Once Again, Brought to You By Insomnia
Is anyone else attempting to read all of the previous Harry Potter books before the LAST ONE comes out? I’m only on number 2, and a new work assignment + constant kid duty means I have little chance of finishing them all. Plus I realized I have an all-day teacher training (for church, no I haven’t gone out and gotten a real job!) THE DAY THE BOOK COMES OUT. Argh.
Summer has finally arrived up on the hill; we had our first uncomfortably hot day Monday and Tuesday was no better. Fortunately we had lovely friends in town visiting (Lisa from “What Free Time?”—NO free time, now that she is pregnant with #3) and they helped us beat the heat. Today is supposed to be slightly less horrid. I have learned my lesson and won’t even go into town (=stinking hot asphalt mecca) today—we’ll stay up on the windy hill, dip our feet in the wading pool and retreat to the woods when the going gets tough.
We received a postcard yesterday from the people who own the five acres behind us—they’re selling and wish to give us first crack—and thus will begin what I’m sure will become our epic land-buying spree on The Hill. I once heard someone say, “A farmer’s only happy when he owns all the land touching his property,” and I think that attitude is rubbing off on us. There is so much peace attached to knowing we have relatively unbroken woods all around us; we want to make sure the tranquility isn’t disturbed by, horrors, a neighbor within sight or shouting distance! This is all so contrary to my former “new urbanist” views of old that it makes me wince (go ahead, calculate the miles I drive each day and make me feel guilty for my carbon emissions), but you know what, I’ve done my time in the downtown jungle. Besides, the six-year-old shining gold Ford Focus got 33 miles per gallon on my last trip back to Massachoo, take that, greenhouse gas Nazis!
(Brief aside: You’re getting me at peak insomnia exhaustion today, so it’s going to be silly. Please excuse.)
Which brings me to my new obsession, THE VANAGON. Yes, I now want nothing more than to traipse around the country visiting national parks and historical landmarks in a camper van. I will be able to cook bacon—IN MY CAR. I CANNOT EXPRESS how excited I am by this possibility, made so much closer to reality by the people of Pop Top Heaven who lovingly restore and sell vintage VW Westfalia campers. I envision years of forcing my children to play the license plate game in my future!
Oh yes, the children. The Biggie has not stopped reading for this entire summer vacation. She acts all miffed and snotty when I ask her to do something so lowly as, say, clearing her breakfast dishes. We have been reduced to threatening her with timeouts “with no books!” “Put down that book right now and get outside!” the Husband was heard to say recently; may I remember these times of epic tribulation fondly, when she is a sneaky boy-chasing teenager.
Wee, on the other hand, is experiencing a renaissance unequaled in her short history. She is using manners. She is controlling the volume of THE VOICE. She listens to direction and even follows it most of the time. She cheerfully and willingly cleans up/makes her bed/sets the table. It is unprecedented, and amazing. The two of them together are having an absolutely lovely summer, though they may not realize it—we have gone swimming, hiking, wild berry picking, newt-hunting, animal tracking (foxes! 2 feet from our house!), biking, and road-tripping. They make up these crazy and wonderful games to play together. Just when I think I will go out of my gourd, the Biggie comes up with some goofy trick that will occupy her sister for half an hour. Ah, once in a while I think I might actually be raising them right.
Well the insomnia buzzer has sounded, and I’m out for the night. Have a good one, folks!
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Thunderclouds are looming, the sky is rumbling and there’s a tornado warning in effect. All appropriate for the day, as far as I’m concerned.
This was the Biggie’s last day of first grade, her last day with the teacher who so lovingly nurtured her through kindergarten and first grade, who brought her from reading single words to off-the-elementary charts grown-up books prowess. She has taught her so much, all better than I ever could, and the Big loves her to the point that she often calls me by her teacher’s name. What more could I ask from the public school system? But we have moved, and after faithfully driving the Biggie ten miles into town every day since December for school, we are transferring her to our neighborhood school, a sweet place but definitely different; bigger, less crunchy, with less of a neighborhood feel. I’m sure I’ll come to love this school too over the next six years as the Big and then the Wee move through its corridors, but right now it’s an unknown, and as I get older I deal less and less well with uncertainty. You can take the girl out of New England, but you can’t take the New England out of the girl.
To add to the emotional upset of leaving Big’s school, our dear friends Monica and Paul and their four sweet kids left town today for the greener shores of Eugene, Oregon. I’m happy that they’re headed for a better situation (don’t get me started, thinking about the supreme coolness of Oregon and Eugene in particular), but the small, selfish part of myself that lurks in the barred-off recesses of my mind is deeply bitter. These guys are so cool; they see every challenge (surprise twins, then an even bigger surprise, one of the twins has Down’s Syndrome) as just another reason to do more and be more. There is no getting these guys down. As someone who lets herself get down on an all-too-frequent basis, I benefitted from having such a great example of kick-assedness around. And now they’re gone. Luckily we can follow their adventures on their web site organichaus.com, link coming soon (when I get up from being down).
Well, the tornado has passed as I’ve been writing, dumping epic rain and twisty winds up here on the hilltop. The late-day sun is out and the hummingbirds are zooming around the feeder again.
Not such a bad day, after all.
This was the Biggie’s last day of first grade, her last day with the teacher who so lovingly nurtured her through kindergarten and first grade, who brought her from reading single words to off-the-elementary charts grown-up books prowess. She has taught her so much, all better than I ever could, and the Big loves her to the point that she often calls me by her teacher’s name. What more could I ask from the public school system? But we have moved, and after faithfully driving the Biggie ten miles into town every day since December for school, we are transferring her to our neighborhood school, a sweet place but definitely different; bigger, less crunchy, with less of a neighborhood feel. I’m sure I’ll come to love this school too over the next six years as the Big and then the Wee move through its corridors, but right now it’s an unknown, and as I get older I deal less and less well with uncertainty. You can take the girl out of New England, but you can’t take the New England out of the girl.
To add to the emotional upset of leaving Big’s school, our dear friends Monica and Paul and their four sweet kids left town today for the greener shores of Eugene, Oregon. I’m happy that they’re headed for a better situation (don’t get me started, thinking about the supreme coolness of Oregon and Eugene in particular), but the small, selfish part of myself that lurks in the barred-off recesses of my mind is deeply bitter. These guys are so cool; they see every challenge (surprise twins, then an even bigger surprise, one of the twins has Down’s Syndrome) as just another reason to do more and be more. There is no getting these guys down. As someone who lets herself get down on an all-too-frequent basis, I benefitted from having such a great example of kick-assedness around. And now they’re gone. Luckily we can follow their adventures on their web site organichaus.com, link coming soon (when I get up from being down).
Well, the tornado has passed as I’ve been writing, dumping epic rain and twisty winds up here on the hilltop. The late-day sun is out and the hummingbirds are zooming around the feeder again.
Not such a bad day, after all.
Friday, June 08, 2007
Why, oh why, again with the waking up at 2 a.m.? Sigh. I lay there in the pitch-dark, utterly awake, when I heard a sound that reminded me of a long-haul trailer shifting as it goes up a big hill. A low hum, it shifted pitch and faded in and out. I realized it was the wind running through the contours of the many arms and hollows of our little glacier-carved mountain—the hill was singing.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Brought To You By Insomnia
Well hey, folks—it’s been a long time. Excuses? Nothing good, just unpacking/working/kids/lameitude, the basics.
Spring has just about spent her bloom here, and summer is looming like a thunderhead. We’ve already had a 90-plus degree day, though it doesn’t get so bad here on the windy hill. The garden is bursting; we’ve planted tomatoes, basil, blueberries, lettuce, pumpkins, melons, squash, and sunflowers to complement the parsnips, garlic, asparagus, herbs, strawberries, and onions that appeared when the snow melted. I joined a CSA (community-supported agriculture) group, where we pay for a share of a local farm’s crop and in return get more produce than we can eat. One of our farmers lives right next door, and there’s something satisfying about knowing that my investment is staying so close to home. Moving to this close-knit community (which has welcomed us with open arms), so entrenched in nature, makes me much more conscious of where I spend my money and place my carbon footprint, especially since I am driving so much more than before. There are so many easy things I can do to help reduce the amount of energy we use that I’ve hardly thought of as energy-conserving before, like buying local produce instead of air-shipped strawberries from California and apples from New Zealand. It just makes sense, as well as tasting better. And if I buy items from the local farmer’s market, I’m helping support people I know, like the sexton at our church who makes jewelry, my old friend’s dad who sells organic seedlings, and the cute Eastern European pastry man. Plus nothing there has been shipped 10,000 miles (except maybe the pastry man). Anyway, maybe being up since 2:30 is making me loopy, but I think the gist of this paragraph is: Me happy, settling into little community, figuring out place in world and how to impact it less negatively; fresh strawberries and pastry, mmmmmm.
The small people are thriving, physically and mentally. Biggie can now read everything, which seems great until she gets ahold of “Oprah”—I don’t really want her to know about what’s happening to women in the Congo, or how great sex can be after 40. The Wee One is still wee—at 3 and a half, she is wearing the shoes Biggie got when she was 20 months old, and people still give me funny looks when she clambers to the top of the climbing structure, somersaults over and hurtles to the ground like kids twice her size. My mission for the summer is teaching them both to swim and ride bikes.
Work is going great, that’s one of the reasons I haven’t been posting as much. I went to an all-company conference in April and finally met the people I’ve been talking to on the phone for two years. I was impressed with how educated, energetic and down-to-earth everyone is, and with the company’s mission to make it the best place to work.
The husband’s job is going great guns; he’s criss-crossing the country talking to potential investors and they just opened the new lab in a renovated typewriter factory here in town.
The alarm just sounded, so my time’s up!
Well hey, folks—it’s been a long time. Excuses? Nothing good, just unpacking/working/kids/lameitude, the basics.
Spring has just about spent her bloom here, and summer is looming like a thunderhead. We’ve already had a 90-plus degree day, though it doesn’t get so bad here on the windy hill. The garden is bursting; we’ve planted tomatoes, basil, blueberries, lettuce, pumpkins, melons, squash, and sunflowers to complement the parsnips, garlic, asparagus, herbs, strawberries, and onions that appeared when the snow melted. I joined a CSA (community-supported agriculture) group, where we pay for a share of a local farm’s crop and in return get more produce than we can eat. One of our farmers lives right next door, and there’s something satisfying about knowing that my investment is staying so close to home. Moving to this close-knit community (which has welcomed us with open arms), so entrenched in nature, makes me much more conscious of where I spend my money and place my carbon footprint, especially since I am driving so much more than before. There are so many easy things I can do to help reduce the amount of energy we use that I’ve hardly thought of as energy-conserving before, like buying local produce instead of air-shipped strawberries from California and apples from New Zealand. It just makes sense, as well as tasting better. And if I buy items from the local farmer’s market, I’m helping support people I know, like the sexton at our church who makes jewelry, my old friend’s dad who sells organic seedlings, and the cute Eastern European pastry man. Plus nothing there has been shipped 10,000 miles (except maybe the pastry man). Anyway, maybe being up since 2:30 is making me loopy, but I think the gist of this paragraph is: Me happy, settling into little community, figuring out place in world and how to impact it less negatively; fresh strawberries and pastry, mmmmmm.
The small people are thriving, physically and mentally. Biggie can now read everything, which seems great until she gets ahold of “Oprah”—I don’t really want her to know about what’s happening to women in the Congo, or how great sex can be after 40. The Wee One is still wee—at 3 and a half, she is wearing the shoes Biggie got when she was 20 months old, and people still give me funny looks when she clambers to the top of the climbing structure, somersaults over and hurtles to the ground like kids twice her size. My mission for the summer is teaching them both to swim and ride bikes.
Work is going great, that’s one of the reasons I haven’t been posting as much. I went to an all-company conference in April and finally met the people I’ve been talking to on the phone for two years. I was impressed with how educated, energetic and down-to-earth everyone is, and with the company’s mission to make it the best place to work.
The husband’s job is going great guns; he’s criss-crossing the country talking to potential investors and they just opened the new lab in a renovated typewriter factory here in town.
The alarm just sounded, so my time’s up!
Monday, February 05, 2007
The Annual RSV Season Celebration, 3rd edition*
What is RSV, you ask? Why, let me educate you! RSV is Respiratory Syncytial Virus, a cold-like bug which would give you or me a cough and sore throat for a few days. When it invades a tiny person, however, especially a tiny person with asthma, RSV latches on and digs in its whiskery heels, invading the lungs and causing wheezing, severe coughing and, my personal favorite, belly breathing (that makes it sound like we're doing yoga here at 3 am). The last three times Wee has had it, she's been hospitalized and done time in the oxygen tent. It's a party, let me tell you. Sitting there in the middle of the night, watching her blood oxygen level dip below 90% while she hacks away--good times!
I knew it was coming. First, the Husband got it. Then the Biggie. I held it off valiantly, washing my hands and the Wee's so much that our skin cracked, instructing coughers to cover their mouths and sneezers to wipe their noses. I tried, I tell you! But she went down on Tuesday night. For the first few days I thought she might shake it off. We humidified her; we pounded phlegm from her lungs. She sniffled, she coughed, but she did not WHEEZE.
Until Friday night. The coughing began in earnest at 10:30. If you've never heard an asthmatic cough, it sounds like a barking seal; it's a honking rasp with water around the edges. In between coughs, on a really bad day, their shallow breathing sounds like whistling, and if you shove your ear right up against the back, the lungs make a sound just like milk being poured over a bowl of Rice Krispies. It's utterly terrifying. Of all the difficulties I've encountered as a parent, compromised breathing cuts closest to the bone. I've dealt with 106-degree fevers, repeated failed blood draws, full-leg casts, stitches, skin grafts, the Inquisition-style strappy lung x-ray and the plexiglass tube squished-baby lung x-ray. I've watched one baby's burnt skin slough off in sheets and nursed the other one to sleep while the doctor sewed her toenail back on. But nothing, I repeat, NOTHING, comes close to that pattern of shallow inhalation caught by a full-body wracking cough, followed by…silence, as your child stops breathing. In the middle of a winter night. When you're thirteen miles of icy roads from the hospital.
But we're experienced by now, we're good at it, we are SKILLED--so we didn't panic and got through the night. The Wee woke up Saturday morning, clam-happy and ready to play. I brought her to the doctor, who confirmed the Rice Krispy crackling, we got some prednisone to complement her array of asthma drugs, and went home.
Five minutes after she fell asleep that night, she coughed so hard she threw up. Every time I lay her back down, she would stop breathing and cough, over and over again. She couldn't take a full breath, so in between coughs she took tiny, shallow baby breaths, forty or more a minute. Panicked, I called the doctor, who had previously said that given Wee's respiratory history, she would admit us if there was any problem that night. My bags were packed, I was ready to go. But then there was the issue that Wee, once she woke up, was perfectly fine. Totally, absolutely a-ok. She laughed when I sat her down in the steamy bathroom and chortled when the Husband turned her upside-down and pounded her back to dislodge mucus from her lungs. She obediently put her face in the humidifier's spray and said, "I like hanging out with you guys, doin' all this stuff!" Yeah, kid, it's a blast.
Last night was a repeat act of the previous night, and this morning here we are, she happily watching a movie and running circles around my limp form as I suck down a fourth cup of coffee. So happy RSV season, everyone! I wish you clear lungs, bountiful steroids, and a humidifier in every room.
*Though this is the Wee One's fourth winter, we were somehow able to skip this party the year she was one. That was the year we went to the emergency room three times in as many months for (1) facial dog bite requiring two stitches (2) a mysterious elbow dislocation and (3) second-and third-degree burns which required plastic surgery.
What is RSV, you ask? Why, let me educate you! RSV is Respiratory Syncytial Virus, a cold-like bug which would give you or me a cough and sore throat for a few days. When it invades a tiny person, however, especially a tiny person with asthma, RSV latches on and digs in its whiskery heels, invading the lungs and causing wheezing, severe coughing and, my personal favorite, belly breathing (that makes it sound like we're doing yoga here at 3 am). The last three times Wee has had it, she's been hospitalized and done time in the oxygen tent. It's a party, let me tell you. Sitting there in the middle of the night, watching her blood oxygen level dip below 90% while she hacks away--good times!
I knew it was coming. First, the Husband got it. Then the Biggie. I held it off valiantly, washing my hands and the Wee's so much that our skin cracked, instructing coughers to cover their mouths and sneezers to wipe their noses. I tried, I tell you! But she went down on Tuesday night. For the first few days I thought she might shake it off. We humidified her; we pounded phlegm from her lungs. She sniffled, she coughed, but she did not WHEEZE.
Until Friday night. The coughing began in earnest at 10:30. If you've never heard an asthmatic cough, it sounds like a barking seal; it's a honking rasp with water around the edges. In between coughs, on a really bad day, their shallow breathing sounds like whistling, and if you shove your ear right up against the back, the lungs make a sound just like milk being poured over a bowl of Rice Krispies. It's utterly terrifying. Of all the difficulties I've encountered as a parent, compromised breathing cuts closest to the bone. I've dealt with 106-degree fevers, repeated failed blood draws, full-leg casts, stitches, skin grafts, the Inquisition-style strappy lung x-ray and the plexiglass tube squished-baby lung x-ray. I've watched one baby's burnt skin slough off in sheets and nursed the other one to sleep while the doctor sewed her toenail back on. But nothing, I repeat, NOTHING, comes close to that pattern of shallow inhalation caught by a full-body wracking cough, followed by…silence, as your child stops breathing. In the middle of a winter night. When you're thirteen miles of icy roads from the hospital.
But we're experienced by now, we're good at it, we are SKILLED--so we didn't panic and got through the night. The Wee woke up Saturday morning, clam-happy and ready to play. I brought her to the doctor, who confirmed the Rice Krispy crackling, we got some prednisone to complement her array of asthma drugs, and went home.
Five minutes after she fell asleep that night, she coughed so hard she threw up. Every time I lay her back down, she would stop breathing and cough, over and over again. She couldn't take a full breath, so in between coughs she took tiny, shallow baby breaths, forty or more a minute. Panicked, I called the doctor, who had previously said that given Wee's respiratory history, she would admit us if there was any problem that night. My bags were packed, I was ready to go. But then there was the issue that Wee, once she woke up, was perfectly fine. Totally, absolutely a-ok. She laughed when I sat her down in the steamy bathroom and chortled when the Husband turned her upside-down and pounded her back to dislodge mucus from her lungs. She obediently put her face in the humidifier's spray and said, "I like hanging out with you guys, doin' all this stuff!" Yeah, kid, it's a blast.
Last night was a repeat act of the previous night, and this morning here we are, she happily watching a movie and running circles around my limp form as I suck down a fourth cup of coffee. So happy RSV season, everyone! I wish you clear lungs, bountiful steroids, and a humidifier in every room.
*Though this is the Wee One's fourth winter, we were somehow able to skip this party the year she was one. That was the year we went to the emergency room three times in as many months for (1) facial dog bite requiring two stitches (2) a mysterious elbow dislocation and (3) second-and third-degree burns which required plastic surgery.
A few weeks ago, my friend Scott (of Fishsuit) sent a simple request--mention his way-cool film Festival, Stockstock, on the blog, please, if I was so inclined. Which of course I was. When I went to post it, however, my pretty white computer sputtered, coughed, hacked up a few loogies and died. The death coincided with a new Office update that was downloading automatically...a mere coincidence? I leave it to you to decide. At any rate, since that dismal day she has started up slowly, if at all, and her will to work waxes and wanes along with the moon. I'm using the husband's smaller, sleeker version for work, and coming to grips with the fact that in the near future I may have to buy a new computer and reload all of my music to iTunes, AGAIN. Argh.
Anyway, here is the info about Stockstock, though unfortunately the deadline is only a few days away.
***********************************************************************************************************
We're looking for entries for the Stockstock Film Festival -- we provide the footage, you take it from there. It looks like you and your readers might have some fun with it -- it's free to participate, and at the very least it's a fun exercise in digital film editing.
Here's the hook: Stockstock producers compile a film reel of stock film footage that they've collected from the Prelinger Archives. Festival entrants download the reel and create a 2-minute digital film using that footage. You can add audio or graphics, design new treatments, cut it up, tell a story -- basically, you are encouraged to abuse the reel as much as you can. The one catch is that you can only use the footage provided -- you can't introduce any other footage. Amateur and experienced filmmakers alike have participated in the festival in the past, but Stockstock producers are hoping to expand their entrants and audience this year, what with the easy accessibility of broadband.
The film reel is now available for download from stockstock.org, and entries are due Feb. 11. Go to the Web site for more information: http://www.stockstock.org
Anyway, here is the info about Stockstock, though unfortunately the deadline is only a few days away.
***********************************************************************************************************
We're looking for entries for the Stockstock Film Festival -- we provide the footage, you take it from there. It looks like you and your readers might have some fun with it -- it's free to participate, and at the very least it's a fun exercise in digital film editing.
Here's the hook: Stockstock producers compile a film reel of stock film footage that they've collected from the Prelinger Archives. Festival entrants download the reel and create a 2-minute digital film using that footage. You can add audio or graphics, design new treatments, cut it up, tell a story -- basically, you are encouraged to abuse the reel as much as you can. The one catch is that you can only use the footage provided -- you can't introduce any other footage. Amateur and experienced filmmakers alike have participated in the festival in the past, but Stockstock producers are hoping to expand their entrants and audience this year, what with the easy accessibility of broadband.
The film reel is now available for download from stockstock.org, and entries are due Feb. 11. Go to the Web site for more information: http://www.stockstock.org
Monday, January 08, 2007
The phone company can't hook up a landline for us because they claim our address doesn't exist. The only record they have for a road with this name is in another, nearby township which split from our wee hamlet in 1811. Do you think they had all-in-one packages with call waiting included for only $39.95 per month back then?
Life certainly is simpler out here; today I was declared "Best Mom in the WORLD!" for making Breakfast for Dinner, one of our favorite budget/I-forgot-to-defrost-anything meals. Also, I was awarded the title for buying ranch dip at Wegmans. Does parenting get any better than this? I'll be sure to remind them of this sweet moment when they're teenagers: "Goddammit MOM, why can't I pierce my navel/have my face tattooed/stay out all night with my punk boyfriend? You are the WORST MOM IN THE WORLD!" "But look, I have ranch dip!" I'll cry, waving it in their scowling faces. "And we're having pancakes for dinner!"
Life certainly is simpler out here; today I was declared "Best Mom in the WORLD!" for making Breakfast for Dinner, one of our favorite budget/I-forgot-to-defrost-anything meals. Also, I was awarded the title for buying ranch dip at Wegmans. Does parenting get any better than this? I'll be sure to remind them of this sweet moment when they're teenagers: "Goddammit MOM, why can't I pierce my navel/have my face tattooed/stay out all night with my punk boyfriend? You are the WORST MOM IN THE WORLD!" "But look, I have ranch dip!" I'll cry, waving it in their scowling faces. "And we're having pancakes for dinner!"
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