Did you vote yet? Did you? [yes, those from other parts of the world you can ignore this one, I'm being 'Merka-centric for the moment] 'Cause you know if you don't vote you don't get to whinge about the government AT ALL for the next four years. [well, less on some things, but let's focus]
Just think! At the end of the day today a miracle will happen. An honest to goodness, realio trulio miracle.
Yes.
Election campaign ads, irritating flyers thrust through doors, pollsters on the phone during dinner, door-to-door types with clipboards and brochures all will be OVER.
At least until the next time.
So do get out and vote.
Now, if you don't mind I'm going to go sit in a nice calm darkened room and stuff my fingers in my ears until the results are announced.
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
Saturday, November 01, 2008
Enlightenment
On today's hike:
Child 1: Hmmm... the trail forks here.
Me: Yes, but see that one goes that way and this one goes this way. [slight pause for thought] That is the Way of the Trail.
Child 1: [with deep respect] You are wise in the Way of the Trail!
Child 2: [disgusted as we snort] You are just so weird.
Child 1: Hmmm... the trail forks here.
Me: Yes, but see that one goes that way and this one goes this way. [slight pause for thought] That is the Way of the Trail.
Child 1: [with deep respect] You are wise in the Way of the Trail!
Child 2: [disgusted as we snort] You are just so weird.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Flashback
No time today so I thought I'd cheat and just post this photo I found the other day. I was going through a box - a box I'd put off going through for ages. The kind of box that starts out holding non-vital but important stuff that should be sorted and saved and filed and generally organized and ends up collecting more and more such items, always with the intention that yes, when I have a moment I'll definitely properly go through that box.
Yes, well it only took four months! Anyway, among a wide assortment of things I found this. Terrifyingly young weren't we?
April 9th, 1988
Yes, well it only took four months! Anyway, among a wide assortment of things I found this. Terrifyingly young weren't we?
April 9th, 1988
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Hike II
That week sort of got away from me!
We went back out to the mountains the next day. We used to have a family saying. If your knees are stained green, it's a good day. If you caught a grass snake, it was a good day. Now we can add if, only fifty yards into the hike you look up the hill and see this:
It's a very good day indeed.
We planned on heading up the canyon and then we would take a pretty steep trail to a rocky peak Child 3 and I had hiked to the week before. Except... three people who are all rather more interested in finding the fresh tracks of the coyote we had just seen - and keeping a sharp eye out for any snakes that might be trying to catch the early morning sun - aren't, it turns out, entirely capable of actually finding a trail. Which is why, about an hour into the hike, we realized we had somehow missed the small turn-off that would have taken us to that particular peak.
We could have turned around and tried to see where we went wrong but instead we looked up at the slopes around us and decided to simply go off trail for a while, choosing a peak at random to head for. I should point out here that going off trail in a desert mountainscape isn't something that should be done stupidly - and we didn't. We were going up one face - never changing sides or moving around a slope which meant the dry creek bed that would lead us back to the foot of the main trail was always going to be in the same direction and would, for much of the hike, be visible. Because of the landscape there weren't any forests to get turned around in either so while we were off trail we were certainly not lost.
It was good fun too - lots of scrambly rocky bits and a fair amount of rethinking paths and plans thanks to unfriendly looking cacti or tenacious scrubby bushes. I was rather too busy keeping three points of contact with the quite slanty and often slippery slope we were fighting up to take photos, but we did have a nice little moment with this little guy:
who was nice enough to glare at me long enough to get the camera out.
I was rather chuffed at wrestling myself up the increasingly precarious boulders but finally, faced with a crevasse that had to be leapt starting from a steeply slanted boulder and ended in a vertical face which could (as that darn Male Child demonstrated) only be climbed by wedging various body parts into a three inch crack and sort of wriggling up out of sheer determination. I sat down and admitted total and utter chicken-hood, announcing a little plaintively that I was SCARED OF HEIGHTS and this was one too much, darn it. The Children were very kind - except when Child 3 said cheerfully, "I know! Me too! I'm MORBIDLY afraid of heights!" It enthusiastically jumped across several massive gaps about twenty feet above my head and went on, "I've just learned to ignore it!"
Yes, thanks Male Child.
Still, we had gotten ourselves within a few yards of the actual top, high enough to look down and see this:
And, with only a few dodgy moments, we made it back down all in one piece as well.
Sometimes losing the path, at least only for a little while, can be a good thing.
We went back out to the mountains the next day. We used to have a family saying. If your knees are stained green, it's a good day. If you caught a grass snake, it was a good day. Now we can add if, only fifty yards into the hike you look up the hill and see this:
It's a very good day indeed.
We planned on heading up the canyon and then we would take a pretty steep trail to a rocky peak Child 3 and I had hiked to the week before. Except... three people who are all rather more interested in finding the fresh tracks of the coyote we had just seen - and keeping a sharp eye out for any snakes that might be trying to catch the early morning sun - aren't, it turns out, entirely capable of actually finding a trail. Which is why, about an hour into the hike, we realized we had somehow missed the small turn-off that would have taken us to that particular peak.
We could have turned around and tried to see where we went wrong but instead we looked up at the slopes around us and decided to simply go off trail for a while, choosing a peak at random to head for. I should point out here that going off trail in a desert mountainscape isn't something that should be done stupidly - and we didn't. We were going up one face - never changing sides or moving around a slope which meant the dry creek bed that would lead us back to the foot of the main trail was always going to be in the same direction and would, for much of the hike, be visible. Because of the landscape there weren't any forests to get turned around in either so while we were off trail we were certainly not lost.
It was good fun too - lots of scrambly rocky bits and a fair amount of rethinking paths and plans thanks to unfriendly looking cacti or tenacious scrubby bushes. I was rather too busy keeping three points of contact with the quite slanty and often slippery slope we were fighting up to take photos, but we did have a nice little moment with this little guy:
who was nice enough to glare at me long enough to get the camera out. I was rather chuffed at wrestling myself up the increasingly precarious boulders but finally, faced with a crevasse that had to be leapt starting from a steeply slanted boulder and ended in a vertical face which could (as that darn Male Child demonstrated) only be climbed by wedging various body parts into a three inch crack and sort of wriggling up out of sheer determination. I sat down and admitted total and utter chicken-hood, announcing a little plaintively that I was SCARED OF HEIGHTS and this was one too much, darn it. The Children were very kind - except when Child 3 said cheerfully, "I know! Me too! I'm MORBIDLY afraid of heights!" It enthusiastically jumped across several massive gaps about twenty feet above my head and went on, "I've just learned to ignore it!"
Yes, thanks Male Child.
Still, we had gotten ourselves within a few yards of the actual top, high enough to look down and see this:
And, with only a few dodgy moments, we made it back down all in one piece as well.
Sometimes losing the path, at least only for a little while, can be a good thing.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Hike I
Hiking used to be important. Very important. Hiking was one of The Important Things when I met Kirk. It was a passion with him - he spent most weekends up one mountain or another. He and his friends had a New Girlfriend Test that involved taking the poor hapless girl up the side of the mountain to see if she a) knew how to dress for a hike b) whinged and c) looked halfway decent after being dragged 15 miles up a rock face. I nearly didn't pass thanks to the fact that I Do Not Do Heat but was given extra points for not complaining and still completing the hike.
Kirk knew the hiking trails around this city intimately. He had his favorites for different times of the years or different activities. There were places that were excellent for day hiking, trails good if you only had an hour or so in the afternoon and hidden bits, off the track that let you pack in a tent, large amounts of food and a frisbee - all the necessities to stay a night or two.
When the Children and I moved back here we weren't living very close to the mountains. It made it easier to make excuses for not making the effort, for not doing this or really any of the other things that had been so very important.
Then we moved a little closer, the Sandias sitting not in our backyard but far more reachable somehow than they had been when we were eight miles further away. They are part of the great Rocky Mountain chain that ripples right through the Southwest - great blue masses (at least at a little distance) craggy and pointed and young. There they were, turning brilliant pink in the sunset to earn their name (Sandia is Spanish for watermelon), collecting the clouds on the few rainy days and reluctantly sharing the moisture. But it was the summer and, you know, I Do Not Do Heat, so that was where they stayed.
Except.
It seems hiking is still very important - to Children who take survival classes for dangled prospect of an overnight camp, who come home full of busy plans when various group leaders lose their minds just enough to decide they are willing to take a van-full of teenagers up one set of hills or another, to an overly busy Child who needed to find a bit of space to just breathe for a little while. And it isn't summer any more.
So this weekend two of the Children and I headed up to the base of the mountain and hiked into Embudo Canyon.
In case you think I exaggerate about the area I live in, this is near the base of the trail where the vegetation is rather lusher than other regions
And much of the plant life is warm and welcoming - practically demanding a cuddle:
Notice in particular the rosy glow on the two inch spikes of doom:
However just a mile or two you find yourself in the canyon where there is just enough shade and just enough trickling water to allow some cottonwoods to grow while the cliff walls reach up in fantastic rock formations (excellent for photography but I will not inflict my Granite Series I [ooh! With lichen!] upon you) which is perfect for sproinking:
Which I couldn't join in as I had saddled myself with a massive camera bag. I pack camera bags like some women pack overnight luggage. I might NEED that lens! However the children did an excellent mountain goat impression over both sides of the canyon:
Until one of them had enough leaving the other to sproink alone:
While it found a warm rock to sit on and contemplate its excellent boots.
It was a good day.
NOTE: In a spirit of political unity I would like it noted that both parties were equally represented in today's only slightly modified Children photographs.
Kirk knew the hiking trails around this city intimately. He had his favorites for different times of the years or different activities. There were places that were excellent for day hiking, trails good if you only had an hour or so in the afternoon and hidden bits, off the track that let you pack in a tent, large amounts of food and a frisbee - all the necessities to stay a night or two.
When the Children and I moved back here we weren't living very close to the mountains. It made it easier to make excuses for not making the effort, for not doing this or really any of the other things that had been so very important.
Then we moved a little closer, the Sandias sitting not in our backyard but far more reachable somehow than they had been when we were eight miles further away. They are part of the great Rocky Mountain chain that ripples right through the Southwest - great blue masses (at least at a little distance) craggy and pointed and young. There they were, turning brilliant pink in the sunset to earn their name (Sandia is Spanish for watermelon), collecting the clouds on the few rainy days and reluctantly sharing the moisture. But it was the summer and, you know, I Do Not Do Heat, so that was where they stayed.
Except.
It seems hiking is still very important - to Children who take survival classes for dangled prospect of an overnight camp, who come home full of busy plans when various group leaders lose their minds just enough to decide they are willing to take a van-full of teenagers up one set of hills or another, to an overly busy Child who needed to find a bit of space to just breathe for a little while. And it isn't summer any more.
So this weekend two of the Children and I headed up to the base of the mountain and hiked into Embudo Canyon.
In case you think I exaggerate about the area I live in, this is near the base of the trail where the vegetation is rather lusher than other regions
And much of the plant life is warm and welcoming - practically demanding a cuddle:
Notice in particular the rosy glow on the two inch spikes of doom:
However just a mile or two you find yourself in the canyon where there is just enough shade and just enough trickling water to allow some cottonwoods to grow while the cliff walls reach up in fantastic rock formations (excellent for photography but I will not inflict my Granite Series I [ooh! With lichen!] upon you) which is perfect for sproinking:
Which I couldn't join in as I had saddled myself with a massive camera bag. I pack camera bags like some women pack overnight luggage. I might NEED that lens! However the children did an excellent mountain goat impression over both sides of the canyon:
Until one of them had enough leaving the other to sproink alone:
While it found a warm rock to sit on and contemplate its excellent boots.
It was a good day.
NOTE: In a spirit of political unity I would like it noted that both parties were equally represented in today's only slightly modified Children photographs.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Child 3
October first was Child 3's 16th birthday - which makes me about 1,478 in parent years (parent years are like dog years only sliiiightly more intense). It dithered for weeks about telling us what it wanted for gift type things and what it would like to do and only very late in the game did it admit (roundaboutly) that it didn't want to put anyone out or make anyone do anything they didn't want to do. I rather loudly pointed out that we LIKE IT and it is OUR CHILD 3 and IT WAS GOING TO HAVE A BIRTHDAY OR ELSE at which point it decided that maybe it could agree to at least a dinner and things without the world coming to an end.
Because, it turns out, that's what it really wanted to do - just have dinner with its family. So my father (who was temporarily abandoned by my mother who had sibling type things to do) came over to have baba ganoush and dolmas while we had gyros and then we all enjoyed Non Fat Birthday Brownies and a choice of mint chocolate chip ice cream or fat free sorbet. We did NOT have candles since 16 candles plus 70 candles makes rather a lot of candles and our slightly elderly fire detector might not have survived the experience.
Yes, 70 candles as well as 16 because Child 3 shares its birthday. It's due to me realizing wisely that if one is going to inflict a husband and 2.5 children on one's loving parents one should make darn sure that when the .5 child hatches into full personhood it does so on one of said parent's birthdays. So Child 3, whenever it's convenient, shares its birthday with its grandfather which, I think, says a great deal about the style and sophistication of both of them.
I gave Child 3 an electric guitar for its birthday. It seemed a goodish sort of 16th present, and I'd like to say it was mostly due to Child 3's excellent musical ear but that's only partly true. Actually I knew it would love it AND it came with its own amp which has a plug in spot for headphones. Granted, we don't currently have an adapter dingus that will allow Child 3 to play all be-headphoned, but if I ever get over to the guitar shop near my work we COULD and that's what's important.
Child 3 picked up its new guitar and completely irritated its siblings by promptly learning and playing (by ear alone) four or so popular songs. It general foodles around a bit, then announces "Hey! Listen to what I figured out!" and rips out the first eight bars or so with admirable nonchalance. Child 1 put up with this for two weeks and then gritted its teeth and bought itself an ACOUSTIC guitar which it is already learning to strum out power chords on. This, of course, totally negates the whole brilliance of the amp-with-headphones thing, but it means Child 3 is happily acting as tutor - only two steps ahead of the student - and they both seem quite content.
This has been a year of challenge for Child 3. Not that it has had a hard or horrible year, it has simply opted for every difficult thing that has crossed its path. This summer it signed up for four camps - and not the kum-bah-ya singing, let's macrame a toaster and then do some interpretive dance: you can be "Lightning Struck Pine Tree" and I'll be "Spirit of Nature Overwhelmed by Selfish and Evil Human Kind!" sort - these were more, hey let's get up at 5 in the morning and run five miles! It has also signed up for every last honors or AP course(Advanced Placement for the non-American folks - if you do well enough on the test you can get college credit and earn your way out of some of the boring freshman stuff!).
A few weeks ago it asked to be dropped off at the foot of the mountain so it could just climb for a bit - away from the people and the school and the seventy-bajillion things it had fighting for space in its head. It climbed for 5 miles, and up about 2,000 feet (we sit at about... I don't know... 5,500 feet at our house? Something like that) and it found what it was looking for on a mountain top. What's really amazing though is that a couple of weeks later it peeled open that alone space and asked me to come along too. So I climbed with it (regretfully opting out of the sproinking mountain goat part of the program - I simply watched and admired) and we sat up on that rock and looked down over the valley alone together.
This weekend the siblings are coming along too, with the enthusiastic support of Child 3. It had found perfect solitude and because that solitude was so perfect it wanted to share it with us. Because it loves us.
Happy birthday Child 3.
ETA: This evening Child 3 found itself in sole command of the one working television in the house AND the game system. Its homework done, its parent busy with a print ad that has an unfortunate deadline, it was offered its choice of movie, tv or video game. It was waffling a bit when I happened to mention the presidential debates were on. Its deranged little eyes lit up - lit up I tell you - and it flung itself at the television, because, and I quote, "I like to figure out what they're really saying." I refuse to consider what this says about Child 3 but I do admit to feeling a little - just a little - smug that it picked this over our extensive DVD collection OR the chance to drive a digital car at unrealistic speeds around city streets that have walls that bizarrely do not crunch said digital car into oblivion when they are driven into at 100 mph. It is still watching. I'm beginning to be a little afraid...
ETA II: I admit that I am working furiously on said print ad (and I am nearly blind btw with the need to be original, eye-catching and sincere in a doggone 1/3 page vertical!!) with the door closed AND a bit of music on (which I hardly ever do because I get distracted by the music) simply so I don't hear said presidential debate. It's cowardly. It's wrong. But I would rather read it calmly and coldly in the morning and NOT shout at (often both) candidates when they say something inane. Or the question askers. Or the commenters. Or probably the innercent little watching-type people either. I admit to being a bit het-up about this here election.
Because, it turns out, that's what it really wanted to do - just have dinner with its family. So my father (who was temporarily abandoned by my mother who had sibling type things to do) came over to have baba ganoush and dolmas while we had gyros and then we all enjoyed Non Fat Birthday Brownies and a choice of mint chocolate chip ice cream or fat free sorbet. We did NOT have candles since 16 candles plus 70 candles makes rather a lot of candles and our slightly elderly fire detector might not have survived the experience.
Yes, 70 candles as well as 16 because Child 3 shares its birthday. It's due to me realizing wisely that if one is going to inflict a husband and 2.5 children on one's loving parents one should make darn sure that when the .5 child hatches into full personhood it does so on one of said parent's birthdays. So Child 3, whenever it's convenient, shares its birthday with its grandfather which, I think, says a great deal about the style and sophistication of both of them.
I gave Child 3 an electric guitar for its birthday. It seemed a goodish sort of 16th present, and I'd like to say it was mostly due to Child 3's excellent musical ear but that's only partly true. Actually I knew it would love it AND it came with its own amp which has a plug in spot for headphones. Granted, we don't currently have an adapter dingus that will allow Child 3 to play all be-headphoned, but if I ever get over to the guitar shop near my work we COULD and that's what's important.
Child 3 picked up its new guitar and completely irritated its siblings by promptly learning and playing (by ear alone) four or so popular songs. It general foodles around a bit, then announces "Hey! Listen to what I figured out!" and rips out the first eight bars or so with admirable nonchalance. Child 1 put up with this for two weeks and then gritted its teeth and bought itself an ACOUSTIC guitar which it is already learning to strum out power chords on. This, of course, totally negates the whole brilliance of the amp-with-headphones thing, but it means Child 3 is happily acting as tutor - only two steps ahead of the student - and they both seem quite content.
This has been a year of challenge for Child 3. Not that it has had a hard or horrible year, it has simply opted for every difficult thing that has crossed its path. This summer it signed up for four camps - and not the kum-bah-ya singing, let's macrame a toaster and then do some interpretive dance: you can be "Lightning Struck Pine Tree" and I'll be "Spirit of Nature Overwhelmed by Selfish and Evil Human Kind!" sort - these were more, hey let's get up at 5 in the morning and run five miles! It has also signed up for every last honors or AP course(Advanced Placement for the non-American folks - if you do well enough on the test you can get college credit and earn your way out of some of the boring freshman stuff!).
A few weeks ago it asked to be dropped off at the foot of the mountain so it could just climb for a bit - away from the people and the school and the seventy-bajillion things it had fighting for space in its head. It climbed for 5 miles, and up about 2,000 feet (we sit at about... I don't know... 5,500 feet at our house? Something like that) and it found what it was looking for on a mountain top. What's really amazing though is that a couple of weeks later it peeled open that alone space and asked me to come along too. So I climbed with it (regretfully opting out of the sproinking mountain goat part of the program - I simply watched and admired) and we sat up on that rock and looked down over the valley alone together.
This weekend the siblings are coming along too, with the enthusiastic support of Child 3. It had found perfect solitude and because that solitude was so perfect it wanted to share it with us. Because it loves us.
Happy birthday Child 3.
ETA: This evening Child 3 found itself in sole command of the one working television in the house AND the game system. Its homework done, its parent busy with a print ad that has an unfortunate deadline, it was offered its choice of movie, tv or video game. It was waffling a bit when I happened to mention the presidential debates were on. Its deranged little eyes lit up - lit up I tell you - and it flung itself at the television, because, and I quote, "I like to figure out what they're really saying." I refuse to consider what this says about Child 3 but I do admit to feeling a little - just a little - smug that it picked this over our extensive DVD collection OR the chance to drive a digital car at unrealistic speeds around city streets that have walls that bizarrely do not crunch said digital car into oblivion when they are driven into at 100 mph. It is still watching. I'm beginning to be a little afraid...
ETA II: I admit that I am working furiously on said print ad (and I am nearly blind btw with the need to be original, eye-catching and sincere in a doggone 1/3 page vertical!!) with the door closed AND a bit of music on (which I hardly ever do because I get distracted by the music) simply so I don't hear said presidential debate. It's cowardly. It's wrong. But I would rather read it calmly and coldly in the morning and NOT shout at (often both) candidates when they say something inane. Or the question askers. Or the commenters. Or probably the innercent little watching-type people either. I admit to being a bit het-up about this here election.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Welcome
For anyone who stumbled their way here through the AP news story - welcome. If you want to read Kirk's story you can start here. You can read about the CID (Criminal Investigative Division) at the start of the blog here. The CID's conclusion to the investigation (conclusion is misleading - the investigation is still open) is here.
I've tried to do some housekeeping (late and probably insufficient) and tidy the "story" things into one category so they can be read reasonably logically - just click on the story link in the "posts by topic" list to the right. The "Kirk" link is a little less focused but does all relate to Kirk and my (our - Children are involved too) relationship. Everything else... well is a fairly thorough mix.
I do read all the comments and emails and do my best to reply (NOTE - PAM!! I can't get my darn email to reply to you although I do keep trying - I do get your emails and I do write back it's just... well, the email monkeys apparently eat them) although life sometimes gets a little frantic and I fall behind.
I've tried to do some housekeeping (late and probably insufficient) and tidy the "story" things into one category so they can be read reasonably logically - just click on the story link in the "posts by topic" list to the right. The "Kirk" link is a little less focused but does all relate to Kirk and my (our - Children are involved too) relationship. Everything else... well is a fairly thorough mix.
I do read all the comments and emails and do my best to reply (NOTE - PAM!! I can't get my darn email to reply to you although I do keep trying - I do get your emails and I do write back it's just... well, the email monkeys apparently eat them) although life sometimes gets a little frantic and I fall behind.
Friday, October 10, 2008
politics
I don't write politics. I think them, all the time. In times like these I feel like I swim in them. But I don't write them.
I also try not to watch political ads (save me from the sound-bite solution to the world's problems). I avoid editorial articles if possible - although I read a select few. So many are so biased that I find myself arguing for the under-dog (of the moment) no matter what my personal inclination is. I don't get a print newspaper so the latest graphic zinger from the cartoonist has, sadly, passed me by. I also don't watch Biased-News-R-Us of either side but try to glean as much as I can about the candidates's actual stands on actual issues that mean something to me (recognizing that my Issues are not your Issues or even his or her Issues - what else am I supposed to vote on?).
However, in this election I honestly hope that if one particular candidate wins rather than another it will be not because he is black, not despite the fact that he is black, but because the majority of people (should they do so) felt that this candidate would speak for them in the places that need a voice, would act for them in the moments when a strong leader was needed. I would hope that in the end, should this particular person be elected, it would be an issue of: this was the man the people wanted.
Because, let's be honest, he's a politician. Like all the others - whether they are good at it or not - they are professional People Persons who Know The Common Man and Speak The Language. They are a race unto themselves. And that race, please - please - needs no other definition.
At least, right now,
I hope.
I also try not to watch political ads (save me from the sound-bite solution to the world's problems). I avoid editorial articles if possible - although I read a select few. So many are so biased that I find myself arguing for the under-dog (of the moment) no matter what my personal inclination is. I don't get a print newspaper so the latest graphic zinger from the cartoonist has, sadly, passed me by. I also don't watch Biased-News-R-Us of either side but try to glean as much as I can about the candidates's actual stands on actual issues that mean something to me (recognizing that my Issues are not your Issues or even his or her Issues - what else am I supposed to vote on?).
However, in this election I honestly hope that if one particular candidate wins rather than another it will be not because he is black, not despite the fact that he is black, but because the majority of people (should they do so) felt that this candidate would speak for them in the places that need a voice, would act for them in the moments when a strong leader was needed. I would hope that in the end, should this particular person be elected, it would be an issue of: this was the man the people wanted.
Because, let's be honest, he's a politician. Like all the others - whether they are good at it or not - they are professional People Persons who Know The Common Man and Speak The Language. They are a race unto themselves. And that race, please - please - needs no other definition.
At least, right now,
I hope.
Thursday, October 09, 2008
Friday, September 19, 2008
Identity... Explained... a bit... more
Dang it.
I'm not a cute-overload type of person. I don't remember playing with dolls (except the day I was playing cannibal feasts and had to stop because my mother refused to keep sticking the limbs back on the plastic baby torsos). I do not have, and do not anticipate having, a big-eyed kitten photo as wallpaper on my computer and I have never, ever, used SQUEEE! in a non-ironic way.
But your emails and comments have just possibly left me a little runny nosed. And you're welcome for the image.
But there were a couple of questions - good ones - that can be answered (I know it's a little weird given the context, but I won't post names just because I don't know if people want their names out there)
Honestly I'd like to say there was a well-reasoned instant where I thought through everything and weighed it all logically and carefully and then wrote up the post but... well, that's not how I work often. Instead I found myself writing up this mini-essay and there were phrases I knew I wanted to use and words that strung together just right and I realized that I was writing up something that had swirled around in my semi-conscious mind for... well weeks at least, but more likely months.
This whole blog has been the slowest, most glacial effort towards acceptance ever seen - ever. When I started it, a little over two and a half years ago, my mother asked me about the choice of names: Missing In Iraq. I would probably attract some attention, she warned me, given that title. And that was the whole point. At that time we didn't know what had happened to Kirk (we still don't, not entirely, not really and probably never will). We didn't know if he was alive or dead and it seemed we never would. I was under a lot of pressure to get the story told (some of it from another family that was equally devastated by a loss connected with Kirk's) but I had resisted it for all sorts of complicated and ultimately selfish reasons.
I honestly started it because I came to realize that the CID (the military investigating people) were going to have incredible power over Kirk's story. Because the investigation was having to be conducted the way it was, because much of it was (and is) invisible to me - not sure if I should use the term "classified" which has a very specific meaning to me, but certainly the information is controlled - they could make their conclusions and have enormous power over not only what I believed about Kirk's death but about his life as well.
There was more to it as well. That one event - a few minutes on the side of a road - had swallowed up everything else and I didn't want Kirk to be defined by those moments. Of course, I didn't want to be defined by them either.
What I've slowly - very slowly - admitted is that although I am not totally defined by the fact that Kirk went missing the way he did it has inevitably shaped me, changed me. I have tried my best to make that change... it's difficult to say good... difficult because all the language is loaded, but yes, I want it to be positive. I want to be able to say more than "this did not break me." Accepting that I have been changed - that this event is an important part of my life - is part of that.
As I said, I haven't really had that problem. There have been a few people who want to express a political view and seem to think that I will agree with them (although what's funny is that I've gotten this from both - often extreme - ends of the spectrum). I have had some emails that basically state that all contractors are carpet-bagging, greedy bastards who are trying to capitalize on a humanitarian nightmare and therefore deserve all they get. This shows an amazing lack of understanding of a complicated situation and frankly I don't think it's in my best interests to try to educate anyone. Not that they sound like the sort of people who wish to be educated! However, this is a very small minority and I happily delete the messages. I'm not happy that this particular view is out there - but there are so very many black-and-white type opinions floating around that I find equally distressing! Purposeful bile is just that. Fortunately the few trolls didn't find me until well into the life-span of the blog - I think early on I would have been far more sensitive.
Yes and no. It's possible that if I had really worked the media and tried to get huge exposure for the story right from the start things would have been easier for us. Maybe we would have been able to find things out sooner - there might have been more pressure on the CID to get things answered right away. I would hope not. I would hope that they did everything they could because that's the job they had to do. It's also possible that it would have made things so surreal that we would have had even more trouble coping than we did.
Remember, we were the first family to lose a civilian in this way - Kirk was the first American to go missing. It would have been pretty easy to get a spotlight on the story (once it broke the problem was to turn the spotlight off). But it would have meant answering unanswerable questions over and over again (how do you feel? What do you think happened? What would you say to the people who have him if he's been taken?) and turning over a large amount of our time (or my time - I would still have fought to keep the Children out of it as much as possible) to being the victims - to publicly accepting that rather simplistic and, at least in my view, potentially dangerous role. I don't want to be a victim. I don't want to be the person something was done to. Naturally this is a bit of a problem since, quite frankly, I AM someone that something happened to, but I think that it is a terribly seductive sort of thing - that being the victim can become a calling. People want to be nice to you which is fine, but... I suppose I'm concerned about how easy it would be to lose independence or to become too reliant on that kindness - in fact to begin to think of myself as that person this thing happened to. Back to the definitions I suppose...
Lots of waffle to say... well basically that I made the best choice I could at the time and everything else is might-have-been. It seemed the right thing at the time to keep the story suppressed. Later it seemed the right thing to begin to own the whole story by telling it here. Now it seems the right thing to accept all of it, including my part of it - my name.
Phew.
Next, back to important things - like the over-due birthday post for Child 3!
I'm not a cute-overload type of person. I don't remember playing with dolls (except the day I was playing cannibal feasts and had to stop because my mother refused to keep sticking the limbs back on the plastic baby torsos). I do not have, and do not anticipate having, a big-eyed kitten photo as wallpaper on my computer and I have never, ever, used SQUEEE! in a non-ironic way.
But your emails and comments have just possibly left me a little runny nosed. And you're welcome for the image.
But there were a couple of questions - good ones - that can be answered (I know it's a little weird given the context, but I won't post names just because I don't know if people want their names out there)
I've been reading you for a while and I even went back and read alot of the "Kirk" things you wrote so I would know what you were talking about! What made you change your mind about using your name?
Honestly I'd like to say there was a well-reasoned instant where I thought through everything and weighed it all logically and carefully and then wrote up the post but... well, that's not how I work often. Instead I found myself writing up this mini-essay and there were phrases I knew I wanted to use and words that strung together just right and I realized that I was writing up something that had swirled around in my semi-conscious mind for... well weeks at least, but more likely months.
This whole blog has been the slowest, most glacial effort towards acceptance ever seen - ever. When I started it, a little over two and a half years ago, my mother asked me about the choice of names: Missing In Iraq. I would probably attract some attention, she warned me, given that title. And that was the whole point. At that time we didn't know what had happened to Kirk (we still don't, not entirely, not really and probably never will). We didn't know if he was alive or dead and it seemed we never would. I was under a lot of pressure to get the story told (some of it from another family that was equally devastated by a loss connected with Kirk's) but I had resisted it for all sorts of complicated and ultimately selfish reasons.
I honestly started it because I came to realize that the CID (the military investigating people) were going to have incredible power over Kirk's story. Because the investigation was having to be conducted the way it was, because much of it was (and is) invisible to me - not sure if I should use the term "classified" which has a very specific meaning to me, but certainly the information is controlled - they could make their conclusions and have enormous power over not only what I believed about Kirk's death but about his life as well.
There was more to it as well. That one event - a few minutes on the side of a road - had swallowed up everything else and I didn't want Kirk to be defined by those moments. Of course, I didn't want to be defined by them either.
What I've slowly - very slowly - admitted is that although I am not totally defined by the fact that Kirk went missing the way he did it has inevitably shaped me, changed me. I have tried my best to make that change... it's difficult to say good... difficult because all the language is loaded, but yes, I want it to be positive. I want to be able to say more than "this did not break me." Accepting that I have been changed - that this event is an important part of my life - is part of that.
Have you had any problems with people because of the blog? I've read some blogs that attract some real trolls
As I said, I haven't really had that problem. There have been a few people who want to express a political view and seem to think that I will agree with them (although what's funny is that I've gotten this from both - often extreme - ends of the spectrum). I have had some emails that basically state that all contractors are carpet-bagging, greedy bastards who are trying to capitalize on a humanitarian nightmare and therefore deserve all they get. This shows an amazing lack of understanding of a complicated situation and frankly I don't think it's in my best interests to try to educate anyone. Not that they sound like the sort of people who wish to be educated! However, this is a very small minority and I happily delete the messages. I'm not happy that this particular view is out there - but there are so very many black-and-white type opinions floating around that I find equally distressing! Purposeful bile is just that. Fortunately the few trolls didn't find me until well into the life-span of the blog - I think early on I would have been far more sensitive.
Do you regret being anonymous for so long?
Yes and no. It's possible that if I had really worked the media and tried to get huge exposure for the story right from the start things would have been easier for us. Maybe we would have been able to find things out sooner - there might have been more pressure on the CID to get things answered right away. I would hope not. I would hope that they did everything they could because that's the job they had to do. It's also possible that it would have made things so surreal that we would have had even more trouble coping than we did.
Remember, we were the first family to lose a civilian in this way - Kirk was the first American to go missing. It would have been pretty easy to get a spotlight on the story (once it broke the problem was to turn the spotlight off). But it would have meant answering unanswerable questions over and over again (how do you feel? What do you think happened? What would you say to the people who have him if he's been taken?) and turning over a large amount of our time (or my time - I would still have fought to keep the Children out of it as much as possible) to being the victims - to publicly accepting that rather simplistic and, at least in my view, potentially dangerous role. I don't want to be a victim. I don't want to be the person something was done to. Naturally this is a bit of a problem since, quite frankly, I AM someone that something happened to, but I think that it is a terribly seductive sort of thing - that being the victim can become a calling. People want to be nice to you which is fine, but... I suppose I'm concerned about how easy it would be to lose independence or to become too reliant on that kindness - in fact to begin to think of myself as that person this thing happened to. Back to the definitions I suppose...
Lots of waffle to say... well basically that I made the best choice I could at the time and everything else is might-have-been. It seemed the right thing at the time to keep the story suppressed. Later it seemed the right thing to begin to own the whole story by telling it here. Now it seems the right thing to accept all of it, including my part of it - my name.
Phew.
Next, back to important things - like the over-due birthday post for Child 3!
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Identity
When I first started this blog I chose to mediate comments. I felt pretty exposed writing about Kirk in a public forum - it was the first time I had really, truly said right out loud to the whole world that he was missing. I had held that secret so tightly for so long that it became a defensive wall; it began to define me. I had made a few chinks in it, telling a person here or there, but only when it was absolutely necessary (my boss when the article in Time was coming out; a colleague when she simply wouldn't stop asking questions and I didn't want to overtly lie). The blog was a mental load of dynamite at the very foundations of the wall and it left me terribly vulnerable.
The last thing I wanted was to wake up to a load of comments like "War is evil and the Iraq war is killing babies so by writing this you are killing babies! Love, anonymous" or "OMG! Dick Cheney like totally talks to God and you are making Jesus cry because you hate the war!" Dudes, I have never, to my knowledge, killed babies. Also one of our favorite family expressions of over the top whackitude is "Dick Cheney on a duck hunt! Blam!" But please, point to a pro or anti war post in this thing? (oh heck, there probably is one of each somewhere and now I'll get an email pointing that out ever so nicely) I just told the story as I knew it and left the judgments alone.
Anyway, because this blog is one of a billion and maybe because there isn't really a genre for it (hands up all bloggers whose spouses have gone missing in Iraq! {I will almost certainly get an email now pointing me at such a blog, in which case - yes, please do!}), and just maybe because writing vitriolic hate comments in this situation just might make even the leathery hide of the common internet troll feel a wee bit sensitive, I didn't get nasty comments.
I did get emails - plenty of them - but thoughtful, polite and generally correctly spelled emails. Often disagreeing or trying to kindly point out where I was Ruining My Children's Lives (to which I have to say, I know! Isn't that cool?). Even more often they are interesting and funny and make a connection I would never otherwise have made. I love that - I love that I have friends all over the place who staggered in here because they saw a thing that linked to another thing that produced a thought that somehow ended up at this tiny corner of the internet.
All of which faffing about gets away from that first point way up there about where I was when I started this. It was all about Kirk, see, about his story (ignoring that it was, naturally, our story) and who he was and how he got to that road in Iraq. I wanted to shove him into the light while keeping firmly in the wings myself. Which was why I ended up with the grammatically incorrect and slightly bizarre signature, "For Kirk." It wasn't who I was, it was why I was writing but at that time... well, that felt very much like who I was as well.
So, like a lot of things in my life I'm afraid, I am far behind in doing something about this and moving past it. But it's Thursday, and Thursday just seems like as good a day as any to make a small change.
I still write here For Kirk, but also for the Children, and most of all for me.
Megan
The last thing I wanted was to wake up to a load of comments like "War is evil and the Iraq war is killing babies so by writing this you are killing babies! Love, anonymous" or "OMG! Dick Cheney like totally talks to God and you are making Jesus cry because you hate the war!" Dudes, I have never, to my knowledge, killed babies. Also one of our favorite family expressions of over the top whackitude is "Dick Cheney on a duck hunt! Blam!" But please, point to a pro or anti war post in this thing? (oh heck, there probably is one of each somewhere and now I'll get an email pointing that out ever so nicely) I just told the story as I knew it and left the judgments alone.
Anyway, because this blog is one of a billion and maybe because there isn't really a genre for it (hands up all bloggers whose spouses have gone missing in Iraq! {I will almost certainly get an email now pointing me at such a blog, in which case - yes, please do!}), and just maybe because writing vitriolic hate comments in this situation just might make even the leathery hide of the common internet troll feel a wee bit sensitive, I didn't get nasty comments.
I did get emails - plenty of them - but thoughtful, polite and generally correctly spelled emails. Often disagreeing or trying to kindly point out where I was Ruining My Children's Lives (to which I have to say, I know! Isn't that cool?). Even more often they are interesting and funny and make a connection I would never otherwise have made. I love that - I love that I have friends all over the place who staggered in here because they saw a thing that linked to another thing that produced a thought that somehow ended up at this tiny corner of the internet.
All of which faffing about gets away from that first point way up there about where I was when I started this. It was all about Kirk, see, about his story (ignoring that it was, naturally, our story) and who he was and how he got to that road in Iraq. I wanted to shove him into the light while keeping firmly in the wings myself. Which was why I ended up with the grammatically incorrect and slightly bizarre signature, "For Kirk." It wasn't who I was, it was why I was writing but at that time... well, that felt very much like who I was as well.
So, like a lot of things in my life I'm afraid, I am far behind in doing something about this and moving past it. But it's Thursday, and Thursday just seems like as good a day as any to make a small change.
I still write here For Kirk, but also for the Children, and most of all for me.
Megan
Unique
Child 3: *clucking noise with tongue*
Me: Um
3: Yes? [innocent blue eyes combined with slight fogginess of a cold]
Me: Do you think you could stop that?
3: ... I think so ... [ponders for a while] yes, yes I can.
Me: Thanks.
...
Me: You know, I think that you are probably the only person in the world clucking the Russian National Anthem.
3: Yah... except I'm not doing it any more.
...
3: *clucking noise with tongue*
Should never have gotten it that damn frenectomy.
Me: Um
3: Yes? [innocent blue eyes combined with slight fogginess of a cold]
Me: Do you think you could stop that?
3: ... I think so ... [ponders for a while] yes, yes I can.
Me: Thanks.
...
Me: You know, I think that you are probably the only person in the world clucking the Russian National Anthem.
3: Yah... except I'm not doing it any more.
...
3: *clucking noise with tongue*
Should never have gotten it that damn frenectomy.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Thoughts
A: Does crossing myself, with what probably was a drunken H somewhere over my unhallowed solar plexus, count as religious observance? Memories of grade school field trips are haunting me for some reason.
B: It is not, in any way, bizarre to carefully separate one's eggs prior to cooking. It simply affirms the noble sentiment that uncooked whites are directly comparable to the output of a child's runny nose while egg yolks should just be gently introduced to the idea of a slightly hot pan before they are eaten. This is utterly normal no matter what any random Child might say.
C: It is possible that there is nothing so truly satisfying as introducing one's offspring to the glories that are found in M*A*S*H. Particularly as said Children have already met Alan Alda as the host of Scientific American Frontiers. This is why one breeds.
B: It is not, in any way, bizarre to carefully separate one's eggs prior to cooking. It simply affirms the noble sentiment that uncooked whites are directly comparable to the output of a child's runny nose while egg yolks should just be gently introduced to the idea of a slightly hot pan before they are eaten. This is utterly normal no matter what any random Child might say.
C: It is possible that there is nothing so truly satisfying as introducing one's offspring to the glories that are found in M*A*S*H. Particularly as said Children have already met Alan Alda as the host of Scientific American Frontiers. This is why one breeds.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, September 04, 2008
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]
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]
Saturday, August 30, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
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!
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!
Monday, August 25, 2008
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...
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...
Saturday, August 23, 2008
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...
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...
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, August 18, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, August 15, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, August 11, 2008
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!!
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!!
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Categories
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...
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...
Thursday, August 07, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, August 02, 2008
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.
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.
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