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!"
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.
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…
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):
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."
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?
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!)
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.)
(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
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.
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?
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!
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!
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