The firefighters and police officers in B'ham have "trading cards" to hand out to kids on the playground. On the back, each card has a brief summary of the officer's vitae and family status, along with a "tip" for the kids. The cards float around the house and pile up like dead leaves on the floor of the playroom. Usually they end up in the trash, but some go into the kids' "special things drawers."
Tonight as I was putting Nigel and Tim to bed, Tim found a card in his drawer and started examining it. As I read Nigel a story, helped him pray, and tucked him in, I heard Tim in the background:
"Hmmm....a chief!"
Long pause.
"Oh. Great tip. Listen, Mom: 'There is a power in your dreams. Use it to make them come true.'"
A few minutes later, I turned around to help Tim pray and found him lying on his bed, gazing up at the ceiling. "Mom," he said thoughtfully, "It just makes me want to ask him, 'Bill, what IS the power in our dreams?'"
Monday, August 28, 2006
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Ten Things I Learned at the Organ Workshop
1. I need to perfect the bench slide.
The pros just drop the shoulder and do an all out dive onto the bench, gliding smoothly to the center and ending poised and ready to play. The amateurs like me hop up, shove/scoot, shove/scoot, shove/scoot, and then stand (furtively, on the pedals, to straighten out the skirt) sit, settle, and glance at the feet. It’s graceless. I’ve gotta change.
2. Hymns rock!
Or at least they do at the Organ Workshop. Tonight’s hymn sing was terrific, especially when the Vocal Beauty Bootcamp folks came in on the descants. The organist, Daniel Kerr from BYU-I, was incredible. Over the week Tams and I have become used to the wild free improvisations on the “unison” verses, but one of the Vocal Beauty Bootcamp people sitting directly in front of us found some of Dr. Kerr’s wilder pyrotechnic episodes shocking.
3. Dave Chabot may have been the original co-founder of the organ workshop.
I’ve heard nearly every one of his amazing techniques described in detail this week. He could have been the poster child for our “Creative Hymn Playing” class, except that I think we were told ten times to clear our stylistic choices with the priesthood authority before playing. His stylistic choices were never cleared in advance and always seemed to come straight out of left field and THWAP Brother McCann in the side of the head.
4. Organists tend to be tactful.
Even when you miss five out of the six notes in a playing exercise. Or ask stupid questions in theory class. Or fall from your tandem bike for no discernable reason whatsoever.
5. BYU is on top of a hill.
6. All the good restaurants are at the bottom of that hill.
7. Many calories consumed in tasty but overly-indulgent dinners can be burned off on the ride home.
8. Ice Cream is a drug in Utah.
This isn’t really something I learned…it’s something I remembered when I saw our cute BYU Creamery assistant devoutly assembling our hot fudge sundae. It had nearly a half-gallon of ice cream, a quart of hot fudge, artistically applied whipped cream, pralines, and three cherries. Both of T and I together couldn’t finish it off. It was billed as having “two scoops.”
9. There is no Temple access from Wymount Terrace.
But you can get over the fire gate and pass a tandem bike (FZI: candy apple red Diamondback) over the fence to your waiting sister if you’re really determined to bike around the Temple grounds.
10. I love the organ. It’s my instrument. No news here I guess, but this week has been a chocolate mint brownie to a dessert starved soul.
The pros just drop the shoulder and do an all out dive onto the bench, gliding smoothly to the center and ending poised and ready to play. The amateurs like me hop up, shove/scoot, shove/scoot, shove/scoot, and then stand (furtively, on the pedals, to straighten out the skirt) sit, settle, and glance at the feet. It’s graceless. I’ve gotta change.
2. Hymns rock!
Or at least they do at the Organ Workshop. Tonight’s hymn sing was terrific, especially when the Vocal Beauty Bootcamp folks came in on the descants. The organist, Daniel Kerr from BYU-I, was incredible. Over the week Tams and I have become used to the wild free improvisations on the “unison” verses, but one of the Vocal Beauty Bootcamp people sitting directly in front of us found some of Dr. Kerr’s wilder pyrotechnic episodes shocking.
3. Dave Chabot may have been the original co-founder of the organ workshop.
I’ve heard nearly every one of his amazing techniques described in detail this week. He could have been the poster child for our “Creative Hymn Playing” class, except that I think we were told ten times to clear our stylistic choices with the priesthood authority before playing. His stylistic choices were never cleared in advance and always seemed to come straight out of left field and THWAP Brother McCann in the side of the head.
4. Organists tend to be tactful.
Even when you miss five out of the six notes in a playing exercise. Or ask stupid questions in theory class. Or fall from your tandem bike for no discernable reason whatsoever.
5. BYU is on top of a hill.
6. All the good restaurants are at the bottom of that hill.
7. Many calories consumed in tasty but overly-indulgent dinners can be burned off on the ride home.
8. Ice Cream is a drug in Utah.
This isn’t really something I learned…it’s something I remembered when I saw our cute BYU Creamery assistant devoutly assembling our hot fudge sundae. It had nearly a half-gallon of ice cream, a quart of hot fudge, artistically applied whipped cream, pralines, and three cherries. Both of T and I together couldn’t finish it off. It was billed as having “two scoops.”
9. There is no Temple access from Wymount Terrace.
But you can get over the fire gate and pass a tandem bike (FZI: candy apple red Diamondback) over the fence to your waiting sister if you’re really determined to bike around the Temple grounds.
10. I love the organ. It’s my instrument. No news here I guess, but this week has been a chocolate mint brownie to a dessert starved soul.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Bits and Pieces
Just checked my Primary Choristers Group emails--I love that group. I get lots of great ideas from them. I'm also periodically astounded by such stunners as a woman who made 30 fake buffalo chips from spray insulation and painted them brown as just PART of her plan to teach "Pioneer Children Sang as they Walked" ("I hid them around the room and the kids loved looking for them and putting them in their baskets!").
Okay, okay! I admit! I thought about trying it! But just for a minute.
New topic. Boys and knives. There's a relevant incident I could relate to get this topic rolling, but I think I might still be sworn to secrecy. Suffice it to say that I learned nearly thirty years ago that a boy in posession of a sharp knife is about five minutes away from doing something incredibly stupid. My nine year old boy who found himself in posession of a sharp kitchen knife used his five minutes to decide to cut up popsicle sticks. And when he got cut up himself, he discovered that he could reduce the pain in his finger by shaking it around violently while screaming his head off. By the time I got to the kitchen, it looked like the scene of a massacre. I immediately noticed the spattered blood all over the walls, floor, stairs, sink, cupboards, countertops, chairs, and table. Gradually I discovered that there was also blood on the whiteboard, desk, phone, phonebook, calendar, front door, doormats, stair railings, dog dish, mixer, refrigerator, doorbell, etc. The only blood-free items were, of course, the knife and the popsicle stick. It was a minor cut. Thank goodness for bandaids.
I also spent about a half an hour out on the deck with my five boys plus the dog. They were using the giant tennis ball slingshot (it's called "The Hyperdog") to shoot tennis balls as far up into the stratosphere as they possibly could. They all wanted a turn, but even more, they all wanted to just watch the balls go way, way up and come down. That's the problem with being the only female member of the Mumford Testosterone Club. I'm invited to the party, but I'll never really understand.
Still, there are benefits, and one of them--Cub Camp--starts tomorrow. I can't wait. It's all the fun of girls camp minus the drama and plus the sleep. It's one of those moments when I look around at the boys and think, "I bet I DID choose this. I'm SURE I did."
Okay, okay! I admit! I thought about trying it! But just for a minute.
New topic. Boys and knives. There's a relevant incident I could relate to get this topic rolling, but I think I might still be sworn to secrecy. Suffice it to say that I learned nearly thirty years ago that a boy in posession of a sharp knife is about five minutes away from doing something incredibly stupid. My nine year old boy who found himself in posession of a sharp kitchen knife used his five minutes to decide to cut up popsicle sticks. And when he got cut up himself, he discovered that he could reduce the pain in his finger by shaking it around violently while screaming his head off. By the time I got to the kitchen, it looked like the scene of a massacre. I immediately noticed the spattered blood all over the walls, floor, stairs, sink, cupboards, countertops, chairs, and table. Gradually I discovered that there was also blood on the whiteboard, desk, phone, phonebook, calendar, front door, doormats, stair railings, dog dish, mixer, refrigerator, doorbell, etc. The only blood-free items were, of course, the knife and the popsicle stick. It was a minor cut. Thank goodness for bandaids.
I also spent about a half an hour out on the deck with my five boys plus the dog. They were using the giant tennis ball slingshot (it's called "The Hyperdog") to shoot tennis balls as far up into the stratosphere as they possibly could. They all wanted a turn, but even more, they all wanted to just watch the balls go way, way up and come down. That's the problem with being the only female member of the Mumford Testosterone Club. I'm invited to the party, but I'll never really understand.
Still, there are benefits, and one of them--Cub Camp--starts tomorrow. I can't wait. It's all the fun of girls camp minus the drama and plus the sleep. It's one of those moments when I look around at the boys and think, "I bet I DID choose this. I'm SURE I did."
Monday, July 17, 2006
Take the Long Way Home
There are two categories of travelers. The first category, to which my wife Julia belongs, believe that the best way to deal with the fact that you have a long (and possibly hot) drive ahead of you is to load the car with water bottles, books on tape, and meals and put your head down, pedal to the metal and NO STOPPING (except for gas) until you get to your destination. In an even more extreme version of this mode of traveling, a receptacle for urine known as a nenu jar can be used to avoid even otherwise necessary bathroom stops.
The benefits of this mode of travel are obvious -- you reach your destination quickly, are able to spend more time with the people you are going to visit and when you are on the road you have a clear sense of purpose and a solitary objective. Roughly 95% of the people I know are category 1 travelers.
The remaining 5% of us believe that life is a journey -- not a destination. We stop a fruit stands. If we are hot and are driving along a river, we pull off onto the shoulder, change into our swim suits and take a swim. If we want a snack (and we frequently do) we forego the Chevron at the rest stop for the donut shop on the old downtown business loop. We pull over to take pictures of a scenic overlooks. We scout campgrounds for future reference. We have lunch with the locals. 
This past week, Julia flew back from Boise to go to girls camp and the three oldest boys stayed with the cousins in Emmet. Nigel and I could have driven home in about 10 hours up the interstate. Instead, we decided to go through McCall, along the salmon river, up White Bird pass and spend the night in Pullman. We had a very nice visit with Judy, Gillian and Jonathan and enjoyed seeing Wackerburg. I'm sure that it will be featured in some future publication -- very unique. I really liked it, but I do worry about how you will get the groceries up to the second story, since right now the only way up is a long spiral staircase.Nigel and I then left Pullman for Bellingham via Wenatchee. We sang songs, talked about how things work and practiced our counting and ABCs. In Wenatchee we stopped to meet with a great local lawyer, Bob Parlette, whose fearless and tireless efforts resulted in a national class action settlement against Household Finance Corporation worth 484 million dollars for deceptive mortgage lending practices. Bob did not charge his clients a contingency fee and in the end was only paid for half of the time he put into the case. I have worked with him on one of my cases but had never met him, so Nigel and I stopped by and collected some documents. I thought I could keep Nigel quiet by giving him a lollipop, but in the end I had to go get several wet paper towels with which to wipe up Bob's desk.
We could have made it home in three hours, but we chose to head north and take the Cascade Loop through North Cascades National Park. We went through Chelan, and it was so hot and the water looked so cool and blue that we couldn't resist stopping for a swim. This brought back fond memories of our trip there with Brett and Alison when our kids were tiny.
We then headed north and passed through Twisp, Winthrop, and Marblemount stopping for some cold chicken and peaches and some cherries from a family cherry orchard. We again sang, talked and enjoyed the beautiful scenery. I was so busy taking a picture of the general store in Winthrop while driving that I took a wrong turn and several miles later we ended up in a camp which had been hastily set up for firefighters battling a forest fire in the mountains. Although the detour set us back in time, we discovered a beautiful valley which I hope to visit later with the family for a camping trip.
We wound our way down the pass. Nigel fell asleep as the sun went down and I admired the brilliant blue of Ross Lake, promising myself that we would return there someday soon. I reminisced about the last time I drove that road 8 years ago when Zach and Alex were very young and how I had also made the same resolution at that time -- life just flies by so fast.
We finally pulled into our driveway about 12 hours after we left Pullman. Pullman to Bellingham is usually a 6 hour drive. My only complaint was that it didn't last longer.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Ziploc Bags
What is it about the Ziploc bag that makes mankind feel so secure? Something about the act of squeezing the air out and zipping the top together gives the bagger a sense of control. Yes, you're sending your barely adolecent child off to Korea for two weeks, but control your nervousness. Just pack everything--EVERYTHING--in ziploc bags and squeeze the air out. Use a vacuum! Think of the space efficiency, the organized sterility, the perfect neatness of your son's duffel full of ziploc-ed clothes!
And the rain gear. The outdoorsy-looking rain pants and rain jacket make me laugh. How well I remember the Elder who tried to wear that in Taiwan. Imagine dousing yourself with pop, wrapping yourself in black garbage bags, and going to sit in a closed car on a hot summer day. He nearly suffocated. True, you can't wear nothing. The rain comes down in cliches--it pours, it dumps, in buckets, torrents, deluges. But VENTILATION! VENTILATION is the key!! He needs a poncho, very heavy duty, with a billed hood that channels water away from the face so he can see to dodge cars and motorcycles.
Will he wear the poncho? Can I find one on ebay? (Don't they have an ad about that?) Should I just get the standard rain gear so he can fit in and be uncomfortable like everyone else? Should I vacuum pack his clothing in ziploc bags even though he doesn't know how to use ziplocs and will, once he's ripped out the clothing items inside, no doubt leave them blowing about South Korea? Or should I let him pack his own bags, choose his own rain gear, and suffer the consequences?
One thing I learned at Grandpa's funeral. He really got the whole adolescent boy thing. He understood that "be prepared" applied even more to the scoutmaster. We grownups seem to swerve unpredictably between the extremes--taking over and giving up. One moment, we're jumping in ziploc-ing everything in the poor kid's suitcase. Control! Control! The next minute, we're tossing the whole job onto the kid, watching in some amusement as he tries to survive a weekend on one pair of socks and three cans of tuna. But Grandpa was different. He cared about that little scout, huddled in his sleeping bag with cold feet. Then he planned ahead. Every scout that brought a towel got a hot rock. A little responsibility, a lot of backup. The most excruciating way possible to raise a child. And, I think, perhaps the most successful.
And the rain gear. The outdoorsy-looking rain pants and rain jacket make me laugh. How well I remember the Elder who tried to wear that in Taiwan. Imagine dousing yourself with pop, wrapping yourself in black garbage bags, and going to sit in a closed car on a hot summer day. He nearly suffocated. True, you can't wear nothing. The rain comes down in cliches--it pours, it dumps, in buckets, torrents, deluges. But VENTILATION! VENTILATION is the key!! He needs a poncho, very heavy duty, with a billed hood that channels water away from the face so he can see to dodge cars and motorcycles.
Will he wear the poncho? Can I find one on ebay? (Don't they have an ad about that?) Should I just get the standard rain gear so he can fit in and be uncomfortable like everyone else? Should I vacuum pack his clothing in ziploc bags even though he doesn't know how to use ziplocs and will, once he's ripped out the clothing items inside, no doubt leave them blowing about South Korea? Or should I let him pack his own bags, choose his own rain gear, and suffer the consequences?
One thing I learned at Grandpa's funeral. He really got the whole adolescent boy thing. He understood that "be prepared" applied even more to the scoutmaster. We grownups seem to swerve unpredictably between the extremes--taking over and giving up. One moment, we're jumping in ziploc-ing everything in the poor kid's suitcase. Control! Control! The next minute, we're tossing the whole job onto the kid, watching in some amusement as he tries to survive a weekend on one pair of socks and three cans of tuna. But Grandpa was different. He cared about that little scout, huddled in his sleeping bag with cold feet. Then he planned ahead. Every scout that brought a towel got a hot rock. A little responsibility, a lot of backup. The most excruciating way possible to raise a child. And, I think, perhaps the most successful.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Broken Necklaces
There’s a necklace lying here on Cecily’s desk. The string has broken, and the necklace is here, coiled up carefully with all the escaped beads tucked in close. It’s waiting to be repaired.
I think it will wait a long time. This house is quiet and clean right now, but in a house bulging with 10 cousins, such moments are expectant, rather than peaceful. This one is longing to explode into hot, sweaty children and evolving adventure. I will resist for the big things—feeding, washing the important things, finding the library books, a little structure for the body and the brain—but then I’ll just let go and float along with the current of the summer, which becomes the rhythm of the year, and then before I have realized it, the events and excitement of a whole life.
I found more than one broken necklace, carefully coiled together with its stray beads, tucked into little nooks and crannies around Grandma’s house yesterday. They were tucked in alongside unwritten explanations—a tiny sea shell, a piece of smooth stone, a card, a note. The house was not untidy, but it was carefully folded full, and it said in every drawer and on every shelf, “I lived.” They left very little undone, our grandparents. The house seemed to me a museum of their full and generous lives. But they did leave a few broken necklaces.
I think it will wait a long time. This house is quiet and clean right now, but in a house bulging with 10 cousins, such moments are expectant, rather than peaceful. This one is longing to explode into hot, sweaty children and evolving adventure. I will resist for the big things—feeding, washing the important things, finding the library books, a little structure for the body and the brain—but then I’ll just let go and float along with the current of the summer, which becomes the rhythm of the year, and then before I have realized it, the events and excitement of a whole life.
I found more than one broken necklace, carefully coiled together with its stray beads, tucked into little nooks and crannies around Grandma’s house yesterday. They were tucked in alongside unwritten explanations—a tiny sea shell, a piece of smooth stone, a card, a note. The house was not untidy, but it was carefully folded full, and it said in every drawer and on every shelf, “I lived.” They left very little undone, our grandparents. The house seemed to me a museum of their full and generous lives. But they did leave a few broken necklaces.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Tim Gets Hip
I went downstairs at 8 am this morning to find Tim sitting cross legged on the bathroom floor cutting his hair. One second after my inevitable reaction, I wondered (not for the first time) what it must be like to constantly have people yelling your name in exasperation. Every time I yell, I promise myself that I'm going to think of a more constructive, loving way of dealing with the problem the next time. Then he decides to cut his own hair.
Why?
The following conversation is a word-for-word quote. I COULDN'T make this up. No-one could. "Mom, now that I'm seven, it's time for me to do some experiments about things I've always wanted to know, like what does it feel like to cut your own hair." I can't help myself. I say his name again, more gently but still with the inflection of a slide whistle.
"Mom," he says earnestly, "I've always wanted a mullett. I want to reshape my hair because what I have is a backwards mullett." I look at his hair and the undeniable truth of this observation makes me start laughing.
"Tim, why do you want a mullett?" I ask.
He looks at me, mildly surprised by my failure to see the obvious. "Y'know. MacGyver."
Today also I made him an omlette and asked him if he'd like avocado in it.
He paused for a minute. "There are some voices in my head. One is saying, 'She poisoned the avocado,' but all the others are saying, 'It's your mom! You can trust her!' so go ahead, put some on."
Why?
The following conversation is a word-for-word quote. I COULDN'T make this up. No-one could. "Mom, now that I'm seven, it's time for me to do some experiments about things I've always wanted to know, like what does it feel like to cut your own hair." I can't help myself. I say his name again, more gently but still with the inflection of a slide whistle.
"Mom," he says earnestly, "I've always wanted a mullett. I want to reshape my hair because what I have is a backwards mullett." I look at his hair and the undeniable truth of this observation makes me start laughing.
"Tim, why do you want a mullett?" I ask.
He looks at me, mildly surprised by my failure to see the obvious. "Y'know. MacGyver."
Today also I made him an omlette and asked him if he'd like avocado in it.
He paused for a minute. "There are some voices in my head. One is saying, 'She poisoned the avocado,' but all the others are saying, 'It's your mom! You can trust her!' so go ahead, put some on."
Monday, June 12, 2006
Lint
I've often wondered: if I fell down the laundry chute one day while emptying out the hamper and got stuck half way down, would Nigel hear my screams for help and somehow either be able to rouse my neighbor or dial 9-1-1? Today I got the answer to that question.
He wouldn't. Dragon Tales is just too darn interesting. He might move a little closer to the TV...might turn up the volume, even, to drown out that annoying yelling noise coming from the bathroom, but he wouldn't--HE WOULDN'T--come to help. He wouldn't even turn around to look and laugh.
I didn't have to fall down the laundry chute to find this out. I wedged myself into the tight corner. No accident.
To start at the beginning, I must explain that Tom feels called to the law, called to fatherhood, and called to Young Men. He feels obligated to the yard, responsible for the cars, committed to barbecue duty when friends come over. But he does NOT realize that all men everywhere are required to do the fix-it jobs, and I have accepted this. Hey, he calls the cable company and chews them out every time they try to raise our cable rate. He deals with customer service at the cell phone company. So I gladly, CHEERFULLY, (ineptly, as you will see) pulled out the dryer this morning to set about changing the dryer vent hose.
We had one of those old plastic hoses that my Home Handyman magazine calls a fire hazard. It makes three hairpin bends (though Home Handyman advises it not to do so), the last of which leads to a fifteen foot vent pipe that would probably make Home Handyman write us off entirely. No professional will now clean out dryer vents of any kind (see Tom, calling to the law of, above), and especially not fifteen foot ones connected to well-bent flamable hose. I have been scratching my head over what to do about the situation as my drying times gradually increased from 50 minutes a load to an hour and thirty minutes. But finally I concluded that I could at least change the hose and clean out the parts of the vent pipe I could reach.
So it was that I found myself jammed into a vertical plane between the wall of the laundry room and the washer and dryer, my cheek smashed up against the back of the washer, my arms and legs bent out at weird angles like an egyptian stick figure, trying to turn the screw of the hose clamp with my left hand. Each ten tries would produce several swear words, plenty of sweat, an agony of frustration, and about a quarter of a turn. Doing such a simple job under an almost impossible physical situation causes extreme mental stress. Would it be better or worse if the fate of the world hung in the balance?
I did ultimately finish the job. It took me an hour and a half, and all the self-will I posess. Nigel never came to fetch tools that I dropped. The vent hose, by the way, was full--FULL--of lint. Completely filled. To the top. It also had a few interesting objects that had somehow sneaked through the holes in the dryer drum, including a miniature pair of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles nunchucks that Tim lost about two years ago and looked for for a solid month. I didn't give them back to him. Too much pain when he loses them again.
He wouldn't. Dragon Tales is just too darn interesting. He might move a little closer to the TV...might turn up the volume, even, to drown out that annoying yelling noise coming from the bathroom, but he wouldn't--HE WOULDN'T--come to help. He wouldn't even turn around to look and laugh.
I didn't have to fall down the laundry chute to find this out. I wedged myself into the tight corner. No accident.
To start at the beginning, I must explain that Tom feels called to the law, called to fatherhood, and called to Young Men. He feels obligated to the yard, responsible for the cars, committed to barbecue duty when friends come over. But he does NOT realize that all men everywhere are required to do the fix-it jobs, and I have accepted this. Hey, he calls the cable company and chews them out every time they try to raise our cable rate. He deals with customer service at the cell phone company. So I gladly, CHEERFULLY, (ineptly, as you will see) pulled out the dryer this morning to set about changing the dryer vent hose.
We had one of those old plastic hoses that my Home Handyman magazine calls a fire hazard. It makes three hairpin bends (though Home Handyman advises it not to do so), the last of which leads to a fifteen foot vent pipe that would probably make Home Handyman write us off entirely. No professional will now clean out dryer vents of any kind (see Tom, calling to the law of, above), and especially not fifteen foot ones connected to well-bent flamable hose. I have been scratching my head over what to do about the situation as my drying times gradually increased from 50 minutes a load to an hour and thirty minutes. But finally I concluded that I could at least change the hose and clean out the parts of the vent pipe I could reach.
So it was that I found myself jammed into a vertical plane between the wall of the laundry room and the washer and dryer, my cheek smashed up against the back of the washer, my arms and legs bent out at weird angles like an egyptian stick figure, trying to turn the screw of the hose clamp with my left hand. Each ten tries would produce several swear words, plenty of sweat, an agony of frustration, and about a quarter of a turn. Doing such a simple job under an almost impossible physical situation causes extreme mental stress. Would it be better or worse if the fate of the world hung in the balance?
I did ultimately finish the job. It took me an hour and a half, and all the self-will I posess. Nigel never came to fetch tools that I dropped. The vent hose, by the way, was full--FULL--of lint. Completely filled. To the top. It also had a few interesting objects that had somehow sneaked through the holes in the dryer drum, including a miniature pair of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles nunchucks that Tim lost about two years ago and looked for for a solid month. I didn't give them back to him. Too much pain when he loses them again.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
No More Books (on Tape)
I am definitely suffering tonight. I got a terrific book on cassette at the library this week. It's TORTURE!!!! No skipping ahead, no skimming through the irrelevant stuff. No, I'm just PLODDING onward through eleven---ELEVEN!!--hours of great literature, word by inevitable word. I do not read this way. I CANNOT read this way. Arrgh. I thought maybe a book on tape would make the ironing and the dishes a little more palatable. My mom gave me the idea--she listens to Harry Potter as she works around the house. But you definitely don't want to be chained to the tape player listening to something you haven't read before. The suspense and the waiting are horrible.
Today's church was very enlightening. As most of you know, I got called to be the Primary Chorister a few weeks ago--my favorite job. I love it. I immediatley rushed to JoAnns for supplies and I've been cutting and creating visual aids ever since. I put on my special music apron, grab my garden wheelbarrow full of props, and have a great time with the kids. Primary's great. I do--I promise you--try very, very hard to teach the gospel and share my testimony, but it's still kind of a show. I've spent plenty of time sitting there with a class full of wiggly kids. I figure teachers AND kids deserve to have a great time.
Today our HC member read a quote by Elder Bednar about teaching by the spirit that advised that anytime we draw attention to ourselves in the presentation of a lesson, it is a form of priestcraft. An image of myself, dressed in an apron and waving a gold-painted antifreeze funnel around as I told the kids (all curled up on the floor as seeds) to AWAKE, AWAKE!! burst suddenly into my mind. I whispered to Tom, "Is my music apron a form of priestcraft?" Without hesitation he responded, "Oh, yeah. Definitely." That whole episode pretty much dulled the best compliment I've ever recieved in primary. A teacher told me that I make her think of Ms Frizzle from the Magic School Bus. That, unfortunately, seals it. Priestcraft.
Well, I can't stand it anymore. I'm going to put on earphones and try to listen to the remaining eight hours of the book while I sleep. We'll see if the Suzuki method works--I'll tell you if I'm satisfied in the morning. G'night.
Today's church was very enlightening. As most of you know, I got called to be the Primary Chorister a few weeks ago--my favorite job. I love it. I immediatley rushed to JoAnns for supplies and I've been cutting and creating visual aids ever since. I put on my special music apron, grab my garden wheelbarrow full of props, and have a great time with the kids. Primary's great. I do--I promise you--try very, very hard to teach the gospel and share my testimony, but it's still kind of a show. I've spent plenty of time sitting there with a class full of wiggly kids. I figure teachers AND kids deserve to have a great time.
Today our HC member read a quote by Elder Bednar about teaching by the spirit that advised that anytime we draw attention to ourselves in the presentation of a lesson, it is a form of priestcraft. An image of myself, dressed in an apron and waving a gold-painted antifreeze funnel around as I told the kids (all curled up on the floor as seeds) to AWAKE, AWAKE!! burst suddenly into my mind. I whispered to Tom, "Is my music apron a form of priestcraft?" Without hesitation he responded, "Oh, yeah. Definitely." That whole episode pretty much dulled the best compliment I've ever recieved in primary. A teacher told me that I make her think of Ms Frizzle from the Magic School Bus. That, unfortunately, seals it. Priestcraft.
Well, I can't stand it anymore. I'm going to put on earphones and try to listen to the remaining eight hours of the book while I sleep. We'll see if the Suzuki method works--I'll tell you if I'm satisfied in the morning. G'night.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Tom's Turn
Last week was the annual stake Father’s and son’s campout at Camp Black Mountain. Two years ago it rained and was so cold and miserable that everyone folded up their tents at about 3 in the morning and cleared out in the dark – everyone except those old scoutmaster types who came prepared with the special Coleman space heaters and minus 50 degree thinsulate-graphite-poly-titanium-fleece sleeping bags and slept in the back of their pickups with insulated shells and woke up in the morning to find that it was just them and 50 pounds of Bisquick and sausages.
Last year it just rained – but since it was only raining, and not cold and miserable we Bellinghamsters just shrugged and went about our business like we do most mornings most days of the year playing Frisbee, lighting fires and eating as the water dripped off our noses.
Well, this year I was prepared. I had the car loaded up without all our camping gear and regardless of the fact that I was in charge of the campfire music I had a backup plan if I even saw the shadow of a cloud. I was going to turn around and head with the boys to Yakima where we would likely get bitten by rattle snakes – but at least we would be dry.
As it turned out, mother’s day weekend was one of those rare and magical periods when the sky was crystal blue for several days in a row. We arrived early and set up our tent and went fishing. Now, I thought Brett got all the fishing genes from my family, but the fishing gene must be a latent, generation skipping gene, because from the moment we arrived Alex and Nigel just couldn’t wait to throw a line in the lake and then sit there until their hooks got snagged on the bottom and the line broke and dad had to re-tie all the hooks and weights only to repeat the process several more times.
Needless to say, we did not catch anything (except some weeds and twigs) but our Bishop (whose peace and tranquility we rudely interrupted) caught three beautiful trout which Nigel adopted while they were still flopping in the water on his string. As it got dark, the bishop, thinking he would take advantage of this great teaching moment, invited the boys to watch as he “cleaned” his fish, proceeded to slit their stomachs and rip their guts out right in front of poor Nigel who I then had to walk/carry back to camp as he sobbed all the way back asking me if the fish would come back alive and why did the bishop kill his fish?
Fortunately, the sight of seeing his new friends butchered before his very eyes sobered Nigel up for the campfire, and he just sat there quietly and listened (probably the first stage of PTSD) as I led the stake in ½ hour of campfire songs and hymns at the amphitheater on the shore of Silver Lake as the fire died down.
The next morning the boys went hiking and guess what Nigel wanted to do? Yep. Fish. So back we went where he reeled his Scooby Doo pole and passed out bait to all the fisherman while I untangled and tied fishing line for the next two hours while the guys right next to us pulled fish after fish from the water. After an hour or so they “limited out” and then as they were leaving showed us their best place to cast.
We stuck with it for another ½ hour, did not catch any fish and headed back to camp where I found the shock of my life:
Zach and Alex had rolled up all the sleeping bags, all the sleeping pads, put away the tent and loaded everything into the car. I couldn’t believe it. Even knowing that they really wanted me to let them go to our friend’s the Uibel’s house that day, I was impressed at how well they had packed up camp.
As we left Camp Black Mountain, I decided that since we were more than halfway to Mount Baker that we should go up and check it out now that ski season was over. As I mentioned earlier, there was not a cloud in the sky as we drove along the Nooksack river in our suburban with a cool breeze blowing through the open windows.
I had a flashback to eleven years ago when Zach was just one year old and we came to Bellingham for a Suzuki Piano teacher’s conference. One day, while Julia and Mom went to the conference, Zach and I decided to drive to Mount Baker. As we drove through the tunnel of trees with the occasional break and a glimpse of the majestic White Volcano in the distance I remembered thinking how great it would be to live in such a beautiful place someday – and then I realized – today was that day!
Here I was, with my four boys, singing with the windows down as we climbed higher and higher to the top of the world, where we found that we had the whole mountain to ourselves. The ski area was closed, not for lack of snow, but for lack of insurance coverage. Each year ski areas estimate their season based on historical snowfalls and then purchase insurance to cover their estimated season. This year, being a year in which the resort had to close for several days because they got TOO MUCH snow, there was still snow everywhere but no people. Well, OK, there were a few cross country skiers and snowshoers off in the distance but the rest of the mountain was ours. We ran in the snow, threw snowballs, jumped into the drifts and tried to sled on one of our sleeping mats. Then, magically, a couple in their late 40’s arrived with two sleds. The wife explained that they come sledding every mother’s day with their friends but that this year the friends could not make it so they came alone – for tradition’s sake.
They invited us to sled with them and after several great rides, the wife explained that she does not have children of her own and thanked me for giving her such a wonderful mother’s day present of “letting” her sled with my boys.
We hiked around on the snow, taking in the clear blue sky and the 360 degree view and the mountain towering in the background and we then loaded up and headed for home. As we wound our way back down the mountain I thought to myself that if I had to die tomorrow, after a day like this I would have felt that my life had been complete. I will never forget that magical day.
We came home, mowed the lawns, and slept soundly and the next day Julia came home to a dinner of roast beef, garlic red potatoes, shrimp with spicy orange sauce, and strawberries and cream for dessert.
It is a wonderful life!
Last year it just rained – but since it was only raining, and not cold and miserable we Bellinghamsters just shrugged and went about our business like we do most mornings most days of the year playing Frisbee, lighting fires and eating as the water dripped off our noses.Well, this year I was prepared. I had the car loaded up without all our camping gear and regardless of the fact that I was in charge of the campfire music I had a backup plan if I even saw the shadow of a cloud. I was going to turn around and head with the boys to Yakima where we would likely get bitten by rattle snakes – but at least we would be dry.
As it turned out, mother’s day weekend was one of those rare and magical periods when the sky was crystal blue for several days in a row. We arrived early and set up our tent and went fishing. Now, I thought Brett got all the fishing genes from my family, but the fishing gene must be a latent, generation skipping gene, because from the moment we arrived Alex and Nigel just couldn’t wait to throw a line in the lake and then sit there until their hooks got snagged on the bottom and the line broke and dad had to re-tie all the hooks and weights only to repeat the process several more times.
Needless to say, we did not catch anything (except some weeds and twigs) but our Bishop (whose peace and tranquility we rudely interrupted) caught three beautiful trout which Nigel adopted while they were still flopping in the water on his string. As it got dark, the bishop, thinking he would take advantage of this great teaching moment, invited the boys to watch as he “cleaned” his fish, proceeded to slit their stomachs and rip their guts out right in front of poor Nigel who I then had to walk/carry back to camp as he sobbed all the way back asking me if the fish would come back alive and why did the bishop kill his fish?
Fortunately, the sight of seeing his new friends butchered before his very eyes sobered Nigel up for the campfire, and he just sat there quietly and listened (probably the first stage of PTSD) as I led the stake in ½ hour of campfire songs and hymns at the amphitheater on the shore of Silver Lake as the fire died down.
The next morning the boys went hiking and guess what Nigel wanted to do? Yep. Fish. So back we went where he reeled his Scooby Doo pole and passed out bait to all the fisherman while I untangled and tied fishing line for the next two hours while the guys right next to us pulled fish after fish from the water. After an hour or so they “limited out” and then as they were leaving showed us their best place to cast.
We stuck with it for another ½ hour, did not catch any fish and headed back to camp where I found the shock of my life:
Zach and Alex had rolled up all the sleeping bags, all the sleeping pads, put away the tent and loaded everything into the car. I couldn’t believe it. Even knowing that they really wanted me to let them go to our friend’s the Uibel’s house that day, I was impressed at how well they had packed up camp.
As we left Camp Black Mountain, I decided that since we were more than halfway to Mount Baker that we should go up and check it out now that ski season was over. As I mentioned earlier, there was not a cloud in the sky as we drove along the Nooksack river in our suburban with a cool breeze blowing through the open windows.
I had a flashback to eleven years ago when Zach was just one year old and we came to Bellingham for a Suzuki Piano teacher’s conference. One day, while Julia and Mom went to the conference, Zach and I decided to drive to Mount Baker. As we drove through the tunnel of trees with the occasional break and a glimpse of the majestic White Volcano in the distance I remembered thinking how great it would be to live in such a beautiful place someday – and then I realized – today was that day!
Here I was, with my four boys, singing with the windows down as we climbed higher and higher to the top of the world, where we found that we had the whole mountain to ourselves. The ski area was closed, not for lack of snow, but for lack of insurance coverage. Each year ski areas estimate their season based on historical snowfalls and then purchase insurance to cover their estimated season. This year, being a year in which the resort had to close for several days because they got TOO MUCH snow, there was still snow everywhere but no people. Well, OK, there were a few cross country skiers and snowshoers off in the distance but the rest of the mountain was ours. We ran in the snow, threw snowballs, jumped into the drifts and tried to sled on one of our sleeping mats. Then, magically, a couple in their late 40’s arrived with two sleds. The wife explained that they come sledding every mother’s day with their friends but that this year the friends could not make it so they came alone – for tradition’s sake.
They invited us to sled with them and after several great rides, the wife explained that she does not have children of her own and thanked me for giving her such a wonderful mother’s day present of “letting” her sled with my boys.
We hiked around on the snow, taking in the clear blue sky and the 360 degree view and the mountain towering in the background and we then loaded up and headed for home. As we wound our way back down the mountain I thought to myself that if I had to die tomorrow, after a day like this I would have felt that my life had been complete. I will never forget that magical day.
We came home, mowed the lawns, and slept soundly and the next day Julia came home to a dinner of roast beef, garlic red potatoes, shrimp with spicy orange sauce, and strawberries and cream for dessert.
It is a wonderful life!
Monday, May 08, 2006
A One Hundred Percent Chance
Tim: Mom, did you know dying is one of those things where you have a one hundred percent chance?
I'm really, really tired right now, tired beyond the point of being able to think, hours past the time when I should have curled up in bed. I would love to be in bed, but I'm too tired to go. I need to go downstairs and get my purse, extract the four library cards I carry in a little zippered pocket inside the purse, and click on over to the Bellingham Public Library website, where I can find out the names of our overdue books. There are probably lots of them, because we went to the library during spring break and each of the kids got about forty. That was a long time ago. The library used to send me email alerts, but when I was in there with all the kids, Nigel stamping the due date all over every available inch of skin, Tim shoving DVDs and comic books in my face every 30 seconds and begging, "PLEASE, Mom, PLEEEEEEEEASE?" Alex grabbing the video out of his stack and running back to exchange it every time the librarian got ready to scan the barcode and Zach reverting into that Zen state where he tugs rhythmically on my sleeve while chanting, "Mom...Mom...Mom...Mom...Mom...Mom...Mom"--while all that was happening, the librarian and I decided it was a good time to change my email address on all the accounts. Not surprisingly, we must have gotten it wrong, because I've not received a warning and now I have 160 overdue books and 4 very overdue videos. So I have to go downstairs and get the purse so I can make a list and start the library book scavenger hunt, but I'm too tired. I'm procrastinating by writing this incoherent thing on my blog. We're so tired and overprogrammed right now. We're sucking innocent people like Nigel and Kim into the vortex of our scheduling insanity. We're stacking up complex scheduling schemes combined with tricky childcare plans that lead to wackiness like my friend (filling in for her 16 year old daughter) trying to take Nigel to her elderly relative's birthday party at a restaurant in Ballard (Her: "How often should I take him to the potty?" Me: "Well, definitely lots more if you let him have any juice or pop at the party." Her: "Oh, rats. I forgot about that part.") I got up at 5:30 this morning to prepare lunches for about everyone who lives here, sack breakfasts for half and sack dinners for the other half. Then I sent Zach off on his overnight field trip to the Conservation site, Tom to work--he would leave promptly at five pm to join Zach for the overnight--then he's planning to arise early, put on a suit and tie inside a two man tent, eat the sack breakfast, and zip back to Bellingham for a hearing tomorrow morning. I dropped Nigel and Porter off with my friend Courtney, ran back home for the Math Club plan I forgot, zipped back to the school, dropped in on Tim's teacher to beg her to keep Tim with her for the hour between the end of his school and the beginning of math club, ran to Alex's room, and got on the bus to go to the District's 1880 pioneer farm site for an all-day field trip. I was the butter churning mom. It doesn't seem like tramping around on a sunny but cold frontier farm could wear you out, but I took a nap on the bus ride home while Alex sang "Green Grow the Rushes-O" at the top of his lungs. When I got to the school, I discovered that Tim had accidentally boarded the bus. His teacher made a heroic effort to catch the bus (she's a serious marathoner--witnesses say she did her best) but he ended up having a little ride around the neighborhood (Now I know Scott's whole route! he said cheerfully). I got back to school in time to retrieve him from the bus and start Math Club. Then we ran to Courtneys for the baby and the dog, dropped by home for the baseball gear and the sack dinner, and headed to baseball practice. We got home from THAT in time to have a late snack of hashbrowns and to take my sweet neighbor's little girls when she went into labor. Now everyone is asleep. Tomorrow morning I start teaching at 6:45 am. I need to tidy up the house. I need to put breakfast out on the table. Lunches are half made, backpacks haven't been emptied. Alex has a baseball game, Zach has scouts. I need to prepare for 13 lessons tomorrow, and I had BETTER get those stupid library cards. But I'm too tired, so I'm just sitting here typing, waiting for Godot, asking myself all the existential questions and finding no answers.
I do not work as hard as those frontier women did. I do not grapple with the basic issues of survival every day. My hectic life is pretty shallow, meaningless even in its myriad, tortuous details.
I need Tom to walk in, banish the housekeeping till tomorrow, forcibly shut down the computer, and send me to bed.
I'm really, really tired right now, tired beyond the point of being able to think, hours past the time when I should have curled up in bed. I would love to be in bed, but I'm too tired to go. I need to go downstairs and get my purse, extract the four library cards I carry in a little zippered pocket inside the purse, and click on over to the Bellingham Public Library website, where I can find out the names of our overdue books. There are probably lots of them, because we went to the library during spring break and each of the kids got about forty. That was a long time ago. The library used to send me email alerts, but when I was in there with all the kids, Nigel stamping the due date all over every available inch of skin, Tim shoving DVDs and comic books in my face every 30 seconds and begging, "PLEASE, Mom, PLEEEEEEEEASE?" Alex grabbing the video out of his stack and running back to exchange it every time the librarian got ready to scan the barcode and Zach reverting into that Zen state where he tugs rhythmically on my sleeve while chanting, "Mom...Mom...Mom...Mom...Mom...Mom...Mom"--while all that was happening, the librarian and I decided it was a good time to change my email address on all the accounts. Not surprisingly, we must have gotten it wrong, because I've not received a warning and now I have 160 overdue books and 4 very overdue videos. So I have to go downstairs and get the purse so I can make a list and start the library book scavenger hunt, but I'm too tired. I'm procrastinating by writing this incoherent thing on my blog. We're so tired and overprogrammed right now. We're sucking innocent people like Nigel and Kim into the vortex of our scheduling insanity. We're stacking up complex scheduling schemes combined with tricky childcare plans that lead to wackiness like my friend (filling in for her 16 year old daughter) trying to take Nigel to her elderly relative's birthday party at a restaurant in Ballard (Her: "How often should I take him to the potty?" Me: "Well, definitely lots more if you let him have any juice or pop at the party." Her: "Oh, rats. I forgot about that part.") I got up at 5:30 this morning to prepare lunches for about everyone who lives here, sack breakfasts for half and sack dinners for the other half. Then I sent Zach off on his overnight field trip to the Conservation site, Tom to work--he would leave promptly at five pm to join Zach for the overnight--then he's planning to arise early, put on a suit and tie inside a two man tent, eat the sack breakfast, and zip back to Bellingham for a hearing tomorrow morning. I dropped Nigel and Porter off with my friend Courtney, ran back home for the Math Club plan I forgot, zipped back to the school, dropped in on Tim's teacher to beg her to keep Tim with her for the hour between the end of his school and the beginning of math club, ran to Alex's room, and got on the bus to go to the District's 1880 pioneer farm site for an all-day field trip. I was the butter churning mom. It doesn't seem like tramping around on a sunny but cold frontier farm could wear you out, but I took a nap on the bus ride home while Alex sang "Green Grow the Rushes-O" at the top of his lungs. When I got to the school, I discovered that Tim had accidentally boarded the bus. His teacher made a heroic effort to catch the bus (she's a serious marathoner--witnesses say she did her best) but he ended up having a little ride around the neighborhood (Now I know Scott's whole route! he said cheerfully). I got back to school in time to retrieve him from the bus and start Math Club. Then we ran to Courtneys for the baby and the dog, dropped by home for the baseball gear and the sack dinner, and headed to baseball practice. We got home from THAT in time to have a late snack of hashbrowns and to take my sweet neighbor's little girls when she went into labor. Now everyone is asleep. Tomorrow morning I start teaching at 6:45 am. I need to tidy up the house. I need to put breakfast out on the table. Lunches are half made, backpacks haven't been emptied. Alex has a baseball game, Zach has scouts. I need to prepare for 13 lessons tomorrow, and I had BETTER get those stupid library cards. But I'm too tired, so I'm just sitting here typing, waiting for Godot, asking myself all the existential questions and finding no answers.
I do not work as hard as those frontier women did. I do not grapple with the basic issues of survival every day. My hectic life is pretty shallow, meaningless even in its myriad, tortuous details.
I need Tom to walk in, banish the housekeeping till tomorrow, forcibly shut down the computer, and send me to bed.
Friday, April 21, 2006
Just Kid Stuff
Just a few choice Tims from the last few days:
**Timary**
Me: Hi Tim! How was school?
Tim: Not much to say. Anything new for me?
Me: Yes, actually! I talked to Emily today and you get to start your very own swimming lessons next week!
Tim: (eyes shining) That's incredible! I promise to behave even better than I do at school. MUCH better...well, not at all like I do at Primary!
Mom: Tim, we need to talk about how you behave at Primary.
Tim: (totally to himself) Argh! Why did I have to bring THAT up! (to me) Mom, the problem is the boredom. Then after I get bored, that activates the bad behavior.
Mom: You mean there's nothing you can do about it? It just gets activated?
(there ensues a brief discussion of free will which ends with Mom, hoping to stimulate new interest in sharing and singing time, clarifying)
So, do you think you might be able to make the choice NOT to be bored?
Tim: Mom, it's making the choice to bust up the boredom that ends up with the bad behavior.
**Timnemonics**
Tim, studying a map: How can you remember that it goes North, East, South, West?
Tom: (encouraging Tim's creativity--ha!) What do you think?
Tim: How about Never Eat Stinky Wolves?
**Tim's Megamoves**
Tim: (Whirling around the kitchen while doing random high kicks and flailing his arms passionately) Want to know what's Tim's Megamoves?
Me: Of course!
Tim: It's a combination of dance and fighting used for self defense. (more wild Megamoves)
Me: (trying hard not to laugh) I love it!
Tim: Yeah? Maybe next I'll try a combo of football and wrestling. That should be fun!
**Tim at Work**
It's a half day, usually used by the kids to invite friends over, but not this time. This time I'm making them do tons of work. Tim's assignment is in the living room. He walks aimlessly around, kicking at the stuff on the ground, groaning and literally grabbing his head in frustration. Finally, he raises his hands and yells, "Can't a kid enjoy his day off?"
Today's Nigel's birthday. He's three. That's the icky age as far as I'm concerned. Nigel's a weird combination, though. He's very obedient but it seems he still needs to assert himself. So he'll assert himself ONCE, make everybody thoroughly miserable while he does it, then ever after strictly obey whatever rule was enforced. We've never had one like that before. It's like he's the parenting simulator--all parents should get to practice discipline on him. Think how great we'd be if we'd had him first?
A couple of weeks ago he decided that he was NEVER going to drink from a cup with a lid on again. Big boy now, no lids. I've very carelessly allowed him to take his "Sponge Bob Milky Cup" downstairs while he watches Dragon Tales. He always wakes up grouchy and hates it when all "the brothers" leave for school. I just think of him like an adult with coffee and a newspaper. He needs half an hour with Zac, Weezy, Ord, Cassie, and an extra tall Milky before he can get the day going. I haven't worried about him carrying the cup downstairs because it's one of those super valves only bionic toddler sucking action can open.
All fine until two Fridays ago when he decided he was going to take the double tall down without a lid. I said no. No lid in the kitchen, okay. No lid downstairs, NO KAY! Forty five minutes of serious tantrum later, he darted over, grabbed the glass, and ran for the stairs. I had been ignoring his tantrum so I was a little slow on the hot pursuit. When he saw me gaining on him, he followed through with the instinctive action of all cornered criminals--he tried to get rid of the evidence.
All I can say in my defense is that my patience had been worn down by the lengthy tantrum. Certainly whatever was left of it vanished at the sight of milk dripping down the walls and stairs. I grabbed the glass, which still had a half an inch of milk in it and... It took him about an hour to stop sobbing broken-heartedly. I think he's forgiven, but he hasn't forgotten, because if you ask him, "Why is Mommy sorry?" he'll answer, "She pour milk on me." If you ask, "Why are you sorry?" he'll answer, "I pour milk on the floor and stairs." And if you happen to be the first one up with him in the morning, he'll ask, "Can I have Sponge Bob Puppy Milky please...WIF LID."
**Timary**
Me: Hi Tim! How was school?
Tim: Not much to say. Anything new for me?
Me: Yes, actually! I talked to Emily today and you get to start your very own swimming lessons next week!
Tim: (eyes shining) That's incredible! I promise to behave even better than I do at school. MUCH better...well, not at all like I do at Primary!
Mom: Tim, we need to talk about how you behave at Primary.
Tim: (totally to himself) Argh! Why did I have to bring THAT up! (to me) Mom, the problem is the boredom. Then after I get bored, that activates the bad behavior.
Mom: You mean there's nothing you can do about it? It just gets activated?
(there ensues a brief discussion of free will which ends with Mom, hoping to stimulate new interest in sharing and singing time, clarifying)
So, do you think you might be able to make the choice NOT to be bored?
Tim: Mom, it's making the choice to bust up the boredom that ends up with the bad behavior.
**Timnemonics**
Tim, studying a map: How can you remember that it goes North, East, South, West?
Tom: (encouraging Tim's creativity--ha!) What do you think?
Tim: How about Never Eat Stinky Wolves?
**Tim's Megamoves**
Tim: (Whirling around the kitchen while doing random high kicks and flailing his arms passionately) Want to know what's Tim's Megamoves?
Me: Of course!
Tim: It's a combination of dance and fighting used for self defense. (more wild Megamoves)
Me: (trying hard not to laugh) I love it!
Tim: Yeah? Maybe next I'll try a combo of football and wrestling. That should be fun!
**Tim at Work**
It's a half day, usually used by the kids to invite friends over, but not this time. This time I'm making them do tons of work. Tim's assignment is in the living room. He walks aimlessly around, kicking at the stuff on the ground, groaning and literally grabbing his head in frustration. Finally, he raises his hands and yells, "Can't a kid enjoy his day off?"
Today's Nigel's birthday. He's three. That's the icky age as far as I'm concerned. Nigel's a weird combination, though. He's very obedient but it seems he still needs to assert himself. So he'll assert himself ONCE, make everybody thoroughly miserable while he does it, then ever after strictly obey whatever rule was enforced. We've never had one like that before. It's like he's the parenting simulator--all parents should get to practice discipline on him. Think how great we'd be if we'd had him first?
A couple of weeks ago he decided that he was NEVER going to drink from a cup with a lid on again. Big boy now, no lids. I've very carelessly allowed him to take his "Sponge Bob Milky Cup" downstairs while he watches Dragon Tales. He always wakes up grouchy and hates it when all "the brothers" leave for school. I just think of him like an adult with coffee and a newspaper. He needs half an hour with Zac, Weezy, Ord, Cassie, and an extra tall Milky before he can get the day going. I haven't worried about him carrying the cup downstairs because it's one of those super valves only bionic toddler sucking action can open.
All fine until two Fridays ago when he decided he was going to take the double tall down without a lid. I said no. No lid in the kitchen, okay. No lid downstairs, NO KAY! Forty five minutes of serious tantrum later, he darted over, grabbed the glass, and ran for the stairs. I had been ignoring his tantrum so I was a little slow on the hot pursuit. When he saw me gaining on him, he followed through with the instinctive action of all cornered criminals--he tried to get rid of the evidence.
All I can say in my defense is that my patience had been worn down by the lengthy tantrum. Certainly whatever was left of it vanished at the sight of milk dripping down the walls and stairs. I grabbed the glass, which still had a half an inch of milk in it and... It took him about an hour to stop sobbing broken-heartedly. I think he's forgiven, but he hasn't forgotten, because if you ask him, "Why is Mommy sorry?" he'll answer, "She pour milk on me." If you ask, "Why are you sorry?" he'll answer, "I pour milk on the floor and stairs." And if you happen to be the first one up with him in the morning, he'll ask, "Can I have Sponge Bob Puppy Milky please...WIF LID."
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Planting the Garden
This weekend was THE weekend when the garden suddenly called out and said it was ready for plants. Unfortunately, Tom wasn’t around to hear it this year. I guess that means we’re doing it my way this time. What a pity.
The garden falls into a category that makes me nervous. Like other detail work (financial management, housecleaning, laundry, proofreading), I always suspect I’m doing it wrong. Unless I have a big book (or my mom) to advise me, I just use the rule of thumb that I’d better do more of whatever I wish I didn’t have to do at all. In the case of the garden, that means I pulled all the weeds that had grown over the winter. It ought to be satisfying to look out there and see that big empty patch of brown soil, but it isn’t. That’s because we’ve never done it that way before.
Actually, I’ve never done anything at all. And Tom’s never done anything like that. The first year, he just chose the patch of lawn he wanted to turn into a garden, dug up big chunks of grass and topsoil, flipped the chunks over to make a bare space instead of a grassy space, and threw in the plants. Last year, he covered the huge weedy mess with several layers of newspaper, dumped two loads of mushroom compost on the newspaper, and shoved the plants in. I don’t mean to say he doesn’t work hard. He does. He just doesn’t do it anyone else’s way.
Plenty of people are dubious of his techniques, but the plants love him. Maybe they find a kindred spirit in his pure optimism. After all, what is a seedling but an expression of undaunted faith? Tom doesn’t fertilize, or even water all that much, and he weeds pretty sporadically, but his enthusiasm must be contagious, because we’ve had a terrific garden every year.
Our fabulous gardener neighbors are dumbfounded. There was the year they gazed incredulously on our tiny tomato plants braving the March rains. They tactfully mentioned the date when fear of frost is gone in this area—perhaps he didn’t know? Actually, Tom doesn’t fear much of anything, and that includes frost. His tomatoes had a spectacularly long growing season and produced from July to October. Then there was the year he planted watermelon, a big oops in the soggy, tepid Northwest. One of our neighbors thought that was so funny, she planted a fake from the fruit stand under the vine just to get a laugh. The last laugh was Tom’s, though, because he successfully produced not one but TWO watermelons. Everyone else uses elaborate fences and netting to protect their crops from deer; Tom fends them off with a couple of rags soaked in coyote urine (don’t ask).
So it was too bad he was gone this weekend. If he’d been here, we’d have a full-fledged garden instead of just a bare patch of earth. That garden, planted in whatever crazy way he’s chosen, is one of my favorite things about him: his cheerful optimism alive and growing outside the studio window.
The garden falls into a category that makes me nervous. Like other detail work (financial management, housecleaning, laundry, proofreading), I always suspect I’m doing it wrong. Unless I have a big book (or my mom) to advise me, I just use the rule of thumb that I’d better do more of whatever I wish I didn’t have to do at all. In the case of the garden, that means I pulled all the weeds that had grown over the winter. It ought to be satisfying to look out there and see that big empty patch of brown soil, but it isn’t. That’s because we’ve never done it that way before.
Actually, I’ve never done anything at all. And Tom’s never done anything like that. The first year, he just chose the patch of lawn he wanted to turn into a garden, dug up big chunks of grass and topsoil, flipped the chunks over to make a bare space instead of a grassy space, and threw in the plants. Last year, he covered the huge weedy mess with several layers of newspaper, dumped two loads of mushroom compost on the newspaper, and shoved the plants in. I don’t mean to say he doesn’t work hard. He does. He just doesn’t do it anyone else’s way.
Plenty of people are dubious of his techniques, but the plants love him. Maybe they find a kindred spirit in his pure optimism. After all, what is a seedling but an expression of undaunted faith? Tom doesn’t fertilize, or even water all that much, and he weeds pretty sporadically, but his enthusiasm must be contagious, because we’ve had a terrific garden every year.
Our fabulous gardener neighbors are dumbfounded. There was the year they gazed incredulously on our tiny tomato plants braving the March rains. They tactfully mentioned the date when fear of frost is gone in this area—perhaps he didn’t know? Actually, Tom doesn’t fear much of anything, and that includes frost. His tomatoes had a spectacularly long growing season and produced from July to October. Then there was the year he planted watermelon, a big oops in the soggy, tepid Northwest. One of our neighbors thought that was so funny, she planted a fake from the fruit stand under the vine just to get a laugh. The last laugh was Tom’s, though, because he successfully produced not one but TWO watermelons. Everyone else uses elaborate fences and netting to protect their crops from deer; Tom fends them off with a couple of rags soaked in coyote urine (don’t ask).
So it was too bad he was gone this weekend. If he’d been here, we’d have a full-fledged garden instead of just a bare patch of earth. That garden, planted in whatever crazy way he’s chosen, is one of my favorite things about him: his cheerful optimism alive and growing outside the studio window.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Heads Up
I just got an email from my b-i-l Brett about the brilliant soccer play of his daughter Lucy. It's such a great story, it deserves wider readership. Here it is, totally without permission:
"She scored a great goal the other day. The goalie caught one of her shots and then proceeded to put the ball on the corner of the box to kick it. Everyone backed off and waited. For those who know soccer, you know that when the goalie catches an in-bounds shot, he can throw it, kick it, roll it, whatever, but he doesn't set it up for a kick unless it goes out of bounds. As the goalie backed up to kick the ball, Lucy (the only player on the field that even moved) ran in and just killed a shot into the bottom corner of the net. There was complete silence. The ref retrieved the ball and said to Lucy in a mad voice, "what the heck do you think you're doing?"
Lucy glanced at me, her confidence wavering. Then it hit me. That was a goal! She had just made one of the most heads up plays I've ever seen in a soccer game. Then it hit her coach, who yelled at the ref. "hey! thats a goal!" The ref thought for a moment, and blew his whistle. "Goal!" he yelled. Then he apologized to Lucy and they won the game."
"She scored a great goal the other day. The goalie caught one of her shots and then proceeded to put the ball on the corner of the box to kick it. Everyone backed off and waited. For those who know soccer, you know that when the goalie catches an in-bounds shot, he can throw it, kick it, roll it, whatever, but he doesn't set it up for a kick unless it goes out of bounds. As the goalie backed up to kick the ball, Lucy (the only player on the field that even moved) ran in and just killed a shot into the bottom corner of the net. There was complete silence. The ref retrieved the ball and said to Lucy in a mad voice, "what the heck do you think you're doing?"
Lucy glanced at me, her confidence wavering. Then it hit me. That was a goal! She had just made one of the most heads up plays I've ever seen in a soccer game. Then it hit her coach, who yelled at the ref. "hey! thats a goal!" The ref thought for a moment, and blew his whistle. "Goal!" he yelled. Then he apologized to Lucy and they won the game."
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
With Tim, Anything is Possible
This week we had an extremely rare Monday night FHE. For whatever reason, the kids had decided that they NEEDED to go to the dollar store to blow some fresh earnings on pathetically cheap plastic junk. I hate the dollar store. It’s the ultimate Wal-Mart—buying purely for the pathological joy of buying—of seeing, coveting, and owning a thing. Everyone who shops there, even my kids, knows that the thing they are buying is just a 3-D image etched in plastic. They might as well buy a picture of a gun as the thing they do buy at the dollar store. They always cry, though. They know it won’t work, they know it will break, but they still cry when it does. Watching a kid waste his money is not pleasant, but watching him waste it at the dollar store is something else. The dollar store is the ugly underbelly of our consumption mad society.
So it seemed a bit ironic to ME that Tom decided to dissuade the kids from wasting their money by teaching them an FHE lesson about…Warren Buffett. Tom owned a candy store when he was little. He made a killing off the neighborhood kids. Those of you who have discussed politics recently with him probably have the mistaken belief that he’s a left coast socialist. No way. He’s a die-hard capitalist, and like any good capitalist, after the lesson he carted off his eager-to-spend offspring and let them buy junk food for resale—at school.
When I found out about this plan, I tried hard to stop it. I pointed out that the Bellingham School District has just adopted a draconian nutrition policy which makes it a felony to be in possession of a Twinkie on school grounds. I pointed out that even if Tom is an unreconstructed capitalist, the schools are hotbeds of socialism, and any type of activity for profit (except, of course, the book fair) is strictly forbidden. I warned the kids that they would get sent to the principal’s office and threatened Tom that he would have to take the disciplinary calls. They all looked at me with amusement and told me not to be so paranoid.
Tim took his lollipops in his lunch box. He planned to sell them for 50 cents a pop. As he later told me, lots of kids (!) were interested, but none had thought to bring cash to school. Finally, he found a taker who actually had a quarter on him. They were just doing the deal when the lunchroom duty swept down and carted Tim off to…the Principal’s office. Tim was sanguine, though. “Well, I just thought I’d try it, and then if I couldn’t do it, the Principal would tell me, and I would stop. Mom, can I take some lollipops to Cub Scouts?”
I have to share some other Tim events:
Last week, while praying, he uttered the phrase, “Bless me to believe in my religion…(inaudible mumble)…” After he finished I asked him what “Mumble, mumble, mumble” was. He looked at me regretfully and said, “Because sometimes I doubt it.” I gave him a hug and asked him to tell me what things he wondered about. “Well, Mom,” he said, “Sometimes I think, what happens if there isn’t anything after we die? Maybe that’s just IT. Or maybe we keep coming back again and again as other people.” We went on to have an interesting conversation, but I thought, THAT’S the problem with Primary!!! They’re playing matching games while Tim is wondering about reincarnation!
My other recent favorite: Nigel had a friend, Amanda, over on Saturday and they found a old box of accordion fold computer paper someone had given me. While I was out of the room (five minutes, I swear, five minutes!) Amanda pulled the ENTIRE box of paper out and created a huge pile in the game room. Nigel, my obsessive-compulsive child, was standing by the door wringing his hands when I came back. In great distress he started crying, “I’m sorry, Mommy! I’m sorry, Mommy. We made a big mess! I’m sorry, Mommy.” I asked the boys to help me clean it up. Tim looked at the mess, looked at me, and then said, “Mom, this mess is almost bigger than my love for you.”
So it seemed a bit ironic to ME that Tom decided to dissuade the kids from wasting their money by teaching them an FHE lesson about…Warren Buffett. Tom owned a candy store when he was little. He made a killing off the neighborhood kids. Those of you who have discussed politics recently with him probably have the mistaken belief that he’s a left coast socialist. No way. He’s a die-hard capitalist, and like any good capitalist, after the lesson he carted off his eager-to-spend offspring and let them buy junk food for resale—at school.
When I found out about this plan, I tried hard to stop it. I pointed out that the Bellingham School District has just adopted a draconian nutrition policy which makes it a felony to be in possession of a Twinkie on school grounds. I pointed out that even if Tom is an unreconstructed capitalist, the schools are hotbeds of socialism, and any type of activity for profit (except, of course, the book fair) is strictly forbidden. I warned the kids that they would get sent to the principal’s office and threatened Tom that he would have to take the disciplinary calls. They all looked at me with amusement and told me not to be so paranoid.
Tim took his lollipops in his lunch box. He planned to sell them for 50 cents a pop. As he later told me, lots of kids (!) were interested, but none had thought to bring cash to school. Finally, he found a taker who actually had a quarter on him. They were just doing the deal when the lunchroom duty swept down and carted Tim off to…the Principal’s office. Tim was sanguine, though. “Well, I just thought I’d try it, and then if I couldn’t do it, the Principal would tell me, and I would stop. Mom, can I take some lollipops to Cub Scouts?”
I have to share some other Tim events:
Last week, while praying, he uttered the phrase, “Bless me to believe in my religion…(inaudible mumble)…” After he finished I asked him what “Mumble, mumble, mumble” was. He looked at me regretfully and said, “Because sometimes I doubt it.” I gave him a hug and asked him to tell me what things he wondered about. “Well, Mom,” he said, “Sometimes I think, what happens if there isn’t anything after we die? Maybe that’s just IT. Or maybe we keep coming back again and again as other people.” We went on to have an interesting conversation, but I thought, THAT’S the problem with Primary!!! They’re playing matching games while Tim is wondering about reincarnation!
My other recent favorite: Nigel had a friend, Amanda, over on Saturday and they found a old box of accordion fold computer paper someone had given me. While I was out of the room (five minutes, I swear, five minutes!) Amanda pulled the ENTIRE box of paper out and created a huge pile in the game room. Nigel, my obsessive-compulsive child, was standing by the door wringing his hands when I came back. In great distress he started crying, “I’m sorry, Mommy! I’m sorry, Mommy. We made a big mess! I’m sorry, Mommy.” I asked the boys to help me clean it up. Tim looked at the mess, looked at me, and then said, “Mom, this mess is almost bigger than my love for you.”
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
A Friend in Need
Tonight I got the worst possible request for service a Bishopric can deliver. They ask you for this when they’re pretty sure you’ll say yes to anything. I won’t dignify it by saying it’s a calling. I definitely won’t be set apart, and even the Bishopric will probably be avoiding me for a few weeks. It isn’t a calling, and I’m pretty sure that I wasn’t summoned in by inspiration.
No, it was desperation, and go ahead and put on your smugly pitying looks, all you who can at least pray for comfort in your time of trial. I’m the Friends of Scouting Campaign Coordinator. No, I’m not kidding. It’s like someone taped a “Kick Me” sign to my back last week in church. The (VERY!) tactful bishopric member involved later said to Tom, “I think Julia might have grimaced a bit.” Actually, my entire face scrunched up into a mute scream of agony while Tom tactfully nudged my ankle with his toe in his classic “Bear up and do not say idiotic things” manner.
SIDEBAR. I hate it when he does this. It is usually a real effort to prevent myself from turning to him and yelling “WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY?!?!!” I usually relieve my irritation by amplifying the behavior he’s trying to stop with his tactful nudges.
To a crescendo of said tactful nudges, I recklessly admitted my loathing for campaign drives in general and FOS in particular, cast aspersions on the cadre of people currently working as “Professional Scouters,” grumbled about the high overhead of the BSA, and proposed that perhaps the church should leave Scouting.
The kindly bishopric member reflectively listened to all I said; admired my willingness to say yes to any job, no matter how difficult; promised a supply of envelopes and labels; and sent me off to tomorrow night’s kickoff and rally at the Stake Center.
Bryan, I’m working. Really. You can take the pins out of the voodoo doll, especially the one stabbed through my back. Please? I can’t take much more.
No, it was desperation, and go ahead and put on your smugly pitying looks, all you who can at least pray for comfort in your time of trial. I’m the Friends of Scouting Campaign Coordinator. No, I’m not kidding. It’s like someone taped a “Kick Me” sign to my back last week in church. The (VERY!) tactful bishopric member involved later said to Tom, “I think Julia might have grimaced a bit.” Actually, my entire face scrunched up into a mute scream of agony while Tom tactfully nudged my ankle with his toe in his classic “Bear up and do not say idiotic things” manner.
SIDEBAR. I hate it when he does this. It is usually a real effort to prevent myself from turning to him and yelling “WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY?!?!!” I usually relieve my irritation by amplifying the behavior he’s trying to stop with his tactful nudges.
To a crescendo of said tactful nudges, I recklessly admitted my loathing for campaign drives in general and FOS in particular, cast aspersions on the cadre of people currently working as “Professional Scouters,” grumbled about the high overhead of the BSA, and proposed that perhaps the church should leave Scouting.
The kindly bishopric member reflectively listened to all I said; admired my willingness to say yes to any job, no matter how difficult; promised a supply of envelopes and labels; and sent me off to tomorrow night’s kickoff and rally at the Stake Center.
Bryan, I’m working. Really. You can take the pins out of the voodoo doll, especially the one stabbed through my back. Please? I can’t take much more.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
My Footsteps are Dogged
Almost one year ago, we got a dog. We got a dog because...well, honestly, it wasn't because Alex begged for one. He started begging for a dog when he was three, but he's been begging to dig a large hole in the yard for even longer than that and I've managed to resist. It wasn't because Tom wanted a dog. He didn't. He tactfully abstained from voting on the dog because everyone else was voting "for" and it seemed mean to vote against. It wasn't because of any of the other kids either--Zach and Tim tolerate the dog, Nigel thinks he is a dog.
No, the dog...the dog is mine. I think I wanted a dog because of Madeline L'Engle's "Meet the Austins" and Shiela Hocken's "Emma and I." Big, mellow, protective, loving, wise dogs inhabit those classic books. Once you actually have a dog, if you go back and read the books again, you will notice that Emma and Mr. Rochester save lives and act brilliantly but also sneak food, chew up important things, have to go to the vet, get muddy paws, growl at cats and other neighborhood dogs, and so on. Dog people just assume that this behavior comes with the dog. Non-dog people are shocked.
Non-dog people are surprised to discover that dogs eat toys. Last month unvarnished blocks were the flavor of the month. I think P-boy destroyed about 100. It was a large though cheap set--probably just $10 for all the blocks--and rarely played with. No tears were shed by kids. This month it's plastic dinosaurs. True, no one ever plays with the dinosaurs either, but the dinosaur bin is regularly taken out and dumped on the floor. I have a certain affection for them because I've been putting them away since Zach was a baby. They were a hand-me-down from a friend whose son had grown out of his dinosaur craze. They've been great--big, easily identified, fast to clean up. About half the population has disappeared this weekend alone, and losses are mounting. At this pace they'll be extinct by about Wednesday.
Why is he eating dinosaurs? I don't know!! Why is he in his eighth month of allergic reactions to something? I don't know that either! The vet STILL thinks it's food related, and no, the duck and potato dog food has NOT solved the problem. Next he gets to try kangaroo meat. No, I'm not kidding. I guess kangaroos are more a pest than an exotic and endangered species, but it still seems wrong to feed kangaroos to a regular house pet.
And ARRRRGH!!! The mud puddle problem!!! The large hole Porter dug in the yard is now full of rain water and every time he runs out, he heads straight for it and jumps in. Full immersion. After a week or so of yelling at him every time he left the house I had made him completely neurotic about relieving himself without ending the mud puddle behavior. Now every time I open the door for him, we spend a few seconds eyeing each other warily and half the time he'll walk to the end of the deck, look longingly into the yard, and come back without doing his thing, only to beg to be let out a few seconds later.
Yesterday, something amazing happened though. We sat down to dinner and Porter was walking around moodily waiting for someone to notice that he hadn't been fed, when suddenly, without warning or reminder, Alex jumped up, grabbed the dog dish, and filled it up! YES!!! I'm not kidding!!! We got the dog because I wanted to become the Austins. Is it working? We're becoming less materialistic because Porter is eating all the kids's toys and consuming a large portion of our disposable income in the form of kangaroo meat dog food. We're becoming fitter because we have no choice other than to walk the dog. The boys have learned to jump in and do a dirty task by scooping significant quantities of poop. And now...could it be...Alex is learning responsibility for a living being by remembering to feed the hungry dog?
Isn't that the way life is! One year ago when I baked a pan full of bone shaped pretzels and invited our friends over for the adoption ceremony, these were exactly the results I was picturing, just via a very different path. How very many times I have tasted this same experience in slightly different flavors--I need to be more careful what I ask for, because I keep on getting it.
No, the dog...the dog is mine. I think I wanted a dog because of Madeline L'Engle's "Meet the Austins" and Shiela Hocken's "Emma and I." Big, mellow, protective, loving, wise dogs inhabit those classic books. Once you actually have a dog, if you go back and read the books again, you will notice that Emma and Mr. Rochester save lives and act brilliantly but also sneak food, chew up important things, have to go to the vet, get muddy paws, growl at cats and other neighborhood dogs, and so on. Dog people just assume that this behavior comes with the dog. Non-dog people are shocked.
Non-dog people are surprised to discover that dogs eat toys. Last month unvarnished blocks were the flavor of the month. I think P-boy destroyed about 100. It was a large though cheap set--probably just $10 for all the blocks--and rarely played with. No tears were shed by kids. This month it's plastic dinosaurs. True, no one ever plays with the dinosaurs either, but the dinosaur bin is regularly taken out and dumped on the floor. I have a certain affection for them because I've been putting them away since Zach was a baby. They were a hand-me-down from a friend whose son had grown out of his dinosaur craze. They've been great--big, easily identified, fast to clean up. About half the population has disappeared this weekend alone, and losses are mounting. At this pace they'll be extinct by about Wednesday.
Why is he eating dinosaurs? I don't know!! Why is he in his eighth month of allergic reactions to something? I don't know that either! The vet STILL thinks it's food related, and no, the duck and potato dog food has NOT solved the problem. Next he gets to try kangaroo meat. No, I'm not kidding. I guess kangaroos are more a pest than an exotic and endangered species, but it still seems wrong to feed kangaroos to a regular house pet.
And ARRRRGH!!! The mud puddle problem!!! The large hole Porter dug in the yard is now full of rain water and every time he runs out, he heads straight for it and jumps in. Full immersion. After a week or so of yelling at him every time he left the house I had made him completely neurotic about relieving himself without ending the mud puddle behavior. Now every time I open the door for him, we spend a few seconds eyeing each other warily and half the time he'll walk to the end of the deck, look longingly into the yard, and come back without doing his thing, only to beg to be let out a few seconds later.
Yesterday, something amazing happened though. We sat down to dinner and Porter was walking around moodily waiting for someone to notice that he hadn't been fed, when suddenly, without warning or reminder, Alex jumped up, grabbed the dog dish, and filled it up! YES!!! I'm not kidding!!! We got the dog because I wanted to become the Austins. Is it working? We're becoming less materialistic because Porter is eating all the kids's toys and consuming a large portion of our disposable income in the form of kangaroo meat dog food. We're becoming fitter because we have no choice other than to walk the dog. The boys have learned to jump in and do a dirty task by scooping significant quantities of poop. And now...could it be...Alex is learning responsibility for a living being by remembering to feed the hungry dog?
Isn't that the way life is! One year ago when I baked a pan full of bone shaped pretzels and invited our friends over for the adoption ceremony, these were exactly the results I was picturing, just via a very different path. How very many times I have tasted this same experience in slightly different flavors--I need to be more careful what I ask for, because I keep on getting it.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Thoughts from the Bank
December came and went suddenly. Tom says it was his most peaceful Christmas ever. I don't remember any of the holiday season. The first part of December, when I usually ease into the season, listen to Christmas music, go to rehearsals and soak up the Christmas spirit, was absorbed by saying goodbye to Grandma. While I was gone to Pullman the first time, Tom knocked a picture off the wall, one that had a big collection of photos in it. One of them was my favorite picture of Grandma--a picture I took at Stu's wedding. I'm still waiting to replace the frame, so I took the picture out and stuck it on my fridge, just at eye level. So often during this crazy season as I've been in the kitchen cooking or cleaning, I've whipped around to get something out of the fridge and found her just behind me, smiling and watching me. A few times it's made me cry. Once it made me apologize and scrape out some eggs with my finger. Sometimes I talk to her. Mostly I just feel the warmth of her presence and her watchful, opinionated, loving eye watching over everything I do.
I promised her in the hospital that I was going to make some changes, and I have. I came home and told Tom to hire a paralegal. I'd been sliding into the paralegal job, enjoying working for him, and gradually letting Nigel spend more time with babysitters. We were considering a lovely Montessori school for Nigel three mornings a week. Tom's doing well, but I was feeling pressure to earn more, pay debt back faster, and I do enjoy working with Tom. Isn't it strange how you can suddenly be jolted out of the flow of your life and find yourself sitting off at the side watching the river flow on? Just a moment ago, you were being swept along with the current, you were feeling the urgency of the next boulder, the waterfall coming up, swimming hard, positioning yourself, meeting the crises just barely in time. Then, it's only been a moment, but everything's changed. You're sitting on the bank and none of it matters at all. That's how I still feel right now. Who cares where we live, where we vacation, what we drive? I want to spend my time ONLY on the things that seem important from the bank.
I promised her in the hospital that I was going to make some changes, and I have. I came home and told Tom to hire a paralegal. I'd been sliding into the paralegal job, enjoying working for him, and gradually letting Nigel spend more time with babysitters. We were considering a lovely Montessori school for Nigel three mornings a week. Tom's doing well, but I was feeling pressure to earn more, pay debt back faster, and I do enjoy working with Tom. Isn't it strange how you can suddenly be jolted out of the flow of your life and find yourself sitting off at the side watching the river flow on? Just a moment ago, you were being swept along with the current, you were feeling the urgency of the next boulder, the waterfall coming up, swimming hard, positioning yourself, meeting the crises just barely in time. Then, it's only been a moment, but everything's changed. You're sitting on the bank and none of it matters at all. That's how I still feel right now. Who cares where we live, where we vacation, what we drive? I want to spend my time ONLY on the things that seem important from the bank.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
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