Remembering

So, Americans, what did you do today?

It's a little weird, isn't it? This not-a-holiday day. It feels wrong to let it go by without some sort of acknowledgment but what should it be?

I've posted about 9/11 before, telling the story all of us tell each other: where we were that morning, what we were doing, what we thought. The world certainly changed for me that day - it was the event that began everything, focusing Kirk's restlessness, starting the Iraq War... leading finally to that empty car on the road.

I hadn't really thought about doing anything particular this year but The Male Child announced last weekend that it was going to wear its uniform as a quiet way to mark the day. It was a three day weekend because of our national salute to the value of hard work (take a day off and crowd the malls to buy knocked down tool sets and three-for-the-price-of-two pieces of underwear) and we celebrated the way we like to - avoiding the crowded malls and sleeping in. So we somehow ended up watching a marathon set of shows on the training process for Navy SEALS (Just Children 2, 3 and I - Child 1 was away. We reacted characteristically. Child 3 began doing ridiculous amounts of push ups apparently out of solidarity, Child 2 watched this with some scorn until the acid burn of competitiveness was too great and it too did some sit ups and push ups; I lolled in exhaustion from all of the enormous amount of exercising everyone else was doing) and somewhere in the ad breaks came up a spot for the Freedom Walk.

So that's what Child 1 and I did this morning.

We got there too early (because I always get everywhere too early)

So we walked through the Veteran's Memorial and learned that rose breeders had produced hybrids that are dedicated to peace, to the WWII veterans etc. I can't think of a more beautiful tribute - something live, something growing, something that renews itself each year.


There was also a wall engraved with texts from emails, letters and telegrams. This one that Child 1 is reading

Is followed by one right beneath that (nearly a month later) tells the family that their son is not killed, he was only wounded...

Eventually we signed in, got our NAVY! pins, and gathered behind the color guard to start the walk

We walked behind a man with a horrific scar on the back of his knee. He had a brace that wrapped his calf and went down to his shoe. When we got back to the starting point I could see that the scars continued around the front of his right leg as well - deep, long scars. He wore an "Instructor" t-shirt and spent the walk harassing the other instructor he came with. He had no limp and his scars are old and well healed.

We walked for maybe half an hour, following the color guard as they ran the gauntlet of smashed glass and low-hanging branches. There were a few babies in strollers. There were a lot of frighteningly fit and terribly attractive ROTC types in their PT gear or BDU's. And there were some civilians like Child 1 and me - just people walking and thinking about that day, the day the world changed.

Again.

Shape

I am in shape!

Well.

A shape.

I am in a shape that is mine.

But I have sadly learned that just because one was once really, really active and thus in pretty darn good physical condition it does not mean one is frozen there at the peak and can then sort of... stop...

Yes.

See, Kirk and I used to run every night. We would head down our little street, down two blocks, loop around, back over and up the street, loop again, head UUUUUUUUUUP the hill to the dead-end and back to the house. I have no idea how far the run was but Kirk always claimed it was about three or four miles depending on how many dead end circles we went around. Could be. Then on the weekends we biked 20 miles or so each day (with the Children, and the shouted reminder as we rode along the crumbling Nor-Cal cliffs to FALL LEFT!!).

Of course then it happened, and he was gone, and we moved to this place of NO OXYGEN AT ALL and I kind of sort of stopped. Everything. All the active stuff. I mean, the bike has a flat tire, and running up here gives me activity induced asthma and it's too hot and it's too icky and... and... and...

But I still think of myself as active and healthy and all of that which is why it was so terribly annoying to have found myself out of breath when hiking with the Children a while back. Not that I did anything about it. I just reminded myself that I walked at LEAST 3/4 of a mile to work EVERY DAY which was totally valid exercise. Besides it got too hot to hike after that so problem solved!

Except those darn Children kept joining in things that involved stretching and leaping and doing muscley thing with their arms. And that even more darned Child 2 said it wanted to tone itself up and be healthier and as a Good Mother I had to support it which meant facing up to the hypocrisy of nagging a Child to do push ups while sitting on the couch watching Top Gear.

So for several weeks now Child 2 and I have been walking together - down the bike path, over the bridge and twice around the park (which, according to the entirely reliable Child 3 is about 3/4 of a mile around). I have rather longer legs than the Child which means that there is a slight inequity of stride. Child claims that it shouldn't have to keep up with me because of the leg issue. I claim that as I'm OLD and it is YOUNG there are to be no excuses. Finally we have compromised by staying together on the way to the park and then parting ways. Child 3 has even begun tagging along and showing us both up by loping around the track and then wheezing dramatically all the way home.

It's good though. It's good to remember how nice it feels to be in a body that likes to work. It's good to spend quality time talking with the Children about absolutely nothing.

It's good to be moving again.

Male Child Introspective

I'm not sure if was the manly legs or the fact that the Male Child willingly and ably does automobile repair (there is evidence to support multiple theories), but I got a surprising number of emails about the last post. So for those who expressed an interest, here's a little more about the Male.

Patience is necessary and a certain amount of speed for the Male Child is an elusive species and quick to escape.


Note the ease with which it moves about its native habitat



It is extremely well adapted with attenuated limbs and a lean and gracile build allowing it free movement through the branches of the trees it likes to call home.



When threatened with household chores or geometry it retreats with ease, back into the canopy.




And safety.

[note, guest head for this post was played by Secretary of the Air Force Michael Donley by special request of the Male Child]

Deflated

Alternate post title:

How I spent my labor day vacation

Exhibit A

Which is what greeted me on Friday evening as Child 2 and I were heading out to buy birthday presents for a party this weekend.

Which I responded to with dignity and calm and NO WHINING. Nope, was not angry at all at having to buy a set of new tires and spend Saturday morning waiting around while they're installed. No, I thought, no there is a silver lining to this GREAT HUGE NASTY BLACK CLOUD.

I can get a blog post out of it. With the kind assistance of the Male Child who insisted on changing the tire all on its own I present the fully illustrated guide to roadside maintenance: Changing A Tire.

Locate the spare. If you're very, very lucky this will be the second flat you have in as many weeks so your memory will be quite sharp and this step will be extremely easy.

Locate and remove the jack and using logistic genius place it carefully beneath the frame of the car.


Before elevating the car with the jack, remove the hub-cap and loosen the lug nuts. Before attempting this ensure you are well equipped with a wide selection of choice words.

The frog squat is essential.


So are the paint stained shorts.

Jack up the car until enough weight is off the wheel and it can be removed.




Examine flat tire for possible problems. Make rude comments about the unfairness of life.


Return flat to trunk of car so the new one can be installed after a mere two hours wandering around Costco. Realize that a pair of strong hands can lift an awful lot of things.


If they don't mind getting diry.

Soundtrack

Somewhere way... way WAY back in this blog I mentioned that music was important to us - to Kirk and me. We did have a constant sound track and there is in my mind a long and fabulously tasteful series of pieces (hey! cope with my pretentiousness 'cause it's my blog and I'll re-write history the way I want to remember it, thanks) that recall the major moments in our lives. There's the Pachelbel Canon in D era and the Rachmaninoff Vespers year for example.

However if I'm strictly honest it isn't all Sibelius and Elgar 'round these parts. My Pandora* stations at work are (and I view this as MASSIVE disclosure here, full geekness on display for all to wonder at) classical (influenced at the moment by Rachmaninoff and a horribly mis-understood request that gave me 1/8th of the time Sebastian Bach the rock band rather than Johann Seb B. thanks so much although I think that is now sorted), rock based on Tool and Perfect Circle which is unbelievably fabulous for eliminating ear worms (but not terribly work friendly so limited to that magical time between when I arrive and when I'm actually supposed to be there) and (oh dear), honestly? sort of softish poppish kind of rockish sort of stuff that I can play without offending half the hallway when I just don't want to hear one more piano concerto.

So, we're a little eclectic in this household. We do tend to draw the line quite firmly on the country-western vs. rock threshold and refuse passage to any questionable invaders. (I believe Kirk quoted someone by saying that he liked country music, it just depended on WHICH country) I will confess a shameful weakness for Matchbox 20 - but plead clemency because it was the mind-numbing noise I put on for weeks and weeks when Kirk first went missing and I couldn't stand the sound of the phone not ringing. I suppose the point is that generally, with a few firm exceptions, as a family we're pretty ready to embrace a wide variety of things musically.

So I felt fairly confident when, having acquired an itunes card at a recent work gee-aren't-we-all-fabulously-happy-to-be-employed-in-this-economy event, I suggested that the Children all choose a set number of highly desirably songs. We, generally speaking, agree on the finer points of musical taste after all. Which is why I was a leetle surprised by Child 3's straight out of the box, first choice of all.

No, Child 3, we will NOT be purchasing The Ride of the Valkyries. I do have my standards.

Wagner indeed.

*for anyone not aware of Pandora, I can't recommend it enough. Very clever interface, really responsive and the only negative I can state is that when you try for classical you sometimes get Ratt or something because it's "vocal" which, frankly, is a little weird. Still, give it a go!

Achievement

(Just realized that the past two titles have sounded like motivational posters. Only the ones I like are from despair.com and as I believe in sharing I present to you: Achievement. However they don't have "success" so instead try Bitterness, Dysfunction and Government.)

In addition to the new computer I was presented with this summer (see angst, blogging of and annoyance, excessive description of for more details) I also managed to snag a new wheely chair. When I started work here I was given an office that contained 1 wooden chair weighing about 40 pounds, equipped with large arms at just the right height and width to make using a computer utterly and completely impossible (without whacking your elbow every time you reached for the "b") and sporting a grand total of no wheels. Which meant that whenever I tried to get up from my desk I would slam violently into the back of the chair, lifting the front legs up about an inch but not budging it backward in the least. The person who held my job before me had spent a happy six months "telecommuting" which meant that every page on the web site had a "last updated" date of slightly more than six months earlier. It's possible that the choice of chair was deliberate on the part of my new boss who seemed eager to keep me at my desk doing actual work.

Eventually I talked my way into a chair with exotic accessories like padding, a swivel seat and wheels. It was a fine chair, a useful chair, a chair which (and this is the important bit) let me actually get up at the end of the day and leave.

It's impossible to overestimate the importance of this. When I was a child my goal in life was to grow up and have a wheely chair. Well, there was also the short-lived goal to be a janitor so I could have a very important looking massive ring of keys on an extending chain. I had, naturally, had many wheely chairs in my career but the symbolism of the wheely chair remains and I still get a ridiculous but undeniable thrill from the fact that I WORK IN A WHEELY CHAIR.

Now it wasn't that I needed another chair really, but there was a new one going spare (meaning it had been right in plain sight in the corner of a friend's office at the end of a hall and yet no one had claimed it for some reason) and I have learned here not to look a gift chair in the mouth (give me a moment while I try to work out the logistics of that...) so I kindly donated my own slightly used chair to the greater good (meaning there is now at least one chair in the computer lab that will not shed casters like a political activist sheds pamphlets) and adopted the new one.

It is a fine chair with many excellent features like arm rests that actually let you rest your arms (and don't slam into the desk drawer). However I am having to learn a certain amount of caution because the first time I pushed back from my desk I sailed gracefully across the office floor and nearly bumped up against the book case on the opposite wall.

These childhood dreams are always more complicated than they seem.

Of course, you should totally check out my key ring...

Success

Nothing like confirmation that now and then you've done something right as a parent.

This week's moments:

Watching Hogsfather, Child 1 and 3: That prop is incredible! The pace of the movie is kinda slow, but the set design is really good. (mumblings of agreement)

A bit later, Me: So, what did you think of Golden Compass?

Child 1: Well... it was okay. But! The art design was fantastic!

Next day, Child 3 looking over the newly purchased copy of Princess Bride: Hey! Check out this cool font! This cover design is great - look at what they did!

Of course Child 2 was muttering something about nerds and possibly geeks sub voca all week long, but we will corrupt it to our evil ways, oh yes we will...

Ear Worm

I was raised with some slightly unusual practices, a few of which I might have touched on here and there, like the bread or the ziploc bags . There was the books vs. television issue that left deep and lasting scars what with being the only person, the only one, who didn't see that 1980's television movie about how we were all going to die in a nuclear war and the teenagers were going to save the day. But perhaps the most lasting peculiarity was the inundation with obscure but frighteningly memorable pieces of culture.

Start with the folk songs. Oh, the folk songs. I can swing mindlessly from poor, POOR Clementine and her herring-box sandals right into the Gypsy Rover who (natch) ends up being a lord who just happens to hang out in forests whistling and then move on without a pause to announce that Today I will not only eat your strawberries (apparently without invitation) but also swig your sweet wine.

It gets worse though because I also have a bottomless store of truly horrible children's songs so the Peanut on the Railroad Track will probably evolve into one that is Found and causes Appendicitis. Lurking in the darker corners of my mind are also all the Smothers Brothers albums my parents owned and the full set of Tom Lehrer so I could take a sudden mental right turn and discover My Love has black as the color of her True Hair though her Tresses Are Red as a Rose (but only her hairdresser knows) and the next thing I know there's a slightly nasal voice warning me not to Drink the Water or Breath the Air. It's all most disturbing.

Any of these might work their way into my brain when its at its most vulnerable - in those early moments of the morning before I'm awake enough to really focus and drive them out. Unfortunately it often means I'm stuck with this nightmare sound track for hours at a time unless I can find something even more powerful to replace it.

It doesn't always happen like that of course, because there's the flip side to my bottomless store of useless memorized items. The poetry.

Not the stuff that might impress anyone. I do know some of that, of course, not that anyone has actually asked me to reel off Tiger-tiger-burning-bright-in-the-forest-of-the-night... at top speed or quizzed me on the songs and sonnets of John Donne. No, the majority of my mind appears to be taken up with endless couplets from A Child's Garden of Verse (a horribly patronizing title I always thought) or All the Silver Pennies.

So just this morning as I rode down to work I managed to recite the entirety of Ogden Nash's Custard the Dragon AND his Owl and the Pussycat all before I was halfway there, leaving plenty of time to get curious about how many other pieces of rhyming fluff were kicking around in the bottom drawers of my subconscious.

New Shoes, New Shoes (Red and Pink and Blue Shoes) wasn't really a surprise as it comes up every single time I buy footwear for the long suffering children, but I hadn't thought of Wynken, Blynken and Nod since I was old enough to find it offensive (about seven) so why can I still remember every word? How much really important information, like, say all those formulas the Children require for their math homework, has been tossed out as worthless while the complete Mr. Nobody is still there for the finding and I can tell you all about the Little Shadow That Goes In and Out with Me? Honestly, I think the poetry is starting to take over.

So I'm afraid that while I wanted to write a blog post, I really did, instead I've spent the day trying to remember the last verse to The Land of Counterpane.

Blame it on the ear worms.

Educated

So who's tired of hearing about the twins? I know! You just never, ever get tired of it, do you? However for the very, very small minority who really couldn't give a rat's I do promise that this will be the last scoootah post... at least for a while.

Several friends are now considering buying one (possibly because I keep going, you must! Is so cool! And fun! And did I mention Audrey Hepburn?) and for those who are I present:

THINGS I HAVE LEARNED WHILE SCOOTERING (a brief list)

1. Cute guys will tend to check you out a lot when you walk across campus carrying a full-face helmet. You will possibly feel a bit guilty about this and want to explain, no I'm not cool actually, it's just a scooter. But you won't.

2. This same helmet when worn while going 35 mph provides 1/2 an effective but remarkably unattractive blow-dry.

3. It is wise to purchase a number of excellent sports bras. This advice is valid regardless of measurements of female scooter rider. It has not, however been tested on males mostly because we don't have one in the family who has moobs.

4. Pencil skirts and high heels do not work well with scooters. It is best to discover this within a block or two of one's residence. It is not wise to assume one can just go ahead to the nearby gas station because it's awfully close and it's very early in the morning anyway - you just might make the day of several truck drivers.

5. The small, under-seat trunk of a scooter is just large enough for one small purse, one pencil skirt and one pair of high heeled shoes.

6. You might discover you have no shame when it comes to wearing a nice blouse and a pair of track pants to get to work. Consider it the lesser of two evils.

7. Filling up the tank (at about 1/3 remaining) will cost a grand total of $2.95.

8. This will make you smug and unbearable for the rest of the day.

Olympistastic

At the risk of exposing my great age... let's call that extensive experience... I have a question. Does anyone else remember the Olympics in the cold war? Dang folks, that's what I call sport! It was nothing to do with individual skill or... what do they call it... sportsmanship - it was all My Political Paradigm Wipes the Wrestling Mat With Your Political Paradigm (eat that Lenin!).

I have early memories of terrifying East German swim team women who could not only bend my wispy young body into a pretzel but weave a tasteful and decorative basket from their excess facial hair. My neighbor's kid kept a frighteningly detailed chart of one winter Olympics not because it showed how a particular sport was evolving but because Our Bi-athletes Can Out Shoot/Ski Your Commie Bi-athletes goddammit! (only probably those terrifying Danes would show up and make mince meat out of both of them...) [also I'm not sure how Eddie the Eagle fitted into those charts. If that was the right Olympics] No matter what the spin imposed by the cheery commenters each night, we all knew the truth. If we didn't come out tops in the medal charts then some way, some how, democracy (okay, let's be honest, capitalism) was inferior to those baby eating, apple pie shunning communist bastards from the USSR (heck, they even insisted on wearing CCCP on their track suits just out of spite). I knew boys who wanted to sleep with Mary Lou Retton simply because she had showed those Romanian nationalization-of-property-is-viable bastards just what was what. (okay. That and she was really cute and had a great smile)

I haven't paid a lot of attention to the Olympics lately. I assume it went on while my family was in Alaska (yes, I am aware the world goes on turning even though my children are engaged in epic battles with salmon). I think there might have been one... or two... since then, but sadly I haven't had the time or energy to pay much attention. Until this year.

Where I find myself a little bemused. It seems that no one's political knickers will get in a twist if the one remaining significant (apologies for the egregious over simplification here) communist nation racks up a substantial medal count. I don't see anyone fretting over whether China's fantastic coup of gold medals means that really, truly we should all overthrow the oppression of Wall Street and comrade Bill Gates and join the Greater Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere. In the vast number of Americans I've polled (my Children plus at LEAST two other friends... I tell a lie, four) no one has expressed any nationalistic pride in the achievements of our beach volleyball teams, our swimmers, our gymnasts etc. In other words, I can't find one single person who gives a damn about the political ramifications of our athletic efforts AT ALL.

Isn't that marvelous?

I mean, I recognize the effort of the Chinese. I've seen news blurbs about armies of workers scouring off the chewing gum from the public square. I've read with interest, and a little disbelief, the new stories about the decision to replace the seven year old (amazing voice, sweet face) visually with the nine year old (cute as a button, pony tails) and simply thought, wow - two little girls got to be part of a really amazing opening ceremonies (don't send me the emails, honestly, don't because I totally agree it was silly and pointless and that singer child was gorgeous). But at the end of the day? I think it's amazing that I can be thrilled at the achievements of Michael Phelps and just as thrilled about those unbelievable Chinese divers.

They totally rock my world.

Screwed

The Male Child wanted to be taken to the swimming pool this evening. The rest of the family feel that it's entirely possible the Male Child could be a superb swimmer. This is mostly because it is beautifully stream-lined (owing to its frame which is as of this writing about 5'11" and 130 lbs). Unfortunately it also has no body fat at all so if it doesn't keep itself in constant motion it sinks like a very lanky stone. Of course it always is in constant motion so that's really only a theoretical problem.

Anyhoodle.

The Female Children opted out (one because it had beautified its hair and didn't want to undo all that effort, the other out of simple unadulterated laziness) but I am a Good Parent and was willing to drop the athletic child off AND pick it up so it gathered suit and towel and headed for the door only to stop dramatically and announce, "we can't go!"

Yup, back right tire, totally flat some time since I parked in the driveway after work. Sigh.

However (Good Parent, remember) this was clearly a Learning Opportunity (as well as a Spend Lots Of Money opportunity) so all three Children were gathered around as we went over the finer points of changing a tire.

My father taught me how to do it once I was old enough to drive and although I have forgotten many good and useful things (in order to better fill my head with really vital stuff like the lyrics to Tom Lehrer's Folk Song Army or the entirety of Margaret Mahy's Bubble Trouble) that lesson has somehow stuck with me and now was the perfect time to pass it along to the Children. So we pulled out the minuscule spare (For Temporary Use Only), fished out the jack and set to work. A mere ten minutes later, io triumphe, we done changed it AND all had a lovely set of black grubby hands to show off. Child One even demonstrated its collegiate brains by successfully diagnosing the problem: large screw clearly and completely embedded in the rubber. So, not necessarily the best ending to the day, but not so shabby either.

Plus I got to say lug nuts.

Snerk.

Last of the First

It was Child 2's last first day of school today. Well, that's hopefully not entirely true. Child 2 still has all the fun of undergraduate study ahead of it and could possibly be lured into post graduate work (which is a tried and true method of pushing off the real world). However, it is its last first day of public, k-12, state mandated and supported school. Child 2 is a senior and totally cognizant of the rights and privileges thereof.

It has been suffering this summer from my draconian policies of Eating Of Vegetables and Cleaning Of Room but its dramatic and highly amusing whining and complaining has faded away a bit which, as I tell it is NOT FAIR and totally missing the whole point of parental oppression. There's no fun at all in a Child going all mature and responsible and, worst of all, avoiding the nag by doing the chores first.

I'm starting to wonder about Child 2 because it came home today full of enthusiasm for its classes (the calculus! So fun! The German! So fabulous! The Economics and Government - superb!! I mean, honestly, ECONOMICS??), sat itself down to research a couple of unfamiliar terms from class that day and then, THEN chose to fish out its calculus book and do 14 problems, you know, just to try it out.

Disturbing, I know.

But there's more. It has also volunteered for a team that will involve running, sit ups, push ups and quite possibly pull ups - energetic exercise. And it did it with full knowledge, full consent. Child 2 committed grievous fitness sin.

Just now it voluntarily peeled itself out of its book as well.

When it walks by next I think I'll check its scalp over. I hear these alien implants are pretty darn good these days but you can still catch them if you look close enough.

On Nothing

Child 2 said today that it cannot blog properly because - and this is the good part - unlike me it does not have a day that produces blog fodder. Unlike me.

So, for Child 2 I present my super-fantastic, blogolistic day.

5:00 reluctantly awake. At least I didn't wake up at 3 and then 3:30 and then 4 and then 4:30 as I usually do. On the other hand I didn't wake up before the alarm and have the satisfaction of going back to sleep again. Not sure if I resent that or not; it's too early to make these vital decisions. If I don't get up now though I won't be awake enough to be any use by the time work actually starts. Out of bed.

6:00 out the door. Morning commute is better than afternoon - less sun, less heat, the coarser edges on the streets less visible in the half-light. I'm still half asleep and the stream of consciousness in my head is just at the point where it seems utterly brilliant but I'm aware enough to be grateful I probably won't remember any of it. I snag the shady parking spot and walk the mile or so into the office, purposefully speeding up the pace this morning what with the Olympics and all that. We all have to do what we can.

7:00 in the office. I hate waking up early but it's worth it for the start-of-day putter I can do with no one else around. Someone brought in dried lavender and the smell is just under my awareness unless I think about it and then I enjoy the crispness. My computer is still not talking to the email program but everything else seems to be working - even the mouse is accepting its proper mouse pad now. I check the news (BBC) and think about setting up my Pandora account for this computer but I've forgotten the password by now so I'll have to start from scratch and it's still early enough that this feels like an enormous amount of work. I potter down the hall instead to fill my water bottle.

to work. Someone needs an ad (2.5" X 2"), deadline today and they only told me about it last Wednesday. Also they want it to include two totally different programs... right. Talk them down to one program, simple, one pre-existing graphic and a couple of words. Still have to do three versions since the text they submitted would have to be set at 4.5 pt to fit in which is, frankly, ridiculous. Spend far too much time fiddling with the existing icon - live trace only does so much - and then doing the same for the organization mandated logo. Think viciously that the guidelines only say I have to include the logo somewhere, not what size it has to be. Yes, it does look a little like a deranged lady bug at the only size that really fits but lady bugs are beautiful creatures and probably bring great advertising luck.

interrupted for the daily coffee run. We swoop up everyone who wants to head out and toddle over to the SUB. French Roast for one, Pinon for another (confusing the coffee ladies who are used to a half decaf, half pinon order but hey, sometimes you've got to mix it up like that). I carefully wipe down the cream cart because if you leave those dairy dribbles they get crusty on the edges and that's just gross. They used to give me a hard time about this but I've noticed they're all nicely trained now and I hardly ever have to grab a napkin myself. Why can I train co-workers but not Children? Discouraging. Back to the ad.

ad done, on to the next. I notice that the website that was not going to need any more updates, no really, promise, this is it, now needs several more updates. At least the poster (featuring the Male Child in silhouette) is pretty much finished and no one is asking me to make the figure "more androgynous" which was considered for a while leaving me extremely confused about how to androgynize my own very male Child.

meetings about meetings. Natter on a bit with co workers about vital things such as: when to meet to discuss the massive ginormous unbelievably complex database project we were just landed with; how best to confront HR with the need to give us the staff support we need in order to do the THREE jobs I'm now trying to do (seriously contemplated asking extra people to come in and bustle around looking frantic and chaotic. We could offer them bagels - that almost always works); how people, in general, often suck.

emails and general housekeeping. blerg. There's nothing remotely interesting to say about this particularly as several emails are to restate the same thing I said last time that apparently didn't sink in.

commute home. Could be worse, could be hotter, could be... erg. I hate this commute home! I could turn on the radio but every time I do it's Red Hot Chili Peppers and I really can't stand those guys. Besides their songs last forever. Worse it might be System of a Down and I loathe them.

walk in the door to a phone message from Child 3's friend saying Child 3 is in need of a ride and is waiting at a bus stop. I suppose I like Child 3 enough to pick it up but I do wonder where its phone is and why its friend is calling instead. Quick drive down to the school and back and no sign of Child 3 until I turn down our street and see a familiar back heading towards the house after running home. Let Child 3 in and don't wince much as it sits and sweats on the furniture - thank goodness for the blanket folded over the back of the chair.

spend several hours doing tedious but essential work on a file. Listen to Child 2 whine and complain about being forced to eat vegetables (part of Let's Try Healthy For A Change campaign. Child 2 is suffering terribly). Listen to Child 3 virtuously claim that it LOVES vegetables which is hardly fair as Child 3 loves food. Period. I finally get Child 2 to choke down its veggies with a combination of threats (me) and bribes (Child 1 and its copy of Breaking Dawn).

settle down to the Olympics. Beach volleyball still looks way too glamourous to be an Olympic event but is, at least in my tiny little mind, a leetle more sport-like than synchronized swimming or rhythmic gymnastics. Child 2 sits directly in front of the television and loses itself totally in its book, looking up ten seconds after every cheer or comment to say, "eh? What? What happened." We all refuse to fill it in because we are wickedly cruel.

trying to decide if I can stand watching Michael Phelps try for his third gold because it would just be so dang cool if he got it. It can't be worse than gymnastics where I spend the whole time hiding my face so I don't see anyone fall off anything. I decide to blog with most of my brain and half-watch with the rest.

and just to round off the excitement I think I'll brush my teeth and head to bed. Maybe, just maybe, with a truly exciting book about WWI.

And there you are, Child 2. It's not about having an exciting day, its about waffling on about it relentlessly.

NB: HE DID IT!!

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When I was a kid I put people in boxes. Not literally natch, just neatly labeled pigeon holes that let me sort out the world. It was rather like the exercise I did in first year biology where one categorized various imaginary creatures by their distinctive features until you ended up with a beautiful list from Kingdom down to unique species. The only problem was that I ended up in a species all by my lonesome with the rest of the world all happy together in their more populated slots.

It went something like this:

Catholic or protestant? [eliminated 90% of my peers]

Mormon or other? [zing - down to 5% remaining]

Folk dance or Flash Dance [aaaaand it's now my sister and I]

Ballet or violin [yup, just me]

And this is without pulling out the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, home-baked (round) whole wheat bread, no television allowed, Smothers Brothers and Tom Lehrer (as the modern music choice in the house) and so forth. When I left home I bought some squishy white bread, signed up for cable tv, opted out of religion and resolutely stopped playing the pigeon hole game.

But now and then I backslide just a bit so last night as we watched the Olympics I couldn't help but firmly mark two clear boxes. When watching superb athletes at the peak of performance does one

a) make plans to take up swimming in addition to one's already thoroughly active lifestyle or

b) sit comfortably on the couch and ignore the niggling voice that points out that walking a few miles a day (not always at top speed, let's be honest) is not exactly hard-core exercise.

The male child is definitely in one of those categories. The rest of us...

Stretching the Strings

Chris at Notes From the Trenches has a poll up about what age children should be allowed to go to a park on their own. Many of the comments say what I feel: it all depends. It depends on the child, it depends on the park, it depends on the neighborhood. In Alaska I happily let Child 1 walk to its friend's house several blocks away without a care in the world (Child was well educated on moose safety after all). Our tiny town was idyllic - no crime, no disturbing strangers lurking on corners, just the occasional large mammal browsing on the tops of ornamental trees.

In Virginia all three Children took themselves to school - about half a mile away, again without my shedding a single parental tear. They were together, and the worst they encountered were the nasty school bullies whom Child 1 dealt with summarily (proving that the cutting clever remark is far better than the sword if one is in grade school and surrounded by ones judgmental peers). In California they went to the beach or played in the forest on the cliff alone or in feral packs with their friends and I didn't stop them each time they went out the door to remind them that the Helpful Stranger Who Has Lost A Dog is really a vile abductor looking to snatch them away.

Maybe it was moving back to a city with a high crime rate, a city that makes me uncomfortable sometimes in broad daylight on a well traveled road. Maybe something broke when Kirk went missing from that Iraqi road, something that said the world is usually safe and people are generally nice.

I don't smother the Children. They are allowed out now and then, blinking in the sunlight, to breath the slightly smog-filled air. They use the public bus to get to work or school, they walk (okay, the Male Child walks) several miles to go to parks for practices or meetings. Generally, mostly, I'm fine with that.

The Male Child got up before me the other day and was already out the door by the time I got dressed. I assumed it had gone on an early morning run but when it wasn't back in an hour I took notice. An hour and a half after that I had sent three text messages, left a voice message and had started to poll its friends to see if they knew where it was. Half an hour later its sibling volunteered to walk over (in the heat) to the nearest parks to see if the Male had decided it was tired out and fallen asleep under a tree or something.

I didn't want to be that parent. I didn't want to be like my poor mother who paced the halls at night waiting for her careless, thoughtless daughter (yes, me) to straggle in an hour later with no excuse. Most particularly I don't want to be the parent who projects those fears on Children who should be confident and independent.

Of course the Male Child was fine. It had a meeting that morning for a school job it has taken on and decided to go directly to its team practice in the afternoon. It had turned off its phone during the meeting and didn't get my messages until after noon. It was a little aggrieved even, assuring me it had left a message with one of its siblings saying exactly where it was*. Panic - or at least rising concern - all for nothing.

I'm the mean mother among my Children's friends. They have a specific curfew and if they break it (particularly without warning) there are consequences. They are not allowed to have friends at the house if I am not there (okay, that's partly because I prefer my walls standing and my windows whole). They have to do their homework before they head to a friend's house or go to a movie. Added to that now are specific directions for telling someone where they are going, when they left, when they will be back and how to contact them. There are rules for my Children but I hope they are there as structure and not as restriction because I also believe in freedom.

Even when it's hard.

*In the Child's defense it appears it did "tell" its sibling. It sent two text messages (it claims). The first one didn't come through and the second said, "Oh! And a staff meeting too!" We have now clarified what constitutes a reasonable message which will not result in an infuriated mother.

More on the Twins

Did I say the computer and I had resolved our differences? Did I toss out there that we were now mature and reasonable and TALKING TO EACH OTHER?? I lied. I didn't mean to, I didn't want to, but oh how I lied. Having snubbed the mouse, rejected the e-mail and database management software and turned up its nose at sundry other things, yesterday it decided to develop an allergy to Illustrator. Quoi?? Not Photoshop, no Photoshop is just fine, thanks. Dreamweaver? Get on like a house a'fire. But Illustrator makes it sick to its silicon stomach.

So lets talk about the twins instead shall we?

I've been thinking about getting a scooter for months and months and months. My work commute is just long enough to make me feel terribly guilty for driving alone and of course as gas prices started rising sharply last year that just added incentive. I gave mass-transit a shot but between the under-funded bus system and a few other factors it was simply not practical. Bicycling would be another thought, but while the commute to work would be lovely for at least the bits with a reasonably safe bike path (down hill all the way) the trip back was not quite as appealing. Which led, naturally, to scooters.

You have to say it right. Scooooootah! Not a shout, mind, but a sort of mysterious hiss - sssssscoootah!

Honestly I've wanted one since I was twelve and saw an ad in Seventeen Magazine for a contest with the grand prize of a trip somewhere, a suitcase full of supermarket cosmetics AND a scooter. There was nothing cooler, I thought, than that cherry red little piece of motor driven freedom. I could picture myself on it too, clear as day tooling around town and parking with casual elegance in the school parking lot. I would be Audrey Hepburn in Rome for heavens sake if only I had a scooter.

I mentioned it once to Kirk when we were going to university. Imagine! I said, a scooter! It would be so... erm, impractical? He replied, what with the three very small children and the complete lack of income and everything. Sigh. So for years I muffled that scooter-yearning firmly and accepted the boring, four-doors-and-a-roof vehicles that got us and the kids and our various accessories wherever we needed to go. But I didn't love them, and over the last few years as I have thought more and more about the politics and ethics of gas usage the little scooter-yearning yawned and stretched and decided it was time to wake up again.

Which is why when Child 1 gradumagated and needed a way to get itself around to things like university and jobs it seemed the most obvious thing in the world to start shopping for a scooter for it. Well, sort of.

The most obvious thing in the world was to start shopping for TWO.

Twin 2 is mine.

Delivery!

The problem is that I'm a computer person.

I didn't set out to be a computer person. I set out to be a history professor. I would wear pencil skirts, immaculate white blouses and fabulous shoes - possibly even a stylish scarf although I have yet to manage to tie a scarf any way but the one that says, "Look! I'm being throttled by a paisley constrictor!" I would lecture on cultural history to small halls of eager young students who would debate passionately on Louis XIV's use of interior decorating as political weaponry.

I wrote papers on the evolution of the illuminated manuscript. I discussed etiquette in Milton's Paradise Lost. I received honors for researching gardens in England and France during the crucial period between 1750 and 1820. I knew what palimpsest meant for heaven's sake.

Then reality hit a little what with Alaska (which is a lovely place but not known for its advanced programs on early modern history) and still needing a job and things and I found myself with a nice book on HTML and a handful of contracts from people who believed that if I didn't know everything about web design at least I knew more than they did.

Which is why I am now, willy-nilly, a computer person, a person who cannot do any work at all, none, without a computer, and why I spent a week and a half doing a hyper-speed version of raising a child. There was the stage of endless neediness, the teething pains, the terrible tantrums and the years and years of irrational behavior. Finally after an endless effort to educate my new computer, a painful process involving one monitor, one slow sulky old computer (sorry darling but I'm afraid it's over between us), well over 12 gig of essential files (yes, after a deep and ruthless purge) and 1 - ONE - flash drive that could hold a grand total of 1 gig, I believe we have reached a sort of maturity in our relationship. There are still scars, and I'm not yet over the hours spent muttering, "I am SO the boss of you," under my breath, but I think we're ready to approach each other with respect. But it was painful.

Which is why it was so good to come home at the end of the day to the much anticipated, long desired delivery. With the help of two Children I am happy to announce our family additions:


Twin 1


Twin 2

I had to do a little photoshop work to sort of artistically express how cool these little [slightly lawn-mowerish] 50cc darlings are but I think I can sum it up in just one small phrase:

80 mpg.

Hold This Spot

A short post about the post I will post when I post it. Which will be a post. Lo, a good post! One with words AND pictures and possibly a little tap dancing for all I know because that's the one kind of dancing I did better than my sister. [note: only when it came to pull-backs and only because she was a ballet dancer and simply could not stop pointing her beautifully arched feet. I was the only person in the whole darn class who could clicketty-pullback all the way across the room. I can't tell you how important this has been in my adult life. "Do you have an MBA?" I'm asked, "no, but check out my pull-backs!" and then they fawn over me and offer me ridiculously high-paying jobs. Happens all the time.]

I'd say more but a crew is outside my office window using TWO jack hammers. Apparently the ginormous trench they already dug across the huge brick paved area isn't enough and now they're de-constructing the stairs as well. For some reason I'm having a difficult time concentrating...

... BRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPP

GFFRGL!!

Yes, I MEANT to post. I wrote all sorts of interesting and witty things in my tiny head, I did.

But the computer gods were angry this week, very very angry.

Starts with a nice shiny new computer which, natch comes with Vista. I have been playing nicely with Office 2007 for quite some time now (after a brief rant about how GOOD interface design does not abandon existing and working paradigms and what were you thinking Microsoft?? Also, why do you put the most important functions - save, print, open etc - behind a loverly button that gives you absolutely no visual hint of what it does? Smooches, Me). I'm prepared for that, I have accepted that Vista is The New System and XP Shalt Not Be Supported. I even watched covertly as Child 1 got to know its new laptop and seemed to survive the experience.

Shiny new computer is thus plugged in every which way to Sunday, tethered firmly to elderly but remarkably good monitor (one of the best color calibrations in the office by gum) introduced to its [new] keyboard and [new] mouse aaaaaand

Yes.

Vista hates the mouse. Hates it. Mind you this is a Microsoft mouse but Vista, it spits upon the mouse. In fact the mouse feels much the same way so every 10-30 seconds it turns itself off and sulks and has to have its button prodded just to make it even think about moving the cursor.

And don't get the mouse started on clicking buttons. It simply doesn't want to know. Buttons, it felt, should have their active spot three pixels to the left and seven pixels up from where it looks like the button is. Or maybe waaaaay over to the right, or only in a three-pixel area that you find by the immensely satisfying method of clicking madly all over the page. Also clicks are really only recognizable after two or three (or four... or more) initial tries at it, and could you hold down the button just a leeetle longer because it's just so hard to know what you mean unless you say it REALLY REALLY LOUDLY.

Which means I got to use the tab-and-arrow method of getting around until I could find and install the driver for my Wacom tablet instead. And Wacom tablets? Brilliant for design work - love that pressure sensitivity baby - but for searching the web for "Troubleshooting Stoopid Microsoft Mouse and Vista Because if I Can't Get This Working I Just Might DIE" it's just not so hot.

Still, after uninstalling (and mucking around in the inner bowels of the driver files), reinstalling, removing battery and shouting a few times, going through same process THREE TIMES, the mouse reluctantly decided the game was up and stopped shutting down. Of course it then also decided to stop moving the cursor properly but it was pretty simple at that point to work out it was a surface problem (bare desk top? BLECH! Spanking new mouse pad that came with computer? AUGH!! Manilla folder? Please. Small black canvas tote bag brought back by colleague from England and subtly shouting "LONDON" with a large Union Jack? OOOOOH! I likes it, I likes it!)

Of course there's the remaining issue that Vista refuses to go slumming with my work-mandated email program but I'm ready for it now, I can take it on.

Just let me catch my breath a bit.

Tests

I'm tormenting a Child by forcing it (FORCING I tell you) to sit at my feet and study a very exciting standardized test book. It is not amused. In fact its attitude borders on sullen.

But!

I tell the Child.

This is important stuff this is. This is life changing, world spinning, vital skillage you're working on now.

Take me, for instance.

I frittered my way through high school (that's ages 13-17 for the European crowd remember although 14-18 is standard). I foodled* in my science classes and out-and-out skipped third year math. I forever shamed my Genuine Professor In A Real University father by earning (yes, really earning) a D in his particular field of study and flabbergasted my mother by consistently receiving "Student Not Achieving Up To Potential" marks right next to the "Student is Working Well" comment.

All of which means that while my sister (she of the Superior Aunt status) had colleges sending her tempting little personal envelopes hinting that Scholarships were available and Her Answer was Eagerly Awaited there were genuine and well founded fears that I would not be welcome at most institutes of higher learning [this was the Dark Ages people. There was no University of Phoenix - Now! With Less Accreditation! - at that time]. My one hope lay in the standardized tests.

Yes...

See, some of my peers had already thought of this. They had been boning up on various things and opening books (that weren't Jane Austen or Dorothy Sayers). They were, to be honest, studying. Me... not quite as much. In fact in my memory I wasn't really truly aware that I was lined up to take this particular test (since I wasn't going to be going to university I was already trying to choose between my career as a famous and wealthy somethingIhaven'tfiguredoutyet and a sad, sad homeless person on the street. With a cardboard sign.)and so it was something of a shock to actually be sitting in the school library on a Saturday morning with two sharpened #2 pencils and a bubble sheet in front of me.

Which makes it utterly unfair that actually I did fairly well. I didn't cover myself with glory in math but I certainly passed while in science I struck lucky with a biology-heavy section that rewarded the inspired guesser (physics would have sunk me totally) and in English I reaped the reward of an anglophylic mother with a heavy bookshelf. There weren't actually any questions about who Ngaio Marsh's+ detective was** or what little-known character Sayers introduced in her short stories as an alternative to Peter Whimsey*** but dang if I didn't totally rock the vocabulary and reading comprehension section.

In fact now that I think about it I can't actually testify to the value of reading exam taking strategies and taking practice tests. I don't think I'll tell the Child that.

We'll just keep that secret.

*foodled: v. To fool aimlessly while keeping a careful mask of industry and interest.

** Roderick Alleyn.

*** Montague Egg, a traveling salesman who has a store of useful aphorisms from his company handbook to help in all difficulties. Would probably have been incredibly tiresome in novel form but then again Whimsey had his moments too...

+Kirk took the mickey out of me endlessly for reading these. I don't know why he found this name so amusing but whenever I had one lying around it was "nnnnnngnnnnAAAAYoooh" in this amazingly nasal voice. Weird. I can hear it now.

Click

The Male Child came home triumphant. It has a new coin to boast of and a set of wings to wear on its uniform and it spews its new wisdom at the drop of a hat (go on, ask me about meteorological reports!)

For the past two days it has cheerfully and energetically helped one of the Female Children clean out the sun room and attempt to set it up as a bedroom. It has swept and vacuumed, shifted enormous numbers of heavy bins, hung curtains and moved furniture. It helped clean out the refrigerator (using my method rather than its usual one of eating everything in sight) and happily did a dozen other small chores it had been asked to do.

When asked what it wanted to do to celebrate its return it simply said it wanted us to do something together - anything really, it didn't matter so long as we were all there.

Two nights ago I called the Children to report directly to the dish washer and the Male Child immediately burst into a loud dramatic song, striding with slow dignity into the kitchen. It was, it told me confidently, just the theme song. The emptying-the-dishwasher theme song.

The Oldest Female Child looked at me and smiled.

"This is what we've been missing," it said.

Yup, we have.

Time Capsule

When the Male Child came back from camp II it was spreading some of its belongings across the dining room table and among them was a small spiral notebook.

I do like notebooks. It's that school-supply obsession probably. I don't use them as journals but I like to have them around to jot down notes or sketch ideas.

I half recognized this one and the Male Child cheerfully admitted it had found it in a box somewhere and absconded with it. It tossed it over for me to look at.

Strange.

Sketched plans for a play house made of pvc pipe and canvas.

Thumbnail designs for Child 2's Alaskan birthday party.

Wire frame of a web site design and a site organization chart.

The phone number for the hospital where our best friends were staying as the wife was being treated for the cancer that would eventually kill her.

Designs for some sculptures I never did.

Mailing address for the same friends in Texas - care package of lotion, a miniature zen garden and a hip flask for the husband.

List of things to do to the California house to make it livable - a reluctant list as we were deciding we would have to stay put for a while

List of chores

List of furniture to buy

List of things to do for friends' house and animals we had been caring for for a month while she went through surgery

Notes on how to treat an injury Kirk got just before he left for Iraq

And on the next page a set of notes for a temporary job I did after Kirk went missing.

30 or so pages.

A lifetime ago.

Kaboom

I was holidaying!

Well, sort of. More of a take-time-off-dammit-or-you'll-start-losing-vacation. So I actually took three whole entire days off work. Granted, thanks to a slightly wonky compensation practice it turns out I've actually only taken off 1 hour (yes, one whole hour) but the important bit was the whole not going to work thing which I managed beautifully!

And it was 4th of July. Which again, for those not of the 'Mercan persuasion, is a day to celebrate our victory over the evil oppressors* by charring hog innards and trying to see just how many body parts are flammable.

After I grew up apparently my parent's neighborhood decided to become The Coolest Neighborhood In the City. When I was little entertainment consisted of the crazy lady with the dog that tried to eat small children on bicycles (the dog, not the lady... although...) and the old woman who would stand in her fluffy negligee and shout for her cat in a deep bass voice using a word I later found out might have an entirely different meaning. Fourth of July fun was going up to sit on the roof and watch the taller of the country club fireworks display.

Not these days. These days several neighborhood dads get their game on by out-buying each other at the illegal firework stands outside of town. Then they spend three hours lining up seven or eight enormous fountains at a time and burning their leg hair off by trying to light them one by one with what looked suspiciously like a blow torch. The women support them by sitting on the porch drinking mimosas and making loud comments about how eyebrows are highly over-rated.

Interesting fact learned? The smell of gunpowder is small-boy crack.

Also there's nothing quite so evil as the innocent smile of a seven year old trying to convince you to let him light a roman candle. Good try kid but Child 1 has survived 15 years of the Male Child and is no one's fool.

Dang.

Back to work.

*Is this celebrated in Britain as well? And do you call it thank-goodness-we-aren't-responsible-for-them-any-more-and-yet-
they-still-let-us-import-their-humiliating-reality-television? Because I would.

glamour

Child 2 squozed itself onto my comfy chair at the bookstore. Fortunately it was a wide comfy chair and we are not wide people. However Its head was rather closer to my face than it normally is and I couldn't help but notice that It has particularly attractive hair.

Which I mentioned.

Child 2 is practicing accepting compliments so it did not reject the comment. It harrumphed a bit then brightened up and said, "oh! You too mom!" Which shows how wise Child 2 is becoming.

We agreed that basically we represented a chair full of fabulousness.

People might even slip in it as they walk by.

Yes, Child 2 says, it's pooling around us, all oozy.

Hmmmm I say, sort of like a slug, only gorgeous?

Definitely.

voyeurism

There was a news headline a while back about how the swans at Bishops Palace in Somerset had cygnets and they had set up an internet camera which garnered some ridiculous number of hits within the first day or two.

So naturally I followed the link.

And saw... a simply spiffy pile of sticks. Very, very swanish sticks.

But the article said swans! Real swans.

So I just maybe went back the next day - you know, just to see. And the sticks were still in place although the camera had been shifted to better capture the stickiness of the sticks (and the aesthetic splendor of the construction scaffolding).

I would like to say I gave up at that point, that I didn't go back every day for a while just to see. But let's face it, at this point the swans, they were winning damn their snaky necks and I was beginning to take it personally.

A few days on and I felt it was really rather pathetic to have added a live camera shot of an empty swan nest to my daily routine of Important Web Sites I Check. I rationalized that there were a large number of feathers lying around and that was practically the same thing so really I should just stop. But still I went...

...until today when I triumphantly observed:



Swan bum.

I do believe that swan watch 2008 is officially over.

Expectant

We're about to expand our family.

She says coyly.

But no batted eyelashes because that's just too twee for words.

Maybe a sort of sly-ish smile though, something that implies knowingness and... I dunno... a bit of devil-may-care perhaps?

[right now my mother is breathing deeply and clutching the keyboard - WHAT ON EARTH have I done??]

Yes, in fact we're expecting. Twins. Child 1 and I.

Sort of twins that is, I mean they aren't identical or anything... but...

The due date was supposed to be some time this week and Child 1 has been helping with the whole patiently waiting thing by asking me daily, "so? Are they here yet?"

Sadly, no. They are not here.

And so we remain.

Expectant.

Performance

Child 1 has a Very Important Job which involves a large amount of caffeine and quite a lot of sugar. That means its siblings are surprisingly willing to visit it during work hours. Since this Very Important Job is also surrounded by Large Quantities of Books we have all pretty much decided that Child 1 must work this job until it dies.

Out of the kindness of our over-sized hearts (and not at all because we were bored) Child 2 and I toddled over to The Work Place yesterday to brighten Child 1's afternoon. We figure just the fact that we're in the same building will somehow make it sing a happy little song as it frapps and twizzles and chants the mysterious incantations that produce a Super Grande Latte-O-Cino with whipped cream and sprinkles. Child 2 was even selfless enough NOT to order the most-difficult-to-make-drink and was content with something caramelly and espressoish. With cream.

We did time it just right so that we could see the Child AND look over a few books and things before the store closed although that meant we were left forlorn outside while Child and its coworkers went through the Closing Up Rituals.

Naturally we stationed ourselves outside the large windows so we could make faces at it. And dance the Chicken Dance (that was Child 2's idea. I loath the Chicken Dance. But I did do a few motions just because of solidarity). And maybe make a few rude gestures because Child? Didn't look up. Not even once. It mopped with concentration, it wiped and shifted and generally did all the things it forgets to do at home and it didn't notice us at all.

Next time we're bringing the tap shoes, the top hats and the sound track. We need appreciation dammit.

Fly By

At about 5 in the afternoon there was a fsssssshhhhhWHOOOM noise.

A suitcase crater appeared in the living room with a five yard debris field of socks, t-shirts and unmentionables.

Five bagels, four hot dogs, a bag of cereal, half a gallon of milk, a pint of ice-cream, sundry bits of toast, fruit, vegetables, lunch-meat, cream cheese etc disappeared from their usual haunts.

a large cello case surfaced directly in front of the front door in ideal tripping location.

A steady hum of talk was heard, punctuated by "look at this!" and "but the best bit was" and "guess what my ring tone is?" until late into the evening*.

Come 4:20 in the morning peace descended again.

The Male Child is off to camp number 2.

*At which point I had to say "AUGH! You are. not. packed. I am getting up at 4 to take you to the airport. I am leaving the room now." I'm pretty sure the talk went on, but as my door was closed I was blissfully unaware.

Housekeeping

Ugh.

This is like hard work this is.

Okay, I've started going through the archives and putting labels on posts (and damn if I don't witter on a lot - when did over 400 posts happen?) so there's at least a sporting chance that someone could find just the stuff they're looking for.

So, fix your gaze firmly to the side column over there and gasp for a moment at the sheer wonder of it all.

I think I've managed to catch all of the actual Kirk Story posts although I will have to back through and make sure I didn't miss anything. I might add a second, more limiting label for the bare bones of the story in case someone only wants the slightly depressing skeleton and not the bits where we're trading over the back wall of Russian bases in East Germany or falling off mountain bikes and things.

Posts that mention Kirk are marked... wait for it... Kirk. Which is irritating actually because often times the mentions are minor asides and have nothing to do with the meat of the post (and dammit ALL my posts are meaty) so the labels are so far utterly arbitrary. I might go back through and make it more systematic...

The Lazy hit about that point so other topics aren't fleshed out at all particularly as I was about halfway through when I realized I'd probably do well to break out things like CID, army, air force, Iraq, hostages and frankly I was too darn lazy to go back again. It'll probably be fixed though because the Lazy is even now having a furious argument with the Obsessive-Compulsive and I have a feeling the OCD will give the Lazy a smack-down.

I think I'll take the rest of my personalities out for a drink while they sort that out.

Hush

The male child is away - left yesterday morning.

It has ended up with five weeks of camps this summer using the simple technique of signing every piece of paper that passed under its nose. It spent the first few weeks after school got out lolling on the couch in the mornings and then spinning things all afternoon (and playing hide and seek. And wrestling. and doing other "team building" activities). But no more. It's leadership camps and ground school for the rest of the summer.

The refrigerator has remained stocked for an entire day. There was no percussive clapping or random thumping on surfaces. No one took the broom/hammer/shower rod out to the back yard and left it there to be watered by the sprinklers. Socks have not sprouted like mushrooms under the ottoman or the curtain.* We have not been serenaded at odd hours with choice bits of Sweeney Todd and no one has pulled out a cello to see if they can pick out the Band of Brothers theme song. The Highly Reactive Sibling has gone un-harassed, its buttons remaining un-pushed, its personal space pristine.

It's not like home at all.

*That's not entirely true. The sprouting has slowed considerably, and is no longer a dingy grey and crunchy. Now it's all red with polka dots or blue with little stripes.

Fraud

Mind the whiplash, we're about to switch voices and topics again (sorry, still haven't had time to organize this mess...)

There's an article on BBC news here alleging that $23 billion dollars has been misused, stolen or "just not properly accounted for" in Iraq.

$23 billion.

I'm trying to understand that number in a reasonable way but it's simply too large.

$23 billion.

Apparently there's what the BBC is calling a "gagging order" (which I think is a lovely phrase and far more interesting than gag order. I quite like the idea but mostly if it's applied to the people perpetrating the fraud - "Oi! You! GAG!!") which means 70 court cases cannot even be discussed.

70 court cases of fraud.

70.

There are some frightening numbers being flung around here aren't there?

Keep in mind that the government that has apparently happily tossed around $23 billion that it's (also apparently) not terribly concerned about finding again is the same government that did not follow its own laws to ensure that contractors working in the area were properly protected.

I wonder how much that would have cost?

Saved by Target

Oh thank goodness.

First of all I can't in good conscience do an I-hate-the-heat post when actually the wind kicked up last night and this morning it was RAINING and COOL and FABULOUS. By the way, I'm totally taking credit for that. The headlines will read, "Global Warming Reversed By Courageous Blogger! Threat of Weather Related Whining Produces Record Cooling! Nobel Committee Seriously Considering Blogger's Request to Add Propeller Beanie to Prize Package!"

But second something wonderful happened yesterday. I went to Target (that wasn't it) with Child 3 (which was nice, but that wasn't it either) and as we passed the charming, chortling baby (also delightful, still not it) I saw it. IT. The thing. THE THING. It's here. Really, click the link, go check it out and then decide if this is not a miraculous gift to blogging?

But. I've read at least three of the lines of text on that home page and I think this company has missed a serious marketing opportunity here. What does the owner of a Mangroomer need?

Stencils:

Got Nuthin

Seriously. No interesting people with varying religious messages, no combative panhandlers or bizarrely dressed professors (although I can't WAIT to see the frumpy transvestite again because that's something that totally needs recording), no soulful singers even or entertaining chalk messages. Honestly I thought hard about posting about a dog I pass all the time of which can be said, "there's a dog. I pass the dog. It is cute."

Even the Children haven't spouted fantastic one-liners lately which, frankly, I think is terribly ungrateful of them. I do pay the rent, after all, is it too much to ask them to provide me with blog fodder? Kids these days.

Which leaves me sitting here and wondering if I can write yet one more post about how horribly hot it is 'round here and how I haaaaate the heat and suddenly I find that I can hear my own whiny voice echoing in my ears and honestly I'm not willing to inflict that on the internet because it even makes me want to smack the back of my head.

I'm not making any promises about tomorrow though.

Conclusions

Child 2 and I had an involved and intelligent discussion yesterday about romantic archetypes in literature and popular culture - you know, as you do.

Because it was Child 2 and me this discussion was naturally extremely erudite and thoughtful. We brought up examples, made comparisons and supported our arguments with brilliance. Finally we reached a firm and undeniable conclusion.

Ms. Piggy totally didn't deserve Kermit the Frog.

Day Off

Three day weekend. Whole day off.

7:00 AM Not awake. I'm not. I can sleep in, will sleep in, I am NOT AWAKE.

7:05 I mean it.

7:10 Fine. Am awake. But I'm in bed. See? Right here. Lying down. Eyes... open damn it. What is it with sun on days off?

7:11 Up. But am going to be grumpy with anyone I see for the next hour or so because I should be asleep since it's my day off.

7:12 Maybe I should wake up the kids so I can have someone to be grumpy at.

7:13 Are you insane??

7:15 Fine. But I'm not going to work. This is my day off. I can...

7:17 ...

7:18 Okay, but I'm working IN BED

8:00 No sound from the Recently Gainfully Employed Child who needs to go fill out paperwork. Child should be allowed to make its own mistakes.

8:01 WAKE UP CHILD!!

8:02 Oh. You had your alarm set. I knew that. Well, we're leaving in 45 minutes.

8:44 Hmmm... maybe I should get dressed...

9:00 Book store! And I'm being diligent and getting work done by researching! I'm so good.

9:05 Oooooh - art book....

10:00 Right, research, off I... ooooh! Other art book!

11:00 Oh. Child is done. Darn. I was just about to do all that research too.

11:15 Read to Children - their choice: Band of Brothers. Holland, France, Bastogne.

1:00 Work. Must work. Children far too entertaining and must be avoided. Retreat and firmly open laptop.

2:00 #$%$# CSS! Why is that div 2 pixels to the left of the div below? I should figure this out. I wonder what the Children are doing.

3:00 Two of the Children have abandoned me! Do they have no sense of their responsibilities? Must salve wounded feelings by poking Child 2 and making it yelp.

3:05 Child 2 very uncooperative. Laptop is singing forlornly in other room. Work.

5:30 Have resolved CSS! CSS is brilliant! I am brilliant!

6:00 Sudden cold feeling in stomach - have I any clean clothes at all for work tomorrow? Should maybe investigate hamper.

6:05 Why do Children feel laundry floor and inside and top of dryer are clothes storage areas? Think of caustic remarks for Children but realize some clothes are mine. Darn.

6:10 Very virtuous. Laundry done, CSS wrangled, Children looking intelligent and reasonably clothed and fed. Will not think about long list of small irritating changes that need making to that style sheet and all those graphics.

6:15 Must improve method of not thinking of things

6:20 OKAY will make small niggling changes but will also put on art commentary from film in background because IT'S MY DAY OFF

8:00 Take break to remind Children for 8th time of schedule for tomorrow.

9:00 Why do small niggling changes take so long?

9:30 Check small niggling changes in browsers.

9:35 @#$@#$ browser people! Why can't we all get along?

11:00 Browsers resolved. Mostly. Am brilliant. Browser people should be finely minced and fed to endangered carnivores thus accomplishing two things for the betterment of the world.

11:05 Ah... book? Read? Oh. Work tomorrow. Early.

Stupid day off.

Film Come to Life

"Obama in top secret search for running mate!"

"______'s top secret wedding! [complete with top secret posed picture and top secret interview"

"_______'s secret agony!"

You keep saying that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.
Inigo Montoya

Commencing

I like that we use "commencement" when we talk about graduation from high school. I like that it's more about beginning than ending.

There were over 460 seniors in Child 1's class this year. Over 460 red gowns and red mortar boards dutifully trailed down the steep concrete sides of the huge college gym (many of the girls managing it in teetery high heels which I found most impressive). Over 460 of them sat patiently and listened to speeches and songs, really only wanting to walk through that line, hold on to that small, red folder and be told they could move their tassels from left to right.

Only one of them was Child 1.

The child who isn't a child any more. The cautious, careful, concerned child who has become a confident, beautiful, talented adult.

Whom I am infinitely proud of.

Who has been patient all year with being an "it," but who asked me to share this with you, who have read and emailed and commented.

This is Child 1.


And she is beginning something wonderful.

Me Day

Kirk knew I was a little grim about mother's day. I didn't want flowers, I didn't want to be taken out for brunch and I didn't want a store-bought card celebrating the fact that I had successfully bred. I did accept the various candle holders/flower pots/pencil jars that inevitably wandered home from school around this time of year, but that was because my Children are School Craft Geniuses and I am an art lover.

So one year Kirk came up with his solution to the problem. Mother's day we would loftily ignore as per my request. However the day AFTER that he declared to be My Name Day, a day totally unrelated to fruitful loins or successful lack of infanticide. A day on which he could take me out to dinner without hearing me snark about Hallmark holidays. A day he could give me a gift just. for. me.

The very first year he presented me with a circular saw proving just how well he knew me.

There hasn't really been much attention payed around these parts to mother's days or My Name Days. It's hard to really feel festive when you're the one who has to do the planning and the shopping. However, this year I did it. I went out and bought the super wonderful, lots of button bearing, two lens including Box Of Camera Delightfulness that I have been lusting after for lo these many years.

Happy Me Day.

God knows we all need it.

Promises, promises

So the minute I claim I'm going to get organized and sort things out and make all neat and tidy I... well stop blogging for a couple of days and try to pretend doing so will somehow make it all do itself.

See the trouble is I need

A) the blog for Kirk, which must then be extracted from the rest of the content, neatly packaged, spit shined a little and possibly given appropriate tags and things so those lovely souls who email me wanting to know how they can just read the fricken' story already can actually read the fricken' story.*

B) the family blog, which needs its own space so it can stretch out a little and not be crowded with all the other stuff, and also probably wants tidy little labels as well because families can just be so demanding, and

C) a dream blog that my delightful relatives don't know about (love you kids! Love you Mom!) because I keep having these deep dark impulses to write about bikini waxes and things and there are some things my family should not know. Or there are things I should not know my family knows. Or something.

Which means that I contemplate all of this and then get the totally undeserved feeling that I've now done something about it! Tra-la - effort made folks and now back to the bon-bons please.

So.

Just to say, you might not see those changes, like soon or anything. But you will see them.

I promise.

*note, I don't normally say fricken' but like I said, my Mom reads this blog and she doesn't know I know those words. Plus my kids read it and they DEFINITELY don't know those words. Particularly since I never, ever use them in their presence. Especially when driving. Ever. Right kids?

Susie Dow - New Article

Susie Dow, who blogs about Kirk and Ryan Manelick at MissingMan has written another article for ePluribus Media about her theory on Kirk's disappearance. You can read the full article here.

Also, there will probably be some changes 'round these parts soon. I started this blog simply to write Kirk's story but, obviously, family life and personal things crept in. Things are a little confusing as I whiz from stories about the Second Coming of John the Baptist as announced by placard to serious stuff about missing persons, about Iraq and about Kirk.

So, I think it might be time to divide things out a little. I'm not sure exactly what form that will take, but rest assured I'll let you all know what's going on so you can find what you're looking for (and ignore the rest).

Superhero

The male child has a super power.

Well, it has several along the lines of Constant and Irritating Noise and Eating By Means of Total Devastation of All Foodstuffs and things like that but most males its age have those. No, it has a special super power, one it has always had. It is a pedant.

Like: PEDant Man! (musical theme riff, spiffy costume of orange tights with "P" emblazoned on chest).

I used to say he acted in support of pedantism to which Kirk would reply, "that's pedantry I think." Gee, I wonder where Male Child got it?

However it is an ism with this Child. It's a full-on, emotionally charged belief system. That belief system goes something like: Things Should Be Correct! And I Know What Is Correct.

It even has a catch phrase. It goes, "Well, but actually..."

There are a couple of minor problems with this.

First, the Male Child, while totally convinced of its own erudition and wisdom is, dare I say it, not always right.

Second, even in total and complete ignorance the Male Child is happy to state absolutely and with assurance that Thus Is So.

Fortunately it (whom we often refer to as Pedanto) is also happy to learn the real truth (as opposed to The Definitively But Ignorantly Stated "Truth") even if it does take bar charts, PowerPoint presentations and judicious application of hefty blunt objects to get the point across.

Pedanto, a few things I would really like you to learn:

A. Concussed persons should not climb. Nor should they spin things. Nor should they bounce on the furniture.

B. When the mother of the concussed person tells it to eat something very simple first to see if it is going to throw up, the concussed person should not wolf down a cinnamon-raisin bagel while waiting for said simple food to heat up. This, oddly enough, defeats the purpose.

C. If a person has been recently, if mildly, concussed, it should make an effort not to run into anything with its head for a few days.

And finally, well loved Male Child of mine, when reading over this simple list a sensible person desiring of continuing in reasonable, if slightly concussed, health should not turn to it's mother and say, "Well, but actually..."