One year ago, I was just meeting my favorite little guy for the first time, in all his bruised, brunette glory:
Saturday, December 26, 2009
I like to take care of potential danger and inconvenience by worrying them away, crushing them under the weight of my crippling anxiety. And so it was that no doubt because of my fretting and hand-wringing that our plane from Detroit to Kansas City did, in fact, get off the ground, and did not, in fact, suffer from constant turbulence. As we glided to a slightly shaky landing, I heaved a sigh of relief that would have been audible had we not been seated in row 25, right next to the engines. The plus side of the constant shouting-level white noise was that it drowned out the sounds of my shrieking children. Just kidding--they were wonderful and quiet and well behaved. All thanks to my fretting.
The only factor left that I had applied my magical worrying powers to was our car. You see, when we flew to Grand Rapids in August, our car sat in the economy lot for a week, and when we returned, it had acquired a new trait. It coughed and sputtered and idled low and threathened to conk out completely. We pulled over about 10 minutes from the airport in the 90 degree heat and baking sunlight to have a little all-family freak-out fest before returning to the highway at a decidedly slow 50 mph and with the AC turned off for good measure. I sat in the back, wedged between the children's car seats, trying desperately to placate two sweating, unhappy kids, while I too was melting into a puddle of rank flop sweat. The culprit, we determined later with the help of Jeff's dad, was a crusty spark plug, likely caused by a little bout of rain during our absence.
Our stay in Michigan this time around had been in much more severe conditions, and I was expecting the worst from our otherwise trustworthy Subaru. Jeff and I had had the foresight to send him off solo to fetch the car from economy while the children and I luxuriated in the warmth and bustle of the baggage claim area of the Kansas City airport. I awaited his call with trepidation, and was relieved to hear that he had made it to the car, and the car had started up fine--once he had gotten into it. It was, it seems encased in a thick crust of ice. "It'll take me a while to chip out," he explained. "No problem!" I replied. "We're doing fine!"
And at that point, we were. Our suitcases had been accounted for and now surrounded us, forming a protective ring in which Charlotte frolicked, narrating a tale of Santa and Rudolph and her stuffed orange kitty, while Sam crawled, squealing and bellowing "BALL" at any remotely spherical object. I relaxed, relieved, all my worries proven naught.
But you see, when you let your guard down, that's when bad things happen.
Feeling the need to be proactive, I decided to change Sam's diaper and get him into his pajamas. The baggage claim area was nearly empty at that point, and I figured Sam would fall asleep in the car, and this way I could seamlessly transfer him into his crib when we got home. Jeff had most of the diapers with him, but I had thought to grab one before he left. Sam wasn't eager to be torn from his exploration of the super-fun jungle gym he had discovered in the luggage carts, but he was fairly agreeable. What wasn't agreeable was what I found when I opened his diaper: a poo of remarkable capacity and malodorous profile. I was rendered speechless and also temporarily paralyzed. Jeff, you see, had the wipes with him.
"Uh...oh. Um..." I said. While I sat frozen, Sam reached down and grabbed his nuts with one hand. His nuts, it should be noted, were covered in feces. And now, too, his hand. "Um." I said.
Charlotte's little voice, shrieking in my ear "OH NO! Sam did a HUGE POOP!" snapped me back to my senses. Thinking quickly, I whipped Sam's fleece pants off and used them to wipe his hand, and then his bottom. My water bottle was empty and Charlotte's was MIA, so I made do with the dry fleece the best I could (it wasn't very good). Then I popped a fresh diaper over his still poo-streaked buns, turned the now-dirtied fleece pants inside out and stuffed them into the front pocket of one of our suitcases, praying I'd remember they were in there the second we got home. (I didn't).
Once I wrestled Sam into his footie sleeper, an experience not unlike what I imagine it would be like to try to put clothes on a cat, I released him to once again explore the wilds of the baggage claim, and I sighed with relief once again. What a funny story that will be to tell Jeff, I thought. I was relaxing into a mindless, exhausted ease when the second shoe dropped.
Charlotte, who had previously been playing and chattering constantly, suddenly froze in a panicky, slightly crouched posture I knew well. "Mama," she called out. "I have to do a turtle!" My insistence that she needed to wait until dada came, and that she should just tell her turtle to go back inside, was futile. She had the glassy-eyed, red-faced demeanor of one whose bowel movement was nigh. Luckily, at that moment, an airline employee came into view.
"Ma'am!" I said, not without urgency. She appeared startled, apparently not expecting to find a little camp-out of disheveled mom and tots in the area. I asked her if she could watch our things as I was alone with the children and my daughter really, really needed to use the bathroom. She agreed and we were off. I carried Sam, who thought we were really having a "BALL," while Charlotte ran stiff-legged, clutching the seat of her jeans with both hands and hyperventilating.
We made it. Charlotte turtled in record time, and I managed to wipe her up with only one hand, and even washed hands while wrangling giant Sam, who thought this would be a great time to practice his full-body backward-flinging move. As we walked back down the hallway from the bathroom, Charlotte loudly announced, "I really had to make a turtle, and so did Sam! We both made GREAT BIG POOPS today at the airport!" much to the amusement of the people we passed.
The rest of our time in the airport passed (no pun intended) without incident. Jeff was amused when I told him of our Great Fecal Adventures, and I knew I would have a story for the blog. As well, of course, as a new worry to add to my ever-growing list of anxieties.
The only factor left that I had applied my magical worrying powers to was our car. You see, when we flew to Grand Rapids in August, our car sat in the economy lot for a week, and when we returned, it had acquired a new trait. It coughed and sputtered and idled low and threathened to conk out completely. We pulled over about 10 minutes from the airport in the 90 degree heat and baking sunlight to have a little all-family freak-out fest before returning to the highway at a decidedly slow 50 mph and with the AC turned off for good measure. I sat in the back, wedged between the children's car seats, trying desperately to placate two sweating, unhappy kids, while I too was melting into a puddle of rank flop sweat. The culprit, we determined later with the help of Jeff's dad, was a crusty spark plug, likely caused by a little bout of rain during our absence.
Our stay in Michigan this time around had been in much more severe conditions, and I was expecting the worst from our otherwise trustworthy Subaru. Jeff and I had had the foresight to send him off solo to fetch the car from economy while the children and I luxuriated in the warmth and bustle of the baggage claim area of the Kansas City airport. I awaited his call with trepidation, and was relieved to hear that he had made it to the car, and the car had started up fine--once he had gotten into it. It was, it seems encased in a thick crust of ice. "It'll take me a while to chip out," he explained. "No problem!" I replied. "We're doing fine!"
And at that point, we were. Our suitcases had been accounted for and now surrounded us, forming a protective ring in which Charlotte frolicked, narrating a tale of Santa and Rudolph and her stuffed orange kitty, while Sam crawled, squealing and bellowing "BALL" at any remotely spherical object. I relaxed, relieved, all my worries proven naught.
But you see, when you let your guard down, that's when bad things happen.
Feeling the need to be proactive, I decided to change Sam's diaper and get him into his pajamas. The baggage claim area was nearly empty at that point, and I figured Sam would fall asleep in the car, and this way I could seamlessly transfer him into his crib when we got home. Jeff had most of the diapers with him, but I had thought to grab one before he left. Sam wasn't eager to be torn from his exploration of the super-fun jungle gym he had discovered in the luggage carts, but he was fairly agreeable. What wasn't agreeable was what I found when I opened his diaper: a poo of remarkable capacity and malodorous profile. I was rendered speechless and also temporarily paralyzed. Jeff, you see, had the wipes with him.
"Uh...oh. Um..." I said. While I sat frozen, Sam reached down and grabbed his nuts with one hand. His nuts, it should be noted, were covered in feces. And now, too, his hand. "Um." I said.
Charlotte's little voice, shrieking in my ear "OH NO! Sam did a HUGE POOP!" snapped me back to my senses. Thinking quickly, I whipped Sam's fleece pants off and used them to wipe his hand, and then his bottom. My water bottle was empty and Charlotte's was MIA, so I made do with the dry fleece the best I could (it wasn't very good). Then I popped a fresh diaper over his still poo-streaked buns, turned the now-dirtied fleece pants inside out and stuffed them into the front pocket of one of our suitcases, praying I'd remember they were in there the second we got home. (I didn't).
Once I wrestled Sam into his footie sleeper, an experience not unlike what I imagine it would be like to try to put clothes on a cat, I released him to once again explore the wilds of the baggage claim, and I sighed with relief once again. What a funny story that will be to tell Jeff, I thought. I was relaxing into a mindless, exhausted ease when the second shoe dropped.
Charlotte, who had previously been playing and chattering constantly, suddenly froze in a panicky, slightly crouched posture I knew well. "Mama," she called out. "I have to do a turtle!" My insistence that she needed to wait until dada came, and that she should just tell her turtle to go back inside, was futile. She had the glassy-eyed, red-faced demeanor of one whose bowel movement was nigh. Luckily, at that moment, an airline employee came into view.
"Ma'am!" I said, not without urgency. She appeared startled, apparently not expecting to find a little camp-out of disheveled mom and tots in the area. I asked her if she could watch our things as I was alone with the children and my daughter really, really needed to use the bathroom. She agreed and we were off. I carried Sam, who thought we were really having a "BALL," while Charlotte ran stiff-legged, clutching the seat of her jeans with both hands and hyperventilating.
We made it. Charlotte turtled in record time, and I managed to wipe her up with only one hand, and even washed hands while wrangling giant Sam, who thought this would be a great time to practice his full-body backward-flinging move. As we walked back down the hallway from the bathroom, Charlotte loudly announced, "I really had to make a turtle, and so did Sam! We both made GREAT BIG POOPS today at the airport!" much to the amusement of the people we passed.
The rest of our time in the airport passed (no pun intended) without incident. Jeff was amused when I told him of our Great Fecal Adventures, and I knew I would have a story for the blog. As well, of course, as a new worry to add to my ever-growing list of anxieties.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Another video! This one focuses on Sam: Fall 2009.
I realized after I had saved and uploaded it that the titles at the beginning are out of order. I didn't care enough to go back and fix it...sorry about that!
I realized after I had saved and uploaded it that the titles at the beginning are out of order. I didn't care enough to go back and fix it...sorry about that!
Friday, December 18, 2009
Charlotte's Preschool Christmas Sing-a-long: click here!
Sorry the video is so long! If you're pressed for time (or just not interested in watching 9.5 minutes of singing preschoolers), then I recommend you skip to 5.23. The last two songs are really the best.
Sorry the video is so long! If you're pressed for time (or just not interested in watching 9.5 minutes of singing preschoolers), then I recommend you skip to 5.23. The last two songs are really the best.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Sorry about not posting yesterday. Late Monday night/Tuesday morning, I realized that this paper was simply not going to come together in time. It was coming along, sure, but I've developed to ability in my years of graduate work to project how much work is left before a paper is "done," and in professional opinion, this paper was about 50% potential awesomeness, 25% half-formed thoughts, and 25% random gibberish. I needed more time, in other words.
So I asked for an extension...at 2:30 in the morning. Perhaps the time stamp on the email is what motivated my professor to respond so readily and kindly to my request. Regardless, I got more time, and worked all night last night, and part of this morning, and now have a 21-page paper that I'm reasonably proud of. I'm meeting with my professor (who will also, I hope, be my dissertation director and chair my comps committee) in about 45 minutes, and I will then hand her this paper, and I swear I WILL NOT read the paper copy that I have, because I KNOW I will find errors or problems and then I will begin dripping with flop sweat. I don't need sweaty palms as an accessory during our Talk about My Academic Future and Plans and Goals and Timelines.
So I promise a few things over the next two days: 1. Video of the kids (possibly separate videos, as I have a lot of material for each kid); 2. A couple more posts
For now, I leave you with this from Charlotte:
A few Christmas songs have been on heavy rotation in our house lately. Feliz Navidad and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer are two favorites. Frosty the Snowman is another.
When Charlotte and I got to preschool today, we went into her classroom to check out her "job" for the day. Charlotte's eyes got wide when she spotted something in the classroom, and I followed her gaze as she pointed, wordlessly, to the Frosty the Snowman DVD sitting on a shelf beneath the TV. "Yeah, it's Frosty the Snowman!" I said. "I dreamed about him last night!" she said excitedly.
One of her teachers was nearby, and Charlotte ran over to her. "Mrs. Kelly!" she said. "I dreamed about Frosty the Snowman last night!"
"You did?" Mrs. Kelly responded. "What were you doing in your dream?"
"We were just together, Frosty and me," Charlotte answered. "We were together, and singing and playing in the snow."
"That sounds like a great dream," Mrs. Kelly said.
And doesn't it? Certainly better than my annoying academic stress dreams I've been having lately. Here's hoping I dream about Frosty tonight, too.
So I asked for an extension...at 2:30 in the morning. Perhaps the time stamp on the email is what motivated my professor to respond so readily and kindly to my request. Regardless, I got more time, and worked all night last night, and part of this morning, and now have a 21-page paper that I'm reasonably proud of. I'm meeting with my professor (who will also, I hope, be my dissertation director and chair my comps committee) in about 45 minutes, and I will then hand her this paper, and I swear I WILL NOT read the paper copy that I have, because I KNOW I will find errors or problems and then I will begin dripping with flop sweat. I don't need sweaty palms as an accessory during our Talk about My Academic Future and Plans and Goals and Timelines.
So I promise a few things over the next two days: 1. Video of the kids (possibly separate videos, as I have a lot of material for each kid); 2. A couple more posts
For now, I leave you with this from Charlotte:
A few Christmas songs have been on heavy rotation in our house lately. Feliz Navidad and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer are two favorites. Frosty the Snowman is another.
When Charlotte and I got to preschool today, we went into her classroom to check out her "job" for the day. Charlotte's eyes got wide when she spotted something in the classroom, and I followed her gaze as she pointed, wordlessly, to the Frosty the Snowman DVD sitting on a shelf beneath the TV. "Yeah, it's Frosty the Snowman!" I said. "I dreamed about him last night!" she said excitedly.
One of her teachers was nearby, and Charlotte ran over to her. "Mrs. Kelly!" she said. "I dreamed about Frosty the Snowman last night!"
"You did?" Mrs. Kelly responded. "What were you doing in your dream?"
"We were just together, Frosty and me," Charlotte answered. "We were together, and singing and playing in the snow."
"That sounds like a great dream," Mrs. Kelly said.
And doesn't it? Certainly better than my annoying academic stress dreams I've been having lately. Here's hoping I dream about Frosty tonight, too.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Monday, December 07, 2009
A couple Charlotte-isms:
While I was changing Sam's poopy diaper the other day. Charlotte: OH MY. *gags* Wow, Sam. You made me very unhappy with that poop.
Jeff: How do I have such wooonnderful children!?!
Charlotte, immediately: Well, Mama got them born, and God gave you them.
Also:
Charlotte "reading" from Bible Stories for Kids: From Bethlehem to Kansas; From Moses and Mary to the little girl who saw...and Jesus was in his way...and some fish from God. And the sea to shining sea. And God is with us. Now YOU say, And God is with us.
While I was changing Sam's poopy diaper the other day. Charlotte: OH MY. *gags* Wow, Sam. You made me very unhappy with that poop.
Jeff: How do I have such wooonnderful children!?!
Charlotte, immediately: Well, Mama got them born, and God gave you them.
Also:
Charlotte "reading" from Bible Stories for Kids: From Bethlehem to Kansas; From Moses and Mary to the little girl who saw...and Jesus was in his way...and some fish from God. And the sea to shining sea. And God is with us. Now YOU say, And God is with us.
Friday, December 04, 2009
Last night, I was talking with a classmate about books, and in particular juvenile literature. We were both recalling some of our favorite books from when we were young adults (L.M. Montgomery's books, the Little House series, the Narnia series, etc.) and trying to articulate what the experience of rereading those books was like. I put it this way:
When I was very sick at the beginning of both of my pregnancies, I could handle doing very few things. I had little energy for anything physically taxing, and even things that require mental exertion were beyond my ability. One day when I was about ten weeks pregnant with Charlotte, I was at the library (returning a movie, perhaps) when I noticed the Little House on the Prairie and Emily of New Moon books on the shelf. I checked them all out, and over the next week I read them all. I moved on to the Narnia series, To Kill a Mockingbird, and the Anne of Green Gables books.
I told that story because I felt like it best illustrated what those books mean to me. I wanted something familiar yet still wonderfully entertaining, calming but still engaging. Reading those books again was like visiting with a good friend, the kind of friend who doesn't care if you don't change out of your sweatpants when she comes over.
Comfort is an interesting idea. The word comfort is both a noun and a verb. As a noun, it means, among other things, aid, succour, support, countenance; or, one who or that which strengthens or supports; or, the feeling of consolation or mental relief; the state of being consoled; or, a state of physical and material well-being, with freedom from pain and trouble, and satisfaction of bodily needs.
You, dear reader, might be familiar with some of its common applications, such as: Comfort food, food that comforts or affords solace; hence, any food (freq. with a high sugar or carbohydrate content) that is associated with childhood or with home cooking. orig. N.Amer.
Comfort break n. euphem. (orig. U.S.) a break taken to use the toilet.
Comfort stop n. orig. U.S. a short stop intended to give passengers a break from a (long) bus or coach journey, esp. in order to use the toilet; (hence euphem.) a short break taken from any journey or activity in order to use the toilet.
As a verb, it means what we usually think it means: To soothe in grief or trouble; to relieve of mental distress; to console. Comfort the verb also has several interesting archaic meanings, including to strengthen (physically), support; to make fast, secure; to strengthen (morally or spiritually); and, most interesting of all, to comfort in a negative sense means to encourage in, or to, that which is evil.
One of the things I think I'm most responsible for as a parent is doing something rather vague and unspecified that I think can best be described as comforting my children. I soothe them when they experience grief or sorrow. I attempt to relieve their mental distress. I console. I strive to offer them freedom from pain and trouble, and satisfaction of bodily needs. I hope I am an aid, a support, a succour.
Sam has something related to comfort that I didn't find defined in the Oxford English Dictionary, but which several parenting books I have call a comfort item. This is a favorite something, such as a doll or stuffed animal, that the child turns to to help comfort him or her, usually before sleep. Sometimes children use their comfort item at times of stress as well.
Charlotte never had a comfort item, although we tried to encourage one in the hopes that it would get her to sleep better. Sam's comfort item is his little giraffe blankie, a brown satin/velvet blanket about ten inches square. He's had it since he was a few weeks old (it was a gift from my Terlouw cousins) and I worked from the start to try to promote an attachment. I would rub it against his cheek as he nursed. I would place it next to him as he slept. When he got older and more easily distracted, I used it like horse-blinders, draping it over his head when he nursed to try to keep him focused on the task at hand instead of gawking and taking a chunk of nipple with him. Now he still nurses at night and before naps that way. And somewhere along the line, it took. Now he uses the blanket to comfort himself down, by rubbing it on his upper lip and sniffing it. I mean, really getting into it, with big, loud sniiiiiiffffffffs. It's adorable. He rests his face on it when he sleeps, and if it should happen to drop out of his crib while he's going to bed, you'll hear some genuine, full-out wailing from Sam.
Sam has his blanket. I have my old, familiar books. What's your comfort?
When I was very sick at the beginning of both of my pregnancies, I could handle doing very few things. I had little energy for anything physically taxing, and even things that require mental exertion were beyond my ability. One day when I was about ten weeks pregnant with Charlotte, I was at the library (returning a movie, perhaps) when I noticed the Little House on the Prairie and Emily of New Moon books on the shelf. I checked them all out, and over the next week I read them all. I moved on to the Narnia series, To Kill a Mockingbird, and the Anne of Green Gables books.
I told that story because I felt like it best illustrated what those books mean to me. I wanted something familiar yet still wonderfully entertaining, calming but still engaging. Reading those books again was like visiting with a good friend, the kind of friend who doesn't care if you don't change out of your sweatpants when she comes over.
Comfort is an interesting idea. The word comfort is both a noun and a verb. As a noun, it means, among other things, aid, succour, support, countenance; or, one who or that which strengthens or supports; or, the feeling of consolation or mental relief; the state of being consoled; or, a state of physical and material well-being, with freedom from pain and trouble, and satisfaction of bodily needs.
You, dear reader, might be familiar with some of its common applications, such as: Comfort food, food that comforts or affords solace; hence, any food (freq. with a high sugar or carbohydrate content) that is associated with childhood or with home cooking. orig. N.Amer.
Comfort break n. euphem. (orig. U.S.) a break taken to use the toilet.
Comfort stop n. orig. U.S. a short stop intended to give passengers a break from a (long) bus or coach journey, esp. in order to use the toilet; (hence euphem.) a short break taken from any journey or activity in order to use the toilet.
As a verb, it means what we usually think it means: To soothe in grief or trouble; to relieve of mental distress; to console. Comfort the verb also has several interesting archaic meanings, including to strengthen (physically), support; to make fast, secure; to strengthen (morally or spiritually); and, most interesting of all, to comfort in a negative sense means to encourage in, or to, that which is evil.
One of the things I think I'm most responsible for as a parent is doing something rather vague and unspecified that I think can best be described as comforting my children. I soothe them when they experience grief or sorrow. I attempt to relieve their mental distress. I console. I strive to offer them freedom from pain and trouble, and satisfaction of bodily needs. I hope I am an aid, a support, a succour.
Sam has something related to comfort that I didn't find defined in the Oxford English Dictionary, but which several parenting books I have call a comfort item. This is a favorite something, such as a doll or stuffed animal, that the child turns to to help comfort him or her, usually before sleep. Sometimes children use their comfort item at times of stress as well.
Charlotte never had a comfort item, although we tried to encourage one in the hopes that it would get her to sleep better. Sam's comfort item is his little giraffe blankie, a brown satin/velvet blanket about ten inches square. He's had it since he was a few weeks old (it was a gift from my Terlouw cousins) and I worked from the start to try to promote an attachment. I would rub it against his cheek as he nursed. I would place it next to him as he slept. When he got older and more easily distracted, I used it like horse-blinders, draping it over his head when he nursed to try to keep him focused on the task at hand instead of gawking and taking a chunk of nipple with him. Now he still nurses at night and before naps that way. And somewhere along the line, it took. Now he uses the blanket to comfort himself down, by rubbing it on his upper lip and sniffing it. I mean, really getting into it, with big, loud sniiiiiiffffffffs. It's adorable. He rests his face on it when he sleeps, and if it should happen to drop out of his crib while he's going to bed, you'll hear some genuine, full-out wailing from Sam.
Sam has his blanket. I have my old, familiar books. What's your comfort?
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
I can't stop! I'm addicted to daily posting! I need an intervention!
Just kidding. I just had a Charlotte-ism I had to share.
Tonight, when I was giving Sam a bath, Charlotte was getting ready for bed. I gave her her nightly gummy Winnie the Pooh vitamin, and she commented how the different characters were different colors. I thought this might be a nice teaching moment, so I mentioned that in real life, people came in all different colors.
Charlotte: What color are you, mama?
Me: I'm sort of a...um, peach color.
Charlotte: Me, too! I'm peach, too. And Sam's peach colored too.
Me: That's right!
Charlotte: And dada's hairy colored!
Just kidding. I just had a Charlotte-ism I had to share.
Tonight, when I was giving Sam a bath, Charlotte was getting ready for bed. I gave her her nightly gummy Winnie the Pooh vitamin, and she commented how the different characters were different colors. I thought this might be a nice teaching moment, so I mentioned that in real life, people came in all different colors.
Charlotte: What color are you, mama?
Me: I'm sort of a...um, peach color.
Charlotte: Me, too! I'm peach, too. And Sam's peach colored too.
Me: That's right!
Charlotte: And dada's hairy colored!
Monday, November 30, 2009
Wow, I did it! I made it through NaBloPoMo, postin' like a mofo, shootin' out my mojo, keepin' it on the down-low.
I apologize for that last bit. I'm just excited to have made it. I promise not to inflict my lame "rhymes" on you again.
Like some guy said one time,* my month of daily postings will end not with a bang, but a whimper. I wanted to put together a video of the kids for the last day of the month, but instead of editing video tonight, I met with some of my fellow students to hammer out a potential panel we want to propose for a conference (a.k.a. grad school stuff). Business before blogs, as the saying goes. It doesn't. I just coined that on the spot. I'm spinning out magic over here, people. Blog magic!
Speaking of magic...GOB Bluth!
So, this is the final countdown (see what I did there?? Huh?) to NaBloPoMo, but I think it's taught me a few lessons, just like DJ Tanner would have learned. For one, writing every day is hard, but it's not that hard. So I think I'm going to try to post more often, even when I'm really busy. Because the other thing I've learned is that I get a lot out of posting on this blog. I thanked my readers a few days ago, so I won't embarrass us all by doing so again.
Okay, I lied. Thanks! You're the best.
*Actual way one of my students introduced a quote in an academic paper once.
I apologize for that last bit. I'm just excited to have made it. I promise not to inflict my lame "rhymes" on you again.
Like some guy said one time,* my month of daily postings will end not with a bang, but a whimper. I wanted to put together a video of the kids for the last day of the month, but instead of editing video tonight, I met with some of my fellow students to hammer out a potential panel we want to propose for a conference (a.k.a. grad school stuff). Business before blogs, as the saying goes. It doesn't. I just coined that on the spot. I'm spinning out magic over here, people. Blog magic!
Speaking of magic...GOB Bluth!
So, this is the final countdown (see what I did there?? Huh?) to NaBloPoMo, but I think it's taught me a few lessons, just like DJ Tanner would have learned. For one, writing every day is hard, but it's not that hard. So I think I'm going to try to post more often, even when I'm really busy. Because the other thing I've learned is that I get a lot out of posting on this blog. I thanked my readers a few days ago, so I won't embarrass us all by doing so again.
Okay, I lied. Thanks! You're the best.
*Actual way one of my students introduced a quote in an academic paper once.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Last year, at the beginning of December, I was very pregnant with Sam. Although I wanted to find a Christmas tree farm and head out with Charlotte and Jeff to cut down our tree since this was the first time we had space for one (our apartment in Athens was too small), in the end we got a tree from the Morning Optimists Club in the Hy-Vee parking lot. The tree, I recall, was a little under six feet tall, and cost $25. I remember this, because Jeff thought that was pretty expensive. (Foreshadowing!)
This year, I really wanted the full-on Holiday Tree-Sawing Extravaganza! So we headed out to what seemed to be the only nearby tree farm, Strawberry Hill. I had attempted ahead of time to find out their pricing info from their website, and when that failed, sent out a friendly email of inquiry, to no avail. Well, no problem. I was sure the pricing would be posted at the farm to help us make a selection within our budget.
When I mentioned to Charlotte last night that we'd be going to a Christmas Tree Farm to cut down our tree the next day, you'd have though I'd told her we were going to Fluffy Puppies and Unlimited Candy Farm or something by her reaction. She wouldn't shut up about about the Christmas Tree Farm. She even mentioned it, loudly, during the children's sermon at church today.*
So, the anticipation had built up to quite a boiling point before we headed out today. We got all bundled up and grabbed our hacksaws (just kidding, we don't have any) and hit the road. The place wasn't far from our church/C's preschool, and it didn't take long to get there.
When we arrived, I could see that this wasn't the most high-class operation. Sure, they had a ton of employees (mostly college-aged guys) wearing their company's embroidered shirts, but it all seemed kind of run-down and tacky. Whatever. Charlotte didn't care. I also noticed that there weren't any prices posted where I could see them. Huh.
So we headed out, sizing up trees, looking for the perfect one. I wanted a smaller tree, not too huge, but we ended up (after being kicked out of the wrong field...sorry, guys, they looked like trees to me) picking a decent, only slightly crooked six-footer. We posed for the obligatory family picture in front of the tree, then hopped on the FREE hayride back to the shed where we'd pay as they packaged our tree up.
An interlude: I love the thing where they stick the tree to violently shake all the dead needles off it. I get a strange sense of calm watching the tree shaken brutally.
So, we headed into the "gift shop" to pay our bill. This "gift shop," and want to use that term even more loosely than the quotes imply, was a metal shack with a tiny, labyrinthine path that meandered through the tables and shelves of random, holiday-themed crap. Just the kind of environment I wanted to be cramped into with my three-year-old and kicky 11-month-old in a backpack! But the promise of cookies and hot cider lured us on. Plus, we had to pay.
The cookies, we found once we reached the bowels of this horrid junk shanty, were slightly stale off-brand Hydrox sandwich cookies, and the tiny dixie cups for the hot cider held just enough to convince you it was too hot to drink by the time you'd thrown back the shot. This was unsatisfying, but even more unsatisfying was the price that rang up on the cash register when the ancient crone behind the desk tabulated our cost.
Jeff turned to me with a look in his eyes first of disbelief, then of horror. A vein in his forehead began to pulse. We carried on one of those side-of-the-mouth, tense muttering conversations. "Is that right?" he hissed. "I guess it is," I whispered back. His eyes widened so that I could see the whites all the way around the irises. I expected them to pop out in the manner of that Nazi in front of the ark of the covenant in Indiana Jones. At the very least, I thought his flesh would melt. "That...it can't...I..." he sputtered. "Just pay," I whispered. "We can't do anything about it now."
So we did. But the afternoon was a bit colored by this unexpected expenditure. I mean, when you go into a venture expecting to pay $X, and end up paying $XXX, it feels a bit obscene. Those of you who know Jeff, and know his extremely frugal, Dutch penny-pinching nature, know that for him, the day was ruined. I managed to pull it together and have a fun time decorating the tree (which, of course, is totally lopsided) with Charlotte.
I'm also chagrined to find that our XXX amount is not really as horrible and vulgar as I had thought. I posted a brief version of our experience on facebook, and mentioned the amount when others asked. Well, not only do most people not think twice about paying XXX, several had paid XXXX and even XXXXX for a tree. A tree! A tree, made of tree materials, and not of, say, gold, or puppies and candy even.
Needless to say, next year, we're going to the Optimists Club again. I myself am optimistic my husband won't have a coronary event in response to Holiday Sticker Shock, and we'll all be merrier as a result.
*I just love it when kids do this during the children's message--belt out random, sometimes inappropriate things. Mrs. Jane was talking about Christmas trees, and she said, "Maybe some of you went out to get a Christmas tree this weekend," when suddenly a tiny little voice chirped out "We're getting OUR Christmas tree TODAY!" Guess who!
This year, I really wanted the full-on Holiday Tree-Sawing Extravaganza! So we headed out to what seemed to be the only nearby tree farm, Strawberry Hill. I had attempted ahead of time to find out their pricing info from their website, and when that failed, sent out a friendly email of inquiry, to no avail. Well, no problem. I was sure the pricing would be posted at the farm to help us make a selection within our budget.
When I mentioned to Charlotte last night that we'd be going to a Christmas Tree Farm to cut down our tree the next day, you'd have though I'd told her we were going to Fluffy Puppies and Unlimited Candy Farm or something by her reaction. She wouldn't shut up about about the Christmas Tree Farm. She even mentioned it, loudly, during the children's sermon at church today.*
So, the anticipation had built up to quite a boiling point before we headed out today. We got all bundled up and grabbed our hacksaws (just kidding, we don't have any) and hit the road. The place wasn't far from our church/C's preschool, and it didn't take long to get there.
When we arrived, I could see that this wasn't the most high-class operation. Sure, they had a ton of employees (mostly college-aged guys) wearing their company's embroidered shirts, but it all seemed kind of run-down and tacky. Whatever. Charlotte didn't care. I also noticed that there weren't any prices posted where I could see them. Huh.
So we headed out, sizing up trees, looking for the perfect one. I wanted a smaller tree, not too huge, but we ended up (after being kicked out of the wrong field...sorry, guys, they looked like trees to me) picking a decent, only slightly crooked six-footer. We posed for the obligatory family picture in front of the tree, then hopped on the FREE hayride back to the shed where we'd pay as they packaged our tree up.
An interlude: I love the thing where they stick the tree to violently shake all the dead needles off it. I get a strange sense of calm watching the tree shaken brutally.
So, we headed into the "gift shop" to pay our bill. This "gift shop," and want to use that term even more loosely than the quotes imply, was a metal shack with a tiny, labyrinthine path that meandered through the tables and shelves of random, holiday-themed crap. Just the kind of environment I wanted to be cramped into with my three-year-old and kicky 11-month-old in a backpack! But the promise of cookies and hot cider lured us on. Plus, we had to pay.
The cookies, we found once we reached the bowels of this horrid junk shanty, were slightly stale off-brand Hydrox sandwich cookies, and the tiny dixie cups for the hot cider held just enough to convince you it was too hot to drink by the time you'd thrown back the shot. This was unsatisfying, but even more unsatisfying was the price that rang up on the cash register when the ancient crone behind the desk tabulated our cost.
Jeff turned to me with a look in his eyes first of disbelief, then of horror. A vein in his forehead began to pulse. We carried on one of those side-of-the-mouth, tense muttering conversations. "Is that right?" he hissed. "I guess it is," I whispered back. His eyes widened so that I could see the whites all the way around the irises. I expected them to pop out in the manner of that Nazi in front of the ark of the covenant in Indiana Jones. At the very least, I thought his flesh would melt. "That...it can't...I..." he sputtered. "Just pay," I whispered. "We can't do anything about it now."
So we did. But the afternoon was a bit colored by this unexpected expenditure. I mean, when you go into a venture expecting to pay $X, and end up paying $XXX, it feels a bit obscene. Those of you who know Jeff, and know his extremely frugal, Dutch penny-pinching nature, know that for him, the day was ruined. I managed to pull it together and have a fun time decorating the tree (which, of course, is totally lopsided) with Charlotte.
I'm also chagrined to find that our XXX amount is not really as horrible and vulgar as I had thought. I posted a brief version of our experience on facebook, and mentioned the amount when others asked. Well, not only do most people not think twice about paying XXX, several had paid XXXX and even XXXXX for a tree. A tree! A tree, made of tree materials, and not of, say, gold, or puppies and candy even.
Needless to say, next year, we're going to the Optimists Club again. I myself am optimistic my husband won't have a coronary event in response to Holiday Sticker Shock, and we'll all be merrier as a result.
*I just love it when kids do this during the children's message--belt out random, sometimes inappropriate things. Mrs. Jane was talking about Christmas trees, and she said, "Maybe some of you went out to get a Christmas tree this weekend," when suddenly a tiny little voice chirped out "We're getting OUR Christmas tree TODAY!" Guess who!
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Video evidence that we were there last night!
Santa visits downtown Lawrence
Watch for us at 1.43, and again for Charlotte at about 1.52.
Santa visits downtown Lawrence
Watch for us at 1.43, and again for Charlotte at about 1.52.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Oh, hey, what's up? Yeah, it's late, and once again, I'm barfing up some totally lame last-minute "content" for my "blog". I'm tired, okay? I was up really early, at 3:45 a.m., so I could go stand in line at Target with a bunch of people. Some, like me, were bemused. Others were Very Serious, as in hand-drawn maps of the store Serious. As in, won't share what items they're looking for Serious. Most were cold. And then the doors opened and I did some Christmas shopping and got some good deals and did not get trampled. The end.
I think I'm also tired because we went downtown this evening for the downtown Lawrence Santa/Tree-lighting event. Look, a link! The event itself was a bit tiring because wrangling the children in a crowd is always draining. But even more tiring than the great Santa rescue itself was the sudden flood of questions about Santa the event inspired in Charlotte.
"Why is he on the roof? Why did his sleigh break down? Where are his reindeer? Where will Santa go now? How will he get back to his sleigh? Will his reindeer be okay?" etc.
I did my best to answer her questions in a way that would keep the mystery alive for awhile but still tried to give the story the flavor of a story, so she doesn't think we're totally full of it. As we drove home, and the answers came faster and faster from the backseat, Jeff and I looked at each other with one of those Significant Spousal Nonverbal Exchanges.
"She's finding every hole in this story," I said.
"She's smarter than this," Jeff responded.
I answered a few more questions ("His rudder broke!" "The reindeer are eating some hay and carrots! They're resting up for the return flight!" "The mechanics are fixing the sleigh!") and then said "I am just digging myself deeper into a pit of lies."
Dramatic, yes. But this is the girl who was so fixated on the possibility that my dad heard a turkey on our walk yesterday ("But what did papa hear?" "Where is the turkey?" "Will the turkey come to see us?"). She's really interesting in the world around us, and has a particular curiosity about the strange, the bizarre, the out-of-the-ordinary. Which, really, this whole Santa thing is.
I think I'm also tired because we went downtown this evening for the downtown Lawrence Santa/Tree-lighting event. Look, a link! The event itself was a bit tiring because wrangling the children in a crowd is always draining. But even more tiring than the great Santa rescue itself was the sudden flood of questions about Santa the event inspired in Charlotte.
"Why is he on the roof? Why did his sleigh break down? Where are his reindeer? Where will Santa go now? How will he get back to his sleigh? Will his reindeer be okay?" etc.
I did my best to answer her questions in a way that would keep the mystery alive for awhile but still tried to give the story the flavor of a story, so she doesn't think we're totally full of it. As we drove home, and the answers came faster and faster from the backseat, Jeff and I looked at each other with one of those Significant Spousal Nonverbal Exchanges.
"She's finding every hole in this story," I said.
"She's smarter than this," Jeff responded.
I answered a few more questions ("His rudder broke!" "The reindeer are eating some hay and carrots! They're resting up for the return flight!" "The mechanics are fixing the sleigh!") and then said "I am just digging myself deeper into a pit of lies."
Dramatic, yes. But this is the girl who was so fixated on the possibility that my dad heard a turkey on our walk yesterday ("But what did papa hear?" "Where is the turkey?" "Will the turkey come to see us?"). She's really interesting in the world around us, and has a particular curiosity about the strange, the bizarre, the out-of-the-ordinary. Which, really, this whole Santa thing is.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Apparently I'm getting up in about six hours to go be trampled by a mob of psychotic shoppers, among whom will be my mother. Can't wait!
So I invite you over to flickr to check out some photos of our lovely post-feast walk today out at Clinton Lake.
I am thankful for many, many things today, not least among them the amazing food we were privileged to eat together in our comfortable home. I'm glad Sam's fever broke and he was back to his old happy self today. I'm less glad that he pooped his pants so violently this afternoon that I was washing feces out of his hairline. I'm thankful Charlotte was a sweetheart today, and that she ate some real food, and that she says so many hilarious things that I can't remember them all, but I do remember laughing all day long. I'm glad my family could come down and help justify the preparation and consumption of a first-class Thanksgiving meal.
And I'm thankful for you, the readers of this blog, for giving me this creative outlet. Thanks.
So I invite you over to flickr to check out some photos of our lovely post-feast walk today out at Clinton Lake.
I am thankful for many, many things today, not least among them the amazing food we were privileged to eat together in our comfortable home. I'm glad Sam's fever broke and he was back to his old happy self today. I'm less glad that he pooped his pants so violently this afternoon that I was washing feces out of his hairline. I'm thankful Charlotte was a sweetheart today, and that she ate some real food, and that she says so many hilarious things that I can't remember them all, but I do remember laughing all day long. I'm glad my family could come down and help justify the preparation and consumption of a first-class Thanksgiving meal.
And I'm thankful for you, the readers of this blog, for giving me this creative outlet. Thanks.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
I briefly mentioned the cake failure in yesterday's post. I tried making a recipe from the always reliable Smitten Kitchen for this chocolate peanut butter cake that sounded divine. She mentioned that this cake was soft (she may have even used the word "tender") and that freezing the layers for a half-hour before frosting them would make them much easier to handle. "No problem," I thought. "I have plenty of time." I started the cake-making process early in the afternoon. Little did I know that first half-hour of Sam's nap would be the only half-hour of Sam's nap. Also, little did I know that when Smitten tells you to not only butter your cake pans, but also line your pans with parchment, which you should also butter, she really means it, and that if you happen to not have parchment, you may want to consider making a different cake altogether. I discovered this last part when about one-third of my first layer came out of the pan, and about a quarter of the second. I was staring at my sad cakes in dismay when Sam woke up.
All was not lost, however. I put the cake bits into a freezer bag, where they will suffice quite nicely for a future trifle (or, let's be realistic, late-night snacking). And when Jeff and Charlotte got home, I handed cranky Sam over to them and tried again. I still had no parchment, but I buttered the HECK out of a square cake pan, floured it liberally, and prayed.
Well, it was delicious, even though it looked like I had baked the cake on the roof and the tossed it down onto a plate waiting below. A bit bedraggled, but nothing that the liberal application of peanut-butter cream cheese icing couldn't fix.
It was the perfect follow-up to Jeff's birthday dinner, wherein I served what is fast becoming my go-to fancy meal: The Pioneer Woman's steaks with heart-attack sauce. I added a bag of spinach to the sauce, to make it healthy!
I also posted a new recipe at Tig Eats, one I made tonight and am pretty dang pleased with. Check it out: Creamy Pumpkin Penne!
All was not lost, however. I put the cake bits into a freezer bag, where they will suffice quite nicely for a future trifle (or, let's be realistic, late-night snacking). And when Jeff and Charlotte got home, I handed cranky Sam over to them and tried again. I still had no parchment, but I buttered the HECK out of a square cake pan, floured it liberally, and prayed.
Well, it was delicious, even though it looked like I had baked the cake on the roof and the tossed it down onto a plate waiting below. A bit bedraggled, but nothing that the liberal application of peanut-butter cream cheese icing couldn't fix.
It was the perfect follow-up to Jeff's birthday dinner, wherein I served what is fast becoming my go-to fancy meal: The Pioneer Woman's steaks with heart-attack sauce. I added a bag of spinach to the sauce, to make it healthy!
I also posted a new recipe at Tig Eats, one I made tonight and am pretty dang pleased with. Check it out: Creamy Pumpkin Penne!
Monday, November 23, 2009
In many ways, today was a pretty crappy day. Really, it began last night, when I went to bed. I had been feeling off all night, but I was busy grading papers so I tried not to notice. As the night progressed, my goal of completing this round of grading before Thanksgiving break slipped away as the grading wasn't going as fast as I had hoped (it never does) and the papers weren't as good as I had hoped (they never are). So around 10:30 I decided to call it quits.
As soon as I lay down in bed, I knew something was not right. My gut was emitting noises like a very unwell beast, and I felt nauseated. Then the dizziness kicked in. I was exhausted, but every time I would get close to sleep, I'd feel like I was falling. I'd jerk awake, heart pounding, stomach swimming, gut churning.
It was a long night. I think I got about two or three hours of sleep before my 10-month-old alarm clock began cooing at 6 a.m. I sat up, and my stomach said, and I quote, "REEEEEEEEEE-uuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhh-*blorp*". "Not happening," I answered.
So I got the baby, but before I did that, I emailed my students to cancel class. Jeff and Charlotte woke up shortly after Sam and I, and the day began. For the three of them, that is. Jeff kindly let me sleep after I weepily told him my sad stomach story.
A few hours later, I was feeling closer to human and my stomach wasn't making any more conversation. So that was good. But then Sam started having one of his crabbiest days on record. Teething? Growth spurt? Ennui? I asked what was wrong, and all he said was "ball!" Not helpful.
Also not helpful was the fact that he boycotted his afternoon nap today. I decided to stay home to try to get a few things done (I had a cake to bake, for one) while Sam took his guaranteed afternoon nap. Well, guaranteed except for today, when I needed the time to get things done. No nap, and my cake was a disaster.
So Jeff and Charlotte got home and Sam and I are both in foul moods, which are contagious. Before long, all four of us were sitting around grumpily grumping and crying intermittently.
Jeff and I watched the clock and as soon as 5 p.m. rolled around, we fed the kids and hurried them into bed. But the theme continued as Charlotte had a full-blown bedtime meltdown the likes of which we haven't seen in weeks. I talked her down as Jeff stirred the onions on the stove.
So, in many ways, not the best day. But in one way, it was.
Happy birthday, Jeff.
As soon as I lay down in bed, I knew something was not right. My gut was emitting noises like a very unwell beast, and I felt nauseated. Then the dizziness kicked in. I was exhausted, but every time I would get close to sleep, I'd feel like I was falling. I'd jerk awake, heart pounding, stomach swimming, gut churning.
It was a long night. I think I got about two or three hours of sleep before my 10-month-old alarm clock began cooing at 6 a.m. I sat up, and my stomach said, and I quote, "REEEEEEEEEE-uuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhh-*blorp*". "Not happening," I answered.
So I got the baby, but before I did that, I emailed my students to cancel class. Jeff and Charlotte woke up shortly after Sam and I, and the day began. For the three of them, that is. Jeff kindly let me sleep after I weepily told him my sad stomach story.
A few hours later, I was feeling closer to human and my stomach wasn't making any more conversation. So that was good. But then Sam started having one of his crabbiest days on record. Teething? Growth spurt? Ennui? I asked what was wrong, and all he said was "ball!" Not helpful.
Also not helpful was the fact that he boycotted his afternoon nap today. I decided to stay home to try to get a few things done (I had a cake to bake, for one) while Sam took his guaranteed afternoon nap. Well, guaranteed except for today, when I needed the time to get things done. No nap, and my cake was a disaster.
So Jeff and Charlotte got home and Sam and I are both in foul moods, which are contagious. Before long, all four of us were sitting around grumpily grumping and crying intermittently.
Jeff and I watched the clock and as soon as 5 p.m. rolled around, we fed the kids and hurried them into bed. But the theme continued as Charlotte had a full-blown bedtime meltdown the likes of which we haven't seen in weeks. I talked her down as Jeff stirred the onions on the stove.
So, in many ways, not the best day. But in one way, it was.
Happy birthday, Jeff.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
Foto Fridays are Flippin' Fantastic!
This photo is one of my favorites. It pictures the author as a young child, weeping while dressed as a Dutch peasant. This was taken in May of 1979, when I was 18 months old.
For the sake of comparison, here's a picture of Charlotte at the same age:
Here, she is weeping not because she's been costumed as an impoverished 19th-century European, but because her mother, who up to that moment had been fairly loving, kind, and protective, brought her to a shopping mall and handed her over to a stranger with a puffy white beard and a bizzare coat-and-hat ensemble, a stranger who was so dedicated to his craft that he stayed in character, jovially bellowing HO HO HO in spite of the despondent wails of the tiny blonde person on his lap.
I will pay you $10 to diagram that sentence.
So, what have we learned today? First, weeping when being made a spectacle of runs in the family. I can't wait to humiliate Sam! Second, I can't help but notice a more than passing resemblance between my daughter and I. Hmm. And finally, and most importantly, mothers are not to be trusted, especially when they are wielding a camera.
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