Yesterday I smiled:
In delight at the sound of a fat baby chuckle coming at high speed towards me
In sympathy as the basket rounded the corner and I learned the mother was sprinting as fast as possible towards the bathroom because the laughing delighted little boy in the cart had plunged both hands into his dirty diaper and was happily trying to wipe the result on her chest
In sheer joy as I contemplated the fact that my Children have now all been toilet trained for over 13 years
Friday, December 07, 2007
Thursday, December 06, 2007
How Cost Plus Saved the Holidays
1. They not only had chocolate coins, they had four different kinds so I could choose the currency.
2. They had tons of German Christmas stuff I remember so well (although I never buy it, I just like to LOOK at it)
3. They had cans of light coconut milk! Hooray! Curry for dinner (yes, not terribly festive but very yummy)
4. The basket-filling bins were stuffed with the cutest, weensiest, most dimpled little bottles of things like dipping fudge and maple syrup I've ever seen. Made me completely ignore the fact that no one in their right mind wants a TINY jar of dipping fudge.
5. There were not only large bottles of flavored syrup, there was an enormous selection of sugar-free flavored syrup (What? Italian sodas are VERY holiday-ish. Darn, just realized the Children will see this and now I will have to share)
So, Cost Plus, because the Children woke up to genuine South African gelt this morning, because there is still a lovely lunch-sized bowl of green curry in my fridge, because I got to try to smell pfefferneusse through the cellophane, I am willing to forgive you for the three versions of "Little Drummer Boy" you played in the 1/2 hour I was in the store (even the one where the singer kept saying "perrrRUMPaPUMPpum" in a whiny nasal voice).
Now I just need to find a use for these miniature bottles of basil oil...
2. They had tons of German Christmas stuff I remember so well (although I never buy it, I just like to LOOK at it)
3. They had cans of light coconut milk! Hooray! Curry for dinner (yes, not terribly festive but very yummy)
4. The basket-filling bins were stuffed with the cutest, weensiest, most dimpled little bottles of things like dipping fudge and maple syrup I've ever seen. Made me completely ignore the fact that no one in their right mind wants a TINY jar of dipping fudge.
5. There were not only large bottles of flavored syrup, there was an enormous selection of sugar-free flavored syrup (What? Italian sodas are VERY holiday-ish. Darn, just realized the Children will see this and now I will have to share)
So, Cost Plus, because the Children woke up to genuine South African gelt this morning, because there is still a lovely lunch-sized bowl of green curry in my fridge, because I got to try to smell pfefferneusse through the cellophane, I am willing to forgive you for the three versions of "Little Drummer Boy" you played in the 1/2 hour I was in the store (even the one where the singer kept saying "perrrRUMPaPUMPpum" in a whiny nasal voice).
Now I just need to find a use for these miniature bottles of basil oil...
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
'Tis the Season Darn It
I'm normally a quite Christmassy person. I appalled my father when he realized our family tradition was to put up the tree the day after Thanksgiving. I have to stop myself from pulling out the Christmas CD's throughout the year, realizing that not everyone will be interested in Wassailing in the Bleak Mid-Summer (note, in my defense our Christmas albums are mostly Robert Shaw Festival collections and are really, truly beautiful and worth listening to year round). I love ginger and spices; I have a favorite Gingerbread recipe (we make gingerbread moose cookies - doesn't everyone?) and a favorite spiced nut recipe and I firmly believe that hot chocolate should include a drop or two of peppermint every single time.
But this year? Not so much. Maybe it was that there were Santa clauses and humorous penguins facing off against the morose plastic jack 'o lanterns three weeks before Halloween at Target this year. I know, it's nit picking, but I've always felt that October was just a little early to start pushing the Hooray! It's the Spendiest Time of the Spenderiffic Year Folks! stuff.
We don't have a tree up yet - we don't have a tree at all honestly. The box of decorations and ornaments is still sitting in the storage room unopened and unloved. We have no lights up, no cookies have been baked and don't even ask about Christmas cards because honestly? Not going to happen this year.
In an effort to inspire some stirrings of holiday cheer Child 1 has played Christmas music all this week, two nights ago Children 1 and 2 watched The Nightmare Before Christmas (because NOTHING says Christmas like a podgy villain filled with creepy-crawlies) and last night they all watched one of the two family must-see's for the season: Boris Karloff narrating The Grinch (don't even mention Jim Carrey, thou shalt not blaspheme my Seuss). Me, I'm still not feeling it.
However, we do have our Germany Child and so tonight we will, ready or not, be putting out shoes for St Nickolaus. Some traditions, after all, are non-negotiable. One of those is that into each shoe must be placed a bag of gelt - chocolate coins. In pursuit of these I went to Target the other day. Seven aisles of Christmas and not one sniff of chocolate coins. Two days later I finally found them - in the dollar section. There was a choice: Spongebob Squarepants or Dora the Explorer.
I might just have to break up with Target.
But only for the holidays.
But this year? Not so much. Maybe it was that there were Santa clauses and humorous penguins facing off against the morose plastic jack 'o lanterns three weeks before Halloween at Target this year. I know, it's nit picking, but I've always felt that October was just a little early to start pushing the Hooray! It's the Spendiest Time of the Spenderiffic Year Folks! stuff.
We don't have a tree up yet - we don't have a tree at all honestly. The box of decorations and ornaments is still sitting in the storage room unopened and unloved. We have no lights up, no cookies have been baked and don't even ask about Christmas cards because honestly? Not going to happen this year.
In an effort to inspire some stirrings of holiday cheer Child 1 has played Christmas music all this week, two nights ago Children 1 and 2 watched The Nightmare Before Christmas (because NOTHING says Christmas like a podgy villain filled with creepy-crawlies) and last night they all watched one of the two family must-see's for the season: Boris Karloff narrating The Grinch (don't even mention Jim Carrey, thou shalt not blaspheme my Seuss). Me, I'm still not feeling it.
However, we do have our Germany Child and so tonight we will, ready or not, be putting out shoes for St Nickolaus. Some traditions, after all, are non-negotiable. One of those is that into each shoe must be placed a bag of gelt - chocolate coins. In pursuit of these I went to Target the other day. Seven aisles of Christmas and not one sniff of chocolate coins. Two days later I finally found them - in the dollar section. There was a choice: Spongebob Squarepants or Dora the Explorer.
I might just have to break up with Target.
But only for the holidays.
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Missing Britons
There is news about five British men who were kidnapped in Iraq in May. A video of the men dated November 18th was broadcast on Al-Arabiya television.
You can read the BBC article here.
You can read the BBC article here.
Monday, December 03, 2007
Pods
When I was a kid we would walk to the grocery store and along the way we would pass a particular tree. It was far enough away that I wasn't able to get there on my own so it was a special occasion when I saw it. It was, I was convinced, the coolest tree in the world because it produced these amazing seed pods: purplish-brown, long, flat and twisty.
There was always the issue of how many seed pods I would be allowed to trundle home. Forty, I felt, was a good number - two was my mother's limit.
We would walk home to the steady buzz of my maraca pod - the dried seeds rattling rhythmically in their cases. The sheer joy of noise-making could last for over an hour, but finally I would have to give in to temptation and break the pod apart. There were ten or so seeds inside - beautifully smooth and hard enough to make a satisfying "tock" when they knocked against each other in my pocket. They were gold doubloons, the rajah's jewels, desperately needed medicine that would cure all ills.
The house next door to us has one of these trees, and for the last several weeks it has been shedding thousands of these foot-long pods onto the driveway and into the narrow space beside the house. They are too heavy to sweep properly, too flat to rake easily. Every time I drive up to the house I can hear the pods cracking and shredding beneath the tires, grinding into the pavement so they have to be painstakingly picked off by hand. I glared up at that darn tree the other day and realized it had only shed about half of its load despite the heavy winds we have had; I just know it's waiting until I have everything all tidied away to release the rest. I have thought some dark and horrible things about that tree.
On Friday afternoon I saw the neighbor's kid outside. He had two pods stuck into a scarf he had tied around his head, another one acting as a tail and several more clutched in his hands. He was careening around the yard, a wobbly, loopy dance done to a steady rattle. Dizzy, he fell over on the prickly, dried grass and shrieked with laughter, still shaking his hands wildly.
Everyone should have a tree like that.
There was always the issue of how many seed pods I would be allowed to trundle home. Forty, I felt, was a good number - two was my mother's limit.
We would walk home to the steady buzz of my maraca pod - the dried seeds rattling rhythmically in their cases. The sheer joy of noise-making could last for over an hour, but finally I would have to give in to temptation and break the pod apart. There were ten or so seeds inside - beautifully smooth and hard enough to make a satisfying "tock" when they knocked against each other in my pocket. They were gold doubloons, the rajah's jewels, desperately needed medicine that would cure all ills.
The house next door to us has one of these trees, and for the last several weeks it has been shedding thousands of these foot-long pods onto the driveway and into the narrow space beside the house. They are too heavy to sweep properly, too flat to rake easily. Every time I drive up to the house I can hear the pods cracking and shredding beneath the tires, grinding into the pavement so they have to be painstakingly picked off by hand. I glared up at that darn tree the other day and realized it had only shed about half of its load despite the heavy winds we have had; I just know it's waiting until I have everything all tidied away to release the rest. I have thought some dark and horrible things about that tree.
On Friday afternoon I saw the neighbor's kid outside. He had two pods stuck into a scarf he had tied around his head, another one acting as a tail and several more clutched in his hands. He was careening around the yard, a wobbly, loopy dance done to a steady rattle. Dizzy, he fell over on the prickly, dried grass and shrieked with laughter, still shaking his hands wildly.
Everyone should have a tree like that.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
The Forgotten
When Kirk was in the military there was a great deal I never thought about. I really never considered the support systems that were in place for family when a military member is sent on an unaccompanied tour - mostly because I never really had to use them. When Kirk was in the army it was our friend's unit that was called up to the first Gulf War, not Kirk's. In the Air Force he had only one longish tour (in Italy during the Kosovo engagement) and that was unexpected. Certainly I never felt that I had to use any of the resources that were out there. I was always aware, however, that they were there.
When Kirk went missing as a contractor I became excruciatingly aware of how different it is as a civilian. There was no base counseling, no chain of command to assign someone to help us out. There was no reliable plan of action, no one to assure me that they had done this before, that everyone knew what should happen. When things were difficult for us there was no one to call; when our claims in Kirk's name were ignored there was no established precedence to refer to. He and thousands of other contractors were serving, but the government hadn't even done the little that was required of them.
How much worse, how much more horrific is it then for the contractors who are not American - for the Iraqis who are daily serving our military, daily risking their lives? They are not only in danger from the violence in their country, they are at constant risk simply because they are associating with the occupying forces.
Dan Hardie, a British blogger, has written about three Iraqi contractors who worked extensively with the British military and are now trying desperately to get asylum. Read... please.
When Kirk went missing as a contractor I became excruciatingly aware of how different it is as a civilian. There was no base counseling, no chain of command to assign someone to help us out. There was no reliable plan of action, no one to assure me that they had done this before, that everyone knew what should happen. When things were difficult for us there was no one to call; when our claims in Kirk's name were ignored there was no established precedence to refer to. He and thousands of other contractors were serving, but the government hadn't even done the little that was required of them.
How much worse, how much more horrific is it then for the contractors who are not American - for the Iraqis who are daily serving our military, daily risking their lives? They are not only in danger from the violence in their country, they are at constant risk simply because they are associating with the occupying forces.
Dan Hardie, a British blogger, has written about three Iraqi contractors who worked extensively with the British military and are now trying desperately to get asylum. Read... please.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Learning the Important Stuff
The effort goes on to properly introduce my children to the really vital things they need to be aware of. I've mentioned before that they were taught quite early how to quote from prominent philosophers like M. Python and B. Bunny (esq) but I realize this is hardly enough. A few months ago we were reading a multiple choice survival quiz, and one option (for the "what would you do if your plane crashed in the high and snowy mountains" question) was "MacGyver a set of telemark skis." My children - MY Children - looked at me in dewy innocence and actually asked "What is a MacGyver?"
I know.
But! Netflix! Thank goodness for Netflix. So for the past two weeks we have been working our way through season one. So far we have learned the following:
1. Duct tape. Nuff said.
2. A man can be extremely intelligent and resourceful and yet constantly find himself surprised when the Blonde De Jour suddenly lip-locks him during the last five minutes of the Count Down To Doom.
3. A handy metal cutting device can be made from rust and a bicycle. If the bicycle is magnesium that is. (confirmed by my very own father!)
4. Never hand top secret information to a sandy-haired man in a leather jacket. Death is sure to follow.
5. Bad guys wear very evil looking shoes. Also they usually have facial hair.
6. Never discuss your escape plans - the ants are listening.
7. There is, so far, still no legitimate use for the little toothpick thingy on a Swiss Army Knife.
8. Candlesticks make a handy and tasteful defibrillator.
9. Cringeworthy acting was not invented by CSI.
10. Richard Dean Anderson crosses generations surprisingly well (judged "cute" by two out of three Children); the rest of the 80's does not.
And they say that television is a waste of time.
I know.
But! Netflix! Thank goodness for Netflix. So for the past two weeks we have been working our way through season one. So far we have learned the following:
1. Duct tape. Nuff said.
2. A man can be extremely intelligent and resourceful and yet constantly find himself surprised when the Blonde De Jour suddenly lip-locks him during the last five minutes of the Count Down To Doom.
3. A handy metal cutting device can be made from rust and a bicycle. If the bicycle is magnesium that is. (confirmed by my very own father!)
4. Never hand top secret information to a sandy-haired man in a leather jacket. Death is sure to follow.
5. Bad guys wear very evil looking shoes. Also they usually have facial hair.
6. Never discuss your escape plans - the ants are listening.
7. There is, so far, still no legitimate use for the little toothpick thingy on a Swiss Army Knife.
8. Candlesticks make a handy and tasteful defibrillator.
9. Cringeworthy acting was not invented by CSI.
10. Richard Dean Anderson crosses generations surprisingly well (judged "cute" by two out of three Children); the rest of the 80's does not.
And they say that television is a waste of time.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Panic Stations
At what point, as a parent, is one supposed to panic?
My mother was (is) a prime panicker with a toleration of about... nil. She was, poor woman, cursed with me as a daughter - inevitably late, consistently inconsiderate about little things like telephoning and asking for permission. It was a terrible combination as I would drag in an hour... or more... after curfew to find her, bathrobe clad and hand-wringing, pacing the halls. I was, she was always sure, dead somewhere in a ditch and the fact that I always turned up irritatingly healthy and (unfortunately) only moderately and temporarily repentant never seemed to ease her mind.
Now me, I'm not terribly good at the Doom Assumption thing which makes me feel vaguely that I'm not really doing the whole parenting thing right somehow.
Take yesterday for example.
One of the children phones from school and leaves a message starting with "Mom, Child is an idiot. You know this already, but [it] is" only later getting to the part where Child was currently in the nurse's office gushing impressive amounts of blood. Almost at once a second message arrives saying airily "No problem, we're going back to class now." Should I, at that point have leapt into the car to come to the rescue of my poor desanguinated baby? Or do I calmly phone the school nurse (who comes on saying "I know who this is! And my goodness, your child is so amusing..."), listen, resigned to the story that involved Child and a cut-down fence pole, and assure her that Child's tetanus shot is indeed up to date and should Child continue to bleed copiously I would get it seen somewhere. Guess, just guess what I did.
It's not that I don't love my Children - I do, deeply, truly and often madly (or angrily depending on the state of the kitchen) - but if I allow every nerve to hum with dread each time one of them bashes, breaks, or bleeds life will be intolerable. So I walk that careful line between protecting them and letting them learn, knowing that we will all frequently be hurt in the process, but believing (usually) that somehow we'll survive. And when I hear, yet again, that Child is bleeding somewhere I just sigh and reach for the bandages.
My mother was (is) a prime panicker with a toleration of about... nil. She was, poor woman, cursed with me as a daughter - inevitably late, consistently inconsiderate about little things like telephoning and asking for permission. It was a terrible combination as I would drag in an hour... or more... after curfew to find her, bathrobe clad and hand-wringing, pacing the halls. I was, she was always sure, dead somewhere in a ditch and the fact that I always turned up irritatingly healthy and (unfortunately) only moderately and temporarily repentant never seemed to ease her mind.
Now me, I'm not terribly good at the Doom Assumption thing which makes me feel vaguely that I'm not really doing the whole parenting thing right somehow.
Take yesterday for example.
One of the children phones from school and leaves a message starting with "Mom, Child is an idiot. You know this already, but [it] is" only later getting to the part where Child was currently in the nurse's office gushing impressive amounts of blood. Almost at once a second message arrives saying airily "No problem, we're going back to class now." Should I, at that point have leapt into the car to come to the rescue of my poor desanguinated baby? Or do I calmly phone the school nurse (who comes on saying "I know who this is! And my goodness, your child is so amusing..."), listen, resigned to the story that involved Child and a cut-down fence pole, and assure her that Child's tetanus shot is indeed up to date and should Child continue to bleed copiously I would get it seen somewhere. Guess, just guess what I did.
It's not that I don't love my Children - I do, deeply, truly and often madly (or angrily depending on the state of the kitchen) - but if I allow every nerve to hum with dread each time one of them bashes, breaks, or bleeds life will be intolerable. So I walk that careful line between protecting them and letting them learn, knowing that we will all frequently be hurt in the process, but believing (usually) that somehow we'll survive. And when I hear, yet again, that Child is bleeding somewhere I just sigh and reach for the bandages.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Absent
A whole week. A. Whole. Week. That's how long that darn cold lasted. Granted, I was only prone-and-incompetent for... what... about four days, but STILL. That was a lot of whining (wasn't it kids?)
BUT I'm much better now. The problem is that last time I was sick I still had internet access at home so, in between sniffles and bouts of unconsciousness, I could still check email and keep in touch with all the important things in life (ie the list of blogs I read, the Very Important Design forums I lurk in and... oh... well, now and then the news). Now we have a house with all sorts of lovely things about it (like water! and... um... lights!) but no internet. Which means that although I came in unbelievably early this morning so I could start catching up on the... lemme check a minute... ooooh, way too many emails in just ONE of the email accounts I have to peek carefully into, I now realize that I should have woken up at two or something (well, I did actually, I always wake up at 2, but I am not fool enough to GET up at 2) because whooo nelly no one else in the entire world took off a whole week.
Normally I really like having lots of lovely blog posts to read, but honestly people, I told you I was sick.
Stupid world still revolving without me.
BUT I'm much better now. The problem is that last time I was sick I still had internet access at home so, in between sniffles and bouts of unconsciousness, I could still check email and keep in touch with all the important things in life (ie the list of blogs I read, the Very Important Design forums I lurk in and... oh... well, now and then the news). Now we have a house with all sorts of lovely things about it (like water! and... um... lights!) but no internet. Which means that although I came in unbelievably early this morning so I could start catching up on the... lemme check a minute... ooooh, way too many emails in just ONE of the email accounts I have to peek carefully into, I now realize that I should have woken up at two or something (well, I did actually, I always wake up at 2, but I am not fool enough to GET up at 2) because whooo nelly no one else in the entire world took off a whole week.
Normally I really like having lots of lovely blog posts to read, but honestly people, I told you I was sick.
Stupid world still revolving without me.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Dode Mide Be, I'b Fide
I have a cold. Something has happened since we moved back here from California, something very strange in the cold department. First, I get them which I didn't used to do and second when I do get them things go a little pie-wise.
First (and I know all the internets is fascinated at the progress of my cold so yes, I am going to spell it all out for you. I've told you before - I'm a giver) I get itchy ears. Strangest thing really, my ears itch when I swallow. I have no idea what that means, so naturally I swallow a lot just to confirm that yes, my ears get all tickly inside every time.
Then there's the more traditional phase where the throat coats up so I spend half my time doing the nerve-grating hmmmmAHEMMMMggggmmmmhhhmmmmm thing because it doesn't seem to be enough to bother with a full effort cough. I'm sure the folks in my hallway are thrilled about this as I vary the program with a whole range of sniffs. Yes, I am terribly attractive it's true.
But the final phase which (as will become apparent) has just now hit is the most interesting because out of the blue with no warning whatever my brain suddenly and completely turns off. It simply isn't there. It goes all woolly and grey and when I try to access it there's some tinkly holding music and a gentle voice assuring me that the problem is being worked on.
The last time it happened fortunately I was at home and close to a reasonably soft surface. I did however spend a happy few minutes gazing earnestly at my alarm clock and trying to work out what a five was and whether it came before or after seven. I finally decided that since I didn't know what seven meant either it wasn't all that essential to figure it out right at that moment.
Today I have spent most of my time ferrying Children from one spot to another (Drop Child 1 off, return; pack up Child 3 and deliver it, return; start Child 2 on dressing etc leave again for Child 3; stuff Children 2 and 3 into car, launch Child 3 out while simultaneously acquiring Child 1; take Children 1 and 2 and shove in two different directions then collapse in front of computer for several deep breaths) and everything was going reasonably well, if increasingly slowly, right up until the moment when I opened the car door and found myself trying really, really hard to remember the difference between locked and unlocked.
So, if you don't mind I'm going to take my itchy eared, phlegm infested fuzzy head and I'm going to bed.
It's just safer that way.
First (and I know all the internets is fascinated at the progress of my cold so yes, I am going to spell it all out for you. I've told you before - I'm a giver) I get itchy ears. Strangest thing really, my ears itch when I swallow. I have no idea what that means, so naturally I swallow a lot just to confirm that yes, my ears get all tickly inside every time.
Then there's the more traditional phase where the throat coats up so I spend half my time doing the nerve-grating hmmmmAHEMMMMggggmmmmhhhmmmmm thing because it doesn't seem to be enough to bother with a full effort cough. I'm sure the folks in my hallway are thrilled about this as I vary the program with a whole range of sniffs. Yes, I am terribly attractive it's true.
But the final phase which (as will become apparent) has just now hit is the most interesting because out of the blue with no warning whatever my brain suddenly and completely turns off. It simply isn't there. It goes all woolly and grey and when I try to access it there's some tinkly holding music and a gentle voice assuring me that the problem is being worked on.
The last time it happened fortunately I was at home and close to a reasonably soft surface. I did however spend a happy few minutes gazing earnestly at my alarm clock and trying to work out what a five was and whether it came before or after seven. I finally decided that since I didn't know what seven meant either it wasn't all that essential to figure it out right at that moment.
Today I have spent most of my time ferrying Children from one spot to another (Drop Child 1 off, return; pack up Child 3 and deliver it, return; start Child 2 on dressing etc leave again for Child 3; stuff Children 2 and 3 into car, launch Child 3 out while simultaneously acquiring Child 1; take Children 1 and 2 and shove in two different directions then collapse in front of computer for several deep breaths) and everything was going reasonably well, if increasingly slowly, right up until the moment when I opened the car door and found myself trying really, really hard to remember the difference between locked and unlocked.
So, if you don't mind I'm going to take my itchy eared, phlegm infested fuzzy head and I'm going to bed.
It's just safer that way.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Decibels
We've become a noisier house since Kirk went missing. It's not connected - at least not directly, although being a single parent isn't always the smoothest path. Having Children turn into Teenagers probably has a lot to do with it as well (and let's face it, we've never been exactly restrained when it comes to the laughing and the talking).
I'd like to blame it on the Male Child because... whoo boy is that one noisy piece of humanity. It's not just the usual male stupid-body-part-noises, it's the clap that he perfected (nearly capitalized that but realized that made it look like a disease... heck it almost is one!) where he cups his hands just right and... I shudder just thinking about it. Reactions have been increasingly negative though and he's starting to catch himself after just one explosive percussion.
However, I have to admit that at least some of the noise is me, and honestly? It's simply that there are moments when a little shoutiness is the fastest, easiest way to get something across.
For example:
I stroll one evening last week into the living room after an exhausting hour creating Very Important Digital Graphic Art. I have been giving loving guidance (also shouted, but because it's the only way to be heard above conversation mingled with Child 3's Atreyu CD) about dishes, homework, sweeping and decrumbing-counters because I'm a really involved and loving mother. I emerge though (blinking a little - dark room for to better see the screen; v bad for eyes I know) to find a. no Children in sight and b. the sort of scattered detritus that gives me facial tics. I could, of course, go into each respective bedroom and calmly alert each Child to its impending doom. Instead I stand in the middle of the whole mess and make a sort of AAAUUUGHHHHRRRRGGGGLLLLLEAUGH!!!!! noise at top voice.
There must have been a slightly sociopathic edge to it though because there was an instant scuttling out of bedrooms and some obsequious fawning around my dainty ankles as they gathered up socks (clean AND dirty just for variety), books, homework, dishes etc and hurriedly hustled them out of sight.
So, do I feel guilty for shouting at the Children in that sort of bestial way? Or do I note it down as an excellent technique, probably best used sparingly so as not to wear off the effectiveness? Personally I'm going for the latter.
I love you Children! But pick up your damn socks...
I'd like to blame it on the Male Child because... whoo boy is that one noisy piece of humanity. It's not just the usual male stupid-body-part-noises, it's the clap that he perfected (nearly capitalized that but realized that made it look like a disease... heck it almost is one!) where he cups his hands just right and... I shudder just thinking about it. Reactions have been increasingly negative though and he's starting to catch himself after just one explosive percussion.
However, I have to admit that at least some of the noise is me, and honestly? It's simply that there are moments when a little shoutiness is the fastest, easiest way to get something across.
For example:
I stroll one evening last week into the living room after an exhausting hour creating Very Important Digital Graphic Art. I have been giving loving guidance (also shouted, but because it's the only way to be heard above conversation mingled with Child 3's Atreyu CD) about dishes, homework, sweeping and decrumbing-counters because I'm a really involved and loving mother. I emerge though (blinking a little - dark room for to better see the screen; v bad for eyes I know) to find a. no Children in sight and b. the sort of scattered detritus that gives me facial tics. I could, of course, go into each respective bedroom and calmly alert each Child to its impending doom. Instead I stand in the middle of the whole mess and make a sort of AAAUUUGHHHHRRRRGGGGLLLLLEAUGH!!!!! noise at top voice.
There must have been a slightly sociopathic edge to it though because there was an instant scuttling out of bedrooms and some obsequious fawning around my dainty ankles as they gathered up socks (clean AND dirty just for variety), books, homework, dishes etc and hurriedly hustled them out of sight.
So, do I feel guilty for shouting at the Children in that sort of bestial way? Or do I note it down as an excellent technique, probably best used sparingly so as not to wear off the effectiveness? Personally I'm going for the latter.
I love you Children! But pick up your damn socks...
Monday, November 12, 2007
Off We Go...
The two ROTC Children (who are also the Civil Air Patrol Children) went flying on Sunday. No, really flying, in an airplane where the kind man with a pilot's license let them actually turn the turny thing and do things with flaps for an hour each. I know this technical stuff because Kirk was studying for a pilot's license and I helped so I can say things like Bernoulli Effect with a casual air of competence.
I am not a panicky type of mother so I not only agreed to let them go without a second thought I also did not spend the afternoon breathing deeply into a paper bag and imagining my offspring plummeting to earth in a fiery ball of destruction. It's okay though, I'm pretty sure my mother took care of that for me - she's very good with the Grim Imagination of Death stuff. I did meet the CAP instructor who was taking them up though and gave him a five minute interview to see if he was worthy of being entrusted with the safety of my prayshus babies. Based on this I decided that, although choosing to allow teenagers to take the controls of a plane he was in seems evidence to the contrary, he was an intelligent man.
When the Children returned last night this impression was confirmed.
One Child: ... and he said that we were naturals!
Other Child: Yes! And that I was the best!
First Child: He did not! He said we were equal. Exactly equal.
That, my friends, is a wise, wise man.
I am not a panicky type of mother so I not only agreed to let them go without a second thought I also did not spend the afternoon breathing deeply into a paper bag and imagining my offspring plummeting to earth in a fiery ball of destruction. It's okay though, I'm pretty sure my mother took care of that for me - she's very good with the Grim Imagination of Death stuff. I did meet the CAP instructor who was taking them up though and gave him a five minute interview to see if he was worthy of being entrusted with the safety of my prayshus babies. Based on this I decided that, although choosing to allow teenagers to take the controls of a plane he was in seems evidence to the contrary, he was an intelligent man.
When the Children returned last night this impression was confirmed.
One Child: ... and he said that we were naturals!
Other Child: Yes! And that I was the best!
First Child: He did not! He said we were equal. Exactly equal.
That, my friends, is a wise, wise man.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Pending Post
Sorry... thought I was going to be able to post something today but then my I-have-everything-under-control week was hit this morning with a didn't-I-tell-you-about-this-major-ad project that (why not) just happens to have had a deadline a week ago. But hey! They kindly extended the deadline waaaaaay out until tomorrow afternoon.
Oh, and the other stuff you already did that should relate to this project? Well, the size is totally different, and the content won't work and of course we don't have any high-res photos - what were you thinking?
No problem at all.
Maybe more tomorrow... if there is one.
Oh, and the other stuff you already did that should relate to this project? Well, the size is totally different, and the content won't work and of course we don't have any high-res photos - what were you thinking?
No problem at all.
Maybe more tomorrow... if there is one.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Empathy
Where I work we often have Local Band Wednesdays out in one of the open areas (near the most recent very expensive "art" that honestly looks like the "artist" was taking the mickey). Some of them are quite good but even those are generally belting away (and often twitching meaningfully as the music "takes them") while the world walks by apparently unconcerned. I usually feel rather sorry for these earnest young folks - not enough to stop and actually listen mind, just enough to feel that I'm a really, really good person what with all the sensitivity and that - and I thought there was no fate worse than having your most deeply held emotions completely ignored.
Until yesterday, when I learned it can be much, much worse.
See, there's this guy. He likes to put on his headphones, crank up some 80's bubble-pop and then howl out the lyrics at top voice completely off key. He doesn't seem to panhandle or anything, he just apparently really, really likes Bananarama and prefers to share this love with the world. Ah, but yesterday's band apparently struck a deep chord with this man because he was standing maybe three feet in front of the band, very short and squat, and WAILING away on his air guitar.
Bless 'em, those band member were really trying to work that 1,000 yard stare thing, and still playing their hearts out but you could see that under the black hairspray and the slightly smudged eyeliner those boys were crying inside.
Until yesterday, when I learned it can be much, much worse.
See, there's this guy. He likes to put on his headphones, crank up some 80's bubble-pop and then howl out the lyrics at top voice completely off key. He doesn't seem to panhandle or anything, he just apparently really, really likes Bananarama and prefers to share this love with the world. Ah, but yesterday's band apparently struck a deep chord with this man because he was standing maybe three feet in front of the band, very short and squat, and WAILING away on his air guitar.
Bless 'em, those band member were really trying to work that 1,000 yard stare thing, and still playing their hearts out but you could see that under the black hairspray and the slightly smudged eyeliner those boys were crying inside.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Perfect Match
There are some encounters I'd really like to see. I remember being told that Dr. Seuss died on the same day as some famous horrible nazi killer (which now that I've extensively googled AND wikipedia'd the subject I have to say is unsubstantiated. Pity) and I thought dang, I rather hope there's a pearly gate and a St Peter (with keys) because man would I like to be in line right behind those two guys when the Reckoning comes!
Sadly, given the apparent lack of historical accuracy to the story, the belief that if there is a pearly gate the waiting period isn't quite this long, and the possibility that given such a scenario I would probably be doing a lot of grubby and hasty soul-searching myself (as in - soul? I have a soul?? dangit... whodathunkit) I don't think I'll have that opportunity. Life (or afterlife) is full of these tragic disappointments.
I've never gone in for those great sports confrontations - you know, like when two divas of professional wrestling clash in an enormous struggle of spandex and humorous footwear. I don't really care about football ('Merkin style) and I find baseball incredibly tedious. The only sport I really enjoy watching is football (the entire world except the 'Merkins style) and as we don't have cable sadly I can't follow the triumphs and tragedies of Arsenal or Man U. It's terrible the way fate intervenes in my perfectly virtuous desire for vicarious conflict.
However a week or so ago I discovered a much more interesting possibility. I want to be around when the owners of the two cars who consistently park close together near my work finally come face to face. Bumper sticker on car a: "In case of rapture this vehicle will become unmanned." Bumper sticker on car b: "If you don't pray in my school, I won't think in your church."
Now I need a giant foam hand and a hot dog.
Sadly, given the apparent lack of historical accuracy to the story, the belief that if there is a pearly gate the waiting period isn't quite this long, and the possibility that given such a scenario I would probably be doing a lot of grubby and hasty soul-searching myself (as in - soul? I have a soul?? dangit... whodathunkit) I don't think I'll have that opportunity. Life (or afterlife) is full of these tragic disappointments.
I've never gone in for those great sports confrontations - you know, like when two divas of professional wrestling clash in an enormous struggle of spandex and humorous footwear. I don't really care about football ('Merkin style) and I find baseball incredibly tedious. The only sport I really enjoy watching is football (the entire world except the 'Merkins style) and as we don't have cable sadly I can't follow the triumphs and tragedies of Arsenal or Man U. It's terrible the way fate intervenes in my perfectly virtuous desire for vicarious conflict.
However a week or so ago I discovered a much more interesting possibility. I want to be around when the owners of the two cars who consistently park close together near my work finally come face to face. Bumper sticker on car a: "In case of rapture this vehicle will become unmanned." Bumper sticker on car b: "If you don't pray in my school, I won't think in your church."
Now I need a giant foam hand and a hot dog.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Alan Johnston - Q&A
Alan Johnston answered a few questions from BBC viewers, including his opinions on the political and military situation in the Gaza Strip and on Hamas's efforts to free him. As a reporter who spent years in the area and who has numerous personal ties his insights are fascinating and, I feel, important. Definitely worth a read, particularly if you live in a country that tries to influence the situation.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Alan Johnston: My Kidnap Ordeal
Anyone who followed the Alan Johnston story will be interested in this article where he tells the full story: moving, beautifully written.
If you don't read any other section, read through this one - it is extremely powerful.
"I felt that I would not be able to pick up a book again about the Holocaust without feeling a sense of shame, if I were somehow to break down mentally under the very, very, very much easier circumstances of my captivity.
I thought too that, unfortunately, every day around the world, people are being told that they have cancer, and that they only have a year or two to live. But the vast majority of them find the strength to face the end of their lives with dignity and courage.
I, on the other hand, was just waiting for my life to begin again, and I told myself that it would be shameful if I could not conduct myself with some grace in the face of my much lesser challenge. "
It's something I have thought since the first day I heard Kirk was missing. Yes, this is terrible, but other people have faced this and worse, and they have faced it with strength. I can't do less than that. I don't think I have ever come up to that ideal. I have fallen short in dozens of ways but I have to keep working towards it.
If you don't read any other section, read through this one - it is extremely powerful.
"I felt that I would not be able to pick up a book again about the Holocaust without feeling a sense of shame, if I were somehow to break down mentally under the very, very, very much easier circumstances of my captivity.
I thought too that, unfortunately, every day around the world, people are being told that they have cancer, and that they only have a year or two to live. But the vast majority of them find the strength to face the end of their lives with dignity and courage.
I, on the other hand, was just waiting for my life to begin again, and I told myself that it would be shameful if I could not conduct myself with some grace in the face of my much lesser challenge. "
It's something I have thought since the first day I heard Kirk was missing. Yes, this is terrible, but other people have faced this and worse, and they have faced it with strength. I can't do less than that. I don't think I have ever come up to that ideal. I have fallen short in dozens of ways but I have to keep working towards it.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Target Pixies
My local Target is transmogrifying into a Super Target (which I want to write as SSSSSSOOOOpah Target because that's how it sounds in my head). Originally it just meant that half the store was closed off and it was hard to find a place to park, but then something happened and I'm pretty sure the store is infested with pixies. Really, really energetic little Target pixies.
First they took everything in the store and rotated it one place clockwise (Clean plate! Clean plate! Move down...) which was disconcerting, and a little irritating as half of the stuff I wanted to get to was now farther away and I had to waaaaaaalk. Apparently that wasn't good enough though, because about a month ago they began arbitrarily picking up entire sections and shuffling them mysteriously so one day dog food would be cozying up to the potato chips and then whoop! Swap! it's seven aisles down next to the Barbie pink area. I'm pretty sure it was pixies because it all happened over night and the employees themselves knew nothing about it - the poor checkout people started looking hunted and trained themselves out of the habit of asking cheerily, "so! Did you find everything okay today?"
I think the store manager might have forgotten to leave a bowl of milk out overnight or something (or is that for brownies? I forget...) because the pixies clearly got their little mythical knickers in a twist and they began simply vanishing things away leaving sad little empty squares of floor all roped off to show where the crime took place.
It made shopping there a bit of a gamble as a. you weren't ever sure whether there would even be a laundry detergent aisle today and b. even if it was there it was very likely you wouldn't be able to find it.
However two weeks ago there was a whole day where the store smelled strongly of rubber cement* - except by the new coffee counter where it smelled of pinon-flavored espresso rubber cement, last week burly men with overstretched t-shirts began standing around in large groups and watching one guy muscle freezer cases into place and yesterday we got a nice mailing telling us we could now buy milk and cheese and frozen peas along with our chic and cheap bathroom rug.
I admit it'll be nice to have easy access to not-Costco-sized slabs of lunch meat. But I'm gonna miss those pixies.
*did anyone else love rubber cement as a kid? It was so cool! It was goopy, and it smelled horrible, and if you used only one layer it made a sort of post-it note out of anything you wanted and if you slapped it on both layers it acted like really really good glue but it didn't warp your construction paper. Plus, if you painted it on something really thick (and it was excellent fun watching it dry, wasn't it? Dang I was a sad kid...) and then rubbed it off it made beautifully convincing looking boogers.
First they took everything in the store and rotated it one place clockwise (Clean plate! Clean plate! Move down...) which was disconcerting, and a little irritating as half of the stuff I wanted to get to was now farther away and I had to waaaaaaalk. Apparently that wasn't good enough though, because about a month ago they began arbitrarily picking up entire sections and shuffling them mysteriously so one day dog food would be cozying up to the potato chips and then whoop! Swap! it's seven aisles down next to the Barbie pink area. I'm pretty sure it was pixies because it all happened over night and the employees themselves knew nothing about it - the poor checkout people started looking hunted and trained themselves out of the habit of asking cheerily, "so! Did you find everything okay today?"
I think the store manager might have forgotten to leave a bowl of milk out overnight or something (or is that for brownies? I forget...) because the pixies clearly got their little mythical knickers in a twist and they began simply vanishing things away leaving sad little empty squares of floor all roped off to show where the crime took place.
It made shopping there a bit of a gamble as a. you weren't ever sure whether there would even be a laundry detergent aisle today and b. even if it was there it was very likely you wouldn't be able to find it.
However two weeks ago there was a whole day where the store smelled strongly of rubber cement* - except by the new coffee counter where it smelled of pinon-flavored espresso rubber cement, last week burly men with overstretched t-shirts began standing around in large groups and watching one guy muscle freezer cases into place and yesterday we got a nice mailing telling us we could now buy milk and cheese and frozen peas along with our chic and cheap bathroom rug.
I admit it'll be nice to have easy access to not-Costco-sized slabs of lunch meat. But I'm gonna miss those pixies.
*did anyone else love rubber cement as a kid? It was so cool! It was goopy, and it smelled horrible, and if you used only one layer it made a sort of post-it note out of anything you wanted and if you slapped it on both layers it acted like really really good glue but it didn't warp your construction paper. Plus, if you painted it on something really thick (and it was excellent fun watching it dry, wasn't it? Dang I was a sad kid...) and then rubbed it off it made beautifully convincing looking boogers.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Change in the Weather
Fall is here (hooray!) and winter is breathing down its neck. Unfortunately it arrived on Sunday, a definite cold front blown in on the wind, and we hadn't yet gotten the swamp cooler put to bed and the heater switched on. I like chill and I had been enjoying being able to use a duvet again and wear a sweater around the house so I hadn't really bothered the landlord about it. 54 degrees on Monday morning, however, was a leeetle much, even for me. Our charming landlord-husband spent an hour or so on the roof, flipped levers and switches and things in the Mystery Closet of Furnacedom and voila there was heat.
It was, therefore, slightly easier to lever the Children out of bed this morning what with the lack of icicles on their little noses and everything.
But only slightly.
It was, therefore, slightly easier to lever the Children out of bed this morning what with the lack of icicles on their little noses and everything.
But only slightly.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
My Brain Hurts
One of the Children has a test today in Algebra II (Now! With Calculus!). All three had a day off yesterday to allow the one grade we don't represent to take an exam, so in theory Child had plenty of time to do a little studying. Theories are so nice, aren't they? After Child returned from soccer in the afternoon I asked it how much actual real algebra it had done and it wailed: "Augh! I was hoping I could have SOME fun today!" Since this was after spending a happy day sleeping in, playing video games, reading books, playing soccer and inhaling large numbers of waffles (yes, all day as far as I can tell) I wasn't entirely sympathetic.
However, I am a Good Mom so I agreed to help it go over its math.
Ooooh boy was that fun! Two hours where we flung cos and tan around with wild abandon, where the asymptote was approached but never really reached and csc was firmly put into its place (once we peeked at the back of the book to see how the heck they got D out of A and B).
Yeah.
Which meant that very early this morning I looked at the clock and spent a good five minutes trying to work out 3 a.m. in radians.
Do me a favor Child, next time could you please have a nice gentle crisis with Jane Austen?
However, I am a Good Mom so I agreed to help it go over its math.
Ooooh boy was that fun! Two hours where we flung cos and tan around with wild abandon, where the asymptote was approached but never really reached and csc was firmly put into its place (once we peeked at the back of the book to see how the heck they got D out of A and B).
Yeah.
Which meant that very early this morning I looked at the clock and spent a good five minutes trying to work out 3 a.m. in radians.
Do me a favor Child, next time could you please have a nice gentle crisis with Jane Austen?
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