Moving On

So.

Yes, I honestly am that grumpy often! And yes the ice-cream man came back yesterday evening and yes I did make sarcastic and (very funny! Really!) irritated comments until that 8-bar refrain faded away into the distance.

Now you're really sorry for my children aren't you?

I have no segue here so we'll just leap into the real topic.

Child 2 and I were trying to impose some order on the sun-room last week. The sun room is one of those areas of the house that expresses that damn law of entropy - you know, the law that says the universe is constantly moving into chaos? That any system (say, a linen closet or a craft closet) will inevitably go from ordered to disordered. The fact that it's a law of the universe explains why it's never anyone's fault that the folded towels have become unfolded, the boxed up art supplies have spread themselves over the shelf and the hot glue gun is once again sitting on the kitchen counter with a dribble of solidified glue sticking to the surface.

I won't even try to point the finger at Child 3 who likes to go into the sun-room and listen to its i-pod while it spins in the office chair we don't have room for anywhere else and casually rummages through the storage boxes we have out there. Surely it's not its fault that there was a fine dusting of pictures, papers, beloved but outgrown toys and other important items over every surface of the room?

So Child 2 and I waded in and began grimly fighting a force of the universe - meaning we sort of stuffed everything into a box that more or less fit the description until we both got fed up and just shoved the rest out of sight.

While doing so I came across a small plastic booklet labeled "Photographs."

When Kirk and I got married we didn't have a professional photographer. Actually, we didn't have a caterer, a professional dressmaker or anything else either but that's not the point. What we did have was someone - I don't know who... my mother? racing around now and then and desperately snapping a picture here and there. Which means that just about every picture I have shows Kirk looking grim and me with my mouth open... well, except for the one with my sister where it looks like we're having this really, really special and touching sisterly moment together before I leave and really she's saying, "okay, now gimme my necklace back!"

There are only about eight pictures in the book but it was fun to come across it because now when I get emails that ask, "were you really nineteen when you got married?" I can say, yes, yes I was:



Note: Kirk however was a creaking old man of 21.

Question

It must be spring because we officially turned the furnace thermostat to zero (it was at 61 because, you know 60 would be COLD and 62 is just too wild and crazy hedonistic), the sprinklers were reprogrammed and yesterday the ice-cream man came out of hibernation and began once more trolling for sugar-fiends through the streets.

I listened to the 8 bars of tinkly, Doppler-shifted music as it cruised mournfully up our street, over a block, down the next, up again for about two hours - fading now and then but always present. And first I wondered why there haven't been any famous cases of ice-cream van drivers turning sociopathic mass-murderer. Then I decided that the sociopathic tendencies were clearly already expressed simply by being an ice-cream van driver with an 8 bar musical kiddy-lure. Then I thought of the real question as that refrain continued to drill through my brain:

Why haven't there been any famous cases of mass murderers OF ice cream van drivers?

Now, would that go under "hobbies" or "public service" on a CV?

The Sounds of Silence

Children 1 and 3 are out of town this week.

I do love them so.

But they are out of town.

As in far, faaaaar away from here.

Which means that even if I listen hard, even if I put a cup to the wall and lean my ear up against it, even if I slow down my own darn heartbeat because it's interfering with my ability to hear, even then?

I can't hear Child 3 at all.

Child 3 has a talent for noise.

Commonly heard phrases in our house:

"Child 3! PLEASE no more percussion"

"That includes thumping your belly"

"And your sibling"

"And ME! Get off 3!"

"And no nose flute either"

"Child 3, are you quite sure you don't need to go outside and take a nice, long run?"

A week or so ago Child 3 took a cardboard box, a strip of steel flashing, a plank of wood, a rope and some hot glue and created The Childolin. Because what was missing in Child 3's life was something it could grab up at a moment's notice and shout, "hey! Guess what song I'm playing! It's Diary of Jane! On the Childolin! Listen again!" [note: I will post a picture of the Childolin but it will have to wait because darn old Child 1 selfishly took its digital camera with it on the trip]

So having packed Child 3 up (and double checked its toothbrush AND its ID that took 3 days to find) I sent it and its sibling off on Monday with many loving little words of farewell and a song in my heart.

And for the last three days it has been blissfully, remarkably quiet.

Golly, I kind of miss It.

Celebrating Fertility Symbols and Sugar Rushes

So Easter might have snuck up on me a little.

Yes, there have been aisles of sickly pastel in Target for the past month and a half. Yes there might have been one or two HUNDRED different "baskets" - including one made out of Elmo's head that I'll tell you right now will be worth at least $5000 in therapy when some poor kid stops suppressing that particular memory. Yes there were stacks of bunny and chickie related books with a large display of "special store brand" rabbits right at check out. But I still found myself last Friday going, "wait, Easter? That Easter?? THIS Sunday???"

So I found myself in the pushing, elbowing crowd with all the other parents who celebrate various holidays by following the sacred traditions of procrastination and panic. I did hear one mother, nearly in tears, desperately asking someone where. the. damn. plastic. eggs. were. I smiled at her in sympathy and neatly snagged the last bag of Reese's eggs by reaching between two grandmother types and over the woman who was sitting on the floor painstakingly comparing the attractions of Starburst jelly beans vs. Brachs. I don't bother with that sort of care and bother. I just make sure I have enough tooth-rotting sucrose to make a decent show but not so much that I would have to spend more than two hours packaging it.

Because we have this tradition at our house.

So this year's hiding places included:

Buried in the sugar bin
Taped to the underside of the clunky old television
Nestled inside the second of the Russian Dictator Stacking Dolls (Breshnev)
Stuck to the corner of the ceiling behind the sofit
Stuffed down the center of the paper towels (which Child 3 dislodged by giving the roll a violent whip, sending the small packet of jelly beans whizzing past Child 1's ear and adding to Child's complicated relationship with flying beans)

and

slid into the battery compartment of the largest flashlight.

By the time we were on these the Children were pathetically begging for a hint so I told them finding this one would be "illuminating."

Child 2 shrieked "LIGHTBULB!!!" sounding a little like a hysterical chicken.

Naturally we shouted Lightbulb! at each other at random moments for the rest of the day.

Oh, and we never did find one wad of jelly beans. That's traditional too.

Classification

"I am a fork!" Child 1 announced this weekend.

I'd like to tell you there was a long and logical lead up (oooh! alliteration!) to this moment but no, actually it was a short and entirely ridiculous lead up. Which comes as no surprise to anyone who knows us.

And it wasn't enough to declare Its association with common cutlery, no. Child 1 immediately began agitating for fork rights and making random declarations of fork unity.

Child 2 naturally refused to be a fork. Since this is the Don't Touch Me Child we responded by declaring it a spoon - simply waiting to be cuddled. There was a certain amount of outrage, and possibly a little rebellious shouting of, "I'm a knife! a KNIFE!!" but Child 1 and I were not to be denied.

This left however the difficult problem of Child 3. Child 1 wasn't entirely sure Child 3 was worthy of forkishness and Child 2 was selfishly hogging both spoons AND knives with its stubborn refusal to accept its essential lovability. I resolved it though and declared Child 3 an egg slicer.* Child 3 was delighted.

Then we all did the fork dance of victory and finished our pasta.

*Anyone who has read Terry Pratchett will understand this, but for those who haven't, the egg slicer is the thing that everyone has but no one remembers buying. Also it's the thing that always gets caught in the drawer and causes the incarnation of the goddess Annoia. Since Child 3 is ubiquitous, has ridiculously long limbs that certainly give the impression they are about to get caught in things, and is probably the most committed acolyte in the spread of the cult of Annoia we felt it was a reasonable designation.

Anyone got a Flux Capacitor?

Argh

Sorry about the sporadic posting. We recently had a staff member resign and because of the way hiring is done here we couldn't even advertise to fill the position until nearly a month had gone by. Actually, we still don't have an ad out for it which means we'll be a staff member down for another month probably (hopefully not much more). So a few of us have been spending part of our time covering for this position - which in my case means being away from my computer and therefore not being able to do my core job. At the same time I've just had my job responsibilities doubled.

Aaaaaaand I'm also doing a soups-to-nuts complete redesign of the main website I'm responsible for.

All of which means a leetle stress, and very little time or energy for writing blogger posts. However according to the Children I make very amusing Marge Simpson noises so there's an upside to it all I suppose.

Also I did just finish a first draft of a poster that looks pretty darn cool (my horn! I am blowing it! Wooot! Wooot!) and will hopefully be approved by the director today which will be one slim file removed from my towering pile of Very Important Things To Do Immediately and At Once.

Child 1 - Now with photos!

Child 1, bless it, was our training child, the one we made all of our mistakes on - at least in theory. Actually it spoiled us rotten by being a remarkably easy and pleasant kid, something we falsely attributed to our mad parenting skilz.

This year it has startled me by suddenly becoming a creative and accomplished artist. It is taking ceramics, and has been steadily filling up a shelf with a variety of pots and bowls. They are very nice pots and bowls of course, and I like them a great deal but they pale in comparison with the sculpture Child has been doing.


There is the charming and insouciant frog I got for Christmas, the small decorated bust it gave me for my birthday, and the impressionistic mermaid that belongs to Child 2 now.

I realize I could be suspected of bias when I report that the stuff Child has been making is, quite simply, brilliant, but this weekend my intelligent opinion was fully confirmed. Child won first place in a city-wide juried art show for area high schools.

As always Child, you amaze me.

Happy birthday.

Images (more to come)


Isn't that the coolest frog?

Multiple Bloginality

I was thinking lately about the list of blogs I regularly read and I realized I have a small issue with multiple personality. IE:

I regularly click over from A Year Off directly to Want Not. Why? Well, I got to Want Not by reading Mir's other blog, Woulda Coulda Shoulda and to A Year Off by following Chris from Notes From The Trenches. So what if one is all about the fabulous, fabulous bargains that are to be had on the net while the other journals Chris's efforts to not purchase anything unnecessary during the year?

Then there are the three infertile blogs I read - not because I'm infertile but because of one of those linked from a link from a suggestion from a recommendation. The writing is good so I find myself following Tertia, Julia and Julie.

I regularly read French Laundry At Home (and then have to take a brisk walk during lunch just to work off the feeling of digital heaviness from all the cream and butter), David Lebovitz and Chubby Hubby and then head right over to see what is happening at A Lard Off My Mind without suffering so much as virtual whiplash from the change of pace.

I sent my father a link to a blog discussing research into the author's family (among other things my father is a certified professional genealogist) and he asked, in some bemusement, where in the heck I came across the blog. Well, you see someone sent me a link to a house blog and they had a link to another and that ended up at this place where...


I read some blogs that cannot be categorized (like Emily at Wheels On The Bus. Is she a Mommy blogger? a Memoir Blogger? I dunno, I just like to read) and some that are easily pigeonholed like Go Fug Yourself (where I can be amused by mockery of people I generally don't know exist!) or Pajiba (note to Mother and others easily offended! There are bad, bad words used on that site, and often very rude analogies).

Someone told me the other day that I can know what sort of person I am by looking at the list of blogs I read.

I guess I'm a bargain hunting, anti-consumerist, gourmet hedonistic, nutritionally conscientious, pop-culture obsessed voyeur.

Yup, about sums it up.

Love Hurts

I spent the weekend throwing jelly beans at the Children.

Well, not the whole weekend. Just an hour or so on Sunday afternoon.

It's how I justify giving them sugared snacks! Yes, I say to them, yes you may have tooth-rotting, nutritionally vacuous, improbably colored bits-o-sugar! You just have to be able to duck really fast as well.

Child 2 is boring. It sits close enough that I have to toss rather than throw and the jelly beans more often than not simply rolled down into its bowl. Also, Child 2 says thank you, each and every time, regardless of whether I was trying to land the jelly bean in its ear or not. That takes all the fun out of it.

Child 3 stoically ignores me but uses its mind-numbingly long arms to sweep the jelly beans into its jelly bean collection area. Child 3 would be a complete wash except the beans made a satisfying and amusing "tok" sound when they hit the top of its head.

Child 1 though, Child 1 makes it all worth while. For the first few beans it simply went wild eyed and waved frantically at the beans as they whizzed past its nose. Then it tried to go all calm and patient and pretended to read its book - a ploy that failed utterly because it kept twitching when I rattled the bean container. That became amusing in itself because I could make the noise and then do a sort of false-throwing motion and Child 1 would hurl its book down and assume a defensive ninja posture (what?? We don't have a dog to torment.) After a while, naturally, it got wise to this and stopped reacting. Which is when I nailed it good and proper.

It's all part of my parenting theory - the one that says you know you're going to scar your children so you better make sure a good time is had by all in the process.

Oh, and it's not a bad idea to get a blog post out of it too.

Natural History

Walking a long way to and from work gives me a lot of opportunity to observe the surrounding life forms. Not so much on the flora front - 'round these parts flora comes in two varieties: defeated ornamental (you know, the kind that has been beaten into submission until it will survive being planted in a super-store parking lot) or native (which means prickly, hostile, and only green in relation to the dusty-brown that surrounds it on all sides). Fauna however we get in infinite variety, and much time can be happily passed attempting to categorize it.

The game can be simplified as Panhandler, Professor, or Student? The recent boom in hands-free devices has made this a little more difficult as it's not always easy to tell if someone is talking to themselves or to the little electronic parasite in their ear, but the premise is simple enough. Using only clothing and accessories attempt to classify the following into the appropriate slot. I've started you off with some easy ones (answers at the bottom if you want to cheat) and then thrown a poser onto the end that I saw just yesterday and has me baffled.

A. Middle aged man, suit, cap, briefcase.

B. Older male, wild hair, frayed jeans, brown loafers with cracks in the toes.

C. Young woman, pink bicycle, flannel pajamas with penguins on.

D. Male, indeterminate age, green felt fez with yellow tassel, bright red guitar strung over back, leather coat.

ANS:

A. Panhandler. Specializes in varied religions: "Jesus loves you ma'am, he loves you, any spare change?" (heard last week); "something good is going to happen to you today sir, something good. Your karma is really good now, it's good." (heard this week)

B. Professor - humanities of some sort, not sure which branch. I know, that one was easy.

C. Trick question! It's either a pseudo-student or a proto-professor. It's a Teaching Assistant and should therefore be treated with great kindness poor little rabbit.

D. I honestly have no idea. The guitar could mean student (angst-ridden and hoping that being a sensitive musician will help him pick up girls) or pan-handler (of the "pay me for my endless repetition of the one song I can remember with the three chords I know how to play," or the "put enough change in my case and I'll stop singing" variety). He didn't have a case to collect money, but that could be what the fez was for. If he were wearing a bicycle clip around his leg I would have opted for professor but honestly this one has escaped me.

Child 2

*NOTE - these birthday posts are not linked to actual birthdays because we have this mad Birthday Blur for three weeks and I wanted to take the time to actually THINK about what I wanted to write. For once. Child 1's post will come in time too. *

Child 2 was born in a snow storm. It has always known how to make a dramatic entrance. Which is funny because Child 2 is the Shy Child, the Child who can think of seven different reasons other people wouldn't even WANT to talk to It before there's even time for a "hello." Child 2 is My Child - the one like me (sometimes).

It is our Germany Child, born in a little Medieval city called Fulda. Maybe the narrow streets and the yellow stone buildings seeped into its veins somehow because Child 2 does live a little in a fairy-tale past given the chance.

It is our Book Child, our Reading Child who gulps down a new book in an hour and then has to go back and read it again because, in the mad dash for the end (and because it's like me) it has skipped all the bits where it looked like things were going wrong.

It is our I Meant To Do That Child who can turn a slip into a glide and a fall into an entirely purposeful sit, staring triumphantly up at you and defying you to prove that there was any accident involved.

When it turned ten it reached back, took a firm grip on its childhood and stubbornly refused to let go. Adulthood was dangerous waters; it was going to stay in the safe and well known shallows. Maybe it was wise, maybe it knew best that there is nothing wrong in taking your time and coming to things when you're ready.

Because this has been a year of growth for Child 2. Not, sadly, in the way it wants - my darling Child, I'm afraid you will never be taller than Child 3 - but in the way it does small things for other people simply to make them happy, the way it stops, then stops again before getting angry, before letting its quick temper flash out of control (yes, that one was me as well), the way most of all that it has begun to learn to be comfortable, to be graceful, to be beautiful, within its skin.

Happy Birthday Child 2. I love you.

Scrambled Brains

I like structure. Yes, I do a creative job but it's a highly structured creative job and it's the structure, in my opinion, that makes everything else possible.

The trouble is when something shakes up the structure because that makes everything else wobble and, often, crash around my ears.

Take this week. This week is Testing Week. But it's only Testing Week for Lucky Child 2 - the entire rest of the school (well, yes except for other students of It's year, but that's not the point) is having three days of totally unearned vacation. (go on, ask me how Child 2 feels about this!) This means that yesterday all three Children woke up (eventually) and wandered off to school (except for Child 2 who claimed Unfair Flu and was allowed to stay home with a blanket, an i-pod and a pile of books). It means that this morning Child 2 was roused (sort of) and at least jump-started so in theory It would be ready for It's ride, but Children 1 and 3 were allowed to sleep in. That would be fine, that's just enough variation from the norm that I could, theoretically, cope.

But.

Children 1 and 3 are the JROTC Children and for some unknown reason the JROTC people have decided this is the perfect chance to have many! many! practices! (don't ask, I still haven't sorted out the nuances in the various things. I can only tell Armed from Unarmed because of the rather large chunks of wood and metal one group carries around) Child 1 has... one practice I think in the afternoon and possibly another in the morning but Child 3 definitely (maybe) has 2, one in the morning and one in the afternoon and not one of them is in the same darn place.

I discovered all of this about... two days ago. Now I do make an effort (sometimes) so I was trying to wrap myself around how I was going to go to work AND deliver Children to their various appointments and then I realized that I have: 1 meeting this afternoon, immutable as the tide which wipes out any delivery ability; 1 training session tomorrow morning which will doubtless go late thus meaning I could, if I bent space and time, possibly get one Child, late, to one of its practices but only one and; 2 meetings and a project on Thursday.

I shall don my tiara and sash at once for the Mother of the Year awards.

Dad Pasta

So we made Dad Pasta on Sunday. Actually, the Birthday Child made it really, having grasped the family philosophy that the best part of dinner is the Wielding of the Really Sharp Knives. We haven't had Dad Pasta in five years or so, not since California, not since before everything happened.

The Child did beautifully, chopping the garlic to a fine mince, producing bite-sized chunks of sun-dried tomato without spending inordinate amounts of time ensuring that each chunk is precisely the size of the previous one. I gave a few rudimentary instructions and was allowed to put the pasta in the boiling water.

At the end of it all the Children each dished up an enormous bowl and there was an extended silence. I admit to being nervous. This was Dad Pasta, after all - what if we got it wrong? What if our collective memory had somehow let us down?

You see, we have memories of Kirk that go beyond the stories. There are the CDs he burned, some of them simply labeled "KVA," or "Mellow Mix," one saying "Mountain Bike Mix." It's not the songs that matter, it's the particular selection and order that's like an imprint of his personality. His fishing gear is carefully saved because that brown case evokes hundreds of small moments: of Kirk's first salmon, of the prize King he caught, of the way we laughed on the Virginia lake when Child 1 tried to set the hook when It got a bite and ended up flinging the small sunfish twenty yards away and into a tree... aural memories, visual memories, and, now visceral memories of taste. If we got it right.

I was the only one concerned. It was fantastic.

Dad Pasta - Now with measurements!

4 tbsp olive oil
2 cloves garlic, finely minced (or, you know, if you have a garlic press you could do the wimpy version)
1 small jar sun-dried tomatoes in oil
1 C kalamata olives, quartered
2 C fresh spinach, stems removed, roughly chopped
1 16 oz package fettuccine
5 oz feta cheese

While the fettuccine is cooking: in a heavy pan lightly brown the garlic in the olive oil. Add tomatoes and stir until fragrant. Add olives and remove from heat.

Place spinach in serving bowl. Place hot, drained pasta over the spinach and allow to wilt. Stir in garlic, tomatoes and olives, toss to coat pasta with oil. Add feta cheese and serve.

We didn't add any salt or pepper because the olives and cheese are already so salty. The flavors are intense enough not to need any additional seasoning.

Random Friday Thought

Do you think there's some sort of resource out there, a compendium of some sort maybe that is available only to certain people? It would have, alphabetically or maybe by subject, thousands of brief, bright messages intended to uplift and inspire in a single sentence. Maybe there would be a rating system with little icons so you could quickly sort through and find those that:

A) included a pun or other play on words
B) paraphrases or otherwise bowdlerizes well known quotations
C) are overtly religious

I'm convinced it exists and is the source for: all "inspirational" signs outside of certain American churches; a large range of greeting cards, most of them pastel and sporting doe-eyed creatures or floral arrangements; the fortunes in the ginormous bag of fortune cookies donated to Child 2 by its friend.

Viz:

"God does not respond to e-mail, he responds to KNEE-mail"
"Don't turn over a new leaf, turn over a new LIFE"
"It is okay to have butterflies in your stomach, just get them flying in formation"
"Before you can do something you must first BE something"

There was one from a cookie though that I think missed its mark a little:

"Catch fire with a passion for something and the world will come to watch you burn."

Um.

Yes, maybe I'll stick with organizing those butterflies instead.

Suppah Time

The Birthday Children get to pick what they want for dinner on their birthday. It only seems fair really; that way the Anti-Mushroom Child doesn't end up with Fungus Amungus a la chantorelle or something. So last weekend it was steak and salad, with just one instant of trouble when The Friend clapped its hand to its mouth and blurted "oops! It's Lent!" This weekend it's going to be Dad Pasta.

We used to make a pretty big deal out of cooking dinner every night. There is something deeply satisfying in taking a mixed group of ingredients from raw form to finished product, and we loved every step. We wrangled (nicely) over who got to have the fun of Wielding The Knives. We asked for and received appreciation from each other as various stages were achieved ("oooh, look how nicely that scallop is caramelizing!" yes, it was fascinating being us!) and once the food was actually served it was assumed that voluble reaction would be made - preferably positive.

I was usually the chef since I worked from home and didn't have to wrestle with the various commutes Kirk had, but when we were living in California he had much more time in the evenings and he began experimenting with some recipes of his own. His tilapia was a favorite, for example, and he had a potato/pasta dish that was delicious. I left those to him, and unlike me he never bothered to write down his inspirations so this Sunday I'm going to be working off of memory.

Dad Pasta:

Fetuccini - enough to serve five (one or two of whom are Male and voracious)
fresh spinach - about... maybe 2 cups raw?
sun-dried tomatoes - in oil, to taste (what? I go by how it looks! Put 'em in until there are enough)
Kalamata olives - not so many as tomatoes but enough so you get one with each bite (there, was that more specific?)
feta cheese - a handful. Or so.
olive oil

Cook the pasta, toss with remaining ingredients. Serve with flair.

Bloom

Someone let these darn Children grow up and I want to know who.

There was the ROTC Military Ball on Friday, attended by the two JROTC Children. Then there was a Dining Out on Saturday, attended by the two female CAP Children.

It was one of the Children's birthday on Friday (we overdo the whole February birthday thing; mine and two Children's fall in that month) and after some discussion about earrings and boxes and scented lotions and things (it has decided it is a Girl and should maybe express that sometimes) I brought up the possibility of attending the Dining Out and maybe getting a nice dress as its birthday present. There was a little complaining about Lack Of Danceability and a smidgen of Someone Might Talk To Me but when weighed against the chance to have a formal(ish) dress of its very own it caved like the feminine creature it is.

Hence we faced the mall on Saturday. It was painful. There were many, many people and it's entirely likely I tipped over more than a few as I walked quickly and firmly to the one store I was willing to try. (Note: I hate shopping. I hate crowded malls. I had previously discovered that one particular store had a reasonable selection AND a decent price so I headed directly towards there, no passing Go, no $200. Anyone who was injured in this sort of bee-line approach totally deserved what they got because they were walking four abreast and sloooooooowly drifting along). Once at the store though we found a huge collection of quite nice dresses at huge sale - got lucky.

The non-birthday child (its turn comes next week) quickly got into the spirit of things and hauled off several things for itself but meanwhile The Child, the Don't Touch Me Elmo Child, the one who resists all efforts to cuddle or otherwise soften it willingly zipped itself into seven or eight dresses and then wandered into the hall for expert critiquing.

And you know that magic thing that happens with dresses? The one that happened last year? It happened again. The non-birthday Child chose a black and white number that twirled and switched and made its waist look about 10 inches around. And the Birthday Child? It found something swingy and elegant, simple but stunning and just a little sparkly.

And when they both were dressed and had brushed and tinted and generally gilded the lily I looked at them and realized:

They're OLD

and BEAUTIFUL

and I'd really like to know who authorized that because it sure wasn't me.

Excuse me, I know I stored Kirk's shotgun somewhere...

Military Ball

The ROTC Children are going to a ball.

The military does a lot of formal dinner/dance type things so the theory is that in high school the young cadets should be dragged into a large room (hopefully after a general clean-and-buff) and taught the rudiments of etiquette. I'm not sure how successful this is. I vaguely remember Child 1 talking a couple of years ago about pre-ball lectures on "this is a fork, this is a knife - no! Not THAT kind of knife!!" and how not to suck up your spaghetti until the end whips around and splatters your companions with Sauce Bolognaise. There does not seem to have been any such effort this year. I'm not sure if its because this cadre is considered to be slightly less knuckle-dragging than the other, or that the poor commander is simply beyond such minor concerns.

Child 1 is on The Committee which has meant fact finding missions to Target and an exciting discussion about whether or not female cadets were going to be required to wear their polyester blue class A skirts (1 vote) or could blossom out into sequins, tulle and teetery high heeled shoes (entire female cadet population, very loud and extremely shrill). It also means it must remain behind after the ball to clean up which sounds, to be honest a little Cinderella in reverse to me.

Does this place me in the role of Lt. F. Godmother? In anticipation I will try to locate a reliable source for glass combat boots. Any assistance would be appreciated.

Mus Musculus

We have a mouse!

Well, not we the family but we the place-where-I-work.

That is, it might be multiple mice I suppose but it does have a distinctive personality so I suspect A Mouse, singular. If so it should definitely go out for meece Olympics because this Mouse is an impressive sprinter. It was definitely seen taking a hard corner from the lounge into an office at which point the Mouse Eradication Professional was alerted. He came and informed us that sinks are bad (we have two) as is food (we have much - many, many people who like to do surreptitious snacking at their desks). Then he wandered around for a while with steel wool and caulk.

At which point the mouse somehow evaded detection and arrived at the other side of the building where it intelligently took refuge in one of the more tender-hearted colleagues's office. So tender-hearted is she in fact that she abandoned the entire office to the mouse and came out to spend useful minutes with us in the lobby where we were helping by talking about how it was A Mouse! In the building! And the hall! (we're good in crises like these: we really know how to best employ them).

To complicate things we have several splendid men from maintenance rooting around in the ceiling trying to discover why most of the floor above is being heated to a toasty 85 degrees. The mouse apparently took their hall-full of ladders as an opportunity to practice the cross-country/obstacle event because it sped back to the lobby, wove skillfully through the ladders, made a dash for the Boss's office, thought better of it and finally disappeared into another occupied room whose tenant simply noted there was now A Mouse in the room and phlegmatically went on working.

This has led to a bit of division among the work force.

There are the humanitarian types who are hand-wringing and fretting over the thought that the sweet little Mouse might be harmed (say, by having its sweet little neck snapped in a little old trap). Then there are the practical types who think it's A Mouse for heaven's sake and all us big girl's blouses should just man up and kill the darn thing already (stupid plague carrying rodent...).

Then there are the really intelligent types like me who figure if the Mouse stays around for a few more days we could establish a Committee for Rodent Understanding and Integration with a lot of off-site planning meetings, a few working lunches and a fact-finding trip or two.

I just might need to write up a proposal.

In the Zone

Last night.

Child 1: Wow, Mom! You got in three nags and you didn't even have to take a breath!

Right, I dominate the regionals, I think I'm ready for nationals now, don't you?

Politics

I didn't vote on Tuesday.

Not that I don't have an opinion. I have multiple opinions, and in places other than my blog (say, to my long-suffering children - and sometimes their innocent and bewildered friends) I express them fully, at length even, with historical anecdotes and little Venn diagrams and everything.

But I didn't vote.

I can't, see, because I'm a registered Independent. Kirk and I made that choice together about.... wow.... long time ago now because of a lot of complicated feelings about the electoral process, about our two party system, about party politics in general.

We chose it after a lot of thought and a lot of discussion and every four years I revisit all of it and ask myself if I still believe it enough to give up the chance to have a say in the primaries.

And I do. I still do.

I didn't vote on Tuesday because I couldn't. But as soon as I can?

You'd better believe I'll be there.

They Aren't For Sale [Today]

I have the best Children in the world.

No, honestly, they are, and even the most devoted mother of Prayshuss Little Twirly Princess or Darling Mister Mini Man will have to step away from the scrapbook glue long enough to hand me the award on this one.

You see, we have new furniture. It didn't take much really to get it in the end, just several months of minor budget scrimping (you know, reducing the kids down to two meals a day instead of three, backing off the imported pate on Thursdays and regrettably reducing the Norwegian Lawn Boy's hours by two) and a fairly miraculous clearance sale find. So Thursday the fine Fed Ex man cracked three jokes, called me Ma'am AND My Lady and dropped a ginormous box containing one square black ottoman off on my doorstep.

The next day he returned, cracked exactly the same three jokes (which made me feel a leeetle less special), called me Miss and gave me two more ginormous boxes which coyly hinted at their contents by being remarkably chair shaped.

The children were mildly interested and willing to express approval of my choices (Ha! Like they have any say in things....) but Children 1 and 3 didn't really perk up until I mentioned that we were going to be getting rid of the Bane Of My Life Couch - the one with the broken arm (thanks Child 3!) and the horrid stain (thanks unknown Child so all blame is shared out equally!) and the un-fitted drop cover that needed twitching after anyone so much as looked at it. No one will want this couch - it's that horrible. I don't think we could even hope to pass it off on some hapless college boy looking to outfit his first apartment with a mattress found on the side of the freeway and a set of vinyl covered folding chairs stolen from a local Moose Club. So there are two options - call for a large-item pick up which could take ages, or set the Children free on the thing and reduce it to a whimpering pile of shredded upholstery. Guess which one they want! Just guess! Child 3 cannot imagine why I refuse to let them at it until I have a reasonable way of disposing of the remains.

ANYWAY - the point was about my marvelous Children.

Since we now have TWO chairs I actually like AND an ottoman it meant that Saturday became redecorate day. Now, I solemnly pinky swear that this is absolute truth. On Saturday my Children:

1. Happily moved couches, chairs and tables around in what felt like an endless working of one of those slidy square picture puzzles I hated as a kid.

2. Collected and moved the contents of a table-cum-bookshelf, including a large collection of fascinating but very heavy National Geographics.

3. Dusted as each surface cleared - without prompting.

4. Swept and swiped at counters while I vacuumed.

5. Pounded nails and re-hung pictures.

6. Willingly came and stood with heads to one side or another to give opinions on art arrangement.

7. Stood around with me and listened while I mentioned again how much I liked the new furniture and how horrible it was before and how much better it is now and...

8. Accepted without argument that they MIGHT be allowed to sit... well... near the new stuff but There Shall Be No Food Nor Shall There Be Drink Nor Shall There Be Excessive Breathing.

9. Did all of this without a single word of complain or even a theatrical eye roll.

And... and this is the trump card people...

After all of that when I was sort of flollopped on the remaining old couch and admiring our hard work Child 2 quietly began rubbing my neck, Child 3 immediately began giving me a foot massage and Child 1 out of desperation for SOMETHING left in need of pampering brought out its own Christmas lotion and worked on my hands.

Yes, yes I think I shall allow them to live. At least this week.

Update

News!

The day of school cancellation we buffed Child 1's nose with The Rug - you know, because why stop with lucky knees if you can throw in a blessed nose as well. And know what? Child 1 won 2 games of bingo in German class. We're analyzing results now to see if they're outside statistical probability or if we can write immediately to The Old Church of Chain-Mail Blessings and let them know.

Also we're eying Child 3's anatomy trying to figure out what to bless next. Holy elbows perhaps?

In other news we had a conversation last night which ended up with Child 3 saying, "I have lured them in with my poo," in character as Hedley Lamarr from Blazing Saddles. We rolled around on the floor for a while, then Child 1 insisted on recording it for posterity on its digital camera. I believe that tells you nearly everything you should know about our family.

Lucky Knees

I've been blessed.

No, really blessed, by very enthusiastic people who have apparently recently discovered the joys of two-color printing. They sent this blessing in an envelope COVERED with IMPORTANT information HIGHLIGHTED and UNDERLINED for my entertainment.



They also lovingly referred to me as "resident" which is a sure way to the very cockles of my heart, and then they (still on the envelope) announced that I should be sure to PASS this BLESSING along after it had helped SOMEONE in MY FAMILY. A mass-mailed chain letter blessing - it doesn't get much better than this...

... Oh but it does. You see, inside was the LOAN from the [unnamed] very OLD CHURCH which was going to produce all of these blessings. Because I care, I actually have taken the trouble to scan it. However, I am not entirely sure about whether the blessings survive translation to digital media so just be aware.

Here's the loan (partial, sorry, it's too big for the scanner):




Yes.

It's a Jesus prayer mat. A paper one. It comes with instructions just in case you were confused (all of the following should be assumed as [sic]):

Look into Jesus' Eyes you will see they are closed. But as you continue to look you will see His eyes opening and looking back into your eyes.* Then go and be alone and kneel on this Rug of Faith or touch it to both knees. Then please check your needs on our letter to you. Please return this Prayer Rug. Do not keep it.

*This is quite true. Only you have to sort of focus on Jesus' Bridge of Nose rather than Jesus' Eyes. After a couple of seconds He starts giving you a rather creepy Mesmer stare. Well, unless you're Child 3 who was incapable of working the trick. Personally I think it's because Child 3's goldfish-length attention span simply wasn't up to the task.

Well, we're not about to pass up such an amazing opportunity. Child 1 was ruled out because of excess blanket at the moment; Child 3 had extensive bruising/scraping on its knees thanks to a weekend obstacle course so was considered invalid and unavailable for Prayer Rug Blessing. Child 2 however was ambushed and forcibly blessed. We then looked at the x-in-the-box categories of needs and decided that definitely the one that had a dollar sign and a nice long blank line looked good to us. We figure we'll fill in $1,000,000,000 - it's a nice round number and we can always negotiate down if necessary.

Now, you might have some minor skepticism about the power of this fine object, but you should know that last night was the Night of Kneeish Blessing, and this morning?

School was cancelled due to inclement weather.

Hey, according to the envelope I'm supposed to pass this Paper Rug of Blesserifficness along. Please, form an orderly queue.

Parenting 101 - The Eye Roll

There is so much guilt in parenting I think it's nice now and then to look back on the actual successes.

When Child 1 was about 9 we began to teach It to roll Its eyes. It was my idea actually (I do have the odd intelligent one), partly inspired by some of Child's friends who were precociously irritating when it came to adults (well, sometimes).

Whenever a moment came when we might anticipate a bit of attitude in a Child we'd simply leap in with some thoughtful advice. "Honey, you're not getting the full sweep on your eyes there. Try really looking hard over to your left, and then WAAAAAY up. That's it!" or "No, sweetie, you need to sigh WITH the eye roll. And if you can start the sigh with that little sort of grunt that's even better." As they got more proficient with it we moved on: "No, it's 'MohAAAAAWuhm,' with a really firm emphasis on the AW." and "Right, now a bit of a head flick and say, 'you're RUining my LIFE!'"

We even got them to perform the eye roll for friends and family, alternating now and then with the other trained responses such as, "no blood, no foul," or, "pain is weakness leaving the body" both of which were delivered in a bored monotone while we looked on with fond pride.

To this day when I have the chance to really cause angst to the Children - you know, by asking them to put away the dishes in the dishwasher or return the milk to the refrigerator - I can increase my own enjoyment of the situation by insisting, "Wait, wait, what do you say?" and get in return a beautifully exaggerated and histrionic, "you're RUining my LIFE-UH!"

Sarcasm. A terribly underused parenting tool.

Love in a Phlegm Filled Climate

Child has a cold. I nearly typed the number but I do make an effort to disguise, however badly, the real-world identities of the Children and I'm afraid it might give things away if I go on to tell the entire internet that Child [NUMBER] has man-flu.

To be fair, It is congested and has an impressive, barking cough that kept Its sibling hurling Halls cough drops at It all morning yesterday (something I learned when I came home to find the living-room floor covered in paper wrappers). However.

It droops, It oozes around the house - often on the floor because oh. the cold. It just makes. It. so. tired. It lies on the couch and then rolls pathetically down to the carpet since couch lying is so very, very exhausting. Then It whimpers a little about the fact that It has a headache - Oh! a headache! - that means if Its sibling raises a voice even a leetle the pain! Oh! the pain! Mind you, video games don't have any negative effect at all, it's just the piercing tones of Its loved ones.

When I ask if It has taken any of the cold medicine that I made a special trip to purchase It informs me, in a low, almost inaudible murmur, that no... It hasn't because... it's just so... difficult... to heat up... water in... the.... microwave. Then it perks up remarkably when I mention that honey can be added to said medicine and hops happily out to squeeze half a bear's worth into the mug.

This morning It puddled itself sadly in the hall, scrunched as well as It could (given its long and ungainly limbs) into a small, blanket covered ball. I asked with reasonable kindness if It was feeling any better and, when It answered with Its last croak that no, not really, It wasn't, I kindly wrote It a note asking that It be released from volley ball and push ups. I didn't even harass it for blocking access to the bathroom because I'm a loving mother and even man-flu deserves some sympathy.

It better not give it to me though.

It's Testiferous!

No one's leaving MY kids behind doggone it. Oh no. Thank goodness for the Mandatory Testing program that ensures my little darlings are neatly sliced, diced and shoved into the appropriate pigeon hole because without that I might never, ever know just how many percentile points are above or below them.

Actually I think in my city these darn tests are a means of reminding us that we are eternally grateful for certain States To Be Left Unnamed which keep us from bouncing off the absolute bottom of all of those national results (except for things like teen pregnancy and drop-out rates - we rock those! Play to your strengths, that's what I say).

Our middle school failed mandatory tests so many times it was into the even more fun Mandatory Re-organization phase. According to the new principal things were so bad they were supposedly going to have to fire the entire faculty and staff. Yeah. I thought that made a heck of a lot of sense as well: eviscerate the school and then turn around and say, "NOW you're going to pass those tests, aren't you!" Right. To avoid that the idiot school reworked itself as a "Arts Magnet School." Except... they didn't train any of the teachers to be arts teachers, they didn't hire anyone new, and the one Golden Apple teacher they did have (who was a music teacher naturally) had to quit because their new schedule made it impossible for him to teach at the other two schools on his contract. Bravo guys, bravo.

So I might be just a little bit down on the whole mandatory testing thing, particularly when this one is just for the sophomores (and my poor Child who wasn't in the area for sophomore year and thus gets tagged for this year) and the other three years get another day off school. I mean, nothing really says commitment to academic achievement like state mandated time off, now does it?

It doesn't help that the other two naturally are not being tested and so might, just might, have been a little smug about sleeping-inness and other glories that happen when school is out. Gits.

The poor Testing Child dutifully roused itself (its own self! This is a new and impressive thing brought about by my loving and detailed threats), dressed, secured its pencils and wandered mournfully out to the bus stop.

Which is why it was so particularly annoying to get a phone call from said Child letting me know that it had waited in the cold for half an hour before giving up and calling the school to find out that the bus had broken down. So Mandatory Test day now becomes Mandatory Make Up Test Days later this week. Child assures me that it will not be missing any classes in order to do this but for some reason I'm having a hard time believing it.

I wonder why.

Conversation Mine Field

It happened again.

I've written about it before, the strange effect that talking about Kirk has on people who know the story, but it happened again just yesterday and I still find it odd.

A friend was talking about a job her husband was offered with a company that did government work, a job that would have entailed (eventually) a security clearance so I mentioned that for much of our marriage Kirk had a top secret clearance - in Virginia he had a few compartmentalized clearances as well I think - and as soon as his name was spoken she reacted. Her face took on an immediate sobriety, she stiffened a little and, inevitably, she put her head to one side and looked firmly in my eyes. And the conversation came to a screeching halt because, apparently, now We Were Talking About Kirk.

But we weren't, we were talking about her husband, about her life, and I was simply bringing up my own experience.

What's really funny is that she often says things that really do flick on the nerve and yet she remains blissfully unaware. "Everything happens for a reason," she says, "I really believe that." Or "Hey! Haven't seen you in a few days - I know, I know you thought I'd gone missing or something..." And because she's well-meaning and kind, because it would hurt her to think she had inadvertently hurt me, I don't say anything I just let it go.

And I know now that I will think before talking about Kirk with her just as I do with the other friends who wince when his name comes up. Funny, isn't it? I protect them from their perception of my distress.

Movie

We're not big television watchers. We don't have cable and I've never remembered to see if we get more than the standard five channels (doesn't WB or whatever they are have a broadcast channel these days? Or did I dream that along with the talking moose in my garden...). We do watch Mystery on PBS and often Nature, but that's assuming I remember in time to turn it on, or PBS isn't doing one of their irritating and interminable fundraisers where they take off everything I'm remotely interested it and replace it with Change Your Life Through Finance, Diet and Yoga!! or Lord of the Dance Meets LOLkatz! I'd like to say it's because of solidarity with the writer's strike, or a strong protest against "reality" shows or something but honestly it's because I fell out of the habit at some point.

Movies, however, we do - not in the theater mind, too expensive, too irritating (WHY do people use cell phones in theaters?), too much fuss and bother. I wait until something comes out on DVD, and even then I often wait until it's in the super-knocked-down-unbelievably-cheap section at Target before I'll buy it. But yesterday I made an exception and bought a sight-unseen, even trailer-unseen movie simply on the recommendation of a movie review site I trust (sorry, not linking, too many of you would be unhappy at the very, very naughty words they use. For anyone who doesn't have delicate sensibilities and desperately must know, send me an email but you probably already read it yourself) and, homework being done and Child 1 being unhappily confined to the couch with a nasty cold virus we sat down to watch it.

It was absolutely fantastic - best movie I've seen in ages.

Disclaimer: it is rated PG-13. There is some implied animal sacrifice and there are some moments of (to quote the rating board) "risque humor." But it was funny, charming and absolutely delightful.

Stardust - highly recommend.

Night Off

Last night Child 2 was dragged to the CAP meeting with its siblings. The deed was accomplished like this:

Child 2: 1? Can I read this book that is yours that you are currently reading?

Child 1: No!

Child 2: What about now while you're eating?

Child 1: No! I read while I eat.

Child 2: What about while you're at CAP??

Child 1: ... no. But! If you'll come to CAP with me you can!

Child 2: *thinks* ...okay.

Child 3: *being forced to call their CAP ride to see if there's space in the car* Wait, 2 are you going because you want to, and you're thinking about joining or just so you can read that book?

Child 2: *with great sincerity* Oh! Because I'm thinking about joining! *Child 3 wanders off to make its phone call* Hey 1, can I start reading that book now?

So all three were bundled into a car and whisked away leaving me with an unexpected evening alone. The luxury! The opportunity for decadence! The...

... so naturally I cleaned the kitchen, vacuumed the living room, tidied up my bedside table and went to sleep early.

I'm a maniac.

Safety Lecture

Child 1 received a phone call the other night from a member of the Civil Air Patrol. He would, he announced, be out of town for a month and so would like Child to take on his CAP Safety Lecture for the month.

Now, Child does not suffer from excessive shyness. Nor does It demonstrate much in the way of social ineptitude or self consciousness. In fact, and this still stuns me, It once volunteered as a brand-new freshman to throw a basketball somewhere in the vicinity of a basket in front of the entire student body [note: even more amazing, it made the basket]. Child 1 is, I think it's safe to say, its father's child in this way. Kirk was gregarious, charming, funny, and endlessly delighted to speak in public [eta: he was also, of the two of us, the only one remotely talented at basketball]. Therefore Child 1 immediately snapped up this marvelous chance.

That's where things get fun though, because we jumped at once at the thought that this was a Safety Lecture and we have been (as mentioned earlier) slowly working our way through old MacGuyver episodes! Who, I ask, is better qualified than we to ghost write this lecture?

So!

First we all decided that obviously a lecture is boring and a multiple-guess, audience participation, scenario based learning opportunity is FAR better. Second we also decided we would plagiarize shamelessly from the television show. We chose an early episode because A. it had a plane crash in it and this is the Civil Air Patrol darn it and B. it had a rattlesnake in it and that's just cool.

We're still working on the full glory of the whole thing, but I'll give you a sneak-preview with two of the questions as written by Child 1 (with a certain amount of well-intentioned family interference) including the possible answers. Premise: one is in a small plane (crew of 4) which has unfortunately crashed due to pilot error (the pilot made the error of eating a large and fatsome fast food meal and expired with a heart attack).

Question: The first thing you do after the crash is:

A. Bury the pilot
B. Pat him down for small change and gum
C. Assess the condition of the rest of the crew
D. All of the above

Question: You wake in the night with the unfortunate knowledge that a rather large rattlesnake is cosying up in your nether-regions. Do you:

A. Shriek like a girl and whack in the general vicinity of the snake with your handy hatchet?
B. Use your ninja skills to reach down and remove the snake with one swift motion?
C. Have a friend use an alternate heat source to lure the snake away at which point you carefully grasp it behind the head and take it away to do something secret that will probably offend any nearby animal rights activists?

I don't know how the lecture will go, but we're enjoying ourselves tremendously.

UPDATE: The lecture takes place next week! I'm thinking of suggesting a question regarding the ethical implications of cannibalism simply so we can make gingerbread men from my favorite recipe.

Why I Have Children

I have a topic!

I tried to do the lucky frog post yesterday, I really did, but I forgot to steal nick acquire lovingly borrow Child 1's digital camera so I could take a picture of said lucky frog which would make the post basically: I have a frog. It's very lovely. So we call it our lucky frog.

Desperate, I actually considered posting about toilet paper - seriously, I was mentally composing all about whether free end over or free end under really mattered and somewhere deep down there was this terrible sadness that I was already reduced to a toilet paper post (not that toilet paper style is not a deeply meaningful topic mind, just it should be saved for a real emergency, don't you think?)

However! Last night Child 2 came to the rescue and so I give you - the genuine transcript of our family discussion. Added benefit - you may all now be deeply grateful you don't live in our house.

Child 2 (doing dishes): There aren't enough songs about kitchen things.

Me: Such as?

Child 2: Like, "The Soft Side of the Sponge"

Me: Sounds like a hit for Tinkerbell and the Sacreligious Cats* *singing* ooooooh, baby, you sooth me like the soooooft side of the spoooooonge*

Child 2: *Rifs a spectacular and surprisingly musical interlude*

Several minutes pass, conversation moves on. I take a swipe at Child 2's nose.

Me: Sorry, it's just your nose was shiny so I was un-shinying it for you. Or I could buff up your forehead instead!

I lovingly polish Child 2's forehead with my very-nearly-clean sweatshirt cuff.

Child 2, looking me soulfully in the eyes: *sings* Santa Baby, won't you bring me my potato masher toniiiiiiight?

Child 2 claims the full lyrics are available for the interested customer.

*This splendid rock band name was, as described in an earlier comment, dreamt of by Child 1 and has joined our family lore along with Sparkle Princess Fairy Head as the best ever name for just about anything (has been suggested but inexplicably rejected for a stuffed shark and a soccer team. Some people have no vision).

Blocked

Sort of umphey (word. true) about writing the last few days. I've half-heartedly started and stalled on several posts only to have Blogger dutifully save them as drafts for me and then act all hurt and appalled when I want to delete them. Yes, Blogger, I really and truly do wish to delete those three posts that all start, "so. Yes, ummmmm." and I'm not even feeling guilty about it.

Posts started but not finished:

Sending the Children back to school (sob! Whine! Complain!)

The very frumpy transvestite I sometimes see on the way to work (if you're going to cross dress, why do it with black socks and Birkenstock sandals? Why??)

De-holidaying the house (whoo yeah that was an exciting post. I had some sort of mild stomach bug and the whole thing was me lying around and feebly asking the Children to do various tedious tasks - which they did, happily and nicely. S'okay, I gave 'em sugar).

So even worse I have now written a post about not posting. And, as I have no shame and also nothin' better up my sleeve, I'm even going to hit "publish post." I haven't even proof-read, that's how bad it is this Monday.

Tomorrow if you're lucky I might tell you about my lucky frog. Yup, just keep on bating that breath.

People Watching

There is a tiny, frail old man I pass nearly every day on my way back to my car. He used to walk the few blocks from his apartment building to the gas station on the corner to buy a paper but this year he has just been coming out to the pavement and slowly shuffling back and forth in front of the building.

He is a scant few inches over five feet tall and has the rheumy blue eyes of the very old. He wears beautifully pressed trousers and an immaculate shirt; now in the winter there is a soft ascot showing at the neck of his fawn coat.

A few months ago as I passed him by I began to smile and say hello and now he returns the greeting in a surprisingly deep voice, pausing in his slow walk and nodding at me but flickering his eyes quickly away from my face.

It was cold on Wednesday and he wasn't out at his usual time and I wondered briefly as I always do when he isn't there whether he was ill. Yesterday he was back, determinedly inching along the pavement, stopping every few feet to muster his energy before starting off again.

And a Very Soggy New Year

So.

Christmas went well, particularly as I gave my children the loving instruction, "look, now you're not 6 any longer and I'll tell you right now that Santa gave up when it came to finding inexpensive small gifts appropriate for a Male Child of a certain age* and so while your stockings will be filled they will be rather sugarfull and unexciting. Therefore there is NO reason for any one of you to be making any noise whatsoever before 9 o'clock." The Children wisely heeded (helped along by the fact that they are all teenagers and incapable of voluntarily peeling themselves out of bed before 10) and we were thus all reasonably awake AND willing to see each other (even the don't-touch-me Child**) by the time present opening happened.

One of the Children had been breaking my heart by listing its Christmas-wants rapidly and then softly, nearly inaudibly adding the one rather expensive item it really truly wanted but was sure it could never have. By dint of taking on some very timely extra work however said Child and it's sibling did indeed have a happy Christmas (other Child got its expensive item for a birthday and was well warned that Christmas would be rather less impressive. It did express great delight in two sweaters - with long enough [for now] sleeves and an additional small item that at least eased the pain of a practical present).

Two Children were shipped off the next day to a winter encampment for the Civil Air Patrol while the other was driven to do a house/pet sitting job leaving me with utter and complete peace and quiet for a grand total of four days. That's four days in which: dishes did not spring up like mushrooms in various areas of the house that should be dish-free; floors once vacuumed remained vacuumed; counters wiped down did not somehow acquire crumbs or sticky spots of jam; there was no accumulation in corners or surfaces of spare books, pieces of paper, wrappers of any kind, discarded socks, games, movies or other detritus of living. It was, in short, a very tidy four days. It was also very quiet and, after a day or so, quite boring. So I was more than happy to welcome them all back - Child 2 on the 30th and Children 1 and 3 on the 31st.

New Years Eve then, having recovered said Children and their huge amount of gear we spent a loud few minutes discussing what the day should include. Child 1, who had not only spent five days attending lectures, viewing planes, doing exercises and team-building activities and generally enjoying itself, but had also contracted a nasty flu somewhere around day 2 and had done all of these things while feverish - that Child seemed to favor rather a lot of lolling around and being generally recumbent. Child 3 (it of the endless energy) felt that five days of constant activity had fitted it out for MORE activity, preferably with rather a lot of noise. Child 2 went straight to the main point and suggested food.

As a rare treat each Child was allowed to choose one snack item. Child 3 predictably and popularly opted for potato chips, Child 1 chimed in with "Starburst! Or Skittles! Or Jelly beans!" Which, considered in combination with the chips made me feel just a leetle green. Child 2 however shouted loudly for a particular kind of cheese we had discovered just the day before - a lovely French sheep's-milk cheese which smells rather like dirty socks but tastes fantastic, particularly on crackers. We got all three. You may take a moment to rinse your mouth out now if you like.

So a happy day of sort of oddly assorted snacking followed. Since Netflix had kindly delivered while the Children were away we had a MacGuyver marathon*** and generally rolled around on couches most of the time. Eventually however I decided that as a parent I would have to insist on some sort of food-other-than-junk and I staggered into the kitchen to start parboiling the potatoes preparatory to roasting them.

Which eventually meant that said potatoes had to be drained, which when I returned to the kitchen a few minutes later to set the sausages (apple and chicken - lovely) to sizzle meant I stared down at the large damp patch on the kitchen rug and wondered if I had somehow sloshed the water without noticing. Which eventually led to a closer examination which resulted in an emergency call to all Children to present themselves at once for flood abatement duty.

Upon further examination it became clear that the u bend had developed a rather impressive hole - one Child has said it should be described as considerably larger than a single square of Hershey's chocolate (not the whole bar mind you - just the one square). We applied mop, towels, and a bucket and (after a small incident the next day where one Child started the dishwasher and learned a valuable lesson about where said dishwasher drains) we managed to sort things out.

So we started our New Year a little more damp than we would have liked, but still with our heads above water. Toasts were made to the Child Who Will Graduate (gulp) this year, to to change and to achievement, and to a better This Year than Last.

And then we all went to bed early because we're sadly not as young as we used to be.

Here's to a New Year - a good one, I truly hope, for us all.

* St. Nick, in our house at least, does not condone small pieces of junk which accumulate but serve no purpose. Such items are, in my opinion, along with plastic Easter grass among the smaller works of resident evil in our world.

** We are exploring releasing our own version of a popular toy to celebrate this particular Child. It will be called "Don't-Touch-Me-Elmo," and if you try to hug it it will elbow you in the stomach.

*** I forgot! A few episodes ago we learned the use for that toothpick thingy in a Swiss Army Knife! It is meant to poke small holes in plastic bags when one is constructing a water clock for the purpose of creating a diversion so one may rescue the hostages on the bayou. You're welcome.

Yule

The tree is up and ornamented, stockings have been de-boxed and are waiting to be draped over the fireplace the Children drew on a cardboard box (it's quite a good fireplace actually and certainly did the trick on St Nicholas's day). An enormous number of almonds have been blanched, skinned, toasted and candied and a reasonable number have even survived the inevitable nibbling so they can be given away. There are possibly some Christmas crackers stashed somewhere for pulling on The Day so the entire family can be suitably adorned with an ill-fitting paper crown (until they tear/crumple/fall off which is also traditional). Shopping is complete - but then I said that several days ago and I have been to at least one store every day since.

It is the last day of work, the last day of school before the holiday really begins. Time for a deep breath; time for the fuss and bother to subside.

This year we will be staying home on Christmas day. Children 1 and 3 are going to a winter encampment starting on the 26th and Child 2 has a house-sitting job that will cover the same time frame so there will be a fair amount of packing and scrambling but hopefully also a lot of peace and simple quiet.

Christmas Eve will be spent at the Grandparent's house. Their neighborhood is a major attraction on that particular night because each house lines its walkways and drives with dozens of luminarias. We spend the afternoon setting out the brown paper bags and dropping a single candle into each one. Just at dusk the Children go out with long candles and lighters and carefully set about lighting. The trick is to light the candle and seat it firmly in its sand bed without scorching yourself or setting the paper bag on fire. The Children are always eager for the challenge.

Already the streets will be lined with slow-moving cars; it's impossible to get in or out of a driveway until midnight. Inevitably several of the tourists will take pictures of the flickering lights using their flash cameras. I always wonder what they think when they get home to admire their beautiful photos of rows of brown paper bags.

Some of the neighbors will bring out portable fire pits and groups of people walking the streets will gather around for a few minutes to warm their hands and talk. Many of the homes will be hosting parties and the doors will open now and then and let out bursts of laughter and the enticing smell of posole or tamales. The Children will run in and out of the various houses: Child 1 dragged next door by two young admirers, Child 2 disappearing with its friend and the friend's beguiling puppies, Child 3 buzzing indiscriminately from one to the other to see which offers the most entertainment at the moment.

At some point my mother will bring out the small leather strap of sleigh bells and round up as many bodies as possible to walk the crowded streets. As the Children have grown the attraction of the tour has changed: the simple pleasure of thousands of warm candle lights with each child having stop at every bag and peer down at the candle inside, the delight in finding bags that had caught fire and were burnt down to their sand base, the fun of shouting the first verse of any number of carols only to subside to a mumble as soon as the second, unfamiliar verse is reached. Now, full circle, they are old enough to love the charm of the lights themselves again.

Finally after too many cookies and too much cocoa, when the candles in the bags are guttering out one by one we will drag Child 2 away from its friend and round up the scattered coats and gloves and hats. The streets will still be half full of cars as we make our way back home and the Children will be chattering and laughing half the time, then lapsing into silence unexpectedly. At home the stockings will be artistically arranged, then rearranged and probably bolstered with notes or clever drawings. Child 1 will head maturely to its bed, Child 3 will pester Child 2, throw cushions, erupt into sudden and inexplicable noise and will finally be stuffed firmly into its room and have the door shut on its exuberance. Finally peace will descend.

Happy Holidays all.

Artifacts

What do you keep when you lose someone? We're still figuring that out.

When we moved a month after Kirk went missing it was so chaotic, so horrible, that I was hardly thinking straight. Anything belonging to the kids that they really wanted to keep we kept; absolutely everything of Kirk's was carefully packed up. My own things didn't matter. Furniture was given or thrown away. Twelve boxes of books were simply donated to the library en masse. They were, after all, only things.

Gradually, and it took ages, I was willing and able to begin to sort through Kirk's possessions. Many of his clothes were given to family members, and it's been wonderful to see my father wearing Kirk's sweater or our son using his coat every day. There are many other things though that we still have, things that are tangible pieces of story. A few of them are in our tiny house - the Venetian masks he brought back from Italy, the division coin he was given in Germany - but most of them are packed away in boxes.

Every now and then though I come across one unexpectedly and still the memories are so immediate, so strong. The other day I saw this in the garage lying next to the tool box:

And immediately I was back when we were dating. Kirk was a dedicated hiker and camper and this knife went with him on every trip. I think he bought it after he came home from Thailand because if you look closely at the blade:

You can see where he inscribed it with several lines of Thai script. It's an icon really of who Kirk was at that moment twenty years ago. Some day it will be handed on - to the Male Child perhaps, or even some day to a grandchild.

For now it will go back into the storage box but the memories, refreshed and strengthened, will stay.

Losing My Mind One Sequin at a Time

So.

I did confess at one point that I do make things. It is not a pretty thing, mind, and not something I'm proud of because by and large the things I make are not things I actually would want to own. Furthermore, when I do make things it is for one of two reasons: a) I get some wild idea and decide to see if I can make it work b) I need to give something or do something and for some reason figure that hand-making some incredibly time-consuming project is a brilliant and wise choice.

Here is an example of option b.

A friend of our family has a small daughter who is half-German. She goes to German lessons on weekends, visits her German grandparents whenever possible and yes, she is thus aware of St. Nicholas's day. So my delightful children voiced the opinion that we should send C something for St. Nich's. All well and good until... I figure that naturally we should pack a stocking [note, for accuracy it should have been a shoe, but I wasn't going to go all cobbler even for this charming child] and heck it should definitely be hand-made. Right. This is about ten days before the 6th.

Keep in mind that this photo was taken when the stocking was still half-finished. It still needed lining, a bit of detailing, and finishing at the edges with blanket-stitch.



I told you I was nuts.

Hung by the Chimney With Care

In a comment down below somewhere I promised (sort of) a craft-related post. Well... the picture I need for said post is still inaccessible at the moment so this is the interim craft related post which is really a total cheat because any actual crafting took place long, long ago.

Anyway...

My mother made stockings for my sister and me when we were kids. They were knitted, mine of pink wool with yellow designs, my sister's of yellow with pink. They brilliant thing about knitted stockings is that they stretch beautifully. We helped this process by taking them down from the mantle and wearing them around the house a lot.

When I married Kirk she knitted another stocking for him out of odds and ends of yarn so its all done in stripes. When my sister married she went all out and designed a themed stocking for the new Superior Uncle. Uncle is a research chemist so the stocking had a test tube... knitted in an interestingly peachy-brown colored wool so that Uncle took one look at it and spluttered "What is THAT??" I believe a certain amount of discussion might happen each year now over who gets to have the penis stocking. (Isn't that fun? I got to use "penis stocking" in a Christmas post and now my Google search results are going to be veeeeery interesting!)

For the first couple of years with children we didn't fuss much about stockings. Kirk and I didn't bother putting them up for ourselves, and Child 1 could make do with my old one for a little bit at least. For some reason though when the Children were around 5, 3 and 2 I decided we needed real stockings, and since three small children, two parents in full-time work and school AND the upcoming holiday weren't enough I naturally had to make them myself.

I made three quite different designs which naturally meant that the two girls endlessly squabbled over who got the "best" stocking and who was stuck with the inferior one that year. Unfortunately the "best" stocking was in a box that was sent through the mail recently and, along with an interesting assortment of other items* it was lost. However, here are the remaining two:



Terrible picture - and this is post-Photoshop but...

I didn't use a pattern because they are so simple. The cuff on the pink stocking is linen trimmed with beads, the dark red one (honestly, it's a lovely dark red in real life) is velvet with silver snowflakes free-hand embroidered on it.

The missing stocking was cream satin with an embroidered garland across it (sage green with ribbon-roses - I had recently read a ribbon-embroidery book as I remember)

Fascinating, wasn't it? But wait! As soon as I rescue the missing picture... yup, just keeps getting better.

*Interesting other items include: 1 scale-mail doublet, 1 home-made trebuchet (disassembled) and 1 pair fuzzy blue slippers. I would love to know what the lost-and-found post office people are making of that. It's possible that they confiscated the package under homeland security believing we were planning a medieval invasion of some sort (some sort meaning "with very warm if slightly Muppettish toes").

O Tannenbaum

Yesterday I (finally) managed to purchase our tree. However! Procrastination was clearly necessary to the whole process because:

1. There was only one tree of the kind I wanted left in the store (yes, it is fake, yes I will use it for years, yes it cost about the same as a real one, YES it comes with the lights already on it praises be!)

2. It was ON SALE (a lot. A really lot. So I got the one I liked and not the one that looked like it had been attacked by rabid squirrels)

3. Did I parenthetically mention it has the lights already on it??

4. It fit in my rather small car! (after a few tense moments and a very worried check-out guy)

5. It fit in my rather small house!

6. It was (just) possible for me to wrestle the box into the house on my own.

7. The male child was exactly the right height to put the top section on AND fluff the branches (although fortunately its more perfectionisty sibling is not tall enough to evaluate the fluffing job)

So we had a happy evening of tree-decorating. When Kirk and I married we decided to buy an ornament each year, a special ornament that would be memorable for every Christmas. We didn't think about the fact that we would have a very, very bare tree for the first... oh... twenty years or so if we only did one, but we filled in nicely with lesser ornaments. However, it's the special yearly ones that I still love, and that we take out carefully and hang up with stories about where we bought them and how we all remember them.

There is the fishing pole that I bought when Kirk first caught salmon fever in Alaska, along with the beautiful wooden fish. There is the painted egg my sister gave us when we were expecting Child 1 and the stacking St. Nicholas we found in a Wienacht market in Frankfurt that Child 2, our Germany child, always gets to hang on the tree. From California we have a white heron with a bobbing head - a particular favorite of mine, and a set of glass octopi with goggly eyes that aren't really ornaments but get perched on branches anyway because we love them.

We have a collection of moose ornaments as well, a legacy of Alaska really, but I still add to it when I find one I love (found one at Target this year - the only one on the rack). One is a garish painted thing with the moose wearing sneakers; it's not something I would ever have bought myself but when we were leaving Alaska a group of my friends gave it to me at a going-away party and I love it because I think of them. The most treasured moose is a little metal ornament with moose heads arranged in a circle - it looks like a snowflake from a distance until you look closely and realize it's antlers and beautifully modeled moose noses.

This year's ornament is actually being used as a tree-topper. We've had several over the years. In Germany we bought a box of dark green glass ornaments that included a glass spire for the very top. Kirk loved it; I did not. To counter it I flung together an angel (sort of - no wings) from a porcelain doll's head and hands, an antique pillowcase and a strip of dark red fabric. I quite liked the effect; Kirk did not. Finally a few years ago we compromised on a multi-pointed gold star which we both could bear but neither really felt strongly about one way or another. But as I was choosing the tree, I turned around and found the perfect topper. It's certainly not traditional, but it looks whimsical and beautiful and somehow right with our moose and our fish, our birds and globes and hand-made popsicle-stick trees. This year our tree is presided over by an owl.

I think we can all use a little wisdom.

Snow Day

I wish.

No, really, I truly do wish. I stopped a colleague in the mail room and asked it if was wrong to still hope for snow days if you're not in school any more. That particular colleague seemed to think it was, but then confessed that she was looking blissfully down 5 weeks off and wasn't entitled to comment. I've since done a poll and the result is that 11 out of 12 adults still watch the weather with half an eye on the snow-day potential (NOTE: we do get snow days at my work place, usually linked to the city or the local schools).

Yesterday we had rain all afternoon - solid, meaningful, REAL rain that did more than just dribble out of the clouds - and by the time I scooped Child 3 out of the Apple store it was slushing-not-raining. Things looked good for a snow day. We even stood in the living room and did the snow-day chant (okay, we had a half-hearted chorus of "we buhLEAVE" which might or might not have involved sub-vocal "jeez moUHM").

And today? Not a sausage.

No, I lie. No snow on the ground when I dragged out of bed in the dark, no snow when I peered hopefully out at the cloudy morning, but when I had reluctantly cleaned, brushed and dressed and was heading out the door? SNOW! Pelting down - as though it had gotten up late and was desperately trying to make up for lost time.

Too little, too late.

Stupid snow.

Wish List

Attention: Jolly Old St Nick,
The one who's trying hard to pick
The perfect present just for me
To tuck beneath our Christmas Tree
I thought I'd send a little list
Reminding you of what you missed
From last year's visit (you remember
The one you made just last December).
I'm not complaining, by the way,
I know it's hard to pack a sleigh
With all the the things the world's demanding
(you know, like peace and understanding).
But if you're puzzled, Mr. Claus
As to what I wanted was,
Here is what I need the most
A modern wish list blogger post:

Patience first (it's hard to find
But the elastic is worn out on mine).

Children who pick up their clothes,
I wouldn't mind a few of those
But if it means the ones I've got
Must disappear then better not.

Instead please from your magic bag
Pull out a more effective nag,
One that makes them think before
They strew their socks across the floor
Or walk away from unwashed pans,
Sticky counters, full trash-cans.

Next a bridle and some reins
Fitted for my tongue and brains
It would be nice to sometimes manage
To think before I do the damage.

Finally a little quiet
I've heard of it, I'd like to try it.

That's it, that's all I'm asking but

... I won't say no to chocolate.

DISCLAIMER: written entirely in my head while walking to work from my car. It was very, very early in the morning and I have no shame. That is all.

Gratitude

Yesterday I smiled:

In delight at the sound of a fat baby chuckle coming at high speed towards me

In sympathy as the basket rounded the corner and I learned the mother was sprinting as fast as possible towards the bathroom because the laughing delighted little boy in the cart had plunged both hands into his dirty diaper and was happily trying to wipe the result on her chest

In sheer joy as I contemplated the fact that my Children have now all been toilet trained for over 13 years

How Cost Plus Saved the Holidays

1. They not only had chocolate coins, they had four different kinds so I could choose the currency.

2. They had tons of German Christmas stuff I remember so well (although I never buy it, I just like to LOOK at it)

3. They had cans of light coconut milk! Hooray! Curry for dinner (yes, not terribly festive but very yummy)

4. The basket-filling bins were stuffed with the cutest, weensiest, most dimpled little bottles of things like dipping fudge and maple syrup I've ever seen. Made me completely ignore the fact that no one in their right mind wants a TINY jar of dipping fudge.

5. There were not only large bottles of flavored syrup, there was an enormous selection of sugar-free flavored syrup (What? Italian sodas are VERY holiday-ish. Darn, just realized the Children will see this and now I will have to share)

So, Cost Plus, because the Children woke up to genuine South African gelt this morning, because there is still a lovely lunch-sized bowl of green curry in my fridge, because I got to try to smell pfefferneusse through the cellophane, I am willing to forgive you for the three versions of "Little Drummer Boy" you played in the 1/2 hour I was in the store (even the one where the singer kept saying "perrrRUMPaPUMPpum" in a whiny nasal voice).

Now I just need to find a use for these miniature bottles of basil oil...

'Tis the Season Darn It

I'm normally a quite Christmassy person. I appalled my father when he realized our family tradition was to put up the tree the day after Thanksgiving. I have to stop myself from pulling out the Christmas CD's throughout the year, realizing that not everyone will be interested in Wassailing in the Bleak Mid-Summer (note, in my defense our Christmas albums are mostly Robert Shaw Festival collections and are really, truly beautiful and worth listening to year round). I love ginger and spices; I have a favorite Gingerbread recipe (we make gingerbread moose cookies - doesn't everyone?) and a favorite spiced nut recipe and I firmly believe that hot chocolate should include a drop or two of peppermint every single time.

But this year? Not so much. Maybe it was that there were Santa clauses and humorous penguins facing off against the morose plastic jack 'o lanterns three weeks before Halloween at Target this year. I know, it's nit picking, but I've always felt that October was just a little early to start pushing the Hooray! It's the Spendiest Time of the Spenderiffic Year Folks! stuff.

We don't have a tree up yet - we don't have a tree at all honestly. The box of decorations and ornaments is still sitting in the storage room unopened and unloved. We have no lights up, no cookies have been baked and don't even ask about Christmas cards because honestly? Not going to happen this year.

In an effort to inspire some stirrings of holiday cheer Child 1 has played Christmas music all this week, two nights ago Children 1 and 2 watched The Nightmare Before Christmas (because NOTHING says Christmas like a podgy villain filled with creepy-crawlies) and last night they all watched one of the two family must-see's for the season: Boris Karloff narrating The Grinch (don't even mention Jim Carrey, thou shalt not blaspheme my Seuss). Me, I'm still not feeling it.

However, we do have our Germany Child and so tonight we will, ready or not, be putting out shoes for St Nickolaus. Some traditions, after all, are non-negotiable. One of those is that into each shoe must be placed a bag of gelt - chocolate coins. In pursuit of these I went to Target the other day. Seven aisles of Christmas and not one sniff of chocolate coins. Two days later I finally found them - in the dollar section. There was a choice: Spongebob Squarepants or Dora the Explorer.

I might just have to break up with Target.

But only for the holidays.

Missing Britons

There is news about five British men who were kidnapped in Iraq in May. A video of the men dated November 18th was broadcast on Al-Arabiya television.

You can read the BBC article here.

Pods

When I was a kid we would walk to the grocery store and along the way we would pass a particular tree. It was far enough away that I wasn't able to get there on my own so it was a special occasion when I saw it. It was, I was convinced, the coolest tree in the world because it produced these amazing seed pods: purplish-brown, long, flat and twisty.

There was always the issue of how many seed pods I would be allowed to trundle home. Forty, I felt, was a good number - two was my mother's limit.

We would walk home to the steady buzz of my maraca pod - the dried seeds rattling rhythmically in their cases. The sheer joy of noise-making could last for over an hour, but finally I would have to give in to temptation and break the pod apart. There were ten or so seeds inside - beautifully smooth and hard enough to make a satisfying "tock" when they knocked against each other in my pocket. They were gold doubloons, the rajah's jewels, desperately needed medicine that would cure all ills.

The house next door to us has one of these trees, and for the last several weeks it has been shedding thousands of these foot-long pods onto the driveway and into the narrow space beside the house. They are too heavy to sweep properly, too flat to rake easily. Every time I drive up to the house I can hear the pods cracking and shredding beneath the tires, grinding into the pavement so they have to be painstakingly picked off by hand. I glared up at that darn tree the other day and realized it had only shed about half of its load despite the heavy winds we have had; I just know it's waiting until I have everything all tidied away to release the rest. I have thought some dark and horrible things about that tree.

On Friday afternoon I saw the neighbor's kid outside. He had two pods stuck into a scarf he had tied around his head, another one acting as a tail and several more clutched in his hands. He was careening around the yard, a wobbly, loopy dance done to a steady rattle. Dizzy, he fell over on the prickly, dried grass and shrieked with laughter, still shaking his hands wildly.

Everyone should have a tree like that.