Wednesday, December 27, 2006

Big House in the Little Woods

Three weeks ago, we signed our lives over on this lovely hilltop house we are now calling home. For the first four nights, one or all of us woke up at 3 am, confused as to where we were, why it was so dark, and what that mysterious sound was (the wind). For the better part of a month I've been schooling myself in the workings of woodstoves, trying to figure out what combination of wood volume and air input will leave me live coals and a warm house in the morning. The Husband has been relishing his Alaskan roots, sledding down the driveway and splitting wood. The kids rollerskate in the basement and take turns on the swing we installed in the living room. The dog is still incredulous at his newfound freedom, though he has stopped exploding out the door at breakneck speed each time we go to the woodpile. And we all are slightly stunned by very basic, but to us wondrous, things: there are two bathrooms, the kids can go outside on their own, there is so much natural light. That helps balance the fact that the septic system is so new the gases are still "settling," the house is so open that a person in the upstairs bedroom can hear someone talking in the basement, and the round house is, well, quirky. (Though considering the quirks we were dealing with downtown, these are decidely minor.) First off, it is round (duh). Have you ever tried to fit square furniture (which most of it is) into a round house? If only I could find a furniture maker specializing in trapezoids…and then there are the mice. I opened the cabinet to put something in the garbage the other day, and a lovely little specimen crawled up my arm before I screeched (I know, I'm so ashamed) and threw it to the floor, where it disappeared into one of the numerous holes I had never noticed before. I set out a variety of traps and caught two right away, in these sticky jobs that are like giant mouse flypaper. Unfortunately they didn't DIE right off, and what exactly are you supposed to do with not nearly dead mice? Let's not think about that any more, I'm all out of hard liquor. On Christmas morning, the Biggie crawled into our bed and said she'd seen one scurrying across the floor (she was up sneaking peeks at all the presents from 12 to 4:30), and just now I heard suspiciously loud lumbering-around sounds underneath the kitchen sink. I kicked the cabinet a couple of times, but they didn't stop—and I confess I didn't open the door to investigate. When did I become such a weenie?

Christmas morning was amazing; both the kids really get it now and they were ecstatic about every little thing. There was much concern that Santa would not know we'd moved, so extra lights were set up, directional letters were sent out and a smorgasbord was left to tempt him and the reindeer. Santa did not disappoint, though the remote control car he left for the Biggie is being played with more by the Husband, and the dollhouse family he gave the Wee One has mostly seen time strung upside-down on the ferris wheel he made. (President of cutting edge technology start-up…and Tinker Toy Engineer.) The present frenzy was done by 7:15 and then we lay around all day, fat and lazy with Christmas Bloat, eating cheese spread and crackers and candy and turkey and bread and cranberry sauce and gravy and sweet potato fries, drinking coffee and eggnog and cocoa and cider and wine. We ended the day watching "White Christmas" (thank you, Meredith in Seattle, for turning me on to this!) in the little isosceles triangular TV room. GOOD TIMES.

Today is my birthday, and I got up at 4 am to have some time on my own (and to commune with the mice) before the bustle begins and we head back east to celebrate the big family Christmas. We won't reveal what birthday it is, but let's just say this is probably the last year I can safely say I'm in my early thirties. That is fairly sobering but I love that I can remember my parents being my age now, and I can see Christmas through my kids' eyes and those of my parents, if that makes any sense. Becoming a parent is all about continuing the cycle of life and revisiting your youth, perpetuating the weird little holidays traditions (Wispride, anyone?) to ensure they outlast you and thus becoming, in some small sense, immortal.

Aw, I'm just messing with you. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, everyone! Thank you for cards, family letters and well wishes, I love them all. Let's hope 2007 brings peace.

Friday, November 17, 2006

Please, Floor, Swallow Me Up…

While we were eating dinner at a restaurant tonight, the Wee One looked at a woman sitting at the next table and said, "Why is that lady eating her banana with a fork?" "Oh I don't know, it's less messy," I said, fussing with my sandwich. The Wee One looked at her again and said, in her most piercing voice, "Chinese people don't know how to eat bananas!"

Just don't ask me, because no, I have no idea why, or how…

Sunday, November 12, 2006

The bigger of the two small people and I did the Cutest Race in the Universe yesterday, the Interlaken Steeplechase. It is not a traditional steeplechase (which involves vaulting hay bales); it's called the Steeple Chase because the money raised is used to help fund the steeple renovation for the local church. Plus the mile markers are made out of the church's previous steeples. There are only about a hundred participants, probably a third of whom end up receiving age group, mid-pack or participation awards. One of these awards was a painted-plywood lawn ornament featuring gnomes, others were bowls of cookies, bottles of local grape juice and hand-crafted (by a member of the congregation) wood steeple-shaped clocks. After the race, there's a filling lunch served with soup, bread and dessert. Cute, cute, CUTE.

Three miles is long for a six-year-old, and when the Biggie woke early we devised a race strategy: start out slow and steady running on the first big downhill mile, run/walk the flat second stretch, then walk the last uphill mile, running as needed "for show" for photographers, water station workers and the like. Style was deemed equally as important as strategy, and she selected an outfit featuring striped tights and a skort. She did great. There was minimal complaining, and even then it was not whiny. We executed our carefully planned strategy, completing the race in 39:54 under a thundering sky, with the cheering section of the Husband, Wee One and Milo the Wonder Dog spurring us on to a sprint at the finish.

Here she is, my runner girl (who won a five-dollar ice cream gift certificate for being second girl in her age group):

Tuesday, November 07, 2006

Because We Lock Her in a Closet From Friday Night Until Monday Morning

This week's question at the Wee One's preschool was, "What did you do this weekend?"

Madison: "I went on a pony ride! And to the farmer's market and a park!"
Ashley: "Grandma came and we drove around and ate doughnuts and went to the toy store and watched a movie!"

Wee One: "I did nothing."

Monday, November 06, 2006

Honey, Let's Buy the Turtle House

So I'm zooming around this morning, cleaning and shining and baking and lighting in preparation for a showing. On my last pass through, who do I find scritch-scratching her way around the dining room? Yes, Skipperdee the Turtle, who somehow launched herself out of her aquarium and was well on her way to the wilds of the parlor.

What, wandering reptiles aren't a selling point?

Sunday, November 05, 2006

I know, there's been silence on Planet Quistilton lately, but do not take that to mean there is nothing going on. On the contrary, EVERYTHING is going on, ALL AT ONCE. The Husband was traveling for business. The dreaded Dengue Fever once again reared its ugly head. I'm increasing my work hours. And the topper, what puts this blogmistress over the friable edge of sanity, is we're buying a new house and spent the last two weeks frantically preparing the current Quistilton Spread for sale. So if you know anyone who wants to buy a bright yellow "completely renovated downtown gem" in Ithaca, please let me know.

The Dengue Fever is just a constant source of background stress, such a pain. I thought that with this third manifestation, we'd really get it diagnosed, but no. Here is the rheumatologist's sage pronouncement: "This is just the way you are, you can expect it to happen any time you get an infection. It's exacerbated by stress, so you should sell your children. I bet you could get a good price for them." Thanks, Dr. Dodo. WHATEVER.

What brings me back to sanity and happiness is the thought of our new home, a country retreat nearly at the end of a dead-end street, on top of a hill with no visible neighbors, a working organic garden, ski trails, swing set, wood stove…ok I'm getting distracted. The original house is a funky twelve-sided 60's homebuilt job (yes, it's a dodecahedron), with a bright and beautiful post-and-beam addition built in 2001. Yes, I know there will be no take-out delivered there. I know winter will come a month earlier on the hill, and leave a month later. I know, we are insane. But we are also tired of traffic and police sirens and more baloney than I really want to get into here. So we're movin' out, folks! Yeeha!

(Pictures coming soon!)

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

After we read and sing our songs, the Husband or I (whichever one is on bedtime duty) steps out of the small people's room and heads downstairs. Normally, the Biggie starts snoring within moments, while the Wee One tosses and turns for a few minutes. Tonight I went back upstairs after I expected them to have fallen asleep and caught the tail end of this conversation. It had apparently been going on for quite some time, as the Biggie was admonishing the Wee One to "Get in your bed! Close your eyes and think about what you're going to do tomorrow. If you come up with any plans, whisper them quietly to your stuffed animals!" I know, I know, it's only amusing to the parents, but hey—you don't HAVE to read the blog.

(Note: the first part is about a crayfish that we caught in the creek and put in the tank with our turtle. It scuttled back and forth for a few days, then completely disappeared. We never found its creepy, insect-like body, ANYWHERE.):

Wee One: What happened to the crayfish?

Biggie: It crawled out of the tank and across the kitchen floor and the street and back into the creek. No actually, crayfish have special wings that they can turn invisible and they can turn on—then the whole crayfish turns invisible, and then it flies back to the creek.

WO: And then it turns into a crayfish again?

B: Actually it stays invisible so people can't catch them. The same thing happens with salamanders and all other wild creatures that people want to catch, like toads.

Re: camping (direct segue)

WO: What did you do when you was camping?

B: We set up our tent and then we stayed up really really late and had a fire and toasted marshmallows. In the morning we ate our breakfast—mine was Pop Tarts and bacon, Mama's was bacon and pancakes.

WO: What was her dinner?

B: Sausages and baked beans and water.

WO: Did you have milk and orange juice? Did you have a refrigerator?

B: No, all we had was a frying pan. We cooked our Pop Tarts on it and we also cooked our bacon and we also cooked our pancakes and we also cooked our sausages and we also cooked our baked beans and we also cooked Mama's coffee…

WO: Why do you need frying pants for sausage?

B: So we could cook it. I didn't mean frying pants, I meant frying PAN. It's a pan that fries.

(Silence. Four minutes pass. Snoring ensues.)

Monday, September 11, 2006

At the Wee One's Preschool, a posted list of "Favorite Things: colors, animals, food" (names changed to protect the innocent young Madisons and Ashleys of the world):

Madison: blue, turtle, peanut butter and jelly
Ashley: red, puppies, pizza

And then there's the Wee One: pink, horsies, ANIMAL MEAT

Friday, September 01, 2006

BOYS BEWARE. GIRLS-ONLY INFO BELOW:

I posted an ad in the sidebar, my first ever since the Google ads Fart Doll Debacle. It is for a super-cute Canadian company that makes cloth menstrual pads and sells other pleasing non-disposable girly products. I have tried this stuff, and I am never, ever going back.

No, I have not sold them my soul. And no, it is not gross.

Check 'em out.

Sunday, August 06, 2006

DONE. DID IT.

One hour and forty-nine minutes, flat. Did not reach swim goal (26:45 or so, but I didn't drown). Reached bike goal (50 minutes? Something like that.) Did not reach run goal (almost same as swim, 26 minutes and change). BUT—I finished it. I utilized the breast stroke in addition to my patented sidestroke/water tread. I only hung onto two boats. I was not last in the swim. Well, I was for a while, but then I actually PASSED two or three people. ME! Then I got out of the water and, as usual, passed people until the end because my swim time was so pathetic. One guy got me in the run, but he was only doing the relay, and one young whippersnapper tried to sprint past me on the final curve. BAD IDEA. I kicked it into high gear and flew past her, woohoo!

I swore I wouldn't do another one, but then I won a tri suit in a "raffle" at the end (the announcer was actually just calling out random numbers; I smiled goofily at him when I realized what he was doing and, lo and behold! "Six-twenty-one! Is six-twenty-one a winner today?") So now I HAVE to do it again. Don't I?

Friday, August 04, 2006

The triathlon is on Sunday. SUNDAY. IN TWO DAYS. I have not ridden my bike in a month. I am not going to tell you the last time I swam. I have strep throat. I have an epic, oozing case of poison ivy. I have all sorts of excuses. That said, here is the CURRENT TRIATHLON RACE PLAN:

Saturday prior to race (tomorrow): Pick up race packet and try not to be intimidated by hundreds of super-fit triathletes milling about. Remember to take asthma medication. Drive out to Taughannock and review race course with Melissa and J. Carbo-load in evening with pasta, garlic bread; early to bed.

Sunday: Up at 5:30 for pre-race breakfast of coffee, oatmeal, banana. Last-minute pumping of bike tires, check of equipment. Drive out to park for 7:30 pre-race meeting. Wait around for an hour and a half for our race to start. Try not to have a panic attack. Remember inhaler!

RACE STRATEGY

Swim portion: Craftily allow rest of pack to go ahead—I will avoid getting kicked in the head and getting churned up in their wake as I speed across the lake utilizing my patented sidewinding/dog paddle combination stroke. Goal time: Under 26 minutes.

Transition 1: Remember to remove swim cap before putting on bike helmet.

Bike portion: Concentrate on actually getting both shoes clipped into the pedals before starting up the hill. Eat and drink. Try not to drop water bottle and run over it this time. Goal time: 55 minutes.

Transition 2: Remember to take off gloves and helmet, doofus.

Run portion: Pretend I am listening to Queen ("Fat-Bottomed Girls," "We Are the Champions"), Cake ("Short Skirt, Long Jacket,") and Yes ("Lift Me Up"). Smile and wave as much as possible; ignore urge to collapse and/or throw up. Finish in a sprint! Goal time: 25 minutes.

Reminders to self: Even if I totally bomb, the whole thing will last less time than each of my labors, even the short one. Utilize yoga breathing and powerful imagination to pretend swim portion is not happening. Take asthma medication! Smile!

Monday, July 31, 2006

Goodnight, Chef

The Wee One has reached a startling new level of maturity lately, one which has me wondering if we have reached the end of the endless screaming/flailing/contorting/destroying/random acts of parental insanity-making. I know I'd better knock on some wood, throw salt over my shoulder or kiss a drunken leprechaun before I state this out loud, but…she is really getting to be fun. She now plays primarily with her sister and the dog, rather than on them. She listens to direction more than 75% of the time. There is more sleeping than not sleeping, almost every night. She makes up insane stories and tells them with a utterly straight face. She has mastered "The Stomach Game," in which she alternately sucks her stomach in and pushes it out to kwashiorker-baby proportions—she plays it for laughs. She puts things away. Let me type that again: SHE PUTS THINGS AWAY. There is no greater moment of triumph for a mother, besides the triumph of the potty which has already been triumphed in a triumphant manner!

Today Wee helped me make red beans and rice, a process that involved pouring of liquids and tiny spillables and stirring of hot stuff. I hovered and nervously twittered over all this, since I will never completely be over The Big Burn and Skin Graft Experience. As she was whisking the veggies, she asked, "Mama, what am I?" "What do you mean, what are you? You're you!" "No!" "You're a kid!" "No! What am I, when I cookin' like this?" "Oh, you mean what's your job?" "Yeah!" "You're a chef!" "I A CHEF!" she bellowed.

When I put her to bed tonight, for the first time in my memory it involved no whining, no desperate clutching and begging for me to stay. There was no last-minute request for a faux potty break, no crying until I threatened to turn out the hall light. "Goodnight Mama, thanks for cookin' red beans with me. What I called, when I do that?" "A chef, baby." "We do that tomorrow?" "Sure." I kissed her, hugged her and covered her up; she yawned, then turned over on her side. And that was that.

Friday, June 30, 2006

Here's how the triathlon training is going: NOT. I can only run 2.5 miles at a time (per my PT guy's instructions), I haven't gone swimming in, gulp, two months, and my wee bike is dusty on its hanger-hook. I'm not worried about finishing the race; after two natural labors, I know I could slog through the whole thing with my kids tied to my back, but I had visions of being a bit zoomy this time. Of not flailing through the water like a drunken idiot. Of maybe placing in my age group. Oh well, I'm always up for a nice round of public humiliation.

Got me some new running sneakers, oh yeah, and at least I will float through my runs on wings. I suddenly realized that running camp is in TWO WEEKS. And I can only run 2.5 MILES. ACK. I won this trip to running camp last year, by writing a short essay on why a trip to camp would change my life. The piece I submitted likely got picked because the judges were afraid I would injure my children if they didn't send me away from them for a week; also, there were only two other entries. I got news that I'd won when I was in the depths of the mysterious Dengue Fever and had a left leg the size and mobility of a grass-fattened hog. To add to the humor of the situation, I was high on Vicodin when I got the phone call: "Hello, Linnie?" "Mmmmmm…" "Congratulations! You've won the running camp contest!" "Can't…walk…ug." When I called the camp director to ask if I could cash my prize in this year instead, the woman who answered sounded like a child. I really almost said, "Can I talk to your mom?" which would have at least established that I am a bumbling idiot; now I have to wait until they meet me for them to find out. But anyway, I just know she's one of these wee, twig-like super-fast runners next to whom I will feel and look much like an asthmatic hippopotamus. You know how hippos turn bright pink in the heat because all the blood rushes to the surface of their skin? I do that exact same thing when I run.

Ah, the joys of summer never cease. Here's a toast to imminent public humiliation!

Thursday, June 15, 2006

Achieving Adulthood

It wasn't when I got married. Nor was it when I gave birth to my first or second child (though they may be driving me to an early grave). Buying the house gave me an inkling of it, though it still feels like a toy house, there is so much that is funky about it. No, the moment I felt that I had reached a certain level of maturity was when I accepted delivery (via the front window, since they wouldn't fit through the door of the toy house) of these items:





I'm not entirely sold on the chair. The couch, though, she is comfy and supportive and oh-so-preety. We are teaching the Labra-Spaniel not to leap on it; I felt so guilty about taking away his bed that I bought a new (color-coordinated) one for him:



He is confused but happy that we shower him with treats when he gets near it. Yes, I fear the inevitable stainage of the couch's pale green fabric. The new (similarly pale) rug had a deep purple cherry stain on it within forty minutes of me laying it down. But that brings in the adulthood part of it. The new furniture is about being mature and setting limits, for myself and my children. It is about saying, "No, you may not leap from the coffee table to the couch, naked, holding a technicolor permanent marker in each hand." (I'm not going to say whether that was me or the kids.)

Tuesday, June 13, 2006

Not Prepared For This One

Last night, while she was happily slurping her ice cream, the Biggie turned to me and announced, "Mama, I have two boyfriends." Hiding my shock, I asked, "Really, who?" "Connor and Wiley." This is familiar territory. She has proclaimed she would marry Wiley, an old family friend, since she knew about princes and princesses and the inevitable ending of every Disney movie. But what about this Connor character? "Why is Connor your boyfriend?" "Because he winks at me and smiles at me and we both like soccer." OK, I can handle this. A simple display of affection, shared interests. "But just because he likes you doesn't make you his girlfriend. Do you like him?" "Well of course, because we are the only two kids in class who play hockey."

If only it could remain this simple.

Saturday, June 03, 2006

It's a rainy Ithaca morning, a day for puttering, reading the newspaper and drinking too much coffee. The Ithaca Festival is this weekend; perhaps we'll go later and try to catch another performance of Hilby the Skinny German Juggle Boy. But for now we are just lazing about the house. Or at least I am lazing. This is what my children are doing:

9:30 am: Biggie has cut a long, long piece of yarn and has tied it around the front doorknob. She is making a coyote catcher. The Wee One is screaming and hitting her for no apparent reason. Time out.

9:45: Biggie is tying knots in the string. The Wee One is climbing up on the counter to the water thermos and spilling ice water on the floor. Clean up.

9:55: Biggie is tying knots in the string. The Wee One is "helping" the Husband paint a column in my office blue. She starts painting the white trim and has a tantrum when I take her away. Time out.

10:10: Biggie is tying knots in the string, which is now a decoration for the year-end party at school. The Wee One is letting the dog out so he can poop and trying to clean it up herself. Then she wants to pee out there "like a doggie."

10:15: Biggie is lying on the floor, tying knots in the string. In the two minutes that I was upstairs inspecting the Husband's paint job, the Wee One has opened a box of rice mix, poured it on the floor, and is trying to clean it up with a wet rag. When I take over, she goes into the living room where the Biggie is knotting, and hits her. Time out.

10:25: Biggie is taking a break from the knotted string, which is now four feet long and "a world record." The Wee One pauses to fight with her over Cheez-It. She pours the leftover crumbs on the freshly vacuumed rug. No time outs this time, but I do start shouting. Grrrr.

When we took the Wee One to a pulmonary specialist this week, he said that her asthma could be limiting her growth and energy levels. While we waited forty-five minutes for the doctor to show up, she climbed up and down off the examining table approximately twenty times, ran up and down the hall proclaiming "I am Superman!" and washed her hands more times than I could count. She is indeed small for her age, but I'm wondering, what exactly will happen if we get her asthma under control? How much more energy can she actually produce, and can we in some way harness it for our personal use? I'm thinking jet packs.

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

Most of you are aware that in 1998 the Husband cut the top off of my Volvo. He achieved international notoriety for this deed when I called Tom and Ray of "Car Talk," the weekly National Public Radio show. The Husband and I were debating the structural integrity of the car, post-crewcut. He insisted that it was sound, even as the middle of the car sagged to the ground. Tom and Ray overwhelmingly agreed with me, ha ha, and recommended I wear a helmet when riding in the vehicle. Friends from as far away as Germany recognized my voice* and many people congratulated me on the…caliber of the man I married.**

For an inkling of the steps involved in the process of cutting the roof off a car, go to Fishsuit (see the blogroll at right) and view the video he has posted in today's entry. Also note the maturity level of the men involved in this endeavor; you will have a good idea of what I experienced in the early years of my marriage.***

(Special note to Charles: The verbal contract regarding the roof of our current car is still binding.)

*In a fit of anxiety-prompted formality, I introduced myself as "Linda."
**I remember this day fondly because not only did I appear on the radio, thus achieving 15 minutes of fame, but later on the Husband and I rode our tandem bicycle in the Fremont Solstice Parade, dressed up as grapes. Ah, youth!
***I accept no responsibility for the beheading of anyone's vehicle as precipitated by the viewing of this video.

Monday, May 08, 2006

Still Nothing Going On

Really. But people are starting to ask why I haven't been posting and I'm afraid I'll get kicked off Fishsuit's blogroll, so here we are.

The Wee One is upstairs, gritching about having to take a nap. The dog is dozing on the couch, having been up since 4 am (with me—insomnia strikes again). Biggie is at school, having finally gotten over a mysterious fever. The Husband is at job #2 for the day (of three total; yes, he will be cutting down and working a relatively normal amount in a matter of weeks). My work has been slow lately and I have been consumed by utterly normal homemaker-type things: processing endless piles of laundry, tending the postage stamp-sized garden and learning the ins and outs of composting, identifying the species of turtle I found in the road and took in overnight before releasing her back into the depths of Cayuga (Eastern Painted Turtle, Chrysemys picta picta). The Excite-O-Meter is definitely reading LOW, ladies and gentlemen.

But it's bordering on summer in Ithaca, so there's always a hum in the air. The waterfalls are flowing high, the birds are back, and the trees are blooming. The farmer's market is bustling, and there's a great blue heron fishing in the creek outside my front door. The students are getting ready to leave, and we grownups will have the place to ourselves for the summer, yeeha!

Our little town just got named as one of Kiplinger's Top Ten "Smart Places to Live," which makes me proud but causes an inward groan. After watching what happened in Seattle when everyone and their brother moved there (including me, but not my brother), I'm holding my breath and wondering how Ithaca will be transformed in the upcoming years. Ithaca as it is right now feels like Fremont (a formerly funky neighborhood in Seattle) did when I moved there in 1996. I remember that my beat-up 1970 Volvo fit right in there when I moved in, but by the time I left three years later, it stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the shiny new cars of my upwardly mobile neighbors (this might have had something to do with the fact that the Husband had sawed the Volvo's roof off and painted the car purple). Don't get me wrong, I'm all for progress—Fremont looked gorgeous when I zoomed through there on my way to a wedding last summer—and I love watching my property value go up as I sit idly by, but small-town character is so fragile. I hope the local economy and housing market can absorb the influx of "new folks" we're currently experiencing-of which I am one, of course-without forcing the local color out.

Well that's the dispatch from Central New York, folks. I hope all is well wherever you are—keep on keeping on.

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

Quistilton is leaping into the twenty-first century, ladies and gentlemen. First of all, the Husband and I joined a gym, a gym that’s so fancy I keep calling it a club and scurrying through because I think they’re going to kick me out for not shaving my legs. Second, I got an iPod, or iShuffle, or whatever the cheapest one is called. This thing is changing my life. I may be reluctant to embrace new gadgetry, but anything that allows me to rock out to Bad Religion while I’m walking the dog is alright by me.

The club, er, gym, is amazing. They have three pools, sauna and steam room, scads of running/stair climbing/arm-pumping, leg-wiggling machines, and will soon have a café. I am spending a LOT of time there. The best part about it is that I can now almost swim for real, i.e. after two weeks of diligent practice, the lifeguard doesn’t jump up nervously when I enter the pool anymore. I have already gone swimming more times than I did prior to my last two triathlons, COMBINED. Perhaps this year the kayakers won’t shadow me.

The small ones are well. The Biggie had her second report card, and got all “Excellent” marks in gym. She says it is because she is going to be a hockey goalie for Big Red, and is already in training. The Wee One has not been sick or injured in any major way for two months, yeeha! (Knock wood!) The Husband has been transforming the kitchen from its formerly oddly patched-together state into something resembling normalcy, albeit in our typical eclectic style (faux slate floor, burgundy tile countertop as well as the preexisting blue petroglyph and butcher block countertops—you have to see it to understand, but it works!). What pleases me is that the washer and dryer are no longer in there, and I can wash clothes without the sensation that a rocket is being launched from the kitchen.

That’s about all; there is no pressing political, child-related or societal subject bugging me lately—now, isn’t that nice for a change?

Tuesday, February 28, 2006

Dooce has an interesting discussion going on at her site, which I added to (see comment #789) but of course I don’t really think she’s going to write BACK to, so I’m shifting the discussion over to this site. I’d like to know what my little audience thinks. The basic gist of the discussion is the stay-at-home mom route as a valid choice for educated women, whether it’s anti-feminist, and whatnot—see her post for more details. You are all educated, some of you are stay-at-home moms, some are work-at-home or out-of-the-home moms, some are not moms (or dads) yet, and some never plan to be parents. What I’m curious about is, are you doing what you really want to be doing? If you’re a parent, do you feel like you spend enough time with your kid(s)? What is “enough” time, anyway? If you’re primarily at home, do you feel it is by choice, or necessity? If you’re working in addition to caring for your kids, do you feel it is the “right” thing to do, or do you feel pressured (by society, family, whatever) to do something different? If you’re not a parent yet, what do you think you’ll do when you have a kid? If you never plan to be a parent, was that decision made in part because you wanted to focus on your career instead?

I’m just curious about this. Personally, I wasn’t cutting it as a stay-at-home mom, so I got a job. The nature of that job, however, allows me an enormous amount of freedom that most workers don’t have. I think true feminism means that you can choose to take whatever route you’d like, without fear of societal backlash. The reality is that there is an enormous amount of societal pressure to live to your full professional potential, and simultaneously enrich your kids to their full potential. Are those two things truly compatible? I see a lot of women who are trying to do it all, at great personal cost.

Exercising your choices of course requires a certain amount of economic and social mobility, which I’m not really authorized to comment on (what am I authorized to comment on, emergent medical technologies?), but maybe you are. Let’s hear about it.

Come on, comment, because if you don’t I’ll feel like a loser. And don't use any swear words, because my auntie reads this site.

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

I added three new links in the ole' sidebar, there. I wanted a direct link to "Goddess of Clarity" so I don't have to sneak through "Fishsuit" every time I go there. "Passing Understanding" and "East Providence Zoo" are from folks whom I harassed into starting blogs. I have to work on the enthusiastic harassing; sometimes people don't like it. At a wedding the Husband and I attended last summer, I harassed everyone about dancing more to the incredible 80's music they had on. After a while, one (fairly drunk) woman looked at me and said, "You are very small, but I am still afraid of you, Dance Pusher."

Thursday, February 16, 2006

Elmo is a just a red Grover.

Yesterday the Wee came home from daycare wearing a borrowed shirt, since she’d gotten hers wet. The borrowed shirt was a snazzy blue fleece number, with the googly eyes, round pink nose and crooked smile rounding out a face so familiar from my youth. “You’ve got a Grover shirt on!” I said to the Wee as I picked her up. She threw her body back and cried, “It’s Elmo!” “No, Elmo is red, this person Grover is blue,” I replied. “No, Elmo! ELMO!” she shouted.

At least we know she’s not racist. Though maybe she’s just colorblind.

Friday, February 03, 2006

To continue in the current vein of relative unimportance...

Upon serious contemplation, I really have to say that rather than Kiki's Delivery Service, a much more endlessly watchable film is Totoro. There. That's been bugging me all day.

Oh, and a much weirder habit than getting up at 4 am would be my obsession with organizing the groceries on the converyer belt at the store. I group them by type and weight, with the heaviest items, such as cans and boxes, first. Frozen items go next, all together so they end up in the same bag. Then dairy, then durable fruits and vegetables, then those of a more fragile sort. Lastly, chicken/fish/meat/eggs.

Thursday, February 02, 2006

Alrighty, here’s yet another meme (That’s what they’re called! Don’t I sound hip?) which everyone seems to be doing. (Are you really interested? Don’t answer that question.) (Could I make MORE parenthetical comments?)

Four jobs I’ve had:
1. Apple packer
2. Barista, before I knew that’s what they were called. The psycho owner accused me of stealing $15 from the cash register, which was tended by five employees simultaneously. I sincerely regret working as hard as I did for that woman. (And no, I didn’t take her lousy 15 bucks!)
3. Pathology assistant. Duties included singing the entire soundtrack to “The Sound of Music” during specimen gross-in with one of the particularly goofy pathologists (they were all lovely and weird)
4. Sandal maker/vineyard worker. Really. (I got paid in wine.)

Four movies I can watch over and over:
1. Say Anything
2. The Sound of Music (duh!)
3. Harold and Maude
4. Kiki’s Delivery Service

Four places I’ve lived:
1. Westford, MA
2. Ithaca, NY
3. Seattle, WA
4. Uhhh…wow, that’s really it.

Four places I’ve vacationed:
1. Orcas Island, WA
2. Portland, OR
3. All over Alaska
4. Silver City, NM

Four of my favorite dishes:
1. Pizza
2. Lentils and tomatoes with garlic
3. Peanut chicken soup, the only reason to own a crock pot
4. Sopapillas from Sadie’s in ABQ, though they are really more like a snack

Four sites I visit daily:
1. Google News
2. Dooce
3. Pubmed
4. Overheard in New York Well not daily, but whatever.

Four places I would rather be right now:
1. Baxter State Park, Maine
2. Orcas Island, Washington
3. Fishing in Alaska (in the summer!)
4. In a Cessna, 2000 feet up

There’s no one else to tag, everyone has already done this one! Argh.
OK, so according to “What Free Time,” I am “tagged,” I’m “it.” I’m supposed to post five weird habits I have. Here goes:

1) I chew my fingers. Not my fingernails, my fingers.
2) I repeatedly fail to buy bread and
crackers at the grocery store, fantasizing that I will make my own. What this really means is that the family is on a default low-carb diet.
3) This is a bad, bad habit: I passive-aggressively correct the Husband’s grammar in front of the kids by repeating what he says in the “right” way. He probably didn’t even realize I was doing this—until now. (Dang!)
4) Ummm… Aha! I am a little freaky about saving money, and enjoy thrift store shopping and free piles. A book I spend a lot of time with is the complete collection of “The Tightwad Gazette,” by Amy Dacyczyn. (Of course, then I go and pick one of the most expensive possible habits, flying—I’ll pay for it with the money I save by wearing $3 jeans and freecycled boots.)
5) I get up at 4 am and write in the blog.

All the people I want to "tag" don't have blogs--come on Jenn, Amy, Leah, Diana, Jean, Melissa and everyone else--get on the ball! Oh yes and the Goddess--tag right back at ya!

Tuesday, January 31, 2006

I knew it had been too long since we’d spent quality time at the hospital.

The Wee One and I just got back from an overnight, not a big deal, really, just the old pneumonia, oxygen tent, prednisolone, screaming blood draws and massive injected antibiotics routine. Really, though, does she have a punch card there or something? I can see the appeal; they bring her unlimited pizza and pudding, there’s cable TV, the nurses fawn over her and give her as many stickers and band-aids as she wants.

But it’s getting old for me. I know all the nurses and the names and ages of their children and dogs now, and can tell when the vaporizer runs out of distilled water just by the slight change in the pitch of its vibration (and that was while I was sleeping). And I’m not proud that I secretly order the “cheesecake with cherry topping” off the hospital menu knowing that the Wee One will not touch it and I can devour it myself.

SHE is doing fine, by the way—her white blood cell count is down by 10,000 and she knew her way around the hospital playroom and peds unit corridors by yesterday afternoon. She charmed the pants off everyone and informed them, “I probly go home later today”—turns out she was right. But I, I am not fine. I am getting too old for these misadventures, and clearly should have commenced having children years ago, at least if the children were going to be as fragile and accident-prone as Ms. Wee One. It’s just so hard to keep them alive and healthy, you know? Anyway, I committed a frightening amount of online retail therapy today (note to the Husband: do not look at the balance on the debit card account), and will be feeling better after I get at least a night’s full sleep (unlikely in the near future, since the Wee needs nebulizer treatments at midnight and 4 am, argh). But enough whining. Peace to all, and happiness and health to you!

Thursday, January 12, 2006

Happy New Year! My, it has been a long time. The Quistilton Gang has been busy traveling to Massachoo for the holidays, attending Cornell Women’s Hockey games (The Wee One’s chant: “Let’s go Big Red let’s go clap clap!”), and I, personally, have been engrossed in some new activities of my own. First, I’ve been reading “Eats, Shoots and Leaves,” by Lynne Truss. My brother and my sister each gave me a copy this Christmas—should I take this as a hint? It’s a hilarious account of punctuation—yes, I used “hilarious” and “punctuation” in the same sentence (twice, actually)—by a woman whose rally cry is, “Sticklers Unite!” (Now I want to go check out the book and see if I punctuated that last sentence at all correctly.) She stood outside the premiere of “Two Weeks Notice” (if that makes you cringe, you’re a stickler) waving a giant apostrophe after the “s” in “Weeks.” She is also helping me feel confident in my persistent placement of commas and periods (she calls them “stops”) inside quotation marks—as in the previous sentence. Americans put them inside, and British folks put them outside. Here is an example of the British version:
Lynne Truss nearly got arrested for hitting someone on the head with a giant apostrophe at the premiere of “Two Weeks (which should be Weeks’) Notice”.

The fact that I so enjoy this book and another gift, the new illustrated Elements of Style (why won't Blogger let me underline?), is evidence that perhaps I should’ve been an English major. Or at least a spinsterish old grammarian. But the thing is, I was never taught grammar! Were you? They just sortof forgot to cover it, back in elementary school. All I remember is a lot of brainstorming going on. (Remember that? Brainstorming was the hugest thing to hit education since Skinner!) Sorry, this whole post is full of inside jokes and useless, boring information. I will commence with the good stuff.

The other activity which has been in the way of the blog has been flying. Yes, I am finally learning how to fly. I say “finally” because my first lesson happened 17 years ago, and I haven’t had another since. (Angst-ridden teenage Linnie plus well-intentioned pilot Dad in a small plane 3500 feet up—bad idea. We ended the session with an agreement to not try and have a conversation until I was 25. Happily, we have moved beyond this.) But “learning to fly” is still a stretch, at this point, since I haven’t yet passed my flight physical. In order to take one lesson at this school, I need to have a third-class medical certificate which requires an extensive physical with vision and hearing testing and all sorts of weighing and measuring of my poor child-destroyed body. Now, I am probably the only student pilot who nearly failed the vision exam because a toddler peed on her leg. The whole thing took so long that I had to leave the doctor’s office and go get the Wee One in the middle of it. Then, the nurse kept leaving me in the examining room while she went off to get snacks. I wouldn’t have minded so much if she had shared. I mean, really.

So anyway, two and a half hours after I initially got there (do doctors think we just have all day to spend in their offices?), I thought I was all done, only to find that one trip to the emergency room for an asthma attack three years ago might flub the whole thing. Now I have to get my doctor to write a letter assuring the FAA that I won’t start wheezing and fall out of the sky (knock wood).

This is certainly the most expensive, selfish hobby I have ever undertaken (my parents might argue that “college” would more aptly fit that description), but think of it—soaring up there, above the clouds in the clear blue with the whole world laid out before you—it’s heaven, both literally and figuratively.

Yeeha! Here’s to a magnificent 2006, filled with clear, artful punctuation and high-flying Mamas!