache were so simple.
"Milk. Milk in a cup!" But you have a cup of milk right there. "Milk in a cup with chocolate?"
Unpleasant odors waft up to my nose. Which one needs changing this time?
It never ends, this constant cycle of needs. Milk and stories and honey toast and pictures of helicopters. Apple slices, but don't spit them out, oops, bye-bye apple. Crayons, but only on the paper, oops, bye-bye crayons. And how is it that mopping the floor twice a day just isn't enough?
I know that there was a time when it all seemed to matter, was beautiful and joyous. And I know that time was just a few short hours ago.
I remember that there was a time, but try as I might, I can't remember what it felt like.
The emptiness deepens and swells, until I cannot bear the pressure.
Suddenly I recognize the hunger. My fingers tremble as I pull my flute case down off the shelf. The tarnished silver tubes slip together effortlessly, and I play. The sound is horrendous, but I don't care. To pause, and adjust, and find a tone that I can admire seems a shameful vanity. Later, later. For now, my need is too pressing, and I simply play.
Rippling through the notes, weaving in and around scales and arpeggios, the formless void of my experience takes shape.
"No song! No song!"
I really do sound dreadful.
My son, I'm afraid you're just going to have to put up with it. Just a glimmer, but I start to remember. Like a theorem you couldn't quite prove yourself or even recite, but the logic is so compelling, you know that if you read it long enough it will become part of you... like the truth you reason yourself into seeing, in that strange in-between moment when you still see the illusion right there mixed up with the truth...
The music matters, so obviously matters. And the music is life, only smaller, flatter. So if the music matters, then necessarily, life has to matter, and more. I only half see it, but I know it must be so, there is no other way. It has to matter, and more importantly, the way that the music matters has to be the same way that life matters. Just a glimmer, but I start to remember.
What was I thinking? What else could possibly happen when I go for weeks without music?
Isaiah, you are simply going to have to put up with the sound of my flute.
But first, how about a cup of juice and a cuddle and another Arthur book?
My head throbs dully, nothing a cup of coffee and an ibuprofen won't fix.
I wish the soul-ache were so simple.
"Milk. Milk in a cup!" But you have a cup of milk right there. "Milk in a cup with chocolate?"
Unpleasant odors waft up to my nose. Which one needs changing this time?
It never ends, this constant cycle of needs. Milk and stories and honey toast and pictures of helicopters. Apple slices, but don't spit them out, oops, bye-bye apple. Crayons, but only on the paper, oops, bye-bye crayons. And how is it that mopping the floor twice a day just isn't enough?
I know that there was a time when it all seemed to matter, was beautiful and joyous. And I know that time was just a few short hours ago.
I remember that there was a time, but try as I might, I can't remember what it felt like.
The emptiness deepens and swells, until I cannot bear the pressure.
Suddenly I recognize the hunger. My fingers tremble as I pull my flute case down off the shelf. The tarnished silver tubes slip together effortlessly, and I play. The sound is horrendous, but I don't care. To pause, and adjust, and find a tone that I can admire seems a shameful vanity. Later, later. For now, my need is too pressing, and I simply play.
Rippling through the notes, weaving in and around scales and arpeggios, the formless void of my experience takes shape.
"No song! No song!"
I really do sound dreadful.
My son, I'm afraid you're just going to have to put up with it. Just a glimmer, but I start to remember. Like a theorem you couldn't quite prove yourself or even recite, but the logic is so compelling, you know that if you read it long enough it will become part of you... like the truth you reason yourself into seeing, in that strange in-between moment when you still see the illusion right there mixed up with the truth...
The music matters, so obviously matters. And the music is life, only smaller, flatter. So if the music matters, then necessarily, life has to matter, and more. I only half see it, but I know it must be so, there is no other way. It has to matter, and more importantly, the way that the music matters has to be the same way that life matters. Just a glimmer, but I start to remember.
What was I thinking? What else could possibly happen when I go for weeks without music?
Isaiah, you are simply going to have to put up with the sound of my flute.
But first, how about a cup of juice and a cuddle and another Arthur book?
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