Thursday, December 27, 2007
Clapton: The Autobiography
"Music will always find its way to us, with or without business, politics, religion, or any other bullsh** attached. Music survives everything, and like God, it is always present. It needs no help, and suffers no hindrance. It has always found me, and with God's blessing and permission, it always will." -- Eric Clapton
Monday, December 17, 2007
Toys for Tots
Three very tired children are hitting the bed in the L household shortly, and I could not be prouder as I tuck them in tonight.
We all got up at 4 a.m. to help shop for Toys for Tots and got home about an hour ago from the local organizers' warehouse, where we helped fill orders for distribution. Our 11, 8 and 6-year-olds worked like adults tonight for a Chick-Fil-A sandwich and a deep drink from the well of knowledge.
Filling a bag for a child and understanding that what's inside is a child's entire Christmas has done more for them than any number of sermons, lectures or abstract reminders of their own good fortune. And they've answered their own question:
"If Santa loves all boys and girls, why do we need Toys for Tots?"
"Because one of his gifts to us is the ability to bless others."
"Oh. Santa must have learned that trick from Jesus."
We all got up at 4 a.m. to help shop for Toys for Tots and got home about an hour ago from the local organizers' warehouse, where we helped fill orders for distribution. Our 11, 8 and 6-year-olds worked like adults tonight for a Chick-Fil-A sandwich and a deep drink from the well of knowledge.
Filling a bag for a child and understanding that what's inside is a child's entire Christmas has done more for them than any number of sermons, lectures or abstract reminders of their own good fortune. And they've answered their own question:
"If Santa loves all boys and girls, why do we need Toys for Tots?"
"Because one of his gifts to us is the ability to bless others."
"Oh. Santa must have learned that trick from Jesus."
Saturday, December 15, 2007
"Steve and Me" by Terri Irwin
"Crocodiles are easy. They try to kill and eat you. People are harder. Sometimes they pretend to be your friend first."
-- Steve Irwin
I remember sitting up late, watching Steve Irwin's memorial service and sobbing. We enjoyed his shows when we caught them and thought he was fun, but I wouldn't say we were huge fans. What saddened me more than anything was his wife and the dry-eyed, soul-crushing grief on her face.
Their kind of relationship is one I recognize because I'm fortunate enough to have a similar one with my husband. Pragmatic and unromantic, to some people, but a merged life, the way it ought to be.
Terri Irwin's book is a matter-of-fact story of her life with The Crocodile Hunter. No self-pity, no romanticizing their life together. She leaves you in no doubt about the kind of man he was by simply documenting hundreds of events in which he proved his commitment to and love for the important things in his life. From standing down a half-dozen drunk croc killers to surfing building-high waves, from proposing to Terri ("So, do you want to get married?) to nearly mooning an American television network reporter, Steve Irwin was the man you saw on television plus some.
Nothing juicy or tell-all about this book, but a terrific tribute to a beloved naturalist and one I'd enthusiastically recommend.
-- Steve Irwin
I remember sitting up late, watching Steve Irwin's memorial service and sobbing. We enjoyed his shows when we caught them and thought he was fun, but I wouldn't say we were huge fans. What saddened me more than anything was his wife and the dry-eyed, soul-crushing grief on her face.
Their kind of relationship is one I recognize because I'm fortunate enough to have a similar one with my husband. Pragmatic and unromantic, to some people, but a merged life, the way it ought to be.
Terri Irwin's book is a matter-of-fact story of her life with The Crocodile Hunter. No self-pity, no romanticizing their life together. She leaves you in no doubt about the kind of man he was by simply documenting hundreds of events in which he proved his commitment to and love for the important things in his life. From standing down a half-dozen drunk croc killers to surfing building-high waves, from proposing to Terri ("So, do you want to get married?) to nearly mooning an American television network reporter, Steve Irwin was the man you saw on television plus some.
Nothing juicy or tell-all about this book, but a terrific tribute to a beloved naturalist and one I'd enthusiastically recommend.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Adventures in babysitting
I am looking at a little one right now, giggling at him running around singing, "Ho, ho, ho!" at my stuffed Santa on the hearth.
He is Jackrabbit, the 19-month-old son of my baby brother. He is the babiest of my parents' grandbabies, likely the caboose of the 11-child grandtrain. He has velvety brown eyes and chubby cheeks, and a grin that makes you temporarily forget how naughty he can be. Or, at least, not care.
Yesterday I also had him, because his regular babysitter's child has the 'flu. I made him laugh by tying a big jingle bell to his belt loop, then singing "Jingle Bells" at him every time he shook it.
Seeing my own children with their infinite patience and tenderness toward this child makes my heart swell. Gently and calmly, they keep little hands from trouble, hug and pat and play.
I saw the same respect and care when we visited a retirement home recently, when Larry drew up a chair toward a particularly lonely looking lady, chatting and listening until he had her twinkling and cheery. Curly Sue and Moe made their rounds like jolly fairies, sprinkling smiles and kind words around the room.
Can I really be raising these fine children? An ill-equipped, impatient, overbearing, demanding parent like me? No, it must be God's doing.
Uh-oh. It's taste-test time in Fisher Price land, so I'm off to rescue Sonya Lee.
He is Jackrabbit, the 19-month-old son of my baby brother. He is the babiest of my parents' grandbabies, likely the caboose of the 11-child grandtrain. He has velvety brown eyes and chubby cheeks, and a grin that makes you temporarily forget how naughty he can be. Or, at least, not care.
Yesterday I also had him, because his regular babysitter's child has the 'flu. I made him laugh by tying a big jingle bell to his belt loop, then singing "Jingle Bells" at him every time he shook it.
Seeing my own children with their infinite patience and tenderness toward this child makes my heart swell. Gently and calmly, they keep little hands from trouble, hug and pat and play.
I saw the same respect and care when we visited a retirement home recently, when Larry drew up a chair toward a particularly lonely looking lady, chatting and listening until he had her twinkling and cheery. Curly Sue and Moe made their rounds like jolly fairies, sprinkling smiles and kind words around the room.
Can I really be raising these fine children? An ill-equipped, impatient, overbearing, demanding parent like me? No, it must be God's doing.
Uh-oh. It's taste-test time in Fisher Price land, so I'm off to rescue Sonya Lee.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
"Remember the reason for the season"
That's a really cute catchphrase. It rhymes and everything. Here's another one I like: "Keep Christ in Christmas."
You know what, though? We don't wait until Christmas to learn about Christ. And guess what we found out in our studies? The "X" in "X-mas" is a symbol for Christ. So if you X it out, you're really leaving it in!
Guess what else? We sing Christmas carols in June sometimes. And talk about the humble birth of the baby Jesus when we talk about His work on earth. So at Christmas, if we want to shop ourselves silly, sing "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer" and eat Velveeta-laden casseroles until we throw up, we're still celebrating.
Should we say, "Happy holidays" or "Merry Christmas?" How 'bout both! Along with "How are you today?" and "What can I do to help?" A big, sparkly grin is nice, too, and a much better way to decorate your Christian self than a sequined sweater.
It's great to visit a nursing home at Christmas. It's also great to pay for the McDonald's order of the guy in line behind you on President's Day, rescue a stranded puppy on Easter, buy some groceries for a needy family on the Fourth of July and drive a disabled veteran to his doctor's appointment on Labor Day...all the while, celebrating Christmas.
Let me suggest something: If your main complaint during the holidays is that you don't approve of the music or activities that accompany Christmas these days, perhaps it's you who should think about "the reason for the season."
You know what, though? We don't wait until Christmas to learn about Christ. And guess what we found out in our studies? The "X" in "X-mas" is a symbol for Christ. So if you X it out, you're really leaving it in!
Guess what else? We sing Christmas carols in June sometimes. And talk about the humble birth of the baby Jesus when we talk about His work on earth. So at Christmas, if we want to shop ourselves silly, sing "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer" and eat Velveeta-laden casseroles until we throw up, we're still celebrating.
Should we say, "Happy holidays" or "Merry Christmas?" How 'bout both! Along with "How are you today?" and "What can I do to help?" A big, sparkly grin is nice, too, and a much better way to decorate your Christian self than a sequined sweater.
It's great to visit a nursing home at Christmas. It's also great to pay for the McDonald's order of the guy in line behind you on President's Day, rescue a stranded puppy on Easter, buy some groceries for a needy family on the Fourth of July and drive a disabled veteran to his doctor's appointment on Labor Day...all the while, celebrating Christmas.
Let me suggest something: If your main complaint during the holidays is that you don't approve of the music or activities that accompany Christmas these days, perhaps it's you who should think about "the reason for the season."
Friday, December 7, 2007
I occasionally exhibit at least one fruit of the Spirit
"Oh, the fruit of the Spirit's not a lemon
The fruit of the Spirit's not a lemon
If you wanna be a lemon, you might as well hear it
You can't be a fruit of the Spirit"
Self-control. I know I am capable of exhibiting that particular fruit now, because I resisted the urge to serve it up to people who have given me the what-for about homeschooling.
Our 6-year-old was whimpering about an impressive set of scratches on his torso, which he had obtained in the most glorious falling-out-of-a-tree incident seen in some time at the L homestead. We happened to be sitting in a tiny, crowded waiting room at the time. I asked Moe if he thought he'd live, or if he thought Laertes had scratched him with a poisoned fencing sword, like Hamlet.
Moe acted out a dramatic death scene, then popped open an eyelid, sat up and very seriously said, "Mom, you know it wasn't a fencing sword. It was a real sword. That was part of the trick. He wanted to make sure Hamlet died, remember?"
I apologized for my error and assured him I did remember, and then another thought struck him.
"Mom, Hamlet didn't mean to kill Polonius, right? I mean, I know he was a dirty ol' spy and all, but still, Hamlet didn't know it was Polonius hiding back there. If Hamlet wanted to kill Claudius and not Polonius, why didn't he just throw the curtain back and see who was hiding there?"
I was greatly enjoying the conversation when I happened to glance up to see a circle of staring faces and bugging eyes.
Moments before, a jolly homeschooler-bashing conversation had been running its course among the public schoolers, peppered with the same tired arguments and invoking that one imaginary homeschool family that someone sister's cousin's husband's uncle knows, the family whose children are all three seconds away from permanent retardation purely because their selfish parents who are too lazy to get up in the morning won't allow them to attend school.
Grinning at them all, I resisted the urge to say, "What? Don't they teach Shakespeare in first grade at YOUR school?"
Progress!
The fruit of the Spirit's not a lemon
If you wanna be a lemon, you might as well hear it
You can't be a fruit of the Spirit"
Self-control. I know I am capable of exhibiting that particular fruit now, because I resisted the urge to serve it up to people who have given me the what-for about homeschooling.
Our 6-year-old was whimpering about an impressive set of scratches on his torso, which he had obtained in the most glorious falling-out-of-a-tree incident seen in some time at the L homestead. We happened to be sitting in a tiny, crowded waiting room at the time. I asked Moe if he thought he'd live, or if he thought Laertes had scratched him with a poisoned fencing sword, like Hamlet.
Moe acted out a dramatic death scene, then popped open an eyelid, sat up and very seriously said, "Mom, you know it wasn't a fencing sword. It was a real sword. That was part of the trick. He wanted to make sure Hamlet died, remember?"
I apologized for my error and assured him I did remember, and then another thought struck him.
"Mom, Hamlet didn't mean to kill Polonius, right? I mean, I know he was a dirty ol' spy and all, but still, Hamlet didn't know it was Polonius hiding back there. If Hamlet wanted to kill Claudius and not Polonius, why didn't he just throw the curtain back and see who was hiding there?"
I was greatly enjoying the conversation when I happened to glance up to see a circle of staring faces and bugging eyes.
Moments before, a jolly homeschooler-bashing conversation had been running its course among the public schoolers, peppered with the same tired arguments and invoking that one imaginary homeschool family that someone sister's cousin's husband's uncle knows, the family whose children are all three seconds away from permanent retardation purely because their selfish parents who are too lazy to get up in the morning won't allow them to attend school.
Grinning at them all, I resisted the urge to say, "What? Don't they teach Shakespeare in first grade at YOUR school?"
Progress!
What are you, a comedian?
After being roughly handled by his orthodontist Tuesday, Larry told the doctor he "lacked finesse."
Bwahahahah! *snort*
Bwahahahah! *snort*
Thursday, December 6, 2007
"Am I now trying to win the approval of men, or of God?" -- Gal. 1:10
I just started Beth Moore's "Living Beyond Yourself" Bible study and this jumped out at me. I used to -- and I'm not completely cured, mind you -- worry myself sick over what people thought or said about me.
I am a Christ-follower. I am not perfect. I talk too much and too loudly, I'm bossy and opinionated and my vocabulary gets whittled down to one or two expletives when I'm extremely frustrated. I am a passionate advocate for the downtrodden, my family and friends consider me the go-to girl and I love with more than my words.
I wear shabby sneakers and sweats most days, and my shirts are freebies from Geddy's company. I have a haircut that's practically maintenance-free by design. I'd rather read than eat, but if I can do both at one time, yippee! I yell at my children sometimes. I wear makeup sometimes. I loathe two-faced, gossiping hypocrites, always. Sometimes, I am one.
I vote in every election and my conscience never pricks. I'm impatient, exhausted, angry and grouchy. I'm also generous, kind, fun and goofy. I could make you believe any lie I told, but I choose not to tell lies. I apologize when I'm wrong, which is often.
I believe in heaven and hell, God and Satan and their designs on all of us. I believe that Jesus Christ is the son of God, and not because I'm a weak-minded fool bowing down to a big, bad, tyrannical religion.
There I am, like me or not. I'm best with lots of butter.
I am a Christ-follower. I am not perfect. I talk too much and too loudly, I'm bossy and opinionated and my vocabulary gets whittled down to one or two expletives when I'm extremely frustrated. I am a passionate advocate for the downtrodden, my family and friends consider me the go-to girl and I love with more than my words.
I wear shabby sneakers and sweats most days, and my shirts are freebies from Geddy's company. I have a haircut that's practically maintenance-free by design. I'd rather read than eat, but if I can do both at one time, yippee! I yell at my children sometimes. I wear makeup sometimes. I loathe two-faced, gossiping hypocrites, always. Sometimes, I am one.
I vote in every election and my conscience never pricks. I'm impatient, exhausted, angry and grouchy. I'm also generous, kind, fun and goofy. I could make you believe any lie I told, but I choose not to tell lies. I apologize when I'm wrong, which is often.
I believe in heaven and hell, God and Satan and their designs on all of us. I believe that Jesus Christ is the son of God, and not because I'm a weak-minded fool bowing down to a big, bad, tyrannical religion.
There I am, like me or not. I'm best with lots of butter.
Friday, November 30, 2007
The five books I'd meet in hell
Hours of my life I'll never get back, thanks to:
1. Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser. Assigned reading for a college lit class, this was an agony of a story frequently interrupted by pompous sermons.
2. The Lovely Bones by Alice Seabold. Nothing really is wrong with the writing, but the story is too incredibly tragic and unredeemed.
3. Little Children by Tom Perotta. Any book in which a child molester is the most likeable character is not for me.
4. A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole. Are you kidding me? Made me want to take a shower.
5. Steps in Time: An Autobiography by Fred Astaire. This was the first indication I'd ever had that any person, much less a famous one, could truly not have an interesting story to tell.
1. Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser. Assigned reading for a college lit class, this was an agony of a story frequently interrupted by pompous sermons.
2. The Lovely Bones by Alice Seabold. Nothing really is wrong with the writing, but the story is too incredibly tragic and unredeemed.
3. Little Children by Tom Perotta. Any book in which a child molester is the most likeable character is not for me.
4. A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole. Are you kidding me? Made me want to take a shower.
5. Steps in Time: An Autobiography by Fred Astaire. This was the first indication I'd ever had that any person, much less a famous one, could truly not have an interesting story to tell.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Christmas confessions and rebellions
Dear Santa,
Every year, people starting talking about simplifying. A few handmade gifts each, lots of hot chocolate and cookies and carols and candlelight church services and real greenery and home-baked goodies delivered to neighbors and food and toys for sharing with less fortunate people and most of all...oh, yeah!...a pervading sense of peace and tranquility and plenty.
But when it comes right down to it, what I really want is a Christmas like I had as a child. Big piles of gifts, shiny and curly and straight from the pages of the Sears Wish Book, or behind the big plate-glass window at Otasco. Baby dolls, a tin kitchen, a working cash register, a record player with a yellow plastic record that plays "Jimmy Crack Corn." A Malibu Barbie doll that I can love without having to worry I might want to grow up to be a hooker.
I want to jump on the simplicity bandwagon, but I also want to jump on the foam-rubber sofa cushion where I oh-so-hopefully left my stocking each Christmas eve. I want to say my prayers in front of the fake-brick paper rollout that served as our fireplace. I want to wear a Santa hat without worrying about whether I look foolish or might muss my hair. I want to ride my tricycle in the house, and I want it to be okay when I am just as excited about receiving a gift as I am about giving one.
I want my brother Rowdy to read us to sleep in our bunk beds, and I want Ben to wake up at 4 a.m. to try out everyone's toys and then wake us to tell us how cool they are. I want Bubby and Rally to wish for -- and get! -- BB guns and wood-burning sets. I want to be able to laugh over stories about how, when we lived in a two-bedroom house, my parents tied our door to the bathroom door to keep Ben from getting up at 4 a.m., and how Rowdy had to pee out the window because he couldn't get to the bathroom. And the time my dad stayed up all night to assemble bicycles and tricycles for all five of us and made it to bed about an hour before we got up to try them out.
Really, though? I want to not feel guilty for trying to give my children the kind of Christmases I had. I want people not to judge me because Geddy gets a bonus and we spend it all, plus some. When people find out Larry, Curly Sue and Moe still believe in you, I want them to say good job, for keeping them children as long as possible.
I can't bring my brother back and wouldn't even if I could, nor my mother-in-law, and they both helped make my Christmases memorable. You stopped visiting me a long time ago and I'm more likely to get Paxil than peanuts in my Christmas stocking. But, Santa, if you could let people know it's okay for us to enjoy Christmas this year, I'd really appreciate it.
Love,
Me
Every year, people starting talking about simplifying. A few handmade gifts each, lots of hot chocolate and cookies and carols and candlelight church services and real greenery and home-baked goodies delivered to neighbors and food and toys for sharing with less fortunate people and most of all...oh, yeah!...a pervading sense of peace and tranquility and plenty.
But when it comes right down to it, what I really want is a Christmas like I had as a child. Big piles of gifts, shiny and curly and straight from the pages of the Sears Wish Book, or behind the big plate-glass window at Otasco. Baby dolls, a tin kitchen, a working cash register, a record player with a yellow plastic record that plays "Jimmy Crack Corn." A Malibu Barbie doll that I can love without having to worry I might want to grow up to be a hooker.
I want to jump on the simplicity bandwagon, but I also want to jump on the foam-rubber sofa cushion where I oh-so-hopefully left my stocking each Christmas eve. I want to say my prayers in front of the fake-brick paper rollout that served as our fireplace. I want to wear a Santa hat without worrying about whether I look foolish or might muss my hair. I want to ride my tricycle in the house, and I want it to be okay when I am just as excited about receiving a gift as I am about giving one.
I want my brother Rowdy to read us to sleep in our bunk beds, and I want Ben to wake up at 4 a.m. to try out everyone's toys and then wake us to tell us how cool they are. I want Bubby and Rally to wish for -- and get! -- BB guns and wood-burning sets. I want to be able to laugh over stories about how, when we lived in a two-bedroom house, my parents tied our door to the bathroom door to keep Ben from getting up at 4 a.m., and how Rowdy had to pee out the window because he couldn't get to the bathroom. And the time my dad stayed up all night to assemble bicycles and tricycles for all five of us and made it to bed about an hour before we got up to try them out.
Really, though? I want to not feel guilty for trying to give my children the kind of Christmases I had. I want people not to judge me because Geddy gets a bonus and we spend it all, plus some. When people find out Larry, Curly Sue and Moe still believe in you, I want them to say good job, for keeping them children as long as possible.
I can't bring my brother back and wouldn't even if I could, nor my mother-in-law, and they both helped make my Christmases memorable. You stopped visiting me a long time ago and I'm more likely to get Paxil than peanuts in my Christmas stocking. But, Santa, if you could let people know it's okay for us to enjoy Christmas this year, I'd really appreciate it.
Love,
Me
Monday, November 26, 2007
Because Linus says so!
Nothing puts me more in a Christmas mood than music and television programs I enjoyed as a child. By mutual consent, Geddy and I are going to make a concerted effort to actively celebrate Christmas this year. Last night, we kicked off our celebration on a chilly, rainy night by stuffing everyone snugly into our king-sized bed and watching Rudolph and Charlie Brown.
We plan on making this a nightly event. Tonight's schedule includes a visit from the Grinch and Mickey's Christmas Carol. We put up our Christmas tree this week and build our gingerbread train next week. Next Monday is our special annual family Christmas outing to Callaway Gardens' Fantasy in Lights, which is always incredible.
Sure, we've had our share of heartbreak this year. We lost Geddy's mom to cancer in June and Ben in a car crash just a few weeks ago. The everyday struggles can be enough to crush me, and the outside stress and extra activities inherent in the season...well, I feel like I'm drowning sometimes, trying to please everyone and hold myself together. But Jesus is the same yesterday, today and forever, and His birthday deserves a long, determined and glorious celebration. So when I want to scream, "Isn't there anyone who knows what Christmas is all about?" Linus always is there, ready to remind me.
We plan on making this a nightly event. Tonight's schedule includes a visit from the Grinch and Mickey's Christmas Carol. We put up our Christmas tree this week and build our gingerbread train next week. Next Monday is our special annual family Christmas outing to Callaway Gardens' Fantasy in Lights, which is always incredible.
Sure, we've had our share of heartbreak this year. We lost Geddy's mom to cancer in June and Ben in a car crash just a few weeks ago. The everyday struggles can be enough to crush me, and the outside stress and extra activities inherent in the season...well, I feel like I'm drowning sometimes, trying to please everyone and hold myself together. But Jesus is the same yesterday, today and forever, and His birthday deserves a long, determined and glorious celebration. So when I want to scream, "Isn't there anyone who knows what Christmas is all about?" Linus always is there, ready to remind me.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Confessions of an uninspired Mama
I am not artistic. Not. at. all. Can't draw, can't paint, can't even cut well with scissors. My redeeming artistic quality is that I sometimes manage to copy someone else's ideas. Such is the case with "lapbooks," groovy little learning tools that you make yourself. Kind of like pop-up books crammed with monstrous doses of education.
Dinah Zike is the author of The Big Book of Books, which explains very well how to make all the elements for lapbooks. I found a perfect copy for 50 cents at a library sale last summer but never got around to reading through it, much less using it with my kidlets. So when Homeschool E-Store had its annual Black Friday freebie download bonanza and I scored a Grinch lapbook kit, I knew I at least had to try that one.
It bodes ill when I can't even get the folder put together correctly, does it not?
Still, I persevere. Two of the folders now lay under heavy books, coaxing the flaps to stay together. One is horribly wrinkled from liquid glue and the other, put together with a glue stick, is likely to separate itself at the first glimpse of daylight. (I really miss the library paste we had in school.) The third is waiting...waiting...waiting...
I know this is likely one of those things I'll improve with practice, but I can't help thinking sometimes that going against one's natural gifts and talents may be a mistake. Especially when I'm wearing glue instead of fingernail polish.
Dinah Zike is the author of The Big Book of Books, which explains very well how to make all the elements for lapbooks. I found a perfect copy for 50 cents at a library sale last summer but never got around to reading through it, much less using it with my kidlets. So when Homeschool E-Store had its annual Black Friday freebie download bonanza and I scored a Grinch lapbook kit, I knew I at least had to try that one.
It bodes ill when I can't even get the folder put together correctly, does it not?
Still, I persevere. Two of the folders now lay under heavy books, coaxing the flaps to stay together. One is horribly wrinkled from liquid glue and the other, put together with a glue stick, is likely to separate itself at the first glimpse of daylight. (I really miss the library paste we had in school.) The third is waiting...waiting...waiting...
I know this is likely one of those things I'll improve with practice, but I can't help thinking sometimes that going against one's natural gifts and talents may be a mistake. Especially when I'm wearing glue instead of fingernail polish.
Friday, November 23, 2007
As I was saying...what was I saying?
This is the conversation I was having earlier today with a friend:
"So I told what's-his-name he couldn't leave those things lying there on the thing or the dog would...um..."
What I meant to say was, "I told Larry he couldn't leave his school papers lying there on the hearth or JoJo would chew on them, and I didn't think anyone would buy the old 'the dog ate my homework' excuse."
Ba-dum-pah.
I'm starting to have to work my thoughts in Mad Libs: So I told (person's name) he couldn't leave (noun) (verb -ing) on the (noun)...(Insert punch line.) (Canned laughter.)
Pretty soon, I'll be hearing a soundtrack behind every event in my life. And I won't even be able to remember the words so I can sing along!
"So I told what's-his-name he couldn't leave those things lying there on the thing or the dog would...um..."
What I meant to say was, "I told Larry he couldn't leave his school papers lying there on the hearth or JoJo would chew on them, and I didn't think anyone would buy the old 'the dog ate my homework' excuse."
Ba-dum-pah.
I'm starting to have to work my thoughts in Mad Libs: So I told (person's name) he couldn't leave (noun) (verb -ing) on the (noun)...(Insert punch line.) (Canned laughter.)
Pretty soon, I'll be hearing a soundtrack behind every event in my life. And I won't even be able to remember the words so I can sing along!
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Purposefulness
Once in awhile someone comes along and gives us the kick in the pants we need.
As a homeschooling mom, I frequent a terrific forum where a group of people talk about their struggles, triumphs and need for chocolate or good bookshelves or the right kind of shoes for their homeschoolers (sorry, here I confess to lapsing into the world of private jokes. And that's a darn funny one!).
One of my favorite contributors is MFS, who is also the author of a very fine blog, Mental Multivitamin. I greatly admire her wit, readily admit she writes circles around anyone I know in real life and aspire to her parenting abilities. I believe her to be authentic and know her to be raising amazing children, as Larry was on the receiving end of a beautifully encouraging letter from her son several years ago.
On the forum, exhausted homeschooling parents frequently lament their lack of motivation or ability to maintain a tidy home, perform all their homeschooling duties, apply the correct amount of time to their churches/jobs/relationships, etc. While I agree that achieving perfection is impossible, I also think falling into the traps of letting others validate your failures and settling for mediocrity are dangerous, dangerous, dangerous.
That's why I appreciate this collection of blog entries. Enjoy!
As a homeschooling mom, I frequent a terrific forum where a group of people talk about their struggles, triumphs and need for chocolate or good bookshelves or the right kind of shoes for their homeschoolers (sorry, here I confess to lapsing into the world of private jokes. And that's a darn funny one!).
One of my favorite contributors is MFS, who is also the author of a very fine blog, Mental Multivitamin. I greatly admire her wit, readily admit she writes circles around anyone I know in real life and aspire to her parenting abilities. I believe her to be authentic and know her to be raising amazing children, as Larry was on the receiving end of a beautifully encouraging letter from her son several years ago.
On the forum, exhausted homeschooling parents frequently lament their lack of motivation or ability to maintain a tidy home, perform all their homeschooling duties, apply the correct amount of time to their churches/jobs/relationships, etc. While I agree that achieving perfection is impossible, I also think falling into the traps of letting others validate your failures and settling for mediocrity are dangerous, dangerous, dangerous.
That's why I appreciate this collection of blog entries. Enjoy!
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
On my bedside table
I finished Death of a Murderer a couple of days ago. It was mildly interesting and fairly well-written. It jumped around and went stagnant in a few places, so I doubt I'd recommend it.
More interesting to me is the non-fiction, almost-completed read Idoleyes, which I wanted to read because I love Mandisa's song "Only the World." Her story is more complex than fiction tends to be. She is a strong Christian who auditioned for American Idol and made it into the top 10 contestants before being voted off. Her outspoken Christianity, her weight struggles, her incredible talent and her brutal honesty about her life make this a compelling read.
And then there's Healing the New Childhood Epidemics. This book, written by Kenneth Bock, M.D., outlines Bock's "groundbreaking" program for the 4-A disorders (autism, ADHD, asthma and allergies). It's chock-full of good information for me, as the mother of asthmatic and allergic children. Bock relates all four disorders, puts forth some thoughtful theories about the alarming rise in autism cases and documents the work he has done in helping children with the 4-A disorders improve.
I blush to admit that I never have read Pride and Prejudice or Sense and Sensibility. Those are next on my list from my library basket.
Music-wise, I am loving Mercy Me's Coming Up to Breathe. So many of their songs speak to me, but a couple on this album keep me hanging on most current days. I get a particular kick out of this one, as will anyone who's ever been on a deadline and gone blank.
Each year, I buy myself one or two Christmas CDs. Last year, it was James Taylor's At Christmas, which instantly became one of my favorites. I think I talked my friend Angela into buying it last night, in fact. This year, I went a little retro and picked up Christmas With the Chipmunks and A Charlie Brown Christmas.
And just for fun, I put this on my Christmas list!
More interesting to me is the non-fiction, almost-completed read Idoleyes, which I wanted to read because I love Mandisa's song "Only the World." Her story is more complex than fiction tends to be. She is a strong Christian who auditioned for American Idol and made it into the top 10 contestants before being voted off. Her outspoken Christianity, her weight struggles, her incredible talent and her brutal honesty about her life make this a compelling read.
And then there's Healing the New Childhood Epidemics. This book, written by Kenneth Bock, M.D., outlines Bock's "groundbreaking" program for the 4-A disorders (autism, ADHD, asthma and allergies). It's chock-full of good information for me, as the mother of asthmatic and allergic children. Bock relates all four disorders, puts forth some thoughtful theories about the alarming rise in autism cases and documents the work he has done in helping children with the 4-A disorders improve.
I blush to admit that I never have read Pride and Prejudice or Sense and Sensibility. Those are next on my list from my library basket.
Music-wise, I am loving Mercy Me's Coming Up to Breathe. So many of their songs speak to me, but a couple on this album keep me hanging on most current days. I get a particular kick out of this one, as will anyone who's ever been on a deadline and gone blank.
Each year, I buy myself one or two Christmas CDs. Last year, it was James Taylor's At Christmas, which instantly became one of my favorites. I think I talked my friend Angela into buying it last night, in fact. This year, I went a little retro and picked up Christmas With the Chipmunks and A Charlie Brown Christmas.
And just for fun, I put this on my Christmas list!
Friday, November 16, 2007
There's a great big Ben-shaped hole in my life
I'm getting ready to make turkey-shaped Thanksgiving cookies for our family dinner Sunday, and I think, "Ben will love these!" and then I stop...
I'm thinking about taking the kiddos to see Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium, and I wonder if Ben has seen it yet, or if he'd like to go with us, and then I stop...
I buy a great Star Wars pop-up book as a Christmas gift and think I'd like to show it to Ben before I wrap it, and then I stop...
I need to stop.
I'm thinking about taking the kiddos to see Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium, and I wonder if Ben has seen it yet, or if he'd like to go with us, and then I stop...
I buy a great Star Wars pop-up book as a Christmas gift and think I'd like to show it to Ben before I wrap it, and then I stop...
I need to stop.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
And now for something completely different
In the midst of the dark last week, I kept an appointment to have Curly Sue and Moe skin-tested for allergies. They reacted to every single marker, including the ones for beef, chicken, fish, shrimp, tomatoes, peanuts and citrus. And dogs and cats, though I'm pretty sure it's their dander and not their meat that's an issue. (I'll err on the side of caution and take them off the menu.) The allergist said not to worry about the food markers unless they've had a serious reaction to any of those foods in the past, which they haven't.
At homeschool group today, Curly Sue got her arm smashed in the door and for a brief while, I thought I'd be taking her for x-rays. My friend the EMT checked her out and was pretty sure it was only bruised, so we stayed put. Exactly 14.7 minutes later, Larry was sprawled on the gym floor with an overgrown toenail bent completely backwards, wailing in panic. Another friend had nail clippers and we soon took care of that injury as well.
Last night at church, I did pretty well until mid-lesson, when I spontaneously burst into tears and couldn't excuse myself because we were smack in the middle of a sea of chairs and I couldn't maneuver my way to the the ladies'. Fortunately, I had brought tissues for just this eventuality.
But hey, last night's viewing of Kenneth Branagh's "Much Ado About Nothing" was fantastically hilarious, so I haven't much to bemoan, right?
Saturday I go help clean out Ben's home and Sunday we are going ahead with our family Thanksgiving as planned. I am making turkey-shaped cookies and green bean casserole and deviled eggs and sour cream dip. We are wearing black tee shirts and visiting the cemetery, though we all will be acutely aware that what made Ben himself is not there. We probably will sing and play guitar, and we definitely will cry. In a good way, though, I hope.
At homeschool group today, Curly Sue got her arm smashed in the door and for a brief while, I thought I'd be taking her for x-rays. My friend the EMT checked her out and was pretty sure it was only bruised, so we stayed put. Exactly 14.7 minutes later, Larry was sprawled on the gym floor with an overgrown toenail bent completely backwards, wailing in panic. Another friend had nail clippers and we soon took care of that injury as well.
Last night at church, I did pretty well until mid-lesson, when I spontaneously burst into tears and couldn't excuse myself because we were smack in the middle of a sea of chairs and I couldn't maneuver my way to the the ladies'. Fortunately, I had brought tissues for just this eventuality.
But hey, last night's viewing of Kenneth Branagh's "Much Ado About Nothing" was fantastically hilarious, so I haven't much to bemoan, right?
Saturday I go help clean out Ben's home and Sunday we are going ahead with our family Thanksgiving as planned. I am making turkey-shaped cookies and green bean casserole and deviled eggs and sour cream dip. We are wearing black tee shirts and visiting the cemetery, though we all will be acutely aware that what made Ben himself is not there. We probably will sing and play guitar, and we definitely will cry. In a good way, though, I hope.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
"Afterimage" by Neil Peart (Rush)
Suddenly, you were gone
From all the lives you left your mark upon
From all the lives you left your mark upon
I remember
How we talked and drank into the misty dawn
I hear the voices
We ran by the water on the wet summer lawn
I see the footprints
I remember
I feel the way you would
I feel the way you would
Tried to believe but you know it’s no good
This is something that just can’t be understood
I remember
The shouts of joy skiing fast through the woods
I hear the echoes
I learned your love for life,
I feel the way that you would
I feel your presence
I remember
I feel the way you would
This just can’t be understood...
How we talked and drank into the misty dawn
I hear the voices
We ran by the water on the wet summer lawn
I see the footprints
I remember
I feel the way you would
I feel the way you would
Tried to believe but you know it’s no good
This is something that just can’t be understood
I remember
The shouts of joy skiing fast through the woods
I hear the echoes
I learned your love for life,
I feel the way that you would
I feel your presence
I remember
I feel the way you would
This just can’t be understood...
Refined as silver
My middle brother, Bubby, sent an e-mail this morning to encourage us.
Malachi 3:3 says: "He will sit as a refiner and purifier of silver."
This verse puzzled some women in a Bible study and they wondered what this statement meant about the character and nature of God.
One of the women offered to find out the process of refining silver and get back to the group at their next Bible study.
That week, the woman called a silversmith and made an appointment to watch him at work. She didn't mention anything about the reason for her interest beyond her curiosity about the process of refining silver.
As she watched the silversmith, he held a piece of silver over the fire and let it heat up. He explained that in refining silver, one needed to hold the silver in the middle of the fire where the flames were hottest as to burn away all the impurities.
The woman thought about God holding us in such a hot spot; then she thought again about the verse that says: "He sits as a refiner and purifier of silver." She asked the silversmith if it was true that he had to sit there in front of the fire the whole time the silver was being refined.
The man answered that yes, he not only had to sit there holding the silver, but he had to keep his eyes on the silver the entire time it was in the fire. If the silver was left a moment too long in the flames, it would be destroyed.
The woman was silent for a moment. Then she asked the silversmith, "How do you know when the silver is fully refined?"
He smiled at her and answered, "Oh, that's easy -- when I see my image in it."
Malachi 3:3 says: "He will sit as a refiner and purifier of silver."
This verse puzzled some women in a Bible study and they wondered what this statement meant about the character and nature of God.
One of the women offered to find out the process of refining silver and get back to the group at their next Bible study.
That week, the woman called a silversmith and made an appointment to watch him at work. She didn't mention anything about the reason for her interest beyond her curiosity about the process of refining silver.
As she watched the silversmith, he held a piece of silver over the fire and let it heat up. He explained that in refining silver, one needed to hold the silver in the middle of the fire where the flames were hottest as to burn away all the impurities.
The woman thought about God holding us in such a hot spot; then she thought again about the verse that says: "He sits as a refiner and purifier of silver." She asked the silversmith if it was true that he had to sit there in front of the fire the whole time the silver was being refined.
The man answered that yes, he not only had to sit there holding the silver, but he had to keep his eyes on the silver the entire time it was in the fire. If the silver was left a moment too long in the flames, it would be destroyed.
The woman was silent for a moment. Then she asked the silversmith, "How do you know when the silver is fully refined?"
He smiled at her and answered, "Oh, that's easy -- when I see my image in it."
Monday, November 12, 2007
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Strength in song
Today I'm faltering, "So I pray
Bring me joy, bring me peace
Bring the chance to be free
Bring me anything that brings you glory
And I know there'll be days
When this life brings me pain
But if that's what it takes to praise you
Jesus bring the rain"
--Mercy Me
Bring me joy, bring me peace
Bring the chance to be free
Bring me anything that brings you glory
And I know there'll be days
When this life brings me pain
But if that's what it takes to praise you
Jesus bring the rain"
--Mercy Me
A beautiful example of faith through grief
At The Well-Trained Mind forum, Cindy in C-ville comforted me with her friend's thoughts after he lost his little boy:
"He said that his understanding of the
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Truer words never written
"(My life), indeed the whole of human experience, is made up of moments of rapture and regret, with long, empty spaces in between." --My brother Ben
Friday, November 9, 2007
He sleeps.
I hate funerals but I have to say that people are...better?...afterwards. My small hometown turned out and every person who expressed his sorrow and shared a memory blessed us and soothed an unbearable ache.
Anthony sobbed with us, couldn't even talk. Gentle hands reached out from everywhere and I knew them, even when I couldn't see the attached faces through my veil of tears. Comforting, feeding, moving us along when we couldn't take one more step. Elena's single red rose, Central High Class of 82's maroon and gold wreath. Four arrangements from his company, three from our church. One from a new neighbor who wasn't even sure how to spell his name. People everywhere...from church, from a newspaper where I haven't worked in eight years, from our homeschool group, from the fellowship ministry. Cashiers from the convenience stores whose computers were serviced by Ben. We would never have missed them if they hadn't been there, but there they were anyway.
Surprisingly, laughter. Cracking a joke to beat back the sorrow. "I know I can die now. If Ben can do it, how hard can it be?"
Most of all, the fear is gone. The worst has happened, and God kept his word and took care of us. May he continue to protect and refine our faith so that when we join Ben, he can say to us, "Are you here already? Dude, you should see YOUR mansion!"
Anthony sobbed with us, couldn't even talk. Gentle hands reached out from everywhere and I knew them, even when I couldn't see the attached faces through my veil of tears. Comforting, feeding, moving us along when we couldn't take one more step. Elena's single red rose, Central High Class of 82's maroon and gold wreath. Four arrangements from his company, three from our church. One from a new neighbor who wasn't even sure how to spell his name. People everywhere...from church, from a newspaper where I haven't worked in eight years, from our homeschool group, from the fellowship ministry. Cashiers from the convenience stores whose computers were serviced by Ben. We would never have missed them if they hadn't been there, but there they were anyway.
Surprisingly, laughter. Cracking a joke to beat back the sorrow. "I know I can die now. If Ben can do it, how hard can it be?"
Most of all, the fear is gone. The worst has happened, and God kept his word and took care of us. May he continue to protect and refine our faith so that when we join Ben, he can say to us, "Are you here already? Dude, you should see YOUR mansion!"
Thursday, November 8, 2007
"From Uncle Ben"
--By his nephew "Larry"
Please don't stand at my grave and cry
Because I am not there,
I'm only upstairs
In heaven.
Please don't mourn
Because I've been born
Again
In heaven.
Please don't weep
Because I'm not dead, just asleep,
But awake,
In heaven.
Please don't stand at my grave and cry
Because I am not there,
I'm only upstairs
In heaven.
Please don't mourn
Because I've been born
Again
In heaven.
Please don't weep
Because I'm not dead, just asleep,
But awake,
In heaven.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
"Good night, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest."
It does not seem possible that I am about to write about my brother Ben's death. On Saturday, he was here in the dappled sunlight, swinging my children from his arms and dropping them onto the soft front yard grass. Listening to them...really listening to them, like only a bachelor uncle can...as they told him their secrets and tales. Excited about seeing his high school classmates at his 25th reunion that night, fretting about the wrinkles in the microsuede shirt he planned to wear, showing off his brand-new company van. Carrying a pack of orange Orbit gum in his shirt pocket instead of those revolting cigarettes.
It does not seem possible that it was just last night that a sheriff's deputy called my home and asked me to come be with my mom and dad because my brother Ben was killed in a car accident. That the computer equipment in his van was thrown forward and crushed him when a woman crossed the center line on a curve, hitting him head-on. That he died at the crash scene of massive internal injuries.
It does not seem possible that my three surviving brothers, my parents and I wavered between utter disbelief and acceptance as we clung to each other in my childhood home all the long, long night, and grieved. It does not seem possible that this morning I was writing my brother Ben's obituary or fielding calls from shocked friends and family. Or that I was choosing his burial clothing from his things, and wondering if dead people wear underwear.
Most of all, it does not seem possible that my brother Ben, who slid off barn roofs, told ghost stories, saw the bombing of Beirut, introduced my children to Star Wars and Lord of the Rings and Razzles, cracked himself up with corny stories, never slept and was a computer genius; who finally, finally had his life together, has gone to Jesus' arms, and I cannot follow just yet.
It does not seem possible that it was just last night that a sheriff's deputy called my home and asked me to come be with my mom and dad because my brother Ben was killed in a car accident. That the computer equipment in his van was thrown forward and crushed him when a woman crossed the center line on a curve, hitting him head-on. That he died at the crash scene of massive internal injuries.
It does not seem possible that my three surviving brothers, my parents and I wavered between utter disbelief and acceptance as we clung to each other in my childhood home all the long, long night, and grieved. It does not seem possible that this morning I was writing my brother Ben's obituary or fielding calls from shocked friends and family. Or that I was choosing his burial clothing from his things, and wondering if dead people wear underwear.
Most of all, it does not seem possible that my brother Ben, who slid off barn roofs, told ghost stories, saw the bombing of Beirut, introduced my children to Star Wars and Lord of the Rings and Razzles, cracked himself up with corny stories, never slept and was a computer genius; who finally, finally had his life together, has gone to Jesus' arms, and I cannot follow just yet.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Speaking of Shakespeare...
"To sleep, perchance to dream..."
I rarely remember my dreams, but last night was an exception. I'm an Eric Clapton fan, and I've been fortunate enough to see him in concert several times, but last night I dreamed I was personally acquainted with him. In the dream, I was royally irritated at myself for not ever having a photo made of the two of us together, because nobody believed I knew him except Geddy and the children, who'd met him several times as well.
I remember thinking it was weirder that I had a white convertible than that I knew Eric Clapton. My dream car would definitely be red.
I rarely remember my dreams, but last night was an exception. I'm an Eric Clapton fan, and I've been fortunate enough to see him in concert several times, but last night I dreamed I was personally acquainted with him. In the dream, I was royally irritated at myself for not ever having a photo made of the two of us together, because nobody believed I knew him except Geddy and the children, who'd met him several times as well.
I remember thinking it was weirder that I had a white convertible than that I knew Eric Clapton. My dream car would definitely be red.
Monday, November 5, 2007
The wonderful world of...William?
Shakespeare, that is.
Geddy and I got hooked on the library's copies of "Father Cadfael," which led to a discussion about his favorite actor, Derek Jacobi.
Jacobi begot Kenneth Branagh. (Well, not literally, unless ol' Derek's got something he needs to tell his longtime male partner.)
Branagh reminded us of "Tales from Shakespeare" by William and Mary Lamb, a copy of which already was resting gently on our shelves.
Lamb begot a crate full of library books on and by Shakespeare, and both Jacobi's and Branagh's versions of "Hamlet" on hold.
Oddly enough, the children went with it. After seeing the art in a picture book of Shakespeare's poetry called "Under the Greenwood Tree: Shakespeare for Young People," they started asking questions, which begot Geddy reading Hamlet's soliloquy from said book.
Which begot a lunchtime reading of the story of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark from the Lamb book.
After several peripheral readings of the Weird Sisters' chant from "Macbeth," Curly Sue has been using her creepiest voice to repeat the first few lines as often as possible, so Moe likely won't sleep tonight. Which will beget my reading of some of the comedies.
And if you want to see something terrific without having to pay $35 for the DVD, you can check out Jacobi's soliloquy on YouTube.
"Whether 'tis nobler in the mind..."
Geddy and I got hooked on the library's copies of "Father Cadfael," which led to a discussion about his favorite actor, Derek Jacobi.
Jacobi begot Kenneth Branagh. (Well, not literally, unless ol' Derek's got something he needs to tell his longtime male partner.)
Branagh reminded us of "Tales from Shakespeare" by William and Mary Lamb, a copy of which already was resting gently on our shelves.
Lamb begot a crate full of library books on and by Shakespeare, and both Jacobi's and Branagh's versions of "Hamlet" on hold.
Oddly enough, the children went with it. After seeing the art in a picture book of Shakespeare's poetry called "Under the Greenwood Tree: Shakespeare for Young People," they started asking questions, which begot Geddy reading Hamlet's soliloquy from said book.
Which begot a lunchtime reading of the story of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark from the Lamb book.
After several peripheral readings of the Weird Sisters' chant from "Macbeth," Curly Sue has been using her creepiest voice to repeat the first few lines as often as possible, so Moe likely won't sleep tonight. Which will beget my reading of some of the comedies.
And if you want to see something terrific without having to pay $35 for the DVD, you can check out Jacobi's soliloquy on YouTube.
"Whether 'tis nobler in the mind..."
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Dinosaurs and times-fours
A lack of discernment caused major discombobulation this a.m. I was to collect Nannie after an in-office endoscopy, but when she said the office was in a building across from Walgreen's, I heard Wal-Mart. The kind of panicked running-around that ensued was worthy of It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World. Pure humor, now that she's safely home. And when finally I saw her sweet, smiling face and heard a good report from the procedure, I remembered to thank God that my mama is with us still.
See, five babies are without their mama now. Karen died of breast cancer a few days ago. She was younger than I and we had mutual friends, but I never got to know her. I understand she was a treasure and her death has saddened me. Geddy lost his mama in June to uterine cancer and we are still missing her and always will. Karen's babies are little and their parents' faith will sustain them, but they are already missing her and always will.
Two good things happened to me yesterday. Geraldine, the free cookie lady at our market, took the time to tell me what fine children I have. I agreed and thanked her. After all, they took the time to help a lady unload her pigeons at the post office and pushed another lady's buggy back into the store for her. Later, a fellow dance mom told me how sweet she thinks I am and how she loves watching me interact with everyone at class. I think I'm just overly chatty, but I surely appreciated the sentiment.
Today is Halloween, from which we are gently extracting our children. We did schoolwork as usual today, except that Nannie was with us and got to help Curly Sue learn her four times tables. We are leaving candy for the neighborhood trick-or-treaters and heading to church ourselves. For lunch, we are eating chicken nuggets in dinosaur shapes. While I'm fairly certain that no part of a real chicken lends itself to T-Rex-ish dimensions, I comfort myself with the knowledge that in this case, it's more about the company than the quality of the food.
Because their mama is still here to eat it with them.
See, five babies are without their mama now. Karen died of breast cancer a few days ago. She was younger than I and we had mutual friends, but I never got to know her. I understand she was a treasure and her death has saddened me. Geddy lost his mama in June to uterine cancer and we are still missing her and always will. Karen's babies are little and their parents' faith will sustain them, but they are already missing her and always will.
Two good things happened to me yesterday. Geraldine, the free cookie lady at our market, took the time to tell me what fine children I have. I agreed and thanked her. After all, they took the time to help a lady unload her pigeons at the post office and pushed another lady's buggy back into the store for her. Later, a fellow dance mom told me how sweet she thinks I am and how she loves watching me interact with everyone at class. I think I'm just overly chatty, but I surely appreciated the sentiment.
Today is Halloween, from which we are gently extracting our children. We did schoolwork as usual today, except that Nannie was with us and got to help Curly Sue learn her four times tables. We are leaving candy for the neighborhood trick-or-treaters and heading to church ourselves. For lunch, we are eating chicken nuggets in dinosaur shapes. While I'm fairly certain that no part of a real chicken lends itself to T-Rex-ish dimensions, I comfort myself with the knowledge that in this case, it's more about the company than the quality of the food.
Because their mama is still here to eat it with them.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Just in time for Halloween
After more than a year of playing Indiana Jones in the towering bushes that made up our front garden, Geddy and I decided a simpler look was in order. Down came the bushes, up came the roots and so began the quest for reclaiming our yard.
In the woods, Geddy discovered part of an old wall made of beautiful hand-hewn stones. He began carefully digging them out, washing them and placing them just so for a walkway separating the flower beds. On about his third trip into the woods, he burst into the house hollering that he had found bones and no way, no way was he going back in there by himself call my brother Bubby who knows about old stuff...please!
Bubby, who has a keen interest in history and some amateur experience in archaeology, was dispatched and wandered over. Meanwhile, I went online and asked the most smartest persons I know, my girlfriends at Frugal Families and The Well-Trained Mind, who it is that you call when you dig up dead people in your back yard. (The correct answer to that, BTW, is local law enforcement first, coroner second and museum curators third. Curators do not like that order.)
I don't get out much, so this was pure excitement. Was it a Native American burial mound? A family plot? Civil War soldiers? Murder victims?
Turns out, all that was dead was a grotesquely twisted brier.
So we didn't get our 15 minutes of fame, but we also didn't get our yard torn up, eminent-domained or trampled by looky-sees. And our walkway looks very nice.
In the woods, Geddy discovered part of an old wall made of beautiful hand-hewn stones. He began carefully digging them out, washing them and placing them just so for a walkway separating the flower beds. On about his third trip into the woods, he burst into the house hollering that he had found bones and no way, no way was he going back in there by himself call my brother Bubby who knows about old stuff...please!
Bubby, who has a keen interest in history and some amateur experience in archaeology, was dispatched and wandered over. Meanwhile, I went online and asked the most smartest persons I know, my girlfriends at Frugal Families and The Well-Trained Mind, who it is that you call when you dig up dead people in your back yard. (The correct answer to that, BTW, is local law enforcement first, coroner second and museum curators third. Curators do not like that order.)
I don't get out much, so this was pure excitement. Was it a Native American burial mound? A family plot? Civil War soldiers? Murder victims?
Turns out, all that was dead was a grotesquely twisted brier.
So we didn't get our 15 minutes of fame, but we also didn't get our yard torn up, eminent-domained or trampled by looky-sees. And our walkway looks very nice.
Friday, October 26, 2007
One shoe short of perfect
The definition of "tidying" is likely to change depending on the one doing the defining. I'm holding on to the hope that one day I'll blossom into a thorough housekeeper, but right now, simply keeping the clutter under control is my daily aspiration.
I sent the children outside with a blanket and a basket of grilled cheese sandwiches, chips, root beer and Pixy Sticks last glorious Sunday afternoon, then set to work inside. I picked up pieces 47-50 of a 50-piece magnetic building set and put them in their proper place. I did the same with three marbles and two pieces of marble run. Stray Legos, doll socks, stickers and a seashell turtle followed.
I changed three toilet tissue rolls with one square remaining, threw away one paper napkin from the table and pushed six books back onto the bookshelf. I straightened a comforter, shot a sock into the hamper and tipped up a sideways toy bin. In the kitchen, I drank the last three drops of juice before setting out a new bottle. I emptied six containers of leftovers which all together would not have equalled a serving.
By this time, the children had gathered up the remains of their picnic and, seeing the house so uncharacteristically tidy, were extra diligent about putting everything away. I asked, were they sure they gotten everything? and was assured they had. I sighed, grabbed a trash bag, headed outside, and spent the next 10 minutes collecting Pixy Stick tube tops from the yard.
Five people and a small dog live in this house, four people and the dog 24 hours a day. That's a fact. Messes are completely made but only partly tidied. That's another fact. But it's a comforting thought that we're all just a misplaced shoe or thorough vacuuming short of perfect.
I sent the children outside with a blanket and a basket of grilled cheese sandwiches, chips, root beer and Pixy Sticks last glorious Sunday afternoon, then set to work inside. I picked up pieces 47-50 of a 50-piece magnetic building set and put them in their proper place. I did the same with three marbles and two pieces of marble run. Stray Legos, doll socks, stickers and a seashell turtle followed.
I changed three toilet tissue rolls with one square remaining, threw away one paper napkin from the table and pushed six books back onto the bookshelf. I straightened a comforter, shot a sock into the hamper and tipped up a sideways toy bin. In the kitchen, I drank the last three drops of juice before setting out a new bottle. I emptied six containers of leftovers which all together would not have equalled a serving.
By this time, the children had gathered up the remains of their picnic and, seeing the house so uncharacteristically tidy, were extra diligent about putting everything away. I asked, were they sure they gotten everything? and was assured they had. I sighed, grabbed a trash bag, headed outside, and spent the next 10 minutes collecting Pixy Stick tube tops from the yard.
Five people and a small dog live in this house, four people and the dog 24 hours a day. That's a fact. Messes are completely made but only partly tidied. That's another fact. But it's a comforting thought that we're all just a misplaced shoe or thorough vacuuming short of perfect.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Monkey's home!
Monkey came home Tuesday night and spent Wednesday watching "Cinderella" surrounded by her brothers and parents. (And Aunt Bucky, too, because I just had to see my sweetie for a few minutes!) Aardvark declared to his mom that he is never leaving home, even when he's grown. Do you think maybe he was happy to be back with his family?
She was supposed to come home with IV antibiotics for two weeks but didn't have to. She can't go back to school or church for two weeks and has to take another six weeks or so of potent oral antibiotics, but...she's home.
God is bigger than a super bug!
She was supposed to come home with IV antibiotics for two weeks but didn't have to. She can't go back to school or church for two weeks and has to take another six weeks or so of potent oral antibiotics, but...she's home.
God is bigger than a super bug!
"If I Am Missing or Dead" by Janine Latus
Please read this book.
I understood it to be a woman's account of her sister's murder. In truth, the murder is a very small part of the book. What's fascinating and terrible is Janine's long, long road from abusive encounters to abusive relationships to an abusive marriage and its ending just as her sister Amy, trying to ignore her own mistreatment and bad judgment, loses her life.
One reviewer described this book as "unsentimental." It's because of that detachment that the book is one of the most important I've read. You will see yourself in this book, in black or white or a shade of gray. You need to see yourself in this book.
I understood it to be a woman's account of her sister's murder. In truth, the murder is a very small part of the book. What's fascinating and terrible is Janine's long, long road from abusive encounters to abusive relationships to an abusive marriage and its ending just as her sister Amy, trying to ignore her own mistreatment and bad judgment, loses her life.
One reviewer described this book as "unsentimental." It's because of that detachment that the book is one of the most important I've read. You will see yourself in this book, in black or white or a shade of gray. You need to see yourself in this book.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Turning a corner?
Monkey was flown to a children's hospital yesterday. She had lost function in her left lung, the pneumonia was spreading, the fever was high, the infection was bad, the white blood cell count was up...
She had surgery today to debride her lung and insert a chest tube to drain the fluid from her chest cavity. Came through it like the champ she is. She experienced immediate relief and was eating dinner when I talked to her daddy earlier. Perhaps now they can all rest easier. (All God's children say "Amen!")
Aardvark is feeling better and back to being a clown. He has this trick he can do with one eye that's gross but funny, and he's been chasing me around all evening with it. He's sore at me because I'm making him take his antibiotic and a cold/cough medicine, though. So I let him eat two bowls of Boo Berry and three bites of pizza for dinner. I'm the world's best auntie.
Larry, Curly Sue and Moe are their regular sweet selves except that Moe woke up with a very sore throat this morning. Thinking he might have picked up strep, I immediately took him to the doctor but the culture was negative. Must be the stupid goldenrod again.
All six of us walk in an American Cancer Society fundraiser tomorrow in memory of Grammie. She'll have been gone exactly four months. Hard to believe that after that amount of time, you still find yourself picking up the phone to tell her something. Geddy lost another co-worker to cancer a few days ago and got word that another work-related friend has been given six months before cancer takes her, too. So imagine our elation when a dear lady we know was declared in remission from lymphoma last night!
I now intend to drag my tired backside to the bed, from whence I shall watch the Red Sox drub the Indians. Away, away!
She had surgery today to debride her lung and insert a chest tube to drain the fluid from her chest cavity. Came through it like the champ she is. She experienced immediate relief and was eating dinner when I talked to her daddy earlier. Perhaps now they can all rest easier. (All God's children say "Amen!")
Aardvark is feeling better and back to being a clown. He has this trick he can do with one eye that's gross but funny, and he's been chasing me around all evening with it. He's sore at me because I'm making him take his antibiotic and a cold/cough medicine, though. So I let him eat two bowls of Boo Berry and three bites of pizza for dinner. I'm the world's best auntie.
Larry, Curly Sue and Moe are their regular sweet selves except that Moe woke up with a very sore throat this morning. Thinking he might have picked up strep, I immediately took him to the doctor but the culture was negative. Must be the stupid goldenrod again.
All six of us walk in an American Cancer Society fundraiser tomorrow in memory of Grammie. She'll have been gone exactly four months. Hard to believe that after that amount of time, you still find yourself picking up the phone to tell her something. Geddy lost another co-worker to cancer a few days ago and got word that another work-related friend has been given six months before cancer takes her, too. So imagine our elation when a dear lady we know was declared in remission from lymphoma last night!
I now intend to drag my tired backside to the bed, from whence I shall watch the Red Sox drub the Indians. Away, away!
Monday, October 8, 2007
Monkey's not better
She's still in the hospital. Doctor is incompetent and there is talk of moving her to a children's hospital. Doctor says she will make sure they never use her practice again if they get a second opinion against her wishes. Nasty woman, big mess.
Her 6 yo brother Aardvark is here -- has been since Saturday -- good as gold but really missing his mom and dad and brother and sister. Baby brother Jackrabbit is at my parents'.
Geddy has a kidney stone that has not yet passed. It was a full weekend.
Pray for Monkey and all who love her if you are so inclined. She has plenty of stuffed animals, cards, balloons and Disney princess lip gloss, but good thoughts are desperately needed.
Her 6 yo brother Aardvark is here -- has been since Saturday -- good as gold but really missing his mom and dad and brother and sister. Baby brother Jackrabbit is at my parents'.
Geddy has a kidney stone that has not yet passed. It was a full weekend.
Pray for Monkey and all who love her if you are so inclined. She has plenty of stuffed animals, cards, balloons and Disney princess lip gloss, but good thoughts are desperately needed.
Friday, October 5, 2007
Digging up bones
I visited the local hospital last evening to see my 4-year-old niece, who has pneumonia. While she slept, her tiny pale face reminded me of a time when my own children were suffering. I was very sorry for my brother and his wife even though I know Monkey will be fine in a few days.
Several years ago we decided to send Larry to public school. Moe was an infant, Curly Sue a toddler, and Larry was trying to learn some kindergarten skills from his extremely distracted mother. From January to May, Larry was the student of Miss Wanda, a veteran teacher who was a blessing upon our family.
As is typically the case with an otherwise ideal situation, there was a problem: Larry caught every virus, bug and germ. Rotavirus made its way through our home three times in five months; a dry, hacking cough wound up being the beginning of his current asthma woes and his nose was dripping, just finished dripping or just about to start dripping for weeks at a time.
Meanwhile, Curly Sue, who had begun the year with a "fever virus" that kept her at 102-105 degrees for six days and alas, had not been spared the rotavirus in any of its rounds, developed daily gushing nosebleeds, which her pediatrician attributed to seasonal allergies. Moe had to be taken to the ER because he couldn't breathe, and his croup was treated with an inhaler.
Two weeks later, armed with enough medication for a week plus some, we headed to our favorite vacation spot. Curly Sue was with my parents, who were collecting my grandmother on the way. Moe had run a fever and awakened with croup the night before, but when I called the pediatrician's office the next morning, a nurse told me that the sea air would be just what he needed -- no reason to bring him into the office.
By the time we arrived at the beach, six hours later, Moe was going into respiratory distress. The urgent care office sent him to the regional hospital, where a shot of potent steroid was not enough to pull his 15-month-old body out of danger. I spent the first night of my vacation in his hospital room.
Early the next morning, a respiratory therapist came in to give him his every-two-hour breathing treatment and he crashed. By the time they got him stabilized, wheels were turning to get him to a children's hospital 50 miles away. Geddy and I spent the next two nights of our vacation in the Ronald McDonald House while Moe was in the PICU. We had to wear masks and gloves to be near him.
Back at the condo, Larry was running a 105-degree fever and Curly Sue was bleeding all over the place -- Nannie and Paw-Paw had forgotten to give her the nose spray she needed for her allergies. Larry was taken to urgent care, where he received an official diagnosis of ear infection (incorrect!).
Moe, improved, was moved out onto the floor so I spent the fourth night of my vacation wrapped around his little body in a stainless steel hospital crib. We left the hospital that day with another armload of medicine and headed back to the condo, where we stayed on the phone with our pediatrician trying to regulate medications and amounts. We had medicine and notepads and timers and clocks to help us remember who got what and when. And we slept.
We got home from our vacation and Geddy started feeling poorly. Then Curly Sue started running a fever. Then Moe started running a fever the day after he finished his antibiotics. Our pediatrician prescribed an antibiotic for Curly Sue, sight unseen, and ordered a chest x-ray for Moe. Geddy took himself to the ER, where he was diagnosed with pneumonia. Moe also had pneumonia; a lung had partially collapsed while he was struggling to breathe. Larry was prescribed an inhaler for his constant cough and officially diagnosed with asthma.
We learned a lot during that time period. Viral croup has the potential to kill a small child, for instance, and that surprises doctors but not their nurses, who (thankfully) primarily are in charge of said child's care. Ambulance crews and transport teams from hospitals are not necessarily sensitive, though they might be competent. It is possible to go without sleep for an entire month. It is possible to not cry during a terrible illness but sob uncontrollably a year later, when a commercial for a children's hospital catches your eye.
And when you see your tiny niece lying in her big hospital bed, it is possible, even though you know she's going to be just fine in a few days, for a lump the size of Miami to impair your ability to speak or breathe for a few minutes, causing a few hot tears to slide down the end of your nose before you can stop them. But in your bedtime prayers -- which you say after you have squeezed your children so hard their eyes bug out of their heads -- it is not possible to thank the good Lord enough for the blessings of life and health that so many do not enjoy.
Several years ago we decided to send Larry to public school. Moe was an infant, Curly Sue a toddler, and Larry was trying to learn some kindergarten skills from his extremely distracted mother. From January to May, Larry was the student of Miss Wanda, a veteran teacher who was a blessing upon our family.
As is typically the case with an otherwise ideal situation, there was a problem: Larry caught every virus, bug and germ. Rotavirus made its way through our home three times in five months; a dry, hacking cough wound up being the beginning of his current asthma woes and his nose was dripping, just finished dripping or just about to start dripping for weeks at a time.
Meanwhile, Curly Sue, who had begun the year with a "fever virus" that kept her at 102-105 degrees for six days and alas, had not been spared the rotavirus in any of its rounds, developed daily gushing nosebleeds, which her pediatrician attributed to seasonal allergies. Moe had to be taken to the ER because he couldn't breathe, and his croup was treated with an inhaler.
Two weeks later, armed with enough medication for a week plus some, we headed to our favorite vacation spot. Curly Sue was with my parents, who were collecting my grandmother on the way. Moe had run a fever and awakened with croup the night before, but when I called the pediatrician's office the next morning, a nurse told me that the sea air would be just what he needed -- no reason to bring him into the office.
By the time we arrived at the beach, six hours later, Moe was going into respiratory distress. The urgent care office sent him to the regional hospital, where a shot of potent steroid was not enough to pull his 15-month-old body out of danger. I spent the first night of my vacation in his hospital room.
Early the next morning, a respiratory therapist came in to give him his every-two-hour breathing treatment and he crashed. By the time they got him stabilized, wheels were turning to get him to a children's hospital 50 miles away. Geddy and I spent the next two nights of our vacation in the Ronald McDonald House while Moe was in the PICU. We had to wear masks and gloves to be near him.
Back at the condo, Larry was running a 105-degree fever and Curly Sue was bleeding all over the place -- Nannie and Paw-Paw had forgotten to give her the nose spray she needed for her allergies. Larry was taken to urgent care, where he received an official diagnosis of ear infection (incorrect!).
Moe, improved, was moved out onto the floor so I spent the fourth night of my vacation wrapped around his little body in a stainless steel hospital crib. We left the hospital that day with another armload of medicine and headed back to the condo, where we stayed on the phone with our pediatrician trying to regulate medications and amounts. We had medicine and notepads and timers and clocks to help us remember who got what and when. And we slept.
We got home from our vacation and Geddy started feeling poorly. Then Curly Sue started running a fever. Then Moe started running a fever the day after he finished his antibiotics. Our pediatrician prescribed an antibiotic for Curly Sue, sight unseen, and ordered a chest x-ray for Moe. Geddy took himself to the ER, where he was diagnosed with pneumonia. Moe also had pneumonia; a lung had partially collapsed while he was struggling to breathe. Larry was prescribed an inhaler for his constant cough and officially diagnosed with asthma.
We learned a lot during that time period. Viral croup has the potential to kill a small child, for instance, and that surprises doctors but not their nurses, who (thankfully) primarily are in charge of said child's care. Ambulance crews and transport teams from hospitals are not necessarily sensitive, though they might be competent. It is possible to go without sleep for an entire month. It is possible to not cry during a terrible illness but sob uncontrollably a year later, when a commercial for a children's hospital catches your eye.
And when you see your tiny niece lying in her big hospital bed, it is possible, even though you know she's going to be just fine in a few days, for a lump the size of Miami to impair your ability to speak or breathe for a few minutes, causing a few hot tears to slide down the end of your nose before you can stop them. But in your bedtime prayers -- which you say after you have squeezed your children so hard their eyes bug out of their heads -- it is not possible to thank the good Lord enough for the blessings of life and health that so many do not enjoy.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Must be a disorder
I'm terrified of heights. I'm not just afraid of falling but of being far away from the ground. I become disoriented and panic with a definite sensation of falling even though I'm not actually falling. Like when you dream you're falling and grab for the bed, which of course is solidly underneath your body. I'm certifiably acrophobic.
If I had a physical reaction to spiders -- not just the heaving shudders or feeling like things are crawling on me -- it would make me arachnophobic. Fear of water, fear of strangers, fear of enclosed spaces...you name it, there's a phobia for it.
Lucy: "Maybe you have pantophobia, Charlie Brown."
Charlie Brown: "What's pantophobia?"
Lucy: "The fear of everything."
Charlie Brown: "THAT'S IT!!!"
Larry has an aversion to English peas, tomatoes and some other squishy foods. When he was a tiny boy, he gagged violently at certain smells, sights and touches. In preschool, he didn't want to fingerpaint or make plaster of Paris handprints. He's 11 now and still has no interest in touch tanks or other hands-on experiences. He is just now learning to pat dogs and cats comfortably.
According to some literature, that gives him "tactile issues." I throw that around when it suits me, but the fact is, he just doesn't like squishy or wriggly things. Not foods, not paints, not pets, not sea creatures. If I asked him to pick up the dog's poop, I'd be hosing throw-up out of the yard, too.
When I worked at a newspaper, the editorial staff privately called a fine selection of our local loonies the "C----- Crazies" and kept ourselves and each other abreast of their doings. There was Mary the Bicycle Lady, Boomer the Sports Nut and the guy who talked to, listened to and tried to hide behind street signs, among others. At our first home, a shell-shocked WWII veteran named George frequently left dollar bills in our screen door for reasons known only to him.
No doubt, some of these folks have conditions frequently documented and discussed in numerous medical journals and conferences. Perhaps they are under a doctor's care. Someone who came home "shell-shocked" 50 years ago would now be diagnosed with "Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder" and appropriately counseled, medicated and relieved of jury duty.
Years ago people had all the same disorders they have now. They were eccentric rather than diseased back then.
Sister Martha took to the couch at 40 with the vapors. Miss Grumblypants down the street snipped the head off any day lily that wasn't absolutely perfect. Can't Get Right could count tiller's trays at the general store to the penny at a glance. Poor Luther couldn't get out of bed for months after his wife Mona died. Little Charlie-Boy screamed until he fainted if locked in the closet when he was bad.
Early menopause, obsessive-compulsive disorder, autism, depression, claustrophobia. See?
Ahhh, cynicism. Frustrated idealism. Sounds like a disorder to me.
If I had a physical reaction to spiders -- not just the heaving shudders or feeling like things are crawling on me -- it would make me arachnophobic. Fear of water, fear of strangers, fear of enclosed spaces...you name it, there's a phobia for it.
Lucy: "Maybe you have pantophobia, Charlie Brown."
Charlie Brown: "What's pantophobia?"
Lucy: "The fear of everything."
Charlie Brown: "THAT'S IT!!!"
Larry has an aversion to English peas, tomatoes and some other squishy foods. When he was a tiny boy, he gagged violently at certain smells, sights and touches. In preschool, he didn't want to fingerpaint or make plaster of Paris handprints. He's 11 now and still has no interest in touch tanks or other hands-on experiences. He is just now learning to pat dogs and cats comfortably.
According to some literature, that gives him "tactile issues." I throw that around when it suits me, but the fact is, he just doesn't like squishy or wriggly things. Not foods, not paints, not pets, not sea creatures. If I asked him to pick up the dog's poop, I'd be hosing throw-up out of the yard, too.
When I worked at a newspaper, the editorial staff privately called a fine selection of our local loonies the "C----- Crazies" and kept ourselves and each other abreast of their doings. There was Mary the Bicycle Lady, Boomer the Sports Nut and the guy who talked to, listened to and tried to hide behind street signs, among others. At our first home, a shell-shocked WWII veteran named George frequently left dollar bills in our screen door for reasons known only to him.
No doubt, some of these folks have conditions frequently documented and discussed in numerous medical journals and conferences. Perhaps they are under a doctor's care. Someone who came home "shell-shocked" 50 years ago would now be diagnosed with "Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder" and appropriately counseled, medicated and relieved of jury duty.
Years ago people had all the same disorders they have now. They were eccentric rather than diseased back then.
Sister Martha took to the couch at 40 with the vapors. Miss Grumblypants down the street snipped the head off any day lily that wasn't absolutely perfect. Can't Get Right could count tiller's trays at the general store to the penny at a glance. Poor Luther couldn't get out of bed for months after his wife Mona died. Little Charlie-Boy screamed until he fainted if locked in the closet when he was bad.
Early menopause, obsessive-compulsive disorder, autism, depression, claustrophobia. See?
Ahhh, cynicism. Frustrated idealism. Sounds like a disorder to me.
Monday, October 1, 2007
Poke Salad Annie
Never, never consult Wikipedia.
I'm already the queen of useless trivia, so imagine my distress when I went online to look for the correct name of the song -- simply because it's been chasing itself around my head for a few hours -- and found a whole slew of new useless trivia.
Do I need to know that "sallet" is the correct name for "polk" greens? You cook them so they don't kill you. "Salad" isn't cooked. Do I need to imagine Tony Joe White enunciating Polk Sallet Annie? I can't remember what I had for breakfast this morning or call my children by their correct names, but I'll probably be able to recall that Jerry Scheff played "rare fuzz bass solos" on Elvis' covers beginning in 1972.
Gators got your granny (chomp, chomp).
I'm already the queen of useless trivia, so imagine my distress when I went online to look for the correct name of the song -- simply because it's been chasing itself around my head for a few hours -- and found a whole slew of new useless trivia.
Do I need to know that "sallet" is the correct name for "polk" greens? You cook them so they don't kill you. "Salad" isn't cooked. Do I need to imagine Tony Joe White enunciating Polk Sallet Annie? I can't remember what I had for breakfast this morning or call my children by their correct names, but I'll probably be able to recall that Jerry Scheff played "rare fuzz bass solos" on Elvis' covers beginning in 1972.
Gators got your granny (chomp, chomp).
Friday, September 28, 2007
The Hat Trick does game time
Larry, 11, Curly Sue, 8, and Moe, 6, have a game they play called "Yummy Feet." Being merely mom to The Hat Trick and not one of its insiders, I'm not privy to the rules of said game but it seems to involve one-third chasing the other two-thirds' feet. Pretending to bite them, I believe. Happy times.
"Get Away From the Bear" also is a favorite. Another one I'm not entirely sure I could play without guidance from the 11 and under set, but this one seems pretty straightforward, with one-third -- The Bear -- trying to bite the other two-thirds. "Haunted Tag" and "Secret Agent" are other recurring games, but I think I have those pegged. Think regular tag and hide-and-seek played in the dark with flashlights. As far as I'm aware, no biting. (Would that be "Vampire Tag?")
I thought about teaching The Hat Trick some good, proper, old-fashioned games some day. In my mind, it went something like this:
Me: Okay, who wants to learn to play jacks?
The Hat Trick: Me! Me! Me!
Me: All right, gather 'round. The first thing you do is (consults three-page direction sheet from jacks set) um...just a minute...
Larry: Hey, look how high this ball bounces!
Moe: Let me do it! Hey, cool! Let's try it on the kitchen floor. (Chases the ball around the room and down the stairs.)
Me: NO! Quit bouncing it. First you scatter the jacks. Not over the railing! (Collects jacks from stairwell.) Just scatter them on the floor right here...
Curly Sue: These jacks are poky. I bet they would make holes in paper. (Leaves to get some.)
Me: Come back here! Now listen...stop bouncing the ball. Then you (consults the paper) um...bounce the...NOTLIKETHAT!
Larry and Moe: (in awe) Ooh. It floats.
Me, fishing the ball out of the now rubber-flavored soup on the kitchen stove: Sit down! Where's Curly Sue?
Moe: She's poking holes in paper.
Larry: Making a butterfly. I wonder how high it would bounce in the driveway?
Moe: All the way up to the sky! I wonder if it would float in the bathtub?
As Mark Twain says, I'll close the curtain of charity over the rest of the scene. And add that my children still do not know how to play jacks or any other good, old-fashioned game with proper rules. I did draw a Sharpie circle on the back of a mat so they could shoot marbles, and they made up their own games to play with them. That's been the extent of my contribution.
Meh. Sometimes it's better when Mom doesn't know the rules anyhow.
"Get Away From the Bear" also is a favorite. Another one I'm not entirely sure I could play without guidance from the 11 and under set, but this one seems pretty straightforward, with one-third -- The Bear -- trying to bite the other two-thirds. "Haunted Tag" and "Secret Agent" are other recurring games, but I think I have those pegged. Think regular tag and hide-and-seek played in the dark with flashlights. As far as I'm aware, no biting. (Would that be "Vampire Tag?")
I thought about teaching The Hat Trick some good, proper, old-fashioned games some day. In my mind, it went something like this:
Me: Okay, who wants to learn to play jacks?
The Hat Trick: Me! Me! Me!
Me: All right, gather 'round. The first thing you do is (consults three-page direction sheet from jacks set) um...just a minute...
Larry: Hey, look how high this ball bounces!
Moe: Let me do it! Hey, cool! Let's try it on the kitchen floor. (Chases the ball around the room and down the stairs.)
Me: NO! Quit bouncing it. First you scatter the jacks. Not over the railing! (Collects jacks from stairwell.) Just scatter them on the floor right here...
Curly Sue: These jacks are poky. I bet they would make holes in paper. (Leaves to get some.)
Me: Come back here! Now listen...stop bouncing the ball. Then you (consults the paper) um...bounce the...NOTLIKETHAT!
Larry and Moe: (in awe) Ooh. It floats.
Me, fishing the ball out of the now rubber-flavored soup on the kitchen stove: Sit down! Where's Curly Sue?
Moe: She's poking holes in paper.
Larry: Making a butterfly. I wonder how high it would bounce in the driveway?
Moe: All the way up to the sky! I wonder if it would float in the bathtub?
As Mark Twain says, I'll close the curtain of charity over the rest of the scene. And add that my children still do not know how to play jacks or any other good, old-fashioned game with proper rules. I did draw a Sharpie circle on the back of a mat so they could shoot marbles, and they made up their own games to play with them. That's been the extent of my contribution.
Meh. Sometimes it's better when Mom doesn't know the rules anyhow.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Other people would rather be reading
We participated in a fund raiser at a local restaurant tonight, where 20 percent of our purchase will be used toward building a library in my tiny hometown.
I remember growing up a reader -- not an intellectual, understand, just a reader -- and living for the Bookmobile's annual visit at the beginning of the summer. The 15 miles to the county seat and that city's library seemed a lot further then than now, so we never made that trip. Instead, the Bookmobile brought my precious dozen books to me every summer. Most of them were read by the end of the first week, though, and out came the Reader's Digest Condensed Books that lined my parents' shelves.
(Did you know that Beth actually dies in the second half of "Little Women?" Me too, now. Nothing crueler than to give a child hope by letting her read the Condensed Classic, in which Beth beats the fever...the end.)
All I need to know about burlesque I learned from Gypsy Rose Lee's "The G-String Murders." Out of respect for my parents, who clearly never read this work before putting it on their shelves for little eyes to see, I will not elaborate. Suffice it to say that if a woman chooses to have breast enhancement these days, she doesn't have to worry as much about sitting too near a heater.
So the fundraiser food was tasty, a good time was had by all, funds were raised and I ran into my high school journalism teacher. She was not surprised to learn that I had spent most of my career writing sports before turning to full-time motherhood for my work. She said I was "brave" to homeschool. Funny, I thought she was brave to try and teach 150 teenagers a day.
I guess it's all relative.
I remember growing up a reader -- not an intellectual, understand, just a reader -- and living for the Bookmobile's annual visit at the beginning of the summer. The 15 miles to the county seat and that city's library seemed a lot further then than now, so we never made that trip. Instead, the Bookmobile brought my precious dozen books to me every summer. Most of them were read by the end of the first week, though, and out came the Reader's Digest Condensed Books that lined my parents' shelves.
(Did you know that Beth actually dies in the second half of "Little Women?" Me too, now. Nothing crueler than to give a child hope by letting her read the Condensed Classic, in which Beth beats the fever...the end.)
All I need to know about burlesque I learned from Gypsy Rose Lee's "The G-String Murders." Out of respect for my parents, who clearly never read this work before putting it on their shelves for little eyes to see, I will not elaborate. Suffice it to say that if a woman chooses to have breast enhancement these days, she doesn't have to worry as much about sitting too near a heater.
So the fundraiser food was tasty, a good time was had by all, funds were raised and I ran into my high school journalism teacher. She was not surprised to learn that I had spent most of my career writing sports before turning to full-time motherhood for my work. She said I was "brave" to homeschool. Funny, I thought she was brave to try and teach 150 teenagers a day.
I guess it's all relative.
I'd still rather be reading!
I'm reading a book by Steve and Annette Economides called "America's Cheapest Family Gets You Right on the Money." So far, it's earnest and interesting. I have to admire a family that takes sound financial principles and applies them so consistently that they pay off a house on one (smallish) salary in nine years.
My husband has lost 50 pounds since last November and he dreads the inevitable, "How did you do it?" He warns people they won't like the answer, then explains that he eats healthy portions of food, exercises regularly and lifts weights a couple of times a week. I have read a dozen books on personal finance and though some authors are more interesting than others, all basically say the same thing: spend less, exercise common sense regularly and build up your resistance-to-the-gimmes muscles by denying yourself a couple of times a week.
And nobody really likes that answer, either.
My husband has lost 50 pounds since last November and he dreads the inevitable, "How did you do it?" He warns people they won't like the answer, then explains that he eats healthy portions of food, exercises regularly and lifts weights a couple of times a week. I have read a dozen books on personal finance and though some authors are more interesting than others, all basically say the same thing: spend less, exercise common sense regularly and build up your resistance-to-the-gimmes muscles by denying yourself a couple of times a week.
And nobody really likes that answer, either.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
I'd rather be reading
Life is what you make it,
That's what the people say.
And if I can't make it through tomorrow,
I'd better make it through today.
That's what the people say.
And if I can't make it through tomorrow,
I'd better make it through today.
-Eric Clapton
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